Chapter 2. A Star Called Home
July-September, 1661…
Kingdom of France…
Château of Saint-Germain-en-Laye…
Musical Accompaniment: Pavane des Saisons
Las Meninas, by Diego Velázquez: 1656.
“Ah! Molina! It hurts!” Marie-Thérèse, the newly minted Queen Dowager of France let out a painful cry as she lay within her bed at the Château of Saint-Germain. Courtiers crowded about the room as Marie-Thérèse endured her travail. Those with the rights of entry were always present at the birth of an heir, but this was no such event—rather than a happy occasion, it was a macabre spectacle. The queen dowager had lost her husband only a few days past, and now she struggled through labor—months before she was due—this meant only one thing: that the crown of France would pass not to Louis XIV’s infant son, but instead to his brother, the Duc d’Orléans. The queen’s sheets were soaked with crimson and sweat from her ordeal, Monsieur Vallot shaking his head sadly as Anne d’Autriche looked to him for answers. It was too soon—and all knew it. The child would be born dead. The goal was to ensure that the child was delivered, and the young queen dowager did not perish. Philippe was present for this awful spectacle, alongside his wife, Henriette, and his dearest companions—the Chevalier de Lorraine and François, the Chevalier de l’Étrange. While others fought to be as close to the queen’s bed as possible, Philippe and his coterie hovered in a corner—the Duc d’Orléans eyes fixated upon his mother, Anne d’Autriche—who fretted with each painful contraction that the young queen dowager was forced to endure.
“Perfectly
ghastly experience,” the Chevalier de Lorraine murmured, interrupting the silence. “They fall all over themselves to watch the Spanish cow give birth, knowing
exactly what shall happen.” His focus was trained now upon Philippe, who could not help but swallow roughly. “She is having a miscarriage, my darling—and when it is done, you shall truly be king in name as well as deed.”
“Do you have
any tact?” François immediately butted into the conversation—shooting a glance at the Chevalier de Lorraine as he whispered harshly under his breath. “Christ almighty, she is in agony. Spare
your ambitions for once and have some dignity.” François tolerated the chevalier for the sake of the Duc d’Orléans, but he did not count him among one of his own friends: and this was why. François could sense the Chevalier de Lorraine’s nostrils flaring at his attack on his character, but the
mignon quieted himself as Philippe placed his hand upon the chevalier’s shoulder. François could not help sharing a glance with the Duchesse d’Orléans, a shared commiseration of their future should Marie-Thérèse truly deliver a dead child. Philippe, when he became king, would become even more dependent upon his favorite and the balms he provided—and less on the balms that his wife or even his oldest childhood friend might provide. The cloud which hung over this little group—in expectation of their changes in destiny was pierced by the shouts of Monsieur Vallot, as he announced to all the assembled courtiers.
“The child is coming!”
It surprised no one when the child came forth without a single breath—a fetus of some five months covered in blood and mucus with male genitalia—the final specter of Louis XIV, and the end of his line. The creature’s skin was white, and Monsieur Vallot arranged for the pitiful thing to be placed into a warming pan and covered with a linen sheet. The young queen dowager now gave herself over despair, wailing and sobbing—looking for comfort that only her Spanish chambermaid could provide. Despite her screams, no one cared: with the birth of the dead child, the eyes of the court had abandoned her and now fixated where they had remained for these last days: upon the Duc d’Orléans. As all the courtiers within the room glanced at Philippe, Anne d’Autriche took command of the situation—striding to the front of the growing wave of courtiers as they turned towards the boy—no, the man—who would be their next sovereign. Anne reached the corner where her son had been standing and offered up a low bow—her gowns swept about her feet as she was the first to give obeisance to France’s new sovereign. Within the
chambre of the young queen dowager, the sea of courtiers parted—flooding forward as slippered feet sought to reach the front of the crowd—a dirge of sound spilling from their lungs which covered even the despair of Marie-Thérèse.
