Waters of Versailles (7 page)

“What do you eat, my little fish?” She had teeth, human teeth. Had he been starving her?

“Mud,” she said, patting her belly.

There was certainly enough mud to choose from. “Would you eat a fish?” She stuck out her tongue in disgust. “The parrot eats nuts. Have you tried one?”

“Yucky. What's this, Papa?” She lifted the champagne bottle.

“Don't shake it. Here, I'll show you.”

He scraped off the wax seal and unshipped the plug. He held it out. She sniffed at the neck of the bottle and shrugged, then took the bottle and dribbled a little on the floor. It foamed over her bare toes.

“Ooh, funny!” she said, delighted.

“It's like water, but a bit different.”

She raised the bottle overhead and giggled as the champagne foamed over her ears. It dribbled down her cheeks and dripped from her chin. She licked her lips and grinned.

“Don't drink it. It might make you sick.”

She rolled her eyes. “Just water, Papa. Fuzzy water.”

“All right, give it a try.”

She took a gulp and then offered the bottle to him, companionable as a sentry sharing a canteen with a friend.

He shook his head. “No, thank you, I don't prefer it.”

He watched attentively as she played. She drank half the bottle but it had no apparent effect. She remained nimble and precise, and if her laughter was raucous and uncontrolled, it was no more than normal. The rest of the bottle she poured on or around herself, reveling in the bubbles and foam. Sylvain wondered if the ladies of the palace had tried bathing in champagne. If they hadn't, he wasn't going to suggest the fashion. The foamy sweet stuff was already a waste of good grapes.

When she lost interest, she dropped the bottle and arced back into the pool, diving clean and surfacing with a playful spout and splash. A finger or two was left, and when he poured it out, it foamed on the rocks fresh as if the bottle had just been cracked.

He nodded to himself. If the little fish could force water through pipes and sleeves, could make ice and keep it from melting, could chase him around the palace and make him look a fool while never leaving the cisterns, what were a few bubbles?

Sylvain knelt and pushed the empty bottle under the surface of the pool. He had done this a thousand times—filled his canteen at village wells, at farmyard troughs, at battlefield sloughs tinged pink with men's blood—and each time, his lungs ached as he watched the bubbles rise. He ached for one sip of mountain air, a lick of snowmelt, just a snatch of a shepherd's song heard across the valley, or a fading echo of a wolf's cry under a blanket of moonlight. Ached to crouch by a rushing rocky stream and sip water pristine and pure.

“Thirsty, Papa?”

The little fish stood at his side. In her hand was a cup made of ice, its walls porcelain-thin and sharp as crystal. He raised it to his lips. The cold water sparkled with fine bubbles that burst on his tongue like a thousand tiny pinpricks and foamed at the back of his throat. He drank it down and smiled.

-13-

The Grand Gallery streamed with all the nobles and luminaries of Europe, men Sylvain had glimpsed across the battlefield and longed to cross swords with, highborn women whose worth was more passionately negotiated than frontier borders, famous courtesans whose talents were broadcast in military camps and gilded parlors from Moscow to Dublin, princes of the church whose thirst for bloody punishment was unquenched and universal. This pure stream was clotted with a vast number of rich and titled bores with little to do and nothing to say. The whole world was in attendance for the king's birthday, but Sylvain had only glimpsed it. He hadn't left the champagne fountain all evening.

“If you don't come, I'll brain you with my sword hilt. Mademoiselle de Nesle is Madame's sister. If you snub one, you insult both,” Gérard said, then added in an undertone, “Plus, she has the finest tits in the room and is barely clothed.”

“In a moment.”

The fountain branched overhead. Crystal limbs reached for the gilded ceiling and dropped like a weeping willow. Each limb was capped with ice blossoms, and each blossom streamed with champagne.

Madame had offered the first taste to the king, plucking a delicate cup of ice that sprouted from the green ice basin like a mushroom from the forest floor and filling it from a gushing spout. The king had toasted Sylvain and led the gallery in a round of applause. Then the guests flocked eagerly for their turn. They drank gallons of champagne, complained about toothache, and then drank more.

