Diamond and Crystal

Oscar received the messenger’s summons at the break of dawn. As soon as her morning duties allowed, she made her way to the Von Fersen estate, just as Hans had requested. She went alone, without André, intrigued by the unusually urgent tone of the missive.

The last time they had met, he had confided in her his determination to find a wife. The Queen had been devastated at first, but in recent days she seemed to show a renewed spirit. Did that have something to do with Hans? Was that the reason for the urgent summons?

“I wish to propose something that I am certain will be of interest to you. Come to my home this afternoon.”

After two discreet knocks, the housekeeper received her personally and led her with deference to the main drawing room, where Hans awaited her with a glass of cognac in hand.

—You have finally arrived! —he exclaimed with a radiant smile.

Oscar returned the gesture with subtle courtesy and accepted the handshake he offered, though internally, confusion was taking hold of her. What could motivate such a meeting?

They exchanged trivialities with a certain shyness, as if testing the waters, breaking the ice before addressing the true matter at hand. After briefly commenting on the latest news of the country, Hans invited her to sit and poured her a generous measure of his drink. She watched him with growing strangeness. There was something unusual about his cheerfulness that afternoon. Had he drunk to excess? She preferred not to inquire.

—And so? Are you going to tell me why you sent for me? The messenger insisted on the urgency of the matter.

A half-smile appeared on Hans’s lips, tinged with that bitterness she had learned to recognize over the years. It was the expression he wore whenever he had to face something he disliked but considered inevitable.

—Oscar, nothing escapes you... —he sighed, shaking his head with resignation—. Well, the time has come.

He drained the contents of his glass in one gulp, as if seeking courage in the alcohol, and placed it empty upon the table.

—I won’t deny that this topic is difficult for me to approach, but I believe I must finally raise it.

Oscar arched an eyebrow, not understanding where this preamble was leading.

—Oscar... what does marriage mean to you?

For a few moments, she remained silent.

—Why the question? —she finally replied, unable to prevent a faint blush from coloring her cheeks.

Where was he intending to go with this conversation? Hans exhaled a deep sigh.

—Because I have considered many excellent women on my list of potential candidates for a wife —he said at last—, but in none do I find what I need.

—And what is it that you need? —the blonde questioned, scrutinizing her companion’s face, whose features remained impassive, shrouded in a taciturn and melancholy expression.

—To satisfy my father, I need a woman of high birth and good appearance, but to satisfy myself... I need someone who does not wish to be constantly by my side, someone who values their independence enough to respect mine. I want to maintain a marriage in form, but not in substance; none of those women would understand what I feel for Marie Antoinette, and none would consent to sharing me. That is why I need someone aware of my intentions, someone who appreciates what I can offer in exchange for that loyalty.

She crossed her arms over her chest, trying to hide the indignation that was beginning to invade her. So, he intended to continue his romance with Marie Antoinette while pleasing his father. He was looking for a candidate willing to satisfy those pretensions, compromising her name and lineage, perhaps her body, but never her heart.

—And what you desire is for me to suggest someone capable of fulfilling that role?

—More than that, Oscar —he said, fixing his penetrating blue eyes upon her—. I would wish it to be you. I trust no one else for this.

She blinked repeatedly, unable to process what she had just heard. She could not laugh, but her reaction of stunned incredulity provoked a nervous laugh in him.

—Why do you look at me like that? —he asked, with a hint of amusement that she found deeply offensive.

—I do not find it appropriate for you to make those kinds of jokes —she snapped, on the verge of exasperation.

—It is not a joke, Oscar. I am telling you this in complete seriousness. I have analyzed it from every possible angle, and I believe it would be beneficial for both of us.

She felt the blood rush to her face in waves. Her fists clenched so tightly that her nails left marks in her palms through her gloves. A burning rage, mixed with a disappointment so deep it almost suffocated her, flooded her chest.

