The Many Lives of John Stone

  “Shocking,” mimed Isabelle from behind her aunt’s back.

  “Oh, shocking,” I repeated, keeping my face very straight.

  As we walked through the house, Isabelle and I contrived to lag behind so that we could exchange glances and hold hands for a few precious seconds. We were not careful enough, for I saw the color heighten in her aunt’s face. She then began to interrogate me about my family and my father’s estate, and it suddenly struck me that not only was my true identity a mystery even to me, I would be obliged, from now on, to lie about it to the rest of the world. This distressing thought made me even more tongue-tied in the face of the aunt’s searching questions. Soon my nerves were in shreds, and I started to stutter and pull at my tight cravat. I overheard her whisper into Isabelle’s ear: “Whatever were you were thinking of, my dear, asking me to receive this young man?”

  Ignoring Isabelle’s silent protests, her aunt brought up the incident at the Colonnade. The whole affair, she said, had distressed Isabelle’s father exceedingly. Why had I attacked the Prince de Montclair so recklessly? She opened her painted fan and beat the air beneath her chin while she waited for my response.

  “He insulted Mademoiselle d’Alembert’s friend, Madame. I had no option but to defend her honor.”

  “Monsieur, I was hoping, in the circumstances, that you might express some remorse. The fact that you show none indicates, at best, a lack of good judgement and, at worst, inexcusably poor manners. I gave you the opportunity to redeem yourself. Alas, you have not availed yourself of it.”

  Closing her fan with a click, Isabelle’s aunt indicated that my visit had come to an end. She shepherded me out of the room, making it clear to Isabelle that she was not to follow. Isabelle’s expression was difficult to read as she curtseyed her farewell. Her aunt accompanied me to the entrance hall, where she stopped and turned to face me.

  “A word before you leave, Monsieur.”

  Her expression was perfectly pleasant. “Yes, Madame.”

  “My niece is a d’Alembert, with a glittering future ahead of her. It is only because I dote on her that I permitted you to call on her today. You must understand that you will not, of course, be welcomed at Rambouillet on another occasion. Adieu, Monsieur.”

  As my carriage moved away, I wondered if Isabelle’s aunt had planned to warn me off from the start, or if I had failed whatever test she had set for me. Never had I felt the sting of humiliation so acutely. I was not worthy of Isabelle and her aunt had made this plain to her. What ridiculous conceit had made me think that I could win her? Yet a sixth sense made me look back at the house. I saw the pale oval of Isabelle’s face appear at an upstairs window. She blew me a kiss. And then I flung my head and shoulders out of the carriage window and waved joyfully until she had disappeared from view.

  XIV

  As I stepped into the inn, with its pervading odor of wood smoke and roasting mutton, I heard a clatter of boots descending the wooden staircase. It was the Spaniard. New guests had arrived and I watched him pick his way through teetering piles of luggage, their dogs, and their fretful children, until, finally, he stood before me. “At last!” he said, and grabbed me by the shoulder.

  He led me outside, into a meadow, where only black-faced sheep could overhear our conversation. My meeting with Isabelle and her aunt, still at the forefront of my own mind, was clearly the last thing on his. He did not even ask how the visit had gone. Instead, he announced that during my absence a messenger had arrived from Versailles with instructions for me. The King’s valet de chambre, Monsieur Bontemps, wished to speak with me, and I was to wait for him, at midnight, at the crossroads outside Rambouillet. He would be traveling in a carriage that bore no armorial markings. I was not surprised that the Spaniard was agitated. Monsieur Bontemps—a man whom the King trusted above all others—desired to talk with me! This was astonishing news.

  “But why, Signor? What could be the purpose of his visit?”

  “Have you truly listened to nothing I have told you?” said the Spaniard in exasperation. “It has always been a possibility that the King knows about you.”

  The Spaniard was right to be angry with me. At that age I was still apt to listen only to what I wanted to hear, and my preoccupation with Isabelle had made me deaf to his concerns. He had often told me how fond Queen Mariana of Spain had been of Juan Pedro. I was also aware that, owing to the suspicious circumstances surrounding Juan Pedro’s death, the Spaniard had enlisted her aid, and she, in turn, had approached the King of France. Louis consented to Queen Mariana’s request and offered his protection to the infant and his guardian who had fled Madrid and now sought refuge in France. Queen Mariana and the Spaniard had never spoken directly to each other about Juan Pedro’s longevity, so neither could be certain how much the other knew. But the Spaniard—who had now benefited from the Sun King’s hospitality for over fifteen years—lived in fear that Juan Pedro’s secret might have been passed from one monarch to another.

