Chapter Sixty-eight, Ne m’oublie pas (Forget me not), by Mordaunt

Athos has been here before and remembers every painful moment. At Bragelonne when Sylvie died. At Saint Denis before Petite was born. After Rouen, when he followed Alessandra to Venice. He has been here before, and yet, remembering offers him no solace. Before, he was a different man.

Sophia, his sister, lays a gentle hand on his shoulder. It is her way of reminding him that he must wait outside while they give Alessandra her bath and prepare her for the night. There, in the hall, he knows that he will find his mother seated in her comfortable chair, taking care of her correspondence, pretending the hallway is a better place to work than her private salon. Then his brother, Lucien, will arrive carrying a tray with what Lucien calls a simple supper, only it happens to be enough for two men. It is their small conspiracy, as his mother calls it, and Athos plays along, because from this family–his family–he remembers very little, no family rituals, only flashes of joy mixed with the crushing grief of loss. Then Petite will come hopping down the hallway with a fresh bouquet which she has picked up with Rayya or Rosie or Charlotte or Renee and a breathless array of exciting tales that she must tell her Maman– ‘My stories make Maman better, is this not so Papa?’–and Athos will take his daughter to see Alessandra because he will do anything to spare his daughter the crushing grief of his childhood.

Petite tells her mother the stories of the day and arranges the fresh bouquet in the vase on the table by her mother’s bed. She has left the shell necklace here too, for her Maman to wear when she is better. The necklace is next to the book which Athos has been reading to Alessandra. He was surprised to find it among his mother’s books, this collection of poetry that Alessandra also cherishes, written long ago by the great Venetian poetess so beloved in France, by kings and queens, by poets and scholars. The poem Athos has marked to read to Alessandra next is one that he thinks he has seen her read often:

With a sad heart to sing joyously…

De triste coeur chanter joyeusement
Et rire en deuil c’est chose fort à faire,
De son penser montrer tout le contraire,
N’issir doux ris de dolent sentiment,

Ainsi me faut faire communément,
Et me convient, pour celer mon affaire,
De triste coeur chanter joyeusement.

Car en mon coeur porte couvertement
Le deuil qui soit qui plus me peut déplaire,
Et si me faut, pour les gens faire taire,
Rire en pleurant et très amèrement
De triste coeur chanter joyeusement.

Athos does not know if Alessandra can hear him reading from the poetry book, just as he does not know if she can hear Petite’s stories, which are always mischievous, and she giggles as she recounts them, unlike the little tunes she hums to her Maman, which are quiet and sorrowful.

Whenever Alessandra opens her eyes her questions are the same. “It is I, it is Athos,” he always assures her, “and we are all here with you and we are safe,” and sometimes it looks as if she recognizes him, but then she whispers “this is a strange dream,” and drifts away. Dr. Guenaud, Dr. Prujean, and the nurse tell him it is proof that fever and the horrors she must have endured have clouded her mind, perhaps irrevocably. Those are the moments when Athos despairs until Petite arrives with another fresh bouquet, a new array of joyful stories, and a new little tune, and Athos is reminded that despair has no place in this room, only love, resilience, and courage. Then it strikes mercilessly, the crisis which the physicians feared and for which his mother warned they must prepare Alessandra.

Lucien happened to be with him that terrible night, when her fever spiked and Alessandra began convulsing until she stopped breathing. The crisis was somehow averted but the dilemma, which Athos knew was inevitable, was brought before him. “It is not a dilemma, that is what I thought when it was forced on me,” Lucien said. “It is not a dilemma because there is no real choice. It is a roll of dice, which they shove into your hand and the stakes are unfathomable. I refused to play.” Lucien distilled Athos’ anger and he was grateful for his brother’s astuteness. Athos faced the same dilemma with Sylvie, at Bragelonne, and he resisted it then as much as he resists it now, even though he knows that with Sylvie the cost was, indeed, immeasurable. He will allow no one to touch Alessandra. When it comes to this impossible choice which is no choice at all, Athos will not budge. Some things never change, he tells himself.

But things were about to change, faster than Athos could have imagined or expected. He never expected what Constance had to tell him. That was the moment when Athos knew that he is, indeed, a different man. A man he likes.

