A/N: Sorry for the delay, but this was a difficult chapter to write. I was uncertain how much of the original story I wanted to include in this, so after much trial and error, I came up with a combination of old and new that I think works adequately.
Chapter Twenty Seven
The sound of music drifted cheerfully along the palace corridors from the ballroom as D'Artagnan stepped from his room. The orchestra was in place, and ball was underway. He had seen enough of them during his service to easily imagine the swirling, costumed guests and the flowing gowns of the women on the dance floor. A ball given by the king was always a grand affair, and everyone would be dressed in costumes made of the finest fabrics available and adorned with their most dazzling jewelry.
When he reached the door to the king's chamber, he paused to smooth down his clothing and straighten the long cloak that floated gracefully behind him when he walked. The uniform had been meticulously cleaned and his boots thoroughly polished. Anne was probably already there with their son, awaiting his return, and it was important that he be more than merely presentable, especially in her presence. When he was satisfied with his appearance, he opened the door and stepped into the entryway, pulling the door closed behind him. Then he opened the second set of doors and moved into the king's sitting area.
As expected, the queen mother and Athos were waiting there. Anne was standing at the window gazing out across the lawn, but she turned when she heard the door open. Athos was pacing restlessly back and forth the length of the sitting area, and like the queen mother, he paused when he heard the doors open, then resumed his impatient walk. Philippe had not yet returned from the dressing room.
"Heis still getting dressed," Athos responded to the unspoken question in his best friend's eyes. "It seems to be taking a very long time," he added, nervously.
"I wouldn't worry," Anne said. "It takes time to prepare the king, and the young valet is new and inexperienced, so it may take a little longer."
D'Artagnan's eyes were riveted upon the queen mother, irresistibly drawn to her. She was dressed in a lovely formal blue and gold gown accented with sapphire earrings, a beautiful sapphire necklace, and a gold filigree tiara. She looked as exquisite as he had ever seen her, and he had to resist the urge to go to her and take her into his arms. They were in the palace, where interruption was always possible, and they must not be seen in an open display of affection. "Anne, you look beautiful," he said.
She smiled happily in response to the compliment, and her she admired D'Artagnan's uniform with its floor length blue cloak with white trim and red lining. "And you look very handsome in your dress uniform," she responded.
Athos looked from one to the other, witnessing the full scope of the affection each felt for the other; the love his life, D'Artagnan had said that day at the river. In his expression, it was easy to see that it was the truth, and that his love for her was returned fully, for her eyes were shining with a devotion reserved only for the love of a lifetime. They did not run into each other's arms as young lovers might, but maintained a distance that mirrored the forbidden nature of their love, yet the affection between them permeated the room, and their simple compliments held a greater degree of meaning than mere admiration.
Athos lowered his gaze, feeling as though he was intruding on a very private moment, even though the pair had done nothing to induce such a notion. He had experienced that perfect love which had resulted in the creation of another life, and following her death he had devoted all his time to raising their son. A son who was now gone, taken from him in the cruelest way possible.
He sighed heavily with longing, wishing he could touch his son's face just once more, to tell him how much he had meant to him. He only vaguely remembered that terrible day when the letter had arrived in the middle of the night bearing the news of his son's death on the front lines, and he only vaguely recalled the ride to the Musketeer's compound with the intent to assassinate the king in an overpowering desire to make him suffer the same fate.
His head came up suddenly, remembering the young Musketeers he had wounded that day as they had executed their job of protecting the king. With his knife, he had cut off the earlobe of one of them, then turned and flung the knife at a young man coming up behind him. It had imbedded in his chest in what was almost certainly a serious wound. What had become of those two men? Like Raoul, they likely had family, parents, siblings, perhaps even wives or sweethearts who cared about them. He needed to know their fate.
"D'Artagnan," he began, but before he could say more, the door to the king's dressing room opened, and he, D'Artagnan, and Ann all turned expectantly toward it. Philippe stepped into his chamber dressed in the gold and white patterned coat and breeches with matching laced knee boots. Rounding out the costume was the flowing floor-length red cape. He carried a pair of soft white gloves, and fumbled them nervously in his hands.
"That will be all, Gael," he said to the servant. "You may retire."
Gael bowed with an expression of relief on his face. D'Artagnan realized that this had been a difficult experience for the young servant as well, who was striving to please his king and fearful that he might do something wrong. Louis was not known for being forgiving of mistakes. "As you wish, your majesty." He pulled the door closed, leaving Philippe alone with the others.
The queen mother moved closer to her son. "Let us have a look at you," she requested.
"I look ridiculous in this costume," he complained and he turned slowly around, allowing her and the others to examine his appearance.
