Aramis will step no further than the threshold of the cell at Val de Grâce, where they meet in secret. He raises his hand: “Anne, please, you must keep away. This is as close as I dare come.”
“I will do no such thing,” Queen Anne reaches for his hands. “I survived this infernal plague when I was a girl, and it can no longer affect me. It is true,” she insists. “Then, I nursed Louis back to health when he was little. I remained with him day and night, he slept in my arms, despite everyone’s warnings, even yours.”
“I remember and stand by my objection then just as I stand by my precautions now.” Gently, he pushes back her hands and moves inside the cell just enough to close the door behind him.
“Is it very bad, Aramis?”
“Pére Boisseau has turned Saint Severin into a hospital but soon the church will not be enough. More people arrive every day. There are many dead, elderly, children, and babies. There has been no rain, not yet, but this will change soon, and for the worse, as it always happens with the spring. We must pray the pestilence is all over before the summer or no one in Paris will be safe.”
“I have ordered masses to be sung and the Sisters are sending food and supplies with the most competent nurses. I have written to Pére de Paul and the Cardinal…” Aramis raises a dismissive brow, “yes, to Giulio. He has enough money…”
“And in a spending mood, which is not like Giulio. Rumor has it that he has taken it upon himself to renovate the Louvre.”
“Now you sound bitter.”
“What if I am?” Aramis frowns. “Alarmed, that is what I am! This is alarming. Guilio is rich, certainly richer than I, but this is really not my point. My point is that Guilio is no Croesus either, and he is not generous by nature. A gift as absurd as the one he offers is not given freely. What can he possibly want that he does not already have? He is Cardinal. He is Prime Minister. He has married off his nieces and nephews and keeps placing his family members in every government post he can find or invent, including his good-for-nothing nephew who is now the Captain of the Musketeers. So what does Giulio want next in exchange for … rebuilding the Louvre?”
She lowers her eyes. “I was equally alarmed,” she admits. “No… terrified” she pauses, wringing her hands. “That is why I asked to see you here. Aramis, Rochefort has been reinstated as of this morning.”
“What? That cannot be true!”
“Louis signed the decree…yesterday…”
“What reason could he possibly have to do this?”
“The King is not obligated to explain his reasons.” She draws in a deep frustrated breath. “He argued that if M. de Rohan is to succeed in his mission to bring Condé back to France penitent, declaring defeat, M. de Rohan must arrive in Spain with all the privileges he has inherited by his French ancestors. Condé will not negotiate with someone he considers below him. Which is true, although…”
“…although M. le Prince considers almost all people below him.”
She returns a confirming nod. “And then of course, it is a matter of French pride, Louis claims, which I do understand. M. de Rohan is the new Ducque de Lerma.” Aramis opens his eyes wide with surprise. “Indeed, he is inheriting his rightful Spanish title and the fortune that remains, which, I understand, is still substantial. It is a most deserved honor to a most deserving man,” she hurries to add, “but Louis sees it differently. France’s ambassador, a man of such rare qualities, cannot be valued more by Spain than by France. The stain his father has cast upon him cannot remain and, therefore, his French titles and inheritance must be secured.”
“But to have Rochefort reinstated!”
“I agree. The reasoning is well-crafted, but it is a pretext. I am convinced there is more to Louis’ actions because the decision is unfathomable.” She swallows hard, as if to hold back angry tears. “Aramis, it is so cunningly, so perfectly done, and calculated to the last detail. Consider also this: the King and court leave Paris earlier than usual, not forced by a plague, nothing to incite the mob and feed the resistance of Condé’s remaining allies. No. The King leaves Paris eager to celebrate the birth of his son at Fontainebleau and to allow the Cardinal to renovate the Louvre. You should have seen Giulio yesterday with his man, his dreary accountant… Colbert. And immediately afterwards to find out about Rochefort. We have always suspected that the Cardinal is his frontman.”
“Oh, Anne! We know that he is. Mazarin intercepted a treaty with Venice to benefit, of all places, Florence!”
“Since last night I have been trying to tell myself it cannot be so. When he first returned to France, did Mazarin not warn you against Rochefort? And at Stenay, did he not arrive just in time to counter the forces of the Fronde, who were paid with Spanish gold? The same gold that had fallen in Rochefort’s hands, which he used to taunt us?”
