The Shadow Queen A Novel (23 page)

“
La
des Oeillets?” Molière touched his chin.

Athénaïs was right: the comedian did not look well. “I joined Madame la Marquise’s household staff today.”

He made a sweeping bow.

“Please,” I said, embarrassed. “I am looking forward to this performance.”

He pressed his hat against his heart. “It is not what I usually …” He sounded almost apologetic. “His Majesty and the Marquise wished a comedy-ballet in the classical and pastoral style. I aim only to please.”

“As do we all,” I said, recalling what Monsieur Pierre had said to me only the day before about playing the role of a courtier:
All that waiting around, all that bowing.
What would he think of me now? I wondered, adorned in a borrowed costume of ruby brocade and pearls. What would he say of the document I had just signed, renouncing forever the only world in which I’d ever truly belonged?

CHAPTER 39

P
owdered and scented, I walked behind Athénaïs, followed by four (glaring) attendants—three waiting maids and a valet. Two big footmen preceded us.

Carrying Athénaïs’s wraps, her fan, and other necessities, I kept my eyes steadily on her, both anxious and glowing. It amazed me to see the way the throngs parted at her approach. I was overcome with pride to be a member of her entourage.

At the foot of the great stairwell, Athénaïs made a show of greeting Louise de la Vallière, who was likewise attended (although not nearly as grandly). The two women made public gestures of friendship and proceeded on together, linked arm in arm. The King’s “official” mistress was a surprisingly plain woman, almost boyish in her gait. She smelled of the stable and walked with a limp. Clearly timid, she lacked Athénaïs’s intimidating regality.

The great hall of the ancient castle had been lavishly decorated, the walls covered with tapestries, illuminated by the countless candles burning. A fire roared in the massive stone hearth. A banquet table had been set up in an adjoining hall: the smoky scent of roast meat and other succulents filled the air. Musicians played as courtiers entered, their divine music resonating off the stone walls. (
This
is Heaven, I thought.)

The maids, valet, and footmen disappeared up a stone stairway to the humble Paradis, leaving me and La Vallière’s bucktoothed attendant following behind Athénaïs and the Limping One into the tiers for the privileged. Courtiers bowed low as the two women approached, as if they were queens. I stood tall, imagining I was walking onto a stage.

The loge was luxurious, well furnished, and bedecked with flowers. I helped Athénaïs get seated and arranged her gown becomingly. I stood back against the wall, but she frowned, indicating that I was to sit on the bench behind her. I glanced uneasily at La Vallière’s attendant standing by the entry, but did as Athénaïs commanded.

The Queen—the
real
queen—sat in a loge opposite, surrounded by her attendants and dwarfs. The few times I’d seen her, I’d been surprised by how tiny she was; one could take her for a child playing in adult garb of rich fabrics. I wondered if she suspected Athénaïs’s relationship with the King. (Athénaïs herself doubted it. “She’s not very bright,” she’d once told me.)

On each side of the stage were tall columns. Enormous candelabras lit up the room, which buzzed with anticipation. I felt strange being part of such a regal gathering. I knew that some of the players behind the curtain would be scanning the crowd, looking for the royal family. Not long before, I had been that person—dressed in the costume of a dog, peaking out at the regal assembly looking for a glimpse of Athénaïs—and now here I was, seated in one of the finest loges, and in attendance on her.

The courtiers hushed as the candles were raised. Jean-Baptiste de Lully, the gifted and temperamental Italian composer, banged his long staff against the floor. The orchestra sounded and the performance began, a moment that always thrilled me.

In spite of the rich trappings,
The Magnificent Lovers
was, I thought, a disappointment. A mythological ballet laced with romantic burlesque, it was a somewhat insipid comédie galante. And tiring, certainly: five acts, with intermèdes at every turn. The noise of the audience milling was so loud it was difficult to hear the singing.

Only when the King performed was there silence—and then, I had to admit, it was riveting. The changes that Molière had hastily made to the script had clearly appeased His Majesty, for he danced like the supreme being that he was, leaping and twirling with breathless grace.

“So, Mademoiselle Claude,” Athénaïs said, turning to me during the final intermède, “what is your intellection concerning this performance?”

