Love sought is good, but given unsought, is better.
Shakespeare, 1601 Twelfth Night, act 3, sc.1, l.154.
Love is not love that alters when it alteration finds.
Shakespeare, Sonnet 116
From the window of the salon she sees him galloping down the graveled path toward the house. Even at this distance Constance worries that his face looks pale and drawn. His eyes are hooded. Sleepless. Or perhaps it is her heart that compels Constance to see Athos thus; a sore spot which keeps her restless ever since he arrived at M. Morosini’s house in Paris with the news that his wife was missing. Did I have a hand in what befell her, Constance has wondered ever since?
The perturbing thought returns at the sight of him and she dispels it. How could few words, casually spoken during a soiree bring about such calamity? And isn’t his wife, Milady? A ruthless dissembler, able to defend herself when she must? Has she not survived worse if, indeed, she is being forced to survive anything? Constance dispels the thought, and anger dulls the sore spot in her heart. Is this not what Milady would do? Deceive a good, honorable man? Inflict anguish and suffering to those unfortunate to be close to her, to her precious little daughter, who has learned to keep a brave face at such a young age, but weeps at night asking for her Maman? And what about Raoul–whose life, fraught with danger as it is– his mother burdens with unnecessary troubles? Raoul’s message from Paris arrived the day before—Sophia dispatched it with a servant from the manor house— and even in his distilled, carefully chosen words, Raoul could not conceal his agony over his mother’s fate. No, Constance thinks as she watches Athos dismount; no, some passing remark to Catherine de Renard, intentional or otherwise, could never be the cause of whatever has befallen that woman, if indeed, something has befallen her. In Constance’s eyes there is no one more deserving of a comeuppance than Milady de Winter, and the woman’s victims are those closest to Constance’s heart beginning with Athos. To witness such torment is unbearable.
“Someone has arrived!” Alexandre springs from his chair at the desk where he and Olivier are struggling to translate some tedious passage from Thucydides, dense with participles, according to their tutor Brother Aloysius who has followed them to Royaumont. The boy dashes to the window, and Constance knows when her son had enough learning for one day. It appears, however, that Olivier shares in his friend’s impatience, because he too springs from his chair, behind Alexandre.
“Look! Look!” Alexandre cries excitedly. “It is Uncle Olivier!”
From the other side of the salon, Elodie raises her eyes from behind her embroidery, stretched on a large standing slate-frame, where she has been working with Renée’s help—but not Charlotte’s, who abandoned the undertaking quickly in favor of a book about horses in Persia, from Lucien’s library. Both girls jump from where they sit immediately, Renée dropping her needle and leaving it dangling with the fine silk threads unstitched. She dashes to the window behind Charlotte.
“Let us go greet him!” Olivier urges and Constance slants an alarmed look toward Elodie. Whatever Athos has come to say here, in Lucien’s house, it is grave, she is certain of it, and excited children accosting him the moment he enters, is the last thing he should have to endure.
“You are going nowhere!” Elodie cautions her son sternly, and before any child utters a single word of protest, Brother Aloysius—a most perceptive man— has chimed in with a tone equally stern: “M. du Vallon! M. d’ Artagnan! We must conclude our work. Remember, that your friend M. du Plessis has not only successfully translated this passage, but his tutor, Pere François assures me he has completed the entire book. You cannot fall behind in your studies. His Grace, the Comte de la Fére will be displeased to learn that he has become a distraction unwittingly.” Olivier sighs, lowering his eyes, while Alexandre turns a pleading glance toward his mother, silently urging her to intervene. “No!” Constance signals with her head and Alexandre lowers his eyes just like Olivier, and reluctantly returns to the desk, and to Thucydides’ participle-ladened paragraph that Samy has already conquered. Charlotte, on the other hand, is hurrying to the door followed by her sister. Their mother’s severe tone stops them midway. “And where do you think you are going, Mesdmoiselles?”
Charlotte clears her throat to answer but it is Renée who speaks, Renée who knows that in matters such as these she can sway her mother easily unlike Charlotte, who ends up caught in never-ending arguments. Renée smiles prettily: “Well, Maman, we do not have to finish any paragraphs to compete with Samy or Rayya or Rosie, so Uncle Olivier will not be upset that we came to…” Elodie raises a vexed brow and, like her sister, Renée immediately discovers the value of having to clear her throat.
