Have you met Angélique? If you haven't,
you've missed one of the most irresistible heroines in the history of fiction.
Saucy, emerald-eyed slave of passion, Angélique’s stormy adventures have taken
her from the gutters of Paris to the harems of Africa to the silken prison of a
king. Compared by critics to Fanny Hill, Amber and Scarlett O'Hara, Angélique
has loved, intrigued, hated and fought her way into the hearts and lives of
millions of readers everywhere in the world.
HE WAS LOUIS XIV, KING OF FRANCE, fought over by
exquisite, glittering women. But there was one he had not yet possessed—and she
was the one woman he wanted.
SHE WAS THE FABULOUS ANGÉLIQUE a woman risen from the gutters of
Paris to the giddy heights of power and position in the King's Court
Angélique knew Louis was irresistibly drawn to her beauty, yet all
his mistresses were also beautiful, and he discarded them like toys. That, Angélique
could never bear. She knew she must find ways to keep the King's passion for
her aflame!
Here is the tremendous novel of seventeenth-century Versailles,
the most fascinating period in French history.
THE WAY TO THE ROYAL BED
Against the background of the wicked,
pulsating intrigues of the court of Louis XIV, Angélique battles foppish
courtiers, noble harlots and scheming ladies to become the favorite of the
King.
Bantam Books by
Sergeanne Golon
Ask your bookseller for
the books you have missed
ANGÉLIQUE AND THE KING
ANGÉLIQUE IN BARBARY
ANGÉLIQUE IN LOVE
ANGÉLIQUE IN REVOLT
THE COUNTESS ANGÉLIQUE
THE TEMPTATION OF
ANGÉLIQUE
Angélique
and the
King
by Sergeanne
Golon
euvo A National general
company
This low-priced Bantam Book
has been completely reset in a type face
designed for easy reading, and was printed
from new plates. It contains the complete
text of the original hard-cover edition.
NOT ONE WORD HAS BEEN OMITTED.
ANGELIQUE AND THE KING
A Bantam Book I published by arrangement with 1. B. Lippincott
Company
PRINTING HISTORY
Lippincott edition published May 1969
Bantam edition published November 1961
2nd printing........June 1966
6th printing .....January
1968
3rd printing........May 1966 7th printing ........ June 1969
4th printing ........ July 1966 8th printing___February 1970
5th printing.....October 1966
9th printing ....... April 1971
10th printing
Translation by Monroe Steams
All rights reserved. Copyright © 1960 by Opera Mundi.
For information address: J. B. Lippincott Company,
East Washington Square, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania 1910S,
Published simultaneously In the United States and Canada
Bantam Books are published by Bantam Books, Inc., a National
General company. Its trade-mark, consisting of the words "Bantam
Books" and the portrayal of a bantam, is registered in the United States
Patent Office and in other countries. Marca Registrada. Bantam Books, Inc., 666
Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10019.
PRINTED IN THE
UNITED STATES OF
AMERICA
* *
*
Cast of
Characters:
PART ONE: The Court
PART TWO: Philippe
PART THREE: The King
* *
*
The time of action in
this novel is roughly 1667 to 1675.
The following is a
list of the principal characters. Those marked with an asterisk are known more
or less prominently to history, but memoirs of the period indicate that almost
every person mentioned here in connection with the Court of Louis XIV actually
existed, as did the events and politics.
Angélique. Born Angélique de Sancé of a family of the
minor nobility in Poitou, she first married Comte Joffrey de Peyrac of the
Palace of Gay Learning in Toulouse, by whom she had two sons, Florimond and
Cantor. Joffrey was condemned to death at the stake by Louis XIV on a
trumped-up charge of sorcery. Angélique, reduced to beggary, became a member of
the Paris vagabonds whose headquarters were the Court of Miracles in the
Saint-Denis quarter. Later, under the name of Madame de Morens, she opened a
chocolate shop with David Chaillou whereby she made a great deal of money which
she invested shrewdly and became extremely rich, and friendly with literary
Parisian society. Having been in love with her cousin Philippe since they were
both children, she more or less blackmailed him into marrying her, thus gaining
a position in the high nobility of the realm of France.
Baktiari Bey. The ambassador to France of the Shah of
Persia.
Barbe. The nurse of Angélique children, a friend from her days of
poverty.
Barcarole. Queen Marie-Thérèse's dwarf, and a friend
of Angélique's from her
Court of Miracles
days.
Binet.
Louis XIV's wig-maker
and hairdresser, introduced to the
monarch by Angélique, whose coiffeur he had also been.
Bontemps. Louis XIV's confidential valet.
• Bossuet (1627-1704).
One of the most famous preachers of all time. His funeral orations for
"Madame" and for the Prince de Condé are among the world's classics
of oratory. Louis XIV made him a Bishop and entrusted the education of the Dauphin to him.
Cantor. Angélique’s younger son by Joffrey de Peyrac.
* Colbert (1619-1683). First an apprentice in a
draper's shop, Jean Baptiste Colbert subsequently entered the French War
Office. He became Comptroller of France in 1665. Under his supervision the
country's revenues doubled. He greatly stimulated French industries,
established foreign colonies, and encouraged trade. Possibly his greatest
achievement was the creation of a powerful French Navy. In many ways he founded
a whole new epoch in France.
• Condé, Prince
Louis (II) de (1621-1686), was known as "the Great Condé." In
the civil wars of the Fronde, the details of which are among the most
complicated of all political struggles, he fought against the Royal Party
successfully until finally defeated by Turenne in 1658. The following year he
was pardoned and entered the military service of the then unified France,
winning many campaigns. A brilliant strategist and sincere patron of the arts,
he was one of the greatest men of his time.
De Gesures. High Chamberlain of Louis XIV.
Duchesne. Steward of Louis XIV.
Flipot. Angélique’s lackey. A friend from her Court of Miracles
days.
Florimond. Angélique’s older son by Joffrey de
Peyrac.
•Fouquet (1615-1680). Comptroller of France
from 1659 to 1661, when his extravagance, maladministration and dishonesty were
revealed by Colbert. Tried unfairly, he was sentenced to life imprisonment in
the fortress of Pignerol. He was a deadly enemy of Joffrey de Peyrac,
Angélique’s first husband.
Gilandon. The surname of two impoverished spinsters
Angélique employed as
ladies-in-waiting or chaperones.
• Grande Mademoiselle, Mademoiselle
de Montpensier (1627-1693). The daughter of Gaston d'Orléans, Louis
XIII's brother and the son of
Henri IV; hence the first cousin of Louis XIV, against whom she fought in the
wars of the Fronde. Later pardoned, she lived at Louis XIV's Court, where she
fell in love with Lauzun.
Great Coesre (Wood-Bottom). A legless, loathsome
cripple who reigned as King of the Paris underworld in the Court of Miracles,
and was once a protector of Angélique.
Javotte. Angélique’s maid. One of her friends from her Court of
Miracles days.
Joffrey de Peyrac, Comte
de Toulouse. Angélique’s
first husband.
• Lauzun, Péguilin
de (1632-1723), a Gascon soldier and minor nobleman, a favorite of Louis
XIV and an old friend of Angélique. History testifies to his romance with
Mademoiselle de Montpensier (La Grande Mademoiselle) , Louis XIV's cousin.
• La Vallière,
Louise de (1644-1710), mistress of Louis XIV
from about 1660 until she was completely supplanted by Madame de Montespan in
1674. Known as "the little one," she was shy and retiring, but was
famous for her winning personality.
La Violette. Steward and valet of Philippe du
Plessis-Bellière.
Lesdiguières. A young priest employed by Angélique as
supervisor of her sons' education.
• Louis XIV
(1638-1715), King of France from 1643, when his father, Louis XIII, died,
leaving the government in the hands of his widow Anne of Austria and Cardinal
Mazarin. In 1660 he married Marie-Thérèse of Spain, and after the death of
Mazarin early the following year, took the reins of the kingdom into his own
hands. He became something of a despot, but raised France from anarchy to a
world power through his skillful employment of ministers and
militarists
wiser than he. His Court was so brilliant, and he stimulated art
and literature to such a degree that he ranks among the greatest monarchs of
history and probably deserved the title of "Sun King." His character
is best expressed in his famous remark: "L'état c'est moi"
("I am the State").
• Louvois (1641-1691). Minister of War under Louis
XIV, and son of Le Tellier, Chancellor and Secretary of State. A ruthless
militarist, he was largely responsible for the efficient organization and
operation of the French Army, and many of his measures still obtain in it.
• Madame (Henriette d'Angleterre), daughter of
Charles I, sister of Charles II of England, married to Philippe, Duc d’Orléans,
brother of Louis XIV, to whom she bore two daughters.
Malbrant. Fencing-master of Angélique’s sons. An old
man, he was nicknamed "Swordthrust" because of his preoccupation with
all kinds of swordplay.
• Marie-Thérèse, daughter of Philip IV of Spain and
Queen of Louis XIV of France from 1660 to her death in 1683.
• Molière (Jean Baptiste Poquelin) (1622-1673). Probably the greatest of
French playwrights. One of his finest plays, Tartuffe (1664), referred
to in the novel, was a bitter satire on religious hypocrites. His play
watched by Angélique and Philippe
was probably The School for Wives (1662).
• Monsieur (Philippe, Duc
d’Orléans) (1640-1671), brother
of Louis XIV and founder of the existing House of Orléans.
• Montausier (1610-1690). A Huguenot who fought on
the royal side in the wars of the Fronde, and was later made a Duke and served
as guardian of the Dauphin from 1668 to 1679. Austerely pious and brusque, he
is thought to be the model
for Molière's Le
Misanthrope, but he was also a patron of literature.
• Montespan, Athenais
de (1641-1707), born a Mortemart
of Poitou, was married to a minor Gascon noble, Pardaillan de Montespan. In
1668 she became Louis XIV's mistress, and ruled as uncrowned queen of France.
• Ninon de Lenclos (1616-1706), a Parisian courtesan of
great and lasting beauty, famous for her wit and her influence over the great
of her time in art, literature and politics.
Parajonc, Philonide de. A "précieuse," or
bluestocking intellectual, of Paris. In the reign of Louis XIII the "précieuses"
held literary salons in an attempt to refine the somewhat crude manners of
that time. Their efforts, however, were often more affected and silly than
inspirational. They indulged in artificial, "poetic" language, and by
the time of this novel were considered passé".
Philippe, Marquis du Plessis-Bellière, Angélique’s second husband, was one of
the great nobles of France, dearly beloved by Louis XIV, whose Master of the
Hunt he was, as well as a Marshal of France. Handsome, but cold and something
of a misogynist, he bitterly resented having to marry Angélique, whom he abused
on their wedding night at his Castle of Plessis.
Racan, Gaspard de. Tutor to Angélique’s sons.
Rakoczy. An exiled Hungarian prince and revolutionary.
Roger. Angélique’s steward or majordomo. Like most others of his
profession at that time he was a Swiss.
• Scarron, Françoise (1635-1719), was married first to the
deformed but highly respected poet Scarron, who died in 1660, leaving her in
great poverty. She was befriended by Madame de Montespan, who engaged her as
governess for the children she bore the King.
• Scudéry, Madeleine
de (1607-1701). A french novelist prominent in society and in literary
circles. Her most famous work, Le Grand Cyrus, gives a fine picture of
the French aristocracy of the period.
• Sévigné Madame de
(1626-1696). A famous wit
of the period of the novel, best-known for the brilliant, charming
letters she wrote her daughter, who lived in Provence, about life in Paris and
in the Court of Louis XIV. These are valuable source material for 17th Century
social history.
Solignac. High Chamberlain of Queen Marie-Thérèse,
and a leader of the Brotherhood of the Holy Sacrament, a zealous, puritanical
society devoted to correcting loose morals.
Thérèse. Angélique’s maid, and a friend from her days of poverty.
Vivonne. Brother of Madame de Montespan and an Admiral of the French
fleet.
* *
*
chapter 1
ANGÉLIQUE could not fall sound asleep. Exciting visions of the
thrilling events the next day would bring danced through her head. She was like
a child on Christmas Eve.
Twice she had got up
and struck a flint to light the candle so that she could feast her eyes again
on the two costumes that lay on chairs near her bed—one for the next day's
royal hunt, the other for the festivities that would follow it.
The hunting costume
really pleased her. She had sent the tailor precise instructions for giving the
pearl gray velvet jacket a masculine cut that would set off the delicate curves
of her youthful figure. Her huge cavalier's hat was of white felt, and ostrich
plumes cascaded over it like a snowdrift. But what delighted her most of all
was the stock. Of the very latest style, it would, she fully expected, attract
the attention and excite the curiosity of the great Court ladies.
After making several
turns about her neck the yards of starched linen were fastened into a big knot.
The ends, intricately embroidered with seed pearls, fanned out like the wings
of a butterfly. The idea for it had come to her just the night before. For an
hour she had posed before her looking glass trying on at least ten of the
loveliest cravats that the draper of the Golden Casket linen shop had brought
her, before she finally decided to tie one in an even more dashing style than
the cavaliers themselves. She knew that a woman's face does not show off to
best advantage above the severe lines of a riding habit's collar. This
billowing white wave beneath her chin would give the whole outfit a feminine
touch.
Back in bed, she
tossed and turned. She thought of ringing for a cup of verbena tea to soothe
her into sleep, for a few hours of sleep she must
have in order to face the heavy schedule of the morrow. In the late morning the
hunt would meet in the forest of Fausse-Repos. Like all the other guests of the
King who were coming from Paris, Angélique would have to start out very early
to meet the parties coming from Versailles at the crossroads of Les Boeufs at
the appointed time. There, in the heart of the forest, were stables to which
the aristocrats sent their saddle horses long enough in advance so that the
mounts would be completely fresh for the long chase after the fleet stags.
Earlier in the day Angélique had seen to it that her precious Ceres was sent
there with two grooms. She had paid a thousand pistoles for that
pureblooded Spanish mare.
Once more she arose
and lit the candle. There was no doubt about it, her ball gown was a total
success— flame-colored satin with a cloak more lustrous than clouds at sunrise,
and a bodice embroidered with tiny pink mother-of-pearl flowers. For jewels she
had chosen pink pearls. They would dangle in clusters from her ears, and a
string of them was to entwine her neck and shoulders in three great strands. A
tiara in the form of a crescent moon would adorn her hair.
All these she had got
from a jeweler she fancied because he entranced her with his tales of the warm
seas that once had bathed these pearls, the intricate bargainings by which he
had acquired them, the long travels they had made sewn into packets of silk
that passed from Arab trader to Greek to Venetian. He could quintuple their
value in her eyes simply by his skill in making every pearl seem fabulously
rare, as if it had been secretly stolen from the gardens of the gods.
In spite of the
fortune it had cost her to possess these treasures, Angélique had never had one
of those agonizing second thoughts that so often follow a vain and wildly
extravagant purchase. She gazed at them ecstatically as they lay in their white
velvet cases on her bedside table.
She had an insatiable sensuous desire for all the exquisite and
precious things of life. This was her vengeful compensation for the years
of hardship she had known. Thank heaven she had put an end to
those early enough for her still to have time to deck her youthful beauty in
gorgeous jewels and lavish gowns, to surround herself with beautiful pieces of
furniture, rich tapestries, ornaments fashioned by artists of the first rank.
Everything about her
gave the impression of costliness but also of discrimination, displaying the
simplicity of true sophistication without a trace of vulgarity.
She had lost none of
her zest for living. This was a constant wonder to her, and she secretly
thanked God that her trials had not broken her spirit. She still had the
enthusiasm of a child.
She had seen far more
of life than most young women of her age, yet had been less disillusioned by
the world. And like a child she could still get a wondrous excitement out of
little things. If you've never known what it is to be hungry, how can you savor
the taste of a piece of warm fresh bread? And once you've walked barefoot over
the cobblestones of Paris only at last to own pearls like these, how can you
doubt that you're the happiest woman in the whole wide world?
Once again she blew
out the candle, and sliding down between the soft iris-damasked sheets, she
stretched out, thinking: "What a joy to be rich and beautiful and young .
. . !"
She did not add:
". . . and desirable." Such a thought caused her to remember
Philippe. A dark cloud passed over the face of her radiant happiness. She
heaved a sigh from deep in her breast.
"Philippe!"
How she despised him!
She recalled the two months that had gone by since her second marriage—to
Philippe, Marquis du Plessis-Bellière—and the outrageous way in which she had
been constrained by it.
The day after
Angélique was received at Versailles, the Court returned to Saint-Germain. She
had had to go back to Paris. Naturally she thought it her right to live at her
husband's hotel on the Faubourg Saint-Antoine. But after she had finally made
up her mind to go there, she found the doors shut against
her. The Swiss majordomo answered her protests by saying that his master was
following the King and the Court, and that he had no instructions about her.
She had had to go to her own Hotel de Beautreillis, which she had owned before
her marriage. Since then she had been living there, waiting for another
invitation from the King that would allow her to take her proper place at
Court. But none had come, and she was beginning to get more and more worried
about being ignored.
Then one day Madame
de Montespan, whom she met at Ninon de Lenclos', said to her:
"What's happened
to you, my dear? Have you lost your mind? You've not replied to three
invitations of the King's. Once you had a fever. Then some stomach disorder
made you dizzy. Or else a pimple on your nose so spoiled your beauty that you
did not dare appear. The King does not like such shabby excuses. He has a
horror of people who are always ailing. You are going to displease him."
That was how
Angélique discovered that her husband, whom the King had asked to bring her to
various entertainments, not only had failed to tell her of the invitations but
had made her look absurd in the King's eyes.
"At any rate, I
warn you," Madame de Montespan concluded, "with my own ears I heard
the King tell the Marquis du Plessis that he wanted to see you at Wednesday's
hunt. 'Try to see,' he said rather wryly, 'that Madame du Plessis-Bellière’s
health does not compel her to neglect us. Otherwise I shall have to take it
upon myself to advise her by letter to go back to the country.' In other words,
you are on the brink of disgrace."
Angélique was
astonished, then furious. It did not take her long to weave a plan to unravel
this web of deception. She would go straight to the meet and confront Philippe with
the inescapable fact that there she was in person. If the King happened to
question her, she would tell him the truth. Why not? In the presence of the
King, Philippe would have to confess.
With the greatest of
secrecy she had had her new costumes made, had sent her mare ahead, and
scheduled her departure in her own coach for daybreak. And now dawn would soon
be there, and she would not have had a wink of sleep. She forced herself to
shut her eyes, dismiss all thoughts from her mind, and glide softly into
slumber.
Suddenly her little
griffon dog Arius, which was curled up into a ball under the counterpane,
shivered, then sprang up on all fours and began to make hoarse sounds in his
throat. Angélique caught hold of him and nestled him to her under the
bedclothes. "Shh, Arius, be quiet!"
The tiny animal continued to growl and tremble. For a second or
two he stayed quiet, then leaped up again yapping sharply.
"What's the
matter, Arius?" Angélique was irritated. "What's going on? Do you hear
a mouse?"
She covered his muzzle with her hand and strained her ears to
catch what it might have been that disturbed her pet. Yes, she detected a
sound, so barely perceptible that she could not tell at once where it came
from. It was like a hard object slipping over a highly polished surface. Arius
kept up his muffled growling.
"Quiet, Arius,
quiet!"
Oh, would she never
get to sleep!
Suddenly behind her
closed eyelids Angélique had a vision of dark hands emerging as if from ancient
memories—the filthy, horny hands of the Paris thieves that in the thick
darkness of night press against the panes as they silently slice through them
with a concealed diamond.
She sprang up in bed.
Yes, that was what it was. The sound was coming from the direction of the bay
window. Robbers!
Her heart was
pounding so violently that all she could hear was its dull thudding.
Arius wriggled away
from her and began yapping again. She caught him. and covered him up to stifle
his barks. When she was finally able to strain her ears once more she had a distinct impression that
there was someone in the room. The window slammed. "They" had
penetrated.
"Who's
there?" she shrieked, more dead than alive.
No one answered. But
footsteps were approaching from the alcove.
"My
pearls!" she thought.
She thrust out her
hand and seized a fistful of jewels. Almost at once the suffocating weight of a
heavy blanket descended upon her. Sinewy arms wrapped themselves around her,
paralyzing her. She yelled into the thick folds of the cloth, squirming like an
eel until she had freed herself.
Catching her breath,
she screamed. "Help! He-l . . ."
Two thick thumbs dug into her throat, strangling her. Great
crimson bombs exploded before her eyes. The frantic yipping of the dog grew
dimmer, farther and farther away.
"I am going to
die," she thought. "Strangled by a housebreaker! This is too
insane! Philippe! Philippe!"
Everything went
black.
As consciousness
returned to her, Angélique felt something round slip through her fingers and
fall on the flagstones with a click.
"My
pearls!"
Numbly she leaned
over the edge of the pallet on which she was lying and saw the strand of pink
pearls. She must have kept it clutched in her fist while they were carrying her
off and bringing her to this strange spot.
Angélique ran her
smarting eyes over the room. She was in a kind of cell into which the hazy
light of dawn was slowly seeping through a little barred gothic window, dimming
the yellow glow of a guttering oil lamp in a niche above her. The furnishings
consisted of a rude table and a three-legged stool, and the wretched cot made
of a square of wood on which had been laid a horsehair mattress.
"Where am I?
Whose hands am I in? What do they want of me?"
They had not stolen
her pearls. Her bonds were gone, but the coarse blanket still lay on top of her
thin pink silk nightgown.
Angélique reached out
and picked up the necklace. Mechanically she put it around her throat. Then she
changed her mind and slipped it under the scratchy bolster.
Outside a silvery
bell began to tinkle. Another answered it. Angélique’s eyes lit on a small
wooden crucifix hanging on the white-washed wall, a sprig of boxwood stuck
behind it.
"A convent! I am
in a convent."
She could just
distinguish the faraway tones of an organ and voices chanting psalms.
"What is the
meaning of all this? Oh, good God, how my throat hurts!"
For a moment she lay
prostrate, her thoughts in a turmoil, hoping she could persuade herself that
she was only having a bad dream and that at length the ridiculous nightmare
would pass and she would awake.
The ringing sound of
footsteps in the corridor made her sit up again. A man's footsteps. Perhaps her
kidnapper's. Ah! She would not let him go without first dragging an explanation
out of him. She had seen plenty of highwaymen and had no fear of them. If
necessary, she would remind him that Wood-Bottom, the king of the underworld, was
a friend of hers.
Whoever it was
stopped outside her door. A key turned in the lock, and the person entered. For
a moment Angélique was dumbfounded at the sight of the man who stood before
her.
"Philippe!"
The appearance of her
husband was the last thing she expected. For the whole two months she had been
in Paris Philippe had not visited her a single time, not even paid her a formal
call or otherwise remembered he had a wife.
"Philippe,"
she repeated. "Oh, Philippe, what a relief! Have you come to rescue
me?"
An uncustomary frigidity in his glance chilled the emotion with
which she had greeted him.
He stood stock still
by the door, stunningly handsome in his high white leather boots and his dove
gray doeskin tunic with its silver braid. The curls of his scrupulously dressed
blond wig trailed over his collar of Venetian lace. White plumes flowed over
the brim of his gray velvet hat.
"How is your
health, Madame?" he asked. "Good?"
It was as if he were
greeting her in a drawing room.
"I . . . oh, I
don't know what's happened, Philippe," Angélique stammered. "Someone
attacked me in my bedroom. They carried me off and brought me here. Who could
have done such a thing?"
"I shall be glad
to tell you. It was La Violette, my steward."
Angélique was too
astonished to speak.
"It was at my
orders," he added obligingly.
The truth burst upon
Angélique. She jumped up.
Still in her
nightgown, she ran barefoot over the icy flagstones to the window and gripped
the iron bars. The sun was rising on a fine summer's day. The King and the
Court would hunt the stag through the forest of Fausse-Repos, but Madame du
Plessis-Bellière would not be among those present.
Beside herself with
rage, she turned on Philippe. "You did this to keep me from appearing at
the royal hunt!"
"How quick you
are!"
"Don't you know
that His Majesty will never forgive me for this towering insult? He will send
me back to the country."
"That is exactly
what I hope he will do."
"Oh, what a . .
. a fiend you are!"
"Indeed? Well,
this is not the first time a woman has honored me with that title."
Philippe laughed. His
wife's rage seemed to please his saturnine temperament.
"Not such a fiend
as that, after all," he said. "I am going to have you confined in
this convent so that you may find a new life through prayer and abstinence. God
Himself can find no fault with that."
"How long must I
be a penitent?"
"We shall see .
. . We shall see. A few days at least."
"Philippe, I . .
. I actually believe I hate you."
He laughed louder
than ever, his lips stretched back over his fine white teeth in a cruel grin.
"You are
responding beautifully. It makes changing your plans worth while."
"Changing my
plans! Is that what you call it? Break into my house . . . kidnap me! And to
think that when that monster was strangling me, it was you I called out to for
help!"
Philippe's laughter
turned into a deep frown. He came close to her to inspect the bruises that
spotted her throat.
"Damn! The
rascal went a little too far. But I rather imagine he found his work cut out
for him. He's a fellow who does only what he's told. I instructed him to be as
subtle as possible so that he would not attract the attention of your
household. He got in through the gate at the end of your garden. Never mind,
next time I'll tell him not to be so rough."
"So you think
there will be a next time?"
"So long as you
refuse to be tamed, yes. So long as you toss your willful head and give me
insolent answers and look for ways to disobey me. I am the Master of the King's
Hunt. I am used to handling ferocious bitches. They always end licking my
hands,"
"I would rather
die," Angélique said savagely. "You would rather kill me
anyway."
"No, I prefer to
make you my slave."
He fixed his hard
blue eyes on her so penetratingly that she was forced to turn away. The duel
promised to be a deadly one, but she had experienced others like it. She faced
him defiantly again.
"You expect too
much. What methods do you intend to use to get your way?"
"Oh, I have
plenty of little ways," he said, pouting. "Lock you up, for example.
How would you like to have your visit here extended? Or else, I could separate
you from your sons."
"You would not
do that."
"Why not? I can
also cut off your food and reduce you to
a bare subsistence diet, compel you to beg me for bread to keep yourself
alive."
"Now you are
being silly. My fortune belongs to me."
"All that can be
arranged. You are my wife. A husband has absolute power. I am not so stupid
that I can't find a means of having your money put in my name."
"I will defend
my rights."
"Who will listen
to you? I recall you used to have a facility for getting the King's ear, but
after your social blunder of not putting in an appearance today I am afraid
that will not do you any good. Now, on that note I shall depart and leave you
to your meditations. I must not miss the unleashing of the pack. Is there
anything else you would like to say to me?"
"Yes. I hate you
with all my heart and soul."
"That is nothing
to what you will do. Someday you will pray for death to deliver you out of my
power."
"What are you
getting out of all this?"
"The sweet
pleasure of revenge. You have humiliated me so deeply by forcing me to marry
you that I could cheerfully see you weep and implore my mercy and turn into a
half-crazed wretched creature in rags."
"What a charming picture! Why not the
torture chamber while you're at it—brand the soles of my feet with red hot
irons, the rack, thumbscrews . . . ?"
"No, I shall not
go that far. Perhaps I derive a certain pleasure from the beauty of your
body."
"Indeed? Who would ever guess it? You certainly do not show
it."
Philippe had almost
reached the door. He turned toward her, his eyes half-closed.
"So you are
complaining about that, eh, my dear? What a happy surprise! Have I disappointed
you then? Haven't I made a costly enough sacrifice on the altar of your charms?
Have you so few lovers to worship you that you need a husband's devotion? So
far as that goes, I had a distinct impression that you were rather loath to
perform the duties of your wedding night. But I could have been mistaken."
"Get out,
Philippe, let me alone." With terror Angélique watched him come toward
her. She felt naked and defenseless in her filmy nightgown.
"The more I look
at you, the less I want to leave," he said.
He clasped her to
him, pressing her close against his body. She shuddered, her throat too tight
to release the nervous sobs that choked her.
"Let me go, let me go, I beg you."
"I love to hear
you beg."
He lifted her like a
wisp of straw and let her drop on the nun's pallet.
"Philippe, have
you forgotten we are in a convent?"
"So? Do you
think two hours in this sanctimonious retreat have endowed you with a vow of
chastity? You do not need to stand on ceremony, I have always got a delicious
sensation out of raping nuns."
"You are the
lowest creature I have ever known."
"Your love talk
is hardly the sweetest I have ever heard," he said, stripping off his
baldric. "You should spend more time in the drawing room of the lovely
Ninon. No more affectations, Madame. You remind me, quite happily, of the duty
I owe you, and I intend to perform it."
Angélique shut her eyes. She had ceased to resist him, knowing
from experience what a struggle would cost her. Passively she endured the
humiliating and repulsive embraces he forced upon her painfully as a kind of
punishment.
All she had to do,
she reflected, was behave like ill-mated women—and, Lord knows, their name is
legion— who endure their obligations by thinking of their lovers or saying
their rosary while they suffer the attentions of the pot-bellied old man their
greedy father has bound them to.
Such, obviously, was
not the case with Philippe. He was neither middle-aged nor pot-bellied, and it
was Angélique herself who had wanted to marry him. Well she might repent of
that now, but it was too late. She would have to learn to accept the master she
had given herself to.
What a brute he was!
For him a woman was only a thing to be crassly
pursued for the gratification of his physical desires. But he was a lithe,
muscular brute just the same, and in his arms it was hard for her to let her
thoughts wander to someone else, or to say her prayers. He charged to the
attack like a seasoned warrior under the command of lust. The thrill of battle,
the thirst for slaughter had long accustomed him to do without any tenderness.
Nevertheless, as he
released her he made a slight gesture that she later believed she must have
imagined. Placing his hand on her smooth upturned neck at the very spot where
the gross fingers of the steward had left their livid traces, he had let it
linger there for a moment as if in a slight caress.
Then he stood erect,
surveying her with a mean sneer.
"Well, my
pretty, it would seem you are growing wiser. Just as I said you would. Soon you
will be cringing. Meanwhile I wish you a pleasant stay within these thick
walls. You can weep and moan and curse as much as you like. No one will hear
you. The nuns have orders to bring you food, but not to let you set your foot
outside this cell, and they have an excellent reputation for being efficient
jailors. You are by no means the only unwilling boarder in this convent. Enjoy
yourself, Madame. Perhaps this evening you will hear the hunting horns of the
King as they pass by. I shall order them to blow a fanfare just for you
alone."
Then with a burst of
mocking laughter he was gone. How hateful his laughter was! He knew only the
laughter of revenge.
Angélique remained
motionless under the rough, heavy blanket on which lingered the masculine scent
of jasmine water and new leather. She was tired and listless. The strain of the
night, the vexation of the quarrel, the demands of her husband had sapped her
energies. Overpowered as she had been, she had no more strength of her own. Her
body lapsed into a deep state of blissful relaxation.
Unexpectedly she felt
sick at her stomach. The sour taste of bile was in
her mouth, and sweat broke out on her forehead. She struggled for a moment
against this rebellious sickness, then fell back on the pallet more dispirited
than ever.
That touch of
faintness betokened the symptoms that for a month she had tried to ignore. Now
she had to face the facts. The dreadful wedding night at Plessis-Bellière,
which she could not think of without flushing with shame, had borne fruit. She
was pregnant. She was carrying Philippe's child, the child of that man who
hated her and had sworn to torture her with his revenge until he drove her
insane.
For a moment Angélique felt so defeated
that she was tempted to give up the struggle and succumb. If only she could
sleep! Sleep might give her courage again.
But this was no time
for sleep. It was already late in the morning. She would have aroused the
King's displeasure and be forever banished from Versailles, even from Paris.
She sprang up, ran to
the door and pounded with her fists on its thick wood panels until her knuckles
were raw.
"Open the
door," she shrieked. "Let me out!"
Now the sun was flooding the cell. At that
very moment the King's hunting party would be gathering in the Cour d'Honneur.
The carriages of his guests would be filing through the Porte Saint-Honoré on
their way from Paris to join it. Angélique alone would be absent from the grand
rendezvous.
"I must be
there! I must be there! If the King turns against me, I am done for. Only the
King can keep Philippe in line. I must get to the royal hunt, cost what it may!
"Did not
Philippe mention that I could hear the hunting horns from my window? This
convent must be near Versailles. Oh, I have got to get out of this place!"
But long as she paced
the cell, she could find no solution.
Finally she heard the
dull echo of wooden shoes clomping down the corridor. She froze tensely, full
of sudden hope. Then she stretched herself
out again on her pallet and feigned an attitude of not having a care in the
world.
A key turned in the
lock, and a woman entered. She was not a nun, but apparently a servant. She
wore a linen bonnet and a corduroy gown, and she was carrying a tray.
The visitor growled a
surly "Good-morning," and began unloading the tray on to the table.
It was a skimpy meal—a jug of water, a bowl from which rose a faint odor of
beans and bacon grease, a round loaf of bread. Angélique watched the servant
closely. Perhaps this woman would be the only contact she would have with the
outside world for the entire day. She would have to take advantage of this
meeting.
The servant did not
seem to be the usual fat, clumsy peasant type that generally cleans up around a
convent. She was young and almost pretty. Her big black eyes were full of fiery
spite, and she had a way of rolling her hips under the corduroy skirt that said
a great deal about her previous employments.
The practiced eye of Angélique was
no more mistaken about that than she was when she heard the oath the
girl let out when she carelessly let a spoon slip off the tray. There was not a
shred of doubt in Angélique’s mind that
here was one of the most amenable subjects of the Great Coesre, king of the
underworld. "Hello, Sister," Angélique whispered. The woman whirled
about. Her eyes popped as she saw Angélique make the gesture of recognition that was a password among the beggars of
Paris.
"For God's
sake," the girl exclaimed when she recovered from her astonishment.
"For God's sake! If I'd thought . . . They told me you were a real
Marquise. Well, you poor kid, so you got caught by those dirty bastards of the
Saint-Sacrement gang too? No luck, eh? Well, who could ever make a living with
those vultures?" She sat down on the foot of the pallet, drawing her gray
woolen shawl provocatively across her breasts.
"Six months I've
been in this hole! Don't mind if I giggle, it's as good as having a square meal
to see you.
It takes my mind off
my troubles. What neighborhood did you work?"
Angélique made a
vague gesture. "A little bit here and there—everywhere."
"Whose doxy were
you?"
"Wood-Bottom's."
"The Great
Coesre! By God, you must have been well taken care of. For a novice you
certainly got to the top fast. And a novice you certainly must have been. I
never laid eyes on you before. What's your name?"
"Beautiful
Angel."
"Mine's Sunday.
They gave me that name on account of my specialty. I only worked Sundays. I got
the idea of doing that because I don't like to be the same as everyone else. It
suited my work too. I just strolled up and down in front of the churches. My
God, all those men so stiff and pious when they went in must have had plenty of
time to think things over while they were saying their prayers. A nice girl
after Mass—why not? When they came out, I had my pick of clients. What a racket
all those sanctimonious old wives raised! Anyone would think I was making
everyone in Paris skip Mass. They just about killed themselves trying to get me
arrested. They even went to court to get me locked up. Hell must make a lot of
money out of the rent those old prudes pay there. Just the same, they won out.
That's why I'm here now, with the Augustines of Bellevue. It's my turn to sing
vespers tonight. But what about you? What happened to you?"
"A pimp wanted
me to move in with him to save money. I was supporting him; he forced me to
turn over all my earnings to him. To hell with it! He couldn't make me. But he
took his revenge by sending me to a convent till I changed my mind."
"It's a hell of
a world," Sunday sighed, raising her eyes to heaven. "He must be a
regular old miser. I heard him arguing prices with the Mother Superior. He
wouldn't give her more than twenty écus. That's what the Saint-Sacrement
gang pays to keep me under lock and key. All you get to eat for that is peas
and beans."
"The bast . .
. ," Angélique exclaimed, hurt to the quick by that last bit of
information.
Was there ever anyone more repulsive than Philippe! And a miser to
boot! Paying no more for her than for a common streetwalker!
She grasped hold of
Sunday's wrist. "Listen, you've got to get me out of here. I have an idea.
Lend me your clothes and show me a gate that will let me out into the
countryside."
The girl bluntly
refused. "Nothing doing. Why should I help you escape when I can't get out
myself?"
"This is
different. The nuns know you. They would catch you and bring you back at once.
No one has seen me close up except the Mother Superior. Even if they run across
me in the corridors I can tell them some story or other."
"You're right at
that," Sunday admitted. "When you arrived you were all tied up like a
sausage. And it was the middle of the night too. They brought you straight up
here."
"You see, I have
a good chance of making it. Hurry up, hand me your petticoat."
"Not so fast,
Marquise," the girl growled. " 'Everything for me and nothing for
anyone else' seems to be your motto. What good is this doing poor little
Sunday, forgotten here behind all these bars by everyone? Perhaps an even
deeper dungeon yet for me, eh?"
"What do you say
to this?" Angélique darted her hand under the bolster and brought out the
string of pink pearls. She held them up to the light.
The shimmering
splendor of their sunrise tints dazzled Sunday. She let out a long whistle.
"Those must be
fake, Sister," she whispered.
"No. Just weigh
them in the palm of your hand. Here, take it. It's yours if you'll help
me."
"You're
joking."
"I give you my
word. With that you'll have something to use to set yourself up with all the
clothes and trappings of a princess when you get out of here."
Sunday was letting
the string of princely pearls slide from one hand into the other.
"Well, have you
made up your mind?" "I'll do it. But I have a better idea than yours.
Wait, I'll be right back." She slipped the necklace into the depths of her
skirt and went out.
It seemed to
Angélique that she was gone for an eternity. Finally she rushed in out of
breath, a bundle of clothes under one arm, and a bucket hanging from the other.
"That poisonous
old Mother Yvonne got hold of me. Whew! I could have killed her. Now we have to
hurry, because milking time will soon be over, when the country women come to
get milk at the convent farm. You are going to put on these dairymaid's
clothes, take this bucket and your little pillow, and go down the ladder from
the pigeon roosts. I'll show you how. Once you're in the courtyard you can mix
with the others and go out with them by the entrance. Just be sure to keep your
milk well balanced on your head."
Sunday's plan was
easily effected. Less than fifteen minutes later Madame du Plessis-Bellière was
walking along the dusty road intent on reaching Paris, which she could glimpse
through the bright haze far away in the valley. She was clad in a short red and
white striped skirt. Her bosom was confined by a black bodice. In one hand she
carried the shoes that were too big for her, and with the other she steadied
the bucket of milk that wobbled dangerously on the cushion atop her head.
She had reached the
courtyard just as the novices of the convent, who had milked the cows, were
finishing the distribution of the milk to the women who would carry it to Paris
and its suburbs. The old nun who checked the roll had asked who the latecomer
was. Angélique put on her simplest manner and answered all her questions in her
Poitou dialect. Since she insisted on contributing several sous that
Sunday had generously advanced her, she had been given her milk and allowed to
depart.
Now she had to make
haste. She was halfway between Versailles and Paris. After considering the
matter she decided that to go directly to Versailles would be foolish. How could
she appear before the King and
the Court in a peasant's striped skirt? It
would be better to go to Paris, get into her fine clothes, summon her coach and
dash into the forest after the hunt.
Angélique walked
fast, but she felt as if she were making no distance. The sharp pebbles hurt
her bare feet, but when she put on the heavy shoes she stumbled and lost them.
The milk kept splashing over her, and the little pillow kept slipping.
At length a tinker in
a cart going toward Paris caught up with her. She signaled him to stop.
"Could you take
me along with you, friend?" "Indeed I could, sweetheart. Give me
a little kiss and I'll take you all the way to Notre Dame."
"Don't count on
it. I'm promised to a boy, and I keep my kisses for him. But I'll give you this
kettle of milk for your youngsters."
"All right, all
right. It's a swindle, but climb aboard, girlie. You're as sensible as you're
pretty."
The horse trotted
right along. They were in Paris by ten o'clock. The tinker took Angélique
straight to the riverbank. She sprinted to her hotel, where her porter almost
fell over backward at seeing his mistress disguised as a peasant fresh from the
country.
Since morning, she
learned, the servants had been baffled by the mysterious happenings in the
house. To their consternation at finding their mistress vanished was added
their astonishment at having the valet of Monsieur du Plessis-Bellière, an
insolent giant of a man, appear and demand all the carriages and horses of the
Beautreillis establishment.
"All my horses!
All my carriages!" Angélique echoed.
"Yes,
Madame." Roger, her steward, appeared on the scene to confirm the
story. He lowered his eyes,
as shocked to see his mistress in her white
bonnet and black bodice as if he had seen her stark
naked.
Angélique’s spirits
revived. "What difference does it make? I'll get a friend to help me.
Javotte! Thérèse! Hurry up! I need a bath. Get my riding habit ready. And fix
me up a picnic hamper with a good bottle of wine."
The clear tones of a
clock counted off the twelve strokes of noon. Angélique jumped.
"God knows what
excuse Philippe will have invented to explain my absence to His Majesty! That I
have taken physic and am lying in bed in the agonies of nausea? That would be
just like him, the beast! And now, with no coach and no horses, how will I ever
get there before sunset? Damn Philippe!"
chapter 2
Damn Philippe!" said Angélique again as
she crouched to stare out of the coach window at the deeply rutted road over
which the shabby vehicle was slowly making its way.
As they penetrated
deeper into the forest, the roots of the huge oak trees writhed out of the mud
like fat green snakes knotting in the very middle of the road— if indeed this
little gulley of muck could be called a road. It had already been churned up by
the wheels of the carriages and the hooves of the horses that had just passed
over it.
"We'll never get
there," she groaned, turning to Philonide de Parajonc beside her.
The old intellectual
casually picked up her fan and poked with it at her wig which a shattering jolt
had disarranged. "Don't argue with fate, dear," she said gaily.
"Even the longest journey has an end."
"That depends on
how you travel and where you want to go and when you want to get there,"
said Angelique with some spirit. "If you are trying to catch up with a
royal hunt that you ought to have joined six hours ago, you have some reason
for getting into a rage. I would even try walking if I thought I'd get there in
time to hear the hounds called off. If the King notices my absence, he will
never forgive me for this final insult."
A violent jerk made
the carriage creak ominously and threw them against each other.
"A plague on
this dump cart!" Angélique exclaimed. "It's as rickety as an old fish
barrel. The only thing it's good for is a bonfire."
Mademoiselle de Parajonc bridled. "I
grant you my little flying pergola may lack the splendor of the magnificent
carriages in your stables, but it seems to me you have been rather fortunate in finding it at your disposal today,
particularly since your good husband thought it amusing to remove all your
horses to some mysterious hiding place only he knows about."
Angélique sighed
again.
Where were her own
royal purple whips with their golden stocks and their crimson tassels? And she
had been so overjoyed at the thought of at last being invited to a royal hunt
in the woods around Versailles!
She had pictured
herself arriving at the meeting place of the guests of honor drawn by her own
matched team of ebony horses, and escorted by her three lackeys in their livery
of blue and daffodil yellow and the coachman and the postillion in red leather
boots and plumed hats. She could hear the envious whispers: "Whose
carriage is that?" "Why, it's the Marquise du Plessis-Bellière’s. You
know, the woman who . . . You seldom see her, her husband keeps her hidden
away. He's a tiger for jealousy. Still it looks as if the King had found out
about her. . ."
She had made such
careful preparations for this fateful day, resolved that nothing would stop
her. Once she had got one toe inside the door of the Court, she would plant
both feet there so solidly that Philippe, try as he might, could never dislodge
her from it. All eyes would be turned on her beauty, her queenliness, her
incomparable charm. She would struggle and push and cling like a barnacle to
this world of her dreams, just as all the other ambitious parasites did. To
hell with reticence or modesty!
Mademoiselle de
Parajonc snickered maliciously behind her fan. "I don't have to be a sibyl
to guess what you're thinking. I can see the light of battle in your eyes. What
redoubt are you planning to storm—the King himself, or your husband?"
Angélique shrugged.
"The King? He is already spoken for and well guarded. He has the Queen,
his legal wife, and an acknowledged mistress in Mademoiselle de la Villière,
and plenty of others. As for my husband, what makes you think I should want to
capture an objective that has already surrendered to me? Is it consistent, to
use one of your own expressions, for two married persons to be interested in
each other once the knot has been tied? How terribly bourgeois!"
The old spinster
clucked. "I can't help thinking your charming Marquis is rather interested
in you just the same." She passed her tongue over her thin lips with
relish. "Tell me all about it again, dearest. It's one of the most
delicious stories I've ever heard. Is it really true there wasn't a single
horse in your stables this morning when you wanted to start for Versailles? And
half your servants vanished too? Monsieur du Plessis must have tipped your
domestics very handsomely. And to think you had not the faintest suspicion! He
was slyer than you this time, my sweet."
Another bump jostled
them. Javotte, the little chambermaid, sitting opposite them on the narrow jump
seat, was catapulted forward so that she crushed the golden gauze bow which
held Angélique’s riding crop to her sash. The frothy loops were torn to shreds.
Out of sheer frustration Angélique slapped the girl and ordered her back to her
precarious seat, where she crouched whimpering.
Angélique was sorely
tempted to apply the palm of her hand with equal violence to the heavily rouged
cheeks of Philonide de Parajonc, who she could see was glorying in her
mortification. Still it was this elderly bluestocking to whom she had fled in
desperation when, thanks to Philippe's despicable trick, she could see no other
way out of her dilemma than to borrow a carriage. And besides, Philonide de
Parajonc was a good neighbor and a fairly intimate friend.
Madame de Sévigné was
in the country. Ninon de Lenclos would have come to her aid, but her reputation
as a courtesan had made her persona non grata at the Court, and her coach might
have been easily recognized. Angélique’s other woman friends in Paris would
either be at the hunt themselves, or if not, too jealous to give her much hope
of help from them. Mademoiselle de Parajonc was the only one she could turn to.
Even so, frantic with
impatience as she was, Angélique had
had to wait while
the old maid
fluttered
about trying to get into her
sadly old-fashioned best gown. And while the maid with nerve-wracking slowness
combed out the tangles of Philonide's best wig. And while the coachman cleaned
the spots off his livery and shined up the varnish of the battered carriage. At
last they had got on the road. But what a road!
"Oh, this—this
trail!" Angélique groaned. Once more she peered out into the dim tunnel of
branches and tree trunks through which they were passing, hoping to glimpse a
clearing in the dense woods.
"You'll only
catch a chill," Mademoiselle de Parajonc remonstrated like an old nannie.
"It will spoil your complexion, and that would be a shame. What kind of
road did you expect? You can blame the King for making us traipse through the
mire in places like this. Once upon a time nothing but herds of oxen went
through here on their way to market from Normandy. That's why they call it the
Ox Road. Our late sovereign Louis XIII used to come here to hunt, but he never
dreamed of making all the fine flower of his Court be dragged over these ruts.
Louis the Chaste was a considerate King, simple and sensible."
She was interrupted
by a deafening creaking of the carriage and more terrific jolting.
The vehicle listed
dangerously. Then something scraped against the boulders in the road, and a
wheel came off, throwing the three passengers on top of one another.
Angélique was at the
bottom of the heap, on the side of the missing wheel. Her first thought was one
of despair for her gorgeous hunting costume, crushed now under the weight of
Mademoiselle de Parajonc and Javotte. She did not dare budge to disentangle
herself, for the window had been shattered and all she needed now was to get
cut by splinters of glass and arrive drenched in blood.
The other door opened
and Flipot, the young lackey, thrust his foxy face at her. "It ain't too
bad, Marquise," he panted.
Angélique was in no
condition to rebuke him for his disrespectful tone. "Is the old dungeon still in one piece?"
"It is,"
Philonide answered cheerfully. She liked nothing better than such animated
divertissements. "Saucy boy, give me a hand and help me out of here."
Flipot yanked with
all his might. With the help of the coachman, who had succeeded in calming the
two horses and had unharnessed them, the two women and the servant girl were
soon standing in the muck of the road. They had got off without a scratch, but
their situation was no less painfully hopeless than before.
Angélique controlled
her desire to burst into oaths. Getting angry would not help matters. This was
the end! Now she not only would never get to the royal hunt, but never never
never would she be able to return to Court. The King could hardly be expected
to forgive this last refusal of his invitation. Should she write to him, or
throw herself at his feet, or try to get Madame de Montespan to intervene for
her, or the Duc de Lauzun? But what excuse could she give? The truth of the
matter, that the carriage was wrecked, would seem a very flimsy pretext—it was
what everyone used when embarrassingly late.
She sat down on a
stump, so overwhelmed by these gloomy thoughts that she did not notice a small
band of horsemen approaching.
"Hey, here comes
somebody," Flipot whispered. In the silence of the forest the only sound
was that of the horses approaching at a walk.
"Merciful
God!" murmured Mademoiselle de Parajonc. "Highwaymen! We are
lost!"
Angélique raised her eyes. The deep shadows of the forest road did
nothing to improve the menacing aspect of the newcomers.
They were tall men
and lean and swarthy. Their eyes were dark and their black mustaches and beards
were of a style that had not been encountered for years in the Ile-de-France.
The braid on their faded blue uniforms was tarnished, and dangled unsewn. The
feathers in their hats drooped scrawnily. Their coats were tattered. Still
almost every one of them wore a sword. At the head of the troop were two jolly
looking fellows carrying ornate banners that were nonetheless torn and full of
holes. They had obviously seen service in many hot battles.
Some of the band
marched on foot carrying pikes and muskets. These passed by the overturned
coach without giving it a glance, but the first rider, who seemed to be the
chief, stopped before the women huddled together with their servants.
" 'Sdeath, my
fine friends, God Mercury, who protects travelers, seems to have deserted you
most shamefully."
Unlike his
companions, he seemed well enough fed, but the loose-hanging folds of his tunic
indicated that he too must have lost a good deal of weight. When he lifted his
hat, his sunburned face was jovial.
His singsong accent
betrayed his origins at once. Angélique smiled sweetly at him, and mustering
her charm, said: "You must be from Gascony, sir."
"You don't miss
anything, do you, oh lovelist of forest nymphs? Now, what can we do for
you?"
"Sir," she
said quickly, "you can do a great deal for us. We were supposed to join
the King's hunt, but we met with an accident. There's no question of trying to
get that old coach going again, but if some of you would take my companion and
me with you to the crossroads of Les Boeufs, we would be very much obliged to
you."
"The crossroads
of Les Boeufs? We are going there ourselves. Jove, everything will turn out all
right!"
A quarter of an hour
later the horsemen, who had lifted the women up behind them on their mounts,
arrived at the meeting place.
At the foot of the
hill of Fausse-Repos the glade appeared, thronged with carriages and horses.
The coachmen and lackeys were rolling dice as they waited for their masters to
return, or drinking in the nearby tavern which had never known such a windfall
before.
Angélique caught
sight of her groom. She jumped to the ground. "Janicou, bring me
Ceres!"
The man ran off
toward the stables. A few moments later
Angélique was in the saddle. She guided the animal out of the crowd, then dug
her spurs into its flanks and darted off toward the forest.
Ceres was a noble
animal, her gleaming golden coat well deserving of her name of the goddess of
summer. Angélique loved her only for the richness of her beauty; she was too
self-interested to be genuinely fond of pets. But Ceres was gentle, and
Angélique liked to ride her. Angélique turned off the path and spurred the
animal up the steep slope of a little rise. At first the mare stumbled in the
thick carpet of dead leaves, then recovered her footing and galloped up the hill.
At the crest the trees still hid the view. Angélique could see nothing in the
distance. She cupped her hand to her ear. From far away she could distinguish
the baying of hounds in the east, then the note of a single horn which the
other horns took up in chorus. She recognized the notes of the "to
water" call, and smiled.
"The hunt's not
over, Ceres my pet. Now, top speed! Perhaps we will save our reputation
yet."
She urged the mare
into a gallop along the ridge of the hill, guiding her among the dense trees
and under their gnarled leafy branches and over their moss-covered roots. The
wild tangle of this deep part of the forest had scarcely been disturbed for
years except occasionally by single hunters, or poachers with crossbows on
their shoulders, or by outlaws. Louis XIII, and Louis XIV in his youth, had
roused these ancient druidical oaks from their centuries-long slumber. The
fresh breeze of the dazzling Court had dispersed the dank mists; the perfumes
of the great ladies had dispelled the dank scent of rotting leaves and
mushrooms.
The baying of the
hounds drew nearer. The stag they were chasing must have succeeded in crossing
the stream. It was not admitting defeat and was continuing its flight even
though the dogs were at its heels. It was coming toward her. The horns blew
again to rally the hunt.
Angélique proceeded
more slowly, then stopped again. The thud of galloping hooves drew closer. She
emerged from the screen of trees. Beyond her a gentle slope led down to a grassy valley, at the bottom of
which a swamp glittered in the sunlight. Roundabout her on the other side the
forest still raised its dark screen, but here she could see the sky streaked
with sooty gray clouds through which the pale sun was slowly sinking. The approach
of twilight thickened the haze over the landscape, blotting out the dark blues
and greens of the deep-summer trees.
Suddenly the massed
baying of the hounds broke forth again. A brown shape leaped from the skirt of
the woods. It was the stag, a young one with scarcely a prong on its antlers.
The reeds on the marshy edge of the stream shook as it galloped past. The
pack of hounds descended on the trail
of the stag like a torrent of red and white. Then a horse emerged from the coppice carrying a huntress in a scarlet
habit. Almost at the same moment the riders broke into the open from all
directions and dashed down the grassy slope. In an instant the peaceful rustic
glade had been invaded by the wild rout joining their cries to the frenzied baying
of the hounds and the whinnying of the horses, the shouts of the huntsmen and
the glorious fanfare of the horns sounding the "view halloo." Against
the dark backdrop of the forest the gleaming garments of the lords and ladies
shone like sunset clouds, and the
rays of the sinking sun sparkled on
their golden embroideries, their buckles and plumes.
But in one last
supreme effort the stag managed to break out of the lethal circle. Darting
through a gap it was rushing again toward the shelter of the thickets. The
shouts now were cries of disappointment and frustration. The mud-streaked
hounds grouped again and set off once more on the chase.
Angélique spurred
Ceres gently forward and began to descend the hill. It seemed just the right
moment for her to mingle with the crowd.
"It's no use
following," said a voice behind her. "The animal can't last much
longer. Crossing that bog will only mean you'll get spattered up to your eyes.
Believe me, lovely stranger, you'd better stay on this side. It's a sure bet the keepers will come back to
this clearing to leash up the dogs, and then we shall be clean and fresh to
present ourselves before the King."
Angélique turned
around. She had no idea who the gentleman was who had just ridden up to within
a few feet of her. His pleasant face smiled out from under a full powdered wig,
and his costume was elegant. To bow to her, he removed his hat covered with
snow-white ostrich feathers.
"Damned if I've
had the pleasure of meeting you, Maddame. I couldn't have, for I would never
have forgotten such a face as yours."
"At Court
possibly?"
"At Court?"
he protested. "Hardly. I live there, Madame, I live there. You
could not have passed me by unnoticed. No, Madame, don't try to fool me. You
have never been at Court."
"Ah, but I have,
sir." Then after a brief pause she added, "—Once."
He began to laugh.
"Once! How delightful!" He drew his blond eyebrows together in
thought. "When was it? At the last ball? No, I don't recall you there. And
yet . . . It's improbable, but I would bet you were not at the meeting at
Fausse-Repos this morning."
"You seem to
know everyone here."
"Everyone?
That's right. I'm in a good situation for that. You have to remember people if
you want them to remember you. It's a principle I have tried to adhere to since
my early youth. My memory is faultless."
"Then in that
case will you be my mentor in this society I know so poorly? Tell me the names.
For instance, who is that huntress in red who was riding so close to the
hounds? She rides marvelously. A man couldn't gallop any faster."
"How right you
are! That's Mademoiselle de la Vallière."
"The King's
favorite?"
"Ah, yes, the
favorite," he said in a knowledgeable tone she could not immediately
understand.
"I did not know
she was so accomplished a huntress."
"She was born on
a horse. In her childhood she used to
ride the most spirited horses bareback. Just look at her floating over that jump like a
cloud."
"You seem to
know Mademoiselle de la Vallière very well."
"She is my
sister."
"Oh,"
Angélique choked, "are you . . ."
"The Marquis de
la Vallière at your service, lovely stranger."
He took off his hat
and brushed its feathers against the end of his nose mockingly.
Feeling slightly
embarrassed, she moved away, and spurring her mare, descended toward the floor
of the little valley. The mists were thickest there, hiding the pools of
stagnant water.
The Marquis de la
Vallière followed her. "Wait a moment. What could I have said to offend
you? Hark, they're calling off the hounds not far from here. Monsieur du
Plessis-Bellière will have taken out his knife and slit the stag's throat by
now. Have you ever seen that gentleman perform his supreme function as Master
of the King's Hunt? It's worth seeing. He is so handsome, so elegant, so
perfumed it's hard to believe he can even use a knife. Well, he can handle a
blade as if he had been raised among the sheep-shearers of the Paris slaughterhouses."
"As a boy
Philippe was famous for killing wolves he hunted all by himself in the forests
of Nieul," said Angélique with simple pride. "The country folk used
to call him "The Bane of the Wolves.' "
"Now it's my
turn to say you seem to know Monsieur du Plessis very well."
"He is my
husband."
"Well, for
heaven's sake, this is funny!"
He burst out laughing
with the calculated and yet apparently spontaneous laughter of the witty
courtier who is at home anywhere. He must have practiced that laugh as
studiously as one of the King's own actors.
Then quickly he broke
off and repeated with concern: "Your husband . . . ? So you are the
Marquise du Plessis-Bellière? I have heard about you. Didn't you . . . good
heavens, didn't you offend the King?" She stared at him horrified.
"Ah, there is
His Majesty now," he exclaimed suddenly. Leaving her in the lurch, he
galloped off to meet a group that was emerging into the clearing. Angélique
quickly recognized the King among his courtiers.
His conservative
costume was in contrast to that of the other nobles. Louis XIV liked to dress
casually, and it was said that whenever he had to put on his robes of state, he
took them off again just as soon as the ceremony was over. When he went hunting
he refused, more than at any other time, to deck himself out in laces and
furbelows. Now he was dressed in a brown cloth riding habit, modestly
embroidered with gold thread at the buttonholes and on the flaps of the
pockets. His huge riding boots encased his legs in black up to the groin. He
was as inconspicuous as a country squire.
But after one look at
his face, no one would confuse him with anyone else. The dignity of his
gestures, which were nonetheless studiously graceful, and his serene expression
gave him a truly royal bearing regardless of the occasion.
In his hand he held a
light wooden wand tipped with a boar's hoof. This had been solemnly given him
before the start of the chase by the Master of the Royal Hunt, and was intended
primarily for pushing aside branches which might impede the sovereign on his
swift course. For centuries it had also been a symbol of honor and dignity and
played a large part in the ceremonial of the hunt.
Beside the King rode
his favorite in her red habit. The excitement of the hunt had lent a rosy glow
to her thin face, and disguised its sallow pallor in which there was no true
beauty. Nevertheless Angélique perceived in it a delicate charm that aroused a
secret pity in her. She could not explain this feeling, yet it seemed to her
that Mademoiselle de la Valliere in spite of her secure position was not of
sufficient stature to dominate the Court
or be secure in it. Around her Angélique recognized the Prince de Condé, Madame
de Montespan Lauzun, Louvois, Brienne, Humières, Madame du Roure, Madame de
Montausier, the Princesse d'Armagnac, the Duc d'Enghien. At a distance she
glimpsed "Madame," the dazzlingly beautiful Princess Henriette, and,
of course, "Monsieur," the King's brother, and beside him his
inseparable favorite, the Chevalier de Lorraine. Others she saw too, whom she
knew less well. They all were stamped with the same brand of distinction, self
assurance—and greed.
The King was watching
impatiently a little footpath that wound into the woods, from which two
horsemen were emerging at a walk. One was Philippe du Plessis-Bellière, who,
like the King, was carrying a light wand of gilded wood ornamented with a
stag's hoof. His garments and his wig had hardly been ruffled by the hunt.
At the sight of his
handsome figure Angélique’s heart swelled with anger and apprehension. What
would Philippe's reaction be when he caught sight of her, whom only a few hours
before he had left quivering in a convent-prison? Unconsciously she tightened
her grip on the reins. She knew Philippe well enough to know that he would not
make a scene in the presence of the King. But afterward . . . ?
Philippe was curbing
his white horse to keep pace with his unhurried companion, an elderly man with
a tanned face, and a pointed gray beard in the style of the previous era. It
seemed to emphasize the slow pace he was keeping in spite of the obvious
impatience of the King, and made him appear almost sullen.
"Old Salnove
thinks His Majesty has made him gallop long enough," said a person next to
Angélique. "The other day he kept complaining that in Louis XIII's time
there didn't use to be so many hangers-on getting in everyone's way, slowing up
the hunt, making everyone ride all day long."
Salnove had been the late king's Master of
the Hunt, and had taught the present monarch the rudiments of that sport. He did not like to see its
traditions violated. It was anathema to him that anyone should treat a hunt as
merely a Court game. Louis XIII would never have had a lot of petticoats
getting in his way when the fancy took him to go on a hunt in the forest.
Salnove never missed a chance to call that principle of hunting to his pupil's
attention. Even now he could not grasp the fact that Louis XIV was no longer
the chubby-cheeked little boy he had once hoisted into the saddle for the first
time. Out of loyalty and affection the King kept his father's old mentor still
in his post. Philippe du Plessis was the Master of the Hunt in fact, but not in
title. He demonstrated that distinction when he was almost up to the King, by
giving the Marquis de Salnove the insignia of the wand with the stag's hoof.
Salnove took it from
him, and according to the ceremonial, received from the King's hands the wand
with the boar's hoof which he had given the King at the start of the hunt.
The hunt was at an
end, yet the King asked: "Salnove, are the hounds tired?"
The elderly Marquis
was puffing with genuine exhaustion. All who had actively participated in the
hunt-courtiers, whippers-in and servants—were drooping.
"The
hounds?" Salnove shrugged. "Yes, of course. Why wouldn't they
be?"
"What about the
horses?" "The same."
"And all for two
stags too young to have antlers," said the King drily.
He glanced at the
crowd that surrounded him. Angélique sensed that regardless of his
imperturbable and inscrutable expression he had nevertheless observed her
presence and recognized her. She withdrew a little.
"Very
well," said the King, "we shall hunt again on Wednesday."
His announcement
produced an astonished and anxious silence. Many of the women were wondering
how they could ever get themselves into a saddle again just the day after
tomorrow.
The King repeated a
little louder: "We will hunt the day after tomorrow, Salnove. Is that
clear? And we want a ten-pronged stag this time."
"Sire, I
completely understand," replied the Master.
He bowed very low
before he withdrew, but said loud enough to be heard by the guests: "What
gets me is all this worry about the dogs and horses being tired, and never a
thought for the humans."
"Monsieur de
Salnove!" Louis XIV was calling him back. And when the Master of the Hunt
stood again before him, "Understand that in my realm true huntsmen are never
tired. That is the way I understand it."
Salnove bowed
low again.
The King moved out to
lead the colorful procession of courtiers resolutely keeping their chins up and
their backs straight as they rode homeward. What else could they do?
As he passed
Angélique, the King signaled for a halt. His impassive eyes were upon her, yet
he seemed not to see her. Angélique kept her head high, reminding herself that
she had never betrayed any fear she felt and resolving not to weaken" now.
She returned the King's stare. Then she smiled at him.
The King winced as if
he had been stung by a bee. His cheeks colored. "Why . . . it is Madame du
Plessis-Bellière, I believe," he said, loftily.
"Your Majesty is
gracious to remember me."
"Indeed, it is
more gracious of you to remember us," replied Louis XIV, calling the
attention of his entourage to her singular indifference and independence.
"I trust you are in good health again, Madame."
"Thank you, Your
Majesty. My health has always been good."
"In that case,
how does it happen that you have ignored my invitations three times now?"
"Sire, forgive
me, but I never received them."
"You astound me,
Madame. I personally informed Monsieur du Plessis of my wish to have you with
us at the Court entertainments. It seems unlikely that he could have been so
absentminded as to forget to tell you."
"Sire, perhaps
my husband considered that a young woman should stay at home and ply her
needle, rather than be distracted from her humble duties by the splendor of
your Court."
As if rehearsed,
every plumed hat turned along with the King's toward Philippe, who, frozen with
impotent rage, sat his white horse like a statue.
Sensing the situation,
the King, with his knack for extricating a group from an embarrassing moment,
burst out laughing. "Oh, come, Marquis, I cannot believe your jealousy is
so keen that you would stoop to conceal from our eyes the lovely treasure you
possess. It seems to me you risk the sin of avarice. I shall forgive you this
time, but I command you to look well to the happiness of Madame du Plessis. As
for you, Madame, I do not wish to encourage you in your course of wifely
insubordination by congratulating you for disobeying the edicts of so
autocratic a husband, but your spirit of freedom does please me. Pray, do not
restrain yourself from taking part in what you so graciously call the splendors
of the Court. I can guarantee that Monsieur du Plessis will not reproach you
for doing so."
Philippe took off his
hat and holding it at arm's length made almost too extreme a gesture of
obedience to the King. Angélique noticed the smiles stealing over the mask-like
faces of the courtiers, who only a few moments before had been panting with
eagerness to tear her into a thousand pieces.
"Congratulations!" Madame de Montespan said to her. "You
have a genius for getting yourself into awkward situations, but you certainly
know how to get yourself out of them. You're as good as the mountebanks on the
Pont-Neuf with their escape-tricks. From the looks of the King I thought you
were going to have the whole pack on your heels. The very next second you made
yourself out a spunky prisoner overcoming a hundred obstacles, even prison
walls, just to accept the King's invitation, regardless of what it might cost
you later."
"If you only
knew how right you are!"
"Oh! Tell me
everything!"
"Perhaps. Some
day."
"Really! Is
Philippe truly so dreadful? What a shame, and he so handsome . . ."
Angélique put an end
to the conversation by spurring her horse into a gallop. By a winding road the
hunters, the hounds and the squires were descending the slopes of Fausse-Repos,
while the horns kept sounding behind them to guide those who were bringing up
the rear. Soon they came upon the crossroads crowded with carriages.
At last everyone was
free to dash for his own coach. The huntsmen, who were dying of thirst, called
to the vendors of lemonade who followed the Court wherever it went. But night
was falling, and there was just time for them to drain one goblet of the
refreshing beverage, for the King was in a hurry to return to Versailles.
Already the torches and lanterns had been lit.
A coach grazed
Angélique as it turned.
"What are you
doing?" Madame de Montespan called out to her through the door-window.
"Where's your carriage?"
"I don't have
one. It turned over in a ditch."
"Climb in with
me."
A little further on
they picked up Mademoiselle de Parajonc and Javotte and like everyone else set
their thoughts on Versailles.
chapter 3
AT THAT time woods closely surrounded the
castle. As the hunting party issued from them it appeared quite close by on a
little hill, its windows flashing like shooting stars as the torches behind
them moved from one room to another.
There was great
bustling about. The King had let it be known that he was not going to leave for
Saint-Germain that evening, as he had previously intended, but would stay on at
Versailles for three more days. Now instead of packing up, accommodations for
the King and his household and all the guests had to be prepared; the horses
had to be properly stabled, and banquets had to be got ready.
The entrance court was
so crowded with vehicles and soldiers and grooms that the coach had to stop
outside. Philippe jumped out of the left hand door of his coach, Angelique by
the right hand door of hers. The Marquis strode off at once toward the palace
without paying any attention to the women.
"Monsieur du
Plessis-Bellière must doubtless be hurrying to the quarry," said
Mademoiselle de Parajonc, as if she knew all about it. "Take care you
don't miss the ceremony."
"What do you
intend to do?" asked Angélique.
"Sit down on this milestone and wait
till I see someone I know going back to Paris. I am not one of the King's
guests, remember. You trot along, darling. All I ask is that you come to see me
and tell me everything about life in the courts of the sun."
Angélique promised. She kissed the old
maid and left her there in the night mists wrapped in her old-fashioned cloak
and pink-ribboned bonnet, her wrinkled white
face beaming with childish delight at having been so near the Court on this
never-to-be-forgotten day.
Angélique herself
crossed the rim of the magic circle and began her ascent toward the elect.
"In the courts
of the sun," she repeated to herself as she made her way through the
bustle to the center of the gathering.
This was close to the
central building of the castle, in the third courtyard, which was called the
Court of Stags. In spite of the general disorder, the select persons who were
entitled to join the King during the quarry were being carefully segregated.
Angélique was stopped by a Swiss guardsman with a halberd, and a master of
ceremonies politely inquired her title. As soon as she had given her name he
let her pass, even guided her attentively up the staircases and across the
splendid rooms to one of the balconies on the second floor which overlooked the
Court of Stags.
The courtyard was
lighted by countless torches. The pink
brick wall of
the palace over
which flickered feathery
shadows glowed like a brazier; the
intricate tracery of the balconies and the cornices, and the gold-leaf sconces
gleamed like many-colored embroidery on a robe of purple velvet. The horns
sounded a grand fanfare. The King advanced to the center balcony with the Queen
beside him. The royal princesses, the princes, the highest ranking noblemen
surrounded them.
Out of the depths of
the night came the baying of the hounds as they approached up the hill. Two
whippers-in appeared out of the shadows at the iron-grilled gate of the
courtyard and entered the brightly lighted circle. They were dragging some sort
of bundle from which dripped blood and gobbets of guts. It was the quarry,
composed of the intestines of the two stags that had been killed, wrapped in
the freshly flayed hide of one of them. Behind these two came other trainers in
red livery, keeping the pack of greedy hounds from snapping at their heels with
long whips. Philippe du Plessis-Bellière descended the staircase to meet them. In his hand was the wand
with the stag's hoof. He had had time to change into a dazzling hunting suit,
red also, but trimmed with forty golden buttons across, and twenty up and down,
its two pockets. His yellow leather boots had red heels with silver-gilt spurs.
"His leg is as
shapely as the King's," remarked someone near Angélique.
"But he walks
with less grace. Philippe du Plessis-Bellière always strides as if he were
setting out to battle."
"Don't forget
he's a Marshal too."
The young man stood
at attention, his eyes fixed on the King in the balcony. The King gave a signal
with his own wand.
Philippe handed his
insigne of office to the page behind him. Then he advanced toward the lackeys
and took their dripping burden into his own hands. The gorgeous embroidery and
laces of his silk coat were immediately drenched in blood. With magnificent
unconcern he carried the quarry to the center of the courtyard and there laid
it down before the crescent of hounds, whose yapping and baying rose to the
pitch of fiendish howls. The whippers held them back with savage lashes,
yelling, "Down, you! Down!"
At a signal from the
King, they were released. They sprang on the bundle with snapping jaws, their
sharp teeth gleaming in the torchlight. The dogs, kept tied up day after day
and fed on raw meat, were like escaped wild beasts. The men who trained them
now fought with them like gladiators in an arena.
Philippe stood
nearest to the savage horde armed with only a riding crop. From time to time he
struck at them casually when they got into fights and seamed ready to devour
one another. Soon the beasts would separate, growling but subdued. The cool
temerity of the Master of the Hunt, standing so straight in his gorgeous,
blood-drenched costume, his blond head so arrogant and his laces and jewels so
sumptuous, added a strange and fascinating dimension to the barbaric scene.
Torn between disgust
and a passionate excitement, Angélique could
not take her eyes away. Everyone there was, like her, hypnotized by
the spectacle.
" 'Sdeath,"
murmured a throaty male voice near her, "to look at him you wouldn't think
he had the strength to crack an almond or pull petals off a daisy. I must say,
I never in my life saw a huntsman who dared go so close to the trophy for fear
of being attacked."
On the pavement of
the Court of Stags there now were left only the well-gnawed bones of the
carcases. The last whipper-in stuck his pitchfork into the pile of remains of a
stag's belly, and called the dogs to follow him out. The horns sounded the last
phase of the quarry, then the call to quarters. Everyone began leaving the
balconies.
At the entrance to
the brightly lighted rooms the irrepressible Péguilin de Lauzun was putting on
an act like a barker at a carnival. "Have fun, ladies and gentlemen. You
have witnessed the most extraordinarily stupefying spectacle ever seen in this
world—Monsieur du Plessis-Bellière in his role as tamer of wild beasts. You
have shuddered, gentlemen. Ladies, you have trembled. How would you like to be
she-wolves and be tamed by so gentle a hand? And now the wild beasts are
subdued. The gods are content. Nothing remains of the stag that this very
morning was belling so gloriously in the depths of the forest. Come, ladies,
gentlemen, let's dance!"
Actually no one was
dancing yet, for the King's orchestra of twenty-four violins had not yet
arrived from Saint-Germain; but gaily dressed, deep-chested musicians were
strutting around the great hall on the ground floor of the castle, blowing
trumpets. These military fanfares were intended to stimulate the appetite.
Stewards of the kitchen began to pass among the guests offering them silver
trays laden with flowers and dainties and fruits. Four huge tables covered with
damask cloths were being set with platters of silver-gilt and gold, and chafing
dishes, piled with such mouth-watering delicacies as partridges in aspic,
pheasants surrounded with fruits and vegetables, roast kids, pigeon pies,
cassoulets of rice and ham. In the center of each table was a great bowl of autumn
fruit, around which
were grouped bowls
of figs and melons.
Angélique was
feasting on a poached quail and a mixture of salads that the Marquis de la
Vallière had brought her. She sipped at a glass of raspberry wine. The Marquis
kept insisting that she take some rosolio also, which he called "the
liqueur of sportiveness." A page brought them two glasses to the window
alcove where they sat chatting. It floated her into ecstasy.
Once her appetite and
her wonder at the scene were appeased, her thoughts turned to Mademoiselle de
Parajonc sitting on the milestone in the damp mists of the evening. The least
she could do for her old friend was to take her some leavings from the royal
banquet. Hiding under the voluminous folds of her gown a cake studded with
almonds and two fine pears, she slipped out of the crowd unnoticed. Hardly had
she stepped outdoors than she was hailed by Flipot carrying her cloak, a cape
of heavy satin and velvet that she had left behind in Philonide's carriage.
"So there you
are! Could the coach be repaired?"
"As if we cared!
When it got dark, me and the coachman just walked out to the highroad and
hitched a ride on a wine cart going to Versailles."
"Have you found
Mademoiselle de Parajonc?"
"She's over
there." He waved toward the lower courtyard where lanterns were bobbing.
"She was talking with some other
one of your girl friends from Paris. I heard her say she could take her back in
her rented coach."
"That's good.
Poor Philonide! I suppose I ought to buy her a new carriage."
To make sure, she had
Flipot lead her through the unimaginable tangle of coaches and carriages and
horses and sedan chairs to the spot where he had seen Mademoiselle de Parajonc.
When she caught sight of her she recognized the "other one of your girl
friends" as Madame Scarron, an impoverished but worthy young widow who
often came to Court as a petitioner in the hope of eventually getting some
little job or other that would relieve her eternal poverty.
Both of them were
stepping into a public vehicle that was already crowded with other
insignificant persons, many of whom were also petitioners. They were leaving
just as they had come; the King had announced that he would hear no petitions
that day—tomorrow after Mass.
Some petitioners were
staying on, resigned to sleeping in a corner of the courtyard or in a stable in
some neighboring hamlet. The rest were going back to Paris, where they would
have to get up at dawn to catch the barge from the Bois de Boulogne and then cut
across the forest to reappear pertinaciously in the King's antechamber
clutching their petitions in their hands.
The public vehicle
started out before Angélique could reach it and before she could attract the
attention of her two friends. They were thrilled at having spent a day at
Court, where they knew everyone, although no one knew them. They were like bees
swarming around the queen of the hive, making honey out of the smallest
incident that came within their reach. They "knew the Court" better
than many women whose high lineage automatically admitted them to its circle,
but who lacked experience and were unfamiliar with the involved protocol, the
prerogatives that rank or favoritism earned, the patronage of the King or of a
grandee.
Angélique put her
cloak about her shoulders, and gave the cake and the pears she had stolen to
the young lackey.
While she was
returning to the ballroom, not even the bright scenes around her could distract
her mind from Philippe. Any minute now she would find herself face to face with
him. She could not decide how to behave. Should she be furious? Or nonchalant?
Or repentant?
At the threshold she
stopped to try to spot him, but she could not see him. Catching sight of a
table where Madame de Montausier was sitting with some of her friends, one of
whom was Angélique’s acquaintance Madame du Roure, she went to join them.
Madame de Montausier looked at her in amazement, then, rising, informed her
that she could not sit at this table where
there were only those ladies privileged to ride in the Queen's
carriage and dine with her.
Angélique excused
herself. She dared not sit at any other table for fear of being driven away
again, and decided to leave to find her room by herself.
The lower floors were
given over to quarters for the courtiers. Just outside the royal apartments
huge reception rooms were being made ready. In contrast, the attics were
divided into many little rooms crudely partitioned off and reserved for
servants principally, but where many a great noble would be happy to find rest
on a night like this. Here too was a swarm of activity as people rushed from
cubicle to cubicle dodging the trunks and portmanteaus that the servants were
lugging in. Ladies driven frantic in their attempts to dress were shouting
abuse at servants who darted back and forth carrying their voluminous ball
gowns. The chief worry of the guests was how they could ever squeeze out of the
doors of their "closets" and through the narrow corridors.
The blue-uniformed
quartermasters assigned to the distribution of rooms were just finishing
writing the names of the occupants on the doors. The guests followed on their
heels emitting groans of disappointment or little shrieks of delight.
Flipot hailed
Angélique. "Psst! This way, Madame." Then he added disgustedly:
"It's not much like your own big bedroom. How can people live like this in
the palace of the King?" All his dreams about the luxurious life of the
nobility had been shattered.
Javotte appeared, her
cheeks flushed. She seemed worried. "I've laid out everything you will
need, Madame. I haven't forgotten a thing."
Progressing a little
further, Angélique discovered the cause of Javotte's anxiety. It was La
Violette, her husband's valet. His mouth fell open, and he stared at Angélique
as if she were a ghost. Could this be the same woman whom only a few hours
earlier he had rolled up in a blanket like a sausage and carried off to the
good sisters of the Augustine Convent at Bellevue?
"Yes, it's
I, you scoundrel," Angélique shouted at him.
Her anger flared. "Out of my sight, you wretch. Murderer! Do you know you
almost strangled your master's wife?"
"Ma—Madame—Madame la Marquise," stammered La Violette, lapsing
into his peasant dialect, "it wasn't my fault. Monsieur le Marquis . . .
he . . . he . . ."
"Get out of
here!"
Shaking her fist she
hurled at him a fine string of insults she remembered from the dialect of her
childhood. It was too much for La Violette, who gave way before her onslaught.
Almost trembling, his shoulders drooping, he squeezed past her toward the door.
There he ran into the Marquis.
"What's going on
here?"
Angélique looked him
straight in the eye. "Why, good evening, Philippe," she said.
He turned on her the look of a blind man.
Then suddenly she saw his features contort and his eyes open in an expression
of astonishment and confusion that soon changed into fear and little by little
into despair.
She could not keep
from turning around as if to see some demon leering behind her. She saw only
the swinging leaf of the folding door on which one of the quartermasters had
written the name of the Marquis in white chalk.
"That's what I
owe you!" he exploded, striking the door with his fist. "That is the
affront I owe you. Disrepute! Ignominy! The loss of the King's favor! Disgrace!"
"Why, how is
that?" she said. He must be out of his mind, she thought.
"Don't you see
what is written on that door?"
"Of course. It's
your name."
"Yes, my name.
Indeed it is my name." He grinned. "And that is all."
"Did you want
them to put someone else's there?" "It's what I have seen there for
all the years and in all the residences in which I have followed the King, and
that your foolishness, your . . . your idiocy make me want to see erased now.
It's the 'Reserved for . . .' The 'Reserved for'!"
"Why?"
" 'Reserved for'
the Marquis du Plessis-Bellière," he said between his teeth, white with
anger. "That phrase signifies the special guest of His Majesty. By it the
King shows his friendship as if he himself were standing on the sill to welcome
you."
The gesture with
which he described the narrow, crowded little attic room restored Angélique’s
sense of humor.
"I think you're getting far too
excited about that 'Reserved for,'" she said, trying to keep from
laughing. "One of those quartermasters must have made a mistake, don't you
think, Philippe? His Majesty has always held you in very high regard. Weren't
you appointed to bring the King his night-light this evening?"
"I was
not," he said. "There's proof enough of the King's displeasure with
me. That extraordinary honor was taken away from me hardly a moment ago."
His loud tones had
drawn the occupants of the neighboring rooms into the corridor.
"Your wife is
right, Marquis," interposed the Duc de Gramont. "You are wrong to be
so pessimistic. His Majesty himself took pains to explain to you that if he
asked you to relinquish the honor of bringing him his night-light this evening,
it was only to do something for the Duc de Bouillon, who was put out at having
been obliged to surrender his office to the Prince de Condé during
supper."
"But the
'Reserved for"?" roared Philippe, pounding on the door again.
"That slut there is responsible for my loss of favor."
"How can I be to
blame for your damned 'Reserved for'?" shouted Angélique, whose anger was
also rising.
"You displeased
the King by refusing his invitations, by your late arrival. . ."
Angélique’s words
stuck in her throat. "How dare you blame me for that when you . . . you .
. . All my carriages, all my horses . . ."
"That's enough
out of you," said Philippe sternly, raising his hand.
She felt her head
bursting. The flames of the candles fluttered
crazily in deep blackness. She put her hand to her cheek.
"Come, come,
Marquis," said the Duc de Gramont. "Don't be so brutal."
Angélique had never
before endured such a humiliation. To be struck in front of all the servants
and courtiers in a sordid household quarrel! She blushed with shame up to the
roots of her hair. She called Javotte and Flipot, who dashed out of the room in
astonishment, one carrying her undergarments and the other her cloak.
"So," said
Philippe, "go to bed when you wish and with whom you wish."
"Marquis!
Marquis! Don't be coarse," intervened the Duc de Gramont once more.
"My lord, even a
woodcutter is master in his own hut," replied the furious nobleman,
shutting the door in the face of the spectators.
Angélique broke a
passage for herself through them and escaped, pursued by their insincere
expressions of pity and their ironic smiles. An arm thrust out from a door
caught hold of her.
"Madame," said the Marquis de la Vallière, "there
is not a woman in Versailles who does not envy you the license your husband has
just given you. Take the boor at his word and accept my hospitality."
She broke away,
irritated. "Please, sir . . ."
The one thing she
wanted was to get away as fast as possible. As she descended the great marble
staircase, tears of vexation glistened in her eyes. "He's a fool, a mean,
shabby good-for-nothing disguised as a great nobleman . . . a fool. . . a
fool!"
Nevertheless, she
realized, he was a dangerous fool, and it was she herself who had forged the
chains that bound her to him. She had given him the incontrovertible rights
that a husband has over a wife. Determined to revenge himself on her, he would
show her no mercy. She could imagine the unspeakable satisfaction he would
derive from his determined efforts to humiliate her and make her his complete
slave. She knew of only one weak point in his armor—his devotion to the King which was neither love nor fear but
rather a single-minded, unwavering loyalty. She would have to play on this
relationship. If only she could make the King her ally, get from him a
permanent place at Court, little by little maneuver Philippe into a dilemma in
which he would either have to displease the King or cease provoking his wife.
But what happiness would she get out of that? Only the happiness of which, in
spite of everything, she had dreamed in the stillnesses of the forest of Nieul,
when the full moon rose above the white turrets of the little Renaissance
castle as she prepared to consummate her wedding night. What a bitter
disappointment! What a wry memory! So far as he was concerned, everything had
turned to ashes in her mouth.
She felt unsure of
her charm and her beauty. Not to be loved as a woman is to feel utterly
forlorn. Would she be able to finish what she had begun? She knew her own
weakness—to love him and at the same time to want to hurt him. In her driving
ambition, her resolute determination to rise above her misfortunes she had forced
him into the alternatives of either marrying her or exposing himself and his
father to the wrath of the King. He had chosen to marry her, but he would never
forgive her. Through her own fault the spring from which they both might have
drunk invigorating draughts had become polluted, the hand which she might have
given him in tenderness now was a thing of horror to him.
Angélique gazed at
her own white hands with sad regret.
"What damned
spot would you have out, my beautiful Lady Macbeth?" The voice of the
Marquis de Lauzun was close to her ear.
He bent over her.
"Where is the blood of your crime? Why, how cold your little paws are!
What are you doing here on this draughty staircase?"
"I don't
know."
"Abandoned? And
with such lovely eyes? What a crime! Come along with me."
A little group of
ladies joined them, Madame de Montespan
among them. "Monsieur de Lauzun, we have been looking everywhere for you. Take
pity on us."
"It is very easy
for you to arouse pity in my heart. How may I help you, Mesdames?"
"Take us to your
house. The King had you build a hotel in the hamlet. Here we don't even have a
right to a flagstone in the Queen's antechamber."
"But aren't you
the Queen's own ladies-in-waiting, just like Madame du Roure and Madame
d'Arignys?"
"Yes, but our
usual rooms have been torn up by the painters. They are putting Jupiter and
Mercury up there . . . on the ceiling. The gods have chased us out."
"Cheer up. I
will take you to my hotel."
They went out into
the fog which had become thicker and thicker, imbued with the dank odor of the
forest. Lauzun summoned a linkboy and guided the women down the hill.
"Here we
are," he said, stopping before a heap of white stones.
"Here? What is
this?"
"My hotel. You
are quite right that the King ordered me to build one, but the first stone has
yet to be laid."
"You are not
very funny," hissed Athenais de Montespan in a rage. "We are chilled
to the marrow here in this muddy rubbish."
"Be careful you
don't step into a hole," Péguilin warned them. "There's been a lot of
digging around here."
Madame de Montespan
stalked off, stumbled several times, and twisted her ankle. She burst out into
oaths again, and all the way back to the palace kept hurling epithets over her
shoulder at the Marquis that would have done credit to a guardsman.
Lauzun laughed again
when the Marquis de la Vallière, who was passing by, shouted to him that he
would be late for "the nightshirt." The King had gone to his bedroom,
and the nobles were supposed to be there when the chief valet handed the
nightshirt to the Grand Chamberlain, who passed it to His Majesty. The Marquis
de Lauzun left the ladies abruptly, but not before he had offered them his
hospitality again . . . in his bedroom which was "somewhere way up
there."
The four young women,
followed by Javotte, returned to the crowded ballroom, where, to use an
expression of Madame de Montespan's, "the floors were creaking under the weight."
After a long search they found the inscription of honor on a little low door:
"Reserved for the Marquis Péguilin de Lauzun."
"Lucky
Péguilin!" sighed Madame de Montespan. "What difference does it make
if he's the biggest fool in the world so long as the King treats him as a
favorite. When you stop to think of it, he has a very average figure and
indifferent looks."
"But his good
qualities make up for that," said Madame du Roure. "He is very witty,
and he has something that makes a woman, once she has been with him, never
leave him for another man."
Such was doubtless
the opinion of young Madame de Roquelaure, whom they found in the bedroom in
quite scanty attire. Her maid had just finished helping her into a nightgown of
lawn embroidered with lace and designed to conceal none of her charms. After a
moment of confusion she recovered herself to say graciously that since Monsieur
de Lauzun had invited his friends there, she would indeed make them welcome.
Cooperation was the least one could show in such unusual situations as turned
up during a stay at Versailles.
Madame du Roure was
delighted. She had long suspected that Madame de Roquelaure was Péguilin’s
mistress, and now she was sure of it.
The room was no wider
than its window, which opened on the woods. The curtained bed, which the
servants had just made up, filled it entirely. When everyone was inside, no one
could budge. Fortunately, due to its tiny size, it was warm. The fire in the
little fireplace crackled cheerily.
"Ah," said
Madame de Montespan, pulling off her muddy slippers, "let's get rid of the
last of that damned Péguilin’s practical joke."
She rolled down her
mud-spattered stockings, and her friends did likewise. All four of them sat
down, on the flagstones in their widespreading skirts and toasted their toes at
the fire.
Lauzun returned,
accompanied by one of his noble friends, who helped him undress. Lauzun and
Madame de Roquelaure went to bed. Once the curtains were drawn, no one paid
them the slightest attention.
Angélique started
thinking of Philippe again. How to humble him, how to vanquish him, or at least
how to escape his revenge and prevent him from ruining the future she had so
painstakingly planned for herself?
The day would come
when his stupid tricks like hiding the carriages, would give way to more
dangerous patterns of behavior. He knew indeed how to perform them—through her
sons or through her own freedom. If the inhuman fancy should strike him to
torture Florimond and Cantor, as he had already done her, how could she protect
them? Fortunately the two little boys were safe at Monteloup, where they were
growing strong and healthy running around the countryside with the peasant
children of Foitou. Their fate was of no immediate concern to her. She told
herself that she was being foolish to plunge herself into such imaginary
terrors during this, her first night at Versailles.
The fire was getting
too hot. She asked Javotte to hand her two fire-shields of daintily decorated
parchment. One of them she offered to Madame de Montespan. The beautiful young
woman admired her little traveling case of red leather lined with white damask
and bound in gold. Inside, separated by partitions, were an ivory night-light,
a bag of black satin containing ten candles of virgin wax, a hollow bodkin to
hold pins, two small round mirrors, and a larger oval one set with pearls, two
lace nightcaps to match a delicate linen nightgown, a gold case holding three
combs and another one for brushes. These last were little masterpieces of
tortoise-shell enhanced by gold filigree.
"I had them made
from the tortoise-shell that comes from the tropic seas," Angélique
explained. "I can't stand horn or hoof."
"I see,"
sighed the Marquise de Montespan enviously. "Ah, what wouldn't I give to
have such beautiful things! I suppose I might have had them, if I hadn't had to pawn my jewels
to pay off my gambling debts. If I hadn't done that, how could I have put in an
appearance at Versailles tonight? Monsieur de Ventadour, to whom I owe a
thousand pistoles, will be waiting for me. He's a charming man."
"But
haven't you been appointed Maid of Honor to the Queen? That must have brought
you some perquisites."
"Pooh, it's
a trifle! My clothes alone cost me twice as much. I spent two thousand livres
for the costume I wore in the ballet of Orpheus Lully composed that
was given at Saint-Germain. Oh, but it was lovely! My costume especially. The
ballet was the same as always. I was a nymph, with all sorts of ornaments
representing the things that grow around a woodland spring. The King was
Orpheus, of course. He opened the dance with me. Benserade mentions it in his
Court chronicle. So does Loret, the poet."
"Everyone
has been talking about the attention the King has been paying you,"
Angélique remarked.
The feelings
that Madame de Montespan had aroused in her were somewhat mollified. She envied
the flashing radiance of her charm and the brilliance of her conversation, even
though her own beauty was quite comparable. Both of them were from good
families in Poi-tou. Yet beside Athenais de Montespan Angélique felt inferior,
in spite of her gift for easy repartee, and she was often silent in her
company. She was aware of how alluring the young marquise's conversation was;
no matter how she exaggerated anything, her voice was so trained and modulated
that people believed her before they were appalled. This eloquence of hers, in
which nature and art were so subtly combined that even a cynical observation
drew admiration, was a talent in her family. It was called "the Mortemart
speech."
The family of
Mortemart de Rochechouart was an impressive one. Angélique de Sancé, who knew
all the genealogy of Poitou, was always impressed by the magnificence of the
traditions that clung to that great house. Long ago Edward of England had
married one of his
daughters to a lord of
Mortemart. The present Duc de Vivonne had the King and the Queen Mother as
godparents.
In the deep blue eyes
of Madame de Montespan could be divined the proud and perhaps foolish motto of
the family:
Before the sea produced the earth
The waves of Rochechouart had birth.
But none of
those traditions had protected her from arriving in Paris poor as a
churchmouse, without any possessions other than an old carriage, and from
struggling before her marriage with all the hateful obstacles of poverty.
Prouder and more sensitive than anyone believed, the girl had often been
reduced to tears.
Better than anyone
else Angélique knew the humiliating problems with which the lovely Montespan
had wrestled. Time and again since she first knew the family, she had had to
pacify their irascible creditors, and lend sums that she knew she would never
see again and for which no one would dream of thanking her. Angélique derived a
certain pleasure from putting the Montespans under obligation to her. Often she
asked herself why she kept up such an unrewarding friendship, arguing that on
the one hand Athenais was fundamentally a sweet person, and on the other that
she ought to have the good sense to have nothing more to do with her. Still the
girl's vitality bewitched her. Angélique had always liked people who were bound
to be successful, and Athenais was one of them. Her ambition was as boundless
as the sea whose origin her family claimed. It was better to follow her and
ride on the crest of her wave than to try to oppose her.
For her own part
Athenais found it convenient to have so generous a friend whose fortune was
secure thanks to good investments, a friend as well whom she could see without
losing caste. In spite of her beauty Angélique did not overshadow her.
In response to the
allusion her friend had made to the King's favor,
Madame de Montespan's face, which had seemed careworn all evening, relaxed a
little.
"The Queen is
good and pregnant. Mademoiselle de la Vallière is just beginning to be. It's a
propitious moment for attracting the King's attention," Athenais said with
a sparkling smile in which there lurked a suspicion of mischief. "Oh,
Angélique, what are you getting me to say, or even to think! I would be
stricken with shame if the King wanted to make me his mistress. I would never
again dare appear before the Queen, she is such a good woman!"
Angélique was not
taken in by this protestation of virtue. There were certain dimensions of
Athenais' character that astonished her, such as her ability to dissemble when
she was torn between hypocrisy and sincerity. Her piety, for example: frivolous
as she was, Madame de Montespan never missed Mass or any other devotion, and
the Queen would repeat to anyone who cared to listen how pleased she was to
have so devout a lady-in-waiting.
"Do you
remember," said Angélique laughingly, "the visit we made with
Françoise Scarron to that fortuneteller named Monvoisin? Even then you wanted
to ask her whether you'd succeed in getting the King to fall in love with
you."
"Nonsense!"
said the Marquise, with a gesture as if to brush aside such a whim.
"Furthermore I had not then been appointed to Her Majesty's suite, and I
was looking for some way to get advancement at Court. The old woman told us
nothing but lies."
"She said all
three of us would be loved by the King."
"Even
Françoise?"
"Oh, I forgot.
Françoise’s destiny was the most glamorous of all. She would marry the
King!"
They laughed
together. "Françoise Scarron, Queen of France!"
"Oh, how unhappy
I am," Athenais sighed suddenly. "Can you believe that I owe my
carriage-maker eighteen hundred livres for the saddle and bridle he made
for me to use today. I hope you noticed how lovely the leather is. I had him touch it with gold
leaf so that it would look like real embroidery. It was magnificent!"
"For eighteen
hundred livres . . ."
"Oh, it's not an enormous debt after
all. I'll just turn up my nose at Gaubert's complaints and tell him he'll have
to wait along with his fellow-creditors, the tailor and the draper and the
jeweler. But that unbearable husband of mine has ordered a pair of diamond
earrings that my heart is set on, and if I don't pay up tomorrow the jeweler
won't deliver them. Did you ever hear of such a meddling husband? He doesn't
know how to hang on to his money. He gambles—lord, how he gambles! I can't make
him listen to reason. And such extravagant notions! I can see that I shall end
my days just like my old aunt the Duchesse de Bellegarde. You remember. She's
not one of my family, I'm glad to say. Her husband got furiously jealous of
her—he's seventy-five and she is only fifty-five—and shut her up in his castle,
took everything away from her to the point where she had to cut up her sheets
to make clothes. That's the reward I'll get for marrying him. All the
Montespans are touched somehow."
Angélique, whose cheek
was still smarting from the slap Philippe had given her, did not find these
tales of Madame de Montespan very amusing. Her expression delighted the
mischievous young woman.
"Now don't go
having gloomy thoughts again. You hold your Philippe with stronger reins than
mere conjugal affection. They say you let him rummage freely in your commercial
treasure chests."
At Court Angélique
wished to be the Marquise du Plessis-Bellière and nothing else. The reference
Madame de Montespan made to her maneuvers in business set her teeth on edge.
"Well, don't you
worry about whether or not I'll allow myself to be locked away," she said
testily. "If I am, you'll have plenty of time then to think about what you
have lost. If you were smart you would help me find a place at Court instead.
For instance, you could tell me of some vacant position I might acquire."
Athenais raised her
arms to the heavens. "My poor child,
what are you thinking of! An empty place at Court? You might as well try to
find a needle in a haystack. Everybody is on the alert for one, and even when
he has the price ready, he can hardly get one."
"Still you
succeeded in becoming Maid of Honor to the Queen."
"The King
himself appointed me. I used to make him laugh when he came to Mademoiselle de
la Vallière’s. His Majesty thought I would amuse the Queen. He is very
solicitous about his wife. He was so insistent on my being with her that he was
discreet enough to pay what I couldn't of the fee. You have to have a patron, and
there is none like the King himself. Just think a little of whom you could get.
Or else you could invent something for your own good and show it to His
Majesty. It would be examined by the Supreme Council. If you could have it
introduced into the Parlement, then you would be sure to get it."
"That sounds
quite complicated and hard. What exactly do you mean by 'inventing something
for my own good'?"
