“Well,” Lucien replied, “you needn’t worry about Mehevi any longer. He has fallen gravely ill.” The day after their exchange, he said, the King appeared to have descended into a mania and was confined to bedrest. His malady was unknown to the doctor. The news about the King’s illness took the people by surprise, for he was famous for his strong constitution, but they were even more surprised by the next revelation: the French had taken immediate advantage of the King’s illness to declare him unfit to rule and—pointing to the treaty Mehevi had signed with them all those years ago—annexed the island. The new Governor, who was none other than the old Resident-General, took up residence in the former Royal Palace, which was now called Government House, while the King was confined to the old Residence-General, now called the Royal Palace, where he lay in his regal bed, a king in name only.

“What was the nature of the illness that befell the King?” I asked. Lucien replied that he seemed to have lapsed into a kind of trance from which he would not be awoken. The only thing Mehevi could say was a single word, an exclamation that he repeated over and over, much to the discomfort of his attending priest: Sacrilège! He would shout it so loudly and so often that it had hastened his removal from power. The King now lived, in his enfeebled condition, shouting, “Sacrilège! Sacrilège!” over and over, day and night, from the comfort of the royal bedroom.

A shiver ran the length of my entire body. I thought of Charles shouting Crénom! over and again until the day he died.

“Tell me,” I said to Lucien, “when you first met him, how did the King react to what you told him about the crossing and about me?”

“He was most fascinated, and deemed it a story worth telling in great detail.”

“And—think back carefully before you answer me—how did his manner change upon hearing the story you had to tell?”

Lucien paused to remember the occasion. “Perhaps,” he finally replied, “if there was a change, it was a subtle one. It wasn’t anything he said so much as his bodily attitude. Yes, now that I think about it, there was a change in his demeanor. Especially in his eyes. His gaze became more inquisitive and searching, as if he was trying to hold my own. But I could not return it.”

“Why not?”

“There was something about it that made me nervous, something terrible. And besides,” he added, “Maman always taught me never to look too long in a stranger’s eyes.”