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Chapter Text

“To comprehend fully the nature of people, one must be a prince, and to comprehend fully the nature of princes one must be an ordinary citizen.” — Niccolò Machiavelli, Il Principe, “Dedication”

The Carmelite convent of the Saint-Jacques faubourg was a quiet, sombre place. The daughters of Saint Teresa only opened their mouths to sing holy hymns, and all flesh there, except for the time of prayer, kept silence before the Lord. An uninterrupted life went by unhurriedly, unperturbed by disturbances of the outside world.

A sound of scuffling steps reverberated against the stone walls that hadn’t witnessed such haste since their erection. The walls would have curled their lips, shaking their heads covered in black veils in silent indignation. But they were, to their dismay, just walls, so their expressions remained lipless and stony.

“Sister Marie, Mother Superior has asked for your presence.”

Sister Marie had been at the convent for a handful of years and worn novice habit for one, determined to take the veil ever since she’d stepped on the grounds of Saint Jacques. With her head bent low, the only thing Sister Pauline could see beneath the coif was a lock of dark hair and a pale forehead. If Sister Pauline possessed an artistic eye or particular attentiveness, she might have drawn conclusions at this point; however, Sister Pauline possessed neither.

“Sister Marie!” she called the novice again.

The novice raised her head. When a pair of pale eyes gazed at her patiently, Sister Pauline widened hers. The resemblance was rather striking. A very pressing request from Mother Superior for Sister Marie to hurry was now understandable.

Sister Marie closed her breviary and sighed. Sister Marie, on the other hand, possessed both an artistic eye and particular attentiveness, so she drew her very disappointing conclusions and stood up.

A walk to Mother Superior’s quarters was, as many things in the Carmelite convent of the Saint-Jacques faubourg, quiet, and as unhurried and undisturbed as possible. One might say Sister Marie lingered, trying to delay the inevitable, but that would be untrue. Evidently, she did nothing of the sort. Evidently.

“Sister Marie!” Mother Superior exclaimed. “The Reverend Father has just arrived with a message for you. Your family called for you. You are to depart immediately.”

She had only one family member alive. And only one family member who had any reason to call for her. Sister Marie felt at her haircloth habit.

“Should I change into—?”

“Oh, no need, child,” Mother Superior hurried her. “It’s said to be of an urgent matter.”

Sister Marie nodded and schooled her face into a mask of obedience and silently begged Lord for patience. Her family had no matter that wasn’t urgent. Or enjoyable for her.

As she bid the priestess a quick goodbye and stepped outside of the convent walls, the carriage had already been waiting for her. The footman wore a very familiar livery and opened the door in front of her with a nod of acknowledgement.

“How is he?” she asked before climbing in.

“Atrocious, Your Ladyship,” the footman replied.

Sister Marie found him in his office, standing by the window and drinking in morning Paris.

“Uncle,” she called. “I’m here.”

He turned around measuredly and stepped forward into a streak of bleak light falling through the window.

Atrocious was a gracious understatement, Sister Marie decided.

“Marie,” he breathed and smiled. “I’m glad you are here.”

“Hello, Uncle,” Sister Marie replied stiffly.

He held his hands out to her, but she didn’t budge from where she was standing. Uncle let his hands fall to his sides.

“Cut to Hecuba, then,” he said, smile gone from his features and replaced with an unreadable expression he saved for especially difficult courtiers.

“Please,” Sister Marie agreed. “I missed the Sext. I’d like to return before Nones¹”

They both knew she would not make it to the Nones.

“You’re appointed as a new lady-in-waiting.” Uncle said at last. “In the Queen’s entourage. I’ve spoken to Carmel’s Mother Superior, she has given her consent to let you go.”

Sister Marie felt her fingers clench against her will.

“Why?” she breathed. “You promised—”

“You should ask foreign spokesmen how often I keep my promises,” her uncle bristled, annoyed at her defiance. “Marie, your place is here.”

“I’m happy there!” Sister Marie exclaimed, having lost the last shreds of her self-control.

The hot spark that had been smouldering under her breastbone flared up to a flame. She took a deep breath, eyes closed, centring herself.

The Carmelite convent of the Saint-Jacques faubourg was a quiet, sombre place. The pace of life was hasteless; the habit was pitch-black draping to the ground and the headpiece covering her hair was stark white; the walls echoed nothing but silence and prayers.

She’d been in her uncle’s presence for all of five minutes, and secular life had already started to look muddled grey and contradictory.

Save me, O God, for the waters have come up to my neck.²

She begged for Lord to save her³, yet the enemy was the one closest to her.

When Sister Marie opened her eyes, she found him sitting behind his desk. A chair in front of it was loquacious enough by itself, and she reprimanded herself for not noticing it earlier. Sister Marie pitied the servant who had to drag the chair all the way down the stairs.

Her uncle had one chair for himself in his office as he didn’t favour his visitors to feel welcomed or comfortable in any way. The visitors had only an option to either stand awkwardly in front of the mahogany desk or anxiously pace, wringing their hands.

 “I am upset,” she informed her uncle, sitting down only because she didn’t want the poor servant’s efforts to be in vain. “And quite a bit furious.”

 “And you now ask why I need you at the Court,” Uncle pointed his hand at her. “I wouldn’t have been able to tell if I hadn’t known already.”

“Then I see no reason why we have a conversation at all,” Sister Marie nodded at her chair. “You could’ve spared your servants the trouble.”

Uncle left her remark unanswered and furrowed his brows, a piece of paper in hand. He’d been reading the same line for over six times now.

‘Give him six lines written by the most honest man in the world, and the devil will find enough in them to hang him’ , the insidious gossipers whispered. Marie had seen him signing death warrants because of a single look.

“Extingue flammas litium, auger calorem noxium⁴,” he quoted, frown deepening between his brows. “You are to join the entourage immediately.”

“Wonder how Her Majesty agreed to it,” she noted. Uncle raised his eyebrows eloquently, and Sister Marie suppressed a sigh. “What a pleasant surprise you prepared for her, Uncle.”

“The Queen is with child,” he continued. “I have your position at Court arranged already.”

 “As the Dauphin’s Governess?”

Uncle shook his head.

“The Queen wouldn’t let anyone who has as much as a drop of my blood near her child,” he threw the paper carelessly on top of a growing pile, evidently vexed at the Queen and her admittedly understandable paranoia. “She’d probably nurse and handle the new-born herself if she were allowed.”

“After the marriage that so regretfully ended with the death of my husband, I’d thought you will let me have peace.”

“Duty is above all,” Uncle said, rolling the words in his mouth. The words had been said so often that time, like water, wore away the stone, and stripped them of their meaning.

“My duty is to serve God.” Sister Marie said sharply. “I thought you, as a clergyman, would understand that.”

Uncle tipped back in his chair. He was cross; Sister Marie could read it in the lines on his forehead and the reddened corners of his eyes.

“I’m the First Minister of France,” he said. “I serve the state before anything else.”

“No one but you is the First Minister,” she said bitterly.

“By accepting the position, you will serve in the interests of France. God is for France.” He voiced with a sincere conviction that could probably move the mountains. And with a hidden agenda to tempt her with the riches and prestige the position entailed. “Isn’t it in God’s will for you to be His instrument, even if the ministry differs?”

Another layer of meaning. Lord, when doesn’t it feel like a walk through quicksand when talking to this man?

“I don’t rise against God, I’m simply trying to understand why my service to Him is only appropriate if it aligns with your interests.” Sister Marie bit.

“Enough.” He put aside his papers and looked straight into her eyes, as pale and large as hers. The look in his eyes, cold and impassive, of a man that had a right to expect no objections from anyone, differed. “This charade with the convent has gone for long enough. I did not take you for being so foolish to believe that I will allow your skills and assets rot behind Carmel’s walls.”

He signed another letter with a sweeping stroke, showing that the conversation is over.

Marie wasn’t surprised to discover that she couldn’t even bring herself to cry. Or shed a tear or two for a future she’d been hoping for years. Crying would mean having hopes. Her sisters were waiting for her, and she’d known she was never coming back since the moment she’d stepped outside the convent.

“Forgive me,” Sister Marie took a step back and curtseyed deeply to her uncle. “Forgive me for my outburst; it was uncouth.”

“Marie Madeleine,” he rubbed his temples. “Now is really not the time to fight.”

“I’d like to pray for now.” She said between her teeth, making her way out. “I will be at the chapel.”

“Marie.”

She was tempted to ignore his call after her, but before it had got the better of her, she forced herself to halt and turn her head.

Uncle didn’t look up but seemed to feel her hesitation as he started to speak.

 “I know you think of me as selfish — don’t say you don’t, I see it in your eyes. And maybe I am. But I need your help.” he paused. “I need you here. You see what others might miss.”

“Even you?” Sister Marie asked incredulously. Uncle had many virtues, but admitting his failings was not one of them.

“No man is omnipresent, but the governors of state have to be.”

He looked very tired. And old. For the first time during their reunion, Marie Madeleine’s heart clenched uncomfortably; she had always known about her uncle’s poor health, and there were too many times when she prayed to Lord for him to live through the night. But she had just realised that her years away were not kind to him.

Sister Marie raised her eyes at her guardian.

“What has changed? Why now?” she asked.

He could probably say the truth. Sister Marie still believed that he was capable of that.

But instead, he said:

“Interesting times, my dear.” And they both knew what it meant.

You couldn’t blame the statue of a Sphinx for lacking remorse for it was unfeeling stone.

You couldn’t blame a serpent for being a serpent.

Cardinal Richelieu was who he was. There was nothing else to it.

He propped his chin on his thumb, pressing the fingers against his temple. He offered her a mirthless smile, and she felt her lips tugging in an equally wintry mien.

“I’ll ask to prepare proper food for us on my way to the chapel,” she said resignedly.

“Thank you, but it won’t be necessary. I’m afraid I won’t be able to eat with you, but we’ll dine together later,” her uncle, dismissive as ever, brushed off distractedly, already immersed in the contents of one of the miscellaneous letters that covered his desk.

“Just the two of us,” she smiled deceptively timidly, feeling in her element. “It’s been a while, I’m sure we’ll find something to discuss over the meal.”

He opened his mouth to say something, but then thought better of it and returned to reading, in slight but silent exasperation.

Marie Madeleine de Vignerot du Pont de Courlay, Madame de Combalet, couldn’t help but feel a satisfying pang of vindication.

Chapter Text

“Principalities are either hereditary, in which the family has been long established; or they are new. [...] Such dominions thus acquired are either accustomed to live under a prince, or to live in freedom; and are acquired either by the arms of the prince himself, or of others, and either by good fortune or by merit.” — Niccolò Machiavelli, Il Principe, “The Kinds of Principalities and the Means by Which They Are Acquired”

He didn’t like disappointing Marie Madeleine. He didn’t like the prospect of his niece becoming a nun either, but her disappointment ate at him with  something vaguely resembling guilt.

Preposterous.

To feel guilt one must feel conflicted at having done something they shouldn’t have.

Richelieu needed his niece at Court near the Queen. He’d done what was necessary. Ruminations over compromising one’s standards of conduct were pointless.

Anne had finally given birth to the next King of France, and Richelieu couldn’t afford leaving her without supervision.

The long-awaited son. Richelieu should feel relief as the country was no longer in danger of being torn asunder over the succession in case something happened to the current King. Gaston was one step further away from the throne, other Princes had even less chance of ever having the French crown burdening their heads.

The heir meant keeping the royal power supreme in France.

The heir was also a helpless and innocent child in need of a Regent if something were to happen to his father.

Richelieu knew who wouldn’t mind stepping in that role.

Anne, Queen Mother of the Dauphin or not, was too susceptible and indecisive to be any good of a Regent. And she was too Spanish for Richelieu’s comfort.

Gaston, on the other hand...

Or the Grand-mère. Richelieu shuddered. The scenario had been enacted months earlier, and they didn’t need the repetition.

Marie Madeleine would understand him, sooner or later. Eventually, one day. 

Duty always came first, above everything.

Richelieu let out a long exhale through his nose and rubbed his temples harder, feeling his nails scraping the sensitive skin. The headache hadn’t turned into a full-blown migraine threatening to split his skull in half, but a ceaseless throb that was sinking its dull teeth into his head was far from pleasant.

He could blame it on yet another dépêche from one of his spies placed in Lorraine. As if he didn't have enough on his plate already.

The heir. The country to run. Some personal issues.

War.

French intervention in Germany was only a matter of time that was approaching faster than Richelieu anticipated. Father Joseph should be on his way to the North by now, preparing to negotiate marriage conditions between one of Gustav Adolph’s miscellaneous cousins to one of Louis’, equally miscellaneous. Marriage would undoubtedly strengthen the alliance between the countries, but Richelieu doubted it would buy them a significant amount of time to prepare for the war. France didn’t have the arms nor means for such costly operation.

Yet Richelieu could almost hear how time was running out, a ceaseless flow of sand from the upper half of the hourglass to the bottom.

There was obviously a delicate subject concerning the recent regicide attempt that was promptly thwarted by the King’s regiment of the best and the bravest. But compared to everything else, it didn’t even made it to the first side of the list of problems Richelieu needed to deal with in the foreseeable future.

Personal issues, Richelieu thought with grim bitterness, were an impermissible luxury to begin with. And in any case, since recently, he didn’t have any personal issues anymore to start with.

He winced at the pang of pain flaring hotly behind his eyes. It seemed that a full-blown migraine was just biding its time.

“Your Eminence.”

Richelieu breathed out slowly and willed to open his eyes to see his visitor.

“Yes, Captain?”

“A letter for you, Your Eminence,” Cahusac placed on the edge of his desk and immediately retreated a few paces back.

“What letter it might be, if you couldn’t possibly give it to Charpentier with all other correspondence?” Richelieu asked mildly.

Cahusac hesitated, looking nervous all of a sudden.

“I was approached by one of the King’s Musketeers,” he explained cautiously, trying to gauge the reaction of his master at his words. “He said to deliver the message into your hands.”

Richelieu felt an uncomfortable knot forming in his chest. He tugged at the corner of the letter towards him, and slashed it open with a paper knife. The message consisted of exactly three short sentences, two lines, and a signature, but Richelieu still took time to re-read it a few times over even though he remembered the contents verbatim the first time he laid his eyes on it.

“Captain.” Richelieu said after a while, remembering something.

“Yes, Monsieur.” Cahusac snapped to attention.

Richelieu let another moment of pointed silence pass.

“Your Eminence,” Cahusac bowed, without missing a beat, and shut the door on his way out. That one was quick-witted and perceptive. There might be hope for him yet.

Richelieu folded the letter back and leaned back in his chair.

So the Captain of the King’s Musketeers sent his four arguably best and inarguably peskiest men for a secret meeting with an informant. An informant Richelieu didn’t have on a payroll; ergo, a nuisance to either thoroughly interrogate, enlist, or have eliminated.

Soumise¹ landed on his lap, purring softly, and Richelieu buried his fingers in her warm fur. Toothless maws of migraine gnawed at him, searing hot.

“Why does he always make my life ever more difficult even when he doesn’t really mean to?” Richelieu asked.

The life of the Queen’s lady-in-waiting was a far cry from serene and peaceful life of a Carmelite nun, but to her displeasure, Madame de Combalet discovered that it was a life a handful years in monastery hadn’t been able to erase completely from her memory. And the Court didn’t change at all, as if it had been set in a drop of amber during her absence.

A fortnight ago, Her Majesty had given birth to a son and the entire nation — her uncle, to be precise, — had let out a relieved breath.

Marie Madeleine had left the Court a little over five years ago, when her husband² had been killed in Savoy. Her match was not for love but for political advantage, and she had seen her husband for a handful of weeks over the course of their long-distance and detached marriage. His death had been tragic for he was the last heir to his family and left no issue. It was also a convenient excuse for Madame de Combalet to retreat to the monastery before Uncle found someone else to marry her off again.

She didn’t really remember the Queen all that well; they were the same age, but for some reason Her Majesty had always seemed to be younger to her. Maybe because of her beautiful and youthful appearance, or maybe because Madame de Combalet had always associated hope and optimism with naivete of young years.

What Madame de Combalet did remember was that Queen Anne had always been very lonely and isolated in the Palace. Five years later did nothing to that, it seemed.

