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and well made and rumored to be very strong. He has a clear complexion and haunting dark eyes, like pools of black velvet. He loves hunting and dogs and has exquisite manners and is unfailingly polite—everyone agrees he is the most mannered man at Versailles. I believe all the ladies of the Court are in love with him. But if anyone compliments another woman in his presence, he is quick to say that the queen is more beautiful. And while that’s not really true—the queen is fair but no beauty—no one can contradict him because he is the king.
    He visits the queen every day, and though some of her ladies shamelessly seek his eye—Rupelmonde was chastised just last week for the sudden disappearance of her new and fashionable fichu when the king arrived—he only chats politely with us and reserves his keen attention for his wife. It is all so romantic! When I see them together, I think of my husband, Louis-Alexandre, and I feel sad and empty inside.
    Today is the feast of Saint Cecilia and it is raining and cold. We are gathered in the Queen’s Apartments to read the Scripture and to reflect on Saint Cecilia and her sacrifice. I confess that books bore me. Even the Bible. My mind wanders, and before I can stop myself I find myself staring at the queen. Imagine living in Poland! And Sweden! It must have been awful. She is getting old now, almostthirty, while the king is seven years younger. He is my age—we were born only two months apart. I have heard courtiers sneer that the queen is like last week’s flowers—fading and dying—and they say it destroys the prestige of France for her to be their queen. Many at Versailles are as nasty as their words imply.
    “Madame de Mailly, my dear, vot are you staring at?”
    The queen’s voice snaps me out of my reverie.
    I blush. It is very rude to stare, especially at the queen. “Oh, nothing, madame, nothing, I was just thinking of this passage I have read.”
    “Very goot, goot to be contemplating of what you are reading. Read it to us all so we may contemplate too.” Contemplate was yesterday’s word.
    Her Majesty is not being subtle or snide; she is too good for that. My friend Gilette is severely wicked and free and says I must not emulate the queen or I will never find my way at Versailles. I bend my head and pick a passage from the open book: “ ‘ He leads the humble in what is right and teaches the humble his way. ’ ”
    The queen grunts in approval. “Very goot, goot .”
    Gilette quivers and coughs. I can tell she wants to giggle. Gilette claims that the king’s eyes are no longer only for his wife, but I know she likes to exaggerate and will do anything to stir up trouble.
    “And so true, so true,” the queen continues, smiling at me. “Don’t you agree, Madame de Boufflers?”
    The Duchesse de Boufflers, a formidable lady of great girth and age who treats the queen more as a recalcitrant child than a sovereign, smiles in agreement and offers a homily about youth and humility. Boufflers is a great friend of Tante Mazarin’s and is almost as nasty as she is; she likes to say that one is never too old for disapproval.
    The rain patters down on the windowpanes and my toes curl in cold as I try to focus on my book and not disappoint the queen. But oh! How can words, so innocent in isolation, conspire to be quite so boring when they come together?
    Suddenly there is a commotion in the corridor. We all strain to listen, hoping it is the king—wherever he goes he carries with him a commotion like nature’s serenade.
    It is.
    “Madame,” he says, striding in to bow to the queen and kiss her hand. The queen’s complexion is sallow and she does not blush, but shifts awkwardly and smiles her delight. We rise and curtsy. The king bows to us in greeting but reserves his conversation for his wife; some say he is a very shy person. He has lived almost his entire life in public—he has been king since he was five years old—and sometimes appears cold with