Zwischenzug, Intermezzo, or in-between move is a chess tactic, whereby a player instead of the expected move, interposes another move that is an immediate threat, thus forcing the opponent to respond, and only then plays the expected move. No one knows when the first intermezzo was played, but it must have been played long before the term appeared in the late 19th–early 20th c.
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Louis listens carefully, occasionally tapping his fingers on his desk. “Has he asked for anything?”
“He asked about his mother. And to speak to Your Majesty,” Captain Marchal replies having concluded his report.
Louis raises a disapproving brow. “That can never happen.” He stands and walks behind his chair, hands clasped behind his back. “He can never see his mother again either.” There is regret in his voice, it is the subtlest hue, but Captain Marchal has learned the art of grasping the faintest change in Louis’ tone: the Queen Mother has returned to court, her return a joyous occasion, and the family is reunited. Louis fixes his eyes on his Captain of the Musketeers. What he is about to say is a royal decree and a sentence: “Henri Bernard can never see anyone again, except you, his jailer, his confessor, and prison-mates who will never be released. He has no mother, no family, and no friends. Henri Bernard no longer exists. He should make his peace with that.”
Captain Marchal nods. If it were him, he’d rather face the executioner. He pushes away the thought. He knows never to imagine himself in the position of his prisoners and those he is ordered to eliminate for it makes them real. This sort of thinking is a weakness–it is Raoul’s weakness–and Captain Marchal cannot afford any weaknesses. “The new name we use for Henri Bernard is…” he begins.
“We don’t want to know,” Louis interrupts him tersely. “We never want to hear about this man again. Let him have a comfortable life and die in oblivion. If We are fortunate to outlive him, let Us, one day hear that he has passed away peacefully of old age.” He fixes his eyes on his Captain again. This too is a royal decree and a sentence: “Of old age, mind you. He must not be harmed.” Marchal nods again. Louis clicks his tongue impatiently. “And your men, those who escorted him…”
“They are, as Your Majesty ordered, seasoned Musketeers. They do as they are ordered and do not ask questions nor do they see what they are not supposed to see.”
“We understand that the man has some distinguishing features, nevertheless,” Louis belabors the point.
“When he left the Bastille he was covered in a hooded cloak, and masked.”
“Good.” Louis sounds appeased, but it is momentary. “We understand that Henri Bernard has friends.”
“Indeed, Your Majesty. There is the Marquise de Normanville.”
Louis frowns. “Her husband is too indulgent. She should have been reined in when she shamelessly advocated for Our cousin’s cause. Perhaps it is time for the lady to leave Paris and mind the family estate in Normandy for an extended period of time. We will see to it. Anyone else?”
“The Marquise has close friends.”
“Were they not your friends too, Captain? Did you not swear an oath of loyalty along with them?”
“If they have become conspirators, then they have betrayed the oath I uphold, Your Majesty”
A wry grin crosses Louis’ lips. “We applaud your clarity, Captain.” He pauses for a moment and adds in a stern tone. “No, Captain. This will not do. Especially, when it comes to the Baron and Baroness de Rohan-Rochefort. We do not accept they are in any way complicit despite the friendship between the Baroness and the Marquise, unless there is incontrovertible evidence.”
Captain Marchal knows never to reveal his hand to Louis, but he finds himself up to his neck in this, most sordid, affair. It is his position as Captain and his head that he bargains and he will fight to preserve both. “The Baroness may have left Paris with the Marquis de Normanville,” he says.
Louis frowns. “May have left? To go where?”
Captain Marchal pauses for a moment before answering. In truth, it is all conjecture. After Raoul left him at the Bastille, Raoul joined the Baron and Baroness de Rohan-Rochefort for dinner at their house at the Marais, just as he said he would. Captain Marchal did not pursue the matter; he thought spying on the Spymaster of France on that instance, would be a waste of time and men. If Raoul had in mind to make some covert move he’d do it. Fabien understands his limits with Raoul. Besides, since Raoul returned to France, Raoul’s house at Saint-Germain and the house of the Baron and the Baroness de Rohan-Rochefort at the Marais have become fortresses, no matter how many laundresses Marchal bribes to steal scraps of correspondence and sniff into baskets of dirty linens. Marchal might have been lucky with the Marquise de Normanville once, but his luck ran out when her husband miraculously returned. Still, someone reported to someone else who then told Bernoul while drinking at the Couronne d’ Or that a Turk and his servant were seen leaving the house of the Baron and Baroness de Rohan-Rochefort the same evening of that dinner. Later, according to the reports that he reads from all the city gates, a Turk in fine clothes with a servant, left Paris from the Porte Saint-Antoine. Captain Marchal was not aware that other guests were invited to the dinner at M. de Rohan’s house, and a Turk certainly would have raised the attention of servants and curious onlookers. His instinct leads him to think that the sightings, if true, are suspicious. And the Porte Saint-Antoine is on the route to Royaumont. Thus, Fabien insists in his conjecture despite his principle never to impart idle news to Louis: “To Royaumont.”
