Enchantress of Paris (38 page)

He looked away, reluctant to answer.

“Don't tell me he's signed her over to Meilleraye?”

Philippe nodded.

He's done it.
Of all my failures, this was the worst. I rose. “I'm going to Vincennes.”

*   *   *

At Vincennes I tried to pretend I didn't remember my last visit, when I'd been so sure I could hand all the cardinal's gold over to King Louis and discovered it was gone.

This time, with the cardinal in residence, tapestries lined every wall and carpets covered the floors. Men from every walk of life packed the chambers and halls. Bankers and noblemen, churchmen, even shopkeepers waited for an opportunity to petition a weak yet powerful man. Priests and doctors came and went from my uncle's bedchamber.

I spotted Colbert. “Is it true about Meilleraye?”

He gave a curt nod and led me into the cardinal's rooms.

My uncle lay upon a massive carved ivory bed. The red silk and velvet tapestries hanging around him and covering his frail body were the most luxurious I'd ever seen. Everywhere I looked was a painting by Titian like the
Pardo Venus,
portraits of old French kings, marble gods, bronze and silver statues, vases of jade and rock crystal, and inlaid Italian cabinets.

“Eminence,” I muttered.

His lids fluttered open. He studied me hard, mentally acute as ever, trapped in this decaying body. “What do you want?”

I stepped forward, pulling a silver flask from my hanging pocket. “They tell me your heart is weak, so I brought you this tonic of hawthorn.” Perhaps I felt guilty, for all my harsh predictions of his failing health had come to pass.

He closed his eyes. “Marie, I wouldn't drink something you mixed for me if it were the last drop of liquid in this world.”

I stood there, holding my unwanted gift. “Thank you for sending the marriage documents for Colonna to sign.” He didn't respond. “They tell me you intend to wed Hortense to Meilleraye.”

A faint smile played on his lips. “Yes, and she'll get the bulk of my fortune when I'm gone.”

He thought this would anger me. I'd long given up hopes of receiving any material sign of this man's esteem. “I beg you, Uncle, not Meilleraye.”

“I'll make a new title for him, duc de Mazarin. They'll be richer than anyone in France.”

“He is fixated on religion. He's a zealot.”

The eyes opened again. His gaze bore into me. “I wish I had a zealot for each of you Mancini pagans. Go. Leave me in peace with the knowledge that at least my fair Hortense goes to someone who will steer her right if I die.”

I slammed my flask down on a table. I'd taught King Louis strength, but this man had taught him selfishness. In the doorway, I paused. “Finalize your business and say your farewells, for you
will
die, Uncle. I warned you hurting me would kill you.”

He sat up, started coughing.

I left without looking back.

*   *   *

Hortense's wedding took place that week at Palais Mazarin. The cardinal could not rise from bed to attend. The Mazarinettes gathered in the chapel. The duc de Mercœur brought Victoire's children. Martinozzi waddled in with a great, pregnant belly, and Conti never left her side. King Louis brought his queen. He didn't speak to me.

Meilleraye couldn't tear his eyes off my sister the entire ceremony. He hardly ate the supper I ordered. He sat at the head of the table in his new home, for most of Palais Mazarin now belonged to him, and watched his bride's every move.

Olympia stayed to help Marianne and me prepare Hortense for bed. She hummed one of Mamma's lullabies as she mixed Hortense a tea of chamomile and raspberry leaf.

“I can't believe I'm saying this,” I said to Olympia while Marianne undressed Hortense, “but I'm glad you're here.”

“Of course you are.” Olympia patted my cheek and moved to straighten the bedcovers. “No one can resist having me near.”

I had to laugh.

Hortense trembled when we slipped a thin lawn chemise over her head. “What should I do?”

“Just do what comes naturally,” said Olympia flippantly. “It won't hurt for long!”

*   *   *

In the morning, Hortense asked for a pouch of witch hazel and yarrow to put between her legs, and St. John's wort for bruises around her wrists. God forgive me for wishing I'd killed the cardinal instead of letting him sell Hortense to that bastard.

