Enchantress of Paris (27 page)

She stared blankly, unfamiliar with Catholic dictates. “Your uncle charged him with abusing Holy Week and had him seized.”

“Our uncle wouldn't—” But of course he
would.
I remembered the look on Mazarin's face as Philippe went to fetch the king for me a few weeks earlier. “Where did you hear this?”

“Our washing women get their lye at the Louvre. The dairymen that deliver milk to the Louvre come here, too. Coachmen talk to guards who talk to scullery maids. They're
all
talking about it.”

Then it was true, for servants knew such things first. Without trusty Philippe, the cardinal's old spy D'Artagnan was left in full control of the King's Musketeers. In other words, the king no longer had command of his own men. “Mazarin knows Philippe is helping me.” I rushed to my bed and grabbed the Colonna book. I pulled out the cardinal's letter, resolving not to let it out of my sight. “Ready my clothes. And call—” I almost said
call for my coach.

“You can't go anyway. You'll miss Easter mass.” But she must have seen the determination on my face. “Shall I tell the stables to saddle Trojan?”

“Not on Easter Sunday. I'd better take my uncle's sedan chair.”

“Mazarin's runners won't carry you.”

I fell to my knees and ran my hand along the mattress slats until I found the pouch of pearls left over from my old bracelet. I held them out in my palm for Moréna to count. “This will convince them.”

She scooped them into the pouch, then tugged the hem of her décolletage a little lower with a wink. “I'll make sure it does.”

She ran out of my chamber, and I stepped awkwardly into a front-lacing bodice. I wrapped the cardinal's letter in a handkerchief, tucked it under my chemise, and yanked the bodice ties tight. From now until the time I was forced to use it, the letter wouldn't leave my body.

*   *   *

One hour, and one jostling sedan ride later, I mounted the stairs two at a time to the Mazarin apartments at the Louvre. I ignored sentries, marched beyond footmen, and elbowed past the valet into my uncle's bedchamber.

He was sitting at his dressing table, combing wax into his mustache and curling it ever upward. He didn't budge. “Ah. Marie. You must have heard of Philippe's arrest.”

“Explain yourself.”

“I explain myself to no one.”

“You know Philippe left Roissy before his companions ate meat.”

Mazarin shrugged. “He wrote a licentious song.”

“That was months ago, and you laughed when you heard it.”

He put away his mustache comb and started slipping a jeweled ring onto each soft white finger. “You've risen too high.”

It was both an admission and an accusation.
This whole thing is my fault.
“You know you still hold more power over King Louis than I do. Philippe and I are no threat. Let him go.”

“The court sees you in a new silk gown every day, your pretty coach, your diamonds. I must make an
example
of Philippe to prove I don't favor my family too much.”

I opened my mouth to say I'd get King Louis to free Philippe but stopped myself. “You bestow
favor
with self-seeking motives. Once I was proud to be your niece, but you've treated me like your marionette.”

He put out his hand, now gleaming with his favorite diamonds, and twitched his fingers upward one at a time. As if it were that simple to make his puppet dance.

It sparked anger as if he'd struck me. I walked out.

I went into the Pavillon du Roi in a haze of fury, not seeing courtiers or sentries. I reached the king's bedchamber doors just as they opened. King Louis emerged.

He smiled widely at first. “You're just in time to go to mass.” Then he faltered. “What's wrong?”

“Mazarin arrested Philippe on the outlandish charges that he ate meat on Good Friday.”

He looked stunned. Taking my arm, he steered me toward the
cour.
“This cannot be. I was counting on Philippe to command the musketeers if you and I had need. Now who can I trust?”

We neared the queen mother's apartments, so I spoke softly. “This means the cardinal is preparing for his next move.”

King Louis started to respond, but his mother emerged from her chamber. She began walking with us to the carriages in the
cour.
King Louis fell silent, and I was forced to fall into step behind them.

Monsieur was waiting at the royal carriage. He gestured for us to climb in before him.

