by Kate Forsyth
I hardly heard her, the echo of Michel’s words ringing in my ears: ‘If I’m to marry, it’ll have to be someone who’s rich or someone who’s beautiful. Both, preferably. And you, unfortunately, are neither.’
‘No one wants to marry a cocotte,’ the Duchesse said malevolently.
Blood rushed to my face. ‘Indeed? Do I understand you to be implying that I am to be thought of in such terms? I must warn you that I will find such an insinuation impossible to tolerate.’
‘It is a small step from coquette to cocotte,’ the Duchesse said with a shrug of one thin hunched shoulder.
‘And another small step to garrotte,’ I replied, baring my teeth in a counterfeit smile.
The Duchesse frowned, offended without understanding why.
Françoise looked uncomfortable. ‘It is not our intention to offend you, mademoiselle. It is just that your great love of the theatre has been noted and—’
‘What is there not to love?’ I interposed rapidly. ‘Ah, Racine. Corneille! Indeed, we are blessed to live at such a time.’
‘Only a woman of ill repute associates with playwrights and play-actors.’ The Duchesse sounded as if she was saying ‘prostitutes’ and ‘perverts’.
I affected a look of puzzlement. ‘But it is all the fashion to offer patronage to men of letters. Didn’t the King himself ask Molière to sit with him and have supper?’
‘Absolutely not. The King would never do such a thing. That was nothing but gossip.’
‘Ah, yes, one must never listen to gossip,’ I replied smoothly.
The Duchesse looked taken aback. For a moment, she was at a loss for words, then said angrily, ‘We are not here to discuss the King’s behaviour, which is of far too elevated a plane for one such as you.’
‘But I fear you have forgotten that my mother and the King are kin,’ I smiled. ‘That is not like you, my lady, to forget the lineage of the great. I had thought you had made a study of it.’
Once again, the Duchesse was at a loss for words. Françoise bit back a smile.
I went on piously, ‘I think the love of the theatre must be something that runs in our family. I know my dear cousin … I mean, His Majesty … is just as much a fan of our playwrights and actors as I am. But enough idle chatter.’ I moved towards the door. ‘I could spend all day talking about the theatre, having, as you so truly said, such a great love of it, but alas! Duty calls. I do hope you’ll excuse me.’
Françoise’s eyes were bright with amusement. ‘Mademoiselle de la Force, you are indeed right to think us interfering old cats but I must assure you, we have only the noblest of intentions. The King is displeased.’
I caught my breath. ‘The King?’
‘News of your friendship with the actor Baron has come to his ears. He frowned.’
My heart shrank as if at the touch of winter frost. I took a deep breath. ‘I can assure you, mesdames, that there is nothing between Monsieur Baron and I but … but friendship and the deepest respect.’
‘In that case, I must offer my apologies again,’ Françoise said. ‘I know you are motherless and alone, and that it can be difficult to …’ she hesitated again, then forged on, ‘to keep one’s heart and virtue intact at court …’
Where everyone has love affairs as easily as cracking a nut, I thought. The difference, of course, was that those women were married and had complaisant husbands who were busy with their own affairs. And, of course, they were rich. My only value in the marriage market was my lineage and my virginity … which I had tossed away as eagerly as a child tearing paper from a birthday gift.
‘I thank you for your concern,’ I replied coolly.
The Duchesse de Guise rose to her feet, her face looking sourer than ever. ‘I should perhaps let you know, mademoiselle, that he was seen sneaking from your bedroom last night.’
‘There is nothing between us,’ I retorted angrily, tasting bitter truth.
At that very moment, my bedroom door swung open and Michel sauntered in. I glared at him, trying to indicate with my eyes that he was most unwelcome at that time. ‘How dare you? What do you think you are doing, barging into my room like this?’
Michel cocked an eyebrow, surprised to find my room so crowded. ‘Pardon, mademoiselle,’ he replied. ‘I merely came to fetch my nightcap.’
All three of us stared at him, unable to find a word to say, as he bowed with an exaggerated flourish, swept up his forgotten nightcap from the floor and retreated out the door. Then the eyes of both women swung back to me. Feeling the heat rush up my face till even the tips of my ears were burning, I shrugged and spread my hands.
