The Shadows of God - J. Gregory Keyes [97]
“I never did. That was my mistake. I never did.”
“And now?”
“With these people, I think I can do it—though I may have to trick them.” He took her chin in his fingers and turned her face toward his. “Do you still fear me?” he asked.
“Yes,” she replied, and kissed his fingers.
Adrienne winced as the servants lowered her into the ornate, canopied bed. Her leg ached dully, and her breath came in shallow sips. She regretted, now, her insistence on riding the last mile—but she did not want to be in a litter when they reached the French town. She wanted to arrive with dignity.
Instead, she had arrived to be reminded of what she was, what she had become—the series of linked sins that comprised her life.
She remembered killing Newton, of course. Worse, she remembered the obscene joy of the moment, of finally having power—not the secret, conniving power women must wrest from the world but the might to do anything she pleased.
Of course, that power was gone now.
“Mademoiselle? Is it really you?”
She blinked at her visitor through what must surely be tears of pain.
“Orléans?”
He coughed up a little laugh. “No, Demoiselle, I fear I am king now, much to everyone's horror.”
“Your Majesty.” She made an effort to rise.
“Heavens, my dear, no. Stay in bed.” He clasped his hands behind his back and attempted a smile.
“If I may ask, Sire—is your wife—”
“Yes, I knew you would ask that first. She is dead, I'm afraid. The plague took Paris even before the Russians did, and it took her with it. I know I wasn't much of a husband— she always felt she deserved better, and she was right. She—” His face screwed up in pain. He fought for control, and found it. “She always loved you. She urged us to find you, after that madman Torcy kidnapped you.”
“That was kind of her.”
“So, you see, I will deny you nothing. In memory of her and of my uncle the king, who also loved you.”
She nodded carefully. Her memories of Louis XIV were less pleasant than her memories of the duchess of Orléans. “Thank you, Sire. I hope I can serve you.”
“I'm sure you can. And now I must go.”
But he turned and spoke once more before leaving. “Mademoiselle, it is good to see you. Few of that court you knew survive. It is good to be reminded of happier times.”
When he was gone, she reflected that she wouldn't have thought of those times as happy. But she understood what he meant, and doubtless, for him, they had been the best of days.
So this was what had become of France. It was fortunate that Philippe didn't know how large a part in creating his present state of affairs she had played, here and later in Russia.
But she knew it, of course, and now she could no longer escape what she had done.
* * *
She was almost asleep when her next visitor arrived, scratching lightly at the door, as they used to do in Versailles.
“Come in,” she said dully.
It was Vasilisa Karevna. “We didn't have time to speak before,” the Russian said.
“I'm glad to see you well, Vasilisa,” Adrienne replied, and found that she meant it. Even if she did not know where the other woman's loyalties lay, at least she was part of the present, and not the past.
“And it is good to see you, Adrienne.”
“Sit.”
Karevna settled herself on a tabouret, as Adrienne dismissed the servants.
“Chairete, Korai, Athenes therapainai,” Vasilisa intoned, once the girls were gone.
“No,” Adrienne said. “Stop it. No more of that pathetic Ko-rai nonsense. I cannot bear it.”
Vasilisa blanched, took a deep breath. “I understand your feelings, Adrienne, but this is the very moment our sisterhood was created for, the single most important thing we guard against. And of all who once belonged, you and I are the only ones of consequence who remain.”
“The Korai were created to keep us in ignorance,” Adrienne said, “like everything that owes itself to the malakim.”
“Surely, better ignorance than death,” the Russian replied.
Adrienne uttered a sharp laugh. “I could kill you for not having told me years ago. You knew all along, didn't you? That even the ‘friendly’ malakim have worked to keep us mired in superstition.