Minette

by Melanie Clegg

  The court has been in residence for just a few hours and all is still in uproar as sweating, groaning servants carry heavy boxes upstairs and courtiers who have not seen each other for almost a year greet each other with shrill cries of false delight and covert sneering inspection of each other’s clothes while their little dogs yap and snarl around their ankles. I hang back shyly in the face of all this noise and chaos, but Mam steams on ahead, impatient to see my aunt and cousins and receive their congratulations for the change in our fortunes. I can’t blame her for this really - after all, she’s been waiting for this moment for a long time.

  I follow her down endless corridors and through a series of richly decorated rooms with fantastical paintings all over the walls and ceilings and opulent carpets on the polished wooden and marble floors. The servants have clearly been busy preparing for the court’s arrival and every room smells deliciously of beeswax polish, soap and the lavender and rose pot pourri that fills huge precious porcelain bowls on all the tables.

  As we hurry along, I cast wary looks up at the portraits that line the galleries. They are mostly of our Valois relatives - a swarthy, pop eyed lot with a fondness for black velvet and starched white linen ruffs, who smirk at me malevolently as I go past. I much prefer the more recent paintings - of my cousin Louis, flamboyant and slightly ridiculous in the crimson robes of a Roman emperor; Tante Anne, pale and unsmiling in crimson silk and Cousin Philippe, pretty and dainty as a doll and holding a garland of flowers with as much concentrated gravitas as other men hold their swords. There are no portraits of me though but then again why would there be?

  Of even more interest are the living, breathing people who line the beautiful rooms and stare at us as we rush past. I smile and nod at the few greetings that come my way but otherwise they are silent and cautious. The change in our circumstances has been so sudden, so dramatic that no one knows quite what to do with us any more. I spy Athénaïs de Rochechouart lurking in one of the windows and we exchange a smile - she knows more than most just how I feel, to be poor one minute and rich the next, and at that moment I love her for it.

  ‘Do at least try to keep up, Minette!’ Mam orders sharply over her shoulder and I give Athénaïs one last grin of complicity before quickening my pace.

  We arrive at a pair of closed doors, which are flung open by two very good looking footmen before we are bowed inside. I hear a rustle of silk behind us as the rest of the court gathers behind us to see us enter, curious to witness what sort of welcome we get but their curiosity is doomed to remain unsatisfied for the doors shut with a determined click behind us, shutting them all out.

  My cousins and Tante Anne are deep in conversation in front of the vast marble fireplace but abruptly break off as we enter and turn towards us with smiles of welcome pinned to their faces. As always my Tante Anne’s pale skin gleams like finest mother of pearl but Louis and Philippe are tanned and handsome after a year spent in the sunny south, their teeth shining white and strong in their dark faces.

  ‘They look like a pair of farm boys, don’t they?’ Tante Anne complains as we stare at them. ‘I tried to get Philippe to carry a parasol but he got bored and lost it.’

  Philippe smirks at me. ‘But don’t I look handsome?’ he says, fluttering his slender brown fingers at his mother, who purses her lips in annoyance. ‘I feel quite exotic and having a tan makes one look so much more slender.’

  Tante Anne gives an impatient shrug then moves forward to take Mam’s hands in hers. ‘I was so delighted when I received your letter,’ she says with a smile of genuine pleasure before turning to her eldest son. ‘Is that not so, Louis?’

  My elder cousin grins. ‘We were all delighted,’ he says with a nod to me. ‘The elevation of our cousin Charles to his proper position is all that we have ever wished for.’

  ‘It was a long time coming,’ Mam says and I see that she is close to tears as Tante Anne embraces her then begins to tell her in great and possibly exaggerated detail just how everyone looked and acted and exclaimed when the news arrived. Not for the first time I am deeply moved by how kind my aunt and cousins can be. They know that to Mam, sending her astonishing news by letter was a poor second best to telling them in person and so now they all chime in, acting out their responses all over again for her benefit.

  We are just trying not to laugh at Philippe’s merciless impression of Anne-Marie trying her hardest to pretend to be pleased by the news when the great gilt inlaid doors on the other side of the room swing open and a tiny figure dressed in shimmering black taffeta richly decorated with huge pearl tassels and stiff with silver embroidery scuttles in surrounded by a bevy of whispering ladies in waiting who all curtsey deeply, their flower coloured silk skirts crumpling beneath them, when they spy Louis looking amused and handsome by the window.