“Vive le Roi! Vive Philippe VII!”
**
Henriette of England, c. 1660-61.
Henriette sat at her vanity in quiet contemplation. Behind her stood one of her
filles de honneur, brushing her hair carefully. With dark blonde hair and green eyes, the young girl was nearly eighteen and pretty with Italianate features—a Romanesque nose, plump lips, and almond-shaped eyes. The young girl was one of Henriette’s favored young ladies—named Marie Galilée, a scion of the Florentine noble family that had settled in France during the time of François I—and a distant relation to the famed (or infamous) astronomer Galileo. Like other young ladies within Henriette’s household, Marie was a
précieuse and often attended the salons of Madame de Rambouillet, where she had adopted the name
Polyxène, by which she was more commonly known. Polyxène was known within Henriette’s household for her interest in divination and astrology, and some whispered that she often visited fortune tellers.
“Oh, Polyxène… how so much has changed!” Polyxène offered a bright smile as she heard Henriette finally speak, her mistress entirely focused upon her visage in the Venetian glass. She could hardly imagine what she might be going through the mind of the Duchesse—no, what was going through the mind of the
queen. So much had changed in mere days, even as they remained ensconced within the apartments that Henriette had occupied as
Madame. No longer was her mistress the second fiddle of the French court—she was to be the chief lady, and all eyes would be upon her—just as they were upon the new king.
“
Votre Majesté… you do not need to fret.” Polyxène answered, setting her brush aside. What the queen needed was levity: and that was something that Polyxène knew she could provide. “All shall be well, I promise. Focus not on the bad things, madame—you must focus on the good things! Such as what you might wear to your coronation… or even what you might wear tonight! You are the
queen now—and all shall look at you as they never have before. You must be beautiful, elegant, and have wit and
esprit as no other queen before you have ever possessed.”
“Dearest Polyxène—I do not believe I shall
ever tire of the honey which you can pour from your tongue,” Henriette answered with a bright and beautiful smile. Polyxène could not help but envy her mistress, noticing that the worrying lines that had moments before plagued her face had already faded. The queen was one of the prettiest creatures in the whole court—and her beauty would only be augmented further by her new position.
“Madame, you wound me!” Polyxène answered with mock shock—placing her hand over her heart. “All I say is the truth; you are my mistress, and my interests remain yours—and always shall. It is your destiny to be queen; that is the role you are to play in life, and I am glad I shall be here to see you do so.” Perhaps she was also thinking of the glories that might await herself—a
fille de honneur to the Queen of France would have more opportunities available to her than as a mere fille to
Madame. “I have never sought to inflame your vanity, madame—and I promise I shall not start now.”
At this, Henriette urged Polyxène to come closer. The young beauty agreed and sat upon her knees beside the queen’s vanity—with the queen clasping her hand tightly. “You must swear to me, Polyxène, that you shall
always be truthful. Princes are often deceived by those closest to them who seek to save their egos by protecting them from the harshest truths… you know well that this is a weakness of the king—those that he loves, he loves most fiercely, and will never hear a word of criticism about them or from them. I cannot have it be my weakness as well. I wish for you to always be honest with me.
Promise me, Polyxène.”
Polyxène nodded her head solemnly. She knew that being the queen's confidante might be a great honor. “
Majesté—I swear on all that is dear to me and all that is holy.”
**
Marie-Thérèse d'Autriche, c. 1660.
Baltasar de Valenzuela was a cavalry officer attached to the queen's—the former queen’s—guard. Twenty-four and ruggedly handsome, he had black hair and brown eyes—and was known as the most handsome Spaniard at court. He had served for some time in the Spanish royal army and was even wounded in service at the Battle of the Dunes in 1658—struck by a well-timed French saber that had sliced into his right cheek and had cost him his sight in his right eye—a fact now obscured by an eye-patch that he always wore; this only added to the mystery of the Spaniard and made him a debonair that few French fops could hope to match. Baltasar had come to France as part of the household as Marie-Thérèse d’Autriche—and one of the few Spaniards spared when Louis XIV had sent the remainder away—mainly through the intervention of the Spanish Ambassador to France, the Conde de Molina. He took his duties seriously and with great sensibility—though perhaps he now wondered what might come of him. Forty days had passed since the young queen dowager was widowed, and he approached her
chambre with great trepidation—a letter firmly in hand as he knocked at the door. Despite her losses, Marie-Thérèse still occupied the suite she possessed before her widowhood.
