Step One: Learn from the best
“I assume that you know all,” Aramis begins.
“Enough to be abhorred that an innocent man finds himself imprisoned,” Layla replies.
“Some might say that he is not an innocent man,” Aramis pushes, although it has been a losing argument; although even he no longer agrees.
“He is my father’s innocent victim. One more innocent victim, Your Grace. I will not permit that,” M. de Rohan pushes back and Aramis remembers why this young man stood out from the first moment he met him, when d’ Artagnan recruited him in the Musketeers, an orphan, barely fourteen, son of a traitor and, yet, remarkable for his courage and his honesty even at that young age.
“Forgive me, M. de Rohan,” Aramis concedes, “but I must be certain that we all see eye to eye.”
“We do. Marie Cessette knows. Raoul, of course,” Layla announces and in her tone it is impossible for Aramis not to hear the voice of the cocksure, vexing young Musketeer, d’ Artagnan’s prodigy, who shared his title of best sharpshooter and Anne’s affection. “There is also M. de Beaumont,” Layla adds. “He is Raoul’s…”
“I know who he is. How much does he know?”
“Enough to know that he should not ask questions.” Marie Cessette answers, entering the room and closing the door behind her. “Ciaran came to tell me there was a visitor.” She smiles. “Uncle it is good to see you back in Paris. You have nothing to fear from M. de Beaumont. Raoul trusts and recommends him. And before you ask…yes… I met Henri–Enzo–I met him at Saint-Fargeau and I care not for the rumors. Raoul does not care either. Enzo….”
“Enzo!”
“Yes. Enzo. That is his name. A good man. Compassionate. Kind. Innocent.”
Aramis doesn’t care to know anything about Henri Bernard but he has heard the rumors–of course he has. Who is he to judge anyone, especially Porthos’ daughter, a young woman that he loves and considers his niece? Can he, of all the people, fault her if she follows her heart? Is this not how she was raised- by her father and mother, by all of them? But, Enzo! How can he be fair to Raoul, Athos’ son? And what husband does not care about such rumors? Whom to sacrifice? “Whatever your plan is, you must stop,” Aramis tells them. “That innocent man–he is used as bait. To bait you. He is no longer at Vincennes. This comes from the King. Henri Bernard has been moved to Versailles and by the King himself. You are being led into a trap.”
“The King says this?” M. de Rohan sounds perplexed.
“They expect you will make an attempt,” Aramis stresses every word. “I was told this in confidence and I will not allow any of you to be harmed for that man–forgive me but I care little about that man, whether he is innocent or not. I place your lives above his. You must abort whatever your plan is.” There is a plan, he is sure of it. He can see it in their eyes.
“The only plan is that I must be with my regiment for the morning call, and I am late” M. de Rohan evades–badly.
Marie Cessette feigns an innocent smile. “Layla and I were…”
“I was about to ride with Yagiz,” Layla says pointing to her breeches, “and then Marie Cessette and I were to go to Saint-Severin. Your old comrade from the Musketeers, Pére Boisseau? He has an epidemic of the pox in his hands and we–Marie Cessette and I–will offer as much help as we can.” She no longer sounds like Thierry. She sounds like Lucien, and it is unsettling.
“That is not a very good lie,” Aramis cautions her.
“No one lies about the pox.” Layla fixes a meaningful gaze that makes her look exactly like her father. “Why not join us, Your Grace, in an hour, at Saint-Severin? In the open. We have nothing to hide. Perhaps come with… supplies, food, money…For the families. All of them are families of war veterans, widows and orphans. It makes absolute sense that you’d be joining us–helping your old comrades. If all goes well, we will return there.”
If all goes well… Not only do they have a plan, but it is unfolding, Aramis thinks.
“Indeed,” Marie Cessette chimes in. “And neither M. Marchal nor His Majesty can object to such generosity, for who’d wish for a pox epidemic in the city as the summer approaches and while Her Majesty is expecting?”
“This evening, you can join us for dinner, perchance,” Layla says. “M. de Beaumont will also be here. He joins us for dinner almost every evening.”
“Why don’t I? Perhaps I can shake some sense into all of you before you attempt whatever reckless plan you have in mind.”
Step Two: Stick to your plan
The frown in M. de Rohan’s brow deepens but he says nothing, while Aramis repeats what he knows, more forcefully this time. It is the Chevalier de Beaumont, Raoul’s trusted lieutenant, who speaks. “Your Grace, what you tell us is troubling.” He exchanges a look with M. de Rohan as if to ask permission to continue. “My men… Raoul’s men and I… we have been watching that prison day and night since M. Bernard–or rather Eustace Dauger–was taken there from the Bastille. I assure you no one has left that prison.”
M. de Rohan draws a chair and sits next to Aramis. “Your Grace, we are grateful for the warning–we are grateful that you consider our safety above your own, for what you are doing places you in grave danger.”
“But…”
“No please uncle, listen to M. de Rohan and M. de Beaumont,” Marie Cessette pleads.
“First of all let us establish the facts,” Layla interjects. “Your Grace knows that prison better than any of us. Could there be a way to smuggle someone underground, through tunnels, or in some covert manner, without Raoul’s men noticing any commotion?”
Aramis shakes his head. “None that I know. Beaufort was kept at Vincennes when I was Prime Minister, and…well… We kept him there because the fortress is impregnable. To break him out of there, the only way was to climb down the wall with a rope and into the moat–swim the moat too most likely. I am pretty sure his rescuers considered every other alternative before resorting to that reckless scheme.” A fleeting smile crosses his lips, his mind returning to Athos and Alessandra, to Porthos and d’ Artagnan, even though their involvement was never proven. He makes a new attempt: “Perhaps there was a lapse among your men, Chevalier?”
