by Rock, Judith
“It’s all paint! There are no pillars, it’s just a flat wall, there’s nothing there but paint!”
“Yes. Illusion.” La Reynie bent his head and stepped down from the carriage as a lackey held the door open.
Charles clambered from the carriage and stood gazing at the chateau’s trompe l’oeil front. “Do you suppose they intend the irony? That it’s all only an illusion?”
“Illusions can be very durable.” La Reynie led the way into the royal chateau of Marly.
Chapter 21
La Reynie stated his business to the footman who’d let them in.
“I’ll take you to the king’s apartments, monsieur,” the footman said. “We have a grand ball this evening, but His Majesty is still in his private rooms.”
La Reynie nodded at the glazed doors on the vestibule’s other side. “You can wait in the salon, maître. That’s where the ball will be. I shouldn’t be long.” And as the footman turned away, he added under his breath, “Keep your eyes open.”
Charles went through the glazed doors into the salon. For a moment he simply stared. The enormous room was octagonal, with identical glass-paned doors at the four points of the compass, and identical cavernous fireplaces topped with mirrors on the angled sides. Corinthian pilasters studded the ground floor walls and caryatids looked down from the next level. Between the caryatids were tall windows with balconies, but the windows were dark and seemed to open from an inner corridor. The only natural light came from roundel windows near the top of the walls. Now that the sun was behind the hills, servants were lighting the wall sconce candles, and the mirror-polished parquet floor was doubling and giving back the little flames.
Otherwise, the salon was deserted. But muted voices and what Charles recognized as the click of billiard balls came from the south vestibule, and he went to see who was there. As he opened the glazed doors and looked in, the men engrossed in the billiard game ignored him. Several had shed their coats, and they were all watching hawk-eyed as the Duc du Maine sighted intently along his cue and struck a ball. When it went wide, the watchers shouted in triumph. Maine shrugged and smiled. As he moved aside for the next player, he caught sight of Charles.
“Maître du Luc! Have you come for the ball and the wedding?”
Charles, still wearing his outdoor hat, removed it and inclined his head. “A grand occasion, Your Highness,” he said, smiling, hoping Maine wouldn’t notice his failure to answer the question. “How is it with your sister?”
Maine abandoned the billiard game and went to the side table where he’d left his coat. “I don’t quite know,” he said, slipping it on as they walked together into the salon. “Not happy. But she’s—excited, somehow, I think. Which I suppose is better than just being sad.” He looked a little wistfully at Charles. “I think going to Poland would be a great adventure!”
“Going to Poland might.”
“But marrying a stranger wouldn’t, you mean.” He sighed. “I hope I will have more choice when my time comes. But I don’t suppose I’ll have much.”
Giving up on finding a subtle way to ask if Montmorency was there, Charles said, “I suppose all her friends will be here. The little Condé girl and Monsieur Montmorency and the Prince of Conti?”
“Anne-Marie and Conti will certainly be here. I don’t think Montmorency was invited.” He looked puzzled. “But you should know that better than I, since he’s at Louis le Grand.”
“Sometimes the young nobles are given leave to go to court,” Charles said vaguely. “At what time does this ball begin?”
“At nine. And it must be nearly eight, I should go and dress.” He smiled and withdrew.
La Reynie was still not back, and Charles crossed the salon to its north vestibule and went outside. Below the steps, there was a stretch of gravel and then the wide spread of gardens. Jets of water played among what seemed acres of parterres, all planted with flowers and low shrubs, and crossed with formal paths. Beyond, the ground fell away toward the Seine. Charles turned slowly, taking in the stretch of the gardens, the buildings around the chateau itself, and the steep wooded hills rising on the other three sides of it all. If Montmorency was here in hiding, it would take a concerted search and sheer luck to find him. A searching, fitful wind had risen and the western sky was already piled with soft rosy clouds. In another hour or so, it would be dark.
“So you’ve finally come back,” a high clear voice said disapprovingly behind him.
Anne-Marie de Bourbon stood just outside the doors, shimmering in silver satin covered with silvery blue embroidery. Blue gems winked in her silver-ribboned brown curls, and both arms were wrapped around her little black dog, who was happily licking her chin.