"Nonsense," Athos said, gruffly as he adjusted the fancy cravat so that it lay properly beneath Philippe's chin. "You look fine. It is a costume ball; you are supposed to look ridiculous. Trust me, there will be people wearing clothes more ludicrous than this. Take Porthos, for example. He was going to be Aramis's dance partner, and had originally intended to wear a woman's dress over his regular clothing!"
Philippe gave a nervous laugh as he faced the mirror again to scrutinize the outfit his brother had selected to wear to the ball. "I would like to have seen that, especially with his mustache! That would have been funny."
Athos shrugged, amused. "Well, his face would have been covered with a mask, but since there is no longer any need for anonymity, I doubt that he will wear it."
"It is almost time," D'Artagnan said. "Your guests are here and the dancing has commenced. I could hear the music from the corridor." The gold laurel wreath was not sitting properly on Philippe's head, so he removed it, smoothed down his long golden brown hair, and repositioned it.
Athos gave one final perusal of his appearance, and made a few minor adjustments in his costume where necessary. "I think you are ready."
Anne stood in front of him, tears of joy welling in her eyes. In her hand was the gold mask he would carry into the ballroom. "You look very handsome, Philippe," she said, softly.
"He looks terrified," Athos contradicted.
"That is because I am," Philippe admitted. "I have only just now realized how many people I must fool into thinking that I am Louis. There is a whole ballroom full of guests who are familiar with him, who know what he looks like, who know his mannerisms. Not to mention the staff and advisors. What if one of them notices something is amiss?"
"Ease your mind, Philippe," D'Artagnan assured him. "You know how Louis behaves, and – Listen to me!" he said sharply to gain the young man's attention. When Philippe's eyes darted to his father, he continued, "No one is allowed to get too close to the king, so do not concern yourself that someone might notice any minor physical differences between you. The only person who will see you up close is the person you will dance with." He then deferred to the queen. "Anne? Is there anything you need to add?"
She nodded, placing the mask in Philippe's hand. "Your dancing partner tonight is the daughter of the Marquis de Archambalt. Her name is Genevieve."
"Genevieve," Philippe's lips repeated the word, but the pronunciation was hardly more than a whisper. "Daughter of Marquis de Archambalt." He grimaced, feeling suddenly overwhelmed. "There are so many names to remember! How can I be expected to remember them all?"
D'Artagnan placed a firm hand on his son's shoulder in a reassuring grasp in an attempt to calm his frustration. "There are not so many as that," he said in a soothing voice. "Do not underestimate yourself. You are doing very well. We will go over those that you must know. Do you remember the names of your two advisors?"
"Claude and . . . " He had to pause to think a moment. The first was easy because he had been told of him while still at the village, but he had only heard the name of the other a short time ago, the dark-haired man in the red coat. "Gerard."
"Very good. What is the name of the man who hosted the king's hunt this afternoon?"
"La Croix. He will be here as well?"
"Yes. He, his wife, and their older daughter will be attending. The others are too young. And your dance partner?"
"Genevieve, daughter of de Archambalt."
"Very good. Those are the primary ones you must know."
"I will be at your side to help you, Philippe," Anne said. "If someone approaches that Louis would know by name, I will speak his name first or whisper it to you if there is time. That is unlikely to happen, though."
"Genevieve," he repeated his dance partner's name again. "Has Louis met her?"
"Once, briefly, during a banquet hosted by Louis several weeks ago. He invited her to the ball as his special guest."
"How will I know her?" he asked. "Am I supposed to go to her, or will she come to me?"
"You will go directly to the throne. She will come to you. A seat for her has been provided and will be located on your left as you are sitting, but it is unlikely that she will use it. A young woman does not wish to wrinkle a formal gown by sitting on it, so she will stand nearby until you invite her to dance."
Philippe's eyebrow went up. "She would stand all evening? Isn't it very tiring to stand that long?"
Anne laughed, softly. "You have no knowledge of what it is like to be a young woman, especially one offered such a prestigious honor as being escorted by the king. She will stand all night, if need be!"
"That is why women have been known to faint during these balls, especially during the heat of the summer," Athos added with a wink. "They wear many layers of garments, much too heavy and usually much too tight at the waist, so it is no wonder they eventually succumb to the exhaustion of standing for so long."
"They would rather faint than sit down?" Philippe asked, incredulously.
D'Artagnan patted his shoulder, reassuringly. "Do not attempt to understand it, Philippe," he said with a smile. "Women and men were not intended to understand one another. Now, for appearances sake, you must dance with her at least one time. Louis loves to dance, and it would appear odd if he did not go to the dance floor at least once."
