Chapter 41: The de Villebois Household
The three companions stood back to back, surveying the room. The two men – the Prince and musketeer – had taken it upon themselves to surround the young lady so as no harm would come to her. Philippe had taken out his pistols and Porthos unsheathed his sword.
Everything went suddenly quiet and the room took on a much darker and eerier air than Porthos could have thought possible.
They waited silently.
And waited.
Porthos nodded in the direction of an entryway to the left, where he thought he had heard something. He then gestured for them to move and they inched a few steps towards the entryway.
It all happened so quickly from there. They were right in the center of the room when a strange whiff of inspiration – call it divine intervention – descended upon Marianne's spirit, rekindling her memory to the existence of yet another of her uncle's so-called "protection" mechanisms (in other words, a "booby trap").
She shot her head up towards the ceiling and sure enough, before she even saw it coming, she heard the clacking of chains and the tinkling of glass as the giant chandelier above them came crashing down on their heads.
In a split second, she acted swiftly, pushing Philippe out of the way while kicking Porthos in the knees, catching him by surprise and causing him to topple over and fall away before she herself could...
CRASH!
As soon as he realized what had happened, Porthos recovered himself and yelled, "MARIANNE!"
No, no, no, not again! Always too late, you fool! He berated himself angrily as he crawled towards her.
Her body was thrown on the ground, entirely covered in shards of broken glass. Her right arm was stretched out underneath her as her left hand covered her face, which was buried in her right shoulder.
"Marianne, no!" he whispered as he began to pick out the pieces off of her.
"Gently," Philippe cautioned as he joined him.
"Mmm…" a slight moan escaped the Comtesse, igniting the heart of the musketeer. He placed his hand under her cheek and turned her head around, dreading with every second the disfiguration she has probably been subjected to.
He placed her head in his lap, as he breathed a sigh of relief upon seeing her completely intact. Philippe announced that no shard had penetrated her body.
He cupped her face and stroked her gently. How darling she was. How pretty and pure. Having spied the adoring gaze in the musketeer's eyes, the Prince removed himself to give them privacy and stealthily walked towards the entryway in search of the culprit.
"Marianne," he whispered again. He lowered himself closer to her, his breath warming her face.
A smile began to tug at the corners of her mouth, as her eyes slowly flickered back to life. She stared at him longingly before stretching her arm out and caressing his face. He returned her smile and lowered his head even more. How desperately did he want to taste her lips once more! Alas, did he have a right to, after everything?
"I had forgotten about that," she said weakly, pointing to the chandelier. He chuckled softly.
"Well, thank goodness you remembered."
His lips hovered dangerously close to hers. She parted hers slightly in anticipation. His heart beat faster. Her hand went to his thick neck, subtly bringing him closer to her. Oh, but how dumb can she possibly be? How many times must she go down that road before she learned that nothing goodcame out of it? Oh, but shouldn't she?
… probably not.
Her hand dropped and she turned her face away. He attempted to hide his disappointment with a cordial smile and offered his assistance to her as she got up and regained her balance. She shook out the shards from her dress and he helped her remove some from her hair.
"Marianne, I…" he began. She looked up at him with big expecting eyes.
Before he could continue, they heard a strange kerfuffle behind them and as they turned around, they saw none other than Prince Philippe dragging an unknown figure in his arms as he held a pistol to their side.
"The culprit, mes amis!" he announced proudly.
…..
"Well done, monsieur!" Porthos beamed at him as he approached the Prince and his prey.
The Prince reveled in his moment of victory. How often had he dreamed of heroism since he returned to the Louvre! How often had he replayed Belle-Isle in his head, where he would have been thrown a sword and stood his ground to combat those miscreants like a real man instead of being carried away by Porthos like a sack of potatoes?! How useless and ashamed he had felt. What would Francois have thought of him? Especially after the poor tutor had spent hours of his life training Philippe in the art of fencing. What a disgrace!
Alas, his moment didn't last long for the stranger he was holding in his arms began to convulse and sob. It had been too dark to make out the face but he now realized that it was, in fact, a woman.
In his shock, he relaxed his grip on her and she almost threw herself in the direction of Marianne, wailing and calling out to her. If it weren't for Porthos' quick reaction, the woman would have landed right on the young Comtesse, probably not before causing her a great deal of harm.
But it only took them a short while to realize that she was unarmed and as Marianne came out of shock, she realized that it was not an enemy at all. But in fact, a very welcome friend.
"Madame Villy! It's you!" she exclaimed. And to Porthos, "Let her go, I beg you!" Porthos and the Prince exchanged a look before the musketeer obeyed his mistress.
The woman flung herself onto Marianne, who embraced her in return. The two men regarded each other and the scene in front of them with utter confusion.
"But I…" Philippe ventured, as if to justify to himself that the only time he had managed to capture someone in a heroic act turned out to be a fluke.
"What on earth is going on?" Gerard de Villebois stormed into the room, followed by the two musketeers, pistols and swords drawn. Having heard the commotion, they had run out of the kitchen, up some stairs, down a corridor, down more stairs and found themselves in the midst of a most peculiar scene that caused them to stop dead in their tracks.
