Mistress of the Sun

by Sandra Gulland

  Indeed, Petite thought. She sometimes longed for the silence of a contemplative life—its elemental purity. It is my wish. “I only mention Nicole because she went to Madame la Voisin for love charms. Many of the ladies of the Court have gone to her, I’m told—including the Marquise de Montespan.”

  Abbé Patin started. “She’s actually talked of this?”

  “Why?”

  “Because it all ties together, I’m afraid. One of my nephews is a monk in the monastery in Toulouse where the wizard-priest was in hiding. The priest was something of a braggart, I gather: he claimed to have performed rituals for the Marquise. Nothing is known for sure,” he said with emphasis. “I learned this secondhand and it’s quite possibly unfounded, yet…Yet my nephew is a credible source. According to him, the priest-wizard said that the Marquise de Montespan aimed to capture the interest of His Majesty. He even boasted that his charms had worked.”

  Petite put her head down, taking deep breaths. Athénaïs had used sorcery to seduce Louis? “I’m all right,” she said, putting up her hand. Athénaïs was many things—jealous, spiteful, given to excess—but she was rigorous about her religious devotions, strict about never breaking a fast, always observing a holy day, never missing a Mass. How could someone so meticulous about her faith partake of Satanism? “I’m sorry,” she said finally, sitting up. “I get these attacks now and then. They mean nothing,” she said faintly, taking a moment to catch her breath. “Are you aware, Abbé Patin, that His Majesty and the Marquise are…?”

  Abbé Patin nodded. “There have been rumors about that, as well. I confess I am greatly concerned about His Majesty’s soul.”

  Petite’s eyes teared. Yes.

  “As well as yours,” he said, sitting forward, meeting her gaze. “Tell me. This can’t be a…a comfortable arrangement for you, to say the least.”

  “I feel trapped,” she confessed. “What are my choices? Most women in an unhappy situation take the veil—but what convent would even have me?”

  “I am in a position to vouch for you.”

  He was serious, she realized. And so was she. “But what about my children, Abbé Patin—”

  “You would still be a mother to them.”

  A better mother to them, Petite thought—a mother who did not live in sin.

  “This will take time to explore, I know,” Abbé Patin said, touching the tips of his fingers together. “You are a pure spirit in a—”

  “I am far from innocent, Abbé Patin,” Petite said heatedly, interrupting.

  “On a secular level, certainly. However, in some people there is a purity of soul that cannot be sullied, and I see that in you.”

  Petite paused, her heart’s blood pounding. Dare she confess? “There is something I never told you—something I’ve never told anyone.” Her voice quavered.

  “Do you wish to speak of it now?” he asked, perceiving her seriousness.

  Petite pressed her palms together. If she didn’t confess now…would she ever? “Have you ever heard of bone magic?”

  “Is it something to do with horses? I’ve heard of toad magic, a ritual peasants use.”

  “It’s similar, I believe.” And then she told him everything: of killing the toad, grinding its bones and mixing it with oil, using it to gentle Diablo. “It was a miracle, Abbé Patin. The horse was vicious, and then—in a moment—he became the gentlest creature imaginable.”

  “I’ve seen you with horses. Have you considered that it wasn’t the ritual that turned him?”

  Petite shook her head. “I began hearing things, seeing the Devil’s face in the night.”

  “Children often have such fears. You were young.”

  “But old enough to make a pact with the Devil, Abbé Patin. Not long after, my father died suddenly and the horse disappeared.”

  “Until now,” he said.

  “Until now,” she echoed, thinking of Diablo, his wild beauty. What did it all mean? Her father, Diablo, and now Abbé Patin. Yet another trinity. “There is more,” she said. “After I found out about the Marquise and the King—” She paused. She could not reveal the existence of Athénaïs’s two children by Louis, even to Abbé Patin. “I wanted to kill her.”

  The Abbé grimaced. “That’s understandable, frankly.”

  “And not long after, I came upon that oil again, in a pin case, and I thought…I thought I might try it—on Athénaïs, or even on His Majesty. I wanted that power, Abbé Patin. I wanted to bend them to my will, and I was willing—perfectly willing—to deal with the Devil again in order to do so.”

