Mistress of the Sun (20 page)

Louis took her hands and pressed her fingertips to his lips. “Your hands are cold.” He looked at her face. “What’s wrong, Louise?”

He said her name softly, almost in a whisper—as if they were children, playing a secret game. She wanted it always to be thus, the two of them, hidden away. She pressed her cheek against his. She loved the cool feel of his skin, the rasp of his chin, his breath in her ear. Their love was spiritual in its intensity—how could it be a sin?

“I’m frightened,” she said, looking into his eyes.

He regarded her with surprise. “Why?” he asked, stroking her hair. “Has something happened?”

“It’s Monsieur Fouquet,” she said, unfastening the cloth ties of his leather doublet. She longed to feel his skin on hers.

“Nicolas?” His eyes squinted jealously. Fouquet had a reputation as a seducer, in spite of his age. “He didn’t—?”

“No, it’s not that. He offered me money, through the Marquise de Plessis-Bellièvre…to spy—on
you
, I fear.”

“How much?” His voice was cold—the voice of a king, not a lover.

“How much has nothing to do with it.” She snorted with proud contempt. “I cannot be bought.”

Louis tucked a wisp of hair behind her ear. “Unlike the rest of us,” he said, smiling with sad irony.

Petite covered his hands with her own and kissed him lightly. “He must know,” she said, feeling his lips on her neck. The thought that they were watched chilled her. She ran her fingers through his long hair, felt an edge of teeth in his kisses. “How?” she asked, her breath quickening.

“Fouquet has spies everywhere,” Louis said bitterly. “I told you this was a dangerous place. We all wear masks. Nothing is as it seems.”

“Some say he’s assembling arms, Louis, that he intends to rule.” She lay down and he followed her. She laced her hands under his shirt, feeling the long smooth muscles of his back.

“I know,” he scoffed. “He’s not the only one with spies. I’ve been watching him. I’m not the dupe he imagines. He thinks I’m young and frivolous, that I’m more interested in hunting than ruling. He assumes I’m not paying attention, that I don’t know what he’s up to.” He regarded Petite for a long moment. “He underestimates me.”

N
ICOLAS
F
OUQUET WELCOMED
his royal guests to his new château with an effusive show of grandeur. “This modest fete is in your honor, Your Majesty.” Attired in lace and brocade, he handed the King and the Queen Mother down from their royal coach himself, presenting the Queen Mother with a tiara of diamonds. He expressed regret that the Queen, great in her maternity, had been unable to make the three-hour journey from Fontaine Beleau.

Madame Fouquet, fully with child herself, made a curtsy and was helped to rise by the Marquise de Plessis-Bellièvre.

Petite glanced away when the Marquise—Fouquet’s spy, she now knew—looked at her coldly.

“Ah, my dear Fouquet,” the Queen Mother said as one of her attendants placed the glittering bauble on her head, “you honor to excess.”

“Nothing is too great for Your Majesty,” Fouquet said, but glancing over at Louis, who was surveying the grounds. The limestone château was encircled by courtyards and a moat. Vast gardens, defined by clipped hornbeam hedges, extended down to a canal.

“Ah, the beautiful Madame,” Fouquet exclaimed as a swarm of footmen unhitched Henriette’s litter from the backs of two palfreys. “What a trial for you to have come all this way,” he said, bending to kiss her hand.

“I wouldn’t have missed it for the world, Monsieur,” Henriette said dreamily. She was officially young with child now, and delicate. Her doctor and Philippe had objected, but she had insisted on making the trip. She had had to travel by litter, well dosed with laudanum.

“And in such heat, such dust! Come, Your Majesties, I will show you to your suites so that you might refresh.”

Petite followed as footmen hoisted Henriette’s litter up the carpeted stairs. The château was exquisite in every detail: frescoes, rare mosaics, porphyry tables, gold-framed mirrors, ancient Greek sculptures everywhere. She noticed an emblem carved into the cupola high above—Fouquet’s device. It showed a squirrel climbing a tree, and underneath, the words
Quo non ascendet?

She puzzled over the translation. Where to not climb? To what not to climb? To what place—what height—would he not climb? That was it, she realized with a chill. To what heights would he not climb?

Does Fouquet seek the crown?
Petite wondered. Certainly, he was acting the part. It was said that he had spent over a hundred thousand livres on this fete alone—more than Louis spent in a year. Where had the money come from? Louis suspected that Fouquet was taking money out of the national treasury, that his wealth was embezzled—from
him
, from the people. Such display of luxury would no doubt confirm his suspicions. Where would it lead? Louis was intent on change, intent on rule without corruption—by force if need be.

“Look up,” Nicole sang out softly beside her. “Ludmilla’s watching.”

Louis was standing on the landing. He glanced beyond Petite and then directly at her, his eyes lingering. With the slightest of smiles, he looked away.

Fouquet appeared at the balustrade beside him. He too caught Petite’s eye. He lifted his gloved hand to the brim of his green hat in salute.

