It was two days after the ball. The Duke de Nemours was playing court to Princess when Mme. de Chartes arrived with her daughter. Rosalind had dressed a little negligently, as one who has been ill does. Her face carried that glow of youth and vigor which betrayed her lie.
Mary kissed her cheeks. "You look so pretty Rosalind, that I can't believe you were indisposed. I think the Prince de Conde, when relating to you the Duke de Nemours' opinion on balls, convinced you that to attend the Marechal de St. Andre's fete would be a favor to him."
Rosalind blushed in reply.
Mme. de Chartes cursed her daughter's guileless skin. Fearing the Duke would realize how much he affected the Princess' heart she quickly embellished her daughter's excuse. "Your Highness has done my daughter much honor, more than she deserves, but truly she was ill," the Mme. de Chartes said. "It was I who forbade her to leave the house, for she would have attended you, even if she showed herself at a disadvantage."
As Mme. de Chartes spoke, she watched the Duke. One side of his lopsided smile slipped, leaving him with a straight bemused grin. His eyes flicked between her and her daughter Rosalind, from uncertainty to love.
After that day, the Mme. de Chartes fretted over her daughter's feelings for the Duke. She refused to speak of them directly though, lest she alert Rosalind of an emotion which she remained unaware.
One day, she began to speak with Rosalind about this man. She praised the prudence he had in never falling in love, his wisdom in treating romance and women as an amusement. "He is an ambitious man as well. It is said he has an uncommon passion for the Princess Mary. I must warn you against becoming a confidante of the pair."
She looked at Rosalind, and saw that her daughter looked dejected. "Do not speak to the Duke in private, lest he wish you to act as a messenger."
Rosalind nodded. "Thank you mother. You are always preventing me from making any missteps. I do not know what I would do without you." Rosalind went to her mother, and kissed both her cheeks.
Rosalind could not help but to feel foolish to find in the Duke de Nemours' actions so many proofs of a love that, if rumors were correct, really belonged to the Princess Mary. That she felt a great attraction for the Duke, but not her husband, filled her with shame.
The next morning she went to her mother's chamber to confess her emotions for the Duke. All night she had been making a list of strict resolutions which would make her mother proud.
Mme. de Chartes had a touch of fever though, and her daughter thought it best to speak to her at another time. Instead, Rosalind went to the Louvre to attend upon the Princess Mary.
"We were just speaking," Mary said to her, "of the Duke de Nemours, and were admiring how much he has changed since his return from Brussels. Before he had an infinite number of mistresses, showing equal regard to those with and without merit. Since his return, he has no mistresses at all, and he has become thin and melancholy."
Rosalind thought it very bold of Mary to say these things, given that it was she who had wrought these changes in the Duke. When the other ladies retired, jealousy and bitterness would not allow Rosalind to remain silent. She turned to Mary and said, "Why do you speak to me of the conduct of the Duke de Nemours? Both you and I know that it is a new mistress that has altered his behavior, and that mistress is you."
Mary was taken aback, and took Rosalind's hands. "You do me injustice, you know I conceal nothing from you. It is true that the Duke de Nemours, prior to his trip to Brussels, conveyed to me through his actions that he did not hate me," Mary said. "Now, he does not even see me."
It was a moment before Rosalind could stutter out an apology. Sweat formed on her skin and the air took the scent of roses. She hastily withdrew from Mary's chambers. In spite of herself, she found her heart again surging, finding once again in the Duke's glances proof his love for her.
Her high spirits dampened when she arrived home to find her mother's fever increased. She was given an emetic, bled from the foot, and put on a milk diet. As time progressed, she became worse, and the doctors began to fear for her life.
During those long days, Rosalind was inconsolable, and the Prince de Cleves did not leave his wife's side. The Chevalier de Guise found his way into the antechamber of Mme. de Chartes bedroom, although he did not attend with any frequency. There he would try to distinguish the note of rose from the smells of a sickroom.
The Duke de Nemours used his close friendship with the Prince as reason to attend daily. He found Rosalind's beauty only magnified by her sorrow. The dark circles under her eyes, her pale skin, her unkempt hair, made her appear fragile. The Duke wanted to hold her as she wept, to kiss away her tears. He would then--he had to stop his thoughts, or he would be sitting in the antechamber of a dying woman's bedroom turgid like a rutting dear. It would make a poor impression on her daughter. He looked over to Rosalind, and found the Marechal stooping over her, here to talk her on their walk.
