The King was laughing at his dogs. “Pomme! Bonne! Nonne! You foolish beasts! Over there!”
The King threw another stick and there was more thrashing about. It occurred to me that if I were to become one of the King’s creatures, I could at least try to turn the situation to my advantage.
“Sire, may I speak of a personal matter?”
The King turned to look at me, arching his eyebrows in surprise. “You are unusually bold this evening, Jean-Pierre.” He smiled benignly. “Could it be Mademoiselle d’Alembert’s current predicament that is troubling you?”
“Why, yes, Sire!” I said, recalling the cracked seal on her letter to me. “There are rumors at court, Sire—concerning Isabelle’s father.”
“I am aware of them.”
“Isabelle’s mother was not poisoned. She died of a fever.”
“Is this fact or speculation?”
“I am assured it is true, Sire.”
“And you have fallen for the charms of Mademoiselle d’Alembert?”
It was pointless to deny what he already knew. “Yes, Sire.”
“Then you have as much reason for disbelieving the rumors as those who put them about have for insisting they have a basis in truth. Is that not so?”
The King told me that he would make his own enquiries. In the event that the rumors proved justified, he could hardly be expected to protect a murderer. Did I have any idea who might have started the rumors? The Montclair family, for instance, he suggested. And, if so, did I have any idea what might have provoked the rift between the Montclairs and the d’Alemberts? Ah, he said, it was all very unfortunate. Louis was disingenuous—he knew perfectly well my role in the affair.
Presently the King stood up and called his dogs, who shook the water off their coats, splattering my stockings. Their master placed his hand on my shoulder and gripped it as we walked back to the château.
“Ridicule is a blunt instrument—and best avoided at court unless you have more experience of the world than you do. It was badly done, Jean-Pierre. And there were excellent reasons for desiring a union between those two families—”
“Sire,” I said, deciding to risk the King’s anger, “the Prince de Montclair does not love Mademoiselle d’Alembert, not as I love her!”
“Love! If love had had its way, half the crowns of Europe would have toppled by now. Wealth, power, the stability that comes from the alliance of great families: Are these to be thrown aside for an emotion that will wither like a decaying fruit? You are young and ruled by your passions—it will not always be thus, I assure you. You have inherited a unique legacy, Jean-Pierre! I advise you to fix your energies on something greater than a childish infatuation!”
His tone was severe. It was the King and not the man who stood before me now. I nodded weakly. “Yes, Sire.”
We walked in silence, listening to the sound of our footsteps and the panting of dogs. Presently the King said: “I had the strangest dream last night. Versailles was made of glass and I, a giant, was eating it piece by piece, and as I ground the shards between my teeth, I bled, but still I ate. The realm of dreams is a fearful one, is it not? And not one that can be governed.”
Louis asked me if I dreamed. I said that if I did I rarely remembered them. He replied that I was fortunate. When we reached the next torch, he came to a halt and leaned in toward me. Golden flames danced in his black eyes.
“I have, of late, been giving some thought to your future. With regard to your marital prospects I am undecided. As the son of a baron, you could expect to marry well. But it is not that that concerns me. No, what troubles me is the thought of a man who does not age marrying a woman who does.” The King pulled a face as if he smelled sour milk. “It is not an agreeable thought.”
I returned his gaze as evenly as I could manage, for I found his remark distasteful and disrespectful to the person I loved the most in all the world. And so I declared roundly: “I believe that I shall always love Isabelle d’Alembert, Sire.”
“Then I must not contradict you,” replied the Sun King. “Though you will allow me to remain unconvinced. You are too young to understand how time dims the brightest of passions.” I did not believe him for an instant. Louis then undertook to look into the d’Alembert scandal while making no promise to intervene. In the meantime, he said, he would await my report with interest.
* * *
The King’s veiled bargain was not lost on me: It was up to me to prove myself a reliable servant. I did what was asked of me. I did not, however, perform my task very well. To be the King’s informant, to play false among respected men, filled me with shame. Yet if I did not do what was asked of me, the King might allow Isabelle and her father to sink in a tide of rumor.
