The Shadow Queen

by Sandra Gulland

  “Under the influence of the Company, no doubt.”

  No doubt. The Company’s “influence” was insidious, a plague.

  “They’re the Devils,” Athénaïs said heatedly. “Look how they threatened His Majesty over Molière’s Tartuffe—”

  And practically killed the playwright, so great was his distress.

  “—forcing His Majesty to bow to their will. They aim to rule, but fortunately they are merely a faction, although a faction fueled by passionate hate and righteous conviction. There is nothing of Christianity in it,” she said, sitting down at her escritoire. She wrote a short note, sprinkled it with sand and handed it to me. “Saint Francis is a small monastery I help support in Paris. They are decidedly not of the Company, I assure you. They will take your brother in.”

  I fell to my knees and kissed the hem of her gown.

  “Claudette, really!” She laughed.

  GASTON WAS UNSURE, I could tell. Too many people professing to help had hurt him.

  “We’ll stay the night, the two of us together,” I promised as the gate opened. “In the morning, you can decide.”

  It was a humble establishment. Chickens pecked at our feet. Gaston giggled at their antics, which I took as a good sign. There were gardens of flowers and vegetables, two cows, a mule, and several horses. A black mutt with a comical face waddled out to greet us.

  I rang a bell in the courtyard and a man in a patched robe came out. He greeted us with a dip of his head.

  I explained that we wished to see the abbot. He smiled, oui, indicating that he was himself the person to talk to.

  Rather taken aback by the “abbot’s” humble bearing, I handed him Athénaïs’s letter. Come with me, he gestured.

  I did not need to stay the night. Gaston, on hearing the choir—on joining the choir—felt immediately at home with these gentle men. I lingered for some time and then slipped away uplifted, with a cautious feeling of hope in my heart.

  CHAPTER 48

  In the years that followed I often thought—with a glowing satisfaction—of Gaston’s happiness in that humble little monastery. Crammed into the back of a pet-filled carriage on rocky, muddy roads, or racing over the new wide expanse between Saint-Germain-en-Laye and His Majesty’s ever-expanding château at boggy Versaie (back and forth, back and forth), half listening as Athénaïs mused on about Court intrigues, complaining of the King’s latest fancy, I would nod, staring out at the passing landscape, thinking of Gaston singing his beautiful heart out. He had found his calling.

  But my own life … what did it amount to? Ropes of false gems, rabbit-fur wraps, secondhand leather gloves: the stage props of wealth and status.

  An illusion?

  I was envied, true, in a position of influence, the intimate confidante of the “shadow queen,” considered to be the real queen of France, in fact. Athénaïs’s estranged husband had finally granted her a legal separation and so, with the signing of a simple piece of paper, the world had shifted. No longer required to play the role of official mistress, Louise de la Vallière retired to a convent, leaving Athénaïs the undisputed victor.

  The King built Athénaïs a château in Clagny. “It’s not even suitable for an actress!” she’d exploded on seeing it. Cowed by her emotional fire rockets, His Majesty had had it torn down and was in the process of building a second, much grander château, one worthy of the queen that she was. The location wasn’t far from Versaie—a leisurely half-hour walk, if that—but there was more of a breeze and a want of insects of the biting kind. It would have magnificent gardens, an orangery paved in marble, an extensive gallery—even a moat. With thousands of workers, it seemed to be springing up overnight (as if by magic, people whispered).

  Athénaïs was fully in power, without a doubt, yet the higher her station, the more uneasy she became. She sent me more and more often to Paris to pick up beauty remedies, charms, and the essential “amatory assistant” from Madame Catherine. Sometimes she woke in the night screaming from frightening dreams (several times weeping over Alexandre, her beautiful lost love, her beautiful lost life). She ate compulsively … and drank. She had violent explosions of temper against the Widow, and even—twice—against the King himself. People began to refer to her as the Tempest, a dangerous and unpredictable force of nature.

