And, without waiting for an answer from the young lady, more blushing and tongue-tied than ever, he bowed respectfully and left.
Passing through a dim-lit corridor leading to an antechamber, itself poorly lit, as was customary at the time, the Comte de Moret felt an arm slipped through his, while a black hood lined with rose satin appeared before his face. He felt a breath like flame from beneath the hood, and a voice in tones of mild reproof said, “And thus is poor Marina sacrificed.”
He recognized the voice, and even more he recognized the hot breath of Madame de Fargis, which had once before touched his face at the Inn of the Painted Beard. “The Comte de Moret flees, it’s true,” he said, leaning toward that breath so avid it seemed to come from the Venus Astarte herself, “but . . .”
“But what?” demanded his interrogator, lifting herself at his side on tiptoe, so that, despite the gloom, the young man could see her eyes glowing within the hood like two black diamonds, above teeth like a string of pearls.
“But,” continued the Comte de Moret, “Jacquelino is still here, and if that will satisfy her . . .”
“Then Marina will be content,” said the lady magician.
She leaned forward. The young man immediately felt on his lips the sweet taste and the acrid bite of antiquity, which had a word for such a thing and a name for such a feeling—and that word and name was Eros.
Then, dazed by the voluptuous thrill that coursed through his veins and into his heart, Antoine de Bourbon, eyes closed, head thrown back, leaning against the wall with an anguished sigh, heard the lovely Marina, light as the bird of Venus, release his arm, step into a sedan chair, and say, “To the Louvre.”
“My faith,” said the Comte de Moret, detaching himself from the wall with an effort, “vive la France pour les amours. There’s no shortage of them! I returned only a fortnight ago, and am already involved with three—though I really love only one of them. But, ventre-saint-gris! I’m not the son of Henri IV for nothing! And if I could have six amours instead of three, well, bring on three more fair faces!”
Drunk, dazed, and stumbling, he reached the porch, called his porters, climbed into his chair, and, dreaming of his three amours, was carried to the Hotel de Montmorency.
XIX
In Which Monseigneur Gaston, Like King
Charles IX, Puts On His Little Comedy
Having seen the Dowager of Longueville, Princess Marie, and Monseigneur Gaston called by the same usher and leave by the same door, the other guests thought maybe something extraordinary had happened. On the other hand, since eleven o’clock was striking as Monsieur withdrew, it might simply have been an indication that it was time to retire, so after a few minutes the guests began to leave.
Madame de Combalet began to depart with the rest, but the usher, who seemed to be waiting for her in the dim passage we already mentioned, drew her aside and whispered, “Madame the Dowager would be obliged if you would wait to leave until you’ve seen her.” And he opened the door to a little drawing room where she could wait.
Madame de Combalet hadn’t been wrong when she thought she’d heard the name Vautier. He had indeed been sent to Madame de Longueville to convey the queen mother’s disapproval, as he had on the two or three previous visits Gaston d’Orléans had made to Marie de Gonzague. Upon his arrival, Madame de Longueville had called her niece to hear the message from the queen mother.
Princess Marie, who was honest and forthright, proposed at once to call the prince and ask for an explanation. Vautier was about to retire, but the dowager and the princess insisted he remain and repeat his message to the prince.
We’ve already seen how the prince left the salon. Guided by the usher, he was led to the room where he was awaited. At the sight of Vautier he appeared, or pretended to appear, surprised. Giving him a hard look, he approached and said, “What are you doing here, Monsieur, and who sent you?”
Vautier was well aware that Gaston’s anger was feigned, as he’d read the letter from the Duke of Savoy—he just hadn’t known until then when the apparent quarrel that would divide mother and son was supposed to begin. “Monseigneur,” he said, “I’m only a humble servant of your august mother the queen. I’m forced, therefore, to execute her commands. And I come at her command to beg Madame de Longueville and the Princesse Marie not to encourage a courtship that is contrary to the wishes of the king and of herself.”
