A novel about Violetta - 2

Not Alexandre Dumas
A novel about Violetta - 2

Annotation

I found an extremely curious work called "The Romance of Violetta," where Alexandre Dumas, the father, is listed as the author.


I am extremely surprised that the authorship of the book I have mentioned is attributed to a well-known nineteenth-century novelist.

There are plenty of signs that the author is not Alexandre Dumas p;re at all.

Azbuka-Classica Publishing House published this work in 2008 in the collection "The Age of Passion: French Frivolous Prose," listing the author as the Marquise de Mannoury d'Ecto, translated by N. Khotinskaya. This didn't stop Omega-L Publishing House from publishing the same novel, listing it as Alexandre Dumas, translated by Elina Brailovskaya. The two texts differ slightly in style, but only as much as two translations of the same book can differ.

I wonder what Alexandre Dumas would say if he knew that this work by the Marquise de Mannoury d'Ecto was attributed to him?

Even before I found this book, where Dumas was not listed as the author, I understood without any doubt that this author, very well known to me, was in no way the author of this novel.

Not even close. It wasn't his style, nor his typical genre or subject matter. However, for a writer as versatile as Alexandre Dumas, there probably wasn't an atypical subject. He could have written on any subject, even biblical ones. So, in that regard, I wouldn't say no. And so I thought: if Alexandre Dumas had decided to write a book on this topic, what would it have been like?

That's why I didn't dissect this work. Among other things, it also demonstrates, in my opinion, perverse predilections that were certainly not characteristic of the great novelist.

I have already encountered and own not only the aforementioned book, but also "The Erotic Adventures of Gulliver," which lists Jonathan Swift as the author. It's also a forgery.

I understand this approach. It's called "Fanfiction." But I think that if you're going to write "Fanfiction," you should try to embody the author's style as closely as possible, and certainly not write anything that the author featured on the cover would never have written. Under any circumstances.

Well, for example, the book's style is more reminiscent of Emmanuelle Arsan's scandalous novel "Emmanuelle" and its numerous sequels. This novel has been riddled with imitators and successors.

The hallmark of such books is a detailed description of sexual activity, not only between men and women, but also between people of the same sex. It's unlikely that Alexandre Dumas wrote anything like this.

I wouldn't even believe that the Marquis de Sade could have written such a novel, because even he was more restrained in his vocabulary, even in books that were even more detailed and frank.

In fact, the author's entire vocabulary betrays a twentieth-century origin. How could anyone miss that?!

But if Dumas had written a novel on such a theme, and in the erotic genre at that, I still insist he would have written a completely different novel. Because Dumas is Dumas. He represents the romantic and dramatic movement, not the physiological one. And some details—that is, the body parts of the participants in these simple games—are referred to with such mixed terms that they could not possibly appear in a single work by the great master. These include purely medical terms, characteristic exclusively of works from the mid-twentieth century onward, and figurative terms that reference symbolic designations used in the Kama Sutra or the Chinese, Indian, and possibly Japanese heritage of erotica. The influence of certain other literature, clearly from the twentieth century, is also palpable. So a novel like this simply could not have appeared in the nineteenth century. The slang betrays that the author is not Dumas, or even French. So the version that the author is some kind of marquise is also very doubtful.

Moreover, the author's predilection for the female body, completely covered in "soft fur," arouses disgust, for example, in the final chapters. What is this? What nonsense? Yet both the novel's hero and heroine recognize such a body as the most beautiful, since the aforementioned "madam" joins a "special interest" group that already includes three people—the author, the underage girl whose name appears in the novel's title, and a certain "Countess." This wasn't enough for the author, so a certain famous actress, possessing that very "soft fur," is drawn into the intimate circle.

Well, in response to this vulgar "joke" or "duck", my fanfic was created, in which you will not find such outrages.
 
I would like to show that eroticism can exist without this vulgarity.

I don't know how successful I've been. Naturally, I'm writing in Dumas's name, which suggests the fanfiction genre. I believe the reader will understand that I in no way intend to pass this book off as a work by Alexandre Dumas. Fanfiction is fanfiction.

Enjoy reading!

Source of the work under review : ( remove all spaces )


INSTEAD OF A PREFACE

I, Alexandre Dumas, categorically reject the so-called "Romance of Violetta" attributed to me.

In my early youth I might have been proud that someone considered me so famous that they wrote under my name.

In my youth I would have felt indignant at the fact that this novel was attributed to my pen.

When I am mature, I would demand from the publisher all the profits he received from the publication of this book, and would leave in the lurch that simpleton who decided to create under my name without my consent.

Now, in those years which I do not yet want to call old age, but which it is already awkward to call simply maturity, in other words, at that very age when I should already be wise, tolerant and even indulgent to all human sins, and, I hope, at least partially I have become so, I cannot respond to this insolence with anything other than a condescending smile.

Pietro 's Laurels Aretino no longer suits me. I don't chase those authors, the heroes of a single year, who soared to the heights of fame like lightweight firecrackers and then fell just as quickly, back into oblivion, into nothingness, as those firecrackers fall into the mud. Trying to match them in their cunning, lust, and attention to detail in describing the mystery that takes place between a loving man and woman would be even more absurd than, for example, if, at my age and build, I were to attempt to climb the ladder of a second-rate theater actress, not possessed of excessive moral strictness, and who supplements her income from the profits of those not-so-rare encounters with not-so-wealthy men of not-so-advanced age.

I won't say that I haven't known the caresses of women, two or three of whom may have been in love with me, but most of them were simply blinded by my fame as a dramatic writer, which I took advantage of, also not being so in love as to be overly concerned about how sincere their reciprocal feelings for me were.

However, the reciprocal feeling was probably quite appropriate to the word “reciprocal”, since neither they nor I lost our heads over the fascinating incident that took place between us – sometimes for a week, sometimes longer, or even just for one time.

And where would I have gotten a son who would inherit my profession, and, as I heard, did not fully inherit my talent, which I always argue with very fiercely, but in my heart I still cannot help but agree with?

I'll start by saying that nothing like this ever happened to me, and I wouldn't be describing it if it had. That's how I should end.

But for the edification of those upstarts who, like a dwarf who stole a giant's hat, brazenly flaunt it, imagining themselves to be the new Hercules, I will allow myself to write a dozen or so lines on the subject of how I would present a similar story if it occurred to me to write something like that.

So, let me begin.

CHAPTER ONE

It happens that a person lives a long life, but just one or two years of that life leave such a profound mark on them that all the other years of their less dazzling existence cannot. And these years transform them completely, leaving behind a languid memory of a mixture of tenderness and shame, sweetness and pain, the joy of possession and the indelible sadness of loss.

Maybe this happens rarely, maybe it never happens to anyone, but it happened to me, and it’s time to tell you about it.

My first meeting with Violetta occurred long before I actually met her in the sense that we had our first conversation. Until then, I'd only seen her occasionally, as she lived next door, in the same building as me. How could I have never met her? And how could I have failed to notice a perfectly attractive young woman of slight build, with a surprisingly graceful figure, the face of an angel, and equally angelic eyes, hair, and gait? Two years before, I'd barely noticed her, as I was already twenty-eight years old, and she was only thirteen, and looked even younger, so I assumed she was no more than eleven or twelve. By right of seniority, I didn't greet her first, although no one would say I'm unpolite to ladies. Naturally, I always greet them from a distance, removing my hat and making a slight bow.

Her voice, when she first greeted me, was the voice of an angel, but at first I simply didn’t notice it.

However, she grew up, and I, busy with my thoughts, devoting myself entirely to my plots, did not notice this simple phenomenon, which consists in the fact that young girls over time turn into young women, and sometimes their childish prettiness imperceptibly turns into girlish beauty.

I wouldn't have noticed it any longer, having grown accustomed to her existence, just as we become accustomed to everything we encounter every day, and stop noticing and appreciating. But then something happened that changed my attitude toward her, and indeed, changed my whole life. And it happened like this. I'd been casually acquainted with Violetta for two years, so I was already about thirty, and she ... Well , let's take things in order.

I returned from the theater, where my "Musketeers" were rehearsing. This time, I was dissatisfied with the performance of the actress portraying Milady. She was unpleasant, vulgar. The actress was trying to portray a villain, whereas, according to my plan, Milady should have been charming, captivating; she should have added to her own prettiness an outward innocence, and just a touch of coquetry, which we men readily forgive in beautiful women but not in unattractive ones. Women, however, view this matter the opposite way: they might forgive coquetry in women who are inferior to them in every way, but would never forgive coquetry in a true beauty. But Milady simply had to be charming, otherwise how could one explain first Athos and then d'Artagnan's falling in love with her?

So, I wasn't in the best mood and was considering going to bed early, as I wasn't in the mood to work at all. Suddenly, I heard a knock on my door.

I opened the doors and saw Violetta with some kind of cape or blanket thrown over her.

"Sir, I beg you, allow me to come in and lock the door behind me quickly!" she said, and without waiting for my answer, she slipped into the room.

I latched the door and looked at her with interest. At that very moment, I finally, involuntarily, noticed that she was no longer a girl, but rather a young woman, and quite an attractive one at that.

"Mademoiselle, I believe we've met? I confess I have nothing against your visit, but I'm afraid it will compromise you in the eyes of your family and many others ," I said.

"Ah, sir, I couldn't care less what others think of me," she replied. "Right now, I'm only worried about what might happen to me if I don't find refuge from this hateful pursuer! And your apartment seems to me the safest refuge for a poor orphan, pursued by the wretched husband of the owner of the workshop where I worked as a seamstress until today, but where I've decided not to stay another day!"

“If you, mademoiselle, are in danger, you can, of course, rely entirely on my protection, and at the same time, I assure you, my modesty will serve as a guarantee that you will not be in any danger from my side,” I replied.

"And even if he did threaten me, it wouldn't frighten me, since I can't imagine a more vile Monsieur Ernest," she replied. "But you're only joking, Monsieur Duchon , since I believe you're a decent man and wouldn't harm a girl who's trusted you?"

I must say that I rented these rooms under the name Duchon to avoid any unwanted attention from fans of my books. While I'm not a misanthrope, and the fame of a famous writer doesn't bother me in the least, sometimes I just want peace and quiet.

So I gave the poor thing refuge from her pursuer, giving her my bed in the process, while I settled down on the sofa in the other room.

Before going to bed, she told me her story very briefly. I offered her tea, and she spoke impatiently at first, then more calmly, until finally my kind and indulgent attitude calmed her completely, so that, having laid out all the circumstances of the matter, she was quite ready for sleep. I wished her goodnight and left her in my bedroom.

The gist of her story was that the scoundrel Ernest pursued her with his advances and harassment, but the room she rented from the same owner of the workshop had a bolt. Several times, the scoundrel even broke into her room at that time when honest people are already in their third sleep. Only the bolt on the door prevented him from breaking in, as no amount of persuasion could persuade him to stop his vile harassment.

Ernest was furious and said nothing would stop him. When she came home that evening, she discovered the bolt on the door was missing. She immediately realized it was the work of that vile Ernest, and that from now on she was defenseless against his advances. Grabbing a blanket from the bed and wrapping herself in it, she immediately ran to my door, seeking my protection from her assailant.

If only I knew that from this day on my life would change dramatically!

This is roughly how I would begin a story or novel about Violetta.

If I decided to continue it... But don't get your hopes up, there won't be a next chapter.


CHAPTER TWO


I didn't sleep at night, I just thought.

A bird of paradise flew into my bachelor cage. The girl was lovely.

It never occurred to me that I could have an affair with her—that is, to put it simply but frankly, make her my mistress. I was decent enough for that, after all. I was even less likely to make her my wife. I wasn't so foolish as to do such a thing! Not to mention that marriage itself wasn't part of my plans, but if I were to tie the knot, it would be in a marriage I wouldn't be ashamed of. This girl's physical attractiveness was beyond praise, but taking advantage of her and her inexperience would have been vulgar, and was it worth marrying a penniless seamstress who appeared out of nowhere?

This is suitable for those tear-jerking novels I write specifically for seamstresses and other middle-class ladies. I console humble and poor girls with the hope of possible happiness, offer an unrealistic but pleasant hope to their mothers, and compel sympathy for my literary heroes from those spinsters and unhappy wives who, even if they cannot rejoice in their own fate, are not without that compassion which is all the easier to show another woman the less real she is. If they met such a lucky woman in real life, envy would probably outweigh any sympathy in them. But literary heroines are not envied; they are empathized with. That is the basis of my imagination. To make my readers shed tears over my books, I learned to empathize with my heroines. This compels my readers' husbands to fork out for my new books and brings me a very respectable income—enough for one, but clearly not enough for two, especially if one of them is a woman. Just as a certain natural scientist discovered that any gas occupies all the space allotted to it in a given container, I might add that a woman occupies the entire budget provided to her by her husband. Moreover, any woman always finds this budget insufficient and demands more and more. Marry? God forbid!

I pondered this all night, and at times it seemed to me the best course of action would be to suggest that the girl leave my house and seek refuge from her overly persistent suitor with some other protector. But I remembered that, according to the girl's assurances, she was a complete orphan. Somewhere, she probably had an older sister who helped her a little for a while, after which she declared herself old enough to work and earn her own living. This was, if I'm not mistaken, when Violetta was either nine or ten years old. From that harsh time, she became first an apprentice seamstress, working for food, then an almost full-time worker, who was even paid in cash from time to time when the fruits of her labor sold well. Of course, her mistress cheated and shortchanged her, but not so much that it would distinguish her from all the other owners of sewing workshops.

So, the girl could take care of herself, but it would be better for her to find a job in another sewing workshop. First, I should protect her from that scoundrel Ernest. And although I had decided shortly before that such activity was by no means my responsibility, the girl was good-looking. She was attractive. Pleasing her was a pleasant thing in itself. Her grateful smile was sufficient reward for some troubles, as long as they didn’t ruin me and take up all the time I needed for work. Well, I could sacrifice the time and money I spent on rest. Indeed, caring for this little one was quite a good diversion for me. Even if I wasn’t the lucky one who received all her love, it was enough for me that as long as I was by her side, she would still remain a pure flower, untouched by a man’s love, untouched by either passion or disappointment. This flower, barely beginning to bloom, was not indifferent to me. And this was enough for me to take some part in her fate.

Besides, I'd decided that the apartment I was renting had long since become unsatisfactory. My books were selling brilliantly, and I could afford better housing, closer to the center, more comfortable, and, most importantly, with nicer neighbors.

By the morning, I had already firmly decided to move out of this apartment and find a better one, where there would be a bedroom for me and a separate bedroom for my new friend.

She wanted to live with me for as long as I allowed her, she made that clear before falling asleep. I took it as a joke and decided to send her out in the morning. But my nocturnal musings forced me to see things differently. Why should I refuse to help my neighbor just because he's not a neighbor, but a neighbor? Don't women have souls? Aren't they people? Our ancestors doubted this, but in our time we take a more liberal view of the matter. Granted, a woman's soul is not the same as a man's, but still... They fully deserve happiness. At least some of them.

"If I'd married her, I'd have the advantage of not having a bunch of relatives with me!" I thought. "I could probably put up with having a father-in-law or one or two pretty little sisters, but I'm terrified of having brothers, whether older or younger, and even worse, mothers! They're all out for themselves, constantly demanding something from their son-in-law or their daughter, or more often than not, both. No, I can't stand having a mother-in-law!"

I smiled at the thought! What an unexpected and foolish idea of marriage. And so inappropriate for this poor woman! What a lucky man! He'll marry a near-beauty, but he won't receive a witch as a dowry! I added this almost because I didn't even want to think of calling her an absolute beauty. I know I was being unfair to her at that moment, but what do you expect from me? Some slut barges into my life and my apartment, and I'm supposed to admire her charms, which aren't meant for me? And that's decided categorically and finally? Okay, I admit, she's a beauty, but I don't care one bit about that. Although, if she stays with me for a few days, I don't mind her being attractive.

In the morning, I had to think about breakfast. I usually ate at the nearest caf;, so I had practically no food in the house. Taking my new partner to the caf; seemed awkward. After all, everyone there knew me. It would be like announcing I had become the little girl's guardian. Everyone would immediately assume I had taken advantage of her and made her my mistress. The thought was unbearable. To be known as a corrupter without being one? Why would I need such fame? Even considering that I had decided to move out and find a new place, this prospect didn't appeal to me.

Have you ever noticed how unreasonably we value the opinions of people we don't care about? By the way, that's a great idea! I'll have to use it in one of my novels!

So I tell the little girl to leave the house, walk down the street toward the center of Paris, turn the corner of the nearest building, and wait for me there. I'll catch up with her, we'll take a cab and have breakfast at one of the cafes closer to the city center. The chances of running into someone you know while having breakfast there are significantly lower.

However, people already recognize me on the streets; I'm already a well-known writer. That's not scary. People who recognize me won't dare approach me and talk. I can have breakfast with a young girl, after all, she might be my niece, or my goddaughter. A foster child. Who knows?

She's too young to be a literary agent!

The word "niece" immediately conjures up frivolous thoughts. Who cares! I've already decided to befriend this girl; a closer relationship is out of the question, so let them talk what they want. In any case, people always invent rumors about any notable contemporary. It'll only boost sales! So what? Maybe I'll even take her to a performance of one of my plays or to a book launch? I'll tell my readers: "I brought to your meeting a young woman who inspired me to write this book!"

And even though that's not true, I'll get a round of applause. I even know what book such a rumor could be started about. I have one book. It's called "The Dove."

So, Violetta is simply the girl who inspired my novel "The Dove." In that case, I might as well treat her to a cup of coffee and a crispy bun.

And then I intend to contact an agent so that by this evening they can find me a more suitable apartment. In a quiet area. With two bedrooms. Preferably with two bathrooms. However, that's unnecessary. We can take turns washing in the same bathroom. I'll even enjoy taking a bath after her. Nonsense!

In any case, from now on we will have breakfast at home. I will hire a maid, one who will also prepare breakfast. If I don’t find one, I will hire a separate maid and a cook. So much the better. Let the agent find an apartment with a pleasant atmosphere. Something conducive to a romantic relationship. But I don’t intend to start an affair with her, do I? No, of course not. But this little one must – in her own interests! – be introduced to the rudiments of maiden modesty! Otherwise, she might fall into the hands of some scoundrel seducer! I will not allow that. I will hire her a tutor. No, I will be the best teacher for her. I will tell her how a young girl should behave. I will teach her to say “No” to the advances of scoundrels like Ernest. And always make sure the doors have a secure bolt. It seems she didn’t demand a bolt at all on the door of my bedroom, which I gave up to her. If I wanted to go in on her while she was sleeping, I wouldn't encounter any obstacles! I wonder if I just wanted to look at her while she was sleeping? Or adjust the blanket? In a completely fatherly way?

