Paris

by Edward Rutherfurd

  “I cannot believe he would be so cruel.”

  Her mother looked at her sadly.

  “You do not know,” she said quietly, “how kind he has already been.”

  And then, after asking her hostess if she might be left alone with Amélie, Geneviève d’Artagnan gently told her daughter the truth.

  When she had finished, Amélie was silent. She just stared ahead in shock.

  “So I am not my father’s daughter,” she said at last. “Not a d’Artagnan.”

  “No.”

  “Who is my father, then?”

  “I shall never tell you.”

  “Was he noble?”

  “No. But your father has given you the d’Artagnan name, which makes you noble, and you must honor it. You are fortunate. But you must also consider your father’s position. He is providing a dowry for you, but it is only a small one. If your father were very rich, it might be different, but as things are, although he loves you, he does not feel he can give away too much of the family inheritance in order to provide for you. Monsieur de Cygne has a fine estate and needs an heir. He is prepared to accept a small dowry. But it might be hard to find another suitable husband who would. You must consider your father as well as yourself. You should not take money from him when there is no need.”

  “I could just marry a poor man who isn’t noble.”

  “No. You cannot dishonor the name you have been given by your father. That is not fair to him either. If you marry Monsieur de Cygne, however, then everything is solved. It’s your duty to do so, Amélie, and I believe you may be happy too. He seems to like you very much, by the way. He writes like a man in love.”

  “Mother, I shall return tomorrow to discuss this with you further,” said Amélie. “I am feeling very tired.”

  And without even bestowing the usual kiss upon her mother, she left.

  The following day, explaining to the dauphine that her mother had arrived to see her, she received permission to leave a little early. So the afternoon was still light as she walked into the town.

  It had not been difficult to discover where Monsieur de Cygne lived.

  Having seen her mother that morning, Roland de Cygne was rather surprised that Amélie should arrive at his house unaccompanied, but he received her in his elegant salon. The walk from the palace had brought a freshness to her cheeks.

  Amélie noticed the elegance of the house. In the hall was a portrait of Roland de Cygne as a young man, before he had received his wound, looking very handsome. In the salon, over the fireplace, was another portrait, of a lady of the court with a pleasant, kindly face. This evidently was his late wife.

  Seen by the light of day, Roland de Cygne looked exactly what he was, a middle-aged aristocrat whose handsome face had been marred by a slashing sword. It appeared that he was a man who had been happily married and who, no doubt, was now a little lonely. If he seemed very old, it was also clear to her that he had kept himself fit and that for all his modest manners, he was not a man to be trifled with.

  “Monsieur de Cygne,” she came straight to the point, “I have understood from my mother that you have done me the honor to ask for my hand in marriage. Is that still the case?”

  “It is, Mademoiselle d’Artagnan.”

  “You have seen my mother today?”

  “I have.”

  “And what has she told you of the circumstances of my birth?”

  He looked mildly surprised.

  “That you are the youngest child. Your brother will inherit the estate. Your sister is well married.”

  “Then I must tell you, monsieur, that you have been deceived. I am not my father’s daughter. I do not know who my real father is, but he was not noble.”

  Roland de Cygne looked at her thoughtfully. He had been a little surprised at the smallness of the dowry offered, and had assumed that this was because his own bargaining position was so weak. An older man with an ugly face, in desperate need of an heir, cannot demand a high price for marrying a fellow aristocrat’s good-looking daughter. This new information was no doubt a further reason for the smallness of the amount.

  “When did you discover yourself, mademoiselle?”

  “Last night, monsieur.”

  He nodded thoughtfully.

  “It came as a shock to you, therefore.”

  “It did, monsieur.”

  And why is she telling me? he wondered. Because she thinks I will break off the marriage agreement? Is she so anxious not to marry an ugly old man? Yet at the same time, he thought, she was taking a terrible risk with her own reputation. With her small dowry and her dubious origins, she was ruining herself in the marriage market. Did she realize this?

