Gates of Gold

Doctor Revel, My Father

The next day after Mass, Françoise helps loosen the stays on Madame’s gown, embroidered all over in ferns and flowers worked with lace and pearls. Then she asks if Madame needs anything else for now. Madame tells her she may go, since she has several letters to finish today. Françoise leaves, and Cécile stretches out on her small bed.

The dogs pile atop the quilt around Cécile, all except Stabdille. He plants his square nose against her chin and watches her, as if he, too, can tell sleep won’t come easily. She wishes it would carry her off anyway, but thoughts of Papa crowd out any rest. She remembers the last thing he ever called her, her “father’s pride.” She remembers shouting back that he was nothing more than a peasant and worthless, as if money and position mattered more than the man he was. He had always been the kindest and most generous person she knew. She thinks she doesn’t deserve to have been his daughter.

Madame interrupts the quiet to remark that she believes Stabdille would like to visit young Bretagne today. Cécile protests, wishing she could complain of arthritis the way Madame often does, or claim her knees are too bad to leave her narrow bed for days. She holds her tongue instead, though, hoping Madame will simply believe she’s unwell. Stabdille, betraying her completely, rears onto his hind legs and barks. Madame laughs and declares that Stabdille has said “oui” to her idea, exactly her own thoughts.

Cécile tries once more, suggesting he has too much energy today and would only cause trouble. But Madame insists he and Bretagne will make a fine match. She brushes off Cécile’s worry that he might disturb the princess, or worse, Madame de Maintenon.

Madame says that by now, “the old trollop” likely knows more about poor Papa’s death than Cécile does herself, since nothing at court ever slips past her. Madame writes a short note, seals it, and holds it out between her fingers. She tells Cécile to give it to the nearest page, to alert Marie-Adélaïde that she’ll be on her way. The dogs will have their afternoon stroll first.

Cécile isn’t going to change Madame’s mind, nor win her sympathy. But on heavy legs she rises anyway and straightens her dress. Before she can stop herself, her voice wavering, she says, “Madame, please tell me the truth about my father. I cannot bear to be tortured with questions yet again and feel that Madame de Maintenon knows more than I do about my papa.”

Madame looks at her and sets the sealed envelope down beside Stabdille. He circles once after his own tail before settling with a sigh into a ball next to her inkwell. Leaning on her elbows, Madame gazes out the window for a long moment. Outside, the snow in the flower bed has melted away, revealing plants left gray and withered by the first frost. She finally asks, touching her fingertips together, whether Cécile truly wants the truth. Cécile hesitates, torn between wanting to know everything and wanting to keep her memories exactly as they are. But she has lived with the mystery of Papa for far too long. She nods, suddenly timid at Madame’s serious tone.

Madame beckons her closer, and Cécile steps beside the table. As Cécile has likely guessed, Papa was the very doctor who was sent away, and yes, they recognized each other in the forest that day.

Then Madame tells her everything. They were at Marly, and Madame herself was in the grip of a four-hour fever when Monsieur fell suddenly and gravely ill. He was her husband, the king’s own brother, a frail man despite his wild and reckless living. Twice he insisted she was the one who was sick and sent her back to her room, even as he grew worse by the hour. It was Madame de Ventadour, now Bretagne’s governess, who came to Madame’s room white as a sheet to say Monsieur was unwell. Madame ran to him and found him conscious but barely able to speak. Still, he insisted she was the sick one and told her to go back to her room.

Soon the doctors were bustling about, Dr. Fagon giving orders, with Papa serving as second physician. Papa had told Madame before that he didn’t believe bloodletting helped at all. But such accepted methods weren’t easily or quickly changed, so he had held his tongue. At Monsieur’s bedside, with their war chest of knives, the doctors bled him twice. Then they gave him eleven ounces of emetic and three whole bottles of gouttes d’Angleterre, all to no avail.

By six in the morning he had only worsened. When Dr. Fagon called for a third round of bloodletting, Papa could no longer control his rage. “Stop! Enough!” he shouted. “With each ounce of blood you remove, Monsieur’s life slips away. Can you not see that you’re killing him?” Fagon wouldn’t listen and ordered him to be silent, moving to bleed Monsieur’s other arm. But Papa seized his knife and flung it across the room, the tools crashing to the floor. He declared he would not allow them to kill off the royal family.

Still ill herself, Madame nearly swooned and was dragged forcibly from the room. She tells Cécile that this was the last time she ever saw Papa. She suspected the worst, and only later learned of his banishment. Madame explains that when anyone is sent to the Bastille, he is usually whisked away in darkness and secrecy.

A chill runs through Cécile as she pictures soldiers entering Papa’s apartment in the dead of night. She imagines them gagging him and forcing him from the palace. Monsieur died that same day at noon, leaving Madame penniless and entirely dependent on the king’s favor. It happened just over ten years past, in 1701, a year Madame says she’ll never forget.

Cécile does the arithmetic in her head, and her heart nearly stops. She is twelve now, so if Papa was banished only ten years ago, she would have been just two. That’s far too young to have been born in Rileaux, as her parents always told her. She must have been born right there at court. She asks Madame why her parents never told her the truth. Madame answers gently that perhaps it was to spare her from expecting more than life was likely to offer, to spare her the disappointment.

Cécile starts to protest that they lied to her, but Madame cuts her off gently. Madame says that, more importantly, her parents were good people. Unlike many here at court, they didn’t live only for the next pleasure and entertainment. She’s sure they loved Cécile as much as any parent could, and gave her all that she really needed.

Through her tears, Cécile asks about Maman. Madame recalls meeting her only once, briefly: fair-haired, from Normandy, her noble family fallen into financial disgrace, for whom a match with a doctor, however beneath her station, had still been a workable marriage. It’s all Madame knows.

Cécile begins to cry in earnest and muffles her sobs in her sleeve, apologizing that she can’t seem to stop. Madame picks up the torn envelope addressed to Marie-Adélaïde and rips it in half. She explains that the king believes no one should cry and grieve in public. She adds that he likes to see a merry court. She says she knows how it feels to lose those she cares about.

Madame admits she was wrong to think going out might cheer Cécile up. She tells Cécile to stay and sleep if she wishes. Then she pats the top of Stabdille’s head and adds that the two of them will visit Bretagne another day.