by Karleen Koen
“Quarreling,” sang Claude to Madeleine, and they laughed.
“Have you lost your mind?” Louise demanded. “You act as if no one is listening.”
“You have to ask him to forgive the Count de Guiche.”
“What if my doing that makes him angry? Have you thought of that, Fanny, that everyone asks favors of him? I can’t join the rest. I don’t wish to.”
“You of all people can. You of all people can have your heart’s desire with him. Do it for me, Louise. Can’t you see how unhappy I am?”
Fanny’s last words were said with tears in her eyes, but Louise didn’t stay to comfort her. Back in the bedchamber, she continued to pull items out of her trunk, but she had to stop. Her hands were trembling. She felt like crying herself. She was afraid to ask him, afraid to bring the least ripple to their love’s perfection. She didn’t want to be a supplicant like everyone else.
LATER SHE STOOD in a mix with the other maids of honor, just outside the king’s gatehouse, as grooms walked horses up the road from the stables. Louis remained in the gatehouse with Henriette and Maria Teresa, neither of whom were joining the hunt, and every now and again his eyes went to the maids of honor, who stood together like bunched and fragrant lilies. Louise met his eyes just once, and that was enough. His desire was clear and his love.
Louis’s master of the household brought a dashing filly forward. “It’s my privilege to offer you a better mount as a special gift from someone who cares for you,” he said to Louise.
All around women were being aided in settling themselves into the sidesaddles that were the proper and fashionable seat for a woman on horseback. The courtier put his hands together so that Louise might place her foot into them.
“The saddle has been specially made for you,” he said quietly, as she gracefully, lightly vaulted herself up. He touched a design of gold stitching, and Louise saw the design was intertwining L’s. “He asks that you stay in his sight.”
She should have been unhappy that yet another person knew, but she wasn’t. What about your honor? Choisy had questioned. Today, she went hunting with the king of France. That was her honor. With a light touch of the whip, she was off, trotting the filly into the center of the milling, talking, mounted group.
At the sound of the trumpet the hounds, down the road near the stables, snarling and growling and pulling at their leashes, were let go. Barking and some of them beginning to bay, they ran out into open ground, and runners followed them. The court began to ride down the road, past manicured gardens surrounding the palace, toward open country, toward forest.
ONCE THE STAG was killed, they stopped at Versailles. Blue slates on its steep roofs, it was pleasant enough, two wings extended from each side of a center pavilion, three floors to each building, one of them attics, but it was small and simple, little ornamentation on its exterior, a few busts on the corners of the roofs but no grand marble statues and columns and wreathing. It had been a place for his father to rest overnight should his hunts run long. There were grounds at the rear, very large parterres for courtiers to walk in, a lovely oval pool with handsome wrought-iron railings, vast spaces beyond for riding to nearby hills. There was no room to chamber households or the servants to manage them. Compared to the Louvre or Saint-Germain or Fontainebleau or his cousin’s Luxembourg in Paris or his brother’s Saint-Cloud, it was nothing.
Louis walked into the king’s bedchamber, the heart of the château, the center of the U made by the adjoining buildings. She wasn’t there. Surprised, he took off his gloves, walked to the window and looked out. No one was in the front courtyard. They were still in the gardens, lingering over the remains of a fine picnic and the wine he’d ordered served. He leaned out those windows, trying to observe her from among the others. Where was she? His desire to be with her after an absence of a week was almost more than he could bear. When too much time had passed, he stopped pacing and decided to leave, was pulling on his gloves as the door opened, and she ran in.
“Where were you? How dare you keep me waiting?” he flashed.
“I couldn’t get away. I was sitting by Monsieur, and he wanted to talk—oh, don’t be angry with me. I’m so sorry! I would never offend you, your majesty.”
She’s afraid of me, thought Louis, and that was not what he wished from her, not after being away from her for days, but it was what came with his power. With her, he didn’t wish to display power, and yet hadn’t it been the imperious king in him that was offended at being kept waiting, a king who kicked more and more at the traces of any restraint?
