Enchantress of Paris (24 page)

“Better, thank you,” she said.

He nodded. “In that case, His Eminence expects you to attend Armand de la Meilleraye's grand fête tonight.”

As Grand Master of the Artillery, Meilleraye kept quarters in the Arsenal. He was no different from every other noble in Paris, eager to please the king by hosting a private party. But while most understood the king wanted entertainments in order to enjoy keeping company with me, Meilleraye only wanted an excuse to draw Hortense near.

Colbert held up a hand to stop Hortense's grumbling. “Meilleraye shows special interest in you. Your uncle commands you to look your best and favor Meilleraye with a dance.” He turned to me. “Mademoiselle Marie, your uncle has revoked your carriage.”

My breath caught. “Is this some sort of punishment?”

His eyes flicked to Venelle and back. “You may keep your horse. But you may only travel in coaches belonging to His Eminence under orders from Madame Venelle.”

My coach, my drivers, my ability to move about freely. Gone.
Because I slipped away with King Louis last night.
I cast Venelle, my uncle's spy, a hot look.

“Don't be cross,” she said. “I give them honest reports, that is all.”

I noticed her use of the word “them.”

Hortense scowled. “You mean you complain about us.”

“And Mademoiselle Marie,” said Colbert as he turned to leave. “You're to loan Hortense your finest
parure
of jewels for the evening.”

My sister sighed. If a sigh could have a tone, hers was that now familiar sense of resignation. “Sorry, Marie.”

I waved her apology off. “I'm more sorry for
you.
” I opened my lacquered cabinet and retrieved my diamonds.

Venelle rang the silver bell on my dressing table to summon Moréna. “Hortense has nothing to be sorry for.” She went around the room, shaking out our sheets and closing bed curtains.

I suppose Venelle had nothing to be sorry for either. She was only doing what my uncle paid her to do. “Tell me, Madame Venelle, did the queen mother say when I might get my carriage back?”

She didn't look up. “No. She gave the impression she never wanted you to have it ba—” She froze.

I grinned, satisfied she'd fallen into my trap. “So the queen mother pays you to spy on us, too.”

She turned white.

I didn't revel in my victory. Instead I helped Moréna slather the stinking unguents followed by almond paste onto Hortense's face. Without my carriage I couldn't move safely through the city to my apartments at the Louvre, where I could search for paperwork. I needed Philippe now more than ever.

*   *   *

Hortense's hair and skin shone on our trip east through Paris's evening streets, but she looked more nervous than I'd ever seen her. Venelle must have ordered the driver to take the long route, for we entered the rue Saint-Antoine. The imposing block of the Bastille rose over us. Hortense gaped at its centuries-old towers with its dreaded chambers of torture, the
calottes
and
oubliettes.
Thankfully we turned toward the Arsenal, where a row of cannons seemed less threatening.

“Does Paris really need such a fortress?” asked Hortense.

“Not now that England and Italy are no longer our enemies.” Venelle seemed indifferent to Hortense's anxiety. “With the king's marriage, Spain won't be a threat anymore. But where else would we imprison thieves, vagabonds, spies, and traitors?”

I clenched my fists.
Lord, help me to not slap Venelle herself into the Bastille!
But as soon as I stepped out of the carriage, I caught sight of Mazarin limping into the Arsenal with the queen mother. “Why are they here?”

Venelle gave a smug laugh. “His Eminence is the guest of honor.”

Hortense ignored what this might mean and managed to hold her head high on our way into Meilleraye's apartments. The place had the heavy stone walls expected of an auxiliary building to the fortress, but the tapestries and Turkish carpets and polished furniture inside gave the chambers warmth. Meilleraye's cousin Madame d'Oradoux helped him play host. They greeted us in the reception hall, kissing our cheeks. Meilleraye lingered a little too close to Hortense for a little too long. D'Oradoux tittered and cooed appropriately, complimenting the pretty crimson of my gown, the elaborate curls of my sister's
coiffure.

But I had neither eyes for their well-suited apartments nor ears for d'Oradoux's flattery nor patience for the way Meilleraye ogled Hortense. I searched every face trying to find the king's. Instead, I found my brother's.

I curtsied to Meilleraye and d'Oradoux, and left Hortense in Venelle's hands. But Venelle surprised me. She left my sister with that ogler and followed on my heels!

