At Fontainebleau, the King is irritable and quick to take offense. Everything displeases him, beginning with the weather. Too many summer storms have been interrupting the garden fêtes, and spoiling the riding parties. The hunts have been disappointing and unrewarding. Even the ballet inspired by French proverbs, ardently promoted by Monsieur de Saint-Aignan, has turned out a tedious affair, all banal witticisms and didactic pronouncements but deficient in charm and spark. “As befits Monsieur de Saint-Aignan,” bitter tongues remarked once the ballet was over and despite the King having danced three separate roles. In the ephemeral and merciless world of the court, such failure threatens Monsieur de Saint-Aignan’s reputation for the entire season, if not for longer, and weakens his allies, including Lieutenant Marchal, while, by consequence, raises the opposing faction of Monsieur de Guiche and Monsieur Fouquet, Raoul’s friends.
There was a time when such shifts in the delicate balances at court affected Raoul as they must affect everyone. No longer the King’s favorite as he once was, his post as Spymaster appears to render him immune, but that is not the whole truth. Rochefort’s oblique influence cannot be ignored. Being indebted to Rochefort is troubling, but Raoul cannot see an alternative to this necessary evil for his plan to succeed. Even though the fortunes of his family have changed significantly and in unexpected ways, Rochefort’s threat remains and Raoul is convinced that he is best positioned to avert it. Young as he is, Raoul is no callow youth. He knows that one day he must answer for this complicity.
In truth, it is neither the weather nor the disappointing spectacles and hunts that dampen the King’s mood. Those who know Louis, and Raoul is one of them, can see his impatience, as he must wait to learn if the birth of a dauphin will permit him to unleash his power as he wishes or if the birth of a dauphine will restrain him. And then, as Raoul knows well, there is the failed agreement with the Turk, an agreement which, unbeknownst to all, the Company of the Orient has intercepted and secured instead.
“A brilliant move and brilliantly executed,” Rochefort told Raoul after their agreement was signed at Les Gobelins. “I found Racid Çavuş Ağa, the Grand Vizier’s envoy, an impressive man. As impressive as your friend, Salih Bey, whom I have met although he is not aware of it. He likes the theater, betting on horses, gambling, and beautiful expensive mistresses which Zola amply provides,” Rochefort chuckled. “This Racid Çavuş Ağa impressed me too, with his shrewdness and with his grasp of continental politics and beyond, for he eagerly inquired about England. A deposed sovereign is nothing new to the Ottomans, but a sovereign executed by his own people is a different matter. Such an aberration happened once among them, he explained, and it was during his father’s youth, when Genç Osman was put to death by his own Janissaries.” Rochefort paused, and it was deliberate. Everything about Rochefort is deliberate, and Raoul immediately knew his meaning because Rochefort added: “It seems to me that the father of this excellent Racid Çavuş Ağa, a man not unknown to either of us, may have had some involvement in those terrible events. I wonder if that prompted his self-exile to France so many decades ago. I understood also that the Racid family, albeit of Persian descent, is of considerable standing in Constantinople or the eldest son would not be a messenger for the Grand Vizier.”
Rochefort was speaking, of course, of Yusuf. Racid Çavuş Ağa, the Grand Vizier’s messenger who arrived in Paris as part of M. de Roberval’s party carrying the secret agreement with the Company of the Orient, is also Yusuf’s eldest son, Kuvvat.
“When the time calls for it, we shall offer Louis what he has failed to obtain from the Turk today,” Rochefort continued. “Thus, the Company of the Orient ensures Louis more than a fleet and the reserves of a well-endowed bank. We ensure him a most profitable agreement with the Ottomans, and since our ships have become Louis’ fleet, he reaps the benefits. But we shall drop this little asset on the scales only when the scales must fall to our side, and not a moment sooner. And since Louis detests those who patronize him more than those who oppose him, when the time comes, we must make it appear that the Ottoman concessions are due to his intervention. The fact that he has failed now, will make that triumph more splendid then, and so, the value of what we offer him, and our influence, shall increase further.”
