Enchantress of Paris

by Marci Jefferson

  “There isn’t a woman alive who is worthy of you.”

  He laughed a little. “What is different about you tonight?”

  I shrugged. “The cardinal poured Olympia’s old diamonds on me.”

  The king looked me over, pausing on my décolletage a moment too long. “I never noticed before, but your eyes, they sparkle like the night sky.”

  My heart nearly thumped out of my chest. I had to look down.

  “Dance?”

  I answered by looking back up, and he led me out. Flutes and clarinets in the gallery played the opening chords of a minuet, and violins joined the melody. We stepped in time. Along the perimeter, painted faces looked astonished, and powdered heads tipped together to chatter. I couldn’t care less.

  “I can finally face you without shame,” the king said. “I finished Jerusalem Delivered. Rinaldo was a lucky man.”

  “Lucky?” I said, feeling flushed from the cinnamon. “He was bewitched by Armida until he looked into the mirror!”

  “Armida loved him deeply. Every man should be so lucky.”

  “Perhaps luck is what I need.”

  “Why does a lovely creature like you need luck?”

  I took a breath. “To make you realize my eyes sparkle like the night only for you, that you might look inside them to find an Armida who loves you already.”

  The violins ceased, and the flutes brought the melody to a gentle close. Why did I say that? I began trembling so badly I was sure everyone could see. I started to leave.

  But the king grabbed my hand, bowed, and kissed it. “Forgive me for having failed to see before.”

  He doesn’t mean it. With a quick curtsy, I slipped my hand from his and stepped back. I turned, looking at no one. The wall of courtiers parted, and I flew to the door. Moréna appeared and called my driver. My carriage met us in the middle of the Cour Carrée. “Home,” I ordered, climbing in.

  “Were you bold?” asked Moréna in the guttering light of the crystal sconce.

  Too bold.

  She grinned all the way back to Palais Mazarin.

  CHAPTER 12

  It is the public scandal that offends—to sin in secret is no sin at all.

  —from MOLIÈRE’S comedy Tartuffe

  That night, unable to sleep, I paced before my empty fireplace, watching a lone candle burn shorter and shorter. What if he never wants to see me again? I couldn’t decide which was worse, having to return to the convent, failing my sisters, or displeasing King Louis.

  The cardinal stepped noiselessly into my bedchamber well past midnight. “You left early.”

  “Your Eminence is light of foot,” I said, startled. “I had been too forward. It won’t happen again.”

  “It is a good tactic. Be the prey to his hunt. Let him pursue you.”

  I dared not confess I hadn’t developed this tactic on purpose. “Shall I wait on the queen tomorrow?”

  “Leave the work of the toilette to other women. Go when they are at leisure, for cards and music. That is when Louis visits.” He quietly appraised me. I crossed my arms so he would not see the shadows of my nipples under my thin silks. “You look lovely.”

  I wanted to jump into bed and tie the curtains closed. I tried to jest. “Even without my jeweled bodice and diamonds in my hair?”

  He smiled a little. “Proof of true beauty.”

  I didn’t know what to say. No one had ever called me beautiful.

  He took a step toward me. “Make the king love you, and he might do more than share secrets.”

  I leaned back. I couldn’t imagine King Louis loving me. “More?”

  “What do men do when they love deeply?”

  “Your Eminence, bedding the king didn’t serve Olympia well—”

  “Olympia lusts too much. She gave herself too readily. But you fled when the king’s interest was piqued. Let him think he must own you before he can bed you.”

  “Own me? If you mean marriage—”

  He held up his hand. “Do not speak of it. Just be the prey.”

  He slipped out, and I was too dazed to go after him. The candle finally died, and I stood alone in the dark. God help me, I laughed! I clapped my hands across my mouth, but the thought of the king marrying me was nonsense. D’Argencourt had failed without aspiring so far. And she would be in a convent by dawn. I am doomed.

  * * *

  I rose at midmorning and found a slip of foolscap on my pillow.

  If a man who once waged war against me wishes to return to my king’s favor, that man must first pay me homage, and an attempt to circumvent me by way of the queen will lead to his destruction.