"What if she brings up a subject that she and Louis discussed? She will think it strange if I have no knowledge of it."
"Not necessarily," Anne told him. "Louis is not known for his attentiveness, and there have been many occasions where he was thinking of other things during a conversation and therefore had no recollection of it. Everyone expects that the king will have important things on his mind. Merely apologize and say that you had forgotten."
Aware of his son's lack of experience with women and with large crowds, D'Artagnan said, "If you wish, you may have one or two dances, and then politely dismiss her. However, you must remain in good standing with the Marquis, so offer her a generous compliment, and then politely excuse yourself back to the throne."
Athos spoke up, "Tell her you strained your back during the hunt this afternoon, and that you are not in good form to continue dancing."
"Excellent idea, Athos," D'Artagnan said.
"Her feelings may be hurt by this," Anne said, considering how the young woman would feel to be abandoned by her escort during a party. "Encourage her to continue to enjoy the ball, and assure her that you will call on her to be your dance partner for your next ball, so that she may retain her honor. By then, you will be more comfortable in your position."
"Thank you," Philippe said, gratefully. "What about Christine?" he asked, wondering about this mistress his brother had kept and whom he had yet to see. If he encountered her and did not recognize her, it could pose a threat to his security. "Will she be attending the ball?"
"No. Louis did not extend her an invitation," Anne replied. "She is not a noble, so she will remain in her rooms for the evening, but she will be expected to leave the palace soon. Probably within a few days."
"It is unlikely that you will have any contact with her," D'Artagnan told him. "Louis has been planning to send her back to her mother's home."
Philippe pondered this for several moments, recalling the information that his father and Athos had told him about her. "Did you tell me that her mother and sister are ill?"
"Yes."
"Will it be all right if I made certain they are being cared for?"
"We will discuss that later," Anne told him. "First, we have to get you through the ball."
Athos gripped his shoulders in an affectionate but attention-gaining shake. "Philippe, you must stop asking things like this. You are the king! You may do whatever you wish, and you need no one's permission to do it. If you wish her to remain, then she will remain. But remember this: Christine was his mistress for some time. She knows him in a very intimate way and is familiar with his moods and other very personal details. If there is one person in this palace who could expose you as an imposter, it would be her. You cannot keep her as a mistress."
"I wasn't planning to," Philippe replied. "I just do not want her thrown out so cruelly. I do not even have to speak to her or go near her. I just feel she is owed some compensation for how she was treated."
D'Artagnan slowly nodded his head in understanding. "As your mother said, we can speak of her later, but right now, your guests are waiting."
Philippe felt his heartbeat step up a few notches, and he took several deep breaths to calm himself.
"It will be all right, son," D'Artagnan said, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. "Wait five minutes while I inspect the ballroom for security threats, then you may come."
"Will you accompany me?" Philippe asked his mother.
"The king makes his entrance alone," she replied. "If you had a wife, she would join you at the door, and you would enter together, but since you do not you will walk to the throne by yourself. I will join you in ten or fifteen minutes. When you arrive, you will not enter immediately. You will pause first and wait until you are noticed, which will only be a matter of seconds. The guests will then bow to you, and as they do this, you will approach the throne. The orchestra is positioned on your right as you enter the ballroom. A door to your left will lead to the banquet room where the food will be set up for the guests to enjoy."
When she paused, Athos spoke up, "When you go to the banquet, you must allow the servants to fill your plate. Remember, Philippe, the servants serve the king. That is what they do, and you must allow them to do it."
"I will," he replied a bit distractedly.
"Forgive my persistence, but you have been accustomed to doing things for yourself, and that is a hard habit to break," Athos insisted. "Your mind is going to be preoccupied with many things, and it is all too easy to simply reach for something without thinking. Remember, let the servants get whatever you want."
"I will," Philippe repeated.
The queen mother smiled lovingly at her son. "I will be with him, and will see him through his first banquet."
D'Artagnan moved toward the door, but paused before Anne to gently caress her cheek with his fingers. "I wish I could escort you to the ball on my arm," he said, longingly.
She placed her hand lovingly over his as she gazed into his eyes. "As do I," she agreed.
With a final, lingering gaze at her, he returned to the door and stepped into the corridor again, then approached the ballroom, following the music from the orchestra that had been hired to entertain the guests. He entered through the double doors of the main entrance.
The ballroom was awhirl with beautiful swirling dresses and costumes of all types. Every guest wore a mask, either held against the face with a string around the head or held in place with a lorgnette, concealing his or her face from view, a disadvantage in D'Artagnan's mind, one that called for intense scrutiny of each guest, and he paused just inside the door to scan the crowd, carefully inspecting the costumes for places in which a weapon might be concealed.
