Chapter Twenty Five-Thermal Pools at La Roche-Posay, by Corso

The salon has a pleasant hum of conversation, a warm crackling fire and the soft clink of glasses on silver trays carried by efficient liveried footman.  From one corner of the salon comes the clipped twang of the harpsichord.  Rayya sits next to Bianca watching her small fingers and whispering encouragement.   At one table Charlotte, Samy, Olivier and Alexander play an exuberant, intense and often raucous game of cards. Near to them are Cousin Francois, Father Massey, Brother Ignazio and Brother Aloysius, scholarly men robed in their orders, experienced in scripture and in the formation of young minds.  They talk quietly among themselves, with practiced eyes on their young charges, ready to apply a restraining hand to temper the overly exultant winners from the excesses of vanity.  Only Suzanne and Afonso are missing, preferring to spend the evening in their rooms with their newborn daughter.

Aramis absently watches the house steward whose name he has momentarily forgotten, supervising his staff with a practiced eye.  He receives an invisible signal from the Duchess d’ Aiguillon and quietly pats his gloved hands together.  The footmen place the trays on tables, check that the flasks are full and quietly leave the room followed by the steward.  The door clicks shut.

‘You seem distracted,’ Athos comments in a low voice.  Aramis blinks at Athos.  They are sitting in an arrangement of four elegant silk covered chairs not far from the harpsichord where Rayya and Bianca are now playing short simple duets.  Porthos shifts uncomfortably, ‘it must be these chairs,’ he comments sourly, ‘have you ever sat in a more spindly slippery too small for a man chair?  They are found in every salon.  One wonders if duchesses have a secret supplier.’

D’ Artagnan smiles patiently, ‘The palace was full of them. I do not think the problem is the chair.’  Aramis sighs, ‘no.’

‘Are you worried about where we are going tomorrow?’ Athos asks.

‘Not exactly worried.  I had never expected to return, that is all.’  Aramis twirls the wine in his glass in an idle movement, ‘it does seem odd, after all the years that have passed and where we find ourselves now, to be called to go there.’ 

‘You leave out the irony that we may find Alessandra there,’ Athos has a bitter tone, ‘she set those events in motion when she hired Gallager.’  d’ Artagnan studies the wine in his glass.  He agrees with Athos, but is more concerned at a motive they cannot see, ‘Why was a message directed to Lucien on where she can be found?  Why would she be taken there?’

Maybe someone knows of his involvement… Athos does not voice this thought, although he has also wondered why the message was given to Lucien.  Was the messenger telling Lucien he knew of his participation in the plot to kill the Queen?  

Aramis purses his mouth, ‘You also forget the others that were involved in the plot.  What happened between me and the Queen was not Alessandra’s fault. What has occurred is also not her fault.  For all of that, I can only look to myself.’

‘Very noble,’ Athos quips.

Aramis is not amused, ‘I do not think of myself as particularly noble.’  In fact, Aramis is consumed with a private contemplation of the events that began at the edge of the thermal pools near the village of La Roche Posay and ended in an ancient crumbling Carmelite monastery at Bourbon-les-eaux. He looks around the warm comfortable salon, the women and children gathered there – all casualties of his decisions, his reckless selfish actions over a few fateful days. He wonders if the Queen, in her isolation at Val de Grace, is thinking about the same days, the same night. 

‘We have a long ride to La Roche Posay,’ Athos tries to lighten Aramis’ mood, ‘you can meditate on it at will.’  Athos leans forward to tap his arm, ‘do not blame yourself.’ 

‘Is there another to blame?’ Aramis asks, his tone sarcastic.

‘Love is a merciless master,’ Athos says in a low voice. ‘I remember you once said that to me.’

‘Someone might remind him of that,’ Aramis tilts his chin to indicate Lucien, standing close to his mother’s chair, his eyes fixed in the direction of the harpsichord.  Lieutenant Olivain Maillard stands beside the harpsichord watching Rayya with undisguised admiration and devotion.

‘Not much of a poker face on that young man,’ Porthos observes. ‘What do you think Athos, shall we rescue his cause and remind the Duc d’ Plessis of his many virtues?’

