“Perhaps,” Gaston d’Orleans said slowly and thoughtfully, “perhaps you are adroit enough to make this happen, Gondi.” A long and elegant finger stroked his chin. His blue eyes were contemplative. “My nephew, however, is most attached to his maman. He may not accept her absence easily. Eventually you will have to tell him where she is. Whatever you think, Gondi, Louis is the king. There will come a day when no man can stand in the way of what the king desires. What will you do then, mon ami?”
“The mother will write the son, telling him of her pleasure in her retirement. Eventually we will supply her with gambling partners. You know how she loves to gamble. We will give her her own troupe of ballet dancers for her amusement. She will urge Louis to keep his mind on the business of his realm and not concern himself with her. After awhile such reassurances will content him. He will no longer care or ask.“
“If you are keeping her whereabouts such a secret,” the prince said sensibly, “how can we give her gambling partners and dancers?”
“We will keep the secret for a year or two, no more. By then the boy will be ours,” the cleric replied.
“And Mazarin?” the prince countered. “Do you really think he will be content to remain quiet while the queen disappears and we take control of my nephew? He has an army at his disposal! He will invade France. Then what will happen?”
“If he invades France, particularly when he is forbidden her borders, he is guilty of treason, my dear Gaston. He will be in the same position we have been in all these years. He will not dare to kidnap the king from us. Besides, at the first hostile move on his part, the queen’s very life will be in danger. I will make certain that he understands that. His love for Anne of Austria is well known, for all his cardinal’s robes. Now, tell me, Gaston, what chateaux are near Chenonceaux? I want to know whom we may trust and not trust.”
“The nobility of the region have ancient name but are little more than farmers, mon ami. They care nothing for politics, just the weather, which determines a good vintage year or a poor one.” He laughed scornfully. “When we were there last spring they came to pay their respects. Each of them done up in his or her best finery, at least five years’ out of date fashionwise, except a lovely young Scots girl, who is living in exile from the Commonwealth at a small chateau nearby. She was most fashionably garbed, as was her widowed maman. My nephew took her off to walk along the river gallery. He as followed at a discreet distance by the girl’s affianced.” The prince chuckled. “Louis returned rather quickly, but the girl and her gentleman came later. An amusing little incident that I should have forgotten, but that the same gentleman returned several days afterward. He came, he said, to bring the queen a small token that he had meant to bring on his previous visit. Scented gloves, I believe. My sister-in-law went into raptures over them. I thought it a bit odd, but when I questioned the gentleman he proved to be a bit of a dunce, I thought.”
“Who was he?” Gondi asked, curious.
“The Marquis d’Auriville,” was the reply.
The cleric thought a moment, then said, “I have never heard of him, Gaston.”
“Why would you?” the prince replied. “He is a farmer, unimportant. There is no reason any of us would know him.” A discreet cough made Gaston d’Orleans turn his head slightly. “Yes, Lechaille, what is it?”
“Your highness asked me to remind him of his supper with the queen. Your highness will want to change his garments. We just have the time to do so if your highness comes now.” The valet bowed.
“Where the devil did he come from?” Gondi demanded, startled to see the servant.
“Show him,” the prince commanded Lechaille.
The valet touched the wall, and a small door sprang open.
Gondi was astounded. “He might have been listening the whole time, Gaston,” he said, concerned.
“Were you listening to our conversaton, Lechaille?” the prince asked.
“No, your highness. I was laying out your garments, and preparing the water for your ablutions,” the valet said calmly.
“You see, Gondi, it is as I said earlier. You worry too much.” He arose from his chair. “I bid you good evening. I must go and get ready to join my sister-in-law and her son for the evening meal. Escort monseigneur out, Lechaille. Then come back and help me,” the prince said.
“How long have you been with the prince?” Gondi asked the servant as he was conducted from the prince’s apartments in the Palais Royale.
“I have been with his highness for two years, monseigneur. Before that my uncle, Pierre Lechaille, served his highness for almost forty years, and my grandfather served the prince’s father, King Henri the Fourth.”
“And what did your father do?” Gondi asked, curious.
“My father, monseigneur, died before my birth,” was the brief answer. “The courtyard is beyond that door, and you will find your coach waiting for you, monseigneur,” Lechaille said, bowing, and then turning away to hurry down the corridor.
With a shrug, Gondi exited the building. The prince was right: He was seeing plots where none existed. The valet was a loyal servant from a long line of loyal servants. The cleric clambered into his coach and was quickly gone.
Lechaille hurried down the hallway toward his master’s apartments. Entering them, he said to his son, who was his assistant, “Find d’Albert as quickly as you can, Rene.” Then he entered the prince’s dressing chamber, saying as he went, “I have seen your friend off, your highness.”
Taking up his cloak, the younger man ran quickly from the prince’s apartments and dashed from the Palais Royale. He moved through the streets of the city toward an inn he knew d’Albert frequented when he was in Paris. To his relief, the cardinal’s agent was having his supper when he entered Le Coq d’Or. “Wine!” Rene called out, and slapped a coin upon the counter of the inn’s taproom. Then, taking his pewter cup, he moved to stand by the large open fireplace, his back to d’Albert’s table. “My father needs to see you,” he murmured low.
