Enchantress of Paris

by Marci Jefferson

  Now she hadn’t summoned me in time for the birth. I climbed the wide staircase to her wing and passed through chamber after opulent chamber. The nurses were washing Olympia’s newborn son. He kicked and screamed, pink and healthy, while a flock of doctors stood over him. A midwife tucked fresh silk sheets around Olympia, then carried a bowl of bloody linens away. Olympia reached to me.

  I took her hand, sat on the edge of her bed.

  She wiped her eyes. “I don’t want to die like Victoire.”

  “Shhh.” I tucked her hair behind her ears.

  “Please,” she whimpered. “Make up the herbs for me like our father taught us. Don’t let those damned doctors touch my son.”

  I placed a velvet bag upon her lap.

  She realized it was the herbs she’d just requested. She kissed my hand. “I’m sorry.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” I whispered. “We will both do what we must.”

  I went to the cradle, pushed the doctors aside, and took a great swath of red silk from the nurse. With a quick motion I swiped my nephew into it and carried him to Olympia. The doctors fussed and clucked and flapped their arms. I cooed to the boy and he quieted, trying to focus his newborn blues on my face. I placed him in Olympia’s arms, and together we took hold of his tiny hand. We peered at his palm and saw it at the same time: a long and prosperous lifeline. We smiled at each other, and for a moment everything was perfect.

  But after Olympia ordered a good dinner for her guests and I’d left her asleep in her bed with her infant son, I went home to Palais Mazarin, where the front doors stood wide open to the cold air. In the hall, the maids and footmen jumped around wildly, yelling and waving brooms in the air, looking ridiculous, trying to shoo out a raven that had somehow gotten inside. I leaned on the doorframe and watched the poor bird swoop from one end of the hall to the other. It didn’t matter if they got it out; the damage had been done.

  Moréna gasped. “Is this a bad omen in your culture, too?”

  I crossed myself. “If you consider the impending visitation of death a bad omen, then yes.”

  * * *

  A fortnight later the cardinal summoned us all. I stood in his private study, holding my sisters’ hands. The comte de Soissons arrived without Olympia. Philippe entered unshaven. Martinozzi and her husband, Conti, swept in last.

  Mazarin gestured for them to close the door. “Alphonse injured his skull while playing with classmates.” He struggled to maintain composure. “Physicians removed broken bits of bone to relieve bleeding in the brain. It is no use. Alphonse is dying.”

  Marianne started whimpering. Hortense held her. I remembered the raven and silently cursed it to keep myself from crying out.

  Mazarin went on. “As you know, Alphonse is my heir.”

  Everyone glanced at each other. We had not known this. Not for certain.

  “If he dies, to whom will I leave the management of this great country?” Mazarin looked at the men. “None of you are capable.”

  The muscles in Philippe’s jaw tensed. I didn’t blame him for being angry. Mazarin refused to give Philippe responsibilities or offices, a slight that would become more obvious to the court if he were the only remaining Mancini male.

  Marianne interrupted. “Marie could. She knows everything.”

  The cardinal smiled at her forbearingly. “Thank you, Marianne, but Marie is a girl.”

  My own jaw muscles twitched.

  The cardinal went on. “I must defeat Spain before age and infirmity overtake me. To do it, we must first win Naples.”

  Philippe cut in. “What will you do with Naples?”

  Mazarin gave my brother a look that made us all cringe. “If we seize the Spanish territory of Naples, we can eliminate Spain’s access to reinforcements. We will meet Condé’s troops at Dunkirk this summer with Cromwell’s army at our side. Condé will run out of men. We will crush him.”

  The men in the room glanced at each other. Mazarin seemed to sense what they were thinking. “Don’t start casting lots for Naples. Christina of Sweden will rule there. I can control her.” Christina had abdicated her throne in Protestant Sweden to become Catholic and had taken refuge in the French countryside. Mazarin could control her because she owed him money.

