by Eric Flint
“Madame LeBon, s’il vous plaît.”
It appeared that Madame, may the Lord in Highest Heaven reward her, had taken the boy to the park.
Ruvigny raised an eyebrow.
The maid pulled her cap straight and reached behind her to secure the apron strings into a bow.
“Madame’s ward is a very…active…child.”
“Might Monsieur Lebon be at home?”
“Hélas, non. Monsieur LeBon is at work. If he has finished speaking with the head of the new school, that is.”
“New school.”
“The boy has been deemed old enough for lessons. As I said, he is…active. The former school could not deal with it when he crawled under the desks, climbed up the bookshelves, or pulled the pages out of his cahier and folded them into air gliders.”
Ruvigny nodded.
“Neither could the school before that. Or the school before that one. Madame will not permit the child to be caned, oh perish the thought, so…” She suddenly stopped talking and opened the door a little farther. “But would you like to come in? Just let me see if I can find where he hid my shoe…he thinks it is so funny to hide things.”
Ruvigny followed her. In this house, no space was devoted to a vestibule. The door opened directly on the room in which the family sat, ate, prayed, and slept. Because of the compact space, it didn’t take the maid long to retrieve her shoe from the storage bench that provided the main seating area.
The maid rattled on. “So there is to be a new school, if one can be found that will accept him. Teachers talk to one another, you know.” She made this sound as if it were the deepest of conspiracies.
Whereas the maid had thanked the Lord in Highest Heaven for the park in a loud voice, Ruvigny mentally praised Him for perfect timing. Schoolmasters were inclined to ask curious questions when one of their pupils disappeared without an adequate explanation.
After some time he asked, “When is Madame likely to return from the park?”
“When she is about to collapse from exhaustion or the boy starts to scream that he is starving, whichever comes first.”
“Perhaps, then, it would be more prudent for me to find them in the park. If you would be so kind as to direct me…?”
He found Madame and the boy at a duck pond. The boy was soaking wet. The ducks appeared to be panicked, but not quite panicked enough to abandon the bread crumbs that Madame was strewing at the edge of the water. The child was trying to catch the drake nearest to the shore and chanting, “Ducks with white feathers. Ducks with brown feathers. Ducks with gray feathers. Drab ducks, drab ducks. Jean who has been to L’Amérique says that they have ducks with blue feathers. Ducks with green feathers. Ducks with little red feathers on their heads. Feathers he says are ‘iridescent.’ Madame, what does ‘iridescent’ mean? Do you think that I can ever go to L’Amérique? Do you think that I can ever go to the moon? If I can make paper fly through the air, why can’t these big balloons that Pierre at the tailor’s shop told me about—they are made of silk, he says, and cow guts—why can’t they fly to the moon?”
“Pardon, madame! I come on a matter of some urgency.”
“In regard to the child? You must speak with my husband,” she said.
“Why do you assume it concerns the child?”
“Nothing else in our lives is urgent.” She turned. “Tancrède, come, we must go home.”
“I’m not hungry yet.”
“Now.” She grabbed his hand.
“Non.” He dug in his heels.
“Come,” Ruvigny said. “I can tell you not only about silk balloons, but about machines that fly.”
“Airplanes!” The child, Tancrède, pulled himself out of Madame’s grasp and barreled toward Ruvigny so fast that it was impossible for him to save his trousers from the dripping water. “I saw one, I saw one, I saw one. It went over the city and I saw it. Nobody can tell me how men can make them fly. How do they fly? How do birds fly? Do airplanes have bird guts inside them and feathers inside their wings? Where do they build them? Can I go see them build airplanes? I’ve been to the zoo but I’ve never seen anyone build an airplane.” He stopped. “Who are you?”
The LeBons proved to be amenable to returning the boy to the care of his natural mother.
Somehow, Ruvigny was not surprised.
Containing him in the rear quarters of the palais Rohan proved to be challenging.