  It was Mazarin’s writing. An assignment. I ripped up the paper and threw the pieces into the cold fireplace. “Light it,” I said to Moréna.

  “But it’s a beautiful spring day.”

  I didn’t even understand the note, but I wanted no visible trace of my uncle’s command over me. “Tell my driver I go this evening to the queen’s.”

  * * *

  The sentinels at the queen’s apartments admitted me without hesitation. My new high-heeled mules click-clicked on marble floors as I moved past pillars and sculptures in the vestibule, the anteroom, and into the salon where the queen mother played cards with three other women. I curtsied before her table. She nodded without looking up, and I took my place standing between a window and a candelabra.

  My Martinozzi cousin Princess de Conti approached, gold hair shining in the window’s evening light. “D’Argencourt departed for the convent at Chaillot.”

  “Poor girl.”

  “The court is abuzz, wondering if Mazarin did it on your account.”

  I laughed and hoped it sounded convincing. “I imagine I’ll be following in d’Argencourt’s wake soon.”

  “Look,” she said, gesturing to a man carrying papers. “Here is the new secretary our uncle appointed for the queen. You know what happened to that older secretary who served her faithfully for decades?”

  I watched the new man present himself to the queen. “What happened to him?”

  “Our uncle happened to him,” she said.

  “He must not have been trustworthy if our uncle dismissed him.”

  She shrugged. “He dismisses anyone he can’t control. Be wary.”

  I glanced at her.

  “He’s using you. And you are not one to be controlled.”

  When we’d first come to Paris, right after her wedding to the Prince de Conti, we’d danced in a ballet, The Marriage of Peleus and Thetis. She’d played a goddess, and I’d played a musical muse. From backstage I couldn’t see the king dancing as Apollo. She ordered me to stay behind a backdrop while she looked for Conti. But I’d climbed up the cranks and pulleys of mechanical clouds to get a peek onstage. When she couldn’t find me, she panicked and begged Conti to organize a search party. I’d started laughing, and they spotted me. Say you’re sorry, she’d commanded. But I wasn’t. I’d seen the Sun King dance!

  Now I touched Martinozzi’s arm. “He’ll send me to the convent if I fail.”

  She sighed. “Don’t try to fool him, you wicked girl. He’ll make you beg for the convent.”

  The king’s herald called from the antechamber, “His Majesty the King!” and we curtsied.

  King Louis went straight to his mother and kissed her. He looked at her cards, then rounded the table, checking everyone’s hand. “I’d slip Madame de Motteville a spare ace, but that would give her away.” He paused to absorb their chuckles. “So instead, I’ll sweeten the bank.” He tossed a golden coin on the table, where it clinked among the silver. Then he turned to me. “Marie!”

  Martinozzi backed away as the king approached.

  “You don’t play cards?” he asked.

  I glanced at the table, where I had not been invited to play. “I’m afraid I’m no better at dealing with card players than with politicians.”

  He looked confused.

  I grinned. “I never know when they’re bluffing.”

&
nbsp; He laughed heartily. So did the queen’s ladies.

  “Marie,” cried the queen, “you’re such a wit!”

  “Pray don’t tell my uncle,” I said. “He’ll either ship me to a convent or rent me out as a royal jester and pocket all my profits.”

  Everyone roared at that, and I prayed they really wouldn’t tell my uncle.

  The queen mother dabbed her eyes and gestured to a tufted bench. “Please, Marie, sit when you talk to the king.”

  To be allowed to sit in the presence of royalty was rare. Everyone watched us sit together, and I didn’t have time to worry what they thought.

  King Louis reached into his doublet and pulled out my book. “There was a reason for the delay. I … I had to learn Italian.”

  I was stunned. “You learned Italian—for me?”

  “Your sisters say you read in every language.”

  “Not every. Greek, Latin, English, Italian, French, Spanish.”

  He laughed. “I confess, I struggled with some passages.” He flipped through the pages to canto fourteen. “Here. What’s Armida doing?”

  I looked. “Ah, the best part. She’s just enchanted Rinaldo.”

