Before Versailles (71 page)

“My master of the household. He’s down below among the courtiers with orders to keep his eyes on you. He would have been happy to bring a message.”

“Of course. I’m so stupid.”

He rose from the bed, took her face between his hands. “Don’t say those words. I am not angry.” He felt better to see some of the worry leave her face, to see her incandescent smile, which he had to kiss. “I love you.”

Then she was gone, leaving him alone with his thoughts, which spun and sparked and ran into each other. They must return to Fontainebleau, must bury Belle. How short his time with Louise had been today. His mother’s confessor was a spy to the viscount. Dear God. When was the last time his mother had confessed? What had she said about her visit to the Duchess Marie? Had she ever spoken of the boy? Was he setting a trap that the viscount already knew of? Was it all for nothing? Would he end up having to pretend that he’d never meant arrest, bowing and scraping to stay in the viscount’s good graces? If the viscount knew the possibility of his birth not being what it seemed, the man already possessed a larger weapon than his fleet. How gentle Louise was. He must remember that with her, there would never be deliberate hurt. He must bring her brother to court. He must win the confidence of her mother. He must surround her with some allies.

A
CROWD ASSEMBLED
for the burial of Belle. Maria Teresa sat in a chair surrounded by her ladies. Henriette did not come, yet allowed her ladies’ presence.

“Madame is not feeling well,” said his brother. Philippe’s face was closed, unreadable.

“Thank you for being here.” Philippe of all people knew how much Belle meant, had grown up with her, too. “My brother.” Louis pulled Philippe close, fiercely kissed each of his cheeks. “You are always my brother. Forgive me any action that has hurt you. I do only what I think best,” he said in his ear. Over Philippe’s shoulders he made certain he knew where Louise was.

D’Artagnan dug the grave. Louis’s confessor said prayers. All the women present dropped flowers into the grave. Last of all, Louis placed the wrapped stag’s heart on the body, and then musketeers began to throw dirt in the grave. Belle’s sons and daughter milled around, pawed at the dirt. Louis whistled and knelt to pull the ears of Phaedra. He thought of the Mazarinade that had been left near Belle. Any one of the people here might have put it there.

“You have to take your mother’s place. Can you do that?” he asked the dog to cover his thoughts.

He stood, saw Nicolas standing some distance away, talking with D’Artagnan. Louis gave his hand to Maria Teresa, who was crying, to lead her back into the palace. D’Artagnan would never betray, of that he was certain, but he didn’t like it that Nicolas talked with him. Did the fox sense the hounds gaining? What if he bolted, holed himself up on that island of his, but he wouldn’t do so before his fête, would he? His pride, for all its cloak of charm, was too great.

“Come to my chambers this evening,” Nicolas said to D’Artagnan. “We’ll drink a glass of wine and talk about your travels.”

“I’m to Paris. I’ve a young wife I haven’t seen in days, Viscount,” answered D’Artagnan.

“Fortunate man. Well, come and call on me when you return. I hear Monaco is beautiful this time of year. I want to know whether I should visit.”

C
OLBERT OPENED THE
door and ushered Anne’s confessor inside. Unsmiling, Louis remained where he was. The priest padded calmly forward, his face pale and pleasant, his robes dark and severe, a creature of court as well as of Rome.

“Your majesty,” he smiled. He and Louis had known one another for a long time. “To what do I owe the honor of this summons?”

“To the fact that you share with the Viscount Nicolas everything my mother confesses to you. To the fact that I am not pleased that you do so.” Louis leaned forward, his arms braced on the table that separated them, the angles of his face hard. “Not only do you betray the most sacred of vows, you betray the queen mother of this kingdom and her son, the king, as well as soil the robes you wear. I can only imagine the Holy Father in Rome will agree.”

He would use this confessor’s breach of trust to bolster his explanations to the Pope about scattering monks to the far corners. Now, what did the viscount know?

