Chapter 2

Author's note: This chapter is much more wordy than the previous one. I'm still experimenting after a long hiatus so I hope this won't be off-putting!

Victor Clement de Girodelle was in a meditative state, as he sat one morning, attending to his daily correspondence.

That is, until a storm landed in his office and thundered into the room adjacent to his, causing the door to slam violently and his papers to fly everywhere.

Victor let out an exasperated sigh as he bent down to gather his papers.

Not again.

This has been going on every day since the All Hallow's Eve party. What was the big issue, anyway?

The mysterious man in the Black Mask never showed his face again and no harm was done to anyone. Quite the contrary: Everyone seemed delighted with him. That is, everyone except her. She refused to tell him anything else about that evening to explain her tempestuous behaviour.

Not that he wasn't used to her sour moods. Except that, in the past, these episodes were far and in between. Although, one must admit that she had been in a perpetual sulk for quite some time now. Ever since… Yes, ever since that other foreigner had returned from abroad. What was it with these foreigners?

He sprinkled some pounce onto his papers, gently blowing on it to dry the ink. He then rose calmly from his desk, straightened his attire, smoothed out his hair and called for some tea to be brought in. He was ready to face the storm.

…

"So", he began as he stepped into the Commandant's office, motioning for the servant to leave the tea on the table.

"How did the investigation go?" A rhetorical question, for he already knew the answer.

"Comme de la merde!" came the anticipated reply. Girodelle proceeded to methodically pour the tea, the sound of the liquid gushing out onto the porcelain cups shielding his delicate ears from the onslaught of inappropriate expressions that followed from his superior.

"…and the answer to your question is: nowehere," she went on heatedly. "I questioned every single last one of them and no one, absolute no one knows anything."

"And the glove?" Girodelle offered.

She slammed the infamous glove onto the table, rattling the tea tray. She drew a long breath and shook her head. "It fit no one."

Girodelle only nodded in silence.

"And you said you questioned every one?"

Oscar glared at him. "That's what I just told you."

"Even… him?" he threw that out casually, as he brought his tea cup to his lips. She fixed him with a more intense glare.

He held up a cup for her. This seemed to diffuse the situation, for she took it and turned her back to him, facing the window.

"No," she admitted, after having regained her usual composure. "But I'm positive it wasn't him."

"Oh?" Girodelle attempted a casual tone again. "And how can you be so sure?"

"Because!" she turned to face him, angry. "Because Fersen would never… never ki—" She stopped herself at the last minute. Girodelle's hand paused an inch away from his mouth, the steam from his cup covering his face. His curiosity was piqued.

"Never… what?" he uttered, carefully.

"Never… That is…," she stammered. "What I meant to say was that he would never… never…" Oscar swallowed with difficulty, as her brain raced through her list of vocabulary to find a verb that began with a "k" sound. Of course, Fersen would never kiss her.

Girodelle put his cup down, waiting impatiently for her answer. What did transpire that night?

"He would never carry on in that way," she finally uttered, emphasizing the "ca" in "carry on".

Girodelle squinted at her. He looked in her eyes searchingly. Was she aware of how red her face had become? Yes, something undoubtedly happened that night.

"Ah," was his only reply.

"Besides," she muttered, attempting to change the subject. "I'm sure he has a good alibi."

Girodelle placed his cup firmly onto the tray, startling her momentarily. Was she just going to let him off so easily? "Might I remind you that appearances are the only currency that counts, here at Versailles?" he snapped.

Oscar was taken aback. Was he scolding her?

"While we both know the truth about what is going on between them, you must think of how it will look to people if you don't question him. The Captain of the Royal Guard playing favorites and keeping secrets."

Oscar scoffed at him. "I don't care about what people say nor about my reputation."

"Then think of her. There is already much damage done because of these rumors and we can't be responsible for confirming them."

Oscar clenched her fists. He was right. She needed to go question Fersen no matter what. Even if it meant being in a room alone with him. Even if it meant that there was an infinitesimal possibility that it was truly him in the Black Mask. But more importantly, even if it meant that it just wasn't him and that it would break her heart again.

She sighed in resignation. "Fine, you're right." Her voice was barely audible.

Girodelle concealed his surprised skillfully, so as not to rub salt in the wound. His Captain had never admitted being in the wrong before. She was clearly a lot more troubled that he previously thought.

She placed her cup on the tray, thanked him for the tea and began walking out the door. A hand on her arm stopped her in her tacks.

She turned around and faced him.

"I can go in your stead, if you like," he said gently.

Something in the way he looked at her unsettled her. It was as if he wanted to protect her. But mostly, it felt like he pitied her. Had she become that pathetic so as to elicit sympathy from Girodelle of all people? Nonetheless, she appreciated his sentiment.