Charles removed his hat again and made his clerical révérence. “I have, Your Serene Highness. But how did you know?”
“The Duc du Maine just told me.” She flicked an impatient hand toward the salon and gently pushed the little dog’s head away. Then she looked carefully around the deserted terrace, grabbed his hand, and pulled him farther from the doors. In a half-whispered rush, she said, “Did you finally read the old man’s book? Why did it take you so long to come? What are you going to do?”
“So it was you who put the Comte de Fleury’s mémoire in my saddlebag.”
She nodded impatiently. “I was keeping it for Lulu. Her women go through her things, but no one bothers about me. But you haven’t answered me. What are you going to do?” Her voice was as worried as her pale thin face, and the little dog wiggled and anxiously licked her again.
“Ma petite,” Charles said softly, speaking as he might have spoken to Marie-Ange, the baker’s daughter. “You want me to rescue your friend. And I think I understand why now.” He leaned over as though adjusting his shoe. “A child?” he murmured.
Anne-Marie nodded. “She’s been so sick. I know the signs.”
“I am sorry with all my heart. But I cannot stop her going to Poland. She herself has chosen not to tell the king her secret. What can anyone say to him?” He reached out to pet one of the dog’s long ears. “No, don’t shout at me, we don’t want to be noticed. Listen. They are not barbarians in Poland. Their queen is French. It will not be as bad for Lulu as you think.” He prayed that what he said was true. Though the child would be taken from her. Princes could flaunt their bastards. Princesses could not.
Anne-Marie’s mouth was trembling. But she drew herself up to her diminutive height and her eyes flashed. “What you mean is that you are a coward. Well, I am not!”
In an angry whirl of skirts, she swept back into the vestibule. Grimacing at her accusation, Charles gazed after her and then picked up a leaf that had fluttered from her shoulder and turned it over in his hand. It was as fresh as the child herself, and Charles shook his head. When childhood’s illusions shattered, they usually shattered painfully. Then his ruefulness shifted abruptly to suspicion. Was the girl planning something? But what could a twelve-year-old do? He put the leaf absently into his pocket and started back inside.
The door opened nearly in his face as La Reynie came out of the vestibule. He looked, if anything, more unhappy than he had in the carriage.
“What did the king say?” Charles asked him.
“Nothing I wanted to hear.” La Reynie went to the edge of the terrace and looked out over the gardens. “Which is only fair, I suppose, because I also told him nothing he wanted to hear. The war minister Louvois has been at him repeatedly about Conti, and the king has tried to fend him off. Now that I’ve told him there’s every reason to think that Louvois is right, he’s furious.”
Louvois. Even the man’s name sent a small chill through Charles, and he thought of Louvois in his carriage, approaching Versailles on the day he and Jouvancy had left. “Is he here?”
La Reynie nodded unhappily. Charles had reason to know that La Reynie liked the ruthlessly competent war minister as little as most people did. “I haven’t seen him yet. But I did manage to talk with Père La Chaise after I saw the king. Pèr
e La Chaise is livid about Montmorency, though he says that as far as he knows, the boy hasn’t been here. He’ll help you watch for Montmorency during the ball. The king has ordered me to keep a close watch on Conti and the duchess tonight—yes, Margot is here, too—but unless I see a letter passed, I’m not to question them until tomorrow. Nothing is to disturb the court until Père La Chaise pronounces the royal daughter a royal wife tomorrow morning and she’s on her way to Poland.”
“What do you want me to do if Montmorency comes?”
“Grab him and hand him over to a guard. Two guards, given what we know of his prowess at fighting. I said nothing to the king of Montmorency’s feelings for the girl—only that I want to question him about Conti’s letters.” La Reynie studied the horizon.
Surprised, Charles said, “Why did you keep his secret?”