  You don’t need to be a genius to realise that this is Maria Theresa, Louis’ Big Nosed Infanta in the flesh. I meet Philippe’s eyes for a second and then have to drop my own so that I do not laugh. It’s not that she’s ugly - in fact she is actually rather better looking than Philippe’s letters had led me to expect: plump with big pink cheeks that are tinged with a pretty flush as she looks at her new husband, large soft blue grey eyes and lovely dark blonde hair. No, it’s not that at all.

  ‘My dear,’ Louis advances quickly and gently takes her hand in his, drawing her hesitantly into the cosy family circle beside the fireplace. ‘May I introduce your aunt, Queen Henriette-Marie of England and her daughter, your cousin, the Princess Henrietta-Anne.’

  Maria Theresa greets my mother with pleasure. She smiles and nods and exclaims over her resemblance to her poor dead mother, Mam’s sister Elisabeth who was sent away from France as a girl of thirteen to marry the heir to the Spanish throne, at which point both Mam and Tante Anne bring out their lace edged handkerchiefs and dab away their invisible tears. ‘She often spoke of you,’ Maria Theresa says in her halting, awkward French. ‘Her baby sister, she called you. She prayed for you often, married to a heretic in England and like to be damned along with him.’

  An awkward silence falls as she turns to me with rather less delight. ‘I am pleased to meet you, cousin,’ she says at last, scrutinising me coldly from beneath her long pale lashes. ‘Are you married also?’

  ‘Not yet,’ Tante Anne interposes quickly before I can reply and she and Mam exchange one of their looks.

  ‘Do you think the bat look will take off in Paris next season?’ Philippe whispers in my ear as she turns away and returns to Louis again. ‘Can we expect to see the exquisite ladies of the Marais copying our little Queen?’

  I hide my smile behind my fan. Poor Maria Theresa. Queen of France she may well be but she’s clearly determined to cling on to Spanish ways and fashions for as long as she can. I try not to stare at her astonishing black dress, so wide and cartwheel like in construction that she had to sidle in sideways through the doorway or the peculiar way that her hair is arranged, in carefully gummed ringlets decorated with crimson velvet ribbons and dangling diamond drops, flat like wings either side of her square face.

  ‘Twice on the wedding night alone,’ I hear Tante Anne whisper to poor Mam as she whisks her to the chairs set beside the fire for a cosy gossip. ‘I was so relieved. Pray God that we are soon to be rewarded with a Dauphin.’

  I smile and look away, meeting Louis’ eyes. He’s gone a little red with embarrassment but manages to wink at me before turning away to his bride, who stares up at him adoringly. Their wedding night must have been a triumph as she’s quite infatuated with him.

  Which just leaves Philippe and me.

  ‘You look well, cousin,’ I say with a nervous laugh as he takes my hand in his. There’s no use pretending that our mothers have clearly destined us for each other. I must confess that the idea of it does not entirely fill me with horror but what does Philippe think?

  ‘As do you, Minette,’ he replies, lifting my fingers to his lips. I find that I like it when he uses my family’s pet name for me. ‘I do
n’t think I have ever seen you look more pretty.’

  I blush and look away, unable to meet his eyes. Mam and Tante Anne have fallen silent now as they strain to hear what we are saying to each other.

  He holds me out at arm’s length and looks me over. At Mam’s insistence I am wearing the prettiest of the new dresses that Charles’ gold bought for me - a delightful confection of palest buttercup yellow silk trimmed with fine lace and pearls. ‘What a delightful gown,’ he says at last. ‘Is it your own design? No? Well, at least someone in the family knows how to dress properly.’ He favours Maria Theresa with a sidelong look of glittering malice then grins at me.

  ‘You are too cruel, cousin,’ I whisper, well aware that Louis can hear every word. ‘The poor girl has not been in France for long.’

  ‘Bat wings, Minette,’ he says with a wink. ‘There’s no getting away from it.’ He lifts up the feathery ringlets that hang about my ears and pretends to thoughtfully arrange them on either side of my face. ‘You know,’ he says slowly. ‘It might actually suit you but then you have the sort of face that would lend itself to anything, fair cousin.’