“I know my men, Your Grace! Raoul hand-picked them!” M. de Beaumont sounds peeved.
“And you say that Henri Bernard…”
“Eustace Dauger,” M. de Rohan corrects him.
“Eustace Dauger–right. You say that the prisoner is still there? Now? Someone has seen him? And stop pretending that you don’t have some kind of plan concerning the man.”
“You Grace we can’t implicate you,” M. de Rohan protests.
“I am already implicated, damn it!” Aramis exclaims. “I came to Saint-Séverin with you in the morning, for all to see. Now I am here, aren’t I? You and I, we are both in this together!”
M. de Rohan shakes his head. He sounds reluctant. “We have a man inside. What our man does is extremely dangerous so we must protect him at all costs. He fought for your Grace too at the Conciergerie. He is loyal to his oath and to his comrades and…” he slants a small smile toward Layla, “to one of us in particular, to whom he feels he owes his life.”
“One of Marchal’s men!”
“Yes, Your Grace. He saw the prisoner this morning at Vincennes. He is certain of it, even though the prisoner is always masked. After you arrived with the news this morning, I managed to speak to him, very briefly, for any interaction between us could endanger him. His Majesty returned to Paris with Your Grace late last night, he intimated. Yes, our man was with you last night. This morning, as they have orders to do every morning, they checked on their prisoner at Vincennes. He saw the prisoner, Your Grace. He also tells me that, as of this morning, Captain Mancini has, reluctantly, established himself at Vincennes, because he thinks the place is less dreary than the Conciergerie, which was his only other choice. Our friend assures me that they have not received orders to remove the prisoner to Versailles or anywhere else, unless the orders were given to other men, but then…would they not risk more witnesses? And he is sure the prisoner is the same man he has seen for weeks, despite the mask.”
“Perhaps they used other men. Perhaps by the river.” Aramis is not inclined to concede.
“They’d have to reach the river, you said it yourself Your Grace, and my men would have seen them,” M. de Beaumont counters. “There is also Mousqueton. Your old comrade who works for Raoul, as you know, for you recommended him. He ferries our men. He’d have sent word if there was movement during the night in the river.” The Chevalier exchanges a concerned look with Rohan which is impossible to miss and Aramis can think of no other argument, nothing to counter the inevitable conclusion that this was indeed a ruse, the bait meant for him as much as it was meant for them. Aramis recognizes Louis in this and it is the Louis he has always known. The King, not his son.
He shakes his head. “I have endangered you all.”
“That is an absurd thing to say, uncle!” Marie Cessette admonishes him but smiles to ease her tone. “You have risked everything to warn us. Enzo is not in Versailles but that is all meant to distract and confuse us.”
“This plan of yours… What is it?”
“Your Grace, it is best if you don’t…” M. de Rohan objects.
“Parbleu, young man!” He points to his neck. “I am already up to here in your damned plan!”
“Well…In all honesty…If I may M de Rohan,” M. de Beaumont interjects, “our Spanish entourage is slim and unconvincing. We rely on what we assume is Captain Mancini’s inexperience. We could use another man- especially someone who knows Vincennes and Rouen,” he turns to Aramis, “for Your Grace not only fought there but owned the old fortress.”
Aramis scans them all with perplexed eyes. “Rouen? Spanish?”
“If your Grace agrees to join us…That would ease many knots in our, admittedly… wild scheme,” M. de Rohan sounds apologetic. “You may have to borrow some of my clothes for you must look like a Spaniard and we must move tonight.”
“Spanish?” Aramis repeats, bemused. “What do the Spanish have to do with anything? What sort of plan is this?”
Marie Cessette wraps her arm around his, slanting an impish glance. “Spanish. We will explain over dinner.”
Layla wraps her arm around his other arm. She smiles as she and Marie Cessette lead him to the dinner table. “Your Grace is right about having been implicated already, I fear, and perhaps not in the way you surmise. This morning, at Saint-Séverin you already helped us not only with those poor people, but with putting forth a convincing cover for a plan that is most unorthodox. A vanishing act, if ever one was attempted.”
Step Three: Timing is vital
Fabien observes the woman with mocking eyes, while standing behind a large desk, heavy wood and beautifully carved, nothing like the plain desk in the old Musketeer Garrison, let alone in the crypt where he kept his real office. Against the bare stonewall, behind him, the shelves are empty, and all around him, the place- large cellar of some kind- is filled with crates and chests, still unopened.
“You don’t approve?”
“Pff,” the washer woman, Lauraine scoffs, unimpressed. “Too grand for a lair, if you ask me. The other place at your old Garrison was better. Anyone dragged there knew they were not coming out alive. Here, you might as well invite them to dinner. If this is your lair in this place what’s your office like? I hear it belonged to the great Treville.”
“Not a room you will ever see.” He sits behind the empty desk, and crosses his arms over his chest. “What do you have for me today?”
She pulls stacks of crumpled scraps of paper from her pockets. “Your Chevreuse is writing lots of letters…”
He ignores the possessive. “Other than Chevreuse.”
“The little viper who’s with her, she writes too. What’s her name…”
“Sylvine Mercier.”
“Yes, that one. She’s been writing a lot,” she points to a clump of pages. “Locks herself in her room for hours, Justine, the maid, tells me. And she’s not bleeding.” She counts to four with her fingers. “That’s too many months in a row. Was she not to be your wife? Maybe it’s yours. She’s pretty enough, but not as pretty as that other poor little thing, God rest her soul, if that’s what they say for her people.”
“Enough of your blabbing. What do you have for me that is worth the money I pay you?”
