Mistress of the Sun (19 page)

The King cleared his throat. “Why don’t you sit here?” He gestured toward the bed. “I’ll stand.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty, but I’m more comfortable this way.”

There was another long moment of silence.

“Please, Mademoiselle, sit down.” He put out his hand. “I insist.”

Petite gathered her skirts and perched on the edge of the bed. The King leaned against the dresser in front of her, his arms crossed over his chest. Petite waited, her heart doing strange flips.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

Petite felt her cheeks heat up. “It’s nothing, Your Majesty.” Outside, there was the rumble of carriage wheels, footmen yelling, the clip-clop of horse hooves on the cobbles. She glanced up at him.
O God.
“You remind me of my father—your smile.”

“Is that a good thing?”

“He was a saint.”

“He’s no longer living?”

“He died just after my seventh birthday,” she said. Ten years ago now—on the King’s own birthday.

“How old are you?”

“Seventeen, Your Majesty.” Seventeen years and three days. “I was born in Tours on the sixth of August—”

“A Leo.”

“Yes. In the second year of your reign.”

He regarded her thoughtfully.

I know you…

“Why do you smile?” he asked.

“I have a confession to make, Your Majesty.” Petite knew she should put a guard on her tongue, but she felt agitated, sparkling.
An abounding joy was welling within her. There was so much she wanted to tell him. “When I saw you in the meadow at Chambord, I thought you were a poacher.”

He laughed. “Really? I like that.”

“I’ve been reading Virgil’s
Eclogues
,” she blurted out, and then was mortified by her clumsiness. “It’s similar to
Idylls
by Theocritus,” she persisted. “I usually prefer the Greek poets, but I took up
Eclogues
, thinking to improve my Latin, and now I’m quite enraptured by Virgil.”

“‘Now that we are…seated on the…soft grass,’” the King recited slowly, recollecting.

The third Eclogue. Petite knew it well. “‘Now that every field and every tree is budding.’”

“‘And the woods are…’”

“‘…green, Your Majesty…and the year is at its fairest.’”
Sing ye!

The King smiled. “I’d like you to call me Louis,” he said.

“I couldn’t, Your Majesty.”

“Please,” he said with a look of inexpressible sweetness.

“Louis,” Petite said softly, and then had to lower her head and breathe.

T
HEY ONLY EVER
talked, but Petite knew it was wrong for them to meet. She yearned for him in a way that frightened her.
O God
,
have pity on me
,
remove the longings in my heart, protect me from thoughts of sin.

“I am enamored of a married man,” she told her confessor.

“Have you…?”

“No, Father.”

“Yet you desire him.”

She answered with a sob.

“This is a sin: you know that.”

“Yes, Father.”

“Pray for the strength to resist,” the priest said.

“I do, Father.” But she knew she was weakening.

In the early dawn, the mist still clinging to the lowlands, Petite went out into the fields. She sat at the edge of a meadow, seeking wisdom in the silence. Who was she to resist the King’s need? His
love
—for that was the word, finally, that trembled between them. Who was she to make light of such a gift?

P
ETITE SUCCUMBED IN
the first hot week of autumn. She no longer had the strength to say no, no longer the will to deny fate.

“Don’t ever let me go,” she begged as Louis embraced her. The linens of Gautier’s bed had been newly washed and smelled of sunlight.

“I love you, Louise,” he whispered with stuttering helplessness. “I
love
you.”

Passages from the Bible came to her, inexplicably and unbidden, as from a song that would not leave, the words not quite known:
and the mountain was altogether in smoke, and the mount
quaked greatly, and all was thunderings and lightnings, and the noise of trumpets, and Fear not, for the Lord is come to prove you…

Prove you.

“I love you,” she wept, for the pain, and for the pleasure, and for the very great sin she was committing. She was ruined now, truly—and yet made whole. She wept, for she had found her one true love, but he was the King, and forbidden to her.

O G
OD
, I
AM SORRY
for having offended Thee. I dread the pains of Hell, and I resolve, with the help of Thy grace, to do penance, and to amend my life.

I am sorry, I am sorry, I am sorry.

If I say it enough times, Petite thought that night as she slipped under her covering sheet, maybe it will be true. For in truth she wasn’t sorry in the least.
O God.

