Before Versailles

by Karleen Koen

  She was drawn to the sight of the elaborate gold clock, its pendulum moving back and forth. Clocks with a pendulum and a hand that measured off minutes were quite new. She’d never seen one before, but she’d heard of them. At the Orléans palace in Paris there was the usual sundial in the garden and also a water clock, which someone had told her the ancient Greeks had invented.

  The water clock measured the passing hours by means of water flowing from one container to another. To be able to know the time at night hadn’t been possible when she was a child, and she and her friends had gone outside in the evenings with lanterns or candlesticks to observe the water clock and see just how late they were staying up. The precise ticking sound of this clock in this chamber transfixed her, and she stood watching, as one of its long golden hands moved a fraction, and then another. But finally, she shook herself. Time was passing, and she had a task to accomplish.

  She began with the drawer the lieutenant had opened, carefully sifting through the papers there, maps, as he’d said, the paper heavy in her hands, the ink and paint long dried. She opened a second drawer, sifting quickly but carefully through the papers. When she’d gone through the fifth drawer, she sat back on her heels. There were five of these low cabinets in this chamber. How long had she been, half of an hour, more? Had she time to look through one more cabinet before hurrying back to change for the evening?

  Irritated, she walked over to the clock. Nearly three quarters of an hour gone. She bit her lip, trying to decide what to do next. Then she saw what she’d come for. Mounted on the wall, in an ornate frame, was a map. It showed a coastline with drawings of ships sailing in a sea. There were the requisite dragons painted along the ocean’s edge. A river labeled the Seine ran downward from the coast. Castles on either side were painted in. Louvre, she read, Saint-Germain-en-Laye, Vincennes, Versailles. She found the word Fontainebleau. His majesty’s palaces. She had heard talk of the court traveling to Saint-Germain. Versailles was a small hunting lodge, rather close to here; sometimes they rode there with his majesty during the course of their hunts. Attempting to imprint it in her own mind, she stared hard at the map, but something else caught her eye.

  To her right was an ornate standing cabinet, every inch of its wood carved into a display of swags and fruit, with caryatids, those draped female figures craftsmen loved, disguising its solid legs. A tassel dangled from the key that transformed the cabinet into a writing desk. Unable to stop herself, Louise turned the key and a great square in the cabinet’s front popped down. It was a writing desk. She found the side slats that would hold the weight of the square and then considered what was inside. Many little shelves filled with odds and ends, seashells, bowls of rock crystal, a small mother-of-pearl casket, figures carved in ivory, an inkwell of silver, quill pens, paper in an ivory box. She pulled out a piece. A fleur-de-lis was embossed in gold.

  It was the king’s paper. She crossed herself and said a quick prayer to the Holy Mother, imagining his majesty, with his frowning, serious eyes, writing something important. Would he mind if she borrowed just one piece? The inkwell’s top was set with rubies. Dipping a pen in, she quickly traced the river, wrote the names of the castles. Geography was considered unimportant for a girl. Girls who had gone to convents for schooling might have learned some, but she’d been schooled at home with the Orléans’s princesses, whose tutor had soon tired of trying to teach anyone anything. She could read and write French, paint, sing in Italian without knowing what any of the words meant, add and subtract sums, and she did possess an excellent sense of direction. Her father had taught her when she was barely talking, just as he’d taught her to ride. Sometimes, she dreamed of sitting before him in his saddle, his arm strong around her waist. Look at the sun, he’d told her. Look at the moss. This map was already making her explorations form a more sensible whole in her mind.

  She replaced the stopper, looked at the quill pen. How would she clean the ink from it? The ticks from the clock seemed loud now. At any moment, someone was going to come in and accost her. What are you doing? the footman or major domo or someone important would say. And what would she answer? She tried to clean the pen upon the paper and managed a little, but now she had ink on her fingers. Then she accidentally touched the soft, padded leather of the writing surface and to her horror left a faint fingerprint.