That man, with his dowager's hump, had done something the neither the Duke nor the Chevalier could do, convince the Prince that the Marechal was completely benign. Nor had either of them secured twice weekly appointments with Rosalind. The Duke felt a flash of jealousy, but then he remembered, the Marechal posed no threat because Rosalind did not love him. Who cares if he walked with her? The Marechal gave him a hard look, as if he could sense the Duke de Nemours' thoughts, but his handsome face soon became placid again.
Rosalind was relieved to step outside, away from the gloom of her mother's bedside and the worried eyes of her husband. She felt unsettled with the Chevalier waiting in the antechamber; she kept sniffing sage in the air. Seeing the Duke, the twitch of a smile that moved the corner of his mouth, brought her both pain and pleasure. Out in the fresh air, she reflected on his charm, and how it had introduced her to the world of love and gallantry. It should have been her husband's blue eyes, not the Duke's smile, that made her heart pound. That thought gave her so much grief she imagined she hated the Duke. As always, the Marechal was a soothing presence.
* * * *
Rosalind paid little attention to where the Marechal walked, she was so lost in her own worries. Abducting her would have been as simple as leading her to a carriage. When he opened a door, she entered; when he took her down a hall, she did not look up to see it was unfamiliar. It was only when the key clicked in the lock did she lift her eyes from the ground to find herself in a private sitting room. She withdrew from the Marechal, fearful that he intended some mischief.
The man smiled sweetly and bowed. "Please forgive my impudence Rosalind. I will be leaving soon, and I wished to speak with you in private."
"You are going?" she said. The thought filled her with panic. Her mother was no longer able to give her guidance, and without the Marechal's steadying presence, her life would nothing but turmoil.
"I will return, God willing, but yes, the King needs me to command his troops." He looked at her, and he could see his absence distressed her.
It was the first time he met Rosalind's eyes. "I will pray for you everyday."
"Thank you," he said, sinking down on his knees before her. He took her hands and pressed them to his face.
"Marechal!" she exclaimed.
"How can you be surprised?" he said. "You know I love you, and I know you are married and you do not love me."
As he spoke, she blushed.
"All I want is to walk with you, and to feel your gentle hands before I leave for battle." He began to lavish kisses upon her palms. His affections rendered her stupefied, not the affect he wanted.
She pushed the Marechal away and retreated until her back was against the wall. The Marechal advanced upon all fours and groveled in front of her. He was bold enough to try and kiss her slippers. Without even thinking, Rosalind kicked him and he crawled away. The scent of roses pursued him.
"Fate has not been kind to you. I do not wish to speak ill of Mme. de Chartes, but in raising you, she was overzealous in steeling your heart against romance. It seems that even your husband has not been able to gain your love."
He paused, and when she did not protest, he continued. "When you arrived, the only man capable of warming your heart, the glorious Duke de Nemours, was gone. By the time he returned, it was too late, you were already wed."
He heard her sigh; sneaking a glance up at her, he saw that she trembled. "You suffer Princess, yet you have done nothing wrong. You sought to be a good obedient daughter and wife, and you have been rewarded with both a forbidden love and the conscience necessary to deny it. It is not fair." Creeping closer, he again took her hand. "Men, they may find distraction in sport, in their cups, in mistresses, but women only have their needlework to soothe them. They are not given any way to vent their spleen."
The Marechal took a moment to gather his courage. If he did not sense in Rosalind's hands a tension that spoke of desperation, he would have never have dreamed of asking her what he did next. "I know you have no desire to caress me, and even if you did you would restrain yourself."
Rosalind pulled at her hands and the Marechal hastened, gripping her fingers. "If you will not touch me, then strike me. Let you frustrations rain down upon me, hit me, kick me, I beg of you Rosalind's." His voice quavered and tears wetted her hands.
For the first time in her life, Rosalind was enraged. Not only were the Marechal's words true, but here he was, the closest thing she had a friend in this place, begging her to satisfy his strange perversions. To both her and the Marechal's surprise, she slapped him.
He tried to embrace her legs but she kicked him off, this time aiming for his thighs with her pointed little shoes. As he shirked from her, she boxed his ears and beat his shoulders with her fists.
When she broke into great wracking sobs the Marechal sprang up to hold her. She went limp, and her chest heaved in his arms. In that moment, he felt his entire being fill with the pure beatings of his heart.
After a minute, Rosalind calmed, and she became aware that she was clinging to man who was not her husband. She could not release him: the last time she had felt so serene, it had been before they left for Paris.
"I am sorry." The Marechal took out his handkerchief and handed it to Rosalind. He smoothed her hair as she dried her eyes.
