Chapter 14: A Consultation Worth One Million Four Hundred Thousand Francs

Upon receiving the servant’s news, Charles, with a sigh that was part resignation and part reluctant duty, proceeded to the grand reception hall of the Tréville residence to receive the two young ladies who had called to offer their sympathies. They had come together, the servant had informed him, upon hearing that his sister, Mademoiselle Françoise, was unfortunately indisposed and recuperating at home.

Though they arrived in company, their mission one of shared solicitude, the two young ladies presented a striking contrast in both attire and demeanor, a study in opposing feminine styles.

One, with rich, lustrous brown hair impeccably coiffed, and intelligent, observant dark eyes, possessed regular, classically perfect, well-defined features. She was dressed in an elegant white gown of fine muslin, delicately adorned with subtle floral embroidery, her slender hands encased in immaculate white silk gloves. Perched with an air of scholarly distinction upon her nose was a pair of crystal eyeglasses with slender, unobtrusive gold frames. When exchanging the customary courtesies with Charles, she met his gaze directly, her own expression a curious and rather intriguing mixture of gentle, well-bred warmth and an underlying, almost steely intellectual strength, yet without appearing in the least severe, or overtly judgmental. She possessed, Charles thought, an admirable composure.

The other young lady, however, offered an entirely, almost startlingly different impression, a poignant counterpoint to her companion’s serene confidence. She was clad in a simple, stark black dress, entirely devoid of any ornamentation, so severe in its unrelieved simplicity that it almost resembled the sombre attire of mourning. Her pale yellow hair, as fine and ethereal as spun moonlight, lay limply and lifelessly upon her slender shoulders, and her gaze, when it chanced to lift from the floor, was unfocused, her eyes seeming to wander without settling on any particular object, as if she were lost in some private, inescapable labyrinth of sorrow. Her thin, pale lips were pressed tightly, almost painfully, together, as if she were determined, or perhaps unable to utter a single word. Her long, delicate eyebrows, a shade darker than her hair, drooped slightly at the outer corners, lending her an air of profound, almost heartbreaking melancholy. A hidden, unnameable sorrow seemed to cloud her delicate features, and her eyes, when they did, for a fleeting, fearful instant, meet his, held a complex, haunted, and deeply unsettling expression, a window into a soul that had clearly endured too much.

This young lady, Charles recognized at once, with a pang of something akin to pity mixed with a reluctant admiration for her fragile courage in venturing forth at all – she was, of course, Mademoiselle Marie de Léognan, the very same young woman he had so recently, and with no small expenditure of effort and cunning, extricated from the living, breathing entombment of the Carmelite convent at Blois.

Therefore, her present state of profound dejection, her almost palpable aura of quiet, overwhelming despondency, did not, in the least, surprise him. Such an ordeal would have broken a spirit less resilient.

Anxious not to cause her any further, unnecessary distress, Charles merely inclined his head in a slight, deeply respectful bow to the two young ladies, his manner one of gentle courtesy. “Welcome, Mesdemoiselles, to our humble, and presently somewhat subdued, abode. Your solicitude for my sister is most kind.”

“You are Mademoiselle Françoise’s elder brother, are you not, Monsieur de Tréville? It is a great honour to make your acquaintance at last,” the young lady whom Charles did not immediately recognize responded, her voice clear and melodious, returning his bow with a graceful, perfectly executed curtsy. “I am Mathilde de Dutilleul, a friend and fellow pupil of your sister.”

Mademoiselle de Léognan, however, remained silent, her gaze fixed upon the intricate pattern of the Aubusson carpet. She merely offered Charles a deep, almost reverential, and sorrowful curtsy, a gesture that spoke volumes of unspoken gratitude and overwhelming emotion.

“Dutilleul?” Upon hearing this distinguished and politically significant surname, Charles felt a distinct flicker of heightened interest, and then, a dawning, somewhat surprised, recognition. He cast another, more appraising and decidedly more intrigued glance at this remarkably poised and articulate young lady. This was, indeed, an unexpected development.

Mademoiselle Mathilde de Dutilleul, it seemed, was quite accustomed to such sudden, heightened scrutiny, to the almost involuntary spark of recognition her family name often elicited in even the most sophisticated Parisian circles. She met Charles’s curious, assessing gaze with an unruffled and regal composure, her expression entirely unmoved, her poise impeccable. “As I mentioned to your servant, Monsieur,” she continued smoothly, her voice calm and well-modulated, “we have come today primarily to inquire after our dear Françoise. How is she faring this morning? Is she feeling somewhat improved, perhaps?”

Charles nodded to himself, a silent, inward acknowledgement of her impressive self-possession, her innate air of quiet confidence. Such an aura of understated, yet undeniable authority, was indeed entirely befitting the cherished, and no doubt highly intelligent granddaughter of the current and rather formidable Keeper of the Seals to His Majesty the King. She was, he surmised, a young lady of considerable character.

