Book III: Son of France

Part I: Anjou

You would think that my first memory would have been my mother. After all, a child's closest relationship should be with the woman who gave birth to them. No, the earliest thing I remember was attempting to keep up with a cherubic young lad with deep blue eyes and a head full of golden tendrils he spent much of his time pushing from his face. He was barely two years old when I came into the world—still a mere infant himself. Yet, even in childhood, his face always held a countenance beyond his years.

"Ooh-wee," I would say excitedly, calling to him whenever he entered or left a room. I had barely learned how to speak, but his name was all I wanted to say. To the world, he was the heir to the throne of France. To me, he was my brother. He was the only person that acknowledged my existence other than our father, Louis XIII. Our mother, Anne of Austria, paraded us about when it was either convenient or politically advantageous. She was neither a good mother nor a bad one; she was just Maman to me.

Once I learned to walk, I went everywhere with Louis. In those days, I was too young to tell if I was a joy or a nuisance to my brother. He treated me as his equal even though my birth was a surprise that reassured the kingdom that should anything happen to Louis, I was there to take his place. For that honor, I was Monsieur Philippe de France, Duke of Anjou—the only brother of the future king.

My uncle, Gaston Jean-Baptiste, Duke of Orléans, was Monsieur when I arrived on 21 September 1640, so I was known as Le Petit Monsieur while he was known as Le Grand Monsieur to lessen the confusion between us. I was told that there was little fanfare for my birth: I was born on the Feast of St. Matthew two hours before the clock struck twelve. Once it did, Maman would celebrate thirty-nine years of her life. I was her last child and her greatest disappointment, I imagined. After giving Papa a son, she was hoping to bear herself a daughter. That is what would tell myself for years as she tried to delay my coming of age as long as she could.

Whatever happened in the first year and a half of my life, I cannot say, but when reason awakened in me, the first thing I heard was the whispers of Maman's ladies speaking in her native language. As the daughter of the king of Spain, Maman once spoke Spanish fluently. Her years in France had changed that as it was required to speak French in court. It was not until I was married that I understood the sacrifices women had to make for the political alliances of their fathers.

I was fascinated by the sound of their words. To me, they were far more beautiful than the French. By the age of two, I had begun to learn Spanish and tried to speak like the ladies. This did not please Louis. He lived his life in fear of displeasing anyone—often at the expense of his happiness.

"¡Hola, Luis! ¿Cómo estás?"

"You must speak French, Philippe," he told me.

"No," I said. I hate French. I like Spanish. It is Maman's language."

"French is Papa's language," Louis answered. "He is the king."

"I do not care," I said with a pout.

"We are French. We live in France, not Spain."


"I will speak the language I want," I muttered. "When I want."

Louis sighed.

"We will speak Spanish among ourselves. Not with Mother. She will be angry. Do you understand, Philippe?"

Why, Louis? She is Spanish."

"Philippe, no," he said. Louis was too old to be two years older than me. Even then, I thought he was more of a king than our father. I reluctantly nodded.

"Very well," I answered softly.

Louis looked at me sternly. He knew me better than anyone. He knew I would tempt the hand of fate. I was the second-born of a king. It was rare that anyone would notice anything that I did—except for Louis. He was everything to me—a father, a brother, and a friend. Above all, he was my protector. He always felt I was vulnerable even though he knew I was tougher than I looked.