Waters of Versailles (8 page)

“Much better, my dear Sylvain,” said Gérard as they approached. “I hate to see you brooding over that fountain. My wife strokes her great belly with the same anxious anticipation. You looked like a hen on an egg.”

Sylvain dropped his hand onto the pommel of his sword and glared. Gérard barked with laughter.

“Your friend the Marquis de la Châsse can't manage civil conversation, either,” said Annette as they moved on.

“Gérard doesn't need to make the effort. He was born into enough distinction that every trespass is forgiven.”

“You sound jealous, but it's not quite accurate. His wealth and title do help, but he is accepted because everyone can see he is true to his nature.”

“And I am not?”

“A bald question. I will answer it two ways. First, observe that at this moment, you and I are walking arm in arm among every person in the world who matters. If that is not acceptance, I wonder how you define the word.”

“I am honored, madame.”

“Yes, you most certainly are, monsieur.”

“And your second answer?”

“You are not true to your nature, and it makes people uncomfortable. Everyone knows what to expect from a man like the Marquis de la Châsse, but one suspects that Sylvain de Guilherand would rather be somewhere else, doing something else. Heaven knows what.”

Sylvain closed his glove over hers. “Not at all. I am exactly where I want to be.”

“So you say, but I do not believe it. Our well-beloved king toasted you this evening. Many men would consider that enough achievement for a lifetime, but still you are dissatisfied.”

“We discussed my character before. Remember how that ended?”

A delicate blush flushed through her powder. “I am answering your question as honestly as I can.”

“Honesty is not a vice much indulged at Versailles.”

She laughed. “I know the next line. Let me supply it: ‘It's the only vice that isn't.' Oh, Sylvain. I can have that kind of conversation with any man. I'd rather go home to my husband and talk about hot gruel and poultices. Don't make me desperate.”

Sylvain stroked her hand. “Very well. You enjoy my company despite my faults?”

She nibbled her bottom lip as she considered the question. “Because of your faults, I think,” she said. “The fountain is successful, the king is impressed with you, and you have my favor. Take my advice and be satisfied.”

Sylvain raised her palm to his lips. “I will.”

They walked on, silent but in perfect concord. As they circled the gallery, the atmosphere seemed less stifling, the crowd less insipid, the king's air of rut less ridiculous. Even Madame's poses seemed less futile and her sister's pouts less desperate. Sylvain was in charity with the world, willing to forgive its many flaws.

The guests parted, opening a view of the fountain. A girl in petal-yellow silk reached her cup to one of the blossoms. The curve of her bare arm echoed the graceful arc of the fountain's limbs. She raised the cup to her lips and the crowd closed off his view of the scene just as she took her first sip.

“Nature perfected, monsieur,” said a portly Prussian. “You must be congratulated.”

Sylvain bowed and drew Annette away just as the Prussian's gaze settled on her cleavage. The king rose to dismount the dais and the whole crowd watched. Sylvain took advantage of the distraction to claim a kiss from Annette, just a brief caress of her ripe lower lip before they joined the guests in a ripple of deep curtseys and bows. The king progressed down the gallery toward Madame and her sister, his pace forceful and intent as a stalking hunter.

Annette slid her hand up Sylvain's arm and rested her palm on his shoulder. A pulse fluttered on her throat. He resisted the urge to explore it with his lips.

“I suppose it is too early to leave,” he whispered, drinking in the honeyed scent of her powder.

“Your departure would be noticed,” she breathed. “It is the price of fame, monsieur.”

“Another turn of the room, then?”

She nodded. They moved down the gallery in the king's wake. The African cat gnawed on its harness, blunted ivory fangs rasping over the jewels. Its attendant yanked ineffectually on the leash.

“Poor thing,” said Annette. “They should take it outside. This is no place for a wild animal.”

Sylvain nodded. “I have not thought to ask before now, but how is the monkey? Happier, I hope, than that cat?”

“Very well and happy indeed. My maid Marie coddles her like a new mother. They are madonna and child, the two of them a world unto themselves.” She glanced up at him, a wicked slant to her gaze, daring him to laugh. He grinned.