“What did that mean?” Nicole asked.

“Hush, Nicole,” Petite said under her breath. What
did
it mean? She longed to be somewhere else, in a field among silent horses, with creatures she trusted, whose language she knew.

After the royal family refreshed and the hot August day began to cool, Fouquet proposed a promenade in the gardens. Louis and Philippe helped their mother into a light open-topped calèche as Nicole and Yeyette helped Henriette, prettily coiffed and newly attired, into an embroidered litter shaded by a cloth-of-gold canopy and carried by four footmen.

Reclining on the down pillows, the Princess held out her hands so that Petite could arrange the scarlet ribbons at her thin wrists. Her ringlets hung low onto her shoulders and were sprinkled with the same rosettes that adorned her gown.

“Hurry,” Henriette said, flushed with excitement. “I don’t want to miss a thing.”

Guests were arriving in droves—hundreds upon hundreds of them, an endless stream of men and women in silk and satin, glittering with diamonds, and adorned with rare plumes and a profusion of ribbons: on hats, canes, sleeves, swords, shoe buckles—even on walking sticks.

Petite waved her fan at Athénaïs, who was standing with two of the Queen Mother’s attendants and Lauzun.

At last the promenade was put in motion, with Louis and Fouquet in the lead. Fouquet waved his arms about, effervescent with excitement, the courtiers following like an infestation of tropical birds. They cried out with delight as hundreds of water jets shot into the air and all the fountains suddenly came to life.

“The garden changes as we move through it,” Petite observed as she and Nicole followed after Madame’s litter. The pool wasn’t rectangular, after all, but square. What appeared to be a grotto, just beyond the pool, was in fact some distance away, separated by a canal. What appeared to be a row of water jets turned out to be a roaring cascade. Everything appeared symmetrical, but teasingly was not.

A garden of illusion
, Petite thought:
how apt.
Fouquet played the part of the devoted servant, while plotting to rule. Louis publicly applauded his minister of finance, while planning his demise.
At Court, nothing is as it appears
, Louis had said.
We all wear masks.

Torchbearers, thousands of them, appeared as the sun began to set, escorting the guests back to the château, where tables had been set with gold—
solid gold
—platters of pheasant, ortolan, quail, partridge, ragouts and bisques. Wine flowed in abundance as musicians played. The buzz of revelry grew as the tables were refreshed six times.

The abundance was shocking, an affront. Could the royal family afford such a display? Louis was taking it all in. Indeed, everyone seemed to be watching. How many present were Fouquet’s spies? Petite wondered. Who could be trusted?

Trumpets sounded. “To the outdoor theater,” pages announced.

The courtiers surged out into the night, wending their way through fragrant parterres lit by thousands of beeswax candles, and down an avenue of spruce trees to a terrace at the base of a fountain. There, chairs had been set in front of a large platform.

Petite and Nicole took their positions behind Madame’s litter, next to the thrones set up for the King and Queen Mother—and Fouquet. Now and again Petite glanced at Louis. He was jovial with his host: playing a part, she knew—and playing it chillingly well.

After an overture, Monsieur de Molière appeared on the stage in street clothes. With frenetic despair, he apologized, bowing
before the King. “Some of my actors have fallen ill, Your Majesty, and I’ve not had time to prepare a divertissement.”

There was a stir of consternation, when suddenly there were grinding mechanical sounds and a pastoral landscape magically appeared. In the midst of water cascades, an enormous rock broke open, revealing a shell within, out of which stepped a long-haired nymph. The audience cheered and applauded.

“The heavens, the earth, all of nature stands ready to bow to the King’s command,” the nymph proclaimed, as dancing dryads, fauns and satyrs emerged from the trees.

The play—called
The Bores
—soon had everyone howling with laughter as first one and then another of the Court’s more notorious fools were lampooned. Lauzun’s donkey bray sounded with each roar of recognition. At one point, when the joke was clearly on Gautier, the old man stood and made a dignified bow. Everyone cheered and hooted.

Between each act, they were entertained by light ballets. Petite had never seen such a spectacle, such a brilliant melding of theater, dance, music and song.

After the entertainment, the guests returned to the château for more music and refreshment. In the grand withdrawing room, stalls had been set up like a market. Ladies swarmed as trinkets were handed out: jewel-embellished pocket mirrors, musk-scented pigskin gloves, lace mantillas, fans of carved ivory. Saddle horses and diamonds were awarded to the highest nobility.

Petite excused herself from the party to go to the necessary set up in Henriette’s suite. Her courses had started, at last (she’d been worried). She lingered for a moment in the quiet of the library—taking in the extensive collection of manuscripts, treatises, rare books—and then headed for the stairs.

“Ah, there you are, Mademoiselle de la Vallière.”

Petite turned to see Monsieur Fouquet rushing to catch up with her.

