The Princess of Cleves #16

It was a brilliant plan, but she had to tell the Marechal, or he would be upset. The Chevalier was at first indifferent to the Marechal's suffering and anguish, until Rosalind mentioned that the he would probably cause all manner of trouble if his mistress suddenly changed her mind and pledged her love to another man. At this point, the Chevalier agreed. She and the Marechal were still communicating with letters, and she hoped he received this one quickly. In the hallway, they stole glances at one another. Once, she dropped a handkerchief which the Marechal nonchalantly retrieved. This month, there was little for her to do except mourn.

She and the Chevalier met at night, drafting letters to the Duke. First, she tried to write down what she remembered from the previous letters. Then, they sought to craft one which would pull at the Duke's heart strings, but not raise suspicion. In the end, they decided against outward declarations of love, and wrote something more reserved and tender.

My Dearest Duke,

For so long, I have been confused and frightened. The emotions I have for you terrified me. I tried everything in my power to quash them. I treated you with cold indifference as I lied to myself. I hid from you, but it only made me think of your absence. Whether I saw you, or avoided you, it was you that consumed my heart and mind. It was awful, to hide myself from the court, my husband, but most of all from you.

Now that the Prince has died, I feel hollow. All the times I wished him gone, it was as though God had answered my prayers to punish me. My eyes are sore from weeping, my head aches. And still, you haunt my mind. It is torture to see you as guilt stabs me to the quick, and to be apart from you is a never ending Hell.

I don't know what to do, or even why I'm writing this letter. I do not know whether I shall send it to you, or toss it to the hearth like so many others. All I can say is that you are in my thoughts. Please forgive my harsh treatment of you the last time we met. I left the Marechal's colors for you in hopes that you would forget about me, and find love with another. If you have, then simply discard this letter, and now and then, if it's not too hard, think fondly of me.

Rosalind

To complete the effect, they flicked a few drops of water on the page for tears. The Chevalier suggested they perfume it, but Rosalind thought it too coquettish, then thought better of this sentiment and drowned it in rose. Now they would just have to get the message to the Duke without his favorite, Lignerol, getting wind of it. The Marechal offered to help them. While the Duke was playing tennis one day, the Marechal slipped the missive into his pocket.

The Chevalier skulked around to see how the Duke would react to the letter. At first, when he saw the seal, his face blanched. His eyes darted around the room, then he hurried off to a private corner. The Chevalier could see his lips move as he read the letter, and soon tears had sprung to his eyes. Some were probably due to the cologne. After he dried his eyes, the Duke fled the court. That night, there were rumors that the Duke had broken off his relationship with his favorite. It was more than the Chevalier could have hoped for.

He and Rosalind anxiously waited for the Duke's reply. They expected to receive it immediately, but had to wait two restless days. It was necessary the pair avoid one another entirely. Their nervousness was painted on their skin, and if they were seen together, it would be known that they were playing some game. If the Duke caught wind of this, he would easily piece together that he was somehow involved, that there was be a retribution for the Prince's death.

Finally, Rosalind received a reply. She did not run to inform the Chevalier of this, lest the Duke be watching, but instead made a great show of franticly opening the letter, and weeping at its contents. It was in fact a very touching letter, and for a moment, she felt a touch of the emotions she had described in such florid terms.

My Dear Rosalind

You are my entire world, and I give all of myself to you. I am sorry to write such things, I know you still mourn for the Prince, and that you loved him as a friend. It is vulgar, this declaration of love, but my passion for you has rendered me a base creature. I need your tender hand to guide me in the rightness of love.

I should not confess these things to you, but I suspect you have heard rumors of them, the great Duke, conquering the court's finest ladies. At first when I saw you, that's all you were to me, a beautiful and virtuous woman with whom I would have my way.

But you resisted, and it made me want you more. And still, you turned me away, and I fell in love with you. It was stupid, I know, that I should fixate on the one thing which I could not have.

When I fell from that horse and woke to your horror stricken face, I was so happy. It was the first time you showed me you were not indifferent to my presence. When you saw me steal your portrait, but remained silent, it was the first time I thought you might love me. I was not sure, perhaps you did not wish to cause a scene. Now I see how foolish such doubts were.

