Paris The Novel

Chapter Seventeen




• 1637 •


It was a December evening when it happened. Or did it? Something happened then, or close to that time. That was not in doubt. But what? Did the eyes of Charles de Cygne deceive him? There was no way of knowing, although the kingdom of France was at stake.

It began in an anteroom where he’d been waiting. Through the window, by the lamplight, he could see the bare boughs of a small tree bending in the December wind. Then the door opened, and a lackey’s head appeared.

“His Eminence wants you.”

Charles de Cygne stepped out into the passage. A moment later he was in a high hall with a stone staircase.

Cardinal Richelieu’s palace was magnificent. He had decided to build it just north of the Louvre, to be close to the king. And that was clearly convenient since, for nearly two decades now, it was Cardinal Richelieu who effectively ruled France.

People feared Richelieu. Perhaps a ruler needed to be feared, Charles thought. But he was a good master. Charles was thirty, with a young family. One day he’d inherit the family estate from his father, Robert. But in the meantime, the rewards that Richelieu had given him for his services provided income for which he was more than grateful.

Charles liked to think that he and Richelieu understood each other. They were both French aristocrats. But he had quickly learned what Richelieu valued. Speed, accuracy and, above all, discretion. Richelieu saw everything that passed in France. His spies were everywhere. Working for him, Charles had seen much private information. But whatever he saw, he kept to himself. Sometimes people would ask him about his work—people he knew and thought he could trust. They might be enemies of Richelieu, they might have an interest in some matter before the cardinal, or they might be spies, sent by Richelieu to test him. Who knew? But not one of them had ever gotten a word out of him. Not a word.

He started up the stairs. Reaching the top, he turned into a reception room.

Charles liked the Cardinal’s Palace. With its big courtyards and delightful arcades, it had an Italian air. On its eastern side, work had begun on a handsome private theater.

There were a few people waiting to see the cardinal in the reception room. He walked to the door at the opposite end, which was immediately opened for him. Aware of the envious glances from the men waiting behind him, he passed through into another salon. This one was empty. But now through a small door in the far corner, a single figure emerged.

He was nothing much to look at. A simple monk, well into middle age. In fact, Charles thought, he looked pale and unwell. He saw de Cygne, and a faint flicker of the eyelids indicated recognition. But nothing more.

Father Joseph, the éminence grise, who stood like a shadow beside the cardinal. A walking conscience. A man of silence. A man whose very mysteriousness made him feared.

Father Joseph and the cardinal had one enormous project upon which they agreed. They must weaken the influence of the Hapsburg family. With Spain to the south, the Holy Roman Empire and the Netherlands to the east, all under Hapsburg family control, France was boxed in. The interest of France must therefore be to weaken the Hapsburg threat.

One might like Richelieu, or not; but no one could doubt his devotion to France. It was one of the reasons de Cygne was proud to serve him. Father Joseph, however, was another matter. The aging monk was against the Hapsburgs for another reason. They did not want to go to war with Turkey. That was not so surprising. Turkey was on the borders of their empire. Why should they want to stir up trouble so close to home? But Father Joseph wanted all Christendom to proclaim a new crusade against the Moslem Turks. It was his obsession. First weaken the Hapsburgs, then let France lead the West, as in olden times, against the Moslem power. Privately, Charles considered the idea of a latter-day crusade the height of folly and certain to bring ruin upon his country.

Once he had been summoned into the room by Richelieu when Father Joseph was with him, and the cardinal had remarked with a smile: “Father Joseph wants France to lead a new crusade against the Turks, de Cygne. What do you think?”

Thank God that he’d already learned the rules of survival by then. With a low bow to the monk he had replied: “My ancestors were crusading knights, Eminence. It is even believed that we descend from Roland, the companion of Charlemagne, who died fighting the Moslems of Spain.”

A clever answer. It seemed to say everything, and in fact said nothing. It appeared to satisfy the monk, anyway, and Richelieu smiled.

Rule number one of survival: Never, never tell anyone what you really think.

This evening, therefore, he bowed respectfully to the aging monk as he passed. Father Joseph really didn’t look well. Perhaps he was going to die. That wouldn’t be a bad thing, thought Charles.

He went through the small door from which Father Joseph had emerged, and found the cardinal writing a letter in his office.

“Sit down, my dear de Cygne,” he said quietly. “I shan’t be long.”

Charles sat quietly. The room was high and handsome without being sumptuous. Shelves of leather-bound books lined the walls—for Richelieu was a great book collector. It might have been an office in the Vatican. Patron of the new Académie française, connoisseur of the arts, subtle diplomatist: Richelieu was a Frenchman, but he was more like an Italian prince of the Church.

From his chair, Charles surveyed the great man. Tall, elegant, a handsome, finely drawn face, his small beard neatly pointed, his eyes always thoughtful. As so often in times past, thought de Cygne, God had given France exactly the right person in her hour of need.

When that likable old rascal King Henry IV had been killed by a lunatic back in 1610, his heir was only a little boy, and Henry’s widow, Marie de Médicis, had ruled the Regency council for young Louis XIII. It was strange, Charles thought, that an Italian Médicis should be stupid, but the Queen Mother certainly was, and she’d ruled badly. Indeed, as far as Charles de Cygne was concerned, she’d done only three good things for France: She’d been the patron of the great artist Rubens, she’d built a delightful little palace for herself, called the Luxembourg, about half a mile south of the river, and west of the university. And she and her council had first brought Richelieu into the royal government.

It had taken young Louis XIII a while to get power away from his mother. But though he dealt quite effectively with some rebellions, the daily administration of his kingdom seemed to bore him, and he’d entrusted more and more administration to Richelieu. It was the best thing he could have done. For nearly two decades they had made a wonderful team.

The cardinal finished his letter. Before sealing it, he carefully read it over. He looked tired.

As Charles gazed at him with admiration, he wondered: What would happen when the cardinal left the scene? Not that he was old. He was only in his early fifties, but his health was not good. Something he’d said the other day had indicated that he himself had his earthly end in mind.

“You know, de Cygne, I have already left this palace to the king in my will. It seemed the sensible thing to do.” Then he sighed. “We have achieved much, but there has never been time to tackle the country’s finances properly. That is the great task for the future.”

Yet who could take his place? There was no obvious candidate yet, but the man who had impressed the cardinal most in recent years was a young Italian with a gift for diplomacy. Mazarini was his name, though he’d changed it to Mazarin now, which sounded more French. He wasn’t noble. It was even rumored that he was partly Jewish. But it was his intelligence that impressed Richelieu, who considered him a future statesman.

It turn, Charles had noticed, Mazarin seemed to model himself on the cardinal, cutting his hair and beard in exactly the same way. He had his own personality though. He liked to gamble. He had already made himself popular with both King Louis and his wife.

Would Mazarin be his next master? Charles de Cygne had no idea, but with all his heart he wished Richelieu long life.

Richelieu folded the letter, dripped a little sealing wax onto the paper and gently pressed his signet ring down upon the hot wax.

“My friend,” he said softly, “I want you to walk across to the Louvre. You are to ask, in my name, to be taken to the queen. Please give this letter into her hands—and her hands only. When that is done, and she has it, there is no need to wait for a reply, but be so good as to return here and let me know that this little mission is accomplished.” He smiled. “I entrust this errand to you personally because the subject of the letter is exceedingly sensitive.”

Leaving the palace, Charles wrapped his cloak about him tightly. A cold rain was falling with the gusting wind. Foul winter weather. He crossed the square in front of the cardinal’s palace. Ahead of him, the long mass of the Louvre’s north side loomed dark and solemn. Through the rain, he could see the dim lamps by a side door.

He announced his business. The sentries knew him. A young officer conducted him along the dimly lit stone halls and galleries toward the queen’s apartments.

As he walked along in silence, he had time to reflect.

Anne, the daughter of the Hapsburg king of Spain, had married King Louis XIII of France when they were both fourteen. It was the usual dynastic marriage, on this occasion to lessen tensions between her Hapsburg family and the kingdom of France.

What had it been like for her? Charles wondered. It couldn’t have been easy.

For by the time they met, Louis XIII of France was exhibiting a very rare medical condition: a double set of teeth. Perhaps because of this, or perhaps for other reasons, he had a terrible stutter. If the girl found this off-putting, what agonies, Charles wondered, had the fourteen-year-old boy suffered?

When they were both eighteen, they conceived a child, but it was stillborn. The same thing happened again, three years later, then another four years after, then another five after that, in 1631. And then, nothing. It was said that when they did sleep in the same bed, his wife kept a bolster between them.

Charles felt sorry for the king. People complained that he was constantly off hunting. Poor devil, he thought, it’s probably to get away from them all. He seemed to have no mistresses. Was that piety, lack of inclination, or the fear that women found him repulsive? Who knew?

“He’s bedded one or two young men,” the king’s hunting companions told him. Perhaps that was what Louis preferred. Or perhaps he’d turned to men because he’d given up on women.

Whatever was going on in the king’s mind, or in the heart of his wife, France had no heir.

That wasn’t quite true. There was the king’s younger brother Gaston. But what a disaster he would be. Constantly plotting against Louis and Richelieu, unreliable, untruthful, disloyal and still without any male heirs of his own in any case, Gaston was the last person that any responsible courtier wanted to see on the throne of France.

No wonder, as he felt his own health failing, that Richelieu had been secretly doing all he could to provide France with an heir. Some time ago, he had persuaded the royal couple to resume their marital relations, and they’d done so. Such things could be known, and Richelieu knew. But nothing had come of it yet.

One could only pray.

They were at the queen’s apartments. He was told to wait. Then the door was held open.

She received him in an anteroom. Her bedroom was just beyond. She was wearing a nightgown. It seemed she was already retiring to bed. But she smiled at him pleasantly as he bowed.

“Good evening, Monsieur de Cygne. I’m sorry if you got wet coming to see me. You have a private letter from the cardinal?”

Despite her strict Spanish upbringing, there was a gentle playfulness in her manner that was entirely pleasant. She was certainly a good-looking woman, Charles thought. Her hair had a natural hint of red, her eyes were large and brown. She was full-breasted, her skin perfect, her hands especially beautiful. For just a second his face may have given away that he was thinking how delightful it must be to share her bed, but he quickly lowered his gaze. If she noticed, she probably didn’t mind.

