Meilleraye couldn’t tear his eyes off my sister the entire ceremony. He hardly ate the supper I ordered. He sat at the head of the table in his new home, for most of Palais Mazarin now belonged to him, and watched his bride’s every move.
Olympia stayed to help Marianne and me prepare Hortense for bed. She hummed one of Mamma’s lullabies as she mixed Hortense a tea of chamomile and raspberry leaf.
“I can’t believe I’m saying this,” I said to Olympia while Marianne undressed Hortense, “but I’m glad you’re here.”
“Of course you are.” Olympia patted my cheek and moved to straighten the bedcovers. “No one can resist having me near.”
I had to laugh.
Hortense trembled when we slipped a thin lawn chemise over her head. “What should I do?”
“Just do what comes naturally,” said Olympia flippantly. “It won’t hurt for long!”
* * *
In the morning, Hortense asked for a pouch of witch hazel and yarrow to put between her legs, and St. John’s wort for bruises around her wrists. God forgive me for wishing I’d killed the cardinal instead of letting him sell Hortense to that bastard.
CHAPTER 51
Cardinal’s Guards and church officials came to Palais Mazarin at midnight the next week to tell us His Eminence Cardinal Jules Mazarin had received Extreme Unction. They carried us to Vincennes in case Mazarin might wish to offer us a final blessing.
Hortense and Meilleraye, Marianne, Philippe, and I stood in the cardinal’s antechamber with Olympia and Soissons, and Martinozzi and Conti. Servants scurried about, hanging black satin over walls, closing curtains, lighting sconces. Priests came and went. At two in the morning, Mazarin’s valet emerged from the bedchamber. He crossed to the gold clock in the antechamber and stopped it.
“Does that mean he’s dead?” asked Hortense.
“Finally!” cried Olympia.
Philippe heaved a sigh. “Thank God.”
Meilleraye frowned. “Can’t you Italians at least pretend some remorse?”
“Certainly,” I said. Then I looked at Philippe and burst out laughing.
Marianne, always one for a good joke, cupped her mouth, leaned forward, and yelled toward hell, “Sorry you’re dead, old man!”
Meilleraye looked scandalized.
We laughed so hard we had to hold our bellies, especially poor pregnant Martinozzi. But when a herald appeared in the king’s livery, a hush fell among us.
King Louis entered. His gaze settled on me. “Is he gone?”
I nodded.
King Louis looked away. “My deepest condolences.” He left as abruptly as he had appeared.
I felt compelled to follow. In the empty reception hall, I called after him. “Your Majesty.”
He paused, looked back. Of all of us, he might be the only one who felt real grief.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” I said softly.
He shrugged. “He prepared me as best he could.”
“What will you do now?”
He looked puzzled. “You mean, who will I appoint to replace the cardinal?”
“You intend to replace him?”
“I need a chief minister.”
I shook my head. “You have the knowledge and ability to rule.” I took his hand and traced the solar line he’d pretended to doubt. I whispered so no one would hear, “Don’t let grief for your father cloud your judgment. Take control of the government quickly. Start your glorious reign.” I dropped his hand and stepped back.
He blinked, glanced at his hand. “You’re right. This is, in a way, what I’ve always wanted.”
I smiled.
“You look well.” He paused. “I’ve missed you.”
I hardly knew what to say. “I am going to Rome.”
He swallowed hard. “I wish you every happiness.”
Silence seemed to swallow us up. I heard myself ask, “Was it Olympia who told you I was in love with the Prince of Lorraine?”
He looked away. “Yes.”
“Lies,” I said. “She lied at the cardinal’s command.”
“She … you…” His voice trailed off.
“I’m glad you are allied with Spain, that France is finally at peace. But I want you to know I never lost faith in you. I just lost the fight.” It was the one thing I’d wanted to say to him for over a year. The words died in the empty chamber. I curtsied quickly, and ran back to my family.
