The Shadow Queen A Novel (36 page)

He turned toward me, lightly touching my hand. (
Oh,
how I love this man.) “Did you say something to Sweet Pea about me acting a clown?”

“Some time ago,
perhaps,
” he said—but looking a bit guilty, I thought.

“She’s insisting I perform … tonight.”

“This woman is the most exquisite clown imaginable,” Monsieur Pierre said, pointing an accusing finger at me.

I’d never seen Monsieur Pierre so garrulous. I wondered what Monsieur de Maisonblanche had been putting in his mug.

“She’s every bit as good as Molière,” he went on, “may he rest in peace.”

“
That
I’d like to see,” Père Petit said, finishing off his third helping of snow custard.

I bowed my head at the reference to Molière. The wonderful playwright had practically died onstage, playing the part of a man who was convinced he was dying. That the Church had refused him a proper burial enraged me still.

“Tra la la la! May the performances begin,” Pilon called out, his voice deep and dramatic.

Gaby and I ushered everyone into the library. At the sound of Monsieur de Maisonblanche’s horn (and the dog’s subsequent bark of alarm), the twins somberly parted the drapes. Everyone applauded to see Sweet Pea draped in my shawl. She was trying hard not to giggle.

“Sometimes we are told …,” I coached gently.

“Sometimes we are told … by Heaven …
not
to do what we’re told, when … when …”

“When we detest …”

“When we
detest
what’s been chosen for us!” my daughter finished the phrase perfectly (in something of a rush). She curtsied to the cries of “Bravo!” and dove into my arms, ecstatic with her triumph.

“Well done!” Monsieur Pierre told her, patting her curls.

Gaston stepped forward and, with one hand clutching the tip of his long beard, sang “Le Beau Robert” in a voice so beautiful it brought tears to my eyes.

“My heart would die if I did not see you,” I joined in on the familiar refrain, my heart aching with the memory of our mother and father singing the song together.

Sweet Pea squirmed out of my arms and pulled me forward. “Maman, the clown!” she announced, then leapt onto Xavier’s lap, abandoning me on the makeshift stage.

I looked around the room at all the faces of my loved ones. I thought of the marketplaces of my youth, the crowds.
I
love to hear people laugh,
Father had often said. So very long ago.

“With sincere apologies to my darling daughter,” I began, “I have to confess that my clowning days are far behind me.”

“Maman!”

There was a playful “Boo!” from Gaston, followed by laughter.

I put my hands on my hips and made a cross clown-face. My daughter giggled, but Xavier shook his head:
not enough.

With a sigh, I obliged them with a simple, stomping shuffle.

Sweet Pea laughed and others guffawed. “Encore!” I heard someone call out.

Why not? I thought, and shuffled again, then flailed wildly, barely catching my balance.

A wave of laughter.

I scowled at everyone, which made them laugh all the harder. (Such fun!)

“Give your mother this,” Monsieur Pierre said. Sweet Pea ran up to me with the bowl of apples from the side table.

I regarded the fruit with apprehension. Could I? I picked up an apple, felt its weight. I picked up another, and tossed one and then the other into the air. I frowned, concentrating, adding a third and then a fourth. I could still do it! Soon I was juggling five apples while pirouetting, everything on the verge of being out of control.

Bravo! Chapeau! Formidable!

“Oh, oh, oh!” Xavier cried out, laughing so hard he was gasping.

I let the apples fall into my skirts and curtsied.

“Maman!” Sweet Pea grasped my legs. “You’re funny!”

And with that, the twins drew the curtains together. Gaby suggested that it was time for the children to go to bed and they were finally coerced, but only on condition that Monsieur Pierre go up with them and tell them a story.

I, aglow, stood outside under the star-studded sky with my sweet love, bidding him a tender adieu, and then watching him canter off on his good stout mare, waving and blowing me kisses.

THE VILLAGE CHURCH
bells woke me the next morning. Zounds. I’d overslept.

I looked out the window at the bright summer sun, the leaves fluttering against a clear blue sky. I heard Gaby’s laughing voice, someone plucking at the harpsichord. I heard the goat bleating. I heard carriage wheels, horse hooves. I heard a man’s voice: Monsieur Pierre.