Positioned at various intervals around the room, Musketeers stood rigidly at attention in dress uniform, but he noticed the longing expressions on the faces of some of the younger ones, and understood that they were wishing they could join the dancing. Aramis and Porthos were guarding the door to the banquet room, and they each gave a nod of acknowledgement when they saw him.
Moving along the wall to avoid interfering with the dancers, he made his way toward his friends. "How does everything look?" he asked.
"Everything looks secure," Aramis replied. "We've been keeping an eye on things ever since we arrived, and have seen no breaches in security."
"I am glad you are here. My young musketeers are good, but I dare say they would rather be on the dance floor than guarding it, so your experience is a valuable asset."
"We are happy to help," Porthos told him, sincerely. "How is he doing?"
"He is getting ready." His eyes continued to scan the crowd until they finally settled on one Musketeer in particular, one who took his position so seriously that he appeared to have no interest in joining the festivities.
Lieutenant Andre was standing quietly to one side, his eyes constantly inspecting the variety of guests and costumes, searching for anything or anyone that might pose a danger to the king.
"I will check back with you from time to time, but if you notice anything suspicious, summon me at once." Leaving his friends, he moved toward Andre. "Lieutenant?" he said as he reached the younger officer.
"Everything is progressing as planned, Captain. I checked out the guest list and observed every individual as they arrived, and everything is secure."
"Good. The king will be arriving in a few minutes."
The two Musketeers watched the spinning, swirling crowd of guests as they danced about the large room, and a few minutes later the orchestra abruptly fell silent. The crowd stopped dancing, and instantly the guests parted, every one of them bowing respectfully as they opened a path down the center of the room.
The king stood in the doorway, the gold mask held in front of his face by its lorgnette. D'Artagnan could see his blue eyes through the eyeholes, darting nervously around the room. They came to rest briefly on the captain, as if relieved to see him there, then proceeded to observe the subjects who bowed before him.
It was a unique and peculiar sensation for the young man to watch the noble men and women of France as they bowed and curtseyed before him, for he had never experienced such a public show of respect. Somehow, it had been different as he had ridden into Paris a few hours ago, for the bowing had seemed more like a greeting than the formal display of respect and reverence that he was seeing now.
After a long moment, he withdrew the mask from his face and began the long walk toward the throne which was positioned on the dais against the opposite wall, flanked by two smaller seats. The guests remained rigid in their bow, and as he neared each one, they lowered their heads, not looking directly into his face.
D'Artagnan felt his heart swell with pride as he watched his son making that walk down the long path toward the throne. Philippe appeared slightly apprehensive, but it was only visible in the eyes, and since most people were frozen in their bow, this went unnoticed. His posture was erect and confident, and each step was precise.
Philippe kept his eyes riveted on that ornate chair that seemed so far away. The moments crawled slowly by as he carefully placed one foot in front of the other, concentrating on keeping his back straight and his head carried high, and trying not to think of how slowly his progress across the room was. His walk was deliberate and authoritative, for the king would not rush, but finally, at the end of that long walk he reached the dais. Carefully, he walked up the steps onto the platform and turned slowly to face the crowd. As long as he remained standing, they remained rigidly bent at the waist. His eyes moved slowly among them, picking out faces that he recognized. Claude was near the orchestra, and Gerard was across the room, both dressed in their finest. Aramis and Porthos were there as well near the door to the room he had been told was the banquet hall.
Mindful of the long flowing cloak so that he would not step on the hem or trip on it, he moved to the throne and sank onto it. Laying aside the mask, he said softly, "Continue."
The orchestra immediately began playing again, a lively, cheerful tune, and the guests resumed their dancing. Moments later, an attractive young dark haired woman approached the dais and curtseyed before him. Her dress was yellow, trimmed in white, and adorned with pearls and diamonds. Atop her head, a tiara stood out strikingly against her dark hair. The gold mask, similar to the one Philippe carried, was held by its lorgnette in her small, slender hands. Her countenance and costume indicated a woman of high standing.
"It is good to see you again, your majesty," she said.
"It is good to see you again, Genevieve," he replied in acknowledgement, hoping it was the daughter of the Marquis to whom he was speaking.
Apparently, he had made a good guess, for she stepped onto the platform and stood beside him, watching the crowd of guests and waiting for the king to invite her to dance. Although a seat was prepared for her, she did not take it, as Anne had predicted.
Philippe was quiet for several minutes watching the dancers on the floor and stealing discrete glances at her, wondering if he was supposed to carry on a conversation with her. Or would Louis have remained silent? It seemed rude not to say something, so he asked, "I trust you are enjoying the ball?"