“You hear, Monseigneur,” said Madame de Longueville. “A royal desire so expressed is almost a command. We must wait for Your Highness to inform Her Majesty the Queen as to the purpose of your visits.” “Monsieur Vautier,” said the Duc d’Orléans in the superbly haughty tone which he could assume at need, “you are too well aware of this century’s key events at the Court of France to be ignorant of the day and year of my birth.”
“God forbid, Monseigneur. Your Highness was born on April 25, 1608.”
“Well, Monsieur, today is December 13, 1628—which makes my age twenty years, seven months, and nineteen days. I’m no longer of an age to take lessons from women. Moreover, when I was married before, it was against my will. I am wealthy enough now to enrich my wife if she is poor, and of high enough rank to ennoble her if she is common. The State has no say over who a younger son may marry, and this time I intend to marry as I see fit.”
“Monseigneur,” said both Madame de Longueville and her niece, “you need not insist, out of regard for us, that Monsieur Vautier take such a response to Her Majesty the Queen, your mother.”
“If it suits Monsieur Vautier, he can say I told him nothing. When I return to the Louvre, I’m the one who will reply to Madame my mother.”
And he motioned for Vautier to leave. Vautier bowed his head and obeyed.
“Monseigneur . . .” said Madame de Longueville.
But Gaston interrupted. “Madame, for several months now, in fact ever since I first saw her, I’ve loved Princess Marie. The respect I have for her and for you is such that I would probably not have confessed this before my twenty-first birthday, as, being only sixteen, she has time to wait, God willing. But since, on the one hand, I face the ill will of a mother who would keep me from her, while on the other hand is the policy of state that would marry her to a petty Italian prince, I must say to Your Highness: Madame, my rosy-cheeked youth may undermine my attempts at gallantry, but if I was older and paler I could love her no less. It’s up to you to consider my offer—because, as you must know, to offer my heart is to offer my hand. So choose, then, between the Duc de Rethel and me, between Mantua and Paris, between a petty Italian prince and the brother of the King of France.”
“Oh, Monseigneur!” said Madame de Longueville. “If you were as free to act as a simple gentleman, if you weren’t accountable to the queen, the cardinal, the king . . .”
“The king, Madame? I am accountable to the king, it’s true. But it’s my business to obtain his permission for this marriage, and I’m determined to do so. As to the cardinal and the queen, well, soon they may well be accountable to me.”
“How so, Monseigneur?” asked the two ladies.
“My God, do I have to tell you?” said Gaston, all candor and sincerity. “My brother, Louis XIII, has been married for thirteen years and had no children—and considering his health, he never will. And considering his health further, you know that someday he will leave me the throne of France.”
“So,” said Madame de Longueville, “you think the early death of the king, your brother—is inevitable?”
The Princesse Marie said nothing, but her heart’s ambition was in her eyes, and she hung on Monsieur’s every word.
“Doctor Bouvard considers him as good as dead, Madame, and is amazed he still lives. And on this point, the auguries agree with the doctor.”
“The auguries?” asked Madame de Longueville.
Marie redoubled her attention.
“My mother consulted Fabroni, Italy’s premier astrologer, and he said Louis would bid the world adieu before the sun traversed the sign o
f Cancer in the year 1630. Fabroni gives him eighteen months to live. And I and my retainers heard the same prophecy from a certain Doctor Duval. Unfortunately, Duval has come to a bad end, for the cardinal, who’d heard he’d cast the king’s horoscope, had him arrested and secretly condemned to the galleys, invoking the old Roman laws that forbid fortune-telling on the lives of princes. Well, madame my mother is aware of all this. Like the queen and myself, my mother sadly awaits the death of her eldest son. That’s why she wants to preserve me, as she did my brother, for a royal wife who’ll bring me a crown. But that won’t happen. By God, I swear it! I love you, Marie, and unless you absolutely can’t stand me, I’ll make you my wife.”
“But,” asked the dowager, “do you have any idea what Cardinal Richelieu might think about this marriage?”
