Enchantress of Paris

by Marci Jefferson

  “Philippe could show you ledgers that prove Mazarin took the money from you first. This wouldn’t be stealing. It would be taking back what is rightfully yours.” I snapped my fingers at Venelle and rang the bell for Moréna. “Come! We shall take the king’s carriage!”

  * * *

  We raced east out of Paris, the silent king, the grumbling governess, my bewildered maid, and I. We stopped on the drawbridge, and Venelle tried to follow us out of the carriage.

  King Louis signaled to his musketeers. “The governess stays.”

  The musketeers looked askance at each other as if they were trying to decide what to do. King Louis looked at me as if to say, See? Oh, how I hated the way Mazarin undermined the king!

  Moréna peeked through the carriage door. She’d loosened the neck of her chemise. “The governess stays, and so do I. Let me see your hand.” She reached for one of the musketeers. “I’ll tell your fortune.”

  The musketeers gathered around the carriage, intrigued by the novelty of my maid’s exotic charm. She could keep them distracted for a time. They forced Venelle back into the carriage, where she flopped on the seat.

  We rushed to the gate. “Do you think the guards will admit us?” I asked.

  They all seemed stunned upon seeing the king, and they let us pass. It made me nervous. Inside the bailey, the stone donjon towered over us. There were no more guards. We descended the spiral staircase to the vaulted cellars in a flash. The door was unlocked. Oh no. I threw open the first great coffer.

  Empty.

  I took a few steps back. King Louis dropped his face into his hands. I opened another coffer. And another. All empty. Everything gone. I felt light-headed. I reached out for something to steady myself. King Louis guided me to sit on one of the coffers.

  “He knew I would take it,” I said. “Mazarin hid the money because he is about to send me away. Now you have no control of the musketeers or money to intervene.”

  “All these were full?” King Louis stared at the coffers, which gaped like great coffins ready to swallow us. “What do we do?”

  I didn’t know. Without the money, everything depended on the king’s force of will. Without a regiment, he would have to be cunning. “Now our love is put to the ultimate test.” I put my face into his doublet and felt my tears moisten the damask. What did my uncle have planned for me? The convent? Rome?

  “Don’t cry.” King Louis stroked my hair. “I will be the king you think I can be. Have faith.”

  CHAPTER 34

  Judicial Astrology may well be lookt upon as a fair introduction to the Diabolical Art … a lure to draw the over-curious into those snares that lye beyond it.

  —RICHARD BOVET’S Pandaemonium

  Faith has never been my strongest trait.

  King Louis spent the evening in my chambers at Palais Mazarin, supped with me, read with me, but never said a word about how he would get the money or the army we might need to fend off Mazarin’s imminent attack. When he left, I retired. Instead of sleeping, I spent four hours trying to have the faith King Louis had begged of me. Finally, I rose and ordered my sisters to dress.

  It took another hour to get permission from Cardinal Mazarin for the use of his carriage to visit Philippe. I’d sent a missive with the request. It was refused.

  Venelle had looked relieved. “Prisons are no place for ladies of stature.”

  So I’d made Hortense pen a second request. Hers was granted. Before dawn Colbert de Terron, cousin to Jean-Baptiste Colbert, had arrived with the cardinal’s carriage and a pass to enter the Bastille.

  Now my sisters, Venelle, Terron, and I rolled over the freestone streets through the still-dark city. I enjoyed the look of trepidation on Venelle’s face. From the rue Saint-Antoine we turned into a narrow passage and came to the Petit Pont. Terron showed his pass to guards carrying sharp halberds.

  “There is no need for you to follow us in,” I said spitefully to Venelle as the guards lowered the first drawbridge. “As you’re a lady of stature.”

  Marianne huddled against Venelle. “Do I have to go in?” Her eyes widened as we rumbled over the pont-levis and through the second drawbridge to the inner compound.

  “If you want to say good-bye to your brother,” I replied.

  “Can you promise they’ll let us back out again?”

  I could not. Marianne curled closer into Venelle’s side. Hortense and I left them. There was no time to waste.

