Enchantress of Paris

by Marci Jefferson

  The cardinal swept his hand over bound packets of paper on his table. There were more than a hundred, each marked with a different article number and notations of properties, borders, or funds. No wonder it took so long to draft.

  “Show me article twenty-three.”

  My uncle paled. Ah yes, uncle, you sent Philippe away a little too late. He sorted through the packets and handed one to King Louis.

  The king rifled through it, then held it out to me. “Look, Marie. It is an article of marriage”—he threw the thing on the table so hard other papers fluttered to the floor—“between me and a Spanish cow that your uncle swore he wouldn’t attach me to.”

  My uncle held out his hands,

  The king wouldn’t let him speak. “All these months you’ve been laboring on this? I trusted you.”

  “The Spanish king has expectations … I deemed it unwise to surprise him.”

  “Unwise to surprise him?” The king glanced at me with exaggerated shock, then put both fists on the table and leaned toward the cardinal. “Surprising me has cost you my trust, my love, and the last of my patience.”

  The footman announced Piccolomini. The papal nuncio walked in timidly, trying to read the situation. I remembered him from Rome, where his family had been one of the most powerful. Would his Italian cunning preserve him today?

  The king stood upright. “Monseigneur Piccolomini! I was just talking to the cardinal here about our Holy Father. It has been some time since we heard from him, hasn’t it?”

  It was a brilliant move.

  Piccolomini eyed Mazarin as if to ask, What should I do? Finally Piccolomini replied, “Alexander the Seventh beseeches me to extend his blessings to you in every letter, sire.”

  Louis was not deterred. “And that last letter was…” He waited for the nuncio to bury himself.

  Piccolomini answered uncertainly. “A fortnight ago?”

  King Louis smiled, a slow, sly grin. “You may go.”

  The poor nuncio bowed, backing from the room unaware that he had exposed yet another of the cardinal’s lies. I wanted to clap and cheer.

  Mazarin spoke first. “I thought you would accept the warning more easily if I pretended it came from the pope.” He curled his mustache. “In truth, it is your mother and I who think your reputation would benefit from Marie’s departure.”

  The king paced. “Marie is not to be sent away.”

  The cardinal studied him. “Very well.”

  Is that all? No quarrel?

  The king went on, “Take article twenty-three out of this treaty.”

  The cardinal stood. “Sire, the marriage is a matter of delicate politics—”

  “Then you are the perfect man to extract me.” The king leaned over the cardinal’s table until the two men stood nose to nose. “For I intend to make Marie Mancini the next Queen of France.”

  King Louis steered me from the chamber without giving Mazarin a chance to reply. He took me to his carriage, where Venelle and my sisters waited with eyes wide. “Go to Palais Mazarin,” he ordered me roughly. “Go nowhere without my knowledge.”

  Hortense nudged me on the ride home, but I dared not discuss it and tempt fate to reverse my good fortune.

  * * *

  But when everyone else was asleep that night, I did tell Moréna.

  She shook her head. “You should look to the stars. I don’t trust your uncle.”

  “I don’t need to,” I said. “My king is finally standing firm. You should have seen him!”

  “Why did you get the astrolabe and the books if you don’t intend to use them?”

  “The Queen of France!” I twirled around the dark chamber, ignoring her frown. “I will be the Queen of France!”

  CHAPTER 36

  I woke the next morning to Moréna’s scowl. “The queen mother summons you to attend her lever.” She laced me up hastily, scowling all the while.

  But I was drifting in the clouds, and nothing could make them rain. “One day I will command pretty young noble girls to the Louvre on a whim.”

  “You’d do better to wipe off that smug grin. She hasn’t summoned you for months. She’s gotten an earful from the cardinal, and now you’re in for it.”

  I laughed. “You look as if you’d like to poison her!” I paused. “Don’t, by the way. Don’t poison anybody.” And I danced my way down to the carriage.

  * * *

  The queen mother’s apartments were the newest and loveliest at the Louvre. I’d always enjoyed the tap-tap of my heels on the marble floors and the shadow I cast on the columns as I passed. Soon I shall dwell within these walls. I entered the antechamber, and all heads turned toward me. As usual. But something was different.

