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The Bond of Nature draw me to my owne,
My own in thee, for what thou art is mine;
Our State cannot be sevevrd, we are one,
One Flesh; to loose thee were to loose my self.
― John Milton, Paradise Lost
In the Ninth Circle of Hell lie the traitors who betrayed those they held the closest, frozen in a lake of ice known as Cocytus. The icy hell of betrayal is the final result of consent to sin, the stage of being incapable of repentance.
It goes like this: the Cardinal dies and everyone is so busy fighting for his place at the court that they don't even notice his absence.
Treville gets drunk in vain hopes that the next morning he won't remember anything.
The next morning, Marie Madeleine d'Aiguillon sends him a letter, urging him to come to Petit Luxembourg.
It all goes downhill from there.
Treville came as soon as he could. The residence of Duchesse d’Aiguillion startles with its splendour and Treville feels out of place, in a way that makes you grimace at the pair of dirty boots on a spotless floor.
Everything in this house is in perfect order, as you would expect.
The Duchess meets him to lead into the living quarters personally, ignoring the streaks of dirt that Treville leaves after each step.
“What made you write with such urgency, Madame?” he finally asks.
She walks a few steps more, each stride echoing from the marble floor.
“My uncle is alive,” she says simply.
Treville suppresses the urge to laugh hysterically just out of respect for this woman.
“I’m sorry, Madame. I’m afraid I’m not following.”
“That’s why I didn’t tell you the subject of our meeting, Captain,” she replies. The tone is so intangibly lenient, Treville almost hears Richelieu in her voice.
Treville doesn’t trust her words but he knows the Duchesse well enough to expect her to be in a clear state of mind, even after her closest relative’s death. Faked death. Presumable death. Not death. She looks like a sane woman to him anyway. Not like he has any particular experience with them if you consider the majority of the court.
“What happened? If he's alive, why is he here and not in Louvre?” Treville asks carefully.
Marie doesn't bat an eyelid, looking as composed as ever.
“You better look at him.”
She pauses at the door, her face hidden in the long shadows and unreadable, pale fingers contrasting starkly against the mahogany.
“You delivered him here, that's everything he needs to know.”
“But I didn't,” something crawls under his skin, something unpleasant and almost terrifying.
“But you didn't,” she agrees, colours drained out of her face. If he didn’t know any better, he’d say that she looks scared.
Richelieu sits at his desk, a bit paler than he normally is and lifts his head up when they enter.
“Marie! Is it that kind Samaritan who saved my life?”
“Yes, uncle,” she replies nonchalantly, deliberately not looking at Treville. “This is Captain Treville of the King’s musketeers.”
Richelieu looks at him, and something that was crawling under his skin starts to scream.
Richelieu's eyes were as grey as ever, cold, curious and unrecognizing at all.
Something deep inside Treville shatters.
Richelieu asks him to stay for dinner, but Treville lamely excuses himself with the duties he doesn’t need to attend to. Richelieu insists. Treville has to promise to dine with them next week. He is not sure he’d be able to handle it in a seven days’ time either.
“He doesn’t remember,” the Duchess saves him from the talking. “He woke up just a few hours after the physician successfully removed the poison from his body. And he asked me where we were.”
Marie sounds calm and collected and Treville is left to wonder how it felt like for her, those very first moments. The Richelieu poise. It must run in the family.
“And when I told him, uncle was very surprised,” she walks him through the Winter Garden and Treville notices that there are barely any servants around the palace. “He doesn’t seem to be aware of his nor of mine place in the court.”
The palace is desolated.
“I dismissed all of the servants after I realized that uncle is in this state,” she explains. “People would talk.”
“Why didn't you tell him? That's all of his life gone!”
“And how would you tell him, Captain?” Marie asks tightly, her stature painfully straight and rigid.
“We have his seal, the ring and Louis, obviously, would recognize him...”
She purses her lips.
“Tell me, Captain, if I came to the garrison a week ago and told you this. Would you believe me?”
Treville frowns, looking for an answer. Marie doesn't say anything either.
They both know that there's no answer to that.
“Are you going to tell him at all?” he finally asks. “France needs him.”
I need him back so much it hurts.
“France will lock him up in an asylum as soon as it finds out about his condition,” she answers sternly.
“He’s France’s First Minister! Of course they won’t.”
“I don’t take chances, Captain, not with him,” Marie shakes her head. “I’m sorry but I can’t.”
“He is not insane,” Treville says defensively.
“There is no immediate cure, Captain,” she almost begs him to understand. “He is unable to perform his duties. What difference would it make?”
Treville comes back to the garrison this day and drinks until he’s completely numb and feels nothing but pain inside his chest. He can’t tell whether it hurts more or less after each swig, he’s too drunk to think.
