Chapter 10. The King’s Closet at the Tuileries

We now leave Villefort on his swift journey to Paris, his carriage drawn by spectral horses spurred onward by the jangle of triple-paid enchanted coins. After miles of moonlit roads, he arrives at the opulent Tuileries palace, passing through a succession of grand corridors and ornate chambers until he reaches the private office of King Louis XVIII. This small room, featuring a graceful arched window that once offered sanctuary to both Napoleon and the recently restored Bourbon monarchy, now serves the needs of Louis Philippe. Here, surrounded by hints of history—like an old walnut table saved from the ruins of Hartwell's vault—the king sits, half-listening to a distinguished courtier while marking notes in a cherished, rune-etched edition of Gryphius's commentary on Horace.

"You were saying, sir…?" the king prompts, glancing up from his marginal scribblings.

"That I'm quite worried, Your Majesty," replies the dignitary, a man in his early fifties with silvered hair and the refined bearing of one accustomed to courtly life in this enchanted realm.

"Worried enough to dream of the seven fat cows and the seven lean cows?" the king asks with a faintly amused sparkle in his eyes.

"No, sire, such a vision might warn of seven years of plenty and seven of famine. But under your wise rule, famine is hardly a threat," the man counters smoothly.

"Well then, what's troubling you, dear Blacas?" the king inquires.

"Sire, I fear unrest is brewing in the southern provinces," M. de Blacas explains, his voice hushed and serious. "Strange reports from Languedoc, Provence, and Dauphiné speak of secret gatherings and whispered plots. I beg Your Majesty to send reliable agents to learn the true mood of the people."

"Canimus surdis," the king murmurs, jotting a quick note beside a line of Horace.

"Sire," Blacas continues with a subdued laugh, "France may love Your Majesty, but these rumors are too consistent for comfort. I suspect Napoleon's old supporters are stirring again."

"Napoleon?" the king echoes, leaning forward. "You mean Bonaparte? But he's exiled—who remains to threaten us?"

Blacas lowers his voice. "His followers are still loyal, Sire, clinging to hopes of his return, and I worry they're scheming to bring him back."

The king sets down his quill. "My dear Blacas, your alarms keep me from my studies."

"And you, Sire, keep me up at night with all your requests for tighter security," interjects another voice—a slightly nervous figure, the minister of police, standing nearby with one hand gripping the back of a chair.

"Wait, my good sir," the king says, motioning for calm. "I'm noting something fascinating here in Horace—just a moment and then I'll lend you my full attention."

He scratches another note in the margin. Finally, he sets the book aside and fixes Blacas with an inquisitive gaze. "Now, dear duke, you have my attention. Please continue."

"Sire," Blacas says in a soft, urgent tone, "I haven't come here just to share rumors. A very serious informant—someone I trust completely—arrived via enchanted courier. He warns that a genuine threat endangers Your Majesty's throne. That's why I asked to see you so quickly."

"Mala ducis avi domum," the king murmurs under his breath, tapping a finger on the open page of Horace.

"Should I set this aside, Sire?" asks Blacas, uncertain if the king wishes to hear more.

"Not at all, my dear duke," replies the king. "But please reach out for that paper—yes, the one to my left. That's the minister of police's report from yesterday. And speak of the devil, here is M. Dandré himself."

Right on cue, M. Dandré enters, bowing respectfully. The king greets him with a subtle smile. "Welcome, Baron. Share with the duke everything you've discovered about Bonaparte's latest doings. Don't hold back. We need to know if Elba truly threatens to erupt like a volcano, sending that usurper hurtling back onto our shores—bella, horrida bella, as Horace said."

Dandré, pale as if carrying grave secrets, clasps his hands behind the carved wooden chair in front of him. "Has Your Majesty read my report from yesterday?"

"I have," the king replies, "but I need you to explain it in detail for the duke. Summarize what's going on around Elba and how likely Bonaparte is to move. Don't spare any unsettling facts."

