The Many Lives of John Stone
Occasionally he would move me to tears. One day, as we stalked a lame stag with broken antlers (the sight of it, he said, offended him), he described how he sat with his beloved mother during her final days. She died of a cancer and the stench of the sickroom was nauseating, which distressed him greatly. Louis was a devoted and dutiful son, and he put aside the affairs of state as she finally slipped away. The doctors could do nothing for her. He broke down as he remembered the scene, and I was struck, not for the last time, by this ruler’s equal capacity for love and ruthlessness according to circumstances. Afterward he went on alone, and hunted down the stag.
The Sun King taught me how to keep secrets, and made me swear, on my honor, that I would never, during his lifetime, betray his confidence. I did not. What sort of man are you if you cannot keep your word? Nor, for his part, did he betray my secret.
He was less guarded, I think, with me than with anyone other than his faithful Bontemps. The difference being that he treated Bontemps as a friend. I often felt that, as he unburdened himself to me, he would forget that I was actually there.
XIX
As my second summer at Versailles wore on, life took on a pleasant rhythm. The Spaniard still tutored me daily and, if I lived and breathed for my dancing lessons with Isabelle, I also started to look forward to my conversations with the King. However, as autumn loomed and the days grew shorter, Isabelle often seemed preoccupied. I would take her hand and ask if she were sad, always fearful in case her father, or her aunt, had found her another suitor. But she always insisted that there was nothing wrong, and it was easier to believe her.
It was during this time that I received some unexpected news. Liselotte had been in a temper all morning after she discovered that Monsieur had asked me to deliver an extravagant gift to a handsome acquaintance of his. On my return to the apartment I found that she had regained her good humor. She tapped my arm playfully with her fan. “Come, Jean-Pierre. While you were away a gift arrived—only this one is for you.”
She led me up the private stairs to the King’s study. On top of the tortoiseshell desk I knew so well was a linen bag containing something bulky and of irregular shape. There was also a letter, sealed with wax and impressed with the face of Apollo.
“Open it!” urged Liselotte.
I broke the seal and unfolded the thick paper with eager fingers. There was the King’s signature—Louis—written in an untidy cursive hand, and underlined. I read: “We have decided to confer a barony on your father. You are invited to present yourself tomorrow morning in the Hall of Mirrors, where we shall be happy to greet the son of the soon-to-be Baron de Chamborigaud.”
“There!” exclaimed Liselotte. “By ennobling your ‘father’ ”—a word that drew a smile to her lips—“there will be fewer questions about your elevated position at court.”
“But what has my father done to earn this honor?” I asked.
Liselotte shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t believe that is the point, do you? He has fought in several military campaigns, has he not?”
“Yes, in the Netherlands, when I was very young.”
“Well, then. Or perhaps he has rounded up some Huguenots—”
“I’m sure he has not,” I said, recalling the march of the dragonnades through the town in the Cévennes.
“Stop looking so anxious!” Liselotte said, laughing. “The King intends to acknowledge you publicly. And look, he has sent you a gift!”
I loosened the drawstring and the scent of new leather met my nostrils. “Oh,” I gasped, never having seen a finer pair of shoes in my life.
“You must try them on!” urged Liselotte.
I sat on the floor and did as I was told. They were black leather, the long tongue pluming out and over an ornate, rectangular buckle, which was fashioned from silver. The heels were high and, more significantly, dyed red.
Only the nobility were permitted to wear heels of such a color. Red to announce my rank, red to show that I had no need to dirty my shoes, red, no doubt, to conceal the blood of those I might crush beneath my feet . . . I leapt up and strode up and down the room, heels clicking, buckles sparkling. They pinched my toes, but what did I care. “I feel like a prince!” I said.
“Of course! And why shouldn’t you?”
It was not my intention to mislead, but how could I contradict her?
We were all Louis’s creatures at Versailles, jumping through hoops, and forever hoping for some tasty morsel. In my own eyes those shoes—I admit it—increased my stature by far more than the three inches the King’s red heels allowed.
“I shall find Isabelle and show them to her,” I said. And then the thought struck me that with my new status, even the d’Alembert family might look more favorably on me.
Liselotte’s expression changed and I could see that she was on the verge of saying something but stopped herself.
“Is something wrong, Madame?”
“Ah, it is something I heard this morning. But I shall not pass on tittle-tattle.”
I was scarcely in a position to insist. We returned downstairs and Liselotte took her leave of me, promising to be present the next morning in the Hall of Mirrors.
Once back in my room, I flung myself on my bed and lay stretched out, flat on my back, hands supporting my neck. I stared at the plump cherubs who cavorted across my ceiling and marveled at my change in fortune. I even wondered if I dared bring up the subject of Isabelle with the King. Although it had been Louis who had first suggested a union between the Montclairs and the d’Alemberts, the incident in the Colonnades had put an end to that. The Sun King, as I had seen with my own eyes, always took good care of his own: his mistresses, whom he showered with jewels and houses and titles; his family; and likewise all his favorites at court. Why, even his dogs led a privileged existence, sleeping in their own quarters, and being fed specially prepared food by the royal hand. So why should the King not take care of his unicorn? Perhaps if I told him what my feelings were for Isabelle, he could intercede on my behalf with Isabelle’s father.
