Enchantress of Paris by Marci Jefferson Page B

“Will you join us for a game tomorrow?”
    â€œAs you wish.”
    The queen mother called to him, “I almost forgot! I received a letter from your uncle Gaston, duc d’Orléans. He asks permission to pay us his respects.”
    Gaston. One of the leaders of the Fronde! Mazarin’s mysterious note came to mind. That man must first pay me homage. I held my breath.
    King Louis considered it. “He hasn’t been to court since he surrendered. How many years?”
    The queen focused on her game. “They say he now lives a life of piety.”
    â€œSend the note to my chamber and I’ll answer it,” he said as he walked out.
    Oh no. What should I do?
    *   *   *
    As expected, the cardinal came to my room that night. He opened my bed curtains. “Gaston thinks he can sidestep me. You cannot allow it.”
    There was no use feigning sleep. “He wants to pay respects to the king and queen.”
    â€œIf Gaston doesn’t show reverence to me, Condé will never fear me. Condé is massing his troops for the summer. He will strike again in the north. France is weary of war. Help me make it stop.”
    I clutched the coverlets. It was more than that. Mazarin needed to prove to every last footman in Paris that he was in control. “I will do what I can.”
    *   *   *
    The next evening, my carriage arrived at the Pavillon du Roi at the Louvre. Musketeers stood aside. I’d asked Philippe to escort me, but Mazarin said I had to work alone. So my page walked before me while Moréna carried my ivory satin train. I went straight to the king’s quarters, my gold silk shoulder drapery fluttering as I passed marble pedestals and sculptures. The footmen announced me and opened both doors to the king’s apartments.
    Tapestries, paintings, or murals covered every inch of space. Dozens of the finest candles lit a green-covered table and smelled faintly of honeybee wax. The far windows looked across the Seine to the Île de la Cité, with its fetid alleys and crooked streets.
    The king himself stood to greet me. “Marie.” He kissed my cheeks. Like a cousin. Or perhaps more.
    I looked around. “Who is brave enough to teach me billiards?”
    Monsieur called, “Not me. I’m wretched.”
    â€œKing Louis is the best,” said the Prince de Conti. Though he was Condé’s brother, he’d submitted to my uncle after the Fronde. His marriage to my Martinozzi cousin was a triumph for Mazarin. Conti could be an asset. He leaned over the table and used the wide end of his mace to strike the balls, making a fantastic racket.
    King Louis grabbed a mace. “We play King and Hoop. We each have three balls.” He positioned me at one end of the green-upholstered table and pointed to six side pockets. “Keep them from falling in the hazards.” Then he indicated a hoop rising from the tabletop. “Whoever moves all their balls through the hoop first wins.” He put my hands on the mace and positioned my arms. “Try.”
    I pulled the stick back, aimed, then struck the ball. It whacked the others, missing the hoop and the hazards.
    â€œTrès bon!” said King Louis, and he stalked to the other side. “Knock your opponents into the hazards if you can.”
    â€œSo, the mace is the king of the billiards table,” I said.
    Conti nodded. “It commands the subjects.”
    Monsieur laughed. “The subjects don’t always move through the hoop like they’re supposed to.”
    â€œMaybe not for you,” said King Louis. With that he struck, and a ball rolled through the hoop. “The king must be skilled.”
    Monsieur elbowed me. “My brother doesn’t have to be skilled while your uncle is around!”
    The king struck and missed. “My subjects will follow commands when I issue them.”
    I lined up. “Who was it your mother said wishes to