“I was to deliver it personally, Majesty, into your hands alone.”

“Then I thank you, monsieur.” She smiled again. “Good night.”

“Your Majesty.” He bowed again and began to withdraw.

It was as he did so that the door of the queen’s bedroom beyond slowly swung open, allowing him a glimpse into a large, high room, softly lit with candles.

And then he saw the man. It was only a fleeting glance, since he instantly looked down, pretending to have seen nothing as he backed out of the anteroom. A moment’s vision of a man in the candlelight.

It could have been King Louis. He thought the king had gone away hunting, but it could have been King Louis, certainly. Only, in that brief glimpse, he could have sworn it was another face he knew.

Mazarin. The Italian. It had looked like Mazarin.

He’d been away in Italy recently, and on his return, Richelieu had sent him off on another commission. Charles had not thought that Mazarin was in Paris.

Ten minutes later he was back in Richelieu’s office.

“It is done, Eminence. I spoke with the queen and gave her the letter myself.”

“Good. Did you see anything else?”

Charles hesitated, just a second. What did the cardinal know? What answer did he want? If in doubt, discretion.

“The queen had just retired. She came out and received me in the anteroom. Having delivered the letter, I withdrew. That is all I can say, Eminence. I had the impression that she was about to go to sleep.”

“And so you should yourself, de Cygne. Go home to your wife and son. How old is young Roland, now?”

“He is seven, Eminence.”

“I am glad you have a son. It is a fine thing for a man to have a son.” The cardinal paused. “Let us hope the king will have a son, before too long. That’s what we need.”

Charles stared at him. But the great man had already started to write another letter, and he did not look up.

So Charles remembered that strange evening, nine months later when, to general rejoicing, King Louis XIII of France and his wife had a son, to whom he gave his own name, Louis. Everyone said the birth of the child was a gift from God, and so no doubt it was.

Thus Louis XIV was born, a strong and healthy baby. Richelieu was relieved.

And Charles de Cygne said not a word.


• 1665 •

The Pont Neuf was a curious place. When Henry IV had built it, he had wanted a fine, simple bridge, uncluttered by houses, that spanned the entire river from Right Bank to Left, with the Île de la Cité serving as a central platform, a station, as the new bridge strode across the water. He wanted something handsome.

But then humanity came flocking, from every alley, every tavern, every dark cavity of the city. And instead of a jostling narrow thoroughfare squeezed between houses, like the other bridges, it found a broad open platform, delightfully set over the busy river, where there was ample room to play.

Singers, dancers, musicians, acrobats, jugglers, women selling love potions, cutpurses, preachers—they all gathered on the Pont Neuf. Anyone crossing the bridge on a sunny day was certain to find something to claim their attention and make them late for their meeting.

And not the least among these entertainers and villains was a large man, quite a handsome fellow really, with a mop of dark hair, who wore a red scarf around his neck, who made extemporary speeches from which he would continuously break off to insult any passerby. The richer and more important they looked, the more vigorous and more pointed his insults. It would have shown a lack of Gallic spirit if his victims had not thrown him a coin or two for insulting them—so long as it was done with wit. But there was always the possibility that someone would not see the humor of it, and try to punish him. And this would cause merriment as well, for he was not only large but exceedingly strong.

“I was born a huge baby,” he would declare. “So my father called me Hercule, after the hero Hercules. My mother, after giving birth, called me Salaud. And I have been both ever since.”

His speciality was logic. He would take any proposition—it might be supplied by his audience, the more absurd the better—and then with extravagant logic, with indefatigable reasoning, and with asides insulting anyone who caught his eye, he would prove that the insane proposition must be true.

“I am the modern Abelard,” he would shout. “But I am superior in three ways. My logic is better than his. And I have two balls.” And then, to the nearest pretty woman, irrespective of whether she was a streetwalker or a fashionable lady in her carriage: “Permit me, madame, to furnish you with the proof, the absolute proof, of my assertion.”

If anyone crossed him, however, they could expect no mercy. When a young noble passed by him with a look of scorn, Hercule Le Sourd’s revenge was to call out instantly:

“He will not pay me for my wit,

This noble in his fine outfit

Fine clothes, monsieur—a perfect fit

On a piece of SHIT!”

And when the young man made as if to draw his sword: “He draws his sword. By day he wears it at his side. By night, between his legs. After all, he needs something to get his hands on.”

When he wasn’t holding court on the Pont Neuf, he made a living as a shoemaker. That was his craft. But this he did at his own little workshop, and at his own pace. Whenever the weather was fine, he came out onto the Pont Neuf, and picked up quite as much money by exercising his wit as he ever made from his proper trade.

Once a young dandy, refusing to take his wit in good part, had drawn his sword and wounded Le Sourd badly in the arm. Le Sourd could have had him arrested, but he didn’t.

“I never resort to the law,” he explained to his audience. “I am a philosopher.” Six months later, the young dandy vanished.




But today, on a warm afternoon in the summer of 1665, Le Sourd the philosopher had a slight feeling of unease.

It was the fourth time the carriage had stopped near him on the bridge.

The carriage was closed. It evidently belonged to someone with money, but there was no coat of arms or other marking to identify the owner. It was driven by a coachman without grooms in attendance. As before, it stopped at a short distance just south of him on the bridge, but close enough to hear his speeches through a narrow opening in the door. There was a thin curtain across the slit, but he had the feeling that he was being observed as well.

Observed by whom? Some aristocrat who found him amusing, but who did not wish to reveal his identity? Possibly. A spy? Also possible.

Cardinal Mazarin always had many spies. They’d have been in the crowd, no doubt, but if their reports had made the great man curious … One never knew.

But the person in the carriage couldn’t be Mazarin himself. Four years ago, after governing for as long as his mentor Richelieu, he also had died in harness, before the age of sixty. It might be some other powerful figure though. It could even be … he trembled slightly at the thought of it … the young king himself.

So was he going to change his tune? Was he going to watch his language, or be careful not to insult the government—just in case?

No. He was Hercule Le Sourd. Let them arrest him if they dared. This was the Pont Neuf, and he was its philosopher king.

He ignored the carriage and began a tirade about the vices of the nobles, adding, for good measure, that if young Louis XIV were a man, he’d hang most of them from the nearest lamp. He glanced at the carriage as he said it, but there was no sign whatever from within.

The carriage was still there when he finished almost an hour later. He started to walk across to the Left Bank, which meant he would pass the carriage. As he drew level, the coachman touched his shoulder lightly with his whip and called down to him: “Get in.”

“Why?”

“Someone wants to speak to you.”

“Who?”

At this moment, the carriage door opened. And Hercule Le Sourd looked up in surprise.



Geneviève d’Artagnan had always understood her situation in life, from the time she was a little girl. Her family was noble, but they were out of money.

For her brother, the choices were clear. He could marry an heiress. Even if she wasn’t noble, he would still be, and so would their children. Or he could become a big success in the world and recoup his fortunes that way. Of course, he couldn’t engage in trade of any kind. That wasn’t something a noble was allowed to do. But he might become a soldier, or serve the king in some capacity that would bring him fame and fortune, and marry a rich wife too.

For girls like her, it was different. She must marry a noble and preferably a rich one.

For if she married a man who wasn’t noble, then she lost her own nobility at once, and her children would be baseborn too. Her husband might be rich, but she would have no social standing. Society’s doors would be closed to her and her descendants, and if those descendants wanted to achieve any high position in the king’s service, it would be almost impossible for them without noble status. It mattered. It was everything.

And yet, in France, there was a way around this problem. The king might ennoble one’s husband for his services. But that could take a lifetime. There were also numerous official positions which carried with them a title of nobility. Or, simpler still, one could buy a title.

Over the centuries, noble families often acquired many titles. Often the titles came with estates they had been granted or had acquired. And they were allowed to sell those titles. It was perfectly legal. So a rich man could buy his way into the nobility. And if his wife came from a noble family herself, with relations who were only too anxious to keep the family status up, then her children would slide so easily into the noble title their bourgeois father had bought that few people would even remember that they had nearly slipped out of the class to which their mother belonged.

Geneviève’s sister Catherine had married a rich merchant. But he had shown no interest in getting himself ennobled. This had caused Geneviève and her brother some grief, but it seemed there was nothing they could do about it. Geneviève had married a noble.

Perceval d’Artagnan came from a cadet branch of the ancient family of Montesquiou d’Artagnan, which, long ago, had gone their own way and chosen to be known by the simpler appellation of d’Artagnan.

When Geneviève married Perceval, she had done well. He had enough money to maintain both a pleasant château on the edge of Burgundy and a house in Paris. He was proud of his ancient lineage, which went back over seven centuries to an ancient ruler of Gascony. In this century, however, a distant relation had also taken the name of d’Artagnan, and this had not pleased Geneviève’s husband.

“The fellow’s just a spy and general stooge for Mazarin,” he’d told her dismissively when they first married. But recently this d’Artagnan had risen so far in the royal service that he’d become head of the king’s prestigious Musketeers, and favored at court. From this time, Geneviève noticed, her husband started referring to him as “my kinsman d’Artagnan, the Musketeer.”

It might be said, then, that Geneviève had everything she wanted. She had comfort, and status, and after a dozen years of marriage she had two children living, a boy and a girl, both of whom were strong and healthy. There was only one problem.

She had a husband who did nothing.

He had always been a man of strong views. The chief of these, from their earliest days together, had been the importance of the old aristocracy.

“It all began with Richelieu,” he’d complain, “a nobleman who should have known better: this constant undermining of the old feudal privileges. They want to make the king into a central tyrant. As for the upstart Mazarin …” His disgust for the lowborn Italian cardinal was complete.

The two Fronde rebellions that came just before their marriage had brought matters to a head. First the lesser nobles and Parisians had rebelled against paying new taxes; then the old princely families had done the same. The mob had entered the Louvre. Mazarin had been driven out of Paris.

But order had been restored. Supported by the young king’s mother—who was now so close to the cardinal that they seemed like man and wife—Mazarin ruled once more. The boy Louis XIV, whom Mazarin treated like a son, had come of age; in 1661, when the cardinal died, he had taken the reins of power into his strong young hands.