“And what name did Madame give the creature?”

The color drained from her cheeks. “Is that the viceroy of Parma? I would not have thought to see him here.”

“I couldn't say. He looks like every other man in a wig and silk. Are you avoiding my question?”

“Show me your fountain. I haven't had the chance to admire it up close.”

The crowd parted to reveal three young men in peacock silks filling their cups at the fountain. One still kept his long baby curls, probably in deference to a sentimental mother.

“There!” Annette said. “Not quite as delicate a tableau as the girl in yellow, but I think I like it better. You must make allowances for differences in taste, and I have always preferred male beauty.”

“I am sure you do. What did Madame name the monkey, Annette?”

“She is called Jesusa. It is a terrible sacrilege and my accent makes it bad Spanish too, but what can I do when I am presented with madonna and child morning, noon, and night? God will forgive me.”

“Madame didn't name the monkey Jesusa.”

“Don't be so sure. Madame is even worse a Christian than I am.”

“Very well. I'll ask her myself.”

Sylvain strode toward the Salon of War. The crowd was thick. The king was with Madame now. The tall feathers of the royal hat bobbed over the heads of the guests.

Annette pulled his arm. “Stop. Not in front of the king. Don't be stubborn.”

He turned on her. “Answer my question.”

The jostling crowd pressed them together. She gripped his arms, breath shallow.

“Promise you won't take offence.”

“Just answer the question, Annette.”

She bit her lip hard enough to draw blood. “She named the monkey Sylvain.”

He wrenched himself out of her grip and lurched back, nearly bowling over an elderly guest.

“It is a joke,” said Annette, pursuing him.

“Does it seem funny to you?”

“Take it in the spirit it was intended, just a silly attempt at fun. It isn't meant as an attack on your pride.”

“Madame thinks I am a prize target. Did you laugh, Annette?” His voice rose. Heads turned. Guests jostled their neighbors, alerting them to the scene. “Who else would like to take a shot at me?”

“Sylvain, no, please.” Annette spoke softly and reached out to him. He stepped aside.

Sylvain paced in a circle, glaring at the guests, daring each one of them to make a remark.

“I have done more than any other man to make a place for myself at court. I've attended levees, and flattered, and fucked. But worse—I've worked hard. As hard as I can. You find that disgusting, don't you?”

“No. I don't.” She watched him pace.

“I've worked miracles. Everyone says so. The magician of the fountains, the man who puts thrones throughout the palace. Everyone wants one. Or so it seems, until everyone has one. Then it's nothing special. Not good enough anymore. Take it away. Come up with something else while we insult you behind your back.”

“Madame is difficult to please.” Annette's voice was soft and sad.

“Nothing I do will ever be good enough, will it? Even for you, Annette. You tell me I try too hard, I'm a striver, and I'm not true to my nature.” He spread his arms wide. “Well, this is my nature. How do you like me now?”

She opened her mouth and then closed it without speaking. He stepped close and spoke in her ear.

“Not well, I think,” he said, and walked away.

The crowd parted to let him pass, opening a view to the fountain. Two of the young men were leaning over the basin. The boy with the curls crouched at the side of the reservoir. Sylvain broke into a run.

The boy was banging on the ice with his diamond ring. The reservoir rang like a drum with each impact.

Sylvain grabbed the boy by the scruff of his neck.

“There's something in there, monsieur,” he squealed. “A creature, a monster. I saw it.”

Sylvain threw the boy to the floor and drew his sword. The boy scrabbled backward, sliding across the marble. The two friends rushed to the boy's side and yanked him to his feet. They backed away, all three clinging to each other. Behind them a crowd gathered—some shocked, some confused, most highly entertained. They pointed at him as if he were a beast in a menagerie.

Several men made a show of dropping their hands to the hilts of their dress swords, but not one of them drew.

The fountain sputtered. A blossom crashed into the basin, splashing gouts of champagne.

Gérard shoved through the crowd, wig askew, slipping on the wet floor. He skidded into place at Sylvain's side.

The fountain sprayed champagne across their backs and high to the ceiling, snuffing out a hundred candles overhead.