—Beneficial? That I should consent to serve as a cover for your romance with the Queen? That I should become an accomplice to royal adultery—no longer just as Marie Antoinette’s guardian, but as the wife of a man who will be perpetually unfaithful to me?

Tears began to betray her already fragile composure, spilling copiously from her blue eyes.

—What kind of woman do you think I am? How could you even think I would accept such a thing?

Hans froze. He had not anticipated this reaction from his friend. In his mind, the proposal was reasonable. He would join the Countess of Jarjayes in a marriage of convenience, like so many others among the nobility. She, by adopting his surname, would have access to powerful networks of influence throughout Europe that would further boost her military career. Furthermore, she could have whatever lovers she desired; he would not prevent it. She would enjoy the freedom she so craved, while he would have a wife who satisfied paternal demands and whose closeness to Marie Antoinette would silence the rumors that forced them to stay apart.

—It was not my intention to offend you. Please, forgive me —he said, clearing his throat—. Being permissive regarding the development of conjugal life is a common condition in many noble marriages. I thought you would understand.

Oscar’s knuckles turned white from the pressure of her clenched fists. A wave of unnameable emotions struggled to escape her lips, wet with the tears that no longer fit on her face and fell one by one onto the drawing room floor. There were so many things she wished to express, but how to articulate them? If she had ever harbored the faint hope of having the burning passion she felt reciprocated, it had just shattered against the reality she had always known, but which now exploded in her face with devastating force.

—No, I would never understand. My parents did not set such an example for me, and I would rather die than tolerate something of the sort.

She stood up with her dignity wounded but intact and headed toward the door with quick steps. In Axel’s eyes, the deepest regret was reflected; he realized too late the insensitivity of his words.

—I shall pretend that this entire absurdity was merely an effect of the alcohol —she declared firmly before crossing the threshold.

He followed her, catching up to her in the corridor.

—Oscar, I did not think it would cause this reaction, please forgive me, I see now that I should not have...

—No, you should not have —she interrupted him, turning to face him—. Of course you should not have—or rather, you must not. No woman of character should have to resign herself to living in the shadow of another woman, being a mere substitute for someone who wants her only so he won’t have to face his father’s disapproval. No one is worth so little that you should treat them so.

The words fell raw and painful, like a leaden anvil upon his conscience. He nodded, ashamed before the naked truth he was hearing. He felt abruptly shocked by his own selfishness, by the cowardice that had led him to propose such a farce.

—I held you in higher regard —she murmured with regret in her voice, as she wiped her tears with the back of her hand—. I thought you were... different.

Hans did not know what to answer. He merely lowered his gaze before those sapphires that observed him, full of vivid and stark reproach. He watched her cross the threshold and did not dare to follow. Undoubtedly, he had much to reflect upon.

Days later, their paths crossed in the opulent corridors of Versailles. She looked at him with pain, as if the offense remained fresh in her memory, a wound that refused to heal. He called her aside, and Oscar agreed, maintaining a prudent distance between them.

—I believe I can never apologize enough for having been so insensitive toward you —he began, while his eyes searched hers, trying to decipher her heart—. But I thank you for confronting me. You woke me up to the reality of what I was doing.

She looked at him with a pained expression but remained silent.

—I believe you taught me a hard but necessary lesson. I understood that my tragedy is mine alone to bear, that my pain is exclusively mine. I have no right to drag anyone else down, much less an innocent person who would marry me expecting something I cannot give.

“Expecting something I cannot give.”

Oscar nodded slowly, trying once more to hide the feelings that permeated her heart. Sadness, empathy, resignation. A mixture of everything. A bit of nothing. The emptiness of knowing that, as long as he clung to the love that consumed him, no other woman could occupy the place that only Antoinette held in his heart. She wondered if she would be able to apply to herself the lesson she had taught Von Fersen: that her tragedy was hers alone to bear, that her pain was exclusively hers, that she had no right to drag anyone else down—that she, too, could not marry someone who expected from her something she could never give, because her heart, like Hans’s, already had a master, though unlike his, this master would never claim it.

