by Karleen Koen
Every sense suddenly on alert, Louis turned so that he could see Cinq Mars completely. The man looked as if he’d just stumbled out of the forest, his clothing dirty, his hair in knots, his face a grimace in stone. There was fresh blood on his shirt. His wound is open, thought Louis, his mind moving rapidly, and he can make only one shot with that pistol. It held only one shot.
“What is it, captain? What is this about?” Louis said.
“He’s dead.”
As the words were said, Louis realized what lay in his mother’s lap: the iron mask, its straps hanging down her skirts like flaccid arms. “How? When?”
“He jumped from the roof into the sea. He died on the rocks.”
In his mind’s eye, Louis could see the lonely old monastery, the sea practically crashing against one side, the roof, the sun, the jagged rocks, the body hurtling toward them.
“Lock the doors,” Cinq Mars ordered D’Artagnan, “now.”
“Put down the pistol,” said Louis. “You’ve traveled a long way to bring me sad news. Let me order food and wine for you, and we’ll speak of this—”
“Will that be before or after I kill your mother?”
Madame de Motteville screamed and threw herself on Anne as Louis took yet another step toward Cinq Mars.
“Back! Now!” Cinq Mars aimed the pistol at him, and Louis met the man’s eyes, read the determination in them, and stepped back. Someone will die today, he thought over all rushing through his head, how to disarm him, how to persuade him to put down the pistol, how to attack him if necessary.
“Get it over with, you coward,” Anne hissed. “Do you think I care whether I live or die? Shoot me, and have done with it!”
Cinq Mars shouted for Madame de Motteville to move, and she did, running straight at him as Louis ran forward, too, and they collided into each other and Cinq Mars, knocking him backward, into the wall, as the pistol discharged, and they all fell and Anne shrieked and covered her face with her hands.
D’Artagnan ran to the tangle on the floor, Cinq Mars, Madame de Motteville, the king of France.
Louis was the first to move. “She’s bleeding.” He jerked off his doublet, wadded the cloth into the wound at Motteville’s breast.
Cinq Mars grabbed her from Louis. “My God, my God, my darling girl, my sweet, oh, no,” he said, pulling her into his arms, beginning to weep like a man whose heart can bear no more.
Pounding and thudding and shouts sounded on the other side of the door, and D’Artagnan unlocked it, rapped out orders, and five of Louis’s best men ran into the chamber. Cinq Mars stood, made a lunge for the table where Anne sat, and seized a letter opener, its blade as sharp as any knife.
Anne pulled down the edge of her black gown, so that one milk-white breast was almost completely bared. “Do your worst,” she spat at him.
Every man in the chamber ran toward Cinq Mars, who took the blade in both hands, raised it high, and plunged it into his chest, near the reopened wound, falling against one of the younger musketeers who tried to stop him. Both of them crashed to the floor. The musketeer pushed at Cinq Mars and scrambled to stand, but Cinq Mars was unmoving.
“Clear my mother’s guard out of the antechamber, get Madame de Motteville in bed, and find my physician,” said Louis. There was blood on the snow-white shirt he wore.
Anne knelt beside her lady-in-waiting now, cradling her head in her lap, holding the wad of Louis’s doublet against the wound. “Place her in my bed,” she ordered the musketeers.
“If he’s alive, take the captain to Paris, to the Bastille,” said Louis.
D’Artagnan got down on his knees to examine Cinq Mars.
“He was my child, too, more mine than hers,” breathed Cinq Mars. “The child of my heart.” He closed his eyes.
D’Artagnan pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and laid it over Cinq Mars’s face. “Dead, sire.”
Louis went into his mother’s bedchamber. His mother had begun to clean Madame de Motteville’s wound with water.
“Will she die?” Louis asked.
“Hard to say. There’s cloth in the wound, which could mean infection. I saw it all the time on the battlefield,” Anne answered.
A physician was in the chamber now, and Anne handed him the bloody cloth.
“It’s my fault. I let him in. I’m sorry,” murmured Madame de Motteville.