  I feel suddenly breathless and the skin on my neck tingles where he lightly brushed it with his fingers while arranging my hair. ‘You are too kind to me, Philippe,’ I whisper.

  ‘Nonsense,’ he whispers back with a smile. ‘I could never be too kind to you.’

  The court don’t remain at Fontainebleau for long before Louis whisks his bride off to the Château de Vincennes for a leisurely honeymoon and everyone else returns with enormous relief to Paris, where they settle back into their normal lives. The Louvre was empty for almost a year, abandoned by all but a basic skeleton staff of devoted servants who continued to dust the pictures, clean windows, weed flowerbeds and straighten the heavy white cloths that covered the furniture but now it is once again a hive of activity as dozens of people run here and there, preparing for the King’s return while at night the great windows that were so dark and gloomy before are now lit up by a blaze of candlelight and the sounds of laughter and music spill out onto the street below.

  For my part, I am glad to have everyone back again. Tante Anne and Mam are thick as thieves once more and spend their days gossiping over hot chocolate and cake and surreptitiously embroidering baby clothes. Philippe comes to visit every day as well, never empty handed but always with some thoughtful and often rather expensive little trinket that he think I will enjoy. We sit together in the long gallery, where Mam can keep a covert eye on us while doing her embroidery, and talk.

  Sometimes he brings Armand de Gramont with him, tanned and more handsome than ever after his sojourn in the south of France. He bows to me silently then takes himself off to flirt with Mam’s ladies in waiting, occasionally pausing to cast an amused glance over at the prince and me. When he deigns to speak to me at all, he is arch and slightly mocking - it’s almost as if our brief interludes in Tante Anne’s apartments and the garden at Colombes never happened. Perhaps he has forgotten about them. Perhaps he has forgotten me.

  ‘A month is a fearfully long time to be cooped up alone with someone,’ Philippe complains to me. ‘I wonder what Louis and Big Nose have to say to each other.’

  ‘Perhaps they are not doing much talking,’ Armand interposes with a smile and everyone laughs. ‘I predict that within twelve months, your nose will be put firmly out of joint by the arrival of a Dauphin.’

  Philippe laughs as loudly as anyone at this but I can tell that he is annoyed. ‘I never expected to be King after my brother,’ he whispers to me, ‘but it was always nice to have it as a possibility. Don’t you think I would have looked lovely wearing the crown, Minette?’ He turns his head slightly to the side and pouts, posing as if he is indeed wearing his brother’s crown precariously balanced on top of his very full chestnut wig.

  I smile and pat his hand. ‘Of course, Philippe,’ I say consolingly.

  ‘Still being Duc d’Orléans isn’t so shabby,’ he says with a shrug. When our uncle Gaston died earlier in the year, his title bypassed his daughter Anne-Marie and went to Philippe instead. If Anne-Marie was miffed at losing out she hid it well and, besides, was amply compensated by inheriting the vast majority of her father’s not inconsiderable wealth and properties which made her even more rich and self important than ever.

  ‘Do you think your brother will try for Anne-Marie’s hand again?’ Philippe asks slyly.

  I can’t help shuddering. ‘I hope not,’ I say. ‘Parliament have apparently been very generous with him so let’s pray that he no longer has any need to delve into her money bags.’

  Philippe laughs. ‘You are failing to see the bigger picture, Minette,’ he says, stretching his legs out before him. ‘You are thinking, and quite naturally so, of how dreadful it would be to have our dear sweet Anne-Marie as a sister in law but have completely failed to consider the fact that if she did indeed marry your brother, it would mean that she would be living in England while you remain here in France.’

  I look at him and see that he is blushing a little beneath his tan. ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ I say slowly. ‘Surely I too will be living in England soon.’

  His cheeks go even more red. ‘Not necessarily…’ he begins as Armand hides a snigger behind his hand and Mam abruptly rises to her feet, forgetting in her haste that she had a pile of brightly coloured embroidery silks on her lap, all of which fall to the floor and get caught up around her high heels as she hurries towards us.

  ‘Come now, Minette,’ she says, extending her hand in a way that makes it clear that she is not to be refused. ‘It is time for your singing lesson.’ She turns in an apologetic flutter of hands to Philippe, who has risen and stands awkwardly, waiting to be dismissed. ‘I am sure that you will excuse your cousin, Monsieur,’ she says gently.

