It is not one of the windowless cells. Raoul wonders if this was Fabien’s idea of compassion, but the narrow, iron-barred slit in the wall allows Henri Bernard a glimpse of the open sky, where birds fly free, and of the river, where life continues unobstructed, so Raoul settles on cruelty.
“This is the Marquis de Normanville,” Captain Marchal announces solemnly as they enter, but something in his tone, in his penetrating glare, that lingers first on Raoul and then on his prisoner convinces Raoul that Fabien is not convinced that the two have never met. Fabien’s suspicions were to be expected. His is a suspicious nature and at this moment Fabien has every reason to mistrust even his own shadow. It is Henri that worries Raoul. If he is a broken man, all is lost.
It is one of the less dreary cells. There is a bunk-bed, a chair, and a table. It is Fabien’s idea of soothing the prisoner’s fears so that when the time comes to break him, the effect is devastating. It is a crude method. Raoul has seen it before, such artifice comes naturally to Fabien. Henri is seated at the edge of the bunk-bed, holding his head between his hands. As they enter, he raises a drawn, pale face, hooded eyes, desperate, but not resigned. Thank God, Raoul thinks. He sets his hat on the table, just like Marchal has done.
“Chairs!” Marchal orders and the guards hurry to drag in two chairs and close the heavy door behind them. “We are here on His Majesty’s orders,” he declares. He points to the chair where Henri is expected to sit, facing them at the other side of the table.
“So you tell me every time, Captain,” Henri replies as he sits. “And every time, I ask how I can serve His Majesty.”
“By telling the truth,” Marchal replies tersely.
“I have been telling you–I have been telling His Majesty–the truth for two days. What other truth is there but that which I know?” He turns a tired gaze toward Raoul, “is it time then? I have heard it said that when truth is no longer convenient, a man can be made to say anything–believe it too. Is this why you brought the Spymaster of France today, Captain?”
“He is here to ascertain your truths. There is no one in France more discerning in such matters than the Marquis.” Marchal’s tone is aloof and curt. Raoul knows that Marchal believes none of it.
“We are not thugs, Monsieur,” Raoul says coldly. “We serve a great King who believes in justice. This is not Spain.”
A frustrated chuckle escapes Henri’s lips. He sits back in the chair and crosses his arms over his chest. “Alright then.” He feigns a small bow with his head. “It is an honor to meet, Your Grace. As you can see, in this cell, your reputation precedes you. I shall repeat what I have been telling the Captain, then: I was born in Nanterre, of which I remember nothing. Everything I know, everything I remember is from Florence and, later, from Rome where I studied at Sapienza. I was raised by my mother, a good Christian woman, and a kind man who married her and adopted me…”
“Kind!” Marchal growls. “Your adopted father is the Comte de Rochefort. A madman! A conspirator! A traitor!”
“It is the truth you demand of me, Captain is it not? The truth I know?” He turns to Raoul again. “Is it not so, Your Grace?” Raoul nods and Henri continues. “Well there you have it. The truth. We believed him to be a Florentine banker named Cesar–which he was not. He was generous to me and to my mother–until he was not. She and I are his victims. He deceived us both. Where is my mother? What have you done with her? Captain Marchal tells me nothing.”
“His Grace is not here to answer your questions!” Marchal snaps at him. “Your mother’s fate is in your hands.”
Such a pathetic device to use Agnes Bernard in this manner. Fabien’s skills of interrogation have not improved, Raoul thinks. He marvels at Henri Bernard’s composure however, for Henri knows that it is Rochefort who endangered his mother, and that his mother is safe, yet, he cleverly plays along with Fabien’s pathetic lie pretending to know nothing besides what Fabien tells him.
Raoul fixes his eyes on Henri. “Why would the Comte de Rochefort marry a poor widow and adopt her son?”
“Why don’t you ask him?” Henri pushes back.
