Venelle propped Victoire up, and Mercœur held her hands. My sister grimaced as she pushed, and the physicians leaned in so far their heads disappeared between her knees.
“Stay strong, Victoire!” cried her husband. But she looked so pale, so tired. Her chemise clung to the sweat on her chest. She grunted with pain, and we urged her to push. The maids prepared basins, the wet-nurse arrived, and I held the linens ready. At long last, the baby slipped out in a rush of bloody fluid. The physicians handed it to me and turned their attention to the cord. “A boy!” I cried.
But Victoire didn’t look right. The left side of her mouth drooped. “I can’t move my arm.”
Mercœur took his newborn son from my arms, cooing, and I moved to Victoire’s side.
“I’m so tired,” she said.
“Lay her down,” grumbled a physician. “Clean her up and let her rest, and soon she will mend.”
I positioned her limbs, arranged her infant in the crook of her arm, and went to work cleaning blood and pulling soiled quilts from beneath her. So much blood, and when I pushed on her belly to help shrink her womb, more trickled out. I pressed the herb pouches on the tear between her legs.
* * *
In the morning we couldn’t wake her.
Mercœur sat by her bed and bawled.
“Is it apoplexy?” one physician asked another, who replied, “We must cup her.”
I interrupted. “She’s lost enough blood—”
They glowered so fiercely I feared they’d send me away. “Set up the table.”
I made Mercœur leave and used the chess table to set out their gruesome knives and glass bowls.
One used tongs to hold a bowl in the fireplace until it glowed red-hot. The other barked, “Hold her still.” He rolled Victoire to her stomach, yanked the back of her chemise up, then sliced her lovely skin. Her lids flew open. She cried out in pain. Blood poured forth. The other physician put the hot bowl over the cut, and my sister screamed. The bowl filled with blood, a grotesque sight.
Victoire clung to me and wept. “Stop!”
One physician smiled. “She is alert. It worked.”
Victoire stared, distant and helpless, and I knew it hadn’t. I turned to Moréna. “Get Mercœur. Wake their sons and my sisters. Send messengers for Olympia, Philippe, and my Martinozzi cousin.” I turned to Venelle. “Find the cardinal.”
* * *
“Please don’t let them cup her again,” I begged the cardinal when he arrived. Our entire family gathered in shock.
The physician interjected, “Cupping saved her. She is in no danger.”
The cardinal frowned at me. “Don’t interfere with the physicians. We must all pray.”
Olympia and I glanced at each other. I’d shown her the healing laceration between Victoire’s legs. She’d felt the shrinking womb herself. She agreed Victoire’s weakness was caused by a problem in the brain and cupping wouldn’t help. Nevertheless, we fell to our knees with the rest of the family, and His Eminence made the sign of the cross.
They cupped her. She cried out. Victoire’s sons wailed at the sight of their mother’s bloody back. Marianne sat in the corner with her face in her hands, yelling, “Make the physicians stop!”
Finally, Mercœur put his ear beside his wife’s lips as she whispered, and his face crumpled with grief. With her good hand, she gestured for her sons. The light around her seemed to fade, as if her life were draining. She is dying.
We positioned her with the baby cradled in her good arm. Philippe and each of my sisters knelt for a final kiss. I started to approach, but the cardinal ordered the last sacraments. A priest drew wine and lit incense while Mazarin spilled a litany of Latin. Victoire took a crumbled bit of communion wafer, but it fell from her lips. Rumors be damned! Why hadn’t I followed Papa’s example and hung a protective amulet over her bed?
I stepped in front of the cardinal and put my lips to Victoire’s cheek.
Her eyes met mine. “Live well for my sake.” Her next whisper came out in a rush. “Wherever it leads, your star is your own. Let no one conceal its brilliance.” She didn’t draw another breath.
Cardinal Mazarin shook her. She was limp. Olympia started wailing.
“She’s gone?” asked Marianne between sobs.
