Mistress of the Sun (30 page)

“Colbert’s valet will come for him after nightfall,” Louis said, shifting his weight. “He’s to be baptized in the morning.”

Petite nodded, feeling the infant’s soft skull with her lips. The secretive arrangements had once again been carefully made. Colbert would await in a coach at the gate. At the crossway of the Hôtel Bouillon, he would give the baby to Monsieur François Derssy, the husband of Marguerite Bernard, a former servant of the Colbert household. The baby would be baptized as their son.

“I know,” she said. The infant had been born whole, straight and strong. For that alone she should be grateful.

A
FTER A MONTH
of bed rest, Petite could walk again, but with difficulty. Her left leg was weak, and unsteady. “I’m fine,” she lied to Louis, who was overwhelmed looking after his ailing mother.

Early in April, Petite was strong enough to begin attending Henriette. The Princess was with child again and had asked Petite to read out loud to her in the long afternoons: Thomas Aquinas, works by Boccaccio. It helped to lighten the melancholy that hung over the Court. The Queen’s recovery after the death of the monster baby had been slow; she wore a bed robe night and day. As well, doctors had discovered that the Queen Mother had cankers in one breast—a cancer, they called it. She cried out often, and needed help to walk. A madman dressed in devil horns had taken to following the royal carriage. Courtiers displayed charms to ward off demons.

The news from afar was likewise grim. Thousands died each day of the Plague in London. There had been few such deaths in Paris, yet fear had taken hold—no one embraced, no one dared touch. Henriette’s brother, the Duke of York, had been killed in battle—the report proved to be false, but it caused the Princess to go into convulsions.

Early in July, listening to Petite read from Madame Scudéry’s novel
Ibrahim
, the Princess began to weep. “I haven’t felt movement
for two days,” she confessed, her hands on her belly. Her eyes looked hollow and her breath was rank.

The midwife was called to examine the Princess, attendants hovering fearfully. The Princess’s breasts were slack and her belly was cold at the navel. Her water, which stank, was thick. The midwife wet her hands in warm water and rubbed the Princess’s big belly. There was no movement.

“Oh dear God,” the Princess moaned. She’d been having dreams of the dead, she said.

“T
HEY GOT THE BABY
out of her,” Clorine informed Petite nine days later.

“That took a long time,” Petite said.

“Aye. A girl, it was.”

“And…?” Petite’s eyes were searching. “How did it go?”

Clorine pulled on her earlobe, looked away. “The midwife had her tricks,” she said. She didn’t want to tell her mistress what she knew, the grisly details shared between maids from whom nothing could be hidden. The midwife had tried everything, in truth: sage and pennyroyal in white wine, hyssop in hot water. Even an eagle-stone held to Madame’s privy parts had failed to draw it out. In the end the midwife had had to cut the child asunder and pull it out by pieces, four gagging footmen holding the Princess down. Mercifully, she’d fainted dead away.

“She was even baptized, I’m told,” Clorine said, feigning cheer.

Petite frowned. “But the child was not alive.”

“Aye,” Clorine said, returning to her sweeping. A dead royal baby got baptized no matter what, she guessed—even a cut-up baby so dead it was rotten. Anything so that it could be buried in the regal tombs at Saint-Denis, not with the suicides in the north corner of some desolate graveyard, like all the other unbaptized stillborns.

D
EATH DID NOT
tire that fall. In September, the King of Spain died—the Queen’s father, the Queen Mother’s brother. The Court was once again draped in black, the royal family in deepest purple.

Louis turned gaunt, ashen, as if something in him were dying. His mother was not responding to treatments, and he would not accept the inevitable. He embraced and consumed Petite with a fierce hunger, crying out as he spent, as if in pain. He returned to her daily, and daily it was the same. Few words, an explosive release, and then he’d lie staring, cloaked in a tense silence.

Even trips to Versaie failed to soothe him. The grounds were ravaged by the workmen, and rubble was everywhere. Louis hunted indifferently, spearing boar, shooting hart, preoccupied by his mother’s suffering. A regime of enemas, weekly bleedings, senna and rhubarb purges had failed to restore the balance of her humors. The doctors had sliced into her diseased breast, sticking in bits of meat to feed the tumor—to stop it from feeding on her—but to no avail.

Let me be
, the Queen Mother begged him.
I am ready to die.
But he could not let her go. He’d found out about a village priest from
the Orléanais who performed miracles. The cleric vowed on the Bible that his mixture of belladonna and burnt lyme would harden the diseased breast to marble, but it too had failed. Now, a new doctor, this one from Lorraine, offered a cure—an arsenic paste that would kill the diseased tissue so that it could be cut away. For weeks the suffering Queen Mother had been enduring this operation daily, but without result.