“We will!” Fabien intervenes and immediately realizes the faux pas. You may lie to put pressure on a man imprisoned in the Bastille, not far from the chamber where he can be really pressured, but empty threats like this, backfire always—even in that chamber. There comes a time when you must show your prisoner that you possess the knowledge you claim to have. Any clever and efficient interrogator understands this. Raoul ignores Fabien’s frustration and maintains his tone, calm but stern: “We ask you, M. Bernard.”
A wry smile crosses Henri’s lips: “Perhaps he fell in love with her. Perhaps he even liked me.”
Raoul shakes his head. “This will not do, Monsieur.”
“Why would I know? Do you think he would confide in either of us? The people he deceived?” Henri shrugs. “He is, as the Captain mentioned, a madman. How can anyone divine the motivations of a sick mind? I assure you no one in my profession has achieved such a feat, and I am but a novice.”
“Your mother is safe,” Raoul says quietly, and Fabien slants him an angry look. “She is safe because she is an innocent woman,” Raoul continues, ignoring Fabien’s anger and fixing his eyes on Henri once more. The moment is crucial. “His Majesty would never harm an innocent woman. An innocent man too. It is a grave sin, Monsieur. His Majesty, our King Louis, is a God-fearing monarch, a bulwark of Christian values. He will never imperil his soul in this or any other way. He would be abhorred to hear anyone accuse him of any such transgression.” Fabien nods eagerly–that was a turn he did not expect and Raoul counted on it. As Raoul speaks Henri Bernard narrows his eyes, incredulous first, and then perplexed. There is a slight twitch at the corner of his eyes, the same that Raoul has noticed with Rochefort, whenever he calculates a move. He and Henri Bernard have been raised by the same man, the same mentor after all. Raoul only hopes that at this moment, Henri sees him with equal clarity; that Henri listens carefully; that he grasps the game they must play.
“I accuse no one,” Henri sighs, he sounds resigned. “But I suppose you can conveniently use any of my words against me. What do you want from me? I have lost my mother, I have been betrayed by the man I thought was a loving father, and I find myself in the Bastille accused of… what? Where is the warrant of my arrest? What is my crime?”
“We don’t need a warrant to bring anyone to the Bastille…” Marchal begins but Raoul raises his hand interrupting him: “Monsieur Bernard, you are an innocent man and by that merit alone, you cannot be threatened by His Majesty’s justice. You have committed no crime,” he makes sure to slant a deliberately stern look toward Marchal, and then eases his tone. “We are here merely in pursuit of information.” He fixes his eyes on Henri Bernard again, giving him another opportunity to grasp this game. “In your…interactions… with your adopted father, perchance, you became aware of some house or residence, other than the one that you and your mother shared at Saint-Fargeau?”
Henri Bernard returns a bemused look and sits back, seemingly thinking. He shakes his head, and Raoul’s heart sinks. He is not seeing the game, Raoul despairs, but then to his surprise, the man says: “well…there was this letter…” He pauses again as if he is thinking some more. “The roof…well… the roof needed some repairs, and he was away, and my mother never had any money of her own–which perhaps should have raised my suspicions but never did. Anyway…My fath…He was not at Saint-Fargeau with us… We never asked about his whereabouts. He traveled. He had business. Bankers do…” he sighs, “well… he sent a letter with instructions for the roof and a promissory note for the carpenter. I opened it. I remember there was an address and it occurred to me that he was where I suspected he had been all along. Paris. The address was at the Marais…”
Raoul knows the house at the Rue Couture St. Catherine. He has been there. It stands empty now. Signor Querini has seen to it already. “Can you be more specific?” he pushes. “Do you remember the exact address?”
“Rue Couture St. Catherine,” Henri Bernard says and Marchal gasps. “Am I free to go now?” Henri scoffs.
Fabien leans menacingly over the table, ready to say something crude, but Raoul stops him again. “It will be His Majesty’s decision, but you have given us something invaluable, Monsieur Bernard.”