He pulled her into his arms, and she broke down and cried. He could just make out some of her words: “so sorry,” “there was no way I could get away,” “missed you so much.” Her time didn’t belong to her, or for that matter, to him. It belonged to those whom she served, to Henriette and to Philippe. He had to remember that. He began to kiss the part in her hair. “We don’t have time for this. Come and lie with me.”
It felt like he couldn’t breathe until he made love to her. She’s becoming necessary to me, he thought. Their lovemaking was hurried and rushed; they didn’t even undress. Then she was up and straightening her gown, and he lay on the bed and watched, his heart hurting because this wasn’t what he’d envisioned. He didn’t want her to leave yet, and he could see how distressed she still was.
“I am so sorry I displeased—” she said.
“It is I who am displeasing. It was unworthy of me to be angry. If you must be late, perhaps next time you might send me a message.”
“I could think of no way—”
“My master of the household. He’s down below among the courtiers with orders to keep his eyes on you. He would have been happy to bring a message.”
“Of course. I’m so stupid.”
He rose from the bed, took her face between his hands. “Don’t say those words. I am not angry.” He felt better to see some of the worry leave her face, to see her incandescent smile, which he had to kiss. “I love you.”
Then she was gone, leaving him alone with his thoughts, which spun and sparked and ran into each other. They must return to Fontainebleau, must bury Belle. How short his time with Louise had been today. His mother’s confessor was a spy to the viscount. Dear God. When was the last time his mother had confessed? What had she said about her visit to the Duchess Marie? Had she ever spoken of the boy? Was he setting a trap that the viscount already knew of? Was it all for nothing? Would he end up having to pretend that he’d never meant arrest, bowing and scraping to stay in the viscount’s good graces? If the viscount knew the possibility of his birth not being what it seemed, the man already possessed a larger weapon than his fleet. How gentle Louise was. He must remember that with her, there would never be deliberate hurt. He must bring her brother to court. He must win the confidence of her mother. He must surround her with some allies.
A CROWD ASSEMBLED for the burial of Belle. Maria Teresa sat in a chair surrounded by her ladies. Henriette did not come, yet allowed her ladies’ presence.
“Madame is not feeling well,” said his brother. Philippe’s face was closed, unreadable.
“Thank you for being here.” Philippe of all people knew how much Belle meant, had grown up with her, too. “My brother.” Louis pulled Philippe close, fiercely kissed each of his cheeks. “You are always my brother. Forgive me any action that has hurt you. I do only what I think best,” he said in his ear. Over Philippe’s shoulders he made certain he knew where Louise was.
D’Artagnan dug the grave. Louis’s confessor said prayers. All the women present dropped flowers into the grave. Last of all, Louis placed the wrapped stag’s heart on the body, and then musketeers began to throw dirt in the grave. Belle’s sons and daughter milled around, pawed at the dirt. Louis whistled and knelt to pull the ears of Phaedra. He thought of the Mazarinade that had been left near Belle. Any one of the people here might have put it there.
“You have to take your mother’s place. Can you do that?” he asked the dog to cover his thoughts
.
He stood, saw Nicolas standing some distance away, talking with D’Artagnan. Louis gave his hand to Maria Teresa, who was crying, to lead her back into the palace. D’Artagnan would never betray, of that he was certain, but he didn’t like it that Nicolas talked with him. Did the fox sense the hounds gaining? What if he bolted, holed himself up on that island of his, but he wouldn’t do so before his fête, would he? His pride, for all its cloak of charm, was too great.
“Come to my chambers this evening,” Nicolas said to D’Artagnan. “We’ll drink a glass of wine and talk about your travels.”
“I’m to Paris. I’ve a young wife I haven’t seen in days, Viscount,” answered D’Artagnan.
“Fortunate man. Well, come and call on me when you return. I hear Monaco is beautiful this time of year. I want to know whether I should visit.”
COLBERT OPENED THE door and ushered Anne’s confessor inside. Unsmiling, Louis remained where he was. The priest padded calmly forward, his face pale and pleasant, his robes dark and severe, a creature of court as well as of Rome.
