Chapter 15: An Unexpected Discovery

After returning to the sanctuary of her own bedchamber, Françoise, her heart still light with the triumph of her brother’s success on Marie’s behalf, let out a small, suppressed cheer, a pirouette of pure, unadulterated joy. Due to the lingering excitement that danced in her sapphire eyes, a faint, becoming flush, like the delicate tint of a wild rose, had risen to her usually pale cheeks, lending her an almost ethereal vivacity.

“Oh, Mathilde, Marie, it is so wonderfully, unutterably good of you both to come and see me today! You cannot imagine how it lifts my spirits!”

“I had originally intended, my dear Françoise, to pay my respects this afternoon, after my lessons had concluded,” Mathilde replied gently, her voice calm and melodious, a soothing counterpoint to Françoise’s exuberance. “However, upon hearing the rather distressing news that you were indisposed, our dear Marie became exceedingly and almost alarmingly anxious. She insisted, with a charming, if somewhat overwrought solicitude, that she must see you at once, that she could not bear a moment’s delay. And so,” Mathilde concluded with a slight, indulgent smile, “we took the liberty of excusing ourselves from our respective studies and came directly, together…”

Françoise looked at Marie, her gaze brimming with unconcealed, affectionate delight, then reached out with an impulsive gesture and took her friend’s slender, trembling hand in her own warm clasp. “Oh, Marie, my dearest Marie, you are so very good, so very kind to me! To think of me so, even in your own… even when you have so much to bear.”

The melancholic young lady, Marie de Léognan, whose face still bore the pale, fragile traces of her recent ordeal, managed a faint, almost watery, yet undeniably grateful smile. “It is a profound relief, my dear Françoise, to see that you are not seriously unwell, that your charming bloom has not been unduly diminished.”

Seeing her friend’s still subdued, almost haunted demeanor, Françoise felt a fresh pang of compassionate concern. She wished, with all her heart, to say something comforting, something that might truly lift Marie’s spirits, something to banish the lingering shadows from those sorrowful eyes. But she hesitated, unsure of what words would be appropriate, or indeed, truly welcome. So, with a tact that was perhaps surprising in one so young, she feigned a cheerful, carefree nonchalance and adroitly changed the subject. “Since you have both taken the considerable trouble to come all this way to my humble home today, surely you will not merely pay a fleeting, formal sick call? You must stay for a little while, at least. You must allow me to entertain you, however inadequately, with my poor company…”

“That would be delightful, Françoise, thank you,” Mathilde replied with her customary grace. “However, we must not, I fear, impose upon your hospitality for too long. My carriage is waiting below, and my father, as you are well aware, has rather strict, almost draconian rules about curfews for young ladies. If I return home too tardily, he will undoubtedly worry himself into a veritable frenzy of paternal anxiety, and the entire household will be in an uproar.”

Then, her keen, observant gaze, the gaze of a young lady accustomed to noting every detail, every nuance of her surroundings, swept with a polite, yet appraising interest around Françoise’s charming, sunlit bedchamber.

Françoise’s room, Charles often remarked with a teasing, fraternal sigh, compared to the more austere, almost Spartan chambers of her grandfather the Marquis and her studious elder brother, possessed a distinctly feminine and undeniably rather whimsical atmosphere. A soft, rose-pink carpet, its pile thick and luxurious, covered the floor. The tester bed, draped with embroidered muslin, was adorned with a matching pink silk counterpane, upon which reposed in a charmingly artless disarray several exquisitely crafted, and clearly much-cherished stuffed animals – a sentimental menagerie from her childhood. Large, imposing armoires of polished mahogany lined one wall, their doors hinting at a fashionable, if not overly extravagant wardrobe within. A gilded teakwood dressing table, its surface cluttered with silver-backed brushes and crystal perfume flagons, stood in another corner, surmounted by a large, ornate mirror framed in intricately carved wood. The array of actual cosmetics upon its polished surface, however, was surprisingly, almost disappointingly modest for a young lady of her station. What was most distinctive, most personal, about the room, however, was the charming collection of paintings, framed and unframed, clearly the work of the room’s talented young occupant, that adorned the pale, silk-hung walls, showcasing her more accomplished and no doubt most favoured artistic efforts.

Drawn by the undeniable charm and evident talent displayed in the artworks, Mathilde, an accomplished amateur artist herself, walked over to the wall and began to admire, with a connoisseur’s discerning eye, the delightful progression of Françoise’s paintings, created over several years of dedicated study and practice.

