Chapter 11: The Matter Resolved

“So, you are saying, Monsieur,” the Duke inquired, his voice as cold and unyielding as a shard of ice, “that you refuse to accept my… rather generous… terms of reconciliation?”

The Duke’s question, laden with the unmistakable, chilling weight of an ultimatum, sent a frisson of apprehension through Charles, despite his carefully maintained outward composure.

To be entirely honest, before paying this rather daunting visit, Charles had entertained some fleeting concerns that his formidable great-uncle might resort to more… robust… methods of persuasion, perhaps substituting a rather blunt physical intimidation for reasoned, if cynical, argument. However, upon careful and considered reflection, he had concluded that the Duke, for all his renowned ruthlessness and his icy pragmatism, would likely not risk a complete and potentially scandalous rupture between their two branches of the family by resorting to outright violence over such a matter – particularly against a kinsman, however unwelcome.

Furthermore, during their protracted and rather tense conversation, the physical distance between Charles and the Duke had been minimal. Even if there existed some cleverly concealed panel or a secret passage disgorging a legion of armed retainers – a rather theatrical notion, even for the Duke – Charles was confident that, at the very first sign of treachery, he could lunge forward and seize the Duke himself, a classic, if somewhat desperate, case of “capturing the king to subdue his pawns.”

Given these strategic considerations, even in the worst-imaginable scenario, Charles felt reasonably assured of his ability to overpower his elderly, if still remarkably formidable, great-uncle. Age, after all, eventually claimed its due from all men, even Dukes.

Reassured by this internal, if somewhat grim calculus, Charles allowed himself a small, almost imperceptible measure of calm, his resolve hardening.

“You are quite correct, Your Grace,” Charles replied, his voice steady, deciding it was now unequivocally time to lay his own cards upon the table, to meet the Duke’s challenge head-on. “I have come to visit you today precisely to discuss a mutually agreeable, and I trust, equitable solution – a solution, however, that is predicated upon one absolute, non-negotiable condition: Mademoiselle de Léognan must be immediately released from that convent and permitted to live her life, under her own name, in her own right, and in full possession of her rightful inheritance.”

“Very well.” The Duke’s reply was astonishingly, almost disconcertingly, prompt.

“If you do not agree to this, Your Grace, then I shall, with the deepest regret, be forced to…” Charles continued, following the script he had so carefully, and anxiously, mentally prepared, and then, the Duke’s unexpected, almost laconic, reply finally registered, cutting through his prepared speech. “Hmm? Your Grace… you said…?”

“I said, very well, Monsieur,” the Duke repeated, his aged, aristocratic face a perfect mask of utter, almost contemptuous indifference, as if he were discussing the price of grain or the latest inconsequential shift in the weather. “The ultimate fate of Mademoiselle de Léognan is of no particular, or pressing concern to me. If she wishes to return to Paris, then let her return. It matters not one whit to me.” He might have been wearing a finely crafted, but entirely unfeeling theatrical mask, so devoid of emotion was his expression.

“But… was it not you, Your Grace,” Charles asked, genuinely perplexed by this sudden, anticlimactic, and entirely uncharacteristic capitulation, “who was so vigorously, so assiduously, maneuvering to deprive her of her rightful inheritance, to ensure she remained… conveniently… out of sight?”

The Duke offered no reply, no flicker of acknowledgement, merely continuing to regard Charles with that same unnerving indifference.

After a moment of charged silence, enlightenment, swift and illuminating, dawned upon Charles. “You mean to say, Your Grace,” he ventured, a new understanding in his voice, “that as long as you receive what you consider to be your due, your agreed-upon share of the… proceeds… you will not actively obstruct my efforts to secure Mademoiselle de Léognan’s return to Paris, and to her fortune?”

“Her fate, as I have already stated, Monsieur, is not my affair, nor my concern. My sole, and I trust, understandable interest lies in the successful and timely conclusion of the agreed-upon marriage alliance between our two houses, and in the prompt receipt of the sum of money that has been… allocated to me for my not inconsiderable trouble in this matter,” the Duke stated, his tone one of irrefutable, almost bored, and entirely self-serving logic.

“But if the Léognan family fails to secure her substantial inheritance, Your Grace,” Charles persisted, still probing for the hidden catch, the inevitable complication he felt must surely exist, “will they still proceed with the marriage to your granddaughter, to Mademoiselle Charlotte? Will the alliance hold without that financial inducement?”