I spoke to Philippe quickly. “Brother, focus your search on letters addressed to the cardinal in Paris during the year 1637.”

“One letter seems flimsy proof.”

“The queen mother told King Louis that Mazarin lived in Rome then. This will prove she lied, and he will have to question
why
—”

Venelle was beside us before I could finish.

My brother frowned at her. “What, you've been ordered to listen in on every conversation?”

She didn't respond, just plastered a casual expression on her face and clung like a fly on dung. Her eyes darted to where His Eminence stood beside the queen mother's armchair. Both watched us carefully.

“I see you'll be an especially efficient spy this night,” said my brother, “with both of your employers present.”

As I contemplated clawing Venelle's eyes out, the king's herald called from the door. Philippe and Venelle bowed along with everyone else in the chamber. Except me. I ran to the king, pausing for a quick curtsy, and circled my arms around his neck. A hushed murmur sounded like a breeze through the guests. Shock at my behavior, no doubt, and at the king's acceptance of it.

I ignored them. Louis gestured for guests to act informally. Conversations resumed. Fans waved. And Venelle appeared at my side
again.

“Madame Venelle,” I said, deciding words could be sharper than claws, “I was just telling the king what you told me earlier. About how the queen mother is paying you to spy on my conversations. Nay, my every waking move.”

Her eyes widened to two huge balls of fright. “I … well … she just…”

King Louis frowned. “Speak, woman. Is this true?”

Instead of answering, she stuttered, making no sense.

Nevertheless, the king understood. “So it is true.” He hooked my arm into his and slowly made his way through the room toward his mother's armchair. Instead of the customary kisses, he gave her a cold stare.

The queen mother actually seemed nervous. “Majesty.” She held out her hand.

He didn't take it. “I hear you're hounding someone I hold dear.”

She thought carefully before speaking. “Anything a son holds, the mother must first make certain is safe.”

A glance at his profile showed he wasn't softening. “Sons learn to judge for themselves.”

“A mother must seek assurance for
her
self.”

His cheeks flared an angry red. “I presume you won't be dancing.” Since she was the highest-ranking woman in the room, it was his duty to offer the first dance of the evening to her. But this was no offer. It was a statement.

She bowed her head; acquiescence. The king led me away before she could speak further.

She stands firm in some battles and submits to the unimportant ones, clever old minx.

King Louis led me to a small clearing between courtiers and positioned himself for a minuet. He winked.
He's going to dance with me instead of some duchess or countess as he ought to.
Together we made light steps to the harp music. Everyone moved back. My brother and sisters, Meilleraye and d'Oradoux, Mazarin and the queen mother, and all the rest watched the king and his Italian inamorata with admiration and awe.

“Don't let her ruin our fun,” he said. “Tomorrow morning you come to the Louvre to begin practicing for the
Ballet de Raillarie.
There are memories to be made, my Marie, memories we will treasure into our old age.”

I smiled.
Yes, the Louvre.
Might I break away from the ballet long enough to search my uncle's offices?

Then my heart sank, for I realized my anxiety about Mazarin made me miss the love in my king's tone.

“Yes, my love, my king, these memories will delight us.” I just hoped we'd be
together
for the reminiscing.

 

CHAPTER
31

Pour the wine, throw the roses,

Dreaming only of delight,

Time at his own hour discloses

What may be our future plight.

—A POEM BY GUILLAUME AMFRYE, ABBÉ DE CHAULIEU

“Hold up your chin, Marie,” muttered Lully the next morning at ballet practice. “Good. Now raise your arms. Bend your wrist, make it light, make it lovely. Like this.” He stomped his heel and raised his arms with a flourish of the wrist.

Pierre Beauchamp, the king's ballet master, walked toward us with a disapproving stare. Since my arrival, he'd shown he didn't much care for a late addition to the dance sequences. “Mademoiselle Mancini,” he said through tight lips. “Do you know what you are doing? Do you even know my five positions for the feet?”

Instead of answering, I put the backs of my heels together with my toes pointing out in first position.

He looked doubtful. “Second?”

I slid my heels apart. “Third?” I asked, but didn't wait for him to answer. I aligned one foot in front of the other, the heel of the front in the arch of the back. Without asking, I separated them to make the fourth, then brought them together again for the fifth, this time with heels aligned to toes.

