Chapter 8
Author's note: Hello everyone and Happy New Year! I hope you're all doing well and keeping safe. I took a break for the holidays and now I'm back with a new chapter! I'm hoping to get back into my writing routine and I thank you wholeheartedly for your ongoing encouragement!
Heavy footfalls resounded loudly through the corridor, as the studded heels of military boots ebbed and crashed onto the marble floors like a troubled sea on a stormy day.
Not far behind, another pair of footsteps – vacillating and wavering, in stark contrast with the decisive calculated step of the former, could be heard hurrying anxiously.
"Oscar!" came an insistent whisper, as the footsteps approached. "Oscar, wait, please." A desperate plea.
He glanced around furtively to make sure no one was looking, then quickened his pace.
"Oscar!" The frustration welled up to an unbearable point so he grabbed her arm, forcing her to turn around, fiery cheeks and incredulous. He let go of her almost immediately, as he knew with certainty by her fuming countenance that he risked being burned. God knows, her mere eyes would have reduced him to ashes right then and there. Or turned him into an ice sculpture. One never knew with Oscar – it was always a marvel to him how the elements of fire and ice moved through her as one.
Despite the calm and still weather of this crisp November day, the ride to Versailles was anything but. They had ridden separately, Andre arriving several long minutes after Oscar, having been unexpectedly "detained" at Jarjayes. And with good reason. After their confrontation, he had managed to find a jagged edge close to where one of his wrists were tied and then used it to cut the cord Oscar had tied him with, subsequently freeing himself. He then leapt on his horse and rode as fast as was humanely possible to catch up with her, the cold air painfully stinging his face instead of cooling the burning he felt from shame. Although, most of the burning really emanated from the red mark that decorated his cheek, a living memento left behind by Oscar's hand as she delivered him a powerful slap that made him taste blood in his mouth.
He had deserved it. Despite the short ride to Versailles, it was more than enough time for Andre to admonish himself repeatedly. How could he even think that he could disguise himself, kiss Oscar and then run away and never be found out?! Stupid, foolish, utterly idiotic! How could he think that she would never find out? It was an insult to her competence and intelligence.
Well, the damage was done, and now it was time to control it. He needed to make her believe that it was only a prank, nothing more. If she found out about his feelings, he would lose her. For good.
He stood there facing her now, enduring the pointed daggers that she launched at him from the icebergs in her eyes. She had her arms crossed over her chest, hair dishevelled from what he assumed a turbulent journey to Versailles on so many levels - not unlike his, her foot tapping the floor impatiently as she often did when she waited for him to speak. Despite the gravity of the situation, he could not help but remark just how endearing she appeared; all he wanted to do was to take her in his arms. It thus broke his heart to have to lie to her. But there was no other way.
He shifted his eyes to the floor, abashed. "Look, I never intended to ki-…"
"Ah, good morning, Oscar!" a jovial greeting floated behind Oscar, its familiar voice causing the red in her cheeks to turn a deeper hue. Her heart began to race, yet to her surprise it was not for the usual reason.
"Merde!" Both Oscar and Andre cursed inaudibly under their breaths simultaneously.
Such perfect timing. Just when she was about to obtain a full confession with an elaborate explanation.
Even though she had guessed that the man in the Black Mask was Andre, the revelation still shocked her. Andre, her childhood best friend, the only person she could rely on in the world had… kissed her. A real kiss. A lover's kiss. No, they had kissed, for the second time around, Andre had been in the dark, literally and figuratively. It was she who had instigated it. And even though she hadn't known his identity at the time, there was no denying that her body had craved him.
And once she did know his identity, there was no denying that her heart beat for him. It was probably this very fact that shocked her a lot more than the confirmation of his identity, for, in a way, she had always known that her heart belonged to him. She had just been blind, always choosing to wear a mask instead of face the reality as it were.
But the question remained: did he return her feelings? Or was he simply toying with her?
And she was this close to finding out. This close to the confession she was looking for. A confession that Oscar Francois de Jarjayes had never in a million years imagined she would be fishing for: a love confession.
Alas, the universe, it seemed, enjoyed teasing her.
"I'm glad I ran into you," the newcomer began. "Listen, I was thinking about last night and… Ah, Andre! Sorry, I… didn't see you there."
From afar, Oscar's tall and broad posture seemed to eclipse her interlocutor from the view of others while simultaneously blocking his view from his surroundings, dominating his sphere and field of vision.
But then again, when did Andre really see anything else but her. She was the sun of his life.
Anyway, Andre did not need to see who was coming to know from that characteristic melodic voice and the elegant step that it was none other than Hans Axel von Fersen.
Why did it always seem as though Fersen was everywhere? He even haunted him at night in his nightmares.
