Enchantress of Paris (25 page)

Venelle finally came to her senses and hushed. She hitched her skirts so high above her gartered knees that the king and I saw bare legs! We bawled with laughter as she took great, jig-jagging leaps on tiptoes all the way out the door. King Louis slapped his thighs, and even Hortense snickered.

I turned to the king and said, “The village girls squeak more than the mice!”

He gasped for breath. “They will squeak themselves to death. Quick, call a priest to bring the
oil
of extreme unction!” The image of a priest oiling squeaky girls with the holy ampulla made us laugh until we clutched our stomachs. Hortense finally gave way to peals of laughter.

The girls calmed down long enough to fill their mouths full of
macarons
and start helping the pages. They ran around with stuffed cheeks, scooping the mice into their empty boxes. I didn't see Venelle return until she stood before us. Though blurry through tears of mirth, her face seemed white as the offensive mice.

The king's joy faded. “Have you recovered already?” he said to Venelle. “I expected you to run to my mother and resign as her spy.”

“I have not recovered, sire.” She looked like she might burst into tears. “In fact, that is why I came back. I thought the best way to regain my courage would be to seat myself next to a warrior king!” And with that she plopped herself on the divan between us.

We watched the girls and pages collect the last of the mice. I couldn't even be disappointed that I hadn't taken the opportunity to search the cardinal's papers.

*   *   *

A thousand wax candles winked and flickered in candelabra, dropping globs of melted wax on the stage at the Petit Bourbon, where professional dancers performed the
Ballet de Raillarie.
On one side of the floor, a professional Italian singer complained in a bellowing tenor that the French no longer liked Italian music. On the opposite side, a professional French soprano belted that France scoffed at outmoded Italian styles, and France would produce her own music henceforth. The audience, entirely French, murmured and giggled in the appropriate places. At times they let out a proud cheer.

Watching their faces from my hiding place backstage, I understood my uncle's genius. He had funded the entire production. The audience nodded powdered heads, mollified, reveling in being the superior race, oblivious that they were eating propaganda from Mazarin's Italian hands. I looked over the dancers, past the orchestra, and could just make out his face behind the queen mother. He wore a smug grin beneath that waxed mustache.

Colbert sat in the front row. For the first night in weeks, Philippe finally had a chance to search freely.
Please, God, let him find what we need.

The singers finished their bantering arias and made way for the stream of village girls prancing to their places. I fluffed out my skirts, layer upon layer of bouncy lace. True to his word, Beauchamp had made them short enough to show my calves, shapely in white stockings. Loops of shiny gold ribbons sparkled on my country-brown leather high heels, on my crook, and in my hair. The leather bodice was more like a kirtle. It pushed my breasts up so high my nipples threatened to peek over the edge of my low-cut linen chemise. One misstep, and they would.

We'd performed for the court and nobles all week. Tonight King Louis had opened the theater to the paying public, and it was packed with the bourgeoisie of Paris. I held my crook and my arms out, took a deep breath, and made hop-leap-step turns onto the stage, taking center position. I paused with my staff in one hand and the other shielding my eyes, careful not to cast shadows over my costume. I scanned the audience as if looking for lost sheep. They got the full effect of my revealing outfit. A surge of whispers and gasps punctuated the orchestra's music. This happened every night. It was King Louis's favorite part of the whole ballet.

While I'd lived in the convent, Olympia had danced as a nymph in a ballet wearing a see-through bodice that had gotten her jeered off the stage. Even the nuns had gossiped about it. No one would dare jeer me off the stage.

The orchestra ended the melody, and I made the ending circle of a
pas rond
with my leg. I glanced to the queen mother's private box. She'd spent the week at Val de Grâce to escape the excessive festivities of the final week of carnival and returned tonight just to see this performance. She looked thoroughly scandalized.
What a delight!

King Louis met me in the wings wearing his gold-threaded costume. “You were perfectly wicked!”

I pinched him. “You loved it.”

