by Karleen Koen
“My God …” breathed Louis.
The king’s incredulousness was all that Colbert could have desired. He folded into himself like a bat and waited.
“The man who obtained this information … he’s trustworthy?”
“My first cousin. He would lay down his life for you.”
“How did he gather this?”
“Materials are always needed. A mason must have stone, a carpenter wood. And weapons must be delivered by someone. My cousin was that someone.”
“Remind me how many ships the viscount possesses.”
“Thirty-one.”
“How many copies are there of this?” Louis touched the map with one finger.
“You look upon the only one, majesty.”
“What work you’ve done, Colbert. This is astounding—the depth of his—” Louis stopped himself. He put his hand on Colbert’s shoulder. “I have no words to thank you, but you and yours shall remain forever in my high regard. That is my solemn oath.” He gave Colbert a quick, shy smile.
“There is one more thing, sire.” The whole of Louis’s attention was back upon Colbert. He could literally feel it. “It seems that the commander of your navy bankrupted himself—”
“—fighting the Turks,” Louis finished for him. Yes, commanders often had to spend their own coins on military campaigns, and they were seldom paid back.
“I have it on the best authority that the Viscount Nicolas has been most kind in opening his own coffers and paying the commander’s debts.”
“Thank you. You may go now.”
Once Louis heard the door shut, he closed his eyes a moment, then opened them to look back down upon the crude map showing the location and fortification of the viscount’s island once more. The viscount would need a place to provision the colonies he now administered, but there was no excuse for two hundred men, for rations for four hundred more. No excuse for cannon and trenches. No excuse for such secrecy. Why did he not brag of it in council, showing Louis all he did from his own pocket? Because he didn’t wish Louis to know, that’s why. And it seemed the commander of the royal navy, such as it was, now lived in the viscount’s pocket. If there were a war, the viscount would have the Atlantic seas. What have I? thought Louis, marshalling what assets he possessed. His minister of war was a friend to the viscount, owed him, according to Colbert, much money, so if there were a war, if Louis had to summon generals, there was a great likelihood that the viscount would know as much in the beginning moments as Louis. And then, if he went to his island and blockaded the coast and summoned the nobility of his home province to his side, the court would split asunder. Then, and only then, would Louis know who was on his side, who was not. Was it the viscount who placed the Mazarinades to remind Louis of the destruction of civil war, a snake eating its own tail? He needed no reminding. He’d grown up in it. Ah, my cardinal, you’ve left me quite a viper to step upon, haven’t you? Even you were afraid of him, weren’t you? Have I the cunning for this? Louis thought. The wit? I must have it, mustn’t I? There is no other choice.
July 1661 …
Chapter 19
HE COUNTESS DE SOISSONS STRODE INTO THE ANTECHAMBER OF Madame’s rooms where Fanny and Louise sat. They rose from their chairs and curtsied.
“Madame is not here?” Olympe asked.
What a strange question, thought Louise. Of course she wasn’t. The whole palace was waiting with bated breath for her return at any moment.
“No,” answered Fanny politely, and when the countess didn’t say anything else, just stared at them as if they weren’t supposed to be there, “We’re embroidering pillow covers for our trousseaus.”
“I had no idea anyone was interested in you. Who are the fortunate men?”
They were saved from answering by the arrival of a court page, who put his head through the door’s opening and said, “Her carriage has been sighted.”
“If you’ll excuse us, countess,” Fanny said, and she and Louise rushed out to join the throng that would gather in the courtyard.
Olympe went into the empty bedchamber. There on the dressing table among ribbons and combs was a small rouge brush, a lovely one with a silver handle. This, thought Olympe, and she picked it up and walked back out to the withdrawing chamber and then into the hall, at last a smile on her face.
A DISCREET KNOCK sounded on the door of the chamber in which Louis held his council meetings, and one of his pages entered and whispered in his master’s ear.
