The Shadow Queen

by Sandra Gulland

  Alexandre?

  “What I love is his greatness in war,” Mother said with fervor. Sertorius wouldn’t be peformed for some time, but already she’d begun to commit it to memory.

  “Before that, there’s a line about passion …”

  I stepped in, surprising them all. “I hate passion, the impetuous tumult,” I recited.

  Alexandre was seated on the wood chair next to the plank table, the play-script of Mother’s lines on his lap. Gaston was on the stool, the stones for a game of Mill set out between them. “I’m pleased to see you up and about, Monsieur le Marquis,” I said, dropping a pert curtsy. The heat from the coals made my frozen cheeks tingle and the smell of bean soup and baked bread sharpened my appetite. I hung my damp cloak on a peg. When I’d left that morning, Alexandre had been in bed. During the hours I’d been away, he’d clearly been transformed. “I see that my mother lost no time putting you to work.”

  “The Marquis loves theater,” Mother said, stirring the beans. She’d pulled her long hair back into a bun, but wisps had escaped, making her look charmingly disheveled.

  “Oh?” I was amazed (and not a little jealous) at her tone of familiarity.

  “He knows Monsieur Corneille’s plays well,” she said, “even La Suivante. He is delighted to learn of this new work.”

  “It’s extraordinary, Madame des Oeillets,” Alexandre said, making a move on the Mill board (and then groaning as Gaston deftly took one of his pieces). “Especially your role, Queen Viriate—”

  Viriate: it was a thrillingly evil part Mother was to play. Lusting, ambitious—and yet profoundly heroic—she is wooed by Sertorius, the man who murdered her lover—the man she marries just to avenge her lover’s death. It was hard for me to believe that Monsieur Pierre had cast my gentle, feckless mother in such an evil role.

  “The Marquis has been explaining to me how a queen must act,” Mother said. “He knows both the Queen Mother and the Queen, and I’m far too kind, he says.”

  Alexandre glanced at me and shrugged. “She is.” He groaned again as Gaston took another of his pieces.

  “You look fatigued, my dear,” Mother said. “Have some soup.”

  “I have a letter for you, Monsieur le Marquis,” I said, sitting down. I felt uncomfortable sitting at a table with a nobleman—it wasn’t proper—but I felt even more uncomfortable standing in my own home. I reached into my skirts and withdrew the scented packet, the ink splotched “with tears.” (White wine, in fact—my idea.) Within was a tiny locket containing a golden hair from Athénaïs’s pubis. (Her idea.)

  Alexandre smiled fondly at the inscription—For my Beloved—and struggled to stand. “Adieu et merci, mes amis. I must now retire,” he said, leaning on the table. Gaston jumped to his feet to help him limp back into the closet.

  “I should spend the morning out more often,” I told Mother, holding the warm bowl of bean soup in both hands.

  “What you should do,” she said, taking Alexandre’s chair, “is find a way to get that good young man out of the country. The town criers—”

  “I know, Maman.” I know. The King had condemned the duelists to decapitation should they be apprehended. All the others had scattered far and wide—some fleeing to England, others to Spain or Portugal. Alexandre was the only one still in the city, still in hiding. “I have an idea,” I said.

  CHAPTER 27

  I’ve found a way out for you,” I told Alexandre. Mother and Gaston were at the theater. I could speak openly.

  He was leaning on the crutch I had made for him. In the month he’d been with us, he’d rapidly improved. “Out of France?” he asked and I nodded. He leaned the crutch against the windowsill and eased himself onto the stool by the trestle table. We’d taken to having talks there, over bowls of warm gruel. “It’s the only way, I guess.” He looked sad but also relieved.

  “You’ll be part of a traveling group of players—they’re on their way to Portugal.” The sooner he was gone, the better. There were still guards everywhere. I’d heard of searches, the prestigious families of the duelists grilled and even threatened. At any time, Athénaïs could be questioned. “I have a costume you can use, and you already know how to juggle.” I’d been teaching him.

