Mistress of the Sun (12 page)

“Do you mind a walk?” Jean glanced down.

“I bet I can outwalk you,” she said.

It was but a short distance to the porte Saint-Michel, where they joined a line of foot passengers. An official with a huge mustache examined their papers. “You’re with the Palais d’Orléans?” he asked Petite.

“She’s with me,” Jean said, showing his student identification papers. They were waved through.

Inside the city walls they were assaulted by a tumult of sound: coachmen cracking whips, church bells tolling, dogs barking, vendors yelling—one selling herbs, another figs, yet another oranges from Portugal. A girl sat on a stool milking a goat, splashing streams of steaming white into a tin pail. Gangs of beggar children swarmed until Jean threatened them off.

A wide avenue stretched before them, congested with people
and all manner of conveyances. Jean squeezed Petite’s gloved hand.

“Don’t be afraid.”

“I’m not,” Petite lied, for there were beggars everywhere—cut-throats, no doubt—as well as women of a certain type, although many were young, not women at all, just girls with pleading looks and soiled petticoats. A blind man with a copper cup sang at one corner as people hurrying to Lenten sermons tossed in coins. The streets were mucky; many wore patens. At every corner, porters clamored to offer chairs. Two pigs roamed free, their snouts in garbage piled up beside the market stalls.

They headed south, Jean talking of his skill at backsword and single-rapier; of a recent adventure he’d had when the report of a pistol caused his school horse to jump a fence and gallop away at breakneck speed; of a chestnut hunter he longed to buy, with its short back and broad forehead, its long, thin tail; of hunting boar with princes in the forests of Saint-Germain-en-Laye.

“Speaking of boar,” Jean said as an old woman pushed past, bent under a pole supporting buckets of water, “I’ll never forget your returning on that White, draped over his back like a sack of grain.”

“All I can remember is getting on him,” Petite said. What she would never forget was the searing pain in her leg, the fear she’d felt looking into the boar’s beady eyes. “I don’t remember anything after that.”

“We thought you dead.” Jean patted Petite’s hand with affection. “Strange the way that horse just disappeared.”

“For a long time, I kept looking for him,” she confided, stepping over a stream of stinking sewage.
And now?
she wondered. Had she given up?

They passed through the peaceful, tree-lined courtyard of a convent and came to another road. After a time they entered an arched tunnel, emerging onto a bright cobbled road lined with shops and houses of roughcast stone and wood. A butcher displayed a C
LOSED FOR
L
ENT
sign. Three boys crouched by the door, playing with tops. Petite could smell the river, but she couldn’t see it.

Around a corner the street opened onto a broad pavement, and suddenly there it was—a congested gray expanse of water crowded with houseboats, barges, sailing ships.

“You always knew your way with horses,” Jean said, throwing a pebble at a gull—but missing it. “Do you still ride?”

“I backed horses for the Duc d’Orléans.” Light sparked on the murky water.

“Fie! Really? You should have been born a boy,” he said, leaning on the stone balustrade. “Mother wants me to find a husband for you. She says it’s time you settled. I think she expected the Marquis to be more of a help.” He thumbed his nose. “What a simpleton! He can’t even get his teeth to sit right. He had them in upside down the other day.” Jean found another stone and threw it, this time striking a gull in flight.

“I don’t have a dowry, Jean.” Petite cringed, thinking of the marrowless spinsters in their baglike hairnets. Was she destined to be one? She dreamt of being loved by a good man—a man rather like the poacher—but that was a fantasy, she feared. Many men treated their wives like beasts of burden, even beating them. To be a spinster was a terrible fate, but how much better was it to be a wife, attending to mindless spinning and mending? She dared not voice such doubts: a Christian woman submitted without complaint.

“You’re pretty, even if thin.” Jean chucked her chin. “We need to fatten you up. Men like something to hold onto.”

Petite flushed.

“And you’ll have to give up your romping ways. Saint Paul said that a girl must not be boisterous.”

“Since when did you listen in church?” Petite hadn’t expected her brother to take his role as head of the family quite so seriously.

“Since the priests started talking about matters of importance—like women. And since I had to pass exams,” he confessed with a grimace. “I can get a post in Amboise as a lieutenant, but the pay is only six hundred livres a year, hardly enough to cover the cost of a good sword. I’m hoping to get a better position here in Paris.”

Great bells sounded. “Those must be the bells of Notre-Dame,” Petite yelled over the din. They were louder than any she had ever heard.

