The French Mistress

by Susan Holloway Scott

“But as the head of both the Anglican faith and the country, His Majesty can arrange matters to suit himself,” the earl countered, still blithely unaware of how very personal this conversation was to Madame. “If His Majesty comes around to Buckingham’s view, then he has the power to make it so.”

  “Lord Buckingham forgets that Her Majesty is Catholic, not Anglican,” Madame said, doubtless thinking of how she, too, was a Catholic wife who had failed to produce the son her husband desired. “The queen will never agree to such a divorce, were my brother so cruel as to attempt it.”

  “Lord Buckingham would say that it is His Majesty’s solemn responsibility to England to sire an heir to his throne, Madame,” the earl said. “He would claim that the English people would much prefer a fertile Protestant queen to a barren Catholic one. He would say it, because he does. Being Buckingham, he tells it to His Majesty whenever he has his ear.”

  “Then I would remind Lord Buckingham that even my brother must answer to God, not to England.” Suddenly Madame rose, catching us all by surprise as we belatedly stood with her. “Forgive me, Lord Rochester, but I find I am weary, and wish to rest.”

  Without another word, she swept from the room, leaving the bewildered earl. Her ladies followed, fluttering with concern. They believed she was retreating to her bedchamber to rest, and murmured all manner of solicitous suggestions and advice.

  But I guessed otherwise, and I was right. As soon as her chamber door was closed, Madame was at her desk, writing to Louis, and to Charles.

  “You see how cleverly the letter is devised,” Madame said. “Monsieur Colbert de Croissy warned me that the Dutch raiders grow more bold all the time, and that I must needs take more care when writing to my brother.”

  She held out the packet for me to see: several letters from her, folded and sealed as usual. But this time a length of silk thread had been stitched through the center of the three letters, binding them together. At the end of the thread was tied a lead plumb that now swung gently back and forth in Madame’s grasp.

  “If the boat is boarded, then the courier will have my orders to toss the packet over the side,” she said, tapping the plumb with her fingertip. “The weight will act as an anchor, and send my letters directly to the bottom of the Channel, and a good thing, too.”

  I nodded in agreement. While I was not privy to every detail in her letters, I did know that her role as an intermediary between the two kings had only increased in these last months. At her request, Charles had even sent her a code, known only to the two of them, to be used when writing back and forth regarding the alliance. She was wise to be cautious. Not only would the Dutch have wished to intercept her letters, but she feared the Duke of Buckingham, too, and with excellent cause.

  She had repeated Rochester’s troubling report to both kings, and both had rejected them in their way: Charles by soothing her and promising he’d no intention of divorcing his queen, and Louis by denouncing Buckingham as a liar and an ass. Yet neither king had rejected the duke outright, and Madame could see for herself that Louis still welcomed him as an amusing and useful guest at his Court. She did not exactly consider Buckingham to be an out-and-out enemy, at least not yet, but he would always put his own cause first and, further, disparage and belittle whatever she did as the work of a piddling woman: as sorry a testimony to the other ladies of his acquaintance as it was to his own conceit.

  Now I watched as she wrapped the weighted thread around the letters, and tucked them away into her desk for safekeeping.

  “That is very clever, Madame,” I said, “and very wise, too. Will you be sending them by the ambassador’s courier tomorrow?”

  She shook her head and smiled proudly. “I’ve made other arrangements. Do you recall the Abbé Prignani?”

  “The Italian cleric,” I said, and no more. There was no forgetting a monk such as the abbé, who had come highly recommended to the French Court by the Electress of Bavaria. He was a member of the Theatines of Abruzzi in Italy, an order whose express mission was to combat the moral laxity encouraged by Protestantism, which explained why he’d become such a favorite of Madame’s. But he was also extremely worldly, and given to the dark practices of alchemy and astrology, with more of a taste for the intrigues of foreign courts than for monastic seclusion and reflection. He was even credited with being able to foretell the future by casting horoscopes and following the pattern of the stars and moon. Surely he was more wizard than monk.

  My mother, the most pious lady I knew, would not have approved.