A moment later, with a sudden, chilling clarity, he understood the Duke’s unspoken, yet perfectly clear implication.

“As long as Mademoiselle de Léognan,” Charles said slowly, articulating the unspoken condition, “can be… persuaded to ‘voluntarily’ transfer her inherited property to her elder brother, the Comte…”

The Duke remained silent, his expression unchanged, which, in this instance, Charles took as an unequivocal, if tacit, affirmation.

Charles fell into a thoughtful, somewhat somber, silence. This, then, was the Duke’s unyielding bottom line, the cold, hard, non-negotiable basis for any further negotiation. A young woman’s happiness, her freedom, bartered for financial gain and dynastic ambition. It was a depressingly familiar tale.

“Generally speaking, Your Grace,” Charles mused aloud, as if to himself, yet intending his words for the Duke’s ears, “even a person of the most docile, the most benevolent and unworldly temperament, would not readily, or indeed willingly, relinquish a personal fortune of over a million francs that has, by all rights and by the due process of law, already fallen into their pocket, would they? It would require… considerable persuasion, one imagines.”

“That would appear to be a most reasonable, and indeed, a most astute assumption, Monsieur,” the Duke conceded with a slight, almost imperceptible inclination of his white-haired head. His eyes, however, remained cold.

So, you have, in effect, told me nothing of substance at all! You merely confirm the trap!

A flash of anger, hot, sharp, and righteous, shot through Charles. He decided, with a sudden surge of impatience, that he would waste no more precious time in this frustrating, circular, and ultimately fruitless verbal sparring.

“In that case, Your Grace,” he declared, his voice firm, his patience exhausted, “it appears we have nothing further to discuss. Therefore, I shall take my leave.” He rose to his feet with a decisive movement. “And permit me to add, Your Grace, as a parting pleasantry, that commencing tomorrow, the ever-eager newspapers of Paris will be most thoroughly, and I daresay, most enthusiastically, regaled with the full, sordid, and highly entertaining details of your little… arrangement… with the ambitious Léognan family. I shall be most interested to observe then, Your Grace, with what facility you contrive to deprive that unfortunate young lady of her rightful inheritance in the harsh, unforgiving glare of such widespread public scrutiny!”

Charles delivered his threat with a cold, unwavering conviction, his eyes blazing with a sudden, unexpected fire. He then turned on his heel with a sharp, almost military precision, and began to walk with a determined stride towards the door.

Just as he reached it, his hand outstretched towards the ornate doorknob, the Duke, as Charles had anticipated with a surge of grim satisfaction, finally spoke, his voice calm, yet carrying an undeniable note of authority. “You are rather too hasty, young man. And perhaps, a little too… theatrical.”

“Do you have something further to say, Your Grace?” Charles turned back slowly, his expression carefully neutral, unreadable, though his heart was pounding.

“Monsieur,” the Duke began, his tone analytical, almost detached, as if dissecting a particularly interesting, if troublesome, insect, “you have, it appears, through some means I do not yet fully comprehend, managed to secure some… considerable leverage over us – I confess, I do not know precisely how you accomplished this rather surprising feat, but accomplish it you clearly have. You do indeed possess the means, should you choose to employ them, to cause us and the Léognan family, considerable, and most unwelcome public embarrassment. And it would seem, you have it within your power to potentially and rather inconveniently disrupt my carefully, and I might add, rather advantageously laid plans…” The Duke paused, his cold eyes narrowing slightly. “So, it is your intention, then, Monsieur de Tréville, that I should simply and silently absorb this… not inconsiderable financial loss? That I should allow you to dictate terms to me, in my own house?”

“That is certainly not my primary intention, Your Grace,” Charles replied, his voice regaining its earlier calm.

“And yet, Monsieur,” the Duke countered smoothly, “your words, and indeed, your rather dramatic actions, would seem to suggest precisely that.”

Charles suddenly smiled, a genuine, almost boyish, and surprisingly disarming smile that momentarily transformed his usually serious, somber features, lending them an unexpected, youthful charm. It was a smile that hinted at a mind quick and agile, a spirit not easily cowed.

“Tell me, Your Grace,” he said, his tone conversational now, almost casual, “when all is said and done, why are you so unyieldingly determined to marry my cousin Charlotte to the young Comte de Léognan? I know the man, or at least, I know of him by reputation. He possesses, by all accounts, neither remarkable talent nor exceptional good looks, nor indeed, any great force of character. He is, by all reliable accounts, hardly a reliable, or indeed, a particularly desirable prospect for marriage for a young lady of Charlotte’s lineage and… potential.”