She flashed a charming smile his direction. "Oh, very much, your majesty," she replied with an appropriate amount of enthusiasm in her voice. Her youthful face was shining with excitement, and he knew that she was waiting for him to request a dance.
"And how are your father and your dear mother?" Now that he had met his own for the very first time, every mother was considered dear to him. Then a brief moment of panic rippled through him when he realized that he had not been informed whether or not the girl's mother was still living.
"Very well, your majesty," she said in answer to his question. "They will be pleased that you asked."
Philippe breathed an inner sigh of relief that his inquiry had not turned into a faux pas, and turned his attention to the dancers again. He did not know the steps to the dance that was underway, so he waited until it ended and the next dance began. He was familiar with this one, so he stood up and offered his gloved hand to Genevieve, who slipped her small hand delicately into his. How different her small hand felt in comparison with Athos's larger one!
Together, with their masks held in front of their faces, he and Genevieve descended the platform steps, and the crowd instantly backed away to make room for them. He then turned toward his partner, and began the dance steps that Athos had taught him.
D'Artagnan watched his son with approving eyes, pleased with his poise and his countenance.
"He is doing well," Athos said quietly in his ear.
He turned his head, surprised that his friend had joined him in the ballroom. Keeping his voice low, he replied, "Yes, he is. Better even than he himself had expected. You taught him well. Thank you for being here."
Athos smiled. "I would not miss seeing the fruit of all those hours of training."
They shifted their attention back to the king, watching as he continued to dance. He made only one error, stepping briefly on the hem of Genevieve's dress. He flashed an apologetic grin at Athos and offered verbal apology to Genevieve, who giggled delightedly that the king could make such a mistake.
On the other side of the room, near the banquet hall doors, Gerard had seen the king's error and his amused reaction to it, and felt suddenly uneasy. A slight frown creased his brow. In all his years of service, he had never once seen the king step on the hem or the foot of his dance partner. Louis was a skilled dancer, and considered himself above such errors. It seemed especially peculiar that the king would express amusement of this, for he typically ignored his own mistakes as if they had not occurred.
The advisor looked around quickly to gauge the reaction of the other guests and servants in attendance. Everyone else who had witnessed it was smiling appreciatively that Louis had made an error and acknowledged it with humor. In particular, he focused his attention on D'Artagnan, and saw him standing with Athos. Both were smiling, as if the event was quite normal.
Gerard relaxed. D'Artagnan probably knew the king better than anyone, save his mistresses, and if the captain was amused then there was no cause for concern. Perhaps an error like that was bound to happen sooner or later. No one was perfect, after all, not even the king. And even the king had his moments of good humor.
The rest of the dance was performed without error, and when it ended, Philippe took the young woman's hand and brushed his lips lightly across her knuckles. "You dance very well, Genevieve. I believe you are the most ideal dance partner I have ever had, but regrettably I must retire."
Her smile at the generous compliment faded into surprise and then into concern. "Sire, have I done something to offend?"
"No. You are a delight, my dear, an absolute delight, but I strained my back during the hunt this afternoon and it is giving me some discomfort. I encourage you to enjoy the dance and the feast, but I would prefer to watch the festivities rather than participate in them. Please accept my sincere apologies."
She curtseyed, but her disappointment was vivid on her face. "Of course, your majesty. I hope you will soon be feeling better."
"I am certain I shall. However, if you would do me the honor, I would like to call upon you to join me at a future ball. I will do my best to avoid injury next time."
She smiled brightly, reassured that she was not being dismissed due to his displeasure with her. "It is I who would be honored, your majesty."
Philippe returned to the throne with his hand strategically placed just above the small of his back to give illusion to an injury, while Genevieve disappeared into the swirling masses of guests.
The music changed to another dance, one in which the guests formed two lines and clasped hands overhead to form an arch through which each one passed. Philippe watched with interest, for this was a new dance to him. It looked like great fun, but he knew that the king would not participate in a dance which involved such close proximity with his subjects.
One by one, the guests left the head of the line to rush beneath the arch of clasped hands, and then took a position at the foot of the line and raised their hands into the arch again. Abruptly, a rather large woman, rushing excitedly beneath the arch, lost her footing and fell against the dais steps. Instinctively, reacting without considering the consequences, the young king shoved himself out of his chair, and with an amused smile, he offered his hand to assist her to her feet.
The woman looked up, startled beyond words by the gesture, but she did not take his hand as she pushed herself into a seated position on the steps. The smile slowly faded from Philippe's face as he suddenly became aware of the silence in the room. The entire dance floor had stopped to look at him incredulously, and many were glancing at their partners in disbelief. Straightening up, he dismissed the woman with a curt nod of his head, but the damage was done.
