We were hurried up the outer staircase past the honor guards, through the huge, ornate doors, and into the urine-soaked corridors, thronged with serving-men and -women and those few courtiers who were sick or wounded and unable to accompany the king to his headquarters on the northern front. We ascended two more interior staircases and at last were shown into a stuffy, windowless antechamber. Here the guards departed, leaving me in the care of Madame Gondi, the Italian lady who is one of the queen’s closest confidential companions.
“That dog—he is huge. Must he be here?” she asked.
“Oh, Madame, a thousand apologies, but the only time I left him behind, someone tried to throw oil of vitriol on me. He’s large, but very gentle.” As if he understood me, Gargantua lay down at my feet and sighed with a gusty sound louder than a blacksmith’s bellows.
“Oil of vitriol—” said Madame Gondi, almost to herself, “that sounds like, no, it couldn’t be. What could she have against a woman who is no rival?” Then aloud, in a voice made dim with fear, she said, “Does someone know—has someone guessed—the secret of the deathless one?”
“Madame, no one knows but myself and my godmother, and neither of us have breathed a word. It is a horrible thing to own,” I said, taking Menander’s box out of the canvas bag, “and it embarrasses me dreadfully to be in possession of it.”
“Embarrasses?” said Madame Gondi, looking puzzled. “That’s not exactly the word I’d use.” She turned and scratched on the inner door of the antechamber, and one of the queen’s ladies-in-waiting opened it, and then excused herself. The queen had been writing letters; several of them stood open on her writing desk. Letters to the governess about the care of her children, letters requesting offices for Italian friends of hers, other letters already folded and sealed. Beyond the desk, in a corner, stood a little table with two black candles burning on it, even in the heat of the bright summer day. She’d been expecting Menander; he’d probably even been given his own appointment on her calendar: “Tuesday afternoon, consult deathless head.” I could just imagine it. I saw she had put on, over her court gown, a white linen adept’s robe, especially tailored with dozens of extra pleats at the shoulder and her own royal crest embroidered in silver on the left bosom. Clearly, she was taking her magic powers ever more seriously since getting involved with Menander. What a deceitful user of human vanity that old mummy is, I thought. He puffs people up in exactly the way they dream of, the better to ruin them. But then a little voice in the back of my head said, “What if he doesn’t ruin them? Why don’t you wish, and get what you desire, too?” Shut up, I said to the voice, you’re the Devil talking. I gave the queen the box and bowed backward out of the room, plopping down with a sigh on the bench in the antechamber, right opposite where Madame Gondi was on her knees saying her rosary with a speed that defied lightning.
But the door had not been latched, and the queen was too busy to notice when it swung open a crack. Through that narrow opening, I could hear her soft voice, muttering incomprehensible incantations, but out of decency, I tried to avoid listening. Then Menander’s cackling, sinister laugh cut through even Madame Gondi’s prayers, and she opened her eyes wide with a start. Both of us heard the Queen’s voice, saying firmly, “I wish to be respected in the counsel of my husband, in matters of state.”
“It shall be even as you wish, Great Queen,” we could hear Menander reply.
“And soon,” she said. “Madame de Valentinois, that old, arrogant woman, still reigns supreme in my husband’s heart, in spite of everything you promised, and you have done absolutely nothing about my last wish.”
“Time will show you the truth, Great Queen,” said Menander, but I thought I detected a hint of sulkiness in his voice. “Great things require great actions. I put thought into my work. Rome wasn’t built in a day, nor a mighty king’s heart changed overnight.”
“Bend yourself to my magic, O disobedient servant,” said the queen, and recited another spell. Goodness, she learns new things all the time, I thought, as I heard her slam Menander’s box shut. Tonight I’m going to be kept up hearing his complaints. I wish Nostradamus would hurry up and send the secret of getting rid of him.
From the outer corridor, there came a shriek accompanied by the patter of women’s slippered feet. Then came a pounding on the outer antechamber door. The queen emerged from the inner room.
