Chapter 4: A Night Visit from His Sister

By the time Charles departed from his grandfather’s chamber, the hour was verging on midnight, and a profound weariness, bone-deep and insistent, had settled upon him. He descended the grand staircase, its shadows long and dancing in the faint light from a distant sconce, to the lavatory on the ground floor. There, he performed a hasty ablution, the cool water a brief respite, before returning to the comparative quiet of the second floor. He walked down the familiar corridor, his footsteps echoing softly on the polished wood, directly to his own bedchamber, intending, with a sigh of mingled exhaustion and resignation, to finally bring the long and arduous day to its close.

His room, though perhaps boasting a greater profusion of books – his silent, steadfast companions – was furnished with little more extravagance than the Marquis’s own spartan quarters. However, the bed, a substantial affair with its sumptuous velvet mattress, promised a degree of comfort far exceeding that of his grandfather’s more austere, soldierly couch. It was a small, yet cherished, luxury.

Feeling the full weight of his exhaustion pressing down upon him like a physical burden, he lay down directly upon the bed, still fully clothed, and closed his eyes, a silent prayer for oblivion on his lips.

Though his mind was profoundly fatigued, sleep, that coy mistress, did not claim him immediately. Instead, he drifted into a drowsy, liminal state, a shadowy borderland between wakefulness and dream. The day’s events, a chaotic and unsettling tapestry, replayed themselves in a haphazard, almost hallucinatory procession through his thoughts, which then scattered, like dandelion seeds caught on a capricious wind, to matters far beyond the immediate horizon.

“France… the Bonapartists… a dangerous game…” “The King… the Government… a house built on shifting sands…” “Tomorrow’s plans… fraught with peril…” “And Françoise,” a familiar exasperation, tinged with an undeniable, protective affection, surfaced, “she is becoming increasingly unruly these days, a veritable whirlwind of youthful impetuosity. Truly, she requires a firmer hand, a proper, guiding discipline, lest her spirit lead her into mischief…” Unconnected, fragmented thoughts, like restless spectres, surfaced and submerged in the troubled waters of his mind, a relentless tide, until at last, a sense of profound emptiness, a welcome, beckoning void, began to descend, promising peace.

It was at this precise moment, as oblivion hovered near, that a sharp, unexpected pain pricked his forehead.

Charles did not awaken fully. His hand, moving with an unconscious, instinctual gesture, as if to swat away a bothersome mosquito that had dared to disturb his impending repose, swept across the space above his forehead. It seemed to connect with something soft, to brush something aside, but he paid it no further heed, his consciousness sinking deeper, ever deeper, into the alluring embrace of slumber.

Then, a few moments later, just as the shores of true sleep seemed within reach, the same sensation, the same sharp, insistent pressure, returned to his forehead.

He blinked his eyes open, his consciousness still clouded with the heavy mists of sleep, a groan of protest forming on his lips.

By the faint, flickering light of a candle he was certain he had not lit, he discerned a young girl, her startlingly blue eyes – the colour of a summer sky after a cleansing rain – fixed upon him with a calm, unwavering, and disconcertingly intense gaze.

Under the profound shock of this unexpected, almost spectral apparition, Charles’s eyes widened dramatically, his vision clearing with a sudden, adrenaline-fueled sharpness that banished the last vestiges of sleep.

The girl’s slender, exquisitely shaped eyebrows were drawn together in a slight, determined frown, her expression one of utmost, almost solemn, seriousness. Her unbound golden hair, the colour of ripe wheat fields kissed by the afternoon sun, cascaded around her shoulders, shimmering with an almost metallic, dark gold lustre in the dim, dancing candlelight. It was as if she were draped in a gossamer veil of spun moonlight, lending an even more ethereal, almost dreamlike quality to the improbable scene. She was clad in a thin, pale pink cashmere nightdress, a garment of innocent simplicity, and was seated, with an unnerving composure, on the very edge of Charles’s bed. In her right hand, she held a small, delicate candlestick of polished silver, the flame of its single candle casting long, wavering shadows upon the walls. Her left hand was extended, the tip of her forefinger pressing firmly, almost accusingly, against Charles’s own forehead.

