Louis's Memories

Louis XIV had once been an ordinary person, but like any ordinary person, he possessed an immeasurable craving for power and wealth. He did not believe he would be a villain, nor did he believe himself a saint. When he was born at Château de Saint-Germain-en-Laye on the outskirts of Paris, he had not immediately recognized his identity from those unfamiliar languages and blurred figures. For a time, he had even thought he was a girl, because his swaddling clothes were made of lace, complete with a frilled cap.

When he finally understood that he was not a girl but a boy, his father carried him before the ministers. In French, Louis was pronounced clearly, and it was also the first word he understood. Though the French word for prince was the same as in English, people usually called him "Your Highness." The French sound beginning with "v" was something he could not make sense of no matter what, until at last a cardinal—Richelieu, as people knew him—came before them and bowed to the king. The familiar little skullcap made Louis's eyes fly wide open.

Though he had never been particularly interested in real history before, he at least knew that scarlet was the mark of a cardinal, and a cardinal would bow so humbly to only two people: one was His Holiness the Pope in Rome, and the other... could only be a king.

He remembered how he had strained to lift his head, wanting to see that gaunt, pale-faced man. Louis had never imagined that his father was so illustrious—Louis XIII was not a man fond of luxury in private. Perhaps for that very reason, he did not get along with his mother, Mary Medici of Florence, Italy. In his leisure hours, he always wore a plain black outer coat, white breeches, and a broad-collared shirt, looking little different from the nobles who came and went through the château.

Moreover, he was quite kind and approachable. Toward women—Louis meant the two wet nurses who cared for him, Sevia and the Marquise de Lansac—he was exceedingly gentle. Toward Louis's mother, though not close, he was still courteous and polite.

Unfortunately, Louis XIII spent an exceedingly short time with little Louis. Louis XIII and his wife, Anne of Austria, had been wed for twenty-three years without children. Five years after Louis was born, he died after falling into the water while riding—Louis still remembered being brought into a dim room steeped in a strange fragrance. His father lay in bed, a slate-blue dressing gown draped over his loose linen shirt. Mazarin, whom he had seen before, and several ministers stood around the bedside. Mazarin was even weeping softly. His wet nurse carried him closer to the king. The king's cold lips touched his forehead and cheek, and then he was taken away.

Perhaps only a short while later, Mazarin came out of the room, stroked his head, and said, "Cry, child. The king is dead."

Later, he heard—from his maids—that Louis XIII's death might not have been so simple. Some said that the Queen Mother at the time, Mary Medici, had cursed her son before her death by methods unique to Italian witches, because Louis XIII had not only failed to take her side in her political struggle against Richelieu, but had also driven her from Paris, stripped her of her property and pension, and left her to spend her days in desolation in Angers before dying miserably. Others said that the king had indeed been cursed, but the curse had not come from his mother—it had come from his wife. Queen Anne of Louis XIII was born a Habsburg, and the Habsburgs of Austria were France's eternal enemies. They told it so vividly that they could even describe in minute detail how Louis XIII had been dragged from his horse by an enormous swamp monster, as if they had been standing there watching.

Others firmly believed that the king's death might have been connected to his younger brother, Gaston, Duke of Orléans. Before Louis XIII had sons, he had been second in line to the throne, and people called him the Great Monsieur. But after Louis XIII had Louis, followed soon after by Philip, Gaston, who still had only a daughter, lost his right to contend for the throne—how could he not resent it? And Louis XIII had always been deeply wary of him.

In 1632, he defied the king's will and entered into a secret marriage contract with Mary of Lorraine, sister of the Duke of Lorraine. Louis XIII sent troops in response, and the duke fled to Flanders. There, he suddenly developed an immense interest in the works of the Bosch School. Even while in exile, he collected quite a few paintings by Pieter Bruegel the Elder. Those who had seen those paintings all said that anyone capable of painting such things was either the devil or possessed by the devil—there were hollow heads, flying eyeballs, burning castles, long-legged fish, and "things" half monster and half human...

In 1642, Henri, Marquis de Cinq-Mars, assassinated Richelieu at his instigation. He was accused, but in the end escaped unscathed. And because his two previous rebellions had both been forgiven by the king and Richelieu, people began to say that the Duke of Orléans had already made a pact with the devil, and that those works of the Bosch School were his contracts with the devil. With the devil's aid, he had bewitched the king and the cardinal.

