Chapter 9: A Brother and Sister’s Resolve

The Sunday morning light, clear, bright, and imbued with a serene, almost sacred stillness, streamed into the small, sun-dappled withdrawing-room of the Marquis de Tréville’s venerable Parisian residence. Charles de Tréville sat there, a solitary figure hunched in concentration, his gaze intently fixed upon the intricately carved ivory and ebony pieces of the chessboard before him. The generous sunlight, filtering through the tall, mullioned glass windows, provided ample, somewhat painterly illumination for the complex, unfolding stratagems of the ancient game.

“White knight, D2 to E4,” Charles murmured, his voice a low, almost reverent whisper, reciting the notation from the well-worn chess manual open beside him as he moved the polished piece across the chequered board with a practiced, deliberate hand.

“Black rook, G2 to G4.”

As the game progressed, as the simulated battle upon the board grew increasingly fierce, its silent tensions mounting with each calculated move, Charles found himself slowly, yet completely, absorbed in the demanding role of the strategist. He savoured the pure, intellectual contest, the silent, intricate balletic dance of attack and defence, a welcome respite from the more chaotic, less predictable battles of his real life.

In his state of profound, meditative concentration, his mind entirely focused on the sixty-four squares before him, he failed to notice the heavy oak door of the small withdrawing-room being quietly, almost stealthily, pushed open.

“White bishop, D4 captures F6, taking the pawn.”

Following the intricate notation in the chess manual, a problem set by a renowned master of the game, Charles reached out with a confident hand to pick up the white bishop, preparing to execute the decisive, capturing move.

However, as his fingers closed around the cool ivory, he encountered an unexpected, and rather firm, resistance, a counter-force vying with him for possession of the small, elegant piece. Reflexively, with a slight frown of annoyance, he glanced to the side and saw a slender, delicate, and unmistakably feminine hand, its fingers gently but stubbornly curled around the bishop.

His gaze travelled upwards from the intruding hand, along a gracefully slender arm, and he discovered his sister, Françoise, standing quite still beside him, observing him with an expression that was, at first glance, entirely unreadable. It being Sunday, a day of rest and devotion, Françoise was not required to attend her art lessons at Herr Dürrenberg’s esteemed studio. She was, therefore, at liberty to bestow her presence, and her opinions, upon her elder brother.

“Monsieur,” she began, her voice deceptively sweet, almost honeyed, yet with an underlying edge that Charles knew all too well, “you appear to be remarkably, one might even say enviably, at leisure this fine morning?”

“Oh, tolerably so, I suppose, ma chère,” Charles replied absently, his attention still largely, and rather pointedly, fixed on the board. He gently but firmly wrested the contested bishop from her grasp and completed the move according to the chess problem he was so diligently studying, a silent rebuke for her interruption.

“You have not, I trust, Monsieur mon frère,” Françoise inquired, her voice now tinged with a hint of unmistakable petulance, her sapphire-blue eyes, usually so bright and filled with a mischievous, almost impish light, now shimmering with an unsettling and rather accusatory mixture of thinly veiled anxiety and impatient, almost fretful, concern, “forgotten what you so solemnly promised me previously?”

In French, there are two forms of the second-person pronoun: “tu” (you, informal and intimate) and “vous” (you, formal and respectful, or sometimes indicating social distance or displeasure). Françoise’s deliberate, and rather pointed, use of the formal “vous” here when addressing her own brother, was a subtle, yet clear, expression of her displeasure, her sense of grievance, and perhaps, a touch of wounded pride.

Charles, with a sigh that was only partially feigned, finally dragged his attention away from the absorbing, intellectual complexities of the chessboard and turned to face his sister.

“Of course, I have not forgotten, Françoise,” he said, his tone patient, though he felt a familiar stirring of fraternal exasperation. “How could I possibly forget such an… impassioned plea?”