"Well, I myself
don't know. You have to use your imagination. Wait, here's a recent example. I
know the Sieur du Lac, majordomo of the Marquis de la Vallière, joined up with
Collin, the Marquise's butler, to ask permission to collect two sous an acre on
all the vacant land between the township of Meudon, near Saint-Cloud, and the
hamlet of Chagny, near Versailles. It was a happy inspiration because now that
the King has selected that region for his palace, everyone will buy up the land
there. And how were these vacant lands secured? The bill was recommended by
Mademoiselle de la Vallière, and the King signed it immediately. He has never
refused her anything. The Parlement was compelled to approve it. Those two
insignificant little commoners will end up with their coffers bursting with
gold. Furthermore it's a trait of our favorite to play fairy godmother to her
servants. She never says no to them. Then the King began to be bored with the
horde of petitioners she presented to him. The most outstanding is her own
brother, the Marquis; he's got a real genius
for petitioning. You could consult him advantageously. He'll give you good
advice, I'm sure, because, as I have noticed, he is not wholly indifferent to
you. And while you are waiting I might present you to the Queen. You could
speak to her. Perhaps you would attract her interest."
"That's just what
you can do," said Angélique with spirit. "And I promise you I'll find
something in my 'commercial treasure chests' to appease your
carriage-maker."
The Marquise de
Montespan did not disguise her delight. "Agreed. You're an angel! You'd be
an archangel if only you could get me a parrot. Yes, one of those big tropical
ones you import. You know, one with red and green feathers. Oh, I'm
dreaming!"
chapter 4
As day broke, Madame de Montespan yawned and stretched. She had
continued to gossip with Angélique by fits and starts, since the limited space
in the room hardly allowed them an opportunity to stretch out and rest.
Behind the curtains
of the great bed they heard two bodies turn over, yawn too, and then a tender
murmuring.
"I imagine it
would be a good idea to go downstairs," said Athenais. "The Queen is
about to call for her Maids of Honor. I want to be one of the first to answer
so that I can go to Mass with her. Are you coming?"
"Perhaps it's
not an auspicious moment for me to be presented to Her Majesty."
"No, it would be
better if you waited until we came back from the chapel. You stand in the
passage. But first I must show you the best spots to see Their Majesties and,
if possible, be seen by them. It's a tricky business. Come down with me. I will
show you a little retiring room near the Queen's apartments which the Maids of
Honor use to tidy themselves up and also as a meeting place. Have you anything
to wear except your riding habit?"
"In my trunk.
But I'll have to lay hands on my lackey so that I can send him for it into my
husband's room."
"Wear something
simple for the morning. After Mass the King receives his petitioners and then
goes into conference with his Ministers. This evening, I think, there will be a
play and a ballet. Then you can trot out your best jewels. But now, let's get
going."
The air outside the
room was cold and damp. Madame de Montespan tripped down the staircases
oblivious of the draughts that swirled around her
beautiful bare shoulders.
"Aren't you
freezing?" Angélique asked.
The Marquise
dismissed the question with a gesture of indifference. She had acquired a
courtier's endurance in putting up with the worst kinds of inconveniences-heat
and cold in rooms that were either open to the four winds or stifling hot under
the blaze of thousands of candles, the fatigue of standing for hours, sleepless
nights, the weight of the brocaded gowns laden with jewels. A robust
constitution, the continual excitement, and particularly the endless
entertainments kept sophisticated women like her going. Without being aware of
it they were actually heroic, even to the point of welcoming their torments.
From her days of
scanty rations Angélique had retained an extreme sensitivity to cold. She could
hardly do without a cloak, and she had a huge collection of them, all very
handsome. The one she wore now was made of alternate bands of velvet and satin
whose colors blended into a blue-green tonality. Its hood was trimmed with a
veil of Venetian lace which she could pull down over her face when she did not
wish to be recognized.
Madame de Montespan
left her at the entrance of the Banquet Hall, where the Swiss guards stood as
motionless as statues, each in a starched ruff and holding a halberd. Nothing
in the palace seemed yet to have awaked to life, even though the bright morning
light was seeping into the dim salons. The balconies and galleries gaped in the
gloom like huge storied grottoes, suggesting that they might be filled with
gold and precious stones. Most of the candles had guttered out.
"I'll leave you
here," Athenais whispered as if awed by the silent solemnity that pervaded
these usually boisterous rooms. "Over there is a dressing room where you
can sit while you wait. In a little while the courtiers who help the King to
rise will put in an appearance. His Majesty gets up early. I'll see you
soon."
As Athenais moved
off, Angélique opened the door her friend had pointed out. It was
almost a secret door,
concealed by being covered with the same tapestry as the walls.
"Oh, I beg your
pardon!" she said, closing it quickly. She would never have suspected that
a hideaway so tiny that it could not accommodate a sofa might still be put to
such a romantic use. "Strange," she thought, "I didn't imagine
Madame de Soubise had so handsome a bosom. Why do you suppose she hides such
allurements?"
Needless to say, her
companion was not Monsieur de Soubise. Angélique was sure of that. At
Versailles no one paid any attention to infidelity; indeed any show of
affection between husband and wife would have been considered utterly plebeian
and in poor taste.
Angélique had no
recourse but to wander through the enormous empty rooms. In the first she
stopped, the Ionic Room, so called because of the twelve columns supporting its
cornice. Here the light was strong enough for her to admire the grace of the
white shafts rising into the shadows and unfolding into curls like ripples on a
calm dark sea. The gold of the lofty ceiling, divided into squares by heavy
ebony beams was still hardly visible, but out of its cavern darted the gleams
of the crystal prisms of the chandeliers like fairyland stalactites suspended
on invisible threads. Three sets of mirrors on the wall reflected the windows
through which the early morning sun was now streaming.
Leaning against the
marble window casing she looked out toward the park, awaking too from its
night's slumber. The terrace that stretched away from the palace in an unbroken
expanse of grassy lawn was as smooth as a tide-washed beach. Further off rose
wisps of mist draping the tops of the well-pruned elms. Their trunks seemed the
towers of a phantom city within whose blue-white walls lay magic gardens
embroidered with flower beds and sequined with pools of dark green water on
whose surface glided silvery swans.
As the sun rose
higher it flashed from the mirror-smooth basins of the great fountains that
stretched into the horizon—the Fountain of Latona, the Fountain of Apollo—all
the way to the golden ribbon of the Grand Canal
into which emptied the streams of the marshland roundabout, where beyond the
reach of human eye dwelt wild ducks and teal.
"A penny for
your thoughts, Marquise," whispered the voice of an invisible male.
Angélique stared
about her, as startled as if the marble statue that confronted her had broken
into speech.
"Tell me your
dreams, Marquise."
"Who. . . is
it?"
"It is I,
Apollo, god of the beauty which you have been so gracious to share with me this
early morning hour."
Angélique gasped.
"Chilly, isn't
it? You wear a cloak, but as for me, I am quite nude. For, as you might guess,
a marble body has no warmth."
Angélique peered
behind the statue. She saw nothing but a heap of multicolored garments lying on
the floor by the pedestal. As she bent down and touched it, it sprang up like a
frisky kid, whirled on its toes, and coming to rest revealed a tiny gnome-like
face peering out at her from deep within a hood.
"Barcarole!" exclaimed
Angélique.
"At your
service, Marquise of the Angels."
The Queen's dwarf
bowed low before her. No taller than a seven-year-old child, his poor little
deformed body on its twisted legs diverted attention from the sweet intelligence
of his face. A cap of scarlet satin trimmed with bells and baubles fitted
closely over his skull, and his tightfitting doublet was also of parti-colored
black and scarlet satin, but bare of bells and other ornament. There was lace
at his cuffs, and he carried a miniature sword.
It had been a long
time since Angélique had seen him. He had the manners of an aristocrat, and she
told him so.
"That's
true," Barcarole said smugly. "If I had the figure for it, I could
match any one of the fine lords who strut about here. Ah, if only our good
Queen would let me snip off these bells from my cap, how truly happy she would make me. But she maintains that
in Spain all jesters wear bells, and that if she couldn't hear them jingling,
she would be even more homesick. Fortunately my two companions and I have an
unsuspected ally in the King. He can't stand us. When he comes to see the Queen
he never misses a chance to chase us out with his stick. We keep out of its way
by turning somersaults that make all our bells jangle like mad. Then when he is
deep in some intimate discussion we shake our rattles so that he can't hear
what's being said, and that puts him into a bad humor. Finally the Queen takes
notice, sighs, but only says one of our bells has come unsewed and we should go
and get it fixed. Soon we shall venture to obtain another privilege."
"What will it
be?"
"A wig,"
Barcarole answered, rolling his eyes till only the whites were visible.
Angélique laughed.
"You're putting on airs, Monsieur Barcarole."
"I want to get
ahead, rise in the world," the dwarf said matter-of-factly.
Under his pose of a
mature man, she could detect the irony of melancholy. "It's good to see
you again, Barcarole. Let's have a little talk."
"Aren't you worried about your
reputation? They'll start telling tales about us. What if your husband
challenged me to a duel?"
"You have a
sword, haven't you?"
"Why, of course.
Nothing is impossible to a valiant soul. I'm going to flirt with you, Madame.
Just keep looking out the window. Anyone who passes by will simply think we are
admiring the gardens and never suspect I'm pouring out a heart's devotion to
you."
He skipped over to
the window and flattened his nose against the pane like a child. "What do
you think of this place? Pleasant, isn't it? Ah, Marquise of the Angels, you
may be a great lady now, but you still haven't forgotten your friendship with
the Queen's jester!"
Angélique kept her
eyes on the gardens, but she laid her hand on the dwarf's shoulder. "The
memories that bind us to each
other are not such that they can be forgotten, Barcarole." Softly she
added, "Would that they might be!"
By now the sun
had melted the mists. The day would be cloudless, as bright and fresh as if it
were springtime. The green leaves of the elms gleamed like emeralds, the clear
water of the fountains reflected the deep blue of the sky, the flowers danced
with a thousand colors. The dozens of gardeners who had gone to work with their
rakes and wheelbarrows were lost in the vast expanse of the esplanade.
Barcarole was
speaking in a low voice. "Sometimes our Queen worries when she hasn't seen
me all day long. That's because her favorite dwarf has gone to Paris to pay
homage to another Majesty, whose subjects are not permitted to forget him—the
Great Coesre, Wood-Bottom, King of the Underworld. He hasn't many subjects left
like us, Marquise of the Angels, who can swell his purses with money to the
size of melons. I think Wood-Bottom is pretty fond of me."
"He is fond
of me too," said Angélique.
She conjured up
the impressive face of Wood-Bottom. Who suspected the clandestine strolls the
lovely Marquise du Plessis-Bellière, masked and dressed inconspicuously,
sometimes took to the very end of the Faubourg Saint-Denis? Every week her
house-servants, whom she had chosen from among her former underworld
companions, brought to his lair baskets of fine wines, chickens, and roasts.
"Never
fear, Marquise of the Angels," Barcarole murmured, "we know how to
keep a secret. Just don't ever forget that you will never be alone in danger .
. . not even here." He turned and with his stumpy arm made a sweeping
gesture that embraced the whole splendid room. "Here! In the palace of the
King, where everyone is more alone and more in danger than any place else on
this earth."
The first
courtiers began to appear, hiding yawns behind lace cuffs, their wooden heels
clicking on the marble floor. Servants were carrying piles of logs and starting
fires in the tremendous fireplaces.
"The 'old
woman' will be along any minute. Look, there she is."
Angélique caught
a glimpse of a woman of indeterminate age wrapped in a hooded cloak. On her
gray hair she wore a peasant's starched coif made of fine lawn. Some of the
nobles bent their knee slightly as she passed, but she seemed not to see them.
She continued on her way with majestic serenity.
"Where is
she going?"
"To the
King. It's Madame Hamelin, his old nurse. She still keeps her privilege of
entering his room in the morning before anyone else at all. She draws back the
curtains and kisses him in bed, asks if he's slept well and how he feels. They
chat a bit. All the while the great of this world are fidgeting outside the door.
After she leaves, no one sees her the rest of the day. Who knows what secret
room she spins away in? She's a bird of night. And every day princes,
cardinals, ministers of state gnash their teeth at seeing this humble little
person from the back streets of Paris favored with the Monarch's first smile of
the day, and often getting his first indulgence."
On the heels of
the nurse came three doctors in the black gowns, full white-ringleted wigs and
peaked hats that signified their high calling. One by one they felt the King's
pulse, inquired after his health, exchanged a few Latin words among themselves,
and departed.
Then came the
great First Entrance—the princes of the blood. As they bowed low before him,
the King got out of bed. The Grand Chamberlain handed him his dressing gown
which the First Lord of the Bedchamber had been holding ready. His Majesty
retained the right of putting on his long-hose himself. Then one of the high
dignitaries knelt to fasten on his garters.
The act of presenting
the royal shirt was the perquisite of the First Nobleman of the Realm, and
there was a wait while he strode proudly into the room at the head of the
Second Entrance—the high nobility and specially authorized lords. When the King was in his shirt,
the First Lord of the Bedchamber handed him the right cuff, and the First Lord
of the Wardrobe handed him the left.
Then came the
Third Entrance—dukes and peers-jostling one another as with many low bows they
unfolded the King's knee-length waistcoat, brocaded like a field of flowers
tossing in the wind.
The Master of
the Wardrobe exercised his privilege of fastening the King's jabot, but the
Lord of the Neckcloths was permitted by right to adjust it, and did so.
The Fourth
Entrance was composed of the Secretaries of State. The Fifth was the
Ambassadors. The Sixth, in crimson and purple, was the Cardinals and Bishops.
Little by little the King's bedchamber filled up.
The King glanced
at the company, bowed to each, and made a mental note of the absentees. He put
several questions to them to inform himself on the latest gossip, and seemed
amused if any gave him a witty answer. And the Elect of Paradise—in terms of
Versailles—thinking of the simple mortals condemned to wait outside the golden
gates, tasted the inexpressible joy of being able to gaze upon the King in his
dressing gown.
Angélique
watched file past all those sanctified for entrance into the holy of holies.
"We are the souls in
Purgatory," laughed one of the women near her. They were decked out in all
their finery, striving to be in the front row when the King and Queen returned
along this passageway from the chapel.
The Marquis du
Plessis-Bellière had been one of the Second Entrance. Angélique waited to be
sure that she saw him go into the Royal Bedchamber. Then she dashed up to the
attic, taking pains not to lose her way in the labyrinth of corridors which
reeked of orris root and candle-grease, and were full of confusion.
La Violette was
humming as he polished his master's swords. He offered to lace Madame la
Marquise's stays, but Angélique
put him out unequivocally. Without waiting to go in search of Javotte or some chambermaid, she
dressed herself as well as she could. Then she ran back and arrived in time to
see the Queen's procession go by.
The Queen had a
red nose, in spite of the powder with which she had covered her artfully
made-up face. She had wept the whole night through, for the King, as she
tearfully confided to her intimates, had not come near her—"not even for
one little hour." This was an unusual occurrence, for the King always was
scrupulous about keeping up appearances by slipping into his wife's bed for at
least "one little hour." Quite often he even remained there all
night, but at least he always paid her a visit. The La Vallière had inflamed
his passions in her role of Diana the Huntress the previous day.
The Queen's
retinue merged with that of La Vallière as they approached the chapel together.
Marie-Thérèse held her head high, though her Hapsburg chin trembled with the
sobs she was suppressing. The favorite bowed low before her. When she rose
again Angélique saw the hunted look in her soft blue eyes. Here in the glorious
light of Versailles she was no longer the huntress, but the doe at bay.
Angélique knew she had been right; the royal favor was ebbing, if it was not
already gone. Marie-Thérèse had small reason to fear her. Not far away were
rivals ready and much more formidable.
Presently the
King returned from the chapel and went out into the gardens. He had been told
that some of the scrofulous from nearby had heard of his stay and had gathered
behind the gates in the hope of receiving the royal touch. The King could never
refuse to bestow this miraculous gift. There were not many of them, and the
ceremony was soon over. Then His Majesty moved on to receive the petitions of
the troopers in the Salon of Diana.
A young man in
the King's suite pushed through the crowd and bowed before Angélique. "His
Majesty wishes to remind Madame du Plessis-Bellière that he fully expects her
presence at the very start of the hunt tomorrow.'
"My thanks to
His Majesty," she said, taut with emotion. "Pray tell him that death
alone will prevent me from being there."
"His Majesty
does not require so much. But he has made it clear that if you should be
prevented, he would like to know the reason."
"You may assure
him he shall, Monsieur de Louvois. That is your name, isn't it?" "It
is indeed."
"I should like
to speak with you. Would that be possible?"
Louvois seemed
astonished, but he said that if Madame du Plessis would remain in the corridor,
he could perhaps join her as soon as the King retired to his conference room
after receiving the petitions.
"I shall be
waiting. Meanwhile, please assure His Majesty that I shall be at the hunt
tomorrow."
"No, you shall
not," said the voice of Philippe in her ear. "Madame, a wife owes
obedience to her husband. I never gave you permission to appear at Court. You
came here against my will. I now order you to leave and returned to
Paris."
"Philippe, you
are absurd," Angélique replied in a voice as low as his. "Absurd, and
not very subtle either. It is to your advantage for me to appear at Court. What
right have you to torment me so?"
"You tormented
me first."
"Don't be
childish. Let me alone."
"Only if you
leave Versailles this minute."
"No."
"You shall not
go to the hunt tomorrow."
"Go I
will!"
Louvois had gone back
to the King's suite and so had not heard their argument, but their neighbors
looked at them mockingly. The domestic quarrels of the Plessis-Bellières were
becoming famous. Next to them, pretending to be looking in another direction,
was the young Marquise de la Vallière with her supercilious, bird-like profile.
To escape being
laughed at, Angélique burst out with,
"All right, Philippe, I'll leave. Let's not discuss it any more."
She crossed the
corridor and took refuge in one of the great rooms where there were fewer
people to observe her. "If I had a place at Court," she kept saying
to herself, "I could depend on the whim of the King, not on that wild
man's."
How to get this
grant, and as quickly as possible, was her immediate problem. That is why she
had seized upon Louvois while he was talking to her. Her businessman's
imagination was at work. She remembered that when she had started her five sols
carriage trade in Paris she had been told about Louvois, a great courtier
and politician and the owner of the franchise to operate the mail coach and
baggage vans between Lyons and Grenoble.
This was certainly
the same Louvois. She had not thought him so young, but she did not forget that
he was the son of Le Tellier, Secretary of State and Chancellor of the King for
the High Council. She would make a business deal with him and try to enlist his
support and his father's as well.
The Marquis de la
Vallière was tacking from group to group, looking for Angélique. Her first
maneuver was to disappear. Then she changed her tactics. She had heard a good
deal about this Marquis de la Vallière, having been very much on the alert for
mutual acquaintances who could tell her about him. He knew the Court better
than anyone else. She might learn a great deal from him.
"I don't think
the King was very hard on you for being late to the hunt yesterday," he
said when he met up with her.
"And is that why
you dare pursue your little intrigue with me?" she thought. She forced him
into conversation, but when she spoke to him about a place at Court, he laughed
pityingly.
"My poor little
girl, you must be out of your mind. You would have to kill off not one but ten
persons to create a vacancy for even the most insignificant post.
Don't you know that
all the offices of the King's and the Queen's bedchamber are sold only by
quarters?"
"What does that
mean?"
"That one gets
them for only three months. After that they are put up at auction. It annoys
the King, for he is all the time seeing new faces in positions where he would
prefer to have persons who know the ropes. Since he does not want to part with
Bontemps, his chief valet, at any cost, he must be continually helping him not
only to buy back his place but even to pay for his right to buy it back. That
makes others disgruntled."
"Lord, how
complicated! Can't the King assert himself and put an end to these weird
transactions?"
"He has to try
to keep everyone happy," said the Marquis de la Vallière, with a gesture
revealing that so far as he was concerned such strange customs were as
unavoidable as the changes of the seasons.
"How do you
yourself get around them? People say you are very well provided for."
"They
exaggerate. I hold a position as Lieutenant of the King, which as far as pay
goes is one of the smallest. With four squadrons to equip and maintain, and my
rank to uphold at Court, I would never manage if I didn't have some ideas of my
own . . . And now, my lovely Marquise, I must leave you, for I suspect the King
will want to return to the gardens very soon."
Louvois returned. As
he passed by her he bowed slightly and whispered that much to his regret he had
been obliged to attend the King during a second audience, following which it
would be a pleasure for him to devote a few moments to her, for after that he
would have to serve the King at table and would not have another moment for
her.
Angélique agreed
resignedly. She was beginning to admire the young King's capacity for work. He
had not gone to bed until three o'clock in the morning, but he was up and at
Mass at six, and ever since had been attending to his business without
stopping.
As he prepared to
leave her, Louvois steered her toward a young man, so wretchedly dressed that he
seemed out of place in that elegant assemblage.
His powdered wig and his lace jabot, both of which seemed unaccustomed articles
of dress to him, made his tanned face appear even darker. He bowed stiffly.
"Yes," he said, confirming Louvois' introduction, "I am
the envoy from Ile Dauphine."
The weight of a hand
on Angélique’s shoulder just then made her jump. She looked up to see a
dark-clad person whom, try as she might, she could not place. A low, hoarse
voice, full of authority and uncompromising, echoed in her ears. "Madame.
You must give me an opportunity to speak to you about that matter at
once."
"About what,
sir?" Angélique asked.
Suddenly she
remembered that this was Monsieur Colbert, the new Comptroller, and member of
the Supreme Council.
Colbert led Angélique
by the hand to a corner of the balcony outside. On the way he signaled to one
of the clerks he had with him to bring him the contents of a large black velvet
sack in which were a number of ledgers. He drew out one with a yellow binding.
"Madame, I think
you know that I am neither a courtier nor a nobleman, but a tradesman—a draper.
Now, thanks to the business we did together, I have learned that although you
are a noble you are also a businesswoman. To come to the point, it is as a
member of the merchants' guild that I approach you for advice."
He was trying to give
his little speech a light touch, but he did not have the art to do so.
Angélique was incensed. When would people stop throwing her chocolate business
up to her!
She pursed her lips, but then, looking at Colbert, she saw that in
spite of the frosty air his forehead was beaded with perspiration. His wig was
askew and he had obviously hurried his barber that morning. Her antagonism
melted. Why should she be difficult?
"I was indeed in
business," she said, "but in nothing so important as your enterprises, sir. How can I help you?"
"As yet I do not
know, Madame. Perhaps you can tell me. I discovered your name on a list of
shareholders in the East India Company. What held my attention was that I was
aware you are one of the nobility. Hence you are in an unusual position, and
since your business prospered, I thought you might enlighten me on certain
details I am lacking about the operation of that company."
"My Lord
Minister, you know as well as I that that company, just like the Society of One
Hundred which imitated it and in which I also had five shares, traded with the
Americas. Today the shares are not worth a penny."
"I am not
speaking of the value of those shares, which as a matter of fact are no longer
quoted, but of the profits you made, whereas everyone else lost money."
"My only real
profit was that I learned you don't get something for nothing. I paid through
the nose for that lesson. The whole business was run by thieves. They expected
stupendous gains from doing nothing, whereas any results from business in those
distant lands are always the fruit of hard work."
The hard lines that
lack of sleep had carved in Colbert's face softened into a kind of smile that
was expressed more by his eyes than by his lips. "What you have just told
me is rather like my own motto: 'Nothing without work.'"
"The harder the
effort, the sweeter the task," Angélique quoted at him quickly, raising a
finger. "Application makes work play."
The smile spread
across the face of the cold Comptroller, making him almost pleasant looking.
"I see you even
know the wording of my report on the said company," he said. "I
wonder if any other of the shareholders took the trouble to read it."
"I wanted to
know what a person of your great experience would think. The undertaking seemed
so logical and to have such a potential."
"But how did you
imagine such an undertaking could succeed?" the Comptroller asked quickly. Then he
resumed his dry, monotonous manner as he enumerated the secret possessions of
Madame du Plessis-Bellière, alias Madame Morens: "A whole share in the
ship Saint John the Baptist, armed with twelve cannon to trade and bring
cocoa and pepper and spices and precious woods from Martinique and Santo
Domingo . . ."
"Correct,"
said Angélique. "I had to keep my chocolate business going."
"You put
the pirate Guinan in command of it."
"I
did."
"Were you unaware when you took him
into your service that he had previously worked for Fouquet, who was then in
prison? Did you think of the serious consequences of such action, or did
Fouquet advise you to do it?"
"I never
had occasion to talk with Fouquet," Angélique said. "I believe he was
a dangerous man because his great wealth gave him power. He abused it. But, to
give the devil his due, he knew how to choose his associates. Sheer chance
brought me Guinan. He was an excellent seaman and a good trader. He was in
hiding then, greatly concerned at having lost his patron. I thought he was the
only one who could rescue my investments after the collapse of the East India
Company, in which I had confidently sunk a lot of money. Then I took him into my
employ. I have a horror of messes. Furthermore I was inspired by an example
from on high."
"What do
you mean?"
"The King.
He punishes those he deems guilty, but he is not one to let a man of talent
slip out of his grasp. In my own modest way I employed the pirate, but I was
ready to give him up to the King if he demanded his services."
She had spoken
with spirit, but she finished with a disarming smile. Nevertheless she was far
from feeling comfortable. Colbert had been a bitter enemy of Fouquet, and he
had slyly set the trap in which Fouquet had eventually been snared. Everything
the former Comptroller had done was now exposed.
"That boat you
sent to trade in America, why didn't you send it to the Indies?" Colbert
asked bluntly.
"I thought of it. But a single French boat wouldn't have
been able to carry it off, and I could not afford several."
"But your John
the Baptist sailed to America without accident."
"There was
nothing to fear from the Barbary pirates. They give a single ship no chance to
get beyond the Cape Verde Islands. If it is not asked where it's bound as it
sails, it will be when it returns."
"What about the
ships of the Dutch and English East India Companies which are not
molested?"
"They sail in
flotillas. Twenty or thirty ships of considerable tonnage leave Liverpool or
The Hague together, and accomplish their purpose."
"Why don't the
French do likewise?"
"Sir, if you
don't know, how in the world do you expect me to? Possibly it's a matter of
temperament, or of money. For instance, how could I alone equip a fleet? The
French need a revictualing station halfway on the long route to the East
Indies."
"At Ile
Dauphine, for instance?"
"Yes, providing
the military or any other government authority has nothing to do with
administering it."
"Who would
manage it then?"
"Why, men
accustomed to dealing with new lands in trade and commence. I mean
merchants!"
Angélique had been
speaking forcefully, but suddenly she started to laugh.
"Madame, we are
discussing a serious matter," said Colbert.
"I am sorry, but
I couldn't help thinking of an ultra-sophisticated nobleman like the Marquis de
la Vallière in charge of such a station among savage tribes."
"Madame, do you doubt his courage? I know for a fact that
he has given many proofs of it in the King's service."
"It's not a
question of courage, but of just what he would do if he landed on a beach there
and saw a horde of stark naked savages descending upon him. He would butcher half of them and make the
rest slaves."
"Slaves are a
staple of trade. They can amortize an entire investment."
"I won't deny
that, but it's not a good way to establish factories and found an industry in a
country. You could say it's the methods the French use that block their success
and get them massacred every so often after they have settled in a place."
Colbert gave her a
not unappreciative look. "Devil take it, if I relied on . . ." He
scratched his stubbly chin. "I have learned more in these ten minutes than
in many sleepless nights spent poring over those damned reports."
"Sir, my advice
is subject to caution. I listen to the recriminations of the merchants and the
sailors, but. . ."
"You can't
overlook what they say. Thank you, Madame. You would do me a great favor if you
would consent to wait a half-hour for me in the antechamber."
"I can bear up
for just about half an hour," she said.
She returned to the
antechamber, where the Marquis de la Vallière informed her with malicious
pleasure that Louvois had asked for her and then had gone to luncheon.
Angélique checked her
gesture of disappointment. It was just her luck. She was especially eager for
an interview with the young Minister of War to ask him for a position at Court,
and now thanks to her unexpected meeting with Colbert, who had done nothing but
talk about maritime trade, she had missed her opportunity. She had no time to
lose. Who could tell what fiendish notion was even now germinating in
Philippe's brain? If she resisted him too openly, it would not be at all beyond
him to have her locked up. Husbands had absolute authority over their wives.
She had to get firmly rooted here before it was too late.
Angélique almost
stamped her foot with rage and disappointment. They doubled when she heard the
courtiers say that His Majesty was postponing his audiences till the next day
and that everyone might as well leave.
Just as she reached
the exit, Colbert's clerk accosted her. "If Madame la Marquise will please
follow me. They are waiting for her."
The room into which
she was escorted had graceful proportions but it was less spacious than any of
the salons. The only thing about it that was overpowering was the lofty ceiling
which seemed to open on an Olympian expanse of blue and white clouds. At the
two windows heavy draperies of dark blue silk embroidered with gold and silver
fleur-de-lis matched the upholstery of the high-backed armchairs and the three footstools
placed along one wall. Like all the other woodwork of Versailles this was
appliquéd with gesso garlands and fruits and vine-leaves, which glistened
dazzlingly under a brand new coat of gold leaf painstakingly applied to each
excrescence of the moulding. The harmony of the dark blue and the gold gave the
room a majestically sumptuous atmosphere. Angélique took it all in at a glance.
It was definitely a man's room.
At the far end of the
room Colbert was standing with his back toward her before a table made of a
single slab of marble supported by gilded bronze legs that ended in lions'
paws. On its opposite side was the King.
Angélique’s mouth
dropped open.
"Ah, here is my
informant," said the Comptroller, turning. "Pray draw near, Madame,
and tell His Majesty of your experiences as . . . as—well, a privateer in the
East India Company. They throw great light on certain aspects of the
situation."
With the courtesy he
showed every woman, even the most humble, Louis XIV rose and bowed to her. In
confusion Angélique recalled that she had not yet paid him due respect. She
sank into a deep curtsy, cursing Colbert as she did so.
"I know you are
not in the habit of joking, Monsieur Colbert," said the King, "but I
never expected that your reporter of viva voce news from the sailors
would appear under the guise of a lady of my Court."
"Madame du
Plessis-Bellière is nonetheless a very important stockholder in the Company.
She equipped a vessel with guns and intended to trade with the Indies, but she had to give it up and turn her
efforts instead toward America. She is going to tell you the reasons for her
change in plans."
"To tell the
truth, sir," Angélique said, "I am sorry that you attached such
importance to my story. It is true that I have investments in maritime trade.
My manager of these investments frequently complains to me of the difficulties
of his job, but I myself know no more about such matters than I do about
farming, even though my tenants tell me long tales of woe about their poor
harvests."
Colbert turned all
the colors of the rainbow. "Is your little farce quite finished?" he
exclaimed. "Just now you were talking to me in a highly informed manner,
but now you are masquerading. Are you afraid to speak up before the King?"
The King had sat down
again. He trusted his Comptroller and waited patiently for some enlightenment
on this interview which still astonished him. He kept watching Angélique with a
sober, perspicacious eye. She could read in his glance the cautious, fathoming
wisdom that characterized most of his decisions. It was so unusual to find such
a quality in a twenty-seven-year-old monarch that even yet few veteran
diplomats were aware of it.
Like him, Angélique
had changed from youth into maturity within a surprisingly short time. Still
she had retained all the intuitive impressionability of the young. Between
herself and the King she sensed the rapport of two quite realistic minds.
"I know Your
Majesty has no liking for eccentricity. And it does seem to be unconventional
for a lady of your Court to be involved in such things as commerce and
shipping. I am afraid. . ."
"You need not
fear our displeasure. Nor should you try to please us by wandering from the
truth," said the King rather severely. "If Monsieur Colbert thinks
your information can help us, it is not up to you to determine whether we take
it well or ill. Pray speak out, Madame, and concern yourself only with the fact
that it is your duty to serve our interests."
He did not ask her to be seated, in order to make clear to her
that she was no better than her associates who, no matter what their age or
station, might never sit in his presence unless he especially asked them to do
so.
"So your ship
gave up trading with the East Indies in spite of your desire to send it there
and in spite of the profits you hoped to reap from its voyage. Most privateers,
it must be acknowledged, have done the same. It is the reason for their
reluctance to trade with the East that is still obscure to me."
Angélique began by
describing the hazards presented by the Barbary pirates who swept the seas
between Portugal and the coasts of Africa. For centuries their whole source of
income had come from pillaging ships without convoys.
"Are you not
exaggerating the danger of these pirates, Madame? I have heard many tales of
voyages to the Indies made by French vessels sailing alone and less well armed
than yours. Yet these returned in glory from such odysseys without complaint of
anything untoward beyond such storms as were to be expected. I have here
reports of their voyages, including their dates of sailing and of returning.
Since others can do it, why do you make out that your ship could not?"
"Because it is a
merchant ship, Sire. Compare the total amounts of tonnage and you will solve
the mystery. Most of the ships that have been reported to you are warships,
even though they may call themselves merchant vessels. They know they can
escape the pirate galleys by their very speed. They leave their home ports with
their holds practically empty and return in the same condition. Indeed they do
escape the pirates and complete their voyages, but such an expedition is
impossible on a commercial scale. A ship of heavy tonnage, laden to the
gunwales with goods, is incapable of outdistancing the swift Algerian or
Moroccan galleys. It's like a fat beetle attacked by ants. Often the guns can't
find the range. Nothing is left but to repulse the boarders if possible. That
is why, thanks to the sailors of the Saint John the Baptist, my ship has
twice escaped the
pirates. But not without
bloody battles both times—once in the Gulf of Gascony, the other in the
Atlantic off Africa. Half my sailors were either wounded or killed. I gave up .
. ."
Colbert's face showed
his satisfaction, and his admiration. Seldom had any matter been so clearly
explained to him.
The King was
thinking. At length he said, "So it is a matter of convoys?"
"Exactly. That's
the way the Dutch and the English manage."
"I have no love
for those nations, but it would be foolish for us not to borrow what is good
from our enemies' strategy. See to it, Colbert. From now on when big merchant
ships are sailing, they will be convoyed by warships . . ." Angélique’s
doubtful expression stopped him. "Well, Madame, is there something about
this plan that strikes you as imperfect?"
Irony lurked in his
voice. Louis XIV could not bring himself to take seriously the advice of such a
pretty woman. But Angélique did not yield.
"I believe,
Sire, that Monsieur Colbert has not got out of all his difficulties. Frenchmen
do not like to travel in groups. Each wants to go his own way. Some are ready
to put to sea just when others cannot find the money for guns. Even the largest
stockholders have yet to find a means for negotiating the necessary agreements
that would make these important armadas possible."
Louis XIV leaned his
hand hard on the table. "Now they shall do so at the King's order."
Colbert hesitated a moment, then said: "Madame, this may be
incorrect information, but let me say that two years ago when the Montevergue
expedition was setting sail for Ile Dauphine you could have asked for the
benefit of its protection on a voyage to the Indies."
"Your information is correct, sir, but
we couldn't reach an agreement, and I do not regret it."
"Why is
that?"
"I did not wish
to become involved in an expedition that was doomed to failure."
The King colored
slightly in spite of his self-discipline. "Are you unaware that I ordered
that expedition to set out for the very purpose of giving assistance to the
launching of the East India Company and establishing a port of call on Ile
Dauphine?"
"It was an
excellent idea, Sire, and such a port is indispensable. But the ships that set
out were in a shocking state of disrepair. They had been carelessly examined.
Their captains thought only of easy conquests, and disregarded the fact that
the port where they would have to put in is no Garden of Eden, or that they
would have to go at least fifty miles into the interior of the island to get
drinking water, or that the natives are very hostile. In short, those gentlemen
were brave but impractical, even Monsieur de Montevergue, their leader. They
rushed headlong into the disastrous situation in which they are right
now."
The King's eyes were
cold. There was a heavy silence after Angélique had spoken. She was terrified
at what she might have said, yet she had spoken frankly just as the King had
told her to do.
"How does it
happen, Madame," he said at last, "that you alone knew of the
disastrous situation that awaited Monsieur de Montevergue in Ile Dauphine? His
second in command landed at Bordeaux four days ago. He was at Versailles this
morning. He had strict orders not to talk to anyone before he had seen me. I
suspended all other business until I had interviewed him. He has just
left."
"Sire, it was no
secret to seafaring men. During those two years foreign ships putting in at Ile
Dauphine have frequently out of pity taken aboard the victims of that
expedition ravaged with scurvy or wounded by the natives, and brought them back
home."
Louis XIV stared at
Colbert. "So it need not have taken Monsieur de Montevergue two years to
send me the first report I have had of his expedition when he knew I was
impatient to have it."
"There would
have been the devil to pay if I had had to wait two years to learn the fate of
my ship!" Angélique said.
"Hah!"
exclaimed the King. "Do you
mean to say, Madame, that your system of communications
runs more smoothly than that of the King of France?"
"In certain
ways, yes, Sire. Your Majesty can communicate only by direct means. Two years
is not too long for the same ship to go and return, not counting the time that
officer had to remain at Ile Dauphine until he was rescued. Things happen
differently with merchants. I made a bargain with the Dutch East India Company
that when one of its ships passed mine we would exchange information."
"The Dutch
again!" said the King humorously. "It would seem that for their own
convenience French privateers enter into bargains that are close to treason
against the realm, and consider them perfectly normal."
"Treason is too
strong a word, Sire. Are we at war with the Netherlands?"
"Certainly not!
But this is something that annoys me more than I can say, Monsieur Colbert.
That France, France, do you hear, has to play second fiddle on the seas
to those herring-fishermen!
"In the time of
my grandfather, Henri IV, the French navy had a glorious name. Its strength was
so great that the English, the Dutch and even the Venetians would borrow the
French flag to sail in the Mediterranean. It assured them protection because of
the 'understandings' between France and the Sublime Porte."
"There were more
than a thousand ships in the Mediterranean fleet alone then," said
Colbert.
"And now?"
"Fifty vessels
with from twenty-four to one hundred twenty guns. All five classes of ships
armed the same way—frigates, fire-ships, flutes, galleys. It is a shame,
Sire."
The King leaned back
in his armchair, and began to ponder the matter, his eyes on a spot far away.
His thick, flowing brown hair, which he wore in natural style, was silhouetted
against the blue upholstery on which was embroidered a gold crown surrounded by
fleur-de-lis.
"I do not intend
to ask you the reasons for our having come to this pass," he said after a
while. "I know them only too well.
We have not finished correcting all the evils that so many years of civil
disorder brought upon us. I was still very young when I began to cast my eyes
on all the diverse parts of my realm. Not unseeing eyes, but the eyes of the
master. I was deeply touched to find no one who did not need my help. There was
disorder everywhere. I resolved to be patient and attack the most urgent
matters first. The years went by. The swollen rivers have now returned to their
banks. Now is the time to see to the Navy, Colbert."
"I shall devote
myself to it, Sire."
The King had risen.
The Comptroller bowed and began to back out of his presence, stopping every
three steps to bow again.
"One word more,
Colbert. Do not take amiss what I am about to say to you, but lay it to the
interest I have in you and the friendship I bear you. Now that you have been
given the high functions that are yours, we should be pleased to see you take
greater care of your appearance and your manners."
The Comptroller's
hand went to his chin. "Forgive me, Your Majesty. Pray consider how little
time I have apart from what I devote to you. I stayed up most of the night
reading that report of Montevergue. Besides, I did not know that Your Majesty
was remaining at Versailles, and I had to leave home in a great hurry."
"I know your
devotion to me is to blame, Monsieur Colbert. Far be it from me to force you to
waste time on ribbons and laces except to increase their manufacture. But no
matter how modest you yourself may be, you should be proud of the high place
you hold. The honor of the throne and its prestige in the eyes of the world can
suffer from lack of elegance on the part of those who are close to it. It is
not enough to be, one must also seem. Take note of that, if you please, and . .
. talk it over with Madame Colbert."
The smile of the King
softened what could otherwise have hurt. The Comptroller bowed again and
withdrew. Angélique, who had begun to feel terribly tired and was starving,
started to follow him.
The King called her
back. "Please remain, Madame."
He was watching
Angélique closely. "Will you be at the hunt tomorrow?"
"Sire, I intend
to be indeed."
"I shall speak
to the Marquis so that he may help you keep your good resolutions."
She breathed a sigh
of relief. Her smile widened. "Under those conditions, Sire, I am sure I
can be present."
At this moment the
First Gentleman of the King's Command, the Duc de Charost, appeared. "Will
His Majesty be present at the banquet, or does he wish to be served in
private?"
"Since there's
going to be a banquet, let us not disappoint the sightseers who have come to
Versailles for it. Let us go to luncheon."
Angélique made a deep
bow, then started once more for the door of the King's conference room.
His Majesty addressed
her again. "I understand you have sons. Are they of an age to be in
service?"
"Sire, they are
still very young—six and eight years old."
"The same age as
the Dauphin. He will soon be out from under female domination and will be put
under the charge of a tutor. I should like him to have some playmates then to
share his games and give him some competition."
Angélique bowed for
the third time under the envious gaze of the assembled courtiers.
chapter 5
A VERITABLE army of servants under the command of their superior
officers had laid the table and arranged the seating according to protocol.
After he had inspected everything, the Grand Chamberlain opened the banquet
hall to those members of the Court who wished to be present at the dining of
His Majesty. They took their places in line in an order that had been
previously determined, while in the antechambers and the corridors there
gathered the ordinary mortals who were to be admitted for the mere sake of
passing before the King's table.
The King
himself appeared in the doorway, stopped a moment to incline his head by way of
acknowledging the deep reverences of those already present, then entered the
room with a smile and took his place at the table.
Presently Monsieur,
his brother, dashed up and, bowing very low, gave the King his napkin.
In the antechamber the guards were urging the crowd to keep a
passageway clear for a strange parade that moved forward like an ecclesiastical
procession. An extremely tall guardsman led on servants carrying on their
shoulders a huge reliquary draped with cloth of gold embroidered in silver.
Behind them marched the High Steward, carrying his staff of office, the
Gentleman Usher, the Gentleman Butler, and the other officers of the household
staff, followed by their subordinates.
In the reliquary was
the King's dish.
Slowly the crowd
filed past the royal table—tradesmen and their wives from Paris, clerks,
artisans, laborers, working girls—each extracting from the experience
everything his memory could possibly retain. They seemed less impressed by the
gorgeous display of crystal and the gold
service than by the sight of the King of France dining in all his glory.
The King said little,
but he missed nothing. Several different times Angélique saw him rise slightly
to nod to a lady of the Court as she entered and waited for the Chamberlain to
rush up to her with a footstool. But for other Court ladies, there was neither
a nod nor a footstool. These were the more numerous—the "unseatable"
of whom Angélique herself was one. Her legs were growing numb with fatigue.
Madame de Choisy,
next to her, whispered: "I heard the King was talking to you about your
boys just a while ago. How lucky you are, my dear! Don't hesitate for one
moment. Your sons will go far if you train them like this to associate only
with people of quality. They will get used early to being agreeable, and that
manner of being completely at home anywhere, which only life at Court can give,
will stay with them the rest of their lives. Look at my son, the Abbé. I
brought him up that way ever since he was a tiny tot. He is not quite twenty,
yet he has learned how to make his way so subtly that now he is on the verge of
getting a bishopric."
Angélique, however,
was for the moment less concerned about the future of Florimond and Cantor than
she was about getting something to eat and, if possible, sitting down. She left
the banquet hall as discreetly as she could, and fell in with a few ladies who
had gathered around one of the card tables. Footmen were passing them platters
of dainties in which the elegant ladies were foraging with their fingers
without once taking their eyes off the cards.
A tall, heavy woman
rose and kissed Angélique on both cheeks. It was the Grande Mademoiselle.
"I am always delighted to see you, dear. It seems to me you have been
rather snubbing the Court lately. Many times these last few months I have
wondered where you were, but I did not dare ask the King. Between us, you know,
every session begins badly and ends worse. Still, he is my cousin and we do
understand each other. But you're here at last anyway. You look as if you were
trying to find someone."
"If Your
Highness will excuse me, I'm trying to find a place to sit down."
The generous princess
looked around her in dismay. "You really can't sit here. Madame is with
us."
"My rank does
not allow me to sit in your presence either, Your Highness."
"There you are
mistaken. You are a lady of the nobility and I am only a kind of granddaughter
of France, through Henri IV, my grandfather. So you do have the right to sit in
my presence either on a hassock or a footstool, and I would gladly let you. But
with Madame here, who is a daughter of France through her marriage to Monsieur,
it is absolutely impossible."
"I
understand." Angélique let a little sigh escape her.
"But,"
continued the Grande Mademoiselle, "come and join our game. We're looking
for another player. Madame d'Arignys has just left after losing every sou she
had."
"How can I play
without sitting down?"
"But you can sit
down," said the Princess. "Come on now."
She led Angélique up
to curtsy before Madame, who was encumbered with her cards in one hand, and a
chicken wing in the other. She smiled absently at Angélique.
But Angélique had no
sooner sat than Madame de Montespan sailed up and grabbed her arm. "Hurry,
this is the time for me to present you to the Queen."
Angélique stammered
out some excuse or other and dashed after her friend.
"Athenais,"
she said, trying to catch up with her, "you'll have to put me straight
about all this footstool business. I don't know what they're talking about.
When and why and under what conditions and with what rank can a Court lady set
her behind down on a seat?"
"Almost never.
Certainly not before the King, or before the Queen either, unless she belongs
to the royal family. Still, there are all kinds of rules and all kinds of
exceptions to the rules. Why, to have the right to sit on a footstool is
everyone's dream, and has been ever since the time of the Druids. Then it was a
privilege granted
only to men, but it still
survives and it has been extended to women also. The footstool is a symbol of
the highest rank or of the highest favor. You get it only when you become a
member of the King's or the Queen's household. But then, of course, there are
special conditions."
"Such as?"
"Playing cards,
for instance. If you are playing, you can sit even in the presence of the
sovereigns. And also if you are doing needlework. You have to have your fingers
busy about something that looks like work. Some get by with just holding a
ribbon. You see, you can get around it by all sorts of means."
The Queen was in the hands of her women, who
were arraying her and doing her hair for the evening's entertainments. On one
table lay open the cases in which were some of the Crown jewels which she was
trying on one by one—diamond chokers, earrings of pear-shaped oriental diamonds
said to be the largest in the world, bracelets, tiaras.
Angélique made
innumerable curtsies and kissed the Queen's hand. Then she withdrew a little.
Her mind went back to the Infanta whom she had seen at St. Jean de Luz the evening
of her marriage to the King. Where now were those silky ash-blonde locks combed
over wire frames, the heavy Spanish skirts stretched, as befitted her ancient
lineage, over huge farthingales? Now the Queen was gowned in the French style,
which was less becoming to her full figure. Her porcelain skin with its
delicate coloring, which the gloomy Spanish palaces had kept intact, was
heavily rouged. Her nose could now be red from weeping and no one would notice
it. Angélique was astonished at the way this poor homesick little woman had
managed to retain so much of her natural majesty. In spite of her piety and her
lack of wit, she had a certain light touch, and her Spanish temperament was
clearly visible in her jealous rages and passion toward the King. She loved
Court entertainments and the artificiality of life there, and the smallest sign
of attention from the King completely delighted her simple soul.
Noticing that
Angélique was staring at her, she said: "One should look that way, not
this way." The diamond collar flashed from her throat.
Barcarole, who was
playing in a corner with the Queen's lap dogs, winked at Angélique
conspiratorially.
The weather was
pleasant, and so everyone went for a stroll through the gardens. Then as soon
as the lamps were lit everyone ran to his room to change his clothes.
Angélique dressed in
the antechamber of the Queen's Maids of Honor. Madame de Montespan called her
attention to the fact that the jewels she had brought were too simple for the
Court. There was no time for her to send back to the Hotel de Beautreillis in
Paris for other ones; but two jewelers from Lombardy, who were attached to the
Court, came to her rescue. For a modest rental they loaned their quite handsome
wares for a few hours, but not until after their clients had signed a pile of
papers guaranteeing that they would not disappear with the ornaments they had
borrowed.
Angélique signed, and
handed over the "modest" rental, which came to two hundred livres.
For that amount she could have bought at least two fine bracelets. Then she
went down to the great hall on the ground floor where the theatre had been set
up.
The King had already
taken his seat. The strict etiquette had not left a single bench available, and
Angélique in the rear of the hall had to be content with sensing the action of
the play from the bursts of laughter that came from the front rows.
"What do you
think of Molière’s message?" said a voice in her ear. "Very
instructive, isn't it?"
The voice was so
pleasant that Angélique thought she was dreaming when she turned to see
Philippe standing near her. He was a vision in a suit of pink satin trimmed
with silver braid. Only his high color and his blond mustache kept him from
appearing ridiculous in it. He was smiling.
Angélique forced herself to reply casually. "It's one of
Molière’s quaintest, but from where I am I can't see a thing."
"What a pity.
Let me help you to a better position."
He slipped an arm
around her waist and led her along. People cheerfully moved out of their way.
The high favor in which Philippe basked made others deferential to them. In
addition his rank of Marshal granted him many prerogatives, such as being able
to drive his coach into the courtyard of the Louvre or to sit in the King's
presence. Nevertheless his wife did not enjoy these.
They easily found a place at the right of the stage. They still
had to stand, but they could see perfectly.
"This is a good
spot," Philippe said. "We can see the play, and the King can see us.
What could be better?"
He had not taken his
arm from Angélique’s waist. Now he was leaning his face so close to hers that
his silky locks tickled her cheek.
"Do you have to
stand so close?" she whispered. After reflection she had decided that this
new attitude of her husband was rather suspicious.
"Yes, I do. Your
shocking behavior has put the King on guard. I do not want him to have any
doubt whatever of my loyalty to him. His slightest wish is my command."
"Ah, so that's
what it is!"
"That's what it
is. Just keep on staring at me straight in the eye. Then no one can doubt that
Monsieur and Madame du Plessis-Bellière are reconciled."
"Is that
important too?"
"The King wishes
it."
"Oh, you are. .
."
"Be still."
His arm was like a
band of steel although his voice was level.
"You're
squeezing me. Don't be such a brute!"
"How I would
like to be. Be patient, perhaps I yet may be. But this is not the time or the
place . . . Look, Arnulphe is making Agnes read the eleven rules of conduct for
marriage. Listen closely, Madame."
Angélique found it
impossible to pay as full attention to the play as she wished. It bothered her
to have Philippe so close to her. "If I could only believe," she thought, "that he was holding me
tight without any grudges, without even remembering our quarrels."
She half wanted to
turn to him and say: "Philippe, let's stop acting like surly, spoiled
children. We have lots of things in common that could hold us together. I truly
believe it. You are still the big cousin I worshiped and dreamed about when I
was a girl."
She stole a glance at
him, surprised to find that his concern for her had not affected his
magnificent body, so virile in spite of his effeminate costume. Let the
scandal-mongers spread all the hideous tales they wanted about the Marquis du
Plessis-Bellière, he was no petty noble, no Chevalier de Lorraine. He was the
god of war himself—Mars, hard, implacable, and cold as marble.
He wore his vices as he did his clothes, with assurance and
style and even perhaps with a secret boredom. But behind this front was all the
passionate warmth of a man who seemed devoid of the most basic feelings.
Angélique could not help feeling that she was no more than a wooden statue to
him. It was a depressing thought.
In The School for
Wives Molière was writing of all men, whether businessmen or gentlemen, who
storm when they are deceived, yet make themselves ridiculous for the sake of a
pair of sparkling eyes and change color whenever a pretty girl leans against
them flirtatiously. But on a man like Philippe du Plessis-Bellière all the
great playwright's knowledge of human nature seemed lost. How could she reach
him?
"Molière is very
facile," Philippe said a little later when, the play being over, they were
returning to the ballroom by way of the gardens. "He never forgets that he
is writing for the King and the Court, so he puts everything in terms of the
common people. But he knows human nature so well that everyone can recognize
himself in these characters without giving himself away."
"Philippe is not
so stupid after all," Angélique thought.
He had taken her arm.
She grew apprehensive.
"Don't act as if
I were going to burn you," Philippe said.
"I agree not to embarrass you in public. In hunting the idea is to box
one's game into an inescapable position and then face it. Well, let's get to
the point. You won the first round in forcing me to marry you. I won the second
by punishing you slightly, less than you deserved. You won again by coming to
Versailles in spite of my forbidding it, and being received there. I
acknowledge that. Now we go into the next match. I won the first round in
kidnapping you. You won the second by escaping, I should really like to know
how. In short, we're even. Who is going to win the next match?"
"That's up to fate."
"And the
strength of one's weapons. Perhaps you will win again. Your chances are good.
But I want to warn you of one thing, I will win in the end. I have a wide
reputation for being persistent and sticking to my guns. How much will you bet
that some day you will end up, thanks to me, spinning thread in a convent, with
no hope of ever getting out?"
"How much will
you bet that some day you are going to be madly in love with me?"
Philippe froze. His
breathing was heavy, as if this suggestion had overwhelmed him with anger.
"All right,
let's make a bet," said Angélique, "since you proposed it. If you
win, I shall give you all my money, my business and my ships. What good will
they do me if I am to be shut up in a convent, starved, and reduced to babbling
idiocy by your torments?"
"You're
laughing," he said, staring at her. "Well, go ahead and laugh!"
he added menacingly.
"What am I
supposed to do? I can't weep all the time."
Still tears sprang to
her eyes. As she raised her head to
return his stare, he saw at the base of her slender throat, under the necklace she had rented,
the bruises he had given her.
"If I win,
Philippe," she murmured, "I shall demand that you give me the gold
chain which has been in your family since the days of the first kings, and
which the eldest son in each generation is supposed to hang about the neck of
his fiancée. I don't exactly recall the legend that is attached to it, but I
know they say in the country it has magic powers and gives the Plessis-Bellière women courage and
virtue. You had no use for this tradition."
"You had no
need for it," Philippe answered quickly.
And leaving her
there, he strode away toward the palace.
So many thoughts
raced through Angélique’s brain on her return trip that the journey in the hack
from Versailles to Paris seemed short. She could hardly believe that three whole
days had gone by. All her new experiences at Versailles had raised her to a
fever pitch of excitement, had fascinated her and worried her, but had clearly
delighted her as well. It would take her a long time to sort out all her many
different impressions. The pomp and the merry-making this time had overruled
the hubbub of that highly conventionalized society which was usually as
formally organized as a ballet and as likely to erupt as a smoking volcano.
The comparative
calm of her hotel on the Rue Beautreillis was a comfort. Her joints were stiff
from all the thousands of curtsies she had had to make; a courtier's life, she
concluded, must do a great deal for keeping one's muscles supple even into
advanced age. She was out of training.
Angélique had a light supper of soup, a
ragout of carp roe and blanched barley, and a salad of cabbage shoots that were
then called broccoli. She went to bed and slept soundly.
In the morning
the first thing she did was to write her father in Poitou, entreating him to
come to Paris at once with all her servants and her two sons, Florimond and
Cantor, who had been in his charge for several months. But when she rang for
her private letter carrier, Roger reminded her that he had disappeared several
days ago with the horses, as had all the stable help. Madame le Marquise had
forgotten that her stables were empty of carriages, horses and men except for
two sedan chairs.
It was hard for
Angélique to restrain herself before her servant. She told Roger to discharge every
one of those traitors when they came back, and withhold their last wages. Roger
remarked that there was little chance of
ever seeing them again, for they had already been hired by Monsieur le Marquis
du Plessis-Bellière. Besides, he explained, most of them had seen nothing wrong
in taking the horses and carriages of the Marquise to the Marquis' stables.
"I am the one
who gives orders here!" said Angélique. She told Roger to get to the Place
de Greve as quickly as possible and hire some new footmen, then to the fair at
Saint-Denis for some horses—four, plus two saddle-horses for spares. Then he
was to go to the carriage-maker at the sign of the Gilded Wheel who had made
her former coaches. It was like throwing money out the window. Philippe had committed
a theft, no more no less. Why couldn't she turn him over to the sergeants of
the night-watch or to a court of justice? No, there was nothing for her but to
submit, and that was the hardest thing for her to do.
"What about the
letter that Madame le Marquise wishes sent to Poitou?" asked Roger.
"Get it there by
the fastest public post possible."
"The public post
does not leave till Wednesday."
"That doesn't
matter. The letter can wait." To calm her nerves Angélique had herself
carried in a sedan chair to the Quai de la Mégisserie, where her tropical bird
shop was. She selected a gaudily plum-aged parrot that swore like a pirate,
reflecting that this would not offend the ears of Athenais. Quite the contrary,
as a matter of fact.
She also added to her
gift a little Negro dressed as gaudily as the bird in an orange turban, a green
waistcoat, red breeches, and red stockings with gold cloches. What with
patent-leather shoes as shiny as his face, he looked like one of those wooden
Venetian torcheres that had just come into vogue.
Angélique knew Madame
de Montespan would appreciate her generosity. It was well worth while. So long
as those fools were determined to see her as the next favorite, however faulty
their information, Athenais was almost the only one who could steer her on the
right course. How stupid people are, she thought!
The following day
Angélique derided that she could not do without the atmosphere of the Court,
and set out for Saint-Germain-en-Laye, which for three years now Louis XIV had
made his favorite residence.
chapter 6
AFTER the first snowfall, which came early that year, the
Court moved to Fontainebleau, where the peasants had besought the aid of their
feudal lord, the King of France, to help them rid the countryside of ravaging
wolves.
The gray
clouds hung low as the long line of coaches, vans, men on foot and on
horseback, filed past fields that slept under an unspotted blanket of white. An
entire city was on the march, transporting everything from the "King's
Mouth" to the King's chapel to the King's apartments adjoining those of
the Queen, the tennis court, the guardhouse, the hunting equipment, even
sumptuous tapestries to deaden the clammy chill of the walls. They would be
there for a week's wolf-hunt, and there would be balls, plays and delightful
late suppers in the Spanish fashion, called "midnights."
As night came on, the
pitch torches were lighted, and the procession arrived at the gates in a kind
of shower of dripping flame.
Angélique was looking
everywhere for Philippe— whether because she wanted to see him or was afraid
to, she could not decide. She had no reason to suppose that any good would come
from their meeting; he would have nothing for her but harsh words and sour
looks. Probably it was better that he did ignore her and was far less
chivalrous to her than to any other woman in the Court. He seemed to have
forgotten her existence, but perhaps that was simply a truce inspired by the
King's suggestion. She kept herself continually on the alert, for she knew that
when she did see Philippe she would not be able to suppress her complex
feelings toward him of humble admiration and secret hope that her dreams of
long ago might come true. Then she was just a gawky little girl enraptured by her glamorous
blond cousin.
"How long,"
she thought, "the dreams of childhood take to die!"
The first day she was
at Fontainebleau there was no sign of Philippe. He was too busy preparing the
hunt. The courtiers were trying to outdo one another in telling how terrorized
the peasants were by the savage wolves. Sheep had been carried off right from
the fold. A ten-year-old child had been attacked and devoured. An especially
dangerous pack seemed to be led by a huge male—"as big as a cow,"
said the locals, who had seen him prowling on the very edges of the hamlets.
Nothing daunted him. At night you could hear him snarling and slavering at the
cottage doors, while inside the children clung to their mothers and sobbed with
terror. No one went out after dark.
The hunt suddenly
took on the impassioned dimensions of a crusade as everyone prepared to attack
this monster. Hundreds of peasants showed up armed with spears and pitchforks
to help the whippers-in keep the hounds on the scent. No one stayed behind.
Tales of such animals
were the common experience of everyone. Hardly a one of the courtiers and
ladies had not frozen with fear in their childhood at stories of their
depredations under the very walls of their castles. They inherited a hatred of
these bold raiders, the scourge of the countrysides, who spared neither noble
nor serf if he foolhardily wandered from the highways.
The horns of the hunt woke the echoes of the great rocks and
cliffs of the forest of Fontainebleau, and even the marble domes of the
summer-houses and the icicle-fringed balconies.
Angélique had just
emerged into a snow-carpeted clearing enclosed by such a rocky palisade that it
was like being at the bottom of a mossy well. The brave music of the horns was
wafted here in so harmonious a blend of notes that its melody awoke in her the
sweet melancholy of the memory of old, forgotten, far-off things. She reined in
her horse and listened.
Ah, the forest! How
long it had been since she had thrilled to its magic! The raw wind, laden with the sweet
scents of death—rotted wood and mouldering leaves—swept away in an instant all
her years amid the clamorous stench of Paris and took her back to her joyous
early days in the forest of Nieul. Still clinging to the black boughs were
scattered clutches of russet and crimson leaves, and the snow that rustled down
from the higher branches with the soft murmur of a woodland spring set off
these bright tones and made them sparkle in the glimmers of the wintry sun as
if they were strewn with diamond dust. The bright red beads of a holly bush
peeped out from the underbrush. How, she recalled, she used to gather great
armfuls of holly back at Monteloup around Christmas time! So long ago! Could
just one little sprig bridge the chasm that lay between Angélique de Sancé and
Angélique du Plessis-Bellière?
"Life never robs
us of ourselves," she murmured to herself. A shiver of emotion ran through
her, as if she had heard tidings of great joy.
Immature, perhaps,
but then she had never put away those childish thrills no woman can do without.
To relish them once more was a luxury she could now easily afford.
Slipping down from
her mare and tossing Ceres' reins over a hazel branch, she ran to the holly
bush. From among the jeweled gewgaws that hung from her belt she selected a
little pearl-handled penknife that she used for paring fruit. It would be just
the thing.
She did not notice
that the sound of the horns and the shouting of the hunters had drifted farther
and farther away, nor observe how skittish Ceres had become, until with a
whinny of fright the mare yanked the reins from the hazel bush and galloped off
in a frenzy.
"Ceres!"
Angélique called. "Ceres!"
Then she perceived
what had caused the mare to dash away. Across the clearing, half-hidden in the
thickets, prowled a sinister form.
"The wolf!"
The instant she had
stepped out of the shelter of the bushes on to the untrodden snow she realized
that there crouched the terror of the countryside, his back arched and his shaggy pelt bristling. Without
making the slightest movement he fixed on Angélique eyes that glowed with the
evil fire of a demon's. Huge was he indeed, and as gray and russet as the
forest tones themselves.
Angélique let out a
piercing scream.
The beast leaped up,
backed off a bit, then slowly crept toward her, his slavering jaws baring
fearful fangs. At any moment he would spring upon her.
Angélique glanced
over her shoulder at the high wall of rock that towered above her. "I must
get up it. Just as high as I can."
Gathering all her
courage, she managed to scale its lowest ridge. Then she could go no further.
Her nails slipped on the sheer surface. She could find no handhold.
The wolf had sprung,
but had reached only the hem of her dress. Crouched again, he lay in wait for
her to fall, never taking his baleful, bloodshot eyes from her.
She screamed again at
the top of her lungs. Her heart was pounding so violently that she could hear
nothing but its deafening drumbeat. With frantic haste she tried to piece
together the words of a prayer: "Lord! Lord God, don't let me die like
this . . . Do something, oh God, do something. . .!"
Suddenly a horse
dashed up and skidded to a stop in a cloud of flying snow. Its rider jumped to
the ground. As if she were dreaming Angélique saw the great wolf-hunter, her
husband Philippe du Plessis-Bellière. He seemed to take in the extraordinary
situation in one second. A silver-trimmed white buckskin jacket girdled his
body, and the fur at its neck and cuffs was the color of his own blond hair.
Steadily his silver-spurred white leather boots moved forward. His hands were
bare, for he had stripped off his gauntlets before dismounting. In his grip was
the silver haft of a long slim hunting knife.
The wolf turned upon
this new adversary. Slowly, relentlessly, Philippe moved toward it. When he was
two yards away the beast sprang, its scarlet gullet yawning beyond its
knife-sharp fangs.
With a lightning movement Philippe thrust
forward his left arm, wrapping it like a tentacle
around the wolf's throat. With his knife he slit its belly from haunch to
breast. The beast writhed with blood-curdling guttural snarls as its lifeblood
spurted like a geyser. At length its death-struggles grew weaker. Philippe
heaved the panting carcase aside, trailing its guts over the snow as it fell.
From every quarter
now the whippers-in and the horsemen were dashing into the clearing. The
lackeys kept the howling pack from the carcase.
"Good
work!" said the King to Philippe.
In the confusion the
plight of Angélique had escaped notice. She took advantage of this distraction
to slide down from the cliff, clean her skinned hands and pick up her hat. One
of the whippers-in led her horse back to her. He was an old man who had grown
gray in his service as King's huntsman and had a blunt manner of speaking.
Having followed close upon Philippe's heels, he had arrived in time to see the
end of the struggle.
"You had a good
fright, didn't you, Madame?" he said. "We knew the wolf was over here
somewhere, and when we saw your horse come back with empty stirrups and heard
you scream . . . ! On my honor, Madame, it was the first time I ever saw our
Master of the Hunt turn pale—deathly white."
It was not until the
feast that followed the hunt that Angélique met Philippe. It had been
impossible for her to join him ever since the moment when in his bloody hunting
jacket he had thrown her a furious look before remounting his horse. Doubtless
he had wanted to give her a couple of good slaps. Nonetheless she admitted that
a wife who has had her life saved by her husband owes him a thank-you at least.
"Philippe,"
she said as soon as she could get his attention between two courses at the
banquet, "I am much obliged to you. If it hadn't been for you, it would
have been all up with me."
He waited to set his empty wineglass on a tray that a footman was
passing before he grasped her wrist so tightly she thought he would snap it.
"If you don't
know how to follow a hunt any better than that," he whispered crossly,
"you had better stay home with your needlework. You are always putting me
into embarrassing situations. You're nothing but a crude peasant, an uneducated
shopkeeper. Someday I'll find a way of having you expelled from the Court, and
getting quit of you."
"Then why didn't
you let the wolf tend to business, as he was so eager to do?"
"I had to kill
the wolf. What happened to you was no concern of mine. Don't laugh, you are
exasperating. You are just like all women, thinking you are irresistible and
that everyone is willing to die for you gladly. I'm not that kind of man.
Someday you'll learn, if you haven't done so already, that I am a wolf
too."
"I don't doubt
it, Philippe."
"I can prove it
to you," he said with a frigid smile that foretold bad things to come.
Then he took her hand with a tenderness she suspected and raised it to his
lips. "The barrier you raised between us on our wedding day,
Madame—hatred, rancor, revenge—can never be removed. Take that as a fact."
Her delicate hand was
against his mouth. Suddenly he bit it savagely.
Angélique had to
summon all her self-control to keep from screaming with pain. In pulling away
from him she kicked Madame, who was rising from the table. She cried out.
Angélique turned from
scarlet to white as she stammered: "Pray forgive me, Your Highness."
"How clumsy you
are, my dear."
To which Philippe
added snidely: "You must be a little more careful how you move, Madame.
The wine has been too much for you."
His eyes were
gleaming wickedly. He bowed very low before the princess, then left the women
to join the King, who was moving toward the salons.
Angélique tied her lace handkerchief over
the marks his teeth had left on her hand. The pain had made her faint. Dizzily
she groped her way through the throng and
reached a vestibule where the air was cooler. There she sank on to the first
sofa she came to in a bay window. Cautiously she removed the bandage and rolled
it into a ball. Her hand was turning blue, and pinheads of dark blood were
oozing from the wound. How fiendish he had been to bite her like that, and how
scandalous his insinuation! "Be careful how you move, the wine has been
too much for you." Now the gossip would start that Madame du Plessis had
been so drunk she had jostled Madame. She would be put down as too
inexperienced to be in society.
The Marquis de Lauzun
passed by and recognized her. "Now I am really going to scold you,"
he said. "Alone again! Always alone! And at Court, and as beauteous as the
day, too! Taking sanctuary in this corner that is so hidden away they call it
Venus' laboratory. Alone this way, you defy the most basic rules of pleasant
company, not to mention the laws of nature."
He sat down beside
her, as if he were a father scolding his little daughter. "What is
troubling you, my darling? What melancholy demon has so possessed you that you
are determined to spurn all our compliments and isolate yourself from the
devotion we would so gallantly offer you? Have you forgotten that Heaven has
given you incomparable charm? Do you want to repudiate that gift of God? Ah,
what's this I see? Angélique, my darling, don't take it so seriously."
Putting his finger under her chin, he turned her face up to him. "You're
weeping. Is it because of a man?"
Spasmodic sobs so choked her she could only nod her head.
"Why, why,"
said Lauzun, "that's a crime. You should be making others weep. My lamb,
there isn't a man here worth the salt in your tears. Even I, though I still
hope . . ."
Angélique tried hard
to smile. Presently she found her voice again. "Oh, it really isn't so
bad. I'm just nervous. I don't feel well."
"Where?"
She showed him her
hand.
"What monster
did that?" Péguilin exclaimed in outrage. "Tell me his name, Madame,
and I shall demand satisfaction."
"Don't bother,
Péguilin. He has, I'm sorry to say, complete authority over me."
"Do you mean your husband, the
handsome Marquis?"
Angélique only burst
into tears again.
"Ah, what more
can you expect from a husband," said Péguilin in disgust. "That's
just the thing about him that made you choose him. But why are you so determined
to keep on seeing him?"
Angélique sobbed all
the harder.
"Come, come,
now," Péguilin said tenderly, "don't go on like this. For a man, and
just for a husband? You're out of style, my jewel, or out of your head. For a
long time now you've been carrying on in this unnatural way, and I want to take
this chance to talk to you about it. But first dry your eyes."
He took out a
spotless square of lawn and gently wiped her cheeks and eyes. She looked up at
the cheerful wisdom of his expression which the entire Court including the King
himself had learned to watch for signs of coming mischief. His worldly life,
his excesses, had already scarred the corners of his mouth with lines of irony,
yet his face as a whole radiated his love of life and his inner happiness. He
was from the South, a Gascon, sunny as the livelong day and as lively as a
trout in a mountain stream.
She sighed once more,
then looked at him sweetly. He smiled.
"Feeling
better?" "A little."
"We'll fix everything
up," he said. A moment went by in which he studied her in silence. They
were screened from the eternal passing-by of the courtiers and servants in the
corridor. The alcove was a little off the beaten track, and its space was
entirely filled by the sofa whose high armrests hid them from the gaze of the
curious. The crimson rays of the setting sun streamed on them through the
window as the early winter twilight
deepened. Beyond, the marble urns on the terrace and the frozen pools of the
fountains glimmered faintly in the evening mist.
"So this is
known as Venus' laboratory?" said Angélique, her voice still unsteady from
her emotion.
"Yes, here we
are sheltered, as much as anyone can be at Court, from inquisitive eyes. It's
common knowledge that too impatient lovers often come here to offer their
sacrifice to the goddess. Angélique, don't you think you are wrong to ignore
her?"
"Ignore the
goddess of love? Péguilin, I am more inclined to blame her for neglecting
me."
"I'm not so sure,"
he said dreamily.
"What do you
mean?"
He shook his head,
then leaned his chin on his finger as if thinking deeply. "Damn
Philippe," he sighed, "who will ever know what's hidden beneath that
rascal's hide? Haven't you ever tried to slip some medicinal powder into his
wineglass some evening to keep him away from you? They say La Vienne, who runs
the public baths on the Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré, has potions to restore
vigor to lovers exhausted by too frequent sacrifices, as well as for old lechers
and those whose temperament is too cold for worship at Venus' altar. I have
heard marvelous things about one of those substances called polleville."
"I don't doubt
it, but I don't care for such methods. You see, I should need a chance to get near
enough to Philippe to touch his—wineglass. That does not often happen."
Péguilin’s eyes
popped. "You can't mean that your husband is so utterly indifferent to
your charms that he never comes to visit you?"
"Yes,"
Angélique sighed, "it's true."
"But . . . what
is your so-called husband thinking of?"
"I don't
know."
"What! Well,
then . . . what about your— er— lovers?"
Angélique did not
answer.
"Do you mean to
tell me you have none?"
"I do indeed,
Péguilin. It is the truth."
"Impos—si—ble!" Péguilin looked as if he had just got news of
a mighty catastrophe. "Angélique, you ought to be spanked."
"Why?" she
protested. "It is not my fault."
"It is entirely
your fault. With your complexion, your eyes, your figure, you have only
yourself to blame for this mess. You are an unnatural creature, exasperating
and formidable." He put his finger to his forehead. "What goes on in
your naughty little head? Nothing but schemes and politics and business deals
daring enough to stagger Colbert and even Tellier? A conservative businessman
would box your ears, and a young one would be so dazzled he would not know how
to keep you from getting your hands on his last penny. And on top of all that,
the face of an angel, eyes that drown a man in their radiant depths, lips that
one only has to look at to want to devour with kisses! Your cruelty is an
exquisite torture. You are like a goddess revealed in a vision. And for whom?
Tell me!"
Angélique was baffled
by his vehemence. "I have enough to do," she said.
"And what the
devil more can a woman have to do than make love? Really, you are just an
egoist imprisoned in a tower of your own making to protect yourself."
His perspicacity
astonished her. "That's only partly true, Lauzun. How could anyone know
what I am really like? You have never been in hell."
Suddenly she felt
very tired. She leaned her head back and closed her eyes. A few moments ago she
had been boiling hot, now the blood in her veins ran cold. It was like the
onslaught of old age. She wanted to cry out to Péguilin for help, yet her
better judgment told her he would rescue her only to lead her into greater
dangers. She decided to move to safer ground.
Straightening up, she
asked playfully: "By the way, Péguilin, you haven't told me whether you
finally got your appointment as Grand Master."
"No,"
Péguilin said tonelessly.
"Why not?"
"You have tried
to put me off before, but this time I'm not going to get caught. You aren't
through with me
yet. Right now, my
appointment as Grand Master doesn't interest me in the least—only how you can
rule your life from your calculating head, and not from here." He laid his
hand on her breast.
"Péguilin!"
she protested, standing up.
He caught her to him,
and tipping her against his right arm, slipped his left hand under her knees so
that she lost her balance and fell back upon the sofa with him leaning upon her
bosom.
"Be still,"
he ordered her, "and relax. Let the doctor diagnose your trouble. It's
serious, but not hopeless. Come now, tell me the names of all those noble lords
who swarm about you and lie tossing the night through at the very thought of
you."
"My word, do you
think there are that many?"
"I forbid you to
act so surprised!"
"But Péguilin, I
swear I don't know what you're referring to."
"Do you mean you
did not even notice the Marquis de la Vallière fluttering like a mad butterfly
when you appeared? Or Vivonne, Athenais' brother, faltering like a schoolboy?
Or Brienne's compliments? Or Saint-Aignan or Roquelaure, or even the bold
Louvois turning pale when talking to you?"
She giggled with
pleasure.
"I forbid you to
laugh," interrupted Péguilin. "If you haven't noticed all that, you
are further gone than I thought. Haven't you felt the heat of the flames you
have kindled? By Beelzebub, I think you must have the hide of a
salamander." He tickled her neck with his finger.
"You did not
mention yourself as one of those on fire, Monsieur de Lauzun."
"Not I," he
said quickly. "I would never dare. I am too scared."
"Of me?"
His eyelids drooped.
"Yes, of you . . . and of everything about you. Your past, your future,
your mystery."
Angélique stared at
him for a moment, then with a tremor buried her face against his blue coat.
"Péguilin!"
He was such an old
friend, Péguilin the gay, bound up with all the
drama of her former life. In every one of her crises he had popped up like a
puppet in a Punch and Judy show—appearing, disappearing, reappearing. And now
here he was again, just as always.
"No, no,
no," he replied. "I don't like such risks. The pangs of heartache
terrify me. Don't expect me to make love to you."
"What are you
doing now?"
"Comforting you.
It's not the same thing at all." His finger traced little curlicues down
the length of her silken throat, then followed the line of her necklace of rosy
pearls gleaming lustrously against her milk-white skin. "You've been so
badly treated, and tonight you have such grief to bear. My God, what do they
want to do, abuse you till you're tough as a swordblade? Anyone would think no
man's hand had ever touched you. Oh, how I would like to give you a little
lesson . . ."
He leaned toward her.
She tried again to escape, but he held her too tightly. His eyes glittered like
a man's who has lost all hope of salvation.
"We have teased
you enough, my pet. The hour for revenge has struck. Besides I. am dying to
comfort you, and I know you need consolation badly." He began to kiss her
eyelids lightly, then her temples. Then his hot lips pressed against the corner
of her mouth.
A tremor ran through
her as the sudden lash of an animal passion struck her. A perverse curiosity
tempted her to test the talents of this Don Juan of the Court.
Péguilin was right.
Philippe meant nothing to her. The empty charade of the Court was all that
mattered to her now. She knew she could never live again on the edge of things,
alone, for all her beautiful gowns and costly jewels. She would gradually
become like the rest, exist as they did, caught in the same whirpool of
intrigues and adultery. It was a heady draught, poisoned perhaps, but sweet to
the taste. She would have to drink deep of it or die.
A sigh welled up from
within her. The curing touch of his caresses was overcoming her inhibitions.
When Lauzun's mouth touched hers she little by little opened her lips until she
had wholly yielded to their passion.
A flash of light from
the torches that two troops of servants were bringing to fix in brackets along
the walls of the corridor separated them for a moment. Angélique had forgotten
that darkness had enclosed them. A servant set a six-branched candelabra on a
table near their alcove.
"Hey, boy,"
whispered Péguilin, leaning over the arm of the sofa, "take your lantern
further off."
"I cannot, sir.
My boss would bawl me out."
"Then blow out
three of your candles," said Lauzun, tossing him a gold piece.
He took Angélique
into his arms again. "How lovely you are! How sweet to all the
senses!"
Anticipation had
driven them crazy. Angélique groaned and bit the silken epaulette of his blue
coat. Péguilin laughed softly.
"Easy, my little
vixen. You'll get what you want."
She yielded to him.
The golden veil of voluptuous oblivion descended gently over them. She was
merely an ardent body, greedy with desire, unconscious of where she was or even
of the partner whose practiced touch made her whole being quiver.
"My child, you
have grievously sinned, but in consideration of the repentance you have made
and the zeal with which you have tried to mend your ways, I believe it is my
duty to grant you the blessing of little god Eros, and his absolution. For
penance you shall recite. . ."
"You are
terrible," she giggled, still languishing in his arms.
Péguilin separated a
lock of her blond hair and pressed it to his lips. Privately he was amazed at
his own delight in her. He felt none of the melancholy that follows satiation.
Why? he wondered. What kind of woman was this?
"Angélique,
angel, I fear I have forgotten all my good resolutions. I am burning to know
more. Will you come to me tonight after the King retires? I beg you to."
"What about
Madame de Roquelaure?"
"To hell with
her!"
Angélique raised
herself from his shoulder on which she
had been leaning, and drew the lace of her bodice over her bosom—a gesture
designed to keep him in suspense.
A few steps away from
them, silhouetted in black against the glow of the lighted corridor, was the
motionless figure of a man. There was no need for them to see his features to
identify him. It was Philippe.
Péguilin de Lauzun
was fully experienced in situations like this. Quickly he adjusted his
garments, rose and bowed deeply. "Sir, your seconds? I am at your
service."
"And my wife is
at everyone's service," Philippe replied slowly. "Please, my dear
Marquis, don't disturb anyone." He bowed as deeply as Péguilin had, and
strode away.
The Marquis de Lauzun
seemed changed into a pillar of salt. "The devil," he swore,
"I've never met a husband like that before." Drawing his sword, he
took the three steps of the platform in one bound and dashed after the Master
of the Hunt.
Still running, he
burst into the Salon of Diana at the very moment at which the King, followed by
the ladies of his family, was coming from his audience chamber.
"Sir,"
shouted Péguilin in ringing tones, "your contempt is insulting. I demand
satisfaction. Your sword must answer for you."
Philippe lowered his
icy gaze on his gesticulating rival. "My sword is at the service of the
King, sir. I never fight over a whore."
In his rage Lauzun
had relapsed into his native dialect. "I have cuckolded you, sir," he
shouted, "and I demand satisfaction from you!"
chapter 7
IN THE ashy gray dawn Angélique sat on the edge of her bed.
Her head throbbed and her mouth tasted sour. She ran her fingers through her
tangled hair. Her scalp hurt her. She started to get a looking-glass from her
dressing table but winced with pain. Her hand was badly swollen. She looked
dully at the wound and suddenly remembered Philippe.
She leaped from the
bed and stumbled about in her high-heeled slippers. She must get the latest
news about Philippe and Lauzun at once. Had the King talked them out of a duel?
If they had fought, what fate awaited the survivor? Arrest, prison, disgrace?
No matter how she
looked at it, she was trapped in a dreadful situation. A scandal, a frightful
scandal. She was burning with shame at the very thought of what had transpired
at Fontainebleau.
Back to her mind came the vision of Lauzun and Philippe drawing
their swords and calling en garde right before the King's eyes. De
Gesvres, de Crequi and de Montausier had separated them, and Montausier had
pinioned the arms of the fuming Gascon who was screaming, "I have
cuckolded you, sir!" while all the eyes of the Court turned toward her as
she stood crimson with embarrassment in her magnificent apricot-colored gown.
She could not now
recall what miracle had prompted her to approach the King as if to speak to him
and the Queen, make her deepest curtsy and then withdraw, holding herself
erect, between two banks of jeering and scandalized faces, whispers, stifled
laughter and finally a silence so complete and terrifying that she was tempted
to gather up her skirts and flee on the run. But she had kept her dignity to
the very end, and had made her exit without
haste. Then, more dead than alive, she had sunk upon a bench on an empty,
poorly lit stair-landing. There Madame de Choisy joined her a few moments
later. Swallowing hard like a shocked pigeon, this noble lady informed the
Marquise du Plessis-Bellière that His Majesty was in the process of lecturing
Monsieur de Lauzun in private, and that the Prince had taken charge of the
deceived husband, and that everyone hoped this unseemly quarrel would end
there. Of course, Madame du Plessis would understand that her presence at Court
was no longer desired. Madame de Choisy had been instructed by the King to
advise her of the necessity of leaving Fontainebleau at once.
Angélique received
the verdict with a kind of relief. She had rushed into her coach and had driven
all night long in spite of the grumbling of her coachman and lackeys, who were
afraid to drive through the forest lest they be attacked by bandits.
"It's just my
luck," she said to herself as she gazed bitterly at the dark circles under
her eyes. "Every day and every night innumerable women at Court deceive
their husbands with all the ease in the world, and the one time I try it,
lightning strikes. No luck whatever!" On the verge of tears, she yanked
the bell cord. Javotte and Thérèse appeared, yawning and rubbing their eyes.
She ordered them to help her dress, then sent for Flipot and told him to run to
the h6tel of the Marquis du Plessis, in the Rue Faubourg Saint-Antoine, and
hurry back with all the news he could glean.
She was finishing
dressing when the noise of a coach turning slowly into the courtyard of her
hdtel froze her. Her heart was pounding. Why should anyone come to see her at
six in the morning? Who could it be? She rushed into the hall, went down a few
stairs cautiously, and leaned over the bannister.
It was Philippe,
followed by La Violette holding two swords and leading the Marquis' confessor.
Philippe raised his head.
"I have just
killed Monsieur de Lauzun," he said. Angélique gripped the bannister to
keep from falling. Her heart started pounding again. Philippe was alive!
She ran down the
stairs. As she drew near her husband she could see his shirt-front and
waistcoat spotted with blood. For once he could not swish his cloak, for he was
cradling his right arm in his other hand.
"You are
wounded," she said faintly. "Is it serious? . Oh, Philippe, come, let
me bandage you, please!"
Almost supporting
him, she led him to her own room. He must have been quite exhausted, for he
made no comment, merely dropped heavily into an armchair and closed his eyes.
His face was as white as her collar.
Angélique’s hands
shook as she picked up her sewing kit, extracted her scissors and began to cut
away the blood-stiffened cloth. Meanwhile she was shouting at the servants to
fetch hot water, lint, powders, salves and the Queen of Hungary's elixir.
"Drink
this," she said as soon as Philippe revived a little.
The wound did not
seem deep. It was a long rip from the right shoulder to the left breast, but it
had not penetrated much beyond the surface of the skin. Angélique washed it and
applied a mustard plaster, powdered lobster shell, and a poultice.
Philippe endured
these administrations without moving a muscle, even when the mustard plaster
was applied. He seemed to be deep in thought.
"I wonder how
this matter of etiquette will be decided," he said at last.
"What
etiquette?"
"My arrest. In
principle, the Captain of the King's Bodyguards is supposed to arrest
duellists. But the Captain is none other than the Marquis de Lauzun. He cannot
arrest himself, can he?"
"Hardly, since
he is dead," said Angélique with a nervous laugh.
"He hasn't a
scratch."
"But didn't you
just tell me . . . ?"
"I wanted to see
whether you would faint."
"I was not going
to swoon over Péguilin de Lauzun. I was shocked to be sure, but it is you,
Philippe, who were wounded."
"I had to do my
best to stop that foolishness. I was not going
to destroy a twenty-year friendship with Péguilin over such a trifle."
She turned white and
her eyes grew dim as she felt faintness overcoming her.
"That's what the
King called you, isn't it? A toy?" Her eyes filled with tears again. She
put her hand on his forehead. How weak he seemed for one so hard.
"Oh,
Philippe," she whispered, "what a mess! And to think you had just
saved my life. Why couldn't things have turned out differently? I would so much
have liked to love you . . . to be able to love you."
The Marquis raised
his hand in an imperious gesture for her to be silent. "I think they are
here," he said.
The marble staircase
resounded with the clank of spurs and sabres. Then the door slowly opened and
the Comte de Cavois entered, his face haggard.
"Cavois,"
said Philippe, "have you come to arrest me?"
The Comte nodded
feebly.
"It is a good
choice. You are Colonel of the Musketeers, and next to the Captain of the
King's Bodyguard the duty should be yours. What has happened to Péguilin?"
"He is already in
the Bastille."
Philippe stood up
painfully. "I am at your service. Madame, be so good as to put my doublet
over my shoulders."
The mere mention of
the word Bastille made Angélique’s senses reel. Everything was starting all
over again. Once more a husband was being torn from her to be shut away in the
Bastille. Her lips white, she clasped her hands in prayer.
"Monsieur de
Cavois, not the Bastille, I beg you!" "I am sorry, Madame, but those
are the King's orders. Are you unaware that Monsieur du Plessis has greatly
offended him in fighting this duel in spite of the severe edicts against it?
However, don't worry. He will be well treated and well cared for, and his valet
may accompany him."
He offered Philippe
his arm to lean upon. Angélique moaned like a wounded animal. "Not to
the Bastille! Lock him up wherever you want, but not in the
Bastille!"
The two nobles were
at the door. They turned to her with a look of total bewilderment.
"And where would
you like to have me locked up?" Philippe asked in annoyance. "In the
Chatelet, perhaps, with the rabble?"
Yes, everything was
starting all over again. The endless waiting, the lack of information, the
paralysis of action, the inevitable tragic ending. Once more she saw herself
going over the same ground, stumbling, and already she was choking with anguish
as if she were having one of those nightmares in which one tries in vain to
escape but is rooted to the ground. For a while she thought she was going to
lose her mind.
Her servants, distressed to see their
mistress, whom they had known in a more vigorous state, so overwhelmed, finally
thought of something that might calm her.
"You should go
to see Mademoiselle de Lenclos, Madame. Mademoiselle de Lenclos." They almost
forced her into her sedan chair.
It was good advice.
Ninon was the only one, with all her worldly wisdom, her great human
understanding, her generous heart, who could listen to Angélique’s tale of woe
without taking her for a fool or being scandalized. She rocked her in her arms,
called her "dear heart," and when Angélique’s panic subsided a
little, undertook to show her how petty the whole incident was. There were many
precedents. Every day husbands fought duels to avenge their honor.
"But the Bastille!"
The name was blazoned in letters of fire before Angélique’s eyes.
"But people do
get out of it, my dear."
"Only to go to
the stake."
Ninon stroked her
forehead. "I don't know what you are referring to. There must have been
some terrible event in your past to make you lose courage like this. As soon as
you're yourself again, you'll see just as I do that the rumors about the Bastille which have made such an
impression upon you are nothing to be afraid of. It's just the King's dark
closet. Is there any of our fine lords who hasn't spent a few days there to pay
for some rudeness or disobedience that their high spirits have embroiled them
in? This is the third time for Lauzun himself. Possibly the fourth. His example
alone proves that one can get out of the Bastille and achieve an even greater
position of honor than before. Let the King birch his naughty schoolboys. He
will be the first to long for the return of that naughty rogue Lauzun or for
his Master of the Hunt."
Her words of wisdom
comforted Angélique and calmed her. Now she could see that her panic had been
groundless and foolish.
Ninon advised her to
do nothing until the gossip died down. "One scandal covers up another, and
the Court has plenty of them. Patience! I bet that within a week another will
have replaced yours on the lips of the scandalmongers."
On her advice
Angélique resolved to make a retreat in the Convent of the Carmelites, where
her young sister Marie-Agnes was a novice. This would be the best solution for
getting away from the eyes of the world, and still remaining in it.
In her nun's coif
young Marie-Agnes de Sancé, green-eyed and endowed with a mysterious smile, was
like an archaic angel on the portal of a cathedral. Angélique was surprised to
find her still determined to take the veil. She was barely twenty-one years
old. A life of self-denial and prayer seemed hardly suited to her younger
sister's temperament. At twelve she had a reputation for being devilish, and
her brief experience as Maid of Honor to the Queen had been one long sequence
of rash and suddenly terminated affairs. Angélique suspected that Marie-Agnes
had learned more from the book of love than she herself had. And after the
young nun had heard her confession, Angélique was surprised to hear her sigh
indulgently: "How young you are still! Why get into such a fuss over a
commonplace thing?"
"Commonplace,
Marie-Agnes! I have just told you I deceived my husband. That's a sin, isn't
it?"
"Nothing is more
commonplace than sin. Only virtue is unusual. So unusual these days that it is
almost unique."
"How can that
be? I don't understand. I did not want. . ."
"Listen,"
said Marie-Agnes in the cutting voice that was a family trait, "either you
wanted something like this, or you did not. And if you did not want it, then
why did you go to live at Court?"
Perhaps that was the
explanation of why she had divorced herself so completely from the world.
Angélique thought of
doing penance there in the blanketing silence of that holy house, where the din
of the world grew faint. A visit from Madame de Montespan, however, shattered
her heavenly aspirations and brought her back to earth and all its complex
problems.
"I don't know if
my procedure is wise," the beautiful Athenais said to her, "but when
all is said and done, it's to my advantage to put you on guard. But do what you
want, and don't consider me. Solignac has turned to his own account this duel
scandal. By which I mean that your husband's affairs are going badly."
"What has the
Marquis de Solignac got to do with it?"
"The same old
story—protecting God and His holy cause. I warned you he was a waspish,
contradictory creature. He's got it into his head that duels are signs of
heresy and atheism. He has seized on this one of Lauzun and your husband and is
urging the King to be severe and to 'Make an example.'
Seeing Angélique turn
dead white, the astonished Marquise gave her a playful tap with her fan.
"I was joking. But be careful! That fanatic is quite capable of getting
them a long imprisonment and a thumping disgrace, and don't I know it! The King
will listen to him because he remembers that Lauzun has irritated him too often.
And he does not like it that these two nobles have gone beyond his limits of
propriety. He doesn't care anything about the duel
itself, but it is a question of law, and so the general opinion is that the
pyre may be kindled. If I were you, I would try to intervene while there is
still time and before the King has made up his mind."
Angélique threw down her prayerbook and left the pious convent at
once.
When she went back to
see Ninon de Lenclos, she was urged once again not to take the matter of a
deceived husband so seriously. "Who," said Ninon, "would be so
foolish as to make an issue about it? In a general epidemic doctors do not take
pains with individual cases."
Louis XIV, when he
heard this, smiled. This was taken as a good sign.
Nevertheless the
great hetaera wrinkled her brows when Angélique told her of Solignac's
meddling. She recalled the time that Richelieu had hacked off the heads of
foolish nobles to "make an example," and forced the young lords to
abandon their detestable habit of fighting duels and decimating their ranks.
"If Monsieur de
Solignac has the notion that your husband's sword has interfered with God's
will, we can be sure he will be just as importunate with the King as anyone
wanting a favor.'"
"Do you think
the King will let himself be influenced by him?"
"It is not a
question of weakness on his part. Even if the King thinks Solignac a nuisance,
his arguments carry a certain weight. He has both church and civil law on his
side. If the King is forced into a position of invoking one or the other, he
will have to do so. Only discretion can make the thing come out right now, and
discretion is extremely indiscreet."
Angélique lowered her
head in reflection. Now that she had a battle on her hands, she had no time to
waste.
"What if I went
to see Solignac?"
"Try it."
Even though it was
pouring rain, Angélique stopped for a moment or two outside the iron-barred
gates of Saint-Germain. She had
just been informed that the Court
had moved to Versailles. She almost abandoned her mission. Then her
determination returned.
Climbing back into
her coach she called to the coachman: "On to Versailles!" She could
hear him grumbling as the heavy vehicle turned around.
Outside the streaming
windows of the coach the bare trees of the forest loomed out of the fog. It was
being a wretched winter, with nothing but rain and cold and the eternal mud.
Everyone yearned for Christmas to bring a new, clean snowfall.
Angélique scarcely
noticed how cold her feet were. From time to time she set her mouth grimly, and
her eyes flamed with what Mademoiselle de Parajonc called her "battle
expression." She was running over in her mind her interview with the
Marquis de Solignac, which he had granted at her insistence—not at his home, or
at hers, but in an icy little parlor at the Convent of the Celestines. He had
wanted it a secret meeting.
Once away from the
Court, where his height and his towering wig gave him a certain noble bearing,
the Queen's High Chamberlain seemed to her a rather pitiful figure, suspicious
of everything. He never missed a chance to imply that her attitude made this
rendezvous with her, which should have been ultra-dignified, somewhat lacking
in propriety.
"Do you think,
Madame, that you are still one of the flames of the Court, and that I am one of
those fops who flutter around you like moths? I have no idea why you wished
this meeting, but since I am quite aware of the regrettable situation in which
your carelessness has placed you, I must ask that out of shame you put aside
this pretense at melancholy with which you attempt to charm me as if to make me
think you crushed with woe."
She grew more and
more astonished at him. With his eyes half shut so that they seemed to peer
into her soul, he asked her whether she fasted on Fridays, if she gave to
charity, if she had seen Tartuffe, and if so, how many times.
Tartuffe was
Molière’s comedy that had offended many sanctimonious persons. Angélique had
not been at Court when it was given there, and so had not seen it.
Angélique had
underestimated the strength of the Brotherhood of the Holy Sacrament. Her
temper rose, and the argument grew bitter.
"Woe to him—or
her—who causes scandal" concluded the unyielding Marquis.
Angélique had been
routed. She was less brave now than angry. She made up her mind to go to the
King. She passed the night at an inn near Versailles. As soon as the salon for
the petitioners was opened she appeared, and after making obeisance to the
golden ship on the mantelpiece, which symbolized the person of the King, she
waited while the room filled up with the usual army of old soldiers seeking
pensions, impoverished widows, ruined noblemen, waifs and strays. Weary of
petitioning the Goddess of Chance in vain, they now were directing their
prayers to the monarch omnipotent. Near her stood Madame Scarron in her old
worn cloak, the archetype of them all, for who was more experienced a seeker
than she?
Angélique did not
wish to be recognized by her, and pulled the hood of her cloak over her face.
When the King passed
her, she fell to her knees and bowed her head low, merely stretching forth her
petition in which she humbly begged His Majesty to grant an interview to Madame
du Plessis-Bellière. Her hopes soared as she noticed that the King did glance
at her and kept the petition in his hand instead of turning it over, as he did
with the others, to Monsieur de Gesvres. When the throng dispersed, however, it
was de Gesvres who came over to her and asked her softly to follow him.
Presently she found the door of the King's audience chamber opening before her.
Angélique had not
expected her prayers to be answered so quickly. Her heart was pounding as she
advanced a few steps and again fell to her knees while the door was closed
behind her.
"Rise,
Madame," she heard the King's indulgent voice say, "and draw
near."
She waited until she
reached the table before she lifted her hood.
The room was gloomy.
Torrents of rain were splashing on the gravel of the
terrace outside. Still she could discern the trace of a smile on Louis XIV's
lips.
"It grieves
me," he said winningly, "that one of my ladies should feel obliged to
be so secretive about seeing me. You could have come and been announced quite
openly. After all, you are the wife of a Marshal."
"Sire, my
embarrassment is so . . ."
"We shall come
to that. I recognize your embarrassment. You are forgiven. It might have been
wiser for you not to have left Fontainebleau so precipitately the other
evening. Your flight was not in keeping with the great dignity you displayed
during that painful incident."
Angélique was just
about to remind the sovereign that it was on his orders, relayed to her by
Madame de Choisy, that she had departed.
But the King
forestalled her. "We will pass over that. What is the purpose of your
visit?"
"Sire, the
Bastille . . ." The very sound of the dreadful word she had let escape
silenced her. What a bad beginning! She wrung her hands in anxiety.
"Well,"
said the King gently, "for whom have you come to intercede—Monsieur de
Lauzun or Monsieur du Plessis?"
"Sire,"
Angélique’s spirit revived, "the fate of my husband is my only
concern."
"Would that it
had always been so, Madame. From what I have been given to understand, I cannot
help thinking that for one tiny instant the fate of your husband and his honor
were perhaps not foremost in your thoughts."
"That is true,
Sire."
"You are
sorry?"
"To the very
depths of my soul."
