Paris

by Edward Rutherfurd

  And yet, miraculously, hundreds of thousands managed to leave. Taking quiet roads, walking through woods, hiding in wagons and barges, hundreds of thousands of them managed to slip over the borders into the Netherlands, Switzerland or Germany. Others got out through Huguenot ports before the king could block them. They ran huge risks in doing so, and they had to be careful. But for all his power and all his troops, the Sun King could not stop them. France was too big, the Huguenots too many. Like the mass migration of Puritans from England to America, fifty years before, about two percent of the population, including some of the most skilled, were lost to their country, and gained by others.

  The Renard family, by acting swiftly, had shown much wisdom. Without a word to their friends and neighbors, they discreetly vanished. A month later, they arrived in London, where the existing Huguenot community soon grew to many times its size.

  A week after the Edict of Fontainebleau, Perceval d’Artagnan called Amélie to him for a talk.

  “My child,” he announced, “I have good news for you. A great opportunity has arisen—one that may change your life entirely.” Madame de Saint-Loubert, a distant kinswoman of the family, well connected at court, had recently written to him, he explained, to let him know of a position that might be of interest. He had written back. “And now it’s all arranged.” He smiled. “You’re to go to Versailles.”

  “To Versailles, Papa?” Amélie looked astonished. “I thought you hated the court.”

  She was right, of course. During the last twenty years, d’Artagnan had watched the Sun King’s grip on France get tighter and tighter. If Cardinal Richelieu had been the mentor of Cardinal Mazarin, Mazarin in turn had left the king with a trained successor, the superintendent of finances, Colbert. For twenty years Colbert had built up a bureaucracy of plain men who quietly took more and more of the administration of France into their hands.

  As long as the court remained in Paris, the process hadn’t been too noticeable. The king had made improvements to the Louvre, and started building the splendid hospital of Les Invalides for army veterans. That was welcome. Social life had continued as usual. The aristocrats had their mansions. Corneille, Molière and Racine had filled the theaters. And if bureaucrats increasingly attended to the tiresome business of running the government, the aristocrats still provided the army officers. Theirs was the honor of battle. They could fight and die for their king, in the old-fashioned way, pride themselves on their valor, win glory like the heroes of feudal times and look down upon the bureaucrats and merchant classes alike.

  Until the court moved to Versailles. It had happened only three years ago, but the transformation had been complete. Anyone who wanted office and preferment now had to abandon Paris and live under the king’s supervision there. Even valiant soldiers, having campaigned in the summer—for war, thank God, was still an affair of gentlemen, to be conducted in the summer season—still needed to spend the winter in lodgings in Versailles so that they could catch the eye of the king and get a command the following year. And they had to hang about there all the time. They could visit their estates when necessary, but if they slipped off to Paris for a week without permission, the king would notice and their chance of a command would be gone. D’Artagnan disliked the king and his methods, but he could see his cunning. Louis now had everyone under his thumb.

  “It’s true that I don’t like Versailles,” he confessed to Amélie, “and I don’t want to go there myself. But it’s still a wonderful opportunity for you. The position that’s on offer is beyond anything we might have hoped for. You’ll be one of the maids of honor to the dauphine, the daughter-in-law of the king himself.” He smiled kindly. “And I think the change of scene will do you good.”

  The matter was decided in any case. Three days later, Amélie found herself on her way to the court at Versailles.

  As Roland de Cygne looked at the letter, he knew that he must answer it. But he didn’t want to.

  It was some months since he had communicated the sad news of his wife’s death to his cousin Guy in Canada. It was the first time he’d written to him in years.

  In the early part of the century, his grandfather had corresponded with his brother Alain regularly. They were devoted to each other, and the three thousand miles of ocean that lay between them could not alter that. For a long time Robert had hoped that his younger brother would cover himself in glory in Canada, achieve a great position and the wealth that came with it and return to France to found a second branch of the family. This dream perhaps never died until the day that Robert himself departed.