Aramis looked at Porthos questioningly and he replied with a shrug.
"Gerard! Look who it is!" Marianne called out to the young man.
He dropped his sword to the floor and his body stiffened as the woman disengaged from the Comtesse and now flung herself at him.
"My son! O, my son, you are here. It is you!" she sobbed.
He clenched his jaw and he patted her back gently. What a spectacle, he rolled his eyes and prayed for deliverance.
"This is Madame Alice de Villebois," Marianne introduced the newcomer. "I call her Madame Villy."
"Ahhh!" they all said unanimously, the confusion finally giving way to comprehension.
Gerard placed his hands on the woman's shoulders as he tore himself away from her almost disgustedly.
"Mother," he addressed her coldly. She sniffled and dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief, hiding her face in embarrassment.
"Forgive me…" she uttered and gestured meekly to the chandelier. Although one could tell she was more troubled by her own display of emotion than by her attempt to assault the intruders.
"Oh, not at all. We were unannounced and I daresay, if I were a woman alone in this house, I would have done nothing less," declared Porthos with his usual casual friendliness.
"Indeed," echoed Philippe, smiling.
"Mother," Gerard repeated, exasperated. "May I introduce the King's musketeers. This is Athos, Aramis, Porthos and…" he paused as he gestured to Philippe. It was out of the question to introduce him as the Dauphin of France, not to his own mother and not to anyone. It was already risky enough that he insisted to come along for this and quite the miracle that he was even permitted to. To announce his true identity was suicide.
"Erm…" he hesitated. The others froze, not knowing what to say. He had worn the musketeer's iconic blue casket as a disguise, but how had no one thought about an identity for him?
Without knowing how, the idea came to him quickly.
"Uhh, Monsieur Renard, Musketeer Cadet," he ventured. "But you can call me simply… Renard."
He flashed her a smile and bowed. She looked at him with amused suspicion. These men sure had memorable names. Athos and Aramis, quite regally fitting. Porthos, less regal, but certainly fit for the grandeur of its bearer. But Renard! It seemed the man lacked either imagination or a sense of self-worth or both. And yet, he was quite the stealth. Besides, the color of his hair seemed awfully reminiscent of red foxes. Well, perhaps it was suited after all. As if finally satisfied by his answer, she nodded.
"You are all welcome, gentlemen. What brings you here?"
"Uh, it's quite a long tale, Madame Villy," piped up Marianne. "I do wonder if we could have something to eat first, though."
As soon as she had finished that sentence, a loud gurgling noise filled the hall. Porthos clutched his stomach and laughed nervously.
Aramis turned to Athos and in a low voice said, "Did I not tell you there were two of them now?"
Athos, his arms across his chest, chuckled, "Well, then, it seems I had been a fool for not believing you."
He gave her a sideways glance that was met by a warm and familiar smile. Oh, how he had missed her! He suppressed an instinct to place his arm around her waist and pull her close to him.
….
Mother and son were alone in the kitchen as the others went to ensure that the place was indeed secure and empty of intruders.
Madame Alice de Villebois was a tall stout woman. Ever since Gerard was a boy, his mother sported the same hairstyle of a low bun tied neatly in the back. Over the years, her golden locks gave way to an imperial silver that made her look all the more severe. They were never really close. Like any mother, Alice cared for her son, ensured he was well-fed, well-groomed and taught him manners and discipline. But she had never been one for generous displays of affection. She was also English.
She had married for love, a match that displeased her family and made her decision to live in France easier. She had exchanged letters with her family here and there and attempted at reconciliation but she never saw them again. With Jerome and the Dandurands, Alice had a new life, a new family and a new place to call home. After the death of Marianne's parents and her husband, she became more withdrawn and a lot more stoic, as if a permanent statue had taken her place.
Gerard had never seen his mother cry once and what he saw today troubled him beyond anything. Was she truly worried for him? Afraid for him? She had never approved of who or, rather, what he was. She certainly suspected but always managed to avoid any conversation that could lead to any remote emotional discomfort. Instead, she restricted her conversation to the weather, the chores and some random gossip from the village.
"Ought you not to go with them to guide them through the castle?" she asked him, hoping he would leave and forget their untidy reunion to save herself some awkwardness.
He didn't answer, preferring to busy himself in lighting the fire for the stoves.
"Well, as long as you're here, you might prepare the baths for them. They look like a sorry lot and your mistress looks worse for the wear," she commented, as she fastened her apron.
"She's not my mistress," he said harshly.
"Well, she's not your friend, remember that. She's the niece of your employer," she lectured.
He sighed. "So you have been telling me my whole life," he mumbled. Yet for the first time in his life, he almost believed her. He desperately did not want to, but a part of him was giving in. He and Marianne had grown up together. They had shared everything together. He confided everything in her and she in him. Didn't that make them friends? Or had he misunderstood and all along he had been the keeper of her secrets and nothing more? The object of her amusement when she was bored? Or, as he recently learned, the nameless bodyguard whose life can be easily sacrificed for hers?
