From Loches the itinerary led them northward, a circuit specifically devised to display the artistic achievements of François’s reign. Charles visited Chenonceau and from there Chambord, the château Madrid, the Louvre, and on to Fontainebleau in preparation for Christmas celebrations. At each stop along the route, great festivals and galas were held in his honor, but none so great as the one awaiting him at the grand palace.
Garlands of holm oak leaves, ivy, and bay festooned the pale stone corridors and pillars throughout the castle like layers of necklaces on a magnificently dressed lady, the red berries bright like jewels on the deep green leaves that linked them. Outside, a dusting of snow had fallen, a sprinkling of sugar clinging to the gardens and buildings. All had been made ready for the emperor, now comfortably ensconced in the Pavillon des Poêles, specifically decorated for him by Rosso and Primaticcio. From his window, the king of Spain could look down into the vast Cour de la Fontaine, and the tall pillar erected in honor of his visit. Upon his arrival the pinnacle flame had been lit, burning day and night while water and wine flowed from the sides of its base.
Geneviève rushed into Anne’s presence chamber, throwing her back against the door as if barricading against a rampaging beast.
“It is utter madness out there,” she breathed, but if she had hoped to find sanctuary here, she was soon disappointed.
The ruckus of preparation throughout the palace matched the commotion within this room. Not a woman looked up at her as they fussed and preened over gowns and fans, lace and ribbon. Every one of the ladies of Madame la Duchesse was present, and their twittering rivaled that in a dove coop at mating season. Jolly laughter vied with lilting trills; a song of anticipation and celebration. The castle now hosted some of the world’s greatest thinkers and diplomats, artists and musicians, all brought together in honor of the meeting, and the women tingled in anticipation of the festivities.
Geneviève remained untouched by the tumult, firmly intent upon her own agenda and the spirit of separation it forced upon her. She walked through the milieu as the lone fox walks through a deserted forest, unseen and perhaps nonexistent without a witness. Geneviève curled up onto the window embrasure and wrapped her skirts about her, shielding against the cold December air leaking through the rattling glass. Her gaze flopped to and fro, as if she watched a game of jeu de paume, alternating between the frantic, colorful scene within and the serene, sparkling grayness beyond the window. Most often her glance flicked back to Ara-belle, like a bee intent on a particular flower, and with each glimpse, a small tear grew in her heart. She had been raised without human attachment, taught not to need it, and yet she could not deny her bond with this woman. Geneviève bristled at the first pangs of sadness as she contemplated her departure.
As if the attention grazed her with its touch, Arabelle raised her head, and finding Geneviève’s gaze upon her, smiled a worried smile.
“Is all well with you, Geney?” Arabelle approached the embrasure, hands crossing upon her arms with a shiver.
Geneviève’s mouth ticked up at the sound of the silly nickname. “Well enough,” she assured Arabelle. “I had thought to help, but with so many hands in the till, I think I would only be in the way.”
Arabelle swung her gaze over the large room and the riotous activity. “I do not think there is anything else to do.” She laughed. “We are all so excited. We are inventing chores to make the time pass quicker.”
“I’m sure all will be perfect,” Geneviève said, “though the duchesse does not look nearly as festive as do her ladies.”
A covert glimpse at Anne found her a stiff statue at her table, paying no attention to the papers before her or the twittering birds of her court, fingers drumming upon the polished wood surface with an impatient rhythm.
“She is a bit miffed by the emperor’s attitude toward her,” Ara-belle whispered as she leaned close.
“Do you mean to say that her lover’s wife’s brother does not fawn over her?” Geneviève’s brows rose in feigned shock. “Scandalous.”
Arabelle laughed, but clamped her mouth closed with one hand, shaking a chastising finger at Geneviève with the other.
The panes rattled with a gust of wind and Arabelle shivered once more.
“Come away from the window and sit by the fire,” she urged. “I will join you soon.”
