Chapter Text
Philippe arrived late to tonight’s gathering. His mood was foul, fresh from a ridiculous quarrel with Henriette. There was no reason to shun society, he reasoned—it was merely a walk from one wing of the Palais-Royal to the other—provided that the wretched "English weather" didn't follow him, raining on his head.
He could hear the room swelling with chatter before he even crossed the threshold. He didn't need to enter to know who was the eye of this storm. The Comte de Guiche had been sent away from Paris months ago, only recently granted a return by the King with a strict warning: "You may continue your debauchery, but dare not sow discord again."
Yet Guiche seemed to wear no shame. He stood in the center of the salon, broadcasting his return at full volume, turning the King’s severe admonition into a frivolous joke. Questions about his exile flew at him from all sides, and a haze of saliva and scented powder formed a smog in the noble air, orbiting the libertine Count.
Perhaps the months of absence had blurred the man's annoying edges in Philippe’s memory, masking them with that loud, charming voice. Philippe had thought he could kill the evening in banter as usual, but the moment he saw the spectacle, the urge to turn on his heel and leave was overwhelming.
But it was too late. Several ladies friendly to him had spotted him from their corner, handkerchiefs waving in signal. Philippe sighed, resigning himself to the path. He walked toward friends, his peripheral vision checking the center of the crowd—Guiche did not look his way.
"Monsieur." The crowd parted, wigs bowing low like a wave—all except that wild mane of brown hair, insolently upright. It stung. Guiche was the only one audacious enough to abuse the King’s brother in public—a dynamic Philippe usually enjoyed—but he clearly was not expecting this kind of ignorance. He had long sensed Guiche’s interest in him was waning; he just hadn't expected him to stop hiding it so soon.
Philippe barely reached the ladies, nodding at their giggling curtsies, before fan handles guided him into a seat clearly saved for him. A server appeared instantly with a silver tray.
"Your Comte is in fine voice tonight, Monsieur," a lady said in a low voice behind her fan.
Philippe took the wine, frowning. It tasted bitter.
"Perhaps not ‘mine’ anymore," he muttered, setting the glass aside. "His voice is even finer when speaking to Madame."
The ladies didn't look surprised; if anything, their expressions held a pity that made Philippe feel inexplicably cramped. He reached for the glass again, brought it to his lips—but the bouquet had vanished. The wine sat heavy and flat on his tongue. He set it down, watching the red liquid stain the crystal as he tilted it back and forth.
"Oh, I hope you aren’t troubling yourself over wine that has gone stale," Madame de Thianges shifted closer, her hand resting lightly near his arm on the sofa. "If red wine cannot cure your sorrow, Monsieur... why not change your taste?"
Philippe raised his head stiffly, following her indication.
The literary crowd—those who fancied themselves the arbiters of taste—had claimed the strategic advantage near the window. From there, they could survey not only the salon’s occupants but the very movements of the night itself, turning everything into fodder for their creation. Philippe imagined they could compose a limerick even about "the unsightly dark spots on the moon." These people were the keenest observers at court for "beauty" and "ugliness," even if they themselves were often aesthetically unremarkable.
He amused himself by trying to match the "masterpieces" he had heard of to their authors' faces, playfully pinning genres to features: surely the biting epigrams belonged to that sharp, satirical profile? The bawdy songs to that round, glib visage? And the dull chronicles to that flat, narrative stare?
Alas, it seemed a man's creative style bore no relation to his exterior.
"Madame," Philippe drawled, bored, "it seems all I see are serious essays."
Madame de Thianges did not speak; she merely used her closed fan to point toward a figure with his back to them—someone Philippe had instinctively skipped over precisely because his face was hidden.
The man was tall, yet his attire deviated slightly from the current Parisian mode. His curls were a muted, earthy sepia, catching less light than the pomade-slicked wigs around him. It possessed a dense, light-absorbing depth, a quality of unpolished walnut. Philippe could not tell if it was natural or a perruque of some rare material.
