The Shadow Queen A Novel (24 page)

The doors closed behind Athénaïs and the King.

“I’m Xavier,” the valet said in the awkward silence that followed. “Xavier Breton. Go ahead and sit,” he said. “I won’t tell.”

“Thank you, but no.” He was manful, handsome in a fashion. I wondered how old he was. Possibly forty? His hair was black, but his moustache had some gray.

“His Majesty won’t return for at least ten minutes.”

“You know the routine well.” I felt flushed. “Do I know you?” I asked, leaning against a side table for support.

“I was wondering that myself.”

His lips were full and soft, protruding from under his bushy moustache. I wondered what it would be like to lick them. (What had come over me!)

“Des Oeillets is a lovely name, but uncommon. Are you related to the actress?”

“She’s my mother,” I said, bracing myself for the inevitable scorn. Royal attendants could be the worst, fancying themselves above the world.

But his reaction was precluded by a male yelp of pleasure from behind the doors, followed by a low groan.

Oh dear, I thought.

He winked at me. “His Majesty is ahead of schedule,” he said, glancing at the clock.

That wink. And then it came back to me: swooping through the air in my flimsy gown … “I threw you a flower,” I stammered, recalling.

He laughed. “You’re
Cupid
!”

Pleased and proud, I put out my arms as if flying.

He shook his head in disbelief. “I still have that rose,” he confessed.

CHAPTER 41

C
laude?” Athénaïs turned from her toilette table to look up at me. “Are you dreaming again? Didn’t you hear what I said?”

“I’m sorry, Madame!” I said with a start, working a bit more bear grease into her scalp. I was exhausted, in truth. My position at Court hadn’t been easy to adjust to. The rhythm of each day felt off. Other than morning Mass and the King’s afternoon visit, nothing was consistent. We ate all the time—drank all the time. I was either frantically busy or required to stand invisibly, doing nothing. (That was the hardest part, by far.)

And, too, I had to admit, I’d found it unsettling having to stand side by side every afternoon with the King’s valet—the kindly Xavier Breton—making whispered conversation to the sounds of ardent passion coming from the other room. Athénaïs and the King were noisy lovers.

“Forgive me,” I said with an obliging inflection, smiling winsomely (stagecraft) at Athénaïs’s reflection in the looking glass. She was all sugar water now, but I was wary of her temper, which could blaze up in a moment like dry tinder. Most of her vexation was caused by Louise de la Vallière, I knew. The King’s obvious respect for the “official” mistress was driving her mad. Athénaïs inflamed the King’s passion, but Louise, mother of two of his children, remained his frequent companion (especially out riding, which His Majesty did religiously with her every day, even in inclement weather).

As a result, Athénaïs was tightly wound, even in repose. She did not sleep well, in spite of opium pills. Her fears of the dark were morbid, and she often asked me to share her bed. “Kiss me, Claudette,” she said sleepily to me one night, her voice thick from the pills. “What? Aren’t you curious? Come here, my pet …,” she murmured as she drifted back into dreams.

“You were saying, Madame?” I asked, gently working out a snarl.

“I need you to go to Paris.”

Gladly! I thought, resuming brushing. One hundred vigorous strokes with the boar-bristle hairbrush, then twenty with the softer one of horsehair. Almost done. “When, Madame?” I longed to see Mother and Gaston; I’d bring them tasty treats for Easter. I hadn’t had news of them and hoped that meant all was well.

“Tomorrow,” she said, pulling a folded-up paper from her bosom. “We’re running low on my amatory assistant.”

I smiled. Her “amatory assistant” was what she called the liquid I put in His Majesty’s wine.

“God forbid I should run out. You’re to deliver this note to the woman who lives next to Notre-Dame de Bonne Nouvelle, a little church just outside the old city wall. Her name is Madame Voisin, although sometimes she goes by Monvoisin, or even Deshayes. You’ll be given a parcel to bring back, so you’ll need this as well.” She handed me a beaded bag. “A gold louis and two silver écus, plus extra for a driver and some money for the Widow.” The Widow Scarron, the woman Athénaïs had hired to supervise the care of the babies—one now, soon to be two. “You will have to go in a rented coach. I can’t send you in one of mine, lest it be recognized.”

I cocked my head. There was something curious about this arrangement.