His penetrating eyes
revealed to her the monarch's intense curiosity about the private lives of his
subjects. She had heard that he was very inquisitive, but that he was also a
paragon of discretion. The King knew, he never spoke—or rather, he
silenced. In this respect, more than any other, he manifested his profound
interest in human beings and his desire to know their darkest secrets so that
by this sure means he might guide them and possibly make them his slaves.
Angélique’s eyes
wandered from his serious, transparently pale face to his hands that rested on
the table in such tranquil immobility that they seemed to typify all the power
of the King himself.
"What
weather!" he said, pushing back his chair to rise. "Here it is only
noon, and we need candles already. I can hardly make out your face. Come over
here to the window so that I can truly see you."
She followed him
obediently to the bay window down which the rain was streaming.
"I could not really believe that Monsieur du Plessis was as
indifferent to his wife's charms as to the use to which she put them. It must
be your fault, Madame. Why do you not live at your husband's hotel?"
"Monsieur du
Plessis has never invited me there."
"How funny!
Come, my little toy, tell me what happened at Fontainebleau."
"My conduct, I
know, was inexcusable, but my husband had just hurt me deeply . . . and in
public, too."
She glanced
involuntarily at her hand which still bore the marks of Philippe's insult. The
King took her wrist and looked at it, but said nothing.
"I was so hurt
that I wished to be by myself. Monsieur de Lauzun happened . . ." She
described how Lauzun had undertaken to console her, first with words, then in a
more concrete manner. "It is hard to resist Monsieur de Lauzun's
undertakings, Sire. He is so accomplished that it is impossible for one to
think of propriety or self-protection before the situation reaches a point
where one would have to make an embarrassing scene to get out of it."
"Aha, so that is
what happened!"
"Monsieur de
Lauzun is very sophisticated and perhaps a little irresponsible, but at heart
he is the kindest and most generous man in the world. I am sure Your Majesty
knows that as well as I."
"Hmm," said
the King slyly. "That depends on one's interpretation. How charming you
are, Madame, when you blush as you are doing now! You are full of tantalizing
contrasts—bashful, yet brave; gay and serious. The other day when I was
visiting the greenhouses I noticed among the tuberoses a flower of quite a
clashing color. The gardeners wanted to pull it out by the roots, they said it
was a wild one. But actually it was as breathtaking as the others, different
though it was. You make me think of that wildflower whenever I see you among
the other ladies of the Court. Now I am willing to believe that it is Monsieur
du Plessis who is wrong."
The King's pleasant
expression darkened into a frown. "His reputation for brutality has always
displeased me. I do not like to have in my Court anyone who might lead
foreigners to think that the manners and customs of the French are still
coarse, even barbarous. I preach courtesy toward women as a necessary
discipline for the good name of our land. Is it true that your husband struck
you in public?"
"No!"
Angélique said stubbornly.
"Indeed? Well, I
think our handsome Philippe might get a great deal of good out of a protracted
period of meditation within the walls of the Bastille."
"Sire, I came to ask you to set him
free. Release him from the Bastille, Sire, I entreat you."
"So you love
him? I would have said that the milestones along your married life marked more
bitter memories than happy reconciliations. I have heard that neither of you
really knows himself, or the other."
"Perhaps. But we
have known each other a very long time. He used to be the big cousin I adored .
. . when we were children."
Once again she could
picture Philippe with his blond curls dangling on the lace collar of the
sky-blue jacket he wore the first time he came to the castle of Sance".
She was gazing out
the window, smiling. The rain had stopped, and a thin ray of sunlight squeezed
between the clouds to glaze the marble pavement, over which was approaching an
orange-striped coach drawn ' by four black horses.
"Even then he
would not kiss me," she sighed. "Whenever my sisters and I came near
him, he would wave us away in horror with his lace handkerchief."
She began to laugh.
The King was staring
at her. He had long known she was beautiful, but now for the first time he was
close to her. His eyes feasted on her porcelain skin, her peach-like cheeks,
the ripe, pulsing fullness of her lips. As she brushed a stray blond curl from
her temple, he sensed the fragrance of her flesh. She exhaled life, warm life,
from every pore. Impulsively he stretched his hands toward her, grasped her to
him. How yielding she was! He bent to her lips parted in a smile. Sweet, sweet
and warm, so warm. Penetrating her mouth, he found her pearl-smooth teeth hard
against his own . . .
Robbed of her will,
Angélique could barely feel her head forced back by his warm hypnotic kiss.
Then, emerging from her trance, she shuddered. Her hands grasped the shoulders
of the King.
He stepped back,
smiling. "Do not fear. I wished only to judge where the responsibility
truly lay and determine for myself whether the fault was yours through such
coldness or reticence as might paralyze the normal desires of a husband."
Angélique was not so
naive as to be deceived by this excuse for what she recognized as a surrender
to an overpowering passion.
"Your Majesty is
devoting more attention to assessing this matter than it deserves," she
said with a smile.
"Indeed?"
"Indeed."
The King returned to
his chair behind the table, but he did not seem annoyed. "What difference
does it make? I do not regret my efforts. From henceforth my opinion is that
Monsieur du Plessis is a fool, pure and simple. He has more than deserved his
punishment, and I shall take pains to tell him so. I hope that this time he
will heed my advice. I intend to send him to the army in Picardy for a while to
teach him a lesson. Don't cry, little toy, you'll get your big cousin
back."
In the marble courtyard Monsieur de Solignac, High Chamberlain of
the Queen, was just alighting from his orange-striped coach.
chapter 8
When Madame du Plessis-Bellière returned home
with her head in the clouds, she found the courtyard of her h6tel obstructed by
a mailcoach that had been already unhitched and from which a quantity of
baggage was being unloaded. On the steps of the house stood two little
apple-cheeked boys stretching out their hands toward her.
Angélique came back
to earth with a thud. "Florimond! Cantor!"
She had completely
forgotten the letter she had so hastily sent to Poitou demanding that they come
to her. Now she could not tell whether their arrival was opportune or not. The
joy of seeing them, however, overcame her doubts. She hugged them to her
ecstatically.
They looked as ill at
ease, as uncommunicative and stupid as any rustics in a big city for the first
time. Their boots were hobnailed, their thick woolen stockings were twisted,
their clothes smelled of peat-smoke.
Angélique gasped to
see how Cantor had grown. At seven he was as tall as his older brother who was
tall for his age himself. The two had nothing in common except their mops of
tousled hair, Florimond's black, and Cantor's light chesnut. Florimond was a
child of the South, with a sunny alert face. Cantor's green eyes were like the
marsh weeds that glow in the dark reaches of the Poitou swamps; their liquid
depth was unfathomable, betraying nothing.
Barbe, the servant who
had brought them up, broke the spell of this uncomfortable greeting. She was wild with joy at being back in Paris.
She had no use for eking out the winter, she said, in the depths of a country
castle with only dull peasants for company and two naughty little boys running
wild in the fields. And their grandfather, the
Baron, letting them do whatever they wanted, no matter what she said. It was
high time they had a good strict schoolteacher to teach them their alphabet and
not spare the rod.
"They are going
to Court," Angélique whispered to her, "to be playmates for the
Dauphin."
Barbe's eyes expanded with joy. She clasped her hands and looked
at her two "bandits" with new respect. "We'll have to see they
learn some manners!" "And how to wear a sword and a plume." "And
how to make a bow."
"And to wipe
their noses, and not to spit, and not to pee wherever they want."
"And to speak to
ladies, and answer them with something better than a grunt."
How to complete the
education of these two young future courtiers was going to be a problem. Speed
was of the essence.
Madame de Choisy took
it upon herself to handle it. The next day she arrived at the Hotel de
Beautreillis with a young abbé in tow, as slender as a girl with doe eyes
peering out from under his powdered wig. She introduced him as one of the
junior branch of the Lesdiguières, from around Chartres, a good but poor
family. She had been entrusted with young Maurice by his parents, to whom she
was distantly related, to help him into society. What better could she do than
recommend him to Madame du Plessis-Bellière as supervisor of her two boys'
education? After all he had completed his own education and had been a page to
the Archbishop of Sens.
Madame de Choisy
added that there must also be a tutor on the staff, and a dancing master, and a
riding master, and a fencing master. She knew three young men who would be just
right for these jobs. One was named Racan, who was a Bueil. He had studied law,
but was too poor to buy himself a practice and so was willing to go into
service. The dancing master was a grandson of the Marquis de Lesbourg, an old
nobleman of Flanders, whose family, as everyone knew, had all been members of
the Order of the Golden Fleece. The third was different in that he came from an exceedingly rich
family, whose only heir he was, but was so determined to be a professional
swordsman that he had forfeited his inheritance. He could handle any weapon
known to man, including a crossbow, and he could teach a child anything.
Madame de Choisy also
highly recommended two maidens of the house of Gilandon in the Chambord
country. Their grandmother was one of the Joyeuses, and their sister had
married the Comte des Roches. They were not unintelligent, but they had no
beauty, and they would be content to work for small wages because their father
had deserted them after discovering his wife had got pregnant while he was away
in Spain.
"But what am I
supposed to do with these maidens?" Angélique asked.
"Put them in
your suite. You shouldn't be seen without chaperones. It doesn't look well for
a woman of your position who is on the way up at Court."
She explained to
Angélique that among the retainers of a well-appointed house there were persons
from every stratum of society: the clergy, as almoners and confessors; the
nobility, as squires or pages; the middle class as stewards, majordomos,
valets, chefs; and lastly the plebs as lackeys and ladysmaids, kitchen help,
postillions and stableboys.
Madame du Plessis did
not have a retinue in keeping with her reputation and her rank, was the opinion
of Madame de Choisy, who wanted only to be of help to her. She also hoped the
Marquise was devout enough to see to it that her staff attended both morning
and evening prayers, and went to Mass regularly.
Angélique had not yet
succeeded in figuring out what role Madame de Choisy had played at
Fontainebleau. Had she deliberately misrepresented the King's orders? Then she
had seemed scandalized, but now she was brimming over with kindness.
She was well past
forty, but there was still a twinkle in her eyes and charm in her smile. Still,
there was something forbidding about her that made friendship difficult. The
backstairs gossip was that her house was like a prison. If a girl went into
service with her, she could never go out,
and she would be worked to death and punished severely to boot. Her porter did
not dare open her gates without her express orders, and the one time he had
disobeyed he was whipped. Once she had almost beaten a servant-girl to death.
They said she had even taken a whip to her husband, but was so repentant
afterward she buried herself up to her neck in a swamp by way of penance.
Angélique was sure
that these tales were exaggerated, but Madame de Choisy's propensity for
projecting herself into the lives of others was sometimes vexing. Rather than
see her find some other protégé', however, Angélique engaged the whole tribe of
Racans, Lesdiguières and Gilandons,
including the maidens.
Furthermore Florimond
and Cantor definitely had to be put under some regime or other. They had
reached the age of being wild about horses, and would ride anything from their
grandfather's mules to the bannisters of the great staircase of the Hotel de
Beautreillis, which rang with the shouts of their mock battles and charges.
Angélique was so busy with her new domestic arrangements that it was only
through street gossip she got the news that Philippe had been set free. He did
not come to see her. She was unsure of what was best for her to do. Madame de
Montespan insisted that she return to the Court as if nothing had happened.
"The King has
pardoned you. Everyone knows you were with him alone for a long, long time. He
scolded Monsieur du Plessis in private, but that very night your husband had
the honor of handing the King his nightshirt at Saint-Germain. Everyone knows
how much His Majesty likes both of you."
Madame de Choisy
offered her opinion also. Since the King had expressed a wish that Madame du
Plessis present her sons to him, she should not delay. The royal whim was
fickle, and later he might not be so well disposed to them. She had seen Madame
de Montausier, the wife of the Dauphin's tutor and governess of the royal
children. They set a day for Florimond and Cantor to be presented at court. The
boys made their appearance at Versailles dressed in teal-blue satin with the proper number of ribbons and rosettes,
white stockings with gold cloches, high heels, and at their sides little swords
chased with silver. On their curly mops of hair they wore round felt hats with
red feathers which were not quite plumes but which stuck out beyond the brim in
the latest style. Because of the cold weather they wore cloaks of black velvet
trimmed with gold braid. The Abbé de Lesdiguières observed that Florimond knew
instinctively how to flourish a cape, something that common persons never could
learn.
Canton was more
awkward. No one worried about how Florimond would behave, for he had quickly
learned how to bow and walk elegantly, but they could only hope and pray that
Cantor would be inspired to want to do well, for he could if he put his mind to
it.
The royal children's
apartments had a coziness that was utterly different from the atmosphere of the
rest of the palace of Versailles. In one corner was a huge birdcage and beside
it the cradles of the two little princesses, swathed in priceless white lace in
which was woven the coats-of-arms of their estates. Together with the rustling
coif of Madame Hamelin, the King's old nurse who often came there to spin,
these made a continual fluttering of white wings that rendered the rooms
cheerful and bright. Madame de Montausier had not brought up her royal charges
too strictly. Good soul that she was, she knew well enough how soon they would
be enslaved by the harsh discipline of their tutors and the rigid etiquette
that would govern every one of their steps.
The Dauphin was a fat
little boy whose mouth always hung open because of his stuffed-up nose, or so
his governess said. Of no more than average intelligence, he already seemed ill
at ease in his difficult role as the son of Louis XIV, an impression he would
give for the rest of his life. He had grown up as an only child, for his two
little sisters had died at birth. One had been as dark as a Moor, it was said,
because the Queen had drunk too much chocolate while pregnant.
Angélique could see
that in spite of being overgrown for their age, her boys were more graceful,
more self-confident and more real persons than the heir to the crown. She
looked fondly at them as they made their bows in perfect style, and then
advanced one behind the other to kiss the hand that the Dauphin shyly extended
to them after Madame de Montausier had nodded that it was all right for him to
do so. And she almost burst with pride when Florimond's sweet natural voice
said respectfully: "Say, Your Grace, that's a damn fine shell you've got
there."
It happened that the
"shell" was a priceless jewel the Dauphin had found that very morning
lying on the gravel of the terrace and had insisted on pinning to his coat
between the Order of Saint-Louis and the star of a Grand Admiral of the Fleet.
It was, he insisted, to be his very own decoration, and the Maids of Honor had
ended by giving it to him.
Florimond's remark
reminded the Dauphin of his treasure, which he proceeded to display in all its
details to his new friends. His shyness vanished, and he dragged them to see
his collection of china monkeys, his toy cannon, his drum with cloth-of-silver
heads.
Florimond's intuitive
sense of what to do and say completely dispelled any anxiety on the part of his
tutors. The young abbé and Racan glanced knowingly at Angélique, who was
herself so gratified that she resolved to slip them thirty écus that
evening.
Apparently
spontaneously, but actually by prearranged protocol, the Queen with ten of her
Ladies and a few of her retinue of noblemen put in an appearance. After making
his bows Cantor was asked to sing for the Queen. This produced the first false
note in the otherwise perfect performance, for the boy knelt on one knee and
after strumming a few introductory bars, launched into his favorite song:
Let the drums roll,
said the King, All my ladies fair to bring.
The abbé descended on
him and snatched up his lute, which he said loudly was quite out of tune. While
he was tuning it, he whispered to his pupil, who willingly began another song.
Hardly anyone noticed
the incident, and least of all the Queen, whose Spanish background had left her
totally unacquainted with French folksongs.
Angélique vaguely
recalled that Cantor's interrupted song dated from a century ago and referred
to the sub rosa love affairs of Henri IV, but she was quite grateful to the
abbé for covering up the blunder in time. Yes, she was very thankful to Madame
de Choisy for all her recruits.
Cantor had the voice
of an angel, ineffably pure and unwavering, and he could hold a note without a
tremolo. It had none of the monotonous insipidity of most children's voices.
The Ladies had been
prepared merely to listen politely, but were overcome with delight at this
infant prodigy. Florimond, at first the center of attention, now had to take
second place. Everyone commented on the radiance of the little singer's face,
and how his eyes shone and sparkled when he sang.
Monsieur de Vivonne
was the most enthusiastic of all, and his previous attempts to flatter
Angélique were nothing compared to his eloquent compliments now. Like many
other gay blades of the Court, he had several talents that he practiced in
private for his own amusement. Brother of Madame de Montespan, Captain of the
Galleys and a Lieutenant-General in the Navy, he yet composed poetry and songs,
and could play several musical instruments. On several occasions he had been
entrusted with the production of the Court ballets, and had had many triumphs.
He now asked Cantor to sing some of his ballads, naming the least indecorous of
them. One was a Christmas carol, full of gentle grace, which quite transported
the company. The Queen demanded that Lully be fetched at once.
The King's music
master was rehearsing his choirboys, and came quite unwillingly, but his face
lit up as soon as he heard Cantor. A voice of such quality was rare indeed, he
said. He could not believe the child was only eight, for he had the soundbox of
an eleven-year-old.
Then the music master
grew gloomy again and pouted.
The career of the
prodigy was destined to be short. His voice would certainly be ruined when it
changed unless he were castrated when he was ten or eleven. Such emasculated
voices were in great demand. Young eunuchs with their superb tones were the
finest ornaments of the princely chapels of Europe. They were recruited
generally from the children of poor musicians or mountebanks who wanted to
assure their sons a splendid career rather than subject them to a normal life
in which they might never rise above mediocrity.
Angélique let out a
cry of protest. Castrate her manly little Cantor! How horrible! Thank God, he
was of noble birth and his future would not suffer from the loss of his gift.
No, he would learn to wield his sword in his King's service and grow up to have
a long line of descendants.
Lully's opinions gave
rise to several jokes around the Court where lords and ladies had a knack for
coining phrases. Cantor passed from hand to hand and was petted, complimented,
encouraged. He accepted all these tributes with his customary air of a purring
tomcat, but he gave them scant attention.
Everyone agreed that
when men took over the Dauphin's education, Florimond and Cantor would be among
the suite that would accompany him to the riding academy, the tennis courts and
soon enough to the hunt.
chapter 9
It WAS that season of
the year when Paris began gradually to awake to the sound of violins and the
ring of happy laughter. In spite of the fact that the treaties had brought
peace, a wartime atmosphere still obtained, and most of the nobles were away.
Angélique
noticed wryly that it was becoming hard for her to keep up with things. Her
pregnancy was beginning to slow her down. Here again Philippe was the cause of
a handicap that would soon put her in the shadows. She was already so big that
she could no longer get into her favorite gowns. It was just her luck that this
child would have to be the biggest of all she had carried. Except for the royal
festivities, she still continued to go to Saint-Germain, where anyone could
appear without an invitation. The conduct of the kingdom's business filled the
corridors with a motley crowd.
Government clerks
with goose-quills stuck behind their ears jostled ambassadors. Learned aldermen
discussed markets among great ladies and fluttering fans.
There she encountered
an old alchemist named Savary who had come to her house as a petitioner.
A young woman stopped
as she was about to pass them and let out a little shriek, as she seized Savary
by his lapels and stared at him intently. Angelique recognized her as Mademoiselle
de Brienne.
"I know
you," she whispered. "You are a soothsayer, perhaps even a sorcerer.
Can we come to terms?"
"You are
mistaken, Madame. I have a little fame, and it is true that they speak well of
me here, but I am only a modest scholar."
"I know,"
she insisted, her lovely eyes shining like jewels, "I know how much you
can do. You have potions you have brought back from the East. Listen, you must get me the privilege of the footstool.
Name your own price."
"Things like
that are not got with money."
"Then I will
give myself to you, body and soul."
"Oh, my poor
child, you are out of your head."
"Think it over,
Monsieur Savary. It can't be hard for you. I can see no other way of getting
the King to give me the footstool. And I must have it, I must. I will do
anything to get it."
"Well, well, all
right, I'll think it over."
But he refused the
purse Mademoiselle de Brienne tried hard to slip into his hand.
Later Angélique
encountered Mademoiselle de Brienne again at a card table. Mademoiselle de
Brienne was a pretty brunette, rather tantalizing, but also stuck-up and
extremely ill-mannered. She had been at Court since she was a child. She had a
one-track mind, if mind indeed it could be called. Cards, drinking and
lovemaking were as harmless pastimes for her as embroidery and lace-making were
for middle-class girls her age.
Soon she had lost
10,000 livres at cards to Angélique. She admitted she could not raise
that much to pay the debt at once.
"I might have
known that old devil of an alchemist would bring you luck," she said,
pouting like a child on the verge of tears. "What I would give to get his
help! I've lost almost thirty thousand livres this one week. My brother
is going to raise hell with me and say I am ruining him." Then, realizing
that Angélique was apparently not going to extend her credit very long, she
added: "Would you like to buy my office of Consul of Candia? I have been
thinking of selling it. It's worth forty thousand livres."
At the word
"office" Angélique pricked up her ears. "Consul?"
"Yes."
"Of
Candia?"
"That's some
city or other in Crete, I think," Mademoiselle de Brienne informed her.
"But a woman
can't be a consul . . ."
"Yes she can. I have had it three years
now. It doesn't
require actual residence and,
as a matter of fact, gives one a certain rank at Court where any consul at all,
even one in a petticoat, has permission to reside, and can even be obliged to
do so. If you were to buy it I hope you would buy the perquisites also. Oh
dear, that's not the way it ought to be either. The two managers I sent there
are pirates and all the business they do goes into their pockets, but I still
have to pay their wages. I shouldn't be telling you this when I'm suggesting
you buy it, but I'm an awful fool anyway. Perhaps you could do better than I.
Forty thousand livres isn't much. I could get out of debt and have
something left over."
"I will think
about it," Angélique said noncommittally.
The thought went to
her head like strong drink. Consul of France! She had dreamed of many titles,
but never of that.
The interior of
Colbert's home and particularly his office was a model of simple bourgeois
comfort. So cold by temperament that Madame de Sévigné nicknamed him
"Monsieur North Pole," he had no taste for luxury. Frugality was so
inherent in him that he allowed no gratification of his vanity other than the
impeccable and overdetailed way in which he kept his accounts, and the
establishment of his family tree. No expense was too great for the latter, and
he paid a whole army of clerks to do research in the illegible scrawls of
family records in order to prove some relationship that might entitle him to a
claim to nobility. This maggot, however, did not keep him from seeing quite
clearly all the faults of the aristocracy and how the middle class was destined
to grow in importance, for it was then the only vital and intelligent class in
the kingdom.
Madame du Plessis
apologized for disturbing him. She told him she was about to acquire the
Consulate of Candia, and because she knew he superintended the distribution of
such posts, she wished his
advice.
Colbert scowled at
her at first, then softened. It was not often, he admitted, that beautiful
dimwits stopped to think of the consequences before accepting a post. Most of the time he had to play the
unsympathetic role of censor of petitions, being often obliged to refuse
demands that were too foolish or unsuitable, or too liable to interfere with
the progress of government, or too burdensome financially—a role that hardly
endeared him to those who had thought their petitions granted.
Angélique perceived
that for a woman to hold the post of Consul did not disturb him, that it was a
common enough thing.
To him Candia, the
capital of Crete, was the best slave market in the Mediterranean. It was also
the only place where one could buy strong, sober Russians for only 100 or 150 livres
apiece from the Turks who captured them during their continual battles in
Armenia, the Ukraine, Hungary and Poland.
"This
consideration is not unimportant for us now that we are striving to expand our
maritime trade and increase the number of our galleys in the Mediterranean. The
Moors, Tunisians and Algerians we capture in our battles with the pirates are
poor workers. They are useful only to fill out a retinue when one can't afford
better, and to exchange for Christian captives. They are no good as galley
slaves either, for they get seasick and die like flies. The best galley slaves
are the Turks and Russians sold in the markets of Candia, for they are
excellent sailors. I am tired of saying that the basis for the fine crews of
the English ships consists of these Russian slaves. The English hold them in
high esteem and pay their agents well to get them. For all these reasons Candia
is not lacking in interest to me."
"What is the
situation of the French there?" Angélique asked him. She had not quite
pictured herself as a slave dealer.
"Our
representatives are respected, I believe. Crete is a Venetian colony. For years
the Turks have tried to conquer it, and the island has had to repulse many
attacks."
"But is it safe
to invest money there?" "That depends. Sometimes a nation's commerce
does well in time of war—that is, if the nation is neutral. France has firm alliances with Venice as
well as with Turkey."
"Mademoiselle de
Brienne told me frankly she got no revenue from her post. She blamed her
managers who, she said, work only for their own profit."
"That is quite
possible. Get me their names and I will investigate."
"Well—will you
support my candidacy for this post, sir?"
Colbert did not
answer her at once. Finally he said, frowning again: "Yes. In every way it
would be better off in your hands, Madame Morens, than in those of Mademoiselle
de Brienne or of some idiotic nobleman or other. Besides, it fits in perfectly
with the projects I had in mind for you."
"For me?"
"Yes. Did you
think we would let abilities like yours go unused for the good of the nation?
One of His Majesty's greatest talents is his knack for making arrows out of any
kind of wood. So far as you are concerned the only obstacle is his doubt
that a woman of your beauty and charm can have other qualities such as good
business sense. I convinced him that he should not appoint you too quickly to
just any position at Court, which any fool could fill. You have more important
things to do than solicit a place in the Queen's suite or some other silly
post. Leave that to the daughters of impoverished aristocrats who have only
their virginity to pay for it. Your fortune is immense and well invested. In
that lies your power."
The blunt approach of
the Comptroller awoke in Angélique a certain bitterness. So it was he who had
opposed all her requests! He had no tact, and the King proved himself a man of
integrity in supporting him.
"Of course I
have money," she said drily, "but surely not enough to save the kingdom."
"Who said
anything about money? It's a question of work. It's work that
will save the country and bring back its squandered wealth little by little.
Look here, once I was a simple linen draper, now I am Comptroller, but is that to my credit? On the other
hand I am proud of being director of the royal manufactories.
"We not only can
but should invest more in France than in foreign countries. But our loyalties
are too divided. For instance, I could have continued in business for myself
and increased my own fortune, but I preferred to learn statecraft from Cardinal
Mazarin and lend my business acumen and organizational abilities to the State.
As a result the nation has grown stronger, and I along with it. The King
himself, young as he is, began early to follow the same principle. He too was
one of the Cardinal's pupils, but he was wiser than his teacher, for he knew
the goods he was selling. The late Cardinal knew nothing about the French, even
though he had great powers of intuition, both as to politics and human nature.
Our sovereign works harder than four other kings, and he does not think it
beneath him to assemble around him plenty of persons to whom he can delegate
responsibility."
The longer he spoke,
the more angry Colbert seemed to grow. When he finally stopped, his expression
was so furious that Angélique could not keep from asking him why.
"Because I don't
know what's got into me to tell you all this. If my wife ever heard me
gossiping this way, there would be the devil to pay."
Angélique reassured
him that many other men with a reputation for being close-mouthed had also
blamed her for drawing them out of their reticence.
"Believe me,
sir, I won't betray your confidence. Everything you have said interests me deeply,
so deeply that it should encourage you to continue this discourse with which
you have been so kind as to honor me."
Colbert looked like a
bird that has swallowed a worm too big for it. He hated flattery because he
always suspected an ulterior motive behind it. But when he glanced dourly at
Angélique, he saw she was sincere.
"After
all," he growled, "the capacity to be interested in what someone else
is saying is rare." His smile returned. "Always show it to old fools
like me. Your own charms are enough for the young fools. And your whole manner can easily persuade women to follow
you. In fact, you have a formidable battery of assault."
"But how should
I deploy this arsenal?"
The Comptroller
reflected a moment. "First of all, you should never leave the Court.
Attach yourself to it, follow it wherever it goes, and make an effort to know
as many people as possible and as intimately as possible."
Angélique had a hard
time concealing the extreme satisfaction his advice gave her. "This . . .
this kind of work does not seem very hard."
"We shall use
you for various missions, especially those dealing with maritime trade, or, in
short, all kinds of trade and its adjuncts, such as fashion."
"Fashion?"
"I mentioned fashion
to convince His Majesty that he could entrust important assignments to you, a
woman. Let me explain. For example, I want to steal the secret of making point
de Venise lace which is all the rage now and which no one can imitate. I
have tried to prevent the importation of it, but these lords and ladies smuggle
in collars and cuffs made of it under their cloaks, and so three million livres
a year find their way into Italy. Whether legal or illegal, it is a sad
thing for French industry. Otherwise there would be no reason for stealing the
secret of that lace which our dandies have to have. I want to establish the
manufacture of it here."
"I should have
to go to Venice."
"I do not think
so. In Venice you would be under suspicion. I have good reason to believe that
these agents operate at Court. They are courtiers themselves. Through them you
can trace the thread back to the spider and learn at lest the source of supply.
I suspect the two members of the Marseilles Board of Trade. It must bring them
a huge fortune."
Angélique was deep in
thought. "This work you want me to do looks very much like spying."
Colbert agreed. The
word did not shock him. Spies? Everyone used them everywhere.
"Business goes
the same way. For instance, some new shares in the East India Company are soon
going to be released. Your
market for them is the Court. It will be up to you to make the Indies
fashionable, get the conservatives to invest, and so on. There is money at
Court. Why let it all go up in smoke or be frittered away? Don't you see
already how many opportunities you will find to exercise your talents? The only
thing that worries us is what official title to give you. Wait, your Cretan
Consulate will do as a facade and as an alibi."
"But its perquisites
are very small."
"Don't be
silly! It's understood that your official duties will bring you enormous
stipends. They will be fixed according to each job. You will be able to have an
interest in all that goes well."
Out of habit,
she began figuring. "Forty thousand livres is a lot of money."
"It's a
pinch of salt to you. Think a moment that a post as procurator would cost you
175,000. Mine cost my predecessor 1,400,000. The King paid it for me because he
wanted me in the position. But I feel indebted to the King. That's why I won't
rest until I have earned him many times that amount through making his country
prosperous."
"So this is
the Court," Angélique said to herself, "or so the guileless
think—dancing the night away at the Palais-Royal, flooded with light, a stage
for one everlasting festivity."
Her face
concealed by a black velvet mask, she was watching the dancing couples. The
King had opened the ball with Madame in his costume of Jupiter from the ballet
of "A Feast on Olympus." All eyes were on him. His golden mask could
not preserve his incognito. He wore a gold helmet encrusted with rubies and
rose diamonds and topped with a flame-colored crest of feathers. His entire
costume was of cloth of gold, sparkling with the thousands of diamonds sewn
into its embroidered patterns.
The next day the
poet Loret himself could only say in praise of that costume:
The trappings of
the prince Would buy a whole province
"So much
wealth," thought Angélique. "That's the Court!"
Yes, that was
the Court—folly, extravagance. Yet if one looked closely, what a surprise! A
young, discreet king pulling the strings of marionettes. And an even closer
look revealed that behind their masks the marionettes themselves were alive,
burning with passion, mean ambitions, strange consecrations . . .
Her recent
conversation with Colbert had opened new and unimagined vistas to Angélique. As
she thought of the role he had assigned her, she wondered whether every mask
here did not conceal some secret mission. "It is not the King's custom to
let abilities go unused . . ."
Once in this
same Palais-Royal, which then was called the Palais-Cardinal, Richelieu had
walked in his purple robe as he hatched his schemes to dominate the realm. No
one ever entered here then who was not in his service. His net of spies was
like a mammoth spiderweb. He employed many women. "Those creatures,"
he would say, "have an instinctive gift for deception and
dissimulation." Was the young king adopting the same principle for
himself?
As Angélique
left the ball, a page handed her a note. She turned away to read it. It was
from Colbert.
"You may
consider the post at Court you solicited granted permanently under the
stipulated conditions. Your title of Consul of France will be in your hands
tomorrow."
She folded the
note and slipped it into her purse. A smile played around the corners of her
mouth. She had won at last.
And, taking
everything into consideration, what was so strange about a marquise being a
Consul of France, when baronesses were fishmongers, and duchesses sold theatre
seats, and the Minister of War wanted the mail-coach franchise, and where the
most licentious people in the whole Court were endowed with the benefices of
the Church?
Part Two
chapter 10
ANGÉLIQUE dismissed her servants and the Gilandon girls, and
undressed herself slowly. Her mind was too busy running over the last episodes
of her victory to put up with their fussing around her. Earlier this same day
her business manager had delivered 40,000 livres in cash to Mademoiselle
de Brienne's, and she had received her commission from the King through the
agency of Colbert. She had affixed her signature to a great quantity of
documents, blotted with sand innumerable pages of writing, and paid out 10,000
more livres in taxes, registration fees, and other supplementary
impositions.
She could not have
been more satisfied, except for a worrisome thought in the back of her mind
about Philippe.
What would he say
when he found out? Previously, he had defied her to remain at the Court and had
given her to understand that he would do everything in his power to keep her
away from it. But his imprisonment in the Bastille and his army duty had given
Angélique plenty of leisure in which to conduct her own affairs.
And so she was
victorious—but not without apprehension. Philippe had come back from Picardy a
week before. The King himself informed Madame du Plessis-Bellière of this fact,
implying how much his wish to please her had led him to wipe off the slate
Philippe's serious offense in disobeying his express orders by fighting a duel.
Angélique thanked His
Majesty, and then asked him how she should behave. What should a wife's attitude
be toward a husband who had been thrown into prison because she had deceived
him? She was in ctoubt, but everything led her to believe that her
husband's attitude
would be much more clearly
defined. Laughed at, blamed by the King, blocked at every turn, Philippe would
hardly be in a kindly frame of mind toward her.
She considered all
the actual grievances Philippe might hold against her, realizing that she could
expect the worst. Hence her haste in concluding a bargain which would be a
defense for her against her husband's being ostracized. That was a fait
accompli now.
Nothing had been
heard from Philippe. She learned that he had gone to pay his respects to the
King, and that the King had received him with affection. Then he had been seen
at Ninon's in Paris. He had also gone hunting twice with the King. This very
day, while she was signing documents at Colbert's, Philippe was in the forest
of Marly.
Had he decided to
leave her in peace? She wished she could believe he had. But Philippe nursed
grudges. His silence was more likely that of a tiger crouching to spring.
Angelique sighed.
Deep in these
thoughts, she unfastened the bows that held her bodice, dropping the pins one
by one into an onyx tray. Once she had it off she undid the shoulder knots of
her three petticoats, letting them drop around her feet. Stepping out of this
pool of ruffles, she took from the back of an armchair the nightgown of fine
lawn that Javotte had laid out for her. Then she bent down to unfasten her satin
garters studded with precious stones. All her movements were slow and
thoughtful. In these latter weeks she had lost much of her usual quickness.
As she took off her
bracelets she moved toward her dressing table to replace them in their cases.
The big oval mirror reflected her image in a golden haze from the candlelight.
A little sadly she contemplated the perfection of her face and the fresh pink
coloring of her cheeks and lips. The lace of her nightgown set off the youthful
fullness of her shoulders and the round supple neck which rose swanlike above
them.
"This point
de Venise is certainly beautiful. Colbert is right in wanting it
domesticated in France."
She fluffed up the
flounces of lace with her fingertip.
Her pearly skin seemed
to glimmer through the almost transparent flowers of the exquisite handiwork. A
panel of lace stretched low over her breasts, which peeped through it like
violets from among their leaves.
Angélique raised her
bare arms to unfasten the strand of pearls she had wound in her hair like a
diadem. It fell in lustrous coils on to the table. Even with her distended
abdomen, yes, she was still lovely. The insidious question Lauzun had asked her
haunted her: "For whom?" How could her body be so desirable to one
and so unalluring to another?
With another sigh she
took up her dressing gown of crimson taffeta and wrapped herself in it with due
consideration for effect. Yet what was she going to do tonight? She was not
sleepy.
Should she
write to Ninon de Lenclos? Or to Madame de Sévigné, whom she had rather
neglected lately? Or go over her accounts as she used to at times like this
when she was in business?
She heard a man's
footsteps moving along the entrance hall, and the jingle of spurs as they began
to mount the staircase. No doubt it was Malbrant, Florimond's and Cantor's
riding master whom they had nicknamed "Swordthrust." He was probably
coming back from one of the fencing matches he loved.
But the steps came
nearer and nearer her door.
Suddenly Angélique
realized whose they were. She sprang up to slip the bolt, but she was too late.
The Marquis du Plessis-Bellière stood before her in the doorway.
He was still wearing
his silver gray hunting coat trimmed with black fur, a black hat with a single
white plume, and black boots covered with mud and slush. In his black-gloved
hands was his long dog-whip. For a moment he stood there motionless, his legs
spread, while his eyes took in the whole picture of her before her dressing table
surrounded by all the disorder of her clothes and jewels. A smile spread slowly
over his lips.
Then stepping inside
the room, he shut the door behind him, and shot the bolt into its socket.
"Good evening,
Philippe."
Her heart leaped with
an emotion compounded of fear and pleasure at seeing him.
How handsome he was!
She had almost forgotten how handsome, how distinguished, how glitteringly
perfect in every detail. He was the handsomest man in the Court, and he was
hers, as once she had dreamed he might be.
"Weren't you
expecting a visit from me, Madame?"
"Yes indeed I
was . . . that is, I was hoping . . ."
"My word, you
are brave! Didn't you have good reason to fear my wrath?"
"Yes. That is
why I thought the sooner our meeting took place, the better. Nothing is gained
by postponing a dose of bitter medicine."
Philippe's face
plunged into an expression of insane anger. "Hypocrite! Traitorl You will
be hard put to persuade me you wanted to see me when all the time you have been
trying your best to outmaneuver me. Haven't I just found out that you have got
two permanent posts at Court?"
"You are well up
on things."
"I certainly
am," he snarled.
"You . . . you
don't seem to like that."
"Did you think I would after you got me
in prison so that you could set your snares in peace? And now . . . now you
think you have escaped me. But the last card has not been played. I'll make you
pay dearly for your trading. You couldn't possibly conceive the price of the
punishment I have prepared for you."
His whip cracked on
the floor with a noise like thunder. Angélique shrieked. Her resistance
crumpled.
She ran to the bed
alcove for refuge and began to weep. No, no, she could not go through another
scene like her wedding night at Plessis.
"Don't hurt me,
Philippe," she pleaded. "Oh, please, don't hurt me. Think of our
child."
Philippe stopped
cold. His eyes opened wide. "Child? What child?"
"The one I am
carrying. Your child!"
A heavy silence
descended over both of them, broken only by Angélique’s muffled sobs. Finally
the Marquis began to peel off his gauntlets, laying
them along with his whip on the dressing table. He moved toward his wife,
suspicion written on his face.
"Show me,"
he said.
He ripped open her
dressing gown, then flinging back his head, he roared with laughter.
"My God, it's
true! You're as big as a cow!"
He sat beside her on
the edge of the bed and drew her toward him by her shoulders. "Why didn't
you tell me sooner, you wild little beast? I would not have frightened you
so."
She was weeping in
short nervous starts, her willpower quite gone.
"Come now,"
he said, "don't cry. Don't cry."
It was a strange
thing for her to find her head leaning against her brutal husband's shoulder,
her face buried in his blond curls perfumed with jasmine, and to feel his hand
softly stroking her belly where a new life quivered.
"When will it be
born?"
"Soon. In January."
"It must have
been at Plessis," he said after a moment's thought. "I am overjoyed
to think that my son was conceived under my ancestral roof. Hmm! All our
violent quarrels will do him no harm. They're a good omen. He will be a
warrior. Haven't you something here for us to toast him with?"
He went to a cabinet
and fetched two goblets and a bottle of Beaune which were put there daily in
case guests should come.
"Come, let's
drink to him, even if you don't wish to clink glasses with me. It's only
fitting that we salute our common enterprise. Why do you look at me with such
stupid astonishment? Because at last you've spied out a way to disarm me? Be
patient, my dear, I am too pleased at the thought of having an heir not to
treat you well. I will honor our truce. We can resume the battle later. Just be
sure you don't take advantage of my good humor to play me one of your dirty
tricks. In January, did you say? Good. From now on I am going to keep my eye on
you."
He drained his glass
and sent it crashing on the flag- stones,
shouting: "Long live the heir of Miremont du Plessis de Bellière!"
"Philippe,"
murmured Angelique, "you are a puzzling person, the most so I have ever
met. For a man to receive such an announcement from me at such a moment and not
tell me to my face that I was saddling him with a paternity for which he was
not responsible! I was sure you were going to accuse me of marrying you when I
was already pregnant by someone else."
Philippe was drawing
on his gauntlets again. He looked at her darkly, almost angrily. "In spite
of the gaps in my education," he said, "I can still count up to nine.
If this child is not mine, nature by now would have compelled you to show it to
the world. Just the same I will say I think you capable of any trick in the
world, but not of quite such a despicable one."
"It's not
unusual with women. From someone like you who hates them so, I expected a less
trusting reaction."
"You are not a
woman like other women," he said. "You are my wife!"
Then he strode out,
leaving her dreaming and stirred by an emotion something like hope.
On a bleak morning in
January when the pale sun on the snow crust cast ghostly reflections on the
dark tapestries of her walls, Angélique felt that her time was come. She had
Madame Cordet, the midwife whose services she had engaged, summoned from the
Marais quarter. Several great ladies of her acquaintance had recommended her,
for she had the strong character and also the good humor necessary to satisfy a
demanding clientele. She brought with her two apprentices to lend importance to
her mission, and had a big trestle table set up by the hearth on which she
could work, as she put it "more comfortably."
A brazier of coals
was fetched to raise the temperature of the room. Servants were put to rolling
balls of lint, and boiling water in copper kettles. Madame Cordet began by
steeping medicinal herbs, and the room soon smelled like a country meadow under
the summer sun.
Angélique was terribly
nervous and short-tempered. She did not look forward to her accouchement, and
wished someone else could have her baby for her. Unable to stay in bed, she
kept pacing the room, stopping every time she passed the window to look out at
the snow-padded street. Through the tiny leaded panes she could just make out
the smoky outlines of the passers-by. A lurching, rocking coach pitched along,
drawn by four horses emitting clouds of steam from their nostrils. Its occupant
was shouting at the driver, and the coachman was swearing while the neighbors
laughed.
It was the day after
Epiphany and all Paris had sore throats from yelling "The King
drinks," or was sick from overeating the huge Twelfth-night cakes and
drinking goblet after goblet of wine. There had been much feasting at the Hotel
de Beautreillis. Florimond was the "King," wearing a gold paper crown
and lifting his glass to all the cheers. Today everyone was sleepy and yawning.
A fine day to bring a child into the world!
In her impatience
Angélique kept asking about housekeeping details. Had the left-overs been given
to the poor? Yes, four baskets had been taken to the cripples' pole that very
morning. Two buckets had been taken to the Blue Children, the orphans of the
Temple district, and to the Red Children, the orphans of the Hotel-Dieu. Had
the tablecloths been set to soak? The plates been put away? The knives cleaned
with pumice?
Madame Cordet tried
to calm her. Why did she need to worry about such things, when she had plenty
of servants, and could leave all those matters to her major-domo? There were
more important things for her to think about. But Angélique did not wish to
think about them.
"No one would
ever believe this was your third baby," scolded the midwife. "You're
putting on a big enough act for a first."
Indeed she had made
less fuss the other times. She remembered how quiet she had been when Florimond
arrived, even though she was frightened. She had been more courageous then, had
all the reserve strength of a young animal that
has not lived long enough to doubt its capacities. Now too many misfortunes had
sapped her energy. Her nerves were tenser.
"The baby's too
big," she groaned. "The others weren't so big."
"Bah, don't tell
me. I saw your youngest outside there. Built the way he is now, he couldn't
have tickled much when he came through."
The birth of Cantor!
She did not want to remember that nightmare, that dark, icy whirlpool of pain
and sorrow. In thinking of the horrible charity hospital where so many innocent
babes uttered their first wails, Angélique grew ashamed of her complaints and
tried to appear less irritable.
She consented at last
to sit in a big armchair with a cushion at the small of her back, and a
footstool under her feet. One of the Gilandon girls offered to read her some
prayers, but Angélique told her to go for a walk. What business did such a
silly girl have in a delivery room? She said for her to find the Abbé de
Lesdiguières and if they could find nothing to say to each other, then they
could pray for her or go light a candle at Saint-Paul's.
Eventually her pains
became more frequent and more severe, and Madame Cordet made her stretch out on
the table before the fire. Angélique did not restrain her screams as the moment
approached when the fruit ready to fall seemed to tear up with it the roots of
the tree on which it had been ripening. Her own ears rang with her groans. She
thought she heard a disturbance outside, and a door slam.
"Oh, Monsieur le
Marquis!" said Thérèse.
She did not
understand until she saw Philippe standing by her pillow, more noticeable than
ever among these women busy about women's things. He was in Court dress,
wearing his sword, his lace cuffs, his wig, his white-plumed hat.
"Philippe, what are you doing here? What
do you want? Why did you come?"
His expression was
ironic and haughty. "Today my son
will be born. Don't you think I have any interest in that?"
Her indignation
brought Angélique back to life. She raised up on one elbow. "You just came
to see me suffer," she said. "You are a monster. The most cruel, the
most cowardly, the most. . ."
A new spasm cut her
off. She fell back gasping for breath.
"Come,
come," said Philippe, "don't waste your strength."
He laid his hand on
her moist forehead and began stroking her brow and murmuring words she scarcely
understood but which soothed her with their sound.
"Easy, easy,
now, my dear. Everything is going fine. Courage, my sweet. . ."
"That is the
first time he has ever caressed me," Angélique thought. "They are the
same words he uses for his bitches or his mares when they are in labor. Why
not? What else am I now but a poor animal? They say he will stay patiently with
them for hours, comforting them until they give birth, and that the most
ferocious of them will lick his hands . . ."
He was indeed the
last man in the world to whom she would have gone for help at such a time, but,
as she herself had said, Philippe du Plessis-Bellière would never cease to
astonish her. Under his hand she relaxed and felt stronger.
"Does he think I
can't bring his child into the world? I'll show him what I can do. I won't
utter a single yell."
"Everything is
going fine," said Philippe's voice. "Don't be afraid. You other
hothouse plants, help her a little. What the hell do you think . . ."
He was addressing the
women as if they were kennel-keepers.
In the
semi-consciousness of the last moments Angélique looked up at Philippe. In her
dark-circled eyes, veiled with a pathetic tenderness, he caught a glimpse of
what would be her downfall. This woman he had thought made wholly of stony
ambition and underhanded plotting was capable of weakness. Her look brought
back the past. It was the look of a little girl in a gray dress whom he was
holding by the hand and presenting to the mocking laughter of his friends as
the "Baroness of the Doleful Garb." Philippe ground his teeth. He put
his hand before his eyes to blot out that look.
"Don't be
afraid," he repeated. "There's nothing to fear now."
"It's a
boy," said the midwife.
Angélique saw
Philippe holding at arm's length a little red bundle wrapped in linen, and
shouting: "My son! My son!"
They carried her back
to the perfumed sheets of her bed that had been heated with a warming pan.
Sleep overcame her, but before she yielded to it she looked for Philippe. He
was leaning over his son's cradle.
"Now I am no
longer of interest to him," she said to herself. But a feeling of
happiness remained with her as she slept.
It was not until she
held the new baby in her arms for the first time that Angélique realized what
this new existence meant.
He was a lovely
infant. His swaddling clothes of fine linen bordered with satin so completely
enswathed him, even to a hood over his head, that only a little pink porcelain
circle peeped out dotted with two tiny circles of pale blue that soon would
become the same dark sapphire color as his father's. The nurses and the servant
girls kept saying his fuzz was as yellow as a baby chick's and he was as plump
as a cherub.
"It is the child
of my bosom," thought Angélique, "and yet it is not Joffrey de
Peyrac's child. I have mixed my blood, which belonged to him, with a stranger's."
She saw in the child the fruit of a betrayal she had not hitherto realized.
"I am no longer your wife, Joffrey," she whispered.
Would he have wished it thus? She began to cry.
"I want to see
Florimond and Cantor," she called between sobs. "Bring my children to
me."
When they came toward
her she shuddered at the sight of them dressed, by chance, in black
velvet. How different they were from each other, yet so alike in their equal
height, their pale coloring, their thick hair falling over their lace collars.
They placed their hands in hers in the old familiar gesture of babyhood, as if
they seemed thus to draw strength from her to follow the course of their
perilous future. Then they bowed to her and sat down on two footstools. The
unusual sight of their mother stretched out in bed made them quiet.
Angélique tried hard
to swallow the lump that rose in her throat. She did not wish to upset them.
She asked them if
they had seen their new brother. Yes, they had. What did they think of him?
Apparently they had no thoughts at all about him, but after exchanging looks
with Cantor, Florimond admitted that he was a "nice little cherub."
The result of the
combined efforts of their various tutors was truly remarkable. A system of rules
administered by a birch rod had done part of the work, but most of it had been
due to the intelligence of the boys themselves in coping with their difficult
new disciplines. Because they had endured hunger and cold and fear, they could
adjust themselves to anything. Give them the freedom of the countryside, they
became wild savages; dress them in fancy clothes and oblige them to bow and
make polite conversation, they became perfect little noblemen. Angélique was
aware now for the first time of their amazing flexibility. "Adaptable as
only poverty could teach them to be!"
"Cantor, my
troubadour, won't you sing something for me?"
The boy went for his
guitar, and after strumming a few chords, began:
Let the drums roll, said the King,
All my ladies fair to bring.
And the first one he did see
Roused his curiosity . . .
'You loved me,
Joffrey, and I adored you. Why did you love me? Because I was beautiful? You
loved beauty so—a beautiful
object in your Palace of Gay Learning . . . But you loved me more than that. I
knew it when your strong arms held me so tight I gasped for breath . . . I was
still a child then . . . But honest . . . Was that perhaps the reason you loved
me so . . ."
Marquis, tell me
if you know
Who's that girl as white as snow?
Sire, the
Marquis quick replied,
That girl is my
blushing bride.
My bride!
The other night
when he called her his wife, her blond Marquis had worn such an impenetrable
look. I am no longer your wife, Joffrey. He claims me now. Your love is slipping
from me like a barge drifting down a swift river. Forever, foreverl How hard it
is to say forever . . . to allow that you are becoming but a ghost even for me.
More luck than I, have you, Marquis,
With a bride as fair as she.
If you wish your love to show,
You will let me have her now.
Philippe had not
come back to see her. He showed no more interest in her. Now that she had done
her job, he had no further use for her. Why hope? She would never understand
him. What did Ninon de Lenclos say about him? "He is the nobleman par
excellence. He is in agony over questions of etiquette. He is afraid of having
a mudstain on his silk stockings. But he is not afraid of death. And when he
dies, he'll be as lonely as a wolf, and won't ask help from anybody." He
belonged only to the King and to himself.
Since you are my
monarch, Sire,
I must grant
your least desire.
Were you but
another man,
I'd revenge your
wicked plan.
The King . . .
the omnipotent King, strolling in his festive gardens. The elms glittering with
frost like fairy
trees.
The plumed courtiers following him from grove to grove. The marble statues
cloaked with snow. At the end of one walk the golden figures of Ceres and Flora
and Pomona mirrored in the clear ice of a fountain. The King with his walking
stick in his gloved hand, the hand of a young man, yet capable of directing
destiny, controlling life and death.
Farewell, my
life; farewell, my love;
Farewell, my
hopes of things above.
Serve we must
our lord, the King,
Even to our long
parting.
Good heavens,
weren't those the verses Cantor had almost sung before the Queen the other day
at Versailles? If it had not been for the Abbé de Lesdiguières, what damage
might he not have done! The abbé is surely a help. I must give him another
token of gratitude.
The Queen has
had a nosegay made
Of the fairest
lilies in the glade.
The Marquise
sniffed their fragrance sweet,
And fell down
dead at the Queen's feet.
Poor Queen
Marie-Thérèse! She would be quite incapable of sending her rivals bouquets of
poisoned flowers as Marie de Médicis once did to one of Henri's favorites. She
could only weep and dab at her red nose. Poor Queen!
chapter 11
MADAME
DE Sévigné wrote Madame du Plessis-Bellière some news
of the Court:
Today at Versailles
the King opened the ball with Madame de Montespan. Mademoiselle de la Vallière
was there, but did not dance. The Queen, who remained at Saint-Germain, was
forgotten . . .
The traditional
visits to the new mother, which were delayed until after the service of the
Churching of Women, invested the Hotel de Beautreillis with unaccustomed
splendor. The favor with which the King and Queen welcomed their new subject
into this world encouraged all Paris to come to pay court to the lovely young Marquise.
Proudly Angélique
displayed the casket of blue satin embroidered with fleurs-de-lis, which was
the Queen's gift. It contained a length of cloth of silver and two of scarlet,
a cape of blue taffeta and an exquisite layette of tiny Cambrai shirts,
embroidered baby caps and flowered bibs. The King had sent two candy-dishes of
silver-gilt and precious stones, filled with Jordan almonds.
Monsieur de Gesvres,
the High Chamberlain himself, delivered the presents of their Majesties to the
young mother, as well as their good wishes. These attentions from the royal
family, flattering as they were, were quite according to protocol; the wife of
a Marshal of France was entitled to them.
But it was all that
was needed to spread, like a flame in a hayrick, the rumor that Madame du
Plessis-Bellière held the King's heart in her hands. Wicked tongues even went
so far as to whisper that in the veins of the plump little doll
enthroned on his crimson velvet cushion ran the blood of Henri IV.
Angélique
disregarded these allusions, and shrugged her shoulders. Foolish people, but
bothersome nonetheless! Her bedroom was never free of them, and she received
from her bedside like a blue-stocking. Many faces she had almost forgotten
turned up there. Her sister Hortense, the wife of a procurator, for instance,
turned up with her whole brood. She was rising daily in the ranks of the upper
middle class, and she could not have missed the opportunity to acknowledge a
relative so much in the limelight as her sister the Marquise du
Plessis-Bellière.
Madame Scarron
came too. By chance Angélique was alone, and so they chatted freely. The young
widow was pleasant company. Always even-tempered, she seemed above complaining
or sulking. She was neither resentful of others nor hard on them. But Angélique
was surprised not to find in her the warm trusting friendship that she got from
Ninon de Lenclos.
Françoise, she
thought, is at the bottom of the heap because she will not give up either her
virtue or her dignity in her struggle for existence. Frugal to a fault, she
never spent a penny she did not have to. Cautious, she never got into a
situation she could not get out of. In spite of her poverty and her good looks,
she had no debts, no lovers. She relentlessly persisted in presenting petition
after petition to the King, for to ask of the King is not to beg, but merely to
demand from the government not only one's livelihood but also one's due place
in life. Yet none of her petitions had ever been granted, largely because she
was so poor. If one has a little money, one can usually get more.
"I don't
like to set myself up as an example," Françoise said to Angélique,
"but just keep in mind that I have presented either myself or through the
agency of some well-situated friend over eighteen hundred petitions to the
King."
"You don't
mean it!"
"And except
for a few meager benefices which were given me just a short while ago, I have got nothing for my
pains. But I'm not giving up. The day will come when I can do something honest
and useful for His Majesty or for some noble family, and it will be worthy of
its price—possibly only because such a thing is so unusual."
"Are you
sure that is the right way to go about it? I have heard His Majesty complain
'that the memorandums of Madame Scarron litter his offices like leaves in
autumn,' and that you are well on your way to becoming as permanent a fixture
as the tapestries on the walls of Saint-Germain or Versailles."
Her remark
did not alter Françoise’s composure.
"That's not bad news. Although the King might be the last one to admit it,
nothing pleases him more than persistence. If you want to succeed you must
attract the sovereign's attention, that's certain. So I am certain I will get what
I want."
"Which
is?"
"Success!"
There was a fine light in her eyes, but
she continued in her well-modulated voice: "You remember the ridiculous
prophecies that old sorceress Monvoisin made us? What all three of us were
going to be someday—Athenais de Montespan, you and I? Well, I don't put any
stock whatever in what Monvoisin said. Any inspiration she gets comes out of a
jug of wine. The prediction I do keep thinking of was made me at Versailles
three years ago by a young workman. You know, simple people who work with their
hands, whose minds are uncluttered with all the claptrap of sophisticated
living, sometimes have second sight. This fellow was an apprentice mason. He stammered and he had a club
foot. One day when I was walking past the sheds around the palace, where His Majesty was having some new additions made,
as usual, this boy left his work and came over to me, with all kinds of bows
and flourishes. His fellow workers did
not laugh, because they knew he could see into the future. His
face lit up and he hailed me as 'the first lady of the kingdom.' Then he went
on to say that the very spot on which we were standing would be covered by a palace far larger
and grander than anything we have now, and he could see all the courtiers
doffing their hats and bowing to me as I moved through it. Whenever I get
discouraged I think of that, and then I go back again to Versailles, where
after all my destiny is supposed to lie."
She was smiling, but
her dark eyes were lit with an inner fire. Coming from another the story would
have made Angélique smile, but being Madame Scarron's it made a deep impression
on her. She saw her now in her true light—grandly ambitious and commandingly
conceited. Her simple, obsequious exterior concealed a towering pride and
determination.
Far from increasing
her dislike of Madame Scarron, this conversation with her made it seem quite
advantageous for Angélique to cultivate her friendship.
"Tell me,"
Angélique said, "since you can shed so much light on so many matters, I
have no idea how many obstacles I will encounter at Court, but I have long had
a suspicion that my husband is intriguing against me. . ."
"Your husband is
a babe in the woods. He knows what is going on, for he has been at Court so
long, but he has no intention of interfering. For one thing, you are too
beautiful."
"But how can
that do me any harm? Whom would it antagonize? There are more beautiful women
there than I, Françoise. Don't natter me so foolishly."
"It is because
you are too . . . too different."
"As a matter of
fact," said Angélique almost to herself, "that's what the King
himself told me."
"You see! Not
only are you one of the most beautiful women at Court, but you have a way of
setting yourself off. From the moment you open your mouth you can have anyone
eating out of your hand because you are charming and amusing. And besides, you
have that one thing that so many other beauties would die for but never
get."
"What is
that?"
"A soul,"
said Madame Scarron resignedly.
The light had gone
out of her eyes. She stared at her pretty hands that hard work had coarsened in
spite of all the pains she took with them. "And so," she said with a
hopeless sigh, "how can you help . . . making enemies as soon as you put
in an appearance?" She burst into tears.
"Françoise," Angélique entreated, "don't tell me you are
crying just on account of me and my 'soul.' "
"No, I'm not,
really. Only because I was thinking of my own fate. When a woman is beautiful
and has a soul, how can she ever fail to get what she wants? That's the
trouble. I have missed so much because I haven't that."
The remark served to
convince Angélique that Madame Scarron would never be one of her enemies and
that she was vulnerable too, even at the end of her rope. Perhaps the King's
remark about her had struck home more than she cared to show. Angélique was
sorry she had repeated it, for the widow had obviously gone hungry a long time.
She would have rung for a snack, but she was afraid she might hurt Françoise’s
feelings. "Françoise," she said, "dry your tears. Think of your
apprentice's prediction. It's not a liability, as you seem to think, but a
trump card that will win you more than anyone else. You are able, and you have
already got important and devoted advocates. Isn't Madame d'Aumont one of your
patronesses?"
"And so are
Madame de Richelieu and Madame Lamoignan." Madame Scarron had by now
recovered her composure. "I have been going to their salons regularly for
three years now."
"Rather numbing
affairs, aren't they?" said Angélique. "They bore me to death."
"Maybe so, but
you can get ahead there in due time. That's your one mistake, Angélique, and it
will get you into trouble. Mademoiselle de la Vallière made the same one and
now she's on the way out. So long as you frequent the Court you cannot be
neutral. You must decide for one camp or the other. You don't belong to the
Queen's party or Madame's or the Princess'. You have made no choice between the
important people and the lightweights, or
between the butterflies and the single-minded."
"The
single-minded? How much do you think they matter?"
"I mean the
truly religious. They matter a great deal, not perhaps in the sight of God,
whose true nature we seek to find in our prayer-books, but in the eyes of
Justice which hands down the verdicts."
"I don't know
what you mean."
"Doesn't Evil
wear its most sinister mask at Court? The Lord God of Hosts must put it to
rout."
"So, you are advising me to choose
between God and the Devil."
"Just
about," said Madame Scarron gently.
She rose and took up
her cloak and the black fan she never opened because it was full of holes. She
kissed Angélique on the forehead and stole silently away.
"What a time to
talk about God and the Devil, Madame! Oh, such a terrible thing has
happened!"
Barbe's old red face
peered through the bed-curtains. She had been there a while before, then had
escorted Madame Scarron to the door, and returned. Her eyes were haggard. When
her sighs and sobs had failed to attract her mistress' attention, because
Angélique was so lost in thought. Barbe decided to speak up.
"Madame, what a
frightful calamity!"
"Now what?"
"Our little
Charles-Henri has disappeared."
"What
Charles-Henri?"
Angélique had not yet
got used to the name of her last-born: Charles-Henri-Armand-Marie-Camille de
Miremont du Plessis-Bellière.
"You mean the
baby? Doesn't the nurse know where she put him?"
"The nurse is
gone too. And the cradle rocker as well. And the diaper-girl. In fact, all of
little Charles-Henri's staff."
Angélique threw back
her covers and commenced to dress without speaking a word.
"Madame,"
Barbe moaned, "are you out of your mind? A fine lady can't get out of bed
just six days after giving birth."
"Then why did
you come after me? I supposed it was because you wanted me to do something.
There's just one chance in a thousand that there's some truth in what you say,
but I suspect you've acquired a certain fondness for the bottle. Ever since the
abbé took over the boys, you have had less and less to do, and that hasn't done
you any good."
Nevertheless the
evidence was conclusive. The baby's rooms were deserted. His cradle was gone,
and so was his chest of baby clothes and his first toys and even the flask of
absinthe oil and musk which was used to massage his navel.
Barbe had alerted the
other servants. They were crowding outside the door in alarm.
Angélique started her
investigations. What was the last time anyone had seen the nurse and her
assistants? That morning, when the diaper-girl had come to the kitchen for a
kettle of hot water. The three had had a good dinner as usual, then there was
no sign of them. It turned out, though, that while the servants were having a
post-prandial siesta, the porter had gone off to play a game of skittles with
the stableboys in the courtyard behind the house. The entrance court had
therefore been deserted for a good hour or so—more than enough time for three
women to sneak out, one carrying the baby, another his cradle, another his
layette.
The porter swore the
game of skittles had not lasted more than fifteen minutes.
"So you were
part of the plot too!" Angélique accused him.
She vowed she would
have him whipped, something she had never done before to any of her servants.
As the minutes ticked
by, she recalled frightful stories of children who had been kidnapped and
burned.
The nurse had been
recommended to her by Madame de Sévigné, who said she was reliable and
cooperative. But how could anyone
trust that accursed breed of servants who keep one eye on the
households they work in and the other on their own nefarious interests?
In the meantime Flipot dashed in saying that he knew all about it.
With the knack he had acquired as a former minion in the Court of Miracles, he
had been quick in sniffing out the trail. Charles-Henri du Plessis-Bellière had
quite obviously been moved bag and baggage to his father's house in the Rue
Faubourg Saint-Antoine.
"The Marquis
ordered all the coaches and horses
moved there, didn't he? And kidnapped you one dark night and locked you up in a
convent?" "Damn Philippe!"
She could not
dissemble in front of her servants who five minutes before had seen her frantic
anxiety. So she let her rage boil. To win them over, she told them that this
was the chance they had been waiting for to give a sound thrashing to the whole
insolent staff of the Marquis du Plessis who treated them as if they were
delivery boys instead of having just as much right to the Plessis blue and buff
livery which the King himself deferred to.
She told each one of
them, from the meanest scullion right up to the young abbé, to arm himself with
a club or pike or even a sword, and march to the Faubourg Saint-Antoine. She
herself would go along in a sedan chair.
The squadron
thundered on the oaken door of the Hotel du Plessis. The porter leaned out of
the barred window of his lodge and tried to parley. He had strict orders from
the Marquis not to open the gate for anyone—anyone at all, the whole day.
"Open up to your
mistress," roared "Swordthrust" Malbrant, brandishing two cannon
fuses which by some miracle he had in his coat pockets, "or, by my
reputation as a swordsman, I'll light these fuses right under your nose and
blow your whole gate and your lodge too straight to hell."
Racan had already lit a long piece of tow.
The terrified porter
said that he would open the gate to
Madame la Marquise on condition that all the rest stay outside. Angélique
promised that there would be no immediate attack or battle, and he opened the
gate just wide enough to let her and the Gilandon girls slip through.
As soon as she was inside the house she
had no difficulty locating the deserters. She struck the nurse, snatched up the
infant, and was on her way out when La Violette loomed before her. The Marquis'
son, he swore, would leave the house only over his dead body.
Angélique railed at
him in her Poitou dialect which he, being a native of the same region,
understood perfectly.
The valet finally
backed down, throwing himself on his knees at her feet and begging her with
tears in his eyes to have pity on him. The Marquis had threatened him with the
direst of punishments if he let the child go. One of the threats was that he
would be discharged, and that he could not bear, for he had been with the
Marquis for years and years. They had hunted their first squirrel together in
the forest of Nieul, and he had followed him in all his campaigns.
Nevertheless a lackey
in blue and buff livery was already galloping along the road to Saint-Germain,
hoping to reach the Marquis before his servants and his wife's cut one
another's throats in Paris.
The Marquis'
confessor came to try to make the bereft mother listen to reason. Unsuccessful,
he had the family's business manager, Molines, sent for. When Angélique saw his
authoritative figure, straight as an arrow in spite of his white hairs, her
vindictiveness subsided.
Molines suggested
they sit down together before the fireplace. He congratulated her on her
beautiful child which he was overjoyed to see would carry on his father's line.
"But he wants to
take him away from me."
"It is his son,
Madame, and—you must believe me—I have never seen a man of his station so
ridiculously happy over having an heir."
"You are always
on his side," Angélique said, not unhumorously. "I can well imagine
how happy he is,
probably because of all the
suffering he has caused me. His meanness has gone beyond even what you told
me." Still, she agreed to send home her servants and possess her soul in
patience until her husband got back —on one condition, that Molines act as an
impartial judge.
At nightfall Philippe
returned, his spurs jangling as always. He found Angélique and the manager
still in a friendly conversation by the hearth.
Little Charles-Henri
was clasped tightly to her jealous breast, like the precious thing he was to
her, suckling away greedily. The firelight shone on her round white neck.
Philippe was so entranced with the sight that Molines had time to rise and take
his leave saying how terribly upset Madame du Plessis had been at discovering
her child gone. Didn't Monsieur du Plessis know that an infant had to be nursed
by its mother? The baby's health was not so robust yet as its appearance
implied, and to deprive it of its mother's milk would seriously endanger its
very life. And Madame du Plessis was risking a quartain fever, which might
cause her milk to dry up.
No, Philippe knew
none of these things—they were too far removed from his experience. His face
showed his struggle between worry and disbelief. But Molines knew what he was
talking about. He was a paterfamilias himself and also a grandfather.
The Marquis made one
last attempt. "He is my son, Molines. I want him under my own roof."
"In that case, Monsieur le Marquis, Madame du Plessis will
have to live here with him."
Angélique and
Philippe both shuddered at the thought. Neither said a word. Then they looked
at each other like sullen playmates about to make up after a quarrel.
"I cannot leave
my two other children," Angelique said.
"They could stay
here too," said Molines. "The hotel is big enough."
Philippe did not deny
it.
Molines left, his
mission accomplished. Philippe continued to pace the room, throwing a dark look
at Angélique from time to time. She gave all her attention to Charles-Henri.
Finally Philippe drew up a footstool and sat down next to her. Angélique looked
at him suspiciously.
"So," said
Philippe, "you can be afraid in spite of all your bold airs. Perhaps you
wanted things to turn out this way. Well, here you are, right in the wolf's
den. So why are you looking at me so suspiciously when I sit down next to you.
Even a brute of a peasant likes to sit by the hearth and watch his wife suckle
their first-born child."
"That's just it,
Philippe. You may not be a peasant, but you are a brute."
"I'm glad to see
you haven't lost all your zest for battle."
She turned her head
toward him sweetly. His eyes followed the line of her swanlike throat to her
snow-white breast to the sleeping infant.
"How could I
ever dream you would play me such a dirty trick so soon, Philippe? You were so
sweet to me the other day."
Philippe reacted as
if she had insulted him. "You are wrong. I am never sweet. I just don't
like to see a thoroughbred mare miscarry, that's all. It was my duty to help
you. But my opinions about people and especially about women and their wiles
have not changed a whit. Besides, I wonder how creatures so little above
animals can still have so much pride. You were not so haughty the other day.
And just like any other stubborn bitch you wanted your master's hand to
reassure you."
"I don't deny
it. But your knowledge of feminine psychology is a little limited, Philippe.
Just because you understand animals better than human beings, you can't judge
one by the other. To you a woman is some strange hybrid, somewhere between a
bitch, a she-wolf and a cow."
"With a touch of
serpent thrown in."
"The dragon of
the Apocalypse, in short."
They looked at each
other and laughed. Philippe bit his lip to stop.
"The dragon of
the Apocalypse," he repeated, never taking his eyes off Angélique’s flesh
glowing in the firelight. "My point of view is as good as anyone
else's," he said after a moment. "It keeps me free of illusions. The
other day at your bedside I remembered a bitch, the most ferocious of the whole
pack, on the night I helped her drop a litter of seven pups. There was an
almost human look in her eyes, and she yielded to me with a touching devotion.
Two days later she chewed a kennel-boy to death just for coming near her
puppies."
Suddenly he asked:
"Is it true what I heard, that you had fuses set under the gatekeeper's
lodge?"
"Yes."
"If he hadn't
given in, you would have blown him sky high?"
"Indeed I
would!"
Philippe burst into
laughter. "By the devil that made you, you do amuse me. You have every
fault known to man, but no one could accuse you of being boring." He
circled her throat with his hands. "Sometimes I wonder if there's any
other way out but to strangle you or . . ."
"Or what?"
"I'll think
about it," he said, releasing her. "You haven't won yet. For the
moment, I have you in my power."
Angélique took plenty
of time to settle herself in her husband's house with her children and their
staff and the several servants of her own she wished to keep with her.
Philippe's h6tel was gloomy and had none of the modern charm that hers did. But
she arranged rooms for herself that turned out handsome and in the best of
taste. La Violette told her the apartment she had chosen had formerly been the
dowager Marquise's, but that Philippe had had it entirely redecorated only a
few months before.
Angélique was
astonished to hear this, but she did not dare ask, "For whom?"
A short time later an
invitation from the King to a ball at Versailles caused her to leave her new
home. For a great lady of the Court, endowed now with two offices, she had
devoted enough time to family affairs. It was time for her to take up again her
duties to the world. That was what Philippe was doing. She saw him now less
than when she was staying at Court. Realizing there would be no more evenings
at the hearthside, she set out once more for Versailles.
On the evening
of the ball she had a terrible time finding a place where she could change her
clothes. This was the perpetual affliction of the Court ladies when they stayed
at Versailles, at least for those who were willing to sacrifice to modesty. For
others who did not object to prurient peeps it was easy.
Angélique took
refuge in a little antechamber belonging to the Queen's apartments. She and
Madame du Roure helped each other dress, for their maids were housed the Lord
knew where. There were innumerable intruders—courtiers who paid them
compliments as they passed through, and some who offered to help them.
"Let us
alone," Madame du Roure kept squeaking like a guinea-hen, "or you'll
make us late, and you know how the King hates that." Then she had to run
off to find some pins.
Angélique was taking advantage of her
absence to pull on her silk stockings when a muscular arm seized her around her
waist and tumbled her, her skirts flying, on a little sofa. A greedy mouth
explored her throat. She let out a scream, and fought desperately to free
herself, and as soon as she did gave her assailant two resounding slaps.
She was winding up for a third blow when
she found herself staring at the King. Her arm froze in its outstretched
position.
"I never .
. . I . . . did not think it was you," she stammered.
"I did not
think it was you either," he said good-humoredly, but still rubbing his
smarting cheek. "Nor that you had such lovely legs. Why did you show them
if it embarrasses you for people to see them?"
"I can't
put on my stockings without exposing my legs."
"Then why
do you choose to put on your stockings in the
Queen's antechamber if not to expose your legs?"
"Because I
couldn't find another spot to do it in."
"Are you
implying that Versailles is not big enough to accommodate your precious
person?"
"Perhaps I am.
It's just like a great big theatre without any wings. Precious or not, my
person has to stay in center stage all the time."
"So that's your
excuse for your unpardonable behavior?"
"And so that's
your excuse for your no less unpardonable behavior?"
Angélique tried to
rearrange her skirts. She was angry, but a glance at the troubled face of the
King restored her sense of humor. She smiled broadly, and the King's features relaxed.
"Little toy, I
am a fool."
"Well, I am too
quick."
"Yes, you are a
wildflower. Believe me, if I had recognized you, I would never have behaved in
such a way. But when I came in and saw your blond curls and— my word!—such
handsome legs . . ."
Angélique gave him a
sidelong look, pursing her lips as if to show that she was not too displeased
by his attentions, provided he did not renew them. Even a King might have felt
foolish under such a look.
"Will you
forgive me?"
She held out her hand, less to be
coquettish than to indicate that their tiff was over and forgotten. The King
kissed it. He said she was a wonderful woman.
A little later, as
she was crossing the marble courtyard, she encountered a guard who seemed to be
looking for someone. He accosted her: "I have been instructed by the High
Chamberlain to tell you that an apartment has been reserved for you in the wing
of the royal princes. May I escort you there, Madame?"
"I? You must be
wrong, my good man."
He consulted a
notebook. "Madame du Plessis-Bellière? That is your name? I thought I
recognized you."
"That is
correct."
In a daze she
followed the guardsman through the royal apartments and those of the highest princes of the
blood royal. At the end of the right wing one of the quartermasters had just
finished writing in chalk on a little door: "Reserved for Madame du
Plessis-Bellière."
Angélique was so
dazzled with joy she could have fallen on the neck of the quartermaster and the
guard. She gave them several gold pieces. "Drink my health with
that."
"We'll wish
you the best of luck and lots of fun," they said, winking at her
knowingly.
She asked them to
tell her footmen and maids to bring her wardrobe and bedclothes. Then with
childish glee she took possession of her apartment, which consisted of
two rooms and a retreat
As she sat
waiting, Ange'lique meditated with sheer delight on what befuddled sensations
can inspire the favor of a monarch. Then she stepped out into the hallway once
more to see the inscription: "Reserved for Madame du
Plessis-Bellière."
"So you got
it at last, the wonderful 'Reserved for'!"
"I hear the
gentlemen in blue have chalked up your 'Reserved.'"
Everyone had
heard about it. No sooner did she appear in the ballroom than all eyes were
fastened on her in admiration and envy. She was radiant until the arrival of
the Queen's procession somewhat dampened her enthusiasm.
As she passed,
the Queen bowed graciously to those she recognized, but she pretended not to
see the Marquise du Plessis-Bellière, and stared at her frigidly.
Angélique’s neighbors did not fail to notice this.
"Her Majesty
gave you a sour look," sneered the Marquis de Roquelaure. "Her hopes
were reviving when she saw Mademoiselle de la Vallière slipping from grace, but
now she has a new rival, and a more dazzling one."
"Who?"
"You, my
dear."
"I? How
silly!"
She had seen in
the King's gesture only a wish to be forgiven
and a desire to remedy the situation she had complained about. The courtiers
saw in it a new proof of his love for her. Angélique entered the ballroom.
Brilliantly colored
tapestries masked all its walls, and it blazed with the light of the thirty-six
chandeliers that hung from its vaulted ceiling. The dancers were forming into
rows facing each other, the ladies on the right, the lords on the left. The
King and Queen sat in a box apart. At the far end of the room on a stage hung
with garlands of gold leaves the musicians were turning up under Lully's
direction.
"The Queen is
weeping now because of Madame du Plessis-Bellière," croaked a voice.
"They say the King is already having apartments readied for his new
mistress. Beware, Marquise!"
Angélique had no need to turn around to recognize the source of
the voice which seemed to issue from the floor.
"Don't put any
faith in that gossip, little Sir Barcarole. The King is not lusting after me—no
more than after any other woman of his Court."
"Well, still beware, Marquise. Bad luck
is in store for you."
"What do you
know about it?"
"Nothing really.
Just that Madame de Montespan and Madame du Roure went to see Monvoisin to find
some way of poisoning La Vallière. She told them to use magic to turn the
King's affections, and already Mariette, her Black Mass priest, has dropped
some powders in the royal chalice."
"Be still!"
she said in horror.
"Beware of those
girls. The day they get to the top of the ladder is the day you'll fall to the
bottom."
The violins sang out
the first bars of the gay dance rhythms. The King rose and after bowing to the
Queen, opened the ball with Madame de Montespan.
Angélique moved
forward to take her place in the line.
Behind a tapestry the
little cockscombed gnome cackled with laughter.
chapter 12
THE KING was so intrigued with the idea of going to war that
he had a camp set up in the game-preserve of Saint-Germain. The pavilions were
quite handsome. Lauzun's—he had been restored to favor-had three rooms hung in
crimson silk, in which he gave a reception for the King followed by a great
banquet.
At Fontainebleau,
where the Court went next, the troops were garrisoned, and the ladies could
enjoy the spectacle of military reviews at which the King liked to show off the
fine appearance and splendid discipline of his troops.
La Violette was
polishing his master's steel corselet, more of a decoration than a necessity,
which the Marshal wore under his lace collar. His tent had cost 2,000 livres,
and he required five mules to carry all his baggage. Saddle horses had been
provided. The musketeers of his personal regiment were equipped with chamois
coats as thick as a silver coin with gilded belts and trousers of buckskin trimmed
with gold braid.
There was a warlike
spirit everywhere. The rabble shouted as they passed along the banks of the
Seine: "Hey, King, when are you going to give us a real war?" They
reached the ears of the young sovereign who inhaled the call to glory in every
wind. For war alone brings true glory. A triumph of arms is always necessary to
complete a monarch's grandeur.
The war came as an
aftermath to seven years of peace. Its resplendent spirit evoked in everyone,
from King to princes to nobility to vagabonds, the eternal thirst of the human
race for the epic game of conquest. Their spirits yearned for adventure. (The
middle classes, the artisans and the peasants were not consulted, lest
they show some
disinclination.) For the nation
that undertakes it, war promises victory, riches, vain dreams of freeing itself
from unbearable servitude. They had confidence in their King. They had no love
for the Spanish or the English or the Dutch or the Swedes or the princes of the
Empire.
It seemed the
psychological time to prove to Europe that France was the greatest nation in
the world and was no longer going to take but give orders.
There was no good
excuse for the war, but Louis XIV charged his apologists with finding one in
either present or past politics. After considerable research they discovered
that Queen Marie-Thérèse, daughter of Philip of Spain by his first marriage,
had a right of inheritance to Flanders to the exclusion of Charles II, Philip's
son by his second marriage.
Spain countered that this right was
founded only upon a purely local law of the Netherlands which excluded children
of a second marriage from an inheritance in favor of children of a first one.
As the laws of Spain were superior to those of any of its provinces, this local
regulation could not obtain. Spain also pointed out that by her marriage to the
King of France, Marie-Thérèse had forfeited all right of inheritance to the
lands of Spain.
France answered that
since Spain had not yet paid the 500,000 écus which it owed the King of
France under the Treaty of the Pyrenees as a dowry for Marie-Thérèse, this
default annulled all preceding promises.
Spain replied that
the dowry had not been paid because the dowry stipulated for the daughter of Henri
IV when she became Queen of Spain in 1621 had not been fully paid by France.
France put a stop to the researches of the historians right then
and there on the principle that the best memory in politics is a short one.
The army departed to
conquer Flanders, and the Court set out behind it on a pleasure jaunt.
It was spring, a
rainy spring to be sure, but still the right season for hatching all projects
including bellicose ones. As many coaches and carriages followed the army as
the troops had cannons and baggage wagons.
Louis XIV wanted the
Queen, as heiress to the cities of Picardy, to be acclaimed as sovereign in
each conquered town. He also wanted thus to dazzle the population which had
been accustomed for more than a century to the autocratic and colorless Spanish
rule. Furthermore he wanted to thrust at the Dutch industries whose merchant
marine was roaming the seas as far as Sumatra and Java, whereas the French
merchant fleet, reduced to practically nothing, was being far outclassed. In
order to give the French ship-chandlers time to outfit vessels, Holland had to
be crushed. But Louis XIV did not make public this ulterior purpose. It was a
secret between him and Colbert.
Under torrential
rains the coaches, the carriages and the spare horses advanced over roads that
the infantry, the artillery and the cavalry had previously churned into
veritable seas of mud.
Angélique was sharing
a choach with Mademoiselle de Montpensier, whose friendship she had
enjoyed ever since Lauzun was released
from the Bastille. At a crossroad they were stopped by a coach that had just
turned over. They were told it belonged to one of the Queen's ladies. The
princess caught sight of Madame de Montespan on the road-bank and waved to her.
"Come along with us. There's room." Athenais lifted her skirts and
jumped from puddle to puddle to reach their coach into which she tumbled in
gales of laughter.
"I have never
seen anything so funny," she said, "as Lauzun carrying his hair in
his hat. The King kept him riding outside for two hours, and Lauzun's wig got
so sopping wet he finally had to take it off."
"But that's
terrible," exclaimed the Grande Mademoiselle. "He'll catch
cold."
She ordered the
coachman to whip up the horses. Around the next bend they caught up with the
King's coach. There indeed was Lauzun on horseback, dripping wet, and looking
as bedraggled as a moulting sparrow. The Grande Mademoiselle came to his aid in
a pathetic voice.
"Cousin, haven't
you any feelings at all? You are letting this unhappy gentleman risk an ague.
If you aren't touched by pity, then at least take into consideration how much
you would lose in the person of this loyal servant of yours."
The King did not even
turn his head, but kept staring before him through his gold and ebony spyglass.
Angélique looked
about them. They were on a slight rise that permitted a view of the black,
steaming plain of Picardy. Under the low-hanging clouds rose the battlements of
a little town that seemed as drowned by the rain as if it lay on the bed of a
brook.
French earthworks
surrounded it. A second trench outside the first was just being finished. In
the rear the cannon fire intermittently cast a rosy glow over the landscape.
The noise was deafening. The Grande Mademoiselle covered her ears with her
hands as she resumed her pleas.
Finally the King put down his spyglass. "Cousin," he
said deliberately, "you are very eloquent, but you always choose the wrong
moment for your harangues. I think the garrison is about to surrender."
He transmitted to
Lauzun the order to cease fire. The Marquis galloped off.
In fact, they could
already make out some activity at the gate of the citadel.
"I see the white
flag," shouted the Grande Mademoiselle, clapping her hands. "In only
three days, Sire! You've captured the town in only three days! Oh, how
magnificent war is!"
When they halted that
evening in the conquered town, and while the shouts of the townspeople still
rang out around the hotel where the Queen was lodged, Lauzun searched out
Mademoiselle to acknowledge her intervention on his behalf. The Grande
Mademoiselle smiled. A blush suffused her pale complexion. She excused herself
from the card table where she was playing with the Queen, and asking Angélique
to take her place, drew Lauzun into the recess of a window. Her face shone as
she drank in his words. Seen by the light of a
single candelabrum on a table near them, she seemed almost young and pretty.
"My word, but
she's lovesick," thought Angélique.
Lauzun had on his Don
Juan expression, but he was careful to keep his distance. Damn Péguilin, that
Gascon! Into what romantic boobytrap was he misdirecting the trusting heart of
this granddaughter of Henri IV?
The room was full but
it was hushed. There were four tables of cards. The monotonous bets of the
gamesters and the clink of the écus were the only sounds that disturbed
the quiet tryst that was going on and on and on.
The Queen for once
looked happy. She was pleased to be able to add one city more to the jewels of
her crown, but there were more personal gratifications involved. Mademoiselle
de la Vallière was not on the expedition. Before setting out on his campaign
Louis XIV, in a public law enacted by his Parlement, had made a gift to his
mistress of the duchy of Vaujoux in Touraine and also of the barony of
Saint-Christophe, two estates of equal value both for their revenues and for
the number of their tenants. He had also acknowledged his child by her, little
Marie-Anne, who henceforth would be known as Mademoiselle de Blois.
These gestures of the
King's neither deceived nor interested anyone. It was the usual parting gift,
but the Queen saw in it a return to propriety, a sort of liquidation of all his
past errors. The King heaped attention upon her. Whenever they entered a city,
she rode by his side, sharing with him the responsibilities as well as the
hopes of the campaign. But whenever her eye lit on the Marquise du
Plessis-Bellière, her heart began to ache with a new anxiety, for she had been
told that the King was infatuated with her and that he had insisted she join
his entourage.
She was indeed a very beautiful woman with something serious about
her, and attitudes that were at once spontaneous and calculated. Marie-Thérèse
deplored the lurking suspicion she had of her, for she liked the Marquise and
would have liked to make her her confidante.
But Solignac said she
was an immoral woman, lacking in piety. And Madame de Montespan accused her of
having a skin disease caught in the slums she liked to frequent. How could one
trust appearances? She seemed so healthy and fresh, and her children were so
handsome. How trying it would be if the King made her his mistress! And what
grief it would cause her! Could the heavy heart of a Queen find no balm?
Angélique knew how
painful her presence was to the Queen and took advantage of her first
opportunity to withdraw.
The house which had
been put at the disposition of the sovereigns by the burgomaster was small and
crowded. The nobles of the first rank and the King's suite Were literally
jammed into it, while the rest of the Court took quarters among the
townspeople. The welcome the populace gave the French had forestalled violence
and pillage. There was nothing to steal because everything was freely given.
The muffled sound of songs and laughter penetrated even into the dimly lit
hotel which still smelled of the tourte picarde, a mammoth confection of
pears covered with custard, that three of the town women had brought on a
silver platter.
Threading her way
through the stacks of trunks and other baggage, Angélique found the staircase.
The room she had chosen to share with Madame de Montespan was on her right, the
King and Queen's on the left.
A little shadow appeared in the dim flicker of the nightlight
and took the shape of a black mask in which two white eyes presently gleamed at
her.
"No, Ma'am,
don't go in."
Angélique recognized
the little Negro she had given Madame de Montespan.
"Hello, Naaman.
Let me by."
"No,
Ma'am."
"What's the
matter?"
"Som'un's
dere."
She could just barely
hear a tender murmuring. She guessed that some romance was afoot.
"All right, I'll
go away."
The page's white
teeth glistened in a grin framed in ebony. "The Kink, Madame. The Kink.
Shhh!"
Angélique went down
the staircase ruminatively. The King! And Madame de Montespan!
The next day everyone
left for Amiens.
Angélique dressed
early and went to the Queen's apartments, as was her duty. At the entrance
Mademoiselle de Montpensier was clucking nervously.
"Oh, what a
state Her Majesty is in! It's a great pity, a great pity!"
The Queen was indeed
in tears, at the end of her tether, as she said. Madame de Montausier was
comforting her as she sobbed and groaned, and Madame de Montespan kept
repeating in a voice that got louder and louder how completely understandable
Her Majesty's sorrow was. The news was that Mademoiselle de la Vallière had
just rejoined the army; after driving all night, she had arrived at daybreak
and had come to pay her respects to the Queen.
"What
effrontery!" Madame de Montespan kept exclaiming. "May God keep me
from ever being the King's mistress! If such a thing ever happened to me, I
would never be so inconsiderate as to appear before the Queen!"
What was the meaning
of this return? Had the King demanded the presence of his favorite?
Then everyone went to church where the Court was to hear Mass
before proceeding.
Marie-Thérèse ascended the stand reserved for the royal party. The
Duchesse de la Vallière was already there. The Queen did not look at her. The
favorite left the platform. Then she presented herself before the Queen once
more as Marie-Therese was entering her coach. The Queen did not speak to her,
so bitter was her disillusionment. She could no longer ignore the situation as,
for better or worse, she had done while the relationship between her husband
and this woman was still official. In her rage she forbade anyone even to bring
her food, and she ordered the officers of her guard of escort to allow no one to get ahead of her
coach for fear that Mademoiselle de la Vallière might rejoin the King before
she herself did.
Toward evening the long
line of jolting coaches caught up with the army on a little rise. Mademoiselle
de la Vallière was aware that the King was below. With a courage born of
despair she ordered her coach to dash across the open fields at top speed.
When the Queen saw this,
her anger was uncontrollable. She wanted to order her guardsmen to follow the
coach and stop it, but everyone kept begging her not to, and to calm herself.
The arrival of the King himself, who had got there before the Queen by
following a different road, resolved this half pathetic, half farcical crisis.
He was on horseback
and spattered with mud from top to toe, but in an excellent humor. As he
dismounted he apologized for not entering the Queen's coach because of his
dirty clothes, but after he had talked to her a while through the door he
stopped smiling.
The rumor was passed
along that the King had not desired and had certainly not commanded the arrival
of Mademoiselle de la Vallière. What had she heard to cause such unusual
impetuousness? She had always been such a patient, shy sort. What suspicions
had inspired her? Or what facts?
Alone at Versailles,
covered by her new dignities and surrounded by her new wealth, she had suddenly
realized she had been abandoned. At her wits' end she had ordered her coach and
set off at a gallop toward the north in direct disobedience to the King.
Anything rather than be tortured with thoughts that his heart had changed and
that the man she loved might be already in the arms of another.
She did not put in an
appearance at the dinner that followed at the halt. It was a wretched
cantonment, a town containing no more than four stone houses, the rest being
mud hovels.
Accompanied by the
Gilandon girls and her three maids, Angélique was searching for a lodging when
she ran into Mademoiselle de Montpensier, who
was in the same shelterless condition.
"Well, we are
certainly off to the wars, aren't we?" she said. "Madame de
Montausier couldn't find anything but a pile of straw in an outhouse for a bed,
and the Queen's ladies are stowed away in a pile of wheat in a loft. As for me,
I'll be lucky if I can find an ash-heap."
Angélique finally
found a hay barn. She hoisted herself up a ladder to the loft, where she could
sleep comfortably, while her companions stayed below in the bin. A big lantern
hanging from the joists shed a dull red glow over the scene—just enough light
for Angélique to perceive taking shape like a black ghost the jet features, the
white eyeballs and the crimson and apple* green turban of the little Negro
Naaman.
"What are you
doing there, you imp of Satan?"
"I waiting Ma'am
Montespan. Watch her bed for she. She sleep here too."
At that moment the
lovely face of the Marquise came into view over the top rung of the ladder.
"What a good
idea, Angélique, to share my 'green room,' as our brave soldiers call a billet
like this! We can play piquet if we can't get to sleep." She fell into the
hay, stretched and yawned with all the sensuous relaxation of a cat. "Oh,
how soft it is! What a marvelous bed! It's like when I was a child back in
Poitou."
"That's just
what I was thinking," said Angélique.
"There was a
haybarn right near our dovecote. My little lover used to meet me there. He was
a shepherd boy, only ten years old. We loved to listen to the pigeons cooing as
we held hands."
She stripped off her tight bodice. Angélique followed her example.
Then they peeled off their outer skirts, rolled off their stockings, and
burrowed into the hay, ecstatically rediscovering sensations they had long
since forgotten.
"From shepherd
boy to King," whispered Athenais. "What do you think of my future
now, darling?" She propped herself up on one elbow. The ruddy light of the lantern deepened the glow of her
cheeks and warmed the alabaster of her neck and shoulders. She giggled as if
she were tipsy. "To be loved by a King! How intoxicatingl"
"Suddenly you
seem very sure of that love. A while ago, you weren't so sure."
"Ah, but now I
have proof! I need never doubt again. . . . Last night he came to me . . . I
knew he would come sometime on this trip. The way he left La Vallière at
Versailles showed the way he was feeling, didn't it? He gave her a few trinkets
as a parting gift."
"Trinkets? A
duchy and a peerage? A barony?"
"Poohl They
might seem tremendous to her, and she probably thinks she's at the peak of her
power. That's why she thought she had the right to rejoin the Court. Ha-ha,
she's a bad loser. . . . I'll never settle for baubles like those. He can't
treat me like some opera dancer. I am a Mortemart!"
"Athenais, you
frighten me talking this confidently. Have you really become the King's
mistress?"
"Yes, I have.
His mistress! Oh, Angélique, what fun it is to know the power you have over a
man like him! To see him tremble and grow pale. . . to hear his entreaties . .
. And he so self-controlled, so solemn, so majestic, even terrifying sometimes
. . . It's true what they say about him, when he makes love he is a wild man.
There's nothing subtle about him then. He's greedy with lust, but I can satisfy
him."
She laughed with mad
delight, rolling her blond head back and forth in the hay and writhing her arms
with sensual abandon, as if she were reliving an all too recent moment of
passion, that Angélique could hardly bear it.
"That's just
fine," she said sarcastically. "Everyone will want to know who the
King's new mistress is, and now I won't have to be bothered listening to all
their silly suspicions."
Madame de Montespan sat up abruptly. "Oh
no, darling, not that. You must not breathe a word of it. We are depending on
your discretion. The time hasn't come yet
to acknowledge my position openly.
That would
just complicate everything.
Please oblige us by doing what we expect of you."
"And what is
that? And who is 'we'?"
"Why . . . the
King and I."
"Do you mean to
say that you—the King and you— hope the rumor will spread that he is in love
with me in order to throw everyone off your trail?"
Under their long
lashes Athenais' dark blue eyes surveyed Angélique with an evil glint.
"Why, of course. You see, that would help us out. I am in a delicate
situation. On the one hand I am Lady-in-Waiting to the Queen, and on the other
an intimate friend of Mademoiselle de la Vallière. The King's attentions would
ruin my reputation. There has to be some sort of red herring. I don't know why
they've begun talking about you, but the King has certainly helped the gossip
by giving you so many posts. And the Queen has been very cool to you. Poor
Louise can burst into tears just at the mere mention of your name. No one
thinks about me any more. They've lost the scent. I know you have enough good
sense to have seen this right from the beginning. The King is much obliged to
you. So don't say anything, will you? Do you mind?"
Angélique did not
answer. She picked up a wisp of hay and began chewing on it nervously. Inwardly
she felt hurt, and as if she had been more gullible than she liked to let herself
be. And here she was supposed to know how to outwit the trickiest businessmen
and traders in the kingdom! Yet when it came to worldly intrigues like this she
was still basically a naive, countrified peasant girl.
"Why should you
mind?" Madame de Montespan continued, all sweetness. "It's quite
nattering for you, and you have already got rewards and a certain glory. Do you
think you've been misled? Hardly. I can't imagine you ever took that little
farce seriously. In the first place, you love your husband, or so it seems. How
funny! He is not very ardent, but he is handsome, and they say he's very
susceptible to flattery . . ."
"Would you like
to play cards?" Angélique asked tonelessly.
"I'd be glad to.
I have a pack in my bag. Naaman!"
The little Negro handed her her traveling
kit. They played several hands without taking much interest in the game.
Angélique lost out of absent-mindedness, and this did not improve her humor.
Madame de Montespan dropped off to sleep at last, with a smile on her lips.
Angélique was not in
a smiling mood. She kept biting at a hangnail as her vexation increased, and as
the night wore on she conceived more and more plans for revenge. By morning the
name of Madame de Montespan would be on everyone's lips. She had been very
unwise to think Angélique would fall for her insincerity.
Athenais had found an
exquisite pleasure in revealing her triumph and the part she had unwittingly
assigned her. Sure of the King's support and of her control over him, she had
allowed herself the enjoyment of tearing to pieces a woman of whom she had long
been jealous but whom she treated well for opportunistic reasons. Now she had
no further need of her or of her money. She could humiliate her and make her
pay through the nose for the success her beauty and wealth had won for her.
"Idiot!"
thought Angélique, more exasperated than ever at herself. She wrapped herself
in her cloak and stole down the ladder, leaving Madame de Montespan sound
asleep and resting as lightly on the hay—and as unclothed—as a goddess on a
cloud.
Outside, the east was
brightening, and a few drops of rain were falling. From the direction of the
reddening horizon drifted the sound of fifes and drums as the regiments broke
camp.
Angélique trudged
through the sticky mud to the house where the Queen was lodged and where she
knew she would find Mademoiselle de Montpensier. In the entryway she spied
Mademoiselle de la Vallière shivering on a bench and looking abjectly wretched.
Her young sister-in-law and two or three maids were with her, all dreary and
red-eyed from sleeplessness. They all looked so forlorn that they touched her
heart and she stopped in spite of herself.
"What are you
doing there, Madame? You'll catch your death of cold."
Louise de la Vallière
raised her blue eyes, too big for her waxen face, and shuddered as if she had
been roused from a trance.
"Where is the
King?" she said. "I want to see him. I can't leave here without
seeing him. Where is he? Please tell me."
"I do not know,
Madame."
"You do know. I
am certain of it. You know . . ."
Out of pity Angélique
took into her own the two thin, cold hands the Duchess held out to her. "I
swear I do not know. I have not seen the King since . . . I don't know when.
And I can assure you he hardly cares a rap about me. It's sheer madness for you
to stay out here on such a cold night."
"That's what I
keep telling her," groaned the sister-in-law. "She's exhausted, and
so am I, but she will not give in."
"Haven't you a
room in the village?"
"Yes, but she
wants to wait for the King."
"Stop being so
foolish." Angélique seized the Duchess under the arms and yanked her up.
"You are going to get some warmth into you and then you are going to lie
down. The King won't like it if you show up before him looking like a
ghost."
