Paris: The Novel (93 page)

By the time he got back to his house that night, Roland de Cygne was in love. It hadn’t taken him long to discover who this young lady was, but when he tried to discover why she was so afraid she became reticent, and he didn’t press the matter. God knows what the innocent girl might have seen in the corridors of Versailles.

But by the time they reached the north wing, he had discovered enough about her to know that she was honest as well as kind.

“I am sorry that I gave you such a fright out there,” he ventured.

“It was just the shock of running into you when I was already so frightened.”

“My face can be a surprise I’m afraid.”

“Since it was not the dauphin’s face, monsieur, I can assure you that for me it was nothing but a relief.” She gave him a wry look and smiled. “I spend all my days with the dauphine, monsieur.”

He laughed quietly.

“The king likes everyone to look beautiful if they can. Most of the people at court are handsome. But though I seldom come to court myself—for I need no favors from the king—he is always polite if he sees me. The only thing he cannot tolerate is cowardice in battle, so my war wounds are in my favor.”

“And why did you come to Versailles, monsieur?” she asked.

“For my dear wife. It gave her pleasure to be at court. And since her death two years ago, I have remained here. I have a little house in the town. I come and go as I please and spend most of the summer down on my estate. I’ve grown used to Versailles, I suppose. But I don’t love it.”

“I do not think I shall ever get used to it, monsieur. I do not belong here. But I fear that my parents would be very angry if I returned home,” she confessed.

As soon as he got back to his house in the town, Roland de Cygne ate a light supper, as was his usual custom. After that, having told his groom to be ready to leave for Paris in the morning, he sat down to write a letter.

Ten days had passed since this incident when Amélie received word from Madame de Saint-Loubert that she should come to her house that evening. When she arrived, she found to her delight that her mother was there. Not only that, but her mother embraced her warmly and congratulated her.

“You have done very well, my dearest child. Both your father and I are delighted.”

“I have? I just sit in a dark room with the dauphine all day and talk to her when she wants.”

“I don’t mean the dauphine, Amélie. I am speaking of your marriage to Monsieur de Cygne.”

“My marriage?”

“He didn’t tell you?”

“I met him only once.”

“Well it’s all agreed. Your father is very pleased. I shall meet Monsieur de Cygne tomorrow, but he is from a very old family, he’s entirely respectable and his estate is actually larger than ours. It’s quite splendid. And so quick. I can’t believe it.”

“Have you seen him, Mother? He’s an old man with a split nose.”

“He was wounded, I know. But he needs an heir. Madame de Saint-Loubert says he is a good and kind man too. You don’t think he’d mistreat you, do you?”

“No. That wasn’t my impression. But I hardly know him. I do not love him.”

Her mother looked at her for just a moment as if she were stupid, and then changed the subject.

“Of course, since you are at court, the king will have to give his permission, but there’s no reason for him to withhold it.”

“Mother, I do not consent to marry Monsieur de Cygne. And I am very unhappy here at Versailles. I beg you to let me return to Paris with you.”

“That is not possible, my child. The king would probably refuse his permission, unless the dauphine says she doesn’t want you. And your father would not take you back. Not after refusing such an offer.”

“I cannot believe he would be so cruel.”

Her mother looked at her sadly.

“You do not know,” she said quietly, “how kind he has already been.”

And then, after asking her hostess if she might be left alone with Amélie, Geneviève d’Artagnan gently told her daughter the truth.

When she had finished, Amélie was silent. She just stared ahead in shock.

“So I am not my father’s daughter,” she said at last. “Not a d’Artagnan.”

“No.”

“Who is my father, then?”

“I shall never tell you.”

“Was he noble?”

“No. But your father has given you the d’Artagnan name, which makes you noble, and you must honor it. You are fortunate. But you must also
consider your father’s position. He is providing a dowry for you, but it is only a small one. If your father were very rich, it might be different, but as things are, although he loves you, he does not feel he can give away too much of the family inheritance in order to provide for you. Monsieur de Cygne has a fine estate and needs an heir. He is prepared to accept a small dowry. But it might be hard to find another suitable husband who would. You must consider your father as well as yourself. You should not take money from him when there is no need.”

“I could just marry a poor man who isn’t noble.”

“No. You cannot dishonor the name you have been given by your father. That is not fair to him either. If you marry Monsieur de Cygne, however, then everything is solved. It’s your duty to do so, Amélie, and I believe you may be happy too. He seems to like you very much, by the way. He writes like a man in love.”

“Mother, I shall return tomorrow to discuss this with you further,” said Amélie. “I am feeling very tired.”

And without even bestowing the usual kiss upon her mother, she left.

The following day, explaining to the dauphine that her mother had arrived to see her, she received permission to leave a little early. So the afternoon was still light as she walked into the town.

It had not been difficult to discover where Monsieur de Cygne lived.