And if one thing was clear, Geneviève thought—whether her husband liked it or not—it was that young Louis XIV, having loved Mazarin like a father, and seen the chaos of the Fronde, had no intention of leaving France in the hands of the old feudal nobility. He meant to rule them with a rod of iron. Her husband could huff and puff as much as he liked, but he was living in the past.

And doing nothing. He spent time on his estate. He hunted. He went about in Paris. And that was it. His sole occupation was being an aristocrat, and it never occurred to him that this was not enough to do with one’s life.

“You know, Catherine,” she remarked to her sister once, “I sometimes think you were right to marry a merchant. At least he has something to do.”

“He works because he has to.”

“That may be. But he works. A man should work. I respect him.”

“You don’t respect Monsieur d’Artagnan?”

“No. Not anymore. It makes things … difficult.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Perhaps you could lend me your husband now and then.”

Her sister laughed.

“What would Monsieur d’Artagnan say to that?”

Geneviève shrugged.

“At least it keeps it in the family.”

“Well, I’m afraid you can’t borrow my husband, and please don’t try.”

“I won’t.” Geneviève sighed. “Mon Dieu, Catherine, I’m bored.”



Hercule Le Sourd stared. It was a handsome, fair-haired woman inside the carriage. An aristocrat by the look of it. She motioned for him to sit opposite her. He hesitated. Then, out of curiosity really, he complied.

“Close the door,” she said.

He did so, and immediately the carriage started to move.

“I have been listening to you, several times,” she said.

“I noticed. But I assumed it was a man. A government spy, perhaps.”

She laughed.

“I suppose I could be a government spy. No doubt some of them are women. How exciting.”

“What do you want?”

“You are quite clever, monsieur. If you weren’t clever, the things you shout would merely be rude, and vulgar. But your speeches are very witty. Do you rehearse them?”

“There are parts I have composed. But I invent things as I go along. As the spirit moves me.”

“Can you read and write?”

“A little.”

“You sound quite learned. All that philosophy.”

“I used to go into the Latin Quarter and listen to the students talking in the taverns. I picked it up. I suppose it interested me.”

“What else do you do?”

“I make shoes.”

“And what is your name?”

“Hercule Le Sourd.”

She laughed.

“It’s a funny combination. Half hero, half robber, perhaps.”

“I’ve never had to steal. What is your name?”

“I shall not tell you, monsieur.”

“As you like.”

Le Sourd looked at her thoughtfully. He already knew what she wanted.

He’d been married when he was younger. His wife had died three years ago, leaving him with a five-year-old son. He and his sister’s family lived in the same street, just south of the university quarter, near the Gobelins factory where the tapestries were made. With his son and his sister’s children almost forming an extended family, Le Sourd had felt no immediate pressure to provide himself with another wife. The personal magnetism he displayed on the Pont Neuf made him attractive to women, and for the last couple of years he’d enjoyed a series of romances while retaining his independence. His conquests had included the wives of several well-to-do merchants. But this aristocratic lady was something entirely new.

He decided to wait and see what she did next.

“You must be hungry after all your efforts,” she said. “Would you like to dine with me?”

“If the food is good,” he answered.



The coachman seemed to know where to go. They had crossed onto the Right Bank now, east of the Louvre. Soon the carriage turned left, toward the Marais. The thought crossed his mind that this woman could be a lunatic of some kind. He was big and strong enough to overpower her and the coachman too. But what if she decided to poison him?

She seemed to read his thoughts.

“Life is full of risks.”

“Are we going to your house?” he asked.

“No.” She was watching him carefully. “I dare not. Tell me about yourself.”

He shrugged. He had nothing in particular to hide. He told her about his family, poor craftsmen mostly. “They say we descend from quite an important criminal, who was hanged, a long time ago.”

“You think it’s true?”

“I expect so. We’ve tried not to get caught since.”

He told her about the loss of his wife and that he had a son.

“But you haven’t married again.”

“Not yet.”

“You prefer to be independent.”

“What makes you think so, madame?”

She smiled.

“Have you heard yourself ranting on the Pont Neuf?”

Through the thin curtains, he could see where they were now. They had come into Henry IV’s Place Royale, in the heart of the Marais. There they stopped. He heard the coachman descend. The door opened.

“We shall dine,” she said to the coachman. And turning to Le Sourd: “If you step out for a moment, he will set up the table.”

The coachman went to the back of the carriage. From a compartment he removed a narrow table with legs that swung down, like a trestle. To his surprise, Le Sourd realized that this was going to be inserted inside the carriage. While the coachman busied himself with this task, he looked around him.

There was no doubt that the square was the most delightful place in Paris. With its four equal sides of perfectly matched brick and stone, the terraced mansions gazed softly down upon the rows of clipped green trees inside which lay the four lawns. At the street level, the arcades with their rounded arches turned the ensemble into a huge cloister.

Unsurprisingly, everyone soon forgot that King Henry had meant these houses to be tenanted by honest working families. The rich, seeing the quality of the place, had taken it over for themselves. But ordinary folk could still enter its quiet arcades and enjoy the intimate peace of the great square.

Having inserted the table inside the carriage, the coachman drew out a wicker basket from the same compartment and proceeded to lay the table. When he had done that, he took a wooden pail, went to a nearby pump and filled it so that the horse could drink. It was clear that he was now supposed to go off to a tavern and leave his mistress and her guest to their meal.

“Come,” she called to him quietly. “Let’s dine.”

It was really a most convenient arrangement. The table took up the space where he had been sitting. But by sitting beside his hostess, there was plenty of room to eat very comfortably.

“My husband invented the table and had a carpenter make it,” she informed him. “This is my husband’s one contribution to civilization.”

“And it works,” Le Sourd pointed out, in fairness to the absent gentleman.

Haricots, pressed duck, an excellent wine, several cheeses, fruit. It was a perfect little meal. Without giving away her name, or where she lived, she talked in general terms about her family and the château where her husband now was to make it quite clear that she was exactly the aristocrat he had taken her to be.

Did she do this regularly? he wondered. The coachman, whose discretion she clearly trusted, seemed to know exactly what to do.

“I feel I am taking part in a ritual,” he remarked.

“A ritual, monsieur, that takes place very rarely. Only when the heavens are aligned in a particular way.”

“Then I am honored indeed.”

“If you aren’t happy, you are always free to leave.”

“I prefer to stay.”

When they had finished, she asked him if he had observed how the table and the basket fit into the compartment behind. He said he had. “Then perhaps you would be so kind as to return them to their place.” He easily repacked the basket. It took him a moment or two to master the catch that released the table, but soon he had that outside. It took him only a couple of minutes to stow everything safely in the back.

He glanced around. It was a quiet, sleepy evening. Hardly anyone was moving about in the square.

He stepped back into the carriage and closed the door.

She had removed her gown. He could see that she had a splendid body. She reached out her hand to pull him toward her.

The coachman did not return for over an hour.



It was October when Geneviève told her sister.

“Does your husband know?” Catherine asked.

“I told him.”

“Does he think the baby could be his?”

“No. It’s impossible.”

“Tell me what happened.”

Geneviève told her everything.

“You’re insane!” cried Catherine.

“I know.” Geneviève shook her head. “I can’t believe I did it.”

“Why? Was it the risk? The danger?”

“Yes. That made it exciting. I was so bored. I wanted something … exciting to happen.”

“Does Perceval know what you did? I mean, going out into the streets like that and …?”

“No. I lied to him about that. He thinks it was something that suddenly happened … A moment’s madness … You know.”

“What’s he going to do?”

“Preserve the honor of the family name, of course. What else?”


• 1685 •

Perceval d’Artagnan gazed at his daughter Amélie. He was a medium-sized man with a potbelly, and the long wig that was the fashion of the day disguised the fact that he was entirely bald. Whoever Amélie’s real father was, d’Artagnan thought, he seemed to have bequeathed her a fine head of dark brown hair. In other respects, she looked very like her mother.

Amélie herself, of course, had no idea. She thought he was her father. She loved him as a father. So he found himself torn.

How could he not love the pretty little child who would come running up to him in total innocence and put her hand in his? The child whom he carried on his shoulder and taught to ride? She was sweet-natured, truthful, everything he could have desired in a daughter. He loved her for herself.

And only sometimes, when he was quite alone, did he secretly allow himself to feel the black rage, the hatred that was in his heart—not for the child herself, but for his wife.

Geneviève had not been unfaithful to him again. She had sworn an oath and he’d been sure she would keep it. For the last twenty years they had gotten along together as well as most married couples. Some affection had grown up between them, especially because of his kindness to little Amélie. But during those years he had learned another sad truth: Small wounds are healed by time; but time can only bandage great wounds, which continue to bleed in secret.

And now Amélie was in love. She was not yet twenty. Her mother had discovered the state of her feelings the day before, and had asked him to talk to her.

“My child,” he said, firmly, but as kindly as possible, “You can’t marry this man, you know.”

She stared at him miserably.

“Is he intending to ask for your hand?”

“He loves me. I am sure he loves me.”

He smiled at her fondly and shook his head. The whole business was absurd, but he knew that didn’t make it any easier for Amélie.

If only Geneviève’s sister hadn’t married a tradesman, none of this would have happened. In all likelihood, Amélie would never have met Pierre Renard. But of course, when she went to see her cousins, she met all sorts of townspeople like him, whom she would not have been familiar with in her own home.

Pierre Renard was a pleasant, handsome man in his late twenties. He was a younger son, but his family were modestly wealthy. Any young girl might have fallen in love with him.

But he couldn’t marry Amélie.

In the first place, he was a Protestant. Until late in the reign of Henry IV, his forebears had been good Catholics. But then his grandfather had married a second wife who was Protestant and converted himself. Pierre’s father had built up a considerable fortune, but never returned to the Catholic faith. Whether nineteen-year-old Amélie, seriously in love for the first time, imagined that she could convert her husband back to the true faith, or whether she planned to become a heretic herself, d’Artagnan did not know. He didn’t even need to find out.

For a second objection overrode even the religious one. Pierre Renard was not noble.

“I couldn’t let you lose everything that your nobility gives you, my child,” he told her. “When you are older you will thank me for saving you and your children from such a terrible and permanent blow.”

It was true that he was saving her from herself. But there was another thought, equally important, in his mind. Whatever the circumstances of her birth, she bore his name. His family honor was at stake. No one bearing the name of d’Artagnan was going to marry out of the nobility.