The fraudulent who suffer in the Eighth Circle of Hell are guilty of deliberate, known evil.
It takes a certain amount of dedication – to money, to one’s cause, to one’s Country - to commit a deliberate sin, while being perfectly aware of what happens next. No matter how much you atone for your sins, you will never know how much you balanced your account with God until it’s too late.
After Richelieu’s gone — gone to the Petit Luxembourg, not dead, never dead — Louis becomes reckless and carefree and there’s no one to reason him. Anne is a woman and mostly unaware of his whims and the musketeers cannot deny his commands. Rochefort and the Spanish ambassador just add up to the pile of problems on his hands and Treville almost wants to skip the dinner until he gets a little note written in elegant, familiar handwriting, asking if he hasn’t forgotten about the invitation.
Treville stares at the elongated ‘C’ in the ‘Captain’ and then carefully folds the letter.
He should skip the dinner, write an apology note and give an empty promise of visiting some time later.
Marie gives him a look every time he pays a visit to the Queen. She’s never been Anne’s favourite1 because of her connection to the Cardinal and without Richelieu being able to support her, she lost all of her influence. But Anne isn’t cruel or vindictive so the Duchess is still allowed to stay in Queen’s court.
Treville knows from every look she gives him that if he doesn’t come, she will drag him to the Petit Luxembourg herself.
So he comes.
Looking back he still thinks that is the most stupid decision in his life. Falling in love with Richelieu is a close second.
“When he gets better,” Treville suggests when Marie accompanies him to the small dining room, “You should move him away from Paris. Take him to Chaillot2 or whatever residence you possess.”
“I will as soon as I retire from the Queen’s court,” she says.
“Your nearest relative is presumably dead. Certainly, you’d want to move as far away from the place that reminds you of him. The Queen will surely grant you permission.”
“You’re surprisingly good in politics for a man who despises such activities.”
“It does rub off,” Treville admits.
The food is delicious and so is the wine. Treville really hoped that Richelieu would be different from the man he once knew but the problem is that he isn’t. After the dinner, they move to the study, where Richelieu engages him into a theological conversation about a psalm that he had no idea existed until now.
“I feel like we’ve been very good friends for a long time, at least for much longer than we know each other”, he says after a while.
Marie stills, eyes not moving from the line in a book she is reading. Her hands don’t tremble.
The room is so quiet, Treville can hear them all breathing.
“I’m just a very good conversationalist”, Treville sips his wine.
The Duchess raises her eyebrows almost imperceptibly and Treville silently agrees. The idea is so ridiculous, he’d laugh if Richelieu didn’t smile and shook his head, believing him because he has no reason not to.
“Then I’m feeling obliged to invite you for another dinner next week, Captain,” he says, still smiling.
The military rank, as ordinary as it can be, is just a military rank to Richelieu. Treville still hears a soft endearment in Richelieu’s voice and almost resents himself for this.
“I’ll be glad if you came to visit us again,” Marie adds, looking at him intently, eyebrows raised high.
“We’ll see to that,” Treville answers. “I have my duties before the King.”
“Politics,” Richelieu shakes his head. “I never understood them.”
Treville hastily excuses himself and leaves as quickly as possible, not waiting for the Duchesse to follow.
He goes to the nearest tavern and orders the cheapest and most disgusting cognac they have. A bottle of wine shared between him and Richelieu earlier this evening simply won’t cut it.
It becomes a routine, between the two of them. Treville pays a visit every week. Richelieu genuinely considers them friends.
Treville doesn’t have the heart to say anything.
He and Richelieu fought so often, he can’t even remember the time when they didn’t.
The rift between him and Louis grows wider with every passing day and Rochefort is more than happy to fill the void with his presence.
Treville doesn’t like this man. Mostly, because he used to be the Cardinal’s spy and he knows Richelieu well enough to understand that his alliances should not be trusted. Nevertheless, Rochefort has his own way with words so it’s a no surprise that he gains Louis’ trust so quickly and so easily.
He’d be glad for a man who could actually talk some sense into Louis but he’s not sure about Rochefort’s real intentions.
He may deny it all day long but the truth is: Richelieu was the only man he could really trust when it came to the interests of France.
No, he wasn’t. He is. Treville is growing tired from correcting himself.
The Seventh Circle of Hell houses the violent. Against others, oneself, nature or God, they all suffer from the flaming heat of boiling blood and fire, unable to escape, trapped. They are guarded by a Minotaur, the half man half bull beast who used to devour the lost in the labyrinth. Perversely, it makes sense, somehow.
It would happen like this: Richelieu sits at his desk, reading some papers in a foreign language when Treville quietly opens his door and closes it behind him.
“This is the most stupid plan you’ve come up with so far,” he says calmly, slowly approaching the desk. “And I’ve seen a fair share of them in the past two decades of our acquaintanceship.”
