The French Mistress (6 page)

Gabrielle had told me that everyone at Court was accustomed to looking away and pretending things were other than they were for the sake of ease. If I were wiser, or more worldly, perhaps I, too, would have followed that course, and returned to my new lodgings. But by nature I was too tenderhearted to slink away like that, and too honest to pretend ignorance. Madame had been kind to me when I’d been in need, and now I’d not leave her to suffer alone.

I waited until the latch of the door clicked shut and the sound of his heeled footsteps faded down the hall. Then I threw open the door and ran to Madame’s side, kneeling before the bed so my face would be even with hers.

“Oh, Madame, my poor lady,” I cried softly, “are you hurt? Are you ill? Should I send for a physician, or your lady’s maid?”

She jerked her head from the bed, struggling to compose herself and sit upright once again.

“What could be wrong, my dear?” she asked, trying to smile though the mark of her husband’s blow still stained her cheek.

“I—I do not know, Madame,” I stammered with bewilderment, rising to curtsy beside the bed. “That is, forgive me, Madame.”

She might have been able to be brave, but I could not. Suddenly my earlier tears returned, spilling from my eyes, and betraying all I’d seen. Her face crumpled as her misery swept over her, and to my surprise she took me into her arms and drew me close. Without a thought, I slipped my arms around her narrow back, holding her tightly with my head on her shoulder and hers pressed into mine. Twined together that way, we rocked from side to side and wept shamelessly, taking as much comfort from each other as we gave.

Finally she pulled back and placed her hands on either side of my teary cheeks. She cradled my face between her palms with rare gentleness, yet also to keep me from looking away as she spoke.

“What you have seen, mademoiselle,” she whispered urgently, her voice ravaged with emotion. “What you now know of my shame and my suffering: remember it well, I beg you, and if ever I come to grief, swear to tell all to my brother in England. Swear to it, mademoiselle!”

I swallowed, and nodded, even though I quaked before the awful burden of such an oath.

“I swear, Madame,” I said fervently. “You have my word.”

I gave it without thinking, too, for she was my mistress, my princess, and because one did not refuse anyone of royal blood. But the consequences of my oath that would come later—Ah, it would be greater than either of us could ever guess.

 

 

Though the Louvre, His Majesty’s palace, was within sight of the Palais-Royal, Madame and her attendants did not walk between the two, but instead rode the distance in great lumbering carriages. I was among the most noble folk now, and walking, it seemed, was beneath us, an ignominious resort of common people. But noble or not, there was still much petty bickering among us ladies as we climbed into the carriages, with endless concern over who sat beside the window to be admired by the world, and who was made to sit hidden inside, and whose skirts were being crushed and rumpled by another’s clumsiness.

Being so new, I didn’t care, and gladly squeezed into the space I was given. I was to see His Majesty for the first time, and I’d ride in an oxcart if I must. Besides, after what I’d witnessed in Madame’s bedchamber, the foolish chatter around me was a relief, soothing in its lack of consequence.

I was thankful, too, to be with so many others as we made our way through the halls and staircases of the Louvre. If I’d been impressed by the elegance of the Palais-Royal, then I was overwhelmed by the formal grandeur of the Louvre. His Majesty was famous for his insistence on perfection, both here and at his grand palace in the country at Versailles (likewise in a constant state of improvement). From the marble statues to the gilded frames on the life-sized pictures to the porcelain vases filled with flowers grown beyond their season in the royal hothouses: everything was exactly as it should be, and all of it designed to glorify the king.

I soon saw that this magnificent display extended not just to the furnishing of the palace, but to the courtiers themselves. The halls were as crowded with folk as if for market day, and every gentleman and lady seemed to be determined to outdo their neighbor in regards to their dress, with more extravagant shows of lace and ribbons and costly silk embroidery than I’d ever imagined.

However snide Gabrielle’s dismissal of my new wardrobe might have been, there had also been a large measure of truth to her criticism. The gowns that had seemed so fashionable in Keroualle
were
far too plain in this company, and hardly suitable for my new rank. I’d no money for replacing them, of course, nor could I conceive of the cost of so much splendor here in the shops of Paris. I would simply have to hold my head high and rely upon the beauty that God had given me, not the labors of some mere seamstress. In a world that was ruled by pretense, I’d simply pretend that I didn’t care that my gowns and jewels were so inferior, and plan for the day when my fortunes would rise, and I’d be the most gloriously attired of them all.

