The French Mistress (24 page)

Soft-voiced priests replaced the physicians and their awful instruments. The heavy curtains of Madame’s bedstead were looped back and candles placed to ring around it. The most elaborate armchair in the room was placed beside the bed in case His Majesty should appear. Madame’s sheets were refreshed with ground herbs and myrrh, a too-sweet scent I’d ever after associate with death, and an elaborately embroidered cloth, rich with gold thread and intertwined crosses, was laid over the coverlet.

Even Madame herself was made ready. Though she’d never lost consciousness, she looked as if she were fashioned from wax, her once-bright eyes glazed and dull as the color of life drained from her famously beautiful complexion. Her sweat-soaked hair was smoothed back and hidden beneath a coif of fine white linen. Her face and hands were tenderly washed with cologne and her favorite rosary looped through her fingers. Though she still could not keep back the groans of her suffering, she did seem to take comfort from these ministrations. Everything was arranged to help her make peace with God, and prepare herself for death.

Her daughters were roused from their beds and brought to their mother, a heartbreaking sight. I doubted the two sleepy girls understood what was happening, and the baby most certainly didn’t, only giving a wail of protest as she was held to Madame’s lips to kiss. One by one, her household was likewise permitted to step close to the bed to bid farewell, and as my turn came, I tried to smile through my tears. Even in her considerable pain, she knew me, and whispered my name, as precious a blessing as I could ever wish. I knelt and kissed her hand one last time, her fingers chill with death, and too soon my time with her was done. I could not contain my grief after that, my tears spilling in sorrowful abandon as I staggered back to my place among the other ladies.

Soon after, the king himself appeared, so overwrought that he rushed to Madame’s bedside without any of his usual decorum. With him came both Madame de la Vallière and Madame du Montespan, both of whom still held affection for their former mistress, and several others wishing a final glimpse of the princess. Another who rushed to pay his respects at the deathbed was Ralph Montagu, the English ambassador to France, and I could all too easily imagine the devastating report of Madame’s death that he would immediately send to his king.

Last of all came Monsieur. We all watched him closely for any signs of remorse for what he’d done, yet his painted face betrayed nothing. He spoke not a syllable of love to his dying wife, and shamefully offered no comfort to her as a husband should. As had always been the case in this hideous marriage, poor Madame was left to forgive him his sins toward her—we all could hear her ragged whisper—yet Monsieur’s eyes remained dry and his expression impassive. He was the only one among so many to remain unaffected, and not to his credit, either.

Soon after midnight, Bishop Bousset, the king’s own consoler and preacher to the Court, administered the Last Sacrament and Extreme Unction to Madame, and then granted her the greatest gift of forgiveness. Just as the bishop had comforted Madame’s mother, the English Dowager Queen, on her deathbed such a short time before, he now performed the same unhappy service for the daughter. He held his own crucifix to Madame’s lips for her to kiss, and with that, her soul finally slipped free of her tormented body.

Less than a fortnight ago, Henriette-Anne had been laughing and dancing merrily with her brother at Dover. Now she lay dead before me. To be sure, I’d seen ample evidence of her fragile health and constitution, but I’d always believed the strength of her spirit would be enough to protect her. Yet what spirit can triumph against poison? What grace can survive in the face of such malevolent wickedness as Monsieur had displayed? Scarce a month before, Madame had enjoyed her twenty-sixth birthday. She had been only a handful of years older than I was myself, and her death was as harsh a reminder of the dangers of this Court and the capriciousness of fate as I could ever have.

My despairing heart could not believe Madame was gone. I’d lost my mistress, my patroness, my protector at Court, but most of all, I’d lost my one true, dear friend.

Whatever I did next, I must do myself.

Chapter Eleven

PALAIS-ROYAL, PARIS
July 1670

 

 

 

I
missed Madame more than I’d imagined possible. Her warmth, her friendship, her courage, her protection, all had been stolen away from me in those few terrible hours, and in the days that followed I was so devastated by her loss that I feared that I, too, might follow her, perished from grief.

