Chapter Thirty Seven

D'Artagnan paced restlessly in the king's chamber, his path taking him back and forth past the chair where his wife sat near the window. The sun was up, and both had passed a nearly sleepless night of worrying and wondering how the transfer of their son from the prison to his new home had progressed.

Anne watched silently as he passed her again, his hands clasped behind his back and a worried frown creasing his brow. Inside, the queen mother was as nervous and restless as her husband, but her genteel demeanor presented the illusion of calm. Instead, she fidgeted ever so slightly, alternately gazing outside at the rising sun and observing her husband's agitation. Philippe stood near her, frequently dropping his hand to her shoulder for an affectionate and reassuring squeeze.

Aramis had been instructed to come directly to the king's chamber at his earliest convenience with a verbal report on Louis' removal from the Bastille and getting him settled into his new quarters, but the clock continued to tick away the minutes, leaving all three of them to imagine all sorts of problems that could have occurred, problems that the priest would have attempted to resolve before going to the palace.

"Is he late?" Philippe finally asked, breaking the silence in the room.

D'Artagnan glanced at the clock once again, a gesture that had been repeated many times that morning. "I suppose that depends on where he is coming from. It is possible that he decided to stay at the house overnight and return to Paris this morning, in which case it will take him some time to get here. Or he may have returned to the Cathedral, in which case he should have been here by now. With Aramis, it is impossible to say."

"Could something have gone wrong?" Anne asked, speaking the words that neither of the men had wanted to say. "Could Louis have tried to escape? Maybe he's ---" She stopped abruptly, unable to say the words. "What if something happened?"

D'Artagnan paused in his pacing to look at her, his blue eyes filled with worry as he tried to reassure her. "I am certain that Aramis would have come to me at once, so we must not let ourselves think these thoughts. It is likely that everything went as planned, and that he was simply delayed for reasons that probably have nothing to do with the transfer." He resumed his pacing, listening to the silence that settled over the room again.

When the knock at the door came, it startled all three of them, even though it had been expected. D'Artagnan slipped quietly away from the door where he would not be seen by the guard when it opened. It would not seem so unusual for the king's mother to join him in his chamber on occasion, but it might raise eyebrows for the Musketeer captain to be involved in a family setting.

When he was safely concealed, Philippe called, "Enter!"

The door opened and the guard announced from the doorway, "The priest, Father Aramis wishes an audience with your majesty."

"My mother and I are expecting him," Philippe responded. "Send him in."

Aramis stepped through the opening, and the guard pulled it closed behind him. D'Artagnan stepped back into the open while Anne rose eagerly from her chair, all of them anxious for news of Louis. Without waiting for pleasantries, Aramis said, "It is done."

"Did everything go as planned?" D'Artagnan asked. "We were starting to worry."

"I apologize for the delay, but my coach broke an axle this morning," the priest explained. "The transfer could not have gone better. He was on his best behavior, and although a little resentful, he was grateful to get out of the Bastille and into a more pleasant environment. He gave us no trouble at all during the journey to the house."

Tears of relief welled in Anne's eyes, and she pressed her hands against her lips to stop them from trembling. "Bless you, Aramis!"

"How did he look?" D'Artagnan asked. "Is he well?"

"As well as can be expected coming out of such a place. I regret to say that he is a bit thin. When I asked about it, he said it was difficult to eat in the mask and that the food he was given was beneath his standard."

Anger flamed in D'Artagnan's eyes. "I ordered that he be well fed. Did they not follow orders?"

"The food was most likely better than what the other prisoners were receiving, but even so the standard would fall well below what he was accustomed to receiving here at the palace," Aramis explained. "He is accustomed to the very best. Anything less than that would be inferior in his eyes."

"I should imagine he had trouble sleeping, also," Philippe added, knowingly.

Aramis nodded in agreement. "Yes, it would seem so. He looked quite haggard, in fact."

Anne appeared quite distressed by news of her son's discomfort, and D'Artagnan placed a comforting arm around her shoulders as he said, regretfully, "I wish there had been someplace else to put him."

"Unfortunately, there was no such place," Aramis reminded him. "Try not to think of his bad times, and think only of the good. He is in a much better place, and will have only good food and drink from now on. He will put the weight back on quickly. Marie drew him a bath and turned down his bed for him, so I imagine after he got cleaned up that he had a good night's sleep. She will have a nice breakfast prepared for him this morning, and she and her husband will do everything they can do accommodate him and keep him comfortable."

