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affectation. On fine afternoons she'd sashay forth to take the air, her Bengali page, Zamor, trailing behind in his pink velvet jacket and trousers and his snow white turban. Sometimes he would protect her big round head from rain or sun with a frilled parasol. Sometimes she would stumble, either because she was drunk, or because she insisted on wearing shoes that were too small, or because her legs were worn out from parting for the King.
    Everyone knew he couldn't get enough of her; needless to say that was all she needed to lord it over me and my poor indifferent Louis. Just as everyone knew she was the sworn enemy of the King's chief minister, Choiseul, who'd urged an alliance between France and Austria for years, as well as my marriage to the Dauphin.
    Boring boring boring. Could it possibly be more boring, aside from the people themselves, or the way I felt myself slipping between events like a goldfish between lily roots?
    "The King's character resembles soft wax on which the most dissimilar objects can be randomly traced," Choiseul once observed. And in fact, for all his good looks and winning ways, the King wasn't particularly smart, his three specialities being coffee making, stag hunting, and knocking the top off soft-boiled eggs.

Mesdames
    Envelope, ground floor. The apartments of Madame Adélaïde, eldest daughter to Louis XV, King of France, also called Beloved. A beautiful morning, everything white and gold and
sunstruck:
couches,
tobies,
chairs, mirrors;
a chandelier, a
harp.
    It is the summer of 177?. Enter the King's three maiden daughters, stage right, each wearing a shapeless black gown and carrying a shapeless black workbag. The daughters are in mourning for their mother, Queen Marie Leczinska, who decided to die rather than be subjected to endless tales of her husband's infidelity.
    Adélaïde and Victoire sit facing each other on matching gold brocade loveseats; Sophie scuttles across the room in her sticklike way to stand by the window.
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A DÉ;LAÉDE : Is she coming?
S OPHIE : She is! She is!
A DÉ;LAÉ DE : For heaven's sake, calm down. And try to remember what I told you.
V ICTOIRE : Shh! Here she comes.
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    Enter Antoinette, stage left, in a blue silk gown that shows off her figure to excellent advantage. She too carries a workbag, of matching blue silk, and is followed by a little dog, Eggplant, the black-nosed pug she brought with her from
Vienna,
who immediately lifts his leg on the harp.
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A NTOINETTE : Oh no. Not again.
A DÉLAÉDE : Please. Don't give it another thought.
Victoire pats the cushion beside her invitingly, but Antoinette chooses to sit on the couch, facing the audience.
A NTOINETTE : I don't understand. He's usually so good.
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    The women all open their bags and remove their needlework. Only Antoinette's is visible to us, a large misshapen garment in shades of rose and cream.
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V ICTOIRE : So, dearie, how is married life treating you? Are you getting settled in all right?
A NTOINETTE : I suppose so. I'm afraid I keep making mistakes, though. The protocol, the corsets. Everything is so different from home.
She holds up the garment, regards it ruefully.
Do you think he'll like it? It's supposed to be a vest.
S OPHIE : Father says your husband was born in a barn.
A DÉLAÉDE : That's enough, Sophie.
A NTOINETTE: NO , she's right.
She sighs, furrows her pretty white brow, continues stitching.
    Â 
    For a minute or two all that can be heard is the sound of thread being snipped.
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A NTOINETTE : Speaking of barns, the other day I was walking under Madame Du Barry's window, and she dumped a pot of piss on me.
V ICTOIRE : No!
S OPHIE : How do you know it was her?
A NTOINETTE: I recognized the bracelet.
V ICTOIRE : But why would she want to do a thing like that? You've never done anything to offend her.
S OPHIE : Antoinette will be Queen one day.
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    Adélaïde busies herself making a knot.
    Â 
A DÉLAÉDE,
offhand:
Of course now