  She heard voices, the sound of footsteps. Sweet Mary, she thought, was his majesty’s council meeting without him? Had they come down to look at the books, to find some answer to some important question raised? Would they enter and find her here? She dropped the half-cleaned pen among its brothers, wiped her fingers on the back of the paper, waved it back and forth frantically to dry, then pushed up the great square front of the cabinet. She pushed in the slats, turned its key. Folding the paper, she slipped it into the pocket sewn in her skirt that usually held food for the dogs or horses. Looking once more around the chamber, she saw she’d left a drawer in a low cabinet opened. She pushed it closed with her foot.

  “What are you doing?” a voice said.

  She froze.

  “I repeat, what are you doing?”

  Louise turned. Dressed in black from head to foot except for an enormous collar edged in lace, a somber, square-faced man frowned at her. Mister Colbert.

  “Well?” Colbert’s voice was frosty.

  “I-I was looking for maps. Lieutenant d’Artagnan assured me it was all right. Forgive me. I had no intent to disturb—”

  “Maps? Of what?” Cold, very dark eyes added her up and found her sum lacking.

  “Of-of the countryside. I like to ride, you see, and I don’t know where I am or where I’m going, and I thought, that is, I was told by a, er, a servant, there was this chamber of books, and I thought …” Floundering, Louise stopped, exhausted with her explanation atop her actions of the last hour.

  “Did you find what you wished?”

  Louise pointed toward the framed map. “I found a map there.”

  Colbert looked from her to the map on the wall and back again.

  “Why is there ink on your fingers? What have you been writing?” His voice was very sharp.

  Let the ground open up and swallow me, thought Louise. She took a deep breath, said, “I-I tried to draw the map. I was afraid I would-would forget it.”

  “You brought paper and ink with you?”

  Turning her terrible deep red, she had passed the point of being able to summon up one more lie. She pointed toward the ornate cabinet. Colbert walked to it, turned the key, pulled down the square, and looked for a long time at its insides. Please let him not see the fingerprint, Louise prayed to herself, please, please, please.

  Colbert turned. “Give me what you wrote.” He held out his hand imperiously.

  “I know I took a piece of his majesty’s paper.” Confessing, babbling, holding the paper out, Louise couldn’t stop a single word that fell out of her mouth. “I meant no harm. I was just afraid that I wouldn’t remember the names. I can be stupid that way. Please don’t tell his majesty. Please. I’ll pay for the paper. I have some coins saved. I meant no harm.”

  Every line of his body stiff, Colbert unfolded the paper, looked it over, turned it to its other side, went to the window, and held it to what light the evening still held. The door opened, and Louise shrank back. If it were his majesty, she would die, just curl up and die right here on the rug.

  “I thought to light the candles,” a footman said, but Colbert sent him on his way with a curt, “No.” He held the paper out to Louise with two fingers as if it were offensive, and Louise took it, backed away, stumbled into one of the pile of pillows, found her balance, and left the chamber in a whish of skirts and panic.

  Colbert remained at the window, looking out at the courtyard, where servants scurried to set up a supper given by the Duke de Beaufort tonight. The duke, an elderly illegitimate son of the king’s grandfather, had rebelled against the queen mother and the cardinal once upon a time but was tamed now, one hoped. Would that all were.
Colbert watched footmen hang lanterns from iron stands, his mind moving over and about the young woman he’d discovered in this chamber. Lucky for him he’d come in to borrow a book. He hadn’t the education, the finesse, of those of noble birth, and he spent spare moments reading so that he might at least equal those around him in knowledge. She played the part of timid dolt well, well enough to be believable. She came from the Orléans’s princesses, her stepfather having been chamberlain to now-deceased Prince Gaston d’Orléans, brother of the king’s father, Louis XIII. Prince Gaston, believing he should be king, had been a double-dealing dog if ever there was one, in constant rebellion or constant plotting against and sometimes with the queen mother. His daughter, La Grande Mademoiselle, had once fired a cannon at royal troops, but banishment to her estate had soon tamed her, and these days, she pranced around court like a tame pony.