  Gone were the flattering smiles. There came no admiring appraisal of my gown, my jewels, or my hair. I met the disdainful glare of every noble lady in the room. One little girl, the youngest daughter to the third son of a minor count, actually sneered. She turned to whisper something vicious in the closest ear.

  Olympia and Martinozzi caught my eye from their place beside the queen mother’s toilette table. They both shot me warning looks.

  “You’re late,” said the queen mother. The women parted so she could get a good look at me. They’d squeezed her into a green silk bodice and skirt. “I suppose I should expect such contempt from one such as yourself.”

  I curtsied low, remembering too late that King Louis had warned me not to go out. “I beg your pardon, Majesty. Your summons arrived only half an hour—”

  She silenced me with a wave. “Don’t just stand around,” she said to her women. “My jewels! My drapery!”

  The ladies in waiting set into motion like a flock of pigeons in an open courtyard, fluttering to the different cabinets for jewels, hairpieces, ribbons, powders, and trains. They powdered her face, plopped a partial wig on the top of her head, and tied green ribbons around her wrists. Motteville fastened a necklace of emeralds set in gold around the queen mother’s neck and poked the hooks of matching earrings in each earlobe. Martinozzi stood impatiently waiting for a scarves to be selected so she could fasten it into place with an emerald and gold brooch.

  The girl with the sneer brought a tray of scarves to me. One was made of blue satin, the other of gold, shot through with green silk thread. I selected the gold and green and gave it to Olympia. Olympia turned to drape it around the queen mother’s shoulders.

  But the queen mother wrinkled her nose as if it smelled of dead fish. “How ugly.” She shot me a nasty look. “Only someone with no taste would wear that.”

  The ladies snickered.

  Olympia rolled her eyes to the heavens.

  The girl with the sneer handed the blue satin scarf to Olympia, who managed to wrap it around the queen mother’s shoulders. The blue clashed with the green. She looked ridiculous.

  The queen mother let Martinozzi secure it with the brooch, then regarded the looking-glass propped on her table. “Much better.”

  More snickers from the women. In that moment I remembered what Victoire had explained years earlier; noble blood doesn’t make a person noble at all.

  “There is nothing more hopeless than a woman with poor taste,” said the queen mother to no one in particular. The ladies murmured agreement. “You cannot teach good taste to a tasteless woman any more than you can teach goodness to a pagan. Or teach a greedy upstart how to keep slanderous gossip to herself. Or how to keep her nose out of business that doesn’t concern her.”

  The ladies seemed confused. They cast each other sidelong glances. But I knew exactly what the queen mother meant.

  She looked straight into my eyes. “Thankfully, real queens know how to keep such tasteless women in their place. How to squash them like vermin. How to pack them back to Italy where they belong.”

  I raised my finger and opened my mouth to issue a Mancini whisper—

  The king cleared his throat from the doorway.

  The women gasped. I lowered my hand. The rustling of skirts sounded as ever
yone curtsied.

  King Louis walked to his mother. She sat in silence as he planted a dutiful kiss on top of her puffy wig. “Mother.”

  “My son,” she said, averting her eyes.

  “You know what else you can’t teach a tasteless woman?” he asked.

  Nobody breathed.

  He leaned to her. “Good manners.”

  Madame de Motteville dropped a dress pin, and we all heard the gentle plink as it landed on the marble floor. The queen mother turned so red I thought she would sweat blood.

  King Louis offered me his arm. “My love, I do not think it fitting for a future queen to stand as a lady in waiting.”

  Everyone but the queen mother watched me put my arm in his and sail from the chamber, still walking on clouds, unharmed by the rainstorm, confident that the Sun King would ever shine upon me.

  CHAPTER 37

  The king was passionately enamored of Marie Mancini and, to all appearance, she wielded over him a power as complete as ever mistress had to sway the heart of a lover.