  His Eminence went on. “Conti, you must get information about the movement of your brother Condé’s troops. Find out where they get provisions and their number of cavalry.” He shifted his stern eye to Martinozzi, who looked like she wanted to flee. “Anne, write to your sister in Modena. She must make her husband move his troops to take Naples.” He looked around and barked, “Soissons. You have ties to the House of Savoy. Ensure the duc de Savoy will permit the passage of French troops south through his province to Naples. In the meantime, I will ask Oliver Cromwell to send his ships into the Mediterranean.”

  Soissons looked confused. “Why wouldn’t we send our own?”

  The cardinal ignored this. But I knew. France didn’t have enough ships. Instead, the cardinal had a treasure trove of jewels and gold.

  “You could triumph over Spain,” said Philippe, attempting to recover from his earlier blunder.

  “If I triumph, you all triumph. Hortense and Marianne. You may be called upon to make marriage alliances as your sisters and cousins have done. Can I trust you to submit willingly to betrothals to secure your family’s power?”

  The girls nodded, and I shuddered.

  Mazarin crossed his arms. “If Alphonse dies, we must abbreviate our mourning and participate in the festivities of carnival season. I cannot have you wasting at home. If the nobles or their meddling wives speak against my methods, or if any of them gets word of our secret doings … tell me.”

  The question of his heir remained open. Whom would he appoint as his successor? Who would manage my king’s affairs when my greedy uncle finally croaked?

  He dismissed us with one sweeping wave but called, “Marie. Stay.”

  I stepped out of line and stood before his desk. “Eminence?” The doors to his cabinet closed softly.

  “You mustn’t give up hope just because I couldn’t buy the German Electors.”

  Hope couldn’t be bought. Nor could trust. “I never had any to begin with.”

  “You should.” He curled the ends of his mustache upward. “If I can beat Spain, we will be the richest, most powerful nation in Europe. King Louis can be great without being emperor. And he has never looked upon a woman with more desire than he does you.”

  I tried not to believe him.

  “You have read my important documents.” I started to protest, but he held up a hand. “Do not bother lying. Do you understand my work?”

  I glanced at Colbert. His face betrayed nothing, but that man knew everything. “I understand how you line your pockets.”

  “You confuse greed with preparation. If there is another Fronde, the king must have money enough for troops and provisions. How do you think I quelled civil unrest last time?”

  King Louis came of age, and you control King Louis. “You bought the nobles’ loyalty?”

  Mazarin grinned. “You might say I bought power. The power and glory of France will be my legacy. Now Alphonse will not be present to see my plan through to the end. You are the only Mazarinette capable.”

  King Louis didn’t need to be emperor. He didn’t need to rob his people of riches to defend himself against them. He needed to feed his poor, build hospitals for his sick. He could do these things on his own without a greedy chief minister. “I am.”

  “That is why I will let him marry you if we defeat Spain. You’ve proven you can guide Louis, and with Colbert’s assistance, you can muster the wealth to make him the greatest king.”

  I ignored the silly flip my heart did. “The queen mother will never allow her son to marry a pagan of minor Roman nobility.”

  He waved this away as if he had always valued me. “I can influence the queen. Your task is simple. Keep the king. Keep him at all costs.”

  Colbert opened the door, m
y signal that the conversation was over.

  Moments later I reached the landing at the top of the stairs, where Philippe grabbed my arm. “I can’t bear Mazarin’s arrogance another day.”

  “Does that mean you’re willing to set yourself against him?”

  He looked surprised. “Can you help me?”

  “Do nothing yet. If you’re willing to wait for the right time, I might have information that will topple the cardinal.”

  He sagged. “Mamma is dead. Victoire is dead. Death comes in threes. If Alphonse dies, the cardinal will slight me. How long will you make me wait?”

  “Until I know what must be done.” I turned to my bedchamber, leaving him behind. “In the meantime, pray God allows Alphonse to live.”

  CHAPTER 16

  February 1658

  What an unapt instrument is a toothless, old, impotent, and unweldie woman to flie in the aier? Truelie, the devil little needs such instruments to bring his purposes to passe.

  —REGINALD SCOT, The Discoverie of Witchcraft

  Alphonse died. Our uncle declared a two-week mourning and enclosed himself at the Château de Vincennes.

