Chapter Four- Artful Diversions, by Mordaunt

From a young age he was taught to steer his way blindfolded through labyrinths. He has honed the skill at great cost, first navigating through the vagaries of court intrigue, a foreigner and the Dauphin’s favorite, then faced with the brutal realities of war, and later escaping the deadly labyrinths of Fez, and the treacherous Levantine waters. He has honed this skill, apprenticed to a great master, whom he must outwit to protect those closest to his heart, innocents caught in a ruthless game and a merciless war.

It occurs to Raoul that this is exactly what his father meant when he spoke about those he fights for, the day they trained with swords for the first time on the promontory over their small cove in Venice. It occurs to Raoul too, that this is what he vowed to his father at Bragelonne, the morning he was given the Hautclere: to honor his father’s name by protecting those closest to his heart, standing up for the innocent. 

Raoul knows how to remain unobstructed while pursuing his purpose, yet mindful of his surroundings, and alert to the pitfalls lurking at every turn. He knows how to dissimulate too, how to appear outgoing and affable while he keeps his mind focused on what must be done. Such skills serve him well at this moment. He walks hurriedly down the busy corridors and galleries of the Palais Royal, where the King, the Queen, and most of the court remain, occasionally acknowledging those he passes by as he must, while shifting through a small stack of letters in his hands. They are the latest reports on the inquiries about the duc d’ Herblay’s escape from the Conciergerie. They talk about the mysterious Ravaillac tunnel that neither Commander Gibanel and his men nor any other prisoner knows anything about, and how no one saw the duc d’ Herblay leaving his cell or the prison. They bemoan the large number of witnesses who have come forward, Musketeers, guards, workers, passersby, and bystanders at the bridge, and how, despite the numbers, no one has yet imparted anything of consequence. How it is as if the duc d’ Herblay and his accomplices vanished in thin air. Can a rescue so hastily planned and improvised, turn out so well, Raoul wonders as he reads, but he will not tempt fate. He knows the value of unexpected opportunities.

“Marquis, a word in private, if I may? A serious matter requiring your attention.” Captain Marchal has stepped into Raoul’s path. He bows, removing his hat.

Raoul does not stop but points to the door of his office with his eyes. He enters first, carefully setting the letters he was reading face-down on his desk. He makes his tone affable. “You used to call me Raoul not too long ago.”

Captain Marchal closes the door and stands with his back upright and his shoulders straightened, his hat in his hands. “Very true.” He will not budge further than this admission it seems.

Raoul crosses his hands over his chest. “Well, Captain, what is this serious business which requires my attention?”

“We have made an arrest… I have arrested Henri Bernard…” he pauses, and clears his throat, fixing his eyes on Raoul’s. “You know this, I suppose?”

Raoul is not willing to budge either. “Very true.”

“Naturally. You are the Spymaster of France.” There is resignation in Marchal’s tone and a hint of resentment that is hard to mask. “The arrest pleased His Majesty.” He sounds defensive.

“Then, why are you here?”

As composed as he tries to appear, Marchal fails to contain an angry twitch at the corner of his mouth. “The arrest should have drawn out the man’s father. It should have led us to Rochefort.” Raoul says nothing, and Marchal is vexed. Raoul can hear it in his voice. “Two days and nothing has happened. Rochefort has abandoned his son.”

Raoul raises a dismissive brow. “And this surprises you? The reports from Bicêtre—which I must assume you read before making this arrest, just as I read them—are clear enough. Rochefort would have his wife, Henri Bernard’s mother, drugged and chained in a dungeon for the rest of her life. A few months ago, in Spain, Rochefort almost killed M. de Rohan, his real son. It is now almost certain that Rochefort was behind the attack at the Louvre against M. de Rohan on the same night that you and I fought Comminges’ men at the Châtelet. In other words, Rochefort does not appear to be the paternal kind. Why would he change for an adopted son, whose mother he condemned to oblivion?” Raoul turns toward the chair behind his desk, assuming a businesslike tone. “Is this all?”

“His Majesty has ordered Rochefort’s immediate arrest!”

“Then why are you not arresting him? Why are you here, wasting your time and mine?” He sits behind his desk, seemingly engaged in reshuffling the letters he dropped there when they entered.

