Spoiler: **Warning: non-explicit scenes of torture!**

Usual disclaimer: The Versailles series and characters (the fictional characters as well as the historical, yet roughly revisited ones) remain the intellectual property of Canal+.

Translation of a novel previously published in French: Please forgive the fact that English is not my native language...

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-–- Who did hire you? Will you confess at last?! Don't be that stubborn, spare yourself more pointless pain... Come on, talk!

Fabien Marchal was trying to break his prisoner's will by resorting to the incentive as much as to his leather gloved fists, that he tirelessly used to pummel the poor lad's ribs and jaws. The individual in front of him, who was hung by his wrists under the low vault of this poorly lit cellar, had been arrested the same morning at the Palace, as he was trying to slay Duke Philippe of Orléans. This man was the servant in charge of dressing His Majesty's brother in his morning gown, during his getting-up ceremony; he had concealed in the large folds of this garment the dagger he had intended to stab the Duke with. Bless Heaven, the wretch had been unmasked in time, swiftly overpowered, and then locked down incommunicado.

Of course, the investigation into this homicide attempt on a prince of royal blood had been delegated to none other than Fabien Marchal, the chief policeman in charge of the Sovereign's security at Versailles. For the moment, Marchal wished to maintain as much discretion as possible on this case. Hence he had the criminel transfered, in the utmost secrecy, down to the deepest basement of the guardhouse where the King's Musketeers were quartered, in the village next to the Palace. The man, known under the name of Leclercq, had entered the service of His Grace just three weeks before; and a quick check had been enough to ascertain that the reference after which he had been hired was a complete fabrication. Now it would be Fabien's job to find out the name of the assassin's employer, and consequently, to assess the extent of the plot threatening Versailles.

Pressing questions, pounding noises, and helpless pantings kept resounding for long in this low ceiling hole, where the policeman and his prisoner were the only people standing. Tired of beating, Fabien Marchal finally opted for a sharper approach: drawing his dirk, he undertook to methodically cut up to the last piece of the blue livery that the Palace former servant was still wearing, leaving him completely naked. Thus hanging from the vault, the rascal was now looking like a piece of meat ready for carving, with his pale flesh bruised already at the many places that Marchal had pummeled. Maybe the latter would have to cut him up shred by shred, slice by slice, phalanx after phalanx if he really wanted to get anything from him. Maybe all of this would not even be enough after all, as the captive looked determined to take his secret to the grave. No matter, the royal investigator just had to try anyway...

The creaking of the cellar door's hinges behind Marchal had him utter an irritated swearword. His patience had been heavily taxed indeed by his prisoner's stubborn resistance; and besides, he had duly specified that no disturbance, on any account, would be tolerated during this questioning! But as he turned around to face the unwelcome visitor, that he had supposed to be one of his muketeers, Fabien Marchal actually found a somptuously dressed nobleman, arrogantly swinging his silver-headed cane: a man about thirty with long goldilocks, delicate features, and rosy cheeks linked by a ridiculous petty down of a moustache. Of course, the chief policeman of Versailles could recognize at once the Chevalier de Lorraine, one of the best-known faces among the Court, a changeable and spendthrift debauchee, who also happened to be Philippe of Orléans' notorious lover and overprotective partner. Here as well as at the Palace, the man was true to form: a pose as pompous with vanity, and a look as empty of any intelligence as usual.

-–- Chevalier, Fabien tucked in without any unnecessary exchange of courtesies, I'm afraid you picked the wrong door: here is not the kind of fashionable salon that you are used to frequent, and you wouldn't want to soil here your 1,000 pound pretty brocaded suit!

Lorraine came in anyway, sighing stiffly:

-–- 1,000 pounds... The peasant of you! This custom-made suit has been crafted from the finest Persian silk, by the best master tailors of Venice: it is worth 3,000 pounds at the very least! No nobleman but a country squire would dare to appear at Versailles with barely 1,000 pounds in garments. And while we're at it, Marchal... From a commoner in your condition, I'd like to be addressed as: "My lord"!

The courtier carefully set down his cane against one of the mouldy walls of this cellar, sighing again in resignation as he theatrically dusted the cuffs of his brocaded jacket. Then, waddling like a peacock on the high heels of his buckle shoes, he came and planted himself in front of the assassin, hung in a stark naked situation, and studied him in disgust:

-–- Huh... So, here is the wretch who tried to murder my dear little Philippe, the apple of my eye. Lord, is he ugly! It is true that you did not really make him more attractive, Marchal: your reputation as a live flesh carver is definitely not undeserved...

At these words, the defanged captive raised his face, and briefly seemed to look defiantly at the self-conceited buffoon standing in front of him. Then, without any forewarning, he suddenly spat at him one of the teeth that Fabien's repeated punches had loosened already, along with some blood. The spray missed by little the Chevalier's white lacy tie, having him step back with a little shriek. Quite happy with his joke, the hardened criminal haughtily sniggered at this sweet cute nobleman, much too preoccupied with elegance to be of honest orientation:

-–- Just get screwed... You faggot!

In the background, Fabien Marchal slightly smiled behind his moustache. But the goldilocks dandy did not look in the least disconcerted by this invective. On the contrary, he gave a broad smile, before starting to simper:

-–- Oh, that sounds tempting, darling, but as it happens... I just have got!...» Lorraine salaciously winked at Fabien, as he went on on the tone of privacy: «...One of the Turks in the retinue of the Sultan of... of I-forgot-the-name, actually! No conversation, the poor sod... But fiery eyes the way they have in these countries; and best of all: as well-hung as an Indian elephant! Mmm, I'm still experiencing cramps in my jaws...!