  She was young, and upset, and a little foolish. That was clear. But he decided that she was also honest and courageous. And he loved her for being so.

  He also needed an heir.

  “Mademoiselle, I honor you greatly for coming to me in this way,” he said. “You did not wish to deceive me, and you have trusted me with a secret. And now, for my part, I wish to tell you that I did not ask for your hand because of your name. I already have a name, of which I am proud. Nor did I ask for you because of the charms of your person, though those charms were evident even in the dark, and are even more to be admired in the light of day. But I asked for you because of those qualities of goodness and honesty which I at once perceived in your character.”

  “You are kind, monsieur.”

  “I hope so. Your case—even if you are correct, and there has not been some misunderstanding—is not as rare as you may suppose. Therefore, for your own sake, and for your parents’ honor, I ask you to say nothing of this to anyone for a few days. I need a day or two to reflect, myself. Would you do this for me as a kindness? Afterward, we can all decide what to do.”

  “If that is your wish, monsieur, then I will do as you ask.” It would have seemed churlish to refuse.

  After she had gone, Roland de Cygne thought for some time. He was annoyed, certainly, by the news. Amélie’s looks and manners were entirely aristocratic, but the thought of base blood entering the noble family of de Cygne was repugnant to him.

  But then a memory caused him to pause.

  It had been a few months before he had died that his father had confided to him a strange scene he had witnessed in the Louvre. “You were only seven years old at the time,” Charles had told him, “and I had to take a letter to the queen, our present king’s mother.” And then his father had told him about the strange figure in the bedroom. “They say that the king returned and spent a night with the queen at that time, and it may be so. But I tell you, Roland, I could have sworn it was Mazarin that I saw in there.”

  Roland de Cygne sighed. What if his father was right? In subsequent years, after Louis XIII was dead and Mazarin was running the kingdom, there was no doubt that the queen and Mazarin were so close that people wondered if they were secretly married. If Mazarin was the true father of the present monarch, then the Sun King was descended from a baseborn Italian whose ancestors may even have been Jewish.

  But he was still King of France.

  And whoever the real father of this honest young girl was, she bore the name of d’Artagnan. That was enough for the honor of his family.

  One other consideration also came into his mind. He had not been without conscience, or misgiving, about forcing such a young woman into marriage with him. But given these new circumstances, there was no question that, in the long run, it was for her own good. Her chances of making a good marriage on such a small dowry were slim. And if her parents had hoped that she might do well for herself by becoming a royal mistress of some kind, he was sure that they had misjudged the girl. That wasn’t her character at all.

  If she married him, however, she’d have rank, security and a comfortable life. And after I am gone, he thought, she’ll be well placed to make a second marriage more to her liking.

  He made up his mind. It was time to take action. He was going to secure the heir
his family needed, and to protect this young woman from her own foolishness.

  The king liked brave men. And he’d never asked for anything before. He’d seek an audience with him in the morning.

  Two days later, as Amélie was sitting in the dauphine’s dark room, both she and the dauphine were astonished when a courtier came to inform her that the king himself desired her presence.

  “I can’t imagine why,” Amélie said. “I’m sure I’ve done nothing wrong.”

  “Nor can I, but you must go at once,” the dauphine told her.

  She knew that, when not in council, the king conducted most of his business with a very few advisors. But she was quite surprised to find herself ushered into a salon in which the king was sitting on a fauteuil quite alone. Beside him was a table, covered by a rich cloth on which there were a number of papers. She curtseyed deeply as the door closed behind her.

  She had never been in the intimate presence of King Louis before. He was wearing a coat of deep red velvet trimmed with gold, a lace cravat and a large wig that reproduced the magnificent dark brown hair of his youth. His face was sensual, a little fleshy now, but every line proclaimed that he was used to being obeyed. His eyes were smaller than she had realized, as dark brown as his wig, and sharp and cynical as the world that he commanded. In his usual fashion when seated, his left leg was tucked back and his right, impressively muscular in its white silk stocking, was stuck out proudly.

