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elegantly and how to eat an egg properly. I am not sure this is very important, but Tante proclaims that thanks to her and the education she is providing, we might make better marriages than our dowries would normally predict.
    I think our education is ridiculous—why should my future husband care if I crack my egg with a fork, or with a knife? And surely I’ll never meet all the people we have to learn about?
    “But it is important,” Hortense protests when I mock our lessons. “It isimportant to know who is who in our world. In the future we may go to Court and meet these people. And imagine how awful it would be if you did not know how to address them properly, or know who their parents were? You would bring shame upon Tante and she would be accused of neglecting our education.”
    Hortense is two years older than me. Still, I do not believe that gives her the right to treat me as though I am her child.
    “Oui, maman,” I say in my most exaggerated voice, then regret it as Hortense flinches; our mother is dead only just over a year.
    We are sitting in Tante’s library, practicing “families” from the Genealogical History . I think the sun is shining outside behind the thick trees, but we must stay inside. I throw my sister what I hope is a difficult one: “Conti.”
    “Prince of Conti, title created 1597 and revived 1629. Current head, Louis François de Bourbon, born in 1717. Like you, Marie-Anne! Succeeded his father in 1727.”
    “Wife?”
    “Marie . . . no, Louise Diane d’Orléans, Mademoiselle de Chartres.”
    “Children?”
    “None, he only married this year!”
    “Other titles?”
    “Comte d’Alais, Comte de Beaumont-sur-Oise and of . . . Pézenas, also Duc de . . . Mérode?”
    “Wrong!” I cry triumphantly, consulting the appropriate page. “Duc de Mercoeur , not Mérode.”
    “You’re right, Duc de Mercoeur.” Hortense frowns. “Mercoeur: title raised to a ducal peerage in 1569.”
    “Correct.” I sigh.
    Hortense is too perfect.

From Hortense de Mailly-Nesle
    Hôtel de Mazarin, Paris
    March 5, 1731
    Dearest Louise,
    Thank you for your letter and the pot of fig jam. One of the maids here was dreadfully sick with fever, so I gave her most of it for comfort. But then she died and Tante said we mustn’t eat what was left.
    Thank you for your news of your exciting life at Versailles! I am glad you and your husband are now able to be close again, and I pray that you will soon be blessed with a son.
    Tante Mazarin says that Versailles is a cauldron of sin, and that one must be very careful to guard against temptation. Every night I pray for your soul and ask God to guide you on the good path. At least you have Tante watching over: you must heed what she says, for she is very wise and very good.
    She is like a mother to us and takes great care of us. When she is in Paris she sees us every day and we even dine with her on occasion. Her women are very kind. We are learning a lot here, more than at the Quai des Théatins, though I do not want to insult dear Zélie.
    Marie-Anne sends her love and this handkerchief that we sewed for you. Tante insists on much needlework and that is a good thing: she was very disappointed with our sewing skills when we arrived. Now we spend many hours a day practicing. I hope you like the handkerchief; please excuse the drops of dried blood next to the pansy—that was where Marie-Anne pricked her finger. She is still learning, though I find it very easy—look at the petals of the flower, how fine they are. Tante always praises my delicate fingers.
    My love to you and your husband,
    Hortense

Louise
    VERSAILLES
    1731
    F inally I ambeginning to find my way and my feet—in all ways, for I no longer topple over when I curtsy. At Court one must wear dreadfully high-heeled shoes: at first I was wobbly, but now I can walk with delicate gliding steps and in entire confidence.
    Everything at Versailles is very fine: I used to think my mother’s gold-paneled