The lieutenant-général shot Charles a warning look. “Not because I’m converted to your nonsense about thwarting parental authority and order.” He glared at the tired lace covering his wrists. “Montmorency isn’t here yet. Or if he is, we don’t know it. If he’s not here, he may never arrive. If he arrives, he may lose his nerve—or come to his senses—and never show his face. So unless he does burst in like some idiot knight out of The Song of Roland, let his little romance die its death. He’s in enough trouble as it is, just being suspected of helping Conti with the letters.”
More than enough trouble, Charles thought. He gave silent thanks for La Reynie’s reserve with the king. The lieutenant-général’s compassion might be reluctant and even furious, but it was still compassion. At least the boy might escape exposure of his silliness over Lulu.
“What do we do now, mon lieutenant-général?”
“They’re bringing us a little something to eat in the salon. I’m told the ball begins at nine.”
La Reynie led the way back into the salon, where footmen had let down the huge central chandelier on its chain and were replacing and lighting its candles. Others were setting up chairs in what Charles recognized as the Ring, seating for those who would dance during the ball. Another footman stood near a fireplace where a small table had been set with plates and cups. When he saw them, he lifted a hand and brought two chairs from their places against the wall. Charles and La Reynie ate quickly but well, cold chicken and salad and comfortingly good wine. As they ate, servants continued to set up chairs and music stands on the west wall’s balcony, and the musicians gathered and began tuning their violins. The chandelier, now blazing with candles, was hauled back to its place level with the balconies, its hanging crystals sparkling in its light.
Charles suddenly felt a draft and turned to see who had come in from outside.
“What is it?” La Reynie said.
“Someone came in from outside, didn’t you feel the wind?”
“Oh, the wind. The smallest breeze from outside gets into this salon without anyone opening a door. They say it’s something to do with the glazing, but no one seems able to fix it. In the winter, you can’t sit in here unless you’re wearing furs.” He glanced at a servant shifting from foot to foot by the wall. “I think they’re wanting to move our table.”
As they rose, Charles said, “I forgot to tell you that I saw the Condé child just now on the terrace. She admitted that she put Fleury’s mémoire in my saddlebag. And she wanted to know what had taken me so long to return and save Lulu. When I told her there was nothing I could do, she called me a coward. And gave me to understand that she, on the other hand, is not. What do you make of that?”
“Twelve-year-old bravado. Come, let’s go up to a balcony; it’s a good place for watching the vestibules.”
A sweet-chimed clock struck nine as they reached the top of a staircase to the second-floor corridor around the octagon. La Reynie led the way to a floor-to-ceiling window. As they stepped through it onto the south balcony, they heard the musicians begin to play.
“Remember,” he said, “the vestibule to your right is the east entrance from the main court. The other vestibules, including the one straight under us, open onto the gardens and walks. If Montmorency is here, he’s likely to come in through one of those, not by the main court.”
Below them, the salon filled quickly, a storm of talk and laughter above a rustling sea of satin, damask, brocade, silk, and lace, most of it in brilliant colors, much of it covered with embroidery and sparkling with gems. Wigs hung in swags of curls, fontanges bloomed with ribbons, and perfumed fans added to the breeze wandering through the room. The music broke off, and then the musicians played a brief fanfare and the inner doors of the east vestibule were thrown open. The king appeared and everyone sank into deep curtsies and bows as he walked to the regal armchair set for him in front of the east doors. To Charles’s surprise, Madame de Maintenon was with him, sober in brown velvet, black lace preserving her modesty from bodice edge to neck and veiling her hair. The Dauphin, the king’s brother Philippe and sister-in-law Liselotte, and the older Polish ambassador, who wore a long coat of deep blue silk over breeches to the ankle, all seated themselves on either side of the king. La Chaise came in and placed himself behind the king’s chair. He raised his eyes briefly to the balcony where Charles and La Reynie were, and then let his gaze roam over the crowd.
Charles said in La Reynie’s ear, “The girl’s mother has not come?”
“One comes to Marly only by invitation. I imagine it’s too small to hold La Montespan and Madame de Maintenon together.”
