Chapter 40: Chez La Comtesse
The horses came to a gradual stop as an immense building loomed into view some distance away.
Porthos' jaw dropped wide open as he took in the scene before him. The Dandurand manor – or rather, castle – spread out comfortably over at least twenty acres, such that from his current vantage point, the musketeer could see nothing else in sight but its magnificent walls. It was made up of three wings, marked by two discrete towers and one large imposing one facing East.
"You live… HERE?" he yelled in the direction of Marianne and her valet.
"Porthos, hush!" cautioned Athos. "We don't want to draw attention to ourselves just yet."
They had reached their destination a couple of hours after dawn, having left the Louvre late to take advantage of the night cover. The morning sun was shining splendidly in the East, casting its long warm rays onto the stone walls of the castle, making the fine particles of salt in its stone shine, giving it an ethereal glimmer. While in the West, heavy clouds were gathering, darkening the sky. The contrast in the light made the scene before them appear as though it was from a fantastical fairy tale.
"Stay here while I open the drawbridge," Gerard announced as he dismounted. He had been driving the carriage in which Prince Philippe and Marianne traveled. Yet, far from affording them a luxury travel experience, the carriage served two other purposes: the first was to give the illusion to any onlookers that, indeed, the Comtesse de Dandurand was returning home; the second, was to transport a great massive deal of gun powder. Although judging by the size and grandness of the building to be sorrowfully transformed into a rubble, Athos began to doubt whether their supply of gun powder would make any impact at all. He stroked his goatee thoughtfully as he surveyed the place.
On his end, Porthos hadn't liked the idea of having Marianne in a carriage full of gun powder one bit. He had insisted that she should ride with him but alas, given his injury and Marianne's shoddy riding, it was not an option. Instead, he had climbed behind Aramis while his horse and the Prince's drew the carriage.
"A drawbridge?" he now exclaimed lowering his voice but without losing his bewildered excitement. Athos rolled his eyes while Aramis smiled.
He had been fidgeting in his seat behind her as he extended his neck here and there to look around, crushing her back in the process.
"Good God, there's a moat, too!" he exclaimed again.
"Well, what did you think the drawbridge was for?" Aramis turned to him with mocking eyebrows.
"Oh, I don't know, a symbol of status? An architectural aesthetic? Who uses drawbridges, anyway these days? It's so Medieval," he retorted. She smiled at him affectionately. How endearing can Porthos be! Especially when he was being dense.
"How rich are these people?" he went on. "Must be richer than the King himself."
"Really, Porthos!" Aramis nudged him and nodded towards the carriage. "Lower your voice or she will hear you."
Athos brought his horse a step back, to be closer to his comrades.
"Indeed. I think you have said enough to that poor young woman already," he smirked at his friend.
"What! How did you…? Who told you?" Porthos questioned him anxiously and indignantly.
"Aramis filled me in while we were waiting for the Prince to get dressed and while you were away with de Villebois, getting your arm taken care of," Athos responded casually.
"Oh, she did, didn't she?" he said, giving Aramis a dark look. The latter covered her hand with her mouth, suppressing her laughter. But he didn't really care. At least those two were talking again.
At last, the drawbridge came down and the party rolled gradually up a steep hill that led to a gate which opened onto the main courtyard. Gerard de Villebois brought up the rear and closed the bridge behind them before making sure they were not followed.
When they reached the courtyard, after some exertion on part of the horses, and especially Aramis' horse, the castle looked even more imposing and somewhat threatening. Once could see how the building had been neglected in certain places and weathered in other places. Athos determined that the foundation was not as stable as he had thought. The plan might work after all.
Looking behind them now from atop the hill, they could see the moat stretching around the castle in a semi-circle, until it joined a river that surrounded the rest of the perimeter. Thus, the other side of the castle was raised on foundations that went right through the riverbank.
"There are dams on the moat that keeps the river levels in check," explained Gerard as he joined them. "If you release the dams, you can flood the moat. With the high walls along the length of the moat, it becomes impossible to go in or out except through the drawbridge. And if we're lucky," he pointed at the greying sky, "there will be a storm that will raise the water levels even more."