  He combed his long hair with his fingers, pushing it up off his forehead. “Portugal might not be so bad …”

  He looked a little lost, in truth. His life had been perfectly plotted, up until now. The eldest son of a wealthy nobleman, engaged to marry an aristocratic woman—a woman he sincerely loved: all was in place for a happy and fulfilling future. Now he was cast to the winds.

  “How shall I ever thank you?” he said.

  I stood, looking about our shabby room: the cracks in the plaster, the smoky fire pit. “I regret that we couldn’t have looked after you more comfortably.”

  “You saved my life.”

  “I’ll help you with your things. I told them you’d meet them on the Pont Neuf at midday.” I wanted him gone before Mother and Gaston returned.

  He took out his sundial and held it to the window. “That’s fairly soon.”

  “I’ve already arranged for a litter.” I didn’t like prolonged farewells. “I’d not show that sundial once you’re out.” It was gold, intricately tooled. “Just a word of caution.”

  He held it out to me.

  I hesitated. A knight expected no reward.

  “Give it to Athénaïs,” he said. “To remember me by.”

  Of course, Athénaïs.

  It didn’t take Alexandre long to change and pack up his things. He even helped me pull up the bed linens (which surprised me). “Thank your brother for the use of his closet,” he said.

  I nodded but said nothing.

  “Tell him I intend to return and beat him at Mill.” He looked comically charming in his rags, his bundle of clothes tied up on a stick, like any homeless itinerant. I blinked back stinging tears.

  “You’ll tell your mother farewell for me? I wish I could be here to see her perform Queen Viriate. She’s going to be magnificent, I know.”

  I nodded, my hand on the door: the litter carriers would be waiting. I handed him his crutch. “You will need it.”

  “This is for Athénaïs as well,” he said, handing me a tightly scrolled paper.

  A letter? Where had he found the paper, the ink, a quill?

  He kissed my cheek. His beard was prickly but soft. “Au revoir, Claudette,” he said, using the tender name Mother called me. “Et merci.”

  I LAY ON the neatly made-up bed, listening to the sounds of Alexandre’s uneven steps on the winding stairs. What if the litter carriers weren’t there? What if the players failed to meet him? What if he was recognized?

  I started to get up—to follow after him—but stopped, looking at the paper I had clutched in my fist. It was not sealed, merely tied with a length of ribbon.

  Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente, my beloved Athénaïs, my love, my life, forgive me. I pray for a miracle, pray that His Majesty will allow me to return to your arms, but we both know that is not likely. His Majesty will remain firm: I know him well.

  With great sadness and regret, I release you from our vows, our tender promises, given in love. (Such love!)

  I depart burdened with the knowledge that I have ruined several lives—my own, certainly—as well as ended the life of my dearest friend, Henri, whom I roused from a peaceful sleep in order to persuade him to take part in that loathsome duel.

  I, therefore, stand guilty and condemn myself, even were I to be pardoned.

  I beg you to assuage his family’s sorrow, in any way possible.

  Pray for me, as I will pray for you.

  I remain yours forever.

  Alexandre de La Trémoille, Marquis de Noirmoutier

  I rolled the letter back up tightly, then wound the ribbon and knotted it.

  I remain yours forever.

  Yet he owed me his life.

  I lay for some time with my confused and angry thoughts. I felt lumpish a
nd ugly, a tall freak in shabby rags.

  ATHÉNAïS THREW ALEXANDRE’S letter into the fire. “You didn’t warn me!”

  “Leaving the country saves his life.” I trembled, but not at my presumption (which was great). I’d risked everything—

  “And ruins mine.” She spat into the flames, convulsed.

  I was caught in a web of confusion. I had tried to prevent the duel, but had been ignored. I’d sheltered Alexandre at grave risk to me and my family. And now I was blamed! Like winged Icarus, I had flown too close to the sun, and like him, I had been burned.

  “Au revoir, Mademoiselle,” I said coldly, my heart twisted. She had resolved to forget Alexandre, and I resolved to forget them both. I didn’t belong in their world. My “princess” had been a fantasy of my childhood, a talisman against my own bleak world, a treasured fable of a perfect life. But there was no such thing, I now knew.

  She cursed me as I left.

