Enchantress of Paris (11 page)

When we'd first come to Paris, right after her wedding to the Prince de Conti, we'd danced in a ballet,
The Marriage of Peleus and Thetis.
She'd played a goddess, and I'd played a musical muse. From backstage I couldn't see the king dancing as Apollo. She ordered me to stay behind a backdrop while she looked for Conti. But I'd climbed up the cranks and pulleys of mechanical clouds to get a peek onstage. When she couldn't find me, she panicked and begged Conti to organize a search party. I'd started laughing, and they spotted me.
Say you're sorry,
she'd commanded. But I wasn't. I'd seen the Sun King dance!

Now I touched Martinozzi's arm. “He'll send me to the convent if I fail.”

She sighed. “Don't try to fool him, you wicked girl. He'll make you beg for the convent.”

The king's herald called from the antechamber, “His Majesty the King!” and we curtsied.

King Louis went straight to his mother and kissed her. He looked at her cards, then rounded the table, checking everyone's hand. “I'd slip Madame de Motteville a spare ace, but that would give her away.” He paused to absorb their chuckles. “So instead, I'll sweeten the bank.” He tossed a golden coin on the table, where it clinked among the silver. Then he turned to me. “Marie!”

Martinozzi backed away as the king approached.

“You don't play cards?” he asked.

I glanced at the table, where I had not been invited to play. “I'm afraid I'm no better at dealing with card players than with politicians.”

He looked confused.

I grinned. “I never know when they're bluffing.”

He laughed heartily. So did the queen's ladies.

“Marie,” cried the queen, “you're such a wit!”

“Pray don't tell my uncle,” I said. “He'll either ship me to a convent or rent me out as a royal jester and pocket all my profits.”

Everyone roared at that, and I prayed they really
wouldn't
tell my uncle.

The queen mother dabbed her eyes and gestured to a tufted bench. “Please, Marie, sit when you talk to the king.”

To be allowed to sit in the presence of royalty was rare. Everyone watched us sit together, and I didn't have time to worry what they thought.

King Louis reached into his doublet and pulled out my book. “There was a reason for the delay. I … I had to learn Italian.”

I was stunned. “You learned Italian—for me?”

“Your sisters say
you
read in every language.”

“Not every. Greek, Latin, English, Italian, French, Spanish.”

He laughed. “I confess, I struggled with some passages.” He flipped through the pages to canto fourteen. “Here. What's Armida doing?”

I looked. “Ah, the best part. She's just enchanted Rinaldo.”

“But why does she fly him to her magic castle?”

“To keep him for her pleasure.” My cheeks burned. “But it doesn't last.”

The queen mother looked our way. “Read aloud, Marie.”

“She doesn't have to read,” said the king. “She knows whole cantos by heart.”

The queen's eyes widened. “Then recite!”

“Yes,” said the king. He searched the pages. “Here. Recite your favorite verses from canto sixteen, and I will see if you get them right.”

I resisted the urge to wipe my palms on my silk skirts. I began to recite the canto in Italian.

“Her veil, flung open, shows her breast; in curls

Her wild hair woos the summer wind: she dies

Of the sweet passion, and the heat that pearls,

Yet more her ardent aspect beautifies:

A fiery smile within her humid eyes,

Trembling and tender, sparkles like a streak

Of sunshine in blue fountains; as she sighs,

She o'er him hangs; he on her white breast sleek

Pillowing his head reclines, cheek blushing turn'd to cheek.”

Aware of the furious blush in my own cheeks, I glanced at the king.

He rifled through pages. “Yes! She got it.”

The queen and her ladies applauded, murmuring to each other.
They have no idea it is a love scene!
I bowed my head.

King Louis handed the book to me. “Alas, I promised my brother a game of billiards.” He stood to go. “Will you join us for a game tomorrow?”

“As you wish.”

The queen mother called to him, “I almost forgot! I received a letter from your uncle Gaston, duc d'Orléans. He asks permission to pay us his respects.”