“Your majesty,” he smiled. He and Louis had known one another for a long time. “To what do I owe the honor of this summons?”
“To the fact that you share with the Viscount Nicolas everything my mother confesses to you. To the fact that I am not pleased that you do so.” Louis leaned forward, his arms braced on the table that separated them, the angles of his face hard. “Not only do you betray the most sacred of vows, you betray the queen mother of this kingdom and her son, the king, as well as soil the robes you wear. I can only imagine the Holy Father in Rome will agree.”
He would use this confessor’s breach of trust to bolster his explanations to the Pope about scattering monks to the far corners. Now, what did the viscount know?
August 1661 …
Chapter 36
INQ MARS WATCHED THE BOY CAREFULLY. THE YOUNG PRINCE sat in the middle of the rooftop, rocking back and forth. The mask was on his face. Whenever they attempted to take it from him, he defecated on himself.
“Make the wine,” he said to Father Gabriel.
The priest shook his head. Like Cinq Mars, he was concerned about the amount the boy had swallowed these last weeks.
“Do it,” said Cinq Mars, “not enough to make him sleep, only enough to quiet him a bit.”
How much he wanted the mask off. As much as his majesty did. How much he wanted to see this young prince raise his bare face and receive the kisses of the sun. He wanted the boy brown from the sun, toasted and golden. Could he teach him to swim? Likely not, but there was a narrow spit of sand not far from this place, and he wanted to take him there, let him enjoy the waves.
“It’s old Cinq Mars,” he called out, when the wine was ready. He set the goblet near the boy, sat down himself, not too close, but near enough for the young prince to see him. He raised his own goblet high. “To you, your highness, to your health, to your long life. Are you thirsty? Drink with Cinq Mars now.”
He sipped his wine. He’d stopped thinking about the letter. It would find its destination or not. Something would happen or not. He had always scorned the politics of court, hated its practical cruelty, which in his mind culminated in the queen mother’s behavior. But for the moment, he was content to be sitting in the sun with this boy he loved. With time, with steadiness, with routine, the boy would thrive again. He was too thin, had stopped eating in the confusion and upset that had been theirs for too many weeks.
The roar of the sea on the rocks below them filled his ears. The warmth of the sun actually began to penetrate his clothing. It felt like it was seeping through to his bones. He drank down the rest of his wine, stretched out, folded his arms behind his head. To nap in the sun, what luxury.
He heard the boy pick up the goblet, so he opened his eyes, but didn’t turn abruptly or make any other movement. He listened to the boy drink a little. Imp, he thought, not eating enough to keep a bird alive much less a long-legged, growing young man. He moved to kneel beside his young prince, cautious, waiting for the signs that showed the boy was disturbed, but other than a rapid blinking of the eyes, which he could see through the slits of that cursed mask, the boy was still.
Cinq Mars unfastened strap after strap and waited. There was no outburst. Ingenious, the man who made this. Fiendish. He waited a moment. The boy was breathing more rapidly. What would he do? Watching anxiously, Father Gabriel squatted a foot or so away. After a while, the mask was in Cinq Mars’s hands, its intricate straps dangling like the arms of a sea animal.
The boy remained still. Cinq Mars and Father Gabriel smiled at each other. Cinq Mars walked to the roof’s thick ledge, threw the mask over the side, watching in angry glee as its leather girders streamed upward like arms begging for help. A shout made him turn, but not quickly enough to stop the boy, who apparently had run across the roof, was standing even now on the thick perimeter of the rampart ledge, and before Cinq Mars could open his mouth or make a move, leapt over the side. Cinq Mars shouted to every god in the world, closed his eyes to not see the boy’s body hit the jagged rocks. He would have climbed over, would have joined the boy, but Father Gabriel held him back.
