The Hurlyburly's Husband. Jean Teule

At each meeting of the pathways, there were symphonies and banquets offered by servants disguised as fauns, satyrs and sylvan gods. An orchestra was playing Lully’s most recent composition, whilst nymphs rose from the fountains to recite poetry. Lions, tigers and elephants were promenaded on leads.

      ‘How lovely …’

      ‘Ah, indeed, how lovely. Françoise, your bottom shames the very stars.’

      It was true that the marquise’s posterior was very lovely, and all that was lacking in its gaiety was speech. It was there that Louis-Henri found the most exquisite pleasure, and now he melted into her like snow in fire: ‘Charming miracle, divine paradise for the eyes, unique masterwork of the gods!’

      She turned all the way round. Now he loved her mouth and the gracious play of her lips and teeth, which sometimes nibbled his tongue and sometimes did something even better that was almost as good as being inside her. This woman, dear God, made him lose his head, whilst the rest of him luxuriated in fucking; zounds, his blood was on fire. The happy man exploded with pleasure on every side.

      After that was done, and each of them had known that little death – and such a death! – Françoise was reborn amidst a new tumult, only to die again more loudly and splendidly. Sprawling on the leather horsehair seat, her curves, her you know what, all said to the marquis, ‘Come!’ And the heat rose. ‘Stay!’ And he stayed in her voracious body (the god of love required good lungs). Legs in the air and breasts bared – ‘Breasts that loved to be on display, worthy of a god,’ noted her husband – Françoise naughtily wriggled her bewitching calves.

      ‘Here we go again!’ sighed the coachman, once again swaying and slipping on his seat.

      Her head thrown back, this time the marquise was able to contemplate the distant celebration with its six hundred guests … upside down. Louis-Henri apologised that he could not take her there.

      ‘We Montespans are not welcome at court. Some time ago, the Pardaillan de Gondrins rebelled against the King … And he is still holding it against us.’

      Personae not too gratae at Saint-Germain-en-Laye, due to the disgrace of an uncle who had rebelled against the Bourbons; that was why Louis-Henri had not been invited. So it was from their carriage that the Montespans attended the festivities.

      There were entertainments, spectacles, games, lottos and ballets. Tapestries from La Savonnerie were spread among the trees in the large garden, and in the groves marzipan was served. There was a golden weeping willow whose branches sprayed a hundred jets of water and petals of anemone and jasmine from Spain. And now the King was coming out of the chateau and the courtiers gathered round him. In the darkness, he was incomparably dazzling.

      ‘I’ve heard he wears twelve million livres’ worth of diamonds on his person,’ said Louis-Henri, sitting up above Françoise whose legs were still spread wide.

      ‘Those who wish to ask a favour are advised to behold him first from afar before they draw near, for fear of being struck dumb at the sight of him. He often plays the role of Jupiter on stage,’ continued the marquise.

      She began to roll her hips again. Suddenly, bright lights transformed the great fountain into a sea of fire beneath cascades of fireworks. Statues became naked dancers, painted grey. Even the trees with their long shadows seemed to uproot themselves to follow the King’s progress. In that uncertain world, glittering with illusion, he was the focal point around which all the universe turned. Everything seemed subjected to his will. Battalions of under-gardeners leapt from one fountain to the next, struggling to open the taps, their hands soaked, their breath short, since when the King went for a walk, water and music had to accompany him. Although it was 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 Louis-Henri, he admired his wife’s