‘I do not think it a kindness from Queen Henriette,’ Baltasar could not help but think to himself.
‘She merely waits for a more opportune time. Should the court move from here, and it shall soon… then no doubt that the new queen shall claim her due and resign this poor queen to some cramped corner…’ Baltasar’s thoughts faded as the chambre door opened—greeted by Doña Molina, the young queen dowager’s confidante, and protector.
“Doña Molina. How fares the queen… the former queen?”
Maria Molina, better known as Doña Molina, was the
premiere femme du chambre to Marie-Thérèse d’Autriche. A squat and overweight woman, she had a great deal of informal influence over her young charge—often sleeping in her bedchamber and soothing her when she suffered nightmares and piques of anxiety. Baltasar did not care for this older woman—he felt that she held too much sway over the young queen and that her influence would only grow now that she had lost her husband and her child.
“
La Reina,” Molina began, her voice soft as she slipped out of the chamber to join Baltasar in the hall. She closed the door behind her, ensuring she had sealed it shut before she dared to say more. “… she is miserable, señor. She can barely leave her bed—all she wishes to do is sleep… and when the queen does not sleep, she weeps. In just a few short weeks, she has lost everything—and she does not know what may happen next. She is a ship adrift… with no one to captain her.”
‘And I presume you shall be the captain in these dire circumstances, Doña Molina…’ Baltasar thought—biting his tongue. He was silent and steady for only a moment—holding out the letter in his hands towards Molina: enough for her to see it, but not for her to snatch it away from him. “I bring this missive direct from the Conde de Molina—from
Su Majestad, the King of Spain himself. It is most urgent that I see her.”
“Señor, she is weak, and she is tired. I do not believe she can handle such a note at this time. If you will pass it unto me, I shall ensure that she receives it—”
Baltsar’s voice was stern as he repeated himself. “It is for her eyes only. I am not
asking, Doña Molina. I am
telling you. I must see her. It is most urgent.”
Baltsar noticed that Doña Molina’s beady little eyes were narrowing—a little bug irate that her influence was under attack. “Señor—why would the
ambassador entrust you with such a matter?”
“Because I can be
trusted, señora. Now, shall you allow me to see the queen? If not, it is no matter; I shall merely return to the Conde de Molina and let him know how his own envoy was treated… I am sure he shall have
many words for the king about how knavish the queen’s own servant acted when all that the ambassador asked was that I deliver this missive written by the very own hand of the king…”
Baltasar did not often threaten a woman—it was not a chivalrous action. But on a woman, such as Doña Molina, it had the desired effect. He could note how she glowered as she finally opened the door into the queen’s
chambre to allow him access. Even as Baltasar stepped over the threshold, he could already see why the queen was in such despair. Black crepe hung over the windows, shrouding the chamber in darkness. The only sources of light were assorted candles lit throughout the chamber. Baltasar found the young queen seated in an armchair, where she had been dining
le petit couvert, one of her fat little hands placed upon the head of one of her dwarfs—while the other fiddled with the bevy of chocolate snacks and sweets that sat before her on a silver tray. The queen was swathed in black—a pretty cap of black lace sat upon her head with a veil of translucent black silk. Her outfit was sparse: a gown of black silk, with the only color being the white silk which was draped over her décolletage and about the ends of her sleeves. She wore no jewelry save a pearl necklace—and was clearly in another world, as she did not seem to notice that Baltasar had arrived.