  —MADAME COMTESSE DE LA FAYETTE,

  Secret History

  A fortnight later my sisters and I prepared for the biggest fête of the season. I’d spent an hour soaking in a tub of milk and honey the day before, and now painted my lustrous Spanish White on my face. I dabbed Olympia’s special red, which I’d finally learned how to mix myself, on my cheeks and lips. Moréna used wires to lift my hair in puffs over each ear. Ringlets from each one dangled to my shoulders.

  Hortense sat nearby enduring Moréna’s facial mask. “Honest to heaven, this sludge smells worse than dog piss. What do you mix it with?”

  My maid chuckled. “You don’t want to know.”

  Hortense jumped up. “It is mixed with dog piss! I knew it.” She poured water from a silver vat into a matching bowl and started splashing herself.

  “There’s no better beauty treatment,” I said, remembering how much I had detested the stuff at first.

  “The cardinal is going to dump me on that zealot Meilleraye regardless of how I look.” She began dressing in the silver lace gown King Louis had ordered for her. “He’s going to be there tonight, you know. The cardinal told me to dance with him.”

  I wanted to tell her I’d forbid Meilleraye from entering her presence when I was queen, that I’d arrange her marriage with the duc de Savoy. But I needed a crown on my head before I started making promises. “The entire court and the nobles from the surrounding countryside will be at Berny tonight. Hugues de Lionne is giving this fête in the king’s honor.”

  Lionne was one of Mazarin’s ministers, but King Louis had told him firmly that this evening should honor me. King Louis had ordered the bodice and skirts that Moréna cinched me into. All silver tissue embroidered with gold fleur-de-lis, its splendor rivaled any court gown. A trained overskirt matched the bodice and parted in the front to reveal gold lace petticoats. My puffy sleeves fell low on the shoulder, paned to show the layer upon layer of fine white lace chemise that ballooned down to my elbows. Moréna secured my sleeves with knots of gold perfumed ribbons. A mirror and my fan hung from gold cords at my waist like royal emblems. The whole ensemble took an hour to put on.

  Marianne peeked in from the antechamber. “Olympia has arrived.” She pushed the door open wide.

  Olympia floated in wearing silver and white. Silver lace adorned her hair, her bodice, and her skirts. She held out a jewel casket. “The king wants you to wear this tonight.” She opened it to reveal the Mirror of Portugal suspended in a necklace of diamonds.

  “How did you ever get it from Cardinal Mazarin?”

  Olympia shrugged. “King’s orders.”

  The deep beauty of the stone mesmerized me, and I didn’t press her with questions. She fastened it into place. Hortense placed diamond pins in my coiffure. My reflection in the great Venetian looking-glass winked and glittered back at me.

  Olympia rubbed a bit of my Spanish White onto my shoulders until they gleamed, then nodded approvingly.

  “Perfect,” said Marianne, peeking around me to admire my reflection.

  I turned. The king had ordered silver lace gowns for Marianne and Hortense. My sisters fairly glowed with excitement. I grabbed their hands, and we made a circle. “If only Mamma and Papa could see us now.”

  I knew my sisters were thinking my thoughts, of poor Paul, Victoire, and Alphonse, all taken too soon. And of Philippe, in his faraway prison. Even when we were all together as children at Palazzo Mancini on Rome’s Via del Corso, we had never been an ordinary family. Each of us had glory and misfortune pronounced in our stars. But tonight, united, we were full of promise. “This could be the start of a whole new life,” I said.

  We heard a commotion in the antechamber, and a herald called, “Make way for the king!”

  Olympia dropped our hands and gathered her skirts. “Your royal chariot is here.”

  “I thought we were going to Berny in your carriage,” I said, puzzled.

  But Olympia ushered Hortense and Marianne aside. “We’re to follow you and the king.”

  He entered, and we curtsied. His suit of clothes matched mine exactly, from the silver cloth to the gold embroidery down to the diamond buttons. He put out his hand, raising me up. “My radiant queen.” He kissed each of my cheeks.

  “Is it me you love?” I asked. “Or do you merely bask in the reflection of the Sun King’s rays?”

  He chuckled. “If I shine, it is because you lit me from within.” He held open his hand.

