by Karleen Koen
Something in her shut the way a moonflower closes when dawn touches it. Words were in her head and memories of her father. To the prince, like an altar fire, love undying. It was the motto of her house, of her father. She hadn’t thought of it in such a long time. Come, Louise, her father said in her mind, bending down to her from atop a horse, ride here in the saddle in front of me, my pretty girl. Her heart swelled with the thought of him, and his long-ago death was once more brutal and too near.
“A dance? Well, if Madame and the Princess de Monaco allow.” The gargoyle wouldn’t notice or care, but it was the closest she dared come to saying no. “Good evening, sir.” And she left him.
Nicolas watched her disappear among the courtiers. She reminded him of some small creature, a rabbit or fox, gone to hiding. Hiding from the wicked viscount. She had lovely hair and shoulders; there was something clean and unspoiled about her. Fresh, he thought. A young woman who didn’t wish to talk to him or charm him or impress him or imply the offer of her body for a favor. A purity to her—that was a rarity at court, like seeing a unicorn step down from the bright threads of a tapestry and make an actual bow. Certain, stringent verses came to mind: Purge me with hyssop, and I shall be clean. Wash me and I shall be whiter than snow. I sound like a Huguenot, glum and Scripture-quoting, he thought.
He glanced around this ballroom, this elegant kingly chamber of golden wood and wide arching bays and tall windows and gilt and paint and bronze, the best of another age. He knew these people well, and she didn’t quite fit. Everyone here wanted something. They wished loans, they wished help in revenge, they wished places for lesser relatives in the bureaucratic maze that was the government of this kingdom, they wished stipends, they wished marriages, they wished dispensations. They wished anything, everything. He didn’t mind. When a man or woman owed you, even slightly, it was the beginning of obligation. They wished, he wished, she wished, but what was it his majesty, Louis the fourteenth of that name, wished? From where Nicolas stood, he could see the king far down the other end of the ballroom, flanked by his friends.
I misstepped today, thought Nicolas, seeing again the flickering eyes of the young king of France. Do you attempt to bribe me, viscount? Who was the man beneath the crown? He didn’t know him, really; Mazarin had always stood between them. In the grand bay nearest him was the Countess de Soissons, who stood in his majesty’s regard as high as anyone at court, and Nicolas paid her a pretty penny because of that regard and to be kept informed of both young majesties. He approached her, thinking, connoisseur of beauty that he was, her mouth is a taunt. A man wanted to slap her and then kiss her, hard.
“He wasn’t happy about the vines,” he told her, smiling as if they discussed something pleasant.
“That’s your fault, viscount. Doubtless, you surprised him. He doesn’t like surprises.”
“You might have told me that.”
“And you might have refrained from overwhelming him with your need to be magnificent and magnanimous on all occasions.”
Nicolas laughed and took her hand and kissed the soft side of her wrist. She is like a dark plum, he thought. She might be sweet when you bit into her, but it was just as likely she’d be bitter. He liked not knowing which side he’d taste.
“I want to call on you,” she said. “Privately.”
She wanted something. He made the proper, polite response, and moved on, his progress majestic, like a king’s, people continually circling him for a moment of his time, complimenting him even when they didn’t have some need to present. His importance was as shiny as the gold thread woven into his clothing. Finally, he left his crowd of admirers and supplicants and went to the queen mother.
There was a touch of gratitude in the smile she accorded him. She was glad, he could see, that he paid court. She and Nicolas were old friends; he had done many favors for her, some of which must never be known. He felt pitying. He’d never known this proud, vain, determined woman to be lost or directionless, but Mazarin’s death had made her stumble. Not so long ago she would have been in the thick of things. It was as if she were groping for a sense of what world remained without her lover. There was an old rumor that she and Mazarin had married. Her grief certainly seemed large enough for that, despair, bewilderment in her every gesture and expression, black displayed everywhere from her mantilla to her shoes. He took her hand, a great liberty, which he was allowed. “How are you this evening, your majesty?”
