Mistress of the Sun (35 page)

C
OURTIERS WERE PLEASED
to be back in Paris for the new year, pleased to celebrate the city’s transformation. The new street lights had everyone in raptures: night turned to day! The city was safer now, and with so many workers cobbling the roads, soon it would even be cleaner, as well. The muddy path along the Seine had been replaced by a tree-lined embankment called Le Cours. Already it had become a popular spot for the fashionable world to parade their finery.

Out of the public eye, Louis rented a house for Athénaïs for her confinement, and she disappeared from view. Secrecy was crucial. Louis, after all, was their Most Christian King. The day before Easter he confessed, touched for the Evil, and made the stations of the cross at both Notre-Dame and Hôtel-Dieu—a show of devotion never before seen in a king.

That morning, Petite sat shivering in the cold confessional, praying for guidance, a sign. In a week, the Court would return to Saint-Germain-en-Laye. In a week, Athénaïs would emerge from childbed, rejoin the Court there—rejoin Louis, and
her.

She heard the priest enter, coughing. His breath through the grille smelled of garlic. “Forgive me, Father,” she began as soon as he was settled, “for I have sinned.”
Yes. Where even to begin?
“It has been two years since I last confessed. A year and a half ago I had another child.” Dear little Tito.

The priest knew, of course. Louis had publicly legitimated their son the month before.

“I have malice in my heart against a woman I once loved as a sister.” Petite paused, unsure how much she could reveal. “Because now my ‘beloved’ loves her as well.”

“Ah,” the priest said.

He knew the code, knew it was the King she meant, but mention of this “other” no doubt took him by surprise. “My health often prevents me from intimate congress,” Petite went on, uncomfortable about addressing such a subject with a priest. One day she could walk for hours, the next she could not manage a step. Of late the complications had been increasing: irregular menses and pain in one leg. In hot weather, she had difficulty reading. Sometimes, but not always, she couldn’t control an embroidery needle. “Even so, I cannot forgive.”

“This is not an easy thing to resolve, certainly,” the priest said, shifting in the creaky wooden chair.

Petite pressed her forehead against clenched fists. “I am lost, Father.”

“Allow love to guide your actions.”

“Even if those actions lead to Hell?” For both herself
and
Louis?

“The person of whom you speak—he is anointed by God,” the priest said slowly, as if thinking it through himself. “In giving him comfort, you do not sin. We’ve talked of this before.”

“Yes, Father.”

“So, the same principle applies in allowing him comfort,” he concluded.

Petite covered her mouth to stifle a sob.

“This is the Lord’s realm, my child. You must be like the blind beggar on the corner. Love is your stick—let it guide you. The Lord will fill your cup, or not. It is not your province to understand, only to have faith. You have mistaken the true nature of your pain, both spiritual and physical. It is a gift from God. Be joyful, and give thanks.”

“W
E ARE TO
regard her as family,” Petite instructed Clorine, explaining the new arrangement. The renovated rooms in the château at Saint-Germain-en-Laye still smelled of paint. The suite had been made over into two apartments: one for Athénaïs and one for Petite, with a door—a secret door—connecting the two. That way, when Louis visited Athénaïs, he’d come and go through Petite’s rooms. The courtiers would assume he was with Petite, the official maîtresse en titre. That way, there would be no suspicion.

“Sometimes His Majesty will stay here with me, and sometimes he will go there,” Petite said, trying to sound matter-of-fact.

Clorine glared at the green-painted door.

Petite gave her a look. “I expect you to be gracious about this.” It was a diabolical arrangement, yet she had agreed to it—agreed, in effect, to be the “cover” for Louis and Athénaïs. There were reasons, certainly—public opinion, the violent husband, Louis’s needs—but reasons were no solace in the dark of night. Petite wasn’t at all sure that she would be able to endure. She consoled herself that Louis loved her truly, and that the man who visited Athénaïs was not really Louis, but that other man: the King. “His Majesty must experience nothing but peace when he comes to call.”

He called that very morning, after Mass, and sat in Petite’s new “withdrawing” room holding a mug of mulled wine. Restless, he put the mug down and went to the window to look down at the courtyard, and then turned to examine the fixtures.

“They did a good job,” he said, picking up a marble vase, examining it for flaws.

“I think so too,” Petite said.

“Will it suit?”

