Whispered Secrets, Alliance Formed ca. 1931 (Tag Chauv)

[attr="class","YAMtext"] Chauvelin drifted through the royal apartments like a ghost, which was fitting in a way. François was more than dead and gone, he'd never really existed. The laughing young man with the curly hair, the good man who'd been loved and trusted, had been a lie all along. Now, after almost forty years, even the illusion was lost to living memory; the eyes that had seen him were now closed, the minds that had dreamed of him were now cold, the hearts that had beaten faster at the sight of him were now stilled. It was all so final, the specter so ephemeral, you wouldn't think it could hurt so much. [break][break]


Cold and dusty as a mausoleum, the place was well-suited to a wraith. With the exception of the King's suite, they were shut up and lifeless, sconces empty, shutters closed, furniture shrouded. He recognized the patterns in the carpet that silenced his steps, but the dimness stole their vivid colors, turning them into monochrome blacks and grays. [break][break]


He hadn't set foot here since that night, when he'd watched the royal family walk away into the fireplace, believing that he was remaining behind to hide their escape. Just as they'd been about to disappear, little Louis had looked back and waved. Still standing in the light, François smiled and waved back, then the Queen's hand pulled the Dauphin on into the darkness, and he'd sealed the stone up behind them. The King had trusted him with the secret of the tunnel and that was one faith he'd kept, even as he betrayed them profoundly in every other way. [break][break]


Louis was the only one he'd ever seen alive again, and that had been in the Temple cell where the boy was dying. He'd been 'Paul' for almost four years by then, had known it was a mistake that would only lead to pain, but he'd gone anyway. And he'd been right about the pain, wrong only in underestimating its power. He'd found the healthy child who'd waved goodbye an emaciated skeleton, the brightness in his eyes that of fever. But what hurt the most was that Louis still looked at him and saw François, and whose only emotion was simple joy that his friend had survived. [break][break]


The boy had only lasted two more days after that, and part of Chauvelin's soul had died with him. Now there was a new King, not that much older. And, once again, Paul knew it was a mistake to go anywhere near him. And, once again, he was doing just that. [break][break]


Ironically, the royal apartments in the Tuileries were only slightly more difficult to get into than the Temple tower had been – the tunnel had held up well for its age. Once he'd cleared and shored up a couple of slippages, and oiled a couple of gears, he was in. With a suit of palace livery to render himself virtually invisible, his plan was just to do some simple reconnoitering to prepare for the coming storm. He was expecting then to have to get in and out in a hurry, possibly with a squirming 13-year-old over one shoulder, and the last thing he needed was to trip over a footstool or find some key doorway had been sealed up. [break][break]


The first thing that went wrong with the plan was the King himself. Usually at this time of day the kid was out playing somewhere, but today he was there, in his suite, and Chauvelin almost walked right in on his talk with a noble boy of about the same age. Fortunately, the old spymaster was far too experienced at stealth to walk around flinging doors wide, and even more fortunately they were facing away from him, deep in conversation. Keeping his breathing steady with an effort, he withdrew promptly and silently, but something in their manner plucked at his curiosity and kept him from pulling the door completely shut. If there was one thing Paul Chauvelin recognized, it was clandestine.[break][break]


Hovering in the hall, grateful this part of the palais was private, the old spy eavesdropped. The two boys were speaking too quietly for him to make out everything being said, but the gist he got made his eyes widen in rare surprise. He'd more than half figured it was about something like a glimpse of a serving girl's breast, so to hear the younger boy providing a remarkably credible report to Henri on a tax levies boondoggle was startling in the extreme. [break][break]


Chauvelin had never been a man slow on the uptake and remembering that Henri had a small coterie of friends just like the one with him now, the old spymaster suddenly found himself holding back a laugh. The boy King had set up his own intelligence network, right under the noses of his Chouannerie masters! He was going to have to revise his assessment of the child. [break][break]


Then he heard Henri dismissing the other boy and he sobered in an instant, moving swiftly and silently down the hall. No matter their relative ages and experience, if the King caught him listening at the door, his head would be in a noose. Feeling excruciatingly exposed in the corridor, he ducked into a room a few paces down and eased its door shut behind him.