“Tonight,” was the reply.
“It will be late,” Rene replied.
“I will be here,” was the answer.
Rene swallowed his wine down and departed the inn to hurry back to the palace before he was missed.
Well after midnight, Robert Lechaille entered Le Coq d’Or. He immediately spotted d’Albert, who surreptitiously signaled him toward the inn’s back stairs. There, out of the hurly-burly of the taproom, they met, and the prince’s valet told him of the discussion he had heard late that afternoon between his master and Gondi.
“You must get word to him as quickly as possible,” Lechaille said. “What they are planning is treasonous no matter that they couch it in clever phrases!”
“Did they say when?” d’Albert asked.
The valet shook his head in the negative.
“I do not know what he can do, other than warn the queen,” d’Albert said slowly, “but I believe the conspirators will not harm her physically. We have people quite near Chenonceaux, and at least we know she would be safe. Also, we can rescue her from there with little difficulty,” the cardinal’s agent told the valet.
“I could warn her!” Lechaille replied.
“If you do, your use to us is over, Robert. You would endanger your own life and probably the life of your son,” d’Albert told him. “He needs you where you are. This will not be over until the king is able to recall him, and we vanquish these troublemakers. It will all take time, and we have that time. Now, promise me you will do nothing foolish. You do trust me, don’t you, Robert?”
The valet nodded. “I do, d’Albert, even if I do not know your first name,” he said with a small, wry smile.
“Francoise,” was the amused reply. “I’ll get the message routed out of Paris tonight. Now go back to the Palais Royale and continue to keep watch for us.”
The two men shook hands, and Lechaille said, “God speed, Francoise!” Then he moved back down the staircase and was gone.
Alone, d’
Albert sighed. He hated riding at night, but there was no help for it. The dawn was several hours away, and even at a snail’s pace he could be several miles out of the city before the sunrise. It was a long journey to the duchy of Cologne, but he would make it personally, speed being important. It was the end of August when d’Albert finally rode into the cardinal’s residence in Cologne.
Jules Mazarin, hearing his servant’s news, said, “There is no help for it. I must return to France.”
“My lord, do not, I beg you,” d’Albert pleaded. “They will kill you. I have never known such ruthlessness as Gondi exhibits.”
“Who do we have near Chenonceaux? Is there anyone?” the cardinal replied, ignoring his servant’s plea.
D’Albert considered a moment, and then said, “There is the Marquis d’Auriville, but he is about to wed, and he told me he will serve no longer. His chateau, Chermont, is several miles upriver from Chenonceaux. He is a good man, monseigneur, loyal to the king, but he is in love and fears to endanger his bride.”
“If he is a good man, d’Albert, then he will continue to serve until it is no longer necessary,” the cardinal replied quietly. “You will make the arrangements, returning to France ahead of me and arranging for me to stay at Chermont. I will travel incognito.” Reaching for the bellpull, he yanked it, saying to the servant who answered his call, “Ask my cousin, Seigneur Carlo, to join us.” The cardinal arose and went to his map chest, drawing out a large chart and laying it open across the table.
“When I came to Cologne I crossed from France into the duchy of Luxembourg, and thence to Cologne. It was the most direct route for me at the time. It would not be expected that I should reenter France under any circumstances, but on the chance those particular borders are being watched, I shall take an entirely different and unexpected route. By voyaging down the Rhine I can cross into France at Strasbourg, here.” He pointed to the map, and then his finger began to trace a route. “To Colmar, to Vesoul, to Dijon, to Nevers, to Bourges, and from there across the countryside to Chermont.” He turned to look at d’Albert. “What do you think, old friend?”
“You will be recognized,” d’Albert said.
“Nay, I will not,” the cardinal replied. “I shall travel as a simple gentleman with a few men-at-arms to protect me.”
“Your absence will be noted here in Cologne. Your residence has hardly been private. D’Orleans’s spies will fall over themselves in the rush to tell him you have departed Cologne. Then all of France will be on its guard, monseigneur,” d’Albert said fatalistically.
The door to the cardinal’s paneled library opened and a masked figure entered. He bowed to the cardinal and said, “You sent for me, cousin? How may I serve you?”
“Remove the mask, Carlo,” the cardinal instructed the man, who immediately pulled the mask from his head.
D’Albert gasped, staring openmouthed at the man. Then he looked at the cardinal and back again to his cousin. Finally, shaking his head, he exclaimed, “Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu! He could be your twin, monseigneur. If you were garbed identically, I, who have served you so faithfully all these years, could not tell the difference. Who else knows of this man and his presence here, or even of his existence?”
