The Many Lives of John Stone
My heart sank. It had never occurred to me that she might be suspicious of me.
“But you know who I am, Madame!”
“Do I?” Her eyes slid from mine and she made a face at herself in the mirror, wrinkling up her nose and blowing out her cheeks. “I don’t know which I resemble most—a badger, a cat or a monkey, or all three at once. . . . You know, I was at the theatre last night. Were you there? I don’t recall.” I told her I was not. “It was Monsieur Racine’s Bérénice. Oh, how I lost patience with her! All that wailing. Anyway, the King took me to one side during the interval. And do you know, he was actually rather stern with me.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, Madame.”
“It was on your account.” I must have looked suitably anxious because she started to laugh. “Never fear—his Majesty was stern but gentle: I shan’t be carted off to the Bastille quite yet.”
Strains of angelic singing reached me through the window. If I was already agitated, that feeling now intensified. Monsieur Bontemps had insisted that the only safe time to use the private staircase was during Sunday mass. What if a message awaited me? It would be a disaster to miss an appointment with the King!
“You may have noticed,” said Liselotte, “that I am fond of corresponding.” It was true. When I think of her now, the image that comes to mind is of her ample frame bowed over a sheet of paper, calmly dipping her scratching quill into an ink pot, oblivious to the children crawling over her feet and to the courtiers making merry around her. Often, she would write a dozen letters in a single afternoon.
“I am interested in people,” she said. “I enjoy writing about them. But recently I have been reminded that one has to be careful about what or rather whom one writes about. Nothing is private at Versailles. I wrote about my husband’s new secretary to my aunt: I said only agreeable things about you—at any rate, I was not unkind. But do you know what the King said?”
I shook my head uncertainly. I often felt out of my depth in Liselotte’s company. “No, Madame. What did the King say?”
“His Majesty forbade me ever to mention your person again in any of my correspondence. What is more, he prefers me to avoid speaking about you at court. My letter, it seemed, never reached my aunt. He has also spoken to my husband in similar terms. Monsieur’s new secretary is someone the King desires to remain as inconspicuous as possible. Indeed, he is counting on us. What do you say to that, Jean-Pierre?”
I gulped. “I do not know how to answer, Madame.”
“I find it all most puzzling and mysterious. If discretion is so vital, why does not the King remove you from the court to some country house and have done with it? What I want to know is this: What is your true purpose here? Monsieur clearly has little use for another secretary—”
“I beg of you, Madame, do not ask me to comment. The King has forbidden it.”
Liselotte scrutinized my face until I felt compelled to look away. “If I am not allowed to know your true identity, I should at least like to know this: Do I have anything to fear from you, Jean-Pierre?”
“No, Madame! I swear!”
“Would it be true to say that your identity is a delicate matter?”
“Yes,” I said, without hesitation, “it is a delicate matter. But please believe me when I say that I am grateful for my position within your household and undertake to serve you as best as I am able.”
Liselotte’s expression softened—the transformation in her demeanor was abrupt. She leaned forward, took my hand, and squeezed it. “Then, as we both love the King, even though I am sorely tempted to tease all the details out of you, we will speak no more of it. Agreed?”
“Agreed, Madame.”
As she made to leave the room, I could almost see an idea beginning to form in her head. Her small blue eyes twinkled in her florid face. “I happened to hear last night that Mademoiselle d’Alembert is recently returned from her aunt’s house. I have a fancy to invite her to keep my daughter company during her dancing lessons. Charlotte-Elisabeth, like her mother, does not take easily to learning new steps. Perhaps I could persuade you to partner Mademoiselle d’Alembert. What do you think, Jean-Pierre? Is that not a good plan?” She took the broad smile that lit up my face as agreement. “Excellent, then that’s settled.”