“The effects are spectacular,” I offered charitably. Venus flying down on a cloud? I’d seen it many times before. “And the costumes stunning.”

“The heroine’s cost three hundred fifty livres I’m told,” Athénaïs said, fanning herself.

A very great deal! The advantage of performing for His Majesty, of course, was that the costume costs were covered by the King’s purse. (I hoped to help the Bourgogne get invited more often.)

“With a few exceptions, the unities were respected in the central drama,” La Vallière observed primly. “One main action, in one place, and everything happening in a day or less.”

Deus, the
unities.
I was sick to death of debates about the unities, Aristotle’s three rules for drama. “Certainly,” I said. La Vallière’s attendant had fallen asleep, propped up and snoring softly in the corner.

“But overall?” Athénaïs persisted. “You didn’t find it dreary?”

“Perhaps in parts,” I admitted, smiling at Athénaïs’s candid assessment. She was so different from La Vallière. It was hard to imagine the same man loving both women.

“I find it an interesting artistic experiment,” Louise de la Vallière offered quietly. “The intermèdes especially. His Majesty calls it
opera.
”

I recalled Mother and Monsieur Pierre discussing the new form. Monsieur Pierre had said he didn’t like combining singing with drama, and preferred music only between acts. The memory made me sad. I wondered what my mother was doing now. On a Wednesday, a jour extraordinaire, she would likely be in rehearsal, preparing for the show to play on Friday. I hoped her health was better and that Gaston was staying out of trouble.

The doors opened and a man wearing an abundance of ribbons stepped into the loge, wafting a strong scent of sweat.

“Bienvenue, Monsieur le Marquis de Louvois,” Athénaïs said with a cough.

Zounds. The Secretary of State for War. I hardly recognized him. He was now the size of an ox, but resembled a pig, his small eyes beady.

La Vallière’s attendant woke with a start. I stood and joined her against the wall, keeping my eyes down.

Louvois bowed gracelessly. “Madame la Marquise de Montespan. Mademoiselle la Duchesse de la Vallière.” His voice was high for such a large man.

“Please join us,” offered La Vallière.

“I’m just stopping by.” He blew his nose into a kerchief and examined the result before folding it carefully in fours and putting it back in his vest.

“Are you enjoying the performance, Monsieur le Marquis?” Athénaïs asked with little enthusiasm.

“His Majesty is magnificent, as always. Au revoir,” he said, retreating, bumping into a chair.

“Charmed,” Athénaïs said to his back. “Can you believe that he actually
boasts
of never having read a book,” she hissed with disgust once the loge door had closed behind him.

“Yet he’s efficient and devoted to His Majesty,” La Vallière noted.

I blanched. The “efficiency” of Louvois’s armies was credited to unrestrained violence. It was said he actually encouraged his soldiers to rape, murder, and plunder.

People in the audience began to laugh. We turned to the stage, where Molière, playing the jester, was staggering, very nearly falling, catching himself, then teetering again. The final act had begun—at last.

The royal entertainment came to an end with a ballet of six executioners with axes. (Odd.) Athénaïs struggled to rise up out of her armchair. La Vallière moved to help her, but Athénaïs signaled impatiently and I slipped a hand under her elbow instead.

“There will be dancing into the small hours, but we must not dally,” she told me in the corridor leading to the stairs. “His Majesty will be calling,” she whispered.

CHAPTER 40

T
he entry to Athénaïs’s apartment was crowded: four armed guards (“the King’s, but they practically live here”), two footmen, and three maids. Athénaïs ordered the guards to prepare for His Majesty’s arrival, dismissed the footmen, and commanded the maids to set out orange water, sweetmeats, and flowers.

I followed Athénaïs into her bedchamber, already ablaze with candlelight. I recognized some of the things from our hideaway in the rue l’
É
chelle: the little black enamel cabinet, her India shawls, and Turkey carpet. The massive silvered bed and toilette table were new. Everything was red and glittery. It was a room such as only Athénaïs could create, a room where one was invited to give way to sensual reverie. A stage set for a queen of seduction.

A fire crackled in the fireplace, making the room comfortably warm. Athénaïs stood in front of an enormous mirror—a Venice reflecting glass of such clarity I wanted to touch it, test it to see if what I saw
was
an image, not a door into another world.