Equally disconcerted by this unexpected confession, Fabien and his prisoner exchanged surprised glances. As for the Chevalier de Lorraine, he cleverly took advantage of this brief moment of distraction to push his pawns:

-–- Judging by the untouched arrogance and caustic bite of this unpleasant creature, you still couldn't get anything out of him, Marchal. Could you? Well, so if I may, I'd like to try my luck and continue the questioning by myself. I think I could prove more than persuasive...

Fabien only just managed to repress a nervous giggle. He eventually contented himself with nodding doubtfully, as an unconvinced grin passed under his moustache:

-–- And what can lead you to believe that your white little fists, and your posh manners of a Versailles courtier, could get anything after the strong-arming failed?

Without answering at first, Chevalier quietly got rid of his 3,000 pound brocaded jacket, then of his damask waistcoat, by simply dropping them without further ado upon the dusty ground of this squalid cellar. Only then did the goldilocks nobleman condescend to answer the detective, while looking him straight in the eyes:

-–- My dear Marchal, I am labelled many dubious names, socially as well as behind my back: pederast; bugger; or even, in the same way that merry dungheap has just uttered: faggot! Here is the story of my life... However, such an unpleasant burden, you see, may sometimes be complemented by uncommon and occasionally useful knowledge. Thus, I am aware of over a dozen ways, subtle and less subtle ones, to use the genitals and prostate of a man in order to extort him either moans or screams. Most of them, of course, are supposed to give him pleasure. But as for the the other ones, Chevalier concluded without taking his eyes off Fabien, well, my poor friend, I'm afraid you may witness them before long!

With these final words, Lorraine resolutely rolled up the white silk sleeves of his baggy shirt, before coming closer to the naked and shackled prisoner. The man cringed and tried to step back, but this vain attempt only stressed the complete helplessness of his situation:

-–- Hah! No, don't...! Don't touch me, you vile invert! Sodomite! You devil's hand!

-–- Oh, I'm going to do a little more than just touching you, sweetheart...» Chevalier warned in an ominious voice, before adopting a more playful tone to address Fabien: «...Marchal, boy, be a dear: please get me a bucket of water, along with soap and towel. I think I may have the use for it, once I have suceeded in having this ugly bird sing for me...

Oh yes, the bird sang: first he croaked like a raven, then screeched like a peacock, before his yelps finally lost any likeness to the cries that the avian – or even human – species can produce. The heart-rending wails that soon resounded under the low vault of the cellar, started torturing Fabien Marchal's eardrums as well. His eyes too, while far from being pure and innocent, were also offended by what was happening before them; the detective's own sphincter actually got tighter unwittingly. The Chevalier de Lorraine, in contrast, did not let any passion show through; his concentrated face revealed no anger, neither hate, nor digust, nor sick pleasure: no, nothing but a calm and cold-blooded determination to get answers.

The secrets that Fabien's fists and dirk could not extort from the prisoner, the Chevalier's expert and invasive fingers were not long to obtain them. And both men soon learned that the mastermind behind this assassination attempt was none other than William of Orange, this young Batavian prince whose talent in the art of treachery was said to surpass the skills of the most seasoned ministers. As for his motives for making such an attempt on Philippe's life, there was nothing mysterious about them. The Duke of Orléans was thought indeed to be one of the most brilliant military leaders in the French army: so he was very likely the one that King Louis would appoint to take command of the forces that were to march soon against Holland. And William had clearly no intention of being forced to retreat back to Amsterdam, chased with the big stick by an infamous sodomite!

Fabien Marchal judged the time had come to put an end to the questioning, and to the agony of the Dutch agent as well. And when he cleanly cut the throat of the panting man, he thought he heard him, apart from a bloody gurgle, stammer a grateful «...Thanks...»!

The King's policeman then turned to the Chevalier de Lorraine, who was then leaning over the bucket of water, and who looked rather busy cleaning his soiled forearm with the utmost care. By studying the grimace of disgust that tensed the Chevalier's face, as he was staring at the human waste stuck under his fingernails, Fabien realized that the man of iron will, the resolute and merciless creature he could observe in action, had given back his place to the fussy dandy, to the frivolous and inconsistent courtier that he knew so much better. Surprisingly, this pathetic assessment had something comforting, after the scary performance the detective had just attended.

Fabien Marchal was not a man to beat around the bush: so he asked point-blank, without further ado, the question that was burning his lips:

-–- Chev... My lord. Where the hell did you learn so original torments on....?» The detective briefly searched for words, before settling on: «...On the man's special places?

The light and condescending tone adopted by the nobleman, still focused on his wash, finished to convince Marchal that he was definitely dealing again with the shallow-hearted and irritating aristocrat all too familiar to him. However, the contents of Lorraine's speech turned out to be utterly frightening:

-–- All of this, my friend, absolutely all, has no other origin than my own extensive tactile experience of the male body's most secret corners, combined with my morbid and vivid imagination. These torments, I have much often fancied myself to visualize them, yet without having ever put them into practice. My source of inspiration, most of the time, was none other than my dear little Philippe, when he enjoyed having me suffer. How I longed, in such terrible moments, to extract tearful cries and pleas from him! But today on the contrary... Today I could commit that dark burden at the service of the love of my life, and I'm getting an intimate personal satisfaction from that...» Chevalier stood up, and stared at Fabien in his usual cutesy way, yet in complete contrast with the harshness of his words: «...You are far, my poor Marchal, definitely far from imagining the full extent of what I could do for my beloved little Philippe!

Lorraine concluded his surprising speech with one of these haughty and precious half-smiles, so usual to him. Then quickly turning around, he proceeded to get back his jacket and silver-headed cane before leaving the cellar, farcically waddling on his high heels exactly in the same way he had come in. And yet, as he followed him, Fabien Marchal knew that never again could he consider the Chevalier de Lorraine as he had done before.

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_The End_