In the house where
some shelter had been reserved for the favorite, she commanded the lackeys to
build up the fire. Then she passed the warming pan between the damp sheets,
prepared a tisane, and put Mademoiselle de la Vallière to bed with such
unrelenting authority that the Duchess did not dare protest. Under the
coverlets which Angélique heaped over her, she seemed terribly frail. The
epithet "gaunt" which a vindictive pamphleteer had bestowed upon her
seemed hardly exaggerated. Her bones stuck out through her skin. She was in the
seventh month of pregnancy, her fifth in six years. She was only twenty-three
years old. Behind her already was the greatest love affair any woman could hope
for; before her a long long life of tears. Just the previous autumn she had shone with what
had proved to be a sunset glory. Only a few months later the change was
overpowering.
"That's what
loving a man can do to a woman," Angélique thought. Her anger flared
again. She remembered Barcarole's story of how La Vallière’s rivals wanted to
poison her, and shuddered.
"How good you
are," murmured Louise de la Vallière. "But they said . . ."
"Why do you pay
any heed to what 'they' say? You just injure yourself needlessly. I can't do
anything about wicked tongues any more than you can. I'm just like you in that
respect."
She was about to add:
"And just as stupid. I've been an unwitting screen." Then she
thought, "What good would that do?" Why turn Louise's jealousy in
another direction? Soon enough she would find a revenge so sweet it would make
her best friend's betrayal look feeble.
"Go to sleep
now," she whispered. "The King still loves you." It was the only
thing she could think of to soothe the ache of poor Louise's wounded heart.
Louise gave her a
pathetic little smile. "He has not been good to me."
"How can you say
that? Hasn't he just shown his devotion by giving you all those titles and
other presents which leave no doubt of how he feels about you? You are Duchesse
de Vaujoux, and your daughter will not be condemned to obscurity."
The favorite shook
her head. Tears seeped out of her closed eyes and dribbled down her temples.
She who had always concealed her pregnancies at the cost of unspeakable
torment, who had seen her babes torn from her as soon as they were born, who
had never permitted herself to grieve for the three sons she had lost, even to
the point of appearing at a ball smiling in order to deceive anyone as to her
true grief, who had always done her utmost to give the lie to her scandalous
position, had suddenly seen herself publicly declared the mother of a daughter
by the King without having even been consulted
about the announcement. And wasn't there a rumor that the Marquis de Vardes was being recalled from
exile by the King in order to marry her?
All Angélique’s words
of comfort and encouragement were empty. They had come too late. Angélique said
no more, just sat holding her hand until finally she fell asleep.
As she was going back
to the Queen's house, Angélique glimpsed a coach lamp. It made her think of the
Queen, also waiting for the King, tortured by a thousand suspicions, imagining
him in the arms of La Vallière, who all the time was waiting in the cold one
floor below her. What good would it do to tell her the name of her true rival?
It would add only one more drop of venom to her already over-poisoned cup.
Madame de Montespan was justified in sleeping soundly in her nest of hay. She
knew—she had always known—that Madame du Plessis would hold her tongue.
Charleroi, Armentieres, Saint-Vinoux, Douai, Oudenarde, the
fortress of La Scarpe, Courtrai—all fell like houses of cards.
In each the King and
Queen of France were received with pomp and harangued by aldermen, and after
parading through carpeted streets, went to hear a Te Deum in some old
lacy-gothic church of the North whose slender fleche seemed to pierce the
sullen sky.
In between Te
Deums the war would break out in a kind of convulsion, and the fire of
cannon and musket sound in the distance. The garrison risked sorties that
sometimes resulted in casualties, but the Spanish were few in number and Spain
was far away. Cut off from reinforcements and under the pressure of inhabitants
who had no wish to suffer the pangs of starvation for the sake of glory, the
towns surrendered.
Beneath the walls of
Douai the horse of one of the King's guards was killed under him. Louis XIV was
very much in the field. The smell of powder intoxicated him, and he took
delight in leading a squadron to the attack. Once the siege of Lille had begun,
he would climb down into the trenches every day like a common soldier, much to
the concern of the courtiers.
After Turenne saw him covered with dirt from
a cannon ball that had just landed near him, he threatened to raise the siege
if the King continued to be so rash. But the King had led the charge right up
to the breastworks in full view of the army, and refused to retreat. The
Marshal du Plessis-Bellière said to him: "Take my hat and give me yours.
Then if the Spaniards aim at the plume they will get the wrong man."
The next day the King
was more prudent. Philippe was awarded the blue ribbon of the Order of
Saint-Louis.
Summer arrived, and
the weather grew hot. The smoke of the mortars rose in little clouds into a sky
of periwinkle blue.
Mademoiselle de la Vallière had remained at Compiegne, but the
Queen rejoined the army, taking with her in her carriage Mademoiselle de
Montpensier, the Princesse de Bade, Madame de Montausier and Madame de
Montespan. Behind them, in another coach, came Mesdames d'Armagnac, de
Bouillon, de Croqui, de Bethune and du Plessis-Bellière. They were all tired to
death and terribly thirsty.
As they alighted they
were surprised to encounter a caravan consisting of a wagon laden with cakes of
ice. It refreshed them merely to look upon it glistening in the sunlight.
Escorting it were some ungainly fellows, with jet-black mustaches and dour
looks, in patched uniforms. The officer who rode with them left no doubt
whatever of their origin. His full plaited ruff and his lofty manner revealed
him as a true hidalgo of His Most Catholic Majesty. He explained to the ladies
that Monsieur de Brouay, the Spanish governor of Lille, sent ice every day to
the King of France out of chivalry—or perhaps sheer bravado.
"Ask him,"
said the King, "to send me a little more."
"Sire,"
answered the Castilian, "my general saves it because he hopes it will be a
long siege and he is afraid he may run out of ice for Your Majesty."
The old Duc de
Charost shouted to him from the King's side, "Good for him! Tell Brouay
not to follow the
Governor of Douai's
example. He surrendered like a
craven rogue."
"Are you insane,
sir?" the King said sharply. "Do you want to encourage our enemies to
resist?"
"Sire, it's a
matter of family pride. You see, Brouay is my cousin."
The life of the Court
continued in the camps. The fields were strewn with many-colored pavilions
symmetrically disposed. The King's, which was the largest, consisted of three
rooms—one sleeping room and two conference rooms. It was hung with Chinese silk
and furnished with gilded chairs and tables. His arising and retiring went on
with exactly the same ceremony as at Versailles.
Everyone enjoyed the
sumptuous meals all the more by thinking of the Spaniards behind the somber
ramparts of Lille, reduced to gnawing horseradishes.
Louis XIV entertained
the ladies of the Court at his table. One evening at dinner his glance fell on
Angélique sitting not far from him. His recent victories, not to mention the
more personal one over Madame de Montespan, and the exhilaration of triumph,
had somewhat dimmed his usually keen powers of observation. He thought he was
seeing her for the first time during the campaign and asked her pleasantly:
"So you have
left the capital? What were they saying in Paris when you set out?"
Angélique looked at
him coolly. "Sire, they were saying evening prayers."
"I meant, what
was new?"
"Green peas,
Sire."
Her answers might
have seemed funny if they had not been uttered in a tone as icy as the look in
her eyes. The King fell silent in astonishment, and since he was not
quick-witted, his cheeks grew red.
Madame de Montespan
came to the rescue by laughing infectiously. She explained that the latest game
was to answer direct questions as absurdly as possible. Everyone was playing it
in Paris in the salons and at the receptions of the intellectuals, trying to
get the best of one another, and Madame
du Plessis was very clever at it. Soon everyone at the table was trying it, and
the meal ended in fun.
On the following
morning Angelique was applying her make-up under the eyes of an inquisitive cow
when the Marshal du Plessis-Bellière had himself announced. Like all the other
great ladies who had taken the field, she suffered few of the inconveniences of
travel. As soon as she could find a place to set up her dressing table, she
carried on as at home. The scent of her face powder and perfumes mingled with
the stink of manure, but neither the great lady in her filmy negligee nor the
black and white cows that kept her company bothered one another. Javotte was
helping her into her first skirt, which was pink silk with pale green stripes,
while Therese tied its laces.
When she saw her
husband Angélique sent the maids away, but she continued to concentrate on her
reflection in the mirror, in which Philippe's stormy face appeared over her
shoulder.
"I hear foul
rumors about you, Madame. I thought it my duty to leave my post to lecture you,
perhaps punish you."
"What are these
rumors?"
"You made fun of
the King when he did you the honor of speaking directly to you."
"Is that
all?" said Angélique, selecting a beauty patch from a little box of chased
gold. "There are plenty of other rumors about me making the rounds which
might have disturbed you long ago. The only time you seem to remember your
marital duties is when you think you should apply the matrimonial lash."
"Did you answer
the King impertinently? Answer yes or no."
"I had my
reasons."
"But . . . you
were speaking to the King!"
"King or not, he
is still nothing but a naughty boy who needs to be put in his place from time
to time."
If she had uttered
blasphemy, Philippe could not have been more overwhelmed. He seemed to be
choking. "Have you lost your mind?"
He paced up and down,
then leaned against the wooden manger and began to stare at Angélique as he
chewed on a piece of straw.
"Aha, now I see
which way the wind blows. I gave you a bit of freedom in honor of my son whom
you bore and nursed, and you are trying to take advantage of it. It's high time
I started cracking the whip again."
Angélique shrugged
her shoulders, restraining herself from answering him too smartly, and gave her
entire attention to her mirror as she performed the delicate operation of
affixing a patch to her right temple.
"What would be a
fitting punishment to teach you how to behave at a King's table?" Philippe
said. "Exile? Hum! You would find some way of showing up again behind me
just as soon as I turned my back. You need another taste of my dog whip. Yes, I
remember that made you hang your head. Or . . . I can think of a few other even
more exquisite measures, such as the end of a rope, that I am tempted to try on
you."
"Don't tire your
imagination, Philippe. You are too strict a schoolmaster. It was only three
words that just happened to pop out. . ."
". . . in answer
to the King!"
"The King is
only a man after all."
"That is where
you are mistaken. The King is the King. You owe him obedience and respect and
loyalty."
"And what else?
Am I to give him the right to dictate my
life, to sully my reputation, to betray my confidence?"
"The King is our
master. He has all rights over you."
Angélique swung
around and squinted at Philippe defiantly. "Oh
yes? And if it strikes his fancy to make me his
mistress, what am I to do then, pray?"
"Agree. Doesn't
it occur to you that all his ladies, the gems of the Court of France, are there
only for the prince's pleasure?"
"Well, you
certainly are a generous husband! If your affection for me doesn't, then your
proprietary instincts certainly should absolutely refuse."
"Everything I
own belongs to the King. I would never refuse him anything, from the smallest
trifle right up to my life itself."
Angélique screamed
with vexation. Her husband had a way of wounding her to the quick. But what had
she expected? Some indication that he was jealous? That was too much. He cared
nothing for her, and did not disguise the fact. His passing interest in her by
the hearthside was only for the person who had happened to have the honor of
delivering his infant heir. She turned back to her dressing table, snapped shut
the box of patches, and, her hands shaking with rage, picked up first one comb
and then another.
Philippe watched her
with grim satisfaction.
Angélique’s anger
burst forth in a flood of harsh words. "I forgot. It is true, a woman to
you is nothing more than a thing, a piece of furniture, good only for bringing
children into the world. Less than a broodmare, less than a stableboy.
Something to be bought and sold, or put out to pasture when she has ceased to
be of use to you. That's what women are to men of your kind. At best, they're a
piece of cake or a bowl of stew you leap on when you're hungry."
"A pretty picturel" said Philippe.
"I don't deny it's true. I must confess that with your rosy cheeks and
your plump figure, you are appetizing. As a matter of fact, I feel hungry all
of a sudden."
He tiptoed up to her
and laid his hands possessively on her shoulders. Angélique jerked away and
laced up her bodice tightly.
"Don't count on
anything like that, my boy," she said icily.
In a frenzy Philippe
ripped open her bodice, tearing off three of its diamond-studded hooks. "Do I have to say 'Please,' you
simpering fool?" he growled. "Can't you ever understand that you
belong to me? Ha-ha, that's where the stick really hurts, isn't it? The proud
Marquise still would like to think she's entitled to pretty little attentions!"
He sripped off her
bodice, tore away her chemise, and seized her breasts with the brutality of a
mercenary soldier on a night of rapine.
"Have you
forgotten your origins, Madame la Marquise? Once you were nothing but a little
peasant girl with a runny nose and dirty feet. I can see you now in your
tattered short skirt, your hair hanging down in your eyes, and proud as
Satan."
He grasped her head
to bring her face close to his, squeezing her temples so hard she thought her
skull would split.
"And this is
what crawls out of a crumbling old castle and thinks she can answer the King
impertinently! The stable is where you belong, Madame de Monteloup, and it
would suit you better even now. I am going to revive some of your peasant
memories."
"Let me
go!" screamed Angélique, trying to strike him.
But she bruised her
knuckles on his metal breastplate and had to shake her aching fingers, groaning
with pain. Philippe laughed, and twisted her while she struggled.
"Now, little
brat of a shepherd-girl, we'll truss you up without any further ado."
He lifted her up in
his arms and tossed her onto a pile of hay in a dark corner of the barn.
"Let me go! Let
me go!" Angélique kept screaming.
"Shut up! Do you
want to rouse the whole garrison?"
"Yes. So much
the better. Then everyone could see the way you treat me."
"What a fine
scandal! Madame du Plessis raped by her own husband!"
"I hate
you!"
She was half
smothering in the hay where they struggled, but she succeeded in biting his
hand until it bled.
"Bitch!"
He struck her several
times across the mouth, then pinioned her arms behind her back, paralyzing her
movements.
"Good
Lord," he panted, half jokingly, "I never had to deal before with such
a madwoman. I need a whole regiment."
Angélique felt her
strength ebbing. This would be just like the other times. She would have to
submit to his humiliating ownership in the bestial subservience he demanded.
Her pride reared up against it, and her love too —the bashful love she had
borne Philippe, which would never die, which she would never confess.
"Philippe!"
He was achieving his
ends. This was not the first time he had had a struggle like this in the hay in
some dark corner of a lonely barn. He knew how to subdue his prey and tear it
to pieces as it palpitated pantingly under him.
Tiny pinpoints of
gold danced in the thin shaft of sunlight that shot into the deep shadows from
between the boards of the wall.
"Philippe!"
He heard her call his
name, but her voice sounded strange to him.
Out of fatigue or perhaps the soporific odor of the hay Angélique
succumbed. She had had enough of anger, and accepted the attentions and the
mastery of the man who had treated her so cruelly. It was the same Philippe she
had loved ever since the days at Monteloup. What difference did it make that
she was hurt so long as it was by him?
She surrendered to
the elation of her instincts and became only a female yielding to the demands
of a male. She was his victim, his thing. He had a right to use her as he
pleased.
In spite of the raging passion that possessed him, Philippe
perceived the moment of capitulation which suddenly relaxed her. Fearing he had
wounded her, he controlled his blind desire a little and tried to guess what
the darkness concealed in the sudden silence. Then he felt the gentle touch of
her hand on his cheek, sending a thrill through him and so unnerving him that
he sank feebly against her body.
He resolved to
restrain himself, and withdrew not knowing that he had almost brought her to
the point of ecstasy.
Glancing at her out
of the corner of his eye, he guessed that she was arranging her clothing. Each
of her movements brought him the warm perfume of her flesh. He began to suspect
her compliance.
"My compliments
seem to have displeased you less than I thought. Don't forget they were
intended as a punishment."
She let a second slip
by before she answered in a sweet, shy voice: "Perhaps they were a
reward."
Philippe leaped to
his feet as if he sensed a present danger. He felt unnaturally weak. He would
have liked again to lie in the warm hay near Angélique and talk intimately, but
such an unfamiliar temptation disgusted him.
He left the barn with
the uncomfortable feeling that this time he had not had the last word.
chapter 13
VERSAILLES sweltered under the broiling sun of a July
afternoon. To find a little coolness Angélique and Madame de Ludre and Madame
de Choisy were strolling by the Water Arch, a pleasant walk shaded by trees and
cooled by fountains that shot upward on both sides behind a grassy bank to join
above in a vault so lofty that one could walk beneath it without getting
sprinkled. Here they encountered Vivonne.
"I have a
proposition to discuss with you, Madame," he said to Angélique. "I
address you now not as the most ravishing nymph of these groves, but as a wise
mother such as the ancients would have revered. In a word, I ask your consent
to add your boy Cantor to my suite."
"Cantor? But how
could such a child be of use to you?"
"You might as
well ask how one could wish to have a songbird. The boy has completely
captivated me. He sings so sweetly and plays so many different instruments so
well, I should like to have him along on my expedition so that I may continue
composing verses and listen to them sung by his angelic voice."
"Your
expedition?"
"Don't you know
that I have just been appointed Admiral of the Fleet? The King is sending me to
fight the Turks besieging Candia in the Mediterranean."
"So far
away!" Angélique exclaimed. "I don't want to let my boy go. He is
much too young, only eight years old. . ."
"He looks
eleven. He would not be lonely. My pages are all boys of good family. My
steward is a mature man who has several children of his own, and he can be
trusted to take good care of your sweet little boy. In addition, Madame,
don't you have
interests in Candia? Shouldn't you be sending one of your sons
to look after your fief?"
Angélique refused to
take the proposal seriously, but she did say she would think it over.
"It would be to
your advantage to grant Vivonne's request," Madame de Choisy remarked
after the Admiral had left them. "He has a very high position now. His new
promotion has made him one of the most important persons in France."
Madame de Ludre
smiled acidly. "And don't let's forget that His Majesty is more and more
disposed every day to honor him, if for no other reason than to get in the good
graces of his sister."
"You talk as if
Madame de Montespan were already the favorite," said Madame de Choisy.
"She is being very discreet about it."
"What she shows
and what she does are not necessarily the same, as you should have learned from
experience by this time. Perhaps Madame de Montespan would rather not disclose
her romance, but .her jealous husband hasn't given her a chance. He is making
as much of a scandal out of it as if his rival were some Paris fop or other."
"Don't mention that man's name! He's
a fool and one of the most dissolute men in the kingdom to boot."
"I hear that
recently he came to a little dinner party of Monsieur's without a wig, and when
he was asked why, said he had two horns on his forehead that kept him from
wearing one. He really is funny!"
"What he dared
say to the King yesterday at Saint-Germain isn't so funny. We were coming back
from a walk on the terrace when we saw Montespan's coach all shrouded in black
with silver tassels. He was in black too. The King seemed to be very concerned
and asked him who he was in mourning for. He answered very sorrowfully, 'For my
wife, Sire.' "
Madame de Ludre
laughed loudly, and so did Angélique.
"Go on and
laugh," Madame de Choisy said in a tone of injured dignity. "That
kind of behavior is all very well for a street
carnival, but not for the Court. The King won't stand for it. Montespan is
risking the Bastille." "That's where everyone winds up."
"How can you be so cynical, Madame?" "The King won't go to such
lengths. It would amount to a public confession on his part."
"As far as I'm
concerned," Angélique said, "I had just as soon have Madame de
Montespan's conduct made public. I have had to endure the ridiculous gossip
that's been spread about the King and insignificant little me. Then they could
see there was absolutely no basis for it." "Well, I must say I
thought for a long time it was you who would succeed Mademoiselle de la
Vallière," said Madame de Choisy almost wistfully. "But I do admit
you have kept your reputation." She sounded as if she were annoyed that
her predictions had proved false.
"You didn't have
to cope with as uncooperative a husband as Monsieur de Montespan," said
Madame de Ludre, "always throwing poisoned darts. He isn't even at Court
now you are here . . ."
"He has had to
be at the front, first in Flanders and now in Franche-Comté.”
"Now don't get
cross, dear. I was only joking, and after all he is only a husband."
As they chatted they
came to the broad walk that led to the palace, where they had to keep dodging
workmen and servants carrying or climbing ladders to hang lanterns on the
bushes and the long rows of elms. Axes were ringing deep in the thickets. The
park was getting ready for a fête.
"I hope we'll
have time to change our clothes," said Madame de Choisy. "The King
seems to be preparing some wonderful surprise for us, but ever since we arrived
everyone has been twiddling his thumbs while His Majesty has held conference
after conference."
"The fête is
supposed to begin at twilight. I think our patience will be rewarded."
The King wanted to
celebrate his triumph of arms with a series of great fêtes. The glorious
conquest of Flanders and the lightning winter campaign in Franche-Comté had
borne fruit. An astonished Europe was keeping its eye on the young king, who
previously had been regarded as the victim of treacherous advisers. His pomp
and pageantry had already become the talk of the world; now his audacity in
warfare and his subtle diplomacy were drawing equal attention. Louis XIV wanted
the brilliance of his fêtes to be noised abroad, like clashing cymbals to
accompany the trumpets of his fame.
He had charged the
Duc de Créqui, the first gentleman of the bedchamber; Marshal de Bellefonde,
the chief steward; and Colbert, as well as his master of the works, to oversee
the organization of pageants, banquets, triumphal displays, illuminations and
fireworks. The plans were quickly drawn and executed.
Just as Angélique appeared in a gown of
turquoise blue frosted with so many diamonds that she seemed clad in a rainbow,
the King entered the great hall from his apartments. He was no more splendidly
attired than usual, but he had never seemed more charming. Everyone realized
that now the hour for pleasure had struck.
The gates of the
palace had been opened to the populace, who were now invading the courtyards,
the salons and the gardens, their eyes popping as they ran from point to point
throughout the grounds to see the royal procession pass. The King kept hold of
the Queen's hand. She was like a child for delight, even though her narrow
shoulders could hardly bear the weight of the gold-embroidered dress that
encased her like a gothic shrine. She adored such an array of gorgeous finery,
and the fact that the King was by her side made her seem beside herself with
happiness. It was as if her aching heart knew a little respite from its pain,
for the tattling tongues of the Court had not yet agreed on who the new
favorite was to be.
Of course,
Mademoiselle de la Vallière and Madame de Montespan were there, the former
rather crushed, but the latter as merry as usual. And Madame du
Plessis-Bellière was there, too, more beautiful and distinguished than ever.
And Madame de Ludre and Madame du Roure. But they were merely part of the
crowd, and no one paid them any particular attention.
The King and Queen,
with the Court following them at a slight distance, walked across the lawns
that led down to the Fountain of the Dragon on the right of the palace. It had
just been completed, and the King wanted to show off its beauty and the
intricate mechanisms of its operation.
In the center of a
huge pool a dragon wounded by an arrow spurted like its lifeblood a tremendous
jet of water that broke into spray and fell like rain into the pool. Water
spouted and sprayed from the mouths of dolphins swimming around the central
figure. Two put-ti, mounted on swans whose beaks shot streams of water before
them, attacked the hideous monster from the front, while two more harassed it
from the rear. The statues were patinaed with green gold, the swans with
silver, and the network of spraying water lent the ensemble the mystery of some
subaqueous drama.
After everyone had
had a chance to gasp in admiration, the King resumed his progress, and
slowly the procession wound along the walks that led past the Fountain of
Latona toward the Great Terrace. The late sky had crimsoned and the trees grown
bluish, but there was still enough light for the bronze statues to reflect it
and glow in the radiance of the setting sun. At that period the entire park of
Versailles was alive with color, for the sculptures that were not glided were
painted in natural hues.
At the entrance to
the maze Aesop in a red hood, his misshapen body wrapped in a blue cloak,
greeted the princes with a sly glint in his eyes and a cynical smile on his
lips. Before him stood the God of Love to signify that love often involves one
in tangled webs, while worldly experience and a sense of humor provide a thread
to guide one out of love's labyrinths and triumph over them.
The King explained
the allegory to the Queen, who seemed greatly entertained by the charade.
The maze itself,
which was an indispensable ornament of royal gardens then, was one of the
wonders of Versailles. It consisted of an enclosure of closely planted bushy
trees hedging narrow paths which crossed and blocked one another until it was well nigh
impossible not to get lost. At every turn the courtiers gasped with amazement
as they discovered one or another of the thirty-nine groups of statuary
surrounded by rock gardens or shell-like reflecting pools, placed there to
divert the wanderers and cause them to lose their way even more. They
represented the animals in Aesop's Fables, and had been scrupulously copied
from living models in the zoo. Thirty-seven quatrains of Benserade, carved in
golden letters on the bronze pedestals, recited the story connected with each.
Up until then the
progress had been no more than the usual one that the Court indulged in every
day as it followed its master who never tired of admiring the beauty and the
development of his gardens. But suddenly, at the intersection of five walks,
the company came upon a spectacular summer-house in the shape of a pentagon,
shaded by lofty elms. Each of the five sides was decorated with a carved
tracery of foliage framed with garlands, and the central area contained three
marble urns decorated with red, pink, blue and white flowers. In the middle a
jet of water spurted upward in a snowy shaft, and surrounding the pool into
which it fell were five marble tables facing each of the intersecting paths.
These were separated by majolica jars in which grew orange trees bearing
candied fruits.
On each of the tables
was a mouth-watering confection. One represented a mountain in whose caves were
all sorts of cold dishes. Another was topped with a miniature palace of
marzipan and petits fours. The third bore a pyramid of candied fruit. On
the next was a vast number of crystal goblets and silver pitchers filled with
all kinds of liqueurs. The last offered an assortment of bonbons—brown for the
chocolate-flavored ones, golden for the honey, red for the cinnamon.
They paused to admire
the charm of this cool, refreshing room, then fell to with greedy hands on the
palace of marzipan until it lay in ruins, or gobbled up the bonbons, or drained
the glasses of liqueurs. Reclining on the grassy banks, the noble lords and
ladies threw themselves wholeheartedly into the informal spirit of a picnic.
From this central
point they could gaze down the five paths bordered with arches of cypress trees
under each of which was a potted fruit tree laden with magnificent fruits.
Presently they roamed along them picking pears, apples, peaches, lemons and
cherries.
At the end of one
vista a statue of Pan reflected one last crimson ray while behind it two satyrs
and two bacchantes danced in dim silhouette against the pale green sky.
"What good
spirit has transported us to Arcady?" exclaimed Mademoiselle de Scudéry.
"Any minute now
we'll catch sight of Corydon and Phyllis and their beribboned sheep!"
Just as they spoke, a
fuse began to sputter, lighting first one and then another of the thousand
lanterns hung amid the bushes and in the trees. The shepherds and shepherdesses
they had imagined came into reality, singing and dancing, while forty satyrs
and bacchantes scaled a high rock on which they whirled their thyrses and
clashed their cymbals before descending to surround the company and lead it
toward the theatre.
An open carriage and
sedan chairs were awaiting the King, the Queen and the Princess to bear them
along the linden-bordered avenues.
The theatre where the
evening's comedy was to be acted had been constructed in a large open space
where the Royal Avenue converged with several other paths. Hideous
confusion broke out as the guests of honor and the courtiers fought
for seats that had not been systematically
distributed. The whirling
satyrs and bacchantes added a wild,
saturnalian note to the scene. The door of the King's carriage was opened then
quickly shut again. The Queen's
sedan chair could not get through the mob. Its bearers shouted
in vain: "Make way for Her Majesty
the Queen!" No one budged. For half an hour Marie-Thérèse tried to get
through, but was forced to wait seething with rage. Finally the King himself
came after her.
From the very
beginning of the melee Angélique had withdrawn. Her good sense told her not to
endanger her delicate costume in that hurlyburly, and she extricated herself from the swarming anthill along
with a few others who had also resolved to wait. The play would go on for a
long time. The night was mild and the park of Versailles with its lanterns and
the plashing of its fountains was like a fairyland. She relished being alone.
Glimpsing a marble tempietta half hidden by the shrubbery that twinkled with
tiny lanterns like a story sky, she directed her steps toward it. The scent of
honeysuckle and rambler roses enveloped her as the tumult of the crowd faded
from her ears.
As she looked up, she
thought she must be dreaming. There on the steps of the tempietta a snow-white
phantom was bowing to her, and as it straightened she recognized Philippe.
She had not seen him
since their love-struggle in the barn which Philippe had so wickedly engineered
and which had left her, in spite of herself, with an unpleasant memory. While
the Court returned to the capital, Philippe had remained in the North and then
had led the army to Franche-Comté. Angélique had heard of his movements only by
public report, for naturally Philippe had not taken the trouble to write her.
She sometimes wrote
to him, however—little notes in which she told him about Charles-Henri and the
Court—but she had hoped in vain for any reply from him. Now suddenly there he
was before her very eyes, a shadow of a smile on his lips.
"I greet the
Baroness of the Doleful Garb," he said.
"Philippe,"
she exclaimed, spreading her heavily brocaded skirt, "there are ten
thousand livres worth of diamonds on this dress."
"The one you
used to wear was gray with light blue bows at its bodice and a white
collar."
"Do you really
remember that?"
"Why shouldn't
I?"
He went up the steps
and leaned against one of the marble pillars. She held out her hand to him.
After a moment he kissed it.
"I thought you
were with the army," Angélique said.
"I received a
message from the King urging me to return to the Court to appear at the fête he
wished to give this evening. I was to be one of its ornaments."
There was nothing
fatuous about his last remark, only a recognition of the part he accepted with
punctilious obedience. The King wanted in his suite the most beautiful women
and the most splendid lords. On this day of days he could not have dispensed
with the handsomest noble of his Court. "By all means the
handsomest," thought Angélique as she surveyed his lean, dashing form in
its white, gold-embroidered costume. His sword had a gold pommel, and his soft
white leather shoes had gold heels. It had been many months since she had seen
him.
"Has the King
relieved you of your command?" she asked.
"No, I asked him
not to."
"Why?"
"I like
war."
"Did you get my
letters?"
"Your letters . .
. oh . . . yes, I think so."
Angélique snapped her
fan shut. "Perhaps you never learned to read."
"When I'm with
the army I have other things to do than read billets doux and nonsense
like that."
"Just as
gracious as ever, aren't you?"
"And just as
mettlesome. I'm pleased to see you in such a good humor. As a matter of fact, I
must say I've rather missed your belligerent spirit. A military campaign is
tedious. Two or three sieges, a few skirmishes . . . You would have certainly
found some way to liven things up."
"When are you
going back?"
"The King has
told me he wants me at Court from now on. We shall have plenty of time to
squabble."
"And time enough
for other things too," said Angélique, looking him straight in the eye.
The night was so soft
and their isolation in the little temple of love so complete that she did not
care how bold she was. He had come back to her, had searched her out among the
crowds of courtiers, had not been able to resist his desire to be with her.
Under all his sarcasm lurked the
confession that he had missed her. Wasn't this an indication that they were on
their way to some understanding?
Philippe grasped her
wrists. His lips pushed her bracelets up her arms as he kissed her silken skin.
Then his finger stole beneath the heavy jeweled collar that encased her neck
and spread over her shoulders.
"A well-defended
town," he said. "I have always admired the strategy with which
beautiful women arrange to be both half-exposed and yet unassailable."
"That's the
strategy of jewels, Philippe—a woman's armor. It's what lends charm to our fêtes.
Do you find me beautiful?"
"Too
beautiful," he said enigmatically. "Dangerously beautiful."
"For you?"
"And for others
too. What difference does it make, though? It suits you. You jump with joy at
the very thought of playing with fire. It would be easier to make a plowhorse
out of a thoroughbred than to change the nature of a whore."
"Philippe! Oh,
dear, and you were talking like a real gallant!"
Philippe laughed.
"Ninon de Lenclos always advised me to keep my mouth shut. 'Don't talk,
don't smile, just be handsome and appear and disappear, that's for you,' she
used to say. And whenever I have disregarded her advice, I have got into lots
of trouble."
"Ninon isn't
always right. I like to hear you talk that way."
"Every woman
likes a parrot."
He took her hand and
led her down the marble steps. "The violins are louder. The play must be
over and the doors must be open. It is time for us to join the King and his
suite again."
The walked back along
a path bordered by fruit trees growing in silver jars. Philippe picked a rosy
apple. "Do you want it?" he said.
She took it almost
shyly, smiling as their eyes met. Then they were separated in the bustling
crowd. The audience were discussing the merits of the play and how Molière could make them laugh at the same
time he was clarifying their knowledge of human nature.
The dark tent of the
night sky and the trees formed a perfect setting for the brightly lighted
building to which they came next. It was another dream palace, guarded by
gilded fauns piping on mossy pedestals, and urns of translucent alabaster from
which trickled little waterfalls, the whole encased in a crystal dome of light.
The King stopped for
a moment to admire the sight, then entered the dainty edifice. Its ceiling was
of green boughs bound to a delicate lattice-work studded with gold. Around the
cornice were porcelain vases filled with flowers interspersed with crystal
prisms that flashed rainbows on the ceiling. Garlands of flowers hung from it
on silver cords, and hundreds of dangling lamps illuminated it like a palace in
the Arabian Nights. Between each of the doors two torches flanked a jar that
spilled a satiny sheet of water over stair-stepped scallop shells as it flowed
to one of the fountains. Opposite the entrance an étagère held magnificent
examples of the goldsmith's art—bowls, vases, covered dishes, platters and
ewers for serving the King.
In the center was
Pegasus with outspread wings striking with its hoof the crest of a high rock
and causing the fountain of Hippocrene to spurt forth. Below this symbol of
inspiration were ranged on a lawn of green spun-sugar, trees that bore candied
fruits, a flowery meadow of cakes and bonbons, and lakes of jellies, in the
midst of which Apollo consorted with the Muses. They seemed to be presiding
over the royal table which, festooned with flowers and laden with silver
vessels, encircled the rock of Pegasus.
This was the moment
for the grand supper. The King took his place, and the ladies whom he wished as
companions formed a dazzling chaplet about him, each one's costume rivaling the
others.
With a certain relief
Angélique saw that she had not been designated to sit at the royal table. She
could hardly have expected such an honor. Ever since the Flemish campaign the
King's attitude toward her had been ambiguous; he had shown no displeasure with
her, nor had he been any less affable, but there had
risen a barrier between them to a degree that she sometimes wondered if she
were not being merely tolerated at Court.
With an ironic glance
she identified the elect who enframed the Sun King and thought that but for a
few exceptions it was wholly an assemblage of downright harridans exhausted by
the debauches of their past. Every, one knew that Madame de Bounelle-Bullion,
the wife of a Secretary of State, ran a disorderly house; that the Court
Almanac had assigned Madame de Brissac forever to what was euphemistically
termed "Pleasure Island." Marshal de la Ferte and the Comtesse de
Fiesque were carrying on mincingly as if to cover up the fact that the
shameless Bussy-Rabutin's scandalous History of the Loves of the French had
pilloried them. At a little distance from them the Duchess of Mecklenburg, that
old warrior of the Fronde, whose love affairs and intrigues had caused a
fearful scandal, was ostentatiously stuffing her fat jowls.
Among the exceptions
were the serious Madame de Lafayette and, to a certain extent, the subdued
Duchesse de la Vallière, who had been relegated to the end of the table, where
she nibbled gloomily at the dishes the King's footmen passed her. No one paid
the slightest attention to the fallen favorite. Louis XIV did not even glance
in her direction.
What female face was
in his thoughts as with his usual good appetite he gobbled the delicacies of
the five courses that the nimble waiters of Le Duc, the head chef, passed to
the fifty-six guests at the royal table?
Madame de Montespan
was not among them.
Angélique was told
that she was to sit at Madame de Montausier's table, which was one of those set
up under tents and presided over by the Queen and her Ladies-in-Waiting. There
were forty places set. Angélique sat between Mademoiselle de Scudéry, whom she
knew slightly from having attended her salon, and a woman whom she had to look
at twice before she could believe her eyes.
"Françoise, you
here?"
Madame Scarron beamed
at her. "Yes, my dear Angélique, but I must confess I am as incredulous as
you. I can hardly believe my good luck when I
think what a wretched state I was in just a few months ago. Did you know I was
about to leave for Portugal?"
"No, but I did
hear that Monsieur de Cormeil wanted to marry you."
"Oh, don't talk
to me about that. Because I refused him I lost all my patrons and
friends."
"Isn't he quite
rich? He could have made life easy for you and relieved you of your eternal
worries."
"But he is old
and terribly worn out with debauchery. That's what I told everyone else who
urged me to accept him. They were displeased with me because they thought I had
no right to pick and choose in my situation and that I had not had such an
opportunity since I married Scarron. I told Madame la Maréchale all this just
as emphatically as I could, and as reasonably, but she just blamed me for all
my misfortunes. Ninon was the only one who said I was right, and her approval
almost made up for my other friends' cruelty. They dared to compare that old
man with Scarron, what do you think of that! Oh, my Lord, what a difference! He
didn't have money or leisure, but he surrounded me with all the wittiest, most
brilliant people. Cormeil he would have loathed. Scarron had a love of life and
a generous spirit that all the world envies. No one had so much of it as he. As
for Cormeil, he's neither intelligent, nor lively nor even steadfast. Whenever
he opens his mouth he puts his foot in it. My husband was no lightweight. I
corrected his licentiousness, but he
was neither stupid nor vicious. He was noted for his honesty and sincerity . .
."
She spoke in a
subdued voice but with an intensity she permitted herself only when talking in
confidence. Angélique, who acknowledged the charm of her personality, thought
once more how truly pretty and attractive she was. The simplicity of her attire
was perhaps inappropriate, but her brown velvet dress was in excellent taste
and her double choker of jet and small rubies suited her brown hair and her
warm coloring.
She went on to say
how she had been reduced to such an extremity that she had finally agreed to
accompany as a third lady-in-waiting—practically a chambermaid—the Princesse de Nemours, who was going to
marry the King of Portugal. As she was making her farewell round of visits she
had met Madame de Montespan, to whom she had described her plight, and who was
horrified by it.
"Without
disparaging me you can believe it. Athenais listened to me attentively even
though she was getting dressed. You know we were boarding school friends and
come from the same province as you, Angélique. Since she came to Paris I have
had opportunities to do her a few small favors. Finally she assured me that she
would take it upon herself to speak to the King about the discontinuance of my
pension and my unavailing petitions. I wrote about it once more on her advice,
and ended by saying: 'Two thousand livres is more than enough for my
lonely welfare.' The King received it graciously and, miracle of miracles, my
pension was restored. When I went to Saint-Germain to thank Athenais, I had the
honor of seeing His Majesty, who said to me: 'Madame, I made you wait a long
time, but I have been jealous of your friends. I myself wanted to be the one to
assist you.' Those words wiped out all my long hard years. I began to breathe
easily again, to live. I was free from all those gnawing mean worries. I found
my place again in society which had looked at me so coldly, went out in the
world again, and . . . well, here I am at Versailles."
Angélique assured her
sincerely that she was delighted.
Madame de Montespan
laid her hand on her protégée’s shoulder as she passed behind her.
"Happy?"
"Ah, my dear
Athenais, I shall be grateful to you as long as I live."
The tables were
emptying. The King had just risen with his suite and started down a long garden
path, and the crowd was flowing into the banquet hall from all sides to plunder
the dishes and the baskets of cakes and fruit that were left over.
The walk seemed to
come to a dead end in a wall of light, but this opened up as the parade approached
to reveal another orchestration of cascading water, intricate patterns of
light, silvered tritons and rocky grottoes. They passed through a grassy
corridor arbored with flowers and bordered by laughing satyrs or jets of water,
and came to fountains in which golden dolphins sported under lights that
changed from hue to hue or shone in all colors at once.
This magical
promenade led to the ballroom of porphyry and marble. Silver candelabra hung
from the beams of the ceiling which were decorated with golden suns on a deep
blue background. Garlands of flowers draped the cornice, and between the
columns which supported it were platforms for the musicians, and two grottoes
in which were statues of Orpheus and Arion smiting their lyres.
The King opened the
ball with Madame and the princesses. Then the noble lords and ladies joined in,
displaying their gorgeous costumes in complicated dance figures. The
old-fashioned dances were fast, but the new-style ones were extremely slow,
almost like religious processions, and much more difficult to follow,
consisting as they did of artful steps and studied gestures of hand and arm. A
relentless movement, as precisely detailed and almost as mechanical as a
clock's, involved the dancers like automatons in an interminable round. It
seemed completely calm at first, but little by little the music imbued it with
undisciplined excitement, filling the slow approaches with hot desire,
electrifying the brief handclasps, inspiring passion in the lingering looks
cast on fleeting partners, personalizing the symbolic gestures of love and its
refusal until the corranto became demonic. The Court was wild about these
superficially innocuous rhythms, recognizing under their deceptive mask the
approach of Love which is less the child of flame than of night and silence.
Angélique danced
well, and took pleasure in the intricate figures. Sometimes a hand would clasp
hers meaningfully, but she was too involved in the dance to notice.
Nevertheless she was aware of the two royal hands in which hers rested during
the course of a rondeau. Her eyes met the King's, then dropped quickly.
"Still
angry?" whispered the King.
Angélique pretended
to be baffled. "Angry? At such a fête? What can Your Majesty mean?"
"Can such a fête
sweeten the attitude you have taken toward me, lo these many months?"
"Sire, you
confuse me. If Your Majesty had such feelings about me lo these many months,
why did he not show them?"
"I was afraid
you might throw green peas in my face."
The dance separated them. When he passed
her again she saw his imperious brown eyes searching for an answer.
"The word
'afraid' does not suit Your Majesty."
"The war was
less terrifying than the grim expression on your lovely mouth."
As soon as she could
Angélique left the dance and hid herself in the back row of seats among the
dowagers beating time to the music with their fans. A page came looking for her
there and told her to follow him at the King's request.
Outside the ballroom
the King was waiting for her in a secluded part of the garden path where the
light was dim.
"You are
right," he said jokingly. "Your beauty tonight rekindles my bravery.
The moment has come for us to make up."
"But is it the
right moment? Everyone tonight is eager for your company and in a minute or two
their eyes will start searching for you and they will wonder why you are
absent."
"No, they will
go right on dancing. They will just think I am at the other end of the
ballroom. This is the moment I have longed for to exchange a few words with you
without attracting their attention."
Angélique felt
herself growing stiff as a steel rod. His technique was perfectly plain. Madame
de Montespan and the King had put their heads together again in order to
involve her in the game she had provided for them at her own expense.
"How stubborn
you are," he said, taking her arm gently.
"Haven't I the right to thank you?"
"For what?"
"Colbert has
told me several times what a magnificent job you have done in the duties he
assigned you in regard to certain persons at Court. You have been able to gain
their confidence about matters of credit, to explain them, to put their minds
at ease, and all in such a casual way they do not suspect you. We have no doubt
that certain financial successes of ours are entirely due to you."
"That's
nothing," she said, breaking away from him. "Your Majesty does not
have to acknowledge that. It's all to my own good, and that is quite enough
thanks."
The King gave a
start. The shadows into which he had drawn her were not so deep that she could
not perceive his features. The silence between them became embarrassingly
tense.
"You do have a
grudge against me. Please tell me why."
"How can Your
Majesty be ignorant of the cause. This is not like your usual
perspicacity."
"My perspicacity
often fails me when women are concerned. I can never be sure what they are
thinking or feeling. What man, King or not, could ever be?"
In spite of his light
tone, he seemed uncomfortable. His nervousness increased.
"Let us return
to your guests, Sire, if you please . . ."
"There's no
hurry. I want to get to the bottom of this matter."
"I have decided
to be a shield for you and Madame de Montespan no longer," she burst out.
"Colbert is not paying me for that. I treasure my reputation enough to
want to squander it as I please, not make a gift of it to someone else . . .
even to the King."
"Ah, so that's
it. Madame de Montespan wanted to work you like a marionette and turn the
suspicions of her impossible husband in your direction. Not a bad idea."
"As if Your
Majesty did not know that."
"Do you think I
am gullible or a hypocrite?"
"Do I have to
lie to the King or displease him?"
"So that's the
opinion you have of your sovereign?"
"My sovereign
does not have to act that way toward me. What do you take me for? Do you think
I am some toy you can throw away when you are tired of me? I do not belong to
you."
He grasped her wrists
violently. "You are mistaken. All my ladies belong to me by right."
Both of them were
trembling with anger. They stared at each other for a moment with flashing
eyes.
The King was the
first to recover himself. "Come now, let's not quarrel over nothing. Would
you believe me if I told you I tried to persuade Madame de Montespan not to
choose you as a victim? Why her, I kept saying to her. 'Because,' she would
answer, 'only Madame du Plessis-Bellière can surpass me. I won't have it said
Your Majesty turned from me to someone less glamorous than I.' You see, that's
proof of the high regard she has for you. She thought you were naive enough to
play the game without seeing your stake in it. Or perhaps artful enough to do
it anyway. She was wrong on both counts. But it is not right for me to have to
bear your ill will. Why has this little scheme hurt your feelings so, little
toy? Is it such a great dishonor to be thought the mistress of the King? Don't
you get a certain fame out of it? Flattery? Opportunities?"
His arm gently drew
her close to him and held her there, while he whispered to her, leaning over
her and trying to discern her features in the dim light.
"Did you say
your reputation had been sullied? Not at the Court, it hasn't. On the contrary,
it has acquired a new lustre, I assure you. So, am I to think that you ended up
by letting yourself get caught in a trap? That you believe this farce? Is that
what it is? Were you deceived?"
Angélique did not
answer. She buried her head in the velvet of his doublet, inhaling its scent of
orris root and relishing the soft embrace of his arms that held her to him ever
more tightly. It had been a long time since she had been so tenderly treated. Ah,
how sweet it felt to be rocked like this, petted like a child, even scolded a
little. "How could such a practical little person as you be so taken in by
an illusion?" She shook her head without answering.
"No, I didn't
think so,", the King laughed. "Still, it is funny, isn't it? If I
were to tell you that I have never looked at you without desiring you and that
often the thought has come to me. . ."
Angélique wrenched
herself away. "I would not believe you, Sire. I know Your Majesty's heart
lies elsewhere. Your choice is a good one . . . except for the nuisance of a
jealous husband."
"Rather a
sizable nuisance," said the King wincing.
He took Angélique’s
arm again and led her down a walk of topiary yews. "You can't imagine what
that Montespan has done to annoy me. He will end by hailing me before my own
Parlement. I'm sure Philippe du Plessis would be a more cooperative husband
than that swaggering de Pardaillan. But we haven't come to that yet," he
ended with a sigh.
He released her so as
to look her square in the face. "Let's make up, my little Marquise. Your
King humbly asks your pardon. Won't you melt a little?"
It was easy for her
to imagine the charm of his smile and the light in his eyes. She shivered. His
face bending near hers, his smooth smiling lips, the warmth of his glance,
attracted her irresistibly. Suddenly she took to flight, lifting up her heavy
rustling skirt for speed. But she ran head on into the thick hedge.
Panting, she leaned
against the pedestal of a statue and looked around her. She was in the little
glade of the Girondelle. In the velvet blackness she discerned a silvery jet of
water surrounded by ten smaller jets that fell in snowy arches into the pool of
the fountain. Above, in the blue-black sky, the moon shed its calming light on
this earthly fairyland. Far in the distance she could hear the music of the fête,
but here reigned a silence that was disturbed only by the plashing of the
fountain and the steps of the approaching King grinding the damp gravel of the
path under his heels.
"Little
girl," he murmured, "why did you run away?"
He seized her in his
arms again, forcing her to nestle into the warm hollow of his shoulder, and
leaned his cheek against her hair.
"They tried to
hurt you and you did not deserve it, but I knew how cruel women can be to one
another. It's up to me, your sovereign, to protect you. Forgive me, little
girl."
Angélique felt her
strength ebbing and her senses reeling in a sweet swoon. The King's features
were invisible under the shadow of his great Court hat, a shadow that enveloped both of them, but she could
hear his low, winning voice.
"The creatures
who live together here are frightful, my child. Believe me, I rule them with an
iron rod, for I know what insurrections and what bloody madness they would be
capable of if I did not. There isn't one of them who wouldn't incite a city or
a whole province against me and cause my people woe. That's why I keep them
under my eye here in my Court at Versailles, where they are harmless. I shall
let not one of them escape. Some of them sail so close to shore that they do
themselves great damage in their greedy savagery. You have to have strong,
sharp teeth and claws to survive. But you are not like them, my pretty little
toy."
In a voice so low
that he had to lean his ear to her lips to hear her she asked: "Are you
trying to make me understand that I do not belong at Court?"
"By no means. I
want you there. You are one of its greatest and loveliest ornaments. Your
taste, your charm, your grace captivate me. I have told you all this for your
own good, so that you can escape these birds of prey."
"I haven't come
off very well so far," said Angélique.
The King leaned his
hand gently on her brow to tilt back her head and bring her rose-petal face
into the light of the moon. Under the dark fringe of her lashes Angélique’s
green eyes were like a woodland spring guarding the mystery of its divinity.
Almost fearfully the King pressed his lips to hers. He had not intended to
frighten her, but soon he was only a man greedy with desire, and at his touch
her youthful mouth, at first stubbornly shut, quavered, then opened knowingly.
"Ah . . . she is
experienced," he thought. Intrigued, he looked at her with new eyes.
"I love your lips," he said. "They are like no others—a woman's
and yet a young girl's, cool yet burning."
He went no further,
and when she slowly drew away, he did not hold her. They remained tentatively a
few feet apart. Suddenly a series of explosions rustled the branches of the
trees.
"The fireworks
are beginning. We must not miss them. Let's go back," said the King
reluctantly.
Silently they walked
to the edge of the ballroom. The rumble of the crowd punctuated by the
explosions of the fireworks rolled toward them with a noise like the sea.
Rounding a clump of jasmine they were suddenly drenched in brilliant light.
The King took
Angélique’s hand to push her gently away and look at her. "I haven't congratulated
you yet on your gown. It is beautiful. Only your own beauty surpasses it."
"Thank you, Your
Majesty."
Angélique made a deep
curtsy. The King bowed, and clicking his heels, kissed her hand.
"Now, are we
friends again?"
"Perhaps."
"I shall dare
hope so."
Angélique drew away,
blinded by the strange lights and stunned to see how the palace loomed out of
the darkness in the distance as if surrounded by a ring of fire.
Cries of startled
admiration burst from the spectators. The door framed a fiery image of the
two-faced Janus. The windows of the ground floor blazed with trophies of war,
and images of the Virtues glowed in the second-story ones. At the top of the
roof flamed a huge sun; on the ground level, a balustrade of fire surrounded
the pile.
The King's coach
passed by, drawn by six curvetting horses ridden by torchbearing postillions.
The Queen, Madame, Monsieur, Mademoiselle de Montpensier and the Prince de
Condé were in it. They stopped by the Fountain of Latona which reflected the
palace like a lake of fire in which supernatural beings moved beneath its vault
of interlacing waterspouts.
Phosphorescent vases
helped the ancient candelabra to outline the sweeping horseshoe curve. The King
had his carriage stop so that he might contemplate the wondrous pattern of
light. Behind the vehicles the hastening crowd filled the night with shrieks of
wonder.
The carriages turned
and took the wide road bordered with a double row of
hermae which some strange mechanical process seemed to have rendered
transparent. Suddenly streamers of light flashed between the statues. In the
depths of the park thousands of rockets burst with a noise like thunder. The
fountains flared like craters of volcanoes. As the din increased the crowd grew
panicky. Terrified women ran for refuge into the trees and the grottoes. The
whole park of Versailles seemed aflame. The canals and the lakes crimsoned with
the reflection of the flames.
Mighty rockets
pierced the night sky like bolts of lightning or striped it with ribbons of
fire. Others streaked across it like the tails of comets or wriggled like giant
caterpillars. Finally at the moment when from all points on the horizon the
paths of the rockets made a grand arch, there appeared floating in the air like
dazzling butterflies an "L" and an "M," the initials of the
King and Queen, until the night breezes wafted them slowly away in the ruby
smoke of the vanishing fairyland.
The last rosy lights
of the fête mingled with the dawn tints of the eastern sky. Louis XIV gave the
order to return to Saint-Germain. The weary courtiers followed him on horseback
or in coaches. Everyone vied to see who could best describe this fête as the
grandest since the world began.
chapter 14
IT WAS a fête Angélique would long remember. She had had two romantic
strolls along the dark garden paths, had seen an illumination that still
dazzled her, and might yet be floating on a garden cloud if it were not for an
aftertaste of anxiety that gave a bitter flavor to her otherwise pleasant
memories. Such was her state of mind the morning after that night at
Versailles.
And in her wandering thoughts there gnawed one minor worry which
curiously came to the foreground— the round face of little Cantor, whom Vivonne
wanted as a page.
"That's the
first thing to settle," Angélique said to herself, rousing herself from her daydreaming.
She got up from the
sofa on which she was recovering from the fatigue of the night before. As she
crossed the hall of the H6tel du Plessis, Cantor's voice drifted down to her
from the upper floor:
More luck than I, have you, Marquis,
With a bride as fair as she . . .
She hesitated a
moment before the black oaken door. She had never yet ventured this far. It led
to Philippe's apartments. She withdrew thinking her procedure not too sensible.
The voice of the
eight-year-old singing above of the extramarital affairs of Henri IV made her
laugh. She changed her mind.
La Violette answered
her knock. Philippe was standing before his looking glass adjusting his blue
tunic in preparation for his departure for Saint-Germain, whither Angélique was
to follow him later. She had been invited to
one of the Queen's parties, and supper afterward. The courtiers spent little
time tending to family problems.
Philippe showed no
surprise at finding his wife in his rooms. He courteously invited her to sit
while he finished dressing, and waited until she volunteered the purpose of her
visit.
Angélique watched him
slip on his rings. He was choosing them deliberately, trying them on and
surveying his hands critically. No woman could have taken greater pains. She
thought as she watched him concentrate on so trivial a matter of how his
coldness was really the result of vanity. What could she hope to get from him?
Advice? It seemed laughable.
Finally, to break the
embarrassing silence, she said: "Monsieur de Vivonne has asked me to lend
him Cantor."
Philippe merely
sighed, and took off all the rings from his right hand as the array did not
suit him. He went on poring over the open jewel boxes. Then as if suddenly
remembering she was there, he said in a bored voice: "Oh? Well, my
congratulations on such good news. Vivonne is rising in favor, and his sister
Madame de Montespan can be counted on to keep him up there a long time."
"But Vivonne is
to lead an expedition to the Mediterranean."
"More proof of
the King's confidence in him."
"The boy is
still quite young."
"What boy? Oh, Cantor
. . . why, he seems to want to go with Vivonne. What's so remarkable about
that? Vivonne spoils him, gives him candy whenever they meet. Still no
eight-year-old should decide for himself. I wonder . . ." Philippe raised
his eyebrows in an expression of mock surprise. "Do you want him to have a
career?"
"Yes, but. .
."
"But what?"
She spoke rapidly,
her cheeks on fire. "Vivonne has a bad reputation. He was one of
Monsieur's gang, and everyone knows what that means. I should not like to
entrust my son to a man who might corrupt him."
The Marquis du
Plessis had put on a huge solitaire diamond ring and two smaller ones. He
stepped to the window to see if they sparkled in the sunlight.
"To whom would
you like to entrust him then?" he said slowly. "To that rare bird, a
person of pure morals, not an intriguer or a hypocrite, someone who has
influence with the King and has received many honors from him, who . . . who
just does not exist? Apprenticeship to life is not easy, nor is skill in
pleasing the great."
"He is so
young," Angélique repeated, "I am afraid he will see things that will
spoil his innocence."
Philippe snickered.
"For an ambitious mother, you have a great many scruples. I was barely ten
when Coulmers got me into bed with him. Four years later, when my voice had
hardly changed, Madame du Crécy wanted to sample a little springtime vigor and
offered me —or rather forced me into—the shelter of her bed. She must have been
forty. How do you think this emerald goes with this turquoise?"
Angélique said
nothing. She was terribly frightened. "Philippe! Oh, Philippe!"
"Yes, I guess
you're right. The brilliant green of the emerald dims the blue of the
turquoise. I think another diamond would go better next to the emerald."
He glanced at her and snickered again. "Stop looking so worried. If you
don't like what I said, why did you come to me for advice? Either you don't
know or you are pretending not to know what a young nobleman's education consists
of. Let your children get started on their course of honor."
"I am their
mother. Honors are nothing. I cannot neglect their morals. Didn't your mother
ever think of yours?"
Philippe pouted
scornfully. "That's right, I forget we weren't brought up the same way. If
I remember correctly, you grew up barefoot in an atmosphere of cabbage soup and
ghost stories. In such an environment there probably was such a thing as a
mother. But in Paris and at Court, it wasn't the same for a child."
Returning to his
dressing table, he opened some more jewel
cases. She could not see his face, only a blond head which seemed bowed beneath
an ancient yoke.
"Naked and
shivering with cold," he murmured, "sometimes starving . . . cared
for by footmen or maids who perverted me . . . That was my life here in this
very hotel I was to inherit some day. But when I was to be showed off, then
nothing was too good for me—the richest clothes, the softest velvets, the most
delicate laces. For hours on end the barber would work over my hair. Then when
my part in the pageant was over, back I'd go to the darkness of my little room
and the loneliness of long empty halls. I was bored. No one took the trouble to
teach me to read or write. I thought it was a gift from heaven to be able to
enter Coulmers' service. He liked pretty boys like me."
"Sometimes you
came to Plessis. . ."
"Just for short
stays. I had to appear at Court and revolve about the throne. The only way to
get ahead is to be in evidence. My father, whose only son I was, wouldn't think
of leaving me off in the provinces. He liked to see how quickly I was getting
on. I was very ignorant and had hardly any personality, but I was good
looking."
"That's why you
have never understood what it is to love," Angélique said as if to
herself.
"Oh, but I have.
It seems to me I have had many varied experiences in that field."
"That's not
love, Philippe."
She felt a chill go
through her, saddening her, and filling her with pity, as if she had seen some poor
unfortunate deprived of the very necessities of life. "The death of the
heart is worst of all misfortunes!" Who was it had said that to her with
the cynical melancholy of one who had everything? The Prince de Condé",
one of the greatest lords by virtue of rank, fortune and renown.
"Have you never
ever loved . . . even once . . . or had any special, private feelings for . . .
any woman?"
"Yes . . . My
old nurse, probably. But that was a long time ago."
Angélique did not
even smile. She stared at him seriously, her hands clasped in her lap.
"That
feeling," she murmured, "that can give one a sense of all the grandeur of creation, the
sweetness of all fleeting dreams, the elation and power of living . . ."
"You are very
eloquent. No, I swear I don't think I have ever known such a transport of
feeling. . . But I can see what you mean. Once I held her hand . . but then the
dream fled."
His eyes were half
shut. His sleek face, the suspicion of a smile on his lips, his enigmatic
expression, made him seem like a stone effigy on the tomb of a king. Never had
he seemed so far away from her as now, when perhaps he had never before been so
close to her.
"It was at
Plessis. I was sixteen and my father had just bought me a regiment. We were in
the country to recruit it. At a party I met a girl the same age as I, but in my
jaundiced eyes only a child. She was wearing a gray dress with blue bows on its
bodice. I was ashamed when they told me she was my cousin. But when I took her hand
to dance I felt it tremble in mine, and then I experienced a new and wonderful
sensation. Up until then it was I who had trembled before the imperious desire
of mature women or the teasing flirtatiousness of the young minxes at Court.
This girl baffled me. The look of admiration in her eyes was balm to my soul,
an intoxicating draught. Suddenly I realized I was a man, not some plaything; a
master, not a servant. Then I introduced her jokingly to my friends: 'This is,'
I said, 'the Baroness of the Doleful Garb.' She ran away. I looked at my empty
hand, and was desolate. The same feeling as when I had caught a bird I wanted
to make a pet of, and it flew out of my grasp. The sun went out of the sky. I
wanted to find her again and calm her anger and see her radiant face once
more. But I didn't know
how, because none of the women who had initiated me into the art
of love had ever taught me how to woo a sullen lass. As I searched for her I
picked a fruit to give her. . . It was an apple, I think, as pink and golden as
her cheeks. I looked for her all through the gardens, but I never found her
that evening . . ."
"What would have
happened if we had found each other that evening?" Angélique thought.
"We would have looked at each other shyly . . . he would have offered me the apple, and we would have walked in
the moonlight, holding hands . . ."
Just a blond boy and
a blond girl in the rustling paths of the park where the does of the forest of
Nieul came to feed . . . just a boy and a girl ecstatically happy, happy as
only sixteen-year-olds can be, wanting to swoon to death as they kissed in a
long embrace in the dark . . . Her life might have taken a far different
course.
"And did you
never find that girl again?" she asked aloud with a sigh.
"Yes. Much
later. Just to show how strange the illusions, the first passions, of youth
are, she had become mean and hard and grasping, more dangerous than all the
others . . ."
He stretched out his
hands, the fingers spread. "What do you think of my rings now? Perfect,
eh?"
"Yes, I guess
so. But a single ring on the little finger is more subtle, Philippe."
"You are
right."
He took off the
superfluous rings and put them back into their boxes, then rang for a footman
to go for Cantor.
When the boy appeared
Angélique and Philippe were facing each other silently. Cantor had a way of
walking all his own. He was trying to make his spurs click, for he had just
returned from his riding lesson. That was the only reason he did not have his
guitar with him.
"Well,
sir," Philippe said humorously, "you look as if you were setting out
for war."
The boy's sober face
lit up. "Has Monsieur de Vivonne told you our plans?"
"I see you like
the idea."
"Oh, sir, to fight
the Turks! That would be wonderful!"
"Take it easy.
The Turks aren't lambs you can charm with your songs."
"I don't want to
go with Monsieur de Vivonne just to sing. I want to travel. I've been thinking
about it a long time. I want to go to sea."
A shiver passed
through Angélique, and her hands fidgeted. She saw again her brother Josselin
with his eyes aflame, heard him whisper intensely:
"I'm going to sea, I am."
So at last the time
had come for them to be separated! . . . How one struggles for one's children,
protects and shelters them, works so hard for them in the hope of enjoying
their company, learning to know them . . . And then when that day arrives,
whisk, they're already grown up and gone.
Cantor's eyes were
steady. He knew where he wanted to go.
"Cantor no
longer needs me," she said to herself. "I know him, he's just like
me. Did I ever need my mother? I used to run free all over the countryside,
living life to the full. When I was only twelve I set sail for the Americas
without once looking back . . ."
Philippe laid his
hands on Cantor's head. "Your mother and I are going to decide whether to
let you have this baptism of fire. Few boys your age have the honor of hearing
the cannons roar. You have to be brave."
"I am brave. And
I am not afraid."
"We shall see,
and we will let you know our decision."
The boy bowed before
his stepfather and went out with great dignity, full of his own importance.
The Marquis took from
La Violette's hands a gray velvet hat and flicked a speck of dust from it.
"I shall see
Vivonne," he said, "and ascertain whether his intentions are pure in
regard to the boy. If they are not. . ."
"I would rather
see him dead," Angélique said fiercely.
"Don't talk like
a classical mother. That's not the way of the world we live in. I rather think
Vivonne is an aesthete, as infatuated with our little artist as with a gallant
gesture. Cantor's commission won't cost you a penny. So, figure it out and have
a good time." He kissed her hand. "I must leave you, Madame. The King
requires me, and my horses will have to gallop like wildfire to make up for my
tardiness."
Just as she had done
the night of the fête, when he offered her the apple he had picked in the
King's garden, she searched his pale, impenetrable face.
"Philippe, the
little girl from long ago is always there, you know."
Later, as she rode in
her coach across the sunset-crimsoned countryside on her way to Saint-Germain,
she thought of him again.
She knew now that
what had lowered her in Philippe's eyes was precisely the vast knowledge she
had of men. She knew all their vulnerable points and how to attack them with
sure weapons. She and he could never meet except in the purity of heart they
had known when they were young. They had been destined to meet at sixteen,
still full of insatiable curiosity, the wonder of their innocence still
unsullied, when their young bodies overpowered by strange desires could not
touch without frightening them and shaming them, when so little was enough for
them, such as the touch of a hand, a smile, the bliss of a kiss. Was it too
late for them to rediscover this lost happiness? Philippe had wandered down
evil ways. Angélique had become a woman. But the basic things of life were
still strong enough in her to put forth new leaves, she thought, like the trees
in the spring after their long cold winter's sleep.
And the spark glows.
At the least expected moment the dead fire springs into flame.
Angélique was in the salon of the Hotel du
Plessis, inspecting it before the great reception she was to give for the
leaders of Parisian society. It would have to be magnificent, for it was not
beyond all possibility that the King himself would be present.
Pouting and sighing,
she toured the great room, dark as a well and furnished with the stiff pieces
of Henri IV's time. The two huge dark-surfaced mirrors did little to enliven
it, and no matter what the season it was chilly —so dank, in fact, that the
first thing Angélique had done after moving there from her Hotel de
Beautreillis was to have her heavy Persian rugs spread over the flagstones.
Their soft rose and white colors only accentuated the austerity of the oaken
furniture.
She was still
inspecting it when Philippe entered to look
for his decorations, which he kept in one of the many drawers of the writing
desk.
"I'm worried,
Philippe," she said. "It depresses me to have to receive my guests
here. I have nothing against your ancestors, but it would be hard to find a
more old-fashioned house than yours."
"Are you
complaining about your rooms?"
"No, they are
delightful."
"It cost me
plenty to have them redecorated," he said jokingly. "I had to sell my
horses to pay for it."
"Did you do it
for me?"
"Whom did you
want me to do it for?" he mumbled, slamming a drawer shut. "I married
you, against my will, it is true, but I did marry you. They said you were fussy
and difficult. I didn't want to have to suffer the scorn of a rich
businesswoman."
"Did you think
of having me live here right after we were married?"
"It's the usual
thing, isn't it?"
"Then why did
you never invite me here?"
Philippe came over to
her, his face a mixture of emotions, but Angélique thought she saw him blush.
"I thought
things had begun so badly between us that an invitation from me would only
bring a refusal from you."
"What do you
mean?"
"You must have
thought of me with loathing after what happened at Plessis. . . I have never
been afraid of any foe, the King is my witness, but I would rather have faced
the fire of a hundred Spanish cannon than you when I woke up that morning after
. . . Ah, it was all your fault. . . I had drunk too much, and you ought to
have known better than to irritate a drunken man the way you did. . . . You
have to handle them carefully . . . You drove me wild. You were eating,"
he shouted, shaking her, "eating like a glutton that night, when you
knew I was ready to strangle you!"
"But
Philippe," she said astonished, "I swear I was scared to death. I
can't help it if I get hungry when I'm upset. . . So you were attracted by me
then?"
"How could any
man not be?" he shouted furiously.
"There's no
length to which you wouldn't go to attract attention to yourself. You show up
before the King without being invited . . . you get yourself attacked by wolves
. . . you have children . . . love them . . . what else? You're not short on
imagination. Good lord, when I saw your horse come back with empty stirrups
that day at Fontainebleau . . . !"
He moved swiftly
behind her and forced her shoulders back till she thought he would break them.
He questioned her close to her face: "Were you in love with Lauzun?"
"No. Why?"
She blushed as she remembered the incident. "Are you still brooding about
that, Philippe? I swear I was not, and I can't imagine Péguilin making anything
of it. I was so angry at myself I wondered how such a silly thing could ever
have occurred. It was just one of those things that happen at a party—too much
to drink, too much irresponsible talk, a little resentment. You were so
hardhearted, so indifferent. You acted as if the only use you had for me as a
wife was to hurt me and threaten me. I had made myself beautiful for nothing. .
. I'm only a woman, Philippe!
"Being scorned
is the only thing a woman cannot stand. It gnaws at her heart, destroys her
whole being. She longs for tenderness. I was at the mercy of anyone who could
be sweet like Péguilin. All he told me about how lovely my eyes were, or my
skin, was like finding a spring of cool water in a desert. Besides, I wanted
revenge."
"Revenge? Oh,
but, Madame, you're reversing our roles. It was I who should have taken revenge
on you. Didn't you begin by forcing me to marry you?"
"But I have
asked your forgiveness."
"That's just
like a woman! As soon as they ask to be forgiven they think everything has been
forgotten. It didn't matter that I had for good and all become your husband
under a threat. Do you think you could wipe out such an injury merely by asking
my forgiveness?"
"What more could
I do?"
"Pay for
it!" he shouted, raising his hand as if to strike her.
But she caught the
playful glint in his blue eyes, and smiled. "It would be a welcome
penalty," she said, "a lot different from the rack or hot needles
under my fingernails."
"Don't tease me.
I did threaten you, I admit, but I was wrong. I already feel that with the
inconceivable magic of your sex you are hypnotizing me the way a poacher does a
silly rabbit."
She laughed and
leaned her head back against Philippe's shoulder. He had only to move a trifle
to press his lips against her forehead or on her eyelids, but he did not. Still
his hands tightened on her waist and his breath came faster.
"My indifference
is hard for you to bear, is it? I rather had the notion that our meetings were
distasteful to you, if not downright hateful."
Angélique laughed
again. "Oh, Philippe, with just one ounce of sweetness on your part, our
meetings would have been enchanting for me. I had kept such a lovely dream in
the bottom of my heart of the day when you took me by the hand and introduced
me as 'The Baroness of the Doleful Garb.' I was in love with you already
then."
"It is the duty
of life . . . and of my whip . . . to shatter dreams."
"Life can build
them again. And you can lay your whip aside. I have never renounced my dream.
Even when we were separated, in my secret heart I . . ."
"Were you
waiting for me?"
Angélique’s closed
eyelids were lavender shadows on her cheeks. "I was always waiting for
you."
She felt Philippe's
hands grow tense and febrile as they stroked her breast. He growled a low oath,
and she began to laugh again. Suddenly he leaned down and kissed her pulsing
throat.
"You are so
beautiful, so completely a woman!" he murmured. "And I am nothing but
a clumsy old soldier."
"Philippe!"
She looked at him in surprise. "How absurd can you be? Wicked, cruel,
brutal, yes, but never clumsy. No, I won't admit it because I never thought of you that way. Unfortunately you have never
given me the chance to see how gentle a lover you can be."
"Other women
have blamed me for that too. Perhaps I fool them. For them to believe it, a man
with the physical perfection of Apollo should be capable of . . . superhuman
performance."
Angélique laughed
louder, drunk with the madness that was swooping down upon them like a hunting
hawk from the sky. A few seconds ago they had been arguing, now Philippe's
fingers were fumbling with the hooks of her bodice.
"Gently,
Philippe, for heaven's sake. You'll tear it, and it cost me two thousand écus
to have it embroidered with pearls. Anyone would think you had never
learned how to undress a woman."
"Foolish
precaution, when all you have to do is lift her skirt to . . ."
She laid her finger
against his lips. "Don't be vulgar, Philippe. You know nothing about love
and you know nothing about bliss."
"Then show me.
Teach me what women like you do when they are waiting for a lover as handsome
as a god." There was bitterness in his voice. She threw her arms around
his neck in sheer abandon, hung there with legs too weak to support her. Gently
he lowered her to the deep pile of the warm rug.
"Philippe,
Philippe," she murmured, "do you think this is quite the time and
place for such a lesson?"
"Why not?"
"On the
rug?"
"Yes, on the
rug. Soldier I am, soldier I stay. If I can't take my own wife in my own house,
then I have no interest whatever in love-making."
"But what if
someone should come in?"
"What difference
would it make? It's now that I want you. I can feel how hot you are, how ready.
Your eyes are shining like stars, your lips are moist . . ." He stared
fixedly at her cheeks flushed with exhilaration. "Now, my little cousin,
we shall play together and have more fun than when we were young . . ."
Angelique gave a moan of surrender and stretched out her arms. She was in no condition to
resist or escape the onslaught of passion. She welcomed it instead.
"Don't be in
such a hurry, lover," she whispered. "Give me time to find my
heaven."
He grasped her
passionately, found her, penetrated her with a new curiosity that for the first
time made him conscious that she was a woman. Her eyes slowly closed as she
yielded to her dream of love. She forgot to stiffen and there no longer lurked
in the corner of her mouth that defiance he had seen there so often. Her lips
parted as her breathing grew rapid. No longer was she his enemy; he gained
confidence from her cooperation. Tenderly he explored her, and with the thrill
of discovery he realized she was leading him to even more ravishingly
mysterious prospects. A hope was born and grew in him as her voluptuousness
increased. The moment was approaching for their transcendent transfiguration,
for him to pluck the taut string of her tantalizing womanhood and make it sound
with the glorious music so long denied him. He must be patient, so delicately
exquisite a thing it was to do. Every inch of his virile mastery was aroused as
he advanced toward a goal which did not retreat from him. He thought of how she
had humiliated him and that he had never hated anyone more, but when he looked
at her his heart burst with a strange
imprisoned emotion that
fought for release. Where now was the proud young woman
who had once defied him?
All at once he sensed
her withdrawing from him like a frightened wounded thing, with helpless little
gestures that seemed to ask his mercy.
First quivering and
then steeped in languor, rolling their heads from side to side gently and
rhythmically as they lolled on the pillow of her unbound hair, they separated
slowly from each other, reaching that dim floating region where two beings mold
into one.
As a long shudder
shook her he knew that the moment was approaching when he would be her master.
Each passing second exhilarated him more, instilling in him a sense of victory
he had never known before, a conquering force that sprang forth sure of
attaining its reward.
He was the victor in
a well-matched tournament, whose prize had many times before eluded him but
which he now had won by valor and vigilance. No longer would he have to rule
her. She was bent within his grasp like a powerful bow.
As she yielded to him
he felt the secret response of her flesh that he had awakened, and reveled in
its delights. Then he succumbed to her. He knew it was this he had lacked all
his life—his joy in her, the acknowledgment that the greed of his body could be
satisfied, satiated at last, while she returned to life with great passionate
sighs.
"Philippe!"
He leaned on her
bosom, hiding his face from her. Reality returned with the severe furnishings
of the Plessis salon as Angélique awoke from her trance. Her moment of abandon
had been all to short. She did not dare believe her own transports or the
intoxication which was leaving her trembling and on the verge of tears. "Philippe!"
She did not dare tell
him how much she appreciated the care he had taken with her. Had she deceived
him? "Philippe!"
He raised his head.
His face was still a puzzle, but Angélique was not mistaken. A soft smile
spread over his lips. She put a finger on his mustache where tiny pearls of
sweat had broken out. "My big cousin . . ."
Naturally what was
bound to happen did happen. Someone came in—a lackey announcing two visitors—
Louvois and his father, the terrible old Michel de Tellier.
The old man dropped his quizzing glass. Louvois turned
crimson. Both reatreated in confusion.
The next day Louvois
had to tell the whole Court. "In broad daylight! With her husband!"
How could the wooers
and admirers of the beautiful Marquise endure such an insult? A husband! A
rival right in her home! Love in one's own household!
In high indignation
Madame de Choisy repeated the entire length of the Hall of Versailles: "In
broad daylight . . . in broad daylight!"
They laughed about it
at the rising of the King.
"The King did
not laugh so hard as expected," remarked Péguilin.
He was not the only
one to guess the sovereign's secret annoyance.
"He is quite
touchy about anything connected with you," Madame de Sévigné" told
Angélique. "He would like you to make up with your difficult husband, but
not necessarily exaggerated your devotion to him. Monsieur du Plessis is too
eager to please his sovereign. Perhaps he will pay with a loss of favor for not
having understood that certain orders do not require so complete an
obedience."
"Be careful of
the Brotherhood of the Holy Sacrament, my dear," said Athenais with a sly
smile. "That's the sort of thing they don't like."
Angélique defended
herself, her cheeks on fire. "I don't see what the Brotherhood of the Holy
Sacrament can find to blame me for. If I can't receive my husband's attentions
under his own roof. . ."
Athenais tittered
behind her fan. "In broad daylight . . . and on the rug! That's the height
of depravity, my dear. You could be forgiven only if it was with a lover."
Philippe was equally
indifferent to the jokes and sarcasm, possibly ignoring both as he passed
haughtily by. If the King was cool to him, he did not seem to notice it. In the
excitement of the last great fêtes the King gave before the summer campaigns
Angélique could not meet him herself.
One thing was
strange. Philippe had become cold to her again, and when she spoke to him by
chance during a dance figure he answered rudely. She concluded that sweet
moment of bliss which she treasured in her memory like a full-blown rose had
been only a dream. The fingers of the world were tearing off its petals, and
Philippe was just like them, crude and destructive. She did not know he was the
victim of complex and uncustomary emotions composed of his own pride and the
panic Angélique inspired in him.
He did not know how
to master her except through hatred. If he lost this weapon, he would fall
under her spell. He had sworn never to let himself become a slave to a woman,
and yet here he was lovesick as a boy whenever he recalled her little ways of
smiling or looking at him. His former fears returned to haunt him. Confused by
a life in which he had known more disappointments then rewards, he doubted he
could have tasted so completely harmonious a physical union with one of those
accursed beings that all women were to him. How could he admit that this was
what they called love? Wasn't it only a mirage? The fear of being deceived again
tortured him. He would die of such vexation, he thought, and of regret as well.
Cynicism was better, and rape!
Angélique had never
imagined such torments could exist behind his impassive exterior. She suffered
from his cruel change of attitude. The magnificent fêtes could not distract
her. The King's attentions irritated her, and when he feasted his eyes on her,
she felt sick. Why did Philippe so neglect her?
One afternoon when
the whole Court was watching a play of Molière’s in the outdoor theatre, she
was overcome by a tremendous melancholy. It seemed to her that she was once
again that poor, wild little girl who had fled from the mocking pages into the
night at the castle of Plessis, her heart heavy with longing and spurned
affection. "I hate them all," she thought.
Quietly she left the
palace and had her coach summoned. Later she was to recall this impulse that
dragged her away from Versailles and to regard it as a presentiment. For when
she arrived that evening at the h6tel in the Faubourg Saint-Antoine, there was
great excitement. La Violette told her that her husband had been recalled to
the front and would have to leave at daybreak for Franche-Comté.
Philippe was eating
supper alone before two silver candlesticks in the dark-paneled dining room.
When he saw Angélique in her pink taffeta cloak, he knit his brows.
"What are you
doing here?"
"Haven't I a
right to come home when I want?"
"Your presence
was requested at Versailles for several days."
"Suddenly I
thought I was going to die of boredom there. I just slipped away from all those
unbearable people."
"I hope you gave
a good reason for leaving. Otherwise you will risk the King's displeasure. Who
told you I was leaving?"
"No one, I
assure you. I was greatly surprised to see all these preparations. So, you were
going to leave without saying goodbye to me?"
"The King asked
me not to talk about my departure, especially to you. He knows no woman can
keep a secret."
"The King is jealous,"
Angélique almost shouted. Philippe would see nothing in it, and would not
understand, or at least he would pretend he did not.
Angélique sat down at
the opposite end of the table and slowly removed her pearl-embroidered gloves.
"That's strange. The summer campaign has not begun yet. The troops are
still in winter quarters. I don't recall at the moment anyone else the King is
getting rid of under the pretext of sending him off to war. Your orders seem
very much like banishment, Philippe."
He looked at her so
long without speaking that she wondered whether he had heard her. "The
King is our master," he said finally. He got up stiffly. "It is late,
and I must get to bed. Take good care of yourself while I am away. I bid you adieu."
Angélique raised her
startled eyes to him. "Is that all you are going to say?"
He did not seem to
understand the imploring look she gave him. Bending he kissed her hand, and
that was all.
Alone in her room his
little cousin began to cry. All the tears she had restrained since her
childhood poured forth in a torrent, tears of despair and discouragement.
"I shall never
know him, never understand him."
He was going off to
war. Would she ever see him again? Oh yes, he would come back, that was not
what she feared, but the hour of grace would be gone.
The moon flooded the room through the windows that opened on the
garden, and she could hear the song of a nightingale. Angélique bathed her
tearful face. She reminded herself how she loved the old silent house because
it was there she had lived with Philippe. It was a strange intimacy, theirs,
resembling a game of hide and seek. But there had also been those fleeting
moments, as if stolen from the greedy world, when Philippe had sat by her as she
nursed little Charles-Henri . . . conversations when they had laughed together
as they watched him . . . the morning Philippe kept trying on rings as he
listened to Cantor . . . that day such a short time ago when they had yielded
to the passion of their bodies and had been seized with an ardor that came
close to love.
She could stand it no longer. Quickly she wrapped her filmy white
negligee about her, and ran barefoot to Philippe's room.
She entered without
knocking. He was sprawled naked across the bed, and through the heavy lace of
the bed-curtains she beheld his powerful chest smooth and pale as marble in the
moonlight. His face looked different in sleep. The short curly hair he hid
under his wig, his long lashes, his relaxed mouth, bestowed on him the serene
innocence of an archaic Greek statue. His head lolling on one shoulder, his
outstretched arms, made him seem defenseless.
Standing at the foot
of the bed, Angélique held her breath. His beauty touched her heart as she
perceived details she had never seen before—a child's chain with a crucifix
hanging around the neck of this gladiator, a mole on his left breast, scars
that attested to battles and duels. She pressed her hand over her heart to
still its beating. He made a slight movement. Slipping off her negligee, she
crawled close to him. How warm his body was. The touch of his skin intoxicated
her. She kissed his lips, moved his head until it lay heavy on her breast. He
stirred, and half-waking, recognized her.
"So beautiful. .
." he murmured as his mouth searched her breast like a hungry infant's.
Then he was wide awake, rage in his eye.
"You? You here!
What insolence! What . . ."
"I came to say
goodbye, Philippe, in my way."
"A woman waits
for her husband's pleasure, not imposes her wishes on him. Stop it!"
He pulled back his
hand to shove her off the bed, but she grabbed hold of it, beseeching him:
"Philippe! Philippe, hold me close. Keep me near you tonight."
"No!"
He freed his arm, but
she grabbed it again. She could sense that in spite of all his efforts he was
not unmoved by her presence.
"Philippe, I
love you. Hold me in your arms."
"What in the
world do you want now?"
"You know."
"Have you no
shame? Haven't you enough lovers to satisfy you?"
"No, Philippe, I
have no lovers at all. Only you. And you will be away for months and
months."
"So that's what
you're after, you little whore? You have no more dignity than a bitch in
heat."
He continued to rail at her, calling her all the foul names he
could think of, but he did not repulse her. She crept even closer to him. His
insults seemed to her the tenderest declarations of love. At last he sighed
deeply and grasped her hair to lift back her face. She smiled as he gazed on
her. She had lost all fear. She had never known fear, that was what had won
him. Then with one last oath, he clasped her to him.
There was a tense
silence which for Philippe concealed his fear of impotence. But Angélique’s
passion, the uninhibited joy she felt at being in his arms, her skillful
lovemaking as she became the slave of the pleasure she partook of, overcame his
doubts. The spark glowed, burst into flame. At the groan that betrayed the
violence of his pleasure, Angélique knew she had overcome his reticence.
He would not admit
it. The time of their quarrels was still too recent. He still would lie to her.
He wanted her to feel no assurance.
"Go away,"
he said brutally as she lay beside him twisting his curls in her fingers.
This time she obeyed
with such sweet docility that he did not know whether to strike her or embrace
her passionately. He gritted his teeth, struggling between his regret at seeing
her go and his desire to keep her even till dawn, snuggled in the hollow of his
shoulders, in the warm darkness of his body like a little cuddly pet animal. A
dangerous weakness! Pure madness! Happily the wind of battle and the whistling
of the bullets would soon put an end to all this.
Shortly after the
departure of the Marshal du Plessis-Bellière Cantor's turn to join the army
came. At the last minute Angélique wanted to renege. She felt dreadfully sad
and beset by all kinds of presentiments. She had begun to write often to
Philippe in Franche-Comté, but he never answered her letters. Much as she
fought against it, this silence on his part depressed her. When would Philippe
ever admit he loved her? Perhaps never. Perhaps it was impossible for him to
love, or to perceive that he was loved. He was no thinker, he was a warrior.
Unconsciously believing he still hated her, he was trying to prove that he did.
But he could not extinguish the spark that had been kindled between them, or
obliterate his participation in the voluptuous pleasure that had drawn them
together again. Nothing, not even the hypocritical fanatics, nor the scoffing
libertines, nor the King nor Philippe himself could do anything about that.
Angélique tried to
busy herself with getting Cantor ready to leave. She was seldom idle. And then
Cantor went off too.
Angélique flung
herself into all kinds of entertainments and scarcely had time to brood over
her feelings that misty morning on which her little boy, in a veritable fever
of anticipation, leaped into Vivonne's coach with his tutor Gaspard de Racan.
He was dressed in a suit of green silk that matched his eyes, trimmed with
plenty of lace and satin bows. A big black velvet hat trimmed with white plumes confined his curly locks.
His beribboned guitar kept getting in his way,
for he hugged it to him the way children do their favorite toy. It was
Angélique’s parting gift to him, made of imported wood and inlaid with
mother-of-pearl, and designed especially for him by the finest instrument-maker
in Paris.
Barbe kept weeping in
the shadow of the porte-cochere, but Angélique refused to betray her own
emotions. Such was life! Children go off on their own, as everyone knows, but
every step they take tears at the tender living bonds that bind them to their
mother's heart.
With increasing
interest she kept up with the dispatches from the Mediterranean. In their
objective of aiding the Venetians against the Turks, who were trying to win
this last bastion of Christianity in the Mediterranean, the French galleys were
bent on a sacred mission, and the Due de Vivonne and his troops deserved the
name of crusaders. Angélique smiled to herself at the thought of Cantor as a
tiny cog in the mechanism of this holy expedition. She imagined him sitting in
the prow of his ship, the ribbons of his guitar waving in the breeze under a
cloudless sky.
During her few
moments of leisure in Paris she made an effort to get closer to Florimond. She
feared he might miss Cantor, or be jealous of his younger brother's opportunity
to rise so rapidly and savor the glory of battle. But she quickly observed that
although Florimond was quite polite about staying with her alone, he had a
terrible time sitting still for more than ten minutes at a time. He had a
thousand and one things on his mind-exercise his horse, feed his falcon, tend
to his dog, polish his sword, get ready for a riding lesson or accompany the
Dauphin on a hunt. He was not restless only when his Latin lesson with the Abbé
de Lesdiguières was due.
"My mother and I
are talking," he told his tutor then, and the abbé did not dare press the
matter.
Most of the time they
talked principally about Master Florimond's skill as a swordsman. Sensitive and
delicate as he appeared, the boy had all the love of violence of children his
age. He lived to wound and conquer and kill in defense of his honor. He was
never happier than
with a sword in his hand or
at target practice. The Dauphin was too much of a hothouse plant to interest
him.
"I try to liven
him up," he sighed, "but it's no use. Between us, Mother, and don't
let it go any further, he gives me a pain in the neck."
"I know,
Florimond, I know," Angélique admitted laughing. But his precocious
knowledge of human nature disturbed her nonetheless.
She knew too that the
Dauphin would have followed Florimond to the ends of the earth, so captivated
was he by his fiery black eyes and his soldierly vitality. Florimond was indeed
charming, attractive to everyone and successful in everything he undertook. She
suspected he was very conceited, as doubtless all children are. But she could
see that he too was drifting away from her, and this made her sad.
He pirouetted with
his naked sword. "Look, Mother, look at me. I parry, I feint, and then
strike home. Right in the heart. My enemy has fallen . . . dead!"
How handsome he was!
Joy of living had kindled a flame in him. Would he still come crying to her if
he were in trouble or hurt? How quickly a child's heart matures and hardens in
the bright sunlight of the Court.
The news of the
battle off Cape Passaro arrived in the middle of June during the last fête the
King would give before leaving to lead his campaign into Lorraine. Vivonne's
galleys had been attacked off the coast of Sicily by a Turkish fleet under the
command of a renegade Algerian, nicknamed Resquater, whose exploits in the
Mediterranean were celebrated. Vivonne had had to take refuge in a bay
protected by Cape Passaro. Here he had given battle, but it was little more
than a skirmish. Only two of his twenty galleys had been sunk.
It was known,
however, that there were a great many of his household on one of these, and
that Vivonne had been forced to see go to the bottom his three secretaries, ten
of his kitchen help, four of his footmen, all twenty of his choirboys, his
confessor, his steward, his squire, and along with them his little
guitar-playing page.
chapter 15
HARDLY anyone offered condolences to Madame du
Plessis-Bellière, for the son she had lost at Passaro was still only a child.
What could one child matter?
The summer's lull put
a temporary end to the Court entertainments and allowed her to be alone in
Paris with her grief. She could not believe the dreadful news was true, so
unthinkable was it to her. Angélique absolutely refused to accept the horrible
fact.
Barbe kept bewailing
her loss night and day until Angélique, out of concern for the old nurse's
health, ended by scolding her.
"Of course,
Madame, of course," she murmured between sobs, "but Madame cannot
understand. Madame never loved him as I did."
Dejectedly Angélique
left her alone and returned to her own room, where she sat by the open window.
It was getting on toward autumn, and it had drizzled all day long. The wet
street reflected the evening sky. Angélique covered her face with her hands.
Her heart was heavy, so heavy she knew nothing would ever lighten its burden
again. How seldom had she taken the time to hold little Cantor on her knees and
kiss his apple cheeks!
His looks were still
a mystery to her. Because he looked like her, and like her young Sanc6 brothers
whom she watched grow up, she never quite realized that Joffrey had been his
father. But the lively, adventurous, irrepressible spirit of that great Count
of Toulouse had been inherited by the lad. Once more she could see him going
off to war in his big hat, serious and yet delirious with joy. Or she saw him
singing for the Queen, heard his seraphic voice:
Farewell, my life; farewell, my love;
Farewell, my hope of things above . .
The sluggish clopping of a horse's hooves below on the
cobblestones of the courtyard brought her out of her memories. Unconsciously
she looked out. For a moment she thought the horseman she saw mounting the
steps was Philippe. But Philippe was with the army at the front in
Franche-Comté, where the King had just gone.
A second rider
followed him across the courtyard and under the portico of the hotel. This time
she made no mistake. It was La Violette. She recognized his giant figure, even
though his head was bent against the rain. So it was Philippe who had just
arrived. She heard his step in the hall, and before she had time to recover
completely from her sorrowful thoughts he was with her, covered with mud up to
his waist and for once looking bedraggled, with water draining off his hat and
dripping from his coat.
"Philippe,"
she said, rising to greet him, "you're soaking wet."
"It's been
raining since morning and I've ridden without stopping."
She tugged at a bell
cord.
"I'm going to
order you a hot supper. Perhaps we should have a fire built. Why didn't you let
me know you were coming, Philippe? Your rooms are being done over. I never
thought you'd be back before fall, and I thought . . . that this would be a
good time for . . . some redecorating."
He listened as if he
did not hear her, his legs spread apart as she had seen him stand so often.
"I heard your
son was dead," he said at last. "I did not get the news till last
week."
In the silence that
followed his remark, the daylight suddenly failed altogether as clouds blotted
out what was left of the sun.
"He dreamed of
going to sea," Philippe continued, "and he seized the chance to make
his dream come true. I know the
Mediterranean, blue and edged with gold like the King's own standard. It will
be a fitting shroud for the little songster . . ."
Angélique began to
weep, her tears blurring Philippe's image. He laid his hand on her hair.
"You hoped he
would not be corrupted. Death has spared him the tears of shame that children
taken unaware drop into their pillows. To each his fate. His was naught but joy
and song. He had a mother who loved him."
"I never spent
enough time with him," she said, wiping her eyes.
"But you did
love him," he said. "You fought for him. You gave him what he needed
to make him happy—the security of your love."
Angélique listened to
him in a perplexity which gave way to total stupefaction.
"Philippe,"
she exclaimed at length, "you can't make me believe that you left the army
and rode eighty leagues over rain-soaked roads just . . . to bring me these
words of comfort!"
"It wouldn't
have been the first foolish thing you've made me do," he said. "But I
did not come for that alone. I wanted to bring you a present."
He drew from his
pocket a kind of case made of old, shriveled leather, and opening it, extracted
an unusual necklace consisting of a green gold chain from which hung three
disks of red gold mounted with two cabochon rubies and a huge emerald. It was a
magnificent ornament but so barbaric in workmanship that it seemed designed for
some mighty Druid priestess.
"This is the
great jewel of the Bellière women, made to be worn crosswise on their breasts.
For centuries it has given them courage. It is worthy of a mother who has given
her son for her country."
He stepped behind her
to hang it about her neck.
"Philippe,"
Angélique gasped, "what does this mean? Do you remember the bet we made
one day on the steps at Versailles?"
"I do remember,
Madame. You have won."
He parted her blond
curls and planted a long kiss on the nape of her neck. Angélique did not stir.
He had to turn her around to see her face. She was weeping.
"Cry no
more," he said, clasping her to him. "I have come to dry your tears,
not to make you shed more. I could never bear to see you cry. Damn it, you are
a great woman!"
"Mad with love,
mad," Angélique kept repeating to herself. "That's what his giving me
the necklace means."
So he did love her.
He had even confessed it with a subtlety that soothed her troubled heart. She
took his face in her hands and looked at him tenderly.
"How could I
have known the behavior that terrified me so could ever conceal such beauty.
You have the soul of a poet, Philippe."
"I am what I am,
no more," he mumbled with humor. "One thing I know, though, and that
is it disturbs me to see you in the necklace of the Plessis-Bellière women.
None of my ancestors could wear it without soon planning battles and civil war.
With those rubies on her breast, my mother raised the armies of Poitou on the
side of the Prince de Condé. You remember that as well as I. What will you
conjure up, now it's your turn? As if you needed any pluck!"
He pressed her to him
again, rubbing his cheek against hers.
"There are your
green eyes staring at me as always," he murmured. "I can torment you,
beat you, threaten you, but you'll still carry your head high again like a
flower after a storm. I can leave you crushed and humbled only to see you rise
more beautiful and proud than ever. It has driven me crazy, but in the long run
it has made me . . . trust you. I can't get over my astonishment at finding
such constancy in a woman. I used to weigh the odds. Will she be true to me, I
wondered. The day of the royal hunt, when I saw you meet the King's anger with
a smile, I knew I could never win. At heart I was proud then that you were my
wife."
He pecked at her with
his lips as if he were bashful. Unaccustomed as he was to shows of tenderness,
he had scorned such demonstrativeness until now when he felt the need of it. He hesitated to find her
mouth. It was she who sought out his.
To her the lips of
this man of war had the freshness of innocence about them. How strange that
after the stormy life each of them had led, so spotted by the world, they could
now at last exchange the pure, sweet kisses they had been cheated of that night
in the gardens of Plessis when they were young.
"I must go
back," he said suddenly with his usual brusqueness. "I've spent
enough time on affairs of the heart. May I see my son?"
Angélique sent for
the nurse. She came holding little Charles-Henri in her arms, swathed in white
velvet like a falcon on a huntsman's wrist. With his yellow hair creeping out
from under his pearled cap and his pink cheeks and big blue eyes, he was a
gorgeous child.
Philippe took him in
his arms and tossed him up in the air and dandled him, but he could not get the
baby to smile.
"I've never seen
such a serious child," Angélique said. "He almost frightens people.
But it doesn't stop him from getting into all kinds of mischief now he's
learning to walk. He has learned how to turn the spinning wheel and get the
wool into a frightful tangle."
Philippe held out the
child to her. "I leave him with you, entrust him to you. Take good care of
him."
"He is the child
you gave me, Philippe. He is very dear to me."
Still holding her
baby in her arms, she leaned out the window to watch Philippe mount his horse
and gallop out of the dark courtyard. By coming home to her, Philippe had
turned her bitter brief into living joy, even though he was the last from whom
she expected solace. But life is full of surprises. How would she ever have
imagined that this ungovernable soldier who could put whole cities to fire and
sword would ride four days through the rain because he heard in his heart the
echo of her sobs!
A few days later
Angélique returned to her hotel to find
Monsieur de Saint-Aignan just arrived from Franche-Comté with a letter for her from the King.
"From the
King?"
"Yes,
Madame."
Angélique withdrew to
read it in private.
"Madame,"
the King wrote, "our sympathy with you on the loss of your son who,
however young, died in our service. This sad event leads us to take an even
greater interest in the future of your older boy, Florimond de Morens-Bellière.
Consequently we have decided to raise him to a more significant level and
attach him to our household as cup-bearer under the supervision of Monsieur
Duchesne, the First Gentleman of the Wine Service. We hope to see him assume
without delay his new duties while we are with the army, and we especially wish
to have you accompany him on his trip to join us. —Louis."
Angélique bit her lip as she stared at the
imperious handwriting of the royal signature, wondering what to do. Florimond
as cupbearer to the King! The heirs of the greatest families of France fought
for such a post, which cost them plenty. It was an unprecedented honor for
insignificant little Florimond. There was no question of her refusing it, but
Angélique did hesitate about going with him. She hesitated for two days. Then
she realized it would be absurd for her to refuse such an invitation, which would
give her a chance to see Philippe again and distract her from her melancholy.
She went to
Saint-Germain to get Florimond. Madame de Montespan did not receive her, being
still in bed as a result of the shock to her nerves which the Marquis de Montespan's
jealous rage had caused her. The whole Court was laughing about that incident.
The few witnesses to it were not stingy with the details, and much as they
might have wished to forget it all, they were prevented by the Marquise's
parrot, which kept screaming at the top of its lungs, "Cuckold!
Cuckhold!"—as Pardaillan had termed himself.
No one could fail to
distinguish these words, even though they sounded very much like the bird's
natural squawks. And they could also clearly distinguish, "Syphilis, you wh—!" The Marquis
de Montespan had threatened to infect his wife with the disease.
Even the servants
couldn't restrain their laughter in public.
Madame de Montespan
bravely carried her head high and pretended to laugh at the parrot to cover up
her embarrassment. But when she saw Angélique, she burst into tears as she
asked what had become of her husband.