‘Lucien knows his virtues well,’ d’ Artagnan intervenes, ‘Lucien spoke highly of him after the battle at the Tower of Mendoza.  Olivain was among the injured men Lucien took on the Aigle for trip home.  I believe he stayed at Royaumont for some period of recovery.’

‘Lucien has a daughter he considers too young for love,’ Aramis comments, ‘ironic isn’t it, considering that Sophia was not much older.’

For a moment they are silent, watching the small drama play out.  Lieutenant Olivain Maillard takes a drink from the wine glass he holds, his gaze adoring.  Sensing the eyes of another on him, he looks around quickly, his search stopping abruptly at the formidable Duc d’ Plessis standing in front of the fireplace, a large mastiff dog sitting at his feet, also looking at him. Both dog and Duc have stern, impenetrable expressions. Olivain makes a small smile, and half raises his glass in an uncertain salute.  The Duc d’ Plessis returns a brief nod.  Olivain makes an uncertain smile and slowly turns away, looking back tentatively as though expecting something more to happen.  But Rayya is smiling at him and in that moment nothing else truly matters.  

Not realizing she has an audience, Sophia has seen her husband’s fixed look and has come to stand behind him, ‘you are frightening the young man.’ 

Lucien grunts, ‘he should be frightened. She is barely fifteen.’ 

‘Lucien, you know perfectly well her birthday is within days and she will be sixteen.’

‘My point exactly,’ he mutters. Sophia sighs, ‘he is good man, there is no need to be so forbidding a father,’ she advises tartly and moves away.  Lucien glowers with displeasure.

The four men chuckle.  ‘It looks as though the duchess has Olivain’s cause in mind,’ Athos almost laughs.  Lucien’s demeanor is forbidding and inscrutable, except when it comes to his wife and his children.  Athos stands up, ‘we can hardly do Olivain any harm and we want to meet later.  Let’s remind Lucien of that as well.’

Porthos tries to appear nonchalant as he comes closer to the fireplace, appearing to warm his hands.  He nods in the direction of the harpsichord.  ‘Lt Maillard is one of my best officers.’ 

Lucien looks barely tolerant.  ‘Yes, I believe you have made that point already.  Even several times tonight as I recall.‘  Porthos beams, ‘good that I had your attention to his qualities.’

‘Porthos,’ Lucien is exasperated, ‘you do remember Olivain was with me at…’

‘Yes, we know you have many experiences with the lieutenant,’ Athos smoothly inserts.  ‘I would remind you that I have a closer knowledge as I have watched this extraordinary young man grow up, sponsored his education and his father …’

‘Athos,’ Lucien tempers his glare, ‘I met his father and brother at Bragelonne.  I liked them quite well and have several barrels of your wine in my stores.  The young man reads Virgil and sends books on mathematics to my daughter. It does not change…’

‘All that as well,’ Porthos cries, ‘a thoughtful and sensible young man.  All to the good.’  He   smiles broadly, ignoring Lucien’s obvious irritation and claps him soundly on the shoulder.  

‘When the ladies retire, we will meet tonight and … review your route one more time.’  Porthos leans down to scratch the mastiff’s ears, ‘beautiful dog.’  Cyrus preens at the attention, ears drooping in disappointment as Porthos and Athos stroll away, the admiration is so soon concluded.   Porthos sits next to Elodie, Athos goes in the direction of his daughter. 

The Duchesse d’ Aiguillon smiles as she watches Athos and Bianca. She knows there is something between her two sons that is causing a new tension, something related to their trip tomorrow to Bourbon-les-eaux. But just now, she alone heard the brotherly undertones in Athos’ voice as he spoke to Lucien in support of Olivain’s suit for Rayya.  Athos places his hands on Bianca’s small shoulders, leans forward encouraging his daughter.  The child is less anxious, settling into a routine, along with the other children, in the school room. Their tutors are wise men who mix their instruction with vigorous outdoor studies. More sand is being laid in the large paddock and Bianca will resume her riding lessons. 