‘Nothing between you?’ the Duchesse de Guise repeated sarcastically.
‘No,’ I replied, keeping my head high. ‘Nothing at all.’
I might have been able to ride out the storm of scandal if Michel had been a nobleman, or even a gentleman. As I was to discover, though, he was neither. He thought it all a great joke and admitted the scene whenever anyone quizzed him about it. Even worse, he thought the whole story too good to keep quiet, and so would tell anyone who listened how I had clung to him in bed, begging him to marry me and offering to go on the stage.
One day, I walked into the salon of Anne-Marie-Louise, the Duchesse de Montpensier, to find Michel surrounded by a crowd of ladies and courtiers, many of whom I had considered my friends, all laughing uproariously. ‘I’ll write a bestseller,’ Michel declared in falsetto, one hand to his brow. ‘I can act. I can make a crowd laugh. I’ll do anything.’
I stopped mid-step, overcome with mortification. Liselotte, the Duchesse d’Orléans, turned aside, trying to hide her laughter behind her fan. Madame de Scudéry looked at me with pity. Michel had the grace to look a little shamefaced.
‘Better to make people laugh than to make them weep,’ I replied quietly and turned away.
A COQUETTE
Paris, France – 1676 to 1678
My second lover, I seduced with black magic.
I never meant to dabble in the dark arts. If I had known that I was stumbling into a vast sticky spiderweb of poison, murder and satanism, I would never have gone to the witch La Voisin, and so never have come to the attention of the Chambre Ardente, that grim tribunal that would see thirty-four people burnt at the stake and hundreds more tortured, flung into oubliettes and forced into exile.
I simply wanted a life of my own.
The months after my break-up with Michel were awful. I lost my position as maid of honour to the Queen, who decided that only respectable married women should serve her. I also lost my salary, and my rooms at the Louvre, Fontainebleau, Saint-Germain-en-Laye and the marvellous new chateau the King was building at Versailles. The Duchesse de Guise offered me a position in her household, hoping to bring me into the Catholic fold. I was so desperate to stay at court that I thought I could endure it.
I was wrong. It was intolerable.
The Duchesse de Guise prayed all the time, and I was expected to pray with her. After her son was dropped on his head by his nurse, dying a few horrible days later, it was even worse. Haunted by his death, she could not bear to stay long at the Palais d’Orléans in Paris, where he had died, and so retired to her estate in Normandy, more than a hundred miles away. There, I was preached at and prayed at all day long. She could not bear idleness and was very suspicious if she ever saw me with a quill in my hand, so I could only write late at night, by the tremulous glow of stolen candle stubs. I had to hide my scribblings in case her servants and spies found them, and she made me dress in heavy black, as was usual for those who wait upon royalty. It was no use for me to protest that the Queen had never insisted her ladies dressed like crows; the Duchesse de Guise only sniffed and said dismissively, ‘Well, she is Spanish,’ in the same tone she might say, ‘Well, she is a fool.’
In the summer of 1676, the Queen threw a grand celebration for the King at the Château de Saint-Germain-en-Laye, for he had been away fighting in the Dutch wars for fifteen long months. Being the King’s f
irst cousin, the Duchesse de Guise was of course invited, and eagerly I went with her. It was my first visit back to Saint-Germain, the King’s principal residence, in over a year.
The Duchesse’s carriage rattled through the tall gilded gates and along the driveway towards the chateau. Craning my neck to see out the window, I caught a glimpse of smooth green lawns, clipped topiaries and a sparkling arc of water spouted by a golden god. In the distance, I caught a glimpse of Paris. Tears sprang to my eyes, and I groped for my handkerchief.
‘Mademoiselle, you are ridiculous,’ the Duchesse de Guise said. ‘Wipe your eyes and try to act with the decorum expected of one in service to a Daughter of France.’