I was not alone. Madame’s death shocked all Paris. It was not only the unexpected suddenness of having so young a lady snatched from our midst, but the suspicious circumstances that surrounded her demise as well. The whole city spoke of nothing else, yet still the facts remained uncertain, even to us who had witnessed the death. All that was known for sure was that Madame had declared herself to be poisoned, and that the physicians attending her had administered the proper antidote, but to no avail. Further, the silver cup from which she’d last drunk, considered to be the agent of the poison, had yet to be found, and was presumed to have been stolen away by whoever was guilty. Everything beyond that was rumor and speculation. But no matter which version was whispered, Monsieur was at the center of it.

The other constant, of course, was that no one dared speak of poison before the king. Surely he must have suspected his brother, too. How could he not? He’d known the misery of the Orleans marriage, and he’d seen for himself how badly Monsieur had treated Madame. Nor could he have had any illusions about Monsieur’s character or the wickedness that rotted his brother to the very heart.

Yet as was so often the case with Louis, the reality of what had happened was much more complicated. True, there were few things worse than having one’s brother poison his wife. But because that same brother was also the heir to the greatest monarchy in the world, Louis would require absolutely unquestionable proof of guilt before he’d act. It was much easier and less disruptive to the Court to believe that Madame had in fact died a natural death. The official autopsy, attended by many witnesses both French and English, concluded the same: that the poor princess’s liver and intestines had been insup portably decayed and gangrened by a boiling, impetuous bile that had caused her agonizing death.

But many at Court still speculated that Louis must have asked Monsieur to swear that he hadn’t poisoned her. When Monsieur (a natural liar if ever there was one) vowed that he hadn’t, then Louis had chosen to accept his brother’s oath, and put all other possibilities from his mind.

Which is not to say the king was unmoved. Louis was visibly shaken by Madame’s loss and wept with sorrow before us, a rare thing indeed for a man who usually kept himself so tightly reined. Madame had been his dear friend from childhood, a confidante, and perhaps even a lover. He missed her sorely. He ordered a state funeral for her to take place in August (a delay that was expected in royal deaths in order to accommodate the elaborate preparation) with the full complement of honors usually reserved for a Queen of France. Though by custom he could not attend himself, he did plan to send his wife the queen as his representative, another considerable show of respect, and Bishop Bousset was already composing a suitable eulogy.

While the king grieved, Monsieur did not. In the weeks following Madame’s death, he was never once observed to weep or seem otherwise discomfited, as would be expected of a new widower. Instead he seemed obscenely happy, almost gleeful, as if he’d been the one freed from a monstrous spouse, and he showed no respect for his lamented wife. Publicly he declared that she must have been poisoned by the Dutch at Dunkerque as she traveled, a special potion designed to claim its victim much later to divert suspicions. It was an unlikely tale, and he the only believer.

To the outrage of those who truly mourned Madame, he picked and rummaged like a magpie through her most personal belongings, searching for anything that might feed his jealousy, even into death. He took all the gold her brother had given her in England and claimed it for himself. He refused to return the rare jewels Madame had inherited from her mother, Her Majesty the Dowager Queen of England, jewels that belonged by rights to the English royal family, and not to Monsieur. He read her private letters aloud, mocking them to his sordid friends. He interrogated those of us ladies who’d been closest to Madame, demanding what we knew of his wife’s dealings with the English on Louis’s behalf. One night, when there was gaming at the Louvre, he brought a beautifully embroidered gown that Madame had worn in Dover and tossed it carelessly onto the faro table, declaring the gown to be his stake.

More perverted still was his fanatical interest in the rituals of mourning. He demanded that the rest of the Court consult him in every detail of dress and etiquette and insisted that he be included in all arrangements for his wife’s funeral. Every member of his household and staff was expected to wear deepest mourning. Despite the hot summer, he ordered his two young daughters by Madame dressed in dark purple velvet, the prescribed mourning for a princess. Both nine-year-old Marie-Louise and the infant Anne-Marie were forced to receive the long stream of courtiers and dignitaries who came to the Palais-Royal to offer their formal condolences on the death of their mother. Even if proper, this was a grotesque spectacle, and unnecessarily cruel to the little girls, who were still too young to comprehend fully their loss.

