Chapter Thirty Five
Louis was dreaming. Pleasant images of the king on a fiery steed drifted through his subconscious mind.
He was riding at the hunt, bringing down many game animals while crowds of his loyal subjects cheered in admiration as he controlled his prancing, snorting white stallion with an experienced hand. Christine stood among them, her face shining with pride while he demonstrated his dazzling skills at horsemanship and his prowess as a hunter. Roe deer, red deer, wild boars, and pheasants lay in a row on the grass, all victims of his exceptional proficiency. He basked in their ovation, making his horse rear in a grand performance of flair and competence.
But then the dream began to change. A figure appeared before the people; a man who looked identical to him. The people were confused, and began turning away from the king to follow this intruder. They were calling him their king. Louis shouted to them, "Do not follow him! I am your king!" But the people did not listen.
"You are an imposter!" they shouted.
"No! I am the king!"
They began throwing rotten food at him, soiling his fine clothing with foul smelling debris. "Fine food is served at your table while you feed us nothing but spoiled garbage!" they taunted.
A sinister, shadowy figure suddenly materialized before him. Spooked by the spectral image, his fine steed reared high in the air and deposited him on the ground. He watched in disbelief as it trotted willingly to the man the people were now hailing as king, submitting itself to his authority. Even his horse had betrayed him!
"You are a murderer!" the ghostly image accused.
Sitting there in the grass, Louis stared up at the deceased man, his eyes wide with horror. It was Pierre, holding his severed head in his hand.
Slowly, with the other hand, Pierre pointed a condemning finger at him, and the mouth on the severed head spoke, "You had me executed to take the blame for your reckless decisions. You are to blame for the discontent of the people. The people no longer follow you. You do not deserve to be king! We now follow your brother."
"No!" Louis screamed. "Do not follow him! I am the rightful king!"
The people were moving toward him now, holding a terrible iron mask which they intended to place upon his head. He began backing away, but they advanced quickly. Someone grabbed him from behind, and he whirled around to find his father, Louis XIII, glaring at him in disgust.
"You abused your authority. You sent your brother to live in the horror of the iron mask. You are no longer my son!"
"Father, help me!"
But the old king did not help him. He held him firmly in position while the people placed the mask on his head, and latched it closed.
"No!"
Louis jerked awake as the remnants of his agonized shout echoed chillingly along the long, shadowy corridors. He was not safely in his own bed at the palace as he had hoped, but living a portion of the nightmare from which he had just awakened. Frantically, he grasped the iron mask and wrenched his body back and forth, attempting to pull it from his head. He knew it was a useless endeavor, but panic controlled his actions. Desperately, his fingers tugged at the lock on the back of it, then slid down to the opening for his neck, fumbling for some weakness in the construction.
Finding none, he sank back down on his elbows, gasping for air as he attempted to orient himself with his surroundings. His body was drenched with sweat and trembling violently. Through the eye slits in the heavy mask that seemed to weight down his head, he saw the stone walls of his cell. Now that his frenzied struggles had ceased, it became quiet inside the stone chamber except for the dripping of water somewhere nearby. Someone on a floor above him must have knocked over a water bucket, and it was seeping down through imperfections in the floor.
Swinging his legs over the edge of the cot, he leaned over and rested his head in his hands, feeling the cold iron against his sweating palms. His heart was pounding wildly in his chest in the aftermath of the dream and his desperate attempt to free himself from the confines of the mask. The nightmares were coming more and more frequently now, but none were as devastating as the one he was living; the one from which he could not escape with wakefulness.
The panel that covered a small window in the solid door slid open, and he raised his head to look toward it, recognizing the pair of gray eyes that peered in at him. It was the deaf-mute who had been assigned the task of guarding him. He did not even know the man's name, for he could neither speak nor write, and no one else was allowed in this section of the prison block. Their eyes met briefly, then the deaf-mute pushed a tin plate through the opening.