The next morning, she took her place beside the other maids of honor. As usual, she handed Henriette her slippers, held the mirror and read to her out loud. But she was changed entirely, and surely it was visible.

When Louis emerged from his cabinet to go to Mass, he caught Petite’s eye. She lowered her gaze.
O God, forgive me.
For feeling so wonderful, for feeling so proud.

Out of the corner of her eye she watched as Henriette kissed Louis on both cheeks—a privilege of the high nobility. Lower nobility were allowed only one royal kiss, one royal cheek. Petite flushed, thinking of their ardent kisses everywhere.

At Mass, Petite prayed for guidance. Did Louis? she wondered. She watched as he knelt before the altar. They were sinners—of that there could be no doubt. She closed her eyes: she must not look at him. She was a fallen woman, no different from a strumpet covered with spittle in the village stocks. Then why did she feel so brilliant, so clear, as if her very soul were alight? Was this the Devil’s magic?

That afternoon, after the hunt (she downed a buck with an arrow), Petite took special care with her toilette, choosing to wear one of the gowns Marguerite had passed on to her, recently altered by Clorine so that it fit. The golden bodice fell below her shoulders and laced tightly at the waist. She felt beautiful.

Athénaïs met her at the door of Henriette’s salon that evening. “You look lovely this evening, Louise.”

“And you,” Petite answered, her skirts swishing softly on the wood parquet. (Where was
Louis?
) The room was already crowded. The moon was at its fullest and the Princess had announced that there was to be a midnight excursion.

“Indeed. She has a telltale glow,” Nicole said, regarding Petite with enquiring eyes.

It seemed that everyone was watching. The least movement
would tell all—a hint of a smile, a blush. “Am I rudded?” Petite asked. “I neglected to ride with a mask.”

“I saw you on His Majesty’s new Irish charger,” Fouquet said, insinuating himself into the conversation. Powder had failed to hide the network of veins on his cheeks.

“Lancelot.” Petite nodded. Tall at almost sixteen hands, the stallion had the markings of a good hunter: his feet were tough and he bent his knees nicely over jumps.

“You ride often with the King, I notice,” Fouquet said, suppressing a sly smile. Fine linen and lace billowed from under his gold-embroidered doublet.

“We all ride with the King, Monsieur,” Petite said. Fouquet was the darling of the Court, a charming, witty and generous man—and cultured, she gathered, patron of playwrights and poets, including Corneille and Scarron. But arrogant, she sensed, and powerful, certainly. She was wary of him. “I and scores of others.”

“She most often rides
ahead
of His Majesty,” Lauzun piped up, joining the group.

“So I’m told.” Fouquet opened the end of his silver walking stick and inhaled an aromatic—as if his aristocratic sensibilities had been offended by lowly Lauzun.

“I understand that you are planning a fete, Monsieur Fouquet,” Petite said, changing the subject. The currents were dangerous; it was hard to know what to say.

“A magnificent entertainment, I’ve heard,” Athénaïs said, her eyes surveying the assembly.

“With a ballet and fire rockets,” Nicole added as trumpets blared and the doors were thrown open for the King.

For Louis.
Petite bowed low as he entered with his wife on his arm.

Engulfed by an absurdly wide ruff, the Queen smiled timidly at the crowd. She was stocky by nature and even more so now that she was heavy with child. Her yellow hair was contained in an old-fashioned hair net and topped by a plain black cap. She frowned back at the three dwarves struggling to carry her train. One, a Pygmy, was only two feet high but perfectly formed. He tumbled and the Queen giggled, her teeth black. The courtiers laughed as well; later, they would ridicule her, Petite knew. Making fun of the Spanish Queen was a popular form of amusement at Court.

Louis scanned the room and found Petite. There was a hint of warm recognition, and then a hint of a frown. (
Why?
Petite wondered, alarmed).

Fortunately, the Queen did not stay long, retiring just before the midnight excursion. The courtiers followed Louis, his brother and Henriette down to the courtyard. The moon was a full circle of light, the stars bright, the air smelling of dung and smoke from all the torches. The men mounted their horses as the women were helped into coaches. Petite joined Nicole in the last, a covered cabriolet for two.