Hortense clung to one of my hands, and I put my other in Olympia’s. We stared in disbelief. The angelic one was gone. I felt an abyss of grief, yet it slowly filled with the command in her whisper. A Mancini whisper. Last words of the dying hold power, and she’d uttered hers for me. It is time for me to live.
The wet-nurse took the baby, Mercœur took his other sons into his arms, and servants covered Victoire. Olympia looked at me with tears streaming down her cheeks.
I whispered, “I have had enough of death.”
Mazarin heard. “Get your sisters and brother,” he muttered to me. “The Mancinis must come to Palais Mazarin.”
We backed out of the room together, slipped out of the Hôtel de Vendôme, now a house of mourning, and piled into the cardinal’s coach.
I was the first to speak. “Without Victoire, we Mancinis have no alliances. Olympia must wed.”
Mazarin nodded. “Olympia will marry within a fortnight.”
Olympia quieted at that, but Marianne and Hortense continued to cry softly. Philippe put his arms around them.
Mazarin studied me. “The king inquired after you. He thinks you should stay at court.” He went on before I could question him. “I intended to send you away after the birth. But now … you will help Olympia prepare for her wedding. Give orders to the cooks, request my carriage if you have need, and for God’s sake try to dress better.”
King Louis spoke on my behalf! “No convent?”
The carriage halted, and he narrowed his eyes. “I’ll hire dame de Venelle to help you return normalcy to Palais Mazarin. Then you’ll go. Be on your best behavior. Be eyes. Be ears. Bring me something useful to solidify your place here.”
It made my stomach turn. I thought of his finance papers. His accounts, his notes, the lists of people he took advantage of by gaining such useful information. “Anything to serve you.” I couldn’t believe how easily the lie leapt to my lips.
CHAPTER 7
A person often meets his destiny on the road he took to avoid it.
—JEAN DE LA FONTAINE, Fables
The morning after Victoire’s funeral, the cardinal had his table placed in the middle of our shared chamber. “Dress!” he commanded. Hortense, Marianne, Olympia, and I hid behind screens to be washed by maids while he rifled through a pile of letters.
We’d barely slipped on chemises when Philippe marched in with more parchments for the cardinal to read. “You’re like a bunch of soldiers waiting for battle armor,” he teased.
Marianne stuck her tongue out at him. “Go find a razor and shave for once.”
We Mazarinettes laughed at this, but the cardinal barked instructions. Philippe scampered from the chamber. He collided with a dozen seamstresses at the door. They streamed in around him carrying piles of fabric, baskets of lace, boxes of thread and pins and spangles and tassels and feathers of every shape and color. Seamstresses laid siege to each of us, wrapping us with silks and taffeta, piling on velvet trim or bright silk flowers, calling for the cardinal’s attention. He glanced up. If he shook his head, the seamstresses stripped the pieces away and started over. If he nodded, an artist pulled out paper, sketching a bodice, an undress gown, a petticoat, an overskirt. A spectacled man scribbled notes about fabric, color, trim, and cost. They ran to the table with finished designs. The cardinal’s signature, a commitment to pay, made them skip back to us with glee and begin again. We were stripped and redressed all day.
The next morning jewelers arrived with designs for headdresses, necklaces, earrings, and rings. With a “No” from the cardinal, a career was dashed, but “Yes” made a man’s fortune. Some came to the cardinal on bended knee, kissing his ring, holding up caskets overflowing with precious stones in ev
ery color. The cardinal signed receipts. He buried his hands into a box of diamonds, pulling out fistfuls, letting them spill between his fingers, smiling euphorically. The next day, the jewelers returned with a bouquet of pearls for Olympia’s hair, long silver diamond earrings, and diamond pendants stitched onto a stomacher so dense I couldn’t see the fabric underneath. The necklace they presented held Mazarin’s largest diamond, the Mirror of Portugal.
When a jeweler arrived with a casket of diamonds set in lace-patterned silver buttons, the cardinal gestured to a dressmaker. “Don’t leave this room until these adorn Olympia’s silver gown.” The dressmaker trembled, either with fear or excitement. She sewed for the next twenty-four hours straight, even while we slept, until the gown was covered.