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Alessandra has not opened her eyes since the crisis was averted, but the physicians assure Athos that it is a good sign that she sleeps, and Sophia’s herbs and infusions are meant to make sure that she does. Even so, Petite is here, bringing her Maman another fresh bouquet of wild flowers and chatting away, telling her about the daily adventures of their large and crowded household. Prominently featured today are Tatie May and her fritters, the cannon which Lucien’s men brought that is called ‘Tu Rêves’, Charlotte being punished for riding off on her father’s horse without permission and escort, and the arrival of Alexandre’s formidable grandmother. And then, in one of Petite’s adorable non-sequiturs, she adds: “Rayya and Renée say that the forget-me-nots will blossom soon. I will make you the largest bouquet, Maman, and bracelets to match with your shell necklace!” 

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Their little family conspiracy is no longer little. Now, someone else arrives along with Lucien who carries the tray of food to the hallway outside Alessandra’s room while Athos waits with their mother. It is never the same man, to make it appear a coincidence. It started with Raoul, and then it was d’ Artagnan. Today, it is Porthos’ turn, it seems, for he marches down the hallway and just as their supper is ending, his timing too perfect to be anything but calculated.

“Ah! Fritters. This new cook is superb. I have it in mind to speak to her about adding a sweet custard with lavender honey and walnuts,” Porthos exclaims.

“Marguerite is not the cook. She is a good old friend who likes to cook,” Madame d’ Aigiullon corrects him.

He smiles a wide smile: “forgive me Madame,” he apologizes and the duchess bows her head in acknowledgement but not before she fixes him a very meaningful look. “Well…” Porthos begins on that not so subtle cue rubbing his hands together as he always does when he launches into a new venture, “we have the cannon in place and the repairs at the fortifications are proceeding marvelously…”

“Good news!” Lucien plays along eagerly. 

“If Marchal or Rochefort or both of them decide to pay us a visit, now that Rochefort is back–whatever this means–they will find some unexpected resistance. They will also find that the countryside is empty all around Glénay, every man, woman and child moving inside our walls. And let me tell you, no one in their right mind begins a siege with a starving regiment and so far from Paris. Rochefort may be crazy but Marchal knows what he is doing.” He pauses and clears his throat. “Yes… well…” Porthos is truly bad at this, Athos thinks, while d’ Artagnan is much better and Raoul is excellent.

Lucien springs to his feet. “Well, let’s go take a look then.”

“Athos, why not join us outside?” Porthos sounds as if he has rehearsed this part. “It will not take long.”

“Yes, why don’t you go with them, Athos” the duchess encourages him. “Some fresh air and exercise will do you very good. Besides you know that with Alessandra it always takes long, this time of the day. There is no need for you to keep me company out here, I am perfectly comfortable.” She points to a large stack of letters on the table beside her, “and I have much work to do. If they finish earlier with Alessandra or if something is wrong I will immediately send word with a servant.”

“We will not be far,” Porthos hurries to add.

Athos finds it difficult to play along with this new act that is meant to lure him out of the house for the time it takes to prepare Alessandra for the night. He also cannot get his daughter’s words out of his mind. “I was thinking that I might go…” he begins but stops. How to explain such a compelling, private, and seemingly trivial thing? “Alright,” he agrees, standing up, and at the corner of his eye he catches his mother flashing Lucien a relieved smile.

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“You are truly bad at this,” Athos tells Porthos as the three men march down the hallway toward the courtyard.

“Really? I thought I was rather good! After all, here you are,” Porthos protests.

“If you ask me, he is the best of the three so far,” Lucien says. 

The fresh air strikes Athos first, and then the light, which feels too bright even though it is early afternoon. They keep Alessandra’s chamber dark, because they don’t know how much her eyes have been affected. The inner courtyard is bustling with activity, and it has been busy like this every day that Athos has stepped outside. This afternoon their walk takes them along the western wall of the fortress where the foundation needed significant support and two buttresses had to be built, as Lucien explains.

“There you are Messieurs!”

D’ Artagnan does not look surprised to see them. He spins his sword in his hand invitingly. He has been sparring with Yusuf, at what looks like a makeshift fencing court, right under the western wall. Raoul is here too with the Hauteclere, as well as Olivain, Afonso, Gasparo, and Martin and some of their men. There is also a man that Athos doesn’t recognize but surmises he must be Constance’s brother. Everyone sits on wooden benches around this makeshift fencing court, observing, drinking, and waiting for their turn. Olivier, Samy and Alexandre are here too, all three boys watching the men spar, eager and excited. 

Porthos slaps a friendly hand on Athos shoulder. “What do you say? Take a few turns? Stretch your legs?”

