The Shadow Queen

by Sandra Gulland

  Floridor canceled our next performances, the troupe too stunned to perform.

  “The play is cursed,” Mother said. Rumor was that Molière had paid a witch to cast an evil spell on Andromaque because we’d stolen Thérèse du Parc away from his troupe.

  “Yes, but cursed by Racine,” I said, finding the pincushion I was looking for in Gaston’s line of objects. He cried out in protest as I retrieved it; I gave him a cross look. “He pushed Montfleury far too hard.” Proclaiming Racine’s intensely emotional verse had brought on Montfleury’s death. (Ironic, I thought, considering that Montfleury had been the one to so ardently champion Racine’s work.)

  No sooner had the Bourgogne regained momentum in the new year than we suffered yet another blow: Thérèse du Parc announced that she wouldn’t be performing for a period of time. “I need to be away a spell,” she said, mumbling something about her health.

  “There’s nothing wrong with her health!” Mother later scoffed.

  I knew better. “She’s with child.” As the one who had to keep letting out her costumes (richly adorned gowns given to her by noble admirers—gowns that eclipsed the ones I could provide Mother), I had suspected for some time. “And my guess is by you-know-who.” Racine was often in her dressing room. I couldn’t understand what Thérèse saw in him—she had her pick of suitors, and noble ones at that.

  Having suffered through such calamities, the troupe was greatly cheered to be invited to perform for the King at Saint-Germain-en-Laye. It was only a one-performance engagement, but His Majesty paid handsomely, covering costs and feeding players in style. To be commanded to make what players called “a voyage” to play for the King was the answer to every troupe’s prayers. This had been an especially enjoyable excursion, even if I did have to play the part of the dog. (I was both relieved and disappointed not to have glimpsed Athénaïs in the audience.)

  The troupe met back in Paris the next morning, groggy, boisterous, some ill and others still drunk from celebrating the King’s approval of the play. Floridor stood to address us. There was something serious in his demeanor, his face dark with shadow as he waited for silence. He arranged his ruff, pausing gravely before informing us that he had sad news: “Thérèse du Parc will not be coming back—”

  There were a few muted exclamations. Had she decided to return to Molière’s troupe?

  “I am grieved to inform you that she died last night.”

  There was a stir, and then gasps.

  My mouth dropped open in incredulity.

  “We’re closing down until further notice,” I heard Floridor say. “Even Molière’s troupe has canceled performances, out of respect.”

  There was a hum of surprise.

  “Fortunately,” he continued, “she was able to renounce the stage before passing.”

  “Merci Dieu!” someone cried out in the silence that followed.

  The next morning, Thérèse’s body was displayed in her rooms on the rue de Richelieu. She looked like a girl in her big, expensive coffin, dressed in one of her gaud-glorious theatrical costumes. She’d died giving birth, it was whispered. Leaving, I glanced across the street at the door opposite, wreathed in black: Racine’s modest abode.

  The procession to the cemetery the next day turned into a mob scene. Racine was almost unrecognizable, his face puffy. As the coffin was lowered into the ground, he let out a heart-wrenching cry, causing even me to weep.

  IN THE DAYS that followed, I went about my chores in a daze. It was a relief not to have to rush off to the theater for meetings, rehearsals, and performances every day, but at the same time I felt at a loss. Even the diversion of walking the newly cobbled streets of Paris by night—ablaze now with the light of three thousand lanterns—failed to cheer. Mother took up knitting her hideous shawl and I resumed pacing the creaking floorboards, worrying about how we would manage, worrying (as always) about money. To keep Mother in spangles and feathers, to keep our rooms heated, I took whatever jobs I could find: cleaning out a charnel house, hiring on as a professional mourner following funeral processions, tending a stinking tavern in the late-late hours—fending off drunken customers on more than one occasion. We’d been years in the theater. Mother was a great success, and yet we seemed not much further along than before.