  If memory served him, this maid of honor had a brother, who was not at court, who lived back on their country estate, which meant the family had little or no money to spare, else he would be at court, also. No money to spare made people vulnerable to the desires of others. Madame de Choisy had been her advocate, Madame de Choisy, who excelled in intrigue and double-dealing herself, and was among those—was there anyone who was not?—the Viscount Nicolas called friend. Was the girl a spy for the viscount? Sent to peek and pry or even catch the king’s eye? There was a lovely glow about her that would make a man look twice. Lying, or the innocent she seemed to be? One never knew at court. Never.

  He opened the door. There stood Lieutenant d’Artagnan giving evening orders to musketeers. Colbert called him in, and a few questions verified the girl’s story.

  “She could very well be a messenger for this writer of the Mazarinades,” said Colbert. “A pretty girl is allowed much leeway.” There was a pause as the two men eyed each other. The king trusted each of them, but neither was yet completely certain of the other.

  “I’ll have her watched,” said Colbert.

  “I’ll make certain she’s followed,” said D’Artagnan.

  They spoke at the same time, and their words fell over one another.

  We sound like the chorus of a damned Greek tragedy, thought D’Artagnan. That sweet little wildflower an intriguer, I won’t believe it. If it’s true, I’ll eat the feathers in my hat and leave court, because, by God, its treachery is too much for me.

  THE NEXT DAY, sunrise barely an hour old, Louise walked down the road that ran along one side of the carp pond to the stables. The morning mist hung suspended over the pond, and in the distance, beyond the stables, the mist blanketed the meadows and moors. There would be vapor on the forest floor wetting the ferns and priest’s-heart, and the birds would be singing chansons as they darted from tree to tree. She could hardly wait.

  Seeing her, grooms smiled and bowed their heads. They liked her. She knew a good horse when she saw one, and she could ride the most unruly. An elderly groom, sitting down because a horse had kicked him in the back and he’d healed crooked, drank a morning cup of warmed, watered wine.

  “Miss de le Baume le Blanc,” he said, bowing his head. “Off again this morning, I see.”

  “Yes. Most of your grooms are from around here?”

  “All of us.”

  “Well, then.” Louise tipped over an empty bucket with her shoe, sat down on its upturned bottom, took the map from a pocket. The groom squinted at it, unable to read, while Louise explained the marks.

  “Here’s Paris, and here’s Fontainebleau. Is there more I should know about, other estates, other castles?”

  “There’s a château about there,” said the groom, pointing with a gnarled finger. “The Duke de Choisy owns it now.”

  Louise took a tiny piece of broken coal from her pocket and marked where he touched. So, she thought, that’s where I begin. “Anything else?”

  He tapped at a point above the Choisy château. “The Viscount Nicolas be building something here.”

  Louise made another mark.

  His finger moved to the east. “There’s a small monastery hidden by forest near the viscount, makes honey sweet as your young eyes and good wine. Vow of silence, the fathers don’t speak.”

  Louise made another mark. “What else?”

  “Farms here and there. Forest all the rest.”

  To his delight, Louise drew some small trees. He took the handkerchief from around his neck and handed it to her to clean her hands of coal dust and called for his son.

  “My youngest,” he said to Louise. “You will accompany Miss de le Baume le Blanc on her ride this morning,” he ordered importantly. “Saddle Violet for her.”

  “I love Violet,” said Louise.

  “It’s done, Father,” said the youth. “I brought down the saddle when I saw my lady walking up the road.”

  “How did you know to saddle Violet?” asked his father.

  The young man smiled.

  “In spite of his impudence, he’s a good boy,” said the elderly groom.

  “I know I’m in safe hands. Thank you.” Louise walked over to the open stable doors to wait outside for the youth to bring the horse.

  The old groom allowed himself to watch her. There was nothing like a pretty girl to make a man’s morning. And this one had a smile as pure as an angel’s. His son walked by leading the horses for her and himself. He grinned at his father, and even though the old groom frowned, inside he laughed. What young man wouldn’t want to spend the morning gallivanting through the woods following a beautiful young woman instead of mucking out stalls or helping overly plump countesses into their sidesaddles?

