won’t hand over that document case, even if the Devil himself comes asking for it – not before I’ve solved the mystery and discovered why my father’s signature is on the Cardinal’s papers!
‘You seem worried. What are you thinking about, my sweet?’ Julie asked him, taking him by the arm to join the rest of the troupe.
‘I’m thinking about my father.’
‘Your father? But I thought he died a long time ago.’
‘So did I,’ Gabriel replied, putting his arm round her and leading the way as they hurried towards the main auditorium, where the troupe had assembled.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Château de Fontainebleau – Thursday 17 February, four o’clock in the afternoon
‘T HE King!’
With a great rustling of fabric, the mass of courtiers crushed into the audience chamber at the Château de Fontainebleau respectfully greeted the King with the ritual dance of bows and curtseys. The men swept off their hats, and the women knelt within the circles of their ample gowns. The King walked slowly across the silent hall, smiling at no one in particular, not even at his wife the Queen, whose full attention was taken up with keeping precisely in step with him. The little Spanish princess had become Queen of France six months earlier, by arrangement between the two powers. Pale, and with that aura of fragility which always surrounded her, she was still nervous about the strange etiquette of the Court, executed as it was in a foreign language; an etiquette whose false simplicity and curious whims she could not understand. The royal couple reached the throne, and the King gestured to the assembly to rise. Then he looked questioningly at his secretary, who held the running order of the session. An ambassador stepped forward, bearing credentials, which Lionne came over to receive in the King’s name. The monarch listened with a fixed smile to the formal message, delivered in a strong accent by the Nordic diplomat. The King’s thoughts carried him far from this chamber and from these faces that he knew rathertoo well but did not trust. He was riding in the forests of Versailles, and carousing, perpetuating the ideal of knightly combat that he so relished, in contrast to the horrors of civilian life. Absorbed in his thoughts, he did not smile, and the Queen feared her husband was annoyed because she did not understand what was expected of her. The father who had just stepped forward to present his daughter officially to the Court thought that he had committed some fatal error. A hush descended. Everyone held their breath. Pulling himself together, the King managed a faint smile and a nod of the head, enabling the ceremony to proceed.
‘Mademoiselle d’Épernoy! Mademoiselle de Luynes!’
The names were barked out at the foot of the throne, punctuating the procession of stiff, vaguely frightened-looking girls. Always the same docile looks, and more often than not, ugly with it , said the King to himself, once again drifting off into his own thoughts.
How he hated these people and their expectations, and how well he felt he knew their games! As a young boy, he had seen them for what they really were behind their masks, and what he had not been able to see, the Cardinal had patiently taught him how to read, over the years. The young King was overcome by anger and dismay at the thought that not only would his godfather’s illness soon deprive him of his protector, but also that certain people dared to conspire against his own authority. To be King, on his own: the thought both terrified and attracted him like some heady fever. He could almost feel the hot blood flowing through his arms and chest. As Mazarin seemed to grow more bloodless with each passing day, his own blood boiled; the protective shelter provided by the Cardinal was wearing away and his lessons were now no more than the murmurings of a powerless old man. Power, perhaps that is the elixir of life? thoughtthe King, suddenly intoxicated. He closed his eyes to
‘You seem worried. What are you thinking about, my sweet?’ Julie asked him, taking him by the arm to join the rest of the troupe.
‘I’m thinking about my father.’
‘Your father? But I thought he died a long time ago.’
‘So did I,’ Gabriel replied, putting his arm round her and leading the way as they hurried towards the main auditorium, where the troupe had assembled.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Château de Fontainebleau – Thursday 17 February, four o’clock in the afternoon
‘T HE King!’
With a great rustling of fabric, the mass of courtiers crushed into the audience chamber at the Château de Fontainebleau respectfully greeted the King with the ritual dance of bows and curtseys. The men swept off their hats, and the women knelt within the circles of their ample gowns. The King walked slowly across the silent hall, smiling at no one in particular, not even at his wife the Queen, whose full attention was taken up with keeping precisely in step with him. The little Spanish princess had become Queen of France six months earlier, by arrangement between the two powers. Pale, and with that aura of fragility which always surrounded her, she was still nervous about the strange etiquette of the Court, executed as it was in a foreign language; an etiquette whose false simplicity and curious whims she could not understand. The royal couple reached the throne, and the King gestured to the assembly to rise. Then he looked questioningly at his secretary, who held the running order of the session. An ambassador stepped forward, bearing credentials, which Lionne came over to receive in the King’s name. The monarch listened with a fixed smile to the formal message, delivered in a strong accent by the Nordic diplomat. The King’s thoughts carried him far from this chamber and from these faces that he knew rathertoo well but did not trust. He was riding in the forests of Versailles, and carousing, perpetuating the ideal of knightly combat that he so relished, in contrast to the horrors of civilian life. Absorbed in his thoughts, he did not smile, and the Queen feared her husband was annoyed because she did not understand what was expected of her. The father who had just stepped forward to present his daughter officially to the Court thought that he had committed some fatal error. A hush descended. Everyone held their breath. Pulling himself together, the King managed a faint smile and a nod of the head, enabling the ceremony to proceed.
‘Mademoiselle d’Épernoy! Mademoiselle de Luynes!’
The names were barked out at the foot of the throne, punctuating the procession of stiff, vaguely frightened-looking girls. Always the same docile looks, and more often than not, ugly with it , said the King to himself, once again drifting off into his own thoughts.
How he hated these people and their expectations, and how well he felt he knew their games! As a young boy, he had seen them for what they really were behind their masks, and what he had not been able to see, the Cardinal had patiently taught him how to read, over the years. The young King was overcome by anger and dismay at the thought that not only would his godfather’s illness soon deprive him of his protector, but also that certain people dared to conspire against his own authority. To be King, on his own: the thought both terrified and attracted him like some heady fever. He could almost feel the hot blood flowing through his arms and chest. As Mazarin seemed to grow more bloodless with each passing day, his own blood boiled; the protective shelter provided by the Cardinal was wearing away and his lessons were now no more than the murmurings of a powerless old man. Power, perhaps that is the elixir of life? thoughtthe King, suddenly intoxicated. He closed his eyes to
Similar Books
