Виктория Холт - The Queen's Secret

Then I heard her telling me that he had come to paint my portrait, and I was uneasy.

He was Flemish, said the Mother Superior, and a great artist.

He said in his atrocious French: “I come from Her Highness the Queen herself. She bids me paint a picture of Your Highness. Ah, but you are beautiful. That is good…It is always good to have the beautiful subject. I will make a fine portrait of you, my lady.”

“The picture is to be painted at once,” said the Mother Superior. “Those are the Queen’s orders.” She turned to the painter. “Where should the sitting take place? What about this room?”

He looked around and nodded his head. “It is good,” he said.

“Who is it wants this picture?” I asked.

“But it is the Queen, your mother, my lady.”

“But…for whom…does she want it?”

He raised his eyes to the ceiling and lifted his shoulders.

The Mother Superior said: “I will have a room made ready for you. How long do you think it will take you to paint this picture?”

Again that lifting of the shoulders and the upward glance. Then he said: “That I will tell you…soon. Once I have made my start. The Princess is very like her sister, I am told.”

“You mean the late Duchess of Orléans?”

“And Queen of England, eh?”

“There is a resemblance,” said the Mother Superior.

He nodded, smiling.

My alarm increased as the sittings progressed. There was something decidedly ominous in this need for a picture. Why had my mother, after years of neglect, suddenly remembered me and wanted a picture of me? There was one answer. It was for a suitor. That was why royal princesses had their portraits painted.

I remembered Isabelle’s telling me that she had been painted and the portrait was sent to England; as soon as Richard had seen it he had fallen in love with it.

And now it was my turn, because I was a child no longer.

There was spasmodic conversation during the sittings which took place each day—one hour in the morning and one in the afternoon.

“It is not good to sit too long,” the artist told me. “Sitters become tired…and that is not what we want to show in the painting, you understand?”

“Should you not paint people as they are…tired or not?”

He looked at me reprovingly. “No…no. I want to paint one beautiful picture. A lady at her best. That is what we want.”

“But if there are defects …?”

“It is my task to find the perfections, eh? You understand? Let us say she has beautiful eyes, so we make the observer see those eyes. She has a nose that is a little…how shall we say?…not little. Sometimes we do not see this…so I will paint the picture at a time when it is not seen.”

I laughed. It was true that my eyes were my best feature and I had always been aware that I had inherited the Valois nose. Fortunately, in my case, this was not so very noticeable…but it was there.

I discovered that he had brought with him a picture of my sister Isabelle. He set it up so that he could glance at it while he painted.

I said to him: “Why do you have my sister’s portrait there?”

He smiled secretly: “There is a likeness, you see.”

“But you are not painting her portrait.”

He shrugged his shoulders and looked at the ceiling.

I thought it was rather mysterious.

I said to him: “Do you know why my mother wants this portrait?”

“Oh…but you are her dear little daughter.”

“Is that what she told you? ‘Go and paint a picture of my dear little daughter’?”

He nodded.

“She wants it for someone.”

He smiled secretively.

“Do you know for whom?”

“Madame Princesse, I am only the painter. Kings and queens do not share their secrets with me.”

“Is there a secret, then?”

“How should I know of secrets, my Princess?”

“So you really do not know for whom this portrait is being painted?”

“Ah, Princess, I am only the painter.”

He did know, I was sure. I wondered if my mother had cautioned him against telling.

At last the picture was ready. It flattered me, I thought. He said: No. It was myself…at my best, which was what he had aimed for.

“It is more like my sister Isabelle than it is like me,” I said.

That seemed to please him.

In due course he went away, taking the picture with him.

A few days after he left, messengers from Court arrived.

I was to prepare to leave Poissy for Paris.

My mother sent for me and, filled with apprehension, I went to her apartments. One of her women was waiting for me.

“Madame la Reine,” she announced, “the Princess is here.”

I went into the room.

It was so long since I had seen her that I had only vague memories of her.

She was stretched out on a couch, dressed in a gown of pale lavender color. There were pearls and diamonds at her throat, on her arms and in her ears. She glittered. She had grown very fat; and now that I was older I suspected that her dazzling complexion owed something to art. Two little white dogs were on the sofa with her.

She looked as voluptuous as ever. Her hair was a little darker than I remembered it, and the luxuriant curls were arranged in careless elegance. She was startlingly attractive still.

Her eyes sparkled as she saw me.

“My dearest, dearest child! Come to me.” She held out her hands. I went to her and kissed one of them; then she drew me to her. “Let me look at you. There.” She kissed my cheek. There was an alertness in her eyes which belied her languor. “But it is true,” she went on. “You are beautiful. Alas, you remind me of my dear Isabelle.” She picked up a lace handkerchief and held it to her eyes. “My dear, dear child. It broke my heart. So young…and poor Orléans. He’s consoled himself now…and lost little time in doing it. But he had no say in the matter, of course…with Armagnac in control. But let me look at you. Bring a stool and sit beside me. Stop that silly barking, Bijou. He is jealous, you know. He cannot bear me to look at anyone but him. Naughty, silly little dog.”

I sat beside her, fascinated by the folds of white flesh…the brilliant eyes, the delicately tinted cheeks.

I did not know what to say, but I realized, with relief, that I was not expected to speak very much. All I had to do was agree with what she suggested.

“My dear child,” she said, “it has been a great grief to me that I have been so often separated from my dear children. You do not understand what a mother’s feelings are.” Her expression changed from second to second. Now she was the bereaved mother, her beautiful features set in lines of melancholy. She quickly brightened and her smile was dazzling. “But that is the way of life for us. I have had so many trials. Your dear, dear father.”

“And there was the death of the Duke of Orléans,” I said.

She looked at me sharply. I could see angry lights appearing in her eyes. But that quickly passed. I knew what she was thinking: The child is innocent of everything. What could she know, shut away in Poissy?

“There have been many tragedies for France,” she said. “And for the Queen. Well, they must be her tragedies, too. We have lived through some stirring times…but I have always put my personal griefs behind me and thought only of my country. But why are we gloomy? I have the most wonderful news. My pleasure now is planning for my family. My thoughts are all for them…my dear, dear children, whose company was often denied to me…but now they are growing up and I can plan for them as I am doing now for you, my child. You will see what your mother has in store for you. I have a grand match for you.”