Enchantress of Paris (10 page)

I am nothing like you.
We reached the courtyard. There, led by six white horses wearing fluffy white plumes, stood a whitewashed carriage gleaming in the spring sunshine. Silver curtains hung in the windows. The driver and postilions bowed to me. A white-liveried footman opened the door, and I touched the white velvet benches. “Generous, most eminent Uncle, there is one thing I've been meaning to ask for.”

He waited.

“I can't curl my hair properly without the slave girl Moréna, and I've grown quite dependent on her. Might you grant her ownership to me?”

“Moréna belongs to me and to Palais Mazarin. But as long as you are in my service, she may serve you.”

Not the answer I'd hoped for. Just then an equerry rode a huge white stallion into the courtyard. Silver ribbons were braided into the horse's thick mane and tail. Pearls encrusted the pommel on the gray leather saddle. Muscled and elegant, the animal pranced and bowed at the equerry's command, hoofs clopping and bridle clanking. I couldn't resist stroking the animal's neck. I kissed his soft muzzle, and he nudged my shoulder.

“Andalusians are hard to find,” said my uncle. “Strong and fast enough to keep up with the king's best war horses.”

In other words, don't fall behind. “I cannot thank you enough.”

“King Louis mustn't give another thought to d'Argencourt.”

Deep within, the thought of helping my greedy uncle turned my stomach. But if I didn't perform, he might make sweet Hortense his marionette. Could I find a way to shield the king from Mazarin's fierce control?

My uncle said over his shoulder as he went back inside, “You are mine. By making the king yours,
he
will be mine, too.”

The equerry tossed me an oat cake. “Can you handle so powerful a creature?”

It took me a moment to realize he meant the horse. “My father taught me to handle the most spirited horses.” The horse ate the oats from my hand. “What is his name?”

“Trojan.”

I laughed. “Does my uncle know that?”

The equerry shrugged.

So my uncle had gifted me a Trojan horse. Well, I would certainly be on guard.

*   *   *

I ordered all six horses to be harnessed for the brief journey from Palais Mazarin to the Louvre on the night of the king's return. More than required, and just enough to make a statement. Moréna and Philippe rode with me. Candlelight from the crystal sconce flickered over her new white turban and dress. She pulled a vial from her hanging pocket and extended it to me.

My brother pushed it away. “No love potions.”

She pulled out the cork and put it under my nose. “It's just a tincture to give her strength.”

I took the vial. “No magic?”

“You stopped believing in magic the night you burned—”

I shot her a warning look. The tincture smelled of cinnamon, and I downed it in one gulp.

We rolled into the eastern corner of the Cour Carrée, passing crumbling towers from the Middle Ages on our left. Construction on the Italian-style wings to our right had begun during the last king's reign but stood unfinished. The Louvre remained an incomplete mix of styles because my uncle focused funds elsewhere. No carriage in the court compared to mine, and the others made way. Philippe peeped around my silver curtains and pointed. I saw d'Argencourt standing with her father between carriages.

She seemed angry, and her voice carried. “All the king told me is that Mazarin hopes to ally with Oliver Cromwell.”

Her father frowned. “To use his supply of soldiers?”

“I won't have a chance to find out because I'm not doing this anymore.” She turned from him.

He grabbed her arm. “You must to secure your family's position. Tonight may be your last chance.”

Philippe and I exchanged a knowing look. My footman opened the door at that moment, and d'Argencourt and her father hastened inside the Louvre. I stared at the creamy limestone of the Lescot Wing. How many times had I entered without seeing the white stone oculi, the oval marble plaques, cartouches, and lintels? I had always rushed past, in the anxiety of moving to a new country, the grief of my mother's illness, or the flurry of Olympia's wedding. The Mazarin apartments were here, most rooms now appointed to me. I could now come and go as I pleased. I balled my hands into fists and then loosened them. Tonight I entered for
myself.

Moréna stepped from the carriage behind us, carrying my train as I entered the Salle des Caryatides. She slipped away at the door, not to be seen again until needed.