* * *
We swathed Palais Mazarin in mourning black, then threw the biggest fête it had ever seen. Since protocol dictated we could not go out, the whole family came to stay. We strolled the gardens in the evenings, supped at overladen tables, and played cards late into the night. Martinozzi and Olympia brought their sons and fought over everything—which beds their children should get, which cousin should bow first to the other. Eventually Conti and Vendome told their wives to hush, and poor Venelle and Marianne had to take over care of the children.
Hortense showed us a chest inlaid with gold, silver, and mother of pearl that Mazarin had left to her. She opened it, and gold pistoles spilled out across the table, rolling to the floor. A fortune. She left it open. We all took handfuls from it at a time, and lost them just as quickly to one another at the gaming table.
Meilleraye participated in all of this with a reluctant expression. I never asked permission to order the cooks to bring up feasts fit for an emperor. Nor did I ask whether I could bring in my old musicians, or if we could use the reception hall for dancing. I ordered the servants to keep Meilleraye’s glass full of a sweet, special wine I’d selected just for him. I might even have laced it with a tincture of chasteberry and skullcap to weaken his member so he’d be unable to abuse my sister once we’d all gone to bed.
One night, when I was on the verge of losing one thousand pistoles to Olympia in a game of bête, King Louis’s herald presented himself in our reception room. Each of us froze, handfuls of cards and coins poised in midair. Our violinist stopped playing.
The king walked in alone, as in the old days, and looked around. “Colbert says we can’t get burgundy at the Louvre because the storerooms at Palais Mazarin buy it all up.” He grinned.
Hortense grabbed a bottle of burgundy from our table and poured him a glass as she walked over. “Whatever you find at Palais Mazarin is yours, Your Majesty.” She handed the glass to him, then curtsied.
King Louis laughed. He tipped back his head to gulp the wine in one swig, and we threw down our cards and coins to continue the game. The king dragged another chair to the table … beside mine.
Olympia dealt him some cards. “The Spanish woman bores you?”
“Italians have always been more fun.” He studied his hand.
“What will you wager, sire?” I asked.
He patted the front of his doublet. “It seems I have no money.”
We all chuckled and snickered.
Olympia swept an arm over Hortense’s inlaid treasure chest. “That’s because every ounce of gold our uncle stole from France through the years is right here!”
Everyone laughed uproariously. Even the king.
“You’ll have to win it from us if you want it back,” I said.
“But don’t worry,” cried Hortense. She grabbed a fistful of gold and crossed to the window. “What you don’t win, we’ll return to the people!” She tossed it all to the courtyard below. She’d done this before.
All except Meilleraye jumped up and ran to the windows to see the exhibition. The gold coins bounced, chinking and clinking and rolling in the courtyard below. Servants and guards and footmen and kitchen maids and equerries ran from every corner of the palace into the courtyard, scrambling after the money, fighting each other for it. Olympia cackled and threw down another handful.
We cheered them on, clapping, and even the king struggled to control his glee. Finally he turned to the violinists. “Play a courante!” And so we danced with our wine and we gambled with our cards and threw away our money.
King Louis r
eturned for more cards and dancing the next night, and when the candles gutted in their sconces, we all played hide-and-seek in the dark chambers. King Louis and I pretended to ignore all that had happened between us and made merry with the others until the sun came up. We did it again the next night, and every night the next week. So what if the king tried to touch my hand under the table a few times? I always moved away. When I found myself alone with him in a dark chamber during one of our wild games after midnight, I ran out. For over a month we Mazarinettes had never been so lively, so carefree, and so high in the king’s favor. I didn’t want to spoil it. But one night King Louis and I danced in the reception hall while everyone else was getting drunk on cognac.
“Don’t go to Rome,” he whispered. He took a long whiff of my hair.
The dance steps required that I step back. As I did I said, “You once made me feel worthy of a queen’s crown. Don’t degrade me now by asking me to be something less.”
There was nothing he could say to that.
CHAPTER 52
Early May 1661
One month later, I woke in the afternoon earlier than usual, dressed, and gave Moréna instructions about which gowns to pack and which to discard. I intended to take her on my journey without asking permission from Meilleraye, the new owner of Palais Mazarin and everything in it. For all he knew she belonged to me anyway, and with me, she would be free.