“You are going nowhere. We will need more of your invaluable recollections,” Marchal sneers. He does not appreciate having his authority challenged before a prisoner, even if it is from a superior officer. The truth is, Raoul found that part extremely satisfying. Marchal is already on his feet grabbing his hat from the table and dashing to the door and shouting orders. “Guards! Take the chairs and lock his door!”
It gives Raoul the few moments he needed. He stands slowly from his chair and picks up his hat too, and leaning closer to Henri he whispers with urgency: “Never forget who you really are. Now is the time to use it!”
The moment he steps into the corridor outside the cell, Raoul demands a quill and paper. “Have this delivered immediately,” he orders one of the guards who runs ahead with Raoul’s message.
Raoul catches on with Marchal at the stables. The Captain is preparing to mount. He will not acknowledge Raoul’s help, even though he asked for it. Raoul fastens his gloves and reaches for the reins of his horse. “You will find M. de Beaumont and my men waiting at Rochefort’s house at the Rue Couture St. Catherine,” he says and Fabien steps away from his horse, frowning.
“M. de Beaumont? May I ask why?”
Raoul vaults into his saddle. “You placed the matter in my hands, Captain. You and your men are under my command.” He turns his horse toward the courtyard. “M. de Beaumont and my men will be waiting for you. They have already received their orders.”
Even though his back is turned he can hear in Marchail’s voice that he is seething. “You will not be there then?”
“I am dining with my wife, my cousin, and his wife, which I am sure you already know,” Raoul says coldly. “M. de Beaumont knows where to find me. I will not be too far. M. de Rohan’s house is at the Marais.” He pushes his horse to a gallop toward Jean’s and Layla’s house.
⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️
“It is up to him now,” Raoul answers the silent question in everyone’s eyes. At the salon of the house of the Baron and the Baroness de Rohan-Rochefort, they are all waiting for him: Marie Cessette, Layla, and Jean. He throws his gloves, hat, and cloak on a chair. “There is more,” he begins but pauses. He can see it–feel it–there is more on their side too.
“No, you tell us first,” Jean insists.
“Henri Bernard must make a life and death decision which will change his life forever. I am confident he understood that. He has very little time. He is a heartbeat and a corridor away from the rack. He stands at an abyss but has kept his wits about him so far,” he turns to Marie Cessette with a faint, kind smile, “which is proof of his courage. But he is only a man.” He shakes his head. “Then, there is Fabien. Not Louis. Fabien. I saw him today in that cell. He knows that his days are numbered–that Louis has made other calculations. For the moment, Fabien is still powerful, and it is possible that he may change the inevitable if he makes a bold move, if he is ruthless enough–which he is.”
“Good God, Henri!” Marie Cessette whispers.
“It is not just Henri,” Raoul says gravely. “I have been thinking about this. It is everyone else connected to him. Marie Cesssette, your family–my family.” He turns to Layla. “It is also your sister, Suzanne, and Afonso who were Henri’s friends in Venice. Your father knows about that. But things have changed since I told your father, and then changed again. Fabien was in that cell today, threatening with lies. Henri was cunning enough to throw him a bone: a house, an address, but I suspect Fabien will find little and in his frustration, his desperation, he will strike out. No one is safe. Fabien has no other choice and will stop at nothing, and your sister and her husband are in danger. Not from Rochefort, as we thought, but from Fabien.”
“But she is…” Layla objects.
Jean frowns. “He would not…”
“I think he will,” Raoul insists. “The man I saw today, the man who was with me in the Bastille interrogating Henri Bernard, that man will.” He shakes his head. “Royaumont is no longer safe. Lucien is taking a great risk, availing himself of the King’s seeming favor for what you and he accomplished in Spain. Can that favor be reversed, if Fabien, in a desperate move to salvage his ambition, storms Royaumont and discovers it is not just friends of Henri Bernard that your father shelters but those the King deems traitors? Do we trust that Louis will remain steadfast to you and your father because he made a grand gesture with the investiture at the Palais Royal?”