Marchal is seething. “The man is like a fantom. Arresting Henri Bernard has made no difference; why would someone like Rochefort marry a commoner and adopt her son? There must be something about mother and son that is useful to him. And if he chose to get rid of the mother then it’s the son. If so, why is he not making a move?” Captain Marchal takes an impatient step forward. “These are His Majesty’s orders! His Majesty’s safety is at stake! Arresting Rochefort concerns us both!”

The reasoning is correct, of course, even if Marchal doesn’t know it. But Raoul sees an opportunity. He sets the letters face-down on the desk once more, and sits back steepling his fingers on his chest, his tone scathing. “Are you asking for my help, Captain?”

“I’d say you should be compelled. Your father and his friends are at large having defied the King. Your father has threatened His Majesty!”

Raoul clicks his tongue, his tone reproachful and amused. “If I were you, Captain, I would refrain from bringing up either matter. You see, it was you, my father was seeking out at the Louvre, and you he threatened.” He taps his finger on the stack of letters before him. “Do you know what these letters here, tell me? They tell me that your men were trespassing into my father’s estate at Bragelonne. Gitaut and two others, sent by you without a warrant or an order. Sent into a nobleman’s estate like thieves. It is illegal. It is a serious breach of ancient law. It is also an offense against the duc d’ Orléans, His Majesty’s uncle, or did you not think that far? Your men were seen, they talked to poachers, innkeepers, and farmhands. One begins to wonder what happened to a regiment as noble as the Musketeers. If the Musketeers became incompetent blunderers once their Captain changed. Now my mother is missing from Bragelonne and based on these accounts before me, she appears to have been carried away by your men–by Gitaut. My mother abducted inside her own husband’s estate! That would be my mother, by the way Captain, who was at the Garrison just a few days before her disappearance. My mother, with whom you bargained for the body of an innocent dead girl; a girl you invited to Paris under false pretenses… ”

“Lies! I have nothing to do with that girl’s death or your mother’s disappearance!” Marchal growls. “Whoever spews such lies is…” He tries to compose himself but fails. “Are such falsehoods coming from my men? I will find the mutineers…”

“It is a failing Captain, who fears that his men can turn against him, and a bad Captain who accuses them of his own transgressions. No, Captain, it is all you. You wrote love letters to Esther Bonavin. One such letter invited her to Paris, to festivities at the Louvre—as if you can do such a thing—and to the very gate where she was attacked and lynched. You were seen waiting for her, without your pauldron, and did nothing to stop her assailants.”

“There is no such letter!”

“No, because you destroyed it, which, sadly, proves your guilt. Unfortunately for you, several people read that letter before you made it disappear. They saw your name written on it. They saw your signature.”

“I was following orders. You can prove nothing!”

Raoul draws in an exasperated breath and sits back. “Let me ask you, Captain: how far do you fathom His Majesty will go to protect you? Do you fancy yourself invaluable where others before you, including me, were only useful, just as should be? Do you seriously imagine that faced with the embarrassment of being compromised on your behalf before his uncle at Orléans and before his wife and his entire court in Paris, and after he is handed these reports, the King will cover the crimes you commit and require further proof?” He taps his finger on the stacked letters for emphasis. “His Majesty is already considering others for your position. If the reports about Bragelonne and my mother are true, the unfortunate Gitaut, I suppose, must be excluded, but even Gitaut’s name has come up to replace you.”

“Is this a threat?”

“You are not important enough to threaten, but do not doubt, for a moment, that I will not hesitate to threaten you, and never forget that I don’t leverage empty threats. You are still confused about your place, Captain, it seems. It is the King who commands and the King who determines how far you can reach. The King can never be compromised by your actions, or you will find yourself… decommissioned…Or worse. It’s not an easy task, being Captain of His Majesty’s Musketeers. Your predecessors understood that well.” He eases his tone. “So, you need my help with Rochefort, and you are here to ask.  Ask then.”

Marchal straightens his shoulders and says in a dispassionate tone: “I ask that you join me in questioning Henri Bernard.” Raoul raises a perplexed brow as Marchal explains: “I assure you, neither I nor my men have roughed up the good doctor. He appears and sounds like a man unaware of his father’s identity and not well informed about French politics and court gossip, even though he was in the retinue of the Grande Mademoiselle. He says he has no interest in politics and gossip and calls himself a Florentine. This last thing is true. He was raised in Florence and lived in Rome.”