“What is this?” asked the queen, signaling that the outer door be opened. There stood several ladies of the court, wringing their hands, one of them in tears. With them was a messenger newly arrived from the king’s headquarters at Compiègne, who knelt with a flourish, and presented his news.
“The king your husband sends word that the northern army, going to reinforce the garrison at St.-Quentin, has been defeated by the forces of the Empire—”
“The northern army is lost?” said the queen, with deadly calm, and the messenger nodded silently.
“Constable Montmorency has been wounded and taken prisoner, and Marshall St.-André is also captured—”
“What of my son, who is with the king at Compiègne?” she asked.
“The dauphin has been sent for his own safety south to Blois, and the king requests that you send the royal children and the Queen of Scots to join him there.” The gathering crowd around us seemed stiff with shock. Several of the ladies began to weep.
“What else does the king, my husband, command of me?” The short, matronly woman stood firm and unmoved. Her eyes were shrewd and tearless. It was then I saw that within this despised, sugary-tongued, dumpy mother there was another creature hiding: a creature of steel and brilliance, yet with the quiet guile of an asp. She has hidden this brilliant and dangerous side from everyone, even herself, the thought flashed through my mind. Woe to anyone who ever liberates the true creature from her shell of jewels and feminine self-delusion.
“He wishes you to strip the jewels from the cathedral and royal tombs at St.-Denis, and send them into safekeeping in the south,” said the messenger.
“The Constable, my old gossip, a prisoner, and wounded,” said the queen, shaking her head in wonderment. That old, canny warrior, we all thought with her. How could this ever have come about? “Did they say Constable Montmorency lives?”
“No one knows. Four thousand are dead on the field of battle, and the heralds have not yet stopped counting.” At this my heart stopped. My bold brother Annibal. Was he alive or dead? What of Clarette’s single-minded passion, Philippe d’Estouville? What of the dozens of other young men of the court, lovers, sons, brothers. But Catherine de Medici was as calm as if she sat at her embroidery.
“Is St.-Quentin taken yet?” she asked.
“The constable’s nephew, Coligny, holds the city still, but they are badly outnumbered.”
“When Saint-Quentin falls, the way to Paris will be open. Paris has no funds, no troops. Guise is still in Italy. Who is left to defend our capital from the Imperial army? What of my husband, the king?”
“He is devastated by the loss of the Constable—he has sent for Madame de Valentinois to arrange for prayers for Montmorency’s recovery, and has ordered Maître Paré to try to cross enemy lines to attend to his wounds. The council is being called, but has not yet gathered. He has also given orders for a solemn procession at Notre Dame.”
“So,” said the queen, quietly to herself. “That is how it is. He sends for her and not for me. The duchess still holds him tight and weakens his mind with her bad advice. And we must all beg Guise to return to save us, and when he does, he shall reign, no matter who sits on the throne.” Then aloud, to the messenger, she said, “Return to His Majesty the king, my husband, and tell him all will be done as he commands.” And when the messenger had departed, the queen turned to Madame Gondi. “Send a message to your husband, that he and the other bankers who remain in Paris are summoned to an audience with me tomorrow. And then send my maids to prepare my mourning clothes. I will go with my ladies to appear in person before the Parlement.”
&n
bsp; “But Majesty, the king has given you no orders—”
“No orders? I am queen. He is gone, and I tell you, I will not lose Paris because he is under a witch’s spell. These are my orders. I tell you, God has made me queen, and has set me here to act in the king’s place. I, the queen, will beg the Parlement to raise funds for the defense of the city. You are all to dress in black, as I will, so they shall understand that the throne itself is in danger. Processions at the cathedral are all very well, but despite what all these old families say, armies run on money, not plumes and chivalry. And you, Demoiselle”—here she turned, as if she had just noticed me standing there with my mouth open—“you shall remain here until tomorrow morning. I intend to put your friend to the test. I want him to freeze the Imperial army in its tracks.” How like a Medici, I thought, to hedge her bets, dealing with both God and Mammon at the same time, and adding the Devil for good measure.