She shrugs. “La Valliere is happy. When she is alone she weeps for her sins. That’s happy for her. He’s bought her three stallions. She loves horses. He’s taking her hunting at Fontainebleau–just the two of them–well…and a few friends. Secret escapade.”
He waves his hand dismissively. “I pay you to tell me what I don’t know.”
“She is not bleeding either.” He raises an intrigued brow and she leans closer and counts two with her fingers. “Still too soon to tell.”
“Tell me when it is certain.” She nods. “What about… the Marquise de…”
“Your sweetheart!” she cackles but seeing him frown she stops abruptly. “Well…That’s a clever one. Nothing like that other time–oh she’s learned her lesson and learned it well. She is as clever as the devil. Jezebel incarnate, with all her infernal reading… I’ve got nothing.” She clicks her tongue disapprovingly. “She stays with her friend” –she sneers at the word ‘friend’.
“You don’t think they are friends?” Marchal probes although he sounds amused.
“I only know what I hear and I hear she has set her wandering eyes on her friend’s husband, the Baron, and Lord, he is handsome, the handsomest man I’ve ever seen, takes your breath away. Not that you are not good-looking yourself…”
Marchal chuckles. “I am flattered.”
“I don’t believe a word of it, not on his side–the Baron has got eyes only for his wife. And that’s a handful of a wife, if you ask me, dressing like a man and all. I’ll say nothing about her father, God help us.” She crosses herself. “But she has charity in her heart, like her grandmother. A saintly woman, that one.”
“You were telling me about the Marquise.”
“Nothing to say, except what everyone knows. The cunning Jezebel has set her eyes on the Baron–a good man and married to her friend–and her own husband is gone again. Poor man, I’d be gone too if that was my wife. She stays with her friend at the Baron’s house which is like a fortress. I will say nothing about the little Dutch maid.” She crosses herself again. “God help you with that one.”
“What about the valet? The boy.”
She clicks her tongue dismissively. “Irish!”
“Meaning?”
“Loyal to death. Can’t get anything at all out of him or anyone else in that house.”
Marchal throws her a small purse full of coin. “ I will double this if you get me something–anything, do you understand?”
She is about to answer but stops at the sound of booted feet quickly descending the steps. Marchal waves her away and she scurries out just as M. Rochois marches in, removing his hat and saluting. “We have a serious problem, Lieutenant,” he says.
⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️
“He did what?” Marchal bangs his fists on the desk and springs to his feet.
“He arrived with his men–twenty…”
“My men! They are my men. I recruited every single one.”
M. Rochois clears his throat. “Lieutenant, they are his men now.” He attempts an appeasing tone. “Your men–we are all here with you.” Marchal grunts and waves his hand signaling for his officer to continue. “He arrived with his men after we visited the prisoner in the morning. When we returned in the afternoon we were barred–not allowed past the courtyard. He says that he is in charge of Vincennes and with a decree signed by His Majesty, thus he is in charge of every prisoner.”
Marchal seizes his hat from where it was thrown on the desk and charges ahead, seething. “Sangdieu! I will show that bricon who is in charge!”
“Lieutenant…” M. Rochois ventures, courageously, “he is in charge of Vincennes just as he is Captain of the Musketeers. His Majesty made it so.”
Marchal stops midway, grunting. He turns: “What are you telling me? The prisoner is ours and he must remain ours. It is a matter of the utmost importance. That is what the King demands.”
“Yes, I explained. But he said…”
“God damn him!”
“But he said that if it is so, if… well… if you claim that His Majesty, who has honored him with this new position, does not trust him with an important prisoner in his own prison, then he demands to see some document…from you… something official that proves this to be the case.”
Marchal gasps. “He demands what? Of me?”
“He says he is answerable to His Majesty. Not to you.” M. Rochois clears his throat again. “In short.”
Marchal gapes at his officer for a moment. “And you left!”
“Well…what were we supposed to do, Lieutenant? He is right. He is answerable to the King, and, technically, you’d be answerable to him,” Marchal growls threateningly so M. Rochois hurries to add, “but you are not- no longer!-you too are only answerable to His Majesty, as I understand, for our new regiment is solely serving His Majesty’s person.”
“I am grateful you grasp the finer details!” Marchal seethes.
“He asks that we provide him with a document that removes any responsibility from him when it comes to this one prisoner. Frankly, I don’t see how it is unreasonable…”
“You don’t?” He throws his hat back on the empty desk and bangs his fists against it. In fact, it is not unreasonable, M. Rochois is right, and so is the fool who is now Captain of the Musketeers. However, that specific prisoner does not exist. This is the entire point. Only he and the King know the truth about the man, and, in fact, he is not supposed to know that truth so he pretends he does not. The King… The King has to be alerted. The King must intervene–send warning to that fool at Vincennes. M. Marchal seizes his hat again. “We are going to His Majesty immediately!” He marches ahead only to sense that his officer is not following. He turns. “What now?”
M. Rochois clears his throat one more time, leveling a meaningful look.
“Sangdieu!” Marchal growls. “The escapade at Fontainebleau.”
M. Rochois nods. “Just ten men, as you ordered. A discreet entourage? I sent them two hours ago.”
Marchal runs a hand through his hair. “And he returns when? Tomorrow…Tomorrow! We must be the first people waiting outside His Majesty’s apartments tomorrow!” He swears under his breath. “Let’s hope that Captain Mancini proves himself less of the fool that I fear he is!”
Step Four: Arrogance is an ally
“What the hell are you doing here?”
The room is comfortable and well-aired, a series of large windows on one side, letting the morning sun in, uncommon for a prison, but these were the original apartments of the governor of Vincennes, not a prison cell.
