THE PALACE OF ETERNAL MOONLIGHT  A Tragedy of the Bourbon Court PART ONE: THE GARDEN OF DIVINE UNION CHAPTER I:The Return of the Desired King In the spring of 1814, when the lilacs bloomed once more along the avenues of Paris, a curious procession made its way through the Porte Saint-Denis. The people of the city, who had witnessed so much tumult in the twenty-five years since the Revolution had swallowed their world, stood in silence along the boulevards to watch the return of their anointed king. Louis XVIII, called "le Désiré" by those who had longed for the restoration of the Bourbon dynasty, entered his capital not as a conqueror but as a weary pilgrim returning to a shrine he had thought never to see again. At fifty-nine years of age, he was corpulent and gout-ridden, his once-handsome features softened by years of exile and disappointment. Yet there was dignity in his bearing, and in his grey eyes dwelt the melancholy wisdom of one who had survived the destruction of his world. He had been born Louis Stanislas Xavier, Count of Provence, younger brother to the unfortunate Louis XVI who had lost his head to the guillotine. He had watched from across the Channel as the Revolution devoured his family, as his nephew the Dauphin perished in the Temple prison, as Napoleon Bonaparte rose from the chaos to crown himself Emperor. For two decades he had wandered Europe—a king without a kingdom, maintaining the fiction of royalty in borrowed palaces and draughty manor houses, sustained only by the loyalty of émigrés and the hope that Providence might yet restore what the Revolution had stolen. Now, at last, that hope had been fulfilled. The Allied powers had defeated Napoleon and sent him to Elba. The Emperor's marshals had abandoned him. France, exhausted by twenty years of war, had welcomed the Bourbons back with a mixture of relief and resignation. And so Louis XVIII, the Desired, came home to claim his throne. Yet as his carriage rolled through streets that had once run with the blood of aristocrats, the King felt no triumph. He had seen too much, lost too much, to believe that crowns conferred happiness. His beloved wife, Marie Joséphine, had died in exile two years before, her heart broken by the long separation from her native land. His courtiers, returning with him from England and the German states, were for the most part old men clinging to the manners of a world that no longer existed. The France they had known—the France of powdered wigs and sedan chairs, of Versailles and the lever du roi—had vanished into the abyss of Revolution, and what remained was a nation transformed by equality and empire, by conscription and the Code Napoléon. The King established his court not at Versailles—that palace, though restored to royal ownership, remained a museum of former glories, its halls echoing with the ghosts of Louis XIV and Marie Antoinette—but at the Tuileries Palace in Paris. Here, in the shadow of the guillotine's former site, Louis XVIII sought to reconcile the old France with the new, to govern as a constitutional monarch under the Charter he had granted, to heal the wounds that had divided his kingdom for a generation. But the King was lonely. In the evening, when the last petitioners had departed and the candles burned low in his private apartments, he would sit by the window overlooking the gardens and remember the wife who had shared his exile for so many years. Marie Joséphine had been plain and pious, but she had been loyal, and her loss left a void in his heart that no amount of royal business could fill. It was in this mood of melancholy solitude that the King first heard of the Lady Céleste de Rochefort. She was the daughter of the Marquis de Rochefort, a minor noble who had managed to survive the Revolution by keeping his head down and his opinions to himself. The family estates near Lyon had been confiscated during the Terror, and though they were partially restored under Napoleon, the Rocheforts remained in reduced circumstances. The Marquis had died in 1812, leaving his widow and two daughters to make their way as best they could in a world that had little use for impoverished aristocrats. The elder daughter, Céleste, was said to be extraordinarily beautiful. More than that, she possessed a talent for music that had attracted the attention of Madame de Staël herself during one of that lady's salons at Coppet. It was whispered that she could make the harp speak with a voice more eloquent than any words, that her singing could move hardened soldiers to tears, that she composed airs of such delicacy and passion that they seemed to come from another world. The King first saw her at a concert given by the Duchess de Berry in the spring of 1816. The court had gathered in the Salle de Spectacle of the Tuileries, that jewel-box of a theatre where Marie Antoinette had once played at being a milkmaid in pastoral operas. The evening was warm, and the scent of orange blossoms drifted through the open windows from the gardens below. Céleste de Rochefort appeared on stage dressed in white satin, her dark hair arranged in the simple Grecian style that had become fashionable since the Empire. She was twenty-three years old, with the kind of beauty that does not strike the eye immediately but rather steals upon the senses gradually—a pale oval face, eyes of deep violet, a mouth that seemed always on the verge of a smile that never quite came. She was not tall, but her figure was graceful, and there was something in her bearing that spoke of breeding and refinement. She played the harp. The piece was one of her own composition, a nocturne she had titled "The Fountain of Tears." As her fingers moved across the strings, the King felt something stir in his heart that he had thought long dead. The music was sad, yes—how could it be otherwise, composed by one who had known loss and exile?—but there was also in it a quality of hope, of transcendence, as if the composer were reaching beyond her sorrow toward some distant light. When the last note faded, Louis XVIII found that tears were running down his cheeks. He, who had survived the Terror and the Empire, who had buried his wife and his brother and his nephew, who had learned to hide his emotions behind a mask of royal dignity—he was weeping like a child before his entire court. He summoned her to him the next day. She came to the Tuileries in the late afternoon, when the sun slanted through the tall windows of the King's private salon and turned the dust motes into dancing stars. She wore a simple gown of blue muslin, and her only jewels were a pair of pearl eardrops that had belonged to her mother. The King received her seated in a high-backed chair, his gouty leg propped on a cushion. He studied her face in the golden light, searching for something he could not name. "Mademoiselle de Rochefort," he said at last, his voice rough with emotion. "Your music moved me deeply. I have not wept in many years." She curtsied gracefully. "Your Majesty honors me too greatly. Music is but the expression of the soul's deepest longings. If my poor composition touched Your Majesty's heart, it is because we share the same sorrow—the sorrow of those who have lost what can never be recovered." The King was silent for a moment. Then he said, "You speak of loss, Mademoiselle. Tell me, what have you lost?" "Everything, Sire. My father to the guillotine's shadow—he died of grief, though the blade never touched his neck. Our estates to the Revolution. My youth to exile and uncertainty. And..." she hesitated, "my heart to a dream that can never be realized." "What dream?" She raised her violet eyes to his. "The dream of a France at peace, Sire. A France where beauty and grace may flourish once more, where the arts are honored and the old virtues of courtesy and nobility are not mocked as relics of a bygone age." The King felt his heart contract. Here, in this young woman, he recognized a kindred spirit—one who had suffered as he had suffered, who mourned the world that had been destroyed, who yet hoped