Thus, people naturally blamed the king's death on the Duke of Orléans's jealousy. Louis XIII was also a skilled rider, and his horse was excellent. It was simply impossible for him to fall on such a low mound of earth.

Before Louis had danced face-to-face with a werewolf, he had believed all this to be people's wild imaginings or the Church's threats. Even though he had begun attending Mass and fasting with Queen Mother Anne, and had seen countless priests and ascetics, he had truly never considered that these things might all be real.

The devil was real. Werewolves were real. Witches were real. And there were also... all manner of inhuman creatures he had yet to see.

Louis thought he had something to say.

Throughout the night, he tossed and turned without rest. It was only at dawn, when he heard Cardinal Mazarin quietly push open the door and leave, that he barely began to feel drowsy. Who would have thought that only a little while later, another small body would squeeze in beside him—Louis moved the hand gripping a dagger beneath his pillow aside and asked without betraying anything, "Philip, why are you here? Where is your wet nurse?"

"Henrietta came," Philip said. "I hate her."

"She is your cousin," Louis said. "You must be polite to her."

"She's a pig."

"Even if she were merely a lady, you should not be so rude," Louis said with a yawn, then felt his nightshirt being tugged.

"Look at my hat," Philip said.

Louis painfully opened his eyes. "It's lovely. What about it?"

Philip stared at Louis in the darkness. He was only two years younger than Louis, eight this year. He was, of course, a boy, but the Queen Mother and the maids always liked to dress him in a blaze of flowers and finery, making him impossible to ignore. The brimless hat he wore proclaimed its undeniable presence even in the dim room, with silver satin and dark gold embroidery. Beneath layers upon layers of lace, his hair had been carefully curled with tongs and fell over his shoulders. With his rosy cheeks and blue, doll-round eyes, it was difficult for anyone to think that he was Louis's younger brother rather than his younger sister.

When Louis was little, he too had always worn long gowns trailing to the floor, frilled caps, and little satin shoes. But once he had become capable of expressing his wishes, his mother and Richelieu held a simple Breeching Ceremony for him. Before the princes and ministers, he changed out of his skirts, put on breeches, and appeared before everyone looking entirely renewed.

He had not yet turned six then. Generally speaking, French noble boys held this ceremony between the ages of six and eight. Yet neither Mazarin nor the Queen Mother had shown any intention of holding a Breeching Ceremony for Philip—boys of this era were not considered adults. Only adult men had the right to wear trousers, so boys wore long gowns just like girls. Once the ceremony was held, it meant that he had become a man—in other words, from the day Philip put on long trousers, he would be qualified to contend with him for the throne.

"Mother always says I am her sweetest little girl, Brother," Philip said. "What about you? Do you think I am? Am I a sweet little girl too?"

All drowsiness vanished from Louis. He held his brother's hand as an emotion he could scarcely identify surged through him, making the words that followed unbearably difficult to say. "Philip, remember what I say."

"What?"

"You are certainly the sweetest, but the sweetest person can also be the bravest person."

"The sweetest, and the bravest too?"

"Yes, my brother. The two do not conflict. You will be the sweetest, and you will also be the bravest." Louis paused. The room sank into a chilling silence. He leaned closer to his brother—his brother, not his sister. An eight-year-old boy should already have formed a proper awareness of his sex. His grip on Philip's hand tightened further. Perhaps Cardinal Mazarin and the Queen Mother only wished to prevent brothers from turning against each other, and thus causing even greater turmoil, but he could not watch Philip—nor even an ordinary boy—be deliberately led down a rugged, painful road. He did not know much about this period of history. Perhaps even knowing would have been useless; after all, the things he had read had contained no witches or werewolves. But he had at least heard something about Philip's tragedy, the future Duke of Orléans's tragedy. If Philip had already been an adult, with mature thoughts and the ability to make his own choices, Louis would not interfere. But Philip was only eight years old now.

Perhaps Philip's greatest mistake was simply being his younger brother, the king's brother. But he should not be made to bear that guilt.

"I will ask the cardinal and Mother to hold a Breeching Ceremony for you," Louis said. "Perhaps not so soon, but you must believe me. You are my brother. You must undergo this ceremony eventually."

Philip looked at him in the darkness. A child's eyes were always bright; even in the faintest light, they were like a pair of twinkling stars.

"I believe you," Philip whispered. "I believe you, Brother."