A Plague of Lies (40 page)

“Who is he?” Charles said, as the pair began their
sarabande
.

“Lulu’s brother, Louis Alexandre, the Comte de Toulouse,” La Reynie murmured. “The king’s youngest son by La Montespan. He’s nine or ten, I think.”

“He and Anne-Marie do well together.” Charles laughed. “But I’m surprised she’s left her other Louis behind.”

“Her dog? Yes, I had the same thought.” Suddenly, La Reynie laughed, too. “Look, even in her finery, she’s clearly been outside chasing the dog. A leaf just fell out of her hair. And there’s another!”

Which made three leaves fallen from Anne-Marie’s hair. A tiny
frisson
of unease flickered through Charles. He told himself
not to be absurd. Anne-Marie chased her dog everywhere, and Marly was even more dense with leaves than Versailles. But tonight, anything out of the ordinary put him on the alert.

Seemingly unaware of the dropping greenery, Anne-Marie eyed her younger partner as a governess might, to be sure he did her credit. But whenever the dance took her past the chair where Lulu sat, all her anxious attention went to the princess. The
sarabande
ended; the children made their honors to the king and returned to their seats. Then it was Lulu’s turn, the moment for which all the rest had been prologue.

“Ah,” La Reynie said quietly, looking straight down over the balcony’s rail. “There’s the duchess. Late as usual. And with Conti.”

Charles looked, too. As Margot jockeyed for a better view of the dancers, her servant followed her and Charles took a long moment to study the man’s back. “That’s him,” he said in La Reynie’s ear. “The man who met Bertamelli at the tower and threw the stone at me.”

“You’d swear to it?” La Reynie followed the square-built servant with his eyes.

“With pleasure.” Charles went back to watching Lulu.

The younger Polish ambassador, wearing a long-coated Polish suit of tawny silk, led Lulu onto the dance floor. As they made their honors to the king, Lulu smiled. Briefly and sadly, but it was still a smile and given to her father. Then she and the Pole made their honors to each other and she had a faint grave smile for him, too.

Well, Charles thought, his hopes rising, maybe all really was going to be well. Or at least well enough. The pair danced a lively
bourrée
, a miracle of fleet precision and ease, and Charles suspected that the ambassador had spent more time practicing
than negotiating. As his feet and Lulu’s wove the dance’s balanced symmetry, the pink ribbons and gold lace on her headdress fluttered, and the ambassador smiled happily as his tawny silk coat rippled and swirled around his legs. The Duc du Maine had taken off his mask and was biting his lip as he watched his sister. Charles looked at the king, wondering what he felt as he watched his daughter dance for the last time. As though Louis felt Charles’s eyes on him, the royal gaze lifted to the balcony and rested on Charles for the briefest of moments. With a nod so small Charles couldn’t be sure he’d seen it, the king turned his attention back to the dancers, leaving Charles wondering if he’d just been thanked for his small part in Lulu’s acceptance of her fate.

When the
bourrée
ended and Lulu and the Pole had bowed and curtsied to the king, all the dancers rose and formed two facing lines for the buoyant
contredanse
that signaled the ball’s end. As the lines advanced and retreated and the couples whirled and wound their way up and down, Charles felt himself relax a little. The ball was over. Nothing had happened.

“They’ll set up a buffet now,” La Reynie said, when the
contredanse
had ended and the half dozen other people who’d been watching from the balcony were filing out into the gallery. “The musicians will play and the
salon
will be thronged with people milling and eating. I think you should go down,
maître
, and continue watching from there. I’ll stay up here and we’ll have each other in sight.”

Charles agreed and made his way from the balcony toward the stairs. And came face to face with Michel Louvois, the king’s minister of war. Louvois’s round black bulk seemed to radiate anger as he stared at Charles, then shouldered him aside and went toward the balcony where La Reynie was. Charles
forced himself to walk sedately to the stairs, berating himself for how much he wanted to run, for how much he feared the war minister.

The stairs took him down to the north vestibule. A steady wind swept across the floor, and as he went into the
salon
, it seemed to get stronger. It was oddly disturbing, this wind blowing his cassock against his knees in a closed, crowded room, as though a storm must be raging outside, though at sunset the sky had been limpidly clear. Watching for any sign of Montmorency—and for Lulu, Conti, and Margot—he pushed politely through the crowd, feeling a growing need to keep Anne-Marie under his eye as well. As he passed near Mme de Maintenon, who was complaining indignantly about the wind, he caught sight of Lulu.

She was standing with her father near the royal armchair, hands folded demurely at her waist, eyes downcast, listening to him. La Chaise, still standing behind the chair, was watching her. The king’s brother and sister-in-law and the Dauphin watched and listened avidly. The ambassadors had drawn a little aside and were talking quietly to each other. As Charles made his way along the north wall, he saw Lulu lift her eyes, smile, and say something that brought an answering smile and nod from the king. She curtsied and went to a table in the corner where a crystal pitcher and a single gold cup stood waiting. As she started to pour a stream of wine dark as blackberries, a wandering, chattering pair of elderly women blocked Charles’s view. He sidestepped them and saw that Lulu stood now with bowed head, hands clasped at her bosom. He took advantage of a gap in the crowd to get nearer, and saw that she was fingering the blue-stoned ring Montmorency had given her, the one with a lock of his hair in it. Charles wondered suddenly if she cared more for Montmorency than he’d imagined. Had she hoped, in spite of everything, that he’d come for her? The ring’s blue stone
opened and a deep sigh shuddered through her as she bent lower over the cup. Then she turned, and Charles saw the searing hatred in her eyes as she looked at her father, the same hatred he’d seen at the ball at Versailles. It was gone almost instantly, leaving her face a mask of submission as she carried the cup to the king.