  The magical transition from sordid to grand was, in truth, a meager living. Repairing costumes and performing the occasional walk-on part in travesty earned me little. There were times when I longed, in truth, for a respectable life, like those of the blessed who sat in the loges. A life where it would not be assumed I was a whore just because I worked for the theater. A life where I would not have to carry a dagger in my skirts to ward off attackers, coming and going from the theater at all hours. I was weary of working long hours for only a few sous, weary of juggling debts, making do with a cup of parsnip soup and a trencher of bean-flour bread for a meal.

  Was this to be my life? Forever scrambling to make ends meet, looking after Mother and my helpless brother, only to die an old maid?

  ON THE SEVENTEENTH of January, a gloomy Thursday, Gaston climbed the stairs laden with buckets of water from the river. He put down his load and handed me a folded piece of paper. “For.” He pointed at me.

  I examined the sealed envelope. The handwriting—which spelled out my name—was schooled, feminine.

  Inside, was a gold louis (heavens!), folded up in a scrap of paper. It wasn’t a letter; it was a map, awkwardly drawn, indicating a place on the rue l’Échelle, next to a lace shop not far from the Louvre. Two blunt sentences were written below the sketch:

  Do not fail me.

  Do not speak my name.

  And no signature whatsoever.

  CHAPTER 34

  The house on the rue l’Échelle was modest. At one time the ground-floor rooms had been a lace shop, but now the shop sign listed, attached only at one corner. Soot-covered snow was piled at the door. I looked to find a bell, but there was only a tarnished brass knocker. I dusted snow off the lion’s head and let it drop: once, twice, three times. I looked up at the windows above. Surely there had been a mistake.

  The shutters opened and an old woman peered down. I slipped back the hood of my cloak to reveal my face. I am wanted here. (But why?)

  The shutters closed. I was almost through my second Ave Maria when I heard the sound of bolts and latches. The door creaked open. It was the old woman, a bent-over hag with whiskers hanging from her chin. Her withered hands hung in front of her crisp linen apron.

  “I am Mademoiselle des Oeillets. I was sent for.”

  She lifted her thin upper lip to reveal one long but surprisingly white tooth. She drew the door back, and I entered a dark corridor. I followed her up a narrow set of stairs and down a dark hall to a door, which opened onto a large room of surprising opulence. A Turkey carpet, two Japon cabinets, a massive pendulum clock: everything conveyed luxury.

  The woman motioned me to wait and went shuffling off.

  I stood by the fire, warming my hands. I heard pricking sounds and looked behind me. A black cat was pulling its nails on the carpet.

  I heard a woman’s scolding voice. “You fool! Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Madame de Sconin, you were—”

  A masked woman entered the room wearing a fur-lined morning robe over a chemise. It was clear she was heavy with child. Her golden hair was loose, hanging down over her shoulders.

  I curtsied, perplexed. Athénaïs?

  “Go, in heaven’s name,” the woman commanded the hag, who slouched out of the room. “And close the damn door!” she cursed, throwing the bolt. “Mort Dieu.” She took off her mask.

  It was her.

  I was struck by her fatigue, the lines in her extraordinarily perfect face. She was younger than I was, not yet even thirty—but she looked older than that, worn. And out of humor, certainly, scowling as she reached for a chair.

  I stepped forward to lend a hand. “I can manage it,” she said crossly, using the back of the chair for suppo
rt. “I feel like an upturned turtle most days.” She sat down, pulling her shawl around her shoulders. “It’s not the first time, but I can never get used to it.”

  She’d married years ago. Of course she would have children.

  “This one poses a problem, however, which is why I’ve summoned you.” She frowned up at me. “Sit, Claude, for God’s sake. I’ve a rather shocking proposition to make, and I think it best you not be standing.”

  I lowered myself onto a tapestry-covered footrest. I wondered if I could take off my gloves, which were damp from the snow. I felt light-headed. I had never expected to be summoned again.

  “You no doubt wonder why I sent you a cryptic note, why you’ve been asked to come here, and why, for that matter, that crow of a maid addresses me as Madame de Sconin, when she deigns to address me at all.”

  “You are a woman of mystery,” I said, and was relieved to hear her chuckle. We’d been jocular with each other in the past—in our youth, our foolish youth—but things were different now.

  “Obviously, I am going to have a baby—soon, I hope, for I am weary of this burden. The child, however, is not my husband’s.” Her azure eyes were teasing.