By the way, what's stopping me from doing it now? It's already morning, and she's still sleeping. It's time to wake her up. I'm not going to shout from the other room! I might scare her! And I wouldn't want that!

It's decided, I'll go into the bedroom and say in a quiet voice that it's time to wake up, after which I'll turn away and leave the bedroom.


CHAPTER THREE


I went into the bedroom. My bedroom, mind you, which, incidentally, that night turned into her bedroom.

A shaft of light illuminated her face; she lay with her eyes closed, her skin looking fresh and seductive. She must have been having a good dream; she was smiling in her sleep. The very light down on her cheek, down smaller than the skin of a peach, barely noticeable, glowed in the sunlight like gold. Her hair lay spread out across the pillow, wavy and light, which also seemed golden. The room was too warm. And the blanket was too warm. That's why she almost completely threw it off. Her naked body was revealed to my gaze. Her sweet sleep made this picture idyllic, as if it were the image of some ancient goddess. Her figure was flawless. Perhaps too fragile; her skin was almost translucent in the places where the sun's rays fell. The girl's chest rose slightly with her breath; I could almost physically feel its softness and yet firmness, though, of course, I wasn't touching it. I should have turned away immediately and left, but I was in no hurry. What was the point? She didn't know I was watching her anyway! I'd already seen her body; I felt only delight, purely aesthetic, of course. If I were an artist, I'd capture her in exactly this pose and in exactly this lighting. I know an artist! Should I commission him to create such a painting?

At that very moment I felt that I hated the thought of my artist friend contemplating the beauty of this girl.

Without yet experiencing love, I feel burning jealousy? What nonsense! And yet, if my friend were standing next to me, I'm convinced I would have immediately covered her with the blanket. Now, on the contrary, I wanted to go up to her and reveal everything that was still hidden by the edge of the blanket.

I stood there for a while, trying to capture the whole scene. Clearly, I wouldn't have the chance to see it again. So why waste this unique opportunity? I moved closer. Even closer. I didn't regret my tactlessness. The spectacle was worth it.

And yet, should a grown, sophisticated man contemplate a fifteen-year-old girl, only on the basis that she trusted him, hoping for his protection, and not at all suspecting his immodesty.

"She knew I was a man, didn't she?" I thought. "She knew. She can't be that naive! That means I'm not solely responsible for what's happening. And nothing bad is happening!"

I couldn't contain my desire to get even closer.

I walked over and gently placed my hand on her shoulder.

She covered my hand with hers.

And I felt a pleasant shiver run up my arm and down my back. It was a new sensation. After all, I had touched women before, and how! But this was a new experience. Perhaps it was because I saw, knew, sensed that she was experiencing something similar too. I should have freed my hand and left the bedroom, or at least turned away, or at least closed my eyes. But I didn't do that. I lingered. I was allowed to admire her, but I wouldn't have touched anything more intimate than her hand, even if I had wanted to.

To be more precise, I didn't, even though I wanted to. And yet, I won't describe everything that happened between us. I'll just say that it was quite innocent caresses. Or at least that's what I'd like to call it. However, not the kind of caresses I'd like her to receive from other men in front of me.

She was clearly awakening feelings in me I hadn't planned to allow myself to experience with such a young and unexpected guest. I stood there, my hand never leaving the spot on her shoulder I'd touched without her consent, taking advantage of her sleep. Only a moment had passed, but I experienced such a range of emotions that it felt like several sweetest minutes had flown by.

I don’t plan to write a sequel, may my reader forgive me!


CHAPTER FOUR


"I never would have thought that waking up could be so pleasant!" the young woman whispered, opening her eyes. "And the touch, too."

"Touch? Pleasant?" I asked again, realizing that her hand hadn't pushed mine away at all, but, on the contrary, had held it where it had penetrated most shamelessly.

I decided to lightly stroke her shoulder and expand the territory of my encroachment, first touching her neck, then a little lower toward her chest. But I stopped my hand hesitantly before the soft mound that marked the beginning of her girlish breasts.

"You don't like what's next?" she asked. "Why did you stop?"

He stood up abruptly and turned away from her.

"My child, I shouldn't have done what I did, and I certainly shouldn't have done what I almost did, which we both would have later regretted, and not without reason," I replied. "Touches of that kind are only allowed by people who are in a certain degree of intimacy, which is not possible between us. Get dressed and..."

"And what?" she asked.

"There's a towel and a robe in the bathroom ," I said. "I don't have a women's robe, use mine. It's clean. Anyway, there's no point in putting on a robe; put your own on straight away. We're leaving this apartment because there's nothing here to even have breakfast with. We'll have breakfast at a caf;."

"You say this 'we' of yours so naturally that I feel completely at ease under your protection ," Violetta said. "Could you bring me your robe here, to the bedroom? I'll put it on, go to the bathroom, and after I wash up, I'll change into mine."

"Indeed, that's so natural!" I replied. "Well, well! I knew I needed a robe, but I had no idea what it was for! I'll get it now."

I practically ran to the bathroom, grabbed my robe, and returned with it. I assumed Violetta was still in bed, covered with the blanket. This assumption was natural, considering that she'd demanded the robe simply to walk from the bedroom to the bathroom—a measly twenty steps! But I was wrong.

Entering the bedroom with a robe in hand, I saw her standing in the middle of the room, dressed as Eve, examining herself in the mirror. So I could see her from behind, and in the mirror, I could see her from the front. I liked both views, as they complemented each other harmoniously. It was as if two beauties stood before me, and the one I saw in the mirror was looking back at me, not at all bothering to cover up even a part of what was revealed to my gaze.

"Do I think I'm not so bad that you should run away from me and avert your eyes?" she asked, looking inquisitively into my eyes.

"I'm not saying I'm uncomfortable seeing you, my child," I retorted. "I'm simply reminding myself and you that such behavior is frowned upon in modern society, since seeing each other in their natural state is only permitted for people of the opposite sex if they are married."

“Or they are lovers,” she added.

“This happens, I admit, but such a relationship is condemned by both the church and secular society,” I replied.

“Which doesn’t prevent such a connection from existing everywhere,” she retorted.

"Exactly so, since the desires of the flesh sometimes overcome social prohibitions ," I said. "That is precisely why such liberties should be avoided."

"Are you afraid you won't be allowed into Paradise if you look at me in my natural form?" Violetta asked. "Doesn't that seem illogical? After all, Adam and Eve saw each other in their natural form and were in Paradise? And when they decided that nakedness was shameful and should be hidden, God became angry with them and expelled them from Paradise! Isn't that right? And so, if we all want to return to Paradise, shouldn't we behave as naturally as Adam and Eve did before they were expelled from the Gardens of Eden?"

"It's clear, my child, that no one has attended to your education, and your own thoughts are leading you down a dangerous path ," I said. "Please, put on this robe and let's quickly forget that I ever saw you in your natural state."

"If you don't like it, you don't have to look, but I'm warm and I don't need a robe to get to the bathroom," she replied sharply. "Don't worry, I won't tell anyone you saw me naked. Who is she—the one who isn't supposed to know about this? My wife?"

"Silly girl!" I replied with a laugh. "I don't have a wife!"

"So, a mistress?" Violetta asked. "Let her go. You're mine now."

“I don’t have a mistress,” I answered, slightly disingenuously.

In fact, I had several female acquaintances, quite welcoming and sensitive to my modest literary talents, with whom I sometimes spent my free time, evenings and otherwise, but in the early morning I usually left them until I met again. I didn't share a home with any of them. So I've never had a kept woman or a cohabitant, and regarding the term "mistress," I probably lied.

“I know why you’re afraid of intimacy with me ,” she said suddenly. “You think I’m underage. A relationship with me is reprehensible. You can’t tell anyone about this. You’ll have to hide it. But you’re a writer! You won’t rest until you’ve written down everything that’s happened to you, especially if it’s something interesting, like what’s happening to you now! You want to be my lover, but you’re not prepared to pay the moral price that would come with it.”

I was amazed at how accurately she guessed my feelings, which I myself had not suspected.

"You're right, little one," I replied. "If I took advantage of your availability, society would judge me."

"My availability?" Violetta exclaimed. "Who told you I'm easy? Because I worked as a seamstress, does that make me easy?! Yes, I know that some young and beautiful girls my age, and even younger, allow men to approach them, getting paid for it! But I'm not like that! I've never had a man because I've never loved anyone! And you won't be the one to get me in exchange for a night's lodging and breakfast at a caf;! I simply thought I didn't have to worry about my virginity, and..."

She stopped short and paused.

"What 'and'?" I asked this time, repeating her phrase exactly.

“And you’re right, I wanted to seduce you,” she admitted. “I wanted to see how much I could predict your behavior and even control it. What do you want? After all, I’m a girl, and not as naive as you think! I’ve never had sex with a man, but that doesn’t mean I don’t know anything about what it’s like and how it happens! I’m not some nun raised in ignorance and lies! I know some things. Maybe not much, but what I don’t know, I can guess. I know that all men love looking at naked women, the younger they are, the more attractive they find them. And I know I’m not ugly. So the sight of my body is a delicacy for you! I don’t need to explain that. But I like how selflessly you resist temptation.”

This tirade of hers would have been quite instructive if she hadn't remained naked during it. I confess that I barely listened to her and reconstructed her speech only approximately, based on our subsequent shared recollections of that morning.

At that moment, I simply continued devouring her with my eyes, no longer pretending I didn't like it. At that moment, she herself realized the inappropriateness of her edifying speech given her overly revealing attire—which consisted of the lack thereof. She proudly marched into the bathroom, and I was left standing in the middle of the bedroom, a complete idiot, sensing that this girl had already begun to twist me around her finger.


CHAPTER FIVE


We were sitting at the Caf; Mugue Blanc. I ordered her a cup of hot chocolate, candied fruit and nuts, crispy rolls, and butter and cheese of her choice, and for myself I ordered black coffee with the same roll and an omelet. It seemed a bit small for breakfast, in my opinion, but she declared it was even too much. I had to resign myself to it.

By this time, my agent had already received instructions from me on how to search for an apartment, since on the way to the cafe I stopped by to see him and handed him a detailed description of the apartment I would like to rent and the price range within which I would like him to limit his search.

Of course, I knew that any agent working on commission would find me an apartment at the top end of the price range, so I slightly understated my options in this statement. I've been using this tactic for a long time now, and it helps me find, when needed, a perfectly acceptable place to live that meets my desires and even some of my whims. It happens quickly and to the satisfaction of both parties, because the agent believes he's gotten the most out of me, while I'm also convinced I've slightly outsmarted him.

“We must stop these reprehensible actions and avoid them in the future,” I said after a couple of sips of coffee, which was surprisingly good.

"Why do you insist on being so distant from me?" she asked. "I'm no longer a child and can freely control myself."

“You are still a child, I heard that you are only fifteen years old,” she answered.

"No, I'm not!" she objected. "I'll be sixteen in a week!"

“In that case, right after breakfast we’ll head to the ladies’ store to buy you some more decent clothes and anything else you choose ,” I said.

“I want cologne and nice lingerie,” was the answer.

"What a strange choice!" I said, surprised. "No one's going to see your underwear anyway, and as for the cologne—who do you need it for, and why do you need it?"

"That's my business," Violetta insisted. "And who should I dress for? To walk the streets, attracting the attention of men I don't care about? Or to arouse the envy of those poor women who can't afford nice clothes and so wear comfortable ones?"

“If we’re going to go out together, your clothes need to match mine, and when it comes to a woman, ‘match’ means ‘much better,’” I explained.

"I'd really like to go somewhere interesting with you, but I can see you're shy around me," Violetta replied. "Or are you afraid of compromising yourself? Or are you worried I'll try to get us married?"

"As I already said, all these fears are unfounded; the prospect of our marriage is not up for discussion," I objected. "And that's enough about that! We've known each other for less than a day!"

“We’ve known each other for two years,” the stubborn woman objected.

"It was a nodding acquaintance," I clarified. "Greeting someone you only know by sight because you occasionally see them around your place doesn't constitute an acquaintance."

"I know a great deal about you, and you're probably curious to know who I am, too," Olivia insisted. "Besides, I told you about myself yesterday and today. And doesn't it seem strange, even rather ungentlemanly, to tell a girl to her face that you barely know her, when in fact you've had ample opportunity to see me from head to toe, and, by the way, you've made the most of it?"

"It's hardly appropriate to reproach me for being an ordinary man with all the masculine qualities," I retorted. " Any man I know, and I'm sure any man I don't know, would have taken advantage of this opportunity. Even the Pope wouldn't have failed to cast an indiscreet glance at such beauty, and I certainly don't claim to be holier than the Pope!"

"You know how to give compliments," Violetta replied. "But I understand perfectly well that a man who gives compliments is actually trying to seduce the woman or girl he's giving them to. Even if he's not particularly counting on success. It's in your blood, men!"

"So be it," I agreed. "Now we've settled everything. I don't deny that I'm interested in you, but I do deny that it could mean anything for your future or mine. I admit that I'd enjoy being your guardian for a while, as I enjoy listening to the nonsense that comes out of your charming mouth and watching the changing expressions on your very pretty face. I enjoy seeing your figure, clothed or not..."

"I think it's much nicer without clothes!" Violetta quipped.

"I don't deny that either," I agreed. "But I declare once and for all that I have no intention of marrying a minor who appeared out of nowhere in my life, and I'm not so depraved as to take advantage of this minor without having any right to do so."

Violetta pouted and began to spread the butter over the bun with exceptional care.

I had already finished my breakfast, so she was simply stalling for time; she saw that this was beginning to irritate me, and so she picked at her food with particular pleasure.

I regained my composure. After all, I'm in no hurry, and my irritation is completely unfounded. What angers me is that she noticed that this could irritate me, and so she deliberately started doing it. Excellent, in that case I should stop getting angry over such trifles.

"I forgot to tell you," I said absentmindedly. "I have a business meeting with a publisher in three hours, and you'll have to take a walk in the park until I'm free, since we won't be moving back to our old apartment, and the new one hasn't been rented yet. If we don't have time to visit the store by then, or don't have time to choose what we need, we'll have to put off shopping for today. We'll put it off until a more convenient time. I noticed you need much more time for breakfast than I expected."

Violetta instantly stuck a piece of cheese on the sandwich, shoved it into her mouth and swallowed the rest of the sandwich.

"I'm ready!" she said, jumping up from the table and heading for the exit.

I put three francs on the table and followed her out.


CHAPTER SIX


Violetta dragged me into a perfume shop.

"I want to smell like I'll drive you crazy!" she said.

"Since when did you start addressing me so familiarly?" I asked with a smile, as I liked this new form of communication, as it brought us closer.

"You're my guardian, if you don't want to be my lover," Violetta replied. "You'll be the best guardian in the world. All guardians try to rob the rich heirs they guard, but you have no financial interest in being my guardian. You took on this responsibility voluntarily, and not for the money, but for my own sake."

“Well, first of all, I’m not your guardian at all,” I began.

"You gave up your bachelor apartment and are going to rent a new one that will have room for both of us!" Violetta retorted. "Tell me after that you don't care about me! You buy me gifts a week before my birthday! Even godfathers don't do that!"

"Well, I'm certainly no godfather to you!" I laughed.

"And secondly, I can see that you enjoy it!" she continued.

“It would look suspicious in public,” I suggested.

"Not at all!" Violetta exclaimed. "It's suspicious when you call me 'ty' and I call you 'vy'! That's not how guardians, parents, or relatives behave! Only pimps do that!"

"Where did you get that vile word?" I asked indignantly.

"Only in romance novels do you find fifteen-year-old girls who don't know what a man is, what a woman is, and what kind of relationships exist between them in marriage and beyond ," said Violetta. "I'm not experienced in these matters in practice, but if I didn't understand what you were talking about, I'd have to be called an idiot who's at least four years behind her peers in development! Listen, famous writer! If you portray innocent girls in your novels who, on top of all that, don't even realize they're innocent, you're writing lies for God knows what kind of naive readers! Your readers must be twelve years old! I didn't let that scoundrel Ernest get to me not because I don't understand what he wanted, but precisely because I understand perfectly well what he was trying to achieve, and because I wouldn't let him do that to me for anything in the world!"

"This makes it easier for me to communicate with you, because I didn't know how to approach explaining these truths to you that a young woman entering adulthood should know by now ," I said, genuinely relieved. "What scents do you prefer? Since we're in a perfume shop, I should buy something for you. Lavender, perhaps?"

"Ugh! Clean old ladies smell like lavender!" she replied, pursing her lips into a very cute pout . "I want the scent of lilac!"

"Do you have Cologne water with a lilac scent?" I asked the pretty saleswoman.

“We have jasmine, rose, citrus and violet scents,” the saleswoman replied.

“As far as I understand, you don’t have Cologne water with the scent of lilac,” I concluded.

“The scent of jasmine would suit your lady very well,” the saleswoman continued her advance.

"I love it when people answer questions I didn't ask!" I said ironically.

But the lady obviously didn't catch the sarcasm in my remark and continued her enthusiastic attack on my wallet.

"Our store offers you a unique opportunity to purchase paired fragrances—one for men and one for women—that pair beautifully together," she insisted. "Here, take a look at our line of fragrances."

“I beg your pardon, madam, if there is no scent of lilac, we will think for ourselves what can replace our choice, or we will head to another store,” I replied.

“Let’s try to take what this sweet girl is offering,” Violetta suggested.

"Take whatever you like, and let's quickly make the necessary purchases and leave this establishment," I said. "Even though I'm quite partial to subtle aromas, in these rooms they seem to be so mixed together that I'll soon get a headache or start hallucinating."

“You can wait until I make a choice,” Violetta answered.

She sniffed every single bottle offered to her by the brazen saleswoman. She raised some to her nose, wrinkling it and twisting her mouth; she apparently found others tolerable, but not so palatable that she would want to purchase a bottle of the liquid that exuded their aroma. She seemed quite fond of other scents, but she set them aside, saying that the bottles shouldn't be put away too far away for now; perhaps she'd return to them. Finally, she seemed to react quite animatedly to the last bottle offered to her.

“Well, here it is!” she exclaimed. “This is exactly what I wanted!”

“Mademoiselle, this is jasmine ,” said the saleswoman.

I noted her lack of professionalism. After all, jasmine was the first thing she mentioned! And only then did I realize the saleswoman's goal wasn't to quickly satisfy the customer. She wanted her to explore the entire selection in the hopes that she might buy more than she planned because she'd find something else that suited her.

