Judith Merkle Riley (27 page)

“My God, haven’t you learned anything? The lawyers, the expense—how much to buy this despicable harpy off?”

“Father, she’s not after anything. Look at me, can’t you see? This is true love. Our minds and hearts are one. I’ll die if I can’t have her.”

“You’ll die if you
do
have her. The thousand deaths of cuckold! Enough is enough. I, your father and your master, am locking you in this room until you understand that you either agree to go to your cousin’s in Genoa to learn new and sober ways, and a business that is appropriate to your station in life, or I’ll sign the papers that commit you to the Bastille for your wayward manner of living—” The sound of the slamming door reverberated through the entire house, and the two women on the stair slipped quietly away.

***

“An English herald is here?” said King Henri, his foot already in the stirrup held by a valet. Spring was busy passing into summer. The horses were gathered in the stable courtyard at Fontainebleau, the excited staghounds were barking, and half the court was already mounted for the hunt. Even Queen Catherine, who, despite her dumpy figure, rode sidesaddle with the courage of a man astride, was on her rangy gray hunter, reins gathered in her podgy fingers, breathing deep the promise of the bright morning, and anxious to ride out. “Let him wait,” said the king, swinging up into the saddle. “A man of honor does not waste his time on declarations of war made by a woman.” The French nobility who overheard laughed, and repeated the comment until everyone of gallantry and spirit had enjoyed the joke. And so it was in high good humor that the king and his court rode out to kill stags, and the English herald was left to cool his heels for the next few days, until it was convenient for the king to hear that England had declared war, and joined the troops of the Empire massing on the northern front.

***

“Have you the honey, Madame?” said the queen. Lucrèce Cavalcanti extended the little glass jar in its silver stand.

“It is right here, Your Majesty,” she said, placing it on the wide oak table within the queen’s reach. The queen did not even look up. Next to her right elbow lay an open book with handwritten notes in it.

Catherine de Medici, clad informally for the morning in a sacque of primrose-colored taffeta and a plain lace cap, was busy grinding up a grayish powder in a mortar. Entirely globular in form without her stays, her pudgy face was bright with focused intelligence, her eyes intent on the process. At last the mass in the mortar seemed to satisfy her, and she turned, with a sharp rustle of taffeta, to the waiting lady.

“There,” she said. “Powder of geranium, and a pinch—just a pinch—of powder of nutmeg. It is sovereign for these summer fevers. It quells the aching and shortens the catarrhal discharge. And now—the honey—my little girl will never taste the medicine.” Busily, she mixed up the fever potion and decanted it into a covered china dish, painted with mythical figures.

“Majesty, you are not only a great queen, but the kindest and most thoughtful of mothers,” said her
dame
d’honneur
, gesturing to a serving maid to come and clean up after them. The queen sighed.

“I try, Lucrèce, I try. But despite all my wisdom, I lost my little twins.”

“Sorrow is the lot of every woman.”

“But now, I pray, for my daughter.” Accompanied by a page to announce her, the queen and her companion made their way through the corridors of St.-Germain to Elisabeth Valois’s sickroom. Not even trusting her close companion, the queen herself carried the remedy in her own hands, as if somehow the maternal virtue might be imparted through the china itself. But on the threshold, they paused. They were already too late. The Duchess of Valentinois stood beside the huge, draped bed where the queen’s daughter lay. Behind her, a physician held a vial of urine up to the window to inspect the color. Another physician, in a long robe, was giving orders to a surgeon, who had already opened a vein in the wrist, and set a copper bowl beneath the arm to catch the dark blood that was draining out. Beside the bed, at the duchess’s elbow, stood the tall, titian-haired girl who was Elisabeth’s closest companion. The Queen of Scots, the Guise protégée of the duchess.

At the sight of the queen, they all looked up, suddenly silent.

“I’ve brought a remedy for my daughter,” said Catherine de Medici, advancing into the silence.

“A remedy?” said Diane, one eyebrow raised, a condescending smile barely visible on her face.

“Powder of geraniums,” said the queen.

“Fernel has already advised us,” said Diane, and the bearded doctor with the vial of urine turned toward the queen and bowed deeply.

“Gracious Majesty, I have prescribed a course of purges that are infallible in these cases.”

“I see,” said the queen, looking at her pale daughter, her lifeblood flowing into the basin.

“Mother, I would like your remedy,” said Elisabeth.

“Nonsense,” said the duchess. “You’ll just disturb the treatment. Trust your physicians, my dear. I have summoned the best in the kingdom. Your mother did not need to trouble herself to come.”