for a restoration not merely of dynasties but of values. "Mademoiselle," he said softly, "will you play for me again? Not the harp this time, but the pianoforte. I wish to hear what your fingers can say when words fail." She moved to the instrument that stood in the corner of the salon—a magnificent Érard grand, a gift from Napoleon to Josephine that had somehow survived the Empire's fall. For a moment she sat motionless, her hands poised above the keys. Then she began to play. It was an improvisation, a melody that seemed to well up from the depths of her being. It began in a minor key, all sighs and whispers, like wind through autumn leaves. But gradually, almost imperceptibly, it modulated into major chords, rising and expanding until it filled the room with a radiance that seemed to come from beyond the walls of the palace. The King closed his eyes. In the music he heard the fountains of Versailles playing in the summer sun, he heard the bells of Notre-Dame ringing for a coronation, he heard the laughter of children in gardens that no longer existed. And he heard something else—a voice that spoke directly to his lonely heart, that said: You are not alone. You have been seen. You are understood. When the music ended, he opened his eyes to find that she was watching him, her own eyes bright with unshed tears. "Mademoiselle," he said, and his voice was barely a whisper, "you have given me a gift beyond price. I have been a king for two years, and in all that time no one has touched my heart as you have done today." "Your Majesty," she replied, "it is the musician's duty to give voice to what others cannot express. If I have brought you some small comfort, I am more than repaid." "Comfort?" He laughed, a sound that surprised them both. "You have done more than comfort me, child. You have reminded me what it is to feel alive." He reached out and took her hand. It was small and cold in his large, warm grasp. "Will you come to me again?" he asked. "Not as a subject before her king, but as... as a friend? I am an old man, and my days of passion are behind me. But I crave the solace of intelligent conversation, of music shared in the evening hours when the world grows dark. Will you grant me this boon?" She looked at him—the heavy face marked by suffering, the eyes that held such depths of melancholy, the mouth that smiled even as it spoke of sorrow. And she thought of all the young men who had courted her, the officers who had praised her beauty, the poets who had sung of her eyes. None of them had moved her as this old king did in this moment. "I will come, Sire," she said softly. "Whenever you wish, I will come." And so began the idyll that would become the scandal of the Restoration court. CHAPTER II:The Lady of the Camellias In the months that followed, Céleste de Rochefort became a fixture at the Tuileries. She came three times a week, always in the late afternoon when the King's official duties were concluded. She would play for him—sometimes his favorite pieces by Rameau and Couperin, sometimes her own compositions, sometimes improvisations that seemed to capture the very mood of the evening. They talked as well. The King, who had been starved for intellectual companionship during his long exile, found in Céleste a mind as cultivated as his own. She had read widely in her father's library—philosophy, history, poetry—and though she held no formal opinions on politics, her observations on human nature were acute and often startling in their wisdom. "You should have been a man, Mademoiselle," the King told her one evening, half in jest. "With your understanding of affairs, you might have governed an empire." "And been miserable, Sire," she replied. "Women are spared the burden of power, and in exchange we are given the gift of observation. We watch, we listen, we understand—and we are free to feel what men must suppress in the name of duty." The King was silent for a moment. Then he said, "You speak of feeling, Mademoiselle. Tell me, what do you feel when you are with me?" She did not answer immediately. When she spoke, her voice was low and tremulous. "I feel... at home, Sire. As if I have spent my whole life wandering in strange lands, and have at last found the place where I belong." The King reached out and took her hand. "And I, Mademoiselle, feel young again. You have given me back the years that sorrow stole from me." It was the closest they had come to acknowledging what was growing between them—a feeling that transcended the boundaries of age and rank, that defied the conventions of a court still struggling to define itself in the aftermath of revolution. The courtiers noticed, of course. How could they not? The King, who had been withdrawn and melancholy since his return, now bloomed like a rose in June. He took an interest in affairs of state that he had previously delegated to his ministers. He presided over his councils with energy and good humor. He even began to entertain more frequently, hosting suppers and concerts where Céleste de Rochefort was always the guest of honor. The gossips had a field day. "The Desired has found his desire," they whispered in the corners of the salons. "The old King is making a fool of himself over a girl young enough to be his granddaughter." Some called her an adventuress, a schemer who had set her cap at the throne. Others spoke more kindly, seeing in the attachment a genuine affection that transcended the sordid calculations of politics. The King's closest advisors were alarmed. The Duke de Blacas, who had served Louis faithfully through all the years of exile, warned him that his attachment to Mademoiselle de Rochefort was damaging his reputation. "Sire," Blacas said one morning, as he helped the King dress for a levee, "the people are beginning to talk. They say that you have forgotten your dignity, that you are bewitched by a woman of no importance." The King regarded his reflection in the mirror. "And what do you say, Blacas?" "I say, Sire, that you are a man like any other, with a man's need for companionship. But you are also a king, and kings must sacrifice their personal happiness for the good of the state." "The good of the state?" Louis turned to face his old friend. "Tell me, Blacas, what harm does my friendship with Mademoiselle de Rochefort do to the state? Does it empty the treasury? Does it weaken our armies? Does it embolden our enemies?" "It weakens your authority, Sire. It makes you appear... susceptible." "Susceptible to what? To love? To beauty? To the consolation of music in my old age?" Blacas bowed his head. "Sire, I speak only as your faithful servant. The court is full of factions, of men who would use any weapon against you. If they can paint you as a dotard in the grip of a designing woman—" "Enough!" The King's voice cracked like a whip. "I will hear no more of this. Mademoiselle de Rochefort is a lady of the highest virtue and refinement. She has asked nothing of me, Blacas—nothing but the privilege of sharing her music. If the court cannot accept that an old man may find solace in beauty without ulterior motive, then the court may go to the devil!" Blacas knew better than to press the matter further. But he resolved to keep a close watch on the lady of the camellias—for so she was called, after the white flower she always wore in her hair. Céleste herself was aware of the whispers. Her mother, the Marquise de Rochefort, warned her that she was risking her reputation, perhaps even her safety, by associating so closely with the King. "My daughter," the Marquise said one evening, as they sat together in their modest apartment on the Rue de Rivoli, "you must consider your future. The King is old and sick. He cannot marry you—he is already married, in the eyes of God and the Church, to the late Queen. At best, you can be his mistress, and what kind of life is that for a woman of your birth?" "I do not wish to be his mistress, Maman," Céleste replied quietly. "I wish only to be near him, to bring him what comfort I can." "And when he dies? What then? You