In fact, it was only weeks later that I understood Liselotte’s sudden change of heart with regard to the delicate matter of my identity. I overheard her use a somewhat vulgar phrase for the illegitimate children of the princes of the blood (she called them mouse droppings in the pepper) and at that precise moment I saw her flick an apologetic glance in my direction. I am certain she believed that the King was, in fact, my father. She loved Louis—chastely, I hasten to add—and he, in turn, was always a great support to her. It was for this reason, I think, that she always showed me such consideration. Liselotte admired the King’s noble profile, and I often found her gazing sadly at my broken nose. What a terrible thing, she must have thought, to have damaged such a valuable legacy. On the other hand, my own “shapely calves” (her words, not mine) and other attributes it would be too immodest to bring up, were clearly down to good breeding. And who was I to contradict her?
* * *
No sooner had Liselotte left the room than I charged up the narrow staircase to the King’s study. With the tip of my finger I pushed open the creaking door, peering through the crack, until I could be certain that the room was empty. At least the tortoiseshell desk was familiar to me by now. There was a catch that fastened the narrow lid (it doubled as a writing surface), and beneath it I knew to find the small golden escutcheon engraved with a sun motif. I pried it open with my fingernail and, pulling out the key from under my shirt, inserted it into the lock. As it engaged with the mechanism, and the small drawer come loose, I heard a sound behind me. Sweat pricking at me, I slowly turned around. It was one of the King’s hunting dogs: a snowy white creature, apart from one ear, which was tan. This was no guard dog, but an animal accustomed to being fed by the King’s own hand, an animal that slept in rooms fit for a duchess and that had only known kindness. It padded toward me, sniffed my hand with its apricot nose, and settled at my feet with a sleepy whine. When I slid open the concealed drawer, this time it was not empty. I locked the drawer, closed the desk, slid my shoe, very gently, from beneath the dog’s jaws, and fled down the cool stone staircase.
In the safety of Monsieur’s apartment I inspected the note. The seal bore the imprint of three fleurs-de-lys. It was signed Louis, although it could have been the work of his trusted scribe, who, over decades, had perfected the signature of the King. I was commanded to present myself by the water mill on the banks of the Yvette River at four o’clock that very afternoon.
XVII
The King! The King! His approach would set off a wave, first of whispers, and then of deep, sweeping bows. There would be a delicious sound of rustling silk, like water lapping on the shore, as ranks of ladies sank to the ground and rose up again, marking the royal progress across the room.
I had often seen him from a distance, walking in the gardens, a troop of dignitaries and musicians in his wake, or sailing in the royal barge on the Grand Canal, but only once had I gotten close to him. More precisely, I had made out the top of his black wig in the Hall of Mirrors as I peered over several rows of heads. Even so, the knowledge that mere yards separated me from the King had been enough to raise the hairs on the back of my neck. Louis was, after all, the architect of Versailles, God’s representative on earth, he who could raise you up or destroy you on a whim. I know him not—that single phrase, uttered from the lips of the Sun King—would cast you into permanent shadow.
A face-to-face encounter was more than some humble subjects could endure. On one occasion I met a cousin of my father’s, shortly after he had been introduced to the King. All the color had gone from his face, and he was so drained by the experience he could barely stand. The Spaniard and I sat him down and brought him brandy. He was usually a levelheaded fellow, but all he could
say for some considerable time was: “The King! I have met the King!”
* * *
And so it took all my nerve to wait for him alone on the grassy banks of the Yvette River. I had arrived far too early, and was as jumpy as any soldier waiting for the order to charge. There was enough time for me to question my choice of outfit and doubt my ability to form words in the royal presence. I became embarrassed by the Spaniard’s poorly groomed mare, and decided to tether her upstream, out of sight. In so doing I got mud on my shoes and, wishing to keep my handkerchief clean, I wiped off the dirt as best as I could with a handful of grass from the riverbank. I realized, too late, when I felt something move, and heard an angry buzzing, that I had grasped hold of more than grass. A large hornet stung the palm of my hand two or three times before I managed to fling it into the stream. Its venom inflicted a searing pain, and as I watched the current carry it away, my hand began to throb alarmingly, as if the insect had somehow injected a pulse into my palm. The skin swelled up before my eyes, becoming blotchy—a vivid scarlet on white.