Oscar received the messenger’s summons at the break of dawn. As soon as her morning duties allowed, she made her way to the Von Fersen estate, just as Hans had requested. She went alone, without André, intrigued by the unusually urgent tone of the missive.

The last time they had met, he had confided in her his determination to find a wife. The Queen had been devastated at first, but in recent days she seemed to show a renewed spirit. Did that have something to do with Hans? Was that the reason for the urgent summons?

“I wish to propose something that I am certain will be of interest to you. Come to my home this afternoon.”

After two discreet knocks, the housekeeper received her personally and led her with deference to the main drawing room, where Hans awaited her with a glass of cognac in hand.

—You have finally arrived! —he exclaimed with a radiant smile.

Oscar returned the gesture with subtle courtesy and accepted the handshake he offered, though internally, confusion was taking hold of her. What could motivate such a meeting?

They exchanged trivialities with a certain shyness, as if testing the waters, breaking the ice before addressing the true matter at hand. After briefly commenting on the latest news of the country, Hans invited her to sit and poured her a generous measure of his drink. She watched him with growing strangeness. There was something unusual about his cheerfulness that afternoon. Had he drunk to excess? She preferred not to inquire.

—And so? Are you going to tell me why you sent for me? The messenger insisted on the urgency of the matter.

A half-smile appeared on Hans’s lips, tinged with that bitterness she had learned to recognize over the years. It was the expression he wore whenever he had to face something he disliked but considered inevitable.

—Oscar, nothing escapes you... —he sighed, shaking his head with resignation—. Well, the time has come.

He drained the contents of his glass in one gulp, as if seeking courage in the alcohol, and placed it empty upon the table.

—I won’t deny that this topic is difficult for me to approach, but I believe I must finally raise it.

Oscar arched an eyebrow, not understanding where this preamble was leading.

—Oscar... what does marriage mean to you?

For a few moments, she remained silent.

—Why the question? —she finally replied, unable to prevent a faint blush from coloring her cheeks.

Where was he intending to go with this conversation? Hans exhaled a deep sigh.

—Because I have considered many excellent women on my list of potential candidates for a wife —he said at last—, but in none do I find what I need.

—And what is it that you need? —the blonde questioned, scrutinizing her companion’s face, whose features remained impassive, shrouded in a taciturn and melancholy expression.

—To satisfy my father, I need a woman of high birth and good appearance, but to satisfy myself... I need someone who does not wish to be constantly by my side, someone who values their independence enough to respect mine. I want to maintain a marriage in form, but not in substance; none of those women would understand what I feel for Marie Antoinette, and none would consent to sharing me. That is why I need someone aware of my intentions, someone who appreciates what I can offer in exchange for that loyalty.

She crossed her arms over her chest, trying to hide the indignation that was beginning to invade her. So, he intended to continue his romance with Marie Antoinette while pleasing his father. He was looking for a candidate willing to satisfy those pretensions, compromising her name and lineage, perhaps her body, but never her heart.

—And what you desire is for me to suggest someone capable of fulfilling that role?

—More than that, Oscar —he said, fixing his penetrating blue eyes upon her—. I would wish it to be you. I trust no one else for this.

She blinked repeatedly, unable to process what she had just heard. She could not laugh, but her reaction of stunned incredulity provoked a nervous laugh in him.

—Why do you look at me like that? —he asked, with a hint of amusement that she found deeply offensive.

—I do not find it appropriate for you to make those kinds of jokes —she snapped, on the verge of exasperation.

—It is not a joke, Oscar. I am telling you this in complete seriousness. I have analyzed it from every possible angle, and I believe it would be beneficial for both of us.

She felt the blood rush to her face in waves. Her fists clenched so tightly that her nails left marks in her palms through her gloves. A burning rage, mixed with a disappointment so deep it almost suffocated her, flooded her chest.

