Mistress of the Sun

  “How is Jean?” Petite asked, changing the subject. She didn’t trust Clorine to hold her tongue.

  “He guarded that minister of finance, I forget his name.”

  “Monsieur Fouquet?” The former minister of finance was being brought to Paris to be tried. It had never occurred to Petite that he might be held at Amboise on the way.

  “Jean guarded him for almost two weeks, but as for finding a husband for you, he thinks you should—”

  Petite stood abruptly. “I’m afraid I must be leaving, Mother,” she announced. “Our driver is expecting us, and I’ve duties to attend to.”

  IT WAS LATE afternoon by the time Petite and Clorine arrived back at their attic room in the Tuileries Palace. “I’m going riding,” Petite told her maid. The emotions provoked by the visit with her mother had unnerved her and she needed to settle.

  She had just put on her overskirt when there was a tap-tap at the door.

  “I believe that must be your suitor,” Clorine said cheerily. She stopped at the cracked mirror to adjust her frilly cap before unlatching the bolt. “It is you.”

  “I’m the bearer of heathenish New Year’s tidings,” Gautier announced. He was wearing a jaunty beaver top hat, and his cape was short, showing off petticoat breeches like those the young men wore.

  “Happy New Year, Monsieur,” Petite said, wondering if he had a message from Louis.

  “Mademoiselle, for you, with best wishes for an excellent New Year, a bowl of fruit—note the enclosure within—as well as a smaller parcel,” Gautier said, ceremoniously plucking a beribboned box out of the bowl, “for your ever-so-capable maid.”

  “For me, Monsieur?” Clorine wiped her hands on her apron before unraveling the knotted ribbon.

  “I wrapped it myself,” he said proudly.

  “And most securely,” Clorine said, using the point of a letter-opener to pry the knot loose.

  Petite set the bowl on the table. It was filled with fresh pears, oranges and figs. Such luxury in winter. She spied a rolled paper tied with a white ribbon tucked under the fruit. She took advantage of Clorine’s distraction to slip behind the cloth partition.

  My love, I am desperate to see you. Feign to be ill tomorrow. I will come to your room at three of the clock. You may entrust Gautier with your answer. I impatiently await the moment when I can hold you again in my arms. L.

  Petite pressed the note to her heart. Since the trip to Versaie, she’d hardly had a chance to even talk to Louis—but to meet him here, in her own room?

  She stepped out from behind the screen. Gautier was demonstrating how to operate a mechanical device.

  “Zut!” Clorine exclaimed, lifting her skirts as the object clattered across the floor like a rodent possessed.

  “I thought you’d enjoy it,” Gautier said, chuckling.

  “Monsieur?” Petite’s solemn demeanor broke the general levity. “My answer is yes.”

  It took a moment for Gautier to comprehend.

  “I will be here tomorrow, at three.”

  “Oh?” he said, as if he’d forgotten the purpose of his excursion. “Excellent,” he said, clearly remembering, then tipped his plumed hat and took his leave.

  “Step back.” Clorine wound up the toy. “It jumps.” She squealed with laughter as it leapt across the room.

  Petite sat down on the chair by the table. She took a pear out of the bowl and held it. Such beautiful fruit. Louis took a personal interest in his gardens. Were he not king, he would happily have been a gentleman farmer.

  “Clorine, we must talk.”

  Clorine picked up the contraption, waited for it to run quiet and then placed it on top of her trunk.

  “I believe you should sit down,” Petite said, steeling herself.

  Apprehensively, Clorine lowered herself onto the wooden bench by the door.

  “First: you must vow never to reveal what I’m about to tell you.”

  Clorine nodded solemnly.

  Petite took a deep breath. She would give her life for Louis, but this seemed so much harder. “In the morning, I’m going to send you to inform Madame Henriette that I’m ill and that I won’t be able to be in attendance.”

  “You’re ill?”

  “I’m not.”

  “You’re not ill, but you will be tomorrow?” Clorine frowned. “How do you know?”

  “Because it won’t be true.” O God, please forgive me. “It will be a story, a cover. I’ve agreed to…to receive someone.”

  “Here?”