  “You are young, Mademoiselle d’Artagnan,” he said calmly. “You bear a fine name.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” she said. She felt rather frightened.

  “It is my wish that you should honor the name of d’Artagnan that you are so fortunate to bear. I am sure you understand me.”

  “I think so, sire.”

  “Whatever you may believe about your birth, you are never to speak of these doubts again. Never. If you do, you may be sure that I shall hear of it.”

  “I merely try to be honest, Your Majesty,” she ventured.

  “That is often commendable. But in these circumstances it is ill-advised and would bring pain to others and to yourself. You will therefore do as I wish.” He looked at her to make sure she had understood.

  She bowed her head, and said nothing.

  “You have the opportunity to render a great service to a family who have served France for many centuries, and to bring happiness to a brave and honest man. I am speaking of course of Monsieur de Cygne.”

  “He did me the honor to propose marriage, Your Majesty, but he may have changed his mind.”

  “On the contrary, he is quite determined to marry you, Mademoiselle d’Artagnan, and it is my wish that this marriage should take place.”

  “I wonder, Your Majesty …” she began desperately, but the king signified that she should cease speaking at once.

  “I wish it,” he said bleakly.

  Le Roi le veult: the king wishes it. The final word against which there could be no argument and no recourse. She fell silent.

  And then she discovered why even the princes of the blood trembled in the presence of the Sun King.

  “It is best for everyone that you do exactly as I say, mademoiselle,” King Louis quietly continued. “You must trust my wisdom. You will never question your birth again, you will marry Monsieur de Cygne and one day you will be glad that you did.” And now his voice suddenly became harsh. “But if you fail in the slightest degree to follow the instructions I have just given you, then you will regret it.” He picked up a sheet of paper from the table. “Do you know what this is?”

  “No, Your Majesty.”

  “It is a lettre de cachet, mademoiselle. With this, I can send you to the Bastille or any prison of my choosing. I can place you in solitary confinement, and give instructions that you are never to be seen again. I do not have to supply any reason for my action. It is entirely within my power. I have sent young women to prison in this manner before. And I am quite ready to sign this letter now, and find Monsieur de Cygne another wife. The guards outside the door will convey you to prison at once. In one minute from now, mademoiselle, you will vanish forever.”

  Amélie felt herself shivering. A terrible cold descended upon her. She had never known such fear before.

  “I will do as you command, Your Majesty,” she said hoarsely.

  “Do not at any time disobey me, mademoiselle, in the smallest particular. I shall hear of it if you do. And then, even Monsieur de Cygne will not be able to save you.”

  “I shall never disobey you, sire,” she swore, “as long as I live.”

  “I shall come to your marriage,” he said, and dismissed her.

  A year later, Amélie de Cygne gave birth to a baby boy. Her husband wrote to his young cousin in Canada to announce the fact. He did not write to him again.

  • 1715 •

  It was quite a common sight, in the early years of the eighteenth century, to see the old man on the Pont Neuf, especially when the weather was warm. His grandson would bring him there in his cart.

  Some people could still remember him in his prime.

  “You should have heard him then,” they would tell the younger folk. “The greatest mouth in Paris.” And strong as an ox. For look at how long he had lived. Nobody was sure of his exact age, but he must be over eighty. He still wore a red scarf around his neck, under his white beard.

  If people came up and spoke to him, he would answer them briefly, and when he did so it could be seen that he had two or three teeth, which was remarkable for such an aged man.

  When he appeared in the summer of 1715, Hercule Le Sourd had not been seen for months, and the previous winter had clearly taken its toll. His face was gaunt, and his clothes hung upon him loosely. But he got out of his grandson’s cart and walked stiffly across to the middle of the bridge. And was seen there every week or so after that.