Richelieu looks up, looking half-annoyed, half-amused.
“Dear Captain, I have a lot of things on hands, I’ll be more than grateful if you care to elaborate.”
“Faking your death and the going to hiding. How is that wise?” Treville clarifies drily.
“And what are you going to do about this?” Richelieu asks. Treville knows that it’s only a matter of time when Richelieu’s successor takes his place so it’s completely understandable that he plans to have things done as much as possible before some self-righteous favourite of Louis takes over.
“I’d punch you if I didn’t know that you couldn’t handle it,” Treville says.
“I couldn’t handle it?” Richelieu repeats, slowly rearranging his papers on the desk. His voice is daring, raising a challenge.
Treville slowly approaches him and puts his fists on the desk. He slowly leans forward and stills for a moment. And only when Richelieu lifts his head up, eyebrows raised in question, he crashes Richelieu’s lips with his own.
Richelieu kisses him back instantly, fiercely, grabbing his wrist and pulling him forwards, until he almost stumbles. Richelieu trusts him enough to share this secret because he’s aware that Treville could ruin him with this if he wanted to.
Treville caresses the nape of his neck, knowing the exact movement it takes to snap it and probably, Richelieu trusts him with this too.
He has never hated, dismayed, detested and just felt so much towards one man. Perhaps if you squint you can mistake it for love.
When he’s been relieved of the command, a footman delivers him a note. The letter from Richelieu reads: ‘Since your schedule has been cleared from the urgent duties, I suppose your evenings are free to visit Petit Luxembourg?’
Treville is not surprised. Memoryless or not, Richelieu is still Richelieu and has the habit of prying into other people’s business. And still, there’s no sign of pity for what Treville is grateful.
He goes because he has nothing better to do. The musketeers assume that he’s too upset to stay in the garrison and don’t ask any questions.
Today, Richelieu doesn’t talk much. He asks about food and wine — excellent, as usual, — and then they fall into the comfortable silence. It reminds him of the time when they used to run out of reasons to fight and just quietly sat in Treville’s office or Richelieu’s quarters, too tired to leave, too tired to deny that they just don’t want to spend the night alone. Treville used to neglect those. Now, he treasures every second of it, the glimpses of Richelieu’s profile, the soft, warm shadows that firelight casts on his skin. He preserves those details with such chariness as if Richelieu is going to vanish at any moment.
Richelieu still calls him Captain. When he asks about it, he says that it’s not a rank, isn’t it?
Treville doesn’t know how Richelieu could learn so much about him just in a span of a few months. How could a man just simply know.
Treville wants to kiss him so much his lips tingle.
“We’re leaving next week,” Marie says when she walks him out. “To Chaillot.”
“That’s good,” he says. He doesn’t feel anything in particular about it. Maybe it’s because he’s really tired.
“You’re more than welcome to visit anytime”, she says sincerely.
Treville smiles and wishes them both a safe trip.
He knows he won’t.
Their relationship born out of pure mutual dislike should’ve ceased to exist once the common grounds were lost.
And yet.
It could happen like this:
The assassination attempts are so frequent they almost become a routine. Yet every single time it makes him worry. He won’t admit it, let alone to himself, but it does, oh how much it does.
At this time of the night, Richelieu works alone so he doesn’t even raise his head from papers when he hears the door open. Very few people have a right come here unannounced and Treville is one of them. Richelieu doesn’t bother to hide the papers and doesn’t move an inch forcing him to sit and wait until he’s done. Certainly scheming, always and endlessly scheming some ruthless and vicious plan just to ensure that France dominates Europe and the King’s power over his state is absolute. Louis’ throne stands on dead bodies and Treville knows better than anyone else that it’s not an over-exaggeration.
“What brings you here at this late hour, Captain?” Richelieu finally addresses him, putting the papers aside.
“I was just passing by,” Treville replies flatly.
“As far as I know, my house is not on the way to the musketeer’s garrison,” he says pointedly.
“I took a long way round.”
“All of this just to disrupt my work?” Richelieu grimaces. “How very musketeer of you.”
“Just to make sure you are not actually dead,” Treville says as nonchalantly as he could muster.
“You want me to believe that you care?” Richelieu asks incredulously.
He stands and walks to the window, just to avoid Richelieu’s piercing stare. They are too old to play these games and yet here they are.
“How long do we know each other?” Treville looks out of the window failing to see anything.
“Longer than I would like,” Richelieu replies.
Treville sighs. He asks himself is it always has to be so difficult. Is Richelieu always going to be so difficult and if he is why he’s even bothering.
“Armand.”
Richelieu huffs.
“Don’t scold me,” he replies, annoyed. “It’s not my fault that the nobility wants me dead. I had it under my control.”