After a brief, disorienting lapse of perhaps half a second, during which his mind struggled to reconcile this vision with reality, Charles opened his mouth to speak, to demand an explanation.

“Fran… Mmph… Mmph!”

He had only managed to utter the first syllable of her name, a sound choked with astonishment, when the girl, with an astonishing speed and a precision that belied her youth, clapped her own small, surprisingly strong hand firmly over his mouth, effectively silencing him. She then fixed him with a look that was both imperious and undeniably threatening, a silent command for absolute quiet.

Only when Charles, comprehending the bizarre reality of the situation, had ceased his struggles and, with a monumental effort of will, regained a semblance of outward composure, did the girl slowly, cautiously, remove her hand, her gaze never leaving his.

Françoise-Louise de Tréville, the Marquis de Tréville’s granddaughter, Charles’s spirited and often exasperating younger sister, had thus made her dramatic, and entirely unannounced, nocturnal entrance.

After taking several deep, steadying breaths to calm the frantic hammering of his heart, Charles glared at the young girl before him, his initial shock rapidly giving way to a surge of fraternal indignation.

“Are you utterly mad, Françoise!” he hissed, his voice a low, furious whisper, mindful of the sleeping household, yet charged with a stern, almost furious, reproof.

For a fifteen-year-old girl, a young lady of noble birth, to stealthily enter the bedchamber of her twenty-year-old brother in the dead of night – such an act, even in the more liberal, perhaps more decadent, society of some imagined future, would have been considered somewhat scandalous, certainly shocking. In the far more rigid, convention-bound France of the nineteenth century, where propriety was a jealous god, it was almost unthinkable, a flagrant breach of all decorum.

The girl, however, merely continued to gaze at her brother, her expression unreadable, betraying neither pleasure at her audacity nor contrition for her trespass. Her composure was, frankly, infuriating.

“Do you have any comprehension, any at all, of what you are doing, Mademoiselle de Tréville?” Charles reiterated, his voice still low but now laced with a genuine, rising anger, the formal address intended as a sharp rebuke.

Although his sister had, of late, shown certain… troubling signs of entering that rebellious, contrary phase of adolescence, that tumultuous period when young ladies believe themselves possessed of all worldly wisdom, this particular escapade, by any measure, was far too excessive, far too bold. Perhaps, he reflected with a sudden, uncomfortable pang of self-reproach, a familiar echo of his grandfather’s earlier concerns, he, as her elder brother, her de facto guardian in so many ways, had indeed been far too indulgent, too lenient with her over the years, thereby fostering this proud, willful, and alarmingly headstrong nature. A nature that, while sometimes endearing in its audacity, was now leading her into potentially perilous waters.

It was high time, he resolved grimly, his jaw tightening, that she was properly, and firmly, disciplined.

Just as Charles was internally castigating himself for his perceived failings as a brother and re-evaluating his entire approach to his sister’s upbringing, the girl’s haughty, almost regal, expression finally softened, a flicker of something less severe, perhaps even a hint of vulnerability, in her sapphire eyes. The corners of her lips, which had been set in a firm, determined line, twitched upwards, ever so slightly, forming a smile that was tinged with a subtle, almost mocking, yet undeniably charming, amusement.

“Of course, I know precisely what I am doing, my dear, esteemed, and presently rather agitated brother,” she replied, her voice clear and melodious as a silver bell, yet carrying an undertone of playful impudence that was conspicuously lacking in the deference usually accorded by a younger sister to an elder sibling. “But, as it happens, and as you shall shortly understand, I find myself in the most dire, the most urgent, need of your particular and invaluable assistance.”

Charles felt another surge of irritation, warring with a reluctant admiration for her sheer nerve. “Then return to your own bed at once, you incorrigible minx, and seek my assistance in the clear light of morning, when sensible people are awake!”