will be twenty-five, perhaps thirty, with no husband and no prospects. Do you think his successor—whoever that may be—will honor his old favorite?" Céleste turned to the window, looking out at the garden where the first snowdrops were pushing through the frozen earth. "I do not think of the future, Maman. I have learned that the future is a country from which we are all exiled, sooner or later. I live only for today, for the hours I spend with him, for the music we share." "You are a fool, my daughter. A beautiful, talented fool." "Perhaps. But I am a happy fool." The Marquise shook her head and said no more. But she prayed each night that her daughter's heart would not be broken. Despite the gossip, or perhaps because of it, the King's attachment to Céleste only deepened. In the spring of 1817, he made a decision that astonished the court: he would restore the Palace of Versailles and establish his summer residence there, and he would appoint Mademoiselle de Rochefort as his official companion for the season. "Sire," Blacas protested, "Versailles has been empty for twenty-five years. The cost of restoration—" "Will be borne by my privy purse," the King interrupted. "I do not ask the state to pay for my pleasure, Blacas. I ask only to spend my own money as I see fit." "But the symbolism, Sire! To return to Versailles, the very symbol of the Ancien Régime, at a time when we are struggling to reconcile the old France with the new—" "The symbolism is precisely why I must go." The King's voice was firm. "Versailles is not merely a palace, Blacas. It is the soul of France—the France that was, the France that will be again. I am not Napoleon, to rule from military headquarters and imperial thrones. I am a Bourbon, and Bourbons belong at Versailles." He paused, and his expression softened. "And I wish to show Mademoiselle de Rochefort the gardens in spring. She has never seen the fountains play, the parterres in bloom. I wish to give her that gift before I die." Blacas saw that further argument was useless. And so, in May of 1817, the court removed to Versailles for the first time since 1789. CHAPTER III:The Versailles Idyll The restoration of Versailles was not yet complete—the west wing remained shuttered, many of the apartments were still unfurnished, and the famous Hall of Mirrors had been stripped of its silver furniture by the Revolutionaries—but enough had been done to make the palace habitable. The King's apartments in the center of the main building were refurbished in the style of Louis XVI, with silk hangings and gilded furniture and carpets from the Savonnerie manufactory. Céleste was given rooms in the Queen's wing, overlooking the Marble Courtyard. She protested at the honor—"I am not a queen, Sire, nor ever shall be"—but the King insisted. "You shall have the best that Versailles can offer," he declared. "The rooms have stood empty since my poor sister-in-law fled in '89. Let them be filled with music and beauty once more." The summer that followed was the happiest of Céleste's life. Each morning she would rise early and walk in the gardens, when the dew still lay heavy on the parterres and the only sounds were the songs of birds and the distant murmur of the Grand Canal. She would wander through the groves designed by Le Nôtre, past the fountains that the King had ordered restored—the Latona, the Apollo, the Neptune—watching the water rise and fall in patterns of liquid crystal. At ten o'clock she would join the King for breakfast in his private dining room. They would eat croissants and drink chocolate, and the King would tell her stories of the Versailles he had known as a young man—the court of Louis XV, the brilliance of his grandfather's reign, the fêtes and masquerades that had made the palace famous throughout Europe. "It was a different world," he would say, his eyes growing distant. "A world of grace and ceremony, where every gesture had meaning and every word was weighed. We were prisoners of our own magnificence, but oh, what glorious captivity it was!" "Do you miss it, Sire?" "Sometimes. But then I remember the price that was paid for all that splendor—the taxes that crushed the peasantry, the arrogance that blinded us to the suffering of our people. The Revolution was a judgment upon us, Céleste. We had forgotten that kings are servants of their subjects, not masters." "And have you learned that lesson, Sire?" He smiled, a sad, sweet smile. "I have tried. The Charter I granted, the constitutional monarchy I have established—these are my atonement for the sins of my forefathers. But I am still a Bourbon, still the heir of Louis XIV. Part of me longs for the old ways, the old certainties. That is why I came back to Versailles. To touch, if only for a season, the world that was lost." In the afternoons they would walk together in the gardens, the King leaning on Céleste's arm, his gouty leg making him slow but not stopping his progress. They would visit the Trianon, that jewel of pink marble where Louis XIV had installed his mistress Madame de Montespan, where Marie Antoinette had played at being a shepherdess in her Hameau. The King showed Céleste the Petit Trianon, which Napoleon had given to his second wife, Marie Louise. "He loved her, you know," the King said, standing in the empty drawing room where the Empress had once held her intimate suppers. "Napoleon. The world thinks of him as a monster, a blood-soaked tyrant. But he was capable of love. His letters to Josephine—they would break your heart with their passion." "Did you ever meet him, Sire?" "Once. In 1814, before his abdication. He came to me at Fontainebleau, to negotiate the terms of his surrender. I expected to hate him—to see in him the murderer of my brother, the destroyer of my world. But when he entered the room, I saw only a man. A small, tired man, worn down by the weight of the crown he had forged for himself. He spoke of his son, the King of Rome, and how he wished only that the boy might be allowed to live in peace. I almost pitied him." "And now?" "Now he is on Elba, playing at emperor on his little island. The Allies think they have caged the tiger. I am not so sure." The King shook his head. "But let us not speak of such things. This is our time, Céleste—our summer of peace. Let us not cloud it with thoughts of war." In the evenings there were concerts in the Hall of Mirrors, or theatrical performances in the Royal Opera, or simple suppers in the King's private apartments. Céleste would play for the court, her music filling the vast spaces of the palace with a beauty that seemed to suspend time itself. The courtiers, initially hostile, gradually came to accept her presence. How could they not, when she made their King so happy? The Duke de Blacas himself admitted, in a letter to his wife, that "the lady of the camellias has wrought a miracle upon His Majesty. He is ten years younger, and rules with a wisdom and energy that I had thought lost forever." By August, the attachment between King and musician had become something that no one could deny, though all were too polite to name. They were never seen to exchange so much as a kiss in public—their relationship remained scrupulously correct, bound by the protocols of court etiquette. But those who watched them closely saw the way their eyes met across a crowded room, the way their hands touched when she helped him rise from his chair, the way they seemed to share a private language of glances and half-smiles that excluded the rest of the world. "They are in love," the Duchess de Berry whispered to her ladies. "Truly, deeply in love. It is the most romantic thing I have ever seen." "Romantic?" sniffed the Duchess de Duras. "He is old enough to be her grandfather. It is grotesque." "Age has nothing to do with love," the Duchess replied. "The heart knows no calendar." On the night of August 15th, the Feast of the Assumption, the King gave a grand fête in the gardens to celebrate Céleste's twenty-fourth birthday. The fountains were illuminated with colored lanterns, the groves were