The Shadow Queen A Novel (17 page)

I admitted we had not. (Not that I hadn’t tried, but the Bourgogne was more carefully controlled than most theaters; it was difficult to sneak into the pit without paying.)

There were twelve full-share members in all, he explained, leading us up to the first-tier loges. “And we are intent on holding it to that number.”

(Good, I thought: the fewer the shares, the greater the take.)

He unlocked a door to a loge. I took in the gilded balustrade, the tasseled cushions on the cane chairs (not too worn). Although the theater was empty, the candles in a couple of the forestage candelabras had been lit—in anticipation of Mother’s visit, I suspected; an expensive welcome, if so.

“I understand you know Monsieur Montfleury,” Floridor said, leading us out of the theater and back around to the door to the parterre.

“Zacharie?” Mother said.

“Didn’t he play in
The Cid
?” I asked them both. Father had described the tragic actor’s sonorous voice and bombastic style. Of enormous heft, he required a corset of metal.

“He’s been with us for years,” Floridor said, helping us up onto the stage, which was somewhat smaller than that of the Marais.

We were then shown what would be Mother’s own dressing room. It was impressively large with a long toilette table, a polished metal mirror, and two wardrobe chests. A brass candlestick of six branches was set into the wall. A brazier in the corner gave off heat.

I glanced at Mother. Wasn’t she impressed?

Floridor must also have wondered, for he rushed to assure her that she would have a garçon de théâtre to run errands for her.

“I have my children for that,” Mother said.

I smiled, relieved: it had been decided.

IN THE FALL,
with the first icy drizzle, the Bourgogne staged their own production of
Sertorius.
It was a relief for Mother to return to a role she already knew well. During her initial months with the troupe, I’d had to coach her through many of the new parts in the Bourgogne’s extensive repertoire. In any single month, they put on as many as eight different plays, changing them constantly.

One chilly afternoon, on a day when we were not giving a performance, Monsieur Pierre appeared at our door again, his shoulders dusted with snow. “Your stairs are still steep.”

“We hope to move,” I said, taking his damp woolen cape. “Closer to the Bourgogne.” Our long walks back and forth to the theater were rigorous, the more so now with winter upon us. “I thought you were with your family in Rouen.”

“You didn’t think I’d miss seeing Queen Viriate onstage again, did you?” He held his black felt hat with one hand; in the other he was carrying a worn leather portmanteau.

“You’re looking thin, Monsieur,” Mother said, drying her hands on her apron. “We need to fatten you up.”

“You’re sounding like my wife,” he grumbled, but with the usual tone of affection he used when speaking of the saintly Marie de Lampérière, mother of their six children. He brushed the snow off his thick moustache.

“We’re in league, you see,” Mother said, “we women.”

“And you’re outnumbered,” I said, taking up my sewing basket. The work at the Bourgogne mostly entailed keeping the costumes of the walk-on parts in repair. It was not very interesting, and the pay was meager, but I’d been too busy looking after Mother and Gaston to seek additional work elsewhere.

“You’re cruel and heartless, every one of you,” Monsieur Pierre said, removing a packet wrapped in linen from his portmanteau. “Hence …” He loosened the cloth to reveal the title:
Sophonisbe.

“You did it,” Mother said, smiling broadly.

“A cruel and heartless heroine, written just for you, Alix. True to life, to history. Floridor paid me for it without even reading it.”

“Well, of course,” Mother said, adding, with a flourish, “You are, after all, the Great Corneille.”

“Sometimes,” Monsieur Pierre said with a downturned grimace. “He caught me up on the Paris news. I understand Molière’s group performed
Sertorius
a number of times—”

“Performed it poorly,” I said.

“—and that the Marais has performed not a thing.”

“Except for a few farces.” One was about the new five-sou coach lines, very light fare.

“May they rest in peace,” Mother said, signing herself.

“May they pay us what is owed,” Monsieur Pierre said humorlessly.

“Amen!” I exclaimed, and then reddened. Although Mother was a full partner in the Bourgogne, we had yet to recover what we’d invested in the Marais.

“I miss the machines, I confess,” Mother said. “All that lovely flying through the air.”