Raoul pretends to bite the corner of his lip as if to suppress an amused smile, although he realizes the severity of Henri Bernard’s position, and the man’s desperate and clever attempt to delay the inevitable. “I should point out that you are keeping the good doctor—who has not committed any crime besides being adopted by the wrong man, and, who by your own account, was unaware of his father’s identity let alone his father’s whereabouts—in the Bastille. Not the most reassuring surroundings for an innocent man if your plan was to induce him to speak willingly, without roughing him up…eventually. It does not take high intellect to perceive the end game, if one finds himself in the Bastille. So… do you expect that my presence during your questioning of the unfortunate Henri Bernard, will shake him to some kind of truthful admission before he is submitted to other means of persuasion or just that I will incite his interest in French politics and court gossip?”

“Your name may have come up,” Marchal admits reluctantly and Raoul levels an angry look. Marchal clears his throat attempting to restore himself to a semblance of equanimity. “I may have let your name slip…” He clears his throat again. “Henri Bernard is…he and… I have good reason to believe that Henri Bernard has developed a certain attraction toward…the Marquise…”

Raoul knows how to rein in his anger, but, at this instance, anger is both genuine and necessary for his purpose, so he stands from behind his desk and marches toward Marchal, his voice thundering in the room. “You used my wife?”

Marchal clenches his fists as he speaks. “I thought it necessary.”

“I see,” Raoul says coldly. “To recapitulate. You entrapped an innocent young woman–my mother’s maid– leading her to a horrible death and shamelessly bargained over her remains. Then you had your men trespass into my father’s estate and attacked my mother, who is still missing. You threaten me and use my wife in the service of your unbridled ambition. It begins to feel very personal, Captain.” He notices that Marchal is about to object. “Don’t you dare blame your actions on anyone else but yourself. Do not fathom dragging anyone else into your infamy by claiming you were given orders.” He leans closer to Marchal and whispers. “If I was only the Marquis de Normanville we would be resolving our current misunderstanding privately, at a convenient place of your choosing. We still can, if you prefer, but leaving His Majesty without a Captain of Musketeers until a new Captain is appointed, would disrupt His Majesty’s plans, wouldn’t you say?” He turns his back and walks to his desk. “Expect me to join you at the Bastille, tomorrow. This will be all, Captain.” He hears Marchal walking to the door. “And, Captain,” Raoul adds. “This is not over.” 

He waits for a moment, expecting to hear the door closing, but he does not, so he turns to find M. de Rohan standing in the room. “I walked in as Fabien was stepping out,” M. de Rohan explains in his usual affable tone. He levels a probing look to which Raoul replies silently, indicating he should close the door. “Well?” M. de Rohan returns to it as soon as he has closed the door.

“Well, we may have developments on two fronts. Unfortunately, nothing concerning my mother.”

“I have heard nothing from Lucien. Layla has heard nothing too.”

Raoul shakes his head and points to the letters on his desk. “First piece of unexpected news. Despite an overwhelming number of witnesses willing to be questioned, there is little to help identify those responsible for the events at the Conciergerie and even less to determine the whereabouts of the duc d’ Herblay, who appears to have vanished in thin air.” A muffled chuckle escapes M. de Rohan’s lips. Raoul walks close to his friend and whispers: “My thoughts exactly. Let us accept with open arms all the help that Providence and a few devoted, bold, and loyal men afford us.”

M. de Rohan tilts his head toward the door. “Is this what he was here for?”

“No. This is the second piece of unexpected news, but it is news for us, not him. He came to threaten, in a roundabout way.” M. de Rohan raises a vexed and disbelieving brow. “Think nothing of it. It just so happens, that it works to our advantage. Here is the news: I am to see Henri Bernard at the Bastille, which is more than we expected or planned. It is also Fabien’s idea, not mine. He thinks that with me present, he can make M. Bernard reveal Rochefort’s whereabouts. You see, your father has not been forthcoming.”

Another chuckle escapes M. de Rohan’s lips, this time a loud one. “Did Fabien expect my father would rally his forces and storm the Bastille? My father is a cruel opportunist.”

“Captain Marchal is discovering this the hard way, while under pressure to prove himself worthy of the trust he has received.”