filled with musicians playing Lully and Rameau, and tables laden with delicacies were set up beneath the stars. At midnight, when the guests had drunk their fill of champagne and the dancing had begun to flag, the King led Céleste to the Latona Fountain. They stood together on the marble rim, looking down at the water where the goddess and her children were reflected in the moonlight. "Do you know the story?" the King asked. "Latona, mother of Apollo and Diana, persecuted by the peasants of Lycia until Jupiter transformed them into frogs. It was Louis XIV's favorite fountain—he saw himself in Apollo, the sun god, rising each day to illuminate the world." "And you, Sire? Do you see yourself in Apollo?" "I see myself in Latona," he said quietly. "An exile, persecuted by fate, struggling to protect what is most precious to me." He turned to face her, and in the moonlight his eyes were bright with tears. "Céleste, I am an old man. I have no right to speak of love to one so young and beautiful. But I cannot die without telling you what is in my heart." "Sire—" "No, let me finish. These months at Versailles have been the happiest of my life. You have given me back my youth, my joy, my reason for living. I know that I cannot offer you marriage, or legitimacy, or even security. All I can offer is my heart, such as it is, worn and battered by the years. Will you accept it?" Céleste felt tears streaming down her face. "Sire, you honor me beyond measure. But I am not worthy—" "You are worthy of a crown," he interrupted. "If I were a free man, I would make you my queen. As it is, I can only ask you to be my companion, my solace, my love. Will you have me, Céleste? Will you accept the love of a broken old king?" She fell to her knees before him, heedless of the silk gown that would be stained by the fountain's spray. "I will have you, Sire. Not as a subject accepts her king, but as a woman accepts her beloved. I love you—not for your crown, not for your power, but for your goodness, your wisdom, your gentle heart. I have loved you since the first day we met, and I will love you until my dying breath." The King raised her up and took her in his arms. For a long moment they stood together, two figures silhouetted against the moonlit water, while the fountain played its eternal song and the stars wheeled overhead. "Then let this be our vow," the King said at last. "Here, at this fountain that has witnessed the loves of kings for two centuries, I swear that my heart is yours forever. Though death part us, though time and tide wash away all that we have known, my love for you will endure. And if there is any justice in heaven, we shall meet again in a world where age and rank have no power, where love alone reigns supreme." "I swear it too," Céleste whispered. "Forever and always, my love. Forever and always." They sealed their vow with a kiss—a chaste kiss, for they were still in the public gardens and the courtiers were watching. But in that kiss was all the passion, all the longing, all the desperate hope of two souls who had found each other across the gulf of years and circumstance. They did not know, as they stood there in the moonlight, that their happiness was already doomed. That far to the south, on a rocky island in the Mediterranean, a fallen emperor was planning his return. That within months, the world they had built together would be shattered by war, and their love would be tested in the crucible of history. But for that one perfect night, they were happy. And in the memory of that happiness, they would find the strength to endure whatever was to come. CHAPTER IV:The Oath Beneath the Latona Fountain The autumn of 1817 passed in a golden haze of contentment. The court remained at Versailles, prolonging the summer season far beyond its usual end, for no one wished to break the spell that had been cast over the palace. The King and his lady walked hand in hand through the gardens, now carpeted with fallen leaves, and spoke of the future as if it were a promise rather than a threat. "We shall winter in Paris," the King said one afternoon, as they sat together in the Petit Trianon, watching the sun set over the Grand Canal. "But next spring, we shall return to Versailles. And the spring after that, and the spring after that, until I am too old to climb the stairs." "And then?" Céleste asked, smiling. "And then you shall carry me, my love. You are young and strong, and I am but a feather in your hands." She laughed, that musical laugh that never failed to delight him. "I shall hire a team of horses, Sire, and have you drawn about the gardens in a golden chariot." "Like Apollo?" "Like Apollo. The sun king, illuminating the world with his wisdom and grace." He took her hand and pressed it to his lips. "You are my sun, Céleste. Without you, I would dwell in eternal darkness." Their happiness was so complete that they dared to dream of a future together—a future measured not in years but in decades, a future in which they would grow old together, surrounded by the beauty of Versailles and the devotion of those who loved them. But even as they dreamed, shadows were gathering on the horizon. In October, disturbing news arrived from Elba. Napoleon Bonaparte had not settled into the peaceful retirement that the Allies had envisioned. He had reorganized the island's administration, built roads and schools, trained a small army. And he had not ceased to watch events in France, where the Bourbon restoration was proving more difficult than anticipated. The King dismissed the reports. "He is a caged lion," he told Céleste. "He may pace and roar, but he cannot escape his island prison." "And if he does escape, Sire?" "Then he will be hunted down like the outlaw he is. The powers of Europe have sworn to keep him in check. He has no allies, no resources, no hope of regaining what he has lost." Céleste was not reassured. She had seen the devotion that Napoleon inspired in his followers, the almost religious fervor with which they spoke of his name. She knew that in France, especially among the army, there were many who still regarded him as their true sovereign, who viewed the Bourbon restoration as an imposition by foreign powers. But she said nothing. She would not cloud the King's happiness with her fears. November brought the court back to Paris, and with it the formal duties of the monarchy. The King presided over the opening of the Chambers, received ambassadors, signed decrees. Céleste remained in the background, no longer the center of attention but still a presence in the King's life, still the first person he sought at the end of each day. They established a routine. Three evenings a week, she would come to the Tuileries and play for him. On Sundays, they would attend mass together in the royal chapel. Occasionally, when the weather permitted, they would drive in the Bois de Boulogne, the King wrapped in furs against the cold, Céleste at his side like a daughter accompanying an elderly father. The court had accepted her, if not as a queen then at least as the King's acknowledged favorite. The title of "Dame du Palais" was conferred upon her, giving her an official position in the household. She was invited to all the great entertainments, seated at the King's right hand at state dinners, consulted on matters of taste and protocol. "You have become indispensable," the Duchess de Berry told her one evening, as they sat together at the opera. "The King cannot function without you." "I hope that is not true," Céleste replied. "I would not have him depend upon me so completely." "Why not? It is the nature of love to create dependence. We lean upon one another, or we fall." Céleste was silent. She was thinking of the King's health, which had begun to decline with the coming of winter. His gout grew worse, confining him to his chair for days at a time. His breathing became labored, and he complained of pains in his chest. The doctors advised rest, but rest was impossible for a king who must govern a nation still recovering from twenty years of war. "He