The Courtier of Versailles - Donna Russo Morin

Historical Fiction Set In 17th Century France

The Courtier of Versailles by Donna Russo Morin

Book excerpt

Fully dressed in a day gown of yellow with lace and pearls, she lay on her bed, staring at the ceiling and listening to the activity outside her chamber door.

“Make haste, Adelaide, Bernadette. It is already two o'clock,” her father barked.

“Oui, Gaston, we are coming,” came her mother's singsong answer.

Clacking hard heels undulated from close to far. A loud click and the door to the suite closed behind the retreating figures of her parents and sister.

Jeanne jumped off the bed as if a musket shot burst in the air. Alone, at last, she was alone. With a shoulder push against the tall dresser she and Bernadette shared, she turned it outward until it opened off the wall like a door. Squatting down, the many layers of her skirt billowing with air, Jeanne pulled at the slat of wooden flooring laying against the wall. Looking down at her beautiful colichemarde, Jeanne stared at it for a moment. But soon her reverence passed, and she reached for the delicate, deadly sword, a starved child reaching for a crust of stale bread.

Swish, swish. Jeanne flayed the thin sword through the air, cutting the atmosphere around her. Keeping her eyelids tightly closed, Jeanne used her mind's sight to envision herself once more in the cold, dank basement corridor. She felt the shock as her sword met her enemy's, felt the tension run through her limbs. Her breath came in quick, hard gasps as her struggle continued and she relived the thrilling moments over and over again.

* * *

“Adelaide? Gaston?” Jules scratched at the door to the Du Bois suite of rooms as he opened it a crack, peeking through the slit.

“They are not here, good oncle,” Jeanne called, moving swiftly from her bedroom to the common room to find her uncle already entering. “They have just left with Bernadette for a turn in the gardens.”

Jules closed the door behind him. With forefinger to pursed lips, he remained mute until he joined his niece in the sitting room, kissing her fondly on both cheeks.

“I know, ma chère, I know. I saw them leave. I've been waiting for them to go since earlier this morning.” Jules' dashing features broke into a delighted grin. “But there were others in the corridor, others whose ears are much larger than their discretion, and I made the show for their satisfaction.”

Jeanne laughed at her uncle's mischievous actions and the delight he took in them. “But why? Why such a show?”

Jules took a sack from off his shoulder where it had been resting and untied it. “Because I needed to find you alone but had no wish for anyone to know of this particular meeting.”

“You speak in riddles, mon oncle. But I must say, I am intrigued.” Jeanne took a seat in one of the armchairs, gazing in fondness at the bright and spirited countenance of her uncle. One glance at what he removed from his bag and she bounded back up to her feet.

“Are those what I think?” Jeanne squeaked.

Jules held up clothing—pieces of men's clothing. A brown cloth coat trimmed with leather, buckskin knee breeches, and a shirt of lawn with ivory lace at collar and cuff.

“Incroyable, they are beautiful!” Jeanne exclaimed, grabbing for the pieces and holding them up to her body.

They were, in fact, a bit careworn, but still the garments' quality was evident. To Jeanne, they looked more like a key, a key to a chain she carried both night and day.

“Well, I am not so sure of that, but I did think they would fit, both your body and your adventure.” Jules pulled more items from his magic bag: linen hose, leather gloves, bucket-top boots, and a brown felt hat adorned with a single white plume. “They recently belonged to a young gentleman of high position but low resources. Though I dare say, he shall not miss them.”

From his own waist, he removed his leather baldric.

“For your colichemarde,” he explained, handing her the sword holster.

The last item he retrieved was small, so small he held it cupped in his palm, holding it out to Jeanne but concealing it beneath his bent digits.

“Do not ever doubt my love for you,” he said and slowly unfurled his fingers.

Jeanne laughed with pure delight. Grabbing it, she threw her arms around her uncle's neck.

“I never have nor shall I ever,” she whispered into his shoulder.

Pulling away, she held the tuft of hair with her fingers, petting it as she would a small creature.

“But where—?” Jeanne began as she gazed down at the inch-long pieces of hair melded together with a sticky hardened substance.