  AN HOUR OR so past noon, Choisy chatted idly with a friend in a palace garden that was famous across Europe. It was suspended in the water of the carp pond, close enough to be an extension of the courtyard it faced, but approachable, except for one footbridge, only by boat. The whim of a Medici queen, whose Renaissance background made her tastes fanciful, it lay several yards on a stone and brick bastion separate from the outermost edge of the fountain courtyard and was literally in the pond, surrounded on all sides by water. This suspended garden—four large parterres, closely cropped shrubs or massed flowers outlining the swirls and arabesques so loved by the previous generation and still admired by this one—rose several feet out of the water. The court liked nothing better than to walk down the dividing paths in the dusk, delighting in the flowers, enjoying the breeze, leaning over the garden’s brick wall to admire their image in the water below or throw food to the carp, as the water around them captured and cooled the summer’s heat.

  Choisy saw Louise hurrying up the road from the stables and stopped his conversation mid-sentence. He ran through the garden and across the footbridge and into the fountain courtyard and looked her up and down when she, out of breath and panting, stopped in front of him. He was so angry he almost couldn’t speak.

  “Need I ask where you have been?” he demanded.

  “No.”

  “You’re continuing your search, aren’t you?”

  “I’m late. I don’t want to argue.”

  She went into the pavilion rising tall behind them, and Choisy walked back to his friend, who had come in from Paris with La Grande Mademoiselle and was as vain and proud as any peacock in the queen’s garden.

  “That looked like a lovers’ quarrel. This new fashion for loving women is more than I can understand,” the friend said. His name was the Chevalier de Lorraine; he belonged to a distinguished family and was a particular friend of Monsieur’s. “Surely you know the old saying: True love is like ghosts—something everyone talks of but scarcely anyone has seen. Am I witnessing true love? Do be still, my own beating heart.”

  “Be quiet,” said Choisy.

  IT WAS COOL in the vestibule, unlike outside where June’s early afternoon heat was high. Louise walked up wide stone steps that led to an upper floor, feeling some of the blush that had rushed into her face recede. She owed Choisy no explanations, but she hated that he remained angry with her. I don’t know w
hy I feel compelled to search, she would have answered if she’d stopped long enough to formulate the words. Your stubborn streak will bring you no good, her mother always said. You’re like your father. Worse things to be, Louise thought now, hearing the king’s violins singing their lovely song. She stood a moment to fully catch her breath, to smooth her hair, pull ringlets tighter in their pins.

  It was an age-old tradition to watch the royal family dine in public, but the courtiers also liked that royal forks were lifted to the sound of violins. Wildly fond of music, the king was growing his orchestra to a size not seen before and insisted that they play at every meal. Choisy had nattered to her about someone named Lully, apparently a musician of great skill among the king’s musicians, who sat among the violinists now, sawing away, his face full of the emotion the music engendered in him.

  At one end of the antechamber sat the royal family, the king in the exact middle of the table, the queen and Madame on either side of him, his cousin La Grande Mademoiselle on the other side of Madame, Monsieur and the queen mother on the ends. Footmen were everywhere, behind each chair, moving back and forth in a line from the distant kitchen courtyard. Louise had passed several of them on the stairs.

  After tasting for poison, a favorite method of disposal for at least a century—folklore blaming the Italians for having brought that art along with others—a gentleman of the king’s household took each platter from a footman and served the king himself on bended knee. Louise had been told that in Paris anyone might see the king dine, if properly dressed, and walk in and out of chambers in the palace to gawk at will. Choisy said the Parisians adored their young king’s large appetite. They consider it a sign of virility, he’d said. Slowly, unobtrusively, she made her way toward her friend Fanny, but someone blocked her path.

  “Miss de le Baume le Blanc,” said the Viscount Nicolas, smiling down at her. “How do you do this day?”