“I’m not scolding you for an assassination attempt,” Treville says, still not looking at him. “Although it is mainly your fault.”
He hears quiet steps behind him and then in the corner of his eyes he sees Richelieu standing by his side, shoulders barely brushing.
“Go home, Captain,” he says tiredly. “I’ve got work to do.”
He turns around and touches the bridge of Richelieu’s nose with his fingers, where the lines were etched deeply, right between his furrowed eyebrows.
“And what was that,” Richelieu inquires, nonplussed.
“It’s a matter of honour not to let the arbiter of France’s fate die from the migraine,” Treville replies almost lightly. His fingers travel along to raised eyebrows, settle on the temples, massaging gently.
“Honour is the literal epitome of stupidity and inconvenience,” Richelieu says almost crossly.
“But the head doesn’t hurt anymore, does it?” Treville chuckles. “Those mistresses have no idea how to deal with headaches.”
Treville waits, watching Richelieu nibbling on his moustache vexedly. He knows perfectly well that Treville said it on purpose. And he knows perfectly well that he can’t help himself but ask.
“And you?”
“Me?”
“How do you know how to deal with headaches?”
“As I said,” Treville kisses his temple pulling him close for a tentative embrace. “It’s a matter of honour.”
The Sixth Circle of Hell traps the heretics whose souls die with the body, those who are lost and cannot be saved because it’s useless to save a decaying flesh.
Richelieu is alive and well. Treville doesn't know why he feels like his world crumbles to dust.
He doesn’t think of Richelieu until he gets back from Pinon. He has two letters lying on his desk, one from Richelieu and one from the Duchesse both asking him to come. He throws them away and spends three gloriously busy days doing mundane errands around the garrison.
Richelieu sends a letter right before the Royal party heads to witness the eclipse.
Another letter comes from Marie asking him to come over to Chaillot in an urgent tone.
His heart sinks and he reads the letter over and over again, trying to figure out the source of her desperation.
He forgot what he has barely acquired?
He remembered?
What did he do?
He comes as fast as he can, ignoring the curious glances, almost riding his horse to death.
Marie meets him at the study agitating a hand fan vigorously despite it’s being a rather chilly evening.
“Uncle doesn’t write”, she says quietly. “His silly… indulgent poetry he used to write when he was resting from the court’s affair. He doesn’t write them anymore.”
Perhaps it scares her more than the whole memory loss business.
“It made him very happy back then,” she concedes. “I thought, once he has something to do…”
“Oh,” he forces himself to speak. “He doesn’t write poetry.”
Something inside of him boils and threatens to burst and tear him apart. The fan doesn’t cool the air it just disturbs the dust flying around. Marie’s movements become frantic. Treville realizes that the room is hot indeed.
“You’re planning to join the Carmelites ones Richelieu doesn’t show any disapproval like he used to.”3
The Duchess stands so abruptly her fan falls with a loud thud. Treville didn’t know that such small fragile trifle can be so heavy. He should’ve learnt by now, really.
“How…” she forces back the accusation and continues in a calm voice full of cold rage. “I have not thought about this possibility until you brought it up, Captain. My needs lay below uncle’s well-being and he needs my attention more than ever.”
Suddenly he’s so angry with her it almost blinds him. He knows that he shouldn’t and it’s not her fault and that she’s right but he can’t help himself. What he knows is that if he has told Richelieu about everything none of this would’ve happened and he’d just tell him everything so Richelieu could pretend to be the Minister for a while until the things will settle and maybe it even will trigger something and he will finally remember everything, something, anything.
Marie looks at him, tranquil and ignorant of his fury. Treville can’t tell if he talked out loud or it’s just written across his face.
“Fine. You’re probably right. It wouldn’t make any difference anyway. Do as you wish, Captain”, she looks defeated. “He’s in the library it’s the door on the left. I’ll inquire about dinner.”
“I won’t stay long,” Treville calls after her, embarrassed for his outburst of anger.
“I insist,” she says tightly and leaves.
He walks into the library. Richelieu smiles.
“Captain! You haven’t replied to my previous letters so I thought you might be cross with me.”
I am not cross, Treville wants to say. I was cross with you long before you knew me. And I really want to be cross with you because that’s what we do but you don’t give me a single bloody reason to be cross with you and it drives me mad.
“I just had some business to attend to,” he says instead.
“You wanted to tell me something?” Richelieu cocks his head and looks and him searchingly.
Treville wants to say it, no, he has to say it for France’s sake and his own sanity…
Richelieu sees right through his feeble lies and it has never been so inconvenient until now.
“I stumbled upon a book you may find interesting”, he finally says, sounding defeated. “Unfortunately I couldn’t bring it with me.”
Marie was right. It wouldn’t make any difference.