“You must put this young man out of your thoughts, Amélie, and you must not see him again.”

As she left the room, he could see that she was about to weep, but there was nothing else to be done.

His eldest son and daughter were both married, quite happily, into noble families like his own. He’d known that it was time to find a husband for Amélie too. This little incident was a reminder that he’d better make a start.

The letter he had received that morning came at an opportune moment, therefore. He decided to reply to it at once.



The following days were hard for Amélie. When she had confessed to her mother that she was in love, she hadn’t told her everything.

The crisis had begun after she confided her feelings for Pierre Renard to her cousin Isabelle. Isabelle had told her brother Yves, who’d discovered from Pierre that he was in love with Amélie, but that since she was both noble and Catholic, and he couldn’t abandon his Protestant faith, he thought there was no hope. Isabelle had passed this information back to Amélie.

“If he asked me, I’d probably elope with him,” said Amélie.

“But what about his religion?” Isabelle had objected.

It was certainly true that in the last few years, life had become much more difficult for the Huguenot community. Louis XIV believed the old adage: “The people follow the faith of their king.” He liked order. Protestants in a Catholic country meant disorder. And he could point to the earlier troubles in France and in many other countries to prove his assertion.

King Henry IV’s Edict of Nantes had protected the Huguenots for more than eighty years. But nowadays, the Sun King was putting more and more pressure on them to convert. He’d even started quartering cavalry troops in Protestant households, making the owners’ lives a misery. And there was every sign that the persecutions were likely to get worse.

“You’d have to be mad to become a Protestant now,” Isabelle told her.

But Amélie was too much in love to care.

She didn’t care that he wasn’t noble either. When she looked at the lives of her cousins, they seemed quite happy, living without the social burdens and prohibitions that were the price to be paid for a noble’s pride and tax reliefs.

Wisely, she didn’t say any of this to her parents.

But she thought of Pierre. She thought of him constantly. She yearned just to be in his presence. If only she could talk to him.

What a fool she’d been to confess her secret to her mother. She had little doubt that her cousins would have let Pierre know her feelings for him by now. If she’d just kept her mouth shut with her mother, she and Pierre might have met at her cousins’ house, just as they had before. She could have given him an opening. They might have reached an understanding. Even if he’d told her that love between them was impossible, that would have been something. He could have told her that he loved her all the same.

Instead of which, she was left in doubt. Her parents were keeping her away from her cousins, so there was no news from them. She kept hoping, foolishly, that he would appear, that he’d come to the house to see her father and ask for her hand. He might be refused, but the fact that he’d come would have meant the world to her. She knew it made no sense. Her father’s house lay a short way west of the Cardinal’s Palace—the Palais Royal as it was called now—and she’d stare out her window moodily into the rue Saint-Honoré, in case he should go by. If he’d come to the window with a ladder, she’d have scrambled onto it. An even more absurd idea. But she couldn’t help it. These were her sad daydreams.



It was on a Friday in mid-October that her mother came into her bedroom and gave her a strange look.

“There is news that you should know, Amélie. Yesterday the king took a great decision. He is revoking the Edict of Nantes. It will become law on Monday.”

“What will that mean for the Protestants?” Amélie asked.

“They will all be forced to become Catholic. The king is sending troops to all the main routes out of the kingdom to stop the Huguenots from escaping.”

“Then Pierre Renard will be a Catholic.”

“No doubt.” She looked at her daughter sadly. “It won’t help you, Amélie. He still won’t be a noble.”

On Monday, the Revocation became law.

On Wednesday, her aunt Catherine came to the house, accompanied by Isabelle. Amélie anxiously took Isabelle to one side to ask if there was any news of Pierre Renard.

“You haven’t heard?”

“I’ve heard nothing.”

“Pierre Renard has vanished.” Isabelle took her by the arm. “You’d better forget him, Amélie. The whole family’s gone. Nobody knows where they are. But I don’t think he’ll be coming back.”



All over France, a similar pattern could be found. Some families acted at once, others waited for months. But the Edict of Fontainebleau, as the king’s order was called, had just made their lives impossible.

All Protestant churches were to be destroyed and any Protestant religious meeting, even a small group in a private house, was illegal. The participants would have all their property seized. Any child born to a Protestant parent was to be baptized Catholic and sent to Catholic schools. Failure would mean a huge fine of five hundred livres. Protestant ministers had two weeks to renounce their faith or leave France. If caught after that, they’d be sent to the galleys. Ordinary members of the Protestant congregation trying to leave France would be arrested. Men to the galleys, women stripped of all their possessions.

It was totalitarian. It was comprehensive. A century before, the Massacre of Saint Bartholomew’s Day had been a horror. But the machinery of Louis XIV’s centralizing state was far more thorough. The Protestants were smashed. Large numbers, having no other option, converted to Catholicism. Perhaps a million converted in this way.

And yet, miraculously, hundreds of thousands managed to leave. Taking quiet roads, walking through woods, hiding in wagons and barges, hundreds of thousands of them managed to slip over the borders into the Netherlands, Switzerland or Germany. Others got out through Huguenot ports before the king could block them. They ran huge risks in doing so, and they had to be careful. But for all his power and all his troops, the Sun King could not stop them. France was too big, the Huguenots too many. Like the mass migration of Puritans from England to America, fifty years before, about two percent of the population, including some of the most skilled, were lost to their country, and gained by others.

The Renard family, by acting swiftly, had shown much wisdom. Without a word to their friends and neighbors, they discreetly vanished. A month later, they arrived in London, where the existing Huguenot community soon grew to many times its size.



A week after the Edict of Fontainebleau, Perceval d’Artagnan called Amélie to him for a talk.

“My child,” he announced, “I have good news for you. A great opportunity has arisen—one that may change your life entirely.” Madame de Saint-Loubert, a distant kinswoman of the family, well connected at court, had recently written to him, he explained, to let him know of a position that might be of interest. He had written back. “And now it’s all arranged.” He smiled. “You’re to go to Versailles.”

“To Versailles, Papa?” Amélie looked astonished. “I thought you hated the court.”

She was right, of course. During the last twenty years, d’Artagnan had watched the Sun King’s grip on France get tighter and tighter. If Cardinal Richelieu had been the mentor of Cardinal Mazarin, Mazarin in turn had left the king with a trained successor, the superintendent of finances, Colbert. For twenty years Colbert had built up a bureaucracy of plain men who quietly took more and more of the administration of France into their hands.

As long as the court remained in Paris, the process hadn’t been too noticeable. The king had made improvements to the Louvre, and started building the splendid hospital of Les Invalides for army veterans. That was welcome. Social life had continued as usual. The aristocrats had their mansions. Corneille, Molière and Racine had filled the theaters. And if bureaucrats increasingly attended to the tiresome business of running the government, the aristocrats still provided the army officers. Theirs was the honor of battle. They could fight and die for their king, in the old-fashioned way, pride themselves on their valor, win glory like the heroes of feudal times and look down upon the bureaucrats and merchant classes alike.

Until the court moved to Versailles. It had happened only three years ago, but the transformation had been complete. Anyone who wanted office and preferment now had to abandon Paris and live under the king’s supervision there. Even valiant soldiers, having campaigned in the summer—for war, thank God, was still an affair of gentlemen, to be conducted in the summer season—still needed to spend the winter in lodgings in Versailles so that they could catch the eye of the king and get a command the following year. And they had to hang about there all the time. They could visit their estates when necessary, but if they slipped off to Paris for a week without permission, the king would notice and their chance of a command would be gone. D’Artagnan disliked the king and his methods, but he could see his cunning. Louis now had everyone under his thumb.

“It’s true that I don’t like Versailles,” he confessed to Amélie, “and I don’t want to go there myself. But it’s still a wonderful opportunity for you. The position that’s on offer is beyond anything we might have hoped for. You’ll be one of the maids of honor to the dauphine, the daughter-in-law of the king himself.” He smiled kindly. “And I think the change of scene will do you good.”

The matter was decided in any case. Three days later, Amélie found herself on her way to the court at Versailles.



As Roland de Cygne looked at the letter, he knew that he must answer it. But he didn’t want to.

It was some months since he had communicated the sad news of his wife’s death to his cousin Guy in Canada. It was the first time he’d written to him in years.

In the early part of the century, his grandfather had corresponded with his brother Alain regularly. They were devoted to each other, and the three thousand miles of ocean that lay between them could not alter that. For a long time Robert had hoped that his younger brother would cover himself in glory in Canada, achieve a great position and the wealth that came with it and return to France to found a second branch of the family. This dream perhaps never died until the day that Robert himself departed.

But things hadn’t worked out that way. Not that Alain had done badly. He’d received some quite substantial land grants. But they required his attention if they were going to be worth anything. In due course he’d asked his brother to find him a wife of noble family, but who would not mind sharing the hardships of the frontier. That had not been easy. It had been quite impossible to find a girl with any fortune. But in the end Robert had found the youngest daughter of an impoverished nobleman who was reduced to a state hardly better than a small farmer, and she had been willing to take on the nobleman with his tract in the wilderness. After her arrival in Canada, Alain had written back that his brother had made an excellent choice, and that they were very happy together.

The next generation had continued the correspondence. Roland remembered his grandfather speaking of his Canadian cousins as if this was a part of his family that he would surely meet one day. And after his grandfather had died, his father Charles had kept the connection alive, out of family duty. Roland and his second cousin, Guy, sent letters to each other from time to time, especially concerning any important family event.

Guy de Cygne in Canada, therefore, had known that Roland and his wife had only one daughter who lived to adulthood and that she was long since married to a noble in Brittany. He had known that her two sons had both died as infants, that Roland was now fifty-five years of age and that he was a widower. It could hardly be thought that he was likely to marry again and start a fresh family.

Though Guy de Cygne was aware that his cousin in France had once been wounded in battle, he had no knowledge of the details of the wound, and so he was unaware that Roland’s nose had been split and that his face was quite unsightly, making it even less likely that he would obtain another wife at this late stage of his life.

All he knew for certain was that as things stood at present, upon the death of Roland, his own son Alain would be the only male de Cygne left, and presumably heir to the family estate.

The letter before Roland now came not from Guy, but from his son Alain, a young man of twenty, containing the sad news of Guy’s demise, and asking Roland de Cygne whether he wished him to come to France.