“Your compassionate concern for my sister is most kind, Mesdemoiselles, and I assure you, deeply appreciated. On her behalf, I thank you both most sincerely,” Charles replied with a warm, reassuring smile, his gaze lingering for a moment on Marie’s pale, downcast face. “Françoise is, I am pleased to be able to report, feeling considerably better today. The fever, at least, has subsided. She has just taken her prescribed medicine and is, I believe, resting quietly in her chamber at present, though no doubt,” he added with a faint, indulgent smile, “already plotting some new, innocent mischief.”

“Oh, that is excellent news indeed! We were so very concerned,” Mathilde exclaimed, her usually serious, almost solemn, features illuminated by a rare and rather charming smile of genuine, heartfelt pleasure. “In that case, Monsieur, if it would not be too great an imposition, might we be permitted to see her for a few moments, merely to offer her our good wishes and a little token of our affection in person?”

“But of course, Mademoiselle. She will be delighted, I am sure,” Charles readily, and with genuine pleasure, assented. He then escorted them with polite formality up the grand, sweeping staircase to the sunlit gallery of the second floor and along the quiet corridor to Françoise’s bedchamber. He knocked softly on the painted panel of her door.

“Who is it now? What is the matter?” Françoise’s voice, when it finally responded from within the sanctuary of her room, sounded weak and decidedly listless, as if she had indeed been resting, or perhaps, merely feigning a becoming invalid languor.

“Françoise, my dear, it is I, Charles,” he called out gently. “Two of your fellow pupils from the art studio, two of your dearest friends, have come to pay you a visit, to inquire after your health.”

He then gestured with his eyes, a silent invitation, towards the two visitors.

“Mademoiselle de Tréville, my dear Françoise, are you feeling somewhat better today, somewhat more yourself?” Mathilde inquired, her voice clear, warm, and imbued with a genuine, friendly concern.

“Françoise, my dearest, my sweet friend, I have come to see you. Are you… are you quite well?” Mademoiselle Marie de Léognan added, her voice soft, hesitant, almost trembling with emotion, uttering her very first words since arriving at the Tréville residence, words laden with unspoken gratitude and a deep, abiding affection.

“Marie? Is that truly you? Oh, Marie! And Mathilde! You have both come to see me?” The voice from within the room instantly gained a new, vibrant energy, a note of unmistakable, joyful surprise. A moment later, the door was flung open, and Françoise stood there, her eyes shining, her face alight with a pleasure so pure, so unfeigned, that it was a delight to behold. “Oh, thank you both so very much for coming! You are far, far too kind to trouble yourselves so!”

“Nonsense, my dear Françoise. What are friends for, if not for such small kindnesses?” Mathilde responded with a gentle, affectionate nod towards her friend. “Well, Mademoiselle,” she added then, a teasing, mischievous glint appearing in her intelligent dark eyes, “do you intend to receive us here in the corridor, like importunate tradesmen, or will you permit us to enter your charming sickroom?”

“Oh! Good heavens!” Françoise blinked, a charming flush of embarrassment rising to her pale cheeks, making her look even younger, even more endearing. “Forgive my dreadful manners! I am quite overcome! Pray, do come in at once, both of you! You are most welcome!”

At the same time, with a glance that was both swift and laden with unmistakable meaning, she did not neglect to cast a stern, pointed, and entirely uncompromising look at her elder brother, a look that clearly and unequivocally conveyed: “You, however, my dear Charles, are most certainly not included in this general, and rather exclusive invitation, Monsieur.”

Charles offered a wry and entirely resigned smile, then executed a graceful, if somewhat theatrical bow to the three charming, and suddenly rather formidable young ladies gathered in the doorway. He then, with a murmured excuse about pressing business, discreetly, and perhaps with a hidden sigh of relief, withdrew, making his way back down the staircase to the relative peace and quiet of the small, sunlit withdrawing-room at the side of the main hall. There, with a sense of returning to a more predictable, more rational world, he retrieved his beloved chessboard and his well-worn, cherished chess manual and settled down, with a quiet sigh of contentment, to continue his solitary, absorbing study of the intricate, endlessly fascinating game.

Chess, this ancient, noble, and intellectually demanding pastime, was one of the few truly satisfying new hobbies Charles had acquired since his… abrupt, and entirely inexplicable, arrival… in this perplexing, yet often strangely captivating era. Whenever he found himself with a rare, stolen moment of leisure, a brief respite from the endless, often wearisome demands of his complex existence, he would invariably turn to its absorbing, strategic complexities, finding in its silent, intellectual battles a certain solace, a welcome, ordered distraction from the often less predictable, considerably more perilous, and infinitely more emotionally exhausting games of his real, everyday life.

He was deeply engrossed in a particularly challenging, almost fiendishly clever end-game problem, one set by a long-dead Viennese master, marvelling, with a connoisseur’s appreciation, at the subtle, breathtaking brilliance, the almost diabolical, prescient cunning, of the two shadowy, long-departed grandmasters whose intricate, intellectual game he was so painstakingly replaying, when a soft, hesitant, apologetic knock sounded at the door of the withdrawing-room, disturbing his profound concentration.

