“There’s no time for you to arrange it,” Marie-Josèphe said. “I’ll be late to attend Mademoiselle.”
“I worked so hard to make it beautiful,” Odelette said.
“And it is — Bring it with us, you may present it to Mademoiselle.”
Odelette reluctantly put the headdress aside and arranged Marie-Josèphe’s hair simply, with a single false diamond as ornament.
Odelette sighed. “Wish for the King to give you a real diamond, Mlle Marie,” she said. “Everyone knows all you have is paste.”
“Everyone knows I have no money,” Marie-Josèphe said. “If I had a diamond, they would wonder where I got it.”
“They all borrow money. From the King, from each other, from the merchants. No one thinks a thing about it.”
Odelette plunged a lamb’s-wool puff into a jar of powder. About to powder her mistress’ bare throat and the curve of her breasts, she stayed her hand.
“No,” she said thoughtfully, “no, powder will hide the blue veins beneath your skin, that prove you are fair.”
The floury powder rose up in a cloud. Marie-Josèphe sneezed.
“Good,” she said. “I’m pale enough.”
Odelette patted her own forehead and cheeks and throat with the wool puff, mottling the smooth tan of her perfect skin with smears of white.
“You’re the most beautiful woman at court,” Odelette said. “All the princes will look at you and say, Who is that lovely princess? I must marry her, and the Ambassador from Turkey must marry her attendant!”
Marie-Josèphe laughed. “I love you, Odelette.”
“It might happen,” Odelette said. “It happens in all the fairy tales.”
“Princes marry princesses, and Turkey isn’t likely to send an ambassador to France.” Though France and Turkey both made war against the same enemy, the King hardly considered the Turks his allies. In the past his armies captured and sold Turkish prisoners, like Odelette’s mother, into slavery. “The gentlemen will say, Who is that colonial girl? I could not marry anyone so plain and unfashionable — unless she had an enormous dowry!”
Odelette brought Marie-Josèphe her high-heeled, pointed shoes; Marie-Josèphe stepped into them.
“There. You’re perfect, Mlle Marie. Except your hair.”
Marie-Josèphe glanced at the pale creature in her mirror. She hardly recognized herself.
Marie-Josèphe and Odelette hurried through the cramped and smelly attic corridors. Odelette carried the fontanges like a fantastic cake.
They descended, down and down the narrow stairs, to the royal level, above the ground floor. Threadbare carpets and dark hallways gave way to polished parquet, rich tapestries, carved stone, gilded wood. Art and fine crafts filled the chateau, so His Majesty would always be surrounded by beauty. Artists and artisans of France produced almost everything His Majesty used, and His Majesty’s notice made French crafts fashionable in all the capitals of the world. Even France’s enemies designed their palaces to resemble the chateau of Versailles.
In the chateau, Marie-Josèphe often found herself staring helplessly at paintings whose beauty and technique she could never hope to match. Paintings by Titian, by Veronese, filled her with wonder. Today she forced herself to pass them with only a glance.
At Lotte’s apartments, a footman announced her. “Mlle Marie-Josèphe de la Croix.” He held open one side of the double door. “You may enter.”
Lotte ran out of a cloud of multicolored silk and satin and velvet, out of the midst of her ladies-in-waiting in their finest gowns and their best jewels.
“Mlle de la Croix!” She embraced Marie-Josèphe, stood back, and looked her up and down.
“You will do,” she said severely, mimicking Madame.
“Thanks to you, Mademoiselle.” Marie-Josèphe curtsied to Lotte and to the other ladies, who all outranked her by every measure.
“What an exciting day!” Lotte plucked at Marie-Josèphe’s skirt to accentuate the flounces. “But, poor Marie-Josèphe, were you covered with fish guts?”
“No, Mademoiselle, only a little charcoal on my fingers.”
“Is this the famous Odelette?” asked Mlle d’Armagnac, the season’s most celebrated beauty. Her skin was as fair as porcelain and her hair as pale as summer wine. “What is that confection?”
The ladies crowded around Odelette, captivated by her handiwork. Lotte laid claim to the new headdress. The ruffled tower reached an armslength above her head, and the ribbons spilled down her back. Mlle d’Armagnac brought silver ribbons, to match Lotte’s petticoat; Odelette wove them into the arrangement.
“It’s wonderful!” Lotte cried. “You’re so clever.” She hugged Marie-Josèphe, gave Odelette a gold louis, and sailed out of her rooms. Marie-Josèphe followed, nearly lost in the crowd.
At Madame’s apartments, both halves of the tall carved entry doors swung open. Lotte’s rank demanded that courtesy. In the anteroom, Madame’s ladies-in-waiting curtsied. Lotte nodded and smiled at them. Halfway to her mother’s private chamber, she turned back.
“Where is Mlle de la Croix? I want Mlle de la Croix.” Marie-Josèphe curtsied. Lotte kissed her lightly, took her arm, and whispered, “Are you ready to face my mama?”
“I treasure your mama,” Marie-Josèphe said sincerely.
“And she likes you. But she can be so stuffy!”
In Madame’s private chambers, a single candle burned on the desk. Madame sat writing, wrapped in a voluminous dressing-gown. The fire in the grate had gone out. The room was dim and cold. Marie-Josèphe curtsied low.
Madame looked up from her writing desk and laid aside her pen.
“My dearest Liselotte,” Madame said, “come and let me look at you.” Madame and Mademoiselle shared the same pet name, within their family.
As Marie-Josèphe curtsied, two little dogs rushed from beneath the skirts of Madame’s dressing gown. They yapped hysterically, their claws tapping and scratching on the parquet. The reek of their droppings clung in all the corners. The dogs, like walking rag-piles, jumped and pawed Marie-Josèphe’s petticoat.
She drew back, rising even before Madame acknowledged her, to avoid a paw in the face. She surreptitiously toed Elderflower away. The ancient pug yapped more loudly, snapped at her skirt, lost interest and wandered off, snuffled at the floor, snorted for air. Youngerflower, the other pug, followed him slavishly. Even compared to Elderflower, Youngerflower was not very bright.