Monsieur’s orders weren’t limited to his daughters. Standing with the two French princesses was their cousin, the five-year-old Lady Anne of York, the younger daughter of the English king’s brother, the Duke of York. She was a princess in her own right but a shy, unlovely, and unwanted child with watery eyes. Lady Anne had been sent to Paris the year before, first to be raised by her grandmother, who had soon died, and then shifted to her aunt, Madame, who had also perished. Now, by Monsieur’s whim, this forlorn little creature was also swathed in purple velvet and set up as one more prop in his elaborate tableau.

As sympathetic as I was to the plight of this English princess, I worried much more about the English king. Knowing how close Charles had been to his sister, I could scarce imagine what he must have felt when he’d learned of her death. Yet imagining was all I
could
do. With Madame gone, the procession of English visitors with the freshest English news and tattle had ceased to find its way to the Palais-Royal. I’d grown accustomed to knowing everything, but now I knew nothing, and that forced ignorance fair drove me to madness.

At last one evening at the Louvre, a fortnight after Madame’s death, I glimpsed the English ambassador, Ralph Montagu, across the crowded reception room. As quickly as I could I made my way to him, and to my relief he remembered me at once.

“Mademoiselle de Keroualle!” he exclaimed, his thin-lipped mouth curving into a smile.
“La belle Bretonne!”

I curtsied prettily, or as prettily as I could whilst dressed in mourning wool, without any ornament. “Good day, Mr. Montagu,” I said in English. “I’m honored that you recall me, sir.”

“Oh, I’d be a poor fellow if I forgot a face as pretty as yours, mam’selle,” he said, then composed his expression more solemnly. He was a pleasant man, though his downturned eyes and long nose made him look more doleful than by nature he was. “A sad time for us all, isn’t it? To think of how happy we all were at Dover, and now this. Poor princess, to die so young.”

“She is with God and the angels now, sir,” I said softly, and made the sign of the cross to honor my mistress. “But might I please ask after His Majesty? How has he borne the unhappy news?”

“Very badly, I am told.” He sighed and shook his head and, taking me gently by the arm, led me to an alcove near a window, where we could speak with more privacy. “When Sir Thomas Armstrong arrived with the grievous news, the king refused at first to believe it. Yet when he read the letter from His Most Christian Majesty, the one accompanied by the princess’s ring, he could no longer deny the dreadful truth. They say he collapsed from the shock of it, and withdrew to his darkened chamber to lie prostrate on his bed. For a week he remained alone within, refusing food and company in his sorrow.”

“Oh, poor, poor sir!” I cried, wishing it were in my power to comfort him. “He loved her so, and to lose her so suddenly must have been nearly beyond bearing. I pray that he finds comfort in the other ladies about him. Her Majesty, or Lady Castlemaine.”

“No, mam’selle,” he said. “He could tolerate no company. I suspect any lady’s voice or touch reminded him too painfully of what he’d lost in the princess. They say the only two admitted were his oldest manservant and Lord Rochester.”

Tears of sympathy welled in my eyes. I could understand why he’d choose an old friend like Lord Rochester, a gentleman who, beneath the merry mask of his wit, carried the same air of melancholy as the king. But for His Majesty to refuse comfort from any softer voice made me suspect not the depth of his grief, but the shallowness of the ladies around him. How could they claim to love him and not be eager to ease his sorrow and pain? If I were in London, I wouldn’t have left him to pine alone in the dark. I would have steadfastly remained at his side, ready to lessen the grief we both shared for the lost princess, and I would not have left.

“There now, I didn’t intend to make you weep,” the ambassador said, clearly one of those men made uneasy by ladies’ tears. “We all grieve for Her Highness, eh?”

“I grieve for her, and I fear for His Majesty,” I said, blotting at my eyes with my black-bordered handkerchief. “How can I not?”

“But my latest word is that the king is much improved,” he said, wishing to cheer me. “They say now he is not so much distraught, but rather furious with his cousin for letting such a crime go unpunished.”