Treville thought of himself many things but never of a coward.
He misses him every second of every day and he hates himself for that.
In the swampy waters of the river Styx fight the wrathful and the sullen lie gurgling beneath the water. It’s the result of a jolt, a push, a single accident that consequences either ire which is a reprehensible madness or a diametrical standstill; a numbness that doesn’t let you react and resist which is in a way a madness too.4
Louis grows more and more dependent on Rochefort. He is not a man to be trusted. Treville doesn’t know what he wants but he knows for sure that France’s prosperity isn’t among his priorities. Back then he’d consult or rather interrogate Richelieu about this. He’d eliminate Rochefort anyway and it is against Treville’s moral code. So everything he can do is keeping the musketeers loyal to the crown and preventing the minor accidents that occur in the mid-course.
When bleeding on the street to death, voice hoarse from wheezing in pain, it hits him that many things have been left unsaid even with Richelieu alive.
It doesn’t hurt more than a hole ripped through his lung but it stings more than it should.
The picture of Porthos thanking Richelieu for making Treville reveal the truth about his father makes things a little bit better. He doesn’t possess a vivid imagination but he’d pay a fair share of money to witness such a scene.
Now, being wounded and left to rest, Treville has a lot of time to reflect. He wonders whether he misses Richelieu’s mediating power to keep conflicts at bay or their relationship or he simply wants a man who can get the entire dirty job done without worrying about their clear conscience.
Alive or not he can’t say things to Richelieu he realized he never said to him.
So there’s really no difference.
Treville isn’t a very religious man so when he goes to church he remembers none of the prayers he once knew. He is not entirely sure what it takes to make God grant his request or what the prayer actually meant to do: give him hope, promise him help, gift him strength.
He’s not entirely sure what he is begging for either.
So when he goes to church he lights a candle and sits down on a bench, face buried in his hands, his lips endlessly praying: please, please, please.
Everyone in the garrison thinks that he has a mistress in Chaillot. It is so ridiculous that when approached, he laughs so loud it makes his chest hurt. He’s two decades older than the Duchess and she’s too noble for him.
They also think that his mistress has a cat. Or rather a dozen of them, judging by the variety of the colours of the fur stuck to his cloak. As for Richelieu, he can’t be his mistress for various reasons.
He knows perfectly well that in another life he’d marry Richelieu the moment he laid his eyes on him.
He and the Duchess have a common secret. With every day it becomes more evident and looms in a space between them, like an ugly wart that is unsuccessfully hidden. Treville worries that one day it will be plump enough to burst at the seams and poise everything he had so carefully built on a shambles of what once was real.
It is easier than he thought to be friends with Richelieu. He actually expected them to fight as they used to but they don’t. Richelieu’s derisive tone doesn’t annoy him as it used to and Richelieu himself became more tolerable.
The Duchess looks settled and the countryside life suits her. She’s not as worried as she used to be and it’s easier for her to hide Richelieu outside of Paris. Chaillot is a large and desolated residence and it’s easier to keep Richelieu out from the outer world. It’s not perfect but it works for now.
“Why did you call me if you don’t want him to remember?” Treville asks every time when she insists on him staying for dinner or overnight.
“He seems… content when you’re around,” the Duchess explains. “He gets this vacant look in his eyes… maybe he remembers but I’ll never know because… well, you know.”
Treville knows.
“It’s like the majority of his life has been erased and left like a clean piece of paper and he has to carry on as nothing happened. And sometimes he probably looks at the blank space and wonders.”
Treville smiles bitterly and looks at her.
“Madame, what are you talking about. It really didn’t happen for him.”
“You accepted it as well?” she asks quietly.
“What?” he repeats incredulously.
“I used to be angry too,” she says. “Because if he remembered it would be so easy and he doesn’t. Day after day he has this blank look in his eyes sometimes like he’s somewhere else. It drives me crazy, really. But then I thought that even if we tell him and he believes us… it won’t be any different.”
“Of course it will,” Treville protests.
“No, Captain,” the Duchess shakes her head, her eyes glistening. “It won’t.”
Before Treville leaves he stops in his tracks, leans onto the wall like he’s weary and exhausted. He slams his fist into the wall with such fury he doesn’t feel the pain. He slams it once more, and again and again and again, furious of his helplessness, inability to act. The bones of his knuckles shatter and crumble to powder; the blood stains the wall and trickles down his wrist, seeps through his fingers, heavy drops of crimson falling on the dusty ground.
He wants to be furious with Richelieu and blame him for everything. He wants to be mad because he doesn’t recognize this stupid tragedy5 he wanted to finish so much, he wants to blame him for indifference for politics, he wants to blame him for forgetting something Treville won’t till the day he dies. He hates him for being so outrageously the same. He hates Richelieu for being so clever and cunning and he still can’t put two and two together; because it’s so unlike him to just forget and move on.