“But he has, at the very least, an impeccable, ancient surname, Monsieur. A name that carries weight in certain circles. And,” the Duke added, with a touch of his characteristic grim pragmatism, “he requires no dowry from my coffers.” He did not, Charles noted with an inward smile, attempt to refute his rather blunt and entirely accurate assessment of the young Comte’s deficiencies.

“You misspoke earlier, Your Grace,” Charles said then, his voice soft, yet carrying a new note of quiet confidence, abruptly changing the subject, a tactical shift in their verbal duel.

“Indeed, Monsieur? In what way, pray tell?” the Duke arched a perfectly sculpted, almost disdainful, white eyebrow.

“You stated, Your Grace, that the unfortunate Mademoiselle de Léognan is, to this very day, entirely unaware that she is the heiress to a considerable fortune. That statement, Your Grace,” Charles said, his voice calm, deliberate, and carrying a distinct note of triumph, “is, I am pleased to inform you, incorrect.”

The Duke looked at Charles, his cold eyes narrowing slightly, a flicker of some unreadable emotion – surprise? annoyance? – stirring in their icy depths.

“Indeed, Your Grace. It was I,” Charles declared, his smile widening, a hint of justifiable pride in his eyes, “who ensured, through certain… discreet channels… that she became fully aware of her inheritance, and of the plans being made for her… future.” He paused, allowing the import of his words to sink in. “The young lady, it transpires, possesses a rather resourceful and unexpectedly determined spirit. Though she was dispatched to the convent with such unseemly, almost brutal, haste, she nevertheless managed with admirable ingenuity, using the few coins of her own pin money that she had prudently concealed upon her person, to bribe one of the older, more sympathetic, and perhaps less devout, nuns within those hallowed, confining walls to convey messages for her to the outside world. It was by this rather enterprising means, Your Grace, that my own sister, Françoise, received Mademoiselle de Léognan’s desperate and rather moving plea for assistance…”

“You… you have been in direct communication with her?” the Duke asked, a new, more personal, and distinctly more engaged note in his voice, his earlier dispassionate, almost bored tone now subtly yet perceptibly altered. This, it seemed, was a development he had not anticipated.

“The young lady, Mademoiselle de Léognan, has given me her solemn, written promise, Your Grace,” Charles continued, pressing his advantage. “She has pledged, in a document I now possess, that to anyone who can successfully and swiftly rescue her from her present tragic, and entirely unjust predicament, she is willing, indeed eager, to pay a most generous reward of three hundred thousand francs.”

“A mere promise, Monsieur? Words on paper?” The Duke’s skepticism was evident.

“She has provided me with a formal, legally attested, written IOU, Your Grace,” Charles clarified. He had anticipated this objection.

“She gave you, directly, a written, binding promise of payment?” The Duke’s surprise, this time, was unmistakable, his composure momentarily, yet visibly, shaken.

“Indeed, Your Grace. In her current desperate, almost hopeless circumstances, she has little reason to fear my defaulting on my side of the bargain, does she? Her situation, as she herself observed, could hardly become worse than it already is.” Charles explained with a light, almost casual, chuckle, though his eyes remained watchful. “I informed her, quite truthfully, that her parents, aided by certain… influential parties… were on the very verge of successfully and legally depriving her of her rightful, substantial inheritance. That if she did nothing, if she merely resigned herself to her fate, she would be condemned to spend the remainder of her days in the desolate confines of that convent. If, however, she were to follow my counsel, to trust in my efforts, I could ensure her return to Paris, and to a life as a remarkably wealthy and entirely independent young heiress. A young lady of even modest intelligence, Your Grace, especially one who has endured such hardships and tasted such bitter betrayal, would know precisely how to choose, would she not…? And so, she did as I advised. She wrote out this promissory note, this IOU, to cover my… operational expenses, as it were, in securing her release and her fortune. Naturally,” Charles added, with an air of perfect, almost angelic, innocence that he knew would particularly irritate the Duke, “I made no mention whatsoever of your esteemed and highly respected name in any of our somewhat… unorthodox… discussions…”

“Three hundred thousand francs, you say?” the Duke repeated slowly, his gaze distant now, his mind clearly engaged in some complex, internal calculation. The sum was not insignificant, even to a man of his means.