—Beneficial? That I should consent to serve as a cover for your romance with the Queen? That I should become an accomplice to royal adultery—no longer just as Marie Antoinette’s guardian, but as the wife of a man who will be perpetually unfaithful to me?

Tears began to betray her already fragile composure, spilling copiously from her blue eyes.

—What kind of woman do you think I am? How could you even think I would accept such a thing?

Hans froze. He had not anticipated this reaction from his friend. In his mind, the proposal was reasonable. He would join the Countess of Jarjayes in a marriage of convenience, like so many others among the nobility. She, by adopting his surname, would have access to powerful networks of influence throughout Europe that would further boost her military career. Furthermore, she could have whatever lovers she desired; he would not prevent it. She would enjoy the freedom she so craved, while he would have a wife who satisfied paternal demands and whose closeness to Marie Antoinette would silence the rumors that forced them to stay apart.

—It was not my intention to offend you. Please, forgive me —he said, clearing his throat—. Being permissive regarding the development of conjugal life is a common condition in many noble marriages. I thought you would understand.

Oscar’s knuckles turned white from the pressure of her clenched fists. A wave of unnameable emotions struggled to escape her lips, wet with the tears that no longer fit on her face and fell one by one onto the drawing room floor. There were so many things she wished to express, but how to articulate them? If she had ever harbored the faint hope of having the burning passion she felt reciprocated, it had just shattered against the reality she had always known, but which now exploded in her face with devastating force.

—No, I would never understand. My parents did not set such an example for me, and I would rather die than tolerate something of the sort.

She stood up with her dignity wounded but intact and headed toward the door with quick steps. In Axel’s eyes, the deepest regret was reflected; he realized too late the insensitivity of his words.

—I shall pretend that this entire absurdity was merely an effect of the alcohol —she declared firmly before crossing the threshold.

He followed her, catching up to her in the corridor.

—Oscar, I did not think it would cause this reaction, please forgive me, I see now that I should not have...

—No, you should not have —she interrupted him, turning to face him—. Of course you should not have—or rather, you must not. No woman of character should have to resign herself to living in the shadow of another woman, being a mere substitute for someone who wants her only so he won’t have to face his father’s disapproval. No one is worth so little that you should treat them so.

The words fell raw and painful, like a leaden anvil upon his conscience. He nodded, ashamed before the naked truth he was hearing. He felt abruptly shocked by his own selfishness, by the cowardice that had led him to propose such a farce.

—I held you in higher regard —she murmured with regret in her voice, as she wiped her tears with the back of her hand—. I thought you were... different.

Hans did not know what to answer. He merely lowered his gaze before those sapphires that observed him, full of vivid and stark reproach. He watched her cross the threshold and did not dare to follow. Undoubtedly, he had much to reflect upon.

Days later, their paths crossed in the opulent corridors of Versailles. She looked at him with pain, as if the offense remained fresh in her memory, a wound that refused to heal. He called her aside, and Oscar agreed, maintaining a prudent distance between them.

—I believe I can never apologize enough for having been so insensitive toward you —he began, while his eyes searched hers, trying to decipher her heart—. But I thank you for confronting me. You woke me up to the reality of what I was doing.

She looked at him with a pained expression but remained silent.

—I believe you taught me a hard but necessary lesson. I understood that my tragedy is mine alone to bear, that my pain is exclusively mine. I have no right to drag anyone else down, much less an innocent person who would marry me expecting something I cannot give.

“Expecting something I cannot give.”

Oscar nodded slowly, trying once more to hide the feelings that permeated her heart. Sadness, empathy, resignation. A mixture of everything. A bit of nothing. The emptiness of knowing that, as long as he clung to the love that consumed him, no other woman could occupy the place that only Antoinette held in his heart. She wondered if she would be able to apply to herself the lesson she had taught Von Fersen: that her tragedy was hers alone to bear, that her pain was exclusively hers, that she had no right to drag anyone else down—that she, too, could not marry someone who expected from her something she could never give, because her heart, like Hans’s, already had a master, though unlike his, this master would never claim it.

