I closed the heavy door, feeling strangely spectral. I was going through the motions, but my heart was elsewhere. Gaston had sobbed when I left. Floridor assured me that he would be fine. He and his wife would be looking after him, for the time being.
“I was sorry to hear about your mother. Monsieur Molière reported that the service was lovely.”
“Thank you for allowing me the time to attend her,” I said, straightening out the pillows that propped up her knees.
“Just think of all the mud you missed in Flanders. The roads were a nightmare.”
Ugly Thing climbed down the brocade curtain and caught hold of the silk-braided rope, swinging. It seemed strange that life just went on, and on.
“Come here, silly monkey.” Athénaïs made a clucking sound and patted the covers. “Pour me some wine, but test it for me first. I suppose you heard?”
I nodded. Madame Henriette had been young, gay, and vibrant when last I’d seen her … and now she was dead. “I know how fond you were of her,” I said, sipping the wine and handing Athénaïs the glass. I paused before asking, “Do you think she was actually …”
“Poisoned? Of course she was,” Athénaïs said, giving a nut to the monkey, but teasing him with it first. “I missed you, Claude—I admit it. I’m relieved to have you back. I couldn’t sleep. My hair turned brittle, my nails chipped, and my face looked like a roasted truffle.”
I smiled. “I’m sure you looked as gorgeous as always, Madame.” Later I would give her a massage.
“And—mort Dieu!—I almost ran out of Voisin’s remedies.”
“I could have sent you a supply.”
“Put something like that in the post? Monsieur la Reynie, His Majesty’s beastly Lieutenant General of Police, has his spies open everything now, and that’s just the type of thing he’s looking for. Fortunately, my brother’s wife had some. You’re not in your courses, are you?”
I shook my head. What a strange question.
“His Majesty will be arriving soon—”
Of course, at three of the clock: the King ever punctual.
“—and I’m in no condition to receive him. All the milk I’ve been drinking—the so-called antidote against poison—has made me ill. I’d like you to stand in for me. Lie in,” she added with a charmed laugh.
I inclined my head to one side. There had been times, of late, when my hearing had not been good.
“Oh, you know.” She made a crude gesture. “He never takes long.”
Ah, a jest. I slapped my thigh, feigning to make merry.
“Darling, you’ve been away from Court too long. You’re acting like a rustic. I’m serious. The King must never leave my rooms wanting. You should have seen them in the provinces—the painted hopefuls practically lined up to be of service. There are too many beauties now at Court simply aching to oblige His Majesty, too many fathers pushing their daughters into his path. Which is why it’s crucial that all relief”—she arched her painted brows—”come through me. I know I can trust you.”
Trust me to have intimate congress with her lover? “Madame, seriously, I’m … I wouldn’t know—”
“Are you chaste?” Athénaïs frowned. “At your age? You worked in the theater.”
“My mother was strict.” And actresses are not whores! I blinked back the tears that always seemed close.
“Well, all the better then. His Majesty will be delighted.”
I turned away to hide the dismay—the confusion—I felt.
“What is it then? Are you unclean?”
Diseased, she meant. “Of course not,” I said, offended.
“I do not offer this opportunity lightly,” she said, impatiently now. “Consider how many people I employ … Almost one hundred? Including you, need I point out? All to be lost over your maidenhead? I thought you were more practical.”
Ever-practical Claude. Claude who looked after others, cleaned up the messes. Claude who could not afford to be without employment—especially not now with Gaston to think of, Mother’s debts.
I wiped my damp palms on my skirt. So: oui, of course, I would do it, have congress with His Majesty, offer relief. How hard could that be? He was well appointed and appareled. But more, he was an honnête homme—honest, decent, mannered, a true gentleman. I appraised the state of my chemise, trying to remember when I’d last bathed. Thinking of my great height, small breasts, my big feet.
“Just make him think you love him,” I heard Athénaïs say. “That’s all it takes to win His Majesty’s heart,” she added with a revealing hint of bitterness. “You’re an actress: you can do that, surely?” She downed the last of her wine and held the glass up for more. “I’ll tell you a secret: His Majesty is a passionate man, but the regal scepter sometimes fails. I’ve found that a bit of scolding helps. And, of course, there is our trusty enhancer, Madame Voisin’s amatory assistant. With it, you’ll have nothing to worry about.”