“Who is it now?” Charles called out, a shade of impatience, quickly suppressed, in his voice, assuming it was one of the household servants with some trivial domestic query or an unwelcome summons. “Is there some urgent matter requiring my immediate attention?”

“It is I, Monsieur de Tréville.”

A timid, childlike, and unmistakably feminine voice responded from beyond the closed door, a voice that Charles, to his surprise, recognized instantly. “May I… may I please come in for a moment?”

Hmm? Marie de Léognan? What can she possibly want with me now?

Charles recognized the voice at once, and it was precisely for that very reason that he felt a slight, unexpected stirring of puzzlement, mingled, perhaps, with a faint, unacknowledged flicker of… something else… curiosity? Or even a nascent, reluctant interest? However, he replied with his customary, if somewhat formal courtesy, “But of course, Mademoiselle de Léognan. Pray, do enter. You are most welcome.”

Marie de Léognan entered the room slowly, almost hesitantly, her steps uncertain, almost faltering, her gaze downcast, fixed upon the floor as if she found the very act of entering his presence a daunting ordeal. She clutched a small, lace-edged handkerchief in her trembling hands.

“Please, Mademoiselle, be seated,” Charles said, his voice gentle, gesturing with a courteous inclination of his head towards the empty chair opposite his chessboard. He offered her a kind, reassuring smile, hoping to dispel some of her evident apprehension. He thought of her ordeal, of the courage she must have summoned to face him now. “There is no need, I assure you, to be so apprehensive, Mademoiselle de Léognan. There are, I trust, very few things left in this world, after what you have endured, that should now cause you any significant or undue anxiety.”

Hearing Charles’s unexpectedly kind,  tender words, Marie seemed to relax a fraction, the tension in her slender shoulders easing almost imperceptibly. She walked, with a new, if still fragile composure, to the indicated chair and sat down lightly, gracefully, though her gaze, he noted, still remained fixed upon the chessboard, as if she found it difficult, perhaps even impossible, to meet his eye directly. “I… I have come to thank you, Monsieur,” she murmured at last, her voice so low, so soft, that he had to strain to hear her. “To thank you for… for everything.”

“To thank me, Mademoiselle? There is truly no need, I assure you,” Charles replied, his smile unwavering, his manner designed to put her at her ease. “I merely did what I was able, what any gentleman of honour, finding himself in such unfortunate circumstances, would, I trust, have done. If you truly feel the need to offer thanks to someone, Mademoiselle, then direct them, perhaps, to the rather persuasive sum of three hundred thousand francs. It, I daresay, with its undeniable eloquence, is far more deserving of your heartfelt gratitude than I.” He spoke lightly, hoping to inject a note of normalcy, of shared, worldly understanding, into their rather unusual encounter.

Marie suddenly, and with a gesture of profound, almost abject humility, bowed her head low, so low that her forehead, pale and smooth as marble, almost touched the intricately carved ivory chess pieces that lay scattered upon the board. Her pale golden hair, loosened from its earlier, more formal arrangement, spilled like a silken, sorrowful veil across the chequered squares.

“No, Monsieur,” she whispered, her voice thick with a overwhelming emotion that threatened to choke her. “You must not say such things. Without your… your powerful, your courageous, and your most timely assistance, I would never, ever have escaped from that terrible, soul-destroying place. I would have been lost forever. I truly… truly… I am more deeply, more eternally grateful to you, Monsieur de Tréville, than mere words can ever adequately, or possibly, express.”

“My dear Mademoiselle de Léognan, please, I implore you, there is truly no need for such… excessive, and I must confess, rather embarrassing formality between us now,” Charles said, feeling a sudden, unexpected surge of genuine, if somewhat awkward and entirely unaccustomed embarrassment himself. He was not used to such displays of raw, unfeigned emotion, especially from young ladies of her station. “If you truly wish to show your gratitude, Mademoiselle,” he continued, his voice softening, “then continue, I pray you, to be a good, a loyal, and a cherished friend to my sister, Françoise. That, I assure you, will be more than sufficient thanks for me. Her happiness is… a matter of some importance to me.”

“Yes, Monsieur, I shall. With all my heart,” Marie replied, slowly raising her head. Her eyes, he saw with a fresh pang of something akin to sorrow, were glistening with unshed tears, lending them a luminous, unearthly beauty. “To call Françoise my friend… it is, without question, the greatest, the most undeserved good fortune of my entire, otherwise rather unfortunate life… I shall never, ever, prove unworthy of such a precious, such a sacred, friendship, Monsieur. I swear it upon my honour.”

Charles sighed softly, a wave of profound sympathy, mingled with a certain weary, almost philosophical resignation to the often cruel vicissitudes of fate, washing over him. This young woman had endured so much, yet her spirit, though battered, was clearly not broken. There was a core of resilience there, he sensed, a quiet strength that her fragile appearance belied. He found himself, to his surprise, rather admiring her.

“You must not grieve so, Mademoiselle, nor look upon your past with such unalloyed sorrow,” he said gently, his voice imbued with a warmth he rarely displayed. “You have many, many years ahead of you, years in which, I am quite certain, you will find much happiness, much joy, much love, perhaps. The future, unlike the past, is yet unwritten.”

