Before Versailles Read online

  Louis stood at the stone balustrade pointing out carp to Henriette. “Some of the fish in this pond were admired by my great-grandfather. Some are a hundred years old,” he told her.

  Louis could feel himself begin to steady inside, calm a little. He’d been brittle and unanchored since finding the Mazarinade, and the kiss they’d exchanged moments earlier had ignited a fire in him that he thought would burn his heart to ash. Henriette leaned over the balustrade, and in the leaning, her breast crushed against his hand. She met his eyes for a deliberate moment, and it felt to him as if the world stopped spinning. I love you, her eyes seemed to say. I desire what you desire.

  Then Péguilin and Vivonne were there, and Louis moved to one side to allow them their preening and peacocking, his thoughts moving on like a rushing river. Henriette’s mouth was as sweet as honey. Sweeter. The initiative had been hers. She’d kissed him. He ached for another kiss from her. His heart felt parched. Henriette and her ladies had dried their hair this afternoon by taking off their hats and sitting with it down around their shoulders. The only time a woman’s hair was down and upon her shoulders was when she was in her bed. He’d love to climb into her bed and run his hands through her loosened hair, say to her, Love me, sweet, fill my joy in brimming measure. And then his mind flipped like a carp in the pond. There weren’t enough funds in the treasury to build even one ship for the navy; they’d have to beg, borrow, or steal the money. Perhaps in a few years from now, the viscount had told him this morning, a little dismissive, as if Louis had requested a toy.

  Courtiers were advancing out of the palace, walking down the straight stairs, drawn by his absence in the ballroom, drawn by their fear to miss something. The courtyard was becoming festive. He’d known many of these people all his life. Was one of them the writer of the Mazarinades? Who was truly trustworthy? There was a moat built around part of this palace, a reminder that treachery was familiar to all kings. His musketeers were around the courtyard, in and out of the torches’ light. They’d been with him since he was a child, transferring their loyalty directly and without hesitation from his father’s deathbed to him. The king is dead. Long live the king. Were any of them in the viscount’s pay? Did one of them spy upon his actions and report them to the viscount?

  He is an enemy in our midst. So insisted a man named Colbert. Caw, caw, Colbert. The crow. Such a dreary man, mocked Olympe. And here she was, crossing the courtyard, having snuck away from her duties to the queen, certain she’d receive no reprimand from him. She hadn’t gone with the queen today to listen to nuns singing in a nearby village, either. Some of my ladies were unwell today, Maria Teresa had told him tonight. Too unwell to hear chanting and prayers, but well enough to appear in the ballroom and now in this courtyard, all teasing and smiles, talking with this or that man. If only his wife weren’t so serious.

  Olympe marched up and hung upon his arm, as if he were not the king, but some boy, some swain, some simple man she knew. She began to talk of the hunt tomorrow, of how her arrow was going to be the one to bring down the stag, not his. She’d never been shy with him. Never. He’d always liked her for that. And at this moment he blessed her because his feeling for Henriette left him dazed and almost unable to speak.

  Philippe appeared at the top of the stairs.

  “I’ve won!” he called. He ran down the steps and found Henriette among the crowd.

  “A kiss for good luck,” he told her.

  “Where are you going?” Louis asked, for Philippe had kissed his wife and, instead of remaining with them, was bolting back up the staircase two broad steps at a time.

  “To win again. Once proves nothing.”

  Louis laughed. He couldn’t help but admire his brother’s style and zest for life. “They’ll pick your pockets.”

  “Then you’ll have to make me a loan, the way you always do.” Philippe flashed his warmest smile, and Louis was reminded of how much his every kindness meant to his brother, always had. And what had he done in return? Kissed his brother’s wife. Anguish filled him. There was no dear, wise cardinal whispering advice in his ear any longer, telling him to go away and play. There was no one to command him now but his own conscience. His conscience. His marriage didn’t touch his deepest heart, and the heart was its own master.

  Carriages were being summoned. It had become the custom to ride around the long landscape pool after midnight. Henriette had wished to do so the very first night she’d come to Fontainebleau as Madame, and now it was what the young court did.