It was a fair question. If the young man was to be the representative of the family in France, then he would have much to learn, and Roland should summon him to his side at once.

But he couldn’t bring himself to do it. A deep, primitive voice inside him urged him to fight. He would not give in. I may not be much to look at, he thought, but I still have my name, and my health. I have another ten years. More than that, perhaps.



Madame de Saint-Loubert was a middle-aged woman with a long face and very large blue eyes. Her mother and d’Artagnan’s mother had been cousins. Her husband, the count, had a modest position as a superintendent of mines, but hoped for more, and to help him accomplish this, she had made friends with a large number of people at court. They had a small house in the town, where Amélie spent her first night. The very next morning, Madame de Saint-Loubert announced that she was taking Amélie to court.

“You are not due to see the dauphine until tomorrow. You needn’t worry, by the way. I happen to know that you are the only person under consideration at the moment, so you only have to be polite and the position will be yours. But it will be a good idea for you to get an idea of the court before you meet her. So just stand beside me and watch.”

It took hours to dress. Amélie’s gown was charming. An underpetticoat of watered satin trimmed with bands of silk. A hooped skirt gathered at the waist, divided, looped at the sides and then flowed back to end in a short train behind her. It was made of a heavy silk, but with a light brown color, shot with pink, that suited her very well. Her tight bodice was decorated with charming ribbons tied in bows. French lace at her wrists and neck. It was the most feminine thing imaginable. Madame de Saint-Loubert’s hairdresser spent another two hours on her hair, arranging it with ringlets and ribbons in the style then current. She was relieved that her dress passed muster. “It’s better than many of the ladies of the court. Not everyone here is rich, you know. You look very well. Come along.”

The first thing that surprised Amélie as they approached the vast palace was how many people seemed to be crowding around the entrance. “Who are they?” she asked.

“Anyone who wants to look at the king.”

“Anybody can walk into the palace?”

“Yes. And they do.”

Just then a closed sedan chair was carried in past them.

“Who is that?” Amélie asked.

“Hard to know. All the sedan chairs are hired. Only the royal family are allowed to have their own.”

They went up the great staircase and came into the huge Galerie des Glaces. It was crowded with people, from aristocrats to tradesmen. “We’ll stay back a little,” said her guide. “We aren’t trying to catch the king’s eye—which most of the people here are. I just want you to observe.”

They waited awhile. Amélie gazed around. The vast mirrored hall stretched so far that, with all the people there, she could not even see the ends of it, but only the long succession of crystal chandeliers hanging from the painted ceiling high above.

And then suddenly a silence swept along the huge hall. Footmen were approaching and other court officials. The great throng miraculously parted, like the Red Sea, withdrawing to the sides and leaving a broad path down the center.

Down which, a moment later, came the royal entourage.

“The king goes to Mass at exactly this hour every day,” Madame de Saint-Loubert whispered. “You can set the clock by his movements.”

The king came first. He was certainly an impressive figure. Wearing a large black wig and magnificently embroidered coat he moved down the gallery at a swift but stately pace. His face was aquiline, the nose a little hooked, his eyes half closed. But Amélie had the good sense to realize that under their half-closed lids his eyes were observing everything. She also noticed something else. The king’s height owed something to the high heels of his shoes. She whispered this to Madame de Saint-Loubert.

“He wears high heels to make himself seem taller. He always has,” her guide whispered back.

“He does not seem so terrifying.”

“Do not ever make that mistake, my dear. The king is the politest man in France. He even touches his hat to the scullery maids. But his power is absolute. Even his children are terrified of him.” She indicated a man in the robes of a Jesuit priest walking just behind him. “That’s his confessor, Père de La Chaise.” Amélie noticed that people were smiling at the priest. “Père de La Chaise is kind to everyone,” said her friend. “If the king is the most feared, La Chaise is the most loved man at the court.”

Next came a large, blond man, with a pleasant, Germanic face, and the first signs that his impressive physique might run to fat.

“That is the king’s eldest son, the dauphin. We call him le Grand Dauphin, because he’s so tall. It’s his wife you’ll see tomorrow.

“Ah. And behind him you see the Duc d’Orléans, the king’s brother, and his wife.”

A handsome woman, dressed very simply and wearing a diamond cross, passed by.

“Since the queen died, the king’s friend Madame de Maintenon has so taken him over that the rumor is that they have secretly married. But nobody knows.”

Then came a lady who clearly had once been very beautiful. Her face still contained traces of beauty, but it was clear from the way she walked that her legs had puffed up.

“Madame de Montespan, the king’s most important former mistress. She gave him a number of children, and he’s legitimized them all.”

“He can do that?”

“I’m surprised you didn’t know. He can do what he wants. Well, almost. You know he chooses the French bishops. He doesn’t let the pope do it.”

After the cortege had passed, her friend decided to give Amélie a tour of the palace and grounds. “Over there,” she indicated, “is the north wing where you’ll have your room, assuming the dauphine accepts you. But we can look at that tomorrow.”



Madame de Saint-Loubert could see that Amélie’s ignorance of the court was far greater than it should have been for an aristocratic girl, and she hoped that she hadn’t made a mistake by suggesting that she come to Versailles. However, others had come there with far less breeding and good manners than Amélie and done very well, so she set to work to explain some of the principal characters at the court, how they were related and where they stood in the pecking order.

The list was long, and the relationships were so complex that it made Amélie’s head spin. There were the children of the king by the late queen, and then his children by his mistresses. Then there were the children of other branches of the royal family, both legitimate and illegitimate. And of course, the many descendants of branches of royalty, legitimate or otherwise, going back for centuries. Usually the offspring of the king’s mistresses were married into the greatest noble families, sometimes even into the legitimate royal family.

“Don’t worry,” Madame de Saint-Loubert told her, “the pattern will soon emerge if you just keep paying attention.”

When it came to the pecking order, she had to explain a most important principle.

“The princes of the blood are closest to the king in rank, and so the precedence is usually easy to follow. But rank and power are completely different. The king’s eldest son and the king’s brother are at the top of the tree. But they have no part in the government. Louis won’t even let them attend meetings with him.”

“But why?”

“To keep all the power in his hands. No chance of rivals, I should think. Wouldn’t you?”

“I hadn’t thought of it.”

“If you need a royal favor, then go to the mistresses. It’s a general rule that his mistress usually has more influence on a king than his wife.”

“What about his old mistress, Madame de Montespan? Is she important?”

“He visits her every day. He’s fond of her. But you know there was a big scandal—well, you were too young. Anyway, it was said that she used poison to get rid of another mistress. Nothing was ever proved. I’m sure it’s not true. But there’s always been a cloud over her since.”

“I feel as if I’ve walked into a dangerous labyrinth.”

“All courts are like that.”

As they returned from the palace, Amélie could not help feeling a sense of misgiving.



The next morning they returned to the palace to see the dauphine. Amélie knew her story. “She is not one of the court beauties,” Madame de Saint-Loubert had told her, “yet she seemed to please the dauphin. They’ve had three children. But the last birth, this year, took a toll on her health, or so she says.”

The apartment of the dauphin was large, bright and airy. But that was not where they found his wife.

Although it was morning, the small back room was dark, the windows covered. An Italian maid let them in. The wife of the large, hearty-looking prince Amélie had seen yesterday did not seem well. Though Amélie knew that she was only about twenty-five, she had the impression that the sickly figure before her was much older. The dauphine was sitting in a fauteuil, and she summoned Amélie, telling her to sit on a small gilt chair. Her gesture was rather listless.

Only as she got close did she realize something else about the dauphin’s wife: She was astonishingly ugly. Her skin was blotchy. Her lips were pale as an old woman’s, her teeth were rotten, and her hands were unnaturally red. But most striking of all was her big, bulbous nose.

The poor lady’s looks were so unprepossessing that it was lucky Amélie had been prepared for them. She kept her face a mask.

First the dauphine offered her a piece of cake. Since it would have been impolite to refuse, even though she didn’t want it, Amélie ate the cake while the dauphine watched her.

“Despite her physical ugliness, the dauphine is most fastidious when she eats. She cannot bear to have women near her who eat messily,” Madame de Saint-Loubert had forewarned her. “But don’t worry, your table manners are excellent.”

As she didn’t drop any crumbs from her mouth or spill anything on the floor, this seemed to satisfy the dauphine.

Could she read and write? Had she a good hand? The Italian maid brought her a pen, ink and a piece of paper and she was commanded to write a few lines of any verse she knew.

Amélie obliged with some elegant religious verses from Corneille. The choice, and her handwriting, seemed to do.

“The dauphine is well read and speaks three languages well. She won’t expect this from you, however,” her mentor had also informed her.

Then the conversation turned to her family.

Who were her parents? Amélie named them. And her grandparents? Amélie named them too. And her great-grandparents? These she also named. And their parents? Amélie named all sixteen.

“They are all noble?” The dauphine sought confirmation. Amélie confirmed that they were. “This is good. This is important,” said the dauphine.

“You must understand,” Madame de Saint-Loubert had explained the night before, “that if you think your father is concerned with ancestry, this pales into insignificance compared to the attention paid to the subject by German royalty and, as I hope you know, the dauphine by birth is a Bavarian princess. She might take you if you weren’t of sufficiently pure blood, but she’d give you a terrible time. She even treats Madame de Maintenon like a servant because her ancestry is imperfect.” She smiled. “I had already checked with your parents, or I wouldn’t have brought you here. It would have been too cruel.” She paused. “By the way, I wouldn’t say that you are close to your cousins who lost their nobility, if I were you.”

And did she have cousins in Paris? the dauphine asked, quite pleasantly. And Amélie was just about to answer happily that she had indeed, her mother’s niece and nephew of whom she was so fond, when, by the grace of the Almighty, she remembered and avoided the terrible trap.

“I must confess with shame that one of my mother’s family made an unfortunate marriage,” she answered quietly, “and I believe there are children, but I know nothing about them.” With this monumental lie, her dear cousins Isabelle and Yves miraculously disappeared.