  “Yes, yes, that’s the abbé.” Madame nodded eagerly. “He’ll be the one carrying my letters tomorrow, among other things. Ah, I do believe he is here now.”

  I rose to withdraw and leave her alone with the abbé, as had been her preference whenever he visited her.

  “Don’t leave, Louise, please,” she said, motioning for me to remain. “I would that you remain.”

  I bowed my head, and stayed before my chair, as she’d bidden. I understood her purpose without any explanation. Ever since my first day in her household, when I’d inadvertently watched that terrible scene between her and Monsieur, she had asked me to attend her in certain private matters, such as this one. Just as on that first day, she wanted me to act as a witness, and prepare myself to recall it later, if needed. I guessed that she feared herself in danger, whether from her husband or from others. Peril was often the partner of those who played their lives on so grand a stage, whether by choice or by fate. Because Madame asked this of me, I did it, though it troubled me mightily.

  The abbé joined us, a small man with heavy-lidded eyes that missed nothing, including my presence.

  “You’ve come from His Majesty?” Madame asked him at once, with no civilities. “You understand what you are to do while in England?”

  He glanced so pointedly in my direction that I blushed, but Madame impatiently waved away his objection.

  “Mademoiselle de Keroualle remains by my wish,” she said. “Now tell me. His Majesty explained your role?”

  “His agents did, Madame,” the monk said. “I have already accepted the invitation of His Grace the Duke of Monmouth, and will be his guest in London. While there, I am to insinuate myself into the good graces of His Majesty the English king, using whatever methods I judge best for the circumstances.”

  “Speak to him of chemistry and mathematical calculations,” she urged. “He keeps a private closet at Whitehall for his laboratory experiments and studies, like some fusty old don.”

  Prignani bowed his thanks. “I will, Madame. I am to speak to His Majesty however I can, to persuade him to smile with favor on the French as allies.”

  “Yes, yes,” she said eagerly, pressing her hands together over her belly. “And the rest, too.”

  “Of course, Madame,” he murmured. “I am to counsel His Majesty in private about the True Faith, and all he would gain for himself and his soul by renouncing the folly of Martin Luther. I am also to explain to him how, as a king, he is responsible for the divine welfare of his people, and the holy magnificence he could achieve by returning all England to the Church.”

  “Exactly so.” She sighed happily, sitting back in her chair. “Exactly.”

  He raised his hand, a curious mixture of regard and beneficent blessing. “I cannot thank you enough for the honor of your trust, Madame.”

  She smiled, and blushed with pleasure. “The honor comes from His Most Christian Majesty for accepting my suggestion,” she demurred, “and not from me.”

  With Madame, everything was complicated like this, twisted back and forth and into itself like a silken knot without end. This little plot of hers involving Prignani was devised to assist both the kingdoms of England and France, yes, but also to preserve the greater Kingdom of Heaven by bringing the Church back to her native country. While she wished to bring both success and comfort to her dearest older brother and prove herself worthy of his love, her old affections for Louis were at play as well, and she longed to show him the strength o
f her devotion and fealty. Finally, she always looked for any way to vex Monsieur (this by feeding his jealousy regarding her and his brother), and to display her own political wisdom and acuity as a Stuart princess.

  All of which I would present to any man fool enough to believe that diplomacy is too taxing for a woman’s intellect, or that we’ve not the fortitude to manage the complexities of politics. Others gazed at Madame and saw only a slight, fragile lady of surpassing sweetness. I saw beyond to the strength and intelligence, and learned more from her than she, poor lady, would ever know.

  “I understand that there is one more way I might oblige you, Madame,” the abbé continued. “His Majesty’s agent made mention of a special errand.”

  “There is.” She retrieved the little packet of weighted letters from her desk and handed them to the abbé. “These are for His Majesty my brother the King of England. No one else must ever see them, ever. If you are challenged on your crossing, if there is so much of a glimpse of an unfriendly vessel on the horizon, then you must at once toss this over the side. Better to commit my words to the waves than to have them read by the wrong eyes.”

