Mistress of the Sun

by Sandra Gulland

  PETITE PEEKED IN at the children before leaving. She blew them a kiss, then left, in tears. She wasn’t far from where Diablo was stabled. She needed to see him, to steady her nerves.

  Diablo nickered as Petite approached his corral, a small enclosure of stone walls. She leaned on the railing. He was aging, but he still looked good as he ambled over to her. He allowed her near—to groom and care for him—but he remained wild at heart. He would not let her put a halter on him, much less allow her to back him. It broke her heart to see him caged…and soon, if the master of the horse had his way, he would be ignobly sacrificed for public amusement.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, cupping his whiskery muzzle, “I don’t have anything for you.”

  SHE TOOK THE RIVER ROAD back in order to avoid the Mardi Gras procession. The sun would soon set. Courtiers would be dressing for the ball—the first since Henriette’s death. It would be a sad affair without her.

  Petite stopped to watch the boats, the river traffic. Gone to the river. What had happened that early morning long ago? It disturbed her that she still could not recall. What she could remember—and all too vividly—was feeling so desperately miserable that she no longer wished to live.

  And now? Now, if anything, she was even more desperately miserable. She headed for her rooms at the palace.

  “I WILL NOT BE GOING to the ball,” Petite announced to Clorine. Her maid was dressed as a fine lady in the topsy-turvy spirit of the day, with five patches on her cheeks. “So put away my costume.” The feathered wings were propped over the back of a chair and her gown was spread out on the daybed.

  “Are you not well?”

  “I am not.”

  At Petite’s request, Clorine made her a mug of a steaming herbal concoction and dressed her for bed. “Thank you,” Petite said, lying back on the pillows. Clorine lingered at the door with a candle lantern in her hand. “Thank you for everything, Clorine,” Petite said, closing her eyes.

  She lay in the dark, listening to the night revelries, the drunken Mardi Gras brawls.

  Waiting.

  After the night watchman called out eleven of the clock—after she could be sure that Clorine had retired and was fast asleep—she opened her bed curtains and, taking the night candle, groped her way to the withdrawing room. Draped in a thick woolen shawl, she put some sticks on the embers and used the flame from her candle to light two others. She felt her way to the escritoire and took out a sheet of her best paper, the squid ink, a good quill.

  Dear Clorine.

  She paused, considering. It was not farewell. Clorine would do her laundry, bring her food and books. She would have her (or her mother, or Madame Colbert) bring the children to see her several times a week. Later, when the time was right, she would begin negotiations with Gautier and arrange to provide Clorine with a handsome dowry. But this was far, far into the future.

  The future.

  She was stepping into a great unknown, and she thought for a moment of throwing the letter into the fire. Instead, she wrote out her intentions, sprinkled sand on the ink and shook the paper clean. Now it’s set, she thought. She folded the paper and placed it on the felt cover of her escritoire, exactly in the center. For Clorine, she wrote in a careful hand.

  Should I write a letter to Louis?

  She loved him—still—but she did not love the man he had become. Had Athénaïs worked a spell on him? Or had he always been thus, and she blinded? Had she herself been under some type of enchantment?

  No, she would not write. She was too angry, too bereft, her love for the man he had been still burning in her. Amor indissolubilis. Would she ever see an altar flame without thinking of him? Without thinking of her willing surrender, her passion? Their passion.

  She pulled away from the desk and went to the fireplace, adding three small sticks to the flames. Then she pulled a rocking chair up close to the fire and sat rocking, indifferent to the Mardi Gras revelry in the gardens below, waiting for the sun to rise, for the long night to be over. She knew what she wanted now: to be free of sin. To be free of the Court, of Athénaïs…and yes, of the King.

  I can’t live without your love, she had told him, recalling the last time she had run…run to her death, run for her life.

  AT THE FIRST HINT of light, Petite dressed and gathered up what remained of her treasures: her rosary and locket, the worn copy of Saint Teresa’s Life. She put on her hooded fur-lined cloak and opened the door, wending her way down the dark halls and cold, echoing stairs.