“And yet, he threatened. I need not remind you to be careful around Fabien, especially in the Bastille. He can be crude, but he is dangerous. He threatened you even though he claims he needs your help.” 

“We both know that this is how Fabien always acts, even when he is not cornered, which he is now. But I can rattle a man like Fabien before he has put two threats together.”

“He should be rattled. The King has been walking around these past two days, singing the praises of M. Mancini, the Cardinal’s nephew, brother of the Cardinal’s nieces, of Marie…” He slants a meaningful look. “Apparently there has been fervent correspondence recently…”

“I have heard. Her marriage to Collona is an unhappy one. It could even be annulled,” Raoul says. “Mademoiselle de la Valliere was hastily dispatched back to Orléans. For the winter…”

M. de Rohan nods. “M. Mancini procured a lieutenant’s commission to the Musketeers in less than two days. The King announced that he is eager to see him rise as he deserves.” He smiles. “Speaking of the King. You are wanted. We both are. Thought I’d fetch you so we could walk there together.”

Raoul motions to the door but stops noticing that his friend is not moving. “Yes, I do have a question for you,” M. de Rohan whispers, and leaning closer to Raoul adds in a disbelieving tone: “Did you invite me to some infernal, masked soiree at…Zola’s?”    

Raoul shrugs, an impish look in his eyes. “Technically, I didn’t.”

“Please!”

“You don’t have a choice, Jean,” Raoul says, and his tone is deliberate although he is smiling a roguish smile. “This is not what it appears to be.”

M. de Rohan lets out a harsh, impatient breath. “It wouldn’t be, would it?  Well, here is my dilemma…Do I tell Layla?”

Raoul clicks his tongue. “This is a dilemma, indeed.”

“And this is not an answer. You are not helping me, cousin. Did you tell Marie Cessette about it?” Raoul replies with just an apologetic look. “Of course you did! You would! Still, this does not help me.” He threads a hand through his hair. “Telling Layla is an entirely different matter, especially if this soiree is not what it appears to be!”

Raoul rests a friendly hand on his friend’s shoulder, shaking his head. “I admit, Jean, that when it comes to giving you advice about Layla, the best I can do is remain silent.”

“I will tell you exactly how this will play out. I will scrutinize the alternatives, but then act on impulse, which is what I always do when it comes to Layla. And trust me when I say this, I speak from years of experience: it is not the best approach with her. The best approach, I have yet to discover.” Raoul begins to laugh. “Ah, yes… you can laugh.” M. de Rohan shakes his head and sighs, defeated. “Let’s see what His Majesty wants. May take my mind off this little big dilemma, which you have inflicted on me with your infernal soiree!”

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They find the gallery outside the King’s apartments loud and crowded, the gentlemen of both Louis and his brother, the duc d’ Anjou, engaged in excited banter. Raoul notices Timothée among them, although the Chevalier de Beaumont is not a member of any royal retinue, and in the company of M. Fouquet and M. de Guiche.

“Ah, there he comes!” M. de Guiche exclaims which turns many heads toward Raoul and M. de Rohan. He marches toward them, striding conspicuously with his arms opened wide, and followed by his two companions, M. Fouquet and M. de Beaumont. “Normanville, once more the man of the hour! It is why everyone here adores and detests you at equal measure.”

Raoul feigns surprise and M. Fouquet clicks his tongue mocking a reproaching tone: “false humility…”

“I disagree, dear Nicolas. It’s the Venetian in him. Take my word for it. I know him since he was a boy,” M. de Beaumont interjects. “Besides, false humility becomes him.”

M. de Guiche leans closer to M. de Rohan speaking in a conspiratorial tone. “Your name is prominent on the list, dear Baron. And before you declare, with your usual panache, that you don’t know what list I am talking about, let me clarify: It is the list everyone at court would kill to see their name included. People are eager to pay an entire year’s income from their estates, just to be considered. Someone, whose name I am bound by oath of secrecy never to reveal, unless one of you, Messieurs, is willing to trade in kind, has offered to sell a month’s worth of time in his wife’s bed. People are so desperate they risk bankruptcy or worse!” 

“Not you, dear Nicolas,” M. d’ Aumont chimes in, having joined the group. He rests a friendly hand on M. Fouquet’s shoulder as he greets everyone with a friendly bow. “Remember, dear Armand,” M. d’ Aumont feigns a scolding tone as he turns to M. de Guiche, “bankruptcy means nothing to our dear Nicolas, so you must choose your words carefully around him.”

