Chapter 4: A Thousand Moments
So apparently plan did not work as I thought it would be. I apologize for that but! Good news is I have all dialogue done for upcoming chapters so it'll be easier to write rather than waste tme coming up with a good pace of words and plot. Reviews would be nice with some contructive criticism to see what I can approve upon.
Just a little heads up about this chapter: Nothing that totally goes with the story. This is just filling information about Antoinette's past and the first time she met Aramis :) exciting.
Disclaimer: I do not own the Three Musketeers.
The palace gardens elongated along the sides and back ends of the buildings. They were rare treasures one could only find on a pilgrimage to the blue garden of Eden. Magnificent blooms of stylized lilies had become a popular identification amongst open spaces in between homes in Paris and across the nation of France. The lily specialized in its hybrid variations of colors and sharp pigments ranging from a fair maiden's blush pink to the outragerous stimpulation of orange.
Chopped bushes are kept at clean cut and regularly trimmed whenever the Queen outs of the the palace. Designated compressed gravel walkways added a whimsical wonderland effect when browsing through the spring rosemary bushes and daffodils that tickle occupant's feet.
The many cousins of gerberas were one of the few flowering plants that are always near the Queen. The long lasting flower out of it's soil hold the scent and color as if it were freshly bloomed. In between each row of carefully bred gerbera were the newly acquired fleur-de-lis created a sparkling rainbow from their wild colors that stood out from the proud overbearing longetivity of the gerberas. King Louis XII, the current King's father, adopted the ancient Greeks' tricks to fertilize the flowers differently then natural soil.
It's aroma impacted the whole centre of the garden: a wide arched room with tall circular pillars and demi-shaped dome. It housed a rounded table for the Queen and her ladies as well as a storage of mini chairs, books, sewing utensils, and a small sized bakery for afternoon meals. Inside were four footmen, standing at the four corners donned in the new color orange after the orange lilacs next to the King's balcony.
Queen Anne sat timidly at the table, fanning herself from a nasty heat wave drawing in from the south. Her petite frame overlooked the determined Antoinette, patiently awaiting an invitation for conversation. Her long curls were pulled back into a bun and her hands fidgeted at her sides from the new dress restrictions of a whale bone corset.
Though the Queen knew her suspicions, Antoinette did not feel comfortable in her own skin. Her body ached for more sleep as she woke up three hours earlier than her routine to assist the Queen's schedule. Her hair lacked it's usual shiny character pulled back from her face. She felt exposed and judgement at every corner of Richelieu's halls and in front of most of the gossipy ladies.
Her tea placement of French vanilla laced tea steamed off the cup with a spoon and napkin besides it. She carefully lifted the boiling tea and straightened her posture before nearly chocking down the scathing tea for stallment.
The aching pain in her throat dulled the pain in her heart but sharpened her wits when the Queen moved her fan away from her hiding face.
"I do hope you are comfortable here. Palace life can take quite some time to adjust," she said friendly. Her fan folded back to it's singular shape.
"Yes, my Queen," Her voice strengthened. "Paris is a most wonderous place to live. Of course, I am sure Austrian lands are equally as beautiful," She let go of the cup to dab her napkin on her burning mouth. The cool fabric did nothing but egg on the pain. With nothing else to drink, she bit down her tongue.
"Quite. It can be hard some time. I often think of my homeland but..." she paused. A sudden drift in the wind called from the west to east, tangling in between some of her looser curls. The smile returned as the wind died down and a new air current erupted elsewhere. "Paris is my home, France is my land. And the people are admirable,"
"Oh, yes,"
The Queen's eyes shamed down. A queen must never let her chin dip down. Mostly to prevent a double chin or the falling of wrinkles. However Antoinette noted her youthful face was not concerned about her vanity as she was preoccupied with a silver crystal bracelet wrapped around her wrist, an Austrian charm. Her eyes dreamt of the glossy silver dripping into her hands and escape through the seams of her hand; slipping away forever on French soil.
She reminisced, "When I first settled down in Paris, I felt tension as well. The Cardinal had arranged the marriage between the King and I for political alliance. I only met the King twice before meeting him a third time at the altar," Her one hand gripped the charm next to the silver, a gold crown embellished with two tiny diamonds. No doubt a wedding gift from the Cardinal- a bondage chain.
Feeling empathy roll down her neck, she replied, "It must be... strange to marry someone you hardly know?"