  Philippe smiles and bows over her extended hand. ‘Naturally. I should like to see her as accomplished as she is beautiful,’ he says with aplomb, flicking me one last regretful smile as I bob a silent curtsey and hurry away behind my mother.

  ‘My lesson is early today,’ I say quietly as soon as we are out of earshot at the other end of the gallery.

  Mam stops and turns to face me. ‘Come now, Minette,’ she says. ‘Surely you know why Philippe had to leave?’

  I shake my head. ‘I thought that you wanted a match between us?’ I say. ‘I’ve seen the way that you and Tante Anne look at us both.’ I give a little shrug. ‘It’s ridiculous and not a little embarrassing.’

  Mam gives a little exasperated sigh. ‘I won’t deny that your aunt and I have set our hearts on such a match but, Minette, have we not had enough disappointments to contend with already?’ She opens the door to her sitting room and leads me inside. ‘It would not do to wear our hearts on our sleeves just yet,’ she says with a sad little smile. ‘There is too much at stake and so many things that can still go wrong.’

  I nod. ‘I understand,’ I say. ‘I don’t want to let you all down.’

  My mother cries out then and puts her arms around me, drawing me close. ‘My darling girl,’ she whispers. ‘You could never let me down.’

  This isn’t precisely true but I hope it will be a long time before I put it to the test.

  A few days later, Mam takes me to see Mazarin in his enormous palace on the Rue Vivienne, which runs close to the Palais Royal and is in easy reach of the Louvre so that he is always near to hand if his King requires him. I’ve never been there before and even though I am used to the splendours of my cousin Louis’ palaces, my eyes are out on stalks as a footman leads us up the lavishly decorated marble staircase to the reception rooms on the first floor.

  ‘Don’t stare,’ my mother admonishes over her shoulder as I pause for a second to gaze up at the painted ceiling above us which is covered with a scantily clad array of grinning, writhing deities who cavort lasciviously amongst pink and white fluffy clouds. It doesn’t seem very appropriate for the residence of a Cardinal but then again Mazarin is no ordinary Cardinal.


  He is waiting for us in a vast crimson walled chamber with portraits of his nieces hanging on the walls and a huge painting of Louis, imperious and unsmiling in a plumed hat and armour, over the black marble fireplace. Even though it is a bright summer’s afternoon, the heavy red damask curtains are pulled tight against the sunshine while the dozens of candles in the enormous elaborate crystal chandeliers overhead are all lit and cast a soft glow onto the gilt decorations that cover the ceiling.

  Mazarin greets us graciously and with every appearance of great delight, as if we are his very favourite people in the world, which we all know is completely untrue. It’s masterly really how he manages to smile and nod and sigh and clutch his breast with delight as if the restoration of the Stuart fortunes is all he has ever longed and worked for and who knows, perhaps it is?

  ‘And what are your plans now?’ he asks Mam smoothly as he pours fine Italian wine, sweet and faintly fizzy against the tongue, into three beautiful crystal goblets with his own hands then offers one to me. ‘Are you planning to return to England?’

  Mam smiles and flutters her hands vaguely. ‘Oh, well, you know how things are,’ she says with a foolish little laugh. ‘There’s so much to arrange and then of course there is the question of Minette…’

  Mazarin smiles, charmingly urbane as always but there’s a hesitancy there too. ‘Ah, yes, Minette.’

  I wait for him to say more but at that moment the doors open and Marie rushes into the room with a huge grin on her face and her hands outstretched in welcome. ‘Minette!’ Her arms are around me and we embrace. ‘What a delight to see you again!’ She’s been back in Paris since December but this is the first time that I have seen her. ‘I wanted to come to the Palais Royal but I didn’t think your mother would be too pleased to see me,’ she explains with a rueful little smile.

  She looks just the same as always, perhaps a little plumper about the cheeks and more strained around the eyes but essentially she is the same Marie as always and oh, how I have missed her. ‘You are wearing your hair differently,’ I say lamely, also noticing that she’s not wearing Mam’s pearls today but instead a choker of beautiful emeralds that perfectly match the shimmering silk of her gown.