  “Yes, but—” Petite closed her eyes. She didn’t want to see Clorine’s face. “But privately,” she said finally, taking a deep breath. For a loveday. Mercy. She opened her eyes and added, in a matter-of-fact way, “It would be a good time for you to go to the market.”

  Clorine squinted. “Has this to do with the Duke?”

  “No, Clorine, it has nothing to do with him.” Petite pressed her fingertips to her eyes, then looked up, blinking away stars. “It’s time I told you the truth.” She felt her heart sink. “I am not betrothed to Monsieur le Duc de Gautier.”

  Clorine started. Petite held up her hand. She had to see this through. “I do have a…” She thought of all the words women used: love-lad, galant, swain, amoroso, squire. None of these were right. Her sweeting, her beloved…her life. “A gallant,” she said finally. It was the most refined. “But he is not the Duke.” Dear Mary, Mother of God, give me the strength to tell the truth, even if it is a sin. “It’s the King.”

  Clorine sat still as a wax figure, her heavy eyes fixed, and then slumped to the floor in a faint.

  That, Petite had expected. What she hadn’t anticipated was the torrent of tears that burst from her maid once she’d revived.

  “The King’s mistress? You’ll spend eternity in Hell! Oh, your poor old mother. This will be the death of her—”

  “My mother must never know, Clorine.” Never.

  “—the death of me. How could you? You’re so much more sensible than other girls. You were raised in a convent! Just imagine what your aunt will think—your aunt Angélique who sends you such lovely laces.”

  I know, Petite thought, tears streaming.

  “Oh, the shame of it! You’re ruined.”

  I know.

  “Who would marry you now? Not even that old merchant who couldn’t read would have you. All my life, I’ve wanted only one thing,” she ranted on, sobbing as if her heart would break, “and that was to serve the wife of a highborn man. I had such hopes that you would marry dear old Gautier. He’s highborn, a titled gentleman, and a good, good man—but now…Now you can’t even become a nun. Oh, my girl—how could you?”

  THE COURTIERS GATHERED in Madame Henriette’s bedchamber that evening to celebrate the new year. Henriette’s pregnancy had rendered her dangerously ill and her doctor had confined her to bed, so the courtiers had come to her, in sympathy. The room was abuzz with talk and laughter, warm from the heat of blazing Yule logs, the smoky air sweetly scented by the Hungary water Henriette sprinkled over the carpets.

  “What’s wrong?” Nicole asked, embracing Petite, very nearly tipping her goblet of mulled wine. “You look like a death mask in a procession.”

  Petite felt drained, in truth. Her conversation with Clorine had been unsettling. “I told my maid,” she whispered. It was a relief to have it over, but she felt shattered. No matter how sacred her love for Louis, she was, after all, a married man’s mistress.

  “About Ludmilla?”

  “She fainted.”

  “She’s always fainting. I should think she’d be pleased. I have good news—but first, my new year’s gift for you.” She handed Petite a small packet. “Not fancy, but…well, amusing?”

  Petite read the label. “Passion powder?”

  Nicole glanced around the crowded salon. “It’s from that woman all the ladies go to,” she whispered. “Madame la Voisin—out in Villeneuve-Beauregard.”

  “You went?” The district was known to be rough, a haven for cr
iminals.

  “It’s to make a man crazy for you…although I don’t think you need it.” She smiled.

  “What’s the good news?” Petite asked, giving Nicole her gift of brass hairpins.

  “It has to do with our Goddess of Virginity.” Nicole pinned her black ringlets back behind her ears and checked her reflection in the window.

  “Athénaïs?” Petite had sat beside the lovely Marquise at Mass the day before.

  “And Alexandre, the Marquis de Noirmoutiers—” Nicole pulled one curl loose so that it would fall at her cheek.

  “He’s perfect for her.” The Marquis de Noirmoutiers was rich, well-born as well as comely.

  “I know! I’ve been taking their notes back and forth, and—” Nicole turned to the door. “And speak of the Devil.”

  Athénaïs stood in the door, waiting to be announced.

  “She’s always so lovely,” Petite said. Athénaïs was wearing a russet gown of flowing silk, the neck cut daringly low. Her hair was parted in the center, her long blonde curls touching her bare shoulders.

