Chapter Twenty Seven-Secret Sins, by Mordaunt

He is accosted by children the moment he walks inside, even before the footman closes the door. Rowdy children, breathlessly speaking over each, and dancing around him with excitement. 

“Raoul you are here too!” 

“ It was snowing and we travelled all together in the wagon!”

“Then the bad men came!”

“Samy, Alexandre, and I fought our first battle!”

“The girls were scared!” 

“We were not!” 

“You said…”

“I didn’t!” 

“There was a large empty house! We all slept in the same room just like the Musketeers when they are at war.”

“We slept with Father Ignazio’s cat to keep us warm!”

“She is called Persephone!”

“That’s because she is a black cat. Persephone was the wife of…”

“That’s silly. Black cats are not called Persephone.” 

“They are too!” 

“Suzanne had a baby girl.” 

“She is smaller than Juliette!”  

“She is called Marie Lucette.” 

“We sang in the wagon. Father Massey and Raya know all the songs there are!” 

“There are battlements around this house, just like a real fortress, where knights used to fight!”

“We walk there with Father Aloysius and Father Francois. I saw a royal eagle this morning.” 

“Father Francois showed us a pack of wolves at the other side of the river from up there too.”

“At night we hear them howling.” 

“The girls are scared.” 

“We are not! The boys are scared!” 

“We are never scared!”

“You said…”

“I didn’t! I said they are howling at night.” 

“Olivier said that you said…”

“No I didn’t!” 

“The King of Stags lives in the woods! We saw him too!” 

“Enough!” Constance, Sophia, and Elodie stand at the foot of the staircase clapping their hands so that they can be heard above the raucous of childish excitement. Behind them, Rayya, who has followed her mother, smiles at Raoul and he reciprocates. He greets her with a small bow. 

Hurrying down the stairs are Father Francois and Father Aloysius, appalled by what such a state of disarray reveals about their ability to impart discipline and decorum to their young pupils. “Monsieur du Vallon! Monsieur du Plessis! Chevalier d’ Artagnan!”    

“What riot is this? Is this house seized by heathens?” Constance exclaims.  

“Let poor Raoul take a breath! He must have been riding for days. He is exhausted!” Sophia chimes in.    

Elodie frowns. “Your fathers will be very displeased! What will Raoul think?”

“Raoul likes us,” Renee giggles but her mother’s stern gaze makes her swallow hard and bite her tongue, joining five pairs of lowered eyes and blushing cheeks–from embarrassment or excitement Raoul is not certain. 

What he is certain, as stillness settles, is that he should be exhausted. He has been riding a distance that takes ten days in good weather and passable roads, and has managed to make it to Glenay in seven days, braving snow and ice, stopping only for as long as it takes to change horses at inns. The endless journey, the long night hours in the saddle, have helped him piece together the role of Thomas de Renard, his mother Catherine, and de Winter, his stepfather, starting with the murder of Cecille du Puget and the attack at Royaumont that almost killed Layla, followed by the attack that almost killed his father outside Saint-Germaine-en laye, what took place in Genova, and finally this latest assault against his mother. There is another kind of evil, Raoul has come to realize, that lurks invisible because it is so ordinary. 

He smiles at the three desperate mothers. “Enthusiasm notwithstanding, the past few moments were very informative.” He sweeps his little sister in his arms, just as the rest of the children are leaving, following their tutors Father Francois and Father Aloysius and Madame du Vallon. Bianca giggles, wrapping her arms around his neck. “Are you too roaming the battlements, Mademoiselle Knight?” She bobs her little head several times. “Papa must be overjoyed that there is another soldier in the family!” He notices a small crease in her brow the moment he mentions their father. She is no longer giggling. 

“Papa left,” there is a faint sob in her whispering voice and he is alarmed. He seeks confirmation in the eyes of Madame de la Croix and Madame d’ Artagnan. Not now, they signal. 

“It is late and Bia should be preparing for bed.” Madame d’ Artagnan says. Raoul sets his sister onto the ground, although the little girl is not letting go of his hand.

“I will come and read you a story,” Raoul assures her. “Yes?” She is bobbing her little head again, looking uncertain, not letting his hand go. 