Athos would rather not be here. If he cannot be close to Alessandra, there is another place he must be. Petite reminded him of it, even though she knows nothing about it. He has heard it said that the innocent are often the messengers of Providence, and Athos feels compelled by his daughter’s words, since the moment she spoke them. A bouquet of forget-me-nots for Maman, Petite said, the earliest blooms of spring. Athos knows where to get them because he has seen them, at that field near the cove where he was not permitted to go as a boy. He has no idea why the thought compels him, he only knows that he must do this.

“I think you will enjoy it Father,” Raoul hands him the Hauteclere. “And I have always wanted to see you spar with this fine sword.”

“It has been a long time, Athos!” d’ Artagnan insists, with a glimmer in his eyes.

“If you fight with me, who fights with Yusuf?” Athos counters.

“I will spar with Ysuf!” Raoul steps in. “If Olivain lends me his sword!” There is a great deal of laughter and excitement by those gathered. Olivier, Samy, and Alexandre have jumped onto the benches so that they can have a better view of the matches.

“I guess this leaves the two of us,” Lucien tells Porthos.

“Funny, now that I think about it,” Porthos chuckles, “it must be decades since you and I last crossed swords.”

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The fact is that they are right to conspire. The fact is that in fighting with the Hauteclere Athos felt as if he met a lost dear friend from his youth, a friend he never forgot.

The fact is that the vigorous exercise has made him even more compelled to follow the calling which Petite’s innocent words have brought forth. Athos knows it is trivial. But he must do it, as if it is some sort of bargain he has opened with fate.

Athos returns not to the house but to the stables, to prepare Balignant. With Balignant he can be there and back in an hour, perhaps less.

“Watching you spar with the Hauteclere was the most amazing thing I have witnessed. That sword was made for you!” Athos turns to find Raoul leaning casually against the open door of the stall.

“That sword is yours and I am rather rusted,” Athos protests, although he cannot help but smile at his son’s compliment.

“Ah, but you enjoyed it! You did!” Raoul pushes and Athos returns a half shrug, defeated. He mocks a stern tone: “So, who else is in your grandmother’s little conspiracy?”

Raoul pretends to be pondering the question for a few moments. “I believe there is one scullery maid in the lower kitchens who has heard nothing about it.”

“I don’t like this sort of thing Raoul,” Athos says quietly.

Raoul has changed his tone too. He is no longer jesting. “Father, we must consider that Mother… She may not…”

“Do not say this! Do not even think it!”

“Of course, I do not like to talk about my mother in this manner! Do you think that I do? Father, Bianca may have her brother, her uncles, her aunts, her cousins, and her grandmother here, but what she needs now most of all is her father. This little conspiracy, as you call it, is meant to keep her father strong.”

“Her father, your father, knows what is good for him too. Now why don’t you tell me what I really would like to know. What happened to Thomas de Renard?”

“He got what he deserved. This is all I can say.”

“Is this my son or the Spymaster of France speaking?”

A faint smile crosses Raoul’s lips. “Both.” He bites the corner of his lip for a fleeting moment as if weighing his words. “As your son, however, I am compelled to ask about Madame d’ Artagnan. The Captain will never bring it up but there are rumors. This is a crowded household, Father. Everyone is in everyone’s business even if they are not trying.”

“What rumors?”

“That you two had a failing of some kind. That she is not to come near my mother and my sister.”

“Not your sister,” Athos interjects curtly. “At least not while Alexandre needs his mother.  I will not deprive Petite of her Chevalier.”

“So it’s true? About Madame d’ Artagnan.”

“Constance’s mother and brother have just arrived and she must be overwhelmed,” Athos says coldly. “Her mother is a formidable woman, according to Petite.”

“This is not what I asked,” Raoul insists. 

Athos raises a vexed brow. “Now you sound like the Spymaster.”

Raoul shrugs. “I suppose I will never be rid of the Spymaster, I am him after all.”

“In that case, can the Spymaster explain to me, his father, what happened with Rochefort?”

Raoul does not appear to be surprised by the question. “Can the Spymaster of France have been blindsided or did he know Rochefort would be reinstated, you mean? It is a pointed and excellent question, Father, which I cannot answer, not even to you. What I can tell you, what I have told Lucien and Captain d’ Artagnan and General du Vallon is that Glénay is the safest place for you to be, safer now after all the planning and preparations. I am sorry if my answer displeases you, but it is the only answer I can offer.”

Athos shakes his head, Raoul’s evasion alarms him and he is certain that if Alessandra heard their son she would be equally alarmed. He fastens the strap securing the front cinch of Balignant’s saddle and pulls down the stirrup.