It looked... touchable.
Forced to find a focal point before his imagination ran too wild, Philippe concentrated on a ribbon at the man’s shoulder—it appeared to be of Florentine brocade. And that cravat... absolutely Venetian point.
Then, the Song of Solomon—verses Philippe could never quite remember—suddenly materialized into a face as the man turned.
"Isn’t he pretty?" Thianges smirked at him, eyebrows raised high.
"Um..." Philippe blinked, his voice dropping to a murmur. "I mean... eyes of doves? Bed of spices... sweet as flowers?"
All the ladies were grinning. Philippe suddenly felt a profound appreciation for the importance of cultural literacy.
"The younger brother of Monsieur le Grand," Thianges whispered.
A sibling of the King's childhood friend. A younger brother. Here again, in the Palais-Royal, yet looking so different in such a... magnetic way.
"I heard he is... well, an eau-de-vie," Thianges continued, gently taking the glass of greyed, stale wine from Philippe’s hovering hand. "Pronounced, uncasked... with the light, sweet aroma of apricots. What do you think?"
His eyes lingered on the man’s profile, the verses of Solomon still tangling on his tongue.
"However, not as strong as myrrh." Philippe murmured, half to himself.
Thianges raised an eyebrow. "Perhaps you simply haven't tasted the full body yet."
"He’s with women." Philippe looked away, flicking a speck of invisible dust from his sleeve to sound unbothered.
"And you are here with us." Another lady chuckled behind her hand.
Philippe glimpsed the young Lorraine again. His hand instinctively went to his belt for his sword, but grasped only air. No one had stolen his blade; in his earlier rage, he had simply forgotten to wear it. The perfume of the salon suddenly faded into cut grass and dust. The garden outside the window. A mock war, years ago.
He remembered the cold, sharp futility of standing unarmed. To play without a weapon was not fighting; it was offering oneself up to be hit. Unfair. Pointless. Philippe had turned to leave.
But a hand pulled him back into the shadow of a marble plinth.
"Don't go, Monsieur," the boy said softly, eyes glinting with wicked brilliance. "We don't need swords to win. We hide behind the statues. We preserve ourselves."
Philippe stopped. The urge to quit died instantly. He regarded the chaotic battlefield, then this strange, clever ally.
He didn't hesitate. He crouched down into the shadow, their shoulders touching.
"And when the moment is right..." Philippe breathed the words close to the boy's ear. "We strike unexpectedly."
Philippe blinked. The garden vanished. The boy was gone, but the strategist remained.
Near the window, a small, deliberate movement.
Philippe's smile widened, faint and knowing, as he smoothed his coat where the weapon should have been.
"He reminds me of the statues in the garden."
-
Across the room, true to form, the literary enthusiasts discussed the changing complexions of the courtiers in hushed, unpresuming tones.
Such circles, self-appointed guardians of high taste, rarely welcomed newcomers—especially those loose-tongued souls who would broadcast a scandal as trivial as which cobblestone on the road to the Seine had tripped a passerby. Yet, recently, this exclusive clique had uncharacteristically embraced a young gentleman. He had been back in Paris for only a few months, and his résumé was entirely void of the linguistic arts. Judging solely by his physique, one would be more convinced of his ability to tame a wild stallion than to wield a quill.
Perhaps it was precisely this contrast—sharp wit encased in a formidable exterior—that piqued the interest of the circle's core members. In a world where beauty often suggested emptiness, such a solid, heavy vessel naturally invited curiosity about its contents—though most visitors simply admired the seasonal flowers within, or praised the smooth curves and exquisite ormolu.
Tonight, the flowers in the vase were, as usual, intentionally awake. The young man drew many admiring glances, causing a slight congestion at the foot of this literary mountain. Unlike his older companions, he appeared more than happy to entertain these curious pilgrims one by one.