“Many families suffer misfortune. Your family has behaved quite correctly,” the princess told her. She turned to Madame de Saint-Loubert, who had remained standing quietly in a corner near the door. “I think she will do very well,” she said. “Will you show her where her rooms are?” Then she addressed Amélie. “Come to me tomorrow morning, my dear, after Mass. By the way,” she added, “as I never go out, there is nothing for you to do. But you won’t mind.” This last, it seemed, was an order. They quietly withdrew.

“You didn’t tell me she was quite so ugly,” Amélie protested to Madame de Saint-Loubert. “I almost made a face. However did her husband find her attractive?”

“Well, he did. There’s no accounting for tastes. Let’s go to see your room.”

The north wing was given over entirely to the quarters of the many aristocratic folk with duties of one kind or another in the palace. There were also some impoverished aristocrats who, if they’d ever had any duties at the court, were now too ancient to perform them, together with a few relicts of former courtiers. Some of the grander courtiers had quite elegant quarters there. But large though the place was, the need for lodging had already outgrown the space available. And what with subdivision and doubling up, the higher floors had in no time turned into the most aristocratic tenement in the world.

Having climbed the stairs to the highest floor below the attic, they made their way along a passage until they reached a door that had been cleverly cut in half and divided so that the left half swung one way, and the right the other.

“Yours is the left-hand side,” said her guide, and as they opened it, “I’m afraid the right side got the window.”

It was the size of a small room. Big enough for a little bed and an armoire for her. It was airless. And pitch-black.

“It’s not very nice,” said Amélie.

“It’s a start,” said Madame de Saint-Loubert firmly. “We’ll go and get a candle and some other things.”

“You don’t think,” suggested Amélie, “that the wife of the Dauphin of France would want her maid of honor to have a window?”

“It’s hard to know,” said Madame de Saint-Loubert, “since she seems to like sitting in the dark herself.”

As they went down the stairs again, her mentor tried to comfort her a little.

“You must understand,” she explained, “that the main thing is to be here. Everything comes from that. Once you’re here, who knows what wonderful things may happen? But if you’re somewhere else, nothing will ever happen. That’s the point.” She gave Amélie an encouraging smile. “You’re quite nice-looking. You’re noble. Just be polite to everyone and make friends. That way, with a little luck, you’ll find yourself a suitable husband.”

“Is that what my parents want me to do?”

“Every important and eligible person in the kingdom comes here. What would you hope for if you were a parent?”



The next day, Amélie arrived at the appointed time. She was told to sit quietly, which she did for an hour. Then the dauphine asked her to take a letter to the Duchesse d’Orléans, and Amélie set off.

She got lost only twice. She delivered the letter, and on being told that there was no reply, she made her way back. She was nearing the dauphine’s door when out of his apartment stepped the dauphin. She stood to one side and curtseyed, but instead of striding past, he stopped, looked down and with a very pleasant smile asked her who she was.

“My wife’s new maid of honor? Well then, welcome. Tell me about yourself.” And on learning her name: “A relation of the famous Musketeer?”

“The connection is distant, monseigneur, but it exists.”

“Splendid. I shall look forward to learning more of you another day.”

After this very pleasant conversation with the future king himself, Amélie felt quite elated, and passed the rest of the day sitting on a chair in the half darkness quite pleasantly.



The dauphine had informed her that, owing to the peculiar regime she kept, she would not normally require her presence in the evenings, and so it was agreed that a little before dusk each day, Madame de Saint-Loubert would walk in a certain part of the gardens so that Amélie could find her there if she needed any help or advice. Thinking that her mentor would be pleased to learn of this pleasant interview, she met her there that evening.

Madame de Saint-Loubert did not smile, but received the news thoughtfully. Then she gave Amélie a strange look.

“The dauphin is a handsome, vigorous man, wouldn’t you say?”

“Certainly.”

“He started an affair with his wife’s last maid of honor.”

“Oh.”

“Of course, it was the best thing that could have happened to her.”

“Why?”

“The king and Madame de Maintenon didn’t approve. So the girl was immediately found a husband from one of the greatest aristocratic houses of France.” She paused. “I suppose the same thing could happen to you.”

“Certainly not,” cried Amélie. “My parents would be appalled.”

For a moment or two, Madame de Saint-Loubert was silent. Then she spoke quietly but firmly.

“My child, your parents were entirely aware of the business with the dauphin before they sent you to Versailles.”

“Dear God, is this how one gets married?”

“It’s one way.”



She did not see the dauphin for another week. Most days he went out hunting early and did not return until late.

Keeping the dauphine company was not quite as bad as she might have thought. Her children appeared from time to time. The baby was with a wet nurse, the elder two cared for by others, but their occasional visits provided a change. Madame, the Duchesse d’Orléans, would come to see her. The two ladies liked to talk and Amélie was usually sent out of the room at these times. But since the dauphine would talk to her later, she often picked up, indirectly, the court gossip that madame had brought.

She learned that the king had been in a bad temper ever since the Revocation of the Edict of Nantes, how the youngbloods of the court had been allowed to go off to fight against the Turks, who were troubling Eastern Europe, and how this man or that had pleased the king with his deeds of valor, or angered him by something that he had written in a letter.

“The king’s servants read everyone’s letters,” the dauphine remarked to her one day. “So be careful what you write, because the king will soon know of it.”

After a few days, Amélie began to feel that, though she still had much to learn, she was unlikely to see anything that would surprise her. She was wrong.

It was an afternoon. She was passing near the king’s apartments. Ahead of her, another lady-in-waiting of about her age was standing in a hallway when the king suddenly appeared. He did not see Amélie, but he did see the other girl.

It happened so fast that Amélie could scarcely believe her eyes. The king put his arm around the young woman, signaled by a nod that she was to raise her skirts, and after some brief but practiced fumblings, had her pressed against the wall with her legs around his body while he pressed home his advantage.

Terrified, Amélie managed to shrink behind a pillar. She wanted to run away, but did not dare, for fear of being seen. She did not have to wait very long. She heard a door open and close, peeped out to see the girl rearranging herself, and fled. When she got back, the dauphine glanced up and remarked that she looked as if she’d seen a ghost. She assured the dauphine that she hadn’t.

“Well, you are not to do so,” said the dauphine tartly, “because I don’t like them.”

That evening, however, she confided what she’d seen to Madame de Saint-Loubert. But if she imagined that her mentor would be shocked, she was quite wrong.

“Really?” that lady said. “How interesting. He used to do that when the dear queen was still alive. But since he’s been with Madame de Maintenon he’s renounced the sins of the flesh, more or less.” She thought for a moment. “He visits Madame de Maintenon twice a day, which is more than she wants really, though she does her duty, as she would say. Perhaps he’s going to stray a little.”

“But madame, what about the young lady?”

“What about her?”

“I mean, to be used like that …”

“He’s the king. He can do what he wants.”

“It’s disgraceful.”

“Power is an aphrodisiac, both for the man who has it, and for the women who are attracted to him. It has been so since the days of Babylon. I dare say it will always be so. Women come here to be close to power, and to profit by it.”

“But … a man who just takes whatever he wants … It’s childish, contemptible.”

“Powerful men become like children, because they can do what they want. But it’s no good despising them. This is how things are. It’s more intelligent to work with it.” She stared at Amélie severely. “Don’t look for purity in palaces, my child. You won’t find it.”

“But it could have been me,” Amélie protested. Her mentor did not reply.



In the days that followed, it might have been foolish, but she couldn’t get the memory of the incident out of her mind. Nor had Madame de Saint-Loubert offered her much comfort, beyond saying that it was probably a small aberration and she doubted that the king would return to his former ways.

As she walked down the marble halls, past the rich, dark tapestries and sumptuous pictures of the royal family dressed as classical gods, Amélie felt more and more that she had entered a huge, echoing world in which, though the cross of Our Lord was carried before the king like a trophy, it was the pitiless pagan sun god, in league with the solemn ruler of the underworld, who reigned at Versailles.

If only she could find a way to escape.

She had gone out into the huge formal gardens one evening, to the place where she usually met Madame de Saint-Loubert. But her friend was not there that day. She waited in the hope that she might still appear, but she did not. Still unwilling to return to the château, Amélie began to walk down a long alley.

She was quite alone. The light was fading. The yellowed leaves that had fallen from the trees were turning to gray. It was a quiet, ghostly time. The alley was empty.

And then, a hundred yards ahead of her, a single figure turned into the alley. It was a large, powerful man, also alone. And even in the fading light, she recognized him at once.

It was the dauphin.

She stopped. Hoping he would not see her, she was about to press herself against a tree at the side of the alley. But before she could, he caught sight of her.

And then Amélie did a foolish thing. She panicked. She panicked, and began to run.

She couldn’t help it. The memory of what she had seen the king do was too fresh in her mind. She was alone and quite defenseless. What if the dauphin behaved as his father did? What would she do? Plead her virginity? Scream? She had no idea. She ran away up the alley.

But glancing back, she saw that he had started running too. He was large and powerful. She thought she heard him laugh. What did that mean? A laugh of amusement or of triumph? He was a large man. He was bounding along.

She tried to increase her pace. She came to another alley on her left, rushed into it.

And saw, facing her, not thirty feet ahead, another figure. And this one was horrifying. For if the body was that of a man, the face seemed distorted like a classical grotesque, with a split nose. In her terrified state, she screamed. Trapped between the two threats, she looked for escape, saw a curving path between hedgerows to her right, fled into it. And found herself a moment later in a dead end.

She was panting, trembling and trying to make no sound at the same time, as she heard, only a few yards away, the dauphin’s heavy footfall arrive and suddenly stop.

“Monsieur de Cygne. It’s you.”

“It is, monseigneur, at your service.”

“Did you see a young lady just now?”

“Certainly. But before I had the chance to introduce myself, she ran past me toward the palace.”

“Ah. I think she thought I was chasing her.”

“If that is the case, monseigneur, I assume that she will allow herself to be caught if you continue toward the palace.”

“Thank you. Good night, de Cygne.”

After this, she heard the sound of the dauphin walking swiftly away. Then silence. It seemed that the grotesque was saving her for himself. She prepared to scream. But nothing happened until, after a long pause, the voice she’d heard before spoke.

