The French Mistress (28 page)

“Of course it was,” he said bitterly. “That’s the whole purpose of every last looking glass and golden table fork in this place: to prove that you French are superior to everyone else, and to make sure the rest of us know it. And believe me, Charles does.”

“I am sorry, Your Grace,” I said again, for what else could I say? “I am sorry that everything French is so unpleasant to His Majesty.”

“Not everything, mademoiselle.” He turned his back on the Grand Canal, and looked at me with such purpose that I couldn’t mistake his meaning. “There is one specific example of French beauty that will give him only the greatest joy, and by God, I mean to see he receives it. Are you ready, mademoiselle?”

“I am, Your Grace,” I said, and raised my chin to prove my resolve. “I am.”

He laughed with sly delight, and winked. “Come, then, let me return you to your friends.”

I took his offered arm, and in truth by then I was trembling so with excitement that I’d need of his support. I’d listened, and there by the banks of the Canal, I’d made my decision. I was done with relying on others to decide my future. I meant to seize what fate was offering, and claim it as my own.

 

 

Madame’s funeral was arranged for the twenty-first of August. Paris seemed filled with dignitaries from other countries who’d come to pay their final respects to the princess, and at the same time curry a bit of favor with the French king. Though the gatherings at the Louvre were somber at this time, as they should be, Louis expected us ladies to attend and be our most charming before the foreigners, at least as well as we could manage in our deep first mourning.

On one of these evenings, I had joined the others in the rooms set aside for gaming. I was not playing, of course—I’d still not the means to be able to toss away what little money I had—but I did take pleasure in watching, seeing another’s cards and deciding how, if they’d been mine, I would play the hand. I was standing to one side of a table with several other ladies, languidly fanning myself, when one of the royal pages came to summon me away.

I excused myself and followed him, curious as to why I’d been called. Because I served no lady at present and it was doubtful I’d be requested by Monsieur, I could think of no reason for it.

“Where are we going, sirrah?” I asked the boy as soon as we were in the hallway. “Who has sent you for me?”

“It is not my place to say, mademoiselle,” he said, taking obvious pleasure in refusing to share his knowledge. The pages were often like this, puffed full of their own importance as if the entire palace depended exclusively on them. “My task was only to fetch you, no more.”

“Impudent little rascal,” I said, and jabbed him in his brocade-covered arm with my closed fan. “It won’t hurt you to tell me.”

“You’ll learn for yourself in time,” he said with airy superiority, “because you won’t learn from me.”

But as I followed him through the palace and past the guards, I realized soon enough who had requested my presence. We went through two more sets of doors and another group of guards, and then I alone entered the small reception room, and found myself in the presence of His Most Christian Majesty.

He was sitting in a tall-backed chair before the window, his hands resting on the cushioned arms and one foot elegantly placed before the other, with the huge satin bow on each shoe presented as if a gaudy butterfly had landed on the royal foot. He was as usual beautifully, extravagantly dressed: his coat and breeches of black satin (black being the extent of his mourning for Madame) densely embroidered with gold thread and festooned with at least a hundred yards of ribbon, his hat crowned with scarlet plumes and jewels scattered on his fingers and person, even on his hat.

I realized full well that so much magnificence was not solely for my benefit, and that he was doubtless on his way to join the others for the evening’s amusement. Still, as I sank into my deepest curtsy, I was both honored and awed to be alone with him. Although this solitary summons was unusual, even curious, the king would most likely tell me his intentions for my future, and grant me a new place elsewhere within the Court. It wouldn’t matter now that I’d longed to go to England to try my luck at the English Court; unhappily, nothing had come of Mr. Montagu’s hints, and Lord Buckingham’s schemes still remained as insubstantial as the air. If I were to be offered a new position here in France, I would accept it at once, with gratitude and no hesitation, and as I curtsied, I had to swallow back both my excitement and my relief.

“Mademoiselle de Keroualle,” the king said, solemnly lifting his hat to me, “good evening to you.”

