The Gardens of the King: A Historical Comedy

By Andrew Glenn

Ben Franklin, the ambassador to France, and Marie Antoinette, the queen of France, have been kidnapped!

George Washington sends Colonels Hamilton and Burr, Captain Adlum, and secret agent 351, Elizabeth Schuyler, to France, and they meet up with Beaumarchais, the kings right-hand man, in wild pursuit across Bavaria. All this time, Franklin has been having an affair with Marie Antoinette in a castle in Bavaria, who is part of a Europe-wide plot to stop the American War of Independence, a position very much at odds with her husbands. But Franklin, held against his will in a castle in Bavaria, is too clever for the best minds of Europe and breaks free of his captors in a balloon chase across the Black Forest. All along, the king of France has been having marital problems, and in the end, Ben reunites the king and queen, and America gets its funding from the king for the war of independence, now in its second year.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Nov 26, 2014
• ISBN: 9781503516694

Andrew Glenn

Andrew Glenn is a true Renaissance man, having made significant contributions to the arts in theater, literature, and music in his forty-five-year career. He is mentioned in Annette Lust’s From the Greek Mimes to Marcel Marceau and Beyond, and his poetry has appeared in the Pulitzer Prize–winning Winning Hearts and Minds: An Anthology of Vietnam War Era Poets. In the ’80s, after a career in modern dance, he established the Mime Theater of Andrew Glenn in Seattle, Washington. His creations had appeared in the Moscow Festival for the Arts in 1990, and he has appeared on TV in California and Washington and performed in the choreography of Martha Graham. Returning to singing, his first love, he established House of Song, giving over six hundred recitals. In 2001, he sang German lieder for the German cultural attaché to the UN in Philadelphia. Gardens of the King is his second novel. He lives half the year in Saint Paul, Minnesota, and the other half in Marburg, Germany, where he is an active translator of German poetry.

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Copyright © 2014 by Andrew Glenn.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2014920442

ISBN:      Softcover      978-1-5035-1668-7

                eBook           978-1-5035-1669-4

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Attribution: some rights reserved by perpetualplum.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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Rev. date: 02/05/2015

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CONTENTS

1 Paris

2 Abduction

3 Sanctuary

4 Norristown, Pennsylvania

5 The Crossing

6 Arrival

7 Pursuit

8 Rescue

9 Return

10 The Salon

11 The Conversation

12 Going Home

Henry Kissinger:

"Chairman Mao, what do you think the effect the

French Revolution will be 200 years from now?"

Chairman Mao:

I don’t know, it is too early to tell.

THE TALE

1

PARIS

November 1777

The stage flew down the country lane south of Paris under a full moon with a howling gale at its back. The iron rims of the coach screeched around a sharp turn, nearly throwing Bodo the dwarf off its back, where he was hanging on to luggage straps with all his might. The devilish wind straddled the coach’s roof and shook its passengers from side to side while four black stallions strained at their halters, muscles and veins glistening in the moonlight. The driver and horses united in an earnest effort, and the sharp crack of the driver’s whip sounded like a pistol shot rebounding off the low stone walls of the roadway. As the coach teetered for a perilous moment, the leather brakes screamed in protest. The coach’s iron rims tore into the gravel roadway, startling a flock of emaciated vultures that flapped their cumbrous leather wings and rose lethargically from a cropped poplar tree. Not far behind them, four riders in black capes kept a steady distance but never closed.

If one could see within the coach, an observer might conclude that five Benedictine monks were in a rush to get to church. In truth, the coach bore five of the most powerful men of their time: the dauphin, Louis XVI, king of France; Comte Pierre-Augustin Beaumarchais, playwright and inventor and the eyes and ears of the king; inventor and statesman Benjamin Franklin, commissioner and ambassador to France from the recently declared United States of America; Eugene, archduke of Baden-Durlach; and lastly, the mysterious comte St. Germain, rumored to be the head of the High Church of the Illuminati and a composer, violinist, businessman, adventurer, alchemist, and spy.

Comte St. Germain, please, can you explain why I have to wear this blindfold when I am in the company of people I can trust? These scratchy old monk habits are also most uncomfortable, Dr. Benjamin Franklin said.

We cannot risk you divulging the location of the meeting should we be waylaid and you are tortured or otherwise forced to divulge information, St. Germain said gently.

