stayed there for a moment, fixed on the catlike pupils.
“So why do you want only the queen glamoured?”
“Partially it has to do with timing,”
Axel said. “The order in which people must be seen coming and going. His
Majesty will be with people right up until his
“Than the king?”
“But of course! His Majesty is not . . . a handsome man. Gazes do not linger on his face. What people recognize are his clothes, and carriage, all the external signs of his royal status. But Her
Majesty . . . her face is known. Her face is studied and drawn and painted. Her style is copied. She is beautiful, and her face has been committed to many a memory.”
“I see,” Magnus said, wanting to move away from the subject of the queen’s beauty. “And what will happen to you?”
“I will drive the carriage as far as
Bondy,” he said, his gaze still fixed on
Magnus. He continued to list details—
troop movements, stations to change the horses, things of that nature. Magnus had no interest in these details. They could not hold his attention like the way the elegant ruff of shirt fabric brushed
Axel’s chin as he spoke. The heavy plumpness of his lower lip. No king or queen or palace or work of art had anything that could compare with that lower lip.
“As for your payment . . .”
These words drew Magnus back in.
“The matter of payment is quite simple,” Magnus said. “I require no money—”
“Monsieur,” Axel said, leaning forward, “you do this as a true patriot of
France!”
“I do this,” Magnus continued calmly, “to develop our friendship. I ask only to see you again when the thing is done.”
“To see me?”
“To see you, monsieur.”
Axel’s shoulders drew back a bit, and he looked down at his plate. For a moment Magnus thought it was all for nothing, that he had made the wrong move. But then Axel looked back up, and the candlelight flickered in his blue eyes.
“Monsieur,” he said, taking Magnus’s hand across the table, “we shall be the closest of friends evermore.”
This was precisely what Magnus wanted to hear.
On Sunday morning, the day of the escape, Magnus woke to the usual clamor of church bells ringing all over
Paris. His head was a bit thick and clouded from a long evening with the
Count de —— and a group of actors from the Comedie-Italienne. It seemed that during the night he had also acquired a monkey. It sat on the footboard of his bed, happily eating Magnus’s morning bread. It had already tipped over the pot of tea that Claude had brought in, and there was a pile of shredded ostrich feathers in the middle of the floor.
“Hello,” Magnus said to the monkey.
The monkey did not reply.
“I shall call you Ragnor,” Magnus added, leaning back against the pillows gently. “Claude!”
The door opened, and Claude came in. He did not appear in the least bit surprised about Ragnor’s presence. He just immediately set to work cleaning up the spilled tea.
“I’ll need you to get a leash for my monkey, Claude, and also a hat.”
“Of course, monsieur.”
“Do you think he needs a little coat as well?”
“Perhaps not in this weather, monsieur.”
“You’re right,” Magnus said with a sigh. “Make it a simple dressing gown, just like mine.”
“Which one, monsieur?”
“The one in rose and silver.”
“An excellent choice, monsieur,”
Claude said, getting to work on the feathers.
“And take him to the kitchen and get him a proper breakfast, will you? He’ll need fruit and water, and perhaps a cool bath.”
By this point Ragnor had hopped down from the foot of the bed and was making his way toward an exquisite
Sevres porcelain vase, when Claude plucked him up like he’d been monkey-
plucking all his life.
“Ah,” Claude added, reaching into his coat, “a note came for you this morning.”
He made his quiet exit with the monkey. Magnus tore open the note. It read:
Well, that was the evening’s plans ruined.
Tomorrow was Saint Cloud’s party.
Both of these obligations needed to be met. But it could be done. He would take his carriage to the edge of the Tuileries palace, attend to the business with the queen, get back into the carriage, and get to the party. He’d had busier nights.
And Axel was worth it.
Magnus spent far more of the next day and evening worrying about Saint
Cloud’s party than about his business with the royal family. The glamour would be easy. The party would likely be fraught and uncomfortable. All he had to do was put in an appearance, smile, and chat for a bit, and then he could be on his way. But he couldn’t escape the feeling that somehow this evening was going to go wrong.
But first, the small matter of the queen.
Magnus took his bath and dressed after dinner, and then quietly left his apartments at nine, instructing his driver to take him to the vicinity of the
Tuileries garden and return at midnight.
This was a familiar enough trip. Many people went to the garden for a “chance encounter” amongst the topiaries. He walked around for a bit, making his way through the shadowy garden, listening to the snuffling noises of lovers in the shrubbery, occasionally peeking through the leaves to have a little look.
At ten thirty he made his way, by following Axel’s map, to the outside of the apartments of the long- departed Duc de Villequier. If all went to plan, the young princess and dauphin would be exiting those unguarded doors soon, with the dauphin disguised as a little girl. If they did not exit, the plan was already foiled.
But only a few minutes later than expected, the children came out with their nurses, all in the disguises. Magnus followed them quietly as they walked through the north-facing courtyard, down the rue de l’Echelle, and to the Grand
Carrousel. And there, with a plain carriage, was Axel. He was dressed as a rough Parisian coachman. He was even smoking a pipe and making jokes, all in a perfect low Paris accent, all traces of his Swedishness gone. There was Axel in the moonlight, lifting the children into the carriage— Magnus was struck speechless for a moment. Axel’s bravery, his talent, his gentleness . . . it tugged on Magnus’s heart in a way that was slightly unfamiliar, and it made it very difficult to be cynical.
He watched them drive away, and then returned to his task. He would enter through that same door. Even though the door was unguarded, Magnus needed his glamour to protect him, so that anyone looking over would see only a large cat sneaking into the palace through a door that seemed to blow open.
With thousands of people coming in and out—and no royal staff of hundreds of cleaners—the floors were grimy, with clumps of dried mud and footprints.
