of flags he had collected from the enemy and which he sent to decorate the cathedral. Under his arm he was carrying the flag of the Duc de Lorraine …
All the way to Paris, in every town they went through, the monarch ordered street performances – ballets, plays – which his courtiers also applauded. All the splendour of the kings of Persia could not compare with the pomp that followed Louis XIV. The streets were filled with plumes and gilded garments, raiments adorned with lace and feathers, mules with superb harnesses, and parade horses wearing caparisons woven with golden thread.
It was impossible for Louis-Henri to catch a glimpse of His Majesty, for he was surrounded by a multitude of guards, courtiers, and artists in a frenzy of genuflection. A man of forty years or so – Jean de La Fontaine – was reciting a poem that he had just composed, ‘Sonnet on the Capture of Marsal’.
‘Rever’d monarch, greatest on earth
Your illustrious name is feared by all;
Ambition’s power, in your thrall
Crumbles to less than glass or dirt.’
The fabulist seemed overcome, and spoke in a little voice, quavering and trembling with emotion. The courtiers exploded with exclamations of ‘Jesus and Mary, how beautiful, how true, how well put! Please continue, Master, we beg you!’ The poet, who drew a pension from His Majesty, needed no further urging:
‘Marsal did boast of taking you to war
But from the first bedazzling bolt of thunder
It lowered its bold brow as you drew near
And now surrenders ere you raise your fist.’
They all applauded frenetically with the tips of their powdered fingers. The inspired native of Château-Thierry continued:
‘Had its rebellious pride inspir’d your wrath
Had it found glory in extraordinary combat
How sweet ’twould then have been to sing its praises …
But e’en now my muse begins to dread
Too rarely might your victory banner be raised
For lack of enemies who dare resist you.’
Ah … All were on the verge of swooning with ecstasy over a short person whom Montespan could not see, other than the top of a black wig bobbing with satisfaction. It must have been the monarch himself, whom Louis-Henri had imagined to be much taller, as on his paintings. At that very instant, the artist Charles Le Brun went up to the King: ‘Sire, allow me to submit to you this cartoon for a tapestry celebrating the surrender of Marsal. You see, you are portrayed here on horseback, your head in profile, at the top of the wooded plateau overlooking the plain. The Duc de Lorraine is at your feet and begs you to accept the keys to the city of Marsal, which you can see in the distance.’
Behind the picture, cautious courtiers awaited His Majesty’s remarks, to determine whether they were to continue sighing in rapture. And when the King’s calm voice, level with their shoulders, declared, ‘Monsieur, have the Gobelins weave it,’ the ducs and princes and marquis shouted themselves hoarse. ‘Ah, how lovely, how well designed!’ Louis-Henri heard the monarch calling his playwrights, musicians and sculptors to him: ‘I entrust you with the most important thing on earth: my fame.’
Once back in Paris, his horse’s tail between its hind legs, the poor disappointed Marquis de Montespan arrived at Rue Taranne. His staff (Madame Larivière and Dorothée) were waiting on the pavement to greet their master. Françoise rushed to embrace him.
‘Louis-Henri, you are alive!’
She led him back to their home with its massive, cumbersome old furnishings. The marquis told the tale of his expedition – a bottomless pit – and said, ‘And it all stopped there. ’Twas enough for the King to show his face. So here I am again, with nothing else to tell you, nothing to show you, no medal or title, more penniless than ever. Twelve thousand livres further in debt, lent me by my father, who in turn was forced to borrow. And did I not promise you, “Athénaïs, when I return, our finances shall be on the mend …”?’
In the dark salon, in front of the tapestry depicting Moses, Dorothée was spraying perfume using a pair of bellows, filling the room with scent, whilst Françoise sought to console her husband.
‘Louis-Henri, put your hands here.’
He placed them on her belly. His eyes opened wide. ‘Athénaïs!’
‘I went to consult a soothsayer.’
‘You believe in such folk?’
‘And you do not?’
‘I believe in you alone.’
‘It will be a boy!’
‘Marie-Christine, don’t lean towards your mother like that! You’ll fall out of your cradle and injure yourself.’
In the salon on the first floor, sitting face to face across a gaming table, the destitute young Montespans were playing reversi as they dined. Between each course Athénaïs dealt the cards with dexterity whilst Louis-Henri put his dried beans in as stakes and watched over their baby beside them.
‘She looks at you the way I gaze at you.’
‘It is true that she has your eyes, your rather big nose, and your lovely mouth. She’s the picture of her father…’
‘She’s always reaching out for you. Perhaps she would like you to nurse her.’
The marquise slipped a comforter shaped like a fleur-de-lis between her daughter’s lips; the baby immediately spat it out, and Athénaïs called out towards the stairwell, ‘Madame Larivière! Chew up some porridge for Marie-Christine – she’s hungry!’
Her husband was astonished. ‘She no longer feeds at the breast? You want to wean her so young? Is she not too small? She is not yet—’
‘It all depends on the child,’ said la Montespan, looking at her playing cards. ‘They are all different. The King, for example, nibbled his ladies heartily from infancy, for he was born, most exceptionally, with a full set of teeth. The first women he caused to suffer were his wet nurses, bruising their breasts and wounding their nipples – he had the appetite of a lion cub.’
‘How do you know that?’ asked Louis-Henri, raising his wager by three pretend écus (three dried beans).
Wedged into a candlestick on the table, a mutton-suet candle began to smoke. The flame flickered over Athénaïs’s face, glowing on her