 

CHAPTER
51

Cardinal's Guards and church officials came to Palais Mazarin at midnight the next week to tell us His Eminence Cardinal Jules Mazarin had received Extreme Unction. They carried us to Vincennes in case Mazarin might wish to offer us a final blessing.

Hortense and Meilleraye, Marianne, Philippe, and I stood in the cardinal's antechamber with Olympia and Soissons, and Martinozzi and Conti. Servants scurried about, hanging black satin over walls, closing curtains, lighting sconces. Priests came and went. At two in the morning, Mazarin's valet emerged from the bedchamber. He crossed to the gold clock in the antechamber and stopped it.

“Does that mean he's dead?” asked Hortense.

“Finally!” cried Olympia.

Philippe heaved a sigh. “Thank God.”

Meilleraye frowned. “Can't you Italians at least pretend some remorse?”

“Certainly,” I said. Then I looked at Philippe and burst out laughing.

Marianne, always one for a good joke, cupped her mouth, leaned forward, and yelled toward hell, “Sorry you're dead, old man!”

Meilleraye looked scandalized.

We laughed so hard we had to hold our bellies, especially poor pregnant Martinozzi. But when a herald appeared in the king's livery, a hush fell among us.

King Louis entered. His gaze settled on me. “Is he gone?”

I nodded.

King Louis looked away. “My deepest condolences.” He left as abruptly as he had appeared.

I felt compelled to follow. In the empty reception hall, I called after him. “Your Majesty.”

He paused, looked back. Of all of us, he might be the only one who felt real grief.

“I'm sorry for your loss,” I said softly.

He shrugged. “He prepared me as best he could.”

“What will you do now?”

He looked puzzled. “You mean, who will I appoint to replace the cardinal?”

“You intend to replace him?”

“I need a chief minister.”

I shook my head. “You have the knowledge and ability to rule.” I took his hand and traced the solar line he'd pretended to doubt. I whispered so no one would hear, “Don't let grief for your father cloud your judgment. Take control of the government quickly. Start your glorious reign.” I dropped his hand and stepped back.

He blinked, glanced at his hand. “You're right. This is, in a way, what I've always wanted.”

I smiled.

“You look well.” He paused. “I've missed you.”

I hardly knew what to say. “I am going to Rome.”

He swallowed hard. “I wish you every happiness.”

Silence seemed to swallow us up. I heard myself ask, “Was it Olympia who told you I was in love with the Prince of Lorraine?”

He looked away. “Yes.”

“Lies,” I said. “She lied at the cardinal's command.”

“She … you…” His voice trailed off.

“I'm glad you are allied with Spain, that France is finally at peace. But I want you to know I never lost faith in you. I just lost the fight.” It was the one thing I'd wanted to say to him for over a year. The words died in the empty chamber. I curtsied quickly, and ran back to my family.

*   *   *

We swathed Palais Mazarin in mourning black, then threw the biggest fête it had ever seen. Since protocol dictated we could not go out, the whole family came to stay. We strolled the gardens in the evenings, supped at overladen tables, and played cards late into the night. Martinozzi and Olympia brought their sons and fought over everything—which beds their children should get, which cousin should bow first to the other. Eventually Conti and Vendome told their wives to hush, and poor Venelle and Marianne had to take over care of the children.

Hortense showed us a chest inlaid with gold, silver, and mother of pearl that Mazarin had left to her. She opened it, and gold pistoles spilled out across the table, rolling to the floor. A fortune. She left it open. We all took handfuls from it at a time, and lost them just as quickly to one another at the gaming table.

Meilleraye participated in all of this with a reluctant expression. I never asked permission to order the cooks to bring up feasts fit for an emperor. Nor did I ask whether I could bring in my old musicians, or if we could use the reception hall for dancing. I ordered the servants to keep Meilleraye's glass full of a sweet, special wine I'd selected just for him. I might even have laced it with a tincture of chasteberry and skullcap to weaken his member so he'd be unable to abuse my sister once we'd all gone to bed.

