Enchantress of Paris (14 page)

“I don't practice
malefica,
” I hissed.

Moréna shook her head. “No harm will befall him. Condé will be conquered by diplomacy instead of battle. The war would end, and Mazarin might quit meddling in the king's affairs.”

Allowing just one spell might be worth it if Mazarin would leave my sisters and me alone. I turned to Olympia. “I'll go with you.”

*   *   *

We rode east through the city to the Marais quarter. On rue des Tournelles the houses looked like miniature castle towers, and Olympia knew exactly which belonged to Ninon de l'Enclos. Some of my friend's salons were nearby. “What makes you think she'll admit us?” I asked.

Her footman took our names, and we were admitted immediately. He showed us into a salon decorated with blue and white tapestries and divans covered in yellow taffeta. Upon one of these divans sat l'Enclos. She wore no cosmetics, no jewels, just a simple muslin shift and a green satin undress gown. She did not get up, but studied me with sparkling hazel eyes. “So this is Maximiliane.”

My friend Somaize had nicknamed me Maximiliane at our last salon gathering. “I see we have friends in common.” I curtsied.

She turned her gaze on Olympia, though still spoke to me. “This must be your sister. I see none of your fire in her, though she has the look of a woman who wants something.”

She sees fire in me?

Olympia seemed taken aback. “Indeed. I have it on good authority you possess a certain Spanish fly.”

“I possess no such thing. That makes you wrong twice.”

“Twice?” Olympia's voice wavered.

“Yes,” said the courtesan. “Wrong about the insect and wrong about your authority; it's no good. I wager no one told you such a thing, which means you assumed I use it.”

Olympia turned a bright shade of pink.

L'Enclos laughed. “I've heard of this Spanish fly. I never had any need for it. So that makes you wrong a third time.” She turned back to me. “You want something, too. But you're changing your mind.”

This unusual woman, not beautiful but alluring and witty, was not the type to keep a former lover's handkerchief. Everything about her felt right—the simple grandeur of her salon, her wit, the angle of the curtain letting in sunlight. Her libertine ways had cost her her reputation, yet she seemed secure in the life she'd chosen. “I think I just needed to meet you,” I replied.

She smiled. “I'll bid you farewell with a bit of advice. All you need is right here.” She tapped a finger to her temple.

The footman ushered us out without another word. Olympia gave instructions to her driver, then wouldn't speak in the carriage. Neither of us had gotten what we went for. I had gotten much more.

I pondered the courtesan's words until I realized we had traveled north instead of west. We rolled through the crumbling towers of Porte Saint-Denis, and I sat up, alarmed. “Are we on rue Beauregard? La Voisin could be dangerous!”

Olympia pulled our two old vizard masks from beneath a cushion as we stopped before a small, weathered house. “You won't let me go in alone.” She put the mask on me, damn her, tying the ribbon behind my head. She took my hand, leading me to the front door.

“I regret this whole errand,” I said as she knocked. “Let's leave.”

The door opened, and a round-faced young woman stared out, appraising our silks and jewels.

Olympia spoke quickly. “I'm to see Catherine Monvoisin, known as the sorceress La Voisin.”

“Shush.” She glanced behind us. “What do you want?”

“Cantharides,” said Olympia, flashing a silver
ecu.

The woman eyed it, then opened the door. “Come, come.” She disappeared into her dark front chamber.

Olympia stepped in. I grabbed her arm, but she shook it off. “We can't be seen on the street,” she hissed.

Inside, the smell of rotting flesh and dirt struck me like a blow. The woman poked around a shelf of pots and covered bowls. A central table crowded the room, littered with piles of fingernails, a dish of bones, and jars. The labels read powdered mole, pigeon hearts, coxcombs, potable gold, fat from a hanged man, and infant essence. My stomach roiled. To distract myself, I scanned herbs hanging from pegs on the wall. There was ergot,
droué,
biting stonecrop, hemlock, and human-shaped mandrake root; all poisonous. Olympia nudged me, pointing through a doorway. In the dim second chamber stood a makeshift altar holding crucifixes, chalices, a pyx containing communion wafers, and a wax poppet poked through with pins. Whatever transpired here was sacrilege at its worst. No Mancini would practice such
malefica.
We both took a step back. I felt behind me for the door latch.