  Abbé Patin sat back, taking this in. “What stopped you?”

  “My daughter.” Petite’s brave facade began to crumble. “She must have found the pin case in my basket. She nearly drowned.” Petite covered her face with her hands. “If I had lost her…” O Mary. She dabbed her cheeks with her sleeves. “So, you see?” she said, her voice shaky.

  “I do.” His voice was tender.

  Petite took a deep breath and sat up, meeting his eyes. “Tell me what I must do.”

  “To combat the Devil?” He opened his hands wide. “What you have just done. Evil is vanquished by bringing it into the light.”

  “It can’t be that simple.”

  “You are right in that this process—of enlightenment, I think of it—is far from simple. It takes time, and considerable courage. But then”—he smiled, his eyes warm and shining—“I happen to know that you are an exceptionally courageous woman.”

  The clock chimed. “Ah, I’m afraid that this is the hour when I turn into a manic horseman,” he said with a grimace, standing. “I am expected in Paris.” He took her hands in his. “Will you be…?”

  “Already you have been an enormous help to me, Abbé Patin,” Petite said. She felt lifted of a great weight.

  “We will talk of all this further, I assure you,” he said, “but as to that other matter—”

  Petite tilted her head toward Athénaïs’s rooms.

  He nodded. “Just be watchful. Do you understand?”

  “I do.”

  “May God be with you,” he said, making the sign of the cross over her.

  PETITE SAT FOR a time after Abbé Patin left, staring into space, reveling in the relief she felt at having unburdened herself, as well as stupefied by what had been revealed, the possibility that Athénaïs may have used dark magic to achieve her aim.

  Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of running footsteps outside. She went to the balcony window, but could see nothing beyond the usual construction—the piles of rubble and stone, carts lined up, everything motionless for the Sabbath. She turned when she heard the entry door opening—Clorine and the children. And then she heard a woman’s musical laugh.

  “Louise, I’m sorry to disturb you, but I’m afraid that we must leave immediately,” Athénaïs said, closing a Chinese paper parasol as she stepped into the room. Her golden underskirt glittered with diamond knot pins. “I’ve ordered up our coach.” It was Petite’s coach, in fact, but Athénaïs considered it theirs. “We have to go to Saint-Cloud.”

  “Now?” Petite asked as Clorine came in with Marie-Anne and Tito. Through the open window she heard running footsteps again, people calling out. “What has happened?” she asked, alarmed.

  “Henriette is gravely ill.”

  “Poisoned, Mother,” Marie-Anne said with enthusiasm.

  “Don’t say that,” Petite cautioned, taking both Marie-Anne and Tito into her embrace. “What do you have in your mouth?” she asked her daughter.

  “A sweetmeat,” the girl said with a guilty squirm. “Madame Montespan gave it to me. Louis spat his out.”

  “It’s a coriander comfit. Would you like one?” Athénaïs asked Petite, reaching through her skirts.

  “No, thank you,” Petite said, her voice drowned by Marie-Anne’s squeals of protest as she pried the sweet out of her child’s mouth.

  “Your coach is out front,” Clorine announced.

  “Are you all right
, Louise?” Athénaïs asked, standing over Petite, placing her gloved hand lightly on her shoulder. “You look pale.”

  THE COURTYARD AT Saint-Cloud was packed with coaches, with groups of drivers and valets standing about. It was late in the day but light still, the sun just setting.

  “The King and Queen are here already,” Petite said. In front of the entrance was the royal coach, hitched to eight bay horses.

  “The world is here,” Athénaïs said.

  People were standing near the door in clusters. Petite recognized Madame Desbordes, one of Henriette’s maids of honor, talking with Philippe’s valet. Inside, she could see Prince de Condé talking to Marshal Turenne, Madame d’Épernon and Madame de la Fayette looking on. Monsieur Lauzun was leaning against the wall, under a wall sconce, looking woeful.

  “We’ve just come from Versaie,” Athénaïs announced, climbing the wide marble stairs with the help of a walking stick.

  Madame Desbordes leaned forward in order to speak confidentially. “Have you heard? The Princess claims she’s been poisoned.”