“Louis abhors failure,” Raoul observed.
“It is a weakness among crowned heads, in my experience. To know how to fail is an invaluable lesson and most of them never learn it, because they are raised to believe a crown is a sign of Divine Providence and thus failure is impossible. Then failure happens, as it must, and they find themselves at its mercy. Yet, failure builds resilience and ingenuity and that is where crowned heads, Louis included, truly fail. They fail to learn from failure, when that is the mark of a true king.” He smiled cunningly. “I trained Henri well in this. He would have made a far better king than Louis if he did not lack the conviction. But his mother was a commoner and one cannot cultivate what nature does not bestow.”
“And Don Juan José?” Raoul pressed.
“Ah!” Rochefort chuckled. “Once more you are three moves ahead in your game. It is the mark of your genius but you must rein it in or it can cloud your judgement. Are you anxious for your cousin?”
“I am anxious for neither of my cousins,” Raoul replied pointedly. “Jean and Layla have resilience, ingenuity, integrity, and courage.” Rochefort’s face remained impassive while Raoul recited the virtues of his son and his daughter-in-law, but Raoul knew that any mention of Jean and Layla irritates him and keeping Rochefort off balance whenever possible is sound tactics. “As Spymaster,” Raoul continued, “it is my duty to furnish the Ambassador of France in Spain with the most current information.”
“He is not yet Ambassador of anything. He too must wait until the little Spaniard is delivered and then…who knows,” Rochefort said bitterly and Raoul knew that he had touched a nerve. “As for Don Juan José, his mother, La Calderona, was as common and vulgar as they come but he never knew her. He was taken from her as an infant, and raised in León by a woman named Magdalena. He believed her to be his mother. She happened to be an old servant of my grandmother’s.” He winced. It cannot be an easy memory, not even for this man, Raoul thought. Don Juan José, the illegitimate son of King Philip of Spain and his only living son, was born a year before Jean. That was the time when Rochefort was captured in Madrid, betrayed by Richelieu, and found himself Vargas’ prisoner. As far as Raoul has been able to piece the story together, after a year of torture, Rochefort managed to strike a bargain with his brutal jailer. It entailed turning Rochefort into a double spy. In doing so, Vargas forced Rochefort to return to the Spanish wife he detested, now living in near poverty, after her father, the ducque de Lerma, died stripped of his immense wealth and titles, a victim of his own ambition and the intrigues of Olivarez, Vargas’ master.
“I am his godfather,” Rochefort said quietly.
Raoul was startled by the revelation, so rare for Rochefort, but made sure he masked his surprise with a dissimulation. After all this time, he knew precisely how: “Godfather! To the illegitimate son of a third-rate actress?”
“Ah, yes. Vargas and I played all manner of games in those days. It is how we learned from each other,” Rochefort said with a sneer. “Indeed, Vargas thought to demean me by forcing me to stand for La Calderona’s bastard. Handing over the infant to Magdalena, however, was a coincidence, or a bad move on his part. Whichever it was, I availed myself of it. The boy surprised me, for he proved a true son of his father in character, intellect, and even in appearance. So I won that game, although Vargas understood it only recently.” By that, Rochefort meant during the time that Jean, Layla, the duc du Plessis, Captain d’Artagnan and General du Vallon were in Spain, fighting to bring home the Infanta; when Rochefort almost killed his own son. Raoul has always found Rochefort’s nonchalance when talking about his crimes both horrifying and, strangely, impressive.
Rochefort shrugged and added casually. “Do you wish to know whether I stand for Don Juan José?”
There was nothing casual about the question. It was a trap but Raoul was no fool. He shrugged and made sure he sounded as casual as Rochefort. “There is nothing to be gained by taking a side this time, and everything to be gained by letting matters unravel as they must.”
Rochefort wrapped a friendly arm around Raoul’s shoulders. “I chose the right man,” he chuckled, and it sounded sincere.