M. Fouquet makes a half-shrug, pretending to be at a loss, and the gentlemen begin to laugh, except M. de Rohan who remains frowning: “What? All this for an evening at Zola’s?” he protests.

They gasp pretending to be scandalized. “Dear Jean,” Raoul teases, “you know better than to name names. Besides, this is the whole point. Give the court something to compete for and everyone will ardently jump to it.”

“Raoul, you have turned into the cynic you were meant to be!” M. de Guiche bemoans with a chuckle.

“Which also, becomes him exceedingly,” M. de Beaumont remarks with a mischievous wink.

“Well, I declare that I take some exceptions with that list!” M. Fouquet exclaims.

Raoul frowns, leveling a peeved look toward M. de Guiche and M. de Beaumont. “No one was supposed to see that list, except you two,” he chides them.

They return an apologetic look, while M. Fouquet continues: “Don’t blame them. You know me, Raoul.  When I want something done, I pay for it. There’s nothing they could do about it.” Raoul shakes his head. “Well…back to my exceptions with that list!” M. Fouquet insists.

“Not the pamphleteers, surely! De Costes from La Gazette is almost respectable!” M. de Beaumont protests.

“No, of course not, for where would we be without pamphleteers? They are invaluable. Even that libertine who sells his pamphlets at Les Halles on Sunday mornings…what’s his name?… Galoys.” M. Fouquet replies. “No, the pamphleteers stay. But…d’ Arnauld?”

His companions object loudly upon hearing the name. What would such a list be without d’ Arnauld, they argue? If not d’ Arnauld with his posturing, his colorful outfits, and his bad Italian then who? At the corner of his eye, Raoul catches Jean shaking his head. His cousin finds the entire conversation distasteful. But of course, d’Arnauld is included, Raoul thinks. Despite his posturing, his colorful outfits, and his faked bad Italian–for his Italian is, in fact, perfect– d’ Arnauld is not only one of Rochefort’s spies, but also a close friend of Henry de Winter. And that is exactly what the soiree at Zola’s is about: to reveal who works for whom.

“All right! All right!” M. Fouquet waves his hands in the air as he tries to silence the outcries of his companions. “All right. I understand d’ Arnauld. What about de Renard?”

The excited young men fall silent upon hearing that name. “Well…” M. de Guiche ventures. “Nicolas has a point. Pamphleteers and fools are one thing, but blackmailers…” Across from Raoul, Timothée slants him an alarmed look.

“Very true,” Raoul says, pretending to be considering the objection. “But then, dear Nicolas and dear Armand, think about it: by joining the soiree, Renard too will be compromised, and for all to see.”

A fit of laughter follows Raoul’s words, and M. de Guiche wraps his arm around Raoul’s shoulders declaring: “My dear Raoul, I take it back! You are a champion among cynics!”

“Renard would kill to be invited. Now he gets the opportunity of a lifetime, and for free, because our friend Raoul here and the rest of you Messieurs, think it’s time for the man to meet his comeuppance and be publicly exposed and ridiculed. I assure you that, instead, Renard will think himself an asset to refined society. He already sees himself as a coming man at court!” M. Fouquet insists. He detests de Renard, and whether that is only a matter of character, or if he has fallen victim to de Renard’s malignant trade, Raoul does not know, for despite appearances, M. Fouquet is a private man.

“Lighten up, Nicolas,” M. d’ Aumont appeases him. “We will make sure de Renard remains as far from you as possible the entire evening. Besides, you are bound to destroy him at the card tables. You always do. Afterwards we will arrange for him something deliciously compromising to be featured prominently on the pages of La Gazette. Would such infamy enhance his trade or eliminate it, I wonder?” 

“A notable plan and a worthy cause!” M. de Guiche remarks knowingly. “Any more objections, dear Nicolas?”

“The duc d’ Anjou is bringing his favorites, and promises a few surprises of his own,” Timothée interjects, eager to change the subject. “I know not what the surprises are, but the duc is… well acquainted with the establishment…From what I hear.” It astonishes Raoul how perfectly Timothée dissimulates when it comes to the other side of his life. Unless they know, none of the people gathered would recognize the Chevalier de Beaumont in Valerie de Faye. 

