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It could not have been clearer: Devize did not like Atto and knew of his fame as an intriguer. However, with the help of some necessary calumny about Abbot Melani, and by pretending to be even more of a rustic than was in fact the case, I was creating a certain complicity with the guitarist. With the help of a good massage, I would loosen his tongue even further, as with the other guests, and perhaps I would thus gain from him some intelligence concerning old Fouquet. The main thing, I thought, was that he should treat me as an ingenuous prentice, with no brain and no memory.

From my bag, 1 drew the most perfumed essences: white sandalwood, cloves, aloes and gum benzoin. I mixed them accord­ing to the recipe of Master Nicolo dalla Grottaria Calabrese, with thyme, calamite styrax, laudanum, nutmeg, mastics, spikenard, liquid amber and fine distilled vinegar. From these I made an odor­ous ball wherewith to rub the shoulders and flanks of the young musician, until it dissolved, while exerting light pressures on the muscles.

After baring his back, Devize sat astride his chair, facing the win­dow: to look upon the light of day was, he said, his only comfort in these distressing days. At the start of the massage, I said nothing. I then began clumsily to hum the melody that so enchanted me: "Did you not say that Queen Maria Teresa gave this to you: perhaps she composed it?"

"No, no, what kind of idea is that? Her Majesty did not compose. Besides, that
rondeau
is no beginner's piece; it is by my master, Francesco Corbetta, who had learned it on one of his journeys and, before he died, donated it to Maria Teresa."

"Ah, your master was Italian," I remarked vaguely. "From what city did he come? I know that Signor di Mourai came from Naples, like another of our guests, Stilone..."

"Even a mere prentice like yourself," Devize interrupted me, "has heard of the love between the Most Christian King and Mazarin's niece. That is shameful. Of the Queen, however, no one knows a thing, save that Louis was unfaithful to her. Yet, the greatest wrong that one can do to a woman, especially Maria Teresa, is to let oneself be gulled by appearances."

Those words, which the young musician seemed to have pro­nounced with sincere bitterness, affected me profoundly: when judg­ing the female sex, never be contented with first impressions. Despite the fact that I still felt the wound which I had sustained during our last encounter burning too cruelly, my thoughts moved instinctively to Cloridia, when she shamelessly reproached me for not paying the offering which she expected. Perhaps, however, Devize's observa­tion might not apply to her. I felt a certain shame, then, at having compared the two women, the Queen and the courtesan. More than anything else, however, I felt myself suddenly overwhelmed by nos­talgia, loneliness and awareness of the cruel distance that separated me from my Cloridia. Being unable at this time to cope with these feelings, I became most anxious to know more about the spouse of the Most Christian King, at whose sad and tormented fate Devize had hinted. I hoped that in some way, obscurely, her tale might rec­oncile me with the object of my languor.

I held out the bait to him with a venial lie: "I have indeed heard speak of Her Majesty Queen Maria Teresa. But only from passing guests at the inn. Perhaps I have..."

"Perhaps nothing: you surely need to be better governed," he brusquely interrupted me. "And you would do well to forget courtiers' chatter if you truly wish to know who Maria Teresa was and what she meant to France, and indeed, all of Europe."

He had bitten the hook.

The nuptial entry of the young Maria Teresa, Infanta of Spain, into Paris in 1660 was, so I learned from Devize while kneading the odorous ball into his shoulders, one of the most joyous events in all the history of France. The young Queen was seated in a triumphal coach finer even than that of Apollo; the silver of the ornaments in her hair was as luminous as the very rays of the sun and triumphed over her fine black gown embroidered with gold and silver and set with innumerable pre­cious stones of inestimable worth. The French were enthusiastic and, transported by the joy and devoted love which only faithful subjects can know, prayed for a thousand blessings upon her. Louis XIV King of France and of Navarre, was in his turn the poets' perfect representa­tion of a mortal deified; his apparel was woven of gold and silver and surpassed in dignity only by its wearer. He rode a superb mount, followed by a great number of princes. The peace between France and Spain, which the King had just given France through so auspicious a marriage, renewed the zeal and fidelity in the hearts of the people, and all those who had the good fortune to behold him on that day felt happy to have him for their sovereign lord. The Queen Mother, Anne of Austria, watched the King and Queen pass from a balcony on the rue Sainte-Antoine: one had but to see her face to know the joy which she felt. The two young sovereigns were united in exalting the greatness of both their kingdoms, at last at peace.

This was also a triumph for Cardinal Mazarin: the Peace of the Pyrenees, which restored calm and prosperity to France, was the crowning glory of his subtle policies. There followed months of fes­tivities, ballets, operas and music, and the court was never richer in gaiety, gallantry and opulence.

"And after that, what happened?" I asked, fascinated by the history.

"After that, after that..." chanted Devize.

It was a matter of only a few months, he continued, before Maria Teresa was fully apprised of what was to be her destiny, and of what fidelity her consort was capable.

The first appetites of the young King were satisfied by Maria Ter­esa's maids of honour. And even if his wife had not completely un­derstood the stuff of which Louis was made, she was helped in that by the King's other, not even very secret, erotic trysts with Madame de la Valliere, maid of honour to her sister-in-law Mary Stuart. Next, came the turn of Madame de Montespan, who gave Louis no fewer than seven children. All this intense adulterous activity took place in broad daylight, so much so that the people soon called Maria Teresa, Madame de la Valliere and la Montespan "the three Queens".

