The French Mistress

by Susan Holloway Scott

  In short, His Majesty’s impulse had made me pause and consider. As much as I might wish otherwise, I was but a fledgling in these games of courts and kings. I’d still a great deal more to learn, and if I were to prosper, I must take care to suppress my own desires, and heed the warnings of my head, rather than the longings of my heart.

  “I saved you, Louise,” Madame said later that night, when we were at last alone. “I love my brother beyond all measure, but for him to ask for you like that was wickedly wrong of him, and wrong for you, too. You may not realize it now, but I did save you. I saved you both.”

  By every possible standard, Madame’s journey to England would be judged a success. The next day she returned to Louis with the Secret Treaty, signed by her brother and safely in the Marquis de Croissy’s keeping. She had triumphed where so many other experienced diplomats had failed, and she was assured of Louis’s favor and endless gratitude for her achievement. She had won the fickle English Court anew with her boundless charm and spirit, and with it helped swing their favor toward France. She’d had a blessed respite from her intolerable marriage. Most of all, she’d had a month’s holiday in the land of her birth and in the company of her family, led by her favorite brother—a month where she’d been feted and cherished and loved with a devotion she’d never have in France.

  Thus it was little wonder that Madame’s departure was miserably unhappy, and as washed with tears as any funeral cortege. No one wanted their darling, delicate princess to leave or, worse, to be given back to the French, who did not appreciate her. Countless vows were sworn that she must return to England again at the soonest possible convenience, while final kisses were given and embraces made, and so many bouquets of English flowers were tossed to us that the deck resembled a floating garden.

  Madame was so overcome with sorrow that the king was forced nearly to carry her aboard the yacht, and the tenderness with which he held her on the deck made even the most jaded courtiers weep anew. When at last the captain could wait no longer or miss his tide, the king refused to disembark, and remained on board with us as the anchor was weighed. Still he stayed with us as our little vessel left the harbor and made its way into the open sea, and we were nearly out of sight of the land he ruled before, finally, he left us for one of the other boats that had accompanied us.

  The other ladies tried to persuade Madame to come below with them to the cabin where she would be dry and warm, but she shook them off, and sent them away. Yet I understood. I kept to her side, just as I had on the first night of our arrival. Blindly she took my hand in hers, her teary gaze never wavering from the boat that carried the king.

  He was likewise standing at the rail, the wide brim of his hat pulled low and his dark hair blowing back from his broad shoulders. His gentlemen, too, stood apart from him a respectful distance, and I was certain I’d never seen a more lonely figure of a man. Who would ever have dreamed a great, powerful ruler would feel such grave melancholy? I longed to ease his suffering, or somehow lighten the burden that bowed those manly shoulders, and as I stood with Madame, I could no more look away from him than she herself. My heart wept for Charles as surely as did my eyes, tears shed in perfect sympathy to both sister and brother.

  “I will come back,” Madame whispered, as if her brother could hear her still over the ever-widening breach of the sea between them. “I swear it, Louise, and mark my words for me, lest I ever dare forget. I will come back.”

  “So shall I, Madame,” I said softly, still unable to look away from the distant dark figure that was the king. “So shall I.”

  Madame’s little fingers tightened into mine in wordless response. Truly, what was left for us to say? Together we remained side by side in the gray mist, long after England and her brother had both slipped beyond our sight. King, princess, and me: our lives had become curiously twined, we three. Yet on that gloomy morning I could never have imagined how much more tightly my life would be bound in with those Stuart siblings, plaited together one over the other.

  Our return to France was as anyone could have predicted. We were met at Dunkerque by a guard supplied by the king (ah, how hard it was to remember that that simple word referred once again to Louis, not Charles!), and they escorted us back to Paris. The weather was hot and sunny, and where on our earlier journey we’d fair drowned from the chilly rain, now we felt as if we were baking, our elegant coaches turned to rolling ovens. But at least the heat meant that the roads were dry and passable, and we were soon in Paris once again.

