Enchantress of Paris

by Marci Jefferson

  “I should be angry. That paltry ring was meant as a reflection of the job I’m doing.”

  “What is wrong with you today?”

  She rushed to a potted orange tree and vomited in the soil. Her voice softened. “Tell our uncle I’m sorry. I will of course be more attentive to the king when I’m feeling better.”

  “Olympia—”

  “Tell my maids I need them on your way out.”

  * * *

  In the carriage, Moréna grinned. “What ails your sister?”

  “Stomach gripe. I’m worried.”

  She shook her head. “Olympia stopped bleeding.”

  My breath caught. With child! Was it Soissons’s or the king’s? “Say nothing. His Eminence mustn’t find out yet.”

  “He needs to know now. To replace her.”

  “With some slut we don’t know?” The idea made me cringe. If I had to see my king with anyone, I preferred him to be with my sister. “At least with Olympia I can intervene if she mistreats the king. Give her a chance to recover.”

  Moréna looked smug. I didn’t want to know what she was thinking.

  CHAPTER 10

  Marie Mancini is ignorant of nothing, has read all the good books, writes with an ease that cannot be imagined.

  —ANTOINE BAUDEAU DE SOMAIZE, Dictionnaire des Précieuses

  Later that week, for the first time since my return to Paris, I received a summons to attend the queen mother at her morning toilette. The guards at her Louvre apartments admitted me, and I crept through the cavernous marble rooms. In the state bedchamber, high-ranking princesses of the blood stood closest to the queen, handling her clothes, shoes, pins, ribbons, a handkerchief. Duchesses and countesses stood behind them, passing clean clothes to the princesses or waiting to discard a dirty gown. My cousin Martinozzi, a princess of the blood by marriage, stood near the queen. I stood in the very back. Which suited me fine, since that’s where wisps of gossip flew freely …

  “King Charles is in Madrid, that traitor.”

  “I was sorry to see King Charles go. He was so good in bed.”

  “Oh, kings make terrible lovers.”

  One of the gossips poked me. “Now that our own king has cut his teeth on your sister, he’s taking a bite of Mademoiselle d’Argencourt. You Mancinis will fall from favor yet.”

  I did not respond. The princesses of the blood had parted, and the queen mother stood listening. I glanced at her. The gossips turned around. They realized their scathing words had been overheard. They curtsied.

  The queen mother ignored them. “Marie. Walk beside me to mass.”

  I knew this mark of favor would infuriate the gossips. Good.

  She cut a path through them, took my arm, and we fell into step together on the way to her private chapel. The princesses kept a respectful distance, and the queen talked softly. “I didn’t want to believe any of it. But they are quite right, I’m afraid. My son, the king, has dined only with d’Argencourt this entire week. Your uncle and I are beside ourselves.”

  “How is this any different than the way he behaved with my sister?”

  “D’Argencourt puts on airs when she comes to my chambers. Making shallow curtsies, wearing a superior expression, laughing with haughtiness. I cannot allow her to gain influence over my son.”

  “The king respects you and follows my uncle’s advice in everything.” We reached the queen’s chapel and stepped inside. Hundreds of candles glittered against motifs of gilded fleur-de-lis. Cherubim and seraphim frolicked amid clouds in murals overhead.

  The queen went on. “D’Argencourt is the pretty face before a grasping, greedy family. She is filling his head with spiteful rumors. They use her to seek power and position that your uncle and I are not willing to concede.”

  Yet they used Olympia in the same manner. “Surely your son rules his own mind.”

  She glanced sidelong at me. “I hope not.”

  That made me uneasy. They treat the king like a child!

  At her pew she waved other ladies away. “Olympia is with child. She is ill and is clearly losing her grasp over the king. It alarms me. I am sending him away. I shall speak with your uncle about what should be done with you upon the king’s return.”

  They must have spies everywhere! “Me?”

  “If your sister has been thrown from the saddle, perhaps you can take the reins.”

  The liturgy began. It kept me from snapping back that I would never serve as her spurs.