“This one, for instance,” she remarked, pausing before a small, sun-drenched landscape, her lorgnette raised for a closer inspection, “the technique, perhaps, is a little… unformed, a little hesitant in places, as is natural in a youthful work, but the sentiment, the entire atmosphere it evokes, is quite lovely, quite enchanting. The way the light of the setting sun has imbued these simple fields with that warm, almost ethereal golden light… it evokes a most pleasant, a most tranquil and uplifting feeling in the viewer.”

“Oh, that humble effort was painted three long years ago, Mathilde,” Françoise explained, her voice bright with an innocent, unaffected pleasure at her friend’s discerning, and clearly sincere appreciation. “My technique was certainly very unpolished then, I greatly fear. Herr Dürrenberg was most severe in his critiques, though always, I believe, justly so.”

Mathilde, it seemed, genuinely, and with a keen critical eye, admired the paintings. She moved slowly from one to the next, listening attentively, and with an encouraging smile, as Françoise, her earlier shyness forgotten in her enthusiasm for her art, offered her modest, often amusing explanations and anecdotes about each piece. Marie de Léognan, meanwhile, followed them silently, a pale, spectral figure, offering only an occasional, brief, and usually rather melancholic comment. Her gaze often seemed distant, her thoughts clearly and quite understandably still dwelling on her own recent, and far more tragic dramas.

After a little while, during a brief pause in their artistic promenade, Marie suddenly murmured, her voice barely audible, “If you will both excuse me for but a moment, I… I find I have a small, pressing matter to attend to. I shall rejoin you shortly.”

Françoise looked at her with a flicker of initial surprise, then, a dawning, compassionate understanding softening her eyes, she nodded gently, her expression one of tender solicitude. “Of course, Marie dear. Take all the time you require.”

After Marie had quietly and furtively left the room, closing the door softly, almost apologetically behind her, Françoise sighed, a profound, heartfelt sigh that seemed to carry all the sorrow of her friend’s recent misfortunes. “Poor dear Marie! My heart aches for her so.”

“Her present state of mind, her despondency, is entirely understandable, is it not, Françoise?” Mathilde replied, her voice calm, rational, yet not unkind. “That she is able to maintain even a semblance of outward composure, after such a terrifying and unjust ordeal, is, in itself, quite remarkable, a testament to her inner strength. All that we, as her devoted friends, can truly do at present is to offer her our unwavering support, our constant affection, to help her pass the time as pleasantly, as forgetfully, as possible, and to pray with all our hearts that she will, in due course, with God’s grace, recover her spirits, and find some measure of peace and happiness once more.”

“She has likely gone to find my brother, Charles, to offer him her formal thanks for his… intervention,” Françoise surmised then, with a knowing, tender, and entirely confident smile. “My brother, Charles… he has such a remarkable way with words, such a calm and reassuring presence. He will be able to offer her some true comfort, some wise and gentle guidance, I am quite certain of it. He always knows what to say.”

Her brother again! Always her brother! Mathilde thought, with an inward, weary and decidedly ironic sigh, though her outward expression remained carefully, politely neutral. Is this mysterious, much-lauded Charles de Tréville some manner of uncanonized saint, then? Or perhaps a veritable magician, capable of solving all ills with a mere word or gesture? Though, she had to concede, with a reluctant fairness, judging from what had already transpired, from the undeniably successful and rather surprisingly swift resolution of Marie de Léognan’s desperate, almost hopeless plight, he clearly possessed abilities, a certain formidable resourcefulness, a quiet yet potent influence, that set him apart from the common, often rather feckless, run of young men of their acquaintance. He was, it appeared, no ordinary, frivolous, drawing-room cavalier. There was, perhaps, more to him than met the casual eye. The thought, unwelcome and unbidden, was… intriguing.

“Let us fervently hope that is indeed the case, my dear Françoise,” she replied at last, her tone carefully, almost studiedly, noncommittal.

Then, her expression shifted subtly, her gaze becoming more direct, more serious, a hint of some underlying purpose in her eyes. “Françoise,” she said, her voice a little lower now, more confidential, “I came to see you today, not only to inquire after your health, which, I am delighted to see, is much improved, but also because there is another, rather important, and somewhat delicate matter I wished to discuss with you in private.”

“Oh? What is it, Mathilde? You sound so very serious,” Françoise asked, her curiosity, and perhaps a faint flicker of apprehension, instantly piqued by her friend’s altered tone.

