Chapter 16: The Conversation and an Invitation

By the time Mathilde de Dutilleul, having excused herself from Françoise’s chamber, entered the small, sunlit withdrawing-room, she found a scene of quiet, scholarly concentration. Charles de Tréville was seated at the chess table, patiently, and with a gentle, paternal air, instructing a rapt Marie de Léognan on the names and prescribed movements of the various ivory and ebony chess pieces.

Seeing that Marie’s eyes, though still bearing the faint, tell-tale traces of her earlier tears, were no longer clouded with that profound sorrow, but were now clear, focused, and animated with a nascent curiosity, Mathilde felt a quiet sense of relief wash over her. It seemed her friend was, at last, beginning to emerge from the shadows.

“Mademoiselle de Dutilleul?” Charles looked up from the board at her entrance, a flicker of polite surprise in his eyes. “Have you come to join our impromptu lesson?”

“Françoise, as she is still indisposed, requires her rest, Monsieur,” Mathilde replied, her voice as smooth and polished as river stone. “It would be most inconsiderate of us to exhaust her with our prolonged company, would it not? Better to leave her to her recuperation, and her novels.” A faint, imperceptible smile touched her lips. She then looked at Charles with an expression of keen, playful interest. “So, you also enjoy the noble game of chess, Monsieur de Tréville?”

“Indeed, Mademoiselle. It is merely an amateur pastime, I assure you, a diversion to occupy a quiet hour,” Charles demurred, with a slight inclination of his head.

“Oh?” Mathilde’s eyebrow, a perfect, elegant arch, rose delicately. “As it happens, I am also rather fond of the game myself. Perhaps, while we await the return of our respective carriages, we might play a match, Monsieur? Unless you fear defeat at the hands of a mere woman?” The challenge, though delivered with a charming smile, was unmistakable.

“I should be delighted, Mademoiselle,” Charles replied, a spark of answering amusement in his own eyes, readily accepting her gambit. “Though I fear it is I who should be asking for a handicap.”

Marie, with a soft, grateful smile, gracefully vacated her seat, moving to a nearby chair from which to observe the impending contest, her expression one of quiet anticipation.

Charles’s style of play, as he had demonstrated in countless solitary games against the long-dead masters in his chess manuals, tended towards the cautious, the solid, the strategic. He preferred to establish a formidable, almost impenetrable defense, a fortress of interlocking pieces, before contemplating any decisive offensive maneuvers. Mathilde, however, much to his initial and rather condescending surprise, proved to be a player of a decidedly more aggressive, more reckless school. She consistently favoured bold and audacious attacking strategies, her pieces lunging across the board with a startling ferocity. Furthermore, her skill was by no means inconsiderable; her attacks, though daring, were not without a certain cunning logic, a keen tactical eye. Charles soon found himself casting aside his initial, rather dismissive underestimation of her abilities, and applying himself to the game with a renewed and rather more serious concentration. This was, he realized with a dawning and not entirely unpleasant respect, a worthy opponent.

As they played, their hands occasionally brushing as they reached for pieces, the silence of the room punctuated only by the soft click of ivory on wood, they fell into a light, casual conversation, a verbal sparring that mirrored the intellectual duel upon the board.

“It is remarkable, is it not, Monsieur,” Mathilde commented after executing a particularly daring, sacrificial move with her knight, “how this ancient game so perfectly, so elegantly, mirrors the larger realities of the world.” She paused, her gaze thoughtful, fixed not on the board, but on some distant, inner horizon. “A nation, is it not so? With its clearly defined social hierarchy, each class, each individual, with its designated role and prescribed function, its movements governed by established, immutable rules and ancient traditions. And then, through the carefully orchestrated, combined force of all its disparate parts, it engages in a great, life-or-death struggle for dominance with another, rival nation…”

“That is a most excellent and remarkably astute summation of the profound art of chess, Mademoiselle,” Charles praised, a note of genuine, unfeigned admiration in his voice. This young woman, he was beginning to realize, possessed a mind of considerable depth and perception. He countered her aggressive move with a quiet, defensive placement of his own.