"Thank you, my friend," D'Artagnan said, gratefully. "Your help in this matter has been invaluable."

The priest turned to the queen mother. "My lady, I let him know that you would be visiting him each week. I know you must be eager to see him, but I would urge you to give him a few days to settle into his new environment before making the journey. This is quite an adjustment." He did not state the true reason for the requested delay was because he hoped Louis would look a bit better by that time. The young man's pallor and the dark circles beneath his eyes would be distressing to the mother.

Although disappointed, Anne seemed to accept the explanation, however, and remained unaware of the priest's true motive. "I had hoped to visit him today, but I suppose it will not hurt to wait until another day, if you think it would be beneficial to him."

"I believe so, my lady. Two days might even be better."

"I wish I could see him too," D'Artagnan said, wistfully, "but I know he would not admit me into his chambers. Anne, you must tell me all about it when you see him."

"I will," she promised. "Father Aramis, I will never forget everything you have done to help make right the terrible injustice that was done to me and to Philippe. And we owe you another debt of gratitude for all you have done to get Louis into a better place."

The priest bent slightly at the waist. "You owe me nothing, my lady. Anything I have done could never eradicate the sins of my participation in separating Philippe from his mother, and the horrors of the mask. I can only hope that setting things right again is enough to offer me redemption in this life and salvation in the Hereafter."

"I will pray that it will be so," she said.

"And now, I must take my leave. The transfer of power is now complete, and I have one last journey to make."

"A journey?" Philippe asked, curiously.

"Yes. I promised your father that once the transfer was made and you and your brother were both settled, I would pay a visit to Yvette." Glancing at Anne, knowing that she had no idea who Yvette was, he explained, "She is the woman who so kindly took Philippe into her home and raised him. D'Artagnan believes we should let her know that he is safe and well."

"She was very distraught when they took me away," Philippe added. "I think she will be happy to know that I am safe."

"Please thank her for me," Anne said. "See if there is anything she needs, anything at all. I wish her to be well cared for."

"I will say as much as I am able," Aramis said. "I will tell her that the boy was taken from his mother against your will as an infant, and that you have been reunited. And I will pass along your appreciation for the care she provided to him. I do not know if she will accept assistance, but I will make the offer."

"Thank you."

"And when I return, I will continue to help the king as part of his private council, plus I have other duties to attend. I have been long remiss of my responsibilities at the Cathedral. Until then." With another slight bow to his king and to the queen mother, he made his exit.

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Louis was awakened by the alarming sensation of a presence in the room with him, and opening his bleary eyes, he was startled to find the face of a man standing at his bedside looking down at him. Blinking rapidly in an attempt to clear the sleep-induced fog from his mind, he shot straight up in bed as his eyes focused on the man who had been brazen enough to enter the king's private rooms uninvited.

"What do you think you are doing in my chamber?" he demanded.

The man made an incoherent guttural sound, reminding the deposed king that the man's tongue had been removed. Everything came back to him in a dizzying rush. Glancing quickly around the room, he remembered the horrors of the Bastille, the midnight journey to the house, and the two people who would be attending to his needs. A frown creased his brow. He should know the name of the man who had awakened him, but it did not immediately come to mind.

"You slept so long, we thought maybe you had passed away during the night," said a feminine voice from the doorway. "I asked Herve to check on you to be sure you were still breathing."

Louis' eyes darted to the doorway and found Herve's wife standing there, watching with an expression of cold aloofness. She had demonstrated common courtesy by not coming near his bed, but she had come uninvited into his room and she was equally as brazen as her husband to stare at the king while he was sleeping. "Get out of my bedchamber, woman!" he commanded, arranging the sheet so that he was suitably covered. Turning a hostile eye to Herve, he added, "Both of you!"

"We were just checking on you. Neither of us has ever seen anyone abed at this hour that wasn't sick. It's nigh on eight thirty. We have already completed the chores in here and emptied out your bath. Now, it is time to get that beard shaved off your face so I can get to my duties downstairs."

Louis stared at her incredulously. They had awakened him from a sound sleep to shave his beard? "Can that not wait?" he asked, impatiently. "I am not ready to get up yet."

"I have a household to run," Marie replied in a clipped voice. "The beard does not have to be shaved, of course. If you prefer to remain in bed, we can wait until tomorrow, or you can let it grow until you trip on it. It is of no concern to me."

"Of course, I want it shaved off and I want it done today, but I fail to see the need to do it right this minute."