Louis got up and stumbled toward the door to take it. He hated the tasteless dry bread and the tough cuts of meat, but his stomach rumbled with anticipation of the food. When he took the plate, the guard made a guttural sound. Louis had learned that the sound meant "water", so he fetched his mug from the table and held it against the window. Through the opening, the mute poured water into it from a pitcher, spilling much of it down the inside of the door. Then the pitcher was withdrawn and the window panel was closed and latched once again.
Louis placed the mug and the plate on the small wooden table, and took several bites of it while still standing. D'Artagnan had indicated that he should be well fed, but apparently the guards had a different definition of that term than had been intended. He did not know what the other prisoners were fed, but he could not imagine that it could be any worse than the fatty cuts of meat that were always either over cooked or undercooked and the dry stale bread that were his sustenance. The only thing that was good was the water. It was always cold from the well and sparkling clean, something he knew was not provided to anyone except him. He took a long drink, allowing the cold water to sooth his throat.
He sat down at the table, and stared at the food in revulsion. His head was throbbing. The weight of the mask bearing down on his neck and the incessant hunger that was never satisfied had generated frequent headaches, as it had done every day since he had been in this horrible place, and for which there was no relief.
How long had he been in this wretched place? A small block of sunlight managed to penetrate the narrow ventilation shaft, indicating that it was daylight, but with nothing with which to occupy his hours, one day blended into the next, and he was unable to keep track of time. Had it been dark when he had fallen asleep, or had he just awakened from a daytime nap? He could not remember. The traitors who had placed him here had promised that his stay in the Bastille would be short; that he would soon be removed to a house where he might live more comfortably. They had clearly lied to him.
His hand clenched into a fist and heaved a deep shuddering sigh. His physical strength was beginning to fail, and he did not believe he could go on much longer.
xxxxxxxxxxxxx
With his head bowed and eyes fixed upon the pattern of the floor tiles and his hands clasped behind his back, Philippe paced back and forth in front of the massive doors in the huge, echoing entry hall. His footsteps seemed loud on the tiled floors as he walked, and he was very much aware of the uneasy glances that were cast his direction by the servants as they scrubbed the windows, dusted the picture frames, and polished the bric-a-brac.
He paused occasionally to observe them, noticing how nervous they were to be working in his presence, even though he had ordered them to continue with what they were doing. He knew that Louis had most likely sent them scurrying whenever he was in a room in which they were working, hence the anxious looks, but he had no time to think about his gaffe. His parents were due any moment.
He was totally unaware of the fact that it was his eagerness to see his mother that was as big of a surprise to the servants as his willingness to let them continue working in his presence. They could only wonder at the changes in the king, but none were disposed to question them. It was touching to see his apparently new-found adoration for the queen mother, and he was certainly more pleasant to work for. When a young maiden dropped a dust pan on the floor, the king had whirled to face her in alarm, but the expected tirade never came. He had simply gestured for her to continue, and resumed his pacing.
Claude abruptly stepped into the entry hall. "The coach is here, your majesty."
Philippe's head came up, and he hurried through the door which the advisor held open for him. Pausing on the top step, he looked toward the gate as the coach, pulled by four sleek bay horses, made its way up the lane toward the palace. D'Artagnan, Athos, and Porthos rode behind the coach.
The young king trotted down the steps, careful to maintain an air of dignity, and waited at the bottom until the coach drew to a stop. A footman stepped forward to open the coach door for her.
With one arm hooked regally behind his back, Philippe offered the other hand to his mother. With a radiant smile, she slipped her dainty hand delicately into his and stepped from the coach.
She paused to look up at the huge, majestic palace. "It is good to be home."
"Did you have a nice trip, Mother?" Philippe asked, eagerly as he placed her hand on his arm to escort her into the structure. "You look wonderful! I trust you had a nice time and that you were well taken care of."
"I had a wonderful time, and yes I was well cared for. I am so pleased that you convinced me to take this journey. I know you will be relieved to hear that I intend to take more of them."
"That is wonderful news," he replied as they started up the steps. "You must tell me all about it."
