by Judith Rock
“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 played 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.”
“You’d swear to it?” La Reynie followed the square-built servant with his eyes.
“With pleasure.” Charles went back to watching Lulu.
The younger Polish ambassador, wearing a long-coated Polish suit of tawny silk, led Lulu onto the dance floor. As they made their honors to the king, Lulu smiled. Briefly and sadly, but it was still a smile and given to her father. Then she and the Pole made their honors to each other and she had a faint grave smile for him, too.
Well, Charles thought, his hopes rising, maybe all really was going to be well. Or at least well enough. The pair danced a lively bourrée, a miracle of fleet precision and ease, and Charles suspected that the ambassador had spent more time practicing than negotiating. As his feet and Lulu’s wove the dance’s balanced symmetry, the pink ribbons and gold lace on her headdress fluttered, and the ambassador smiled happily as his tawny silk coat rippled and swirled around his legs. The Duc du Maine had taken off his mask and was biting his lip as he watched his sister. Charles looked at the king, wondering what he felt as he watched his daughter dance for the last time. As though Louis felt Charles’s eyes on him, the royal gaze lifted to the balcony and rested on Charles for the briefest of moments. With a nod so small Charles couldn’t be sure he’d seen it, the king turned his attention back to the dancers, leaving Charles wondering if he’d just been thanked for his small part in Lulu’s acceptance of her fate.
When the bourrée ended and Lulu and the Pole had bowed and curtsied to the king, all the dancers rose and formed two facing lines for the buoyant contredanse that signaled the ball’s end. As the lines advanced and retreated and the couples whirled and wound their way up and down, Charles felt himself relax a little. The ball was over. Nothing had happened.
“They’ll set up a buffet now,” La Reynie said, when the contredanse had ended and the half dozen other people who’d been watching from the balcony were filing out into the gallery. “The musicians will play and the salon will be thronged with people milling and eating. I think you should go down, maître, and continue watching from there. I’ll stay up here and we’ll have each other in sight.”
Charles agreed and made his way from the balcony toward the stairs. And came face to face with Michel Louvois, the king’s minister of war. Louvois’s round black bulk seemed to radiate anger as he stared at Charles, then shouldered him aside and went toward the balcony where La Reynie was. Charles forced himself to walk sedately to the stairs, berating himself for how much he wanted to run, for how much he feared the war minister.
The stairs took him down to the north vestibule. A steady wind swept across the floor, and as he went into the salon, it seemed to get stronger. It was oddly disturbing, this wind blowing his cassock against his knees in a closed, crowded room, as though a storm must be raging outside, though at sunset the sky had been limpidly clear. Watching for any sign of Montmorency-and for Lulu, Conti, and Margot-he pushed politely through the crowd, feeling a growing need to keep Anne-Marie under his eye as well. As he passed near Mme de Maintenon, who was complaining indignantly about the wind, he caught sight of Lulu.
She was standing with her father near the royal armchair, hands folded demurely at her waist, eyes downcast, listening to him. La Chaise, still standing behind the chair, was watching her. The king’s brother and sister-in-law and the Dauphin watched and listened avidly. The ambassadors had drawn a little aside and were talking quietly to each other. As Charles made his way along the north wall, he saw Lulu lift her eyes, smile, and say something that brought an answering smile and nod from the king. She curtsied and went to a table in the corner where a crystal pitcher and a single gold cup stood waiting. As she started to pour a stream of wine dark as blackberries, a wandering, chattering pair of elderly women blocked Charles’s view. He sidestepped them and saw that Lulu stood now with bowed head, hands clasped at her bosom. He took advantage of a gap in the crowd to get nearer, and saw that she was fingering the blue-stoned ring Montmorency had given her, the one with a lock of his hair in it. Charles wondered suddenly if she cared more for Montmorency than he’d imagined. Had she hoped, in spite of everything, that he’d come for her? The ring’s blue stone opened and a deep sigh shuddered through her as she bent lower over the cup. Then she turned, and Charles saw the searing hatred in her eyes as she looked at her father, the same hatred he’d seen at the ball at Versailles. It was gone almost instantly, leaving her face a mask of submission as she carried the cup to the king.
“Lulu! Lulu, no!” But Charles’s voice was lost in the swelling chatter and music. He fought through the oblivious crowd to reach her. She lifted the cup briefly to her lips. Then she offered it to her father, who took it, smiling at her.