“However,” she continued with a faint, almost wistful sigh, a shadow of some deeper thought momentarily clouding her intelligent features, “if only the actual governance of a great nation were as simple, as rational, as a mere game of chess! In reality, as you must know, there are so many competing interests, so many entangling, often secret, alliances, so many unforeseen, and often tragic, complications. Sometimes, one knows perfectly well what is the right, the just, and the proper course of action, yet one is rendered utterly powerless, by circumstance or by the folly of others, to pursue it. My grandfather, I know, often despairs in the privacy of his study over the intractable affairs of state.”

Charles smiled, a faint, melancholy smile of understanding. “That may be so, Mademoiselle. The world is indeed a complex and often frustrating place. However, if one could but consistently maintain, in the heat of political battle, the same cool, rational, and dispassionate state of mind that one strives to employ in a game of chess, it would surely be of some considerable assistance in the proper governance of a nation, would it not? At the very least,” he added, his voice dropping slightly, a subtle, political edge entering his tone, “the profound, and entirely avoidable national shame of the March Cabinet might have been averted.”

In March 1840, Adolphe Thiers became the Prime Minister of France and immediately, and with much public fanfare, declared his intention to pursue a more aggressive, more overtly nationalistic foreign policy, designed to display the resurgent strength and undiminished prestige of France on the world stage. This, however, resulted through a series of diplomatic miscalculations, in a major international crisis. In July of that same year, the four great powers of Great Britain, Russia, Austria, and Prussia, acting in concert and pointedly without consulting France, signed a secret treaty forcing the ambitious Egyptian governor, Muhammad Ali, whom France had been actively supporting, to submit to the authority of the Ottoman Sultan. Ali, facing the united might of Europe, eventually capitulated. This event was widely and bitterly regarded in France as a humiliating, almost unforgivable diplomatic failure. The Parisian press was in an uproar, and the Thiers cabinet, its credibility shattered, was forced to resign in disgrace in October of that year.

Hearing Charles’s words, with their clear, if subtly phrased implicit criticism of the current Orléanist regime, Mathilde was not in the least perturbed. After all, the unwavering Bonapartist political leanings of the Marquis de Tréville’s household were hardly a state secret in Parisian society. She merely smiled, a faint, conspiratorial smile, and remarked with a touch of gentle irony, “So, you also take such a keen, such a passionate interest in these rather dry matters of state, Monsieur de Tréville? I had imagined your interests lay more in the realm of… historical romance.”

“But of course, Mademoiselle,” Charles replied, his expression becoming suddenly, unexpectedly serious, his voice imbued with a quiet, fervent, and entirely sincere conviction that momentarily surprised even himself. “It is the sworn, the sacred vow of my life, Mademoiselle, to one day see France restored to her rightful place, pre-eminent, respected, and feared, in all of Europe.”

“You gentlemen,” Mathilde observed, “are always so preoccupied with such grand, such martial, such… distinctly masculine notions of glory and dominance. But all this talk of pre-eminence, Monsieur, that would surely mean war, would it not? And, it would seem, given the current state of the world, a war with Great Britain would be almost unavoidable, a foregone conclusion.”

“Great Britain, Mademoiselle, is, and always has been, the hereditary, the implacable, the eternal enemy of France, is she not?” Charles countered, his voice passionate now. “Consider, for how many long, bloody centuries have our two great nations been at war! If she, with her perfidious diplomacy and her bottomless coffers, had not repeatedly, tirelessly, forged hostile coalitions against us, both the great Sun King, Louis XIV, and the even greater Emperor Napoleon, would long since have completed the supreme, the sacred, the manifest work of France’s glorious destiny.”

“Then let us play a little game of suppositions, Monsieur, for a simple, silent game of chess, however intellectually stimulating, can, after a time, become somewhat tedious,” Mathilde proposed suddenly, after making another, typically aggressive move with her rook.

“Hmm?” Charles looked at her, his curiosity, and his interest genuinely piqued. What was this clever, intriguing young woman proposing now?