The shock of those hornet stings somehow burst a bubble of distress that had been steadily growing since my meeting with Monsieur Bontemps. Why had I gone along with this absurd tale of long-lived men and women? And even if I believed the Spaniard’s story, he still could not tell me if I had inherited my parents’ longevity. Yet here I was, supposedly the last in a line of sempervivens, about to have an audience with the Sun King. At that moment, I would certainly have chosen another encounter with my brothers over this.
I wrapped a dampened handkerchief around my hand, trying to compose myself while I watched the river glide slowly by. All at once the world seemed to hold its breath: The mill abruptly stopped turning, and the moorhen chicks, which I had been watching skate in and out of the reeds, vanished from sight. The sound of galloping! Many horses were headed this way; flocks of birds were rising into the air above the tree canopy at their approach. I saw a Swiss Guard appear from behind a tree (the distinctive blue-and-red uniform was unmistakable). I wondered how long he had been there, and if he was here to protect me or the King?
It was Louis himself who drove the hunting carriage. Four small, black horses thundered through the trees, the wheels throwing up sods of grass and mud. Two boys accompanied him. One rode postilion while another followed on with the reserve horses, for the King, who adored hunting, often wore out three teams of them in an afternoon. I stood stock-still, knowing that I was his quarry, and braced myself, sensing the rush of air and the vibration of the earth as the carriage swerved and the horses came to a halt inches away from the riverbank. At the same time, a movement caught my eye upstream. I had assumed that I was alone here in the woods, but I saw four men emerge from the water mill, carrying a chair, a table, and a rug. Now the Sun King was climbing out of the carriage. Now he was standing before me. The sun that poured down from behind his shoulders was dazzling, so that I had to squint up at a face familiar yet unfamiliar at the same time. A tang of eau de cologne cut through the smell of the river. Nothing seemed quite real. And although my head instructed my body to bow, my body failed to follow orders. Instead, I gawped, wide-eyed, taking in the luxuriant wig, the black hat with its white ostrich feather, the strong nose, the exquisite surtout—black, white, scarlet, a flash of gold—the slow, spreading, amused smile—
“You appear to have hurt your hand, Monsieur.”
“Sire!” I gasped, feeling as if someone else were speaking my words. “Sire, a hornet stung me.” Now I bowed long and low. His calves were as shapely as Liselotte always insisted they were, and encased in scarlet stockings.
The King tugged at the loose corner of the handkerchief and held it up between the tips of his fingers; he peered at the red lumps on my hand—the flesh was already so swollen, and the skin so tight and shiny, that I could not close my fist. He returned the handkerchief to me and motioned to the postilion rider to approach. The latter was instructed to return as soon as possible with a poultice for hornet stings. At a signal from the King, the men disappeared back into the water mill, and the second boy led away the carriage and horses. We were alone. Louis sat down, and even in that simple act impressed upon me that I was in the presence of a King—for it is difficult to convey the extraordinary grace with which Louis lowered himself into that chair. If majesty was a mantle that he wore, I never knew him to let it slip.
A small table had been placed next to his chair: On it was a silver bowl filled with peeled hard-boiled eggs of different sizes, some grayish, some tinted blue, others the brightest white. He took one, sniffed it with flaring nostrils, and bit into it, never once taking his eyes off me. There was an attentive, discriminating look on his face that put me in mind of my father when choosing horses at market. I watched him raise his arm a little and turn his head in the direction of the water mill. A moment later the creaking wheel started to rotate again, filling the riverbank with noise.
“To thwart prying ears,” the King said. “And, of course, to supply water for my fountains. I shall address you as Jean-Pierre. Given your ancestry, I should prefer not to use your family name—even though it will be necessary for you to keep up the pretense at court.”
My poor father. How it would have hurt him to overhear such a thing. “Yes, Sire,” I said.
“Tell me, do you walk in my gardens? Do they please you?”