“And is this your chosen method of assisting me, then, Charles?” she demanded, the sharpness in her voice more pronounced now, though her naturally soft, melodious tones robbed the intended severity of much of its intended force, lending it instead a quality of almost poignant reproach. “To sit here in this quiet room, calmly, serenely, playing at chess, while my dearest friend languishes in that dreadful, soul-destroying place?”

Charles, with an air of deliberate calm that he knew would likely infuriate her further, picked up another chess piece, a black knight, and made a thoughtful, defensive move on the board.

“My dear young lady,” he said, his tone still remarkably patient, perhaps, he conceded privately, a little too patient for her currently agitated liking, “anxiety, however keenly, however justifiably felt, will not, in itself, accomplish our rather delicate purpose. And the fact is that at this precise moment, I do not display an outward show of frantic agitation does not, I assure you, Françoise, signify in the slightest that I am not exerting myself to the very utmost of my abilities on your behalf, and more importantly, on behalf of your unfortunate friend.” He met her gaze steadily, a hint of gentle reproof in his own.

“Then how far, precisely, have your vaunted exertions progressed, Monsieur?” Françoise pressed immediately, her impatience palpable, her small hands clenched at her sides. “Marie suffers in that dreadful, desolate place with every passing day, with every tolling bell! The thought of it, Charles, the sheer injustice of it, it prevents me from sleeping soundly at night. I see her pale, unhappy face in my dreams.”

“It will be soon, Françoise. Very soon, I trust,” Charles replied, his tone perhaps a little too casual, a little too confident, for her heightened state of anxiety. He knew he should offer more reassurance, but the details were not yet fully formed, the path ahead still shrouded in some uncertainty.

Just at that moment, as if orchestrated by some benign, unseen hand, a discreet, almost apologetic knock sounded at the door of the withdrawing-room. Charles, with a glance at Françoise that conveyed both a silent plea for patience and a hint of dawning anticipation, called for the servant to enter. The elderly valet entered, bowed respectfully, and then presented Charles with a letter upon a small, polished silver salver.

At last, Charles thought, a wave of profound, almost physical relief washing over him. It has arrived. Now, perhaps, we may begin to see a way forward.

Charles, with a deliberate unhurried air that he knew full well would further try his sister’s already frayed patience – a small, perhaps petty, revenge for her earlier interruption – broke the wax seal of the envelope with his thumbnail and slowly, meticulously, unfolded the letter. Françoise, meanwhile, watched him with an expression of barely suppressed, almost agonizing impatience, her breath held in anticipation.

“My Dearest Friend, [the letter began, in Catherine de Perriette’s familiar, elegant script]

In accordance with the rather intriguing information you conveyed to me previously, I have, as promised, made some discreet inquiries on your behalf, and I now have some rather interesting, if somewhat predictable results to report:

The late Marquis de Léognan, it transpires, had an elder sister, a lady of spirit as some said, who returned from the privations of exile abroad in the year 1815. She subsequently and rather advantageously married a diplomat of the former, pre-Revolutionary regime. This diplomat, it appears, was a man of considerable, if somewhat ill-gotten means, and upon his demise some years later, he left his widow a very substantial inheritance. This inheritance, combined with the later and rather generous compensation she received from the present government for properties confiscated during the Revolution, endowed this estimable lady with a truly considerable personal fortune.

Not long ago, this lady, the aunt of Mademoiselle Marie de Léognan, passed away after a protracted period of illness. After a thorough accounting and inventory by the family notary, her estate has been valued at approximately one million seven hundred thousand francs – a sum, I am sure you will agree, not to be lightly dismissed… What is even more noteworthy, however, and indeed, rather more pertinent to your current inquiries, is that this lady left a will – a valid will, it is confirmed by impeccable sources, properly written and legally attested while she was of sound mind and clear memory, in the presence of a duly appointed notary. This will, my dear Charles, designates her beloved niece, Mademoiselle Marie de Léognan, as the sole and exclusive heiress to her entire and very considerable fortune. The reason stated in the document, it is said by those who have seen it, is because young Marie was the only one of her numerous relations who attended to her, who cared for her with genuine, selfless devotion, during her final debilitating and rather lonely illness. A touching testament, is it not, to the power of simple kindness?