“Anne!” Aramis shakes his head. “Giulio will seize any opportunity for advancement and wealth that he is afforded. He likes to live in luxury. He likes beautiful things, art, books, jewels. He has no loyalties except to himself and his family, and this because his family’s prosperity serves his ambition. As for Rochefort’s gold, I am convinced, now more than ever, that he pays all the sides of this war. He probably watches it unfold from some safe lair somewhere, amused, thinking: ‘Look at what my money can do! I play games with Kings, Queens, and Cardinals. They are all my pawns.’”
The Queen shivers with disgust and buries her face in her hands. “Good God! My rooms! He is paying for my rooms!”
Despite his previous protestations, Aramis reaches for her hands. “We cannot lose courage now, Anne,” he says softly. “We must act. I must act. I must warn…”
She pulls back her hands angrily. “Truly! This is what you can think at such a moment? Your friends!”
“Our friends! They have suffered and have been persecuted protecting our secret. Rochefort has been hunting them down, their families too.”
“Our son is at his grasp! You asked me not long ago, who advises our son.”
Aramis gasps. “You saw Rochefort with Louis?”
“No, but how else can this be explained? And I heard a man’s voice from Louis’ room that was not Bontemps when Louis was supposed to be alone.” Aramis swears under his breath. “I fear that you were right, Aramis. That somehow Rochefort has found a way to reach Louis. Rochefort whose adopted son, that Henri…”
“Rochefort lost interest in his adopted son the moment Marchal arrested him,” Aramis interjects before she finishes the sentence. He would rather not talk about Henri Bernard, but she insists.
“Rochefort’s adopted son threatens our son even from prison. Do you know that Spain made an attempt to seize him and failed?” She fixes a penetrating gaze. “You don’t seem surprised.”
“I may have retired and may have been away from Paris but I still have my sources,” Aramis evades.
“Then perhaps you know something about Spain’s intentions? If Vargas was behind this?”
What Aramis knows is that she is testing him. It pains him that she mistrusts him and feels compelled to test him, but he understands her too. What he knows is that he chose to help Henri Bernard against his own son. “It could have been Vargas,” Aramis says quietly. “Rochefort is Vargas’ enemy as much as he is ours. Perhaps he thought the young man might be useful leverage against Rochefort. You said it yourself, not so long ago, Anne: Spain does what is best for Spain.”
Aramis can see that she is disappointed. She does not really know what happened to Henri Bernard, no one knows except the few of them that were privy to Raoul’s risky plan. All she knows is that Henri Bernard almost escaped and has been captured again. It is as it should be, and proof that Raoul’s plan worked. Aramis wonders if she would have been less disappointed had he appeared as knowledgeable as she expected him to be, thus failing her test. Now he only looks like a man who is no longer as in touch with politics as he claims to be. It pains Aramis to feel this divide between them that they have ignored, this divide that they can never bridge, for, in the end, she will always be the queen, and he will always be her musketeer.
“You should have killed Henri Bernard, as I asked. We would be rid of the threat he poses once and for all,” she says testily, and Aramis can see no way around his predicament, only his fallacy that love would suffice. She sighs, resigned. “It is a moot point, of course, since the man has been recaptured.”
“And Louis?”
“Louis is King. He understands that danger goes hand in hand with the power he must wield.”
“Louis is angry with me.” He anticipates her objection. “He told me so himself.”
“Louis ensures your safety.” There is little conviction in her tone.
“I am grateful he condescends, but I have been a soldier for a long time, Anne, and I know when a war is lost. I have been at court for a long time too, and I know when a man is disfavored.”
She has lowered her eyes again, and, finally, in her voice he can hear the woman, not the queen. “Louis has changed. He has changed in ways that only a mother can see. Aramis, I fear that he is being seduced, and I don’t know how this could be. Seduced by Rochefort, the very fiend who plotted against him since birth. What can Rochefort have to offer?”
“There are many things Rochefort can offer, Anne. The Fronde has depleted the royal coffers, France’s armies are split between King and Condé, and France’s fleet is non-existent, while Spain, bankrupt though she is, is amassing an army again at the Netherlands. Rochefort owns a bank in Florence, a small fleet, and an army of mercenaries. And this is just what we know about his reach. Look at Mazarin’s gift!”
“Louis knows better!” Her voice quivers. “I have raised him to be a man… a King… who knows better.”
“Louis is practical. He is also a man, no longer a boy, soon to be a father. And he is angry, he believes he was betrayed, and perhaps, in a manner, he was, although the intention was the opposite. Now, if what we fear is true, Louis has found the man who can provide him with everything he needs to be a King. The man who can appease his anger. It is not loyalty he seeks from Rochefort. It is money and satisfaction.”
“You must speak to Louis!”