  “This happens, Madame.” I was hot now, too close to the fire. I wished I could slip off my cloak.

  “More often than one would guess,” she said, touching a silver key hanging from a chain around her neck. “But most of the time it is easy enough to fob it off as the husband’s. My husband, however, was unfortunately many leagues away at the time of … conception, let us say? He has been banished—”

  Banished? I was startled to hear this.

  “—for publicly casting judgment on the King’s choice of a tutor for the Dauphin. That he tried to throw the tutor’s wife and then me out a window had little to do with his punishment, apparently.” This with a wry tone. “It’s something of a relief to have him out of the country, to tell you the truth—although he took my two babies with him.” She stroked the cat, her hands trembling. “He’s a lunatic. Verily. But by law he has a right to do whatever he pleases with my children—as well as the child I’m carrying now. I have reason to fear what he might do were he to find out.” She looked at me, her eyes impossibly large. “Curious—isn’t it?—how life plays out?” She threaded a long strand of the fringe of her shawl through her fingers, twisting it. “I’ve had word that Alexandre is dead.”

  Non!

  “In battle in Portugal apparently—” This with a weary tone.

  I felt robbed: angry even. I had risked so much to save his life. How could he die?

  Athénaïs shrugged with a show of indifference, but I recognized fragility in her gesture. “In any case: now.” She put her hands on her belly. “Not only do I have a lunatic husband to hide from, but there’s also the problem of my lover’s wife—as well as his other mistress,” she added with amusement, removing the silver key from the chain around her neck and using it to open a black enamel cabinet. “Monsieur Mysterious, let’s call him, would rather they not discover my present predicament.” She slid out a shelf and withdrew a small velvet bag. “Hence, this curious abode, my false name.” She looked at me, her eyes so alluring I had to glance away. “Claudette,” I heard her say, “I have dire need of someone I can trust.”

  I stared into the fire as she spoke. The proposition was a simple one. I would move in for a few months, tend to the birth, the baby. It would be a temporary position until she found a suitable governess (someone from the aristocracy it was implied, but not said).

  “But confidentiality is key,” she said. “Nobody—and I mean that rather literally, I’m afraid—nobody must know.”

  The cat meowed plaintively at the door.

  “I’m honored, Madame,” I said, sitting back. I put my gloved hands to my throat. “But …” But I’d vowed to forsake her! I’d worn an amulet to break her spell over me, vowed to put her memory behind me, forsake my longings for her world. My longing for her. “The Bourgogne is about to get back into full production. I have commitments.”

  “I’ve neglected to mention one thing,” she said with a smile, tossing the bag from one hand to the other. “Well, two—” She spilled out the contents of the little pouch onto one hand. Two gems sparkled in her palm. “I’m now in a position to reward you rather well.”

  I had never seen such stones. They were clear, yet threw out shards of light.

  “They’re Indian stones called diamonds.” Her voice was reverent. “These are worth quite a lot, I’m told—two, three thousand livres? Yours, should you accept.”

  Sacré coeur. With that much money …! “You know you can trust me, Madame,” I said, sitting forward.

  “DON’T LOOK SO MOROSE,” I told Mother and Gaston. I’d been able to sell the diamonds, but only for a little over one thousand livres, a third of what Athénaïs had estimated. Even so, it was a very great deal. I’d finally paid off our debt to Monsieur Martin, paid the back rent owed, and still had enough to hire back Gaston’s tutor. “It’s only temporary, and it’s not as if I won’t be visiting often.”

  Still, it was a big step. In all my years, I’d never slept apart from them. “Kiss me now,” I said gruffly, taking up my worn portmanteau. The gray wool gown I’d scrabbled together—a respectable sort of ensemble suitable for one in service—felt like a costume.

  Gaston, ever the boy, embraced me.

  “Remember …?” I’d had a long talk with them both the night before about all the things that needed to be looked after.

  Gaston nodded, but the expression in his eyes lacked confidence.

  I turned to my weeping mother. My heart ached with how unhappy I was making them both. “Maman, dear Maman,” I said, rocking her in my arms, “remember that you can simply send Gaston for me if ever you need.” But not just because you can’t find your lace mantilla! Not just because you can’t get off your white-face and rouge!

