Judith Rock - Plague of Lies

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.

“ 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.