Gaston. One of the leaders of the Fronde! Mazarin's mysterious note came to mind.
That man must first pay me homage.
I held my breath.

King Louis considered it. “He hasn't been to court since he surrendered. How many years?”

The queen focused on her game. “They say he now lives a life of piety.”

“Send the note to my chamber and I'll answer it,” he said as he walked out.

Oh no. What should I do?

*   *   *

As expected, the cardinal came to my room that night. He opened my bed curtains. “Gaston thinks he can sidestep me. You cannot allow it.”

There was no use feigning sleep. “He wants to pay respects to the king and queen.”

“If Gaston doesn't show reverence to
me,
Condé will never fear me. Condé is massing his troops for the summer. He will strike again in the north. France is weary of war. Help me make it stop.”

I clutched the coverlets. It was more than that. Mazarin needed to prove to every last footman in Paris that
he
was in control. “I will do what I can.”

*   *   *

The next evening, my carriage arrived at the Pavillon du Roi at the Louvre. Musketeers stood aside. I'd asked Philippe to escort me, but Mazarin said I had to work alone. So my page walked before me while Moréna carried my ivory satin train. I went straight to the king's quarters, my gold silk shoulder drapery fluttering as I passed marble pedestals and sculptures. The footmen announced me and opened both doors to the king's apartments.

Tapestries, paintings, or murals covered every inch of space. Dozens of the finest candles lit a green-covered table and smelled faintly of honeybee wax. The far windows looked across the Seine to the Île de la Cité, with its fetid alleys and crooked streets.

The king himself stood to greet me. “Marie.” He kissed my cheeks. Like a cousin. Or perhaps more.

I looked around. “Who is brave enough to teach me billiards?”

Monsieur called, “Not me. I'm wretched.”

“King Louis is the best,” said the Prince de Conti. Though he was Condé's brother, he'd submitted to my uncle after the Fronde. His marriage to my Martinozzi cousin was a triumph for Mazarin. Conti could be an asset. He leaned over the table and used the wide end of his mace to strike the balls, making a fantastic racket.

King Louis grabbed a mace. “We play King and Hoop. We each have three balls.” He positioned me at one end of the green-upholstered table and pointed to six side pockets. “Keep them from falling in the hazards.” Then he indicated a hoop rising from the tabletop. “Whoever moves all their balls through the hoop first wins.” He put my hands on the mace and positioned my arms. “Try.”

I pulled the stick back, aimed, then struck the ball. It whacked the others, missing the hoop and the hazards.

“Très bon!”
said King Louis, and he stalked to the other side. “Knock your opponents into the hazards if you can.”

“So, the mace is the king of the billiards table,” I said.

Conti nodded. “It commands the subjects.”

Monsieur laughed. “The subjects don't always move through the hoop like they're supposed to.”

“Maybe not for you,” said King Louis. With that he struck, and a ball rolled through the hoop. “The king must be skilled.”

Monsieur elbowed me. “My brother doesn't have to be skilled while your uncle is around!”

The king struck and missed. “My subjects will follow commands when I issue them.”

I lined up. “Who was it your mother said wishes to return to court?”

“Gaston,” said Conti from the corner. “And he ought to be forced to crawl back.”

I struck, sending a ball through the hoop. “Didn't he defy my uncle in the Fronde? You should test your skill on him. Command Gaston to first visit Mazarin.” I rounded the table, lined up to strike.

“Yes,” said Conti, to my relief. “He wanted to kill Mazarin.”

King Louis thought a moment. “If Marie puts her next ball through the hoop, I'll order Gaston to fall on his knees before Cardinal Mazarin.”

Conti glanced at me. Monsieur laughed. I struck the ball hard. Straight through the hoop.

Conti applauded.

“Well done,” said the king, beaming at me with evident pride.

Monsieur lined up for his turn. “The cardinal will be thrilled.”

The thought that my king might realize I'd been maneuvering for this very thing made me sick. But I threw back my head and laughed. “Just don't tell the old bird I had anything to do with it.”

