L'amante de Porthos

Chapter 30: Déjà vu

The Comte de Rochefort scanned the room like an eagle scouring the land for his next prey. She was there, he was certain of it. His informant was solidly reliable.

Just two weeks ago, he received the abominable order from his superior, the Cardinal Richelieu: He was to marry the Dandurand girl. How could His Eminence ask such a thing of him? He, who was loyal to him no matter what, who had been by his side through thick or thin, who would give his very life for this man. But to ask him to take a wife not of his choosing was nothing more than an insult, a deprivation of freedom in a way even. The whole affair made him question his devotion and the path he was on in life. And to question his own devotion to His Eminence was just beyond reason. This was all her fault.

So when he received information about her possible location, he had set out from Paris with the vilest humour possible, and he stood there at this ball carrying a large grimace and features that spelt out utter disdain towards no one in general; he had come to loathe this girl and everything associated with her.

Aside from the marriage, ever since the convention had started, there seemed to be a series of strange events that had occupied him: first was the bizarre appearance of the Comte de Rameau at the convention. Second was his connection with this girl. This made Rochefort realize that he actually knew nothing of her or of her family. As much as he asked around and searched the records, there was no information to be found. It was as if they did not even exist.

Then these high-profile robberies began to happen, sporadically over the last couple of months but then intensified a great deal during the convention, necessitating his early departure to investigate. And by God, did he have an inkling! It was so similar, almost exactly the same pattern as last time. In the past, similar events had led up to the first appearance of the Iron Mask. And sure enough.

He had made his appearance well enough, albeit this time as discretely as possible. If it weren't for that useless old man, Lemay, who had survived, no one could have known. Why was he hiding? Last time, he raided Paris and challenged the entire monarchy as if it was his playground. He had made such a show of things.

Wasn't he dead? Were all their efforts at Belle-Ile for naught? For God's sake, how was it even possible that he survived? But then, again, no one had found that wretched submarine, nor any pieces of it. They only found his mask. That wretched ominous piece of metal.

He inhaled sharply. Another thought hadn't crossed his mind before: what of Milady? Surely, the body of a woman would have been more easily spotted among the wreckage. He shook his head violently. He should focus on the woman at hand now, not the one who was lost.

This infuriating spoiled flirt who had humiliated him at the King's Ball, then posed as Prince Philippe's love interest while he, Rochefort, had been declared to be courting her. She soiled his name. And then, she had the audacity to consort with none other than a musketeer! Oh, the mockery, the shame! To be traded in for a musketeer. It wasn't even Athos, whom he would even consider a viable rival. Disgusting! And that abomination of a Jussac had a field day with his jokes and mockery throughout the taverns. Oh, she had made an absolute fool of him and he will make her pay for it.

But the worst of all was to discover that her family had a connection with the Iron Mask himself. Yes, they had been attacked, yes her uncle was kidnapped by them. Yes, she had run away to save her life – or so the surviving old man had said. But he couldn't help but wonder… He had seen the submarine sketches, he had seen that lowly assistant helping Aramis with the sordid machine. He seemed to awfully know what he was doing.

Was she an accomplice? It was the rational question to ask. No, she was such a careless girl. She was naïve and generally unaware of the extent of her ignorance. She could hide her secret passions and "hobbies" from the common man, but Rochefort was intelligent and quick and it wasn't hard for him to deduce a few things about her. No, she didn't have what it takes. She wasn't Milady… Milady… His thoughts drifted to that sultry seductress once more.

Catch yourself, Rochefort! He reproached himself. He can't be missing her, can he? He sniggered to himself, you fool! She's dead. Focus… focus…. He continued to scan the room with his eye until he finally noticed a familiar figure at the far end of the room. She had one foot in the ballroom and the other out a door. It looked as though she was conversing animatedly with someone. Another man, perhaps, he thought. This little whore couldn't get enough!

He fixed his eye on her, waiting for her to turn around so he could see her face. Not long after, she did turn around. her eyes casually scanned the room and as she spotted him, her eyes flit wide open and her smile gave way to a panicked expression. Yes, it was her.

A malicious smirk dessinated on his face as he unhinged himself from his spot and decidedly marched towards her.

…..

The young dark-haired musketeer examined his reflection in the basin of the little fountain. He smoothed out a lock of his hair and straightened his doublet. He grinned to himself, pleased with his appearance and excited for the night ahead.