The King knew no limits: he had banished the poor husband of la Montespan from court and several times threatened to imprison him. Louis de Gondrin had dared to protest by wearing mourning and adorning his carriage with horns. Yet, Louis had built two splendid palaces for his mistress, with a profusion of gardens and fountains. In 1674, la Montespan remained almost without rivals, since Louise de la Valliere had retired to a convent. The new favourite travelled with a coach and six, always followed by a cart loaded with provisions, and with a retinue of dozens of servants in attendance. Racine, Boileau and La Fontaine sang her praises in their verses and all the court regarded it as a great honour to be received in her apartments, while no one paid tribute to the Queen, save for the minimum required by etiquette.

The fortune of la Montespan was, however, lost the moment that the King laid eyes upon Marie-Angelique de Fontanges, as lovely as an angel and as silly as a goose. Marie-Angelique, not content with supplanting her rivals, found it difficult to understand the limits which her position imposed upon her: she wanted to appear in public at the King's side and to salute no one, not even the Queen, notwith­standing the fact that she was part of her retinue.

In the end, the Sovereign allowed himself to be caught in the nets of Madame de Maintenon, to whom he confided without any distinction his legitimate children and his many bastards by other mistresses. For Maria Teresa, the affronts did not, however, end here. The Most Christian King despised the Dauphin, his first-born son by the Queen, and preferred his illegitimate children. To the Dau­phin, he gave in marriage Maria Anna Victoria, the rather plain and ugly daughter of the Elector of Bavaria. All beautiful women were, of course, only for His Majesty's pleasure.

Here Devize stopped.

"And Her Majesty?" I asked, incredulous after all that dizzying traffic in women, and anxious to know the reaction of Maria Teresa.

"She suffered all in silence," the musician replied sadly. "What really took place in her heart of hearts, no one will ever know."

The adulteries, the humiliations, the pitiless mockery of the court and the people: in time, Maria Teresa had learned to swallow it all with a smile on her lips. So the King deceived her? She became all the more charitable and frugal. The King displayed his conquests before the whole world? She multiplied her prayers and devotions. The King courted Mademoiselle de Theobon or Mademoiselle de la Mothe, his wife's maids of honour? Maria Teresa dispensed smiles, words of advice and the kindest of attentions to all around her.

In the days when the Queen Mother, Anne of Austria, was still living, Maria Teresa had once dared to sulk at Louis for a couple of days. How little that was compared to all the outrages which she had put up with. Despite that, weeks and weeks passed before Louis deigned so much as to look at her again, and that thanks only to the Queen Mother who had laboured night and day to restore the situa­tion. Maria Teresa had then understood that she must accept all that the marriage brought her: all, especially the pain and trouble; and that, without expecting anything in return, only the little which her spouse granted her.

In love, too, Louis had conquered. And since he knew and ven­erated the art of conquest, he had in the end decided upon what was—for him—the best and most appropriate conduct. He treated his wife, the Queen of France, with all the honours due to her con­dition; he ate with her, he slept with her, he fulfilled all his family obligations, he conversed with her as though his mistresses had never existed.

Apart from her spiritual devotions, the distractions which Maria Teresa permitted herself were few and harmless. In her retinue, she kept a half-dozen jesters whom she called Little Boy, Little Heart and Little Son, and a mass of small dogs whom she treated with a besotted, excessive affection. On her promenades, she had a separate carriage assigned to all that absurd company. Often the dwarves and little dogs ate at Maria Teresa's table, and to have them always near her, she was prepared to spend huge sums of money.

"But did you not say that she was a frugal and charitable lady?" I asked, taken aback.

"Yes, but this was the price of loneliness."

From eight to ten o'clock in the evening, Maria Teresa would play at cards, waiting for the King to take her to dinner. When the Queen played, princesses and duchesses would sit around her in a semicircle, while behind her stood the lesser nobility, panting and perspiring. The Queen's favourite game was
hombre
, but she was too ingenuous and always lost. Sometimes the Princess d'Elbeuf would make a sacrifice and allow herself to lose against the Sovereign: a sad and embarrassing spectacle. Until the end, the Queen felt more alone every day, as she herself confided to her few intimate friends. And before she died, she engraved all her suffering in a single phrase: "The King feels for me only now that I am about to leave him."

This narration, which had made me feel such great pity, was now making me impatient: I had hoped to obtain very different infor­mation from mouth of the musician. While continuing to massage Devize's back, I glanced at the table a few paces away from us. Dis­tractedly, I had placed a few of my medicinal jars on some pages of music. I begged Devize's pardon for this but he gave a violent start and jumped up to check on the pages, in case they had been stained. He found a little oil-stain on one of them and became rather angry.

"You are no prentice, you are a beast! You have ruined my master's
rondeau."

I was horrified. I had soiled the marvellous
rondeau
which I so loved. I offered to spread a fine dry powder on the leaf wherewith to absorb the oil; meanwhile, Devize cursed and heaped insults upon me. With trembling hand, I strove to restore to its pristine state that page of music on which were traced the sounds which had so de­lighted me. It was then that I noticed an inscription at the top: "a Mademoiselle".

"Is that a dedication of love?" I asked, stammering, showing how embarrassed I still was by what had occurred.

"But who would love Mademoiselle?... The only woman in the world more lonely and sad than the Queen herself."

"Who is Mademoiselle?"

"Oh, a poor woman, a cousin of His Majesty. She had sided with the rebels during the Fronde, and she paid dearly for that: just think of it, Mademoiselle had fired the cannons of the Bastille against the King's troops."

"And was she sent to the scaffold?"

"Worse: she was condemned to remain forever a spinster," laughed Devize. "The King prevented her from marrying. Mazarin said: 'Those cannon killed her husband.'

"The King has no pity even for his relatives," I commented.

"Indeed. When Maria Teresa died, last July, do you know what His Majesty said? 'This is the first displeasure she has given me.' And nothing else."

Devize continued talking, but now I was no longer listening to him. One word was pulsing in my head: July.