That is to say, Mademoiselle Marie de Léognan is fully, unequivocally, and legally entitled to inherit this substantial fortune, thereby becoming, at a stroke, one of the youngest, and by far one of the wealthiest heiresses in all of France. Furthermore, according to my most reliable and invariably discreet investigations, on the very day following her benefactress aunt’s demise, the unfortunate Mademoiselle de Léognan was summarily, and with a notable lack of ceremony or familial grief, dispatched by her loving parents to the Carmelite convent at Blois. A most… convenient… timing, one might observe.

Additionally, regarding the matter of the impending marriage you mentioned, as both families involved – your own ducal relations and the Léognans – are maintaining a remarkable, almost impenetrable wall of discretion, I have, I confess, been unable to unearth many specific details of the financial arrangements. However, one particular circumstance has come to my attention that may be of considerable interest to you: your esteemed uncle, Monsieur Philippe de Tréville, the eldest son and heir of His Grace the Duke de Tréville, is currently engaged in vigorous and rather discreet behind-the-scenes efforts to persuade the civil court in Paris to transfer the legal administration, and indeed the ultimate ownership, of Mademoiselle Marie’s substantial inheritance to her elder brother – that is to say, to his own future son-in-law, your future cousin-by-marriage, the present Comte de Léognan – on the rather convenient, if somewhat specious grounds that Mademoiselle Marie has now, by entering a convent, renounced all worldly goods and chosen to devote her life entirely to the service of God. A most pious and financially advantageous argument, is it not?

Thus, the general and rather sordid outline of this unfortunate affair, I trust, my dear Charles, you will now be able to deduce with your customary acuity and perhaps a touch of your novelist’s imagination?

I wish you every success in resolving this delicate, and potentially rather explosive matter. And furthermore, my dear friend, I must remind you with a gentle but firm insistence, to remember to complete your captivating book without further, intolerable delay! My patience, unlike my fortune, is not inexhaustible.

Your devoted friend, and impatient reader,

Catherine de Perriette”

Charles slowly, thoughtfully, finished reading the letter. In his mind, with a chilling, almost audible click, the final piece of the intricate, ugly puzzle slotted neatly into place. The complete and rather sordid contour of the affair had now taken shape in his thoughts with a stark, undeniable and deeply unsettling clarity. It was a tale of greed, betrayal, and ruthless ambition, a tale all too common in their supposedly civilized society.

“What is it, Charles? What does it say?” Françoise asked softly, her voice hushed with a mixture of apprehension and dawning, almost fearful hope. She had been watching his face intently as he read, sensing perhaps from the subtle shifts in his expression that the letter contained news of profound and perhaps disturbing significance.

Charles raised his head and looked at his sister, truly looked at her, for a long, contemplative moment. Due to her slender, almost willowy build, even when he was seated and she standing, Charles was not much taller than she. Her youth, her innocence, her passionate, unwavering loyalty to her friend – these qualities struck him anew, a poignant contrast to the cynical machinations he had just been reading about.

The young girl was gazing at him with her sapphire-blue eyes wide with an almost painful intensity of expectation, her very soul seeming to hang upon his next words. Her finely shaped, yet full and vividly red lips, a striking, vibrant contrast to her pale, delicate, almost translucent complexion, lent her an almost ethereal, painterly beauty, like a figure stepped from some romantic, idealized canvas. She was, he thought with a sudden, unexpected pang of protective affection, far too young, too innocent, to be burdened with such worldly sorrows, such knowledge of human baseness.

Charles reached out his hand, his gesture slow and deliberate, and gently, almost reverently stroked his sister’s soft, fine golden hair, its texture like spun silk beneath his fingers. “Your friend, Françoise,” he said, his voice imbued with a newfound gentleness, a quiet reassurance, “will be returning to you, here in Paris, very soon. I give you my word.”

