Tavington: The Legacy: Chapter Eighteen: "A Nobleman Gone Astray"
When Charles-Maurice de Talleyrand-Perigord was born it was obvious to his parents, the Count and Countess Talleyrand, that there was something unusual about their younger son. Babies are supposed to cry unless, of course, they're dead. Charles was the sort of baby who was very much alive but rarely uttered a single sound, as though crying were somehow beneath his dignity. He was the near-perfect successor the ancient bloodline of Talleyrand, a boy born to lead the legion of French Silver Dragoons.
The accident had come as a crushing blow to his proud father. It was common in France, in 1754, for noble families to send their children out to be raised by peasants. The very concept of childrearing was abhorrent to their idealized and refined lifestyle. Often they system worked perfectly. The children developed a healthy constitution from hard work and from having experienced the poorness of the peasants could fully appreciate their own wealth. The Talleyrands had simply selected the wrong peasant.
At the age of four, and quite the active child, young Charles had been climbing atop a chest of drawer when he fell and broke his foot. The injury itself wasn't necessarily severe, and could have been repaired by any experienced physician. It was the peasant woman in charge of the boy who chose to ignore the injury. The bones knitted poorly, leaving the boy with a disfigured foot and a horrible limp.
Disgusted by the neglect on the part of the peasant, Count Talleyrand sent his young son to live with his great-grandmother, the Princess Chalais. He would have brought him home, but seeing so much military potential ruined so early and so needlessly was offensive to his senses. The Count turned his attention to Charles' older brother, Pierre Talleyrand, and left his younger son to Chalais.
"But, the poor thing has the talent," the Countess reminded her husband. "And Pierre can do nothing! Why, he can barely lift a quill from an inkpot with his hand, much less with his powers. They say that the Green Dragoons have a boy with an affinity for fire. They have a true child of the blood."
"Yes, my dear," the Count lamented, embracing his wife. "But we must face reality. We must do our best to train Pierre. It is best that Charles knows nothing of this. It would only make his lot in life more miserable if he knew his potential. I have given mother explicit instructions to avoid the subject. When he grows up I envision a career in the clergy for him. It is what the younger sons of the other noble families are sent off to become. Perhaps he will like it."
The Princess Chalais was a woman of great natural curiosity, and had dabbled in everything that is unwise for the inexperienced to dabble with. The peasants who lived in the village near her castle in the French countryside where well aware of her eccentricity, and commonly referred to her as 'the witch.'
Every Sunday any peasant who happened to be suffering from some ailment or another would come to the princess's spacious sunroom, a room made of glass attached to the main structure of the castle filled with strange herbs that gave off distinctly evil smells. There, the Princess Chalais would sit upon a gilded chair she had imported from the Austrian Empire and dispense bottles, bags, and elixirs of her homemade remedies.
Charles had watched her, having crept out of his bedroom and down to the tiny root cellar where his great-grandmother did her work. She would stand over the massive, black iron, cauldron, her gray hair, normally powdered and arranged neatly hanging loose, her fashionable dresses exchanged for something plain and black. She looked like the sort of witch one would find in fairy tales. Oddly, he was proud. There was a witch, a real witch, in his family. The Princess was an effective witch, as well. She could make potions to cure rheumatism in old farmers or ones to make rebellious young girls fall in love.
When she would receive the peasants, the boy would stand beside her lovely gilded chair and watch the whole process with great fascination.
"My hand's botherin' me again, your grace," some would lament.
Or, "I am with child and we already have three daughters. I should very much like a son this time."
Or even, "I am deeply in love with the miller's daughter but she will have nothing to do with me."
All of these problems could be fixed with the appropriate potion, lovingly brewed by the Princess Chalais. Witchcraft, however, was only the tip of the iceberg when it came to the woman's interests.
Charles had been nine, and enjoying a delicious breakfast with his great- grandmother when the elderly woman had suddenly posed an odd question.
"Charles, dear, do you see that fork at the far end of the table?"
"Yes, grandmamma."
"Do you think that you could move that fork, my dearest, simply by thinking about moving it?"
"Don't be ridiculous, grandmamma." Young Charles was willing to believe in witchcraft, at least it seemed tangible. Telekinesis was an entirely different matter.
"Do you think you could just try it darling? For your silly old grandmother?"
* * *
Charles-Maurice de Talleyrand-Perigord felt much better indeed, free from the somber trappings that the office of agent general of the French Clergy required him to wear.