Louis led his mother to the window, away from listening ears. Anne looked dazed, frail in a way he’d never seen before. “I must be leaving.” He spoke to her gently. He felt as if he’d been thrown from off a horse and hit the ground hard. He couldn’t imagine how she felt.
“I’ll follow you shortly.”
“It isn’t necessary that you go, Mother. We’ve lost a member of our family.”
She looked from him to the window, to the trees and lawn. He wondered if that was what she was really seeing. “It’s better he’s dead. He should have died years ago.”
Anger and grief surged through Louis. “Aren’t you even going to weep?”
“My tears dried up long ago. Don’t look at me like that. You don’t know what it’s like to give birth to a child you can’t acknowledge, and you never will. Men receive the pleasure of the act. Women receive the burden and the shame.”
“You possess a heart of stone.”
“Queens don’t survive without growing hearts of stone. What of you, off to a fête at which you are guest of honor given by a man who has served this kingdom for years, a man you intend to arrest. We do what we must to protect the throne,” she said. “Our hearts grow cold.”
“Who is my father?”
She closed her eyes. “I will not dignify that question with an answer.”
She walked away from him, back toward her closet with its saints’ portraits, crosses, relics under glass, its too many chairs and tables, its portrait of the cardinal. She pulled the bell cord to summon a servant as she passed it.
Louis followed. He wanted to strike her, wanted to shake her until she begged for mercy, but a servant appeared and stood in the frame of the door, big-eyed at the sight of overturned chairs and blood on the floor of this chamber.
“Clean this up,” Anne said, “and send for my dresser and my confessor.”
“I wouldn’t advise that. Your confessor is a conduit to the viscount. He’s been telling him what you confess for years.”
She gave what he thought was a bark of laughter, but in the middle of the guffaw, he realized the laughter was a wail. She sank to the floor, huddled into herself the way he had seen innumerable wives and mothers and daughters grieve their dead soldiers on a battlefield. Her dresser appeared in the middle of her ragged sobbing, and Louis waved her away to wait, and the woman leaned against a wall, her hand on her mouth at the sight of the blood and disarray everywhere, at the sight of the most regal woman at court wailing like a peasant. Louis couldn’t force himself to go and comfort her. Finally, Anne lay on her back and stared up at a ceiling that was painted in expensive gilt, each honeycomb with a crown and her initial in it.
“I’ll make your excuses to the viscount,” Louis told his mother.
“Change your shirt. There’s blood on it.”
“Mother—”
“You’ll need a tale to satisfy people’s curiosity about this, because they are already talking, I do assure you. You,” she said to the dresser, “wine for me, right now, and my hair, I think we’ll just redo my hair. And some rouge, perhaps.” And to Louis, she continued, “Treachery always comes from the place you least expect it. Remember that. At least my beloved didn’t have to hear of this. It would have broken his heart. He always hoped he could bring the child to live in one of his houses. Fool. His heart was always softer than mine. I loved him for that. Mother of God, I feel a hundred years old.”
He helped her up, grasped the iron mask and carried it to his own bedchamber, set it on an ornate table, waving away his master of the household, who’d come to find out what the delay was. As La Porte pulled a fresh s
hirt over his head, Louis began to shake. “Leave me,” he ordered.
He sat down in a chair to get some kind of command of himself. He could reach out and touch the mask, a contraption of iron and leather that someone had fashioned to hide a boy who hadn’t asked to be born. Bands of iron tightened around his heart, and it felt, for a moment, as if they would kill him. He sat until his breath began to even. He must live until his or her death in a marriage with a woman he did not love and did not desire. He must outwit those who raped his kingdom, and there would always be someone else once the viscount was vanquished. He must leave the question of his father unanswered, must bury the very fact of the question the way he’d buried his best dog so that it might not be used against him. He must forever and a day distrust his only brother because the power that came with the throne seduced the best of men.
He stood.