  “When our mourning is over, you will go to masquerades with me,” said Olympia the next week, checking herself in the mirror of my bedchamber at Palais Mazarin. “And the finest ballet of the carnival season.”

  “Is King Louis performing?”

  She nodded. “You and I have parts in it, too. You will distract my husband while I win back the king. But I must prepare. Come with me.”

  She was testing me. Pushing me out of the way. “Where?”

  “Rue Beauregard. I need a rare ingredient for a love powder.” She pointed to a new ring on her finger. With a subtle flick, the jeweled bezel lifted to reveal a little container.

  A poison ring! “To visit La Voisin? She practices the black arts!”

  Olympia put her fists on her hips. “She’s the only one who’d have cantharides, an insect that drives a man’s lust.”

  “There’s no need to visit La Voisin,” I said. “The Spanish fly you speak of is here at Palais Mazarin. The cardinal keeps a supply hidden in his medicine chest.”

  She seemed stunned at my knowledge. We avoided discussing why a prince of the church possessed an ingredient to drive a man’s lust. “I checked. He is out.” She moved to the door. “I shall get it elsewhere.”

  “Olympia, potions will get you in trouble.”

  She grinned. “No one will suspect me of witchcraft for visiting Ninon de l’Enclos.”

  “The courtesan? She is imprisoned at the Madelonnettes Convent for offensive conduct.”

  “The celebrated courtesan. Even Condé himself was once in love with her. She was released, and she is bound to have what I need.”

  Moréna stopped dusting tabletops to whisper close to me. “Might this courtesan still have a memento of her former lover? An old handkerchief or strand of hair I could use in a spell to speed Condé’s downfall?”

  “I don’t practice malefica,” I hissed.

  Moréna shook her head. “No harm will befall him. Condé will be conquered by diplomacy instead of battle. The war would end, and Mazarin might quit meddling in the king’s affairs.”

  Allowing just one spell might be worth it if Mazarin would leave my sisters and me alone. I turned to Olympia. “I’ll go with you.”

  * * *

  We rode east through the city to the Marais quarter. On rue des Tournelles the houses looked like miniature castle towers, and Olympia knew exactly which belonged to Ninon de l’Enclos. Some of my friend’s salons were nearby. “What makes you think she’ll admit us?” I asked.

  Her footman took our names, and we were admitted immediately. He showed us into a salon decorated with blue and white tapestries and divans covered in yellow taffeta. Upon one of these divans sat l’Enclos. She wore no cosmetics, no jewels, just a simple muslin shift and a green satin undress gown. She did not get up, but studied me with sparkling hazel eyes. “So this is Maximiliane.”

  My friend Somaize had nicknamed me Maximiliane at our last salon gathering. “I see we have friends in common.” I curtsied.

  She turned her gaze on Olympia, though still spoke to me. “This must be your sister. I see none of your fire in her, though she has the look of a woman who wants something.”

  She sees fire in me?

  Olympia seemed taken aback. “Indeed. I have it on good authority you possess a certain Spanish fly.”

  “I possess no such thing. That makes you wrong twice.”

  “Twice?” Olympia’s voice wavered.

  “Yes,” said the courtesan. “Wrong about the insect and wrong about your authority; it’s no good. I wager no one told you such a thing, which means you assumed I use it.”

  Olympia turned a bright shade of pink.

  L’Enclos laughed. “I’ve heard of this Spanish fly. I never had any need for it. So that makes you wrong a third time.” She turned back to me. “You want something, too. But you’re changing your mind.”

  This unusual woman, not beautiful but alluring and witty, was not the type to keep a former lover’s handkerchief. Everything about her felt right—the simple grandeur of her salon, her wit, the angle of the curtain letting in sunlight. Her libertine ways had cost her her reputation, yet she seemed secure in the life she’d chosen. “I think I just needed to meet you,” I replied.

  She smiled. “I’ll bid you farewell with a bit of advice. All you need is right here.” She tapped a finger to her temple.

  The footman ushered us out without another word. Olympia gave instructions to her driver, then wouldn’t speak in the carriage. Neither of us had gotten what we went for. I had gotten much more.