“She is rotting alive,” Louis told Petite with tears in his eyes, visibly exhausted from sleeping at the foot of his mother’s bed.

“Can nothing be done?” Petite asked, wrapping her arms around him.

“I wish I believed in miracles,” he said sadly.

T
HE CHURCH BELLS
of Paris were silent as the statue of Saint Geneviève was solemnly paraded through the streets, followed by a press of courtiers and citizens praying for the life of the Queen Mother. Veiled, Petite joined the procession.

The next day, Louis did not call on her at his customary time. “The Queen Mother has had Last Rites,” Clorine informed Petite.

At daybreak, funeral bells began to peal: the Queen Mother was dead.

Petite fell to her knees, praying for the Queen Mother’s soul. Praying that this would be the end of it, that Death would be sated, the curse lifted.

T
HE
C
OURT JOURNEYED
to Fontaine Beleau that summer, to its primeval woods. Petite followed the hunts from a carriage—for she was, yet again, in a delicate condition. Louis was pleased: both Charles, now two and a half, and Filoy, a year younger, were healthy, fine-looking boys, the product of love, strong seed.

On this particular afternoon, a hot Saturday in July, the driver stopped at a carrefour and was listening for the horns when a man appeared on horseback from behind.

“Good afternoon, Monsieur Colbert,” Petite called out. She’d come to like the humorless man. “I didn’t know you enjoyed the hunt.”

He was flushed, sitting his horse uncomfortably. His mouse-colored Frisian mare pawed the dirt. “I have a message for the King,” he said, looking into the distance. Horns sounded and dogs
brayed—a hart had been put to bay. Colbert spurred his horse and took off, holding his hat with one hand.

“Must be urgent,” Clorine said.

“Must be confidential,” Petite said. It was unusual for the hardworking minister of finance to leave his desk. She suspected it had to do with preparations for a possible war. Spain had yet to pay the Queen’s dowry, giving her the right to claim the Spanish territories to the north—by force, if need be. Louis had been holding military reviews since early in the spring.

They headed toward the sound of the horns, the hounds in full cry. Soon they saw a trio of men approaching.

“It’s His Majesty,” Petite said. Louis was riding at a steady gallop, his big hunter lathered in sweat. He was holding the reins loosely in one hand, his other hand pressing his plumed hat to his heart. “Stop,” she commanded her driver.

The driver pulled up the horses, throwing them forward. Petite unlatched the carriage door. Louis’s cheeks were wet with tears. Alarmed, she let herself down.

Louis pulled his horse to a stop and jumped off, throwing the reins to Gautier. “I’ll meet you back at the château,” he told Colbert, and signaled Petite to follow him into the woods. When they were well away from the others, he turned and took her in his arms. Her hat fell to the ground.

“Our baby is dead,” he said, his voice thick. “The youngest.”

Filoy?
Petite saw Louis’s mouth moving, but she couldn’t make
out the words. She removed her kerchief from around her neck and used it to dry her lover’s cheeks. “How?” she asked finally, taking his gloved hand. He was trembling, yet she was steady. She felt she was far above, in the leaves of the towering trees, looking down.

Louis took a shaky breath. “He was with his wet nurse at a procession. There was a thunderclap, and he…and he just…”

Petite felt she was going to be sick. “Lightning hit him?”

“No, it was just the
sound
of it. His heart…stopped.”

“But he was strong, Louis.” Petite felt sobs rising. The last time she had seen the baby he’d been able to sit propped up by pillows, babbling and sucking on his fingers by turns. She hardly knew him—and now he was gone forever. “He can’t have…”

“Oh my God, my God,” Louis said, his hands over his eyes.

Petite began to tremble, imagining the scene, the horror of it.

Louis wiped his cheeks with his sleeve. “Colbert’s returning immediately to Paris. He will look after everything.”

“I will go with him,” Petite said, her teeth starting to chatter. She held her arms tight, lest she fly apart. She would lay Filoy out, surround him with flowers, bless him with her tears.

Louis gazed up at the sky. “You must not, Louise—not in your condition.”

Tears burst from her in a torrent. Was she not to see her baby one last time?

He kissed her hand, wet with tears. “My love, for the sake of the child you’re carrying—our child,
my
child—you cannot be in the presence of…”

Death.

“No,” she sobbed, beating his chest.
No!