works too hard," she told Blacas one morning, as they waited together in the antechamber while the King held his council. "He will kill himself with labor." "The kingdom demands nothing less," Blacas replied. "There are so many problems—debts from the war, unrest among the Bonapartists, the demands of the Allies for reparations. The King must deal with all of it, and he will accept no help." "He accepts my help," Céleste said quietly. Blacas looked at her with something approaching respect. "Yes," he admitted. "He does. And I am grateful for it. You have given him a reason to live, Mademoiselle. I do not know what would have become of him without you." December passed, and January. The new year of 1818 dawned cold and clear, with ice on the Seine and snow piled high in the streets of Paris. The King was confined to his rooms by a severe attack of gout, and Céleste spent her days at his bedside, reading to him, playing for him, holding his hand as he drifted in and out of sleep. It was during this time of convalescence that he spoke to her of his deepest fears. "I am dying, Céleste," he said one evening, as the fire crackled in the grate and the wind howled outside the windows. "Not today, perhaps not this year. But soon. My body is failing me, and there is nothing that medicine can do." "Do not speak so, Sire. You will recover. You have recovered before." "I am sixty-two years old. My father died at sixty-four, my brother at thirty-eight. I have lived longer than I had any right to expect." He turned his head on the pillow to look at her. "But I am not afraid of death. I have made my peace with God, and I believe that I will be reunited with those I have loved and lost—my brother, my wife, my nephew. There is only one thing that troubles me." "What is that, my love?" "You." He reached out and touched her face with trembling fingers. "What will become of you when I am gone? My brother Charles will succeed me—he is a good man, but stern and unforgiving. He will not look kindly upon my... my attachment to you. The court will turn against you. You will be alone, without protection, without resources." "I will manage," Céleste said, though her heart was breaking. "I am young and strong. I will find a way to survive." "I have made provision for you," the King continued. "In my will, I have settled upon you an income of fifty thousand francs a year, and the estate of Château de Chenonceau in the Loire Valley. It is not Versailles, but it is beautiful, and you will be comfortable there." "Sire, I cannot accept—" "You must accept. It is my last gift to you, the only way I have of ensuring your happiness after I am gone." He smiled, a sad, sweet smile. "I would have given you a crown if I could. But a country house and a competence must suffice." Céleste wept then, wept as she had not wept since she was a child. The King held her in his arms, stroking her hair, murmuring words of comfort. "Hush, my love. Do not cry. We have time yet—months, perhaps years. Let us not waste them in sorrow." She raised her tear-stained face to his. "Promise me one thing, Sire. Promise me that we will return to Versailles one more time. That we will stand again at the Latona Fountain, beneath the moon, and renew our vow." "I promise," he whispered. "This spring, when the lilacs bloom, we shall go back to Versailles. And there, in the garden where we first pledged our hearts, we shall swear again that our love will transcend death itself." They held each other in the firelight, two souls united against the darkness, while the winter wind rattled the windows and the candles burned low. They did not know that spring would never come for them. That before the snow melted, the world would be overturned once more, and their love would be tested in ways they could never have imagined. PART TWO: THE SHADOWS OF WAR CHAPTER V:The Corsican Ogre Returns The news reached Paris on the fifth of March, 1815, carried by a breathless courier who had ridden through the night from the south. Napoleon Bonaparte had escaped from Elba. He had landed at Golfe-Juan with a thousand men, and was marching northward toward Paris. The King received the dispatch in his study at the Tuileries. He read it in silence, his face betraying no emotion. Then he handed it to Blacas, who stood waiting at his side. "So," Louis said quietly. "The lion has broken his cage." "Sire, we must act at once." Blacas's voice was tight with fear. "Send troops to intercept him. Declare him an outlaw. Alert the Allies—" "The troops will not fight him." The King's voice was weary, resigned. "You know that as well as I do, Blacas. The army worships him. They always have." "Then what are we to do?" The King was silent for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was barely audible. "Prepare the carriages. We must leave Paris." "Leave? Sire, surely—" "Do you wish me to end like my brother?" The King's eyes blazed with sudden fire. "Do you wish to see me dragged to the guillotine, my head displayed on a pike? I will not give Napoleon that satisfaction. I will live to fight another day." Blacas bowed his head. "As Your Majesty commands." The King rose from his chair and walked to the window. Outside, the gardens of the Tuileries were peaceful in the pale spring sunlight. Children played on the gravel paths. Nurses pushed perambulators. It seemed impossible that war could be approaching, that the fragile peace of the Restoration was about to be shattered. "Send for Mademoiselle de Rochefort," the King said without turning. "I must speak with her at once." Céleste arrived within the hour. She had been at her mother's apartment when the message came, and she had rushed to the palace without even stopping to change her dress. One look at the King's face told her that something terrible had happened. "Sire?" He took her hands in his. "He has escaped, Céleste. Napoleon. He is marching on Paris." She felt the blood drain from her face. "No. It cannot be." "It is true. He landed five days ago. The garrisons are going over to him one by one. Ney has sworn to bring him back in a cage, but..." The King shook his head. "I do not believe it. Ney was always his man, at heart." "What will you do?" "Leave. Tonight, if possible. I will not risk capture. The Bourbons must survive, even if France falls once more into the usurper's hands." "And I?" The King looked at her, and she saw in his eyes the agony of a man torn between duty and love. "You must come with me. I will not leave you behind to face his wrath." "But my mother—" "Bring her. Bring anyone you wish. But come, Céleste. I cannot live without you." She threw herself into his arms, and they held each other in the gathering dusk, two lovers clinging together as the storm clouds gathered overhead. The flight from Paris was a nightmare that would haunt Céleste for the rest of her life. The King and his entourage—Blacas, the Duke de Duras, a handful of loyal courtiers—left the Tuileries at midnight, traveling in closed carriages to avoid recognition. Céleste and her mother followed in a second coach, their few possessions packed in haste, their hearts heavy with fear. They drove through the night, heading north toward Belgium. The roads were muddy from spring rains, and the carriage jolted and swayed on the rutted tracks. Céleste clung to her mother's hand, listening to the sound of the horses' hooves and the creak of the wheels, wondering if they would reach safety before Napoleon's forces overtook them. By dawn they were beyond Compiègne, in the flat country near the Belgian border. The King called a halt at a small inn to rest the horses and allow his party to take some refreshment. Céleste stepped down from the carriage, her legs stiff from the long journey, and looked around at the bleak landscape of fields and hedgerows. It was then that she saw the riders approaching. They came from the south, a dozen men on horseback, wearing the blue uniforms of the Imperial Guard. At their head rode a young officer with a fierce mustache and eyes that glittered with fanatical