  Petite recoiled. Terrible cries of pain could be heard from within.

  “By the glass of chicory water I mixed for her!” the woman said, pressing a nose cloth to her face.

  Athénaïs frowned. “You gave her the water?”

  “No, thank God. Madame de Gourdon gave it to her. Poor Henriette—such agony, but it’s not poison, I know it. Monsieur had the water given to a dog, and I drank some myself from Madame’s glass, just to prove it.”

  “You drank it?” Athénaïs persisted.

  “It took Monsieur a while to realize that she might really be in danger and to call in a doctor. Now every doctor imaginable is here: Madame’s, Monsieur’s, even the King’s is here from Versaie. All of them insist that it’s nothing but an attack of colic—even as she writhes! Nobody knows what to do, not even His Majesty. Everybody but Madame Henriette—right from the start she said she was dying and that all she needed was a priest.”

  “Is it all right for us to go in?” Petite asked, stepping aside to make room for five musicians followed by pageboys carrying their instruments.

  “If you can find room,” Madame Desbordes said. “It’s as crowded as opening day at the Saint-Germain Fair.”

  THE SCENE IN the dark chamber was chaotic, crowded with courtiers coming and going. Philippe was standing by a window staring over at his wife with a stricken look. The suffering Princess was stretched on a bed, her nightdress open, her fiery red hair in disorder. The Queen was on one side of the bed, Louis on the other, clutching Henriette’s hand. Petite knew the instant she saw Henriette’s face that the Princess did not have long to live. She looked like a bone-thin cadaver, gaunt and gray.

  Louis glanced up at Petite and Athénaïs, following them with his eyes as they passed by and into the crowd. Petite’s throat closed, seeing the anguish in his face.

  Athénaïs tugged Petite’s sleeve. People had shifted to give them a place. They stood for a time, praying along with all the others: “O Lord, we place our beloved Princess under your care and humbly ask that you restore her to health. Amen.”

  “I won’t see the dawn, Your Majesty,” Petite heard Henriette tell Louis. Her face was gleaming with perspiration, and her eyes were wild, yet there was a curious acceptance in her voice.

  “That’s not true,” Louis told her, pleading.

  Petite turned to hide her tears. Henriette was only twenty-six, her own age exactly.

  “Do you think she’s really dying?” Athénaïs whispered, clasping the cross that hung from her pendant.

  “Yes,” Petite said in a low voice, noticing the tiny key dangling beside the cross: it was silver, with a heart-shaped ring. Athénaïs often wore the cross and the key together. It had never occurred to Petite to wonder why. Be watchful.

  “Do you think she was poisoned?” Athénaïs asked.

  “I don’t know,” Petite said as the musicians tuned up. How sad to be a princess, she thought, to die so painfully on a public stage. “I’ll be right back.” She made her way through to where the musicians were standing. “Play a pavane by Aisne,” she told them.

  As the music began, the Princess looked at Petite, her eyes shimmering. Weakly, she raised one hand, signaling the musicians: louder, faster.

  Petite edged her way back.

  “I think I’m going to be sick,” Athénaïs whispered.

  Louis pulled away from the bed and moved to where three doctors stood in a window recess. “Are you just going to stand there and let her die?” he demanded, raising his voice.

  The musicians stopped playing. But for Henriette’s groans, the packed room was quiet.

  The doctors stared down at the floor.

  Louis returned to Henriette with tears in his eyes.

  “Don’t weep, Sire,” she said. “You’ll make me weep too.”

  “Turn to God,” he said, kissing her forehead and then pulling away.

  There was a stir among the courtiers as the King and Queen departed. They knew what it signified.

  THE NEXT MORNING, back at Versaie, Petite walked to the stables in the rain. It was warm, and she was protected by a hooded cape. She felt like a monk, walking in the mist, thinking ominous thoughts. Thinking about Henriette, her short, sparkling life, her agonizing death. Thinking about the rumors.

  Had Henriette been poisoned? she wondered, turning down the road that led to the stables. It seemed impossible—yet fear gave suspicion gravity. A poisoner could not be seen. Even the weapon was invisible. A person could be poisoned by something put on the rim of a cup, or into a glass of wine. Something sprinkled on a coat or wig could turn a person’s skin yellow and make their hair fall out, rendering them unable to speak, even to make final Confession.