AT THREE OF the clock, as church bells sounded mid-afternoon prayer, the King was announced, accompanied by a valet. Xavier.
I curtsied and took my usual position by the door.
“My condolences on your loss,” Xavier said, once we were alone.
“That is kind of you to say.” He’d always been someone I could talk to—but not this time. Not now. I’d never been in a man’s embrace. I knew it would hurt, and I feared I would in some way fail.
“Perhaps I’ve not mentioned this to you before, but I was an ardent admirer of your mother.”
“I didn’t know,” I said, moved. He had such nice eyes—smiling eyes, Mother would have said. Would have. I put my hand to my heart. How was it possible that I would never see her again?
I heard Athénaïs’s voice, the King’s low murmur. She was no doubt explaining the arrangement. Were kings accustomed to such things? “Excuse me, Monsieur Breton, but you should know that there has been a change of plans.” It pained me to say, yet he had to know. “His Majesty will soon return—” My mouth was dry. I bit my tongue—a player’s trick. “And he’s to go in there.” I indicated a door to a chamber. “Where I will be—” Waiting.
Xavier looked at me, perplexed. “His Majesty is to … with …?”
I nodded, unable to meet his eyes.
A SMALL BED took up most of the room. Embers glowed in a corner fireplace. A glass of wine had been set on a tray, along with a salt spoon and the vial: Madame Catherine’s “amatory assistant.” Athénaïs must have arranged everything earlier, I realized, must have commanded a maid to prepare the room, set out the wine in anticipation of my return. I pulled back the heavy bed-curtains: the bed had been made up. Just to be sure, I pulled back the covers to check for evidence of mice.
I could hear the King talking with Xavier. I pulled my bodice ties, gradually easing them loose and wriggling free. I untied my skirts, letting them drop. Fortunately, I was wearing my best chemise. Fortunately, it wasn’t stained. I shook the pins out of my hair and released my long braids, running my fingers through my hair, which fell to below my waist unbound, like that of a virgin bride. My feet might be big and my bosom small, but I was vain about my chestnut hair.
His Majesty entered as I was adding another log to the fire. “Mademoiselle.” He closed the door behind him.
I stood awkwardly and curtsied. “At your service, Your Majesty,” I said, testing the wine for poison and then offering it to him. He did not have his boots on. We were almost equal in height.
He regarded me … with resignation, I feared. My heart sank. Now what? I smiled coquettishly—that look known to all players: a glancing up, then away, the head lowered, that edge-of-a-precipice trembling smile.
But he hardly noticed. He was having trouble untying the red bow at his neck. “It sometimes knots,” he said as I helped him out of his shirt and breeches (which unfortunately reminded me of all the times I had helped Gaston disrobe).
His Majesty stood before me then: a man in clocked silk stockings. He was well proportioned, muscled, yet of modest part
s—as the gossipers had long claimed. He was not in a manly state.
“Would His Majesty prefer I snuff the candles?”
“Don’t, please. Thank you.”
I didn’t know what to do, so I took his hand and pressed it to my breast.
I HAD EXPECTED to be ravished, a virgin sacrifice. Rather, panicked at the thought of failure—as much for the sake of my pride as the loss of my employment—I was the one to persuade His Majesty.
After the business was done, he sat up. “Are you well?” he asked. I felt his hand heavy on my hip.
I opened my eyes, half expecting to see an entirely different world. I had been cut, as it was said. “Oui, Your Majesty.” It had happened quickly.
The King stood and stretched, traces of blood at his root. “Merci, Mademoiselle,” he said, gathering up his clothes. He still sounded so formal.
“Let me do that, Your Majesty,” I said, and then realized that I shouldn’t; I was bleeding.
“Merci,” he repeated. “Xavier will help me.” And then he was gone.