"I am very tired right now and wish to rest, but I would like to dine with you in private this evening. I will tell you all about it then."
"I will order our meals brought to my room."
Behind them, the coach moved away and D'Artagnan, Athos, and Porthos's horses were lead away by attendants, and the three men followed them up the steps. Aramis was not present.
After escorting his mother to her chambers, Philippe went to his office where he knew his father and friends would be waiting. When he entered, he found Porthos sitting in one of the comfortable chairs sampling a bowl of fruit. Athos stood quietly at the window. D'Artagnan moved toward him with a smile.
"Welcome back, Father," Philippe said as they embraced. "I trust you enjoyed your holiday."
"Very much. I wish you could have shared it with us."
"Where is Aramis?" Porthos asked, his voice muffled from the food in his mouth. "I thought he would accompany us on the escort back to the palace."
"He has been very busy with the king's business," Philippe replied. "But I will tell you all about that later."
"Very well," D'Artagnan said. "Now, I have urgent news that I must share with you. You should be expecting a visit soon from Regnault LaCroix."
"LaCroix?" Philippe asked, curiously. "Why would he be coming here?"
"Because of –"
A knock at the door interrupted D'Artagnan's explanation, and Philippe called, "Enter."
A guard opened the door, and announced, "Pardon the interruption, your majesty, but Monsieur LaCroix wishes an immediate word with you. He says it is urgent."
Philippe glanced apprehensively at Athos and D'Artagnan. Even though LaCroix was expected to attend any future balls that the king might host, he had never expected to see LaCroix in any other capacity. D'Artagnan clearly had been expecting just such a visit, but of course he said nothing in front of the guard. "Show him in," Philippe instructed.
The guard bowed and stepped outside the door.
"I had hoped I would have time to better explain before he arrived," D'Artagnan said quietly, but there was no time to do so now, for a moment later, LaCrois entered the room with an expression that was a curious blend of suppressed rage and anxiety, an indication that something serious had occurred.
"Sire," he began as he removed his plumed hat and bowed deeply before the king.
"LaCroix," Philippe said. "I was not expecting you. Has something happened?"
"Indeed it has, sire. Indeed it has." He rose up again, and fumbled with his hat in apparent distress, as if uncertain how to proceed. His eyes darted to Athos, whose face remained expressionless, then to D'Artagnan, who looked equally impassive, then his eyes narrowed briefly as he observed Porthos. Clearly, he was not happy to discuss this matter in front of the neighbor for whom he had little respect.
"Your expression reveals that this matter is quite serious," Philippe prompted.
"I fear it is, your majesty," he said, returning his attention to his monarch. "It is with great regret that inform you that . . . well, sire, there is no easy way to say this. Your valet, Francois." He paused, nervously, shifting from one foot to the other, and his eyes darted around the room again, meeting each man in turn. He would have preferred a private audience with the king, but it seemed that his council had no intention of leaving. Indeed, they were listening with rapt attention to the sordid tale of his humiliation. "Well, sire, it seems he ran off with my oldest daughter, Isabelle."
Philippe's eyes widened, and Athos's eyebrows lifted with amusement as he cast a quick glance at D'Artagnan, who gave a barely perceptible nod of verification.
Porthos, still enjoying the game, looked up from the bowl of fruit with great amusement. "So, that is what your riders would not tell me," he said. "Your daughter and the king's valet! I never would have suspected!"
LaCroix's face reddened. "They informed me that you denied permission to search your property."
"You are the one who laid down the rules, Monsieur, when you declined to return my cattle that strayed onto your land. And your men refused to tell me what it was they were searching for. Their lame explanations were insufficient to satisfy my concerns that they were undertaking a righteous search. However, I did inform them that I had just returned from riding my property, and encountered nothing of which you need concern yourself."
LaCroix looked at Porthos for a long moment, noticing the distinct changes in him since the last time he had encountered the former Musketeer. He well remembered the incident when the former Musketeer had ridden to his manor house in a drunken stupor, demanding the return of his cattle. He had been swaying in the saddle so badly that he feared the man would topple to the ground. The bright-eyed, sober man who sat before him was greatly changed from the one he had encountered that day.