Marie lowered her head again, her gaze returning to the silent, impassive chess pieces, remaining silent, her thoughts clearly still dwelling on the painful shadows of her recent ordeal.

“Truly, Mademoiselle, you must try, with all your courage, to look to the future with a more hopeful, a more resilient heart,” Charles continued, his voice gentle, intensely encouraging. He felt an unexpected and rather uncharacteristic desire to comfort her, to ease her evident pain. “You have, after all, regained your precious freedom, a gift beyond price. And you have, through no small effort, secured the substantial inheritance that is rightfully yours, by every law of God and man. These are not, by any means, insignificant blessings, Mademoiselle. Many would envy you your present position.”

At his well-intentioned, if perhaps somewhat prosaic words, the young girl opposite him suddenly, and with a heart-wrenching lack of restraint, burst into tears. Great, silent, anguished tears welled in her large, expressive eyes and then fell, one by one, like the first heavy drops of a summer rainstorm, onto the polished, unforgiving surface of the inlaid chessboard, splashing unheeded upon the ivory and ebony warriors.

“But Monsieur,” she choked out between racking, almost convulsive sobs, her voice a mere broken whisper of its former melodious clarity, “I have lost my family! My own family! They have… they have cast me out!”

Charles fell silent, a profound, almost suffocating sense of helplessness, of utter inadequacy, descending upon him like a heavy shroud. What comfort, what possible solace, could he, a virtual stranger, a man of the world, offer in the face of such a raw, elemental, and deeply personal grief? Words, he knew, would be hollow, meaningless.

“After… after my return to Paris, Monsieur,” Marie continued, her voice hollow now, almost devoid of all expression, as if she were recounting some distant, impersonal, and almost unbelievable tragedy that had befallen another, “I… I summoned what little courage I possessed, and I went to my former home, just once.” She paused, her breath catching in a shuddering sob, as she visibly struggled to control the overwhelming tide of her emotions. “I thought then, Monsieur, in my foolishness, in my lingering, childish hope, that if they showed any sign, however small, of true remorse, any genuine, heartfelt regret for what they had so cruelly, so callously done to me… then perhaps, in time, with God’s help, I could find it in my heart to forgive them. After all… after all, despite everything, they are still my family, are they not…? My own blood…”

“And did your family… did they offer you any words of… reproach, Mademoiselle? Did they express their displeasure?” Charles inquired gently, his voice carefully, almost painfully neutral, though his heart ached for her, for her evident, unassuageable pain.

“No, Monsieur, they did not,” she replied, a new, almost frightening and deeply disturbing bitterness entering her soft voice, a bitterness that seemed entirely at odds with her fragile, youthful appearance. “If they had reproached me, Monsieur, if they had even met me with a cold, disdainful silence, if they had refused to see me, it might, perhaps, have indicated some lingering, however deeply buried, sense of guilt within their hardened hearts, some residual shame that made them unable to face me, to look me in the eye. But… but what they did, Monsieur, what they actually did, was far, far worse, far more cruel, far more unforgivable than that! Infinitely more soul-destroying!” Marie raised her head then, her tear-filled eyes, wide now with a mixture of unbearable anguish and a dawning, terrible, and utterly disillusioning understanding, fixed with a desperate intensity upon Charles’s compassionate face. “They… they overwhelmed me with apologies, Monsieur! With protestations of affection! They claimed, with tears streaming down their own false faces, that their earlier, cruel actions had been merely a momentary… a temporary, and deeply regretted, aberration, a foolish, inexplicable mistake! They insisted, with a sickening, cloying sweetness, that they had now, at long last, come to their senses, that they had deeply, profoundly repented of their grievous error, and they begged me, with an almost theatrical display of familial devotion, to forgive them, to return to the bosom of their loving family… Even my brother, Monsieur, my own brother, who stood to inherit my fortune, swore with tears in his eyes that he would cherish me, protect me, treat me with the utmost, unwavering kindness and affection henceforth for all the days of our lives…”

“Is that so, Mademoiselle…?” Charles murmured, a cold, unwelcome premonition, a sense of impending, further disillusionment, stirring unpleasantly within him. He had seen too much of the world, too much of human nature, to be easily deceived by such protestations.