"No," she shook her head. "It is my duty and I will carry it through. But thank you." She smiled at him and disengaged her arm from him gently and, she hated to admit, almost reluctantly. She never realized until this moment how much she needed a friend these days.

"By the way, where has that valet of yours been? I haven't seen him regularly in months." He always followed you around like a loyal dog. But Victor knew better than to say that.

"He's…busy, I suppose." Busy doing what? She questioned herself. Indeed, where was Andre these days? Her best friend and confidante? When had they drifted so far apart that she no longer knew what he was doing?

"I see." Girodelle replied, with a knowledgeable nod.

…..

Oscar's eyes stretched almost as wide as the length of her entire face.

"Impossible!" she cried, her breath caught. It fit perfectly!

The glove. Fit Perfectly.

She grabbed Fersen's hand and turned it around a few times.

The man in question only chuckled and scratched at the nape of his neck, bashful at the unexpected attention the Captain of the Royal Guard was giving him.

"While I am flattered that you should think I am the dashing young man from that evening, I can assure you that this is just a coincidence."

"Wha—but how? But it fits!" she stuttered.

He chuckled again in that perpetual good-humored way that he had about him.

"True, it does fit nicely but it is not mine. See here? The seam at the thumb?" He gently disengaged from her grip, causing her to blush. She had been too occupied with this investigation that she hadn't realized that she been holding Fersen's hand for the last few minutes. "My tailor always leaves a half inch at the thumb. My fingers often swell and having a bit more room is useful in case I need to take up arms or ride at a moment's notice. The glove is also slightly loose at the wrist."

He tugged at the wrist and indeed, it was looser than what the current fashion dictated at Versailles.

Oscar stood silent for a few minutes, grappling with both the heavy disappointment that just landed on her heart and the mystery of the man in the Black Mask that persisted without solution.

"Anyway," Fersen, sensing a cloud coming over his friend attempted to draw her back into conversation. "What has this man done?"

"Huh?"

"This man that you're chasing," he tried to explain himself. "He must have done something, non? Otherwise, you wouldn't be after him?"

"Oh! Right, Ahem, of course."

He stared at her questioningly, waiting for the answer that never seemed to come. His brows furrowed in concern. Oscar was certainly not herself today.

"He, uh, he stole," she improvised.

"Oh my, that does sound serious. What did he steal and from whom? Was it the Royal Family?" Fersen sounded genuinely concerned. As he should when the object of his affections may have been affected by this.

"No, actually, from me," Oscar found herself admitting.

"What did he take?"

"Something… precious… almost intangible." Her fists clenched despite herself.

"Ah," Fersen nodded sympathetically. He had understood perfectly. It was a matter of pride, then. His friend had lost a duel.

"There, there Oscar, it's quite alright." He patted her shoulder comfortingly, causing her to flinch. "It happens to the best of us, truly. Have I told you about this one time when I…"

Ferson droned on about another one of his heroic tales, but Oscar wasn't listening.

Then, seeing as how she seemed troubled more than usual, for she usually paid undivided attention to him, he approached her and lifted her chin.

To her surprise, she felt slightly repulsed by that gesture.

"Perhaps I can help?" he offered.

"I…" If she accepted it would mean more time spent around Fersen and this interview was already making her feel as awkward as she had never felt. "Thank you, but I have it under control. And anyway, I think it is a moot point."

Fersen scratched his head. "And you have questioned everyone?"

"Every man at Versailles," she sighed.

"Hmm…"

She tucked the glove away into her pocket, ready to take her leave and put an end to her misery.

"How can you be sure it wasn't a woman?"

Oscar stared at him in bewilderment. A woman?!

"That's impossible. A woman wouldn't ki-" She stopped herself abruptly before she ruined herself. "That is," she collected herself. "A woman wouldn't carry on like this." She secretly congratulated herself on the timely rescue.

A momentary doubt seemed to flash in his eyes. "Well, I trust your instincts."

She smiled and nodded.

"I should probably get goi-"

"Perhaps it's not one of us?" he asked, ignoring her.

"What do you mean?"

"Perhaps it wasn't a person of the nobility."

"What are you suggesting?" she squinted at him.

"Could it be one of the servants or workers here at Versailles?"

Oscar sniggered. "Did you see the man dance? And since you so skillfully deduced, I did duel with him and I can tell you that his skills are very refined. Besides he spoke Italian only."

"To you, perhaps, but I have it on good authority that someone had heard him speak fluent French."

She stared at Fersen in disbelief. So, he may not have been a foreigner after all, which would confirm her suspicions, for she was able to detect a slight accent in his Italian.

She shook her head vehemently and let out a sigh. "That means he could be anyone. It's like looking for a needle in a haystack. Besides, I don't think that holding an inquest of the servants is such a good idea in the current climate. I think I shall have to let this go."