I must see you. Please, send a note and tell me when we might meet. Be careful my love, I see the Chevalier skulking around you, and the Marechal watches you like a hungry cat.

Your Faithful Duke

Slipping the note in her bodice, she walked to her chambers, wiggling her fingers at the ground. It was the signal for the Chevalier to come and see her. A wide grin split his face when he read the letter, until he read the last passage.

"Do you think he suspects anything?" the Chevalier asked.

"No, the letter seems sincere."

The Chevalier could see within her features the vestiges of a great passion as she spoke of the Duke's letter. "Do you still want to do this?" If she didn't, he would lose his means of perfect revenge. Yet, in the time they had spent together, his affection for her had changed. He did not love her as he did when he first saw her, nor did he hold her close to the heart like her husband. She was a part of their time together, she had brought together the Prince and Chevalier. It felt wrong to cause her distress, she was the thing that was left of their love.

"I do. Sometimes, I think I still love him, but I understand, it's the glitter of the court that I love. It was my naivety, not my heart, that was seduced by him." Tears fell from her eyes. "The Prince sought to find happiness in our marriage, and he could not. He would have found it with you. The Duke took that away with some petty gallant's trick."

They put their heads together, and decided they would reply that night, setting up a meeting for the next evening. Then they practiced what she would say, how she would act. Tears flowed freely as their real emotions mixed with the ones they simulated. The gray light of dawn was showing by the time they finished. Their plan would have to be put off for another night. The Chevalier made sure to show himself at court, while Rosalind was indisposed. For the first time since her husband's death, she slept deeply. It would seem that purging her tears with the Chevalier had given her some respite.

* * * *

The Duke was having difficulty dressing for his meeting with Rosalind. Without Lignerol there, he wasn't even sure of what he owned, or where all his clothes were. His manservants were at a loss, looking for jewelry he'd borrowed and coats he'd worn through. It was a good thing he started dressing early, or he would have been late. His hair was disheveled, and he couldn't find his watch, but no matter, he wouldn't keep his love waiting.

He went to the bower where he was to meet her, and his heart stopped, seeing it empty. Then she moved, and he realized the gray dress she wore blended in perfectly with the shadows. A long veil concealed her face, and when she saw him, she raised it to reveal her tear stained face.

Without a word, he threw himself at her feet and began weeping in her lap. His shoulders shook as her delicate fingers traced through his hair and over his shoulders. Beneath him, he felt her tremble, and within him, his stomach formed a knot of dread. He knew something was wrong, but he refused to believe that fate would keep them apart. Clutching the case in his pocket, he gathered his strength to ask her the question burning in his mind.

"Rosalind, will you marry me," he asked, pushing the box onto her lap and opening it to reveal a matched pearl necklace.

"I...I can't." Her voice was flat and hollow.

The box fell to the ground with a clatter as his fingers went numb. "What?"

"I can't marry you. Before the Prince died, he made me swear not to marry you."

The Duke stopped breathing. His chest was so tight, that when he forced himself to breath, it was painful. "I'm sorry, what did you say?"

She took his hands. "I said I cannot marry you. I'm sorry, but I promised the Prince."

"You promised not to remarry," he said slowly.

"No...I promised not to marry you."

The Duke's body went limp. He slid to the ground, his hands wrapped loosely around her ankles. His cheek rested on her red velvet slippers, tears streaming down his face. There was nothing, nothing left for him. His fingers clenched around the hilt of his dagger, and he rolled onto his back, holding it both hands. Rosalind cried out and fell upon him, knocking the his hand away.

He pushed her, sobbing, and they fought for the knife. The Duke became tangled in her skirts. When she flung the blade far away, he clasped her to him and kissed her. Her tears were like honey to him. Her faith to her dead husband couldn't be greater than her love for him. She yielded to his lips, while his hands she fended off. Finally, he lay beside her and curled into a ball.

Rosalind sat up, her chest heaving, her hair wild, leaves festooning her dress. "I must go," she said.

When she reached for the Duke's waist, he thought she had changed her mind, and he sought to touch her face. She ducked her head away from his fingers, and nimbly took his sword. He watched her with a look of amazement as she stooped and retrieved his dagger from beneath a bush.