“But Monsieur, I could see it! I could see the truth so clearly, despite their practiced deceptions!” Marie’s voice rose again, trembling now with a renewed, almost unbearable wave of fresh grief and righteous, scathing outrage, her tears flowing freely, unheeded, down her pale cheeks. “Beneath their false, saccharine smiles, Monsieur, beneath their carefully constructed, theatrical masks of loving contrition, I could see the hideous truth hidden deep within their cold, avaricious eyes! It was not remorse I saw there, Monsieur, not a flicker of genuine sorrow for the pain they had inflicted upon me! It was regret, Monsieur! A bitter, venomous, all-consuming regret!” Her voice broke on a heart-wrenching, despairing sob. “They regretted, not what they had so cruelly, so unnaturally done to me, their own daughter, their own sister! No! They regretted, with every fibre of their grasping, greedy souls, that they had, by their own miscalculation, by their own ineptitude, given me the unforeseen opportunity to escape their clutches, to reclaim my freedom and my fortune! I could see the unquenched avarice, the frustrated, thwarted ambition, the simmering, impotent resentment, lurking like coiled serpents behind those false, cloyingly welcoming smiles! They felt no guilt, Monsieur, no true remorse, not even a fleeting shadow of it! They would have allowed me to wither away, to perish forgotten in the desolate confines of that dreadful convent, without a moment’s hesitation, without a single, solitary pang of conscience, if it had only suited their selfish, despicable purposes!”

Charles remained silent, his own heart heavy with a mixture of pity and a grim, weary understanding. He allowed her to vent the full, torrential force of her pain, her profound, and entirely justifiable disillusionment. There were, he knew from his own, albeit different, experiences of loss and betrayal, no easy words of comfort, no facile consolations, that could truly touch or begin to heal such a elemental and deeply personal wound. Only time, perhaps, and the slow, patient rebuilding of trust in the fundamental goodness of at least some of her fellow human beings, could ever hope to achieve that.

After several long, emotionally draining minutes, when her storm of sobs had finally, mercifully, subsided into a series of shuddering, utterly exhausted gasps, when the entire, beautifully inlaid chessboard was tragically, almost poetically damp with her fallen tears, Marie spoke again, her voice hoarse now, fragile, and imbued with an almost unbearable weariness.

“And so, Monsieur de Tréville,” she said, her gaze distant, her voice barely a whisper, “because of this… this terrible, unendurable revelation… I chose, that very day, to leave my family home forever. I could not bear to remain under the same roof as those who had so callously betrayed me. I have taken my own modest lodgings in a quiet part of the city, and I intend, somehow, to live an independent life. But… but what is life, Monsieur? What am I to do with it, now that it has been so unexpectedly, so strangely, returned to me? I… I confess, Monsieur, I simply do not know.” She looked at him then, her large, tear-washed eyes filled with a lost, almost childlike, and touching bewilderment that tugged at his heartstrings in a most unexpected and rather unsettling way. “Yes, it is true, I have money now. A great deal of money, even after… even after the three hundred thousand francs that were… expended… on my behalf. But… but what am I to do now, Monsieur? How am I to live? What possible purpose is there for me in this world, now that I am so utterly alone?” Her gaze, desperate, fragile, and pleading, fixed upon his face with an almost unbearable intensity. “You, Monsieur de Tréville, you are so clever, so resourceful, so knowledgeable of the ways of the world. You found a way, by your courage and your cunning, to rescue me from that… that living death, that hopeless despair. Surely, Monsieur, you can also offer me some small measure of guidance, some particle of wise counsel, for this new, and rather terrifying, and entirely unmapped life that now lies so dauntingly before me?”

Charles remained silent for a long, contemplative moment, his expression thoughtful, almost somber, his gaze serious as he considered her desperate, heartfelt plea. He felt a weight of responsibility settle upon him, a responsibility that went far beyond the mere act of her physical rescue.

“Mademoiselle de Léognan,” he said at last, his voice grave now, imbued with a seriousness that commanded her attention, “are you truly, sincerely, and with full understanding of the implications, asking for my advice, for my considered opinion, in this most important and personal matter?”

Marie, startled by the unexpected and solemn gravity of his tone, stared at him for a moment, her tear-filled eyes wide with a mixture of surprise and a dawning, fragile hope. Then, she nodded her head with a slow, deliberate and reverent emphasis.

“Yes, Monsieur de Tréville. I am. With all my heart.”

“In that case, Mademoiselle,” Charles said, a faint, imperceptible smile touching his lips as he reached into his waistcoat pocket and produced a fine, spotlessly white linen handkerchief, which he then, with a gesture of gentle courtesy, offered to her, “permit me, if I may be so bold, to offer you some… humble suggestions for your consideration.”

Marie took the proffered handkerchief, her small, trembling fingers brushing lightly against his own, and gently, gratefully, dabbed at her tear-stained eyes, a sigh escaping her lips that seemed to carry with it a measure of her earlier, overwhelming sorrow.

Charles, meanwhile, with a thoughtful, meditative air, took another identical handkerchief from his own pocket and began, with a slow, meticulous and ritualistic care, to pick up the tear-dampened, scattered chess pieces from the board. He wiped each one dry with a gentle, reverent touch, as if they were precious, wounded relics.

He began, appropriately enough, with the humble, yet essential pawns.

“Mademoiselle,” he said, his voice calm now, and measured, almost paternal, as he carefully and lovingly polished a small, ivory white pawn between his fingers, “let us first, if you please, consider your present circumstances with a clear, cold, and entirely dispassionate eye. You are young, Mademoiselle, remarkably, enviably so. You are, I believe, entirely free from any significant, or indeed, any minor debt or burdensome financial encumbrance. And, most importantly, you are now, by the grace of God and the due process of law, in undisputed possession of a very considerable, a life-altering, personal fortune. You must acknowledge, Mademoiselle, whatever your present emotional distress, that in purely objective, worldly terms, your current situation is far, far better, far more auspicious, than that of the vast, overwhelming majority of young ladies, indeed, of most people, in this often harsh and unforgiving world.”