devotion. "The King!" he shouted, drawing his sword. "Surrender the tyrant!" The King's guards drew their weapons, but they were outnumbered and outmatched. The Imperial veterans had fought in a dozen campaigns; the royal guardsmen were courtiers in uniform, more accustomed to parades than combat. Céleste watched in horror as the fighting began. It was over in minutes. The royal guards were cut down where they stood, and the young officer leaped from his horse to drag the King from his carriage. "Louis Bourbon," he snarled, "you are the prisoner of the Emperor." The King stood tall, despite his gout and his years. "I am the King of France," he said with dignity. "I will not be addressed in such terms by a common soldier." "You are no king," the officer spat. "You are a foreign puppet, imposed upon France by her enemies. The true Emperor has returned, and his people flock to his banner. Your reign is ended, old man." He raised his sword, and Céleste screamed. "No!" She ran forward, placing herself between the King and the blade. "If you kill him, you must kill me first!" The officer stared at her, his eyes narrowing. "And who are you, wench? His whore?" "I am the woman who loves him," Céleste said, her voice steady despite her terror. "And I will die before I let you harm him." For a moment, the officer hesitated. Then he laughed—a harsh, brutal sound. "Very well. If you wish to die with your king, so be it." He raised his sword again, but before he could strike, a shot rang out. The officer staggered, clutching his chest, and fell to the ground. Blacas stood in the doorway of the inn, a smoking pistol in his hand. "Run, Sire!" he shouted. "Take Mademoiselle and run! We will hold them off!" The King seized Céleste's hand and pulled her toward the woods that bordered the road. Behind them, the fighting resumed—shots, screams, the clash of steel. They ran, stumbling through the underbrush, the King's breath coming in ragged gasps, Céleste's heart pounding in her chest. They ran until they could run no more, collapsing in a clearing deep in the forest. The King lay on the ground, his face gray, his hand pressed to his chest. "Sire!" Céleste knelt beside him, terrified. "Sire, speak to me!" "I am... all right," he gasped. "Just... need to rest." "We cannot rest here. They will find us." "Then go, my love. Save yourself. Leave me here." "Never." She helped him to his feet, supporting his weight on her shoulder. "We will go together, or not at all." They struggled on through the woods, following a stream that they hoped would lead them to safety. By nightfall, they emerged on the outskirts of a village. The King was barely conscious, his face contorted with pain, his breathing shallow and labored. Céleste knocked on the door of a cottage, begging for shelter. The peasant who opened it—a grizzled old man with suspicious eyes—took one look at the King's fine clothes and slammed the door in her face. She tried three more houses before she found one that would admit them. A widow woman, living alone with her daughter, took pity on the desperate pair and hid them in her barn. "The Emperor's men came through yesterday," she told Céleste, as she brought them bread and soup. "They are searching for the King. If they find him here, we will all be executed." "They will not find him," Céleste said. "I swear it. We will leave as soon as it is dark." But the King was in no condition to travel. He lay on a pile of straw, burning with fever, muttering deliriously. Céleste bathed his forehead with cool water, held his hand, whispered words of love and encouragement. "Céleste," he murmured, his eyes opening briefly. "Are we at Versailles?" "No, my love. We are... traveling. We will be there soon." "The fountains... I want to see the fountains..." "You will see them, Sire. I promise. The Latona Fountain, the Apollo, all of them. We will walk together in the gardens, just as we did before." He smiled, a faraway smile. "The white camellias... you wore them in your hair..." "I will wear them again. For you, my love. Only for you." He drifted back into unconsciousness. Céleste held him through the night, weeping silently, praying to every saint she knew for his deliverance. By morning, the fever had broken. The King woke, weak but lucid, and asked for water. Céleste helped him drink, then told him what had happened. "Blacas? The others?" "I do not know, Sire. I heard shooting, but... I do not know." He closed his eyes. "They gave their lives for me. I do not deserve such loyalty." "You deserve everything, Sire. You are the King." "I am a fugitive, Céleste. A fugitive in my own kingdom." He tried to sit up, but fell back with a groan. "I cannot go on. You must leave me here. Make your way to the coast, to England. You will be safe there." "I will not leave you." "You must. For my sake, if not for your own. I could not bear to see you captured, imprisoned, perhaps executed. Go, Céleste. While there is still time." She looked at him—the man she loved, who had given her happiness beyond her wildest dreams, who was now broken and helpless before her. And she knew that she could not leave him. Whatever happened, they would face it together. "No," she said softly. "I will stay. We will live or die as one." He reached out and took her hand. "Then God help us both." CHAPTER VI:The Flight from Paris They remained hidden in the widow's barn for three days, while Napoleon's forces swept through the countryside. On the fourth day, a messenger arrived from Blacas—he had escaped the ambush with a few others and made contact with loyalist forces in Lille. If the King could reach the city, he would find safe conduct to the Netherlands. "It is our only chance," the King said, when Céleste read him the message. "We must try to reach Lille." "You are too weak to travel, Sire." "I am strong enough." He struggled to his feet, leaning heavily on her arm. "Help me, Céleste. We have come too far to give up now." They set out at dusk, traveling by back roads and farm tracks, avoiding the main highways where Napoleon's patrols were thickest. The widow's daughter guided them for the first few miles, pointing out the safest paths, then left them with a loaf of bread and a blessing. For three days they walked, hiding in barns and ditches by day, moving only under cover of darkness. The King's strength failed rapidly; by the second day he could barely stand, and Céleste had to half-carry him, supporting his weight on her shoulder. "Leave me," he begged, again and again. "Save yourself." "Never," she replied, each time. "We are together. Forever." On the fourth night, they were spotted by a patrol. It happened near the village of Saint-Amand, where a bridge crossed a swollen river. They were halfway across when a voice rang out from the darkness: "Halt! Who goes there?" Céleste froze. The King swayed on his feet, his face gray with exhaustion. "Run," he whispered. "I will hold them off." "No—" "Run!" He pushed her toward the far end of the bridge, then turned to face the patrol. There were six of them, soldiers in the blue uniforms of the Empire, their muskets gleaming in the moonlight. "Surrender, in the name of the Emperor!" "I am Louis XVIII, King of France," the King said, drawing himself up to his full height. "I surrender to no one." The soldiers hesitated, confused by the old man's dignity. Then their officer stepped forward, pistol in hand. "You are under arrest," he said. "Come quietly, or we will shoot." The King did not move. "Shoot, then. I would rather die than submit to your usurper." The officer raised his pistol. Céleste screamed and ran back to the King, throwing her arms around him. "If you shoot him, you must shoot me too!" "Mademoiselle, stand aside—" "No! I will not let you take him!" The officer stared at her, his face hardening. "You are his mistress, aren't you? The famous Lady of the Camellias." "I am his beloved," Céleste said, her voice ringing with pride. "And I am not ashamed." "Then you can die with him." The officer cocked his pistol. "For treason against