Chapter 6:
Author's note: I'm doing a double chapter release this weekend to say thank you to all of you for bearing with me through the painful Fersen chapter. Let the story continue!
Oscar's bedroom door closed quietly behind her. At the same time, another door in the servants' quarters opened and closed with minimal noise.
The young valet slid to the floor, his back pressed to the door, just as Oscar plopped down onto her dresser, fatigued and drained.
Andre closed his eyes and mentally combed through every single detail of this evening, the memory of it sending shivers upon shivers up and down his spine.
Meanwhile, the Captain of the Royal Guard dropped her borrowed cape on the floor unceremoniously, her fingers tracing invisible lines back and forth on her lips.
What an evening!
Andre lifted his knees to his chest and rested his arms on them. The guilt crept up on him. How could he have betrayed the woman he loved? And yet, flashbacks of that mysterious woman kept flooding his mind. Her lips… her waist… her warm smooth skin… oh and her scent! He inhaled sharply. He could still smell it. It had rubbed off on him. "Mm," he sighed in appreciation, closing his eyes to further accentuate his sense of smell.
Across the manor from him, one could also hear sighs and grunts. Removing a dress was no easy feat, it turned out. Oscar battled with it until it finally came undone and slid to the floor, torn and damaged, leaving her only in a white chemise. Now came the most difficult part: removing the rest of the wig that Helga had so skillfully pinned. Speaking of which, what was Fersen trying to tell her with that story?
…
The bed squeaked underneath as Andre collapsed into it. He felt completely drunk, even though he had had nothing to drink. The more he imagined that woman, the more she looked and sounded like Oscar in his imagination. Those beautiful blue eyes, that tall silhouette, that voice and that crystalline laugh! Then there were these delicious curves! Of course, he had memorized Oscar's figure by heart, although he never truly had the opportunity to physically trace them out with his hands. Yes, he knew her so well, but only in her uniform. What would Oscar have looked like in a dress? He wondered for the umpteenth time.
Pfft! Oscar in a dress! He chuckled, attempting to bring himself back to reality. Inconceivable!
Besides, what would Oscar be doing at the servants' ball, anyw-?
Before he even finished this thought, he shot upright on his bed.
Of course.
Of course… why wouldn't she come to the ball? Oscar could never stand losing a duel. Knowing her, she must have combed Versailles high and wide looking for him, found no trace and then decided to look elsewhere.
His heart beat rapidly.
But then, why would she… why didn't she challenge him again?
Obviously, she wanted you… a voice in his head said.
Andre shook his head vehemently. No, no, no. No way.
He would never allow himself to hope again.
And yet…
Why did he have that nagging feeling? A hunch.
He paced around the room, replaying their encounter for the millionth time. How could it not have been her?
And then, he remembered. She wore a wig! The woman wore a wig. He could almost swear he glimpsed her blonde hair as she fled.
He searched his pockets frantically until he found the object he had been looking for.
The dagger.
He twirled it around in his hands. What sort of woman carried a dag-
His hand flew to his mouth to stifle a cry. The answer to his question came like a lightning bolt to the heart, for there, on the side of the dagger was the seal of Jarjayes.
…
"Arrgghh!" growled Oscar. "Why is it so stuck!"
Oscar was in a huff. Helga must have used a thousand pins to keep this in place. And what good did that do! Oscar was sure she got them all but there seemed to be a few more deep within her hair.
She stared at her own reflection: completely dishevelled, cheeks flushed and ceremoniously out of order.
Fersen's words rang in her ears. "Allons, Oscar, you were alone with a man for a half an hour…"
"Arrrghh!" she yelled again. How could she have given in to that man? The icing on the cake was that she once again failed to discover who this man was. And she had wasted Fersen's time.
Poor Fersen.
For once, she pitied him more than she pitied herself for having been in love with him. She had to admit, though, she felt a huge weight had been lifted off of her chest. As if she could breathe again.
Frustrated with the situation, she finally came to the decision that she will pull with all her might and God help her should her own hair come out with him. She took a deep breath and gave it one last tug.
"Ahhh!" she yelled in anticipation.
It worked. Her hair was thankfully spared. Oscar sighed in relief. Her hair had always been her pride. She refused to tie it according to what the fashion at Versailles dictated, and she took meticulous care of it.
"What the…"
She crouched down where the wig had fallen to the floor and picked up a limp item.
A glove!
Her eyes widened.
Not just any glove. His glove!
She searched her dress pockets and found the original glove there where she had kept it as part of her plan to catch the man in the Black Mask and make him wear it to prove it was him. How stupid and juvenile, she remarked.
Ah, but now she had the other glove. She examined it carefully. It matched the one she had perfectly except that this one had an insignia sewn on the inside.
She brought the candle closer so she can discern it better.
"F.A. Reynier de Jarjayes…, » she read out loud.
"QUOI! »
She bolted up.
« How is this even possible? These belong to Pere!?"
Had that man stolen them? Oh, mon dieu! That man was a robber! And he had been to their home and stolen things right from under her nose!
Her chest constricted and her breath became shallower.
She raced to the door, wanting to step out and scream. But to whom? Andre!
She needed to go see Andre.
Just as she was about to turn the knob, several loose threads emanating from the glove caught her eye.
Wait a moment.
These were the fashion from a few years ago. She turned them around. They were old and somewhat worn. The seams had also been adjusted.
Why would anyone…
Ah, but there was one person in the household for whom her father's old attire were given to and adjusted for.
Suddenly, it all came back to her in one fell swoop that almost knocked her to the ground:
The way he had danced… his accent in Italian… the same accent of a 16-year old boy who was attended Italian courses with her… how he knew every single one of her weaknesses in a duel… thinking back on it, he hadn't actually been that skilled with the sword; he merely won because he took advantage of her impulsivity by knowing just the right buttons to push… and those eyes! God, she had seen them just this afternoon when she had noticed him for the first time…
"Don't be so stubborn, let me help…" his voice echoed in her head like a clap of thunder.
"Don't be so stubborn, Oscar…" How often had she heard that in her life?
"Do you really not know who the man in the Black Mask is, Oscar?... I can tell you that he would never think you look ridiculous in a dress." Fersen's voice echoed.
Oscar sank to the floor, burdened by the enormous weight of her epiphany.
"A-Andre…?"