by Karleen Koen
“If I do, he won’t see me anymore. And if I don’t see him I’ll die.” She held both hands against her breast, as if the heart underneath was breaking apart.
“Tell him it hurts you to see him write the letters.”
“I can’t. I can’t lose him.”
Fanny lay now with her head in Louise’s lap, and Louise stroked her hair, her puffy, tear-streaked face. She’d woken up gasping last night, certain the musketeer was in her chamber. In the lantern-lit courtyard to the right of them, the laughing, crowing, cock-of-the-walk courtiers had more than one man among them wet now, and the women clustered around them. Above the stars sparkled, as beautiful as the diamonds Cardinal Mazarin had bequeathed those he loved. Louise smelled the fresh, clean forest. Did she dare go riding tomorrow? Would the musketeer somehow be watching? So Fanny hadn’t saved herself for her husband. Was it the wine that made her feel less shocked than she supposed she should feel? Was Fanny different, tainted now that she wasn’t pure? That’s what the nuns taught. She was supposed to shun Fanny, to lecture her, to tell a priest, but she wouldn’t do any of those things. She didn’t love her friend any less. It was all very confusing. She’d need to ride out into the quiet of the forest to sort it all out, only now she was afraid of riding out, afraid of encountering the musketeer. It felt like the boy was doomed, that somehow she had failed him. She must break her invisible leash, tell someone. But who? She felt very wise and very stupid all at the same time. That was the lovely thing about wine. One didn’t mind.
THE NEXT MORNING, Henriette stared at a towering vase of roses and lilies as she thought about her dilemma. She and Louis had come close to a serious quarrel during the night. Are you saying you want to end this? Then do it, he demanded. I’m saying it hurts me to be talked of, she’d wept. She drummed her fingers on the table at which she sat. So. Who should she suggest for him to flirt with? Definitely not the Countess de Soissons. Nor the queen’s stunning maid of honor, though Athénaïs de Tonnay-Charente was very pleasant and certainly made Henriette laugh with her wit. But there was a singlemindedness about her that made Henriette wary. Two faces floated into her mind from among the young ladies all about. One was lovely but not lively, a Miss de Pon. The other was lively, but not lovely, a Miss de Chimerault. Yes, excellent, neither too sultry nor too beautiful. Now, who else? There ought to be one more. Everyone said good things came in threes.
There was a soft knock at the door, then Louise poked her head through the opening. “Shall I take the dogs?”
The dogs bounded out from under Henriette’s feet, prancing and whimpering for Louise. So, thought Henriette. The decision was made. The third would be Louise. A perverse sense of mischief came up in her. This would raise Louise to a new level. She might even be able to get a decent husband from it, if her mother had any sense. She felt pleased with herself. It was her duty as a princess to see about her ladies, and she was doing just that.
“Wait a moment. I have something for you to deliver.” She dipped the quill pen in ink and wrote the three names. She folded the letter and dropped sealing wax on it, using the ring Louis had given her to press into the wax. She smiled. Louis would just have to do his duty. Surely flirting with others wouldn’t be too onerous. It wasn’t for her.
LOUIS AND COLBERT met in the chamber of books.
“The taxes are coming in?” Dressed in a leather jacket and boots, a whip in his hand, Louis was going hunting as soon as his council meeting was finished. But more and more, he felt he must see Colbert, steady Colbert, secretive Colbert, stalwart Colbert. I depend on him, Louis thought, and he breathed a little more deeply at the thought of all that could go wrong if his dependence was ill chosen.
“Taxes dribble in slowly. About her majesty, the queen mother—” Colbert cleared his throat, then without a word gave the king a copy of a letter.
Louis read his mother’s latest note to the Viscount Nicolas. There spilled out on the page were all her current frets, that Colbert might not be a friend to the viscount and to beware of him, that Henriette was with child, that there could be a terrible scandal, which must be avoided at all costs. On and on she went, writing of things Louis wished she had not.
“What is this reference to the Marquis de Créqui?” Louis asked. “Isn’t he the new commander of my galleys in the Mediterranean?”
“He who is master of the seas has great power on land,” answered Colbert.
“Who said that?”