*   *   *

I stood behind our uncle with my brother and younger sisters in the great hall of Palais Mazarin weeks later, watching the entourage of Gaston, duc d'Orléans, clamor into the courtyard. The old prince who had caused my uncle and my king such trouble entered alone, limping with gout, leaning on a gold cane. He reached the cardinal and, grimacing, eased himself to his knees. He kissed my uncle's red cassock and white lace rochet. He begged forgiveness. My uncle extended his hand, and Gaston kissed his fingertips. Thus, through me, Mazarin's power over the French and the king was enforced. I hated every moment.

Gaston left for the Louvre, and my uncle turned to me. “I'm not sure whether it is your fear of the convent or your love for the king that has made you useful.”

“I did it out of love for
you,
Uncle,” I lied.

“Next to beg my forgiveness will be Condé. I am moving our troops to the north. We must leave nothing to chance. You must convince King Louis to join them.”

“Why put the king so close to battle?” It didn't seem a fatherly thing to do.

“To inspire troops who are sick of war to fight with all their hearts.”

According to Parisian pamphleteers, the whole country was sick of war. But Mazarin's private ledgers showed how he profited by provisioning the army and controlling its budget.
Oh, how little lives are worth when there's money to be made
.

He watched me carefully. “Perhaps you're wondering what's in it for you? The King of Germany is dead.”

I shrugged.

“Ferdinand the Third was also the elected Holy Roman Emperor, which forced the imperial countries to help him when he sided with Spain against France. Imagine what Louis can do if he wins the next election.”

“It would help us defeat Spain and Condé.”

“I've sent emissaries to bribe the Electors and will go to Metz myself for the vote. The king should come with me. As Holy Roman Emperor, King Louis could marry anyone he wants. Even the mere niece of a cardinal. Suggest it. Make him think it's his idea.”

An opportunity to end the war
and
marry the king? I retired to my rooms not knowing what to believe.

 

CHAPTER
13

Summer 1657

Summer's sun warmed the countryside, trees and fields blossomed with bounty, and two countries took up arms to resume a war that had been ongoing for thirty years. The court traveled to Sedan to be closer to the fighting. The journey took days. Regiments of musketeers, companies of gendarmes and light horse, cavalry regiments, and royal carriages followed the kettledrums and trumpets, winding north through vineyards swollen with juicy grapes and past lavender fields glittering with purple. We converged on towns at night, where troops put the great houses under arms and sweaty courtiers descended from carriages to collapse in assigned lodgings.

Hortense and I rode in the queen mother's carriage as part of her household, since Venelle stayed behind in Paris with Marianne and Olympia, whose belly swelled with child. We were trapped, reading aloud from boring prayer books, jostled over broken pavers, the heat exacerbated by our voluminous skirts. Moréna fared worse, sitting atop my
cassone
in a wagon, baking in the sun. I envied the king, who rode horseback most of the way.

When we reached Sedan, Mazarin, King Louis, and Monsieur closeted themselves to review plans to attack Montmédy. Hortense and I shuffled to our room in a château designated as the royal lodging. Moréna arrived with our belongings, and we stared at each other.

“Why are we here?” groaned Hortense.

So the cardinal could use King Louis
. “So the king can receive updates and issue prompt orders.”

“So the
cardinal
can issue orders,” Hortense replied.

Indeed. Moréna drew curtains over the windows. We all stripped naked and collapsed on the bed.

*   *   *

The most favored French female courtiers gathered daily in the queen mother's makeshift presence chamber, jostling for position near open windows, fanning themselves rapidly. Hortense stood in a corner, reading aloud, and I sat nearby playing the guitar. The queen mother played cards with my friend from the salons, the comtesse de La Fayette. Even our guards seemed about to melt with boredom. They stood at every doorway, surrounded the château, stood at every city gate, and blocked every street. I eyed their harshly gleaming muskets and fat pouches of gunpowder. They reminded me of danger. We were at war. And Mazarin wanted my king near the fighting.
Well, I don't.

The cardinal, the king, and Monsieur arrived.