"Is this true?" Philippe asked, curiously. "Did you steal the baron's cattle?"
LaCroix's face darkened even more at the accusation of theft, and he shrugged. "Steal is a harsh word, your majesty. It was but a simple misunderstanding."
"There was no misunderstanding on my part," Porthos said. "My cattle escaped their confinement and wandered onto your land, and you refused to return them. You may call it what you will, but the cattle belonged to me and you kept them for yourself." His point made, he waved the subject away. "But that is in the past. I will forgive you. Especially since your troubles appear to be greater than mine. Had your men been honest with me today, I might have considered your request for the search. As it was, I had no way of knowing what it was they wanted to do on my property."
"You should have trusted that I would not send men to your land without just cause!"
"Trust? You speak of trust when you steal my cattle?"
During this rather heated exchange between the two neighbors, Philippe used the opportunity to glance at D'Artagnan, wishing desperately that he had had time to confer with him before being confronted with this difficulty. "Gentlemen, please. May we return to the matter at hand?"
Both men ceased their argument, and returned their attention to the king. "My apologies, Sire," LaCroix said quickly.
"Please explain this to me," Philippe requested. "My messengers have reported that Francois could barely walk; that there might be some kind of permanent damage to the leg."
"Clearly a falsehood, your majesty. A deliberate lie for the purpose of perpetrating the seduction of my innocent daughter! Apparently he was stalling until he had sufficiently recovered enough to convince her to slip away in the night with him! I am most embarrassed and aggrieved by this, your majesty. My noble daughter, running off in the night with a servant! Oh! The shame of it! How will I ever live down this scandal? My poor wife has not stopped weeping all morning at this disgrace. I sent out several groups of riders in an attempt to find them and bring my daughter back, but I fear it is a futile attempt. We have no clue as to the direction taken by them."
Philippe nodded his agreement, trying to cover the fact that he was reluctant to comment. He knew he must act decisively, but this was a new situation for him to consider and he had no idea how to handle it. "Yes, it will likely be difficult to capture them, and they are almost certainly married by now."
A painful sound emerged from LaCroix's throat, as if the thought of having a servant for a son-in-law was too much to bear. "If he dares show his face on my property again after sullying my daughter's reputation, I will shoot him on sight, the scoundrel!"
"You would execute the king's valet?" Philippe asked quietly, surprised by the brazen words the other man had just spoken. Even inexperienced as he was, he knew that this would be a serious offense, for only the king himself could issue such an order. He caught an approving glance from Athos, and knew that he had reacted appropriately.
LaCroix's face paled considerably, realizing that his hasty words had overstepped his bounds. His lips twitched nervously for a moment before he recovered his voice. "Please forgive me, your majesty. I am terribly upset by this. My daughter is gone, taken away in the middle of the night by a guest in my home!" Restlessly, he paced to the window, but had no interest of the activity on the lawn. "Oh, I suppose I should have seen this coming. I saw the way Isabelle looked at him on more than one occasion, looks that were highly inappropriate from someone of her rank. But I never imagined that they would sneak away like that! They even stole the money that was part of her dowry, a sizable sum, I might add. I had no idea that she was even aware of its location. My daughter is young and innocent. She cannot possibly understand the seriousness of what she has done."
"Sounds to me like your daughter knows a great deal more than you give her credit for," Porthos spoke up again, his words needling the greatly distressed man.
"Nevertheless, it is done," Philippe said patiently. "You have my deepest sympathy in this matter and I regret that my valet, whom I have trusted for some time now, has caused your family such grief."
"Her fiancé is going to be most aggrieved at this," he lamented, mournfully. "We had almost completed the negotiations between our families. How will I ever explain this to them?"