  “Do you think that the King believes me to be a sempervivens?”

  The Spaniard shrugged his shoulders. “I cannot say. But we are about to find out. Perhaps the King believes the time has come for him to inspect his goods. . . .”

  I looked at him, taken aback by the unpleasant turn of phrase. “How could Monsieur Bontemps know where to find us?” I asked.

  “As I have told you before and repeat now, nothing happens at Versailles without the King being told of it sooner or later. Besides, where there’s a will, these things are simple to find out.”

  The Spaniard reached into his pocket and pulled out a small leather pouch. “Here. You are required to present this to Monsieur Bontemps to prove your identity.”

  The pouch was decorated with three fleurs-de-lys. When I tugged opened the fine drawstrings I found a signet ring wrapped inside a piece of scarlet silk. I held it up at eye level. The Spaniard joined me, and standing at my shoulder, gripped my wrist in his large fist, turning it this way and that in order to observe every detail. It was made of gold, and its octagonal head was embossed with an apple tree whose roots had been depicted in as much detail as the branches, so that the two halves of the tree mirrored each other. Minute rubies represented the fruit with which its boughs were laden. Spiraling around the inner surface of the ring was an inscription, which I read out loud:

  “ ‘Sapiens vivit quantum debet, non quantum potest.’ ”

  “Seneca!” the Spaniard exclaimed. “The wise man lives as long as he ought, not as long as he can.”

  We exchanged a glance and saw the look of alarm in his eyes. “So the King does know!”

  “He may,” agreed the Spaniard, letting go of my wrist.

  As the Spaniard walked away from me I noted the despondent tilt of his head. But it was not dismay that I felt. Rather, a throb of excitement started to pulse through my veins. What plans might the King have for me? The Spaniard was deep in thought. Presently I asked: “Will you accompany me tonight?”

  “My presence has not been requested, Jean-Pierre.” He held my gaze for a moment. “This is not the first time Monsieur Bontemps has attempted to see you. He sent a messenger to the Cévennes soon after we arrived. I sent word to him that you were unable to speak and that you could receive no visitors—”

  I was indignant. “Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

  “I had hoped to dissuade you from returning to Versailles.”

  “I do not understand you, Signor. What if King Louis does know my secret? Is it not a good thing to have his protection?”

  “It is what comes with that protection that concerns me. The blood of the sempervivens might run in your veins, but you are still a boy. When Juan Pedro came to the Spanish court he had already acquired wisdom in the world and knew his own mind. Louis has all the instincts of a powerful king. How are you to hold your own in his presence? He will bend you to his will; he will train you into a form that pleases him like the topiary that adorns his gardens. He will be the master and you the se
rvant and you will soon forget that it could ever have been otherwise—”

  “I am not feeble-minded, Signor!”

  “That is not what I said—”

  “Forgive me, Signor, but are you implying that I could learn more from you than from the Sun King?—”

  “No, Jean-Pierre! My only thought is to place you where you can grow freely. In Versailles, I fear you could be pruned and shaped to the King’s design—a king whom you will outlive. Do you understand me?” My look of incomprehension provoked an impatient sigh. “You will need all your wits about you this evening,” he said abruptly. “I suggest you return to the inn and rest.”

  * * *

  My teacher’s words had unsettled me. Nevertheless, still smarting from the disdain Isabelle’s aunt had showed me only that morning, I could not help but regard the Spaniard’s predictions as excessively gloomy. Indeed, as I stared up at the luminous clouds scudding across the moon, and warmed my hands under my armpits, it seemed to me that, given my lowly place in the pecking order, I was fortunate to have been noticed by the master of Versailles. All the same, when I heard a rumble of wheels announce the arrival of Monsieur Bontemps, something held me back from stepping forward and showing myself immediately. A spot of light—the glow of a lantern—swam toward me through the darkness. What did the Sun King want with me? Could I withstand the will of a king? I heard the single peal of a bell ring out over miles of dew-sodden pasture and sleeping lambs.