B
ABY
F
ILOY WAS
put into the ground, and sixteen days later two-year-old Charles slipped away in a burning fever. Petite took to her bed and did not rise. Monsieur Blucher feared she would lose the child she was carrying, so silent was her grief.

Louis came to see her whenever he could, but he was often busy now, reviewing troops. He sat by her bed talking of regiments, warhorses, armor and weaponry. Petite’s indifference to the things of this world made him uneasy. His own grief—for his infant daughter, his mother, the two boys—overwhelmed him, in truth. He could keep it at bay if he kept moving. He would vanquish Death on the battlefield, have his revenge.

“She should go with Your Majesty to Vincennes,” Monsieur Blucher advised him. The Court would be at the fortress northeast of Paris for almost two months. “It’s not far, and the change will do her good. She won’t be going into childbed until the new year, so that’s not a concern.”

V
INCENNES WAS NOT
a pleasant castle. The rooms opened one upon the other; there was little privacy. When the winds came
from the west, the stench of the fortress prison was strong. Now and then the captive lions could be heard roaring.

The chapel was small, but often empty. Petite spent time there, just sitting, too angry with God to pray. In the afternoons, she sat with the women, poking at her embroidery, pretending to be interested as they talked about the magnificence of His Majesty’s troops, the splendor of the military reviews. London had burned down, the King had turned twenty-eight, the leaves were falling early. It was all the same to her.

The last Saturday before they were to leave Vincennes, Petite woke with a backache and a nagging feeling of restlessness.
Should I alert Monsieur Blucher?
she wondered, rubbing her aching thighs. She’d suffered cramps on and off all night.

Clorine drew back the bed curtains and set a small beer and cake on the bedside table. “It’s chilly,” she said.

“I’ll need Court dress for tonight,” Petite said, rolling out of the high bed. Every Saturday the courtiers met for médianoche, the midnight collation, and that evening’s would be the last at Vincennes. She would be happy to leave. She felt isolated in her grief, like some malevolent wandering spirit. She’d not slept well for months.

“I’ve already aired it,” Clorine said, holding up a boned corset. She fitted it on over Petite’s shift, then pulled the laces.

“Tighter,” Petite said. She’d not been eating, but even so she was growing. “Use your feet.” She clutched a post as Clorine braced against it, pulling the bindings.

“My last mistress died doing this,” Clorine warned her, quickly twisting and knotting the cords. “How can you even breathe?” She helped Petite into three flannel petticoats and a voluminous wool gown that helped conceal her condition.

Petite heard a horse’s urgent whinny. She went to the window and drew back the drapes. The thick panes were fogged over. She drew the letter
C
, for Charles, who had loved to draw lines in a mist. Why had they
both
died? she demanded angrily.
O Lord, I acknowledge my sin, forgive me
, she prayed, in fear for the child she was carrying—yet another soul conceived in mislove. She grew ill with dread that it might die in her womb.

She heard a horse snort and pushed a window open, the better to see. Louis and a party of men were on horseback in the courtyard below, attended by six guards armed with carbines. She remembered: he was going to Versaie, and would return to Vincennes the next day for yet another military review. She rubbed the small of her back as she watched him mount his horse—Feisty, the small black trotter he preferred for travel—and set out, his men following.

She closed the window against the cold, wiping out her letter
C. Such beautiful boys
, she thought, and tears flowed again. She slipped behind the screen at the end of the room and lowered herself onto the close-stool, pressing her fingers to her eyes, breathing deeply until the convulsive shuddering passed.

If only, if only…

If only they were still with her, if only they were alive.

She felt a rush of warmth and stood up. Alarmed, she stepped back. “Clorine,” she called out, in the grip of a contraction.

Clorine appeared with a dusting rag in one hand. She frowned down at the puddle.

Petite held onto the edge of the commode to steady herself as another contraction came over her. “Get Blucher,” she hissed. Her womb was opening.

By the time Clorine returned with the sleepy surgeon—he’d been up until dawn at the gaming tables—Petite’s pains were steady and strong.

“I can’t have it here,” she told him, panting. Her room was a passage; the Queen’s suite was close.

“I’m afraid you have no choice, Mademoiselle,” Blucher said, washing his hands at the little stand behind the screen.

Petite heard the door at the far end of the room open, then a woman’s voice.

“It’s Madame Henriette, on her way to Mass,” Clorine whispered.

“Is there a problem?” Petite heard the Princess inquire.

Petite parted the bed curtains. “I have terrible colic,” she gasped.