“Out of sorts. Out of my element. I don’t know where I am anymore. Do stay with me a while.” She looked around herself with unhappy eyes. “What is everyone laughing about?”
All around them was furious and fast-paced flirting. The court hadn’t been this lively in decades. They laugh because they are young with all their lives ahead of them, he didn’t say. Seduction and gallantry and sweet promise were in the air as clearly as perfume. A born courtier could smell it, feel it, taste it.
“And those patches atop other behavior I won’t mention,” she continued, glaring at a group of young people nearby. “Scandalous! What can Madame be thinking?” Some of her old fire appeared. “I’ve let her know I don’t approve. I told the Princess de Monaco as well.”
And how was that received? thought Nicolas, but all he said was, “Come soon with her majesty the queen and visit my estate nearby.” He was building what he considered to be the finest château in France a few hours distant. There was to be a grand fête to celebrate it at the end of summer. All the court, all Paris, all France, and even points beyond, were invited. “The chapel is almost finished, and I need your fine eye to find fault with it so I may make it perfect.”
“As if it won’t be perfect. I talked with him today,” she said, as if she read Nicolas’s mind on certain dark nights when he couldn’t sleep. “He needs you. It’s only a matter of time.”
There was no question of whom she spoke. There was only one “he” at this court, and he stood in front of the ballroom’s fireplace in crimson stockings and gold ribbons and a wide hat with a feather around its brim, looking like the statue of a young god found in a Roman ruin.
Her words were reassuring, but then it would be dangerous not to need him. Ambition might be buried deep inside Nicolas—under the charm, the refinement, the creativity—but it was there, sharp as any gleaming blade.
Chapter 5
T WAS AN HOUR AFTER MIDNIGHT. BOTH QUEENS, THE OLDER one and the younger one, had retired for the evening, and Louise waited for Fanny’s signal. Sitting on a bench in one of the ballroom’s arched bays, she passed the time by examining the paintings framed in the curve of the arch. Was one of these lolling women clothed in little more than a piece of gauze the goddess Choisy had explained to her? A goddess of love, what did that mean? A goddess, what was that exactly? A female god? She shivered, the idea bewildering. All her life she’d been presented with stories of the saints and of course the Blessed Mother Mary, women who had no lives but godly ones, suffering, sacrifice, sometimes a martyr’s death. The only romance she knew was a scandalous one she and Fanny and the Orléans princesses had snuck away to read, thrilling over inscrutable, noble characters who met obstacle after obstacle without their love ever failing, the touch of a hand enough to sustain them for pages.
Eyes glowing in excitement, Fanny whirled over to interrupt her reverie. “The queen’s ladies looked vexed, didn’t they? They can’t bear to be going to bed. Ha! Too bad for them. Are you ready?”
This last was said in another tone altogether. Louise stood, her eyes and Fanny’s upon Madame. Henriette, surrounded by a group of admirers, suddenly gave a gasp and then made a face.
“I’ve torn my gown,” she said to one and all. “If you’ll excuse me a moment,” and with Catherine at her side, she walked down the long expanse of the ballroom, Louise and Fanny behind. Once outside the ballroom, Fanny stationed herself at a statue halfway down the hall.
Louise followed Madame and the princess into a bedchamber she hadn’t even known was in this part of the palac
e. It was one of the more beautiful chambers in a palace with many grand rooms, created over a hundred years earlier for a king’s mistress. Just above eye level was a series of frescoes framed by magnificent and larger-than-life stucco figures of nude women. Woven in among their beautiful, shapely bodies were other smaller figures: animal heads, bunches of cascading fruit, and lolling putti, or cupids. The genius and grace of mixing fresco paintings with stucco sculpture had been a creation of the artists working in this palace, and it had taken the Renaissance world by storm and made the palace one of the wonders of its time. A hundred years hadn’t dimmed the vibrancy of the paint or the magic fluidity of the sculpture. Although branches of candles were lit and sending their light outward, the chamber was pitch-dark in its corners, and the king stepped out of one of the corners of that darkness.
“There you are,” he said.