  One day his grandson took him along the Left Bank of the river so that he could gaze down the huge southern sweep to the cold facade of Les Invalides, to which King Louis had added a splendid royal chapel with a gilded dome. “I’ve seen pictures of St. Peter’s, Rome,” his grandson told him, “and this looks exactly the same. Paris is the new Rome.” Another time, they went to the northern part of the city where King Louis had demolished parts of the old city wall and built handsome boulevards there instead. “The king’s made France more glorious than she’s ever been before,” the younger man declared confidently.

  “That may be,” Hercule said, but he was too old to be easily impressed.

  Yes, he thought, King Louis had added to the glory of Bourbon France. The great nobles obeyed him. The country was better run. Across the ocean in the New World, French adventurers had just made good their claim to the territory centered on the vast Mississippi basin and called it Louisiana.

  In Europe, the power of the mighty Hapsburgs of Austria and Spain was waning. By force and clever bargaining, the Sun King had grabbed rich border territories like Alsace out of Hapsburg hands and into his own. By marrying his heirs to Hapsburg princesses, King Louis had done even better. For when the inbred Hapsburgs couldn’t even provide an heir for Spain, one of his grandsons had inherited the Spanish throne. True, the Bourbons had to promise the rest of Europe that France and Spain would never be ruled by a single monarch, but it was a friendly Bourbon, rather than a rival Hapsburg, who now lay over France’s southern border.

  French culture was the fashion. All over Europe, French was becoming the language of diplomacy and the aristocracy.

  I, myself, as a Frenchman, am proud of all this, Hercule admitted.

  Yet the Bourbon glory had come at a cost. The Sun King’s ambition had alarmed his fellow rulers, especially the Protestant ones. When he’d attacked the Netherlands, he’d gone too far. And the last two decades had seen a long drawn-out war in which the great English general Churchill, now Duke of Marlborough, had smashed the French army several times, proving to all the world that mighty France was not invincible. The war had left the Sun King’s
treasury depleted, and France with few friends. Was that so good?

  And yet beyond that, it seemed to Hercule, there was something else. Something intangible, like a cloud obscuring the sun.

  The ancient Greeks told it as the tragedy of hubris. A king grows too proud, and the gods punish him. Medieval men spoke of the wheel of fortune, which never ceases to turn. Or perhaps God, for His own good reasons, had turned His face away from the King of France.

  Whatever the cause, one thing was clear to Hercule Le Sourd: in the last few years, King Louis XIV had run out of luck.

  It wasn’t only the grim cost of his wars. Everything had gone wrong. The harvests had failed—the surest sign of divine displeasure. Disease and famine had struck the countryside. And now his heirs had started dying. The dauphin, heir to France. The dauphin’s son. The dauphin’s elder grandson. Was there a curse on the family? One had to wonder. And now the king was old, and his health was beginning to fail, and his heir was his younger great-grandson, a little boy of five.

  After all of King Louis XIV’s dynastic efforts, the kingdom of France would shortly be back where it was before: financially ruined, and with a helpless child upon the throne.

  The sun was being extinguished. The darkness was closing in.

  It was almost the end of August when the strange thing occurred. Hercule Le Sourd had asked his grandson to take him to a different place that day: the stately square of the Place Royale in the Marais quarter.

  When they got there, he directed his grandson to a particular spot, and then got out and stretched his legs a bit.

  “Why do you choose this place to stop?” his grandson inquired.

  “Something wrong with it?”

  “No.”

  “Then mind your own business,” said his grandfather.

  What had happened to that strange woman? he wondered. Probably dead by now. And no doubt I’ll be following her soon myself, he thought. And it occurred to him that in every corner of Paris there must be places where people had made illicit love—people who were long since turned to skeletons and dust. And if they were all to be resurrected in the body at the same time and in the act of love, what a strange panting, and moaning, and grinding of bones there would be. And in the warm, thick air of that August afternoon, it seemed to him that just for a moment, he could sense all those vanished bodies like spirits all around him, but as spirits with substance, however light. Was it possible that memories, and souls, could take a vaporous form and float about? If they could do it anywhere, it would surely be in the sultry warmth of the intimate, arcaded brick-and-stone enclosure, on a silent August afternoon.