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It was then that the second thing went wrong with his plan. There was perhaps a minute of silence, then an odd sound that it took him a few seconds to recognize as a dog snuffling at the base of the door. Merde, Chauvelin swore mentally. There was no way he was going to be able to hide from the animal. He was going to have to concoct a story, and concoct it fast.
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His mind racing, Paul watched the door handle begin to turn. [break]

[attr="class","YAMtext"] In different circumstances, it would have been comical. Though it didn't happen often, Chauvelin had been confronted by angry children before, some even younger than the one facing him now. Old as he might be, he was still a very strong man, and one perfectly capable of killing with his bare hands if need be. He was more than a match for a slight youth like Henri d'Artois.
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The problem was, again, the dog. From close at the boy King's side, it was giving him a look that made it plain it would defend its master. And while he was more than a match for the animal as well, it would slow him down long enough for the king to flee, no doubt summoning the Guard at the top of his lungs as he did so. Unfortunate as the situation was now, that would take it well past bad and into fiasco territory. No, better to lie his way out than try to fight his way clear.
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"Sp-spy, Sire?" Chauvelin stammered. Slipping into the persona of a flustered and frightened servant, he put up open, empty hands and retreated half a pace. "No no, sire, never! I was just sent to bring one of the paintings, the one with the fruit."
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He motioned vaguely in the direction of a small painting off to one side. Like practically everything else in the room, it was covered with a cloth to keep off the dust, but he remembered what had hung there quite well. After all this time, it was the only one he could call to mind, but it was a Caravaggio and his Neoclassical bent had always liked Caravaggio's crisp realism. It was also unremarkable-looking and totally non-political, so it was highly unlikely to have been stolen or destroyed.
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"Please, sire. I was told not to disturb you, and I heard someone with you, so I just went on ... " floundering meekly to a stop, he stared abjectly at the floor. He debated adding a slight tremble, but settled for wringing his hands instead.[break]

[attr="class","YAMtext"] Chauvelin stared at the painting for a long moment, profanity in three different languages running through his mind. But then, despite the gravity of the situation, he found himself fighting, and losing, the battle against a smile that tugged at the corners of his lips. It had been a long time since he'd been caught so completely wrong-footed, and that had been by the Pimpernel himself. Coming from a puppet king not yet even old enough to shave had an element of ironic farce that appealed to his inner fatalist.
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He supposed he could try bluffing it out, claiming to have been confused, or misdirected, or something of that sort. It was a gamble, but he'd rolled the dice going big before and always won, and he might well do so this time. But he suddenly realized, looking at the silhouette of the young man before him, haloed in the light from the hall, that he didn't really want to. The kid had come after him and confronted him alone save for a half-grown dog. The boy hadn't called for the guard or any other grown-ups, he'd chosen to handle it himself. Just as he was trying to handle being a King himself, which showed more steel than most grown men.
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Like a soap bubble, the rabbity servant disappeared, and Paul Chauvelin was suddenly standing in his place. The palace livery remained, but his posture, manner, expression, and even voice changed. "Your Majesty," he said with a perfect bow, "espionage can hardly be treason – it's my job." Then he took a very big chance. "Though you seem to be doing rather well at it, yourself."[break]

[attr="class","YAMtext"] The boy was afraid. He was putting up a good front, keeping his voice and breathing even, but Chauvelin could see it in the crossed arms and the tension across his slightly hunched shoulders. He could also see it in the dog, which had sensed and was mirroring his master's worry, both of them regarding him as a threat. And, to outward appearances, Paul was. While not a tall man, he had half-again Henri's height, and his stocky build gave him probably close to twice the youth's mass, most of it muscle and bone the boy was only just beginning to develop. He was also both a stranger and an invader.
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In truth, he had no desire or intention of harming either of them – unless, of course, it became necessary to survive – but they had no way of knowing that. Chauvelin felt the pressure of both pairs of eyes remaining fixed on him as the King crossed the handful of paces to the door. For his part, he kept still, hands folded loosely in front of him, only his own eyes and head moving as he followed their progress.
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Then the light from the hallway fell full on the boy's face, giving Chauvelin his first clear look at the King, and he became totally motionless. For an instant, he froze, not breathing, even his heart seeming to stop. Louis-Charles, he thought wildly. Then, with an act of sheer will, he wrenched himself back to reality and the moment passed. The door clicked shut and time resumed its steady pace as he drew in a slow lungful of air and let it out again. It was Henri V, not a lost little prince, returned from a long cold grave to accuse his betrayer.
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Not that the youth wasn't still dangerous, Chauvelin reminded himself as Henri spoke again, voice still remarkably steady under the circumstances. The old spymaster listened intently to what was said – and even more intently to what was not – carefully formulating his reply.
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"Accusation, sire?" Chauvelin said, raising an eyebrow in clearly-affected surprise. "My deepest apologies, it was meant as a compliment, I assure you."
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Then the smile that had been struggling like the sun behind clouds broke through, though he remained where he was, making no attempt to move toward the King. "I do take your take your meaning," he said, inclining his head slightly. "And I see no need to involve anyone else. I trust that neither of us means the other any harm?" [break]