“Madame has arrived,” Louis told his council. Not one of the men around the table, nor Colbert, who had been summoned to make a report on trade, missed the sudden smile that spread across Louis’s face.
“I suggest we adjourn for the day,” said Nicolas.
“Yes,” replied Louis, and then he was gone, bounding out the door like a boy.
Nicolas caught Colbert’s eye. “A moment.”
Colbert bowed coldly.
“This place is a rumor mill. One hears a thousand tales. Have you heard the one that his majesty has selected a candidate for chancellor when the august Séguier dies?”
“I have not, but I think we both know his choice,” Colbert answered.
“You flatter me.”
“Let me flatter you further, viscount, and say that I might agree with his majesty’s choice, except for one small thing.”
“And that would be?”
“You hold the office of attorney general of the Parlement of Paris, do you not?” The parlement was a high court of justice. All the kingdom’s large cities had them, but none was as powerful as Paris.
“That honor has been mine for a number of years.”
“To my thinking, it is incompatible with the office of chancellor.”
“May one ask why?”
“The chancellor must be above specific loyalties.”
“I was never part of the parlement’s disloyalties!” The parlement of Paris had warred against the king and queen mother and cardinal, and Nicolas had, in fact, worked to aid her majesty. Colbert gave a small shrug that caused Nicolas to grind his teeth and say, “Nonetheless, I take it you’ve expressed this opinion to his majesty?”
“He has not asked, but if he does, it is my duty to tell him the truth.”
Each examined the face of the other. You starched, dried, joyless eater of numbers, thought Nicolas. One of Nicolas’s spies had told him that Colbert studied Latin when he was journeying from one place to another. All gentlemen knew Latin, but Colbert was a merchant’s son. You study Latin like a schoolboy in your carriage to make yourself fully one of us, thought Nicolas. “Contra felicem vix deus vires habet,” he said.
Color came into Colbert’s expressionless face. You traitorous, ambitious, flamboyant fool, squandering your talents and the kingdom’s coin, he thought. I’ll see you hanged. “You have the advantage of me,” he said.
In all things, thought Nicolas, but he replied, “Evil to him who evil thinks.” It wasn’t what he’d said, but it amused him to tell Colbert so. “You’ll have supper with me one evening?” He had no intention of suppering with Colbert.
“Of course,” bowed Colbert, the viscount’s equal in polite mendacity.
OUTSIDE IN THE courtyard, the throng parted for Louis, whose face was alight with pleasure.
“Majesty.” Henriette, already out of the carriage, standing by Philippe, dropped into a curtsy.
Louis pulled her up and out of it. Louise, clustered around Madame with all the maids of honor, thought, oh, dear, his face is an open book. Anyone could see he was in love, and Monsieur stood right there. Her eyes flew to Guy’s face, taut and narrow-eyed.
“You’ve been missed,” Louis said.
Philippe took Henriette’s hand from Louis’s, placed it on his own arm. “So I’ve been telling her.” He led Henriette away, toward the elaborate portico of this courtyard, as Louis watched their exit. Philippe didn’t allow a moment of silence between himself and Henriette.
“Benersade had a quarrel with Lully�
��” Benersade was the court poet. He created the verses that were spoken or given out in small books at the court ballets. And Lully was the musician who displayed the most talent. Both had enormous tempers and opinions of themselves.
“—He said he wouldn’t write another word until you returned. Not even I could console him. And the viscount insists we go to Vaux-le-Vicomte as soon as possible. I depend on your excellent taste, he says. He has the fountains flowing. He wants us to see them before the fête in August. Rumor has it he is going to be named chancellor when Séguier dies. And I’m to have a place on the council. He promises it. He and I had a long talk yesterday, and he understands and sympathizes with my every concern. Oh. By the way, your mother’s here. She arrived yesterday.”
She stopped where she was. “My mother?”
“She wrote to say she misses you and she wishes to see you as a married woman.”
“But I didn’t invite her.”
“I did,” said Philippe. “Ought I not to have done so?”