Beauchamp's frown disappeared. “Now the
port de bras.
”

Holding the fifth position and keeping a strong center line in my body, I moved my arms in a series of graceful sweeps to the front, then the sides, and ended with my hands above my head, arms an oval frame around my face.

“Again, again!” Beauchamp clapped to get everyone's attention. The other courtiers playing village girls, including Hortense, gathered around. “See Mademoiselle Mancini? She keeps a noble carriage of the head. To impress with formal presence, keep your movements simple!”

The village girls murmured their agreement and returned to their stations. They made a semicircle and took a series of crossing steps, sliding steps, and hops. Village girls had no song, no verses, no major role, but eleven of us would perform a pastoral dance interlude.

Stage builders climbed about the scenery, testing paint colors and drapery in the light. Venelle stood in the wings with a keen eye on Hortense and me. Costumers nearby pieced together my shepherdess outfit. Members of the orchestra lined the perimeter, fussing over pages of music and practicing various pieces, making a pretty discordance of differing melodies. King Louis himself stood amid the orchestra, watching me with approval.

“Your costume will be a little too short, to better see your steps,” Beauchamp said to me. “Besides, showing a bit of calf gives the men a thrill.”

Surrounded by the synchronized motions of other village girls, I followed him in a large circle making full turns, half turns, crossing steps, and jumps. My focus didn't prevent me from noticing Philippe lean into the theater. He shook his head.
He hasn't found the letter.
Feet together, knees bent, jump, circle in, circle out, hop. We repeated the movement in reverse and came to the center. “Then,” Beauchamp exclaimed, “finish with a
pas rond
!”

I made the circular motion with my leg and stepped back, and the ladies behind me finished in the same position.

King Louis left the orchestra, pounding his hands together in applause. “You will make a sensation,” he said. “We'll perform every night until Lent!” He lifted me up and spun me around. The other village girls giggled, and he led us from the theater to an antechamber where we could rest. Ladies playing the roles of court girls shuffled onstage. We heard the claps and complaints of Beauchamp and Lully as they commenced.

King Louis motioned for us to sit. “You must be tired.” He sat next to me on a divan.

All but Hortense giggled and exchanged sly glances. They were familiar faces, daughters of the noblemen who waited in line outside the Pavillon du Roi for an audience with the king. The girls jostled and shoved each other for the divans and chairs closest to the king.

King Louis snapped his fingers. Red-liveried pages streamed into the chamber, each holding several pastel satin-covered boxes.

“What's this?” I asked.

“Village girls deserve a taste of the sophisticated confections offered at court,” he said with a wink. The pages handed a box to each of us.

Hortense tossed aside her lid.
“Macarons,”
she cried. She held a white fritterlike bun in her palm. “Mmm. It smells like almonds, sugar, and roses!”

“Mine smell like orange blossom,” said another girl.

I bit into one, and the crunchy shell gave way to a cloud of honey sweetness. “And lavender!”

A page handed a box to Madame Venelle. “Oh,” she exclaimed, lifting the lid and putting in her hand. “And I am not even dancing in the
Ballet de Raillarie.
Your Majesty is too kind.”

The king nudged me with his elbow, and I watched her carefully.

While still smiling at the king, she pulled out not a white
macaron
but a tiny white mouse! If there was one thing in this world Venelle feared, it was a mouse. She took one look at the creature in her hand and howled like an eastern gale. She dropped it into her lap and tossed the box to the center of the room. Venelle gasped for breath, and the other ladies jumped up, fanning her, shaking her skirts, and brushing the poor mouse from her lap. Meanwhile, the lid of her discarded box twitched and tipped off, and out streamed a dozen white mice. They darted and scattered, and the room erupted with screams. King Louis laughed hysterically. Watching Venelle recover her breath to let out yet another curdling scream, I laughed until tears sprang to my eyes. The girls jumped onto couches and clung to one another, squealing and squeaking and standing on one foot so the miniature monsters wouldn't devour them. Pages scurried about like valiant knights in a fairy story, chasing the mice as if they were fire-breathing dragons. Pages hopped over benches and threw up the Turkish carpet. Hortense scooped one mouse up from behind a chair leg and cradled it in her hands.