The Overzealous Officer

If he could have given this chapter a name, Louis would gladly have called it—one of the façade projects of seventeenth-century Paris.

The market had clearly been put in order. The cries of vendors he heard came from a rosy-cheeked woman with her chest thrust high, whose stall was piled with vegetables that ought to have been rare in such a place: chicory, white asparagus, artichokes, parsnips, cabbages, ginger, and beets. Apart from the parsnips, cabbages, and beets, none of these vegetables were things commoners could afford, much less in Paris now—perhaps even some less prosperous merchants or nobles could not afford them.

When the King and the others stepped down from their carriage, their tall wooden clogs sinking into the muddy road as they walked toward the vendor, her plump, white little hands exposed her true identity even more clearly. Of course, there was nothing blameworthy in that. After all, back in Saint-Germain-en-Laye, the Queen Mother and the others had been so impoverished that they had pawned jewelry and clothing, yet when a gentleman entertained them upon their return to Paris, they had refused to let his wife attend the Queen Mother while she drank, because that was a privilege reserved for ladies of countess rank or above. It was said that when the gentleman's wife heard the news, she wept until she fainted.

Queen Mother Anne carefully bought some white chicory, cabbage, and beets, handing them to Miss Mali Mancini to carry. Even the handle of the delicate basket was wrapped in silk, lest it cut the young lady's tender hand. Queen Mary of England and Princess Henrietta each selected some clean vegetables as well, handing them to Louise, the maid at their side. The King's gaze fell on her, then swiftly moved away.

No one knew how tense Louise had been when the King's gaze lingered on her gloves. Her father, Crelan, was a werewolf, and naturally so was she. But there was no way to detect the distinctive signs of a werewolf by looking at her little hands—when she was about to come to Paris to serve the Princess, her father had hardened his heart and used pincers to cut off part of her ring finger. That way, even if she turned into a werewolf, she would be missing one claw. That finger also had no nail. But except when dining or helping the Princess change clothes, she need not remove her gloves, and thus no one would discover it.

Louis had meant nothing else by looking at her. He had merely been seeing how many people had chosen the white chicory he liked. Then he selected the artichokes his younger brother Philip liked. Rather than liking to eat the vegetable, Philip liked playing with it, since peeling it petal by petal was amusing, and eating only the little bit at the end suited him even better. After all, like most children, he loathed vegetables beyond measure and ate them only reluctantly at the King's insistence.

At last, the King lingered over the chicory leaves for a while. Yes, this was the vegetable Mali liked. His fingers slowly moved away. It was somewhat improper, but in the end, beneath Mali's eager gaze, he placed a bunch of chicory into the basket cradled by the little witch.

Princess Henrietta felt somewhat embarrassed. She had always understood her mother's and brother's expectations. Although Queen Mother Anne of France and Mazarin had consistently opposed them, even deliberately maligning her feelings for her father, Charles I—under her mother's instruction, she had also understood that if they persisted in their original intentions, the next rumors might cast doubt upon her identity. Princess Henrietta had not been born at the English court. She had been born in Exeter, a small riverside town in Devonshire, where she had been fostered for a long time before being brought to Paris only after the age of two.

People could, first, attack whether she was still the original Princess Henrietta, since babies changed every day; second, they could attack the claim that she was not Charles I's blood. Before this, as everyone knew, Queen Mary had not gotten along happily with England's Protestants because of religious differences.

Yet before Charles, Duke of Cornwall left, he had still believed there might be room to turn things around. He had met Louis, who was a gentle child. If the Duke of Cornwall could return to England and successfully be crowned, then his sister would unquestionably be the eldest princess. With such status, and love as a bargaining chip, continuing the marriage alliance between England and France would not be impossible.

Did Henrietta like Louis? Of course. Though she was still a child, children in this age ripened faster than fruit on a tree. Henrietta's mother had married Charles I at fifteen, which was considered late even among princesses; there were plenty of princesses who married at twelve. Generally, people began seeking husbands for a princess when she was eight or nine. Henrietta had been born in 1644 and was now seven. Ever since she had been swaddled in infancy, she had never enjoyed the honor due a princess. Living under another's roof in Paris, and the straitened life at Saint-Germain-en-Laye, had left a deep impression on her. Not to mention that without Louis's order, she might have died of the unrelenting fever.

It was perfectly natural that she had developed an attachment bordering on dependence toward Louis. Yet even this slender hope had been strangled in the cradle by the Queen Mother and Mazarin working together. Philip's hostility toward her was almost without reason, but toward this Miss Mali Mancini, he indulgently allowed her to approach the King because her status was lowly. Even if the King truly fell in love with her, she could at most become an "official royal mistress"—since the end of the fifteenth century, every court had such an arrangement. They could receive titles, satisfactory marriages, sell offices and titles, even take bribes and embezzle, perhaps even participate in affairs of state, but they would absolutely never affect the King's marriage. Nor could they ever usurp the Queen's place.

Princess Henrietta looked at the light in Miss Mancini's eyes. She truly did not know who was more pitiable—herself, or Mancini.

Louis did not notice the girls' glances. He was more concerned with the streets that had been whitewashed and cleaned. Walls could be dressed up, but the buildings themselves could not easily be changed. At this time, almost all buildings were fewer than four stories high. The houses around Red Children Market could be called neat and handsome. According to tradition and necessity, the first floor opened onto the street, housing shops and taverns either rented out or used by their owners. The second floor was the owner's residence—Bourbon fleur-de-lis banners hung outside the windows; though crudely made, their colors were bright. The third and fourth floors and the attic were either bedrooms rented to others or lodgings for servants. A few small windows stood open, with curious eyes visible behind them. A young man thrust his hat out from one and waved it enthusiastically several times.

Though his companion swiftly dragged him back inside—surely at Mazarin's instruction—the King was amused. He lifted his own hat and elegantly returned the salute toward that window.

Louis did not know whether that rash young man had seen his returned salute, but receiving such support pleased him far more than accepting the flattery of ministers and clergymen. What he did not know was that the young man wore light chestnut shoulder straps, meaning he was a probationary officer in Prince of Condé's regiment—to be precise, he soon would no longer be one. In the previous year's battle near Lorraine, he had helped design defensive fortifications, and in the offensive and defensive battles in Champagne, he had fought bravely. His name had soon come to Prince of Condé's attention. He had been summoned to Paris to receive the Prince's reward and be promoted to "cavalry officer."

His companion stared at him as if unable to believe it. "Sébastien," he called softly, "that was the King!"

"Yes!" Sébastien Vauban said excitedly. "Did you see? I saluted the King, and he returned my salute!"

"So what?" his companion said. "We are loyal to Prince of Condé."

"And Prince of Condé is loyal to the King," Sébastien said at once.

His companion paused. In truth, many people knew that Prince of Condé held little respect for the royal family. From Queen Mother Anne to King Louis, from Mazarin to Philip, all were targets of his complaints. And his soldiers, naturally, served Prince of Condé—the man who gave them pay and rewards—far more than anyone else. Some among them might never see the King in their lives, and had no conception of the royal family at all.

From Saint-Germain-en-Laye to Paris, people were spreading rumors that either Prince of Condé or Gaston, Duke of Orléans, would replace Louis as King. But he clearly could not say such things to his friend. Before, he had thought Sébastien's fervor and loyalty toward the King were only a pretense. Now, it seemed he had been gravely mistaken. He could not help but feel a headache coming on, deeply worried about the audience with Prince of Condé that lay ahead.

This chapter is not finished. The rest will be added tomorrow morning.