Royal 02 - Royal Passion (37 page)

They planned to make a day of it. The carriage carrying Angeline and Helene, followed by that with Juliana and Mara inside, was on the road early. It was a distance of some twelve miles to Versailles, and it had to be covered in good time to allow them to see everything. It was decided to take two vehicles in order not to crush the wide gowns of the ladies, and also to give the different generations freedom to speak as they pleased.

They traveled through the city to the Place de la Concorde and down the Champs-Elysées past the Arc de Triomphe. They left Paris by the old Port Dauphin gateway, proceeding through the Bois de Boulogne with its chestnuts, acacias, and sycamores that had replaced the venerable oaks cut by the English and Russians during the occupation in 1815. Passing St. Cloud, they came at last to the spreading complex of buildings that had become known simply as Versailles.

It was fascinating to Mara, used to the young and uncomplicated history of America, to think that the kings and queens of France, their relatives, advisers, mistresses, and lovers, the nobility and the quasinobility, had for two hundred and fifty years been traveling back and forth between Paris and this place along the same road she had taken. In this great pile of golden limestone and brick the men and women who had ruled this country had been born, lived, and died. They had known pleasure and pain, joy and sorrow, passion and heartache; the exaltation of art, drama, and music; and the sighs of ennui. Here the Sun King, Louis XIV, had held court in such splendor that he had awed the world; and here the rabble, the sansculottes, had poured in on a fine day a century and a half later to take Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette prisoner, and to insult the royal princesses in their chambers.

Decoration, decoration, it was everywhere: in enormous ceiling frescos with vivid figures far larger than life; in carved and gilded cornices, moldings, door panels, and door and window facings; in intricately inlaid marble floors, wall panels, and marble staircases in colors of veined green, copper, pink, white, gray, black, and golden yellow. There were arched and vaulted and groined ceilings; walls hung with damask, brocade, velvet, and silk that was embroidered in colors and also in gold and silver thread, or with tapestries from the looms of Gobelin and Savonnerie. There were carvings of leaves and flowers, palm branches, fruit and ferns; of garlands and swags and rosettes of ribbons; of stags, chimeras, dolphins, lions, and peacocks; of lyres and violins, bugles and harps; of crowns and urns and shields and swords and bows and arrows; of goddesses and cherubs, angels with cupids; and everywhere the Rhodian sun that was the symbol of the Sun King. Most, if not all, of the ornamentation was covered with gold leaf.

So much carving, such tons of gilding and acres of rich fabrics, so many miles of marble and suites with fine and delicate inlaid furniture, gave an impression of incredible richness. What was even more amazing was that it could still impress when so much was gone: so many gold and silver pieces, balusters, railings, and objets d'art that had been melted down; so many paintings and pieces of furniture that had been sold out of the country by a rapacious and careless revolutionary government.

And yet it was hard to blame them. There was such a terrible contrast between the opulent lives of the former French royalty and the hovels of the country and the dirty back alleys of La Marais, where the common people had lived at the time of the revolution, and still lived now in the nineteenth century. It was no wonder that the French throne was still shaky.

At this season, the Ruthenia group had the great château very nearly to themselves, except for a bored guard or two and an old crone who flipped a dusting cloth here and there with scant interest and less effect. They saw the famous Hall of Mirrors, that great vaulted corridor once hung with chandeliers and laid with enormous Savonnerie carpets to match the ceilings paintings by Le Brun, the passageway leading from the king's apartments to those of the queen. The parquet floor was intact, as were, miraculously, the mirrors that lined the walls opposite the seventeen arched windows, but the carpets and chandeliers were gone. This open expanse of flooring where Marie Antoinette had been married seemed to invite dancing. Juliana and Michael whirled down it in an impromptu waltz, in imitation of the revels that had once been held on its shining length. The others followed suit, whirling until they were giddy and Grandmère scolded them for their lack of reverence.