The queen mother stopped short. “I didn't realize Mademoiselle Mancini was joining us for Easter mass.”

The king guided me into the royal carriage himself. “Of course she is. I wish never to be without her.”

The queen mother frowned. The ride to Notre Dame Cathedral was tense and mercifully short. We listened to mass in silence, though I didn't hear a single word. We left the cathedral in procession.

Venelle met me outside in the parvis. “Mademoiselle! Come home with me at once.” She followed me, fuming, to the king's carriage.

Right there in front of the cathedral and the French subjects and the queen mother and the long line of carriages, I leaned close to my king, cupping my hand around his ear. “You have to set my brother free,” I whispered, then turned to go with Venelle.

He nodded.

Venelle dragged me toward the carriage that had once been mine. “I hope you enjoyed yourself, because that is the
last
time you're going anywhere without me. Honestly, you are almost more trouble than you're worth.”

I laughed bitterly. “Oh, I'm sure the queen's and the cardinal's money will inspire you to persevere.”

*   *   *

It was she who came to my chambers the next morning to announce King Louis's arrival at Palais Mazarin. She perched herself on my bedstead while Moréna fastened diamond clasps up the torso of my mantua undress gown. The red silk gaped open from neck to floor, letting my white lawn chemise peek through between the clasps, and revealing the outline of my leg under the white lawn with every step.

“You can't wear that,” said Venelle as Moréna brushed my hair into curls that tumbled down my shoulders
à
la négligence.
“It's too loose.”

Loose drapery was intended for indoor wear among family or for portraits, not for receiving guests. Wearing it during the king's visit signified our intimacy. “There's nothing loose about it. I'm wearing a corset underneath.” This new garment was boned like a bodice. Moréna had barely slipped Mazarin's letter under it unnoticed with Venelle watching. I shook my shoulders to prove to Venelle the corset allowed no inappropriate jiggling.

She gasped, shocked, but had no chance to protest as I opened the doors for the king.

He entered, smiling at my ensemble. “What, no jewelry?”

Though I longed to talk of Philippe, I laughed lightly. “Help me choose something.”

We moved to my jewel casket, turning our backs on Venelle. He whispered, “Philippe's situation isn't good.”

Venelle moved closer, skirts rustling.

King Louis heard her. “Madame Venelle, go to the window.” He had never issued orders in such a tone. “Go on. Your king is having a private conversation.”

She curtsied stiffly and obeyed.

I turned back to him. “I
know
that much.”

“He may have to stay there for some time.”

“You're the king,” I said. “Get him out.”

He rifled through my jewel casket, opening little drawers. “Your uncle listed half a dozen reasons to keep him in.”

“Exaggerated and falsified.”

“I could give Cardinal Mazarin simple orders such as to stand by the window like Madame Venelle, and he would comply. But when I told him to release your brother, he gave me words of assurance and pacification. I paid a guard to disclose Philippe's whereabouts. He is in the Bastille.”

I gasped.

“At dawn they transfer him east to the Citadel of Brisach. That is all I could learn.”

“Brisach borders Germany. This is exile. Don't let Mazarin send him so far! Give orders to the prison directly.”

He shook his head. “The guards, the wardens, the chiefs—they are all in Mazarin's employ.”

I stared at the jewel casket. He was right. “Mazarin demands oaths of loyalty. Those who don't comply are removed. Those who do are rewarded.”

“If I issue a command, they will consult Mazarin first. How would it look if my own subjects disobey my order? It would emphasize
I'm not in charge.
”

My hand flew to the letter safely tucked out of sight by my breast. Showing it to him now would only punctuate his dependence. I needed him to feel strong, powerful. “You must learn to play Mazarin's game. Buy the loyalty of these guards and chiefs and wardens for yourself. Buy your generals to wield the might of the army. Allow only reverent courtiers to attend you.” I could see it all in my mind: every last lackey eager to please the king; nobles vying for the right to hold the king's candle aloft during his
lever.
“It will take time, but you
will
elevate your status. Start by buying the guards at the Bastille.”