I sat back, dabbing at my eyes, joy bubbling up inside me. For a week or two, I could dance and listen to music and go to the theatre and talk about something other than my sinful refusal to abjure my parents’ religion. Perhaps I’d even be permitted to shed my hated uniform and dress in the spring-like fabrics gracing the shapely forms of the women promenading along the gravel paths. Their gowns were soft, gauzy and romantic, sprigged with embroidered flowers, the sleeves full and caught at the elbow with velvet ribbons. Jewels winked in their ears and in their tight cascading ringlets. I looked down at my own plain black gown and sighed.
‘At least we will not have to endure the presence of that woman,’ the Duchesse de Guise said, preparing to descend from the carriage as it came to a halt before the chateau. ‘She will not dare to show her face at court again.’
I thought this was rather a shame. I liked Athénaïs, who had been shamed by the church into leaving court after nine years as the King’s maîtresse en titre and the bearing of five royal bastards. When I had first come to court at the age of sixteen to take up my role as maid of honour to the Queen, Athénaïs had been one of her principal ladies. I had been frightened, overwhelmed and homesick, and all too aware of my unfashionable clothes, my gauche manners and my lack of allies.
Athénaïs had taught me to gamble, given me the name of her dressmaker and taught me some of the mysteries of court etiquette. ‘You must never knock at a door, you must scratch it with the nail of your little finger. And if you should see the servants bringing the King’s dinner along the corridor, you must curtsey right to the very ground, as if it was the King himself. Most importantly, never sit in the presence of the King and Queen, or any of the royal family. Unless you’re at the gambling table, of course. I think that’s why we all love to gamble so much. It’s the only time we’re ever allowed to sit down.’
Athénaïs had reigned supreme for so long – all the ladies copying her hairstyles and her clothes, all the men celebrating her wit and lining up to beg her for favours – that I could hardly imagine the court of the Sun King without her.
‘I do not understand why that woman is permitted to stay so close to the royal court,’ the Duchesse continued, shaking out her skirts. ‘She should have been banished to a convent like that other whey-faced whore.’
‘I can’t imagine Athénaïs allowing her head to be shaved and spending her days on her knees, praying, like poor la Vallière.’ I still found it hard to believe that the King’s first maîtresse en titre, the beautiful and delicate Louise de la Vallière, had truly desired to become Sœur Louise de la Miséricorde of the Carmelite order, one of the most austere of the religious orders. Although Athénaïs had once told me that Louise had been wearing a hair shirt under her silken gowns for years. Certainly, she had looked thin and haggard for some time before her retirement, forced to travel everywhere in the same carriage as the Queen and Athénaïs, who had long ago replaced her in the King’s affections.
‘Well, at least the Queen no longer has to endure her presence at court. The King should be breeding up new heirs, instead of litters of bastards.’ The Duchesse de Guise gestured to me to fall into place behind her, then swept into the marble entrance hall. I followed eagerly, filling my eyes with the magnificence of the royal court once more. Even the air smelt more delicious here than anywhere else on earth, delicately scented with orange blossoms, the King’s favourite perfume.
I was standing with a cluster of other ladies-in-waiting when a distant murmur caught my attention. I craned my neck with everyone else to see what the disturbance was. The stir grew louder, and the King looked up, frowning. He disliked any commotion.
Athénaïs swept into the room, hundreds of golden ringlets dancing about her face. Her skin was white, her lips were red and a black patch in the shape of a heart was pressed right at the corner of her mouth, à la coquette. She glided up to the King and curtsied to the ground, allowing him – and all of us – an eyeful of her magnificent cleavage.
The King stood and hurried forward to meet her, crying her name, his arms outstretched. We were all dumbstruck. The King rose for no one. The King embraced no one. The Queen and the royal duchesses all had to rise to their feet at once, their teeth gritted in fury. Athénaïs was smiling, both her hands held captive by the King.
‘Thank you for your letters,’ the King said. ‘They brightened many a dull day.’
‘I’m so glad,’ Athénaïs answered. ‘You know I thought of you every moment.’