Having seen her mother that morning, Roland de Cygne was rather surprised that Amélie should arrive at his house unaccompanied, but he received her in his elegant salon. The walk from the palace had brought a freshness to her cheeks.

Amélie noticed the elegance of the house. In the hall was a portrait of Roland de Cygne as a young man, before he had received his wound, looking very handsome. In the salon, over the fireplace, was another portrait, of a lady of the court with a pleasant, kindly face. This evidently was his late wife.

Seen by the light of day, Roland de Cygne looked exactly what he was, a middle-aged aristocrat whose handsome face had been marred by a slashing sword. It appeared that he was a man who had been happily married and who, no doubt, was now a little lonely. If he seemed very old, it was also clear to her that he had kept himself fit and that for all his modest manners, he was not a man to be trifled with.

“Monsieur de Cygne,” she came straight to the point, “I have understood from my mother that you have done me the honor to ask for my hand in marriage. Is that still the case?”

“It is, Mademoiselle d’Artagnan.”

“You have seen my mother today?”

“I have.”

“And what has she told you of the circumstances of my birth?”

He looked mildly surprised.

“That you are the youngest child. Your brother will inherit the estate. Your sister is well married.”

“Then I must tell you, monsieur, that you have been deceived. I am not my father’s daughter. I do not know who my real father is, but he was not noble.”

Roland de Cygne looked at her thoughtfully. He had been a little surprised at the smallness of the dowry offered, and had assumed that this was because his own bargaining position was so weak. An older man with an ugly face, in desperate need of an heir, cannot demand a high price for marrying a fellow aristocrat’s good-looking daughter. This new information was no doubt a further reason for the smallness of the amount.

“When did you discover yourself, mademoiselle?”

“Last night, monsieur.”

He nodded thoughtfully.

“It came as a shock to you, therefore.”

“It did, monsieur.”

And why is she telling me? he wondered. Because she thinks I will break off the marriage agreement? Is she so anxious not to marry an ugly old man? Yet at the same time, he thought, she was taking a terrible risk with her own reputation. With her small dowry and her dubious origins, she was ruining herself in the marriage market. Did she realize this?

She was young, and upset, and a little foolish. That was clear. But he decided that she was also honest and courageous. And he loved her for being so.

He also needed an heir.

“Mademoiselle, I honor you greatly for coming to me in this way,” he said. “You did not wish to deceive me, and you have trusted me with a secret. And now, for my part, I wish to tell you that I did not ask for your hand because of your name. I already have a name, of which I am proud. Nor did I ask for you because of the charms of your person, though those
charms were evident even in the dark, and are even more to be admired in the light of day. But I asked for you because of those qualities of goodness and honesty which I at once perceived in your character.”

“You are kind, monsieur.”

“I hope so. Your case—even if you are correct, and there has not been some misunderstanding—is not as rare as you may suppose. Therefore, for your own sake, and for your parents’ honor, I ask you to say nothing of this to anyone for a few days. I need a day or two to reflect, myself. Would you do this for me as a kindness? Afterward, we can all decide what to do.”

“If that is your wish, monsieur, then I will do as you ask.” It would have seemed churlish to refuse.

After she had gone, Roland de Cygne thought for some time. He was annoyed, certainly, by the news. Amélie’s looks and manners were entirely aristocratic, but the thought of base blood entering the noble family of de Cygne was repugnant to him.

But then a memory caused him to pause.

It had been a few months before he had died that his father had confided to him a strange scene he had witnessed in the Louvre. “You were only seven years old at the time,” Charles had told him, “and I had to take a letter to the queen, our present king’s mother.” And then his father had told him about the strange figure in the bedroom. “They say that the king returned and spent a night with the queen at that time, and it may be so. But I tell you, Roland, I could have sworn it was Mazarin that I saw in there.”

Roland de Cygne sighed. What if his father was right? In subsequent years, after Louis XIII was dead and Mazarin was running the kingdom, there was no doubt that the queen and Mazarin were so close that people wondered if they were secretly married. If Mazarin was the true father of the present monarch, then the Sun King was descended from a baseborn Italian whose ancestors may even have been Jewish.

But he was still King of France.

And whoever the real father of this honest young girl was, she bore the name of d’Artagnan. That was enough for the honor of his family.

One other consideration also came into his mind. He had not been without conscience, or misgiving, about forcing such a young woman into marriage with him. But given these new circumstances, there was no question that, in the long run, it was for her own good. Her chances of making a good marriage on such a small dowry were slim. And if her
parents had hoped that she might do well for herself by becoming a royal mistress of some kind, he was sure that they had misjudged the girl. That wasn’t her character at all.

If she married him, however, she’d have rank, security and a comfortable life. And after I am gone, he thought, she’ll be well placed to make a second marriage more to her liking.

He made up his mind. It was time to take action. He was going to secure the heir his family needed, and to protect this young woman from her own foolishness.

The king liked brave men. And he’d never asked for anything before. He’d seek an audience with him in the morning.