“Every moment.” He leaned in for a kiss.

I pushed him back. “You'll muss our makeup! Besides, you're on.”

He groaned. “Very well. Prepare for tonight, for we dine with the queen mother.”

“Must we?” He'd been so angry at his mother for hiring Venelle that he hadn't visited her in the week before she left for Val de Grâce. Tongues in every faction wagged about this mark of disfavor.

He walked toward the stage. “We must, for it is her first night back. And I have something to say to her that you don't want to miss.”

I watched King Louis dance his part with a twinge of disappointment. It seemed his mother's disfavor was to be short-lived.

*   *   *

The audience roared with applause at the end of the performance. Players and courtiers alike surrounded us on the short walk back to the Louvre. The nobles tried to outdo one another complimenting the king and his favorite …

“You were delightful, Mademoiselle Mancini!”

“Our king dances beautifully!”

“Vive le roi!”

They tripped over skirts and scabbards in a rustle of silks and high heels clicking on creaky parquet floors. Like a wave, they rolled with us through chambers and galleries, crushing one another against the wall in their haste to get the king's attention, crowding the queen mother's door as it closed behind us.

A cold collation awaited on sideboards. The queen mother sat at her card table with Madame de Motteville playing
bête.
She held her hand out to King Louis, and he bent to kiss it.

I glanced at the gathering of our closest connections: Olympia with Soissons, Martinozzi with Conti, Venelle with Hortense and Marianne, and Mademoiselle with Monsieur. Philippe stood apart. I searched his face for some sign. He nodded.

He found something!
I wanted to shout, but instead I curtsied demurely.

The queen mother spoke. “We were just talking of the ballet. Certainly pleasing to the proud Frenchmen. They will talk of it throughout the Lenten season, no doubt. Especially your performance, Mademoiselle Mancini.” She eyed me with disdain.

King Louis turned to me with a satisfied smile. “She was the beauty of the stage. Did you see how she held her poise? They will talk until the entire kingdom has heard of her. They will come from far and wide to see her for themselves. Which is why we must dance it again next week.”

The cardinal laughed lazily. “Carnival is over tonight. We abstain from such entertainments during Lent.”

“This ballet is worth repeating.” King Louis used a tone I didn't recognize. “I say we have it.”

The queen mother put a hand to her chest. “I've been accused of loving theater too much, but even I cannot condone such extravagance as we approach the anniversary of Our Lord's crucifixion.”

The king shrugged. “We're doing it whether you like it or not.”

“It's disrespectful!”

“It's happening!”

She turned pale. “You flaunt your disregard for a season designated for abstinence and reflection.” She looked away. “I will be forced to return to Val de Grâce for the entirety of Lent.”

“By all means,” the king said, looking smug, “go.”

Their collective intake of breath echoed in the chamber. The queen mother threw her cards on the floor, pointed at my uncle, and spewed a tirade of Spanish. I discerned the words “your fault” and “outrage.”

The cardinal held out his hands, trying to calm her. Madame de Motteville fell to her knees to gather the cards, and the queen mother whacked her on the head, saying something like, “Cut it out.”

Motteville recoiled. She tried to scramble up but pinned her own skirts down with her feet. Venelle rushed to help her, wincing at the queen mother's shrill tones. Monsieur and Mademoiselle glanced at each other. They each pulled out a fan and watched the scene unfold.

Olympia put her hands on her hips and frowned at me. “This is your doing. Subtlety never was your strong suit.”

Philippe hit her elbow, knocking one hand from her hip. “Shut it, Olympia. She's been doing her best in an area where
you
failed.”

Olympia put her finger in Philippe's face, but I couldn't hear her words because the cardinal started yelling to make himself heard over the queen mother, who was now standing and red-faced.

Hortense put her hands over her ears and kicked Philippe in the shin. “Just drop the subject, Philippe. You can never win an argument with Olympia!”

