The Hurlyburly's Husband Read Online Free Page B

summer, there were pyramids of ice everywhere. Their presence suggested a miracle, and Louis adored anything that proved his power over nature (like eating chilled food in summer). Fruit and wine were served in bowls of frozen water.
    ‘’Tis said the King need only walk abroad for the rain to stop.’
    Then, suddenly, fragrances of ambergris and rosewater, mingled with the emanations of gunpowder, wafted to the Montespans’ carriage on the hill. In the sky a spray of fireworks described two giant arabesques, interlaced with two ‘L’s.
    ‘Why is there a second “L”?’ asked Françoise.
    ‘’Tis the initial of Louise de La Vallière, the favourite,’ replied her husband.
    ‘He dares to honour his mistress before the Queen, and in public?’ said Françoise, astonished.
    ‘What can His Majesty not do?’ asked Louis-Henri.
    The vast royal domain was now a whirl of flying rockets, twisting curls, firecrackers, flame blowers, girandoles. Suddenly there was an immense final explosion, and the entire sky was light blue.
    ‘He can even restore daylight to darkest night …’ said the marquise in awe, sitting up and pulling the translucent folds of her underskirts back over her thighs.
    The coloured silk skirts were usually worn over a simple black dress, but Françoise, to most pleasing effect, wore them next to her skin – they were garments that were easily removed in private, allowing rapid access to her body. Françoise’s raiment was deliciously daring.
    ‘I’m hungry. Louis-Henri, what do you think of the name Athénaïs?’
    ‘Why?’ smiled her husband, pulling up his grey satin breeches.
    ‘To bow to the fashion of Antiquity – all the rage at the moment – I would like to take the name Athénaïs …’
    ‘Athénaïs or Françoise, it’s all the same to me, provided it is you…’
    ‘’Tis from the name of the Greek goddess of virginity. A rebellious virgin, Athena rejected all her mortal suitors.’
    ‘Is that so?’

    Saint-Germain-en-Laye was three hours by carriage from Paris. Françoise, her appetite aroused by their lovemaking on the seat, suggested they stop halfway to sup at L’Écu de France .
    ‘As it pleases you,’ replied her husband, ‘for you know that you alone provide all sustenance for me. Which reminds me; there is something I would like to tell you, Athénaïs …’
    In the renowned coaching inn – a red house of several storeys (all tile and brick), overlooking a lawn edged with camomile – the atmosphere was subdued and intimate; the windowpanes were small.
    As the dining hall was filled with patrons, bewigged like Louis-Henri, who had just readjusted his own wig above his shoulders, a table was brought and laid for the Montespans next to a cold fireplace (it was June) and a stairway gleaming with beeswax. Françoise sat down, eager to eat.
    ‘I will order only those dishes that were not allowed when I was at the convent, those of a lust-inducing sort: oysters, so-called “Aphroditic” red beans, and asparagus, all forbidden to young ladies.’
    She laughed, a peal of pearls spilling onto marble steps. The patrons in the hall turned to look at her. Her fair hands, her arms fashioned as if by a master potter, her teeth so perfect and white – a rarity in those times: the noblemen and burghers in the establishment, with their soupe à la bière , felt their jaws dropping in amazement.
    ‘Who is she?’
    ‘The fairest lady of our time …’
    ‘A triumphant beauty to display to ambassadors!’
    Her firm chin, straight nose, fine wrists, waist and neck; her thick and plentiful blond locks. She had invented a style of coiffure and baptised it the hurluberlu. Her hair had been pulled back from the forehead and was held in place by a hoop on top of her head, leaving her hair to fall on either side in a cascade of curls that framed her face.
    ‘I can see that becoming a fashion,’ predicted a patron, in response to his sour-tempered wife’s frown.
    As for