La Porte appeared as if by magic. They continued his dressing without either of them saying a word. He would ride miles today as if nothing had happened, smile, dance, be able to do no more than speak a few words to the woman he loved, whose kindness and sincerity were a solace he had not known he so craved. The boy was dead. All his years of sacrifice and, because he’d killed himself, Cinq Mars could not be buried in hallowed ground. It was too much, and yet he must continue on with this day. That was his iron mask, strapped to the face of his soul, and only death would ever undo its grip.
“I THINK THERE is someone,” said Catherine.
Louise’s hand tightened on Fanny’s. They rode inside the carriage with Madame and the Princess de Monaco, and though the maids of honor were dressed in their finest, and Louise wore her diamond bracelets, they were overawed at the finery of the princesses riding with them, their gowns crusted to stiffness with embroidery and ribbons. Even their leather shoes were embroidered, and they wore jewels in their hair and at their ears and necks and on their arms and on the fingers of their long gloves, magnificent jewels, splendid and sparkling.
Catherine turned imperious eyes on the two sitting opposite. “What have you noticed?”
“I think he fancies the Countess de Soissons,” said Fanny without missing a beat.
Catherine’s eyes narrowed on Louise. “You see more than you say. What do you think?”
“I don’t know, princess. He seems kind to everyone.”
“You wear his bracelets all the time. Perhaps it’s you.” Catherine let out a peal of laughter, cold and mocking. “That would really be too funny.”
“I believed it for a moment because of the bracelets,” said Henriette.
There was a silence. Both princesses stared across the carriage at Louise, who shrank back against the leather seat, feeling impaled by what was in their faces.
“Or Miss de Chimerault,” said Fanny. “It could be her.”
Catherine removed her gaze from Louise. “I thought you were convinced it was Soissons. You two watch him tonight, and we’ll compare notes later.”
Henriette put her hands over her ears. “I don’t want to know who he flirts with. Lord, this is taking forever. How much longer?”
But they were just one carriage in a sea of carriages all moving slowly toward the biggest fête in the kingdom.
BY AFTERNOON, THRONGS of carriages jockeyed for space in the viscount’s entrance courtyard. Only certain carriages were actually being allowed in; the rest were stopping long enough to let down their passengers, then being directed to stables somewhere in the outbuildings. Courtyards and front lawns were a melee of people walking about under the noses of horses that coachmen were trying to control, while grooms and servants milled around to help people from their carriages and lead them across the château’s entrance bridge and toward its front terrace and magnificent porch, where the viscount stood with his wife and family receiving guests.
Linked by iron railings to form a fence, towering pillars the height of three men were the first barrier visitors met. Beyond, past lawns cut by gravel paths and sitting in the circle of a moat more decorative than practical, was the château. It rose grand, serene, and secure, with a vast central dome; nothing rambling or awkward or simple about its stately demeanor. It was a splendid triumph celebrating the concept of order and harmony on a great scale, celebrating the way a house might be enhanced by its landscape. Everywhere the eye fell, there was something to admire, from the grace of stone figures, which adorned the house, to the breadth of the entrance terrace, accented by its narrow stone bridge across the moat. People milled about everywhere, on its terraces and in the courtyards and leaning out the windows and over the stone balustrades of the moat. A long line of humanity waited to greet the viscount.
When Henriette’s carriage lumbered up to the moat, servants surrounded it and directed the coachman to bring it forward, and one went running toward the château to inform the viscount and Philippe, who had traveled in a separate carriage.
“Make way for the princess,” shouted one of Nicolas’s footmen, and Henriette walked across a handsome bridge toward the château.
“Isn’t this magnificent?” exclaimed Fanny to Louise. “Look at the people.”
Henriette, her household fanning out behind her, stopped just on the other side of the bridge, waiting for the viscount and for Philippe to come to her. Nicolas bowed low. Philippe nodded coolly in the direction of his wife.
He’ll never be mine again, will he? thought Henriette.
“I am so delighted you’ve arrived. Now the fête may be said to have truly begun. If you will step this way and allow me to present again my wife, and this is my brother and my sister …” said Nicolas, beginning to introduce his family.
