This… is new. The letter in his hand contains no signature, no personal mark from its sender, and this, he feels most ardently, is unacceptable.
To His Excellency Cardinal Richelieu
All my love and affection.
"Minister?"
Now Cardinal Richelieu is not one to flinch, but caught up in the mystery of his admirer (or more likely prankster), Tréville catches the minister off guard, causing him to visibly startle. Turning toward the Musketeer Captain, Richelieu hides his hands behind his back, not unlike one of his more frequent stances, yet there is a forced calmness in the movement which lifts Tréville's chin in curiosity.
"What is it?" Richelieu's words come out with a harsh edge, and Tréville's eyebrows rise just as his chin had.
Tréville holds out a leather case and informs the First Minister, "The twelve-page report you wanted signed and sealed in triplicate." The Captain allows a measure of his irritation and exhaustion to seep into his explanation. After all, he was up all night making sure every page was flawless, and despite copious scrubbing, his hands still bear the ink stains of his efforts.
In his haste to receive the paperwork, Richelieu reveals both of his hands and thus the previously hidden note. Tréville lingers, awaiting dismissal or some hint concerning the mystery letter, until Richelieu realizes that the other man has yet to leave.
"Don't you have a garrison to run?"
After completing the appropriate formalities of departure, the captain of the Musketeers strides away sighing and shaking his head once he puts sufficient distance between himself and the moody Minister. But if Tréville thinks Richelieu's state to be little more than a temporary grouchiness, he is quite mistaken.
As January gives way to the early days of February, the Cardinal's mood sours further with every new letter he finds, each one professing greater affection and possessing more specific detail than the one before. And so, having had enough, he finds himself knocking on the door of Tréville's garrison office.
"Enter." Tréville's voice carries a dash of boredom and a smattering of patience worn far too thin.
"I hope you don't address the king that way," Richelieu drawls as he sweeps into the room.
"Richelieu."
"Tréville."
"I presume there's good reason for you to leave the palace to meet with me." The captain looks up from his paperwork and finds the Cardinal still standing although on the brink of pacing judging by the near twitching of his legs.
Richelieu does not answer; instead he deposits a bundle of letters on Tréville's desk and finally begins stalking back and forth while the other man proceeds to read said letters.
"Someone's sending you love letters?" This, he must confess, is hilarious, and he finds resisting the urge to laugh nigh impossible yet manages it nonetheless.
"Yes." The word is a drawn out and irritated sigh.
"Do you know who?"
"Obviously not."
"How is that obvious?"
"I wouldn't be here if I knew, would I?"
Tréville hasn't seen Richelieu this flustered over something other than a matter of state since they were much younger men. As such, the left corner of his mouth refuses to hold a straight line, instead creeping ever more skyward with each verbal exchange. "Why have you come here?"
Richelieu takes a deep breath before halting in front of Tréville's desk and leaning over the wooden surface. "Help me find out who this woman is and I'll overlook the shortcomings of your Musketeers for a week."
"Three months."
"One."
"Two and a half."
"Two."
"Deal." Rising from his chair, Tréville dons his hat and winter cloak before exiting his office. On his way out of the garrison, he quickly surveys the men practicing in the yard and, finding the most senior of them, calls, "Porthos, you're in charge until I get back". The Musketeer laughs and ends his match with one of his comrades by throwing him into the dust.