“That letter, Françoise,” Mathilde’s expression, which had been one of gentle, serene serenity but moments before, now became decidedly grave, almost stern, her dark eyes intent. “The one I entrusted to your keeping some days ago. Since, most fortunately, and thanks in no small part  to your brother’s timely and effective intervention, it proved unnecessary to actually use it, I believe it would be wisest, indeed imperative for us to destroy it without any further delay. Such documents as you can imagine, are best not left lying about.”

Comprehension, swift and illuminating, dawned on Françoise’s expressive face, followed almost immediately by a charming, contrite flush of embarrassed apology.

“Oh, heavens, Mathilde! You must forgive me! My wretched, wretched memory!” she exclaimed, striking her forehead lightly and rather theatrically, with the palm of her hand in a gesture of comic dismay. “When I am in the least unwell, I declare, I become a perfect ninny! I forget everything of importance! I shall fetch it for you at once. It is quite safe, I assure you.”

Previously, as a desperate, precautionary measure, in the worrying event that Charles’s initial efforts on Marie de Léognan’s behalf proved insufficient to secure her release, Françoise, in her loyalty and her determination, had sought out Mathilde’s aid. She had implored her influential friend either to persuade her powerful grandfather, the Keeper of the Seals, to intervene directly in the matter, or, as a more audacious and infinitely more perilous last resort, to assist her in forging a letter in his august name, a letter that might sway the legal authorities. The Comte de Dutilleul, however, as Mathilde had subsequently, and with some regret, explained to Françoise, owing to his long-standing, if somewhat cold and formal acquaintance with His Grace the Duke de Tréville, had been decidedly and quite unyieldingly unwilling to become embroiled in what he considered to be a purely private, if rather unfortunate family affair of the Trévilles and the Léognans. It was not, Mathilde had carefully and perhaps not entirely truthfully, explained to a disappointed Françoise, out of any particular fear of the formidable Duke, but rather because of their existing and delicate social and political connection; the old Comte, a man of immense worldly prudence, was understandably loath to jeopardize this long-standing, if not overly warm relationship over a matter that, in his view, did not directly concern him, his office, or indeed, his own family’s interests.

Thus, left with no other apparent recourse, and driven by a fierce loyalty to her imperiled friend, Mathilde de Dutilleul had, with a courage and a breathtaking, almost reckless daring that Françoise found both utterly astonishing and deeply, profoundly admirable, actually done the unthinkable – she had, with her own skilled hand, forged a letter in her grandfather’s distinguished name, complete with a remarkably convincing, hand-drawn imitation of his personal seal. This letter, meticulously crafted and addressed to certain influential and potentially pliable figures within the Parisian legal profession, was intended to be dispatched, as a final, desperate measure, if all else failed. In it, writing with an assumed authority as if she were her grandfather himself, she had strongly, if with a diplomat’s subtle phrasing, “advised” and “suggested” that the Léognan family’s avaricious petition to gain legal control of Marie’s substantial inheritance be met with an unequivocal, and legally binding negative judgment.

Technically speaking, this audacious, almost treasonous act of forgery was not without considerable, even terrifying personal risk for Mathilde. Yet, she had reasoned, with a cold, clear-eyed pragmatism, that it was not entirely unfeasible. Due to his advanced age, his noticeably failing eyesight, and the overwhelming, relentless press of his official duties, His Excellency the Keeper of the Seals no longer possessed the physical energy, nor indeed, the consistent mental inclination to personally peruse every single one of the voluminous letters and petitions that arrived daily at his office, much less to personally pen, or even dictate, replies to them all. Consequently, his beloved, highly intelligent and eminently capable granddaughter, Mathilde, had, for some considerable time now, unofficially, yet with his full knowledge, trust, and indeed, grateful approval, acted in the crucial, confidential capacity of his private, personal secretary. She frequently read his voluminous correspondence aloud to him, summarized lengthy documents, and, with his general direction, drafted formulaic, non-controversial replies to the myriad unimportant letters that required some form of acknowledgement.

This rather convenient and mutually beneficial arrangement, Françoise had often suspected, also served the old Comte’s shrewd, long-term desire to subtly train and prepare his favourite, and by far his most intelligent granddaughter for a future, more prominent role in managing the Dutilleul family’s considerable affairs and in skillfully navigating the complex, often treacherous world of Parisian high society and national politics. He clearly recognized her potential.

Therefore, for Mathilde de Dutilleul, a young lady of considerable intellect, artistic skill, and no small measure of daring, to forge a convincing “letter from Grandfather,” and even to affix a remarkably accurate, hand-drawn replica of the Comte’s personal, intricate seal, was a relatively straightforward, if undeniably rather perilous and highly illegal undertaking.