He presses his forehead against the cool stone. He feels so foolish for this outburst of anger to get a hold of him but he just couldn’t help it. Every meeting leaves him exasperated and longing for more all at once. It’s an exhausting feeling.
The greedy push the great weights with their chests, unable to let go. They could’ve escaped their damnation by letting the stones fall but that’s would be against their very nature. This is absurdly a sin too.
“The Dauphin is my musketeer’s son,” Treville says to Marie.
“That’s… not the usual topic for small talk between us, Captain,” she says.
“Could you display a perplexed face, just for me?” he asks. “It seems that everyone in Paris knows about it.”
“I knew,” she confesses. “Uncle suspected it before… before he fell ill.”
That’s how she calls it. An illness. Not insanity but not a healthy state of mind either. But Treville doesn’t have time to start arguing about that.
“So,” she continues, “I recon the court is in disarray yet you still find a time to visit our humble residence?”
“Sometimes I feel that Richelieu’s spirit channels through you, Madame. Or rather the mordancy of the voice must be a family trait.”
“The practicality is a family trait, Captain,” she retorts. “Should I expect the fugitive Queen and her loyal musketeers by her side in our mansion any time soon?”
“It’s either this or the monastery. I believe you’re still in contact with the Carmelites?”6
“And what about uncle if the monastery won’t suffice?” she asks calmly. “He’d be reasonably stunned to host the Queen of France.”
“This is not about just him anymore, Madame,” he presses. “It’s about France. You do realize what is at stake?”
“I do,” the Duchess replies simply. She’s too tired to argue with him as well. “For a man who despises my uncle’s methods you are eminently good at this.”
It stings and she knows it. She did it deliberately after all.
“I’ll do the arrangements,” Marie says at last. “May God speed you, Captain.”
Before he has to leave to Paris Treville sneaks up on Richelieu. He is asleep in the study, in his favourite armchair that used to be in his office, just for the occasions like that so he won’t get crumps in his back. The light of the dying fireplace paints his pasty skin with soft light.
Treville hears the fugitive steps behind and starts to retreat, having no desire to explain to the Duchesse why has he been outright staring at her sleeping uncle. But then he catches her stopping in her tracks and quietly walking away, barely a rustle of shoes against the velvet carpet.
She knows. Judging by the way she moves around them, makes herself scarce, he assumes that she did a long time ago before it all started. Or maybe she knows what it’s like to love someone who came back from the dead.7
In another life: Treville covers Richelieu with a blanket, cautiously, trying not to wake him so he doesn’t go back to work and actually rests. Touches his temple gently and leaves.
Treville can’t help but muse: could he fall in love with Richelieu who is sitting in this armchair from another life right now. If they met like Richelieu thinks they did, if they didn’t have a rift of lies and deceptions between them. If they weren’t whatever everybody thought they were. Archenemies, butting heads with each other, arguing, fighting, and backbiting.
And he becomes so angry with himself almost in instant for such ludicrous thought, because Richelieu is sitting here.
In another life: Treville looks at Richelieu asleep.
He watches Richelieu sleep.
He walks away and doesn’t even question whether he loves him at this point, in the present day.
He never loved Richelieu for rather than against all the odds.
It has never been more appropriate than it is now.
If the Carmelites refuse to receive the fugitive Queen, Treville heads to Chaillot. He and the Duchess agreed on this arrangement so when Treville gets a polite invitation from her, he acts immediately.
The Queen when informed about their destination just squares her jaw and nods tersely. Treville wordlessly agrees with her; he wouldn’t go there if it wasn’t the last resort but for very different reasons entirely.
“Why do you trust the Cardinal’s niece?” Porthos asks incredulously when the Queen is out of reach and unable to hear their conversation.
“Do you really want to know?” Treville replies and the words taste bitter on his tongue.
“But really, she must be…”
“One more word, Porthos, and you’ll find yourself in a rather delicate situation involving me throwing you off your horse,” Treville warns. He’s not in a mood for explanations. Interesting, did Richelieu felt like this all those times?
He clings to the last three words of the letter instead.
I told him.
I told him.
I told him.
The Duchess leads them to the main hall. Her face is pale and the back is painfully straight.
“My condolences on your loss, Marie,” Anne offers sympathetically.
She tenses even more and sends Treville an eloquent look. He excuses himself and leaves the room.
“Your Majesty, I must apologize in advance…” he hears her speak before her voice is too distant.
Richelieu waits for him in the study, head bent over some papers. Papers written in Spanish. Treville feels like his lungs are slowly being filled up with water.
Richelieu looks up and meets Treville’s gaze calmly. His eyes are not blank as it sometimes used to be. They are as grey as ever, cold, derisive and
recognizing.