“Explain yourself, Captain! Do you have any proof?”
“The Baroness’ sister, Suzanne…”
“The painter? With Our Mother, We received the lady at court. Her grandmother, the duchess d’ Aiguillon, thinks she is singularly talented. We agree. Our Mother agrees also.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.” He remembers that day well, mostly because a few days earlier he met Suzanne de la Croix and her mother, the duchesse de la Croix for the first time. He had seen the duchess’ portrait in Lucien’s salon and the likeness had taken his breath away but then he met the real woman, and he was captivated. Looking back, Captain Marchal is not ashamed of his feelings but he will not forgive the betrayal. He doesn’t ask himself if his resentment is the reason he is so eager to point fingers; he tells himself that he likes Layla Grimaud. “Suzanne de la Croix is now married to a Galician, Afonso d’Armas. He is captain of one of the ships owned by the duc du Plessis and his partner M. de Roberval.”
“We do not see how any of this is at all relevant, Captain,” Louis remarks coldly. “If you have a case to make against the Baroness de Rohan-Rochefort and her sister, make it fast. We do not care for rumors and innuendo when it comes to the family of the duchesse d’ Aiguillon and the duc du Plessis.”
Captain Marchal knows he is treading on thin ice and, besides, he likes Layla, but his instinct tells him he is not wrong. “My men…those following the duc d’ Herblay and the Comte de la Fére in Italy…” Louis clicks his tongue vexedly. “They came upon…”
Louis frowns: “gossip?”
“Word of mouth, Your Majesty. Captain d’Armas and his wife Suzanne, lived in Venice–it seems that some of the duc’s merchant ships are stationed in Venice…”
“Yes…yes…yes!” Louis waves his hand, impatiently.
“While in Venice, the young couple forged a close friendship with a Florentine expatriate recently arrived from Rome where he studied medicine at Sapienza and with his French mother…” Louis gasps. “So much so–my men were told–that Madame d’Armas painted a portrait of the mother, Madame Agnes Bernard, commissioned by her wealthy Florentine banker husband.” He makes his tone matter-of-fact. “Of course, it is all hearsay.”
“Go on.”
“Madame d’Armas and her husband are currently at Royaumont.”
“We still do not see the relevance!”
“They know Henri Bernard well, Your Majesty. They know both him and his mother, who has disappeared. It seems that aside from the Marquise de Normanville, his lover, and Your Majesty’s cousin, who has shown a preference for the doctor’s excellent skills, Captain d’Armas and his wife are the closest Henri Bernard has to friends in France.”
“It is the de la Croix ancestral estate you are talking about, Captain,” Louis admonishes. “This is the duc du Plessis’ household and he is the son of the duchess d’ Aiguillon and Cardinal Richelieu. We will not attack an ancient family on hearsay!”
Fabien straightens his shoulders. He must play this to the end, even if he treads on thin ice. Even if it is all conjecture. His instinct tells him that he is not wrong and his position as Captain of the Musketeers is at stake. He doesn’t care that much about his head, he decides. “Your Majesty, during the search for the duc d’ Herblay, we were directed to a house at the Rue des Fossoyeurs belonging to a draper called Bonacieux.” A glimmer of recognition shines in Louis’ eyes at the mention of the name but he says nothing. “A relative of Madame d’ Artagnan,” Fabien explains. “He has a decent mercantile and rents rooms. As it was the time of Your Majesty’s wedding still, one would have expected the house to be full of boarders but we found it empty. Conspicuously empty. The house is only a wall away from Saint-Sulpice where we arrested Henri Bernard.”
“We are losing Our patience, Captain.”