Queen Anne’s days were quiet and uneventful. She was a loyal Catholic, so her visits to the Palace’s chapel were frequent and consistent. She was loved by small falk and for good reason: whenever His Majesty deigned to give his permission and provide guards, the Queen loved to give out alms for the poor. The birth of her son had only made a slight reiteration to her routine, as the Queen adored her son and spent every moment with him to the point of breaching the bounds of propriety. Other than that, the Queen of France led an ordered lifestyle.

Anne of Austria had certainly grown and changed, though her attitude towards Madame de Combalet had remained the same. Madame de Combalet wasn’t surprised, as it had always been like that. Cardinal Richelieu was hated by almost everyone; she was hated³ by proxy as his relative and an ( extremely reluctant, but no one cared about that bit) informant.

“You have asked for me, Your Majesty?” Madame de Combalet curtsied and lay eyes on her Queen. It was her private chambers, and Her Majesty was alone: a rare sight and certainly a luxury. If she decided to spend that precious time in an unwelcome company, then it must be important.

Anne of Austria looked at her with her blue eyes. The Queen didn’t like her and she obviously didn’t trust her, not like she trusted anybody in this place. Marie Madeleine could only think it was wise and understandable.

“Yes, Marquise,” the Queen finally said. “I want you to pass on a message to the Cardinal, since it is your primarily job as my lady-in-waiting.”

Madame de Combalet bit the inside of her cheek and remained still. This conversation was bound to happen, sooner or later.

“His Eminence is my Uncle and my benefactor and guardian, but—”

“Drop the conventional niceties, Marquise,” the Queen cut in sharply. “You and I both know why you are here; from what I have heard you were exceptionally content at the Carmelite convent. I see little reason for your voluntary return.”

“My uncle has been unwell for the past few months,” she didn’t lie, but again, he always had been. “And he is my only remaining family, so naturally, I returned to secular life.”

The Queen drew a soft and barely audible breath. She was evidently unsettled and angry behind that thin veneer of calm and decorum.

Madame de Combalet loved and admired her Queen. Her grace and resolve were something to look up to. Sadly, Anne of Austria didn’t see that everyone she despised so much were on the same side as her. But she was the Queen and thus, the work in the shadows would always remain despicable and ruthless to her, for she should never know what ought to be done.

“I only want him to know that my son’s safety is my first priority, and he must remember that when he sends his spies to me,” she said coldly.

“Your Majesty, I must assure you that I am no spy. I am well aware of my uncle’s reputation, but to think that he might harm the future King—”

“I am not a fool, Marquise.” Queen Anne interrupted again. Madame de Combalet didn’t mean it, because she knew that the Queen might be naive or inexperienced, but foolish she definitely was not. “When a new lady-in-waiting is appointed to my entourage without my knowledge or consent, I know this is Cardinal’s doing. He couldn’t have been more blatantly obvious, when this new lady-in-waiting happens to be his niece.”

Marie Madeleine was taken aback by Her Majesty’s outburst. It didn’t take much to know that the Cardinal and the Queen had always bore ill blood towards each other, fairly or not, that's another matter entirely. But something truly despicable must’ve occurred during Madame de Combalet’s absence if the Queen’s usual silent derision turned into verbal and direct insult.

The Queen took her silence as a satisfactory acquiescence and deemed their conversation to be over.

“Pass him my message, Madame de Combalet,” the Queen averted her gaze. “You may take your leave.”

Finally dismissed, she curtsied, feeling her cheeks unnaturally warm even for early autumn.

“Oh, one more thing,” the Queen called.

Marie Madeleine turned around.

“Tell His Eminence that I have not forgotten.”

“I beg your pardon, Your Majesty?” The Queen might be reserved and cold, but she was never cryptic.

“He’ll know, Marquise,” Queen Anne stood and headed towards a settee where she usually rested and read. “He will know what I mean.”

Something important must have happened during her absence. She wasn’t surprised: Madame de Combalet had been away for very long, and in politics and Court such period might as well count as a lifetime if not more. But still… Uncle never opposed Anne of Austria directly; it was his attitude and dismissal of her that irked the Queen. That and the fact that Her Majesty was true and just and despised Uncle’s means to govern France. It was a silent feud consisting mostly of mutual dislike, as neither Uncle nor the Queen meant to cause each other real harm. And it seems that this tentative détente had been broken.

A snap of fabric brought her out of her reverie, and Madame de Combalet blinked to see what had happened. The embroidery on the bottom of a courtier’s dress snagged her skirts, but after a careful tag it broke free without any harm to either frock.

“Oh. Marquise de Combalet,” the lady-in-waiting bowed her head slightly. “I’m so sorry.”

“Lady Marguerite! It’s me who has to apologise, I was in my head,” Madame de Combalet smiled warmly. The Governess, despite her position, was elusive and inconspicuous, so Marie Madeleine never caught the sight of her or gathered what her position in the Court is apart from the obvious. “We haven’t really talked properly yet.”

“I’ve only joined the retinue recently,” she offered.

“So, you are new to the Court’s life.” Madame de Combalet could tell from the way she held herself: unsure but ramrod straight. She used to be like that.

“Ah, yes, Marquise,” Lady Marguerite nodded and a faint blush dusted over her pale cheeks. “I know that you’re not unfamiliar with the Palace. I can’t say so for myself.”

“I’ve heard that you have been appointed as the Royal Governess. I must congratulate you on your station.” It must have been the Queen who’d made the final decision about the appointment. Lady Marguerite’s family wasn’t prominent, so it must be Lady Marguerite herself who’d shown her virtues to earn from the Queen such merit.

“Thank you, Marquise.”

“It was a pleasure to talk to you, Lady Marguerite,” Marie Madeleine said gently. “Forgive me for holding you away from your duties, you must be busy.”

“The pleasure is mine, Marquise,” the Governess bid her farewell and they went their separate ways.

She was beautiful. In austere and almost puritanical sense. She wasn’t a maiden from songs and tales, her beauty wasn’t striking as Queen Anne’s or of other illustrious belles, for she lacked prominent and classical face and figure. Lady Marguerite had almost washed-out watercolour features, from her flaxen hair to papery skin. She was probably never praised for her looks and was always cast aside in favour of someone prettier or bolder. Girls like her made excellent wives and terrible court ladies. It’s a surprise that Lady Marguerite was unmarried and attached to the Queen’s retinue.

Girls like her never lasted long in such a place as the French Court, for it swallowed them whole.

The Palace, as always, was busy and abuzz. The courtiers shuffled hither and thither, manservants and maids were pattering behind their masters, and not even a single nook or cranny was hidden from watchful eyes.

Well. Depends on how you look at it.

Treville, Captain of the King’s Musketeers, knew quite a lot of convenient corners and cabinets that offered some peace and quiet in the Louvre. Not that they would be of any use to him at the moment, as he was standing in the throne hall, trying very hard to look engaged and involved.

“Comte de Rochefort,” Louis is excited and intrigued. “Your bravery is commendable.”

“I’m Your Majesty’s humble servant,” Rochefort kneeled, a painting of deference and loyalty.

A derisive ‘humph’ to his left. Porthos. 

Comte de Rochefort was Cardinal Richelieu’s spy; for them it was enough of a reason to hate him. Considering that they spent a few days in his undoubtedly cheerful and charming presence, his boys must have seriously regretted his timely escape from Spaniard’s prison.

Treville had met him. He knew.

Another thing, his escape was very timely. Very timely. Treville would contemplate about it later in private, when he wouldn't want to poke at Rochefort with pointy things.

And Treville felt rather than saw a fleeting look of shock in grey eyes before they hardened into blank gaze of polite indifference. Schooling your features into passiveness is the first thing any politician should be able to master. To make your eyes betray nothing is another level. But if you’d spent the past two decades with a man, you grow to learn his every tell-tale—

No. Better not contemplate in that direction. Treville didn’t care what the First Minister of France thought on such sudden and unexpected return of his employee. First Minister stared blankly at the newcomer and his face showed nothing. And Treville wasn’t looking for anything anyway.

“You are welcome home, Rochefort.” Queen Anne smiled genuinely and fondly. The puzzlement must have registered on everyone’s faces, as Her Majesty was quick to elaborate. “Count Rochefort and I are old friends. He tutored me in preparation for my marriage and taught me all I know about France.”

“Your Majesty gives me too much credit,” Rochefort bowed again.

“Comte de Rochefort, we look forward to hearing of your daring escape!” Louis exclaimed.

“Your Majesty, the information I brought to you is—”

Rochefort’s words were cut short when double doors swung open to admit an unexpected guest.

“Let me through! I demand an audience with the King,” came a shrill demand.

“His Excellency, Don Fernando Perales, Ambassador of Spain!” The herald announced belatedly, though there was probably no man left in the Louvre who didn’t know who Don Fernando Perales was. He, after all, demanded an audience with the King quite often.

“So I see,” Louis muttered under his breath and plastered a hospitable and mildly annoyed mien. “Don Fernando. What prompts such urgency?”

“I demand this man’s arrest,” Ambassador Perales barked, pointing at Rochefort. Treville squinted at his men, who'd immediately perked up. Lord, was he like that at their age? They never seem to learn.

A wind of displeased whispers swept over the throne hall. A despicable Spaniard throwing accusations and insults towards a brave Frenchman who’d escaped the paws of death? Unacceptable.

Don Fernando Perales had the unenviable job of maintaining some semblance of diplomacy between Spain and France. If that man wasn't such an insufferable, arrogant, and plainly troublesome man, Treville would’ve had some sympathy for him. But Perales was one of the most insufferable, arrogant, and plainly troublesome manTreville had ever met. And he'd been working hand in hand with Richelieu for the past two decades, so it's saying something.

No. Again, no contemplations in that direction. Cardinal Richelieu is the First Minister of France and that’s that.

“Please, Ambassador.”

The Cardinal spoke. The throne hall fell silent, and each word echoed, soft and steady, like a serpent charming its prey.

“My apologies,” Richelieu slotted himself between Louis and the Spaniard in a single graceful stride, “but may you elaborate, on what grounds shall we arrest Comte de Rochefort? As far as he's been telling us, he's gone through a lot of trouble just to be imprisoned again.”

Don Fernando Perales had been at the French Court for almost half a year, and he still hadn’t learnt basic instincts of self-preservation.

“I've received news from Madrid,” Perales brandished a piece of parchment clutched in his hand. “He's a fugitive from justice.”

“As far as I know, Comte de Rochefort has just crossed the French border. I simply fail to see how he managed to break any French law,” Richelieu was perplexed. “Unless the Musketeers who escorted him have any say on the matter?”

His men shook their heads reluctantly, but Treville could bet his sword that Porthos muttered “if being an arsehole was illegal” and Richelieu heard him. A slight twitch in the corner of his pale lips, a tell-tale Treville had grown to—

Goodness gracious, no. No one cared what Richelieu thought about Musketeers’ stance on Rochefort’s virtues or lack thereof.

“You know very well, Cardinal, that this outlaw has escaped while being transferred to Madrid,” Perales sneered, advancing forward. Absent-mindedly, Treville noticed that the ambassador was within a sword slash reach. “He’s a criminal of the Spanish Crown!”

“But Comte de Rochefort is a Frenchman,” Richelieu mused, without even budging from his place between the King and the ambassador. But Treville would eat his hat if Richelieu hadn’t noticed Perales stepping forward. “This, Ambassador, is the Louvre, the heart of France. One might say this place is as French as it can get.”

Perales froze and closed his mouth that was about to hurl insults at France’s First Minister.

“Allow France deal with its subject on its territory the way it wishes.” Richelieu continued, striding towards Perales. Ambassador had to physically stop himself from reeling back. “Unless Spain has a right to instil its laws on the territory of its neighbours? What message does Spain send?”

“Your Majesty!” Perales looked at Louis, bristling in indignation.

“You’ve heard my First Minister, Don Fernando,” Louis shrugged and returned his attention to Rochefort, Perales already forgotten. “Now, what is this urgent news of yours?”

Rochefort raised his head and looked at Richelieu dead in the eyes. Any other man would crawl or avert his gaze, for Rochefort’s only seeing eye burned hotter than the fires of Inferno.

Cardinal Richelieu merely raised his eyebrows in silent question.

“If I might speak to Your Majesty in private?” Rochefort asked.

If Richelieu’s words were like serpent’s, Rochefort’s were heavy and lethal like execution axe.

“Cardinal,” Treville called after Richelieu. “A moment of your time, if you will.”

He turned around, waiting for him to catch up.

“What is it, Captain?” Richelieu asked politely, in a bland voice he saved for conversations he remotely didn’t care about yet couldn’t avoid for one reason or another.

“Rochefort,” Treville began, falling into the step easily. He hated how easy it was for him. “I gather you were surprised to see him.”

He also hated the fact that he knew Richelieu well enough to know that he was surprised.

Richelieu continued to walk in silence down the wide and deserted hall save for the palace guards at the doors.

“I was,” he finally said, when Treville had already stopped waiting for the answer. “But so was he, it seems.”

“You know each other,” Treville stated.

Richelieu’s struggle to refrain from rolling his eyes was evident from the look on his face, but Treville didn’t have time to be annoyed by it.

“He was my agent before his capture.”

“That much is obvious,” Treville bit, and Richelieu’s mouth twitched in irritation. “What about now, though?”

“Wh— you think that I staged his escape? For what” Richelieu spluttered. “Are you well? You haven’t hit your head during training, have you?”

“So attempting to murder an innocent woman is perfectly reasonable whereas thinking that you had your hand in your man’s escape from Spain isn’t?”

“Quieter!” Richelieu threw a dirty look in his direction. Though the hall was empty, in the Louvre even walls had ears.

“Say it louder for the entire Louvre to hear!” he hissed. “Of course I didn’t know Rochefort escaped!”

Treville looked around, gathering his bearings, and made a turn through a glass-paned door. As expected, Richelieu followed his lead, too caught up in his words.

Now, behind a luscious bush, they had some semblance of privacy.

“You trust his words, then,” Treville continued once they’d reached the gardens.

“De Foix is too valuable for the Crown to pass this chance,” replied Richelieu carefully. “However slim it might be”

Treville frowned and bit the inside of his cheek. He’s never met Rochefort in person, and a few pieces of correspondence he’d read weren’t enough for Treville to gauge the spy’s character. Well, other than Rochefort was an arrogant and violent son of a bitch.

“So you don’t believe Rochefort escaped.”

Richelieu looked the bush down with such intensity, Treville wondered what poor foliage had done to the Cardinal to be stared at with such annoyance.

“You’re right, Captain,” Richelieu said, sarcasm dripping from his voice. “It’s just a whim of divine providence. Rochefort has made a daring and successful escape from Madrid, travelled all the way to the French border in haste to relay vital information to his King just to be caught by commoners. How unthoughtful of him to shoot an innkeeper so the Musketeers can gallantly save him from a handful of drunk commonfolk. It couldn’t possibly be that, perhaps, Spain has bought Rochefort’s loyalty in exchange of freedom and a regular paycheck. The idea couldn’t possibly cross anybody’s mind.”

“Okay, I get you,” Treville said. “You think he’s definitely on Spain’s side.”

“Why else,” Richelieu shrugged. “They’d either torture him further if he didn’t relay information or kill him if his usefulness has run out.”

“That’s what you would do,” Treville couldn’t help but add.

Richelieu clenched his jaw.

“Yes, that’s what I’d do,” he snapped. “And the Spanish would offer him dinner, ask nicely about everything Rochefort might know, and let him go. I, on the other hand, derive immense pleasure from torturing and murdering people for recreation and entertainment. How presumptuous of me to assume what my like on the other side might do.”

“Are you sure though?”

“His escape is both unfeasible and timely. Besides, I haven’t got any reports from my men in Spain that Madrid is searching for any prisoners,” said Richelieu, absently biting his thumb in thought. “However, Perales said he received a letter demanding for Rochefort’s return. Therefore—”

 “He must be working for Spain,” Treville finished his sentence. “They could’ve gained him over. Offered money and freedom for information and intelligence.”

“Alternatively…” Richelieu trailed off.

Treville sighed and shifted his stance.

“What?” he asked through gritted teeth. There was no way he’s going to like the answer.

“They could’ve told him the details about his not so accidental and unfortunate escape.”

Treville barely managed to resist the temptation to yell at Richelieu. Barely.

“Comte de Rochefort wasn’t captured,” Richelieu said simply.

