Enchantress of Paris

by Marci Jefferson

  “Lift our mourning restrictions,” Olympia said. “Let me perform in the ballet tonight.”

  He gently tugged the fingertips of his red leather gloves, one by one, inching them off. “That would expose you to ridicule.”

  “At least let me watch. I must see for myself which of the simpering court brats throws herself at the king’s feet.”

  Even I, one who rarely went to court, knew the answer to that. “They all will.”

  Our uncle was unmoved. “Olympia,” he said, not looking up, “you sound like a woman who doubts her powers of seduction. It’s that fool witchcraft of yours. You can’t win a Frenchman with potions.”

  I gasped. He cast me a sidelong glance that made me want to scoot away.

  “It worked for Catherine de Medici.” Olympia threw out her hands. “She was Queen of France for years.”

  I had to interject. “She only succeeded in making the French hate Italians.”

  Olympia ignored me. “The only way I’ll be able to control Louis is if I lie with him. Move up my wedding.”

  Our uncle bent his arm and lunged at Olympia, bringing his gloves down on her cheek so fast she had no chance to move. The leather made a horrid slap against her skin. She cried out. I backed into the corner of the carriage and balled my hands into fists.

  “Never command me.” He settled back in his seat, unruffled, as if nothing had happened. “Keep your hold on the king or be replaced. A campaign in Flanders is forthcoming. I want the king to sign for troops and ride to the front himself. Ensure he is amenable or I will send you to a convent, too, as far from Paris as I can find.”

  She put her hands down, cheek glowing. “As you wish, Your Eminence.”

  Our uncle started replacing his gloves. He’d planned to strike her all along. “Come down from the ceiling, Marie. As long as you obey, you have nothing to fear.”

  I hadn’t realized I’d climbed the bench in my attempt to distance myself. I sat back down and pressed my face against the wall of the carriage. I felt the jerk and dip of every broken flagstone in the street.

  Watching me, Olympia let out a sinister laugh. “Are you certain you don’t want to go back to your convent, Marie?”

  “What has happened to you all?”

  Our uncle ignored me.

  Olympia snorted. “Welcome to Paris.”

  * * *

  At Palais Mazarin the cardinal’s chief minister, Jean-Baptiste Colbert, was waiting. We followed them into the front hall, where they turned directly into the library and shut themselves up for what might be hours of fiscal discussions. Olympia grabbed my hand and pulled me back out. “Come to the Palais du Louvre with me.”

  “To see the ballet?”

  She nodded. “We can make fun of the bourgeoisie who attend in second-rate satin, striving to imitate nobility’s fashions.” Winter wind blew back her hood. Her hair blew wildly. “I know what you are up to with your little pearls and face paint.”

  I held my hood so my carefully placed curls wouldn’t get ruined. “You don’t know what it’s like in your shadow.”

  “If you want to remain at court, you have to know which men have the money, which women spread their legs, and who needs the most favor. I can show you.”

  She was right. All I knew of the French courtiers I’d learned from reading my uncle’s papers. “No tricks?”

  She dragged me down the steps and waved to the carriage driver, a wrinkled old man, just as he started unharnessing the horses. “To the Louvre!” she called. He looked skeptical. Everyone knew we were in mourning. She flashed her dimples. “Please?”

  The old man actually blushed, and he shouted toward the stables. In moments, coachmen and equerries swarmed the carriage, and we were rumbling down the road again. Olympia reached behind a red velvet cushion and produced two black vizard masks. “You planned this,” I cried as she tied mine into place. She only winked.

  The men helped us alight at the Louvre, and with hoods pulled over our hair, we slipped in through a side door. Olympia led me upstairs, through a few chambers, and finally into a gallery box. A handful of people turned to watch us enter, but we stepped aside.

  “There is Colbert de Terron,” she said, pointing to a man in the hall below. “He is Jean-Baptiste Colbert’s cousin. Ambitious, but easily bribed.”

  A woman in the gallery studied us with discontent. Olympia snapped open a fan to hide our mouths, and she whispered, “That sour thing is Madame de Motteville, the only woman who sincerely likes the queen mother.”

  A minor commotion sounded below, and Olympia pulled me to the railing. “Ah,” she said. “And now we have King Charles the Second of England, here in exile since their parliament executed his father. Look at that swarthy complexion and black hair, don’t you just want to taste him?”