And to think I brought reading glasses to the world, and I’m trotting around France with a blindfold on? Franklin said.

The other three men laughed.

I have heard that a man cannot breathe over forty miles per hour, the king said.

Have a swig of this, Doctor. It will make you feel better, Archduke Eugene offered. Eugene was the next in line to be the markgrave of Baden-Durlach in the duchy of Baden-Württemberg.

Sorry, I don’t drink, Archduke, Franklin croaked, jostled by the coach as it skidded around a corner.

With all the wonderful French wines available, to be a teetotaler in France, you are like a fish walking on land, St. Germain said.

Beaumarchais slapped St. Germain on the back with his characteristic guffaw that was always too loud.

You would drink, Dr. Franklin, if you were married to Marie Antoinette, the young king of France said with the conviction and maturity of an older man.

Louis runs faster than forty miles per hour when his wife chases him with a skillet, Beaumarchais said.

The four men had a merry laugh at Louis’s expense.

I don’t know whether to be offended by you, Beaumarchais, or just join in the good humor, the king said, feeling better. He passed the green bottle of absinthe back to the archduke of Baden.

Eugene Friedrich was so tall he had to sit bent over with his chin on his chest.

Do not worry, my liege. You can always chop off his head.

Louis was half the age of the other men, and in Franklin’s case, he was forty-five years younger. He was never sure when his security deputy was violating the limits of propriety regarding his power, especially when Beaumarchais said things in Louis’s presence that could be construed as speaking for him.

Suddenly, the footman lying prostrate on the roof fired his musket at the pursuers. The five men instinctively ducked.

Who are those men following us Beaumarchais? the king said with a touch of fear in his voice.

I suspect it is Casanova and his spies. Casanova probably thinks that Marie is here with us. The shot should warn them off, Eugene said.

Just then, the coach took a violent lurch, and Franklin fell forward onto the seat in front of him, landing in the embrace of Archduke Eugene of Baden. The archduke gently placed the aging Franklin back on his seat. The tiny window leading to the driver slid open, and the grizzled beard of the frigid driver appeared.

The coast is clear. The bandits vanished when Bodo fired his flintlock.

Bodo was an excellent shot. He was also the king’s entertainer.

Franklin looked appalled. I am getting too old for these kinds of adventures.

Do not worry as to the effect of the shot, Dr. Franklin. There was no ball in the chamber, the archduke said, letting loose with another loud guffaw.

The young king turned to speak to Franklin. Please forgive these clandestine discomforts, Dr. Franklin. You and I must not be seen in public together. I cannot receive you in court quite yet. My ministers would be most unhappy if they knew that your cause was being financed surreptitiously through Beaumarchais. He nodded toward Beaumarchais. I can receive you in court when the American rebellion is on firmer ground. Please forgive me.

You’re forgiven, Your Majesty. I still do not understand how the High Church of the Illuminati works. Tell me more.

I will let St. Germain tell you, the king said, nodding toward St. Germain.

St. Germain spoke evenly. You are witnessing an unprecedented period in history. Almost all of the Freemasons have come together under my guidance. We are making progress. The other lodge heads are willing to follow these principles that I insist upon, and we have formed a loose confederation. This new entity unites all of the lodges. Over the last few months, we have agreed that heads of state are allowed to be members of the inner circle as well.

Are you not afraid of spies and ne’er-do-wells and incompetent heads of state? Franklin asked.

I have divided the society into parts: an outer and an inner. You are being inducted into the inner circle. The inner circle is made up of those we can trust. The outer circle is filled with insincere people who find it an entertainment—who are more interested in their daily lives of power and personal advancement rather than making sacrifices for society. We only allow people who have a record of contribution and integrity.

They turned to see the driver’s face in the window that divided the driver from the coach proper. The pane of glass slid aside. The pursuers have disappeared, my liege.

"Merci, Philip."

The coach slowed as the stagecoach came to a small hill.

