Monsieur Colbert, the King’s superintendant, failed to save the Louvre as the seat of France’s Monarchy, and so always for the interests of his sovereign he oversaw the funding and such of Louis XIV’s love, the Palais de Versailles. In the spirit of the aptly named Grand Century, the best artisans and architects to be found were often the very best, and the old Palais was soon surrounded by so splendorous buildings and gardens to make it a dream scape. Fantastic paintings and statuary of classical mythology abounded, and many niches were provided in seclusion within the gardens to suit lovers’ rendezvous away from wandering eyes. Often grand fetes were held at this noble residence, bringing the ring of high nobles, courtiers and the fairest maidens seeking approval and favor at court; and, always, for the king’s orders, were the King’s Musketeers.
Among the number of Musketeers was one Armand de Roquefort, a noble and virtuous man, brave and loyal in the king’s service, unquestioning and prompt to every order. As the court and its following assembled once again at Versailles, Armand was with them, a lieutenant among his comrades, but within his veins pumped the blood as noble as any duke. He had made his mind up that this would be his last fete and final service to the king before shipping out to Malta, resolved to take the vows of those gallant knights of Christendom, a last reminder of the crusading epic from so many centuries before.
Up to this time in the young musketeer’s life, only one thing kept him in France, that was a maiden that had taken his heart long ago, but being a model of discretion, she could never make an open display of affection toward him. She was Adele de Vezelay, a petite beauty of twenty, meek and humble, and much too shy to openly display the strong passions broiling within.
At this particular fete, stealing away between the entertainments, our two lovers met deep in the gardens, one to say goodbye, the other just to gaze upon the man she was too afraid to speak in bold terms to.
Firm in his decision when he arrived, Armand felt his confidence falter, and even the wisdom of his choice looked more and more as folly. There she stood before him; her hair a shower of auburn curls falling over her shoulders, the gaze of her azure eyes, so penetrating, ate away at his resolve. Her pale and flawless skin looked ghostly against the black of her silk gown. Her pouting lips were lightly rouged, and they lifted in both corners to form a tantalizing smile.
As they stood entranced in one another’s presence, Armand noticed how delicate she looked, how hard it would be to say goodbye. He had arrested men of high station without fear, faced foreign armies and had not flinched, but here stood a small woman of humble carriage who could destroy him with but a look.
Like a fool, thinking strength in this case was a virtue, he took the initiative. “Allow me to explain, Mademoiselle, why I have pulled you away from the festivities. Tonight is my last fete, as I am saying goodbye to the king’s service, to the court, but even more to take leave of you, how strenuous that shall prove.” He thought while speaking: coward, why do you, who never trembled in duty at the king’s court, now turn tail to flee from the court of love?
At this last statement, Adele felt her heart stop, the breath die in her lungs, indeed the very soul of her crystallize as ice. She immediately reproached her selfish nature; damn your cold discretion, woman-she screamed inside-would you lose the man you love for appearances. But, nay, this was not a time for regret nor rebuttal, but for action, anything to keep him to her. Aha!
With an air of gravity, she said, “no, monsieur, you shan’t leave the king, not his court, nor my side.” Before he could comment beyond the surprise on his face, she pressed a finger to his lips. Descending to her knees, kissing both his palms, she nuzzled her cheek against his groin, immediately achieving appreciation for her soft attention.
Adele’s gentle fingers proved to be dextrous and quick in undoing the musketeer’s heavy belt, and drawing down his thick trousers. She disarmed him of more than his rapier, as all he could do was lean his weight against the hedge wall, surrendering himself in surprise to his lady-love. With his manhood freed of restraints, the young woman caressed its length with her flirting fingers, admiring it as a work of art, worshiping its length and breadth with praising strokes.