For now I wore my blue silk, with my grandmother’s small gold crucifix around my throat. The lady’s maid who served all the maids of honor had arranged my hair in the same style as the others, with elaborate curls bunched high on either side of my forehead and trailing down to my shoulders. Thin wires were cunningly threaded through the bases of the curls to hold them aloft, and though the unfamiliar weight felt strangely unbalanced on my head, I found the effect most elegant, and I was sure my hair had never looked so fine, nor so fashionable.

There was no momentous event at Court that night, no ball or play to be debuted. Instead the entertainment was a troupe of traveling Florentines, acrobats and low comedians. According to the other ladies in the carriage, this was one of His Majesty’s favorite sorts of amusement on account of his grandmother having been an Italian princess, Marie de’Medici. There were others who’d spoken less kindly, who’d said that this Italian blood was also responsible for both the king’s ruthlessness and his swarthy complexion; but already I’d learned to be suspicious of gossip, and not to believe whatever I was told.

Like a flock of gaudy chicks around their hen, we followed Madame into a large gallery with a row of four chairs and additional stools arranged at one end, before a makeshift space for the performers. Already the room was largely filled with courtiers and guests, all chattering with anticipation, and a small orchestra was playing lighthearted music, suitable to the coming players.

With others bowing and curtsying in deference, Madame made her way to one of the chairs in the front of the room. To me, knowing what I did, she seemed quiet and subdued, her smile a forced imitation of merriment. She was beautifully dressed, as was to be expected, and any pallor or lingering mark from her husband’s blow had been expertly covered by powder and cerise. It grieved me to think that she could likewise hide her suffering, for it made me fear she’d had practice doing so. Monsieur had not joined her in her carriage from the Palais-Royal, and thus far he’d not joined her here, either. For her sake, I prayed he wouldn’t.

“We stand back here, Louise,” Gabrielle whispered, prodding me into place behind the chairs and stools. “I hope your slippers don’t pinch, for we’re not to sit the entire night.”

“Who gets the stools?” I asked, looking at them with perhaps more longing than was proper. The gilded stools were low and cushioned with tapestry-covered seats tipped by fat, dangling tassels.

“You mean the taborets,” she whispered in return. “They’re only for the duchesses, just as the straight chairs are for those with royal blood—Madame and Monsieur—and the armchairs are for the king and queen. Everyone else must stand in His Majesty’s presence, unless he expressly gives his permission. Not that he will. He is a formal gentleman, and he likes everything ordered just so.”

“Even to having us ladies stand like soldiers?”

“Oh, His Majesty expects far more than that of us,” she said, holding her painted ivory fan before her face so others wouldn’t overhear. “I’ve been told that when he invites various ladies to join him in his carriage, he expects them to contain themselves entirely. He’ll not permit the horses stopped for anyone to use the privy or find other relief, and if a lady fails to oblige, or faints from the strain, why, then he falls into a powerful rage, and the poor lady is forever in disgrace.”

“That has happened?” I asked, more curious than shocked. “A lady disgraced for requiring the privy?”

“Oh, yes,” Gabrielle said solemnly. “I told you. His Majesty is king, and he expects to be obeyed in everything. Even the privy.”

But my attention had been drawn elsewhere. “Who is that lady?”

Gabrielle leaned to one side, the better to follow my glance. “The one with the gold-colored hair and the pearls in her hair? Merciful saints, what I’d do for pearls such as those!”

I nodded, watching the lady take her place on one of the taborets. She had the golden hair and wide blue eyes that I was coming to realize were the height of beauty at court. But she was also blessed with a voluptuous form and an indolent, knowing expression to her heavy-lidded eyes, and the way she moved through the crowded room, more a sensuous dance than a walk, drew the lustful gaze of most every gentleman present.

