This is one of the epilogues for our story… for those wanting to know what my intent was for the outcome for Antoine Baudin.
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Rochefort paced inside the small cell in the Bastille, secure in the knowledge that the prison guard, one of his own men, would give them the privacy he desired. "You assured me that you could isolate d'Artagnan from the musketeers and discredit the regiment to the King," he said. "You offered to do this because it suited your purposes, and I agreed because it suited mine. But you have done just the opposite, and now the musketeers are closer to the King—and each other—than ever."
"D'Artagnan can still be isolated. I have found his weakness. It can be done!"
Rochefort shook his head. "The Queen will champion d'Artagnan at every turn after today; no less so the King. One wrong move and everyone is at risk."
"Losing my confidence and my friendship has weakened the King," Baudin declared. "I can take the next step now, Rochefort. Please." Baudin shook the shackles on his wrists, frustrated and angry and desperate. Rochefort did not reply. "Please, Rochefort. You need to get me out of here. Juliette could be in danger if people believe that I will talk—"
"Ah, yes, your betrothed," Rochefort considered. He tsk'd, looking at the raw pain in Baudin's eyes, absolutely certain he understood the need for a woman who should be with him but was not. "Unfortunately, as soon as she found out you were condemned as a traitor and thrown in the Bastille, she abandoned you and has not been seen, for shame of being associated with you."
Baudin's reaction was swift, and fearful. "What have you done with her?"
"Juliette is safely tucked away somewhere that she doesn't have to hear your name." He moved behind Baudin. "You, of course, are devastated by the loss of your one true love… and you cannot live with the guilt of what you have done to her."
In the blink of an eye the Comte had the chain connecting the shackles on Baudin's own wrists pulled tightly around the prisoner's neck. The one-time confidant of the King gasped for breath and his eyes widened as he tried to claw toward the chain, trying to release himself from the grip that was cutting off his oxygen, pressing unrelentingly into his throat, leading him to what he was certain was his final moment. He would never have a chance to look into Juliette's hypnotic eyes again, never be able to hold her soft, white hand in his, never feel her sweet breath dance across his face as they neared each other for a stolen kiss. He was leaving her, he knew. And she would never know that his last thoughts were of her.
When Rochefort felt the struggling man in his hold go limp, he let go. Baudin tumbled to the ground, leaving the Comte to look down at him. "And so you kill yourself before she has to face the shame of your betrayal again," Rochefort concluded, satisfied. "It's the honorable thing to do, after all."
He arranged the body in such a way that the man's death would be treated without suspicion. It was, for him, a simple task. Then, his eyes without expression, his face without compassion, Rochefort turned away from the failed collaborator, and left the cell.