Treville felt his insides go cold.

“You gave him up,” he realised. “You sold him out in exchange of something, didn’t you?”

He had over two decades to get used to Richelieu’s ruthlessness and cold-heartedness. He himself had been a part of ploys and betrayals, but every time it made him sick.

“When exactly were you thinking of telling me that?”

“When the opportunity would arise,” the Cardinal replied offhandedly. “It clearly did now.”

Treville didn’t really believe in a lot of things. He did believe in God, but his faith wasn’t unwavering as his mother saw faith more like a political tool than anything else. He believed in his men, he believed in honour and justice, and he believed that France was destined for greatness.

For such a long time, he believed that he wasn’t alone in carrying that burden. Then it turned out that there had never been any trust from Richelieu’s part, and Treville was played like a fool.

The fact that Richelieu failed to mention something yet again wasn’t surprising in the slightest. If anything, it was expected. But Rochefort had been captured for years, one can only fathom how many more secrets Richelieu had kept from Treville over the years.

When exactly were you thinking of telling me? Treville wanted to say. What have you been hiding from me for these years? What was the point, Armand, in our partnership? To lull me into a false assurance that you trust me, just to keep me out of your hair and stop me from questioning your every move?

Why everything else, then, that wasn’t about politics and schemings?

“Rochefort became uncontrollable.” Richelieu’s voice raised slightly. “Volatile. You don’t keep a rabid hound as a pet; you shoot it down as soon as possible.”

“See?” Treville huffed a mirthless laugh. “This is where it leaves you, your contempt and conceit. Your own men betray you and it puts the country in danger, all because of your inhumanity!”

“My methods keep the war away from our borders, they keep the rebellious provinces under the Crown’s control,” Richelieu said very quietly and evenly. A clear sign that he was absolutely furious. Rage burned in his pale eyes, but it wouldn’t work on Treville. He returned the look and refused to back down.

Treville would gladly believe that France rested upon virtues, honour, and duty. Yet he knew that there were no virtues in nobility and grandes as they clung to the last shreds of feudal independence they still had. There was no honour in the King’s lieges as they sold themselves to foreign Crowns. Duty was to keep the country from falling back to its feudal origins, duty was to withstand the overwhelming influence of the House of Austria. Duty entailed things Treville found unfathomable and despicable.

However, as in everything, there has to be a line drawn. A line Richelieu had finally crossed, having spent too much time balancing between what was truly necessary and what was cruel.

In Court and politics, such coldness was admirable. In real life, Treville was close to throttling Richelieu himself, sparing all the wronged spies, nobility, and royalty the trouble.

They had to work together, whether they wanted to or not. But why did Richelieu make it so damn difficult?

“I’ll let you know when my men and Rochefort come back,” Treville finally said in lieu of goodbye and started to make his way out of the gardens.

“And that’s all you wanted?”

That made Treville stop in his tracks and turn around.

The Cardinal stood still, a striking black figure against the green lush of the gardens that just started to yellow around the edges. Expecting an answer Treville couldn’t give him.

It was so unfair because he shouldn’t, not after everything Richelieu had done. 

Yet Treville still wanted what he thought they had.

“Yes, Cardinal, that is all,” he lied. “Thank you for your time and assistance in this mission to retrieve the General.”

That was not the answer Richelieu wanted to hear; Treville could see it in a way the corner of his eyes hardened before his face smoothed into an impassive mask of indifference.

Treville hated that he could read Richelieu so easily but not easily enough to know that the Cardinal had a regicide brewing in his mind.

“Ask your men to keep an eye on him.” Richelieu took a deep breath and smoothed out the invisible wrinkles on his robes. “We’ll work from there.”

Treville curtly nodded and left.

It was only when he made his way to the garrison when he realised that Richelieu said ‘we’, just like before, and he said nothing against it.

Paris, well past midnight. Not a soul in sight. Unless you were an insomniac rat or a homeless beggar scrambling in waste for some mouldy scraps.

Or conspiring plotters who couldn’t resist a touch of drama. Conspiring in secret is so much more pleasant in the comfort of your warm home.

“Quomodo fabula, sic vita.”

“Non quam diu, sed quam bene acta sit, refert ⁴. Ah, isn’t it a bit, well, outdated? And don’t you think that Frenchmen are educated enough to know Seneca for it to be a secret code?”

She must have never met any Frenchmen in Court then.

“Ah, so you are the Marie Lorraine has written me about?” Perales bowed, though he doubted it made any difference, considering it was pitch-black and he could barely make out the outlines of her face.

“You have other Marie you meet dead in the night at such place? My, dear Ambassador, I feel jealous.”

Ambassador Perales felt warmth rushing to his cheeks and thanked heavens that they were meeting in the dark.

“Ah. Comte has told me about your… lively spirit. Your Highness, I welcome you back.”

“Strange as it is to be welcomed by a Spaniard on Parisian land, I express my gratitude.” Her Highness rustled at her corsage to reveal a letter. “However, there is far more pressing business than complimenting each other’s virtues. I’ve heard that Comte de Rochefort has already made his presence to the King?”

“Ah, he has, Your Highness. He and a small party of Musketeers set out to secure De Foix’s rescue.” Perales accepted the letter. It smelled faintly of sandalwood. Perales wondered if it was the perfume of Her Highness or the letter itself had been spritzed. The thought made him slightly uncomfortable.

“Hm.” Her Highness didn’t sound impressed. Ambassador Perales pursed his lips. For some reason he wanted her to be impressed, and his desire irked him even further. “I don’t really see how that helps our mutual goal.”

Part of him wanted to tell her that a woman can’t understand, but a sane part of him told him not to. And even if he did explain it to her, she probably would've been none the wiser still.

“Patience, Your Highness. I believe that Comte de Rochefort is key to our success.”

“You gamble quite a lot on a French turncoat who used to be one of the Cardinal’s men.”

Perales let out a laugh.

“Yes, and why one of the Cardinal’s men has been rotting for ages? Why hasn't the Cardinal organised a rescue such as for De Foix? Comte de Rochefort is a desperate man. He'd sworn an oath of loyalty to Spain as soon as we've offered him his life.”

“In that case, how could he ever betray your plans?” Her Highness admitted her poor judgement. “It must be my lack of foresight.”

“You've underestimated me, Your Highness.” Perales huffed.

“My apologies, Ambassador,” she said mildly. “There's quite a lot to estimate.”

“This letter will be delivered to Cardinal-Infante safely,” Perales reassured her. “I understand, one should never be too discreet.”

“Good.” Her Highness’ voice hardened. “I expect a fruitful cooperation, Don Fernando.”

“You may count on it, Your Highness,” Perales bid his farewell. “This is both for Spain and France’s benefit.”

“I care very little about what transpires between your country and mine,” she shrugged. “But I do appreciate a heavy gold pouch. Please, send His Majesty my thanks.”

She walked past him, brushing his shoulder, and he could smell sandalwood in her wake. Perales was watching her leave, so he caught her turning around before disappearing in her carriage.

“And no titles, please, Ambassador. Since we are going to work very closely in the future.” Her Highness smiled, lightning-fast and sharp. “It’s just Madame de Chevreuse.”

Chapter Text

“The memories and motives that make for change are lost, for one change always leaves the dovetail for another.” — Niccolò Machiavelli, Il Principe , “Hereditary Principalities”

Treville ended whatever had been going on between them for the past two decades on a crisp wintery evening. Unlike their usual shouting matches, the affair had been mundane and polite, and it had also lasted for less than three minutes. The words had been exchanged, the wine had been left untouched, and obligatory conventional etiquette had been followed through. Come morning, the First Minister and the Captain of the King’s Musketeers had been polite and civil towards one another, hadn’t argued on anything, and gracefully agreed to mind their own duties. A month later, His Majesty quipped that if he’d known earlier that something as ordinary as a child would finally bring goodwill between his most trusted advisors, he would have brought a babe to the palace much sooner.

Richelieu forcefully chuckled at the King’s observant remark. Treville kept his opinion on Louis’ sense of humour to himself.

Nothing had changed. To everyone but two people in the entire country, nothing had been happening in the first place.

Richelieu was fine with that. People had left him before; they died or betrayed him or both, and it was only a matter of time before Treville realised that Richelieu was exactly who he thought he was.

One thing Richelieu had learnt over the years was that once you make a decision, you have to bear the consequences that follow.

So time flowed smoothly. Empires fell and rose; Gustav-Adolph was breaking his way through Europe; people clamoured about raised taxes to fill France’s empty coffers.

Richelieu stood as he’d always been. Alone, like when he proposed new policies that sent Queen Mother in a sputtering fit of rage; alone, like when he quenched the fires of rebellions across the country; alone, like when La Rochelle’s children were starving to death, but he still held the siege until there was nothing left but bodies and bones. 

Richelieu stood, alone against the space beside him that hadn’t been empty for over twenty years.

The First Minister of France paced around his office, maps and letters forgotten on his desk.

Eight steps forward. Eight steps back.

Rochefort returned to Paris.

Each measured step was like a march. One step closer to the war breaking loose near the French borders.

The morning dépêche from Lorraine.

One step closer to the rebellion mayhem wrecking chaos in France.

Today, Captain of the King’s Musketeers was as amiable as he was during His Majesty’s prostrated speeches about his ship models.

One step closer to—

Nothing. Nothing of importance.

Richelieu stopped useless pacing and forced himself to sit behind his desk. He had papers to read.

What a fool he was, to think that Treville was after something else other than business.

Thoughts scattered inside his head: uncatalogued, disordered. Just like Jean Treville always came bursting into his office, into damp stone walls of Avignon years earlier, into cramped rooms in Paris long before that. Twenty years of their relationship had seen many places, but as home, it was never about the place. It was always about—

Nonsense. Richelieu signed off a document and started reading another.

He had bled himself and this country dry to have the Crown still standing tall and proud. He couldn’t afford being distracted over personal entanglements.

All those fleeting liaisons that young people these days called true love usually barely lasted a month or two at most. If those were romantic entanglements, how one defined a twenty years-long relationship?

The Gordian knot, no less. Loops of mutual grudges, coils of resentment, twists of bitterness and disappointment. 

Just like Alexander two millennia ago, Treville went straight into cutting that knot in half.

Focus . There had been enough grievance over the course of two decades. No time to mull over what had already been torn down, when there were far more pressing issues at hand.

Like violent and capricious ex-spies who decided to inconvenience their master by not dying in the Spanish dungeons as they were supposed to.

Richelieu sat back in his chair and bit his thumb in thought.

What does Rochefort want?

Well, Richelieu’s untimely demise, most likely. Wronged employees were rarely original. But why return to Court for all Paris to see? 

Richelieu clicked his tongue. Wrong questions. Rochefort was not important. He was but a mere pawn in the hands of Spain. Even if Spain had told Rochefort the truth about his capture, even if Rochefort had pledged loyalty to them, why send him to France of all places? Why in the name of heaven would Spain send Rochefort back where he was no longer needed or wanted? What would it even accomplish?

He couldn’t eliminate Rochefort, not when the Court ogled and oohed over that troubled and tortured hero who’d risked his life to deliver the intelligence to his King. That would draw too much suspicion. Had it been anyone else, who hadn’t yet caught His Majesty’s attention with empty tales of bravery and adventure, Richelieu wouldn’t even hesitate. Louis was one of the very few people who knew the price of the golden crown on his head. Louis was also very lonely in that knowledge, susceptible to anyone willing to share such burden with him.

And the King was interested in Rochefort because Rochefort was charming and gallant, reliable and trustworthy for he suffered greatly in the name of France. Rochefort did know how to trick people, that was the exact reason why Richelieu had hired him in the first place all those years ago.

Richelieu sank back on his chair, staring unseeingly at the high ceiling. And even if he’d been dramatic enough to look for answers up there, the overhead surface offered no inscriptions. No answers to why Rochefort decided to return to France now. Why Spain needed another pawn. 

And if Marie de Rohan was back, could it be a coincidence? Or was it all a large scheme of Spanish Crown to undermine the Bourbon rule?

Richelieu clicked his tongue in annoyance. If it were up to him, he’d have Duchesse de Chevreuse locked behind the monastery walls his niece liked so much. But he only stood back and watched that wretched woman enter the Louvre as if it was her rightful place.

The Queen had borne an heir to the throne, so Louis showered her with affection and favours. At her request, Queen Anne was reorganising her retinue, which the King allowed.

If Her Majesty expected objections on his part, there had been none. Richelieu was acutely aware that he hadn’t been executed at the Place de Grève only because of Queen Anne’s mercy. Now, Her Majesty had the upper hand, and Richelieu needed to find something of equal measure against her.

What Captain of the King’s Musketeers had always been saying? That politics was nothing but a game?

It didn’t matter what Captain of the King’s Musketeers said.

War with Spain was imminent, the stakes were too high to avoid the direct confrontation: Sweden could hold off the Habsburgs only for so long. Unrest was starting again in France, would Richelieu be able to quell the rebellions in time to raise the money and soldiers for the war? And now, Rochefort and Duchesse de Chevreuse were in Paris, and no one knew what agenda they pursued. Only time would tell.

Richelieu had never seemed to have enough time.

“Charpentier,” Richelieu called.

His chief secretary shuffled in, quiet and inconspicuous as ever.

“Has Monsieur de Beautru’s report been delivered from Spain yet?”

“It should be here in three days at most, Your Eminence.”

“Excellent, a perfect time to start writing a reply,” Richelieu crumpled a letter from Loudun to throw away with other letters of identical nature. There were far more pressing issues than exorcising mad nuns. “Most likely, he’s going to say that Olivarez has probably received a memorandum from the two of Gaston’s men. To that, we need information on whether he continues negotiations with Lorraine. For the rest, I need more intelligence on the Emperor’s attitude towards Wallenstein and an answer from Father Joseph.”

“It will be passed on, Your Eminence,” his secretary said, diligently pencilling down Richelieu’s every word.

“Give it to Rossignol first for encryption.”

“Of course, Your Eminence.” Charpentier bowed.

Richelieu returned to his work. After a minute or so, he raised his head to see Charpentier still standing there.

“You have something else to say, Charpentier?” Richelieu queried very mildly. To others, it would mean that they need to make a very hasty exit, but Charpentier had been under Richelieu’s command for longer than the Cardinal himself could bother to count.

“I’ve taken the liberty to handle the messages from the Musketeers’ garrison,” Charpentier continued, unfazed. “I hope that wasn’t out of line, Your Eminence.”

“Of cour—” Richelieu’s hand froze mid-wave. “What?”

“It was reported from a very reliable source that this morning Captain Treville returned to the garrison in a foul mood, shouted at his men for dirty stables, and shut himself in his office muttering something about a nondescript cardinal.”

“What? Why? Cardinal? Me?” Richelieu had known Charpentier for far too long to think that he had no reason behind such news, but never in the years of his service had his secretary shown any signs of inclinations towards idle gossip. 

“A nondescript cardinal, Your Eminence,” Charpentier intoned. “It could be anyone."

“There aren’t any sources in the garrison, reliable or otherwise,” Richelieu did not sputter.

“Cavois was passing by and heard the sounds,” clarified Charpentier pedantically.

“Sounds?” Richelieu raised his brow in doubt.

“Shouts,” Charpentier amended. “Captain Treville’s words are enclosed verbatim, but I’d rather refrain from reciting them if you let me, Your Eminence.”

“Cavois?” Richelieu repeated incredulously. “He’s away from the city, is he not?”

“His wife, Your Eminence. She baked too many pastries last night and decided to set up a stall nearby to sell them off,” Charpentier coughed slightly. “It’s probably not worth mentioning, but the bakery nearby the garrison might go out of business soon if Madame Cavois continues.”

“His wife, that’s even worse,” Richelieu mumbled and then got a hold on himself. “Charpentier, I haven’t said anything about the Musketeers’ garrison.”

“Therefore, I took the liberty to handle the messages that aren’t of utmost importance to Your Eminence,” Charpentier said with the same stony expression he wore when delivering a weekly report about finances.

“Charpentier—” Richelieu started incredulously. “Actually, you know what. Never mind, Charpentier. You may take your leave.”

Charpentier bowed deeply and left.¹

Her Majesty stood before her retinue, and all ladies-in-waiting were intrigued, their curiosity piqued by the unusual excitement of their Queen. In years never had Anne of Austria expressed such impatience.