“I have no proof, Your Majesty, it is true. I have only rumors and hearsay: about Suzanne de la Croix and her husband Afonso d’Armas in Venice. About a Turk and his servant leaving M. de Rohan’s house when I know that no such guest ever entered it. I trust my instinct. Is it not curious that Henri Bernard, Rochefort’s adopted son, a man with seemingly no connections to France besides his birthplace at Nanterre and his French mother, finds himself surrounded by the same group of people? People connected to Rochefort in some way? The Comte de la Fère, who is not only Rochefort’s cousin and but also the father-in-law of the Marquise de Normanville; whose wife, a notorious spy and likely associate of Rochefort in the past, befriended Henri Bernard’s mother at Saint-Fargeau? Then, there is Madame d’ Artagnan, whose husband is the closest friend of Marquise de Normanville’s father and father-in-law. Finally, M. de Rohan, Rochefort’s son, who happens to be married to the duc du Plessis’ eldest daughter. The duc du Plessis’ second daughter, Suzanne, and her husband too. Is it not curious that Henri Bernard, Rochefort’s adopted son, is surrounded by the same people who call each other friends or even family?”
There is a look in Louis’ eyes which Captain Marchal cannot decipher. “The duc du Plessis was never a friend of Captain d’ Artagnan or any of the rest and he is Rochefort’s sworn enemy,” Louis counters.
“Indeed, Your Majesty. There is little affinity between His Grace, the duc du Plessis and M. le Comte d’ Artagnan, the duc d’ Herblay, General du Vallon, and, certainly, M. le Comte de la Fère. In fact, there were times that the four and the duc were declared enemies, although the sentiment appears to have been blunted with time. Yet, the draper, Bonacieux, is a relative of Madame d’ Artagnan, and, having known her, I am certain that she is the duc’s old friend despite her husband’s opinion of him. And the duc’s eldest daughter, the Baroness Rohan-Rochefort, is a very close friend of the Marquise de Normanville.”
“Where is Madame d’ Artagnan? We have read the reports about the soiree that she hosted.”
“Not at home, Your Majesty,” Marchal stresses every word. “Her husband too. General du Vallon and his family too. Of course, I have made inquiries about them.”
“Of course you have.”
“General du Vallon and his family have disappeared. They are not in Paris and not at any of the General’s estates. The Comte and Comtesse d’ Artagnan have also disappeared with their children after that soiree. I heard a rumor about a pilgrimage to Noisy-le-Roi.” A frustrated chuckle escapes Louis’ lips. “No one was to be found at the abbey after the escape of duc d’ Herblay. Of course, I am no longer investigating the duc’s escape.”
“Let’s leave the duc d’ Herblay aside for the moment. You are correct to be suspicious and see connections, however, Captain. There are connections all over and cleverly masked. They have all disappeared it seems. The Comte de la Fère too, has disappeared, that insolent man, who dared to defy Us in Our own court. He should have been sharing a cell with M. Gondi at Vincennes for being unrepentant in his political views, and for turning his back on France and speaking on behalf of Venice. The Marquis de Normanville seems unable to find his father, not just his mother.” Louis paces behind his desk for a few moments. He turns: “Nevertheless, the duc du Plessis, whose household you suggest is suspect by association, happens to be an invaluable ally. Not only is he on the royal council but he fights a war against Rochefort and the Company of the Orient on land and at sea.”
“Your Majesty…”
Louis fixes a meaningful look. “Yes, yes, Fabien. We understand your concerns. We know what you are about to say. The duc du Plessis, you will argue, fights a war but not for Us.” Louis’ tone has changed: Captain Marchal is now “Fabien.” Louis clasps his hands behind his back. “It is imperative, however, for what We must do next, not only that the duc continues his war against Rochefort and the Company of the Orient but that he agrees to fight on Our side, in Our name.” The Captain must look incredulous because Louis says: “No, it is not a futile pursuit. The duc needs the right inducement. And it cannot be prospects or wealth or power, for he has all three, aplenty.”
It is only now that Marchal begins to understand the artful game in which he is invited to partake: “The safety of his family perhaps, Your Majesty. The duc values his family above all.”
He notices the faintest satisfied smile at the corner of Louis’ lips although when Louis speaks his tone is grave. “The duc’s family is threatened by Rochefort, as the duc’s war intensifies. His mother is threatened too—Rochefort is ruthless and the duchesse d’Aiguillon makes a worthy target to such an enemy. But We will not patronize and offend the duc, offering protection against Rochefort which he himself can provide to his own family. No, Fabien. We can, however….intervene to exclude the duc from this… whatever this conspiracy is that you suspect around Henri Bernard.”