“May I help you?” He placed his gloved hand lightly on her sleeve. “Is there
anything
you desire?” he asked with the gracious manner of one born to a very old family.

“No, thank you,” Petite said evenly. “This is a marvelous fete, Monsieur.”

Fouquet pressed his hands to his heart. “I am devoted to His Majesty, Mademoiselle,” he said, his voice unctuous. “I
sincerely
wish to please him,” he added, his eyes on hers.

“Of course,” Petite said, a giveaway tremor in her voice. She dipped her head and turned away, hurrying up the stairs in a panic of confusion. The words had been intended for Louis, she well knew.

After midnight, everyone returned to the gardens, now dim in the weak light of a third-quarter moon. Louis, the Queen Mother and Fouquet mounted the royal carriage and proceeded to the center of the garden, just above the cascades. Musketeers sounded their trumpets and fire rockets were set. The horses of the royal carriage bolted—
mon Dieu!
—as the night sky lit up like day, the
landscape showered in blazing images of fleurs-de-lis, stars, the King’s name spelled out in fire.

A swarm of footmen quickly quieted the panicked horses. Louis jumped from the carriage, followed by Fouquet. The Queen Mother stuck her head out of the coach and smiled bravely, at which everyone cheered.

“Morbleu!” Nicole exclaimed, grabbing Petite’s hand.

A mechanical whale-like shape was moving slowly down the canal, fireworks exploding from its belly, sending streams of fire across the water. Rockets shot up from the dome of the château, a grotto nearby exploded into light and the garden became a vault of fire. Louis stood watching the sky, his face illuminated. Fouquet came up beside him and put his hand on Louis’s shoulder, as if he were a familiar.

As if he were his superior, Petite thought.

The two men—the most powerful in the kingdom—were now silhouetted against the light of a carriage lantern. Louis, tall and in the bloom of youth, towered over the distinguished Fouquet. Slowly, Louis removed the minister of finance’s hand and put his arm around the aristocrat, giving him a familiar shake. Their laughter resounded.

The display ended in a shower of ash, and the acrid smell of gunpowder filled the air. Petite pulled her shawl around her shoulders, chilled in spite of the heat.
You don’t understand
, Louis had told her. Yet she knew her history well: she knew kings were toppled.

R
ETURNING TO
F
ONTAINE
B
ELEAU
the next day, everyone saw the royal château in a new light. The vista was hemmed in. Many of the fountains stood dry, and the two that had water were stagnant, covered with green scum. Where was the magic? Where the grandeur? Indeed, the château appeared shabby, a worn remnant of glory long gone.

In Henriette’s withdrawing room that night, all anyone could talk about was Fouquet’s marvelous fete, the brilliance of the entertainment, the elegance of the architecture. The canals, the cascades, the ornamental gardens. The food, the gifts, the
cost.

“Twenty million livres is rather a lot to spend on one night,” noted Claude-Marie.

“I heard one hundred thousand.”

“Either way, it would be a lot to spend in a year,” Yeyette said.

“Did you see the purse of gold set on Madame’s dressing table?”

“The Queen Mother got one as well.”

“With the exact same number of coins,” Henriette said, gloating.

With new respect, everyone bowed to the ground as the minister of finance was announced. Even Henriette’s spaniel Mimi was attentive, sniffing at Fouquet’s boots.

Shortly after, Louis appeared, and even he showed Fouquet marked esteem.
Is it possible he is pleased with him now?
Petite wondered. She knew it could not be. She was beginning to see how skilled Louis was in the theatrical arts. She opened her fan to the
side painted with an image of the Apollo. This was their signal. She longed for a private moment—a moment with the real Louis. It unnerved her to see him so false.

But Louis was preoccupied, and private moments were difficult to arrange, so it wasn’t until the end of August that at last they were able to meet. Louis seemed distant, tense.

“I must make a trip west,” he told Petite after congress—a rather businesslike procedure this time. “To Nantes.”

Petite found that curious. Fouquet’s island—the fortress of Belle-Île—was not far from Nantes.

“The women are not to come,” he said.

W
ITH A FEELING OF
foreboding, Petite watched from a window as Louis departed, surrounded by his men and musketeers—his small flying camp.

The château was ominously silent during the long hours that followed. Without the sound of the men’s spurs on stone, their boisterous jests, it seemed a world abandoned. “Only us girls,” Henriette said that evening, pouring out a glass of her husband’s best brandy.

“T
HE MINISTER OF FINANCE
has been arrested,” Henriette announced nine days later, her face pale. Petite helped her to the daybed as Nicole measured out laudanum. “He’s in prison,” she said, taking the dose and then bursting into tears. “Dear Fouquet.”

The news raced through the château. Minute by minute, courtiers arrived, many with questions, and a few with answers.

“Fouquet’s house was ransacked and the door sealed,” one of the Queen’s maids reported.

“A manuscript was found behind a mirror—plotting an uprising against the King.”

“That can’t be,” the Duchesse de Navailles said.