Captain Mancini stands from what looks like an enticing breakfast, spread out on the table before him, wiping his mouth with a fine, laced napkin. He is elegance incarnate, hair coiffed, moustache perfectly trimmed. Even his Musketeer doublet is no longer the old plain leather one. The top is pinked, showing a silk embroidered chemise underneath. It is adorned with a silver brooch in the shape of the fleur de lys instead of the old pauldron. This Captain of the Musketeers does not fight battles in muddied trenches. He mingles with the best.
“Lieutenant! Let me invite you to breakfast!”
“What the hell are you doing here?”
An irritated, yet studied chuckle, escapes M. Mancini’s lips. He must contend with this sort of uncivilized brute from now on–what do they call them? ‘men from the trenches’ or something equally odious– and Marchal is among the most uncouth. “These are the rooms of the governor and I am in charge of this dismal place, Lieutenant.” He smiles a well-rehearsed, condescending smile and adds. “My Musketeers and I.” He must remember to mention his regiment.
“This is where my prisoner was kept!”
“Ah! That would be my prisoner. As I explained to your…” he waves his hand as if at a loss for a name, “your… man…”
“My first officer! M. Rochois” Marchal seethes.
“Yes, right. Officer. Well, as I explained to him, I am now in charge, thus every prisoner is under my jurisdiction, unless His Majesty orders otherwise.”
“His Majesty demands to see you immediately at the Louvre about this matter,” Marchal growls. “I am sent to fetch you!”
“I do not require fetching!” He struts slowly and deliberately past Marchal reaching for a most excellent hat, and a pair of leather gloves embroidered with silk.
“Where is my prisoner?”
Captain Mancini rolls his eyes and clicks his tongue dismissively. “I do not answer to you. I answer only to His Majesty.”
“Where is he?” Marchal growls, cornering Mancini between the wall and a chair where his fine blue cloak is thrown.
“That is between me and His Majesty!”
Marchal takes one more threatening step. “Where is he?”
Mancini’s tone drips with scorn. “Where His Majesty chose to send him.”
“His Majesty sends him nowhere without me, do you understand?” Marchal has backed Mancini against the wall, fists clenched.
“Do you propose to attack the Captain of His Majesty’s Musketeers, Lieutenant?” Mancini defies him. “This is not the gutter where you were raised. His Majesty ordered the prisoner to be handed over and so he was. This is politics, Monsieur, and politics is for men of substance!”
“Handed over!” Marchal gasps and steps back. “The King would never hand him over to anyone.”
“The order was signed by His Majesty,” Mancini declares knowingly. “I recognized the signature.”
For a moment Marchal wonders if this could be true, such is the certainty of this arrogant fool, but immediately returns to his senses. “Was the order sealed?” he repeats frantically, clenching his fists trying to suppress the urge to punch the smug face before him.
“What seal?”
“The royal seal!” Marchal gasps with despair. “Any order that is true and valid must carry the King’s seal!”
“I didn’t know that… Well it was signed!”
“It means nothing. A signature can be forged. An order can be forged.”
“What? You accuse me of… what?”
“I accuse no one,” Marchal tries to pull himself together, stepping back. “I accuse no one,” he repeats solemnly. He eases his tone. “Perhaps if you show me the order, we can be sure it was legitimate.”
“I don’t have it.”
“What?” Marchal clenches his fists once more to suppress his rage. “How is this possible?”
“Well…they kept it. How else can they travel with him to Le Havre?”
Marchal draws in a very deep, very exasperated breath. He is amazed to hear himself sound as calm as he sounds. “First of all, you should keep proof for any prisoner you hand over. Whoever takes him must leave their order, you give them a release, signed and sealed by you, thus passing the prisoner into different custody. Did you do this?”
“Well… no… I wasn’t… They didn’t ask.” He musters all his arrogance. “I am not some notary to hand out paperwork!”
“You are in charge of the prisoners of Vincennes!” Marchal draws in another deep breath. “Le Havre– is this where they are taking him, did they say Le Havre?”
He shakes his head. “No, but I assumed that’s where they’d go. I mean…it is the fastest way to get to Spain. Marseille is too far.”
“Spain?” Marchal gasps. “Spain! They were Spanish?”
“That’s none of your business.”
It is not what Marchal would do if he had thought about it, but he is past thinking. He seizes Mancini from the neck and pins him against the wall. “You stupid, arrogant fool,” he hisses.
Mancini fights to release himself from Marchal’s tight grip. “You insult me, Monsieur! The King will hear about this!” he protests, gasping and coughing.
“Oh yes he will. I will make sure he does. You lost a valuable prisoner! You handed him over to … whom? Spanish spies, roaming France?”
Mancini’s tone is no longer arrogant. His voice trembles. “He was an envoy!”
“Ah…We are getting somewhere. His name!”
“He…he looked Spanish. His French was not bad at all for a Spaniard but he had an accent…He had an escort of four…”
“His name!”
“Eeerm… de Guevaro. Beltran…Beltran de Guevaro, Seigneur de Onate. It was on the signed order. I have heard the name before so…”
“You have?”
He attempts an awkward chuckle. “Here and there. Gossip and such…He’s a friend of Don Juan Jose…so I thought…”
“You thought!”
“Well yes… I thought…well… it seems to me since the prisoner is M. le Prince and he still embarrasses His Majesty…”
“M. le Prince?” Marchal pauses for a moment and continues in a deliberate, threatening tone. “No, no, no… What you thought is this: here is an opportunity to serve my uncle’s interests and my uncle, the Cardinal, despises M. le Prince and would much rather he remains in Spain indefinitely where he cannot influence any politics or the King. So I will pretend I don’t know the rules about releasing prisoners.”