Sylvain had planned for this. He knew the noble appetite, knew the number of expected guests and how much they could be expected to drink. The fountain's basin was tall and wide, and the reservoir beneath held the contents of a thousand magnums. The reservoir was tinted dark green with baker's dye. It was too dark to see through but Sylvain calculated it to be about half full. More than enough champagne was left to keep the fountain flowing until the last courtier had been dragged to bed.

But the guests were now more interested in the king's other gifts—an African cat panting in a jeweled harness, a Greek statue newly cleaned of its dirt and ancient paint, a tapestry stitched by a hundred nuns over ten years, a seven-foot-tall solar clock. The guests were still drinking champagne at an admirable rate but sent attendants to fill their cups. The novelty had worn off.

Sylvain slipped off his glove and laid his hand on the edge of the basin, letting the cold leach into his bare palm. The little fish had been eager to play in the fountain's reservoir, but she'd been inside for hours now and must be getting bored. Still, she had played no tricks. She kept the champagne flowing fresh, kept the ice from melting just as she had agreed. All because he had promised her a song.

“The fountain is fine,” Gérard insisted. “We've all admired it. Now come see Madame and her sister.”

Sylvain replaced his glove and followed Gérard. Guests toasted him as he passed.

“I need a fountain in my hat,” said Mademoiselle de Nesle.

The two sisters were holding court outside the Salon of War, presenting a portrait of tender affection and well-powdered beauty. But their twin stars did not orbit peacefully. Madame held the obvious advantage—official status, a liberal allowance from the royal purse, a large entourage, and innumerable privileges and rights along with her jewels and silks—but her sister had novelty on her side and emphasized her ingénue status with a simple gauze robe. Goodwill bloomed between them, or a decent counterfeit of it, but their attending ladies stood like two armies across an invisible border.

Annette stood apart from the scene, dimples worn shallow. A line of worry wrinkled her brow. Her fan drooped from her elbow. No coy signals tonight, just a bare nod and a slight tilt of her eyebrows. Sylvain followed her gaze to the ermine-draped figure of the King of France.

The two sisters had captured the king's attention. He was ignoring Cardinal de Fleury and two Marshals of the Empire, gazing down from the royal dais to watch his mistress and her sister with obvious interest, plumed hat in his hand, gloved fist on his hip, alert as a stallion scenting a pair of mares.

Sylvain moved out of the king's view. The ladies were on display for one audience member alone, and Sylvain was not about to get between them.

“A fountain in my hat,” Mademoiselle de Nesle repeated. “My dear sister says you are a magician.”

Sylvain bowed deeply, hiding his expression for a few moments. A ridiculous request. The woman must be simple. Did she think he could pull such a frippery out of his boot?

“The fountain will have its naissance at the peak of my chapeau, providing a misty veil before my eyes.”

“But mademoiselle would get wet,” Sylvain ventured finally.

“Yes! You have grasped my point. My dress is gauze, as you can see. It's very thin and becomes transparent when wet.” She smoothed her hands over her breasts and leaned toward her sister. “Do you not think it will prove alluring, Louise?”

Madame caressed her sister's hands. “No man would be able to resist you, my dear sister.”

Mademoiselle laughed. Her voice was loud enough for the opera house. “I care for no man. Only a god can have me.”

The king took a few steps closer to the edge of the dais, the very plumes on his hat magnetized by the scene.

Across the room, the Comte de Tessé approached the fountain with the careful, considered step of a man trying to hide his advanced state of drunkenness. The comte waved his crystal cup under the blossom spouts, letting the champagne overflow the glass and foam over his hand. The cup slipped from his hand and shattered on the fountain's base. The comte sputtered with laughter.

“Do you not think it would be the finest of chapeaux, monsieur? A feat worthy of a magician, would it not be?”

The comte was joined at the fountain by a pair of young officers, polished, pressed, and gleaming in their uniforms, and just as drunk as the comte but far less willing to hide it. One leaned over the fountain and tried to sip directly from a blossom spout.

“I think it would be a very worthy feat,” Madame said. “Monsieur, my sister posed you a question.”