They came to a clearing in front of the great cathedral, the square teeming with coaches and carts, horses, mules and little
dogs everywhere. Two men had falcons on their shoulders. A grandly dressed woman carried a poodle in her basket, her train held by two boys in rose velvet livery. Another lady had a monkey on a ribbon and was wearing a full face mask of black velvet to protect her skin from the sun’s darkening rays. Petite felt she was at a masquerade ball. In Paris, it seemed, the festival days before Lent never ended.

There were three massive portals at the entrance of the church, the one in the center depicting the Last Judgment, with the good filing off to the left, and the sinners to the right, headlong into Hell.

“Not yet,” Jean said, guiding Petite toward a narrow entrance at the side.

Petite followed her brother up steep winding stone stairs that became increasingly narrow. Four hundred and twenty-two steps later (Petite counted), they emerged breathless at the top.

“Behold,” Jean said, his arms stretched wide. There, below them, was the city. Church spires glittered in the spring sunlight.

Over the shoulders of glowering stone gargoyles, Petite looked down upon the houses pressed together, the carriages and boats, the little people moving about like ants. In the distance was a mountain, and all around the crowded city she could trace the line of the great wall and the open fields beyond. She crossed herself and grabbed hold of her brother’s arm. It seemed a monstrous and unnatural thing to see the world from such a height.

A
S
J
EAN PREDICTED
(and Princess Marguerite feared), it was proclaimed: the King was to marry his cousin, the eldest daughter of the King of Spain. The long-prayed-for peace between France and Spain was to be sealed in the marriage bed. Fire rockets flared and bonfires were lit and citizens danced wildly around them.

Princess Marguerite burst into tears anew.

“He has to marry her,” Nicole said, trying to comfort her. “It’s part of the peace treaty.”

But the Princess was inconsolable, tearing at her laces and howling piteously, refusing all food but calf’s heels.

I
N THE MELTING DAYS
of August, Paris swelled with visitors. The city bustled with activity, everyone preparing to welcome the King and his bride, their new Queen. He’d been gone from the city
for over one year. At five intersections triumphal arches had been erected, festooned with foliage, banners and tapestries. During the Court’s absence, shopkeepers had suffered, as had fan wrights and milliners, blade smiths and falconers, actors and singers. When the Court was away, the city was dead; the moment the Court returned, business thrived.

On August twenty-fifth, la Grande Mademoiselle and the two youngest princesses departed for Vincennes in order to be part of the King and Queen’s entry into the city the next day. Princess Marguerite was not taking part in the triumphal procession, of course, but had at least consented to watch it.

The morning of the grand entry, the courtyard of the Palais d’Orléans was crowded with conveyances, still draped in black mourning. The coaches made their regal progress down the wall road to the porte de Bussy.

Crossing the river at the Pont Neuf took almost one hour. Once across, they moved slowly downriver along the right bank to the Place de Grève. No executions were scheduled that day, but the square was crowded nonetheless. Already fountains were spurting wine, and people were staggering. Banners and tapestries had been hung from every window and flowers set upon every sill.

“It’s cruel to have to wear mourning on a day like today,” Princess Marguerite said, fussing with her hairnet of black beads. “I will never forgive my father for dying.”

Their coach turned into a narrow sideroad. A footman yelled at people to clear the way. “It’s a princess,” he yelled, and bystanders cheered.

They entered the small courtyard of the Hôtel de Beauvais.

“That’s my father’s sister, Henrietta Maria, Queen of England,” Princess Marguerite said, pointing to the woman about to enter the hôtel, surrounded by attendants.

La Reine Malheureuse,
Petite thought. She was dressed entirely in black, still in mourning for her husband, King Charles of England, beheaded by his own people years before. His head had been severed with one stroke—perhaps that was a consolation. That and the fact that her son King Charles II had finally regained his father’s crown, and justice had been restored.

“That’s her daughter in the purple cloak, my cousin Henriette,” Marguerite said, indicating a tall, thin girl with flaming red hair.

Petite tried not to stare, but hair of such a hue was a curiosity, evidence that her parents had had congress during the mother’s courses. She flushed to consider the Queen of England in such a light.

Princess Henriette looked back over her shoulder. Recognizing her cousin Marguerite, she smiled and fluttered her lace fan. Her teeth were white and fine.

“How old is she?” Petite asked. The Princess’s eyes were bright.

“My age, ten and six, but she has no chest.”

Like me,
Petite thought with sympathy.

“She looks younger,” Nicole said as the royal party disappeared through the doors.

“She’s going to marry the King’s brother, Philippe,” Princess Marguerite added with chagrin. She’d been passed over yet again.

A footman opened their carriage door. “Mother,” Princess Marguerite cursed, very nearly stepping into manure. “Of pearl,” she added quickly, holding up her skirts.