“Perhaps… perhaps that is so, Monsieur,” Marie replied, a faint, wry, almost self-mocking smile, the first glimmer of something other than sorrow he had seen from her, touching her pale lips. “Though the price I have been compelled to pay for this… this rather enviable situation… has been, as you must surely appreciate, rather alarmingly, almost unbearably high, has it not?”

The pawns, those steadfast foot soldiers of the game, were now all dry, restored to their former pristine state. He moved on, with the same meticulous care to the more powerful, more imposing rooks.

“However, Mademoiselle,” Charles continued, his tone still calm, didactic, yet imbued with an underlying, gentle sympathy, “you must also acknowledge, with equal clarity and foresight, that while a sum of one million four hundred thousand francs may indeed appear, to one in your present circumstances, to be a substantial and inexhaustible fortune, it is by no means an infinite sum, nor one that can withstand indefinite, careless depletion. It requires, above all, careful stewardship, prudent, thoughtful management, and a measure of self-discipline. If you were, in a moment of understandable, perhaps, but ultimately foolish reaction to your past privations, to succumb to extravagant, wasteful habits, to reckless, unthinking expenditure, you would, I fear, very quickly, and with devastating consequences, find yourself once again in a state of embarrassing, and perhaps irreversible penury. You are aware, I am quite sure, Mademoiselle, of how many unfortunate individuals, upon acquiring sudden, unexpected wealth, have tragically indulged in foolish, profligate spending, in ostentatious, meaningless display, only to find themselves in a remarkably and comically short space of time, utterly, hopelessly ruined, their fortunes squandered, their lives in disarray, their erstwhile friends vanished like summer dew.”

“Yes, Monsieur. I am… I am indeed aware of such unfortunate, cautionary examples,” Marie whispered, her gaze fixed on his hands as he worked.

Now it was the turn of the agile, unpredictable knights.

“Therefore, Mademoiselle de Léognan,” Charles continued, his voice taking on a slightly more urgent, more earnest tone, “I would most strongly, most sincerely, advise you to remember always, with every purchase, with every expenditure, the terrible price you have been forced to pay for this hard-won fortune, and to cherish it, to protect it, accordingly, as a sacred trust. Especially considering your current, somewhat isolated circumstances, and your… your present, shall we say, lack of readily marketable, income-generating skills or professional training, it is, I believe, highly unlikely that you will have many, if any, significant opportunities to substantially augment your capital in the immediately foreseeable future. Thus,” he paused, selecting his words with care, “I would humbly suggest, for your consideration, that you might first consider investing a prudent portion of your available funds, perhaps some two or three hundred thousand francs, in the judicious purchase of some sound, income-producing real estate, some tangible property – perhaps a small but respectable, well-appointed house in a good, secure district of Paris, which would provide you with both a comfortable home and a measure of social standing, and perhaps, in addition, a modest, well-managed country estate, which would offer both a peaceful retreat from the city and a source of steady, reliable rental income. This, Mademoiselle, would provide you with a secure, unassailable and tangible asset, a place of refuge, a solid, dependable foundation for your future life and independence.” He carefully placed a polished knight back on its square. “The remainder of your considerable capital – approximately one million francs, let us say, or perhaps a little more – could then be most prudently, and securely invested in high-quality, interest-bearing government bonds, or perhaps in the shares of well-established, reputable banking houses. By such judicious means, Mademoiselle, you might reasonably expect to receive a steady, reliable annual income, an annuity, of approximately forty thousand francs, perhaps even a little more, depending on the prevailing rates. This sum, while certainly not sufficient, I grant you, to support a life of extravagant, ostentatious, and ultimately meaningless luxury, such as is indulged in by some of our more… flamboyant… contemporaries, would undoubtedly allow you to live as a respectable, entirely independent, and comfortably situated gentlewoman, in considerable comfort, security, and dignity, for the remainder of your days, free from the humiliating shackles of financial dependence upon others…”

At that time, in the mid-19th century, the interest rates on French government bonds and other similar, high-quality securities fluctuated somewhat according to the prevailing political and economic climate, but generally, and reliably, ranged between three and five percent per annum. Charles’s calculation of a potential annual income was therefore a reasonable, if somewhat approximate and conservative estimate.

Marie watched, her gaze unwavering now, almost mesmerized, her earlier tears forgotten, as the young, golden-haired, and surprisingly astute nobleman before her, the man who had so recently, so miraculously, plucked her from the depths of despair and restored her to the world of the living, now calmly, meticulously, with an almost tender solicitude, wiped dry each tear-stained, precious chess piece, all the while offering her such cold, dispassionate, yet undeniably thoughtful, practical, and eminently sensible advice for her uncertain future. A future that, until this very conversation, had seemed a terrifying, empty void.