“Truly, Charles? Oh, truly? You are not just… saying that to comfort me?” the girl gasped, her face instantly, miraculously, illuminated with a joy so pure, so radiant, so utterly unfeigned, that it momentarily took his breath away, a warmth spreading through his own, often jaded heart.

“There are but a few small but necessary steps remaining,” Charles replied, his voice firm now with a newfound, unshakeable conviction, a resolve that surprised even himself. “And furthermore, ma petite,” he added, a rare, almost tender smile touching his lips, “I suspect you, and your friend Marie, may receive an additional and rather pleasant surprise in the bargain.”

“A surprise, Charles? What kind of surprise?” Françoise’s eyes widened further, her earlier anxiety now entirely eclipsed by a delightful, almost childlike curiosity.

“If fortune and a measure of justice smiles upon us, my dear Françoise,” Charles replied, his tone deliberately slow and measured, savouring the moment, the innocent delight on his sister’s face, while also, with a touch of his old teasing habit, taking the opportunity to continue stroking his sister’s hair (a gesture which, since she had reached her current age of burgeoning, and often rather prickly young womanhood, Françoise usually met with increasing and often quite vocal disapproval, deeming it far too condescending, as if he still considered her a mere child in leading strings, rather than the accomplished, if somewhat headstrong, young lady she was rapidly becoming).

“Heavens, Charles! What can it be?” Françoise breathed, caught in a wave of utter, delightful astonishment, entirely forgetting, in her consuming excitement and anticipation, to protest her brother’s familiar and usually rather unwelcome gesture of affectionate condescension.

Charles then, in a calm, measured voice, recounted to Françoise the pertinent intelligence he had gathered in recent days, culminating in the damning and ultimately liberating contents of Catherine de Perriette’s informative letter.

Upon hearing the full, sordid extent of the cynical machinations, the cold-hearted greed that lay behind her friend’s cruel incarceration, a film of horrified disbelief, quickly followed by a rising tide of righteous, passionate indignation, clouded Françoise’s expressive sapphire eyes.

“They… they…” Françoise repeated the word several times, her voice trembling with a mixture of outrage and a dawning, painful disillusionment, “how could they? How could they possibly do such a thing? Marie is their own family, their own flesh and blood! Their daughter, their sister! And… and Marie is so kind, so gentle, so utterly undeserving of such monstrous cruelty! It is… it is beyond belief!”

“In this world, my dear young lady,” Charles remarked, his voice tinged with a gentle, almost weary cynicism that came from a deeper, older knowledge than she could yet comprehend, “kindness and gentleness, alas, are not often valued by some at the princely sum of one million seven hundred thousand francs.” Then, seeing the decidedly uncharitable, almost fierce glint that flashed in his sister’s usually soft eyes, he quickly added, with a placating, tender smile, “However, your friend Marie has indeed been blessed with a stroke of extraordinary, almost miraculous good fortune – she has a true, fiercely loyal, and wonderfully determined friend in you, Françoise. And that, I daresay, is a treasure of such inestimable worth that not even ten times one million seven hundred thousand francs could ever hope to buy…”

Hearing her brother’s subsequent and clearly sincere compliment, a compliment that acknowledged her own passionate agency in this affair, Françoise’s expression finally softened, a measure of her earlier good humour, her natural youthful ebullience, returning. A faint blush of pleasure touched her cheeks.

“Then what do you intend to do now, Charles?” she asked, her practical, determined nature reasserting itself now that the initial shock and outrage had begun to subside. “How will you make them release her? How will you ensure she receives what is rightfully hers?”

“I intend,” Charles announced, his expression one of almost beatific, if entirely feigned and rather uncharacteristic, innocence, his eyes twinkling with a hidden amusement, “to pay a formal visit to our esteemed, and no doubt devout, great-uncle, His Grace the Duke de Tréville. I shall appeal to his better nature, to his well-known Christian charity. I shall implore him, most humbly, for the sake of our merciful God, and in the name of common decency, to grant the unfortunate Mademoiselle de Léognan a path to freedom, a chance at the life and happiness that has been so cruelly denied her.”