All around them people nudged one another for space and tried not to miss a word. Until Louis arrived, Henriette and Philippe were queen and king and would be treated so. The viscountess led Henriette and her ladies to her own bedchamber and left them there to refresh themselves. Someone ran up to Fanny as they climbed the stairs to the viscountess’s chambers and said something to her and then was gone again.
“Guiche is here,” Fanny whispered to Louise. “Promise me you’ll ask the king to allow him back.”
“No.”
Fanny stopped where she was on the staircase. She looked down at one of her gloves. “I can’t lie for you forever.”
“Is that a threat?” asked Louise.
“I don’t know,” said Fanny.
In the bedchamber, once the viscountess left them, women ran to the walls, which were lined in pier glass from wainscoting to ceiling and reflected to infinity everything. Each woman stood in front of silvered glass admiring herself or adjusting her ribbons or neckline. Against one wall was a huge cabinet of solid silver. All the candlesticks and wall sconces and chimney dogs were solid silver, too. There was a small bed, with just the slightest headboard, as well as a huge bed with hangings. Genoa velvet, the most expensive of fabrics, covered all the furniture.
“Well,” said Henriette, turning around in a circle, “I must have pier glass on all my walls, too. My bedchamber at Fontainebleau feels positively paltry.”
Catherine sat on the small bed, her skirts spreading around her in a beautiful arc. “Isn’t this wonderful? It’s a daybed for naps.”
“There is no time for naps. Let me see you all,” Henriette commanded.
Maids of honor lined up obediently, and Henriette walked in front of them, considering what each of them had worn.
“We don’t have anything matching,” whined Madeleine.
Their old trick of wearing some little adornment to mark them hadn’t been of interest to Henriette lately, but she could feel she was the center of what was clearly going to be a magnificent party. She’d sensed it as she walked across the moat. Maria Teresa would be no competition in either wit, conversation, or style. She, Henriette, would be the one all eyes followed. Was she going to give the Countess de Soissons or the queen mother the pleasure of seeing her despairing and drooping at the best party in years? Oh, they’d love that, wouldn’t they? Was Phi
lippe going to continue to ignore her? How did she bear that, particularly knowing it was all her fault? What a mess she’d made for the sake of Louis, who somehow triumphed over his guilty love and left her wallowing behind in the murk. It was over with Louis, wasn’t it? How could that be?
She swallowed past the lump that seemed to be permanently in her throat these days. Everywhere she looked she was reflected, her gown as deep a green as the emeralds she wore. It made her pale skin look almost bleached, which was the shade this century preferred its women to be. She looked wonderful, and she carried a child. She’d give Philippe his son, and then he’d forgive her a little. Her mother had warned that the undercurrents of court were treacherous. There were those who were hoping tonight to see her misstep, to see her sad. I am Madame, she thought, the fairy queen of court. Let me act it even if I don’t feel it. Philippe liked it best when she was buoyant and lively. She tossed her head and lifted her chin and determined to make five men quarrel over dancing with her by midnight. No one was going to know how weary and small her heart felt.
“Your roses,” said Fanny.
The Viscountess Nicolas had given Henriette a huge bunch of pale lavender roses. Fanny rummaged through drawers in the big silver cupboard, giving a little yelp of triumph when she found hairpins and a small pair of gold scissors. In no time at all, she had a cluster of roses made for them all. She pinned one at the corner of the low neck of Louise’s gown. “I didn’t mean it, what I said on the stairs,” she whispered. “I’m not myself anymore.” And then, louder, “What do you think, Madame?”
“Perfect. I, for one, think I am going to have to flirt quite outrageously tonight. I trust you’ll support me in my efforts.” For a moment, she almost wept at the memory those words stirred, but she managed not to.
Giggling laughter rose in quite its old way. Henriette led her ladies out of the bedchamber, pausing at the top of the stairs until she was seen by the viscountess, who hurried toward her, as the whirl of people in the huge vestibule below turned to watch her descend the stairs.
