series of ornate gilt-painted doors that lead from the Queen's Antechamber to the Salon of the Nobles and into the Queen's Bedchamber, than Provence and Artois have hightailed it out the door at the rear of the bedroom, into the Salon of Peace and thence through the Hall of Mirrors (a million ungainly Provences, a million handsome Artoises) to the King's Bedchamber, where they collapse on a sofa in its winter upholstery of thick red velvet embroidered with over a hundred and twenty pounds of gold thread and break out laughing.
According to protocol, the Princes of the Blood are supposed to call on the Archduke, not the other way around. Certainly they aren't supposed to lead the Archduke a merry chase.
But is it Antoinette's naivete that permits her to trivialize the incident? Or is it, rather, her disdain for whatever it is in the French character that finds such protocol of vital importance? In fact the Princes are engaging in a political act that is openly hostile, but Antoinette is more interested in the steady accumulation of the snow, the way it's making the conical topiary on the Southern Terrace look like the little wooden trees in the manger scene she used to be allowed to play with at Christmas, before she took the Baby Jesus off to her room and lost it. The snow is turning the parterre's dark green love knots white and piling up on the heads of the statues, making them look like bewigged courtiers rather than Greek gods and goddesses.
Tomorrow is Valentine's Day. Antoinette's heart beats faster, though she has no one in mind, or maybe someone, but no one in particular. They'll ride out in a sledge, she and Maxie, just like when they were children. Later, boiled chicken, a potato. He isn't clever enough for cards, but maybe the Princesse de Guéménée can be persuaded to read his fortune. A little adventure, a little romance? A rendezvous at shepherd's hour with a mysterious dark-haired woman?
Not likely, given the harelip.
Snow falling softly, softly. Snow covering the 11,520 black and white paving stones of the Marble Court, where carriage traffic is strictly forbidden. Snow falling on the 250 carriages waiting in the Forward Court for their owners, and on the hatless head of the kitchen gardener's third assistant's lackey, waiting against an espaliered fruit tree for the arrival of Françoise, with whom he has been having a little dalliance, though tonight he will wait and wait, growing more and more furious to have been jilted on Valentine's Eve, without realizing that meanwhile Françoise is watching the first macule erupt on her pretty forehead and does not need her cards read to know she's doomed.
How late it is getting! The snow still falling though lighter now, little flakes through air made wet and fresh by the storm, an oddly pale lucent darkness. And footprints everywhere, up and down the Stairways of the Hundred Steps, along the Infants' Walk as far as the Neptune Fountain, in and out of the bosquet at the Baths of Apollo, and around and around Air, Water, Earth, and Fire; Spring, Summer, Winter, Fall. Footprints of messengers and courtiers, lovers and thieves. Rabbits and deer. Murderers. Foxes.
Notwithstanding which, the gilt-grilled doors surrounding the Marble Court, like all the doors at Versailles, are unlocked. Ironic, when you think about it, given the King's favorite pastime, though clearly he considers the locks he makes not so much safety devices as intriguing puzzles. In fact the mechanism of the locks themselves is still fairly primitive; protection is provided by elaborate warding, or the addition of secret shutters to hide the keyholes, or sometimes even imposter keyholes.
Besides, once you're inside the chateau you can go practically anywhere, assuming you don't get caught in a traffic jam of sedan chairs, or, having wended your way through the insane maze of corridors honeycombing the Nobles' Wing, landed in some airless hopeless squalid cabinet of a room where you
According to protocol, the Princes of the Blood are supposed to call on the Archduke, not the other way around. Certainly they aren't supposed to lead the Archduke a merry chase.
But is it Antoinette's naivete that permits her to trivialize the incident? Or is it, rather, her disdain for whatever it is in the French character that finds such protocol of vital importance? In fact the Princes are engaging in a political act that is openly hostile, but Antoinette is more interested in the steady accumulation of the snow, the way it's making the conical topiary on the Southern Terrace look like the little wooden trees in the manger scene she used to be allowed to play with at Christmas, before she took the Baby Jesus off to her room and lost it. The snow is turning the parterre's dark green love knots white and piling up on the heads of the statues, making them look like bewigged courtiers rather than Greek gods and goddesses.
Tomorrow is Valentine's Day. Antoinette's heart beats faster, though she has no one in mind, or maybe someone, but no one in particular. They'll ride out in a sledge, she and Maxie, just like when they were children. Later, boiled chicken, a potato. He isn't clever enough for cards, but maybe the Princesse de Guéménée can be persuaded to read his fortune. A little adventure, a little romance? A rendezvous at shepherd's hour with a mysterious dark-haired woman?
Not likely, given the harelip.
Snow falling softly, softly. Snow covering the 11,520 black and white paving stones of the Marble Court, where carriage traffic is strictly forbidden. Snow falling on the 250 carriages waiting in the Forward Court for their owners, and on the hatless head of the kitchen gardener's third assistant's lackey, waiting against an espaliered fruit tree for the arrival of Françoise, with whom he has been having a little dalliance, though tonight he will wait and wait, growing more and more furious to have been jilted on Valentine's Eve, without realizing that meanwhile Françoise is watching the first macule erupt on her pretty forehead and does not need her cards read to know she's doomed.
How late it is getting! The snow still falling though lighter now, little flakes through air made wet and fresh by the storm, an oddly pale lucent darkness. And footprints everywhere, up and down the Stairways of the Hundred Steps, along the Infants' Walk as far as the Neptune Fountain, in and out of the bosquet at the Baths of Apollo, and around and around Air, Water, Earth, and Fire; Spring, Summer, Winter, Fall. Footprints of messengers and courtiers, lovers and thieves. Rabbits and deer. Murderers. Foxes.
Notwithstanding which, the gilt-grilled doors surrounding the Marble Court, like all the doors at Versailles, are unlocked. Ironic, when you think about it, given the King's favorite pastime, though clearly he considers the locks he makes not so much safety devices as intriguing puzzles. In fact the mechanism of the locks themselves is still fairly primitive; protection is provided by elaborate warding, or the addition of secret shutters to hide the keyholes, or sometimes even imposter keyholes.
Besides, once you're inside the chateau you can go practically anywhere, assuming you don't get caught in a traffic jam of sedan chairs, or, having wended your way through the insane maze of corridors honeycombing the Nobles' Wing, landed in some airless hopeless squalid cabinet of a room where you
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