“No, mon lieutenant-général,” Charles heard the guard say. “No horseman has come in since noon.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes, mon lieutenant-général.”
“If Montmorency does come, say nothing about my being here or asking about him. Let him pass but send me word.”
The guard nodded smartly, the gates opened, and the carriage crossed an arcaded circular court. Then Charles nearly fell forward as they began to go steeply downhill.
“The chateau is at the bottom of this slope,” La Reynie said. He turned on the seat to face Charles. “You heard what the guard said? Montmorency is not here.”
“Yes, but I can hardly believe it. Are there other ways in?”
“I suppose he could go through the forest. There are paths. But then he’d have to climb the garden wall. Without being seen and taken by a guard. The guards are nearly as thick here as at Versailles. Otherwise, though, Marly is different. It is private, not open for public gawking. Officials, like me, can get in on emergency business. Otherwise, entrance is strictly at the king’s invitation.” La Reynie braced an arm on the front wall against the incline. “I know of at least one visit Montmorency has made here. So he may know a way through the forest. But if he breaks in over the wall, that will not endear him to the king.”
Charles looked out his window again and saw that they were near the bottom of the steep allée. The chateau was directly ahead. The last of the long evening’s sun lay across its front and Charles exclaimed in surprise. “The red pillars-they’re Languedoc marble, from my home region. What an incredible front the place has!”
Beside him, La Reynie merely snorted.
The sunlight gleamed on the chateau’s gold balustrade, its gold sculpted figures and vases, its golden pediments and window panels, all picked out against brilliant royal blue walls. The carriage stopped at a second, smaller gate and was passed through. Charles, still gaping out his window like a tourist, gasped in astonishment.
“It’s all paint! There are no pillars, it’s just a flat wall, there’s nothing there but paint!”
“Yes. Illusion.” La Reynie bent his head and stepped down from the carriage as a lackey held the door open.
Charles clambered from the carriage and stood gazing at the chateau’s trompe l’oeil front. “Do you suppose they intend the irony? That it’s all only an illusion?”
“Illusions can be very durable.” La Reynie led the way into the royal chateau of Marly.
Chapter 21
La Reynie stated his business to the footman who’d let them in.
“I’ll take you to the king’s apartments, monsieur,” the footman said. “We have a grand ball this evening, but His Majesty is still in his private rooms.”
La Reynie nodded at the glazed doors on the vestibule’s other side. “You can wait in the salon, maître. That’s where the ball will be. I shouldn’t be long.” And as the footman turned away, he added under his breath, “Keep your eyes open.”
Charles went through the glazed doors into the salon. For a moment he simply stared. The enormous room was octagonal, with identical glass-paned doors at the four points of the compass, and identical cavernous fireplaces topped with mirrors on the angled sides. Corinthian pilasters studded the ground floor walls and caryatids looked down from the next level. Between the caryatids were tall windows with balconies, but the windows were dark and seemed to open from an inner corridor. The only natural light came from roundel windows near the top of the walls. Now that the sun was behind the hills, servants were lighting the wall sconce candles, and the mirror-polished parquet floor was doubling and giving back the little flames.
Otherwise, the salon was deserted. But muted voices and what Charles recognized as the click of billiard balls came from the south vestibule, and he went to see who was there. As he opened the glazed doors and looked in, the men engrossed in the billiard game ignored him. Several had shed their coats, and they were all watching hawk-eyed as the Duc du Maine sighted intently along his cue and struck a ball. When it went wide, the watchers shouted in triumph. Maine shrugged and smiled. As he moved aside for the next player, he caught sight of Charles.
“Maître du Luc! Have you come for the ball and the wedding?”
Charles, still wearing his outdoor hat, removed it and inclined his head. “A grand occasion, Your Highness,” he said, smiling, hoping Maine wouldn’t notice his failure to answer the question. “How is it with your sister?”
Maine abandoned the billiard game and went to the side table where he’d left his coat. “I don’t quite know,” he said, slipping it on as they walked together into the salon. “Not happy. But she’s-excited, somehow, I think. Which I suppose is better than just being sad.” He looked a little wistfully at Charles. “I think going to Poland would be a great adventure!”
“Going to Poland might.”
“But marrying a stranger wouldn’t, you mean.” He sighed. “I hope I will have more choice when my time comes. But I don’t suppose I’ll have much.”
Giving up on finding a subtle way to ask if Montmorency was there, Charles said, “I suppose all her friends will be here. The little Condé girl and Monsieur Montmorency and the Prince of Conti?”
“Anne-Marie and Conti will certainly be here. I don’t think Montmorency was invited.” He looked puzzled. “But you should know that better than I, since he’s at Louis le Grand.”
“Sometimes the young nobles are given leave to go to court,” Charles said vaguely. “At what time does this ball begin?”
“At nine. And it must be nearly eight, I should go and dress.” He smiled and withdrew.
La Reynie was still not back, and Charles crossed the salon to its north vestibule and went outside. Below the steps, there was a stretch of gravel and then the wide spread of gardens. Jets of water played among what seemed acres of parterres, all planted with flowers and low shrubs, and crossed with formal paths. Beyond, the ground fell away toward the Seine. Charles turned slowly, taking in the stretch of the gardens, the buildings around the chateau itself, and the steep wooded hills rising on the other three sides of it all. If Montmorency was here in hiding, it would take a concerted search and sheer luck to find him. A searching, fitful wind had risen and the western sky was already piled with soft rosy clouds. In another hour or so, it would be dark.
“So you’ve finally come back,” a high clear voice said disapprovingly behind him.
Anne-Marie de Bourbon stood just outside the doors, shimmering in silver satin covered with silvery blue embroidery. Blue gems winked in her silver-ribboned brown curls, and both arms were wrapped around her little black dog, who was happily licking her chin.
Charles removed his hat again and made his clerical révérence. “I have, Your Serene Highness. But how did you know?”
“The Duc du Maine just told me.” She flicked an impatient hand toward the salon and gently pushed the little dog’s head away. Then she looked carefully around the deserted terrace, grabbed his hand, and pulled him farther from the doors. In a half-whispered rush, she said, “Did you finally read the old man’s book? Why did it take you so long to come? What are you going to do?”
“So it was you who put the Comte de Fleury’s mémoire in my saddlebag.”
She nodded impatiently. “I was keeping it for Lulu. Her women go through her things, but no one bothers about me. But you haven’t answered me. What are you going to do?” Her voice was as worried as her pale thin face, and the little dog wiggled and anxiously licked her again.