It was dangerous and difficult to clamber over the rocks, slick with sea and moss, his wound gasping like a mouth between his heart and shoulder, but he did it anyway. The sea mustn’t have his dear prince, but the body was so broken, was partially wedged in an impossible crevice of rock. He would break his child to further pieces bringing him home. The tide was coming in. When it reached his neck, he abandoned his task, half-swam, half-fell back to dry land. The mask lay there. One of its straps had caught on a shard of rock, and it bobbed up and down, waiting for him. He tore it from the rock that had captured it, somehow made it to shore, bruised, cut, bleeding again. Then he sat on the sand, as the sea licked his boots, and tears seeped out of his eyes, his body aching, his wound screaming from the sea’s salt, before his heart finally grasped its loss, and he began to howl, just as the boy had so often done, and Father Gabriel, standing in the shadow of the fortress monastery, left him alone.
Chapter 37
ODAY THE COURT TRAVELED TO VAUX-LE-VICOMTE TO THE FÊTE the Viscount Nicolas was holding. The road from Paris was clogged with carriages driving along at a snail’s pace one after another, people hanging out windows to call greetings to passersby on horseback. All roads in the region were solid with carriages and riders. Some of the court had left at dawn. The public courtyard of Fontainebleau and the stables were in an uproar. Coachmen, grooms, postilions, stable hands, and link boys had several hundred courtiers to place in carriages or on horseback.
For a month or more, there had had been talk of nothing else but this party and the beauty of Vaux-le-Vicomte. Those who had visited during its construction repeated what they’d observed: it had more fountains than any palace or château in France; the viscount had diverted a river to create its water beauties; a major poet was in the midst of writing a long poem about the beauty of the place; a royal painter, gardener, and architect had combined to create what was a miracle of composition, this last from Monsieur, who had visited the château recently and who had been talking about its charms ever since.
Louis paced as he waited for his wife. Maria Teresa was late, as she was more and more often, making him wait, an unbearable habit of his mother’s that his wife seemed to have adopted. Philippe and Henriette had already set off with all their friends and household, and so he wouldn’t see Louise until he arrived at Vaux-le-Vicomte. He was irritable. For his court to have been talking about the viscount the way it had for weeks, to see the way the courtiers fawned and simpered, set his teeth on edge. Now his mother’s confessor was silenced, telling the viscount what Louis wished. What he didn’t know was if the viscount realized that he and Philippe might not be the sons of Louis XIII. The Mazarinades seemed to hint at such knowledge, and what a weapon that was against his reign. The man had uncanny luck; even the weather bowed to his will. The skies were clear and blue, and th
ere was enough of a breeze to cool off afternoon heat.
Suddenly, he saw his mother’s ladies appear like a cloud of beautiful butterflies and walk toward carriages. Someone called to him to say that the queen mother had ordered them to go on to Vaux-le-Vicomte without her, and then D’Artagnan approached him, his face somber in a way that alarmed Louis, and for a moment the thought crossed his mind that Maria Teresa had gone into labor, that his dauphin might be born too early, but he saw that D’Artagnan held out something in his hand. It was the ring he’d given Cinq Mars.
“If your majesty might come with me?” D’Artagnan said, and they walked into the dim cool of a vestibule where Louis saw ten or more of his best musketeers gathered.
“It’s dangerous, your majesty,” D’Artagnan said, as he hurried Louis through the labyrinth of chambers that would place them in the queen mother’s part of the palace. “Cinq Mars is with her majesty and Madame de Motteville, and he demands to see you.”
They walked into his mother’s antechamber, filled with her guards, their faces taut. D’Artagnan knocked upon the door of Anne’s most private room. “His majesty is here,” he called. Just before the door opened, he said to Louis, “You don’t have to go inside, sir—”
But the door was opening a crack, and Louis stepped through it, with D’Artagnan right behind him. His mother sat upright in a chair. She was fully dressed, but Louis saw at once something was wrong. Hovering beside her, her eyes like dark holes in her face, was Madame de Motteville.
“I never meant—” she said at the sight of Louis, but Cinq Mars’s words cut over hers.
“Silence, woman! Get out, lieutenant!” From behind them, from his position against a wall, Cinq Mars pointed the dueling pistol he carried at Louis.
“I remain with his majesty,” said D’Artagnan.