Now it was the turn of the powerful, diagonal-moving bishops.

“Of course, Mademoiselle,” Charles continued, his voice still calm, even, and almost paternal in its gentle authority, “a life without worthwhile interests, without ennobling passions, without some purposeful occupation for the mind and spirit, is a barren, unfulfilling existence indeed. One’s precious, fleeting time upon this earth, if not actively filled with wholesome, stimulating, and elevating pursuits, will inevitably and regrettably be consumed by idle trivialities, by frivolous dissipations, or worse, by the insidious encroachment of actual vice. I would therefore, Mademoiselle, most earnestly recommend that you seek to cultivate a few inexpensive, yet intrinsically enjoyable and personally enriching, and socially refined, hobbies and accomplishments to occupy your leisure hours in a productive and satisfying manner. Firstly,” he added, with a touch of that brutal frankness she was beginning to recognize, and even appreciate, in him, “if I may speak with an unvarnished candour, your present capital, while undeniably substantial, is not, I fear, quite sufficient to support a lifetime of truly extravagant and ruinous pastimes, such as the pursuit of high fashion, the accumulation of costly jewels, or the maintenance of a fashionable opera box. And secondly, in my own, perhaps somewhat unfashionable and unconventional personal opinion, even the most costly, exquisitely designed gowns, the most dazzling, ostentatious jewels, do not, in themselves, add greatly to the true, intrinsic charm, the innate grace, or the essential moral beauty of a young lady. Far more becoming, in my view, are the accomplishments of the mind and the cultivation of the spirit.” He paused, a thoughtful expression on his face. “I would suggest, perhaps, that you might consider taking lessons in dancing, which promotes grace and social poise, or perhaps in vocal music, which is a most charming and elevating accomplishment. And the art of painting, of course, in which you are currently, and I understand, rather successfully engaged under the tutelage of the estimable Herr Dürrenberg, is, without question, an excellent, a most refined, and a deeply satisfying pursuit, one that will provide you with endless pleasure and a keen appreciation of beauty…”

“Is that… is that truly so, Monsieur de Tréville?” Marie asked, a new, almost hopeful, and surprisingly eager light dawning in her expressive, tear-washed eyes. It was as if he were offering her not just financial advice, but a glimpse of a different, more meaningful way to live.

“Mm, yes, Mademoiselle. That is indeed my considered, and entirely sincere, opinion,” Charles replied with a firm, almost encouraging, and entirely reassuring nod.

Finally, with a flourish that was unconscious, it was the turn of the most powerful, the most versatile, the most regal piece on the board: the queen. He polished her with particular care.

“These pursuits, Mademoiselle de Léognan,” he continued, his voice taking on a new warmth, a new enthusiasm, “these elegant, yet not overly expensive interests and accomplishments, will not only provide you with genuine pleasure, with meaningful occupation, and with a sense of personal achievement, but they will also serve, most admirably, to enhance your natural grace, your innate refinement, to add a certain… je ne sais quoi… an indefinable yet captivating charm, to your already considerable, if presently somewhat overshadowed feminine attractions. And your very substantial fortune of one million four hundred thousand francs, Mademoiselle, when it becomes known, as it surely will, that it is to be offered as a dowry, will undoubtedly cause you to shine with an almost irresistible, almost dazzling brilliance in the often mercenary, yet eternally hopeful eyes of Parisian society. How many eligible, accomplished, and ambitious young gentlemen, I wonder, will then find themselves quite unable to sleep at night for thinking of you, of your beauty, your accomplishments, your gentle nature, and yes, let us be entirely frank between ourselves, your very substantial and highly desirable inheritance!” He smiled then, a faint, almost teasing, yet not unkindly, glint in his intelligent eyes. “You will then be in the most enviable, the most powerful position, Mademoiselle, of being able to choose, at your own leisure, with careful discernment, from amongst these many ardent, and no doubt highly persistent suitors. You may, with wisdom and foresight, select one who is not only of good family and respectable character, but who is also intelligent, ambitious, possessed of a promising, secure future, and who demonstrates, above all else, a genuine, unwavering, and entirely selfless devotion to your own personal happiness and well-being. And then, Mademoiselle de Léognan,” he concluded, his voice softening, taking on an almost prophetic tone, “you may look forward, with confidence and with joy, to a life of shared contentment, of mutual affection, of deep respect, and of enduring, quiet happiness. You see, Mademoiselle,” he leaned forward slightly, his gaze direct and sincere, “if you are but willing to follow my humble yet carefully considered counsel, I have every confidence, every reason to believe, that your future, despite its present sorrows, will be one of remarkable and entirely richly deserved, brilliance…”

Charles carefully and reverently placed the now gleaming, tear-cleansed ivory queen back upon her rightful square on the otherwise empty chessboard.

Marie continued to gaze at Charles, her expression a complex, almost unreadable mixture of profound gratitude, dawning admiration, and something else, something less easily defined, something that brought a faint, becoming flush to her pale cheeks.