  “And look who’s behind her,” Nicole said. “The comely beau himself.”

  “Are they betrothed?” Petite asked, noticing the way Athénaïs looked up into the young man’s eyes, the way she placed her hand on his. Love: she knew the signs well.

  “Just tonight.” Nicole made a swooning gesture.

  ALL THE NEXT MORNING Clorine lectured Petite about what a woman had to do to prevent “swelling of the stomach”: stick a sponge soaked in vinegar “up there,” or have the man put pig gut over his engine. “Or both,” Clorine said, “to be safe.”

  Petite patiently listened to her maid’s lectures, not letting on that she already knew “all that.” From the beginning, she and Louis had been using a sponge soaked in vinegar (or brandy). As well, Louis had been informed by his doctor that conception could only happen if they spent at the same time, so he usually managed to hold back until Petite was ready to discharge. Common knowledge advised a woman not to clench her buttocks—but this Petite found impossible. Alternatively, lascivious movements were believed to scatter the man’s pleasure-fluid: that was much easier for Petite to manage.

  “Don’t worry,” Petite told Clorine, relieved to see that her maid was finally putting on her cloak. Louis would arrive in a half-hour, and she planned to let down her hair, entwine it with ribbons. She opened a book of bucolic poetry and feigned to read it. She didn’t want to appear the harlot, but her thoughts were indeed inflamed. If only Clorine would leave!

  “I’m going to church to pray for you,” Clorine informed her. “I’ll be back at five. I should imagine that will give you enough time,” she added with pointed disdain.

  “Thank you,” Petite said, but thought, Go! Go!

  “Zut!” Clorine exclaimed, opening the door.

  Petite looked up: it was a chandler with his wares.

  “We have no need of candles,” Clorine informed the man curtly.

  “May I speak to your mistress, Madame?”

  Petite put her book down and stood. Mercy, Louis was early.

  “Absolutely not,” Clorine said, laying a hand on his shoulder as he stepped into the room.

  “Clorine, it’s him.”

  Louis fell against the closed door, laughing.

  “Uh-oh, Louis,” Petite said. “Catch her: she’s going to faint.”

  “Nonsense,” Clorine said, but clasping the back of a wooden chair. “I’d curtsy, Your Majesty, but I don’t think I can manage.”

  “You must be Madame Clorine,” Louis said kindly. “My dear Monsieur le Duc de Gautier has talked often of you.”

  Clorine could not refrain from smiling.

  “Are you sure you’re all right, Clorine?” Petite asked.

  “Perfectly fine.” The maid pulled up her hood. “I’ll be leaving now.”

  Louis opened the door and bowed her out, as if he were a footman.

  Clorine paused at the door. “You look after my lady,” she said with a scolding air.

  “I assure you,” he said in all seriousness, his hand to his heart as if making a vow.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  HENRIETTE WAS LOSING her sparkle. She didn’t like having a big belly, and she detested having to stay in bed. But most of all she was weary of her wretchedly cramped quarters in the Tuileries, and positively sullen-sick of being under the critical eye of the two queens. She and Philippe were supposed to have moved into the Palais Royale months earlier, but the work on it—predictably—continued to move slowly. After considerable yelling and a few fits, she had finally accomplished her mission: the Palais—her palace—was ready.

  The January weather was chill, but sunny. The cobbles were not icy, and the move was accomplished more easily than Petite could have predicted. Hundreds of workers loaded hampers, furnishings and trunks onto wagons to travel the few blocks from the Tuileries to the Palais Royale, where hundreds more directed each of the seven hundred staff to their various chambers.

  Petite carried her treasures herself: her father’s rosary wrapped around the statue of the Virgin and the wooden keepsake box. Her books (Life, by Saint Teresa, Wisdom’s Watch upon the Hours, a prayer book, three volumes of bucolic poetry, Ovid’s Metamorphoses) she had entrusted to Clorine to bring later with the rest of their meagre belongings.

  Nicole met her at the top of the stairs. “We’re sharing a room.”

  The stairwell was musty, with a hint of the sweet, sickening scent of a dead mouse.