“My uncle has nothing to do with it,” Mancini sounds defensive, which means that the Cardinal’s political interests have everything to do with it. “Besides, the envoy carried an order signed by the King!”
“A fake order. And what if the prisoner was not M. le Prince?”
“Who could he be? He was kept here like a prince. Better than Beaufort!”
“Eustace Dauger that’s who he was, a prisoner that His Majesty kept here under the strictest orders, and you simply handed him over to God knows whom…to Spain…thinking he was another, thinking you were serving the interests of your family.”
He dashes to the door but Captain Mancini stops him. “What happens now with His Majesty? I mean… He expects to see me doesn’t he? He knows about this!”
“He expects to see you, yes. He does not know all, not yet…”
“Wait. If we work together, we may still…”
“We? You ask me to fix the mess you started?”
“I am saying that it behooves you to do so. If this man who is not M. le Prince is your prisoner as you claim–and let us say he is your prisoner–then, it seems to me, that this…mishap…affects us both. The… lapse will be blamed on us both, for how did you ensure your prisoner during a time of transition at Vincennes, especially a prisoner as important as this… Eustace Dauger? Do you suppose that His Majesty will blame me but not you?”
Mancini is no fool, M. Marchal realizes. He is another conniving courtier like those who gather at Chevreuse’s soirees bartering gossip for influence. Quid pro quo, that’s what Mancini proposes, that is what he threatens with too, and it is a compelling threat. Who’d the King blame: the Cardinal’s nephew or the brute from the Court of Miracles? Who is most compromised by the truth about Eustace Dauger even though he must pretend he knows nothing? Marchal is a practical man and has no illusions when it comes to his standing under the circumstances. “We can try to delay your audience with His Majesty. Meanwhile, we must cover all ports. Your regiment is significantly larger than mine. We need both regiments to cover His Majesty’s needs as if nothing has happened, and be spread out looking for Dauger at the same time.”
“Would sixty men suffice?” Marchal nods. Mancini is no fool. He turns to his writing desk. “I will send out orders immediately and go to Paris–to see the King–evade… save us time…a day?”
“If you can hold off the truth for a day…” Marchal calculates fast. “How long has it been? Fourteen hours? It is a long time to cover. They can be in Le Havre already. We must not waste any more time. I will send men to Rouen and Le Havre immediately. Your men must cover all other ports and you must be at the Louvre, so think of something to say that gives us a day.”
Step Five: Confuse and misdirect
M. Rochois swears under his breath upon hearing the news.
“We are soldiers, M. Rochois,” Marchal admonishes him. “Let us do what must be done and let others determine the blame.” He vaults into his saddle. “You and M. Falaize must ride to Rouen first, then to Le Havre. M. Bennart and I will catch up with you. You are looking for five men–the prisoner and four others, Spaniards or dressed as Spaniards. Their leader uses the name Beltran de Guevaro, Seigneur de Onate.”
“You don’t think that is the real man? You don’t think they are Spanish?” M. Rochois probes.
M. Marchal clicks his tongue testily. “That’s why M. Bennart and I are going back to Paris first. To investigate a more likely alternative. We will not take long. We will catch up with you at the Crowned Bull at Saint Paul.”
⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️
Marchal bursts into M. de Rohan’s office at the Palais Royal followed by M. Bennart.
“Sangdieu!” M. de Rohan turns toward the door, frowning. “Have you lost all sense of courtesy? Don’t you even knock?”
“Not when I am on urgent business for the King!” M. de Rohan mocks an impressed look and crosses his arms over his chest. “Where have you been?” Marchal demands.
M. de Rohan chuckles. “You are not serious.”
Marchal points to M. de Rohan’s appearance: he is in his shirtsleeves, shirt loosened, hair pulled back. “You look as if you came from training, but you were not in training. I saw your officer, M. Morant. He said training ended an hour ago at your barracks. He said you were not there.”
M. de Rohan narrows his eyes, vexed and bemused. “Are you interrogating my men? On whose authority?”
“Where have you been?”
“It’s none of your business. It is none of your business what men I train and where I train them. I don’t report to you, I report to M. le Tellier and even he does not probe into such details. You should know because it is exactly the same with you. Such details are a matter of the utmost secrecy that concerns the safety of Her Majesty the Queen and Her Majesty the Queen Mother.”
M. Marchal steps closer and whispers: “I say you are lying.”
“I say you overstep with every word that comes out of your mouth. Get out.”
Marchal clicks his tongue impatiently and turns to leave signaling for M. Bennart to follow him, but stops midway to the door and turns back again. “Where is your wife?”
“Get out.”
“I was at your house and she wasn’t there,” Marchal pushes. “Neither she nor her…friend. Or should I call the Marquise, your common friend? And your wife’s maid…”
“You entered my house and threatened my servants?”
“If your servants are anything like your wife’s maid…”
“She threw a full chamber pot at us from up the stairs” M. Bennart interjects making his tone conciliatory. “Almost got the lieutenant…” Marchal slants him a seething look and M. Bennart clears his throat and stands at attention, clicking his heels.
M. de Rohan takes a few steps toward Marchal. He speaks with perfect equanimity. “If you bother my wife–nay, if you even mention her again, those will be your last words. It is not a threat, it is a promise. Her father has a very long list of grievances against you, but it is me you will find first. Get out.”
Marchal says nothing, only signals for M. Bennart to follow him as they exit the office, closing the door behind them. M. de Rohan exhales with relief and returns to his chair behind his desk, picking up a black doublet, cut in the Spanish fashion, that has been tucked carefully under the seat. Not too bad, he thinks.
⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️
At the courtyard of the Palais Royal they mount their horses in silence. “Are we for Rouen, Lieutenant?” M. Bennart ventures.