“What are you doing? Are you going somewhere?” It is Raoul who sounds alarmed.

“Not far.”

“You cannot go alone!” Raoul steps inside the stall. “Lucien’s rules. No one leaves without letting everyone know, and without taking another man with him.”

It is a good rule and Lucien is right, but Athos would rather the rule not apply to him. “No one except Olivain who comes and goes?”

Raoul is not daunted by his father’s peevishness. “Olivain arrived alone and he must return to Paris,” he says quietly, “but he may not return alone.”

“You plan to return with him!” As Raoul lowers his eyes Athos realizes that in his frantic quest for Alessandra and all the grief that followed, he has overlooked the dilemmas his son has faced and faces still. He places his hands on Raoul’s shoulders, and pulls him closer. “Are you returning to Paris?”

Raoul shakes his head. “I am truly at a loss, Father. How can I leave my mother? But under the circumstances, how can I not? The longer we are not seen in Paris, Marie-Cessette and I, the more we are suspected and the more you all are in danger. It is not only about Rochefort.”

“Do you plan to take Marie Cessette with you to Paris then?”

Raoul draws in a deep breath. “We have spent many a sleepless night since we arrived here, Marie Cessette and I, and the only solution we can find is that she must return with me to Paris, so that she is seen, so that we are both seen, before court leaves the city for spring, and that she then goes to Normandy, to my estate. It is… expected of her… of me…”

“Normandy! Raoul, it cannot be as bad as this, surely. Your wife, banished by you, publicly…”

“I don’t know how bad it is, Father. We cannot know unless we return. This is Marie Cessette’s decision as well as mine. Many of her actions are perceived as evidence of impropriety even though they were justified, courageous, and true. Still, in the eyes of society– perhaps even the King– Marie Cessette is mired in scandal, and she is not Chevreuse or the Grande Mademoiselle or even Layla. She is a poor orphan who was adopted by a great man and married the King’s Spymaster, a foreigner, who was once his favorite. I can protect my wife, but I cannot protect her from Glénay.”

“Porthos may not agree,” Athos warns.

“The General is a good and loving father but he does not know all, and he cannot know all, for the sake of his family and their safety.”

“I have not been a good father to you, Raoul,” Athos says quietly.

“Nonsense!” Athos finds himself in his son’s embrace. “Nonsense. I am not a child and know what is best for me just as you do. Besides, it is not easy to be the father of the Spymaster of France.” Gently, he pushes back his father. “However, you must tell me where we are going. Lucien’s rules are laws at Glénay and neither his nephew nor his older brother are excluded from his rules.”

“It sounds trivial, perhaps even foolish….,” Athos begins in an embarrassed tone. How can he explain what he plans to do to Raoul? Especially to Raoul. “But it is important. It is important that I do this.”

“I will ask no more,” Raoul says. “My horse is already saddled. I follow where you lead.”

They meet Lucien not too far from the gate. “And where do the two of you think you are going at this hour?”

From his horse Raoul returns a half shrug. “All I know is toward the cove.” 

“We will be back before sundown,” Athos interjects from his saddle. He mocks a stern tone: “And the sooner you let us out the sooner we will return.”

“You’d better,” Lucien replies in the same tone, “for I am ordering the gate to be closed at sundown and it does not open again until dawn.”

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They have gone barely a league past the bridge over the river, when they hear horses galloping behind them, from the direction of Glénay. “Father! We are followed” Raoul calls to Athos, and both turn their horses, prepared to draw their pistols but stop at the sight of Lucien and Afonso.

“You must come back! You must come back quickly!” Lucien cries from his horse in the distance. “It is Alessandra!”

Athos swears under his breath and nudges Balignant to a gallop, back toward Glénay, Raoul following fast behind his father. 

“She is in labor,” Lucien tells Athos the moment they meet. “Sophia says it is too soon and she is very weak.”

NOTE: Translation of the poem (A.S. Kline, 2020)

By Christine de Pizan
With a sad heart, to sing joyously,
To laugh, in grief, is hard to do.
Showing to all a contrary view,
Feeling sad, yet smiling sweetly.

Tis thus I must act publicly,
Learning, while keeping all from view,
With sad heart, to sing joyously.

For in my heart I bear, covertly,
Woe from which ill might ensue,
And so folk will keep silent too,
I seek, while weeping bitterly,
With a sad heart, to sing joyously.