"Well," he ventured after some thought, "Perhaps you won't have to hold an inquest. In fact," his tone became more excited. "There is a masquerade ball usually held for the non-nobility a week after All Hallow's Eve and all the workers and most servants at Versailles will attend. Since All Hallow's Eve was last week that means the ball will be…" he made a quick calculation in his head. "This evening! And I have got the perfect idea!"

"Fersen, I don't mean to dull your excitement, but how exactly do you think it will be perceived to have the Captain of the Royal Guard show up at a servants' ball?" Oscar was beginning to grow impatient with Fersen's lack of logic.

"Ah," he grinned playfully. "But you won't be going as the Commandant, mon amie."

"Oh?" she raised her eyebrows.

"It is, after all, a masquerade ball. And so, we shall find you a costume!"

His face became more and more animated, appearing more and more ridiculous to her by the second. Alas, it was her last hope.

…

Oscar climbed the stairs towards her bedroom suites without much hurry. She was exhausted from the past week's events and, far from being exciting, the interview with Fersen had been draining.

Why couldn't she let this go, anyway? As Fersen had inadvertently pointed out, the man in the Black Mask had done nothing wrong. But that depended on whom you asked. He did, after all, kiss her without permission. So why didn't she push him off? More importantly, why did she pull him closer?

A shiver went up and down her spine as she remembered his lips on hers, the way he had traced her mouth, the way he had tasted, the way it felt to feel him desire her. It was wrong and yet so utterly pleasurable.

She never knew that one could experience pleasure simply through one's body. Was she looking for him because she wanted a repeat of the incident? No! A voice inside of her protested. Of course not! She wanted a rematch to the duel, to restore her honor.

Her musings were interrupted by the sound of hurried footsteps on the landing below. She looked down to find Andre pacing towards the kitchens. An unexpected warmth filled her chest.

"Andre?" she called out to him.

Her voice stopped him in his tracks and he almost slid. "Yes, Oscar?" he said, looking up at her.

She had called out to her childhood friend, the keeper of her secrets and practically her soul mate. And yet here was a man standing before her. She bit her lip unconsciously. How had she never noticed him before? From this vantage point, she could see his full figure. He had changed so much over the last few years and yet she only noticed it now. He was much taller than he used to be, even taller than her. He was well-built and well-formed in all the right places. His chest was broad and welcoming. His face was akin to a sculpture and his eyes… She could melt in his emerald eyes. When did Andre become so… handsome? Oh, and those lips! Dear God, what was she thinking?

Of course, one falls in love with one man and it doesn't seem to stop from there.

Realizing that she had been quiet for some time, she ventured, "Have… have you been well?"

Andre raised his eyebrows in surprise. What was going on? Oscar had been absent for so long. Her mind and heart were always elsewhere even though he saw her almost every day. He saw her, but he knew that there were times when she saw him but never really noticed him. He knew exactly why and it broke his heart a little bit every time.

And yet, here she was, asking if he had been keeping well.

"Have you?" came his dubious reply. He scolded himself. That's not what he had wanted to say. He wanted to have a conversation with her instead. Over a glass of wine or hot chocolate. They hadn't done that in so long.

"Yes," she replied, hurriedly. "Oh yes, just, you know… the usual. Busy with this… thing at the Palace." How she longed to tell him. But what could she say? I lost a duel and someone kissed me? Perhaps a few years ago, it would have been easier but lately, there seemed to be this invisible impenetrable wall between them.

He only nodded in acknowledgement.

"And you?" she asked, concern showing in her voice.

Andre rubbed his neck absent-mindedly. What could he tell her? I spend all my days drowning myself in whatever work I could find so that I don't think of you and I don't think of my heart that aches with your continued absence.

"Busy as well," he said. "There has been a lot to do around here. Speaking of which, I should go fetch a few things before your father returns from Versailles. Did you want something?"

Yes, to sit with you over a glass and talk into the early morning hours. To cry on your shoulder. To read with you and play the piano for you. I miss you, Andre. She felt her heart constrict.

"I… no, not really," she feigned a smile. "Carry on."

They nodded at each other and parted.

"Oscar?" Andre called out to her.

She took a step back and looked down at him, hopeful.

"Yes?"

"Are you… alright?"

She smiled, realizing that she hadn't really smiled in a very long time. "Much better now."

…

The maid pulled and tugged rudely at Oscar's chest and waist, which prompted a steady stream of vulgar curses from the latter. Fortunately for Oscar, in many ways than one, the maid only understood and spoke Swedish and not word of French.

Oscar stared at herself in the mirror as the maid proceeded to accessorize her. Thankfully, Andre wasn't here to see this. She could only imagine his incessant mockery had she told him of the man in the Black Mask and her plan to catch him.

"Haha! Trust the Commandant Oscar Francois to get her first kiss during a sword duel! I can't imagine anything more fitting! Say, Oscar, was he gentle with his sword? Ha ha ha ha ha!" His imaginary laughter echoed in her head.