“Do you really think that he will listen to me, Anne? I am at court only for appearances. Only to keep you happy. In every other way I am banished.”
She shakes her head, keeping her eyes lowered. Aramis can see that she weeps. “He will not listen to me either. I fear that my son, that our son, is lost.”
⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️
“First, ride to the barracks of M. du Vallon’s regiment and find Lieutenant Maillard. Tell him I wait for him at the house on Rue Vaugirard. It is urgent, tell him, and the matter requires his discretion.” Aramis stresses the word ‘discretion’ and Ignazio, who has been waiting for him at the inner courtyard of Val de Grâce with their horses, nods, affirming that he understands the urgency and the secrecy. Besides, the duc d’ Herblay uses his private house on the Rue Vaugirard only on such occasions. Aramis vaults into his saddle, handing Ignazio a sealed note. “Then, with the same discretion and taking every precaution to make yourself invisible, ride to M. de Rohan’s house. You must give this only to M. de Rohan or to Madame. To no one else. In their hands. Tell them that I am sending a messenger to Glénay immediately and wait in case they have a reply for me.” Ignazio nods again and vaults into his saddle too, prodding his horse to a gallop.
⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️
Yağız prefers Boulogne to Fontainebleau, although neither compares to galloping at her father’s estate at Roymaunt, Layla has found. She rides with Yağız to Boulogne every morning, and in the evenings after supper, they ride there again with JeanPhilippe, who finds it amusing that Layla lets Yağız determine their route, and that the stallion prefers a very specific route from Passy into the forest and back. He is too spoiled, JeanPhilippe keeps warning her, and JeanPhilippe, of course, is right. Still, Layla insists that it is too late to do anything about it and so she continues to spoil Yağız.
This morning she rode to Boulogne alone. Ciaran has been much too occupied with the preparations for their departure to Spain. To travel was once straightforward and a matter of hours to prepare. The regiment was always ready, and Layla considered herself very good with logistics. It is astonishing how much more complicated the venture has become, for it is not just the townhouse at the Marais but also their secret house at Saint-Severin, which has to be closed because of the pox, Madame Bricet reluctantly moving with her grandson to her sister’s house at Clichy and the maid and footman joining the servants at the Marais. Who and what stays behind, who and what moves, and where, who and what travels to Spain, these are some of the many decisions that Layla must make. And then to arrange, through M. Diodati, for her patronage of Bicêtre to continue, and for supplies and money to keep coming to those inflicted by the pox at Saint Severin. It is most frustrating too, that they are preparing for this long journey, its duration as uncertain as its outcome, while official orders and missives are not yet issued, and while JeanPhilippe continues his duties with the Queen’s Guard as if nothing has changed. JeanPhilippe prefers the uncertainty, Layla reckons, because it means that he defers acknowledging the undeniable fact that he is now the ducque de Lerma in Spain with all that it entails. Still, this, yet unannounced, journey is upon them, upon their entire household, and even JeanPhilippe cannot pretend to ignore it or the baffling logistics that come with it. It is those baffling logistics that Layla is trying to work out while she stretches her legs, at the bank of a pretty brook at Boulogne, the clear waters shaded by the thick foliage of ancient oaks, while, nearby, Yağız splashes in the water playing with his reflection.
“He is simply magnificent.”
The man’s voice stirs Layla and she gasps at the sight of him, which she immediately regrets. They met once before, when he pretended to be another man. She moves between him and Yağız and realizes that she has slid her hand into her secret pocket clutching the elegant little pistol her uncle gifted her.
“There is no need for that,” Rochefort says, pointing to her hand with his eyes, looking amused. “I was only admiring your magnificent stallion. What is his name? Yağız? A fitting name for a handsome young prince.”
“Why are you here?”
“I was hoping to meet you.” He says it in a nonchalant manner, and with a smile. If Layla did not know the man, she could have easily mistaken it for a sign of affability.
“So you follow me.”
“Not too difficult with such a horse.”
“Difficult for you. You are a hunted man. So much trouble to follow me. What did you have to do, masquerade as a Florentine banker with a wife and son?”
He chuckles. “No trouble at all, I assure you, but I am grateful for your concern. I can go anywhere I choose, whenever I choose.” He utters the last sentence in a deliberate manner, and Layla is certain that it must mean something, a vague threat, perhaps.
“What do you want?”
“To make sure that you are well. Your involvement at Saint Severin concerns me greatly, daughter, and I am here to caution that albeit you engage in a most noble and worthy cause, you are also endangering your life and my son’s life, and both of you have a great task ahead.”
