Enchantée(112)

Camille made a deep reverence, relieved that she hadn’t forgotten Sophie’s lessons.

The queen’s blue eyes met Camille’s gray ones in the mirror. “Venez, venez,” she said.

Her hairdresser, the famed Léonard, raised a charcoaled eyebrow as Camille came forward, but then bent assiduously over the queen’s hair.

Marie Antoinette gestured to an embroidered stool that Camille knew was usually occupied by the Duchess de Polignac. “Madame la Duchess is going on a visit to Switzerland,” the queen said brightly, “so it does not matter where you sit. There are no more rules, madame. N’est-ce pas, Léonard? It’s all falling down like a child’s tower made of sticks.” She made a wry face in the mirror.

Camille sat down slightly behind the queen, so that she could see Marie Antoinette’s reflection in her looking glass, and hazarded a small smile. Under the queen’s eyes purple shadows lingered, and her forehead was creased with deep lines. “These are frightening days, Majesté.”

The queen nodded. “Léonard, can’t you add something to make it fuller?”

“Fullness is overrated, Majesté,” he said. In the past, he’d favored towering wigs but today his own hair was tinted a subdued brown and tied back with a black ribbon. “My friends in Paris tell me it is about to become démodé. Sleek, simple—that’s what I imagine for these times.” He waved his jeweled fingers at his own hair. “Comme ?a. Slowly, slowly we will change your hair, and then, pouf! No one will remember how it was. But today, Majesté, only a subtle shift.”

In her fist, Camille clenched the fabric of her dress. How could they speak of hair at a time like this?

“Slaves to fashion, aren’t we all? The queen of France, cowed by her hairdresser. People might say this is something new, but it’s always been like this, hasn’t it, Léonard?”

Léonard bowed. “Majesté.”

Why would the queen not get to the point? Camille had no time to endure the whole of Marie Antoinette’s toilette.

One of the ladies-in-waiting pulled dresses from a tall wardrobe and sorted them into two piles. Another stood at the queen’s enormous jewelry chest, slipping glittering handfuls of necklaces and bracelets into a plain leather case. They might have been preparing to go to one of the other palaces, like Saint-Cloud, to hunt, but the hush that hung over the packing, the quiet speed: it felt to Camille as it had when she and Sophie left their old apartment on the rue Charlot. The queen was preparing to escape. While Camille was pushing her way deeper into the webs of Versailles.

Marie Antoinette checked a tiny white-and-gold clock on the dressing table. “What is it you wished to talk with me about, madame?”

“It’s a matter concerning my sister.”

“A younger sister?”

“Yes. Unmarried.” Camille willed herself to continue. “I have reason to believe she has eloped with the Vicomte de Séguin.”

“That would indeed be horrible,” the queen said, her voice measured. “I assume your father hasn’t given his consent? Why is he not here to speak to me?”

“I’m an orphan, Majesté, and my husband is dead.”

The queen made a soft, clucking sound. “What a pity. No brothers?”

“Only one. He’s a drunkard and of no help to me.”

In the glass, Léonard gave the queen a knowing look.

“I know little of what the vicomte does when he is not with us,” she said. “He is a very private man, n’est-ce pas?”

“But what am I to do?” Camille said, frustrated. “Sophie is only fifteen. I thought you might—”

“Might what?”

What had she thought the queen would do? Order Séguin to divulge his secrets by threatening to cast him from court? To hand over Sophie?

“I beg you, help me, Majesté! You are my last hope. Perhaps you might order him to return her to me? To her family?”

“Ah.” The queen adjusted her necklace. “Myself, I obeyed my mother, and my brother, in all things. But—just consider, madame—is it possible your sister wished to go with him?”

From what Sophie had written in the letter she’d left at their rooms, she did believe herself in love with the vicomte. “Yes, Majesté, it is possible. But I don’t think she understands how he might—use her.”

Sighing, the queen touched the glass stopper of a perfume bottle to her throat. The scent of crushed roses hung in the air. “My dear madame, then there is not much that can be done. I will ask Monsieur le Vicomte what his intentions are, but if he means to wed her—”

From the back of the room, one of the ladies-in-waiting glided forward with a porcelain plate edged in gold. On it lay a folded note, which the queen snatched from the dish and read. “Hurry, Léonard. His Majesté is returning from Paris after speaking with the mob. I must be ready to greet him, as beautiful as I can be. Understood?”

Léonard nodded. “Will you put on your earrings, madame, or—”

“You do it. My hands shake.” The queen stared at her reflection as Léonard scooped up the earrings from their satin-lined box. Her pale chest rose and fell quickly.

Camille was about to address the queen again when Léonard gestured toward the door. The message was clear.