“But it must come out eventually,” I said, following the lines on the page with my eyes as he traced them. It was hard to imagine—bending and trapping light as if it were a tangible thing—but I looked again at the spoon in the glass and knew it was true. Why had I never noticed before?
“That is the genius of the Mazarin gem-cutter,” Papa said. “He has manipulated the angles of the facets so as to turn the light completely. It finally comes back out the same surface it went in—right back at the person viewing it. That’s why the stones sparkle and flash and seem so much brighter than other diamonds: the light is shining right back into your eyes. It takes great precision.”
Papa laid a second page next to the first, and there he had traced the Tavernier Violet. Beside the drawing, a stream of calculations ran down the length of the page in Papa’s tight, crowded handwriting.
“You see?” he said. “When we have the means to control the angles precisely, we can become gods, Juliette, molding light as easily as clay.” His words had been growing more passionate, but then he sighed, and the gleam died in his eyes. “But how to achieve such precision eludes me.”
“Surely you can find a way,” I said, looking again at the strange contraption he’d attached to the grinder, now dangling limply from the leather straps that held it in place.
“I’ve tried dozens of such tools,” Papa said, following my gaze. He gestured to a haphazard pile under the workbench. Arms, tongs, gears, and vises of various shapes and materials jutted out at odd, useless angles. The one on the grinder was only his most recent failure.
“How can I help?” I asked.
“Tell no one of this secret, Juliette,” Papa said as he put the notes back in his cabinet and locked it. “If another gem-cutter—Paul Valin, for instance—were to learn the secret of the Mazarins . . .” He left the thought hanging, the suggestion of threat more ominous for having been unspoken.
I snorted. “If you can’t do it, Paul Valin wouldn’t have a prayer. He’s not half the artist you are.”
He shook his head. “I have only one idea—one hope—left.”
“Tell me what I can do,” I begged.
“Help me convince your mother of my plan,” he said, leaning close to me, drawing me in as a trusted conspirator.
I nodded, feeling important. “Of course, Papa. Just tell me how.”
Papa glanced past me toward the stairs. “I think you had better attend to your own work just now and leave me to mine.”
I turned and looked at the stairs. Maman and my Latin tutor were glaring down from the very spot where I’d spied on Papa.
I returned upstairs and contritely sat down to my lesson, but my mind was too filled with Papa’s amazing discovery to concentrate on drab Latin conjugations. The problem ate at my mind as I stumbled like a simpleton through my lessons. I wanted to talk to Papa about it again that evening, but Papa had already moved to his last plan, and it quickly became apparent to me why Maman needed convincing.
“It’s no use, Marie,” he said to my mother once the fish was served and the servants had left the room. “It cannot be done. Not by me, at any rate.”
“But surely—”
Papa shook his head. “I must go. There is no other way. If I go now, I can be home before winter.”
“Go?” I said, looking back and forth between my parents. This was clearly something they had discussed before, but I knew nothing about it. It seemed I was not Papa’s only, or even his first, conspirator. André, too, was staring at Papa in surprise.
Papa turned a sober look my way. “Only one man has cut diamonds in Mazarin’s style, Juliette. I must find him. I need his help.”
“But you are a master. The crown jeweler. Who could possibly teach you?” André said.
“I am not sure that what the king commands can be done, but if it can, there is only one man to do it. I must find him and learn his secrets,” Papa replied.
I shuddered as I thought of what this might mean. From the earliest age I had been taught how important it was to protect a master’s secrets.
“But, Jean, how will you even find him? It’s a fool’s errand!” Maman protested.
“Mazarin was born in Venice. It is the best place to start.”
“You cannot take the king’s diamond to Italy!” Maman protested.
“I will return the diamond to the king before I go,” he said.
Papa turned his eyes to me, and I realized this was the help he had wanted—to convince Maman to let him go. To let him do this reviled thing: stealing another master’s secret.
I swallowed the lump in my throat and put a hopeful brightness into my voice, though it sounded false even to me. “I am sure the guild in Venice will help a master of your standing,” I said.
* * *
René’s annoyed snort interrupts my story. His arms are folded and his quill lies useless on the table. I glance at the paper and see it remains nearly blank.
“Why aren’t you recording this?” I ask.
“I haven’t the paper to waste. This is not the confession you are meant to be making.”
“I’m trying to explain the problem my father faced,” I say. “The king must know the difficulty of the task and the extent of my father’s desperation.”
I wait for him to take up his quill, but he doesn’t move, and I am left wondering if the man I once loved is still behind those amber eyes or not.
I tap the page in front of him with my finger to remind him of his duty. “There was no sacrifice that we did not make for the king’s glory. That is why my father went to Italy—for the king’s benefit, not his own. Write it down.”
He raises his eyebrows. “You’re saying he would not benefit from stealing another master’s secrets?”
I purse my lips and look away, cringing at this portrayal of my father that no amount of loyalty can deny. “It was only so he could do what the king commanded.”
“And be granted a title, and marry his daughter to a rich gentleman,” René reminds me.
I throw up my hands and stalk away from the table, on the verge of snapping. This willful misunderstanding has grown unbearable. He knows how we suffered while Papa was away. He saw our misfortunes and was kind enough to ease my pain. That is the René I need with me here now, instead of this hard, embittered man who wishes me dead. I begin to despair that I can ever break through that bitterness to the wounded, tender soul beneath. The one that loved me. I close my eyes and cling to that ghost until I recover my composure, then turn back to René. My stomach clenches at the sight of the blank page before him. The king needs a confession, and the day is passing quickly.