Free The Hurlyburly's Husband by Jean Teulé

‘Exotic charm …’

10.
    ‘Grrrr … Oh, oh, oh! … Frrrr …’
    Athénaïs growled, pulled back her ringlets and pointed them skywards like the devil’s horns. She made a dreadful face, rolling her eyes. ‘Beware, I’m a demon …’
    Her three-year-old daughter – thin, pale Marie-Christine – ran away across the wigmaker’s tiled floor, shrieking with terror and happiness, whilst her mother chased her towards the stairway leading to the Montespans’ apartments.
    ‘Grrr … Oh, oh, oh!’
    ‘Your wife is feeling better, it would seem, after the repercussions of her child-bearing,’ remarked Joseph Abraham in the shop, placing a new wig on Louis-Henri’s scalp. ‘Not at all like she was yesterday. Might it be your night upon the town which did her so much good?’
    ‘She learnt that the King has noticed her and, this morning, she was informed that he wishes to meet her this very day.’
    ‘The King! But to what end?’
    ‘One cannot say until it has been confirmed. Athénaïs claims that it is bad luck to announce something before ’tis due. Is that not true, my dearest?’ he called to the mirror placed in front of him so that he might admire his wig, and where he could see the reflection of the young marquise in the guise of Beelzebub as she pursued Marie-Christine.
    ‘Grrr … Oh, oh, oh! … Frrr …’
    The child hid between her father’s legs; he was sitting in an armchair whose arms were reinforced with tacked padded leather patches. While his wig was being powdered with starch, he caressed his daughter’s fine hair; she was crimson, her heart racing. Madame Abraham was holding the infant in her arms and she smiled.
    ‘Your children were charming yesterday, Athénaïs. Louis-Antoine suckled his wet nurse and slept through the night. And the little girl, when she sees you again and you play with her, she seems so happy … It’s as if she’s come back to life.’
    ‘Grrr … Oh, oh, oh! … Frrr …’
    The child ran out from between her father’s legs. Once again mother and daughter galloped round the room, whilst Montespan and the wigmaker began to talk of politics.
    ‘What do you think of the new war that is in the offing, against Spain this time?’ Monsieur Abraham asked the marquis, shaving him all the while.
    ‘His Majesty is quite right! Philip IV tried to make his daughter Marie-Thérèse renounce the succession to Spain once she had married Louis, and in compensation agreed to award her a dowry of five hundred thousand écus in gold, to be paid in three instalments … If the dowry was not paid, the renunciation became invalid. That is a fact, set down in writing. Spain has never had the means to settle the promised amount – considerable, to be sure. In consequence, now that Philip has died, Louis is demanding, on behalf of his wife, her share in the succession. In the name of the right of devolution, France is laying claim to Spanish Flanders. Philip IV’s widow has just rejected a written ultimatum. She will yield nothing, not even one hamlet in the Netherlands. Her response does not take into account the reality of the situation. The King of France clearly has might on his side. However, there are bound to be uprisings along the border in the Pyrenees…’
    ‘Will you take part in this war, too?’
    ‘I should like to…’ sighed tall Louis-Henri, getting to his feet and squirting himself with his perfume: liquorice and orange-flower water. ‘I should like to … All the more so as I understand His Majesty. As a husband, he is opposed to such usurpation. And rightfully so! There are limits to what one can accept. Certain things simply are not done.’
    Athénaïs came up behind Louis-Henri and sniffed his neck, then lowered her eyes. ‘You smell good,’ she said. ‘I would recognise that smell anywhere. Even when I am very old and blind and you have abandoned me in a hospice, if you came into the room, I would know you.’
    He turned round and she kissed