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Early in the morning, Raoul is summoned to a rather curious council at Fontainebleau. The Cardinal, seemingly eager to improve the King’s temper, has brought with him his secretary, M. Colbert and his ledgers, together with his architects, for a private presentation on the continuing renovations at the Louvre. The works are said to be financed by the Cardinal himself, his ‘humble gift’ to the King and the Queen Mother, as Mazarin styles the extravagant undertaking.
In truth, the whole enterprise is sustained by a considerable loan raised through Rochefort’s bank in Florence. It is, therefore, a gift from Rochefort to the royal family, a fact that Louis knows, as does the Queen Mother, who endures it with admirable grace. It is not the only thing that makes this early morning council unusual. The Queen Mother is present, which is natural enough: her apartments are being renovated, as are her son’s. The King’s brother is here as well. But so is the duc d’Herblay, whom Louis avoids even though he has accepted the duc in his council to appease his mother. More curious still is the attendance of Monsieur Marchal, Lieutenant of the new King’s Guard, and Monsieur Mancini, Captain of the King’s Musketeers, and the Cardinal’s nephew. Louis does nothing without purpose, so the selection must be deliberate: a family gathering, Raoul thinks the moment he steps inside. But then why is he invited? And, more importantly, why is Fabien?
Raoul is not the only one to have noticed. As the council ends, he finds himself walking side by side with the duc d’Herblay, who carefully steers them both toward a private garden. Neither man speaks until they are certain they are alone.
“That was a curious family gathering to which I did not expect an invitation,” the duc remarks.
“It occurred to me also, although the Cardinal was there…”
“Ah, Giulio has insinuated himself. I suppose it was inevitable.” The duc sounds resigned but only momentarily, for he adds with his dry wit: “and he has insinuated the entire Mancini family with him, of course, for there was his good-for-nothing nephew too, who has ruined the Musketeers in less than two months time. Louis will flatter the Cardinal not only by advancing his nephew and ignoring his incompetence, but by pretending they are now part of the family. On the other hand…” He gives Raoul a meaningful look.
“Yes, I wondered about Fabien too,” Raoul says. “Especially now, when M. de Saint-Aignan is less favored than usual.”
Aramis lets out a small chuckle. “Imagine the indignity Saint-Aignan suffers after this morning. To find himself less favored than Fabien Marchal, and for all to witness, including you, the Spymaster of France and M. de Guiche’s friend. Louis knows how to punish a man who has displeased him. That ballet was painfully tedious and drab.”
“I wondered why he chose to invite me. What does the Spymaster of France have to do with coffered ceilings and vaulted galleries?” Raoul says. “Perhaps you are right and the reason was to make his point to Saint-Aignan and show Guiche that he is now favored.”
“That is one probable reason,” Aramis says. “But Louis is not so predictable. Consider that your father is now the duc de Richelieu, your uncle is the duc du Plessis, and your grandmother is the duchess d’Aiguillon. In Louis’ eyes, you are family, and yours is a family that Louis cannot afford not to flatter and keep at his side.”
“And Fabien?”
“A perplexing decision to invite him to a meeting about coffered ceilings and vaulted galleries, as you said. He is fearsome, and not in the best sense. In his case, of course, everything is temporary, even if Lieutenant Marchal misreads the meaning of such a moment, as many have done before him, and takes it as some kind of promise, thus investing his ambitions in it. The King will raise anyone he pleases, and with the same ease cast him down. If you ask me, this is what Louis truly signified by inviting Lieutenant Marchal, and the message was meant for all of us, as well as for M. de Saint-Aignan who was excluded. Not all is lost, the King is signaling to him. Even Marchal can be invited when I wish it.”
It is a very perceptive explanation of the morning council. The duc understands Louis better than any man.
“I know Fabien,” Raoul replies. “He is aware of this game, and he is not like Saint-Aignan. He is unlike any of us, in truth. Fabien comes from a world where only the moment matters. He will seize the opportunity and the power he is given, and wield it for as long as he possesses it. He does not invest in the future like M. de Saint-Aignan. His ambitions lie in the present.”