The water quickly reached a boil. With a practiced motion, André removed the pot from the stove and, with the utmost care, carried it to the upper floor, where Oscar was preparing for her bath. She preferred the water lukewarm, so a couple of additional buckets would be enough to finish the task.

As he poured the last bucket into the tub, he stood for a moment, pensively looking at Oscar’s belongings in the space that served as her bathroom. An involuntary smile touched his lips. What an abyss lay between the life of a noble and that of a commoner! Unlike the humble room he occupied, furnished with only the barest essentials, Oscar’s room held all manner of soaps, colognes, ribbons, aromatic essences to perfume the air, and a large, wide-toothed comb she liked to use when she chose only to wash her hair. He knew this because his grandmother often assisted her with such tasks—and occasionally, so did he. He enjoyed it when she asked; it gave him the chance to hold the soft blonde strands he so admired, one of the many things he loved about his childhood friend.

—Is it ready? —he heard Oscar’s soft voice from the threshold.

—Yes, forgive me, —he replied, offering a smile—. Do you need anything else?

—I will be about an hour, —she said, taking a towel from the rack by the door—. After that, could you bring me a bottle of wine and two glasses, please? I would like you to keep me company for a while.

He nodded, unable to hide his joy.

—Of course. I will be here in an hour. Enjoy your bath, —he remarked before closing the door behind him.

He returned to his chores, unable to stop his heart from clenching painfully. How he wished he could have stayed with her! Every time it was his turn to prepare her bath, he daydreamed, and in the secret of his enamored mind, he allowed himself to do everything that was forbidden in reality. In the intimacy of his heart, and only there, he could undress her with tenderness, delicately glide the sponge over her silken skin, comb through her hair with his fingers, and lead her to paradise in a symphony of love that only he would know how to compose...

He quickly realized he had once again gone too far with his fantasies and forced himself to push those thoughts away.

He sighed, resigned. No matter how much he tried to restrain himself, he couldn’t help but wonder what it would feel like to join her in that tub. And the worst part of it was that every day it became harder to hide the feelings that accompanied—or provoked—those mental images which, not so long ago, did not usually visit his mind.

He knew it was impossible. He had always known. That was why, before that strange incident where the Queen almost lost her life because of that runaway horse, he had never dared to consider Oscar anything other than a good friend. That and, well, his mistress. She was. The best of them all. It was for that reason that, in that distant moment when the King had already passed sentence upon his head, she had interceded for him, offering herself up without stopping to consider even her own wounds.

The incident had led him to make an internal promise to one day return the favor, but beyond that, it had also unleashed feelings that did not exist before. Or if they did, he had not recognized them until that moment. What he was certain of was that something had radically changed in his heart since that afternoon. Yet he was also painfully aware that in her heart, the same emotions had surfaced at the same time and place—but not toward him.

Fersen. Hans Axel von Fersen.

The Swedish nobleman, attractive and seductive like no other, had captivated not only the heart of the Queen of France but that of his lifelong friend, his beloved Amazon, whom he held so close that he could embrace her whenever he wished, yet who felt as distant as the stars in the firmament. They were not the only ones who had succumbed to his charms, naturally. Half the French court prostrated themselves at the feet of the Nordic diplomat, but he had eyes and a heart only for the wife of Louis XVI.

And that, in part, reassured him, but it also hurt. It reassured him because he knew Oscar would not marry him, but it hurt because that unrequited love was damaging her. It saddened her, consuming her in a quiet, discreet way, in a silence she did not dare share with anyone, not even him.

But he perceived it. He knew her too well to overlook her sighs, her melancholy gaze, her contemplative expression. He knew her too well not to notice the subtle change in her voice when she spoke of him—a tone that became almost imperceptibly higher, her gestures more delicate, her movements softer. As if, unconsciously, she allowed the sweet femininity that was so inherently hers, and which she had worked so many years to hide, to surface.