Louise shivered at the sound of his voice, all that was in it. The romance she and the Orléans princesses had thrilled over suddenly seemed pale and timid.
“We have only a moment,” Catherine warned.
The candlelight seemed to pick out and highlight the silver in Henriette’s gown as she walked toward the king.
“Come and sit,” said Louis, and he led Henriette to a long bench at the base of the bed while Louise and the princess stood as guards at the bedchamber’s open door. Louise watched as the king reached out and took Henriette’s hand, bringing it to his mouth to kiss, then bringing it to his jacket, to the place under which lay his heart.
“You know you fill this more and more,” he said.
In the silence, Louise heard the beating of her own heart. It was so loud she felt that the gargoyle of a princess standing just opposite her could surely hear it and would reprimand her for possessing one. Its thump was punctuation to the words the king and Madame spoke, their voices soft, their tone intense, as if everything depended on them understanding one another completely.
“Shall I end this tenderness?” the king asked.
“Can you?”
“For your sake, I would.”
“I don’t think I wish you to.”
This last was breathlessly said, and Louise watched Madame put her arms around the king’s neck, and then she looked away, feeling constrained and distant, as if she were watching from a star. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see they kissed. She felt perturbed and aware that decisions were being made that were going to impact everyone.
There was a clatter of heels running on wood.
Fanny burst into the chamber. “The Count de Guiche is coming our way. The musketeers tried to stop him, but he wouldn’t allow it. He told them Monsieur had sent him to find Madame—”
“La Baume le Blanc, sit down on the bench with her, now!” Swiftly, Catherine moved from the door to kneel down before Henriette and grab a handful of fabric, bending over it as if she were sewing.
Filled with dread, Louise sat beside Madame, her hands clasped together, her breath caught in her throat. His majesty had had the presence of mind to stand the moment Fanny ran into the bedchamber. And now the Count de Guiche was here, his face frowning in the dim light of the wall sconces. Behind him was the king’s lieutenant of the musketeers.
“Oh, majesty,” Catherine said—Louise was amazed at how natural the gargoyle sounded; she herself couldn’t have spoken if her life had depended on it—“That’s too funny for words. I just won’t believe it.” She threw back her head and laughed.
“The Count de Guiche,” announced the lieutenant.
“Excuse me if I interrupt,” Guy said, looking hard at Henriette.
“Why do you interrupt, count?” Louis asked.
How calm his majesty sounds, thought Louise. She had the sensation that the two men were dogs bristling at each other or hawks winging after the same bird. They had the same hawk’s cut to their expressions at this moment, hard mouths, set jaws, determination on each face. She couldn’t know that there was a rivalry between these two that had been there since they were boys. But she could sense it.
“Your manners lack a certain grace, count. You were rude this morning, if memory serves me, and you are rude now.”
All the women were silent, frozen into stillness. A muscle worked in Guy’s cheek. The lieutenant of the musketeers didn’t take his eyes off Louis. Other musketeers had gathered, formed a circle behind Guy.
“Your dress is mended?” Guy asked Henriette, as if Louis hadn’t spoken.
Silent, Henriette’s eyes flicked from Guy to Louis and back again.
“Not quite yet, I’m afraid,” Louise surprised herself by saying.
“Monsieur asks for you.” Guy’s tone was accusing.
“Odd,” answered Louis. “I last saw him at the card table with Madame de Choisy and the Viscount Nicolas. When he plays with those two, there is no thought for anything but the next hand of cards.”
“He wishes Madame at his side, for good fortune,” Guy snapped.
“And I wish to finish the story I was telling her.”
“Most amusing it was, too. We were just laughing at it,” said Catherine, but her words died in the air, like small birds hit by hawks.
“Monsieur commands,” Guy said.
“Ah,” Louis replied very softly, so softly that Louise felt her body straining to hear him, “but I command Monsieur in all things, as well, count, as you.”
Every musketeer in the chamber took a step closer, but the lieutenant held up a hand stopping them.
Louise saw Guy’s hand clench on the handle of his small dress sword, a rapier that could kill someone. Men wore swords as casually as they did lace on their sleeves. Would he dare draw it in the presence of the king? She felt like she might faint. Surely, one was beheaded if one threatened the king.
