My first morning prayer, my first breakfast (a roll, dried venison, a bowl of cow’s milk). My first nervous stomach, rushing to be at Madame’s before eight of the clock. Petite joined a crowd of attendants in the antechamber to Madame Henriette’s bedchamber. “Monsieur Philippe just left for the King’s levee,” Claude-Marie told her with a condescending smile. The ringlets around her face were tied up in blue and white striped ribbons, matching her gown. Petite liked her only a little better than the first maid of honor, Yeyette, whose eyes had a calculating cast. Men in periwigs and women in brilliant silks stood quietly conversing, looking expectantly toward the white and gold doors. Petite stood beside Claude-Marie, wondering what was going to happen. Men turned to stare, as if appraising her. There was a statue in an alcove of a woman with uncovered breasts. Petite looked away, but the ceiling and walls were likewise adorned with erotic images. A garçon in gray livery made his way through the crowd, followed by an officer with an armload of wood.