Under cover of night, Petite fell silent as Nicole pattered on. She was exhausted from the day’s effort to dissemble, overwhelmed yet enlivened by the enormous change in her life. She was no longer chaste.
Ruined
, her mother would say—yet she did not feel ruined in the least.

A night bird warbled, a breeze picked up. The leaves of a beech tree quivered in the moonlight. How beautiful everything seemed. She had given up her chastity for him. Did he scorn her for it? Did he love her less? No, she could not believe that. His love for her was true.

Nicole touched Petite’s arm. A rider was approaching. “I think it’s Ludmilla,” she said, her eyes wide.

Louis? There was a cloud over the moon, and Petite could not be sure. The rider said something to their driver, turning his horse to keep pace with the carriage.

It
was
Louis. Mercy. Petite stuck her head out the window. “Your Majesty?”

Not Louis. Not Beloved. Not my heart’s desire. She had to be careful.

“Your driver’s going to stop at the fork ahead,” Louis told her, his face shadowed by the brim of his hat. “Go into the woods on the left.” He spurred his horse and galloped ahead.

“
Well,
” Nicole said with quiet astonishment, fluttering her lace-edged fan.

“I’ll explain later,” Petite said as their coach slowed. Her emotions were in disorder. Now she would have to confide in Nicole,
but what would she say? She felt caught in a maze. “I won’t be long.”

“You can’t go into the woods at night alone,” Nicole said, grabbing Petite’s arm.

Petite wrenched free and jumped to the ground. It was dark under cover of the enormous trees. It took a moment for her to make out a narrow footpath through the brush. She felt her way slowly. She could smell wolf. Soon the path opened onto a wider riding track.

She stood, waiting, recovering her breath. She started at the loud, whistling call of a nightingale. She felt the pounding of Louis’s horse on the earth, and he emerged around a bend, riding a small bay trotter.

He vaulted off the horse, looped the reins over a branch and approached, faint shafts of moonlight glinting off his sword. He stopped at a distance and tipped his hat—as if they were at Court. An owl hooted.

Petite’s eyes filled with tears. She held out her bare hands.

Louis stepped forward and placed his hands in hers, the leather of his gloves soft.

Handfasted.

“I talked to my confessor, Louise,” he said. “I must give you up.” There were tears in his voice.

“What do you mean?” Fear filled her. His confessor was right. They would both go to Hell. But Hell, surely, would be here on Earth, should he forsake her.

“This life will ruin you,” he said, his tone almost pleading. “I’ve already ruined you.”

Petite started to raise her hand—to slap him, she realized with horror—and then quickly stepped back, frightened by what she might have done. She took a shaky breath. “Never say that you’ve ruined me, Louis.”

He gathered her into his arms. “My love,” he said—awkwardly, as if the word was still new to him, an ancient tongue.

Petite’s knees buckled as he kissed her, an unholy sweetness filling her veins.

N
ICOLE SCRAMBLED FOR
a kerchief as Petite climbed back into the coach. She wiped Petite’s cheeks and put her arm around her friend’s heaving shoulders.

“I can’t bear it,” Petite said, weeping. She felt joyous, euphoric—as well as bewildered. She and Louis had vowed to meet, again and again. It was wrong, but they were helplessly in love. “If you tell, Nicole, I’ll kill you,” she said with a quiet ferocity that shocked them both.

A
WEEK LATER
, after Mass, Petite was followed out of the chapel by the Marquise de Plessis-Bellièvre. Lost in thought, Petite didn’t notice. Louis had arranged for her to talk to his new confessor a few days earlier. Polygamy was common in the days of the apostles, the priest had explained to her. Holy men such as Moses
and David had more than one wife and, historically, the King of France often had a mistress. The King was of God; even Petite was absolved. Petite didn’t really believe it, so she was walking along silently praying for clarity, absolution and forgiveness (as well as, in truth, the chance soon to meet with her lover), unaware that her attention was wanted.

Finally, the short, plump widow made an obsequious bow before her, sliding her right foot forward and bending at the waist so low that the two ostrich feathers on her cap touched the stone floor. “Do you have a moment, Mademoiselle de la Vallière?” she asked, rising. In spite of the heat she was wearing a heavy green gown trimmed with spotted brown fur.

