I turned from the window, taking it all in. The walls were covered in cut velvet. Turkey carpets covered a polished mosaic floor. A lovely alabaster lamp in the form of a lotus graced a marble table. Even the ceiling was artful, a painting of Flora scattering flowers.
This was my new home? I could hardly believe my good fortune. Somewhere, a Keeper of Secrets had set a machine in motion, changing the set in an instant, delivering me into another world.
“There you are.”
I turned to face Athénaïs, accompanied by a footman and three maids. She was wearing a gown that padded out her already abundant bosom—a voluminous gown I had designed for her, in fact, one that helped disguise her condition.
She dismissed the attendants, then kicked forward a low stool. “Your taboret,” she said with a hint of a slur. It was not yet midday.
I removed my cloak and, draping it over my right arm, lowered myself onto the stool, my knees at my chest. I sat forward to keep from toppling. “A pleasure to serve you, Madame.”
Athénaïs rapped me on the head with her fan. “Let’s not get into that ‘serve you’ nonsense.”
“As you wish, Madame,” I said with a smile. Here, at Court, I felt like a country bumpkin paying homage to a queen.
“I had planned to introduce you to the staff today, but that will have to wait. I’ve already informed them that you are to be my personal attendant—answering only to me. You will be provided with a room on this floor. I will ring for you when I’m in need of assistance. Unless I am entertaining, you will take your meals with me—as was our custom in Paris.”
An oak longcase clock, gilded and silvered with intricate bone marquetry panels, softly chimed the hour.
“Four of the clock … already? We’ve a great deal to do. This evening we’ll be seeing a new play by Monsieur Molière—”
Court entertainments were often held after dark; the King could afford the copious candles required. Even so, it seemed unnatural to me.
“It’s titled The Magnificent Lovers, and no: it’s not about me and the King, as I’m sure all the gossips assume. But it will be your introduction to the Court as my suivante, and your gown, I must be frank, is a problem.”
A simple ensemble of gray wool, it was one I’d worn when I served her in Paris. I had assumed it appropriate for an attendant.
Athénaïs rang a brass bell and a maid appeared. “Bring the gowns I set out yesterday.” The girl returned laden with clothing.
“These are old ones of mine,” Athénaïs said, “but I had them lengthened. All they required was another tier of lace, which a seamstress was able to do overnight.” She examined one hem. “Somewhat hastily,” she said with downturned mouth.
She chose a bodice and overskirt of ruby brocade and an ivory silk underskirt with an embroidered black hem. The maid helped me out of my wools and into the shimmering layers.
“That’s better,” Athénaïs said, stroking a cat that had jumped onto the chaise beside her.
Surprisingly, the fit was good. I felt like a proper lady but for my ill-shod feet, which the hems fortunately covered. It was the most magnificent costume I’d ever worn.
“I’ve some pearls you can use and I’ll have a maid do your hair.” She took my hands and examined my fingers. “And nails,” she added, clucking. “Deus!” she exclaimed, scowling at the sudden sound of a woman singing in another room, plaintive and angelic. “It’s the Duchesse de la Vallière … or, as we call her chez moi, the Limping One. She’s forever going on.”
“The King’s mistress? His former mistress,” I added, cringing at my faux pas.
Athénaïs laughed, but not gaily. “Verily—but until my lunatic husband agrees to a legal separation, the Limping One must appear to be His Majesty’s ‘official’ mistress.” And thus, she explained, the two of them had to live side by side, and act as if they were the best of friends. She pointed to a green door. “It connects to the Limping One’s rooms. When His Majesty comes to call, he arrives through that door, so people assume he’s really with her.”
“I’ve seen that done in a play,” I said, trying to recall the title of the piece that had used a similar device.
Athénaïs looked amused. “You will discover, my dear Claudette, that Court is in fact very much like a stage. You should feel quite at home here.”
I didn’t think this world could be more different from the one I’d left behind. Onstage, every candlestick, every crown was false, a cheap imitation. Here at Court everything was real—and of unimaginable luxury.