“I see,” said Catherine, her voice as cold as ice. But as she turned to go, she heard the duchess, in a sharp, audible whisper, say to the Queen of Scots:

“The three Medici balls—they seem to be apothecaries’ pills.” The teenage girl snickered. Outside the door, the queen paused and took a deep breath. Her eyes were blazing, but her voice was icy.

“Lucrèce,” said the queen, her face set like iron. “Send for the Demoiselle de La Roque.”

“Majesty—” Lucrèce Cavalcanti turned pale.

“I desire that my daughter be raised higher than the Queen of Scots, that my children shall see the Duchess of Valentinois in the dust beneath their feet.”

“But that thing—it is accursed—” whispered her
dame
d’honneur
.

“That is no concern of mine. Tonight I shall charge Menander the Deathless to grant all of my children thrones, and to raise my daughter Elisabeth to such a rank that Diane de Poitiers—that barren old hag—will not be fit to tie her shoe.”

***

“My! Just breathe that in! The most sulfurous water in all of France! All the way from here, you can just smell all that health! Soon, Sibille, you’ll shake off that bad mood, and feel quite like your old self again.” We had left our baggage with the Abbé’s, in our rooms at the spa, and the two of us had gone to inspect the baths. Beyond them, the lake, spotted with swans and the occasional pleasure boat, sparkled serenely in the sun. On a path by the shore, old ladies, leaning on the arms of their attendants, strolled, awaiting the inevitable call of nature that attends the drinking of spa waters. Before us lay the stone bulk of the bathhouse with its changing rooms, tubs, masseurs, and shady arcade all hidden behind the high wall of the enclosure of the main bath. Here one could get a cupping, a bleeding by the resident surgeon, or the inspection of one’s urine by a physician of sound medical training. Beyond the wall we could hear the inviting sounds of bathers splashing in the great outdoor pool, calling for assistance, babbling in conversation. Over all lay the stink, a cloud straight out of hell.

“Pardon,
ma
tante
, but it smells as if ten thousand rotten eggs have been broken open all at once. Surely, one feels better only by contrast, on finally being able to remove oneself from this place.”

“You see? You’re feeling better—your old wit is coming back. Soon you’ll be inspired to finish your lovely epic on the life of Queen Clotilde. You’ve drooped too long; it’s obviously your liver, as Doctor Lenoir said. You need to regulate your bowels better—”

“But you know it’s not that, Auntie. My Nicolas went to ask permission to marry, and now he’s gone. I’m sure he’s been locked up like a thief. His horrible old father is capable of anything, just to keep him from me forever. And my heart is all cracked in pieces, I haven’t any appetite, and all the sulfur baths in the world won’t fix it.” And every night, though I did not tell her, Menander sat on my chest of drawers, whispering, “Don’t you know he’s given in to his father? Why not? Out of sight, out of mind. He doesn’t love you anymore. They’ve found him a beautiful bride, just sixteen and fresh as a rose, with dainty feet and hands, and now he’s realized you are a big, ugly, scarred monster. It was just infatuation, and now he’s gone. Why don’t you wish for him back? It would be easy, if you weren’t as stubborn as you are stupid. No man will ever love you without my help. Wish! Wish! Why don’t you? It’s so simple.” But even though I tried to keep my sorrows to myself, as I began to droop and grow dark circles under my eyes, Auntie noticed anyway, and decided to apply her cure-all: the sulfurous waters of the nearest spa.

“You need to cheer up, Sibille, and you will when I tell you that his father has written to me—”

“Has he relented?” My heart gave a leap.

“Well, not quite—but reading between the lines, I think you needn’t worry that Nicolas has given in to him: his father has offered you money if you’ll relinquish your claims, and write a letter to Nicolas telling him that you do not love him anymore.”

“Auntie, how despicable! I’m mortified! What an evil, unnatural old man! I hope you told him off!”

“Hardly, my dear. You see, he has opened a dialogue. He writes, I am required to respond. With the help of my dear cousin, here, I have written a wily letter to entangle him deeper—give me credit, my dear. You may yet be seeing your Nicolas again.”

“My, my, what a lot of new rules the governor of the baths has posted here,” observed the Abbé, as if to change the subject. He squinted a little to read the tablet posted at the gate. “‘It is forbidden to all people, of whatever quality, condition, region, or province they may be, to use provocation in insulting language tending to lead to quarrels; to carry arms while at the baths aforesaid; to give the lie; to put hand to arms under pain of severe punishment as breakers of the peace, rebels, and disobedient to His Highness.