Turning to look at his father, he saw that D'Artagnan had closed his eyes with a grim expression. Athos, standing beside him, gave a slight shake of his head, his expression very stern. Near the banquet doors, Aramis had placed a hand over his eyes, as if unable to watch the aftermath of his blunder. Porthos was simply staring with his mouth hanging open. Lieutenant Andre was glancing quickly about, as if concerned that they were about to be exposed. Philippe realized with a jolt that he had committed a serious gaffe, one which had done more than raise eyebrows; it had brought the entire room to a stand-still!
That uneasy feeling that Gerard had experienced earlier came crashing down on him again. He had never known Louis to do such a thing! His eyes sought out Claude, and found his colleague was looking at him. As their eyes met, Claude shrugged, indicating that he had never witnessed anything like this before, either.
"The Queen Mother!"
The abrupt announcement heralded the presence of the king's mother, and all heads turned toward the door once again, where Anne stood regally in her beautiful gown and sapphires, her eyes fixed on her son. Her timing could not have been more perfect. So rare were her public appearances that Philippe's mistake was apparently forgotten as the crowd parted once again, providing her with a clear path to the throne platform.
Grateful for the reprieve, Philippe moved to the edge of the dais to formally greet his mother. With grace and elegance, she made her way through the parted crowd, and when she reached the platform, she gazed lovingly up at him for several moments, then extended her hand toward him. He grasped her hand and pressed his lips against it.
On the dance floor, the guests were watching, smiling as the king expressed his affection for the woman who had given birth to him, but across the room Gerard, aware of the king's neglect of his mother, continued to observe with interest as the king escorted her onto the platform, and then they sat down together, still holding hands.
Claude suddenly broke the silence. "God bless the king and the queen mother!"
With resounding unison, the other guests joined in the chant: "God bless the king and the queen mother!"
The music and dancing resumed while Philippe and the queen mother watched. They continued to hold hands, each of them cherishing the closeness of the other.
"Are you enjoying the ball, my son?" she asked.
"Very much," he replied. "But even more now that you have joined me."
Turning her head, she gazed at him for a long time, pleased with his response. All around her, the music and the dancing filled the room, but she barely noticed them. For the moment, her attention was directed exclusively on her son, taking in every detail of his features. There were physical differences in his appearance and Louis', but they were differences that only a parent or very close friend would notice; a slight difference in the arch of the eyebrows, which gave Philippe a gentler expression, a tiny scar near the corner of his eye perhaps caused by the mask, a slight difference in the shape of the mouth. The biggest difference of all was in personality. Philippe had his own unique persona, a kind and gentle soul, which was being deliberately suppressed and was struggling desperately to get out. She could see that kindness reflected in his eyes, and she had no doubt that the people of France would grow to love him in ways that had eluded Louis.
A tear welled in her eye as her thoughts drifted to her other son, but she fought it back. She must not think of him right now. D'Artagnan had promised that he would soon be moved to a better place, and that she would be permitted to visit him. Holding on to that knowledge, she shifted her gaze to the father of her sons.
Seeing that he had her attention, he dipped his head in a formal bow of acknowledgment that carefully concealed his true feelings. Then, both of them directed their attention to the swirling dancers on the floor.
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The ball was finally over. The queen mother had retired an hour earlier to her chamber and the last of the guests had just departed. The musicians were putting away their instruments, and the servants were waiting to clean up the banquet hall and the ballroom as soon as the king departed from it. Philippe breathed a sigh of relief; he had passed the first test, albeit by the skin of his teeth.
The sigh had barely escaped his lips when D'Artagnan appeared at his side. "You did well, your majesty," he said, quietly.
"I am just glad it is over," he replied.
"Come, I will escort you to your room."
Philippe rose from the throne and stepped down off the platform. With his father at his side, he made his way through the long elaborate corridors toward his apartments. The guard opened the door, and they entered. Someone had lit the candles in the wall sconces and table holders, anticipating his return, and the room was well lit.
"You did well tonight, Philippe," he said when they were inside and the doors securely closed behind them. "I am very proud of you."
"I made a few mistakes," he acknowledged.
"Yes, you did, but you got yourself out of them. The only serious infraction involved that woman who fell. Your instinct was to immediately help her, as a gentleman would do, but you must try to remember that Louis would not react in such a way. Someone else would have helped her up, and if it appeared that no one was going to, you could have indicated that you wished someone to help her, and your directive would have been instantly obeyed. You are too impulsive. You must stop and consider how others are going to react to the things you do."