“You know how she is. She’ll pick me to death.”
“I’ll protect you.”
In the bedchamber, dogs began to bark and jump for Henriette’s attention. Henriette made a gesture that had Catherine ordering everyone out, as Henriette sat down on the floor and gave herself to their yelps and licks.
What is happening between us? thought Philippe, and he sat down among the dogs, and, feeling Henriette’s distance like a pain in his heart, he pretended he was a dog, too. He barked, but Henriette didn’t seem to find him funny.
“It’s possible we’re going to have a child,” she said.
His eyes blazed suddenly.
“Don’t tell anyone yet,” Henriette said quickly. “It’s so early.”
“A child! I’m head over heels.” He took her hands in his, kissed them passionately. “When did you know?”
“I’ve only just suspected it.”
He touched one of the saint’s medals at his neck. “I’ll pray to the Holy Mother.” He swept aside dogs and took her into his arms, kissing her forehead, her neck, the soft hollow there. You have given me everything, he thought, my own household with its independence, your enchanting self, the admiration of the court, and now, this. I have fathered an heir. He felt strong and masculine, straightforward and clean, the way he imagined Louis always felt.
“Stop—oh, stop. I just feel—I don’t feel myself,” said Henriette. “I feel odd and mixed up and cranky, Philippe.”
“Are you ill?”
“Yes.”
“My poor darling. And here I am all over you like a beast.” He stood, held out his hand, helped her to her feet.
“Tonight,” she said, “after I’ve rested.”
He pulled her to him, held her tight a moment. When he was gone, she sat back down on the floor among the dogs. She did feel odd, confused, irritable. And she did not want to make love to her husband. And then real bile rose in her throat, and she rushed to the close stool with its velvet cover, as the dogs followed and nearly made her fall. Afterward, she went to a window and leaned out, breathing in gulps of air. There was a soft knock on the door.
“It’s La Baume le Blanc,” said Catherine and allowed Louise inside.
“Your mother sends a message that she desires to see you, Madame,” said Louise.
“Will you tell her that you found me napping?”
There was mischief in Louise’s sudden smile. “Are you perhaps ill, also? A headache from travel, I would guess. Is there anything you need before I go?”
Henriette shook her head.
Louise held up a sealed note and waved it back and forth. “Are you absolutely certain you need nothing?”
Henriette snatched the note. It was from Louis. She opened it to read how much she was missed and profoundly adored.
PHILIPPE WENT TO his mother’s wing of the palace. Her chambers were busy. Ladies scurried here and there, arms filled with gowns and shawls and linens—Anne could not bear to sleep on anything other than linen woven and embroidered by Spanish nuns. She always traveled with too many things. Philippe did the same.
In her closet, alone, Anne stared out at her view of gardens and water as Philippe entered.
“I trust you found the duchess well,” he said. When he’d been a boy, the duchess would feed him sweetmeats and ask him question after question. Was his mother very fond of the cardinal? Who came to his mother’s chambers? Had his mother seemed happy or unhappy lately? She had used him the way she used everyone, to keep track of the shifting policies, but he had liked her. She had advised him: Don’t wear your heart so openly on your sleeve, little prince. This is a court that swallows soft hearts as if they were oysters. “The visit was a good one?”
“Madame was all that she should be.”
Anne touched his face, as if to reassure him, and he felt his heart beat harder at the gesture. It was dangerous to love his mother too much, but he could not help it at this moment when he felt so blessed. In spite of himself, words came out of his mouth. “She’s with child.”
The expression on her face was for a moment so aghast that Philippe exclaimed, “What is it? Mother! Shall I call for your ladies?” He went to a table, poured her the Roman wine their cardinal had taught them to love.
Anne drank it down. “I’ve been in the carriage too long this day and feel faint from the heat. I offer you congratulations, but darling, please, if you will listen to your mother who is both a woman and a queen, it’s too soon to tell the world. In another month, we shall celebrate.”