One night, when I was on the verge of losing one thousand pistoles to Olympia in a game of
bête,
King Louis's herald presented himself in our reception room. Each of us froze, handfuls of cards and coins poised in midair. Our violinist stopped playing.

The king walked in alone, as in the old days, and looked around. “Colbert says we can't get burgundy at the Louvre because the storerooms at Palais Mazarin buy it all up.” He grinned.

Hortense grabbed a bottle of burgundy from our table and poured him a glass as she walked over. “Whatever you find at Palais Mazarin is yours, Your Majesty.” She handed the glass to him, then curtsied.

King Louis laughed. He tipped back his head to gulp the wine in one swig, and we threw down our cards and coins to continue the game. The king dragged another chair to the table … beside mine.

Olympia dealt him some cards. “The Spanish woman bores you?”

“Italians have always been more fun.” He studied his hand.

“What will you wager, sire?” I asked.

He patted the front of his doublet. “It seems I have no money.”

We all chuckled and snickered.

Olympia swept an arm over Hortense's inlaid treasure chest. “That's because every ounce of gold our uncle stole from France through the years is right here!”

Everyone laughed uproariously. Even the king.

“You'll have to win it from us if you want it back,” I said.

“But don't worry,” cried Hortense. She grabbed a fistful of gold and crossed to the window. “What you don't win, we'll return to the people!” She tossed it all to the courtyard below. She'd done this before.

All except Meilleraye jumped up and ran to the windows to see the exhibition. The gold coins bounced, chinking and clinking and rolling in the courtyard below. Servants and guards and footmen and kitchen maids and equerries ran from every corner of the palace into the courtyard, scrambling after the money, fighting each other for it. Olympia cackled and threw down another handful.

We cheered them on, clapping, and even the king struggled to control his glee. Finally he turned to the violinists. “Play a courante!” And so we danced with our wine and we gambled with our cards and threw away our money.

King Louis returned for more cards and dancing the next night, and when the candles gutted in their sconces, we all played hide-and-seek in the dark chambers. King Louis and I pretended to ignore all that had happened between us and made merry with the others until the sun came up. We did it again the next night, and every night the next week. So what if the king tried to touch my hand under the table a few times? I always moved away. When I found myself alone with him in a dark chamber during one of our wild games after midnight, I ran out. For over a month we Mazarinettes had never been so lively, so carefree, and so high in the king's favor. I didn't want to spoil it. But one night King Louis and I danced in the reception hall while everyone else was getting drunk on cognac.

“Don't go to Rome,” he whispered. He took a long whiff of my hair.

The dance steps required that I step back. As I did I said, “You once made me feel worthy of a queen's crown. Don't degrade me now by asking me to be something less.”

There was nothing he could say to that.

 

CHAPTER
52

Early May 1661

One month later, I woke in the afternoon earlier than usual, dressed, and gave Moréna instructions about which gowns to pack and which to discard. I intended to take her on my journey without asking permission from Meilleraye, the new owner of Palais Mazarin and everything in it. For all he knew she belonged to me anyway, and with me, she would be free.

When Philippe arrived, I was waiting.

He bowed. A courtesy, since I was about to embark on a new role as a constabless.

“Has it come?”

He held out a fat packet of parchments, wrapped with red ribbon and secured with Constable Colonna's great red wax seal. “Colonna's uncle, the Archbishop of Amasia, brought them this morning. Everything seems to be in order.”

I released a great breath. Colonna had taken his time signing the marriage documents. But Rome was a long distance. A few days earlier a messenger had assured me the party with my papers would be here. Now the time had come.

“You'd better go tell King Louis,” I said.

“No need. The Archbishop of Amasia went from here to present himself to King Louis and request the ceremony take place as soon as possible.”

Etiquette prevented nobles from marrying without the sovereign's permission. I stared at him. “And?”

Philippe shrugged. “You know how people gossip. Some say Colonna will make you rich if you go, but that King Louis will make you richer if you stay.” He waited for me to reply. When I didn't, he went on. “The king has summoned you to the queen mother's apartments at the Louvre.”