“I think I shall return to my room.” Geneviève unfurled her skirts and her legs and stood, placing a gentle hand on Arabelle’s forearm. “Will you come visit me once you are finished here? I have something for you I think you may want for tonight.”
“A present?” Arabelle giggled like a little girl.
“Perhaps.” Geneviève waggled her brows at her. “Come when you can, and see for yourself.”
“I’ll be there in minutes.”
As good as her word, no more than a quarter of an hour had passed when Geneviève heard a soft knock at her door and the latch opened without call or permission.
“Here I am and all aflutter.” Arabelle launched herself into Geneviève’s chamber. Finding her friend seated at her table, she crossed the room and gave Geneviève’s shoulders a fond squeeze. “Where is my present?”
Her cheerful blue eyes blinked with a child’s innocence, scanning the tabletop and the nightstand, but finding no gaily wrapped package upon them. Her search stopped as she spied the magnificent gown splayed across the bed cover.
“Are you wearing this tonight?” Arabelle asked with a gasp, skipping across to the bed, fingering the stunning creation upon it.
Of iridescent sapphire brocade, the square-cut bodice tapered to a narrowly tailored waist to a scoop at the hips. Soft rainbows of color glistened from the magnificent fabric but paled in comparison to the rows of diamond-shaped lapis lazuli jewels adorning the edge of the bodice, the bottom of the skirt, and the pointed tip of the sleeve. With the gentlest kiss of light, the gown shimmered like a twirling snowflake. It was the most stunning dress Arabelle had ever seen, and she had fawned effusively over it upon the one occasion she had seen Geneviève wear it.
“No, I’m not wearing it tonight,” Geneviève answered with a beatific smile.
“Oh, but why not?” Arabelle lifted the sleeves as if she danced with the gown itself. “It is so very splendid.”
Geneviève rose and came to stand by her.
“I cannot wear it, because you are.”
Arabelle’s head spun; her eyes flashed. “I are? Uh … I … I mean, I am?”
Geneviève laughed. “You are. In fact, I want you to have it.”
Arabelle’s mouth formed a startled moue. “You cannot mean it?” she whispered.
“I can. I know how much you love it.” Geneviève’s tone grew somber. “It seems the least I can do.”
“The least you can do? But what have I done to deserve such a gesture?” Arabelle tilted her head.
Geneviève raised her intent gaze and trapped Arabelle’s with it. “You have been my friend when I offered little in return.”
“You needed me,” Arabelle said with plainly spoken truth and a one-shoulder shrug. “It was enough.”
Geneviève sniffed a rueful laugh through her nose. She put her arms around the surprised woman and gave a squeeze. Arabelle’s brows shot up and she moved not an inch. For all the times she had offered Geneviève physical affection, it had never been returned.
“I will always be your friend,” she whispered through the platinum curls into Geneviève’s ear.
Geneviève released her and picked up the heavy gown from the bed, laying it across Arabelle’s eager, open arms, her dispassionate demeanor once more at the fore. “Go. Make yourself ready.”
Arabelle raised her shoulders in girlish delight. “Thank you, my dear friend. It will most assuredly be a splendid night.”
Geneviève watched her skip from the room, her smile fading like the waning moon in a starless sky. “A splendid night indeed.”
Geneviève called the messenger to her chambers herself, reques
ting that a scullion who had come to stoke the fire bring him to her instead of Carine. She would have her devoted servant ignorant of this.
The young page, scrawny in a blue and gold velvet tunic and hose, arrived with haste and took the thick fold of parchment from her with a bow.
No name covered it, only a circle of wax set with the distinctive seal.
“Please take this to the emperor’s chambers,” Geneviève instructed the young fellow, pressing two large gold coins into his hand, satisfied by the incredulous bulge of his blue eyes.
“The duchesse … uh … I mean, I …” Geneviève stammered obnoxiously. “I, yes, I am most grateful.”
She quickly pressed another coin into his palm, and the youth looked as if he would faint from the glory of the largesse.