“Speaking of the stage,” Athénaïs said, “I’ve informed my staff that if any of them object to working with you, they will be dismissed. Do inform me if you are abused in any way. I should warn you, as well, that there are bigots here at Court who have already objected to my hiring a woman of the theater.”
“Why?” I asked, although I knew. Always this. Would I ever be free of it?
“Idiots! They go on and on about the sins of the theater, claiming that anyone who is in any way part of that world is tainted by the Devil.” She raised her hands, her long nails like claws, in mock attack. “They are in the thrall of that group of extreme devouts, the Company of the Blessed Sacrament. I’ve even been warned that you will corrupt my staff, that as an outlaw of the Church you are forbidden from partaking of the sacraments! Fortunately, His Majesty finds such attitudes ludicrous, archaic remnants of an unenlightened age. Their ignorance would be frightening if it weren’t so laughable. I intend to make a show of devotion. You are to accompany me to Mass in the morning: every morning.”
I tried with difficulty to swallow. “Madame, one thing they say is true,” I offered hesitantly, my heart thumping like a fish caught in a net. “I may not take Communion,” I admitted. A sick feeling came over me recalling the shadows on the narrow street in Poitiers, the hooded men attacking my mother and father, their pious hate.
“Really? You’ve never received the Eucharist?”
I shook my head, very slightly. According to the Church, I was in a state of mortal sin. “But I observe fasts,” I said in my defense, “and pray, of course.” I thought of Mother’s little Virgin, who went with her everywhere. “And I was baptized.” Father had found a country priest who agreed to do so—for a price.
“But you’ve never made confession?” This with a tone of incredulity.
“It’s the same for all players,” I said, my voice betraying my attempt at calm. “That’s why we may not be buried in hallowed ground.” I thought of my father’s body, abandoned in a shepherd’s hut—no doubt ravaged long ago. I’d carried the weight of my sorrow for all these years. If only I had gone back to face that awful village priest, begged him to hear Father’s formal renunciation.
“And this is Church policy?” Athénaïs asked.
I nodded dumbly. How could she not know? “Unless, of course, one were to make a formal renunciation of the stage.”
“And then you’d be permitted the sacraments?”
“Oui.” A simple vow was all that stood between the community of players and the world of the blessed. All that stood between an eternity in Hell, or in Heaven.
She looked relieved. “Then that’s rather easily resolved.”
Easy, certainly, to sign an oath before a priest. It would take all of a moment to make the vow—vow to have nothing more to do with the theater, forever and ever.
“Is it not?” Athénaïs asked, sensing my resistance.
I swallowed before speaking: “It’s not easy to forsake one’s family.”
Athénaïs sat back. “You’re a practical woman: consider the advantages. But more to the point—why allow bigots to deprive you? One can’t simply give way to them. They call themselves Christian, yet they are fueled by hate. They even dare to threaten His Majesty! Some say their aim is to rule this country. Imagine! In all sorts of devious ways, they made it difficult for me to even hire a woman of the theater. I was determined not to be cowed, but for you to be a heathen as well? That give
s them far too much ammunition. Frankly, if I had known—”
“I am willing to renounce,” I said, exhaling. I pressed my hands together, my palms damp.
“Excellent. I’ll send for the priest,” Athénaïs said, reaching for a bell.
Ay me. Now?
THE PRIEST WAS a plump little man with an eye tic. “You wish to renounce the theater?” he said with an unctuous smile, waving a document as if it were a victory flag.
I ran my hands over my skirt. I wanted this over with quickly.
“I will read it to you,” he said (assuming that I couldn’t).
“That will not be necessary.” I knew the words, as every player did.
With all my heart, I freely promise God to not perform on the stage for the rest of my life …
I took up the goose quill and dipped it into the ink, concentrating on making a steady line.