She had also, with her customary thoroughness, carefully considered the potential and rather alarming repercussions should her deception be discovered. Her grandfather, she knew, despite his occasional sternness, was a man of immense worldly power and established prestige. Those in the legal profession, even the most senior judges and advocates, would rarely, if ever, have direct, unchaperoned access to him. Even if by some unforeseen, unfortunate mischance, they did, who amongst them, she reasoned, would be so foolish, so utterly lacking in discretion and common sense, as to question His Excellency directly about such a sensitive, and potentially highly compromising private matter? The chances of the forgery being definitively exposed were, she had coldly, rationally calculated, relatively, acceptably slim.

And even if by some disastrous, unforeseen concatenation of circumstances, her deception were to be discovered, she had consoled herself with the somewhat comforting, if not entirely certain thought that her doting grandfather, who despite his occasional irascibility, cherished her above all his other grandchildren, would not, in the final analysis, punish her too severely for what was after all an act motivated by loyalty to a friend in distress. Such a matter, in his grand, often cynical scheme of things, would likely be considered a relatively minor, if regrettable transgression, a youthful, idealistic indiscretion born of commendable loyalty and perhaps a touch of misguided romanticism. A stern, thundering reprimand, certainly. Perhaps a few days, or even weeks, of symbolic confinement to her rooms, a temporary banishment from society’s pleasures. That, she had concluded, would likely be the full and entirely bearable extent of his paternal displeasure. He had always, she knew, possessed a secret, almost grudging admiration for a display of spirit, of courage, even of well-executed audacity, particularly in women.

To conceive of, and then to actually, coldly execute such a daring, reckless, and potentially ruinous plan! The profound determination, the sheer, unadulterated audacity, concealed beneath the demure, impeccably ladylike exteriors of these two apparently conventional young girls was truly something to behold, something that would have utterly astonished, and perhaps even profoundly alarmed their unsuspecting and often rather condescending male relations, had they but known.

After successfully, and with no small trepidation, forging the letter, Mathilde had arranged for a trusted and entirely discreet family servant to deliver it, sealed and seemingly official, to Françoise. Her instructions had been clear and precise: the letter was to be dispatched without delay to the designated key legal figures only if Charles de Tréville’s own, more conventional efforts on Marie’s behalf proved unsuccessful, or if some final, decisive, and perhaps irresistible push was required to tip the scales of justice in their favour.

Now, however, it appeared most fortuitously that the entire unfortunate matter had been resolved in a most satisfactory, if somewhat unexpected and certainly rather dramatic manner, thanks to Charles’s timely and effective intervention. The forged letter, that potent, dangerous document, was therefore no longer necessary – indeed, its continued existence, even in Françoise’s trusted keeping, now represented a potentially significant and entirely unacceptable liability, a ticking time bomb. Thus, while visiting Françoise to inquire after her health was her primary and entirely genuine stated purpose, retrieving and immediately destroying this compromising, and now superfluous document was an equally important, if necessarily unstated and rather urgent objective of Mathilde de Dutilleul’s timely visit.

Françoise, with a murmured apology for her earlier forgetfulness, walked with a slightly unsteady gait towards her elegant, rosewood dressing table. Still feeling the lingering effects of her recent illness, her steps were a little uncertain, her movements lacking their usual fluid, graceful vivacity.

She picked up a small, intricately inlaid rosewood casket from the dressing table’s polished surface, opened its mother-of-pearl lid, and after a moment of rummaging with her slender fingers through its rather eclectic contents – a collection of faded silk ribbons, a posy of dried flowers tied with a silver thread, a few cherished, sentimental trinkets from her childhood – she finally extracted a single, neatly folded letter. However, just as she was withdrawing this fateful document, her hand, a little clumsy perhaps from her lingering indisposition, or perhaps merely from a momentary lapse of attention, accidentally brushed against an adjacent, almost identical casket that sat beside it. The second casket, disturbed from its precarious perch, toppled from the edge of the dressing table and landed with a soft, apologetic thud upon the thick, cushioning pile of the Persian carpet. Its contents – a veritable cascade of letters, notes, calling cards, and other assorted feminine ephemera – spilled out in a chaotic, revealing, and entirely unintentional profusion across the richly patterned floor.

