Gates of Gold

Madame’s Dogs

Once the king disappears and the crowd disperses, Françoise leads Cécile into the palace’s south wing. Cécile cranes her neck to take in the blur of tapestries and paintings of angels and mythic heroes. Statues crowd among intricately carved, gilded furniture that fills every alcove. Despite the dazzling surroundings, the warm air hangs thick with strong perfume tangled with putrid body odor. The palace feels like a bustling city with walls that close in around her. She longs for a breath of fresh air and a glimpse of open sky. She fears she’ll get lost among the crush of servants, soldiers, and courtiers and never be found again. So she grabs Françoise’s hand and doesn’t let go.

At last, Françoise stops before a set of double doors. Rather than knock, she scratches her littlest fingernail, grown long for just this purpose, against the wood. Then she opens the doors into a room draped entirely in light blue, its chairs, couches, and bed curtains all matching. Sunlight pours through long windows thrown open to a flower-filled courtyard beyond. Cécile breathes deeply, relieved to escape the clamoring crowds at last.

Madame sits at a small table beside a window, half a dozen tiny dogs gathered on the floor around her. She tells Cécile that Françoise will introduce her to the dogs and that she may sit on the floor with them. Cécile is to learn that she will always stand or sit on the floor in Madame’s presence, never in a chair.

Madame goes back to muttering to herself about yet another letter she must write. She says that collecting correspondence is simply what she does. Even so, her life has been as sheltered as a snail tucked into its shell. Every letter she seals with wax is read before it ever leaves the palace. It is as if she might be some kind of threat. She grumbles that an old meddler is to blame.

Françoise, who looks to be about twenty, spreads her skirts and settles onto the floor, motioning for Cécile to join her. Gradually, all six dogs rise from their perches and trot closer to investigate. They’re not much bigger than rabbits, with high-set floppy ears, short noses, and large dark eyes. Cécile realizes many of the paintings she passed in the hallways showed such tiny dogs curled beside their noble owners. Papa once told her about Continental Toy Spaniels, the favorite lap dogs of the court. Cécile marvels that nobility can afford servants to tend their pets while peasants can barely feed their own children.

Françoise whispers that Cécile will never find more loyal and loving dogs than these. Cécile holds out her hand, letting the dogs sniff and learn her scent. For the first time since passing through the palace gates, she feels herself relax. The dogs don’t care about her peasant background or her lack of wealth. “We’ll be good friends,” she murmurs, petting them one by one. “You’ll see.” Satisfied, the dogs return to Madame’s side and take their places, like guards at court.

Françoise introduces them one by one. Monsieur Titti, the oldest, has fathered dozens of puppies. His black coat with its white chest has lost its youthful sheen. Still, he’s the first to greet visitors and the first to return to Madame’s writing table. Mademoiselle Minette, a white spaniel spotted with black, curls beneath Madame’s skirts. Of the three curly-haired, tan Chars, Charmille settles under Madame’s arm, and Charmion lies along its other edge. Charmonte, the tiniest of them, paces back and forth with a high-pitched whine, unable to find a spot of her own. Françoise says she sees the problem and fetches another chair to set beside Madame’s. Charmonte stops whining at once, hops up, and curls into a small tan ball.

Last comes Stabdille, the largest of the dogs, his coat mottled brown and black. He is by far the most intelligent and curious of the pack. He claims a chair of his own at the table. He watches Madame with his big brown eyes as her quill scratches across the page. Then he glances back at Cécile, as if to say, See? I’m doing my job. I hope you do yours.