on as the congregation began to sing “Gloria,” “but she died of the Plague. Her servants had to cut off her head so that they could fit her into the coffin. When I am queen, there will be no Plague.”
Abbé Patin glanced up after the choir finished singing.
“Uh-oh, I’m in trouble: three Hail Marys,” Marguerite said, as he began the silent prayer.
A bell sounded and people pressed into the small chapel.
“Peasants.” Princess Marguerite pinched her nose. “They come to see the Host. Oh, there’s Nicole.”
Petite recognized the other waiting maid’s blue hooded cloak below.
Soon Nicole emerged through the balcony door. “She talked to your father,” she reported breathlessly. “Something about money, I think. Oh, speak of the Devil, there she is.”
The three of them leaned over the balustrade.
“The one with the straw hat?” Marguerite looked incredulous. “In winter?”
Mademoiselle de la Marbelière was a plump little woman, wearing a traveling suit in an ancient style. She was holding a little boy’s hand. Petite thought she looked like any woman, any mother. How was one to tell a harlot? What were the clues?
“She should be put in stocks in the square,” Marguerite said indignantly. “That’s what they do to sinners.”
The crowd murmured appreciatively as Abbé Patin lifted the Host.
“The Duchess pays him extra to hold it up for three minutes,” the Princess said. “Watch, his arms will start to shake.”
I T WAS A MISFORTUNE that Easter Week was so continuously hectic, the Marquis reflected. The days were still fleeting, the sun both dawning and setting at six of the clock, more or less, leaving deficient light at the end of the day to attend to his private accounts, much in decline due to the commotion of acquiring a wife.
A wife, and a daughter now too. He had hoped for more in the way of attendance. Was it too much to require a girl to sing from time to time? Musical accompaniment would be soothing to work to; it might help obscure his wife’s perpetual babble.
He took off his spectacles and turned toward Françoise, who was standing by the smoking fire. Had he heard rightly just now?
“This coming Easter would be an ideal time,” she told her daughter.
The girl looked up from the book she was reading by the light of a lantern. (Terrible for the eyes. She would be blind before her time.)
“But I’ve not been confirmed, Mother,” she said.
The Marquis closed his journal of accounts. Not confirmed?
“Of course not. You weren’t talking then,” his wife said, positioning a recent letter from her son next to the candles on the fireplace mantel.
The Marquis cleared his throat. Not talking? “Madame, do I comprehend you exactly? Your daughter is not confirmed?” Was she even baptized? He was afraid to ask. In a matter of weeks he had learned 1) that his wife did not find his jokes amusing, 2) that she permitted conjugal liberties only on Thursday nights at eleven of the clock, long past his hour of retiring, 3) that her daughter had no dowry and was malformed, the left leg shorter than the right, and now, 4) that the girl was unconfessed. It was egregiously upsetting.
“No need to get into a hurly-burly over this, Monsieur le Marquis. I have already sent for Abbé Patin in order to make arrangements.” The bell sounded. “In fact, that must be him now,” Françoise said, settling into a chair and arranging her skirts. “Petite, put that book away. Stand behind me,” she said as their chambermaid opened the door.
Abbé Patin strode into the room holding a torchlight. He wedged it into a tin chandler, then made a dignified bow.
The smell of horse manure filled the room. The Marquis frowned down at the Abbé’s boots, but refrained from complaining. This unexpected situation was, in fact, delicate. Were it to be discovered that he had placed a heathen as waiting maid to Princess Marguerite, he could be dismissed.
“Madame sent for me,” the Abbé
Abbé Patin glanced up after the choir finished singing.
“Uh-oh, I’m in trouble: three Hail Marys,” Marguerite said, as he began the silent prayer.
A bell sounded and people pressed into the small chapel.
“Peasants.” Princess Marguerite pinched her nose. “They come to see the Host. Oh, there’s Nicole.”
Petite recognized the other waiting maid’s blue hooded cloak below.
Soon Nicole emerged through the balcony door. “She talked to your father,” she reported breathlessly. “Something about money, I think. Oh, speak of the Devil, there she is.”
The three of them leaned over the balustrade.
“The one with the straw hat?” Marguerite looked incredulous. “In winter?”
Mademoiselle de la Marbelière was a plump little woman, wearing a traveling suit in an ancient style. She was holding a little boy’s hand. Petite thought she looked like any woman, any mother. How was one to tell a harlot? What were the clues?
“She should be put in stocks in the square,” Marguerite said indignantly. “That’s what they do to sinners.”
The crowd murmured appreciatively as Abbé Patin lifted the Host.
“The Duchess pays him extra to hold it up for three minutes,” the Princess said. “Watch, his arms will start to shake.”
I T WAS A MISFORTUNE that Easter Week was so continuously hectic, the Marquis reflected. The days were still fleeting, the sun both dawning and setting at six of the clock, more or less, leaving deficient light at the end of the day to attend to his private accounts, much in decline due to the commotion of acquiring a wife.
A wife, and a daughter now too. He had hoped for more in the way of attendance. Was it too much to require a girl to sing from time to time? Musical accompaniment would be soothing to work to; it might help obscure his wife’s perpetual babble.
He took off his spectacles and turned toward Françoise, who was standing by the smoking fire. Had he heard rightly just now?
“This coming Easter would be an ideal time,” she told her daughter.
The girl looked up from the book she was reading by the light of a lantern. (Terrible for the eyes. She would be blind before her time.)
“But I’ve not been confirmed, Mother,” she said.
The Marquis closed his journal of accounts. Not confirmed?
“Of course not. You weren’t talking then,” his wife said, positioning a recent letter from her son next to the candles on the fireplace mantel.
The Marquis cleared his throat. Not talking? “Madame, do I comprehend you exactly? Your daughter is not confirmed?” Was she even baptized? He was afraid to ask. In a matter of weeks he had learned 1) that his wife did not find his jokes amusing, 2) that she permitted conjugal liberties only on Thursday nights at eleven of the clock, long past his hour of retiring, 3) that her daughter had no dowry and was malformed, the left leg shorter than the right, and now, 4) that the girl was unconfessed. It was egregiously upsetting.
“No need to get into a hurly-burly over this, Monsieur le Marquis. I have already sent for Abbé Patin in order to make arrangements.” The bell sounded. “In fact, that must be him now,” Françoise said, settling into a chair and arranging her skirts. “Petite, put that book away. Stand behind me,” she said as their chambermaid opened the door.
Abbé Patin strode into the room holding a torchlight. He wedged it into a tin chandler, then made a dignified bow.
The smell of horse manure filled the room. The Marquis frowned down at the Abbé’s boots, but refrained from complaining. This unexpected situation was, in fact, delicate. Were it to be discovered that he had placed a heathen as waiting maid to Princess Marguerite, he could be dismissed.
“Madame sent for me,” the Abbé
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