“Juliette Pitau, you are herewith charged in the court of His Majesty King Louis XIV of France with consorting with Jews, conspiracy with known traitors, theft from the treasury of France, and high treason against the king.”
The room falls silent when he has finished. Hot tears slide down my cheeks.
At last, the king speaks. “You do not deny these charges?”
“I deny treason, Your Majesty. Of the rest, I am guilty.”
The king stands. “Take her away.”
The guards who brought me and forced me to my knees now grip my arms and haul me upright again. I lift my head at last and wince to find myself eye-to-eye with Louis, who rises from his gilded throne to get the last word.
He steps forward, and tilts my face upward to his with a painful grip on my jaw. The large ruby on his finger, a stone that I myself polished for his pleasure, bites into my throat. His breath is hot and foul on my face.
“Be assured, Juliette Pitau. Before you die, you will tell me what you have done with my diamond.”
TWO
What you have done with my diamond. I almost laugh at his choice of words. There is so much more to that answer than simply the question of where it is. That is a story that might redeem me if I were allowed to tell it. More likely, I will be taken to the rack, where my answers will be necessarily brief. I shudder, and the rising laughter curdles into something bitter.
The king releases my chin and turns away. The guards yank me toward the door, but I refuse to be dragged away moaning and begging for mercy, so I find my feet, stiffen my back, and raise my head to glare around me at the dozens of gawking faces, eager for fresh gossip. Most of them are strangers—bored gentlemen twirling their wide mustaches, curious ladies fluttering fans—all indulging in the brief entertainment of a craftsman’s daughter’s condemnation. No doubt my defiance made it better sport for them. Gave them something to talk about in their salons this evening.
The few faces I recognize are no more comfort than the strangers. Suzanne du Plessis-Bellière looks wary, but she needn’t be. She has survived greater scandals than any that may arise here. Master and Madame Valin glow in triumph at my demise. They have never made a secret of their spite. I glare back and pray they will be rewarded for their role in this by the fires of hell.
André stands beside them, in a brocade coat far too fine for his status, his chestnut hair arranged in curls on his shoulders instead of pulled back in a practical ponytail as befits a craftsman. Apparently, he has profited nicely from all of this. I flinch despite myself when our eyes meet. I search his smooth face for something—anything—of his feelings. I have known André longer than any of them, and yet his expression is empty of kindness or sympathy or regret. Perhaps he feels none.
The guards pull me away, out of the room and down unadorned corridors meant only for servants and undesirables such as myself. At last they step out into the blinding sunlight of a small courtyard. I gulp down a few breaths of fresh air while I have the chance, before being stuffed into the black-shuttered carriage that will return me to my prison cell at the Bastille. It is a small mercy that, since the king is trying to avoid scandal, I am spared the open cart that exposes most prisoners to public ridicule.
Many of the cells in the Bastille are quite fine, intended as they are for the king’s enemies of noble rank. I, however, am only worthy of a small chamber of bare stone with one tiny window set high on the wall to let in the mere suggestion of light and air. The only furnishing is a single narrow cot covered with a worn woolen blanket, and a broken pisspot, its dried-up contents spread across the floor in the corner. The room is dark and reeks of suffering.
I retreat to the cot, toss aside the blanket, which is crawling with fleas, and curl myself into the corner, hugging my knees to my chest. Alone at last, I let the tremors rise from the cold dread at my core.
There will be torture—Louis has assured me of that. Will it be the rack? Hot pincers under my skin? Fear writhes like maggots inside me. I should have fawned and complimented and begged the king for mercy; perhaps then he would have granted me a quick end. Too late, my mind scrabbles for some way out, some way to once again twist ruin to opportunity, but this time, there are no further chances, I am as impotent as a rat in a cage, facing only a black, hopeless ending. My squirming gut gets the better of me, and I bend over and heave the dregs of bile from my empty stomach onto the floor.
To come so close only to end in such failure. My cause had been noble: to save Papa, save our Jewish friends, resurrect beauty out of the wreckage of my father’s despair. Instead, I have destroyed it all. If Papa is the classical Icarus flying too near the sun in his waxen wings, I am Daedalus, who crafted those wings and launched him on his fatal flight. I bury my head in my arms in a futile effort to ward off black despair.
When I hear a key in the lock, I sit up and I try to pull myself together. I expect the torturer, but it is not some faceless, shirtless brute from the bowels of the dungeon. It is Monsieur Colbert and René, still in their neat court dress, looking out of place in the filthy cell.
I scramble to my feet, carefully keeping my eyes away from René. Having him see me like this, my muslin dress torn and streaked with blood, my hair in a wild tangle, and my face bruised and tearstained, is a needless humiliation. Neither of us deserves this indignity, but all I can do is pretend it away and focus hard on Colbert. I curtsy before him, and his eyebrows arch.
“A bit late to find your manners, mademoiselle. More grace and less pride would have served you well before the king.”
“Oui, monsieur,” I agree humbly, though this is hardly a revelation. Now, however, is not the time to offer insolence, not when this might be my last chance to beg for mercy.
Stepping aside from the doorway, he snaps his fingers, and a bevy of servants scramble in. They set a table and chair in the middle of the room. I watch in confusion as they arrange a stack of papers and all that is needed to write—quills, penknife, pounce pot, and inkwell—on the table. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see René pressed against the wall beside the door, as if I am a poisonous serpent and he means to keep as far from me as possible in the close, entrapping space. Try as I might to pretend indifference, my rebellious eyes seek him out. He is dressed as usual in the unadorned coat and breeches of fine black wool, befitting his station as a clerk, but I think him the most beautiful thing in Louis’s court. His smooth brown hair is tied back simply with a black ribbon. It looks so soft in the dim light that my fingers tingle with the urge to touch it. His high brow and warm, honeyed eyes usually give his face an openness I find endearing. Now, however, anger has chiseled those features into a stony mask. Knowing that I am to blame for this transformation gouges me with guilt, and I wrench my eyes back to Colbert.
The last servant sets a jug of wine and a cup on the table and hurries out of the cell, closing the door behind him. Only then does Colbert speak.