  I stepped back, my eyes overspilling.

  And then, with wrenching last embraces, I began down the winding stone stairs, my free hand on the splintered rail. I stopped at the ground floor to wipe my cheeks dry with my knit mitt, then set off through the slush, heading toward the river.

  CHAPTER 35

  I put down my bag: a room of my own—a bed of my own. I pried open the shutter and looked out the window: between two buildings, I could see the glittering river.

  Already I wanted to go home, hear Gaston’s infectious giggle, Mother murmuring her lines. I was thirty now—an old maid by any account—and for the first time in my very long life, I was alone.

  I turned at the sound of the door opening. The hag tossed a skirt, apron, bodice, and cap onto the narrow bed and slammed the plank door shut.

  I held the bodice to my chest. The fabric was an ugly shade of brown. It looked to fit a girl, certainly not a woman, not even a small-breasted one. The tips of two of the bones—made of crude wood slats, not whalebone—had worn through. I picked up the skirt, which was stained at the hem. Even with the laces fully out, I couldn’t get it on over my hips. I felt like a giant in a circus show.

  The apron was ridiculously frilly and not perfectly clean, but at least it had a patch pocket. I emptied it of its contents: lint, a soiled nose cloth, a small, rusty nail. I examined the enormous cap for vermin before slipping it on over my coiled braids and pulling the ties. If this were a play, I would be the clownish servant, the one everyone mocked.

  Athénaïs burst into unrestrained laughter when I entered the room. “Mort Dieu,” she gasped, bolting the door and taking off her mask. “You look like a half-wit.” She could hardly speak for laughing.

  “Damnation!” the parrot squawked.

  “Take that apron off … and the cap too. Was this the wench’s idea?” She wiped tears from her cheeks with her sleeve.

  “I’m relieved, I confess,” I said, smiling now myself. The brocade drapes had been drawn back to let in light, but even so, ten scented beeswax candles were alight. (Such extravagance!) “I was prepar
ing to run away.”

  “Over an apron and cap? That will never do. Come, sit, join me for some wine and sweetmeats. I promised my confessor I would not imbibe spirits—at least not alone.”

  Served in a crystal goblet, the pale pink liquid had bubbles in it, which alarmed me.

  “It won’t hurt you,” Athénaïs said, perceiving my concern. “Dom Pérignon, the Benedictine monk I order it from, keeps trying to get rid of the bubbles, but I rather like it this way,” she said, taking one of the little cakes that circled a pyramid of bonbons set on a gilded platter. “He gives me an excellent price because of the flaw.” She pushed the plate across to me.

  “Thank you.” My mouth watered at the sight of the delicacies, but my rough hands shamed me.

  After three goblets of the strange wine, I felt more at ease. Athénaïs liked to chatter, and it was easy enough to be a good listener. Her father had recently sold his post as First Gentleman of the King’s Chamber for a million livres (a million!), four hundred thousand of that going to buy her brother Vivonne the post of Generalship of the Galleys. The King’s ministers Colbert and Louvois were at each other’s throats, vying for His Majesty’s favor. When Colbert got ill recently, it was whispered that Louvois had tried to poison him. (The awful Louvois! The cat man.) Her friend the Duc de Lauzun lost his prized stud at the game tables, Athénaïs chatted on. She’d advised him to go to a witch for charms to improve his chances, as so many others had been doing—with success. “Do you go to witches?” Players knew all about such things: I must know of a good one.

  “I’ve heard tell of several,” I said. Players were fond of good-luck charms, enchantments to ensure a good performance. I thought of the cunning woman who had sold me the amulet. (Money wasted, considering.)

  She plied me for tittle-tattle on players, particularly Thérèse du Parc, whose father had been a witch, she’d heard. A charlatan, I told her—not quite the same thing. Was Du Parc really thirty-five when she died? How many lovers had she had? Athénaïs suspected her father and even her brother might have been of their number. Did I know that the actress’s stepsisters—who worked at the Hôtel de Soissons—were proclaiming that she’d been poisoned by the playwright Racine?