Marchal slants an angry look and clicks his tongue impatiently. “Where would she be? Where could she go?”
M. Bennart moves his horse closer. “She rides the black stallion every morning. Perhaps she has returned home while we were…”
“It was not morning when we visited the house and met that infernal maid,” Marchal counters. “No, no, M. Bennart. I know her. She trained me. She likes order just like any good soldier. She likes to defy order too, which is what she is doing now.” He turns his horse. “She is very charitable too. She goes to Bicetre. She goes to that house of orphans at Saint-Denis. She goes to the parish of Saint-Severin…”
“That is all over Paris, Lieutenant. It will take us the entire day. We are wasting time. Perhaps if we split…”
“No, M. Bennart. If it is as I suspect, two fighting men would be necessary. She is not only formidable but she is also not alone. Her friend, the Marquise, comes with a very able swordsman, M. de Beaumont. They will put up a fight. We are not wasting time. The easiest way to find our prisoner is to find those who took him, and I intend to ferret them out and arrest them before the day ends.” He turns his horse. “We begin at Saint-Severin, the closest here. Who knows, perhaps we will be lucky.”
Step Six: Never show your hand
Just as they cross the Petit Pont, they find the street blocked by a makeshift barricade made of a rotting wagon and broken old furniture, empty barrels, and sacks filled with dirt and sand. The barricade is guarded by a few children it seems–masked boys with sticks who are pushing people back. “Stay away! Stay away!” they are warning. The air is bitter and acrid, thick with smoke and the smell of something putrid, burning.
“What the hell is this? Are Frondeurs back?” Marchal barks from his horse. “You!” He calls one of the masked boys. “Whose idea is this?”
“Pére Boisseau says no one should come close, Monsieur,” the boy says. Marchal prods his horse forward but the boy jumps and seizes one of the reins. “No! No! Monsieur! Don’t!”
“Let my horse go, you wretch!” Marchal growls, reaching from his saddle and slashing the boy mercilessly with his whip.
“Good God! M. Marchal! Stop! For God’s sake!”
He recognizes the voice and it catches him by surprise. He narrows his eyes. The air stings and he cannot see clearly, but the masked man who emerges from the smoke should have been at the Louvre with the Queen Mother. “Your Grace?”
“Let him go, M. Marchal. It’s for your own good that he tries to stop you! He means no harm. He is just a boy,” the duc d’ Herblay seizes the boy’s arm and pushes him behind him, to protect him from another lashing. “Are you alright, Jacques?” he asks gently and the boy nods although his eyes are full of tears. “Go to Madame. She’ll take care of these,” the duc says, pointing to the fresh bleeding scars on the boy’s arms, evidence of Lieutenant Marchal’s authority. The duc sounds appalled. “He is just a boy!”
But Lieutenant Marchal will not be deterred from his purpose. “What the hell is all this?”
“It is the pox, Lieutenant,” the duc says gravely.
“You have proof?”
“We have dead!”
It is a losing battle but Lieutenant Marchal does not give up easily. He points to the barricade. “Who ordered this?”
“It is what the poor people here can do to protect others. Père Boisseau…”
“Ah, the priest! Did he order this?”
“I have no power to order anything, Lieutenant,” says the second masked man joining them. He wears a cassock that is dusted with lime and his sleeves are rolled up to his elbows. “But I have sent word to M. le Coadjutor and I am certain that he will authorize our petition…”
Marchal knows how such things play out–he has seen many epidemics, and survived a few himself at the Court of Miracles. By the time the petition makes it to the desk of the Coadjutor, the Coadjutor will have fled Paris, and the poor souls suffering will be left to cope by themselves perhaps with the help of a few brave souls…
“M. Marchal!”
Besides her eyes, the rest of her face is covered with a linen cloth. She wears that split skirt that always perplexes him, and some kind of apron over her clothes, her hair askew. She does not look like her mother the way her sister Suzanne does, and she used to make a fine youth–at least he was deceived back then. It would be impossible to be deceived now. She is a strikingly beautiful woman, even in these dismal surroundings. Marchal dismounts and motions to remove his hat but doesn’t, unlike M. Bennart who greets her courteously. He is not here for a social call. He is here determined to make an arrest. Or three.
“Have you heard of what has been happening here, M. Marchal? Are you here to help? Does His Majesty know what is happening?” She sounds anxious. “These poor people! Veterans and orphans and widows.”
“Pére Boisseau is an old comrade,” the duc d’ Herblay intones. “Ah!” the duc waves his hand, as if greeting another. Marchal turns to find a towering man approaching behind him, hauling a wooden crate. He is followed by two much younger men who look like sons or grandsons. They are carrying heavy sacks on their backs. “Mousqueton, you are a sight for sore eyes!” the duc exclaims and signals to the boys lined along the barricade. “Bartelemi! Hubert! Get your brothers to help! We finally have food and clean linens!” He turns to Marchal pointing to the towering man. “Another old comrade–this is M. Mousqueton!”
The towering man hauling the crate, sets it on the ground and shakes his head as he wipes the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand. “Ah, those were the days! All for One and One for All,” he tells Marchal. “None of us will let our old comrade, Pére Boisseau, fight this battle alone. Now you must excuse us, Lieutenant.” He lifts the crate once more and turns to the two young men following him. “Alright boys! Let’s go with the good father and set these where he tells us.” He pulls up a kerchief that is tied around his neck and covers his mouth. “Cover yourselves as best as you can!” They move beyond the barricade into the smoke following the priest.
“Well,” Layla insists, “are you here to bring some relief to these people M. Marchal? Perhaps word from their Majesties?”