“She beguiled His Majesty, and no wonder,” Gabrielle continued. “To think that she was one of Madame’s maids of honor, the same as we are now, and next she’ll bear the king’s child.”

“She’s known to you, then?” So potent were this lady’s charms, even to me, that at first I’d not noticed the swell of her belly beneath the silk brocade of her gown, richer than any other in the gallery. Most women I’d known had turned sickly and peevish when they were with child, and retired from society. This lady seemed to flaunt her belly like a prize, sitting with her fingers spread over it like a ruler with his hand upon his golden orb, the symbol of his power.

“She’s known to everyone,” Gabrielle replied. “I marvel that you don’t recognize her yourself. Why, Louise, that is Madame la Marquise du Montespan.”

“A marquise.” I frowned, trying to recollect where I’d heard the lady’s name before, and in what context. “Yet she sits on a taboret reserved for a duchess.”

“That’s because while she is a marquise, she is also the king’s mistress,” Gabrielle said, her voice full of hushed awe. “She has lodgings here in the Louvre near his, and he has lavished every manner of gift upon her. Others flock to her, knowing she has the ear of the king, and influence to match. What is a taboret beside that? Those close to His Majesty swear she has bewitched him as much with her wit as with her body. Ah, she has such power here at Court!”

Such power at Court.
I tried to imagine what that would be like, to take my place in a magnificent room and know that every eye was upon me. This, then, was what all my peers among the maids of honor wished most ardently for themselves. Was the love of a king that different from the regard of ordinary men?

“Her child,” I asked, feeling bold indeed to speak of such matters. “Is His Majesty the father?”

Gabrielle laughed wickedly behind her fan. “His Majesty believes he is, which makes it so, even if it is not. I doubt the marquise knows for certain herself. But consider the good fortune of her bastard child, to be owned by the king, granted a title and an income at birth!”

I considered the two empty armchairs near the marquise’s taboret. “What of the queen? How does she bear to have her husband’s mistress so near?”

Gabrielle shrugged. “It is not her right to object to His Majesty’s wishes. After Montespan left Madame’s household, His Majesty made her a lady-in-waiting to the queen. If Her Majesty accepted her husband’s mistress as one of her attendants, then she will hardy object to having the marquise here tonight. Besides, what would the queen earn for herself by protesting? The king would not alter his wishes, and displeasing him is always unwise, even for the queen.”

Just then, Madame turned in her chair, beckoning to me to join her. “Madame de Keroualle?”

“Yes, Madame.” I shared a final glance with Gabrielle, who in that wordless instant made it clear that she was both surprised and chagrined by the duchess’s favor toward me. I slipped my way among the other attendants to curtsy beside Madame’s chair.

“There you are.” Her smile was both welcoming and weary as she looked up to me. “Stay by me, mademoiselle. Your company pleases me.”

As I began to murmur my thanks, I saw her gaze slide past me, and distress flicker through her eyes. Only a moment, and then it was gone, swallowed once again within her, but I saw it still. Instinctively I turned to discover what had affected her.

Monsieur had entered the gallery and was making his way to the front of the room, moving slowly among the others as he paused to greet friends and laugh with them. He was even more sumptuously dressed than when I’d seen him earlier, and he’d exchanged his wig, too, for one that had multicolored bows tied to ends of every lovelock. In the crook of one arm he carried a tiny white dog with matching ribbons tied into the fur of his trailing ears, while his other hand was tucked familiarly in that of another gentleman: Philippe de Lorraine-Armagnac, the infamous Chevalier de Lorraine. This man was as beautiful as an angel in face and form, and would have merited the sighs of a thousand ladies, save that he was painted and garbed with the same decorative luxury as Monsieur himself.

I’d never seen such a couple, nor one so open regarding their tastes and perversions. Yet knowing what I did about Monsieur and how he’d treated Madame, I watched him with his favorite and saw not his frivolity, but his menace. When he chose to sit on the farthest chair on the other side of the room instead of his place beside his wife, I shared Madame’s obvious relief to have him safely at a distance.

“How pretty your hair looks dressed that way, mademoiselle,” Madame said to me, her smile at once more relaxed. “The fashion becomes you.”