“Exclude the duc?”
“Yes of course! That seems to Us to be the appropriate course of action, Captain. Discreetly. Discretion is of the utmost importance for a man as protective of his family and as temperamental as the duc du Plessis, and for a family as ancient and noble.”
“Forgive me, Your Majesty, but I must serve Your Majesty’s purpose and the matter is as sensitive as the duc is temperamental and invaluable, and his family ancient and noble. I must, therefore, be clear about what the discretion entails, which Your Majesty demands.”
“Very well said, Captain. The duc must be pushed to see the urgency and the advantage in earning Our protection for him and his family, despite such missteps as his daughter’s and son-law’s friendship with Rochefort’s adopted son. That painting of Madame Bernard, of course, if it exists, and if you are able to retrieve it before it falls in hands as ruthless as Rochefort’s or…M Loret’s, would be very compromising to the duc. We can overlook such compromising evidence.”
Captain Marchal bows. “I understand, Your Majesty.”
“Discretion above all, Captain! We will not allow any of the ladies, let alone any children to be harmed. We understand that Royaumont is a large household, and that the duchesse d’ Aiguillon and her grandchildren and great grandchildren live under the same roof.”
Marchal bows again. “Forgive me again, Your Majesty, but what if…” he pretends to be hesitating. “…if in this large household, we come across others…”
“Others?”
“Indeed, Your Majesty.”
“Considering the animosity which you have so aptly described, such an encounter should be highly unlikely.”
“But not impossible.” Marchal insists. The thought of the Turk leaving Rohan’s house and then leaving Paris from the Porte Saint-Antoine bothers him, even if it is hearsay.
Louis draws in a deep exasperated sigh. “Those others must be dealt with as befits their offenses, Captain.”
“Even the duc d’ Herblay?”
A vexed chuckle escapes Louis’ lips. “You are very meticulous, Captain.”
“I want to make sure that I meet Your Majesty’s demands to the best of my ability.”
“Do you expect to find the duc d’ Herblay at Royaumont, then?”
“I expect to find no one,” Marchal says gravely.
“Of course, Captain. The conversation is hypothetical.” The Captain makes a small bow indicating he agrees. “Our Mother considers the duc d’ Herblay an old friend and We will honor Our Mother’s wishes. His arrest and his imprisonment at the Conciergerie were a mere misunderstanding, now entirely restored, just as the duc is restored.” Louis feigns a smile. “At the same time, the duc d’ Herblay can be obstinate, all swashbuckling and cavalier. It is a bravado, which We understand was particular to Captain Treville’s men– he chose men of the same timber as himself.” Louis fixes a probing, cunning gaze. “Thankfully, times have changed, albeit the duc d’ Herblay and his friends fail to comprehend how much. This is the misunderstanding, which leads to all kinds of excesses that will not be tolerated.”
“But Her Majesty, the Queen Mother…”
“Our Mother places duty above all, Captain. Should anything befall the duc as a result of such excesses which come natural to his character, Our Mother will pray for his sins and We will make sure masses are sung for the delivery of his soul all over France. But the point is moot. The duc d’ Herblay is not expected to be Royaumont.”
“Of course not, Your Majesty.” Captain Marchal bows deeply and motions to leave the King’s study.
“One final thing,” Louis stops him. “M. Mancini.”
It is not the name Marchal wants to hear, although he knows it is inevitable. “Your Majesty?”
“He must be promoted to Captain,” Louis says, his tone matter-of-fact. “It is politics, Fabien.”
He is “Fabien” again. Marchal bows. “As it pleases Your Majesty.”
“It pleases Us not at all. The man is incompetent, but it behooves Us to flatter his uncle.” He chuckles. “It vexes Our brother too, which is an added incentive.” Now, Fabien is perplexed. “You will only have to relinquish your office at the Garrison. Your real office–We understand–is subterranean, and far more appropriate. Just your office, that is all.” Louis repeats. That is everything, Fabien thinks but remains silent. He thought being implicated in a secret as dangerous as Henri Bernard, would have been enough to secure his position for the moment. He was wrong. “Let Mancini do the morning call–if he can be on his feet that early in the morning,” Louis is saying. “Let him be called Captain of the Musketeers in the salons and masques where he thrives.”
Fabien frowns, despite himself. “Your Majesty, can this be the purpose of the Captain of the King’s Musketeers?”