That night I slept fitfully. I longed to be able to talk about my dilemma for I did not know what to do for the best. But by then I was locked into so many secrets, there was no single person with whom I could be entirely open.
XX
You could be hundreds of miles from Versailles, but if you could see a clock, you would know what Louis was doing at that precise moment. The court revolved around the rising and setting of the Sun King. His life played out in a series of rituals for all to see. Each morning only those of the highest rank were permitted to observe him being washed and shaved. Later, the Officers of the Chamber and the Wardrobe attended as he was dressed and ate breakfast, so that this middle-aged man would sip broth from a bowl in front of an audience of a hundred men or more. At Versailles, to have the honor of passing his shirt to the King was a mark of influence and power. It was absurd—but it was an absurdity that Louis imposed and we accepted. So I knew that at the stroke of ten, prior to holding council in his cabinet at eleven, Louis would walk through the Hall of Mirrors on his way to mass. There was always a crowd since he believed that all his subjects had the right to approach their King. It was during the short walk between his apartment and the chapel that he would acknowledge me.
When I arrived in the Hall of Mirrors that morning I may as well have been invisible, but I told myself that if Louis did what he had promised, when I left, every eye would be upon me. I waited with Liselotte and her well-trained children, who stood to attention and did not fidget at all. In comparison, when I caught sight of my own reflection (it was difficult not to in that room), even my features seemed ill-disciplined. I shuffled from one leg to the other in the crush of people, unwilling to engage in conversation. There was no sign of either Isabelle or the Spaniard, although I had sent messages to both early that morning.
A Versailles crowd had a unique smell: It was somewhere between fragrant and rank. It was a cold morning but at least we rivals for the King’s a
ttention kept one another warm in that vast, echoing space. Preferring to keep my own company in my nervous state, I sidled through chattering groups until I reached a window overlooking the gardens. I tried to gather my thoughts while watching the sun evaporate the dew. In the hazy distance, the Grand Canal, a long slab of water between banks of trees, glittered like a bed of diamonds. I stared at the skin on the backs of my hands, trying to imagine it wrinkled and slack, and wondered, not for the last time, if my position at court had its foundation in a fiction.
When ten o’clock struck, quiet descended on the Hall of Mirrors. I threaded my way back, still hoping that the two people with whom I should have liked to share this moment would arrive in time. But there was sign of neither Isabelle nor the Spaniard. All at once, like a stage curtain, the crowd divided, and I saw the King emerge at the head of a small cortège, long black wig draped over his shoulders. Heads bowed and ancient knees creaked. The King’s approach had the same effect on his courtiers as does a magnetic charge on iron filings. It was impossible not to gravitate toward him. Until he chose to move on we could not be free of his influence.
I heard someone beg for an invitation to the royal retreat: “Marly, Sire?”
“We will see,” was the King’s careful reply. He was always polite, even when provoked. My view of him was blocked by someone in an ill-fitting wig and apricot-colored surtout. After several months in Monsieur’s household, and after the embarrassment my mint-green waistcoat had caused me, I had developed an eye for court fashion. The surtout, I knew, displayed lamentable taste. The King would disapprove. I could picture the flaring of his sensitive nostrils. Now a woman was making a complaint about her late husband leaving a property to his sister. She had been left without means, but her pronounced lisp made her sad story sound comic. The King leaned in toward her so that I saw him give his smiling reply: “Ah,” he said. “We could sooner reconcile all Europe than two women.” Everyone crowed with laughter except the widow.
As the King moved closer, Liselotte reached out for me as if to capture an errant child. She grabbed me by the elbow and pushed me forward. I resisted. All at once the anticipation, the grandeur and the spectacle of it, the sparkle of glass, the blaze of gold, the heat of bodies, the sharp tongues and cutting glances, the stink of decay and the scent of flowers—in short, this royal theatre—was too much for me. What raw ambition I sensed in that room, what yearning, what cruel disappointment.
“Calm yourself!” Liselotte hissed into my ear. “Take deep breaths. It would not do to faint.”
I nodded, my mouth too dry to speak. Would the Sun King even notice me in this sea of faces? A trickle of cold sweat ran down my temple. Versailles c’est moi, Louis once said to me—I am Versailles—and I never understood more clearly what he meant.
The King’s shapely calves glided ever nearer over the polished floor. I became mesmerized by them: His stockings were scarlet, and a line of golden fleurs-de-lys ran up the side of his leg. A cane, held with the lightest of touches, marked the beat of his step and added a flourish to his gait. Now he was addressing the fellow in the apricot surtout. The figure bowed deeply, sweeping off his hat with a gesture that all at once I recognized. My heart skipped a beat as I glimpsed his profile: It was my father! The last time I had seen him I believed we shared the same blood.
“Our heartiest greetings, Monsieur!” said the Sun King in a clear, ringing voice so that all could hear. “We are pleased to recognize your invaluable assistance with regard to the enforcement of the Edict of Fontainebleau in the South.”
