Paris: The Novel

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