+O+
"Touchstone" (2)
Philippe burst into the mirror room; the blond ringlets of his kingly wig bounced as he spun on his heel to pull the door closed with a solid thump.
"You're vexed, brother," Louis sighed from his position, curled up on the settee, cleaning his nails. "Something I should know about?" he asked, running fingers through the dark wavelets that concealed his lighter locks.
"I've told the Prince le Condé to house his men with the Cardinal's. He wasn't happy about it. I'm sure he had it in mind to cause trouble for our men."
"He shouldn't complain." Louis shrugged. "His men will have plenty of room. When ill health sent Mazarin to his country house it seems he took half his guard with him. I've never seen their barracks so empty… it's a bit unnerving.
"That is somewhat peculiar, isn't it?" Philippe frowned. "Do you think we should send someone to find out what Uncle Mazzie's guards are up to? Aramis says one of the fundamental aspects of kingship is to know what people are doing in our names. We have people we trust in charge of intelligence, don't we?"
"De Batz's has people to do that sort of thing, I think. You'd have to ask him about it." Louis yawned, nonchalantly holding his arm out to his brother.
"I'm not going to kiss your hand while I'M king," Philippe snorted.
"Nooo!" Louis frowned and waved a lacy handkerchief at him. "It's a new scent—Jasmine. A gift from young Philippe de Lorraine-Armagnac. It's supposed to be soothing, and you're a bundle of nerves."
Philippe took the proffered accessory, sniffed cautiously, and then wrinkled his nose. "I like the rosewater better. And I get more comfort from this," he admitted, slipping the leather bound book from his pocket.
"Suit yourself, so long as you're not caught at it. Mazarin never liked me reading—not that I mind, reading bores me. Still, he tells me such trivialities are beneath a king. 'Do not read history, live it. We must at all times be aware to present an image consistent with our i gloire;" /i Louie tried to mimic the Cardinal's brusque manner and affected the use of the royal 'WE' as he tucked the fragrant cloth nonchalantly back into his sleeve.
"I shan't be caught—look." Philippe beamed. Opening the volume and clearly holding it up-side down he read, "The sun goes down, dark follows on the day. The Emperor sleeps, the mighty Charlemagne. He dreamed he stood at Cesar's lofty gate, holding in hand his ashen lance full great."
i "Sacré bleau," /i Louis whispered in quiet awe. "So when Uncle Mazzie has paperwork wrong-ways round on his desk you can read it?"
i "Oui, /i and he'll still believe us barely illiterate." Philippe nodded. With a sly smile he added, "So will his niece, Miss Mancini… I did enjoy having her read to me yesterday." He smiled, looking long into the gold-framed mirror positioned over the settee. Absently, he wound a blond ringlet around his finger and watched it spring back into place among the others on his 'Louis wig.'
"You're vain." Louie laughed.
"Am not… not really." Philippe frowned. Having spent most of his life masked and locked away, he had never even seen his reflection until coming to stay with Emris. At the Abbey there had been one small silver mirror. This one was huge and elegant; his image shone bright and clear. "They wouldn't call it 'a looking glass' if people weren't meant to look into it," he reasoned, caressing the gold frame before examining his reflection again.
Louie rose and stood at the glass beside his twin. Careful use of make-up, clothing and wigs made them seem as different as night and day. But side-by-side the reflection did not lie. "Looking has become a habit with you, you know," Louis whispered softly. "You ought to try to fight it when you're king. It is as characteristically Philippe as your resistance to being touched. I know you're not really vain. I suspect you just need to remind yourself you're really here."
Philippe was unable to deny either claim. His life had changed so dramatically. First, he had been a faceless prisoner. His treatment ranged from harsh lessons, punctuated by regular beatings, to long stretches of blatant neglect. Then, suddenly, he found himself free of his cage and whisked off to the Abbey. He'd never dreamed life could be so different, full of light color and companionship. Emris de Ruse had been free with his fatherly affection and would have willingly embraced Philippe, just as he did his own daughter Kate. But the oft-tortured boy could not accept such things then, and now, things changed again. He'd lost his chance. Philippe sighed, and scuffed one silk-slippered foot on the tiles. "I miss Emris."
"So call him to the capital. You are king; you can do things like that." Louie pointed out.
"What of de Batz? He's sure to object…and even I can see when he's not happy, then neither is mother... I don't want her upset with me," Philippe reasoned.
"I've heard the stories, in the old days, musketeers Aramis and d'Artagnan were inseparable. I don't know what changed, but maybe we could find a way to trick them into being friends again—lock them in a closet or shackle them together somehow," Louis suggested.
"Emris is too smart for that, and he can pick locks. Even showed me how, but I'm not that good yet," Philippe explained.
"Maybe Junior and his friends at the garrison can help us think of some way to get them together," Louis declared hopefully.
"Perhaps, they would at that," Philippe agreed. And the royal twins returned to the settee and put their heads together to figure out what might be done.