"Fersen," Oscar turned her neck ever so slightly to greet him, her tone stiff and cool. Andre raised an eyebrow. Oscar, his Oscar, seemed annoyed. At Fersen.
Andre merely nodded in his direction, lips pursed and arms crossed over his chest.
And then no one said anything else, but they all made sure to look away from each other.
Fersen was a man of the world and he knew almost instantly as soon as he came to stand amongst those two that he had just interrupted a lovers' quarrel. Although, from the countenance of them both, it seemed as though their relationship hasn't really yet evolved enough to classify them as "lovers".
After their conversation the previous evening, Fersen was sure that Oscar would come to her senses and finally realize her own feelings and those of Andre's for that matter. But this woman was evidently a hard-head. And Andre was just too smitten and too scared. He sighed inwardly. What a pity.
"I was just in the vicinity," Fersen finally broke the heavy silence.
"Oh?" Oscar replied icily. "It's a rather secluded area, far away from the main hub at the Palace. I have to say, it is rather surprising to see you here."
She could barely mask her irritation, Andre noted, and he began to wonder whether he might have been completely wrong about the purpose of Fersen's visit last night. Perhaps they had not, in fact, spent the night together as he thought. Perhaps nothing really had happened between them.
Andre would have further rejoiced had he known that, despite the kiss these two had shared the night before, the memory of it was insignificant and unremarkable that it did not even make itself apparent in either of their minds upon meeting.
Fersen scratched his neck and laughed nervously. "Oh well, you know, sometimes I need to get away. Besides, it's a convenient way to get to the stables."
It is, Oscar thought, and it is private. That's why I come here. That's why I came here today. Evidently, it's no longer "private".
Seeing as how his presence was not met with much enthusiasm, Fersen decided to do the polite thing and take his leave.
"Well, then, I should get goi—"
But just then, yet another unexpected figure decided to enter the scene, to Oscar's great dismay.
"Commandant!"
"Foutredieu," she cussed and bit her lip and looked to the sky as if soliciting the help of one of those divine angels painted in the ceiling above. Could this morning really get any worse?
Ah, but it wasn't all that bad, was it, now? She still could not get used to this new titillating voice in her head that seemed to delight in and, at times, it seemed, push her towards things and actions she never thought she would engage in. She barely had time to contain the heat that was rising from the base of her spine as the evocation of this morning's excursion came racing through her mind, as the feel of Andre's burning lips on hers sizzled on her mouth. Alas, the newcomer was swiftly upon them, the very sight of him snapping her out of her warm reverie like a bucket of ice-cold water.
She heaved a great sigh that produced the word, "Girodelle," to greet her subordinate.
The latter, perfectly coiffed, golden-brown waves cascading like an ethereal river to his shoulder, uniform glimmering, back upright and a usual glimmer of cold mischief in his eyes. The very vision of elegance, a stark contrast to the ridiculous jester's costume he had worn on All Hallow's Eve, the image of which Oscar struggled repeatedly to erase from her mind from how tight it had been in certain places.
And ever the embodiment of proper etiquette and manners, so characteristic of the French aristocracy, Girodelle turned to the two men that surrounded the beautiful siren of his dreams.
"Hans."
"Victor."
The two noblemen regarded each other warily, as if exchanging an unspoken challenge.
It was a few awkward seconds later when Girodelle, having asserted to himself that he had won that impromptu staring contest, turned to the other one.
The servant.
"Ah," he said. "Andre. How nice to see you. It has been a while."
There was no mistaking the pretension in his voice and the masked, or lack thereof, condescension.
"Lieutenant." Andre bowed slightly, his tone strong and steady, unwilling to be intimidated by the likes of Victor de Girodelle.
"What is it, Girodelle?" Oscar uttered, impatient with this encounter that seemed to be dragging on forever. She would soon regret her impatience, for she were soon to discover that yes, this morning could get worse. Very much worse, in fact.
"Commandant," he plunged his eyes into hers, a gesture she often found destabilising and unnecessary. "I assume you are here on your day off because you've heard the news. I came to find you as soon as I could to let you know that you needn't worry. I have the situation all covered and under control."
Day off? Merde! It was her day off. How could she have forgotten?! Ah, well that was an easy answer.
"Erm, ahem," she stumbled. "Yes, of course. Of course I, err, heard." Heard not a single thing about anything whatsoever, but I'll be damned if I let you think I am incompetent in any way.
"But perhaps you could enlighten us again. You see, I haven't had the chance to fill Andre and Fersen in on it."
She put on the best smile she could muster. Her Versailles smile. The one she learnt to put on at a young age and which gradually became her whole face and identity, ripping her away from her own self and from Andre.
Girodelle regarded her quizzically. But he obliged her anyway.