“Your Highness?” A butler, beribboned in red, led them up a wide circular staircase to an enclosure overlooking rue Saint-Antoine.

“No balcony?” the Princess objected, but on learning that the Queen Mother was seated in the window alcove immediately to the right, she was appeased. A crowd milled below them. Children in rags scrambled for the coins, sweetmeats and sausages flung into the street.

“Isn’t that your brother?” Nicole asked Petite, pointing to a group of young men perched on a rooftop. One was waving his red cap—the cap of the students of the Collège de Navarre.

“It is Jean.” Petite waved back. Soon he would be graduating and moving south to Amboise. His marks had not been good enough for him to get a position in Paris, as he had wished.

“Alleluia!” Nicole exclaimed as a fire rocket flared close by and a cannon boomed.

Petite looked up the crowded avenue, aflutter at the thought of seeing the King again.

“This could go on for days,” Nicole said as caparisoned mules and horses passed by, followed by the officials of the Queen Mother’s household, soldiers, the Hundred Swiss and the marshals of France.

“Here comes Her Virginship,” said the Princess, referring to her half-sister, la Grande Mademoiselle, famously adorned in a masculine hat. “And the bratchets,” she added as her two sisters appeared, the youngest waving as if she were queen.

At last, a glittering chariot came into view. “The happy bride,” Marguerite said sourly.

The new Queen of France was riding in a Roman-style chariot drawn by six Danish horses. She was draped in a black robe decorated with golden thread and pearls. She sparkled in the hot August sun.

“Thanks be to Mary, they finally got her out of a farthingale,” said Nicole.

“Vive la reine!” people cried. Queen Marie-Thérèse smiled as they showered her with rose petals, cornflowers, jasmine and carnations.

“She’s tiny,” Petite said. The Queen looked like a child in her ornamental chariot embellished with cupids.

“Ah—and here
he
comes,” Nicole said, pointing her fan.

The King.
Petite cheered along with all the others.
How splendid he looked
, she thought. A glittering diamond brooch held a bouquet of white ostrich feathers to his hat. His horse, caparisoned in
silver brocade, was a handsome Spanish bay. Even its harness was studded with gems.

“Be still my heart,” Nicole sighed.

“He’s grown a mustache,” Petite said, smiling. She liked that he didn’t wear face paint or a wig.

He halted directly in front to solemnly salute his mother. “Vive le roi!” the crowd cried out. He untangled a rose that had caught on his wide lace collar and held it to his nose. Then he stroked his horse’s neck and moved on.

He’s good with horses
, Petite thought, recalling how he’d calmed the frightened colt at Chambord. Her poacher: her secret.

D
AYS LATER
, P
RINCESS
Marguerite returned from her daily twenty-minute interview with the Duchess incensed to the highest degree. “I’ve just been informed, by On High,” she announced, lifting her eyes to the ceiling, “that I’m to marry.” The Princess threw her fur muff to Petite and tore into the arduous task of unfastening the six buttons on one of her leather gloves.

“That’s wonderful,” Petite said, emptying the sweetmeat wrappers and junky trinkets out of the Princess’s muff and handing it to the maid of the wardrobe.

“To the Duc de Lorraine?” Nicole asked hopefully, taking over the task of the glove buttons. The Duke and his nephew Charles were visiting, and it was rumored that the old Duke had lusty intentions…on Nicole.

“No, Cosimo de Médicis.”

“The
third?
” Nicole glanced at Petite, one eyebrow raised. Cosimo de Médicis was heir to the Grand Duke of Tuscany.

“You will be a grand duchess,” she said with awe. “That’s almost as good as being a queen.”

“I’ll have to live in Florence.”

“It will be an adventure,” Petite said. Perhaps she would be going as well. She would learn Italian; she would read Dante.

“Florentines have unnatural habits and never bathe.”

“We don’t bathe either,” Nicole said.

“Plus they lie and cheat.”

Nicole frowned. “Don’t we?”

“I want to die.” Princess Marguerite covered her face with her gold-embroidered nose cloth.

“Can you refuse?” Petite asked. She suspected that the princess fancied Young Prince Charles, who was often in their company of late.

“Refuse to be a grand duchess?” Nicole said. “Are you crackbrained?”

Princess Marguerite burst into tears. “I have
no
say in this. The King wishes to bind Tuscany to France. I have no more freedom than a galley slave.”

