Sign of the Cross
By JeanTre16
Chapter 7
Mazarin's Malfeasance
Author's Note: Malfeasance is a French word meaning a wrongdoing, especially by a public official.
Cardinal Mazarin turned the carved wooden horse head mounted on top his desk toward the wall of his palace office. Slowly, the massive armoire on the adjoining wall moved to reveal a hidden staircase. The Cardinal disappeared into its darkness as the door gradually closed behind him. Unable to see in the dimmed lighting, he stood at the top of the stone stairwell to allow his eyes time to adjust. "Why do I feel I am the only one around here capable of thinking?" Mazarin cursed whoever it was that neglected to light the upper torches near his office.
When his vision was able to make out the shadowy steps, he began his descent only to be stopped abruptly in his tracks. The jolted man let out a surprised yelp at his sudden halt. The hem of his robe lay pinned between the sealed door and stone wall. "Imbeciles!" Mazarin demeaned at those who had caused him his sightless delay. When he yanked on the fabric to free it, he heard a loud rip and felt the ushering of breeze enter the place he imagined a sizeable tear had been placed in his robe. The patient-worn man grimaced, "I don't have time for this!" Continuing to spew threats, he pulled the garment free and concealed the rent section between clutched fingers.
Steaming, the man in red descended the stone stairwell and redirected his anger toward the reasons he had called today's meeting. It had crossed his mind that perhaps he overlooked something about this simple farm girl who wielded a blade so well. Had he been asking the wrong question in his search for her the first time? He considered. Should he not have been so concerned about where she was; but rather, should he have been more concerned about who she was? Why did a woman of such lowly consequence keep surfacing in circles of importance? Mazarin would have his answers. He had informed his guard to call the men of the Order to the fortified sanctum deep beneath the palace.
His Eminence's sanctum was more like a private undisturbed recluse rather than a sacred place as the name sanctum suggested. A sacred place by definition was a place consecrated to God; Mazarin's sanctum was set apart for anything but honoring God. It was vile and things most unfitting for a man in the office of the church went on there.
Taking a black cloak from a wall hook, Mazarin gladly put the covering over his rent robe. Donning his dark colors, he continued along where the torches lit the way to the inner sanctum. As the chain driven gate raised for his entry, he saw them. They were all there; his men had come. From every walk of life, from every occupation, from every social stratum, the secret order had answered to his call. All of them stood there adorned in the same blackness as his Eminence.
After their ritualistic monotone recital, Mazarin called the meeting to order and addressed all present, "There are matters of extreme pertinence to discuss this evening. First, any information on Madame Jacqueline d'Artagnan…" and he paused to scan his audience for emphasis, "…formerly Roget, is to be pursued and brought forward expediently." Their leader's face turned to stone. "A handsome price will be offered to anyone with a useful lead on why she keeps gaining significance with each re-surfacing."
Mazarin then gestured for a short stocky man to come to the floor. While the other men were masked; this man wore none, which revealed his pallor complexion except for reddened cheeks that looked like they had been rubbed with an abrasive cleanser. His balding head was highlighted by sandy colored streaks of hair that draped to the side of his chubby face. The man had in his possession a worn thick book, which he held tightly to his chest as he walked forward. "Morin," the occultist robed Cardinal explained, "has been working on a scientific means to assure us that my niece, Marie Mancini, will be the right woman for the task of gripping King Louis forever in our power." Mazarin stepped aside for the man named Morin to open his book upon the illuminated stone and begin his canting.
oooooooo
"Morin," Captain Duval recited the name aloud to himself as he walked down the barrack hallway. He had originally missed the man among the royal court pay roster because of the over abundance of others by the same name. There was Jean Baptiste Poquelin, the playwright; Jean Baptiste Lully, the musician and dance instructor; Jean BaptisteColbert, the finance minister; Jean Baptiste Talon, the intendant of New France; Jean Baptiste Monnoyer, the painter; lastly, Jean Baptiste Morin, the 'scientist'. It would have almost seemed comical had it not been for the seriousness of his oversight. He imagined Mazarin had planned it that way and it was not by mere coincidence. Or at least the Cardinal had found his own sense of twisted humor in using it to his advantage—hoping no one would notice yet another Jean Baptiste on the palace payroll. While all the former Jean Baptistes were genuine assets to the court of King Louis, the last was solely in the employ of the man in red.