She whirled it over a dress form. The skirts fell in a silver bell-shaped cascade. It glittered with diamonds from neck to hem, the most spectacular dress I’d ever seen. Olympia threw herself on our uncle, hugging his neck until he actually smiled. Not only would Paris be unable to doubt the cardinal’s wealth, Paris would be dumbfounded by it.
“How much do you suppose that gown is worth?” asked Marianne.
“A palais at least,” said Hortense.
The cardinal would never let her keep it.
* * *
On the morning of February nineteenth the Mancinis rose to be curled, powdered, and bejeweled. Moréna studied my new rose watered-silk gown and cross-shaped ruby necklace. For once she gave me an approving smile. She knew my sister’s wedding also served as my first real appearance at court. “Make the most of it,” she whispered.
We rode in a procession of gilded carriages to the Louvre. Courtiers stopped to watch us alight. The cardinal led Olympia in her silver diamond gown and stunning diamond necklace straight into the king’s apartments. I followed with my sisters close behind and caught snatches of courtiers’ comments as we passed …
“The cardinal’s nieces could feed the army with those jewels.”
“I’d rather feed the cardinal himself to the army.”
I tried to stay focused. For the sake of my sisters, I had to learn to maneuver at court.
Inside, soaring, gilded walls met muraled ceilings, making me feel small. Then the king appeared. I hadn’t seen him since the day of Mamma’s funeral. His eyes found mine, and he smiled. At me! My heart fluttered wildly. Olympia noticed our exchange, but she had no time to intervene. Eugène-Maurice of Savoy, newly made comte de Soissons, entered. He glanced at Olympia, then took quill in hand and signed the marriage agreement.
The king’s brother, styled by the simple honorific Monsieur, poked his elbow in my ribs. We hadn’t spoken since I left for the convent two years earlier. “What have you done to your skin? It’s more radiant than that gown.”
I grinned, catching a whiff of his expensive perfume. “That is the flush of excitement, Monsieur.”
“Bottle it for me.” He arched one perfectly plucked, clove-darkened brow. Monsieur wore feminine beauty elements better than most females. It made him unusual, and made some uncomfortable, but I was unusual, too. “Better yet, how about letting me borrow the gown?”
I whipped open my fan, painted side out, as the salon ladies always did. “Only if you promise to come to my fête at Palais Mazarin.”
“Can I bring my friends?”
“All the better.”
The cardinal poured hot red wax on the marriage agreement and stamped it with his seal. He led the wedding party the long route through lofty chambers to the queen mother’s chapel. Everyone at court, Mazarin’s enemies and heads of noble factions, was forced to bow until we’d passed.
In the queen mother’s chambers, attendants greeted us with silver goblets of wine. I spotted Somaize, my ink-fingered friend from the salons, and kissed his cheeks.
“This wine is delicious,” I said.
“It’s from Burgundy,” Somaize said. “The king’s favorite.”
“You simply must bring some to Palais Mazarin for a fête next week. Monsieur will be there, you know.” His eyes widened. “Bring some friends.”
The queen mother appeared and we bowed low. She took the cardinal’s arm and led us into her private chapel. Olympia spoke her vows with surprising solemnity. A show. I wondered what the king thought of it and glanced at him. He winked at me. I had to press my lips together to keep from giggling like some maiden in a fairy story.
From there we proceeded to the cardinal’s apartments. Crystal chandeliers hung above a long table where gold cloth set off the gleam of gold plates. Footmen in the cardinal’s green livery stood behind our seats. Holly boughs and evergreen sprigs were tucked among the candelabra topping the table, but their fresh scent was replaced by that of onion soup. Six servants rushed in carrying roasted peacocks on giant silver platters, their feathers splayed out fancifully over the succulent meat. A collective ahh went up when they brought in dishes of créme brûlée and towers of marzipan fruits.
King Louis held up his golden goblet. “For the newlyweds, a gift of music.”
