The Secret of the Libertine Duke

The Princess of Condé left the room and encountered the Duchess of Longueville in the corridor. The two women looked at each other in the dim light—they had once been enemies who despised the very sight of one another. When Cardinal Richelieu held power, Prince of Condé, still Duke of Enghien then, had been in love with a woman, and even the Duchess of Longueville had regarded her as her future sister-in-law. Although Claira Clémence's sudden intrusion had not been her intention, in substance it had been an insult to the entire Condé family. The Duchess of Longueville's unhappy marriage had left her with not only loathing but also profound jealousy toward Claira. Prince of Condé was cold and harsh toward his wife, yet rather than trying to reconcile them, the Duchess of Longueville had even fanned the flames and poured oil on the fire.

But now these two noblewomen shared the same purpose. Perhaps even Prince of Condé would have been surprised: instead of fighting with their eyes and tongues as usual, they looked away and passed each other calmly. The Princess of Condé had already planted the seed; the Duchess of Longueville had to find a way to make it flourish.

For the moment, no one knew what had happened in that room, though those with keen minds could still infer a thing or two. After Queen Mother Anne ordered her attendants to place the Duchess of Montpensier under house arrest, she held another meeting with Mazarin that lasted the entire afternoon.

"You mean they want to arrest Prince of Condé?" Louis said.

"Yes," Mali Mancini said. "And Prince of Conti and Duke of Longueville as well." She looked at Louis anxiously, because the King's expression was anything but pleasant.

"Did they say what they intended to do after arresting the princes?" Louis asked.

Mali frowned and shook her head, but then immediately said, "Shall I go listen again?"

"No." Louis said, "Right now... even if I knew... it would be of no use." Could he go warn Prince of Condé and tell him to flee at once? He would have wagered that the moment Prince of Condé left Paris, he would raise the banner against the royal family.

Like many girls, Mali was not sensitive to politics, but she could clearly sense the King's low spirits. "Is there anything else I can do for you?" she asked tentatively.

"Nothing," Louis said. All that remained was to wait. "If you insist on doing something, you can pack your small case, along with your important luggage."

"Why? Do you wish to leave Paris?"

"I do not." The King gave a bitter smile. "But clearly, that is not something I can decide." He looked at his hands, feeling for the first time that time was passing so slowly.

While the King found time sluggish, Duke of La Rochefoucauld felt it slipping away as swiftly as quicksand. He had returned with Prince of Condé to the latter's residence in Paris, and in the blink of an eye, two or three days had passed. Prince of Condé was still wavering. He was a warrior on the battlefield, but in political affairs he was like a weak woman; unless someone pushed him onward, he would rather stand still and not move an inch. Yet to say he was content with that... ha! Otherwise, he would not have been so full of grievances against the royal family, chattering endlessly without considering what rewards he might still gain. Did he expect to become First Minister, or Regent of the King? If so, how was that any different from open rebellion?

No, perhaps there was still a difference: he could probably preserve a good reputation. But this furtive way of doing things placed Duke of La Rochefoucauld in a difficult position.

For the past few days, he had been deeply troubled. Even when the Duchess of Longueville abandoned her husband, who was still recuperating, and came to offer him lavish comfort, it had done no good. At dusk, a stranger delivered him a letter, and from then on the Duke's brows had scarcely unknitted. Yet however unwilling he was, he still had to keep the appointment. After seeing the Duchess of Longueville off, he carefully groomed himself, dressed in plain black clothes, threw on a cloak, and rode out of the estate alone. For a gentleman of his standing, it was most improper. He had not even brought a servant, an utter breach of decorum. But if anyone saw where he was headed, they would immediately smile in understanding—because the Duke was riding for the Bois de Boulogne.

The Bois de Boulogne lay to the west of Paris and belonged to the royal family. The King often led nobles and high ministers there to hunt, ride, and while away the hours. Over time, much like Versailles and Fontainebleau, inns and theaters had sprung up around this emerald paradise. Some existed purely to tend to the nobles' food, lodging, and daily needs; others served another kind of demand. Curiously, because this place was closer to Paris, the latter—the transactions that could not be spoken of before outsiders—had quietly surged forth with irresistible force, far exceeding people's original intentions. Yet considering the astonishing profits they brought, two successive First Ministers, Richelieu and Mazarin, had remained silent after collecting enormous taxes.

All of Paris, indeed half of France, knew that the "famed beauties" of the Bois de Boulogne were of excellent quality, their service authentic, and their prices, though high, still fair. Men loved going there, even ordinary citizens and small merchants. Some husbands even embezzled their wives' dowries, or forced their wives to engage in the same disgusting business to earn money to patronize these girls. For a time, the nights there were livelier than the days, with carriages and horses flowing endlessly back and forth. Even when all Paris had been in revolt, soldiers, butchers, and judges had never been absent from the place. Or perhaps it was precisely because the times were so unsettled that people needed numbness and consolation more than ever, and felt a stronger urge to squander what they had. After all, in this age, not even the King knew whether he would see tomorrow's sun.

Thus, neither the Duchess of La Rochefoucauld—his cousin, who had already borne him several children—nor the Duchess of Longueville, who had also borne him an illegitimate son, had any right to interfere in this aspect of his conduct. Nor would anyone be curious about his destination. What else could men do in the Bois de Boulogne?

Duke of La Rochefoucauld reached Boulogne on horseback before sunset. His destination was a temple of love hidden between marshes and woods. Anyone else would surely have found the building strange, for not only did endless corridors run around the outside of its rooms, they also extended into the courtyards on all sides, dividing them into four sections. Unlike the low-growing plants people favored now, the courtyards were filled as far as the eye could see with towering trees. Their branches and leaves blocked out the sky and sun. One could imagine that in the height of summer, beneath the blazing sun, a person would suffer no harm from its rays even without a hat or parasol.

When the Duke entered, a grand feast had just begun. Someone removed his cloak, someone put away his hat and gloves, and someone brought him a brass basin filled with rosewater for washing his hands. The moment he stepped into the room, scorching air and the rich scent of wine washed over him.

"Who ruled this place today?" Duke of La Rochefoucauld asked.

"Bacchus," someone answered. It was a trick the famed beauties used to preserve people's sense of novelty toward them. Because of his associations with secrecy and darkness, Bacchus appeared almost as often as Venus.

So the Duke went along with it and changed into Roman cross-laced sandals, draped himself in a loose linen robe, and wore a crown twined from ivy and grapevines. A bare-armed youth poured him wine. He took the cup and drained it in one gulp—this was almost a signal. He followed the youth deeper into the courtyard, and every room they passed was filled with springtime splendor. The Duke thought that if anyone wished to undergo a sacred judgment, rather than being made to walk across twelve red-hot iron plowshares, he ought to be made to walk through this place. If he could feel no desire at all, then he would be no different from a saint—and naturally without sin.

That thought did not dissipate until they reached the end of the corridor. The Duke's guide stretched out a hand and pushed open the heavy bronze door—no one could have guessed that such a delicate, fair little hand, as though molded from powdered sugar, possessed such strength.

Inside were several connected rooms, separated only by curtains. In every corner, young men and women in the bloom of youth sat or reclined, drinking and making merry to their hearts' content, letting scarlet wine spill across costly silk carpets. The final curtain was made of heavy blue-violet velvet, embroidered with patterns long forgotten. The youth stopped there. With a reverence he had never shown even before the King or Prince of Condé, Duke of La Rochefoucauld held his breath and waited. Only after he was summoned did he lower his head and walk inside, one step at a time.