“Your Grace need only remain seated here, in the familiar comfort of your study, and you will, with no further effort on your part, acquire a clear, untaxed profit of three hundred thousand francs,” Charles pressed his advantage, his voice smooth and persuasive. “What possible reason could there be for hesitation, for further prevarication? Your granddaughter, Mademoiselle Charlotte, is, I am quite sure, a charming and accomplished young lady. She is not without other, perhaps even more suitable suitors, I am certain. There will be other opportunities for an advantageous alliance, will there not, Your Grace? Ones that do not involve… such distressing complications?”

“And you, Monsieur de Tréville? What do you gain from all this… altruism?” the Duke inquired, his voice still tinged with a lingering suspicion, his eyes searching Charles’s face for some hidden motive. “You desire nothing for yourself? No share of this… windfall?”

“Nothing whatsoever, Your Grace,” Charles replied, his gaze meeting the Duke’s directly, unflinchingly, his expression one of unimpeachable sincerity. “I desire only to fulfill the commission entrusted to me by my… client… and to see justice done. My reward will be the satisfaction of a task well executed, and the gratitude of those I have assisted.” He paused. “I am not yet, I confess, aware of the precise composition of this rather substantial inheritance, Your Grace, and therefore, at this precise moment, I cannot provide you with an exact method or a definitive date of payment – realizing immovable assets, as you are well aware, can often be a somewhat… troublesome and time-consuming process. However, as we now possess an unambiguous, legally binding promissory note from Mademoiselle de Léognan herself, I trust the young lady, once restored to her freedom and her fortune, will find it quite impossible and indeed most unwise to renege on her solemn commitment, would you not agree, Your Grace?”

“The bulk of this inheritance, Monsieur,” the Duke murmured, almost to himself, his mind clearly working with a swift, accustomed acuity, his earlier surprise now replaced by a shrewd, calculating appraisal of this new, unexpected development, “consists, if my information is correct, primarily of readily accessible bank deposits, long-term government bonds which are, as you know, bearer instruments and thus easily transferable, and a considerable quantity of negotiable bank notes. Payment, or indeed, a direct transfer of a portion of these assets, should therefore be a remarkably convenient and exceedingly swift… affair…” He lapsed into a thoughtful silence.

You old fox! Charles thought, a flicker of grudging, almost unwilling admiration for the Duke’s thoroughness, his foresight, his encyclopedic knowledge of financial matters. He had already investigated the entire matter down to the last sou! He knew the composition of the estate even before I did!

Charles remained silent, allowing the Duke the necessary time to consider the proposition, to weigh the advantages and disadvantages of this new and entirely unexpected turn of events. The atmosphere in the room, though still tense, had subtly shifted.

It was not long before the Duke, to Charles’s considerable, if carefully concealed relief, smiled. It was a slow, almost reluctant smile at first, a mere twitching at the corners of his thin, aristocratic lips, which then broadened, almost miraculously, into the kind of warm, genuinely benevolent, and almost paternal expression a fond, proud elder might bestow upon a particularly clever, resourceful, and unexpectedly promising young kinsman who had acquitted himself well.

“Charles,” he said, his voice softer now, almost gentle, stripped of its earlier icy hauteur, “Well done, my boy. Exceedingly well done.”

It was the first time in Charles’s entire memory, that his formidable great-uncle had ever addressed him by his given name, without the formal, distancing “Monsieur.” It was a small, yet profoundly significant shift.

“I hope, Sir, that I have been of some small service to you, Great-Uncle,” Charles replied, his own smile mirroring the Duke’s, his voice adopting the respectful, almost affectionate tone of a dutiful, and now perhaps, slightly favored nephew.

“Since the matter is now, it appears, amicably decided between us, we must act with all possible dispatch!” The Duke’s benevolent smile vanished as quickly as it had appeared, replaced instantly by his customary air of brisk, decisive, almost military authority. Business was business, after all. “I shall contact the relevant authorities at the courts immediately, this very day, to expedite the formal confirmation of Mademoiselle de Léognan’s inheritance rights, and to ensure there are no further… impediments… to her claiming what is rightfully hers.”

Charles, in turn, with a quiet confidence, drew a neatly folded piece of paper from the inner pocket of his waistcoat – Marie de Léognan’s precious, hard-won promissory note – and placed it, with a respectful inclination of his head, upon the Duke’s ornate, polished desk.