  I tried my best to soothe—that had always been my role. I massaged her shoulders and feet, made up her hair, and pinked her cheeks. “You’re beautiful,” I assured her, positioning the candles to throw a flattering light. “You enchant His Majesty with your eyes, your wit, your sensual allure.” I worked with tailors and seamstresses to create unusual and arresting ensembles for her. I painted her face to illuminate her bewitchingly luminous eyes. In the theater, I had learned the arts of enchantment, skills Athénaïs made use of.

  Skills she had need of, for La Vallière had been replaced with an even more threatening opponent: the Church. In the spring of 1675, Père Lécuyer, a priest at Versaie, dared to refuse Athénaïs absolution. I calmed her as best I could. “Talk to His Majesty,” I whispered.

  But the Church, more and more infused with the ideology of the Company, was not so easily dealt with—even by the King. His Majesty talked the matter over with his spiritual counselors and—repentant and clearly wary—reported back to Athénaïs that the consensus was that Père Lécuyer had only been doing his duty to God.

  Athénaïs was overcome with fury, screaming that His Majesty was beneath her, a shopkeeper with bad breath! With a stoic expression, he tipped his hat (ever a gentleman) and left.

  The next time, it was brave Xavier who brought the message. His Majesty’s confessor, Père La Chaise, insisted that Athénaïs and the King live apart.

  “And His Majesty has consented?” she asked coldly, imperiously.

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Did Louvois have anything to do with this?” she demanded with heat. Ever since she’d publicly shown her support for Colbert, the Minister of Finance, Louvois had been a thorn in her side. Any move she made to advance a cause—especially with respect to her family (and most especially her brother Vivonne)—the devious and chimerical Secretary of State somehow managed to prevent it.

  “Perhaps indirectly,” Xavier admitted. “Because of the coming war with the Dutch, Louvois has been urging His Majesty that he must prepare his soul to meet death.”

  “Because Monsieur de Louvois is such a caring individual,” Athénaïs said, with clear but misdirected irony. It was true that Louvois cared only for himself and His Majesty, whom he revered with religious intensity.

  Xavier wisely chose not to respond. “It’s understandable that the King would not want to risk dying unshriven, Madame. He has decided to receive Communion at Whitsuntide.”

  “As he often does at Easter,” she countered.

  “Oui, but—” Xavier looked pained. This was not to be a temporary separation, as had been the custom during Lent in years past, he explained. Athénaïs was to move out of her vast, luxurious rooms at Versaie and into her château at Clagny. He paused before adding, somewhat apologetically, “And stay there.”

  I glanced at Athénaïs, alarmed. The château was not quite finished; there were laborers working there still.

  “Furthermore—” Xavier took a deep breath before continuing. Athénaïs and the King were no longer to have contact (no carnal relations, was clearly meant). Nor was she to accompany His Majesty on campaign.

  Athénaïs rose up out of her chair. I moved to her side (the better to contain her). “His Majesty received Communion in years past without such drastic measures,” she observed with the appearance of calm.

  True. Xavier cleared his throat. “His Majesty has been advised that the past practices were insufficient—that this is the only way for him to properly prepare to take the sacraments.”

  Only the pendulum clock could be heard in the silence that followed. Even the monkey had stilled, even the chattering parrot and snuffling pugs.

  “Inform His Majesty
that he need not fear,” Athénaïs responded evenly—but not without a hint of contempt. “I would not wish to tarnish his eternal soul.”

  THE NEXT DAY, in a public display of subservience, we moved into Athénaïs’s château at Clagny, in spite of the work still going on there. Athénaïs had been “allowed” to hold onto her apartment at Versaie, so the transition was not too rigorous, even with all the animals and birds. It was the stigma that was testing; everyone was watching, everyone whispering that the mighty Athénaïs had been banished.

  Three days after Easter Sunday, we heard the boom of cannon. Athénaïs put down her cards. His Majesty was riding to war—without bidding her farewell.

  In the months that followed, she put on a brave front. In any case, there was a great deal to do finishing the house and park. The King sent word through his Minister of Finance that he would pay for whatever she requested—and so she spent lavishly. She received visitors, even the Queen. Her sister and several friends came to stay with her. She took the soothing waters at Bourbon and devoted herself to good works.