"Stupid Andre," she chuckled to herself. The maid glanced at her as she tightened the corset one last time, surprised at the sudden change in demeanor.

Oscar suddenly clutched at her heart. There was that feeling of constriction again, but it wasn't from the corset. She missed him. She missed Andre and it… hurt. Since when did thinking of Andre feel that way? Since when did it elicit… well, feelings? She didn't even know how to label them. She couldn't help but think of his eyes again and… his lips.

She shook her head vehemently, confusing the maid. "Mår du bra?"

"Erm, oui, ca va. Carry on." She ordered, thankful for a distraction.

She peered at the maid through the mirror, studying her. Why would Fersen, a military man, bring a maid with him? Didn't he have an entourage of valets? He had mentioned that he had brought her in case his sister decided to visit. Although, judging by her appearance – for she was young and pretty – Oscar began suspecting that perhaps there was an ulterior motive there.

After all, Fersen did have a reputation. One that both Oscar, and probably Marie-Antoinette, simply chose to ignore, for his gallantry outweighed any other vices that could be attributed to him. And yet for the first since she had met him, Oscar found herself wondering about Fersen's conquests.

"Fersen," Oscar called out from her dressing room. The encounter with Andre earlier and her upcoming mission had completely occupied her thoughts that she only now awoke to the fact that Hans Axel von Fersen was in her bedroom. Waiting for her.

But strangely, that did not faze her in the least.

She felt slightly annoyed with herself. Was she really defected when it came to matters of the heart? She could not even muster a simple flutter now that Fersen was actually here. Not that he was here to court her, but still. Shouldn't the proximity make her head spin? And yet it only seemed to accentuate her usual cold level-headedness.

Undoubtedly defected.

"Oui, Oscar?" Fersen's melodic voice wafted through the dressing room door, which was kept ajar.

Her heart sank for a moment. The "Oui, Oscar" she was used to hearing usually came from someone else.

She stepped out and Fersen's breath was taken away. Alas, Oscar's mind was elsewhere to notice his expression.

"You look… ravishing," he exclaimed, eyeing her up and down. He nodded to the maid and said something to her in Swedish, which seemed to make her happy.

Oscar blushed.

She wore a simple blue dress, similar to the ones Rosalie used to wear. It tied in the front and had white ruffled sleeves. Fersen had arranged it for her.

"Hardly," she chuckled. She walked up to her dressing table and sat down.

Fersen continued to stare at her in amazement as the maid pulled Oscar's back and pinned it up. How did he never notice just how beautiful Oscar Francois de Jarjayes was?

To her surprise, Oscar began finding his attentions uncomfortable. She focused her attention on the maid instead, who was now busy styling the dark brown wig Oscar agreed to wear to conceal herself.

What would Andre think of her like this? More mockery resonated in her head. And he would be right for this was terribly ridiculous!

"Say, Fersen?" she began, attempting to distract herself. "Have you got any children?" she blurted.

Fersen almost fell over his chair. He chuckled nervously. "Err, not that I'm aware of," he joked.

"Hmm…" Oscar nodded slowly. It only just occurred to Oscar how unusual it was that a man with Fersen's, well, history, never resulted in any unintended consequences. "Are you sure?" she persisted.

"Really, Oscar," Fersen exclaimed, half indignant. "I can't tell if you're joking or if I am to be offended."

He poured himself a glass of brandy and drank it in one shot. He grimaced, suscitating her laughter.

"Sorry," she said, approaching him and pouring herself a glass as well. "I don't know what's gotten into me these days."

She placed her hand on his arm reassuringly and held his gaze. She seemed genuinely regretful.

"I was only joking." Her voice came out in a low sultry alto.

He stared back intently into the blue sea that was Oscar's eyes, utterly electrified by the contact.

Fersen had never felt anything other than warm friendship and camaraderie towards Oscar Francois de Jarjayes. And yet, right here in this moment, his senses were on fire. The woman before him, despite her simple dress, was utterly captivating, and for the first time, Fersen found himself bewitched by Oscar Francois.

He longed to touch her, to trace his fingers on her decolletage, to feel her skin with his lips. In fact, the distance between them was so short that he could simply reach down and…

But that would be inappropriate. It was, after all, still Oscar. Instead, he brought her hand to his lips and kissed it, while holding her gaze.

"Well then," he said in a raspy voice that sent a shiver up her spine. "What shall we call you tonight?"

She hadn't thought of a name for herself. Andre was usually the one who was good at coming up with these things.

"You can call me Rosalie, I suppose."

Fersen flashed her a charming smile. Oscar frowned. Why was he acting strange all of a sudden?

"Excellent. Shall we, then, Mademoiselle Rosalie?"

He offered her his arm and she took it.

This night was turning out to be a lot more promising than Fersen ever thought it would.

A suivre!