Layla gasps and Marie Cessette seizes her hand. Rohan takes a step toward Raoul, as if to protect his wife from the ominous specter rising before them. “There is a small army protecting Royaumont,” Rohan argues. “Your father’s and Lucien’s mercenaries equal a small, well armed and excellently trained regiment.”
“Do they want a siege, do you think? There are twelve children in that house. Thirteen if Suzanne gives birth soon. Four of them infants.”
“They must prepare for a siege,” Layla says. “Defend the estate.”
“Royaumont is too large an estate to defend even for our fathers’ small army,” Raoul insists. “They must be warned, and we cannot send them a message. I feel Fabien breathing down my neck, Jean. Behind yours too.”
“Then, we go and tell them. As we must,” Layla says. “They expect us.”
“I don’t understand.” It is Raoul’s turn to be perplexed.
Marie Cessette hands Raoul a message. “It arrived by pigeon post, just as I was leaving home to come here. It is from your father. Layla has received a message from the duc du Plessis also.”
“What does it say, Layla?”
She shakes her head. “Read what your father has to say, first.”
Raoul unties the small leather pouch, sealed with his father’s seal and reads:
“There is much which remains unsaid between us, but this cannot wait for it will help us find your mother. Of this, I am certain.”
There is indeed much between him and his father that remains unsaid, and it has become twisted with anger, pain, mistakes, and choices that feel inevitable. But there is urgency in the message and–strangely–hope. Raoul raises his eyes from it, still baffled. “What does your father say?”
Layla reads: “I thought we might ride together, but you are not here. Some matters one discusses only with their firstborn.”
“We must go to Royaumont!” Rohan declares.
“No!” Raoul cautions him. “You cannot…” his cousin is about to object and forcefully, but Raoul insists. “ Jean, you are Lieutenant of the Queen’s Guard. They will know you are gone, before you even reach the stables of this house. It is the same for Marie Cessette,” he turns to his wife, reaching for her hands. “You must go about your day as if nothing has changed. Nothing at all. Timothée will make sure you are safe, but you must change none of your appointments and outings. Not the one at Chevreuse’s house tomorrow certainly. If Henri acts, as he must if he wants to save himself, we have very little time. And we must be at Royaumont and back to Paris, before anyone notices.”
“What about you?” Rohan pushes.
Raoul makes a half-shrug. “I am Spymaster of France. It is my job to go places undetected and make myself invisible.” He turns to Layla. “Can we send Ciaran to our house? I need a few things from my valet as soon as Ciaran can get them here.” She nods. “Good. And I must borrow Yağız. It will be possible to reach Royaumont even before night falls, if he comes along. Do you think the Prince will condescend?”
“What about me?” Layla exclaims, vexed by his nonchalance. “Forget my horse! This is as much about me and my father as it is about…”
“You are not coming,” Raoul interrupts her, sternly, “and I am sure Jean agrees with me that you cannot and should not leave Paris. Just like Marie Cessette, your every move is observed, especially since the King made a very public exhibition of his favor to you. If I were Fabien, I’d have spies inside your boudoir–and yes, I think you must look there.” He turns to Rohan. “I must, once again, prevail upon you, dear Jean, to engage that—is he still a servant of yours, I cannot remember–that fine but brazen fellow who could scale buildings. Do you know the man I mean? I think he was something of a sharpshooter.” Rohan’s frowning eyes have eased but upon hearing Raoul’s last words the frown returns, deeper than before as Raoul insists. “What was that clever fellow’s name? Something Spanish…”
“No!” Rohan grunts. “You do not propose that she…”
“Yes he does, and I will,” Layla snaps at her husband, and immediately, turning to Raoul she says: “The name is Galician. His name is Pinchar. He is ready when you are.” She pauses for a moment as if a new idea has occurred to her and adds, frowning: “What do you mean ‘something of a sharpshooter’?”
⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️
Ciaran eagerly accomplishes the task of traversing the busy streets of Paris unobserved and as fast as a good horse can take him from the Marais to Saint-Germain and back with a large packet which the Marquis de Normanville’s valet entrusted to him with many misgivings as if he were to carry a treasure. Since returning from Spain and during his long convalescence, Ciaran found life in Paris rather boring and Griet’s fussing and indulging him, at equal measure annoying and endearing. He, therefore, welcomed any chance to prove himself again.
This time Griet is fussing about her mistress’ plain and rugged clothes. “Princess, what disaster is this? You look like that waif who arrived in Amsterdam with your father when I first met you!” She shakes her head with dismay as she picks up Layla’s wrinkled leather doublet from the wooden chest where she keeps her old Musketeer clothes. They are in Layla’s chamber, with Marie Cessette who made sure she searched every corner of the boudoir before the three of them engaged in transforming Layla into Pinchar.
“I would not call me a waif,” Layla objects as she buttons up her breaches. “These are tight.” She turns to Marie Cessette. “It is all those recipes for sauces that your cook sends to mine.”
“You fill these breaches marvelously.” Marie Cessette observes and turns to Griet feigning a reprimanding tone. “Not a waif! Not at all.”
Layla clicks her tongue disapprovingly as she looks at herself in the mirror. “But, look at me. Do I pass for…for that boy…”
Marie Cessette shakes her head, with a wistful smile. “No dearest. I do not think you can ever pass for that boy again.” Layla frowns. “Oh, don’t take it the wrong way. You and I are no longer girls either. I am sure Raoul knows what he is doing with this plan. You don’t really have to look like that boy at all. It is my experience that most people don’t see what is right in front of their eyes.”
Layla sighs, resigned, and makes a faint shrug as Griet helps her with the old leather doublet. “All true,” she agrees. “There was a time when my entire life depended on that fact.” She turns. “Well, this will have to do. Get me my old scarf, Griet, and Pinchar is ready.”
⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️
When Layla and Marie Cessette return to the salon, they find Jean standing by the fireplace in deep conversation with a man dressed in an exquisite brocaded black and gold quilted kaftan adorned with a rose-shaped brooch. On his head he wears a black silk and velvet turban, same as some Ottoman dignitaries wear when they visit the French court. He turns at the sound of the door opening, and both young women gasp:
“Raoul!”
“This is your costume for the soiree,” Marie Cessette remarks disapprovingly and adds, with much concern. “How does this make you invisible?”
“That was my question too,” M. de Rohan agrees.
“A costume such as this makes any man invisible,” Raoul replies with a cryptic smile.
“Of course. A sleight of hand,” Layla chimes in. “The art of making people look elsewhere. In this case, they look at the costume but not at the face. Remember what you said about people being unable to see what stands before their eyes, Marie Cessette?” A small chuckle escapes Layla’s lips. “I should know too. I have a card trick you see, Marie Cessette…or, rather, Pinchar had one. Thierry too. I should know how sleight of hand works.”
M. de Rohan shakes his head. “Fabien knows too,” he cautions. “You destroyed him with that card trick once. And then, when he found out who Thierry really was…Right in front of his eyes, and yet invisible… I am sure he has not forgotten that either.”
“If Layla is Pinchar, who are you supposed to be?” Marie Cessette still sounds unconvinced despite Raoul’s assurances.
He clears his throat, his tone slightly embarrassed. “Well, a friend gave me the idea, recently. I thought I should call myself Doğan Bey from Constantinople. Maybe…maybe a mapmaker, or a cartographer of sorts…A man who travels. And I travel with Pinchar. My… ” he levels an inquisitive look toward Layla.
“Valet?” she suggests and he nods.
“Sounds alarmingly vague,” M. de Rohan remarks disapprovingly.
“‘Doğan.’ It means something doesn’t it?” Marie Cessette insists.
“It means ‘falcon’,” Raoul says.
⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️
They part with consternation, on all sides: Marie Cessette sending messages of love and hope to her family, her uncles, and her aunt, Madame d’ Artagnan, worried that Raoul’s plan will not get them past Les Halles let alone past any gate of Paris. M. de Rohan is fretting about the same.