“Oh, dear me! How utterly clumsy of me!” Françoise exclaimed, a small, involuntary cry of dismay escaping her lips. She turned back, an apologetic, slightly flustered, yet entirely charming smile directed at Mathilde, then, holding out the first letter, she beckoned her friend over to receive it.

Mathilde walked over and took the proffered letter from Françoise’s outstretched hand. She quickly, furtively unfolded it and scanned its contents with a practiced, appraising eye. Yes, it was indeed the one, the very document she had so painstakingly, and with such trepidation, forged in her grandfather’s name.

“It is an inexpressible relief that we did not, in the end, have need of this… rather desperate measure… after all,” she said, a genuine, heartfelt note of profound thankfulness in her usually calm voice as she carefully refolded the dangerous, incriminating document.

“Yes, indeed! A very great relief for us all, especially for dear Marie!” Françoise echoed with feeling, then, with a sigh, she bent down, her movements still a little languid, to begin the tedious task of gathering the scattered, tell-tale letters from the vibrant colours of the carpet.

Mathilde, following her friend’s movement, her gaze momentarily distracted, idly, almost unconsciously cast her eyes upon the various missives strewn haphazardly across the floor at Françoise’s feet.

And then, her breath caught in her throat. She saw it.

“Ah!” A small, almost inaudible gasp of utter astonishment escaped her lips, her eyes widening imperceptibly behind the discreet lenses of her eyeglasses, her heart suddenly, inexplicably beginning to pound in her chest with a strange, almost painful intensity.

For there, amongst the rather motley collection of envelopes of various sizes, shapes, and colours, lay one that was instantly, shockingly, and entirely, unmistakably familiar to her. It was an envelope of fine, cream-laid paper, bearing, in its upper left-hand corner, the distinctive, elegantly embossed crest of the Dutilleul family.

The Comte de Dutilleul, her esteemed grandfather, as she knew better than anyone, employed two distinct types of personal stationery. One, a rather heavy, formal vellum, was reserved for official correspondence, for weighty matters of state, or for particularly important, formal letters to personages of significant rank. This stationery was invariably embossed on the reverse flap with the full, magnificent Dutilleul family coat of arms – a rather elaborate and historically significant depiction of a gracefully reclining mermaid, her tresses flowing, holding aloft a laurel wreath intricately entwined with fragrant lilac blossoms. The other type of stationery, a lighter, more elegant cream-laid paper, was used for more personal, informal correspondence, for notes to family members, close friends, or less formal social acquaintances. This latter type bore only a small, exquisitely, and discreetly embossed lilac blossom emblem, a subtle, private family insignia.

And there, lying innocently, yet so shockingly upon Françoise de Tréville’s pretty, rose-pink bedroom carpet, was an envelope of this latter, more personal and infinitely more intriguing kind. An envelope from her own household.

What, in the name of all that is sacred and puzzling, is the meaning of this? Mathilde wondered, her usually so cold, so rational mind suddenly racing, a thousand improbable, conflicting thoughts and speculations tumbling through her brain. I remember, with an absolute, unshakeable certainty, that I have only ever dispatched that one, that single, entirely fictitious forged letter to any member of the Tréville household. Who, then, in all of Paris, could possibly have written this? And addressed, it would appear, to Mademoiselle Françoise de Tréville herself? And why?

Though inwardly shocked beyond measure, and profoundly, disturbingly perplexed by this inexplicable discovery, years of rigorous social training, of diligently cultivating an unruffled, impassive, and entirely unreadable exterior in even the most trying of circumstances, allowed Mathilde de Dutilleul to maintain, by a supreme effort of will, her outward composure, her customary air of cold, aristocratic detachment. With a carefully feigned and playful air of casual, teasing curiosity, she inquired, her voice remarkably light, astonishingly unconcerned, “My dear Françoise, what, pray tell, is this vast and rather intriguing collection of correspondence? Are these, perhaps,” she added, her eyes twinkling with a mock-knowingness, “the tell-tale billets-doux, the passionate outpourings, from a host of ardent, and as yet undeclared, admirers? You must confess, you have been holding out on me!”

“Certainly not, Mathilde! How can you even suggest such a thing!” Françoise exclaimed, her small, pretty face instantly flushing a becoming and entirely convincing shade of innocent crimson at the very outrageousness of the suggestion. She quickly, almost vehemently refuted the scandalous idea, then, glancing around the room cautiously and furtively, as if to ensure they were not by some mischance overheard by prying ears, she lowered her voice to a conspiratorial and almost breathless whisper. “You must promise me, Mathilde, upon your sacred honour as a friend, that you will keep this a most profound, a most absolute secret? Swear to me!”