“For your silence,” she implored with a deathly look.
“Mam’selle.” He bowed and scampered off, quick to his errand and to squirrel away his reward before the woman could change her mind.
Geneviève watched the door swing closed behind him. She had taken the first step upon the road from which there was no return, but whether it was the path to redemption or to hell, she knew not.
31
Yea, I will laugh and leap and dance away,
And drain at last the brimming bowl so deep,
I care not if it end in merry madness.
—Olivier de Magny (1529–1561)
The festive music reached out of the grand ballroom, the chamber resplendent like a fiery planet. Thousands of miniature candles hung overhead in wrought-iron circles, twinkling like the stars in the twilight sky.
Geneviève recognized the cheerful refrain of “Çà, Bergers, Assemblons-Nous,” the song calling the shepherds to the place of the Messiah’s birth, as the duchesse d’Étampes and her entourage of divinely costumed ladies approached the broad archway. Ara-belle glowed in her new gown, her eyes sparkling brighter than ever above the shimmering jewels that reflected the same blue luster.
The duchesse radiated all beauty and brilliance in a gown of gold cloth, her high crescent hood constructed of formed gold strands, tipped with diamond and topaz. She resembled a work of art, outshining every other woman in the palace, and she knew it. Inside the great hall, the king and his sister stood in conversation with the emperor and Constable Montmorency, the mundane presence of Queen Eleanor hovering by their side. Anne advanced upon the powerful consortium with not one iota of reticence.
King François’s eyes burst with pride and admiration at his first sight of her, making not the slightest attempt to hide his pleasure at the vision that was his mistress, heedless to the presence of his wife and her brother by his side.
Queen Eleanor shrank into her confectionary pink gown encrusted with pearls. She had been so proud of its beauty; now she looked down upon it with ill-concealed disappointment. Perhaps the emperor saw her deflation or felt the rancor and heartbreak no doubt radiating from the woman, forever second—forever need-less—in the life of her husband and king. He took his sister’s hand and wrapped it protectively in the crux of his arm.
Stooped and slight, he stared at Anne through heavy-lidded, round eyes sunken into his skull. Charles V wore all black, enhancing his natural pallor, the only adornment the thick heavy gold chain of office and the amulet hanging from his neck. Though six years his junior, the emperor appeared much older than François; his dismal aspect aged him beyond his years. Vestiges of illness tainted François’s face, yet the dapper king of France stood regal in royal blue velvet, gold peeking out of his slashed balloon sleeves, and glittering jeweled embroidery adorning his broad-shouldered mantle.
Anne stood before François, lowering herself into the deepest curtsy, as if she would sit upon the ground, her eyes never leaving his as she performed the most graceful courtesy, Marguerite smiling fondly as she looked on.
“Welcome, duchesse.” The king raised her up, brushing his lips across her hand, and turned to present her to his guest. “My brother, here is a beautiful lady who advises me to atone in Paris for the work of Madrid.”
Their eyes held for a moment longer and Anne moved on, a quick dip for the queen as she stepped spryly to the emperor.
But Charles’s bleak gaze remained upon François. “If the advice is good, you ought to follow it.”
Anne ignored his dissonance; she offered another deep obeisance, as did the cluster of women who gathered behind her.
“Your Excellency.” The duchesse smiled, stiff with forced gaiety. “I hope this evening finds you well. May you enjoy every luxury and entertainment this night has to offer.”
Anne thrust her arms wide in a gesture of welcome, as if she, and not Eleanor, were the hostess. It was no more than the truth; the brilliance of the hospitality was hers to claim.
King Charles tilted his head, his muffin-top velvet hat hardly moving as he paid her a diluted salutation.
“Madame Duchesse,” he said, the full lips of his small mouth hardly moving.
A gaggle of courtiers—early arrivals already jocular with imbibed spirits—rushed out of the room, brushing close to the circle of nobles. One man bumped into another, who bumped into the duchesse, who bumped into the emperor. The king reached out as if to stop the momentum, a scowl for them all.