Angélique told her
that the Grande Mademoiselle had undertaken to calm him down and that for the
time being he had promised not to make any more scenes.
Athenais dried her
tears. "If you only knew how I suffer when I see him and that parrot
catering to these guttersnipes! I have written the King. I certainly hope he
will be stern this time."
Angélique implied
that she doubted he would be. She did not think it good timing to tell her she
had been invited by His Majesty to visit the army.
Her coach
reached Tabaux at nightfall, and she went to the inn. She could have gone to
the encampment, whose bivouac fires she could see across the fields, but she
was tired after traveling for two days over the broken roads. Florimond was
asleep, his chin resting on his rumpled lace jabot and his wig askew. He was
not presentable. The Gilandon girls were asleep with their heads tipped back
and their mouths open. "Swordthrust" Malbrant was snoring like an
organ. Only the Abbé des Lesdiguières looked the least bit dignified in spite
of the fact that his face was covered with dust. The heat had been terrible and
they were all frightfully dirty.
The inn, they
discovered, was full, for the proximity of the royal army had brought many camp
followers to the village, but for the great lady who arrived in a coach drawn
by six horses and with all her household, the innkeepers put themselves out.
They found two rooms, and an attic which suited the fencing-master. Florimond
went in with the abbé and the bed in the other room was big enough for
Angélique and her two companions. They washed up and sat down to a hearty meal
of Quiche Lorraine and meatballs, brussels
sprouts with butter, and stewed plums, for they knew they had to eat well to
get up enough strength for the morrow to face the King and the life of the
Court when it was in the field with the army.
The Gilandon girls
had gone to bed, but had not drawn the bed-curtains. Angélique had got into her
dressing gown and was just finishing brushing her hair when there was a knock
at the door.
"Come in,"
she said. Then she gasped at finding Péguilin de Lauzun in the open doorway.
"Here I am, my
pretty one."
He tiptoed in, his
finger to his lips.
"The devil take
me if I ever expected to see you!" said Angélique. "Wherever did you
come from?"
"From the army,
of course. I had no sooner heard of your arrival from the village sutlers than
I leaped on my fine horse . . ."
"Péguilin,
you're not going to get me into trouble, are you?"
"Trouble? Don't
be so ungrateful. By the way, are you alone here?"
"No,"
Angelique said, nodding toward the Gilandon girls sleeping away innocently in
their nightcaps. "What difference would it make if I were?"
"Don't be so
touchy. My intentions are of the best, at least so far as I am concerned."
He raised his eyes
toward the ceiling like a stricken martyr. "I'm not here for myself, I
regret to say. Don't lose any time, but get your little virgins out of
here." He whispered into her ear. "The King is outside. He wants to
see you."
"The King?"
"In the
hall."
"Péguilin, don't
try to fool me. I'm in no mood for your tricks."
"I swear. .
."
"Do you really
think you can make me believe the King . . ."
"Shh! Take it
easy. His Majesty wants to see you privately. Can't you understand he doesn't
dare be recognized?"
"I don't believe
you."
"This is too
much! Hurry up, I tell you, and get them out of here, and then you'll
see."
"Where can I put
them? In 'Swordthrust' Malbrant's bed?"
She got up and tied
the cord of her negligee defiantly. "If the King is in the hall, as you
say, then in the hall I'll meet him."
She went out into the
corridor and froze to find a man standing near the door.
"Madame is
right," said the King's voice from under his gray velvet mask. "After
all, what's wrong with the hall? It's dimly lit and, what's more important,
empty. Péguilin, old man, will you please go down to the foot of the stairs and
keep any pests away."
He laid his hands on
Angélique’s shoulders. Then, remembering his mask, he took it off. It was the
King indeed. He was smiling.
"No, Madame, no
curtsies, please."
He folded back the
cuffs of her dressing gown so as to feel her wrists, and drew her gently toward
a vigil light burning before an image in a niche.
"I couldn't wait
to see you again."
"Sire,"
said Angélique with determination, "I have already told you I would no
longer act as a blind, as Madame de Montespan so subtly got me to do, and I
should like Your Majesty to understand . . ."
"You always keep
saying the same thing, little toy. Surely you're clever enough to think up
another answer."
Angélique was
speechless.
"Tonight there's
no need for a blind or for any masquerading. Why do you think I went to all the
trouble of disguising myself to come to see you?"
What he said made
sense, but left her more at a loss than ever.
"Well?"
"Well, it's very
simple, Madame. I am not in love with you, but you don't seem to realize you
have cast a spell over me. I cannot forget your lips or your eyes, nor that you
have the prettiest legs in Versailles."
"Madame de
Montespan is quite as beautiful as I. And
she loves you, Sire. She is devoted to Your Majesty."
"While you . . .
?"
His greedy eyes which
reflected the vigil light like two sparks of gold seemed to hypnotize her. When
he laid his mouth on hers she wanted to draw back, but she could not. He
pressed his lips against hers, forcing them open against her tightly shut
teeth. When he succeeded in making her part them, she yielded unconsciously to
the power of this master who had no conception of what it was to be disobeyed.
They kissed with a burning passion that consumed each of them, for he would not
let her go until she responded to his lust. Finally she broke away, her head
whirling. Weakly she leaned against the partition. Her lips were trembling from
the hot pressure of his mouth.
The King's throat was
tight with desire. "I have dreamed of a kiss like that," he
whispered. "And of seeing you again with your head leaning back and your
lovely eyelids shut, and your wonderous throat pulsing. . . . Shall I go? No, I
haven't the courage. This inn is secluded and . . ."
"Sire, I entreat
you not to lead me on further into something that horrifies me."
"Horrifies you?
I thought you willing. I can't have mistaken your acquiescence."
"What else could
I do? You are the King."
"What if I were
not?"
Angélique confronted
him boldly, quite in possession of herself. "I would have slapped both
your cheeks good and hard."
The King paced up and
down in a rage. "My word, how angry you can make me! Am I so poor a lover
as that?"
"Sire, has it
never occurred to you that the Marquis du Plessis-Bellière is your
friend?"
The monarch's head
fell in embarrassment. "Indeed, he is my faithful friend, but I do not
think I am causing him any grief. Everyone knows that this Mars of ours has
only one mistress—war. If I give him armies to lead to battle, what more can he
ask? He cares nothing for love, as he has many times proved."
"He has also
proved he loves me."
The King remembered
the Court gossip. He continued to pace like a caged animal.
"So Mars has
yielded to Venus! No, I cannot believe it! But I must say you are quite capable
of making such a miracle happen."
"Suppose I told
you that I love him and that he loves me, would you destroy such a new-found
simple love?"
The King was
struggling between his consuming passion and his conscience.
"No, I would not
destroy it," he said at length with a deep sigh. "If that is the
case, then I must yield to it. Farewell, Madame. Sleep well. I shall see you
tomorrow at the camp with your son."
In his uniform of
blue velvet trimmed with gold braid Philippe was waiting for her at the
entrance to the royal tent. Bowing, he took her hand to lead her, head high,
across the crowded room to the lace-covered table where the King was about to
take his place.
"Greetings,
husband," Angélique whispered.
"Greetings,
Madame."
"Will I see you
this evening?"
"If I can get
away from my duties to the King."
His face was cold,
but his fingers intertwined with hers and squeezed them.
The King was watching
their progress. "Is there any handsomer couple than the Marquis and
Marquise du Plessis-Bellière?" he asked his High Chamberlain.
"You are
correct, Sire."
"They are also
charming and devoted servants—both of them," the King added with a sigh.
De Gesvres looked at them out of the corner of his eye.
Angélique curtsied
deeply. The King took her hand to raise her. She met his eyes, which roved from
the jewels in her hair to her white satin slippers, not omitting her gown
embroidered with nosegays of forget-me-nots. She was the only woman invited to
dine with the King, and many of the nobles in his company had not for a long time had the pleasure of seeing
so beautiful a woman.
"You are
fortunate indeed, Marquis, to possess such a treasure. There's not a man here
tonight—including your sovereign—who does not envy your good luck. We hope you
realize that. The smoke of battle, the reek of gunpowder and the intoxication
of victory have sometimes made you blind, you must admit, to the charms of the
fair sex."
"Sire, there are
some sights that can give eyes to the blind, and let victors savor other
triumphs."
"An excellent
riposte!" said the King with a laugh. "Madame, gather up your
laurels."
He was still holding
Angélique’s hand in his, and with one of the winning gestures he managed so well
and used freely in the informal atmosphere of the field camp, he put his arm
about Philippe's shoulders.
"Mars, old
man," he whispered, "you have all the luck, but I am not jealous.
Your loyalty means a great deal to me. Do you remember our first battle when we
were fifteen, how a bullet knocked off my hat? You ran right up to the firing
line to get it back for me."
"Yes, Sire, I
remember."
"You were insane
to do it. And you've done plenty of other mad things for me since."
The King was a little
shorter than Philippe, and his hair was dark instead of fair, yet they were
alike in the fine proportions of their muscular bodies which had been trained
like those of all other young nobles of their time in gymnasiums, riding
academies and their early apprenticeship to military life.
"The glory of
arms may make us forget love, but love can never make us forget that we are
brothers-in-arms, can it?"
"You are right,
Sire."
"Exactly. Well,
Marshal, that's enough philosophizing for us soldiers. Madame, will you
sit?"
As the only woman in
the company, Angélique looked like a queen as she took her place at the King's
right hand. Philippe remained standing to assist the High Chamberlain. The King
kept admiring her profile as she bent over her
plate, and the way her diamond eardrop cast prismatic hues over her velvety
cheek.
"Have you put
your conscience at ease, Madame?"
"Sire, Your
Majesty's concern overwhelms me."
"It's not a
question of concern, I'm sorry to say, my dear little toy. How can we fight
love? There's no compromise with it. If I cannot act ignobly, then I must act
nobly. Any ordinary man in my position would find himself under the same
obligation. . . Have you noticed how well your boy fills his post?"
He pointed to
Florimond, who was helping the High Cup-bearer. When the King wished to drink,
the High Cup-bearer was notified by the footman. Then from a sideboard he took
a tray on which a carafe of water had been set along with a full pitcher of
wine and a goblet. Then, preceded by Florimond, who carried the taster's cup,
he advanced toward the High Chamberlain, who poured a little water and wine
into this silver mug and gave it to the High Cup-bearer, who drank it off. Now
the King's drink was proved free from poison, and the King's goblet which
Florimond held as if it were a chalice, was filled. Florimond performed the
ritual like an altar boy.
The King complimented
him on his performance, and Florimond bobbed his curly head in acknowledgment.
"Your boy does
not look like you with his black eyes and hair. He has a swarthy, southern
beauty."
Angélique blushed,
then turned pale. Her heart began to thump. The King laid his hand on hers.
"How sensitive
you are! When are you going to stop being afraid of me? Can't you understand
that I won't do you any harm?"
As she rose he gave
her his hand to lead her past him. His touch disturbed her more than if it had
been a calculated gesture.
She returned with
Philippe through the camp, where the bivouac fires burned red against the tents
that glowed yellow from the candlelight within.
Philippe's tent was
of yellow satin embroidered with gold. It was a marvel of military splendor,
furnished with two armchairs of rare wood and a low Turkish table, around which
were strewn cushions of gold brocade. A rich rug covered the bare ground, and a
kind of couch, also covered with rugs, gave it an oriental atmosphere. The
Marshal had been rebuked for such luxury more than once. Even the King was not
so sumptuously lodged as he on this campaign.
Angélique’s heart was
touched at seeing it, for it revealed another aspect of her husband—the force
of character he had to lead a charge against the enemy in his lace collar.
Tonight on the eve of battle, there were rings on his fingers, his mustache was
perfumed, his boots polished till they shone. Tomorrow he would know all the
sweat and filth and vermin that are an indispensable part of soldiering.
Philippe took off his
baldric. La Violette entered, followed by the Marshal's young squire. They set
a supper of cakes and fruit and wine on the table. La Violette offered to help
his master out of his uniform, but Philippe waved him away impatiently.
"Should I have
your maids sent for?" he asked Angélique.
"I don't think
that's necessary."
She had left the
Gilandon girls and Javotte in the care of the innkeeper's wife, and had brought
along only Therese, who was rather a headstrong girl. After helping her mistress
dress, she had vanished, and it seemed fruitless to go looking for her.
"You can help
me, Philippe," Angélique said with a smile. "I imagine you have a few
things to learn about such matters."
She laid her head
against him wheedlingly.
"Glad to see me?"
"Yes, I'm sorry
to say."
"Why
sorry?"
"I can't put you
out of my mind. I have known pangs of jealousy I never dreamed existed."
"Why? I love
only you."
He lowered his
forehead to her shoulder without answering. In the dim light of the tent she
seemed to see again the King's lustful eyes.
Outside a soldier was
piping a poignant folksong. Angélique shivered. She must get away, leave
Versailles and all its fêtes. Never see the King again.
"Philippe,"
she said, "When are you coming home? When can we start learning to live
together?"
He drew away to look
at her suspiciously.
"Live together?
Is that possible for a Marshal of the King's armies and a great Court
lady?"
"I want to leave
the Court and go back to Plessis."
"That's just
like a woman! There was a time when I used to beg you to go back to Plessis and
you would rather have been hacked to pieces than obey me. Now it's too
late."
"What do you
mean?"
"You have important
obligations the King has graciously given you. It would greatly displease him
if you did not fulfill them."
"It's because of
the King that I want to go away, Philippe. The King . . ."
She looked at him
glassily, as if he had suddenly vanished.
"The King,"
she repeated desperately.
Daring to go no
further, she began to undress herself mechanically. Philippe seemed lost in a
dream.
"After what the
King said tonight, he will understand," she thought, "if he has not
already understood . . . for a long time . . . even before I myself did."
He came over to the
couch where she was kneeling while she unpinned her hair. She put her arms
around his neck. His hands sought the yielding flesh of her naked body under
her filmy shift, stroking the warm soft hollow of her back, then returning to
her swelling breasts, heavier since her last baby but still firm and pointed.
"Fit for a King
indeed," he said.
"Philippe!" She
clasped him close.
"Philippe!"
There was a long
moment of silence between them as if they were in the grip of some
indescribable fear.
Outside someone was
calling: "Marshal! Marshal!"
Philippe stepped to
the entrance to the
tent.
"They've just
caught a spy. His Majesty needs you."
"Don't go,
Philippe," Angélique begged.
"That would be a
fine thing, not to go when the King calls me," he chuckled. "War is
war, my dear. My first duty is with the enemies of His Majesty."
He smoothed his
mustache and buckled on his sword again.
"What was that
song Cantor used to sing? Ah, yes . . .Farewell, my life; farewell, my love;
Farewell, my hope of things above. Serve we must our lord, the King, Even to
our long parting."
She waited for him in
vain through the long night until finally she fell asleep on the couch.
When she awoke
daylight was filtering through the yellow silk walls of the tent, leading her
to believe the sun was shining. But when she went outside it was a gray, foggy
morning. It had rained, and the puddles reflected the dark clouds. The muddy
camp was half deserted. From the distance came the drumroll of reveille, and
the ceaseless firing of cannon.
At her request
"Swordthrust" Malbrant brought her her saddle horse. A soldier showed
her the road to a knoll.
"From up there,
Madame, you can see all the maneuvers."
On the hill she found
Salnove, who had disposed his troops on the edge of a cliff. At the right a
windmill slowly revolved its sails. The sun was trying to pierce the heavy
clouds.
Angélique recognized
the picture now familiar to her of a besieged town with its girdle of ramparts
like slate roofs, its peaked belltowers and gothic spires. A pretty little
river wound around it like a white scarf.
The French batteries
were ranged above the river valley. Three rows of cannon protected the infantry
whose helmets and lance-tips sparkled in the sun. With his riding crop Salnove
pointed out to Angélique a brightly uniformed troop parading before the lines.
"The King
himself went to the outposts early this morning. He is convinced the garrison will soon surrender. Neither His
Majesty nor his chief officers had a moment of sleep all night long. A spy was
caught, and they found out from him that the garrison would try to attack
during the night. That may have been what they intended, but we were on guard
and they had to abandon the plan. It won't be long before they surrender."
"But the
bombardment seems very heavy to me."
"These are their
last rounds. The governor cannot raise the white flag until he has exhausted
all his ammunition first."
"That is just
what my husband said last night," Ang6-lique said.
"I am glad he
shares my opinion. The Marshal has a fine sense of strategy. I do believe we
can have a victory banquet in the town tonight."
A courier they had
seen a while ago galloped around a bend in the road. As he passed them, he
shouted: "Marshal du Plessis-Bellière is . . ."
When he saw Angélique
he stopped, yanked on his reins and returned.
"What's the
matter? What's happened?" she asked fearfully. "Has something happened to my husband?"
"Yes."
"What is
it," demanded Salnove. "What happened to the Marshal? Speak up, man.
Is the Marshal wounded?"
"Yes,"
panted the ensign, "but not seriously. The King is with him. The Marshal
took a great risk and . . ."
Angélique had already
spurred her horse down the path from the hilltop. Again and again she almost
broke her neck before she reached the bottom. Once there, she let the reins
hang loose on the horse's neck and whipped him across the plain.
Philippe wounded! A
voice kept repeating inside her: "I knew it. I knew this would
happen." She drew near the walls, past the firing cannon and the pikes of
the squared-off infantry like a portcullis, but she saw only the distant knot
of lace-trimmed uniforms gathered near the front row of cannon.
As she approached,
Péguilin de Lauzun came to meet her. She shouted to him: "Is Philippe
wounded?"
"Yes."
When she reached him,
he told her: "Your husband took a terrible risk. The King wanted to know
whether a pretended assault would hasten the town's surrender, and Monsieur du
Plessis said he would reconnoitre. He rode right up onto the escarpment which
had been swept by continuous cannon fire ever since daybreak."
"Is it
serious?"
"Yes."
Angélique noticed
that Péguilin had stopped his horse directly across and in front of hers so as
to prevent her from moving forward. Her shoulders sagged under a leaden weight,
and a deathly chill crept over her.
"He's dead,
isn't he?"
Péguilin bent his
head forward.
"Let me
by," she said tonelessly. "I want to see him."
Péguilin did not
move.
"Let me
by," Angélique screamed. "He is my husband. I have a right to see
him."
Péguilin pressed her
forehead to his chest, stroking her hair sympathetically. "Better not, my
darling," he murmured. "Alas, our handsome Marquis . . . had his head
blown off by a cannon ball."
She wept hopelessly,
sprawled face down on the couch where she had waited in vain for Philippe the
previous night. She refused all comfort, would not let anyone near her. Her
entire suite stood outside the tent terrified by the sound of her sobbing. She
kept telling herself it wasn't true, yet she already knew she would never see
him again. Nevermore could she clasp him to her heart, never stroke his
forehead like a mother, as she had dreamed she might, nevermore kiss his
long-lashed eyelids, now closed forever, and whisper "I loved you . . .
you were the first I ever loved in the fresh ardor of my youth."
Philippe! Philippe in
pink. Philippe in blue. Philippe in snowy white and gold, with his blond wig
and his red heels. Philippe with his hand on little Cantor's head . . . With
the hunting knife in one hand and the other grasping the throat of the savage
wolf. Philippe du Plessis-Bellière, so handsome even the King called him Mars,
had him immortalized as such by the painter's art on a ceiling of Versailles in
a chariot drawn by wolves.
Why was he no longer
by her side? Why had he vanished in a "puff of wind," as Ninon said.
In the flaming wind of war! Why had he been so foolhardy?
The words of the
courier and of Lauzun came back to her. She raised herself a little. "Why
did you do it, Philippe?"
The silken drapery at
the entrance of the tent was drawn aside. De Gesvres, the High Chamberlain, was
bowing before her.
"Madame, the
King has come to express his sorrow."
"I can't see anyone."
"Madame, it is
the King."
"I don't want
the King," she shouted, "or any of that bunch of cowardly gossiping
dandies he keeps around him who have come to stare at me all the while
wondering who will be the next Marshal."
"Madame . .
." he choked.
"Go away,"
she cried. "Get out!"
She buried her face
in the cushions again, drained of anger, robbed of any power that might enable
her to take up her life again.
Two strong hands
raising her stilled her frenzy. The one thing that could always comfort her was
the support of a man's shoulder. She thought it was Lauzun, and sobbed all the
harder against the lapels of a brown velvet coat that smelled of orris root.
Finally her passion
of despair spent itself. She raised her swollen eyes and met the deep brown
ones of the King. Never before had she seen so tender a light in them.
"I have left
those . . . gentlemen outside," he said. "I beg you, Madame, do not
let your sorrow overwhelm you so. You must rise above it. Your grief distresses
me."
Slowly Angélique
backed away a few steps and leaned against the silken walls of the golden tent.
In her dark dress and with her pale and streaming face, she seemed like a
mourner at the foot of the Cross in some primitive painting. But her eyes, which never left
the King, flashed like emeralds, and with the same hard glaze. Yet when she
spoke her voice was level.
"Sire, I ask
Your Majesty's permission to retire to my estates. . . to Plessis."
The King barely
hesitated.
"I grant your
request, Madame. I understand your need to be alone and quiet. Go to Plessis.
You may remain there till the end of autumn."
"Sire, I wish to
resign my duties."
He shook his head
gently. "It's the shock of your grief that makes you say that. Time heal
all wounds. I shall not relieve you of your duties."
Angélique made a
feeble gesture of protest, then shut her eyes. Tears stole from beneath her
lashes, tracing glistening furrows down her cheeks.
"Promise me you will return," the King insisted.
She remained
speechless, motionless. He was afraid he had lost her forever, and withdrew
without extracting a promise from her.
"Versailles will
be waiting for you," he said gently.
Part Three
chapter 16
A HORSEMAN galloped up the avenue under the ancient oak trees,
turned to circle the pond that reflected the gold of autumn in its placid
surface, and came into sight again at the miniature drawbridge, where he
stopped to pull at the bell.
Through the
little panes of her bedroom window, Angélique watched him alight and recognized
the livery of Madame de Sévigné. This must be an envoy from her. Throwing a
velvet cloak around her, she hurried down the staircase without waiting for the
proper maid to bring her his letter on a silver tray. She sent the messenger to
the kitchens for refreshment, then climbed the stairs again to her room and sat
down by the fire, turning the letter over and over in delight. It was only a note
from a friend, but to Angélique it was as diverting as anything she might have
chosen for herself.
Autumn was drawing to
a close, and soon winter would be upon her. Lord knows, the winters at Plessis
were dreary! The pretty Renaissance castle which had been built as a setting
for summer holidays looked grim and cold now that the leaves were gone from the
forest of Nieul. At night wolves howled at the very edges of the park. She
dreaded the return of those gloomy evenings which during the previous season
when she was nursing her grief had driven her half out of her mind.
Spring had brought
her some peace of soul. She had ridden over the fields on horseback, but
gradually the condition of the countryside came to depress her. The war weighed
heavily on the peasants, and the sullen Poitevins talked of drowning the
tax-collectors. If their poverty did not arouse them, then the arrogance of the
Protestant villages, which then had the upper hand, stirred up bloody fracases
with the Catholic ones. There seemed to be no end in sight to this explosive rivalry. Angélique
grew tired of it all, and refused to listen to complaints. More and more she
withdrew into herself.
Her nearest
neighbor was the county agent Molines. Further off was Monteloup, where her
father was dozing away what was left of his life with her old nurse and her
Aunt Martha. She could hope for no visitors except du Croissac, a crude country
squire who snorted like a wild boar as he paid his own kind of court to her,
and whom she did not know how to get rid of.
Impatiently she broke the seals and
began to read.
Dearest, [the
Marquise wrote] If this letter contains a mixture of abuse and affection, then
I
leave it to your
good sense to sort them out and see that they represent the deep concern I feel
for you. I
haven't heard a word from you for months since you locked yourself away and
never gave your
friends the relief of comforting you in the dreadful trouble you have had.
Ninon is as
resentful of your absence as I am. Ever since I decided to have done with love,
I
have let
friendship take its place in my heart, and now when I see my overtures useless
and
even repulsed, I
find my life totally empty.
Well, so much
for reproaches. I can't go on in that tone. I do love you so. And so do
hundreds of
others, and not all of the male sex either. For your charm and your frankness
have
won you favor
even with the very woman who might think you her rival. We miss you. No
one knows how even to tie their bows without your advice, and
fashion languishes lest it go
wrong for want
of your approval. So everyone looks to Madame de Montespan, who had as
good taste as
you and who does not miss you. In a word, she reigns in glory. Furthermore her
husband has paid
for his folly. The King gave him five thousand livres, and ordered him
off to
Roussillon for
keeps. No one knows whether he will really stay there, but for the moment
there he is.
While I'm on the subject of fashion, I
must tell you that Madame de Montespan dictates
all the new
styles. You probably will not be surprised to learn that all these have been
made to
suit her own.
She has designed a skirt to be draped over hoops in front as well as in
the rear,
which is very
handy for concealing one's outlines at certain times and permits a good deal of
secrecy. I'll
bet there will be a substantial rise in population now this is in vogue. Madame
de
Montespan is the first to take advantage
of it. She has no shame at all, but she is more
beautiful than
ever and the King has eyes for no one but her. Poor La Vallière is only a
ghost,
condemned to
remain among the living. The King is through with sentimental affairs, and has
taken a mistress
who, for better or worse, is more demanding but suits him better. How hard-
hearted she is!
Everyone says so, and no one can stand up to her or surpass her among the
Court ladies now.
I say "now" because you are not there. She knows it too. Every time
she
mentions you she
says "that ragamuffin" . . .
Angélique was so
angry she had to stop reading, but since she had no one on whom to vent her
wrath, she returned to the letter.
Under her
impulse Versailles has become a Land of Cockaigne. I was there Monday and
never saw such
wonders. At three o'clock the King, the Queen, Monsieur, Madame,
Mademoiselle,
all the princes and princesses, Madame de Montespan—in fact, the so-called
Court of
France—gathered in the King's splendid apartments. The decor is simply divine.
Madame de
Montespan so surpassed everyone else with her beauty that all the ambassadors
marvelled at
her. Yes, she took all honors—and her jewels were like her beauty and her wit
like her jewels.
She is very quick, has impeccable timing, never uses clichés, and everything
she does is so
unconsciously appropriate that it's as if she were speaking a language all her
own and yet
sweet to the ear. Everyone is trying to copy her admittedly.
She never goes
out without an escort of bodyguards. When I was there the wife of
Marshal de
Noailles carried her train, whereas the Queen had only an ordinary page-boy for
hers. Her
apartment on the second floor has twenty rooms, whereas the Queen has only
twelve on the
third floor . . .
Angélique laid the
letter aside. Was there some ulterior motive behind the Marquise de Sévigné’s
detailed description of Madame de Montespan in all her glory? Charitable as she
was to a fault, the charming Marquise had always been hard on Athenais. She
admired her, but she did not like her. "Beware," she had often told Angélique, "Athenais is a
Mortemart—beautiful as the sea and just as ruthless. She too will swallow you
up on your voyage if you're not chary of her."
There was a
good deal of truth in her opinion, as Angélique had already learned to her
cost. So why was Madame de Sévigné so interested in letting her know how the
Montespan had triumphed? Did she hope Angélique would spur herself back to
Versailles to fight for a position she had never had? Madame de Montespan was
the favorite. The King had eyes for her alone. Well, everything had turned out
for the best . . .
There was a light rap
at the door, and then Barbe came in leading Charles-Henri by the hand.
"Our little cherub wants to see his mamma."
"Yes, yes,"
said Angélique absently.
She rose and looked
out the window. Nothing was stirring in the black and white, sullen landscape.
"Can he stay
here to play for awhile?" Barbe asked. "It would make him so happy.
But, wait, it's not very warm here. Madame has let the fire die down."
"Put on another
log."
The baby stayed near
the door playing with a pin-wheel. He wore a long blue velvet dress, and there
were white plumes stuck in his glossy yellow curls, which hung down to his
shoulders. Angélique gave him a routine smile. She took delight in dressing him
in rich garments, for he was indeed ravishingly beautiful. But why should she
spend so much money on these clothes when there was no one here to see them?
What a pity that was.
"May I leave him
then?" Barbe said.
"No, I have no
time for him. I must write a letter to Madame de Sévigné so that the courier
can take it back with him tomorrow."
Barbe could tell from
Angélique’s attitude that her mistress' mind was on other things. Sighing, she
took the hand of her charge, who followed her obediently. Once alone, Angélique
sharpened a pen, but she did not immediately begin to write. She needed to
think. A voice she did not wish to listen to kept repeating to her:
"Versailles will be waiting for you."
Could it be true?
Perhaps Versailles had forgotten her,
and things would be better off that way. That was what she had wanted, yet now
she was sorry. Dejectedly she had come to Plessis to avoid some vague danger
and out of her need for expiation in regard to Philippe. She had hardly paused
at his hotel, where everything about the dark, sinister colors of the place
reminded her of Philippe and his sad childhood—so handsome, so rich, and so
forlorn. At Plessis she had enjoyed the flaming autumn colors and had beguiled
her loneliness with her long horseback rides over the fields; but now winter
was approaching, her confinement
there depressed her.
A footman came to ask
her whether she preferred to dine in her own room or in the dining room. In her
own room, of course! It was freezing cold downstairs, and she could not summon
the courage to sit alone at one end of the long banquet table laden with
silver. She was twice a widow now.
When she had settled
herself by the fire before a table covered with little red casseroles from
which fragrant odors rose as she lifted first one lid and then another to
sample them, it dawned on her bitterly that she was turning into an old dowager
in retirement.
There was no man to
laugh at the way she stuffed herself . . . or to admire her hands which once she
would have creamed and bleached for two solid hours . . . or to compliment her
on her coiffure. She ran to her mirror and studied her face for a long time.
She was still magnificently beautiful. She sighed several times.
The next day Monsieur
and Madame de Roquelaure arrived on their way to their estates in Armagnac.
They had made a detour to call upon Angélique and bring her a message from
Colbert.
The Duchess kept
sniffling from a cold she said she had caught on the journey, but it was only
an excuse to hide the bitter tears she could not restrain. She took advantage
of a moment alone with Angélique to confide in her that her husband had taken
offense at her flirtatiousness and had decided to get her away from the
temptations of the Court by shutting her up in their far-distant castle.
"A fine time for
him to get jealous," she groaned, "now that my affair with Lauzun is
long since ancient history. He hasn't come near me for months. I've had a hard
time. What can he find so interesting in Mademoiselle de Montpensier?"
"She is Henri
IV's granddaughter," Angélique said, "and that's something. But I
can't believe Lauzun would risk toying with the affections of a princess of the
blood royal. He can't be serious."
Madame de Roquelaure
insisted that, on the contrary, he was very serious indeed. The Grande
Mademoiselle had asked the King's permission to marry the Duc de Lauzun, whom
she loved desperately. "And what did His Majesty say?"
"What he always
does—'We will see.' . . . He appears to be confused by Mademoiselle's passion
for Lauzun and the affection he himself bears him. But the Queen and Monsieur
and Madame were outraged at the idea of such a marriage. So was Madame de
Montespan. She let her indignation be known very publicly."
"What business
is it of hers? She is not of royal blood." "She is a Mortemart. She
knows what is fitting and proper for a high rank. Lauzun is only an
insignificant Gascon noble."
"Poor Péguilin!
I suppose you have no use for him now."
"Alas,"
sighed Madame de Roquelaure, and began to cry again.
Colbert's letter was
another matter. Without mentioning the gossip of the Court, with which he had
no concern, he begged Madame du Plessis to return at her earliest convenience
and undertake some business' that had to do with the silk industry which only
she could successfully manage. Baktiari Bey, ambassador of the Shah of Persia,
was at the gates of Paris. Colbert was anxious to negotiate a treaty through
him that would improve the conditions on which Persian silk could be imported
by France.
Once she had read
this letter, Angélique decided she could not do otherwise than return to Paris.
From Paris Angelique
went straight to Versailles.
She met the King in
the park, whose lawns were now covered with snow. Even though it was bitter
cold, the monarch had not given up his daily walk. If the weather did not
permit him to enjoy his flowers and trees, still the fine proportions of the
structures and the graceful layout of the paths were more apparent in winter.
He and his companions stopped before each of the new statues executed in marble
as white as the snow or in painted lead whose reds, golds and greens shone more
brilliantly than ever against the background of grayish bushes.
Slowly the Court
circled the Fountain of Apollo. The reflection in its ice-covered surface of
the gilded group consisting of the god in his chariot drawn by six chargers
sparkled in the sunlight, made it a true apotheosis of the days tar.
Madame du
Plessis-Bellière had been waiting in the shelter of a hedge with Flipot, her
page, who carried the train of her long cloak, her two ladies-in-waiting, and
"Swordthrust" Malbrant, her bravo. Now she advanced toward the King
and made him a deep Court bow.
"What a charming
surprise," said the King, nodding his head slightly. "I am sure the
Queen will be as pleased as I am."
"I have paid my
respects to Her Majesty, and she was gracious enough to tell me she was
pleased."
"I completely
share her pleasure, Madame."
After another
courteous little nod, the King turned to the Prince de Condé and resumed his
conversation with him. Angélique joined the King's suite and graciously
received the expressions of welcome she was offered. She carefully inspected
every detail of the new styles, which even in these few months had made her own
seem old-fashioned and provincial. Had Madame de Montespan influenced
everything? Angélique had deliberately avoided greeting her, but Athenais gave
her a dazzling smile and waved at her as if she were glad to see her. Angélique
had to admit that Madame de Montespan had grown more and more lovely. Her
radiant face, glowing from the frosty air, was framed in a sumptuous blue-gray
fur as soft and glossy as if it were still on the animal.
All the furs,
Angélique noticed, were very handsome. The King carried a big muff of the same
fur as Madame de Montespan's hood, hanging from a gold chain. Many of the lords
and ladies had copied it. Angélique overheard Monsieur's falsetto voice
discussing it with Madame de Thianges.
"It's an
absolutely divine style. I'm ready to do anything for the Russians who invented
it. Did you hear they sent by their ambassador three wagonfuls of the most
beautiful skins you could ever dream of—fox, bear, skunk—absolutely superb!
"This means the
end of those little muffs no bigger than a pumpkin," he said, squinting at
Angélique’s. "It makes them look mean and shabby. How did we ever get
along with them? . . . Yes, mine is astrakhan. Aren't all these kinky curls
extraordinary? They look like the fleece of an unborn lamb . . ."
The group moved along
the Royal Avenue toward the palace, whose windows the sun was speckling with
golden glints. All the fireplaces were blazing because of the cold, and clouds
of white smoke rose straight from the chimneys toward the blue sky.
Thanks to these huge
fires and to the braziers placed along the walls the temperature was bearable
indoors. In fact, in the Salon of Venus, where the King's table had been laid,
and into which everyone was crowding, the atmosphere was stifling. In
embarrassment Angélique hid her little muff "no bigger than a
pumpkin" in a corner. Her black dress looked out of place too.
She owed it to herself
still to wear mourning for her husband, and resigned herself to it because
black made her hair seem even brighter. But she had to admit that her costume
suffered in comparison with others. Madame de Montespan had indeed begun to
mold the Court according to her own lights. At last in a position from which
she could have her own way entirely, she was taking the Court in hand and
stamping everything with the seal of her imagination and her fastidious taste.
As she
stood among the
courtiers, Angélique observed her at the table of the royal
princes, laughing and chatting, and giving everyone a chance to shine in turn.
She was truly a great lady, with all the perfection associated with high rank.
Her new prerogatives gave her a unique elegance and sprightliness, and added to
them was the fact that another royal bastard was expected in the New Year.
Beside her everyone else looked second rate.
The Court had become
gayer and less regulated, and although the protocol remained strict, the general
behavior had acquired the easy freedom of classic dancers about a smiling king.
This was the day of the public banquet. The people who had gained
admittance to watch the King dine, and who were now filing slowly into the
banquet hall, beamed with pleasure at beholding their sovereign. Their delight
was partially due to the birth of a second prince, Philippe, Duc d'Anjou, who
had arrived in September and who with "Little Madame," the Princess
Marie-Thérèse, now ten months old, comprised the royal family. But they also
took note of Madame de Montespan, so beautiful and so charming and such a
bitch! The tradesmen, merchants, artisans, their noses red with the cold and
bundled up in their thick coats, returned to Paris feeling greatly honored by
this glimpse of their ruler and his beautiful mistress.
Toward the end of the
meal Angélique caught sight of Florimond performing his ritual service to the
King, his mouth set in concentration as he filled the cup Duchesne was holding
from the heavy silvergilt ewer. After tasting it the First Gentleman of the
Wine Service gave it to the page to taste, then handed the goblet to the High
Cup-bearer, who poured a few drops of water into it before giving it to the
King. While everyone else drifted toward the Salon of Peace after the meal,
Florimond joined Angélique. He was excited and proud.
"Did you see me,
Mother? Don't I do my job well? I used to just hold the tray, but now I carry
the ewer and taste the wine. Isn't that wonderful! If anyone ever tried to posion
the King, I would die for him."
Angélique
congratulated him for having so quickly risen to such an important post.
Duchesne told her that he was very pleased with Florimond, who was extremely
conscientious about his obligations even though he seemed irresponsible. He was
the youngest of the pages but the cleverest, what with his nimble memory, his
tact, and his sense of propriety—a perfect little courtier, in fact!
Unfortunately the question had arisen of removing him from the King's service,
for the Dauphin had never got over being deprived of his favorite playmate.
Montausier had spoken to the King about it, and now he and the High Cup-bearer
were discussing whether or not Florimond could carry on two assignments
simultaneously.
"It's too much
for him," Angélique protested. "He must have time to learn to
read."
"Oh, the hell
with Latin. Let me, Mother, let me!" Florimond begged.
She shook her head
with a smile and said she would think it over.
This was the first
time she had seen him for six months. Twice he had paid quick visits to
Plessis. Now she thought his air of self-confidence and sociability made him
even handsomer. Perhaps he was a little thin, for like all other pages he
caught his meals on the run, and had little time for good sound sleep. She felt
his thin wiry shoulder under his tunic and thought with great tenderness how
wonderful it was that this lively, intelligent boy was hers. He too was in
mourning for his step father and his brother. As she glanced at their black
reflections in the great gold-framed mirrors, a sudden sadness enveloped
Angélique at the thought of herself as a widow and her son as an orphan.
"Versailles will be waiting for you," the King had said. No, no one
was waiting for her. In a few weeks an entire chapter in the annals of the
Court had come to an end, and another was being enticed into being under the
signature of Madame de Montespan.
Angélique looked
around her in discomfort. She was waiting for there to appear and dominate the
crowd the handsomest of all the courtiers, so casual in his bearing as he
jauntily carried his white-plumed hat—the Marquis
du Plessis-Bellière, the great hunter, the great Marshal of the armies of
France.
But she would never
see him again. The earth had closed over him, and the gap had long since been
filled by the living.
Angélique remained on
the edge of things. Florimond had run off to chase Madame's nasty little dog.
The Queen had left her apartments and was sitting next to the King, and around
them was forming the semi-circle of the princes and princesses of the blood,
and all the lords and ladies who had the right of the footstool. Mademoiselle
de la Vallière was at one end; Madame de Montespan at the other. Still radiant,
she took her seat with a great rustling of her full blue taffeta skirt. In her
triumph over having at last achieved the footstool, she who had formerly been a
Maid of Honor was being almost vulgar in attracting attention to herself.
The footmen began to
circulate with glasses of liqueurs, frangipani or celery tonic, rossoli,
anisette, and steaming infusions of blue, green and golden herbs.
The King's voice
rose. "Monsieur de Gesvres," he said to his High Chamberlain,
"kindly be so good as to bring a footstool for Madame du
Plessis-Bellière."
Every conversation
came to an immediate stop, as all heads turned in a single movement toward
Angélique. She advanced, curtsied low, and took her seat next to Mademoiselle
de la Vallière. As she reached for a glass of cherry brandy, her hand shook a
little.
"So at last you
have that 'divine' footstool," Madame de Sévigné called out to her as soon
as she saw her. "Ah, my dear, I know what a wonderful feeling it is.
Everyone is talking about it. I knew all you had to do was appear. Plenty of
people were fooled, though, for it looked as if the King had just said a word
or two to you when he greeted you. And so then, what a surprise! Oh, if I could
only have been there!"
She kissed Angélique
ecstatically. She had returned to Paris to see Molière’s new play. Like her,
many other guests of the King were stepping out of their coaches.
"Tomorrow
another play, then a ball. The day after . . . I don't know what's on the
program, but we're to stay at Versailles all week. Have you heard the rumor
that the Court may settle here permanently? Madame de Montespan is urging it.
She hates Saint-Germain. What did she say about your footstool?"
"My word, I
don't know."
"She must have
looked daggers at you."
"I completely forgot to glance at her then."
"I can
understand your preoccupation, but it's too bad you didn't. You would have got
twice the pleasure out of it."
"I never thought
you were so naughty," Angélique laughed.
"I'm not, but I
like to see it in others."
They wormed their way
into the theatre and squeezed into one of the rows of gilded chairs.
"Let's not get separated," said Angélique. "After
the play I would like to go back to Paris with you. We can chat and go over together
all these hateful months of silence."
"You're mad!
Versailles hasn't just got you back only to lose you again. You must dine there
all the time Their Majesties are there."
There was
considerable commotion around the door as Madame de Montespan made her
entrance.
"Look at who's
coming," whispered Madame de Sévigné. "Isn't she gorgeous? At last
Versailles has a real royal mistress of the order of Gabrielle d'Estrées and
Diane de Poitiers. They were concerned in politics, were patrons of the arts,
spendthrifts, willful, their passions lay close to the surface and their zest
for love had what it takes to dominate a man, even a king. We shall know
dazzling days under her reign."
"Then why did
you want to see me replace her?" Angélique said.
Madame de
Sévigné" hid her face with her fan. "Because I pity the King."
Then she closed her fan and fetched a long sigh. "You have everything she
has, plus something she can never have. Perhaps that one thing is what gives you your strength. At least,
it does not weaken you."
The curtain had gone
up while they were talking. Angélique paid scant attention to the opening lines
of the play. She was brooding over Madame de Sévigné’s words. Pity the King?
Such was a feeling it did not seem right for him to inspire. He had no pity for
anyone, not even for the poor La Vallière, who looked thinner, sadder and more
haggard than ever. The way in which the King forced her to appear as formerly,
to be present minute after minute at the triumph of her successor, bordered on
cruelty. Athenais openly scoffed at her. Angélique had heard her call:
"Louise, help me pin on this bow. The King is waiting for me, and I'm
going to be late." It was an insensitive, cynical attitude.
But the poor girl had
obediently helped her. What did she hope to get by such humility? Did she think
she could rekindle the love of the man who was still her heart's desire? That
was highly unlikely. She seemed to understand this since the gossip was that
several times she had asked the King to let her retire to a convent. But the
King would not grant her boon.
Angélique leaned over
to Madame de Sévigné. "Why won't the King let La Vallière leave
Court?" she whispered.
Madame de Sévigné was
beginning to chuckle at Tartuffe. She seemed astonished, but she
whispered back: "Because of the Marquis de Montespan. He could still turn
up again and claim that his wife's child belongs to him by law. Louise serves
as a blind. So long as she has not been openly repudiated, it is possible to
pretend that the favor of Madame de Montespan is only an ugly rumor."
Angélique nodded her
thanks and turned her attention to the stage. Molière was certainly witty, but
all through the play Angélique could not help wondering why Solignac and the
great lords who belonged to the Brotherhood of the Holy Sacrament had seen red
when the play was produced. They must have had a good deal of meanness and
hypocrisy on their conscience to think they
were being satirized by such a low-class, ignorant fellow as Tartuffe, whose
swindling of well-intentioned persons hardly resembled their mediaeval
asceticism.
The King's worldly
experience kept him from being taken in by it. He knew that the true spirit of
the Church was not being attacked in this comedy of manners, which put
fanatics, who are useless both to God and to man, in their place. The King, who
was a good Christian but no more, was the first to laugh uproariously at it.
It was not hard to
follow his example, but some laughed out of the wrong side of their mouths. The
battle over Tartuffe was not over. But the King, Madame and Monsieur,
and even the Queen were on its side. There was long applause after it was over.
Angélique found her
two maids, Thérèse and Javotte, lighting the fire in her apartments. The
"Reserved for" was still on the door.
"Should I go to
the King to thank him for all his favors?" she wondered. "Or would
pretending to ignore his attentions be rude? Or should I wait until he speaks
to me?"
She let the maids
take off her black dress and put on another of pale gray embroidered in silver
which seemed more appropriate for a state dinner.
Mademoiselle de
Brienne knocked at her door in a state of high excitement. "I knew that
old alchemist would finally get you a footstool. Oh, please, please tell me
what I must do, what I should promise him to get him to do something for me.
How did he go about it? Does he put on an astrologer's robes to work his
spells? Did you have to take any of his powders? Did it taste terrible? . .
."
She kept pacing in
such nervous agitation that she bumped into things and even knocked a few down.
Angélique just managed to rescue one of her perfume bottles. The girl seemed
quite out of her head. Her brother Lomenie de Brienne was said to switch from
extreme sanctity to debauchery so regularly that people thought him crazy too.
"Calm
down," she said, shrugging her shoulders. "He had nothing to do with it. I came here
straight from my country house."
"Then, was it
old Monvoisin who helped you? They say she is very powerful, the greatest
sorceress of all time. But I don't dare go to her. I'm afraid of perdition. But
if there were no other way of getting a footstool . . . Tell me, what did she
make you do? Did you really have to kill a newborn child and drink its blood?
Or swallow a host-wafer made of filth?"
"Don't be so
silly, my dear, you're wearing me out. I have had nothing to do with that
witch, at least so far as the footstool is concerned. The King awards that
distinction to those he wishes to honor out of his own free will, and there's
no magic connected with it."
Mademoiselle de
Brienne bit her lips and clung to her theory. "It's not so simple as all
that. The King is not weak. He can't be influenced to do what he doesn't want
to. Only magic could force him to. Look at how Madame de Montespan has
succeeded."
"Madame de
Montespan could turn any man's head these days. There's nothing magical about
that either."
"She can't
manage the affair of the Persian ambassador," the girl replied. "It's
beginning to look as if he would return to Persia without having been received
by the King. That would be a dreadful blow."
Angélique thought of
Colbert's letter. "Where is this Baktiari Bey?"
"At Suresnes, in his sister Dionis'
country house."
Angélique resolved to
go there. She could get the lay of the land if she left early in the morning
and returned by noon. She did not want the King to notice her absence when it
came time for his walk in the gardens.
The next morning she
sent for Malbrant, her two footmen and her coachman, and added Flipot for good
measure. Such a retinue would give her prestige in the Persian's eyes. Her four
escorts, in her daffodil-yellow and blue livery, rode black horses. She herself
rode her bay mare Ceres, whose coat had been curried till it shone.
"I heard he was
bringing a necklace of a hundred and six
pearls for the Queen, and pieces of lapis lazuli as big as a pigeon's
egg," Flipot said.
Angélique looked at him suspiciously.
"Keep your itching fingers in your pocket," she said. "And try
to sit properly in your saddle."
Flipot had not
mastered the art of riding. He kept slipping from side to side and regaining
his balance as best he could while his fellows made fun of him.
"Look, what's
going on over there?" Flipot said suddenly.
They had been
following the high road that skirts Paris and leads to the west, and had
arrived at a crossroad. In the distance a mob surrounded the mounted police
with their pikes.
"I think it's an
execution," said Flipot, who was longsighted. "They're going to
stretch some poor wretch on the wheel."
Angélique grimaced as
she caught sight of the huge erect wheel. A black-robed priest and the
executioner and his assistants in red stood out against the bare branches that
scratched the sullen sky. Executions frequently took place on the outskirts of
Paris in order to avoid the rabble that would gather to see them in the Place
de Grève. But this did not prevent the suburbanites and the villagers from
crowding to them in great numbers.
The wheel as a means
of torture had been imported from Germany during the preceding century. The
condemned was first tied to it with his arms and legs stretched to the rims and
his body resting on two cross-pieces of wood like a St. Andrew's cross. On each
of these deep grooves were cut where the knees and elbows of the victim were to
lie. The executioner would crack them again and again with a heavy crowbar.
"We're not too
late," Flipot cheered. "They're just breaking his legs now."
His mistress
reprimanded him. She had decided to ride cross-country rather than see the
revolting spectacle of a human being broken into pieces as the mob watched with
morbid fascination. She spurred her horse out of the road and across the snow-filled ditch, and her servants
followed her. But a little further on they heard the gray-uniformed officers of
the mounted police yelling at them: "Haiti No one can pass until the crowd
scatters!"
A young police
officer approached and bowed. She recognized him as de Miremont from having
seen him at Versailles, where he was stationed as a subaltern.
"Please let me
pass, sir," Angélique said. "I must proceed to an appointment with
His Excellency the Ambassador of the Shah of Persia."
"In that case,
allow me to escort you personally," the officer replied, bowing again as
he rode off toward the place of torture.
Angélique had to
follow him. He led her up to the front row near the platform where the victim
was groaning horribly as the executioner pounded away at his arms and his
pelvis. She kept her eyes on the ground so as not to see it.
Then she heard
Miremont's respectful voice saying: "Excellency, allow me to present
Madame du Plessis-Bellière, who wishes to meet you."
As she raised her
eyes she froze at finding herself in the very presence of the Persian
ambassador, who sat astride a roan horse.
Mohammed Baktiari Bey
had enormous black eyes framed in velvety lashes and eyebrows, and a glossy
black beard framed his pale-yellowish face with its curls. His long-sleeved,
belted gown of silver damask was lined with ermine, and was open above the
waist to show off his corselet which was decorated with pieces of silver
filigree. From his shoulders hung a long cape of pale pink brocade embroidered
with seed pearls in arabesques and floral designs. On his head perched a turban
of white silk in the middle of which a delicate red aigret sprouted from a
rose-diamond. Beside him and also on horseback was a little page straight out
of the Arabian Nights, clad in bright colored silks, a little golden dagger
with an emerald in its hilt at his belt. He was holding a kind of metal vase
from which issued
a long tube ending in a pipe.
Three or four mounted Persians made up the Ambassador's retinue.
The ambassador did
not even turn his head at the subaltern's introduction, but kept his eyes fixed
on the platform, intent upon the climax of the torture, while he puffed from
time to time at his narghile. The smoke oozed out of his thick, sensuous lips
in fragrant bluish clouds which kept their shape for a long time in the cold
air.
Miremont repeated his
introduction cautiously, then indicated to Angélique that His Excellency
obviously did not understand French. Just then a person Angélique had not
noticed before came to their rescue. This was a priest wearing the black
soutane, the wide belt and the crucifix of a Jesuit. He steered his horse up to
Mohammed Baktiari Bey's and spoke to him in Persian.
The ambassador turned
on Angélique an empty stare which gradually softened. He dismounted like a
serpent wriggling to earth.
Angélique hesitated
as to whether she should offer him her hand to kiss, but she presently noticed
that he was stroking Ceres' neck and wheedling her. Suddenly he spoke a few
words in an imperious tone.
The Jesuit
translated. "Madame, His Excellency asks your permission to examine your
horse's teeth. He says that is the way they tell a thoroughbred."
Somewhat annoyed in
spite of herself, Angélique remarked that the animal was high strung and did
not like to be petted by strangers. The priest translated. The Persian smiled.
He stepped directly in front of the mare and said something softly to her. Then
he pressed his hands on her jaws. The mare shuddered but let him open her mouth
and inspect her teeth without the least objection. She even licked his
bejeweled hand as he stroked her afterward.
Angélique felt as if
a friend had betrayed her. She forgot the torture wheel and the poor wretch
howling on the platform. It was she who was high strung. She was ashamed of her
attitude as the Persian crossed his hands on his golden dagger and bowed to her
several times as a mark of deep respect.
"His Excellency
says this is the first horse worthy of the name he has seen since he landed at
Marseilles. He wants to know if the King of France has such a fine one."
"Whole stables
of them," Angélique said shamelessly.
The Bey knotted his
brows and spoke angrily.
"His Excellency
is surprised that, if such is the case, the King did not see fit to send him
some as a present worthy of his rank. The Marquis de Tercy called on him
looking very shabby and left again with his horses on the excuse that His
Excellency the Ambassador of the Shah of Persia did not wish to follow him . .
. then . . . to Paris . . . and he says that. . ."
The torrent of the
Persian's words increased in volume. His interpreter was finding it hard to
keep up with him.
". . . And he
says that he has not yet seen a woman worthy of his rank . . . That no one has
given him any presents . . . or sent anyone to call upon him during the whole
month he has been in France . . . and that the women he has had brought to him
weren't fit to be porters in a bazaar and were rotten with disease to boot . .
. He wants to know if your coming at last is some indication that His Majesty
the King of France . . has decided to pay him the honor due him . . . ?"
Angélique’s mouth
hung open in amazement. "Father, these are very strange questions you're
asking me!"
A slight smile
cracked the priest's stony face. In spite of his severe expression he was still
young. His yellowed skin indicated a long stay in the Middle East.
"Madame, I can
understand how such language coming from me might shock you. But I have been an
interpreter at the Court of the Shah of Persia for fifteen years, and I must
ask you to believe me when I say that I am translating exactly what His
Excellency said." He added, not without humor: "In those fifteen
years I have often had to hear—and to speak—worse than that. But will you
please give me some answer to pass on to the ambassador."
"Why, tell him .
. . that I am embarrassed. I did not come as an ambassadress, or even at the
request of the King, who does not seem to care very much
about this ambassador from Persia."
The Jesuit's face and
his yellowish eyes hardened. "That is a great shame," he murmured.
He was obviously hesitant about translating
her answer. Fortunately just then the howling of the torture victim grew more
blood-curdling and Mohammed Baktiari's attention was again diverted from
Angélique. While they were talking the executioner had succeeded in breaking
the victim's arms and legs and pelvis. Now he had tied arms and legs together
and had stuck a spit through him in order to attach him to the axle of a coach
that had been detached for this purpose. There the pitiful creature was to suffer
for hours in the icy cold attacked by the swarms of crows which were already
gathering out of the neighboring woods.
The Persian made an
exclamation of disgust and renewed his angry flood of words.
"His Excellency
is complaining that he missed seeing the last part of the torture," the
Jesuit said to Miremont.
"I am sorry, but
His Excellency was talking to Madame here."
"You should have
waited until His Excellency could devote his full attention to the
execution."
"Offer him my
excuses, Father. Tell him this is not the custom in France."
"Poor
excuse!" sighed the priest.
Nevertheless he began
to appease the anger of his noble employer as if it were his duty to do so. The
ambassador calmed down and his face lightened as he proposed a solution which
apparently seemed to resolve everything as far as he was concerned. The priest
said nothing until urged to translate, and then he did so reluctantly.
"His Excellency
asks you to please to be so kind as to begin again."
"Begin
what?"
"The
torture."
"But that's
impossible, Father," said the police officer. "There is no other
victim."
The priest
translated. The Bey pointed to the Persians behind him.
"He says to take
one of his guard. He insists you do. He says that if you don't oblige, he will
report you to the King, your master, who will have you beheaded."
In spite of the cold,
beads of sweat broke out on Miremont's forehead.
"What can I do,
Father? I can't just condemn anyone at all to death."
"I can tell him
for you that your country's laws absolutely forbid you to touch a hair of a
foreigner's head, no matter who he is, so long as he is a guest of your nation.
We can't destroy one of his Persian slaves even with his consent."
"That's right.
Tell him so, for heaven's sake."
Baktiari Bey
permitted himself a slight smile and seemed to appreciate the niceties of the
French law, but he could not get the idea out of his head.
"Just what is
the purpose of your visit, Madame?"
"Curiosity."
The Reverend Father
smiled sarcastically.
"Father, I hope
you are not suggesting that we torture and kill an innocent man just for the
sake of pleasing some barbarous prince?"
"No, indeed, but
I must speak out against the discourtesy, the ill will and the clumsiness with
which Baktiari Bey has been treated since he arrived in France. He came as a
friend, but it is quite likely he will leave a bitter enemy and make the Shah
of Persia irreconcilably hostile to France and, what is worse, the Church. If
that should happen, we priests who have twenty-odd missions in the East will
never be able to spread the Faith.- These stupid blunders will set the progress
of Christianity back centuries in these countries that are yearning for it. Now
do you see why I am so out of patience?"
"Such weighty
problems have weight, I agree, Father," said Miremont in an utterly bored
voice. "But why does he still insist on more torture?"
"The ambassador
has never seen this form of torture before. When he went out walking this
morning he just
happened to come upon this
place of execution, and decided he must take home to the Shah of Shahs an exact
description of these new methods. That's why he is so annoyed at having missed
a few details."
"His Excellency
is rather careless, I think," said Angélique with a smile.
The Persian had
remounted his horse. He looked at her in surprise.
"I must say I
admire his courage," Angélique added.
There was a heavy silence.
"His Excellency
is astonished," the Jesuit said at last, "but he is aware that women
sometimes can be much more subtle than men, and he is eager to know what you
can teach him. So speak, Madame."
"Well, hasn't it
occurred to His Excellency that the Shah of Shahs might be tempted to put this
new machine to an improper use? For instance, he might decide that being so new
and all, it should be used only for the torture of the great lords of his
country. And he might take it into his head to experiment with one of the
greatest among these great, his best subject, such as His Excellency here.
Especially if his mission for the Shah of Shahs is not successful. . ."
As the Jesuit
translated, the ambassador's face lit up. To everyone's great relief he began
to smile.
"Fouzoul-Khanoum!"
he exclaimed.
Crossing his hands on
his chest, he bowed several times to Angélique.
"He says your
advice is worthy of Zoroaster himself. He will abandon his idea of reporting
this method of torture . . . His country has good enough methods as it is. And
he asks you to go with him to his lodging for some refreshment."
Mohammed Baktiari Bey
led the procession. Suddenly he became all charm and full of polite attentions.
As they rode along he paid Angélique compliments, and it amused her to see the
thin lips of the Jesuit uttering them as if he were saying his
rosary—"tender gazelle of Kashan,"
"rose of Isfahan," and as a final tribute, "lily of
Versailles."
They arrived quickly
at the temporary lodging where the ambassador was waiting to make his formal
entry into Versailles and Paris. It was a rather unpretentious country house
surrounded by a garden and lawns dotted with a few pieces of rusty statuary.
Baktiari Bey apologized for his humble quarters on the grounds that the owner
had installed a Turkish bath in it, and so he could perform his ritual
ablutions. The news that houses in Paris did not have such accommodations
astounded him.
At the sound of their
arrival several other Persian servants appeared, armed with scimitars and
daggers, and after them two Frenchmen, one of whom, whose towering wig somewhat
compensated for his short stature, said acidly: "Another prostitute! I
hope, Father Richard, that you are not going to keep this hussy here long.
Monsieur Dionis does not want the sanctity of his home profaned."
"I did not say
that," protested the other Frenchman "I quite understand His
Excellency's need for amusement."
"Tsk, tsk,"
tutted the little prude, "if His Excellency wants that kind of amusement,
let him go to Versailles and present his credentials instead of continuing this
shameless delay indefinitely."
The Jesuit finally
was able to get in a word and introduce Angélique. The little man in the wig
turned all the colors of the rainbow.
"Forgive me,
Madame. I am Saint-Amen, the chief of protocol, and the King has assigned me
the duty of accompanying His Excellency to Court. Forgive my ignorance."
"You are quite
forgiven, Monsieur de Saint-Amen. I can understand how my arrival could have
confused you."
"Ah, Madame,
pity me rather. I can't get used to these barbarians and their haughty ways. I
can't persuade them of the need for them to hurry. Even though Father Richard is French and a priest as well, he
does nothing to help. Just look at him smirking slyly there . . ."
"You're no help
to me either," the Jesuit snapped back. "It's your business to be a
diplomat, so why not be a little diplomatic? I'm only an interpreter, not a
counselor. I am in His Excellency's suite by special appointment, and you can
thank your lucky stars that you have me as an interpreter."
"Your services
are mine too, Father. Both of us are subjects of the King of France."
"You are
forgetting that I am first a servant of God."
"You mean of
Rome. Everyone knows your Order thinks more of the Pope than of the King."
Angélique did not
hear the rest of the argument, for Baktiari Bey seized her by the wrist and
dragged her into the house. They passed through a vestibule decorated with
mosaics, and into another room, followed by their respective pages. The
ambassador's was still carrying his inseparable narghile which kept gurgling
and belching smoke. Flipot's eyes were like saucers as he surveyed the rich
hangings, rugs and tasseled cushions of dazzling opalescent hues. Furniture of
precious woods, and vases and goblets of blue pottery completed the decor.
The ambassador sat
down cross-legged and gestured to Angélique to do the same.
"Is it a custom
of the French," he asked, "to quarrel in front of their
servants?" His French was slow but excellent.
"How well Your
Excellency speaks our language."
"I have been
hearing it for two months now—plenty of time to learn it. I have learned
especially how to be disagreeable in it . . . and insulting. I am sorry, for I
have other things to talk to you about."
Angélique began to
laugh. The Bey stared at her.
"Your laughter
is like a spring in the desert."
Then they both fell
silent, as if they were guilty of something, as the priest and Saint-Amen
joined them, each suspicious in his own way.
His Excellency,
however, did not notice their disapproving manner. He began to speak in Persian
again, and ordered a light refreshment. His servants appeared with trays of
chased silver and poured a steaming beverage into tiny crystal glasses. It was
black and had a strange odor.
"What is
this?" Angélique asked a little anxiously before raising it to her lips.
Saint-Amen swallowed the contents of his glass in one gulp and
made a horrible face before answering her: "Coffee, at least that's what
it's called. I've had to swallow this stuff for more than ten days now in the
hope that Baktiari Bey will reward my courtesy by consenting to get into a
coach for Versailles. I'll be sick before I get him to."
The fact that she now
knew the ambassador understood French made Angélique feel embarrassed. But the
Bey showed no irritation. He called her attention by means of gestures to the
crystal cups and the curious porcelain pitchers with their beautiful
lapis-lazuli crackled-glaze.
"These date from
the time of King Darius," said Father Richard. "The secret of their
glaze is lost. Most of the ancient palaces of Isfahan are tiled with it, and
are over a thousand years old, but the newer ones are not so beautiful. The
same is true of their gold and silver work which is so widely known."
"If His
Excellency is so interested in works of art, how he would enjoy
Versailles!" said Angélique. "Our King has very sumptuous taste and
has surrounded himself with marvelous objects."
The ambassador seemed
impressed. He asked Angélique several questions in rapid succession. She
answered as best she could, describing the enormous palace glittering with gold
and mirrors, the masterpieces of all branches of art, the splendor of the
silver unequaled throughout the world. The ambassador grew more and more
astonished. Through Father Richard he reproached Saint-Amen for not having told
him a thing about all this glory.
"What does it
matter? The greatness of the King of France
is not measured by his luxuries but by his renown. The rest is just gewgaws
which can be flattering only to very childish minds."
"For a diplomat
you seem to be quite forgetting that you are dealing with Orientals," the
Jesuit said drily. "At any rate, it is clear that Madame here has done
more for France in a few words than you have done these whole ten days."
"I see, I see!
If you, as a man of the cloth, are so familiar with the customs of harems, then
I don't see how I as a mere man of high rank can possibly answer you. I
withdraw."
On this acidulous
note Saint-Amen left. The priest followed him immediately.
Mohammed Baktiari's
lips opened into a wide smile that made his teeth seem like a white scar on his
dark face.
"Father Richard
sees I need no interpreter to converse with a lady."
He carried his pipe
to his mouth and puffed away at it without taking his dark, smoldering eyes off
Angélique. "My astrologer told me . . . that today, Wednesday, is a
'favorable' day. And so you came . . . You I will tell . . . I am uneasy in
this country. Its customs are strange and difficult for me . . ."
He signaled to his
drowsing page to bring them bowls of fruit sherbet and pieces of translucent
Turkish paste. Angélique said cautiously that she did not understand why His
Excellency should be uneasy. What was it he found so strange in French manners?
"All the . . .
fellahs . . . the—how do you say?—the people of the earth. . ."
"The
peasants?"
"That's it. They
watch me go by without even bowing. So insolent! Not one has touched his
forehead to the ground . . . Your King wants me brought to him like a prisoner
. . . in a coach . . . with guards at the doors. And that little man who keeps
saying 'Hurry up, we've got to go to Versailles as if I were a sichak—I mean,
a beast of burden like a donkey—whereas I think out of deference to your great
monarch I should not hurry . . .
Why are you laughing,
oh lovely Firousi whose eyes are like the most precious of precious
gems?"
She tried to explain
that there had been a great misunderstanding about everything. In France no one
prostrated himself. Women curtsied, though, as she proceeded to demonstrate to
the great amusement of her host.
"I
understand," he said. "It's a kind of dance . . . slow and religious
. . . that women perform before their lord. I like that very much. I shall
teach my wives to do it. The King at last must think well of me since he sent
you to me. You are the first person who has entertained me. . . Frenchmen are
terribly boring!"
"Boring!"
Angélique protested violently, "Your Excellency is mistaken. The French
have a reputation for being extremely gay and amusing."
Angélique prepared to
take her leave. The ambassador's disappointment was evident. She had to invent
all kinds of explanations and metaphors to make him understand that in France
women of a certain station are not considered as vulgar prostitutes, and that
one could win their favors only by paying them court in a Platonic fashion.
"Our Persian
poets knew how to sing their praises," said the ambassador.
"In ages gone did not our great poet Saadi say:
He whom you love
knows eternal happiness;
In his ne'er changing
Paradise he shall not grow old.
Now I have beheld you
I know whither to direct my prayers—
For thou art my East,
and to thee rise my behests. . .
"Is that the way
one should talk . . . to win the recalcitrant woman of France? . . . You I
shall call Madame Firousi-Khanoum . . . Madame Turquoise . . . the
loveliest of all precious stones, the emblem of the ancient Medes and the
Persians. In our land blue is the most beloved of colors."
Before she could even
make a gesture of refusal, he had drawn from his hand a massive ring and
slipped it on her ring finger.
". . . Madame
Turquoise . . . this is the expression of my delight when I look into your
eyes. This gem has the power to change color when any man or woman who wears it
proves deceitful."
He turned a gentle
yet mocking smile upon her which fascinated her. She would have liked to refuse
the gift, but she could only murmur her thanks as she gazed at it glistening on
her hand.
With a great rustling
of his silken robes Baktiari Bey arose. His movements were like a cat's—lissome
yet revealing a hidden strength that came from his training in horsemanship and
in fighting with heavy wooden clubs.
"You are learning
Persian fast . . . very fast. . . . Are there many women at Court as beautiful
and as charming as you?"
"As many as the
ocean has waves." She was in a hurry now to get away.
"I shall let you
go, then," said the ambassador, "since such is the singular custom of
your strange country where you send presents only to take them away with you
again. Why does the King of France treat me so? The Shah of Persia is powerful.
He could expel from his country all the French priests and their twenty missions.
He could refuse to sell you silk. Where does your King think he could get silk
like ours? The mulberries bear white berries only in Persia, and it is these
trees that feed the worms that make the finest silk. Elsewhere the mulberry
fruit is red. The treaty we wished to sign will cover that, won't it? Tell your
King that. And now I want to consult my astrologer. Come along."
chapter 17
THE Jesuit and the two Frenchmen
were waiting in the vestibule. Baktiari left them, but soon returned with an old
man with a dirty white beard and the signs of the zodiac on his turban, and a
younger man, with an enormous nose and a jet black beard, who spoke fluent and
excellent French.
"My name is
Agobian. I am an Armenian Catholic and a merchant, the friend and confidential
secretary of His Excellency. This is his religious instructor and astrologer
Hadji Sefid."
Angélique took a
step toward them intending to curtsy, but stopped with she saw the astrologer
recoil, muttering some words in which "nedjess," meaning
"unclean," kept recurring.
"Madame, you
must not go too near our venerable chaplain. He is very strict about coming
into contact with women. He came with us to examine your horse to see if it
involved any aspects of an unlucky star."
The austere astrologer seemed to be
nothing but skin and bones wrapped in a coarse linen caftan bound by a metal
belt. His fingernails were long and painted scarlet, as were his toenails which
peeped out of sandals apparently made of pasteboard. He did not seem to mind
the cold or the snow as they walked across the garden to the stables.
"What is
your secret for not getting cold?" Angélique asked respectfully.
The old man shut
his eyes and said nothing for a moment. Then in a voice that was surprisingly
young and musical, he answered her. The Armenian translated.
"Our priest
says the secret is simple. One must fast and practice abstinence from all
earthly pleasure. He also said he answered you, even though you are a woman, because you bring no evil. Neither is your
horse inauspicious for His Excellency. This is indeed rather curious, for the
present month is an unfavorable time."
Shaking his head, the
old man walked around the horse, while the others kept silent in deference to
his meditations. Then he spoke again.
"He says,"
translated the Armenian, "that even a very unlucky month can be changed
into a more favorable one by earnest prayers and the conjunction of different
planets. The prayers of those who have suffered are more acceptable to the
Omnipotent. He says that sorrow has not marked your face, but has scarred your
soul like a scourge. Where did you get such wisdom as few women possess? But
you are still not on the way to salvation for you are too attached to worldly
follies. He pardons you for this because you are not of evil aspect and because
the conjunction of your life with that of his master may even bring great
benefits . . ."
He had hardly uttered
these words than the face of the astrologer changed suddenly. His thick,
hennaed eyebrows wobbled, and his pale eyes began to flash. All the Persians
took on the same expression of anger and surprise.
"He says,"
the Armenian exclaimed, "a serpent is among us, using our hospitality to
steal from us . . ."
His scrawny
red-nailed finger pointed straight in front of him.
"Flipot!"
shouted Angélique in horror.
Already two soldiers
had seized the young lackey and hurled him to his knees. Out of his vest
spilled three precious stones—an emerald and two rubies.
"Flipot!"
Angélique repeated in
consternation.
Uttering some words
of violence the ambassador strode forward with his hand on the hilt of the
weapon at his belt, and drew his scimitar.
Angélique hurled
herself in front of him. "What are you going to do? Father, intervene, I
beg you. His Excellency can't be going to cut off his head . . ."
"In Isfahan it
would have already been done," the Jesuit said coldly. "And I would
risk my own by trying to interfere. It
is a deplorable incident, and a final insult.
His Excellency would never understand why he should not punish this little
thief in his usual way."
He tried his best to
restrain his disciple, while Angélique struggled against the soldiers who were
trying to carry her off and while three other guards were trying to restrain
"Swordthrust" Malbrant, who had already drawn his sword.
"His Excellency
will settle for merely cutting out his tongue and chopping off his hands,"
said the Armenian.
"His Excellency
has no business punishing my servants. This boy belongs to me. It is up to me
to decide what punishment he should have."
Baktiari Bey turned
his flashing eyes on her and seemed to grow less excited.
"His Excellency
wishes to know what punishment you will give him."
"I shall . . .
shall have him given twenty-seven lashes."
The ambassador seemed
lost in thought. He made a guttural exclamation, then turned on his heel and
headed toward the house. Dragging Flipot, who was speechless with terror, the
soldiers drove the French out of the garden and shoved them off the property
without further ado, shutting the gates behind them.
"Where are the
horses?" asked Angélique.
"Those dastardly
Turks have kept them," said Malbrant, "and I don't think they have
any intention of giving them back to us."
"We'll have to
walk home," agreed one of the lackeys.
Angélique was so dead
tired she slept till ten the following morning. Then there was a knock at her
door.
"Madame, there's
someone to see you."
"Let me
alone," she called out.
When she opened her
eyes, she found Javotte shaking her.
"Madame,"
Javotte was saying, her face deathly white, "These two officers insisted I
call you. They demand to be received, 'no matter what you're doing,' as they
said."
"Let them wait .
. . till I'm ready to get up."
"Madame,"
Javotte said in a quavering voice, "I'm afraid.
Those fellows act as if they'd come to arrest you."
"Arrest me?
Me?"
"They've posted
guards at all the doors of the house, and they've ordered your coach hitched up
to take you away in."
Angélique got up,
trying to collect her wits. What did they want of her? The time had passed when
Philippe might be playing a trick on her. Just night before last, the King had
given her a footstool. . . Nothing had happened to confound her. . .
She dressed in haste
and received the two officers, trying to hide her yawns. Javotte had not been
mistaken in thinking them the King's police. They handed her a letter. Why did
her hands shake as she broke the seals?
In formal language
the writ directed the addressee to be so good as to follow the bearer. The
King's seal had been affixed to the bottom of the page, and it read like an
order for arrest for questioning. Angélique was dumbfounded until presently she
realized she must be the dupe of some plot that was using the name of the King
to do her harm.
"Who gave you
this letter and these orders?" she asked.
"Our
superiors."
"And what am I
supposed to do?"
"Follow us,
Madame."
Angélique turned to
her servants who had circled around her mumbling with anxiety. She ordered
Malbrant, Roger her steward, and three others to saddle their horses and
accompany her so that if she were enticed into some ambuscade she would have an
escort to protect her.
The older officer
interrupted. "I am sorry, Madame, but the King's orders are to take you
alone."
Angélique’s heart
began to beat a tattoo. "Am I under arrest?"
"I don't know,
Madame. All I can tell you is that I am to take you to Saint-Mandé'
Angélique got into the coach, still racking her brains.
Saint-Mandé? What in the world was at Saint-Mandé? A convent, where she might
be shut up incommunicado?
Why? Would she ever find out? What would
become of Florimond? Saint-Mandé?
Then it dawned on her
that this was where the former Comptroller of France, Fouquet, had built one of
his villas. She heaved a sigh of relief. She recalled that after Fouquet had
been arrested and imprisoned, the King had given all his possessions to
Colbert, who had succeeded him. Who could be behind all this but Colbert? It
was certainly a strange way of inviting a lady to his house, and she made up
her mind to tell him so, important as he was.
Then her anxiety
returned. She had seen plenty of sudden and unexplained arrests. Sometimes the
victims appeared again smiling after everything had been straightened out, but
meanwhile their property had been confiscated and their papers gone through.
Angélique had done absolutely nothing about protecting her money.
"That's a lesson
for me," she said to herself. "If I get out of this, I will be much
more careful about my business in the future."
The coach had wound
its way through the mud of the Paris streets and was now rolling along more
rapidly over the frozen highway. The bare, icicle-hung oaks by the roadside
told her they were approaching the forest of Vincennes. At last the former
residence of Fouquet appeared on their right. It was less elaborate than the
one at Vaux, yet its vulgar extravagance had been one of the chief charges
against the famous financier who was now rotting away in the dungeon of a
fortress in Piedmont.
Even though it was
winter and everything was covered with rime, the courtyard of the castle was
humming with activity like a woodyard. Everything was being undermined or torn
down. Beams and laths were piled at the base of the walls in which were gaping
holes from which lead pipes were being tossed. Angélique had to lift her skirts
to cross a stack of these pipes which barred the entrance. A foreman gave her
his hand to help her.
"What the devil
is Colbert tearing his house down for?" she asked him.
"Monsieur
Colbert expects to make several thousand livres out of these lead
pipes," he said.
The officer
interrupted. "Madame is not permitted to talk."
"There's nothing
wrong in talking about plumbing," Angélique protested. She had resolved
not to take this adventure seriously. Now that she saw she could get an
explanation from Colbert, she had stopped worrying.
Inside the house the
same demolition was going on. Workmen were stripping the ceilings of the white
gesso mouldings that the great artist Le Brun had designed. Angélique hated to
see such destruction, but she kept her opinions about vandalism to herself. She
had other fish to fry. It was especially important that she keep calm and
collected.
She continued on to
the wing of the castle where the present owner conducted his business. It had
already been stripped of its decorations. The "shameless
extravagance" of which Fouquet had been accused, seemed to have been
limited to these gilded plaster veneers. Now they were gone, there remained
only rough brick walls which bore no resemblance to the "marbled
halls" which had helped get the former Comptroller imprisoned for life.
At the end of a long
corridor Angélique found herself in the center of a waiting-room originally
intended for the poor. Here now the flower of France crowded the simple
benches. Saint-Mandé was less a residence of the powerful minister than his
antechamber, and everyone who had a request to make of him had to wait
stoically in these draughty halls.
Angélique took note
of Madame de Choisy, Madame de Gamaches, the beautiful Scotch Baroness
Gordon-Huntley, who was attached to the suite of Duchesse Henriette, and the
young La Vallière, who pretended not to see her. The Prince de Condé was
sitting beside de Solignac. As he saw Angélique he started to greet her, but de
Solignac kept him back by whispering something in his ear. The Prince debated
the matter for a while, then shook his
sleeve free from de Solignac's grasp and limped
over to her, for the damp cold was hard on his bad leg.
But Angélique’s
jailors interfered again. "Madame is not permitted to talk."
To avoid any conflict
with the great prince they took Angélique into a little antechamber in spite of
the mutterings of the courtiers who thought she was getting in ahead of them.
In this other room
there was no one but a petitioner whom she had not previously seen at Court—a
foreigner whom she glanced at a second time wondering if he were not a Persian,
for his complexion was quite dark and his slanting black eyes gave him an
Asiatic appearance. Still he was dressed like a European so far as she could
determine from the big shabby cloak he was wrapped in. On the other hand, his
red leather boots topped with golden tassels and his kind of felt fez trimmed
with scallops of white lamb's wool indicated a foreign origin. He was wearing a
sword.
He rose and bowed to
the newcomer without showing any surprise at her being escorted by her two
warders. He suggested that she precede him, and his French was correct even
though he rolled his "r's" rather noticeably. He would not have it,
he said, that such a "charming" lady wait any longer than necessary
in such a sordid place. As he spoke he revealed a set of dazzlingly white teeth
under his thin black mustache the ends of which dropped over the corners of his
mouth. It had been a long time since anyone in France had worn such a full
mustache as this except for old men of another generation like the Baron de
Sancé. At any rate, Angélique had never seen one so disconcerting as this
stranger's. When he was silent it gave him a ferocious and barbarous
appearance. She was quite fascinated by it. Every time she stole a look at it,
the foreigner gave her another smile and insisted she go in before him.
The older police officer
finally told him: "Madame is indeed much obliged to you, sir, but do not
forget that the King is expecting you at Versailles. If I were you, I would ask
Madame to be so kind as to wait a few moments more."
The foreigner seemed
not to have heard him. He continued to smile boldly and fixedly at Angélique
until she began to feel embarrassed. She was less surprised at the officer's
lack of tact than at the respect he seemed to show this foreign petitioner.
Whoever he was, he was at least very courteous.
She strained her ears
to try to tell whether the minister's present visitor had been there long. The
door of the conference room did not shut tight owing to the construction work
and remodeling going on at Colbert's orders. She could tell from the tone of
the voices that the conference was coming to an end.
"Do not forget
either, Monsieur de Gourville, that you will be the secret representative of
the King of France in Portugal. Noblesse oblige," Colbert
concluded.
"Gourville," thought Angélique. "Wasn't he one of the
condemned Comptroller's henchmen? I thought he had fled and was under sentence
of death by default." A gentleman whose face was hidden behind a mask
appeared in the doorway, cordially escorted by the minister. He passed her with
a nod.
Colbert knit his
eyebrows. He hesitated a moment between the foreigner and Angélique, but when
the former stepped aside, the minister's forced smile grew even more dour. He
beckoned to Angélique to come in and closed the door right in the face of her
two escorts. Motioning her to an armchair, he sat down and stared at her in
silence with a cold expression. Angélique recalled Madame de Sévigné’s nickname
for him—"Monsieur North Pole"—and smiled.
Colbert leaped up
as if he could no longer bear Angélique’s nonchalance. "Madame, can you
tell me why you paid a visit yesterday to His Excellency, the Ambassador
of Persia, Baktiari Bey?"
"Who told
you?"
"The King."
He took a letter from
his desk and tapped it irritably against his fingers. "This morning I
received this order from the King to bring you here as soon as possible and get
an explanation from you."
"His Majesty's
spies get down to work fast."
"That's what
they are paid for," Colbert fumed. "Well, what answer can you give
me? Who got you to visit the Shah of Persia's representative?"
"Just
curiosity."
Colbert cleared his
throat. "Let us understand each other, Madame. This is a serious matter.
The relations between this difficult person and France have become such that
anyone, male or female, who visits him can be considered a traitor."
"How absurd!
Baktiari Bey seemed to me to be very eager to meet the greatest monarch in the
world and admire the beauty of Versailles."
"I thought he
was just about to leave without even presenting his credentials."
"He was the
first to be concerned about that. He suffered from a want of tact on the part
of all those clowns who were sent to him—Tercy, Saint-Amen, and the rest. .
."
"You are speaking rather flippantly about experienced
diplomats. Do you mean to imply they do not know their business?"
"They know
nothing about Persians, that's certain. Baktiari Bey gave me the impression of
being a well-intentioned man so far as politics is concerned."
"Then why does
he refuse to present his credentials?"
"Because he
thinks he has been discourteously received, and that for him to appear in a
coach with guards at the doors is beneath his dignity."
"But that is the
usual way all ambassadors are received in this kingdom."
"He won't do
it."
"What does he
want, then?"
"To ride through
Paris in a shower of rose petals while all the people prostrate themselves
before him."
The minister said nothing.
"In the last
analysis," Angélique continued, "this is up to you, Monsieur
Colbert."
"Me?" he
said in a panic. "I don't know the first thing about such matters of
etiquette."
"Neither do I.
But I do know enough to say that it is not very sensible to refuse a little
compromise rather
than lose an alliance that
might be favorable to France."
Colbert wiped his
face nervously. "Tell me the details," he said.
Angélique gave him a
quick description of her comic-opera expedition. Colbert listened to her
without a trace or a smile, even when she described how His Excellency had
wanted the torture to be repeated for him.
"Did he say
anything to you about the secret clauses of the treaty?"
"Not a word. He
simply mentioned in passing that your factories could never get such fine silk
as Persian . . . and, oh yes, he did say something about the Catholic
missions."
"He didn't say
anything about a counter-alliance with the Arabs or the Russians?"
Angélique shook her
head. The minister was deep in thought. Angélique let him brood for a while
before resuming her account.
"All in
all," she concluded merrily, "I have done you and the King a
service."
"Not so fast.
You have been hasty and extremely inefficient."
"How, for
heaven's sake? I'm no enlisted army man who can't visit anyone I want without
getting permission from my superiors."
"That is where
you are mistaken, Madame. Let me tell you bluntly that you think you can act
independently, but the fact is that the higher you rise the more you have to
beware of the slightest false step. The world of the great is full of snares.
You have just barely escaped being arrested . . ."
"I thought I had
been."
"No. I will take
it upon myself to let you go free until I have settled this matter with His
Majesty. However, please be sure to be at Versailles tomorrow. I think the King
will want to hear your story after he has checked on it. I shall be there too
to speak to His Majesty about an enterprise I have just thought of in which you
can be of assistance to us in dealing with Baktiari Bey."
He led her to the
door and said to the two officers: "You can let her go."
Angélique was so
shaken by the unforeseen happy ending to this forced visit that she sank into a
chair in the antechamber after the police officers had left and paid no
attention to the petitioner who had taken the place of the foreigner.
Eventually he came out from his conference and, rolling his "r's,"
asked her to go with him to look for a cab they could hire, for he had no other
means of getting back to Paris. Angélique followed him in a daze, and it was
not till she encountered her own postillion that she came back to her senses.
"I beg your
pardon, sir. It is I who should have asked you to do me the pleasure of driving
back to Paris with me in my coach."
The foreigner
took in the silver-gray trappings trimmed with silver, and the livery of her
servants, and gave her a pitying smile.
"Poor
child," he said. "I am much richer than you, you know. I have no
possessions, but I am free."
"Quite a
character!" she thought as the coach got under way.
In comparison
with her anxiety of the morning, the ride back was wondrously comfortable. Now
she could admit she had been scared to death, for she was well aware that such
misunderstandings are seldom so easily straightened out. Relieved now of the
strain she had been under, she made an effort at conversation with this
well-bred person who had been so nice to her when everyone else was shunning
her like the plague.
"May I
inquire your name, sir? I do not believe I have seen you at Court."
"Ah, but
you did—the other day when His Majesty asked you to take a footstool, and you
moved with such beauty and dignity, and your black gown seemed a reproach to
all those gay-plumaged birds."
"A
reproach?"
"Perhaps
that is not the right word. You were so different from the rest, so
distinguished, that I wanted to shout: 'Not her! Not her! Take her away from
here! "
"Thank
heaven, you did not."
"I should
have," he sighed. "Ever since I have been in France, I have not been
myself. The French are not so spontaneous as other
nationalities. They put their head before
their heart."
"Where do you
come from?"
"I am Prince
Rakoczy, and my country is Hungary."
The Prince told her
that from his childhood he had given up all his
possessions to devote himself to his people
whose wretched condition had moved him deeply. He had incited a
revolution to depose the King of Hungary, who had taken refuge with the Holy Roman
Emperor.
"His country
must be in Europe, then," Angélique deduced to herself.
"Subsequently we
had a republic in Hungary for a while. Then came the counter-revolution, and
horrible repression. I was denounced by my partisans for a mouthful of bread,
but I managed to escape and hid in a monastery. Then I got across the frontier
in spite of being hunted, and came to France, where I found a warm welcome."
"I am glad for you. Where are you living
in France?"
"Nowhere,
Madame. I am a wanderer like my ancestors. I am waiting to return to
Hungary."
"But you are
risking certain death there."
"I shall return
just the same as soon as I have got your King's help in starting another
revolution. I am a revolutionary at heart."
Angélique stared in
wonder. This was the first real flesh-and-blood revolutionary she had ever
seen. His dedication to revolt had made him woefully thin, but there was a
light in his eyes that would keep anyone from pitying him or making fun of him.
He seemed to be quite content with his lot as a hunted man.
"What makes you
think our King will give you assistance or money to help you dethrone another
king? He has a horror of such things."
"In his own
realm, yes. But in another country an insurgent can sometimes be a useful tool.
I have high hopes."
Angélique grew
thoughtful. "As a matter of fact, they say Richelieu helped Cromwell with
French money and was really responsible for the beheading of the English king,
Charles I, even though he was a cousin of the King of France."
The foreigner smiled
absently. "I am not familiar with English history, but I do know that the
English have fallen under the domination of a royal dynasty again. There is no
new blood to renew their energy, and they are not yet ripe for another
revolution. Neither is France ready. But we Hungarians are heirs of the freest
of all peoples, and we are ready."
"But we are free
too," Angélique protested.
The Hungarian burst
into such uncontrollable laughter that the coachman slowed down and turned
around. Then with a shake of his head he resumed his speed. The Marquise was a
good sort, but she did take up with the damnedest people!
The foreigner finally
stopped laughing enough to exclaim: "You call yourselves free when two
policemen hale you before the minister of a police state?"
"It was a
misunderstanding," said Angélique. "You saw for yourself the
policemen did not take me back."
"All the worse.
They are behind you now. They will never be off your trail unless you
work with them and for them, which means you have sold your freedom and your
soul. If you want to escape a fate like that, you will have to get away."
Angélique began to be
bored with his impassioned language. "Get away? What an idea! I have
achieved quite an enviable position and I am quite well off here, thank you
very much."
"Not for long,
believe me. Not with a head like yours!"
"What's so unusual about it?"
"You have the
head of an avenging angel, who cannot be swayed or influenced, but wields the
sword of Justice and slashes the slimy bonds of compromise. Your piercing look
makes others feel naked before you. There is no dungeon deep enough to
extinguish the light of your eyes. Take care!"
"There is
something in what you say," said Angélique shaking her head with a sad
little smile. "I am very arbitrary, I know, but you don't have to fear for
me. My youthful errors have cost me dear, and
have taught me how to be wiser."
"How to be a
slave, you mean."
"You go to
extremes, sir. If you want my opinion, then no country on this earth is
perfect. The state of the poor is deplorable everywhere. You talk like some
kind of evangelist. All such end up on a cross. That's not for me."
"An evangelist has to be a bachelor, or at least abandon his family, but I
want to sow the seeds of freedom. That's the first thing I thought of when I
saw you. Marry me and we shall flee together."
Angélique resorted to
the device all women use to get out of such a ticklish situation—she laughed
and changed the subject.
"Oh, look at all
those people gathering up there. What's going on?"
They had regained
Paris and now in one of the narrow streets of the Saint-Paul quarter a gay
parade was blocking their progress. It was a tattered troop of veterans,
doubtless recruited for a few sols apiece, who were escorting a patrol
which had just halted in a little square. In the middle they were erecting a
sort of gibbet from which dangled a straw man with a big white placard pinned
to its chest. The patrol sergeant, the chief of the local police, and a
sergeant-at-arms represented the official side of the ceremony. When the dummy
was hoisted to the top of the gibbet two snare drums sounded a long roll, and
the crowd began to howl even louder: "To the stake with cheats! Death to
swindlers of the people!"
"A fine
revolutionary scene," murmured the Hungarian with shining eyes.
"That's where
you are wrong, sir," Angélique said, glad of the chance to get the better
of him. "These people are cheering an act of justice on the part of the
King. It's a mock execution. That's what they do when a criminal has been
condemned to death but has managed to flee the country."
She stuck her head out the window to find out who it was they were
hanging in effigy. A burly, good-humored tradesman told her it was Comte
Hérauld de Gourville, tax-collector of Guyenne, who had been convicted of speculating with the public money and had
been an accomplice of Fouquet whose iniquities had just recently come to light.
Not a moment too soon either! Let 'em know a little about how they had been
swindled!
The coach managed to
get through the mob and continued on its way. Angélique lapsed into thought, as
did her companion, at the sight of this spectacle.
"Poor
wretch," he sighed at length. "Poor victim of tyranny, forced to live
forever away from his native land to which he can never return on pain of
death. Alas, how these outlaws wander over the face of the earth, banned from
their fatherland by the rod of despots!"
"Which they
doubtless well deserve. Don't waste any sympathy on the fate of Gourville or
criticize the King's severity. What if I told you that he was in excellent
health, was still in France, and actually working in the secret service of the
King—in short, that he was the man in the mask we saw come out of Colbert's
office this very morning?"
Rakoczy seized her
wrist, his eyes ablaze. "Are you sure of what you are saying?"
"Almost
certain."
His smile spread.
"That's why your King will pay me and my revolutionaries to fight another
king," he shouted triumphantly. "He is two-faced. He throws the
gullible mob an effigy of the guilty as a bone to shut them up, but he keeps
them working for him in secret. He signs a treaty of peace with Holland, and
then encourages the English to make war on the Dutch. He negotiates an alliance
with Portugal to break the back of Spain, with which he is also allied. And he
needs me to harass the Holy Roman Emperor. It won't keep him from supporting
that same emperor at St. Gothard against the Turks, or from getting all he can
out of the agreements he has signed with those very same Turks. He is a great
king, very skillful and very subtle. No one really knows what he is up to. And
he will turn you into another one of his puppets without any soul of your
own."
Angélique drew her
cloak more tightly about her shoulders. The words of this intense Hungarian
made her blood run hot and then cold. She was
utterly enraged by him and yet strangely fascinated.
"To hear you
talk, no one could tell whether you hate him or admire him."
"I hate his
power, but I admire him as a man. He is the nearest thing to a true ruler I
have ever encountered. Thank God, he is not my king. The man who could topple
him off his throne has not yet been born."
"You have a
strange way of thinking. You talk like some booby at Saint-Germain Fair whose
only ambition is to play at skittles with the severed heads of kings."
Far from being
shocked at her comparison, the prince was actually amused by it. "I like
the light touch you French have. When I stroll through Paris I love the
cheerfulness of everyone I meet. I have yet to find a workman who isn't either
whistling or singing as he works. I've been told they do it to try to forget
how wretched they are. But the faces you see behind the glass windows of the
fine coaches aren't so happy. Why? Can't the great ones of the kingdom sing too
to forget their woes?"
The coach came to a
stop before the Hotel du Beautreillis. Angélique wondered how to get rid of
this man without hurting his feelings. But he jumped out before her and offered
his hand to help her alight.
"Here is your
house. I used to have a palace."
"Don't you miss
it?"
"It's only when
you're free of worldly possessions that you really begin to enjoy life. Madame,
don't forget what I asked you."
"What was that?"
"To marry
me."
"Is that a
joke?"
"No indeed. You
take me for a fool because you're not used to sincerely dedicated persons. The
passion of a lifetime takes only one second to spring into life. So why don't
you admit it now? The French keep their feelings as they do their women—in
steel corsets. Come with me. I will set you free."
"No, thank
you," said Angélique, laughing. "I will stick to my corset. And now
goodbye, sir, before you make me say something I might regret."
chapter 10
WHEN she got to Versailles that afternoon, Angélique went at
once to the Queen's apartments to try to discover whether she could still
consider hers the little post she once had as assistant to the Mistress of the
Wardrobe. She was told that the Queen had gone with her Maids of Honor to the
village of Versailles to visit the parish priest. The Queen was in a sedan
chair and her ladies on foot, so no one thought they could be very far away
yet. Angélique went to catch up with them.
As she was crossing
the north terrace a hail of snowballs struck her. She turned to discover the
practical joker, and a fresh snowball hit her full in the face. She stumbled
and slipped and tumbled in a great flurry of skirts and a cloud of powdered
snow.
Péguilin de Lauzun
appeared from behind a clump of
trees, laughing loudly.
Angélique was furious.
"How long before
you quit these puppyish tricks? The least you could do is help me up."
"Certainly
not," Péguilin shouted, leaping upon her and rolling her over and over in
the snow, then kissing her and tickling her nose with his muff until she had to
laugh and plead for mercy.
"That's
better," he said, helping her to her feet. "I saw you coming along as
sad as could be, and that doesn't go at Versailles—or with your pretty face.
Laugh, now, laugh!"
"Péguilin, have
you forgotten all my trouble of just a little while ago?"
"Yes, I
have," he said gaily. "We have to forget those things just as we do
our turn to settle our account with our Maker. Besides, you would not have come
back to Court if you did not intend to forget. So stop brooding, and help me,
little one."
He took her arm and
led her into the maze of clipped and trimmed holly bushes that the winter had
transformed into rows of sugarplums.
"The King has
just given his consent to our marriage," he whispered as if it were a
great secret.
"What
marriage?"
"Why, the
marriage of Mademoiselle de Montpensier with that insignificant Gascon nobleman
Péguilin de Lauzun. Don't tell me you haven't heard? She is mad about me. She
has begged the King again and again to let her marry me. The Queen, Monsieur
and Madame have raised a terrible fuss, claiming such a match is an affront to
the dignity of the throne. Pfft . . . the King is just and good. He likes me.
He thinks no one has a right to force a relative to remain single, especially
when she is forty-three and can't hope for a brilliant match. So in spite of
all the cackling in the barnyard, he said yes."
"Are you
serious, Péguilin?"
"I couldn't be
more so."
"I am sorry for
it."
"You shouldn't
be. I'm as good as that great ulcerous hog, the King of Portugal, who once was
intriguing for her hand, or the Prince of Silesia, a babe in swaddling clothes,
who was also one of her suitors."
"I'm not sorry
for her, but for you."
She stopped to regard
his familiar face in which youth still lingered and his eyes still sparkled in
spite of the creases in their lids.
"What a
pity!" she sighed.
"I shall be Duc
de Montpensier," Péguilin went on, "and get all kinds of wonderful
perquisites thereby. In the marriage contract Mademoiselle is turning over
nearly twenty millions to me. His Majesty is writing all the courts of Europe
to announce his cousin's marriage. Angélique, sometimes I think I'm dreaming.
In all my wildest ambitions I never dared aim so high. The King will be my
cousin! I can't even believe it yet. That's why I'm scared and why I need your
help."
"I don't see
what for. Everything seems to be going your way."
"Alas, fortune
is fickle. Until I am wedded to the lovely princess, I shan't sleep soundly. I
have plenty of enemies, beginning with the royal family and the princes of the
blood. Condé and his son the Duc d'Enghien are furious with me. Couldn't you
use some of your charm on the one hand to calm down the prince, who thinks very
highly of you, and on the other reassure the King lest he yield to all their
protests? Madame de Montespan has already promised me her support, but I can't
be sure of her. In this kind of politics two mistresses are better than
one."
"I am not the
King's mistress, Péguilin."
He flipped his head
from side to side like a mockingbird getting ready for a flourish. "Maybe
that's good and maybe that's bad," he sing-songed.
They had come out of
the gardens and up to the gates of the great courtyard. From inside a coach a
man's voice hailed them.
"From all I can
see, you are very much in demand," said Péguilin. "I don't want to
stand in your way. But can I count on your help?"
"Absolutely not.
Anything I could do would only be to your disadvantage."
"Don't refuse
me. You don't know what power you have. You don't want to admit, but you can't
fool an old courtier like me. I mean it, you can get the King to do
anything."
"Don't be
silly."
"You just don't
understand, I keep telling you. You are like a thorn in the King's heart,
causing him exquisite pain, so disconcerting a feeling that he doesn't know
what to make of it. No sooner does he think he has you, than you're gone. And
he is surprised to find that when you're gone he suffers indescribable
torments."
"Torments whose
name is Madame de Montespan . . ."