  I walked all the way back to our meager room, past the gates of the wealthy, past the Abbaye de Saint-Germain-des-Prés, only glancing at the trees that concealed the dueling field. I picked up my pace nearing the river, stomping carelessly through puddles of refuse, fuming and chafed—but also, inexplicably, bereft.

  Crossing the Pont Neuf, I ignored the whores, the pleading children, the evil Bird Catcher with his clutch of sad and pretty boys. I paused for breath at the statue of Henri IV—at the very spot where Alexandre was to meet the traveling players only the day before.

  Nearby, a small crowd surrounded a man with a pockmarked face, hovering over a fire on a grate. I’d seen him several times before. “Ask a spirit,” he called out. “Ask it anything!” A woman handed him a coin. She wanted to know where her husband had gone. The pocked man wrote her question on a note, enclosed it in a ball of wax, and threw it on the fire. Then a note appeared in his hand. “The spirit says he’s in a tavern, Madame,” he told her, and everyone laughed.

  A cutting wind blew across the gray water. I blinked back tears and pulled my hood down over my eyes. Shivering, I walked on, plunging my hands under my cloak, where I suddenly felt—with some satisfaction, I confess—the hard weight of Alexandre’s timepiece. I’d not given it to Athénaïs, as I’d intended.

  I checked to make sure nobody was close—thieves on the Pont Neuf were thick as stars—and took it out of my poke, weighing the object in my mittened hand, calculating its worth.

  I SOLD ALEXANDRE’S timepiece for a handsome sum and found Gaston a helper, someone who actually began to have some success teaching him things. I considered paying for a healer like the one Madame Catherine had mentioned, as well, but Gaston proved mysteriously fearful. In any case, his ever-patient helper was making progress: he could do up a button! Her fee—a livre a week—was considerable, but it was worth it, and it freed Mother and me to work with the troupe.

  In spite of my resolve and the demands of my life, I would now and again be irresistibly moved to go back over the river, making the long trek to Athénaïs’s home. I never lingered, or even slowed: I didn’t want to arouse the suspicion of the guards at the gate. I would just walk by as if going about my business, my eyes darting through the iron gate. Once I saw one of her little dogs doing his business in the gravel, attended by a frowning maid. Another time I saw a delivery of an entire cow carcass, skinned, befooted, and beheaded. But never Athénaïs herself.

  My compulsion shamed me. I feared I was under an enchantment. I paid a cunning woman to make an amulet for me to wear, to break the spell. For a time this seemed to help. It helped, too, that events conspired to capture my attention. We were—without knowing it at the time—in the early stages of that great disruption: the War of the Theaters.

  ACT III

  WAR OF THE THEATERS

  (1662, Paris)

  CHAPTER 28

  Heading out to a meeting at the Marais, Mother and I stopped to borrow Monsieur Martin’s copy of the weekly verse gazette, La Muze historique. We arrived at the theater flush with excitement. The editor Loret had written about Sertorius in glowing terms—“You can’t praise the actors too highly,” he’d written, with a special mention of Mother’s wonderful performance!

  “Did you see what Loret said?” I asked Madame Babette on entering. She was leaning on a sweep, staring into the pit. Monsieur la Roque and some of the players had pulled benches around the coal brazier for warmth. It looked like they’d opened the liquor case. They were sharing a jug, yet they did not seem to have a festive manner. “In La Muze?” I said, showing her the news sheet. I had scanned it for mention of the duelists, but there was nothing.

  Madame Babette nodded dolefully. “Molière’s troupe is going to produce Sertorius as well,” she said with a tone of defeat.

  I glanced at Mother and then back at Madame Babette, more confused than alarmed. “But the play hasn’t been published yet.” Once in print, a play was public property, available for any troupe to stage—but not before. This was not a written law, but it was respected nonetheless.

  “Monsieur Molière is the King’s favorite these days. He seems to think he can do anything.”

  “But how could he even get the script?” There was only one complete copy, and the prompter locked it away safely each night. The players were given only their lines and cues, no more.