"Father Aramis said that we should see to your needs, but I haven't the time to cater to laziness. Sun's been up for hours. Time you be getting up as well."

"I am not lazy!" he retorted, angrily. "I was up late last night!"

"As were we."

"But you are servants! You are accustomed to getting up early."

Marie was clearly offended by his insensitive reference to the differences in their social status. "Suit yourself. We will see you tomorrow, then." She turned to leave, but then stopped and spoke over her shoulder, "As for being servants, at least Herve and I are not prisoners!"

His face flushed deep red with anger, but she turned and made her exit before he could think of a response. Her husband followed.

Alone again, Louis laid his head back down on the soft pillow, hoping to catch another hour or so of sleep, but he quickly discovered that the argument and the insult had awakened him to the degree that he would be unable to relax enough to go back to sleep. His hand was resting against his cheek, making him aware of the ever-lengthening beard on his face. It was thin and scraggly, and he knew he did not want to wear it another day.

Throwing back the covers, he snatched up the robe he had tossed over a chair he night before and wrapped himself in it as he ran after them, catching up to them in the sitting room. "Wait!

Marie turned around. "Changed your mind, did you?"

"I do not want to wait until tomorrow, so let's get this done," he said, securely tying the sash around his waist. "Where do you want me?"

"Over there by the window, where it is light."

Louis felt a twinge of annoyance at her self-satisfied smile. Never in his life had he been around such impudent servants. At the palace, the smug woman and her husband would have been dismissed immediately for treating the king with so little respect. A cold emptiness settled into his heart as he was reminded of the harsh reality. No matter how often he proclaimed himself the country's monarch, it was no longer true. Philippe was on the throne, and no amount of bitter words and hateful thoughts could change that.

Without replying, he moved to the chair she had indicated, he sat down and waited while she filled a basin with water and placed it on a small table near him. Tilting his head back, he looked up at the ceiling as he allowed her to begin scraping the hairs from his cheeks and chin with a straight razor.

At the first stroke, it occurred to him that she could easily slit his throat with the sharp blade, and it brought a quiet jolt in regards to his vulnerability. At the palace, Francois had performed this task, easily and effectively shaving away his facial hair. Louis had felt comfortable under his care, trusting him with completely with the razor. He had heard no news of Francois since the hunt, but he could only wonder if he was still in the king's service, and if so why he had apparently not noticed any differences between him and the king he now served.

As Marie continued to work, he began to relax, knowing that she would not attempt to harm him. For some reason that he was unable to determine, D'Artagnan and his three friends seemed determined to keep him safe and comfortable. Perhaps it was the many years of loyal service that the captain had given him up until his betrayal, but more than likely it was Philippe's influence. He tried to remember his twin's parting words; something to the effect of wishing that they could know each other as brothers. Family.

Resentment prickled Louis' scalp. How could Philippe even think that they could ever be family to one another? Was he not the one who had stolen his throne and placed him in the Bastille wearing that damnable mask?

Something stirred inside his heart, allowing less selfish thoughts to enter his mind. Wasn't what he had done to Philippe even worse? If someone had forced him to wear an iron mask for six years, revenge would have been foremost in his thoughts, not an attempt to get to know him as family. What was it about Philippe that inspired such a willingness to forgive?

His eyes shifted to Marie, watching the concentration on her face as she continued to shave his beard, using the utmost care not to cause him injury, and a thought crept unbidden into his mind. He could easily overpower her and use the razor to facilitate his escape. All he had to do was reach up and snatch the blade from her hands. She would be so startled that she would probably step back and allow him to have it without resisting. His muscles tensed in preparation for the escape attempt that was forming in his mind, and his hands gripped the arms of the chair, ready to fling himself from it.

Almost as if he could sense the thoughts that crept into the deposed king's mind, Herve stepped into his line of vision, observing him with alert watchfulness, and Louis focused on him, studying the hate that smoldered in his harsh eyes. Releasing his grip on the arms of the chair, he reconsidered his initial plan. Herve would not be so easy to overpower, but if he used the razor to threaten his wife, perhaps he could use her as leverage to get out of the house.

It must not be done recklessly; he must have a plan. Carefully, he sought to remember the floor plan of the house. His door was well away from the stairs, but once he reached them, getting down them should be no trouble. But what of the other servants? They had apparently retired to their chambers on the third floor the previous night, so he had no way of knowing how many there were. There would likely be men among them, men possibly strong enough to take him before he reached the door. And if he was caught, he knew that Aramis would make good his threat to return him to the Bastille.