“My sympathy,” Henriette said, and passed through, followed by Yeyette and two pages, who turned to stare.

B
LUCHER WAS MEANT
to be a priest, but found satisfaction, nonetheless, in his vocation as a male midwife—the first in history, he
liked to think. He was philosophical, calm by nature, and that helped. He stood in awe of the strength of a woman in labor, in truth. Strength and courage, for with each birthing, a woman risked her life. God had laid that curse upon her, to bring forth in sorrow and pain. Harlots birthed easily, but they suffered pain later, in Hell.

Mademoiselle de la Vallière’s throws were coming quick and strong. The upper part of her belly was hollow, and the lower full: the child had sunk down. He greased his hands with almond oil and felt the open neck of the womb. It was coming down head-long, but with one hand thrust out. This alarmed even him.

Quickly, he beat an egg, mixed it with almond oil, and poured it into the privy passage to make it glib. “This will hurt,” he warned the King’s mistress. The maid clamped her hands over the young woman’s mouth to stifle her scream as he pushed the baby back in. Then he lay her thighs and knees wide open, and anointed the passage again, this time with duck grease. At last—with guidance and prayer—the baby slithered out straight, a pale, weak girl.

“You have a daughter, Mademoiselle de la Vallière,” he said.

“She’s fainted,” the maid said.

He severed the navel-string, cutting it shorter than he would for a boy, so that the girl would be modest and her privy passage narrow. He squeezed a few drops of blood out of the cut-off navel-string into the infant’s mouth. The baby cried out and Mademoiselle de la Vallière whimpered.

“The baby must be hidden,” the maid said, holding a hamper. “Madame Henriette and others will be returning after Mass.” There was a limit to what screens and bed curtains could hide.

“Take her to my room in the service quarter,” Blucher said, wrapping the baby in toilettes. “My wife is there; she will know what to do.” He put the swaddled infant in the basket and covered her over. The maid rushed off.

Mademoiselle de la Vallière was still in a swoon. He shook her to consciousness. “Snuff this,” he said, holding a vial of white hellebore powder to her nose. She was a strong, brave girl, but she did not birth easily and the most dangerous part of birthing was yet to come. He would need her help to drive the after-burthen out. If left in, it would bring fevers, convulsions, death.

She sneezed. He pressed down on her belly. She sneezed again, groaned, and out it came, entire.
Praise the Lord.

The maid returned, breathless. “The service is just ending—you have to go. Madame will be coming through.”

“I need only a moment more,” he said, hurriedly anointing Mademoiselle de la Vallière’s belly with oil of St. John’s wort and laying a rabbitskin over it. “Keep it thus for two hours,” he instructed. “It’s to close up the womb.” He swathed her privates with a wide napkin and wrapped a clean linen cloth over her flanks, winding it down over her haunches. “She must lie in for forty days.”

“That would cause suspicion,” the maid whispered, her eye on the passage door.

“The holy bone parts in birthing. If she does not rest, her womb will wander.”

“Monsieur Blucher, my mistress will not lie abed,” Clorine hissed, pulling the bed curtains shut. “I know her well.”

“Then pray for her,” Blucher said, reaching into his vest and withdrawing a folded-up square of bandage. “And give her this.”

Clorine unwrapped it, and frowned. It was a short length of the infant’s navel-string.

Voices could be heard approaching. “It will defend her from devils,” he said, quickly taking his leave.

“W
AS IT A BOY
or a girl?” Petite asked Clorine listlessly after the ordeal was over. With its first cry, the newborn had disappeared. To where, she did not even know. She tried to sit up. She was woozy yet.

“A girl,” Clorine said, taking up a stained covering sheet.

Where will Monsieur Blucher find a wet nurse for her?
Petite wondered, pressing her fingers against her nipples. “I need to wash before you wrap me.” She gloomed down at the bloody mass in the chamber pot on the floor. “What are you going to do with that?”

“I’m not sure yet,” Clorine said, nudging the pot under the bed with her foot.

Petite heard voices on the other side of the bed curtains: Henriette, returning from Mass. She fell back against the pillows. “I should rest. I’ll need my strength…for tonight.”

Clorine glared, her hands on her hips. “You’re not going anywhere, Mademoiselle. You’re to stay abed—”

“Don’t fight me on this, Clorine,” Petite said, closing her eyes.

A
T ELEVEN THAT
evening, Clorine got Petite to drink some barley water. She took away the bloody bandages and bathed her privates with chervil water scented with honey of roses to guard against inflammation. Petite was bleeding still. Clorine padded her with clean cloths and helped her to stand.