The cadre fought a mock battle up the Queen's Staircase with its inlays of marble in green and copper-pink, cream and white, and made up ribald stories about the dignitaries who must have trod up and down it. They crowded into the Hall of Battles, a corridor as long as eight large rooms, which Louis Philippe had created out of apartments once occupied by various royal relatives. Here could be seen scores of paintings on a grand scale depicting the great military events of French history. Though many were quite old, most had been specially commissioned. Of particular interest was one by Delacroix, the flamboyant painter Mara had seen wearing a burnous at the Hugo salon. Entitled
The Battle of Taillebourg,
it was a romanticized view of Saint Louis defeating the English at the bridge over the Charente in the thirteenth century, a canvas filled with vigor and grace and spilled blood, with flying flags and fury under a lowering sky. Predictably, the cadre voted it splendid.

In the Queen's Bedchamber; where nineteen royal children of France had been born, Roderic pointed out the ceiling medallions by Boucher illustrating the virtues of Charity, Plenty, Fidelity, and Prudence.

"Queenly virtues, all,” he said. His face was grave, but the light in his eyes was teasing. “The lady who occupies the seat beside the throne must be compassionate to the poor among her people, overseeing the dispensing of charity; plentiful with the production of heirs, for obvious reasons; faithful to her liege lord so that their offsprings’ legitimacy will not be in doubt; and prudent in her demands upon the treasury."

"Nonsense,” Angeline said briskly. “If she has a good head on her shoulders and an iron constitution, she will need nothing else."

"Not even the affection of the king?” her son murmured, his gaze on Mara's face as she stared up at the orante monochromatic ceiling with its loops and curves of molding and heavy carving of arms and cherubs covered with gold leaf.

"That is certainly helpful with the production of heirs!"

Mara smiled at Angeline's quick rejoinder, but there was no lightness inside her.

It was while they were walking through the parterres of the garden that the rain began. The balustraded terraces with their finely graveled walks and clipped hedges in intricate designs were not at their best in the winter season, and were even less hospitable with the cold rain spattering in the fountains and dripping from the naked limbs of the statues. They bolted for the carriages and sat huddled inside.

The rain showed no signs of stopping. The hour for luncheon had passed while they were viewing the Hall of Mirrors. Driven by hunger, they removed to a café in the village at the gates of the chateau. It took some time for the flustered owner to prepare a meal, and when it was finished, the rain was still streaming down the windows. Grandmère Helene's feet hurt from walking the long marble corridors; in fact, she ached from her head to her toes, she said. The cadre yawned at the thought of returning to view more French glory. Mara had seen enough. They gathered up Jacques and Jared, who were in the kitchen flirting with one of the maids, and set out once more for Paris.

As she stared out the carriage window through the streaming rain, Mara's spirits were as leaden as the sky. The golden rococo richness of Versailles had shown her, if she had ever doubted it, how impossible her unacknowledged dreams were. She was only an American girl of ordinary birth. Between herself and those who could claim a right to live in such splendor stretched a vast gulf. Never would she reign over a palace. Never would she become a queen filled with virtues, or even the princess consort of the future king. She had been the mistress of the prince, if her brief sojourn in Roderic's bed could be honored by so grand a title. It was all she would ever be. All she would ever know of love and loving.

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It was time to go home. She did not belong at Ruthenia House. Paris with its glamor and gaiety had not been the cure her father had expected it to be. The money he had spent to send her here, money he could ill afford, had been wasted. It would have been better if she had never seen the crooked streets and fine old houses of Paris, the theaters and cafés and book stalls and pastry shops; and far better if she had never met a volatile prince by the light of a gypsy fire. She would put aside her vain hopes, packing them away as most young women did their dance programs and split slippers and faded flowers when a memorable ball was over. She would return to Louisiana, to take care of her father's house on Bayou Teche near St. Martinville. In time she would forget the pain, but she would remember the pleasure and the joy.

To make the decision was fine; to act on it, another thing entirely.

Mara went to Grandmère Helene's bedchamber to inform her of what she meant to do early the next morning. Her grandmother was still in bed with a cloth soaked in violet water on her forehead and down-stuffed comforters piled two feet high over her thin body.

