The Duke of Mortemart was unfamiliar with Versailles. Though he held a distinguished title himself, Mortemart was not a surname that had left a deep impression on Henry IV or Louis XIII, and he had never been invited here. Still, he had heard something of Versailles. He was curious about everything here, though not overly astonished, because he had never seen what Versailles had once been like.
Compared to the Duke of Mortemart, Yilalue's feelings were far more complicated. This ambitious young man was naturally no stranger to Versailles. It had been one of Louis XIII's favorite hunting grounds, and because it enjoyed the king's favor, it had to be "cleared out" regularly, lest the dignitaries and nobles be disturbed—at that time, there had only been a small building here, surrounded at the edges by scattered farmhouses and inns. Nearly everyone here lived off the nobles who followed the king to Versailles to hunt. There was no steady, lasting work. How should one put it? The Versailles of that time had been like a theater. When the king came, it was a grand spectacle, one splendid performance after another; when the king left—the swift hounds, the beautiful horses, the elegant knights, and lovely ladies all vanished in an instant like stage scenery, revealing the broken boards and crumbling bricks beneath. Against the usual desolation elsewhere, it seemed all the more laughable and tragic.
Now, the road running diagonally from Hunting Avenue—that was, the road from Paris to the town of Versailles—to the royal residence had been newly repaired. The roadway, wide enough for four riders to travel abreast, was made of a new material developed from ancient Roman cement. Its surface was covered with tiny stones. The wheels of four-wheeled carriages could not damage it at all, and even horseshoes