Philippe listened to his father's words, spoken in a kind way, and nodded his agreement. "I know. This goes with what Athos was saying about my mind being preoccupied and doing things without thinking. I will do better."
D'Artagnan smiled. "I know you will. It is difficult to separate your life as Philippe with your life as Louis, but it will become easier as time goes by. In the meantime, you must always think before you act."
Philippe smiled back at his father. "I will."
D'Artagnan drew his son into a heartfelt embrace and kissed his cheeks. "I am glad you are here, son. But now, I must leave you. The hour grows late."
"Where are your rooms?"
"My room is just down the corridor. If you need me, merely send for me and I will arrive at once."
"What time am I expected to rise?"
"Whenever you feel like it," D'Artagnan answered. "Louis keeps no schedule. If he has a late night, he sleeps later in the morning. If you sleep too long, I will come for you." He turned and started back toward the door.
"Father?"
He stopped and turned back, his eyebrows lifting in an unspoken question.
"I will see you in the morning?" It was spoken as a question instead of a statement.
D'Artagnan smiled again. "You will see me in the morning. Goodnight, your majesty."
"Good night."
Philippe watched as D'Artagnan went through the first set of double doors and closed them behind him. A moment later, he heard the second set of doors close, and found himself alone in his brother's bed chamber for the first time.
Still wide awake from the excitement of the ball, he wandered slowly around the room, examining the décor. As expected, every piece of furniture was of the highest quality available, and adorned with rich fabrics.
He turned toward the large bed, noticing as he did that someone had been in to turn down the covers for him. He was already accustomed to this, for at the village, Angelina or one of her sisters had always turned down the covers in the evening and then made the bed during breakfast the next morning. He had presumed that it would be the case here, as well. The bed drapery had been pulled on one side, shielding the king's sleeping area from anyone who might enter through the doors.
Moving to the other side, Philippe saw a clean white nightshirt was lying on the foot of the bed, so he undressed and put it on without waiting for Gael to assist him. It was far more elaborately made than any he had ever worn, but found it surprisingly comfortable. The costume was placed on a chair, then he went through the large room blowing out most of the lamps and candles. Just as he was preparing to climb into bed, he heard a tentative knock at the door from the king's dressing room, as if the person on the other side was fearful of disturbing him. He paused and turned toward it, uncertain if he had actually heard it. A moment later, there was another quiet knock.
"Who is it?" he called.
"It is Gael, your majesty," came the soft reply. "If you are ready, I will prepare you for bed."
"You may enter, but I have already dressed for bed."
The door opened, and Gael stepped into the room with an expression of panic on his youthful face. "Your majesty! I was to help you undress! I have failed in my duty!"
"No, Gael," Philippe assured him quickly, silently cursing his thoughtlessness. Both D'Artagnan and Athos had warned him about being impulsive, and Athos had specifically stated that he must allow the servants to do their jobs. It was he who had failed, not Gael. "You did not fail. I was tired, and decided not to wait for you."
That had been the wrong thing to say. "I was tardy!" Gael lamented. "Forgive me, your majesty. It will not happen again!"
"It is all right, Gael. I assure you, you were not tardy and you are not going to be reprimanded." He grimaced, thinking that his voice sounded almost like he was the one begging for forgiveness. Gesturing toward the chair where he had placed his clothing, he tried to adopt a more haughty approach. "My costume is there on the chair. You may have it cleaned tomorrow, but for now you may retire. I will summon you when I am ready to dress in the morning."
Gael bowed, gratefully. "Thank you, your majesty." Quickly, he gathered up the articles of clothing and draped them over his arm, then returned to the door. Pausing, he looked back at the king. "Good night, your majesty."
"Good night," Philippe replied.
After Gael had closed the door, the new king went to his bed, but did not immediately retire. Instead, he knelt down at his bedside and prayed for the health and well-being of his brother Louis. Then, he crossed himself and climbed wearily into bed. Leaning toward the bedside table, he blew out the lamp, but as he settled back on his pillow, his thoughts lingered on his brother, who had lost everything. He, Philippe, was now lying in the comfortable bed, reclining on a small mountain of feather pillows, while Louis was lying on a prison cot in a lonely corner of the Bastille.
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Louis sat huddled miserably on the hard, narrow bed in the corner of his cell. Unable to find a comfortable position in which to sleep in the mask, he sat with his back to the wall, his arms wrapped around his legs, and his forehead resting on his knees. No, that was not quite accurate. It was the forehead of the cursed mask which rested against his knees, almost painfully in its hardness. His body trembled slightly, not from cold, but from fear and rage and an unquenchable thirst for revenge against those who had done this to him.