I sat up. Was he leaving?
Already?

I threw on a morning gown and bonnet and slipped down the stairs. “Monsieur Pierre,” I called out. “You’re not leaving, are you?” His haversack was in the entry.

“There you are,” he said, turning. “I’ve been up for hours.”

Oh, dear.

“Gaston and Pilon and the boys are all ready to go. Something about school. They’re out back having a last look at the pigs.”

“Did you sleep at all?” I asked, adjusting the tilt of his hat, which was famously askew.

“Like a baby.”

“Have you eaten?”

He made a droll face. “Your good Gaby is intent on having me fat as a Christmas turkey.” He pointed his cane at a parcel. “She’s sending me off with enough for thirty-six men.”

“Come, sit with me for a moment outside. There’s something I’ve been wanting to say.”

He looked at me suspiciously. “Am I about to be scolded?” he asked, easing himself down next to me on a garden bench.

How dear he was. “It’s just this: I’d like you to move out here, live with us.” He was a widower now. We could care for him, look after him. I’d been giving this thought. “You could write here.”

He made a rueful laugh. “I’ve no words left in me.”

Each moment of life is a step toward death.
Corneille’s line came upon me unbidden. Sweet contentment had found me in my graying years. “Are you sure?” I said, almost pleading. I thought of my father’s bones, abandoned in a rocky field. I longed to gather my loved ones near. “I could arrange for everything. You wouldn’t have to worry about a thing. You’d have your own rooms.” His very own messes. I touched his hand, his writing hand—the hand with which so many lofty thoughts had been inked. His skin felt papery, barnacled. “You’ve been like a father to me,” I said, my heart both aching and full.

“I know, Claudette,” he said, his eyes glistening, “but you don’t have to worry about me.”

Gaston appeared in the distance, Pilon, Sweet Pea, and the leaping twins trailing behind him.

I helped Monsieur Pierre to his feet. “Is it time?” he asked.

“Yes, time,” I said.

Cradling a huge bouquet of flowers, Gaston raised one hand, fingers wide-spread.

“What is your brother saying when he does that?” Monsieur Pierre asked.

“He’s saying he’s happy.”

Grinning, I thrust both my hands up high.
Double.

“And what did you just say?”

“That I’m happier than I could ever have imagined.”

AUTHOR’S NOTE

Ten weeks and four days later, on the third of October, 1684, Monsieur Pierre Corneille—the Great Corneille—died in his rooms in Paris, on the rue d’Argenteuil, likely in the care of one of his daughters. On May 18, 1687, a little over two and a half years later, Claude des Oeillets died as well.

The King never legally recognized their daughter, Louise de Maisonblanche (who looked very much like him), but, through the persuasion of his second wife, Françoise de Maintenon—formerly the Widow Scarron, governess of the King’s children by Athénaïs—the girl was informally recognized as “of the King’s blood.” As a young woman, she married well and had eleven children. On the basis of her “secret” lineage, two of her daughters were schooled at Saint-Cyr, Maintenon’s school for daughters of the nobility. Throughout her life, Louise de Maisonblanche lived out of the public eye, and when at Versaie, remained veiled.

Very little is known about Claude’s brother, Gaston, only that he seemed to require special care. He is, thus, my creation, an imaginative amalgam of several syndromes.

Many historians suspect Claude des Oeillets of crimes, including plotting to kill the King. I prefer the carefully documented work of French historian Jean Lemoine:
Les des Oeillets: Une grande comédienne, une maitresse de Louis XIV.
Claude did have to confront her accusers, some of whom did claim to “identify” her, but Lemoine argues—with reason—that it was the work of Louvois, pursuing a vendetta against Athénaïs.

The most feared and hated man in France—but also brilliantly capable in matters of war (and thus indispensable to the King)—Louvois was described by his contemporaries as brutal and vindictive. He was guilty of many crimes, but not necessarily of some of the more intimate ones attributed to him here. After his death, the King was heard to say that he would never forgive himself for listening to Louvois, “a horrible man.”

Jean Racine was accused of poisoning his mistress, the actress Thérèse du Parc, and a warrant was issued for his arrest. Nothing came of it, and how his case came to be so rapidly dropped is unknown.