***
The news spread quickly, and even as the defense of Saint-Quentin raged on, wealthy families dispatched their own surgeons to make the seventy-mile journey to find and return their wounded sons. Hideous reports from the road, of town halls and city arcades jammed with dying bodies, were brought back by the wounded who managed to drag themselves back to Paris for treatment. Poor Clarette was beside herself with anguish, waiting for the servants her father had sent north to find news of Philippe and Annibal. But they, too, vanished into the maelstrom, doubtless pressed into military service, and when no word returned, the worst was feared. “It’s just as well Nicolas is out of the country, safe with his cousins in Genoa, or they’d snatch him up, too. They’re taking every able-bodied man,” said M. Montvert. And with that he began to lay plans with Auntie to remove his wife and daughter and the more significant of his household goods from the city with us.
“My dear Scipion, be assured, all of you will be welcome at my house at Orléans for the duration of this dreadful war.”
“My dear lady, this removal will not be more than temporary. The war cannot last much longer. Both sides are bankrupt. The only question is, which will hold out longest. And if it is not ours, Paris will fall before the peace is declared.”
“Scipion, sometimes I believe it is you who is the prophet, not Maistre Nostredame.”
“No, I fear not. It is all common sense, applied in the face of hyperbole.”
“Whatever would the world be like, if everyone applied common sense? Now, about the removal of your wife’s jewels—my house has a buried strongbox, but I would suggest she sew them into her corset for the trip—”
It was during these strange weeks, when the whole city was waiting for the victory of the defenders of Saint-Quentin, that a messenger delivered to our house in the rue Cerisée, a little box that he said was for me from Philippe d’Estouville. But before we could question him further, he slipped away.
“Auntie, there’s some mistake. Here Clarette hasn’t had a letter for weeks, and he sends me this fabulous jewel? I simply can’t touch it—it belongs to her, I’m sure.” But then I thought, suppose it means he wants me for a mistress? Then if I give it to Clarette, it will break her heart. But it’s too valuable to get rid of. So I put the little box in my dressing table, while I thought the whole thing over, and then, in the press of events, forgot about it.
***
Rumors and news mingled in equal portion during this terrible time. Nevers would reinforce St. Quentin, Nevers had failed. King Philip of Spain had arrived to supervise the attack. King Philip’s troops had been beaten back by a heroic attack. But at last, just before the turning of the month, word came that the city of Saint-Quentin itself had fallen, in an orgy of blood and looting. Now the hysteria set in, and the streets of Paris were jammed with carts of furniture with panicky women clutching babies perched atop their possessions, men of wealth trying to buy more horses, crowds of people on mules, on donkeys, on foot, pushing handcarts, all trying to pass through the city gates to the south. But Auntie and the shrewd old banker had already sent the better pieces of furniture and more valuable items south to her house in Orléans, and there remained only ourselves and his wife and daughter to be removed, according to a plan they had made weeks before.
“Good-bye, my dears,” said Monsieur Montvert. “I will send news to you if the city is saved—if not, wish me a fortunate escape.” He embraced us all around as he entrusted us to the care of the Abbé for the trip south, then turned away so we could not see his face. And with that our unlikely caravan swept from our courtyard into the hysterical crowds of refugees that swept down the rue St.-Antoine like a river. Auntie’s litter, the cushions made lumpy with last-minute valuables sewed into them, swayed and jostled, causing Madame Montvert, who rode inside with Aunt Pauline, to cry out. And mounted double as we all were, we worried that our horses might panic and buck with the crowding, the sounds of shouting whips cracking over wedged-in carts and baggage mules. But it was not the fear in the streets that weighed heaviest in my heart. Rather, it was the certain knowledge that our pace must have us break our journey midway, at La Roque-aux-Bois. The thought of going home again made me feel plain and shabby; over and over again, I heard that last savage exchange between Auntie and Father in my mind. Even the thought of once more embracing my mother could not make it vanish.