Philippe leaned back in his chair and stroked his chin, stalling for time as he contemplated how a king might react to something like this. Louis, he knew, would be far more understanding of LaCroix's situation than he was, but he was unable to feel any outrage for someone to marry out of his or her class. However, he must appear sympathetic, at the very least. "I see your problem," he agreed. "Tell me; was she not in favor of this marriage that you were arranging? Is she rebelling against your selection of a husband?"
"She claimed she did not like the man, but what difference does that make? Love is a foolish enterprise! A union between them would have allied us with one of the wealthiest families in France."
"That must be a terrible disappointment to you. What is it that you would expect should they be found?"
LaCroix looked astonished that the king would even ask such a question. "Why, I expect what any man in my position would expect. I would have this marriage annulled immediately, and ask you to punish this young man severely for tarnishing my daughter's reputation!"
Philippe hesitated. LaCroix clearly expected retribution for the behavior of the king's valet. Should he offer compensation? Should he apologize? No, neither sounded like something that Louis would do. He hoped he did not look as uncertain as he suddenly felt.
D'Artagnan had been watching and listening carefully and realized that his son, still inexperienced in the art of governing a country and dealing with individual circumstances such as this, was beginning to stumble. Stepping forward, he decided it was time to offer his guidance. "Sire, may I speak?"
"Of course," Philippe said, gratitude washing through him at his father's offer.
"If I may respectfully point out, the damage in this situation may be irreparable," the captain said, calmly. "We can, of course, send out riders to assist your search. I believe Francois has family in Guienne, and it is possible that he may have taken your daughter there. But even if you had the marriage annulled, her fiancé is likely to consider her unmarriageable now. I fear there is nothing that can be done about that."
LaCroix groaned, looking very grieved. "Oh, dear. This is the most scandalous thing to happen in my family's history."
"Perhaps it is better to simply do nothing."
"Nothing!" LaCroix snapped, angrily. "It is my daughter of whom we are speaking, sir! Not to mention the reputation of one of France's most noble families! You have no experience in dealing with matters such as this."
"This is true," D'Artagnan admitted without any apparent resentment. "However, I was under the impression that you wish to suffer as little disgrace to your family as possible. Bringing this into the open will only publicize the scandal, and may have long term ramifications for your other daughters. The other noble families of France may look unfavorably upon this incident."
LaCroix shifted uncomfortably and briefly lowered his gaze, considering the Musketeer's words. Sadly, it was true. Scandals typically had long lives, and Isabelle's actions may have made it impossible for her younger sisters to find suitable husbands among the noble families.
"He's right," Athos agreed, his quiet, serious voice drawing the attention of everyone in the room. He had been listening quietly to the conversation, and knew from D'Artagnan's demeanor and his choice of words that for some reason, he did not want LaCrois going after the young couple. "You know who I am, Monsieur LaCroix," he added, looking directly at the nobleman.
"Comte de la Fère," LaCroix said with a trace of respect in his voice. "What would you suggest?"
"I would suggest quietly breaking the engagement to her former fiancé without offering details of the truth. Tell them she has taken ill and has gone to another location to improve her health, and since you cannot guarantee her return, you will release the young man from his obligation. It might also be a good idea to offer some modest form of restitution."
"Yes, yes, I may do that," LaCroix agreed. "That is a good suggestion. She has taken leave of her senses, which could be construed as an illness. But I would still like to flail the hide from that boy's back for what he has done to my family!"
"A useless endeavor, Monsieur," D'Artagnan said, patiently. "It will cost you much in the way of hiring men to go after her, and their search is likely to turn up nothing. As you pointed out, they could have taken any direction."
Athos was clearly thinking of his own lost child, for he stepped forward in an attempt to appeal to the other man's affection for his child. "Monsieur LaCroix, I urge you to think on this matter before you act in haste. I know you are severely disillusioned with your daughter right now, but I also know that you love her. There is nothing more precious to a man than his children. They are a source of endless joy and many challenges, but I do believe that their happiness must count for something."
"Are you saying that I should forgive this terrible mistake she has made?" he asked, incredulously. "She has ruined her life! She has disgraced her family, and brought grief to her mother!"