The Queen's head lifted suddenly as if startled by the very idea. Then her doe eyes sized down as she returned to a proper posture, aligning her shoulders against the brunt of the headboard.
"Indeed," she said regally. "I had hoped we would grow to love each other as time went on. He can hardly stand to be around me for more than a few minutes," Not a taste of bitterness flipped over her tongue. Just a hair of Austrian slipped through the crevices, enveloping the word 'love'.
There were two times in her life she had ever felt doubt. Once was when she was three and again when her mother passed away. As foolish the King appeared to be, somehow Antoinette could not imagine a child of a King be so impetulent against his bride queen. Politics or not, a King should not shy away from the Queen unless he felt the anxiety and nervous conflictions the Queen doubted too.
Antoinette boldly let her shoulders slouch. For a moment, any outsider would be astonished by her cozy position to unwind in front of royalty. She let an elbow rest on the rest before angling her body towards the Queen.
"I do not know so much about the King in his personal affairs, but I would think the King is nervous and doesn't know how to make his Queen happy," she opened up. "Do you spend time with each other?"
The Queen, appalled at her frank nature, stared at her only a minute- scrunitinizing whether she would be friend or foe. She let her kindred spirit answer for her. "Yes, only when the time permits. So busy running the country with the Cardinal,"
Somehow the Cardinal would have been mentioned. Perhaps Richelieu divided the strong alliance in case of backdooring or word of his traitorous behaviors in the past.
"Do not fret Your Majesty," Antoinette leaned in, eyes lowering from the eavesdropping footmen. "I have a feeling you and your King will be together in the way you imagine it to be,"
She nodded appreciatively for her attentiveness. "Thank you Antoinette. I find your confidence radiant. Is there someone in your life?" She asked.
Too quickly, she let the blow deepen further. "Yes, but I'm afraid we have been separated,"
Driven with curiosity but with respect for her privacy, she replied her sympathy. "Oh... I am sorry,"
"No need. I have faith one day we will be together again. Just like you,"
The moment passed when Antoinette reached back again for the cup, fully enjoying the warmth spreading down to her toes. Her back eased back into the chair in a more comfortable lining. The Queen's fan wavered from her hand back to the table, debating if the heat was worth it. She decided against it, taking in another sip of a fresh cup of tea.
"I see both of us as equals," she composed. A cup to her lips separated her words. "As ladies in waiting. If ever you should need anything please come to me. Perhaps that one day you dream of could come nearer,"
Her gift of equality and approached understanding startled the Comtesse. To give up her noble stature as a beloved French and Austrian icon in her eyes unsettled her. Noble peerage was standardized with dictation and rules and land adjoined. For Antoinette to have similiar grounding as a powerful woman in France benefited her stay for once. Perhaps the world can be small, but friendship can be dug through from anywhere.
"I am speechless with your gracious gift," Her words finally summoned.
She had smiled graciously in a manner Antoinette found charming. "And I am grateful for your companionship and counsel. He must be a special man for you to have bravely give up your freedom to serve in the court,"
She disgressed. "I'm not giving up anything. Only reserving,"
Queen Anne set her cup down and reached for Antoinette's hand, bracelet clinking. The firm grip was not struggling, but in family gesutre.
"Spoken like a strong Austrian woman,"
Chimes emitted from Antoinette covering her laugh pitifully. "I beg to differ. I speak like a Lorraine lady," she responded coolly.
The House of Rohan had many successors and proud children honored with merits. But none stood brighter or more beautiful than Marie de Rohan. Strong and priviliged, her titles and nobility far outlasted those of her first husband, Charles d'Albert, Duc of Luynes and old confidant to the King's father when he was alive. Though her marriage lengthened a year after giving birth to Louis Charles d'Albert de Luynes, the Duchessina became too intrigued with the politics in court, creating scandals left and right and sometimes watching the issues unfold.
As her husband was the the Supreme Commander of the French military, he couldn't have a wife emerged in radical thinking of politics and invoking power to women. The marriage terminated after her husband died in combata year afterward. Her conspiracies in court from the old queen and the current Cardinal spun round the people in France revolting to the comings and goings of Marie until finally settleddown with Claude de Lorraine.