“In case something goes terribly wrong with Henri Bernard,” Raoul urges his cousin and his wife, “you two must act immediately. Do not wait. We may never get another chance. Timothée is ready to move on my orders or yours,” he tells them. “We will be back as soon as we can, as early as tomorrow if possible, but even that could be too late.”
He kisses his wife’s hands. “I will make sure that everyone we love is safe,” he assures her.
M. de Rohan and Layla exchange no such assurances. They kiss and stay in each other’s arms for a few precious moments, and then he pushes her back, tenderly smoothing her hair. “I have outgrown Pinchar, I am afraid,” she teases although her tone is grave. He kisses her brow and cups her face in his hands. “To me you are and will always be the loveliest and most captivating woman I have ever beheld.”
At the stables, Ciaran has proudly returned to his old role as Layla’s valet, ordering the stable-boys around, making sure that Yağız and Tristan, one of M. de Rohan’s horses, are saddled and the saddles are equipped with daggers, pistols and gunpowder, well-concealed but easy to reach.
⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️
Raoul strokes the black stallion’s long, silky mane. “What say you, M. le Prince? Will you ride with me today?” Yağız turns his head slightly, an incredulous look in his eyes at the sight of Raoul dressed as a Turk, and then slants an even more incredulous look toward his mistress, sizing her from head to toe.
“It is one of those campaigns, Handsome, and I have to follow you with Tristan,” Layla explains to her horse. “You must put up with our shenanigans once more. But I carry the good apples, the ones you love.” Yağız sighs a meaningful sigh, and shakes his head, while Raoul reaches for the reins, stroking his side.
“It occurs to me,” Raoul says wistfully, “that the last time you and I were on a campaign together, it was at Blois…”
She smiles. “Yes. I was thinking about that. It feels like a lifetime ago.”
“I was such a novice. So eager to impress you,” he muses.
“I was very impressed. You drew a blue dragonfly.”
He chuckles, astonished. “Is this what you remember?”
She bobs her head, smiling. “Yes. And that you collected sea-shells. Do you still draw?”He shakes his head and she raises a disappointed brow. “What was the dragonfly’s name?”
“Fierce beauty.” Raoul’s eyes linger lovingly on her face, and her eyes return the look. “Like you,” he whispers tenderly. There is sadness in his voice.
It is her turn to smile wistfully. She draws in a deep breath, and points to the brooch on his chest. “That is a lovely ornament.” She fixes her eyes into his. “The flower is from a woman’s headdress is it not?” He is caught unprepared and it is not like him. He is caught unprepared with Layla and it terrifies him. Despite himself he clenches his fingers around Yagiz’ reins and he can see that she noticed. “M. de Roberval has sent such ornaments from Constantinople to Rayya and to Suzanne.” She points to her hair, tightly tucked under her hat. “Not for my messy tangle!” she teases although her tone is somber. “I believe my mother has such a headdress, one that is not very different from this brooch. Red rose…” Her eyes bore into his soul and he knows that he cannot hide. “Is that who she is?”
“Layla…” He feigns a playful smile. “You should have been Spymaster of France.”
“I would be a terrible Spymaster. Marie Cessette and I are good friends. She tells me a lot, but not everything.” She reaches for the reins of her horse and vaults into the saddle. “So, what gate are we supposed to use to sneak out of Paris, Your Excellency?”
“Saint Antoine,” Raoul replies as he does the same.
She gasps. “Are you out of your mind? Why not just ride into the Garrison and pay our respects to our old friend Captain Marchal? Or better yet, drop into the Bastille to see Henri Bernard?”
“M. Bennart is on duty today at Saint Antoine,” Raoul says quietly. He turns his horse toward the street and slants her an impish look. “See how it pays off to be Spymaster of France?”
⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️
From the iron-barred slit in the wall of his cell, Henri can see a sliver of the clear moonlit midnight sky, a painful reminder that his world has shrunk and is bound to shrink further. Would I do it, he asks himself as he paces his cell. Do I dare? Is this even a choice?
He has played this morning’s interrogation in his mind over and over for hours. The subtle hints and the less subtle ones. There is something in the Marquis de Normanville that Henri recognizes, as if the two of them have known each other from their youth, as if they have grown up together, but he knows that they have not.
Louis is a God-fearing King…
He will never imperil his soul…
Never forget who you are…use it…
And yet, how can he trust the husband of the woman he loves, the man they both betray, the Spymaster of France? But then, wasn’t Normanville at Saint-Sulpice, he and his men fighting to help him escape? And it was Henry de Winter he was escaping from…The old family friend who betrayed them. And now Normanville is here, with his captor, Captain Marchal—the King’s brute. Betrayal upon betrayal, Henri thinks. Who to trust in this abyss? He stops pacing, his eyes caught by the unexpected glimmer of the pale moonlight hitting the surface of a copper bowl they have given him, which he has set on the table. It is such an easy thing to do—one simple move, one simple step, and nothing will ever be the same, whether for the best or for the worst, he does not know. All Henri knows is that he can only trust himself. All Henri knows is that he cannot remain suspended, as he is, lingering between oblivion, torture, and death. All Henri knows is that he longs to breathe in the cold air of the night. To see the sky that is denied to him. To see his mother again. To kiss Marie Cessette. To be free. Around him the walls of the cell close in on him, the air dense and suffocating. He seizes the copper bowl and begins to bang it, frantically against the iron door of his cell.
There is no turning back.
“What the hell is wrong with you, this time of night?” the guard growls from the other side of the door.
“I must speak to Captain Marchal!” Henri yells. “It is urgent!”
“He is losing his mind. They all do eventually,” the guard is saying to someone else. “He returns tomorrow, as he does every day!” the guard yells back. “Shut up and get some sleep!”
“Now!” Henri barks. “You must call him now! I must speak to him now! You will pay dearly for the delay!”
He can hear the guards swearing, boots shuffling, voices, swords clanging. And then there is silence. He thrusts the copper bowl against the door again and again, his fists too. He cannot wait. Another moment and he will lose his nerve. Another moment and the walls of this cell will suffocate him. “Get Marchal to me now!” he screams, all the while thinking, I am losing my mind.
He is pushed back violently as the door flings open, so violently that he almost loses his footing, but he manages to keep his balance and his dignity. He must. This is his moment.
“What the hell do you want Bernard?” Marchal growls. He does not look like a man stirred from his bed—he does not look like a man who sleeps. “Do not play games with me,” Marchal jabs an angry finger in the air. “That house you sent us to, it was empty! I am not a son of nobility like our exalted Spymaster who is so clever with his words,” he sneers, “but I don’t take kindly to being duped and misled. I will not tolerate any more deception from you.”
“I don’t give a damn about what you will tolerate.” Henri hears his voice thundering in the cell and cannot believe that voice is his. That these are his words. “You want to know the truth, Captain? What makes me so valuable to Rochefort? I am the grandson of King Henri. I am the only living legitimate male heir to the French throne. I am your King, Monsieur.”
Marchal gasps and steps back, despite himself. “You have lost your mind,” he growls under his breath. He reaches for his sword, instinctively.
“Lése Majéste, Captain! And if it is to slaughter me in this cell that you are contemplating, I remind you that regicide is treason and a mortal sin. Would the God-fearing king you serve condone such an atrocious crime?” Marchal eases his hand from the hilt of his sword, Henri notices. In the pale moonlight slithering from the iron-barred slit in the wall, the man’s face looks haggard. Flabbergasted. “Go to Louis,” Henri pushes. “Tell him, the legitimate King of France whom he keeps in the Bastille, asks for an audience—-asks, not denands, as I should. I am, after all, his prisoner. But tell him, and let him prove that what I say is not true.”
Twelve Years After 