"All these things are true," Athos agreed. "But your child is still alive. Be grateful for that. Having lost my own son, I am pleased to say that I have no regrets with his life. Perhaps I indulged him more often than I should have, but his joy was precious to me. Hold that joy in your heart, and perhaps one day things can be made right between you again. Harsh words and actions can never be taken back."
LaCroix looked embarrassed. "I heard about the loss of your son. They say he died honorably in the service."
Athos dipped his head slightly in an affirmative nod.
"I do not understand why you chose to give up your title and land, but I respect the noble that you once were. I will consider your words before I decide what course of action to take in resolving this matter." He turned back to the king. "Sire, I will take your leave, now."
Philippe gave a dismissive nod, and LaCroix made his exit, pulling the door closed behind him.
As soon as he had gone, Athos turned to D'Artagnan. "How long have you known about this?" he asked.
"Not long, actually. Only a few hours. I came across the young couple this morning when Anne and I took a ride around Porthos's property. They had been walking all morning, and were hiding in a copse of trees trying to rest. Francois's leg was about to give out on him, so Porthos gave them horses and supplies."
Athos stared at him for several long moments, surprised by what his friends had done, then suddenly burst out laughing; the first time anyone had heard him laugh since the news of Raoul's death. "I would love to have seen LaCroix's face when he realized his daughter had run off with the king's valet!"
D'Artagnan's laughter joined that of his friend. "That is exactly what Porthos said."
Porthos looked up from his basket of fruit. "I did indeed."
"I had hoped to discuss this matter at length before he arrived so that we might organize a plan, but I did not expect him quite so soon." He placed an affectionate hand on his son's shoulder. "However, in spite of going into this blind you did quite well, Philippe."
"I made a few mistakes," Philippe admitted. "Like when I asked him what he would expect if they were caught. I was trying to stall for time, but when I saw his surprised expression I knew that Louis would never have asked such a thing."
"Even so, you handled yourself very well, Philippe," Athos praised.
"I do not blame the girl for seeking a more fulfilling life than the one she would have with that noble her father selected for her," Porthos said. "Better that she live in poverty with the man she loves than in misery with a man she despises."
"Did he really steal your cattle?" Philippe asked.
"He did. Of course, he called it something else. Confiscation was the word he used, I believe. Amounts to the same thing, though. I tried to be a good neighbor, but he never did like me."
"I do not think LaCroix likes many people, so I would not take it personal," D'Artagnan smiled. "But now, I am going to retire to my room for a while. Gentlemen, if you will excuse me?"
Leaving the office, D'Artagnan made his way down the long corridors toward his bedchamber. Strictly out of habit, he found himself standing at the doorway to his old chamber, silently observing how different it looked without the bed and his personal items. A long work table stood in the alcove where his bed had once been. His desk still stood in its place, but Philippe had redecorated the room with military accoutrements and storage cabinets in which to file his paperwork. After one last lingering gaze at the window from which he had watched Anne as she made her way to and from the chapel, he retraced his steps back up the corridor to his new room, and stepped inside it.
It was barely recognizable as the room he had been shown by Philippe weeks earlier. A bed, much larger than his old one, stood in the far corner with its bed curtains open. A wardrobe stood near it, and a small square wooden table stood against the near wall with three chairs under it. It was easy to guess that Philippe was intending that the three of them should dine together on occasion. A nice sitting area was positioned near the window, with comfortable chairs and a small table with a reading lamp. There were now books on the shelves of the bookcase. Framed paintings were hung on the walls, all of them scenery and horses. It was more personal space than he had ever known in his life, and certainly the richest in appearance. So rich, in fact, that he felt out of place.
Turning, he pushed the door closed behind him. A slide bolt had been installed for security, and he tested it by pushing into the lock position. It seemed that Philippe had thought of everything to insure total privacy. As he turned back into the room, he saw the bookcase door open, and Anne stepped into the room.
"Welcome home, my husband," she said.