“Oui, there is rather less gaiety at the Bourgogne,” Monsieur Pierre said in a mock scolding manner, which made us laugh.

“But potentially more profit,” I remarked. The sets were not as complex and there were fewer of them for each performance. The troupe relied on acting to create the drama (and succeeded magnificently).

“I gather the competition from Molière’s comic productions is a concern,” Monsieur Pierre said, pulling on the tuft of hair above his chin.

“His
School for Husbands
is said to be an amusing farce,” Mother said, “for those who care for that type of thing.” Her tone indicated those of a lower literary sensibility.

“They’re in rehearsal for another ‘school’ play now,” I said, not admitting that I had found
School for Husbands
delightful. Madame Babette was now working cleanup for the rival troupe. She’d become a good source of information—as well as the occasional free pass. “This one about a school for wives.”

“I doubt that the Bourgogne need worry: Molière’s players are simply not up to the standard of our Queen Viriate here,” Monsieur Pierre said, tipping his hand to Mother.

After Monsieur Pierre left, I read the new play to Mother. (He’d been kind enough to entrust the precious script to us for one night.) We broke after the second act when Gaston clambered home from putting up announcements with the bill-poster crew, ravenous and cold. We returned to the play-script as soon as the soup pot was empty, anxious to finish before the candles guttered.

With the last line, Mother put her hands over her heart. “Who but Monsieur Pierre creates such powerful women?”

Powerful and thrillingly wicked. I could not help but wonder if Athénaïs would come to see it.

“WELL DONE, MONSIEUR PIERRE
!” Floridor’s sonorous voice boomed out over the theater. Behind him players had gathered on the stage, their
Sophonisbe
lines in hand, preparing to go through the first of the three group rehearsals. Monsieur Pierre’s newest play was scheduled to open in only nine days.

Monsieur Pierre climbed up, holding onto a railing for support. “What have I done now?”

“You’ve trumped Monsieur Molière.”

I looked up from the basket of costumes I was sorting for the walk-on parts. “I should hope so,” I said, but indifferently. I’d been distracted of late, overcome once again with urges to walk by Athénaïs’s home. The amulet I wore seemed to have lost its power; I was considering buying another, but they were dear.

“I’d like to kill him, not trump him.” Monsieur Pierre had been enraged by Molière’s
School for Wives,
in which the fool of a main character exclaims a line from his
Sertorius,
Corneille’s beautiful text ridiculed. “If only duels were allowed.”

“Tsk!” Floridor said. “In our enlightened times, honor means nothing. The only important thing today is earning the King’s favor.” He held out a paper. “And that’s a duel you’re winning.”

“The pensions list?” Monsieur Pierre asked, fumbling for his thick spectacles.

“The Crown awarded Molière one thousand this year. You, however, double it.”

“Molière shouldn’t get a penny,” Monsieur Pierre grumbled, looking over the document. “Nor that youngster Racine.”

I looked up. I’d been hearing about Jean Racine. Madame Babette reported that Molière saw talent in the young man’s work and was encouraging him to write tragedy.

“Interesting,” Floridor said, looking over Monsieur Pierre’s shoulder. “A complete unknown and he’s right on the tail of his mentor with a royal pension of eight hundred.”

Monsieur Pierre grunted. “If I were Molière, I’d be watching.”

A WEEK LATER
,
Sophonisbe
opened to faint praise. The audience was sparse, and strangely silent.

“They simply don’t care for a ruthless heroine,” Monsieur Pierre said, pacing.

“It’s not that. It’s the
Wives,
” I said. Molière’s
School for Wives
had been causing such a scandal that people were flocking to it in droves. Madame Babette told me that one night they took in more than fifteen hundred livres. “I’m going to mingle,” I told him. Eavesdrop. I couldn’t understand why the tragedy was not more of a success.

I groped my way through the dark corridor to the door to the pit. The crowds at the Bourgogne were less rowdy than those at the Marais. The violence was of a different sort: servants in livery threatening duels, drunken merchants of the rue Saint-Denis falling over each other. I found a seat on a side bench, close to the stove: in a gown, I dared not venture into the crowd of men.

I watched with pride as Mother moved to the foot-candles, her deep dramatic voice silencing the chatter. She was not a handsome woman, so I was always surprised how attractive she looked under candlelight (more attractive, certainly, than in daylight). An uncanny power came over her when she stepped onto a stage.