At her brother’s sharp, though still whispered, reprimand, Françoise’s eyelids drooped slightly, a fleeting shadow of… was it disappointment? Or merely a strategic, momentary retreat in the face of his displeasure? It was often difficult to tell with Françoise.

“Very well…” Charles began, a sliver of regret, an unwelcome softening, already tempering his righteous anger. He sighed, a sound of profound weariness. He softened his tone, the sternness ebbing away despite his best intentions. “Return to your sleep now, Françoise. Whatever this urgent matter is, surely it can wait. We can discuss it properly in the morning, when we are both more… composed.”

“No,” Françoise declared, rejecting his eminently sensible suggestion with an imperious, almost regal, obstinacy that would have done credit to a queen. Her chin tilted up a fraction. “I require your help now, Charles! It cannot, it will not, wait!”

A silent battle of wills ensued, their eyes locked in a tense, unspoken standoff. The flickering candlelight cast dancing shadows on their faces, highlighting the stubborn set of her jaw and the weary exasperation in his. After a long moment, a moment that stretched into a small eternity, Charles, as was so often, depressingly often, the case in their sibling skirmishes, capitulated with a sigh that seemed to come from the very depths of his soul.

“Very well, very well, very well!” he conceded, rubbing his temples. “Have it your way, as you always do. What is it then? What is this earth-shattering, urgent matter that could not possibly wait until daylight and a decent cup of coffee?”

As was her invariable custom after emerging victorious from one of their fraternal disputes, a triumphant, almost radiant, smile illuminated Françoise’s youthful face. The sight of that innocent, yet undeniably artful, smile, framed by her delicately flushed cheeks and the vibrant ruby of her lips, had the immediate, and entirely unfair, effect of dissipating Charles’s lingering anger as if it were morning mist before the rising sun. He was, he acknowledged with a familiar sense of helpless affection, utterly at her mercy.

However, the smile was fleeting, like a butterfly’s wing. It vanished as quickly as it had appeared, her expression reverting to its earlier, solemn gravity, a clear and poignant indication of the heavy burden that truly weighed upon the young girl’s heart, a burden that her earlier bravado had only partially concealed.

Before Charles could press her further, before his softened resolve could harden once more, she reached into a hidden pocket sewn into the seam of her simple nightdress and produced a single, folded sheet of letter paper, its creases speaking of anxious, repeated readings. This she then handed to her brother, her eyes silently pleading for his understanding.

Charles, with another sigh, this one of resignation rather than exasperation, propped himself up against the ornate headboard of his bed and took the letter. By the dim, flickering light of the candle his sister still held aloft with a steady hand, he began to read. Françoise, meanwhile, settled herself beside him on the edge of the bed, her gaze fixed intently upon his face, her whole being seemingly focused on watching for his reaction, for the dawning of comprehension, for the spark of fraternal compassion she so desperately sought.

“Françoise, my dearest friend, my confidante, thank you, truly, from the depths of my desolate heart, for your letter…”

His eyes had barely scanned the opening lines, the elegant, familiar script, when a jolt of profound surprise, sharp, cold, and deeply unpleasant, shot through him. He immediately looked up, his gaze sharp and intensely questioning, pinning his sister with its force. “Who wrote this letter, Françoise!” he demanded, his voice a low, urgent hiss, every vestige of weariness banished by a sudden, chilling premonition. “Tell me at once!”

“It is from Marie de Léognan,” his sister replied, her head bowed, her voice subdued, almost a whisper, her earlier confidence now entirely vanished, replaced by a palpable anxiety. “The daughter of the Marquis de Léognan. My dearest, my closest friend in all the world. She was… she was sent away to Blois some time ago, as you may recall. I wrote to her, pouring out my heart, and this… this is her reply, which I received only today.”

Blois, a small, ancient town situated approximately one hundred and thirty kilometres southwest of Paris, on the banks of the Loire, was home to a venerable and notoriously strict Carmelite convent. During the 17th, 18th, and indeed, into the 19th centuries, it was not an uncommon, if often deeply regrettable, practice for French noble families, seeking to avoid the considerable, often ruinous, expense of a daughter’s dowry, or to consolidate family estates, to send their daughters, willing or unwilling, to take vows in such religious orders. The Duchess de La Vallière, one of the most famous and beloved mistresses of King Louis XIV, had herself retired to and lived out her remaining days in contemplative, penitent seclusion at the Carmelite convent in Blois from 1674 onwards, a poignant historical precedent.