  “That’s…wonderful,” Petite said uncertainly, following Nicole down the narrow hall to their room, a chamber under the eaves. How would she manage to meet with Louis? Since Clorine had been let in on the secret, they had been meeting almost every afternoon.

  “Both beds are uncomfortable,” Nicole said. Her maid, Annabelle, was on her knees scrubbing the tiles. “Take whichever one you want.”

  Petite chose the bed next to the window, overlooking the stables. The bed curtains were musty; she would have Clorine set them out in the sun. She positioned the figure of the Virgin on a side table, arranging the rosary around her neck. Then she opened the keepsake box and took out the brittle tree branch (the three dry leaves still on it), the moth-eaten scarf she’d given Louis to dry his face during that fateful storm, and the blue jar of rainwater.

  She peered back into the box. Tucked in with the packet of “passion powder” Nicole had given her, and Princess Marguerite’s gold embroidered nose cloth (too scratchy to use), was a locket on a frayed lilac ribbon. She withdrew the locket and held it to the light. It was a simple brass piece such as a girl would wear, now tarnished and spotted. In packing for the move, she’d discovered it in the hidden drawer of her trunk. She’d forgotten all about it.

  She pried it open: inside was a coil of white hair. She touched it: it was springy, coarse. Horsehair.

  Mercy. Petite sat down on the edge of her bed.

  She had no recollection of putting it in the locket…and then she remembered: after her father’s funeral she’d gone to the barn to place cornflowers on the spot where her father died. Then she had sat for a time in the empty stall, praying for an answer, a sign.

  “What do you think?” Nicole asked, interrupting her reverie. She held up a pink satin bodice and skirt, much frilled with lace and ribbons.

  “It’s beautiful,” Petite said faintly, recalling that moment when she had seen the strand of hair caught in the metal bolt on the gate. He was real.

  “It’s for the inaugural ball next week,” Nicole said, twirling.

  Petite closed the locket and clasped it in her hands: she hadn’t imagined him. “Henriette is actually going ahead with the fete?” she asked distractedly.

  “She plans to be carried in on a feathered litter, reclining like Cleopatra,” Nicole said, hanging the gown on a coat hook and standing back to admire it. “Very romantic.”

  THE GRAND EVENT came…and went. It wasn’t romantic in the least. Petite and the other maids of honor
were required to sit beside Henriette all evening, watching from a podium as everyone else enjoyed themselves: Athénaïs dancing with her beloved, Lauzun entertaining every woman on the floor with his droll antics; la Grande Mademoiselle laughing with a group of ladies (“the spinster club”). Armand de Guiche and Philippe stopped by now and again to keep Henriette entertained, but Petite didn’t listen. Her courses had started, and there was no opportunity to dance, much less to even have a word with Louis. He made only a brief appearance with the Queen, in any case, so Petite was relieved when, at last, Henriette retired and she could return to her room. Hours later, she heard Nicole stumble in.

  “You missed all the excitement,” Nicole said, waking her maid to prepare her for bed. “There was a fight on the stairs: Prince de Chalais slapped Monsieur de la Frette,” she said as Annabelle fumbled with her laces.

  Petite heard a night watchman call out two of the clock. “Frette is often into scraps,” she said. The young galant was hotheaded.

  “Particularly when in drink,” Nicole said, stepping out of her petticoats and slipping under the covers. Soon she was snoring.

  Petite was woken the next morning by a knock at their door. She parted her bed curtains. Light was streaming in through a gap in the shutters. The two maids were already up and folding their bedding.

  “Get the door,” Petite heard Clorine command Annabelle, but Nicole’s maid turned a deaf ear.

  “I’ll get it,” Petite said, pulling her comforter with her. Unbolting the door, she was taken aback to see Athénaïs before her, wrapped in furs, her face paint streaked. “What’s happened?” she whispered, ushering her in out of the cold.

  “What hour is it?” Nicole asked groggily, sticking her head out of her bed curtains.

  “There’s been a duel,” Athénaïs told them in a low voice, sitting down in the chair beside Nicole’s narrow bed. The hem of her ball gown was edged with mud.

  Mon Dieu—a duel. Duels had been outlawed and were punishable by death. Petite glanced back at the maids. They were arguing over how to fold up the bedding and appeared not to have heard.