by Judith Rock
“Blessed Mary.” Charles winced. “I would surely hate the king for that.”
“It seems that when Conti heard the story, he saw that he could make use of Bouchel. Bouchel in turn recruited one of the king’s couriers, a young man his own age, whose family is from the village and who knew the story of Bouchel’s father and grandmother. This courier is the one who carries the spy’s letters from the border to Troyes, where he disappears into the old town and passes the letters to someone else. Then someone else brings them to Paris. To the Grand Duchess of Tuscany, it seems. Possibly through your Montmorency.”
“Or his tutor,” Charles said suddenly. “Montmorency could not leave the college or receive anything unexamined. But the tutor could.”
“Yes. While I waited for you, I sent two men to arrest Père Vionnet for questioning. So. The chief of my court spies thinks that Bouchel was killed because Conti is about to change the letters’ route. And that the footman not only knew too much, he was growing greedy for more pay. For his work and for his continued silence.”
“Which is now assured,” Charles said sadly. He was thinking that if Bouchel had demanded more money, it might have been for Lulu. “Well, that’s very good news about Lulu, anyway. That she didn’t kill poor Bouchel.”
The coach leaned precariously as they rounded a corner, and La Reynie clutched at the straps hanging from the carriage roof. Charles braced himself on the seat, wishing more every moment that he were on horseback, though the miles seemed to pass like single footsteps as they hurtled through the bright June evening. He’d never traveled much by carriage and never so fast. Trees, fields, houses, people whirled by so fast, they made his head spin. To his relief, the carriage slowed as the driver pulled the horses to a trot and then to a resting walk.
“What would happen between France and Poland if Lulu did run off with Montmorency?” Charles said. “Would King Louis lose the Polish king’s goodwill?”
La Reynie shrugged. “I don’t know. Jan Sobieski is nobody’s fool. He might be able to see past the antics of two idiot children. In which case, he’d shrug and look for another bride for his son.”
“They’re not idiots. Not even Montmorency. I’ve always found him dull-witted, but he truly cares for the girl. And she is certainly bright enough. But no creature thinks clearly when it’s struggling in a trap.”
“So your sympathies are with those two, are they?” La Reynie said sourly.
“Far more than they are with the king’s greed for glory and power.”
“You’d better hope I didn’t hear that. The king is the head of France’s body. He is responsible for France’s wealth and glory and power.”
“And he’s selling his people, including his daughter, to get it.”
The horses began to trot again, and La Reynie bounced nearly to the roof of the carriage as the wheels hit what felt like a boulder.
“Even if the boy’s not intentionally passing letters,” he growled, “he commits treason if he rides off with the girl. And if he does, for two sous, I’d leave them to get on with it and take the consequences.”
“There’s always the possibility that Montmorency may not come near Marly. God send he doesn’t.”
La Reynie slapped his wig straight after another bounce. “Maybe he’s gone home to his terrifying mother. Or to Siam. Someplace where I have no jurisdiction.”
“If he does try to take the girl, and is caught, what will happen to him?”
“If he’s only being used with regard to the spy’s letters, he might only be exiled. If he’s working with Conti-he could lose his head.” The lieutenant-général lurched against the side of the carriage. “At the moment, damn him, I wish he’d already lost it!”
“Falling in love isn’t a crime,” Charles said sadly, trying to shield his injured shoulder from another collision with the gold brocade carriage wall.
“For the bon Dieu’s sake! You sound like every idiotic young man since Adam. I thought you were past that sort of thing.”
“Montmorency’s actions are wrong, yes. What he feels for the girl is not. How could it be? He isn’t married. He-”
“She is. Almost.”
“Against her will! She doesn’t want the marriage and she’s damnably trapped!”
“Her father has the right to impose his will. Every father does.”
“And if his will is destroying his child?”
“Oh, it’s like that, is it? No authority, no order, only womanish feeling. Pah! You sound exactly like my son!”
La Reynie put out a hand to fend off the front carriage wall. For a long moment there was only the thud of trotting hooves and the rattle of the much-tried carriage.
“Gabriel?” Charles said carefully. He knew La Reynie had a son, but it was the first time the lieutenant-général had spoken of him voluntarily.
La Reynie’s big shoulders rounded suddenly, as though something hurt inside him. “I am too harsh, he says. He wants none of my rules. None of my-my life. He says he will go to Rome. And not return.”
“I’m sorry,” Charles said inadequately.
La Reynie crossed his arms over his chest and frowned at his rumpled brown coat sleeves. “So what will you say when you’re a priest? And some fool like Montmorency or Gabriel comes to you? Will you say, oh certainly, by all means, flout the commandment, no need to honor your father?”
“Scripture also says that the sins of the fathers will be visited on the children.”
“And so will yours be visited on them when you’re Père du Luc and guide them wrong!”
Suddenly they were glaring at each other from opposite corners of the coach. Charles turned his head away and closed his eyes, leaning back against the thick brocade upholstery. The horses’ trot on a smoother stretch of road was making the carriage rock pleasantly now… The carriage lurched and he sat up in alarm.
“We’re nearly there,” La Reynie said, glancing at him. “You’ve slept.”
The carriage rolled to a stop and Charles put down the window glass and peered out. They were stopped at a tall, tree-shadowed, heavily guarded gate. La Reynie lowered the glass on his side and spoke to a pike-carrying guard.
“Has a young horseman passed through the gates recently? Henri de Montmorency?”
“No, mon lieutenant-général,” Charles heard the guard say. “No horseman has come in since noon.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes, mon lieutenant-général.”
“If Montmorency does come, say nothing about my being here or asking about him. Let him pass but send me word.”
The guard nodded smartly, the gates opened, and the carriage crossed an arcaded circular court. Then Charles nearly fell forward as they began to go steeply downhill.
“The chateau is at the bottom of this slope,” La Reynie said. He turned on the seat to face Charles. “You heard what the guard said? Montmorency is not here.”
“Yes, but I can hardly believe it. Are there other ways in?”
“I suppose he could go through the forest. There are paths. But then he’d have to climb the garden wall. Without being seen and taken by a guard. The guards are nearly as thick here as at Versailles. Otherwise, though, Marly is different. It is private, not open for public gawking. Officials, like me, can get in on emergency business. Otherwise, entrance is strictly at the king’s invitation.” La Reynie braced an arm on the front wall against the incline. “I know of at least one visit Montmorency has made here. So he may know a way through the forest. But if he breaks in over the wall, that will not endear him to the king.”
Charles looked out his window again and saw that they were near the bottom of the steep allée. The chateau was directly ahead. The last of the long evening’s sun lay across its front and Charles exclaimed in surprise. “The red pillars-they’re Languedoc marble, from my home region. What an incredible front the place has!”
Beside him, La Reynie merely snorted.
The sunlight gleamed on the chateau’s gold balustrad
e, its gold sculpted figures and vases, its golden pediments and window panels, all picked out against brilliant royal blue walls. The carriage stopped at a second, smaller gate and was passed through. Charles, still gaping out his window like a tourist, gasped in astonishment.
“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. Père 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.