“They are magnificent, Sire. I walk in them every day. The fountains are a wonder.” This was true, though it is in my nature to try to please.
“They are, indeed. I shall have you meet Monsieur Le Nôtre, their creator—a most agreeable person.” The King spoke slowly and often paused between sentences, as he did now. “Your nose is broken, I see.” He gestured vaguely with his hand. “And your hair. This tuft of white. The attack on you, I presume?”
“Yes, Sire, I was fortunate to survive it.”
“The promise of a long life is no protection against a hard rock, it seems—or, indeed, a hornet.”
“No, Sire.”
“And you have no idea why anyone would wish you dead?”
“I do not. I can only hope that he will not try again.”
“Then allow me to reassure you. The assassin is incarcerated in a dungeon in Marseilles. Interestingly, it was not a he, but a she—a woman dressed as a man—who wielded the rock—”
“I do not understand, Sire,” I exclaimed—I could not stop myself. “Monsieur himself investigated the crime. No culprit was found—”
“A child beggar led us to her. A public trial was unthinkable: The utmost discretion was required. With the exception of Signor de Lastimosa, not a single person at the French court knows your true identity. And no one will. You are to be my secret. I have therefore issued a lettre de cachet. The assassin—whoever she is—will trouble you no more.”
A lettre de cachet! We all knew what that meant. A person could be locked up at the King’s pleasure, without trial, or any right of appeal. There was one notorious prisoner, known as “the man in the iron mask,” whose face no one was allowed to see, not even his jailer, and who was doomed to decades of incarceration. Now, it seemed, a similar fate had been reserved for my would-be assassin.
“Do you have any idea who she might be?” asked the King.
“No, Sire! None at all.”
“I am persuaded that she is insane. Under torture she would admit to nothing. She raved and continues to rave. The personal guard I had assigned to her tells me she talks of her affections having being spurned by your father in Madrid.”
“Juan Pedro, Sire?”
“Evidently. However, I tell you this purely to put your mind at rest. I lived through dangerous times as a child. I know what it is like to be forever looking over your shoulder.”
“Thank you, Sire.”
“You will not talk of this with the Spaniard or with anyone. To have the ear of a king, is to hold one’s own tongue. Do you understand?”
“I do, Sire.”
“I shall hold you to yo
ur word. Do not disappoint me.”
He turned from the waist to regard me and I felt my flesh grow cold.
“Tell me, Jean-Pierre, what sort of man is your Signor de Lastimosa? What are his motives for helping you, do you suppose?”
As I stood before him, I instinctively made a fist with my one good hand, a gesture that was not lost on the King. On the Spaniard’s behalf I felt suddenly terrified. “He is a good man! He has devoted his life to my father and now to me!”
“I repeat my question to you, Jean-Pierre. What are Signor de Lastimosa’s motives for helping you?”
I cast about for an answer. “I . . . It is as if we were family.”
The King patted his lips with a napkin and helped himself to another egg. “And yet, you are not family. Your situation has changed. It seems to me that Signor de Lastimosa can do little for you now.”
I lowered my eyes and remained silent. Presently he rose from his chair in the same kingly way that he had lowered himself into it. He re-created himself in his own image, every minute of every day. He was a living example of Gracián’s advice: Always present an impenetrable surface to those who could harm you. Civil war raged during Louis’s youth, and the Spaniard always maintained that the seeds of his greatness were sown at this time. Unlike his descendants—or at least until it was too late—Louis took nothing for granted.
“Come, let us walk awhile,” the King said. “What Queen Mariana has told me about you intrigues me. She says that you come from a long-lived race and that you are the last of your line. Is this true?”
I smelled the grass crushed by a king’s feet and hesitated for a fraction too long before answering. The King caught my eye, and held it, arching one eyebrow. A stern note came into his voice, no doubt the same tone that he had used to warn Liselotte.
“You must tell me the truth, Jean-Pierre. Do you come from a long-lived race? Are you the last of your line?”