Kathryn Davis - Versailles

LOUIS: I wish you wouldn't talk about the Comtesse d'Artois like that. She can't help the way she looks.

ANTOINETTE: Of course she can't. She's Sardinian. Yawning. But if we're not going to create an heir this morning, then let me sleep. I was up till all hours, trying to win my money back from the Marquis de Conflans, that rotten crook.

LOUIS: Yawns noisily, stretches, and leaps from the bed. The Queen's wish is my command.

ANTOINETTE: Well then… She stares pointedly at the King's erection, tenting the cloth of the royal nightshirt, then makes a pair of scissors of her fingers and holds them aloft. Snip snip. Suiting the action to the words. Snip snip.

LOUIS: Don't tease.

Antoinette sighs and pulls the blankets over her head.

LOUIS: Besides, it's not just me. It wouldn't hurt for you to get more sleep, Lassone says.

ANTOINETTE, her voice muffled, from under the covers: Ah. I see. All I need to do to become pregnant is get more sleep.

LOUIS: Only another hour or so each night, Lassone says. And less wine, though that hardly makes sense, since you don't take wine to begin with. He cocks his head, listening. They're coming. Oh, that's so bad, so bad! The tub wheels should be oiled — I can hear them squeaking all the way from here.

ANTOINETTE, still muffled: I suppose I could start drinking wine, in order to give it up. Just like my sister Carlotta would always give up liver pudding for Lent. She laughs, sticks out her head. I know! Let's put talking pâtés on our pillows, like in "La Belle Eulalie." Then we could escape and no one would know the difference. We could go to Paris, Lou-Lou! We could have fun!

LOUIS: We could have fun. Suddenly cheerful. I could oil those wheels!

Fifty-eight steps from the centermost of the three gilt-grilled front doors, across the vestibule's rose-colored marble pavement and around a phalanx of dark squat piers supporting a dark low ceiling, to the foot of the staircase. Purposely oppressive, the vestibule — echoey, claustrophobic. "On thy belly shalt thou crawl," the overriding message.

And then suddenly at the foot of the staircase the whole thing opens wide, like breath expelled after passing a graveyard. The infinite pours in through a massive skylight three stories up.

No one standing there can resist looking into the face of God, which is to say into the sun. The Doge of Genoa, bringing the Sun King a coffer of precious jewels. The Due de Nevers, imprisoned by the Sun King for baptizing a pig. Jean Racine, suspected by the Sun King of being a poisoner. The Earl of Portland, hoping to convince the Sun King to drive James II as far from England as possible. Bonne, Ponne, and Nonne, the Sun King's hyperactive water spaniels. Dr. Guy-Crescent Fagon with his frightening tools, to let the Sun King's blood.

Ghosts, all of them. The Staircase of the Ambassadors is no longer there — hasn't been since 1752, when Louis XV ordered it destroyed to make apartments for Adélaïde. It was falling apart, anyway, he claimed: the cast-bronze structure supporting the skylight was beginning to wobble, and rain was beginning to leak through. An ill-advised decision for posterity, though certainly not surprising from the same man who remarked, " Après moi, le déluge. "

In any case, ghosts are often associated with stairways, liking to hover at their head, or to drag noisy things such as chains up and down them. And don't stairways provide an avenue of connection between two levels or, really, worlds?

For instance, there by the fountain on the landing, where the two flights of stairs branch out, one to the right, one to the left. Isn't that La Voisin, in her trim white cap, with her bag of arsenic and nail cuttings, powdered crayfish and Spanish fly? La Voisin the Sorceress, who helps the women of the Sun King's court — many of them the Sun King's past, present, or future mistresses — obtain bigger whiter breasts, or smaller whiter hands.

It's difficult to tell for sure, since the Staircase is teeming with people who turn out on closer inspection to be unreal. The conquistador, fur trapper, and two red Indians in nothing but loincloths, gathered together on a loggia above the left-branching flight of stairs? The work of Charles Le Brun, master illusionist. Probably the only place at Versailles where you'd find a live red Indian would be out past the Grand Canal, in the zoo.

Nor would you be likely to run into the Bedouin prince and African tribal chief who stand in rapt discourse on a facing loggia.

Even the loggias themselves aren't real, nor are the oriental rugs draped over their parapets, no matter how temptingly soft to the touch they appear to be. The rugs are there to support the idea that this is a festival day, the Sun King having returned triumphant from the Dutch War, meaning— grâce à Dieu! — he will once again be able to line the walkways with tulips, his favorite flower.

A festival day, and not only have people from the four corners of the earth joined to receive the King, but also, in a mixed metaphor of hyperbolic proportion, all the divinities of Parnassus. Clio and Polyhymnia, Hercules and Minerva. Calliope, Thalia, Apollo. Fame and Mercury, Magnificence and Pegasus. Authority, Strength, and Vigilance. Also the twelve months of the year, back in the good old days when they were still named for gods and goddesses. Also a great variety of exotic birds — peacocks, ibises, and so on.

Not to mention actual people, many of them the Sun King's mistresses, since, let's face it, the King of France is expected to be excessively virile, a lion among men.

Up the stairs and down the stairs, delicately lifting their skirts to avoid an unsightly tumble. Beautiful but stupid Mademoiselle de Fontanges in her turquoise — blue riding habit. Mademoiselle de la Valliere and her cunning daughter, Marie, the two of them in matching black velvet gowns. Madame de Maintenon, otherwise known as Your Solidity. Madame de Montespan in all of her many incarnations, young and slender, old and fat, but always with that infuriating parrot jabbering away on her shoulder.

Up and down, up and down.

Let us walk among the tulips! Dance until dawn! Spin the roulette wheel! Slip the King a love philter when he isn't paying attention! Look at me! No, me!

Watch out, though. Sometimes La Voisin's clients get more than they bargain for. Sometimes out pops the Devil, with his sharp little hooves and his appetite for discord.

Nor do you want to get so involved in the spectacle that you fail to notice the python on the ceiling, lying dead at Apollo's feet. "His Majesty," as the Mercure Galant explains, "putting a stop to the secret rebellions His enemies have tried starting, as depicted by the serpent Python who originates from the gross impurities of the earth…"

Presently, the girl takes a walk. So many doors to choose among, so many people. Stupid, witty, amorous, bored, dark-eyed, washed-out, plucked-lipped, hairy. Scratch scratch scratch, with the little fingernail.

"Come in, my dear."

"Hello, grandmother."

Dancing, billiards, reversi, roulette. The path of the pins or the path of the needles. Sorbet, asparagus, cock kidneys, bonbons. Sausage, pigeon eggs, truffles, lemonade.

So the girl eats what's put before her, and all of a sudden there's a dear little tabby cat sitting at her feet, going meow meow how could you do it? Meaning how could she ever have managed to swallow a single bite, the wolf having gotten there first and carved her granny up into dinner.

But did I say girl? What I meant was woman. Queen, actually. When I said girl I meant Queen of France.