Very few in the palace knew that those years coincided with the time of Marie de Rohan’s absence from Louvre. Even fewer knew why Marie de Rohan was so dear to Queen Anne and so distasteful to The First Minister. The reasons were kept in the dark and secrecy, just like most things were in this place.

Madame de Combalet darted a surreptitious look at Her Majesty. Today, after the morning prayer, the Queen announced a sudden change in her routine. Everyone was to gather in Her Majesty’s quarters to be introduced to a new addition to the retinue. The ladies-in-waiting murmured secretively when the Queen was out of earshot. Marie Madeleine didn’t need to be included in the conversation to know what they were wondering about.

“Her Highness, the Duchesse de Chevreuse,” finally, the herald announced the entrance of one and only Marie de Rohan.

The Queen’s entourage swept a curtsey to the guest, bowing their necks. Madame de Combalet preferred to make her obeisance dutifully but holding herself straight. She amongst everyone else in the room knew better than baring her neck in front of someone like Duchesse de Chevreuse.

“Chevrette!” Queen Anne cried in unrestrained delight. “Oh, it’s so, so wonderful to see you!”

“Your Majesty!”

In blatant breach of etiquette, the Queen threw her arms around Madame de Chevreuse and hugged her tightly. “Oh, I missed you so!”

Madame de Combalet lifted her chin and continued to stare pointedly past the Duchesse’ elbow.

Duchesse de Chevreuse swept over the Queen’s entourage with a calculating look, not once letting her eyes stop on any of the ladies-in-waiting.

Years, it seemed, did nothing to Marie de Rohan; it was as if she had never left the Court, still strikingly beautiful and youthful, still magnetic in her spirits. The crinkle of her almond-shaped eyes sparkled mischief, the curl of her rosy lips held the power to unleash chaos with a single twitch. The heart of conspiracies contained in an elegant frame, hidden from everyone who didn’t know where to look. 

No one but Madame de Combalet knew where to look.

“How are you back? I thought the Cardinal had you exiled!” Anne exclaimed.

“It was Duc de Lorraine, Your Majesty, who spoke on my behalf to the King to have me allowed to return to France, to Your Majesty’s side,” said Madame de Chevreuse. She turned to Marie Madeleine and her brows shot up in surprise. “It seems, I was not the only one who made an unexpected return to Court.”

“Your Highness,” Marie Madeleine smiled tightly and tilted her head in tribute to conventional propriety.

“Marquise,” Madame de Chevreuse returned the smile, far more brilliant and wide. “I’m glad you have returned to secular life. It’s so wonderful  to see you again, makes me remember the good old days!”

“Oh, yes,” Madame de Combalet agreed, without losing her strained smile. “I hope there will be no coup d'état conspiracies, just like the old days. I got accustomed to the life of peace at Carmel.”

Anne froze.

Ladies-in-waiting shifted uncomfortably, trying to make themselves smaller. 

Duchesse de Chevreuse’s answer was a peal of boisterous laughter that shook the dusty air of Louvre.

“Oh, Marquise, your humour hasn’t lost its sharpness in the convent. But I thought you, of all people, wouldn’t believe those insidious old rumours. Comte de Chalais² was good at keeping secrets from me. Amongst his other redeeming skills, of course,” she added cheekily, and Anne blushed.

“Behave, Chevrette,” but her blue eyes sparkled with mirth. Ladies-in-waiting relaxed slightly. The vast majority of them were quick-witted enough to gain the perspective of the power distribution. You didn’t survive long in Court if you didn’t know how to discern whom to side with.

“As you say, Your Highness” Madame de Combalet said flatly.

“You should be more at ease around me, Marquise,” Madame de Chevreuse continued, calculated malice kindly wrapped in silk of factitious concern. “I’d be hurt to hear you spreading rumours about me. After all, I’d hate to have you painting me in such unfavourable light, for you are a revered person at Court, by Cardinal’s patronage and your own merit.”

“I’m not!—” heavy samite crinkled beneath her white-knuckled fingers. 

Queen Anne turned up the corner of her lips in satisfied amusement.

Most of Her Majesty’s entourage hid their smiles behind their delicate hands. Madame de Combalet felt warmth rushing to her cheeks.

Duchesse de Chevreuse was good with words. She did not wield them like a weapon, but she maimed and mangled them into golems of her design. And then, she bent people’s minds to her will with them.

Ne sis velox ad irascendum, quia ira in sinu stulti requiescit.³ Marie Madeleine closed her eyes briefly, reigning in her temper and swallowing hot shame.

“I assure you, Your Highness,” Madame de Combalet said stiffly, “I didn’t mean to cause you such distress.”

“Then it’s settled!” Madame de Chevreuse strode over to her, clasping her hands around Marie Madeleine’s elbows companionably. “I’m glad this minute misunderstanding was resolved. We go way back, Marquise,” her sharp nails dug deeper in Marie Madeleine’s skin. “I would love to pick our acquaintanceship from where you and I left off.”

“Likewise,” Marie Madeleine enunciated, making sure her smile showed as many teeth as propriety allowed. That wasn’t many, but she was sure the Duchesse understood the sentiment.

Madame de Chevreuse stepped back, pleased.

“The Duchesse de Chevreuse is here to return to her duties as Surintendante,” the Queen announced to her entourage. “She’s going to keep an eye on you.” The Queen added, her eyes briefly pausing on Madame de Combalet.

“Oh, I will! Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do without me,” Duchesse de Chevreuse chirped. It made a few ladies stifle their shy giggling behind their hands.

“You may spend this afternoon at your leisure, you are not needed.”⁴ Queen Anne dismissed the rest of her retinue, everyone but the Duchesse already forgotten. “Chevrette, shall we go to the gardens? I must tell you everything.”

“And then she sent away her entourage for the rest of the day,” Marie Madeleine finished, leaning back on the chair opposite Richelieu. “Oh, and the Queen said to tell you that ‘she has not forgotten’. Whatever it might be. I assume you know, Uncle.”

Of course. Richelieu pursed his lips. A needless reminder.

“Anything else?” he inquired.

“Marie de Rohan is back at the Court.”

“Yes, I’ve received the dépêche from Lorraine the day Rochefort came to Paris.”

“Her Majesty appointed her as the senior lady-in-waiting,” Marie continued.

Richelieu raised his head at that.

“That couldn’t be.”

“And yet,” Marie Madeleine said through clenched teeth.

“You should’ve started with that,” Richelieu flung his hands into the air, frustrated. “Do you know what it means? The Duchesse de Chevreuse is going to be supervising the whole household, their daily routines, the accounts and staff list, everything. The Duchesse is going to be present with her at all times.”

Marie Madeleine gave him an unimpressed look.

“That’s what the duties of the senior lady-in-waiting entail, of that I am aware. I fail to see how it concerns my station.”

At her words, Richelieu closed his eyes, reaching out to the very last reserve of patience he had left.

“You shouldn’t have mentioned Chalais,” Richelieu finally said. “The Duchesse is dangerous, you shouldn’t have given her any ammunition against yourself. Tread carefully around her.”

Marie kept discontented silence. Richelieu looked at his papers. The silence stretched, so he pushed them aside to take a better look at his niece, hands clasped flat beneath his chin.

“What is bothering you, child?” he finally asked.

“She made a laughing stock out of me!” Marie exploded, shooting up from her seat. “In front of everyone! In front of the Queen!”

Richelieu sighed. Women.

“That’s all she did?” Richelieu tilted his head in disbelief. Marie turned to him, affronted.

“Everyone thinks I’m a liar now. A gossiper!”

“People think of me worse, if that’s any comfort to you,” Richelieu offered, but his niece ignored his placating in favour of pacing nervously across the office. Clearly, she didn’t find solace in his words.

“Marie,” Richelieu stopped her with a wave of his hand. “Did she mention Lorraine, by any chance?”

“She did,” Marie stopped pacing, folds of her heavy dress rustling against waxed parquet. “After the Chalais conspiracy, she fled to Lorraine. Their Duke spoke on her behalf to the King to have her return.”

“This can’t be good,” Richelieu murmured under his breath. “If Lorraine—”

He stopped abruptly, interrupted by metal clanking of military equipment at the door.

Richelieu looked at the clock, then looked at Marie, then looked at the door. It was getting late, and the guest came unannounced. It narrowed down the list of potential visitors by a wide margin.

“Captain,” Richelieu stood from his chair. “What brings you here on such a peaceful evening?”

Marie Madeleine, bless her considerate soul, took the Captain’s entrance as her cue to leave.

“I’ll return later, Uncle,” after seeing his nod, she curtsied silently and made her exit, brushing past Treville’s shoulder. The door shut behind her with barely a sound.

“That’s…” Treville looked at the closed door as if he could glare his way through the wood. “That’s your niece.”

“It had been said that the family resemblance is striking,” Richelieu agreed.

“She was in the Carmelite convent, the last I heard,” Treville finally turned back to him.

“And now she isn’t,” Richelieu rolled his eyes, “people do tend to switch positions.”

“She was happy there,” Treville said, finally making his way to the seat. “You shouldn’t have made her leave.”

Richelieu’s eyebrow twitched. He didn’t need the Captain of the King’s Musketeers to question his decisions regarding his ward as well. The ward did an admirable job on her own without any reinforcement herself.

“My family matters are none of your business, Captain,” Richelieu reminded him testily, reaching for the cabinet to get a second glass. “Wine?”

“Yes, please.” Richelieu’s fingers stilled around the handle for a brief moment.

In the past months, Treville had never agreed to share a drink with him, preferring to stand at parade rest in front of his desk and leave as soon as possible.

“I assume you came here on business,” Richelieu poured him wine and held out the glass to Treville, mindful of their fingers not to brush.

“Thank you,” Treville said, and Richelieu shrugged as he poured himself a drink and made his way back to the table. “My men returned this afternoon.”

“No accidents on the road and no common folk bloodthirsty to hang Rochefort?” Richelieu couldn’t help himself but quip. It was apparent that the rescue was a success.

“Everyone made it,” Treville answered with a hint of disappointment in his tone.

“Pity,” Richelieu sighed. Treville hummed agreeably. “Anything else?”

“De Foix was with them,” Treville took a sip. Richelieu followed his suit. 

So that’s what the worried line between Treville’s brows was about. The General’s well-being must not be in good condition.

“Rochefort took all the credit, naturally,” Treville added. “I’m still not sure what position the King might offer him in the Palace, but His Majesty seems to enjoy the Comte’s company. The Queen as well.”

“If the Queen was present, I assume you already know that Duchesse de Chevreuse is in Paris,” Richelieu picked at the fruit plate on his desk.

Treville made a face. Richelieu chose to believe it was not because of the wine.

“Unbelievable,” Treville muttered.

“Her Majesty wants her dear friend by her side as a confidante,” Richelieu didn’t even bother to hide the disdain in his voice. “So the King had the Duchesse return from Lorraine and restored her to court. Unbelievable? Not really. Unwise? Very much so.”

“What His Majesty was thinking?” Treville shook his head. “How long has it been since Chalais? Has he already forgotten that she was embroiled in every conspiracy imaginable?”

“If I could dispose of Rochefort and the Duchesse, I would’ve done so already,” Richelieu said. “But one is favoured immensely by the King, the other has the Queen’s ear.”

Richelieu rubbed his temples against the oncoming migraine conniving conspirators inevitably brought, wincing in pain. He felt Treville watching him intently, so he forced himself to stop, willing his expression to remain unreadable despite the discomfort. 

“As much as it vexes me, there’s nothing left to do but wait and see,” he continued, taking a sip of his wine to hide another wince behind the glass. “We can only deal prudently with circumstances as they arise.”

“One change always leaves a dovetail for another,” Treville remarked distractedly, his mind elsewhere. The unease was stiffening his shoulders beneath the cape that could only mean— Oh, how unfortunate . The General was a good man. Such a loss to the army on the cusp of the war.

“History repeats itself,” Richelieu couldn’t help but sound bitter. “As soon as order is restored, someone will always come to wreak calamity and unrest. It’s all but Danaides’ work.”

“You think it is pointless though?”

“I think we both know that as repetitive and exhausting as it is, we don’t have much choice in the matter,” Richelieu said, final and clipped. They were the First Minister of France and the Captain of the King’s Musketeers. There was nothing else to it. There was no time nor place for philosophical discourse.

Especially if it wasn’t a philosophical discourse in the first place. It was not an exercise on theoretical possibilities or probable future. It was a statement of fact. Something no one could get away from.

“We can hope though,” Treville said. “That we still do.”

And then he smiled, tired and heavy, but it still took Richelieu’s breath away.

“Did the Captain’s late visit upset you, Uncle?” asked Marie mildly after Treville had left.

“Why would it upset me,” Richelieu replied offhandedly.

“Because you look upset, Uncle,” Marie explained, placid.

Richelieu gave her an arch look, but she remained unperturbed.

“De Foix is dying,” Richelieu told her. “He’s a talented General, it’s a tremendous misfortune for the French army.”

“Oh.” Her mouth pinched with worry. “You have already met the General? Is his condition that bad?”

“No,” Richelieu frowned. “Treville. The General is his close friend.”

“The Captain told you?” To the negative flick of his wrist, Marie Madeleine tilted her head, still slightly baffled. “Then how would you know?”

“Oh, I suppose…” Richelieu paused for a brief moment, unable to explain. “I just know.”

The room was too hot and stuffy, the smells of ointment, sweat, blood, and wounded flesh clogging his nose. If it wasn’t for hoarse, laboured breaths, Treville could almost imagine himself at a Rite of Committal. Lord is a witness, he’d attended his share of them.

Treville took a sip from his wine, sitting next to his friend’s soon to be deathbed. There was little point in denying it. De Foix was dying.

Treville hadn’t decided yet if it was a miracle to find that De Foix hadn’t perished on the battlefield only to lose him in a blink of an eye. Neither had he decided if it would’ve hurt less, had Treville never found out about De Foix.

He gave himself three glasses more until he had to come up with a final decision. Until then, Treville would keep De Foix company, filling him in on everything he’d missed. Not like De Foix could talk back much: the pain had been worsening by the hour, and nothing exceptional had been going on in the prison.

“You still haven’t married,” De Foix croaked.

“Neither have you,” retorted Treville good-naturedly.

“I’ve been too busy being imprisoned by Spaniard cowards,” De Foix laughed. “What’s your excuse, old friend?”

“The service keeps me occupied,” Treville shrugged nonchalantly.

“Guess no one has ever measured up to your standards,” De Foix smiled. “Who would’ve thought of you to be such a romantic.”

“Gah,” Treville snorted. ‘Romantic’ was not the word he would use to describe himself. ‘A blind, naive, and deluded old fool’ was a far more fitting description. “I’ve just never felt the need to settle. I’m content as it is. Don’t think I am the marrying type.”

“Still,” De Foix continued ruefully. “It must be a lonely life for you, friend. I never wanted such a fate upon you.”

Until a few months ago, Treville hadn’t been. At least he thought he hadn’t.

“I have a garrison full of stupid insolent children underfoot to take care of,” Treville said. “It’s a secret, don’t tell them lest they get even more bratty.”

“That I will be taking to my grave, my friend,” De Foix chuckled, but the joke fell flat. “There’s another secret I don’t want to die with me, though.”

Treville sighed. It shouldn’t have been so unexpected to him as it was. He’s losing his edge.

“I knew him as soon as I saw him,” De Foix turned his head to look Treville in the eyes. “He takes after his mother, doesn’t he?”

For the better, Treville thought. That vile blood of his father did no good to anyone. 

“Who?” he asked uselessly, knowing already whom De Foix meant. 

“The Musketeer called Porthos.” Ah, there. 

“What about him?” Treville worked the tension in his shoulder, a year-old injury making its presence known.

“He’s Belgard’s son, isn’t he?”

“Yes,” Treville finally conceded. “By blood he is.”

“I’m glad,” De Foix said, relieved. “I’m glad to die, knowing I’m not responsible for the boy’s death.”

“His mother died of despair soon after we abandoned them in the slums,” Treville took a gulp from his glass. He only knew because Porthos had always talked about his mother with fondness but also a great deal of grief hidden in his voice. “I couldn’t live with what we’ve done. So I searched for them for years, without success. And then call it fate, chance, God, what you will, he came to me. Fresh from the infantry, glowing recommendations and a few battles under his belt. I couldn’t believe my eyes.”