“Go to your wife. Get her out of the palace,” said Sylvain.

Gérard ran full-speed for the door.

Sylvain raised his sword and brought it crashing down on the fountain. Ice limbs shattered. Champagne and ice vaulted overhead and fell, spraying debris across the marble floor. He shifted his grip and smashed the pommel of his sword on the side of the reservoir. It cracked and split. He hit it again and again until the floor flooded with golden liquid. Sylvain threw down his sword and shouldered the ice aside.

“Papa?”

The little fish was curled into a quivering ball. Sylvain slipped and fell to his hands and knees. He crawled toward her, reached out.

“It's all right, my little one. Come here, my darling.”

She lifted her arms. He gathered her to his chest. She burrowed her face into his neck, quaking.

“Noisy,” she sobbed. “Too loud. Hurts. Papa.”

Sylvain held her on his lap, champagne seeping through his clothes. He cupped his palms over her ears and squeezed her to his heart, rocking back and forth until her shivering began to subside. Then he pulled himself to his feet, awkward and unbalanced with the child in his arms.

He stepped out of the shattered ice into a line of drawn swords. Polished steel glinted, throwing points of light across the faces of the household guard. Sylvain shielded the child with his body as he scanned the crowd.

The jostling guests were forced against the walls by the line of guards. The plumes of the king's hat disappeared into the Salon of Peace, followed by the broad backs of his bodyguards. Madame, her sister, and their ladies clustered on the royal dais, guarded by the Marshal de Noailles.

De Noailles had personally executed turncoat soldiers with the very same sword that now shone in his hand.

“Let the water go, my little one,” Sylvain whispered.

She blinked up at him. “Be a bad girl, Papa?” Her brow furrowed in confusion.

“The water pipes, the reservoirs. Let it all go.”

“Papa?”

“Go ahead, little fish.”

She relaxed in his arms, as if she had been holding her breath a long time and could finally breathe.

A faint rumble sounded overhead, distant. It grew louder. The walls trembled. Sylvain spread his palm over the nixie's wet scalp as if he could armor her fragile skull. A mirror slipped to the floor and shattered. The guards looked around, trying to pinpoint the threat. Their swords wavered and dipped.

The ceiling over the statue of Hermes bowed and cracked. Plaster rained down on the guests. The statue teetered and toppled. The guests pushed through the guards, scattering their line.

The ceiling sprang a thousand leaks. The huge chandeliers swung back and forth. Water streamed down the garden windows, turning the glass silver and gold, and then dark as the candles sputtered and smoked.

The guests broke through the wide garden doors and stormed through the water streaming off the roof and out onto the wide terraces. Sylvain retrieved his sword and followed, ducking low and holding the little fish tight as he fled into the fresh February night.

He ran across the gardens, past the pools and reservoirs, though the orangery and yew grove. He climbed the Bois des Gonards and turned back to the palace, breathless, scanning the paths for pursuing guards.

Aside from the crowd milling on the terraces, there was no movement in the gardens. The fountains jetted high, fifteen hundred spouts across the vast expanse of lawns and paths, flower beds and hedges, each spout playing, every jet dancing for its own amusement.

“You can turn the fountains off now, little one.”

“Papa?” The little fish was growing heavy. He shifted her weight onto his hip, well balanced for a long walk.

“Don't worry, my little girl. No more fountains. We're going home.”

One by one the fountains flailed and drooped. The little fish leaned her head on his shoulder and yawned.

The palace was dark except for an array of glowing windows in the north wing and along the row of attic garrets. At this distance, it looked dry and calm.

And indeed, he thought, nothing was damaged that couldn't be repaired. The servants would spend a few busy weeks mopping, the carpenters and plasterers, gilders and painters would have a few seasons of work. Eventually, someone would find a way to repair a fountain or two. The toilets and pipes would stand dry, but the nobles and courtiers would notice little difference. What was broken there could never be fixed.

Dawn found them on a canal. Sylvain sat on the prow of a narrow boat, eating bread and cheese and watching his little fish jump and splash in the gentle bow wave as they drifted upstream on the long journey home.