  Choisy, rushing around playing footman, opened a carriage door for Olympe. “My dear countess,” he purred, “feeling better from this afternoon, I see. What an amazing recovery. One is so glad. Such excitement, yes? Our new Madame has become the queen of all hearts. Isn’t it delightful?”

  He deflected her venomous look with a cat-like smile and saw that Athénaïs, the sunny-faced beauty who was one of the queen’s maids of honor, had also snuck away to come down here and was standing by herself. Daring. It was one thing for Olympe, who was married and had a high position, to disobey rules, but it was quite another for a maid of honor. But Athénaïs belonged to one of the best families of France, and that nobility had earned her a place in the queen’s household last year when there had been huge fuss and great pomp around the king’s marriage.

  “Aren’t you going with them?” he asked her. The last carriage was rolling through the ornate gate that separated the courtyard from the gardens.

  “I mustn’t,” she said. “It was bold of me to leave my chambers. I don’t dare stay out all night, too. Someone will tattle.”

  “Vivonne leaves you here alone?” Vivonne was her brother. He was among the king’s household and counted as friend, and he’d been the first to leap into a saddle and escort a carriage out.

  “He’s one of Madame’s admirers. He shouldn’t have to miss all the fun just because I must. He says it’s the fashion to be in love with her. You know Vivonne, he is never behind fashion.”

  Nor are you, thought Choisy. It must chafe no end to be part of a household as retired as the queen’s was.

  He walked Athénaïs into the palace, waved to her as she ran down a hall that would take her to the queen’s chambers. He found his mother in a small room off the ballroom before a pier glass. She was repositioning an enormous brooch on the bosom of her gown.

  “I just won this back,” she said.

  “Monsieur is losing?”

  “But, of course.”

  “The Countess de Soissons slipped her leash. She’s out riding in the carriages with Madame’s ladies,” he said.

  Madame de Choisy laughed. “Yes, our little queen is so very pious. It must be very wearing on the nerves of her ladies. If I were in the queen’s household, I should jab my wrist with an embroidery needle and try to bleed to death. Walk me back to the game. I feel it my duty to take as much of Monsieur’s coin as I may before the sun comes up.”

  THE OTHERS WERE riding in carriages or on horseback enjoying the moonlight, but Louis had slipped away. Belle, his favorite dog, at his feet, he sat, legs sprawled, listening to his night crow Colbert, who always wore black and seldom smiled and perched on Louis’s shoulder like a messenger sent to advise from Mazarin. Colbert was helping him make some sense of the kingdom’s finances. There had been no register kept for too long, no record of what came in and what went out and to whom. There was no record of loans made or the interest at which they had been negotiated. Louis had reinstated the register with Mazarin’s death in March.

  Colbert, no excess of anything about him, lace or otherwise, a raven among the peacocks of court, a stone cast in the babbling brook that was court, stood before the opened register book, little notes from inside a velvet pouch, black like everything Colbert wore littered around it. We’ve borrowed on taxes at least two years ahead, the Viscount Nicolas had explained patiently at council earlier this day. It’s what we’ve done for years, living off anticipation. That borrowing cost much in interest. Too much,
said Colbert. Exorbitant.

  “Here,” said Colbert, and Louis saw the figure the viscount had ordered a clerk to enter in the large book that was now the record of finances. From the pouch Colbert took a very small book, which he opened, its pages making a dry rustle. “This is what the cardinal himself told me the amount of the loan was.”

  He would know, for Colbert had been in charge of Mazarin’s private finances, in charge of Mazarin’s private life, and gradually he had become part of Mazarin’s public life, a trusted servant. I give you Colbert, his dear Mazarin had said on his deathbed. Forgive me my sins.

  “If you will compare,” Colbert continued in his flat voice, “you will see the viscount has entered the interest at this figure, when it is actually three times higher. And here you can see the viscount has also entered the loan at a smaller figure. The difference goes directly into the viscount’s coffers.”

  Crush the thieves with public trials and begin again, said Colbert. Thrifty, industrious, he wanted a cleaning of the Augean stables that was finance. In his mind, Nicolas was the chief thief.

  “Why would the viscount lie?” Louis asked him. “I told him myself that he was to conceal nothing from me, that the past was gone and forgotten, that I understood that desperate times called for desperate remedies.”