The officers were now trying to clamber onto the fountain's slippery base. The comte laughed helplessly.

“No,” said Sylvain.

Madame blinked. Her ladies gasped.

The officer grasped a blossom spout. It snapped off in his hand. His friend slipped on the fountain's edge and fell into the basin. His gold scabbard clanged on the ice. Two women—their wives, perhaps—joined the comte to laugh at the young heroes.

“Excuse me, mesdames.”

Sylvain rushed back to the fountain. One snarl brought the two young officers to attention. They scrambled off the fountain, claimed their wives from the comte, and disappeared into the crowd.

The comte's gaze was bleary. “Well done indeed, Monsieur de Guilherand. The palace is ablaze with compliments. But remember it is I who gave you this kingly idea in the first place. As a gentleman, you will ensure I receive due credit.”

“You can take half the credit when you bear half the expense,” Sylvain hissed. “I'll send you the vintner's bill. You'll find the total appropriately kingly.”

The comte turned back to the fountain and refilled his cup, pretending to not hear. Sylvain plucked the cup from the comte's hand and poured the contents into the basin.

“You've embarrassed yourself. Go and sober up.”

The comte pretended to spot a friend across the room and tottered away.

Sylvain examined the broken blossom. Its finely carved petals dripped in the overheated air. The broken branch gushed champagne like a wound. Had the little fish felt the assault on the fountain? Had it frightened her? He tried to see through the dark green ice, watching for movement within the reservoir.

“Perhaps we ask too much,” said Annette, “expecting soldiers to transform themselves into gentlemen and courtiers for the winter. Many men seem to manage it for more than a few hours at a time. One wonders why you can't, Sylvain de Guilherand.”

She posed at the edge of the fountain, fan fluttering in annoyance.

“Perhaps because I am a beast?”

The reservoir ice was thick and dark. In bright sunlight, he might be able to see through it, but even with thousands of candles overhead and the hundreds of mirrors lining the gallery, the light was too dim. He should have left a peephole at the back of the fountain.

“I speak as a friend,” said Annette. “Madame is insulted. You have taken a serious misstep.”

“Madame has made her own misstep this evening and will forget about mine before morning.”

Annette's fan drooped. “True. She has made a play to keep the king's interest, but I fear she'll lose his favor.
Maîtresse en titre
is an empty honor if your lover prefers another woman's bed.”

“She'll be naming something vile after her sister next,” said Sylvain.

Annette coughed. “You heard about Polish Mary, then?” Sylvain nodded. “It's her way of insulting those she despises. It makes the king laugh.”

A shadow moved in the fountain's base, a flicker of a limb against the green ice just for a moment. He should have given the little fish a way to signal him if she was in distress.

“I begin to perceive that my conversation is not engaging enough for you, monsieur.”

“I beg your pardon, madame.” Sylvain turned his back on the fountain. The little fish was fine. Nixies spent entire seasons under the ice of glacier lakes. It was her element. The fact that the champagne continued to flow was perfect evidence that she was not in distress. He was worrying for nothing. Offending Annette further would be a mistake.

He swept a deep bow. “More than your pardon, my dear madame. I beg your indulgence.”

“Indulgence, yes.” She looked over her shoulder at Madame and her sister. “We have all indulged ourselves too much this evening and will pay for it.”

He forced a knowing smile. “Perhaps the best practice is to let others indulge us. Although a wise and lovely woman once mentioned that most ladies prefer a long period of suspense first. It whets the appetite.”

The empty banter seemed to cheer her. Her dimples surfaced and she snapped her fan with renewed purpose.

“Would you join me in taking a survey of the room?” He offered his arm. “I don't beg your company for myself alone but in a spirit of general charity. If all this indulgence will lead to a morning filled with regrets, at least we can offer the king's guests a memory of true beauty. With you on the arm of a beast such as myself, the contrast will be striking.”

She glanced at Madame. “I was sent to scold you, not favor you with my company.”

“You can always say I forced you.”

She laughed and took his arm. He led her through a clot of courtiers toward the royal dais. The king had returned his attention to his most favored guests but displayed a shapely length of royal leg for the two sisters to admire.