Françoise stared at her brother with an expression of profound, almost comical disbelief, an expression usually reserved for a particularly soiled and unappetizing piece of discarded canvas in Herr Dürrenberg’s studio.

“Very well, very well,” Charles conceded with a theatrical sigh, abandoning his pretense of naive optimism. “If, as I rather suspect he might, he proves… unresponsive… to such heartfelt appeals to his Christian charity and his familial duty, then I shall, with the deepest regret, of course, be forced to threaten him. I shall inform him in no uncertain terms that I intend to notify the press, the ever-eager, scandal-mongering newspapers of Paris, of this entire sordid, unseemly affair. As you know, my dear sister, I have… certain acquaintances… in the often less than scrupulous publishing world. And this, Françoise, is a scandal of the very first water, a tale of greed, injustice, and aristocratic perfidy that the newspapers will undoubtedly pursue with a relentless, salacious, and highly public zeal. The reputations of both families, the Léognans and, more importantly to him, the ducal Trévilles, will be dragged through the mud, utterly, irrevocably ruined. And in the face of such a vociferous public outcry, such overwhelming, condemnatory public opinion, even the most pliable of courts would find it exceedingly difficult, if not entirely impossible, to deprive Mademoiselle de Léognan of her rightful, legally attested inheritance, would they not?”

Charles thus explained his intended course of action, his voice calm now, and quietly resolute, his earlier weariness replaced by a focused determination.

Françoise, at last, seemed somewhat mollified, a measure of her anxiety visibly easing, though a shadow of doubt, a flicker of apprehension, still lingered in her expressive eyes. “And will that truly be enough, Charles? Will His Grace the Duke de Tréville and the Marquis de Léognan truly desist from their wicked, avaricious scheme merely because of such a threat? Are they not powerful men, accustomed to having their own way?”

“It should prove sufficient, I believe,” Charles replied, with a confidence that was perhaps more assumed than genuinely felt, though he knew the power of public scandal in their society. “Once such an affair is exposed to the harsh glare of public scrutiny, the damage to their family name, to their carefully cultivated standing in society, would be immense, perhaps irreparable. They are proud men, Françoise, these aristocrats of the old school, and their public reputations, however tarnished their private actions may be, are still of paramount, almost sacred importance to them.”

“Very well,” Françoise said after a moment of thoughtful, silent consideration, finally nodding her acceptance of her brother’s rather audacious plan. A small, hopeful smile touched her lips. “Then I must thank you, Monsieur, most profoundly, on Marie’s behalf, and, of course, on my own.”

“Oh, think nothing of it, Mademoiselle,” Charles replied with a slight, formal bow, a teasing glint in his eye. “It is merely my fraternal duty, and indeed, under such compelling circumstances, my distinct pleasure.”

“In that case…” Françoise said, her eyes once again adopting that comically disdainful expression of someone contemplating a particularly distasteful, and entirely unwelcome object, “would you kindly and immediately remove your rather large hand from my head, Monsieur! And cease, forthwith, from treating me as if I were still a child in leading strings, to be patted and condescended to at your whim!”

Charles chuckled, a genuine, warm, and affectionate sound that filled the quiet room, and then, with a final, deliberately lingering and entirely unrepentant affectionate pat, he withdrew his hand. He turned back to the chessboard, picked up the black queen with a flourish, and with a swift decisive movement, executed the next and final move in the complex chess problem. “Checkmate!” he declared with a quiet, triumphant satisfaction.

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Back in the sunlit sanctuary of her own elegantly appointed room, Françoise sat at her small, inlaid rosewood writing desk, her chin resting pensively in her cupped hands, contemplating the recent turn of events, and the part she yet might play, for a considerable, thoughtful time.