  “I think his misdeeds are too many, sire. I think he cannot tell all. I think he no longer knows all. It is too great a web. I think—” Colbert stopped and pursed his mouth in a way Louis was coming to know.

  “Say it.”

  “I think he is used to living like a sultan, sire, and cannot now, even if he wished, let it go. I now have some accurate figures on the matter I broached before,” Colbert continued. “There are twenty-five armed vessels in the whale fishery the Viscount Nicolas owns. And he has secretly purchased six warships from the United Netherlands.”

  Louis went still inside. Only this morning he had been informed his treasury had not the money to build or buy ships, yet the viscount could buy ships? Warships? “You’re certain?”

  “I swear on the heart of my oldest son.”

  Cold, colorless, not an ounce of emotion in either expression or gesture, Colbert allowed himself a glimpse of the king’s face and then contented himself with staring at the scenes woven in the tapestries that hung on the wall, ignoring what was revealed for the moment in his sovereign’s expression. “It’s late. I’ve tired you, sire,” he said. “Forgive my zealousness. Good night, your majesty.”

  Louis sat where he was for a time. What do I do? he thought. Declaw the tiger I suspect? Was a tiger tamed if he had no claws? There were still teeth. If the Viscount Nicolas rebelled, who might follow? He leaned down and patted his dog’s head. Then he heard a soft sound and knew his valet had entered, making just enough noise to remind him that for him the night was not done. Could he defang a tiger without waking other tigers, those who could fund private armies from their wealth and connections and high birth, like his cousin the Prince de Condé? Do I rule with the viscount or without him? thought Louis. His father had ordered those who betrayed killed. What should he, Louis, the fourteenth of that name, do? Gently pulling his dog’s ears, he said to the valet, “She’s not acting her usual self. I’ve been watching all day.”

  “She’s strong, sire. Don’t fret.”

  Louis stood, off to join the laughing group at the landscape pool, and his valet straightened draperies, ran a hand over a coverlet that was perfectly smooth as Louis lingered a moment longer with Belle. The valet knew his majesty well. Once upon a time, the valet had allowed a small royal boy to creep into his narrow servant’s bed and sleep beside him, their backs touching. It had comforted the royal boy on too many nights when there were bad dreams, when outside the walls of the bedchamber betrayal tiptapped by on courtiers’ feet. His majesty was troubled. The valet could feel it the way he could feel the rise and fall of his own breath. Would, he thought, as he refolded a handkerchief that needed no folding, would that something so simple could comfort him now.

  HENRIETTE’S MAIDS OF honor stood groaning and yawning, stepping out of high-heeled shoes, undoing laces at the backs of gowns, pulling ribbons and hairpins from their hair, while their maidservants scurried to pick up dropped gowns that lay in pools on the floor, hurrying to find shoes, collect pins and bracelets, hand out nightgowns. The maids would rise in just a few hours to brush out these same gowns, looking for any stain that might need to be cleaned. They’d be washing stockings and hanging them to dry, polishing jewels, placing them carefully back into jewel boxes, listening for the sound of the servant’s bell that would summon them to wait upon sleepy mistresses who might as easily wake to a bad mood as one good. The maidservants were young, as young or younger than the women they served.

  “Wasn’t Péguilin amusing tonight?” Louise whispered from the pillow beside Fanny. She and Fanny shared a bed. The other two maids of honor did likewise. “Pretending to be in love with the Princess de Monaco. I thought I would die laughing when he followed her around on his knees.”

  “He is in love, I’d say.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Watch his face when she’s near. Look in his eyes. I think you should flirt with her brother, the count. I certainly would. He’s beautiful.”

  Louise made a face in the dark. The Count de Guiche reminded her of a forest wolf, lone, fierce, independent. She’d seen a wolf break the neck of a deer. “No,” she whispered back and closed her eyes. Sometimes Fanny’s chattering lulled her right to sleep.

  “He needs to be diverted. You must do it for Madame’s sake. His majesty and she kissed again tonight. I saw it. They’re in love. This is all very exciting,” whispered Fanny. “I’m so glad his majesty hasn’t chosen the Countess de Soissons. I hate her. I saw you with the Viscount Nicolas. I wasn’t the only one to notice. Oh, Louise, if you attract his regard you can go anywhere, do anything.”