“The woman you’re to call on is a ‘seer,’ well known for her spells, powders, and love potions, all manner of things. All the ladies at Court send their maids to her—in disguise, of course. I suggest you go as your charming Monsieur.”

I SET OUT
early the next morning in pouring rain, dressed in bucket-top boots, breeches, and doublet, topped by a wig, a hat, and wearing a bushy moustache. I had a lot to accomplish in one day: pick up the parcel from the seer, check on my family, and deliver money to the Widow.

Finding the seer’s house was not easy. It was not far from where my mother and brother lived, but in the uncharted realm beyond the old city walls. The streets—if you could call them that—were uncobbled, pitted with sewage-filled holes. Barefoot children and mangy dogs stood staring from the doors of wattle-and-daub shanties. The area was ungoverned, known to be inhabited by criminals who could live there without harassment. I was thankful that it was midday, thankful that the sun was bright, thankful to be armed and dressed as a man.

“I won’t be long,” I assured the coach driver, who had laid a firearm across his knees.

The seer’s house abutted a small village church, just as Athénaïs had said. It was a modest abode, the shutters in need of repair. I knocked on the splintered plank door.

A round little woman in an apron and cap came to greet me. The skirt under her stained apron was of velvet. There was even a train attached, which she’d tucked up into a bustle. Bright glass beads adorned the folds of her neck. “Come in, come in, Monsieur.”

There was something familiar about her. “I wish to speak to Madame Voisin.” The room beyond was crammed with broken-down furnishings. An enormous Easter altar had been set up over the fireplace.

“I am she.” She grinned. She smelled of ale and tobacco.

A girl peeked in from another room, then ducked back out of sight. I could hear a man’s voice.

“The woman I serve wishes me to give you this.” I handed her the folded paper.

“Oh, bless,” she said, squinting at it. “Where have I put it?” She frowned at a table stacked with boxes, books, and baskets. “Saints help me. Wait here. You’re not overheated, are you? Would you like an ale?”

“No. No, thank you.”

Humming cheerily, she sorted through the heaps on the table.

Stars! It came to me: she was the fortune-teller on the bridge, the woman who had a booth on the Pont Marie. Madame
Catherine.
She hadn’t died in the flood, as I’d thought!

“Ah, here we are.” Two baskets spilled onto the floor as she reached for a box. She stepped over the wreckage. “I’ve vowed to my confessor to clean all this up before Easter.” This with a sweep of her hands. “As soon as I can get my lazy husband to make me some trunks,” she confided with a look of impatience.

“My mistress also seeks a cure for a simpleton,” I dared to ask, my heart pounding. “Would you happen to know someone who does that type of work?” She had spoken to me before of such a woman, someone who performed miracles.

She stared at me, and for a moment I feared she could see through my disguise. “I used to know a woman who claimed to do that sort of thing,” she said, “but she’s in an asylum now herself.” She laughed with a shrug. “If you like, I could make inquiries. But I would have to see the simple first.”

“I will let her know.” Bringing Gaston was out of the question. There would be no way to disguise him.

There was a commotion in the back room: a crow squawking, a dog barking. “So your mistress knows how to use this?” She held up a bottle similar to the one Athénaïs kept in her locked chest. “One salt spoon in a glass of wine. No more.”

I gave her the gold louis.

“Merci. God bless, Monsieur!” she said, pocketing the heavy coin. “Money back if your lady doesn’t get results.”

CHAPTER 42

I
rapped on the door of my mother’s rooms, but there was no answer. I creaked open the door and called out. “Maman? Gaston? It’s me, Claudette.” A faint light shone through the begrimed window. Our familiar things looked sordid and worn in the dimness. The fire had gone out: I could see my breath. The stench from the necessary was strong. “Maman?”

I heard a squeak from Mother’s bedroom and quickly crossed the small space to her open door. She was a tiny shape huddled under the covers in the half-dark. Alarmed, I took off a glove and touched my hand to her forehead.

“I’m just having a little rest.” Mother reached out a clammy hand. “How nice to see you.” She squinted at me. “
Is
that you?”

I peeled off the moustache. “Where is Gaston?”

“Helping put up announcements,” she said, her teeth chattering. “I thought I’d have a little sleep before I—” She began to cough.

There was blood in her spittle. Still? “I’m going for a doctor.”