“It makes him a dangerous man,” Aramis says gravely. “I am sure you have heard. Captain Mancini has been complaining to everyone he meets about the horrors he has discovered in the catacombs beneath the Musketeer Garrison when he took over from Marchal. I have heard, too, that M. Marchal has turned some of the wine cellars at M. de Tréville’s old house, which he now occupies, into chambers serving the same grim purpose. He is worse than Comminges, they say. He enjoys this sort of thing.” He winces with disgust. “M. de Tréville should be turning in his grave to see what the Garrison and his old house have become in the hands of Mancini and Marchal. A clown and a brute.”
“These are different times, perhaps,” Raoul says. He knows that he sounds unforgiving, and perhaps he is. He has partaken in the crude methods of persuasion that the duc d’Herblay finds abhorrent. In fact, he learned them from Fabien, and even if, later, he stepped away, he has, at times, wondered if that is enough to absolve him. And what about the duc d’Herblay? Can the man, who was raised from Musketeer to Prime Minister and fathered two sons with the Queen of France, purport to be thus abhorred? It is impossible for Raoul to believe that the duc has never practiced the methods he denounces. Rochefort would not have dissimulated thus, Raoul thinks, but stops halfway through the thought. This is Rochefort’s power of seduction, he reminds himself: how casually and openly he talks about his crimes. Raoul is embarrassed to see, in the duc’s eyes a look of kindness and compassion, as if the duc can read his mind, which, of course, is impossible.
“Speaking about different times,” the duc remarks, “I half expected to see the Comte de Rochefort this morning.”
The duc cannot possibly know the truth, but he is perceptive and cunning. Raoul must never lower his guard with him. “Perhaps we overestimate his influence,” he evades.
“Perhaps it is the opposite,” the duc insists.
“If so, would the King not reveal such secret influence? I daresay you know His Majesty better than I do; better than most people,” Raoul evades again.
“Louis has restored Rochefort to power, and that is revelation enough for me. Were I Rochefort, I would prefer to remain in the shadows. It is the only way to influence Louis. For the rest, Rochefort has Giulio.” Beneath the duc’s quiet, even tone lies vexation. “Do not pretend you do not know,” he tells Raoul. “Of course you know, you are Spymaster. Giulio does Rochefort’s bidding when it suits him. He did Rochefort’s bidding when he abandoned France’s agreement with Venice and turned to Florence. Your father and your uncle almost killed each other over that cunning ruse. He did it again at Stenay where d’Artagnan was nearly killed and Porthos proved himself a hero. Giulio is doing it again now. I am no Spymaster of France, but I know Giulio, and he would not spend a single sou of his own money on anything, not even for the King of France. It is Rochefort’s money he is spending, of this I am sure, as I am sure that you know. I would not be surprised if Giulio has indebted the next five generations of Mancinis to Rochefort’s bank in Florence.”
“Then, Your Grace, must also know that as Spymaster I take my orders from the King and I can only know what the King demands that I know,” Raoul says gravely. He makes a small respectful bow and turns to leave, but Aramis stops him.
“Listen Raoul,” Aramis says, his tone affectionate, but stern. “I understand better than you think. We all understand.” He stresses the word ‘all’. “Unlike other, ordinary men,” he continues, “you find yourself in a most extraordinary position. Instead of one, you have four devoted fathers. Additionally, you find yourself with one very fierce uncle; fierce in character and in his love of you. I shall say nothing about your mother and grandmother nor about your cousin Layla and her husband. That is a lot of family indeed.” His expression softens. “We all understand. What you must understand in turn is this: whatever it is that you must do, you will always have us. All you have to do is give us the word.”
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“There goes my entire morning! Wasted!” the duc d’Anjou protests the moment he is left with his mother and brother. “Why drag me here? These are your apartments at the Louvre. No one seems to care very much where I am lodged.”
“This is a family matter,” Louis replies tersely.
“Oh, I see. It must be why you invited Captain Mancini. Because he is family, and not because you fancied you have discovered yet another way to torment me!” He moves to stand before his brother, angry and determined, his hands on his hips. “Well, let me tell you that I have looked elsewhere, and I have found a lover who is far superior!”