St. Germain continued. We do not want the high church to be a playground for the idle rich. The inner circle only invites people who are sincere in serving a higher purpose. You are one of these people. It is fine if King Louis is a member or Marie, but it is the sincerity that is the issue. Many of them want to join because their friends join. Perhaps they are bored or maybe they seek something more in life. They are allowed to go to the highest ranks in the outer church but will be forever kept from the inner church. As a matter of fact, they have no idea it exists. I must insist on your word on this—that you not divulge this fact to anyone outside of the circle. The outer church is a kind of test. It gives them the rituals and trappings and tells them things they want to hear. Only the pure of heart can enter the inner church. It is very easy to spot those who are sincere and those who are not. The sincere place their wealth and ability at the disposal of the cause, but they do not interfere.

I am flattered. It is becoming clearer to me, Franklin said. This is the way the Secret Committee of Correspondence is structured in the Americas. They are very careful on who becomes a member. The young Adlum is the head of one of the county committees in Maryland, in spite of his age. Is there divisiveness in the high church of which you are the head?

There is so much fighting between Freemason lodges. Somehow I was picked because the heads of lodges thought I was a disinterested party. Of course, I have my own views about how our mission should be accomplished, St. Germain said.

The coach slowed and pulled between two pillars topped with lion heads. Franklin was helped out of the coach by St. Germain. They proceeded up a cinder walk, and Archduke Eugene took an enormous iron key from his coat and inserted it into the ancient lock. There was a loud click, and he pulled mightily, but the iron door would not budge. He kicked it violently and then was able to pull open the eight-foot-high bronze door.

Archduke Eugene Friedrich of Baden-Durlach was six feet eleven and weighed close to four hundred pounds.

Giants like Eugene must have walked the earth when this thing was made, Franklin cracked. Not to get too biblical, but perhaps you were one of the giants in the earth that is spoken of in the Bible.

Eugene, the supreme egotist, bowed and smiled with pleasure at the flattery. Thank you, your eminence. I am sure it is simply a matter of destiny of which I am not aware, Ambassador Franklin.

I am not sure what you are saying, Archduke Eugene, Franklin said.

The door gave a groan and a screech, and Franklin could feel warm air on his face.

We’re in. Lantern, please. Eugene signaled to Beaumarchais.

Beaumarchais passed the sulfur lamp to the giant. Before them was a second door made of finely carved walnut. Beaumarchais removed a glove from his right hand and rapped on the door three times, paused, and then rapped twice more. There was a short pause before an elderly footman greeted them. The doorman demanded the password.

The stairway from the past rises to the future, Beaumarchais replied in Latin.

The stars are our beacon, the doorman said, standing back, and the five entered wordlessly.

Beaumarchais removed Franklin’s blindfold, and Franklin was momentarily blinded in spite of the darkness of the late-afternoon storm. He squinted, digging in his vest for his bifocals. He could hardly believe what was before him. He was facing a corridor of polished blond Italian marble that vanished into a point perhaps a hundred feet away, where he could see a tiny door. Along the corridor were busts of the great men of history, and above them were lamps of oil. Franklin stepped up to one of the lamps and noticed that there was an opening in the ceiling through which the flue of the lamp extended, thus letting the fumes escape. The flues created drafts for the lamps, which were held by sculpted human arms spaced some twenty feet apart on both sides of the corridor.

These use the same principle as my Franklin stove, Beaumarchais, Franklin said with cheerful pride.

Let us proceed, gentlemen, the doorman said, leading them down the corridor to the green door at the end.

So tell me, Beaumarchais, where are we? Franklin inquired.

We are outside a small village—the identity of which must remain secret. The church has been meeting here for centuries. It has authority over all Masonic Freemasons and Illuminati, and Comte St. Germain is the grand master. I hope you enjoy the initiation.

Franklin looked at St. Germain, who had a smile on his youthful face. His teeth were pure white, and he had one gold tooth, a right incisor that twinkled in the lamplight. Something about St. Germain irritated Franklin. The man seemed too happy and fortunate for his own good.

I thought we were going to a local French Masonic lodge, St. Germain?

I apologize for tricking you, St. Germain said. We are safe now, and I can be candid and will answer any of your questions. The high church is the last hope for France.

Franklin gulped. So I am being initiated into the high church, not just the Illuminati?

I am sorry to have misled you on so small a point, Beaumarchais said, tweaking the ends of his well-oiled mustache. Don’t worry, Dr. Franklin. These rituals aren’t as spooky as you may have heard. You can always refuse the induction ceremony if you feel rushed. You won’t be dipped in oil or covered with feathers. It is really an honorary membership.