Her appalling nature to tease gossip into conviction led her strong head to take confidence and find adventure out of the ordinary whether it be a maid's one night with a married Comte or the latest thrill of Spanish battlements and warrens. During her second marriage, Claude restricted her to his estate in Lorraine with the only heir she had produced, a tiny girl named Antoinette or Netta as she was affectionately named.
The relationships of Claude and Marie were not the same star-crossed lovers she had hoped to be. His other side turned darker with the ridicule and lack of respect other noblemen gave him. His wife's indiscretions of gossip and boldness led his heart to shrivel out any love he had felt for the woman.
In truth, he had first blamed it for her inability to give him a son he so desired instead of the unwanted girl he felt for her.
"You produced one other bastard to him yet you cannot do the same for me?" his abrasive side creeped out. Little Antoinette, sitting on her bed waiting to be tucked in, crooked her head in curiosity at the alarming voices. Her hands patted at her sides as she tried to listen to her mama and papa.
"What would you have me do, Claude?" a desperate feminine voice rang out with pleads shrouding behind plastered walls. "The doctor has said I am well beyond my years to hold another child. Maybe it's not my fault, but yours!" The growing crescendo of the voice startled the young girl of 8. Her lip trembled when her several knocks hit the floor, vibrating violently.
"You're right! It was my mistake before God to marry a divored salope!" he cursed with cruel blackguard.
Not of furniture or crashes of bottles broke contact. The flimsy hand of Marie de Rohan-Lorraine punched against the scruffy side of the man she used to know. "Cheap putain d'homme! How dare you stain the House of Rohan with such disgrace? You have us living like old maids!" she accused in her notable French voice.
Antoinette's intent of listening brought tears she did not want to shed. She had heard her parents talk of many things: wars, courts, seasons, love, and the most common of their talks- disputes.
"Only you would know because you sleep like one. I should throw the vermin out of this household, starting with your whorish ways, woman!"
She bit her lip as she clutched the covers against her chest as her mother's painful cries echoed the estate. Heart wrenching tears sounded off as the man stomped about profusedly.
" You would throw away all we had because your child is not the right sex? How dare you insult my daughter!" Her yell reattached the second blanket to Antoinette.
"She's mine as well!"
"No! You gave up your fatherhood five years ago when you pushed her down the stairs! Meurtrier!"
The faint chill spilled down her spine as the young girl remembered her fall. Not a trip or a slip of the ankle. A full-fledged force pushing her down because of her logn hair and feminine facial curves. Antoinette's silent sobs racked inside her chest, not wanting an outer turmoil break through her walls.
"Fine!" thundered her papa. "Sleep with the pigs, they are as boisterous as your fat lip!"
Another round of yelling and the match quieted. The girl's tears were sniffled as the room became haunting. Over and over her mind replaced the deafening silence with the earth shattering disturbances looking for something to end this nightmare.
The crack of a door creaked, startling a scream. The poor girl's wet face met the eyes of her bruised mother. Her rounded face was adorned with fresh purple bruises and puffy red eyes. A limp gave way her scars healing from tonight's round.
"Mama? I cannot sleep," she cried.
The broken woman sobbed all over again, hugging her child tightly in her arms. Everyone had disheartned her. Not even her son came to recognize his mother in years. She had made a fool of herself to the public for being bold, and did not want a similiar fate rest on her daughter. She wiped the tears gently, rubbing her silk strands.
"Mon ange. Would you like me to sing you a lullaby?"
Her tired and aching head trembled as her mother folded the covers correctly from her distress. Her smooth voice voweled over syallables young girls had yet to roll off. The words, simple yet alluring, told a story of a milk maid in pursuit by a love stricken prince and her challenges to becoming a Queen. An old tale turned song by her mother.
"All better, lovely?"
Antoinette cutely yawned as her petite voice tiredly responded, "Oh yes, mama,"
The lull and hum of her mother's voice echoed into her daughter's subconscious until her dreams retold the story again in beautiful song and lyric.
And still to that day, whenever trouble gave way, Antoinette hummed the old tune beneath her breath as a constant reminder of her mother's bravery that lived through her to the day she died.
The cold feeling of death hung on the lit candles, steaming towards the high rising ceiling. Blush red and sorrow blue painted glass stodd out brightly against the sun from the rafters point of view. A percipice from above the sermon held an arched balcony with a stony door shaped behind it. Two sheets of white draped over an oak table with ornate golden crosses.