"I do not trust these with you."

As she walked away, the Duke's eyes blurred with tears. "Rosalind," he whispered. He had more blades, he was sure there were poisonous draughts to be found in Paris. It wasn't what she wanted though. She must still love him.

The Duke sprang to his feet after her. Catching her shoulder, he spun her around. There were tears all down her cheeks, and her pretty mouth quivered.

"Don't cry, if you wish me to live that is enough for me, even if we can't be together."

He wrapped his arms around her, and he gave a great sigh of contentment.

"Please, tell me, where will you go?" he asked, holding her tight to him.

"To a nunnery."

"What? Is this your husband's doing? Was he so jealous that his dying wish was for the flower of the French court to rot among relics and dottering old women?" He felt her shake her head against his chest. "This is your desire?" She nodded. "What a wretched wish."

She pushed him away. "What is wretched about mortifying myself in front of God, expiating my sins?" she asked angrily.

The Duke took hands. "God made you beautiful, and charming. What sins could you have committed Rosalind?"

"The death of my husband, with my lover as my accomplice. Your trick to conceal your identity worked Monsieur, for he thought the Chevalier climbed into my garden. He thought his wife and closest confidante betrayed him, and his jealousy killed him."

Her words were like ice in his heart, and the hatred that flashed in her eyes, subsuming her love, was real. The Duke stumbled to his knees, clutching her skirt. "I killed him Rosalind, not you. Please, do not shut yourself away from this world for my sin." He thought the worst thing in the world was her rejection, but it was knowing he had condemned her to eternal misery.

"It is our sin. I wanted to tell you, before you first attacked yourself, and then me, that you should do the same. This earth shall be a Hell to us, but we will find our reward in Heaven."

"No, Rosalind, no, I will not become a monk. God wants us to be happy."

Shaking her head, she withdrew, her face closing. His heart sank as she pressed his sword and dagger to him, as if she no longer cared for his immortal soul. "No, God has given me this sorrow to lead me to Him. Goodbye, Duke."

As she curtseyed, she held her hand out for the Duke to kiss. That was the last time he saw her. Soon after their meeting, she disappeared. Until she did, he lived in mortal terror lest he see her and do something rash. He had to leave the court, he needed Lignerol, but he didn't know where his favorite had gone. While they may have quarreled, the Duke still sent him away well provisioned. There was nothing else to do but leave, and try to find him.

He ordered his servants to pack for a long journey, and he bought a lovely carriage with fine leather equipages. The horses he purchased were ones Lignerol had shown him, in hopes that he would love them as Lignerol loved them. Instead, the Duke declared them expensive. But money was useless to the Duke: he needed Lignerol.

* * * *

The Marechal was frowning at his two co-conspirators. Rosalind was disheveled, and the Chevalier's cheeks were colored with excitement.

"So, how did the Duke take the news?" the Marechal asked.

Instead of replying, she lowered her head and blushed. From the vicious grin that lit the Chevalier's face, the Marechal knew it had been ugly. "Well, don't keep me waiting. You two are being cruel."

"No, not I, it's only Rosalind who is cruel. The Duke would have plunged a dagger into his heart were it not for her." The Chevalier began to laugh. "She waited for him to fall to his knees and propose. And then..."

The Marechal stepped closer to Rosalind as the Chevalier began to cackle. The man appeared to be mad with grief, and it unnerved him. He collected his love to his side while the Chevalier gasped.

"I am sorry. It was just brilliant, she told him the Prince made her promise not marry him." Tears glittered in his eyes. "Mind you, he didn't make her promise not to remarry, only that she would not marry the Duke. He was undone. That was when he flopped back and..." The Chevalier took out his dagger, and with his tongue lolling from his mouth, held it before him as though he were about to plunge it into his breast.

"And Rosalind leapt upon him, flinging away his blade," the Chevalier said, waving his knife around before sheathing it. "The Duke importuned her with kisses, and she held him at arm's length."

"Will you calm yourself?"

The Chevalier had been spinning, his mouth stretched wide, about to begin again. At these words, he stopped, embarrassed. "I'm sorry. The Duke chased after her, and she told him, stricken with guilt at her husband's death, she was going to be a nun."