He clears his throat and it is not because of the stinging, acrid air. “Well…I don’t…” Immediately he reminds himself of the urgency and of his purpose. “Is the Marquise with you?”
She narrows her eyes perplexed. “Marie Cessette? Are you looking for Marie Cessette?”
“Well, I … Yes I am!”
She points back toward the church. “She is… There is a young mother back there. She is giving birth, and is very ill. Perhaps the baby has arrived, or perhaps…” she shakes her head. “Marie Cessette is helping as best as she can.”
“Take me to her!” he demands. He is damned if he does not establish where Raoul’s scheming wife is, if she is here at all, and not helping her hapless lover escape, as he is convinced that she is.
“Of course,” Layla says and points to an opening through the makeshift barricade for Marchal to follow her. She hesitates for a moment. “You must cover yourself–thoroughly. Wait.” She reaches into her apron and pulls a linen towel. “It is as clean as you can find here. Put it around your face, your mouth and nose and as much of your eyes as you can when we enter the church. You must. Especially if you are to see His Majesty at all, and even more so since Her Majesty is expecting. Needless to say, you must change, wash, and burn the clothes you wear now before you see anyone. Come, it is this way.” She moves ahead quickly but stops again. He is not following her. “Are you not coming?”
He lingers. He does not care about the damned clothes or about himself, he has faced worse than the pox. But the King… the Queen…The dauphin… Is this a time to make himself unavailable to the King? If he were a scheming man, he’d think this an excellent way to evade the debacle at Vincennes. But he is not a scheming man like Mancini, who is certainly availing himself of the opportunity to remove the blame from himself. And how convenient it would be if Lieutenant Marchal is unable to speak to the King because he was looking for Raoul’s infernal wife inside a pox-infested church! He steps back. “I must see the King.”
“Oh, of course.”
“I am Lieutenant of his new personal guard and…”
“Of course, M. Marchal.”
“I am not sure I can…” He hands her back the linen towel.
“You can always find us, M. Marchal. We will be here for as long as we are needed.”
He walks back to his horse hurriedly, trying to avoid people’s eyes–the smoke helps. He’s not one to retreat and regrets it immediately but it would be even worse if he appeared to have changed his mind again and turned back, seeking Raoul’s wife at the deathbed of some pox-stricken young mother inside a church teaming with the sick and the dead. He can never endanger the King, he tells himself. He signals to M. Bennart and they both vault into their saddles.
“To Rouen!” Marchal spurs his horse. He looks forward to the fresh, cold air against his face, filling his lungs. “To Rouen M. Bennart! As fast as you can!”
“Tell His Majesty about this!” the duc d’ Herblay calls to him and he nods, but doesn’t look back. Had he done so, he might have noticed the meaningful look the duc exchanged with Layla.
Step Seven: Keep your best trick for last
“Lieutenant! Finally!”
They are waiting outside Rouen, at the village of St Paul. The inn, the Crowned Bull, is the inn their squads use to change horses when running messages between Le Havre and Paris.
“Some speak of six, others of eight, including a man wearing a cloak and a mask” M. Rochois hurries to inform Marchal as he and M. Bennart quickly down a couple of glasses of wine to quench their thirst.
“Spanish by all accounts,” M. Falaize intones.
Marchal frowns. “Are you sure?”
“They made a good effort to hide it,” M. Rochois says. “But at Bloville, one of them paid for a carriage and used a doubloon among the coin. The masked man, apparently, was taken ill. It must have delayed them significantly. They got the carriage at Bloville three hours ago.”
“Sangdieu… Spanish?” Marchal still cannot believe it.
“We figured, if they are Spanish they are headed for Le Havre but if they got a carriage at Bloville, they will ride to Le Havre rather than go by ship from Rouen,” M. Rochois reasons. “Rouen is a small port, and very much under the jurisdiction of His Majesty now. Six Spaniards with a masked man in tow would raise suspicions.”
“Unless they have accomplices at Rouen.” Marchal rubs his chin, musing for a few moments. Spanish? Is this an example where the simplest explanation to a seemingly complicated problem is actually the best? Occam’s razor, he has heard it called. Spanish? Could they be Spanish? He picks his hat and gloves and springs to his feet. “Alright. Let’s not waste any more time. If they are reaching Le Havre and with a carriage that slows them down even more–three hours…we may even catch up with them at the forest of Roumares before nightfall.”
⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️
M. de Beaumont has been crouching for a while, hidden among thorny shrubs and leafy bushes and it is not the most comfortable posture, but from this position, on a low hill, at the edge of the forest of Roumares, he has an excellent view of the road coming from Rouen and the crossroads where that road connects to the road toward Le Havre. It has been some time since sunset but the light still lingers, as the days are getting longer. No one is coming and at times he frets that their plan failed somewhere in Paris. He tells himself it was a good plan. He tells himself that he will know one way or another from what happens here before the light disappears and night falls. He motions to stand, his knees beginning to feel numb, but a distant sound forces him face-down to the ground. He crawls through the foliage to the highest point of the hill where the view is clear. The sound is unmistakable, galloping horses, and in a moment he recognizes the riders: Marchal, Rochois, Falaize, and Bennart. The plan worked in Paris. Time to make it work here, M. de Beaumont thinks. Time for the “pièce de résistance”.
Stealthily, he slides backwards, down the hill. He finds himself in a small opening in the forest where his horse waits. He moves a little further into the grove, and, there, surrounded by tall oaks and under a darkened sky, he fires his pistol in the air.
⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️
Perhaps they are too late, Marchal thinks as he presses his horse. It is night already, the last light of day disappearing fast. Perhaps even three hours were too many, and Henri Bernard is lost. Spain… He cannot stomach that: Spain! That damned Vargas! Spain is hard to swallow. Harder than a conspiracy by the Marquise de Normanville and her faithful friends. And then he hears it.