“Sire! Don’t drink it!” Charles leaped like an attacking wolf, slapped the goblet from the king’s hand, lost his footing, and fell at Louis’s feet.
Chapter 22
Chaos broke out and the music stopped. Cries of outrage filled the salon. Lèse-majesté! He assaulted the king’s majesty! Take him, hold him! It’s a Jesuit plot, a Huguenot plot, it’s the English! It’s the poisoner, I saw the cup! I saw a knife in his hand! Take him!
Charles lay utterly still, not daring even to speak lest the sword points pressing through his cassock and drawing warm trickles of blood under his shirt should press even harder. He had fallen with his head turned toward Lulu, and he looked through the forest of shoes and stockings for her pink-gold skirts. Then rough hands pulled him to his feet.
Guards from the vestibules held him and a hedge of sword points surrounded him, reflected candlelight running like fire along the blades. Pike-wielding guards and horrified gentlemen with drawn swords flanked the king, who was staring at the fallen cup and the wine splashed like blood across the floor. La Chaise was bent over the spilled wine, watching a fluffy white dog with red ribbons on its ears lapping eagerly at the puddle. Slowly, Louis turned his head to look at Charles.
“Regicide!” Michel Louvois, the war minister, raised his court sword from the hedging circle to Charles’s throat. “Now we know you for what you are!” His chins quivered with satisfaction. “You see, Sire! I was right about him. A Huguenot sympathizer, spreading his damnable creed at Louis le Grand, plotting-”
A deep, furious voice growled, “Don’t be a fool,” and a lace-cuffed hand shoved Louvois’s sword point away from Charles’s throat. La Reynie pushed past the war minister to the king. With a quick glance at La Chaise, he went down on one knee. “Sire, there was an attempt on your life, but not by Maître du Luc. Without him, you would be dying now. Look.”
He pointed, and a gasp went up from the royal family and others close enough to see. The fluffy white dog stood with its head down, heaving miserably. Suddenly it crumpled onto its side, shuddered, and lay still. A woman began to wail, but the others who had seen fell abruptly silent, and the frozen horror of their silence spread through the salon.
“Sweet wine, Sire,” La Reynie said softly. “Everyone close to you knows you like it. Sweet wine to cover a bitter taste.”
Only the king’s eyes moved as he looked from the dog to La Reynie to Charles. “Let the Jesuit go.” The guards took their hands away and stood at attention as Charles got slowly to his feet.
Louvois, protesting, made to secure him again, but Charles wrenched himself away.
“Sire,” Louvois pleaded, “you are not yourself; you have had a terrible shock! You cannot let this man go-everyone knows La Reynie protects him, and you might do well to discover why!”
/> “Not myself? I am entirely myself, Monsieur Louvois. But you forget yourself.” The royal words were full of warning. Louvois blanched and bowed.
“Find her,” the king said to La Reynie. “My men are at your service.” He raked the gathered courtiers with his eyes and left the salon, taking the speechless Polish ambassadors and the rest of his shocked entourage with him. When he was gone and everyone rose from their bows and curtsies, the courtiers edged toward the doors in their turn, chattering and staring at La Reynie and Charles as they went. La Chaise came to La Reynie. His face was the color of spoiled dough.
“What do you want me to do?” he said.
“Set whomever you can trust to watch the doors. If Montmorency shows himself, they must take him and hold him until I return.”
Nodding, La Chaise looked at Charles. “We are deeply indebted to you, Maître du Luc.”
Charles shook his head. “I was nearly too late. I failed her, I didn’t see her clearly enough. I wish-” He shrugged, out of words.
“My failure is greater than yours. At least you saw her desperation.”
He turned abruptly and went out the way the king had gone.
As he moved, Charles saw that Anne-Marie de Bourbon was standing near the wall, watching and listening. Before he could go to her, La Reynie said in his ear, “Stay near me,” and called the guard captain, who had been waiting with his men for orders.
La Reynie swiftly assigned half of them to search the chateau and its surrounding buildings for Lulu, and the other half to quarter the grounds. “I was in the balcony,” he told them. “I saw her leave by the north door. She can’t have gone far, on foot and dressed as she is. When you find her, bring her to me.”
Anne-Marie whirled and ran for the north door. Ignoring La Reynie’s order to stay close, Charles went after her. He caught her arm as she started down the terrace stairs, toward the streaming torches that marked where guards were already searching.