“I happened upon your brother earlier in the day, did I not tell you?” Jules put the fingers of both hands in the small pockets of his waistcoat, strutting about the room as proudly as a conquering warrior. “Yes, indeed I did, and at the barber, no less.”

Jeanne's long fingers flew to her mouth, trying unsuccessfully to quell the giggling. Raol's hair…of course. The exactness of the color startled as if it grew from a single head, not both of theirs. She held the piece against her face, sticking out and curling up her upper lip, trying to balance the mustache in place with her facial contortions.

“But how—?”

“Where are your marks, my dear?”

“Of course, Uncle, of course,” Jeanne chirped and ran to her room. She found the small, round ornate box where she and Bernadette kept a variety of face patches. Next to it, as always, stood the small apothecary jar of pine tar. Using a small brush normally employed for face powder, Jeanne painted a thin layer of the gummy substance onto her mustache. Putting the brush down, she took up the mustache and, with the aid of the small, cloudy mirror above the vanity, affixed it to her upper lip.

“Ha!” Jules laughed from his position at the room's door. Jeanne tossed him a wink, unable to shift her gaze from her mutated reflection and her laughter joined his. A hilarious picture indeed; the masculine facial hair appeared preposterous when sandwiched between her perfectly curled and piled coiffure and her low-cut, overwhelmingly feminine bodice.

“Wait, dear man, wait.” Jeanne flew from the room, pulling the pins from her hair as she went, shaking it free when they were all removed. In the sitting room, she grabbed the fine shirt and held it to her chest, covering her own clothes beneath it.

“What say you now, good man?” Jeanne asked in her deep, gravelly male voice born in the basement the day her true courage had been born as well.

The smile faded from Jules' face, replaced with sincere astonishment.

“Mon Dieu!” He exclaimed, stymied at the sight he beheld…a younger, smaller Raol now stood in the chamber.

Shock receding, his delight rose once more. He gave a leg and a flourishing bow to the person before him.

“Bonjour, Monsieur…Jean?” He pronounced her name with the masculine inflection.

“Jean-Luc,” the disguised character responded. “At your service, good sir.”

Her uncle laughed at her clever choice.

“There is more to being a man than wearing men's clothing and a mustache,” Jules lectured Jeanne as she removed, a trifle painfully, her mustache and put it, with the clothes, back in the bag, while pondering where she would hide them.

“Now, oncle, I am quite sure I can act stubborn and self-possessed,” she responded without looking up.

“Impertinent wench,” he chided, cuffing her smartly on the back of her head. “I am speaking of mannerisms and affectations.”

“I know, good oncle, I know.” Jeanne completed her packing and stood before Jules. “Teach me. Teach me to be a man.”

Jules crossed his arms, one hand coming up to cup his chin thoughtfully. “It helps that you are not a very feminine woman.”

“I beg your pardon, sir?” Jeanne huffed, feigning great insult.

“Oh, you know what I mean,” Jules explained. “You are not silly, prissy…overly giggly.”

Jeanne nodded hesitantly. “Ah, oui, but I'm still not sure if I should be insulted.”

“You shouldn't. Now, on to business. Be sure to make your gestures larger and not so delicate—you want to be thought a man but not a fop. Be sure to bow, not curtsey. Be sure to grab things. Do not delicately lift them, with your pinkies up.”

Jules continued his lecture, pacing around the room as he thought of mannerism after mannerism, the intricate yet subtle things that distinguished a gentleman from a lady. Jeanne stood quietly, enraptured and intent, trying with all her might to commit to memory all of his instructions.

“But most of all”—Jules stopped before her—“you must walk like a man.”

“Walk like a man?”

“Oui. You must walk as if you possessed…” Jules stammered, his discomfort obvious. “Well, my dear, men have…well, you see…”

“Ah, yes, of course.” Jeanne finally understood and tried not to giggle. “Their…manhood, oui?”

“Oui,” Jules huffed gratefully. “You see, it does make one walk differently.”

“Really?”