“Good. I see we understand each other perfectly.” Elodie picks up her needlework and points to the chairs next to her, where her two daughters were sitting before and where they return. Another slanted look from Constance and Elodie returns a careful nod. “And after all this excitement, we resume our work as we must and allow the Comte de la Fére to resume his business with your fathers and His Grace, your uncle, the duc d’ Herblay,” Elodie announces while Constance slides out of the salon.
She catches the end of it, just as she steps down the stairs, and into the corridor where Athos has just entered: they are all waiting to embrace him, Charles, Aramis, and Porthos. She was right. He looks pale, sleepless, and dejected. She knows they have been talking about Milady, and it vexes her that with her lies, that woman has made herself everyone’s concern and priority. Here they are, fugitives, threatened by Rochefort, and traitors in the King’s eyes, their children too, living in Lucien’s house for as long as he can remain immune, with poor Agnes still discombobulated, and poor Henri in the Bastille, and Milady has managed to divert everyone’s attention and efforts, including Lucien’s, with her shenanigans. “Raoul tells us the same,” Charles is saying.
“He sent a message through M. de Rohan yesterday from Paris. He tells us much that is important, including that there is no news about his mother,” Aramis explains.
“It can’t be this bad, Athos,” Porthos adds. “She is a strong woman and resourceful.”
“I fear it is bad, Porthos,” Athos says gravely. He catches a glimpse of Constance and attempts a smile. It breaks her heart. “I agree with Porthos,” she says, making her tone as encouraging as she can muster. “It is Milady after all.” That is all Constance is willing to say about that woman. Athos kisses her hands. “We must talk,” he says and something about his tone, somber and sorrowful, brings back the sore point in Constance’s heart, that what-if, she prefers to ignore. She steps back. “I should return to the children,” she says, taking her leave. The four walk into Lucien’s study and as they close the door behind them, Constance finds herself overwhelmed, her eyes filled with tears. Did I have a hand in this?
⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️
“What does Raoul say?” are Athos’ first words.
“Nothing about his mother,” Aramis replies.
“There was some good news. Despite the number of witnesses, the disappearance of His Grace, our friend Aramis, from the Conciergerie remains a mystery. No one saw anything even if they were there observing everything,” d’ Artagnan chimes in.
“Raoul is to see Henri at the Bastille today,” Porthos says. “Marchal has failed to lure Rochefort–not surprising to us, but clearly surprising to Marchal–and has also failed to learn anything from the good doctor. That is the good news. The bad news is that it appears this is Marchal’s last chance to rectify his position with Louis, who plans to replace him with Mazarin’s nephew. It means that he will not hesitate to pressure that poor boy in the Bastille…” He shakes his head.
“And of course, Giulio is beholden to Rochefort,” Aramis remarks. “Perhaps more than beholden now…”
An angry chuckle escapes Athos’ lips. “Rochefort,” he growls under his breath.
Aramis sets a gentle, friendly hand on Athos’ shoulder and returns to it: “Is she in Rochefort’s hands, Athos?”
“He knows where she is, of this I am sure.”
D’ Artagnan frowns. “You have seen him? You have seen Rochefort!”
“He invited us,” Athos says amidst gasps. “Me and Lucien…”
D’ Artagnan levels a perplexed look, still frowning. “Lucien? I thought he was Grimaud to you.”
“He is the duc du Plessis,” Athos says sternly, and then easing his tone. “He is Lucien now–as he should have been.” He closes his eyes, shaking his head, despondent. He looks unsteady. “I make no sense I suppose. Very little makes sense to me at this moment.”
D’ Artagnan motions closer, alarmed. Porthos wraps his arm around Athos’ shoulder. “You are with your brothers now. With your family,” he says softly.
“Why don’t we sit?” Aramis proposes but Athos refuses.
“What happened with Rochefort? Where did he invite you?” d’ Artagnan insists.
“Bourron-Marlot. He owns a château, it seems, not far from Fontainebleau.”