  * * *

  Later that night, Moréna made me rinse my mouth with rosemary and myrrh water, brushed southernwood oil into my hair, and was about to apply a mask of egg whites and almonds to wear on my face overnight, when Jean-Baptiste Colbert entered my bedchamber unannounced. “You’re summoned to the queen’s.”

  Moréna cursed him for scaring us, then hurriedly dressed me in a simple bodice and gown. Colbert’s carriage driver made haste. When I reached the queen mother’s doors, they burst open.

  The king started to walk out but stopped when he saw me. He pointed at me and turned back. “And another thing,” he said, his voice tense. “I have had Marie’s book for months. Months! Yet my readers, whom you appointed, will not read it to me because you don’t allow it.”

  My uncle, standing beside the queen in her bed, put his hands out. “We choose readings that are edifying to Your Majesty.”

  “I will give up the lover that you so vehemently disapprove of, but you will appoint a reader of my choice.”

  My uncle nodded. “Your Majesty is wise in avoiding the d’Argencourt family.”

  King Louis frowned. “I’m leaving for the Château de Vincennes in the morning for a week of hunting.” The queen mother started to speak. “Don’t follow me. I want only a small retinue and musketeers.”

  I grinned, not moving out of his way, and whispered, “There is nothing like a little reading after a long day of hunting.”

  He actually laughed. Cardinal Mazarin and the queen mother leaned toward us.

  I kept my voice low. “Forget the readers. Make use of those royal eyes and read the book yourself.”

  He nodded deeply to me and said, “Very well, Marie. Next week.” He marched out. I fought the urge to follow him.

  “Marie,” called my uncle, “close the doors.”

  I walked in slowly, pulling the doors closed behind me. They glanced at each other.

  “Why did he laugh?” asked the queen mother.

  I shrugged. I certainly wouldn’t tell.

  The queen mother shook her head. “What do we do?”

  “Don’t fear, my love.” The cardinal stepped to me. “A week at Vincennes will do him good. When he returns…” He stroked a long, shining curl resting on my shoulder. “This niece has developed into a promising candidate.”

  “Marie and Hortense are the only candidates now.”

  I stifled a gasp.

  “Can you trust Marie?” she asked.

  The cardinal gave me a pointed look. “Can I?”

  They couldn’t use little Hortense! “Have I ever been dishonest?”

  My uncle crossed his arms, hands disappearing in the folds of his long sleeves. “Do you understand what we want?”

  “You want the king to attach himself to me.”

  The queen mother smoothed her coverlet. “We shall host a ball. She must prepare.”

  My uncle turned to the queen. “She shall have new gowns, new jewels, and I will grant her apartments at the Louvre, close to the king.”

  “She will attend my toilette, showing herself at court every day.” The queen counted each item off on her fingers. “She must have a fine carriage, invitations to banquets, her own servants. Come summer, she must follow the court to Fontainebleau.” She paused. “Will he like her?”

  My uncle’s smile mirrored his upturned mustache. “He already does.”

  My breath caught. All this time I hadn’t allowed myself to hope. If anyone knew the king’s secrets, it was Mazarin. The king does like me. I curt
sied, took three reverent backward steps, then left. I took Colbert’s coach home in a haze of joy. I forgot Olympia. I didn’t give much thought to what they were really asking me to do. The king likes me!

  CHAPTER 11

  Palais de Louvre

  Spring 1657

  Moréna built huge fires in my hearth and made me soak in milk baths in a great copper basin each day. Gradually my skin grew soft and luminous and pale. She delighted in making me eat creams and pastries, cakes and confections.

  “I cannot eat all of this,” I grumbled.

  She grabbed my breasts. “You must fatten up!”

  She sat before me with pincers and plucked a hair from my eyebrow.

  “Ouch! No more.”

  “Sit still,” she said. “If you want the king to see the beauty of those black eyes, let me frame them with pretty arches.”

  So I endured it, pluck by pluck.