“Your brother must change and have some food. It is a long journey from Paris. Remember how long it took us to get here?” Sophia tries to appease her little niece. “And we were all very tired and muddied and hungry and thirsty when we arrived, remember?” Bianca smiles and nods. “Well, let us give him a little time then.” 

Raoul kisses his sister’s pretty cheek. “I will come and read you a story. Like Papa does,” he promises.

“Why don’t the two of us go upstairs to get ready for bed and wait for Raoul to come and read the story?” Rayya intervenes and finally Bianca is persuaded to let go of her brother’s hand.  

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“Do you have news of your mother?” Madame d’ Artagnan sounds concerned. Raoul has never known her to be concerned about his mother.  

“Yes, and I must speak to my father!” Raoul urges. “Where is he?”

“They are gone,” Sophia says. “Lucien returned from La Rochelle with information. He left with Athos and Aramis…”

“Information about my mother? At La Rochelle?” Raoul insists incredulously. “Where to?”

“Bourbon-les eaux, at the Abbey,” Constance says. 

It makes no sense whatsoever. Not if what he surmises is true. Raoul rakes his fingers through his hair. “No… no…no…” 

“Why don’t we go upstairs. Have a little food…” Sophia coaxes as if she’s speaking to Bia, or Samy, or…. Sophia is his aunt, Raoul reminds himself. He is at his grandmother’s house. 

“I must look dreadful,” he admits with an embarrassed chuckle.

“You look like a man who’s been in the saddle and has not slept for days. Sophia and I are used to it,” Madame d Artagnan remarks in her usual, businesslike manner. “But you look like a Venetian merchant too,” she adds, perplexed. 

He is still wearing his Venetian outfit, from the soiree at Zola’s which feels as if it happened years ago. “I…” Raoul sighs. “It’s true. I need to wash and change… I did not have time to…”

“Upstairs,” Sophia says, leading the way. With her eyes she signals the footman. “A room, hot water, and food.” 

“Was the journey here as dangerous as it sounded?” Raoul makes way for Madame d’ Artagnan to move ahead of him up the stairs. 

“At least the children understood little,” Constance says. 

On the landing Raoul walks closer to Sophia scanning her face. “Who did this? Was it the attack the children described?”

Sophia shakes her head. “Not now,”  she says quietly. “Now is not the time.” 

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Bianca falls asleep three lines into the story of Fortunio, which, apparently, has become her favorite fairytale, and Raoul feels like drifting off too in the comfortable chair next to his sister’s bed, lulled by the warm bath, the well-cooked meal after many days, and the excellent wine. He draws in a deep breath and pushes himself to his feet. No time for rest. They are waiting for him in the salon which is not far from Bianca’s chamber, Captain d’ Artagnan and General du Vallon, his aunt, his mother-in-law, and Madame d’ Artagnan. He wonders if his grandmother will join them. He wonders how his grandmother feels about his mother–was his mother not Richelieu’s spy while his grandmother was in charge of Richelieu’s household after he removed her two sons? There can’t be much appreciation of his mother on his grandmother’s side. 

He finds himself in a long gallery. One side is lined with diamond-lattice, leaded glass windows that let in a faint silver glow from the cloudless starlit night, and other side is lined with portraits. Family portraits. His grandmother’s ancestors. His ancestors too. 

“Your father spends time here.”

Raoul stops and turns, astonished to find the duchess d’ Aiguillon, his grandmother, walking behind him. In the haze of the silver glow she looks very young. “I did not hear you, Madame,” he apologizes. 

“We are going in the same direction.” She smiles as she approaches. “Perhaps we could walk together.” 

It feels awkward. Is it because of his anger for her interference that kept him and Layla apart? Is it because of how he behaved at Royaumont? Is it because he is his mother’s son? Raoul clears his throat trying to find something to say in the awkward silence. “Are all these relati…your relatives?” 

“My father’s family. Your great grandfather’s family.” Her answer makes him feel even more awkward. 