“Don’t worry, we have an answer for the cardinal.”
“What’s that?”
“This, Madame,” said the Duc d’Orléans, “is where you can help us out.”
“In what way?”
“The Comte de Soissons is tired of exile, isn’t he?”
“He’s in despair, but can’t think how to persuade Monsieur de Richelieu to allow his return.”
“What if he married the cardinal’s niece?”
“Madame de Combalet?” Both ladies stared at him.
“The cardinal,” said Gaston, “wants to join his family to the royal house, no matter what it takes.”
The ladies’ eyes opened even wider. “Is Monseigneur serious?” asked Madame de Longueville.
“I couldn’t be more serious.”
“And my daughter, who has such influence over her brother-in-law Soissons—that’s what you want me to tell her?”
“That’s it, Madame.” Then, turning to Princess Marie, “But this effort is all in vain, Madame, if your heart isn’t in it.”
“Your Highness knows that I’m engaged to the Duc de Rethel,” Marie said. “I can’t personally break such a bond nor speak against it—but the day that bond is broken and I’m free to speak for myself, I believe Your Highness will have nothing to complain about my answer.”
The princess curtsied and began to withdraw, but Gaston grabbed her hand and kissed it passionately. “Ah, Madame!” he said. “You’ve made me the happiest of men! We’ll succeed in the end, and my happiness is assured.”
Then, as Princess Marie left by one door, Gaston rushed out the other, with the haste of a man who needs fresh air to cool his passion.
Madame de Longueville, who remembered that she’d asked Madame de Combalet to wait, opened a third door—and almost gasped in astonishment. For the usher had imprudently left the cardinal’s niece in the next room to the one where the interview with Gaston had taken place.
“Madame,” the dowager said, “insofar as Monseigneur le Cardinal is our friend and protector, and we wish to conceal nothing, I arranged for you to overhear that discussion about the Queen Mother’s disapproval of the visits paid us by His Royal Highness Monsieur.”
“Thank you, dear Duchesse,” said Madame de Combalet, “and I appreciate your thoughtfulness in allowing me to slightly open the door between the rooms so I wouldn’t lose a word of the conversation.
“And,” the dowager asked with some hesitation, “you heard the parts concerning yourself? As for me, after the pleasure of seeing my niece as Duchesse d’Orléans, nothing could make me happier than to see you enter our family, Madame. My daughter will use all her powers of persuasion on the Comte de Soissons to that end—assuming that’s what’s desired.”
“Thank you, Madame,” replied Madame de Combalet, “and I fully appreciate what an honor it would be for me to be the wife of a prince of the blood. But when I donned widow’s weeds, I made two vows: first, never to remarry, and second, to devote myself entirely to my uncle. But believe me, Madame, I would dearly regret it if your connection with Monsieur didn’t happen because of me.”
And bowing respectfully, showing a tiny yet gracious smile, she took her leave of Madame de Longueville, who couldn’t believe that any oath, no matter how proudly taken, could keep a lady from becoming the Comtesse de Soissons.
XX
Eve and the Serpent
“To the Louvre!” Madame de Fargis had said. And obeying her order, the porters had carried her chair to the foot of the stairs that led to both the king’s and queen’s chambers. The door opened to admit her, though it was after ten o’clock at night, when that grand staircase was officially closed.
Madame de Fargis was to serve the queen for the next week, resuming her service that very evening. The queen was very fond of her, and loved her much as she still loved Madame de Chevreuse. But the Duchesse de Chevreuse had been involved in a whole host of indiscretions, and the king and the cardinal had their eyes on her. Her eternal laughter irritated Louis XIII who, even as a child, had never laughed ten times in his life. When Madame de Chevreuse was exiled, her place, as we’ve said, was taken by Madame de Fargis, who was pretty, bold, passionate, and even less inhibited than La Chevreuse. Her good luck in being placed so near the queen was due partly to the prominence of her husband, Monsieur de Fargis d’Angennes, cousin to Madame de Rambouillet and ambassador to Madrid, and even more so to the three years she’d spent at the Carmelite convent of the Rue Saint-Jacques, where she’d become acquainted with Madame de Combalet, who’d recommended her to the cardinal.