  In his palm was a pair of earrings. Seven round and pear cut diamonds were set in a quatrefoil pattern in each one. More diamonds encrusted the bell caps, suspending the biggest pearl drops I’d ever seen.

  “Are these your mother’s?”

  “Were.” He watched as I carefully put them in my ears. “They belonged to Queen Marie de Medici before her. Now they belong to you.”

  “Jewels for a queen.” It seemed fitting that they would return to an Italian for the next reign. As if it were destiny.

  “There will be more.” He planted a kiss on the tip of my nose. “For you will soon be queen.”

  * * *

  Past the walls of Paris, the countryside hills gave way to the manicured gardens of Château de Berny. Hugues de Lionne stood on the front steps with an array of courtiers already arrived. He gestured to his trumpeters. A fanfare of cheers and trumpet blasts arose, but the king did not turn to receive Lionne’s welcome until he’d taken my hand to help me down from his carriage. Oh, the looks on their faces when they saw us—our matching attire, our diamonds and pearls, and the pinched face of my governess as she scrambled behind us without the king’s regard—I would never forget it! These French saw me as too low-born for their king. They hated my uncle and my hot Italian blood. But they curtsied and bowed for both of us this night. Because I had the king’s arm, I had his ear, and soon I would share his throne.

  The king greeted our host, then spoke to me. “Lionne here has promised the most spectacular evening of our lives. Do you think he can succeed?”

  “We’ve had our share of spectacular evenings,” I replied with a grin.

  “Quite right. Quite right,” said the king, leading me past Lionne and into the château.

  His subjects wasted no time hitching up their skirts and holding on to their scabbards and hastening after us. We gathered in the shade of hundreds of orange trees to hear Lionne’s orchestra give a lively concert while we drank syllabubs. King Louis applauded and said for his retinue to hear, “That was almost as enjoyable as listening to Marie Mancini sing and play the guitar.”

  The château’s little theater could only accommodate half the guests, who jostled and fought to follow us in. I sat by the king in the front row to watch a comedy. We laughed, we applauded, and at the end the king remarked, “Marie Mancini can memorize an entire play, recite the lines of every part, and still pull off the jokes with more flair.”

  After sunset, in the avenues between the parterres of the front garden
, Lionne bid his guests to sit for a lavish supper. The queen mother sat with us, her expression impervious. The cardinal kept silent. Don Antonio de Pimentel appeared, causing a flurry of talk at every table. I tried to ignore him, but he sat between Mazarin and Lionne. King Louis insisted I sit at his right hand at the royal table, and he kissed me after the artichoke soup, the orange salad, and again after the duck confit. As we finished sugared almond cakes, the king said, “That was splendid fare, but not so sweet as the taste of my Marie Mancini’s lips.”

  We traipsed through the house to the courtyard that met the canal, and descended the steps into gondolas festooned with torches and flowers. With wine-filled Venetian goblets in hand, and a violinist serenading at the foot of our gondolier, we reclined on blue satin cushions and glided along the canal. Fireworks in gold, red, green, and blue burst overhead, raining their sparkling colors. But King Louis paid no attention.

  “Won’t you watch the fireworks?” I asked.

  This time he spoke for my ears only. “They’re far more dazzling reflected in your eyes.”

  Back in the courtyard, Lionne commenced a ball. The queen mother declined to dance, and King Louis politely opened the dancing with Mademoiselle. Then he gestured for me, saying loudly, “I’ll partner with no one else tonight but my Marie Mancini.”

  The queen mother watched from her armchair with her husband-cardinal and Pimentel standing by, watching our every move. We danced the gigue, the tarantella, the forlana, then we danced them all again in double time. We danced until the black horizon paled to blue with the imminent sunrise.

  When we were finally delirious with exhaustion, we stumbled back through the château to the front gardens and the king’s carriage. Pimentel’s glare was like a hot poker boring into me.

  King Louis didn’t notice. “Lionne, you were right. This was indeed the most spectacular evening I’ve ever enjoyed,” he said, as everyone gathered to bid us farewell. He spoke for all to hear. “But that is understandable, since I spent it in the company of my Marie Mancini.”