“He is the Cardinal’s nephew,” Louis says quietly although the vexed quiver in his voice is hard to restrain. “The Louvre is our home and the Cardinal, Captain Mancini’s uncle, is making us a generous gift.”
“Pfff! The Cardinal!” the duc d’Anjou sneers. “Who do you take me for? Fabien Marchal, who pretends to know only what you command him to know? Our Cardinal would not spend a single sou of his money on anything or anyone but himself. He keeps our aunt, the Queen of England and her daughter, our cousin Minette, in abject poverty. Do you not know that they sleep on threadbare and tattered linens or that in the winter they must huddle in one room, cloaked and wrapped in blankets for want of heat? Are they, perchance, not family enough?”
“Philippe!” Queen Anne stops her younger son, sharply. “What you describe is vile gossip…”
“What I describe is true, and you know it, Mother. Just as you know whose money the Cardinal spends on this extravagance. I marvel at your self-possession. Truly, I do.”
“That is enough!” Louis’ voice thunders through the room. “I am your King before I am your brother! I invite whom I choose, just as I decide whom I call family.”
“Is that a threat?” the duc d’Anjou scoffs. “Am I to expect the treatment poor Saint-Aignan receives for his dull entertainments or the exile our cousin Anne Marie Louise endures at Saint-Fargeau because I speak the truth? Because I tell you what you do not wish to hear?”
“Anne Marie Louise remains an unrepentant Frondeur,” Queen Anne says. “Your Brother does what he deems best for our family and for France, which are one and the same. It is your duty, Philippe to…”
“I know my duty, Mother! I have known it since the day I was born your second son.” He turns to his brother again. “I am not my treasonous uncle Orlèans and I am no Frondeur. I have your back, brother. I always have, and always shall. It means that I will never lie to you, nor flatter you, as the rest of those who swarm about you do. Do not confuse truth with treason. I do not like the path you are choosing for us, for our family, and if that means France also, so be it. To you, to my brother, the man and the King, I say this: consider how far you must bend your conscience and your integrity. If you lose, we all lose and for this family the stakes will always be steep.” The duc d’Anjou turns on his heel, opens the door of the room himself, and bangs it shut behind him as he marches out.
⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️
Louis paces the room, while his mother remains in her chair, silent. “I suppose you agree with him,” Louis says at last.
“Your brother loves you,” she reminds him quietly. “But you are the King.”
“That is not what I asked.” Louis clicks his tongue, vexed, and paces a few more steps. He turns to her: “Is it true? About the Queen of England and her daughter?”
Queen Anne lowers her eyes. “I fear so.”
He draws in a sharp breath. “She is a daughter of France. She is a Queen.”
“I will see that it is remediated at once.”
“Do. Have she and her daughter not endured indignity enough?” He pauses. “The Marquis de Normanville…Raoul, has informed me that her son, Charles, has escaped and is making his way to France.”
“He has fought valiantly,” Queen Anne says. “And he persists. The mark of a true King.”
“He is our cousin. I will not have it said that his mother and sister have been mistreated for want of money, as though we are not family but miserly money lenders from the Rue des Lombards.” He pauses again. “Raoul was telling me earlier this morning that, having escaped from the battlefield at Worcester at the last moment, and by a back door at that, Charles endured a most perilous journey south, disguised as a peasant, and calling himself Will Jones. The rightful King of England! At Bristol he almost boarded a ship, but Cromwell’s agents were upon him, a fiend called George Mordaunt and his men. At last, our cousin embarked on the Surprise at Shoreham. Raoul says that they are being pursued at sea and on land, for their pursuers—this Mordaunt among them–may already be in Normandy.”
“And what of us?” Queen Anne fixes him a meaningful look, as if she anticipates his answer, or already knows it.
“Charles is our cousin,” Louis repeats coldly. “I have ordered Raoul to place observers along the coast. We cannot overextend our forces. We have battles of our own to fight, with the Fronde and with Spain.”