Hearing this explanation, Charles felt a small measure of relief, though the knot of unease in his stomach did not entirely dissipate. It was not, then, some clandestine, romantic entanglement of his sister’s, as he had initially, and alarmingly, suspected. He returned his attention to the letter, its delicate pages trembling slightly in his hand.

“…Your letter, my dearest Françoise, my cherished companion in brighter days, moved me more than mere words can ever adequately express! I implore you, with all the sincerity of my afflicted soul, do not ever allow the memory of our friendship to fade. Write to me often, I beg of you, tell me of the world outside these cold, unyielding stone walls, of Paris, of life, of laughter, of love! Your letters will be my greatest, perhaps now my only, joy in this desolate place!

My friend, my sister in spirit, you see now, do you not, what manner of shadowed, stifling existence I am now condemned to endure! I scarcely sleep six hours in any night, and that fitfully. We rise before the first hint of dawn for morning prayers, and some of the older sisters, their bodies frail and their spirits long since broken, simply kneel there in the chill, swaying with weariness, half-asleep, their lips moving in rote recitation. After we break our fast – and you, my fortunate Parisian friend, with your café au lait and your brioches, could scarcely imagine the meagre, tasteless fare that passes for our sustenance here! – we continue with our endless, monotonous round of spiritual exercises and devotions.

The entire day, Françoise, from sunrise to sunset, is an eternity of crushing boredom, punctuated only by more boredom, by the tolling of bells that mark not the passage of a life lived, but of a life slowly, inexorably, being extinguished. But do not misunderstand me, my dear; this is not to say that we are permitted the luxury of idleness. Indeed, to ensure that we feel the merest semblance of being alive, of having some purpose, however trivial, we are burdened with an abundance of tedious, mind-numbing tasks: all our personal clothing, those last vestiges of our former selves, is confiscated upon arrival, and we must thereafter mend and sew our own coarse, shapeless garments. We read, over and over and over again, the same dry, dusty theological texts – all of them outdated, nonsensical, irrelevant ramblings that, I suspect, even those who read them aloud from the pulpit no longer truly believe with any conviction. We also spend countless hours making communion wafers, constructing simple reliquary boxes, and painting stiff, lifeless icons…

My older sisters in this place, Françoise, every one of them, have already been ravaged by time and sorrow, their youth and beauty faded like pressed flowers, their spirits crushed beneath the weight of unspoken grief and lost hopes. They have lost all connection with, all hope in, the vibrant world of men and women beyond these walls, and they live out their days in a monotonous, soul-destroying routine, their lives measured out in prayers and penances. Yes, they are alive, Françoise, in the most basic, biological sense, but merely that. And the thought that, before very long, I too shall become like them, a pale, hollow-eyed shadow of my former self, my spirit extinguished, my heart turned to stone, fills me with an icy, unutterable dread that haunts my waking hours and invades my dreams…

My friend, my dearest Françoise, you see it now, do you not? This is the entirety of my existence, the narrow, barren compass of my world. They say, with pious conviction, that this is the place closest to God and to Paradise. But I tell you, Françoise, if this sterile, joyless existence be Paradise, then I would rather choose to live and burn in the very fires of Hell itself! May God, in His infinite mercy, forgive my blasphemous, desperate impertinence!

For having fallen to such a wretched, pitiable state, I blame no one, not truly. This is the misfortune that cruel fate has allotted me, and I can only strive to endure it in silence, with what little dignity I can muster. In this world, as it is now constituted, there is only one punishment, one societal crime, more severe than being a nobleman without money, and that, my dear friend, is to be the daughter of a nobleman without money! Under the crushing weight of such a grievous, unforgivable sin, what else can I do but suffer in silence, and pray for a swift release?