  Yellow narcissuses and buttercups burst from the earth, and I itched to plant a pottage of healing herbs and sprinkle it with holy water on the spring equinox. But the king would soon return, and I did want him to see me at my best. So I spent my days with the cardinal’s dressmakers. They created splendors of gold and silver gowns for suppers at the Louvre, purple and red silk ensembles for balls, rose and blue satin day dresses, a red coat cut like a justaucorps à brevet, and riding costumes. I had a dozen new pairs of gloves, from long satin creations that covered my forearms to the softest kid leather for riding to the toughest leather gauntlets for hawking. They delivered so many new pantoufles and boots and high-heeled mules in every color and fabric, I might never wear the same shoe twice in a season.

  At the end of the week the cardinal came to my chamber with Colbert, who was carrying a velvet tray. He threw back the cover to reveal a parure of diamonds. The set included earrings, bracelets, rings, a great necklace, hair combs, and hair pins. Some were so large they had to be from Olympia’s wedding gown. She will be outraged.

  “Thank you, Your Eminence.”

  Cardinal Mazarin took my arm and began walking me downstairs. “Do you know why I worked so hard to secure a marriage between my sister and your father?”

  “Because he was a nobleman,” I said, repeating what Mamma had explained.

  Mazarin spoke softly of something our family rarely discussed. “My father was a pauper from Sicily, elevated by the position he won as steward to the powerful Colonna family in Rome. The Colonnas did much for us, but we grew up merely one step ahead of poverty. The responsibility of improving our station fell on me. I’ve spent a lifetime promoting my family, striking business deals, bargaining for offices, arranging marriages. Do you have what it takes to help me maintain the prominence we’ve achieved?”

  I am nothing like you. We reached the courtyard. There, led by six white horses wearing fluffy white plumes, stood a whitewashed carriage gleaming in the spring sunshine. Silver curtains hung in the windows. The driver and postilions bowed to me. A white-liveried footman opened the door, and I touched the white velvet benches. “Generous, most eminent Uncle, there is one thing I’ve been meaning to ask for.”

  He waited.

  “I can’t curl my hair properly without the slave girl Moréna, and I’ve grown quite dependent on her. Might you grant her ownership to me?”

  “Moréna belongs to me and to Palais Mazarin. But as long as you are in my service, she may serve you.”

  Not the answer I’d hoped for. Just then an equerry rode a huge white stallion into the courtyard. Silver ribbons were braided into the horse’s thick mane and tail. Pearls encrusted the pommel on the gray leather saddle. Muscled and elegant, the animal pranced and bowed at the equerry’s command, hoofs clopping and bridle clanking. I couldn’t resist stroking the animal’s neck. I kissed his soft muzzle, and he nudged my shoulder.

  “Andalusians are hard to find,” said my uncle. “Strong and fast enough to keep up with the king’s best war horses.”

  In other words, don’t fall behind. “I cannot thank you enough.”

  “King Louis mustn’t give another thought to d’Argencourt.”

  Deep within, the thought of helping my greedy uncle turned my stomach. But if I didn’t perform, he might make sweet Hortense his marionette. Could I find a way to shield the king from Mazarin’s fierce control?

  My uncle said over his shoulder as he went back inside, “You are mine. By making the king yours, he will be mine, too.”

  The equerry tossed me an oat cake. “Can you handle so powerful a creature?”

  It took me a moment to realize he meant the horse. “My father taught me to handle the most spirited horses.” The horse ate the oats from my hand. “What is his name?”

  “Trojan.”

  I laughed. “Does my uncle know that?”

  The equerry shrugged.

  So my uncle had gifted me a Trojan horse. Well, I would certainly be on guard.

  * * *

  I ordered all six horses to be harnessed for the brief journey from Palais Mazarin to the Louvre on the night of the king’s return. More than required, and just enough to make a statement. Moréna and Philippe rode with me. Candlelight from the crystal sconce flickered over her new white turban and dress. She pulled a vial from her hanging pocket and extended it to me.

  My brother pushed it away. “No love potions.”

  She pulled out the cork and put it under my nose. “It’s just a tincture to give her strength.”

  I took the vial. “No magic?”

  “You stopped believing in magic the night you burned—”

  I shot her a warning look. The tincture smelled of cinnamon, and I downed it in one gulp.