In the end, Violetta did indeed choose five bottles and asked me to pick the ones I liked. I figured if I rejected more than one, she'd think I was stingy, and if I accepted all five, she'd think I had no sense of smell or was completely indifferent to her choice. But it turned out that all the bottles she selected were truly good, and we took all five.

"I would never have thought that in France they learned to make such good Cologne water!" I said.

"You're wrong to disbelieve in France's potential in this area ," Violetta said. "We certainly don't have such a wide selection of natural fragrances, but the French have a keen sense of smell and excellent taste. I'm sure the time will come when the aromatic liquids of Paris will be more prized than those of Cologne!"

She looked so pleased with her new purchases that I didn't bother explaining to her how naive and ignorant she was of the subject she was trying to discuss. French colognes are better than German ones? Really, that's ridiculous!
 

CHAPTER SEVEN


That evening, we entered the apartment the agent had found for me. It looked like it was for newlyweds. I decided my agent had misunderstood my list of requirements. I took the piece of paper I'd written down and read it. Damn it! I actually described an apartment specifically for newlyweds, for them to spend their first honeymoon in! How did I manage to describe it like that?

And then it dawned on me. I wanted to rent rooms that would be comfortable for me day and night, not to work on a new book, or to engage in any other labor or leisure, but to spend as much time as possible alone with Violetta, drawing every joy and pleasure from this shared pastime, occupying all my leisure time with it, pausing only for meals and sleep. And although I had asked for two bedrooms, each had such a wide bed that it could easily have served as a marriage bed.

I'd made a mistake, and it would certainly catch Violetta's eye, who would assume I hadn't made a mistake but had deliberately booked a room where it would be easiest for me to seduce and corrupt her. But that hadn't been my intention at all! However, it was too late to change anything; it was late, we had occupied the apartment, and I'd paid the down payment and the agent's commission. I couldn't force the agent to look for another apartment, since I had nothing to complain about, which meant I couldn't deny the agent his commission. Therefore, if he spent the entire next day looking for another apartment, I would have to pay for his troubles as well. Furthermore, I should have revised my list of demands, categorically excluding large beds in the bedrooms and insisting on an office for my work.

I figured I could do without a study, as my bedroom had a desk and chair. Besides, if that didn't work for me for some reason, I could work in the kitchen. Incidentally, the wide bed was quite comfortable; I'd be able to get a good night's sleep on it, which was definitely a plus. Violetta was slight of build, so the bed was clearly too big for her, but what did it matter? A simple change of pillow would be enough. A large duvet and a wide bed, if you think about it, weren't such a drawback as to make a big fuss about them. So what if I'd be paying a little extra for a luxury I didn't really need? At least I'd save money by not asking for an apartment with a study!

All my doubts evaporated when I realized that Violetta not only didn't suspect me of being a vile seducer, but was simply delighted with her new bedroom. I call it that because, by my calculations, she'll have to live with me for at least a week before I can find her a decent job in another workshop where she could work and rent a room without fear of some new scoundrel Ernest starting to pester her with his advances.

"This bedroom is a bit unusual for her in its luxury," I thought. "It'll be hard for her to return to a simple, modest room like the one she lived in before. Oh well, I suppose she'll just live for a week, as if on vacation, in a boarding house. And then she'll return to the dreary routine. It won't hurt if I spoil the little one a little. It will help her recover more quickly from the psychological shock the poor thing suffered from that vile Ernest's advances."

The hired maid, it turned out, was also willing to serve as a cook, which wasn't a bad thing at all. I didn't need any more witnesses to our cohabitation. After all, you'll never be able to prove to anyone that you simply took pity on a girl and gave her temporary shelter until you could find her a better job! Everyone would think I intended to seduce her and take advantage of her innocence! Society always suspects the worst of its citizens. After all, it's so comforting to think that someone, somewhere, is far more depraved than you!

We had dinner at a cafe near our new apartment, after which I suggested she take a short walk.

"That's enough walking for today," Violetta replied. "There were so many new experiences today, so varied, so unexpected, so pleasant! I just want to take a bath and go to bed!"

Frankly, I felt pretty much the same way, so we returned to the apartment. Violetta heated the water herself and filled the bathtub, then went to perform her hygiene procedures.

I decided it would be a good idea to write down my new impressions, without, however, imagining that they might be included in some new book. A writer is simply obliged to write at least something every day.

And then I heard her say something to me. I didn't immediately understand what she was saying, but I listened more closely and understood.

"Why aren't you answering?" she repeated insistently. "I'm asking you! Please rub my back!"


CHAPTER EIGHT


" How did you manage before, when I wasn't around?" I asked through the door. "Did you have friends for these purposes?"

"Yes, two whole ones!" she answered proudly. "How can you wash yourself and not wash your back? My hands can't reach some places!"

"Why didn't you turn to them for protection and help, instead of coming to me?" I asked incredulously.

"Okay, I was kidding ," she said with a laugh. "I had a washcloth with two handles. You don't have one. Is it that hard for you to scrub my back? You've already seen all of me!"

“It’s not difficult for me, but things are going in a direction I wouldn’t like to go ,” I said. “It seems to me that you are persistently trying to seduce me.”

"Is it just your imagination?" she asked with a laugh. "I thought you'd finally figured it out for sure!"

"My child, you've taken on a man's job, while I, out of necessity, fulfill the duties of a mademoiselle who avoids premarital intimacy!" I objected. "Keep in mind: I'm not as steadfast as girls can be in this matter. However, not all of them give up their bastions at the first demand. So I won't be able to resist you for very long!"

"That's encouraging!" Violetta said. "Although you might need some fortitude. So, are you coming? The water will cool soon!"


I went into the bathroom, took the washcloth from her hands and began to gently run it over her back.

"Are you petting or washing?" she asked.

“I haven’t figured it out myself,” I replied.

"Then let's finish washing first, and then you, if you want, can caress, but without the washcloth," the imp suggested. "Press harder!"

I pressed the washcloth and ran it down her back, Violetta squealed.

"Not so hard!" she exclaimed. "You're not scratching a horse! I'm a more delicate creature, after all!"

“I’m sorry,” I muttered and began to stroke with extreme caution.

"Now it's too soft again!" she protested. "Give me your hand, I'll show you how it's done!"

She took my hand, placed it along with the washcloth on her stomach, turning to face me, and began to move it over her stomach, under her breasts, along the sides, and as if by accident, went down with it to her navel and below.

"That's it! I can't take it anymore!" I cried, throwing the washcloth into the water and walking out of the bathroom.

My hand was lathered with soap. I was extremely angry, especially with myself. I could have simply helped her wash herself and pretended to be completely indifferent to the whole process. That would have been perfectly reasonable and would have had the educational effect I was aiming for. Alternatively, I could have resolutely refused to comply with her request, thereby setting the boundaries of what was acceptable. But I acted most foolishly. I even called myself an ass, though not out loud, of course.

"Sorry, I won't torment you anymore ," she said from the bathroom. "Could you just pour some warm water from the pitcher over me? I need to rinse off before I start drying myself."

She gave me the opportunity to exit this awkward situation with dignity. I decided to go in, pour water on her with a completely stony face, and be done with it. Was I really going to be unable to control my emotions? Was I really going to let some young woman twist me around her finger?

I went in, took the jug and poured it on her shoulders.

"It's hot!" she squealed. "You should have mixed it with cold water!"
 
"Sorry, I'm an idiot!" I replied.

I tested the water with my hand. It wasn't that hot, but a little dilution wouldn't hurt. I added a little cold water and poured it over her clean body, which still had some soapy lather here and there.

“Not so fast, a thin stream,” she corrected my actions.

Finally, she washed the foam off herself and asked for a towel to wrap herself in, which gave me the opportunity to calm my fantasies, inspired by such unexpected sights.

I left the bathroom. She followed me out, wrapped in a towel.

“There’s some warm water left, you can wash yourself too ,” she said.

“Maybe I’ll wash myself, but don’t expect me to call you to scrub my back,” I replied.

She pouted. To ease the tension, I decided to ask a conciliatory question.

"So, did I cope with the task?" I asked.

"First the water was too hot, then too cold," she replied. "But it's okay, it's perfectly fine for the first time. Next time, test the water temperature with your elbow. If it feels comfortable, it's the right temperature."

"Ah, so that's how it's done, then?" I asked ironically.

“I was helping the owner bathe her children,” Violetta said.

“Girls?” I asked.

“I am the owner of two girls and two boys,” answered Violetta.

I remained silent. Violetta looked at me and burst out laughing.

"The eldest boy is four years old!" she said. "I didn't think you'd be jealous of the kids!"

"What nonsense!" I muttered and went into the bathroom to wash myself a bit, but, of course, without the help of my new tormentor.

When I emerged from the bathroom in a terrycloth robe, Violetta was lying on her bed under a fluffy blanket. I guessed she was naked. It would have been strange if she'd gotten dressed for the night on this, our second night together, after sleeping naked the first.

"You've really frozen me!" she said. "The water in the jug was too cold, you overdid it diluting it. I just can't seem to warm up. Come here and warm me up!"

“The devil take me!” I thought. “What is she doing to me? But she’ll be sixteen in just a week! Which means she’s practically an adult! It’s impossible! Such a body, such desire on her part, and I’m acting like a snowman, like a block of ice, like a lump of stone! How long can this hellish game go on? Damn it, I’ve finally agreed to marry her! Be it so, but she’ll be mine this very minute!”

I decisively threw off my robe, went over to her bed, threw off the blanket and lay down next to her, pressing myself so closely that no force in the world could have prevented what happened between us in the next quarter of an hour.


CHAPTER NINE


Don't expect a description of my heroic exploits throughout the night, or of her rapturous moans and demands for more. Nothing of the sort happened, nor could it have, of course. After all, she was a virgin, at least physically. I won't touch on the spiritual side of her life here, for we men are not given the opportunity to know what girls are just as knowledgeable about as we men, and sometimes much more so. Nor are they fascinated by their hobbies or how they spend their time alone.

She was playing a dangerous game with me. Whether she won or lost, I won't judge. But it's clear to me that her cat-and-mouse game with me got out of control. I don't think she intended for the volcano of our passions to explode, for us to incinerate each other in a single moment. I didn't intend for that to happen either. However, the flesh sometimes dictates its own rules.

Without thinking, I threw myself into this abyss of manifestations of passions, both sublime and base; she had no time to think, and it seemed she had no intention of thinking about the possible dangers of such an unexpected and complete rapprochement.

At that very time, when I wanted to achieve everything forbidden, even to the very heights, I had no doubt in my abilities, which had manifested themselves in the most definitive way. But when I threw off my robe and lay down on the bed next to her, the obvious became doubtful. For this reason, I was no longer so confident in my abilities.

Sometimes intense arousal produces an effect opposite to what we all consider natural. For a brief moment, I felt despair and shame, but leaving in disgrace was too much to bear. I nevertheless began to caress her fragrant body, refreshed by the subtle addition of the Cologne water we'd purchased the day before, scented with jasmine, which blended so beautifully with the natural scent of her body, fresh from the bath. I inhaled her and felt the enchanting touch of her skin, to which she responded with pleasure. Gradually, my abilities began to return.

This turn of events, as it turned out, contributed to the best outcome. Had I tried to dominate her with a harsh and firm demonstration of my desires, she would not have been able to physically accept it without sufficient preparation. It could have caused pain and forever turned her away from such displays of affection.

Success required mutual, or at least one-sided, lovemaking, easing the first stirrings of passion. Fortunately, all my passion returned gradually, but the necessary component had already been produced, so my entry into my new rights of ownership was quite smooth. Her capitulation, the surrender of the last bastions, was softened by my succulence and no longer the extreme fortitude I had previously so easily demonstrated to fleeting and easily accessible ladies, which, in this moment of truth, temporarily abandoned me, but by my flexibility and persistence. It was precisely this circumstance that made me not a rough Viking, breaking down the gate on his heavily equipped steed, but a light rider, easily slipping through the wicket, barely ajar, even if not quite to the depths where a barrier laid by nature itself awaited me, and I believe this circumstance requires no explanation.

I was forced to retreat slightly and try again to overcome this obstacle. The barrier gave way only slightly. I repeated these attempts several times, finding each time that I was not met with indignation, but rather that the narrow gate was opening ever wider, and my attempts to enter the unknown Garden of Eden were increasingly successful. Finally, I became like that barbarian who could no longer be stopped, and with the drive of a furious Norman, unyielding and embittered by previous resistance, I finally took possession of Eden, breaking through the last bulwark. Beyond it, an almost genuine paradise awaited me, or at least fruits no worse than all the earthly and heavenly fruits that a man in love, which I undoubtedly was at that moment, could desire to pluck. Unlike Adam, I was not expelled from this Eden; on the contrary, I was welcomed beyond my wildest dreams. The meeting ended with a hug, much to everyone's delight.

May the reader forgive me for these epic tones, but I am incapable of conveying what happened that evening in any other way. No matter how masterful a wordsmith I tried to be, reality surpassed the picture I described, so I was at the height of bliss, and I dare hope she reached the same heights with minimal loss, since nature itself ensured that the destruction wrought by the conqueror was inflicted as gently as possible, at a moment when even the vanquished had already reached the requisite passion, when even the sharpest pain simply cannot be reacted to, as other emotions and sensations prevail, overwhelm you completely, and force all other sensations to recede into the background.

Utterly exhausted and, I think, surprised by what had happened, we lay for a long time, exhausted, in the pleasant languor that followed the end of a stormy struggle. I finally sensed that she desired a caress, the simplest and most tender, the very one with which I should have begun my attacks, but which I had obviously given her insufficient measure, since it had too quickly inflamed my own feelings. I had earned the right to caress every part of her angelic and fragrant body, now mingled with the familiar scent of consummated love, and I took advantage of it. Truly, I wish I had not two hands, but eight, like the famous Indian goddess! There would be something for them all! But I am only a man with two hands, which gently, yet at times feverishly, caressed the territory of love and passion I had acquired. These actions soon made me feel like I wanted to, and was quite capable of, renewing my attack, but she, correctly interpreting my advances, rejected them, whispering in my ear that what had happened the first time was more than enough, and that further caresses of such ambiguous nature would cause her pain rather than delight. Understanding the validity of her objections, I intended to leave the battlefield, but she restrained me with a light touch of her hand.

"Will our intimacy really be as brief as it is swift?" she asked. "After all, there are other parts of my body left for caressing, and your touch won't be as painful there as where you're aiming!"

I realized my mistake once again! Indeed, I could have continued my pleasure, caressing everything that just an hour ago I had considered a forbidden source of pleasure, something I had no right to even look at! Now, after moments of supreme revelation, all of this was at my complete disposal, and yet I had so shamefully intended to ignore this beauty!

An irresistible desire, noticeable even from the outside, made these caresses even more delightful, since the forced ban on more decisive actions that I had imposed on myself for the time being inflamed me and made me more sophisticated in the delightful task of becoming more intimately acquainted with her charming and youthful body. I tried to inadvertently bring closer to her what should have been temporarily out of reach, and she didn't object, so long as I didn't rush into the newly conquered redoubt, where time was needed to recover from such a swift attack.

Suddenly Violetta recited something like blank verse:

– The glorious chevalier returned from the battle covered in blood,
But he is not wounded: the blood is foreign, it proclaims victory!

“Is this Corneille?” I asked.

“No, it’s Parisot,” Violetta answered.

“I don’t know such an author ,” I said with some annoyance.

"You know, very close," Violetta countered. "Allow me to introduce myself, Mr. Writer! Violetta Parisot at your service!"

"Ah, I didn't even think to ask your full name!" I suddenly realized. "Well, I'm glad to meet you! Allow me, mademoiselle, to kiss your hand on this occasion!"

It was funny. We were both lying naked in her bed, and suddenly we switched to the familiar form of address, engaging in such polite conversation! She coquettishly extended her right hand to me, I kissed it as gallantly as I could, then did the same with her left hand.

“That’s not enough!” I said with a smile.

"Then go ahead, Chevalier!" she replied with a laugh, and offered me her delightful, soft, and firm breasts.

I paid tribute to the fragrant mounds with pink berries on their tops.

"You're tickling me with your mustache!" she exclaimed, laughing merrily.

"That's what I was counting on!" I replied. "Finally, my mustache is no longer just a useless decoration under my nose! It's acquired a function of its own!"

“I don’t want to be tickled, I want affection,” Violetta asked.

I used my tongue and lips to do justice to the territory I was exploring, and I didn't regret it. She, too, approved of this turn of events. I pulled away briefly and glanced at her face and noticed that she closed her eyes, her body gradually began to tense, she stretched out along the bed and arched her back inward. This served as a clear encouragement to continue the action. This was just what I needed. With my right hand, I began to stroke the place where her blood and my love juices mingled, without going deep, but sparing her. From this caress , she tensed even more. My tongue accomplished the seemingly impossible . She began to moan with pleasure. But tormenting the same places for so long, especially such tender ones, was dangerous, so I decided to take a break and tore my face from her breast. She opened her eyes and looked at me with bewilderment.

“Have you stopped?” she asked.

“Only for a new attack,” I replied.

My lips rushed to the site of the recent battle.

"No, there's blood!" Violetta protested hesitantly.

“Nonsense, besides, I have a handkerchief!” I replied.

I pulled a cambric handkerchief from the pocket of the robe lying at the foot of the bed and gently and carefully wiped her in the very place where women are most unlike men.

“It doesn’t matter, if there’s anything left, I’ll take everything from you ,” I said and pressed my lips to the most cherished place, to that crack that was adorned with only two barely noticeable petals, like a rose long before the beginning of its true bloom.

Further details of that night defy the pen of a stingy writer. Besides, my pen in this chapter was already overly immodest. My memories of it remain in minute detail, a mixture of teasing and revealing close-ups, the subtlest vibrations of emotion, waves of surging passions, the thrill of first understanding this previously unknown side of relationships with women, who are all one fragrant angel, one who wants to admire and possess, sacrificing to her everything she asks.

If she had demanded at that moment that I set fire to Notre Dame de Paris, I would have promised to do so without the slightest hesitation! In that moment, she had complete power over me.

Finally, she suddenly cried out, her body shaking violently, causing a similar reaction in me, which would prompt me to change not only the sheets but also the blanket. Then my mistress's passionate spasms ceased, every muscle soft and relaxed. Exhausted, I buried my face in her belly, my nose an inch from her lovely navel. She didn't object.

“I think this bed is such a mess that we both had better leave it ,” I said. “We have another bedroom with fresh bedding. I invite you there.”

“Okay, but only for a good night’s sleep,” she agreed. “And I need another scarf.”