August 1661 …

Chapter 36

INQ
M
ARS WATCHED THE BOY CAREFULLY
. T
HE YOUNG PRINCE
sat in the middle of the rooftop, rocking back and forth. The mask was on his face. Whenever they attempted to take it from him, he defecated on himself.

“Make the wine,” he said to Father Gabriel.

The priest shook his head. Like Cinq Mars, he was concerned about the amount the boy had swallowed these last weeks.

“Do it,” said Cinq Mars, “not enough to make him sleep, only enough to quiet him a bit.”

How much he wanted the mask off. As much as his majesty did. How much he wanted to see this young prince raise his bare face and receive the kisses of the sun. He wanted the boy brown from the sun, toasted and golden. Could he teach him to swim? Likely not, but there was a narrow spit of sand not far from this place, and he wanted to take him there, let him enjoy the waves.

“It’s old Cinq Mars,” he called out, when the wine was ready. He set the goblet near the boy, sat down himself, not too close, but near enough for the young prince to see him. He raised his own goblet high. “To you, your highness, to your health, to your long life. Are you thirsty? Drink with Cinq Mars now.”

He sipped his wine. He’d stopped thinking about the letter. It would find its destination or not. Something would happen or not. He had always scorned the politics of court, hated its practical cruelty, which in his mind culminated in the queen mother’s behavior. But for the moment, he was content to be sitting in the sun with this boy he loved. With time, with steadiness, with routine, the boy would thrive again. He was too thin, had stopped eating in the confusion and upset that had been theirs for too many weeks.

The roar of the sea on the rocks below them filled his ears. The warmth of the sun actually began to penetrate his clothing. It felt like it was seeping through to his bones. He drank down the rest of his wine, stretched out, folded his arms behind his head. To nap in the sun, what luxury.

He heard the boy pick up the goblet, so he opened his eyes, but didn’t turn abruptly or make any other movement. He listened to the boy drink a little. Imp, he thought, not eating enough to keep a bird alive much less a long-legged, growing young man. He moved to kneel beside his young prince, cautious, waiting for the signs that showed the boy was disturbed, but other than a rapid blinking of the eyes, which he could see through the slits of that cursed mask, the boy was still.

Cinq Mars unfastened strap after strap and waited. There was no outburst. Ingenious, the man who made this. Fiendish. He waited a moment. The boy was breathing more rapidly. What would he do? Watching anxiously, Father Gabriel squatted a foot or so away. After a while, the mask was in Cinq Mars’s hands, its intricate straps dangling like the arms of a sea animal.

The boy remained still. Cinq Mars and Father Gabriel smiled at each other. Cinq Mars walked to the roof’s thick ledge, threw the mask over the side, watching in angry glee as its leather girders streamed upward like arms begging for help. A shout made him turn, but not quickly enough to stop the boy, who apparently had run across the roof, was standing even now on the thick perimeter of the rampart ledge, and before Cinq Mars could open his mouth or make a move, leapt over the side. Cinq Mars shouted to every god in the world, closed his eyes to not see the boy’s body hit the jagged rocks. He would have climbed over, would have joined the boy, but Father Gabriel held him back.

It was dangerous and difficult to clamber over the rocks, slick with sea and moss, his wound gasping like a mouth between his heart and shoulder, but he did it anyway. The sea mustn’t have his dear prince, but the body was so broken, was partially wedged in an impossible crevice of rock. He would break his child to further pieces bringing him home. The tide was coming in. When it reached his neck, he abandoned his task, half-swam, half-fell back to dry land. The mask lay there. One of its straps had caught on a shard of rock, and it bobbed up and down, waiting for him. He tore it from the rock that had captured it, somehow made it to shore, bruised, cut, bleeding again. Then he sat on the sand, as the sea licked his boots, and tears seeped out of his eyes, his body aching, his wound screaming from the sea’s salt, before his heart finally grasped its loss, and he began to howl, just as the boy had so often done, and Father Gabriel, standing in the shadow of the fortress monastery, left him alone.

Chapter 37