How could this have happened? What had he done to deserve such harsh treatment? It was true that he, as king, had dealt out punishments to traitors and perpetrators, sometimes harshly, but it had been necessary to maintain control over those who would incite rebellion. It was simply the way of things, the way he had been taught. But the rebellion had come from an unexpected source within – incited by his most trusted servant, D'Artagnan, and his own twin brother. I should have had you killed, he thought angrily of his brother. Instead, I was merciful to let you live, and this is how you repay me!
An iron gate slammed somewhere down the corridor, jarring him out of his thoughts. Lifting his head, he heard approaching footsteps and then a few moments later the metal panel that covered the small window on the cell door opened, and a face pressed against the bars. The face was grotesque in the flickering light provided by the candle that was carried in his hand and held aloft so that he could see into the cell.
Recognizing him as his jailer, Louis did not attempt to communicate with him. He had tried that earlier, threatening and bribing the man to help free him, but it had quickly become apparent that the jailer could neither hear nor speak. Further attempts to speak to him would be useless.
A moment later, the face disappeared, and the window was closed with a resounding "clang". Darkness settled over the cell again, and he listened as the man's footsteps retreated down the corridor again. The iron gate screeched open on rusty hinges and was slammed again a moment later.
The deaf-mute had brought supper to him several hours earlier, consisting of beef and bread and a mug of stale water, but everything was still sitting on the small table he had been provided, barely touched. Eating had been difficult, necessitating small bites and forcing it through the opening, a sloppy way to eat in his opinion. Drinking from the mug had resulted in spilling it into the mask so that it ran down his chin and dribbled out the bottom.
Irritably, he rubbed his fist against his chin, as if to wipe away the wetness that had since dried, but his hand came in contact with the iron shell that surrounded his head. In frustration, he seized the neck piece in both hands and tugged at it, attempting to remove it, even though he knew such an effort was futile. Finally, exhausted, he released it and allowed his hands to drop to his sides as his chest heaved with hopelessness.
Never in his entire life had he felt so alone. In this dank, dark tower room, he was completely isolated from anyone else. It was a large room, one of the largest in the Bastille, and he knew that it was typically used to house groups of prisoners. Following D'Artagnan's orders, they had placed him here, where he would have plenty of room to move about, but that knowledge brought him no comfort. I should not be here at all! a voice screamed inside his head, mingling with the mournful cries made by other prisoners.
He could hear them constantly, echoing from other corridors, muffled by the distance as they wailed their misery and cursed their jailers. He could not hear the words, only the chilling, high-pitched voices. Some, he knew, were insane, driven mad by their confinement or perhaps it had been their madness that had resulted in their imprisonment. Either way, many of those very men he was housed with would take great pleasure in ending his life, a thought which caused his heart to beat faster. How many of these prisoners had he personally condemned to this wretched place?
There was no window on this level, only a slanting ventilation shaft to offer air and a small circle of moonlight on the straw-covered floor. His eyes settled disdainfully on the straw, thinking it more resembled a stable than a confinement suited to a king. They would pay for this, he vowed. They would pay dearly.
A sound caught his attention; the scurrying of tiny feet, and he turned his eyes toward it, searching in the darkness for the source. At first, he saw nothing, then a shadowy movement near the table caught his attention, and he knew instantly what it was. A rat had somehow gained entry and was drawn to the smell of food. With stealth and determination, it scaled the chair leg and sat up on its haunches, sniffing the air.
Launching himself from the bed, Louis rushed toward it, shouting and waving his arms in a threatening manner. He did not intend to eat the food, but it was his food, and his possessive nature refused to relinquish even a bite to the rodent.
The rat turned as if to confront him, then decided better of it and fled, scurrying into a jagged crevice in the stone wall. Its thin, hairless tail disappeared a moment before Louis would have snatched hold of it. He didn't know what he would have done with it had he been able to catch it, but he knew he probably would have gotten himself bitten by its sharp teeth. After kicking resentfully at the crevice, he returned to the cot and plopped wearily down on it.
Exhausted, he lay down to attempt sleep, but after several moments of trying to find a comfortable position, he sat up again, knowing that it would not be possible to achieve any rest. The iron mask was too confining and too hard, and the mattress of the cot was too thin and was apparently stuffed with straw, for it was dry and prickly.
Positioning his back against the cold stone wall again, he laid his head against his knees again, closed his eyes, and attempted to construct a suitable plot to enact his revenge on the traitors who had done this to him. The trouble was, he could think of nothing that would work. With a sinking heart, he knew he would be trapped inside the Bastille until Philippe gave the order for his removal.