“I wonder if that is enough.”
“Enough for whom? Is there anyone in France eager to start a new war with Cromwell and England, however much they despise his cause and support my cousin’s?”
“But…Protestants!” Queen Anne spits out the word with disgust.
“It is unsavory, you are right. Yet, as I was recently reminded by a wise counselor, even the great Richelieu held his nose and accepted Buckingham’s assistance at the Île de Ré.”
“Dare I ask who this wise counselor might be?” Queen Anne presses.
“It is irrelevant,” Louis says. “What matters is that we do not align ourselves with Cromwell and his radicals. We remain neutral in the internal affairs of England but show our concern where our family is affected, as we must. If Charles makes it ashore he will have our protection. But France will not interfere. Besides, our new fleet is not yet ready to fight battles.”
“New fleet?” Queen Anne narrows her eyes, perplexed. “How?”
“I suppose you do not know this,” Louis says haughtily. “Yes, I have a new fleet. How is beside the point. They are merchantmen and shall remain so, for war is profitable, but trade more so. Only the best among them will be refitted for battle. That is the general plan. The particulars I discuss with my admiral and ministers. There is to be a new post of Lieutenant Général des Armées Navales and new admiralty headquarters at Rouen. The duties of my new naval minister will be to see that France’s ships prevail both in trade and war, to man them with the right people and build me new ones.”
“I wonder who could oversee so demanding a post.” She pauses a moment. “The duc du Plessis?”
“Is there a man in France more competent or more experienced?” He smiles cunningly. “And he is family which should please you further.”
“An admiralty in Rouen should prove most valuable under the circumstances,” Queen Anne muses.
“We must show a strong hand in Normandy; rein in all the dissenters and agitators who have found shelter there.”
“Others too,” the Queen adds, “for I keep hearing about the so-called ship of the Spanish Inquisitor, that has been sowing fear along that coast.”
“ ‘So-called’ strikes the mark perfectly, Mother,” Louis says. “Raoul tells me he is certain that the ship is a ruse.”
“A ruse using the Grand Inquisitor? Who would be so bold?”
“Vargas,” Louis says. “In other words, my uncle and father-in-law. Your brother, King Philip.”
“I cannot speak on behalf of my brother. Yet, I cannot imagine what would make him give such orders to his Spymaster. I have wondered whether Philip is being swayed by councillors who prey upon his despair at begetting a rightful living heir–even though Mariana is still very young–and upon his fear that a French dauphin, born to his eldest daughter, threatens the Spanish succession.”
“It does. It will,” Louis declares. “And my father-in-law appears convinced of it, and determined to avert it. Spanish troops are gathering once more in the Spanish Netherlands, across the border from Normandy.”
“And Condé can lead them,” Queen Anne says.
“Ah, yes, the other sore point. Our treasonous cousin hiding in Spain,” Louis sneers. “His brother, his sister, his brother-in-law and their friends are rallying their Frondeur allies in Normandy, arming them once more, Raoul tells me. They have learned nothing from their recent defeats. Even the Prince of Sedan now, aspires to claim independence, if you can believe it and despite the indulgence we have shown him.” He springs to his feet and leans across his desk toward his mother. “If only I did not have to wait. If only I knew I had a son. They would see what it means to defy their King.”
“It is only a few months,” Queen Anne says, trying to appease him.
“It may be too late. I must contend with these dissenters instead of crushing them. The ducque de Lerma could be in Spain, forcing my father-in-law to hand Condé over, while men like General du Vallon, who is to be made a Marshal of France, as he deserves, could be reining in those who dare oppose me in Normandy: The Comte d’Artagnan could be doing the same in Paris.”
“I see you have changed your opinion of these men,” Queen Anne observes carefully.