  I elbowed her.

  “He may have no kingdom, but he is still a king. Look, it’s his mother, Henrietta Maria, aunt to King Louis, and his sister, Henriette Anne. Isn’t she deathly thin? Their shabby English retinue have taken over the Palais-Royal and live off our scraps.” She looked at me pointedly. “Is this a family you should ally with?”

  I understood. “Stay within their good graces because they have the king’s favor, but don’t pander because they have no power.”

  She grinned, proud, then pointed to the audience below. “Note who to avoid based on who is absent. You do not see Gaston, duc d’Orléans, uncle of King Louis. He and his daughter disgraced themselves by siding against the crown in the Fronde. Same with the Prince de Condé—that Bourbon cousin was the master behind the Fronde.” She tipped her head toward the stage. “Endeavor to please those closest to the king. The ones he chooses to dine with, to gamble with, to dance with.”

  The violinists in the opposite box began to play, and the violas and basse de violon joined in the overture. I hadn’t participated in a ballet de cour since my brief introduction to Paris years earlier. Now, hearing the music again, I gripped the rail and let the melodic chords flow through me. Onstage, lovesick Cupid languished upon a bed. The Sun King himself danced into view, dressed as Apollo. Nine muses twirled around him, our Martinozzi cousin, the Princess de Conti, among them.

  “I should be dancing,” Olympia muttered. “Look how Mademoiselle d’Argencourt eyes the king. She’ll let the shoulder of that skimpy Grecian costume slip off. She’ll snare him.”

  “Didn’t you use the new potion?”

  Olympia shrugged. “The damned things don’t seem to have lasting effect.”

  “Beyond the heat of the moment, you mean?”

  She frowned. “The cardinal is wrong. The king will come to console me. I’ll have to do something drastic.”

  I paid no attention, just let myself fall into the dotted rhythms and upbeat flourishes of the music.

  * * *

  Back at Palais Mazarin, the cardinal was nowhere to be found. Moréna had my sisters’ things packed in a trunk beside my cassone. “I’m going with you.”

  “Moréna, you belong to Mazarin.”

  “Can a man really own a woman?” Her voice had a determined edge.

  “I don’t have the power to free you.”

  “You need a maid. Tell Mazarin you’ve merely borrowed me to keep logs in your fireplace at night.”

  I shrugged. “Then let us away.”

  We left Olympia hunched over a mortar and pestle, grinding walnut shells for a face scrub, and set out for our new adventure.

  CHAPTER 5

  Hôtel de Vendôme

  January 1657

  “How do you like your rooms?” asked Victoire from her silver gilt bed, where physicians insisted she spend the remainder of her pregnancy. Her belly was surrounded by fluffy down pillows and lacy Dutch linens. She extended her hands, and I kissed each of her cheeks.

  “Far enough that I cannot hear Marianne’s fits when the governess makes her go to bed, and close enough that Hortense can find me if she has bad dreams.”

  Victoire laughed. “I banish bad d
reams.” Her eyes glittered. “Help me entertain visitors.”

  This stunned me. “Me?” With my skinny neck, my big lips, and my pagan ways? “I don’t fit in with the nobility of Paris.”

  She made a tisk sound. “Noble blood doesn’t make a person noble at all. I’ve invited the finest Parisian women so they can see how bright you are. Make a favorable impression and the cardinal might be persuaded to let you stay.”

  I grinned. “Everyone who comes simply must stay to dine.”

  Victoire’s husband, the duc de Mercœur, walked in. “And gamble.” He kissed Victoire. “Offer gambling and the husbands will stay for hours.”

  “Which means Marie can converse longer with the ladies.” Victoire turned back to me. “Start your own salon here. You will be like our father leading the Accademia degli Umoristi!”

  I had clear memories of Rome’s most distinguished literary minds assembling at Palazzo Mancini for readings. And I’d heard of Parisian salons where the witty, the elegant, and the most refined excelled at conversation and exchanged new ideas. Hadn’t King Louis suggested I had merit? “You think I could?”

  Victoire smiled. “You could shine!”