How he wished those unique gestures were for him! But no. They were not. They never would be. Because even if, by some miracle of Providence, she were to one day wake from the spell the young Viking had involuntarily cast upon her, any attempt to make her notice her servant would undoubtedly be fruitless. And even if that hypothetical, long-awaited miracle were to occur and she eventually returned the ardent love he felt for her, how could they live it? Marriages between nobles and commoners were practically an impossibility. Would the King give his consent for a Countess to unite in legitimate marriage with her valet? Would the Count de Jarjayes consent to a union where his heiress took the surname of a man of the people? Impossible. From any perspective, in every sense, that scenario was absolutely unattainable.

On days like this, when melancholy flooded him as he became even more aware of his difficult position, he sometimes dared to dream of a different life. He dreamed of being reborn and finding her again, no longer as her servant but as her equal. As the man who could love her, who could court her, marry her, give her a family and a home. To fill her with the love that, in the reality he lived, he was not permitted to show. A life where no nobles, titles, or social barriers existed, but simply people capable of loving, feeling, and proving through actions that the value of the soul is superior to that of lineage.

When he realized the hour, he noticed he had spent too long lost in his thoughts. He took the wine and the two glasses his mistress had requested and, on a metal tray, carried them to Oscar’s room. He knocked twice on the door until that familiar voice responded from within: “Come in.”

—Pardon me, —he said, opening the door.

She received him with a faint smile. She was dressed in her usual house clothes: black trousers and a white blouse. She was barefoot. Her damp hair was still wrapped in the towel she usually used, though a couple of blonde strands had escaped the fabric, framing her beautiful face.

—I brought the wine you asked for, Oscar.

—Thank you, —she replied, taking her glass as soon as he held it out to her.

—Did you want to speak with me?

—Yes, —she swirled the liquid before taking the first sip—. Sit down.

He obeyed in silent tranquility.

—André, what do you think of marriage?

A shiver ran through him for an instant.

—Why the question?

—Nothing in particular, —she answered, narrowing her eyes to watch the red glow of the wine in the glass before taking a second sip—. I would simply like to know.

—Well, it depends on how you look at it... For the nobility, it is an agreement that guarantees the continuity of a lineage, a means to forge alliances. But for commoners, it is more the beginning of a new family unit—though that varies depending on the commoner’s status, as many of the bourgeoisie seek out impoverished nobles in order to climb the social ladder.

—I don’t think I explained myself well; I didn’t ask for a dictionary definition, —she said, setting the glass on the tray before looking him directly in the eye—. What I asked is what you think of marriage. That is to say, what does marriage mean to André Grandier?

He was slightly flustered and for a few moments did not know how to respond.

—Honestly, I had never really thought about it, —he said with some nervousness, though he wished he could tell her “it is exactly what I want with you”—. But there must be a reason for this question. What is it that you want to know exactly?

Oscar crossed her hands in her lap.

—You know that my parents, unlike most nobles, married for love, —she reminded him; they both knew the story— but they are the exception and not the rule. The marriage of the King and Queen is, as you well know, a pact of convenience whose effects touch not only families but two countries. It was a fate they could not avoid. What I want to know is what you think of marriage, since a large portion of the common people marry for love. Perhaps not all, as you said, but a great many do.

He paused to meditate for a few moments before answering.

—Well, ideally, people should marry the one they love, —he began, still intrigued by the question—. In fact, I think it is very sad for someone to bind their life to a person for whom they feel not the slightest attraction or with whom they do not get along. Though it is also true that love is not always enough to sustain a marriage. I have seen cases of people who marry deeply in love and after a few years cannot even stand the sight of one another. I think that is very sad, so I suppose it is true what they say, that “marriages and shrouds are made in heaven.”

Oscar laughed lightly before taking her wine glass again.