Louis returns a faint smile. “Ah, how clever you are Mother. Inviting the duc d’Herblay this morning, is this not what you truly mean? A King blinded by personal grievances is a poor King. The duc taught me that. Whatever else may be said, he remains invaluable, especially now. He goes to Spain with the ducque de Lerma, incognito, as he must. I am sure you know this.” She indicates with a small nod that she does. “As for the Comte de La Fère, the other sore point in our family, the actual Frondeur—for I never saw Condé, our uncle Orléans, or our cousin Anne Marie Louise as devoted to the people’s cause, only to their own, unlike the Comte…”
“He is now the duc de Richelieu” Queen Anne gently corrects him.
“Indeed. And that is a name with substance and power.”
“The man too, although he is a master of modesty and understatement. It has always been so with him, and I have known him since I was very young, a courtier in those days and not much older than you are now,” Queen Anne remarks. “The duc de Richelieu knows war well, but I assure you it is in politics where he truly shines, even though I am certain he will declare it is beneath him. The duc can be a vexing man; stubborn, and eccentric.” She pauses a moment. “It occurs to me, now that I think on it, that he and his younger brother, the duc du Plessis, have been vexing in very similar ways although circumstances made them appear starkly different. Exact opposites, in fact. I wonder how it is that I never saw how alike they truly are.”
“No one did, apparently.” Louis chuckles. “And I have it on good authority that even the duc’s son, my clever Spymaster, was caught by surprise, which I found strangely reassuring.” He sobers. “Between the undeniable political acumen of the duc de Richelieu and his Venetian connections, which are now invaluable since the Porte offered us nothing despite their promises; the power that his younger brother, the duc du Plessis, wields among privateers and in the underbelly of that world; and their mother’s wealth and influence which reach as far as Rome and the most distant colonies, we cannot afford to offend or oppose them.” He extends a meaningful look. “And they are family.”
“You give me an idea,” Queen Anne says.
⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️
“Wait! M. le duc!”
Aramis turns, blinking in the light of midday and surprised to find Philippe, the duc d’Anjou, hurrying toward him, along the open gallery. “It is good to see you,” the young prince says with an affable smile. “It was good to see you this morning.”
“It was an honor to be included, Monseigneur,” Aramis replies with a small bow.
“Nonsense,” Philippe says warmly. “If not you, then who? That man, whoever he may be, who counsels my brother from the shadows?”
“You must not credit every rumor,” Aramis says gravely.
“It is not merely rumor,” the young prince insists. “I am convinced of it. My brother has changed in a short time, and in ways that alarm me. I told him so, but he will not listen. I speak truth to him, and he treats me like a fool. I could hear it in his voice today. He all but threatened to ban me from his presence, like he has banned Saint-Aignan.”
“You are His Majesty’s brother, Monseigneur,” Aramis says. “How can Your Grace be compared to any courtier, even His Majesty’s favorite, if that is what Saint-Aignan has been? What is Saint-Aignan to His Majesty? What is he compared to Your Grace? As His Majesty’s only brother it is your duty not only to stand beside him but to speak truth to him. It is a heavy duty, Monseigneur, and you must bear it, as he must bear the weight of ruling a restless kingdom. He still faces the Fronde, and perhaps another war with Spain, against his father-in-law, your uncle. And he is to be a father. That changes a man. Aye, even a King.”
Philippe seizes Aramis’ hands. “I am angry, Your Grace,” he says, his voice trembling with emotion. “I am angry because I grew up kept from you. Because, unlike my brother, I was denied the benefit of your wise counsel which I have only lately discovered. And now you are to leave again.”
“Leave!” Aramis contrives to restrain his surprise.
“Well, yes. To Spain with M. de Rohan,” the young prince says in an off-hand manner.
Aramis draws in an exasperated breath. “It was meant to be a secret.”
“Not for me, surely,” Philippe says with a chuckle and stepping closer he whispers playfully: “Besides, this the court of France. Nothing remains secret for very long.”
“Of course!” Aramis laughs. “ ‘Gēraskō d’ aiei polla didaskomenos’ to quote the ancient Greek philosopher. Je vieillis en apprenant toujours. I grow old, still learning.”
“You think I have something to teach you?” the young prince asks, surprised.