“The late, great Cardinal Richelieu.”
“Find out about this Créqui.” Louis picked up one of Philippe’s notes to the viscount, skimmed it. It was Philippe’s usual, a demand to be on the council, but grateful for any scrap of regard from the viscount.
Face expressionless, Colbert handed over a note from Henriette in which she thanked the viscount for his kindness and understanding and little gifts. His pledge of loyalty to her meant so much, she wrote.
“How vital the viscount seems to be to my family,” said Louis. “I hope they can survive without him. Give me the plan of arrest.”
In September, in the heart of the province that was most loyal to the viscount, Louis would order him arrested. He and Colbert had begun to plan a coup; swift and paralyzing is what they hoped for. A mobilization of troops and intendants the day of the arrest, the troops to stay in provinces through October. All the viscount’s houses and records sealed. Those who handled the kingdom’s taxing to give over accounts and documents at once. Total abolition of the office of superintendent of finance. Louis to become superintendent of finance. With the viscount’s arrest, money could disappear, trade wither. And there could be war.
Colbert struck a flint to some tinder to burn the latest detail of their plan, and once the sparks had taken hold, neither he nor Louis said a word until it was burned to ash.
“Majesty, if I might beg one more indulgence?”
“Anything.”
Carefully, Colbert repeated the Latin phrase Nicolas had thrown at him. “Contra felicem vix deus vires habet. Would you translate that for me?”
“Against a lucky man a god scarcely has power.”
Colbert flushed.
“Is something wrong?” asked Louis
“No, merely my own ignorance. I was told it meant evil to him who evil thinks.”
Louis gathered up his gloves and riding crop.
“Good luck with the hunt, sire,” Colbert said.
“Alea iacta est,” replied Louis, then, “The die has been cast. The Roman general Caesar said it as he crossed the Rubicon River. He won his battle. We’ll win ours.”
He was off to hunt; only riding, only hunting, the motion of the chase, the exhaustion of hours in the saddle, could soothe him and keep him in one piece for the charade of another evening ahead of him. He was riding the legs off his horses. How many evenings until September? How many evenings until he held Henriette naked? She’d sent him a list with three names, women he was to flirt with. Would that satisfy her? Or would there be yet another demand? There was no safety in this love of theirs, only risk. He’d thought she understood that.
Colbert sat where he was for a long time after the king was gone, not a muscle on his face displaying the fire that blazed inside. What a king he will make, Mazarin had prophesized. Let’s pray we can grow him to manhood. The queen mother would have burst into fury to read the indiscretion of her family, yet his majesty scarcely blinked. He had extraordinary command over himself. You have guided him to greatness, Colbert told the memory of the man who had been his own mentor. Was there a possibility the kingdom could be cleansed, the past overcome? The viscount’s spies were better than theirs.
IN THE NEXT week, Louis flirted like mad with the first two names on Henriette’s list. The court was abuzz, but Louis was bored. He met one of them now out on the private terrace above the golden gate, just off the ballroom. Fontainebleau’s gardens spread out before him.
“What a lovely night,” the young woman beside him, a Miss de Pon, trilled, excited
beyond words to be singled out by him again.
“All nights at Fontainebleau are lovely. You’re lovely, mademoiselle.” I sound like a bad actor, thought Louis.
She lowered her eyes but not before he saw in the light of the burning torches on this balcony that he could kiss her if he wished. He leaned forward and quickly brushed her lips with his own. She caught his arm and leaned her mouth into his, and they kissed more deeply. It wasn’t that it was distasteful. How could a lovely young woman’s mouth be distasteful? But there was some cool, aesthetic part of him offended. She opened like a flower because he was king.
“You’d better go in now,” he told her.
He waited a while, then walked back into chambers lit by wall sconces and chandeliers and sat down by his wife and picked up her gloved hand and kissed it and held it against his cheek while he talked to her.