An animal of some sort was rustling behind the wall: a rat likely. I could hear Xavier’s soft voice, the King’s. I heard the King say, “I’ve a meeting with Louvois shortly.”
And then there was silence.
I sat up. There, on the gold-plated tray next to the bed, he’d left a jewel—a domed ring of silver and gold with a large amethyst set into it.
I am a whore, I thought, slipping it onto my middle finger, wondering how much I could get for it. Forgive me, Maman.
CHAPTER 47
January 2, 1671
Theater of the Bourgogne, Paris
Dear Claudette,
You will be pleased to know that the King has increased the annual pension to the Bourgogne. I suspect you may have had some influence in this matter, and for this we thank you profusely.
I wish I could be the bearer of only good news. It pains me to inform you that dear Gaston disappeared yesterday afternoon. My wife and I were taken up with New Year’s Day visits, and then she noticed him missing. Fortunately, we managed to find him—but with a warden of the peace! Apparently he had “stolen” a glove—for one of his line projects, no doubt. He’s back with us, shaken and confused, but I don’t think it would be wise for him to live with us much longer. We love him dearly, but what control do we have? We’re in and out of the theater day and night, and if he does this again, it’s doubtful that a warden would let him go so easily.
My wife tells me that there is a house for fools in the Marais.
Yours always,
Monsieur Josias de Floridor
ATHÉNAïS WAS IN her withdrawing chamber, reading her prayer book by the light of the window. I hesitated. A maid is never to burden her employer with her problems. “Forgive me for disturbing you, Madame, but—”
“Damnation!”
I turned to see the parrot on its perch.
“Silence, Jolie!” Athénaïs said, closing the breviary.
“Silence Jolie silence Jolie silence Jolie.”
Athénaïs threw the beastly bird a cross look. “Cover him, darling, would you?”
I enticed the parrot onto my hand and into his cage, then threw the cover over him. If only life could be so easily managed.
“You’re red, my dear,” she said, stretching and yawning.
“I … I have a problem,” I blurted out. “I need to bring my brother back here.”
Athénaïs looked up from examining a fingernail. “Here at Court?” she asked with a frown.
“He could stay in my room. He’s—” Gentle, no trouble at all! “He could help in the kitchens, fetch wood and water. He wouldn’t cost you a sou.”
“Claudette—” Athénaïs reached out to softly caress my arm. “Of course you know that’s not possible.”
I lowered my eyes. Of course. Simples were not welcomed in the realm of the blessed.
TWO DAYS LATER, a second message arrived from Floridor. Come immediately.
Roused by my shuddering sobs, Athénaïs looked in from her dressing room, her hair in a turban. She was giving an entertainment that evening in honor of a friend’s engagement. It was to be one of her usual sumptuous affairs, with musical entertainment as well as performing dancers and even poets. She counted on me to manage it all, make sure everything went smoothly. “Madame, I’m sorry—I know this is …” I took a breath and pressed on. “It’s about my brother again.” I handed her the letter.
“The idiot?”
“He’s … in jail!”
She squinted to make out Floridor’s writing. “Which one?”
“It doesn’t say.” There were so many: Saint-Lazare, Vincennes, Conciergerie, Hôtel de Ville. I’d heard of their torture chambers.
“He wouldn’t be in the Bastille.”
No, certainly not—the Bastille was for political and religious prisoners, young noblemen whose families wanted them brought in line. Gaston would not be in such luxurious accommodations. Gaston would be in a cold cell, crowded with men and rats. I felt faint, my breath coming in gasps. Every time I imagined what he must be going through—his confusion and terror—I started to break down, my panicked thoughts racing. Even charity schools terrorized him! At the ring of a bell all the boys had to put their hands on their knees, then on the table, then clean their slate with saliva and hold it up for inspection. Gaston had failed at every step and had been punished brutally for it. I couldn’t bear to imagine the torments he might now be enduring.
“Claude, where are the salts?”
“I’m well, Madame. I’m just … frightened,” I said, leaning against the wall. I thought of the pillories, gallows, and scaffolds I’d seen in public squares. An execution always drew out a crowd. I’d seen a man drawn and quartered in Blois. Even with his arms and legs torn from him, he lived. “I have to go.” My hand on the door.