I will accept, Comte, Franklin said. It would be an honor. Franklin noticed a woman at the far end of the hall. I thought women were excluded?

No, they are not. Does their inclusion bother you, Dr. Franklin? St. Germain asked.

Not at all. I never thought I would see the day when women were allowed to be members, Franklin said with a hearty grin.

The Château of the Palace of Versailles

The century, in all its feudal splendor and royal decadence, was fast coming to a close. Louis XVI was facing insuperable problems as king of France. The king stood in the chill wind on the second-story north balcony of the Château Versailles, located fifteen miles southwest of Paris. He gazed past the flower beds to the Parterre d’Eau, the man-made rectangular pond one hundred feet from his balcony. The surface of the pond eddied from winds blowing from the east, and he marveled at the tranquility of several ducks that moved in gentle circles on the surface of the water. From his second-story balcony, he contemplated the sunlight on the bleak English garden with its desolate tulip beds. The flowers were gone, but the tiny cedars that constituted the geometric hedges were still green and offered a striking memory of its summer splendor. On the rim of the Basin d’Apolon, the reclining statue of Poseidon glistened in the sun. It was late fall; the tulips had faded, and their bulbs slumbered in their frosty beds. He was sad that winter was coming. In this tranquil setting, he felt isolated from Paris and its problems, and he felt frustrated that there was so little he could do to remedy the suffering of his people.

Louis’s mood had turned for the better when he was jarred from his reverie by Marie Antoinette’s small shoe hitting the back of his head. He spun around to find the petite queen glaring at him with a beet-red face, and he knew there would be a cascade of angry words soon. He was not particularly surprised. This had happened before.

You bastard. I saw you ogling little Magarete last night, you lecher! She bent her right leg over her left knee and started to remove her remaining shoe.

He put up his hands. He loved Marie and couldn’t bear the thought of striking her.

The chambermaid also found dirty drawings under our bed, and you had tried to conceal them under the mattress!

No, Marie, you don’t understand.

She threw her second shoe at him, and he ducked. The shoe sailed through the window. Louis was strong, robust, and athletic, but he felt powerless when Marie threw one of her jealous fits.

Oh yes, I understand. You don’t make love to me anymore. You lie in bed and fall asleep dreaming about the American colonists fighting your hated enemy. Merde! Horse manure! Now you are mooning over that little tart. Her blue eyes flashed.

Let me explain, he cooed. God, he thought; his sweet Austrian cream puff was becoming an angry, frustrated harridan.

Don’t give me excuses. The doctor says you are a man, so act like it.

Marie, what has gotten into you? You cannot command love.

I don’t care. We need an heir to carry on the monarchy. The people are laughing at us. What do you want me to do, bring that little tart to our bed so you can get an erection?

Louis brightened a moment at the thought. We might adopt.

Oh, baloney. The people would know.

We could go and steal someone’s baby.

A tear ran down Louis’s cheek. Marie stopped short and stared at Louis.

Oh yes, I know you are a sensitive man. Go ahead and cry if you want. She turned in a huff and left the room. She stomped back in, wearing her silk stockings. And remember, we must meet Commissioner Franklin in two hours to drop him off at Café Procope.

He sat down at the window seat on the outside balcony and turned his gaze at the gardens, a serpentine maze that people liked to walk through when the weather was nice. People talked behind his back. They whispered he might be a homosexual. But he would show them—yes, he would. Louis would make his mark.

Marie was drying her tears when Madame Colon sat down next to her, putting her arm around her shoulder.

My sweet, do not weep. Wasted tears are wasted joy, Madame Colon said.

He ignores me, and I feel like nothing.

He is only a man. You must accept men for what they are. After two years, a man starts looking around at other women. It is the way of nature. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be a man, Madame Colon said.

I know this, but he is troubled, and I feel helpless, the queen said.

That is because you are trying to control him. As wives, it is our duty to provide succor and comfort to our men, but we must know when it is no longer possible to help. I sense there is something else bothering you, Marie.

Marie stood and spun about. You are counseling me to be a doormat, Francine.

Marie, please understand. There are things that are in your power to change, and there are things that will never change, Madame Colon said quietly.

Louis’s priorities are wrong. I am angry that he is handling the affairs of state as he does. He should not throw money at the American cause.

I do not understand.

