“It was her decision,” von Fersen said quickly. “She is extremely courageous. She demands to go last. If the others are discovered missing, she wishes to sacrifice herself in order to aid their escape.”
There was that frisson of passion in his voice again. But this time when he looked at Magnus, his gaze stayed there for a moment, fixed on the catlike pupils.
“So why do you want only the queen glamoured?”
“Partially it has to do with timing,” Axel said. “The order in which people must be seen coming and going. His Majesty will be with people right up until his coucher, and he departs instantly after that. Only Her Majesty will be alone in the palace for some time. She is also more recognizable.”
“Than the king?”
“But of course! His Majesty is not . . . a handsome man. Gazes do not linger on his face. What people recognize are his clothes, and carriage, all the external signs of his royal status. But Her Majesty . . . her face is known. Her face is studied and drawn and painted. Her style is copied. She is beautiful, and her face has been committed to many a memory.”
“I see,” Magnus said, wanting to move away from the subject of the queen’s beauty. “And what will happen to you?”
“I will drive the carriage as far as Bondy,” he said, his gaze still fixed on Magnus. He continued to list details—troop movements, stations to change the horses, things of that nature. Magnus had no interest in these details. They could not hold his attention like the way the elegant ruff of shirt fabric brushed Axel’s chin as he spoke. The heavy plumpness of his lower lip. No king or queen or palace or work of art had anything that could compare with that lower lip.
“As for your payment . . .”
These words drew Magnus back in.
“The matter of payment is quite simple,” Magnus said. “I require no money—”
“Monsieur,” Axel said, leaning forward, “you do this as a true patriot of France!”
“I do this,” Magnus continued calmly, “to develop our friendship. I ask only to see you again when the thing is done.”
“To see me?”
“To see you, monsieur.”
Axel’s shoulders drew back a bit, and he looked down at his plate. For a moment Magnus thought it was all for nothing, that he had made the wrong move. But then Axel looked back up, and the candlelight flickered in his blue eyes.
“Monsieur,” he said, taking Magnus’s hand across the table, “we shall be the closest of friends evermore.”
This was precisely what Magnus wanted to hear.
On Sunday morning, the day of the escape, Magnus woke to the usual clamor of church bells ringing all over Paris. His head was a bit thick and clouded from a long evening with the Count de —— and a group of actors from the Comédie-Italienne. It seemed that during the night he had also acquired a monkey. It sat on the footboard of his bed, happily eating Magnus’s morning bread. It had already tipped over the pot of tea that Claude had brought in, and there was a pile of shredded ostrich feathers in the middle of the floor.
“Hello,” Magnus said to the monkey.
The monkey did not reply.
“I shall call you Ragnor,” Magnus added, leaning back against the pillows gently. “Claude!”
The door opened, and Claude came in. He did not appear in the least bit surprised about Ragnor’s presence. He just immediately set to work cleaning up the spilled tea.
“I’ll need you to get a leash for my monkey, Claude, and also a hat.”
“Of course, monsieur.”
“Do you think he needs a little coat as well?”
“Perhaps not in this weather, monsieur.”
“You’re right,” Magnus said with a sigh. “Make it a simple dressing gown, just like mine.”
“Which one, monsieur?”
“The one in rose and silver.”
“An excellent choice, monsieur,” Claude said, getting to work on the feathers.
“And take him to the kitchen and get him a proper breakfast, will you? He’ll need fruit and water, and perhaps a cool bath.”
By this point Ragnor had hopped down from the foot of the bed and was making his way toward an exquisite Sevres porcelain vase, when Claude plucked him up like he’d been monkey-plucking all his life.
“Ah,” Claude added, reaching into his coat, “a note came for you this morning.”
He made his quiet exit with the monkey. Magnus tore open the note. It read:
There is a problem. It is to be delayed until tomorrow.
—Axel
Well, that was the evening’s plans ruined.
Tomorrow was Saint Cloud’s party. Both of these obligations needed to be met. But it could be done. He would take his carriage to the edge of the Tuileries palace, attend to the business with the queen, get back into the carriage, and get to the party. He’d had busier nights.
And Axel was worth it.