Just beyond the city walls, as the crowd of refugees thinned out along the road, stretching itself into the endless dusty distance, Auntie lifted the curtain of her litter and spoke to me. “I can feel you moping out there,” she said, just as if she could read my mind. “Quit worrying. There are laws of hospitality, you know, and I am his sister. He’ll be thinking of my money the whole time. Besides, we have distinguished guests with us. He’ll be on his best behavior, I assure you.”
Home. Once it is shattered, can one ever go back? Of course, of course, I told myself over and over. It will be nice. We’ll talk, my sisters and I, and read cards and gossip, just like the old days. I’ll show them my pretty new things. I’ll tell mother the news I couldn’t write in letters. We’ll all be happy again. It will be good. It has to be good. Over and over I said it to myself, with the rhythm of the horses’ slow hooves, as the landscape gradually grew more and more familiar.
***
Two days later, a tall, heavy figure, enveloped in a gray cloak, appeared at the elegant glovemaker’s establishment that stood across from the house in the rue Cerisée. He had a gray beard and shoulder-length greasy gray hair. One eye was concealed by a black silk patch.
“Well, what news have you for me now? Any illness in the house? Have they sent for a physician yet?”
“Not a one, and I’ve had my boy on the lookout every day since you were last here.”
“Are you sure?” said Thibault Villasse, slipping a few coins into the woman’s outstretched hand.
“Absolutely sure. I am the soul of honesty. But you needn’t come anymore—the entire family left two days ago, and given this terrible war, I don’t know when they’ll be back.”
“A pity, a pity—but you didn’t see any signs of ill health?”
“Not a one. She was mounted on a big roan mule with her maid behind, and rode off as gaily as if to a ball.”
“Damn! Maybe the messenger never delivered it—” said Thibault Villasse, as he departed to inspect the locked gates across the street.
Someone else was already at the gate, a dusty fellow in rusty homespun, a common carrier, banging on the wicket door, and not getting any answer.
“No luck, fellow?” he asked, and the courier turned to him, so obviously a gentleman, with some relief.
“I’ve tried for two days to make this delivery to Madame Tournet, and they’re never home.”
“I am a friend of the family,” said Villasse, his voice silky smooth. “I’m afraid they’ve fled south. I plan to join them in the next few days. Would you like me to carry any letters?”
“Just this one is all there is—”
“Of course, it’s not fair that you shouldn’t receive yo
ur fee—tell whoever sent it that the Sieur de La Tourette will deliver it to Madame Tournet’s residence in Orléans—” Villasse jingled a little purse before the carrier’s dazzled eyes.
“Why, thank you, Monsieur de La Tourette, you are most generous—” said the carrier as he tucked Villasse’s silver into his bosom. And as he departed, Villasse flicked a thumb under the seal, which he didn’t recognize, and as he read the first sheet, a ghoulish smile gradually spread over his face.
“Why, just look at this!” A letter—and—ha! They’ve lied all these years! Her birthday is December twenty-fourth, not the eleventh of February at all, he said to himself. He counted the months backward on his fingers. That means—she was conceived out of wedlock—why, she might even be a bastard! Who’d have thought it of that righteous, mealy-mouthed mother of hers. What a secret! Too good for me, was she? Surely, a clever lawyer could do something with this to speed my case.
But as he read further, his jaw dropped in astonishment. Sorcery? The Master of All Desires? Who would want to stop up the abilities of a magical, undying head? Luckily, she does not know the secret of silencing it—I have it here—I must have possession of that thing—you won’t find me trying to spoil something so splendid! Desires! Ha! I could keep it busy for the next hundred years! But I’ll have to be devious; the queen owns it, it seems to imply here. But if I steal it, what can the queen do? I’ll be able to wish that she can’t get it back. Women—they’re so foolish, they never think things through.
But suppose someone else gets it? Damn! She’s bound to stop at La Roque on the way! Hercule de La Roque, you bastard, you’ll never get your hands on my magic head—I must intercept her—And so busy was Villasse with planning his first wish, that he never even paused to read the second page, on which was written Sibille’s horoscope.
Judith Merkle Riley Page 34