Duval knew only one man he could trust to make sense of Cardinal Mazarin's recent scientific pension endorsement. The captain made a call on Siroc in his lab. Usually, the wary leader did not venture into the inventor's place of work, but this was not a usual situation he had caught wind of, and he needed the man's expertise.
Upon entering he found the blonde-haired scientist busily welding metal. Today he worked on forging a new collapsible blade for their female Musketeer to carry in stealth. A sword smith would have been their usual choice for a standard issue blade. But being that a female soldier was off the record, the creation of the weapon also had to be off the record. Siroc willingly volunteered for the job.
Noticing the captain's arrival, Siroc carried the hot metal over to the rain barrel. Sizzling steam rose up as he immersed the glowing red blade into the cool water. The whole lab smelled of sweltering metal. Waving aside the thick air, Duval made his way over to the table where the craftsman had just laid his work. "How is it coming?" he asked.
The temporary sword smith held his artwork up for critique as he wiped it clean of residue. "What do you think, Captain? It's a blade fit to be concealed inside a ladies fan handle." His eyes widened at the description of his brilliance. "It doesn't have the finesse of a rapier, but it does have the advantage of an element of surprise."
Duval's eyes narrowed as he looked at the ingeniousness of Siroc's work. Then looking around the lab, he noted how many other recently engineered contraptions for Jacqueline littered the tables and shelves. When the scientist was put up to a task he went the extra distance to ensure thoroughness. But the captain had other pressing things to discuss with Siroc. "What can you tell me about a man by the name of Jean Baptiste Morin?" he asked.
"Morin..." the scientist repeated flatly, as if accessing the encyclopedia file in his memory, "…philosopher, physician, mathematician." Siroc lightly waved the steel blade in emphasis. "He studied metals under the employment of the Bishop of Boulogne, although the superfluous application of his work into mysticismwas suspected as his employer's real interest. Then, under the employment of the Duke of Luxembourg he did publish a significant work on Aristotle. But again, his real alleged work application remained in mysticism." The scientist went on as he fitted the recently hewed blade into a hollowed fan handle. "He must have kept finding favor in high places because he was made a professor of mathematics at the College Royal." Siroc closed up the fan handle, stopped his work to lean against the table with crossed arms to address Duval. "He has shown brilliance in his field of mathematics, but his quirky ideas on the secrets of the universe have made him unpopular in scientific circles. He is in essence, one of the least liked and least acknowledged of modern scientists."
Duval took in all the information Siroc divulged. Nodding his head slowly, he proclaimed, "You can add to that off-colored list of accomplishments that Cardinal Mazarin has just awarded him a pension for his work."
Siroc grew a look of concern. "If Morin is working for Mazarin…? His work in mysticism is most likely what the premier's after. The last I knew, Monsieur Morin was working on something he believed would manipulate powers considered to be inherent in all people or events. His work is mostly the application of mumbo-jumbo from ancient texts set to mathematical formulations. But, simply put, he thinks it can control people and events." The scientist ran a soot smudged hand through his blonde hair and expounded, "It's no secret that past rulers and sadly even those within the church have unethically sought out parascientific methods of manipulation for political advantage. If the Cardinal has plans to use Morin's work in an attempt to under-gird his secret society's control over the king—" Siroc snapped the reassembled fan downward with a quick motion, extending the gleaming dagger blade from within the handle. "We may be dealing with more trouble than Mazarin placing his pretty little niece in Louis's path."
"God, help us." Captain Duval cringed at the scientist's effective display of their imminent danger. Duval knew whatever dark practices the false churchman rallied, only God could provide first-line defense for the Musketeers. "Oh, Mazarin, what are you up to?" He thoughtfully pondered. The captain suspected he would have yet another night of restless sleep. Remembering to express his appreciativeness for Siroc's insight, he concluded, "Thank you Siroc. You've been a huge help. At least Jacqueline will know what kind of heresy she'll be searching for in the Cardinal's office tomorrow."