“We will find as many handkerchiefs as we need in the bedside table of my bedroom,” I replied.

We went into my bedroom and lay down on my bed. As I drifted off to sleep, I felt her wrap her arms around me and gently stroke me with her fingers for a few moments. I stroked her back, and soon we both fell into a deep sleep.


CHAPTER TEN


I intended to wake up earlier this morning, but I failed. When I opened my eyes, Violetta was already in the bathroom, getting ready. I remembered that I'd left my robe in Violetta's bedroom, and I felt awkward showing up without it: yesterday, our mutual passion had eliminated any embarrassment, but today, the sun was shining brightly on the window, a new day had begun, and I wasn't sure it would be appropriate to appear completely naked.

I threw on some underwear but couldn't find a shirt. So I quickly pulled on my pants and only then decided to leave the bedroom.

"Good morning, Mr. Writer ," Violetta said, coming out of the bathroom. "The bathroom is free and at your complete disposal, while I make breakfast."

“We have a maid-cook ,” I said.

“I’ll make the omelette and coffee myself, I can do it better than any cook ,” she said.

“Nonsense, the cook will do that,” I objected.

"Go wash up already!" Violetta replied. "And never argue with a woman about breakfast."

"We're still on first-name terms, and last night won't be wasted!" I thought. "Her address of 'Mr. Writer' struck me as deliberately cold, but I was smart enough to realize it was a joke."

“Why did you wear my shirt instead of a robe?” I asked.

“The robe is too warm,” she replied.

"That shirt looks unusual on you," I said. "It's so thin that it doesn't hide any details of your charming figure."

"Well, you just answered your own question about why I wore it!" she replied with a smile.

"Shall we start our morning where we left off last night?" I asked.

"To the bath!" Violetta ordered.

She came up to me and turned me around. I managed to kiss her on the cheek, to which she responded with a ringing laugh.

When I left the bathroom, a delightful smell of coffee filled the apartment.

"If this coffee tastes as good as it smells, I'll marry you!" I exclaimed.

"What if he's no good?" Violetta asked playfully.

"I'll marry you anyway, because I love you!" I said. "But in that case, the cook will make us coffee."

"How long have you known that you love me?" Violetta asked.

“Since yesterday evening,” I admitted.

“If you keep talking such nonsense, the coffee will get cold and you won’t like it ,” said Violetta. “Sit down at the table, Mr. Writer!”

"The coffee is excellent!" I said, taking a few sips. "And the omelette is superb! I'll marry you!"

"Did I give my consent?" Violetta asked with a laugh. "You're overconfident, Mr. Writer!"

"I thought our conversation yesterday suggested I could confidently count on a positive response! Or am I mistaken?" I asked.

"You're mistaken, my dear," Violetta replied. "I'm not going to marry a man who's proposing out of guilt for taking my virginity."

"But I love you, and you, it seemed to me, have similar feelings for me!" I said.

"I imagined it, dear," Violetta replied. "Love isn't something that starts unexpectedly quickly and ends predictably soon. Love is for life. It's not worth starting any other way."

“But wasn’t there love between us yesterday?” I asked.

"You answered your own question, dear famous writer ," said Violetta. "After all, I just told you that Love is something that lasts a lifetime, and you're talking about what happened between us in the past tense. Past, then, no longer present. It's no longer there, and therefore it's not Love ."

"I myself love paradoxes and unexpected judgments or proofs, but I don't like your reasoning ," I said. "You're fixated on the reference to time. I didn't mean that things ended between us, or what happened, but that yesterday began precisely what I call Love, and that it can continue for as long as we choose."

“Or how long we deserve this happiness,” Violetta clarified.

"There!" I rejoiced. "You called this happiness."

"Happiness can be short-lived, and that's usually the case," Violetta replied. "But Love can't be short-lived, otherwise it's anything but Love."

"It seems I've settled a little bore in place of a charming little girl ," I remarked. "So, you're not giving your consent to our marriage? Wonderful! In that case, don't say later that I didn't propose!"

"I did, and I did it in such a way that I couldn't hide my joy when you were rejected," Violetta replied. "Don't worry, sir, I'll move out. As soon as I find a new job."

"I promised to help you with this, and I will definitely keep my promise," I said. "And by the way, I don't understand the reason for our little quarrel!"

"Are we arguing, sir?" Violetta asked. "Why do you think so?"

“There is no longer that trusting and warm relationship between us that gave me the right to hope that my proposal of marriage would be received with delight,” I replied.

"But last night, Mr. Writer, you didn't offer me your hand, and you didn't offer me your heart!" Violetta replied with a grin. "And by the way, you didn't ask me for my hand and heart; you were interested in something entirely different, which is what you got, and which you took full advantage of! If you're a good boy, it will happen again this evening, but we can't afford to waste time on that today, when we have so much to do."

“What business?” I asked absentmindedly.

"You promised to find me a new job, I promised to move out as soon as that happened, and besides, during the day, everyone has a lot to do, besides what sometimes happens between a man and a woman in bed in the evening!" she said.

Well, there was a lot of truth in her words. And although she promised to move out as soon as I found her a job, I promised to find her a new one, and I have to do it.

"Listen, my girl ," I said. "You don't have to work as a seamstress in some workshop. They pay next to nothing there for such a damn hard job!"

"What can you do!" Violetta replied. "Not everyone can be a writer and earn huge amounts of money for telling others things that happened to them, or things that never happened to anyone!"

"By the way, you've quite accurately noted what a writer's work consists of, but you're discounting talent and talent ," I said. "In fact, I've noticed that you have some talent yourself. And you could earn a lot more with it than a seamstress."

"I won't sell my love!" Violetta replied defiantly.

"Silly girl, that's not what I meant at all!" I objected. "If you'd ever thought of taking up that unworthy profession, I would never have allowed you to do it! I would have protested, I wouldn't have let you in. But all I'm saying is, you could have made an excellent actress. You not only have superb looks, but also the gift of dissimulation, which is absolutely essential for any actress!"

"What?" Violetta exclaimed. "You figured it all out? When and how? How did I give myself away?"

I realized she was deceiving me about something I had no idea about. I decided to pretend to see through her deception and find out, through indirect means, what it was.


CHAPTER ELEVEN


“I guessed it from your deceitful, charming eyes and the sly smile on your sweet lips,” I replied.

“So what, you liked my deception and took advantage of the situation,” Violetta replied.

"So, I liked her deception!" I remarked. "What did it consist of?"

“But I would prefer that you didn’t deceive me like that,” I said. “At least, don’t do it again!”

“Well, I won’t need any more,” she replied. “I’ve achieved what I wanted.”

"I can't do this anymore!" I cried. "This is torture! Admit it, how did you deceive me?"

"So you haven't figured me out yet!?!" Violetta asked in surprise. "I was stupid, I fell for the trick, I could have kept my mouth shut!"


"Well, now you'll admit it!" I said. "I have to know what this deception was. How can I bother getting you a new job if I know you deceived me, but I don't know how exactly?"

“First, tell me why you said I was a pretender?” she demanded.

“You have created a small semblance of discord, although I see that you like me and you do not want to quarrel with me at all,” I said.

“Well, it’s nothing, I’m just being playful and I decided to see what you’re like when you’re irritated ,” she said.

"Frankness for frankness," I reminded. "I expect recognition."

“I’m ashamed ,” Violetta said.

“Whatever it is, I promise I won’t be angry and I will forgive you ,” I said.

"It's about my coming to you ," she said. "I lied about Ernest."

"Are you saying that this scoundrel actually managed to break into your room?" I asked.

"I mean, he's not a scoundrel at all," Violetta countered. "He didn't break into my room, he didn't make advances toward me. He's actually a completely harmless, calm, and kind person. I slandered him only to have an excuse to break into your apartment and stay the night. I thought that that very night you'd do what you did only the next day."

"You slandered a decent man?" I exclaimed.

“Only for a while, and only in your eyes, so his reputation hasn’t suffered at all,” she replied.

"What if that very night, as soon as you fell asleep, I decided to deal with Mr. Ernest?" I asked indignantly.

“It’s not in your nature,” replied the little rascal.

"What do you know about my character? By the way, I'll have you know, I had this thought in my head, and I intended to carry it out, but I just put off my revenge," I lied, because it infuriated me that the scoundrel dared to have such a low opinion of me, despite not knowing me at all.

"Only very hot-blooded people act like that, and then only when they have the right to do so, even if it's the most ephemeral," she countered. "People who are impulsive, and who are uninhibited in their actions, act this way when someone causes trouble not to those around them, but to themselves."

“You’re wrong,” I objected uncertainly.

"I'm not mistaken," the walking ulcer retorted. "Such feverish individuals behave extremely unrestrainedly, standing up for others only if they consider those others their property—a wife, a partner, a sister, a daughter, a niece, it doesn't matter. But property. They don't stick up for others like that. You, firstly, aren't like that, and secondly, you couldn't consider me your property until what happened happened. And besides..."

She paused meaningfully and smiled triumphantly, as if she had caught me stealing someone else's chickens.

"What 'besides'?" I asked.

"And the fact that deep down you were grateful to Ernest for the fact that, following his advances, I showed up to you in my underwear and confided in you—that was flattering!" said the impudent girl. "You were overjoyed that such a romantic adventure had happened to you, that a bird had flown in to see you, young, beautiful, and, what's more, completely trusting. You even managed to catch a glimpse of something not every newlywed sees on their wedding night!"

I must admit, the devil was absolutely right. But I only understand this now. Back then, I was deeply outraged.

"I didn't appreciate the depth of your talent for dissimulation!" I replied. "You'd make a great supporting actress! You'll play villains. But I won't lift a finger to help you in that career! I promised you I'd find you a workshop where you could continue working as a seamstress, and I'll keep my promise. However, I don't understand why you'd want to change jobs if no one bothered you at your previous one, and it turns out you weren't at all unhappy there."

“No, I won’t return to my previous job,” Violetta answered.

“Why?” I asked.

"I won't tell," she replied. "And even if I do, it won't be now, but sometime later, if I'm in the mood, and if I'm sure you won't make another scene."

“Okay, get dressed, let’s go look for a job for you ,” I said.

I had absolutely no idea how I could find her a job as a seamstress. Besides, I had already decided that I would help her become an actress.


CHAPTER TWELVE


We arrived for a rehearsal of my play. Violetta confessed to me that she'd never been to the theater in her life, and didn't even know what a rehearsal was. I noted this young woman's astonishing knowledge of certain matters, perhaps too early for her to be so knowledgeable, while at the same time demonstrating complete ignorance of things you'd think even children three times her age would know!

“A performance, my dear, is a presentation of a book in person ,” I said to Violetta.

"Well, you don't have to explain that to me, I understand that, but what is a 'rehearsal'?" Violetta asked.

"A rehearsal is the same as a performance, which takes place without an audience, without costumes, but in the presence of the author, director, and other experts ," I said. "But sometimes they allow audience members, or friends of the author, director, or theater director, to attend the rehearsal."

"And how much does such a spectacle cost?" Violetta asked.

“They don’t charge money for attending rehearsals, but outsiders, as a rule, are not allowed in,” I replied.

“But without costumes and scenery it’s not so interesting ,” said Violetta.

“On the contrary, it’s much more interesting to watch a play without sets and costumes, because nothing gets in the way of appreciating the actors’ performance,” I objected.

"Then why do they still use costumes and sets during performances?" Violetta continued her merciless interrogation.

“Because the audience is not as interested in the actors’ performance as in the external side of the action, since the audience is not such an expert in dramatic art,” I answered.

"Mr. Writer ," Violetta said sarcastically, "if you consider your audiences stupider than you, or even inferior to you in some emotional level or other criteria, you're wasting your time writing plays for them! Your plays will reach every audience and convey what you wanted to say only if you consider your audience smarter, more sensitive, more competent than you! In that case, you'll strive to convey not only what you already know, but also what you don't know, and what you'll have to learn from books, or create through lengthy reflection, through research, disappointments, and unexpected discoveries.

"And who is it that decided to teach me?" I exclaimed with feigned indignation. "Do you know that I am currently the highest-paid and most popular writer in all of France?"

“And when you listen to my advice, you will be the most beloved and most brilliant author in the whole world and of all time ,” said the little ulcer.

I wanted to get angry, but I had to admit that the little ulcer was right!

"Be that as it may, we're already here, so please keep your head down, pretend you're not here ," I said. "If the actors notice your presence and are distracted by you, it will mean you're disrupting the rehearsal, and I'll have to escort you out, and at the same time, I'll have to leave the rehearsal myself. Only the director, or in exceptional cases, the author, may admonish the actors. Understood?"

“I understand,” Violetta muttered and pouted.

"Don't be offended," I added in a conciliatory tone. "If you feel the urge to tell me something, you can whisper it in my ear. Or better yet, remember your questions and ask me after rehearsal. I beg you, please fulfill this request of mine. I've already seen for myself that it's not so easy to reason with you, that you're quite a tricky one, but I beg you, for heaven's sake, not to disrupt rehearsal. It's in your best interests."

“Okay, I promise, calm down,” Violetta said.

“Honestly?” I asked again, just in case.

"You can deal with me," she replied. "While I was joking with you, I was joking. If I made a serious promise, I'd rather bite my tongue than not keep it."

“You don’t have to bite your tongue, just be quiet, or speak in a whisper so that no one but me can hear ,” I said, although I didn’t feel like she had calmed me down.

We entered the auditorium, I greeted the director and the actors, introduced myself as Violetta's temporary guardian, saying that she was my niece, endured the actresses' incredulous looks and the actors' caustic grins, after which we sat down in the fifth row and began the rehearsal.


CHAPTER THIRTEEN


The chandelier on the ceiling, illuminating the hall, was extinguished, and the stage was illuminated by the wonderful light of many candles.

An actor came onto the stage and announced the title of the play.

– Esteemed audience, we present to your attention a drama in four acts, written under the title “The Youth of the Musketeers” by the famous Alexandre Dumas.

Violetta began to applaud furiously, but the rest of the audience, of which there were no more than ten people, including me, sat in complete silence.

“They don’t applaud at rehearsals,” I whispered to Violetta.

The curtain parted, revealing a set that, in full accordance with my stage directions, represented a rectory. The set depicted a low hall, a door at the back, a door on the left, a window on the right, a large fireplace, and a staircase leading to the first floor.

"And you said there were no theatrical sets at rehearsal!" Violetta whispered in my ear.

"I forgot that today is the dress rehearsal," I whispered back. "During a dress rehearsal, the actors perform in costume, and the stagehands run through the sets. The director sees how everything will look from the audience. He'll move to different seats and see how it looks from the center of the auditorium, from the sides, from the balconies."

"And from the gallery?" Violetta whispered.

“No, he’s not interested in the gallery, don’t get distracted, follow the action,” I whispered.

At the far end of the stage, on the stairs, dressed as a commoner, stood J., portraying Grimaud, the servant of Athos, who was then a viscount.

Mademoiselle M., representing Charlotte Backson, came on stage.

"Mademoiselle M. is as charming as ever!" I thought. "How perfectly she portrays Charlotte's character traits! It's immediately obvious that this lady is a devil in disguise, a dangerous creature!"

"Ugh, what a bastard crawled onto the stage!" Violetta whispered to me, but I motioned for her to remain silent, watch, and listen.

Following Mademoiselle M. on stage, dressed as a maid for the role of Claudette, was Mademoiselle L., who was charming as a drag queen, but for a maid, her appearance alone conveyed an excess of vivacity, temperament, and independence. Perhaps Mademoiselle B., more often cast as an ingenue, would have been better suited for this role.

Let me now allow myself to quote a passage from the first scene of my play, where I will call the heroes of the action as they are called in the drama itself.

Charlotte ( to Claudette ): Very well, please get your belongings and linen ready so the driver can take it all away in one trip. Didn't you tell me the house was supposed to be empty today?

Claudette (from the threshold of her room): Yes, mademoiselle .

Charlotte (noticing Grimaud): Ah, it's you, Monsieur Grimaud.

Grimaud: I brought a letter from the Vicomte, the door was open, I didn’t want to ring for fear of disturbing Mademoiselle; I went in and waited...

Charlotte: The Viscount is in the habit of passing the rectory when he goes hunting... and when he returns... May I have the honour of seeing him this morning?

Grimaud: Prudence will probably not allow the Viscount to come.

Charlotte: Prudence?

Grimaud: The Viscount is in a quarrel with his father.

Charlotte: With his father?.. The Viscount is at odds with his father, whom he reveres so much?.. But about what?

Grimaud: The old gentleman would like to introduce the Vicomte to Mademoiselle de La Luc;e...

Charlotte: Ah! This beautiful orphan, who is said to be the richest heiress in the province...

Grimaud: That's right!

Charlotte: So what?

Grimaud: The Viscount declined this acquaintance... Under the pretext that he felt no desire to marry. So he did not go to La Luss; ... And returned here... Do you understand?

Charlotte: Okay, okay, thank you, Grimaud. Let's see what the Viscount writes...

"Why is the Viscount's servant so talkative as to spill his master's secrets to a stranger?" Violetta whispered. "He should be fired immediately, or taught to keep quiet with a good whip!"

"Be quiet," I objected. "This is Grimaud, a very faithful servant, diligent, intelligent."

"Such chatterboxes should be beaten or kicked out!" Violetta hissed, not in a quiet whisper at all, so loud that some in the audience glanced angrily at her. But seeing me next to her, everyone calmed down and continued watching the play.

After all, it was a rehearsal, albeit a dress rehearsal. Apparently, these people decided that Charlotte had been invited to play the role of an expert and that her opinion meant something to me, while the author's choice of which opinions to heed and which to ignore is generally respected, provided the author's fee is a substantial sum, comparable to that of the actors playing the leading roles, and especially, as in my case, double that.

Meanwhile, the action on stage continued as usual. Grimaud retreated to the back of the stage, and Charlotte began reading the letter aloud.

Charlotte (reading): "Mademoiselle, your brother's prolonged absence looks like an abandonment of his position. Today a new cur;, Monsieur Vitr; , arrives, ready to fill the vacancy." Today!

Grimaud: What a disaster! Mademoiselle, it's been six months since your brother left... That's a long time for peasants... Six months without mass!

Charlotte (continuing). "The house where you lived with your brother is yours from today. And I have informed the new cur; of this, as well as that he can settle in the pavilion of the castle. Live in your own home without worry or anxiety. Believe in my tender affection, mademoiselle. Your devoted servant, Vicomte de La F;re."

Grimaud: Mademoiselle will give me the answer?

Charlotte: Not a day has passed that I haven't seen the Viscount.

Grimaud: Oh, of course.

