Mistress of the Sun (32 page)

“
You
went?”

“But not for passion powder, I regret to say. How dreary married life is, to be reduced to going to a woman like that for help regarding financial matters.”

And then came the more personal confidences: Athénaïs’s husband was in debt again. She was going to have to sell some of her jewelry to pay off his gambling losses. “Plus, he’s convinced that I’m having a tryst with—” Athénaïs stopped, making an arch smile. “No—I want you to guess.”

“Lauzun?” The ugly little man was rumored to have pleasured practically every woman at Court.

Athénaïs gave a look of disgust. “No—
Philippe.
”

Petite smiled wanly. “Doesn’t your husband know…?” It was obvious that Louis’s brother preferred men.

“I told him, but he thought it a ruse I’d fabricated to throw him off the scent.”

There was a scuffle of feet in the entry, the sound of spurs clinking on stone.

“His Majesty,” Petite said, her heart lifting.

“I’ll be off, then,” Athénaïs said with a wink.

Petite checked her face in the glass. Because of her fragile health, Louis had refrained, for the most part, but now she was stronger. They’d begun to have relations—in spite of the pain she experienced, and her puzzling want of desire.

A
T THE END OF
M
ARCH
, Louis set up a military camp on the Plaine d’Houilles for three days, not far from Saint-Germain-en-Laye. The Court ladies set out, thrilled by the prospect of sleeping in tents and eating like soldiers.

“Glory,” Petite’s sister-in-law Gabrielle whispered as their carriage crested a hill. There, before them, was a city of linen tents neatly grouped in rectangles with wide turnpiked “streets” running between. A line of horses stood picketed at the edge of a parade ground. The officer tents could be seen beyond, at a distance from the line of kitchen campfires. Still farther was an artillery park surrounded by carts.

Soldiers cheered to kettledrums as the parade of carriages rolled into the camp, coming to a halt in front of a large, colorful tent with flags flying over it—the camp “palace.” A carpet was rolled
out and two footmen in livery jumped to hand the ladies down.

The tent filled as more women arrived, crowding into the canopied rooms hung with crystal chandeliers. The officers paused to eye the ladies, then turned back to their companions to talk of weapons, armor and horses. Louis paced before his generals, speaking of maneuvers and munitions. He’d acquired a warrior look, his skin bronzed by the sun.

Petite bowed along with all the other courtiers. He glanced her way, but did not see her.

“Turkey carpets, even,” Gabrielle said, assessing the rich trappings.

“It may be lined with Chinese satin, ladies, but it’s still a tent,” Athénaïs said, squashing a beetle with her toe.

The next morning, the richly attired women mounted horses and rode out to the parade ground to witness a review. The colors were unfurled as a military band began to play. A battalion of foot soldiers and volunteers marched onto the parade ground, the sun glinting off pikes and sabres. Eyes straight ahead, they passed in front of Louis, who, astride a black charger, watched intently. He didn’t smile or frown, but now and then said something to his secretary, who stood by taking notes.

Hundreds of men on horseback—small scruffy nags, for the most part—charged whooping onto the field, waving flintlock musketoons in the warm spring wind. One horse bolted, one reared and yet another was left behind entirely, refusing to move. The ladies laughed as a groom ran out and whipped it forward.
Once the dragoons had their horses (more or less) in formation, Louis gave a signal and cannons discharged. Horses shied and the women screamed, holding their gloved hands over their noses, complaining of the smell of gunpowder.

“A stirring sight, would you not agree?”

Petite turned in her saddle to see Athénaïs, prettily mounted on a pony. “Indeed,” she said, although in truth the war fervor concerned her. This was no longer a game, a show. Many of these men—boys, in fact—would not return to their families. And Louis? He longed to be in battle, she knew, to be in the thick of it, prove his worth.

“You’re pale, darling—are you unwell again?”

“I’m fine, thank you,” Petite said, embarrassed to admit that she’d tried Nicole’s passion powder herself the week before. Although the remedy had revived her “interest” (briefly), it had also made her ill. She dared not complain. A want of spirit annoyed Louis, she knew, who didn’t care for infirmities. It pleased him to be surrounded by energetic individuals with vigorous spirits—especially now, now that he courted glory.

P
ETITE WAS RELIEVED
to return to Saint-Germain-en-Laye, to the comfort of her room overlooking the river—the comfort of her bed. The canvas walls of the tent had made it difficult to retch without people overhearing. It was just an ague, she concluded, but it persisted, and persisted—and by Good Friday of Holy Week she knew why.