Any misgivings he might have had about the richly decorated chamber melted away when he saw her, for his union with her was the room's purpose. Nothing else mattered. Moving to her, he drew her into his arms for a long, leisurely kiss.
When they separated, he gazed adoringly into her eyes. "I cannot believe that we can be together like this inside the palace walls with no fear of discovery."
"It is what I have always dreamed."
He gestured to the room. "See what Philippe has done with the chamber? I would say he has outdone himself."
"It is better than I had even imagined," she said approvingly.
"Then you are pleased?" asked a young man's voice.
They whirled, startled, and found Philippe standing at the bookcase door.
He was smiling. "From now on I will knock before entering, but the door was open and I heard you talking, so I knew it was probably safe to enter. Are you pleased with the room?"
"Very pleased," D'Artagnan replied. "This is the most wonderful gift I have ever been given."
"It is the least I could do for you after all you have given me. However, I have one more that is even better, a wedding gift for both of you." He paused dramatically, then said, "The renovations on the house are complete."
The expression that crossed the faces of his parents was worth any expense incurred in the renovations. Anne drew her breath in sharply and clutched at D'Artagnan's arm. "It is finished?" she asked, as if uncertain that she had heard correctly.
Philippe nodded, smiling with the pleasure of someone who has given an extraordinary gift that has been received with much joy. "It is finished, Mother. It is ready for him to move in immediately."
"But how?" D'Artagnan asked. "I was under the impression that it would take weeks of additional work to complete."
"I told Aramis to offer generous bonuses to the workers if they could have the house ready for Louis this week. They have been working in shifts, day and night, to complete the work, and Aramis has been staying in one of the bedrooms there to oversee everything. He just came by shortly before you arrived. I wanted to tell you both together."
Anne clutched her husband's arm with one hand, her other hand pressed over her bosom as tears of joy sprang to her eyes. "Oh, Philippe! You have made me very happy!" she exclaimed. She moved into her son's arms for a heartfelt embrace. "Every day that he has been confined in the mask has been a shadow in the back of my mind." She drew back and lovingly caressed his smooth cheeks with her soft hands. "I love you so much, my son."
"Knowing that my other son will soon be out of the Bastille is the most wonderful gift I could have imagined," D'Artagnan agreed, stepping into the embrace with his wife and younger son. "You have made me very happy. Both of us."
"I only wish I had thought of it sooner," Philippe said as they broke their embrace. "No one who has not experienced the mask can begin to understand how it feels to be locked inside it. It was simply taking too long, and I decided that the only way to speed things up was to have them work in shifts."
"How did Aramis respond to that?" D'Artagnan asked, curiously.
"He was not pleased, at first," Philippe admitted. "You know how Aramis likes to be the one in charge, but after a few days he had to admit that it was a good idea. The question now is how shall we handle the transfer?"
"I would like to be a part of it myself, but I am perhaps too close to the prisoner to create the illusion of indifference. Aramis will want to see the exchange of power through to the end, so he will wish to be a part of it. And Porthos should go along to help keep Louis in line. I will prepare a release order for you to sign. Aramis will present it to the guard at the Bastille."
"When can it be done?" Anne asked, eagerly.
"I see no reason why it should not be done tonight. I would suggest it be done after midnight, though. The fewer eyes who witness the transfer, the better."
"Tonight," Anne whispered with great relief. "Tonight, my son will be delivered from his suffering."
"Is Porthos still in the palace?" he inquired.
"Yes. I left him and Athos in the office."
"Tell him what his mission will be tonight while I prepare the written orders for the Bastille guard. And send for Aramis. He will need to have the staff in place."
"The staff is there," Philippe told him. "Aramis told them that we would be wanting to move Louis as soon as possible, and that tonight would be a probability. We also sent over a new wardrobe to replace the rags he was wearing in the Bastille."
"Excellent."
"I will go speak to Porthos right now, and then I will summon Aramis."
Philippe returned to the secret corridor and made his way back to the office, while D'Artagnan took his wife in his arms. "Tonight, my love. Tonight our son will be removed from that terrible place."