  Madame’s reunion with Monsieur was predictable, a heated battle before us that doubtless led to him enforcing his marital rights in the most hateful way possible once they were alone. Her meeting with Louis was far more pleasant, for he praised her accomplishments lavishly before the entire Court. That was beyond bearing for Monsieur’s jealous nature, and within the week he took us away to Saint-Cloud, where he hectored Madame constantly for details of the treaty that had made her more important than he.

  But Madame was changed. I could not say precisely how, or even when this had occurred, despite all the time I spent in her company. She was more restless than I’d ever before seen her, finding no peace at any task or amusement for longer than a few minutes before she rose with impatience, eager for something else. She did not sleep at all, instead wandering the château’s vast gardens like a phantom wraith imprisoned by the moonlight. Her ethereal beauty and charm seemed of a sudden to have vanished, and her face had grown frighteningly plain. She who had never complained suddenly gave voice to an unending litany of pains that plagued her, concentrated in her stomach and her side.

  Physicians were called and consulted, and duly proclaimed Madame to be suffering from the results of the impoverished English diet. They advised her against bathing and walking, and she ignored them. Yet clearly something was not as it should be with our dear princess, and those who loved her prayed for her deliverance, for it seemed far better to entrust her to God’s hands than to those of mere mortal men.

  On the last Sunday in June, she dressed early as was her custom and met with Monsieur, who was leaving for Paris. She visited her older daughter, Marie-Louise, who was sitting for her portrait, and dined with her ladies. Feeling unwell, as was sadly usual, she called for a cup of chicory water to ease her discomfort. No sooner had she emptied her cup than she began to gasp and clutch at her side.

  “My God, what pain!” she cried out, sinking to her knees as two of her ladies hurried to support her. “Oh, preserve me, I’ve—I’ve been poisoned!”

  “Poisoned, Madame?” exclaimed one of the ladies, her eyes round with a horror shared by us all in the room. In a Court so full of enemies and plots, poison was a constant fear, and there was not a one of us who did not think at once of Monsieur and the chevalier.

  “Yes, yes, I am sure of it!” cried Madame, her face twisting with agony. “Oh, merciful Mother in Heaven, save me!”

  At once she was undressed and carried to her bed, while the distraught waiting woman who’d prepared the chicory water was seized and questioned. Before several witnesses, some of the remaining water was given to a dog as a test with no ill effects. That should have been proof enough of innocence, but still no one believed it, and when the silver cup that Madame had used was found to be missing, there was no reason not to believe the worst. Monsieur’s passionate hatred of her was too well-known to be ignored. Of course Madame had been poisoned: she’d said so herself. The only question was how it had been arranged.

  Yet the physicians and surgeons who rushed to her bedside were reluctant to agree, and I cannot say I blamed them. Who would wish to be the one to tell the king that his brother was guilty of such a dreadful crime? The physicians first declared Madame was in no danger, and suffering from no worse than her usual digestive complaints. But as her obvious agony intensified throughout the evening, they could no longer ignore the obvious, and finally admitted her life might be in peril.

  Amidst so much feverish activity, my only role was to stand
by the wall of her bedchamber with Madame’s other attendants. We were there to support her if she needed us, but our main purpose was to serve as witnesses, whatever the night’s outcome might be. Some of the ladies prayed, a soft murmur of beseeching to match the beads slipping through their fingers, and some sobbed openly to see such suffering.

  Overwhelmed by my own helplessness, I watched as the physicians tended my poor lady, one holding her leg steady while another used his knife to cut her for bleeding, the recommended location and course for pain of the abdomen. Her small foot was as white as alabaster in his hand, and almost as lifeless, as the physician squeezed the blood from her heel—livid red drops against the pallor of her skin—until the porcelain cup he held beneath her heel was filled.

  When the bleeding brought no change, the physicians next forced Madame to swallow powder of Spanish vipers. This was a rare and costly decoction prepared from the skins of those snakes, and considered the very best antidote to most poisons. Alas, all it did now was induce a violent vomit, a terrible purge that made Madame writhe and weep in pain. Finally the physicians conceded there was nothing further to be done, and having failed to save her mortal body, gave her over to the priests, who would try to do better with her eternal soul. Reluctantly (or so it seemed to us), Monsieur sent word to his brother.