  * * *

  I raided the Hôtel de Vendôme over the next week. I ordered the servants to carry tables upstairs to Victoire’s rooms for gaming. We moved carpets and paintings and half a dozen candelabra. I sent up the library’s best books on philosophy. I went to the kitchens, where hams and bundles of herbs hung from the rafters, and women pounding pastry dough in great wooden bowls worked in clouds of flour.

  “The duchess directed me to order suppers,” I said to the cook sweetly. We drew up menus featuring oysters, foie gras, and poached pears and ordered cases of wine from d’Arbois.

  I instructed the servants. “You must never let the fires die. Never leave a wineglass empty.” They nodded with anticipation.

  On the night of our reception, Moréna laced me in gray silk and poked my ribs. “You should eat more.” She pinned one bundle of black silk flowers in my hair and another at my décolletage, then tied a simple black ribbon around my neck. “You’ll need new dresses.”

  But I was too nervous. “They may not even like me.”

  At last a carriage pulled into the court with our first arrival. The footman muttered a name as she stepped out. Madeleine de Scudéry, the author. This is my chance!

  I greeted her in the front hall with a deep curtsy. “I owe you a debt of gratitude.”

  Scudéry seemed confused. “What have I done to deserve such thanks?”

  “Your novel Clélie provided hours of entertainment at the Convent of the Visitation.”

  She beamed. “I had no idea they read my work in the convent.”

  “Oh, yes. And they always shall.” I winked at her. “As long as we don’t tell the abbess.”

  Scudéry laughed all the way upstairs, where Victoire insisted I entertain them with dramatic recitations of Clélie, and we laughed and supped into the night.

  The next week Scudéry brought another writer. Comtesse de La Fayette, seasoned courtier and matron of honor to the queen mother, studied me up and down. They supped with us, then sat around Victoire’s bed, politely debating the merits of marriage.

  “Marie,” said Scudéry, “what say you?”

  I hesitated. “I would rather not subject myself to a husband. I long to embark on sweeping adventures to distant lands and live on my own terms.”

  La Fayette eyed Scudéry. “She speaks her mind.”

  I tried to make a joke of it. “Blame it on my too-big mouth.”

  Scudéry ignored me. “Yet I sense restraint. She lacks flair. She needs to visit her. We must take her to a rare meeting at the Hôtel de Rambouillet.”

  The others nodded in agreement. I felt like some doll they were about to toy with. “To meet the Précieuses?”

  Victoire smiled triumphantly. “The most famous salon of all.”

  CHAPTER 6

  Those things that cannot naturally bring about the effects for which they are employed are superstitious and belong to a pact entered into by devils.

  —JACOBUS SIMANCAS,

  Institutiones Catholicae

  A few weeks later I stood on the rue Saint-Thomas with Scudéry on my right and La Fayette on my left. The Hôtel de Rambouillet’s red brick, stone facing, and steep roof matched the other houses between the Tuileries and the Louvre. They took me straight in and directly up a circular staircase. I gripped the wrought iron balusters, suddenly anxious.

  La Fayette took my hand. “Be at ease. We aren’t ostentatious or crass like courtiers at the Louvre. You’ll find in us the quality of honnêteté, restraint and decorum.”

  But what will they find in me?

  We passed through a dining room, a bedchamber, then entered a grand salon. Walls of robin’s-egg blue matched blue and gold tapestries hanging between bright windows that stretched from floor to soaring ceiling. The famous chambre bleue. It was like entering a new world.

  A woman arranging hothouse flowers in a crystal vase turned to study me. Catherine de Vivonne, marquise de Rambouillet. Bright eyes suggested a sharp mind despite elderly age. “This is the Mancini you claim is worthy?”

  La Fayette nodded but didn’t curtsy. Scudéry pulled me into the small gathering of men and women, but there wasn’t time for introductions. Rambouillet swept her hand over the red-covered divans, stools, and armchairs, and her guests seated themselves. Scudéry sat beside me, whispering the names of people who spoke.

  The first was a shabbily dressed actor known simply by the name Molière. He held out a roll of paper. “I would like to discuss a new play. A comedy to take Paris by storm.”

  A self-satisfied-looking man, Isaac de Benserade, shook his head. “Poetry and tragedy are the order of the day.”

  Molière looked defeated, but Rambouillet ignored them both. “Today we will discuss palm reading. Is our destiny to be found in our hands?”