the Emperor, I sentence you both to death." He fired. The shot echoed across the water. Céleste felt a blow to her side, a burning pain that took her breath away. She staggered, but did not fall. She would not fall. She would stand between her King and his enemies until her last breath. "Céleste!" The King caught her as she swayed. "Oh, my God, Céleste!" "It is... nothing," she gasped. "A scratch..." But blood was pouring from her side, soaking her dress, dripping onto the stones of the bridge. The King pressed his hand to the wound, trying to stanch the flow, but it was useless. "You fools!" he roared at the soldiers. "Look what you have done! She is an innocent woman, guilty of nothing but love!" The officer lowered his pistol, his face pale. "I... I did not mean..." "You have murdered her!" The King's voice broke. "You have murdered the only thing I ever loved!" Céleste felt consciousness slipping away. The pain was fading now, replaced by a strange coldness. She looked up at the King's face, etched with grief and rage, and tried to smile. "Do not... weep, my love," she whispered. "I am... happy. I die... for you." "No!" The King clutched her to his chest. "You will not die! I forbid it! I am the King, and I command you to live!" "The King... has no power... over death," she murmured. "But love... love is stronger... than death. Remember... our vow... at the fountain..." "I remember. I will always remember." "Find me... in the moonlight..." Her voice was barely audible now. "I will wait... among the stars..." "Céleste!" But she was gone. Her head fell back, her eyes closed, and the last breath left her body in a gentle sigh. The King held her for a long moment, rocking her like a child, his tears falling on her pale face. Then he raised his head and looked at the soldiers with eyes that burned with a terrible light. "You have killed her," he said quietly. "You have killed the best, the purest, the most beautiful soul in France. I hope you are proud." The officer fell to his knees. "Sire, I beg your forgiveness. I did not know—I thought—" "You thought she was a whore. A plaything of a corrupt old king." The King's voice was bitter as gall. "You could not imagine that a woman might love without calculation, might sacrifice herself without hope of reward. You have lived too long in the usurper's world, where everything is measured in power and gold." He laid Céleste gently on the stones of the bridge and rose to his feet. "Do what you will with me. Kill me, imprison me, drag me in chains to your master. It does not matter now. She is dead, and I have nothing left to live for." The soldiers stood in silence, their weapons lowered. None of them moved to arrest him. Finally, the officer spoke. "Go, Sire." The King stared at him. "What?" "Go. Take her body and go. We will say that we found no one on the bridge." "Why?" The officer's eyes were wet with tears. "Because... because I had a sister once. She died in the Terror, accused of harboring a priest. She was innocent, but they killed her anyway." He looked at Céleste's body, and his voice broke. "I will not have another innocent woman's death on my conscience." The King was silent for a moment. Then he bowed his head. "Thank you." With the help of the soldiers, he carried Céleste's body to the far side of the bridge. There, in a small copse of trees, they dug a grave. The King wrapped her in his own cloak—the royal cloak of purple velvet, lined with ermine—and laid her in the earth. "I will come back for you," he promised, as he placed the last handful of soil on her grave. "When this nightmare is ended, I will bring you home to Versailles. You shall lie in the gardens you loved, beneath the white camellias. I swear it, my love. I swear it on my crown and my soul." He marked the spot with a wooden cross, cut from a nearby tree, and carved her name upon it with his own dagger. Then he rose and walked away, into the darkness, a broken old man with nothing left but his grief and his duty. Behind him, the soldiers stood at attention, saluting the grave of the woman they had killed. CHAPTER VII:The Martyrdom of the White Rose The King reached Lille two days later, half-dead from exhaustion and grief. He was smuggled across the border into the Netherlands, where he was reunited with Blacas and the other survivors of the flight. They took him to Ghent, a city of canals and guildhouses in the Flemish countryside. Here, in a borrowed palace on the Graslei, the King established his court in exile. The powers of Europe recognized him as the legitimate sovereign of France and promised to restore him once Napoleon was defeated. But the King did not care about restoration. He did not care about anything. He sat in his rooms, staring out at the gray Belgian sky, seeing nothing but Céleste's face. He refused to eat, refused to sleep, refused to attend to the business of government that his ministers pressed upon him. "Sire, you must rally," Blacas urged him. "The Allies are mobilizing. Wellington is gathering an army in Belgium. Soon there will be a battle, and if Napoleon is defeated—" "If he is defeated, what then?" The King's voice was hollow. "She will still be dead." "France needs you, Sire. Your people need you." "My people?" The King laughed, a terrible sound. "My people flocked to Napoleon's banner. They welcomed him back with flowers and cheers. I was nothing to them—an old man imposed by foreign bayonets. Why should I care what becomes of them?" "Because you are the King. Because it is your duty." "My duty?" The King turned to face his old friend, and Blacas recoiled from the anguish in his eyes. "I did my duty, Blacas. I played the monarch, I signed the decrees, I sat upon the throne. And what did it bring me? The woman I loved was shot down like a dog on a bridge, and I could do nothing to save her. Where was my duty then? Where was my power?" Blacas had no answer. The weeks passed. News came from France—Napoleon had entered Paris in triumph, the Bourbons had fled, the Empire was restored. The King listened to the reports with indifference. What did it matter who ruled in Paris? The only thing that mattered was buried in a nameless grave beside a river in northern France. Then, in June, came word that the Allies had engaged Napoleon at a place called Waterloo. The battle raged for a day and a night, and when it was over, the Emperor's army was shattered. Napoleon fled to Paris, abdicated once more, and was sent into exile on a distant island in the Atlantic. The King was restored to his throne. On July 8th, 1815, he entered Paris for the second time, greeted by crowds that were notably smaller and less enthusiastic than those who had welcomed Napoleon three months before. He did not care. He went immediately to the Tuileries and shut himself in his apartments. He refused to see anyone, refused to attend the ceremonies of thanksgiving that the Church organized, refused to do anything but sit by the window and stare out at the gardens. "Sire," Blacas begged, "you must put aside your grief. The kingdom requires your attention. There are debts to be paid, reforms to be enacted, the occupation by Allied troops to be managed—" "I will attend to it," the King said. "Tomorrow. Next week. When I am ready." But he was never ready. The grief had sunk too deep, had become a part of him, like his gout or his failing heart. He moved through his duties like a sleepwalker, signing documents without reading them, receiving ambassadors without hearing their speeches, presiding over councils without contributing to the debate. The court was alarmed. The doctors were summoned, and they prescribed rest, exercise, a change of scene. The King ignored them all. Only one thing could rouse him from his lethargy. On the anniversary of Céleste's death, he announced that he would travel to the village of Saint-Amand, to visit her grave. "Sire, it is too dangerous," Blacas protested. "The countryside is still unsettled. There are Bonapartist bands roaming the hills—" "I will go," the King said, and there was a