Gates of Gold

Marly

Because Cécile serves only Madame’s dogs, most people at court pay her little attention. She often overhears conversations meant for other ears. This proves especially true one January evening at the Marly hunting estate, where she stands against the wall with several other servants. Beside her, Françoise frets under her breath, worried sick over her favorite suitor. He’s a merchant who supplies the royal Bourgogne household and has stayed behind at Versailles despite the danger. An outbreak of measles has struck the palace, hitting the prince and princess’shousehold especially hard. Already 200 people have been carried away for burial. Out of fear of contagion, the royal family has fled to Marly, and, of course, wherever they go, the servants go, too.

That evening, the family gathers before the marble hearth. A fire roars like a dragon with an unquenchable appetite, kept satisfied by a crippled servant who continually feeds it logs. At Cécile’s back, meanwhile, the bare wall ices her shoulders. She would like nothing better than to lie down by the warmth and sleep. But she stands dutifully at her post, watching the dogs. Madame reclines on a couch-like chaise longue, her dogs curled across her outstretched skirts, all but Stabdille. He lies on his back on a rug, paws toward the flickering candelabra, worn out after an hour of play with the boys. The king chats with Bretagne and Anjou, who take turns sitting in their great-grandfather’s lap. He tells them stories of his early days as a soldier. Cécile stifles her yawns and pinches herself, desperately trying to keep her eyes open.

The young royal couple lean back together on cushions. “I’m serious, chéri,” Marie-Adélaïde says to the Duc de Bourgogne. “Who will you marry when I’m gone?” That night, caught in the amber glow of the firelight, her head and sore jaw are wrapped in white cloth. The princess looks almost like a nun. “Should that ever happen, my love,” her husband answers, “I’d never remarry. In a week I’d follow you to the grave.”

On the far side of the room stands Philippe, who serves the Bourgogne household. He has lately taken to teasing Cécile, calling her his “rosebud friend.” At the conversation’s pause his eyes meet hers, and she feels a familiar warmth rise to her cheeks. She bites the insides of her cheeks to compose herself. She reminds herself that in such a gathering, a good servant should be about as noticeable as a plain chair.

The conversation continues. Marie-Adélaïde shakes her head and reminds him that she’s already twenty-five. She says that with each year, that prediction by the Italian astrologer from Turin haunts her more than ever. She wonders aloud whether this could be the year it comes true. Bourgogne cuts off the thought, insisting he can’t imagine her life ending before she turns twenty-seven. He doubts God would have directed her steps to Versailles if He had such plans. France needs her now more than ever. He kisses her cheek and tells her he needs her, too.

The couple’s talk turns to politics, but Cécile’s mind keeps churning over the strange prediction from the astrologer in Turin, Italy. Papa, hearing of such things, had always called them “sheer folly,” insisting it was far better to think with the minds God gave us. And yet Cécile cannot help feeling some fear herself. She hopes the prediction about Marie-Adélaïde will not come true. She resolves to watch the princess more closely from then on. Glancing at Philippe again, she sees his eyes downcast, and suspects he is pondering the very same thoughts.

The court returns to Versailles during the first week of February. One afternoon Cécile is in Marie-Adélaïde’s apartment, showing Bretagne and Anjou the new tricks Stabdille has learned. She has taught him tricks using small pieces of bread saved from her own meals. He can roll over, sit up on his hind legs, and shake his head back and forth. The boys laugh and take turns rewarding him for his genius. Visitors often come and go from the princess’squarters while the children play. That noon, a courtier old enough to be Marie-Adélaïde’s father taps Cécile on the shoulder. In his outstretched hand is an exquisite silver snuffbox. He asks her to give it to Marie-Adélaïde. She’s to tell the princess it is the finest Spanish snuff, a gift from the Duc de Noailles. The other servants are occupied, so Cécile takes the snuffbox, curtsying with an “Oui, Monsieur.” As soon as the princess is free, Cécile steps to her chair with a curtsy. Marie-Adélaïde greets her warmly and asks what lovely gift she’s brought from an even lovelier girl.

Cécile holds out the round silver box, engraved with a cherub and flowers. She explains whom it is from, and that it is, as he said, the finest Spanish snuff. Marie-Adélaïde declares that she loves gifts, her smile as bright as sun glinting off fresh snowfall. With delicate hands she opens the box and licks the tip of her forefinger. She dips it into the dark powder, brings it to her nostril, and inhales deeply. She pronounces it quite good indeed, then sets the snuffbox on her dressing table before returning her attention to the boys. Cécile curtsies again and goes back to Stabdille, who is now busy chasing a ball of yarn across the room.

That evening the hour is late when Madame climbs into her canopied bed, her dogs rushing to their spots on the blanket. She asks Cécile if she’s heard the news: Marie-Adélaïde has fallen terribly ill. Cécile’s stomach twists as she remembers the snuffbox. What if it had contained poison? She was the one who had given it to her! Madame explains that the princess had served a fine little cake of her own making for supper, full of white cheese, sugar, and maize flour. Within the hour, she had begun to shiver with fever and feel pain again in her lower jaw. She could not even pay her usual after-supper visit to the king. For the first time, she refused.

Already the doctors have dosed the princess with gouttes d’Angleterre and bled her twice, with no relief for her pain or fever. When one of her ladies went looking for the new little snuffbox to soothe her, it could not be found. Cécile says it is on her table. She saw the princess put it there. Madame answers that it’s not there anymore. There’s not a trace of it to be found. Of course, the doctors suspect poisoning.

That night Cécile tosses beneath her down quilt, worrying over Marie-Adélaïde. Over and over she replays the conversation she overheard at Marly between the princess and her husband. She considers every movement and word of the Duc de Noailles, wondering whether she had seen some flicker of malice in his face or a shifting of his eyes. But she can remember none. She had simply taken the snuffbox from his hands, as asked, and delivered it to her future queen. She had vowed to serve the princess with all her ability. God knew she had intended no harm. But where was the snuffbox, and who would have dared remove it from the princess’sroom? Questions and predictions plague her as the black night turns to gray shadows outside the windows. She prays long for Marie-Adélaïde’s health and for France, before finally praying herself to sleep.