—Undoubtedly, a good marriage is something providential, —she commented—. One is supposed to be bound for life to a single person before God, until the end of one’s days. But what happens if that fate is not what you expected? How do you deal with the situation of being married to someone while loving another? I cannot understand it.

André understood immediately that Oscar was philosophizing about the situation of Marie Antoinette and von Fersen.

—Well, I think that is why people seek out lovers, isn’t it? Of course, it is far from ideal. One lives in a perpetual state of sin, running an enormous spiritual and physical risk. Imagine the consequences of all kinds when such situations are discovered. Unfortunately, it is what people end up resorting to in order to ease their own pain.

Oscar looked out the window, as if trying to find an answer outside that she didn’t quite know where to seek, nor why she was seeking it.

—And do you believe that is a real solution? I mean, having lovers, pretending to find in other arms the warmth that a person does not find in their own home.

—I believe almost never, —he said, unable to hide his evident sadness—. Perhaps there is some exceptional case where it might represent a solution, or rather a temporary relief, but I believe any effect is merely a sedative; it cures nothing and never outweighs the risk.

She looked at him.

—Then you believe people should marry only for love.

—I know it isn’t always possible, but I think it would be the ideal. And in the event that the situation is not viable that way, I believe the best thing would be to learn to love one’s partner—or at least learn to coexist, to be happy in the midst of, or despite, the situation.

—And do you believe that is possible?

—What is?

—Learning to love someone you do not love.

He crossed his arms, deep in thought.

—Why not? They always say that such things happen by the will of God. If it is His will, it only makes sense that He would provide the means to fulfill it, don’t you think? Otherwise, what would be the point?

Oscar nodded. It was logical. She reached for the wine bottle and poured herself another glass.

—Now will you tell me the reason for the question? —he inquired, moved by curiosity.

She smiled faintly, unable to hide a subtle tinge of bitterness behind the curve of her lips.

—Let’s just say that a few days ago I had an encounter that forced me to question my own concept of the matter.

André’s eyes widened.

—Oh, really? How?

—Don’t be nosy, —she said with a little laugh—. It was nothing. Simply, like you, I had never given the matter much thought, but that day I realized I have a very firm opinion on it and, apparently, it coincides with yours.

André arched an eyebrow, intrigued. He remained silent, as he usually did when he wanted more information. It was his way of asking her to say more without explicitly asking. Normally Oscar noticed and ended up confessing everything after a few minutes—almost always exactly what he wanted to know.

—The only thing I can tell you is that after that, I couldn’t help but reflect on how hypocritical our nobility is, —she drank from her glass quickly—. People in our circles are so used to marrying for convenience that having lovers has become normal—so normal that it is even expected. It is repugnant that the very people who say marriage is an indissoluble and sacred sacrament are the ones who put people in a position where, most of the time, they cannot choose whom they want to share it with... It seems so pathetically absurd to me.

André looked at his friend with sadness. She looked distressed as she spoke these words. Moved, to some extent, though he suspected her reflections did not stem solely from the Queen’s situation. Had something happened that day when she didn’t want him to accompany her to Count von Fersen’s mansion?

—Oscar, —he called her.

She turned slightly toward him, her penetrating blue gaze fixed on the brown orbs of her valet.

—Does any of this have to do with the search Fersen is currently conducting? You know, for a wife.

She sighed sadly.

—Fersen has finally decided not to marry, —the young blonde finally said, refilling her empty glass—. Since he cannot do so with the woman he loves, he prefers not to do so with anyone, because he does not want to hurt anyone. He told me today.

André made a gesture between surprise and incredulity. Oscar noticed it immediately.

—What is it?

—It’s nothing, —André said, pouring himself a second glass of wine while discreetly moving the bottle away from his friend—. Only that it seems a bit strange to me that he doesn’t want a wife when he enjoys the privileges of a husband with several women—nobles and commoners alike.

Anger flashed across the young officer’s face.

—Are you certain of that? —Oscar asked, her voice tinged with annoyance—. You know people talk a lot. Surely they are nothing more than rumors, like so many things said about everyone—even me.