“It is very kind of you to join us in the salon,” he ventures. “My mother…She…” 

“I care deeply about your mother,” the lady says. “She is my family.” She stops and turns to face him. “More importantly, I knew your mother.” 

“Of course. She worked for Richelieu.”

“That’s not what I mean.” She smiles again and points to a door opening to the side of the long gallery. It leads to a smaller corridor and to a beautifully furnished, comfortable study, undoubtedly the lady’s private study. Her writing table near the fireplace is covered with correspondence neatly organized. “We will not be long,” she assures him. Gently, she pulls a braided cord and the dark blue velvet curtain that hangs above the fireplace is lifted to reveal a most stunning painting. It is her portrait, and she is young, very young, perhaps younger than Raoul. She wears a blue silk dress and sits at the edge of a promontory: in the distance a gently curving coastline vanishes in the golden hue of a dawn, or of a sunset. She holds a book in her hand, an old Bible covered with gold filigree. She is not alone. A black haired boy sits on her lap playing with a toy, a small wooden horse with a red saddle. Next to them, stands another boy—not too much older— but he looks serious, severe even. Raoul would recognize his father’s face anywhere even at such a young age. He gasps. He recognizes more. He’d know the hand that painted this stunning portrait of his grandmother and her sons, anywhere too. He grew up among her paintings in Venice. 

“Yes, it is your father and Lucien,”  the duchess says as if she reads his mind, “and yes, it was painted by your grandmother. I knew her. I knew your grandfather, Andrea, as well. He was one of the most prominent historians of his generation, just as your grandmother Bianca Minerva was a celebrated painter. The three of us were good friends. Your grandparents were here. Your mother too. She was little then, Lucien’s age. A beautiful, clever, and charming little girl. Bianca looks like your mother. Sandretta–that is what we called your mother then. Those were joyful days. Bitter and terrible too.” She doesn’t explain further.  She pulls the cord again, and the curtain falls covering the portrait. “I was planning to show this to your father and to Lucien, but there is too much to say, and we never seem to have enough time.” She smiles sorrowfully. “So you see, I knew your mother since she was a child.” 

Raoul lowers his eyes, even more embarrassed than before. He is blind to those closest to him. It is his greatest weakness and has cost him dearly–still does. “I apologize,” Raoul says and the lady stops midway to the door. “I apologize for my behavior at Royaumont. I am unpardonable.” 

“You were angry. Perhaps you still are? And you are young…”

“No, I am unpardonable. I wish I could make amends in some way.” 

She smiles. “Perhaps you can call me grandmother.” 

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Constance hurries out of the salon. She mumbled some excuse about making sure the children are asleep. She could no longer stay. Not after what Raoul had to say. 

Catherine de Renard and her son are the real, monstrous  culprits. Raoul has many questions, and his father is not here to answer them, although d’ Artagnan could answer a few. Constance knows her husband well to be able to see it, no matter how much he feigns ignorance.  She wonders if she is as transparent to him and it terrifies her. What if he knew?She wonders what he’d think of her; what they would all think. What sort of person would choose to be complicit with a monster like Catherine de Renard? Because that is what she has done. And Athos…Good God…Athos! What would he think? 

It was Porthos with his usual astuteness who got to the heart of the matter almost immediately. “How could Catherine de Renard know the exact moment to strike at Bragelonne?” Porthos wondered and  Raoul reasoned that Catherine’s husband, de Winter, must have sent spies to the estate, Comminges’ men, and men like Gitaut, who must have defected to his brother’s side. 

There was a time when Constance would be satisfied with that excuse. But she knows better and it suffocates her—this house suffocates her, this gallery that is lined with the portraits of the duchess’ family, Athos’ family and Raoul’s too. Eyes fixed on her as she hurries toward her children’s chamber: reproachful eyes—nay, condemning. 

From the courtyard outside she hears the clanging of swords and horse hooves shuffling on the pavement. Jasper and Tomaso, the two men they decided to send urgently to bring Lucien,  Athos, and Aramis back, are already leaving. 

Constance hurries down the gallery trying to ignore the condemning eyes, although the truth is unavoidable. 

I told Catherine de Renard and I knew what I was doing, Constance thinks. It was me.