"My father should be thankful for my cousin Bernard," Talleyrand remarked to Madame Germaine de Stael, the latest of his numerous girlfriends but undoubtedly the only one with a fine education. "When he told me I had to enter the seminary I would have killed him."
"What did your cousin do to save you father?" Germaine inquired. She ran her pudgy fingers threw her tightly curled brown hair.
"He told me that regardless of the vow of chastity one was still relatively free to engage in the pleasure of the flesh."
Germaine laughed. "It's the one thing you can't live without, isn't it Tally?"
"It's one of two things."
"What's the other one then?"
"Dignity."
Talleyrand finished buttoning his dark blue, silver-trimmed jacket. He admired it in one of Madame de Stael's full-length mirrors. Very dashing, if he did say so himself.
"You left another thing out," Germaine added.
"And what's that?" the clergyman inquired.
"Winning. You're the sort who absolutely couldn't go on living if you ever lost."
"As always, darling Germaine, you are a wonderful judge of human character."
* * *
Pierre Talleyrand had been sent off to London several years previous to infiltrate the order of dragoons comprised exclusively of member of the English nobility. His reports back to the court of Versailles had been frequent and filled with often interesting tales. Through agents, Charles Talleyrand had been able to acquire copies of them. He was well acquainted with the stories of Victor Alexander Carrenworth VI, the bizarre young prince with his fiery hair and icy eyes who could turn a rapier into dancing liquid steal, but who was plagued by the dreadful flaw of having emotions.
The reports that really interested him, however, were those that concerned the infamous Tavington. They interested him because they interested Louis XVI, and because they were in the interest of France.
Pierre Talleyrand had gone away to India with the English dragoons nearly six months ago, and since then there had been no word, until one day when the news reached Charles Talleyrand that his brother had been killed. No one knew the exact circumstances of the death, only that it had caused quite a stir in far-off British India. It was, in fact, a small column in The Times. "Assassin Dies in Attempted Murder of British General William Tavington."
With the death of his brother, Charles found himself the head of the French Silver Dragoons. With his newfound position, came enough newfound courage to do the one thing he had always wanted to do, but had been too frightened of the pain to carry out. His grandmother had introduced him to the witch, a woman considered the finest bonesetter in Europe, and a practitioner of the ancient ways of the orient. Regardless of her skill, it had been extraordinarily painful.
His leg was still a little sore and stiff from disuse, but he could walk now with a limp that was barely noticeable. He had even managed a few formal lessons in sword fighting.
"Soon," the young Frenchman thought aloud. "Very soon I shall be off to India, but first I must put up with a certain measure of unpleasantness."
By that, he meant a mandatory visit with the French monarch, a man that Talleyrand had never truly respected. Then again, he had never TRULY respected anyone except himself.
* * *
The round-faced young king, with his notoriously bad complexion, nose spotted with pimples, stared down at Charles-Maurice de Talleyrand-Perigord from the elevated position of his high throne. Though young himself, the king had expected a much older man to lead France's most distinguished military force. Why, this Talleyrand could not be thirty yet!
Talleyrand bowed low. He liked the etiquette of Versailles, even though he did not necessarily like the king. There was something in etiquette, in formal ritual that kept things as they should be, peasants and nobles in their proper places. He was thankful that one was required to hold one's position in bowing to the king for a full fifteen seconds. It was fifteen seconds that he was spared looking at that grotesque face.
He could almost understand the alleged actions of the queen.
"Rise, Talleyrand."
It had not been a full fifteen seconds. The young nobleman was sorely disappointed. Though not particularly attractive himself, Talleyrand did not enjoy being subjected to the physical shortcomings of others. He, like all good Frenchmen, was a lover of physical beauty, especially in women.
"So, you are off to India then?" the King asked.
"Yes, your majesty," Talleyrand replied, the words leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. He had been alive during the reign of the present king's grandfather, Louis XV, a man more worthy of respect.
"And you intend to bring this upstart who has poisoned my dear queen's mind to justice?"
Talleyrand wanted to laugh. The king was so angry now that he knew his queen's secret. He had only been ignorant of it for two years while the rumors buzzed in circles about his ears.
"Such is my duty to France, your majesty."
"Such is your duty to me," the King corrected.
"Naturally, your majesty. You are France. Forgive me," Talleyrand carefully reworded his statement. "Such is my duty to my king."
Louis XVI smiled broadly. This only made his face all the more disgusting. He had the gross, jolly grin of the glutton. "Then you may go, Talleyrand. Go with my blessing."
The priest-turned-dragoon bowed then left the room, increasingly thankful for the ability to walk quickly.