In front stood the bowed priest in his red robe blessing the pages of an old, frail Latin bible. Half mumbling, and half gurgling, the blotched man moved his hands in synchronized movements to represent the Holy Father, Son, and Spirit with each reprise.
The low hum of organ and pipe sifted through the musty air, lingering in heavy masks of pain and grief. Priests lighting the candles in various positions murmured old hymns of Latin. Music and lyrics meant nothing in respects of those departed. Empty decorative tombs laid waste in the back next to carved stone look alikes of saints and would-be representations of Mary and baby Jesus. Music never lifted the edged curves of a smile up. Lyrics never pierced the stony souls of their eyes.
Then why should music or it's companion drift into the ears of Antoinette? No difference of tune would release the home-spun cocoon she enveloped her emotions. She believed there was a time and place to display emotions- in private, not for a stage of audience members that only pretended to know her mother otherwise.
As she sat in the front row of the pews listening to the monotone drawls of Father Bernard, her fingers clenched tightly together like an inpenetrable fortress. Her chin dipped down but her eyes averted to her right where her father dapped away sweat-not tears- from his face.
The dainty handkerchief had in fact not been soiled with salty stains but from putrid odor at the long sermon and remembrance of his dead wife. Six feet and under he could not even summon a fake tear for the woman who put up with him.
Nearly twenty and already rebelling from her father's demands, Antoinette desperately wished to have a glass of champagne, a book from her mother's library, and cozy up with the hand-knitted blanket she gave to her on her sixth birthday. That was a way to respect her mother. Not to extravagate her mother's death in Notre Dame with hundreds of unknown nobles.
Another half hour ticked by the drooping of waxy candles gliding down the forked bannisters. Antoinette, dressed in casual black gown, greeted the many visitors in the front. Ostentatious black and white dresses and pompous trousers were made to out-do one another. Antoinette silently at a woman with a goose feather hat with the bill lodged above her foreheard.
Besides her and playing his part to the nines, caught his rowdy child amusing herself. Not wanting this child ending up like his wife (rest in peace), he tucked her elbow in.
"Pay your respects, Antoinette," he hissed under his breath. "These people fathomed long travels to wish us well," he said with a forced smile on his face as another lowly baron and his new mistress trailed up to shake his hand.
Her face ever resilient, defied him. "The dead don't require pity,"
Catching the glare from some nobles, he moved his child away from the oncoming visitors. "Hush child!" His hands on her shoulders as if in a fatherly embrace. He turned in remorse for showcase to the priest. He clapped his hands together.
"Father Bernard, a beautiful ceremony for my beautiful departed wife,"
The catatonic priest nodded, moving the flap under his chin with it. "She is looking down from God's Kingdom to gaze upon the beauty and well loved members of friends and family today. A mother's care and a wife's love will always be cherished in God's earthly domain," His eyes shone to the rafters as if she were glancing down from the doored balcony.
Claude de Lorraine sighed to sharing his 'sympathy'. "Thank you for your kind words. Antoinette,"
Antoinette still glanced at the balcony the old man gestured to. A shimmering light coming off of the dozen candles underneath and the sunlight pouring in from one of the clear panels created a ghost-like effect.
Her head snapped out of it's trance when her father clasped her hand rather constrictingly. The Father Bernard left to attend to his other priests in low whispers. Claude violently turned his head, sharpening his gaze.
"Where is your head today?" he emitted a growl.
She unhanded herself from him. Her pearly teeth showed as she clenched, "At the pit of your fury,"
Upon instinct, his hand raised above, hovering by her cheek. Onlookers studied his appearance. Feeling more heat, he pretended to pat her cheek affectionately before pulling her into a hug.
Into her ear, with frightening closure he added, "Insolent child, go and when I next see you, you had better be crying tears of remorse or I will force my backhand to release them," He let go suddenly to receive more forgiving guests with a servant or two following in his wake.
"Anything to get away from the chill besides me," she said to herself.
Everyone huddled in groups, most discussing today's politics instead of confessing stories of their connections to the deceased Duchessina. Feeling alone and unwanted, she disappeared to the corners. But even there were people- or rather nobles seeking off to sneak a kiss or two with their chosen lovers. The urge to gurgitate hastened her pace to the nearest room or alcove she could find vacant.
To the left hallway and down the corridor was a boxed off confession box most likely unused for today there was no Mass.