“Let us suppose, Monsieur de Tréville,” she continued, her dark eyes sparkling with a new, challenging light, “that you, by some extraordinary, perhaps even miraculous turn of fate, were the one in charge of France, the master of her destiny. What course of action would you pursue to achieve your great and rather ambitious ambition? Would you, as your words seem to suggest, declare war on Great Britain immediately, and plunge Europe once more into a generation of fire and bloodshed?” Mathilde looked at Charles with an unnerving, direct intensity, then, with a flick of her slender wrist, moved another piece, placing his king in a precarious, if not yet fatal position.

“A most interesting, and I must confess, a rather charming diversion, Mademoiselle,” Charles replied, a slow smile spreading across his face as he deftly moved his king out of danger and simultaneously advanced a humble pawn. “Very well, I shall play along. It is a game I have often played, in the solitude of my own thoughts.” He paused, his gaze thoughtful. “In my considered view, Mademoiselle, to achieve France’s ultimate destiny, it is indeed necessary, at some point, to decisively defeat Great Britain. But, and this is the crucial point, to ultimately defeat Great Britain, France must first, paradoxically as it may seem, cultivate a friendship with her.”

“Hmm? A friendship, you say?”

“Great Britain, at this present moment in history, is simply too powerful, both navally and economically. Until we are entirely certain of our own resurgent strength, until the opportune moment presents itself, France should not, must not, risk a premature, and potentially disastrous direct challenge. Instead,” his voice dropped slightly, “we should bide our time, seek an opportunity, and first strike a decisive blow against Russia. If we could but sever the grasping claws of the Russian bear from their increasingly intrusive meddling in the affairs of Europe, I can guarantee you, Mademoiselle, that the whole of the continent, from Madrid to Vienna, would breathe a collective sigh of relief, and would rejoice in France’s name.”

Mathilde considered this for a long moment, her brow furrowed in concentration, then nodded slowly, a flicker of grudging admiration in her eyes. “That would seem, Monsieur, to have a certain… ruthless strategic merit. An interesting, if rather cynical proposition.”

She then picked up a piece, a bishop, and with a swift, decisive movement, made another move, her expression once again unreadable.

“At the same time, Mademoiselle,” Charles continued, his own enthusiasm for his theoretical grand strategy growing as he spoke, moving out his knight with a confident flourish, “I believe that the most important, the most crucial diplomatic task for France in the coming years and decades is to assiduously, and with the utmost skill, cultivate a firm, lasting, and mutually beneficial friendship with the Austrian Empire.”

“Hmm? Austria, Monsieur?” Mathilde smiled then, a genuine smile of undisguised surprise. “Is Austria truly so important in your grand design? Forgive my ignorance, but I had thought her a declining, almost moribund power.”

“Exceedingly so, Mademoiselle. She is, in fact, the very keystone of my entire strategy,” Charles replied, his voice firm with conviction.

“But she is, as you must surely agree, a power in decline, is she not? She no longer strikes fear, as she once did into the very heart of Europe, as she did in the days of Charles V.”

“And it is precisely for that very reason, Mademoiselle, that she is so eminently worth cultivating as an ally. Otherwise, by all the laws of history and power politics, we should, by rights, be continuing to make war upon her, to dismember her, as we have so often done in the past,” Charles explained, moving another piece with a calm deliberation. “The Habsburg royal house, for all their insufferable pride in their ancient, almost sacred bloodline, have, through generations of disastrously close, consanguineous inbreeding and a stultifyingly narrow, medieval education, produced a sad and tragic succession of incapable, unimaginative, and frankly, rather pathetic individuals. We all know, do we not, Mademoiselle, that the current Austrian Emperor, Ferdinand, is a pitiable creature, an unfortunate imbecile, barely worthy of serious political consideration.”

This is a historically accurate, if rather blunt reference to Ferdinand I, who was Emperor of Austria from 1835 to 1848. He was known to be intellectually disabled, suffering from epilepsy and other neurological problems, and was entirely incapable of ruling the vast and complex Habsburg Empire effectively.

“But he will surely be forced to abdicate his throne sooner or later,” Mathilde countered, with a calm, unassailable logic. “Even the Austrians cannot tolerate such a situation indefinitely.”