As I knew little, then, of politics, and nothing of the Council for Finances, my attention was at first drawn to things of no interest whatsoever to the King. I noticed, for example, who plucked off his wig after a glass or two of wine; who grew tufts of hair in his ears; who allowed gravy to dribble down his chin. I sat between two garrulous men, one plump, one withered, who talked constantly over me, obliging me to sit back in my chair. They discussed the lamentable state of the French coffers after the War of the Reunion; they reflected on the question of the Palatine succession, and questioned if the King’s deployment of the dragonnades against the Protestants was viewed unfavorably abroad. I nodded sagely, not knowing what else to do, which prompted my plump neighbor to ask—strictly, of course, between ourselves—if I had an opinion on the matter. He soon lost patience waiting for me to form a faltering reply, and went back to conversing with his stringy companion. Thereafter they ignored me. My one comforting thought was that no one would suspect such an embarrassingly inept and poorly informed fellow of being a spy.
The strain of remembering what had already been said, while keeping track of the current topic of conversation, gave me a sick headache. I excused myself halfway through the evening, vomited in the corridor, and came back, green and trembling. My appearance gave rise to much merriment all around the table and there were suggestions of me being unable to take my drink. I did not contradict them.
When, finally, I returned to my room at one o’clock in the morning, I collapsed facedown and fully clothed on my bed and fell into a profound sleep. When I awoke, at dawn, I was dreaming that my two neighbors at the dinner were trying to awaken me. They were tapping their glasses with their knives, waiting impatiently for me to share my thoughts on the revocation of the Edict of Nantes.
I flung myself violently out of bed and stood, dazed and nauseous, in the middle of the room. But I could still hear the sound of knives tapping against glass. This puzzled me, and I stood very still, head to one side, listening. There it was again. I threw open the wooden shutters and, as I did so, a shower of gravel hit the window. A gardener stood down below in a large-brimmed hat. The bulky figure looked around to see if he were alone and craned up at me, removing his hat. I took a step backward in surprise. Then I came back to the window for a second look. It was the Spaniard, and he was gesturing for me to descend.
XXV
The Spaniard turned on his heels and walked toward the gardens as soon as he saw me appear. I understood that I was to follow him. He strode away at a brisk pace while I allowed a long gap to form between us. It had rained heavily overnight and my shoes and stockings became quickly sodden. With every step, as I crossed the wide parterres overlooked by the palace, I sensed rows of blank windows staring accusingly at my back. I sauntered along, yawning and stretching, trying to seem as if I were going for a stroll to clear my head. It was with relief that I reached the shelter of the groves. I guessed where the Spaniard was headed long before we got there, and soon we faced each other from opposite sides of the deserted Colonnades.
It was the first time I had returned to this bosquet since the night I had insulted the Prince de Montclair. The Colonnades seemed very different in that sunless dawn. Though the fountains were silent, the birds were in full voice. The Sp
aniard stood dwarfed by the towering marble columns that encircled us like a temple. When he opened his arms in greeting, I ran to him as if reenacting some great drama, my footsteps echoing across the stagelike space.
“Signor!” I cried. “I thought I might never see you again!”
“Ha! You thought I was no match for Monsieur Bontemps! As you can see, I am a man of parts.” He seemed pleased with himself, full of life and energy. It made my heart glad. “Do you like my disguise?”
“I do! You make a convincing gardener! Does the King know you are in Versailles?”
“You think I would be skulking in the groves, dressed for digging cabbages if the King knew? No, and he would not be pleased if he knew my purpose!”
He drew me to him and thumped me on the back in the way he used to when—as I thought—we were pupil and teacher. Before releasing me, he planted a kiss on the top of my head where the rock had cracked my skull. We stood grinning at each other. The Spaniard looked thinner, and tired. Suddenly he pulled out a long blade from his belt. I wheeled around, searching for signs of an attacker, which made him laugh.