“Only my servant, Luigi, who has been with me since my childhood,” the cardinal replied. “My cousin keeps to his apartments. Luigi brings him his meals. When he walks in the garden, I hide myself, so no one will know I have this twinlike relation.” The cardinal smiled, amused by d’Albert’s astonishment. “Carlo studied for the priesthood, although he never took final orders. I can leave him here in Cologne, and it will be as if I am yet here. Luigi will remain with him to complete the illusion. Hence I am free to return to France to direct my restoration, and protect my queen from those who would harm her. It is a good plan.”
“But you will need an army, my lord, to restore you to the king’s side,” d’Albert protested, fearful for his master.
“I have fifteen hundred horses and two thousand foot soldiers,” the cardinal said. “They will cross into France at various points over the next few months. We will meet at a single location to be decided upon. In the meantime, d’Albert, you must go to Chermont to tell the marquis I will be arriving sometime before Christmas. I will be introduced as his distant cousin, Robert Clary, who has been traveling in the east for many years. He will say he believed me dead, since he had not heard from me in several years. That small lie will cover a multitude of sins.” He chuckled and smiled again.
D’Albert was astonished. In all the years he had secretly served the cardinal, he had never seen him smile. And now, today, Mazarin had smiled twice! “Monseigneur, I believe that you are actually enjoying this intrigue,” he said boldly, “but please, I beg you, for the king’s sake, be cautious. Gondi and the others finally believe themselves close to attaining their goal. They will do murder to retain their power, and le bon Dieu help any who stand in their way.”
The cardinal patted d’Albert’s narrow shoulder. “Le bon Dieu will protect us all, mon ami, for what we do is right in His eyes,” he assured his servant. “Now I will arrange for you to rest here a few days, as you have ridden hard and long, I have not a doubt. I must arrange to leave for France as quickly as possible.”
“I will ride with you when you go,” d’Albert said. “After we cross into France, I will leave you and ride with all speed to the Marquis d’Auriville to tell him that his cousin Robert will soon be coming for a visit. Shall I arrange to inform the queen?”
“Nay,” the cardinal replied. “Only you and I and d’Auriville will know the truth. It is better for everyone, and I will be safer.”
“What is today’s date?” d’Albert asked.
“August thirty-first,” the cardinal answered him.
“Monsieur le marquis will surely be wed by now,” d’Albert said.
But Sebastian d’Oleron, to his great annoyance, was not married. The Duchess of Glenkirk had been called to Paris with her daughter by their exiled English queen, Henrietta Maria, to attend the young French king’s formal investiture, following his thirteenth birthday on September 5. The proclamation of the king’s majority would take place on the seventh of September, attended by as many of the nobles in France who could get there. It would be celebrated with great pomp and show, for Anne of Austria had been looking forward to this day since her son inherited his father’s throne eight years earlier. She had beaten those who attempted to take her son from her and rule in his name. Now she was triumphant. Only the absence of Jules Mazarin, her faithful partner in this miracle, saddened her. But the Marquis d’Auriville, like many of his neighbors, could not leave his vineyards with the harvest season upon them.
In Paris, Autumn, her mother and her two tantes were fortunate in that the de Saville family had a small hôtel on the Rive Gauche, located at Quatre Rue Soeur Celestine. Because they had had no time to send word ahead, the old concierge, Madame Alma, was distressed as their large traveling carriage pulled into the building’s courtyard. She shuffled forward, distress upon her worn face.
“Madame St. Omer! Madame de Belfort! Why did you not say you were coming! The dustcovers are upon all the furniture! There is no food! ’Tis a poor welcome to Paris I offer you.”
“The servants we brought can lift the dustcovers and fetch food from the market, Alma,” Madame de Belfort said soothingly as she alighted from their coach. She hugged the old woman. “It’s good to see you again. This is our cousine from England, Madame la Duchesse de Glenkirk, and her daughter, soon to be la Marquise d’Auriville. We have all come for the king’s proclamation. Isn’t it exciting!”
“You will forgive me for saying it, madame,” the concierge answered her, “but one king is very much like another for people like me.” Taking a large iron key from her apron pocket, she moved ahead to open the front door of the house. The lock turned silently as the concierge waved them into the building. “Come in! Come in!”
Autumn sneezed. “It’s musty,” she said as she
entered the dimly lit foyer.
“We must open the windows,” the old woman, said, and proceeded to shuffle about, doing just that.
Now the serving women, who had traveled in a separate coach, hurried in and began to remove the dustcovers, swiftly snatching them from the furniture. Soon they were all sneezing as the dust flew about, pollenating the salon. Laughing, all the women retreated into the foyer, shaking their skirts out as they went.
“Gracious, how long has it been since anyone has stayed here?” Autumn asked.
“It has been at least ten years, mademoiselle, since any of the de Savilles came to Paris,” the concierge said. “Why they keep the house confuses me, as they rarely use it.”
“But here we are today for the king’s special day, and where would we lay our heads, Alma, if it was not for Quatre Rue Soeur Celestine?” Madame de Belfort replied with a smile. “Of course, if you were not here to look after the hôtel for us, we would have to reconsider, wouldn’t we?”
Intrigued Page 19