  All too fast, Madame’s bed was transformed from the spot where she’d sipped chocolate and played with her daughters and her spaniels into the solemn place where she must await her death. Any such unhappy farewell has its rituals, but for royalty, everything was magnified until it almost seemed a tragic play whose inevitable climax would be the heroine’s death.

  Soft-voiced priests replaced the physicians and their awful instruments. The heavy curtains of Madame’s bedstead were looped back and candles placed to ring around it. The most elaborate armchair in the room was placed beside the bed in case His Majesty should appear. Madame’s sheets were refreshed with ground herbs and myrrh, a too-sweet scent I’d ever after associate with death, and an elaborately embroidered cloth, rich with gold thread and intertwined crosses, was laid over the coverlet.

  Even Madame herself was made ready. Though she’d never lost consciousness, she looked as if she were fashioned from wax, her once-bright eyes glazed and dull as the color of life drained from her famously beautiful complexion. Her sweat-soaked hair was smoothed back and hidden beneath a coif of fine white linen. Her face and hands were tenderly washed with cologne and her favorite rosary looped through her fingers. Though she still could not keep back the groans of her suffering, she did seem to take comfort from these ministrations. Everything was arranged to help her make peace with God, and prepare herself for death.

  Her daughters were roused from their beds and brought to their mother, a heartbreaking sight. I doubted the two sleepy girls understood what was happening, and the baby most certainly didn’t, only giving a wail of protest as she was held to Madame’s lips to kiss. One by one, her household was likewise permitted to step close to the bed to bid farewell, and as my turn came, I tried to smile through my tears. Even in her considerable pain, she knew me, and whispered my name, as precious a blessing as I could ever wish. I knelt and kissed her hand one last time, her fingers chill with death, and too soon my time with her was done. I could not contain my grief after that, my tears spilling in sorrowful abandon as I staggered back to my place among the other ladies.

  Soon after, the king himself appeared, so overwrought that he rushed to Madame’s bedside without any of his usual decorum. With him came both Madame de la Vallière and Madame du Montespan, both of whom still held affection for their former mistress, and several others wishing a final glimpse of the princess. Another who rushed to pay his respects at the deathbed was Ralph Montagu, the English ambassador to France, and I could all too easily imagine the devastating report of Madame’s death that he would immediately send to his king.

  Last of all came Monsieur. We all watched him closely for any signs of remorse for what he’d done, yet his painted face betrayed nothing. He spoke not a syllable of love to his dying wife, and shamefully offered no comfort to her as a husband should. As had always been the case in this hideous marriage, poor Madame was left to forgive him his sins toward her—we all could hear her ragged whisper—yet Monsieur’s eyes remained dry and his expression impassive. He was the only one among so many to remain unaffected, and not to his credit, either.

  Soon after midnight, Bishop Bousset, the king’s own consoler and preacher to the Court, administered the Last Sacrament and Extreme Unction to Madame, and then granted her the greatest gift of forgiveness. Just as the bishop had comforted Madame’s mother, the English Dowager Queen, on her deathbed such a short time before, he now performed the same unhappy service for the daughter. He held his own crucifix to Madame’s lips for her to kiss, and with that, her soul finally slipped free of her tormented body.

  Less than a fortnight ago, Henriette-Anne had been laughing and dancing merrily with her brother at Dover. Now she lay dead before me. To be sure, I’d seen ample evidence of her fragile health and constitution, but I’d always believed the strength of her spirit would be enough to protect her. Yet what spirit can triumph against poison? What grace can survive in the face of such malevolent wickedness as Monsieur had displayed? Scarce a month before, Madame had enjoyed her twenty-sixth birthday. She had been only a handful of years older than I was myself, and her death was as harsh a reminder of the dangers of this Court and the capriciousness of fate as I could ever have.