  “Who goes there?” called the driver as I stepped out in front of the royal carriage. I felt the heat coming from the horses’ steaming flanks and heard the jangling of reins. No sooner had I announced myself than a rectangle of light spilled onto the dirt road and a large, broad-shouldered man stepped out of the carriage. I had seen Monsieur Bontemps from a distance at Versailles. He seemed larger in person, and stooped a little, in the manner of those who are taller than the rest of us.

  “I am Alexandre Bontemps, premier valet du chambre du Roi.”

  For a thickset man his movements were graceful. I rose up from my own bow, and the open and charming smile I observed on his face endeared him to me at once. When I presented the pouch to him, he extracted the ring, took hold of my wrist, and, to my surprise, placed the ring on the little finger of my left hand.

  “As I suspected. Too large. I shall have it altered. Come,” he said, pocketing the ring and guiding me into the carriage by my elbow. “Let us get out of this damp night air.”

  We scrutinized each other in the yellow light cast by two lanterns. Monsieur Bontemps had an easy manner. He demanded to know if I had dined, and when I said I had not, he picked up a basket from the floor that contained a plump roast chicken. Pulling off a leg with a moist squelch, he offered it to me in a napkin. Availing himself of the other leg, he sank his teeth into the meat and I listened to the sound of his chewing. Soon Monsieur Bontemps smacked his lips, threw the leg bone out of the window, and wiped his glistening chin.

  “You will be wondering why you have been summoned in the middle of the night to meet with the King’s servant.”

  “Yes, Monsieur.”

  “Then let me tell you at once that the King requires me to make certain arrangements for your welfare. Like my father before me, my life is dedicated to the service of the King, and has been for a quarter of a century and more. I tell you this because you need to know that you can rely—with absolute certainty—on my discretion. Does the chicken please you?”

  “Thank you, yes. It is excellent.”

  “Good. We have a new head cook at Marly—the last one came to a bad end. I am persuaded that his kitchens can roast poultry, at least.” He placed the basket on the seat next to me. “Please, serve yourself. . . . The King has informed me that your identity is known only to his Majesty and Queen Mariana of Spain—and, of course, your tutor—”

  “Then the King knows that I am—”

  “Stop!” cried Monsieur Bontemps, clamping his hands over his ears and causing the driver to appear at the window to enquire if his master needed assistance. He waved him away. “Forgive me, but you must not—you must never—divulge anything about yourself. The King has commanded it. This is of the utmost importance. Do you understand? No one else must know who you are.”

  “I understand, Monsieur. I am sorry.”

  “Secrets are a burden and I am very happy to be spared yours. As far as the world is concerned, the man who adopted you is your father. Now, tell me, to the best of your knowledge, has the redoubtable Signor de Lastimosa, who protects you with such zeal, ever spoken of your secret to anyone else?”

  “I do not believe so, Monsieur.”

  “Have you spoken of it to anyone else?”

  “No, Monsieur.”

  “Good . . . good. The King will be pleased.”

  “May I ask what you do know about me, Monsieur Bontemps?”

  “Very little. I know that I failed to keep you safe, despite having the Swiss Guards watch over you.”

  “The Swiss Guards?”

  “It was for your own protection.”

  “Did I need protecting?”

  Monsieur Bontemps gave me a curious look. “Clearly you did!”

  I touched my skull instinctively. “Then you did not fail me, Monsieur. If it hadn’t been for the guard outside the Church of Saint Symphorien, I should not be here now, eating chicken in your carriage.”

  “If you will permit me?” Monsieur Bontemps removed the chicken bone from my greasy fingers and tossed it through the window. He drew one of the lanterns close to my face. “May I?” he asked. He pushed the hair away from my forehead to examine my scar. Then he tapped my crooked nose and gave a broad smile. “It gives you the air of a fighter. You were lucky: I can see that. Are you quite recovered?”

  I told him that I was.

  “The King desires to establish you at court, but at first you are to live quietly, for we do not wish to provoke curiosity.”

  I listened, round-eyed, as Monsieur Bontemps described how my new life would be. I was to be offered a secretary’s position in the household of the King’s younger brother, whom everyone knew as “Monsieur.” He would pay me a generous allowance. My father would also be granted a pension but only on condition that he remove my three brothers from court. The King, it appeared, was well informed, indeed.