The memories of the last few weeks came flooding back to him. What a patient woman his mother was! She could wait for hours after seeing her son - whom she had presumed missing - to find out what had happened to him, without even bothering a "how are you getting on?" in the meantime.
He stood silently, fidgeting with his fingers, watching her arrange some pots and pans on the stove.
He couldn't withstand this oppressive silence any longer.
"You knew all along, didn't you?" he said to her.
She closed her eyes and clenched her fists as this accusation landed on her neck like an executioner's blade.
"Why?" he reproached, his anger rising.
She swallowed and looked down.
"To protect you and Marianne."
… was that all she could say?
His pupils widened and he looked as though he was breathing fire from his nostrils. He flung at her in a frightening rage that she had never in her life expected from the docile and quiet boy who was every bit as his father, so gentle and kind and harmless. He gripped her wrists in his and squeezed them painfully, as if trying to extract some truths or confessions by way of osmosis.
Just like his father, Gerard resembled a deep well that could hold the secrets and burdens of those around them, while nurturing and giving sustenance. And in its depths, it held a volcanic stupor that when ignited, could swallow and drown anyone in its infinite abyss.
From his early infancy, Alice could tell that her baby was made of the same cloth as his father. How had she rejoiced that he had not taken after her or her side of the family. As the young woman that she was at the time, she idolised Jerome. He was kind, loving, doting, romantic and she knew she could never do better. There was no better man. Everything she gave up for him was well worth it and he supplied her with more love and comfort than her family ever could.
They had met at the Court of Navarre one fateful summer. Alice had come to Navarre with her uncle, an English merchant with French roots, interested in furthering his Reformist education. She was absorbed into the Court as a maid and soon met the Marquise Katherine d'Aren, whom she devotedly and lovingly served until her immature end. The two young women were confidantes to each other and despite their differences in wealth and rank, Alice let herself believe for a time that they were actually friends.
One summer, a young man name Charles de Dandurand, began courting Katherine and he had brought with him his friend, Doctor Jerome de Villebois. Alice soon learned that the de Villebois family served the household of the Dandurands for many generations. Charles' father took a liking to Jerome and almost adopted him as a son. Jerome had shown so much potential as a child and was a positive influence on the unruly Charles and the aloof Paul-Francois that he quickly became a favorite to their father. As such, all three young men were sent to school together. Jerome advanced to become a doctor and Charles became an inventor and a second heir. The two men were inseparable so it was a mighty lucky coincidence that Katherine had a companion who would suit Jerome.
Alice knew about the Ordre de Lys Blanc before Jerome, but she was only initiated after she was married. The foursome engaged in many exciting intrigues and adventures after that. They faithfully served their King and fought to stop those who plotted against him. They were young and invincible and in love. Life had so much to offer and the future looked bright and promising.
Then one day, it all began to crumble bit by bit. It had started with the tragic death of Rosalie de Rameau. The year after, King Henry was assassinated. Members of the Ordre started disappearing one by one. Fear and terror gripped the Protestants once more. Katherine grew more and more paranoid and unhinged at times. And then one night… they were all gone in one swoop: Katherine, Charles and Jerome. And Alice found herself totally alone in the world.
Paul-Francois, who was a changed man by then, had let her and Gerard stay with him. In exchange, she assumed the role of housekeeper. How she had wanted to escape this dreadful place that reminded her so much of happy times and the man she loved. But she had nowhere else to go. She couldn't go back to England and an English Protestant in France was simply a death sentence. At the time, she had been filled with so much grief she hadn't minded a death sentence. But for her son, she tucked herself away behind the protective yet oppressive walls of this dwelling, where the ghosts of her late husband and only friend seemed to mock her with their unavoidable presence.
She and Paul-Francois were both weary and saturated with loss. They became complicit in their omission of the truth from the children of the house. They had decided it was best to protect them. But really, they had wanted to forget. With that, they each became a shadow of their former selves.
"You knew how much I loved my father!" he thundered at her. "How could you hide it all these years? You knew how much he meant to me! How much I grieved for him! I had a right to know about how he lived his life, about how he died!"
As he towered menacingly over her, the tears rolled hotly down her cheeks. How like his father he had grown up to be! No matter how angry he was, she could only see Jerome.
"I had the right to avenge him," he hissed.
She shook her head. "I couldn't lose you, too."
"It was never your choice to make!" he yelled again. He was filled with so much fury he lifted his arm to strike her. She winced.
A hand clasped his wrist while another wrapped around his waist and forcefully pulled him away.
"Please, don't," A pair of clear blue eyes plunged into his, pleadingly. There was so much compassion and so much kindness in them, it completely destabilized him. Having come back to his senses, he shook the intruder off of him and stormed out of the kitchen.
Philippe could only stare after longingly after him as Alice regarded the Cadet Musketeer with a new curiosity. She hadn't realized just how oddly familiar he looked.