As for Athénaïs, Madame de Montespan, nobody really knows for sure how guilty she was in the use of sorcery, potentially deadly poisons, aphrodisiacs, and Black Masses, but no historian argues for her complete innocence. In later years, she devoted herself to religion, and even sought out her former rival, Louise de la Vallière, as a spiritual adviser.

In the interest of a more dramatic narrative, I sometimes changed the timing of events. In Act II, for example, the events happened over a longer period of time. It is possible, if not likely, that Claude and her family arrived in Paris in 1658 (when, in fact, the Seine did flood), not two years later, in 1660. The King and his new bride were not in Paris until the fall of that year, and
The Golden Fleece
was not performed until the following spring. In spite of these and other shifts, squeezes, cuts, and additions to the historical record, I hope that something of the true spirit of the time is conveyed.

Also, in an attempt not to overwhelm the reader and, as well, to intensify the core relationships, I have pruned the family trees. A reader in pursuit of the historical record can safely assume that there were a great many more people about. For example, Claude had a second brother, François de Vin, and several cousins. As well, there were three additional Mortemart daughters.

The conflict between the theater, government, and the Catholic Church continued on for another hundred years, until the French Revolution. The Company of the Blessed Sacrament, like other religious groups of the day, acted in ways that could be seen as both positive and negative. As well as sponsoring hospitals and other works of genuine charity, they condemned players and were very active in censoring theater. They were, indeed, an extremist secret society, and in many ways more powerful than the King. Some even claim that they were plotting to overthrow the King.

I was first enchanted by the world of seventeenth-century French theater almost a half century ago—Corneille, Molière, Racine! I hope the French forgive me for giving their idols clay feet, but I will entirely understand if they do not. I also beg the indulgence of La Comédie-Française. Its creation, by royal decree, put an end to the theatrical wars of the period and ensured a certain stability in the lives of the players, but at the cost of creative vitality—initially. No longer, certainly. Some of the finest theatrical performances I have ever seen have been at La Comédie-Française.

For those readers who know and love Paris well, you’re no doubt puzzled by the rue de la Comtesse d’Artois. Today that street is a section of the popular rue Montorgueil (“Mount Pride”), renamed during the French Revolution. Other streets: the rue Vieux Chemin de Charenton is now the rue de Bercy; the rue de Thorigny is now the rue de la Perle; the rue Neuve de Bourgogne is now the rue Française. The Rue Saint-Denis, one of the oldest in Paris, had different names in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, but I was unable to determine if it went under another name in the seventeenth.

For more detailed notes, please visit my website: www.SandraGulland.com.

CAST OF CHARACTERS

NOTE: fictional characters are in italics. All others are historically based.

THE DES OEILLETS FAMILY AND FRIENDS

Nicolas de Vin, known as des Oeillets—an actor.

Alix Faviot, known as Madame des Oeillets—an actress, Nicolas’s wife.

Claude (Claudette) des Oeillets—their daughter and eldest child, aged twelve when the story begins.

Gaston de Vin—their son, seven years younger than his sister, Claudette, aged five when the story begins.

Pilon—a boy with a heart-shaped mark on his cheek, one of the Winter Swallows.

Courageux—a player with their former troupe.

Monsieur Martin—their first landlord in Paris.

Docteur Baratil—a young doctor.

THE WORLD OF THE COURT

Royalty and Inner Circle

Louis XIV—born in 1638, and therefore the same age as Claudette; known as the Sun King.

Anne of Austria—Queen of France, married to King Louis XIII; mother of Louis XIV and Philippe; on the ascendancy of her son Louis to the throne, became the Queen Mother; a woman of considerable piety.

Maria Theresa of Spain—wife of Louis XIV, Queen of France.

Philippe—younger brother of Louis XIV by two years: first in line for the throne and, as such, known formally as Monsieur. His bisexuality was tolerated by Louis XIV.

Henriette—Philippe’s wife, the sister of King Charles II of England, known formally as Madame. She died young; poisoning was suspected but never proved.

La Grande Mademoiselle—the King’s eccentric, feminist cousin, and the wealthiest individual in France.

Nobility and Courtiers