The Marechal let out a loud guffaw at this. They all began laughing then, their faces flushing red. They laughed so hard, they had to sit on the floor, and still, it would not cease. It wasn't until their ribs hurt, their faces were wet with tears, and their mouths dry, that they stopped. Then, they could barely move. The Marechal stood up first. He helped the Chevalier and Rosalind to the couch.

There was not much space, and they all lay together. The Chevalier reached out to take the Rosalind's hand. The Marechal did not object. Secretly, he had always been jealous of the Prince's arrangement with the Chevalier. He too wanted to see her possessed by another man. Looking at the Chevalier, he saw sorrow etched on every feature. Her eyes were closed. With her other hand, she reached out to run her fingers through the Marechal's hair. He felt her grip tighten, and he melted against her. When the Chevalier began to lift up her skirts, the Marechal started unlacing her gown.

Rosalind shivered.

Leaning close to her, the Chevalier whispered, "Do you want me to stop?"

Behind her, the Marechal shook his head. "No."

"I didn't ask you."

In reply, the Princess pressed her lips to the Chevalier and her buttocks to the Marechal. Acting in concert the men stripped her in seconds. She whimpered, and she started pulling off the Chevalier's clothes. They were naked now, their limbs twined around one another. The Chevalier took her as the Marechal held her.

To watch his love in another man's arms, to hear her pant as he gave her pleasure, it was the ultimate humiliation. He understood the pleasure the Prince had taken in being cuckolded. Rubbing her asshole, he made her orgasm, and the Chevalier came as well. The Marechal slipped into her from behind, and she started moaning. His sex slick with the Chevalier's seed, he pressed the tip of his phallus against her anus.

"Yes," she moaned.

The Marechal slowly forced himself inside her, one hand clutching her breast, the other holding her hips. Her body twitched on him, and he could feel the Chevalier's fingers moving inside her. Finally, he pressed his full length into her anus, gently moving in and out. Meeting the Chevalier's eyes, he paused. Rosalind cried out as the Chevalier found his vigor renewed and took her again.

The Marechal could feel her silken skin pressed against his chest, and the Chevalier's coarse hands moving over her. She threw her head back, a harsh guttural sound escaping her throat. Her legs twitched as her body convulsed. The men had to hold her as she bucked, her powerful orgasm making them both come.

They lay caressing Rosalind after. It was well into the second sleep before the little party dispersed. She would flee with the Marechal, and they would be wed in secret. To the Chevalier they extended an open invitation to visit.

The Marechal barely slept the next few days, he was so busy with the preparations for their trip. At night, he fantasized of being left bound, gagged, and naked on the floor while the Chevalier made love to Rosalind. In his day dreams, they would beat him, step on him, and laugh at him. Then, he would have his turn. He would tie them so they were on all fours, and he would use their orifices as he pleased. With a pretty little quirt, he would beat them pink and raw.

When the time finally came for them to escape, as soon as the carriage door shut behind Rosalind, he fell upon her. She squealed with delight, and he found her in a state ready to meet him. They made love in the carriage, and after that, the Marechal fell asleep in her arms. Deep cloaks hid their faces at their evening stops. It was a fortnight's journey, but it was worth it. Two days after their arrival, they were wed.

* * * *

Lignerol had settled at an inn a few days away from Paris. He'd been drowning his sorrows in his cups and gambling. After only a week, he was already down half the purse the Duke had given him. It was late, and he was in his normal position, slumped over in his seat with his head on the table. Half asleep, he was dreaming of the Duke.

He heard his lover's voice, and the rhythm of the steps approaching him were so familiar. "No..." he moaned. "It's just a dream."

There was a hand on his shoulder.

"Just leave me." Looking up, he saw the bottle in front of him was empty. "Bring more wine first."

"I think you've had enough wine, Lignerol."

Opening his eyes wider, he found the Duke was sitting in front of him. "What the fuck do you want?" he slurred.

The Duke stared at the table.

"She didn't want you, did she? She just wanted to rip out your heart, her, the Chevalier, and the Marechal. You're a fool."

"What?"

Lignerol turned and looked him in the eyes. "You are a fool, my master. The Chevalier loved the Prince, and the Prince returned his love."