Book III: XIV

Part I: The God-Given (I)

There are a million reasons why I should not tell you the truth, but only one reason why I should--I have to. Even I know that things are not always what they seem. I may be the Sun King, but I have lived in the shadows--most often, of my own light. There was nothing I could not have in this life except for one thing--her. My life began at my birth, but I only began to live it when we met. Until that moment and every moment after she was gone, life for me seemed an endless misadventure--a staged performance I longed to end.

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I was an unexpected gift from God. After years of struggling to produce an heir, I was born on 5 September 1638 at Château Neuf Saint-Germain-en-Laye. I was known as Dieudonné. I was the God-given and I came to believe it to be true as I grew older. My father, Louis XIII, was like a walking shadow to me. I wish I had more time to learn from him the secrets of the crown I was to inherit. I remember very little about my father, but what I remember was good. He kept me at arm's length until the birth of my brother. I did not understand why, but I credit him for the miracle of our father's love in those last two years we had with him.

When I was barely two years old, my parents received leur second cadeau de Dieu-my brother Philippe. His arrival was my earliest and most treasured memory. When he arrived, I wanted to see for myself. I knew it was coming but at the time, I did not know from where. I wanted to see for myself this new baby everyone had been talking about. I had been separated from my mother because of this creature for what seemed an eternity.

"Louis," a voice said. I looked up to see who called my name. It was my father. "Would you like to see your new brother?"

I nodded. He scooped me up from the floor, addressed my governess, and whisked me away. Moments later we entered a room where my mother was resting. Papa put me down and I made my way over to her. I heard strange noises coming from a cradle nearby. I quickly changed course and cautiously moved toward it. I peered inside to see a small infant. For a moment he seemed to look at me in fascination. I looked at my parents as I pointed at my new brother.

"His name is Philippe," my mother said.

I turned my glance back to my new baby brother who seemed to be smiling at me. I knew then he was my Philippe-a friend and a brother for life. I could hardly wait for him to grow up. That, too, seemed to take forever in my infantile understanding of the world.

Once Philippe learned to walk, he seemed to want to follow me everywhere. Though I was two years older, I towered over him like a shading tree. Whenever I would leave a room, Philippe would slowly rise from the floor and begin his trek behind me, stumbling awkwardly and flailing his arms to keep his balance.

When he would fall, he would burst into tears. I would comfort him until he stopped crying. Then, as if nothing had happened, he would get up again and carry on behind me. It seemed like an eternity to walk down the long halls of the palace with him. I was never more thankful to God than when he learned to run. Even at my tender age, I was protective of Philippe. He was no more helpless than I was, but I was going to be king one day. At that age, I thought my only responsibility as a future king was taking care of my brother.

Unlike Philippe, I had less freedom to do what I wished. I was the heir to the throne. My fate was sealed as the firstborn son. Philippe had the luxury of obstinateness and he delighted in it. He knew quite early that all eyes were on me. He took every opportunity he could to get away with anything.

As children, we spend some time around our mother's ladies. They were an extravagant mix of the French and the Spanish. Our mother was the Infanta, daughter of Philip III of Spain. Both of us could speak Spanish as fluently as French by the time we began our studies. Philippe loved everything Spanish. Whenever the opportunity presented itself, my brother would proudly demonstrate how much love he had for our mother's culture.