Dandré begins a careful account of worrying signals from the island: suspicious gatherings, coded letters, and rumors of ships being equipped with supplies, possibly bound for Naples, Tuscany, or even France itself. The king listens closely, occasionally dropping in a wry comment or an ancient Latin phrase, while courtiers exchange uneasy looks. The talk shifts between lofty rhetoric and stark reality—Napoleon's faint shadow still looms over the realm.

"Justum et tenacem propositi virum," the king muses, quoting Horace yet again, perhaps wishing for loyal men to stand firm if a crisis erupts.

de Blacas and the others lower their voices, delving into possible responses and the potential capture of Bonapartist plotters. The air in the regal chamber grows tense, thick with both anxious speculation and forced optimism. Then, at the height of these deliberations, an unanticipated visitor is announced: Villefort.

All eyes turn toward the entryway. Villefort, dusty from his hurried trip, stands out among the splendid attire of the Tuileries. M. de Brezé, master of ceremonies, practically sputters at the impropriety of allowing someone so plainly dressed into the king's presence. Yet the Duc de Blacas utters a single instruction—His Majesty's command—and that is enough to quiet any protest. Villefort steps forward.

Seated where Blacas once stood, King Louis XVIII. beckons Villefort over. "Welcome, M. de Villefort," he says kindly, ignoring the dusty clothes and focusing on the urgency in Villefort's expression.

Villefort bows, stopping a few paces short. The king studies him for a moment and then speaks. "So, the Duc de Blacas informs me you have something most urgent to share. Is it about these rumors of Bonaparte's mischief?"

"Yes, Sire," Villefort replies, voice unsteady from exhaustion and determination. "I've come with critical news. May I confirm that our situation is as serious as I believe?"

"According to these gentlemen," the king says, gesturing toward M. de Blacas and M. Dandré, "it appears so. But please, go on."

"Sire, I hurried here the moment I uncovered the scale of this conspiracy," Villefort explains. "This is far more than petty plotting—it's a genuine threat to Your Majesty's throne. The so-called 'usurper' on the Isle of Elba is preparing three ships, apparently with plans to sail either to Italy or, worse, to France itself. I've also learned that Napoleon has been quietly maintaining contacts in both countries. It looks as though he's trying to rebuild his old power."

"That matches what I've heard of secret Bonapartist gatherings," the king says, frowning. "Word has come from the Rue Saint-Jacques of coded messages and midnight meetings. How did you confirm all this, M. de Villefort?"

"Sire," Villefort replies, "I was investigating a troublesome sailor in Marseilles—someone I suspected of dangerous leanings. Right before I left for Paris, I had him arrested. He'd recently gone to Elba and had spoken with the grand marshal there. Before leaving, the marshal entrusted him with a coded message meant for a Bonapartist in Paris, intended to stir support for Napoleon's return."

"Where is that sailor now?" the king demands.

"In prison, awaiting further orders, Sire," Villefort says, his brow creased with tension.

"This matter is quite serious for you, personally?" the king asks, catching the strain in Villefort's voice.

"It is, Sire," Villefort admits, sighing. "I had to leave on the very day of my engagement festivities just to deliver this report. Duty demanded it."

"Ah yes," the king notes quietly. "You're betrothed to Mademoiselle de Saint-Méran, correct? A loyal family to the crown."

"Yes, Sire," Villefort says. "A family that has always supported Your Majesty."

"Well, then," the king says, "tell me what you propose. We've heard the minister's thoughts—what do you think we should do?"

"Sire, I believe we must treat this seriously," Villefort insists. "No half-measures. It's not just talk of rebellion; it's a real conspiracy. That leads me to address M. Dandré's role here—"

Just then, King Louis XVIII.'s voice breaks in, equal parts humor and command. "Ah, speak of M. Dandré. Right on cue!" calls de Blacas, turning as the minister of police hurries back into the room, visibly rattled.

Villefort bows slightly, making way for M. Dandré to approach the king's desk. He is about to slip quietly aside, but M. de Blacas grabs his arm, halting him. The tension in the chamber intensifies. Some urgent exchange is about to unfold, and Villefort, dusty attire and all, will remain at the center of this grave matter.