Giovanni Battista Lulli, an Italian who’d changed his name to Jean-Baptiste Lully to adapt in France, entered playing his violin. His best players followed, pulling a lively tune with their bows. Olympia held her goblet toward the king in thanks.
When we’d eaten our fill, and perhaps drunk too much, the violinists followed us to the bedchambers. Mamma’s old rooms. The queen mother blocked the men. “Back, beastly men,” she said with a laugh. “The bride’s sisters will prepare her.”
Moréna slipped out as we walked in. What’s she doing here? There was no time to ask. Hortense and Marianne helped me cut the stitching around Olympia’s diamond stomacher. She slipped off the bodice and stepped out of her skirts. I wrapped the precious gown in linen, placed it in a chest with the mesmerizing Mirror of Portugal, and locked it with a key my uncle had given me.
Olympia hiked her lacy chemise up around her waist, then lay upon the bed. “Marie, reach behind that cabinet.”
Confused, I did as she asked. I felt around until my hand touched a cold glass jar. I pulled it out, took one look, and threw it on the bed. “What is that disgusting thing?”
“That is my salvation.”
“A chicken’s bladder filled with blood, by the looks of it,” said Hortense with fascination.
“What are you going to do with it?” asked Marianne.
She bedded the king! “You don’t want to know,” I replied angrily.
Olympia bent her knees and spread her legs, a sight I could have done without. “Put it in,” she said to me.
Hortense gasped, then bent down to whisper in Marianne’s ear. Poor Marianne went pale.
I crossed my arms. “I will not.”
“I must give my husband proof of virginity.”
“That isn’t proof, it’s fraud. If Soissons discovers it, he’ll be furious.”
She grabbed my wrist. “Then help me get it in deep.”
I opened the jar and held it out to her. “Shove it in yourself.”
She did it, and I thought Hortense and Marianne would throw up right there. Olympia held out her bloody fingers, but I couldn’t find a cloth to wipe them. I had to rip my inner silk petticoat and use spit to clean bloodstains from her inner thighs and fingers. I packed the cloth into the jar.
“Get rid of that,” said Olympia. “And you two,” she hissed at Hortense and Marianne, “keep your mouths shut about this.” She straightened her chemise and pulled the silk sheets up to her neck.
I dropped the filthy jar into my hanging pocket so it was good and hidden beneath my beautiful gown. “God protect us all if you get caught.” I threw open the doors. “The bride is prepared.”
The cardinal shot me a look as if to ask, What took so long? The men had stripped the comte to his long linen shirt, and they escorted him to the bed in his bare feet. The cardinal blessed the union and made the sign of the cross. We pulled the bed curtains closed on their anxious faces and slipped out.
“It is
over,” said the cardinal. He turned to go, snapping his fingers. “Come, girls!” Our signal to follow him like little ducks.
“We’ll be celebrating your wedding next,” King Louis said as I passed.
“Not likely,” I said, irritated at the tender feelings I’d been having for him. Why does he bother winking and smiling at me when he has Olympia? “You’ve had my book more than a week, Majesty.”
He actually blushed. “I haven’t quite finished reading it. Next week.”
* * *
At Palais Mazarin I marched into the servants’ quarters and dragged Moréna from her bed. “You assembled the chicken bladder for Olympia.”
“In my homeland a bride would be returned to her family if she didn’t bleed on her wedding night. Besides, Olympia paid.”
“It will cost infinitely if you are caught. If that thing stays inside her too long, she’ll get sick. From now on, you work only for me.”
“I was working for you.” She wrenched her arm free. “The fates say your star won’t rise until Olympia’s sets. How will you shine if she is your eclipse?”
“If you mean Olympia is to be harmed I will—”
She held out her hand as if she feared a beating. “I mean you will distinguish yourself. As the eldest sister in residence you are the lady of Palais Mazarin.”
I paused. “That is true.” It would be luxurious. While it lasted.
She lowered her hand slowly. “Consider what you might make of it. Especially now that you’ve caught the king’s eye.”
I frowned. “That part isn’t true.” And I left before she could sense my sadness.
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