“Hmm?” Mathilde murmured, her own curiosity now thoroughly, and quite irresistibly piqued by Françoise’s mysterious, melodramatic behaviour. What could this great secret possibly be?

“These,” Françoise explained, her voice barely audible now, her eyes wide with a mixture of childish importance and a charming, conspiratorial excitement, “these letters, Mathilde, are all… all missives sent to my brother, Charles, by his devoted, an often rather demanding readers. They are forwarded to him, you see, in great bundles by his long-suffering publisher.” She paused, then continued, a note of shy, reluctant, yet undeniable pride creeping into her voice, “I believe I may have mentioned to you once before, Mathilde, in passing perhaps, that my dear brother, Charles, has, in his spare moments, written some rather… diverting… novels? He has achieved a certain… a certain modest renown in certain circles, I suppose. At any rate, he frequently receives these letters from his readers, and his publisher, a rather indolent man, simply bundles them all together and sends them on to him, unread, unsorted. So, I… I have taken it upon myself, you see, as a sort of… sisterly duty… to intercept them.” She beamed, clearly rather pleased with her own ingenuity. “I open them and read them first. If they are supportive, encouraging, or if they offer sensible, constructive suggestions for improvement to his future works, then I save them carefully and ensure that Charles receives them. If they are merely letters that seem to require some sort of polite, formulaic reply, but are not of any great intrinsic importance, then I… well,” she blushed again, a delightful shade of rose, “I reply to them myself, Mathilde, in his name, of course, and in a suitably… authorial… style. And if,” her small, pretty nose wrinkled in an expression of profound, almost comical distaste, “if they are merely rude, unreasonable, personal attacks, or vulgar, ill-informed abuse, as some of them, alas, invariably are, then I simply, and with a certain grim satisfaction, commit them directly to the flames of my fireplace, to spare my dear, sensitive Charles any unnecessary vexation any undeserved discouragement to his artistic temperament…”

“Oh…” Mathilde breathed, a wave of dawning, unbelievable, and utterly staggering comprehension washing over her, leaving her momentarily speechless, her mind reeling. “I… I see…”

“You absolutely must not tell my brother, Mathilde! Not a single word of this, ever! This is my own little secret, my private contribution to his literary career, you understand…” Françoise implored, her sapphire eyes wide now with a mixture of genuine anxiety and a certain endearing, almost childlike excitement. “I have even… even persuaded the household servants, with no small difficulty, I might add, to keep silent about it. They all, bless their loyal hearts, conceal it from Charles. To this very day, my dear, unsuspecting brother still fondly and rather naively believes that it is his publisher’s diligent office staff that so meticulously, and so thoughtfully screens all his voluminous reader correspondence before it ever reaches his discerning eyes…”

Mathilde understood. Oh, yes, she understood now with a sudden, shocking, cataclysmic, and entirely overwhelming clarity that left her feeling faint, almost giddy.

That letter, the one from the Dutilleul household, lying there so innocently, so damningly, upon Françoise de Tréville’s pretty, rose-pink bedroom carpet… she, Mathilde de Dutilleul, had penned it herself, with her own hand, with her own carefully chosen, critical, yet ultimately encouraging words.

For several years now, ever since she had first, quite by chance, stumbled upon his uniquely compelling work in a literary journal, Mathilde de Dutilleul had been an ardent, a devoted, if necessarily anonymous, admirer of the remarkable novels of a certain new, rather enigmatic and refreshingly intelligent writer. From his very first, often rather raw yet undeniably powerful serialized stories in the Parisian newspapers, to the subsequent, eagerly anticipated publication of his complete, critically acclaimed books, she had, in a very real, if entirely secret sense, witnessed, and indeed, vicariously participated in the entirety of this mysterious, elusive author’s meteoric rise to literary prominence.