Layla gasps at the sheer audacity, and it echoes so loudly that, behind her, Yağız, stops his splashing game and lets out a small inquisitive whine. Daughter… my son’s life…The surge of fury that rushes through her becomes a jumble of words and, in the end, all she can muster is: “You tried to kill your son!”
“Very true, and I shall repent for the rest of my life. But sometimes a father is forced to make impossible choices.”
What impossible choices? It was for money. You did it for the money! Layla is compelled to reply but catches herself before she speaks. What if he does not know about the money and the titles in Spain, the very reason he almost killed JeanPhilippe? Somehow he seems to know that they are destined for Spain, so what if he is here to find out about that fortune after JeanPhilippe’s aunt died? Or perhaps he does not know the woman died and he is trying to ferret out the truth before they leave for Spain? He wants her to be enraged because the reason he is here is to trick her. It’s what he does and Layla will not be tricked. “You must find a patient confessor then, Monsieur, for it will take a long time to confess your sins. As for your sons, they are most unfortunate, for neither one chose you as their father and, given a choice, neither would have chosen you.”
He is either disappointed or she has hit a nerve. Her answer is not what he expected. Layla is not sure how she knows this, for he feigns the same affable smile, but the light has changed in his eyes, which he fixes on her. “I am not a great admirer of women,” he says quietly. “I do not pride myself on this fact but it is the way I was raised. I have admired very few deserving women and only one has ever given me pause for the wrong reasons. You remind me of her. I can see the attraction clearly too, but ultimately the match was imperfect, and it is a blessing. Now…” he wags a playful finger, “your friend, the foot soldier’s orphan… that is an admirable woman indeed and not only because she is far superior to those of her sex but also because she is coming from the gutter. That is an admirable woman indeed. A misaligned but otherwise perfect match.”
It frustrates Layla that she cannot fully grasp what he is telling her. She only understands that he is speaking about Marie Cessette. Is he too clever for her or simply a dangerous madman whose rantings have meaning only to himself?
“So you followed me here to tell me what?” she sneers. “Insult me and those that are most dear to me?”
Rochefort tilts his head, looking amused, his tone full of compassionate condescension. “I am here only as your father, concerned about your wellbeing, and my son’s too. And given the task that lays before you–yes, I do know about it–I am here to place myself at your service. In Spain, I offer you both my protection and services.” He smiles, a cryptic smile that sends a shiver down Layla’s back. “After all, I must atone for the unspeakable crime I was forced to perpetrate against my own son.”
“Keep your services and your protection. No one needs them,” Layla says, taking a bold step toward him. She will not be intimidated by this ranting madman. “And stay away from your son, or I swear I will kill you myself.”
He raises a disappointed brow and turns his back, walking away. “And yet…” he repeats. “And yet…”
⚜️ ⚜️⚜️⚜️
How she got back home, Layla does not know. One moment she was seizing Yağız’ reins and jumping into her saddle at Boulogne and the next she was at the courtyard of her house at the Marais, it seems, only to find Ciaran pacing impatiently outside the front door. Can a crisis have befallen us so quickly after meeting with that fiend, Layla frets? She jumps from the saddle and scales the front steps, two at a time.
“A messenger from the duc d’ Herblay,” Ciaran answers her silent question. “He has been waiting in your private salon for some time. He says it is urgent. He says he will only speak to you or to Monsieur.”
⚜️ ⚜️⚜️⚜️
“Ignazio!”
Layla throws her cloak on a chair and marches into the salon just as Ciaran closes the door, leaving her alone with Aramis’ messenger, who springs to his feet from where he was seated across the fireplace, making a small bow.
“Has something happened to the duc d’ Herblay?”
“No Madame. But he sends you this,” Ignazio hands her Aramis’ sealed message. “He is sending M. Maillard, to Glénay, His Grace says. He also says to wait in case you have a reply for him.”
Olivain… another crisis, Layla thinks. “Have supper here while you wait,” she tells Ignazio. “Ciaran!” The young valet appears at the door again. “Please, make sure Ignazio has a good meal. He waited for too long.”
“Thank you, Madame,” the messenger says, bowing again and following Ciaran.
Layla breaks the seal and reads the few words in duc d’ Herblay’s hand. It is only now that she begins to understand Rochefort’s meaning. “I can go anywhere I choose, whenever I choose,” he said–no– he gloated! These were not the rantings of a madman.
In utter disbelief, Layla reads the duc’s brief message a second time:
“Rochefort has been reinstated.”
Twelve Years After 