  But things hadn’t worked out that way. Not that Alain had done badly. He’d received some quite substantial land grants. But they required his attention if they were going to be worth anything. In due course he’d asked his brother to find him a wife of noble family, but who would not mind sharing the hardships of the frontier. That had not been easy. It had been quite impossible to find a girl with any fortune. But in the end Robert had found the youngest daughter of an impoverished nobleman who was reduced to a state hardly better than a small farmer, and she had been willing to take on the nobleman with his tract in the wilderness. After her arrival in Canada, Alain had written back that his brother had made an excellent choice, and that they were very happy together.

  The next generation had continued the correspondence. Roland remembered his grandfather speaking of his Canadian cousins as if this was a part of his family that he would surely meet one day. And after his grandfather had died, his father Charles had kept the connection alive, out of family duty. Roland and his second cousin, Guy, sent letters to each other from time to time, especially concerning any important family event.

  Guy de Cygne in Canada, therefore, had known that Roland and his wife had only one daughter who lived to adulthood and that she was long since married to a noble in Brittany. He had known that her two sons had both died as infants, that Roland was now fifty-five years of age and that he was a widower. It could hardly be thought that he was likely to marry again and start a fresh family.

  Though Guy de Cygne was aware that his cousin in France had once been wounded in battle, he had no knowledge of the details of the wound, and so he was unaware that Roland’s nose had been split and that his face was quite unsightly, making it even less likely that he would obtain another wife at this late stage of his life.

  All he knew for certain was that as things stood at present, upon the death of Roland, his own son Alain would be the only male de Cygne left, and presumably heir to the family estate.

  The letter before Roland now came not from Guy, but from his son Alain, a young man of twenty, containing the sad news of Guy’s demise, and asking Roland de Cygne whether he wished him to come to France.

  It was a fair question. If the young man was to be the representative of the family in France, then he would have much to learn, and Roland should summon him to his side at once.

  But he couldn’t bring himself to do it. A deep, primitive voice inside him urged him to fight. He would not give in. I may not be much to look at, he thought, but I still have my name, and my health. I have another ten years. More than that, perhaps.

  Madame de Saint-Loubert was a middle-aged woman with a long face and very large blue eyes. Her mother and d’Artagnan’s mother had been cousins. Her husband, the count, had a modest position as a superintendent of mines, but hoped for more, and to help him accomplish this, she had made friends with a large number of people at court. They had a small house in the town, where Amélie spent her first night. The very next morning, Madame de Saint-Loubert announced that she was taking Amélie to court.

  “You are not due to see the dauphine until tomorrow. You needn’t worry, by the way. I happen to know that you are the only person under consideration at the moment, so you only have to be polite and the position will be yours. But it will be a good idea for you to get an idea of the court before you meet her. So just stand beside me and watch.”

  It took hours to dress. Amé
lie’s gown was charming. An underpetticoat of watered satin trimmed with bands of silk. A hooped skirt gathered at the waist, divided, looped at the sides and then flowed back to end in a short train behind her. It was made of a heavy silk, but with a light brown color, shot with pink, that suited her very well. Her tight bodice was decorated with charming ribbons tied in bows. French lace at her wrists and neck. It was the most feminine thing imaginable. Madame de Saint-Loubert’s hairdresser spent another two hours on her hair, arranging it with ringlets and ribbons in the style then current. She was relieved that her dress passed muster. “It’s better than many of the ladies of the court. Not everyone here is rich, you know. You look very well. Come along.”

  The first thing that surprised Amélie as they approached the vast palace was how many people seemed to be crowding around the entrance. “Who are they?” she asked.

  “Anyone who wants to look at the king.”

  “Anybody can walk into the palace?”

  “Yes. And they do.”

  Just then a closed sedan chair was carried in past them.

  “Who is that?” Amélie asked.

  “Hard to know. All the sedan chairs are hired. Only the royal family are allowed to have their own.”