  Yet at night she woke in terror, plagued by a dream that she’d lost all her hair.

  Bishop Bossuet—handsome, virile, full of God’s grace, and one of the tribe we knew to be her enemy—came with messages from His Majesty. “The day of Pentecost approaches!” he announced with the flare of a tragedian. He led Athénaïs in prayer; she repeated the words after him with tears in her eyes. A great performer at the pulpit, Bishop Bossuet failed to recognize Athénaïs’s own skill at illusion. Indeed, I believe she convinced him of her devotion—but as soon as he left, we began to plan her move back to Versaie in anticipation of the King’s return.

  IN THE HEAT of a blooming July day, the King and Court returned from war, the noise and dust and general commotion unendurable. Athénaïs had changed her gown three times, and the ornaments in her hair twice. I’d given her an opium pill and lemon balm for nerves, but it hadn’t helped. The Church had agreed that His Majesty could be allowed to call on her at Versaie, but only so long as she was chaperoned by an army of frowning virgins. (A plague of ancients, yet again.)

  I prayed that the talisman Athénaïs wore tucked under her skirts would have the desired effect. “Madame Catherine vowed that it would,” I assured her. It was a small silver medal—on one side was engraved the goddess Athena, on the other Venus flanked by demons. (A medal forged with human and goat blood, Madame Catherine had informed me. How do you get human blood? I’d asked, but she’d only laughed.)

  Athénaïs wept on seeing His Majesty, bowing deeply before him. Even I thought her heart must be in it. His Majesty, his own cheeks glistening, led her immediately to her bedchamber and firmly closed the door against the crowd.

  I glanced at Xavier. I was awed (if not a little uneasy, I admit) by her easy victory. Athénaïs clearly had the King entirely under her control.

  HIS MAJESTY BECAME, once again, a daily caller. Athénaïs glowed with triumph. The virgin chaperones had been banished and the religious advisers thwarted. Xavier and I stood in attendance outside the closed door of Athénaïs’s bedchamber. Louvois, Bishop Bossuet, and all their tribe—which Athénaïs and I now derisively referred to as the Company Faction—had lost the battle, true, but we knew that the war itself was far from over.

  Ever vigilant, Athénaïs listened carefully to all that was said—and not said—at her popular salon. I did as well. As a mere attendant (and therefore invisible to the noble guests), I was able to observe. My years of training in the theater—the close study of gesture and voice—equipped me to interpret even the smallest motion: the flutter of an eye revealing a lie, the flick of a tongue across an upper lip indicating desire, the legs-spread stance of domination. I paid special attention to Louvois: his perspiring discomfort, his constant fussing with his wig and ribbons, the way he averted his eyes. “He’s hiding something,” I reported to Athénaïs.

  The next afternoon, Xavier and I were startled by her raised voice, and the King bursting out of her bedchamber in his small linens. Athénaïs followed, waving a parchment in her hand. “You coward!” she exploded. “I demand an explanation.”

  His Majesty turned to face her, hands on his hips and his elbows out.

  She shook the paper in his face. (Deus!) “Say something, you miserable creature!”

  I rushed to close the windows.

  “Calm yourself, woman,” the King commanded, his voice low.

  “How could my brother not be on this list!” she demanded.

  Two maids and a butler appeared; Xavier and I quickly waved them away.

  “Louvois made it; it’s his list, not mine,” the King said as Xavier helped him on with his breeches. “An error, no doubt.”

  She scoffed. “Then send for him!”

  I lowered my eyes; it mortified me to see His Majesty humiliated.

  “Now? But the Secretary of State is—”

  “Now!” Athénaïs turned on her heels, slamming the bedroom door behind her.

  I followed after her nonetheless; she had need of me.

  It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the gloom. I saw her slumped over her toilette table, her head on her hands, her shoulders heaving.

  “Madame?” I put my hands on her neck, pressing my thumbs into her spine, caressing.

  She raised her head and handed me the paper. It was a list of seven men—generals to be named Marshals of France, honored for exceptional achievement in battle. “I found it in His Majesty’s leather jerkin.”