And yet, my dearest friend, my confidante, as I pen this reply to you, at this very moment, a venomous, insidious serpent of envy gnaws relentlessly at the tender heart of our precious friendship. I beg you, Françoise, find it in your generous heart to forgive me! I know, with an aching certainty, how invaluable, how sacred, our bond is, how it has sustained me through so many trials. But when I think of the bright, sunlit, vibrant world in which you will live, the world of balls and laughter, of music and art, of love and endless possibility, and then consider the dim, cloistered, silent shadows in which I am destined to fade away into forgotten obscurity, my heart aches with an unbearable, almost physical pain, and I cannot, I truly cannot, help but envy you with every fibre of my being. May God, in His boundless compassion, forgive my wicked, uncharitable thoughts!

My friend, my only friend, forgive me, I implore you. And please, I beseech you, do not forget my most earnest entreaty – write to me regularly, without fail! Your letters are my only lifeline to the world I have lost.

Your most faithful and devoted friend,

Marie de Léognan”

Charles finished reading, his expression grim, a heavy weight settling in his own heart. He now understood.

It was a long-standing, if deeply regrettable and often cruel, tradition among the French nobility, driven by the pragmatic, often ruthless, desire to avoid the substantial, sometimes ruinous, dowries required for marrying off their daughters into suitable families, to commit them, often against their will, to convents, to a life of religious servitude, a living entombment. And since Napoleon, in his wisdom or his folly, had promulgated the Civil Code, which stipulated, among its many revolutionary provisions, that all children, not just the eldest son, had equal rights of inheritance to the family estate, this old, often heartless, custom had become even more prevalent. To preserve the family estates, to keep their ancestral fortunes intact and concentrated within the main line, noble families now had an even greater, more pressing, financial incentive to send their daughters to serve God – for God, at least, in His divine abstraction, would not demand a costly division of the family property.

And Françoise’s unfortunate friend, the young, vibrant Marie de Léognan, had, it seemed, become yet another tragic victim of this cruel, pragmatic tradition, sacrificed by her own parents upon the cold, unyielding altar of familial ambition and financial expediency.

Françoise was biting her lip so hard that Charles feared she might draw blood, her agitation palpable, her small hands clenched into tight fists at her sides.

“If she remains there, Charles, in that dreadful place, she will surely die!” she burst out, her voice trembling with a mixture of fear and outrage. “To force a young lady of Paris, one accustomed to society, to music, to freedom, to endure such a life… what manner of unspeakable torment is that! It is a death in life!”

“Perhaps,” Charles replied, his voice deliberately neutral, though his heart ached with a profound sympathy for the unknown Marie, and with a growing anger at the societal conventions that permitted such casual cruelty. He needed to think, to assess the situation calmly.

Françoise’s small fist promptly, and with surprising, almost shocking, force, struck his arm. The vigorous, impassioned movement tugged at her thin cashmere nightdress, momentarily, and quite innocently, revealing a tantalizing glimpse of the smooth, white skin of her shoulder and the delicate curve of her breast.

“How can you be so utterly devoid of compassion, Charles! So cold! So unfeeling!” she cried, her eyes flashing with an indignant fire, her cheeks flushed with emotion.

“Very well,” Charles sighed, recognizing the futility of attempting to engage in a rational, moral debate with his overwrought and impassioned sister at this late hour. He gently disengaged her hand from his arm. “What is it, then, that you propose we should do, Françoise?”

“Is it not patently obvious?” his sister demanded, tilting her head back to look directly, defiantly, into his eyes, her own blue orbs now blazing with a fierce, almost desperate, fire that seemed capable of scorching him with its intensity. “We, Charles! You and I! We are going to rescue her! We must!”

“And how, precisely, do you intend for us to accomplish this daring, not to say highly illegal and dangerous, rescue, Mademoiselle?” he inquired, his tone dry, a hint of weary sarcasm creeping in despite himself.