When Charles-Maurice de Talleyrand-Perigord was born it was obvious to his parents, the Count and Countess Talleyrand, that there was something unusual about their younger son. Babies are supposed to cry unless, of course, they're dead. Charles was the sort of baby who was very much alive but rarely uttered a single sound, as though crying were somehow beneath his dignity. He was the near-perfect successor the ancient bloodline of Talleyrand, a boy born to lead the legion of French Silver Dragoons.
The accident had come as a crushing blow to his proud father. It was common in France, in 1754, for noble families to send their children out to be raised by peasants. The very concept of childrearing was abhorrent to their idealized and refined lifestyle. Often they system worked perfectly. The children developed a healthy constitution from hard work and from having experienced the poorness of the peasants could fully appreciate their own wealth. The Talleyrands had simply selected the wrong peasant.
At the age of four, and quite the active child, young Charles had been climbing atop a chest of drawer when he fell and broke his foot. The injury itself wasn't necessarily severe, and could have been repaired by any experienced physician. It was the peasant woman in charge of the boy who chose to ignore the injury. The bones knitted poorly, leaving the boy with a disfigured foot and a horrible limp.
Disgusted by the neglect on the part of the peasant, Count Talleyrand sent his young son to live with his great-grandmother, the Princess Chalais. He would have brought him home, but seeing so much military potential ruined so early and so needlessly was offensive to his senses. The Count turned his attention to Charles' older brother, Pierre Talleyrand, and left his younger son to Chalais.
"But, the poor thing has the talent," the Countess reminded her husband. "And Pierre can do nothing! Why, he can barely lift a quill from an inkpot with his hand, much less with his powers. They say that the Green Dragoons have a boy with an affinity for fire. They have a true child of the blood."
"Yes, my dear," the Count lamented, embracing his wife. "But we must face reality. We must do our best to train Pierre. It is best that Charles knows nothing of this. It would only make his lot in life more miserable if he knew his potential. I have given mother explicit instructions to avoid the subject. When he grows up I envision a career in the clergy for him. It is what the younger sons of the other noble families are sent off to become. Perhaps he will like it."
The Princess Chalais was a woman of great natural curiosity, and had dabbled in everything that is unwise for the inexperienced to dabble with. The peasants who lived in the village near her castle in the French countryside where well aware of her eccentricity, and commonly referred to her as 'the witch.'
Every Sunday any peasant who happened to be suffering from some ailment or another would come to the princess's spacious sunroom, a room made of glass attached to the main structure of the castle filled with strange herbs that gave off distinctly evil smells. There, the Princess Chalais would sit upon a gilded chair she had imported from the Austrian Empire and dispense bottles, bags, and elixirs of her homemade remedies.
Charles had watched her, having crept out of his bedroom and down to the tiny root cellar where his great-grandmother did her work. She would stand over the massive, black iron, cauldron, her gray hair, normally powdered and arranged neatly hanging loose, her fashionable dresses exchanged for something plain and black. She looked like the sort of witch one would find in fairy tales. Oddly, he was proud. There was a witch, a real witch, in his family. The Princess was an effective witch, as well. She could make potions to cure rheumatism in old farmers or ones to make rebellious young girls fall in love.
When she would receive the peasants, the boy would stand beside her lovely gilded chair and watch the whole process with great fascination.
"My hand's botherin' me again, your grace," some would lament.
Or, "I am with child and we already have three daughters. I should very much like a son this time."
Or even, "I am deeply in love with the miller's daughter but she will have nothing to do with me."
All of these problems could be fixed with the appropriate potion, lovingly brewed by the Princess Chalais. Witchcraft, however, was only the tip of the iceberg when it came to the woman's interests.
Charles had been nine, and enjoying a delicious breakfast with his great- grandmother when the elderly woman had suddenly posed an odd question.
"Charles, dear, do you see that fork at the far end of the table?"
"Yes, grandmamma."
"Do you think that you could move that fork, my dearest, simply by thinking about moving it?"
"Don't be ridiculous, grandmamma." Young Charles was willing to believe in witchcraft, at least it seemed tangible. Telekinesis was an entirely different matter.
"Do you think you could just try it darling? For your silly old grandmother?"
* * *
Charles-Maurice de Talleyrand-Perigord felt much better indeed, free from the somber trappings that the office of agent general of the French Clergy required him to wear.