‘Are you warm enough?’  Lucien is not waiting for a reply, placing a soft blanket over her lap.   ‘Thank you dear,’ she says quietly.  Close to her, on silk covered settees, Sophia, Elodie and Constance sit together, Rosie and Renee among them, embroidery hoops in their laps as they work on their needlework. Marie listens absently to the conversation between the three women as she watches Rosie’s fingers dexterously work her needle through the delicate linen fabric.  The child no longer needs a pattern, seeing in her mind where her needle should go. ‘It is lovely Rosie,’ she says quietly.  ‘Who is it for?’  Rosie smiles, but does not look up, ‘you mentioned Father Massey’s birthday is soon.’ 

‘A very nice gift,’ Marie looks to where Renee sits next to her mother.  ‘May I see dear?’ she asks.  Renee turns the small frame. ‘Beautiful,’ Marie compliments her, ‘your even stitches are a marvel.’   The two girls exchange happy smiles, pleased to share Marie’s praise. 

‘It is time for me to retire,’ Marie murmurs to Sophia.  ‘Do not get up,’ she says to the others, ‘please stay and enjoy your evening together.’  Lucien appears at her side, ‘I will light the way up,’ he says, picking up the table candelabra and offering his arm to her.  ‘Good night, everyone,’ Marie says, looking at Athos across the room.  He bows to her.  Lucien nods to Athos, signaling that he will return.  Athos takes Bianca’s hand to walk her to her bedchamber where her maid awaits.  Rayya and Olivain slip through the door onto the balcony.  The women exchange raised eyebrows at their departure.

Sophia winks at Constance and Elodie, ‘I shall stay behind to …’ she looks around, ‘to make sure the servants get all the glasses.’  Constance announces a little too loudly to Elodie, ‘we should go up too, as the men wish to talk together before tomorrow morning.’  The women smile together, conspirators in allowing young love a few moments of privacy. The room is almost empty when the balcony doors open again and Rayya walks in, cheeks red from the cold, her hazel eyes glowing from the warmth of a secret kiss.  Olivain has wisely decided to go directly to his barracks.

 The children walk and run before them up the stairs, calling good night to each other as they separate for their bedchambers.  The corridors are busy and noisy with footmen delivering hot water, maids carrying away laundry for the next day, and mothers going between rooms to supervise the bedtime routine.   Eventually, voices recede, doors close one final time, the corridors are empty, night lanterns lit, and the house is quiet.

In their private apartments, Sophia picks up the discussion of Rayya and Olivain.  ‘He knows her age and he cannot hope…’  Lucien slants a knowing look at her and Sophia gasps. ‘Has he already spoken to you?’

‘Not yet, but he will,’ Lucien asserts with confidence.  ‘I will not agree to a day or a minute before she turns eighteen.’

‘I was barely seventeen,’ Sophia reminds him. ‘That was different,’ he declares. 

‘How was it different?’

‘It was you,’ he replies as though that fact were obvious enough, ‘and it was me.’

Sophia stares at him incredulous, ‘whatever…’  But Lucien interrupts her, exasperated, ‘well who was I to ask?  Treville?  He would have thrown me into the Bastille or worse, into the river with weights on my ankles.’

‘Olivain Maillard is a good man,’ Sophia repeats herself in a firm tone.   

‘I agree wholeheartedly Sophia, which is why he will wait for her.  But I wager he wants a betrothal.  He will not take any risk of losing her to another.’

‘I am confident that there is no risk of that on Rayya’s part. I know my daughter.’

‘But a man never knows for certain.  Why do you think I whisked you away to marriage?’

‘I thought I had done the asking,’ she teases him now.  ‘You did,’ he kisses her nose, ‘and I did the whisking.  We were a perfect match.’  He puts his arms around her, ‘we still are.’  He kisses her soundly.  Reluctantly he sets her back from him.

‘I must go and speak with the others.  We leave early in the morning.’   She pats his chest, straightening his doublet, smoothing the fabric over his shoulders. ‘Sixteen is a reasonable age for a betrothal.  A wedding to be negotiated.’ 

‘Negotiated with who?’ Lucien asks testily.  She leans up to kiss his cheek.

‘Do not be too long.’