“The duc d’ Anjou will be an unpredictable part of the evening,” M. de Guiche is explaining to M. de Rohan, who is still frowning.

“Make way for His Majesty, King Louis!” a thundering voice announces and almost immediately the doors to the gallery open wide, and the King steps out of his apartments, followed by his brother the duc d’ Anjou, his favorite M. de Saint-Aignan, the Cardinal, and two other young men, one of whom Raoul suspects is M. Mancini, the Cardinal’s nephew. To Raoul’s surprise, the second man is someone he knows.

“His Majesty is peeved,” M. de Saint-Aignan says, walking up to the group. He wags a finger at Raoul. “With you in particular, Marquis.” Raoul feigns ignorance. “His Majesty has heard about the list and the soiree. His brother, the duc d’ Anjou, is invited. Even the likes of de Renard are invited!”

“Is it His Majesty or your grievances that we are talking about, Beauvilliers?” M. de Guiche teases. Saint-Aignan, whom the King favors, is not known for his high-spirited character. “His Majesty is peeved!” Saint-Aignan insists, sternly. “The King cannot possibly participate in scandalous, feckless diversions. Gambling…and whatever else…morally depraved… And to plan such an abomination at court…”

“I hear it is the kind of entertainment that His Majesty enjoyed the night of my wedding,” Raoul remarks. “Then, it was a gift from his brother, the duc d’ Anjou. You were there too, I was told. I remember hearing that you were amply entertained and had no objections.” He smiles an innocent smile. “At the same time, I admit, dear Bauvillers, that neither I nor any of these gentlemen here present, have any idea of what list and what soiree you are talking about.”

There are muffled chuckles all around, and M. de Saint-Aignan frowns, but he refuses to be defeated. “Nevertheless, His Majesty is displeased to be excluded thus. And then, to be forced to change an entire stanza of the ballet he performs tomorrow evening at court!” Saint-Aignan clicks his tongue disapprovingly.

“How so, dear Bauvilliers?” M. Fouquet has assumed an affable tone, eager to ease the tension.

Saint-Aignan clicks his tongue vexedly. “It is all because of that Turk!”

“That Turk is extremely pleasing to the eye and a delightful companion,” M. de Guiche remarks. “We met him a fortnight ago, did we not d’ Aumont? He likes the theater and has quite the turn of phrase!”

“That Turk comes with a possible treaty to rival Venice,” M. Fouquet confides. “I don’t know the particulars. I overheard–what’s his name?-the Cardinal’s secretary or whatever he is, Colbert I think he is called–whispering it to one of the clerks after the council meeting.”

Salih Bey. Raoul recognized him immediately. In the distance he can see Salih Bey’s eyes fixed on him just as Raoul feels compelled to look back. For a moment Alya’s beautiful face flashes before Raoul’s eyes, her gentle features, the rose she would leave next to his bed. He pushes her image away immediately. He will not be distracted. He cannot afford this kind of distraction.  

“When I have dispersed the Shadows from France
My light traversing seas to distant lands
Shall pierce the heart of Byzantium
Effacing the Crescent” M. de Saint-Aignan is reciting. “We had to change this entire stanza,” he is saying. “His Majesty was not happy. He had practiced for weeks and did not want a single word he was to recite as Apollo altered.”

“A treaty with the Sublime Porte to rival Venice is worth four lines, Monsieur,” M. de Rohan remarks sternly before Raoul has time to stop him. This is not about the lines which the King recites at a ballet. Raoul wishes he could explain what lies behind it to Jean, but he cannot, if he is to keep his involvement with the Company of the Orient a secret, as he must. What lies behind this is the war fought at sea, the war Lucien fights. The war the Company of the Orient fights. Louis, not only understands the stakes but is eager to set his own stakes, pushing against the Sublime Porte as Venice’s power wanes and just as he offers the Ottomans an alliance.

“Your Majesty!”

Saint-Aignan and the rest of the gentlemen bow deeply as the King himself approaches their company, followed by the Cardinal, the Cardinal’s nephew, and Salih Bey.

“Did we invite the Cardinal?” Timothée whispers with urgency in Raoul’s ear.

“No,” Raoul whispers back. “But make sure he knows there is an open invitation for him.” What does Rochefort call Mazarin? Beholden. As the war at sea will escalate, and Louis is clearly eager to engage in it, it is time for the Cardinal to become indebted, Raoul decides.   