“My dear queen,” he said, “we didn’t find the stag the dogs scented today, though we rode for miles, all the way to Versailles and back. The beast had a rack of ten points, which would be a worthy addition to the gallery of stags, wouldn’t it? I’m very tired tonight.” He looked at her. “Take my dauphin to bed and I’ll come soon to hold you both in my arms. I’ll order my handsomest cavalier to escort you,” he told her, pointing to Vardes, and the tall, rakish marquis was bowing to Maria Teresa in less than a moment. Proudly, she gave Vardes her hand. Proudly, she walked with him to the huge doors that would take them to the bedchambers. Proudly, she thought, I am the most fortunate woman in the world. Surely, her example was a light unto this vain court.
Henriette had been standing with Guy, engaging in a little flirtation of her own. As the queen’s ladies disappeared from sight, she tapped Guy on the arm. “Go away.”
“I don’t wish to flirt with others,” Louis told her when they stood together in one of the ballroom arches.
Henriette laughed, secretly delighted. “Walk me over to Monsieur. Now tell me why not? Miss de Pon is lovely.”
“Yes.”
“Did she let you kiss her?” She cut her eyes toward Louis and then away. “I can’t stand it if you kiss them, Louis.”
“I didn’t want to, and it wasn’t pleasant.” A lie. It was pleasant, but it hadn’t any meaning; didn’t she understand his yearning for something deep, something splendid, something grand and significant? How long did she expect him to stay on the leash she’d created?
They walked to Philippe, standing with his friends. “Monsieur,” Louis twirled Henriette toward her husband, “I reluctantly bring you your beautiful wife, as ordered by her.”
Philippe was silent. He felt sometimes as if he were being pulled to pieces. Your wife is unfaithful, the Chevalier de Lorraine said. Guy swore she wasn’t. Louis taunts you, he said. Don’t allow it.
“Remind your friends,” said Louis without looking at Guy, “that frowns are a discourtesy in this court.” He walked away.
“That remark was for you.” Henriette tapped Guy sharply again on the arm with her fan. He took the fan from her and cracked it in pieces. Lorraine laughed.
“How dare you! Monsieur, I command you to stop being friends with this boor who calls himself a gentleman!” She faced Lorraine, who looked quite beautiful tonight, an amethyst in one ear, a sapphire in the other. “And this wasp. I know what you say about me, wasp. It is ungallant and unkind.” She turned to Choisy. “Take me for a walk.”
Guy offered his arm.
“Not you. I think I may hate you.” She looked again at Lorraine. “I know I hate you. Come, Choisy.”
“Why do you do things like this?” Philippe took the broken fan from Guy. “Ivory and jade. What a waste.”
“I do it because you don’t.”
“Bravo,” said Lorraine. “He needs to be firm with her.”
“Your presence and your inept advice are unnecessary.” Guy took a step toward Lorraine, who, with a flutter of white hands, lost himself in the crowd.
“Don’t allow the chevalier to insult Madame openly. It’s degrading to you,” Guy told Philippe.
“At least he comforts me in my dismay and confusion, which is more than I can say for you these days. You’re sullen and gloomy again.”
“I’ll have the fan repaired tomorrow and send her four more.”
“Walk with me out onto the terrace,” Philippe said. And when they stood in the moonlight, staring out at the road that ran straight as an arrow beside the pond and led to stables and forest and heath beyond, he put his hand on Guy’s. Guy leaned into the iron railings, holding onto them hard.
“Kiss me.”
“No.”
“For old time’s sake?”
“No.”
“Is the child mine?”
Guy turned and looked at his prince, his childhood companion, his sometimes lover, his beautiful and gifted and wounded friend.
“Tell me the truth.”
Guy went down on one knee, the torchlight playing over the even angles of his face. “It is your child. They are not lovers.” Yet, he kept himself from saying. Call Louis out, he wanted to shout. Demand honor. But he’d begun to despair that Philippe would never honor himself.
“Darling,” said Philippe.
“Don’t!”