He toyed with a necklace of small pearls. “Oh, my love. If I had the money, I'd have gone to the Bastille already. I'd have bought you a necklace of huge pearls fit for a queen.”

I put my hands on his cheeks. “Don't you listen to a word I say? All the money you need is at Vincennes.”

He looked doubtful. “Even if he encrusted Vincennes itself in gold, it is
his
money.”

“Philippe could show you ledgers that prove Mazarin took the money from
you
first. This wouldn't be stealing. It would be taking back what is rightfully yours.” I snapped my fingers at Venelle and rang the bell for Moréna. “Come! We shall take the king's carriage!”

*   *   *

We raced east out of Paris, the silent king, the grumbling governess, my bewildered maid, and I. We stopped on the drawbridge, and Venelle tried to follow us out of the carriage.

King Louis signaled to his musketeers. “The governess stays.”

The musketeers looked askance at each other as if they were trying to decide what to do. King Louis looked at me as if to say,
See?
Oh, how I hated the way Mazarin undermined the king!

Moréna peeked through the carriage door. She'd loosened the neck of her chemise. “The governess stays, and so do I. Let me see your hand.” She reached for one of the musketeers. “I'll tell your fortune.”

The musketeers gathered around the carriage, intrigued by the novelty of my maid's exotic charm. She could keep them distracted for a time. They forced Venelle back into the carriage, where she flopped on the seat.

We rushed to the gate. “Do you think the guards will admit us?” I asked.

They all seemed stunned upon seeing the king, and they let us pass. It made me nervous. Inside the bailey, the stone donjon towered over us. There were no more guards. We descended the spiral staircase to the vaulted cellars in a flash. The door was unlocked.
Oh no.
I threw open the first great coffer.

Empty.

I took a few steps back. King Louis dropped his face into his hands. I opened another coffer. And another. All empty. Everything gone. I felt light-headed. I reached out for something to steady myself. King Louis guided me to sit on one of the coffers.

“He knew I would take it,” I said. “Mazarin hid the money because he is about to send me away. Now you have no control of the musketeers
or
money to intervene.”

“All these were full?” King Louis stared at the coffers, which gaped like great coffins ready to swallow us. “What do we do?”

I didn't know. Without the money, everything depended on the king's force of will. Without a regiment, he would have to be cunning. “Now our love is put to the ultimate test.” I put my face into his doublet and felt my tears moisten the damask. What did my uncle have planned for me?
The convent? Rome?

“Don't cry.” King Louis stroked my hair. “I will be the king you think I can be. Have faith.”

 

CHAPTER
34

Judicial Astrology may well be lookt upon as a fair introduction to the Diabolical Art … a lure to draw the over-curious into those snares that lye beyond it.

—RICHARD BOVET'S
Pandaemonium

Faith has never been my strongest trait.

King Louis spent the evening in my chambers at Palais Mazarin, supped with me, read with me, but never said a word about how he would get the money or the army we might need to fend off Mazarin's imminent attack. When he left, I retired. Instead of sleeping, I spent four hours trying to have the faith King Louis had begged of me. Finally, I rose and ordered my sisters to dress.

It took another hour to get permission from Cardinal Mazarin for the use of his carriage to visit Philippe. I'd sent a missive with the request. It was refused.

Venelle had looked relieved. “Prisons are no place for ladies of stature.”

So I'd made Hortense pen a second request. Hers was granted. Before dawn Colbert de Terron, cousin to Jean-Baptiste Colbert, had arrived with the cardinal's carriage and a pass to enter the Bastille.

Now my sisters, Venelle, Terron, and I rolled over the freestone streets through the still-dark city. I enjoyed the look of trepidation on Venelle's face. From the rue Saint-Antoine we turned into a narrow passage and came to the
Petit Pont.
Terron showed his pass to guards carrying sharp halberds.

“There is no need for you to follow us in,” I said spitefully to Venelle as the guards lowered the first drawbridge. “As you're a lady of
stature.
”