[attr="class","YAMtext"] Chauvelin continued to keep still as the dog sniffed at his legs, even when a nose was stuck into the back of his knee and then moved around to poke at his crotch. He'd had a dog when he was younger and he knew the drill. He liked dogs and got along fine with them.
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On the other hand, he was bad with children. In fact, it was fair to say he was horrible with them. For the most part, they simply annoyed him. The crying of babies set his teeth on edge and they made smelly messes besides. Toddlers wandered around leaving sticky hand and footprints and breaking things. Then as they started to get older, they asked incessant questions up until the point they became teenagers and decided they knew everything, whereupon they charged about trying to remake the world into whatever halfassed image was stuck in their heads.
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It might have been different had he raised children of his own, but when the disaster the First Republic had become was thrashing around in its bloody death throes, the best thing he could do for his wife and infant daughter was to get them well clear. To get them well clear and keep them well clear of France, and of himself, as that was the same thing. He'd sent them to the other side of the world, to the newly-minted nation of America. Through friends of his foster father, Le Comte de Rochambeau, he'd tried to support them and remain in contact, but they'd vanished into that vast continent. There'd been other women since, but he'd never married, and none of them had ever given him children.
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In that moment, Paul decided to try to regard the boy King as simply a very short adult. Force-grown by circumstances, the young man was certainly more mature than many twice his age, and he had guts, as he demonstrated by stepping up to shake his 'visitor's' hand. With a grave smile, the old spymaster returned the gesture.
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"Thank you … Henri," he said, the name coming strangely to his tongue. Closer to, the resemblance to Louis was not as pronounced, but he'd almost rather continue with 'sire,' since there was less chance of slipping into the wrong name.
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"My name is Paul Chauvelin, though most simply call me Chauvelin. I am an agent in the service of France." In the theory of the royal l'etat, c'est moi*, it was an oblique way of saying he worked for the King. [break][break]

[attr="class","YAMtext"] The boy had a surprisingly firm grip, though his hand was soft and smooth, which wasn't unexpected. Chauvelin's own hands weren't the rough, callused ones of a laborer, but neither were they those of the clerk he often pretended to be. Certainly he wrote a great deal, and the marks of that were there on his fingers and palm, but there were also those of a swordsman. Though he was no duelist and it had been quite some time since he'd had to wield a blade in actual combat, he still kept in practice.
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Henri stepped back and Paul thought ruefully that it was getting harder and harder to see the boy as a commodity. The original plan – or so he told himself -- had been to slip in and grab the boy under cover of the eventual, inevitable revolutionary riots. Then the prize everyone would be looking for could be stashed away and eventually sold to the highest bidder. Now, though, the old spymaster could feel the sophistry crumbling beneath his feet, sending him sliding down into a sentimental old fool.
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Well, Chauvelin told himself, it wouldn't be the first carefully-laid scheme to go drastically awry. Doubtless it wouldn't be the last, either -- provided, of course, that he survived this one.
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"Si -- Henri," Paul said, correcting himself. "I serve France. I've seen her ruled by three -- or four, depending how you count -- kings, two assemblies, and an emperor. The faces change, but she remains." He was, again, oblique. He acted on his own best judgement, operating autonomously regardless of what his ostensible masters might think. Still, it was risky even intimating that to this latest of those kings -- that was if the boy grasped the implication, which Paul was pretty sure he would. He was almost unnervingly shrewd for his age.
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"As to the other, I could ask the same of you, and perhaps with more reason." Chauvelin turned up one hand in a sort of shrug. "Mine is not the head they chose to crown." [break][break]

[attr="class","YAMtext"] Chauvelin knew Henri understood what he hadn't said aloud when he saw the disquiet cloud the young man's features for a moment. It was hard on the kid, he knew. He was a child, alone and, whether he realized it consciously or not, desperately wanted someone to rely on. And he'd just effectively been put on notice that he couldn't trust the old spymaster to do as he was told. Perhaps Paul should have waited, should have cozened the boy on awhile longer. It was cold and hard to be so honest with him, but he was a cold, hard man, and Henri had enough people to tell him pretty little lies.
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Recovering his composure, the boy King looked up and met his gaze, the blue eyes seeming to hold equal parts sadness and wry amusement. The question the young man asked was rhetorical -- he knew that the old spymaster knew the answer full well. Still, it was good to know that Henri knew it, too. "It would be best," Chauvelin murmured, "if you didn't ask anyone else that question, yes?" It was just as rhetorical. The boy was clearly aware of the precariousness of his position.
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Which wasn't to say the old spymaster didn't have questions. What would the boy King do if he weren't under the collective thumb of the Chouannerie? Clearly he wanted to reign in more than name only, but the same could be said for many a tyrant. Smarts weren't enough, either -- the same could also be also be said for many a tyrant, and more than a few utter incompetents. How much did the boy actually know about statecraft? About economics? About law? About the thousand other things that bad kings, and even the merely adequate ones, never truly grasped? Over almost the past half-century, France had developed a taste for armed rebellion -- it was not a country for beginners.
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"Locke tells us," Paul mused thoughtfully aloud, "the great question about power is who should have it." His eyes never left Henri's, though he canted his head inquiringly. [break][break]