  “But why does she fly him to her magic castle?”

  “To keep him for her pleasure.” My cheeks burned. “But it doesn’t last.”

  The queen mother looked our way. “Read aloud, Marie.”

  “She doesn’t have to read,” said the king. “She knows whole cantos by heart.”

  The queen’s eyes widened. “Then recite!”

  “Yes,” said the king. He searched the pages. “Here. Recite your favorite verses from canto sixteen, and I will see if you get them right.”

  I resisted the urge to wipe my palms on my silk skirts. I began to recite the canto in Italian.

  “Her veil, flung open, shows her breast; in curls

  Her wild hair woos the summer wind: she dies

  Of the sweet passion, and the heat that pearls,

  Yet more her ardent aspect beautifies:

  A fiery smile within her humid eyes,

  Trembling and tender, sparkles like a streak

  Of sunshine in blue fountains; as she sighs,

  She o’er him hangs; he on her white breast sleek

  Pillowing his head reclines, cheek blushing turn’d to cheek.”

  Aware of the furious blush in my own cheeks, I glanced at the king.

  He rifled through pages. “Yes! She got it.”

  The queen and her ladies applauded, murmuring to each other. They have no idea it is a love scene! I bowed my head.

  King Louis handed the book to me. “Alas, I promised my brother a game of billiards.” He stood to go. “Will you join us for a game tomorrow?”

  “As you wish.”

  The queen mother called to him, “I almost forgot! I received a letter from your uncle Gaston, duc d’Orléans. He asks permission to pay us his respects.”

  Gaston. One of the leaders of the Fronde! Mazarin’s mysterious note came to mind. That man must first pay me homage. I held my breath.

  King Louis considered it. “He hasn’t been to court since he surrendered. How many years?”

  The queen focused on her game. “They say he now lives a life of piety.”

  “Send the note to my chamber and I’ll answer it,” he said as he walked out.

  Oh no. What should I do?

  * * *

  As expected, the cardinal came to my room that night. He opened my bed curtains. “Gaston thinks he can sidestep me. You cannot allow it.”

  There was no use feigning sleep. “He wants to pay respects to the king and queen.”

  “If Gaston doesn’t show reverence to me, Condé will never fear me. Condé is massing his troops for the summer. He will strike again in the north. France is weary of war. Help me make it stop.”

  I clutched the coverlets. It was more than that. Mazarin needed to prove to every last footman in Paris that he was in control. “I will do what I can.”

  * * *

  The next evening, my carriage arrived at the Pavillon du Roi at the Louvre. Musketeers stood aside. I’d asked Philippe to escort me, but Mazarin said I had to work alone. So my page walked before me while Moréna carried my ivory satin train. I went straight to the king’s quarters, my gold silk shoulder drapery fluttering as I passed marble pedestals and sculptures. The footmen announced me and opened both doors to the king’s apartments.

  Tapestries, paintings, or murals covered every inch of space. Dozens of the finest candles lit a green-covered table and smelled faintly of honeybee wax. The far windows looked across the Seine to the Île de la Cité, with its fetid alleys and crooked streets.

  The king himself stood to greet me. “Marie.” He kissed my cheeks. Like a cousin. Or perhaps more.

  I looked around. “Who is brave enough to teach me billiards?”

  Monsieur called, “Not me. I’m wretched.”

  “King Louis is the best,” said the Prince de Conti. Though he was Condé’s brother, he’d submitted to my uncle after the Fronde. His marriage to my Martinozzi cousin was a triumph for Mazarin. Conti could be an asset. He leaned over the table and used the wide end of his mace to strike the balls, making a fantastic racket.

  King Louis grabbed a mace. “We play King and Hoop. We each have three balls.” He positioned me at one end of the green-upholstered table and pointed to six side pockets. “Keep them from falling in the hazards.” Then he indicated a hoop rising from the tabletop. “Whoever moves all their balls through the hoop first wins.” He put my hands on the mace and positioned my arms. “Try.”

  I pulled the stick back, aimed, then struck the ball. It whacked the others, missing the hoop and the hazards.