  They went up the great staircase and came into the huge Galerie des Glaces. It was crowded with people, from aristocrats to tradesmen. “We’ll stay back a little,” said her guide. “We aren’t trying to catch the king’s eye—which most of the people here are. I just want you to observe.”

  They waited awhile. Amélie gazed around. The vast mirrored hall stretched so far that, with all the people there, she could not even see the ends of it, but only the long succession of crystal chandeliers hanging from the painted ceiling high above.

  And then suddenly a silence swept along the huge hall. Footmen were approaching and other court officials. The great throng miraculously parted, like the Red Sea, withdrawing to the sides and leaving a broad path down the center.

  Down which, a moment later, came the royal entourage.

  “The king goes to Mass at exactly this hour every day,” Madame de Saint-Loubert whispered. “You can set the clock by his movements.”

  The king came first. He was certainly an impressive figure. Wearing a large black wig and magnificently embroidered coat he moved down the gallery at a swift but stately pace. His face was aquiline, the nose a little hooked, his eyes half closed. But Amélie had the good sense to realize that under their half-closed lids his eyes were observing everything. She also noticed something else. The king’s height owed something to the high heels of his shoes. She whispered this to Madame de Saint-Loubert.

  “He wears high heels to make himself seem taller. He always has,” her guide whispered back.

  “He does not seem so terrifying.”

  “Do not ever make that mistake, my dear. The king is the politest man in France. He even touches his hat to the scullery maids. But his power is absolute. Even his children are terrified of him.” She indicated a man in the robes of a Jesuit priest walking just behind him. “That’s his confessor, Père de La Chaise.” Amélie noticed that people were smiling at the priest. “Père de La Chaise is kind to everyone,” said her friend. “If the king is the most feared, La Chaise is the most loved man at the court.”

  Next came a large, blond man, with a pleasant, Germanic face, and the first signs that his impressive physique might run to fat.

  “That is the king’s eldest son, the dauphin. We call him le Grand Dauphin, because he’s so tall. It’s his wife you’ll see tomorrow.

  “Ah. And behind him you see the Duc d’Orléans, the king’s brother, and his wife.”

  A handsome woman, dressed very simply and wearing a diamond cross, passed by.

  “Since the queen died, the king’s friend Madame de Maintenon has so taken him over that the rumor is that they have secretly married. But nobody knows.”

  Then came a lady who clearly had once been very beautiful. Her face still contained traces of beauty, but it was clear from the way she walked that her legs had puffed up.

  “Madame de Montespan, the king’s most important former mistress. She gave him a number of children, and he’s legitimized them all.”

  “He can do that?”

  “I’m surprised you didn’t know. He can do what he wants. Well, almost. You know he chooses the French bishops. He doesn’t let the pope do it.”

  After the cortege had passed, her friend decided to give Amélie a tour of the palace and grounds. “Over there,” she indicated, “is the north wing where you’ll have your room, assuming the dauphine accepts you. But we can look at that tomorrow.”

  Madame de Saint-Loubert could see that Amélie’s ignorance of the court was far greater than it should have been for an aristocratic girl, and she hoped that she hadn’t made a mistake by suggesting that she come to Versailles. However, others had come there with far less breeding and good manners than Amélie and done very well, so she set to work to explain some of the principal characters at the court, how they were related and where they stood in the pecking order.

  The list was long, and the relationships were so complex that it made Amélie’s head spin. There were the children of the king by the late queen, and then his children by his mistresses. Then there were the children of other branches of the royal family, both legitimate and illegitimate. And of course, the many descendants of branches of royalty, legitimate or otherwise, going back for centuries. Usually the offspring of the king’s mistresses were married into the greatest noble families, sometimes even into the legitimate royal family.

  “Don’t worry,” Madame de Saint-Loubert told her, “the pattern will soon emerge if you just keep paying attention.”

