Chapter Text
“I intend to leave the Royal Guard, Your Majesty. I am ready to take on any other assignment, even to join the Navy,” Oscar had said, her voice firm, though it had cost her greatly, and so it was. The soldiers she had led for twenty years, earning the status of stupor mundi, the exception, the rogue wave in a calm sea, were about to become figures in the background of her past. The always immaculate uniforms, the good manners, the unwavering loyalty to the one who had been imposed upon them after a fortuitous duel in open countryside between a lieutenant and a young girl, and forgiven by the magnanimity of His Majesty the King... She was grateful for it all, for every achievement made at the expense of the thousands of sacrifices she had left behind, but it was time to move on. To advance, accept new challenges, grow, make mistakes, and correct them.
The Queen had granted her request, though with some reluctance. The mere thought of separating from the one who had saved and protected her for years, often more from herself than from the dangers of the world, caused her a sharp pang of pain. She hadn't even received an explanation for what had seemed to her a true whim, but she had preferred not to pry. The Queen had always considered her Commander a loyal confidant, though the reverse could not be said. It couldn’t be otherwise; they both knew that.
When the message was sent, informing that Oscar François De Jarjayes would no longer be the head of the Royal Guards as of April 15th, a veil of melancholy shaded her face. Two decades alongside a woman with whom she had grown, a step back, someone who had piqued her curiosity ever since her dramatic arrival in France. A woman in men's clothes, with a man's name, the temperament and courage of a warrior, the beauty of a hero. As she signed the document assigning the new role, Marie Antoinette felt a sudden wave of nostalgia. Nostalgia for their past together and for the future apart. To whom would she confide the burdens of fulfilling her duties, only to receive a polite and gentle reminder not to isolate herself too much? Who would take her hand when court gossip wounded her once more? Who would invite her to reflect when everyone else showered her with approval? Who could she summon for news from the Palace without the need to send her children away? She was the only one who didn't mind having them around while reporting the latest from Versailles...
She already missed her, as the Queen realized, and, all in all, she would even miss her attendant. André had accompanied her everywhere, waiting outside the doors of rooms where he was not permitted to enter, and on that distant day, had invented the name of a color that had amused her so much that she adopted it for her own dress. It reminds me of the color of a flea... She could still see the puzzled expressions on everyone’s faces, even her own, and the vaguely irritated one of her friends, who might have preferred him to remain silent, though the idea was later embraced with joy. It had been a while since she last saw him, but she had heard of his accident while trying to catch that thief, and it had saddened her deeply. Yes, she would miss André too.
***
The journey to Toulon, the base of the French Navy, although divided into three stages to prevent anyone (including the horses) from becoming too tired, had been exhausting and uncomfortable. Thankfully, it was nearly over. Oscar’s legs ached from sitting for so long, and the stiff, wood-like seatback, despite its padding, didn’t help. In the seat in front of her were a couple of books that threatened to fall with every bump, a folded cloak to use if she got cold, and a white bundle containing everything her grandmother deemed necessary for this reckless move. From time to time, she turned, but through the small rectangular window behind her, she could only see trunks with her personal effects, covered with thick wool to avoid drawing too much attention.
Those four days spent entirely alone were the prelude to a new life, towards which she was heading with one single expectation: to finally close the door on the past. Mademoiselle Oscar was a closed chapter, a memory she would strive to keep ever more distant. Everyone had been astonished when, at fourteen, she had been entrusted with the role of Captain of the Royal Guard. A woman in uniform? But looking back after so many years, she realized that there hadn’t been much truly masculine about her role. Not in the way she had meant, at least. She had formed a friendship, albeit an unusual one, with the Queen, had even fallen in love and been rejected. All this, always and only because she wore a uniform that opened the doors of the Palace for her. She had suffered, cried, even donned an evening gown so tight it took her breath away. And despite the countless adventures she had lived through and emerged from, if not victorious, at least alive and with some scars here and there on her body, those moments of weakness, those distractions from her goal of living like a man, still tormented her. It had taken Jeanne and the necklace first, and the Black Knight later, to plant the seed of doubt in her mind: perhaps she was still wrapped in cotton wool, protected from a world she had always been kept away from, which, with patience, her friend had tried to bring her closer to.
André. The thought of him suddenly jolted her as she watched Provence rush by outside, behind the pulled-back curtain. They hadn’t said goodbye. Not as they would have wanted, not as two people with such a deep bond should have. The memory of that argument, of the torn shirt and their broken relationship, of that kiss she had preferred to forget, as she had told him she would, still gripped her. She didn’t blame him, no, though she still couldn’t fully understand it. She had never noticed anything, never paid attention, and she regretted it now. Now that she knew what it meant to embrace someone and receive a handshake or a pat on the shoulder in return, it tore at her heart to think she had caused him so much pain over the years. All that distance from Paris, she cautiously reflected, might be good for him too.
His distant face, behind the window in the corridor that overlooked the garden where the carriage was ready to depart, had been serious and impenetrable when she had turned to look for him. She hadn’t had the courage to go back inside, to tell him to take care of himself and not to strain his eye, to pay attention to everything and not trouble her grandmother. She hadn’t reminded him to practice with the sword; she hadn’t moved from the steps of the carriage that was about to take her to the seashore. They had observed each other from a safe distance, in silence, and his green gaze had pierced her more than a dagger, even though it was half-hidden by his hair. Whoever had been right or wrong twenty days earlier, less than twenty-four hours before her departure for Normandy, no longer mattered. Even the thought of Fersen, of his words and his farewell, began to seem blurry in comparison to the pain of what had happened that evening. Men suffered, it seemed, but they always managed to put her at a disadvantage: humiliating her in public, dominating her in private.
What frightened her most, she thought, sighing as she absentmindedly flipped through some documents that interested her far less than they should have, was the uncertainty of their next meeting. She wondered if she would see him again at home, or if, no longer having her to assist, he might prefer to find another occupation. Even if he stayed at the palace, what would she say to him, and how?
A sudden expanse of blue outside the carriage caught Oscar’s attention. At the bottom of the hill, already green and lush though spring had begun only about a month ago, the sea opened before her like a divine apparition. The water’s surface shimmered under the morning sun, while the salty air seeped in through the window, filling the carriage. She had arrived. Her new life was truly beginning now; Toulon was approaching quickly, and a rush of adrenaline coursed through her. The worries that had troubled her until a moment before—and that wouldn’t be forgotten anytime soon—were pushed to the back of her mind to make room for the realization that it was all real and that there would be no turning back.
“Mademoiselle, we’ll arrive in twenty minutes!” called the coachman. Lost in a landscape she wasn’t accustomed to, not even when she traveled to Normandy, Oscar thanked him aloud, ignoring the title she was determined to erase from the minds of everyone who addressed her.