Petite wasn’t sure what he meant exactly. “It’s lovely.”

“My love, I want…” He put the vase down, taking care how he placed it. “It’s my hope that you and the Marquise will be happy here together.” He cleared his throat. “I would be most content if…if you could be friends again.”

Petite’s dish of tea clattered as she set it down. It seemed that more and more was required of her.

“You know, of course, that it would look suspect if there appeared to be any ill feeling between you, if you and the Marquise weren’t often in company together, as you have been in the past.” He cleared his throat a second time, visibly disquieted.

“I understand.”

“I knew you would.” He glanced at the pendulum clock.

“All…went well?” What little Petite knew of the birthing was through Clorine, who was acquainted with one of Athénaïs’s maids.

“It was not without the usual trauma.” Louis picked up his mug. The diamond in his ring twinkled. “Twins,” he said. “A boy and a girl—but the boy stillborn.”

“I’m so sorry,” Petite said, knowing what a horror that must have been. “The girl, she’s…?”

“Well, apparently. She’s with a nursemaid in Paris. Everything very hush-hush, of course.” Louis shrugged. “It’s a wonder I even know.”

“And the mother?” Petite inquired (graciously, graciously).

Louis glanced back up at the clock. “I should go see.”

A
THÉNAÏS SHOWED UP
unexpectedly at Petite’s Saturday-night reception. Fatigue was visible in her eyes.

“How are you managing?” Petite asked, taken aback by the sympathy she felt.

“Barely,” she said, stepping into the sitting room.

“Why, if it isn’t the goddess herself,” the Duchesse de Nemours exclaimed in greeting. “Where have you been, Madame la Marquise? We can’t tell you how boring it has been around here without you.”

P
ETITE LIT CANDLES
in anticipation of Louis’s visits. She wanted to make sure that their time together was pleasant. She had hired four of Monsieur de Lully’s protégés to play stringed instruments in the dressing room and arranged for their two children to be present (briefly).

“When you see His Majesty, you’re to curtsy,” Petite instructed her daughter, arranging the girl’s ringlets. Marie-Anne was only two and a half, and spirited—quite like her father in that respect. With her dark, almond eyes, the girl was irresistible.

“Ow.” Marie-Anne pulled away. “Don’t, Mother.”

“Don’t,
please
,” Petite instructed. “And if the King picks you up, be sure to kiss him on the cheek.”

“It’s prickly,” Marie-Anne said.

“Shall I tell His Majesty how good you’ve been?” Petite made a point of regaling Louis with stories of their children’s cleverness, noting how like her father they were.

“Tell him I draw monsters,” Marie-Anne said, pulling a ribbon out of her hair.

“Show me a curtsy, Mademoiselle.”

Marie-Anne shook her head with exaggerated vigor.

“Please, you make such a pretty one.”

The child positioned her feet and picked up the hem of her dress. Solemnly, she looked down at her blue satin slippers.

“Bend your knees just a little,” Petite said, repressing a smile. The girl could melt the hardest heart.

“Here he is, all cleaned up,” Clorine announced, entering slowly, Tito clinging to her fingers. “We’ve got a surprise for you.”

“He’s walking?”

“We’ll see,” Clorine said, slipping her fingers out of the boy’s hands. Ponderously, the baby took three steps.

Petite clapped.

“Hooray,” Marie-Anne exclaimed, jumping up and down in her frog imitation. “Hooray! Hooray! Hooray!”

Petite scooped the boy up before he toppled. She’d been concerned that he might never walk, in truth. He was a small and somewhat fearful child—not the sturdy little warrior Charles had been, or plump and placid like baby Filoy—yet steadfast in his way. He had Louis’s eyes.

“The cook has made a treat for you both,” Petite said.

“Nun’s biscuits?” Marie-Anne looked up hopefully, her fingers in her mouth. The heavenly scent filled the rooms.

“Ah, he’s here,” Petite said, hearing the commotion in the entry, footsteps. “I’ll ring when to bring them in,” she told Clorine. She handed the boy into her maid’s arms.

“What smells so good?” Louis asked, entering. He propped his
sword in a corner before embracing her. With a sigh, he sat back in his easy chair and put up his feet.

“A glass of rosa solis with that?” Petite asked, offering him the plate of biscuits. “Perhaps you’d like to see the children before they return to the Colberts.” She rang for Clorine.

