The Lady Of Versailles

ii. louise meets the king

Hampton Court Palace, 1670

'I have lost my friends, your majesty. Perhaps you have seen them?' said Louise, as she entered the cabbage-lipped rose garden in her lovely taffeta gown of lavender, her hair in intricate inky ringlets, done up with ivory pearls which were set off by the thin lace lavaliere that hung at her neck. Her silver satin mules crunched against the perfectly round pebbles of the lavishly vegetated privy gardens in the palace, coming to a sharp stop when she caught the king, lonesome and sorrowful, resting on the mahogany seat in a golden-brocade three piece suit, appearing awfully grand for a man with such a look of dismal petulance strained across his face.

'No, I've seen no one.' He responded with an air that gave off a tone of disinterest. Louise chewed at her lip and shot him a frantic glance, eyebrows furrowed into a dark line, worrying that his ostensible attraction to her had faded. The king remained ashen-faced and did not spare her a look, which left Louise in an even worse and childishly deject mood, her sallowy mouth trembling with a resentful sullen manner, almost appearing as if she were about to weep like an infantile, rosy-faced and wet-cheeked child who hadn't had their way.

Louise drew in a sharp breath and huffed, reminding herself that she must remain sweet and kind-hearted, but with just enough wit and beauty to keep the King interested. Nobody wanted a juvenile French girl who spoke with a thick-lipped Breton accent, wore ridiculously embellished dresses and was frequently seen sobbing into a hand-embroidered handkerchief. The English preferred witty, pretty and nonchalant women, who would not interfere with manly matters such as politics and state affairs, but were able to hold intelligible conversations where they would remain polite and attractive. It was much the same in France, but women weren't as often labelled blue-stockings if they attended salons, indulged in fine literature or discussed current political situations. Though, Louise had much to learn, so she thought it very well that she was more quick-witted than her English counterparts. Perhaps she would be able to entertain the King after all, although she did not have it in her heart to act as a spy despite it being her sole purpose in England. Louise was too good-natured and affectionate to betray the frivolous secrets of the English government, but she also did not wish to devastate Louis by refusing to privately converse with the French Ambassador.

The king glanced back over to where she stood, a frustrated - no, disdainful - look painted upon her face, as if she were suppressing a bout of tears. He cleared his throat, and found that Louise abruptly flickered her burnt-coffee eyes back to meet his deep-umber ones with a smouldering glance. They both presumed looks of bashful despair; the king at a loss for words and Louise hiding scant behind the fact that she was so unsure of how to not make a complete fool of herself. Though she had rehearsed a scene quite akin to this over and over in her head — her dark brows tossed together in thought, and plump lips spilling quick sentences — Louise found herself at a complete loss of words. Charles was by no means intimidating; at least compared to Louis, who was dubbed the glorious, golden sun king that glared down on his court of exuberant and resplendent, yet utterly foolish courtiers, and commanded with an iron firmness and cold-heart. Despite his large stature, Charles was well bred, with a swarthy, kind face and gregarious attitude which gained the love of not only his court, but the common people. She was for the most part, concerned that she would appear either a complete fool in front of the King, or make herself up as too witty; when she really lacked a sharp-tongue, and was more invested in commiseration and consciousness.

After a pregnant pause, in which an ivory winged dove managed to flit by wistfully, kissing the fuchsia azaleas and pearly begonias with its delicate touch, Louise drew her lips together in an almost petal-like manner, and dropped her porcelain, marble-heavy hands by her skirt, where they hung and trembled like paperweights. She decided that perhaps the most polite progression of the conversation, was a simple, yet warming thank you. It was always doted upon when you remained full of appreciation; as tender-hearted as marmalade on toast and hot chocolate in floral adorned china cups was on a chilly, pear-boned winter's morning. Louise brushed a curly strand of her chocolate-coloured hair which hung over her dark eyes, and tucked it gently behind her ears before assuming a shaky, but plucky stance, and then continued the slightly skittish conversation by thanking the King, in her sing-song honey-like voice, the words dancing from her nervous lips.