Her fingers trembled on the handle before purging herself into the hollowed wooden bench with criss-crossed bearings of cherry blossom tree intersecting perpendicularally. She let her head hit the back of the closed door. She deeply sighed for once, breathing in fresh air despite it's claustrophobic atmosphere.
"The Holy Father blesses you for annoiting your sins to repent in confession," A hidden voice cleared.
"Ah!" she yelped as her head leaned forward and then hit back on the door, hard. She rubbed the sore as she inspected the other side of the crosses. A man with hands in prayer beads and dressed as a young priest sat opposite her.
His meditation spell broke off as his piercing dark eyes captivated her soul. Her mesmerised state wore off as her back hunched back in panic. "Oh so sorry, did not mean to intrude," A hand rose to her face in sheer embarassment. Well, it was certainetly better than a romping couple half naked. Even the face of this man was more appeasing than any noble caught up in a corner.
"It is a confession box, child," his deep voice rang through her ears. Antoinette's eyes glared at the priest in the box haphazardly.
"Ugh, why does everyone consider me a child?" she groaned folding her hands in her lap. Her posture straightened. "I am proudly twenty without a boring man only my father would approve of," Her spirit resonating just like her mother.
A shuffle of the man's rosary beads and the cross around his neck were the only definite sounds from him until he cleared his voice again.
"Perhaps your father does not wish for you to grow up, leave the nest, and live the way God attends to,"
She couldn't put a finger on how his voice did not match any of the others. Deep and profound, yet not drawling or unattractive. Her mind flittered to her unruly father and his misbehaviors that were deemed hellish tenfold. The past years were wearing on her mother's health. He wore her out until she dropped ungraciously as a dead mule.
"No, that's the thing," She laughed to herself in pity. "Father cannot wait 'till the day I am married and shipped away to play nursemaid and cook for 'husband dearest'. So degrading," Her disgust extended past just his judgement. It was his disregard to human sympathy that ate away her guts.
The stranger stared at her conspiciously. Never in her life was she under anyone's scrutiny. It was a refreshing change of pace for Antoinette's feelings taking into account rather than judging. For that reason, she became ultimately intrigued with this unusual priest.
" ... I can sense a lot of anger on your part. Is something else holding you back?"
An understatement which kept Antoinette laughing herself silly. ?"Anger is not the half of it sometimes. My mother was a Rohan," She waited impatiently for the recognition turn to fear and then to steelness. But he didn't. He motioned with his eyes to continue on.
"Her father and their forefathers were soldiers and brave men off to fight battles and win country. Mother was born in an era women wouldn't dare learn tactics and skill. This is the 17th century and I want to defend myself. But whenever the opportunity arises, father intervenes," she said half-heartedly.
His head leant forward dipping into the wood crosses. "What made you decide to pursue a dangerous course?"
"Break from the whole routine: mature, wed, have babies, tend to every single thing the man desires until the day I die. Is it so bad to be someone I am not suppose to be?" she desired from the depths of her dreams.
A life without rule. A simplicity without the straining conflictions. A dream with as much obstacles as possible. In other words, heaven.
The priest smoothed back a hand through his hair. He knew the woman was unnerving yet agile in word play. Confessions did not require this much conversation. They would talk, he would listen and occasionally give feedback with passages of sermon. Or at least that was what the protocal dictated. It seemed so foreign to have casuality in a sacred place that he felt the roof would cave in from disobeidence.
"God has written our path from the moment we first draw breath. It is not unnatural to stray from the path. Abraham's sons did it, so did Moses," He drew breath.
She pointed out, "Yes, but those are men. It was acceptable for them to rebel. Never the women,"
He struggled to not raise annoyance as if to pound the very idea of abnormality into her head. "If you were to break out of the norm of society, what would the repercussions be? Strain? Exhaustion? Death by gallows? Every day brings new challenges to the plate, however yours would be piled over. Being a man of God taught that there were many kinds of personalities in people. With men there are the brawny, the scrawny and the exceedingly rich. As well the peasants, the nobles, the landowners, the artisans, the musicians, etc. With women there were only three categories: rich, poor, or whores.
Rarely did he encounter one of the last.
What surpassed his knowledge was the identification of the young lady of twenty in black church clothes with a certain sparkle in her eyes of her dreams that were too distant in the fantasy of the world.
The woman in question, spoke him out of his transverse riddles. "You speak as if know it. Why?"