"Don't come in,” she croaked. “I have a chill from our outing yesterday. You mustn't catch it.

"Mara ignored the warning, coming to stand at the side of the bed and place her head on her grandmother's forehead. It was burning hot. “Shall I bring you some tea or broth?"

"No, no, nothing. I feel like the crone of death, and all I want to do is lie here."

"I think I had better send for the doctor."

"Not if you want to please me,” the older woman said with asperity. “French doctors always want to prescribe for the liver, no matter what ails a body, and there's nothing wrong with my 1-liver."

The words ended with a violent shiver that sent a spasm of pain across the lined face on the pillow. Mara said, “Perhaps a few drops of laudanum then, to help you sleep?"

"If it will make you happy."

Mara ordered the fire built up, despite the mildness of the day, and sat beside Grandmère Helene until she dropped off to sleep. Only then did she get up and leave the room, going in search of Angeline.

A doctor was sent for, and he came within the hour. The elderly lady was ill, but not desperately so. It was imperative at her age, however, that she be kept quiet and warm and out of the slightest draft. On no account must the windows in her chamber be opened, and she must not touch so much as one foot to the cold floor. If these instructions were followed, and should the functioning of her liver remain normal, she would most likely not develop the dreaded pneumonia. If she did, he refused to be responsible for the consequences.

"Pompous charlatan, full of wind and noise,” Roderic said dispassionately as the doctor's frock-coated figure disappeared down the stairs.

Mara shook her head. “It's my fault for insisting he come. Grandmère said how it would be."

"We are at the mercy of our fears when we love."

She could only agree. “I must go and sit with her."

"It won't help, and may disturb her. If you will settle for the small salon beside her chamber, I will bear you company.

She looked at him, startled. “Surely you have more important things to do?"

"Nothing,” he said simply, and, placing her hand on his arm, strolled with her back to the salon that separated her own bedchamber from that of her grandmother.

"You have grown thin, too thin,” he said when they were seated in that small, oval-shaped room. He sat with one leg drawn up and his elbow resting on the back of the small settee, supporting his head.

"A condition caused by lack of appetite."

He ignored her attempt at lightness. “Travail and sorrow and a shameful deflowering; it has not been a halcyon interlude for you."

She looked down at her hands, which were clasped in her lap. “Not shameful."

"Generous. But, then, you have been that from the first. You offered me half of your apple."

She lifted her head to look at him, and her gray eyes were steady and very clear. “I told you once that I was sorry for—for what happened. I don't think you believed me. It was the truth, I swear it."

"You had cooperation, even collaboration."

"That doesn't alter the fact that it was wrong to use you."

"Wrong to try, perhaps. I could have stopped it at any time with a single word. I chose instead, not in cold blood but in full knowledge of the consequences, to accept the gift you had to give, yourself. For that I hereby beg your forgiveness."

"There is no reason that you should."

"Only self-respect and honor and honesty—and uncertainty."

She blinked in surprise, men lifted a brow. “You have never been uncertain in your life."

"No? You caught the edge of my temper after the attempt on Louis Philippe. Unfairly. There are many emotions I would arouse in you, but fear is not one of them."

A faint haze of color appeared on her cheekbones. She refused to acknowlege it or the words that had caused it. “Why unfairly?"

"I wanted the confidence you could not give. Instead of seeking the cause, I staged a spectacular of damaged pride and rage. It was not helpful and may now be a hindrance."

"A hindrance? To what?"

"To earning your trust. Ever."

His face was composed in lines of suspended concern. The fine gold waves of his hair fell forward on his forehead, and she had to clench her hands in her lap to prevent herself from brushing them back. She could smell the fresh-starched scent of his linen shirt and the faint hint of sandalwood from the soap he used, and it seemed that the heat of his body reached her across the width of the brocade seat that lay between them. She felt a little dizzy with the things he was saying and his nearness, as if someone had turned her in circles and then let her go. She could think of only one reason why he should have concluded that she did not trust him, and though it was difficult for her to put into words, she wanted to reassure him.