“Good evening, Your Majesty.” I rose, my hands folded before me in proper respect. I’d not seen him in such close quarters since I’d met the English king, and I was struck by both the similarities and the differences between the two. They both were tall and handsome and dark, with black hair and a regal mien, which was understandable for cousins who’d shared a common grandfather.

But where the English king had laughed easily and found much in the world to please him, his power tempered with warm kindness and generosity, the French king was as severe as a graven image, his expression unchanging and his dark eyes as intent and unblinking as any hawk’s as he regarded me. I thought of how most every woman in Paris was dazzled by Louis, and desired to be his mistress above all things, yet as I stood before him, I could not imagine sharing so much as a kiss with a man who seemed so remote.

Ah, but the English king, and what I dreamed of sharing with him . . .

“Mademoiselle,” Louis began, jarring me back to his presence. “Mademoiselle, we have been most pleased with your loyalty to us and to France, and most especially to our lamented sister, Madame.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty.” Tears—my constant companion in the dark days following Madame’s death—once again sprang unbidden to my eyes at the mention of her name. “Her Highness was most dear to me, and it was an honor to serve her as I did.”

He nodded gravely, as much emotion as I expected he ever showed. “You served her well, mademoiselle. But that service is done, and we must now decide where you shall go next.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” I said, breathless with eager anticipation. “I pray that I might continue to serve you and France, however you decide.”

“A true daughter of France,” he said with approval. “Before Madame died, she told me of how useful you were to her in Dover, and how much you pleased her brother the king. She praised both your discretion and your delicacy in diplomatic matters that required perfect trust, and she had every faith in you.”

“Thank you, Your Highness,” I said softly. My dear Madame! Even in death, she seemed to be looking after me, and I promised to light another candle to the Virgin Mother on behalf of her soul.

“You are aware of the devotion shared between Madame and her brother His Majesty the King of England,” he continued. “Although Madame had become one of our family and represented our interests faithfully, her brother trusted her more than any minister or ambassador, and without her nothing would have been accomplished in Dover. You begin to understand, mademoiselle.”

I nodded, not trusting my voice to reply. My being chosen to accompany Madame to Dover, the lavish new clothes that had been given me, the praise I’d not sought from Lord de Croissy, and the warnings from Madame I’d not wished to hear, even how I’d been permitted to linger at Court after her death without any other place being offered to me. I understood now. I understood everything.

“We cannot lose that sweet voice in his ear, whispering in favor of France.” He smiled suddenly, the twin crescents of his tiny mustache curving upward. “We would have you be that voice, mademoiselle. The voice of France.”

“I—I am honored to be chosen, Your Majesty,” I stammered. I tried to remind myself of my ambition, and that this was exactly what I wished, what I wanted, what I’d already agreed with Lord Buckingham. I tried to remember the magic I’d felt when the English king had smiled at me, and better still, when he’d kissed me.

I tried, and failed, for what was being proposed to me now sounded sordid instead of glorious. There was no mention of me becoming the new queen, and not a breath of love. My maidenhead, casually offered as a token from one king to another: where was the glory in that?

“It was no choice. There is no other lady who could do this, you see.” He clasped his hands together, his eyes bright with enthusiasm. “His Grace the Duke of Buckingham has already asked for you to accompany him on his return to London to accept a place in the household of Her Majesty the Queen of England, but it is assumed that the king, not the queen, will be most pleased by your appearance in London. Our cousin is fascinated by you, mademoiselle, and again we must praise you on your success at Dover. You will find it easy to achieve a final seduction, but then, who knows more of such affairs than a beautiful young Frenchwoman?”

He laughed, pleased with his wit and his plan, but my head was full of questions—questions that, because of his exalted rank over me, I could not ask unless he gave me leave.