He is on the wrong path. He is permitting needed funds to be sent to the Americans when the money should be used here to help the people.

Have you spoken seriously to him of this?

Yes, and he says I should keep my nose out of foreign affairs. He says I am too young to understand these things. Please do not speak in riddles, Francine, the queen said.

Marie, I have known you since you were a child. As a woman, you can influence him in subtle ways.

What does that mean?

You think of every excuse in the world to be weak. Do what you have to do.

The comte St. Germain and Ben Franklin were guests of Louis XVI and shared a large apartment on the east side of the Palace of Versailles. It provided them a view of the two ponds within the enormous, six-acre French gardens. St. Germain was an agent ex officio. He was older than Ben Franklin but youthful and spry. He was teaching Franklin calisthenics that he learned in the Orient. They stood together on the oak floor after clearing a table out of the way. Both wore fencing tights made of scratchy wool, and loose silk shirts for easy movement.

"First of all, Dr. Franklin, I will introduce you to what are called asanas. An asana is a posture in the art of yoga. I will demonstrate." St. Germain clasped both hands together over his head and bent back.

I call that a back bend, Comte.

It is more than a back bend. This asana symbolizes flexibility, St. Germain said with a trace of smugness on his face.

Franklin bent back, and his back popped loudly. Oh dear, what was that?

That was your vertebrae moving back into position, Doctor. It also means you are not as flexible in life as you think.

Franklin rubbed his chin in thought. If you step on a crack, you break your mother’s back!

Eh, I don’t understand, Doctor, St. Germain said.

You know, you have a point there. I never let my wife get her way. And my son hates me. I think it is because I am stubborn.

This is the point of yoga. Your body reflects your behavior. This next position is called the downward dog. St. Germain kneeled, and after bringing his palms together over his head, he stretched forward like a plow.

Now I will execute the cobra, St. Germain said, lifting his head and arching his back. Sacre bleu! he suddenly squealed and jumped to his feet, rubbing his behind.

Did you pull a muscle? I can tell that some cobra bit you in the butt recently!

Even the great St. Germain can pull a muscle.

The next day, Benjamin Franklin slipped into the shabby coach formally owned by Beaumarchais. It was used by the king and queen and disguised them well in spite of the fact that it was followed by a retinue of soldiers some distance away. The king and queen would slip away unseen to Paris from the servants’ entrance. Louis wore a long, fake beard and mustache, and Marie kept her hair under a red wig. The disguises were really unnecessary since they rode with the shades down completely. Each shade had a peephole.

Good morning, American genius, Marie said brightly. I hope you are feeling well today.

I am fine, madame. Early to bed and early to rise maketh a man wealthy and wise.

Oh drivel, Franklin. I prefer to sleep in, the king said.

If everyone did that, you’d have no Shakespeares, no Handels, Marie said.

You mean getting up at ten a.m. makes one more gifted? Franklin countered.

Exactly, Dr. Franklin. I really must agree, Ambassador Franklin. Even that indulgent ass Beaumarchais doesn’t get to bed before three, and that’s probably with a ten-year-old boy. Louis pulled the leather shade down so no one could see in.

Wasn’t Beaumarchais his friend? Franklin thought. Why does he call him an ass?

Franklin chuckled to himself. His eyes roved over the boyish disguise of Marie. She would be a good actress with her love of dissembling. They were both up for a good time. Franklin felt his loins stir as the royal coach bounced through the narrow Rue Saint Dominique. She is so svelte and fiery. Hmm, if he doesn’t want her, I’ll take her, if Louis isn’t up to it.

Louis sat across from them, engrossed in a book.

What is wrong with him? Franklin mused. Such a pretty wife going to waste.

As the coach passed out of the gates of the château, a tall middle-aged man dressed in workman’s clothes leaned inconspicuously against a sugar maple across from the gate. His eyes followed the coach as it turned right. His name was Giacomo Casanova, an Italian gentleman some believed to have been born to quality. He was no longer young, but at fifty-three, he still had a strong and commanding appearance. He was smoking a small cigar and wore a gray peasant’s chapeau. He watched as the coach turned right onto the Avenue Saint Cloud, the main road toward Paris. He caught a glimpse of the queen as she pulled down the leather shade on the grimy old coach. He felt the old energies of conquest stir deep in his soul. Ever since he had arrived in Paris, he had lusted for her. True, at twenty-one, she was half his age and unobtainable, but like an experienced hunter, he indulged the fantasy of the chase and considered her seduction a challenge. He watched four ordinarily dressed horsemen come through the gate a minute later and saw the cropped tails of their horses fade into the distance on the dusty road. They were the royal guards, and they would assume a careful distance.