“Indeed, Mademoisle. And I suspect, given the current unrest throughout Europe, that it will be very soon. Even a nation as profoundly conservative, as pathologically resistant to change as Austria, can surely not tolerate being ruled by an acknowledged imbecile for another entire decade,” Charles agreed with a nod. “But consider, if you will, his designated heir, the young Archduke, Franz Joseph. He too, I greatly fear, is a rather pitiable specimen, intellectually and temperamentally. His mind, from all reliable accounts, is entirely empty of all true political understanding, of any real grasp of the complex forces shaping our modern world. He possesses no knowledge of how to skillfully manage his ministers, nor how to command the genuine loyalty of his diverse and increasingly restless subjects. He possesses, it is said, only the limited talents of a provincial, bourgeois innkeeper, concerned solely and almost obsessively with preserving the family inheritance, but with no real, imaginative idea of how to do so, or indeed, how to adapt it to a changing world. Aside from a robust physical constitution, and a certain stubborn adherence to duty, he has, I fear, nothing whatsoever to recommend him as the ruler of a great empire. I would venture to say, Mademoiselle,” Charles concluded, a note of almost pitying scorn in his voice, “that even a hundred years from now, this poor, unimaginative creature will be remembered only, if at all, as a rather tragic, romanticized figure in some sentimental, entirely fictional novel, mourned only by a coterie of ignorant, sentimental young girls who dream of waltzing with handsome, doomed emperors.” He smiled, a faint, almost cruel smile.

“Hahahaha…” Mathilde, genuinely amused by Charles’s rather scathing, and surprisingly well-informed, if entirely dismissive assessment of the future Austrian emperor, laughed aloud, a delightful, musical sound that seemed to momentarily banish the serious, strategic atmosphere of their game. She then, still smiling, lifted her queen and moved it with a deft, almost careless grace. “You seem to harbour a particular and rather profound dislike for the Austrians, Monsieur de Tréville?”

“No, not at all, Mademoiselle,” Charles replied, countering her move with a casual, lazy ease, his own expression lightening. “Who could possibly waste their energy disliking such incapable, pitiable creatures? On the contrary, I believe that an Austria such as this, an Austria that is fundamentally weak, internally divided, and ruled by mediocrities, is the very best kind of Austria for the interests of France. She should be preserved, cherished even, like a rare, hothouse flower, as a natural and most wonderfully useful ally for our own, more ambitious nation.”

“Hmm?” Mathilde was clearly and rather charmingly perplexed by this apparent paradox. She made another, more cautious move, then looked at Charles with a questioning, expectant gaze, her dark eyes bright with intellectual curiosity, waiting for him to elaborate on his rather startling and unconventional theory.

“France and Austria, Mademoiselle,” Charles explained then, a faint, teasing glint returning to his eye, “are, as you know, the two greatest Catholic powers on the continent. Therefore, for the greater, eternal glory of God, and to more effectively resist the insidious incursions of the infidel and the lamentable, rebellious backsliding of the Protestant heretic, are they not, by divine providence itself, naturally ordained to stand together, as sisters in faith, shoulder to shoulder, in righteous, holy battle against the forces of darkness?”

“You are surely, most outrageously jesting with me now, Monsieur de Tréville…” Mathilde laughed again, a delightful, unrestrained sound of genuine amusement. “In the great affairs of state, since when has anyone, least of all a French statesman, truly, and with any sincerity, considered such pious questions of faith? I seem to recall from my history lessons, that our own rather less devout ancestors once, and with great success, allied themselves with the infidel Ottoman Turks, merely to weaken the power of the then dangerously ascendant and devoutly Catholic Habsburgs.”

“Very well, Mademoiselle, I confess, you have caught me out,” Charles conceded with a charming, boyish smile. “That particular, rather high-minded religious reason is, I admit, merely a jest, a flight of fancy. However,” he added, his eye twinkling, “it would, you must admit, serve as an excellent and most noble-sounding public pretext for such an alliance, would it not? There will always be those in France and elsewhere, who are willing, indeed almost desperate, to believe such lofty, idealistic justifications for what are in reality purely pragmatic, self-serving actions…”

“And the true, pragmatic reason, Monsieur?” Mathilde pressed, her interest thoroughly engaged.