note in his voice that Blacas had not heard since before the Hundred Days. "I made a vow, and I will keep it." They traveled with a strong escort of cavalry, a procession that looked more like a military expedition than a royal progress. The King rode in a closed carriage, his face pressed to the window, watching the countryside roll by. When they reached the bridge at Saint-Amand, he ordered the carriage to stop. He descended alone and walked to the copse of trees where he had buried his love. The wooden cross was still there, weathered by a year's exposure but still legible. The King fell to his knees before it, his shoulders shaking with sobs. "I have come back, my love," he whispered. "I have come back, as I promised. I am King again, but I would trade my crown for one more hour with you. I would trade my kingdom, my life, my soul." He remained there for hours, heedless of the rain that began to fall, of the worried entreaties of his guards. Finally, Blacas came and gently helped him to his feet. "Sire, we must go. It is getting dark." "I will not leave her," the King said. "Not again." "You must, Sire. But we can bring her with us. We can exhume the body and carry it to Versailles, to be buried with honor." The King was silent for a long moment. Then he shook his head. "No. She is at peace here, in this quiet place. I will not disturb her rest. But I will build a chapel over her grave, a monument to her sacrifice. And I will come here every year, on this day, to be with her." He kissed the wooden cross, then rose and walked back to his carriage. He did not look back. CHAPTER VIII:The Exile in Ghent The return to power brought no comfort to the King. He governed from habit rather than conviction, going through the motions of monarchy while his heart remained buried beside a river in Saint-Amand. The court tried to cheer him. There were balls, concerts, theatrical performances—the usual distractions of palace life. The King attended them all, sitting in his chair like a statue, responding to conversation with polite nods and empty smiles. The ladies of the court threw themselves at him, hoping to replace the lost Céleste in his affections. They were young and beautiful, accomplished and charming. The King regarded them with indifference. "You must marry again, Sire," his brother Charles urged him. "You have no heir. If you die without issue, the crown passes to me, and I am an old man too. You must secure the succession." "The succession is secure," the King replied. "You will succeed me, and your son after you. What more is needed?" "A son of your own body. A child to carry on your name, your legacy." "My legacy?" The King laughed bitterly. "What legacy? I am the king who lost his throne twice, who fled before a usurper, who could not even protect the woman he loved. What kind of legacy is that?" Charles had no answer. In the autumn of 1815, the King suffered a stroke. It was a mild one, the doctors said, but it left him weak and confused. His right hand trembled when he tried to write. His speech was sometimes slurred. He could no longer walk without assistance. He recovered slowly, but he was never the same. The vigor that Céleste's love had given him was gone, and without it he was merely an old man waiting for death. Yet even in his weakness, he did not forget her. Each evening, before he retired, he would sit at his desk and write to her—not letters that could be sent, but words of love and longing that he kept in a locked drawer, a secret correspondence with the dead. "My dearest Céleste," he wrote one night, his hand shaking as he formed the letters. "It has been six months since I lost you, and still I cannot believe that you are gone. I wake each morning expecting to see your face, to hear your voice, to feel your hand in mine. And each morning, the reality crashes upon me like a wave, drowning me in grief. They tell me that I must forget you, that I must move on, that a king cannot afford to mourn forever. But they do not understand. You were not merely my lover, my companion. You were my soul, my reason for living. Without you, I am a hollow man, a king in name only. I have tried to govern, to do my duty, to be the monarch that France requires. But my heart is not in it. How can I care about tariffs and treaties, about the complaints of deputies and the intrigues of courtiers, when you are lying cold in the earth? Sometimes, in the evening, when the candles burn low and the palace grows quiet, I imagine that I can hear you playing. The notes drift through the corridors, faint and sweet, like the memory of a dream. I follow the sound, hoping to find you at the pianoforte, your fingers dancing across the keys, your face illuminated by the music. But when I reach the salon, it is empty. Only the echoes remain, and the silence that follows them. I am growing old, my love. Older than my years. The doctors tell me that I must take care, that another stroke might kill me. I do not fear death. Indeed, I welcome it, for it will bring me to you. But I am held here by duty, by the knowledge that if I die now, the kingdom will be plunged into chaos. So I linger, a prisoner of my crown, waiting for the day when I can lay it down and come to you. Be patient, my love. Wait for me among the stars. I will not be long. Your devoted, Louis" He sealed the letter with wax and placed it in the drawer with the others—hundreds of them now, a monument of grief that no one would ever see. The years passed. The King grew older, frailer, more withdrawn. He continued to govern, after a fashion, but the real power lay with his ministers, with the Chambers, with the forces of history that were transforming France into a modern nation. In 1820, the King's nephew, the Duke de Berry, was assassinated by a Bonapartist fanatic. The crime shocked the nation and plunged the court into mourning. The King wept at the funeral, not just for his nephew but for all the dead—the brother he had lost to the guillotine, the nephew who had perished in the Temple, the wife who had died in exile, and Céleste, always Céleste, the brightest star in his firmament of sorrow. "Why does God punish me so?" he asked his confessor. "What have I done to deserve such suffering?" "God tests those He loves, Sire," the priest replied. "Your sufferings are a sign of His favor, not His wrath." "Then I wish He loved me less," the King said bitterly. In 1824, his health began to fail in earnest. The doctors diagnosed dropsy, a swelling of the tissues caused by heart failure. There was no cure, they said. Only time remained, and not much of it. The King received the news with equanimity. "At last," he said. "I have been waiting for this." He called his brother to his bedside and entrusted him with the kingdom. "Rule wisely, Charles. Be just, be merciful, be strong. And do not forget her." "Forget whom, Sire?" "Céleste. The Lady of the Camellias. She saved my life, Charles, at the cost of her own. See that she is remembered." "I will, Sire. I swear it." The King smiled and closed his eyes. "Then I can go in peace." He died on September 16th, 1824, in the same bed where he had written his letters to the dead. His last words were whispered, barely audible, but those who bent close to hear them swore that he said: "The fountains... at last... the fountains..." He was buried in the royal necropolis at Saint-Denis, beside the kings and queens of France. But those who knew him best believed that his true resting place was elsewhere—in a small copse of trees beside a river, where a wooden cross marked the grave of the woman he had loved. PART THREE: THE KING'S DESPAIR CHAPTER IX:The Palace of Sorrows The King lay in state for three days, his body robed in purple velvet, his face calm in death as it had rarely been in life. The courtiers filed past, murmuring prayers, marveling at the peace that had settled upon his features. It was as if, in death, he had at last found what he had sought in vain during his last years—the reunion with his beloved. But the story does not end with his death.