Chapter Text
Chapter 1
The jurist
It was a fairly quiet early afternoon, the sun couldn't break through the walls of the tallest buildings. The air wasn't too hot either.
Another day of business and work was preparing to end, even though someone had already finished their duties and someone else was preparing to begin them.
There was an air of expectation in the streets of a Paris that was ready for the changes due to the position taken by the new commander of the cardinalate guards, Count Rochefort, and the speculations that there would be, from then on, on the arrival or less than a new Cardinal who should have taken Richelieu's place.
The people who lived in the Madame Sainctot hamlet, as that street corner crossing Rue de Victoire and Rue St. Augustin was often called, were strangely very interested in that kind of information, not least because their fate depended on it.
Most of the residents, most of them rented or in other temporary residences, were in fact returning from all over France, where Richelieu had forced them to go when he was still alive.
The irony of fate wanted those buildings and their inhabitants only a few steps from the street dedicated to the late Cardinal, the man who in his life had done so much to remove them from the center of Paris.
Noises of hasty footsteps traveling the deserted street came closer and closer.
“Blaise! You open! It's us! ”- said a man, turning to a dark boy, whose head could hardly be seen from the wide open window on the street. The man was holding a girl of perhaps four or five by the hand.
A housekeeper pushed aside the heavy red curtains of a bedroom on the first floor of the building facing them. Behind the glass you could see a large room with several alcoves, all embellished with embroidered blankets and precious silks. Even the room seemed to be part of a house that was too large for the Parisian villages.
The hostess looked out the window curiously, lit a pipe and quickly crossed the child's eyes to focus more on the tall figure of the father who was holding her hand. He was a tall man with a thin, pale build. Her hair, the same color as the girl's, neatly trimmed and cut just below the ears, was auburn brown, streaked with the first white hair. The jurist's collar stood out white from his long dark toga.
The woman immediately noticed how he used to completely shave his face, turning out younger than he really was.
On his small and slightly pointed nose, they still rested a pair of large round glasses, they hid their light eyes, perhaps green, and with one arm he held two thick tomes from which sheets and notes stood out, used as bookmarks. He placed the books on the edge of the door, took off his collar for fear of dirtying it and put it, together with the glasses, under his toga.
The lady was still staring at them with keen interest: she wore a corset embroidered with fine pearls and both the jewels that embellished her, and those that could be seen leaning against the dressing table, made one think of how rich she could be.
Yet no emblem of a noble family decorated the jambs of the windows or that of the door. It did not go unnoticed by the small family that the woman's hair was dyed a bright red and a man with a hat pulled down on his face almost sneaked out: he was carrying a heavy cloak with the edge dirty with mud and large bags of wayfarer, now empty.
“Jacqueline! You don't stare at strangers, it's rude! ”- the man said to the little girl, who turned away from that particular woman, wrapped in a cloud of smoke and her sumptuous home.
***
He looked one last time from the dark window, as if on the other side there was no street full of passers-by who came home from the long day of work and the clear reflection of the lights of the warm tavern, full of tired people, workers, warriors. and merchants who had concluded their business for that day and were preparing for the evening, for dinner, for tired husbands, angry wives and the screams of children in the middle of the night.
He had always hated those crying, those loud moans that came from beings so small. They often woke him up earlier, but all he used to do was simply get dressed and leave yet another bed. They weren't his responsibilities: they were someone else's mistakes, which he certainly didn't want to have anything to do with.
However, the cries of Luis, the little Dauphin of France, were different. They were cries she always wanted and could comfort, tears she managed to wipe away by taking her small cheek in the palm of her hand and running her thumb gently over her long lashes.
Soft hair that caressed his chin when he took it on his lap, those hands so small that they clung with determination to his shoulders, never to let go. Unlike everyone else, he felt like Luis was his and he would do anything to be by his side, he would give his life to watch over him and protect him from all the dangers of the world.