“It is quite obvious, is it not, Mademoiselle?” Charles said, lifting his bishop with a flourish and, with a soft click, capturing one of her unsuspecting pawns. “Austria, as I have said, is at once both strong, and yet not strong enough for our purposes. To say she is not strong – she possesses, after all, a vast, sprawling territory, a considerable, multi-ethnic population, and a long-established, and still, for all its faults, reasonably effective administrative and military system. On the basis of these tangible assets alone, she is a friend, a potential ally, well worth cultivating. Yet, to say she is truly strong? She is, in reality, almost unimaginably, almost tragically weak and fragile! Her rulers, as we have discussed, are largely incapable, timid, and entirely devoid of all true ambition or strategic vision. And if one were to peel back the thin, glittering, theatrical outer veneer of imperial grandeur, you would discover, as all astute observers have, that she is not a true, unified nation at all, but merely a disparate, often mutually hostile collection of different peoples, of different cultures, languages, and religions, forcibly, and increasingly precariously, held together in an entirely unnatural and ultimately unsustainable political union. Her various component parts, the Germans, the Hungarians, the Slavs, the Italians, are entirely unable to fuse into a coherent, loyal whole. Merely dealing with her own internal problems, with the rising tide of nationalism within her own borders, is sufficient to ensure that she remains perpetually, and most conveniently for us, enfeebled, inward-looking, and politically semi-paralyzed.”

“So, your meaning is,” Mathilde surmised, her quick mind instantly grasping the core of his cynical, yet undeniably compelling argument, as she made her next, more defensive move, “that Austria possesses just sufficient strength to be a useful, credible ally for France, yet is so beset, so consumed by her own internal weaknesses and divisions, that she is highly unlikely to ever become strong enough to truly threaten, or independently challenge France’s own pre-eminent position on the continent?”

“You have a most remarkable, a most admirable faculty for comprehension, Mademoiselle. You grasp the essence of the matter with a swiftness that is as rare as it is delightful,” Charles remarked, with a look of genuine, and perhaps slightly more than polite admiration. He then made his own decisive move. “We must recognize, Mademoiselle, that the true, essential pillar of the Austrian Empire, the very foundation of the Habsburg dynasty’s power, is its approximately eight million German-speaking subjects. They are, and always have been, the primary, exclusive source of the Empire’s civil servants, its bureaucrats, and, most crucially, its loyal and effective officer corps. In addition to this core, the eight million or so Hungarians within the Empire are, for the most part, though often resentful, still relatively… compliant, bound by a shared history and a common fear of their Slavic neighbours. But the sixteen million Slavs, Mademoiselle, and the five million Italians under Habsburg rule… they, I think we can safely assume, are not quite so content with their lot, not quite so loyal to their German-speaking masters in Vienna… Merely to maintain the precarious dominance of a ruling minority over this vast, seething, multi-ethnic empire, how much energy, how much treasure, how much military force, must Austria constantly expend? Thus, because her own internal position is inherently, almost fatally weak, her foreign policy demands are, of necessity, minimal. She is, therefore, more easily satisfied than other, more powerful nations, and consequently, she is also far more likely to become dependent upon our friendship, our support, our alliance.”

“That is… that is a most logical, if rather ruthless argument, Monsieur.”

“So, if France truly wishes to achieve her destiny, to become the undisputed master of Europe,” Charles continued, his voice low now, and intense, his eyes burning with a sudden, passionate fire, “then she must, as a prerequisite, simultaneously exclude the pernicious influence of both Great Britain and Russia from the continent. To attempt to accomplish this monumental task single-handedly, relying solely on our own resources would be an exceedingly difficult, a protracted, and perhaps even an impossible undertaking. Austria, however, could be, and I believe should be, a most valuable potential assistant in this great, historic enterprise – if she is managed with sufficient skill, with sufficient subtlety, with sufficient cunning, of course. Naturally,” he added, a faint, predatory smile touching his lips, “to befriend Austria, to cultivate her as an ally, does not, by any means, imply that we should actively, or foolishly seek to make her significantly stronger than she already is…”

“Then what precisely should be done, in your view, Monsieur?” Mathilde asked, her fascination with his grand, ruthless strategy now entirely undisguised.