  The street was littered with festive refuse. A man sprawling belly-up in an alley moaned. Three men in costume called out to her: “Hey, girl, over here.” One thrust his buttocks at her and tumbled over with the effort.

  She headed toward the stable yards.

  DIABLO STOOD AGAINST the red light of dawn. Petite thought of when she had first seen him, standing at the edge of a woods. Sing ye! He had that beauty still.

  She had to get him out of the city—but how? He watched warily as she climbed up onto the stone wall. She kicked off her platform mules and let them drop. Then, crouching, she pushed open the gate. As Diablo bolted, she slipped onto his back, clutching mane and straddling him, her legs tight around his girth. He bucked, but she held on. “Easy, boy,” she whispered, half laughing. It felt wonderful to be on him. “Ho, boy!” she said as he bucked down a narrow alley, heading north. “Ho,” she repeated when he shied at a cat. Heading onto Rue Saint-Honoré, she sat back, her skirts bunched up around her thighs, and pressed him forward into a canter. He was skittish, but he surged down the cobbled street, ducking vegetable carts and laden water-carriers. Early-morning workers stood well back, watching in awe. An old woman waved her cane, cheering. At Saint-Roch cathedral, Petite guided Diablo into the Rabbit Warren and toward the river.

  Diablo raced down the river road, picking up speed, his strong legs coursing. The air was cold and fresh, the dawn light sparkling on the gray water. The city wall, the porte de Conférence, was ahead. The barrier was down, and there were two coaches and a line of people waiting to go through, waiting for their papers to be checked. “Go,” she whispered, clutching mane.

  People cried out, fell over, scrambling to get out of their way. Diablo dodged an old couple and surged over the high barrier. Sing ye!

  Ahead: the long road along the Seine, the road to Chaillot. The river on one side and the farms and woodlands on the other rushed by in a blur. Petite sat back. Diablo slowed to a relaxed canter. It hadn’t been a dream.

  “Ho, boy,” she said, grinning, and he eased to a walk. She guided him to an isolated hillock, then halted. She fell forward onto his neck, feeling his warmth, smelling his clean horse scent. She recalled being a girl and lying thus, recalled thinking of what a miracle it was, such trust. Now they were both older, and both of them scarred. Both in need of rescue, salvation.

  She was anxious about discovery, but she didn’t want to rush. She needed time, if only a moment—a moment to last for eternity.

  Grasping his mane, she slid down off his side. He was free now. He could run—yet he stood. He turned his head to her. His eyes—now blue, now dark, now flashing a hint of red—were all-seeing, all-knowing. No, it hadn’t been a dream. She pressed her forehead to his. Am I doing the right thing? she asked herself, her eyes stinging. Yes, her heart answered.

  There would be pain, she knew, the pain of loss—but she already knew such pain. She would always love Louis, love the good man at his core—the man hidden behind the King’s mask. She saw that man still, laughing with their children.

  Their children.

  Petite fell to her knees in the grass, her head pressed into her fists. How could she do this? O God, she prayed. Help me. Diablo sniffed her back, his breath warm on her neck. She sat up. I could turn back, she thought. Be the mistress mother, the strumpet. Athénaïs’s handmaiden.

  No. She could not. No longer. She could not live that lie. Would not. Nolo, nolebam, nolam.

  She imagined life in a convent—the
peace of that existence. Her aunt Angélique’s prayers would be answered. The children would come to visit, her mother, her brother and his giddy wife. Abbé Patin—of course. There would be bouquets of flowers and dishes of sugar-plums. There would be song.

  And Louis? What would become of her children’s father? There was so much that was good in him, so much that was strong and true; and yet such profound weakness. Petite would pray for him, pray that he resist Athénaïs’s lure, see her for who she was. Petite was powerless to do more. She must leave the rest to God.

  She lay back on the grass, looking up at the sky, listening to Diablo munching weeds nearby. Listening to the sounds of the world awaking. A solitary church bell rang, its sound pure, resonating in the clear morning air. A flock of birds took flight.