  “Yes, Madame, I understand entirely.” He bowed, and tucked the letters into the leather pouch he’d carried with him. “You may rely on me to deliver these to His Majesty, and no other.”

  “It won’t be an easy journey for you, abbé,” she warned. “You’ll learn soon enough. I fear that, from ignorance, most common Englishmen will despise anyone of our faith.”

  “God will give me strength, Madame,” he murmured, making the sign of the cross.

  “May He guide you throughout your travels,” she answered fervently. Ready to bid him farewell, she awkwardly pushed herself from her chair, and I was quick to take her arm to steady her. She was five months gone now, and she’d weakened as the child within her grew, the heaviness making her clumsy and unbalanced.

  “If you’ll permit me, Madame, I also addressed that other matter you’d requested of me.” He presented a folded sheet to Madame. “For the young lady, Madame.”

  “Of course!” Madame exclaimed. “How could I have forgotten? Mademoiselle, this is for you. I asked the abbé to cast your horoscope. I thought you might be amused to learn what the starry portents say of your future.”

  She passed the sheet to me, and I opened it slowly, not certain that I wished to know my life’s future, or that foretelling it in this manner was entirely proper, either.

  “Come, Louise, don’t keep it to yourself,” Madame said with all the eagerness I lacked. “Tell me what predictions the stars make for you.”

  With no choice, I forced myself to read it, scanning quickly first for ill tidings, then more slowly again, yet neither time did I find much sense to it.

  “Forgive me, Madame, but it would seem to be more riddle than fortune,” I said, offering the most succinct portions of the horoscope. “I’m to inspire great love yet also great hatred. I’m to become a duchess and the mother of a duke, but without ever being a wedded wife, as well as a queen among kings, but without a crown of my own. I don’t begin to know what to make of that.”

  “Nor do I,” Madame said, clearly disappointed. “That’s no fortune at all.”

  “Such astrological contradictions are not uncommon, Madame,” the abbé said solemnly. “There are the occasional birth dates that present a seeming puzzle, only to reveal their truths over time.”

  “I’m very sorry that Mademoiselle de Keroualle’s was one of those,” Madame said. “I’d wanted you to assure her she’d soon find a worthy gentleman who’d give her love and contentment in a happy marriage, not this foolishness about kings and great hatred.”

  “It’s of no importance, Madame,” I said gently. “Good fortune or foolish, I wouldn’t worry overmuch on what the moon will predict for me.”

  Yet I could not put aside the curious words myself, turning them over and over in my thoughts as I tried to find their meaning. Still they made no sense, and at last I ordered myself to dismiss the abbé’s horoscope as a testimony to idleness, the work of a flattering charlatan and no more.

  Only later, much later, did I come to realize the truth in his words, for they were revealed in time to mean exactly what they said.

  We all gave much thought to babies that spring. As Madame’s time grew closer, her mood grew more somber as she focused her dwindling energy upon the coming babe. She was often in pain, and came to rely especially on costly potions drawn from Chinese poppy flowers to ease her suffering. Never strong, she feared the ordeal of childbirth, and did more to prepare her soul than in arranging matters for the child.

  Because we maids of honor were all unwed and innocent (by rule if not by practice), we were not party to Madame’s conferences with the midwives and surgeons, nor would we be included as witnesses to the actual birth. But among ourselves we spoke endlessly about whether the child would be the son everyone desired, or only another disappointing daughter.

  There were other babies to discuss as well. In March Madame du Montespan had given birth to her first child by the king, a beautiful and robust daughter. It was all supposed to be a secret, of course, to preserve the dignity of the marquise’s cuckolded husband, but everyone at Court knew the truth, just as we all knew the lady had been installed in a small, elegant (and convenient) house on the rue de l’Echelle, not far from the Tuileries. Louis was delighted with his new daughter. It had been nearly ten years since his queen had presented him with the dauphin, and his open impatience with that poor lady’s efforts seemed to grow with this latest proof of his Bourbon virility.