The woman turned, holding out a little jar of dead green beetles. “I know a priest who'll hold your love potion over the chalice during communion to consecrate it.”

Olympia tossed her ecu on the table. “Just the cantharides.”

The woman stepped closer. “A fine lady like you can afford to let me mix a
philtre d'amour
with bat wing, your own blood, and semen of the man you wish to snare.”

Olympia flung enough silver coins on the table to pay a scullery maid's yearly wage, then grabbed the jar.

I flung open the door, and we ran to the carriage. We rode south through Porte Saint-Denis with the windows open, but I couldn't rid myself of that rotten smell. I swore I'd
never
again consider casting a malevolent spell for the rest of my life, even if I found a whole lock of Condé's hair. “Promise you won't go back there, Olympia. One day that woman will burn.”

Olympia wouldn't answer, just stared at her beetles. I couldn't stop thinking about how to keep her from using them on the king.

*   *   *

“I adore carnival and I adore masquerades,” said Monsieur weeks later, staring across a sea of costumed nobles in the Maréchal de l'Hôpital's reception hall. Olympia, Soissons, King Louis, and I laughed. From our place at the door, we peered through our gold masks across the throng of dancers. Gold and silver ribbons decked the columns, and musicians played furiously in the balcony. We all wore fanciful dress, but Monsieur looked completely natural in a woman's bodice, skirts, wig, and jewels.

Beside him, Mademoiselle waved her feathered fan, cool and regal. “You like any opportunity to flaunt your finery.”

The king grinned at the crowd, hands on his hips. “I like wearing this mask so no one ceases dancing for a bow.”

He gestured, and our party moved into the hall, folding in with the dancers, bumping each others' shoulders, clapping and kicking our heels. Our clothes swished and rustled in the crush of people. We became a sea of gold and silver, hearts pounding in rhythm to the melody and the movement. We gave ourselves to it, throwing back our heads, spinning, and laughing, until someone finally recognized the king. We tossed off our masks and a roar of cheers arose. The marshal herded us into a private chamber, where a smaller group danced to a new set of musicians. And so, at a ball within a ball, we danced for hours.

At three in the morning, Mademoiselle found a dining room with a collation of cheese and fruits and wine. I poured, and Olympia chugged hers.

The king gestured to Mademoiselle. “Take a chair.”

She gasped. “I wouldn't sit in your presence, sire.”

The ease of the evening almost seemed shattered. Olympia plopped a chunk of cheese in her mouth and sauntered over to the chair, sinking into it.

Mademoiselle looked scandalized. I laughed and refilled everyone's wine.

Monsieur turned to Soissons. “What will you do with such a reckless wife?”

Soissons raised his glass. “Reckless but prosperous.”

“I can afford to be reckless,” said Olympia, pointing to her palm. “It says here I would marry a content man and have sons.” She winked at her husband, who bowed. “And have a long, happy life.”

“You haven't told my fortune,” said Mademoiselle.

I gave Olympia a warning look, but she reached across the king's glass to take Mademoiselle's hand, palm up. She studied it for a long while. Too long. Sneaky Olympia.

Mademoiselle yanked her hand back. “What did you see?”

“Prosperity.”

Mademoiselle glanced at Monsieur. She might have relinquished the prospect of marrying the king, but I knew Mazarin wouldn't let her marry Monsieur either. “Anything else?”

“If you mean marriage, no.” Olympia reclined in her chair.

Mademoiselle frowned. “Superstition.”

“Forget this nonsense,” said King Louis, reaching for his glass. “Let's go home.”

“Shouldn't we wait until dawn?” I snatched the glass from him and pretended to sip. “Paris is dangerous at night.”

Olympia stared at the glass in my hand, stunned. I shrugged innocently.

The king looked away from me and walked to the door. “I'll order the coach to move with all speed.”

We crowded into Mademoiselle's coach, Olympia giving me looks that could kill. King Louis shouted orders, and we took off with a jolt down the dark streets. Monsieur slipped from the bench; we saw a flurry of petticoats and hairy legs as he righted himself.