Charlotte: I'll wait for him to express my gratitude in person.

The actor playing Grimaud has left.

The director looked at me, I nodded with approval, and the second scene of the first act began.

Charlotte (alone). If I'm forced to leave this house, I'll have to pay for a new place, and the expenses will mount. Another month and my funds will be exhausted. And for me, this miserable little house is nothing more than the vestibule of a castle... A castle! An earldom and a barony three hundred years old. It's cruel to live in a hovel with a view of such splendor! But the proverb says, "The eye sees, but the tooth does not see!" The proverb is a lie! Claudette, leave everything behind, we're not leaving!

Claudette (on the landing, with her things): We're not leaving ?

Charlotte: No... It's possible that the Count will pass by on his way back from hunting. Bring some wine and some fruit for the table. Ah! I think I see a horseman through the trees. Oh! How he hurries... How swift he is... He's galloping towards that hut... The hut of the village priest... Very well! Claudette, I don't need you anymore, go!

"The scoundrel, she's luring the Viscount!" Violetta whispered to me.

"Two days ago you did exactly the same to me!" I whispered back and winked.

"How can you compare!?" Violetta was indignant. "I didn't intend to marry you, especially against your father's wishes!"

“My father is dead, and he wouldn’t interfere in my matrimonial affairs anyway,” I replied.

"That's exactly what I'm saying!" Violetta whispered.

Those present looked back at us again.

Mademoiselle M. stopped playing and looked at me meaningfully.

"Maestro, do you have any comments about the actors' performance?" the director asked.

“Everything is wonderful, continue,” I replied. “Our discussions are merely working moments of my perception.”

"Monsieur Dumas, do you have any comments on the first two scenes?" the director asked.

I realized that I was paying much more attention to Violetta's reaction than to the actors' performance.

"Mademoiselle M. is superb ," I said. "Indeed, all the actors performed superbly. I would ask the actor representing Grimaud to act more dispassionately. In my mind, Grimaud is a man who shows no emotion. As for Mademoiselle L., it would be better to keep a low profile; it seemed to me that she also wanted to attract the audience's attention. When she has no words, she shouldn't draw attention to herself with household chores."

“Okay, Monsieur Dumas, we’ll go through these two scenes again ,” said the director, and with a wave of his hand the actors returned to their original positions.

"I'm bored!" Violetta whispered. "I'm going for a walk."


CHAPTER FOURTEEN



"What are you doing?" I asked Violetta as we walked out into the theater lobby. "The actors are re-running two scenes for me, and I'm forced to drag myself along behind you?"

"No one is forcing you, Mr. Writer," Violetta replied. "Life is short, and I don't want to spend a single minute of my time in a place where I'm bored."

"Why, my child, are you bored at the performance of my play?" I asked, feeling offended. "All of Paris is applauding me, and yet you are bored? Are you saying that my play is that bad?"

“I can’t judge the play whether it’s good or bad, because I didn’t finish watching it, but I didn’t like what I saw, I don’t agree with it, and if they listen to your comments, it will become even more boring,” Violetta answered.

"Really?" I asked, a little hurt and even angry. "Perhaps you'll grant me the privilege of listening to your suggestions on how the actors can improve their performances in these two scenes?"

“Easy!” Violetta replied. “First of all, you’re letting the audience read the entire essence of the drama from the very first scenes! Is that right? You’ve shown the audience that Charlotte is a calculating and dishonest woman. She’s only feigning love; she’s trapped the poor Viscount. The actress plays her deliberately in a negative light. It’s clear the actress herself doesn’t love her character! In that case, she’s a bad actress! An actress shouldn’t act, but live the role. She should feel every word, every gesture, and then it should all flow from her so naturally, as if she weren’t playing a role, but simply living on stage and reacting to what’s happening in a way that’s completely natural for her character, her mood, and her calculations. So, Charlotte must first love herself. I’m talking about the actress representing her image! And what kind of name is Charlotte! It’s not suitable for a villain!”

“Why is that?” I asked.

"These days, the name Charlotte is associated with Charlotte Corday!" Violetta replied. "Just as the name Jeanne is associated with Joan of Arc."

– But then both the names Maria and Anna are prohibited, because her full name is Marie Anna Charlotte Corday! – I objected.

"The people know her only as Charlotte Corday; they don't remember her other names," Violetta countered. "If her parents named their daughter Charlotte, they saw her as a future selfless heroine; they must have instilled in her the feelings they value above all else."

“My Charlotte is an orphan!” I objected.

"That doesn't change anything," Violetta replied. "Everyone treats Charlotte the way she should be treated. Even if her name wasn't chosen by her parents, but according to the calendar, according to her baptismal date. Charlotte will remain Charlotte, not whoever you imagine here."

"What do you propose we call my heroine?" I asked.

"Anne, for example ," said Violetta. "Anne de Beyle would be wonderful. Your Viscount, as I understand it, relies heavily on the nobility of those with whom he associates. It's terrible, but that's a trait of your Athos. Your Milady's character is pure Anne! And the name de Beyle would explain why the Viscount is considering marrying her. She's poor, admittedly, but the name de Beyle elevates her in his eyes!"

"What's so lofty about the name de Beyle?" I asked.

"The de Beillys are relatives of the King of France ," said Violetta. "One of the Beillys , namely Anne de Beilly, was the wife of Bellegarde , a close friend and relative of Henry IV , as Tallemant des R;aux wrote .

“That doesn’t tell me anything,” I waved it off.

"Then perhaps the name Antoine de Bourbon-Beyle, Count de Moret, illegitimate son of King Henry IV of France and his mistress, Jacqueline de Beyle, Countess de Moret, who received the title of Marquise de Wardes in 1617 through her second marriage to Ren; II Crespin de Bec, means something to you?" asked the little scoundrel.

“No!” I cried. “You can’t know that!”

"I have an excellent memory and I am very interested in your novels, Mr. Writer!" said Violetta. "If it weren't for your novels, do you think I would have come to you in the middle of the night? Would I have stayed the night? Would you have gotten everything you wanted from me the very next day if I hadn't been a passionate admirer of your writing talent?"

“Oh my God!” I exclaimed, shocked to the depths of my soul.

"Your Viscount might well have neglected his wealth to become related to the King," my implacable tormentor continued. "He might not even have been certain that these were the de Beylles , but hope alone, reinforced by youthful ardor and his conviction that true beauty is found only in noble people, would have done the rest. Finding this lady extremely beautiful—that is, refined—your Viscount would easily have believed that Anne de Beylle was descended from those de Beylles who are related to the King. And in that case, he could not provide his father with proof of such a relationship, but he could still hope for himself that it did exist! This would explain his stubbornness in wanting to marry Anne, even against his father's wishes. Let me remind you, dear author, that in your novel, The Three Musketeers, your Athos is extremely old-fashioned and believes that a father's will is law for a nobleman's son. Why, then, does he so readily violate these rules?

"Because this understanding came to him over the years, when he himself got burned by his own mistaken choice!" I replied.

"People are reluctant to admit their mistakes, even when they become obvious to everyone," Violetta countered. "Athos will never admit that he made the wrong choice, or that he was utterly blind. He will believe for the rest of his life that he did the right thing, but was simply deceived. Therefore, the blame lies entirely with her, your Charlotte, or, excuse me, Anne de Beyle."

“But the novel has already been published!” I said. “Even you’ve already read it!”

"Just a magazine version!" Violetta objected. "There will be a book edition, and reprints. Add Anna de Beyle to the list of many names, and everything will be fine. Besides, we're not talking about a novel, but a stage drama! Not everything has to match!"

"Okay, I'm willing to add Anne de Beyle to Charlotte Buckson's list of names," I agreed. "But I have one condition."

"Which one?" Violetta asked.

"You're coming to work for me as a secretary ," I said. "You'll proofread my novel drafts and make notes in the margins. No, you'll discuss all your ideas with me, as well as anything you don't like."

“Then I’ll have a condition too ,” Violetta said, pursing her lips.

"What?" I asked, afraid she would name an outrageous fee.

"We'll discuss all these edits to your novels in your bed, or in mine ," she said with a sly squint. "Naked, under the same blanket."

"Damn it!" I exclaimed. "I'll make the changes. You're my secretary. From this very minute! No, from yesterday!"

“Now about the maid and the servant,” continued my young tormentor.


CHAPTER FIFTEEN


"Okay, what did you dislike about the maid?" I asked.

"After all, I suppose you intended this to be the same maid with whom young d'Artagnan later had an affair to get closer to Milady?" Violetta asked.

“It’s quite possible,” I agreed.

"Absolutely impossible!" Violetta objected. "If so, then this maid, as this assumption implies, will remain Milady's maid even after her marriage to the Viscount. But in that case, she will be aware of the denouement, that the Viscount attempted to murder her and faked his own death. After such events, any maid would run as far away from such masters as possible, their heels shining. Unless this maid harbors some special weakness for her mistress, so much so that she would pull her out of the noose and flee the Viscount's accursed house with her. So think and decide. If this is the same maid, she is not so much a maid as a friend and confidant. In that case, their intimate relationship should be shown. In other words, the entire plot in this part should be rewritten. Or, at the very least, she should have the utmost respect and devotion for her mistress." But be aware that you'll then have to explain why Milady will sour their relationship in the future that they'll both secretly do each other dirty tricks. Although I admit, the story of how the maid saved Milady could have been interesting if their relationship had developed. So, in that case, this maid is an active participant in the events. She deserves more attention.

"I hardly have any interest in developing the relationship between Milady and her maid ," I said. "I didn't develop the relationship between Anne of Austria and Marie de Chevreuse, I didn't explore the relationship between Marie Antoinette and Princess de Lamballe in The Queen's Necklace! So how could I possibly describe something similar about some Milady and her maid?"

"Well , not a bad idea!" I thought. "Maybe someday I'll write a story about how Milady's maid rescued her from the noose, and how Milady repaid her for this service!"

"Yes, you're not as bold as the Abb; Bourdeille , or rather , Brant;me , or the Marquis de Sade, or even Madame Marie-Madeleine de Lafayette," Violette remarked. "You're even more modest than the Duke Fran;ois de La Rochefoucauld. Well, if you want the viewer to ignore the maid, then instead of shyly retreating into the shadows, she should behave like any other maid. Let her, in her mistress's presence, demonstrate her busyness in every way possible: straightening the pillows, dusting, wiping the window, or just lightly adjusting things, or better yet, a little of everything. She can bring wildflowers, place a bouquet on the table, fill a vase with water from a jug, and so on. In short, in her mistress's presence, she should demonstrate her indispensability and at the same time respect, that is, always remain facing her." After all, her salary depends on it! Incidentally, when her mistress turns away from her, she might make faces or other gestures that indicate she secretly considers herself no less than her mistress.

"Why do you think the maid considers herself as inferior to her mistress?" I asked.

“All maids and all servants are like that,” answered Violetta.

“Perhaps!” I agreed. “And what about the servant named Grimaud?”

"A young servant who only sees his master, and then suddenly a beautiful young woman appears, who will very likely become the Viscount's wife," Violetta continued. "And this young woman has a very pretty maid! Think about it! If the master is chasing the mistress, why shouldn't the servant chase the maid? It's perfectly logical."

“Not necessarily,” I objected.

"Yes, not necessarily," Violetta agreed. "But it's unlikely he'll be indifferent to the situation and the maid herself. Either he'll show interest, which is entirely understandable, or he'll, let's say, feign indifference or even contempt, if he doesn't like the maid herself and doesn't want the Viscount to marry her. Or, ultimately, he's observing to form his own opinion and draw his own conclusions, and then perhaps even influence the master to make the decision he desires. And finally, the fourth possibility is that the servant is so well-trained that he doesn't betray his true feelings in any way."

“It was precisely the last option, the fourth, that I had in mind ,” I said.

"Nonsense, my dear author!" Violetta objected. "He's untrained, because he's excessively talkative; he tells details about his master that shouldn't have been told. After all, the Viscount hardly commissioned Grimaud to tell all this casually! Remember what he said!"

"I don't remember the scenes I wrote well enough to quote them from memory ," I said. "You're my secretary, my dear, so you remind me of these phrases!"

"Easy!" said Violetta. "Here are his lines. 'I brought a letter from the Vicomte, the door was open, I did not want to ring for fear of disturbing Mademoiselle; I went in and waited.' 'Prudence will probably not allow the Vicomte to come.' 'The Vicomte is at odds with his father.' 'The old gentleman wishes to introduce the Vicomte to Mademoiselle de La Luc;e...' And then, when Charlotte makes the assumption: ' That beautiful orphan, who is said to be the richest heiress in the province,' he confirms: 'Correct!' That is, he imparts to Charlotte a great deal of personal information about the Vicomte's family affairs without his permission. If the Vicomte had wanted Charlotte to know about his quarrel with her father over their differing views on his marriage, he would have preferred to tell her about it himself rather than let her find out about it from a servant! Remember that your Athos is a man, as you say, noble, that is, arrogant, haughty, a snob, who in no way considers his servant his equal, and, consequently, does not consider him equal to the one he has chosen as his future wife!

“I guess,” I muttered.

“I haven’t remembered all of Grimaud’s phrases yet!” Violetta continued. “Here are some more of his statements: ‘The Vicomte declined this acquaintance… Under the pretext that he felt no desire to marry. So he didn’t go to La Lusse … And he returned here… Do you understand?’ How would a servant know what the Vicomte was interested in and what he wasn’t, and why he was telling this lady all this? And here’s another phrase of his, in which he meddles in matters that don’t concern him: ‘Trouble! Mademoiselle, your brother has been gone for six months… That’s a long time for peasants… Six months without mass!’ And only the last phrase doesn’t deserve my condemnation; he simply asks: ‘Will Mademoiselle give me the answer?’ And, by the way, after he addressed her formally, addressing her in the third person isn’t very polite.” He should have either always addressed her in the third person, or, if he had dared to speak to her not indirectly but directly, using the formal "vous," he should not have withdrawn himself again without reason. This could only have happened if some third party, noble and influential, had suddenly appeared, if Grimaud had wanted to conceal from them the fact that he had dared to address Mademoiselle as "vous," that is, to engage in dialogue with her. Addressing her in the third person is a deliberate lack of dialogue, when one asks only what is necessary. This is the way majordomos or the overly disciplined servants of English lords speak.

“That’s funny!” I said with a laugh. “I never thought about that!”

"I already said he's excessively talkative, and therefore such a servant should be fired immediately ," Violetta said. "Admit it, my dear writer, that you yourself would have fired such a servant. And the Viscount would probably have ordered him to be flogged!"

"I won't deny it ," I said. "But hurry, my secretary. You see, the assistant director has signaled to me that it's time to move on to the next scene, which I, as the author, must oversee, and you, as my secretary. So even if you get bored, you're not free to leave the rehearsal. Work doesn't have to be fun; no employer guarantees that!"

“Let’s go, Mr. Chief ,” said Violetta and resolutely opened the doors to the hall.

Upon seeing me, the director sighed with relief and gave the signal to begin the third scene, which featured Charlotte and the Vicomte, the future Athos. Let me once again refer to the characters, not the actors playing them.

Viscount: I saw you from afar, Charlotte. Why did you leave as I approached?

Charlotte: I came out to meet you.

Viscount: Really? Thank you... (Kisses her hand).

Charlotte: You're later than usual today...

"That's how we women turn a courtesy call into an obligation," Violetta whispered to me. "And at the same time, we reproach him for being late, which means he's negligent in his duties! Bravo, author!"

Viscount: I wrote to you... Did Grimaud deliver my letter?

Charlotte: Yes... You are kind to me, Mr. Viscount, too kind.

Viscount: Too kind?.. Giving you a hovel... You deserve to live in a palace.

"She belongs in a barn or a brothel!" Violetta whispered.

Charlotte: Oh! I say what I think, and I repeat, you are too kind, Viscount. I am grateful to you for your offer. But, forgive me, I cannot agree...

"That's how you achieve more after you've already received more than you deserve!" Violetta continued.

Viscount: You can't agree? Why are you always embarrassed when accepting anything from me!

Charlotte: Oh! I would have accepted anything from you when you were my master, but… I am leaving this land, Monsieur de la Fere. It must be so. I must.

"Fishermen call it hooking," Violetta whispered. "To hook a fish better, you tug on the line, as if taking the bait from the fish before it's decided whether to take it or not. Seeing its prey slip away, the fish can't resist! Without a second thought, it lunges after it, grabs it as tightly as it can, and swallows it whole!"

Viscount: Are you giving up this house? Are you to leave this land? What are you saying, Charlotte? Explain... Why are you running away? Are you running away from me?

"He insists she air all her grievances!" Violetta continued in a whisper. "Charlotte certainly doesn't suit her! That predatory Anna, or at least Catherine, Elizabeth, Sophia, Joanna, Maria, or Eleanor!"

“Shh!” I cut her off. “You’re preventing me from listening!”

“You already know the lyrics, and you don’t have to listen to the words to appreciate the performance,” Violetta objected.

"I should have named Charlotte Violetta!" I hissed.

In response, Violetta straightened up proudly and, it seemed to me, was quite pleased with my comparison.

“At least your lady is not as stupid as your Viscount ,” she said proudly, as if she were speaking for both herself and Charlotte, whose side she had unexpectedly taken.

Meanwhile, the action continued.

Charlotte: Because the appearance of a young, unknown girl, poor, without a future, became an obstacle to a nobleman of your rank and dignity.

Viscount: What do you mean, Charlotte?

Charlotte: The Viscount does not wish to marry Mademoiselle de La Luc;e, who is young, beautiful, noble... and whose fortune would double your income.

Viscount: So you know this, Charlotte? You also know that I refused, don't you?

"Why repeat the obvious?" Violetta grumbled. "I'd throw that Viscount out! He's too stupid for me! However, the idea of fooling him first is perfectly clear to me!"

Charlotte: Yes, and that is why I no longer suffer; by leaving here I will spare you the disobedience of your father and myself the pangs of conscience, because I will no longer interfere with your well-being...

"The bait is an innocent victim, the fish is already on the hook!" whispered a satisfied Violetta.

A shiver ran down my spine. I realized that perhaps she wasn't talking about the theatrical performance at all, but about our relationship!

"Well, I like being on this line!" I thought. "If I swallowed the bait and the hook, it's my own fault, and I blame no one else. I accept my fate with a special, perverse pleasure!"



CHAPTER SIXTEEN


"You started in the wrong place," Violetta whispered. "You should have started with the scene of the Viscount's chance encounter with Charlotte. During a hunt. He met her with her brother. They chatted politely. Finally, before parting, she was extremely sweet to him and informed him that the man accompanying her was her brother. After that, the Viscount imagined all sorts of things about her.