Strangely, almost uniquely among contemporary authors of historical fiction, though his novels were often, indeed usually, set within the glittering, decadent, and morally ambiguous world of the French royal court, this particular author did not focus entirely, as so many others of his ilk invariably did, on merely depicting, with a breathless, often rather vulgar enthusiasm, the superficial and ostentatious splendours of courtly life, the endless, tedious, and ultimately meaningless rituals of etiquette and polite, hypocritical society. Instead, his primary and quite brilliant focus, the true, undeniable genius of his work, lay in the profound, often startlingly insightful and deeply compassionate portrayal of his complex, multi-layered characters. He delved with a surgeon’s skill and a poet’s heart into the intricate, often contradictory exploration of their complex, deeply human motivations, their tragic, yet ultimately ennobling destinies. And his characters, unlike the mindless, simpering, two-dimensional mannequins that populated so many of the popular, sentimental romances of the day, were not mere decorative, pretty ornaments in a historical pageant; they were, for the most part, intelligent, witty, courageous, and often surprisingly resourceful individuals, possessed of real flesh and blood, real human passions, ambitions, and, most refreshingly, believable human failings. It was precisely for this remarkable depth, this uncommon intelligence, this unexpected, startling realism, that Mathilde de Dutilleul had become so completely, so irrevocably, captivated by his extraordinary literary works.

The author’s distinctive writing style, a unique, paradoxical, and highly effective blend of cold, detached, and often bitingly ironic observation, combined with a sudden, surprising, and deeply affecting undercurrent of fierce, controlled, yet unmistakably profound passion, resonated deeply and profoundly with her own complex, reserved, and often misunderstood temperament. And the poignant, often bittersweet and invariably elegant philosophical reflections on life, on love, on loss, on fate, woven so skillfully, so imperceptibly, into the rich tapestry of his narratives, reflections that were at once both remarkably profound and expressed with a simple, luminous poetic grace, had earned her deepest, most sincere, and entirely unreserved admiration. He wrote, she often thought, as she wished she herself could write, if only she possessed his courage, his insight, his extraordinary gift.

However, despite his rapidly growing fame, despite the increasingly lavish critical acclaim his works had begun to receive from even the most jaded Parisian reviewers, this author, it frustratingly seemed, remained stubbornly, perversely, and entirely inexplicably averse to any form of public appearance, any personal engagement with his burgeoning readership. No reader, no fawning critic, no enterprising publisher even, it was widely and rather resentfully, rumoured in literary circles, had ever actually met him (or her, for the author’s true gender, given the often surprisingly feminine sensibility displayed in his writing, remained a subject of much heated and entirely fruitless speculation). For several years now, within their own small, exclusive and highly discerning circle of literary connoisseurs and devoted female readers, the true, tantalizing identity of this brilliant, elusive, and maddeningly anonymous author had been a subject of endless, passionate, and entirely unproductive debate and conjecture.

Furthermore, in an earnest, if perhaps somewhat presumptuous attempt to encourage this author she so admired, to engage in some form of intellectual dialogue about his intricate plots and his compelling, unforgettable characters, and also, if she were entirely honest, to offer her own, occasionally rather forthright, and she hoped, insightful suggestions for improvement or future development, Mathilde herself had on several carefully considered occasions, penned rather lengthy letters addressed to him, dispatched with a prayer via his somewhat reticent publisher. And, through this same frustratingly indirect and entirely unsatisfactory channel, she had, a few precious times, to her immense delight and surprise, actually received replies – though whether these brief, often rather enigmatic and tantalizingly impersonal replies were penned by the revered author himself, or merely by some discreet, overworked, and no doubt long-suffering assistant in the publisher’s bustling office, Heaven, and the notoriously uncommunicative publisher, alone truly knew.

And now… to think that… to discover, in this most unexpected, most prosaic of settings, in her friend Françoise’s charmingly cluttered bedroom, that the object of her intense, obsessive literary admiration, the anonymous genius whose words had so often moved her to tears, to laughter, to profound philosophical reflection, was none other than… Charles de Tréville! Françoise’s rather serious, sometimes infuriatingly condescending, yet undeniably handsome and intriguing elder brother! It was… it was simply… too much to comprehend.

The sheer, unadulterated shock of this sudden, almost unbelievable revelation, this entirely unexpected, farcical collision of her most private, secret literary life with her everyday, conventional social existence, was so profound, so utterly disorienting, that even Mathilde de Dutilleul, a young lady renowned throughout Parisian society for her imperturbable cold composure, her unshakeable, glacial poise in even the most trying of circumstances, could not entirely suppress a visible, betraying tremor that ran through her slender frame, a sudden, tell-tale, and entirely unwelcome flush of heated colour that rose swiftly, embarrassingly, to her usually pale, aristocratic cheeks.

“Mathilde? Are you quite well, my dear? What is the matter? You look so… so pale, and then so flushed!” Françoise inquired, her voice filled with a sudden, anxious, and entirely innocent concern at her usually so self-possessed friend’s uncharacteristic and rather alarming display of visible emotion.