“Forgive me for addressing you without an introduction, young lady, but I know that you must be close by, since there is no exit from the little hedgerow into which you have run.” The voice was kindly. “I am Roland de Cygne, a poor widower who was wounded long ago in the wars, which is why, though my wounds were honorable, I think it more pleasant for others that I should take my walks at dusk. I can tell you that the dauphin has departed toward the palace. I doubt that he meant you any harm, for that is not his reputation. I shall now continue on my way, but if you wish me to conduct you safely back to your quarters, I shall be happy to do so.”

She heard him move on. She waited, then, emerging cautiously from her hiding place, she looked to see if the coast was clear. It was getting quite dark. Who knew if the dauphin was lurking out there? She looked into the long alley and saw the back of Monsieur de Cygne, already fifty yards away.

“Monsieur,” she called softly. “Monsieur, if you please.”



By the time he got back to his house that night, Roland de Cygne was in love. It hadn’t taken him long to discover who this young lady was, but when he tried to discover why she was so afraid she became reticent, and he didn’t press the matter. God knows what the innocent girl might have seen in the corridors of Versailles.

But by the time they reached the north wing, he had discovered enough about her to know that she was honest as well as kind.

“I am sorry that I gave you such a fright out there,” he ventured.

“It was just the shock of running into you when I was already so frightened.”

“My face can be a surprise I’m afraid.”

“Since it was not the dauphin’s face, monsieur, I can assure you that for me it was nothing but a relief.” She gave him a wry look and smiled. “I spend all my days with the dauphine, monsieur.”

He laughed quietly.

“The king likes everyone to look beautiful if they can. Most of the people at court are handsome. But though I seldom come to court myself—for I need no favors from the king—he is always polite if he sees me. The only thing he cannot tolerate is cowardice in battle, so my war wounds are in my favor.”

“And why did you come to Versailles, monsieur?” she asked.

“For my dear wife. It gave her pleasure to be at court. And since her death two years ago, I have remained here. I have a little house in the town. I come and go as I please and spend most of the summer down on my estate. I’ve grown used to Versailles, I suppose. But I don’t love it.”

“I do not think I shall ever get used to it, monsieur. I do not belong here. But I fear that my parents would be very angry if I returned home,” she confessed.

As soon as he got back to his house in the town, Roland de Cygne ate a light supper, as was his usual custom. After that, having told his groom to be ready to leave for Paris in the morning, he sat down to write a letter.



Ten days had passed since this incident when Amélie received word from Madame de Saint-Loubert that she should come to her house that evening. When she arrived, she found to her delight that her mother was there. Not only that, but her mother embraced her warmly and congratulated her.

“You have done very well, my dearest child. Both your father and I are delighted.”

“I have? I just sit in a dark room with the dauphine all day and talk to her when she wants.”

“I don’t mean the dauphine, Amélie. I am speaking of your marriage to Monsieur de Cygne.”

“My marriage?”

“He didn’t tell you?”

“I met him only once.”

“Well it’s all agreed. Your father is very pleased. I shall meet Monsieur de Cygne tomorrow, but he is from a very old family, he’s entirely respectable and his estate is actually larger than ours. It’s quite splendid. And so quick. I can’t believe it.”

“Have you seen him, Mother? He’s an old man with a split nose.”

“He was wounded, I know. But he needs an heir. Madame de Saint-Loubert says he is a good and kind man too. You don’t think he’d mistreat you, do you?”

“No. That wasn’t my impression. But I hardly know him. I do not love him.”

Her mother looked at her for just a moment as if she were stupid, and then changed the subject.

“Of course, since you are at court, the king will have to give his permission, but there’s no reason for him to withhold it.”

“Mother, I do not consent to marry Monsieur de Cygne. And I am very unhappy here at Versailles. I beg you to let me return to Paris with you.”

“That is not possible, my child. The king would probably refuse his permission, unless the dauphine says she doesn’t want you. And your father would not take you back. Not after refusing such an offer.”

“I cannot believe he would be so cruel.”

Her mother looked at her sadly.

“You do not know,” she said quietly, “how kind he has already been.”

And then, after asking her hostess if she might be left alone with Amélie, Geneviève d’Artagnan gently told her daughter the truth.

When she had finished, Amélie was silent. She just stared ahead in shock.

“So I am not my father’s daughter,” she said at last. “Not a d’Artagnan.”

“No.”

“Who is my father, then?”

“I shall never tell you.”

“Was he noble?”

“No. But your father has given you the d’Artagnan name, which makes you noble, and you must honor it. You are fortunate. But you must also consider your father’s position. He is providing a dowry for you, but it is only a small one. If your father were very rich, it might be different, but as things are, although he loves you, he does not feel he can give away too much of the family inheritance in order to provide for you. Monsieur de Cygne has a fine estate and needs an heir. He is prepared to accept a small dowry. But it might be hard to find another suitable husband who would. You must consider your father as well as yourself. You should not take money from him when there is no need.”

“I could just marry a poor man who isn’t noble.”

“No. You cannot dishonor the name you have been given by your father. That is not fair to him either. If you marry Monsieur de Cygne, however, then everything is solved. It’s your duty to do so, Amélie, and I believe you may be happy too. He seems to like you very much, by the way. He writes like a man in love.”

“Mother, I shall return tomorrow to discuss this with you further,” said Amélie. “I am feeling very tired.”

And without even bestowing the usual kiss upon her mother, she left.



The following day, explaining to the dauphine that her mother had arrived to see her, she received permission to leave a little early. So the afternoon was still light as she walked into the town.

It had not been difficult to discover where Monsieur de Cygne lived.

Having seen her mother that morning, Roland de Cygne was rather surprised that Amélie should arrive at his house unaccompanied, but he received her in his elegant salon. The walk from the palace had brought a freshness to her cheeks.

Amélie noticed the elegance of the house. In the hall was a portrait of Roland de Cygne as a young man, before he had received his wound, looking very handsome. In the salon, over the fireplace, was another portrait, of a lady of the court with a pleasant, kindly face. This evidently was his late wife.

Seen by the light of day, Roland de Cygne looked exactly what he was, a middle-aged aristocrat whose handsome face had been marred by a slashing sword. It appeared that he was a man who had been happily married and who, no doubt, was now a little lonely. If he seemed very old, it was also clear to her that he had kept himself fit and that for all his modest manners, he was not a man to be trifled with.

“Monsieur de Cygne,” she came straight to the point, “I have understood from my mother that you have done me the honor to ask for my hand in marriage. Is that still the case?”

“It is, Mademoiselle d’Artagnan.”

“You have seen my mother today?”

“I have.”

“And what has she told you of the circumstances of my birth?”

He looked mildly surprised.

“That you are the youngest child. Your brother will inherit the estate. Your sister is well married.”

“Then I must tell you, monsieur, that you have been deceived. I am not my father’s daughter. I do not know who my real father is, but he was not noble.”

Roland de Cygne looked at her thoughtfully. He had been a little surprised at the smallness of the dowry offered, and had assumed that this was because his own bargaining position was so weak. An older man with an ugly face, in desperate need of an heir, cannot demand a high price for marrying a fellow aristocrat’s good-looking daughter. This new information was no doubt a further reason for the smallness of the amount.

“When did you discover yourself, mademoiselle?”

“Last night, monsieur.”

He nodded thoughtfully.

“It came as a shock to you, therefore.”

“It did, monsieur.”

And why is she telling me? he wondered. Because she thinks I will break off the marriage agreement? Is she so anxious not to marry an ugly old man? Yet at the same time, he thought, she was taking a terrible risk with her own reputation. With her small dowry and her dubious origins, she was ruining herself in the marriage market. Did she realize this?

She was young, and upset, and a little foolish. That was clear. But he decided that she was also honest and courageous. And he loved her for being so.

He also needed an heir.

“Mademoiselle, I honor you greatly for coming to me in this way,” he said. “You did not wish to deceive me, and you have trusted me with a secret. And now, for my part, I wish to tell you that I did not ask for your hand because of your name. I already have a name, of which I am proud. Nor did I ask for you because of the charms of your person, though those charms were evident even in the dark, and are even more to be admired in the light of day. But I asked for you because of those qualities of goodness and honesty which I at once perceived in your character.”

“You are kind, monsieur.”

“I hope so. Your case—even if you are correct, and there has not been some misunderstanding—is not as rare as you may suppose. Therefore, for your own sake, and for your parents’ honor, I ask you to say nothing of this to anyone for a few days. I need a day or two to reflect, myself. Would you do this for me as a kindness? Afterward, we can all decide what to do.”

“If that is your wish, monsieur, then I will do as you ask.” It would have seemed churlish to refuse.

After she had gone, Roland de Cygne thought for some time. He was annoyed, certainly, by the news. Amélie’s looks and manners were entirely aristocratic, but the thought of base blood entering the noble family of de Cygne was repugnant to him.

But then a memory caused him to pause.

It had been a few months before he had died that his father had confided to him a strange scene he had witnessed in the Louvre. “You were only seven years old at the time,” Charles had told him, “and I had to take a letter to the queen, our present king’s mother.” And then his father had told him about the strange figure in the bedroom. “They say that the king returned and spent a night with the queen at that time, and it may be so. But I tell you, Roland, I could have sworn it was Mazarin that I saw in there.”

Roland de Cygne sighed. What if his father was right? In subsequent years, after Louis XIII was dead and Mazarin was running the kingdom, there was no doubt that the queen and Mazarin were so close that people wondered if they were secretly married. If Mazarin was the true father of the present monarch, then the Sun King was descended from a baseborn Italian whose ancestors may even have been Jewish.

But he was still King of France.

And whoever the real father of this honest young girl was, she bore the name of d’Artagnan. That was enough for the honor of his family.

One other consideration also came into his mind. He had not been without conscience, or misgiving, about forcing such a young woman into marriage with him. But given these new circumstances, there was no question that, in the long run, it was for her own good. Her chances of making a good marriage on such a small dowry were slim. And if her parents had hoped that she might do well for herself by becoming a royal mistress of some kind, he was sure that they had misjudged the girl. That wasn’t her character at all.

If she married him, however, she’d have rank, security and a comfortable life. And after I am gone, he thought, she’ll be well placed to make a second marriage more to her liking.

He made up his mind. It was time to take action. He was going to secure the heir his family needed, and to protect this young woman from her own foolishness.

The king liked brave men. And he’d never asked for anything before. He’d seek an audience with him in the morning.



Two days later, as Amélie was sitting in the dauphine’s dark room, both she and the dauphine were astonished when a courtier came to inform her that the king himself desired her presence.