“You will be richly rewarded, of course,” he continued, “both by us and by our cousin, who is by all accounts most indulgent with ladies. In return, there will be certain expectations of you. You must make sure that he confides in you as he did in Madame, and relay what he tells you to us. You must take every opportunity to support our cause to him, and dissuade him from returning his sympathies to the Dutch.”

Again I nodded, overwhelmed. I was not merely to be a gift, a plaything. I was to be a spy in the bed of the King of England, coaxing him ever closer to France, and if I were ever to be discovered—Ah, even I recognized the infinite danger in that.

Yet still the king continued on. “Most of all, mademoiselle, you must keep your role a secret from the English. They can know none of this, especially not our cousin. No matter what affection you may come to feel for him, your loyalty and your duty to France must always come first.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” I said softly, taking his reminder close to my heart. He was my king, and I’d no choice but to obey. I was a Keroualle, and for hundreds of years my family had prided itself on their complete loyalty to the throne. My dear brother had given his life for France. What the king now asked of me was as nothing compared to that.

“You may rely entirely on me, Your Majesty.” I bowed my head, both in fealty and beneath the terrible burden of my new role. “Entirely.”

Chapter Thirteen

ON THE ROAD TO DIEPPE
September 1670

 

 

 

T
en days after Madame’s funeral, I found myself in the Duke of Buckingham’s lavish traveling coach on my way to the port at Dieppe, where we would be met by a royal yacht, and carried thence to England. With me I’d a half dozen trunks with all my belongings, including the new gowns I’d acquired before Dover and several others, even more lavish, from the same seamstresses, which had been ordered without my knowledge.

I hadn’t questioned the sudden appearance of this new finery, any more than I’d questioned how, for the first time in my life, I’d acquired my own lady’s maid, a plain, quiet young woman named Bette. Since my private audience with the king, I’d learned to accept things like these without questioning them. It was all part of the same grand plan that was sending me to England. If what Madame had negotiated was called the Secret Treaty, then surely I’d become the most secret clause attached to it.

A secret I might be, yes, but I was no longer ignorant of the circumstances of my new situation. Though the king had given me only the most basic facts, others among his ministers had been more forthcoming. From them I learned that the king himself had suggested I be trusted with my new role, based largely on what Madame had confided to him. I was flattered, of course, but I also wondered what exactly Madame, who’d always been so protective of me, had told him, and now, sorrowfully, I’d never be able to ask her myself. The French ministers believed the English king to be a clever, crafty man, but entirely vulnerable where women were concerned. Over and over they congratulated themselves (but not me) on having found a Frenchwoman suitable for their purposes, until I wearily began to feel like the wooden horse of ancient Troy, being drawn to the gates of Whitehall Palace.

The English gentlemen were no better. The English ambassador, Mr. Montagu, fair crowed, convinced his reports regarding my grace and beauty had brought about my appointment, and would soon also result in an extra measure of royal favor cast his way. I’d letters from Lord Arlington and Sir Thomas Clifford, as well as from their ladies, remembering themselves to me with agreeable welcomes, and doubtless hoping I’d remember them to the king, too. As unfamiliar as I was with the English Court, I doubted that every new attendant there received this amount of attention from ministers of the privy council. In truth it seemed that everyone in London must consider me already at least a royal mistress, as if neither I nor the English king had anything to say in the matter.

It was, of course, that same royal gentleman whose letter I most desired, just as I realized full well I’d be disappointed. Even in the less formal English Court, His Majesty could scarce be expected to take time from ruling to write to me. For now I must content myself with my memories of Dover, and my heady dreams of the future.

Helping to tend and nourish those dreams with the greatest care had been His Grace the Duke of Buckingham. With the first version of the new (though false) treaty duly completed by the French and ready to be reviewed again by the English, he had devoted his last weeks in France to being my near-constant squire. I soon learned that while the duke’s once-handsome features had faded, his gift for charming persuasion remained in full, seductive flower. I vow he could coax the fish from the seas and the birds from the sky, if he wished it or, more likely, if he thought he could turn it to his benefit.