“Furthermore, Mademoiselle,” Charles added, as a final thought, “you possess, as you have already so ably and courageously demonstrated in your recent trials, a considerable native intelligence, a keen, intuitive understanding of human nature, and the invaluable ability to know when to act decisively, and when, perhaps, to bide your time with patience and fortitude. If you are but willing to embrace this life of prudent, thoughtful moderation – which is by no means, I hasten to assure you, to be confused with a joyless, miserly parsimony – then happiness, Mademoiselle, true, enduring, and deeply satisfying happiness, will surely not elude you for long. It will find you, I am certain of it.”

“You still have not entirely forgotten, I see, to tease me, Monsieur de Tréville,” Marie sighed, though a faint, almost shy, yet undeniably genuine smile now touched her lips, chasing away the last of the shadows from her eyes, “for the rather… unconventional… manner in which I solicited your most timely, and most invaluable, aid, have you?”

Charles, having now completed his rather unusual and unexpectedly intimate task of meticulously wiping every single tear-stained chess piece, looked at Marie de Léognan with an expression of genuine, paternal, and entirely unfeigned sincerity. “I have spoken at such considerable and perhaps impertinent length, Mademoiselle,” he said, his voice earnest, “only because I am truly, and most deeply, concerned for your future well-being, for your lasting happiness. Of course,” he added, with a slight, formal, yet respectful inclination of his head, “whether you choose to heed my well-intentioned advice or not, is entirely and solely your own affair, your own decision to make. You are your own mistress now.”

Marie remained silent for a long, thoughtful moment, her gaze distant, almost dreamy, as if she were contemplating a future that, until this very hour, had seemed an impossible, unattainable fantasy. Then, at last, she nodded her head with a new, quiet, yet firm resolve, a dawning strength in her clear eyes.

“I know that, Monsieur de Tréville. And I… I shall indeed endeavour, with all my heart, to follow your most wise and generous counsel. You have been… you have been most extraordinarily kind to me, a veritable savior.”

“I am sincerely and most deeply gratified by your wisdom, Mademoiselle, and by your courage.”

“And I shall, of course,” Marie added, a new, brighter, almost eager light now dancing in her sapphire eyes, “continue, and indeed, deepen my precious friendship with dear Françoise. I shall visit her often, as often as propriety permits, and we shall confide in each other, we shall share our hopes and dreams, as we always have… You would not… you would not object to that, would you, Monsieur?” She looked at him then, her expression hopeful, almost pleading, a touch of her earlier vulnerability returning.

“But of course not, Mademoiselle! How could I possibly object?” Charles replied with a light, dismissive, yet entirely reassuring wave of his hand, as if the very question were absurd. “You and her are the dearest, the most devoted of friends, are you not? Such friendships are rare and precious.”

A sudden, mischievous, and entirely unexpected glint sparked in Marie’s eyes then, a flash of her former, perhaps more spirited, and certainly less sorrowful self, a self that Charles found, to his surprise, rather… intriguing.

“And as for your most excellent, and indeed, most timely suggestion, Monsieur de Tréville,” she continued, her voice suddenly infused with a new, daring, and undeniably charming confidence, her eyes, bright now, and challenging, fixed intently and audaciously upon his, “that I should seek to cultivate some… refined, elevating, and intellectually stimulating interest to occupy my time… I find that I am entirely and most enthusiastically in agreement with the profound wisdom of your counsel…”

Charles nodded, a pleased smile on his own face, gratified that his advice had been so well received.

“Therefore, Monsieur de Tréville,” Marie said then, her voice soft, yet carrying an undertone of playful, yet firm, determination, her eyes, bright and challenging, fixed intently, audaciously, upon his handsome face, “you will, of course, have no objection whatsoever, will you, to undertaking the considerable, yet no doubt rewarding task of teaching me the intricate, the fascinating, and I am told, the highly intellectual game of chess?” She smiled then, a genuine, radiant, and entirely captivating smile that, for a breathtaking, heart-stopping moment, entirely banished the lingering shadows of her earlier sorrow, transforming her pale, tear-stained face into something quite… quite lovely indeed.

Charles’s own face, for one unguarded, betraying instant, froze, his carefully constructed composure, his avuncular poise, momentarily yet completely deserting him.

Sacrebleu! he thought, with a mixture of profound and disbelieving astonishment and a reluctant, unwilling, yet entirely undeniable amusement. The little minx! The clever, enchanting little minx! She has, with a single, artful, and entirely unexpected move, managed to checkmate me completely! Utterly and comprehensively!

However… after a moment’s swift, and not entirely unpleasant reflection… it was, perhaps, not such an unwelcome, not such an entirely disagreeable predicament after all. In fact, the prospect held a certain… unexpected charm.

“But of course, Mademoiselle de Léognan,” he replied at last, a slow, charming, and perhaps not entirely platonic smile spreading across his own features, his eyes meeting hers now with a new and perhaps not entirely fraternal, distinctly appreciative warmth. “It would be, I assure you, my distinct honour, my very great pleasure, and indeed, my most delightful duty.”