  We rolled into the eastern corner of the Cour Carrée, passing crumbling towers from the Middle Ages on our left. Construction on the Italian-style wings to our right had begun during the last king’s reign but stood unfinished. The Louvre remained an incomplete mix of styles because my uncle focused funds elsewhere. No carriage in the court compared to mine, and the others made way. Philippe peeped around my silver curtains and pointed. I saw d’Argencourt standing with her father between carriages.

  She seemed angry, and her voice carried. “All the king told me is that Mazarin hopes to ally with Oliver Cromwell.”

  Her father frowned. “To use his supply of soldiers?”

  “I won’t have a chance to find out because I’m not doing this anymore.” She turned from him.

  He grabbed her arm. “You must to secure your family’s position. Tonight may be your last chance.”

  Philippe and I exchanged a knowing look. My footman opened the door at that moment, and d’Argencourt and her father hastened inside the Louvre. I stared at the creamy limestone of the Lescot Wing. How many times had I entered without seeing the white stone oculi, the oval marble plaques, cartouches, and lintels? I had always rushed past, in the anxiety of moving to a new country, the grief of my mother’s illness, or the flurry of Olympia’s wedding. The Mazarin apartments were here, most rooms now appointed to me. I could now come and go as I pleased. I balled my hands into fists and then loosened them. Tonight I entered for myself.

  Moréna stepped from the carriage behind us, carrying my train as I entered the Salle des Caryatides. She slipped away at the door, not to be seen again until needed.

  A footman announced us. “Monsieur Philippe and Mademoiselle de Mancini!” My name echoed in the marble and stone great hall where courtiers danced to Lully’s violins. No one took note. At least, they pretended not to.

  Philippe gave me a worried look. Our uncle had instructed him to stay out of my way. “Good luck, sister.” He slipped into the crowd.

  To the south, the raised Tribunal sat empty. Neither the king nor queen mother had arrived. I snapped open my fan and walked to the north end, sidestepping clutches of courtiers. They glanced, promptly turning back to their groups. I told myself they envied my diamonds, my silver gown, the elaborate painting of Diana on my fan. I passed the d’Argencourt family unseen. I stopped behind th
e row of carved armless caryatids supporting the musician’s gallery. A herald ran down the stairs calling, “Their Majesties King Louis and his mother Queen Anne!”

  The music stopped. The dancers cleared the floor, and the entire assembly bowed and curtsied. Colorful Swiss Guards marched down in two rows, staggering themselves along each side of the staircase. I hid behind my marble caryatid and watched the royals descend. The cardinal followed them. The musicians resumed, and courtiers rose, watching the king open the dance with his mother. She didn’t move gracefully, and the ceremonial opening was brief. The royals moved to the Tribunal, where the king struck up conversation with Colbert.

  From my place behind the caryatids, I saw d’Argencourt’s father nudge her. She frowned. He gave her a scathing look.

  D’Argencourt heaved a sigh. She took a step, threw back her shoulders, then walked right through the empty dancing area. I left my post and slowly circled the hall, keeping behind nobles and courtiers, listening to the flurry of whispers that rose in her wake …

  “She’ll either make her family’s fortune or ruin herself.”

  “I bet ten francs the king refuses her outright.”

  D’Argencourt reached the king and curtsied low. He hesitated. To my dismay, he led her to the floor to dance a sarabande. I continued toward the Tribunal, listening to the gossip fly …

  “You owe me ten francs.”

  “Look at the king flush. He’s enraged.”

  The melody rose to a high note and ended as I reached my uncle’s side. He took my hand upon his arm.

  The king bowed politely to d’Argencourt, then marched straight to Mazarin. “See to it that she has no opportunity to impose on me again.”

  My uncle bowed his head. “I have already informed the abbess at the Convent Sainte-Marie at Chaillot. D’Argencourt shall be installed before dawn.”

  Convent exile. The thought made me shudder. The cardinal backed away, offering my hand to King Louis.

  The king took it. “Marie.”

  “You’ve had an eventful evening.”

  “I … I cannot allow a woman to use me for her own gains.” He studied me.