“You are correct. And you are, in fact, the Captain of my Musketeers, Fabien, although that peacock assumes the title. Mancini is but a figurehead imposed by political expediency. Everyone can see it, except Mancini.” He picks a sealed envelope from his desk. “I have the orders signed for Mancini, for you, and for M. Rochois, whom We cannot treat unfairly either. Mancini will be called Captain of the Musketeers, but I name you Commander of the King’s Guard, which, if you think about it–and M. Mancini will not think about it–is a higher rank, and M. Rochois will be the Lieutenant Commander of the King’s Guard.”
“What about His Eminence, the Cardinal?”
Louis smiles. “The Cardinal knows about it. It was his idea.”
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They raided the house at the Rue Couture St. Catherine and found nothing. Raoul and his men went along. Raoul is a skillful dissembler, better than his grandfather, Rochefort thinks. Raoul is young, younger than Armand du Plessis when he first realized his true potential, prodigiously talented, and trained better than his grandfather in the art of dissembling. Rochefort made sure Raoul received the best education there is, since he was a boy. Rochefort crosses his legs casually and sits back. By now, he expects Raoul must know the truth.
From the window he can see the inner courtyard of Les Gobelins, everything covered with a dusting of snow–it was a bitterly cold night— and the light is steel-gray although it is almost midday. Next to him, on a small table he has a small pile of letters and pamphlets, that he has been reading all morning. His son was at some gathering at Chevreuse’s with Raoul’s wife, raising eyebrows and idle speculation. It is some kind of ploy, of course: Juan Felipe is too honorable to contemplate adultery and inexcusably attached to his uncouth wife–Richelieu’s granddaughter. Raoul’s wife, on the other hand… She is a clever, smooth one, and this must be her ploy. Rochefort clicks his tongue testily. He has underestimated the foot- soldier’s orphan, whom Porthos adopted. Poor Henri, Rochefort thinks, always falling for the wrong woman. She is the perfect wife for Raoul, however, in a loveless marriage, which is exactly how marriage should be in Rochefort’s view: a mutually beneficial agreement between two people of matching intellect, who can see eye-to-eye. Love confuses and complicates matters and not for the best. His naive, noble son should have known better. ‘A model of chivalry and elegance’, La Gazette calls Juan Felipe and all Rochefort can think is that he still cannot retrieve the Lerma inheritance, which the disfigured witch, Francisca, left for Juan Felipe. That inheritance is rightfully his, after all that what he had to endure with his marriage, and in the service of Richelieu, who betrayed him in the end. ‘A model of chivalry and elegance’ Rochefort sneers: what a waste of both.
In the courtyard, the workers are loading and unloading wagon after wagon, their repetitive motions strangely mesmerizing. This line of wagons is bound for Lorient. It is a smaller port but it is affluent and safe for their ships, and affords a clever distraction against Grimaud’s attacks along the most commonly traveled inland routes. It was Raoul’s idea. The textiles and the rest of the fine cargo loaded in the courtyard are bound for the colonies at Massachusetts Bay. John Hull and Robert Sanderson have started minting their own silver coin in Boston–they are too prosperous, and England too drained by Cromwell’s war to offer them any support. He had a hand in it, Rochefort did, pushing for the mint in Boston. He has good connections in England and they are not particularly affected by the demise of the King–merchants and bankers rarely are. And the wealthiest royalists, among whom Rochefort’s bank claims many clients and the Company has many investors, have fled to France, to Spain, and to the Netherlands including the executed King’s own family, and Buckingham’s son, and all are deeply indebted to his bank. Rochefort has little stomach for Protestants in general, and the Protestants of New England in particular, men like the late John Cotton and his preachings, but this is about money and profit. Raoul has already shifted company interests to the markets of New England and has even invested a good sum of Company money in the new college at Newton they call Harvard. Academia dei Lincei may be no longer, Raoul argued, but their legacy is our legacy and we want to see it continued, not in France, not in Europe, but in a new world that is full of undiscovered promise. Never before had anyone expressed Rochefort’s vision so succinctly. He was not surprised that the man who voiced his vision was Raoul.
“Ah, there you are. I was expecting you earlier.” He points to the chair across his.
Raoul removes his hat and sits. “I went to Royaumont.”
“Yes, I know. Has the truth affected you?”
Raoul shakes his head. “I am not the one affected by it.”