His mouth went dry at the thought of returning to that terrible place, and nausea seeped into his stomach. No, I will not go back there! I would rather die! He began to feel panicked, and jumbled, fragmented thoughts raced through his head as he tried to form a plan. What was the distance between the house and the stable? Were there horses in the stable? He had never in his life saddled a horse, having always left that task to stable personnel, as was proper for someone of his rank. Even if he managed to get safely out of the house, he would waste valuable time trying to find a saddle and fasten it properly. The horses, if any were on the property, might be out in the pasture and difficult to catch. He would be on foot, and certain to be captured. And returned to the Bastille. The nausea was getting worse and his breathing accelerated as images of that terrible place entered his mind.

Marie drew back suddenly, recognizing the sickness in his expression. "Are you ill?"

He leaned forward, resting his head in his hands as he waited for the overwhelming queasiness to ease.

"You are quite pale!" she declared with surprising concern. She placed her cool hand against his forehead, but her touch was not soft like that of his mother. Marie's hands were rough and callused from years of hard work. "There is no fever," she announced. "But there is definitely sickness in your eyes. Perhaps you should lie down for a spell until it passes."

"I think I am just weak from hunger," he mumbled.

Marie nodded in agreement, but there was no sympathy on her face. "I suppose you are not accustomed to doing without the rich meals served at the palace, are you?" she asked with bitterness. "Herve and I have had to do without a meal many times in our lives under your rule." Tucking the razor into a pocket in her apron, she gestured to the basin of water. "You can rinse your face now. I'm done. Your breakfast is on the table in the dining hall."

Rising from the chair on unsteady legs, Louis dipped his hands in the water and splashed it on his face. The wetness was refreshing, and for several moments, he leaned on his elbows, his face only inches from the water, and watched as it dripped from his nose back into the basin, forming tiny ringlets on the surface. He took deep breaths, and gradually he felt the nausea begin to abate.

Rising up, he reached for the linen she offered and pressed its softness against his face while she took the basin and waited for him to finish drying his face. When his faced was dried, he handed the linen to her.

"We're going to leave you, now. If you become sick, just pull he cord in your bedchamber and we will check on you. You will probably feel better after you eat."

Turning, she moved through the doorway into the corridor beyond. A moment later, Herve followed her, and he heard the bolt slide into place.

Spying a mirror on the wall that he had not noticed the night before, he went to it and observed his reflection for the first time in five weeks. He was startled by what he saw. His hair, usually shiny and well brushed, was now dull and scattered wildly in all directions with severe tangles and mats. His face was unusually gaunt, and there were dark shadows under his eyes attesting to his difficulty in obtaining sleep during his incarceration. By contrast, the rest of his face was terribly pale. Five weeks in the Bastille had taken its toll on him. Reaching up, he pressed his fingertips to his freshly shaven cheeks, feeling the slightly hollow places where his face had once been full and healthy.

His eyes shifted in the mirror, suddenly noticing the position of the door, and the purpose of the mirror's location became clear. It had been placed there so that Herve could see it from the door and determine his position in the room before entering. Were he to be hiding behind it, Herve would be able to see him in the mirror.

Briefly, he considered ripping the mirror from the wall, but knew that it would result in an unfavorable response from the priest who had taken the personal responsibility of removing him from the throne. "Touché, Aramis," he said bitterly. "You are even more cunning than I gave you credit for." Steething with resentment, he turned away from the mirror.

Still barefoot and wearing his robe, he moved into the dining hall where Marie had said his breakfast was waiting for him. On the table, he found a platter with slices of freshly baked bread, cheese, and lean beef. A small goblet of wine stood beside it, and they had added more fruit to the bowl.

His heart lifted as he eyed the cheese and wine, two favorite items he had been denied for more than a month, and he first lifted the glass to sample the beverage. It was sweet and well-aged. Pulling out one of the oversized, ornamental chairs, he sat down to enjoy his meal.

When every delicious morsel of his breakfast had been consumed and every drop from the goblet of wine had been drunk, he placed the platter and the goblet on the tray and set it inside the cupboard for Marie to retrieve. Then he returned to his dressing room where he knew he would have to dress himself. His eye fell briefly on the tub and saw that the water had been emptied from it, and the ragged clothing he had left on the floor had been taken away, presumably before they had awakened him. Everything had been scrubbed and polished.