“What are these? Where did I find those? I found them under the bed; aren’t they interesting? We didn’t have a chamber pot this shape at the Lebons’ house. What’s it made of? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to break it. Can we go to the park? I saw horses out the window; I want to visit the horses. I don’t take naps; naps are for disgusting little babies that still drool. Why can’t I go see the LeBons again; they’re nice to me. You’re no fun! No, I won’t give it back—it’s interesting. I saw you kissing Marc. I drew pictures on the wall with the duchess’ rouge because I couldn’t find any pencil and paper and I like to draw pictures. Why? Where did M. de Ruvigny go? When’s supper? Why?”
Susanna raised her eyes to the skies. Why me, O Lord in Highest Heaven? I’m a dressmaker, not a babysitter.
When she verbalized the question, Raudegen said, “Because Ruvigny can trust you. It’s a very open question how many of the palais staff we can trust. Trust in the absolute sense, or trust to be discreet. They are paid very little; reporters pay for stories. Christ himself said, ‘Lead us not into temptation.’”
* * *
La petite Rohan would be a true prize. The royal advisers agreed on that. Her husband should be Catholic, and preferably an adherent of the dévot party. The royal advisers agreed on that. Then, of course, the question arose of who would be the best match, upon which there was far less unanimity. Each of them appeared to have a son, a nephew, a brother, a ward, a cousin, or a protégé who would benefit from marrying the Rohan estates. For every candidate, there was an objection. This one was in feeble health, so might die and leave her as a powerful widow; that one was already betrothed and the relatives of his fiancée, who had also thrown their allegiance to Gaston, would be profoundly offended if the match were broken off. Soissons was a prince of the blood and an ally (he had, in fact, been the first fiancé of the king’s first wife who had given birth to little Mademoiselle de France before she died), but a Rohan marriage might bring him too much power.
“Does it have to be someone mature?” The question floated through the room.
“What do you mean? The king needs strong allies.”
“Why not find someone the same age as la Rohan. He could be a trifle younger, even—someone malleable. Perhaps if we chose a royal ward who is not yet of age, it could be arranged for his guardian, our lord the king, to assume responsibility, temporary of course, for the Rohan estates. Her husband need not control her; the king would be in a position to control them both. That would prevent the problem of a constellation of too much power concentrated that led you to refuse Soissons.”
Young. That brought a sizable flock of new candidates to the fore, but still no unanimous agreement.
“The king has been displaying his magnanimity. Why not prepare a list of, let us say, six candidates who would be acceptable to the crown and give her the liberty of choosing among them.”
The other advisers looked upon this suggestion and found it to be good. The comte de Lafayette had two sons of acceptable age. The younger of Effiat’s orphaned sons, the one who had inherited the Cinq-Mars title, was sixteen.
“Not fully orphaned,” someone complained, “and his mother is a harridan.”
“He’s pretty, though, which might appeal to a girl. All that curly auburn hair. And he dances well.”
“There’s the de Bussy heir. He studied under the Jesuits.”
Sheer ennui finally brought agreement on six names. The list didn’t suit everyone, but compromises rarely do.
* * *
“They can’t leave from the palais,” Raudegen said. “I say that from a pro
fessional perspective. There are simply too many Royal Guards. They can’t disappear from the court when they are attending the queen and la Mademoiselle. It’s not just that they are closely observed there, although they are. There are too many people milling around around in random patterns. An escape party would run too much risk of encountering someone utterly unexpected.”
“Maybe they could leave from the palais if there was a party going on,” Ruvigny commented. “Something like the ballet they held last summer. There would be a couple of hundred guests coming and going and a major congestion of horses, carriages, servants, caterers, etc.”
“Possible.” Raudegen moved and looked down into the courtyard. “What kind of party?”
“We can check with Benserade. He’ll come gladly, being reasonably thankful just now that he never succeeded in obtaining patronage from Richelieu and Mazarin.”
“It would be easiest for them to leave if it’s some kind of an outdoor production. Down in the courtyard there.”
Benserade, when consulted, pointed out that outdoor productions were lamentably subject to the vagaries of the weather.