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Gray skies hover low in the early dawn.  Lanterns are needed in the stables where Lucien, Athos and Aramis saddle their horses and tie travel bags to the back of their saddles.  All three men are heavily armed, a musket stowed in a saddle holster with additional shot and powder.  Sophia tucks packets of food into each travel bag and comes to stand next to him.

‘A fortnight?’ she asks.  Lucien finishes tightening Jaaden’s girth, ‘ I hope less, but in truth, I do not know.’

‘Bring her back so I can care for her as she deserves.’  There is a fierce undertone to Sophia’s voice.  Whatever anyone else thinks of Alessandra, she has always been Sophia’s sister in her heart and now, she is her sister by marriage. 

‘If she is there, you can be sure we will bring her back,’ he murmurs drawing her against him, kissing her cheek.  In the yard, Porthos and d’ Artagnan wait as the three men mount and ride toward the gate, Sophia following to watch them turn onto the road, their figures soon swallowed up in the dim gray light and disappear from her sight.   

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They ride east.  Stars disappear as the dawn’s first light fades the night sky into pale blue.  Birdsong signals a new day.   They ride toward a rising sun, a flattened golden orb stretched thin against a thin line separating earth from sky.  A yellow golden glow illuminates bare limbed trees, spreading over ridge crests, and throwing long shadows along the flanks of hills to valleys, riverbanks and roads.  Silver frosted fields glitter, the air is brisk, fresh scents of pine and fir are interwoven with a subtle fragrance of wild lavender.  For a while they parallel the river, which turns north as they continue eastward. They take a road well used, deep ruts rear up, stiff with cold. They must ride to the side in a single file and Athos takes the lead.  Behind him, he hears the clip clop of Aramis’ horse.  Lucien is farther back.  It suits him, to ride alone with his thoughts and the steady burn of his anger.  

He knew Alessandra’s role in the attack on the Queen.  It is one of the many memories from those years that affected their lives.  But Lucien – he cannot look away.  How was his brother involved in the plot to kill the Queen. Athos does not want this knowledge, their bond is too fragile to bear the burden of it, but how can he ignore it?   Lucien has portrayed himself as a smuggler, an opportunist.  But what does he really know about Lucien’s life. He was once in Benito de Soto’s crew, a brutal group of men, raiding coastal villages and attacking merchant ships. Would Lucien stoop so low as to kill a queen, a defenseless woman?  How much money had it taken for Lucien to find this heinous act palatable.  He had tried to see more in Lucien, he had been certain Lucien was not the man he had hunted, and he felt Lucien making the same effort.  Perhaps they were both fools, as sooner or later, it was inevitable that their resolve would be tested. Athos is furious that they are already at this impasse, it will be too wide a breach to cross.

 They reach the village of Chouppes, securing rooms for the night.  Over a dinner of a poorly seasoned stew and bread they exchange small talk about the road, the weather, the other patrons.  Athos finishes and leaves immediately for his room, Aramis bids Lucien good night and follows. Lucien grabs the flask.  Jaaden nickers to him as he enters the stable.  He inspects the water bucket, the straw and oats in the bin.  The stable boys hover nearby worried they have overlooked something. ‘I missed your sparkling conversation,’ Lucien murmurs to the horse, who rubs his head against Lucien’s shoulder.  He drains the flask, tosses a few coins to the stable boys and returns to his room for the night.

In the morning, they resume their silent journey through the verdant valley passing through small villages.  At Poligny, the road begins to climb through limestone formations to a plateau.  They pass through more small villages – Seuilly, Fouchard, and Champsin drawing closer to the  village of La Roche Posay, known for its thermal waters that rise through chalky mineral rich bedrock in a slow percolation.  The warm mineral rich waters fill naturally formed pools used for centuries as curative for many afflictions, including infertility. 

‘I want to see the pool again,’ Aramis says turning onto the path that leads to the thermal pools.  Athos blows out an impatient breath but follows Aramis.  Lucien makes no comment.  The path follows the edge of rocky cliffs surrounding a pool of cerulean water, its surface smooth, unruffled by wind. The three men dismount, Aramis walks down the path to a small beach.  Lucien wanders toward the rocky outcroppings, unaware of Athos watching him with a hard expression. He turns away and goes down the path to the beach. 