"Madame de
Montespan is a tidbit, a sure meal, a hearty supper of meat and wit, everything
a monarch needs to gratify his senses and his vanity. He needs her, and he has
her. But you . . . you are a spring in a desert. . . the dream of someone who
has never dreamed . . . the mystery of mysteries . . . longing, surprise,
yearning . . . the simplest woman in the whole world . . . and the most
unfathomable . . . the nearest and yet the farthest . . . the unassailable . .
. the unforgettable." Péguilin thrust his hand sadly into the lace
of his jabot.
"You talk almost
as well as the Persian ambassador. I'm beginning to see how you lured poor
Mademoiselle on."
"Won't you
promise to speak to the King on my behalf?"
"If I get a
chance I will help you. Now, let me go, Péguilin. I must join the Queen."
"She needs you
less than I do. Besides here is someone else who is determined to usurp you for
His Majesty's service."
Out of the coach from
which the voice had hailed them a man was hastily descending and was striving to
join them.
"It's
Colbert," said Péguilin. "He has nothing to say to me. I can't juggle
money."
"I am happy to
have found you so soon," said the minister. "I am going to talk with
His Majesty right now, and later
we will call you into
conference."
"What if His
Majesty doesn't care to hear me . . ."
"It would be
only a whim—perhaps justified—but he will listen to me. Come, Madame."
Colbert's optimism turned out to be premature. His interview with
the King took longer than was necessary for a simple explanation. He had asked
Angélique to wait for him on a bench in the Salon of Peace. There she saw
coming toward her her brother Raymond de Sancé, his tall figure in its austere
black soutane contrasting with the brightly costumed crowd of courtiers. She
had had no occasion to see him since she married Philippe. Was he coming to
offer her his condolences as a brother? He did so, but she quickly perceived
such was not his sole purpose.
"My dear sister,
you must be surprised to see me come looking for you at Court, where my
ministry seldom brings me."
"But I thought
you had been made almoner, or something like that, to the Queen."
"Father Joseph
was appointed instead of me. My superiors preferred to make me head of our house
in Melun."
"That means . .
."
"That I am
Father Superior, or something like that," he smiled. "Of our Order's
foreign missions, particularly in the Orient."
"Aha, Father
Richard . . ."
"Exactly!"
"Baktiari Bey .
. . his refusal to ride in a coach . . . the blunders of Saint-Amen . . . the
King's failure to understand and the crises both spiritual and material that
have resulted . . ."
"Angélique, I
have always admired your quick thinking."
"Thank you,
Raymond dear, but in this emergency I would have been at a loss if I had not
got the point."
"Let's come to
the point. Father Richard, with whom I have just been talking, thinks you are
the only person who can possibly set matters straight."
"I am terribly
sorry, Raymond, but this is a bad time. I'm on the verge of disgrace."
"But the King
welcomed you back with many honors. I heard you got a footstool."
"That's true.
But what do you expect? The whims of the great are very changeable."
"It's far less a question of the King's
whims than of the ambassador's. Father Richard hasn't even known what saint to
pray to ever since they came to France. First the mistake was made of sending
Saint-Amen to the ambassador. He is a diplomat if you want to call him so, but
he is a Protestant, and unfortunately the teachings of that persuasion are
diametrically opposed to those of the Orientals. Hence all this conglomeration
of misunderstandings that have ended in the present crisis from which neither the
King nor the ambassador can withdraw without losing face.
You see, your visit
yesterday pulled the trigger. The ambassador now seems to want to see
Versailles and to speak deferentially with the King, and he now appears to
understand that French customs can be different from his and not wholly
designed to heap insults upon him. It is thanks to your visit that Father
Richard has noticed this change for the better. 'Women,' he told me, 'sometimes
are more subtle and have more instinctive wisdom than we men can achieve with
all our logic' He confessed it had never occurred to him to boast about the
porcelains or the flowers at Versailles as a means of persuading the ambassador
to present his credentials. 'Orientals,'
he said to me, 'are sensitive to an intelligent woman because in certain
respects she can come closer to their way of thinking than we Western men with
our coldly mathematical minds.' In short, he asked me to entreat you to
continue your happy intervention. You might return to Suresnes some day soon
and perhaps bring with you a kindly message from the King . . . who knows,
perhaps even an invitation. You see, you are neither afraid of His Excellency
nor offensively inquisitive as so many other French people who have met him
have been."
"Why should I act so foolishly?"
Angélique said, fondling the turquoise on her finger. "The Persian is
perfectly charming, except for his hobby of wanting to cut off everyone's head.
But don't you think, Raymond, that I am putting my soul in danger more than my
life?"
The Jesuit looked at
his sister with amusement. "You don't have to compromise your virtue, just
use your influence."
"What a nice
little distinction! So the twenty-six missions in Persia are well worth a few
languorous looks for the envoy of the Shah of Shahs?"
The face of the
Reverend Father de Sancé" did not change expression. A smile still
flickered around the corners of his mouth.
"You have
nothing to fear, I see," he said, "for there is nothing in this world
that can frighten you. You have acquired a new weapon since last we met—you've
become cynical."
"I live at
Court, Raymond."
"Are you trying
to blame me for that? Where else could you live, Angélique? What world do you
think you were made for? The country? A convent?"
He was still smiling,
but in the hard light of his eyes she
could see the might of a sword designed to pierce human beings to their very
souls.
"You are right,
Raymond. So the Persian stakes are worth this much?"
"If Baktiari Bey
goes back empty-handed, we will be expelled at once from all the missions we
established, not without hardship, during the last regime under the impetus of
Richelieu. We have missions in the Caucasus, at Tiflis, Batum, Baku, and so
on."
"Have you
converted many?"
"It's not so
much a matter of the number of converts we have made as it is of our just being
there. Not to mention the Armenian Catholic minorities or the Syrian ones who
need us."
Angélique had spread
her fan open on her knees. The one she had chosen that morning was of silk
painted with exotic landscapes in which, in an oval surrounded with pearls,
stood a representative of each of the five continents—an Indian with ostrich
feathers in his hair, a Negro riding a lion into the lair of a dragon . . .
Colbert interrupted
them as they were studying it.
"Nothing can be
done," he said defeatedly. "The King is so furious with you I'm
surprised to see you still at Court. He does not even want to hear about your
visit."
"Didn't I warn
you?"
She
introduced her brother, the Reverend Father Raymond de Sancé. Although he
denied it, Colbert was not without distrust of the Company of Jesus and its
members. His cunning took measure of their intelligence and how capable they
were of blocking his plans. But his face lit up when he was given to understand
that this Jesuit was bringing grist to his mill. When he was informed of the
situation Raymond de Sancé did not take it as such a tragedy.
"I think I
detect the real reason for the King's displeasure with you. You have refused to
tell him the reason for your visit."
"I shall tell no
one."
"I daresay. I
know how stubborn you can be, my dear Angélique. But if you refuse the King,
how can you expect him to be any more indulgent to us? Can't we find some plausible reason which will
explain your uncompromising attitude? Let's see. Ah, I've got it! Why not give
him the same reason you gave me just now? You went to Suresnes at my request to
establish contact with Father Richard, whose delicate situation kept him from
receiving me in person among those suspicious Mohammedans. What do you think of
that, Monsieur Colbert?"
"I think it will
work if it is well handled."
"Reverend Father
Joseph, of our Order, is an almoner of the King's. I'll go and get him right
away. What do you think, Angélique?"
"I think you
Jesuits are just as extraordinary as my friend the police chief Desgrez says
they are."
As they strode away
from her down the long hall she was amused to see how their outlines were
reflected in the highly polished wood of the floor—the thickset statesman and
the slender priest.
Suddenly she realized
that there were no more passers-by. She was aware that she was terribly hungry.
Doubtless it must be quite late. All the Court must be at the King's dinner.
She decided to go there too, but she continued to stare dreamily at her fan.
"I have been
looking for you," a timid female voice said in her ear.
Angélique could not
reconcile it with its owner, the Grande Mademoiselle, whom she looked up to see
bending over her. What had so transformed the authoritative tones of the
granddaughter of Henri IV?
"It must be her
marriage," she thought as she hastened to make her curtsy.
Mademoiselle made her sit down beside her and took her hand with
emotion. "My dear, have you heard the news?"
"Who has not
heard it or is not delighted with it? Will Your Highness allow me sincerely to
wish you the greatest happiness?"
"Haven't I made
a lucky choice? Tell me, is there any other nobleman as brave and brilliant?
Don't you find him delightful? Aren't you a great friend of his?"
"I certainly
am," said Angélique, remembering the incident at Fontainebleau.
But Mademoiselle's
memory was apparently short and there seemed to be no veiled allusions in her
words. "If you only knew what a trance I've been in ever since the King
gave his approval! And how worried!"
"Why, indeed?
You have his assurance, so enjoy your happiness. The King cannot go back on his
word."
"I wish I could
be as sure as you," sighed Mademoiselle de Montpensier.
Her haughty head
drooped with uncustomary tenderness. Her bosom was still as handsome as when
Van Ossel had painted her portrait to be sent to all the royal suitors of
Europe. Her hands were graceful, and her pretty blue eyes shone with the
childish wonder of a young girl in her first love affair.
Angélique smiled at
her. "How pretty you look, Your Highness."
"Really? How
sweet of you to say so! I am so happy my face must show it. But I tremble at
the thought that the King may revoke his promise before the marriage contract
is signed. That fool Marie-Thérèse and my cousin Orléans and his pest of a wife
are in league to ruin my plans. They do nothing but howl about it all day long.
If you love me, try to defeat their arguments to the King."
"Alas,
Your Highness, I. . ."
"You have a great
deal of influence over the King's mind."
"But what good
does it do to boast of a great influence over the King's mind?" Angélique
exclaimed irritably. "You know him. You should know that he never follows
any judgment but his own. He listens to opinions but when he makes a decision
it is not because he has been influenced, as you suggest. It is because that
decision seems right to him. The King is never of your turn of mind, but rather
you are of the King's."
"So you refuse
to intervene for me? I did my best for you a long time ago when you were in
such trouble when your first husband was accused of sorcery."
So Mademoiselle's
memory was not so short after all Angélique snapped her fan shut so abruptly
she almost broke it. Finally she promised that if the occasion arose she would
try to find out how the King felt about the matter. Then she asked leave to
withdraw to get some soup or a roll, for she had not eaten since the night
before, had not even found time for a glass of wine after Mass.
"You
cannot!" said the Grande Mademoiselle taking her arm to drag her along.
"The King is going to receive the Doge of Genoa and his suite in the
Throne Room. Then there's going to be a raffle and a great display of
fireworks. The King wants all the ladies there to do him honor. And especially you!
If you don't come, we'll run the risk of seeing him in another temper like
yesterday when you went running off Lord knows where."
That night Angélique
was deep in a dream that for some time now had frequently repeated itself. She
was lying in the grass of a meadow, and was cold. As she tried to pull the
grass over her she found she was naked. Then she waited for the sun to come out
from behind white, white clouds that drifted lazily in a deep blue sky. At last
its rays warmed her body and she relaxed in a complete sense of well-being and
extreme happiness until she observed that it was not a sunbeam caressing her,
but a hand on her shoulder. At once she was cold again, and she kept saying to
herself: "Of course it's cold because it's winter. But then, why is the
grass so green?" And she would be confused by the chill of the weather and
the green of the grass until she woke up shivering and rubbing her shoulder
where she could still feel the touch of a soft warm palm.
This particular night
the dream awoke her again. Her teeth were chattering. She pulled back up over
her the bedclothes she had kicked off as she tossed in her dream. She was so
cold that she debated calling for one of the Gilandon girls, who were sleeping
in the next room, to light her fire.
Her apartment at
Versailles comprised two rooms and a
little bathroom whose mosaic-tiled floor sloped toward the center permitting
the water to drain away through a hole in the middle. Angélique decided she
would warm herself up by taking a footbath in lavender water. The water in the
kettle on the chafing dish was warm from the charcoal embers beneath it. She
flung back the bed curtains and groped with her feet for her blue satin
slippers lined with marabou.
Arius barked.
"Shh!"
The silvery chime of
a clock tinkled in the distance telling Angélique that she could not have been
asleep for long. Indeed, it was hardly midnight. For a brief spell the great
palace of Versailles was quiet, seeking respite from the balls, the late
suppers, the enchantment of the nighttime entertainments.
Angélique had to get
down on her hands and knees to search for her slippers. In doing so she
discovered at her left near the bed-alcove a little door betrayed by the thin
line of light that outlined its shape. She had never noticed it before; only
the flickering light of a candle behind it revealed it to her now. Someone must
be on the other side groping for the bolt. Then there was a tiny click, and the
beam of light widened to cast the shadow of a man on the opposite wall.
"Who's there?
Who are you?"
"Bontemps, the
King's valet. Don't be afraid, Madame."
"Oh yes, now I
recognize you. What do you want of me?"
"His Majesty
wishes to see you."
"At this
hour?"
"Yes,
Madame."
Without another word Angélique threw on her
dressing gown. The little apartment "Reserved" for Madame du
Plessis-Bellière was luxuriously furnished, but not without its traps.
"May I ask you
to wait a moment, Monsieur Bontemps? I should like to dress."
"Certainly,
Madame. But please be so good as not to wake your attendants. His Majesty
wishes us to be as
discreet as possible and to
let the existence of this private door be known only to a very few people we
can trust."
"I shall be
careful."
She lit a candle for
herself from Bontemps, and went into the adjoining room.
"There's nothing
in this world that can frighten you," Raymond had told her. He was right.
Her hazardous life had taught her to face up to danger rather than run from it.
If her teeth were chattering, it was from cold, not fright.
"Monsieur
Bontemps, will you oblige me by helping me hook up my dress, please."
Louis XIV's valet
bowed and set his candlestick on a table. Angélique was very considerate of this
pleasant little man who performed his unenviable tasks without seeming in the
least servile. He was responsible for the King's household and for the feeding
and lodging of the entire Court. Louis could not have done without him and
burdened him with a thousand and one petty duties. Rather than bother his
master at awkward moments, Bontemps frequently paid for things out of his own
pocket. The King already owed him seven thousand pistoles that he had
advanced him at the gaming tables and the raffles.
Angélique brushed a little rouge on her
cheeks. Her cloak was in the next room, where her chaperones were sleeping. She
shrugged her shoulders. "So much the worse," she said. "I'm
ready, Monsieur Bontemps."
She had a hard time
squeezing her full heavy skirts through the secret doorway, which closed behind
them noiselessly. She found herself in a narrow passageway hardly higher or
wider than a man. Bontemps led her up a little winding staircase, then down
three steps to a kind of tunnel that wound darkly ahead of them. As they
twisted along it she noticed many doors which presumably led to secret rooms,
and wondered what mysterious occupants they were designed for, or what trysts.
This was an aspect of
Versailles she had never imagined—of spies and secret meetings, visits
incognito, secret conferences, clandestine rendezvous—an arcane Versailles
sealed in its own thick walls and entwining its invisible coils around the
great golden rooms that gleamed and glittered with a light like day.
They crossed one last
buried room in which a bench and a tapestried hassock seemed to await some
subterranean guests, and came to a door that opened into a much larger room
whose steeply vaulted ceiling indicated that it belonged to some extensive
apartment. As she looked around her, Angélique recognized the King's conference
chamber. Two six-branched candelabra on a black marble table that reflected
their flames revealed the sovereign bent studiously over his papers. Two big
greyhounds were asleep by the embers on the hearth. They stirred and growled
lazily, then curled up again.
Bontemps poked up the
fire and threw another log on it, then
melted away into the wall like a shadow.
Louis XIV, still
grasping his pen, looked up. Angélique saw him smile.
"Pray be seated,
Madame."
She perched
apprehensively on the edge of an armchair. There was a dead silence in the
room, any noise from the outside being muffled by heavy blue draperies at the
windows and the doors.
At length the King
rose and stood before her, his arms crossed. "So, you have not yet given
the signal for attack? Not a word? Not a protest? Even at being dragged out of
bed? Aren't you even cross?"
"Sire, I am at
Your Majesty's service."
"Why so humble
all of a sudden? Where is your usual stinging reply? What caprice is
this?"
"Your Majesty
makes me out to be a harpy, and puts me to shame. Is that what you think of me,
Sire?"
The King did not give
her a direct answer. "Reverend Father Joseph has been extolling your
abilities to me for over an hour. He is a man of good judgment and a liberal
mind, and I appreciate his advice. It would be ungracious of me not to forgive
you now that I know the best minds of the Church have put you under the
protection of their indulgence. Now, what have I said that makes you smile so
sardonically?"
"I didn't expect
to be awakened at this hour of the night to hear your austere almoner
praised."
The King laughed.
"Little witch!"
"Soliman
Baktiari Bey calls me Fouzoul-Khanoum."
"What does that
mean?"
"The same thing.
Isn't that proof that the King of France and the ambassador of the Shah of
Persia can think alike?"
"We shall see
about that." He held out his hands to her, palms up. "Little toy, pay
homage to your sovereign."
With a smile
Angélique laid her hands in his. "I pledge my allegiance to the King of
France, whose liege-woman and vassal I am."
"That's better.
Now, come here."
He helped her rise,
and led her around to his side of the table. It was spread with a big open map
on which was a wide expanse of blue among the lines of latitude and longitude
and puffing cherubs at each of the four principal points of the compass. On the
blue were inscribed in letters of white and gold enscrolled with many a
flourish, the mighty words "Mare Nostrum-Mater Nostra," the
old name still given by geographers to the Mediterranean, the cradle of
civilization: "Our Sea-Our Mother."
The King pointed out
several places with his finger. "Here is France. There, Malta; there,
Candia, the last stronghold of Christianity. Then we encounter the power of the
Turks. And, as you can see, Persia is over there—that lion against a rising sun
between the crescent of Turkey and the tiger of Asia."
"Did Your
Majesty summon me here at this late hour to talk about Persia?"
"Did you want us
to talk about something else perhaps?"
Angélique shook her
head, keeping her eyes on the map and refusing to look him in the eye.
"No, let's talk
about Persia, then. What interest does France have in that far-off land?"
"An interest
that cannot be without interest to you, Madame.
Silk. Did you know that three-quarters of our imports come from there?"
"I did not know.
That's a lot. Why do we need so much silk in France? What will we do with
it?"
The King burst out
laughing. "Do with it? You, a woman, ask that? My dear, how do you think
we could get along without our brocades, our satins, our stockings at
twenty-five livres a pair, our ribbons, our chasubles? Do without bread,
rather! That's the way the French are. Their great business is not in spices,
or oil, or wheat, or hardware, or any other vulgar things like that, but in
fashion.
"In my father's
time Richelieu tried to make dress simpler. You know what happened. He
succeeded only in raising the prices of materials because they had to be
smuggled in and thus were harder to come by. Now, this is where the shoe
pinches and why a new commercial treaty with the Shah of Persia is important:
the French must have silk, but it is too costly. It's a ruinous
enterprise." He ticked off the reasons. "Duty to the Persians. Toll
to the Turks for bringing goods through their country. Toll to various other
intermediary agents—Genoa, Metz, Provence. We need another arrangement."
"Doesn't
Monsieur Colbert envision replacing these huge imports with a local
manufacture? He told me he was planning to convert the factories of
Lyons."
"That will take
a long time. We have not yet learned the secret of the oriental methods of
manufacturing brocade and lamé. The mulberry trees I ordered planted in the
South will not mature for many years."
"And they will
not produce a silk like Persian silk for us. They bear black berries, whereas
in Persia the silkworms feed on the white-berried trees which grow on their
high plateaus."
"How do you know
so much about it?"
"His Excellency
Baktiari Bey told me."
"So he talked to
you about the silk business? Then he must suspect it is an important part of
our negotiations. Did he seem to know much about our problem?"
"He is a very
literate man, something of a poet, and highly
civilized—in his own way. He has the ear of the Shah of Persia, thanks to his
gifts as a courtier, but he has other talents as well which may be less
appreciated in his own country but are more of a threat to us. He is an
excellent businessman, unusual though that is for a man of his rank, for the
Persian nobles have in general let all their business go to the Armenians and
Syrians."
The King sighed
resignedly. "I guess I will have to yield to the opinions of Colbert and
Father Joseph after all. You certainly seem to be the only one able to untangle
this unholy mess over silk."
They looked at each
other and laughed like fellow-conspirators bound by a tie there was no need to
mention. The King's eyes began to gleam.
"Angélique . .
." he said in a hollow voice. Then, in his natural tone: "Everyone I
sent to him has reported nothing but asininities. Both Tercy and Saint-Amen
have described him as a gross barbarian, unable to adapt himself to our customs
or treat the King, his host, with due respect. Now my intuition tells me you
have properly depicted him as a shrewd and cunning man, refined but
ruthless."
"I am sure,
Sire, that if you had been able to meet him yourself, instead of your
ambassadors, these difficulties would not have arisen. You have a gift for
detecting a person's true character at a glance."
"Alas, there are
certain things kings cannot do for themselves, but they have to know how to
choose the right person for a job. This is the first and most important element
in making a ruler great. I made a mistake in not selecting carefully enough the
men I sent to the ambassador as my representatives. Saint-Amen, whom I
appointed chief of protocol, seemed the proper person, and I did not take his
liabilities into account. He is a Huguenot, and like all others of his
persuasion he has a mean, suspicious nature that is more inclined to think of
his principles than compromise them for the sake of his country's interests.
This isn't the first time I have pondered the nature of these Protestants. The
most devout are uncontrollable because of the curious rigidity of their creed. Hereafter I shall be
cautious about having any more of them in important positions."
He made a gesture
with his hand signifying an impassable barrier. Then his face softened.
"You have been kind enough, Madame, to come to our rescue in time."
"That's not the
way Your Majesty was talking this morning."
"I admit it. It
was small of me not to want to confess I had been wrong. I know what I must
have and what I must avoid. You have shown me the surest way of getting what I
want. If we do not arrive at some understanding with the Shah of Persia's
ambassador, it's extremely likely that he will expel our Jesuits and keep us
from all the silk of his mulberry trees. The fate of both issues is in your
hands."
Angélique’s eyes fell
on her turquoise. "What am I to do? What part shall I play?"
"Find out what
the prince is thinking and then let me know how I should deal with him so as to
avoid any further blunders. If you possibly can, find out in advance what traps
he is setting for us."
"In a word, seduce him. Try to cut off
his hair like Delilah?"
The King smiled.
"I leave it to you to decide what may be necessary."
Angélique bit her
lip. "This is not an easy assignment. It will take a lot of time."
"That's of small
importance."
"I thought
everyone was in a hurry to have the ambassador present his credentials."
"Everyone but
me. To tell the truth, when they told me at the very beginning that Baktiari
Bey was hesitant about doing so, I was annoyed. Since then I have let things
drift, and now, on the contrary, I want the interview postponed. I want first
to receive the Russian ambassador, who is on his way. I can speak more freely
with the Persian afterward. If the Russians agree, we can establish a new overland
route for the silk and thus protect ourselves from the depredations of the
Turks and the Genoese and others like them."
"So the bales of
merchandise will no longer come by sea?"
"No, they will
follow the ancient route of the Tartars that the merchants of Samarkand take
into Europe. Look, here is the new route I have been sketching—by way of the
Caucasian steppes, the Ukraine, Bessarabia, Hungary. Thereafter by these lands
that belong to my cousin the King of Bavaria. When all is said and done, it
will cost less on the whole than the raids of the Barbary pirates and the
ruinous tolls we have to pay when using the sea route."
As they both leaned
over the map following this extraordinary route their heads touched. Angélique
felt the King's curls brush against her cheek. She straightened up quickly in
alarm. A tremor ran through her. She went around the table to sit down again
opposite the King, noticing that during their conversation the fire had died
down. She began to shiver and wished she had brought her cloak. Now she would
have to wait until the King himself indicated she might leave. This he did not
seem disposed to do. He kept on talking about the plans of Colbert for the
factories of Lyons and Marseilles.
Finally he stopped.
"You aren't listening. What's the matter with you?"
Angélique was hugging
her arms to keep warm and did not answer at once. Being of an extremely rugged
constitution, the King was oblivious to cold, heat and fatigue, and rarely
noticed that those who had the honor of being in his company minded them. To
complain about them put him in a bad humor and often resulted in disgrace. Old
Madame de Chaulnes had once expressed herself on the subject during a military
review in an icy wind, and had been told to "nurse her rheumatism in her
own castle."
"What's the
matter?" the King insisted. "You seem lost in some plot or other. I
trust you are not going to insult me by refusing the mission I have just
entrusted to you."
"By no means,
Sire. If such had been my intention I would not have listened to you. Does Your
Majesty think I could be capable of disloyalty?"
"I think you are
capable of anything," the King said soberly. "Do you think you may
fail me?"
"No
indeed."
"Then what is
the trouble? Why have you suddenly become so abstracted?"
"I'm
freezing."
The King looked
astonished. "Freezing?"
"The fire has
gone out, Sire. It's the dead of winter, and it's two o'clock in
the morning."
An amused surprise
was discernible on the features of Louis XIV. "So there is a trace of
weakness in you? I have never heard anyone complain so."
"No one dares
to, Sire. They're all afraid of displeasing you."
"But you . .
."
"I am afraid
too, but I'm more afraid of getting sick. Now then, how shall I execute Your
Majesty's orders?"
The King smiled at
her thoughtfully, and for the first time she sensed that within his proud heart
there was a little tenderness.
"Good," he
said decisively. "I want to talk with you some more, but I don't want to
kill you."
He peeled off his
thick brown velvet coat and draped it about her shoulders. She sniffed its male
smell mingled with the orris root perfume he loved and which characterized his
prestige and the awe he inspired. It gave her an almost sensuous pleasure to
pull the gold-braided lapels of the coat over her breast. The hand the King
laid on her shoulder warmed her like the hand in her dream. She closed her eyes
for a moment, then opened them again.
The King was on his
knees by the hearth, efficiently poking at the logs and fanning the embers till
they sprang into blaze.
"Bontemps is
catching a little sleep," he said by way of explanation for his
incongruous occupation. "I don't want to let anyone else in on the secrecy
of our conference."
He got to his feet
and dusted off his hands. Angélique was looking at him as if he were a stranger
who had suddenly appeared in the room. In his shirtsleeves, his long embroidered
waistcoat emphasizing his manly chest, he looked like a friendly young
tradesman who had experienced some hard times during his poverty-ridden life.
The discomfort of camp life, retreats over mud-rutted roads, the wretched
draughty castles in which the Court had taken refuge during its exodus in 1649,
straw pallets to sleep on—was that when the young king in tattered breeches had
learned how to build a fire to get warm?
Angélique would
never be able to see him in the same light again. He too saw that, and, smiled
at her.
"At this hour of the night we can
forget the rules of etiquette. Kings lead a hard life accounting for every one
of their actions and gestures to the whole world, and, I might add, to future
ages. It's an obligatory discipline for them, and for all who surround them and
watch them, to submit to rules that never permit them to falter but always live
up to what is expected of them. Night brings them the escape they must have.
It's then I sometimes remember who and what I am." As he finished, he
raised his hands to his face as if to rediscover his own features.
"Is this
the face he shows his mistresses?' asked Angélique.
Suddenly the
idea struck her that Madame de Montespan was not worthy of him.
"At night I
become a man again," the King went on. "I rather like to withdraw to
this office and work here in peace and quiet. Think, yawn, talk to my dogs
without having to watch that everything I say may be recorded for
history." He was stroking the head of his greyhound. "At night I can
meet anyone I want without immediately arousing the courtiers' feelings which
can lead to a palace revolution or even to international complications. Yes,
night is a king's best friend."
He fell silent,
standing before her and leaning on the table in a languid attitude with his
feet crossed. His hands were relaxed, for he had no need to make eloquent
gestures with them. Angélique felt her admiration growing for this man who
slept so little and whose days were a continual round of work, yes, but also
meeting people,
dancing,
walking, hunting, getting embroiled in weighty complications, giving his
attention to the smallest details, never showing the least exhaustion.
"I love to
see you look at me," the King said suddenly. "A woman who looks at a
man that way inspires him with courage and pride, and when that man is a king,
it makes him want to conquer
the world."
Angélique
laughed. "Your people do not require so much of you, Sire. For you to keep
them at peace and their frontiers safe is enough for them, it seems to me.
France does not demand that you be another Alexander the Great."
"That's
where you are wrong. Empires endure only in proportion to their growth—by
eternal vigilance and by hard work. Never believe that the obligations I have
mentioned to you are burdensome to me. It is a fine thing to be a king, and
pleasing to one who desires to quit himself well in all he undertakes.
Naturally, it is not free of hardship, pain and anxiety. It's the uncertainty
that what he does may not be right that makes him despair. He must be quick to
follow the way he believes is best. Still, I must say that responsibility
agrees with me. . .
"To keep
one's eyes wide open over all the earth . . . to keep eternally posted on the
latest happenings in every province and every nation . . . to discover the
weaknesses in every court and every foreign prince and minister. . .to be aware
of an infinite number of things that he is thought to know nothing of . .. to uncover among his own subjects what they
think they have best concealed . . . to search out the secret opinions of all
courtiers and their most insignificant concerns that are reported through
opposing interests . . . to note some progress every day in glorious
enterprises and the prosperity of the people for whom they have been undertaken
. . . I don't know of any other pleasure I would exchange for it if I had the
chance. But I must stop, Madame. I am abusing your patience and your attention.
I can see the moment coming when you will look me straight in the eye and say
'I'm sleepy.' "
"But I have
been listening to you most attentively."
"I know that.
Forgive me for teasing you. That's why I like to have you near me—you know how
to listen so well. You can say, 'Who doesn't listen to the King? Everyone is
silent when he speaks.' It's true, but there are many ways of listening and
often I see only a servile audience, saying yes in stupid acquiescence. But you
listen with your heart, with all the faculties of your intelligence and with a
desire to understand. That is very dear to me. It is often hard for me to find
someone to talk to when I desperately need to talk. One's mind clarifies its
thoughts by speaking them. Once one is talking, one's mind unconsciously goes
from topic to topic far better than in solitary meditation, and that is
exciting and gratifying. When there is someone to argue with, then the mind
finds a thousand new expedients. But that's enough for now. I shan't keep you
longer."
On a bench behind the
secret door Bontemps was dozing in the light and fitful sleep of all servants.
He was on his feet at once. Angélique retraced her way through the dark
labyrinth, and once she had reached her rooms sent back the King's coat by his
valet.
The candle she had
left burning in her bedroom was guttering and casting weird shadows on the
ceiling. By its light Angélique could discern a pale face against the wall and
two hands holding a rosary on a lap. The older of the Gilandon girls was
piously waiting for the return of her mistress.
"What are you
doing there?" Angélique said in considerable annoyance. "I did not
have you called."
"The dog was
barking. I imagined you might need something, and when you did not answer I was
afraid you were sick."
"I might just
have been asleep. You have too much imagination, Marie-Anne. It's a nuisance.
Do I have to tell you not to mention this?"
"Of course not,
Madame. Do you need anything?"
"Well, since
you're up, you might rekindle the fire and put some hot coals into the warming
pan to heat up my bed. I'm frozen."
"At least she
won't think I'm fresh out of someone else's bed," Angélique said to
herself. "But still she has an
imagination. What if she recognized Bontemps when he held the door for me . .
."
She crawled into bed,
but the sleep she hoped for did not come. In barely three hours Madame Hamelin,
the old nurse, would pass through the corridors of Versailles in her lace cap
to draw back the curtains of the royal bed, and Louix XIV's day would begin.
His melodious voice
still sounded in her ears as he revealed his thoughts, so private and yet so
universal. She thought of how there was something heroic in him, like the
princes of the Italian Renaissance, for like them he was young, self-confident,
attractive, loved glory and beauty. The echoes of his voice haunted her. He had
made her more a prisoner by his speeches that night than by all his kisses.
chapter 19
BAKTIARI BEY leaped briskly into the saddle. Ceres appeared
quite at ease under her exotic harness with its wide stirrups, and did not
throw a glance at Angélique, who had just arrived at Suresnes.
The Persian horsemen
with daggers on their chests and scimitars at their sides advanced down the
avenue under the gray trees. All held long sticks painted in bright colors as
they formed a semi-circle about the prince. He took a stick from his page, and
rising in his wide, gold-fringed stirrups, led the whole troop behind him in a
trot. The riders disappeared behind the foliage of the little park.
Angélique felt
humiliated at being left behind on the steps of the house without a word,
although she had had her visit announced the same morning. Agobian, the
Armenian, who had remained with her, said:
"They are going
to come back. They will divide in front of you into two parallel columns and
then you will see their stick drill. That is a contest which our warriors have
been practicing since long ago. His Excellency ordered it as a ceremony in your
honor."
Indeed the riders had
not gone far away. They could be heard stopping outside the village, then
breaking into a trot and then into a frenzied gallop. They reappeared in two
lines, yelling and whirling their heavy sticks in the air. Some were so
skillful they could throw themselves under their horses' bellies and
immediately regain their saddles without falling to the ground.
"We call that
trick djiguits and one of the best at it is His Excellency himself. But
he is not showing off all he can do for fear of frightening his new horse. It
must grieve him not to be able to demonstrate his skill to you, Madame,"
explained the Armenian.
When they came
abreast of the steps, the two lines of djiguits stopped cold, making
several of the horses skid on the snow. The lines ranged themselves on the
grass on opposite sides of the avenue like two armies. At a signal from
Baktiari Bey they descended on each other, furiously whirling their sticks;
then as they crashed together each rider stuck his stick under his arm like a
lance to unseat his opponent or make him drop his weapon. Then the two sides
separated, rode off, and dashed together again to renew the contest. Riders who
were unseated or lost their weapons retired to the sidelines.
In spite of the
inexperience of his horse the ambassador was among the last to retire, not that
his opponents showed him any favoritism, but because he was stronger and more
agile than they. When the mock battle was over, he rode up to his guest with a
smile on his brown face.
"His Excellency
would like you to understand that this has been the favorite sport of our
nation since the time of the Medes. It existed even in King Darius' reign. We
probably got the custom from Samarkand, the capital of Turkestan, where a
brilliant civilization once flourished."
In public Baktiari
Bey pretended ignorance of French and relied on his interpreter. Angélique did
not wish to be left behind in matters of erudition.
"The French
knights of the Middle Ages used to engage in tournaments like that," she
remarked.
"They brought
the custom back from their crusades."
"Soon,"
thought Angélique, "they are going to make me believe we owe our
civilization to them." Then on reflection she realized that, as a matter
of fact, it was almost true. She knew little enough about it, but she had heard
enough sermons to have learned quite a few things about ancient civilizations.
Heir to the brilliant history of the Assyrians, Baktiari Bey had not yet
realized he now belonged to a backward people.
Angélique now understood what were
non-controversial topics of conversation. Horses was one of them. His
Excellency praised Ceres once again.
"He says he has
never seen a horse in his own country so tame and yet so spirited. The King of
France has indeed honored him with such a gift. At home we might offer a royal
princess in exchange for such a horse."
Angélique said it was
a Spanish horse.
"That's a
country I should greatly like to visit," said the ambassador.
But he had no regrets,
for his embassy had allowed him to meet not only the most powerful sovereign of
the West, but also the beautiful women who frequented the court of this great
monarch, and that was fair enough. Angélique took advantage of his good humor
to ask when he would appear before "this great monarch."
Baktiari Bey grew
thoughtful. With a sigh he explained that that depended partly upon his
astrologer and partly on the degree of dignity with which his embassy would be
received.
While they were
talking they had entered the house and gone into the salon, which had been
redecorated in the oriental style. As soon as the curtains at the doorway had
fallen behind them, he began to speak in French again.
"I cannot
present myself before the King except in a ceremony that would be worthy of him
and of the ruler who sent me."
"Isn't that what
our . . . grand vizier, the Marquis de Tercy, proposed?"
"Not at
all!" exploded the Persian. "He wanted to take me there like a
prisoner in a coach surrounded by infidel guards, and then he pretended, that
arrant liar of a vizier's lackey, that I ought to present myself before the
King bareheaded. That is not only undignified but insolent. In such an instance
one should remain covered as in a mosque before God Himself."
"Our customs are
just the reverse. We take off our hats before God in our churches. I suppose if
a Frenchman wore shoes in front of your king you would make him take them
off."
"True. And if he
had an insufficient escort we would furnish him with one. . . to do him honor .
. . and preserve the dignity of our Shah. Your king is a great ruler. He must
honor me by granting me a triumphal entry, worthy of his own prestige, or
else I must return without having accomplished my mission."
Angélique dared
ask: "Wouldn't you risk
disgrace by failing to accomplish your mission?"
"I would risk my
head. But I would prefer that to public dishonor before your people."
She understood that
it was a more serious situation than anyone realized. "It will be
arranged," she said.
"I don't
know."
"It must be
arranged. Or else I shall have brought bad luck to your house."
"Bravo!"
shouted the Persian.
"Furthermore I
will have committed the crime of making the holy man of your household lie, for
he assured me I would not harm you, and if you should lose your head, that
would be proof of his faulty prophecy. It would be a great humiliation for him.
Am I wrong, Your Excellency? I am only a woman, and a foreign one at that."
"You are not
wrong," said Baktiari Bey soberly, "and your intelligence surpasses
even your beauty. If my mission is successful I know what gift I shall ask of
your king . . ."
There was a stirring
behind the curtain accompanied by the piercing sound of fifes.
"My servants are
coming to prepare my bath. After such violent exercise, it is well to
bathe."
Two black slaves
carrying a huge copper basin filled with steaming water entered, followed by
other servants carrying towels, bottles of perfumed water and scented
ointments.
Baktiari Bey followed
them into the adjacent room, which contained the Turkish bath that Dionis had
built. Angélique would have greatly liked to get a glimpse of it, but such
curiosity seemed improper to her. From time to time Baktiari Bey's looks made
her uneasy, and the further she explored his oriental mentality, the more her
role as ambassadress seemed compromising, requiring complaisances, if not
actual obligations, which she had not
by any means decided to consent to. She thought vaguely of going away. She
could explain that French customs did not permit her to talk alone with a man
for more than two hours. But then the Persian might fly into a rage and think
her departure another insult, and that would obviously wreck all the
improvements she had made in the situation.
When she made a
movement as if to rise, the little page, who had been ordered to amuse her,
came forward, bringing her a heavy platter of dainties. Then he scurried off to
get more cushions for her back and arms. He threw a pinch of powder into a
little jar filled with glowing coals and got down on his knees to pass the
incense-burner toward her so that she might whiff the pungent blue smoke.
It was definitely
time she should go. This room, its air heavy with exotic perfumes, this prince
who would soon return with his dark eyes, his easy grace, and his dignity that
concealed unsuspected rages, was much too seductive.
The little page
removed the lids of the silver-gilt cups and poured the blue porcelain flagons
into them. With bird-like twitters he urged her to help herself. Despairing of
making her understand, he lifted to her lips a little silver cup containing a
greenish-gold liqueur. She tasted it and found that it was like the angelica of
Poitou.
The variety of the
sweetmeats intrigued her. They were of all colors, including translucent pink
and green jellies and pistachio nougats. Angélique bit into one of each kind
and discarded the ones she found distasteful. She asked for more of the fruit
sherbet that was kept cool in a kind of ice-house. She would have liked to
smoke the narghile, but when the page understood what she wanted, he prevented
her by rolling his eyes in terror. Then he doubled up in high-pitched laughter
that made Angélique laugh too. She was finding it delightful to have nothing to
do but affect to be dignified amid all this opulence.
She was still weak
from laughing and was licking pink Turkish paste off her fingertips when
Baktiari Bey reappeared in the doorway. He seemed enchanted with her.
"You are
ravishing. . . You remind me of one of my favorites. She was as greedy as a
cat."
He took a fruit in a
cup and tossed it to the page, shouting an order. The boy, still laughing,
caught the tip in the air and in two leaps was out of the room.
"That little
Wise Man from the East made me drink something devilishly strong,"
Angélique said to herself.
Yet the sensation she
was experiencing was not like drunkenness, but rather a vague warmth akin to
true happiness. It made her extremely sensitive. Baktiari's new costume did not
escape her notice. He wore only white satin trousers fastened at his calves,
and bound at his waist by a belt studded with precious stones. His smooth bare
chest, anointed with sweet-smelling oils, and his muscular arms and shoulders,
suggested the lithe strength of a panther. His black hair, glistening with oil,
was combed straight back and fell to the nape of his neck. With a quick
movement he kicked off his embroidered sandals and stretched out on the
cushions. As he nonchalantly carried his pipe to his mouth, he fixed Angélique
with a look.
It would have been
naive of her not to realize that the time for discussing matters of protocol
was past. What were they to talk about now? She was dying to stretch out like
him on the cushions, but her rigid stays prevented her and kept her upright.
Suddenly they seemed to her a symbol of caution designed to permit sinners on
the brink a chance to reflect. On the other hand, it seemed impossible for her
to rise and take her leave without some explanation. Furthermore, she did not
want to. But, thanks to her stays, she had to remain upright. What a wonderful
invention they were! They must have been thought up by the Brotherhood of the
Holy Sacrament. The thought of that made Angélique laugh aloud again, rocking
back and forth with amusement.
The Persian was obviously delighted with her gaiety.
"I was thinking
of your favorites," Angélique said. "Tell me how they dress. Do they
wear gowns like these Western ones?"
"In their own
apartments or in their master's they wear a thin, fluffy saroush and a
short sleeveless coat. When they go out they add a thick black veil with a
gauze opening just big enough for them to see through. But in private they wear
only a shawl as light as a cobweb, made of the hair of the goats of
Beluchistan."
Angélique was dipping
her fingers again into the rose jelly. "What a strange life! What do all
those cloistered women think about? What did the favorite—the one who's greedy
as a cat—say when you left?"
"Our women say
nothing—nothing whatever—about such things. And my favorite could say nothing
for another reason. She is dead."
"Oh, I am
sorry," said Angélique, humming as she nibbled at a piece of fig paste.
"She died under
the lash," Baktiari Bey said slowly. "She had one of the palace
guards as a lover."
"Oh!" said
Angélique again. She laid down the piece of candy and looked at the prince, her
eyes wide with fright. "So that's what happened! Tell me, what other
punishments do you inflict on faithless women?"
"We tie them
back to back with their lover and expose them on the topmost watchtower of the
palace. The vultures begin by eating their eyes, and the rest goes on a long
time. I happen to be more merciful. I kill them by slitting their throats with
my dagger. That is for those who haven't actually been unfaithful but have
refused me out of caprice."
"Aren't they
lucky," said Angélique sententiously. "You get them out of your sight
and you give them admission to paradise."
Baktiari Bey shook
with laughter. "Little Firousi . . .Little Turquoise . . . every
word that passes your lips is as fresh as the
snowdrops that bloom in the desert at the foot
of the Caucasus. Don't make my lesson too hard for me . . . to learn to love Western women. A
man has to talk to them a great deal, so you say, and
sing the praises
of his beloved . . . but then
what? When does the time for silence come,
the time for long-drawn sighs?"
"When the lady
pleases."
The Persian leaped
up, his face flushed with anger.
"No! It can't
be! How can a man suffer such a humiliation! The French are brave warriors. .
."
"They surrender
in the wars of love."
"No, it can't be
true," he repeated. "When a woman receives her lord she must
immediately disrobe and perfume her body and offer herself to him."
With an agile bound
he was next to her, and she found herself tumbled back among the soft cushions
which melted around her body and enveloped it with their heady perfume. The
predatory smile of Baktiari Bey came nearer and nearer as he held her.
Angélique put her hands on his shoulders to push him away, but the feel of his
golden-brown skin made her tremble.
"The time has
not yet come," she said.
"Take care. For
the least insolence a woman deserves death."
"You have no
right to kill me. I belong to the King of France."
"The King sent
you to me for my pleasure."
"No, to honor
you and to get to know you better, for he trusts my judgment. But if you kill
me, he will chase you out of his realm in disgrace."
"I will complain
that you behaved like a shameless whore."
"The King will
not believe you."
"He sent you for
me to possess."
"No, I keep
telling you. He could not do such a thing."
"Who can
then?"
She fixed him with
her emerald eyes. "Only I can."
The prince relaxed
his grip on her and looked at her perplexedly.
Angélique could not
sit up again, the cushions were too yielding. She began to laugh. She saw no
trouble ahead, rather everything seemed clearly etched as if the room had been
invaded with sunlight.
"There is a
world of difference," she murmured, "between a woman saying yes and a
woman saying no. When she says yes, it is a great victory and the men of my
nation like to fight to win her."
"I
understand," said the prince after a moment of thought.
"So, please help
me up," she said, extending her hand to him unconsciously.
He obeyed like, she
thought, a great wild beast suddenly tamed. His shining eyes never left her.
His strength was triggered to pounce upon her if she showed the slightest sign
of weakening.
"What does a man
have to have to make a woman say yes?"
She almost answered:
"He has to be as wild and handsome as you." His nearness was
overpowering her. How many times would she be able to play this dangerous game?
Shivers ran through her flesh, as if she had a fever, but what she felt was
actually a frustration of desire that could be appeased by a mad embrace alone.
She was aware of how desirable his smile was to her, his moist lips and his
wandering eyes, and she would have loved to be seized by him again. Still she
wondered how long she could balance on this tightrope and on what side she
would fall—the yes side or the no.
Baktiari Bey filled a
silver cup and held it out to her. Angélique felt the metal cool against her
lips and recognized the greenish liquor.
"It's every woman's secret to know why
one man pleases her because he's dark, and another because he's fair."
Holding the cup at
arm's length she inverted it and poured the liquor in a thin green stream on
the gorgeous oriental rug.
"Chaitsoum,"
hissed the prince between his teeth.
". . . Or one
because he is gentle and the other because he could kill her with a blow of his
dagger in his rage."
She had finally
managed to rise. She assured His Excellency that she was overjoyed with her
visit and that she would try to make the King understand the essence of his
grievances, for they seemed reasonable and justified to her. With a threatening
look in his eyes Baktiari Bey said it was the custom of his country to seal a
friendship by housing a guest "as long as the friendship remained."
Angélique shook her
head. A curl of her blonde hair hung down over her forehead, and her eyes were
sparkling like champagne. His Excellency was right, but she had to obey the
same precept. He should understand that because she had deep obligations to her
own king, she had to return to him and remain there as long as their friendship
lasted.
"Shad" he said, as if cursing.
A sing-song voice
rose outside, piercing the heavy draperies of the room.
"Isn't it time for your evening prayers? I wouldn't have a
foreign woman make you miss your devotions for anything in
the world. What is
he chanting?"
"Chaitsoum!"
repeated the ambassador.
Angélique smoothed
down her skirts, fixed her disordered hair, and picked up her fan.
"I shall defend
your point of view at Versailles and try to smooth over all the difficulties of
protocol. But may I take back with me your promise to protect the twenty
Catholic missions in Persia?"
"That was my
intention for the treaty. Wouldn't your religion and your priests feel
disgraced at being saved by a woman's intervention?"
"In spite of all
your pride, Your Excellency, it was a woman who brought you into the
world."
The Persian was speechless,
but he smiled in admiration. "You are fit to be a sultana-bachi."
"What is that,
for heaven's sake?"
"The title given
to a woman born to dominate kings. There is only one in each seraglio. She is
never chosen. She is there because she has ways of ensnaring the body and soul
of the ruler. He can do nothing without consulting her. She is superior to all
the other women, and it is only her son who can succeed to the throne."
He led her up to the
silken door curtain. "The first trait of a sultana-bachi is that
she knows no fear. The second, that she knows the worth of what she
gives."
With a sudden
gesture he stripped all the rings from his fingers and piled them into her
hands. "These are for you. You are the most precious. You deserve to be
decked as an idol."
Angélique
blinked in rapture at the rubies, emeralds and diamonds set in fine gold, but
as rapidly as he had given them to her, she returned them to him.
"Impossible!"
"Are you
adding one more insult to all those you have offered me?"
"In my
country when a woman says no, she says no to gifts also."
Baktiari Bey
heaved a long sigh, but he did not try to dissuade her. As Angélique smiled, he
slipped the rings back on his fingers one by one.
"Look,"
she said, extending her hand, "I am keeping this one, for you gave it to
me as a token of our alliance. Its color has not changed."
"Madame
Turquoise, when will I see you again?"
"At
Versailles, Excellency."
Once she was
outside, everything seemed horribly dreary to her—the muddy road, the clouds
hanging low over the shabby snow. It was cold. She had forgotten it was winter
and that she was in France, and that she had to go back to Versailles to report
on her mission, parade around, listen to endless gossip, be cold, have her feet
and legs ache, and lose her money gambling. She twisted her handkerchief
savagely. She was on the point of bursting into tears.
"I liked it
there on the cushions. Yes, I would have liked . . . that. To forget, to yield
to love without restraint and without thinking of the consequences. Oh, what
did God give me a brain for? Why can't I just be an animal that doesn't ask
questions?"
She was furious
with the King. All during her visit she could not rid herself of the feeling
that the King was using her as an adventuress whose body might be useful for
diplomacy. During the previous reign Richelieu had excelled in using
intelligent women as conspirators, when they were light-moraled and beautiful
and possessed by a devil of intrigue, and adored to be in the thick of things and to
compromise and . . . prostitute themselves for master strategies whose end they
never clearly saw. Madame de Chevreuse, the old friend of Anne of Austria, whom
Angélique had met at Court, was one of the few survivors of that species.
Always on the alert for a role to play, her beautiful eyes watching under their
now wrinkled lids for the merest hint of a conspiracy, affecting an air of
mystery about every least bit of news, she was an object of pity and ridicule
to the young members of the Court. Angélique could see herself like that some
day soon, no one listening to her, wearing one of those big plumed military
hats now so out of fashion.
She was almost
weeping with self-pity. So that's what the King wanted to turn her into! Now
that he had "his" Montespan, what did he care where Angélique was or
whom she gave her favors to? All she had to do was "serve" the royal
interests!
chapter 20
“THE
King said no" someone flung at her as soon as she set foot on the
first step of the staircase leading to the royal apartments.
"About
what?"
"The marriage of
Péguilin and Mademoiselle. Everything's over and done with. Yesterday the
Prince and the Duc d'Enghien, his son, threw themselves at His Majesty's feet
to prove to him what a dishonor such a base alliance would be to princes of the
blood like them. They would be the joke of all the courts of Europe, and he
himself, who had just begun to make the world tremble, would be thought a
monarch with no sense of dynastic dignity. Actually the King was rather
inclined to their point of view anyway, and so he said NO! This morning he told
the Grande Mademoiselle. She burst into tears and fled in desperation to the
Luxembourg Palace for refuge."
"Poor
Mademoiselle!"
In the Queen's
antechamber Angélique found Madame de Montespan completing her toilet with the
help of all her suite. Her gown was of scarlet velvet embroidered with gold and
silver and studded with precious stones, and she was preoccupied with arranging
a long white silk stole so that it would hang as she wished. Louise de la
Vallière was on her knees, helping pin her.
"No, not like
that, like this! Help me, for heaven's sake, Louise. You're the only one who
can fix this silk properly, it's so slippery. But it is lovely, isn't it?"
Angélique was amazed
to see how docilely Louise de la Vallière took to being a follower, checking by
a glance into the pier-glass whether a fold might not be more appropriate than
a loop.
"There, that's
it, I think. Good for you, Louise, you've got it exactly right. I could never
do without you when it comes to getting dressed. The King is so demanding! But
you have a magic touch, thanks to Madame de Lorraine and Madame d’Orléans. They
taught you taste when you were in their suite. What do you think, Madame du
Plessis?"
"I think it's
perfect," Angelique muttered.
She was trying to
kick aside one of the Queen's lap-dogs that had been yapping at her ever since
she came in.
"He doesn't like
your black outfit," Athenais said as she turned this way and that in front
of her looking glass. "What a pity you have to wear mourning. It doesn't
become you, do you think, Louise?"
La Vallière, who had
got on her knees again to help her rival, raised her pale, watery blue eyes
toward Angélique. "I think Madame du Plessis looks even handsomer in
black."
"Better than I
do in red, perhaps?"
Louise de la Vallière
did not reply.
"Answer
me," Athenais screamed, her eyes darkening like the sea in a storm.
"Admit it, this red doesn't suit me."
"Blue is more
your color."
"Why didn't you
say so sooner, you stupid idiot! Help me out of it! Desoeillet, Papy, get me
out of this dress! Catherine, run get my satin gown, the one I wear with my
diamonds!"
It was hard to tell
who was making more noise, the dog or Madame de Montespan as she tried to step
out of her skirts alone. Just then in came the King in his Court costume except
for his great robe embroidered with fleur-de-lis, which he never put on till
the last moment before his state appearance. He was coming from the Queen's
apartments, and Bontemps was with him.
"Not ready yet,
Madame?" he frowned. "Hurry up. The King of Poland will be here any
moment, and you must be at my side."
Madame de Montespan
stared at him indignantly. Her royal lover had not accustomed her to his
strictness, and
he was in a bad humor, for
the pain he had inflicted on his cousin, the Grande Mademoiselle, troubled his
conscience. Now to have his favorite complain so violently that he was putting
her to a great deal of trouble to find a suitable gown did not soften his mood.
"You should have
taken care of that long ago."
"How was I to
know Your Majesty wouldn't like my red dress? Oh, this is unfair!"
The King tried to
raise his voice above the cacophony she and the dog were making. "Don't
get into a state. There isn't time. At any rate, while I think to tell you, we
are leaving for Fontainebleau tomorrow, so please make your preparations in
time."
"Should I also
prepare to go to Fontainebleau, Sire?" asked Mademoiselle de la Vallière.
Louis XIV looked darkly at the emaciated figure of his former
mistress. "No," he said rudely. "There's no point in your
going."
"But what shall
I do, then?" she groaned.
"Stay at
Versailles. Or else, go to Saint-Germain."
Mademoiselle de la
Vallière sank onto a bench and dissolved into tears. "Alone? Without
anyone to keep me company?"
The King caught the
little dog which was annoying him and threw it into her lap. "Here's
company quite good enough for you."
He walked past
Angélique without making any sign of recognition. Then, on second thought, he
asked her brusquely: "Did you go to Suresnes yesterday?"
"No, Sire,"
she said in the same tone.
"Where did you
go?"
"To
Saint-Germain Fair."
"What for?"
"To get some
waffles."
The King's face
flushed up to the very edge of his wig. He sailed into the adjacent room, while
Bontemps quietly held the other door open for the ladies-in-waiting who were
going for the blue gown.
Angélique went over
to Mademoiselle de la Vallière, who was sobbing softly.
"Why do you let
him torment you so? Why do you take these
humiliations? Madame de Montespan is playing with you like a cat with a mouse,
and the more docile you are, the more relentless you make her."
The poor girl raised
her streaming eyes to her. "You have betrayed me too," she choked.
"I never swore
fealty to you," Angélique replied sadly, "and I never pretended to be
your friend. You are mistaken, I did not betray you, and my honest advice is
leave the Court. Retire with dignity. Why be the laughingstock of these
heartless people?"
For a moment her
tear-stained face took on the holy light of a martyr's. "My sin was done
in public, Madame, and so it must please God to punish me in public."
"Bossuet would
find you a good penitent. But do you really think God demands such suffering?
You'll lose your health, your sanity."
"The King won't
let me enter a convent. I have often asked him to." She glanced at the
door he had just slammed so violently. "Perhaps he still loves me,"
she mumbled. "Perhaps he will come back to me some day." Angélique
restrained herself from shrugging her shoulders. A page had just come in and
was bowing before her.
"Please be so
good as to follow me, Madame. The King is asking for you."
Between the King's
bedroom and the Council Chamber lay the room in which his wigs were kept. It
was not often that a woman saw it. Louis XIV was choosing a wig under the
guidance of his hairdresser Binet and his assistants. All around were glass
cases storing the various wigs the King wore when going to Mass, or hunting, or
receiving an embassy or going for a walk in the park. Rows on rows of dummy
plaster heads kept them in shape or held them while they were being dressed.
Binet was suggesting
that his august client wear the wig called "the royal," which was
dressed very high and was so majestic that it seemed more fitting for a statue
than a living being.
"No," said
the King. "Let us keep that for extremely important occasions—the
reception for the Persian ambassador, for instance."
He looked up at Angélique. She made a deep
curtsy. "Come here, Madame. You were at Suresnes yesterday, weren't
you?"
He had recovered his
customary suavity, and his unctuously theatrical gestures, but he needed more
than that to soothe Angélique’s temper.
Binet withdrew with
his apprentices to the far end of the room to search for the proper wig. He had
acquired the tact of a true courtier.
"Give me some
explanation for your insolence," the King said in a low voice. "I
fail to recognize one of the most agreeable ladies of the Court."
"And I fail to
recognize the most courteous monarch in the world."
"I love to see
your anger make your eyes shine and your little nose twitch. I guess I was a
little rude."
"You were . . .
despicable. All you needed was the Queen to make you look just like a cock on a
dunghill."
"Madame . . . !
You are addressing the King!"
"No, merely a
man who toys with a woman's heart."
"What
woman's?"
"Mademoiselle de
la Vallière . . . Madame de Montespan. . . I myself . . . all women, as a
matter of fact."
"That's a very
subtle game you're accusing me of. How does anyone know a woman's heart? La
Vallière has too much . . . Madame de Montespan hasn't enough . . . As for you .
. . If I could only be sure I were toying with your heart . . . But it hasn't
been reached yet."
Angélique hung her
head. He had hit the mark. She waited for the final blow which would drive her
from him forever.
"It's a naughty
head that will not bend," said the King.
She raised her eyes.
The sadness of his voice disconcerted her.
"Nothing has
gone right today," he said. "I was greatly upset by Mademoiselle's
despair when I told her I had decided I had to take the matter of her marriage
under consideration again. She is fond of you, I think. Go and comfort
her."
"What about
Monsieur de Lauzun?"
"I don't
know poor Péguilin’s reactions yet. I suspect he is in the depths of despair.
He was cruelly disappointed. But I know how to make it up to him. Did you see
Baktiari Bey?"
"Yes,
Sire," said Angélique.
"How are things
going?"
"Very well, I
think."
The door burst open
to reveal Lauzun, his eyes popping and his wig askew.
"Sire," he
blurted without any excuse for his interruption, "I come to ask Your
Majesty what I have done to deserve such dishonor at your hands."
"Come, come, old
man, calm down," said the King gently. He apparently felt his favorite's
wrath was justifiable.
"No, Sire, no, I
cannot bear such humiliation." Melodramatically he drew his sword and
handed it to the King. "You have robbed me of my honor, now take my life
too. Take it! I'm sick of living. I hate life!"
"Control
yourself, sir."
"No, no, this is
the end. Take it, I say. Kill me. Sire, kill me!"
"Péguilin, I
know how disappointing all this is for you, but I will make it up to you. I
will raise you so high that you will have no more regrets over the match I have
forbidden."
"I do not want
your gifts, Sire. I can accept nothing from a prince who has gone back on
his word."
"Monsieur de
Lauzun!" roared the King in a voice that vibrated like a swordblade.
Angélique let out a
little scream of fright.
Lauzun noticed her for
the first time and turned his rage on her. "So you're here, you little
fool! How could you be so stupid! Where did you run off to yesterday to peddle
your body after I had begged you to keep an eye on the movements of the Prince
and his son?"
"That will do,
sir," said the King icily. "Leave at once. I can excuse your state of
mind, but I do not wish you at Court if you cannot be resigned to your
lot."
"Resigned! Ha!
Resigned! How you love that word, Sire! You want nothing but slaves about you.
If by some whim or other you let them raise their
heads an inch, it's only on condition they lower them again and prostrate
themselves in the dust as soon as your mood changes. . . I beseech Your Majesty
to let me go. I shall always be glad to serve you, but I will never cringe . .
." Lauzun stalked out without taking leave in
any fashion.
The King looked at
Angélique coldly.
"Shall I go,
Sire?" she asked, feeling very uncomfortable.
He nodded.
". . . And don't
forget to go to console Mademoiselle as soon as you return to Paris."
"I will,
Sire."
The King walked over
to his looking glass. "If this were August, Monsieur Binet, I would say
the weather was stormy."
"Indeed,
Sire."
"Unfortunately
it is not August," sighed the King. "Have you made your choice,
Monsieur Binet?"
"Yes, Sire, a
most attractive wig. The two rows of curls along the center line add neither to
its height nor to its width. I am calling it 'the ambassador.' "
"Perfect. You
always think of just the right thing, Monsieur Binet."
"Madame du
Plessis-Bellière often complimented me for that too. Pray bend your head a
little, Sire, so that I may set the wig in place."
"Ah, I remember,
it was through Madame du Plessis that you came to me. She recommended you to
me. I gather she had known you a long time?"
"Yes, quite a
long time, Sire."
The King looked into
the mirror framed in gilded bronze. "What do you think?"
"Sire, she is
the only one worthy of Your Majesty."
"You don't
understand. I was speaking of the wig."
"So was I,
Sire," replied Binet, lowering his eyes.
When she entered the
great salon Angélique asked whom they were waiting for. All the courtiers were
in their best, but no one knew in whose honor.
"I bet
it's the Russians," Madame de Choisy said to her.
"Are you sure it
isn't the King of Poland? The King mentioned him a few moments ago to Madame de
Montespan," said Angélique, happy to have information straight from the best
source.
"It's an embassy
in any case. The King has lifted the ban on all foreign noblemen. Look at that
fellow with his barbarous mustache, the one staring at you. He makes my blood
run cold!"
Angélique
unconsciously turned her head in the direction Madame de Choisy had indicated,
and recognized the Hungarian Prince Rakoczy, whom she had met at Saint-Mandé.
At once he crossed the room to bow to her. He was dressed for the occasion in a
wig and red heels, but he had exchanged his sword for a dagger whose chased
hilt was set with blue stones and bound in gold.
"Ah, the
archangel!" he said. "Madame, will you grant me a few moments of
conversation?"
Angélique wondered
whether he was going to ask her to marry him again, but since, in such a crowd,
she had no fear that he might abduct her, she followed him obligingly into a
bay window nearby. The blue stones in the hilt of his dagger reminded her
vaguely of something. "They are Persian turquoises," he explained. "In Persian they're called
'Firouze.' "
"Do you know
Persian? Chouma pharzi harf mizanit?"
Angélique made an
indefinite gesture. "It's a very
handsome dagger."
"It's all I have
left of my former wealth," he said in a half embarrassed, half proud
voice. "This and my horse Hospadar. Hospadar has always been my faithful
companion. Thanks to him, I got across the frontier, but ever since I've been
in France I've had to leave him in a stable in Versailles. The Parisians make
fun of him every time they see him."
"Why is that?"
"When you see
Hospadar you will understand."
"What did you
wish to say to me, Prince?"
"Nothing. I
just wanted to look at you a while, get you away from the crowd so that I could
have you all to myself."
"That's quite
an undertaking, Prince. Versailles has seldom been more full."
"Your smile
makes dimples in your cheeks. You smile easily, I notice, even when there is
hardly any reason for smiling. What are you doing here now?"
Angélique looked
at him puzzled. His words always seemed to take an unexpected turn which
disturbed her. Perhaps it was because, well as he knew French, he did not
understand all its nuances.
"Why . . .
I am a Maid of Honor at the Court. I must be here."
"What a
stupid occupation!"
"It has its
good sides, Monsieur Evangelist. What do you expect? Women don't have the
necessary qualities for fomenting revolutions. They like to see and be seen,
and it suits them to adorn the Court of a great king. I don't know of anything
more diverting. Life at Versailles is never dull. There is something new every
day. For instance, do you know whom we are expecting now?"
"No, I do
not. One of the Swiss guards brought me word to the stable where I live with
Hospadar that I should come to Court today. I hoped to have an interview with
the King."
"Has he
received you yet?"
"Several
times. Your King is no despot, but a good friend. He will give me aid to
liberate my fatherland."
Angélique was
fanning herself as she looked around. The press was increasing every minute.
Little Aliman, a half-breed she had bought for a page, was dripping with sweat
as he held the heavy train of her emerald green dress embroidered in silver.
She told him to let it drop for a while. She had been wrong to get so young a
boy; now she would have to get another, older one, or else another of the same
age to help Aliman carry her train. A jet black Negro and a light brown one,
dressed either in different colors or the same, would be terribly amusing. She
would be a succès fou.
Then she noticed that
Rakoczy was still talking. She cut him off. "That's all very well, but you
still haven't told me whom we have been asked to honor in such numbers. Some
say it's the Russian ambassador."
The Hungarian's face turned livid with hatred
and his eyes became two black slits. "Russians, did you say? I shall never
be able to bear being so close to them. They invaded my country."
"I thought it
was the Emperor and the Turks you had it in for."
"Don't you know
the Ukrainians have seized Budapest, our capital?"
Angélique humbly
confessed that she did not know it and that she had not the faintest idea what
Ukrainians were.
"You must think
I am very silly," she said, "but I'd bet a hundred pistoles most
Frenchmen don't know any more about it than I."
Rakoczy shook his
head sadly. "Alas, how far removed these great Westerners are from our
troubles, and yet we look to them for aid! Just knowing a language is not
enough to break down the barriers between peoples. I speak French well, don't
I?"
"Excellently," she agreed.
"And yet no one
understands me here."
"I am sure the
King will understand you. He knows everything that goes on in all the nations
of the world."
"But he weighs
them in the scale of his ambitions. Let us hope I shall not prove too
light."
A movement of the
crowd indicated that the important visitor was arriving. They left their alcove
and moved toward the rest.
Angélique searched
Rakoczy’s face for the answer to the question she had asked him. He looked as
if he had turned to stone.
"The
Russians!" he said. Then he seized her wrist so hard she thought he would
snap it, and leaning down to her said: "That man in the center is
Dorochenko, the Hetman of the Ukraine, the first man to enter Budapest."
She felt him begin to quiver like a horse afraid. "The insult is . . .
unpardonable," he said, ashy white.
"Prince, I beg
you, don't make a scene. Don't forget that you are at the Court of
France."
He did not seem to
hear her, but fixed his eyes on the new arrivals as if they were thundering
over the steppes instead of in the full light of Versailles. Suddenly he backed
away and was swallowed up in the dense crowd of the French nobles.
Angélique breathed a
sigh of relief. She had begun to worry lest some disturbance of his might spoil
the fascinating scene. She did not want him to implicate himself and draw the
King's wrath. The King had been unwise to let a revolutionary into his Court.
Anything could be expected of a person like that.
Every three steps the
Russian delegation bowed low in oriental salutations. The subservience of their
bows contrasted sharply with their imperious looks. Angélique could not fail to
see the power concealed in the limber spines of these wild beasts, tamed now,
but ready to spring. They gave her gooseflesh. Rakoczy had infected her with
some of his strange hysteria. She was afraid of an unknown something which
would flash out like a thunderbolt and reduce Versailles to rubble.
Glancing at the King,
she was relieved to see him unmoved and majestic as only he knew how to be. The
"ambassador" wig that Binet had contrived was quite the equal in
height to the Russians' bonnets.
Monsieur de Pomponne
stepped forward. He had been Ambassador to Poland and hence knew Russian and
could serve as interpreter. After the customary exchange of compliments the
delegation presented the gifts they had brought from Russia: three bearskins—black,
yellow and brown—from the Urals; white and blue sable skins from Siberia; a
vast number of beaver pelts; an enormous blanket of black astrakhan made of
over five hundred skins of newborn lambs found only in the herds that grazed on
the shores of the Caspian Sea; curious tinfoil-wrapped bricks of red and green
tea, tribute paid by the Emperor of China from the time of Ivan the Terrible to
that of Alexis.
The Queen, for once
sufficiently stimulated to make an intelligent comment, said she had heard
about the tea and that it would cure more than
twenty different ailments. She went into ecstasies over the precious stones,
especially an emerald as big as a sugarloaf, and a blue six-faceted beryl from
the Urals that took four men to carry it, since it was as high as a
mounting-block.
The short-pile rugs
from Bokhara and the long-pile ones from Khiva were unrolled, and the bolts of
vivid red and yellow silk unfurled. There was also gossamer silk from Turkestan
as well as heavy coverlets made of many-colored patchwork. One of the members
of the delegation himself knelt before the King to offer him a huge nugget of
gold from Lake Baikal, resting on a white satin cushion.
Everyone kept
exclaiming in wonder. The women even dared touch the rugs and the silks, but it
was the gigantic blue beryl that aroused the most admiration.
Then the Russians
explained that having heard of the King's love of rare animals, they had
brought him a pair of Punjab goats from whose hair were made the cashmere shawls
of India.
The King thanked them
warmly. An extremely rare white Siberian tiger, they said, was waiting in the
marble courtyard to salute its new master after its uncomfortable trip from the
snow-covered steppes where it too reigned as a monarch. This announcement
raised the excitement to fever pitch. The servants had to hurry and clear the
gifts away to allow passage for the King and the ambassador and the whole Court
to move out to the stairway.
Then it happened. A
little shaggy-coated horse, as black as if it had leapt from the jaws of hell,
dashed up the stairs to the very top. The rider rose in his stirrups and
shouted something in a strange tongue, which he subsequently repeated in
Russian and then in French. "Long live Liberty!"
He raised his arm. A
dagger whizzed through the air and stuck quivering in the floor at the feet of
the Hetman of the Ukraine. Then the horseman wheeled and dashed down the marble
stairway.
"On a horse! He
rode up on a horse, and then down again . . . It couldn't have been a horse . .
. Yes, it was, what they call a pony . . . Impossible! A
horse couldn't gallop up a flight of stairs I. . ."
The French could see
in it only an extraordinary feat of horsemanship. But the Russians were gazing
impenetrably at the dagger. The King was speaking through Pomponne in a level
voice. His palace, he said, was open to his people, for the people have a right
to see their king. He also welcomed foreigners to France. In spite of the
precautions of his police an unseemly incident like this one sometimes
happened—madmen, cranks whose designs could not be guessed in advance, could
perpetrate such inexplicable things. Thanks be to God, this was not serious.
The man would be pursued, brought back and imprisoned. If he turned out to be
insane, he would be confined at Bicetre, and if he was sane, he would, in all
likelihood, he hanged. It meant nothing at all, really.
The Russians remarked haughtily that the man had spoken in
Hungarian. They wanted to know his name.
"Thank God, they
did not recognize him," thought Angélique. She was shaking so her teeth
chattered. Everyone else thought the whole thing rather a joke, but the dagger
still stuck in the floor, and no one budged. At last a little creature, all iridescent
pink and green like a tropical bird, swooped down on the dagger and disappeared
with it. It was Aliman, who on a signal from Angélique had spirited the weapon
away.
The procession moved
on and descended into the courtyard, where the royal tiger was pacing in a huge
cage mounted on a wagon drawn by four horses. The sight of the magnificent
beast banished all hostile thoughts. It was taken in great pomp to the
menagerie at the end of the Royal Avenue near the Grove of the Dome, an
octagonal pavilion that fanned out into seven courtyards, each one devoted to a
different kind of animal. The Siberian tiger from then on would have as
neighbors a Numidian lion sent by the Sultan of Morocco, and two Indian
elephants. Pomponne acted as interpreter between the zoo-keepers and the
slant-eyed Siberian guards. For everyone's benefit he translated their
instructions as to the care and feeding of the new inhabitant of the
menagerie, who proceeded to enter his new home with considerable good will. On
his return the King paid a visit to his gardens.
Madame de Sévigné
wrote to her cousin,
Bussy-Rabutin:
I want you to
share our fun! Today we had a great scandal in the Court of France. I saw it
and
I now understand
how wars can break out in the antechambers of kings. With my own eyes I
saw the
firebrand himself. I was thrilled, and almost proud. Can you imagine a mounted
horseman at
Versailles? "That's not strange," you say. But this one dashed right
into the great
hall you know so
well where the King was receiving the Russian embassy. Now, try to tell me
there's nothing
unusual about that! And what's stranger yet is that he galloped his horse. What
do you think of
that? That I'm dreaming? No, five hundred persons saw it as well as I.
He hurled a
dagger. No, I am not dreaming, and you don't need to worry about my sanity.
The dagger stuck
right at the feet of the ambassador, and no one knew what to do. It was
then that I
began to see the brand burst into flame. The foot that stamped it out is a tiny
one. It
belongs to
Madame du Plessis-Bellière, whom you met at my house and who aroused just a
tiny bit of
passion in you. So, you see, this story should give you a double pleasure.
She had the
brilliant idea of signaling to her page, a little Negro so quick that he
whisked
the dagger off
like a sleight-of-hand artist on the Pont-Neuf. Then everyone breathed a little
easier. Peace
returned with an olive branch in her hand, and we all moved on to see the wild
beasts.
Now, what do you
make of this little story?
Madame du
Piessis is one of those women kings need to have about them. I think the King
has known that
for a long time. So much the worse for our victor, Canto.
. . . Still we
can be sure she won't be dethroned without putting up a fight And so we can
expect plenty of
diversion at Versailles.
Angélique was
not invited to Fontainebleau. But she did not forget that the King had advised
her to go to comfort the Grande Mademoiselle, and so
she returned to Paris.
In her coach she drew
out of the folds of her gown the Hungarian prince's dagger and studied it with
mixed feelings of concern and satisfaction. She was glad she had spirited it
away. The "revolutionary" did not deserve to have it fall into other
hands, for she was perhaps his only friend in the kingdom.
Noticing that the
Gilandon girls sitting on either side of her were looking at the dagger with as
much interest as their vegetable-like minds permitted, she asked them if they knew what had become of the man on the
pony. The two girls actually came to life a little. Like everyone else at
Versailles, from the lowest scullion to the High Chamberlain, they had been
thrilled at being present at a "diplomatic incident." No, they said,
the revolutionary had not been arrested. He had been seen galloping off toward
the forest after he descended the staircase. The guards who had gone after him
returned empty-handed and stammering excuses. "So he escaped them,"
Angélique thought. "Good!" But she reproached herself for such a
thought. For one thing, such behavior deserved to be punished. But it had been
a splendid gesture just the same. She was secretly proud of it. Louis XIV had
wanted to play cat-and-mouse to test the submissiveness of his slaves. Now he
had to cope with Prince Rakoczy and with Lauzun. Would Lauzun be
arrested? Where could
Rakoczy run for refuge? He would be recognized
everywhere because of his little wild horse like those the Huns had once ridden
right up to the gates of Paris.
"Wasn't it Saint
Genevieve who kept the Huns from entering Paris?" Angélique asked the
Gilandon girls.
"Yes,
Madame," they answered politely. Nothing ever astonished them. This was
one of their assets. Their completely banal appearance and personality
sheltered Angélique from the disagreeable
intrigues of companions who were too bold or ambitious. Their society
hardly amused her, but Angélique did not mind that. She was unlike most great
ladies in that she did not have to have someone to talk to every minute of the day. To be alone with themselves
was one of the greatest tortures imaginable for them, and to protect themselves
from ever having to face such an odious eventuality they kept a companion just
to read to them till they fell asleep or to keep them company in case they had
insomnia.
Angelique took
advantage of the Gilandon girls' natural aversion to conversation to do a
little meditating.
The coach rumbled
along through the forests of Meudon and Saint-Cloud. The cold, thick winter's
night closed in around the torches so that one could not see beyond their misty
haloes anything but the fog-enshrouded branches.
Where could Rakoczy
be? Angélique leaned her head back against the velvet covering of the seat.
When she was alone with herself like this, her nerves would throb right down to
her fingertips. She thought of the green liqueur the crafty Baktiari Bey had
given her to drink in an all too obvious attempt to thaw her. Surely it was an
aphrodisiac.
The thought made
Angélique realize she needed a lover or she would get sick. She had been silly
to resist the handsome Persian's advances. What had made her do it? What lord
and master was she keeping herself for? Who worried about her life? She had not
realized how free she was.
The thought came to
her more and more often in Paris, where the loneliness of her hotel and her
empty bedroom depressed her. She preferred to stay in Versailles and rush from
the end of a ball to early Mass in the heart of the vast drowsy palace. Night
to her was full of passion and romance. There one could be part of a whole,
never left to one's own fate.
"To one's sad
fate?" thought Angélique as she paced her room like the Siberian tiger in
its cage.
Why hadn't she been
invited to Fontainebleau? Was the King afraid of displeasing Madame de
Montespan? What did the King want of her? What destiny was he pushing her
toward with his sly, implacable hand? What sort of life were you created for,
sister Angélique?
She halted in the
middle of her room.
". . . The
King!" she said aloud.
Her steward Roger
came to ask what she would like for dinner. She looked at him a little wildly.
She was not hungry. Marie-Anne de Gilandon came to offer her some herb tea.
Angélique suddenly wanted to slap her, as if the suggestion was the peak of her
mortification. Just to be contrary, she asked for a bottle of plum brandy. She
tossed off two glasses one right after the other. Alcohol is a wonderful cure
for the blues.
Rakoczy's dagger lay
on the table. Angélique went to her mother-of-pearl inlaid ebony desk with its
dozens of drawers and took out a casket which she opened to put the weapon into
it.
Any prying servant
who had wanted to know what treasure Madame du Plessis-Bellière kept so
carefully hidden in that casket would have been completely astonished and
disappointed at finding such heterogeneous, valueless articles. But they had a
meaning all their own for her. They were like seashells washed up on the beach
of her past by waves of a stormy sea. Many times she had wanted to get rid of
them, but she could never bring herself to throw them away.
Angélique drank
another glass of brandy. The blue stone on her finger shone with a soft luster
beside those adorning the hilt of Rakoczy's dagger.
"I am under the
sign of the turquoise," she thought.
Two swarthy faces
rose before her eyes—that of the rich Persian prince and that of the
poverty-ridden Hungarian.
She wanted to see
Rakoczy again. What he had done revealed him to her in his true colors. His
rashness was not absurd but inspiring. How was it that she had not been able to
discern the quality of a hero in his words? Had she grown so used to hearing
nothing but twaddle that she had lost the power to recognize a real man when
she saw one?
Poor Rakoczy! Where
could he be? She almost sobbed as she thought of him. She had another brandy.
Now, perhaps, she could go to bed and sleep. How dreary it was to be alone!
If she went back to
Suresnes with a "Yes" on her lips, would
she see the end of her torments? She dreamed of finding forgetfulness in a
sensual delirium. "I'm only a woman after all. Why struggle against my
fate?" She shouted at her mirror. "I am beautiful!" Then she
grew sad at her reflection. "Poor Angelique . . . why so, so alone?"
She drank another
brandy. "And now that I'm quite drunk, I guess I can get to sleep."
Then it occurred to
her that if Mademoiselle was suffering from a sorrow like hers, she would not
be able to sleep either. Perhaps she would like to have a visit from Angélique,
even if it was the middle of the night. Nights are so long when you're alone,
Angélique woke up her
people. She ordered the coach and set out through the dark streets for the
Luxembourg Palace.
She had guessed
right. The Grande Mademoiselle was not sleeping. Since the King's verdict she
had taken to her bed, taking nothing but broth and flooding her pillow with
tears. Her companions and a few loyal friends tried to comfort her in vain.
"He should be
there," she would scream, pointing to the empty place beside her in the
bed that Lauzun was to have occupied. "He should be there! Oh, I'm
going to die, ladies, I'm going to die."
The sight of a similar despair was an easy pretext for Angélique
to give vent to the tears she had kept back for two days now. She burst into
sobs.
Mademoiselle de
Montpensier was moved to see her share her sorrow so, and clasped her to her
bosom.
They stayed together
that way till morning, talking about Lauzun and the King's cruelty, holding
each other's hands and weeping like fountains.
chapter 21
WHEN Angelique finished explaining to Colbert that Baktiari
Bey did not want to meet the King because he had not been received with enough
pageantry, the minister raised his arms to the heavens.
"And all I do is
scold the King for his expensive tastes and his extravagance!"
When he heard this,
Louis XIV laughed heartily.
"You see,
Colbert, old man, your lectures are sometimes unjustified. Spending money
recklessly for Versailles is not such a bad investment as you seem to think.
That way I make the palace so extraordinary that it arouses everyone's
curiosity and makes us the envy of even the most distant nations. I have longed
to see those nations in its halls, each dressed in the fashion of his own
country, comparing all these splendors to their own, as they prepare to meet
the great prince whose reputation has allured them. If I may tell you my
thoughts, we ought to be humble so far as we ourselves are concerned, but at
the same time proud and jealous of the position we occupy."
The day on which the
Persian embassy arrived at the golden gates of Versailles, thousands of potted
plants from the greenhouses had been set out along the terraces so that the
wintry lawns looked like summery meadows. The floor of the great hall was
completely covered with rose petals and orange blossoms.
Baktiari Bey's
progress led him past silver-gilt vessels and masterpieces of the goldsmith's
art displayed in his honor. He was taken on a tour of the entire palace, whose
gold and crystal stood comparison with the pleasure domes of the Arabian
Nights. The tour ended in the Baths, where a gigantic tub of purple marble
designed for the King convinced the Persian that the French did not neglect their ablutions so much as
he had been led to believe. The thousand-odd fountains in the park completely
convinced him.
It was a day of
triumph for Angélique. Everywhere and always she took precedence, for Baktiari
Bey, perhaps with intentional mischief, neglected the Queen and the other
ladies and addressed all his remarks to her.
The silk treaty was
signed in a very friendly atmosphere.
Exhausted from all
the excitement of the reception, Angélique returned to Paris. But when she
arrived at her hotel, a dirt-stained royal messenger was on the steps waiting
for her.
"Thank heaven, I've caught up with
you, Madame. The King sent me after you."
He handed Angélique a
note which commanded her to return to Versailles with all speed. "Can't I
wait till tomorrow?"
"The King
himself said 'with all speed,' and instructed me to escort you back, no matter
what the hour."
"The
Saint-Honoré gate will be closed."
"I have a
passport that will get it opened."
"We'll be
attacked by robbers."
"I am
armed," the man said. "I have two pistols in my saddle holsters, and
my sword."
It was a command from
the King, and there was nothing for her to do but obey it. Angélique wrapped
her cloak about her and set out once more.
When they arrived the
palace rose out of the night like a blue monster against the pale pink and gray
dawn sky. In the window of the King's conference chamber a torch glistened like
a pearl in the sea-depths of the marble courtyard, still flooded with darkness.
Angélique shivered as she followed the messenger through the empty hallways and
past Swiss guards drowsing here and there at their posts.
But there were many
people with the King: Colbert; de Lionne, drawn and haggard from sleeplessness;
the King's confessor, Bossuet, whose eloquence pleased the King to the extent
that he frequently asked his advice and wanted to add him to his Court;
Louvois, his face
as grim as if he had
witnessed a catastrophe; the Chevalier de Lorraine, and a few extras whose
faces reflected the atmosphere of controversy. They were all standing before
His Majesty, and it looked as if they had been there in conference with him a
good part of the night, for the candles were almost burnt out.
When Angélique was
announced, they all stopped talking. The King asked her to sit. After what
seemed like an endless silence, during which the King kept examining the letter
in front of him to conceal his expression, he finally spoke:
"Our Persian
ambassador has ended his visit in a strange way, Madame. Baktiari Bey has
headed south, but he has sent me an urgent message concerning you and . . .
Here, read it yourself."
The message which had
doubtless been translated and painstakingly transcribed by the Armenian
Agobian, thanked the King once more for his splendid entertainment and his
kindness. Then there followed an exact enumeration acknowledging the gifts His
Majesty, Louis XIV, the greatest monarch of the West, had sent the Shah of
Persia via the ambassador:
1 silver-gilt service engraved with
fleur-de-lis
2 gold clocks which told the date and the
season
1 dozen pocket watches engraved with
fleur-de-lis
2 large Gobelins tapestries
1 onyx die for a royal seal, engraved with the
Persian emblem of a lion and a rising sun.
2 large portraits of the King and the Queen in
their robes of state
20 lengths of fine
linen
1 charcoal brazier
made of gold-plated iron, with two bellows worked with an iron string
3 cases of silver cannonballs for warming the
bath of the Shah of Shahs
6 cases of gewgaws,
called "Temple jewels," for the Shah
to give his servants or toss to the people
3 pots of geraniums
to be replanted in Persian soil
1 saddle of Lyons
leather with a silver halter
But His Majesty had
omitted from all these gifts the precious turquoise His Excellency expected as
a reward for faithfully discharging his mission. There followed a description
of the turquoise, so detailed that anyone could see a woman was meant and that
the woman was none other than Angélique.
Baktiari Bey thought the customs of the West would not permit
him to leave before he had tested in turn the good will of the possessor of
such a rare treasure. But now the treaties were signed to the satisfaction of
all, and of the French King in particular, why was not the "charming
Marquise," the "star of the Court of France," the "most
intelligent woman in the world," the "lily of Versailles," among
the last gifts Monsieur de Lorraine and the Marquis de Tercy had brought him as
he was leaving? He had thought discretion might have led her to wait until
nightfall to join him with all her baggage and vehicles, and so he had started
out. But at the first halting place he suspected he had been tricked. Were they
treating him like a donkey with a carrot held before its nose to get him across
a rickety bridge? Was the sovereign of the West two-faced? Was his trickery as
great as his greed? Would he consider the treaty just another game? Go back on
his word? . . .
The long list of
questions left no doubt about the mood that had motivated Baktiari Bey to write
the letter, or of the likely possibility that he would discredit the French to
his master and undo all the good that had been achieved. "Well?" said
Angélique.
"Yes, well
indeed," the King mimicked. "Will you be so good as to tell me what
shameless conduct you dared indulge in at Suresnes for such a disgraceful
proposal to be made us?"
"My conduct,
Sire, was that of a woman sent to a potentate to flatter him, not to say seduce
him, so as to wheedle him into being favorably inclined to our points of view,
and thus serve the King."
"Are you
insinuating that I encouraged you to prostitute yourself to achieve
results?"
"Your Majesty's
intention was quite clear to me."
"How can you be
so foolish? A woman of intelligence and character like you has twenty different
ways of pacifying a prince, without acting like a whore . . . But you had to
become the mistress of this hot-tempered barbarian, this infidel enemy of your
Church. Did you? Answer me!"
Angélique bit her lip
to hide a smile, and cast her eyes over the assemblage. "Sire, your
question embarrasses me before all these gentlemen. Permit me to say that this
is a subject for the ears of my confessor alone."
The King half rose,
his eyes flashing. Bossuet intervened, rising to his full Burgundian height and
raising his Bishop's hand authoritatively.
"Sire, allow me
to remind you that only a priest has the right to know the secrets of a
person's soul."
"So has the
King, Monsieur Bossuet, when the actions of his subjects involve his
government. Baktiari Bey has provoked my displeasure by his effrontery, but it
must be admitted that when a man, Persian or not, is led on . . ."
"He was not,
Sire," said Angelique firmly.
"I am glad to
hear it," said the King. He sat down with obvious relief.
Bossuet emphatically
declared that whatever might have happened in the past, it was the present that
was important. The question amounted to this: how to soothe the temper of
Baktiari Bey without granting his demands?
Everyone began to
offer his own opinion. Tercy thought the ambassador should be arrested and
thrown into prison, and the Shah of Persia informed that his envoy had died in
France of a quartan fever. Colbert almost grabbed him by the throat. Soldiers
like him had no notion whatever of the importance of trade in the economy of a
nation! Like Tercy, Lionne thought there was no need of getting uneasy about
those distant Mohammedans. But Bossuet and the Jesuit combined their eloquence
to demonstrate that the future of the Church in the Orient depended on the
success of the embassy. Finally Angélique suggested there was only one way to
tell Baktiari Bey his request was refused without his taking it as a personal insult, and that
was for the King to write he was extremely sorry he could not grant his dear
and noble friend's request, but Madame du Plessis was a "sultana-bachi,"
and therefore the ambassador would surely understand how impossible it was
for his desires to be fulfilled.
"What does 'sultana-bachi'
mean?"
"The favorite
wife of the sultan, Sire, chosen by him above all others, to whom he entrusts
the direction of his harem and whom he frequently asks to share his
responsibilities as a ruler."
"If that is what
the title means, don't you think Baktiari Bey would be correct in calling my
attention to the fact that in the West the Queen represents the sultana—what
d'ye call it— bachi?"
"Your Majesty's
objection is well taken, but you may rest easy. Often in the Orient a prince
finds it obligatory, for dynastic reasons, to marry a princess of royal blood
whom he himself has not chosen. This does not prevent him from raising another
to the rank of favorite, and it is she who has the power."
"Strange
custom," said the King. "But since you tell me there is no other way
. . ."
All that was left was
to compose the letter. Colbert wanted to do this himself. He read it aloud:
". . . Ask me
for any other woman of my kingdom, and she shall be yours," he ended.
"The youngest, the loveliest, the fairest—you have merely to choose."
"Easy now,
Monsieur Colbert," said the King, "or you will get me involved in an
unsavory business."
"Sire, Your
Majesty should understand that you cannot flatly refuse him without offering
him some compensation for what he has lost to his great disappointment."
"My word, I
never thought of that. I guess you are right."
Everyone was
glad to see the King come out of the conference with a happy expression on his
face. For the greater part of the day the Court had been expecting a political
explosion, at the very least a declaration of war. To satisfy their curiosity,
the King told with great humor about the final demands of the
Persian ambassador. But he did
not mention the name of Angélique, only said the Oriental prince had been so
taken with the beauty of the French women that he wanted a real flesh and blood
memento of them.
". . . More
flesh than blood," Brienne added, laughing at his own joke.
"The difficulty
was in choosing such a souvenir," the King went on to say. "I thought
I would entrust the selection to Monsieur de Lauzun, he is such an expert in
such matters."
Péguilin waves his
hands gracefully. "An easy assignment, Sire. Our Court is full of pleasing
whores . . ." He chucked Madame de Montespan under the chin. "Why
wouldn't this one do? She has already proved how well she can please a
prince."
"Fresh!"
fumed the Marquise, slapping his hand away.
"Then how about
that one," Péguilin went on, pointing to the Princess of Monaco, who had
been one of his own mistresses. "She seems likely to me. Perhaps this will
prove to be the only chance she hasn't taken. From a pageboy on up . . . even
women."
The King interrupted
him. "Watch your language, sir."
"Why, Sire, when
no one watches his conduct?"
"It looks to me
as if Péguilin were getting ready for another little visit to the
Bastille," Madame de Choisy whispered to Angélique. "But he did make
a good answer. What is all this scandal about the Persian ambassador? It looks
as if you were mixed up in it."
"I'll tell you
bit by bit at Saint-Germain," Angélique said, deliberately omitting to
tell the Duchess that she was returning straight to Paris.
With a great din of
cracking whips and grinding of axles and whinnying, the coaches got into line.
For a few days now Versailles' gilded gates would be shut as well as its tall
windows which now were reflecting a sunset as crimson as the evening before.
As he passed, Lionne
stuck his head out of the window of his coach. "You can brag about making
me the goat in this damfool business. The King has assigned me the task of
finding the . . . compensation for the Persian
ambassador. What will my wife say? Well, I saw a little actress in Molière’s
company, intelligent and quite ambitious. I don't think it will be hard to
persuade her."
"All's well that
ends well," said Angélique with a wan smile.
She was having a
terrible time keeping her eyes open, for she had been running to and fro for
exactly twenty-four hours without stopping. The very thought of getting back
into her coach and traveling over the road from Versailles to Paris again
turned her stomach.
Her coachman was
waiting for her in the courtyard, his hat in his hand. With great dignity he
informed Madame la Marquise that this was the last time he would have the honor
of driving her. He had always done his job well, but God was not pleased with
sheer stupidity, and he was getting old. He ended by saying that to his great
regret he must leave the service of Madame la Marquise.
chapter 22
THE beggars were waiting in the back room of the kitchen. As
she tried a white apron around her waist, Angélique reminded herself that she
had too long neglected her duty as a noblewoman, such as giving alms with her
own hands once a week. With her crazy zigzagging between Paris and the Court
with its continual fêtes, her visits to the Hotel de Beautreillis had become
infrequent. Now she needed some opportunity to check her accounts.
Roger ran the
establishment well. Barbe was there to take care of Charles-Henri. The Abbé de
Lesdiguières and Malbrant were there for Florimond whom they followed to Court.
But her own business affairs and those of the Plessis-Bellière family were
getting into a terrible mess.
She went to visit
David Chaillou, who kept a tight rein on the chocolate shops of the city and
managed them very well. She also went to see the men responsible for her
imports from the "isles."
When she returned she
found the maids and the Gilandon girls preparing gifts for the poor, for this
was the day for almsgiving at the Hotel de Beautreillis. It would last into the
evening. Angélique herself carried the baskets of round loaves, and Anne-Marie
Gilandon followed her with a basket of bandages and medicines. The winter day
shed its gray light on the faces of the poor, some sitting on benches or
stools, others standing along the wall. They had already drunk a big bowl of
soup.
First she distributed
the bread. To the mothers she recognized she added a little ham or a sausage
which would last their families several days. There were some new faces.
Possibly some of the old-timers had got tired of coming since they had not seen her for so long. Even beggars
have feelings.
She got down on her
knees to wash the feet of a woman with an ulcerated leg who was holding a
fretful child on her lap. The woman's face was hard and grim, and her lips were
set in a manner Angélique seemed to recall.
"Did you want to
ask me something?"
The woman hesitated.
A dog many beatings have taught to cringe can sometimes look defiant. She held
out the child stiffly. Angélique examined it. It had fresh sores at the base of
its neck, two of which were suppurating.
"This must be
taken care of."
The woman shook her
head emphatically. An old cripple named Stale Bread came to her assistance.
"She wants the
King to touch it. You know the King. Tell her how to go about it."
With her fingertip
Angélique dreamily stroked the child's forehead. It had a funny little nose and
the eyes of a frightened squirrel. Have the King touch it? Why not? Since
Clovis, the first Christian king of the Franks, this gift of healing scrofula
had been handed down to his successors. God had transmitted to them this power
with the holy chrism that the miraculous dove had brought from heaven in a
glass phial on the day of the first coronation. The legend was that when
Leonicet, a squire of Clovis, caught scrofula, Clovis saw in a vision an angel
who told him to touch his servant's neck. When he did so, he experienced the
joy of healing his faithful servant Leonicet. Ever since then the Kings of
France, as heirs of this remarkable gift, had been besieged by poor folk
covered with sores. No sovereign had ever neglected this duty, Louis XIV less
than some. Almost every Sunday, at Versailles or Saint-Germain, or every time
he came to Paris, he received the sick. In one year he touched more than
fifteen hundred, and was said to have worked many cures.
Angélique said she
thought one had to speak to the King's doctor, as it was he and his assistants
who examined the sick before they were presented to the King. A cart would take
them to Versailles, where the ceremony was
held most often. She advised the woman to come to see her the following week.
In the meantime she would speak to Vallet, the King's doctor, who was present
at His Majesty's evening meal every day.
The beggars who had
been listening to the conversation, implored her in turn. "Lady, we want
to be touched by the King too. Lady, intercede for us."
She promised them she
would do her best. Meanwhile she dressed the child's sores with compresses of a
green liquid that her own doctor had recommended.
Old Stale Bread was a
regular. For years he had been coming to the Hotel de Beautreillis for
Angélique to dress his ulcers and wash his feet. He saw no use in it all, but
he let her do it because she insisted. Mumbling in his tangled gray beard about
his pilgrimages, for he did not wish to be thought a vulgar beggar, he would
tell her about all the trips he had made to holy shrines and show her the
cockleshells in his hat and the rosaries he had brought back, and the bell at
the end of his pilgrim's staff.
These trips had not
taken him much out of the Ile-de-France, but he knew every one of the castles
in it, even the smallest, in which as an experienced beggar he knew how to get
a handout. Since the King did not like living in Paris, the great nobles were
building everywhere, wishing to emulate their master in constructing lavish
residences, laying out parks, cutting avenues through the forests, planting
orange groves and installing hundreds of fountains. That was all to the good
for Stale Bread. Limping, whining, begging, like Saint Roch with his starveling
yellow dog always trailing along, he wandered up and down the roads and took
advantage of the ceaseless traffic of wagons and carts bringing construction
materials to get a lift.
Stale Bread judged
the great by their kitchens. It was a point of view as valid as any other, and
Angélique liked to hear him run on.
"What story have
you for me today, Stale Bread?"
"This morning,"
the old cripple said, "I was coming back from Versailles on foot. A little
walking is good for anyone. Suddenly my mutt started barking, and a robber came out of the woods. I needed just one
look at him to say to myself, 'That's a bandit.' But do you think I was scared?
Not a bit! He came up to me and he said: 'You've got bread to eat. Give me a
piece and I'll give you some gold.' 'Show it to me first,' I said. He took out
two gold pieces. I gave him all my bread for it. Then he asked me the way to Paris.
'It just happens I'm going there too.' A wine-seller was going by with empty
barrels in his cart, and he was glad to take us both along. We got to talking
on the ride, and I told him I knew everyone in Paris, especially the nobility
and all the great establishments. 'I would like to go to Madame du
Plessis-Bellière’s,' he said. 'It just happens I'm going there too.' 'She is my
only friend,' he said."
Angélique stopped in
the middle of her bandaging. "You're making this up, Stale Bread. I don't
have any friends among the robbers of the forest."
"I'm just
telling you what he said. If you don't believe me, ask him. He's here."
"Where?"
"Over there in
the corner. He's a little scared, I guess. He doesn't seem to want anyone to
look him square in the face."
The person he pointed
out did indeed seem to be hiding. He was leaning his face against a post.
Angélique had not noticed him when she was handing out bread. His lean body was
wrapped in a tattered cloak the edge of which he had drawn over the lower part
of his face. His appearance did not inspire her with confidence. She got up and
went straight over to him. Then she suddenly recognized him in a burst of fear
and joy. It was Rakoczy.