“Really. For one thing, the stride is longer.” Jules demonstrated as he walked through the room to the front door and back. “But mostly it is the position of the legs. They are not positioned the same as with women.”

Jeanne stared at Jules with one raised brow.

“They are not as close together.”

Jeanne stared for a moment more, then shook her head.

“Well, of course not. They couldn't be, could they?”

“Well, for some, unfortunately, I suppose they could. But not I.” Jules puffed up his chest, and Jeanne bit the inside of her lip to stifle the laughter. Turning quickly, she marched the same path Jules had just taken, imitating his manner as best she could.

“Bon, bon,” Jules praised as if they were again at the duel. “The stride is good, the forcefulness of the shoulders, correct. But the legs are still not set wide enough apart.” Jules considered her intently.

Jeanne watched his determined contemplations, as he looked past her, as his eyes brightened with discovery.

“Of course,” he barked. Stepping toward her swiftly, he reached behind her, grabbing something from her mother's embroidery box, holding it triumphantly before her face.

“Good lord, oncle, you cannot mean?” Jeanne stared at the item in his hand—her mother's pincushion. Made of a soft fabric and stuffed with cotton, it was funnel-shaped at one end, expanding to a small ball at the other.

“It is perfect.” Jules pushed it into her hand. “Go. Go put it…there.”

Jeanne shook her head at her uncle but did as he bid. Behind the closed bedroom door, Jeanne lifted layer after layer of silk and taffeta, finally finding the top of her long stockings and shoving the cushion firmly in place, a plain satin garter keeping it there. Lowering her skirts, she fluffed them down and strode from the room, legs forced much further apart as she did.

“Well, it works,” she reported, entering the room with a decided swagger. “But I care not for this. How can you men stand this? It is quite uncomfortable!”

“You should talk, my dear,” Jules said, gesturing, with a tic of his head, at her firm, high breasts. “Those cannot be a joy to carry around all the time, either.”

“Ha!” Jeanne barked with laughter, then froze in panic. Grabbing her breasts, her eyes bulged and her mouth gaped open. “My breasts!”

“Oui, you will have to bind them. And tightly.”

“Ah, oui, bind them, of course.” Jeanne calmed; her uncle had obviously given great thought to the details of her disguise.

Jules gave her shoulder a fond pat. “I must take my leave. I am sure your parents and sister are not much longer for the park.”

“True, oncle, true,” Jeanne agreed, though she trembled at his leaving, as though his absence would make the reality of her evening's adventure all the more real.

“But I must ask two things of you, ma chère.” Jules stood before her, raising her chin with his hand so their gazes met unimpeded.

“Anything for you.”

“If you love me, you will die before telling who gave you these items.” Jules nodded at the bag at Jeanne's feet.

“Never question my love, cher oncle.”

“If your aunt found out, she would laugh till she cried, in private only. In public she would punish me, quite severely I am sure.”

Jeanne smiled, picturing her aunt chasing her uncle down with the strap she used to threaten her children.

“And secondly, you must come to me first thing in the morning. Immediately after chapel, when your aunt will be with the other Bas Bleu. I will not rest until I know you are safe.”

Jeanne nodded, smiling, warming with his concern.

“Nor could I go long without knowing every juicy tidbit,” Jules said over his shoulder as he made his way to the door. At the egress, however, he stopped abruptly and turned back to Jeanne.

“Are you sure, Jeanne, truly sure?”

Jeanne tilted her chin up and squared her shoulders. With the deep, gravelly voice of Jean-Luc, she assured him. “I have never been this sure of anything.”

“Compelling... brings vividly to life the constrained life of the noble Frenchwoman”

— Allie Bates, author of Earthchild

“Exquisitely done... fabulous... unforgettable characters”

— Marilyn Rondeau

“Romance wrapped in historical adventure... A true salute to the spirit of Dumas”

— Amazon Review

Book Details

AUTHOR NAME: Donna Russo Morin

BOOK TITLE: The Courtier of Versailles

GENRE: Historical Fiction

SUBGENRE: French Historical Fiction / Action & Adventure

PAGE COUNT: 343