“Lieutenant!”
A pistol fired.
“Follow me!” Marchal barks from his horse.
⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️
Marchal raises his hand, making a signal to his men to approach slowly. There is enough light to see the outline of a carriage stopped at the side of the road. They can hear the horses too, snorting, hooves thumping against the muddied earth. Marchal calculates the odds quickly in his mind–how this trap is meant to work against them: lure them to the carriage and attack them. Clever move–he’d never choose such a move if he were one of Vargas’ spies. With three hours, he’d have made a run for it. Well, you learn something new every day.
He signals to his men again, this time indicating that they must spread around the carriage and that it is most likely a trap, although the last thing he is certain his men have intuited already.
The carriage is in fact, half fallen into a ditch, and one door hangs open loosened at the hinges, creaking in the wind. It looks as if there was a fight. M. Falaize who approaches from the back points to bullet holes all around. It looks as if they faced a violent attack–bandits? Other spies?–and the earth around the carriage is dug by the hooves of horses. But where are the bodies?
“Lieutenant!” M. Rochois breaks the silence and Marchal shuts him up with an angry “shhh” but Rochois insists. He is standing at the open door of the carriage. “Lieutenant!” He is pointing inside the carriage with his pistol. Marchal reaches him first and the other two men follow, all four of them crowded at the open door. “Someone is inside,” Rochois whispers.
“Back! Move back,” Marchal says. “Move back I can’t see.” There is no longer any light, only a few pale stars in a clouded, night sky, but as his eyes adjust, Marchal can see the shape of someone laying on the floor of the carriage covered with something. Rochois is right. He takes a step inside, pistol ready to shoot, and reaches for the cover. A blanket? A woolen cloak! He recognizes the cloak too. He brought it to the Bastille when the King ordered clean clothes for his prisoner. Henri Bernard? He turns the man around and he is masked. How can this be? Why would Vargas steal Henri Bernard only to leave him for them in the middle of a country road?
“It’s him!” he hears M. Falaize gasp behind him. “Him, the prisoner!” he explains to the rest. “Is he dead, Lieutenant?”
“Back! Move back!” Marchal exclaims. “I need light!” To have Bernard killed by Vargas! What a gift from Spain that would be! Perhaps that’s it, Marchal thinks. Perhaps that is Spain’s game. To make Louis beholden to Spain, blackmail him with the truth… Quid pro Quo: we got rid of the man who was a threat and an embarrassment but we know who he was and who you are…that sort of thing. Marchal removes his glove and places it over the masked face, under the nose. He swears under his breath, disappointed. “He breathes,” he tells the others. Damn you Vargas, Marchal thinks. Damn your scheming, and your smugness. What infernal scheme can this really be?
Something compels Marchal to move closer, perhaps his disappointment that Henri Bernard is left alive and that his assertions about Spain and Vargas’ calculated quid pro quo are wrong. A pale light shines inside the dark carriage, the light of a lonely star breaking through the clouds and the thick foliage of the trees, and Marchal gasps, despite himself. He knows the man, despite the mask. He knows the man well and detests him thoroughly. He is not Henri Bernard.
“Lieutenant, is everything alright? Do you need our help? Is he injured?” Outside the carriage M. Rochois and his men are getting impatient.
Marchal knows he’s been tricked. He even knows by whom although he cannot prove it, not even if he were to walk before the King dragging the wretched fiend left in his hands, and calling him by his name: Thomas de Renard. He grinds his teeth, seething and humiliated. His first inclination is to call the wretch by his real name. But how can he stand before his men if he does that? How can he stand before his new regiment, after being humiliated thus?
And how can he stand before the King? Not only has he lost the prisoner entrusted to him, but he has been fooled too, like some brainless novice. He has only moments to decide. Does he play along with this clever conspiracy orchestrated by those who know him well or does he expose them and in doing so admit his own ineptitude? With Renard instead of his prisoner, Marchal is afforded a way out, however, and the subtlety bears the mark of one man–the same man who intervened seemingly on his behalf and with the same elegance at that brothel at Saint Germain-en-laye. Raoul- Raoul is behind all this. And yet… and yet… no one can be too clever, Marchal thinks, for, in the subtlety and the clever twists, he sees a much more straightforward and blunt solution. He sees a way to hold Raoul hostage. Occams’ razor.
Marchal pushes the unconscious man from the carriage floor to the seat. “We have him!” he declares to his men, stepping out of the carriage. “He is injured or drugged or both. M. Falaize, you must ride to Paris immediately and to His Majesty. Raise him from his bed if necessary. Tell him we averted the prisoner’s escape, which was orchestrated by Spain, a certain Beltran de Guevaro, Seigneur de Onate. Tell him that we are moving the prisoner where he is destined to remain, but to do so, we need the warrant signed by His Majesty. When you have it, signed and sealed, M. Falaize you must take the road to Fontainebleau. Wait for us at Melun. We will proceed together from there.” He turns to M. Bennart. “Take over the carriage. I will ride inside with him, in case he wakes up and decides to be difficult. M. Rochois, it falls on you to protect the carriage until M. Falaize joins us at Melun.”
“Whereto, Lieutenant?”
“Melun to meet M. Falaize,” Marchal evades. “The rest will be revealed on the way. I can tell you that it is a long journey.” He jumps into the carriage. “Let’s go, M. Bennart! We leave immediately.” He sits back, pistol at hand, across the masked man, who lays, still unconscious, on the seat. “Poor Sylvine,” Marchal chuckles to himself. “If she’s lucky the brat is mine.”
Twelve Years After 