“You told him?”

“Of course not,” Treville shook his head. How could he, then? He’d thought the right time would come, but it never had. And later, when years had passed, Treville saw no reason to ruin what Porthos had built. Memories and motives were lost along the way, they stopped being important. What was left was Porthos and the reasons he deserved to be where he was now by his own merit.

“We must tell him who his father is.” De Foix rasped.

“We made a vow,” Treville reminded him. “We swore to Belgard we would never betray him.”

“And we were wrong. Do you really think this vow holds any weight at this point?” De Foix retorted, and Treville clucked his tongue in annoyed assent. “I thought so.” 

“What good would it do to him?” Treville almost begged. “Why rake up the past now? Porthos is content, why not just let it be?” 

“Do you care about that boy?” De Foix furrowed his brows.

“Of course,” the answer fell from his lips, instinctual.

“Because he’s Belgard’s son?”

“Well…” Treville cut himself off.

Porthos was Belgard’s son, true, but he was so different from his father in the best of ways. Porthos was Belgard’s son, but it stopped mattering to Treville so long ago. He cared because it was Porthos.

As much as he cared about Athos, Aramis, D’Artagnan, and his garrison. He only enlisted the best and the bravest, who had passion in their eyes and fire in their hearts. Porthos was that and so much more.

“He’s my man,” Treville said, the words not enough to encompass what each musketeer in the garrison meant to him. But De Foix, a general to the men of his own, understood.

“Then why don’t you want what’s best for him?”

Treville didn’t say: Because I’m afraid. Because I was a coward and I suppose still am. Because even if I longed for absolution I don’t think I deserve one.

“It’s complicated,” that's what Treville said instead.

“And what isn’t, old friend?” De Foix’s laugh rattled in his wounded chest.

“I don’t know,” Treville let his gaze wander from De Foix’s face, though there wasn’t much space to wander. Once his eyes stumbled upon a small window, inky darkness pooling into the room, he spoke again, “I don’t want to rake up the past.”

“I miss the old days when there were just the three of us together.” De Foix admitted. “When everything was so much simpler.”

“Yeah,” Treville echoed, rubbing the frayed edge of De Foix’ blanket between his fingers. He’d missed him, that much was clear.

But it had been so long. Too long, perhaps. Things they had in common fell apart and turned to dust, people they both cared for either died or were as good as dead.

De Foix was like a ghost from his past, another reminder of his wrongdoings. Maybe this is why it was almost painful to look at him.

“What happened to us, Treville?” De Foix asked, the edge of desperation in his voice worn down too much with time to sting or really matter.

“We got old, I guess.” Treville shrugged, looking at his friend’s face, lined and wane, but so heart-clenchingly familiar.

“Belgard left us long before that happened,” De Foix said bitterly.

“You think we could’ve done something?” Treville asked. Old pain and guilt flared inside his battered heart only to flicker out into familiar dull ache he’d learnt to live with. Sometimes, he even marvelled at just how much a human body could adapt to. Old wounds, once broken bones, screams, and nightmares that once had haunted for days on end now were nothing but distant ripples of memories, lost under the weight of years. Every crest would eventually reach its trough, for a new wave to take its place.

“We were his closest friends,” argued De Foix. “We used to be inseparable. We could do something, couldn’t we?”

Treville sighed and reached out for his wine. He’d contemplated too much over it, once. With wine in his hand and regrets in his thoughts. But not anymore. But then again, during the years, there had been a lot of regrets and even more wine, though drinking to forget had never seemed to work out for him.

Could they stop Belgarde from abandoning his wife and son for his name, reputation, and fortune?

But most importantly, could he do better than taking a blameless woman to the Court of Miracles, leaving her penniless, with a crying babe in her shaking arms? Instead of walking away in shame, trying to tune out her tearful pleas, just because he once thought that a vow to someone meant more than anything, more than innocent lives?

He could do something, couldn’t he? 

He thought about doing something else instead a lot.

“I don’t know,” replied Treville honestly. “We knew about Belgard’s flaws, but... we didn’t stop him, did we? We still let him get away with it.”

“We didn’t have a choice— no,” Treville stopped himself. “We did have a choice. And we made a wrong one.”

They were just fumbling idiots, young and careless. Thoughtless of what would become of the poor woman and the innocent child, selfish and bound by a blood oath that meant nothing in the end. Had never meant anything.

“It’s on me,” De Foix winced, from pain or remorse — Treville couldn’t tell.

“It’s on us,” he corrected, leaning back and propping his legs more comfortably.

“Will you hate me if I say…” De Foix cleared his throat forcefully. “I still do? Miss Belgard and love him, that is.”

Treville laughed soundly at that. De Foix, once, might have been the only one who’d appreciate the irony at this moment, but much water had passed under the bridge since then. The time left with De Foix was too short and precious to waste on explaining why Treville was laughing, bitter and hollow, unable to stop.

“If you didn’t you wouldn’t be De Foix I know.” And who Treville knew for De Foix was a kind and gentle man, as an accomplished general and brilliant tactician came after his and Treville’s lives had taken them to different paths. “So of course I don’t hate you.”

“I guess I miss Belgard who wasn’t capable of such horrible things yet. Or who I didn’t know was capable of those things,” he amended. “Maybe all people are capable of the darkest deeds, and we are just too blinded by our love for them to see that. Can’t accept the fact that they are exactly who they are.”

It was De Foix’s turn to let a wheezing, breathless laugh.

“Treville…You used to be so rash and hot-headed... Say about people never changing, now look at you.” De Foix forced a breath of stale air into his exhausted lungs. “Since when did you get so wise?..” 

“Told you,” Treville poured himself the last of the bottle. “We got old.”

“We did, didn’t we?” De Foix mused before another jolt of pain made his body shudder.

“Now, you should rest,” Treville stood from his place, lightly touching De Foix’ shoulder in concern, careful not to jostle his wounds. “I’ll call for the physician to check up on you, okay?”

“May I speak to Porthos?” De Foix insisted. “I want him to know.”

“That can be arranged,” Treville agreed reluctantly, because what kind of man would begrudge the dying man’s wish.

“You must tell him,” De Foix said, closing his eyes in exhaustion. “Swear to me that you will tell him.”

Another vow from another friend. One nondescript cardinal was right. History repeated itself.

“You sneaky bastard,” Treville grumbled without any heat. “Leaving it to me to do all the dirty work, huh?”

“I know it’s going to be difficult,” De Foix trailed off  to catch his breath, “I don’t want to take my guilty soul to the grave, and neither should you.”

What do you know of my guilty soul , Treville thought. If this was the most shameful act of your life, your guilt is of no comparison to mine.

“Treville,” De Foix called after him, voice rasping and wheezing. “Don’t waste time and don’t have any regrets.”

Treville had already failed his friend’s last request. He’d had too much innocent blood on his hands, he’d wasted time on things he couldn’t change and people he couldn’t save, he had regrets to last him a lifetime and the eternal damnation that followed.

“Live your life well, will you?” De Foix murmurs. 

So he still forced himself to smile. For the sake of three fools riding together so many years ago, for the sake of how simple and happy that time had been.

“I will,” promised Treville. “I will.”

Chapter Text

“For Time, driving all things before it, may bring with it evil as well as good.” — Niccolò Machiavelli, Il Principe , “Mixed Principalities”

The sun shone brightly on the day of the Dauphin’s christening.

The chapel had witnessed countless baptisms since its erection. Just as many as funerals, for life meant balance.

The court watched the bishop proceed with the rites, signing the child on his forehead, creased with crying. The King was glowing, giddy, so was the Queen though in a much more demure manner.

Godfather of the future King was the Pope, as per custom, through his representative papal envoy. Godmother touched the child, a Princesse herself, replying to the bishop with the name the Dauphin would now carry.

The child would not calm, but it didn’t worry the attendants. Crying was what brought the Dauphin to this world; crying meant he was healthy; crying, broadly speaking, indicated life.

“My dear brothers and sisters, we now ask God to give this child new life in abundance… through water and the Holy Spirit.”

And so the Dauphin was baptised as Louis-Dieudonné. The God-given. After years of hope, fears, and cruelty, Lord did not leave the most Christian monarchy.

Chapel watched the procession end, as gospels and prayers rang against snow-white columns. Monarchs came and went, the rites (first and last) identical to each one of them. The future King of France, baptised on the day when the sun was shining, was not exempt. Nothing changed there, stillness reverberated with the child’s cries and polyphonic hymns.

Cardinal Richelieu breathed out, such long-awaited christening finally over. He left with the rest of the spectators, out where things changed so rapidly.

Where the Kingdom of France was changing. As far as the First Minister of France was concerned, the monarchy would never stand still for it would only strive towards greatness.

Time would tell. It always did.

To the South of Paris was another church, no different from others across the country. Christians were given their names there. Christians there were given their last rites.

The sun was still shining bright on that day, as a sonorous voice finished the sermon, leaving the parishioners to reflect on the words of the pastor.

“Is it true, Reverend Grandier,” said a voice as the priest was exiting the church, “that our city is struck by dark forces of Satan?”

The parson paused at the sun-lit porch of the church of Saint-Pierre. His eccliastical garb cascaded from his graceful, well-knit frame; his dark eyes squinted at the question in disdain under sculpted brows furrowing in displeasure.

“What nonsense,” Reverend Grandier said. “Where have you heard it from?”

The locksmith shrugged, dirty fingernails picking at the crusty mud on the buttons of his cloak. Faultless features of the young pastor twisted in barely hidden disgust.

“We’ve all heard it, Reverend,” the locksmith said. “The demons descended upon our city. The screaming at night, we all hear it.”

“Monsieur Jacquet,” Reverend said with thinly veiled irritation, addressing the locksmith. “No evil powers can strike us for God’s grace is clearly in the air. Our future King is to be christened today, hence there will be no demons.”

“But what are they, then,” the locksmith insisted on asking. “Are these ghosts, Reverend Grandier?”

“If you do not believe your priest,” the Reverend said without any desire to deal with the ignorant parishioner any longer, “then maybe ask your devils themselves.”

And with that, he crossed Monsieur Jacquet perfunctorily and left the dumbfounded locksmith standing on the porch of the parish church, without answers to his questions.

“Are these ghosts, Sister?” echoed the question in another part of the city.

The question hovered in the air of one of the convents, which were aplenty in the city. Enclosed from the affairs of the external world, this religious order dedicated themselves to education of young girls within their walls.

Even at times when the education of some girls had proven to be harder than achieving Christian perfection itself.

“Those are not ghosts, Mademoiselle Beliard,” said Sister Emilie.

“But me and girls hear groaning in the attic at night,” said Mademoiselle Beliard.

“Girls and I heard,” Emilie corrected her.

“Mother said about the ghosts too, when I visited,” Mademoiselle Beliard put her quill down. “And there are rumours about devils oncoming to our city, even.”

“The devils?” Emilie shook her head. “Our walls had not been breached by the plague. Devils shan’t enter either.”

“I heard your sisters appeal to Saint Joseph,” Mademoiselle Beliard continued, adamant on her belief in supernatural or aversion to grammatical structures, Emilie could not tell. “If everything was calm, surely that wouldn’t happen.”

“Sister Emilie?” 

She turned to see the Prioress of the convent standing in the doorway.

“I brought you some soup, Sister Emilie,” she said calmly. “You looked rather pale this morning.”

“You are very kind, but I’m fine.”

“It’s sunny outside, but still cold,” she shook her head. “We look out for one another.”

“Thank you, Sister,” Sister Emilie said, accepting the bowl.

“If you are hungry or cold, help yourself in the kitchen,” Mother Superior said to Emilie’s pupil.

“Thank you, Sister Jeanne,” Mademoiselle Beliard nodded. “Have you heard the rumours about ghosts?”

Mother Superior paused in the door in the doorway, fingers wrapped around the doorknob.

“I have,” nodded Mother Superior.

“They are just rumours,” Emilie pressed. “Someone just wants to disturb the peace and cause ruckus in town.”

“Perhaps,” Sister Jeanne tilted her head in thought. “Perhaps not.”

“Oh, Mother Superior, surely you don’t believe—!”

“Drink the soup before it gets cold, Sister Emilie,” Mother Superior interjected gently on her way out. “Ghosts, devils, or neither… time will tell, as it always does. In the meantime, let’s pray to Saint Ursula for protection and guidance.”

Emilie drank the soup obediently and turned towards Mademoiselle Beliard. It was indeed chilly, and the soup was warm.

“Leave smalltalk for later,” she smiled, not unkindly, “and let’s concentrate on your grammar for now.”

The sun shone brightly, but Duc de Saint-Laurent didn’t go out to enjoy the last warmth before the nightly frost.

He had no interest in the parish of Saint-Pierre-du-Marché, so he was unaware of fear and heavy apprehension settling over the city like lead weights. Hence, he thought nothing of the ghosts.

Nor he was one.

Duc de Saint-Laurent passed away without knowing those things, unremarkable as they were. But unlike them, his passing didn’t go unnoticed.

The streets around the royal palace were always busy. Louvre was even busier than that.

And yet, amidst the bustling crowd, carriages, horses, people — there were little pockets of quiet, hidden from sight, unknown unless you knew where to look for it. Snug corners created by careless architecture and weather that fit no more than two people. Star-crossed lovers spent fleeting moments together, exchanging hurried kisses and lingering touches. Conspiring plotters exchanged information that was not to be trusted on paper.

Some, however, used the spaces like that for arguments that wore the stone away better than rain and time.

Family would always be like that. That’s what family’s for, after all.

“I saw you talking to that footboy again,” said the irritated voice.

“Am I not allowed to talk to people anymore?” said his companion.

“You are not allowed to embarass me or our name!” The voice belonged to a young prim man, equally irritated bodily as he was vocally, hands crossed stiffly across his slim chest.

“Philippe!” the girl huffed. “I wasn’t even doing anything improper.”

The silence that followed must have been filled with a dubious look.

“We just talked while Her Majesty was getting out of the carriage. He also has a younger sister, and he’s so much better at treating her,” the girl muttered. “It was just that. A talk! Why are you rolling your eyes?”

Philippe continued with the rolling.

“It didn’t mean anything, I don’t even know his name.”

“That’s even worse. You are going around making eyes without even knowing their names,” he said.

“Why do you never believe what I have to say?” she bit back angrily. “Don’t you have something better to do that spy on me and make false assumptions in your big empty head? I have better things to do than listen to your nagging.”

“You silly.” The young man berating his companion was a few years older than her, that tender age when men, entrusted even with an ounce of responsibility, become excruciatingly unbearable. “You are here to serve the Queen of France and represent our family!”

“And you are here to pester me all the time!” 

“I’m leaving for Poitiers soon,” Philippe said, “and you must conduct yourself well in my absence!”

“I will conduct myself in a way that makes your absence longer,” the girl shot back.

“Gabrielle de Popelin!” The young man tugged at the sleeve of the girl’s dress. Gabrielle shrieked, too loud for the midday stroll in the city streets. “Listen to me!”

“My dress, my dress! You’ll rip it! Help!”

Phillipe loosened his grip, and Gabrielle wrenched her arm off with little grace.

“It’s my favourite dress!”

“You are making a scene,” he said, looking around nervously.

“I’m Her Majesty’s lady-in-waiting,” Gabrielle huffed haughtily. “I am the only entertainment they are getting this afternoon.”

“Exactly! You should be more like… like…” he paused, clearly sorting through his options in his head. Gabrielle lifted a mocking brow at him.

The family occupying the space, usually reserved for meetings more pressing than petty arguments, were Gabrielle and Philippe de Popelin. Philippe was Gabrielle’s older brother, the age difference between them making him both her guardian and the culprit of her constant vexation.

Gabrielle, in turn, was what any younger siblings were. Everything Philippe disapproved of, that is.

“You should be more like Marquise de Combalet,” Philippe clicked his fingers at last. “The Cardinal’s niece.”

“The Queen hates her,” Gabrielle said instantly. “She’s probably evil.”

Philippe had to agree with her. Most people associated with the Cardinal were at least on the spectrum of evil. No one really knew what ‘evil’ broadly entailed, but something surely horrible.

“Lady Marguerite,” Philippe bounced, “the royal governess. Gentle and polite. Quite fetching, too.”