"You!" she
exclaimed.
She seized him by the
shoulders and felt the thinness of his body through the cloak. "Where did
you come from?"
"That old fellow
told you, from the woods."
His dark eyes were
sunken, but they still burned with their old fire, and his lips were pale against
the tangle of his beard. She realized that more than a month had gone by since
the Russian delegation had visited Versailles. Heavens, it was not possible! In
the dead of winter! "Don't stir," she said. "I am going to take
care of you."
As soon as the visit
of the poor came to an end, she took the Hungarian prince into a comfortable
room next to the Florentine bath. Rakoczy tried to make a joke of it all. He
straightened up, draping his rags about him with a devil-may-care attitude, and
inquired after her health as if he had just met her in the King's antechamber.
But as soon as he had bathed and shaved, he sank on to the bed and fell into a
deep sleep.
Angélique summoned
her steward. "Roger," she said, "the man I have just been with
is our guest. I can't tell you his name, but understand that we owe him a
secure place of refuge."
"Madame may
count on my secrecy."
"Yours, yes, but
the staff is large. Roger, I want you to make all my people understand—from the
little stable-boy Jeannot up to your bookkeeper—that they are to make no more
of this man than if he were invisible. They have never seen him. He does not
exist!"
"I understand,
Madame."
"You are also to
tell them that if he goes out of here safe and sound, I will give them all a
reward. But if anything happens to him under my roof . . ." Angélique
clenched her fists and her eyes were flashing. ". . . I swear I will
dismiss you all. Everyone, from the lowest to the highest, do you understand?
Is that clear?"
Roger bowed. His long
service with Madame du Piessis had taught him that she always meant what she
said. His own opinion was that a good servant who knew his place should be
blind, deaf, and, if possible, dumb, and he tried to inculcate the servants he
was responsible for with the same ideal. He said he would pledge their silence
and that none of them would let the glory of idle gossip outweigh the
advantages of serving Madame.
She felt reassured on
this point. But to shelter Rakoczy was something else again. To help him escape
and get across the frontier was still another. She did not know what orders
Louis XIV might have issued concerning the revolutionary.
She sketched several plans, estimating the money and the friends she could rely
on to make this difficult undertaking turn out well. She was still deep in her
plans when the little clock in her room chimed the hour of eleven.
As she rose to
prepare for bed she almost screamed. Rakoczy was standing in the door to her
room. Angelique recovered herself. "How do you feel?"
"Wonderful."
The Hungarian
stretched his long thin body which hardly filled the clothes that plump Roger
had loaned him. "I feel better for just getting rid of my beard. I kept
thinking I was turning into a Russian."
"Shh," she
said, laughing. "People don't talk about ropes in the house of a man who's
been hanged."
Suddenly she
shivered, remembering how once she had tried to rescue the Gutter Poet. She had
not succeeded; the King's police had been stronger than she. The Gutter Poet
had been hanged in the Place de Grève. But now she had other means at her
disposal. She was rich and influential. She would succeed this time. "Are
you still hungry?"
"I'll always be
hungry," he sighed, patting his hollow stomach. "I think I'll be
hungry right up till my last gasp."
She took him into the
next room where she had had a table set with him in mind. Gold candlesticks
were lit at either end. On a golden platter lay a huge roast turkey stuffed
with chestnuts and garnished with baked apples. Beside it were covered dishes
of hot and cold vegetables, an eel stew, salads, and a golden bowl full of
fruit. To honor the poor fellow after his sojourn in the forest, Angélique had
had the table laid with some of her gold service, of which she was very proud.
Besides the platter, the candlesticks and the bowl, she had set out two
priceless antique goblets and ewers.
Rakoczy uttered a
wild cry of delight, meant more for the golden skin of the turkey than for the
goblets and plates. He dashed to the table and began to wolf down the food. It
was not till he had torn off and devoured the
two wings and a drumstick that he motioned Angélique peremptorily to sit down
opposite him.
"You eat
too," he said with his mouth full.
She laughed at him
sympathetically, and filled his goblet with burgundy. Then she poured herself
some and sat down as he had directed. There was no question of her getting even
a morsel of turkey; the signs pointed to Rakoczy's eating it all. His sharp
white teeth sank into the tender meat with obvious pleasure, and cracked the
bones easily. Rakoczy wiped his hands, took a drink, uncovered the dishes and
heaped his plate, gobbled that up, and after another goblet of wine, returned
to the carcase of the turkey. His sparkling black eyes rose toward Angélique.
"You are
beautiful," he said between mouthfuls. "All the time I was roaming
the forest I could see you in front of me—a vision of light and comfort . . .
the most beautiful woman . . . the tenderest . . ."
"Were you hiding
in the forest all this time?"
The prince began to
feel full. He licked his fingers and stroked his long mustache which he
arranged to droop over the corners of his mouth. It might have been due to the
candlelight, but his skin seemed to have yellowed, making him seem more of an
Asiatic than ever, what with his slanting eyes. But their dancing, mocking
glints robbed them of Oriental mystery. He tossed back his long glossy black
hair, curled like a gypsy's.
"Yes. Where else
could I go? The forest was the only refuge open to me around Versailles. I had
the luck to find a marsh which led to a pond where I splashed around for a long
time, and that made the hounds on my trail lose my scent. I could hear them
baying and the shouts of the lackeys. . . . To be a quarry is not very
pleasant. But I had Hospadar, my pony. He didn't want to get out of the water,
even though icicles were forming on his mane, for he knew we would be lost if
we did. Toward evening we could tell that our followers had given up and gone
home."
Angélique filled his
glass. "But how did you exist? Where did you take shelter?"
"I happened on
an abandoned woodcutter's hut. I lit a
fire. After staying there a couple of days I started wandering again. Just as
we were about to collapse I glimpsed a little hamlet in a clearing. That night
I crept into it and stole a lamb that kept me in food for quite a while.
Hospadar ate moss and berries. He is a horse from the tundras. At night I would
go into the hamlet and steal more food, and in the daytime I burrowed under a
lean-to I built with the knife I always carry under my clothes. The people in
the hamlet weren't disturbed by the smoke they sometimes saw, and they blamed
the wolves for the stolen animals. The wolves? Some came prowling around our
shelter, but I drove them off with flaming brands. One day I decided to go
farther southward and try to get out of the forest into some region where no
one had heard of us. But . . . how can I explain it . . . the forest is a harsh
reality for a man from the steppes. There was no wind, no odor to guide me,
only the snow and the fog that shrouded every dawn and every twilight. The
forest is a closed world, like a dream palace. . . . One day I came to a hill from
which I could see the forest stretching all around me like the sea. Nothing but
trees or the vast empty spaces where the swamps were. . . It was like a desert
. . . and in the center was an island all white and red . . . made by the hand
of man. I saw I had come back to where I started from. It was Versaillesl"
He stopped and his
head drooped. For the first time he seemed crushed by his failure.
"We stayed for a while looking at it while the wind whipped
at us. Then I knew that I could never escape the man who had built all
that—Versailles. A lawn of many colors stretched from the base of the palace
and I could see flowers of red and purple and blue and yellow on the outskirts
of the wintry woods."
"They were flowers,"
said Angélique. "It was the reception for the Persian ambassador."
"I thought it
must be a mirage brought on by hunger. I was beaten, utterly discouraged, for I
saw then what I had long suspected, that your king is the greatest in the
world."
"But you dared
defy him right to his face. What a mad
thing to do! What an insult! Your dagger at the very feet of the King, before
the whole Court of Versailles!"
Rakoczy leaned across
the table with a smile. "An insult for an insult. Didn't you like my
gesture just a little?"
"Perhaps. But
see where it led you. Your cause itself will suffer."
"That is true.
Alas, our Oriental ancestors bequeathed us their drive but none of their
prudence. When it is easier to die than to submit, then is the time for bold
gestures and great deeds. I have not finished my combat in the arena against
the tyranny of kings. Then I suddenly thought of you." He shook his head
tenderly. "Only a woman can be trusted. Men have often surrendered those
who have asked their protection. Women, never. I got the idea of coming to you,
and so here I am. I would like to take refuge in Holland, which is also a
republic that paid dearly for its freedom. It welcomes political
refugees."
"What did you do
with Hospadar?"
"I could not
come out of the forest with him. He would betray me. Everyone used to point at
the little Hun horse. I couldn't leave him in the forest to the wolves. . . I
cut his throat with my knife."
"No!"
Angélique exclaimed, her eyes filling with tears.
Rakoczy drained the
golden goblet in front of him, set it down, and stepped slowly over to her.
Half-sitting on the table he leaned down and looked at her closely.
"In my
homeland," he said solemnly, "I have seen soldiers toss children into
the flames right before their mothers' eyes. I have seen them strung up on tree
branches by their feet, while their mothers stood below watching their agony
and hearing their screams for the rest of their lives. That was in the
repression under the King of Hungary assisted by the Emperor of Germany. That's
why I seized a torch and lit fires of my own. What is the death of a faithful
horse in comparison with that? Don't waste your sympathy. I told you I had no
more than my horse and my dagger. That is no longer true. Now I have
nothing."
Angélique shook her
head. She could not speak. Jumping up, she went to her writing desk, took out
the casket containing his dagger studded with turquoises and gave it to him.
His face lit up.
"So it fell into
your hands! Ah, God was good to send you to me as a guiding star in this land.
Here is a token of triumph. Why are you weeping, my beautiful angel?"
"I don't know.
It all seems so cruel and inevitable."
Through her tears his
face seemed like that of a sacrificial victim. Then she saw his hand close
around the dagger. He had found a weapon he had learned to use, and that he
would use again. He slipped it into his belt.
"Nothing is
inevitable in this world," he said, "except the struggle of a man to
live in peace with his soul."
He stretched himself,
spreading his legs and extending his arms with deep satisfaction. After his
incredible physical hardships he needed only a few hours' rest to recover the
strength and agility of a wild beast waiting to spring.
She thought he reminded her of someone, less in his face than
in his lanky figure which seemed to have steel springs.
"For the moment
my soul is in retreat," Rakoczy said, grinning like a wolf. "I am
aware only of the needs of my body."
"Are you still
hungry?"
"Yes . . . for
you."
He made his bright,
penetrating eyes sink into hers.
"So you have
demonstrated," she said, smiling.
"My words are as
real as my deeds. The love I bear you is rooted deep within me—in my arms, my
legs, my whole body. If I touched you I would warm you."
"But I am not
cold."
"Yes, you are.
Very cold. I can sense how lonely and cold your heart is, and I could hear your
sobs from faraway. Come to me."
He embraced her
without violence but with a strength that left her weak. His lips roved from
her throat to the tender spot behind her ear. It was impossible for her to
resist him. Their hair entwined. She felt his mustache tickling her bosom as he
kissed her breasts, bending over them as if he were sucking a cool draught from
a woodland spring. An almost painful feeling surged through her, constricting
her throat and making her hands tremble. Each passing moment welded her tighter
to his hard frame. When he let her go, she staggered dizzily, as if she had no
gravity. His eyes spoke his demand.
Angélique left the
room and went to her own chamber. She began to rip off her clothes, tearing
frenziedly at her stiff stays, letting her heavy skirts fall around her feet.
She felt her body quivering warmly under her lace chemise. Kneeling on her bed,
she undid her hair. A bright, primitive passion flooded her un-dimmed by any
consideration. He had lost everything. She would not mince matters with him.
She let her hair stream down her bare back, relishing its delicious touch, ran
her fingers through it, spread it out as her head tilted back and her eyes
closed.
From the doorway
Rakoczy was watching her.
The amber light of an
oil vigil lamp in the niche at the head of her bed lit on the curves of her
well-fleshed thighs. He could see them quivering. It revived the glints of her
lovely auburn hair that fell like a cloak of water over her sleek shoulders and
on to her upturned breasts. Her necklace of pearls was still about her neck.
She watched him come
toward her with half-dosed eyes. Suddenly she knew who it was he reminded her
of her first husband, the Comte de Peyrac who had been burned alive in the
Place de Grève. He was just a little shorter and did not limp.
She stretched forth
her arms to him, calling him to her with a sigh. He leaped forward and took her
once more into his arms. Resistless, yielding, she surrendered completely to
his soft caresses. Exquisite, untrammeled pleasure swept over her.
"How good a man
is!" she thought.
For three nights she
slept snuggled close to his long male body. The bed was warm, the curtains
pulled close. She would revel in the newly rediscovered delight of having someone beside her and cling to him
until sleep overcame her. Then when her sleep grew lighter, toward morning she
would grope for his hand and stroke his soft hair. If he were no longer there,
she quailed at the thought of being once more alone. She never asked herself
why she loved him. What did it matter?
He would be wide
awake at once, like a man used to being on the alert. Then his face would
startle her for a moment, as if she were a woman of a conquered town awaking in
the invader's bed. But he would put his arms around her and she would yield her
nakedness to him as he caressed her tightening breasts. He had been surprised
that anyone so beautiful and reserved as she could live alone so long. Now he
discovered that she could fondle him passionately, that her capacity for love
was inexhaustible, that she begged for love and accepted it with a sort of
fascinating shyness.
"I am always
learning something new about you," he murmured into her ear. "I
thought you were too strong, too cold, too intelligent to be so physical. But
you have everything. Come with me, be my wife."
"I have two
children."
"We will take
them with us. We will make them into horsemen of the steppes, true
heroes."
Angélique tried to imagine her cherubic Charles-Henri as a martyr
to the cause of Hungary. She laughed, tossing her hair carelessly over her
silky shoulders. Rakoczy clasped her to him voraciously.
"How beautiful
you are! I cannot live without you. When I am away from you my strength drains
from me as from a wound. You cannot leave me now." Then suddenly,
listening, his face darkened.
He sat up. "Who
is there?"
He ripped back the
curtains of the bed. At the far end of the room a door was opening, revealing
Péguilin de Lauzun on the threshold. Behind him billowed the great white plumes
of the King's musketeers.
The Marquis advanced.
He saluted Rakoczy with his sword.
"Prince,"
he said with all courtesy, "in the name of the King, I arrest you."
After a moment of
silence, the Hungarian got out of bed without embarrassment and bowed to him.
"My cloak is on
the back of that chair," he said calmly. "Will you be so good as to
hand it to me. As soon as I am dressed, I will go with you, sir."
Angélique wondered
whether she could be dreaming. This was the very thing that had haunted her
dreams for three nights. She was so astounded she never thought of the
shameless disarray she presented.
Lauzun ogled her
facetiously, and blew her a kiss. Then, resuming his formality, he said:
"Madame, in the name of the King I arrest you."
There was a knock on
the door of her cell and someone tiptoed in. Angélique was frowning over her
worm-eaten embroidery frame and did not look up; it would be just another of
the nuns bringing her some weak broth in that humble way they had of keeping
their eyes lowered and their gestures servile. She rubbed her hands together to
get the stiffness out of them caused by the dampness of the room, took up her
embroidery needle again, and concentrated on her work.
A burst of laughter
close to her ear made her jump. The young nun who had just come in was
indulging herself to her heart's content.
"Marie-Agnes!" Angélique exclaimed.
"Oh, my poor
Angélique. If you only knew how funny you look as a prisoner condemned to do
embroidery!"
"I like
embroidering . . . but in other surroundings, naturally. How do you happen to
be here, Marie-Agnes? Who let you in?"
"I did not have
to be let in. I live here. You are in my very own convent."
"Is this the
Carmelites of Mont Sainte-Genevieve?"
"It is indeed.
Bless the luck that brought us together. I didn't know until this morning the
name of the great lady we had been ordered to be jailors for, and then the
Mother Superior immediately gave me permission to visit you. Of course, I'll do anything I can to
help you."
"I don't know
what you can do for me, I'm sorry to say," Angélique said ruefully.
"The three days I've been here I've noticed that the strictest kind of
orders must have been given about me. The nuns who bring me food are as
deaf-and-dumb as the little half-wit who sweeps up the room. I asked to see the
Mother Superior, and I am still waiting for her to come."
"It's not easy
for us to comply with His Majesty's explicit orders when he sends us a mangy sheep
we want to keep from the rest of the flock."
"Thank you for
the compliment."
"It's the way we
describe you among ourselves. We are sheep without a blemish." Her green
eyes, so like her sister's, sparkled in her pale face which was thin and drawn
from fasting. "You are here to do penance for your many great sins against
morality."
"Sheer
hypocrisy! If I'm here for being immoral, then it's high time all the ladies of
the Court were put under lock and key."
"But you were
denounced by the Brotherhood of the Holy Sacrament."
Angélique stared at
her sister.
"Don't you
know," Marie-Agnes continued, "that good Brotherhood wants to abolish
licentiousness everywhere. They give the King information about the private
life of his subjects. They have spies everywhere, and hardly let people—how
shall I say it?—sleep in peace."
"Are you trying
to tell me I have servants in my house paid by the Brotherhood of the Holy
Sacrament to inform them about my private life?"
"That's right.
You are no better off in that respect than all the other people in the Court
and in the city too."
Brooding, Angélique
took a few stitches with the red wool she was using.
"So that's how
the King knew I was hiding Rakoczy. Marie-Agnes, can you tell me who took it
upon himself to betray me to the King?"
"Possibly I can.
We have all sorts of noble names among our sisters and they know loads of
secrets."
She came back the
following day with a smug smile pregnant with promises of information.
"Well, I found
out. In all likelihood you have Madame de Choisy to thank for snatching you out
of the clutches of the devil."
"Madame de
Choisy!"
"That's the one.
For a long time she has been worried about the state of your soul. Search your
memory. Who was so eager to recommend a companion or a lackey to you?"
"Good
Lord!" Angélique groaned. "Not one, but half a dozen. The whole
household of my children is made up of Madame de Choisy's protégé’s."
Marie-Agnes laughed
till she was out of breath. "How naive you are, my poor Angélique! I
always thought you were much too pure in heart to be at Court."
"How was I to
know anyone was so interested in saving my soul?"
"They are
interested in everything. That's the test of human devotion. God needs
uncompromising soldiers, and that's the secret of the Brotherhood. They'll stop
at nothing to save a soul. The purity of their motives justifies what to less
complicated minds would appear downright treachery."
"Don't tell me
you're on their side," Angélique flared, "or I shall never speak to
you again so long as I live."
The nun smiled smugly
again, then lowered her eyes and grew serious. "God alone can judge,"
she said.
She promised again
that she would do everything she could to keep her sister informed of what fate
awaited her. It was not impossible for her to intervene in her behalf.
Everything was in the hands of the Brotherhood of the Holy Sacrament, but the
Mother Superior of the Carmelites had considerable influence over certain
members of that committee of pious laymen.
"Don't forget
there's a bit of politics involved in this," Angélique reminded her.
"Rakoczy was a foreign revolutionary and . . ."
"That doesn't
make a bit of difference. In the eyes of those fanatics a lover is a lover.
Whoever he is doesn't matter . . . unless
he is the King, of course. Perhaps he is the one who will rescue you in the
end."
As she went out, her
black veil floated behind her provocatively. Days passed. Then Angélique had an
unexpected visit from Solignac. He revived painful memories, but since from the
very first he spoke of the King's clemency so far as she was concerned, and
gave her some hope of being set at liberty, she listened to him with patience.
He talked for a long time. She had to undergo a regular sermon on the
temptations of the flesh which seemed to her quite out of proportion to the
three unlucky nights she had spend in Rakoczy's arms. What had happened to him?
She hadn't let herself think much about his fate in order not to lose courage
herself.
"Do you come to
me in the name of the King?" she asked when he had finally ended his
discourse.
"Of course,
Madame. His Majesty's decision alone could make me take such a step. In our
opinion you need a longer time to meditate on . . .'"
"And what does
His Majesty intend to do about me?"
"You are at
liberty," Solignac said, pursing his lips. "That is—and let us
understand each other—you are free to leave this convent and go back to your
Hotel de Beautreillis. But under no circumstances may you return to Court
without having been previously invited."
"Have I lost all
my posts?"
"That's another
matter. I scarcely need add that the life you lead while awaiting such an
invitation must be exemplary. You must conduct yourself in a manner beyond
criticism."
"By whom?"
said Angélique trenchantly.
Solignac did not
deign to answer her. He arose patronizingly. Angélique threaded a needle and
resumed her embroidery.
"Well,
Madame," Solignac said in surprise, "didn't you hear what I just told
you?"
"What was that,
sir?"
"That you are
free."
"Thank you,
sir."
"I am prepared
to escort you to the door of your home."
"Thank you very
much, sir. But what need is there for me to hurry? I am not unhappy here, and I
shall enter into my freedom when I wish and as I wish. Please thank His Majesty
for me. I am most grateful to you. Bless you!"
Quite out of
countenance by her suave protestations, Solignac bowed and took his leave.
Angélique took with
her only those things she could carry. She could send for the rest the next
day. She had not been able to bring much with her when she was arrested. She
wanted to return on foot to convince herself that she was actually free again.
Fortunately, the bad joke had not lasted long, but she didn't want to have it
repeated too often. To live in the shadow of committing a false move that might
mean spending the rest of her days behind bars, did not appeal to her.
"Why is the
Brotherhood of the Holy Sacrament so relentless toward me?" she asked
Marie-Agnes, whom she summoned to say goodbye to her. "Haven't they enough
to do with greater sinners than I? Now that you have opened my eyes, I can see
I have been spied on continually and all kinds of traps have been set for me.
It was Madame de Choisy who told me the King had ordered me out of the palace
at Fontainebleau. I found out later he had never given such an order, and I had
almost committed a fatal mistake in leaving. What I don't see is how they can
be so eager to harm people who have done nothing to them."
"There's
something about you that arouses the hatred of prudish people,"
Marie-Agnes said thoughtfully. She was talking to her sister through a wooden
lattice, as the nuns were not permitted to converse without that barrier to
intimacy. "What did Monsieur de Solignac advise you to do?" she asked
again.
"Go home and
live there in an exemplary fashion far from the pleasures of the Court."
"Then do just
the opposite—at least so far as the first part of that injunction is concerned.
Go back to Versailles just as soon as you can and demand to see the King."
"But if those
orders were genuine, I'll run the risk of enraging His Majesty."
"You can take
the risk," said Marie-Agnes flippantly. "There isn't a soul who
doesn't know the King is mad about you. Actually his anger is only his way of
expressing his royal jealousy, and a Madame de Choisy or a Solignac has just
stirred it up. Take your proper place again. They say you're the apple on the
top of the tree for the Sun King, and that your virtue has even resisted his
assaults on it. But you have to go off and sleep with an outlaw who hasn't a
penny and whom the police of the entire kingdom are looking for. You've fooled
the King, and you've fooled the fanatics, and you've fooled your whole world in
a shameless fashion. In short, you've ruined everything."
"Marie-Agnes,
your perception astonishes me. You think I'm a fool and you're right. If only I
had you with me at Court to give me advice. But you stick to your trade and
leave all your rivals breathless trying to keep up with you, or scratched by
your sharp nails. I can't understand what you are doing as a Carmelite. When
you wanted to take the veil I was convinced it was only a passing fancy. But
you stuck to it. Every time I see you or listen to you, I am dumbfounded to see
you in this nun's habit."
"Why are you
dumbfounded?" She lifted her head. The yellow light of a thick candle
shining in the corner of the room illumined her wide-open eyes. "I had a
child, you recall, Angélique. I have been a mother, and it was you who kept me
from dying as a result. But what happened to my child, my son? I left him with
the witch Monvoisin. Sometimes I think of that innocent little body, my own
flesh and blood, possibly sacrificed on the altar of the Devil by the secret
magicians of Paris. I know what they do in their Black Masses. People come to
them for help in love or power or money, for those they want to see dead and
for the honors they hope to get, and that hideous travesty of the Mass gets it
for them. I think of my baby .. . they have pierced his heart with a long
needle to draw off his blood and mix it with offal to make a foul parody of the
Blessed Host. Whenever I think of that, I think that if I could ever do more to
expiate my crime than enter a cloister, I would do it."
Angélique shuddered
as she walked down the street from Mont Sainte-Genevieve. There were
street-lights now in Paris. La Reynie, the new chief of police, had determined,
they said, to make Paris a clean, well-lighted city where honest women could
walk abroad after nightfall. Here and there wide lanterns topped with a cock,
the symbol of watchfulness, spread their reassuring rutilant glow.
But when, thought
Angélique, would La Reynie ever dispel the thick night of hatred and crime that
covered the city? She thought of that world which for years had possessed her
with all its temptations, its pleasures, its horrors. Which would win, die
forces of light or of darkness? Would not the fire of Heaven destroy this
wicked city because there could be found no just soul within it? Her sister's
final confidence had evoked a fear that stifled her. She felt menaced on all
sides.
A few of her faithful
servants welcomed her at the Hotel de Beautreillis. The others had fled. By the
disorder and the desertion in her home she could measure the damage from the
hurricane of royal disfavor. For the first time she was worried about
Florimond. Barbe told her they had had no news of the boy. All she knew was
that he had left his post as page at Versailles.
"Are you
sure?" Angélique asked in terror.
Would they attack
Florimond next?
"Swordthrust" Malbrant and the
Abbé des Lesdiguières were nowhere to be found. The Gilandon girls had left the
place.
"So much
for them! I am sure it was those minxes who betrayed me."
Charles-Henri gazed
at his mother out of big blue eyes. She wanted to take him on her lap and hug
him as the only thing of value she had left in the world, but she refused to
weaken. The sight of the child depressed her. Why bring children into the world
to double your woes by seeing them suffer through your own fault?
She preferred to shut
herself up in her room and apply herself to the bottle of plum brandy which
would help distract her from her misery of soul and
give her strength to face the coming struggle.
A little later,
half-drunk, she knelt at the foot of her bed.
"Oh God, if the
fire of Heaven strikes this city, have pity on me. Help me. Lead me to those
green pastures where my lover waits for me."
chapter 23
VERSAILLES was bathed in light. The warmth and springtime
glow of an April day wrapped the palace in that rosy-golden vapor that belongs
only to lands which know the joy of dolce far niente.
"How lovely
Versailles is!" Angélique said to herself in a rapture of enthusiasm.
Her spirits had
revived; her anguish of soul was gone. At Versailles one had to believe in the
mercy of God and in that of the King who had built this marvel. But one thing
was sure, Solignac had not been wrong in telling Angélique she was banished
from the Court until re-invited. She had succeeded, however, in getting a
message through to Bontemps, and when he joined her near the pool of Clagny he
confirmed the shocking ban.
"For some days
His Majesty could not even bear to hear your name, and we had to be careful not
to mention you in front of him. You greatly offended him, Madame. I think you
know how."
"I'm pining
away, Bontemps. Can't I see the King?"
"You must be out
of your mind, Madame. I just told you he can't stand the merest mention of
you."
"But if he would
see me, Bontemps, if you were to help me see him, don't you know what it would
mean for you . . . haven't you just an inkling?"
The Chief Valet of
the Bedchamber rubbed the end of his nose as he thought it over. He knew his
master's nature better than the King's confessor did, and he also knew how far
he could go without displeasing him.
"Of course,
Madame, I will do my best to persuade His Majesty to meet you in secret. If you
get him to forgive you, he will forgive me."
He advised her to
wait in the Grotto of Thetis, which was
deserted that day because all the Court was on the bank of the Grand Canal
where a fleet of miniature galleys was being launched.
"The boats will
drift down toward Trianon, and the King can leave without attracting attention.
Furthermore, he can get to the Grotto of Thetis without passing the palace. But
I can't say when this will be. You'll have to be patient, Madame."
"I will be. The
Grotto is a delightful place to wait, and at least I won't suffer from the heat
there. Monsieur Bontemps, I shall never forget what you have done for me
today."
The valet bowed. He
understood her meaning and hoped he could play a winning card. He had never
been able to endure Madame de Montespan.
The Grotto of Thetis,
one of the most unusual sights of Versailles, had been hewn in a granite cliff
to the north of the palace. Angélique entered by one of its three gates. The
sun's rays gilded the bas-relief of Apollo plunging into the sea in his
chariot, symbolizing the sun going to rest in the realm of Thetis at the end of
the day. The interior was like a dream-palace. The pillars were of rough-hewn
stone, and in niches faced with mother-of-pearl tritons blew their conch-shell
horns, while shell-framed mirrors that created enormous perspectives reflected
them to infinity.
Angélique sat on the
edge of a large scallop-shell of jasper. Around her graceful sea-nymphs held
dripping candelabra aloft, whose six branches imitating seaweed spouted jets of
iridescent water. Hundreds of birds fluttered among the rosy mists of the
vaulted roof, giving the grotto the sound of a grove. At first these seemed to
be real, as did their songs, but a closer look revealed that their wings were
of silver and their bodies of mother-of-pearl so that they resembled the birds
of an underwater paradise. They were Francinet's latest invention. A water
organ was so placed that its tones echoed throughout the grotto from one side
to the other.
Angélique beguiled
the time by listening to the music and picking out the innumerable details of
the beauty that surrounded her. Here art and mechanical skill had reached a peak of perfection, and it was
easy to see why the King liked this unusually tasteful spot. On fine days he
loved to bring the ladies of the Court here to listen to chamber music. The
previous year he had brought the Prince of Tuscany here for a repast of fruits
and jams.
Angélique let her
fingers trail in the crystal clear water. She didn't want to think. It was
useless and perhaps unlucky to prepare a speech in advance only to find it
wanting when the time came to use it. She would trust to the spur of the
moment. But as the hours dragged by, she became more and more anxious.
It was the King she
was to meet. The awe he could inspire in her buffeted her like gusts of an icy
wind, chilling her to the marrow. Sometimes when she looked at him, so calm and
solemn and yet so friendly, she could be terrified by the majesty she perceived
behind his mask of an ordinary mortal. This sensation returned to her now as a
kind of paralyzing fear, and if he had spoken to her at that moment, she would
have stammered a reply like everyone else struck dumb by the royal presence.
She remembered seeing on a battlefield in Flanders a rough non-commissioned
officer covered with scars and medals turn pale at suddenly finding himself in
the presence of Louis XIV and his suite, and quite incapable of uttering
anything but incoherent grunts to the questions the King so gently asked him.
"If I panic,
I'll be lost," she said to herself. "I must not be afraid. Fear means
defeat. Still the King holds my fate in his hands."
She shuddered,
thinking that she heard a step behind her on the mosaic floor. But no one was
there. She looked toward the main entrance that opened on the sinking sun,
tinting the afternoon with pink. Above the lintel was the emblem of the King on
a background of flaxen-colored shells.
The monogram was made of tiny pearl-like shells. The crown above it was
decorated with mother-of-pearl fleur-de-lis outlined in amber which shone like
gold in the half-light.
Angélique could not
take her eyes off that emblem. She felt a presence near her, but she hesitated
to turn around. When at last she did so, she rose as she saw the King, then remained hypnotized to the
point that she forgot to curtsy.
The King had entered
by one of the hidden doors of the grotto which opened on the north terraces and
was used by servants when there was a reception there. He was clad in a suit of
purple taffeta, modestly embroidered, and set off by exquisite lace at his
throat and his wrists. His expression did not bode well.
"Well,
Madame," he said, "aren't you afraid of my anger? Didn't you
understand what I told Monsieur de Solignac to convey to you? Do you want a
scandal? Must I remind you before witnesses that your presence at Court is not
required? Do you know that I have lost all patience? Well, answer me!"
The questions were
like a hail of bullets.
"I wanted to see
you, Sire," Angélique answered.
What man beholding
her before him in the golden shadows of the Grotto of Thetis with such a
disturbingly mysterious look in her emerald eyes could resist her charms? The
King was not one to remain long insensible to them. He saw that her feelings
were not feigned, that she was trembling all over. His mask of severity
suddenly crumbled.
"Why . . . oh,
why did you do that?" he exclaimed almost sadly. "Such an unworthy
betrayal . . ."
"Sire, an outlaw
sought refuge with me. Let women act according to the dictates of their heart
and not according to the soulless principles of politics. Whatever his crime
was, he was a poor wretch who was dying of hunger."
"It is indeed a
matter of politics. What do I care how much you sheltered him and fed him and
helped him escape! But you made him your lover as well. You acted like a
prostitute."
"Those are harsh
words, Sire. I remember Your Majesty was once more forgiving when Monsieur de
Lauzun at Fontainebleau was the cause of a painful incident between my husband
and him, and I was then more to blame than now."
"We have come a
long way since then," said the King. "I don't want . . . I don't want
you to give to others what you will not give me."
He began to pace up
and down, touching the pearly birds and the puffy-cheeked tritons. With the
simple words of a jealous man he was confessing his bitterness, his
disappointment, his defeat, and in spite of his reputation for concealing his
thoughts, was about to reveal his intentions.
"I wanted to be
patient. I wanted to prick the bubble of your vanity and your ambition. I hoped
you would learn to know me better and that your heart would eventually be
stirred . . . somehow. I looked for ways to make you mine, and when I saw that
haste displeased you I was content to let time go by. Now it has been years,
yes, years since I first conceived a passion for you, since the day I first saw
you as the Goddess of Spring. But you maintained your inverted snobbery, your
disregard for conventional behavior . . . You came here, you presented yourself
before your King without being invited . . . Ah, how beautiful and bold you
were! I knew you were going to be mine and that I would desire you to the point
of madness, and to conquer you seemed so easy. But the tricks you used to
rebuff me—I don't know what they were. I saw myself routed on all sides. Your
kisses were neither promises nor confessions. Your confidences, your smiles,
your serious words were no more than traps into which I was the only one to
fall. I have suffered cruelly from not being able to take you in my arms, from
not daring to do so lest you would escape me farther. . . . What good has all
my patience, all my care, done? Now look at how you despise me still by giving
yourself to an abominable savage from the Carpathians. How could I forgive you
for that? . . . Why are you shaking so? Are you cold?"
"No.
Afraid."
"Of me?"
"Of your power,
Sire."
"I am
sorry." He put his hands gently on her waist. "Do not be afraid. You
are the only person whose fear of me hurts me. I should like you to find joy in
me, happiness, pleasure. What would I not give to see you smile? I have
searched in vain for something that might satisfy you. Don't tremble, my love,
I shall not hurt you. I cannot. This month
gone by has been a hell for me. Everywhere I sought your eyes. And I could not
stop thinking of you in the arms of that Rakoczy. Oh, how I have wanted to kill
him!"
"What have you
done with him, Sire?"
"So it's his fate that worries you,
is it?" he grinned. "So it's for his sake you have the courage to
present yourself before me? Well, relax. Your Rakoczy is not even in prison.
See how unfairly you judge me. I have loaded him with favors. I have granted
him everything he has wanted to get from me for a long time. He has gone back
to Hungary with his pockets full of gold to sow disorder there between the
German Emperor and the King of Hungary and the Ukrainians. That suits my plans,
for I have no need whatever for a coalition in Central Europe just now.
Everything has turned out for the best."
Of all he had been
saying Angélique caught just one sentence: "He has gone back to
Hungary." She was shocked. She could not tell whether her attachment to Rakoczy
was very deep, but never for a moment had she dreamed that she might not see
him again. Now he had returned to that distant land so wild and far away it
seemed to be on another planet. The King had abruptly swept him clean out of
her life, and she would never see him again.
She wanted to scream
with rage. She wanted to see Rakoczy again. He was her lover, clean and sincere
and ardent. She needed him. No one had the right to direct the lives of others
this way as if they were marionettes. Her anger made her see red.
"At least you
gave him plenty of money," she cried, "so that he can fight kings and
chase them out, and deliver his people from the tyrants that oppress them and
play with their lives as if they were puppets, so that he can give them the
freedom to think, to breathe, to love. . ."
"Shut up!"
The King had grasped her shoulders in a vise-like grip. "Shut up!"
Then his voice grew calm. "I entreat you not to insult me, my love. I
could not forgive you for that. Don't show me your hatred. You cut me to the quick. You don't have to say
things that will only drive us apart. We ought to come closer to each other,
Angélique. So be still. Come."
He led her to the
edge of a marble pool where the water glimmered like a pearl. She was panting.
Her teeth were clamped, her throat tight. The King's strength subdued her. He
was stroking her forehead, as she loved him to do, and mastering her.
"I beg you,
don't give way to nerves. Madame du Plessis-Bellière would never
forgive you for that."
With a quick sob she
yielded to him. Tired and broken in spirit, she leaned her head against him as
he stood by her. He dominated her. The setting sun quickened the red and gold
tints of his hair. Never before had she known how overpowering his strength
could be. She realized now that ever since that first morning when, like a lark
before a bird-charmer, she had come to Versailles to be crowned Goddess of
Spring, she had unknowingly been in the King's hands. Possibly the most
stubborn animal he had ever tamed, yes, but he had succeeded. He had always
shown the patience, the stealth and the unruffled calm of a great wild beast
lying in wait for his prey. He sat beside her, pressing her warmly to him,
speaking tenderly.
"What a strange
love ours is, Angélique!"
"Is it only a
question of love?"
"For me, yes. If
it is not love, then what is it?" he said passionately. "Angélique .
. . how that name haunts my memory! When my work lets me, I close my eyes.
A dizziness comes over me and your name springs to my lips . . . Angélique! I
have never known such torment so to distract me from my work. Sometimes I am
frightened by this love I have allowed to penetrate my soul. It causes me a
faintness like a wound of which I fear I shall never be healed. You alone can
heal me. I dream . . . yes, sometimes I do dream . . . of the night I shall
hold your warm, sweet-smelling flesh close to mine, not knowing what look is in
your eyes . . . And I dream of things more precious still, and that part of you
which is beyond price. I dream of your smile—so light, so friendly, so
complex—beaming on me from among the throng on
some great day when an embassy arrives and I am only the King dragging my heavy
robe and scepter down the Hall of Mirrors . . . of a look from you that will
approve my designs . . . of a frown that will prove your jealousy . . . of
ordinary, tender things I shall never know."
"Haven't your
mistresses already taught you them?"
"They were my
mistresses, not my friends. That was the way I wanted it. Now it is something
else . . ."
He gazed at her with
a look in which was not desire alone but another sentiment compounded of
tenderness and admiration and devotion, an expression so unusual for the King
that she could not tear her eyes from his. She saw him clearly now as a
solitary man yearning toward her from the top of a mountain. Ardently, silently
they questioned each other with their eyes. The rustling of the water-organ
mingling its fluty voice with the sound of the water in a rustic symphony
enveloped them like an ethereal promise of happiness. Angélique feared to
succumb. Turning her head away, she broke the spell.
"What has
happened between us, Angélique? What has come between us? What is this barrier
I sense in you, which I storm in vain?"
She put her hand to
her forehead and tried to laugh. "I don't know. Pride perhaps, or fear. I
haven't the things I need for that hard task of being a royal mistress."
"Hard task? What
a cruel way of speaking you have!"
"I'm sorry,
Sire. But let me speak frankly while there is yet time. To be always dazzling,
to be always dissembling, to bear the weight of jealousy and intrigue and . . .
Your Majesty's infidelity, that is not for me. To be something one tosses aside
like a toy no longer fun to play with takes more ambition, or more love. It
broke Mademoiselle de la Vallière, and I am not so thick-skinned as Madame de
Montespan." She rose abruptly. "Stay faithful to her, Sire. She has a
strength to match yours, not I. Don't tempt me any more."
"Are you
tempted?" He wrapped her in his arms and buried his face in her golden hair. "Your fears are
groundless, my lovely. . . . You know me only on the surface. For what other
woman would I have been so forgiving? The soft ones are whining ninnies. The
ambitious have to be beaten down lest they devour me. But you . . . you were
born to be a sultana-bachi, as that dark prince said who wished to carry
you away with him. The one who can dominate a king. I accept the title. I bow.
I love you in a hundred different ways—for your weakness, for your sadness I
would so like to dispel, for your spendor I would so like to possess, for your
intelligence which confounds me but which I need as much as I need precious
things of gold and marble about me, almost more beautiful in their perfection
than one should have near one, as a token of wealth and strength. You have
given me what I lacked—confidence."
He had taken her face
in his hands and was raising her to him as if he never tired of trying to plumb
her mystery.
"I expect
everything from you, and I know that if you consented to love me, you would not
deceive me. But so long as you are not mine, so long as I do not hear your
voice moaning in a swoon of love, I am afraid. I fear you waiting to trap me in
sly deception. That is why I want to hasten the hour of your surrender. For
then I shall have nothing to fear, neither you nor the whole earth. . . . Have
you ever imagined that, Angélique . . . You and I together . . . What could we
not do? What conquests could we not undertake? What glories could we not
expect? . . . You and I together. . . We would be invincible."
She did not answer.
It was as if a mighty wind had shaken her to her very foundations. She kept her
eyes closed and offered the King only her pale, pale face in which he could
decipher nothing. He understood that the moment of grace had passed. He sighed.
"You don't want
to answer without thinking? That is only wise. And you don't like my having
stopped you, I can see. Well, hothead, I grant you another week of penitence to
calm your resentment and reflect on my words in solitude. So back to your hotel
in Paris until next Sunday. Then Versailles shall see you
once more, lovelier than ever, more beloved if that is possible, and more
triumphant over my heart in spite of your guilty straying. Alas, you have
taught me that great as a king may be, he cannot command love, only loyalty,
not even equal desire. But I shall be patient. I shall not despair. Another day
will come when we shall embark for Cythera. Yes, my darling, there shall come a
day when I shall lead you into Trianon. I have had built there a little
porcelain pagoda to love you in, far from the din, far from their intrigues
that frighten you, with only the flowers and the trees to know we are there.
You shall be the first to use it. Every stone, every object has been chosen for
you. Do not protest. Leave me only hope. I know how to wait."
Holding her by the hand, he led her to the entrance of the grotto.
"Sire, may I ask
you for news of my son?"
The King's face darkened. "Ah, that's one more worry your turbulent family has caused me.
I have had to remove the little page from his post."
"Because of my
fall from grace?"
"By no means. I
had no intention of making him suffer for that. But his conduct displeased me.
Twice he pretended that Duchesne, my head steward, wanted to poison me, that's
all. He pretended he had seen him put a powder in my food and he accused him of
it noisily. From the fire in his eyes and the distinctness of his voice I knew
he had inherited his mother's boldness. 'Sire, do not eat that dish and do not
drink that wine,' he said loudly and clearly just after the test had been made.
'Monsieur Duchesne has put poison into it.' "
"Oh dear,"
Angélique sighed disconsolately. "Sire, I don't know how to tell you how
embarrassed I am. The boy is very high-strung and imaginative."
"The second time
he pulled the prank, I had to be firm. I did not want to punish too severely a
boy I was interested in because of my fondness for you. Monsieur was there. He
found the boy amusing and wanted to engage him. I gave him permission. Your boy
is now at Saint-Cloud, where my brother has just
taken up his springtime residence."
Angélique turned all
the colors of the rainbow. "You let my son go to that sewer!"
"Madame!"
thundered the King. "Another of your intolerable expressions!" Then
he softened and began to laugh. "But that's the way you are, nothing can
change you. Come, don't exaggerate the dangers that threaten your boy in that,
I agree, rather immoral establishment. His tutor, the abbé, follows him
everywhere, and so does his squire. I wanted to please you. I am sorry I have
succeeded so poorly. Of course, you will want to go to Saint-Cloud, so merely
ask me for permission and anything else I can do for you."
"Sire, let me go
to Saint-Cloud."
"I will do more.
I shall give you a message for Madame so that she will receive you and keep you
with her a day or so. Then you can visit your son at leisure."
"Sire, you are
too generous."
"Only too
loving. Do not forget that again, Madame, and do not toy with my heart."
Florimond's eyes
looked straight into hers.
"I swear I am not lying, Mother.
Monsieur Duchesne is poisoning the King. I have seen him several times. He puts
a white powder under his fingernail and flicks it into His Majesty's goblet
between the time he tastes the wine himself and the time he hands it to the
King."
"Come, come, my
boy, such a thing is impossible. Besides the King has suffered no ill effects
from this so-called poisoning."
"I don't know
about that. Perhaps it's a slow-working poison."
"Florimond, you
don't know what you're saying. A child should not speak about such serious
matters. Don't forget the King is surrounded by devoted servants."
"Who doesn't
know that?" Florimond said.
He looked at his
mother with the same sympathetic condescension as Marie-Agnes had done. For an
hour she had striven to get him to admit he had been making the story up. She felt on the verge of an
emotional crisis. She certainly was not equipped to bring up such an
imaginative child. He had already grown away from her. Now he was going his own
way self-confidently, and she had too many cares of her own to attend to him
properly.
"But who could
have put such an idea into your head that the King was being poisoned?"
"Everyone talks
about poison," he said frankly. "The other day the Duchesse de Vitry
asked me to carry her train. She was going to Monvoisin's in Paris. I listened
at the keyhole while she consulted the old witch. Well, she asked for poison to
slip into her old husband's soup, and also a powder to attract the love of
Monsieur de Vivonne. The Marquis de Cossac's page told me his master had gone
to ask for the secret of winning at cards, and at the same time for some poison
for his brother the Comte de Clermont-Ledeve whose heir he is. And,"
Florimond finished with a flourish, "the Comte de Clermont-Ledeve died a
week ago."
"My child, don't
you know what harm you can do yourself by retailing these slanders so
freely?" said Angélique, trying to keep her patience. "No one will
want a page in his service who gossips so at random."
"But I am not
gossiping," shouted Florimond, stamping his red heel on the floor.
"I'm trying to tell you, but I think . . . yes, I really think you must be
dumb." He turned away with a gesture of wounded dignity, and stared out the
window at the blue sky to conceal his trembling lip. He was too old to cry, but
tears of frustration welled into his eyes just the same.
Angélique did not
know what tack to try next. There was something about the boy she could not
fathom. He was surely lying unnecessarily and with vexing assurance, but for
what purpose? In despair she turned to the Abbé de Lesdiguières and blamed him.
"This boy needs
a spanking. I don't think much of your discipline."
The young priest
turned red up to the edge of his wig. "Madame, I do my best. Through his
job Florimond has come into contact with certain secrets he thinks he knows the answer to . . ."
"Teach him at
least to keep them," Angélique said drily.
As he began to
stammer, she remembered he was one of Madame de Choisy's protégés. To what
extent had he spied on her and betrayed her?
Florimond had
mastered his tears. He said he had to go for a walk with the little princesses
and asked to be allowed to leave. He went out by the window in a gait he tried
to make dignified, but as soon as he had crossed the terrace at the entrance
steps, he broke into a run. They could hear him singing. He was like a
butterfly intoxicated with the lovely spring day. The park at Saint-Cloud with
its endless lawns was full of the chirping of treetoads.
"What do you
think of all this, Monsieur de Lesdiguières?"
"Madame, I have
never caught Florimond in a lie."
"You want to
defend your pupil, of course, but in doing so you will spoil your sense of
evaluation . . ."
"Who doesn't
know that?" said the abbé, using Florimond's expression. He clasped his
hands tightly together in a gesture of anxiety. "At Court even the
greatest shows of loyalty are open to suspicion. We are surrounded by spies . .
."
"You should know
a great deal about spies, Monsieur Abbé, since you were paid by Madame de
Choisy to snoop on me and betray me."
The abbé turned pale
as death. His girlish eyes widened. He began to shake and finally fell on his
knees. "Pardon, Madame. It is true. Madame de Choisy put me in your
household to spy on you, but I did not betray you. I take my oath on that. I
would never have done you the slightest wrong, Madame, not you, never!"
Angélique got up and
went to look out the window.
"Believe me,
Madame," the young man begged again.
"All right, I
believe you," she said tiredly. "But tell me, then, who did denounce
me to the Brotherhood of the Holy Sacrament? Was it 'Swordthrust' Malbrant?
It's not the sort of role for him."
"No, Madame.
Your squire is a good man. Madame de Choisy placed him with you to help his
family which is an honorable one in its province."
"What about the
Gilandon girls?"
The abbé hesitated.
He was still on his knees.
"I know Marie-Anne went to see her
benefactress a few days before your arrest."
"Then it
was she. What a louse of an ingrate! You are doing well in your profession,
Abbé. I don't doubt if you keep on you'll be a bishop some day."
"It's not easy
to live, Madame," the abbé murmured softly. "Think of what I owe
Madame de Choisy. I was the youngest in a family of twelve children, and the
fourth boy. There was not always enough to eat in our castle. I was drawn to
the Church because I like to study and do good. Madame de Choisy paid for me to
go to seminary for several years. When she got me a place in the world she told
me to report all the immorality I observed so that I could combat the forces of
evil. I found it a noble and inspiring duty. But when I entered your household,
Madame . . ."
Still on his knees,
he looked at her with such spaniel eyes that she took pity on the romantic
passion she had aroused in his frank and open heart.
He was of that breed
of petty nobility who grow up in crumbling old castles without a penny to make
a career for themselves, and have nothing to offer but what they do
possess—their souls and their bodies. That was the kind that Monsieur, the
King's brother, made the prey of his unnatural desires. It was better for a
younger son of a good family to hire out to Virtue. This reflection led her to
other concerns.
"Get up,"
she snapped. "I forgive you because I think you are sincere."
"I am devoted to
you, Madame, and I love Florimond like a brother. Are you going to separate
us?"
"No. In spite of
everything, I feel easier when I know he is with you. But Monsieur's circle is
the last place I would choose for him. No one knows how depraved that prince's
tastes are and those who surround him. A lively, pretty boy like Florimond is
not safe there."
"That is quite
true, Madame," said the abbé, who had got to his feet and was
unobtrusively dusting off his knees. "I have already fought a duel with
Antoine Maurel, Sieur de Volone, who it perhaps the biggest rogue of them
all—thief, blasphemer, atheist, sodomite. He trains and sells boys as if they
were horses; he carries on his trade in the boxes at the Opera. His eye lit on
Florimond and he tried to seduce him, but I interfered. So we fought a duel.
Maurel resigned after I wounded him in the arm. I also dueled with the Comte de
Beuvron and the Marquis d'Effiat. I made it clear that the boy was a protégé'
of the King's and that I would complain to His Majesty if he suffered the
slightest harm. Everyone knows you are his mother and that your influence with
the King is not to be sneezed at. Finally I worked it that he was appointed
companion to the two little princesses, and so he has been somewhat removed
from that strange society. Oh, Madame, I have had to accustom my eyes and ears
to plenty of things around here. At Monsieur's rising they talked about boys
the way a bunch of young bloods might talk about girls. The women are the worst
because you can't fight a duel with them. Mesdames de Blanzac, d'Espiney de
Melun, and de Grancy all haunt me like mythological monsters, and I don't know
how to get rid of them."
"Don't tell me
they're after Florimond too."
"No, it's I they
want."
"Oh, you poor
thing," exclaimed Angélique, not knowing whether to laugh at him or pity
him. "My poor little abbé,
what a task you've taken on. I absolutely must get you out of here."
"Don't worry,
Madame. I know that Florimond has to have a career and he can only get ahead in
a prince's household. I try to protect him and strengthen his character and
keep him from getting cynical by shielding him from too much depravity.
Everything is possible when the soul is strong and when God's help is sought.
That's the real meaning of my function as his tutor, isn't it?"
"It certainly
is, but you did not have to agree to bring him here."
"It is very hard
to go against the King's decisions, Madame.
It seemed to me that the dangers he would encounter here might be less than
those that lay in wait for him at Versailles."
"What do you
mean?"
The abbé looked
around him cautiously, then came over to her. "I am sure two attempts were
made on his life."
"Now you're
really out of your head, my boy," said Angélique shrugging her shoulders
violently. "You are obsessed to the point of delirium with the notion that
your pupil is being persecuted. Who would want to take the life of a child of
that age, the youngest and the most famous in the whole Court?"
"A page whose
clear little voice sometimes tells embarrassing truths a bit too loudly."
"I don't want to
hear any more. I an certain you are out of your head. You've been hearing too
many ghost stories, and believing them. Duchesne has the reputation of an
honorable man."
"Don't all those
who live at Court have an honorable reputation, Madame? Who would dare label
anyone else there a scoundrel or a criminal? How unseemly that would be!"
"You are
painting everything too dark. I don't doubt you are Florimond's guardian angel,
but I would like you to apply yourself to subduing his imagination and your own
at the same time. For the time being I am not going to believe Master
Florimond, the two hundredth and last page of the King's Wine Service. It's
absurd."
"Not believe a page
who is your own son, Madame? Oh, Madame, I beg you, don't turn your back on
those who are unquestionably loyal to you. Don't you know you have many
enemies? How they would like to trip you into some hidden pit! Don't leave a
stone unturned in protecting yourself. If anything happened to you, I would die
of grief."
"You are not
lacking in eloquence, little abbé," Angélique said kindly. "I must
recommend you to Monsieur Bossuet. A little inspiration never hurts a sermon. I
think you may turn out to be someone, and I'll do my best to help you."
"Oh, Madame, is
this the way you have let yourself lapse into the cynicism of the Court
ladies?"
"I am no cynic,
my boy. But I would like to see you with both feet on the ground a little
more."
The Abbé de Lesdiguières opened his mouth
to make one last protest, but the arrival of someone in the room where they
were talking interrupted him. He bowed and went in search of his pupil.
Angélique went back
into the drawing rooms. The doors were wide open to let in the fresh spring
air. In the distance one could see Paris.
As the King had
advised her to do, Madame sent her majordomo to ask Madame du Plessis to stay
at Saint-Cloud until the following day. Angélique accepted listlessly. In spite
of all its charm and luxury, Monsieur's Court was too ambiguous and
disquieting. The Prince's women were as disreputable as his catamites.
Angélique encountered there all the persons she had deliberately avoided at
Versailles. Bold and handsome women, for the most part extremely wicked and
even worse than wicked, amused Monsieur with their quarrels and intrigues, and
he lapped up all their vulgar gossip like a concierge. He was not unintelligent
and he had shown that he was courageous in military campaigns, but he had been
so perverted that he inevitably relapsed into completely idle ways and vices.
Angélique tried to
spot that unblest Prince of Sodom, "handsome as an angel in a
painting," the Chevalier de Lorraine, who for years had been Monsieur's
favorite and had in fact become the master of the Palais Royal and of
Saint-Cloud. She was surprised at not finding him. She asked Lady Gordon, a
Scotswoman she liked and a member of Madame's suite, what the story was.
"What? Don't you
know? Where have you been? Lorraine is in disgrace. First he was put in prison
for a while, then sent into exile to Rome. It's a great victory for Madame. For
years she has fought to get the better of her worst enemy, and now at last the
King has listened to her."
She offered Angélique the hospitality for
the night of the antechamber where she slept with the other Maids of Honor, and there she told her the whole
story of the last skirmish in which Madame had won the victory she had so long
despaired of. Lorraine had been arrested right in the Prince's bedroom by the
Comte d'Ayan in spite of the fact that it was surrounded by Monsieur's
bodyguards. Monsieur had wept and howled with despair, and had dragged Madame
off to Villers-Cotterets to get her out of the way. Ever since, things had
begun to improve a little. Monsieur still wept a good deal, but Madame's
position was unassailable because the King was on her side.
Angélique went to
sleep with her ears ringing with the scabrous details. She worried about Florimond,
and she had the feeling that she was being menaced by a thousand different
things slithering around her like serpents.
At daybreak she was
awakened by a gentle knocking at the door against which she was lying. When she
opened it, there stood Madame, wrapped in a long gauze scarf and smiling at
her.
"It's you I
wanted to see, Madame du Plessis. Will you go for a walk with me?"
"I am at Your
Royal Highness' command," Angélique replied.
They descended the
staircase of the silent palace in which the guards were drowsing against their
halberds. Angélique thought of the castle of the Sleeping Beauty.
Dawn was breaking
over the dewy lawns of the park. In the distance Paris lurked behind the
morning mists. It was so chilly that Angélique was thankful she had brought
along a cloak.
"I love to walk
in the early morning like this," the Princess said, stepping along at a
brisk pace. "I don't sleep well. I read most of the night, and just as I
thought I could finally doze off, the daylight aroused me. Do you like to
read?"
Angélique confessed
she rarely found time for literature.
"Even in
prison?" asked Henriette d'Angleterre with a knowing laugh.
But she was not being
malicious, she was just disenchanted.
"I know so few persons here who like
to read. Take my brother-in-law, the King. He doesn't like it if a novelist or
a playwright fails to give him a first edition of his work, but he has no
intention of reading a word of it. But I read from taste. I should like to
write too. Shall we sit down?"
They sat on a marble
bench in a circular spot where several paths converged. The Princess had hardly
changed at all since the time Angélique used to go to her card parties at the
Louvre. She was small and had an elfin grace. Her porcelain skin made her seem
more delicate than her Bourbon and Hapsburg relatives, whose gross manners and
ignorance she quite openly criticized. She ate like a bird and slept even less,
and her interest in art and letters was genuine. She had been the first to
encourage Moliere, and now she was beginning to patronize the fastidious
Racine. Although she had a certain admiration for the Princess' intelligence,
Angelique found her too bizarre. She made everyone feel rather earnest, and the
very things that might have made her attractive elsewhere only wove a net of
isolation about her here. This she was not aware of, but it pained her none the
less, and gave her blue eyes a distracted look.
"Madame,"
she began after a moment of silence, "I come to you because you are said
to be a very rich woman, as well as an obliging and discreet one. Could you
lend me four thousand pistoles?"
Angélique needed all
her aplomb to keep from falling over backward.
"I need that
much to prepare for my trip to England," Princess Henriette continued.
"I am riddled with debts. I've already pawned part of my jewels, and it's
no use my pleading poverty before the King. Still it is for his sake that I am
going to England. He has entrusted me with a mission of the highest
importance—to prevent my brother Charles from joining the new alliance between
the Dutch, the Spanish and the Germans. I should be brilliant and seductive so
as to make France popular in every possible
way, and that won't be easy if I have to appear in a dress too tight to sit
down in. That's a manner of speaking, of course, as I'm sure you understand, my
dear. You know what these embassies are like. You have to squander money like
water for bribes and good will and signatures. If I appear stingy, I won't
succeed, and succeed I must."
As she talked her
cheeks had reddened, yet she concealed her embarrassment with her easy manner
of speaking. It was this embarrassment, so uncustomary for her, that inclined
Angelique to be generous.
"I hope Your
Highness will forgive me for not being able to give you all you ask. I would
have a good deal of trouble raising four thousand pistoles so quickly,
but I can promise you three thousand for sure."
"My dear, what a
comfort you are to me!" Madame exclaimed. Apparently she had not hoped for
so much. "You can be sure I will repay you as soon as I return. My brother
is fond of me, and he will certainly give me gifts. If you only knew how
important this is for me! I promised the King I would succeed. I owe it to him
to do so, for he has paid me in advance."
She took Angélique’s
hands and squeezed them in appreciation. Hers were cold and thin. She was on
the verge of tears from nervousness.
"If I failed, it
would be a terrible blow. I got the Chevalier de Lorraine exiled only in
exchange for this. If I fail, he will return. I would not be able to endure it
if that monster were to run my household again. I am no angel by any means, but
his influence over Monsieur and his followers has gone beyond the limit of
endurance. I can't stand it. His antipathy for us women has reached the point
of actual hatred—all the work of that Chevalier de Lorraine. Once I thought I
could get around him. I sensed the danger in him. If I had been richer then,
perhaps I would have succeeded, but Monsieur offered him enormous sums, and
perquisites that the King gladly granted. I couldn't match them. Like a rapist
who doesn't care what he does so long as he gets what he wants, he laid hold of
Monsieur and robbed him of shame and money."
Angélique did not try
to stop her flow of words. She could see that the Princess was in a highly
nervous state. She must have been frantic about this loan and dubious of
getting it up to the last moment. Her closest friends were more accustomed to
intrigue and debauchery than to generosity.
"Will you
promise I can have the money before I leave?" she asked anxiously.
"I give you my
word, Your Highness. I will have to consult my business manager, but a week
from today three thousand pistoles will be in your hands."
"How good you
are! You restore my faith. I didn't know where to turn for help. Monsieur has
been spiteful to me since the Chevalier's exile. He treats me like the worst of
his . . . creatures."
She continued her
confidences in bits and pieces. Doubtless she would later be sorry for it, for
experience had taught her that she always trusted the wrong person. She would
tell herself that Madame du Plessis was either dangerous or a fool. But for the
moment she was having the rare experience of finding a friendly ear into which
to pour her troubles. She was telling Angélique now about the struggle she had
carried on for years to get away from her household and even her house and from
the filth they were mired in. Everything had gone wrong from the very start.
She should never have married Monsieur.
"He is jealous
of my intelligence, and my fear that no one likes me or even thinks well of me
will haunt me the rest of my days."
She had hoped to be
Queen of France, but she did not say so. This was one of the heavy grievances
she bore Monsieur—that he was not his brother. The way in which she spoke of
the King was full of bitterness.
"If he weren't
so afraid my brother Charles would make this alliance, I would never have got a
thing from him. My tears, my shame, my grief, mean nothing to him. He doesn't
care about his brother's degradation."
"Are you sure,
Your Royal Highness, that you are not exaggerating? The King surely can't like
to see . . ."
"Oh yes, I know
him well. It's rather to the advantage of
a man on the throne to see those nearest to him by birth sink lower and lower
into vice. That way his own grandeur and strength of character seem all the
greater. My husband's pets are no threat to the royal power. All they need is
gold and gifts and lucrative sinecures. The King gives them out freely.
Lorraine got everything he wanted from him. He is sure of Monsieur's loyalty.
The King has no fear that he will turn into an insurrectionist like their uncle
Gaston d’Orléans. But this time I spoke up. Because he needed me he had to give
me what I wanted. I recalled to him that I am the daughter of a king, and that
if I were maltreated I had a brother who is a king too, and he would avenge
me."
She sighed deeply,
and put her hand over her heart to still its throbbing.
"I shall win in
the end, and yet I can't help being afraid. I am surrounded by so much hatred.
Several times Monsieur has threatened to poison me."
Angélique jumped. "Madame, you must not give way to such
morbid thoughts."
"I don't know
whether they are morbid or just plain looking at the facts. People die easily
these days."
Angélique thought of
Florimond and the exhortations of the Abbé de Lesdiguières, and fear rose in
her like an icy serpent.
"If Your
Highness is convinced, you must work hard to protect yourself. Tell the police
your suspicions and get protection from them."
Madame looked at her
as if she had said the most incongruous thing possible. Then she burst into
laughter. "You astonish me with the simple ideas you have. The police? Do
you mean those bullies Le Reynie bosses around, like Desgrez who was ordered to
arrest my counselor Cosnac, Bishop of Valence? Don't be silly, my dear, I know
them only too well. They are not going to stick their long red noses into our
affairs."
She arose and
smoothed down her ice-blue gown of grosgrain
silk. Small as she was, she carried herself like a queen. She seemed taller than Angélique,
though she was shorter.
"Remember we
have no other recourse at Court but to
defend ourselves alone or . . . die," she said calmly.
They walked back in
silence. The green lawns of the park were like velvet, and the breeze wafted to
them the fragrance of the blossoming trees. There was none of the formality of
Versailles here. Madame had designed it all in the English fashion, perhaps the
only taste she and Monsieur had in common. When the King came to Saint-Cloud,
he was offended by what he called "this disorder."
There was a
melancholy smile on the Princess' lips. Nothing could distract her from the
fear that haunted her days.
"If you only
knew," she said, "how gladly I would stay in England, and never,
never come back here!"
chapter 24
“MADAME,"
demanded the beggars, "Madame, when are we going to the King so he can
touch our sores?"
They were crowding
into the Hotel de Beautreillis. With Angélique as their intermediary they
thought themselves as good as cured already. She promised them that the
following Sunday they could take part in the ceremony. She knew the steps she
would have to take, but she was so busy with her own preparations for returning
to Court that she decided to go to Madame Scarron to ask her to take her little
troop of beggars to the King's doctor.
She recalled that she
had not seen the young widow for some time. The last time . . . why, it was
during the great fêtes at Versailles in 1668. Two years! What had happened to
Françoise since then? Angélique was full of remorse as she stopped her sedan
chair before the door of the modest house in which Madame Scarron had been
hiding her poverty for years.
She knocked on the
door in vain, but from little signs she was sure there was someone in the
house. Perhaps it was only a maid, but if so, why didn't she come to the door?
Finally Ange'lique gave up. At the next cross-street a jam of coaches made her
bearers stop. Unconsciously Angélique looked back up the street they had just
left. Somewhat to her surprise she saw the door of Madame Scarron's house open
and the young widow herself step out. She wore a mask and was wrapped up in a
dark cloak, but Angélique easily recognized her.
"This is too
much," she exclaimed as she jumped out of her sedan chair.
She told the lackeys
to go back to the Hotel de Beautreillis without her. Putting her hood over her
head, she started out after Madame Scarron. The widow walked rapidly in spite
of the two heavy baskets she was carrying. There was something mysterious about
her, and Angélique decided to trail her without catching up with her. As she
came to the Cite, Madame Scarron went to the steps of the Palace and hired one
of the plain wheelchairs drawn by one man and called "vinaigrettes."
After waiting a moment, Angélique decided to continue on foot, as a vinaigrette
never moved very fast. Later she regretted this decision. She thought she would
never stop walking. She crossed the Seine and started down an endless street
which eventually turned into a sunken road that terminated out in the country
near Vaugirard. Angélique had to slow down and so lost sight of the vehicle for
a while. She was disappointed to see the vinaigrette turn out of a lane and
head back empty.
She would not have it
said that she had come this far in vain. She ran behind the porter and slipped
him an icu. For such a regal tip he had no hesitation in pointing out to
her the house where he had left his passenger.
It was one of the new
houses that were being built in increasing numbers in the suburbs between the
truck-farmers' rows of cabbages and the sheepfolds. Angélique lifted the bronze
knocker. After a long wait she saw a hand open the peep-hole, and a maid's
voice asked what she wanted.
"I should like
to see Madame Scarron."
"There's no
Madame Scarron here. I don't know anyone by that name." She shut the
peep-hole.
Angélique’s curiosity
was aroused by all this mystery. "My dear," she said, "you don't
know me if you think I'm going to give up."
There was only one
way to make Françoise show herself and she was going to use it.
She beat a tattoo on the door with all her might until the
peep-hole opened again.
"I tell you
there is no Madame Scarron here," the servant shouted.
"In that case,
tell her I am here on behalf of the King."
The hand behind the
bars hesitated, then after a long moment chains rattled, bolts were shot and
the door creaked open. She squeezed through into the house. Françoise Scarron
was leaning over the railing at the top of the staircase with an anxious
expression on her face.
"Angélique! For
heaven's sake, what's wrong?"
"You don't seem
very glad to see me. I have had a dreadful time catching up with you. How are
you?"
She went up the
stairs and kissed her friend enthusiastically, but Françoise was wary.
"So the King
sent you? Why you? Has something been changed since his last
instructions?"
"I don't think
so," said Angélique. "This is a strange way for you to act. Are you
annoyed with me because I haven't been to see you for so long? Let me explain
why. Can't we go in and sit down?"
"No! No!"
Madame Scarron said quickly blocking the way, her arms spread out across the
door of the room Angélique wanted to enter. "No. Tell me first."
"Now, Françoise,
we can't just stand here on the stairs. What's happened to you? You aren't the
same woman I used to know. If you are in trouble, never think I wouldn't help
you."
Madame Scarron did
not seem to hear her. "What exactly did the King say to you?"
"The King has
nothing to do with it, Françoise, I confess. I wanted to see you and just used
his name as a kind of Open Sesame."
Madame Scarron
covered her face with her hands. "Oh Lord, this is frightful! You to come
here! I am ruined . . ." Observing that the servants in the entrance hall
were looking at them with curiosity, she ended by shoving Angélique into the
little living room. "Well, come in. Now, where were we . . . ?"
The first thing
Angélique noticed was a cradle near the window that seemed to have an occupant.
She went over it to and saw a baby only a few months old smiling happily.
"So that's your
secret, my poor Françoise! He's sweet, and you shouldn't have been uneasy on my
account. You can depend on me to keep your secret."
So the stubborn
virtue of the young widow had at last yielded! She owed all her success in life
to her reputation, and yet here she was in quite an embarrassing situation.
"You must have
had a dreadful time. Why didn't you tell your friends? We would have helped
you."
Françoise Scarron
shook her head and smiled wanly. "No, Angélique, it's not at all what you
think. Take a good look at that baby, and you will see."
The baby looked up at
her with sapphire blue eyes which, as a matter of fact, did seem familiar to
her. "Eyes as blue as the sea," she thought. Suddenly it dawned on
her—this was the child of Madame de Montespan and the King.
"That's
right," said Madame Scarron, wagging her head. "You see what a spot I
am in. If it hadn't been the King himself who asked me, I would never have done
it. I have to take care of this baby in such utter secrecy that no one will
ever suspect he exists. The Marquis de Montespan could claim him by law, as he
is quite capable of doing. You can see what a scandal that would make. So, I'm
no longer alive . . ."
She drew Angélique
down beside her on a sofa. Now that her initial annoyance was over, she wanted
the comfort of someone to talk to. She explained how Louvois had recommended
her to the King when, as soon as the royal bastard was born, the question arose
of who could take care of him well and discreetly. According to law, the child
belonged to the husband of Madame de Montespan, since she and the King were
married each to another person. Pardaillan, being the person he was, could well
be feared. So it was a question not only of bringing up the child but of hiding
his origins and guarding him with the greatest possible care. The job required
complete loyalty, intelligence, and shrewdness. When Madame Scarron was sounded
out, she accepted.
"The King was a
little hesitant about me. I don't think he likes me, he has seen me so often.
But Louvois and Athenais insisted. Athenais and I have
been thick for ever so long. She knows what she can expect from me, and I would
have been ungrateful to refuse her after all she has done for me. Ever since, I
have lived as apart from the world as if I had taken the veil. If only I had
found peace as well! But I have to see to the house here, supervise the nurse,
the cradle rocker, the servants, none of whom know who I am or whose the child
is. And all the while I have to keep putting in an appearance here and there,
and living at home so that no one will suspect what I'm doing. I go in at one
door, and out at another in secret, and when I go to visit my friends I take
the precaution of being bled first so that I won't blush at lying in answer to
the questions I'm asked. I hope God will forgive me. Lying is the least of the
sacrifices the service of the King demands."
She talked with the
good humor with which she had always made light of her woes. Angélique gathered
that at heart she was rather pleased with her own importance. In spite of its
hazards, the post was an enviable one and gave her a front seat in the life of
the King.
The baby whimpered
and Françoise got up to see to it. She smoothed its blankets and pillow in the
same house-wifely way she did everything. Like many women who live alone and
remote from the world of children, her feelings about her "baby" were
not very spontaneous. She had never known what it was to play with a baby and
leave its tiresome moments to the nurse. But it was easy to see that this child
would get from her everything it needed for the development of its body, its
mind, and its soul. She was the perfect governess.
"He could be
healthier," she said to Angélique. "You see, he was born with a
slightly twisted foot, and they're afraid he may grow up with a limp. I mentioned
it to the King's doctor, who is also in on the secret, and he said he thought
the waters at Bareges might prevent such a deformity. So in the summer I must
take him there. You can see how my job doesn't leave me a free moment, and
what's more it will get worse before it gets better. Soon I'll have two to be
responsible for."
"So the
rumors that Madame de Montespan is pregnant again are true?"
"Alas!"
"Why
alas?"
"Athenais
was in despair when she told me."
"She ought
to rejoice. Isn't it a new and unmistakable proof of the King's favor toward
her?"
"Alas!"
Madame Scarron said again, staring at Angélique, until she had to turn her eyes
away.
Françoise lowered her own eyes. There
was a silence in the room.
"She is in
a frightful state," said the widow. "She comes here every now and
then, not to see her baby, but to confide in me and spill all her worries. At
Versailles she has to keep smiling all the time. It is no secret that the
King's affections are straying." She looked Angélique straight in the
face. "And that he is in love with you, Angélique."
Angélique tried
to shrug it off. "It's no secret to anyone that the King had me arrested
and thrown into prison. That's a fine proof of his love!"
Madame Scarron
wagged her head. She would have liked to hear more, but just then the wheels of
a coach screeched to a stop outside. Someone rapped impatiently at the door,
and a moment later Athenais' imperious tones resounded in the entrance hall.
Françoise turned white. She tried to get Angélique to hide in a wardrobe, but
Angélique refused. The house was small and had no curtained alcoves.
"Don't be
silly. What are you afraid of? I'll explain why I'm here. War has never been
declared between us."
She withdrew a
little as Madame de Montespan entered swathed in veils. She hurled her fan and
her purse on a table, and then a box of lozenges, her gloves and even her
watch.
"This is
too much," she said. "I have just found out he met her the other day
in the Grotto of Thetis."
Then she turned
and saw Angélique. Apparently the image of her rival was clearly etched in her
mind, because for several seconds she thought she was having an hallucination.
Angélique took advantage of the pause to launch her offensive.
"I must
apologize to you over and over again, Athenais. I didn't know when I came here
that I was intruding into your house. I wanted to see Françoise, whose goings
and comings intrigued me so I followed her here."
Madame de
Montespan had turned purple. Her eyes were flashing with the fire of unspoken
rage.
"You must
believe me," Angélique insisted, "when I tell you Madame Scarron did
everything to keep me from finding out your secret. He is in good hands. I am
the only one to blame."
"Oh, I
believe you," exclaimed Athenais with a burst of harsh laughter.
"Françoise isn't such a fool as to perpetrate such a blunder
knowingly."
She sank into an
armchair and stretched out her pink satin slippers. "Take these off for
me," she said to Françoise. "They're killing me."
Madame Scarron
got down on her knees to remove them.
"Ask them
to bring me a basin of warm benzoin water."
Then her gaze
returned to the intruder. "As for you, I know you and your sanctimonious
touch-me-not attitude. Nosey as a concierge, spying everywhere, too mean to pay
a lackey to do your dirty work for you . Your former profession of procuress
that you practiced in your chocolate shop sticks out all over you."
Angélique turned
on her heel and started for the door. If Athenais were going in for insults
right at the start, it would be better to break with her. Angélique was not
afraid of her, but she had a morbid horror of scenes with women who accuse you
to your face truly or falsely with words that leave a venomous sting behind.
"Stay!"
Athenais'
imperious voice stopped her. It was hard for anyone to resist a Mortemart in
that mood. Angélique herself felt that Athenais was making a slave of her, but
she returned. If Athenais wanted to cross swords, she would fight too. Calmly
she waited, her impenetrable green eyes falling
on the Marquise de Montespan, one of whose silk stockings Madame Scarron had
just finished doughnutting off. There was a trace of scorn in Angélique’s eyes,
and in her attitude the self-possessed disinterest of a person concerned only
with her own affairs. Madame de Montespan's flaming cheeks had faded. She knew
it would do her no good to humiliate her rival. She changed her tone.
" 'What
in-com-par-able dig-ni-ty Madame du Plessis-Bellière has,'" she said
mockingly. " 'Just like a queen. Not to mention that mysterious quality of
hers that seems to distinguish her.' That's how the King speaks of you. 'Have
you noticed,' he says to me, 'how seldom she smiles? Yet she can be as
gay as a child. Ah, the Court is a sad place!' The Court a sad place! That's
the kind of inanities you make the King say. That's how you have seduced him by
your detached air, your lack of sophistication, your turned-up nose. 'Her
mysteriousness," I once said to him, 'comes from her misfortunes before
she married du Plessis when she had to sell her charms in unspeakable dens.' Do
you know what he did? He slapped me." She burst into hysterical laughter.
"It was a fine time for him to slap me. The very next day they found you
in bed with that Asiatic bandit with the long mustache. Oh, how I
laughed!"
The royal infant
suddenly woke up and began to howl. Madame Scarron took him out of the cradle
and carried him off to his nurse. When she returned, Madame de Montespan was
weeping hot tears into her handkerchief, her hysterical laughter having turned
into hysterical crying. "It's too late," she sobbed. "I thought
that would be the end of his love for you, but his love survived it. He was
only punishing himself in punishing you, and I just had to bear the brunt of
his foul humor. I had to believe the affairs of state could not go on without
you. 'I would have liked to ask Madame du Plessis' advice,' he would say.
That's what I couldn't bear. He has no use for a woman's advice. He takes
infinite pains to see that no one can possibly accuse him of doing anything
because a woman advised him or asked him to. When he grants me a favor—an
advancement for some one or other of my protégé’s—he does it as if he were giving me a jewel
to pay me for being his mistress, not because he trusts my judgment. But she
. . . SHE! He asks her advice on questions of international politics."
Madame de Montespan shrieked as if that last adjective were the crowning blow.
"He treats her like a man."
"That ought
to be some reassurance to you," said Angélique.
"No! You
are the only woman he has ever treated that way."
"Nonsense!
Didn't Madame just get assigned to an important diplomatic mission in England?"
"Madame is
the daughter of a King and the sister of Charles II. Besides, even if the King
did employ her and is grateful to her for undertaking the project, he has
nothing but loathing for her. Madame just thinks she has regained his friendship
and perhaps even his love by this means, but she is sadly mistaken. The King
uses her, yes, but he despises her more and more for being so intelligent. He
doesn't like intelligence in women."
Madame Scarron
interrupted in an attempt to sweeten the atmosphere. "What man does like
intelligence in a woman?" she sighed. "My dear, dear friends, you're
arguing about nothing. Like any other man, the King likes variety. Let him
follow his whim, it's a common one. With one he likes to chat, and with another,
to sit in silence. You are in an enviable position, Athenais, and I wouldn't
make light of it if I were you. Whenever you try to get everything, you risk
losing everything, and someday you'll wake up quite surprised to find the King
has forsaken you . . . for a third charmer you haven't foreseen."
"That's
right," Angélique said. "Don't forget, Françoise, you're the one the
King is fated to marry some day, as the witch predicted. And we, Athenais and
I, will find ourselves with our noses out of joint." She put on her cloak
in preparation for leaving. "Don't forget that, Madame. We were friends
once."
Athenais de
Montespan sprang up like a jack-in-the-box. She leaped after Angélique and
seized her by the wrists.
"Don't think
what I just said is an admission of defeat or that I leave the field to you.
The King is mine. He belongs to me. You shall never have him! I'll tear his
love for you out of his heart by the roots. And if I can't do that, I'll tear
you out, yes, right out of the land of the living. He is not the sort of man to
keep on loving a ghost,"
She sunk her nails
into Angélique’s arm. The pain aroused Angélique’s smoldering hatred. She had
often seen in others how destructive that emotion could be, how it ate away at
them like an acid, but at that moment she had never hated anyone so much in her
life. All her loathing for Madame de Montespan began to flow out of her like
seething lava, and she conceived for her a profoundly bitter disgust that
transformed itself into rage. Freeing one of her arms, she struck the King's
mistress full in the face with all her strength. Athenais shrieked.
Madame Scarron threw
herself between them. "Stop!" she said. "You are disgracing
yourselves, ladies. Remember you both come from the same province. All three of
us are from Poitou."
Her voice was
surprisingly commanding, and she dominated them with the calm, wise dignity
that shone in her level black eyes. Angélique never could tell why that
allusion to their common birthplace should have so deflated their anger. She
withdrew and shakily descended the stairs. The nails of the Fury had left deep
purple crescents on her flesh, which were beginning to ooze blood. She stopped
in the vestibule to dab at them. Madame Scarron caught up with her there. She
was too much a diplomat to let go so unceremoniously the woman who perhaps
tomorrow would be the new favorite at Versailles.
"She hates you,
Angélique," she whispered. "Take good care of yourself. I am on your
side, you know."
"A madwoman!"
Angélique kept telling herself to calm her nerves.
But it was worse than
that. She knew perfectly well that Athenais was no madwoman, but quite in
control of her senses and capable of anything. Now she was hated, something she
had never been before. By Philippe, perhaps, when he was struggling against the attraction she held for
him, but that was not the smothering hatred which was surrounding her now like
poison flowers And in the wind that blew over the sandy hillocks of Vaugirard
she seemed to hear the plaintive voice of her little lost page:
The Queen has
had a nosegay made
Of the fairest
lilies in the glade.
The Marquise
sniffed their fragrance sweet,
And fell down
dead at the Queen's feet
chapter 25
AFTER Mass the following Sunday the King went to touch the
scrofulous. The parade proceeded from the chapel to the Salon of Diana, down
the Great Gallery, across the Salon of Peace and into the gardens. The infirm,
accompanied by long-robed doctors and some almoners, were waiting at the foot
of the stairs to the Orangerie.
Angélique
followed with the ladies. By some stroke of luck Madame de Montespan was not
present, nor was the Queen. Mademoiselle de la Vallière sidled up to her and
told her how glad she was to see her again. The pathetic ex-mistress was
keeping her hopes up just as long as any hope was possible. No one could
mistake the smiles and looks the King gave Madame du Plessis-Bellière, and the
whole Court knew that her disgrace had been followed immediately by restoration
to favor.
After two hours the
rumor got around that refreshments were waiting in the Grove of Marais.
Everyone cut across the lawn to the Royal Avenue.
Angélique saw Madame
de Montespan advancing under a parasol of pink and blue satin edged with gold
and silver lace that her little Negro was carrying behind her. She was full of
smiles for everyone as she invited them to follow her to her favorite grove.
She herself had designed it and supervised its construction.
All the Queen's lap dogs bounded down the staircase by the
Fountain of Latona yapping happily. Behind them came the sad-faced, ugly
dwarfs. Then the Queen, sad-faced and ugly too. She was out of temper because
she had no parasol like Madame de Montespan's to shield her from the sun. Presently
the King joined Angélique.
The Queen's dwarfs
began stamping out a grotesque sarabande under the
leadership of Barcarole, winding among the courtiers who were either delighted
or shocked at the travesty. Their hoarse shouts and their cackling laughter
drowned out the music of the violins. The King looked at Angélique beside him
as if he were hypnotized.
"To behold you
is sometimes joy, sometimes torture. When I see the veins pulse in your
snow-white throat I want to put my lips to it, lay my forehead against it.
Everything in me cries out for the warmth of your presence. Your absence is
like an icy shroud to me. I need your stillness, your voice, your strength. Yet
I long madly to see you weaken. How I should like to see you sleeping beside
me, tears pearling your lashes, vanquished in our tender combat. And to see you
awake with ardor renewed and bubbling out of you like cool water from a
woodland spring as the dawn caresses your cheek with its rosy fingers. You
blush so easily people think you are susceptible, but you are really as hard as
a diamond. I have loved so long your hidden violence that now I shudder to
think that some day it will tear you from my grasp,. . . my heart, my
soul!"
A violent bump
interrupted them. Angélique’s dish flew out of her hands as she was carrying it
to her mouth, and shattered into a thousand pieces. The sherbet spilled on the
ground, staining her blue gown with streaks of the many-colored dessert.
Barcarole had misjudged his distance in leaping and had jostled her elbow.
"A plague on these shrimps!" exclaimed the King furiously. He grabbed
his walking stick and whacked the back of the awkward dwarf, who scuttered away
squawking like a seagull. When the Queen rose to his defense, the King put her
in her place sharply. One of the dogs dashed to lap up the remains of the
sherbet.
Twenty ladies present
rushed to help Angélique sponge the spots off her gown, or brought her napkins
and water. Her glory today had been too dazzling. Then everyone suddenly
remembered that the sun would soon go down and left the shade to return to the
lawns and enjoy the daylight while it lasted.
The little dog was
writhing in agony on the ground when Barcarole came back to the deserted spot.
He summoned Angélique and bent over to examine the animal's convulsions.
"You see? Now I
hope you will understand, Marquise of the Angels. I hope you will get it
through your head somehow. He's going to croak from eating the dessert that was
intended for you. Of course it would not have had such a ghastly effect on you.
By now you would have just begun to feel sick, but you would have spent a
horrible night, and in the morning you would have been dead."
"Barcarole, it's
inconceivable, what you say. The King's punishment has unsettled your
reason."
"So you don't
understand?" said the dwarf. "You fool, didn't you see the dog eat
your sherbet?"
"No, I was too
busy with my dress. The dog might be dying of something else, so far as that
goes."
"You don't believe
me because you don't want to believe me."
"But who would
want to take my life?"
"What a
question! For one, the woman whose place you have taken in the King's
affections. Do you think she has any love for you?"
"Madame de
Montespan? That's impossible, Barcarole. She is cold and wicked and likes to
spread scandal, but she would never go that far."
"Why not?
Whatever she gets her claws on she keeps tight hold of."
He picked up the dog
which has just given its last gasp, and threw it deep into the bushes.
"Duchesne was
the one who did it. Naaman, the little Negro, told me. She confides in him as
she thinks that because he has a funny accent he can't understand French. He
sleeps on a cushion in the corner of her room and she pays no more attention to
him than to a dog. Yesterday he was in her room when she received Duchesne. She
is his bad angel. It was she who got him his post as the King's steward. Naaman
heard them mention your name and listened because he knows you. You were his first owner and he loved Florimond, who
used to play with him here at Versailles and give him candy. She told Duchesne:
'It must come to a stop tomorrow. You'll find an opportunity during the fête to
bring her a drink into which you have dropped something.' Then she gave him a
phial. Duchesne asked: 'Did La Voisin prepare this?' and Montespan said: 'Yes,
and anything she makes is pretty effective.' Naaman didn't know who La Voisin
is, but I do. La Voisin was my patroness. Oh, she knows plenty of ways to send
people into the other world."
Angélique’s thoughts whirled in her brain like the scattered
pieces of a difficult puzzle.
"If you are
right, then Florimond was not lying. Do you think she would also try to poison
the King? What would be her purpose?"
The dwarf looked
doubtful. "Poison him? I don't think so. But she has had powders La Voisin
gave her put into his food to cast a spell on him. They had no effect whatever
on the King, either good or bad. Now we had better scram out of here before
Duchesne comes back with his fags."
Outside the dusky
grove night was spreading over the copper sky. Coolly murmuring water trickled
from the urns supported by cloven-hoofed bronze satyrs placed here and there
along the walk. Barcarole trotted along beside Angélique like a misshapen
shadow.
"What are you
going to do now, Marquise?"
"I don't
know."
"I hope you're
going to go all-out."
"What do you
mean by that?"
"Defend yourself
the same way. An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth, as they say. You can
slip the Montespan a blackspot in her soup, since that's her style. A few rusty
knives wielded by the brotherhood some dark night on the Pont-Neuf will do for
Duchesne. All you have to do is give the order."
Angélique kept silent. The evening mists
were making her shiver. She did not want to believe him yet.
"There's nothing
else to do, Marquise," whispered Barcarole. "Unless you want to give
it all up. She is going to keep the King,
and on the honor of the Mortemarts, as she says, the devil himself will help
her!"
Several days later a fête
brought the royal family together at Versailles. The household of Monsieur and
that of Madame added a note of domesticity to the festivities. Florimond, accompanied
by his tutor, greeted his mother while she was talking to the King by the
Latona Fountain. The boy was perfectly at ease with the great, for he knew his
pleasant face framed in brown curls, and his innocent smile, could disarm them.
He was dressed in a crimson velvet suit and black stockings with gold cloches.
He bowed to the King and kissed his mother's hand.
"So this is the
deserter?" said the King kindly. "Do you like your new job, my
boy?"
"Sire,
Monsieur's household is pleasant, but I prefer Versailles."
"I admire your
frankness. What do you miss most about Versailles?"
"Your majesty's
presence . . . and the fountains."
It was a happy
choice. Nothing was dearer to the heart of Louis XIV than his fountains and the
admiration they aroused. And flattery was not displeasing to him, even from the
lips of a thirteen-year-old.
"You shall see
them again. I will tend to it when you have learned not to tell lies."
"Learned to keep
still, perhaps," Florimond said, "but not to lie, because I never
have lied."
Angélique and the Abbé de Lesdiguières, who was discreetly
standing a few steps away, showed signs of anxiety, for the King was frowning
at the boy looking up at him so proudly.
"The boy does
not look much like you, but he is obviously your child from the way he can cope
with things when he wants to. Your relationship might be suspected if it were
not for that chin of his that proclaims he is yours. Of the whole Court only
you and he could look at the King that way."
"I beg Your
Majesty's pardon."
"Why? You are
not sorry for him or for yourself. But, what the devil! I don't know what to
think of this business. They say truth is found in the mouths of babes, so why
should I doubt it. I must question Duchesne. He was recommended to me by Madame
de Montespan, but no man knows him well."
Angélique later
recalled that at the very time the King was talking a lackey was kneeling to
offer him a basket of fruit, not for his use—for the King never ate unless
surrounded by his household officers—but for him to admire. The King praised
the beauty of the big red, green and russet-skinned apples, the honey-colored
pears, the dawn-tinted peaches. Then they were taken away to be displayed on
the long tables covered with such dazzlingly white clothes that they looked
like arctic snowfields. The weather was just right for the kind of
entertainment that had been arranged for the day, and the evening was so mild
that the courtiers crowded on the lawns and terraces near the palace. It was
then while she was looking at the golden cross cast over the fields by the
sunset that Angélique felt a little hand grab her skirt.
"Ma'm! Ma'm
Plessis!"
She looked down to
discover Naaman, the little Negro page, in his peacock-blue jacket, turban and
full trousers. Even in the dim light she could see the whites of his eyes
rolling like billiard balls.
"Ma'm! You boy
dyin'! You boy dyin'!" His accent was so thick she did not grasp his
meaning. "M'sieu Florimondl He vessick, vessick. Die I" When she
heard Florimond's name she grabbed the page and shook him.
"What's the
matter with Florimond? Speak upl" "Dunno, ma'm, dunno. E'yone sca'd
'bout he!" Angélique started off at a run for the North Terrace where she had
seen the Abbé de Lesdiguières a little while before. He was still there by one
of the big marble vases filled with geraniums, bearing up heroically under the
teasings of Madame de Garmont and Madame de Montbazen. "Abbé," she
shouted, "where is Florimond?"
"He just went
by, Madame. He told me he had to do something in the kitchen and would be back
presently. You know how he loves to run errands and make himself useful."
"No, no!"
said Naaman, shaking his turban with its long aigrettes. "He say:
'I get rid dat Florimond you know how. We be quiet now. He no tattle no mo.'
"
"Did you hear
what he said? The boy will never talk any more?" Angélique screamed,
shaking the abbé. "For the love of God, tell me where he went!"
"I—I—he told me,"
the abbé stammered, "the kitchens. . . he was going by the Diana staircase
to get there quicker. . ."
Naaman howled like a
monkey caught in a trap and stuck out his pink tongue toward the palace. He
raised his hands with his fingers spread melodramatically.
"De Di'na
stai'case? Oh, ve'y bad, ve'y bad!"
He broke away and ran
as fast as his legs could carry him toward the palace. Angélique and the abbé
followed him. Her maternal instincts gave wings to her feet, and in spite of
her heavy dress, her high-heeled slippers and the page who kept tripping over
her train, she kept up with them and got there just as they started quizzing a
guard in the vestibule of the South Wing apartment.
"A little page
dressed in red?" said the guard. "Yes, I saw him go by just a minute
ago. I was surprised because hardly anyone goes this way since the stairs were
torn up for the enlargements."
"But . . . But .
. ." the abbé stammered, "beforehand . . . when we used to live here,
the Diana staircase was often used. You could go up it to a balcony from which
the South stairs led down to the kitchens."
"Not any more.
They've torn down a whole wall to enlarge the wing. The Diana staircase is out
of use. There is nothing but scaffolding at the top."
"Florimond did
not know. Florimond did not know," the abbé kept repeating like an
automaton.
"You don't mean
the boy went up there?" the guard exclaimed with an oath. "I shouted
at him to stop, but he was running too fast."
Already Naaman, the
abbé and Angélique were off again. The Diana
staircase loomed before them into a darkness so deep they could only guess at
the scaffolding at the top. The workmen had already quit. It was toward that
dark maze of unknown pitfalls that Florimond had run. Angélique started up, her
legs dissolving under her.
"Wait,"
shouted the guard. "Wait till I get my tinder-box. You'll fall into the
hole. There is a catwalk, but you have to know how to find it."
Angélique groped her
way forward among the beams and the heaps of fallen plaster until the guard
caught up with them.
"Stop!" he
called. "Look!"
The flame of his
tinderbox revealed only two feet away a yawning chasm two stories deep.
"They've taken
away the catwalk!" the guard said. Angélique’s knees buckled under her as
she leaned over the dark abyss that had swallowed up her child.
"Florimond!"
Her voice seemed to
come from someone else. A draught blew the dank air of the cavernous gulf up
into her face. The echo of the huge palace was her only answer.
"Florimond!"
The guard tried to
pierce the darkness with his feeble flame. "I can't see a thing. If he
fell, he must still be down there. We've got to get rope and ladders and
torches. Father, hold her so she won't fall too. Don't stay there. We'll go for
help."
Haggard with anxiety
she staggered down the accursed stairs.
"They've killed
my boy . . . My pride and joy . . . The little tattler will never talk again .
. . Florimond didn't know. . ."
The guard and the
abbé helped her to a bench in the dark vestibule. The two Negro pages were
howling like birds of ill omen.
A maid carrying a
six-branched candelabra appeared from a corridor running perpendicular to the
courtyard. "Are you ill, Madame? I
have some smelling salts with me."
"Her son has
fallen off the scaffolding," the guard said. "Stay here with your
candles. I'm going for help."
Angélique stood up
suddenly. "Listen!"
Her voice was enough
to hush up the pages. Then from far off they could hear someone running,
running in little red heels. Florimond suddenly emerged at full tilt from the
same corridor as the maid. He would have passed without seeing them if the
guard had not had the presence of mind to bar his way with his halberd.
"Let me go! Let
me by!" Florimond shouted. "I'm late bringing what Monsieur de
Caraport sent me for in the kitchen."
"Stop,
Florimond," shouted the Abbé de Lesdiguières, trying to hold him with his
shaking hands. "That staircase is dangerous. You'll be killed if . .
."
He turned deathly
white and sank onto the bench beside Angélique. For a moment it had seemed
Florimond would dash to his death right before their eyes. But the guard had
him tightly by the collar.
"Take it easy,
you little monkey! Didn't they just tell you it was dangerous?"
"But I'm
late!"
"You're never
late when you risk death. Take it easy, son, and thank the Blessed Virgin and
your good angel."
Still out of breath,
Florimond explained what had happened. Just as he had got to where they now
were he had run into the Duc d'Anjou, the King's third and youngest child, only
a year and a half old, all decked out in his gold lace and pearl cap and a lace
collar and the great ribbon of Saint Louis pinned across his black velvet
dress. He had escaped from his nurses and was wandering through the labyrinth
of his palace with an apple in his hand like a little lost god.
Always obliging,
Florimond had picked up the royal baby and carried him back to his nursery
quite a distance away in the apartments of the Dauphin and his sister. At the
very time that Angélique was almost fainting as she leaned over the brink of
the cavernous pit, Florimond was receiving the heartfelt thanks of the prince's
nurses and governesses. Then as they were blessing themselves for being spared,
he was off like the wind to finish his errand.
Angélique took him on
her lap and hugged him to her. She could hardly make sense.
"If he had left
me too, after Cantor, I would have died. Everything that held me to you, my
love, would be gone. Oh, when will you come back to rescue me?"
She did not even know
whom she was talking to, so hysterical was she. Never would she forget the
mocking sweetness of that twilight at Versailles when the little black hands of
a slave had tugged at her gown: "Ma'm, you boy dyin' . . ."
She looked around for
Naaman, but he had disappeared. Now that Master Florimond was safe and sound,
he had gone back to his mistress, the "other one." Doubtless he'd get
a slap from her jeweled hand for being away so long.
The maid had gone for
some wine and glasses. Angélique forced herself to drink a little, even though
her throat was still tight from worry.
"You have a
drink too, you others," she said. "Drink, my good soldier. Without
you and your tinderbox we might all be at the bottom of the pit."
The guard tossed off
at one gulp the glass she gave him. "I won't refuse, for I'm on the safe
side too. What I don't understand is how the catwalk got taken away. I'll have
to tell my captain to report it to the supervisor."
Angélique slipped him
and the maid three gold pieces each. Then, holding Florimond tightly by the
hand, and followed by the abbé and her page, she went to her own apartment.
There she collapsed again.
"They wanted to
kill my son!" was all she could think of.
"Florimond, who
sent you on an errand to the kitchens?"
"Monsieur de
Caraport, an officer of the King's Table Service. I know him well."
Angélique put her
hand to her damp forehead. "Will I ever know the truth?"
In the next room she
heard Rend de Lesdiguières telling "Swordthrust" Malbrant about the
incident.
"Did that
Monsieur de Caraport tell you the Diana stairway was dangerous and that no one
had used it for a long time?"
"No."
"He must have
warned you, but you weren't listening."
"No, that's not
so," Florimond protested angrily. "He even said, 'Go by the Diana
staircase. You know the way. It's the shortest way to the kitchens.' "
I wish I knew if he's
fibbing to get out of it, Angélique thought. She could not get rid of the
obsession that someone wanted to kill her son. "The catwalk has been taken
away . . " What should she do? What was she to think?
In her doubt and
danger all she had to guide her were literal-minded servants, like the little
Negro and the dwarf. The whole petty world of Versailles groveling in the
shadow of the great seemed to rise up before her to mutter: "Take
care!" She was tempted to trust that animal instinct.
"What must I
do?" she asked Malbrant, who was a man of some experience even though he
was only a squire. His white hair gave him an air of wisdom that must have
taken him some time to acquire. He knitted his bushy eyebrows while he listened
to the abbé's report.