I could not help laughing. Her boldness delighted me. It must have been hell for Athénaïs, banished from court for so long, so she was risking all on one final throw. I looked about me. The Queen stood rigid, her hands clenched by the side of her ugly Spanish gown. The Duchesse de Guise looked like she had just drunk a pint of vinegar. Françoise, governess to the royal bastards, had turned an ugly red colour. All the pretty young girls looked chagrined and disappointed; the men were thoughtful or maliciously amused, according to their natures. It was better than a play.
The Duchesse de Guise swept forward. ‘What a pleasant surprise, madame.’ Her voice was stiff with sarcasm. ‘You must be thirsty after your drive. Let me procure some champagne for you.’ She beckoned a footman forward. Athénaïs cast one mischievous look over her shoulder at the King, before allowing the Duchesse to steer her away.
Françoise stepped forward. ‘Sire, I wish to consult you about the Duc du Maine’s schooling. Do you not think it is time he began Latin?’
The King replied to her courteously enough, although his eyes followed Athénaïs as she glided away. I eyed Françoise speculatively. I had heard from the other maids of honour that she had ambitions to warm the King’s bed herself. Certainly, he had already rewarded her – ostensibly for her loyalty to his illegitimate children – with enough money that she was able to buy herself a lovely little chateau at Maintenon. This meant she was no longer Madame Scarron but Madame de Maintenon, a big step up for a woman who had been born in a prison.
Between them, the devotees – as they were called – were able to keep the King away from Athénaïs all night. Françoise made sure she shared a carriage with her on the journey back to Versailles, dropping Athénaïs at her chateau in Clagny on the way. The damage, however, was done. The next morning, at breakfast, the King remarked to the court (who all stood around the great room watching him eat in solitary splendour): ‘I think I may drive out to Clagny today. See what changes Madame de Montespan has made out there.’
‘I’ll come with you, dear,’ the Queen said at once.
‘And I,’ said the Duchesse de Guise grimly.
‘And I, if your royal Majesty will permit,’ said Françoise.
By the time the King had been to mass and to council and visited his dogs, half the court had called for their carriages, and a long procession made its way along the hot dusty roads to Clagny. For once, I was glad of my role as maid of honour to the Duchesse de Guise, for I was as eager as anyone else to see the spectacle.
Athénaïs, gorgeously dressed en déshabillé, was surprised in her salon, eating strawberries and cream, with a little dog curled by her side.
‘Sire! What a lovely surprise.’ She rose, the dog nestled against her soft breast.
The King could not take his eyes off the white swell revealed by her loosely lac
ed bodice. ‘Yesterday, you surprised me. I thought it was my turn to surprise you,’ he answered with ponderous gallantry.
She glanced at the crowd. ‘Yes. So nice to see so many old friends.’
She caressed the fur on the dog’s chest, and it lifted its throat in pleasure.
‘You know that we must only meet in company, madame.’
Athénaïs interrupted him, throwing up one hand beseechingly. ‘Please, sire, say no more. It is useless to read me a sermon. I understand that my time is over.’
‘It is my responsibility to consider my throne and my country above all else.’
She smiled sadly. ‘Oh, sire, say no more. You know I wish nothing but your glory … and your happiness.’
‘A king must think of his duty.’
‘Of course. But I am just a woman. All I can think of is my poor heart.’
The King grasped her hand. ‘Ah, Athénaïs.’
‘Sire, can we … can we at least talk in private?’
‘Of course,’ he said and withdrew with her into a window alcove. She put the little dog down beside her. The King lifted it to the floor so he could take its place. Athénaïs turned her face away. Gently, he took her chin and turned her face back towards him. The Queen left the room, murmuring something about a headache.
‘Dear Charlotte-Rose,’ Françoise said to me with a strained smile. ‘How have you been these past months? It seems an age since I last saw you. Shall we … shall we take a turn about the room? Madame de Montespan has some wonderful art.’
‘Indeed she does,’ I agreed and let Françoise lead me down the great salon, pausing to stare at a painting not very far from where the dark head and the golden head were bent so close to each other in the window alcove. Pretending to gaze at the painting, I strained my ears to listen, conscious that Françoise beside me was doing the same.
‘The King must act as he wishes the state to act,’ the King said.