“I know. She said the same, that it is far too early to speak of yet, but I had to tell you.”
“Thank you from the bottom of my heart for sharing this with me. Now, I’m going to send you on your way, my dear. I’m tired and need to rest before whatever it is your brother will have planned for tonight. Some celebration, I’m sure, now that our precious Madame is returned.”
And when he was gone from the room, Anne sat down feeling every year of her life weighing on her like heavy stones. Is the child Louis’s? she thought.
CATHERINE COULDN’T KEEP the news to herself either. She’d already sent Nicolas a note about it and waited impatiently to hear from him. He’d been among the throng of courtiers greeting their return. Now she walked with her brother outside the palace, in distant gardens, down the long length of the landscape canal. The sun danced here and there in the water.
“She’s with child,” she told him
“Whose?”
His question was like a blow. “How ungallant of you, Guy. I thought you’d be happy the lineage of your precious prince is assured.”
She lifted her skirts as if she’d stepped in mud and walked back toward the palace. A mistake to tell him, she thought. How odd, her Guy, as cold-hearted as she—they used to have such fun mocking their admirers—and here he was, acting like some hero in a Corneille tragedy. It was too boring, really, all this emotion. Was this what love was? She wouldn’t know. But she did know desire, and she’d surprised herself by missing Nicolas, and the carriage ride home had been one long fantasy of all the delicious ways to make that evident to him.
THE YOUNG GROOM who always accompanied Louise sat uncomfortably in the chamber of Monsieur Colbert. “No sir, we didn’t see anything unusual,” the groom answered. I’ll say nothing to bring her trouble, he thought to himself, his thoughts resolute, nothing.
“Why did you go to the monastery?”
“We just happened on it, and we was afraid her horse was about to throw a shoe—she knows everything there is to know about horses, sir.”
“Does she?”
“Oh yes. We had her in last week to look at El Cid. He wasn’t eating, sir. No matter what we gave him. And he’d started to bite us.”
El Cid was Louis’s Spanish stallion, specially trained in the art of prancing on hind legs and other arts going all the way back to the ancient Greeks. “And what did Miss de la Baume le Blanc do?”
“Well, sir, she sat by his
stall for a long time, then she went inside—that upset us—he’s been so bad-tempered lately. And she ran her hands all over his body. Then she put her hands on his fetlock for a time, and then she told us we was to sing Spanish songs to him.”
“Excuse me,” said Colbert, as if he hadn’t heard properly.
“It’s the truth. We laughed, but my father went to one of the queen’s musicians and asked him if he wouldn’t come and play the guitar and sing those wild howls the Spanish like, and he did, and I tell you what, El Cid is eating again.”
“Miraculous.” Colbert was sarcastic.
“Well it makes sense, don’t it, sir, him being so far from his home and all. His other grooms might have sung—”
“The monastery. You were telling me about the monastery.”
“Well, we went in and my lady went into a room to rest, and I checked on the horse’s shoe, and we got that all to rights, and we left, sir.”
“Where is this monastery?”
“To the northeast, sir.”
“Near the Viscount Nicolas’s château?” Colbert was abrupt. “You saw the viscount, didn’t you?”
“Well, his guards took us to his house, and he and my lady talked for a time.” The groom was uncomfortable. “We’d strayed onto his land. It was a mistake, sir. She’s a good lady, sir, has a kind heart, likes to ride is all, likes the forest and the sun and the wind in her hair. That’s all. No harm in it.”
“When do you ride again?”
The groom shook his head.
“Thank you. That’s all.” Colbert watched the groom leave the chamber with his eyes narrowed. So, she’d seen the viscount. Something was up. He could smell it. And Miss de la Baume le Blanc was involved, he’d bet money on it, and he wasn’t a betting man, to say the least. Did she make a regular report to the viscount on the blossoming feeling between his majesty and Madame? Or something else? Did she leave Mazarinades that the viscount composed?