Houses sped past, and the king's musketeers fell behind. King Louis just laughed. He kicked open a compartment hidden in the floorboards. It held pistols, shots, and gunpowder. “Wouldn't it be grand if assassins attacked?”

I frowned. “
You
are the one who is reckless.”

King Louis caught my serious tone. He tried to grab my hand, but I crossed my arms.

Why is he so careless of himself?
Slowly I realized. Cold and alone in my convent cell, I had felt the same.
King Louis is unhappy.

 

CHAPTER
17

It was the same at every masquerade and every ballet practice; Olympia fiddled with her ring, and I distracted King Louis more than I distracted Soissons. As carnival season ended, opening night of the
Ballet d'Alcidiane
arrived. We lined our eyes with kohl and slathered our lips with Spanish red. Peeking from behind the stage, I watched nobles and musicians fill the theater at the Louvre, cramming into balconies and packing shoulder to shoulder on the floor. The queen mother and distinguished guests took the front. The flickering lights of two dozen candelabra illuminated their judgmental stares as well as the stage. Lully summoned up the music of his violins.

Olympia, Hortense, and I danced onto the stage in supporting roles as foreigners dressed in turbans. Scarves edged with jingly gold coins hung low on our waists. We twirled, we leapt, and we finished each wave of our arms with a flick of the wrist. Professional singers played the lead roles of the warrior Polexandre and Princess Alcidiane. In three acts, we journeyed from Alcidiane's royal court to a New World and battled a sea monster, demons, and a sorceress.

The king appeared, and a wave of appreciative
ahhs
swept across the theater. The spectators hung on his every move, his lunges and toe points, his expression and his eyes. In the final sequence, he danced a chaconne to baritone verses that rang across the court. “He hardly feels the power of love … I doubt he will endure love's yoke.”

The meaning struck me.
Ballets de cour
were written expressly for King Louis, and he considered them an expression of himself. I struggled to keep the spring in my step as we made our final leaps to exit the stage. Was the king untouched by love? Servants and costumers bustled backstage preparing the final wedding scene. I ducked into an alcove to hide my face.
I lost my chance with him anyway.

The music ended, and the audience applauded. I felt a hand on my shoulder.

It was King Louis. “The verses about me aren't true. I do feel love.”

I smiled. “You won't suffer its yoke.”

“I want to. Please tell me you'll let me. That you won't shy from my kisses.”

Everything inside me wanted to pull him close. “A kiss from me is a yoke from my uncle. You could never trust me.”

“Trust implies risk.” He wrapped his arms around me.

I savored his warmth and the musk of his ambergris perfume. “To love is to risk.”

“You won't run from me again.” He kissed me softly and I let him. It happened as suddenly as it had before, the rush of urgency and fire that terrified and exhilarated. I couldn't have run again if I'd wanted to.

Someone far away cried out, “Where is the king?”

He broke the kiss but pulled me closer. We held each other, breathing heavily, unwilling to part, understanding the line must be drawn.

Behind us, a page cleared his throat. “Your Majesty, the audience!”

The king pulled me by the hand into the light of the stage. I laughed at the smeared Spanish red on his lips, and he laughed at mine. Olympia stared, astounded.
She knows.
She would be furious. Courtiers threw flowers at our feet. What would
they
think when they found out?

Everyone with access to court followed the king to the Pavillon du Roi for a collation. Mazarin and the queen mother clung to his side as everyone congratulated his performance. The king winked at me from across the chamber.
Tomorrow,
he mouthed. A promise. I slipped away unnoticed.

*   *   *

At Palais Mazarin, Moréna wasn't in my bedchamber to help me undress. A servant pointed to the window. I pushed it open. On the terrace below was a great circle of candles. In the center, a pyre of sweet-smelling herbs went up in smoke. Moréna danced around it, humming, hands raised to the light of the full moon. She'd worked some spell.

“Clean that up,” I cried.

She stopped. “Is he yours?”

“On
my
terms. Not because of this.”

She grinned, bright teeth shining. “At last!” She hopped around, victorious. “You will live a life of freedom and you will take me with you.”