The Shadow Queen A Novel (13 page)

A footman parted the curtains and looked in to see if all was in order. “It’s dark,” I said.

“I’ll have more candles brought in,” he said with a frown.

At last came the sounds of women laughing, men coughing. The violins and lutes began playing a courante. The curtains parted again: Athénaïs, cloaked in fur, her cheeks rosy. “It’s dark in here.”

I jumped to my feet and made a reverence. “A footman is bringing more candles.”

She threw off her cape and lowered herself onto a stool. She was glowing and vibrant. “It’s snowing
again.
My father took forever! Quick, change me out of my boots. Do I look a fright?”

How could she even think such a word? “Not at all!” She looked lovesome and sumptuous. I unlaced her wet boots and slipped on her gold-embroidered mules. “Wait, Mademoiselle,” I said as she jumped up, eager to go. I checked the fall of her train.

“Do I pass inspection?” She stood on tiptoe to playfully peck my cheek.

“You do,” I stuttered, flushing. I held back the curtain and stood watching as she disappeared into the glittering assembly.

I let the cloth drop, but held a length of it slightly open so that I could take it all in—the room ablaze with sweetly scented beeswax candles, the tables in a room beyond laden with roast pheasant and other succulents. Richly liveried servants moved through the crowd offering spirits. It was all so exquisitely refined, so
pure.

The King and his little Spanish Queen entered to great fanfare, and were seated on a carpet-covered podium. The musicians struck up a pavane, a slow and stately walking dance. Nearing the end of the procession, I finally spotted Athénaïs and the young man who had accompanied her at the theater: the Marquis Alexandre de Noirmoutier—her intended, her betrothed. Her
beloved.

The next dance was a minuet, opened by the King’s brother and his wife, and followed by the most important couples. Athénaïs and her betrothed stood with her father on the far side of the ballroom, watching.

A courante was announced by a prelude, and a number of couples formed a line, including—this time—Athénaïs and her betrothed. I watched the progression of the steps, the music filling me with a feeling of longing and expectation. Elegant in scarlet petticoat breeches, Alexandre held out his hand with a dip of his feathered hat. Athénaïs curtsied, rose up on tiptoe, and turned to the music, her beau watching her steadily. The swirl of white taffeta at her hem revealed just a hint of her embroidered slippers, which caught the light as she turned.

Alexandre and Athénaïs. Athénaïs and Alexandre. I caught a glimpse of her face, her radiant eyes. She was the most beautiful woman in the room, without a doubt, and he the most handsome man.

A servant arrived with more candles and made a point of closing the curtains. No more peeking for me. Reluctantly, I returned to my stool. Now and then a countess or marquise would sweep in with a torn sleeve or a ribbon undone, and the cemetery seamstresses would descend on her in a swarm—deftly slipping things into a bodice or sleeve (a pearl ornament, a bit of gold lace). Repaired, the noblewoman would use a hand cloth to wipe the perspiration from between her breasts, then press the damp cloth to her brow before dashing back out.

In that moment, the curtain opened once again onto a magical world of swirling silk brocade and velvet, gems set aglow. I recalled—in a swoon of reverie—dancing in the moonlight with a worn lilac gown in my hands, imagining
this.
It was an entrancing spectacle, but, unlike my fantasy, unlike the world of the theater, it was
real.

BELLS RANG AND
trumpets sounded: the King and Queen were leaving. The ball, it appeared, was over. The graveyard seamstresses blew out the candles and pocketed the stubs, leaving me in the dark. The fire had long since burned down to embers.

I drew aside the heavy curtain. Across the room, I saw Athénaïs standing with her father and three other noblemen. She turned and, lifting her skirts, approached. I scooped up her fur cloak and her tooled leather boots, now dry, clean, and polished.

“The vultures took the candles,” I said, tying back the curtain so that there would be enough light to see. Sometimes I felt like a queen of shadow realms, forever peering out onto glittering worlds—watching my mother perform from the dark wings, watching Athénaïs from this gloomy room.

“I’m in love,” she said with a frown, as if it were a disease.

I knelt before her and slipped off her dancing shoes. “How do you know?” I said teasingly. “Maybe you’re ill.” I slipped on one boot and then the other. “Maybe it’s the vapors.” I laced her boots tight, my cheeks burning. Athénaïs brought out a dangerous recklessness in me. I must learn to hold my tongue!