  Sin was in her; she knew that. She had made a pact with the Devil; she was his. That would never change. But she would not give way this time: she would continue on her path. “Nec cesso, nec erro,” she said out loud: I do not slacken, I do not lose my way.

  She stood and brushed off her cloak. Diablo raised his head and looked at her. She took out a crust of bread she had hidden away in the pocket under her petticoats. Holding it out, she smiled through her tears. He reached out his long neck, and she stroked his ears. “Ready, old man?” They had a distance yet to go.

  She pulled herself up onto his back. The river water sparkled in the morning sun. Gone to the river. Her breath quickened as she remembered looking down into the dark water. What had saved her? What was saving her now?

  She nudged Diablo forward with her legs. At the river road, he broke into a vigorous trot, and then leapt into a canter. Her cap flew off and her curls came loose. The morning air felt fresh on her cheeks.

  She remembered, as a child, watching the Romany woman on horseback, remembered her standing on the cantering horse, her arms outstretched. But mostly she remembered the breathless excitement she had felt, her heartfelt wonder, believing that the world was before her.

  And now, again: the world was before her.

  Diablo’s canter was steady, his back broad. Now? she asked herself. She grabbed mane with one hand and steadied herself on his shoulder with the other. Yes. Slowly, she brought her feet up under her, crouching. Diablo flicked back one ear, but held his steady pace. And then—slowly, slowly—she stood, balanced and reached out her arms.

  Oh, the wind!

  AT CHAILLOT, JUST beyond the convent, Petite slipped back down onto Diablo’s back and slowed him to a walk. “Ho, boy,” she said, sliding off him. She had done it!

  He turned his nose to her. She stroked his nose, his muzzle, his ears. She stood for a long while, her face pressed into his neck, running her hands over him. O Lord, this beautiful horse is your creation, please look over him, protect him. Amen.

  It was time. Soon the river road would become congested. “Go,” she commanded, her heart aching. Diablo startled, but did not move. She slapped him on the haunches. “Go,” she repeated, but with more urgency. He had to run, escape. He twirled, but turned toward her again in confusion. She broke a branch off a bush and shook it at him. “Go!” she begged, weeping.

  He trotted off reluctantly, flicking his tail, but snorted and turned again to face her, his ears pricked forward. She waved the branch, whipping it through the air with whistling sounds. Go! Go! He reared up and twirled, bucking and twisting, and cantered off.

  At the crest of a hillock, he stood motionless, sniffing the air. He raised his head and whinnied. From a distance, a horse answered. Shadows appeared at the edge of a far meadow: horses. With a jump and a buck, Diablo raced into the hills, his long tail high and waving.

  Beloved.

  The convent bells began to ring. Petite watched in rapt wonder until Diablo disappeared from sight. A horse in the wild is a beautiful thing, Louis had once said.

  Yes, she thought, turning toward the iron gate of the convent, toward freedom.

  Epilogue:

  Marie-Anne, June 6, 1710

  I WAS ATTENDING TO my morning toilette at Versaie when the messenger was shown in: my mother was dying, he announced. “Thanks be to God,” I said. The boy no doubt found that to be an unloving response, but my mother’s suffering, in this, her sixty-fifth year, had been painful to witness. A strong, proud woman, she had weakened dramatically after she’d had to strip the convent chapel of its ornaments the year before to help finance my father’s wars. I believe her dying began then: the crippling headaches, the back pain, her hands so twisted with rheumatism she could not hold a quill. And something more, I suspect: something inside, something ruptured.

  I ordered my fastest carriage brought around, took up my walking stick. If only I had stayed the summer in Paris. But, selfishly, I had come with my father to Versaie, escaping the stink, the dirt and the heat. “Have them tell her I am on my way. Tell her I’m racing.” It was ten past seven of the clock: at this moment my father would be in the ceremonial of his Grand Lever. With age, he’d become fixed in his daily routine—anything unexpected disturbed him. I decided to send word. In any case, I was anxious to get to Paris before my mother passed away.