  Then Monsieur Bontemps told me something that sent shivers down my spine. “From time to time,” he said, “the King intends to talk with you alone. His Majesty prefers to keep this arrangement secret. Bearing this in mind, you will be permitted to use a private staircase that connects the King’s apartment and that of Monsieur, where you will be lodged. Each Sunday morning, while the King attends mass, you will climb the stairs and let yourself into the first room you come to. In the far corner you will see a small, gilded desk inlaid with tortoiseshell. Pull down the lid and you will see a sun motif, which, when rotated, reveals the escutcheon of a concealed drawer. There are only two copies of the key that will open it: One is in the King’s possession and this is the other.” I took the key, which he held out to me. It had been threaded onto a fine golden chain. “If your presence is required, you will find a note informing you of the time and place in the drawer.”

  “May I ask a question, Monsieur?”

  “Pray do.” Monsieur Bontemps looped the chain around my neck and gestured for me to tuck it into my shirt.

  “What will be the purpose of these meetings?”

  “That is something you will need to find out for yourself.”

  Presently Monsieur Bontemps rapped on the roof with his cane and called to the driver to take us to the inn at Rambouillet where I was lodged. When the carriage lurched forward, the basket fell to the floor and the legless roast chicken rolled back and forth between us. It bothered me, but my cheerful host did not seem to notice it.

  “By the way,” he said, a twinkle coming to his eye. “I understand that you are fond of a certain Mademoiselle Isabelle d’Alembert.” Even the dim light could no
t have concealed my embarrassment. The Swiss Guards must have been spying on us! “Such a pity that you insulted the Prince de Montclair. However, I have a talent for smoothing ruffled feathers. . . . I’ll have to see what I can do.”

  Bidding me farewell as I climbed out of his carriage, Monsieur Bontemps tapped my chest where the gold key now lay next to my skin. “Not a word about this to Signor de Lastimosa,” he said.

  * * *

  The good opinion I formed of Alexandre Bontemps that night did not change over the years. Versailles had a way of corrupting kind hearts, but somehow the King’s valet de chambre managed to keep his. He continued, throughout his life, to bestow his favors generously, and I remember how much he hated to be thanked. His discretion was legendary—indeed, anyone at court refusing to reveal a confidence would be accused of “doing a Bontemps.” Five generations of his family served the Sun King and his descendants. After the last one died, some eighty years after the conversation I have just described, a court without a Bontemps in it no longer felt the same. But by that time, the royal dynasty, to which they had devoted their lives, was about to be swept away. Alexandre Bontemps never once asked me who I really was. My guess is that he believed me to be an illegitimate child of the King, and if he did, he wasn’t alone in suspecting such a thing.

  One thing I did regret on that first evening was not asking him why I had to keep my meetings with the King secret from the Spaniard. Perhaps I sensed, without being told, that I would not have liked the answer.

  The Way She Looks at You

  The morning after John Stone’s curious departure, Spark sits cross-legged on the sunny lawn, finishing her breakfast. She becomes aware of Jacob creeping stealthily toward her, like a tomcat stalking a sparrow. Spark looks at him out of the corner of one eye as she bites a corner of toast. He plunges his trowel like a dagger into the flower bed behind her. When she says hello, he grunts an inaudible reply. She attempts to read her book, but Jacob flings uprooted weeds onto the grass next to her, sucks loudly on one of his boiled sweets, clacking it against his teeth, and presently begins muttering to himself. The muttering gets louder. Spark can’t decide if he’s talking nonsense, or speaking in a language she can’t understand. Either way, it unnerves her. Although, in principle, Spark refuses to be driven away like this by Jacob, when he begins to hiss, too, she decides that enough is enough. She closes her book. Actually she would have liked to slam it shut, but it’s a paperback. Martha appears behind Jacob just as Spark is preparing to stand up. She is barefoot and carries a bowl of cubed beetroot for Bontemps. Frowning, Martha looks first at Jacob, and then at Spark, putting a finger to her lips. Jacob, squatting among yellow and white lupins, is unaware of her arrival. Spark and Martha listen to the gibberish that pours out of Jacob’s mouth. After a moment Martha taps him smartly on the shoulder. He starts visibly. She leans down and speaks into his ear: “Now, just you stop this nonsense. Don’t think you’re fooling anyone.”