“Boring, plainer than a loaf of bread for breakfast,” Gabrielle shrugged carelessly. “And she’s new here. So that won’t last long. Give her a couple of months.”

Philippe held the position of an accountant, attentive to numbers and his sister’s behaviour, but little else. When it came to gossip, he was forced to abide by Gabrielle’s judgement.

“Look at Lady Catherine,” he finally settled, triumphantly.

Gabrielle stilled.

“What about her,” she finally grumbled.

Venerable Lady Catherine, however, was known even to absent-minded accountants. 

“I have spoken to Lady Catherine in passing,” Philippe continued, clearly inspired by his find of the last pillar of decorum in this palace, apparently. “She seems to carry her with much dignity and modesty,” he pressed on the last word. “Something you maybe should learn.”

“I hate you.”

“So I’ve been told.”

“Philippe,” Gabrielle stomped her little foot, nearly missing her brother’s toes for which he was thankful. “How long are we going to be here?”

“Until you make yourself known and respected,” Philippe hissed. “I worked very hard to get you into Her Majesty’s retinue! You will work as hard to remain there without any scandal.”

“But I don’t want any of that,” Gabrielle said, petulant in a way she only allowed herself to be around her brother. “I don’t like it here very much. I want to go home.” 

Philippe froze, half-way ready for another lecture. It was the same argument, all over again, the root cause of his own overbearing and Gabrielle’s tantrums.

“We can’t go home and you know that,” he said thickly, sounding nothing like a persona he presented at court but rather a person he truly was. “You are so unreasonable. You know why we can’t go home!”

“Even your stupid Lady Catherine goes home sometimes,” Gabrielle huffed petulantly. “Why can’t we?”

Philippe closed his eyes for a brief moment, despair and exasperation written on his face.

“Gabrielle,” Philippe said, putting all the remaining frayed shreds of patience into his words. “I’m your guardian. Since Mother and Father are no longer with us, I have to take care of you.”

“Philippe,” she mocked him. “Maybe you wouldn’t have to take care of me if you didn’t gamble and took care of our parents instead!”

Philippe looked at her, stricken.

“Stupid,” he said at last, rubbing his face tiredly. “Fine, whatever. Do what you want, for all I care.”

“Wait, you leaving?” Gabrielle called after him incredulously before scrambling to follow. “Why are you such a—!”

Despite the corner Gabrielle and Philippe stayed in being secluded from unwanted eyes and ears, their family fight was still heard and seen.

In Louvre (and nearby) even walls had ears, much less Louvre’s attendants¹ .

“Is there a problem?” Duchesse de Chevreuse asked, stepping around the corner to face them.

Madame de Chevreuse was merely walking by when she’d heard the commotion. She was not unfamiliar with the quiet secretive corners, however it was the first time in her memory when the quiet secretive corner’s occupants were so… unquiet.

Gabrielle jumped in surprise, hurriedly masking it behind an awkward curtsey. Her brother was a little more elegant than that, hiding his cheeks, flushed pink in embarrassment, as he bowed.

“Apologies, Your Highness,” Gabrielle mumbled. “Her Majesty dismissed us for two hours, so I have a little spare time…”

“You don’t need to apologise,” Duchesse de Chevreuse waved her hand. “I was passing by when I heard voices and wanted to make sure that my subordinates are safe.”

“No, it’s my brother,” Gabrielle assured her. “He can be a bit loud when he works up a temper.”

“My sincere apologies, Your Highness,” he echoed his sister’s words.

“Well, Lady…” There was an imperceptible slip as the Duchesse tried to remember her name, “Gabrielle.” Madame de Chevreuse flashed her a smile. “I hope you accept my apologies too, for being nosy.”

“Of course! I mean… I mean you weren’t at all…”

“But if there’s any problem you face,” Duchesse de Chevreuse continued over Lady Gabrielle’s ramble. “Don’t hesitate to tell me immediately . Have a good day.”

“Thank you, you too, Your Highness,” the siblings bowed again and walked away.

“I’m sorry, Philippe, okay?” Gabrielle’s shrill voice carried away, the farther they’d gone. “Don’t get in a strop, all moody… See, it was you who almost got us in trouble this time.”

Madame de Chevreuse watched the siblings for a moment longer before continuing her stroll.

She knew that Louvre had ears and eyes everywhere better than most, however she still preferred her walks without an unwelcome company.

The Duchesse slowed, thoughtfully slipping her hand through the folds of her dress.

A shadow on her left moved and detached itself from the wall it had been leaning on. A flash of movement, barely a disturbance in the air, and she turned, metal scraping along the boning of the corset.

“The cord of my purse alone costs more than your life,” Duchesse de Chevreuse said gently, encrusted dagger pressed firmly between the thief’s ribs. “So there must be a very good reason why shouldn’t I just gut you and leave to rot in the ditch.”

“Then kill me,” the thief said, bored. Almost like she really hoped Madame de Chevreuse would.

Or just like a sort of person to get used to such a person like Duchesse de Chevreuse. Which, in truth, the Duchesse found quite offensive. She liked to think she was one of the kind.

Madame de Chevreuse pushed the blade a tad further, enough to see a twitch of the woman’s red lips, to scent a spike of fear from her pale skin, and slid her eyes down to have a look at her throat her dagger would so easily slash open.

Oh.

“Can’t give the thief the satisfaction of getting what she wants,” Madame de Chevreuse’ smile gleamed, too bright. She pocketed her weapon and let the woman from her grasp, stepping back to a respectable and less dangerous distance between them. “I’m going to let you live. And I’m also going to give you a job.”

“My current vocation suits me just fine,” the woman said tartly, still hesitating to take her leave. Most probably because she didn’t want to expose her back. Smart. Madame de Chevreuse would be disappointed if she wasn’t.

“But I have been told such great stories about your work, I just can’t let you refuse my offer,” Madame de Chevreuse lifted her purse the woman was so desperate to steal. “Not an insubstantial one, might I just add.”

“What do you want?” the woman said sharply.

Duchesse de Chevreuse loved the small secretive secluded corners. She, after all, made use of them quite often. It had been said, if you knew where to look and where to listen to, you might find interesting conversations and interesting people.

It seemed today was lucky for Duchesse de Chevreuse, for she had found both.

“I’m sure we can come to some sort of agreement. It appears that I am very much in need of your services,” Madame de Chevreuse smiled. “Comtesse.”

In one of the Louvre’s rooms, one First Minister of France was trying to reach the most regal eyes and ears. Alas, to no avail.

“The city of Loudun, Your Majesty, the nest of Huguenots,” Richelieu repeated again, hands clasped behind his back, “holds the strongest citadel in the entire province. And it was fortified a few years ago, too.”

“In Poitou?” Louis said distractedly. Richelieu had been trying to bring his attention to the matter at hand for the last twenty minutes, but the King had been resolute on ignoring all of Richelieu’s calls. “Dreadful place, to be frank. I wonder what Huguenots even find so alluring there. What a swamp.”

Richelieu was more worried about the King’s lack of concern that there were so many Huguenots there than offended about the jab at his birthplace.

As a Cardinal, Richelieu had little sympathy for the unfaithful souls. As a man of state, if those Frenchmen did not threaten the power of the monarch for him they were, above all, Frenchmen. The rest was inessential.

Loudun stood at the edge of the Huguenot heartland around La Rochelle, divided between Protestants and Catholics. Circuited by two walls, defended by eighteen towers and a huge medieval keep, the pride of Loudun inhabitants regardless of their faith.

Not for much longer, if Richelieu had a say in the matter. Which the First Minister of France most certainly did.

If only the King was easier to reason with.

“You are lenient, Your Majesty,” Richelieu said. “It is true that Loudun kept their allegiance to you during the events at La Rochelle and in the South. But today’s loyalty to the Crown is no guarantee against tomorrow’s rebellion.”

“Oh, Cardinal,” Louis sighs and stands from his seat, throwing a longing look at the frigate he’d been so painstakingly building. Richelieu would much prefer if the King gave at least half as much attention to the real army as he did to his miniature fleet. “The Governor there is a high-ranking official in Court.”

“I am well aware,” Richelieu gritted through his teeth, a hairbreadth away from impatience. “I do not see how it concerns the matter at hand.”

“Surely he would not let that happen in his city. And if you are worried about the Huguenots, the Governor told me that the Catholics are against this too,” Louis continued. “It’s Poitou, understandably the townspeople are concerned about being subjected to pillage and enemy soldiery.”

If His Majesty was appealing to his empathy, there was no need. Richelieu had lived there, at the heart of constant civil wars, unrest, and terror.

It didn’t mean he cared in the slightest about the concerns of the Loudun inhabitants, unfounded or not. 

“Your Majesty, there’s more at stake than irrational worries of the common folk,” Richelieu started pacing around the office, fingers clenching and unclenching around empty air. Grasping at straws, grasping at the running sandgrains of time, time, there’s never enough of it, for the things that had to be done. “The orders were given to the soldiers under the Governor’s command to form a cordon round the donjon! Such defiance should be crushed in the bud before it blazes up into a full-blown uprising, of religious nature or not.”

“Cardinal,” Louis said, making his way to the window. “This is just city folk raising a ruckus over their keep. Give them time and they’ll agree to tear those medieval walls down.”

“We can only hope for that,” Richelieu said. “But it is necessary to take action before we are caught unaware like a herd of frightened deer.”

“Deer, yes,” His Majesty sighed absently. “Oh, that reminded me. It’s deer hunting season already.”

Richelieu breathed out slowly through his nose lest he broke something. A thread of Louis’ attention had slipped through his grasp once again, lost for the day.

“It’s decided, it’s time for a hunt,” Louis concluded, tapping his finger against the window. “The weather is beautiful, if chillier than usual this time of year, don’t you think?”

“Yes, but,” Richelieu halted, searching for words that would make Louis change his mind, “isn’t it too cold for Her Majesty to travel the countryside, so soon after childbirth?”

“Her Majesty can stay in the palace,” Louis said magnanimously. “I’m sure she’ll find ways to entertain herself, and she has her loyal friend by her side,” he pursed his lips, not displeased but not quite happy about the fact either. “A small retribution I could offer for her pain in bearing the heir.”

“Ah, of course,” Richelieu drawled, twisting his face at the sour taste that name inevitably brought to his mouth. “Her Highness, Duchesse de Chevreuse.”

She was back at the Court again with her sharp wit and imperious beauty which she wielded with great skill. She wasn’t yet thirty and it was difficult to look at her without feeling anything.

Richelieu wasn’t an exception. Richelieu felt many things which predominantly were overwhelmed by annoyance, alarm, and apprehension.

“A troublesome woman, but well,” Louis clicked his tongue. “She’s not dangerous.”

Richelieu had to grit his teeth so hard his temples hurt to stop himself from opening his mouth and explaining, exactly, just how wrong His Majesty was.

Alas, the King was never wrong, so Richelieu just stood, listening to His Majesty speak.

“But then, it’s even,” Louis shrugged, uncharacteristically serene despite the Queen’s lack of interest in him or the French court in general. “The Queen has Madame de Chevreuse, I have my Rochefort.”

The continuous tread of His Eminence’s shoes was broken by a sudden stop marked by a creak across the waxed parquet before resuming its calculatedly languid pace.

“Excuse me?” Richelieu blinked in carefully reigned in confusion.

“Comte de Rochefort,” Louis said. “The Comte my Musketeers rescued? I gave him a position in my retinue.”

Richelieu made a step towards his King, because surely he misheard what had just come out of Louis’ mouth.

“Yes, about that. I was going to tell you about the son of marquis d’Effiat, Your Majesty—”

“His tales are unbelievable! And he is a very entertaining and well-read dining partner,” Louis continued, choosing to ignore Richelieu completely. 

“—the young marquis is best suited to the role of the Grand Squire of France since Duc de Saint-Laurent’s untimely and… unexpected passing.”

Not really. Duc de Saint-Laurent had outlived all his wives, children, and two kings to boot. It was only natural he had to be called at God’s right hand at some point. Though Richelieu could understand why Lord was taking his time. The Duc wasn’t exactly pleasant, and the prospect of eternity in his presence was daunting.

Duc de Saint-Laurent had been at Court for longer than Richelieu himself had been alive. Duc de Saint-Laurent was one of those people who seemed to be staying in Louvre until the Second Coming. 

Another proof, it appeared, that nothing lasts forever. 

“There’s no need to look for Duc’s replacement. Rochefort has taken to his position wonderfully.” Louis repeated. Richelieu pivoted on his heels to look at His Majesty. His Majesty showed no signs of retracting his words.

Richelieu threw a bewildered look at the wall that was his only companion in witnessing His Majesty going insane. The wall was earless and eyeless to his dismay² .

“You appointed Comte de Rochefort as the Grand Squire of France ?” Richelieu repeated. 

“I’ve been telling you that, dear Cardinal,” Louis smiled. “I have to say that not only his bravery but also modesty is worth mentioning! Comte said he didn’t deserve such a title, which is ridiculous, of course. I made him accept it.”

“Your Majesty, I wish you’d discuss it with me.” Richelieu felt his lips enunciate the words. His mind refused to process Louis’ words.

How come wasn’t he informed of it? When had Louis even made that decision?

The King turned to him, raising his regal black brow.

“What’s there to discuss, Cardinal?” Louis said, his amiable mood growing tepid. “I am the King, aren’t I? I think I have the right to choose whom I want to see by my side in the palace.”

“Of course, but I should—”

“You forget yourself, Cardinal!” Louis interrupted him. “I, as King, think that you absolutely shouldn’t .”

The First Minister of France paused, head slightly bowed before his liege. There were times where Richelieu could mold the will of the monarch with ease, but that came with the price of Louis being adamant and temperamental in other questions.

Comte de Rochefort seemed to be something Richelieu had no control over when it came to the King’s budding affections for him. That had happened surprisingly fast if not unexpected.

Richelieu had to admit, it was a smart move from Spain. Have the royal attention pinned to their agents, both the King and the Queen.

As smart as it was annoying.

“Apologies, Your Majesty,” Richelieu bowed.

“But you reminded me… Duc de Saint-Laurent.” Louis clicked his tongue. “His golden locket went missing.”

“A golden locket,” Richelieu repeated.

“Yes… Are you quite well, Cardinal?” Louis asked.

“I beg your pardon?”

“You seem unusually distracted lately,” Louis said. In reply to the stunned silence that followed, he continued, “I received a letter from the family begging to look into the disappearance. A family heirloom, you see, bestowed by my father. I couldn’t refuse their plea.”

Of course he couldn’t. When something was to do with Good King Henri, Louis couldn’t simply let it slip.

Well, Richelieu thought. I suppose, there are worse ghosts to be haunted by.

“Should I have my men look at the case?” Richelieu asked.

“Oh, no need,” Louis said flippantly. “My Musketeers have it under control.”

Right.

“…I have little doubt in that, Your Majesty.”

“I have no idea what we are doing.”

“Reassuring,” Treville said, nonplussed. “You’ve been to his house?”

“Twice these past days,” D’Artagnan huffed somewhat dejectedly. “The house has been turned upside down. Nothing there.”

“We need to find the heirloom,” Treville shook his head. “It’s important.”

“It’s just a golden trinket,” Porthos grumbled. “Surely they won’t be missing it much, with the amount of jewels that is in their possession.”

“The trinket was given to the Duc by King Henri,” Treville said patiently. “It doesn’t matter if it’s important to the family; it’s important to His Majesty.”

“The Duc carried it around his neck at all times,” Athos said, his surprise quickly distillating into suspicion. “So it can’t be a servant. It’s easier to steal something lying around, if it comes to it. Can’t be family, they are looking for it.”

“A mistress?” Aramis offered, which was met with four pairs of disapproving eyes. “What? For keepsake!”

“The Duc was over eighty years old when he died,” Treville said.

“As if that has ever stopped anyone,” Aramis muttered under his breath.

“You are the expert here,” Porthos grinned which earned him an elbow to his ribs.

“There are just too many deaths recently,” D’Artagnan shook his head. “We’ve just had the General’s funeral.”

“True,” his words were met with a round of nods.

“Oh, about General De Foix,” Porthos piped up. “Curious thing.”

Treville shuffled the papers on his desk with utmost care.

“He left me a legacy,” Porthos frowned. 

“Did he,” Treville hummed uncommitally, failing spectacularly at feigning nonchalance. De Foix, the sly dog. Of course he did.