D’ Artagnan swears under his breath. “Of course he would.” He turns to Aramis who nods as d’ Artagnan speaks. “Close to the King and the Queen Mother. The viper! He was at his son’s wedding with Layla, and lingering around our boys and Grimaud’s son. He was not too far from… home, was he? It was the same at Saint-Germain-en-laye. His lair was not far even though Raoul and Marchal found the house empty. He is never too far from where he strikes.”
“Bourron-Marlot,” Porthos muses. “That was someone else’s estate…I remember the case! It was during the time when I was in the war council with Condé and the commission came to my desk. I remember because we knew him…Not him. We knew his father! I thought, who’d have thought that rascal was a man of means and now his son is selling a good estate to purchase a commission…What was his name, d’ Artagnan? He retired after General Alaman was killed. Red Guard. With Richelieu…Sallard! That’s the name! Sallard.”
“Wait,” d’ Artagnan says. “Sallard is M. de Rohan’s lieutenant.”
“Sang dieu!” Aramis growls. “We are surrounded by Rochefort’s spies!”
“And he picks his spies carefully too. Like his houses,” d’ Artagnan scoffs. “Not just anyone. Old allies. Old connections. From the Red Guards. From the days of Richelieu…”
“You all hit the mark as usual,” Athos says with a wry smile. “Perhaps they are closer than you imagine those connections from the days of Richelieu.”
“You speak in riddles my friend,” Porthos remarks.
“Athos, what did Rochefort say to you?” Aramis fixes a penetrating gaze. “Remember his evil is insidious and he will stop at nothing. He has a way of poisoning people’s minds. Remember what he did to the old King? Remember that poor girl, Marguerite?”
“I know who he is, Aramis!” Athos’ voice thunders but he stops abruptly and rubs his brow trying to compose himself. “I know who he is,” he repeats, quietly this time.
“Of course you do,” d’ Artagnan interjects, with an appeasing tone. “You have known him longer than any of us, he is your cousin…”
“He is not my cousin!” Athos interrupts him, once again unable to rein in his anger. “He was never my cousin,” he adds quietly. He leans with his back against the windowsill behind him as if to steady himself. Porthos motions to help him but Athos raises his hand, stopping him. He draws in a deep breath and stands upright again. “Rochefort’s father was the younger brother of the Marquis de Mouy…”
Aramis narrows his eyes, perplexed. “That was your father.”
“That was the good man who adopted me,” Athos says. “This is what Rochefort wanted to say to me at Bourron-Marlotte. To me and to Lucien. This is why he invited us. And before you counter that he would say anything–what he said is true. As it is also true that my father was Richelieu and my mother is…Lucien’s mother,” he says the last thing gently, without anger or frustration.
There are no gasps in the room, only silence.
“Lucien… of course…he would be Lucien to you, then” d’ Artagnan whispers after a while, and it sounds as if he is speaking to himself.
“You are the duc de Richelieu,” Aramis sounds in awe.
“I am no one!” Athos interjects. “ I am the bastard son of a priest who would use his niece and his sons to serve his unbridled ambition. At least I was raised by a kind, decent man and a good, loving woman.” His voice trembles again with rage. “My brother— yes, Lucien, d’ Artagnan– my brother, a boy younger than my daughter, younger than Alexandre, my… father had that child seized by his thugs and thrown God-knows-where! I am no duc de Richelieu–no, Aramis. I am only his bastard.” He chuckles angrily. “Now, does this not make you feel surrounded by old connections to Richelieu?”
“If I may, my friend, these are only words of anger and frustration and such sentiments are to be expected under the circumstances – yes even from you.” Porthos pulls up a chair. “Sit!” He says it in a tone that does not take no for an answer, and uncharacteristically for Athos, he obeys. Porthos pulls another chair and sits next to him, Aramis and d’ Artagnan doing the same. “Good,” Porthos says. “First of all, it changes absolutely nothing. You are not responsible for having that priest as your father, or where would good men, like M. de Rohan be? Where would I be? Remember my father? He was quite a piece of work. Aramis met him. Abandoned my mother and me to fend for ourselves in the streets and then claimed he knew nothing about it. My half sister Eleanor and her husband Levesque, do you remember those fiends?” Athos replies with a faint nod. “Levesque is dead, thank God, and she is…I do not know where she is nor do I care to know. Now what does all that make me? I even inherited the title: Baron de Belgard!” he scoffs. “Never used it. Never cared for it. It is good land, with good people living on it, and that is the only reason I have not sold it. Unlike you, Athos, I will not pass land to my tenants. But having known my family, does it change who I am or how you think of me?” He points to their friends seated around them. “My family is people I have chosen: Elodie, Marie Cessette, Olivier, my girls, Raoul, Alessandra, Bianca,” he points to Athos “you,” and then points to all of them: “All of us. This is only what matters. We are who we are, and we are family.”