"We
ought to go back to Saint-Cloud, Madame. The boy has some protection in
Monsieur's establishment."
Angélique smiled
listlessly. "Who would have thought there would come a day . . ."
Well, that's that. I think you're right."
"The main thing
is not to let him fall into Duchesne's clutches again."
"You think
that's where the trouble came from?" "I'd stake my right hand on it.
Let him wait. Some day I'll catch him and skin him alive."
Florimond was just
beginning to understand that an attempt had been made on his life. He was proud
as a peacock.
"It's all
because I told the King I didn't lie about Duchesne. Picard, the lackey who was
offering him the fruit, must have heard me and told Duchesne."
"But it was
Caraport who sent you to the kitchens."
"Caraport obeys
Duchesne. So that old Duchesne is scared of me!"
"When will you
ever learn you just can't say things at random?" Angélique demanded. Now
after smothering him with kisses she was having difficulty to keep from
slapping him. "Don't you realize you could have broken every bone in your
body if you had fallen off that scaffolding?"
"I'd just be
dead," Florimond said philosophically. "Hell, that happens to
everyone. I would have been with Cantor by now." Then after a moment's
thought he said: "No, Cantor is not dead."
Thérèse and Javotte
came in with the dress Angélique was to wear to the ball.
"Take him
away," Angélique told his tutor. "My nerves are so frazzled I don't
know what I'm doing. Watch over him and don't leave his side for a
minute."
The boy had hardly
left with the abbé and the squire than she wanted them back.
"I'm losing my
mind. If I only knew for sure . . ."
She asked Therese to
pour her a glass of brandy, but then she hesitated to drink it. What if it were
poisoned? Nevertheless she drained it down and then things seemed clearer.
"If I knew for sure, then I would take action."
Barcarole's hints
came back to her. To get rid of Duchesne would be an easy matter, which
Malbrant could take care of, or else some hired assassins. If she had one of
Madame de Montespan's servants on her side, she could at least know ahead of
time what dangers threatened her. She thought of Desoeillet, whom Athenais
trusted implicitly, but who was a venal enough girl she had once caught
cheating at cards.
Thanks to another
glass of brandy she was able to dance and appear on the top of the wave, but
much later after the Queen's supper party, when she came back to her apartment,
her sense of fear returned and became almost
unbearable. It seemed to her that she was not alone in her room. She turned her
head and almost shrieked with terror. Two black eyes were staring at her from
behind a wardrobe, and a shrunken figure tiptoed out like a cat stalking a
mouse.
"Barcarole!"
The dwarf was looking
at her with an intense, almost cruel expression on his face.
"The magician is
here at Versailles with his partner," he whispered hoarsely. "Come
on, sister, there are things you ought to know if you care about your
life."
She followed him out
the secret door that Bontemps had shown her. Barcarole had no candle, but he
could see in the dark like an animal. Angélique kept stumbling and bumping into
the walls of the narrow secret corridor. She had to stoop, and grope with her
hands before her. She felt as if she were buried alive.
"Here we
are," Barcarole said.
She heard his
fingernails scratching on the wall in search of something.
"Sister, because
you are one of us, I will show you something. But be careful. Whatever happens
and whatever you hear or see, don't make a sound."
"You can depend
on me."
"Even if you
should see a crime? A crime more horrible than any you could imagine?"
"I won't
flinch."
"If you do, it
means death for you and me both."
There was an almost
inaudible click, and then the frame of a door was outlined in light. Angélique
fixed her eyes on the barely opened crack. At first she could not make anything
out. Then little by little she distinguished the furnishings of a room in which
three big wax candles were burning. Then she heard chanting like that in
church. Shadows flitted about. Squatting on his heels not far from her was a
man chanting in a singsong voice like a tipsy sacristan. He held a missal and
was swaying backward and forward. Through the steam that rose from kettles
bubbling on chafing dishes she saw a tall man advance toward them. Angélique
felt an icy sweat drip down her neck.
Never, she thought,
have I seen a more terrifying human being.
It was a priest, for
he was wearing a sort of white chasuble embroidered with black fir-apples. In
spite of his springy walk, he was of a great age which showed in a sort of
inner corruption expressed by the color of his face, which was like wine-lees,
and in the purplish veins that webbed his features. He seemed a half-decomposed
cadaver raised from a grave and daring to mingle with the living again. The
hollow sonority of his voice cracked into a senile quaver that nonetheless gave
him a weird kind of authority. One eye was completely gone, but he squinted out
of the other with an intensity that seemed to miss nothing and could penetrate
into the deepest secrets.
Angélique recognized
the witch Catherine Monvoisin among the women kneeling before him. Then she
sensed what the scene before her meant. Half-swooning, she leaned against the
wall. Barcarole grabbed her hand and squeezed it hard.
"Come now, don't
be afraid. They can't know you are here."
"The Devil knows
it," she stammered through chattering teeth.
"The Devil is
gone. See, the ceremony is almost over."
Another woman
advanced and knelt. When she raised her veil, Angélique saw it was Madame de
Montespan. She was so astounded she forgot her fear. How could the intelligent,
haughty Athenais sully her beautiful body in this sinister travesty!
The priest held out a
book to her. The Marquise laid her white hands on it. Her rings glittered. Like
a halting schoolgirl, she repeated a prayer.
"In the name of
Ashtaroth and Asmodeus, lords of friendship, I ask the friendship of the King
and the Dauphin, and that I may keep it always. May the Queen be sterile. May
the King leave her bed and board for me. May all my rivals perish . . ."
Angélique hardly
recognized her, so distracted she looked, so enthralled by her passion for
meandering into
this horrible adventure whose
true meaning she had not grasped.
The bluish vapors,
tinged with the acrid odor of incense, thickened, then drifted into thin clouds
that raveled out over, the celebrants, giving them the misty look of faces seen
in a dream. The psalms-singer fell silent. He had closed his book and was
scratching himself as he waited
for the congregation to depart.
Madame de Montespan
asked him: "Have you the shift?"
"That's right,
the shift!" said La Voisin rising. "We took great pains not to forget
that, not after all you paid us. I know you'll say it's a lovely piece of work.
I gave it to my daughter. Margot, bring the basket here."
A girl of about
twelve appeared out of the haze and set down a basket from which she extracted
with great care a nightgown of pink voile embroidered with silver threads.
"Be careful not
to hold it too long," her mother said. "Use the plane-tree leaves I
brought."
Angélique stuffed her hand into her mouth. From her hiding place
she recognized one of her favorite nightgowns there in the hands of the girl.
“Thérèse!"
someone called.
Angélique’s maid
appeared with the supercilious look on her "swarthy face of a fool who has
been raised to an important position.
"Take this, my
girl," said La Voisin, "and handle it with caution. Here, I'll give
you some plane-tree leaves to protect yourself. Don't shut the basket, Margot,
we've got to put you know what into it."
She went to the other
end of the room and returned with a little bundle of white linen on which stains
of blood were raying out.
Angélique squeezed
her eyelids together and clasped her hands tightly against her breast to keep
from crying out in horror: "Murderers! Foul, monstrous murderers!"
She hadn't the strength to look any more, but she could hear them bustling
about in the sacristy blowing out the candles and clinking the silver vases
together.
The cracked,
sepulchral voice of the priest said: "See that the watchmen don't look
into the basket."
"No
danger," cackled La Voisin. "After all the precautions I've taken,
the guards will be bowing and scraping to me instead."
Suddenly there was
total silence. Angélique opened her eyes in darkness. Barcarole had shut the
door.
"I guess you
know enough about that now, since you could hardly stand any more of it. Let's
be on our way before we run into that rat of a Bontemps. He snoops around all
night long like a weasel."
Back in Angélique’s
apartment he stood a-tiptoe to reach the decanter of plum brandy. He poured two
glasses.
"Drink this.
You're positively green. You aren't so used to it as I am. Lord, I worked for
two years as a porter in La Voisin's house. I know her well. I know all of
them. She's not a bad sort. She knows a lot, especially about chiromancy and
physiognomy. She's been studying them since she was nine years old. She told me
the people who come to get their palms read inevitably say they want to get rid
of someone. At first she used to answer they would die when God pleased, but
then they would tell her that she wasn't very clever, and so she changed her
ways and got rich. Ha-ha!"
Barcarole smacked his
lips and poured himself another glass of brandy.
"What worries me
is that shift. It's yours, eh?"
"Yes."
"I thought so.
Seeing your maid Thérèse at that witches' sabbath put a bug in my ear. Sure as
shooting, Montespan wants to get rid of you. She has paid La Voisin to make one
of her special medicines for you. It wasn't so long ago, I know, that she went
to the Auvergne and to Normandie to learn the secrets of poisoning without a
trace."
"Now I've been
warned I can escape the trap, and I know whom to ask for advice too." She
drank her second glass of brandy assiduously.
"Who was the priest?"
"Abbé Guibourg from the parish of Saint-Marcel in Saint-Denis. He's the one who sacrifices
babies so that their blood can be drunk."
"Stop itl"
Angélique shouted with all her might.
"La Voisin has
an oven at her house in which she must have burned up at least two thousand
stillborn children or sacrificed ones."
"Stop it! Be
still!"
"Nice people,
aren't they, Marquise, these high and mighty, and they have nice friends too,
eh? The one chanting psalms near us was Lesage, the 'great author' of sorcery.
Madame de la Roche-Guyon is the godmother of his daughter. He-he-he!"
"Shut up!"
Angélique shouted. She picked up a figurine from the mantel and hurled it at
him. It broke against the wall. Barcarole turned a somersault and headed for
the door still chuckling. She heard his ribald laughter disappear down the
passageway.
When Therese came to
her room the next night, carrying the pink nightgown, Angélique was in a
negligee at her dressing table. She watched the maid in her mirror as she
spread the shift carefully on the bed, fluffed up the pillows and turned down
the covers for the night.
"Thérèse!"
"Madame
Marquise?"
"Thérèse, you
know I am very pleased with your work. . ."
The girl fidgeted
with a silly smile on her face. "Madame la Marquise makes me very
happy."
"I should like
to make you a little present. You deserve one. I am going to give you that
nightgown you just brought me. It will just suit you. Take it."
Angélique turned back
to her mirror. There was a deathly hush in the room. She saw the reflection of
the girl's ashen face, and had proof enough. Suddenly she rose up in anger.
"Take it,"
she said in a terrible voice, her teeth set. "Take it!" She marched
over to the maid, her emerald eyes flashing like lightning. "Don't you
want to take it?
Well, I know why.
Open your hands, you accursed wretch!"
Thérèse dropped the
plane-trees leaves which she had crumpled up in her hands to hide them.
"The leaves! The
plane-tree leaves!" shouted Angélique, crushing them under her foot.
She struck the girl
with the full force of her arm, twice, three times, making her head wobble.
"Get out! Go to
your master, the Devil!"
With a dreadful groan
Thérèse went out, her face buried in her arms.
Angélique was trembling in every muscle. A
few moments later Javotte brought in a tray of supper, and found her standing
in the middle of the room staring about her unseeingly. Silently the girl set
the pot of jam, the rolls and the pitcher of lemonade on the table.
"Javotte,"
Angélique said suddenly, "haven't you always loved David Chaillou?"
The girl blushed, and
her soft gray eyes opened wide.
"It's been a
long time since I've seen him, Madame."
"But you always
were in love with him, weren't you?"
"Yes. But he
probably wouldn't even look at me now, Madame. He has become an important
person with his restaurant and chocolate shop. They say he's going to marry the
daughter of a notary."
"Why does he
have to do that, the fool? He needs a woman like you. You shall marry
him."
"I am not rich
enough for him, Madame."
"You shall be,
Javotte. I will give you a dowry of four hundred livres a year, and a
complete trousseau. You will have two dozen sheets, Cambrai underwear, damask
tablecloths. You will be such a good match that he is going to take another
look at your pink cheeks and your pretty nose. I know he always liked
them."
The maid looked at
her in astonishment. "You will do all that for me, Madame?"
"Why shouldn't I? You fed my children
when that nurse was letting them die of starvation." She put her arms
around the graceful shoulders of the girl and felt the comforting warmth of her
young body pressing against her own.
"Have you been a
good girl, Javotte?"
"I've done my
best, Madame. I have prayed to the Blessed Virgin. But you know how it is here
with all these fresh lackeys around, and the fine gentlemen making eyes at you.
It's been hard sometimes. I've let them kiss me, for sure, but I never
committed any sin."
Angélique hugged her
tighter, admiring the courage of this orphan adrift in the corruption of
Versailles.
"Go now, my
child. Tomorrow I am going back to Paris to see David Chaillou. Soon you will
be married to him."
"Can I help
Madame undress?" Javotte asked, moving toward the pink nightgown.
"No, leave that
alone. Run along now, I want to be alone."
Javotte went out
obediently, but not without a sidelong glance at the decanter of brandy to see
how empty it might be. For some time the Marquise had been leaving very little
in it.
chapter 26
THE very next day Angélique was returning in her coach from
Paris to Saint-Germain. A cab had turned over in a ditch, and as Angelique drew
near she recognized the girl waiting in the briars by the roadside as one of
Madame de Montespan's suite, Mademoiselle Desoeillet. She stopped and waved at
her in a friendly way.
"Oh, Madame,
what a mess I am in!" the girl exclaimed. "Madame de Montespan sent
me on an urgent errand, and she'll be furious at my being late, and yet here
I've been stuck for a whole half hour. That fool coachman didn't see a big rock
in the middle of the road."
"Were you going
to Paris?"
"Yes . . . that
is, half-way. I was to meet a person at the Bois-Sec crossroad who would give
me a message for Madame de Montespan. Now I'm so late the person will probably
have gone. Madame de Montespan will be terribly out of temper."
"Get in. I'll
have the horses turn around."
"Madame, you are
too kind."
"I can't leave
you in this fix. I'm glad to do Athenais a favor."
Mademoiselle
Desoeillet gathered up her skirts and seated herself respectfully on the edge
of the coach seat. She seemed worried. She was quite a pretty girl with that
certain boldness Madame de Montespan managed somehow to instill in all her
suite. Her attendants were known for their fine speech, their wit and their
good taste. She trained the women in her own image—always at ease and always
unscrupulous.
Angélique watched the
girl out of the corner of her eye. She had already thought of allying herself
with one of her enemy's companions and especially
with this same Desoeillet, whose weak character she had previously noted. She
was a tricky, conscienceless girl, and it took a trained eye to catch her at
her game; but Angélique’s experiences in the Court of Miracles had taught her
all the devices of cheats. Mademoiselle Desoeillet undoubtedly was familiar
with them too.
"Ah, here we
are!" said the girl, sticking her head out the window of the coach.
"The Lord be praised, the urchin is still there."
Angélique ordered the
coachman to stop. Out of the green forest screen a twelve-year-old girl who had
been waiting in the shade of the trees advanced toward the coach. She was
simply dressed and wore a white bonnet. She handed a little package to
Mademoiselle Desoeillet, who whispered something to her and then took out her
purse. Angélique could see the gold coins through its mesh, and calculated to
the last écu how much it contained. The total made her raise her
eyebrows.
"What can be in
that package to make it cost so much?" she asked, eyeing it through her
quizzing glass as Mademoiselle Desoeillet stowed it away in her big bag. She
thought she detected a bottle.
"We can go on
now, Madame," the girl said, visibly relieved to have accomplished her
errand so easily.
While the coach was
turning around in the junction of the two roads, Angélique stole another look
at the girl in the white bonnet who was disappearing again into the forest.
"Where have I
seen that child before?" she thought uneasily.
She kept still for a
moment while the coach was getting under way again for Saint-Germain. The more
time went by the more she believed she could turn this occasion to her
advantage. Suddenly she uttered a little cry.
"What's the
matter, Madame?" asked Mademoiselle Desoeillet.
"Nothing at all,
just a pin that came unfastened."
"Can I help
you?"
"No, thanks,
it's nothing."
Angélique turned from
red to pale and back again, as suddenly she remembered the face of the urchin
girl. She had seen it before in the light of two candles on a sinister
occasion. It was La Voisin's daughter, the one who was carrying "the
basket."
"Can't I help
you, Madame?" the girl insisted.
"Well, yes, I
guess so, if you could help me unfasten my skirt."
The girl did so, and
Angélique thanked her. "You are very kind. You know, I have often admired
your cleverness as a wardrobe mistress for my friend Athenais . . . and your
patience too."
Mademoiselle smiled a
reply. Angélique wondered whether she knew about her mistress' evil plans. Who
knows, perhaps she had right in her bag the poison that was destined for Madame
du Plessis-Bellière, with whom she was now getting on so well. Fate has a wry
sense of humor. What good did it do to laugh up one's sleeve? But she would
lose nothing by waiting!
"What I most
admire about you is your skill at cards," Angélique went on subtly.
"I was watching you last Monday when you beat the Duc de Chaulnes. The
poor man will never get over it. Where did you learn to cheat so
cleverly?"
The sugary smile of
Mademoiselle Desoeillet vanished. It was her turn to change from red to white
and back again.
"What are you
saying, Madame?" she faltered. "Cheat? I? Why, it's impossible. I
would never allow myself . . ."
"Neither would
I, my dear," said Angélique, deliberately emphasizing the tartness of her
familiarity.
She took the girl's
hand and turned it over to examine the ends of her fingers. "Your
fingertips have such delicate skin I can guess what you use them for. I have
seen you file them with a piece of whaleskin to make them sensitive enough to
detect the markings on the cards you play with. They're marked in such a way
that only hands like yours can recognize them. The Duc de Chaulnes' tough hands
would be hard put to find anything suspicious . . . unless someone called it to
his attention."
The girl's veneer
cracked, and she became just a little adventuress seeing her castles in the air
crumble. She knew that at Court the only thing no one took lightly and that
could lead to ruin was dishonesty at cards. The Duc de Chaulnes was already put
out at having lost over a thousand livres to such a young girl of humble
origin, and would never endure the insult of having been cheated. If her tricks
were uncovered, the guilty girl would be ignominiously banned from the Court.
Angélique tried to keep her from getting on her knees on the
floor of the coach to entreat her. "Madame, you saw me. You could ruin
me."
"Get up. What
good would it do me to ruin you? You're a clever little cheat. It takes eyes
like mine to spot you, and I think you can go on winning for some time to come
. . . that is, of course, if I keep my eyes closed."
The girl turned all
the colors of the rainbow. "Madame, what can I do for you?"
She had dropped her "Mortemart" accent, and her voice
was now definitely common. Angélique looked out the window coldly. The girl
began to cry and told her her life story. She was the illegitimate daughter of
a great nobleman whose name she did not know. An intermediary had seen to her
education. Her mother had been a chambermaid, and had wound up as the
proprietress of a gambling house, whence the other side of her education.
Shuttled between a convent boarding school and the good training of a
cardsharp, she had learned how to use her quick-wittedness, her prettiness and
her scraps of refinement to get people of good society interested in her and
willing to help her along. Athenais, who was a past master at recognizing
characters of her ilk, had attached her to her suite. Now she was at Court, but
that had not wholly prevented her from relapsing into her old habits. There was
card-playing. . .
"You know what
happens when that catches up with you. I can't afford to lose, I'm too poor.
And every time I don't cheat, I lose. I am crushed with debts now. What I won
from the Due de Chaulnes the other day will just allow me to pay off enough to
keep going, and I don't dare go to Madame de Montespan. She has already paid for me too often, and she has told me that
some day she is going to get tired of it."
"How much do you
owe?"
he rolled up her eyes
as she figured. Angélique tossed a purse into her lap. Mademoiselle Desoeillet
took it with trembling hands, and the color came back into her cheeks.
"Madame,"
she repeated. "What can I do for you?"
Angélique nodded
toward the bag. "Show me what you've got in there."
After considerable
hesitation Desoeillet took out a dark-colored bottle.
"Do you know
whom this brew is intended for?" Angélique asked after looking at it a
moment.
"Madame, what do
you mean?"
"Maybe you don't know, but I think your
mistress has tried to poison me twice. What would keep her from trying a third
time? And, what's more, I recognized that little girl who sold it to you as the
daughter of Monvoisin, the witch."
Mademoiselle Desoeillet
looked around her in terror. At last she said she knew nothing about it. Madame
de Montespan ordered her to go for medicine secretly compounded by sorceresses,
but she didn't know why.
"Well, you try
to find out," said Angelique sharply, "for I am counting on you to
warn me from now on of all dangers that lurk for me. Keep your ears open and
keep me informed of all you can overhear about me."
She kept twisting the
phial in her fingers. Mademoiselle Desoeillet put her hand out
timidly to recover it.
"Oh no, I think
I'll keep it."
"Madame, that's
impossible. What will my mistress say when I come back without it? She will
blame La Voisin and whatever explanation I make will end up being discredited.
What if she finds out I was with you in your coach?"
"That's true.
Still, I need some proof. You are going to help me," she said, digging her
nails into the girl's wrist, "or, I promise you I will destroy your life.
You will be banished, ruined, despised by all, and it won't take me long to do
it."
The unfortunate
Mademoiselle Desoeillet was looking for some way to excuse her disloyalty.
"I think I know something . . ."
"Yes, what do
you know?"
"The medicine I
was sent for is innocuous. As a matter of fact, it is intended for the King.
Madame de Montespan also goes to La Voisin for philtres that will rekindle the
flame of his love for her."
"Which Duchesne
pours into his goblet."
"So you know
everything, Madame? How frightful! Madame de Montespan told us she thought you
were a witch. I heard her. She was in a towering rage. She told Duchesne:
'Either that woman is a witch, or La Voisin has fooled us. Perhaps she has even
betrayed us to her, if the other one has paid her more . . .' I know she was talking
about you. 'It won't last long, though,' she said to Duchesne. It was this very
morning. She had sent us all away because she wanted to talk in great privacy,
only. . ."
"You were
listening at the keyhole."
"Yes,
Madame."
"What did you
hear?"
"At first I
couldn't make much out. Then little by little my mistress kept raising her
voice, she was so angry. It was then I heard her say: 'Either that woman is a
witch, or La Voisin has fooled us. All the attempts have failed. She must have
been warned somehow. Who warned her? It's got to stop. You go to La Voisin and
tell her the joke has gone on long enough. I pay her a lot. Either she finds
something that will work, or she will be the one to do the paying. I'll write
her myself. That will put the fear of God into her.'
"She sat down at
her desk and wrote out a note she gave to Duchesne for La Voisin. 'Show her
this note." After she has read it, and is convinced how angry I am, burn
the paper in the flame of a candle. Don't leave until she has given you what we
need. Wait, I have a handkerchief here that belongs to you know who. The page
who picked it up gave it to me, thinking it was mine. I haven't been able to
get to any of her maids since Therese shot out of here as if the devil were
chasing her. Also, she has very few servants and
no followers. She's a strange woman. I don't know what the King sees in her,
except her beauty, obviously.' She was talking about you, Madame."
"So I gather.
And when is Duchesne going to meet La Voisin?"
"Tonight."
"When?
Where?"
"At midnight, at
the Golden Horn tavern, a secluded place between the walls of Paris and
Saint-Denis. La Voisin will walk there from her house in Villeneuve. It isn't
far."
"Well, you have
been of use to me, my girl. I shall try to forget for a while that you have
very sensitive fingertips. Here we are at Saint-Germain. We're going to get out
here, but I don't want anyone to see us together. Put on a little powder and
rouge, you look fearfully pale."
Hastily Mademoiselle
Desoeillet tried to repair her shattered appearance. Stammering her thanks and
vowing loyalty, she jumped out of the coach and took to her heels.
Angélique brooded as
she watched her disappear like a pink butterfly in the springtime sunlight.
Then she recovered herself and stuck her head out the window of the coach.
"To Parisl"
she shouted to the coachman.
When she had changed
into a thick skirt and a corduroy jacket and tied up her hair in a black satin
kerchief like a shop girl, she asked for "Swordthrust" Malbrant to
come to her. She had already sent to Saint-Cloud to get him back, even at the
risk of leaving Florimond to the abbé and the dubious protection of Monsieur's
Court.
When he came to her
apartment and saw only a simply dressed woman, he was astonished to hear her
speak with the familiar tones of the Marquise du Plessis-Bellière.
"Malbrant, I
want you to come along with me."
"You certainly
are well disguised, Madame."
"Where I'm going
it wouldn't look well for me to show up in full
regalia. I see you have your sword. Well, take a rapier and a pistol too. Then go find Flipot. Wait for me in the
alley behind the hotel. I'll come out to meet you by the door from the
garden."
"As you say,
Madame."
A little later,
riding behind Malbrant, Angélique arrived in the outskirts of the suburb of
Saint-Denis. Flipot had accompanied them on foot. They stopped in front of the
dark inn of the Three Comrades.
"Leave your horse
here, Swordthrust, and give the innkeeper an écu to watch it. Otherwise
we might never be able to get back. Horses disappear easily hereabouts."
The squire did as she
bade him, and followed her. He asked no questions, just chewed the ends of his
mustache and grumbled about the uneven paving blocks and the mud which still
lingered in the cracks between the cobblestones of the dirty alleys in spite of
the warm sun.
Perhaps this district
was not so strange to the old gladiator. During his salad days he might well
have had an adventure or two around there.
Not far from where
they were was the red-painted wooden statue of the Father Eternal, the
protector of beggars, in its niche on top of a pile of refuse. Flipot made his
devotions joyously. He felt at home here.
Deep in his
improbable palace of mud and crumbling stone was the Grand Coesre, Wood-Bottom,
enthroned as usual in his cripple's bowl. His henchmen were numerous enough to
take him about whenever he wanted to go, in a broken-down chair whose flowered
upholstery and gilding were almost hidden under a layer of filth. But
Wood-Bottom seldom liked to stir. The darkness of his abode was so dense that
even in full daylight the oil vigil lamps were kept burning. Wood-Bottom liked it
that way. He loathed the light and he hated to be uncomfortable. It was not
easy to get to him. At least twenty times visitors would be stopped by
gallows-birds asking what the hell they were doing there. Flipot gave the
password.
Finally Angélique stood
in his presence. She had a bulging purse she
intended to give him, but Wood-Bottom only looked at her scornfully.
"Not too
soon," he said. "Not too soonl"
"You don't seem
very glad to see me, Wood-Bottom. Haven't I always sent you what you needed?
Haven't the servants always brought you a roast suckling pig at New Year's and
a turkey and three barrels of wine for mid-Lent?"
"Servants!
Servants! Do I have to see those asses! Do you think I have nothing better to
do than peck at food and have soup sent me and chew on meat? I've got enough
money to have a feast if I want one, just as I always had. But you don't come
here very often. Too busy being a wicked beauty, eh? There are plenty of
girls—who don't know what respect is."
The king of the
beggars was sorely vexed. He accused Angélique less of thinking herself above
him than of neglecting him. He could see nothing strange in a great Court
lady's coming through twenty-inch-deep mud and filth and risking her life among
the vagrants to see him. He wouldn't have thought it strange to see the King of
France's coach stop before his outlandish hovel to pay him a visit. Among
kings, isn't there . . .
He was King of the
Pennies and he knew the power of his fearful sovereignty.
"You could come
to terms with La Reynie if he'd let you. What does he mean surrounding us with
his policemen? Who wants police around? The police are all right for dumb rich
people, because if you're dumb you have to be honest. But we have to work hard.
How else would we live? Prison? The rope? Hang you, lock you up. To the galleys
with all thieves! The public hospital for beggars! What then? He wants to
exterminate us, that damned La Reynie."
He went on with a
great string of grievances. The great days of the Court of Miracles had come to
an end when La Reynie had become lieutenant of police and stuck lighted
lanterns around Paris.
"Who's
that?" he said at last, pointing to Malbrant with his pipestem.
"Who's that?"
"A friend. You
can trust him. He's called 'Swordthrust.' I need him for a little play I'm
staging, but he can't act it out all by himself. I need three or four
more."
"Who know how to
play a farce . . . with a sword or a club? They can be found."
She told him her plan. A man had a rendezvous with the sorceress
Monvoisin to bring her a letter in a tavern behind the ramparts of Villeneuve.
They'd have to wait till he left his assignation with the witch. Then the
bullies lurking outside could spring on him. . . .
"And gluurrkl"
said Wood-Bottom, pointing to his throat.
"No, I don't
want any blood. No crime. I only want him to speak up and confess. Malbrant
will take care of that."
The squire came over
to her, his gray eyes alert. "What's the name of this man?"
"Duchesne, the First Steward of the Wine Service. You
know him."
Malbrant beat his
chest with satisfaction. "There's one job I'll be glad to do. I've wanted
to say a few things to him for a long time now."
"That isn't all.
I need an accomplice in La Voisin's house, someone to go with her to the
meeting and be there when Duchesne gives her the letter. Someone especially
quick with his hands so that he can get hold of the paper before it burns in
the candle."
"That can be
found," said Wood-Bottom. He had a fellow named Jack-o-lantern called, a
pale redhaired ragamuffin who had no equal for picking pockets and concealing
his loot in his sleeves. But his red hair made him easily recognized, and after
a good many sojourns in the Chatelet prison and a few sessions on the rack
which had left him with a twisted leg so that he limped, he found it hard to
make a living. To snitch a letter right out from under the eyes and noses of a
whole audience would be child's play for him.
"I need that
letter," Angelique said. "I'll pay for it in gold."
The difficulty of
meeting La Voisin and accompanying her to so secret a rendezvous was not
insurmountable to the thieves. They had plenty of accomplices right in her very
house. There was Picard, who worked as her lackey, and the Cossack, who was in
love with her daughter. Through them Jack-o-lantern could easily get himself
hired to carry her torch or her bag. Even though she now moved in high society,
the sorceress still kept one foot in the underworld. She knew how useful it was
to have the Great Coesre as an ally.
"She mustn't
catch on, is that it?" said Wood-Bottom giving Angélique an understanding
look. "We don't squeal here. If anyone does—death! We have no use for
stoolpigeons." He heaved up his huge torso, encased in a military tunic
with gold braid, and leaned on his hairy fists like a gorilla, which he rather
resembled with his lumpy face and fierce look. "The power of the vagabonds
is eternal," he trumpeted. "Old La Reynie will never put an end to
it. It will always spring to live again in the gutters."
Angélique wrapped her
cape around her. She felt herself growing faint. In the light of the smoky oil
lamps the face of the Great Coesre under his ostrich-plumed hat seemed to her
to bear the brand of Cain. Great red faces were thronging around her, bearded
faces too, among which the wan face of Jack-o-lantern stood out in contrast.
She knew most of the
bullies Wood-Bottom had summoned from among his bodyguards—Peony, the perpetual
drunkard; Rat Poison, the Spaniard; several others whose names she had
forgotten; and a newcomer called Death's Head, whose whole jaws were exposed,
for the Brotherhood of the Holy Sacrament had cut off his lips for blasphemy.
Indeed, she was not trembling because of fear, for she had learned the rules of
the game and could communicate with this ugly world.
The underworld never
pardoned a traitor, and never betrayed its own people. On top or on the bottom
the "brothers" and "sisters" who had demonstrated their
loyalty and bound themselves to the society of Paris thieves by the oath of the
vagabonds, would always have access to the assistance of their fellow-members.
If they were poor, a kettle of soup was always
available to them; if they were powerful, swords would be drawn against their
enemies.
The bond was
indestructible. Barcarole was proof of this. Wood-Bottom would not forsake him.
No, Angélique was not afraid of them. Their wolfish cruelty terrified her less
than that of certain far more refined persons she could name; their stinking
sores revolted her less than the fine raiment that concealed loathsome
villainy. But as she listened to the thundering voice of the Great Coesre, she
remembered some dreadful experiences. Angélique was suffering the dizziness of
one standing on the brink of a precipice from which she might fall to her doom,
a feeling of being hurled from the sumptuous heights to which she had arrived
into the bottomless despair of hell.
"So one always
has to come back here," she thought.
It seemed to her that
she would always carry with her in the folds of her cape the ineradicable
stench of the misery of her past. All the perfumes of the world, all the
diamonds in the world, all the glory of the King's favor would never expunge
it.
When Angélique
returned home she sat down at her desk. Her visit to Saint-Denis had shown her
more clearly than she had imagined what would be done that night in Villeneuve.
All the details had been attended to, and there was nothing more to do but wait
and try not to think. About ten o'clock Malbrant came to her. He wore a gray
visor-mask and was wrapped in a cloak the color of a stone wall. She spoke
softly to him as if she might be overheard in the silence of her handsome room
where once she had received Rakoczy's love.
"You know as
well as I do what I want to get out of Duchesne. That's why I chose you. Let
him reveal the plans of the woman who sent him, and give the names of the
people who are trying to do me harm . . . but above all, get the letter. Watch
at the window of the inn. If he makes any sign of weakening before
Jack-o-lantern has a chance to filch it, burst in with your men.
Also try to get the
mixtures, the poisons La Voisin will give him."
She waited.
Two hours after
midnight she heard the distant creaking of the little secret door by which
Malbrant had left the h6tel, then his heavy quick military step on the
flagstones of the vestibule.
He entered and laid some objects on the table near her. She saw a
handkerchief, a phial, a leather pouch, and a little square of paper—the
letter.
Madame de Montespan's
handwriting leaped out at her and a wild feeling of triumph thrilled her. The
words of the letter were overpoweringly dreadful:
". . . You have deceived me,"
wrote the noble Marquise in her flowing hand distinguished by its highly
original spelling, for her education had been rather neglected. "The
person is still alive and the King grows fonder of her every day. Your promises
are not worth the money I have paid you—more than a thousand écus up to
now for medicines which bring neither love nor death. Just remember that I can
ruin your reputation and turn the whole Court against you. Entrust what is
necessary to my messenger. This time you had better be successful."
"Wonderful!
Wonderful!" shouted Angélique. "Ha! So this time you had better be
successful, yes, my fine Athenais. And in fact I will succeed. All your arms
won't be worth much against my hands."
At the bottom of the
page there was a red spot that was turning brown. Angélique touched it and
found it moist. She forgot her excitement and looked at her squire.
"What about
Duchesne? What did you do with him? Where is he?"
Malbrant turned his
head away. "If the current is strong, he must be almost out to sea by
now."
"Malbrant, what
did you do? I told you I didn't want any crime committed."
"It's always
better to get rid of a corpse before it begins to stink," he said, his
eyes still lowered. Then suddenly he looked her full in the face. "Listen,
Madame," he said, "listen to me. What I am about to say to you may
seem strange coming from an old weather-beaten good-for-nothing like me. But I
am fond of your son. All my life I have done nothing but stupid, useless things
insofar as both myself and others were concerned. Weapons are all I know
anything about because of having handled them. But how to fill my purse I do
not know. I was getting old, my body was wearing out, and Madame de Choisy, who
knew my sainted aunt, my pious sister and my priestly brother, said to me:
'Malbrant, you bad boy, what would you say to teaching two rich nobleman's sons
how to use a sword in exchange for good bed and board?' I said to myself, 'Why
not? Let your old scars heal a little, Malbrant.' And so I entered your
service, Madame, and that of your children. Perhaps I have some children of my
own. It's likely, but that's not the point, I admit. With Florimond it was
different. I doubt that you know him so well as I, Madame, even if you are his
mother. That boy was born with a sword in his hand. He handles one like Saint
Michael himself. When an old hand like me sees that talent, that power, that
gift—ah, well . . . Then it was that I began to think of how I had wasted my
life and of how alone I am in the world, Madame. In that little boy I saw the
son I perhaps have never had—whom I shall never know at any rate—and whom I
shall never be able to teach to wield a sword. There are things like that you
don't know you have inside you, but they're the ones that make you want to
live. That Duchesne wanted to kill Florimond."
Angélique shut her
eyes. She felt faint.
"Up to
now," the squire went on, "no one could say for sure. But now it is
certain. He confessed it, blurted it out when we held his feet in the fire:
'Yes, I did want to get rid of that little louse,' he cried. 'He's ruined me in
the eyes of the King by arousing his suspicions . . . he's spoiled all my
hopes. Madame de Montespan has threatened to have me fired for not being
subtler.'"
"So it's true
that he put powders in the King's wine?"
"The favorite
instructed him to. It's all true. And he threatened to kill Florimond if the
boy betrayed him. He put the poison in
the sherbet that was intended for
you. The Montespan went to La Voisin for a means of killing you. Caraport, one
of the King's stewards, was their accomplice. It was he who sent the child on
an errand to the kitchens by way of the scaffolding. 'Scaffoldings ninety feet
high,' as I yelled at him, 'ninety feet up from the stone pavement in the dark!
Well, it's your turn to fall down them now, you beast who would take the life
of a child!' "
Malbrant stopped and
wiped his face. He stared at Angélique who was looking straight ahead of her.
"I had to get
rid of that stinking carrion," he repeated in a low voice. "He wasn't
very pretty to look at. What good would it have done to leave him alive? Just
one more enemy for you. There are enough as it is, I think. When you start something
like this, Madame, you've got to see it through to the bitter end."
"I know."
"The others
agreed with me. There was no other way to finish the job. My good companions
did their work well. Jack-o-lantern made a deal with La Voisin's lackey to get
himself the job of carrying her torch. He pretended to be deaf and dumb. She
kept him with her during the rendezvous. Everything went as planned. She said
she did not want to go to the meeting place alone. She wanted a deaf and dumb
fellow who could wield a knife. So Jack-o-lantern showed up and she took him
along. We kept watch outside. Soon I saw things begin to go wrong between La
Voisin and Duchesne. They couldn't find the letter. Then the fun began. La
Voisin stalked out without demanding her payment. Jack-o-lantern pretended to
defend her for the sake of the farce. Then we got busy with the man. It was not
easy-he was tough to handle. But finally we got him down and got the
handkerchief, the bottle, the little bag in which the magic powders are, I
guess, and lastly the secrets I just told you."
"Good!"
Angélique opened a
drawer of her desk and took out a purse of gold pieces.
"This is for
you, Malbrant. You did a good job."
The squire stowed it
away immediately. "I never say no to money. Thank you, Madame. But believe
me when I say that some day I will do it for nothing. The little abbé knows
that. We asked each other what we should do. You are all alone, aren't you? You
were right to confide in me."
Angélique’s head bowed. The time had come for buying accomplices
and paying for silence, and it would last the rest of her life. Between her and
this adventurer whom she knew so little there would always be the screams of
the murdered Duchesne, the plop of a body thrown into the Seine.
"My silence? I
have kept it for people who deserved it less than you. Even the end of a bottle
doesn't remind me of what I want to forget."
"I thank you,
Malbrant. Tomorrow I will send you back to Saint-Denis with the money I agreed
to pay. Then you will go to Saint-Cloud. I want Florimond under your
protection. Now you may leave. Sleep well."
He bowed like a
musketeer, as he well knew how to do. But before shutting the door behind him
he looked back at her with mingled fear and admiration. Not that she frightened
him. Quite the contrary. He was afraid for her. He was afraid to see her
weaken. There are some persons who could walk on heaps of corpses without
turning a hair. He knew plenty like that. "The other woman," for
example. But this one was different, well though she knew how to fight.
chapter 27
THE King had not yet come out of Mass when Angélique mingled
with the throng of courtiers awaiting Their Majesties in the Salon of Mercury
at Versailles, where they had arrived the night before.
She hoped her absence
had not been noticed in the change of residence from Saint-Germain to
Versailles. She got there at an early hour after concealing with carefully
applied make-up the ravages of the previous night's fatigue and mental anguish.
She was beginning to acquire the remarkable resilience of all sophisticates,
the ability to change roles like actors without any effort, and to appear after
a sleepless night and four hours of coach travel with a dazzling smile and a
fresh complexion. She bowed to people to right and left, and inquired after
many. Thus she learned the details of the full dress expedition into Flanders
to see Madame off on her visit to her brother Charles II of England. Several of
the gossips were surprised to discover that Angélique had not gone too. They
said that Madame would return soon and that her negotiations were off to a good
start. The amply proportioned Mademoiselle de Querouaille, whom the Princess
had taken along in her suite, would not be the least effectual of means to
convince the young Charles II that he should avoid the triple alliance and
extend a friendly hand to his brother-in-law Louis XIV. There was considerable laughter about
whether Mademoiselle de Querouaille's fine features would surpass her plump
figure in the eyes of the English. But Madame knew her brother's taste in women
well. Apparently he preferred quantity to quality.
The Stewards of the
King's Table passed by, carrying silver-gilt pots of jams and dishes of fresh fruit
for what was called the
King's hunting snack. Angélique heard one of them remark on the absence of
Duchesne. She drifted away from the groups of courtiers and leaned on a window
sill of the Great Hall. It was a beautiful day. The lawns showed the effects of
the thousand rakes the gardeners had applied to their surface. She recalled the
first morning she had ever seen them, with Barcarole beside her, when day was
breaking over Versailles and there was only one person in the world a menace to
her.
Tossing her
head, and with a stately gait, she passed through the Great Hall toward the
South Wing. After opening several doors she arrived at an apartment that also
looked out on the terraces.
Madame de
Montespan was at the dressing table in her gorgeous boudoir. Her
ladies-in-waiting were gabbing around her, but they fell silent when they saw
Angélique.
"Good
morning, Athenais dear," Angélique said gaily. The favorite wheeled around
on her embroidered silk stool. "Oh, yes," she said. "What can I
do for you, my dear?"
There was a time when each had tried to
surpass the other in the farce of their armed truce. Now neither took the
trouble to pretend, even in public. Athenais de Montespan's blue eyes surveyed
her rival. There was not the shadow of a doubt in her mind that this sudden
affability was a disguise for something.
Angélique spread
her skirts on a little sofa upholstered in the same material as the
dressing-table stool and the chairs. The furniture was indeed lovely, but its
blue tints clashed with the greenish
gold of the walls. She would have to have that changed. "I have some
interesting news for you."
"Really?"
Mademoiselle
Desoellet turned pale. The big tortoise-shell comb set with pearls that she was
fixing in her mistress's hair shook in her hands. The other girls looked at her
wonderingly. Madame de Montespan turned back to her looking glass.
"Well, we
are waiting," she said coldly.
"There are
too many people here. Only you need to hear this."
"You want
me to send my ladies away? That's impossible."
"Perhaps.
Let's say it would be preferable."
Madame de
Montespan wheeled around. She saw in Angélique’s face something she had never
expected to find there. She hesitated.
"I'm not made
up yet, and my hair isn't done. The King will be waiting for me to accompany
him on his walk through the gardens."
"Don't
worry. I can look after your hair and you can be putting on your powder
meanwhile," Angélique said.
She moved behind
Madame de Montespan and skillfully attacked her heavy braids of hair the color
of ripe wheat.
"I'm going
to do it in Binet's latest style. It will suit you to a T. Give me that, my
child," she said to Mademoiselle Desoeillet, as she took the comb from her
hands.
Athenais
dismissed her suite. "Run along, ladies!"
Angélique slowly
undid the braids and spread out like a cape the long, delicately perfumed
locks, separated them into two with the comb, and then with a sure touch
twisted one hank around the crown of Athenais' head. What a wonderful effect it
had! Her own hair seemed dark next to the pure gold of her rival's. Lucifer
before his fall must have had hair like this.
"Please
hand me a couple of pins."
In the looking
glass Madame de Montespan was keeping an eye on her rival. Angélique was still
lovelier and more dangerously so, because her beauty was so out of the
ordinary. Her smooth durable complexion withstood those enemies of
pink-and-whiteness—pimples and broken veins. She always seemed to be powdered,
so clear was her skin, and her little nose showed none of the effects of wine
tippling and rich food. Her complexion set off her green eyes the way gold
mountings add to the luster of precious stones. Her hair, perhaps less blond
than Madame de Montespan's, was redeemed by its natural waviness and its rich
glossy glints.
"No man could
ever look at that hair and not want to stroke it," Athenais had once said
in a fit of jealousy. Angélique did not take her eyes off her enemy, whose
looks she could see in the mirror. She bent to whisper in her ear:
"Duchesne died last night at an assassin's hand."
With a certain
admiration she noted that Madame de Montespan hardly moved a muscle, merely
went on looking almost insolently calm.
"Hum," she
said, "no one has told me yet." "No one knows it yet, except me.
Would you like to hear how it happened?"
She kept on
separating the glossy locks and rolling them one by one over an ivory rod.
"He was coming
out of Monvoisin's house. He had brought her a message, and in return had got
from her a little sack and a phial. No one will ever know that . . . unless you
let it out. Pay attention, my dear, you are getting your rouge on
crooked."
"You
swine!" said Montespan between her teeth. "You whore! You filth! How
dare . . . how dare you do that!" "What about you?"
Angélique tossed the
comb and the ivory rod on to the dressing table. Her hands seized the smooth,
white, rather fleshy shoulders that the King so loved to kiss, and dug her
nails into them as her anger flared. "What didn't you dare! You wanted to
kill my son." They were both breathing hard as their eyes met in the
mirror.
"You wanted me
to die a horrible, shameful death. You called down on my head all the curses of
the Devil himself. But the Devil has turned on you now. Listen carefully.
Duchesne is dead. He will never blab. No one need ever know where he went last
night and what he was after and who wrote the letter he delivered to La Voisin."
Madame de Montespan suddenly weakened.
"The letter!" she said in a different voice. "Didn't he burn the
letter?"
"No!" She
recited softly: " 'The person is still alive and the King grows fonder of
her every day. Your promises are not worth the money I have
paid you— more than a thousand écus up to now for medicines which bring
neither love nor death . . .' "
Athenais had turned
white, but she reacted with the pitiless energy that had always kept her going.
She tore away from Angélique’s grip proudly.
"Let me go, you
Gorgon. You're killing me."
Angélique took up the
comb again, while Madame de Montespan reached for a puff and dabbed clouds of
powder over her bruised shoulders.
"What do I have
to do to get that letter back from you?"
"I will never
give it to you," said Angélique. "Do you think I'm that much of a
fool? That letter and the baubles I described to you are in the hands of an
agent of the law. Forgive me if I don't tell you his name. But remember he
often has an opportunity to get to the King. Now, if you'll please hand me
those pearl-headed hairpins, I'll fix your chignon."
Madame de Montespan
gave them to her.
"On the day I
die," Angélique continued, "the sad news of the sudden and
inexplicable end of Madame du Plessis-Bellière will no sooner have reached the
ears of that agent than he will have gone to the King and shown him the objects
and the letter I have given into his safekeeping. I don't imagine His Majesty
will have any trouble recognizing your handwriting and your faultless
spelling."
The favorite was
making no more attempt to dissemble. She seemed to be choking, for her chest
was heaving with spasms. Her feverish hands kept opening boxes and bottles as
she streaked make-up over her forehead and cheeks and eyelids.
"What if I don't
let you blackmail me?" she exclaimed suddenly. "What if I'd risk
everything to see you dead?" She stood up, clenching her fists, almost
breathing flames of hatred. "Dead!" she repeated. "That's
the only thing I care about—to see you dead! If you live, you will take the
King away from me. I know that. Or else the King will take you. It amounts to
the same thing. He craves you
desperately. Your coquettish refusals of his desires work in his blood and rob
him of reason. I don't matter any more. Soon he will come to hate me, because
he wants to see you in my place, here, in this apartment he had made for me.
Since my fall is certain whether you are dead or alive, I at least want you
dead, dead, dead!"
Angélique heard her out impassively.
"There's a certain difference between a temporary fall from favor, which
would at least make the King show you some regard and which would leave you—who
knows?—the hope of sometime regaining his affection, and the horror he would
feel toward you when he was informed of your crimes, not to mention the exile
or the imprisonment to which he would condemn you for the rest of your days.
I'm sure a Mortemart knows the right choice to make between those
alternatives."
Athenais was wringing
her hands. Her display of rage and her impotency had made her appear rather
naive. "The hope of regaining his affections," she echoed. "No.
If you ever win him, it will be for life. I know that. You know him as well as
I do. I was master of his senses, but you are master of his heart. And, believe
me, it's something to be master of the heart of a man who doesn't hesitate to
admit it."
She looked at her
rival as if she were seeing her for the first time, perceiving in her calm, dangerous
beauty a weapon she had not suspected before.
"I am not strong
enough," she said.
Angélique shrugged
her shoulders. "Don't play the victim, Athenais. It's not the part for
you. Just sit down again and let me finish your hair."
"Don't touch
me!"
"But this
hair-style is quite becoming to you, Athenais. It would be a pity to leave it
done up on one side and hanging loose on the other."
In desperation
Athenais handed her the comb as she would to a servant. "All right, finish.
And be quick about it!"
Angélique twisted a
long golden lock around her finger, and arranged it so that it trailed
gracefully down her pearly neck. As she glanced into the mirror to see how it looked, she met the stormy eyes of
her enemy. She had won, but for how long?
"Leave me the
King," said Athenais suddenly. "Leave me the King. You do not love
him."
"Do you?"
"He belongs to
me. I was made to be Queen."
Angélique rolled up
two more locks and pinned them over the temples like wood shavings. Binet could
not have done better.
"My dear
Athenais," she said as she finished, "it's no use for you to appeal
to my finer feelings, for I have none so far as you are concerned. I will make
a bargain with you. Either you leave me alone and stop plotting against my
life, in which case you can trust me to say nothing about your relations with
sorceresses and demons; or else you can keep on with your vindictiveness and
continue to store up bolts of lightning that will be unleashed upon you and
annihilate you. Don't think you can get around these facts by trying to do me
harm in some other way like undermining my reputation, or ruining my credit, or
harassing me with little underhanded attacks to make my life miserable. I shall
always know where these are coming from, and I won't have to wait for death to
relieve me of you. You say the King loves me. Just think what his wrath will be
when he finds out you tried to do me in. The agent of the law who has my
secrets in his keeping tested in person the nightdress you sent me. He will
bear witness before the King to the injuries you wanted to do me. One more bit
of advice, my dear. Your hair looks lovely, but your make-up is smeared. It's
in ruins. If I were you, I'd start all over again."
As soon as Angélique left, Madame de
Montespan's girls trooped back solicitously, and formed a circle about their
mistress' dressing table.
"Madame, you are
crying."
"Yes, you fools.
Can't you see how dreadful my makeup looks?"
Stifling her sobs,
she looked in the mirror at her bleary face, tear-streaked with red and white
and black. She heaved a deep sigh. "She's right, the
swine," she muttered. "It is a ruin. I'd better start all over
again."
No one missed the new
look on Madame du Plessis-Bellière’s face as she appeared for the King's walk
through the gardens. She was radiant, and the way she carried her head was
almost intimidating. Everyone began to feel as Madame de Montespan had recently
felt. It was as if they had been deceived. The little Marquise had indeed quite
a collection of masks. Those who had thought she was being very cautious about
remaining in favor now could see that she was not going to be another La
Vallière. Those who were betting that Madame de Montespan would get rid of
"the hick" now felt their confidence falter in the face of the
haughty looks she gave them and the way she smiled at the King. The King's
attitude sealed their defeat. He made no pretense at having eyes for anyone but
her.
Madame de Montespan
was absent. No one took exception to it, but found it quite natural for
Angélique to be walking at the King's side down the path to the grove and
colonnade of Minerva, and then on their return to the palace via the Fountain
Walk.
The King called her
into his conference chamber, as he often did when he needed her advice on some
matter of trade he was discussing with his ministers. This time she noticed
that the room was empty. As soon as the door closed behind them he
took her in
his arms.
"My
beauty," he said, "I can't go on like this! When will you stop
torturing me? This morning you had me completely in your power. I could see
nothing but you. You were my sun, my star I never reach, the cool spring from
which I could not drink. Your glory suffused me and your perfume was all the
air I breathed, and yet I could not lay my hand on you. Why? Why so
cruel?" He was burning with desire he could no longer control. "Don't
think you can go on playing with me like this much longer. You'll have to end
by yielding to me, even if I have force you to."
His steel-like
muscles were bruising her as they flattened her against his stone-hard chest.
"You might make
me your enemy," she said.
"I am not so
sure of that. I was wrong to think your heart would awaken to me if I were
patient. You are not ruled by your emotions. You want to know your master
before you obey his orders. Only after he has won you over will you be loyal to
him. Only when I have penetrated your flesh will I have penetrated your
heart." He added plaintively: "Ah, how the secrets of your body
torment me!"
Angélique felt dizzy
from her head to her toes. "I can't go on like this either," she said
to herself, sinking into a kind of exhaustion.
"When you are
mine," the King was saying, "when I have won you either by your
consent or by force, I know you will never leave me, for we two were made for
each other and to rule the world, even as Adam and Eve were."
"So Madame de
Montespan said with a certain assurance," Angélique remarked with a thin
smile.
"Madame de
Montespan! What is she thinking of? What hold does she have on me? Does she
think I am blind? That I'm not aware of her wicked heart, her concierge-like
spying, her boundless tiresome pride? I know her for what she is—beautiful and
sometimes diverting. Does her presence intimidate you? I tell you I would sweep
out of your way anyone you did not like. If you asked me now to get rid of
Madame de Montespan, she would be out of the palace by tomorrow."
Angélique pretended
to take this humorously. "All this display of power frightens me a little,
Sire."
"You have
nothing to fear. I would give you my scepter. I know it would be in worthy
hands. You see, again you have succeeded in checking my violence and again I
trust in your wisdom to choose the day and the hour when you will favor me. I
will let time take care of overcoming your apprehensions so far as I am
concerned. Now, don't you think we could arrive at some understanding between us?"
His voice was
supplicating, and he kept holding her hands in his.
"Yes, I think
so, Sire."
"Then some day,
my beauty, we will set sail for Cythera—the isle of love . . . Some day . . . promise me."
Between his kisses she murmured, "I promise." Some day she would
kneel before him and say, "Here I am . . ." And she would lay her
forehead in his royal hands. She knew that she was inescapably set on that
course toward that time. Now she had got rid of the dangers that threatened her
life, the attainment of this love weighed on her and inspired her with
alternate fear and triumph. Would it be tomorrow? Or later? The answer was hers
to make, and yet she was leaving it to fate.
chapter 28
ANGELIQUE spent three days in Paris going over some business
with Colbert. She was coming back to her house after being with him till quite
late one evening. In front of the H6tel de Beautreillis was the outline of a
beggar limping along in the bluish darkness of the moonless June night. As she
approached the door she saw it was Stale Bread.
"Go to
Saint-Cloudl Go to Saint-Cloud!" he said in his hoarse voice.
She tried to open her
door but he prevented her.
"Go to
Saint-Cloud, I tell you. Something's going on there. I've just come from there
in a wine cart. There's an entertainment there tonight. So go on . . ."
"I wasn't
invited to Saint-Cloud, Stale Bread."
"Someone else is
there who wasn't invited either . . . Death . . . And it is in his honor the
party is being given. Go see for yourself . . ."
Angélique suddenly
thought of Florimond. Her blood ran cold.
"What's going
on? What do you know?"
But the old vagabond
had moved off, grumbling.
Angélique shrieked to
the coachman to take her to Saint-Cloud. She had a new coachman now, who had
worked for the Duchess de Chevreuse and was more philosophical than his
predecessor had been. He merely remarked that to travel through the woods at
that hour of the night was to invite danger. Without getting out of the coach
she had three of her footmen awakened and also Roger, her steward. They armed
themselves and mounted their horses to protect the coach which was turning in
the direction of the Saint-Honor^ gate.
The treetoads sounded
like sleighbells jingling in the darkness of the park. Angélique’s nerves were jumpy
anyway, and the sound aggravated them. She put her hands over her ears to shut
it out. As they rounded a bend in the avenue the country house of Monsieur
d’Orléans loomed before them, its windows winking as the torches passed behind
them. There were plenty of coaches parked on the terrace, and the great gates
were wide open.
Something was indeed
going on, but it was no fête.
Trembling with
anxiety, she jumped out of the coach and ran to the entrance. There was no page
there to take her cloak or ask what she wanted at this late hour. But the foyer
was full of confused people rushing to and fro and talking in whispers.
Angélique caught sight of Madame Gordon-Huntley.
"What's going
on?" she called to her.
The Scotswoman made a
vague, distracted gesture. "Madame is dying." She disappeared behind
a tapestry.
Angélique grabbed a
lackey by the arm. "Madame dying? It's impossible. She was in perfect
health yesterday. I saw her dancing at Versailles."
"The same today.
At four o'clock Her Highness was laughing and chatting merrily. Then she drank
a cup of coffee and immediately was seized with pains."
Madame Desbordes, one
of the Princess' ladies-in-waiting, was stretched out on a sofa sniffing
smelling salts. She had just been revived from a swoon.
"It's the sixth
time since this afternoon, the poor woman," said Madame de Gamaches.
"But what is the
matter? Did she drink the same cup of coffee?"
"No, but she
made it. She was accused of causing the terrible accident."
Madame Desbordes was
gradually recovering her senses. She began to scream hysterically.
"Get control of yourself," Madame de Gamaches begged
her, "you aren't guilty of anything. Try to remember if you boiled the
water. I brought it in, and Madame Gordon gave it to her in her own special
cup."
But the pathetic lady
in waiting could not seem to understand. She kept wailing, "Madame is
dead! Madame is dead!"
"We all know that,"
said Angelique. "Did Madame see a doctor?"
''All of them,"
brayed Madame Desbordes. "The King sent his own. They are all here.
Everybody is here. Mademoiselle is here. Monsieur is here. The Queen . .
."
"Oh, for
heaven's sake!" Madame de Gamaches interrupted her. She too was getting
hysterical.
While they were
trying to extract some information, Monsieur himself appeared out of Madame's
apartments, accompanied by Mademoiselle de Montpensier.
"Cousin,"
she was saying vigorously, "you must remember that Madame is dying. Talk
to her about God. . ."
"Her confessor
is with her," Philippe d’Orléans protested gently.
He casually adjusted
the folds of his jabot. Of all those present he certainly appeared the least
upset, but he was at the mercy of the Grande Mademoiselle's insistence, and had
to listen to her. She shrugged her shoulders in fury.
"Her confessor!
I'd be in a sorry state if I had to appear before God with no preparation but
that nobody's. Her confessor indeed! You had to send him around in a coach so
that the public could see she had one. His only recommendation is that he has
one of the handsomest beards in the country, that's all. But when death . . .
Have you ever thought of what it means to die, cousin?"
Monsieur was
contemplating his fingernails. He sighed listlessly.
"Well, you do
know your time will come too," exclaimed Mademoiselle, bursting into
sobs. "Then will be the time
for you to study your fingernails. Ah, my poor darling," she said as she
caught sight of Angélique, and beckoned her to her.
She sank on to a
bench. "If you could only see this affecting sight! All these people
buzzing around Madame, chattering and prating as if they were at a play. Her
confessor doesn't know how to do more than stroke his beard and mumble
platitudes . . ."
"Calm yourself,
cousin," said Philippe d’Orléans sympathetically. "Let's see now,
whom can we find to be with Madame during her last hours who would look well in
the Gazette? Ah, I have it—Father Bossuet. Madame sometimes liked to talk with
him, and he is the Dauphin's religious advisor. I'll send for him."
He gave orders
accordingly.
"But there's no
time to lose. Who knows whether Madame will still be alive by the time Monsieur
Bossuet gets here? Isn't there anyone here at Saint-Cloud?"
"My goodness,
can't you be satisfied?"
One of the Maids of
Honor recommended Father Feuillet, a canon of Saint-Cloud, who had a certain
reputation.
"And an evil
character too," the King's brother snapped. "Call him if you want,
but I shall have none of him. I have already said my farewells to Madame."
He pirouetted on his
high heels and went toward the staircase with his gentlemen attendants.
Florimond, who was among them, saw his mother and ran over to kiss her hand.
"It's a sorry
business, isn't it, Mother?" he said. "Madame was poisoned."
"For the love of
heaven, Florimond, stop talking about poison."
"But she
certainly was poisoned. I know she was. Everyone says so and I was there
myself. Monsieur wanted to go to Paris, and we had gone down into the courtyard
with him. Just then Madame de Mecklenburg arrived. Monsieur greeted her and
went with her to see Madame, who also came to meet her. It was right then
Madame Gordon gave her the cup of iced coffee she always had that time of day.
As soon as she drank it, she put her hand to her side and moaned: 'Ah, what a
pain in my side! Oh, it's terrible. I can't stand it.' Her cheeks had been
pink, but they turned deathly white. 'Help me away,' she said. 'I can't stand
up any longer.' She was walking all bent over. I saw her myself."
"The page is
right," confirmed one of the younger of Madame's suite. "As soon as
Madame got into bed, she told us she was sure she had been poisoned and asked
for an antidote. Monsieur's
First Valet of the
Bed-chamber brought her some snake oil, but her pains were so great it
only seemed to increase them. It must have been some terrible new poison."
The Grande Mademoiselle
butted in. "Don't talk so foolishly. Who indeed would have wanted to
poison a lovely woman like Madame? She had no enemies."
They shut up, but
continued no less to think about it, including Mademoiselle de Montpensier. One
name was on everyone's lips—that of Madame's own husband, or else of his exiled
favorite. Mademoiselle went to greet Father Feuillet, who had just been
announced.
"If it hadn't
been for me, Father, the poor princess would have gone to meet her Maker like
an heretic. Come along, I'll show you the way."
Madame de Gamaches
whispered why Monsieur did not like Father Feuillet. He was a strict,
uncompromising priest, to whom one could well apply that verse from the Psalms:
"I will speak of thy testimonies also before kings, and will not be
ashamed." Once he was asked to lunch during Lent here at the King's
brother's house. Monsieur took a little cracker and asked him: "This is
not breaking fast, is it?" "Eat a whole ox, but be Christian,"
the priest replied.
The girl clucked her
tongue. A commotion coming from the Princess's apartments brought the women to
attention as they foresaw what might have happened.
The King was leaving
with his doctors. The Queen followed him, dabbing at her nose and eyes with her
handkerchief. Then came the Comtesse de Soissons, Mademoiselle de la Vallière,
Madame de Montespan and Mademoiselle de Montpensier. As he passed, the King saw
Angélique. He stopped in his tracks and oblivious to the looks that followed
them took her into an alcove.
"My
sister-in-law is dying," he said.
His face showed his
grief and how upset he was, and his eyes seemed to be asking for consolation.
"Is there no
hope, then, Sire? What do the doctors . . . ?"
"The doctors
said for hours that it was only a temporary
discomfort. Then they all suddenly
lost their
heads and didn't know what to
do. I tried to get them into some sort of rationality. I am no doctor, but I
could think of thirty remedies for them to try. They said all we had to do was
wait. They're asses!" He turned a dark look on the pointed hats of the
practitioners huddled together in consultation.
"How could such
a thing have happened? Madame was in excellent health. She came back from
England so happy. . ."
He looked at her
penetratingly without speaking and she could see in his eyes the terrible
suspicion that lurked in his mind. She bowed her head, not knowing quite what
to say. She would have loved to take his hand, but she did not dare.
"I would like to
ask a favor of you, Angélique," he whispered. "Stay here until . . .
until the end, and then come to Versailles to consult with me. You will come,
won't you? I need you . . . my darling."
"I will come,
Sire."
Louis XIV heaved a
great sigh. "Now I must go. Princes must not look upon death. That's a
rule. When I myself come to die, my family will desert the palace and I shall
be quite alone. . . . I'm glad Madame has that highly respected Father Feuillet
with her. It's no time now for the wit of courtiers and the assurances of
worldly confessors. Ah, here comes Monsieur Bossuet. Madame will be very glad
to have him."
He went to meet the
Bishop and talked with him a minute. Then the royal family departed, and
Bossuet entered the bedroom of the dying woman. From without came the sound of
coach doors slamming, and horses pawing the pavement.
Angélique sat on a
bench to wait. Florimond was darting hither and thither like any other child in
a tense situation that does not involve him. He told her that Monsieur had gone
to bed and was sound asleep. A little before midnight Madame de la Fayette, who
had been at the Princess' side, came to tell Angélique that Madame knew she was
at Saint-Cloud and wished to see her.
The room was full of
people, but the presence of Bossuet and Father Feuillet had imposed a sort of propriety on the
atmosphere. Everyone was talking in whispers. The two ecclesiastics moved away
from the head of the bed to make room for Angélique. At first she thought it
must be someone else lying there, so changed was Madame. Her unfastened
nightdress revealed her shrunken body, so thin that she already looked like the
skeleton she so soon would be. Her cheekbones stuck out, and her nose was
pinched. There were dark circles under her eyes, and her whole face was twisted
with her agonies.
"Madame,"
whispered Angélique, "how you must be sufferingl I can't bear it to see
you in such pain."
"You are
sweet to say so. Everyone else tells me I'm exaggerating my pain. If I were not
a good Christian, I would kill myself rather than try to bear it." She was
breathing with difficulty, but she went on. "Still, it is good for me to
suffer. Otherwise I would have nothing to offer God but an empty, misspent
life. Madame du Plessis, I am so glad you came. I have not forgotten the favor
you did me and the debt I owe you. I brought back from England . . ."
She beckoned
feebly to Montague, the English ambassador, who came over to the bedside. The
Princess spoke to him in English, but Angélique gathered that she was directing
him to pay Angélique the three thousand pistoles she owed her.
The ambassador
was crushed, for he knew what despair the death of his beloved sister Ninette
would cause his master Charles II. He proceeded to ask the dying woman if she
suspected foul play, for he had heard and understood the word
"poison" which was being bandied about, as it was the same in both
languages. Father Feuillet interrupted:
"Madame,
you must not accuse anyone. Offer your death as a sacrifice to God."
The Princess
nodded. Her eyes closed. For a long moment she was silent. Angélique started to
withdraw, but the icy hand of Henriette of England still clasped her own, and
she could not pull it away. Madame opened her
eyes again, her blue eyes swimming, but she fixed them on Angélique with an
undivided attention that was full of wisdom.
"The King was
here," she said. "With him were Madame de Soissons, Mademoiselle de
la Vallière and Madame de Montespan . . ."
"I know,"
Angélique said.
Madame fell silent.
She kept looking at her intently. Suddenly it occurred to Angélique that Madame
had loved the King too. Their flirtation had become so serious that to avert
the suspicions of the Queen Mother, who was still alive then, they had
conceived the plan of making one of Madame's ladies-in-waiting a screen for
them. This was none other than Louise de la Vallière. Then the haughty princess
had been dethroned by her humble follower. Her pride would not allow her to
mourn except in private and in the arms of her best friend, Madame de Montespan
. . . who now had taken her place in turn. She had just now seen by her bedside
the King and his three mistresses, the two former ones and the present one, in
a strange recurrence of her dream of ambitious love that she had followed so in
vain and that had brought her such a humiliating defeat.
"Yes,"
Angélique said softly.
She smiled a little
poignantly. Madame had not had the qualifications, but her defeat had not made
her vindictive and she had always been gracious and extroverted and
intelligent. Too intelligent. Now she was dying surrounded by hostility or at
best indifference.
Her eyes dimmed. In a
barely audible voice she murmured: "I could wish, for his sake, that he
might fall in love with you . . . you . . . because . . ."
She was unable to
finish the sentence. Her hand fell on the coverlet. Angélique withdrew and left
the room to return to her bench outside. As she waited she forced herself to
pray. About two o'clock in the morning Bossuet left the Princess and sat down
beside her to take a little food. A footman brought him a cup of chocolate.
Florimond, still
darting about like a swallow, whispered to Angélique that the death rattle was
in Madame's throat. Bossuet set down his cup and returned to her bedside.
Then Madame
Gordon-Huntley emerged to shout: "Madame is dead!"
As she had promised
the King, Angélique immediately prepared to go to Versailles. She would have
liked to take Florimond along, to get him out of the way of the funeral
preparations, but she found him sitting on a chest in the foyer holding the
hand of a nine-year-old girl.
"This is the
little Mademoiselle," he told her. "No one is paying any attention to
her, so I thought I ought to keep her company. She doesn't realize yet that her
mother is dead. When she does know, she will cry. I ought to stay here to
comfort her."
Angélique gave him
her blessing, and stroked his curly hair. A good vassal shares the sorrow of
his lord and stands by him in trouble. She herself was going to her King. With
tears in her eyes she kissed the little princess, who as a matter of fact did
not seem much disturbed over the loss of a mother she had hardly known and who
had paid her little attention.
Other vehicles were
rolling over the road to Versailles. Angélique ordered her coachman to pass
them at full speed. When she arrived at the palace, it was still the dead of
night. She was admitted to the King's conference room where he was waiting.
"Well?"
"It's all over,
Sire. Madame is dead."
He bowed his head to
conceal his feelings.
"Do you think
she was poisoned?" he asked finally.
Angélique made a
vague gesture.
"Everyone thinks
so," the King went on. "But you have a level head. Tell me what you
think."
"Madame had long
been afraid she might die of poison. She confided that to me."
"So she was
afraid. Of whom? Did she ever mention any names?"
"She knew the
Chevalier de Lorraine hated her and would never forgive her for her part in his
exile."
"Any others?
Tell me, please. If you don't tell me, who else will?"
"Madame said
that Monsieur had often threatened her when he was in a rage."
The King sighed
deeply. "If my brother . . ." He lifted his head. "I have
ordered the Steward of the Table at Saint-Cloud, Maurel, to be brought here. I
doubt he will be long in coming. Wait, I think I hear him now. I should like
you present at the interview. Hide behind that tapestry."
Angélique slipped
behind the curtain he pointed to her. The door opened and Maurel, led in by
Bontemps and a Lieutenant of the Guard, entered. He was a coarse-featured man,
not lacking in arrogance in spite of his professional air of servility. In
spite of being under arrest he appeared calm. The King signaled his valet to
stay. The lieutenant departed.
"Look at
me," said the King soberly to Maurel. "Your life will be spared if
you tell me the truth."
"Sire, I will
tell you the absolute truth."
"Don't forget
that promise. If you renege on it, torture is ready and waiting for you. It's
up to you whether you wish to leave this palace alive or dead."
"Sire," the
man replied calmly, "after your sacred words, I would be a fool to
lie."
"Good! Now
answer me. Did Madame die of poison?"
"Yes,
Sire."
"Who poisoned
her?"
"The Marquis
d'Effiat and I."
The King flinched.
"Who assigned you that fearful duty? And from whom did you get the
poison?"
"The Chevalier
de Lorraine was the originator and prime instigator of the plot. He sent us
from Rome the venomous drug I prepared and that d'Effiat put in Her Royal
Highness's drink."
The King's voice
suddenly fell. "What about my brother . . . ?" he said, trying to get
control of his voice. "Did he have any knowledge of this conspiracy?"
"No, Sire."
"Will you take
your oath on that?"
"Sire, I will
swear before God that I was the guilty one
. . . Monsieur did not know the plot . . . we could not count on him . . . he
would have exposed us."
Louis XIV drew
himself up. "That's all I need to know. Now, go, wretched man. I will
spare your life, but get out of my kingdom. If you ever cross its frontiers
again, you will be a dead man."
Maurel left with Bontemps. The King rose and
left his place behind his work table.
"Angélique!"
His voice was that of
a wounded man calling for aid. She ran to him. He pressed her so hard against
his breast she thought he would crush her to death. She felt his forehead on
her shoulder.
"Angélique, my
angel!"
"I am with
you."
"What a horrible
thing!" he muttered. "What vile, treacherous minds!"
Still he did not know
everything. Some day he would. He would stand alone in the midst of a sea of
shame and unthinkable crime.
"Don't leave me
alone."
"I am with
you."
"Wherever I
look, I can find no one to confide in."
"I am with
you."
At last he seemed to
understand. Raising her head, he gazed at her a long time. Then he asked her
timidly:
"Do you mean it,
Angélique? You will never leave me again?"
"No."
"You will be my
faithful friend? You will be mine?"
She nodded. Gently
she lifted his hand to her face.
"Do you really mean
it?" he repeated. "Oh, it's like. . ."
He tried to find a
word for his rapture. The dawning day was casting its rosy light on the edge of
the draperies.
"Like the dawn .
. . a token of life, of strength . . . that is what you have given me on this
terrible night when death has struck. Oh, my soul's joy . . . you will be mine!
Mine! I shall possess the treasure . . ."
He clutched her with
violent passion. She felt his strength passing into her, and like him believed
their union would make them insuperable before
the world. Her enemies were fleeing, the demons returning to hell. The long
struggle was over and the problem solved. Their weary spirits were finding a
sudden revivifying peace.
Bontemps was rapping
at the door. "Sire, it's time."
Angélique struggled
to free herself, but he held her close.
"Sire, it's
time," she echoed.
"Yes, I must
become a King again. I'm so afraid that if I let you go I'll lose you
again."
She shook her head
with a sad little smile. She was tired. The anguish of the night had made her
eyelids droop. Her disordered hair made her look like an exhausted lover.
"I love
you," the King said. "Oh, how I love you, my angel. Never leave
me!"
After the customary
celebration of the King's rising, the courtiers as usual went to Mass with him.
He took his place with an impassive face. There was stifled sobbing among the
congregation. Bossuet slowly ascended the pulpit. In the golden light streaming
through the windows he lifted his rugged, ruddy face, and stood erect in his
black cassock and lace surplice. He
let a long silence reign. Then his hand fell to his side as his booming voice
rose to the high vault of the chapel.
"O night of
disaster! O night of terror, echoing with the thunderclaps of this dreadful
news: Madame is dead! Madame is dead! . . . Madame has passed from morning unto
evening as a flower of the fields. In the morning she bloomed with all the
graces you know so well. In the evening, drooped . . . How great is God's
diligence. In nine short hours, the work was done. . . Oh, vanity of vanities. . ."
chapter 29
ANCHORED in the marina among the moving shallops and beside
two small English warships, a Neapolitan felucca and a Biscay galley, the great
vessel was swaying like a butterfly balancing on a blade of grass.
It was a
miniature frigate, equipped with small bronze cannons, on each of which shone
the golden cock surrounded with fleur-de-lis, garlands, shells and sea gods.
The ropes were of apricot and crimson silk, the hangings of brocade fringed
with gold and silver. From the masts and spars, which were painted red and
blue, floated pennons in a gay symphony of colors, and everywhere the arms and
emblems of the King sparkled in gold.
Louis XIV was
rendering this jewel of a ship the homage of his Court. One foot on the gilded
gangplank, he turned toward his ladies. Who would be chosen to lead the
procession from the meadows of Trianon? In his suit of peacock blue, the King
looked as radiant as the cloudless day. He smiled and extended his hand to
Angélique. Before the eyes of the entire Court she ascended the gangplank and
settled herself under the brocaded canopy. The King sat beside her.
After them the other
guests took their places on the Grand Vessel. Madame de Montespan was not among
them. She was presiding over the company assigned to the Grand Galley, an honor
which did not deceive her and made her pale with rage. The Queen was on the
Neapolitan felucca. The rest of the courtiers were in shallops. The King's
musicians embarked on a barge hung with red and white damask.
To the sound of
violins and oboes the little armada glided over the glassy surface of the Grand
Canal. The cruise seemed all too short. Dark clouds began to pile up in the
deep blue sky.
"A storm is
gathering," Angélique remarked in an attempt to disguise her apprehension
in commonplace conversation.
"Do you think
we'll be shipwrecked?" asked the King, looking at her devotedly.
"Perhaps. .
."
The group disembarked
on the green lawns where marquees had been set up over buffets laden with
delicacies. They danced, they chatted, they played games. In the game of blind
man's buff Angélique was blindfolded and whirled around by Monsieur de Saint-Aignan
to make her lose her sense of direction. When he let her go and tiptoed away
she felt abandoned in the stillness about her.
"Don't leave
me," she cried laughing.
She waited a moment to sense the rustling around her. Then someone
crept up behind her and snatched off the blindfold.
"Oh," she exclaimed, blinking.
She was no longer in the meadow where the Court was playing—she
could still hear the laughter—but on the edge of a thicket. At the top of a
rise built of three flower-covered terraces a little palace she had never seen
before was in the process of construction. It was made of white porcelain.
Before it was a row of pink marble columns. Acacia trees surrounded it,
perfuming the air with their intoxicating scent.
"This is
Trianon," said the King.
He held her close to
him. With his arm around her waist he led her up to the pagoda.
"We had to see
this together, didn't we, Angelique?" he said in a low voice. "We had
to end here."
She felt his
masterful hands quiver on her side. He had never been able completely to
overcome his timidity with women. No sooner had he completed a conquest than
fright overtook him.
"My beautiful
love! My lovely one!"
Angélique no longer
resisted him. The little pleasure dome offered her a refuge of silence. The
power that led her on she could not repulse. Nothing now could break this magic
circle of love and solitude and shade.
A glass door opened
for them. The interior was furnished with brocade pieces of exquisite taste and
workmanship. Angélique was too excited to notice more than that it was
ravishingly beautiful and that there was a huge curtained bed in an alcove.
"I'm
afraid," she whispered.
"There is
nothing to fear, my love."
Leaning her head on
his shoulder, she let him take her lips, unfasten her bodice, find the soft
globes of her breasts, thrill to the touch of her warm secret places. Gently he
pulled her along, as if wounded by the violence of his passion.
"Come!
Come!" he begged her softly.
His sensuality was
primitively savage. A tempestuous torrent swept him toward this woman he
desired. In comparison with his composure as a monarch this blind passion was
overwhelming.
Angélique leaned
against the bed and opened her eyes. The King was giving himself to her without
any reservation, and she felt rather strong and motherly as she took him in her
arms and soothed the torments of his flesh with her gentle caresses.
There was a flash of
lightning. Her body grew tense, and her eyes stared into the gloom that had
descended over them.
"The
storm," she muttered.
A distant rumble
pierced the silence. The King saw how troubled she looked.
"It's nothing.
What are you afraid of?"
But he found her body
restive in his arms. She eluded him and ran to the window, where she leaned her
burning forehead against the cool panes of glass.
"Now what?"
he asked. "This time it can't be modesty. Your delays have indicated a
barrier I have long suspected. There is a man between us."
"Yes."
"His name?"
She turned toward
him, her fists clenched, and her eyes flaming.
"Joffrey de
Peyrac, my husband, whom you had burned at the stake."
Slowly she raised her
hands to her face. Her mouth was open as if she were gasping for breath.
"Joffrey de
Peyrac," she repeated.
Her legs gave way and
she sank to her knees, babbling incoherently. "What have you done with
that sweet singer, that genius, that great lame clown who held all Toulouse
under the spell of his innocent magic? How could I ever forget Toulouse, where
they sing and curse and scatter flowers and maledictions. Toulouse, that most
cruel and gracious of cities, the city of Joffrey de Peyrac whom you had burned
alive in the Place de Grève . . ."
There was naught
before her eyes but that flaming pyre in the evening of a winter's day—nothing
but the flames and the night. A sob escaped her.
"They threw his
ashes into the Seine. His children have no name. His castles were razed. His
friends turned against him. His enemies forgot him. Nothing remains of the
Palace of Gay Learning, where life was so happy and bright. All that you took,
but you shall not get everything. You shall not have me. I am still his
wife!"
The rain was streaming
down outside. The storm was at its height.
"Perhaps you do
not remember," she continued, "that a man is a man after all, even
for a monarch as omnipotent as you. Now he is dust, his ashes scattered to the
winds. But I remember and I always shall. I went to the Louvre to entreat you
for his life, but you drove me away. You knew he was guiltless, but you wanted
to see him burned. Because you were afraid of his influence in Languedoc.
Because he was richer than you. Because he would not cringe before you. You
bribed the judges to condemn him. You had murdered the only witness who could
have saved him. You let him be tortured. You let him die. And I—you left me
abandoned in wretched poverty with my two children. How could I ever forget
that!"
She was racked with sobs, but the tears would
not come. The King looked as if he had been struck by lightning.
The minutes ticked
past interminably. Should he speak or
be still? Neither words nor silence could wipe out the past. It was the past
that separated them from each other like an insurmountable wall.
When the sun came
out, the King glanced toward his gardens. With a measured step he strode to the
seat where he had left his hat and put it on. Then he turned to Angélique.
"Come, Madame.
The Court is waiting for us."
She did not budge.
"Come," he
insisted. "We must not be late. We have talked too much."
She shook her head.
"Not too much. It had to be said."
Broken in spirit as
she felt, she made a great effort to imitate the dignity of the King. She
stepped before a mirror to repair her hair and fasten her gown. How empty she
felt!
Their steps echoed in
the colonnade of marble. Side by side they walked, yet strangers they would be
from henceforth and forever.
That night there was
a ball, a late supper, cards. Angélique kept asking herself whether she should
flee, or wait for a sign from the King. It was impossible that he would
continue as he had done. But when and how would he react to this new turn of
events?
The morning returned,
and the hours went by amid new pleasures. The King did not appear. He was
working. Angélique was the center of attention. Her disappearance the previous
evening at the same time as the King's had not passed unnoticed, and had seemed
significant to everyone. Madame de Montespan had left Versailles to conceal her
fury. Angélique forgot the dangers her rival had put in her path, now that she
was confronted with a more immediate one. If the King disgraced her, what would
become of Florimond and little Charles-Henri?
She accepted an
invitation to play cards and lost a thousand pistoles in one hour. This
stroke of bad luck seemed symbolic of the mess she had made of her life. In
repulsing the King's love she had played her trump card and lost. One thousand pistoles!
That's what came of living with a dice box in your hands. She had no love for gambling, but hardly a day went by at
Court when she was not asked to take part in a game. That's how some people
were reduced to begging for favors or sinecures to fill their lean purses. From
one debt to another they passed their time in being ruined and in recouping
their losses, pawning their jewels to be present on some Court expedition,
replenishing their wardrobes so as to shine at a ball, writing petitions.
It was high time for
her to chafe at the way Court life could confiscate a fortune since she was
going to leave Versailles. She was sure of that now. These would be her last
hours there.
As she stood by one
of the windows of the Grand Gallery she recalled again the morning she had
stood there were Barcarole watching the park awake, gazing at the palace of
which she would have some day been queen. At the end of the Royal Avenue she
could glimpse the masts, the sails and the ropes of the little fleet that
seemed to beckon her to faraway fabulous ports.
Bontemps found her
there, lost in her reverie. He whispered that the King wanted to see her and
was waiting for her. The hour had struck!
The King was calm as
usual. She could detect no trace of the emotion that agitated him when he saw
her come in. But he knew that there would be played out now a drama whose last
act was of infinite importance to him. Never had he yearned more avidly for a
victory. Never had he felt so sure in advance that he would meet with defeat.
"She will go away," he thought, "and my heart will turn to
ashes."
"Madame,"
he said when she sat down, "yesterday you made many grievous and unjust
accusations against me. I have spent a good part of the night and today
reviewing the records of that trial, and have pieced it all together again. It
is true that many of the details were no longer in my memory, but I had not
forgotten the affair itself. Like most of the peremptory acts I had to perform
at the start of my reign, that one remained deeply etched in my memory. It was
a difficult game of chess in which my
crown and my power were the stakes."
"My husband
never threatened your crown or your power. It was jealousy alone . . ."
"Don't start
saying things against me again," he said. "And let's stop quarreling
over the premises of the problem right now. Yes, the Comte de Peyrac did
threaten my crown and my power because he was one of the greatest of my
vassals. The great have been and still remain my worst enemies. Angélique,
you're no fool. Anger hasn't robbed you entirely of your good sense. I'm not
giving you excuses, but reasons for changing your opinion. I must explain to
you how things stood then. There were terrible insurrections throughout the
kingdom both before and after I attained my majority— a foreign war in which
these civil conflicts made France lose many of her advantages. A prince of the
blood, my own uncle Gaston d’Orléans, was at the head of my foes, a very powerful
man. The Prince de Condé had allied himself to him, and there were many
conspiracies against the throne. The members of the Parlement were in revolt
against their King. In my Court there were few who served me with disinterested
loyalty, and that made my most apparently submissive subjects more to be feared
than the insurgents. The only loyal ones were my mistrusted and slandered
mother, and Cardinal Mazarin, who was universally hated. Besides, they were two
foreigners. The Cardinal was an Italian, as you know. My mother had remained
very Spanish in her sentiments and her customs. Even the best-intentioned of
the French hardly endured their way of living. You can guess what the less
well-intentioned made of it. In the midst of all that here was I, a child,
invested with an overwhelming authority, but knowing I was too weak to wield it
and that I was threatened from every quarter."
"You were not a
child when you had my husband arrested."
"Stop being so
stubborn, for heaven's sake. Are you going to be like all other women,
incapable of seeing a problem in its entirety? However painful for you the
consequences of the arrest and execution of the Comte de Peyrac, it was only a tiny detail in
the panorama of rebellion and struggle that I am trying to depict for
you."
"The Comte de
Peyrac was my husband, and his fate, you must admit, is a more important detail
to me than all your panorama."
"History shall
be written in terms of Madame de Peyrac's opinions," said the King
ironically, "even though my panorama is the whole world."
"Madame de
Peyrac is not concerned with the history of the whole world," she snapped
back savagely.
The King half rose to
stare at her as she sat there with the fire of revolt in her cheeks, and smiled
a little sadly.
"Some evening
not so long ago, in this very room, you placed your hands in mine and renewed
your oath as a vassal of the King of France. I have heard those words many
times and seen them followed by the same betrayals and desertions. The breed of
great lords will always be ready to toss their proud heads in revenge and
rebellion against a master they think too hard on them. That's why I keep them
all here at Versailles, right under my eyes. That lances the boil and drains
off the evil fluids. I have no illusions, not even about you. So," said
Louis XIV, "I have always perceived in you, in spite of the attraction you
have for me, something utterly indifferent so far as I was concerned."
After a
moment of thought, he continued. "I am not asking you to pity the young
king in distress I was then. I do not promise to inspire respect and obedience.
Between my former helplessness and my present power I have traveled a long hard
road. I have seen my Parlement raise an army against me, and Turenne take
command of it; the Duke de Beaufort and the Prince de Condé organize the
Fronde; the Duchesse de Chevreuse intrigue to bring the armies of the Archduke
of Austria and the Duc de Lorraine to Paris. I have seen Condé, after being my
savior, slam the door behind him muttering low threats. Mazarin had him
arrested. Then his sister the Duchesse de Longueville roused Normandie, and the
Princesse de Condé, Guyenne; while the Duchesse de Chevreuse was inviting the
Spaniards to invade France. I have seen my prime minister in flight; the French
fighting among themselves under the walls of Paris; my cousin the Grande
Mademoiselle directing the cannons of the Bastille to be turned on my troops.
Grant me at least the extenuating circumstance of having been brought up in a
school of total distrust and treason. I have learned how to forget it when I
had to, but not the lessons I learned from those bitter times."
Angélique sat
with folded hands as he talked. Her eyes were not on him. He felt her lack of attention,
and it hurt him more than all the troubles he had undergone.
"Why are
you pleading with me?" she said. "What good will it do?"
"To protect
my reputation! The incomplete information you have about the occurrences that
motivated me have led you to draw false, insulting conclusions about your King.
A king who would abuse his power to satisfy base desires is hardly worthy of
the sacred title he received from God Himself and from his own great ancestors.
To ruin the life of a man for no other reason than envy and jealousy is a
reprehensible act, inconceivable on the part of a true sovereign. To do the
same under the conviction that the execution of one will spare the exhausted
people greater troubles yet is an act of wisdom and foresight."
"How had my
husband threatened the peace of your kingdom?"
"By his
presence alone."
"By his
presence alone?"
"Here me
out! At last I achieved my majority. It was not like a simple person's arrival
at that stage when he starts to manage his own affairs. I was fifteen years
old. I knew only the weight of the burden, not my own strength. I kept my
courage up by telling myself I had not been put and kept on the throne without
the ability to find means of accomplishing the good work I was determined to
do. These means were given me. The first act of my majority was to have
Cardinal de Retz arrested. That way I began to run my own household. In a few
years I had sealed the fate of those who for so long had been embroiled in mine. My uncle Gaston d’Orléans was
exiled to Treyes. Others were pardoned, among them Beaufort and La
Rochefoucauld. The Prince de Condé went over to the Spaniards, and I condemned
him to death for contumacy. When I was about to be married, the Spaniards
negotiated a pardon for him, which I granted him. Time passed. Other cares
demanded my attention, among them the preponderance of more and more great
ladies in the affairs of my Comptroller Fouquet. Another was the opposition of
a province that for years had been the rival fief of the Ile-de-France,
Aquitaine. You were then its queen, my darling. People kept talking of the
wonders of Toulouse and how your beauty revived memories of the lovely Eleanor
of Aquitaine. I was not unaware that the customs of that province are so different
as to render it almost a foreign country. Cruelly punished during the
Albigensian Crusade, later and for a long time subject to the English and
almost wholly given over to heretical beliefs, it would support only with
constraint the protectorship of the Crown of France. The Count of Toulouse's
very title marked him as an unworthy vassal, regardless of what his personal
character might have been—or that of any other man with the same title. He was
a person of lofty intelligence, an eccentric and charming character, rich,
influential, and scholarly. Once I had seen him I became obsessed with anxiety.
Yes, he was richer than I, and that I could not have, or in our day and age
money is more powerful than power, and sooner or later he was going to match
his power against mine.
"From then on I
had only one plan—to destroy that force which was growing beyond my grasp,
creating by my very side another state, perhaps soon to be another kingdom.
Believe me when I tell you that in the first place I never wanted to attack the
man himself, only diminish his prerogatives and reduce his power. But the more
I studied the case, the more I discovered a defect in my plan to let the Comte
de Peyrac live, which permitted me to entrust to another the difficult business
of a king who was vigilantly guarding his throne. Your husband had an enemy. I
shall never know why, but Fouquet, the
all-powerful Fouquet, had sworn his annihilation."
Angélique was
wringing her hands as she listened to him, suffering to the very depths of her
heart, reviving the past that had swallowed up her happiness. She shook her
head. Her forehead was damp.
"I have done you
wrong, my love," said the King. "My poor darling!"
He fell silent,
overwhelmed for a moment by the weight of a destiny that after ranging them
against each other as deadly foes had brought them to the verge of passion. He
heaved a great sigh.
"From then on I
entrusted the whole business to Fouquet," he continued. "I was sure
he would do it well, and he did. He knew how to use for his own weaselly ends
the vindictiveness of the Archbishop of Toulouse. I admit it was fascinating
for me to watch his strategy. He too had money and influence, and was not far
from thinking himself the master of the country. Patience! I thought. His turn
would come and I wouldn't be unhappy when it did. Meanwhile I watched him
reduce my enemies by the same subtle procedures I would later use to demolish
him. Now that I have read over the records of the trial I can better understand
why you are so indignant. You spoke of the murder of one of the witnesses for
the defense, Father Kirchner. Alas, it's all too true. Everything was in the
hands of Fouquet and his agents, and Fouquet wanted the Comte de Peyrac to die.
It was indeed going too far. When he did that, I stepped in . . ."
The King brooded for
a moment.
"You came to the
Louvre to entreat me. I remember that, as well as I do the day I first saw you
here so dazzlingly beautiful in your golden dress. Don't think I am entirely
forgetful. I have a rather good memory for faces, and your eyes are not easy to
forget. When, years later, you appeared at Versailles I recognized you at once.
I had always known who you were, but you were introduced as the wife of your
second husband the Marquis du Plessis-Bellière, and you seemed anxious to have
no mention made of your past. I thought then I was granting your wish in accepting the amnesty you offered me.
Was I wrong?"
"No, Sire. I
thank you for it," said Angélique sadly.
"Should I have
known then that already you had in mind such an exquisitely cruel revenge? To
make me pay with the agony of my heart, as you are doing now, for the torment
the King had inflicted on you before?"
"No, Sire, no.
Don't think me capable of such meanness, and so useless to boot."
The King smiled
wanly. "How well I recognize you in that remark. Vengeance is futile, as a
matter of fact, and you are not a woman to waste your energies in a vain pursuit.
But you achieved it nonetheless. You have hurt me, have punished me, a hundred
times over."
Angélique looked
away. "What power have I over destiny?" she said faintly. "I
should have liked to—yes, I admit it—should have liked to forget. I loved life so.
I was too young, I thought, to remain faithful to a dead man. The future was
smiling on me and luring me on. But now the years have gone by, and I am still
helpless in the face of one fact. He was my husband. I loved him with all my
being, and you had him burned alive on the Place de Grève."
"No," said
the King.
"He burned on
the pyre," Angélique repeated savagely. "Whether you wanted him to or
not. All my life I shall hear the crackling of the fagots consuming him by your
orders."
"No,"
repeated Louis as if he were hitting the boards of the floor with his walking
stick.
This time she heard
him. She looked at him distractedly.
"No," said
the King for the third time. "He was not burned. It was not he who was
consumed at the stake on that January day in 1661, but the corpse of a
condemned murderer which was substituted by my orders. By my orders," he
shouted, "by my orders! At the last minute Joffrey de Peyrac was
saved from his ignominious fate. I took pains to instruct the executioner
myself of my plan, as well as how to keep the matter a dark secret, for I had no intention of
granting him a spectacular pardon. Even though I wished to save Joffrey de
Peyrac, I was not saving the Count of Toulouse. The secret nature of my plan
created a thousand difficulties. The result was a scheme which was made
possible by the existence of a shop on the Place de Grève. It had a cellar that
was connected with the Seine by a subterranean tunnel. The morning of the
execution my masked agents took up their positions there and brought the corpse
in a white shroud. Then the cortege arrived. The executioner took his supposed
victim into the shop for a drink, and the substitution was made out of sight of
the crowd. While the flames were consuming a nameless hooded corpse, the Comte
de Peyrac was spirited away through the tunnel to the Seine, where a boat was
waiting for him."
The King knitted his
brows as she looked at him with a stunned expression on her deathly white face.
"I have not said
whether or not he is still alive. Banish that hope, Madame. The Count is dead,
quite dead, but not in the way for which you hold me responsible. He was
responsible for his own death. I gave him his life but not his liberty. My
musketeers took him to a fortress in which he was imprisoned. But one night he
escaped. It was foolish of him. He was
not strong enough to swim the river, and he drowned. His body was washed up on
the riverbank some days later and was identified. "Here are the documents
that attest to what I have just told you—the reports of the Lieutenant of the
Musketeers and others telling of his escape and the identification of his body
. . . Good Lord! Don't look at me so blankly. Can I believe you still love him
now? One can't still be in love with a man long since disappeared from your
life, and dead too. Ah, but that's a woman's way, always dinging to dreams.
Have you never thought of the slow march of time? If you found him again now
you would not recognize him any more than he would recognize you. You have become
a different woman, just as he would have become a different man. I can't
imagine you so lacking in logic . . ."
"Love is always
lacking in logic, Sire. May I ask you a favor? Give me the document that tells
of his imprisonment and his escape."
"What do you
want to do with it?"
"Read it at
leisure to appease my sorrow."
"I am not fooled
by you. You have some new game in mind. Listen to me carefully—I forbid you, do
you understand, I forbid you to leave Paris until I give you permission on pain
of incurring my wrath."
Angélique lowered her
head, clutching the file of papers to her breast like a treasure.
"Let me examine
them, Sire. I promise to return them to you in a few days."
"Very well. But
take good care of them. It is your right, since I was the first to tell you the
story. I only hope your perusal of them will convince you that the past cannot
be recaptured. You will weep and moan, but then you will return to reasonableness.
Perhaps the experience will be good for you."
She seemed
absent-minded. Her long lashes cast their shadows on her cheeks.
"What a woman
you are!" he murmured. "You have your childish side, and yet you are
a stubborn lover with a power to love as inexhaustible as the sea itself. If
only you had not been made for me, alas! Go to your dreams, my darling.
Farewell."
Angélique left him,
forgetting to curtsy and without noticing that he had risen and was holding out
his hands to her as her name died on his lips.
"Angélique!"
It was twilight as
she crossed the park. She had felt the need of a walk to calm her nerves. She
still kept the papers clutched to her as she walked, talking to herself. Those
who passed her thought she must be either crazy or drunk, but that did not keep
them from bowing low to Madame du Plessis-Bellière, the new favorite. She did
not see them any more than she saw the trees or the statues or the flowers. She
walked rapidly in her search for solitude and quiet. Finally she stopped by a little
pool where bubbles of water were floating on the dark surface. She was out of breath because her
heart was beating so irregularly.
She sat down on a
marble bench, intending to read the documents the King had given her, but the
light was too dim. She lifted her eyes to the heavens where the great trees
gently tossed their crests.
The intuition that
sleeps in every woman's heart awoke a sureness in her. Since he had not died at
the stake, he might still be alive. If fate had snatched him so miraculously
from the flames, would it not also restore him to her, not deprive him of life
four years afterward by some trick? She would never be able to believe that
part of it. Somewhere in this vast world he must be. He was waiting for her,
and she would walk barefoot, if need be, over every inch of ground, known and
unknown, until she found him. They had taken him away from her, but his life
was not over.
The day would come
when she would reach him, fall upon him weeping, be joined into one with him
again. She recalled neither his face nor his voice, not even his name, but she
stretched forth her arms toward him across the gulf of the long dark years. Her
eyes sought the darkening heavens against which the treetops swayed like
seaweed in the breezes of the night. With a delirious exaltation she cried: "He
is not dead! HE IS NOT DEAD!"
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
Ann and Serge Golon, actually husband and wife,
collaborate to write the novels which bear the name of Sergeanne Golon. Serge
Golon acquired a background as an engineer, prospector, chemist and geologist
prior to turning full time to writing. Ann Golon, the daughter of a French
naval officer, became a journalist. The pair met while pursuing their separate
careers in darkest Africa and married shortly thereafter. Since their return to
France in 1952, they have devoted themselves largely to recording the
adventures of their fascinating heroine, Angélique, who has become one of the
world's most famous fictional personages.