Free Before Versailles by Karleen Koen Page B

that Guy was the absolute handsomest man at court. All four of them had stayed up one night not long ago arguing this. No, said Louise, the king is more striking. The truth was Guy and his majesty looked remarkably alike. They allowed the Viscount Nicolas, old as he was, in the running because he had a tender smile and wonderful laugh lines around his eyes and was still slim when most men his age dragged around bellies the size of tubs. Also, he was very, very rich. And the king’s captain of the guards, Péguilin, was so ugly it made him handsome, or this was their snob Madeleine’s opinion anyway. And of course, Monsieur himself with his snapping dark eyes and vivid smile was included. And after much giggling discussion, all but Louise selected Guy.
    The handsomest man at court walked around the maids of honor as if they were fillies he was considering for purchase before he stopped in front of Louise. He has an eye on you, Fanny kept saying, but Louise thought that maybe it was Fanny who had an eye on him.
    “I’ll dance with you tonight,” Guy said, looking down at her.
    No, you won’t, thought Louise, but of course, she didn’t say it. She didn’t like this worldly, certain young man. There was something dangerous and flippant about him that distressed her, and she didn’t like the way he always seemed to be watching Madame. She kept her head down until he moved on, sauntering over to stand by his sister.
    “Are we late? Tell me we’re not late.” Prince Philippe burst into the chamber, talking even as he entered the door. “His majesty will frown. Stupid Monsieur, he’ll say, you’ll be late to your own burial. Guiche, my friend, my discerning one, my valet couldn’t get my collar the way I wanted it. And I look puffy in this doublet. Marriage has made me fat. Tell me. I can bear the truth. Hello, darling—” He kissed Henriette on the mouth. Philippe had always been one to wear his heart on his sleeve, and right now his wife was his heart.
    “Fair princess,” he said, nodding his head to Catherine, “you look beautiful as always,” but his destination was the single and large pier glass in this chamber, and he sighed when he stood before it and turned from side to side. “Horrible. I look horrible. Someone here tell me. Count, you’re my dearest friend. Don’t be kind. I can bear it.”
    It was amusing—Fanny and Louise found the king’s brother witty and kinder than they’d expected—but it was also deadly serious. Fashion in this age was more flamboyant and beribboned and befrilled for a man than it was for a woman. No one dressed better, every square inch of himself embroidered or belaced, than the king. No one, that is, except Philippe, who often set some style his brother then copied and received the credit for.
    Summoned, Guy stood behind his friend. He stared for a long time at Philippe’s reflection. No one spoke. The maids of honor were afraid to. Monsieur and the count were great friends. That was what Choisy had told Louise, and it was what she had seen for herself. Even when the count was rude, Monsieur seemed not to mind.
    Finally, Guy touched at a single dark velvet patch Philippe wore on his cheek. “This would be—?”
    “It’s a patch, and you know it. The Chevalier de Choisy came by, and one thing led to another, and it seemed like a good idea.” Philippe went over to Henriette, brows drawn together, anxious, and as trusting as he’d been with Guy. “Have I gone too far? Do you hate it, my love?”
    Henriette kissed her husband’s mouth and then the patch, cut in the shape of a star. “I adore it and you, sir.”
    How sweet they are together, thought Louise. Here, at least, was an example of the true love she envisioned. The prince idolized his princess. And the princess—Louise sighed to herself at the thought of Madame. It was all rapidly becoming complicated, but she hoped for the best.
    “No more is needed,” Philippe said to Guy.
    “Bring me Madame’s