wrenched open the front doors of the chapel and stepped into the hall. A musketeer, arms crossed, took his ease at the end of the hall’s long finger on Louis’s right.
“Who came into this hallway?” Louis demanded.
The musketeer stood up straight. “No one, your majesty.”
Back in the chapel, Louis went to the small side door that led to the ballroom. He saw the lieutenant of his musketeers playing ball with the dogs. The lieutenant kept a ball from the tennis court in a pocket.
“D’Artagnan,” Louis shouted, and the dogs turned at the sound of his voice, ran toward him, Belle in the lead.
“There’s another. Down!” As the dogs obeyed, Louis held up the paper. D’Artagnan took the note from him and read it as Louis walked back into the dim of the chapel and through the wide doors to the hall. He stepped out. The musketeer had moved from his place far down at one end and waited for him.
“I repeat, who came into this hall?”
There were narrow staircases for servants with iron railings that circled up into the attic floors. There was a staircase in the pavilion at the end of this hall and a public staircase for the ballroom. And there were secret passages. Only he was supposed to know of them, but their existence was old. Many knew of them, more than he could imagine.
“No one, your majesty. I swear it.”
There was a thin sheen of perspiration on the musketeer’s upper lip, just above a small mustache, matching Louis’s, who’d made such the fashion.
The note still in his hand, D’Artagnan and the dogs were in the hall now. Louis took the paper. His heart felt like it was going to jump right up his throat and out onto the floor. He felt sick to his stomach. He folded the paper into a small oblong and put it into a secret pocket in his jacket.
“That would be the second, your majesty?”
The even tone of D’Artagnan’s question calmed. Shutters were open to Fontainebleau’s forest-blessed air here in this wide hallway, and he took a deep breath of it. The day outlined in the window’s frame was clear, temperate, beautiful. Friends of his, seeing he had skipped Mass, were waiting for him in the courtyard.
“Yes, the second. The first was while we were still at the Louvre.”
“Did you leave your position?” D’Artagnan asked the musketeer.
Sweat now rolling from his hair, the musketeer said, without looking at Louis, “I went into the Tiber pavilion for a moment.” The Tiber pavilion ended this wing of the palace.
“Because?” D’Artagnan’s question was gentle.
“A-a girl. We spoke only for a few moments, sir.”
“Leave us,” ordered D’Artagnan.
The musketeer walked back down the hall, feeling the weight of two sets of eyes on his back.
“It might have happened then,” D’Artagnan said to Louis. Royal palaces were filled with servants, courtiers, priests, officials, visitors. Many chambers were reached only by passing through another chamber, and that included royal chambers. He indicated the plain winding stairs beside them. “Perhaps someone came down the stairs when he wasn’t watching, sire.”
“This is my palace.” I sound shrill, thought Louis.
D’Artagnan didn’t answer. He walked across to a window, looked out. There were musketeers stationed in this courtyard, the oval courtyard, the king’s personal courtyard, and there were Louis’s friends, Philippe’s, loitering, killing time until Louis joined them. It could have been anyone. The king’s grandfather had been killed by a man leaping into his coach. Guards riding near had been unable to prevent it. It was his task to prevent such.
“I don’t like this, D’Artagnan.”
“Nor do I, sire. But I’ll find our little messenger, and I’ll put a new man on duty.”
Louis looked down toward the musketeer. From where he stood, the musketeer could feel the sear of the king’s eyes, and he swallowed and began to sweat again.
“No.” Louis spoke softly, reflectively. “We’ll give him
“Who came into this hallway?” Louis demanded.
The musketeer stood up straight. “No one, your majesty.”
Back in the chapel, Louis went to the small side door that led to the ballroom. He saw the lieutenant of his musketeers playing ball with the dogs. The lieutenant kept a ball from the tennis court in a pocket.
“D’Artagnan,” Louis shouted, and the dogs turned at the sound of his voice, ran toward him, Belle in the lead.
“There’s another. Down!” As the dogs obeyed, Louis held up the paper. D’Artagnan took the note from him and read it as Louis walked back into the dim of the chapel and through the wide doors to the hall. He stepped out. The musketeer had moved from his place far down at one end and waited for him.
“I repeat, who came into this hall?”
There were narrow staircases for servants with iron railings that circled up into the attic floors. There was a staircase in the pavilion at the end of this hall and a public staircase for the ballroom. And there were secret passages. Only he was supposed to know of them, but their existence was old. Many knew of them, more than he could imagine.
“No one, your majesty. I swear it.”
There was a thin sheen of perspiration on the musketeer’s upper lip, just above a small mustache, matching Louis’s, who’d made such the fashion.
The note still in his hand, D’Artagnan and the dogs were in the hall now. Louis took the paper. His heart felt like it was going to jump right up his throat and out onto the floor. He felt sick to his stomach. He folded the paper into a small oblong and put it into a secret pocket in his jacket.
“That would be the second, your majesty?”
The even tone of D’Artagnan’s question calmed. Shutters were open to Fontainebleau’s forest-blessed air here in this wide hallway, and he took a deep breath of it. The day outlined in the window’s frame was clear, temperate, beautiful. Friends of his, seeing he had skipped Mass, were waiting for him in the courtyard.
“Yes, the second. The first was while we were still at the Louvre.”
“Did you leave your position?” D’Artagnan asked the musketeer.
Sweat now rolling from his hair, the musketeer said, without looking at Louis, “I went into the Tiber pavilion for a moment.” The Tiber pavilion ended this wing of the palace.
“Because?” D’Artagnan’s question was gentle.
“A-a girl. We spoke only for a few moments, sir.”
“Leave us,” ordered D’Artagnan.
The musketeer walked back down the hall, feeling the weight of two sets of eyes on his back.
“It might have happened then,” D’Artagnan said to Louis. Royal palaces were filled with servants, courtiers, priests, officials, visitors. Many chambers were reached only by passing through another chamber, and that included royal chambers. He indicated the plain winding stairs beside them. “Perhaps someone came down the stairs when he wasn’t watching, sire.”
“This is my palace.” I sound shrill, thought Louis.
D’Artagnan didn’t answer. He walked across to a window, looked out. There were musketeers stationed in this courtyard, the oval courtyard, the king’s personal courtyard, and there were Louis’s friends, Philippe’s, loitering, killing time until Louis joined them. It could have been anyone. The king’s grandfather had been killed by a man leaping into his coach. Guards riding near had been unable to prevent it. It was his task to prevent such.
“I don’t like this, D’Artagnan.”
“Nor do I, sire. But I’ll find our little messenger, and I’ll put a new man on duty.”
Louis looked down toward the musketeer. From where he stood, the musketeer could feel the sear of the king’s eyes, and he swallowed and began to sweat again.
“No.” Louis spoke softly, reflectively. “We’ll give him
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