  The Cardinal’s Guards surrounded us. Terron barked Mazarin’s orders at the custodian, who jangled a ring of huge keys to open the portcullis. We followed him through countless oak and iron doorways, then climbed one of eight great towers. With walls as thick as carriages, the Bastille seemed impenetrable. Any hope I had harbored of breaking Philippe free evaporated. The place reeked like the sludge of the moats. Hortense covered her face with a handkerchief. The custodian jangled his keys at a final door. He pushed it, and it creaked as it opened.

  Tapestries full of the floating sticklike horses and soldiers of two hundred years ago hung from every wall. Carved wooden chests and tables stood in the corners. There was no bed. Philippe lay stretched on a single oak bench in the middle of the cell, face shadowed with stubble. Our skirts swished against the doorframe.

  He looked up. “Please tell me you’re fools on a visit and not more Mancinis under arrest.”

  We rushed to embrace him. Tears sprang to his eyes. I hated myself for putting him here.

  I sensed Terron enter behind us and frowned. “Won’t you let us have a conversation?”

  Terron shrugged apologetically. “You may have all the conversation you can manage within ten minutes’ time if I am present. Your uncle’s orders.”

  Hortense ignored him and muttered to Philippe, “Do you know he’s sending you away?”

  Philippe nodded. “Far enough that I won’t be able to issue commands to my regiment, yet still within Mazarin’s reach.”

  “How long will he keep you?” asked Hortense.

  “Until he can dispose of Marie. He hates us both. He’ll keep us apart to keep us weak.”

  My legs trembled. I sat on the bench with a heavy thud. “So it’s true. He is planning on locking me up.”

  Philippe nodded. “Though I don’t know his exact plans.”

  Below my breath, I said, “I took the king to Vincennes.”

  “Let me guess,” Philippe responded. “You didn’t find the money?”

  Hortense positioned herself between us and Terron’s line of sight.

  “Tell me where he hid it.” I said.

  Philippe shook his head. “He’d never let information like that slip my way.”

  “What am I going to do?”

  “You still have the letter?” he asked.

  My hand flew to my bodice, where the letter was safely concealed.

  Philippe glanced past Hortense’s skirts, then said, “The draft of Mazarin’s damned peace treaty will be complete when they finish article twenty-three.” He took my hand. “Article twenty-three is a marriage agreement between King Louis and the infanta Maria-Thérèsa.”

  Hortense put a hand on my shoulder. “You knew this would happen.”

  I shook my head. “Some part of me was holding on to hope that His Eminence still wished to partner with us.”

  She sighed. “It will upset the king.”

  But will it upset him enough to break with his parents for good?

  The bells of nearby Saint Paul’s Cathedral tolled for the seven o’clock mass. The custodian entered. “We must transfer the prisoner.”

  Terron stepped toward us. “It is time for us to go, mademoiselles.”

  I embraced my brother again. “And time will reveal whether I’ll replace you in exile or set us both free.”

  * * *

  I didn’t sleep well for weeks. One night at the end of April I retired early. Instead of wasting fitful hours in bed, I dragged a chair to my window to look upon the moon. Did it shine on my brother, too? Or was he trapp
ed in some windowless corner of his new prison? Without him I felt more alone than ever. The cardinal is sending me away. I had nothing but a twenty-year-old piece of foolscap hidden against my skin to save me from being locked up in some windowless cell myself. I hugged my knees and studied the heavens.

  Oh, how I miss you, stars.

  I pulled a coverlet around myself, feeling my eyes grow heavy, ignoring my urge to read the stars. As I watched their slow glittering dance across the dark, I noticed a shadow touch the moon. I jumped up. The shadow slowly widened. A lunar eclipse. I panicked. What did it mean? I had ignored my stars for so long, I hardly knew what they were saying. I leaned from the window and searched for the constellations, finally deciding the eclipse was in Scorpio with Mars in dominion. This is a bad omen. It meant flooding, which could cause food shortages and sickness. It suggested war on the horizon. I backed from the window in disbelief. It suggested treasonous activities conducted by powerful men that would cause more to be taken into captivity.