"By God, this is a Belle-Isle!" declared Porthos.
…
Upon arrival, the party separated into two groups: Athos, Aramis and Gerard took the carriage towards the kitchen entrance to unload the gunpowder into a safe and dry place until they decided where to plant it.
The Comtesse de Dandurand, on her part, led the Prince and the musketeer towards the front door. To the surprise of the two men, she produced a screwdriver from some hidden pocket in her dress and began loosening some screws on either side of the door frame.
The Prince inched nearer to take a closer look. The door was large and made of solid iron, embellished with carved wooden decorations. When Marianne was finished, he could see that she had in fact opened hidden panels in the frame which contained small levers.
"Very well," she exhaled, wiping her brow. "Let's see if I remember the sequence correctly."
She scratched at her chin, while she squinted at the door, searching her memory.
"Err, and what happens if it's wrong?" Porthos asked.
Marianne flashed him a smile and pointed upwards. His eyes widened and he gulped loudly. Right above them was a thick iron plate, held in place by iron chains that seemed to go through the walls. On this moveable plate were sharp spikes.
"You mean… that… would fall on us?"
Marianne sneered, "I suppose I had never truly understood why an insignificant family like us who never received anyone and lived out of sight needed to have itself surrounded by such exorbitant levels of protection."
With that, Marianne began pulling on the levers. One on the left, two on the right, then two on the left, two again on the right and the one again on the left.
The two men watched her nervously, the sweat creeping up on their foreheads. A chilling sound startled them as the chain holding the spike plate above them rattled. When the door hadn't budged, Porthos was ready to pull Marianne and the Prince and make a run for it but then she seemed to remember that there was one last lever. She pulled it and then kicked at the door frame, which appeared to jumpstart the mechanism. The door painfully screeched as it opened begrudgingly.
"W-Why couldn't we have gone through the kitchen with the others?" Philippe stammered with relief. He and Porthos proceeded to take off their hats reluctantly upon entry.
"The kitchen door is not as heavily guarded. If an intruder were to walk in through the kitchen while the front is locked, the entire kitchen would be sealed off by bars that descend from the wall and block the entrances."
"Like a mouse trap?"
"Precisely."
As they were conversing, Porthos looked around him. Any awe that had possessed him regarding this place was beginning to dissipate. The musketeer had such a love for everything that flickered and glittered. Like many women in the French court, he too, adored extravagance in decorations, fineness in dress and expensive flashy accessories. He couldn't deny that the first time he had met the Comtesse de Dandurand, he was as much attracted by her figure as by the promise of wealth and status that her glimmering expensive golden dress exuded. Yet, unlike many aristocratic women whom he had the pleasure of courting, the young Comtesse turned out to be not just a temporary patroness who would provide him with an allowance and a warm bed.
Porthos listened absently to what Marianne was saying. "The castle had been built in the 13th century, with several modifications and renovations since. It consists of three wings. One is where our living quarters and servants' quarters are. Although we have no servants. The other wing is where the library, dining and drawing rooms and other utility rooms are. As for the last wing… well, it's not in use… anymore."
They had advanced past the foyer into a large hall that had two staircases and several doors and entryways leading to the wings Marianne was describing. When she spoke, it seemed that the whole castle echoed with her voice, which led Porthos to conclude that the emptiness that decorated this hall was a recurring theme in this place.
He wandered around, keeping close to his companions, peeking through an entryway here and there. There were tapestries scattered on a few walls, hanging alongside some ancient portraits. Otherwise, the walls were as naked as the rooms they contained. Furniture was scarce and minimal. Mahogany wood seemed to be the choice for most pieces. Porthos grimaced at some of these pieces. He had been to many chateaus to know what was and wasn't in style. Nothing in this house was "up to style". It was, in fact, ugly. Overall, the place was dark, damp and lacklustre. "Rich" was no longer the word that came to mind. It was lifeless and depressing. Instead of it being the image of a fairy tale, it seemed like just the place where ghosts would live.