“Lulu! Lulu, no!” But Charles’s voice was lost in the swelling chatter and music. He fought through the oblivious crowd to reach her. She lifted the cup briefly to her lips. Then she offered it to her father, who took it, smiling at her.

“
Sire!
Don’t drink it!” Charles leaped like an attacking wolf, slapped the goblet from the king’s hand, lost his footing, and fell at Louis’s feet.

Chapter 22

C
haos broke out and the music stopped. Cries of outrage filled the
salon
.
Lèse-majesté!
He assaulted the king’s majesty! Take him, hold him! It’s a Jesuit plot, a Huguenot plot, it’s the English! It’s the poisoner, I saw the cup! I saw a knife in his hand! Take him!

Charles lay utterly still, not daring even to speak lest the sword points pressing through his cassock and drawing warm trickles of blood under his shirt should press even harder. He had fallen with his head turned toward Lulu, and he looked through the forest of shoes and stockings for her pink-gold skirts. Then rough hands pulled him to his feet.

Guards from the vestibules held him and a hedge of sword points surrounded him, reflected candlelight running like fire along the blades. Pike-wielding guards and horrified gentlemen with drawn swords flanked the king, who was staring at the fallen cup and the wine splashed like blood across the floor. La Chaise was bent over the spilled wine, watching a fluffy white dog with red ribbons on its ears lapping eagerly at the puddle. Slowly, Louis turned his head to look at Charles.

“Regicide!” Michel Louvois, the war minister, raised his court sword from the hedging circle to Charles’s throat. “Now we know you for what you are!” His chins quivered with satisfaction.
“You see, Sire! I was right about him. A Huguenot sympathizer, spreading his damnable creed at Louis le Grand, plotting—”

A deep, furious voice growled, “Don’t be a fool,” and a lace-cuffed hand shoved Louvois’s sword point away from Charles’s throat. La Reynie pushed past the war minister to the king. With a quick glance at La Chaise, he went down on one knee. “Sire, there was an attempt on your life, but not by Maître du Luc. Without him, you would be dying now. Look.”

He pointed, and a gasp went up from the royal family and others close enough to see. The fluffy white dog stood with its head down, heaving miserably. Suddenly it crumpled onto its side, shuddered, and lay still. A woman began to wail, but the others who had seen fell abruptly silent, and the frozen horror of their silence spread through the
salon
.

“Sweet wine, Sire,” La Reynie said softly. “Everyone close to you knows you like it. Sweet wine to cover a bitter taste.”

Only the king’s eyes moved as he looked from the dog to La Reynie to Charles. “Let the Jesuit go.” The guards took their hands away and stood at attention as Charles got slowly to his feet.

Louvois, protesting, made to secure him again, but Charles wrenched himself away.

“Sire,” Louvois pleaded, “you are not yourself; you have had a terrible shock! You cannot let this man go—everyone knows La Reynie protects him, and you might do well to discover why!”

“Not myself? I am entirely myself, Monsieur Louvois. But
you
forget yourself.” The royal words were full of warning. Louvois blanched and bowed.

“Find her,” the king said to La Reynie. “My men are at your service.” He raked the gathered courtiers with his eyes and left
the
salon
, taking the speechless Polish ambassadors and the rest of his shocked entourage with him. When he was gone and everyone rose from their bows and curtsies, the courtiers edged toward the doors in their turn, chattering and staring at La Reynie and Charles as they went. La Chaise came to La Reynie. His face was the color of spoiled dough.

“What do you want me to do?” he said.

“Set whomever you can trust to watch the doors. If Montmorency shows himself, they must take him and hold him until I return.”

Nodding, La Chaise looked at Charles. “We are deeply indebted to you, Maître du Luc.”

Charles shook his head. “I was nearly too late. I failed her, I didn’t see her clearly enough. I wish—” He shrugged, out of words.

“My failure is greater than yours. At least you saw her desperation.”

He turned abruptly and went out the way the king had gone.

As he moved, Charles saw that Anne-Marie de Bourbon was standing near the wall, watching and listening. Before he could go to her, La Reynie said in his ear, “Stay near me,” and called the guard captain, who had been waiting with his men for orders.

La Reynie swiftly assigned half of them to search the chateau and its surrounding buildings for Lulu, and the other half to quarter the grounds. “I was in the balcony,” he told them. “I saw her leave by the north door. She can’t have gone far, on foot and dressed as she is. When you find her, bring her to me.”

Anne-Marie whirled and ran for the north door. Ignoring La Reynie’s order to stay close, Charles went after her. He caught her arm as she started down the terrace stairs, toward the streaming torches that marked where guards were already searching.

Charles shook the child slightly. “Where is Lulu, Your Serene Highness? We both know she left by this door.” He held out the leaf he’d picked up on the terrace earlier. “This dropped from your hair, I think, when we were talking before. I think it came from the place you found for Lulu to hide in. Did you know she planned to poison the king?”

In the light of the torch mounted on the chateau wall, Anne-Marie’s face was as white and pinched as the king’s had been. “No.” She made no effort to free herself from his grip.

“But you helped her escape.”

“Yes.” The rising wind blew her ribbons around her face as she stared unflinchingly back at him, and he realized once more that she was as determined as her grandfather, the Great Condé, had been. But unlike the Condé, she would keep her word, once given, no matter what. And she would scorn a lie.