He was sympathetic to factions that wanted to see the end of Louis and Marie’s reign. He was a spy in a time of spies and would sell his information to the highest bidder. He believed that Louis and Marie had no idea of his clandestine allegiance to a small revolutionary faction. He had a job in the library at Versailles, working for Madame Colon, an intimate of Marie. He was getting closer to his quarry, and he knew it. He toyed with the thought of making love to the queen of France. Just the thought was an aphrodisiac for him. Such an opportunity was just a fantasy, but for him, a sexual conquest was the highest form of religious experience—even his reason for being alive. He tried to explain this to others. It all began at sixteen when he was introduced to love by the Balleau sisters. In the repressed environment in which he grew up, the two sisters taught him about another world quite different from the brutal world he faced—the brutal world of expectations placed on his manhood. Would a young man become a soldier and die a miserable death? Should he, the gifted and handsome Casanova, become a mere scribe in some dusty church? The two sisters taught him that love and pleasure and creativity could come together in a fulfilling life. They urged him on as a writer and playwright. Now, at fifty-two, he felt he had lived an authentic life—a life of adventure, literature, and music—and he had even written a play. Yes, he had earned a reputation as a seducer. He had lived dangerously. He became an army officer, a lawyer, a businessman, an adventurer, and a writer. And he had a reputation.

He tried to explain to Madame Colon that he wasn’t a womanizer but a man who loved women and loved life. Would his confidant, Madame Colon, betray his feelings to the queen? He tried to tell her that he didn’t look down on or hate the two ladies. He truly loved them but simply couldn’t settle for one. Since when was the act of marriage an admission of true love and respect? He was not after trophies or notches on his belt but the thrill of coming together with a woman on a deep level.

He was proud of his 120 affairs. His salad days were slowly coming to an end, and he knew it. But these were not ordinary seductions, cheap trysts on the side. At least he had memories he could forever cherish. He had pursued the finest society ladies with gusto, wooed them with determination and creativity, and made love to them as if each were the last. French society, of course, interpreted it differently.

Someday he would write his memoirs, and the world would remember him. They would remember him as a man of conquests and daring—of deep feeling and high seriousness. They would remember him as someone who spoke publicly of the corruption of church doctrine and how the churchmen used their power to oppress the common man. Yes, they would remember him for being more than a seducer and chaser of skirts. He fantasized about the queen. She was so close—so very close. He could still smell her perfume. Marie Antoinette was next. How he wanted her.

He became bitter for being expelled from the doge’s castle and finally thrown out of Italy for vilifying the church. He would seek revenge. His life had not turned out the way he had hoped. He was jealous of Beaumarchais’s success as a playwright, and the playwright was the king’s right-hand man. Casanova had written a play called Molucheide, but it had not done as well. And then there was that little creep, that imposter St. Germain. He was a spy behind Louis’s back; Casanova was convinced of that. The people were desperate for anything that cushioned them against harsh reality. He felt St. Germain was no great mystic but a simple entertainer and a charlatan. At one time, he, Casanova, drew bigger crowds with his entertainments than Cagliostro. The coach was gone out of sight, and he was left with his thoughts.

If he had Marie, he would show them all. He could be the real man behind the throne, not the pathetic excuse for a man like Louis. All these thoughts went through his mind that afternoon in the warm March wind as white blossoms covered the apple trees lining the road. He was jarred from his thoughts by a warm feeling on his leg. A small dog was urinating on his right pant leg. He kicked at the dog and cursed him, and he threw his cigar in the dust, crushed it under the heel of his boot, and walked back to his horse, Nita, which was tied to a cropped poplar.

The royal coach-in-disguise passed Port Saint Cloud in Ville-d’Avray and turned west.

Ah, we are almost there—the Rue de l’Ancien Comedie, the king said.

There was a bump and a scream in the crowded street, and the coach came to an abrupt halt. Marie lifted a shade and peered out while wearing