  “I see.” Her brother Vivonne’s name wasn’t on the list, in spite of having distinguished himself in the recent war in Flanders.

  “A rather conspicuous omission.”

  “Perhaps it was simply Louvois’s error, as His Majesty said.” I wondered if Athénaïs always went through His Majesty’s garments.

  “Hardly!” she said, wiping her nose. “I will not stand for it!”

  XAVIER ANNOUNCED THE Secretary of State for War. Louvois was a big man, and if he weren’t so pathetic, he’d be scary. He stood at attention in front of Athénaïs and the King, looking uneasy.

  The King handed the list to Louvois and cleared his throat. “It’s your list of the generals to be honored with a baton.” A Marshal of France wore seven stars, and received a star-studded blue baton inscribed, in Latin: Terror belli, decus pacis. Terror in war, ornament in peace. “There must be some mistake: Madame de Montespan’s brother Vivonne is not included.”

  Louvois stared at the list and then back up at Athénaïs and the King. He seemed flummoxed. “Forgive me, Your Majesty,” he stuttered, “but—”

  “But what, you ignorant fool!” Athénaïs exploded. Standing beside her, I felt the spray of her spittle.

  “I will have your brother put on the list, Madame,” Louvois said without looking at her.

  “Admit that this was an intentional omission, Monsieur—on your knees!”

  Louvois turned a violent shade of red. I feared he might have an apoplectic fit.

  “Admit it! Admit that you did this to spite me! Admit that you are constantly looking for ways to thwart me and my family!”

  His Majesty put his hand over hers. “Enough.”

  “Don’t ‘enough’ me! Open your eyes. This man has evil intent.”

  But the King wasn’t listening. Louvois was his “miracle worker” on the fields of battle—Athénaïs was powerless against him. “That will be all, Louvois,” I heard His Majesty say wearily, excusing the Secretary of State before Athénaïs gave full vent to fury.

  CHAPTER 49

  That winter, I missed my courses for the first time. I attributed this to fatigue—constant nights accompanying Athénaïs to balls, feasts, and entertainments, followed by long hours at the gaming tables. At dawn, I’d often still be up with her, calming the anguish that followed a staggering loss.

  It was easy enough to blame my irregularity on exhaustion, but when there was still no sign the second month, I began to wonder. Was it possible? Surely not.
I’d just turned thirty-seven. Perhaps it was the change coming on early. Certainly I felt haggish, tired in my bones, weary as a twice-told tale. Maybe it was different for a woman who had never had a child, caused her to age early.

  I sent a note to a midwife—a woman the maids talked of—and arranged to meet in her room near the market in Saint-German-en-Laye.

  Madame Audouin was young—I took her for a girl. Even so, she spoke with authority: I wasn’t going through the change. Au contraire: I was with child. “If you wish it to be otherwise,” she offered in response to my look of incredulity, “I can help—but you’d have to act quickly. If you wait, you won’t have a choice.”

  “No, no, thank you,” I said, standing. How could it be, after all this time? I’d assumed I was conveniently barren.

  “Perhaps you should sit for a moment,” Madame Audouin offered soothingly.

  “I’m fine,” I said, giving her a coin and stepping into the chill wind.

  A THOUSAND TIMES I resolved to “fix it” … and a thousand times I changed my mind. It was a miracle, surely, I thought, sitting through the church Jubilee celebrations, the once-every-half-century year in which all sins were forgiven. I marveled at my fullness, my aching breasts. Was this not forgiven? Even my profound fatigue now seemed a blessing.

  As the world around me became loud and boisterous, preparing for yet another war, I grew quiet: I had a secret.

  “You’re mysterious these days,” the King’s valet Xavier said, “glowing. You must be in love.” He said this with a brave tone.

  I play-punched his shoulder. Yet he was right: I was. In love with the child growing within me.

  PACKING FOR THE Court’s voyage north (following, ever following the King’s unrelenting battles with the Dutch)—I wrenched my back and had to spend a week in bed, fending off Athénaïs’s doctor. I dared not let him near lest he perceive my condition.