Then, with a sigh that was a curious, almost paradoxical mixture of youthful resolve and a dawning, womanly trepidation, she picked up her slender, silver-nibbed pen.

“My Dearest Mathilde, [she began, her script neat and flowing]

Pray, forgive the unaccustomed familiarity of this address, but since our rather… enlightening… conversation of the other day, I have presumed, perhaps too boldly, yet with a hopeful heart, that I might be permitted to call you so as a sister in a common cause.

I remember your promise well, Mathilde, your words of solidarity, and I wish to thank you once again with all the sincerity of my grateful heart, for Marie’s sake, and for the hope you have kindled within me. And now, it seems the moment to test the true depth and sincerity of your noble commitment has well and truly arrived – you now have the opportunity, should you choose to embrace it, to aid in rescuing our dear Marie from a fate too dreadful to contemplate, from a living entombment that would surely break her gentle spirit.

My brother, Charles, as we had both dared to hope, has not disappointed our earnest expectations. He has, with his customary, and often underestimated diligence and resourcefulness, managed to uncover the full, sordid truth of this unhappy, unjust affair: Marie’s aunt, it transpires, passed away some short time ago. And because, during her final, painful illness, our dear Marie was the only one of her numerous relations who cared for her with true, selfless devotion, the good lady, in her profound gratitude and affection, made a will leaving her entire, and as it now appears, very considerable estate solely and exclusively to Marie.

What a testament, Mathilde, to the enduring, often unacknowledged power of familial affection, of simple human kindness! How many souls in our modern, increasingly cynical age are still capable of such a noble, truly selfless act of generosity and remembrance? Surely, God, in His infinite justice and compassion, will ultimately, and abundantly reward those who perform such deeds of pure, unadulterated kindness.

But, as we both know, alas, only too well, Mathilde, beneath the polished, glittering veneer of civilized society, sin and wickedness abound, often in the most unexpected and most exalted of places. Marie’s own parents, it now appears, driven by a shameful, insatiable avarice, intend to seize this rightful inheritance for themselves, and to that nefarious end, they have cruelly, almost barbarically incarcerated our innocent Marie in that dreadful, desolate convent at Blois! They are now, it seems, moving with all possible haste, with a truly indecent urgency, to secure legal possession of her fortune, and to facilitate this villainy, this monstrous betrayal of familial trust, they have even, with a breathtaking cynicism, entered into this advantageous marriage alliance with my own great-uncle’s family, the ducal branch of the Trévilles. What unimaginable depths of baseness, of cold-hearted perfidy, they have sunk to! Its cruelty makes the blood run cold.

Fortunately, the Almighty who sees all, who knows the secrets of all hearts, will not, I devoutly believe, permit such egregious wickedness to go unpunished. And often, it is said, He chooses to work His divine will through the imperfect, yet willing hands of us mere mortals, to right such grievous wrongs and to uphold the sacred cause of justice. My brother, Charles, is already exerting all his considerable efforts, his intellect and his courage, to prevent this injustice from being consummated. But I confess, Mathilde, I am not entirely at ease, not entirely confident, in relying solely upon his endeavours. However capable, however devoted, he may be, he is but one man, against powerful, entrenched interests. Therefore, I now appeal to you, Mathilde, as a friend, as a woman of spirit and influence, I implore you, extend your own powerful, helping hand in this most desperate cause, and help to save this poor, innocent, and grievously wronged young girl.

Your esteemed grandfather, the Comte de Dutilleul, as Keeper of the Seals, holds a position of great eminence, of profound influence and authority within the realm. His word, I know, carries immense weight, his reputation for integrity is unblemished. Surely, those judges and magistrates, who may perhaps have been… unduly persuaded… by other, less scrupulous, parties in this affair, would not dare to disregard his clearly expressed, authoritative opinion. If your noble grandfather would but consent to speak a single, decisive word in this matter, then Marie’s unjust condemnation, her cruel dispossession, would surely and swiftly be overturned, her rights restored, her fortune secured.