“Strange,” D’Artagnan said, “we hardly knew De Foix. Maybe it was for saving his life?”

“Yeah, for a day or two,” Porthos retorted, making something churn painfully in Treville’s chest. “The rest of you didn’t get anything.”

“Wouldn’t you know anything about it, Captain?” D’Artagnan asked. “You were his close friend.”

“I hadn’t seen him for twenty years before his return,” said Treville to his papers.

“You did tell us that you and De Foix had a talk, though,” D’Artagnan continued. “Didn’t he say anything about that?”

Treville raised his head to watch Porthos’ shoulders stiffen. Haven’t changed a bit even on his deathbed , Treville thought bitterly. Of course he’d said something about that.

“Not really,” Porthos muttered, lying³ . “He thanked us for our service. Wanted to see all of us too, but you lot went somewhere.”

“Whilst this mystery is terribly curious,” said Treville, making four heads snap up to him. “The locket of Duc de Saint-Laurent is still missing.”

“Maybe someone at the palace knows something,” said Aramis. “We should go.”

“He didn’t die there.”

“Well, we have no other options,” Aramis replied. “We’ve questioned everyone in the house, searched everything. Any moment, the family is going down to the garrison to question us, what’s taking us so long.”

“I still don’t understand how going to the palace will solve this,” D’Artagnan shook his head.

Aramis clenched his jaw stubbornly.

“I insist. Call it a gut feeling.”

“Well, if you insist ,” Treville said. “Take Athos with you. At least this way I know he’ll keep you in line.”

“Thank you, Captain,” Aramis replied and made a move to leave.

“Where do you think you are going?” Treville called. 

“To… the palace?” Aramis said quizzically. Treville looked. Aramis smiled beatifically. “Guard duty. Of course. Slip of the tongue. We’ll go to the palace tomorrow morning.”

“What business in Louvre do you even have since you are so desperate to get there?” Treville asked, then continuing, “don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.”

“Yes, Captain,” Aramis said, tensing slightly.

“Keep an eye on him,” Treville said to Athos brusquely. “Dismissed, you four.”

“Wait,” Porthos said, stepping forward, “about General De—”

“Dismissed,” Treville repeated flatly.

“I’m so grateful for Rochefort,” Anne said, once she and Duchesse de Chevreuse reached a small chamber near the gardens. “His Majesty expressed interest in going to go hunting soon, Rochefort was willing to accompany him.”

“His Majesty is an excellent hunter,” Duchesse de Chevreuse settled in a chair across the Queen.

“Since he has Rochefort to keep him company, he allowed me to stay in the palace,” the Queen smiled.

“You don’t like the hunting season, Your Majesty?” Madame de Chevreuse asked.

Anne wrinkled her nose which was an answer in itself. 

“Anyway, I asked to prepare drinks and cake for us,” Anne said excitedly, grabbing a pitcher before the Duchesse could even make a sound of protest. “Don’t even start, my dear, let me take care of you; it’s been too long since we had the chance to do this.”

Anne did it every evening ever since Madame de Chevreuse returned to the Court.

“As you wish, Your Majesty,” she conceded and let Anne pour refreshment in dainty glasses, pile slices of various kinds of cake on her plate.

Madame de Chevreuse leaned back, observing Queen Anne in the candlelight. It had been a while since she and Her Majesty met in person. Of course, they had kept a secret correspondence, secure enough for Anne to be frank and honest about the events that had been unravelling in Paris. The Cardinal had banished Duchesse de Chevreuse in hopes that it would bring peace and quiet to the palace. His efforts, according to Anne’s letters, were in vain, because not a day had gone by without troubles for His Eminence.

For Anne of Austria too, it seemed.

But now, Anne was happy, which made Madame de Chevreuse crack a sliver of a smile. Judging by the shadows of sorrowful creases in the corners of her pink mouth, the barely noticeable crow’s feet, Anne wasn’t happy very often. 

“You changed,” Madame de Chevreuse said at last. “And it hasn’t been all that long since I left Paris.”

Anne she left was much more carefree and innocent. Years seemed to polish that into quiet restraint and resilience.

“It’s been years,” Anne argued with fervour. “And felt so much longer.”

“The Cardinal must give you such a hard time, Your Majesty,” said Madame de Chevreuse.

“The Cardinal and I have our disagreements,” Anne said diplomatically. “But I know he’s nothing but loyal to the Crown and has France’s best interests in heart.”

“Or so it seems,” Madame de Chevreuse shrugged, winning her a worried look Anne threw her way.

“France needs the Cardinal,” Anne said with reluctant conviction.

“France, above all, needs Your Majesty to be safe from unfair treatment of the tyrant!” Duchesse hissed passionately, and Queen Anne smiled at her in return. She darted her hand across the table to touch Chevrette’s, as if stealing a touch before she vanished. Madame de Chevreuse covered Anne’s fingers with her own.

“I just feel…” Anne’s voice caught in her throat. “I just feel so lonely, Chevrette. All the time.”

“My Queen,” Madame de Chevreuse clutched Anne’s hand in her delicate soft palms, her eyes burning. “Soon, everything will be well. Very soon.”

Queen Anne beamed at her dearest friend and leaned closer to her.

“Everything is already well, Chevrette. You’re here.”

“And I will make things better,” Madame de Chevreuse said, smiling warmly as her eyes remained dark and cold.

Anne opened her mouth to say something, but was interrupted by a knock at the door.

“Lady Catherine?” Anne gave the lady-in-waiting near the entrance a startled look. “I did not expect you here.”

Lady Catherine curtsied deeply before standing to her full height, regarding her Queen with chilly politeness. 

Duchesse de Chevreuse cocked her head sideways, observing the lady-in-waiting before them. Lady Catherine de Fournier stood at the helm of the Queen’s retinue, guiding that unruly and feisty ship with an iron hand. However, she had never shown any sign of disobedience once she’d been succeeded by Madame de Chevreuse as her superior. Displeasure and judgement was hardly hidden in the creases of her pursed lips, but she took the change in her stride, taking her time to admonish the rest of the retinue in Chevrette’s absence.

Lady Catherine was not a woman easily liked, nor was she devoted to the Queen, believing only in what should be and not in what was. In her view, monarchs came and went, but Louvre must stand tall and proud, keeping its customs and rites, for they were unchangeable whereas sovereigns weren’t.

Its feet partly of iron and partly of baked clay⁴ . Madame de Chevreuse could always appreciate a good metaphor.

“Your Majesty,” Lady Catherine said, “I’m here to pass the message that the King won’t be visiting tonight.”

“Oh,” Anne blinked. “That’s all?”

“The message came from the King’s household,” Lady Catherine said, a tinge of incredulity colouring her voice.

“Yes, of course,” Anne nodded, hiding her confusion.

“Ever since the Duc’s passing His Majesty has been rather… preoccupied.”

“Has he?” Queen Anne said out of politeness rather than genuine interest in her husband.

“Duc de Saint-Laurent has been serving the French crown for decades ever since Henri III’s reign,” Lady Catherine said dryly. “Louvre is in immense distress because of his demise.”

“Oh yes, I heard about it,” Queen Anne murmured. “May his soul rest in peace.”

“His dearest possession, a gift from King Henri has also gone missing.” 

“Has it?” Duchesse de Chevreuse raised her eyebrow at that.

“Indeed, Your Highness. There’s a thief in the heart of the Crown.” 

“How terrible,” Duchesse de Chevreuse drawled flatly, and the lady-in-waiting agreed with her.

“Lady Catherine,” Anne said.

“Yes, Your Majesty?”

“Is the Dauphin ready for bed already?”

“Lady Marguerite said that he’s already sleeping,” Lady Catherine reported. “Duc de Saint-Laurent—”

“Ah, then I’ll have to wait until morning to see him,” the Queen sighed.

A flurry of emotions flashed across Lady Catherine’s face, but as far as Duchesse de Chevreuse could see, none of those were amiable. One of the reasons was, most likely, that Lady Catherine was amongst the majority of the Court who thought that the Queen shouldn’t attend to her child so often.

“The Dauphin is in the Governess’ trusted hands, your worry is needless,” Lady Catherine said and coughed quietly to the side. The blush was stark and deep on her otherwise pale face, but it was probably due to the makeup rather than embarrassment. “I’m sorry.”

“That cold of yours,” Duchesse de Chevreuse said gently. “Still hasn’t got better?”

“It’s probably just a drought in the palace, Your Highness,” Lady Catherine shook her head. “I’ve been drinking your herbal infusions, they are very helpful. Thank you, Your Highness.”

“Don’t fret over it, it’s nothing,” Duchesse de Chevreuse gestured carelessly. “I’ll send some more.”

“You should take care, Lady Catherine,” Queen Anne said gently. “Retire to bed early, Chevrette will attend to me tonight, won’t you?”

“You needn’t ask,” Madame de Chevreuse smiled.

“You may leave, Lady Catherine,” Anne ushered her. “Don’t worry.” 

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Lady Catherine curtsied and left.

“That was kind of you.” Anne turned away from the door when it closed behind the lady-in-waiting. “Offering her medicine.”

“It’s not a bother to me.”

“What do you think, Chevrette?” Anne bit her lip, thumbing a fold of her dress between her fingers.

“Of Lady Catherine?”

“Of my entourage,” Her Majesty said.

“They are all excellent women,” Madame de Chevreuse said.

“Indeed they are,” Queen Anne agreed with a slight nod of her head.

“But they have no love for a Spanish Queen, do they?”

“They gossip like fishwives in their spare time.” Anne leaned back on her chair, continuing picking her dress.

“So I’ve heard,” Madame de Chevreuse quirked the corner of her lips without humour. “They might not be trusted, but they certainly pose no harm.”

“All of them?” Anne raised her chin in challenge. “Even the Cardinal’s spy?”

Madame de Chevreuse eyed Her Majesty.

“You don’t seem very fond of Marquise, Your Majesty,” she said carefully.

“She was placed by the Cardinal to spy on me and my child,” Queen Anne retorted sharply, slowly untangling her fingers from the white-knuckled grip on her dress. “She may pretend to be unaware of his schemes, but I’m not the one to be fooled by her pretense.”

“Of course not,” agreed Madame de Chevreuse readily. “You have always been good at seeing through people’s actions.”

“So, what do you think?” Anne asked.

“Of Marquise de Combalet?”

“Yes,” the Queen said, tense again.

“I did say your retinue are all excellent women,” marked Duchesse de Chevreuse. “Though Marquise does look rather unfriendly.”

“You are too kind, Chevrette,” Anne frowned, clearly expecting a far more negative reaction. “She was exceedingly rude to you the day you came.”

“She clearly has a deep distaste for the worldly affairs and I am nothing but,” Madame de Chevreuse shrugged carelessly. The niece worried her very little in contrast to her uncle. She had never been a threat to Chevrette, she wouldn’t be now either. “Though I am very much baffled by her return to the Court.”

“I told you, Chevrette!” Anne exclaimed impatiently, startling with her agitation. “She is spying on me on the Cardinal’s behalf.”

Ultimately, Queen Anne was asking: is Marquise de Combalet dangerous? Dangerous to her or to her son, though Madame de Chevreuse couldn’t for the life of her figure out what Anne was so fearful of. The birth of the heir must have secured her position both in court and the King’s affections. As long as the Dauphin lived, Anne was untouchable. And the Dauphin’s death was the last thing Richelieu wanted.

“Is something bothering you, Your Majesty?” Duchesse de Chevreuse asked gently, tilting her head to catch Anne’s gaze.

“Nothing,” Anne said too quickly.

“If there’s something on your mind,” Madame de Chevreuse insisted. “I’m here to do anything in my power to help you ease the burden.”

Anne smiled, faintly but sincerely.

“I know, my dear friend.” She looked at the plate of cake, “you barely tried them. Let’s finish them before we leave.”

“After you, Your Majesty,” Madame de Chevreuse waited for the Queen before picking up her own bite.

“It’s nice,” Queen Anne said. “I have fun when we talk in the evening, Chevrette.”

“I was away from you for too long. Now, tell me all the stories that happened in my absence.”

“Have I told you about the last time I travelled to Bourbon-les-eaux?” Her Majesty giggled, probably for the first time in a long while.

“I’m all ears,” Duchesse de Chevreuse smiled.

Anne began to talk and she listened.

Madame de Combalet straightened her back in her seat, trying to catch the light of the dying sun on the pages of the book.

“You look unwell, Lady Catherine,” Lady Gabrielle said, her foot tapping nervously against the floor.

“It’s a minor cold,” Lady Catherine said through gritted teeth. “But I have a headache, so if you would—”

“I can call the servant for warm water.”

“—Stop tapping your foot,” Lady Catherine finished.

“Oh,” Lady Gabrielle’s foot stilled before hiding embarrassingly beneath the hem. “Sorry.”

A few minutes ticked by in silence. Marie Madeleine sighed inwardly, turning the page. It was late afternoon, dipping closer to early evening, time for a short reprieve from her duties. It was not, unfortunately, a reprieve from her fellow ladies-in-waiting.

They were all lovely women.

However, Madame de Combalet could quite find the grounds for connection. She was too reserved and quiet for Lady Madeleine to like her, though she had never been anything but genial to her. Lady Gabrielle was only fifteen, too busy figuring out how to survive in the Court and too young for them to have much in common. Lady Catherine didn’t like anybody.

And it wasn’t like Madame de Combalet was looking all that hard for connections. 

“I heard there’s going to be a new play in the city,” Lady Gabrielle said, a touch quieter than usual.

“Mm, yes,” Lady Madeleine piped up from her seat. “At Rambouillet, isn’t it right?”

“It is,” Madame de Combalet hummed.

“I wish I could go,” Lady Gabrielle sighed wistfully. “Someone’s mentioned there will be readings of passages before the publication.”

“Mhm,” confirmed Mary Madeleine. “I’m looking forward to that.”

“My brother doesn’t let me go by myself, and he is too occupied to accompany me,” Lady Gabrielle lamented.

“A literary salon,” Lady Catherine grumbled in disapproval. “We all know how they end up. For the better, I might add.”

“You mean Comtesse—”

“Exactly,” Lady Catherine’s impressive sneer was undermined by a violent cough. “I thought you’d be more prudent towards such amusements, considering your uncle’s opinion on them.”

Madame de Combalet had no clue what Uncle’s opinion on the literary salons had been, so she opted for an aborted gesture in lieu of reply.

“He just worries if I get home late,” she said, in hopes they would leave her alone to gossip on their own. “But he doesn’t mind at all.”

Lady Madeleine coughed.

“Are you ill as well?” Lady Gabrielle asked.

“Just… dry air caught in my throat,” Lady Madeleine waved her concerns away.

“I find such establishments to be of ill repute,” Lady Catherine said coldly. “And certainly improper to attend at such a young age as yours, Lady Gabrielle. Too many… unbecoming ideas.”

“You sound like my brother, Lady Catherine,” she muttered.

“Did your brother buy you this dress?” Lady Catherine eyed her frock. 

“Uh,” Lady Gabrielle blinked. “He did, though I chose the fit. He manages our finances.”

“It suits you,” Lady Madeleine assured her.

“Hm.” That was all Lady Catherine had to say.

Lady Madeleine looked at Madame de Combalet.

Madame de Combalet looked at Lady Madeleine. Oh.

“It’s… colourful,” Madame de Combalet offered after a beat. And in reluctant effort at genial small talk, added, “and the sleeves are nice, the lace frills are, uh… lacy.”

“Thank you,” Lady Gabrielle brightened. She moved her skirt to reveal the patterned satin.

“Is it proper for the lady-in-waiting in Her Majesty’s retinue?” Lady Catherine raised her brows.

“Well,” Lady Gabrielle let go of the fabric in her fingers, fold rustling back to place. “I mean… is there a problem with it?”

“The pattern, as Marquise so aptly mentioned,” Lady Catherine’s thin lips twisted in disdain, “is far too colourful.”

“I didn’t mean it in a derogatory way,” Madame de Combalet objected defensively. “It is colourful. There’s nothing wrong in that.”

“Perhaps you’d know,” Lady Catherine said derisively. “Maybe you’d accompany young Lady Gabrielle to the salon as well, while you’re at it? Such dress is only fitting in an environment like that.”

“I see no trouble in that, if her guardian permits it,” Madame de Combalet replied, feeling a touch offended. What did Lady Catherine was even trying to imply?