“Unlace me, Claude.” I pulled on her bodice strings to release her stays. “I’m not going to be able to wear Court dress much longer,” she moaned as the laces gave way. As full and loose as the gown was, it was heavy. I untied the train.

“Thank God it will be Lent soon.” She held onto my shoulder as she stepped out of her skirts. “It’s wearisome having to entertain His Majesty in my condition.”

I wasn’t sure where I should put the train, skirt, and bodice.

“Just hang them over that chair. His Majesty likes a certain disarray, an erotic aura of having come
undone.
” This with a twisted smile. “My chemises are in that chest over there,” she said, pulling off the last of her layers. Her pubis was golden, like her hair, her breasts and belly full.

I tugged on the lid to open it. It was filled with tangled silk and fine linens. “Will any one do?”

“Oui, oui,” she said impatiently, slipping her feet into mules.

I pulled a laced chemise out by its sleeve and helped her get it on over her head, then draped an ermine-lined dressing gown over her shoulders.

She opened the door of a carved court cupboard. “Want some?” she offered, pouring out a tumbler of wine.

“No, merci.” I needed my wits.

“Allow me to introduce you to
my
magical arts.” She held up a small green jar-glass stoppered with cork and a bone salt spoon. “Add one spoon of this liquid to His Majesty’s wine.” She measured in the fluid, which was brown and smelled noxious, even at a distance. “It’s to help him relax,” she explained, adding wine from a pitcher and then sipping from the glass herself. She placed the glass on a round silver tray with a gold floral design around the edge.

I
was to serve the King?

“His Majesty comes here to be at his ease, to escape the rigors of his world. This is his sanctuary. If he speaks to you, you may respond, but otherwise remain silent.” She stood back and appraised me. Her eyes were dark, her pupils dilated. “Take off your fichu.” Her voice had a dreamy quality.

Puzzled, I untied the large linen kerchief that covered my shoulders. It was one of my own, but I’d embroidered it nicely, disguising the rents in the fabric.

“That’s better.” Athénaïs tugged on my bodice and pulled the sleeves farther down my shoulders. “Although small, you have lovely breasts, well shaped.”

I pressed my hands to my chest, flushing at such immodesty.

Athénaïs pulled my hands away, smiling. “Don’t be shy. Everything chez moi must be pleasing to His Majesty. What pleases him, pleases God.”

I hadn’t expected a spiritual connection—not in this circumstance, certainly.

“But more to the point,” she added with the look of a coquette, “what pleases His Majesty,
profits
me.” She raised her brows conspiratorially. “Understand?”

I nodded. I was beginning to understand that she was setting the stage for a scene in a sultan’s harem. Very well: I knew how to play a part.

There was the sound of commotion: men’s deep voices, the clanking of swords and clinking of spurs. “Ready?” Athénaïs said over her shoulder. I followed her out, concentrating on holding the silver tray steady. How like a stage this was.

My heart jumped as the King entered the salon, attended only by a valet. Athénaïs “swooned” into a reverence.

I stepped back to stand beside the King’s valet, my eyes lowered, my heart beating violently. His Majesty was taller than most, almost as tall as I was—a handsome, well-made man. He still had traces of stage grease and powder on his brow.

“I’m afraid I’m getting too old for this, my love,” I heard him say.

I glanced up to see Athénaïs in his embrace.

“You were magnificent. You were in your
glory
.” Athénaïs’s words were modulated, soft, and caressing. She gazed up at the King with a worshipping look I thought just a bit overplayed.

The King’s valet caught my eyes and I looked away, ashamed to have been caught staring. He was a sturdy man with round cheeks and a bushy moustache. I had seen him before—I was sure of it—but I couldn’t place where.

“Mademoiselle, you have something for His Majesty?” Athénaïs asked.

I presented the laced wine on the silver tray with a slow, controlled curtsy. I had to concentrate lest the stemmed goblet tip.

“Your Majesty, this is Mademoiselle Claude des Oeillets, my new suivante. She attended me in Paris, on the rue l’Échelle. She can be trusted,” Athénaïs added in a low voice, slipping her hand under the King’s doublet.

I stumbled back, the tray clattering.