  Madame Babette screwed up her face. “Well—Brécourt and La Thorillière …”

  I took note of the players present: Brécourt, La Thorillière, and their wives were usually the first to arrive at meetings, blaze the fire, and set out the benches—but I didn’t see them.

  “They’ve signed with Molière,” Madame Babette said.

  Mother let out a yelp.

  “Their wives too?” Sacré coeur. It would be a challenge to perform Sertorius without them—and then it struck me. “You think they stole the prompt copy?”

  “Monsieur la Roque checked. It’s still locked away.” Madame Babette shrugged her shoulders. “But they could have committed it to memory.”

  “In this short time?”

  “Well—there are four of them.”

  A betrayal! “How is Monsieur la Roque taking it?” La Thorillière’s wife, Marie, was his daughter.

  “Hard.”

  I felt sickened. The troupe was like a family. Were we to be torn apart?

  “Not that I would mind getting paid,” Madame Babette added as Monsieur la Roque gestured us forward.

  THE MEETING WAS adjourned shortly after, everyone dazed. The wonderful notice in La Muze historique only made us feel worse.

  Breath misting, Mother and I walked back to our room.

  “I have faith,” she whispered to her little Virgin, stringing her up on a hook.

  I wish I did, I thought, building up the fire and filling the cauldron. Had I heard a knock? I went to the door, the iron skimmer in my hand.

  “That’s quite a climb up your stairs,” Monsieur Pierre said, leaning against the wall, catching his breath.

  “We’ve something outrageous to tell you,” Mother said, joining me at the door.

  “It has been a day,” he said, stepping into the room.

  Did he know? I lit a pine-scented taper, uncomfortably aware of the stench of the communal latrine. “Please, have a seat, Monsieur,” I said, pulling a wood chair away from the wall. I noticed mouse droppings in the corner and made a note to set out traps.

  “You aren’t going to believe it,” Mother said, flinging a tattered shawl around her shoulders and sitting down beside the great playwright.

  I perched on the windowsill. I could feel a cold draft coming through. I wished I could talk to Monsieur Pierre privately, without my mother’s emotional exclamations.

  “Molière stole Brécourt and Étiennette, and La Thorillière and Marie,” she went on. “All four of them.”

  Monsieur Pierre raised one bushy brow.

  “And he’s going to produce Sertorius—with them.”

  Monsieur Pierre cleared his throat, pulling on the patch of hair under hi
s lower lip. “I know. I’ve been talking to Josias Floridor.”

  This puzzled me. Floridor was the leader of another rival troupe, the Bourgogne. What did he have to do with it?

  Monsieur Pierre put his hand over Mother’s. “One of their leading players wishes to retire and they are in need of a replacement. I’ve been asked to inquire.”

  “But surely you wouldn’t want me to leave the Marais—”

  “For your own sake, Alix, you must seriously give it thought. Floridor is a remarkable tragic actor.”

  Indeed. He’d even traveled to London and been a success there, I’d heard. Nonetheless, it was said he remained a perfect gentleman, without the blunt manners of the English. His gestures, manner, and posture were said to be natural and unstudied; some claimed he was the best player in the entire world.

  “Floridor and I first worked together … oh, mon Dieu, fifteen years ago? Where does the time go? It was the year I joined the Académie Française, so, oui, fifteen. We’re very close—he’s godfather to one of my sons, in fact. He leads a fine company and you would learn from them … and they’re going to produce Sertorius as well—”

  The Bourgogne and Molière’s troupe? In addition to the Marais? Three troupes performing the same play? I was dumbfounded.

  Monsieur Pierre put up his hands. “To tell you the truth, I think the Bourgogne production might be the finest of the three—but only if you are in it, Alix.”

  “Monsieur Pierre, if I were to leave the Marais, what would happen to our beautiful production?”

  He let out a long, sputtering breath. “With the loss of four players and the two rival enactments, the Marais is going to have to reconsider its repertoire.”

  “Do you think they will close down Sertorius?”

  He shrugged. “Likely.”

  I pressed my hand to my forehead, feeling suddenly faint. We’d invested so much. Would we ever recover the loss?

  Mother stood and paced. “I couldn’t leave the Marais.”