Treville waits for a sign.
“Captain,” Richelieu says at last.
In the Third Circle of Hell the vile slush reveals the true nature of sensuality, the addiction that leads the imperceptible degradation of oneself. As gluttons are left to rot under the foul, icy rain, so rot the addicts, longing for something they cannot have. Driving themselves mad from hunger.
Sometimes he suspects that Richelieu just fakes it for his own benefit. It’s not that implausible, given that Richelieu is one hell of a sly bastard. It’s just because of how the fire makes his eyes glint with something very close to recognition, the familiar chuckle and rasp of his voice that sounds all the same.
Sometimes he thinks that one day Richelieu will put his glass of wine aside and sigh exasperatedly and ask: “You want to tell me something about how you let things slide in Court in the time of my absence, Captain?”
He will tell him everything. Eventually.
Vargas is convincing enough to make Louis believe that Rochefort is a fraud so, despite unnecessary deaths (Lemay’s mother is inconsolable, Marguerite’s death note Treville finds in Rochefort’s pocket of his jacket), the Queen was saved from disgrace, the truth of the Dauphin’s parentage retained unknown.
Louis makes him a Minister for War. A word ‘War’ is comfortable and familiar; a ‘Minister’ reminds him very much of a man who is incapable to be one.
Richelieu who isn’t interested in the affairs of state should be written as an example of absurdity and fruit of madness, yet Treville still tries to convince himself that he hasn’t gone out of his mind.
When Anne finds out who contacted the monastery8 she immediately sends a request for Marie to join her entourage once again. When Treville tells her about it a few days before the actual letter arrives, the Duchess politely declines.
“I’d rather dedicate myself to charity and care for my uncle. But when the problem arises all my resources are at your service. Besides, I heard the rumours that France has finally declared an open war to Spain. Congratulations on your new appointment, Captain.”
Treville has no idea how did she find out about it so soon. But then, again, maybe inquisitiveness was a family trait.
The weather is warm so he and Richelieu go for a walk.
“There’s an incident that left me quite baffled today,” Richelieu says.
“And what was it?”
“Apparently I write poetry,” Richelieu confesses. “I recognize my handwriting… Though I don’t remember writing it.”
“How odd,” Treville says, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible.
“Indeed,” Richelieu agrees. “Despite it being downright atrocious it’s interesting how many connections to political figures of our time I could find.”
Treville always found it endearing. Richelieu loved the adultery when it came to poetry. Maybe that was because poetry was the only thing that Richelieu wasn’t sure he was good at. And yet himself he always was self-deprecating. Sometimes Treville honestly thought that he and Richelieu got along so well back then simply because Treville didn’t find anything wrong in his writing and always said that it was adequate. In all honesty, he has absolutely no taste in such delicate matters.
“It’s clear that you express a certain interest in politics,” Treville says cautiously.
“Politics are for those who are heartless,” Richelieu replies frankly, without any bitterness or causticity.
“And would you?” Treville’s voice is flat if not for the subtle crackle.
“If it came to it?” Richelieu asks. “Well, I see politics as a long term project, if, say, twenty years ago I chose my path differently, I guess I wouldn’t be here where I stand right now. Certainly I would be a different man.”
“No, I’m sure you wouldn’t,” Treville replies with a tight smile. “No, you wouldn’t.”
“You think of me so low?” Richelieu raises his eyebrows.
“I think that you, unlike me, have a chance for salvation.”
“Why are you so sure about your final destination, Captain?”
“I have sinned; I lied, I killed, I betrayed. And some of my sins I could never regret,” he confides.
“And what sins are those?”
You.
He doesn’t say that.
“Serving France.”
“It’s not a sin”, Richelieu shakes his head. “If it was for the good of the state and the King, I’m sure He will grant you forgiveness.”
“The only thing I can hope for is a choice of in which circle of Hell I’d prefer to spend the rest of the eternity,” Treville snorts.
“And what are your thoughts on that?” Richelieu asks.
“Waiting for the end of time in eternal damnation seems rather bearable if in the right company,” Treville replies without a hitch. He thought about it for the last twenty years after all.
In the Second Circle, two lovers are condemned to be blown back and forth by the terrible winds of a violent storm, restlessly, in the hands of each other, in an eternal embrace.
It’s supposedly left to the interpretation whether it is damnation, after all.
Sometimes he… wonders.
It’s Richelieu who meant to be a ruthless politician, throwing innocent lives away without any remorse. Treville as a War Minister sends soldiers into battles that cannot be won.
He wonders where the difference lies.