  I froze. Of all topics! Did Rambouillet know about my family? My father’s prophecy? My gift for divination?

  Marguerite de la Sablière, a Protestant, answered first. She held out her hand and spoke in a soft, elegant manner. “Only simple country people still practice such things. Brittany women sweep dust from the church to their homes for luck. Autun villagers sacrifice bulls to the Virgin Mother to protect against plague. Every French farmer has a horseshoe over his door and a rabbit’s foot in his pocket. These are not the ways of nobility.”

  The widowed little marquise de Sévigné seemed surprised. “Members of high society merely practice different arts. Some buy potions from a sorceress named La Voisin off the rue Beauregard outside Paris.” Everyone stared at her. “Not me, of course. But I know courtiers who buy charms for health, wealth, beauty, and love.”

  “La Voisin is no mere sorceress,” said François, duc de La Rochefoucauld, an old noble who had fought against my uncle in the Fronde. His presence made me even more nervous. “She’s a witch in league with the devil, performing black masses sanctified with infant blood. Pay renegade priests to consecrate your charms instead. Everyone knows the miracle of the mass activates certain spells.”

  I could name a dozen such spells. Molière looked bored to tears. Benserade seemed to be sleeping.

  Sablière tipped her head in thought. “From what I know of your Catholic faith, that is sacrilege, treason against God, a capital crime. Such priests could be put to death.”

  An old man named Charles de Saint-Évremond said, “Priests are consecrated to mediate between visible and invisible realms. But take heed. Merely inverting the technique turns curative spells into curses, turning superstition into dangerous magic.” He had a bulbous protrusion of flesh between his eyes, but it didn’t detract from the wisdom in his words.

  Rambouillet turned her bright old eyes to me. “What say you, worthy Mancini? Is our destiny to be found in our hands?”

  I fought the urge to squirm and tried to seem relaxed like them. “The ec
clesiastical nature of my uncle’s office prevents me from engaging in any such pagan practices.” They stared blankly, still waiting. I cleared my throat. “But I agree in a sense. We use our hands to forge our own destiny.”

  The women broke into smiles, the men nodded their appreciation, and I felt a rush of relief. Antoine Baudeau de Somaize, fingers smeared with ink, glanced at Rambouillet from the table where he’d been recording our conversation. “It seems we have another cunning Italian blazing her way into French society.”

  Rambouillet is Italian? I stared at her in surprise. She winked and changed the subject.

  An hour later, we made farewells at the front door, and even the unimpressed Molière dismissed himself politely. On the steps Rambouillet muttered to me, “You are surprised that I, too, was born in Rome.”

  “How did you rise to influence the French?”

  “There is no end to what woman is capable of when she aspires.”

  I thought of those words all the way back to the Hôtel de Vendôme. What might I be capable of?

  * * *

  Conversation in the salons of Scudéry and Sévigné moved to safer subjects like Homer, Virgil, Plutarch, Philostratus, and Plato. For the first time in my life, I knew the simple joy of friendships and society. A month passed in a flurry of salon engagements, and Victoire finally insisted I spend an evening with her.

  She propped herself on plump velvet bolsters for a game of chess while the governess, Madeleine, dame de Venelle, from an educated Provençal family, read aloud. Within an hour Victoire put me in checkmate, clever girl, and the next moment she fell back in a faint.

  Venelle and I jumped up and threw back the chess table, and the duc de Mercœur ran to fetch physicians. I held my sister’s hands and said a prayer to the Virgin Mother. Those foolish old physicians in their black robes came in, muttering incomprehensible jargon, peeling back her eyelids and prodding her belly.

  She woke before they could make a pronouncement. “The baby is coming,” she said. “And fast.”

  “Hortense and Marianne, go wait in your room. Moréna, find clean linens.” I flew to the kitchen and ordered vats of hot water, snatched dried witch hazel and yarrow from the rafters, and bundled them into cheesecloth pouches. Papa had made similar pouches to stanch Mamma’s bleeding after Marianne was born, but he’d assembled his under a full moon and cinched them closed with strands of Mamma’s hair. I glanced to be sure no one was watching, put a hand over the pouches, and silently implored the Virgin Mother to make them potent. Surely there was no harm in such a prayer.