  No! I sat back down, watching the shadow slide for hours until the moon shone bright again, as if the eclipse hadn’t happened. As if such a powerful message could be forgotten.

  * * *

  Hours later, I woke to Moréna’s gentle touch, concern lining her features. The light of a rosy spring sunshine washed over us. My moon and stars had gone to bed.

  I knew what I had to do. “Fetch one of my diamond clasps. Then send a summons to Monsieur Somaize. He will help you find somewhere to pawn it.”

  She looked intrigued, bless her. With her dark skin and servant’s attire, she had more freedom to move about the streets of Paris than I ever would.

  “He will help you find an astrolabe, a brass disc with a turning dial. And an ephemeris from the year of my birth, a pamphlet of dates, numbers, and symbols. He will know where to buy copies of William Lilly’s Christian Astrology and Culpeper’s Herbal with Medicinal and Occult Properties.”

  She grinned. “Tools to read your stars. But why?”

  “To prepare for a time that I might need them.”

  “I’ll get whatever you need.”

  But she couldn’t. The brass astrolabe and books she brought, along with extra gold ecus from the diamond, did much to ease my tension. But after searching all the shops, neither she nor Somaize could find an ephemeris from my birth year. How could I possibly determine what unnamed star my father saw that threatened my hopes for a happy marriage?

  So one night, while everyone else slept, I crept to the cardinal’s library to fetch my father’s book on summoning angelic spirits, Heptameron. It went into the false bottom of my cassone with the astrolabe and other books, and I prayed no one but me would ever look upon them.

  * * *

  Thinking of article twenty-three and the eclipse made me ill in the next weeks. I took to my bed, and every day my king brought trinkets to entertain me. Decks of cards, a chessboard, even his cook, who mixed rare chocolate paste with sugar and milk over a candle in a special silver pot. The chocolate drink did much to lift my spirits.

  One day he brought his mother’s favorite spaniel, Frippon, to play. We laughed as the dog bounded over my pillows, making a mess of my coverlets. She attacked my sheet like a beast, pulling it down until my legs were bared. I didn’t rush to cover myself, and the king’s expression heated. My body ached for his touch. With Venelle at her post by the window, we could do no more than whisper to each other behind the shield of Jerusalem Delivered.

  “The cardinal is waiting for the right moment to be rid of me. That moment will coincide with the presentation of his draft.”

  He held my hand. “Don’t fret over this.”

  “Philippe said article twenty-three includes your marriage to the infanta.”

  “Stop, Marie. I’ll find a solution.”

  “Do you swear?”

  He kissed me on the lips.

  Venelle stood. “Sire!”

  We ignored her. We turned our attentions to Rinaldo and Armida and read their enchanting love scenes aloud, pretending it was us clothed in vines and flowers on a magical island with nothing better to do than bask in one another. It didn’t occur to me until later that King Louis hadn’t sworn.

  CHAPTER 35

  June 1659

  Spring frosts gave way to summer blooms. The merchants and theaters flourished at the Fair of Saint-Germain. We often went at dusk to shop for goods from the East—dishes of fine porcelain, lacquered caskets, and delicate paper fans. We watched tumbling dwarfs perform and acrobats walk on tightropes. The King’s Musketeers accompanied us, with Mazarin’s man d’Artagnan at the head in Philippe’s place, and Venelle scurrying close behind. Sometimes we’d make a quick turn into the hippocras shops. We laughed at the shopkeepers’ astonished faces. The most they’d seen of their king was his profile on the coins in their pockets. They let us sample spiced wines while the musketeers and Venelle ran frantically around the pavilions outside looking for us.

  One day in the middle of June we slipped into a jeweler’s. While examining different pearls on offer, the king didn’t seem his jovial self.

  “What do you think of these?” I asked, holding up a strand of pearls slightly bigger than the old ones around my neck.

  He shook his head. “Not big enough.”

  The jeweler looked crestfallen at the notion of losing the sale.

  Finally, King Louis said, “Your uncle has granted me a sum without forcing me to tell him what it is for.”

  “A sum?”

  “One thousand pistoles. I wanted it. In case you and I ever need private messengers.”