A footman announced us. “Monsieur Philippe and Mademoiselle de Mancini!” My name echoed in the marble and stone great hall where courtiers danced to Lully's violins. No one took note. At least, they pretended not to.

Philippe gave me a worried look. Our uncle had instructed him to stay out of my way. “Good luck, sister.” He slipped into the crowd.

To the south, the raised Tribunal sat empty. Neither the king nor queen mother had arrived. I snapped open my fan and walked to the north end, sidestepping clutches of courtiers. They glanced, promptly turning back to their groups. I told myself they envied my diamonds, my silver gown, the elaborate painting of Diana on my fan. I passed the d'Argencourt family unseen. I stopped behind the row of carved armless caryatids supporting the musician's gallery. A herald ran down the stairs calling, “Their Majesties King Louis and his mother Queen Anne!”

The music stopped. The dancers cleared the floor, and the entire assembly bowed and curtsied. Colorful Swiss Guards marched down in two rows, staggering themselves along each side of the staircase. I hid behind my marble caryatid and watched the royals descend. The cardinal followed them. The musicians resumed, and courtiers rose, watching the king open the dance with his mother. She didn't move gracefully, and the ceremonial opening was brief. The royals moved to the Tribunal, where the king struck up conversation with Colbert.

From my place behind the caryatids, I saw d'Argencourt's father nudge her. She frowned. He gave her a scathing look.

D'Argencourt heaved a sigh. She took a step, threw back her shoulders, then walked right through the empty dancing area. I left my post and slowly circled the hall, keeping behind nobles and courtiers, listening to the flurry of whispers that rose in her wake …

“She'll either make her family's fortune or ruin herself.”

“I bet ten francs the king refuses her outright.”

D'Argencourt reached the king and curtsied low. He hesitated. To my dismay, he led her to the floor to dance a sarabande. I continued toward the Tribunal, listening to the gossip fly …

“You owe me ten francs.”

“Look at the king flush. He's enraged.”

The melody rose to a high note and ended as I reached my uncle's side. He took my hand upon his arm.

The king bowed politely to d'Argencourt, then marched straight to Mazarin. “See to it that she has no opportunity to impose on me again.”

My uncle bowed his head. “I have already informed the abbess at the Convent Sainte-Marie at Chaillot. D'Argencourt shall be installed before dawn.”

Convent exile.
The thought made me shudder. The cardinal backed away, offering my hand to King Louis.

The king took it. “Marie.”

“You've had an eventful evening.”

“I … I cannot allow a woman to use me for her own gains.” He studied me.

“There isn't a woman alive who is worthy of you.”

He laughed a little. “What is different about you tonight?”

I shrugged. “The cardinal poured Olympia's old diamonds on me.”

The king looked me over, pausing on my décolletage a moment too long. “I never noticed before, but your eyes, they sparkle like the night sky.”

My heart nearly thumped out of my chest. I had to look down.

“Dance?”

I answered by looking back up, and he led me out. Flutes and clarinets in the gallery played the opening chords of a minuet, and violins joined the melody. We stepped in time. Along the perimeter, painted faces looked astonished, and powdered heads tipped together to chatter. I couldn't care less.

“I can finally face you without shame,” the king said. “I finished
Jerusalem Delivered.
Rinaldo was a lucky man.”

“Lucky?” I said, feeling flushed from the cinnamon. “He was bewitched by Armida until he looked into the mirror!”

“Armida loved him deeply. Every man should be so lucky.”

“Perhaps luck is what I need.”

“Why does a lovely creature like you need luck?”

I took a breath. “To make you realize my eyes sparkle like the night only for you, that you might look inside them to find an Armida who loves you already.”

The violins ceased, and the flutes brought the melody to a gentle close.
Why did I say that?
I began trembling so badly I was sure everyone could see. I started to leave.

But the king grabbed my hand, bowed, and kissed it. “Forgive me for having failed to see before.”