  When it came to the pecking order, she had to explain a most important principle.

  “The princes of the blood are closest to the king in rank, and so the precedence is usually easy to follow. But rank and power are completely different. The king’s eldest son and the king’s brother are at the top of the tree. But they have no part in the government. Louis won’t even let them attend meetings with him.”

  “But why?”

  “To keep all the power in his hands. No chance of rivals, I should think. Wouldn’t you?”

  “I hadn’t thought of it.”

  “If you need a royal favor, then go to the mistresses. It’s a general rule that his mistress usually has more influence on a king than his wife.”

  “What about his old mistress, Madame de Montespan? Is she important?”

  “He visits her every day. He’s fond of her. But you know there was a big scandal—well, you were too young. Anyway, it was said that she used poison to get rid of another mistress. Nothing was ever proved. I’m sure it’s not true. But there’s always been a cloud over her since.”

  “I feel as if I’ve walked into a dangerous labyrinth.”

  “All courts are like that.”

  As they returned from the palace, Amélie could not help feeling a sense of misgiving.

  The next morning they returned to the palace to see the dauphine. Amélie knew her story. “She is not one of the court beauties,” Madame de Saint-Loubert had told her, “yet she seemed to please the dauphin. They’ve had three children. But the last birth, this year, took a toll on her health, or so she says.”

  The apartment of the dauphin was large, bright and airy. But that was not where they found his wife.

  Although it was morning, the small back room was dark, the windows covered. An Italian maid let them in. The wife of the large, hearty-looking prince Amélie had seen yesterday did not seem well. Though Amélie knew that she was only about twenty-five, she had the impression that the sickly figure before her was much older. The dauphine was sitting in a fauteuil, and she summoned Amélie, telling her to sit on a small gilt chair. Her gesture was rather listless.

  Only as she got close did she realize something else about the dauphin’s wife: She was astonishingly ugly. Her skin was blotchy. Her
lips were pale as an old woman’s, her teeth were rotten, and her hands were unnaturally red. But most striking of all was her big, bulbous nose.

  The poor lady’s looks were so unprepossessing that it was lucky Amélie had been prepared for them. She kept her face a mask.

  First the dauphine offered her a piece of cake. Since it would have been impolite to refuse, even though she didn’t want it, Amélie ate the cake while the dauphine watched her.

  “Despite her physical ugliness, the dauphine is most fastidious when she eats. She cannot bear to have women near her who eat messily,” Madame de Saint-Loubert had forewarned her. “But don’t worry, your table manners are excellent.”

  As she didn’t drop any crumbs from her mouth or spill anything on the floor, this seemed to satisfy the dauphine.

  Could she read and write? Had she a good hand? The Italian maid brought her a pen, ink and a piece of paper and she was commanded to write a few lines of any verse she knew.

  Amélie obliged with some elegant religious verses from Corneille. The choice, and her handwriting, seemed to do.

  “The dauphine is well read and speaks three languages well. She won’t expect this from you, however,” her mentor had also informed her.

  Then the conversation turned to her family.

  Who were her parents? Amélie named them. And her grandparents? Amélie named them too. And her great-grandparents? These she also named. And their parents? Amélie named all sixteen.

  “They are all noble?” The dauphine sought confirmation. Amélie confirmed that they were. “This is good. This is important,” said the dauphine.

  “You must understand,” Madame de Saint-Loubert had explained the night before, “that if you think your father is concerned with ancestry, this pales into insignificance compared to the attention paid to the subject by German royalty and, as I hope you know, the dauphine by birth is a Bavarian princess. She might take you if you weren’t of sufficiently pure blood, but she’d give you a terrible time. She even treats Madame de Maintenon like a servant because her ancestry is imperfect.” She smiled. “I had already checked with your parents, or I wouldn’t have brought you here. It would have been too cruel.” She paused. “By the way, I wouldn’t say that you are close to your cousins who lost their nobility, if I were you.”