“And he shares his delight with Grimaud,” I continued.

"Ugh, an author!" Violetta objected. "A viscount suddenly confides his innermost feelings to a servant? What are you saying? He must have a friend, of the same rank, also a young viscount, or at the very least, a baron. Let's say Pompon de Belli;vre , the grandson of Philippe Hurot de Cheverny , the owner of the Ch;teau de Cheverny near Blois! He had three sons: Anne, Philippe, and Henri, all of them Hurot de Cheverny . Let's say Henri's younger brother. His son Philippe, let's say, could very well have been a friend of your viscount."

"You'll write all this down for me this evening, but now let's watch and listen!" I said, since we'd already missed a couple of lines, fortunately not very important to the development of the plot; they were just the Viscount and Charlotte exchanging exclamations: " Viscount: Listen to me, mademoiselle!" - "Charlotte: Viscount!"

Meanwhile, the Viscount came close to Charlotte, as stated in the stage directions, and began his monologue.

Viscount: Listen to me, I beg you! More than a year has passed since you arrived here. You arrived with your brother in 1620, when I and many nobles from the province went to the aid of the King's army, which was then besieging Angers. Louis XIII was at war with the Queen Mother. Three months later, when the Bishop of Lu;on concluded a truce, I returned to the castle. Everyone here spoke of a brother and sister who loved each other very dearly.

Charlotte winced.

Your devotion to your brother was like a sacrifice, for Georges Backson's sullen and unsociable disposition deprived you of the opportunity to be in society, where your intelligence, your youth and your beauty would have created a position for you... Admit it, this sacrifice did not make you happy.

Charlotte: That's not true!

Viscount: I saw you... I fell in love with you...

"Oh, my God!" Violetta grumbled. "I'm drooling and sniveling! A man shouldn't be so soft! He shouldn't be rude, but he shouldn't be a wimp either. He should have walked up to her, looked her in the eyes, and said, 'Will you be my wife?' What could be simpler?"

Charlotte (rising and taking a step towards him): Viscount!

Viscount: Allow me to continue! You are so chaste, so young, so pure! Let me say all that I must say! For five whole months, you and your brother adamantly and sternly refused the help I offered you. The abbot stopped visiting the castle, where my father and I vainly invited him; he avoided us... When you accidentally glanced at me, it seemed to me that he was reproaching me, as if for some crime... Yet you had no reason to hate me... After all, I never once told you that I loved you!

Charlotte: Sir!

“If I were her, I’d probably take a nap until this verbal stream ends,” Violetta grumbled.

Viscount: And then, suddenly, an unexpected event changed your life... One night, when all was quiet and peaceful, an unusual noise was heard near your house. The villagers heard the hooves of horses. The next morning, they learned that your brother had disappeared.

Charlotte: Oh! My lord, believe me...

"Author, my dear, you want to tell the audience about past events, but you must admit, it's absurd for the Viscount to tell them to someone who already knows it all!" said Violetta. "It would be more logical if he told it to someone who doesn't know about it."

I motioned to her to be quiet and listen.

Viscount: I'm not asking for anything, Charlotte. I came to you only to tell you what I'm saying. Since your brother's disappearance, you've lived alone, abandoned by everyone... I love you even more since I learned of your misfortune. Six months have passed since you deigned to receive me... In these six months, you've become more kind to me, and I'm grateful to you for that. Tell me, Charlotte, have I ever shaken your hand without thanking you for it, as if it were a favor? Have I ever spoken to you of love without receiving forgiveness in your eyes? Finally, have I ever asked you who you are, where you came from, and why your brother disappeared...


"Author, this is too much!" Violetta protested. "He just said he'd never told her he loved her before, and now he claims he did, many times, but only after receiving forgiveness in her eyes! So did he tell her he loved her or didn't he?!"

Charlotte: No, sir. You were to me the same as you are to everyone you know. That is, the most honest and most generous nobleman in the kingdom.

Viscount: Thank you... Now you see, Charlotte, that what I ask you is not idle curiosity at all. Charlotte Buckson, tell me everything today with a clear heart... Can you do that?

Charlotte: Do you want to know where I come from?

Viscount: Yes, a few words about you, your brother, your family. Everything that your friendly frankness reveals to me will be kept in the depths of my heart as a personal secret. Do you wish this? And I repeat: can you?

"What a twist!" Violetta said ironically. "He first confessed his love to her, and then asked, 'Who exactly are you?'"

"Stop, stop the rehearsal!" I demanded loudly. "Violetta, this is impossible! I'm not Gaius Julius Caesar! I can't listen to you and the actors at the same time!"

“If I’m in the way, I’ll leave,” Violetta said obediently.

"But I want to hear everything you tell me, and everything that happens on stage!" I objected. "If you can't wait until the break to comment, we'll rehearse in short bursts."

"But, Monsieur Dumas, that's impossible!" the director objected. "The premiere is tomorrow! Have you forgotten? We have to run through the entire performance without interruption. This is a dress rehearsal! We've already had to stop before the intermission! This is a violation of all procedures, it's ruining my schedule! It's throwing the actors off track!"

"Okay, no more interruptions, just give me the script and I'll make the most necessary edits!" I said.

The director handed me the script in complete bewilderment.

I began furiously scribbling and writing in the margins, after which I returned the scribbled-out script to the director.

"Charlotte, from now on you are Anne de Beyle ," I said. "This is not up for discussion, it's final, there are very few revisions to the text. Please continue. I won't interrupt you anymore."

I sat down, extremely agitated and irritated. Violetta gently placed her hand on mine. I felt the warmth and tenderness of her touch. I wanted to immediately return to yesterday, or rather, to yesterday evening and its nightly continuation. I gently covered Violetta's hand with my own and whispered in her ear: "See, you wretch, I've completely fallen under your influence! Stop whispering in my ear. According to the agreement, the discussion of the play must take place in bed with me, naked and under the same blanket. So let's not deviate from the terms of our agreement!"

Violetta smiled. The rest of the rehearsal went like clockwork. Violetta didn't whisper a word in my ear, the actors performed magnificently, but I thought my play was atrocious! I really wanted to get up, go up to the director, snatch the script from him, and tear it into a thousand little pieces. But I had a contract! And, by the way, some of the money from that contract had already been spent on renting the apartment for Violetta and me, where yesterday's miracle had occurred, and on her outfits, as well as on the jasmine-scented Cologne water, which incredibly enhanced my experience of that magical evening. I'll definitely have to include in the contract that Violetta continue to use this Cologne water!


CHAPTER SEVENTEEN


That evening, Violetta fully assumed her duties as my secretary, strictly adhering to the amendments she had made to our oral agreement, which, as you know, is sometimes executed more accurately than any written contract.

I confess I almost forgot about her amendment, even though I'd been excited about it all day. I simply felt awkward reminding her of this piquant detail of our agreement.

"Violetta, my child, here we are alone, and now no one will stop me from telling you the harshest words about my play, everything you think of it ," I said. "I will not interrupt you, and I have seen and appreciated in you a connoisseur of dramatic art, although I cannot imagine where this gift comes from."

  "The washerwoman who lived next door had a daughter, Paulette , younger than me, who was like a little sister to me, and we often played with dolls, where I moved the dolls and spoke for them in different voices ," Violetta said. " Polette demanded new stories every time, and I couldn't read, because I was only eight years old! I began to observe people and make up my own stories. Then we began to observe and make up stories together. Very soon, I learned to read and read a lot of books. I especially liked dialogue in books, so I read a lot of plays until I came across your play, The Three Henris. It captivated me completely. After that, I became a fan of yours and read everything you ever wrote.

“Where did you get these books, my child?” I asked.

"My mother knew an old man who was a library caretaker for a wealthy bourgeois," Violetta replied. "He supplied us with books, without the owner's knowledge, on the condition that we handle them with extreme care. But one day, Paulette accidentally tore a book. After that, the old man got angry with us and said we wouldn't get another one. But a week later, he gave me another book. He said the owner never read his books, so he didn't notice."

"That's why you're so well-read ," I said. "But you couldn't have gotten the story about the nobleman from Blois from my books!"

"I've read more than just your books," Violetta replied. "But I liked yours the most. And when I accidentally discovered that my favorite author lived next door to me... You understand that our meeting wasn't a coincidence."

Paulette now ?” I asked.

"We moved to Paris, but she stayed where we lived before ," Violetta said. "I don't know anything about her. I hope she's happy."

“I hope so too ,” I said. “Well then, let’s get down to discussing my play, as agreed.”

“As you say,” Violetta answered.

"We stopped discussing it right here, in the middle of the third scene ," I said. "The Viscount confirmed to Charlotte that he would like to know about her origins."

I began to read aloud: " Charlotte (moves to the left wall, to the cabinet and picks up the parchment): Here is everything about me and my family... Here are the documents that will answer your questions. Read, Mr. Viscount, and you will see that Charlotte Buckson is of noble birth, though not the most noble. As for my brother, his secrets are not mine."

"My dear boss, you're breaking the terms of the agreement ," Violetta said with a smile. "We're supposed to do this lying in the same bed, naked."

"Do you think I can talk about all these viscounts, Charlottes, and other fictional characters in this setting?" I asked.

"I'll have to try," Violetta replied. "But in this form and in this state, you're unlikely to be as harsh with my opinion as if I were sitting across from you at the table!"

“Well, a deal is a deal, I’m ready,” I replied.

I removed my coat and shirt quite deftly, but felt awkward removing the rest. Meanwhile, Violetta unbuttoned her dress and took it off, standing right in front of me. I turned away out of delicacy.

"The contract doesn't prohibit you from watching me undress ," Violetta said with a laugh. "So to speak, putting on my work clothes."

"Eve's costume, you mean!" I replied, giving in to my curiosity.

Violetta undressed as if it were a show intended for the most discerning audience. By the time she was completely naked, I'd completely forgotten about my play. I hurried to get myself into a similar mood, which meant changing into Adam's suit and diving under the covers where she was already lying, warming our shared bed.

"Maestro, you forgot to bring the play!" said Violetta.

"Do you really want to discuss the text of a play that no one, including me, needs right now?" I asked, perplexed.

"Exactly so, dear writer, exactly so," Violetta confirmed her intention. "And I ask you not to pester your colleague with any immodest proposals before we finish today's work."

“And after that?” I asked, hoping she was joking.

"And after that too, because I won't take liberties with the boss!" Violetta replied.

"What if I fire you right after we finish our work today?" I asked.

"That's too complicated, and besides, you might change your mind about hiring me back, and I don't want that!" Violetta objected. "Fine, I agree to allow you your masculine liberties outside of working hours, that is, about an hour and a half after I begin performing my duties as secretary and part-time advisor."

“Advisor?” I asked again, surprised.

“Be glad, Mr. Writer, that I don’t demand that you hire me as your co-author,” Violetta replied.

“Co-authorship with me is expensive,” I replied. “One publisher once told me that he wouldn’t mind if my book featured not only my name, but also that of my, shall we say, assistant, G;rard de Nerval . ‘I can agree to that, but in that case your joint fee will be ten times less than your fee if only your name, Monsieur Dumas, were on the cover.’ And do you know what my friend G;rard de Nerval told me ? He said he preferred money. We agreed that I would pay him his share of the amount I could receive in royalties, provided his name wasn’t on the book. ‘Ten times the fee is better than my name on the book ,’ he said. ‘Fame is nothing, but I can do with money as I wish!’”

"And did he get his money?" Violetta asked.

“He received it in full and spent it on going to the Ottoman Empire!” I replied. “He’s doing very well there, judging by the chapters of his upcoming book, Journey to the East. He sent me some of these chapters. Very informative. I recommended that he publish the book under his own name. He said he’d prefer ten times the fee to have mine on it instead, but I declined the offer. I can’t put my name on a book to which I have no connection. I give the work its final polish. My edits to the rough chapters written by my assistants are often very strong, and they significantly improve the book.”

"I hope you'll be pleased with my edits too, Mr. Writer ," Violetta said. "You seem to have forgotten again why we're here under the same blanket?"

"I haven't forgotten at all, but do you know what the only emotion is that can overcome a man's sexual ardor?" I asked.

"Hunger?" Violetta asked. "Looking for sleep?"

"Neither one nor the other," I objected. "It's just smugness. The desire to show off! Especially in front of a woman I'm partial to! So I'm behaving like a real man!"

"I understand, maestro ," Violetta said. "But speaking of complacency and the desire to show off, the way you appeared before me now and last night, you have plenty to boast about even if you'd never written a line in your entire life. And unlike some men, you wouldn't have to justify it by saying it's cold in the room, making it difficult to fully appreciate all your virtues!"

“I know that, but how do you know that, my child?” I asked. “Have you had the opportunity to compare?”

"Only in comparison with the figures of ancient statues," Violetta replied. "Judging by the depictions of ancient heroes I've seen, you should have been called Hercules, not those pathetic imitation men who served as models for those heroes and gods."

"The ancient Greeks and Romans considered an exaggeratedly small penis the standard of male beauty," I thought. "Thank goodness she doesn't know that! And I don't intend to tell her that information!"


CHAPTER EIGHTEEN


I made another weak attempt to take advantage of the situation, but Violetta didn’t allow it.

"Read on, Monsieur Dumas!" she said. "I hope I can express my opinion out loud, not in a whisper? And you won't blame me for not being able to follow the actors' performance while listening to me!"

I pulled myself together and began reading from the place where we left off discussing it during the dress rehearsal.

Viscount: Very well, Charlotte, let's not talk about your brother anymore. But if we do return to it...

Charlotte: We will never return, sir...

Viscount (reading): William Buckson, gentleman of Wales…

Charlotte: This is my father!..

Viscount (reading): Anne de Bayle...

"You don't regret that edit you made today, do you?" Violetta asked.

"Not at all!" I replied, after which I managed to snatch a kiss from my tormentor's lips with impunity.

Charlotte: My mother... My older brother, from my mother's first marriage, had a small fortune that was owned by our family. My brother, the one you know, devoted himself to serving the church and took me in when my father and mother died.

Viscount: Yes... Your father in 1612... Your mother in 1615... Poor child...

Charlotte: Now you know everything, sir.

Viscount: So you are alone, Charlotte?

Charlotte: Alone in the whole wide world.

"You'd think the Viscount didn't know she was an orphan before he started reading?" Violetta asked. "And why would she be alone if she had a brother living with her? And that brother, to take her in and care for her, would have to be at least six or eight years older! And in that case, the Viscount shouldn't have been primarily interested in where and when Charlotte was born, but rather in why the brother abandoned his sister, don't you think? It casts suspicion on the girl! Perhaps she offended him somehow? And it's hardly fair to blame it on her brother's unpredictability, since, according to Charlotte herself, he took care of her when there was absolutely no one else to care for her."

I didn't hear any of this, because I was thinking only about the delightful neck of "my secretary" and hoping to turn the conversation in a more constructive direction - first kissing her there, then lower, then hugging and so on according to the pattern, completely obeying the instinct that does not fail us, at least while we are young.

"Dumas! Wake up!" Violetta said, patting my curly head. "Business first, and everything else second. Or else there won't be anything else today! You're not listening to me at all!"

“I’m sorry, darling, please repeat what you said?” I muttered.

“Okay, I’ll write it later, read on ,” Violetta said.

She actually wrote this down later, which is where I drew this phrase from at this point in my narrative. I continued reading.

Viscount: And no one who would have rights over you?

Charlotte: Nobody!

Viscount: And your heart is free?

Charlotte: I was hoping to tell you that I love you!

Viscount: Say it again – boldly, directly and honestly!

"What a stupid and offensive way to encourage a declaration of love!" said Violetta. "After all, it follows that the Viscount isn't convinced that what he just said was said frankly and honestly? And as for courage—it's all been said already. Saying 'I love you' for the first time requires a hundred times more courage than repeating it to the same person, especially at their request! Okay, read on!"

Charlotte: Mr. Viscount, I love you!

– Ooo-oo-oo-oo-oo! – commented Violetta. – “Monsieur Viscount, I love you!” How lovely! “And if you were a count, I would love you even more! But I wish you were a duke or a prince!” What a scene! Read on!

Viscount: Charlotte Buckson, do you wish to become my wife?

Charlotte: What are you saying?

“He wants to, you idiot! There’s nothing to ask!” Violetta grumbled. “But the proposal should have been made in reverse! When a viscount asks a girl of no family or tribe if she loved him, it’s impudent, because one might think he intends to take advantage of her, to make her his mistress. When a viscount proposes, it’s the greatest compliment any man can pay any woman! Many would have accepted such a proposal even without love! Yes, every one! In her position! She should have simply said: ‘I propose to you to become my wife. I hope you love me, or will love me very soon, and I will try to make it so. If you have reason to refuse, I will not ask you the reason for your refusal, but know that your refusal will greatly upset me. Perhaps I will never even be happy. So, do you agree or not?’ That’s all! And the matter would have been settled.” But why is he proposing against her father's wishes and even his clear resistance? And by the way! It's good that you corrected her name. Now, at least, it's clear that he only decided to propose after seeing a noble name and some documents stating that she is the legitimate daughter of a nobleman and his wife! By the way, what kind of document could that be? In your text, he reads some kind of parchment. In one document, it says that her parents are nobles, and that they died in different years, and the dates of their deaths are indicated? And why "died"? That is, not died of natural causes, but in different years! It's all somehow suspicious! I understand that one parent can die in an accident, and the other, some time later, simply from grief, from a loss of the will to live. But in that case, they don't say that the second parent died. Died! But not perished! The mother died three years after the death of the father. "Perished"! How strange. However, the viewer won't be so attentive as to be perplexed by such a trifle. Read on!

I read the following: “ Viscount: It is simple and natural, Charlotte… I love you, and you love me.”

I read the last words without looking at the paper. I looked at Violetta and said, as if speaking to myself and only to her: "I love you, and you love me."

“It’s repeating itself, but in this case it’s quite appropriate, go on ,” Violetta said.

I threw the script aside and repeated the lines again: “I love you, and you love me.”

“Go on!” Charlotte demanded.


CHAPTER NINETEEN



“We won’t move any further until you give your assessment of these words of mine ,” I said.

"I already said it was pretty good, so keep reading!" Violetta said.

“I can’t read, I threw the script on the floor ,” I said. “I just want to say again: ‘I love you, and you love me.’”

“If this isn’t the Viscount’s line from the script, but a line that the writer Dumas says to Violette Parisot, then…” Violette said slowly and fell silent.

“Then?” I asked.

“I didn’t tell you that I love you,” she replied capriciously. “What makes you think that?”

