“I do not know, mademoiselle, why the king did not pronounce a sentence this morning. You certainly gave him ample reason to condemn you.”
I stare, blinking, like a rabbit pulled from its warren. Stunned. I assumed, with my admission of guilt, that my fate was sealed. Hope floods through me at what the table, the papers, and the quills might mean.
“I thought it was to be . . .” My words trail off, unwilling to suggest the unthinkable.
“You play a dangerous game,” Colbert says, his tone cautionary. “You are very lucky the king is in a merciful mood. His Majesty has granted you one day to tell all before he pronounces your sentence. One day to make your confession and to produce the diamond that you claim now carries the sun within it.”
“He has agreed to my bargain?” A way forward opens before me, only to be slammed shut by Colbert.
“He agrees to nothing!” he snaps. “Are you so stupid that you think you can bargain with the king before the whole court? Make deals with him for mercy in exchange for his own stolen property?”
I bite my lip. Of course, the king could not appear so weak.
“Make no mistake, no bargain has been struck,” Colbert continues. “Louis may end this little arrangement at any time he desires. You have piqued his curiosity. Perhaps it was in calling your father Icarus. The king likes a good tale, after all, and at the moment, yours might amuse him. And your accomplices will hardly smuggle the stone out of Paris now—every way is watched and every wagon searched.”
“The Blue will not be smuggled out,” I assure him. “It only wants polishing and a setting fit for a king.”
“Then why not reveal its whereabouts now?” Colbert asks.
His question is sincere, his tone almost imploring, and temptation tugs at me to tell him. But for any of us to earn the king’s pardon, the stone must be perfection, and I must have the chance to prove that the others are innocent, even if I am not.
“Many months of hard work and great skill have gone into the stone, monsieur. It should go to the king a finished masterpiece. After all, the Blue is the work of two masters,” I say, hoping he understands. “Truly, it will far exceed the king’s expectations.”
Colbert considers me for a long moment while my eyes plead with him. Finally, he sighs and, with the flick of his hand, signals to René, who has remained beside the door. Still silent and scowling, René steps forward, pulls out the chair, and seats himself. He picks up the penknife and begins sharpening the quills one at a time.
“You have one day, Juliette,” Colbert says. “As your hand is unfit for writing, my assistant, René, will take down your words. The king has been gentle with you so far, but he does not have to be.”
I try to flex my burned hand, which, even if I survive, might never write again. He has a strange idea of gentle, but I say nothing.
Colbert does not notice. He picks up a quill and considers it, running his fingers along its smooth white length.
“Do you see this feather, mademoiselle?” he says after a moment. “It is not wax. It will not melt in the sun. It holds within it the power of flight. Of freedom. Remember that, if you wish to save yourself. You must tell all, truthfully, and with respect. Comprenez-vous?”
“Oui, monsieur.”
He sets the quill back on the table and straightens his velvet coat with a crisp tug at its embroidered lapels. “I have other matters to attend to. The affairs of state do not wait on the whims of a foolish girl.” He nods once to René, then turns abruptly and is out the door, which is sealed and locked behind him.
I wait in silence until the lock clangs shut, then I let out my breath and turn to René. It is a blessed relief to have a friend at last, even a friend who is angry with me. Not that I can blame him. I owe him an apology after our last meeting, and my arrest must have put him in an uncomfortable position at court. Yet I am surprised at the set of his jaw and his complete refusal to look at me. He sharpens a quill, then uncorks the inkpot, moving in a measured, methodical way, as if I am not even in the room. As if I am not even alive, which, come tomorrow, may very well be the case.
I know I must swallow my pride and apologize if I am going to set things right between us, so I clear my throat and speak.
“René, I am sorry.”
The granite contours of his face shift but don’t soften. He says nothing.
“I am sorry,” I repeat, more insistent this time. “I do not blame you for what happened when—”
His eyes narrow. “Perhaps, mademoiselle, I blame you,” he says, anger clipping each word.
I wince at this unexpected jab. My apology could have been more humble, but this retort seems unfair.
“I never meant to hurt you,” I assure him, hoping to explain. “You know I’d been dealt a terrible blow when we last met.”
“You think this is about our last meeting?” At last he looks at me, and I am forced back by the blaze of his eyes.
A new fear grips my heart, and I can’t breathe. What if this is no mere quarrel between us? What if I have lost his love for good?
“To think I imagined myself in love,” he sneers, unmoved by the horror that must show openly on my face. He rises from his seat and stalks away from me.
“René—”
“You’re not capable of love. Everything between us was a lie!” He turns back to glare at me, challenging me to defend myself, but I am so appalled by the injustice of his accusation that I can only gape at him. Even my silence seems to offend him, and he begins pacing the cell like a trapped beast.
I feel trapped too, as if there is not enough air in the room for the two of us. I push down my rising panic.
“René, I don’t know what you’ve heard,” I begin, trying to keep my voice steady, “but—”
“Damn it, Juliette! I’ve heard it all!” He slams his fist against the wall, and I shrink back. “I know about the other men—about your long history of seductions to get what you want.”
“What are you talking about?” This is a version of me I’m sure he’s never met, as I am not aware of it myself.
“I was there yesterday for André’s full testimony. Imagine what a fool I felt.”
“André. Of course.” My indignation rises to full boil. I hardly dare imagine the lies André is spreading with that treacherous serpent’s tongue of his. “And I suppose he’s cast himself as an innocent victim in this whole affair? One of my hapless conquests?”
A stricken look floods across René’s face. Apparently, that is exactly what André has said. My hands go to my hips.