  My despairing heart could not believe Madame was gone. I’d lost my mistress, my patroness, my protector at Court, but most of all, I’d lost my one true, dear friend.

  Whatever I did next, I must do myself.

  Chapter Eleven

  PALAIS-ROYAL, PARIS

  July 1670

  I missed Madame more than I’d imagined possible. Her warmth, her friendship, her courage, her protection, all had been stolen away from me in those few terrible hours, and in the days that followed I was so devastated by her loss that I feared that I, too, might follow her, perished from grief.

  I was not alone. Madame’s death shocked all Paris. It was not only the unexpected suddenness of having so young a lady snatched from our midst, but the suspicious circumstances that surrounded her demise as well. The whole city spoke of nothing else, yet still the facts remained uncertain, even to us who had witnessed the death. All that was known for sure was that Madame had declared herself to be poisoned, and that the physicians attending her had administered the proper antidote, but to no avail. Further, the silver cup from which she’d last drunk, considered to be the agent of the poison, had yet to be found, and was presumed to have been stolen away by whoever was guilty. Everything beyond that was rumor and speculation. But no matter which version was whispered, Monsieur was at the center of it.

  The other constant, of course, was that no one dared speak of poison before the king. Surely he must have suspected his brother, too. How could he not? He’d known the misery of the Orleans marriage, and he’d seen for himself how badly Monsieur had treated Madame. Nor could he have had any illusions about Monsieur’s character or the wickedness that rotted his brother to the very heart.

  Yet as was so often the case with Louis, the reality of what had happened was much more complicated. True, there were few things worse than having one’s brother poison his wife. But because that same brother was also the heir to the greatest monarchy in the world, Louis would require absolutely unquestionable proof of guilt before he’d act. It was much easier and less disruptive to the Court to believe that Madame had in fact died a natural death. The official autopsy, attended by many witnesses both French and English, concluded the same: that the poor princess’s liver and intestines had been insup portably decayed and gangrened by a boiling, impetuous bile that had caused her agonizing death.

  But many at Court still speculated that Louis must have asked Monsieur to swear that he hadn’t poisoned her. When Monsieur (a natura
l liar if ever there was one) vowed that he hadn’t, then Louis had chosen to accept his brother’s oath, and put all other possibilities from his mind.

  Which is not to say the king was unmoved. Louis was visibly shaken by Madame’s loss and wept with sorrow before us, a rare thing indeed for a man who usually kept himself so tightly reined. Madame had been his dear friend from childhood, a confidante, and perhaps even a lover. He missed her sorely. He ordered a state funeral for her to take place in August (a delay that was expected in royal deaths in order to accommodate the elaborate preparation) with the full complement of honors usually reserved for a Queen of France. Though by custom he could not attend himself, he did plan to send his wife the queen as his representative, another considerable show of respect, and Bishop Bousset was already composing a suitable eulogy.

  While the king grieved, Monsieur did not. In the weeks following Madame’s death, he was never once observed to weep or seem otherwise discomfited, as would be expected of a new widower. Instead he seemed obscenely happy, almost gleeful, as if he’d been the one freed from a monstrous spouse, and he showed no respect for his lamented wife. Publicly he declared that she must have been poisoned by the Dutch at Dunkerque as she traveled, a special potion designed to claim its victim much later to divert suspicions. It was an unlikely tale, and he the only believer.

  To the outrage of those who truly mourned Madame, he picked and rummaged like a magpie through her most personal belongings, searching for anything that might feed his jealousy, even into death. He took all the gold her brother had given her in England and claimed it for himself. He refused to return the rare jewels Madame had inherited from her mother, Her Majesty the Dowager Queen of England, jewels that belonged by rights to the English royal family, and not to Monsieur. He read her private letters aloud, mocking them to his sordid friends. He interrogated those of us ladies who’d been closest to Madame, demanding what we knew of his wife’s dealings with the English on Louis’s behalf. One night, when there was gaming at the Louvre, he brought a beautifully embroidered gown that Madame had worn in Dover and tossed it carelessly onto the faro table, declaring the gown to be his stake.