“Even better than a ballet,” he said. “Hire the new Théâtre du Marais. It’s in a remodeled tennis court on the Vielle Rue du Temple, right opposite the Capuchins. They renovated it just two years ago, so it’s all modern. It wouldn’t be a good idea to use the Hôtel de Bourgogne, even though they’ve accumulated a lot of indoor sets over the years, because that theater had too many long-standing ties to Richelieu—right now, they’re probably all thinking that having it on the Rue Mauconseil was prophetic. It might offend the king for the duchesses to sponsor a production there.”
At this point, they had to take the new and better escape concept to the ladies themselves.
“Not a ballet again,” the duchess said. “It would be all too déjà vu. We must find something different. A contemporary play will be too dangerous.” Her voice was firm. “There are just too many chances to offend. It will have to be a pastoral, classical theme. Comedy, not tragedy. Certainly not a satire. Pyramus and Thisbe, perhaps?”
“Oh, Maman. That’s so overdone.”
“I want something incorporating dance and music with the dialogue,” the duchess continued. “Not an opera, because Mrs. Simpson is sponsoring operas in Magdeburg. Not a musical comedy, because the queen in the Netherlands is sponsoring musical comedies in Brussels. We need something else. Something that will not offend the king. Perhaps even something that will placate the king.”
Gerry’s thoughts turned to science fiction and fantasy. “You need the development of a scion from obscurity to glory. Scions are really good, like in Terry Pratchett’s Guards! Guards! Well, probably not just like Pratchett, considering how Carrot turns out at the end, no matter how great an author Pratchett is—was—will be—used to be—still is? Anyhow, focus on the scion. I must have read twenty books that go something like the following, by different authors. Or not so many different authors. Eddings used to write the same story over and over again. He just changed the names. Brooks did pretty much the same with the Shannara series. So, to start, you’ve got this family living somewhere in Fantasia.”
“Fantasia?”
“Well, that’s actually an old Disney movie, but you can make it generic. There was this glorious book called The Tough Guide to Fantasy Land that came out just a couple of years before the Ring of Fire, I think. It was one of Diana Wynne Jones’ things. We have it at home, but that’s neither here nor there and you don’t need it to make this play.”
“Focus,” Bismarck said. “Focus.”
“You know what he’s talking about,” Ruvigny interjected. “Arcadia. Heroines named Amerinde and heroes named Cleonice. We’ve all read them.”
“Think about it, guys,” Gerry barreled on. “You won’t even need enough time for someone to compose new music. Oh, your composer will have to add the high notes and low notes and chords and such, but I can give you enough pre-cooked melodies to carry it off. Especially since this thing won’t exactly have a performance run.”
He pulled out his harmonica.
“First scene. The Birth of the Scion. Daddy, Mommy, and attendants admire the new prince. All you’ll need is a cradle and a spotlight. Someone sings, Sleep my child and peace attend thee, all throught the night; guardian angels God will send thee, all through the night and everybody dances around the cradle. Somebody can translate it into French.
“And then he’s a toddler. Here’s the tune. Bimbo, Bimbo, when you’re gonna grow? Everybody loves the little baby Bimb-bi-o.” He bit his lip. “Don’t use the word ‘bimbo.’ Some of the professional actors are bound to have little kids who are used to being around the theater and won’t freeze on stage.”
Benserade nodded. “One of Béjart’s boys will do. The little one—Louis, I think his name is.”
“Then the scion turns into a teenager and all his wonderful, extraordinary, excessive talents and abilities start to shine. From what I hear, it’s hard to go overboard on flattery in this day and age. Fawning on monarchs is right up there with getting a Ph.D.—Piled High and Deep. When you gotta’ glow, you gotta glow. So glow little glow worm, glow.” Gerry cocked his head. “I’d think up some slightly different lyrics for that, if I were you, and not call Gaston a worm by inference, but this would be the tour de force for whoever dances the part of the Scion. You know, lyrics about how, as he grew up, his qualities began to shine so much that he practically glowed when people looked at him.”
Bismarck ran his hand though his receding hairline.
