M. von Strom - The Cardinal's Red Lily

ʹYou will do nothing! Do you understand, monsieur le lieutenant ? The king's word is law and you still have a bright future ahead of you.ʹ The two men reached a side gate, an unadorned door out into the street, intended for the servants. Like a thief, Tréville was now about to sneak away, leave Paris and never return.

D'Artagnan knew nothing more to say. Everything would have been inappropriate and wrong, and so he remained silent and dejected as Tréville boarded a carriage. An escort on horseback stood ready. It would ensure that the traveller reached his distant destination in the Gascony.

ʹGood luckʹ, Tréville said in parting. D'Artagnan murmured to the departing carriage, ʹTo you too.ʹ

And then he was left alone with his bright future.

The autumn of 1640 reached Paris with dark, gloomy prospects. Tenacious fog crept through the streets, penetrating every crack, every crevice and groping for people and animals with clammy fingers. The sun remained covered with heavy clouds, no wind was blowing and the already oppressive atmosphere was joined by the ineradicable stench of piss pots, latrines and rubbish in the streets.

After a hot summer, the Seine carried little water, the river was brown, muddy and sluggish and unspeakable things drifted under the bridges. The whole town seemed to be waiting for a relieving storm that would finally wash away the dirt, the rubbish and the rats.

While the grey cloud cover threatened Paris without bringing rain, the valet Gustave Moraut drowned in a trough. With his hands, he tried to find a hold, slipped off, reared up and was pressed even deeper with his face into the water. Air bubbles rose when he instinctively screamed in panic, shortening his life by precious seconds.

Suddenly, he was grabbed by his hair and pulled back. He spat water and gasped for air. Lying on his knees, his head brutally pulled back into the neck, he could not see his tormentors. Only cold, dark stone walls, damp, mossy; his prison for weeks now.

He was yelled at, ʹWhere is she?ʹ

He was crying, wetting himself and coughing. Again his head was pressed into the trough. This time it took longer, because now he didn't scream and saved his breath. That made it worse, because they waited until his lungs were burning and he was breathing water. He died, was dragged mercilessly back to life and had to vomit.

Back in the water, without a question before. Moraut's body still resisted, wanted to lash about and free itself, wanted to survive in mortal fear. The pain stabbed deeply into his chest as he was torn from hell just before drowning.

ʹI don't know!ʹ he shouted up to the dungeon ceiling and was beaten to the ground. In front of the guards' boots, his tormentors, he curled up, spat water, gasped and whimpered, ʹDunno, dunno...ʹ

*~*~*~*~*

ʹGustave Moraut.ʹ The name was in the first line of the report. Rochefort knew the contents by heart and now summarised it for his master. ʹUntil a few weeks ago, he was one of the servants here at the Palais Cardinal . Now he is in prison.ʹ

ʹI remember, monsieur le comte .ʹ There was something cutting and impatient in the voice of the prime minister of France. His stable master had seldom heard this undertone from Richelieu and it told him to get straight to the heart of the report. ʹEven after the torture, he does not know where she is.ʹ

The cardinal showed no emotion whether the report surprised him or whether he had expected it. Richelieu kept his thoughts to himself as he looked down from his study window onto the Cour d'Honneur , the courtyard. His face was tense and pale, his cheeks sunken and marked by illness. But his gaze was clear and penetrating, the spirit defying the weakened body. He had put his hands together behind his back.

Rochefort was a skilled observer of details, so he noticed the ink stains on the cardinal's fingertips. On the desk lay the manuscript of the Political Testament . Clearly written reflections, not a word, not a single sentence had been crossed out and replaced by a different wording while the creation. The last feather pen strokes were still drying, His Eminence had been working on the manuscript when Rochefort had entered the study.

Rochefort had recently often seen the memorandum lying there; it was truly a testament. Even if the prime minister did not let on, did not spare himself, his health was not in good shape these days. He elevated reason to the supreme discipline of a sovereign; perhaps the manuscript was now growing faster under the impression of the last few weeks.

ʹYou will find out the whereabouts of her, Rochefort! Young women do not disappear without a trace. Not from this palace, right under my eyes! Not without-ʹ Suddenly Richelieu grabbed his breast with a tortured face. ʹNot without-ʹ A coughing fit shook the prime minister, he staggered and at the same time refused to lean on the windowsill.

Rochefort took a step forward, but then, despite his concern, hesitated to offer support himself. Richelieu would have turned down the aid and not admitted any weakness. So instead, Rochefort took the glass of warmed wine from the desk and handed it to him. He hold on to the glass as Richelieu took it with trembling fingers. With rattling breath, the cardinal brought the wine to his lips and drank until his affected lungs had calmed down.

Rochefort put the glass back and picked up the thread as if nothing had happened. ʹShe must still have one or more allies. This lackey, Moraut, is not one of them.ʹ

ʹAllies, confidants, admirers.ʹ Richelieu's voice still sounded fragile and husky. But his red cassock had fortunately not been stained by coughing bloodstains. ʹWhat about Fernand de Grinchamps?ʹ

ʹIn hiding, probably still in Paris.ʹ

ʹProbably?ʹ

ʹI will soon know for sure.ʹ

Richelieu looked at his stable master for a long moment and Rochefort stood his ground. He had already served the cardinal for too many years, had caught more than one scar, had suffered more than one wound, to be unsettled by a judgemental look. Rochefort had sharpened his mind on the royal court's obscure intrigues, but he was still rarely able to read the prime minister's thoughts. Even now he failed.

Richelieu turned back to the window. ʹOur interest is mainly in Odette de la Nièvre.ʹ

ʹShe will have made some friends in your care over the past few months. Someone will still be in contact with her and could give us a vital clue to her whereabouts.ʹ Rochefort shrugged. ʹBut no one in the Palais will speak openly to me.ʹ

ʹMy other spies?ʹ

ʹToo well known among the servants. Some of them are the servants, Monseigneur.ʹ

ʹSo, in my own house, everyone is suspicious of everyone else in this matter.ʹ

Rochefort remained silent. This had gone from family strife to political intrigue and he knew no advice for his master. The father of the headstrong Odette de la Nièvre would certainly soon lose patience and, as threatened, air Richelieu's dirty laundry in public that could shake even a powerful prime minister. Then there would not be a more welcome victim like the captain of the musketeers, who this time had interfered in the wrong affairs.

Richelieu let a few moments slip by, then seemed to make up his mind. ʹSo I have to commission a new, innocent and useful man in my service.ʹ

ʹUndoubtedly, Monseigneur has a certain man in mind?ʹ Rochefort thought his part. In this context, 'innocent' and 'useful' meant 'easy to direct' and 'bought with money'.

The cardinal bowed his head and surprised Rochefort with the next question, which seemed to address a completely different subject. ʹTell me, after the dissolution of the Royal Musketeers, what happened to the soldiers and officers?ʹ