The new position leaves Treville very little time to visit Chaillot. He and Richelieu correspond every so often. Their conversations on paper or not is heavily laced with a deeper meaning which Richelieu doesn’t really comprehend. It’s amusing in a way because Richelieu is of all people a man who knows everything about subtext yet cannot even fathom what their conversation really means. Or meant before, because now… they are really just friendly conversations. No deceptions involved, no sacrifice made for the greater good.
The only mention of politics Richelieu makes is when they discuss Plato’s “Republic” from the Catholic point of view.
“So, the noble lie, is it a sin then?” Treville leans on a backrest.
“As far as I know, politicians rarely speak the truth and still God gives them blessing,” Richelieu looks at Treville pointedly.
He winces. He never thought of himself as a politician and he’s not starting now.
“I’m not a politician.”
“You’re a Minister for War,” Richelieu smiles.
“By a coincidence, my job has always been butting heads with politicians.”
Richelieu chuckles.
Oh, you don’t even know.
“But on a trivial scale,” he says.
“I doubt that being punished in a lake of fire is trivial.”
“You know what I mean,” he continues. “If it’s better to lie, keep the truth hidden so no one will know. If it’s just a lie while no lives depend on it.”
He has to be right. Louis bounces the musketeer’s son on his knee and looks like it is all he ever wanted.
Richelieu looks healthy and serene and doesn’t seem to long for something he’s missing. He doesn’t seem like he lost anything at all as if he’s been like that all his life.
“I believe that there’s no truth a man is incapable to handle. The oblivion from greatness is still a sin. Pagan philosophers still suffer even though they lived long before Christ. Unbaptized infants. You think they’re sinful for dying before they haven’t been transformed by grace needed for a Beatific Vision?”
“But how do they know that they miss something if they don’t know what it is. Maybe oblivion is salvation?” Treville asks desperately.
Richelieu smiles somewhat sadly.
“But isn’t it inherent in the very nature of humanity; the desire to just know? They have forever to figure it out after all.”
It could have happened like this:
“I’m glad that you visited us before you leave, Captain,” the Duchess says.
“The pleasure is solely mine, Madame,” Treville replies.
A stiff grin tugs at Marie’s lips and she leads him further into the house.
“I heard that you and the new First Minister don’t quite get along.”
To put it nicely, he and Mazarin argued.
“France and the new First Minister don’t quite get along,” Treville confides. With Richelieu gone from the court the Duchess was the only one who he trusted enough to tell his opinion. She wasn’t interested in politics, she was too pious and devout for that but Richelieu leaves a mark on whoever’s life he touches. Marie is no exception to that rule nor is Treville.
“Be aware of the civil war, Captain,” she warns.
Treville knows it. The possibility of rebellion against Mazarin lurks as Damocles’ sword and it’s only a matter of time when the dam bursts.9
“This was never my sphere of influence,” Treville nods towards the door.
“It is now, I’m afraid.” Marie gives him another brittle smile. “Are you staying overnight?”
“I am not staying for dinner, Madame,” he answers apologetically.
“Even if I insist?” she raises her eyebrows.
“Even if you do.”
Richelieu talks very little this evening. It seems like he processes something though that the silence between them is comfortable and soothing.
“I should go”, Treville finally stands, putting the empty glass on a table.
“No, stay.” Thin fingers close around his forearm. “I’d like to enjoy your company for a bit longer, my dear friend. It’s going to be a while until we see each other again, after all.”
Treville has a moment before he has to act. He savours it, pretends that Richelieu desperately wants him to stay, that Richelieu desperately wants him, that this gesture isn’t just out of mere politeness. That he can snatch Richelieu’s hand, push him against the wall. That he can kiss him tenderly, lay him out and make love and take him with all softness and love and gentleness he could possibly gather in himself. That he just can.
“I just don’t want to intrude”, he says.
“No”, Richelieu says quietly, the tepid fingers warming against his skin. “You absolutely don’t.”
He looks up and meets Richelieu’s gaze calmly. He waits for a sign.
“You wanted to tell me something,” Richelieu reminds him quietly.
Treville closes his eyes and concentrates on the evenness of his breathing.
“Yes.”
It’s strange how history turns on the smallest decision.
In The First Circle of Hell reside the unbaptized and the virtuous pagans, who, although not sinful, did not accept Christ.
Living in oblivion, they lacked the hope for something greater than the rational mind could conceive, doomed to live in painless grief. Limbo shares many characteristics with Asphodel Meadows, the place where Greek pagans went after they died. All the residents drink from the river Lethe before entering the fields, thus forgetting their past life, starting anew.
In no depiction do they mention that oblivion grants both of lack of hope and lack of pain you pay for this greatness. Because on a trivial scale: if you don’t remember then it never happened to you even though everything around you shatters to dust.
Yet there they are, perfectly content, unaware of heaven, because even if someone would tell them…
What difference would it make?
fin