“We should, by all means, encourage her to maintain, and even to strengthen her often brutal dominion over the restless Italian states. We should, perhaps, even encourage her to challenge the declining power of the Ottoman Turks, to extend her influence, her civilizing mission, into the chaotic, turbulent Balkans. But we must never, under any circumstances, permit Austria to further expand her territory, or her political influence within Germany itself. If such a situation, such a dangerous possibility were ever to arise, it must be prevented at all costs, even if it means resorting to the ultimate sanction of war!” Charles declared, his voice ringing with a sudden, fierce conviction as he picked up his rook with a decisive, almost violent gesture.

“Check,” he announced softly.

“We must never, you say, permit Austria to acquire more German territory, or to absorb a greater German-speaking population?” Mathilde mused, her eyes narrowed in concentration as she contemplated her perilous position on the board.

“Precisely, Mademoiselle. In general, overarching terms, our immutable, guiding policy should be to absolutely, and by any means necessary, prevent anyone, any single power, be it Austria or Prussia or some other, as yet unforeseen entity from uniting the disparate German states into a single, coherent, and potentially powerful, unified nation. And if anyone, any ambitious ruler, any visionary statesman, were ever to seriously attempt such a thing,” Charles said, his voice dropping to a low, almost chilling whisper, as he lifted his queen, the most powerful piece on the board, “then he, and his dangerous ambitions, should, for the sake of the future peace and security of France, be… utterly and remorselessly…” he paused, then, with a soft, final click, he placed his queen upon the fatal square, “…crushed into dust!”

Mathilde looked down at the chessboard, at the hopeless, irretrievable position of her own king, now trapped, besieged, and utterly defenseless.

“Ah,” she said, after a long, silent moment. “It appears, Monsieur de Tréville, that I have been most definitively, and most elegantly checkmated.” She smiled then, a genuine, unforced smile that seemed entirely untroubled by her comprehensive defeat. It was the smile of one who appreciates a game well played, regardless of the outcome.

Charles returned her smile, a flicker of something new, something akin to a shared, secret understanding, passing between them. “You play an excellent, and a most spirited game, Mademoiselle. It was a true pleasure.”

“As for your rather… comprehensive… political theories, Monsieur,” Mathilde continued, still smiling, her composure entirely restored, “from your very eloquent, and I must confess, rather persuasive exposition, they would seem to possess a certain… undeniable internal logic. At the very least, they sound most convincing, most compelling, as you present them…” Her eyes, behind the lenses of her eyeglasses, held a new, more thoughtful, and perhaps even more respectful light.

“It is merely idle talk, Mademoiselle, a pleasant diversion to pass the time during a game of chess. It is of no real, practical consequence, I assure you,” Charles demurred, with a slight, self-deprecating shake of his head. “A mere intellectual pastime after luncheon, nothing more.” He felt a sudden, uncharacteristic need to downplay the intensity, the seriousness of their conversation, to retreat back into a more conventional, less revealing social mode.

“To be able to treat such weighty, such profound matters of grand strategy as a mere intellectual pastime is, in itself, no small, no insignificant feat, Monsieur de Tréville,” Mathilde persisted gently in her praise, her gaze steady, discerning. “How many young men in the France of today, I wonder, possess such a mind, such a capacity for abstract, strategic thought? How many of our contemporaries, especially those of the nobility, our own class, have ever given such deep, such serious consideration to the true, long-term future of France, beyond their own immediate pleasures and prospects? Whether your theories are ultimately right or tragically wrong, Monsieur, you have at least, this afternoon, engaged in an activity far more meaningful, far more worthy of an intelligent man, than gambling, than horse-racing, than idle, frivolous amusements, and than the endless, stultifying round of formal banquets and vapid social calls, have you not?”

“You are far too kind, Mademoiselle. You flatter me,” Charles replied, a faint, almost shy blush rising to his cheeks at her sincere and entirely unexpected praise. He offered another slight, formal smile, unsure of how else to respond to such a direct and strangely personal compliment.

Mathilde slowly, with a quiet, meditative grace, began to return her vanquished chess pieces to their starting positions on the board. “It has been most… most unusually interesting… conversing with you this afternoon, Monsieur de Tréville,” she said.