“Wait.” Athénaïs rang a bell and a footman appeared. “Ready my fastest coach,” she commanded.
“Thank you, Madame,” I breathed. Thank you.
“MERCI DIEU,” FLORIDOR exclaimed. “I was just going to go out. I think he’s in the Hôpital Général. But it’s not really a hospital, it’s a prison …” He paused, running his hand over his eyes. “For lunatics. It’s run by the Company.”
Ay me. “What did he do?”
Floridor threw out his arms. “Like before: he took something, but this time it was a nobleman’s cane, left on a park bench apparently.” He shook his head. “That poor boy.”
The Hôpital Général was at a distance, so we took a riverboat. Coming into view, it looked like an enormous domed château. It took us some time to find out which building, which wing, which entry, which door. We were directed into a clerical office.
“We have, you must understand, over six thousand here,” the clerk informed us wearily, leafing through stacks of notices, and then leafing through them yet again.
“He doesn’t talk well,” I told him. “Just a few words. He’s a big young man with a long beard. He’s gentle, childlike. He has his papers with him at all times.” Ever since he could walk.
“Ah,” the clerk said, studying a document. “Gaston.”
I looked gratefully at Floridor. “He’s here.”
“But we can’t let you see him,” the clerk said primly.
“Why?” I cried out.
“He committed a crime. There are procedures.”
I threw a silver écu on his desk. It bounced and rolled, but he caught it deftly. “My brother is a child in a man’s body,” I said angrily—furiously. “If you don’t release him, I will be going directly to Monsieur de Mortemart, the Governor of Paris. And he will put you in chains.”
Floridor regarded me with surprise.
“On whose authority?” the clerk demanded with an amused scoff, slipping the coin into a leather box.
I showed him my identification certificate, required at every city gate. “I am in the employ of Madame de Montespan—the Governor’s daughter.” I managed
enough regality in my demeanor to convince him of the reality of my threat.
We were taken down into the dungeons. The stench was overpowering, the smell of rot and feces. And then there was a curious echoing hum, an incessant keening from what turned out to be hundreds—and hundreds—of rag-covered men lying on soiled straw. I saw their cringing fear of the brutish jailers, the welts on their backs, their limbs. I saw one lying dead.
And, at last, Gaston, squatting beside a man in an iron collar. He cried out when he saw us. I raised him up, weeping.
IT TOOK A long time to get my brother out of that hell, and then even longer to get him safely back to Floridor’s house on the rue de la Comtesse d’Artois. I’d never seen Gaston so feeble, diminished. “I don’t know what to do,” I confessed to Floridor, huddling by the fire after I’d finally gotten Gaston to sleep. (Singing, singing …)
“In the morning I’ll show you the place my wife found in the Marais,” he said, and I sadly agreed.
Floridor, Gaston, and I set out at ten of the clock. I had tried to persuade Gaston to stay behind, but he’d wailed like a baby. “You must trust me,” I told him sternly, “and do what I say.”
It was a modest house, fairly small, at the back of a courtyard. I held Gaston’s hand going up to the door. I could hear a boy crying within and I was tempted to turn away, but I owed it to Floridor and his wife to try.
The man in charge hardly looked at Gaston. “Papers?” he demanded. With trepidation, I handed him Gaston’s certificate, which had been stamped at the Hôpital Général. “No criminals,” he said firmly, closing the door in my face. I admit: I was relieved.
“You must find something. We can’t keep on like this,” Floridor’s wife whispered to me as I took my leave the next day. “Josias would never refuse you, but his health is not good.”
BACK IN SAINT-GERMAIN-EN-LAYE, I collapsed, weeping once again in front of Athénaïs. I couldn’t help myself! I told her what a gentle soul my brother was, how profoundly I loved him, how puzzling he was—so ignorant and yet so wise—and how nothing I did seemed to help. “He would be perfectly at home in a monastery,” I said, “but the Church would never permit it.” Even a novice was required to read Latin. “A priest once called him the son of the Devil.”