“Ah, Lady Catherine, the cold makes you disagreeable,” Lady Madeleine chirped cheerily, sounding too amicable to be genuine. “You are being so harsh on little Lady Gabrielle. The salons, and now the dress.”

“I’m fifteen,” she grumbled peevishly.

“Exactly. We’ve all been fifteen,” Lady Madeleine giggled. “A long time ago.”

“It is paramount that manners are instilled from a young age,” Lady Catherine said loftily as she turned to the youngest lady-in-waiting. “In absence of parents, if your brother fails to—”

“My brother might be a touch overbearing for my liking, Lady Catherine,” Lady Gabrielle cut in abruptly, usually meek and quiet under Lady Catherine’s often criticism. “But I shall not have you speak ill of him in his absence.”

“…Let’s turn to lighter topics,” Lady Madeleine said nervously, as they all watched Lady Catherine’s pale face fill with colour of outrage. “Oh, you wouldn’t believe what I heard from my footman the other day!”

Lady Madeleine’s invigorating story was interrupted by a deep intake of breath which usually followed a long and degrading diatribe on virtues (lack thereof, exactly).

But nothing followed. There was just noise of something rattling inside a large metal vessel. A noise a human should not produce.

Madame de Combalet in very rare moments of idle amusement did wonder if Lady Catherine was of some other species, but that was nothing but fanciful lark.

As they jerked up to see what caused such a horrible sound, they saw Lady Catherine with her mouth opened, like a fish scrambling on ice.

And then, in sync with Madame de Combalet’s book falling from her lax fingers, began Lady Catherine’s collapse on the floor.

Lady Catherine was a stout woman, larger and taller than some men at the Court, so the collapse was akin to an earthquake that precursed the eruption of Vesuvius, and as destructive. The chair nearby Lady Catherine fell upside down as she scrambled for support, she herself fell on her knees before dipping sideways, and she let out another terrible, heaving suffocated sound.

Then it all ended in a heap of stretched Lady Catherine and her mutedly coloured, sensible dress.

“Oh, goodness!” Madame de Combalet gasped.

“I’ll call for help,” Lady Gabrielle squeaked and ran off, her patterned bright skirts sweeping behind her.

“Let’s get her on the chaise longue,” Lady Madeleine said qiuckly, and between the two of them they managed to half-drag and half-haul Lady Catherine’s body that shivered violently as fits of coughs coursed through her.

“I’m fine,” she wheezed out. “I just need some water.”

“Lady Gabrielle went to get some,” Lady Madeleine assured her, and on cue, the door opened.

“Oh, ladies, I was almost ran over by Lady Gabrielle on my way here, what’s going… oh my,” Madame de Chevreuse rushed to Lady Catherine’s side. “What happened?”

“She was coughing and fell,” Madame de Combalet explained their current predicament. “Lady Madeleine and I helped her up, and Lady Gabrielle ran out to get help.”

“You overexerted yourself, Lady Catherine,” Duchesse de Chevreuse tutted under her breath, touching her forehead with the back of her head. “Lie down until you feel better and then go home and recuperate.”

“Maybe we should get the physician,” Lady Madeleine added uncertainly. “I agree with the Duchesse. You can’t continue with your duties in such condition.”

“I’m hardly on my deathbed.” Lady Catherine snapped haggardly. “I’m taking medicine. No need to bother the doctor.”

Lady Madeleine made an unconvinced sound in the back of her throat which made Lady Catherine throw a dirty look her way.

Her face soured even further when Lady Gabrielle returned to the room with a few bewildered-looking servants.

“This is the height of misconduct,” Lady Catherine muttered, accepting a glass of water from Lady Gabrielle’s hands.

“I think you should stay to catch your breath for a few minutes, you are in no position to walk” Duchesse de Chevreuse said. “I will alert Her Majesty of your condition, don’t worry about that. Once you gather your bearings, we can arrange your transport.”

“Thank you, Your Highness,” Lady Catherine closed her eyes in gratitude. “Accept my deep apologies.”

“Well, ladies,” Madame de Chevreuse patted her hand and stood. “We should leave Lady Catherine to rest.”

“Shouldn’t we stay?” Madame de Combalet paused.

“The servants will look after me,” Lady Catherine said. “And then I’ll go home.”

“But…”

“I have a headache,” Lady Catherine repeated. “I’d like to stay alone.”

“See, don’t disturb her rest,” Duchesse de Chevreuse said, a commanding note seeping in her voice, as she swivelled her subordinates out of the room. “Come on, Marquise. I’ll make sure Lady Catherine receives proper help.”

Ladies-in-waiting sans Lady Catherine followed her, watching Duchesse de Chevreuse closing the doors shut and giving out instructions.

“I still feel bad for leaving her there,” Lady Gabrielle whispered.

“Me neither,” Lady Madeleine said, drooping her round shoulders in a sigh. “But Lady Catherine is stubborn, and if Surintendante says not to disturb her, we shall obey. Isn’t it right, Marquise?”

Madame de Combalet hummed in vague agreement.

“You expressed interest in Madame de Rambouillet salon,” Lady Madeleine smiled in attempts to cheer her up. “You want some company?”

“Thank you so much, but I can’t,” Lady Gabrielle said sadly. “My brother doesn’t let me.”

“He doesn’t sound like a lot of fun,” said Lady Madeleine whose life was mostly comprised of fun.

“He’s so controlling,” the youngest complained. “When I don’t stay in the palace, we come and leave the palace together. He watches my every step, I wonder if he works at all!”

“He must have a reason to worry,” Madame de Combalet offered placatingly.

“He just likes being overbearing,” Lady Gabrielle grumbled. “Ever since he became the master of the family when our parents passed.”

“My condolences.”

She bit the inside of her cheek, making her face look pouty and young. It didn’t look like the court life, despite Lady Gabrielle’s love for sparkle and fashion, suited her or was very much for her liking.

But come to think of it, no one was specifically cut out for such life or grew to truly enjoy it. You either honed yourself to be very good at it or left.

“It’s fine,” Lady Gabrielle said. Then, with an unmistakable tint of homesickness, she said, feigning nonchalance, “we live in Paris now. Our estate, what little is left of it, is very far away.”

At some point Lady Madeleine said her farewells, leaving Madame de Combalet and Lady Gabrielle to walk together.

“You don’t understand, Marquise,” Lady Gabrielle said with petulant bitterness. “You get to visit all the salons and meet all the nice people. And you can get married if you want! And I’m like a bird in a cage. I never truly wanted to be here in the first place, but I can’t even do things I want!”

Madame de Combalet didn’t say anything for a while.

“On the contrary,” the fabric beneath her fingers crinkled, as smooth as her distant voice. “You’ll find that I know more about birds and cages than you might think.”

“What’s the code?”

“Oh, leave it,” a voice said irritably. “You know it’s me.”

Perales clicked his tongue in annoyance. “You are supposed to say the code.”

“And you were supposed to be here fifteen minutes ago.”

 “I was detained,” he said. “One cannot be too indiscreet, Rochefort.”

“I think, Ambassador,” Rochefort emerged from the shadows, “as a spy, between you and I, I’m more qualified in such things.”

“You think you know it all, Rochefort?” Perales huffed in disbelief. “I have no time for verbal duels.”

“And I have no time for waiting around,” Rochefort spat through gritted teeth. “You’re keeping me away from my duties. The King is expecting me before he retires.”

“Your duty is to me and to Spain,” Perales took a step forward. “I have received a letter from Minister Olivares. He’s displeased that the First Minister is still His Eminence.”

“You want to depose him?”

“Depose is one thing to call it, though I doubt the Cardinal would willingly step down,” Perales said. “I’m talking more along the lines of… extermination.”

Rochefort took a step back. Perales liked to think it was because he was intimidating, and not because Rochefort was incredulous.

“Kill the First Minister?” Rochefort said after missing a beat. “How?” 

The pause in his voice was barely noticeable, like a clock ticking slightly out of sync. Completely accurate overall yet strange and disjointed.

In hindsight, Perales should have noticed such a small discrepancy in Rochefort’s composure. In hindsight, Perales should have known better than be inattentive and careless around Rochefort.

Hindsight had never been Don Fernando Perales’ strongest suit, so he saw nothing amiss.

It is strange how history turns on the smallest decision. 

“That’s not as easy as you make it seem,” Rochefort went on. 

“I’d think you of all people should want to see him dead,” Perales let out a chuckle. “I’ve seen you the first time you came here. I thought you’d pounce on him the second your eyes met.”

“There are things that I want, but there are also things to be done to achieve that.”

“There was an opportunity around the time when the Musketeers rescued you,” Perales said. “Had the plan fallen through, you would be taking place as the King’s confidante in the Cardinal’s absence. But the plan had never come to fruition as there were slight… difficulties.”

“Maybe because it’s not easy to kill him, just like I said,” Rochefort raised his brow sceptically.

“As I said, before your extraction we were very close,” Perales replied impatiently. “Olivares was displeased to know that when the Dauphin was born, the Cardinal’s last rites were not sung in the nearby church.”

“You have a plan?”

“That is what I have you for,” Perales said indignantly.

“Say you do succeed,” Rochefort said, scepticism still colouring his words. Perales bristled: the gall of that bastard to think it was out of the realm of possibility! “What then?”

Perales looked at him. And that was a man who Vargas claimed to be an elite spy? 

“The King would be susceptible to negotiations to withdraw from the war and soon, it would be easy to bend France to our will,” Perales explained. “Surely I don’t have to explain it to you. The Cardinal is the only one who is against Spanish dominance in Europe.”

“There will be chaos,” Rochefort grew agitated. “It’s too soon. What if the King would call his brother as his right hand? Gaston’s appetite for gold is not something even Spain would be willing to match. Never mind his mother.”

Perales clucked his tongue. Perhaps, Vargas had reasons for thinking Rochefort would be of use.

“Your concerns are sound,” Perales agreed reluctantly. “But what do you have in mind, then?”

Rochefort calmed, his face folding back into a mask of indifference.

“We should wait,” he said simply. “The Minister’s influence over the King is as strong as ever. But Louis is suspicious and gullible in equal measure, this is why I have not earned his full trust yet. But once I do, it will be my word against his.”

“And that would achieve us what?”

“It would achieve us sowing seeds of doubt in the monarch’s mind. Then Louis himself would agree to depose his advisor once he sees him weak. Without King’s favour no one would bat an eyelid if something were to happen to him. Most likely, we would have a number of volunteers willing to slit his throat themselves.”

“I will make sure to include your concerns into reply,” Perales said. “But if Olivares disagrees, then there will be no place for argument.”

“I just told you why such rush actions are foolish!”

“I hope you remember that it was Spain that released you from the dungeon,” Perales cut him off. “And so, you must obey our decisions.”

Rochefort’s only eye flashed.

“It was Spain that put me there in the first place,” he spat.

“You and I both know that’s not quite true,” Perales felt his mouth stretch in a wide grin. “Keep in mind that I have the power to put you there again.”

“And I hope you keep in mind that I’m the only tool that can bring our mutual acquaintance down,” Rochefort said through gritted teeth. 

“You are not the only one whom we’ve employed,” Perales shrugged. “So don’t think you are special, Rochefort, for you are easily replaceable.”

“You would get rid of me in a minute if I were, Perales,” Rochefort smiled unpleasantly for he was regrettably correct. “Who are you talking about?”

“Someone who’s already so close to the Queen; you are really falling behind in gaining King’s affections in the same capacity,” Perales huffed. 

“And have you mentioned Olivares’ expectations concerning the First Minister?” 

“We haven’t had the chance to talk yet, but I don’t need her opinion in the matter,” Perales said flippantly. “And she’s far more complacent than you, and she doesn’t have as much at stake as you do.”

“Complacent,” Rochefort repeated. 

“Spain rewards heftily,” Perales said. “Which cannot be said about France, or so the Duchesse told me.”

“Well, if that is what you think she is after,” Rochefort drawled, “surely you cannot be wrong.” 

“Be careful, Rochefort,” Perales said. In another time, he’d be livid to admit it, but he was slowly coming to an understanding with the Cardinal. If this is what he had to deal with on a regular basis, Perales would have sent Rochefort much farther away than Spain.

“You realise that you are not the one who is interested in such a turn of events. I have received several offers. And yet I have chosen to plead my loyalty to you.”

“I’m sure King Philip will heavily reward you for your service,” Perales said, knowing that there hadn’t been much choice when Rochefort pledged to be loyal to the Spanish crown.

“I only need one reward,” Rochefort said. “I don’t care how I get it, with you or with someone else.”

“Should I pass a word to Vargas, Rochefort? That you need to be reminded who you belong to?” Perales continued, feeling almost a physical pang of pleasure at seeing Rochefort twitch. “He surely missed your lively company.”

Perales smiled. There was something pleasant in seeing Rochefort reigning in his anger. He saw that man in action.

It was because Rochefort knew who was in control. It was Perales who could destroy him with a flick of a quill on a letter to Madrid.

“I would be careful in your place, Perales,” Rochefort said at last, eerily calm in comparison to his previous burst of anger.

Perales felt a shudder running up his spine. What a dingy, draughty palace Frenchmen have.

It is strange how history turns on the smallest decision. 

One must wonder if that is how all the wars start and how unshakeable nations crumble.

Midnight descended on Louvre.

The palace never slept, though the pockets of darkness and privacy were still present, even in such a place like Louvre. Partly, because plotting intrigues and conspiracies in broad daylight is unstylish. Mostly, because servants in Louvre were like any other servants elsewhere. Where there was a possibility to steal, be it money or candles, they ceased it.

In such a dark and secret corridor, unlit because of some unscrupulous servant, sat Lady Catherine, still weak and dizzy from her cold.

The window was wide open. She shivered but didn’t move to close it. She was Her Majesty’s lady-in-waiting, doing such things were beneath her.

What would’ve happened if Lady Catherine closed the window herself and left the chilly corridor? What would’ve happened if Louis-Dieudonné hadn’t been christened on such a beautiful and sunny day or if had been God-gifted years later?⁵ What would’ve happened if Duc de Saint-Laurent lived long enough to enjoy the last sunny days of autumn?

What would’ve happened if a parish priest and a cloistered nun believed in ghosts?

History bears no subjunctive.

So time drove things before it the way they were. The Dauphin was born at last, christened on a sunny day when auburn and copper had barely touched the leaves. The window remained open.

The night chill coursed through feverish Lady Catherine.

“Why did you call me here,” Lady Catherine said out loud. “You said you know some information about the Grand Squire’s missing heirloom.”

The answer was silence. Lady Catherine rolled her eyes.

“Stop wasting my time, it’s so late,” Lady Catherine huffed. “In the note you told me it was important.”

At that, she heard the rustle of heavy fabrics that inevitably followed respectable women.

What, in Lady Catherine’s humble opinion, didn’t follow respectable women were the showy pattern on garishly coloured satin, the puffy and obnoxious sleeves.

“What are you doing?” Lady Catherine demanded. “Say something if you have something to say, don’t be ridiculous!”

What would’ve happened if a servant didn’t steal so many candles that night?

If the dark and secret corridor had been just a little less dark, enough to make out faces and figures.

“Wait,” Lady Catherine said, a touch of apprehension colouring her voice. “You are not… who are you? Get off me! Ah—”

And then there was a soft thump. On the other side of the dark and secret corridor. And a few floors below.

Of course there was a witness to that scene, for in Louvre even walls had ears. Though not the witness Lady Catherine would have liked, nor the witness that would have helped her.

“That went well,” the witness commented. “I’m impressed, Comtesse.”

“Stop calling me that.”

The witness joined the figure standing. 

“That dress is incredibly tight and short,” the figure said with displeasure. “I didn’t know the Queen keeps a dwarf in her retinue.”

“She doesn’t,” the clothes rustled again, then a sound of fabric ripping followed. 

“And now you ruined the dwarf’s dress because you wanted a scrap of that garrish fabric. I thought you had better taste than that,” an unimpressed comment followed. “Why go through this whole ordeal anyway?”

“Lady Catherine suffered from terrible fever and stood so unfortunately close to the opened window. A bout of dizziness overwhelmed her. Such a pity.” An almost genuine sigh of sorrow was shared with the night. “But in case that’s not what happened… I prefer to have a few versions of truth. Just in case.”

A moment later there was a sound of a window finally closing shut.