“He would play more beautifully if he practiced.” Signor Scarlatti sighed. “Here we have practiced —” He glanced back at his son. “Though not enough! He ran off — to play games! The day he’s to play for the King! You would think he was three years old, not six.”
“I’m not six! I’m eight!”
“Hush! At Versailles, you are six. Practice!”
The boy drew Marie-Josèphe along with him to the harpsichord. She sat beside him.
“I saw your sea monster, Signorina Maria!” he said.
“Did she frighten you?”
“Oh, no, she’s beautiful, she sings such stories!”
“You have a story to sing, yourself, young man,” Signor Scarlatti said. “And if you don’t play properly, what will our patron say? The viceroy will send us away from Naples.” He bent close to Marie-Josèphe. “But then I might stay in France, to worship you until you reward me.”
“Your playing will please the King,” Marie-Josèphe said to Domenico, and then, to Signor Scarlatti, “and his reward will be more than I could ever hope to give you.”
“I’d exchange all his riches for a single kiss,” Signor Scarlatti said.
His importuning went beyond friendly jesting; Marie-Josèphe reminded herself that while he was rich and famous, she was a lady.
“Signore,” Marie-Josèphe said sternly, “when you have all his riches — and his titles — we might speak again.”
Signor Scarlatti struck his breast. “Touché,” he said. “You have bested me. You may hang my heart on your wall as a trophy.”
“I much prefer your heart where it is, Signore, so you may give it to your music.”
“I am ready,” he said. “Domenico — Domenico is not so ready. He disappoints me, he disappoints M. Coupillet, but no one else will notice. M. Galland admires our preparations. My greatest ambition is to please you.”
“To please His Majesty,” Marie-Josèphe said.
“And His Majesty,” said Signor Scarlatti.
Marie-Josèphe kissed Domenico’s cheek. “You could never fail to please everyone, with your playing,” she said to the child, and hurried back into the crowded Salon of Venus, into the merciful warmth and the smoky light.
In an alcove, partly hidden by curtains and orange trees, Mme Lucifer huddled with Mlle d’Armagnac.
You must think of Mme Lucifer as the Duchess de Chartres, Marie-Josèphe reminded herself. Marie-Josèphe de la Croix must not use a nickname for a member of the royal family, especially a nickname so pointed. Madame would be amused, but she would have to be horrified in public.
A cloud of tobacco smoke billowed from behind the curtains. Mme de Chartres puffed luxuriously on a small black cigar, then handed it to Mlle d’Armagnac, who drew in a mouthful of smoke and puffed it out contentedly. Marie-Josèphe wished she could dare to approach, to join them.
“It’s the little nun,” Mme Lucifer said.
“So it is, Mme de Chartres.”
Marie-Josèphe smiled shyly, hoping they would condescend to offer her a taste of the tobacco.
“Do you suppose she’s on her way to confession?” Mlle d’Armagnac said. Smoke dribbled from between her lips and mixed with the sweet scent of orange blossoms.
“Our confession, perhaps.” Mme Lucifer advanced upon Marie-Josèphe. The jewels on her bodice glittered as wildly as her eyes. “Will you report our transgression to your brother, my dear — or to my father the King?”
“It isn’t my place to speak to His Majesty at all,” Marie-Josèphe said. “My brother’s work absorbs him. He doesn’t preach, or hear confession.”
“What other unpriestly disciplines does he engage in?” Mlle d’Armagnac spoke in a more friendly fashion.
“Nothing my brother does is unpriestly!”
“What a pity,” said Mlle d’Armagnac. “Why, Mme de Chartres, think how many sins one could commit with such a handsome priest.”
“I’m counting them, my dear — and I could commit one more than you.”
“Why, two more, I believe — as you are married.”
Both ladies laughed. Mlle d’Armagnac handed the cigar to Mme Lucifer, who slipped behind the orange trees.
The herald strode to the door of the Salon of Mars and thumped his staff three times on the parquet.
“The entertainments begin!”
Mme Lucifer snatched Mlle d’Armagnac’s sleeve to pull her out of sight.
His Majesty approached, leading the way to the Salon of Mars and to this evening’s performance. His Holiness walked at his right hand. Yves walked at his left — with the King, with the Pope, in front of the king and queen of England. Marie-Josèphe was so astonished that she stood before the doorway like a gaping fool. At the last moment she scurried out of the way and dropped into a deep curtsy.
His Majesty paused. She found herself looking at his white silk stockings, his high-heeled red shoes, his feet, renowned for their beautiful shape and small size, now cruelly swollen by the gout.
“Mlle de la Croix,” he said sternly, “do you smell of tobacco?”
She rose. Mme Lucifer’s jibe at Yves tempted Marie-Josèphe to invite His Majesty to turn around and look behind the orange trees. But if Mme Lucifer had been so kind as to offer her the cigar, she would have smelled of tobacco, so she could not proclaim a perfect innocence.
“It is — it is a custom of Martinique,” she said, which was quite true.
“A pagan custom,” His Holiness said. “Adopted from wild Americans.” Marie-Josèphe was close enough to kiss his ring, but he did not offer her that honor.
“A nasty one, at best. I disapprove of smoking, especially by ladies,” Louis said. He sighed unhappily. “Even more than I disapprove of the fontanges, but what influence have I, at my own court? I see that you have brought one horrid custom from your homeland, and attached yourself to another horrid custom here in France.”
“I beg Your Majesty’s pardon,” she whispered, wilting beneath the disapproving gaze of the King.
His Majesty proceeded. But as he moved forward, he reached toward the trees with his walking stick and pushed the branches aside, revealing Mme Lucifer and Mlle d’Armagnac. Tendrils of cigar smoke wafted out to encircle His Majesty and His Holiness.
Mme Lucifer glared defiantly before dropping into a curtsy. His Majesty shook his head sadly, with fond disapproval, and continued into the music salon. His court streamed after him. Chartres, the embarrassed young husband, ignored his disgraced wife.