Aramis had looked for Luis that afternoon too, as always, but Marguerite was alone. He hadn't come near to ask her for information, he didn't want to woo her again or be forgiven, only in order to obtain a few ephemeral information: the care of the Dauphin was entrusted in part to Constance, she would no longer need that kind of deception.
The musketeer could not remember ever having found the nurse without him for so long before, not even when the prince was sick and it began to appear unnatural to him. By now the cries of the first months had been replaced with some words and the first steps, Marguerite and the Queen should have waited even longer for the prince, not absent themselves from him.
He turned his gaze back to Athos, intent on pouring more wine for both of them. When left alone to his thoughts, his companion used to pinch his eyebrows and remember something that marked a mixed expression of resentment and melancholy on his face.
Aramis tried to open his mouth, intending to say something, but Athos interrupted him before he could:
"He is not your son, we have already talked about it ..." - he said without even looking at him or without asking what was the problem that afflicted his longtime friend, drinking a first glass and immediately filling another.
The musketeer stared at his chalice, full of dark wine, tried to gobble it as he saw Athos do, in the hope of obtaining the same result, but a lump in his throat, a sense of lack and sadness prevented him; he barely managed to wet his lips to put it back and look for D'Artagnan and Porthos who, for that evening, were late in arriving.
***
The door knocker rang for a long time before someone opened it.
Even when it was open, however, it left no idea who might be on the other side.
"Sir, excuse my intrusion, but this afternoon you forgot your books by the side of the door ..." - the lady owner of the house next door peered inside, now dark, where the candlelight showed the stairs leading to the upstairs and the doubtful face of the jurist with round glasses again on his nose.
"I asked my housekeeper to withdraw them, so that they do not take humidity, they seem tomes of a certain value ..." - the woman continued, not intimidated by that shy behavior.
The man took the books without thanks, gave a quick check of the pages to see that none of his precious notes had been lost or tampered with.
"Not ... They are not the books that a normal jurist usually consults" - commented the woman, hoping to find out a little more.
The man blushed and stared at her with embarrassment.
“What does a lonely, rich woman with red-dyed hair like you know about books, Madame?” - the candle she was holding almost seemed to tremble as she said those words.
The woman shrugged as if that kind of rude behavior towards her was common enough.
"I know that you are new to here and do not belong to this kind of environment, that during the day you take your children to school before sitting in the chair yourself and no wife or housekeeper awaits you when you come back, that you can only, but you don't know how to iron it and that's why you always fold it with extreme care.
I know that the light of your lantern, in the evening, stays on almost as much as mine and I know what people think when they see the light on in my home ”- she replied with a hint of severity in her voice.
"For sure, I know that books cannot be judged only by the lining, Monsieur ...?" - he continued, changing his tone and holding out his hand.
"Etienne" - the man replied with a little reverence, as detached as possible.
“Don't worry! I'm not sick! ”- the woman exclaimed, noticing that shy behavior even just taking his hand.
"You could be ..." - he said looking away - "My children have already lost a mother, they don't need to suffer for me too" - he continued between his teeth. The man's embarrassment was tainted with a kind of disgust and resentment towards her, a prejudice.
The woman sighed in resignation.
“You have my word: I am not sick. I don't hang out with that kind of people. So, Etienne, what prompted you to move to Paris? ”- asked the woman, bringing her hands to her hips and nodding her head.
The man looked towards the staircase, turning the candle in the same direction, where the silhouettes of the two children hid behind the wooden railing.
"I see. You are looking for a good tutor, then. You could bring them to me, I already assist several students at my Salon, also with the help of a very good tutor ... ”- the woman said, hinting at the two children.
"I really don't think that your ... Salon, or whatever you want to call it, is a suitable place for my children ..." - Etienne commented more confidently, but also irritated towards the affable behavior of a woman with a dubious reputation.
"He too returned to Paris after Richelieu's death, just like you ..." - she commented in a low voice, noting that the man did not seem to give her the slightest confidence, he pulled back.
"Forgive my behavior, if it seemed rude to you" - she said, closing the door herself and hurrying away.
That last sentence, however, had not been uttered in vain: Etienne had listened to it very carefully.