Free French Passion by Jacqueline; Briskin Page B

splendid to me, dwindled and paled.
    Great nobles glittered with decorations, sashed orders, and bejeweled swords. The ladies, in towering powdered wigs, shone with brooches and necklaces and earrings and bracelets of diamonds and emeralds and sapphires and rubies. Parures of South Sea pearls. Satin court gowns with wide panniered skirts and long pleated trains that fell from the shoulders made each lady a gleaming island in her own magnificence.
    The ceremony hadn’t started. Chairs had been placed near the altar for the royal family, and these were still empty. Neither Aunt Thérèse nor I had ever seen the King and Queen. Aunt Thérèse wanted to move closer. I shrank in the shadow of a pillar near the main entry. “Auntie, from back here we can see it all better. Everything.”
    We gazed at fairyland.
    â€œThat’s her,” I heard a man whisper. “His new mistress, the one in white lynx.”
    Either he didn’t care if I heard, or he wanted me to hear.
    The woman’s reply was as audible. “Imagine coming here tonight! The little thing has her gall!”
    â€œBut isn’t she radiant? That face! So exquisite! Fragonard might use her as a model.”
    Men’s powdered wigs and women’s tall powdered hair-dresses turned toward me. More loud whispers. Aunt Thérèse kept gazing expectantly at the chairs near the altar. She must have heard. She appeared to have no idea whom they were whispering about. Yet … could even her kind and decent heart be that uncomprehending? The soft white furs of my cloak collar trembled with each breath I drew. The staring eyes, the haughty voices, began to take a physical effect. My recent odd torpor changed to weakness. My thighs went watery, and I had to put my hand on the pillar in order to stay erect. I feared I would faint. Ridiculous, I told myself. I’ve never fainted in my life. It’s Aunt Thérèse who faints.
    Fortunately the cathedral was very cold. This chill kept me conscious.
    The jeweled ladies and gentlemen turned. A sigh rose to the highest dome. The King and Queen were entering at a side door. We were too far away to see them in detail, but even from here one could tell King Louis was portly, and Queen Marie Antoinette graceful, with a large bosom and tiny waist.
    The wedding started. The bridal couple wore white brocade. Odd, seeing the Comte without his usual black. I couldn’t quite believe it was him. His white-gowned bride, Mahout de Valois, was taller than he, and corpulent.
    â€œShe’s so ugly,” Aunt Thérèse whispered in my ear.
    â€œMmmm,” I whispered back.
    â€œSometimes when he visits, he looks at you in the softest way. Manon, I think he’s sorry he couldn’t marry you. Child, he loves you.”
    I gripped her hand, thanking the God who surely inhabits cathedrals that He had made this kind old aunt too unworldly to hear the malicous talk, to notice the avid glances. My dizziness worsened.
    Rings were exchanged.
    Two old men, having strolled closer to our pillar, stopped, peering openly at me.
    â€œLovely creature,” one said loudly. “Where did de Créqui find her?”
    â€œShe’s his ward.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œHis ward. Remember Raoul d’Epinay? Poor, but fine family. His daughter. Mignon or Manon or somesuch.”
    â€œRaoul d’Epinay. Oh yes, I remember him. Excellent fellow. Has she no brother or uncle to protect her?”
    â€œA brother. Very young. And weak.”
    â€œShe really is magnificent.”
    â€œMy chef is friend to de Créqui’s chef, and they say de Créqui forced her. Kitchen gossip. Sometimes true, though.”
    â€œWicked thing to make an old friend’s daughter into a whore.” Laughter. “Don’t blame him too much, though. What hair! Does de Créqui lend her out yet?”
    The loud, deaf voices echoed, bouncing off stone walls and arches and naves, carved