Louis’s face brightened as Clorine ushered Marie-Anne and Tito into the room.

“I made a monster,” Marie-Anne immediately announced.

“Show His Majesty your pretty curtsy, Mademoiselle,” Petite whispered.

Biting her lip, the child arranged her feet and lifted her skirt.

“Knees, look down,” Petite prompted, but it was no use.

Grinning, Louis put down his glass and opened his arms. The girl ran to him. “Do you have something for me, Mademoiselle Marie-Anne?” he asked, lifting her onto his lap.

She touched her lips to his cheek. “Prickly,” she said, giggling.

Louis smiled, catching Petite’s eye.

“Tito has something to show you,” Petite said.

Clorine hovered over the boy as he took two steps.

Louis applauded. “I didn’t know he was walking.”

Petite nodded to Clorine. “Kisses goodbye now.” Short…and sweet. “Madame Colbert will be waiting,” she explained, refilling Louis’s glass. The spiced golden cordial was believed to inflame lust.

“I’m sorry, my love, but I have to go.” Louis took a sip before
putting the glass back down on the side table, taking care to place a cup doily under it. “I’m expected.”

“I understand,” Petite said, her heart aching.

“I
THINK SOMEONE
’
S
taking your things,” Clorine told Petite a few weeks later. “Day before yesterday your spangled head-rail disappeared, and this morning your tooth powder.” She knew it wasn’t one of the staff—she’d tested their honesty with coin. “And frankly, I think it’s—” Clorine tilted her head toward the green door.

“Why would Madame la Marquise want tooth powder…or a head-rail for that matter?” Petite asked. “She never wears one.”

“Don’t you think it odd that things go missing after she’s been here? I bet two sous that she’s got them locked up in her secret cabinet.”

“If you know of it, Clorine, it can’t be all that secret.”

B
EFORE LONG
, A
THÉNAÏS
was pregnant again—“bagged,” Clorine announced with disgust. “And we’re not talking pheasants.”

Louis was not the one to tell Petite. With her he talked about the children Marie-Anne and Tito, the Dauphin, hunting, horses and dogs. Then—with a sigh that had become characteristic—he’d say, “I’d best check on the Marquise.”

Soon after, there would be the sound of china breaking.

For comfort, Louis turned to Petite. Even their lovemaking was “comfortable” now. Petite wanted more. She ordered a provocative
gown made of fine silk and a fan of vermilion ostrich feathers. She ornamented her long curls with pearls and ribbons.

She sent Clorine to Paris with a shopping list: Venetian brocades, hand-painted stockings and—she flushed making this request—a certain (forbidden) book.

“It’s a good thing I didn’t get searched at the gate,” Clorine exclaimed on return, her straw basket bulging. “That book.”

“I didn’t know you could read Latin.” Petite was mortified.

“This isn’t Latin,” Clorine said, shaking
L’École des Filles
in front of her. “But there are words in it I’m happy to say I do not know.”

“I thought it was a schoolbook,” Petite lied, taking it from her.

“Some school.” Clorine rolled her eyes and blew out a breath.

P
RICK
,
LOVE STICK
, piss-instrument. Balls
,
arse.
Her cheeks flaming, Petite avoided the gaze of the Virgin as she read.
Cunt
,
clit. Bliss.

L
OUIS BEGAN TO
visit Petite regularly. Sometimes he neglected to go through the green door at all.

“This is the second month you’ve missed, Madame,” Clorine observed, studying the journal where she kept note of the household comings and goings, including her mistress’s health, her menses and bowels.

“I know,” Petite said with a smile. She’d experienced no nausea this time, and her health was strong again; she was enjoying her fullness.

Clorine frowned. “I hate to think what’s going to happen when
she
finds out.”

P
ETITE WAS WOKEN
from a deep sleep. She thought she’d heard a scream—not the horse’s cry that she still sometimes heard in the night, but that of a woman. A door slammed shut. It sounded close by.

“Clorine?” Petite called out, parting her bed curtains in alarm. She heard what sounded like hard heels on the wood floor. What was happening? The single candle set in the ox-horn lantern threw little light.

Petite was lighting another candle when Athénaïs came bolting into the room, her hand raised and Louis fast behind her.

“I’ll murder her,” she hissed, brandishing a knife.