CHAPTER 38
I thought we should celebrate,” Athénaïs said, inviting me to join her for a tumbler of her strange wine. A table had been spread with an assortment of food: stewed trout, gammon pie, fritters, quince cream and curd-cakes, pickled cowcumbers, a plate of candied flowers, and fruit. Two dogs, three cats, and the monkey all stared at it expectantly. “Welcome you into the arms of the One True Faith and all that. Didn’t you find Père d’Ossat droll? He thinks nobody notices how he pads out the shoulders of his cassock. But he’s agreeable. A sweet-water confessor, he forgives everything—very convenient.”
I poured a glass from a crystal decanter and handed it to her. It was a familiar ritual from our days in seclusion, yet my hand was not steady.
“To your future here with me at Court, my dear Claudette: may the Company be damned,” she hissed as a valet announced a caller. “Don’t stand,” she said, reading the calling card proffered on a brass tray. “It’s only Monsieur Molière.”
Molière! I hadn’t expected my worlds to collide so immediately.
The comic playwright entered the room, a sheaf of papers in his hand. He removed his hat and pressed it to his heart, making a smooth bow. He seemed at ease in the world of the Court—or was he simply well rehearsed? For a time, I knew, he’d had the role of making up the foot of the King’s bed every morning, an upholsterer’s privilege he’d inherited from his father. It was even said he’d once been invited to sit with the King.
“The incomparable Marquise,” Monsieur Molière said, kneeling to kiss the hem of Athénaïs’s gown.
He was playing a part, I knew—giving homage to someone who could influence his standing with the King. It made me a little sad to see him thus humbled. I was reminded, painfully, of my father bowing in front of Athénaïs’s father so many decades before in Poitiers.
“Monsieur, why are you here?” Athénaïs demanded. “Should you not be preparing The Magnificent Lovers?”
I must have rustled my gown, for Molière glanced over at me … and blanched. He recognized me—but the setting didn’t fit. Nor the gown. Nor my sitting so intimately with the lofty Marquise, “secretly” known to be the King’s chosen.
“Madame,” he said, recovering, “we have a problem. His Majesty has expressed a reluctance to dance.”
Athénaïs snapped open her ivory fan. “Impossible.”
“Oui! The play is all about him, his glory! His parts convey an important message—the formidable power of his navy—but what will the ambassadors in attendance conclude if some weakling dances his role? We begin in two hours: I’m at my wit’s end.”
Athénaïs sat back, fanning herself lazily. “Why do you suppose His Majesty has declined, Monsieur?”
Molière exhaled. “One does not ask His Majesty for reasons; one can only conjecture.”
“Is it possibly because the two princes in the piece resemble the King and his brother?”
I’d heard that the King’s brother, Philippe, had left Court in a huff because the King had sent his male lover, the fetching Chevalier de Lorraine, into exile.
“And that the two princes are portrayed as equals?” Athénaïs continued, her voice cajoling.
“I suppose it might offend, if interpreted as such,” Monsieur Molière suggested timorously.
“Of course it would offend!” Athénaïs exploded, causing me to nearly spill wine on my gown. “And what of the general’s part? I told you days ago that it’s outrageous for a modest military man to be portrayed as the hero. And to suggest that all nobles are of equally honorable birth? Mort Dieu.”
Molière worked the brim of his hat in his hands. “His Majesty approved the script, Madame.”
“But then you worked in a scene with Venus descending, telling the lovers to forget their differences in rank and marry for love. What kind of chaos are you aiming to provoke?” Her eyes sparked with fury.
I sat motionless, as still as the guards at the door. I’d never seen Athénaïs in this role: queen-like, haughty, and judgmental. I was amazed by her display of power. I recognized something of my mother’s roles as Medea, Viriate, and Sophonisbe. (Might Athénaïs have taken a few lessons from the performances she attended? The thought awed me.)
“Madame, forgive me,” Molière said, his brow glistening with perspiration, “but I showed that change to His Majesty, and he found it charming.”
She scoffed.
Monsieur Molière persisted. “Is it possible His Majesty may simply be finding this dancing role a little demanding? He hasn’t performed since the Ballet de Flore a year ago.”