“I can’t imagine why,” Amélie said. “I’m sure I’ve done nothing wrong.”

“Nor can I, but you must go at once,” the dauphine told her.

She knew that, when not in council, the king conducted most of his business with a very few advisors. But she was quite surprised to find herself ushered into a salon in which the king was sitting on a fauteuil quite alone. Beside him was a table, covered by a rich cloth on which there were a number of papers. She curtseyed deeply as the door closed behind her.

She had never been in the intimate presence of King Louis before. He was wearing a coat of deep red velvet trimmed with gold, a lace cravat and a large wig that reproduced the magnificent dark brown hair of his youth. His face was sensual, a little fleshy now, but every line proclaimed that he was used to being obeyed. His eyes were smaller than she had realized, as dark brown as his wig, and sharp and cynical as the world that he commanded. In his usual fashion when seated, his left leg was tucked back and his right, impressively muscular in its white silk stocking, was stuck out proudly.

“You are young, Mademoiselle d’Artagnan,” he said calmly. “You bear a fine name.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” she said. She felt rather frightened.

“It is my wish that you should honor the name of d’Artagnan that you are so fortunate to bear. I am sure you understand me.”

“I think so, sire.”

“Whatever you may believe about your birth, you are never to speak of these doubts again. Never. If you do, you may be sure that I shall hear of it.”

“I merely try to be honest, Your Majesty,” she ventured.

“That is often commendable. But in these circumstances it is ill-advised and would bring pain to others and to yourself. You will therefore do as I wish.” He looked at her to make sure she had understood.

She bowed her head, and said nothing.

“You have the opportunity to render a great service to a family who have served France for many centuries, and to bring happiness to a brave and honest man. I am speaking of course of Monsieur de Cygne.”

“He did me the honor to propose marriage, Your Majesty, but he may have changed his mind.”

“On the contrary, he is quite determined to marry you, Mademoiselle d’Artagnan, and it is my wish that this marriage should take place.”

“I wonder, Your Majesty …” she began desperately, but the king signified that she should cease speaking at once.

“I wish it,” he said bleakly.

Le Roi le veult: the king wishes it. The final word against which there could be no argument and no recourse. She fell silent.

And then she discovered why even the princes of the blood trembled in the presence of the Sun King.

“It is best for everyone that you do exactly as I say, mademoiselle,” King Louis quietly continued. “You must trust my wisdom. You will never question your birth again, you will marry Monsieur de Cygne and one day you will be glad that you did.” And now his voice suddenly became harsh. “But if you fail in the slightest degree to follow the instructions I have just given you, then you will regret it.” He picked up a sheet of paper from the table. “Do you know what this is?”

“No, Your Majesty.”

“It is a lettre de cachet, mademoiselle. With this, I can send you to the Bastille or any prison of my choosing. I can place you in solitary confinement, and give instructions that you are never to be seen again. I do not have to supply any reason for my action. It is entirely within my power. I have sent young women to prison in this manner before. And I am quite ready to sign this letter now, and find Monsieur de Cygne another wife. The guards outside the door will convey you to prison at once. In one minute from now, mademoiselle, you will vanish forever.”

Amélie felt herself shivering. A terrible cold descended upon her. She had never known such fear before.

“I will do as you command, Your Majesty,” she said hoarsely.

“Do not at any time disobey me, mademoiselle, in the smallest particular. I shall hear of it if you do. And then, even Monsieur de Cygne will not be able to save you.”

“I shall never disobey you, sire,” she swore, “as long as I live.”

“I shall come to your marriage,” he said, and dismissed her.



A year later, Amélie de Cygne gave birth to a baby boy. Her husband wrote to his young cousin in Canada to announce the fact. He did not write to him again.


• 1715 •

It was quite a common sight, in the early years of the eighteenth century, to see the old man on the Pont Neuf, especially when the weather was warm. His grandson would bring him there in his cart.

Some people could still remember him in his prime.

“You should have heard him then,” they would tell the younger folk. “The greatest mouth in Paris.” And strong as an ox. For look at how long he had lived. Nobody was sure of his exact age, but he must be over eighty. He still wore a red scarf around his neck, under his white beard.

If people came up and spoke to him, he would answer them briefly, and when he did so it could be seen that he had two or three teeth, which was remarkable for such an aged man.

When he appeared in the summer of 1715, Hercule Le Sourd had not been seen for months, and the previous winter had clearly taken its toll. His face was gaunt, and his clothes hung upon him loosely. But he got out of his grandson’s cart and walked stiffly across to the middle of the bridge. And was seen there every week or so after that.

One day his grandson took him along the Left Bank of the river so that he could gaze down the huge southern sweep to the cold facade of Les Invalides, to which King Louis had added a splendid royal chapel with a gilded dome. “I’ve seen pictures of St. Peter’s, Rome,” his grandson told him, “and this looks exactly the same. Paris is the new Rome.” Another time, they went to the northern part of the city where King Louis had demolished parts of the old city wall and built handsome boulevards there instead. “The king’s made France more glorious than she’s ever been before,” the younger man declared confidently.

“That may be,” Hercule said, but he was too old to be easily impressed.

Yes, he thought, King Louis had added to the glory of Bourbon France. The great nobles obeyed him. The country was better run. Across the ocean in the New World, French adventurers had just made good their claim to the territory centered on the vast Mississippi basin and called it Louisiana.

In Europe, the power of the mighty Hapsburgs of Austria and Spain was waning. By force and clever bargaining, the Sun King had grabbed rich border territories like Alsace out of Hapsburg hands and into his own. By marrying his heirs to Hapsburg princesses, King Louis had done even better. For when the inbred Hapsburgs couldn’t even provide an heir for Spain, one of his grandsons had inherited the Spanish throne. True, the Bourbons had to promise the rest of Europe that France and Spain would never be ruled by a single monarch, but it was a friendly Bourbon, rather than a rival Hapsburg, who now lay over France’s southern border.

French culture was the fashion. All over Europe, French was becoming the language of diplomacy and the aristocracy.

I, myself, as a Frenchman, am proud of all this, Hercule admitted.

Yet the Bourbon glory had come at a cost. The Sun King’s ambition had alarmed his fellow rulers, especially the Protestant ones. When he’d attacked the Netherlands, he’d gone too far. And the last two decades had seen a long drawn-out war in which the great English general Churchill, now Duke of Marlborough, had smashed the French army several times, proving to all the world that mighty France was not invincible. The war had left the Sun King’s treasury depleted, and France with few friends. Was that so good?

And yet beyond that, it seemed to Hercule, there was something else. Something intangible, like a cloud obscuring the sun.

The ancient Greeks told it as the tragedy of hubris. A king grows too proud, and the gods punish him. Medieval men spoke of the wheel of fortune, which never ceases to turn. Or perhaps God, for His own good reasons, had turned His face away from the King of France.

Whatever the cause, one thing was clear to Hercule Le Sourd: in the last few years, King Louis XIV had run out of luck.

It wasn’t only the grim cost of his wars. Everything had gone wrong. The harvests had failed—the surest sign of divine displeasure. Disease and famine had struck the countryside. And now his heirs had started dying. The dauphin, heir to France. The dauphin’s son. The dauphin’s elder grandson. Was there a curse on the family? One had to wonder. And now the king was old, and his health was beginning to fail, and his heir was his younger great-grandson, a little boy of five.

After all of King Louis XIV’s dynastic efforts, the kingdom of France would shortly be back where it was before: financially ruined, and with a helpless child upon the throne.

The sun was being extinguished. The darkness was closing in.



It was almost the end of August when the strange thing occurred. Hercule Le Sourd had asked his grandson to take him to a different place that day: the stately square of the Place Royale in the Marais quarter.

When they got there, he directed his grandson to a particular spot, and then got out and stretched his legs a bit.

“Why do you choose this place to stop?” his grandson inquired.

“Something wrong with it?”

“No.”

“Then mind your own business,” said his grandfather.

What had happened to that strange woman? he wondered. Probably dead by now. And no doubt I’ll be following her soon myself, he thought. And it occurred to him that in every corner of Paris there must be places where people had made illicit love—people who were long since turned to skeletons and dust. And if they were all to be resurrected in the body at the same time and in the act of love, what a strange panting, and moaning, and grinding of bones there would be. And in the warm, thick air of that August afternoon, it seemed to him that just for a moment, he could sense all those vanished bodies like spirits all around him, but as spirits with substance, however light. Was it possible that memories, and souls, could take a vaporous form and float about? If they could do it anywhere, it would surely be in the sultry warmth of the intimate, arcaded brick-and-stone enclosure, on a silent August afternoon.

It had not happened only once. The lady had come back for him the next day, and the one after that. Three times they had made the journey from the Pont Neuf to the Place Royale. Three times they had made passionate love. He had been young then, and vigorous.

Then she had disappeared, and he’d never seen her again. He did not know who she was, and made no attempt to find out. What would be the point? He was left with three strange, magical memories, as if he’d been transported like a knight in a romance, into another world.

He stayed there some time. Then he said he wanted to go home.

The cart had just started up when he turned to his grandson and remarked: “Look at that.”

“What?”

“Over there.” Hercule pointed to a spot just in front of the arcades, about fifty paces away, where a figure was standing.

“I don’t see anything.”

“The small man, the old one, dressed in red.”

“There’s no one there, Granddad.”

And then Hercule understood.

“You’re right,” he said. “Trick of the light.” But he gazed down at the little red man as they passed him, and the red man stared back.

So that was him, Hercule thought. Usually it was kings and great men who saw the red man, just before some terrible event—often their own death. But he’d heard stories of ordinary people seeing him.

What did the red man’s presence mean this time? The death of the king, like as not. Perhaps his own as well.

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” he said aloud.

“What?” asked his grandson.

“Nothing.” If he was about to die, Hercule thought, he was glad he’d come to this place of memories today. “The best three f*cks I ever had in my life,” he said aloud.

“What?”

“I don’t think the king’s going to live much longer.”

“Well, he’ll die knowing he left his mark on history,” the younger man remarked.

Hercule Le Sourd nodded thoughtfully. No doubt that was true, so far as it went. But what that mark on history would be was still hidden behind the dark clouds.

“No man ever knows his legacy,” he said.