Watching him was Isaac de Benserade. Though he had served Richelieu just as the young man's father had, this elder observer—a self-proclaimed friend across generations—still possessed a sharp, discerning eye. He attended the salon four times a week, genuinely gathering material for his work. He had little interest in the gossiping throng surrounding Guiche, while his young friend, the Chevalier de Lorraine, seemed perfectly content laughing with the ladies. Benserade merely chatted with colleagues, listening to them boast about the imagery in their latest works, while his eyes darted occasionally toward the door.
Monsieur arrived late today, clearly displeased. He drifted toward the ladies of his household, who, as always, made room for him. Were it not for the justaucorps he wore, no one would have found it strange to count him among the noblewomen—more Madame than Madame herself, some said.
Yet that Count—freshly returned from exile—did not spare Monsieur a single glance. Nor did Monsieur seem inclined to drink; the wine was indeed poor.
Madame de Thianges, ever the discussant of etiquette, drew close like a concerned elder sister, her fan gesturing toward the literary corner. Benserade followed Philippe's line of sight as it swept across the room—and carefully looked away before their eyes could meet. He had no intention of revealing that he, too, was watching. He would observe the final destination peripherally, though the answer was obvious enough—Monsieur's taste had never run toward men decades his senior.
As the Chevalier turned to face the room, dismissing the fifth lady inquiring about his silk, Benserade mentally added a line to his ink budget—just as he had predicted. If even Alcandre was sparing the Chevalier a few extra glances, then Monsieur's lingering attention was an inevitability.
But that stare was not merely frivolous or infatuated; it was laced with confusion, surprise. The pupils did not contract to focus but remained dilated, allowing the blurry whole to imprint itself on its owner's mind.
Before the moment could settle, Lorraine had already pivoted his focus elsewhere, chatting with another, more reserved lady through the crush of wigs.
"Have you ever met Monsieur before?" Benserade decided he should ask.
Lorraine didn't pause in his flirtation, eyes still on the distant lady. "What makes you say that, my friend?" His tone held little genuine curiosity.
"Nothing particular." Benserade knew better than to press. He simply stepped forward, leaned in to block the last gap, pretending his back was not the target of any accusing stares. He whispered into Lorraine’s ear, "But have you heard of his… inclinations?"
Lorraine didn't move, letting his view be blocked without protest, the lady already forgotten. "And now you’re inclining to me, Monsieur de Benserade. Are you flattering me as well?"
The innocent question landed so perfectly, one might have thought Benserade himself was the Sphinx—the one asking riddles that went unanswered.
"His eyes followed you. Several times," Benserade hissed.
Lorraine looked up then. He barely needed to search; he found Philippe easily, squeezed onto a sofa in the far corner with the ladies. Yet, he did not follow his usual pattern—studying eyes, tracing lips. Instead, he took in the scene briefly, assessing the terrain.
"He’s with women," Lorraine said to the friend who simply noticed too much. "And there are more than five of them."
"Should that be your only notion?" Benserade felt, for the first time, the urgent rhetorical necessity of stating the obvious.
“No,"
Philippe’s shoulders and back seemed to lean back in relaxation, yet his hand rested on his right hip—where there was nothing. His right leg was tightly crossed over his left, motionless. If not a habit, then a coincidence.
But Lorraine didn't believe in coincidences.
There was no garden here—no clean earth underfoot, no open sky. Only sticky, sour air thick with too many voices, and the hollow echo of wooden floors.
But the player accepted it—or perhaps simply ceased to care about the absence of a sword. The thorny flowers still provided cover. The hollow statue—all flamboyant gesture and no foundation—still drew the eye, even as it teetered, abandoned by its admirers.
Danger remained safety. The game remained the same.
Lorraine smiled then, faint and knowing. He adjusted his cravat, crumpled by previous absentminded hands, aligning the central flower of the lace, and smoothing the ribbon on his shoulder.
"I reckon Monsieur fits perfectly in the garden."
And in the maze that belonged to this game, the entrance had only just been trimmed into the hedges.