Enchantée(30)

The hum of the crowd faded as she reached the first floor, where, on the landing, under a set of open windows, Camille stumbled onto a rumpled matelassé quilt. A wicker picnic hamper anchored one corner; scattered across it were small pink-and-green Limoges plates, half-filled wineglasses, a dish piled with blushing strawberries and pastries, a platter of cold chicken. Camille’s stomach rumbled. The candles in the silver candelabra had gone out; among the forks and napkins lay an abandoned fan and a jeweled snuffbox. But there was no sign of the picnickers.

From the next floor, a man’s voice drifted down to her, followed by a woman’s rippling laugh; somewhere nearby, a door snicked closed.

Statue-still, her muscles aching, she waited until she was sure they weren’t returning. There were so many valuables at this ridiculous picnic—who picnics on the stairs of a palace?—that she wouldn’t have to search elsewhere. Imagine if she could grab the corners of the quilt and haul it away over her shoulder.

She picked up the silver snuffbox. On its lid shone a star picked out in diamond chips; a huge pearl gleamed in its center. It had to be worth a thousand livres. Five months’ rent. With a quick glance behind her, she dropped it into her pocket. She smoothed her skirt and felt how the snuffbox hung heavily underneath, reassuring as a promise.

And then there was the food. She heard Papa’s voice in her ear: See how the aristos waste good food, leaving it for rats to gorge on! She could even imagine herself setting type for the pamphlet he’d write, one with an etching of the half-eaten picnic. The title would condemn them all: Nobles Feast While Our Children Starve!

Not this child, she thought ruefully, not when these riches were laid out before her. Kneeling on the coverlet, she snatched up a half-eaten pastry and stuffed it into her mouth. A dazzling hit of sweet marzipan danced across her tongue. Next she gulped down a handful of tiny strawberries, then an herbed chicken leg, salty and rich. The wineglass had a smear of lip paint on it but she was thirsty and did not care; the strong red wine burned as it ran down her throat.

As she set the glass down, Camille heard music from upstairs. Violins singing high together. Could it be? She stood up, pressing her skirts straight. Somewhere upstairs, another door opened. Laughter spilled out—and something else. The clickety-clickety-clickety of a roulette wheel.





17


At the top of the landing was a set of double doors. One of them stood ajar. Beyond it, in a grand, high-ceilinged room stuffed with mirrors and paintings and gilt everything, aristocrats clustered around green baize-covered tables or sat in chairs listening to the final strains of a string quartet playing Mozart. The gaming tables were crowded, two rows deep, the faces of the players flushed pink with heat and excitement. Not to mention their rouge. On every surface, wax candles burned bright; between the guests, footmen strolled with trays of sweets and canapés and swaying glasses of champagne. One of the ladies gave a shout; the whole room watched as she gleefully raked up her winnings.

That could be me, Camille thought. She had only to get inside.

And then, opportunity presented itself: a couple were on their way out. Just as they were leaving, she would sneak in. No one would notice; it could not be easier.

The couple passed Camille, nodding in her direction. She dipped her head in return, slipped around them, and was nearly through the doorway when from nowhere a footman stepped forward, a piece of white paper in his hand.

“Invitation?” he said.

“I haven’t got it with me,” she stammered.

“For you, madame, it’s no trouble; what name?” He peered at his sheet.

With a sinking feeling, Camille realized it was hopeless. There was no way to guess a name off that list, and even if he were holding it so she could read it, the chance was too great that she’d pick the name of someone already inside.

“It’s nothing,” she said, waving her hand as if swatting at a fly.

“No name?” Realization spread across his face. Stepping outside, he pulled the door closed behind him. “Then I can’t let you in.”

Merde. Even the servants had hierarchies here.

Keeping her back straight and proud, Camille crossed the landing to a pair of windows that overlooked an orangerie, where potted orange trees had been arranged among curving gravel paths. Several gardeners moved between them with watering cans. Beyond the trees glimmered a lake, hazy in the afternoon sun.

She tried to tell herself it didn’t matter.

But it did. Sophie had been right about Camille’s idea to come to Versailles. It was destined to be a failure. Outside, the gardeners struggled to move one of the orange trees. Under their coarse shirts, their shoulders strained.

“Showed you the door, did they?” said a voice behind her. “It’s insufferable when they do that.”

Camille startled away from the window. Slouching against the wall was a boy about her age, seventeen or eighteen. He wore an elegant lavender suit embroidered with silver flowers and red-heeled court shoes. He was not especially tall, but handsome nevertheless with his square jaw and teasing hazel eyes. His pale skin and flushed cheeks made a contrast to his wavy, walnut-brown hair, which he wore faintly powdered and pulled back with a black ribbon. A dimple curved in his cheek as if he were trying not to laugh.

Distractedly, he patted the pockets of his jacket. “Snuff?”

The snuffbox she’d found lay deep in its hidden pocket. “No, thank you.”