“‘Also it is forbidden to all prostitutes and immodest women to enter the baths, or to be found within five hundred paces of the same under penalty of whipping at the four corners of the town…

“‘The same penalty will fall on those who shall use any lascivious or immodest discourse to any ladies, or damsels, or other women and girls who may be visiting the baths, or touch them in a manner unbecoming, or enter or quit the baths in ribald fashion, contrary to public decency—’”

“Oh,” I gasped. “Do men and women bathe together?” I hadn’t expected that. Here I was, sick with grief, and they expected—I couldn’t, I just couldn’t—perhaps if I pretended to be sick in my room—

The attendants at the gate opened it for an elderly gentleman twisted with rheumatism, who was being carried in on a litter. I could see them bow in greeting.

“It is really very decent, cousin,” said the Abbé. “Every man wears a linen jacket, and every woman a shift. You will find the most genteel persons here.”

“In my
shif
t
? Auntie, you didn’t say—”

“Don’t think to pretend you are sick in the rooms, Sibille; we’ll just have you brought down in a litter the way
he
was. You require repairs, and this will do you infinite good.”

“All of you?” asked the attendant at the gate, eyeing our procession, for we were an odder sight than any old gentleman in a litter. First came the Abbé, all shrunken up, in his broad hat and black gown, his eyes as bright and observant as a squirrel’s. On his arm was his old mother, of a truly astonishing antiquity, barely able to walk on her frail bones. Then Aunt Pauline, vast and resplendent in yellow silk, leaning on her silver-headed walking stick, and followed by a lackey holding a little sunshade of ornamented muslin over her head, then myself, as tall and mournful as a stork, followed by two lackeys bearing towels and robes, and two boys in Auntie’s green livery bearing Señor Alonzo in his big gilt cage, which was fitted out with a pair of handles at each end for easier carrying.

“All,” said the Abbé, pressing a handsome tip into his hand.

“The monkey is extra—”

“Tell him, dear cousin, that the monkey does not bathe.”

“The monkey is extra anyway—”

“We should charge for the exhibit of the monkey, since he will be a source of amusement,” observed the Abbé, as he produced another few sous.

“Animals not allowed. I’m only letting you in because he’s in a cage.”

“I simply cannot live without the sight of my dear monkey,” announced Aunt Pauline. “And he droops, positively droops without me.”

“Hmm. Yes,” said the attendant, still holding out his hand. Señor Alonzo stretched out his mouth with his fingers to make an ugly face at the attendant. The Abbé increased his offering, and we passed through into the bathhouse. Actually, we had to have Señor Alonzo, not for himself, but for his cage. In the bottom, beneath a board, lay the Deathless Menander’s box, and by keeping him in close proximity to us, he was unable to flit about and embarrass us by materializing at the waterside, after having been left up in our rooms. Of course, he had been furious at the notion.

“My beautiful box, in the bottom of a monkey’s cage! I tell you, I’ll have a terrible revenge!”

“Nonsense,” Auntie had told him. “I’m tired of your limiting our little pleasure excursions. It’s time we went to the spa, and you’re just going to have to settle for the monkey’s cage. No supernatural phenomenon has a right to be a social embarrassment.”

“I tell you, I’ll squeak, I’ll howl!”

“And everyone will assume it’s Señor Alonzo, and ignore you completely.”

“Never, never in eighteen centuries—”

“You’re
spoiled
, Menander, that’s your problem. You’ve had your own way far too much. It’s high time you were taken in hand.”

So there we were, monkey, lackeys, Menander and all. Only Gargantua had been left behind in the rooms, to his great grief, since he considered himself a far more worthy companion than Señor Alonzo, his mortal enemy.

Now I had never taken the waters before, since not only did I always enjoy perfect health, but father was a great hater of spas, saying they were nothing but dens of sin, where men and women went to devote themselves to orgiastic pleasures, and only a wicked woman like his sister would ever persist in such flagrant behavior. But the great bath inside the arcade looked to me more like the aftermath of sin than sin itself, resembling those paintings in church where the souls of the wicked are stewed in steaming sulfur pools. The pool had shallow steps descending into the water, and men on crutches, women twisted into the shape of gnomes, and even pallid children with withered and useless limbs were being assisted down into the water by various attendants. At one end, a canvas awning was stretched, and there Auntie was assisted to a seat on the sunken steps, her immense shift billowing about her in the water. There, she was immediately surrounded by a number of other old ladies, all trading notes on their ailments at a rate of speech almost too fast to follow. Over all, the hideous smell rolled like a curse. And for myself—well, I was just praying that no one would notice me there, so gawky, so undressed, my wet shift clinging to me. Where to hide? Only deeper in the water, crouching so it came up to my chin, in the center of the pool, my eyes tightly closed, away from the cripples splashing in the shallow water on the steps.