Chapter 25: The Warning: I
While Villefort raced toward Paris at breakneck speed, thanks to triple the usual payment to the carriage drivers, let’s shift our attention to the royal palace. In a small, arched-windowed room that had served as the private study for three kings, the current monarch sat absorbed in his work.
King Louis XVIII lounged in his favorite chair, making notes in the margins of an ancient book of poetry. Despite being in his sixties with graying hair, he maintained the refined bearing of nobility, dressed impeccably as always. Across from him stood a well-dressed man in his fifties, clearly agitated about something.
"You were saying?" the king prompted, not looking up from his book.
"Your Majesty, I’m deeply concerned," the man replied.
"Really? Are you having prophetic dreams now?" The king’s tone was mildly amused.
"No, sire. But if I were, they would only predict seven good years followed by seven bad ones. With a king as wise as yourself, I’m not worried about hard times."
"Then what exactly has you so worried, my dear Blacas?"
"Sire, I have every reason to believe trouble is brewing in the southern regions."
The king finally looked up, a slight smile playing on his lips. "My dear duke, I think you’re misinformed. From what I know, the weather down south is perfectly fine." Louis XVIII enjoyed his little jokes, even in serious moments.
"Your Majesty," Blacas continued, "even if it’s just to put your faithful servant’s mind at ease, would you consider sending trusted agents to the southern provinces? Men who could bring back accurate reports about the mood of the people there?"
The king muttered something in Latin and returned to his annotations.
Blacas laughed nervously, pretending to understand the classical reference. "Your Majesty may be right to trust in the people’s loyalty, but I fear I’m not wrong to worry about some desperate attempt."
"By whom?"
"By Bonaparte, or at least, by his supporters."
"My dear Blacas," the king sighed, "your constant alarms are preventing me from working."
"And your confidence, sire, is preventing me from sleeping."
"Wait just a moment. I have such a delightful note to make here... wait, and then I’ll listen to you properly."
There was a brief pause while Louis XVIII scribbled another tiny note in his book’s margin. Then, looking at the duke with the expression of someone who thinks they’re being original while merely echoing someone else’s thoughts, he said, "Go ahead, my dear duke. You have my attention."
"Sire," Blacas said, sensing an opportunity, "I must tell you these aren’t just baseless rumors causing my concern. A serious, trustworthy man, someone I have complete confidence in, whom I’ve tasked with monitoring the south, has traveled here by urgent courier to tell me that great danger threatens the king. That’s why I rushed to you immediately."
The king continued his Latin muttering and note-taking.
"Does Your Majesty wish me to drop the subject?"
"Not at all, my dear duke. But reach your hand out."
"Which one?"
"Either one, to your left."
"Here, sire?"
"I said left, and you’re looking right. MY left, yes, there. You’ll find yesterday’s police report. But here comes the police minister himself."
A man entered, announced by the royal attendant.
"Come in," said Louis XVIII with barely concealed amusement. "Come in, Baron, and tell the duke everything you know about Bonaparte’s latest activities. Don’t hide anything, no matter how serious. Let’s see, the island of Elba is like a volcano, and we might expect war to erupt from it at any moment."
The police minister, Baron Dandré, leaned respectfully against a chair with both hands and said, "Has Your Majesty read yesterday’s report?"
"Yes, yes. But tell the duke yourself, he can’t seem to find anything useful in it. Give him the details about what the usurper is doing on his little island."
"Sir," the baron addressed the duke, "all of His Majesty’s servants should be pleased with our latest intelligence from Elba. Bonaparte-"
Dandré glanced at the king, who was still writing and didn’t even look up.
"Bonaparte," the baron continued, "is desperately bored and spends entire days watching his miners work at the harbor."
"And scratches himself for entertainment," the king added casually.
"Scratches himself?" the duke asked, confused. "What does Your Majesty mean?"
"Indeed, my dear duke. Did you forget that this great man, this hero, this so-called demigod, suffers from a skin condition that torments him constantly? It’s quite irritating, literally."
"Furthermore, my dear duke," the police minister continued, "we’re almost certain that the usurper will soon lose his mind completely."
"Lose his mind?"
"Raving mad. His mental state is deteriorating rapidly. Sometimes he weeps uncontrollably, other times he laughs like a maniac. He spends hours on the beach throwing stones into the water, and when a flat stone skips five or six times across the surface, he becomes as delighted as if he’d won a major battle. Surely you’ll agree these are clear signs of insanity."
"Or of wisdom, my dear baron, or of wisdom," said Louis XVIII, chuckling. "The greatest military commanders of ancient times also amused themselves by throwing pebbles into the ocean. Read your history."
Blacas found himself caught between the confident king and the seemingly well-informed minister. Villefort, who hadn’t wanted to reveal everything in case someone else took credit for the discovery, had shared just enough information to cause serious alarm.
"Well, Dandré," said Louis XVIII, "Blacas isn’t convinced yet. Let’s move on to the usurper’s religious conversion, shall we?"
The police minister bowed.
"The usurper’s conversion!" the duke murmured, looking back and forth between the king and minister. "Bonaparte converted?"
"Absolutely, my dear duke."
"Converted to what?"
"To proper principles. Tell him about it, baron."
"Well, here’s what happened," the minister said with complete seriousness. "Napoleon recently held a military review, and when two or three of his old veterans expressed desire to return to France, he dismissed them and urged them to ’serve the rightful king.’ Those were his exact words, I’m certain of it."
"Well, Blacas, what do you think of that?" the king asked triumphantly, pausing in his scholarly work.
"I say, sire, that either the police minister is greatly mistaken, or I am. Since it’s impossible for the minister to be wrong, as he’s responsible for Your Majesty’s safety and honor, it’s probably me who’s in error. However, sire, if I might suggest, Your Majesty should question the person I mentioned earlier. I strongly urge you to grant him that honor."
"Very well, duke. Under your guidance, I’ll receive whoever you wish, but don’t expect me to be overly trusting. Baron, do you have any reports more recent than this one dated February 20th? Today is March 3rd."
"No, sire, but I’m expecting one hourly. It may have arrived since I left my office."
"Go check, and if there isn’t one... well," Louis XVIII continued with a wry smile, "make one up. That’s the usual procedure, isn’t it?"
"Oh, sire," the minister replied, "we have no need to invent anything. Every day our desks overflow with detailed accusations from crowds of people hoping for some reward for services they want to provide but can’t. They’re gambling on fortune and hoping some unexpected event will somehow justify their predictions."
"Very well, go," said Louis XVIII. "And remember, I’ll be waiting."
"I’ll just go and return immediately, sire. I’ll be back in ten minutes."