“My wife is correct. You really are a boor.” Philippe went back inside the ballroom to stand beside his mother, who stayed up these days, keeping an eye out, he knew, but perhaps it was too late. Madame de Choisy had everyone in gales of laughter with tales about one of her footmen. Philippe’s heart ached. Did Louis really love Henriette? Lorraine said no. Why did Louis not throw him some small bone, some scrap of responsibility, that said, yes, you, flawed as you are, are worthy, too. All the Merciful Saints in heaven, if he had, Philippe would have fallen to his knees and worshipped him. Guy had his heart, the whole of it, except for Louis’s portion. His big, brave, perfect older brother. His big, brave, perfect friend. Why didn’t either of them appreciate his admiration? Was he so awful? So perverse? So beyond love? Was that why Henriette admired Louis? Hadn’t he always known that he would lose her? He hadn’t expected to care so much was all. The jest was on him.
As always.
He grabbed a goblet of wine from a passing servant, drained it, and immediately told a lightly risqué joke about a groom and the lady-in-waiting. His mother and Madame de Choisy laughed like witches at his expert mimic of both the groom and the lady, and he did, too, but only with his mouth.
Hours later when he’d drunk so much that he was sober again, he stared at the door that opened to Henriette’s chambers. In his mind, he saw himself walking through it, climbing into bed beside her, and pretending nothing had ever happened. If he pretended hard enough, wouldn’t it all just go away? But in a few hours, she and Louis would look at one another, and it would be evident they were in love. He was the fool in this drama. Molière knew that: no one was more amusing in a play than the betrayed husband. And had he really been betrayed? Hadn’t it always been a dream that he and Henriette would settle into their life like two doves and never stray? She’d simply strayed first, hadn’t she? Perhaps, one day, he could forgive that.
His carriage was waiting below to take him to Paris, to another life he lived there, a life he’d ignored for a time, but it was his real life. Not this. Never this, except in daydreams and the hopes of others, including himself.
Chapter 22
HERE WAS A LIGHT KNOCK ON THE DOOR, AND LOUIS’S VALET, La Porte, opened his eyes. He dozed in a chair, having learned to do so years ago, until his majesty should be ready for him. But this wasn’t his majesty. Swaying slightly, Miss de la Baume le Blanc stood in the hall, along with La Grande Mademoiselle and Miss de Montalais. Tipsy, thought the valet, and sniffed.
“I-I know it’s late, La Porte.” Louise concentrated on not slurring her words.
“We come to see the dog,” announced La Grande.
The valet bowed, precise in his movement. “Madame Belle will be delighted to receive you.”
He led them to
the huge cushion where Louis’s favorite dog lay. Louise plopped down in a jumble of skirts and put her hand to Belle’s nose. There was a large bandage on the dog’s abdomen.
“Her nose still feels warm, La Porte. I don’t think the new sticking plaster is working.” Louise put her face close to Belle’s. “How are you, my lady? May I pet you, your highness? I’ll be gentle.”
“What happened to the herb compress she made?” asked La Grande.
“His majesty’s physicians thought it unsuitable,” answered La Porte. “They made their own,” he gestured toward the dog, “as you see.”
Louise began to lightly stroke the dog’s head, and after a time, with a groan, the dog shifted herself so that her head was in Louise’s lap. “I don’t think she’s better,” she said.
“I don’t think so either.” La Porte looked around him, suddenly aware he and Louise were alone. Where were the other two? He found them in his majesty’s bedchamber, La Grande rifling through a drawer and the other one dancing around chairs.
“Forgive me, Grande Mademoiselle, but what are you doing?”
“I’m writing his majesty a note, or I will when I find paper … ah, here it is. Go away, little man. I don’t take questions as to my behavior from valets.”
“You shouldn’t be in here,” La Porte hissed, but he went back to the antechamber as ordered. The dog had gone back to sleep in Louise’s lap, and she had her eyes closed and was stroking Belle’s head. “They’re in his majesty’s bedchamber. It isn’t proper,” he told her.
Carefully, Louise moved Belle’s head, stood up. The dog had slobbered on the skirt of her gown, and she looked down at the stain.
“If you’ll have your maid bring your gown tomorrow, we’ll clean that,” said La Porte.
“Does he know?”
There was only one “he” in La Porte’s world. He pursed his lips, smoothed at the nonexistent wrinkles in his coat. The first thing his majesty did when he entered his chambers was to come immediately here and visit Belle. If he didn’t, she would limp to him, and neither La Porte nor his majesty could bear that. “Who can say?”