“Sire, I am overwhelmed that . . . my very modest actions have attracted the attention of your Majesty.” My father’s halting tone betrayed, for anyone who knew him, the depth of his unease.
“Come,” said Louis, resting his hand on my father’s broad shoulder, “let us also greet your son, who will be delighted to see you here today.”
My father scanned the crowd until our eyes met, both of us astonished that we could have been in the same room without having noticed the other. The King was fond of surprises. I was rooted to the spot, but Liselotte placed her hand on my back and thrust me into the empty space that had formed in front of the King and my father.
The King beckoned me to join them. We stood in a row with Louis at the center. “Ladies and gentlemen of the court, we present to you the newly created Baron de Chamborigaud and his youngest son.”
There was a smattering of applause led, I think, by Liselotte, and a flurry of whispers behind fans. New favorites always caused a stir. Would they be rivals, or a route to the King’s affections? The King spoke into my ear so that I felt the heat of his breath: “See how your King looks after his unicorn.”
The moment was over. The King moved on. Liselotte beamed at me, satisfied that the royal seal of approval had been given as promised.
Leaving the Hall of Mirrors with my father, we received half a dozen invitations from people who greeted us as friends but who were, to the best of our knowledge, strangers before that morning. Afterward we headed for the gardens. As we walked, he took my arm, just as if he were my father and I were his son, which made me sad. And I realized how much I had missed him, and was overcome by a longing for my life to return to what it had been before I encountered the Spaniard. It was my father who spoke first.
“I am glad that you know the truth about your birth. I was never fond of secrets.”
My throat constricted and, not trusting myself to speak, I nodded my head vigorously. He saw how I struggled to hold back my tears and did not press me to talk further. Instead, he gripped my arm more tightly and we walked in peaceable silence, my father guiding me down steps and along paths, always away from the palace.
“It wasn’t true,” said my father presently, “about the Edict of Fontainebleau. I haven’t destroyed Huguenot churches, or closed Protestant schools, or whatever it is I am supposed to have done. My ennoblement—it has everything to do with you and nothing to do with me.”
“I know,” I said. “And I am sorry for it.”
“I cannot deny that it pains me: I should have preferred to have been recognized for something I have done. Something of which I am proud . . . Although, in a sense, I have. I count bringing you up in the way that I did—without my wife—among the achievements of my life. . . . And at least it has made your position at court secure. Have you been told that the King does not require my presence at court?”
“No!” I exclaimed. “But why?”
My father shrugged his shoulders. “I cannot say that it makes me very sad—except insofar as I shall not see you as often as I should like. I’ve had a bellyful of mouths that say one thing and eyes that say another. I’m getting too old for the games they play at Versailles. I’d rather sit at ease in my own house and kick off my boots when it pleases me.”
We strolled on past splashing fountains, my own noble red heels crunching through the freshly raked gravel.
“But why has the King ordered you to stay away? I don’t understand.”
I watched the furrow deepen between his brows. “It is my opinion that the King wishes to avoid divided loyalties. I believe he wants you for himself. I hope that he treats you well, at least—”
“Oh, do not worry on that account, Father! The King has been most kind—and generous. See, he sent me these shoes.” I balanced on one leg and waved my foot in front of him. He eyed them, unimpressed. “And I won’t be alone. I have the Spaniard to keep me company—”
“For the present—”
“What do you mean?”
“I wonder how long you can rely on the presence of Signor de Lastimosa.”
“He has promised to be my tutor for as long as I wish it—”
“Yes, but have you ever asked yourself why the King should play host to a man with connections to the Spanish court, someone who did his best to dissuade you from returning to Versailles?”
“But he had good reason!”
“The King might see it from a different perspecti
ve. He might wonder if Signor de Lastimosa intends, one fine day, to return to Madrid—and take you with him.”
I supposed it was true that neither the King nor Monsieur Bontemps had spoken of the Spaniard with any warmth. In fact, on the banks of the River Yvette, the King had asked about him with a degree of suspicion. For the first time I contemplated the possibility that the Spaniard might not be welcome at court. I picked up a handful of gravel and flung it into the green waters of the Latona Fountain. And where was he? Why had he left no word? In addition to being disappointed that he had failed to lend his support in the Hall of Mirrors, I also now felt a twinge of concern. My father pulled me around to face him.
“Listen, my boy, I first carried you in my arms on the same day that I buried my wife and my stillborn son. I was half-mad with the grief of it, yet when the Spaniard held out to me this swaddled newborn, and I felt your life beating between my large hands, it was an act of grace. I took you for my own and was able to turn away from my despair. The circumstances of your birth didn’t matter to me then—and they don’t matter to me now. I am not your blood father, and I do not care to know why you have attracted the attention of a King, but it was I who raised you. I may not know your secret, but I do know your truth. So I say to you while I still can: Don’t allow the politics of Versailles to tarnish the brightness you were born with. You have it within you to become a good man, and there are few enough of those—”
My father was not a demonstrative man, so to hear him speak these words moved me greatly. I came very close to sharing my secret and risking the King’s disappointment. But I did not. “Thank you, Father,” I said.