  The Devil be gone, she whispered, crossing herself quickly, afraid of even thinking such thoughts.

  The stable courtyard was congested. Coaches, carts and horses were being readied for the Court’s sudden return to Paris, everything to be draped in black. Petite nodded sad acknowledgment to the grooms and entered the stable. She stood at the gate to Diablo’s stall, her hand on the bolt. So many losses, she thought, tears welling. A paradise turned to Hell.

  She glanced inside. Diablo was standing facing her, his small, sharp ears upright. She dried her cheeks with the edge of her skirt and slowly—cautiously—stepped in.

  Diablo threw up his head.

  She stood against the wall. I know you, yet I know you not. There was beauty in his wildness—in his resistance. She closed her eyes, thinking about her talk with Abbé Patin the day before—her confession. Had that spell been broken?

  She heard a soft, throaty nicker and opened her eyes. Diablo took a step toward her. She closed her eyes again quickly, not daring to look at him, sensing his approach, his hooves rustling the straw bedding. She felt his warmth, felt him smelling her arm, her hair, her shoulder. Felt his whiskers tickling her cheek. Weeping, she sniffed.

  He startled, yet hovered.

  Petite slowly reached through her skirts to a crust of bread roll. She held it out, palm up, waiting. Knowing he would come.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  PETITE SAT UP, roused from a troubled sleep. A dream lingered: of the royal carriage drawn by eight black horses caparisoned in black velvet and matching plumes. Of knights, varlets, henchmen in hoods, water-men and pages accompanying a long line of black-draped coaches, everyone in mourning. Of strangely silent herds of horses, kennels of dogs, carts loaded with cages of monkeys, parrots and other exotic pets following at the rear. Of peasants following, scooping up the rich leavings. And, at the very end, Diablo, a solitary white figure in a black landscape.

  Where was she?

  Paris, she remembered…but not in her little house facing the Palais Royale gardens. No, she was in the Tuileries now, in a new suite of elegant rooms—rooms side by side with Athénaïs’s chambers.

  What year was it? What season? February, 1671, the twenty-seventh year of
the King’s reign. Soon it would be Ash Wednesday, soon Lent.

  That morning she had tended Diablo, who was kept isolated in a courtyard behind the royal stables near rue Saint-Honoré: a cruel captivity. She’d tried, yet again, to back him—but he would not have it.

  In the afternoon Louis had come to her, and, still warm from her embrace, he’d gone to Athénaïs. He’d hinted, in jest of course—of course—that it would be more efficient to have them both together in one bed. “We wouldn’t fit,” Petite had joked—for Athénaïs had acquired girth—but his offhand remark distressed her.

  It was not yet midnight, to judge by the fire still burning in the grate. She felt weighted down with fatigue. Her nights were often sleepless, and what sleep she did get was disturbed by frightening dreams—of a serpent with a woman’s face, her hair swept up in points, of a lean, muscular man in a loincloth, his eyes burning coals.

  Her days were clouded with troubling thoughts as well, with fears and suspicions. She’d been losing things: an ivory fan, a lace mantilla. The disappearance of her father’s rosary still grieved her. She suspected Athénaïs now, in all ways: was she taking Petite’s belongings? Worse, was she practicing witchcraft—on her?

  Petite pulled a fur wrap over her shoulders. It had been a dismal winter, haunted by Henriette’s sudden death. An autopsy had proved that Henriette did not die of poisoning, but even so, people suspected otherwise, whispering of dark magic. There had been no festivals, no médianoche, no balls…until now, with the madness of carnival upon them. Soon there would be the annual Mardi Gras masquerade ball.

  Petite went to the window and opened the shutters. The night was cloudless, the moon full and bright. Her rooms faced the Rabbit Warren, the public gardens reaching to the city wall. Along the banks of the Seine she could see a carriage light moving down Le Cours, but otherwise nothing, no sign of life, just the vague outline of the fountain and the rows of elm, cypress and mulberry trees. Beyond the wall were the wooded hills, open country.