"My father should be thankful for my cousin Bernard," Talleyrand remarked to Madame Germaine de Stael, the latest of his numerous girlfriends but undoubtedly the only one with a fine education. "When he told me I had to enter the seminary I would have killed him."
"What did your cousin do to save you father?" Germaine inquired. She ran her pudgy fingers threw her tightly curled brown hair.
"He told me that regardless of the vow of chastity one was still relatively free to engage in the pleasure of the flesh."
Germaine laughed. "It's the one thing you can't live without, isn't it Tally?"
"It's one of two things."
"What's the other one then?"
"Dignity."
Talleyrand finished buttoning his dark blue, silver-trimmed jacket. He admired it in one of Madame de Stael's full-length mirrors. Very dashing, if he did say so himself.
"You left another thing out," Germaine added.
"And what's that?" the clergyman inquired.
"Winning. You're the sort who absolutely couldn't go on living if you ever lost."
"As always, darling Germaine, you are a wonderful judge of human character."
* * *
Pierre Talleyrand had been sent off to London several years previous to infiltrate the order of dragoons comprised exclusively of member of the English nobility. His reports back to the court of Versailles had been frequent and filled with often interesting tales. Through agents, Charles Talleyrand had been able to acquire copies of them. He was well acquainted with the stories of Victor Alexander Carrenworth VI, the bizarre young prince with his fiery hair and icy eyes who could turn a rapier into dancing liquid steal, but who was plagued by the dreadful flaw of having emotions.
The reports that really interested him, however, were those that concerned the infamous Tavington. They interested him because they interested Louis XVI, and because they were in the interest of France.
Pierre Talleyrand had gone away to India with the English dragoons nearly six months ago, and since then there had been no word, until one day when the news reached Charles Talleyrand that his brother had been killed. No one knew the exact circumstances of the death, only that it had caused quite a stir in far-off British India. It was, in fact, a small column in The Times. "Assassin Dies in Attempted Murder of British General William Tavington."
With the death of his brother, Charles found himself the head of the French Silver Dragoons. With his newfound position, came enough newfound courage to do the one thing he had always wanted to do, but had been too frightened of the pain to carry out. His grandmother had introduced him to the witch, a woman considered the finest bonesetter in Europe, and a practitioner of the ancient ways of the orient. Regardless of her skill, it had been extraordinarily painful.
His leg was still a little sore and stiff from disuse, but he could walk now with a limp that was barely noticeable. He had even managed a few formal lessons in sword fighting.
"Soon," the young Frenchman thought aloud. "Very soon I shall be off to India, but first I must put up with a certain measure of unpleasantness."
By that, he meant a mandatory visit with the French monarch, a man that Talleyrand had never truly respected. Then again, he had never TRULY respected anyone except himself.
* * *
The round-faced young king, with his notoriously bad complexion, nose spotted with pimples, stared down at Charles-Maurice de Talleyrand-Perigord from the elevated position of his high throne. Though young himself, the king had expected a much older man to lead France's most distinguished military force. Why, this Talleyrand could not be thirty yet!
Talleyrand bowed low. He liked the etiquette of Versailles, even though he did not necessarily like the king. There was something in etiquette, in formal ritual that kept things as they should be, peasants and nobles in their proper places. He was thankful that one was required to hold one's position in bowing to the king for a full fifteen seconds. It was fifteen seconds that he was spared looking at that grotesque face.
He could almost understand the alleged actions of the queen.
"Rise, Talleyrand."
It had not been a full fifteen seconds. The young nobleman was sorely disappointed. Though not particularly attractive himself, Talleyrand did not enjoy being subjected to the physical shortcomings of others. He, like all good Frenchmen, was a lover of physical beauty, especially in women.
"So, you are off to India then?" the King asked.
"Yes, your majesty," Talleyrand replied, the words leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. He had been alive during the reign of the present king's grandfather, Louis XV, a man more worthy of respect.
"And you intend to bring this upstart who has poisoned my dear queen's mind to justice?"
Talleyrand wanted to laugh. The king was so angry now that he knew his queen's secret. He had only been ignorant of it for two years while the rumors buzzed in circles about his ears.
"Such is my duty to France, your majesty."
"Such is your duty to me," the King corrected.
"Naturally, your majesty. You are France. Forgive me," Talleyrand carefully reworded his statement. "Such is my duty to my king."
Louis XVI smiled broadly. This only made his face all the more disgusting. He had the gross, jolly grin of the glutton. "Then you may go, Talleyrand. Go with my blessing."
The priest-turned-dragoon bowed then left the room, increasingly thankful for the ability to walk quickly.