He had spent the day grooming, preparing and rehearsing: he took a long calming bath infused with his signature pine and rosemary, to which Cecile added some spearmint for extra "freshness". Then, with the help of his savvy sister, he cleaned his uniform and starched it to perfection. He then surrendered himself to Cecile's expert hands as she groomed him, shaving off his any unflattering facial hair for a fresh look and combing and styling his hair to its usual flattering glory, instead of the tangled mess it had formed over the last couple of weeks.

Finally, she shoved more of the fresh spearmint into his mouth and instructed him to chew on it for as long as possible so that when things go right, he would not be an off-putting droll.

Their plan was perfect and Marianne suspected nothing. She had previously agreed to Emilie's proposition to introduce her to someone, which slightly pained Porthos. She did not know it will be him and yet she had agreed to meet someone new. But no matter. He would wait in the inner gardens, under the moonlight and he would wait for her as long as it took. Fortunately for him, it proved to be a warm and glorious autumn night, with the moon high and almost full in the sky, providing a perfect romantic setting for his grand gesture.

Emilie would guide her here, to the entrance and instruct her to walk to the fountain where he was waiting for her. She would be shocked, he knew. Maybe unpleasantly so. But he didn't care. He will go down on his knees and ask her forgiveness if need be. He was prepared. And he will tell her how he felt, he will confess what an ass he had been, and beg her to take another chance on him. He will tell her he loved her. And he so looked forward to embracing her, to holding her in his arms again.

He even dared to let himself imagine that, after all was said and done, he would take her upstairs to his bedroom in the farm and make love to her all night long. Even though Cecile had made sure he took that idea out of his head. But he didn't care. Nothing mattered except her, except reuniting with her, gazing upon her once more, confessing his love to her. The rest will surely follow. He paced around with excitement and nerves, butterflies flying all around his large stomach.

…

"The dancing should start in five minutes so make your way to the inner gardens, by the little fountain. Oh, how romantic, I'm so excited! How I wish this was happening to me," Emilie swooned. Marianne could never tell if Emilie's romantic outbursts were more endearing or exhausting, but she smiled tenderly at her and it was all she could do not to give her a big hug.

Marianne turned back to the room to make sure no one was watching her and then….

She saw him.

There at the far end of the room.

Her eyes widened with horror and surprise. What was he doing here?

"Emilie!" she hissed. "He's here…"

"Who's here?"

"The man I told you about."

Marianne was in a complete panic. Did he see her?

Emilie peeked into the ballroom, absolutely puzzled. Porthos was not supposed to be here, not inside. No, he was waiting outside. Did he change his mind? Oh, she will be so angry at him if the Comte sees him crashing the ball uninvited!

But then her eyes landed on a tall dark-haired man, handsome and rugged. Exactly like the ones in the stories. Except… this man had one eye, while the other eye was covered in a black patch. His valid eye rested on them, on Marianne particularly, and Emilie had never felt so much malice in her life.

…

The Comte de Beaugrand had been promptly informed by his butler as soon as the stranger had arrived. He frowned at this impolite intrusion, but he also knew exactly why the Comte de Rochefort had come. Just as his butler was whispering in his ear, the Comte's eyes flit across the room to where Rochefort was standing and, tracing the man's line of sight, he realized that Rochefort had found what he was looking for.

He sent his butler hurriedly in Marianne's direction, with instructions to Emilie to take the young lady out of the ballroom and stay with her at all times.

In the meantime, the Comte de Beaugrand had practically leapt over his guests and just as Rochefort had extended his hand to grab the arm of the petrified young woman who had escaped him not once, but twice before, somebody yanked her by the waist through the door outside the ballroom at the very same moment that a strong meaty hand landed on his shoulder, eliciting a painful shock throughout his body. He turned around with an irate face.

"Rochefort, dear fellow!" bellowed the Comte de Beaugrand in as much good humour as he could possibly muster.

Pleasantries, pleasantries, thought Rochefort. He inclined to his host and dryly said, "Forgive the intrusion, Monsieur le Comte. I was in the area on some… business."

"Ah, how lovely," replied the host with a nod and a smile, eyeing his guest up and down. Clearly, you had just come straight from Paris, he thought to himself.

Seeing the commotion, the Comtesse de Beaugrand had joined the two men. She was flustered at seeing the newcomer, for he had not been on the guest list that she had meticulously prepared and the Comtesse de Beaugrand did not like surprises.

But the newcomer changed faces upon seeing her and put on a more charming one. He inclined to her as he brought her hand to his lips.