The queen was waiting impatiently. This romantic princess, while still weeping for her lost Buckingham, was nonetheless ready for new emotions and other loves. Her twenty-six-year-old heart, in which her husband had never been tempted to take the slightest place, needed at least the semblance of love. In the absence of real passion, her heart cried out, like an Aeolian harp from the top of a tower, to every other heart that passed.
The future promised no more joy than the past. This morose king, this sad monarch, this husband without desire, was keen to keep her from fulfilling her own desires. What more could she hope for than the happy hour of his death that everyone insisted was imminent? Then she might marry Monsieur, who though seven years her junior would be eager to wed her, for fear that, out of personal ambition or love for another, she might get herself declared regent, and keep him from the throne forever.
If the king did die, she had three possible fates: marry Gaston d’Orléans; assume the regency; or abdicate and return to Spain.
So she waited, sad and dreaming, in a small room next to her bedchamber where only her most trusted ladies were admitted, her eyes staring past the book she held, a new tragicomedy by Guilhem de Castro called The Youth of the Cid given her by Señor Mirabel, the Spanish Ambassador.
When she heard scratching at the door, she knew from the sound that it was Madame de Fargis. Tossing aside the book that, a few years later, was to have such a great influence on her life, she called out a sharp and happy “Enter!”
Encouraged by her call, Madame de Fargis didn’t just enter; she actually burst into the room and fell at Anne of Austria’s feet, seizing both her beautiful hands and kissing them with a passion that drew a smile from the queen. “Do you know,” Anne said, “I sometimes imagine, my beautiful Fargis, that you’re secretly a lover disguised as a woman—and one day, when you’re completely assured of my friendship, you’ll suddenly reveal yourself.”
“And if that were so, my beautiful Majesty,” she said, teeth shining and lips parted, her burning eyes fixed on Anne of Austria, “would you be so desperate as to accept me?”
“Desperate, yes, because then I’d have to ring the bell and show you to the door—to my great regret, because other than Chevreuse, you’re the only one who can distract me.”
“My God, virtue like that is perverse and against nature, since it must result in the separation of loving hearts. Indulgent souls, like mine, are more in the spirit of a loving God—not like those prudish hypocrites who take even the tiniest compliment the wrong way.”
“Do you know that I haven’t seen you for a week, Fargis?”
> “That’s all? Good God, my sweet Queen, it seems more like a century!”
“And what have you been doing for the last century?”
“Not much good for myself, dear Majesty. I fell in love with an idea.”
“With an idea?”
“Yes.”
“My God, you say such crazy things, we should clap our hand to your mouth at the first word.”
“Your Majesty should try it and see how her hand would be received.”
Anne put her own hand to her lips, laughing into the palm that Madame de Fargis, still kneeling before her, had kissed so passionately. She dropped it suddenly. “Don’t kiss me so, my sweet, you’ll give me a fever. So, who is it you love?”
“A dream.”
“A dream? How’s that?”
“Yes, it must be a dream, in this age of such men as Vendôme, as Condé, as Grammont, as Courtauvaux and Baradas, to find a young man of twenty-two who’s so handsome, noble, and amorous.”
“So that’s your dream?”
“Yes, but only a dream. For he loves another.”
“Truly, Fargis, you’re mad, and I don’t understand a word you say.”
“And I believe, Your Majesty, that you must truly be religious.”
“And you’re not? Didn’t you learn anything from the Carmelites?”
“I did, if only from Madame de Combalet.”
“So you say you’re in love with a dream?”
“Yes—and my dream is of someone you know.”
“Me?”
“When I think that I may be damned for this sin, and it will be all for Your Majesty that I’ve lost my soul!”