He ended curtly, "This is your confession, not mine,"
She dipped her elbows on the little platform rest. Her eyes stared straight through him for a better excuse. "It's only fair. I've told my life story. What's yours?" she concocted with a hint of a smirk around her dimples.
"This wouldn't be appropriate," he said. "The life of a man of God is constantly on pilgrimage for sacrifice and purity. Our hardships are morals," He explained as if from a master to a student. The only difference is this student was willing to learn.
She raised a finger drawing miscellaneous shapes around the edges of the platform. "Yes but morals are to be taught and learned from. Aren't men of God teaching the Word of the Holy Spirit?" Her eyelashes thickened under her hooded eyes.
A brief moment of silence overcame the priest. Never in his twenty two years as someone thought to ever ask his concerns. He was suppose to be without troubles, o doubts. Yet she could see clearly past the facade that was underneath the cross and robes he donned. "I see your point. You would make an excellent politician or frazzled nun,"
Her chimed laughter tilted his head back, surprised at her sudden relaxed composure. A smile rose from the corner that only the devil would shy away from.
"I tend to stay away from white skirts, draws in the suitors," she joshed.
He fumbled with his hands. Smoothing out the curves in his worn hands from lighting the torches and brushing past the dusty tomes. His fingers twitched over to the cross, sighing heavily. His shoulders sagged in comfort.
"My father was a soldier as well but died on battlefield. My mother, a Jesuit and extreme pacifist left him before his last tour to the Spanish Main, believeing God's work was not meant in harsh violence.
" From there forth I was lectured and raised on holy principles, to use my mind as a shield rather than a sword. As a boy turning to manhood, fights were teasingly common. But because of my upbringing and mother's wishes to become apart of the Church one day, I let their sticks and stones break my bones for words would never hurt a training man of God. Years later my work from the local church and abbey paid off and promoted me to Notre Dame, a fine institution. Peace, quiet, and alone time with God," he finished, growing smaller and smaller to his present.
Antoinette shook her head. This man wasn't thrilled with the life he led. His tongue dulled speaking of church work and only churned at the mention of fights and battlefields. This priest did not long for God, but for the thrill of the chase to God.
"But don't you find there's more to life than the purpose of God at a workbench?" she asked curiously deciphering the man she grown to accustom to in the short time they talked. "The texts will always be the same in languages too well known. A life as exciting as becoming skilled in the arts or swordsmanship is wild and unknown," Her voice gradually raising in excitement.
She diluted the emotion as the man's eyes widened.
"Yes, but it is not practical. A man of the cloth must abide time deciphering the Holy Spirit." he said like clockwork. Holy man this, Word that. Antoinette could not pick up a better vibe from the man than detachment and hesitation.
She clasped the platform on edge. "Being a man of the cloth, and a man of God aren't always the same thing, you know. When Moses rose against Egypt, he led a rebellion of people. They fight for what they believed in: the Promise Land. Are you fighting for what you believe, in God and essence, behind scroll and paper?" she asked him with dead seriousness.
His face deadpanned. His mouth ajar and a hand no longer residing on the cross he so fondly clenched during their heart to heart. Antoinette pulled her skirts and left the confession box without another word, fearing she had upset him beyond repair. Her rash mouth once again astonished another person and she couldn't muzzle it. A slight disappointment aroused in her mind as she regained entrance back to reality.
There was still a funeral, with a procession of people stalking about the memoirs left in her memorial. She was in Notre Dame, the famed cathedral, in the square of Paris; in the most miserable country without reformation. And noted, she was alone.
Or at least she thought she was until the quiet patter of running footsteps flew about behind her.
"Wait!" The attractive voice broke through. His cross was besides his pocket and his smoothed back hair was slightly astray in his flurry of motion. The robes were buff and unflattering on any physique.
"I-..." He paused as he remembered the hush sound of whispers and humming priests roaming around. He beckoned her forward to a tucked away alcove. The damp texture of stone moistened the air but did not thicken from their breaths.
His hands shook from revelation. A hand flew to his forehead in gasps. "What you said, was corruptive to the soul and twisting the fabrication of the Bible," he started viciously throwing the words out without a softened blow. Her eyes rimmed with water just as he sighed. This time his head hit the stone walls.