"Darling, we are being honored by the presence of the Comte de Rochefort," her husband announced.

She blushed under Rochefort's gaze. His reputation as a talented lover made this simple gesture all the more alluring to her.

"You are very welcome, Monsieur. The dancing will start in a minute. Shall we find you a partner?"

He inclined again, "Alas, Madame, I must decline your generous offer. I'm afraid there is only one woman who interests me here."

"Oh?" the Comtesse giggled inwardly, batting her eyelids at him, to the displeasure of her husband.

"May I have an audience with your governess?"

"The governess?" she gasped out loud, drawing attention from those around her. Her husband stiffened. Then, recovering herself, she whispered, "The governess? You cannot be serious!"

"I fear that I am."

"And what business do you have with her?" the Comte replied coldly.

"That, I cannot disclose. I must insist, however, on the Cardinal's orders."

Ah, he played the Cardinal card.

"Very well," conceded Beaugrand, "Allow me to escort you to my private bureau where you can wait for her while I send someone to fetch her."

"I am much obliged."

With that, they headed outside of the ballroom into the hallway leading to the private chambers, just as the musicians struck the first chord and the dancing began.

…..

Taking her by the waist, Emilie snatched Marianne out of the ballroom, shaking her out of her state of paralysis and prompting her into action. Hand in hand, they ran through the hallway and into the private quarters to take the main corridor there towards the inner gardens.

"Someone's coming!" Marianne whispered. They plastered themselves against a wall as the figures of two men, one taller and more imposing than the other walked hurriedly past them towards the Comte de Beaugrand's private chambers.

Emilie stifled a gasp with her hand, letting out a mousy squeal, which prompted Rochefort to halt and look around him.

But the Comte de Beaugrand hurried him on forward and anxiously looked back to make sure no one was there.

The two young women moved quietly towards the large glass door at the end of the hallway that led outside onto the inner gardens.

To their dismay, the doors were heavy and creaked loudly when they opened. They looked at each other with wide eyes as they heard the footsteps of the larger man stopping, and then changing direction towards them.

"No, I'm sure of it, this time," he called out to his host.

As soon as the door was even slightly opened, Emilie used all her strength and she pushed Marianne violently through the door into the gardens. She then turned around and locked the door behind her. In a split second, she had produced a cleaning rag from her pocket and pretended to be polishing the glass as if absolutely nothing had transpired.

"Really, Rochefort, you're being overly neurotic!" the Comte de Beaugrand called after his guest as he traipsed behind him.

Rochefort stopped short in front of the glass doors only to see a maid busy polishing the glass panes.

He shoved her aside and looked through the glass.

"Please, monsieur, I only just finished wiping that," she said, feigning a tone of utter desperation. Nothing made a man more uncomfortable than a woman in tears.

"Let the poor girl to her work, Rochefort," pleaded the Comte.

She was whimpering now and it was beginning to make him deeply uneasy.

He looked at her with disdain, folded his cloak onto himself and left without a word.

Emilie breathed a sigh of relief as her employer gave her a thumb up with a wink and followed his guest.

….

Porthos had been sitting by the fountain, with a rose he had picked up from the garden, a sheepish smile on his face, completely lost in his fantasies while staring up at the moon.

But he was startled out of his pleasant reverie when he spotted two figures moving rapidly in the hallway towards the glass door and struggling to open it while looking nervously behind them. Something was up.

He got up and began walking along the garden path that was surrounded by hedges and that narrowed down to a little doorway that gave way to the fountain.

…

For the petite and lively person that she was, Emilie possessed an uncommon physical strength and stamina.

She succeeded in opening the heavy glass doors singlehandedly and then she shoved her friend into the garden with such force that Marianne went flying along the garden path.

She was extremely caught off-guard by this gesture that, not bothering to look where she was going, she had tripped over herself, one leg in the air, lost her balance and…

FLOP!

Her eyes shut instinctively as her brain anticipated the pain that would come from such an inopportune fall.

But the ground never came.

Her arms, which had flung themselves in the air at a last attempt for balance had just as reflexively moved back and enclosed themselves around a solid object. As she hovered above the ground, she could now determine that it was a sturdy arm that had wrapped around her waist just in time, while another hoisted her up from her back and her foot had been caught between a pair of very strong legs, anchoring her firmly onto the ground.

A familiar, yet seductive scent wafted through her nose, awakening all her senses and everything in her that just some minutes she thought was dead.

Reluctantly, she opened her eyes.

"You!" she whispered, breathless.