"Last night you were all mine, and now we're lying together in the same bed, wearing nothing but a shared blanket, and all this not only with your consent, but on your initiative!" I exclaimed. "Doesn't that give me the right to assume you're a little partial to me?"

"I'm not indifferent, that's true," Violetta agreed. "But I never said I loved you."

“Then say it!” I suggested.

"Why should I?" Violetta objected. "After all, I don't know if I love you. Perhaps this is just an infatuation? Or a fleeting attraction? I gave in to my desire, but does that prove my desire is eternal and all-consuming? It only proves that I'm not too strict with you, and with myself, and with what are called the rules of the world?" Maybe I just despise these rules because I despise this world itself, which has established such rules, according to which two hearts, yearning for each other, like your Romeo and Juliet, are not allowed to do what they desire with all their souls, but if a girl without a dowry, out of vile lust mixed with vanity, from the whim of a man who is not used to denying himself any joys, ends up in bed with some noble lord or rich man only because he desired it, this world does not condemn this at all! ? And if this "someone" is also a King, then everyone is simply delighted with the act of a girl who gave her innocence to this old lustful scoundrel, sitting on the throne only because his father sat on it before him?! And you, writer Dumas, write enthusiastic books about such a King, although the people of France have long since proven that they deserve a better government than a monarchy, and have paid dearly in blood for the right to live in a republic!

"Forgive me, my dear child, but many passions are burning within you today, but not at all those that would justify this shared negligee under the same blanket ," I said. "It seems that reading my plays is enough for today, and even more so this buffoonery with undressing and lying in bed together!"

"Am I disgusting to you?" Violetta asked. "Do you want to leave me?"

"I find you very pleasant!" I retorted. "I'm not at all eager to leave you, but you seem inclined to a completely different kind of communication."

“Nonsense!” replied Violetta. “Why do you absolutely have to hear me say those words that I intend to say to only one other person in my entire life? Why do you absolutely have to be the one person I will ever love? Are you prepared for me to be the only woman in your entire life, or is it enough for you to have me with you for a week, a month, a year, maybe two or three years? But not forever! Not for life! Do you really know yourself so well that you are convinced that your relationship with me will always be only love, and never anything else? Won’t you get angry with me over trifles? Won’t you start to feel burdened by my company when you long for solitude, or other company? Won’t you want to leave me for another woman? After all, for men, this is not so unusual. Almost all of you are like that!” And I don't demand that you swear eternal love, I don't make such vows a condition of our intimacy! You get everything you want. Any man would be satisfied with my body and wouldn't demand my soul to boot! But you demand my soul, without even having time to properly enjoy my body! Are my caresses not enough for you? Is it not enough for you to see me completely, to touch me completely and everywhere, to possess and command me? After all, I give you all of this! But you also need me to confess my love for you, that is, to promise you that in my entire life there has never been and never will be a person more important than you? Do you really need that?

“Yes,” I said.

“But then I can’t answer in the situation we find ourselves in,” Violetta replied. “I know that you men are ready to confess your love a thousand times to the woman who stands before you at this very moment. We are different. I can only confess my love first to myself, only when the object of this love is far away from me, when I can’t see it, can’t feel it with my whole skin. Until then, I can only say: ‘I like you, and I want you.’ No one has ever done to me what you have done and are doing. This is a new life for me. It is unforgettable. Even if we part in a second, you are my first man. And I will always remember you. It means so much. But can I tell you that you will always be my only thought, my only desire, the only light in my window?”

“What’s bothering you, my dear?” I asked.

"Remember the name of the main character in your novel, The Count of Monte Cristo?" she asked.

"There's nothing to remember!" I replied. "His name is Edmond d'Anth;s !"

"And what did you write about this name in mid-February 1837?" Violetta continued.

"My God, how can one forget such a thing?" I exclaimed. "I learned of the death in a duel of Russia's greatest writer, Alexander Pushkin! The man who killed him in that damned duel on February 10, 1837, was named d'Anth;s ! I said then that I would never have given that name to the hero of my novel if I had foreseen the indignation that would arise in the heart of every person who loved literature at the mention of that hateful name— d'Anth;s ! How do you know that?"

“I told you I read everything you wrote ,” Violetta said. “And much of it connected with it! I found information about this Pushkin in the newspaper. He married a girl who was only eighteen years old. She said she loved him! She bore him four children! Four! But then she met this d'Anth;s and fell in love with him. So much so that she neglected her duty as a good wife! She allowed d'Anth;s to hope for reciprocity! As a result, he began spreading rumors that he had entered Pushkin’s family not only in the sense of marrying his wife’s sister, but also in other ways. The rumors reached the poet, a duel took place, and the poet was gone. And so I ask you, Dumas, also a poet and even bearing the same name as this Pushkin, and, it seems, also a bit African, like him, I ask you: "Could an eighteen-year-old woman have known in advance everything that would happen to her? Could she promise to love only her husband, and firmly assert that she would never meet anyone else in her entire life?"

“She should be stricter ,” I said. “She should remember the duty of a decent wife.”

"That's not up for debate ," Violetta said. " It's undeniable. But I'm not talking about what she should have done, but about what happened to her! She fell in love! She loved someone else much more than her husband, the father of four children! It was a matter of the sudden feeling that took hold of her! And what happened to her gives me the right to say: Natalie Goncharova never loved Alexander Pushkin.

“I guess you’re right, my little one!” I said.

“I want you to be happy with me, just like Pushkin was happy with this Natalie for the first two or three years, but I don’t want you to die because of me ,” said Violetta.

“I won’t shoot myself because of you, if that’s what worries you ,” I said with what I thought was a kind smile.

"You can kill a person not only physically, but also emotionally," Violetta countered. "For example, by making them deeply unhappy. I don't want to be the cause of that. If I find out that everything that's happening between us now isn't love, and that true love will come later, and not with you, I don't want to be responsible for that, to you or to myself."

"My little one, you are smarter than any woman I know!" I said. "But that's not surprising. What's surprising is that it occurs to me that you must be smarter than me!"

"Nonsense, because my entire intelligence is the result of reading your books and reflecting on them, and nothing more ," said Violetta. "I can't say that I love you, but I think that to claim the opposite would be simply idiotic."

I took this phrase as a declaration of love and embraced Violetta, after which I tried to prove my love to her, and this time my actions not only did not meet with any objections from her, but even her response did not give me the slightest reason to doubt her tender feelings for me.

If I were not Alexandre Dumas, but Alexander Pushkin, my next chapter would consist of nothing but ellipses.


CHAPTER TWENTY


But since I am not Pushkin and I do not have such a strict censor (or perhaps I do, but I am not aware of it, and, consequently, the twentieth chapter may be removed from this novel), I will nevertheless provide some details that are of interest to my readers, male and female.


I daresay that if last time Violetta wasn't yet ready to experience these emotions fully and in all their depth, this time nothing prevented her from surrendering to this passion completely, instinctively making movements that helped me penetrate deeper into where the physical manifestation of these higher feelings is born, ignited, and spreads like a enchanting firework throughout her body. Now she was filled with passion, which made me feel like a hero.

Finally, in sweet languor, we moved on to gentle and soothing caresses, and then we felt complete peace.

"Would you like to return to discussing your play, Monsieur the Writer?" Violetta asked cheerfully.

"I'd prefer a cup of strong coffee with a splash of cognac," I replied, "but the thought of the cook showing up here now kills me."

"We'll manage without her services, just as we did last night and this morning," Violetta replied. "She's doing a pretty good job as a maid. Everything in the apartment is cleaned, she changed the bed linens, aired out both rooms, tidied up the kitchen, and even bought the necessary groceries from my list."

"You left her a list?" I asked, surprised.

“Of course, while you were washing and shaving, I made her a shopping list and wrote that her services were not required in the evening, so she could be free,” Violetta answered.

"By what right do you have the power to rule my apartment?" I asked.

“By the same right by which you command me in my bed,” Violetta answered.

There was nothing to say in response to this.
 
Violetta made us coffee. I drink coffee in the evenings too. And Violetta has developed this sleep-destroying habit. My dear readers, what made you think we were planning to sleep that night? What would you have done in our place?

I confess that Violetta was only very lightly dressed. What was draped over her shoulders could hardly be called clothing. Moreover, this transparent veil ended so high that her legs didn't even begin there, though they were slender and far from short. I admired the beauty of her body, unimpeded by this ephemeral cloak, as well as the beauty of everything else, which a cloak of such length would not have concealed even if it had been completely opaque, and the transparent robe merely indicated the direction in which my impartial gaze should be directed.

I can't call coffee an aphrodisiac , but the sight had an extremely powerful effect on me. A natural result of such contemplation was my desire to continue the close contact she had prescribed for her duties as my secretary.

"Shouldn't we resume our close communication again, now that we've been invigorated by coffee?" I asked in a moderately playful tone.

"You insist that your secretary work overtime?" Violetta asked. "And when do you think I should sleep?"

“If you want to sleep, sleep, and I’ll sit next to you to admire you ,” I said.

"Why sit when you can lie down, especially at night?" Violetta objected. "No, I don't want to sleep." "I'm just clarifying my secretary duties."

"By the way, you were hired yesterday, as you may recall, but we didn't discuss my play yesterday!" I joked.

"That won't do!" Violetta protested. "You're demanding overtime for time already worked. I don't need the money, I need the principle!"

“Okay, let it be considered overtime work as a secretary, for which I will give you leave in six days ,” I said.

"Why in six days?" Violetta asked.

“So that on your birthday you can belong only to yourself and spend this day the way you want,” I answered.

“Oh, yes, it’s my birthday ,” Violetta said without much joy.

"What is it, dear?" I asked. "Did you lie to me yesterday about turning sixteen next week?"

"Of course I lied!" Violetta replied. "Not in a week, but in a month and a half. And not sixteen years, but…"

"Shut up!" I cried. "I don't want to know! I hope you were understating your age, not exaggerating it!"

“Of course, Monsieur Writer, calm down, you are not in danger of being prosecuted, everything is fine,” Violetta answered.

"You seem to be in a bad mood?" I asked. "Can I guess the reason for this change?"

"I'm fine," Violetta replied, dispelling all my suspicions with a gentle smile. "I'm just calculating how many days I'll have to wait to take a day off for today's assault on my virginity. Will you grant me the day off in six days, or will you wait until my actual birthday?"

"As you wish, my dear," I replied. "I'll give you two days off, on both specified days. But what pressure are you talking about?"

"The one whose beginning we're both witnessing," Violetta replied playfully. "Keep a close eye on yourself. You're about to turn into an unstoppable lion!"

And she began to slowly remove her transparent cape, moving like a prowling panther.

Well, she turned out to be quite a fortune teller. After her actions, I really did launch a lion's attack, for which I happily promised to give her two days off.

Like the lion, I dispensed with foreplay, but unlike the lion, I wasn't as laconic as that proud predator can be. My assault on her defenses was much more protracted, so by the end of the horizontal dance, we were both exhausted and happy. Despite the coffee we'd drunk, we fell asleep in each other's arms almost immediately afterward. Meanwhile, my play, with her notes, lay on the floor, forgotten by both of us. Whatever one may say, it's nice to be a writer when your thoughts and feelings, set down on paper, can awaken love in the heart of a young and beautiful girl. But one can't remain a writer forever, when the situation and circumstances demand that a writer be only a man!


CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE



The next morning I woke up and realized again that Violetta had beaten me to it. She was sitting in a chair, wearing a translucent robe, leafing through my script.

"Listen, Dudu!" she said. "Why did you introduce Athos's servant Grimaud into your play about his youth?"

"Who are you calling Dudu?" I was indignant.

"We're lovers, and we've been for a while now ," Violetta said. "Dumas is too formal. I thought about just calling you Du, but that's too short. So I thought Dudu would be just right."

"You wretch, then I'll call you Vivi!" I said, feigning indignation.

"I was just about to suggest that to you ," Violetta said without a hint of surprise or embarrassment. "So you haven't answered my question, dear."
 
"Why does Grimaud's presence bother you?" I asked, surprised. "After all, Grimaud is Athos's servant! Why not assume he served him back when he lived with his father?"

"Come on, my dear, pull yourself together and think!" Vivi, whom I will call by that name from now on, asked capriciously. "Athos wanted to commit suicide, but then decided to just pretend he was dead and went off to Paris, where he signed on as a musketeer under a false name, revealing his true identity only to the captain of the king's musketeers, de Treville, isn't that right?"

"Exactly so, my child, you know my novels very well, as I have been convinced of many times!" I confirmed, kissing first the hand extended to me, and then the lips of the young mischievous girl.

"Wouldn't the disappearance of the servant also be highly suspicious and surprising?" Vivi continued. "When a man disappears, and his clothes are found on the shore of a pond, one might well suspect that he drowned when no one was looking. But for both master and servant to drown at the same time—that's highly suspicious, dubious. In that case, Athos's father might suspect that Grimaud robbed and murdered him. A thorough search would be launched, because it doesn't look like suicide at all. If Athos's father could order no search, believing his son drowned in the pond, then if two people, including the servant, disappeared, Athos's father probably wouldn't bother trying to suppress unnecessary rumors! On the contrary, he would be burning with the desire to find the scoundrel servant and punish him, to avenge this misfortune. If only Athos had disappeared, the Count, believing it to be suicide, would have preferred to ignore the fuss, since suicide is frowned upon by the Catholic faith. His body, if found, would not have been buried in the consecrated ground of the church cemetery; it would not even have been allowed to be interred in the family vault. In such a case, the old Count would have declared his son drowned, a funeral service would have been held for him, and perhaps even mud dredged from the bottom of that pond would have been added to the grave.

"So Athos only found Grimaud as his servant after he left his father's house?" I asked.

“Of course!” Vivi replied. “Your novel repeatedly mentions Athos as being as noble as Dandolo or Montmorency! The name Count de la F;re indicates that his family owned the city of La F;re, a very large city in those days. In that case, he was indeed a person of great rank. Even if his family hadn’t yet inherited Bragelonne, such a noble young man simply couldn’t have gotten by with just one servant. At the same time, remember how Athos treats Grimaud. Like a humble servant, hired for money, not at all seriously, and not even for long. And at first, we don’t see Grimaud showing much devotion to his master. So this Grimaud we find in The Three Musketeers had no idea that his master was a nobleman, the Count de la F;re! That was evident at the siege of La Rochelle!” Grimaud refuses to join his master in defending the redoubt, and only his master's blows compel him to obey. He seems to be less than devoted to his master, serving only for the money, seeking any convenient opportunity to quit and find a better job where he would be paid more regularly, be fed more plentifully, and not be forced to carry weapons, sometimes even fight and occasionally treat his master's dangerous wounds! Only their long military history together transforms Grimaud into a loyal servant, seemingly ready to lay down his life for his master. If Grimaud had served Athos even before his flight, feigning suicide, if he had fled with him, then the relationship between Athos and Grimaud would have been different from the very beginning!

"Even if it's exactly as you say," I began, but seeing Vivi's disdainful look, I corrected myself. "Very well, my dear, I agree that it's exactly as you say, but you're missing the point of the theatergoer. The people who will come to the performance are fans of my Musketeer trilogy, those who love Athos, d'Artagnan, Porthos, and Aramis. They'll come to see the youth of their favorite heroes. And they also love the secondary characters, they love my Grimaud. They'll be delighted to see Grimaud in this performance!"

"So you're willing to ruin your work, willing to write nonsense to please the most respectable public?" Vivi said with irony bordering on contempt. "Instead of cultivating higher taste in the public, you pander to the base needs of the crowd and cultivate primitivism and superficial judgment in your viewers!"

“Suppose I remove Grimaud and replace him with some Lebrun or Lorne ,” I said.

"The five Lebruns : Lorni , Duchet, Sarte , and Vogimo ," Vivi corrected me. "One of them will be a simple servant, another a groom, a third a falconer, a fourth will look after the hunting dogs, and the fifth will look after Athos's wardrobe and weapons."

I wanted to leave the apartment and slam the door, but I had nowhere to go, so I just silently went to wash and shave.

Women have a way of making us love them more and hate them more, sometimes alternately, sometimes simultaneously. And they find the most varied and extremely compelling reasons for this. That's why we hate such women more and more with each new argument, and love them more and more with each new reconciliation. What we really can't do is completely and decisively part with such women once and for all. I suspect that Violetta was much older than she appeared to me; she simply had that complexion that makes a woman appear much younger than she actually is. "What about your claim that you'd known her for two years, and that she was still a child when you first met?" my readers will ask, and they'll be right. "Explain this discrepancy to us!" There's no discrepancy here. There are complexions that make a woman of twenty, or even twenty-two, look like a teenager. It's rare that a woman like this would have looked practically a child two years earlier, but it does happen! This is my opinion, and I'm not forcing it on anyone.

Washing and shaving calmed me down somewhat, and I left the bathroom to go to Vivi with the firm intention of pretending that her words had not in the least hurt my pride as a widely known and beloved author.

"Darling, have you said everything you wanted to say about Grimaud?" I asked, as if nothing had happened.

“For now, yes, but I would like to discuss the old Count, Athos’s father,” Vivi answered.

“What don’t you like about him?” I asked.

"That's it," Vivi said curtly. "I suggest we continue reading where we left off. But first, we'll eat the breakfast I made and have some coffee."

The breakfast was magnificent, the coffee was wonderful, and I felt unfair to Vivi. Why should I take her comments to heart? They were, of course, worthless and even downright ridiculous in some places. But after all, it was I who had offered her the position of secretary, specifically with her interference in my work in mind. I had given her the unfounded hope that I seriously needed such advice—I, the author, whose opinion on dramatic works and adventure novels, as well as on all other genres, is the highest authority and final verdict in all of Paris! And yet my opinion is not a dictate to this little one! And I myself had encouraged this opinion in her! Well, I will gradually rein her in and put her back where she belongs!

"You were planning to continue reading, I thought?" I asked, adding a playful smile. "Do you remember the terms under which we discussed the text of my novel?"

"Let me clarify: this condition will only apply in the evening after sunset ," Vivi said in a peremptory tone. "Otherwise, we'll either never get out of bed or become slackers. In the morning and afternoon, we'll simply work, without touching each other. This will create a more businesslike atmosphere."

"Do you know, my child, that the terms of a contract are never changed by the will of just one party?" I asked, hoping to embarrass her.

“If you don’t accept my amendments to the contract, we will terminate the contract and I will go back to being a seamstress ,” Vivi said in such a confident voice that I almost believed that she was capable of doing just that.

“I accept your amendments only because I was about to propose something similar myself,” I lied.

Sometimes it is necessary to retreat in such a way that the enemy thinks that you are advancing.