“Madame is expecting me,” Petite said, resisting an urge to stand back. The woman’s breath smelled rotten.

“This won’t take much time,” the Marquise de Plessis-Bellièvre promised, ushering Petite outside with surprising strength. “Come, here’s a shady bench. You know, my dear, you are regarded as one of the beauties of the Court. It wouldn’t do to brown your lovely skin.”

“Madame la Marquise de Plessis-Bellièvre,” Petite said, pulling away, “truly, I must be going.”

The Marquise leaned her sunshade against the bench. “How charming to be punctual,” she said, sitting and patting the place beside her. “I assure you this won’t take long. I have a message from the minister of finance.”

Reluctantly, Petite sat. The Marquise de Plessis-Bellièvre organized Nicolas Fouquet’s social engagements, she knew, and she suspected that this might have to do with the minister’s upcoming fete at his new château at Vaux-le-Vicomte. It was all anyone talked about of late.

“He’d like to make you a gift,” the Marquise said, pulling a fan from her bodice. “A token of friendship.” She snapped the fan open and fluttered it vigorously.

Petite stiffened.
A gift?
Why? “That wouldn’t be right, Madame,” she said, flustered. Was this how bribes were made?

“Come, my dear, this is no trifle—twenty thousand pistoles. Half that would make a respectable dowry, set you up nicely, and all you’d have to do is let him know what’s going on from time to time.” She smiled, covering a broken tooth with her fan. “What could be the harm in that?”

Petite was at a loss for words. Did Fouquet want her to spy for him? Surely not.

“Just imagine what one could do with such a sum,” the Marquise went on.

“Madame la Marquise de Plessis-Bellièvre, I believe there has been a mistake,” Petite said, standing abruptly.

“My dear girl—”

“I am not in a position to know what’s going on—as you put it—and even if I were, I could certainly not be
bought
,” Petite said, inflamed now with anger.

At that, she curtsied and headed back to the château, overcome with an inner trembling. Court seemed an unknown world to her. She felt unmoored, afloat.

As she climbed the stairs to Henriette’s suite, she tried to compose herself. Courtiers gathered on the landing were watching; there could be talk. She stopped at a window enclosure, her heart palpitating. Fouquet had tried to bribe her to spy…on
Louis?
She gasped, realizing that that must be the case. She took a careful breath, leaning against the stone sill. Fouquet must know; he must have found out.

How can that be?
she thought, an icy panic filling her. They had been so careful. Petite had had to tell Nicole, true, but only after Nicole had vowed not to breathe word of it to a soul. And other than Nicole, who but Louis’s confessor and Gautier knew anything at all? She had to tell Louis—
warn
him.

P
ETITE LOOKED TO
make sure nobody was around before pushing open the heavy door to Gautier’s room. The small chamber was empty. Louis wasn’t there yet. She put down her basket of linens and leaned against the door, closing her eyes and collecting her breath. She’d passed Athénaïs in the stairwell.

This time, Petite was well disguised as a laundress and thankfully—Dieu merci—she’d not been recognized. Gautier thought it safer for her and Louis to change their costumes each time they met. (
Each time
, he had said, the words implying an indefinite future.)

The drapery had been drawn against the afternoon sun and two night candles lit. The bed curtains were open, the covering sheet pulled back. Petite took off her hemp apron. A rectangular cloth, folded in half and wired at the edges, was pinned to her cap. It scratched. She lifted it off and unpinned her braids, coiled into a bun. Louis liked her hair hanging loose.

Where is he? she thought, sitting down on the bed. A small sponge had been placed on the bedside table, next to a bottle of brandy. Gautier had thought of everything.
O Mary…
Sin upon sin.

Louis entered without knocking. “Ha,” he said with a grin, throwing off his cloak and diving onto the bed, taking Petite into his arms. “I can’t stop thinking of you,” he said, his hands roving, fumbling with the back laces of her bodice.

Petite sat up to make it easier for him. She shrugged out of the bodice so that he could loosen her skirt. At last she was down to her chemise (skirt and petticoat ties edged with laces made by her aunt Angélique, she realized with chagrin).