“You
are
a clown,” she said, laughing. “No doubt you know a cure? Some sort of disenchantment, a protective spell?”

“Do you want to be cured?”

“Mort Dieu, non!” she exclaimed earnestly, her hands over her heart.

“Are you going to faint?” I wasn’t joking this time.

“Claude, truly, you are
so
droll. Oh! I almost forgot.” She slipped her hand into her skirts, pulling out coins.

“Merci, Mademoiselle,” I said, slipping them into the top of my boots. By their weight and size, I guessed (and hoped) they might be écus. I draped the lush fur cloak over her bare shoulders. She turned and, like an obedient child, tipped up her chin so that I could fasten the clasp at the neck.

“Au revoir, my funny Claudette.”

I stood, heart aching, somewhat overcome. She had addressed me familiarly, by the affectionate name my mother called me. This, I feared, was the end of my employment. “If you are ever in need, Mademoiselle—of anything at all—you can always reach me at the theater.” Then I added, on impulse, and without quite knowing what I meant by it: “I can be trusted.”

CHAPTER 23

T
he snow had stopped falling and the stars were bright. Heading east along the rue Saint-Honoré, I made my way through the congested courtyard. I heard angry voices, and in the flickering torchlight saw what looked like a fight brewing: two noblemen were standing facing each other on the stairs, hands on the hilts of their swords.

The coachmen became watchful, like spectators at a cockfight.

I recognized the man at the right: the swarthy Marquis de la Frette. He often purchased showy seats onstage. He had caused trouble at the theater on three occasions, once even injuring Monsieur la Roque. He was a mean drunk, and although of noble blood, he was no gentleman.

The little man opposite him was a prince of some kind. I started to hurry past, but then I recognized the tall, slender man standing behind him: it was Alexandre, Marquis de Noirmoutier—Athénaïs’s betrothed.

Harsh words were spoken and the little Prince slapped La Frette full across the cheek. The valets and drivers exclaimed. The sound was sharp, the blow hard, but La Frette didn’t even turn his head.

My heart sank.
A slap:
there could be no greater offense. A slap challenged a nobleman’s honor. A slap announced to the world:
You are not worthy.

Then came the inevitable blows. A footman with a massive staff jumped in to break up the fight. It took three to hold back La Frette. Swaying on his heels he slurred, loud enough for me to hear: “I demand satisfaction!” He turned to the gawkers. “Satisfaction!” he cried out again, shaking off the men who held him.

“He’s calling a
duel,
” a valet near me said.

“Ay—but they’ll both lose their heads,” said another.

It’s true, I thought, with horror. Dueling was punishable by decapitation now. His Majesty was determined to put a stop to the ancient practice.

The Prince and his supporters retreated to a tight cluster by some columns. I stepped into the shadows.
Pré-aux-Clercs,
I overheard,
rapiers, dawn.
Athénaïs’s betrothed—the Marquis de Noirmoutier—was to be the prince’s second.

I had to alert Athénaïs! I dared not cross the bridge on foot, not at this time, not when the cutpurses were out. I pulled the coins out of my boot—the money Athénaïs had given me for my labor. Three silver écus and seven sous—not as much as I had hoped, but enough to hire a coach or litter—
if
I could find one.

Luck was with me: a footman pointed out a coach for hire, its blanketed horse asleep on its feet. The driver demanded all seven sous because of the bridge toll. I agreed without a quarrel.

The reluctant horse ambled slowly toward the rickety Pont Rouge and up the deserted rue du Bac. Snow-covered streets are often empty, especially during the dark hours, but the silence seemed especially ominous.

This night, approaching the rue Saint-Dominique, I tapped on the window for the driver to turn left, and left again just after the Jacobin monastery. I commanded him to stop in front of the Mortemart mansion. I was relieved to see a sliver of light through one of Athénaïs’s shuttered windows overlooking the courtyard.

I climbed down, retrieving one of the silver écus out of my boot. “Yours if you wait,” I told the driver, then stepped to the coach gate and pulled the bell rope. The gates swung open and the coach turned into the courtyard.

A half-asleep concierge came lurching out. “I must talk to Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente,” I said.

“She’s retired.”

“Her lantern is on.”