Of course, I am not entirely naive. I am aware that my own great-uncle, His Grace the Duke de Tréville, possesses a wide and often rather formidable circle of influential acquaintances, and it is entirely possible that your esteemed grandfather, for reasons of political prudence or personal delicacy, might be reluctant to intervene directly, to openly oppose him in such a sensitive family matter. However, I have heard it whispered amongst our fellow pupils at the studio (pray, forgive me, Mathilde, it was merely idle, girlish chatter I chanced to overhear, not intentional eavesdropping) that your grandfather, due to his advanced age and somewhat failing eyesight, often relies upon your intelligence and your devoted assistance to read his voluminous correspondence aloud to him, and, more significantly, to transcribe his replies and official directives. Therefore, I imagine, for one of your acknowledged intelligence, your quick wit, and your undoubted resourcefulness, it would not be an overly difficult, nor perhaps an entirely unprecedented matter to compose a most convincing ‘letter from Grandfather,’ should such a… unconventional… measure prove absolutely, and unavoidably necessary to secure justice for Marie?

But this, of course, my dear Mathilde, would be a recourse of last, desperate resort, a measure to be contemplated only if all other avenues prove fruitless. If my brother, Charles, proves as effective, as persuasive as I devoutly believe him to be, then we shall have no need to stoop to such… unorthodox… methods. Oh, how I pray, with all my heart, that my dear, clever brother will indeed prove equal to this daunting and rather perilous task! He carries so many burdens for our family already.

You said once, Mathilde, and your words resonated deeply within me, that this new, enlightened age has endowed us, as women, with intellect, with the capacity to think for ourselves, to reason, to act, to refuse to be mere passive, voiceless pawns of fate, manipulated by the whims and ambitions of men. Now, my dear friend, the opportunity to put those noble, inspiring words into practice, to demonstrate our strength and our resolve, has well and truly arrived. You will not shrink from this challenge, will you, Mathilde? I know, with an unshakeable certainty, that you will not. Your spirit is too strong, your sense of justice too keen.

From my brother’s rather… surprising… novels (he fondly, and rather foolishly imagines I have never read them, the dear, blind man! Perhaps, when time permits, and this present crisis is past, I might introduce you to his rather… colourful, and unexpectedly insightful literary works…), I have drawn a most important, and perhaps rather revolutionary conclusion – we women, Mathilde, we must not, like the unfortunate Madame du Barry and the tragic, ill-fated Queen, allow ourselves to be divided, to be played off against one another, to engage in self-destructive, petty rivalries and foolish, internecine attacks. If we stand united, Mathilde, if we act in concert, with intelligence and courage, there is nothing, nothing, in all of France that we cannot achieve. Is it not so? Oh, God in Heaven, if only those two unfortunate, misguided ladies of the past had possessed but a fraction of our dawning understanding, of our potential for sisterly solidarity, would France ever have suffered the subsequent, devastating calamities that befell her, the horrors that tore our beloved nation apart?

Your presumptuous, yet entirely devoted, friend, and sister in this cause,

Françoise de Tréville”

The Comtesse du Barry, a woman of common, even humble, birth, rose through charm, beauty, and ambition to become the last official maîtresse-en-titre (chief royal mistress) of King Louis XV, wielding considerable, if often resented, influence at the glittering, decadent court of Versailles. She famously, and publicly, feuded with Marie Antoinette, the Dauphine and future Queen of France, their rivalry a source of intense and often vicious court intrigue. After the death of Louis XV, Madame du Barry fell precipitously from favour and was banished from court by the new and more morally upright King Louis XVI. In October 1793, during the Reign of Terror, Queen Marie Antoinette was executed by guillotine. In December of that same fateful year, Madame du Barry, despite her earlier revolutionary sympathies, also met her end on the guillotine. These two long-standing and often bitter rivals in the glittering, perilous theatre of the French court thus perished, by the same cruel instrument, within two short months of each other, their lives and deaths a tragic testament to the volatile, unforgiving nature of their times.