“Of course, you are. Until now, you were my nephew and the grandson of the Marquis de Mouy, my father’s unfortunate and hapless older brother. Now you are the grandson of Armand du Plessis and Marie d’ Aiguillon. It is not the same thing.”
“My father…”
“Your father is not my concern. Your uncle is not my concern. Only you.”
“And yet, you made the revelation to my father and to Lucien, not to me.” He says it in a matter-of-fact tone, and Rochefort is struck by his equanimity; a rare quality for one so young.
“Someone had to. Your grandmother would not. She is a formidable woman, in some respects; I will give her that. But still, she is a woman.” He makes his tone gentle. “I thought about telling you, but such a seemingly far-fetched story is believable only when it comes from those who witnessed it.”
“You witnessed it then.”
“You are as perceptive as you are brilliant.” He leans closer. “Don’t expect me to reveal more. There is nothing more to reveal.”
“And you did this for me, you say.”
“Yes. You have been injured enough and by so many lies. They all lied to you, all your so-called friends and family. I have never lied to you, not even when we faced each other as enemies. I only care that you are no longer injured and affected.”
“My sister weeps.”
“Poor, innocent child.”
“Where is my mother? Her loss injures my sister. It affects me.”
Rochefort shakes his head. “I don’t know. This is the only truth. I don’t have your mother.” He makes a small shrug. “You are very good at anticipating my moves. I am sure you can see that to attack your mother would be a bad move all over. There is no advantage for me, besides some ephemeral, trivial sense of misplaced vindication, which is not what I care about. And then, I risk losing you, and you are a most precious investment.”
“I appreciate the honesty.”
“It is our agreement, is it not? I expect the same.” Rochefort fixes his eyes on the young man across from him.
Raoul nods. “Henri played the only hand he had left. They cannot touch him but they will make him disappear.”
Rochefort sighs. “I would rather not see that boy destroyed.”
“He has been moved to Vincennes. They call him Eustace Dauger now. But they will move him again, and we must intercept him before that happens. The Belladona has been sighted.”
“Do you need men?”
“They are after you. They expect you to intervene. It is why they arrested Henri in the first place. It is best if I do this. I have men at Vincennes already.”
Rochefort shakes his head and stands from his chair. “Time for a lesson.” He points to a chessboard on another table closer to the fireplace. “This is no longer our game as you can see. I play this with your Louis, and he is good, although not as good as you. He lacks integrity–like all bastards. Makes for an interesting game, nevertheless.”
“He is threatening your Bishop,” Raoul observes.
“So what do I do? Logic and experience dictate that I must choose from a number of bad alternatives, sacrificing my Knight, for instance, or opening a pathway that will eventually threaten my Rook. But what if, instead, I do this.” He moves his other Rook, a movement that is irrelevant to the setup, only now that Rook threatens his opponent’s Queen. Raoul gasps. “Exactly!” Rochefort chuckles. “Now he is forced to protect his Queen. And I can save my Bishop and have his King in two moves.”
Raoul raises an impressed brow. “Alright. Let us play it your way.”
“Use Company men if you must but not Radu’s men. Make it look like a highway robbery-something of that sort.” He slants a mischievous glance.
Raoul returns the gaze. “You have something else in mind, don’t you?”
Rochefort sets a friendly hand on Raoul’s shoulder. “You are extremely perceptive. Louis is not to be underestimated. He is attempting a deal with the Great Turk.”
“He will get it,” Raoul says. “But his deal will fail. He has something else in mind too, and so does the Sublime Porte.”
Rochefort wags a cautionary finger. “Ah! And so do you, it seems!” Raoul makes a small shrug and Rochefort begins to laugh. “I chose the right man!” He wraps his arm around Raoul’s shoulder and leads him back to their chairs and the small table with the pile of letters and pamphlets. He picks one of the unsealed letters from the pile. “Read this,” he says as he throws himself back in his chair.
“Mazarin!”
Rochefort smiles cunningly. “Read!”
“Your Grace, as a man of God in a position of influence, I cannot ignore the danger in which you now find yourself…”
“He is being charitable,” Rochefort scoffs while Raoul raises an amused brow. “Read on!”
“nor can I disavow my debt to you, no matter how trivial.” Raoul gasps, vexedly. “Signor Querini tells me that Mazarin has taken loans to the order of a million livres from the bank.”
“Read on!” Rochefort urges.