Apologies rang out from all the young miscreants, a beleaguered chorus of contrition, but the injured parties waved them off and away, François dismissing them like shamed children.
One chevalier hesitated, the last in the accidental line of dominoes, and bent down to retrieve something from the floor next to one of Anne’s beribboned shoes.
“I believe you dropped this, Madame Duchesse.” He bowed as he held up the blue velvet drawstring bag.
Anne looked down her pert nose at him and his offering. “It is not mine. I know it not at all.”
“I think you are mistaken, madame.” The emperor startled them with his somber insistence.
“No, monsieur.” Anne shook her head, though she took the small purse in her hands. “I have never seen it.”
“Are you quite sure, madame?” Charles’s small eyes narrowed. “Perhaps you should check the contents.”
Anne’s fingers closed upon the circular shape of the bag in a tactile examination, delicate features puckered unbecomingly. She lifted the pouch, inserted two fingers, and gently pried the ties apart.
Every neck craned forward, every gaze strained, but hardly a one gained more than an obstructed glance, nothing but an impression of something round and sparkling.
Anne closed the bag quickly and tucked it away in her palm. Under the weight of so much curious attention, she forced the merry expression upon her features as if she threw a mask upon her face.
“As I said, it is not mine,” the duchesse said to the emperor, raising her voice for all to hear, “but I will see it to the hands of its rightful owner.”
The grimace Charles used for a smile touched his wrinkle-rimmed lips. “I am quite sure you will.”
Something had passed between them; there was no denying it. Yet if the emperor had thought to make a covert gesture toward the duchesse, he had done everything to make his actions as overt as possible.
Giuseppe and Eliodoro were on their best behavior this night—hair groomed, and dressed in their finest velvet doublets and pan-sied slops—and no arguments or pranks passed between them. All the musicians played with brilliance, and the compositions filled the room with their spirited genius; the performances dazzled and entertained. Geneviève sat at the table, in the very place she had taken at the start of the night, abandoned by most of her companions, who had moved on to socialize and cavort; but she could not conspire in the festivities, could not complicate herself more with these people. Now was the time to build up the wall, and she did so, brick by painful brick.
As one rousing song ended, Montmorency rose from his seat at the queen’s table, thudding his jeweled goblet on the linen-covered wood. “The emperor wishes to dance with the queen,” he announced with as pl
easant an expression as ever he mustered, and the room responded with appreciative applause.
Charles led Eleanor to the floor, and eager dancers lined up beside them to participate in the stately parade. The musicians launched into the sedate melody of the pazzamento, an odd choice of song, rarely heard at the French court, learned in anticipation of the less-than-athletic emperor’s visit. The agile dancers surrounding brother and sister contained their naturally exuberant spirits, adjusting to Charles and Eleanor’s small and hesitant steps.
“Will you dance with me, Geneviève? I believe I can keep up with such a performance.”
The marquis de Limoges stood by her side, having come upon her with no warning, and Geneviève smiled with pleasant surprise up into his handsome, always cheerful face. His ungainly soldier’s grace had become an intimate jest between them, though never had she told him how much she admired his thick and muscular build. He possessed a warrior’s stature worthy of Michelangelo’s trowel, and yet always exhibited the most affable of demeanors. He would kill when he must but would take no deviant pleasure in doing so.
Geneviève answered with a subdued shake. “I fear I am not in the dancing mood this evening, monsieur.”
The tall man bent at the waist to look upon her more closely. “You are not unwell, are you?”
“No, Albret, a bit overwhelmed and overdone, no more,” she said lightly. “I am content to watch at this moment.”
“Sebastien will be relieved of duty soon.” A slight blush touched the apples of his cheeks and connected the array of freckles upon them as he straightened. He had lost the prize to a fellow soldier and had done so with impeccable courtesy.
Donna Russo Morin Page 33