—Well, I haven’t seen it for myself, so I cannot say I am certain, —he eventually conceded—. But I have it on good authority that Fersen has at least two confirmed mistresses within Versailles. I can’t speak for the other two who supposedly live in Paris. I imagine his heart must belong to only one person, but the same cannot be said for his body.

Oscar cleared her throat, nearly choking on her last sip of wine.

—Well, it shouldn’t surprise anyone, —André continued as he arranged the empty glasses on the tray—. As you well said, having mistresses in the nobility is something that has been normalized, sadly. I imagine that faced with the impossibility of consuming his love with the woman he craves, he finds some solace in other arms—a physical release, above all. Nothing different from what others in his position do. Of course, that doesn’t mean it’s right, but apparently, it’s right enough for him.

Oscar looked down, unable to hide her sadness.

—It’s painful, don’t you think? To love a person so much that you cannot have them—to love them so much that it is unthinkable to open yourself to any other possibility, even knowing it is an impossibility no matter what you do.

André kept his face impassive, though internally he felt something tear inside him.

—It is, —he said with full conviction—. I cannot conceive of a greater pain than that.

A silence fell between them. She seemed lost in her own thoughts, in a place where he could not reach her, even with all the will in the world.

—Forgive me, —he said finally, settling the glasses on the metal—. I must return to my duties.

She nodded.

—Thank you for the talk.

—Don’t thank me, —he said tenderly—. That is what I’m here for.

And without another word, he stood to take the tray and crossed the threshold, holding back the tears that threatened to escape his eyes. He understood Oscar’s feelings. He understood her better than anyone. And it pained him to realize that he also understood Hans, even if their ways of facing loneliness were not the same, and perhaps never would be.

After all, Fersen’s way was the way men faced those things, wasn’t it? No. Not really—at least not for him. For André, it wasn’t as simple as seeking release by sleeping with someone else. He had tried it once and found that what brought his peers delight only caused him distress.

Only once had he tried to seek in another woman the pleasure, the love that Oscar denied him. After weeks of contemplating it, he had gone to the Palais Royal to find a lady whose blonde hair and blue eyes evoked the image of his beloved, and he tried to see in her the only woman his heart craved. It was the worst mistake he could have made. He felt so empty and miserable that the malaise lasted for weeks. He realized the best he could do was simply accept his reality and console himself by sharing in Oscar’s life, even if only from a distance, even if only as friends—even if the friendship she so selflessly offered felt like being given bread to quench a thirst.

A thirst that no one but Oscar could satisfy. A door whose lock only she could open.

He walked down the hallway, ready to immerse himself in the day’s labors, troubled by the situation that also disturbed her. His footsteps echoed with a melancholy sound in the gloom of the corridor, as if each one marked the insurmountable distance that separated them.

If only I had been born a noble... he thought bitterly, pausing for a moment before descending the stairs.

But he was not. And he never would be. That was his sentence: to be close enough to witness every sigh, every lost look, every smile she reserved for another. Close enough to love her with every fiber of his being, yet too far to even dare pronounce the words that burned his soul.

He gripped the tray in his hands, feeling the cold metal against his palms. Upstairs, in her room, Oscar also remained in silence, likely lost in thoughts of a man who would make her suffer as much as she made him suffer without knowing it. Three hearts trapped in a chain of impossible loves, each yearning for what they could never possess, each resigned to living in the shadows of a forbidden feeling.

He descended the stairs slowly, leaving behind the room where his heart remained, returning to the place society had assigned him from birth. A place where dreams had no room, where love was a luxury he could not afford, where all he had left was to silently serve the beloved who would never be his.

And so he would continue, day after day, holding back unspoken words, stifling sighs no one would hear, loving from the distance the world had imposed between them. Because that was what it meant to be André Grandier: to live in the perpetual agony of a love as deep as it was impossible, as real as it was invisible, as eternal as it was silent.