The first act ended and three musicians started up. Five male dancers came onto the stage to perform during the interlude. Men in the pit made catcalls at the two dressed in travesty. Everyone was jostling about, the men of the pit leaving to relieve themselves, or to get ale and macarons from the vendors at the back.

I was startled by a light touch on my shoulder. A parterre attendant pointed to one of the loges in the second tier, where a young woman was leaning out, waving a fur muff.

Athénaïs,
seated beside a man in a puce cloak.

In spite of myself, my heart gladdened to see her.

Come up here,
she gestured.

CHAPTER 30

T
o go from the parterre to the exclusive velvet-draped loges was not easy. I had to leave the theater and go around to the entrance for the nobility, ascending into another realm: wafts of floral scent and Hungary Water diffused the more odiferous and common smells. The voices were hushed, accented now and again by a muted cough.

An attendant opened the door to the loge. I touched the amulet that hung from my neck and stepped in.

Athénaïs was seated beside a tall, gawky man with big, transparent ears. I curtsied. He touched his gloved hand to his forehead: a measured and somewhat reluctant response due to someone he obviously considered well beneath his station.

“My dear Claudette,” Athénaïs exclaimed affectionately, effusively welcoming. (As if she had never cursed me!) She introduced her companion with a sweep of her hand: “My betrothed, the Marquis de Montespan.” Her knees were high; her feet no doubt perched on a coal foot warmer under her skirts.

“Honored to meet you.” I admit I was shocked by his ugliness. I thought of dear Alexandre, who’d been so comely and charming.

“Mademoiselle Claude is the daughter of Madame Alix des Oeillets, the woman playing the lead,” Athénaïs explained brightly to the Marquis, one hand fisted.

He leaned into her, lowering his voice, but I could make out what he said. “You’ve summoned the daughter of a
player
?”

“And she’s a player as well. She flies—!”

“Mademoiselle, you must know—” the Marquis de Montespan began, but then collected himself, looking away, his mouth downturned. “We will discuss this anon—privately.”

“Certainly, Monsieur. The ceremony is in two weeks,” Athénaïs informed me with feigned cheer, “and I need some alterations made to my gown.”

The Marquis de Montespan clasped her wrist.

“Claude’s work is excellent,” Athénaïs protested, tugging her hand free. “I assure you.”

“As are the seamstresses my tailor employs.”

She dipped her head. “Once we are married, certainly.” She glanced at the stage, her lower lip trembling. “Tomorrow afternoon would be best, Claude.”

I lowered my eyes. I had vowed to forsake her.

“Two of the clock?”

I paused only a moment before saying: “Oui, Mademoiselle.”

I FOUND ATHÉNAïS
collapsed on her bed in a chemise, staring at the flickering candles. Parts of a gown ensemble were hung over various chairs: skirts, a boned bodice, tie-on sleeves, a train. The parrot stared from its perch and the monkey—Ugly Thing—was grooming an angry black cat. A puppy with a pushed-in nose dozed by the embers, curled in a basket of scarves. There were shoes and boots everywhere. One of the ancients was leaning tiredly against the wall.

“It’s my gown,” Athénaïs said, rising slowly to her feet. “My wedding gown,” she added with a hint of derision. “I had it made long ago.” She had the thick manner of someone half asleep. “I was going to wear it to marry Alexandre.”

My heart ached for her. “It’s beautiful,” I said, stooping to feel the fabric of the overskirt, a lush pink satin trimmed with point lace.

“But the train is too long,” she said as the ancient helped her slip the underskirt on over her head.

She had summoned me just to take up the hem of a train? Any tailor or seamstress could do as much.

“My father told me not to go over one foot,” she said, “but he gets all his information from his whore of a mistress.”

I glanced at the maid.

“Don’t worry. She’s deaf.”

Indeed. The old woman seemed oblivious. “What does your mother recommend?” I asked, looking around for something for Athénaïs to stand on. Usually it was a girl’s mother who saw to all the details of her daughter’s marriage, considered the most important day in both their lives.

“She’s shut herself up in a convent. I can’t even talk to her.”