For the sake of this small, potent piece of paper, Charles knew with an absolute certainty, the Duke de Tréville would now pursue the matter of Mademoiselle de Léognan’s inheritance with even greater diligence, even greater enthusiasm, and certainly with far more influential dispatch than Charles himself could ever have hoped to muster. Greed, when properly channeled, could be a most effective motivator.

“Excellent,” the Duke said, his eyes glinting with a renewed, if carefully controlled, avarice as he took the paper and, after a brief, appraising glance, placed it carefully and reverently within a locked drawer of his desk. He then looked up, his gaze resting thoughtfully, and with a new and rather surprising measure of something akin to approval on his tall, slender, and rather scholarly-looking great-nephew. 

“Charles,” he said, his voice carrying a note of genuine respect, “ It appears, you are worthy of the name of Tréville after all. You possess… a certain flair.”

Charles inclined his head in a slight, formal bow, a gesture of polite acknowledgement. “Thank you, Your Grace. You are too kind.”

“Will you not stay for dinner this evening, Charles?” the Duke asked unexpectedly, his tone almost cordial. “Actually, my granddaughter, Charlotte, is developing into quite an attractive young woman… and her dowry, under these new circumstances, might now be… reconsidered…”

So, the old schemer, having secured his profit, is now turning his indefatigable matchmaking attentions towards me? Charles thought, a wry, almost weary smile touching his lips. The predictability of it was almost comforting. He never misses an opportunity.

“I have a prior engagement this evening, Your Grace, unfortunately,” Charles replied with a polite, noncommittal smile, deftly sidestepping the implied suggestion. “But perhaps another time… You are most gracious.” He paused. “And now, if you will excuse me, I fear I must take my leave. The hour grows late.”

“Be careful on your way, Charles,” the Duke said, a hint of something almost like warmth in his voice. Or perhaps, Charles mused, it was merely the satisfaction of a profitable afternoon’s work.

And so, under the soft, ethereal glow of a hazy, romantic moon that was just beginning to climb into the darkening Parisian sky, Charles departed from the grand, imposing, and now slightly less intimidating residence of His Grace, the Duke de Tréville.

Charles desired no monetary reward for his considerable efforts in this rather complex affair. His sister Françoise’s radiant gratitude, her unclouded happiness, was, for him, the greatest, the most precious, the only true recompense he could ever desire or receive. Her smile was worth more than all the gold in France.

And besides… there was another, deeper, more hidden, and far more ambitious reason for his actions, a reason that resonated with the core of his very being, with the secret destiny he carried within him.

Through the unexpected connections he had forged in this affair, through the grudging respect, and perhaps even the indebtedness, he had now elicited from the formidable Duke, Charles sensed with a thrill of dawning possibility, that the audacious plan discussed in that secret Bonapartist meeting – the ambitious, almost unthinkable, plan to “win over the Duke de Tréville and others of his influential Legitimist circle” to their cause – was no longer an unattainable, distant, almost fantastical dream. To have secured such a significant, if indirect, favour from the Duke, essentially at the expense of others, using their own ill-gotten gains to indebt the old man to him… Charles suddenly felt with an almost giddy sense of lightness, that his luck, so long absent, had taken a remarkable and miraculous turn for the better. Was his fortune, his true destiny, finally beginning to change, to align itself with his deepest aspirations?

If the ultimate, glorious reward could be France itself, the salvation and resurgence of his beloved adopted nation, then the risks he had taken in this affair, the dangers he had courted, were, in truth, almost laughably, wonderfully insignificant.

In the future, he knew with a sobering certainty, to achieve his grand, almost impossible dreams, to fulfill the destiny that he felt stirring so powerfully within him, he would undoubtedly have to navigate countless, far more perilous, life-and-death situations. He would have to overcome obstacles far more daunting, far more treacherous, than this relatively minor skirmish in the salons and studies of Parisian high society.

Yet, the dream, that sacred, consuming dream of leading the French nation through the fated, looming catastrophe of 1870, the dream of restoring France to her rightful glory, of rekindling her indomitable spirit, seemed now, somehow closer, more attainable, more filled with a vibrant, almost tangible hope, than ever before. The path ahead was still long and fraught with peril, but for the first time, he could see a glimmer of light at its end.

May God bless France! And may He, perhaps, bless her aspiring, if unworthy, saviour.

Charles raised his eyes to the hazy, moonlit night sky, a silent, fervent prayer upon his lips, a burgeoning hope warming his determined heart.