“Then he goes on some kind of a quest where he meets a foreign princess who is the true love of his life. Everybody will be able to tell that she’s clearly a perfect match for him, because her dance sounds almost exactly the same and uses the same chords. Three little maids who all unwary, come from a ladies’ seminary.
“Then everyone dances a few more dances, the Scion is received as king with overwhelming joy. You go back to the lullaby and as the young king and queen are crowned, with his mama dripping tears and pride in the background, you have God singing from the roof Go, my children, with my blessing, never alone. Waking, sleeping, I am with you; you are my own.”
Gerry leaned back, exhausted from this long excursion into the field of derivative imagination. “And they go off the stage. Outdoors, you have a crew shoot fireworks off. You can’t do fireworks inside the theater—it’s too dangerous, which is a pity. Up-time, there was some night club where a couple of hundred people burned alive because it caught on fire when they shot off fireworks indoors. They’ll distract the audience’s ears from what you’re doing, though.”
“Fireworks distract eyes, too,” Marc pointed out. “All the outside gawkers will be looking up, or at least most of them.”
“Can you write this?” the duchess asked.
“Nope,” Gerry said cheerfully. “I’m a one-note wonder. One note at a time on the harmonica; one finger on the piano, for that matter. Plink, plank, plunk. I’m no musician. I can’t do chords. I’m no playwright. I can’t do dialogue. But I sure can borrow ideas from bad books. You’ll have to get your people to take it and run with it.”
The conversation degenerated into cacophony.
“Montdory can take the lead. No, he can direct. No…”
“Whatever you do, don’t touch Montfleury with a ten-foot pole. Everyone knows how strong his ties to Richelieu were.”
“Scriptwriter? Has Gaston forgiven Voiture yet?”
“DesBarreaux could do it,” Benserade said, “but by all that’s sacred, don’t put his name in the program if he agrees. Much less Sanguin. Schelandre is Calvinist, which might be an advantage, but he’s old enough that his scripts sound fusty and in any case he’s out of town, campaigning. With all apologies to you soldiers,” he nodded at Ruvigny and Bismarck, “wars are a nuisance as far as literature is concerned. Not for subject matter—they provide a lot of grist for the mill there—but for trying to find time to write if a m
an is sitting in some uncomfortable tent with people likely to shoot at him any day.”
Bismarck, being wholly without literary ambitions, guffawed.
Benserade barreled on. “Mairet’s good, and he’s willing to write happy endings instead of being focused on the prestige of writing tragedies, but he’s hung up on classical unities, plus he was born in Besançon, which isn’t politically correct right now. I say get Rotrou, even if he has been writing for the Hôtel de Bourgogne. It will get his name before the new king, and right now they need all the help they can get over there if the theater is going to survive the change in regime. He writes fast. Last year he told me he’s already done more than thirty plays and he’s not thirty years old yet. Some of those are translations or adaptations, though.”
Then there was the matter of casting, which caused another conversational jumble.
“Marguerite will be the princess, of course.”
“But who is to dance the young king?”
“Well, Cinq-Mars, since he’s Gaston’s current candidate for Marguerite’s hand. Seeing them on stage together will appease M. Gaston’s advisers.”
“If Cinq-Mars dances the prince, in the coronation scene you can even throw in a reference to the heroic death of the former king in battle, and that will apply to the marquis’ father and take everyone’s minds off what happened to Louis.”
“With you, Madame Duchesse, center stage as the proud and happy dowager in the finale.”
“I can get Soûlas to come and be an acting coach,” Ruvigny said.
“Who?”
“That theater-mad ensign who ran off to join a troupe of actors. They’d hoped to go to England last year, but didn’t make it because of the political troubles there, so he’s somewhere down in the Marais district, looking for work. Who knows? If Montdory likes him when he sees him working on this, he may get a permanent slot.”
“So you’ve taken care of the religion and politics of the playwrights. Does it make any difference if the professional actors you bring in are Catholics or Huguenots?” Bismarck asked.
“Not really,” Benserade said. “The Catholic church excommunicates actors, just for being actors, and the Calvinists aren’t precisely thrilled with them either, so no one will expect them to be in good standing.”