“The pleasure, I assure you, Mademoiselle de Dutilleul, the very great pleasure, has been all mine,” Charles replied, likewise beginning to reset his own victorious pieces, his movements mirroring hers, a quiet, intimate rhythm established between them.

Having finished arranging the pieces, restoring the board to its initial state of ordered potential, Mathilde looked up at Charles, her gaze, behind the discreet, intellectual lenses of her eyeglasses, a little unfocused now, almost hesitant, a flicker of some unaccustomed uncertainty in her usually so self-possessed demeanor.

“Monsieur de Tréville,” she said, her voice a little softer now, a little less certain than before, “I… I have just remembered… I have forgotten to mention something of importance. It was, in fact, one of the principal, if unstated reasons for my visit to your home today.”

“And what might that be, Mademoiselle?” Charles inquired, his own curiosity, and perhaps something more, once again piqued by her altered tone.

“My elder sister, Julie,” she began, her gaze dropping for a moment to the reset chessboard before returning, with a new, almost shy resolve, to his face, “is to host a small, informal ball at our home in a few days’ time, to celebrate her twentieth birthday. I have come, Monsieur, to extend a personal invitation. Would you, and your dear sister, Mademoiselle Françoise, do us the very great honour of attending? If you would be so gracious, so kind, as to accept,” she added, a faint, almost imperceptible blush tingeing her pale cheeks, “I shall have a formal, written invitation sent over by a servant upon my return to our home this evening.”

Hmm? An invitation? To the home of the Keeper of the Seals? Charles was genuinely surprised by this unexpected and socially rather significant turn of events.

“You need not, I assure you, Monsieur,” Mathilde continued quickly, as if sensing his hesitation, his surprise, “consider for a moment any tiresome matters of politics, or of delicate family allegiances. This is to be merely a small, happy ball for us young people, a celebration of my sister’s birthday. It has nothing whatsoever to do with emperors, or with kings, or with any of the tedious and often rather foolish political factions that so divide our poor country.” She smiled then, a bright, carefree, and entirely enchanting smile that momentarily transformed her usually serious, intellectual features into something quite… quite lovely. “And to select one or two additional, and I trust, congenial guests for my own dear sister’s birthday ball… that, I believe, is a privilege, a small liberty, that even my rather strict father will still permit me to exercise. And so, Monsieur de Tréville,” she concluded, her gaze direct now, and sincere, “I extend to you, and to your dear sister, Françoise, a most sincere, a most heartfelt, and I trust, a most welcome, invitation to attend…”

She then, with a graceful turn of her head, looked towards Marie de Léognan, who had been sitting, a silent, forgotten, yet deeply attentive observer throughout their entire, extraordinary game.

“Marie, my dear,” she said, her voice softening with a sisterly affection, “you will be able to attend as well, will you not? It will do you a world of good to be amongst friends, to hear a little music.”

“Eh? I, Mathilde? Oh, yes, of course! I… I should be absolutely delighted!” Marie replied, a little flustered by the sudden attention, but with a new, hopeful, radiant light animating her previously sorrowful eyes.

Mathilde then turned her gaze, with its unspoken, yet now perfectly clear question back to Charles.

Well, she had certainly, with a diplomat’s consummate skill, made it quite impossible for him to refuse without appearing ungracious, churlish, and perhaps even cowardly, had she not? And besides, he found, to his own considerable surprise, that he had no desire whatsoever to refuse. The prospect of seeing this intriguing, intelligent, and surprisingly formidable young woman again, in a different, more social setting, was… not at all unwelcome.

Charles considered for only a few seconds, a slow smile spreading across his own features. “Since you have been so gracious, so very kind, as to extend such a charming invitation, Mademoiselle de Dutilleul,” he replied, with a slight, flirtatious bow from his seated position, “then my sister Françoise and I would, of course, be utterly and entirely delighted to attend. We accept with the greatest of pleasure.”

“Excellent,” Mathilde nodded, with a small, formal, yet clearly undeniably pleased inclination of her head. “Thank you, Monsieur de Tréville. We shall look forward to it with the keenest anticipation.”