Aramis stands on the beach remembering a ceremony and the Queen walking into the pool, swimming.  There was a small tent for her privacy … D’Artagnan sparring against Athos and Porthos …’ mind the uniform,’  d’Artagnan warned them … he had thought it a place of peace and tranquility but after a few days he grew bored and restless … Athos reprimanded him to leave the birds alone … shots fired, screams … a bloodied white robe…

‘Seen enough?’ Athos intrudes into his thoughts.  ‘Yes,’ Aramis says, surveying the rocky walls enclosing the pool, there was a particular jumble of rocks … the shooter was there … then more shots erupting from all sides …

Lucien is waiting by the horses. They return to the village.  Marie suggested they stay the night at a family friend’s chateau near La Roche Posay.  But without discussion, they ride into the yard of an inn, preferring to avoid the need to don the veneer of sociability.  Athos declines dinner and goes directly to his room.  Aramis joins Lucien for a quick meal and then departs.

Late at night, Lucien is in the stable, applying a stiff brush to Jaaden’s coat.  The stallion’s sleepy eyes are half closed, one back hoof cocked, but at the sounds of footfalls, Jaaden raises his head, nickering softly as Athos appears and drapes his arms over the top of the stall.  He watches Lucien brush long even strokes over the stallion.  Jaaden extends his head to Athos, who rubs his nose affectionately.  Eventually, Lucien breaks the silence.

‘Trouble sleeping?’  His back is to Athos as he continues to sweep the brush over the horse.  He has exchanged very few words with his brother over the past two days.

‘Did you hire Gallagher for her?’ 

Lucien curls his lip and sets the brush down, shakes out Jaaden’s blanket and settles it over his back.  He turns around to face Athos

‘No.’

‘You knew of the plot,’ Athos states bitterly.

‘Did I?’ Lucien answers caustically, ‘I thought the Swede was found guilty.’   

‘You know better than that,’ Athos charges angrily, ‘Mellendorf was in the wrong place at the wrong time.’

‘For whose purpose?  Did he not have aspirations for his own daughter?  Are you so sure there were not others in the court who supported him?’  Lucien implicates the King and Athos glowers at him, ‘how could you know that?’

‘You would be surprised at how much I know,’ Lucien scoffs, angry at the need to defend himself.  He growls and turns away.  He is startled at the force of Athos’ anger.  He had thought his taciturn brother resented returning to a time in his life with Alessandra he would rather forget.  But now he sees that Athos is furious with him, assumes he was part of the assassination attempt.  Lucien holds his temper in check.  Athos does not know all the facts, but whether Athos will listen or believe him is for Athos to decide.

‘Mellendorf was a bombastic braggard,’ Lucien says. ‘He made too much mischief dangling and encouraging his flirtatious daughter before the King. He taunted Richelieu and he should have known better.’

‘To be clear,’ Athos is determined to get his question answered.  ‘Alessandra did not come to you with Richelieu’s plot to kill the Queen?’

‘To – be – clear,’ Lucien parodies Athos’ words. Athos grimaces at his mockery but holds his temper.

‘She did come to me, but not until later.  She needed my help.’ 

‘To do what?’

‘To stop Gallagher from killing the Queen.’

Athos stares at Lucien. ‘What are you talking about?’ 

‘Nothing,’ Lucien hurls the cloth he holds to the floor.  ‘You have already made up your mind as you always do.  You see what suits you…what justifies…’

‘Stop!’ Athos roars, ‘you and I will not go down this road.’  Lucien is rigid, breathing heavily.  He struggles to hold himself in check, once again their fragile bond is menaced by their history.  He does not want this with Athos … but he is who he is and that will never be acceptable to his brother…through his fog he hears Athos’ voice …

‘Tomorrow, we will ride to Bourbon-les-eaux,’ Athos has come into the stall and is next to him, his tone is calm.  ‘We will talk about this tomorrow.’  Athos strokes a hand over Jaaden watching Lucien’s taut expression, his eyes averted.  Athos speaks quietly, ‘get some sleep Lucien.’