Catherine stood, took a step in the direction of her brother, but the lieutenant of the musketeers had placed himself between the king and Guy, calm and definite in his stance. If Guy was going to run the king through with his blade, he’d have to first cut past this soldier.
“I must ask you to consider what you are doing, count,” the lieutenant said.
“I’ve delivered my message. Now, I am his majesty’s to command.” Guy bowed. The bow was like a slap in the face, disrespectful enough to make Louis’s eyes flicker, angry lights coming into the brown of the iris. Guy backed slowly out of the room.
“Shall I follow him, sire?” the lieutenant asked Louis.
“No.”
Distress evident, Henriette stood. “We must return to the ballroom, your majesty.”
Louise could hear how upset she was. He who is afraid of leaves must not come into the woods, echoed a voice, her father’s from long ago, in her mind. They shouldn’t return to the ballroom like chastened children, she thought. They must act as if all were well. “It’s so beautiful outside,” she heard herself say.
“What we must do,” said Louis, smiling as if he had not just been accosted by a friend, “your ladies and I, is go out into this night that—” he looked in Louise’s direction, and it was clear that he didn’t know her name.
“Miss de la Baume le Blanc.” The words came out in a high-pitched croak, and Louise curtsied to cover embarrassment.
“—that Miss de la Baume le Blanc has reminded us exists and look at my carp.”
“He’ll be angry.” There was a begging tone in Henriette’s voice.
“Monsieur?” said Louis. “He doesn’t even know you’re not in the ballroom. Trust me in this. He hasn’t beaten Madame de Choisy in a game of ombre in three years. It’s an obsession with him.” His voice changed. “Walk with me outside. Please?” Now, begging colored his voice.
There were steps in the hallway again, and then two of the king’s friends rushed into the bedchamber.
“Sire,” said Vivonne, a plump open-faced man, the son of a duke. “I told Guiche Madame wasn’t to be disturbed, but he wouldn’t listen.”
Words spilling out, hands waving, the other, Péguilin, captain of the guard, as
short as Vivonne was tall, said, “Guiche is my cousin, your majesty. I could see he was up to no good, but I couldn’t stop him. I beg you, don’t imprison him. I’ll have to be arrested too to keep him company. Family, you know.”
“This is a tempest over nothing. I happened upon Madame and her ladies repairing her gown and chose to stay. The count was jealous of my good fortune at being surrounded by no one but lovely ladies. We’ll forgive him that. We were just going to walk to the carp pond—” Louis glanced toward Henriette, but Péguilin’s words, the excitable shortness of him, Vivonne’s large earnestness, had already altered the mood, lessened the distress of Guy’s entrance.
“It would be my pleasure if you joined us,” Louis said to the men, and so it was a laughing group that wound its way toward stairs that would lead them to the fountain courtyard. Vivonne and Péguilin were like court jesters, performing anything, from standing on chairs to making faces to force the maids of honor and Catherine and Madame to laugh.
And then they were outside and all walking down the broad, even steps that led them into the courtyard bordered by the carp pond. Louise inhaled the scent of the jasmine growing in great stone pots set here and there. Everyone seemed calmer, she thought, skipping down stairs, her gown held up, Péguilin at her side, absolutely determined to flirt. Certainly she felt calmer inside. Yes, she thought, the king and Madame don’t look so wild, now, so startled and yearning. If Monsieur had seen them in that bedchamber, he would have known they were falling in love. The count knew. Louise had seen the shock of it in his face. Above them was a beautiful night with stars in the sky no less bright than the candles in lanterns. She raised her face to the night, feeling vulnerable and shaken.
“Your eyes are stars.” Péguilin went to one knee like an actor. “I adore you. Be mine.”
“Hush,” said Louise. “His majesty will hear you.”
“I care not who hears me. World,” Péguilin bellowed, “I adore this one.” But he’d moved to stand before Catherine. “No. It’s this one. You have my love. And you know it, fair cousin.”