  Only his English cousin fared worse. Charles had likewise been wed for many years, but while the number of royal bastards blossomed at a rate distressing to Madame, the English queen’s womb remained barren and empty, and the king without an heir. From Lord Rochester we learned that Charles had recently taken a most unsuitable woman for his latest mistress, a tawdry low actress named Nell Gwyn. Though Rochester declared her to be the most amusing little creature alive, Madame was horrified by how willingly her brother debased himself with such amusements. What a sorry waste of the royal seed, especially if it resulted in another woeful bastard instead of a noble Stuart princeling!

  There was one more baby arriving in our world, too, one of less place in the world, perhaps, but of consequence to our household, and Madame’s peace. I learned of it early one morning, that same spring.

  “Do you hear that, Louise?” Gabrielle whispered to me from her bed.

  It must have been soon after dawn, for I could hear the servants beginning their day in the hall outside. Our rooms were still dark: no one expected maids of honor to rise so early, especially after dancing at the Louvre the night before.

  “She’s been retching like that for at least a quarter of an hour,” Gabrielle continued. “Surely she must be empty by now.”

  My thoughts still thick with sleep, I lifted my head from the pillow to listen. As Gabrielle had said, someone was being ill. I could hear the distinctive sound of vomit splashing into an earthenware chamber pot.

  “Too much wine, whoever it is,” I muttered, yawning. “Go back to sleep.”

  “No, no,” Gabrielle insisted. “It’s Françoise, and it’s not wine that’s making her sick. It’s the bastard in her belly.”

  At once I was awake. For the haughty, beautiful Mademoiselle de Fiennes to have been trapped in her intrigues like this would be news indeed. When I’d first arrived at Court, she had been the most desired, and therefore the most powerful, of our little circle of maids of honor. Now, if she truly were with child, she was ruined. “Françoise? You are certain?”

  “She’s been sick like that every morning for the last week,” Gabrielle whispered eagerly. “She’s pale and poorly, too, if you’d but notice, and weeps over nothing. I’m sure of it.”

  The maid who’d been ill crawled back into her bed, unable to smother a small groan of misery and despair. I heard it and understood everything it signified, as likely d
id all the rest of us lying there in the dark. There would be no discreet house in a fashionable neighborhood for her, as there’d been for Athenaise du Montespan, no handsome allowance settled on her and her child. Françoise was ruined, in every sense. We’d no need to speculate who the father of her child might be, or wonder how he’d acknowledge his paternity. Sadly we all knew that, too. Two days later, the rest of the Court would know as well.

  We were gathered around Madame in the front hall near the door, waiting for Monsieur and the Chevalier de Lorraine to join us before we climbed into the coaches that would convey us to the other palace for the evening. Weak and fearful of falling down the palais’s many staircases, Madame had been carried down in an armchair supported by a pair of footmen. She was still swathed with her furs, too, no matter that the first sweetness of spring was in the evening air, and though she tried to be gay for our sakes, there was no mistaking the shadows of weariness beneath her eyes, or how the rosy paint sat awkwardly atop the pallor of her cheeks.

  I marveled that she still found the strength for these long nights, but because Louis, with his insensitivity to others’ suffering, expected her to be there in his company, she would go, even if she needed to have her servants carry her the entire way.

  “Is there any word from Monsieur, any reason for his delay?” she plaintively asked one of the footmen. “He knows I don’t like to keep the horses waiting so long. They suffer, you know, standing idle on the paving stones in their traces like that. What reason could my husband have for that?”

  “I do not know, Madame,” the man answered. “His Highness has left word that he was not to be disturbed in his rooms. He is, ah, engaged with the chevalier.”

  “Ah.” Madame sighed with resignation. She rubbed her fingertips across her temples, making the three dangling pearls in her earrings sway against her cheeks. “No matter. We shall wait, shan’t we?”

  As soon as she’d spoken, we heard a man scream from upstairs, followed by angry, shouted words and a slammed door. We all turned as one to look up the staircase, dreading to see what manner of foul mood had captured Monsieur this time. I saw Madame’s mouth tighten, as she braced herself for however he’d vent his foul humor on her.