  In spite of the congestion on the road, we made good time, the horses always at a trot. I lowered the blinds to keep out the dust. I was thinking impious thoughts: the discomfort of wearing black in summer, the people who would have to be notified (the list sadly short: most everyone dead). I wondered if Carmelites allowed gravestones, and, if so, what I should have inscribed on it. I believe, in retrospect, that this was God’s way of making distress tolerable: “the solace of minutia,” my mother used to say.

  Used to say. Already, in my mind, she’d passed. It was then that the tears came.

  I am, people say, very like my father: we are known for our spirit, our stubbornness, and—yes—our cold heart. But this is just a facade. I believe we feel too much, my father and I, that we’re capable of being felled by emotion, and for this reason we must keep it in check.

  Death. Grief. How sad to be the survivor, I thought. My mother had outlived everyone, in spite of her sometimes frail health. Grandmother, Uncle Jean—both gone. Her confessor, the kindly Abbé Patin. My brother Tito: his death at sixteen on his first military campaign nearly killed her, I know.

  What sort of funeral would the Carmelites require? I wondered. No doubt it would be austere. What a relief not to have to stage a royal production. la Grande Mademoiselle’s funeral had been spectacularly offensive, the container of her entrails exploding, filling the church with such noxious smells that people were trampled in the rush for the door, everyone gasping for air. How fitting, somehow: the big Princess had always been an angry woman, especially after marrying Lauzun and suffering his abuse.

  And how fitting, likewise, that the Marquise de Montespan had not been honored at all. If one were to believe the account (and I do), her entrails had been thrown to pigs. If there is a Heaven, she is not there, despite what my mother might say—my saintly mother who’d even consented to being the Marquise’s spiritual director. No, regardless of my mother’s counsel, I’m quite sure that that woman is in that other place, suffering for the pain she caused others. Suffering for the pain she caused my mother.

  And Father: is he innocent of blame? Doubtful.

  He is putting up a strong fight against age—still goes riding, still hunts, still, according to Madame de Maintenon’s whispered complaints, insists on daily congress. (At seventy-two! Dieu merci I have not inherited his lust.)

  Did he ever love my mother? I wish I knew. He is, curiously, a jealous and possessive man. He does not take rejection well; once my mother left, he rarely even spoke of her. Certainly, he never went to see her. “She is dead to me,” he said—yet he allowed his gardener to send flowers to the convent every morning. Was this his wish? There were always flowers in the visitors’ salon, extraordinary bouquets. In a rare moment of intimacy, he told me that she was the only woman who had ever truly loved him. It was one of those sad and somewhat uncomfortable revel
ations between a father and daughter, and I did not pursue it.

  Love is rare at Court: that I do know. I count myself fortunate to have experienced it, as painful as it was to sit by my poor husband as he lay dying, covered in oozing pustules. Such was the price my dear prince paid for nursing me to health.

  Oh, Death. I still mourn.

  THUS MY THOUGHTS ran as I entered the cool of the convent. I waited in the visitors’ parlor, wondering if I would even be allowed inside. The door opened, and a lay sister summoned me: Sister Nicole, my mother’s friend.

  I stepped through the door into the inner sanctum. The silence was profound. “Is she…?”

  “Thank God you’ve come,” Sister Nicole whispered. Tears streamed down her cheeks.

  I followed Sister Nicole through a labyrinth of porticos and courtyards. The gardens were lush, fragrant and bursting with color. We passed a music room, a library. It did not feel like a life of deprivation, and this was a comfort.

  We came to an arched wood door, the entrance into the infirmary, the room in which my mother lay dying. “She just had Extreme Unction,” Sister Nicole said in a low voice.

  “Is she in pain?”

  Sister Nicole nodded, pressing her lips together.

  I braced myself, and entered the room.

  My mother was laid out on a high bed in her heavy brown robes. She looked so small, stretched out thus. She’d always been something of a giant in my eyes.

  I approached. Her eyes were closed, and she was making a low, drawn-out moan of pain, the plainsong of the dying. The nuns praying beside her stepped back.

  She opened her eyes, her beautiful eyes. I touched her dry, stiffened fingers: how thin they were. Was I hurting her? I looked at Sister Nicole.