“The knife is for cutting bread! I’m as hungry as a horse!”
He offered me bread and cheese, which he pulled out of his pockets. I shook my head. He busied himself cutting off hunks and stuffing them into his mouth. “Forgive me,” he said, between mouthfuls. “I have to eat. My last meal was in Boulogne—”
I watched as he chewed and gathered his thoughts. Finally he spoke, laying out his words carefully between us like a gift.
“Jean-Pierre, I propose that you leave the court of the Sun King and accompany me to England.”
“England!”
“Yes. I have procured a house, set in marshland, far from prying eyes. The King will not wish you to leave, but his spies will not find us there. It can be our sanctuary.”
“But why do we—why do I—need a sanctuary?”
“On the day your father died I swore to watch over you until you could take care of yourself. I begin to doubt that I have served you well.”
“But you have, Signor! What more could my father have asked of you? I am safe and want for nothing—”
“Juan Pedro wandered the world and accrued much wisdom before he settled at the Spanish court. His character had formed. Juan Pedro was his own man. He could not be tamed and shaped—”
“Are you saying that I can?”
“You are young, Jean-Pierre, and Versailles is unlike the rest of the world—”
“I am not as foolish as you think, Signor!”
“Of course you are not foolish! Nevertheless, I question my own judgement in bringing you here. I fear you will be viewed as an asset, a possession—not, perhaps, as valuable as a prince of the blood who could be married off to foreign royalty, but more prized than a stud horse, or a portrait painter. The Sun King will doubtless find a use for a sempervivens, though, like wine, you will need to mature to be of value.”
I considered telling the Spaniard what I had been obliged to do only the previous evening, but my pride would not permit it. He asked how I thought the King would react if I announced that it was my intention to leave Versailles for England.
“I am sure that the King would permit me to leave if I wished to do so.”
“Would he?”
Misty rain fell silently onto the grove. A few feet away, a bright-eyed crow waited patiently, head cocked to one side, eyeing the crumbs of bread at our feet. I picked up a stone and aimed at its head. It took flight, cawing, and flapped its black wings, leaving the Colonnades more silent than before. A year ago, in the cave, the Spaniard had told me that I was the master of my own destiny. And in truth, there, in the cave, I had been free. Was that still the case? I might not admit as much to the Spaniard, but the position of King’s unicorn was unique, and the difference between protector and jailer was hard to gauge. I changed the subject.
“The day Monsieur Bontemps permitted us to say good-bye, you did not seem yourself—”
“No, as you say, I was not myself. I had been obliged to convince certain officials that I was not in Versailles as a tool of the Spanish court. I was released, but it is clear that the King is suspicious of my motives and of my influence on you. It therefore suits him to remove me from court. It is, I suppose, possible that there is a position for me at the Swedish court, but somehow I doubt it.”
“Did they hurt you, Signor?”
“Very little. I got away lightly.”
I remembered how the Spaniard’s clothes had smelled that day. So I had not imagined it. I asked him how he had returned here.
“That was not difficult. I was given a military escort to Boulogne, where I was put on board a frigate. Once we had set sail, I simply bribed the captain to return to port.”
“And you came back for me,” I said.
“I did. I came back because here at court I fear you will be pruned into shape like every other plant in the Sun King’s garden. Juan Pedro would not have wished this for his son, and I should have foreseen it at the start. I have returned to make amends while I can and to take you with me to England.”
Despite my teacher’s generous motives, and our mutual regard, I felt a swell of anger. Juan Pedro. My father. The Spaniard. The King. Did I not have a say in my own destiny? So now I should abandon Isabelle and leave for England! And for what reason? Versailles was at the center of all things—why would I prefer to spend my days in a freezing marsh in a foreign country? I recalled what Monsieur Bontemps had said to me: To be cast out into the wilderness, away from the protection of the King, is not something I would wish for you.
“So you advise me to live in exile away from everything and everyone I have ever known?”
“Yes. In order to become your own man.”