“I’m
fine.
”

“I’ll have those words engraved on your tombstone.”

“That’s not funny,” Mother said with a laugh, which only made her cough again.

“No,” I said, stroking her back. I could feel her bones. “It’s not.”

I was stirring the embers to get a fire going when I heard Gaston come in. It had been six Sundays since I’d seen him. His beard was longer, almost covering his chest. He had the diffident, gentle look of a monk, innocent yet wise. I embraced him. I hadn’t realized how much I missed him. “Maman needs a doctor.”

“She,” he stuttered. He mimed her expression of horror.

I made a rueful face: of course. Mother had a mortal fear of being bled.

“She. Say.” He pointed to Mother’s room. “No. Sick.”

And of course he believed her. He wouldn’t think to doubt his mother.

He pulled a roll of papers from the waist of his breeches and handed them to me: Mother’s annual contract with the theater, to be signed before a notary. It was that time of year. “Later,” I said, putting the contract on the table, weighting it down with an earthen bowl. I could hear Mother moaning. “There’s a doctor on the rue Tiquetonne,” I said, looking for a quill and ink in the clutter and finally finding a vial illogically nested in the soup pot. Unable to find a quill, I used the end of my big iron key to scratch out the message on the margin of an old news sheet: “My mother is very sick. Please come see her.” I handed it to him along with a silver écu, one of the two coins I was supposed to give the Widow Scarron later that afternoon.

Mercy me: the Widow. I’ll figure this out in the morning, I thought, realizing that I would be spending the night.

THE DOCTOR STOOPED
to get through the door in his tall cap. He was a young man, unbearded—he looked like a boy, his cheeks baby-pink.

“Go sit with Maman,” I told Gaston. “Distract her.”

Gaston took my head in his two hands, covering my ears and pressing gently. I’d never been sure what this meant; it seemed to be a consoling gesture. I rubbed his nose with mine:
Don’t worry. Everything’s going to be all right.

He lumbered off. I listened for the door to Mother’s room to close behind him. “May I ask you to remove your doctor’s hat, Monsieur?” I said, turning to address the young man. “It may alarm my mother.” I worried she was going to put up a fight. “I should warn you that she has a fear of being bled.”

“First, the particulars,” he said, fiddling with the clasp that held the contraption on. “I’m not used to this nuisance,” he said, sighing when it finally gave way. “Her age, that type of thing.” He stood looking for somewhere to put it.

“My mother is …” I paused to calculate. “Almost fifty,” I said, taking his hat and hanging it from a wall sconce. Half a century: imagine. “Her health is normally robust. She’s never missed a day of work.”

“What does she do?”

“Theater work,” I said, intentionally vague. “This way, Docteur …?”

“Baratil,” he said, bowing. “And you are …?”

“Mademoiselle Claude des Oeillets.” I could hear Gaston humming, Mother’s chuckle. That was a good sign. Maybe she
was
fine. Maybe we hadn’t needed to go to the trouble and expense.

“You’re not …?” the doctor said with a stricken look. “Your mother … she’s not the actress, is she? La des Oeillets?”

I nodded warily. He would leave now. He wouldn’t deign to treat a sinner. Maybe I could get the coin back.

He put his hands to his cheeks, like a girl. “Madame des Oeillets is a marvel! She’s the finest actress in Paris. I’ve been to eight of her performances. No: nine. I saw her in
Sophonisbe
three times.” He blushed in his fervor.

“My mother will be happy to know that, Docteur Baratil,” I said, relieved, opening the door to Mother’s small chamber.

“I refuse to be bled,” she said glaring, her teeth chattering.

“Docteur Baratil is one of your fanatics.” It was a word players used to describe the people who came to a show over and over just to applaud a particular player. “He saw you in
Sophonisbe
three times.”

The doctor pressed his hands over his heart and bowed solemnly from the waist. “Perhaps I can help make you comfortable, Madame des Oeillets,” he suggested, “without the loss of blood. Your admirers long to see you return to the stage.”

Mother consented to an examination, but insisted that Gaston and I leave the room. We squatted against a wall, staring at the closed door, listening to the murmurs within. We’d grown up sitting on the ground—using chairs had been an uncomfortable adjustment. When anxious or worried, we often returned to our old ways.