"Yet... there's a part of my soul that yearns to know of your knowledge God has given you about outspoken behavior,"
In disbelief, she creased the corners of her eyes to flood the tears back. Antoinett sniffled quietly. "Sorry, workshop closed a week ago," she said trying to play her emotions as allergies. Her fingers trailed over to her tear ducts instinctively to remove any motivation to cry from the sudden shift in tone and behavior.
"Please!" he begged as his arms trapped hers to his. "Your words inspired a new transaction between the worship between man and God," His voice quieted as he studied her face in new tranformation. Just as if she had changed on the spot like a butterfly.
"Oh do tell me," she mumbled.
He puffed out not knowing what to say. It started with a simple confession of pity and then led to their realization of something other than the lives they were meant to live for- through someone else. "Well... I-I. The old testaments told stories of transition to the beginning and the middle of creation. It spoke of challenges worth beyond measurable talent of men and women. Perhaps instead of following in the words of holy men to find the path of God, one must lead in the right direction,"
"And you believe that is through me?" Her eyes averted sharply.
He shrugged his shoulders. "In essence I suppose it could. Nevertheless, my old passion to give not take or fight not follow has left me emerged enlightened," he said vicariously.
She asked, "You, a man of cloth, be a fighter? Men were fighters, but not holy men with a different mission.
"Like you said," he began gesturing to the robes and cross, "A man of cloth is running behind the past digging into secrets. A man of God finds truth through progress- moving forward," He pointed to the paintings of glass depicting scenes of failure and triumph. Moments of sorrow and then elation.
"Antoinette!" The solace erupted when the bulk voice shouted. The depths of the floor trembled in her wake when her father stood, in total dominance with his serfs, for his child to run to his side for forgiveness. Instead he was met with only cruel black eyes that did not belong in a holy place. For a pace he stepped a foot backwards until his arrogance pushed it forward.
Antoinette envisioned the earth to swallow him to the fiery pits of hell. The dream eluded as she remembered her place. Her face softened. "Well, as delighted as your arrival to transformation is, I must be returning back to the inn,"
As she left, she was drawn back into the alcove by surprise. "How long are you in Paris?" the man asked curiously.
She shrugged her shoulders then rolled them back, counting the number of days left of her 'holiday'. "A few more days, why?"
It took a half of a minute for the priest to sputter the words. His conscience told him no, but the face he presented to Antoinette told her his fight inside.
He finally uttered with some exhaustion, "Would you meet me outside of the Church tomorrow morning, eight o'clock after the morning mass?"
"Antoinette!"
"Anon!" she responded. "I don't know, wouldn't that be demising your whole purpose for Notre Dame?" she questioned.
His eyes drifted into the milky parts of his subconscious. A squiggle of a smile surfaced. "I want to see the world through God's eyes, and that won't get me past the sanctuary of the bells," he admitted with full brimming confidence.
"CHILD!"
"Anon, anon!" Antoinette drew back to the priest. His head hung high awaiting his answer. In the short seconds her brain had processed the different solutions, she found only one acceptable response that suited her. She nodded. "Very well. I'll meet you by the tavern across the way," Her head spun in the direction imagining the walls of Notre Dame barren.
"Eight o'clock?" he confirmed.
She picked up her skirts and began to pace herself to the doors. "Yes! Goodbye! Wait!" She stopped in realization. Antoinette forgotten one thing. "What's your name?"
He stepped back into the light and out of the alcove. The robes slimmed down and the black and white suited his dark hair. His remarkable face cleared from the air of mystery to a hint of familiarity. His moustache, though small, was straightened, not curled. Just the way Antoinette had envisioned him all along.
"Aramis," The name matched the face.
Her breath hitched several times. The corset tightened and the puffed sleeves seemed to blow hot air through her body. The bold curve to her personality straightened out. She felt the change he had described. Total and completely anew. But not metamorphed.
"Farewell, Aramis," she said staring into his eyes one last time before fleeing to her impatient father.
His hand waved anxiously. "God be with you!" he called. The hand slowed stopped and settled for the solitude near him. The candles began to burn out the last oils of wax before he submerged back into his office.
"Antoinette.." The whisper of her name fell on his lips..
Whoa! Some interesting conversations, right? Marie de Rohan was a real person. Her husbands and child mentioned were real as well. Who is not real is Antoinette although she had three daughters with Claude but no sons which could obviously ruin a marriage back then.
Until next time! Read and review!