“Oh, it is… it is nothing, my dear Françoise. Truly, nothing of any consequence at all,” Mathilde replied quickly, recovering her shattered composure with a supreme effort of will, skillfully masking her inner, tumultuous turmoil beneath a faint, reassuring, if perhaps somewhat overly bright smile. “I was merely… merely reflecting for a moment, upon the truly extraordinary lengths to which you go, my dear, the selfless, saintly devotion you so consistently and so secretly display, in silently supporting your brother’s undoubtedly arduous literary endeavours. It is… it is truly most admirable, Françoise. Most commendable, most sisterly, indeed.”

And this, at least, this hastily improvised sentiment, was the absolute, unvarnished, and entirely heartfelt truth.

The sheer, daunting volume of letters forwarded by the publisher to a popular author must, Mathilde knew from her own father’s occasional dealings with such matters, be considerable, overwhelming. To diligently read through each and every one of those often rambling, often demanding, missives, to carefully sort them according to some rational criteria, to make considered, intelligent judgments as to their individual merit and their prevailing tone, and even, good heavens, to conscientiously compose appropriate, polite replies to those deemed worthy of such an honour… It required a patience, a dedication, a loyalty, and indeed, a level of thankless, unacknowledged labour that was truly, profoundly remarkable in one so young, and apparently so… flighty. Mathilde felt a new, a sudden and somewhat chastening admiration for this young, seemingly frivolous, yet clearly deeply devoted and surprisingly resourceful sister. There was, it seemed, far more to Françoise de Tréville than met the casual, societal eye.

“Oh, it is not so very arduous, really, Mathilde…” Françoise replied, a becoming, modest blush of unaffected pleasure colouring her cheeks at Mathilde’s sincere, and clearly heartfelt praise. “It was a little troublesome, a little overwhelming at first, I confess, when I was entirely unfamiliar with the task, and the sheer volume of letters was rather… daunting. But now, after so much diligent practice over these past few years, I have, I believe, become quite surprisingly adept at it. I can usually, with a fair degree of accuracy, decide how to dispose of a letter, whether to save it, reply to it, or commit it to the flames, within a mere fifteen seconds or so. And even when a reply is required, for those more persistent, or more deserving correspondents,” she added with a mischievous, conspiratorial twinkle in her eye, “I have over time developed a rather useful repertoire of rather… standardized, yet hopefully not too impersonal, phrases and elegantly turned templates. It takes but a few swift moments, with a little concentration to compose a suitable, and I trust, satisfactory response… Actually, Mathilde,” she paused, then continued, her expression brightening with a new, enthusiastic thought, “did I not recommend his books to you some time ago? I am sure I did! Though my dear brother, Charles, can at times be a rather… trying, a rather infuriatingly superior individual… his novels, I must confess, even I, his long-suffering sister, find that they do possess a certain… an undeniable, if somewhat unexpected charm, do they not? You really should try reading one, if you have not already… However,” her expression became suddenly, comically serious again, her voice dropping to a whisper, “I must in all fairness warn you, Mathilde. For some entirely inexplicable and rather perverse reason, my brother positively, almost violently detests discussing his own books, especially with people he knows, and most particularly with members of his own family. So, if you do read them, pray, do not under any circumstances, ever, ever mention it to him directly… He becomes quite… unmanageable.”

Will I tell you, my dear, innocent, and entirely unsuspecting Françoise, Mathilde thought, a slow, secret, and entirely, deliciously unreadable smile playing upon her lips, a smile that did not quite reach her thoughtful, speculative eyes, that I have not only read, with an almost religious devotion, every single, precious word your enigmatic, and now suddenly so very intriguing brother has ever published, but that I have also, for several enlightening if often frustrating years now, been engaged in a rather… spirited… and entirely anonymous, epistolary correspondence with him, a correspondence in which I have, on occasion, been perhaps rather more… critical… than entirely complimentary?

Mathilde merely offered another faint and entirely noncommittal smile. The lenses of her eyeglasses, for a fleeting instant, obscured the strange, almost predatory and decidedly thoughtful glint that now shone, with a new and infinitely more complex light in her intelligent dark eyes. A new and infinitely more fascinating, and perhaps even more dangerous game, it suddenly, exhilaratingly seemed, was about to begin.

“Perhaps I should go and see how our dear Marie is faring now,” she said at last, her voice as smooth, as cool, as unruffled as polished silk. “She and your brother have been closeted together in his study for quite some considerable time, have they not? Their… no doubt most earnest and improving… conversation… must surely, by this late hour, be concluded?”