  I forgot the jeweler and the musketeers and Venelle. “Why would we need messengers?”

  He laughed nervously.

  “You’re still trusting Mazarin to keep his word!”

  “Your uncle is terribly concerned about you.”

  “He’s tricked you into thinking so.”

  King Louis glanced at the jeweler, who made a hurried bow and disappeared into the back of his store. It was the mark of inherent power, to be able to issue orders with a mere glance. It left us alone.

  The king put his arms around me. “A papal nuncio named Piccolomini visited the Louvre today with a letter from Pope Alexander the Seventh.”

  I tried to step away, but he held me tighter.

  “The pope has heard rumors. About us.”

  “Are you trying to tell me the pope issued you a command?” This time I did break away.

  He put his hands on my shoulders. “He voiced concerns about my behavior.”

  “Then Don Juan and Capita must have gossiped about us to everyone with connections to the Vatican. The Spanish are pursuing the marriage.”

  “Pope Alexander only wishes to protect my reputation with the other European kings. To secure peace.” He looked down, struggling to find his next words. “And since my love for you is plain to everyone, maybe it would … be a good idea for you to spend a few weeks at Fontainebleau.”

  I pushed him. It was suddenly hard to breathe. I managed to eke out the words “You are a royal fool.”

  He pointed at me. “Don’t.”

  I smacked his finger. “You’re so used to Mazarin’s trickery, you can’t even see it.”

  He grabbed my shoulders again and shook me. “You told me to play his game. Without money and loyal ministers, I’m doing the best I can.”

  “You don’t need any minister!”

  He released me, anger shadowing his eyes. “You were right. He wants you gone. I’ve been haggling with him over this for weeks. Happy now? Fontainebleau is a hard-won compromise. If I can’t coax you to move quietly, he’ll send you to Italy by force. Italy!”

  We both panted as if we’d been throwing blows. I couldn’t respond.

  He stepped to me. “I can’t live with you so far away.”

  I let him kiss me. I felt weak, unsure of anything save the purity of his passion in that moment. His erection pressed against my belly, and I wanted us to forget ourselves.
But it would be all we could ever have. I had no power, no plan, no means to secure our happiness. Outside of this kiss, would we have nothing? I tore at the neck of my chemise, tugging until I could slip my hand down the front of my bodice.

  The king drew back, his expression curious.

  I pulled out the letter. “This is something you shouldn’t have to see.” I ignored the disappointment I felt at handing it to him. “You told me you confronted your mother with rumors that Mazarin is your father, and she insisted he didn’t live in Paris the year before you were conceived.”

  He seemed confused.

  “This is a copy of a letter Mazarin sent to the English ambassador. In his own hand, it is marked from Paris, 1637.”

  He opened it gingerly, read it slowly.

  “Proof that she lied,” I said. “You must question why.”

  “Sh-she wants me to believe the king was my father.” He slid the letter into his doublet.

  “I won’t bother condemning their adultery.” I tidied my clothes. “They were merely trying to reserve the power of the throne for themselves.”

  His hands balled into fists, knuckles turning white.

  “They have kept the power of your throne far too long.”

  He looked so angry I feared he might hit something.

  I whispered, “Will you be ruled by liars? Or will you rule?”

  He nodded. “I will rule.”

  I smiled. “Start now.”

  * * *

  He stormed from the jeweler’s shop, and musketeers hastened to follow. Venelle and my sisters and I struggled to keep up. Subjects in the pavilions spotted him, gasping and bowing. Mothers pointed. Children clapped. By the time we reached the carriages, a great cheer was swelling in the fair’s pavilions. He ordered the driver to carry us fast to the Louvre. Venelle wisely held her tongue. Hortense eyed me, and I quietly gripped her hand.

  At the Louvre, the king barked to his driver, “Fetch the nuncio Piccolomini to Cardinal Mazarin post haste.” He gestured for me to follow him up the stairs to Mazarin’s rooms.

  Mazarin looked up from his vast worktable and frowned.

  King Louis cut to the point. “I understand you’ve completed the first draft of the peace treaty.”