Read The French Mistress for Free Online

career, too, and please my sponsor, the Duc de Beaufort.
    But was it equal to the dreams I’d had of a husband and children of my own? Would jewels and titles be worth the devil’s bargain of my own soul and virtue?
    Could the rules of heaven and earth truly be so different for those here at Court?
    “When you have the honor of His Majesty’s presence tonight, you’ll understand,” Gabrielle promised, excitement quivering in every word. “He is the very model of a king, and surely the first gentleman of the kingdom, not yet thirty years of age, tall and handsome and virile beyond reason. When he smiles in your direction, la! You’ll melt and glow with the delicious honor of it, Louise, even you.”
    “Perhaps,” I said warily, all the commitment I’d dare make. Though I was eighteen, I’d yet to feel the sweet sting of Cupid’s dart. To be sure, I’d danced with young gentlemen from other Breton families and granted a kiss or two to be stolen in the garden, but I’d never experienced this melting glow that Gabrielle was describing, nor was I certain I wished to.
    “This is no invention,” Gabrielle assured me earnestly. “It has happened twice before, and likely will happen again. Both Madame la duchesse de la Vallière and Madame du Montespan began as young ladies in Madame’s household before they became His Majesty’s mistresses. When the king drops his lace-trimmed handkerchief before a lady, then the world becomes hers.”
    “His handkerchief?” I repeated, mystified.
    “Oh, yes.” Gabrielle nodded vigorously. “That is how he signals his desires. Everyone recognizes it as a perfect ritual. From respect, His Majesty will raise his hat to every female he meets, even if she is only a laundress—he has the most exquisite manners imaginable!—but he only drops his handkerchief before the fortunate lady whose beauty has captured his heart.”
    I listened, and silently resolved that I would never be so fortunate.
    “You may believe me, or not,” Gabrielle said, and swept her hand through the air briskly, as if to dismiss my foolish objections. “But after tonight, after you have seen him , then you will understand. And pray recall that they say even Madame was once half in love with His Majesty.”
    “Madame!” I exclaimed, for what must surely have been the hundredth time that day. “Our Madame? She loved her husband’s brother?”
    “The same. Now they claim to be no more than excellent friends, for whatever value there may be in that for a lady. But then, such is the power and majesty of our monarch.” Gabrielle smiled, more to herself than to me. Most likely she was dreaming blissfully of the king, as it would seem every woman (save me) in France must do. “In time I expect you’ll be as admiring as the rest of us, Louise, and as quick to put yourself in the way of his notice.”
    She glanced back at my wardrobe and wrinkled her nose with pointed disdain. “Though not, perhaps, until you’ve had some more . . . acceptable gowns sewn here in Paris.”
    “Mademoiselle de la Touraine!”
    In the doorway stood a lady with a face so stern and severe I would have guessed her a Mother Superior, except that she wore a rich gown of dark purple and yellow instead of a somber habit.
    At once Gabrielle curtsied before this fearsome woman, and I did as well, without pausing to question.
    “Is this the new maid of honor, mademoiselle?” the lady asked, looking down her hawk’s beak of a nose at me.
    “Yes, madame,” Gabrielle said quickly. “May I present Mademoiselle Louise de Penancoet de Keroualle? Mademoiselle de Keroualle, Madame du Frayne, our—”
    “Later, if you please.” The older lady clapped her hands together, as cracking sharp a sound as any musket’s shot. “Her Highness requests Mademoiselle de Keroualle at once in her bedchamber. Go, girl, at once, at once! Never keep Her Highness waiting!”
    “Yes, madame,” I said quickly, and headed through the door that Gabrielle