Philippe laughed as he made the motions of the dance. “I sense in you and Lafayette a most unchristian vanity. Have you never suspected that refusal to indulge in the vices of others might be construed as self-righteousness? People hate to feel judged.”
I felt he was twisting everything, but it has always been part of my character to worry about giving someone else pain. So I said, “We are in no place to judge you, a prince of the blood.”
“Exactly so.” His voice near my ear was sharp as a knife. “And you must be reminded of that.”
What happened next unfolded so swiftly I couldn’t trust what I thought I saw—Philippe’s foot shooting out just as we circled past the queen, his heel clipping Gilbert’s. My husband tripped, landing facedown on the polished wooden floor. The boy who climbed out of castle towers now sprawled at the feet of the queen. The musicians stopped playing and the courtiers went silent, waiting for the queen’s reaction.
None of us dared move.
Marie Antoinette might’ve stooped to help Gilbert, or asked if he had taken an injury; she might have said something to soothe his pride. Surely the queen knew—as everyone knew—that whatever she chose to do would be mimicked by all.
What she chose to do was laugh.
Not merely a giggle of nervous impulse, but a tinkling laugh of crystal clear ridicule. Philippe’s mistress was first to join in the laughter, Aglaé’s porcelain cheeks turning pink with merriment at my husband’s expense. Soon every courtier in the room guffawed, until the gilded rafters themselves seemed to shake with laughter. Gilbert leapt to his feet, his skin flushing from red to purple, and we returned to Paris that same night.
My heart bled for my poor husband, for I understood now that the court was every bit the nest of vipers my mother feared. And neither of us truly belonged.
* * *
—
So seldom did my father send for me when he visited Paris that I made haste to the duc d’Ayen’s laboratory, where he kept a furnace, crucibles, melting pots, and other instruments. I found him hunched over a row of dead goldfinches, studying the different chemical stages of decay, and I stifled the urge to hold a kerchief to my nose against the smell.
My father held some manner of long forceps in one hand and a scalpel in the other, too intent upon his dissection to greet me. “Rumor has it your husband was tripped by Chartres.”
“I think so.”
“Was he tripped or wasn’t he?”
I laced my fingers behind my back to keep them from trembling, for my father’s presence always intimidated me. “I cannot swear because it happened so quickly, and yet I believe it to be true.”
My father looked up. “What does your husband plan to do about it?”
I lifted my hands in helpless confusion. “What can be done about it?”
Thereupon my father startled me by stabbing the dead bird’s wing, pinning it to the board. “Adrienne, this creature was singing yesterday. There, yonder, in the tray, rotting and stinking, that bird was alive last month. The desiccated one is slowly crumbling. It’s a process inevitable for each and every one of us. Everything ends. Everything becomes dust. Nothing lasts but your name and your legacy.”
I could not guess what he meant for me to say. Nor could I hold his gaze, as I felt dissected myself. Did he mean that we should take revenge? Did he wish Gilbert to challenge Philippe to a duel?
At length, my father took up another sharp instrument. “An attack on my son-in-law is an attack on the Noailles. Lafayette cannot simply slink away from the fight.”
“What do you wish him to do?”
“Return to Versailles. We have secured him an appointment. He will be the first gentleman to the king’s brother.”
This was a prestigious hereditary post that the king had somehow been convinced to pass to my husband as if he were, in fact, of Noailles blood. Gilbert’s duties would begin each morning in drawing the bed-curtains, providing a dressing gown, and deciding who should or should not be admitted to an audience. It would fall to Gilbert to wait upon the king’s brother at supper, to watch and guard his royal person. It was a great honor, and yet one I knew my husband would detest. “Father, you do us a kindness, but neither of us wish to return to court.”
My father cut the bird’s wing joint. “Untold favors were called to secure this opportunity, and you will both be grateful in time. There is no declining this honor, Adrienne, a thing you will impress upon your husband. A thing you must impress upon him.”