his father had built in another wing, but Louis liked this one. He felt hidden from the world in it. It had become too small for the size of the court, but it was right for him, for his need to have some time alone, some time away from others.
A small, private door led directly into the chapel from here. Motioning to the lieutenant of his bodyguard to leave him, he stepped into the soothing dim of this quiet and sacred space, crossed himself and knelt, his eyes not seeing the stained-glass windows in a half-circle before him nor the gold-and-green gilded dome overhead. Why had he acted rudely to the viscount? Not only was it childish and impolite, but it showed his growing mistrust. Never let another know what you think. Was it possible that he could trust the man, if not completely, then more than he dared at the moment? Yes, said his mother. No, said something in him. So luscious Olympe was the spy in his wife’s household. Of course she would be. Was she the only one? The viscount’s knowledge of his conversation with the queen this morning disturbed. What else did he know? Did he know that Louis had begun to meet someone in secret every night in an attempt to understand finances? Did he know Louis would never, under any circumstances, give Philippe a place on the council? Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s wife, nor thy brother’s either. But he did, the Blessed Savior help him. He stopped that thought. It led to places wild and uncontrolled, to desires he shouldn’t have.
He prayed for strength, but like a jeer to his prayer, the face of his brother’s wife came into his mind, along with a verse from a poet: As a rose, she lived as roses do. She’d worn rose-colored ribbons last night. He touched the one that was tied around his own wrist, hidden by lush lace at the end of his shirtsleeve that was the fashion. He’d stolen it like some thief in the night, like some besotted fool.
“Henriette,” he whispered, and he repeated her name yet again into the silence around him. He didn’t wish to hurt his brother, and yet his brother’s happiness cut into him like a sword. Would he? Would she? It seemed she felt as he did. Love and war are the same thing, and stratagems and policy are as allowable in the one as in the other, so said his mother’s beloved Spanish writer, Cervantes. Had Cervantes desired his brother’s wife? He prayed for the strength to resist temptation.
Prayer finished, calm restored, at least until he should see Henriette again, he stood to leave and as he walked back toward the small door that had let him in, he caught sight of a white square, obviously slipped under the great front doors of the chapel, which opened from a hall.
For a moment, his heart thudded. Had Henriette dared to write him? Did she accept or berate him for his almost kiss of last night? He felt like a boy, ready to leap to joy or plunge to despair. He picked up the letter, its paper heavy, grained, expensive, and tore past a plain seal of red wax.
Do you know the difference
between His Eminence
and the late Cardinal Richelieu?
The answer is not moot .
The one led his animal .
The other mounts his brute .
Shock held him still. It was a Mazarinade, one of the hundreds of verses and street songs and written words full of scandal and hate that had filled pamphlets and letters, had been shouted from street corners in his boyhood, full of malevolence for the man who had been resented and feared and warred against and yet lived to be one of the saviors of France: Mazarin. Its subject was despicable and lurid, implying his mother was whore to a man who had deeply loved her. It was a dishonor to her and a dishonor to him, but worse, it was an all-too-vivid reminder of the uncertain past behind him and the uncertain future ahead. Peace was fragile. This little jibe reminded him too sharply of that. Beware, it said. Enough wrong moves, and the court would turn on him. They’d done it before. They could do it again.
He
A small, private door led directly into the chapel from here. Motioning to the lieutenant of his bodyguard to leave him, he stepped into the soothing dim of this quiet and sacred space, crossed himself and knelt, his eyes not seeing the stained-glass windows in a half-circle before him nor the gold-and-green gilded dome overhead. Why had he acted rudely to the viscount? Not only was it childish and impolite, but it showed his growing mistrust. Never let another know what you think. Was it possible that he could trust the man, if not completely, then more than he dared at the moment? Yes, said his mother. No, said something in him. So luscious Olympe was the spy in his wife’s household. Of course she would be. Was she the only one? The viscount’s knowledge of his conversation with the queen this morning disturbed. What else did he know? Did he know that Louis had begun to meet someone in secret every night in an attempt to understand finances? Did he know Louis would never, under any circumstances, give Philippe a place on the council? Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s wife, nor thy brother’s either. But he did, the Blessed Savior help him. He stopped that thought. It led to places wild and uncontrolled, to desires he shouldn’t have.
He prayed for strength, but like a jeer to his prayer, the face of his brother’s wife came into his mind, along with a verse from a poet: As a rose, she lived as roses do. She’d worn rose-colored ribbons last night. He touched the one that was tied around his own wrist, hidden by lush lace at the end of his shirtsleeve that was the fashion. He’d stolen it like some thief in the night, like some besotted fool.
“Henriette,” he whispered, and he repeated her name yet again into the silence around him. He didn’t wish to hurt his brother, and yet his brother’s happiness cut into him like a sword. Would he? Would she? It seemed she felt as he did. Love and war are the same thing, and stratagems and policy are as allowable in the one as in the other, so said his mother’s beloved Spanish writer, Cervantes. Had Cervantes desired his brother’s wife? He prayed for the strength to resist temptation.
Prayer finished, calm restored, at least until he should see Henriette again, he stood to leave and as he walked back toward the small door that had let him in, he caught sight of a white square, obviously slipped under the great front doors of the chapel, which opened from a hall.
For a moment, his heart thudded. Had Henriette dared to write him? Did she accept or berate him for his almost kiss of last night? He felt like a boy, ready to leap to joy or plunge to despair. He picked up the letter, its paper heavy, grained, expensive, and tore past a plain seal of red wax.
Do you know the difference
between His Eminence
and the late Cardinal Richelieu?
The answer is not moot .
The one led his animal .
The other mounts his brute .
Shock held him still. It was a Mazarinade, one of the hundreds of verses and street songs and written words full of scandal and hate that had filled pamphlets and letters, had been shouted from street corners in his boyhood, full of malevolence for the man who had been resented and feared and warred against and yet lived to be one of the saviors of France: Mazarin. Its subject was despicable and lurid, implying his mother was whore to a man who had deeply loved her. It was a dishonor to her and a dishonor to him, but worse, it was an all-too-vivid reminder of the uncertain past behind him and the uncertain future ahead. Peace was fragile. This little jibe reminded him too sharply of that. Beware, it said. Enough wrong moves, and the court would turn on him. They’d done it before. They could do it again.
He
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