So Olympia yanked a strand of Hortense's hair. “Nobody asked the petted little favorite to get involved.”

The fracas seemed to make Venelle and Motteville edgy. They stepped on each other's skirts and spilled the cards on the floor again before they finally stood upright.

King Louis observed all of this and actually looked surprised. “Do Italians always argue like this?” he asked.

I shrugged. “Your mother started it. She's Spanish.”

“Actually, I started it,” said King Louis.

I giggled. “Perhaps you should
end
it before your mother ruptures our eardrums.”

Just then she pointed at me and let out a series of words that I would have understood in any language. “Send her back to the convent or marry her off in Italy. She's nothing but trouble.”

King Louis caught it, too. “This isn't Marie's fault!”

“Like hell it isn't,” yelled the queen mother.

Everyone else hushed. My uncle glanced at me as if to say,
It's over—you're finished.
It rattled me.

I grabbed my king's arm and turned him gently toward me. I whispered, “Perhaps this is insignificant.”

“You don't want me to exert my authority?” he asked under his breath.

I glanced again at Philippe, who gave me another nod.
He has my proof. Better to let the king fight this battle when he's well armed.
Mazarin studied Philippe and me carefully. He'd noticed our exchange.

I spoke softly to the king. “Assert yourself on a more important issue.”

He nodded, turned back to his mother. “No need to pack, Mother. Marie has no wish to dance in the ballet again. The Louvre will be as boring and bleak as you desire.”

She fumed. She must have assumed I enjoyed this, that I considered it a great triumph. But I was no fool. She would have dragged me straight to hell just to put some distance between her son and me, such was the force of hate in her eyes. Together we ate in silence, the most uncomfortable collation I'd ever partaken. All I wanted was a moment alone with Philippe.

*   *   *

I woke the next day at Palais Mazarin to the sight of Moréna leaning over me. “Your brother is here, but your governess won't admit him.”

“Why would Venelle keep Philippe away?” I jumped out of bed. If she was keeping my brother from me, she was ordered to do so. Why would my uncle or the queen mother order
that
? From the top of the stairs, I saw Venelle standing at the bottom with her arms crossed, blocking him. “Philippe!” I called. “Come up immediately, brother. I've been expecting you.”

Venelle looked up, surprised.

“Thank you,
madame la gouvernante,
” I said lightly, “for welcoming my brother.”

He skipped past while her back was still turned, mounting steps in double stride. Venelle let out a huff. I grabbed his hand and we ran to my chamber, slamming the door.

“Why wouldn't she let you in?”

He frowned. “Same reason the cardinal never left his offices unoccupied. He was
guarding
his papers.”

“They know you'll side with me in a family rift. They told Venelle to keep us apart.” I grinned. “But everyone dropped their guard last night.”

He reached into his doublet and produced a fold of parchment.

I grabbed it. It was Mazarin's copy of a letter he'd sent to the English Ambassador Lord Montagu dated
Paris, September 1637.
“This proves Mazarin was in Paris before the king's conception
and
that the queen mother lied about it. Perfect!”

“The king is feeling frustrated. Now is the time to show him this letter.”

I pulled Mazarin's old Colonna book from its hiding place under my bolsters and slipped the letter between the pages. “Now is not the time. You saw how the queen mother reacted when he tried to extend
Ballet de Raillarie
into Lent. Imagine what she'll do when he tells her he wants to wed me.”

“I've never seen her so angry as last night when you changed the king's mind with a whisper.”

“Angry?” I turned to my toilette table and started stirring crushed coral and grapeseed oil together, preparing face paints like a savage preparing for battle. “That is an understatement. It is no wonder females are so misunderstood with men writing the history books. She has declared
war
on me.”

Philippe tensed. “When will you show him?”

“I wish the king would assert himself without me having to wield this letter at all.”

“You can't blame the king for requiring tangible proof before taking the drastic measure of breaking with his parents.”

I hesitated. “This tactic makes you and me no better than our uncle.”