A sharp rap at her door startled her awake. “Come in, Clorine,” she called out groggily. The spring sun was bright, dappling the cushions. She’d fallen asleep rereading Saint Teresa’s
Life.

“His Majesty is here to see you.”

Petite sat up, feeling for her slippers. Usually Louis didn’t call until after his midday meal. She checked her face in the looking glass, slapping her cheeks to give them color. She was resolved to tell him—and her news would not be welcome, she knew.

Now?
P
ETITE THOUGHT
, listening to the steady beat of Louis’s heart.
Should I tell him now?

She was lying chastely by his side, fully clothed. Lent was over, yet Louis continued to abstain. She understood: soon he would be leading his men into battle, and he must refrain from sin, in order to be spiritually pure—in case…

In case he was killed.

She stroked his hand. “Louis, I have something to tell you.”

He rolled over to look at her.

“I’m going to have another baby.”

“Are you sure?”

She nodded, pressing his hand to her cheek. “And I have something to ask you.” Other kings had declared their bastard children. “Have you given thought to acknowledging Marie-Anne?” (And the child to come, in time.)

“I have—I’ve even discussed it with Colbert,” Louis told her.

Petite was pleased.

“But do you understand what it would mean, Louise?”

Petite nodded. Although Marie-Anne would no doubt continue to live with the Colberts—they were like family to her, that was her home—Petite would be able to see her daughter often, and without the need for secrecy.

“I do,” she said, knowing the price as well. Everything would be out in the open. Marie-Anne would grow up knowing that she was the daughter of the King—but she would also know that her mother was her father’s mistress, that she was born of mislove.

“Yet we must.” As it was, their daughter was no different from any other bastard, denied the recognition that she was of the King’s blood.

T
HE SPRING CAME
early to Saint-Germain-en-Laye. Drums competed with the strident tattoo of a woodpecker. Petite set her embroidery frame by the window to catch the light. She winced, rubbing her calf. She was four or five months along, Blucher estimated. The period of nausea had mercifully passed, but now she was plagued by cramps, and her left leg had twice given out on her while she was walking. She stuck two needles into the taut fabric and looked through her box of threads for a bobbin of pale green. She heard footsteps, and looked up to see her maid at the door.

“It’s been announced that your girl is the King’s daughter, a princess,” Clorine said elatedly. “So she’s legal now.”

“Legitimate, you mean.”

“Aye—and you’ve been made a duchess.”

Petite sat back.
This
was a surprise.

“So what do I call you now? Madame la Duchesse de la Vallière, or just Madame la Duchesse? I prefer that, I think, for everyday. You’re going to need six horses pulling your carriage and a ducal crest on the carriage door, of course, and long trains on your gown—one…no two…no three yards long.”

“Three feet for a duchess, Clorine.” That was quite long enough.

Her portly footman came to the door. “Are you receiving, Madame? There is someone here to see you.”

“I don’t have very much time.” Petite had an appointment to see a doctor in town, and would then be going to the Colbert residence to see Marie-Anne (the new Princess, she thought with a smile).

“Well…there are several, in fact. They’re in the entry below.”

Petite looked up at Clorine, disconcerted.

“Have them wait in the sitting room,” Clorine commanded.

The footman scratched his ear. “What about the trunks?”

They’d been preparing to leave with the Court on campaign. “Move the trunks in here,” Petite said, standing.

She selected a simple bodice and skirt of pale yellow linen and insisted that she be tightly laced. Clorine persuaded her to wear
pearls, even if they were made of ground-up fish scales mixed with wax. “You must get the King to give you a proper necklace,” she said, clucking her tongue in disapproval.

Everyone made a deep reverence as Petite entered her sitting room. The air was thick with scents: musk, rose, eau de Chypre. Petite was relieved to see Athénaïs, but she was shocked that the Duchesse de Navailles had made the effort along with several other august ladies of the Court—highborn women who had previously shunned her.

“Madame la Duchesse,” they murmured, bowing. The Duchesse de Navailles made a melting reverence.

Petite looked out over their lowered heads. For years courtiers had snickered at her behind her back—mocked her rustic ways (too friendly), her tomboy pursuits, her limp, her “unnatural” aptitude for ancient languages and philosophy. Now that she was a duchess, they could not sit, stand or even speak to her without her approval. There was a certain satisfaction in such power. It chilled her.

A
FTER THE GUESTS
had finally left, Petite, attended by Clorine, took one of the royal litters into town. It was a beautiful spring afternoon and she easily could have walked, but her left leg felt weak again. She had an appointment with a doctor who’d been having some success with nervous complaints, and these “spells” of weakness were one of the things she wished to discuss before leaving on campaign.