“Ah, Messieurs, you appear well entertained this afternoon,” the King remarks. Raoul knows Louis well enough to hear that he is, indeed, peeved. “We have with Us, M. Mancini,” the King announces, while the Cardinal’s nephew steps forward and bows to all, under the proud gaze of his uncle. “M. Mancini joins my Musketeers as early as tomorrow and We will be pleased to see him advance to the position of Captain very soon.” M. de Rohan slants an alarmed look toward Raoul. That will indeed rattle Fabien, and–Jean is right to be alarmed–it does not bode well for Henri Bernard, because Henri Bernard is all that Fabien has left to defend himself and his position. The unexpected opportunity to join Fabien at the Bastille has just turned into a crucial part of their plan. If only I can signal to Henri Bernard what he must do, Raoul thinks. If only Rochefort’s betrayal, the Bastille, and Fabien’s hospitality have not already destroyed the man; if only Henri Bernard is quick to grasp the game he must play…

“His Majesty is pleased to have received Salih Bey, an envoy from a most exalted and loyal friend of France, the Great Sultan Mehmed,” the Cardinal chimes in, beaming to have had his nephew so favorably presented by the King himself. The King nods approvingly and the Cardinal continues as Salih Bey steps forward, greeting the company with a slight tilt of the head, as is typical of the Ottomans, although his eyes remain fixed on Raoul. “M. de Saint-Aignan, M. de Guiche, M. d’ Aumont, and M. Fouquet you have already met, I believe, on different occasions, Your Grace,” the Cardinal is making the necessary introductions, but here is also the Baron de Rohan-Rochefort, Her Majesty’s Lieutenant of the Guards, and the Marquis de Normanville…”

Salih Bey makes a small bow greeting M. de Rohan and turning to Raoul, he adds: “The Marquis’ reputation precedes him.”

“Same is true for Your Grace,” Raoul replies.

“You know each other, then?” the King interjects. He sounds peeved still.

“In a manner, Your Majesty,” Raoul says, just as the King walks closer to him.

“Are We to be ignored and spurned, so that Our own frivolous brother finds an opportunity to sneer at Us?” Louis whispers angrily. “Is it not customary, Marquis, to invite Us, Your King, even if We are obligated as a matter of propriety, to refuse the invitation?”

“There cannot be an invitation to the King, Your Majesty,” Raoul whispers back. “The King goes wherever he pleases, when he pleases, with whomever he pleases. As for being obligated to refuse an invitation as a matter of propriety: the King refuses only if he wishes.” Louis has narrowed his eyes perplexed. “It is a masked soiree, Your Majesty,” Raoul adds, and the loud chuckle, full of relief, which escapes the King’s lips turns everyone’s curious eyes on the pair.

The King begins to laugh resting a friendly hand on Raoul’s shoulder. “Monsieur, you tell Us that Our friend and ally, the Great Sultan, has men of merit and power in his service,” he tells Salih Bey. “Let Our good friend and ally in Constantinople know that the French King has men like the Marquis in his service, who are the envy of Europe.”

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“I should have seen it,” Salih Bey says. He has managed to stand close to Raoul in the crowded antechamber. “I was warned about you. Louis’ Spymaster. The Venetian Falcon, they call you. They say you are France’s best spymaster since the days of Richelieu who commanded an army of spies.”

“I am not sure if I should be flattered by the description,” Raoul chuckles. “My office in this palace is where Richelieu’s office used to be. They say his ghost lingers in those rooms, and the thought always makes me uncomfortable.”

Salih Bey smiles. “I still like you, Andrea. Is it truly Andrea?”

Raoul nods. “It is. Here, they call me by my first name: Raoul.”

“To think that I invited you to the festivities for your King’s wedding!”

“I remain very thankful for your most generous invitation,” Raoul says, “and I am eager to reciprocate.”

“Ah, the masked soiree at a house of infamy that everyone finds scandalous, yet everyone wants to be invited to!”

“Is such inconsistency perplexing?”

Salih Bey slants an amused gaze. “No, not at all. It would be the same with us. We are not that different, you and us.”

Raoul smiles. “Will you be my guest then?”

“Why not?”

“Excellent. We have much to talk about. It is my turn to show you all that France has to offer.”