"…Gerard will no doubt demonstrate all the secret passageways and chambers. You see, if you look there…"
Porthos rejoined his companions, trying to concentrate on what their hostess was saying. He took in the figure of the young woman before him. Unlike the many women of her rank, and especially those Porthos knew, Marianne looked provincial. As if she was a farm girl that someone had mistaken for a lady. There was always somehow a rebellious strand or two of her hair sticking out; the hue of her hair kept changing depending on the light, as if it refused to be boxed into just one predictable color; her eyes were captivating when she spoke but unremarkable otherwise; although she was eighteen years of age, she still dressed like a girl, in plain pastels with the occasional ribbon; her hands were rough and stained, very much the opposite of dainty and delicate; her bosom was larger and less restrained – to Porthos' delight; oh, but unlike many of the women of the court who had thin pursed lips, Marianne was in possession of the most scrumptious, plump and moist ones!
He sighed, fondly reminiscing of their most passionate moments. Ah, but who was he, in the end, to turn up his nose on a farm girl, anyway? Porthos had never been one for fantasies or daydreams but the more he stared at Marianne the more he realized that this is exactly what a Madame du Vallon ought to be like.
Perhaps she was not the most beautiful woman in the world, but she was far from being plain. She was unique, bright and very much unlike this place, she was full of life.
Full of life…
A life that had been spent in some sort of a metaphorical prison. His heart ached for her. He imagined her as a child, with unruly reddish curls, a petulant pout and furrowed brows. How adorable she must have been. And how sad. An orphan brought up by an eccentric criminal, desperate for some love and warmth that was never to come.
He thought back to his own childhood. He had grown up in a big family with barely anything to their name. But they had been happy. Yet, he often envied the privilege and material security of his mistresses and their husbands. The Comtesse de Dandurand had been no different to him. He had envied her as well, admittedly.
"Money isn't everything, my son," his mother's voice echoed in his mind.
"But it's nice to have, Maman!" he would whine to her then list all the things he wanted and would do if he had money. She would then pinch his cheek and kiss the top of his head, laughing.
"Careful or you'll become a miserable greedy old man! Better to choose love over money, hm?"
He chuckled inwardly to himself. If Marianne had nothing, which might as well be the case after all of this was over, would he feel the same about her? Would her allure diminish? Ah, but he had been down that road; the path to try and forget her yet without avail. He doubted he ever could forget her. She was made for him and he for her. He knew from their first encounter.
She had an appetite for life that rivaled his. She was feisty, rebellious and unlike Aramis, she never needed to be discrete. She was outspoken, loud and petulant about what she wanted, or did not want for that matter. In that way at least, she was as every bit entitled as any aristocratic prick.
He exhaled profoundly. Oh, but what an arse he had been, truly. How could he have thought that Marianne was after marrying a man for money? And especially Rochefort! God, how mistaken he was. How dumb! "A flaky flirt", Athos had said. To hell with you, Athos. I'm never listening to you again. Taking advice from someone whose wife had betrayed him, who then tried to kill said wife, failed spectacularly and then somehow managed to make a gigantic mess of things with the only chance of love he would ever get in this life. Heavens, if anyone needed a lesson, it was Athos himself.
He so wanted to reach out and take her in his arms, to lift her up and twirl her around. To erase all the unpleasantness from her life, all the unpleasantness between them. To start all over again. Together.
He tugged gently at her sleeve like a little boy wanting attention, interrupting her speech to the Prince.
"You live… here?" he uttered, this time with sadness rather than enthusiasm.
Marianne tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. It was not hard to read him. He felt sorry for her to the point that he looked like he was going to burst into tears. And why shouldn't he? She was quite pitiful. It was all she could do to maintain her composure. No, she will not cry, she will not break down and make a fool of herself. And yet, she knew that if she were to do so, he would take her with open arms and an open heart that she could never feel like a fool with him. No, he would make her feel safe and… one day she would have thought he would have made her feel loved too. But she was no longer sure and she no longer wanted to hope.
"Yes," she responded to him, then attempted to change the subject, "my father was born here. He brought my mother when they married. The castle has been in the family for generations and…"
She abruptly stopped, her eyes wide open with alarm. She instinctively gripped his arm.
"What is it?" Porthos whispered.
"There is someone here. We are not alone."
