“Ma petite,” Charles said softly, speaking as he might have spoken to Marie-Ange, the baker’s daughter. “You want me to rescue your friend. And I think I understand why now.” He leaned over as though adjusting his shoe. “A child?” he murmured.
Anne-Marie nodded. “She’s been so sick. I know the signs.”
“I am sorry with all my heart. But I cannot stop her going to Poland. She herself has chosen not to tell the king her secret. What can anyone say to him?” He reached out to pet one of the dog’s long ears. “No, don’t shout at me, we don’t want to be noticed. Listen. They are not barbarians in Poland. Their queen is French. It will not be as bad for Lulu as you think.” He prayed that what he said was true. Though the child would be taken from her. Princes could flaunt their bastards. Princesses could not.
Anne-Marie’s mouth was trembling. But she drew herself up to her diminutive height and her eyes flashed. “What you mean is that you are a coward. Well, I am not!”
In an angry whirl of skirts, she swept back into the vestibule. Grimacing at her accusation, Charles gazed after her and then picked up a leaf that had fluttered from her shoulder and turned it over in his hand. It was as fresh as the child herself, and Charles shook his head. When childhood’s illusions shattered, they usually shattered painfully. Then his ruefulness shifted abruptly to suspicion. Was the girl planning something? But what could a twelve-year-old do? He put the leaf absently into his pocket and started back inside.
The door opened nearly in his face as La Reynie came out of the vestibule. He looked, if anything, more unhappy than he had in the carriage.
“What did the king say?” Charles asked him.
“Nothing I wanted to hear.” La Reynie went to the edge of the terrace and looked out over the gardens. “Which is only fair, I suppose, because I also told him nothing he wanted to hear. The war minister Louvois has been at him repeatedly about Conti, and the king has tried to fend him off. Now that I’ve told him there’s every reason to think that Louvois is right, he’s furious.”
Louvois. Even the man’s name sent a small chill through Charles, and he thought of Louvois in his carriage, approaching Versailles on the day he and Jouvancy had left. “Is he here?”
La Reynie nodded unhappily. Charles had reason to know that La Reynie liked the ruthlessly competent war minister as little as most people did. “I haven’t seen him yet. But I did manage to talk with Père La Chaise after I saw the king. Père La Chaise is livid about Montmorency, though he says that as far as he knows, the boy hasn’t been here. He’ll help you watch for Montmorency during the ball. The king has ordered me to keep a close watch on Conti and the duchess tonight-yes, Margot is here, too-but unless I see a letter passed, I’m not to question them until tomorrow. Nothing is to disturb the court until Père La Chaise pronounces the royal daughter a royal wife tomorrow morning and she’s on her way to Poland.”
“What do you want me to do if Montmorency comes?”
“Grab him and hand him over to a guard. Two guards, given what we know of his prowess at fighting. I said nothing to the king of Montmorency’s feelings for the girl-only that I want to question him about Conti’s letters.” La Reynie studied the horizon.
Surprised, Charles said, “Why did you keep his secret?”
The lieutenant-général shot Charles a warning look. “Not because I’m converted to your nonsense about thwarting parental authority and order.” He glared at the tired lace covering his wrists. “Montmorency isn’t here yet. Or if he is, we don’t know it. If he’s not here, he may never arrive. If he arrives, he may lose his nerve-or come to his senses-and never show his face. So unless he does burst in like some idiot knight out of The Song of Roland, let his little romance die its death. He’s in enough trouble as it is, just being suspected of helping Conti with the letters.”
More than enough trouble, Charles thought. He gave silent thanks for La Reynie’s reserve with the king. The lieutenant-général’s compassion might be reluctant and even furious, but it was still compassion. At least the boy might escape exposure of his silliness over Lulu.
“What do we do now, mon lieutenant-général?”
“They’re bringing us a little something to eat in the salon. I’m told the ball begins at nine.”
La Reynie led the way back into the salon, where footmen had let down the huge central chandelier on its chain and were replacing and lighting its candles. Others were setting up chairs in what Charles recognized as the Ring, seating for those who would dance during the ball. Another footman stood near a fireplace where a small table had been set with plates and cups. When he saw them, he lifted a hand and brought two chairs from their places against the wall. Charles and La Reynie ate quickly but well, cold chicken and salad and comfortingly good wine. As they ate, servants continued to set up chairs and music stands on the west wall’s balcony, and the musicians gathered and began tuning their violins. The chandelier, now blazing with candles, was hauled back to its place level with the balconies, its hanging crystals sparkling in its light.
Charles suddenly felt a draft and turned to see who had come in from outside.
“What is it?” La Reynie said.
“Someone came in from outside, didn’t you feel the wind?”
“Oh, the wind. The smallest breeze from outside gets into this salon without anyone opening a door. They say it’s something to do with the glazing, but no one seems able to fix it. In the winter, you can’t sit in here unless you’re wearing furs.” He glanced at a servant shifting from foot to foot by the wall. “I think they’re wanting to move our table.”
As they rose, Charles said, “I forgot to tell you that I saw the Condé child just now on the terrace. She admitted that she put Fleury’s mémoire in my saddlebag. And she wanted to know what had taken me so long to return and save Lulu. When I told her there was nothing I could do, she called me a coward. And gave me to understand that she, on the other hand, is not. What do you make of that?”
“Twelve-year-old bravado. Come, let’s go up to a balcony; it’s a good place for watching the vestibules.”
A sweet-chimed clock struck nine as they reached the top of a staircase to the second-floor corridor around the octagon. La Reynie led the way to a floor-to-ceiling window. As they stepped through it onto the south balcony, they heard the musicians begin to play.
“Remember,” he said, “the vestibule to your right is the east entrance from the main court. The other vestibules, including the one straight under us, open onto the gardens and walks. If Montmorency is here, he’s likely to come in through one of those, not by the main court.”
Below them, the salon filled quickly, a storm of talk and laughter above a rustling sea of satin, damask, brocade, silk, and lace, most of it in brilliant colors, much of it covered with embroidery and sparkling with gems. Wigs hung in swags of curls, fontanges bloomed with ribbons, and perfumed fans added to the breeze wandering through the room. The music broke off, and then the musicians played a brief fanfare and the inner doors of the east vestibule were thrown open. The king appeared and everyone sank into deep curtsies and bows as he walked to the regal armchair set for him in front of the east doors. To Charles’s surprise, Madame de Maintenon was with him, sober in brown velvet, black lace preserving her modesty from bodice edge to neck and veiling her hair. The Dauphin, the king’s brother Philippe and sister-in-law Liselotte, and the older Polish ambassador, who wore a long coat of deep blue silk over breeches to the ankle, all seated themselves on either side of the king. La Chaise came in and placed himself behind the king’s chair. He raised his eyes briefly to the balcony where Charles and La Reynie were, and then let his gaze roam over the crowd.