“I am my own man!”
“Is that true? Do you not live your life in the Sun King’s shadow?”
“No more than anyone else at court!”
“Then perhaps Versailles is not a generous soil in which to grow—”
“I am not a plant, Signor! And how could you think that I would desert Isabelle?”
“Surely you have the wit to see that there is so much more at stake than some youthful infatuation—”
The Spaniard and the King, it seemed, were in accord on one thing at least. I said coolly: “I will not go to England with you.”
I started to walk away, and when the Spaniard begged me to stop and listen to what he had to say, I ignored his pleas, obliging him to hurry behind me.
“You are a sempervivens! Juan Pedro wrote of the heartbreak of watching wives and children die. It is not to be underestimated. Forget Isabelle—there will be others!”
I swung around in fury. “There will not be others! I am not too young to understand what love is. You do not choose whom you love!”
“Jean-Pierre, I did not mean to belittle what you feel—”
“You cannot even tell me with certainty that I am a sempervivens! I am grateful for everything you have done for me, Signor, but I assure you that I shall not be accompanying you to England. You say you fear that the King desires to bend me to his will, but do not you do precisely the same?”
We were close to the entrance. When I walked on the Spaniard did not follow. On leaving the Colonnades I saw a Swiss Guard headed toward me. I immediately stepped back inside the grove to warn the Spaniard, pressing my finger to my lips.
“I sail for England from Calais on the nineteenth,” he hissed. “I shall wait for you there, should you change your mind.”
I shook my head. “Safe journey, Signor.”
His stricken expression was hard to witness. When the Swiss Guard entered the grove a moment later I engaged him in conversation, allowing the Spaniard to flee the palace like a common thief.
XXVI
In the following days I could settle to nothing, and prowled around the palace like a dog whose master has died. I missed Isabelle. I missed my father. I missed the Spaniard and felt remorse o
ver how I had behaved. Even Liselotte, who had shown me so much kindness, kept her distance on account of my involvement with the d’Alembert family. I also dreaded my next audience with the King.
Doubt gnawed at me and I found myself constantly justifying my actions. I was not weak-minded. If I had agreed to act as the King’s informer, it was purely for Isabelle’s sake. On another occasion I might well refuse. Besides, how would living in an English marsh be of benefit to me? What could I learn there? How to harvest reeds? Make baskets? Nevertheless, the date of the Spaniard’s departure from Calais, which was two days’ ride from Versailles, was firmly fixed in my memory. If I were to change my mind about going with him, the evening of the sixteenth would be my last chance to depart.
On the fifteenth, Liselotte’s valet woke me shortly after daybreak. He was on friendly terms with the Comte d’Alembert’s valet, who had told him, not ten minutes previously, some news he thought I ought to hear. My heart leapt, and I asked if Isabelle had returned to Versailles with her aunt. She had not. However, de La Reynie himself, head of the Paris Police (it was he who had led the investigation into the Affair of the Poisons), had visited the d’Alembert residence during the night. He had come to question the Comte d’Alembert in connection with the death of his late wife and the sworn testimony of a former maid. The imminent arrest of Isabelle’s father seemed likely. I immediately rose and dressed. Rather than sit patiently and wait for events to unfold, I would warn Isabelle and offer her what support I could.
Rambouillet was a morning’s hard ride from Versailles. I invented an urgent errand that Monsieur required me to perform, and left the royal stables astride a sturdy white stallion with soulful eyes and a calm temperament. Save for allowing the steaming horse to rest awhile at Le Mesnil-Saint-Denis, I rode without pause, skirting around the forest of Rambouillet, which blazed with autumn tints. While the sun was still high in the sky, I caught sight of the neat, symmetrical house that sat in dignified solitude surrounded by baaing sheep. I galloped directly to the front door and dismounted. There, where I had suffered such humiliation at the hands of Isabelle’s aunt, I struck the heavy door with both fists. On the other side, someone rattled open a series of bolts. The face of a weasel-like boy peered out at me.