  “He walked me from the hallway out of courtesy. He’s very polite.”

  “You pleased him. I saw it in his expression. He’s incredibly rich, and he’s kind. If you have the opportunity—”

  “Oh, be quiet.” Louise turned on her side away from Fanny. “I have to get up early tomorrow.”

  “Going riding with Choisy again? I was angry at him for making the king look my way when he pinched me and made me squawk like some idiot parrot, but I’ve forgiven him, for he knows all the gossip. Guess what he told me. His majesty was in love before he married the queen!”

  “With whom!?” Louise was stirred out of drowsiness.

  “With Marie Mancini, a younger sister to the Countess de Soissons. The queen mother and Monsieur wouldn’t have it. They said a king of France must wed a great princess.”

  “Where is this Marie Mancini?”

  “Hidden away somewhere. Choisy says she marries a prince who lives in Rome and goes away forever this month.”

  “I wonder if his majesty minds.”

  “He can have anyone he desires. I doubt he thinks of it now.”

  But what about her? Louise thought she spoke the words, but she couldn’t be certain because without meaning to, she’d fallen asleep; surely these were dreams of green forests and a weeping bride and gleaming wolves’ eyes and her father and mother walking hand in hand toward a little girl that must be her, only she was asleep far away from the home of her childhood, and it couldn’t be, could it? What big teeth the wolf had.

  LOUIS STOOD BEFORE an immense fireplace in another wing of the palace. He’d seen his young court to their bed; all that waited was for him to go to his wife’s bedchamber, climb in beside her sleeping form. The chamber in which he stood had been the king’s bedchamber, but not for a hundred years. Now it was vacant and mostly empty, used for performances by the acting troupes Louis or his brother patronized. Atop the mantel was a marble statue of his grandfather, Henri IV, riding a charger—both man and horse almost life-size—part of the decor of the fireplace, so distinctive, so grand that everyone in the palace called i
t the fine fireplace. Louis’s grandfather wore a crown of laurel, and on each side of him, there were the beautiful female figures so beloved of sculptors, one representing clemency, the other peace. His grandfather had been every inch a king, large in life, in war, in love, in rebuilding the kingdom. Reared Protestant, he’d converted to Catholicism to take the crown. Paris is worth a Mass, he’d said. At a famous battle, he’d told his gathered army, if you lose your standard bearers, rally to my white plume: you will find it on the road to victory and honor.

  The road to victory and honor. Stirring words. A road Louis wished to travel. He wished to make this grandfather proud, to equal or surpass him. His hand rested against the pocket in which lay the small, folded Mazarinade. There was so much to do. The immensity of the task before him, bringing the kingdom to order, to prosperity, to pride, seemed—now that he had a fuller picture—more than he, Louis, God’s anointed, God’s given, as he’d been styled at his birth, but still he was only a man, could bear. Trade was in ruins. The treasury was in ruins. The innate respect that should be given God’s anointed had eroded. There were enemies, always. He felt the outline of the note. Seen and unseen. This grandfather forever captured in marble had been assassinated. But there were many ways to die. His own father had been dead inside his soul years before he breathed his last.

  God and the saints, let me accomplish something, he prayed, staring up at this marble figure who had accomplished much, who had lived with a zest that was legend even to this day. Let me live, truly live, in this life I’ve been given. Prepare a table before me in the presence of mine enemies. Anoint my head with oil, Sacred One. I need Thee. At this moment, his responsibilities, the decisions he must make, seemed enormous. She’d kissed him again. He loved his brother’s wife.

  Chapter 6

  ELLE’S WET NOSE ON HIS HAND WOKE HIM. LOUIS OPENED HIS eyes, kissed his wife’s cheek, and followed his valet and dogs to his own bedchamber. He slipped into his own bed, the dogs with him, for an hour’s sleep, then bed curtains were opened, and his day began. Sitting up, he recited prayers and the rosary, his confessor with him. Servants and other, lesser valets swarmed about as he sat on his close stool. He walked into an antechamber to begin dressing. Courtiers—some gentlemen of his household, some not—bowed, and Louis was pleased to see Guy, even with their confrontation of the night before, there.