“Such precarious circumstances risk the reputation of your excellent financial institution which serves many in France, Europe, and beyond. To avert any financial disruptions which may threaten the wellbeing of so many, I propose a fair exchange, whereby I offer the assurances necessary to appease investors and clients, against the elimination of my outstanding, albeit trivial debt. In addition, I request a loan of seven hundred thousand livres for renovations at my newly purchased property in Paris, which is to be styled and furnished as befits my position.” Raoul shakes his head. “This is brazen!”
“Read on!”
“As you may already know, my dear nephew, M. Mancini is to be elevated to the position of Captain of His Majesty’s Musketeers, a position for which he will be in need of much guidance and support from men of power, wealth, and influence. Of course, he will benefit greatly from the military experience of M. Marchal, who is to be appointed Commander of His Majesty’s Guard, a new position that I had the honor to propose with great success both at the Parlement and with His Majesty.” Raoul raises his eyes from the letter. “He is asking the bank—you—to finance the Captain of the King’s Musketeers, whose style of living–as everyone knows–exceeds any salary any Captain was ever paid before him. In exchange, he is offering you his nephew’s services, which are no services at all. The Commander of the King’s Guard, in other words, Fabien Marchal, will be in charge.”
“Mazarin shares information no one yet knows. He tells me that he is amenable to imparting such information, both he and his nephew, in exchange for money.”
Raoul throws the letter onto the pile with disgust. “You trust that he will?”
“Not at all. But he must be kept on a tight leash, he and his good-for-nothing nephew. What is your opinion of Commander Marchal? He is Chevreuse’s lover. An ambitious man. Is he amenable?”
“He has his own kind of integrity. His own kind of loyalty. Is he amenable? Fabien is drawn to power like moths are drawn to a flame. Louis is power, so Fabien stands with Louis. Would he allow himself to get burned? I think the answer is yes. It is as simple as that for him.”
Rochefort clicks his tongue dismissively. “Blind, inflexible, and doltish. I thought as much. His name came up a few times in the past, but I was never convinced. He carries that unpleasant whiff of the Court of Miracles. Keep an eye on him.”
Raoul nods, picks his hat and stands. “I must speak to Signor Querini about recruiting men for the highway robbery at Vincennes. He tilts his head toward the window. “We have two more shipments to Lorient after this one and our ships will be loaded and ready to sail in the beginning of spring. Boston promises to pay very well and the Ogre wants to negotiate a higher rate. We offered to consider negotiations–no promises, not until Boston pays. At least.”
“Good. Let me know about Henri when it is all over. And about that soiree of yours at Zola’s.” Raoul nods. “We will meet elsewhere next. I have stayed in Paris too long.” He extends a small, encouraging smile. “Do not fret about your sister. She is under my protection now.”
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Not too long after Raoul has left, Radu is summoned to Rochefort’s rooms at Les Gobelins. “Who is with you today?”
“Stefan and Simion, Your Grace.”
“And the rest?”
“Stationed at our barracks outside Paris, except for Matei and Serban who are at Royaumont, just as you ordered, with twenty men.”
“Good. Have Stefan and Simion stay here. I have a secret mission for you and you must leave immediately.”
The mercenary makes a small bow.
“I know that you know where Harry is.”
“Your Grace!”
“Don’t lie to me. Harry may be the one paying you and your men, but the money comes from me.” The mercenary bows again, this time looking uncomfortable. “Good. I see we understand each other perfectly. And so that there is no confusion, I… presume… that Harry is somewhere not too far from La Rochelle. Ah… I see I am right!”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“Well, then. You will ride to… wherever Harry is, where I am sure that he is not alone. I am also certain that he keeps a prisoner there. A woman. You may have seen her before: beautiful. Green-eyed.”
The mercenary nods. “The Venetian.”
“The Venetian, indeed. It is possible that much harm has befallen her already. Your orders are to remove her from Harry’s hands. I don’t care how you do it. I don’t care what happens to Harry and to whomever is with Harry. I want her out of there, and alive. Am I understood?” The mercenary nods. “Good. You will take her to Rochefort. It is my family estate, and not too far from La Rochelle either. I have already sent orders for the house to be ready. You will be expected.”
“And after I get her to Rochefort?”
“After that, you return to your barracks and send a message to Querini at the house at Saint-Antoine. He will know where you can find me and I expect a detailed report of the events. You will speak to no one else about this except me.”
Twelve Years After 