  “Très bon!” said King Louis, and he stalked to the other side. “Knock your opponents into the hazards if you can.”

  “So, the mace is the king of the billiards table,” I said.

  Conti nodded. “It commands the subjects.”

  Monsieur laughed. “The subjects don’t always move through the hoop like they’re supposed to.”

  “Maybe not for you,” said King Louis. With that he struck, and a ball rolled through the hoop. “The king must be skilled.”

  Monsieur elbowed me. “My brother doesn’t have to be skilled while your uncle is around!”

  The king struck and missed. “My subjects will follow commands when I issue them.”

  I lined up. “Who was it your mother said wishes to return to court?”

  “Gaston,” said Conti from the corner. “And he ought to be forced to crawl back.”

  I struck, sending a ball through the hoop. “Didn’t he defy my uncle in the Fronde? You should test your skill on him. Command Gaston to first visit Mazarin.” I rounded the table, lined up to strike.

  “Yes,” said Conti, to my relief. “He wanted to kill Mazarin.”

  King Louis thought a moment. “If Marie puts her next ball through the hoop, I’ll order Gaston to fall on his knees before Cardinal Mazarin.”

  Conti glanced at me. Monsieur laughed. I struck the ball hard. Straight through the hoop.

  Conti applauded.

  “Well done,” said the king, beaming at me with evident pride.

  Monsieur lined up for his turn. “The cardinal will be thrilled.”

  The thought that my king might realize I’d been maneuvering for this very thing made me sick. But I threw back my head and laughed. “Just don’t tell the old bird I had anything to do with it.”

  * * *

  I stood behind our uncle with my brother and younger sisters in the great hall of Palais Mazarin weeks later, watching the entourage of Gaston, duc d’Orléans, clamor into the courtyard. The old prince who had caused my uncle and my king such trouble entered alone, limping with gout, leaning on a gold cane. He reached the cardinal and, grimacing, eased himself to his knees. He kissed my uncle’s red cassock and white lace rochet. He begged forgiveness. My uncle extended his hand, and Gaston kissed his fingertips. Thus,
through me, Mazarin’s power over the French and the king was enforced. I hated every moment.

  Gaston left for the Louvre, and my uncle turned to me. “I’m not sure whether it is your fear of the convent or your love for the king that has made you useful.”

  “I did it out of love for you, Uncle,” I lied.

  “Next to beg my forgiveness will be Condé. I am moving our troops to the north. We must leave nothing to chance. You must convince King Louis to join them.”

  “Why put the king so close to battle?” It didn’t seem a fatherly thing to do.

  “To inspire troops who are sick of war to fight with all their hearts.”

  According to Parisian pamphleteers, the whole country was sick of war. But Mazarin’s private ledgers showed how he profited by provisioning the army and controlling its budget. Oh, how little lives are worth when there’s money to be made.

  He watched me carefully. “Perhaps you’re wondering what’s in it for you? The King of Germany is dead.”

  I shrugged.

  “Ferdinand the Third was also the elected Holy Roman Emperor, which forced the imperial countries to help him when he sided with Spain against France. Imagine what Louis can do if he wins the next election.”

  “It would help us defeat Spain and Condé.”

  “I’ve sent emissaries to bribe the Electors and will go to Metz myself for the vote. The king should come with me. As Holy Roman Emperor, King Louis could marry anyone he wants. Even the mere niece of a cardinal. Suggest it. Make him think it’s his idea.”

  An opportunity to end the war and marry the king? I retired to my rooms not knowing what to believe.

  CHAPTER 13

  Summer 1657

  Summer’s sun warmed the countryside, trees and fields blossomed with bounty, and two countries took up arms to resume a war that had been ongoing for thirty years. The court traveled to Sedan to be closer to the fighting. The journey took days. Regiments of musketeers, companies of gendarmes and light horse, cavalry regiments, and royal carriages followed the kettledrums and trumpets, winding north through vineyards swollen with juicy grapes and past lavender fields glittering with purple. We converged on towns at night, where troops put the great houses under arms and sweaty courtiers descended from carriages to collapse in assigned lodgings.