When Philippe arrived, I was waiting.
He bowed. A courtesy, since I was about to embark on a new role as a constabless.
“Has it come?”
He held out a fat packet of parchments, wrapped with red ribbon and secured with Constable Colonna’s great red wax seal. “Colonna’s uncle, the Archbishop of Amasia, brought them this morning. Everything seems to be in order.”
I released a great breath. Colonna had taken his time signing the marriage documents. But Rome was a long distance. A few days earlier a messenger had assured me the party with my papers would be here. Now the time had come.
“You’d better go tell King Louis,” I said.
“No need. The Archbishop of Amasia went from here to present himself to King Louis and request the ceremony take place as soon as possible.”
Etiquette prevented nobles from marrying without the sovereign’s permission. I stared at him. “And?”
Philippe shrugged. “You know how people gossip. Some say Colonna will make you rich if you go, but that King Louis will make you richer if you stay.” He waited for me to reply. When I didn’t, he went on. “The king has summoned you to the queen mother’s apartments at the Louvre.”
“Why must I go to the queen mother’s apartments?”
“Because the queen cries at the mere mention of you, and if the king received you in his own apartments, it would only upset her more.”
I crossed my arms. “Did the king give the Archbishop of Amasia no answer?”
Philippe rang the bell to call Moréna. When she appeared he said to her, “Dress Marie well.” Then he turned back to me. “The king’s answer is going to depend on you.”
* * *
I wore gray silk, simple but lustrous, and all the king’s pearls. It was the first time I’d shown myself at court in months. The courtiers in the queen mother’s apartments seemed to be waiting for me. Painted fans started fluttering as soon as I appeared. I ignored them as I always had. Both doors to the queen mother’s bedchamber opened to let me enter.
The queen mother sat at the window, clearly unhappy. She said nothing. King Louis stood behind her. As I walked in he rushed to me, and the queen mother moved to her adjacent music room.
“Marie,” he said, “don’t marry Colonna. Choose a Frenchman and stay at my court. Marry the Prince of Lorraine if you like.”
“Through Colonna and me, you have your alliance with Naples. The documents are signed.”
“I will destroy them, find some legal means to dispute their terms. There is nothing to prevent us from being together now.”
I pulled my hands away. “That isn’t what Mazarin wanted for you. It isn’t what I want.”
“Marie, I had no choice but to marry.”
Can a man be forced to do something he doesn’t secretly desire? I looked away. “You altered my heart the day you let me leave the Louvre.”
“I didn’t understand then.” He grabbed my shoulders. “Stay and help me become the king you foresee.”
“And subject myself to the whims and humiliations of being a mistress? Mazarin would have tried again to kill me if he thought I would resort to it.”
“I would protect you.” He held the sides of my face.
“Our fates … they won’t allow us to be happy together.”
His hands fell to his sides, but he didn’t back away. His face was so close to mine he might have kissed me. He might have kissed me and made me forget everything. “You are the one who encouraged me to lead. How can I be true to your own vision of me if I let you go?”
“Because you want what is best for me. In Rome I will be a legitimate princess.”
“How do we end this?” His lips came so close to mine that I could feel his warmth. I remembered how passionately he would devour me, and wondered how things might be if I just let him.
Instead, I threw my arms around his shoulders and put our cheeks together. I tipped my head back and squeezed my eyes shut. “With dignity.”
He pulled me to him, and it wasn’t possible for two people to hold each other any closer. He dug his fingers into the small of my back until I thought he might tear into me. Then, gradually, I felt his struggle to rein himself in, master his passion. Acceptance made it no easier to let go.
“I wouldn’t trade a moment, Louis. Not for a thousand years with a hundred princes would I trade my days with you at Fontainebleau.”
He laughed a little. “Or our nights in Lyon.”
We separated enough to rest our foreheads together. I forced myself to grin. “I’ll never forget how many races I beat you on horseback.”