“I think we have much to learn from each other,” Aramis replies. “And that we must waste no more time. So, would Monseigneur honor me by dining at my house this evening?”
Philippe presses his hands with delight. “It will be a great pleasure, Your Grace. A great pleasure indeed!”
⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️
Queen Anne rises from behind her desk as soon as the name is announced and her visitor enters the study. She is well fortified with an affable smile and gracious manner.
Madame de Chevreuse, her dame d’ honneur, makes a fine curtsy as she enters. “You asked to see me, Anne?”
“Yes, there is some business to be arranged,” Queen Anne says, stepping away from her desk.
“The promenade this afternoon?”
“No, no,” the Queen indicates two comfortable chairs set by the tall windows overlooking her private garden. “I am sure everything is already well prepared for that,” she says as they sit. “I have neglected a certain matter,” Queen Anne continues, “what with our sudden departure from Paris on account of the pox, which, at last, abates, thanks be to God, and with Marie-Thérèse suffering so difficult a pregnancy. But the matter must be resolved, you will agree with me.”
“Catherine de Renard,” Chevreuse says, her gaze searching the Queen’s face.
“Yes. She has all but disappeared and without a word,” Queen Anne says, feigning ignorance, although Chevreuse is no fool. “I must assume some grave and unexpected misfortune has befallen her, for she has neither resigned nor sent an explanation as propriety demands.”
“Well, she will not be missed by anyone. Certainly not by me. Neither Catherine de Renard nor her vile son, whom no one has seen for months,” Chevreuse observes coldly.
“But she must be replaced,” Queen Anne says. “She was my dame d’atour. You cannot be responsible for those duties as well as your own.”
“I do not fear work, if it is for you, my love,” Chevreuse replies warmly. “I shall draw up a list of names.”
She motions to stand, but Queen Anne stops her. “I have someone in mind.”
“Oh?” Chevreuse frowns. “Why do I feel I shall not like this?”
“My dear Marie, it does not matter whether you like her or not. I have already written a letter of invitation to Madame d’Artagnan, and she has accepted the charge.”
“For God’s Sake, Anne! Madame Drapière?” Chevreuse gasps with horror. “It would be funny if it were not so grave. I endured Catherine de Renard for the love I bear you, but at least there was some semblance of nobility. You cannot ask me to have my name associated with some commoner, from God knows where.”
“With all the love I bear you, Marie,” Queen Anne says gently, “I am not asking you. I am telling you that Madame d’Artagnan is my dame d’atour from this day forward.”
Chevreuse pushes herself up from her chair. She appears distraught, but Queen Anne knows it takes far more than this to truly shake Marie de Rohan. “You leave me no alternative, Anne,” Chevreuse says, drawing herself up with cool dignity. “I feel it is perhaps best that I resign. I shall return to my country estate, of course, as is expected. But I have also missed travelling, and I should like to see more of the world. Salih Bey, who is a most delightful companion especially at the theater, has quite awakened my curiosity about Constantinople.”
Queen Anne has anticipated this. It has happened many times before, ever since they were very young: Marie threatening to resign and retire from court in order to have her way, and Anne relenting in the end. “I feel it is best as well,” Queen Anne replies. She stands too and takes Chevreuse’s hands in hers. “I thank you for your loyal and trusted service all these years, my dearest friend.”
“Anne?” Chevreuse whispers, stunned.
“Know that you will always have in me a beloved friend and sister,” Queen Anne says. She smiles affectionately. “Let us not say farewell. But remember me in your travels.”
Later, that same day, Queen Anne dispatches, through her secretary, a second letter of invitation. She writes:
Madame la Duchesse de Richelieu,
Her Majesty the Queen Mother has learned, with great consolation, of your recovery and of the happy birth of your son. Sensible of your merit, and desiring to attach to her person one whose name and qualities recommend her equally, Her Majesty invites you to enter her Household in the charge of Dame d’honneur.
She prays God to have you, Madame la Duchesse, in His holy keeping.
Anne R.
Twelve Years After 