Petite and Nicole did their best to soothe her. With tender words they removed the Princess’s tucker, her bodice and skirts, and helped her into a silk-lined morning gown. Settling her on a mountain of soft pillows, Nicole massaged the Princess’s feet as
Petite read aloud from
The Treasure of the City of Ladies.
At last, with tearstained cheeks, Marguerite fell asleep.

Night had fallen. By the light of a long taper set in a silver candlestick, Petite headed down the long gallery to her room in the turret, her thoughts troubled. Marguerite might be a princess, the granddaughter of Henry the Great, yet she had no more freedom than any other girl controlled by a father or husband.

Petite paused, as was her custom, to admire the painting of Queen Marie de Médicis riding the White, its long mane reaching down below its belly. She hurried on, avoiding the image of the Devil in the next painting about to jump out at her.

Petite found her mother in her dressing gown, being prepared for bed by her maid. The Marquis was already propped up on his pillows, sleeping upright, his toothless mouth agape.

“Ah, there you are,” her mother whispered, following Petite into her small chamber. She sat on the spindle chair, clutching a folded piece of paper.

“The Princess needed me,” Petite explained, putting down the candlestick. “She is unhappy.”

“Why? It’s a prestigious alliance,” Françoise said. The spindle chair creaked, broken in the joints. “Although—”

Petite waited, puzzled. Her mother’s face in the candlelight looked severe.

“We have a problem. After the Princess is married,” Françoise said finally, “the Duchess intends to make economies.”

Petite wasn’t sure what that meant. The Duchess was always making economies.

“She’s going to cut staff, Louise. The Marquis, thankfully, will still have a position, but all of Princess Marguerite’s help is to be let go. You won’t have a position here any longer.”

“Maybe Princess Marguerite will want me to go with her,” Petite said. Both her and Nicole.

“That won’t be possible. Once married, all her staff must be Florentine and chosen by her husband.”

“But who will she talk to?” Petite wondered out loud. Marguerite had no talent for languages—she didn’t even speak Latin. How would her maids know that she could not sleep without her rabbit’s foot charm under her pillow, that three candles must be left burning during a thunderstorm to prevent evil from happening while spirits were at war?

“This is the way it is.”

A night watchman outside called out, “Ten of the clock, sleep in peace. I am watching.”

“I understand,” Petite said, but with a tone of defeat.

“The problem is, where will you go? You can’t stay on here, and…” Françoise sighed wearily. “We’ve yet to find a husband for you.”

The eternal problem. Petite couldn’t remember a time when her mother had not been distressed over the impossibility of getting her married. She didn’t mind that bleak prospect as much as
she supposed she should. “Perhaps I could join a convent,” she suggested.

“You’d need an even greater dowry for that,” Françoise said, rolling her eyes. “No, we must persevere. I’ve recently had the good fortune to find a matchmaker whose fees are reasonable. She has one client, an elderly widower, who might be a possibility.” She unfolded the sheet of rag paper. “He’s in trade,” she said, handing it to Petite, “so the Vallière name might interest him, she said.”

Dumbfounded, Petite held the paper to the candlelight.

“It’s not an ideal match—but what can we do? He’s not a young man, so at least he wouldn’t live long.” Françoise stood to leave. “That would be a consolation, believe me,” she said, pressing her dry, powdered cheek to Petite’s.

Petite closed the door after her mother. She felt despair through and through. Abruptly, she took up the candlestick and headed out into the corridor. Her candle aloft, she felt her way down the steep, winding stairs. The passages were forbidding in the dark. The moon was new, a dark moon, and no light shone through the small openings. She thought of the Devil, his leering eyes. The Dark Lord, Prince of Darkness. She dared not whistle, for that was how he was summoned. Instead she made a low hissing sound to scare off rodents.
O rats and other crawling creatures, in the name of God, leave this place and go outside to a field. Amen.

With relief, she knocked on the door to Nicole’s dormitory. “It’s Louise—to see Nicole,” she said through the planks. She heard bolts sliding and the door opened a crack.

“My God. I prayed to see you, and here you are.” Nicole’s face was covered in a mud plaster and her hair done up in curl-papers.

There were six trundle beds in the narrow room. One girl was sitting up having her hair combed out by a maid, two were under their covers and two more were playing cards by the light of a lantern. A maid was preparing her pallet on the floor near the fire grate. It was not a time to come calling.

“In here,” Nicole said in a low voice, opening a door to a small trunk room under the eaves.

Petite set her candle into a wall sconce, dripping candle grease onto the stone floor. “We’re going to be let go,” she said.

Nicole shrugged. “I’ve decided to leave in any case,” she said, settling herself on a trunk.

“What do you mean?”

“I’m going to tell the Duchess that my mother and father are dying and that I have to return home immediately.”