He tried a smile. “I’ll always remember how you shone like gold that night at Berny, the brightest part of my life.”
“Call me cousin, stand at my wedding, send me to Rome with your blessing.”
He took a deep breath and, finally, stepped back. “No one will rule my heart as you did.”
My throat ached with the effort of suppressing sobs. I smiled, hoping to show him all the tenderness I felt for him. His expression crumpled, and I knew I would lose control if I watched him cry. So I curtsied. My tears splashed silently on the floor. I kicked my skirts behind me and backed from the chamber. He didn’t try to stop me.
* * *
The next morning, enthusiasm lit Moréna’s ebon features. She sorted out tools to assemble a blood-filled chicken bladder for me when the time came. She hummed while packing my herbs and tinctures and my forbidden books for our journey to Italy, where I might practice with them openly, study the stars, and be myself for the first time in my life.
Hortense laced me into a bodice covered in my small share of the Mazarin diamonds. Olympia pinned diamonds and pearls to my sleeves and my neckline, and Marianne slid pearl and diamond combs into my hair. I wore the king’s pearl necklace and earrings, which I had vowed to wear every day, and my family escorted me.
We appeared as we had so many times before, we Mazarinettes descending on the Louvre in our uncle’s extravagant carriages with enough plumed horses to drive an army. We alighted, each in our shimmering silks and jewels, our guards and men of rank in rows. King Louis met me, dry-eyed, at the door of his private chapel. I took his arm, stone-faced, and pretended I felt the strength I showed.
The Archbishop of Amasia arrived, leering at me and smelling strongly of ale. He stood as proxy for the Constable of Colonna. King Louis stood witness. An exchange of vows was made and a mass was said. Never had a wedding been so stoic. Never was I so grateful for Olympia, who, in her charming, authoritative way, led us through crowded chambers to the Mazarin apartme
nts, where we dined. Afterward, the king presented me with a tabouret, saying, “To my beloved.” Now considered a foreign princess, I could officially sit upon the little stool in royalty’s presence. Thus I sat alongside him with his expressionless queen and his tight-lipped mother while Mazarin’s favored men streamed in with gifts. My family members carried the conversation, and King Louis and I glanced silently at one another across the chatter.
He had not ruled my heart as he claimed I’d ruled his. But he had helped me understand how to set my own heart free. I will always love you for that, I wanted to say. Now the time for words had passed.
My sisters and I uttered no farewells upstairs. We had borne separation before, and distance wouldn’t diminish my memories of the glory we’d shared in Paris.
With Philippe and Olympia on one side and Hortense and Marianne on the other, I walked for the last time down the stairs of the Mazarin apartments into the sunlit Cour Carrée. I kissed each of them quietly before I took the king’s arm. He walked me to the carriage where the Archbishop of Amasia awaited. A throng of courtiers stood along the walls, ever watchful.
“Was it only two years ago that we parted in this very spot?” I asked.
He grinned, eyes filling. “You made a remark. That I wept and, though a king, I was letting you go. I will always regret that moment. Now I understand, yet I cannot make you stay.”
I put a hand over my heart. “The better part of me does stay.” I moved my hand, placing it over his heart.
He grabbed my hand, clung to it, searching my face.
“Take courage,” I whispered. And I knew he’d learned strength from the pain we’d endured.
There was a flicker of disappointment. Then he nodded, and he said loudly enough for onlookers to hear, “Destiny, which is above kings, has disposed of us contrary to our inclinations. But it will not prevent me from giving you proof of my esteem in whatever country of the world you might be.”
His words caused gasps in the crowd, even little cries of pity. Then King Louis took my hand from his chest and bowed over it, kissing it softly.
When he let go, we both turned without another word. I climbed into the carriage, and he marched back into the Louvre. The Archbishop of Amasia pounded the door, signaling the driver to move. We lurched forward and a hundred musketeers trotted into place, surrounding us so I could not see out. I wouldn’t have been able to see a thing anyway through the tears that finally fell.
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