He doesn't mean it.
With a quick curtsy, I slipped my hand from his and stepped back. I turned, looking at no one. The wall of courtiers parted, and I flew to the door. Moréna appeared and called my driver. My carriage met us in the middle of the Cour Carrée. “Home,” I ordered, climbing in.

“Were you bold?” asked Moréna in the guttering light of the crystal sconce.

Too bold.

She grinned all the way back to Palais Mazarin.

 

CHAPTER
12

It is the public scandal that offends—to sin in secret is no sin at all.

—
from
MOLIÈRE'S
comedy
Tartuffe

That night, unable to sleep, I paced before my empty fireplace, watching a lone candle burn shorter and shorter.
What if he never wants to see me again?
I couldn't decide which was worse, having to return to the convent, failing my sisters, or displeasing King Louis.

The cardinal stepped noiselessly into my bedchamber well past midnight. “You left early.”

“Your Eminence is light of foot,” I said, startled. “I had been too forward. It won't happen again.”

“It is a good tactic. Be the prey to his hunt. Let him pursue you.”

I dared not confess I hadn't developed this tactic on purpose. “Shall I wait on the queen tomorrow?”

“Leave the work of the toilette to other women. Go when they are at leisure, for cards and music. That is when Louis visits.” He quietly appraised me. I crossed my arms so he would not see the shadows of my nipples under my thin silks. “You look lovely.”

I wanted to jump into bed and tie the curtains closed. I tried to jest. “Even without my jeweled bodice and diamonds in my hair?”

He smiled a little. “Proof of true beauty.”

I didn't know what to say. No one had ever called me beautiful.

He took a step toward me. “Make the king love you, and he might do more than share secrets.”

I leaned back. I couldn't imagine King Louis loving me. “More?”

“What do men do when they love deeply?”

“Your Eminence, bedding the king didn't serve Olympia well—”

“Olympia lusts too much. She gave herself too readily. But you fled when the king's interest was piqued. Let him think he must own you before he can bed you.”

“Own me? If you mean marriage—”

He held up his hand. “Do not speak of it. Just be the prey.”

He slipped out, and I was too dazed to go after him. The candle finally died, and I stood alone in the dark. God help me, I laughed! I clapped my hands across my mouth, but the thought of the king marrying
me
was nonsense. D'Argencourt had failed without aspiring so far. And she would be in a convent by dawn.
I am doomed.

*   *   *

I rose at midmorning and found a slip of foolscap on my pillow.

If a man who once waged war against me wishes to return to my king's favor, that man must first pay me homage, and an attempt to circumvent me by way of the queen will lead to his destruction.

It was Mazarin's writing. An assignment. I ripped up the paper and threw the pieces into the cold fireplace. “Light it,” I said to Moréna.

“But it's a beautiful spring day.”

I didn't even understand the note, but I wanted no visible trace of my uncle's command over me. “Tell my driver I go this evening to the queen's.”

*   *   *

The sentinels at the queen's apartments admitted me without hesitation. My new high-heeled mules click-clicked on marble floors as I moved past pillars and sculptures in the vestibule, the anteroom, and into the salon where the queen mother played cards with three other women. I curtsied before her table. She nodded without looking up, and I took my place standing between a window and a candelabra.

My Martinozzi cousin Princess de Conti approached, gold hair shining in the window's evening light. “D'Argencourt departed for the convent at Chaillot.”

“Poor girl.”

“The court is abuzz, wondering if Mazarin did it on
your
account.”

I laughed and hoped it sounded convincing. “I imagine I'll be following in d'Argencourt's wake soon.”

“Look,” she said, gesturing to a man carrying papers. “Here is the new secretary our uncle appointed for the queen. You know what happened to that older secretary who served her faithfully for decades?”

I watched the new man present himself to the queen. “What happened to him?”

“Our uncle happened to him,” she said.

“He must not have been trustworthy if our uncle dismissed him.”

She shrugged. “He dismisses anyone he can't control. Be wary.”

I glanced at her.

“He's using you. And
you
are not one to be controlled.”