“Porthos is right,” Aramis says gently. “To us, you are Athos. Prone to sulking, hard to figure out, set in his ways…”
“Honorable to a fault,” Porthos says.
“Bound by duty and principled,” d’ Artagnan chimes in.
“Yet, reckless when he chooses,” Aramis adds.
Athos suppresses a frustrated chuckle but he is frowning no longer. “Is this the entire list?”
All three shrug knowingly, implying there is more. “What we are trying to say,” Aramis explains, “is that in this family, no one is perfect.” He sighs. “Speaking for myself, I have made enough mistakes of my own, and have no need for my father’s or my mother’s sins.”
Athos sits back in the chair, drawing a deep breath. He smiles a sorrowful smile. “I knew you’d say that. And yet…” He clicks his tongue, once again vexedly. “And yet, I fear that there is, in Rochefort’s revelation, an intent that is buried deeper, malicious and festering.”
“He hated Richelieu,” d’ Artagnan reasons. “He almost told us himself on the road to Spain. First Richelieu forced him to marry in Spain and then betrayed him, leaving him to rot in a prison where he was tortured by Vargas for five years. So it makes sense that once he became Prime Minister he discovered the truth–maybe something in Richelieu’s documents. He was meticulous with such things. It is some strange kind of revenge. I can’t imagine he believes our Athos would be proud of the association and he knows that Grimaud is not.”
“Yes, but why now?” Porthos observes. “Why invite Athos and Lucien to make such a revelation now? I think he is desperate. Cornered. Despite appearances. Maybe not all is lost when it comes to Alessandra?”
“Athos does not think so.” Aramis has his eyes fixed on his friend. “Is it not so, my friend?”
Athos nods. “Rochefort knew his revelation would hit a nerve and… I admit, it did. With me at least…With Lucien, I don’t know. I do not know my own brother. But Rochefort’s purpose with me has always been personal, since the days I thought he was my cousin and friend,” he pauses as if he realizes something important. “It is personal and it has to do with my real family as much as it has to do with Alessandra.”
For the first time there are gasps all around. “How?”
“I don’t know yet. But Rochefort knew her. This, I know. He called her…” he pauses. “He knew Alessandra when she was a child. Just as I did. Just as Lucien did, only he was too young to remember and it must be the same for her–she would have been too young to remember. But I do remember…something. And Rochefort was older than all of us, and knew us. His father too…His father knew ….” He pauses, draws in a determined breath and turns to Aramis. “If all this is true, as I fear it is, then my friend, you have found yourself and those you love drawn into a very old feud, a personal rivalry, mired with resentment, envy, and malice.” He extends his gaze to his three comrades. “All of you. Your children, your wives, even Henri Bernard and his mother. All the innocents who perished when Rochefort ruled as Prime Minister: those he murdered, those he executed, doctor Lemay, and that poor girl, Marguerite. Old King Louis, even. Rochefort will stop at nothing, you are right Aramis, but it is not power he seeks. He has power–in his mind at least. He seeks revenge, and it is personal. He will attack the prey which is easiest–so it’s not your mistakes Aramis, or anyone’s mistakes that are to be blamed for our predicament. Those mistakes drew Rochefort to you, because you could be attacked easily, and all of you were, you are, close to me. In this family which Porthos describes so lovingly, everyone is threatened by Rochefort because of me”
Aramis leans forward, reaching for Athos’ hands, a faint, impish glimmer in his eyes, his tone at equal measure stern and affectionate. “This is the longest I have ever heard you speak, my friend. Indeed, I see how Rochefort would have implicated all of us in his personal revenge but, I daresay, that has nothing to do with you. Now, as you all know I was trained by Jesuits but what you may not know, my dear Athos, is that I was one of your father’s proteges when he was the Bishop of Luçon, and what that training has taught me is that a man’s sins are his own. Thus, I do not permit you to assume responsibility for my choices and actions, let alone for my sins. Rochefort is an opportunist in his quest for personal revenge, you say, and I agree, but I, your friend Aramis, should have known better. Besides, there are mistakes and sins that I will never regret and would repeat in a heartbeat.”