“Oh, Molina—I am not in a fit state for any visitors. Please—send them away!” Marie-Thérèse d’Autriche began, her grubby little hands immediately reaching for the nearest chocolate treat that adorned her platter.
“
Majestad, I apologize for the intrusion,” Baltasar answered in Spanish, knowing well that the queen’s French was atrocious—his gaze meeting the queen as he bent to his knee, proffering a bow as he offered his allegiance. “I would not have come if it was not urgent… the Conde de Molina has received a letter for you from the King of Spain.”
“Don Valenzuela,” Marie-Thérèse spoke softly—her face visibly softening as she took notice of Baltasar. She immediately offered her hand to him, with Baltasar offering a brief kiss to her hand. She bade that Baltasar rise, and he did so. “I apologize… I am happy to see you. If you bring news from my father, then that is news that I will be most glad to receive.”
‘She is a sad little thing; she has had no true visitors since the king’s demise…’ Baltasar thought.
‘… with each passing day, she shrinks further into the shadows. She will be nothing if this goes on.’ As Baltasar offered up the letter which he held in his free hand, he finally spoke: “By the hand of the king.”
“You may read it to me, Don Valenzuela. The Conde de Molina trusts you implicitly—and so do I.” Baltasar nodded as the queen spoke—reaching into the dagger that he kept about his waist to break the wax seal before opening the parchment. Baltasar scanned the precise script of the King of Spain’s elegant handwriting as he took in everything the king had written to his daughter.
“The king writes to you with his greatest sympathies—both in the loss of the king and the prince. He states that a day does not pass without him thinking of you and your miseries—and that he, the queen, and Infanta Margarita keep you in their prayers. He asks that you do the same and remember that you shall always be a Spanish Infanta; and that the love of Christ and the Blessed Virgin shall guide you through all your travails, in the present and in the future…” Baltasar trailed off slightly as he continued to scan the text. “… parts of this, señora, are meant for your eyes only.”
The young queen shook her head. “You are trusted here, Don Valenzuela. Continue.”
There was silence for a moment before Baltasar finally spoke. “… very well, señora, if that is what you desire.” His tone hushed as he dared to continue, conspiratorial—as if he was confiding to the queen some grave secret. “… His Majesty writes further that given the end of your mourning period, his greatest desire and wish, which would give him the most fervent pleasure would be if you would consent to a certain idea of his… he writes that while the sun has perhaps set here in France for you, he wishes you to remember that you are still young—and that this does not need to be the end of your destiny should you wish it.”
The queen was listening but clearly did not pick up on every single detail. “I’m afraid I do not understand my father’s intentions, Don Valenzuela.”
“Señora: allow me to speak plainly. His Majesty wishes for you to return home—to Spain.” As Baltasar delivered that last note, he could notice the shock and awe upon the young queen’s face. Offering her another bow, he placed the letter beside her platter of treats so she could read it for herself. Marie-Thérèse immediately grabbed for the letter, her languid eyes scanning the text. Baltasar could already see her lips moving—twisted between a frown and a smile, as if she wasn't sure which emotion she could truly feel. Her cheeks looked rosier, and Baltasar hoped the letter had been a balm rather than a wound. Her focus was now entirely upon her father’s writing—her free hand offering a flippant wave as she dismissed him: his own thoughts a blur as he left her apartments.
‘
Let it be true—Christ and Our Lady, I pray to you. Turn the queen’s mind towards Spain—towards home, so that I may go home too. This court is a cesspit, and the longer I remain, the longer I shall be troubled.’
As Baltasar passed through the great halls of Saint-Germain, he caught sight of the thing that plagued his troubles: the Chevalier de l’Étrange, in animated conversation with one of the new queen’s ladies. For a passing second, he made eye contact with that foppish Frenchman—a dandy and toady of the new king.
‘Let me go home, for these thoughts are unnatural—and have never plagued me until I came into this godforsaken country.’