"It's hardly a secret, it has been the talk of the Palace this morning and news has already reached Paris."
The three looked at him expectantly, curiosity piqued. Girodelle smiled inwardly to himself, triumphant that, for once, he was well ahead of his superior officer.
"Well, Commandant, it would seem you were right all along," he began, unable to hold himself from flattering her ego. "It would appear that the man in the Black Mask was indeed a criminal."
"WHAT!" the three of them exclaimed at the same time.
…
There had been a robbery last night. And not just any robbery. A man in a cape and a black mask had infiltrated the residence of the Duchess d'Iberville and made his way straight into the ballroom where he snuffed all the lights and proceeded to unashamedly, and quite nimbly, snatch up ladies' necklaces, bracelets, rings and everything that glittered and shimmered. And while everyone was fumbling and screaming in panic, by the time someone had lit up a torch, the thief was seen swinging on the chandelier, laughing and jeering, as he crashed into a window and ran off, unstoppable, into the darkness.
When Girodelle finished his report, Oscar was as pale as the delicate chiffon curtains that lined the windows in the corridor.
"…it would appear," Girodelle continued, "that the suspect exactly matched the description of that man who came to the All Hallow's Eve ball, causing such a kerfuffle with the ladies."
She exchanged a quick subtle glance with Andre, and determined that he, too, was drowning in panic.
"But that's impossible!" Oscar exclaimed, her breath catching.
Girodelle knitted his eyebrows. "There are hundreds of witnesses, I can assure you that it is not impossible."
"No, I meant… It's impossible that it was the same person."
She only realized too late that she had betrayed herself by saying that.
"Oh?" Girodelle regarded her with increased interest. "Do I understand then that you have uncovered the identity of the man who was at the All Hallow's Eve ball?
Andre began to sweat, his breath fell up and down uneasy. The sight of him filled Fersen with such compassion for the poor man that he himself began to sweat on his behalf. Judging by Oscar's reaction, Fersen was now sure that she knew who the man in the Black Mask was, just as he knew she would never in a million years compromise him, and sure enough…
"I…" she stumbled, clenching her fists. "No. I haven't uncovered anything. It was a dead end."
"Hm," Girodelle nodded slowly and a cloud of heavy silence fell upon them.
"Well," Girodelle finally said. "You were right anyway, Commandant. One can never be too trusting of foreigners."
Fersen immediately clenched his jaw and turned his head in Girodelle's direction, who was unabashedly staring at him.
"Are you accusing me of something?" he retaliated before Oscar could put her subordinate in his place. Apparently, that shall have to wait because Fersen seemed to be ready to defend his honor.
"Oh, far from me to do that, Monsieur le Comte," Girodelle put on a sly smile and waved his hands.
And just when it seemed that the situation had been diffused, he added, "But I'm just saying, you were the only man left at the Palace who was not questioned in the inquest and it raises some questions given your… err… how should I put it? "Special", or… rather, "delicate" position here at Versailles."
Oscar was absolutely mortified. How dare he! This man was a snake! How dare he accuse Fersen publicly and then insinuate that she had not done her job adequately. Meanwhile, Andre was frozen in place by this completely unexpected interaction.
"If you have something to say to me then say it clearly, otherwise, I shall meet you at dawn," Fersen hissed aloud.
"Enough!" Oscar intervened. She glanced around and, lowering her voice, she spoke between clenched teeth. "There are people around us now and they're staring. What has gotten into you?" she addressed Girodelle. "No one is duelling anyone," she turned to Fersen. Then back to Girodelle, "And for the record, I did question him and he did try on the gloves. It wasn't him. And I certainly don't owe you a report, Lieutenant."
"Forgive me," Girodelle bowed. "I was only doing my duty."
Oscar rolled her eyes. Andre's subtle reassuring tap on her arm was the only thing that kept her from exploding her anger and making a scene.
"I should take my leave now," Fersen said coolly, making sure only to address Oscar. "I trust that the Captain of the Royal Guard will keep her troops in line in the future."
Oscar blushed and lowered her eyes. "Of course, please accept my apology."
"Good," Fersen flashed her a big good-humored smile, and she was startled at this easy change in countenance. "Then perhaps I can borrow your Andre for the day? I have some issues with the horses we brought from Sweden and I need his expertise. Andre, would you mind terribly?"
"I…" Andre looked to Oscar for guidance.
She nodded at him, albeit reluctantly. But he understood. She wanted him to be away from her so she could manage this situation that seemed to grow more complicated by the second. He also knew that, were he to stay, one of them would surely break, so he accepted Fersen's request and they walked off together. No one, other than the astute Girodelle remarked Fersen's choice of words when he said "your Andre."