Moving to the wardrobe, he opened the doors to observe the clothing that were hung inside it. The garments were well-suited to his high rank, and were arranged by item. After a few moments, he selected a crisp white shirt and a pair of breeches, but as he reached for one of the coats, his hand stopped abruptly. What was the point of wearing a coat? There was no one to see him, no one to impress with a formal appearance. He withdrew the hand, and closed the doors again.

Dressing himself was not particularly difficult. Although rare, he had done it on occasion. When he was dressed, he picked up the hairbrush and looked at it. It was his own, taken from his dressing room at the palace. Philippe must have commissioned a new one for himself.

He had washed his hair the night before, but had not bothered to brush the tangles from it, a task he must accomplish on his own, and one he knew would not be a pleasant undertaking. Raising the brush, he dragged it through his hair, wincing as the tangles caught in the bristles. Never in his life had his hair been in such terrible condition. Thinking bad thoughts all the while, he brushed and brushed until all the snarls and tangles had been eliminated, along with some of the hairs that had broken or pulled free.

Satisfied with his appearance and feeling reasonably human again, he went back to the large sitting room and sank down on one of the soft comfortable chairs, allowing his eyes to peruse the walls and the décor. Clearly, this room had been part of his late relative's private chambers and he assumed that much of the decoration was original, but the doorway into the dining hall had not been there prior to the renovations. The wood facing was new, and there was a lingering aroma of sawdust.

After a few moments, he stood up again and walked through that new doorway into the dining hall again. Curiously, he opened the cupboard and found that his morning tray had been carried away. The bowl of fruit was still on the table, but he was not hungry at the moment.

While in prison, there had been nothing else to do except pace the floor like a caged animal or lie on his bunk in an attempt to fall asleep. But here, Aramis had informed him that he could even go outside, so he moved to the stairs and looked over the railing. Supported by a central post, the staircase was a very narrow spiral, wide enough for only one person to pass, and was constructed of solid wood that wound down the stairwell toward the first floor, which was not visible due to the walls that completely enclosed the shaft. As Aramis had stated the night before, it would be impossible for even one of the large kitchen chairs, with its straight back and legs, to be maneuvered down the narrow circular stairwell.

With a wry smile he started down, following the steps as they twisted sharply to the right. At the bottom, he found himself in a narrow entryway, completely enclosed with stone and mortar, and he paused to inspect it. The mortar was still dark, indicating that it was still curing, but was solid enough that it would require a heavy tool to break through it.

The door stood in front of him, an opening so narrow that he would almost have to turn sideways in order to exit. Feeling surprisingly amused, he knew he would have to be careful not to gain too much weight, or he would not be able to squeeze through!

Reaching toward the door, his hand closed on the latch and he felt somewhat surprised when he heard the "click" as it released. He pulled the door open, and stepped through it into the morning sunlight.

Beautiful, blessed sunlight! Five weeks without feeling the warmth of the sun had been almost unbearable. Closing his eyes, he turned his face toward the golden rays and felt its warmth upon his pallid skin. A gentle breeze stirred the hair that fell upon his shoulders and caressed his face. It felt wonderful to be outside again.

Somewhere beyond the wall, he heard a horse whinny, instantly bringing his eyes open again. So, there were horses on the property. He wished he could see it. What color was it? Was it in the pasture grazing, or was it confined in a paddock? The irony was not lost on him; it was as if he, too, was confined to a paddock, a small enclosure in which to exercise and take the fresh air.

A bird twittered above him, and he looked up, seeking out its perch. He found it on the edge of the roof, singing a morning song. From the eaves, Louis knew it would be able to see a great distance, and whenever it wanted to, it was free to fly away.

With a sigh of resignation, he observed the enclosure that was his prison yard. It was much larger than he had anticipated, providing ample room for him to move about, with narrow flagstone paths winding informally through the shrubs and beds. The flower beds were freshly tilled for the obvious purpose of removing weeds, and even though the shrubs had been unattended for years, a few bore roses on their stems, and he detected a faint suggestion of their scent. There were no trees inside the courtyard, and he knew that had any been present, they would have been removed to prevent him from climbing it. Surrounding it all was the high whitewashed wall. Its smooth surface provided no handholds for climbing, and as Aramis had said, it was too high to scale.

Accepting his confinement as an unchangeable fact, he walked along the path, enjoying the feel of the sun and the breeze.

A/N: This was supposed to have been the next to the last chapter, but there was still a bit more that needed telling, so after this there are still two chapters to post.