Gates of Gold

The Coming Ball

Since Cécile learned the truth about Papa, time flows as slow as cold honey. Somehow she fills her days caring for the dogs and keeping Madame company, and November eventually gives way to December.

One day, Madame discovers that Cécile has the uncanny gift of reading a word once and remembering its spelling forever. Madame says that as long as Cécile respects her desire for privacy, she will ask her to read over her outgoing letters from time to time. But only the French ones, and only to correct misspellings. Cécile mustn’t remark on Madame’s opinions or ask about their contents. And then when “the old trollop” eventually reads the letters, she may not like her opinions, but at least her spelling will hold up. Cécile promises she’ll try.

Reading Madame’s letters, Cécile discovers, feels like reading a novel or hearing Papa tell stories about court. Madame writes of her dogs, the king, the courtiers, and the operas, plays, and concerts that fill court life. She writes of the Huguenots, tormented and driven out of the country for refusing to follow the Catholic faith. She writes of the shortage of money at court and how the streets of Paris fill with beggars “black with hunger.” She writes of the long war with Germany and how deeply it wounds her to picture smoke rising over her ruined homeland. It’s land the king has claimed in her name. She writes of the family she longs to see again, and of the loneliness of life at court.

Cécile is careful to comment only on misspelled words, never on Madame’s opinions. She never asks questions about the letters, either, for fear of seeming too nosy. In truth, though, the letters give her a detailed education in court life, sometimes more than she wants. Little by little she learns that despite the palace’s splendor, Madame owns almost nothing for herself. Françoise, as first lady-in-waiting, owns all of Madame’s gowns and inherits them whenever Madame gets new ones. The first chambermaid, not Madame, owns every linen, petticoat, and nightgown Madame wears.

One night, while studying a letter by candlelight, Cécile realizes something. In the emptiness Papa’s death has left behind, she has come to love Madame, who took her in and gave her a home. Madame could never replace Maman or Papa, but she is as good as any grandmother could be.

One evening, wind whips freezing rain against the windowpanes, and the fire burns through its logs faster than it can warm the room. Madame and Françoise have gone to the opera, which Madame says always puts her to sleep. So Cécile is alone, stretched across the sofa, reading a letter for spelling errors by candelabra light. The dogs are piled on top of her, from her legs to her chest, keeping her warm. A scratching sounds at the door, two short taps and one long, hesitant and drawn out. It’s different from the usual scratching pattern. Ever since Madame told her about Papa, Cécile has been having nightmares of soldiers coming in the night to drag her off to the Bastille. More than once she has woken up sweating and crying silently for him.

She swings her feet to the floor and hesitantly turns the gilded handle. In the hallway, his face lit by a single candle in its holder, stands Philippe. In the two months since she last stood this close to him, he has grown two inches taller and his shoulders have broadened. She doesn’t like having to gaze up at him, yet she always enjoys seeing him at their door. “Bonsoir, Philippe,” she says. The dogs come scampering to investigate, so she steps into the hallway and shuts the door quickly behind her. She crosses her arms over her chest, embarrassed to be caught in her nightdress, and asks what it is.

Philippe admits he slipped free from his duties, a flush rising to his face, because he wanted her to be the first to hear his news. Cécile’s mind is tired of news. Philippe has escorted her with Stabdille to visit Bretagne several times. But the last time he arrived at their door with news, it was of the worst possible kind. The past month has left her as tired and vulnerable as an orphaned newborn puppy. She asks him, please, only if it’s good news.

Philippe promises that it is. Madame will be pleased, because the war with Germany is to end this very month. When Cécile asks how he knows, he says only that a page has ears, that’s all he can tell her. It really is good news. Madame has written of entire German villages burned by the French. Though the king will surely tell her before Philippe’s word ever reaches her, Cécile thanks him anyway. She calls it a great kindness, the best kind of news there is.

There’s more, Philippe continues. Already, Princess Marie-Adélaïde and the king are planning a grand Christmas ball to celebrate the coming peace, a celebration meant for the whole court. Cécile marvels that he has such good ears. He tugs his earlobes, “like a rabbit’s,” he says with a smile. Then he looks at her intently and adds that he also has good eyes, good enough to see that she is the prettiest girl at court.

Cécile turns away, awkward as a parrot off its perch. No one has ever called her pretty, not even Papa, who saved his compliments for her spelling, her reading, and her sharp questions. A strange warmth climbs from her neck to her face.

She must go, Cécile says, pivoting in her wool stockings and reaching for the door. But she misses the handle and walks into the edge of the door instead, flushing again, this time from embarrassment. Philippe asks if she’ll be at the Grand Ball, and she only shrugs and says maybe, before stepping back inside. She closes the door and flops onto the sofa, and Stabdille jumps into her lap, pressing his wet nose to her face as if to ask what’s wrong with her.