“You question His Majesty’s prowess? The King is thirty-two, and—I can personally assure you—a vigorous thirty-two at that. I believe you are the one who appears frail, working yourself unto death. Morbidity does not become a clown.” Athénaïs smiled coldly. “Inform His Majesty that you will make those changes and I’m confident all will be well. My maid will see you out.”
I started: did that mean me? I stood and proceeded through the rooms to the entry. “Monsieur Molière,” I said, turning at the door and making a deep curtsy, “we have not been introduced, not formerly, but I am Claude des Oeillets, daughter of Alix des Oeillets.”
“La des Oeillets?” Molière touched his chin.
Athénaïs was right: the comedian did not look well. “I joined Madame la Marquise’s household staff today.”
He made a sweeping bow.
“Please,” I said, embarrassed. “I am looking forward to this performance.”
He pressed his hat against his heart. “It is not what I usually …” He sounded almost apologetic. “His Majesty and the Marquise wished a comedy-ballet in the classical and pastoral style. I aim only to please.”
“As do we all,” I said, recalling what Monsieur Pierre had said to me only the day before about playing the role of a courtier: All that waiting around, all that bowing. What would he think of me now? I wondered, adorned in a borrowed costume of ruby brocade and pearls. What would he say of the document I had just signed, renouncing forever the only world in which I’d ever truly belonged?
CHAPTER 39
Powdered and scented, I walked behind Athénaïs, followed by four (glaring) attendants—three waiting maids and a valet. Two big footmen preceded us.
Carrying Athénaïs’s wraps, her fan, and other necessities, I kept my eyes steadily on her, both anxious and glowing. It amazed me to see the way the throngs parted at her approach. I was overcome with pride to be a member of her entourage.
At the foot of the great stairwell, Athénaïs made a show of greeting Louise de la Vallière, who was likewise attended (although not nearly as grandly). The two women made public gestures of friendship and proceeded on together, linked arm in arm. The King’s “official” mistress was a surprisingly plain woman, almost boyish in her gait. She smelled of the stable and walked with a limp. Clearly timid, she lacked Athénaïs’s intimidating regality.
The great hall of the ancient castle had been lavishly decorated, the walls covered with tapestries, illuminated by the countless candles burning. A fire roared in the massive stone hearth.
A banquet table had been set up in an adjoining hall: the smoky scent of roast meat and other succulents filled the air. Musicians played as courtiers entered, their divine music resonating off the stone walls. (This is Heaven, I thought.)
The maids, valet, and footmen disappeared up a stone stairway to the humble Paradis, leaving me and La Vallière’s bucktoothed attendant following behind Athénaïs and the Limping One into the tiers for the privileged. Courtiers bowed low as the two women approached, as if they were queens. I stood tall, imagining I was walking onto a stage.
The loge was luxurious, well furnished, and bedecked with flowers. I helped Athénaïs get seated and arranged her gown becomingly. I stood back against the wall, but she frowned, indicating that I was to sit on the bench behind her. I glanced uneasily at La Vallière’s attendant standing by the entry, but did as Athénaïs commanded.
The Queen—the real queen—sat in a loge opposite, surrounded by her attendants and dwarfs. The few times I’d seen her, I’d been surprised by how tiny she was; one could take her for a child playing in adult garb of rich fabrics. I wondered if she suspected Athénaïs’s relationship with the King. (Athénaïs herself doubted it. “She’s not very bright,” she’d once told me.)
On each side of the stage were tall columns. Enormous candelabras lit up the room, which buzzed with anticipation. I felt strange being part of such a regal gathering. I knew that some of the players behind the curtain would be scanning the crowd, looking for the royal family. Not long before, I had been that person—dressed in the costume of a dog, peaking out at the regal assembly looking for a glimpse of Athénaïs—and now here I was, seated in one of the finest loges, and in attendance on her.
The courtiers hushed as the candles were raised. Jean-Baptiste de Lully, the gifted and temperamental Italian composer, banged his long staff against the floor. The orchestra sounded and the performance began, a moment that always thrilled me.