Tavernier began tales of danger and adventure in the steaming jungles and vast deserts of India, but just as my imagination soared to that distant land, the king interrupted.
“Your hoard, Tavernier,” he said. “Show us your treasure.”
Tavernier nodded politely. He unfurled a velvet cloth on the king’s table and tipped up a leather pouch. The crowd strained forward for a better view as hundreds of diamonds tumbled onto the velvet, glinting in the rays of sunlight that fell through the high windows of the Louvre. Tavernier spread the stones with a casual sweep of his hand, as if they were no more than kernels of wheat in the market. Even as a jeweler’s daughter, I had never seen anything like it. I could scarcely draw breath. If Louis bought even a small fraction of the stones, Papa would have work to keep him for a lifetime—and a chance to craft the greatest jewels in Europe. Louis would indeed shine like the sun, and my father would be the man to make him do so.
But to my astonishment, Tavernier was not finished. He took a second bag from his belt and, reaching inside, plucked out three more diamonds, each increasing in size. Robin’s egg. Quail’s egg. Chicken’s egg. With each, my heart pounded harder in my chest, until I thought it might burst through. The last was larger than anything the king possessed, even the famous Mazarin diamonds, though the uncut stones were not so bright.
Then Tavernier reached one more time into his bag and with deliberate slowness and a sly smile drew out the last stone.
The Tavernier Violet.
He did not lay it on the dark cloth with the others. He held it up into the light. It was deep and blue, and as big as an outstretched palm, and the air around it shuddered with the collective gasp from a hundred astonished mouths.
Perhaps God was watching, or perhaps the devil himself, because just then, the clouds parted and the sun rained in through the clerestory windows. A shaft of light broke over the stone and scattered into azure beams that danced and shimmered in the air like church light. One ray, turned by the stone’s natural cleavage, shone upon the breast of the king, piercing the Mazarin diamond and casting it momentarily blue.
The sheer beauty stopped my heart for an instant. When it beat again, it was quickened with a glorious dream. Already, I was afire with pride, knowing Papa would be the one to make that vision a reality. To transform the dark, uneven stone that Tavernier held aloft into a glittering jewel on the king’s breast. A jewel worthy of Louis, the greatest king in the world, to be crafted by Papa, the greatest gem-cutter.
If I had turned to Papa, I might have seen his pursed lips and furrowed brow, or even the naked fear in his eyes. I might have realized that while all the court beheld a vision of triumph, Papa was seeing his own downfall.
* * *
Three years passed. Papa polished and shaped the many small diamonds the king had acquired from Tavernier. The king’s new passion for coats rather than capes created a great demand for diamond-set buttons and trim. The fact that the stones weren’t afire with brilliance like the Mazarins was, as far as anyone at court knew, the fault of the diamonds, and not of the gem-cutter who fashioned them. Papa, of course, knew otherwise. Because with the abundance of diamonds from Tavernier’s hoard came confirmation of what Papa had known in his heart for some time, but had shared with no one: try as he might, he could not entirely replicate the success he’d had cutting amethysts on much harder diamonds.
While Papa worked the small stones, the Violet was kept as a curiosity, not to be set in a jewel or an ornament but to be brought out and handed around whenever Louis wished to impress visitors with its unique color and enormous size of nearly 115 carats.
And yet, though it did inspire awe, its size was not enough to please the king. On the contrary, it rankled Louis that the Violet refused to shine. While the Mazarin diamonds danced in the light, the Tavernier brooded in shadow. Fire burned at the heart of the Mazarins, but the Tavernier harbored the mysterious depths known only to drowning men. The Mazarins filled the court with joy, but when Tavernier’s Violet came out on its velvet pillow, the room fell silent and solemn, as if to gaze into its heart was to contemplate mortality itself.
Yet, though it did not shine at court, it burned in the king’s dreams. And the dreams of a Sun King burn hot indeed. Which is why, after three years of dreaming, Louis called upon Papa to put fire into the heart of the Violet.
FOUR
I come now to one of the few parts of my story that soothes my aching heart like a balm of sweetest honey. Thinking of that night, I dare, for the first time since starting my narration, to close the space between René and me in this dreary cell. His clothes give off a spicy, perfumed scent reminiscent of court, but without the underlying stink of politics. I breathe it in and am reminded of all that I am fighting for.
“You were there the day Papa was called back to court, René. It was a great feast to celebrate some political victory for the king. My mother thought we were invited because Papa’s jeweled scepter in the king’s hand awed his rivals into submission. Looking back, I think it was because Louis was feeling generous in his new glory—wanting to shine for the whole world.”
“A feeling you would know,” René mutters.
I pretend not to hear. “How glorious the king’s banquet room was! Beneath vast chandeliers glittering with crystal and hundreds of wax candles, a long, U-shaped table was laid with the finest linen and china. The king’s guests milled around the room—lords and ladies so colorfully arrayed that a peacock would have seemed bland in their company.”
I pause, giving René a sidelong glance and a smile as I think how to butter my next words. “Imagine my delight when, as the crowd began to take their places at the long table, the handsomest young man in the room approached and bowed before my father.”
“Leave me out of it,” René grumbles, and I can see he’s still too hardened against me for such flattery. And yet my words are true, and it just might be that if I continue on, the account of that splendid night will begin to dissolve the hard shell on his heart.
“Whatever you feel toward me now, René, don’t reject the pleasure you felt then,” I say.
“It gives you pleasure, remembering how cruelly you used me?”
I refuse to rise to this bait. He can be stubborn in his conviction, but so can I. I press on, made bold by his defiance.
“I recognized you at once when you greeted Papa,” I say. “You see, I had seen you before, shadowing Colbert on his visits to the workshop, accounts book in hand. I had never spoken to you before that night, but I had admired your eyes, and the way you wore your hair, simply tied back instead of the ostentatious curls flaunted by so many young gentlemen.” I reach out and hesitantly touch that rich brown hair now, and am encouraged when he does not slap me away.
“I had even admired your hands,” I say, looking to where he writes out the confession on which my survival depends. Such a heavy task for his elegant, fine-boned fingers. “But you had never been as handsome as you were that night. You had given up your usual drab clerk’s garb for blue velvet breeches and a waistcoat of gray silk. You wore silver buttons on your coat, and your eyes glowed with welcome and good humor. When you rose from your bow and spoke, I was feeling like the luckiest girl in all of Paris.”