The litter carriers let Petite and Clorine down at rue au Pain and rue des Coches. The men in livery, the royal insignia on the ornate litter, drew a crowd. Petite had grown accustomed to being gawked at, but this time children, street urchins in rags, recognized her and let fly hurling insults:
the King’s whore, the King’s whore, the King’s whore.

Clorine grabbed one of the boys by the collar, shaking him mightily. Two of his companions threw rocks and one of the litter carriers took chase, but the boys—there were four of them—were spry and danced circles around the hefty man, taunting
whore, whore, whore, whore
before disappearing into a maze of back alleys, their laughter echoing off the stone walls.

“You’re going to need a guard whenever you go out,” Clorine said, steering Petite down a side street. “Now that you’re official.”

Official what?
Petite wondered, the boys’ taunts ringing in her ears. Louis had made her a duchess, given her the highest title in the land, but to the world she’d been revealed as his concubine.

P
ETITE HAD AN
imbalance of bile, the doctor pronounced. Her spells of weakness would be healed easily by a program of herbs and purges. She sent Clorine to the apothecary’s with a list and hired a litter to take her to the Colbert residence by the river.

Even from outside, Petite could hear the children laughing. In the upstairs nursery the atmosphere was one of celebration, the young Colberts in an uproar over the recent announcement. They
had adorned “princess” Marie-Anne with a paper crown and fancy lace collar, which she drooled on.

Madame Colbert chuckled to see her brood dancing about. “At least they aren’t jealous,” she told Petite, balancing her youngest on one hip. “Silence,” she called out, and the three eldest children quieted. “You too, Jules,” she told her eight-year-old son. “Do we not have a proper greeting for Madame la Duchesse?”

The girls curtsied and the boys bowed, and they all ran giggling out of the room.

Petite cradled Marie-Anne in her arms and followed Madame Colbert into a sunny sitting room where they made themselves comfortable on soft easy chairs, their babies on their laps.

“Just like two gossiping nursemaids,” Madame Colbert said.

Petite touched Marie-Anne’s button nose. The baby gave a chortle.
Princess.

“Mon Dieu! Forgive me for sitting in the presence of a duchess.”

“Please, Madame Colbert—sit,” Petite said.

“But seriously,” Madame Colbert said, settling back in her chair, “this does change things. I’ll need to hire staff for your wee princess here—” She made goggle-eyes at Marie-Anne, who was too preoccupied with pulling at her lace collar to notice. “She should be served at her own table, apart from my children.” Madame Colbert’s tone was solemn.

“There must not be any changes,” Petite told Madame Colbert
emphatically. “It would be cruel to separate her from your wonderful children. They’re her family.”

A
THÉNAÏS CALLED THE
next day, full of reproaches. “How can this upset you?” she demanded, tapping the back of Petite’s hand with her fan. “All my life I’ve longed to be made a duchess,” she said in a theatrically languishing tone. “A fantasy of my childhood, impossible to attain.”

“I would give you this title if I could,” Petite said. She was stretched out on the daybed with a damp cloth on her brow. She’d been told that the Queen had gone into rages at the news, ordering all taborets removed from her chamber so that she would not have to suffer the indignity of Petite exercising her ducal right to sit in the Queen’s presence.

“His Majesty has conferred the highest honor on you. This should make you happy.”

“May I tell you something, Athénaïs, in confidence?”

“Have I not told you all my dirty secrets, my sordid embarrassments?”

Petite sat up, trying to control the flood of emotion rising within her: her apprehension that Louis no longer loved her. How much of a companion had she been to him, of late—much less a lover? “I fear it’s a farewell gesture,” she said. “Isn’t this the way it’s done? When a king tires of a woman, he gives her a title and sends her away?”

“His Majesty is devoted to you. You know that.”

Yes
, Petite thought,
but…
“He’s been remote of late.” He’d not been himself. He’d even lost his nature on a number of occasions and that unnerved him, she knew. His doctor had advised a diet of celery, truffles and vanilla to help quicken him—but without success.

“It’s this coming war—it has all the men acting like fools. If I hear another word about mortar or Damascus swords, I think I’ll scream.”

“Madame?” Clorine set glasses of spiced red wine and comfits of orange rind on a side table. “You have a caller.” She widened her eyes. “Madame Françoise de la Vallière, the Marquise de Saint-Rémy.”

“My mother?”

Athénaïs’s look was one of amusement. “I’ll see you on the morrow,” she said, taking up her rose-scented gloves.