They watched those chosen to dance take their places in the Ring’s first row, while others entitled to sit found places in the seats behind them. Charles was glad to see that Anne-Marie de Bourbon was among the dancers, a thick cushion set in front of her chair to keep her feet from dangling. Then Lulu came in, escorted by the younger Polish ambassador, and sat in the center of the Ring’s first row, facing the king. Her pink-gold skirts spread around her like a sunset cloud and it seemed to Charles that she moved with a new dignity, her face smooth and serene beneath its powder and rouge. La Reynie was watching her, too.
“Her gown is a pretty color,” he said. “It’s called aurore.”
Charles gaped at him.
“My wife told me,” he said sheepishly, seeing Charles’s look. “I think dawn is a good name for it—the sky does look like that in the morning.”
“It’s lovely,” Charles said, grinning. “And so is she.”
“And wearing a very nice little fortune, too,” La Reynie said. “If Montmorency shows up and rides away with her, they can live for a long time on it.”
Charles looked again and saw that in addition to the heavy ropes of pearls he’d seen Lulu wear at Versailles, the front of her bodice was set with flashing diamonds. More diamonds circled her wrists and sparkled among other gems on her fingers. She was indeed wearing a portable small fortune. But it seemed more and more likely that Poland was the only place it was going.
The ball began with the customary branle, and then the Prince of Conti, wearing dark green wool and satin, danced a grave loure with a beautiful young woman Charles didn’t recognize.
“His widowed sister-in-law,” La Reynie said. “Another source of rumors about our prince.”
Instead of resuming their places in the Ring when the dance ended, Conti and the pretty widow acknowledged the king and went out by the south door, followed by the Duc du Maine and several others.
“Where are they going?” Charles said in alarm, as they passed beneath the balcony and disappeared from view.
“It’s all right, I was told they’d leave.” He smiled slightly at Charles. “They’ll be back.”
The dancing went on, and when everyone in the Ring had danced except Anne-Marie and Lulu, the doors of the salon burst open and the courtiers who had left returned, masked and costumed as a gaggle of Italian comedy characters: Harlequin, Scaramouche, Flavio, the Doctor, Isabella, Brighella, and a comically limping, wide-eyed peasant. A fast-moving love story unfolded—more decorously than the real Italian comedians would have play
ed it—and the love of Isabella and Flavio won the day and was duly blessed. The Poles shone with satisfaction, laughing and nodding as they watched. But Lulu watched gravely, when she watched at all. She mostly looked down at her lap and twisted her half dozen rings. Finally, all the characters danced a gigue, bowed low to the king, and withdrew to the edges of the salon to watch the rest of the ball. When they were gone, Anne-Marie took the floor with a handsome little boy, whose deep blue coat and breeches matched well with her blue-silver.
“Who is he?” Charles said, as the pair began their sarabande.
“Lulu’s brother, Louis Alexandre, the Comte de Toulouse,” La Reynie murmured. “The king’s youngest son by La Montespan. He’s nine or ten, I think.”
“He and Anne-Marie do well together.” Charles laughed. “But I’m surprised she’s left her other Louis behind.”
“Her dog? Yes, I had the same thought.” Suddenly, La Reynie laughed, too. “Look, even in her finery, she’s clearly been outside chasing the dog. A leaf just fell out of her hair. And there’s another!”
Which made three leaves fallen from Anne-Marie’s hair. A tiny frisson of unease flickered through Charles. He told himself not to be absurd. Anne-Marie chased her dog everywhere, and Marly was even more dense with leaves than Versailles. But tonight, anything out of the ordinary put him on the alert.
Seemingly unaware of the dropping greenery, Anne-Marie eyed her younger partner as a governess might, to be sure he did her credit. But whenever the dance took her past the chair where Lulu sat, all her anxious attention went to the princess. The sarabande ended; the children made their honors to the king and returned to their seats. Then it was Lulu’s turn, the moment for which all the rest had been prologue.
“Ah,” La Reynie said quietly, looking straight down over the balcony’s rail. “There’s the duchess. Late as usual. And with Conti.”
Charles looked, too. As Margot jockeyed for a better view of the dancers, her servant followed her and Charles took a long moment to study the man’s back. “That’s him,” he said in La Reynie’s ear. “The man who met Bertamelli at the tower and threw the stone at me.”