  I pondered the courtesan’s words until I realized we had traveled north instead of west. We rolled through the crumbling towers of Porte Saint-Denis, and I sat up, alarmed. “Are we on rue Beauregard? La Voisin could be dangerous!”

  Olympia pulled our two old vizard masks from beneath a cushion as we stopped before a small, weathered house. “You won’t let me go in alone.” She put the mask on me, damn her, tying the ribbon behind my head. She took my hand, leading me to the front door.

  “I regret this whole errand,” I said as she knocked. “Let’s leave.”

  The door opened, and a round-faced young woman stared out, appraising our silks and jewels.

  Olympia spoke quickly. “I’m to see Catherine Monvoisin, known as the sorceress La Voisin.”

  “Shush.” She glanced behind us. “What do you want?”

  “Cantharides,” said Olympia, flashing a silver ecu.

  The woman eyed it, then opened the door. “Come, come.” She disappeared into her dark front chamber.

  Olympia stepped in. I grabbed her arm, but she shook it off. “We can’t be seen on the street,” she hissed.

  Inside, the smell of rotting flesh and dirt struck me like a blow. The woman poked around a shelf of pots and covered bowls. A central table crowded the room, littered with piles of fingernails, a dish of bones, and jars. The labels read powdered mole, pigeon hearts, coxcombs, potable gold, fat from a hanged man, and infant essence. My stomach roiled. To distract myself, I scanned herbs hanging from pegs on the wall. There was ergot, droué, biting stonecrop, hemlock, and human-shaped mandrake root; all poisonous. Olympia nudged me, pointing through a doorway. In the dim second chamber stood a makeshift altar holding crucifixes, chalices, a pyx containing communion wafers, and a wax poppet poked through with pins. Whatever transpired here was sacrilege at its worst. No Mancini would practice such malefica. We both took a step back. I felt behind me for the door latch.

  The woman turned, holding out a little jar of dead green beetles. “I know a priest who’ll hold your love potion over the chalice during communion to consecrate it.”

  Olympia tossed her ecu on the table. “Just the cantharides.”

  The woman stepped closer. “A fine lady like you can afford to let me mix a philtre d’amour with bat wing, your o
wn blood, and semen of the man you wish to snare.”

  Olympia flung enough silver coins on the table to pay a scullery maid’s yearly wage, then grabbed the jar.

  I flung open the door, and we ran to the carriage. We rode south through Porte Saint-Denis with the windows open, but I couldn’t rid myself of that rotten smell. I swore I’d never again consider casting a malevolent spell for the rest of my life, even if I found a whole lock of Condé’s hair. “Promise you won’t go back there, Olympia. One day that woman will burn.”

  Olympia wouldn’t answer, just stared at her beetles. I couldn’t stop thinking about how to keep her from using them on the king.

  * * *

  “I adore carnival and I adore masquerades,” said Monsieur weeks later, staring across a sea of costumed nobles in the Maréchal de l’Hôpital’s reception hall. Olympia, Soissons, King Louis, and I laughed. From our place at the door, we peered through our gold masks across the throng of dancers. Gold and silver ribbons decked the columns, and musicians played furiously in the balcony. We all wore fanciful dress, but Monsieur looked completely natural in a woman’s bodice, skirts, wig, and jewels.

  Beside him, Mademoiselle waved her feathered fan, cool and regal. “You like any opportunity to flaunt your finery.”

  The king grinned at the crowd, hands on his hips. “I like wearing this mask so no one ceases dancing for a bow.”

  He gestured, and our party moved into the hall, folding in with the dancers, bumping each others’ shoulders, clapping and kicking our heels. Our clothes swished and rustled in the crush of people. We became a sea of gold and silver, hearts pounding in rhythm to the melody and the movement. We gave ourselves to it, throwing back our heads, spinning, and laughing, until someone finally recognized the king. We tossed off our masks and a roar of cheers arose. The marshal herded us into a private chamber, where a smaller group danced to a new set of musicians. And so, at a ball within a ball, we danced for hours.

  At three in the morning, Mademoiselle found a dining room with a collation of cheese and fruits and wine. I poured, and Olympia chugged hers.