“Her lantern is always on. She’s afraid of the dark,” he said with a hint of derision.

“It’s a matter of life and death.”

“Aye,
my
death, were I to rouse her.”

I withdrew another silver écu.

ATHÉNAÏS SLIPPED DOWN
the grand curving stairs, following a maid holding a lantern. She was still in her cape and ballgown, her pearls at her neck. “Didn’t I already pay you?” she asked, a little annoyed.

“It’s not that, Mademoiselle,” I said, taken aback. “I’m sorry to disturb you, but something has happened … Something I think you should know.” I glanced at the maid standing shivering behind her. I paused, uneasy about being overheard. “It involves your … dance partner.”

Athénaïs looked confused for only a moment. She took the lantern from the maid and led me into a small chamber off the main entrance. She set the lantern down on a cluttered shelf, closed the door, and turned up the oil. Hats, boots, wraps, and capes were piled up everywhere. A black cat with a litter of nursing kittens was curled into a fur wrap thrown down on the floor. Three swords were propped in a corner.

“Does Alexandre want me to meet him?” Athénaïs asked, whispering in spite of our seclusion. Her breath misted in the faint light.

“It’s nothing like that. There’s going to be a duel.”

“Over me?” Her eyes were bright, like those of a child. There was recklessness in her passion.

“No—over an insult,” I began, surprised by her romantic notion. Men rarely dueled over a woman! “Your betrothed is to be second for a short young man who was wearing purple velvet and red heels tonight.” I held out my hand to indicate height. “A prince, I think.”

“Prince de Chalais—Alexandre’s sister’s husband. Alexandre and his sister are twins. Did you know?”

“I didn’t,” I said, disconcerted. I pressed on, relating that the Marquis de la Frette had pushed the Prince de Chalais on the stairs coming out of the Palais, and that La Frette had called Chalais a sodomite, that Chalais had slapped him—

“Slapped his
face
?” The shadows from the lantern concealed her eyes.

“Oui. And then La Frette threw a punch, and then Chalais, and that’s when your betrothed and some footmen jumped in to pull them apart.” And to throw some punches as well. “And that’s when La Frette demanded satisfaction.”

“He’s a beast.”

No one would argue that. “They’re meeting at the Pré-aux-Clercs, that marshy field behind the Abbaye de Saint-Germain-des-Prés.”

“That’s not far from here.”

I nodded—not far, but another world, nonetheless, a wild and marshy realm, a realm where spirits gathered. “They’re meeting at daybreak, fighting with rapiers.” I took a shaky breath. Rapiers were traditional, but pistols would have been a wiser choice. La Frette was taller and would therefore carry a longer blade, possibly as long as four feet—giving him a deadly advantage. But then, La Frette would be drunk, and Chalais, judging from his appearance, would likely be nimble and quick. A shorter rapier could be used to advantage if he could duck under the long blade of his opponent, close in for a kill. But then, too, Chalais didn’t seem the killing type, and La Frette did.

It made me queasy to think of it. The situation was urgent and I had to be clear. “Your father would know how to get word to His Majesty, put a stop to it.”

Athénaïs snorted.

I could hear the mother cat purring. “Dueling is against the law!”

“Not
really.
”

Really! Perhaps she simply didn’t know. “The punishment is—” I sliced my finger across my neck.

“That’s only for when an unblood challenges a noble.” Her tone was condescending. “It would be dishonorable for Alexandre not to defend his brother-in-law.”

I thought my mission would be an easy one, assumed that Athénaïs would leap at the chance to save a life, prevent disaster. I cautioned myself to be calm; it was impolite to press someone above one’s station. No doubt the King had already been informed: there were so many witnesses. It wasn’t my concern, after all. I’d done my duty and that was that.

“I must go,” Athénaïs said, taking up the lantern.

“Good night. I’m sorry to have disturbed you.”

“No, I mean I must be there when they duel.”

“Mademoiselle—” I sputtered. Every night men were robbed and murdered. Women who dared to venture out in the dark hours unescorted were molested and raped. “You must not—”

“You don’t understand,” she said. “I
must.
”

“It wouldn’t be safe,” I argued with some urgency. She had named herself for a virgin goddess of war, but she was an innocent in so many ways. Perhaps that was what being noble meant, to not be part of the oft-ugly world, to not even know it existed.