“I… I confess, I have not yet formulated a precise, detailed plan,” Françoise admitted, though with an air of unapologetic, almost belligerent, conviction that Charles found both exasperating and strangely endearing. “That is why I have come to you, is it not, my clever brother? You will devise a plan.”

“But I have no immediate solution either, Françoise!” Charles protested, his brow furrowed in genuine perplexity, the enormity of her request beginning to sink in. “Perhaps I could gather some loyal men, a few desperate souls, and we could attempt to storm the convent, to carry her away by force. But what purpose would that truly serve in the long run? She would lose her identity, her family, her place in society, such as it is. She would become a fugitive, an outcast. She would merely exchange one form of unhappiness, one gilded cage, for another, perhaps even more perilous… If this is the considered choice her parents have made, however cruel, however unjust it may seem to us, I see no easy way to intervene without causing even greater harm.”

“You will find a way, Charles,” Françoise insisted, her gaze fixed upon her brother’s face, her eyes filled with an unwavering, almost childlike, yet profoundly touching, trust. It was a trust that both warmed and terrified him. “You always find a way. No matter how difficult the problem, you always know what to do. You are the cleverest man in all of France.”

Charles did not answer immediately, his mind racing, weighing the myriad possibilities, the formidable obstacles, the undeniable, grave dangers involved in such an undertaking. He thought of the Marquis de Léognan, a man of influence and, likely, a vengeful temper. He thought of the Church, and its temporal power. He thought of the law.

Tears, fat and glistening like unshed pearls, slowly welled in the young girl’s sapphire eyes, shimmering in the flickering candlelight, before spilling over and tracing glistening, silent paths down her pale cheeks. It was a sight that never failed to pierce his carefully constructed defenses.

Charles sighed again, a deep, weary sound that seemed to carry the weight of the world. He was, he knew, utterly, irrevocably, defeated. His sister, with her tears and her unshakeable faith, had once again conquered him.

“Very well, Françoise,” he said softly, his voice gentle now, all traces of exasperation gone, replaced by a reluctant, tender resignation. “I will find a way. Do not cry, ma petite. It does not become you.”

“Truly, Charles? You… you promise?” his sister sniffled, her voice still thick with unshed tears, yet a fragile glimmer of hope, as bright and precious as a newly dawning star, beginning to illuminate the sorrow in her eyes.

“Yes,” Charles replied, his expression hardening, his voice taking on a tone of quiet, unshakeable resolve that he hoped, with all his heart, would reassure her, would calm her fears. “I promise. You may rest assured, Françoise. Within a few days, your friend Marie will be back by your side, here in Paris. No one, and nothing, will prevent me from bringing her back to you.” He spoke the words with a conviction he did not entirely feel, but he would move heaven and earth to make them true. For Françoise.

“Oh, Charles! I knew it! I knew you would find a way!” his sister cried, her tears of sorrow instantly, miraculously, transforming into tears of overwhelming, joyous relief. She threw her arms around her brother’s neck in an impulsive, exuberant embrace, her slender, trembling body pressing tightly, gratefully, against his.

This foolish, innocent, trusting girl, Charles thought, with a mixture of profound exasperation and an even more profound, almost painful, affection, she already believes the matter to be entirely resolved, the deed accomplished! He sighed inwardly, the weight of his rash promise settling upon his shoulders, then gently, comfortingly, patted his sister’s back. “There now, Françoise. All will be well. But you must return to your own bed now and get some sleep… And not a word of this to anyone, you understand? Not even Grandfather, not yet.”

After his sister, now radiating a blissful, almost beatific confidence, her earlier distress entirely vanished, had obediently, and with a final, grateful squeeze of his hand, departed from his room, Charles attempted, with little success, to order his own chaotic, racing thoughts. The image of Marie de Léognan, a girl he had never met, now haunted him, her plight inextricably entwined with his sister’s happiness. Then, with a weary sigh that seemed to carry the exhaustion of a lifetime, he decided to do the only sensible, the only possible, thing he could, the thing his exhausted body and his overwrought mind craved most desperately.

Sleep. Perchance, in its dark embrace, a solution, however improbable, might present itself.