“I agree with Aramis,” Porthos says. “You are my brother, and I love you, and all these years we have settled in a comfortable way of doing things, whereby you have the last word, even when you don’t. Perhaps it is because you were Captain de Treville’s first lieutenant. Perhaps because you were our Captain for a while. But, here we are, each of us imperfect, yet strong together. All for one, one for all, old friend. In the end it’s all about that.”
Athos chuckles. “I stand very much corrected. And humbled.” He narrows his eyes, inquisitively fixing them on d’ Artagnan’s scowling face. “You object, my friend?”
“I wonder if Grimaud feels the same.” There is something in the way d’ Artagnan speaks the name that gives Athos pause.
“I don’t know him well enough to answer you,” Athos says after a few moments. “I cannot and will not speak for him. But something tells me that once he makes the same connections, he will feel the same for his family as I do for mine.”
D’ Artagnan lowers his eyes. “That was uncalled for,” he says quietly. “I ask you to forgive me.” He attempts an awkward, sad smile. “I am… not sure how to…” He shrugs. “I envy Grimaud. He is a fortunate man to have you as a brother. I don’t think he knows how fortunate.”
Athos leans forward, toward d’ Artagnan, his voice full with sentiment. “My love for you will never change. It is what Porthos reminded me. It is what Aramis chastised me about, like the good Jesuit he is. No matter how much we change,” he presses d’ Artagnan’s hands, “what we are to each other, this will never change.”
“Mountains may move, but not us!” Porthos declares. There are tears in his eyes.
Only Aramis says nothing, but sits back in his chair, stroking his chin. “If this is personal revenge, as you say Athos, and if Alessandra is part of Rochefort’s revenge, as you fear, then she is in mortal danger.”
“Yes, but she is a clever, resourceful woman. She knows how to defend herself,” Porthos objects.
“I fear she could be incapacitated. My people found her carriage–it was littered with blood. We saw it too, with Lucien. Her dagger was found on the floor. She tried to defend herself and failed,” Athos says. “She is also with child.”
Porthos swears under his breath. “What else did you find?”
“There were trespassers in Bragelonne–they were the men who attacked her carriage. One of them was Gitaut.”
“Comminges brother!” d’ Artagnan says.
“Marchal’s man,” Athos reasons.
“It’s not my intention to disparage the discipline of the men I trained and were under my command not too long ago, but in this, I am certain it is Comminges’ and not Marchal’s orders Gitaut is following,” d Artagnan insists.
“Comminges works for Rochefort,” Porthos says.
“Sometimes,” Aramis counters. “Comminges works for those who pay him. He worked for de Wardes and then for de Winter for example, and not necessarily following Rochefort’s orders in the second instance. At least that is what Athos and I discovered in Genova.” He crosses his arms over his chest and narrows his eyes as if making a new calculation.
“Athos, if you are…” d’ Artagnan waves his hands in the air signaling he is at a loss for words, “if you are… the duc de Richelieu, even if you do not accept the title, but for argument’s sake, if you are that by birthright and she–Alessandra–is not…whatever name she used when you married her…Then you are not married. You have never been married.”
Athos rakes his fingers through his hair. “I have thought about this, yes.”
“Sang Dieu! Raoul! Bianca! Your children…” Porthos growls.
“Sang Dieu indeed!” d’ Artagnan interjects. “Rochefort knows this.”
Aramis, who has remained silent with his calculation, now returns to it. “Athos… if all that you have learned is true, and if Rochefort is indeed the opportunistic foe we believe him to be… Are you sure he is responsible for what happened to Alessandra? I ask, because many things fit and other things don’t, and Gitaut’s involvement is one of them. What we learned in Genova and in Rome is that despite appearances Rochefort’s ranks are not disciplined and even his closest allies are as opportunistic as he is. Have you considered that someone else may be involved, someone else completely, and that Rochefort, reveling in his revenge, is simply seizing another opportunity to prolong it?”
Twelve Years After 