We continued our reading from where we left off.

Charlotte: But your father?

Viscount: Listen, Charlotte! I ask you to trust me, and I ask you to make a sacrifice. If we announce our marriage, which does not meet my father's wishes, it will darken his last days. You will not demand that of me, will you? Will you consent to a secret marriage?

Charlotte: I am at your service, Viscount.

Viscount: On the very day I take the name Count de la F;re, you will become the esteemed Countess de la F;re! You know that my father is old, he is ill and suffering... You will not have to wait long, Charlotte!

Charlotte: Oh!

Viscount: Do you agree?.. And until that moment, our happiness will be hidden from everyone, in silence and obscurity. Listen! The new cur; arrived at the castle this morning; he is a friend of my childhood and knows all about my love for you. He has agreed to bless our union. Come to the church in an hour. The light will be burning in the chapel. I will offer you my hand, you will give me yours. We will swear eternal love to each other. I have a presentiment that in this simple country church, the Lord will receive our vows more favorably, perhaps, than He would receive the vows of kings in the glittering cathedrals! (He offers her his hand.)

Charlotte: My lord! My husband! (She gives him her hand.)

"I can't read this!" Vivi said, throwing the text on the table. "Dudou, your Viscount is counting on his father's imminent death for his happiness. He's promising a triumphant accession for his future wife as the Countess de La F;re, when he himself isn't yet the Count de La F;re! He's expecting a triumphant ceremony immediately after his father's death? He's counting on his father dying 'very soon'! Why, Dudu, do you call him 'noble Athos' in your novels, this vile and base man? He's disgusting!"

“But, my dear,” I said in amazement. “Aren’t you being too harsh in your assessments?”

"In your novel, you say Athos and Charlotte were married by her lover, who had taken holy orders illegally," Vivi reminded him. "And then suddenly we get some priest to whom Athos confessed his love for Charlotte before he'd even sorted out his feelings and before he'd spoken to her about them completely frankly? He's not a man, he's a wimp! A woman! A chatterbox! If the new priest is his childhood friend, he shouldn't have written that he'd informed the new priest that he could live at the castle; he should have written that the new priest is his friend and that he'd be his guest. It's all so illogical, so unnatural!"

"The audience won't notice it, just as I didn't notice it," I objected. "And, after all, the play isn't obliged to follow every word of the trilogy exactly!"

"Yes, it doesn't have to, but then it would lose a good three-quarters of its appeal!" Vivi countered. "Either you create an entire Alexandre Dumas world, in which characters wander from book to book, living through events that form a single chain of cause and effect, or you simply create a patchwork of books that are unconnected to each other except for the random coincidence of certain events and the intersection of characters."

"Well, you know, comparing my trilogy to a patchwork quilt is going too far!" I flared up.

"Forgive me, dear, I really did use too much of a metaphor ," Vivi said, coming up to me and kissing me tenderly on the cheek, then on the lips. "You've created an entire world! And it really hurts me when one little alley leads to the wrong place. Besides, being your secretary is new to me! After all, I've only been in this new position for three days! Correct my mistakes, and I'll learn from them!"

Well, what can you say? After such furious attacks, complete obedience and submission! Women really know how to twist us around their fingertips! I responded to her caresses, and for a while we flirted with each other completely wordlessly, and therefore without the slightest reason to quarrel.

I thought maybe I was too hasty in agreeing to her amendment to the contract! I wouldn't mind discussing the text of my play the way we did yesterday!


CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO



"I must go to the publisher ," I said. "Since I have ascertained that you have an excellent memory, we will discuss your proposals in the carriage on the way, and then you will write it all down on paper and give me your drafts."

“Yes, my lord ,” Vivi said in such a tone that I thought she would have made a wonderful actress after all.

She looked absolutely like an angel, who was so innocent that she was not even aware of the meaning of the words “kiss” and “hug”, which, of course, was not even close.

"How easily women can deceive us men!" I thought. "All it takes is a quiet, gentle utterance of a submissive voice, and we believe we're looking at innocence itself, and if she's also pretty, we're ready to swear an angel from heaven has descended to earth to tell us God's will!"

"Still, bring the play, a pen, and an inkwell," I added. "You can make notes in the margins if I ask you to."

“As you say, dear,” Vivi replied.

"One more show of submission like this, and this 'as it pleases', and I swear to heaven, I'll marry her!" I thought. "I'm positively going crazy about this little one!"

“I’ll wear a dress, but I won’t wear underwear ,” Vivi said.

“For what purpose?” I asked in surprise.

"To tease you," Vivi replied with a smile. "I'm sure the thought won't leave your mind for a minute!"

"Damn it, she's right!" I thought. "But I like the idea; it'll be hell of a lot of fun!"

“I can only imagine what would have happened to the publisher if he had known about this peculiarity of your attire ,” I said.

“Then tell him about it,” Vivi answered with a laugh.

"Are you crazy?" I exclaimed in fear.

"Your internal censor is stronger than your external censor, if there even is such a censor who would dare censor the novels of the great Dumas!" said Vivi. "You are more cowardly than Brant;me . Someday, a writer will be born in France who will describe everything that everyone knows, but in literature they pretend doesn't exist. And that writer will achieve greater fame than you have achieved."

"You're trying to irritate me and you're deliberately saying complete nonsense," I replied. "I'm not going to react to this. I'm going down to the carriage and I'll wait for you there. I hate standing in the doorway waiting for a woman to get ready to leave the house! There's no worse torture in the world! It seems like a woman has already gotten ready, but then she comes back for something else. Finally, she's already leaving, but then she comes back again for something else.

"I see you have a lot of experience with women," Vivi noted. "Get something smart and read it in the carriage while I get out."

“What exactly?” I asked.

"Of course, your favorite genre!" Vivi replied.

“Do I have a favorite genre?” I asked, surprised. “What is it?”

“Anything by Alexandre Dumas—that’s your favorite genre,” Vivi replied, handing me the very play we’d been discussing for the last few days.

While I was waiting for Vivi, I actually opened the play and got immersed in reading it.

Viscount: Here is a gift from your fianc;, Charlotte. These diamonds belonged to my mother. I am sure she would have blessed my choice, as pure and noble as she herself. Do not refuse me, Charlotte! This sapphire is a stone of sadness; she gave me this ring as she said her final farewell...

Charlotte (taking the case): Your wife thanks you... Olivier!..

Viscount: In an hour, I will await you in the chapel. The ringing of the bell will be your signal. Come there alone… Come there as you are, in ordinary clothes and without jewelry. After I have gone to pay my respects to my father—as is my custom every evening—I will return to the threshold of this house, which has become a true palace for me. My beloved will return to beg you to admit her husband. Goodbye, Charlotte, good-bye! (He kisses her hand and leaves.)

"I've reached the part where the Viscount gave Charlotte his mother's diamonds!" Vivi said, opening the carriage door and sitting down next to me. "Another stupidity on your Viscount's part! You should have shown them to her and told her he'd give them to her after the marriage."

"What difference does it make?" I asked. "She didn't deceive him, did she? She came to the chapel and signed the marriage contract!"

"That scrupulous viscount, who meticulously questioned Charlotte about her parents, proposed to her without even bothering to verify the authenticity of the documents presented to him ," Vivi said. "He could have made inquiries. He could have held off on the marriage until he was sure the documents were genuine."

“You don’t understand that he loved her so much that he believed her every word and wanted only one thing – to marry her!” I objected.

“What you don’t understand is that if that were the case, he wouldn’t have asked her who her parents were!” Vivi objected. “And if he did, then he’s already demonstrated that it wouldn’t have been enough for him if Charlotte had simply told him she was a noblewoman. He needed proof. He looked at and read the entire document provided to him. If you’re going to check, check; if you’re going to take someone’s word for it, then believe it. Why mix the two, demonstrating your mistrust without actually verifying anything? That’s the worst possible course of action! He could have at least said that with this document he’d try to convince his father to consent to the marriage! That’s quite a feat! She would have understood. But as it is, he’s demonstrated that he doesn’t value his father’s opinion, his will, or his final wishes, which he could still express in a will! After all, if he marries against his father’s wishes, his father can disinherit him and have it notarized!” And then Charlotte will never become Countess de la F;re, because the Viscount will never become Count de la F;re. Moreover, he might even cease to be a Viscount! Why quarrel with the old father? Wouldn't it have been better to promise Charlotte to marry after her father's death?

“But this marriage was supposed to be concluded secretly!” I objected.

"What a mystery!" Vivi retorted. "Using the local vicar, which means there's already a witness in this case, one of our mutual acquaintances, and besides, there will be other witnesses too! A marriage is concluded in front of witnesses, have you forgotten that? At least two! And then there are the diamonds! What if my father wants to see them? What if my father insists on marrying the girl he's chosen? How and what will the Viscount respond? Simply wait for my father to die? Is that noble, in your opinion? Oh, how noble Athos is, I just burst into tears!"

“But he loves Charlotte!” I objected.

“Every love goes through several stages ,” Vivi said. “The first stage is simply a whim, a desire that can easily be overcome if a person has sufficient willpower. A person who gives in to their urges and nurtures them as irresistible will claim to be so in love that their love is more precious to them than life itself. But life is the only way to experience love or not to experience it. By giving one’s life, one gives one’s love! So all vows to love more than life itself are lies. Claiming that one cannot resist love is a claim that one is unwilling to give up a whim. Today he loves one, tomorrow he’ll meet another and say that only now has true love come to him, and everything that came before was just infatuation! And so he can hop from one woman to another, ad infinitum! And there will always be an excuse: he fell in love, he couldn’t resist the most powerful feeling in the world, he couldn’t overcome love! Nonsense!” Nonsense! A person can overcome a lot if they want to. But they can't overcome anything at all if they're unwilling to fight their whims, if they pretend their whims are the strongest and most irresistible feelings! Do you know what I'll tell you, my dear author? If the Viscount, your vaunted Athos, truly loved Charlotte, he wouldn't care a damn about the brand on her shoulder! He'd pretend not to notice it. At worst, he'd ask where it came from and believe the first version she offered. And she, of course, would invent something to justify herself completely! Moreover, she could simply tell part of the truth, at least that the executioner forcibly branded her out of personal animosity, in retaliation, without having any legal right to do so! And that would be the truth! And if your Viscount truly loved Charlotte, he would believe her without a shred of doubt! He would have promised her to find the executioner and take revenge on him for this, and he would have kept his promise! That's how a truly loving man would behave!

“Stop the carriage!” I shouted to the coachman.

"Are you mad at me?" Vivi asked. "Are you going to drop me off? Do you want to break up with me? Am I fired? It's unseemly to be offended by the truth."

"I'm not angry, we've just arrived at the destination of our trip," I replied. "We've arrived at the publisher's house, which is where we were headed."

I got out of the carriage and offered my hand to Vivi.

Damn it, she's right! As she walked down the carriage steps, I caught a glimpse of her knees, and I thought with delight that Vivi was wearing nothing underneath her dress.


CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE


"What issue will you resolve with the publisher, Dudu?" Vivi asked.

"You'll see and hear everything yourself, just don't call me Dudu!" I replied. "If you call me Dudu even once in public, you'll be fired that very second!"

“Of course, Dudu,” Vivi answered.

The publisher met us at the door. I won't mention his name, as our relationship eventually soured, but not because of the events I'm writing about here. Don't get me wrong: life is sometimes long, very long, and friends from years past don't always remain friends for life. For the sake of clarity, I'll call him Shateren.

"Dear Monsieur Dumas!" exclaimed Chateren. "I am doubly pleased to receive you and your lady, especially such a charming mademoiselle!"

"Mademoiselle Violette Parisot has been working as my personal secretary for several months now," I lied, squeezing Vivi's hand lightly so she wouldn't reveal my little lie. "Mademoiselle Parisot, allow me to introduce you to Jean-Paul Chaterin , my publisher and friend."

But Vivi didn't need any warnings; she jumped right into my game.

"Pleased to meet you, Monsieur Chateren. I've been serving Monsieur Dumas for four and a half months," she declared without a trace of embarrassment. "Or rather, if you include my probationary period, it's five months and one week."

"What a wonderful memory!" Shateren marveled. "Don't tell me how much Mademoiselle Parisot is earning, or I'll be tempted to offer her double that and lure her over!"

"Monsieur Dumas signed a one-year contract with me, with no right of termination on my own initiative ," Vivi said. "And my salary, which I'm not at liberty to disclose, is such that it wouldn't be profitable for you to offer me double that. For that money, you could easily hire four secretaries. And another maid."

"Your boss has turned into a spendthrift?" Shateren asked in surprise.

"My boss has been offered a more lucrative contract than all his previous contracts," Vivi replied. "Perhaps it would be advantageous to terminate all other contracts, even if the penalties they contain are unreasonably high. However, forgive me, Monsieur Dumas, I shouldn't interfere in these matters."

"How interesting!" exclaimed Chateren. "And I was just about to offer Monsieur Dumas double his fee!"

Vivi pulled out a small quarto notebook that had appeared out of nowhere, opened it to the place where the bookmark lay, that is, far from the first page, took out a small lead pencil and pretended to be about to write something down.

"Sorry, I didn't hear you, you said 'triple,' didn't you?" she asked without a hint of embarrassment.

"Yes, yes, three times as much," confirmed Chateren. "I don't think Monsieur Dumas will terminate his contract with our publishing house."

"He'll make an exception for you, I'm sure of it!" said Vivi. "He's spoken so highly of you all these months that I've been looking forward to meeting you. Oh, forgive me, I seem to be interfering again where it's none of my business! I should have simply written down that Monsieur Dumas's contract with Monsieur Chaterin would be supplemented by an additional agreement under which Monsieur Chaterin triples Monsieur Dumas's fee. What date should I start from? Today, I believe."

“Yes, Mademoiselle Parisot, write down that the contract is changed from today ,” said Chateren.

"Well, under these conditions, I believe we will indeed renew the contract with Monsieur Chateren ," I said, turning to Vivi. "Now about the matter that was the main reason for my visit to you. I'm talking about publishing my play, 'The Youth of the Musketeers,' as a separate book. I think it would be better to wait until the play is staged. The fact is, if readers get to see the play, it could affect the theater's box office."

"Of course it will, but only in a positive way!" Shateren exclaimed enthusiastically. "Never before has an audience refused to see a play in the theater simply because it's published! But readers sometimes lose interest in buying a play in book form if they know it well from a production."

"Neither of these things happened with Shakespeare's plays," Vivi countered. "I believe the name Alexandre Dumas is no less important to the French than Shakespeare's is to the English. I even think it's much more important to them! Shakespeare wrote about events of ancient times, and sometimes even about events that took place in other countries. Mr. Dumas writes plays about events that took place in France, and not so long ago that the citizens would lose interest in them. On the contrary, interest in the times of Henry IV, Louis XIII, and Louis XIV has greatly increased, in part thanks to the books of Mr. Dumas. Oh, forgive me, I'm interfering again!"

"That's the only reason you're getting the large salary you've already told Monsieur Chateren about," I replied. "I, Monsieur Chateren, sometimes allow Mademoiselle Parisot to perform some of my director's duties, since she will be filling that position both de facto and de jure in the future. Right now, she's just getting a little training in the role."

"Yes, but you told me to hold off on telling you about it," Vivi said. "If you said it yourself, then it's no longer a secret."


“That’s right,” I agreed.

"Listen, Jean-Paul!" Vivi suddenly exclaimed, then stopped short. "Forgive me, Monsieur Chateren. It's my fault for addressing you like that. I just had an interesting thought."

"No, it's okay, you can call me by my first name," replied the flattered Chateren. "It will be easier if you allow me to call you Mademoiselle Violetta."

"I just wanted to say that Monsieur Dumas is currently reworking his play, 'The Youth of the Musketeers,' and the new edition will include new details that will undoubtedly be of interest to our readers ," Vivi said. "Monsieur Dumas, have I revealed any secrets?"

“Go on, Mademoiselle Parisot,” I replied.

“You could announce in your publication that a new play is coming out soon, and that it will be published only by your publishing house, and that those readers who have already purchased this first volume will be given the second volume by subscription at a discount of, say, twenty percent, and with free shipping of this second volume to them to the address that they indicated when purchasing the first volume,” Vivi blurted out.

"But mademoiselle, I have no intention of selling books at a loss!" objected Chateren.

"Raise the price of volumes one and two by five percent for volume one and fifteen percent for volume two over the price you intended to sell them for, and they'll go for that price," Vivi replied. "People who own a book that says 'Volume One' on it will prefer to have both volumes, so they'll buy volume two even if it's ten percent more expensive than the first. It's the collector effect, or psychology." d'un perfectionniste , if you like.

"They'll only be able to buy the second volume from me?" Shateren perked up.

- Like the first one, and both of them will be made in the same style, in hard covers, en "Quatre ," Vivi added. "Monsieur Dumas will immediately sign a fifteen-year pledge not to transfer the rights to publish these plays to anyone other than your publishing house, and will transfer it to you in exchange for payment for the rights to both books. This, of course, does not include a percentage of the gross, which will depend on how well both books sell."

"Did I say I was going to pay an advance for the second volume?" Shateren asked.

“Monsieur Dumas, I have nothing more to do here, I will wait for you in your carriage ,” said Vivi.

"Wait, Mademoiselle Parisot!" exclaimed Chateren. "I didn't show up, I just checked! Of course, the advance payment for the second volume won't be a problem! I'll write a check. The amount will be…"

Vivi took out her notebook, wrote some numbers with a pencil, and, without showing them to me, showed the page with the numbers to Shateren.

Shateren's eyes widened, but he pulled himself together.

"May I offer to pay half of this advance today and the other half next week?" Shateren asked Violetta.

“Monsieur Dumas will answer this question for you, since I am not yet his commercial director,” Vivi replied.

"But soon you will be ," I said. "Yes, Monsieur Chateren, a check for half an advance will be quite sufficient for now. I'll come for the other half next Tuesday."

I received the check, we declined the tea offered by Shateren and left his extremely hospitable home.


CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR



"My child, who taught you to contradict your boss?" I asked Violetta as we left the publisher's office, Shateren .

"You, my dear!" Vivi replied.

“It can’t be!” I exclaimed. “When? Where?”

“The novel ‘The Queen’s Necklace’, the first chapter, called ‘The Old Nobleman and the Old Butler’,” Vivi answered.

“I don’t remember!” I doubted.

"Let me remind you," Vivi replied. "In this chapter, the old marshal tells the butler to take care of dinner. I'll summarize the dialogue . The marshal asks the butler what time dinner will be. This is what happens next."

- Monseigneur, the bourgeoisie dine at two o'clock, the judges at three, and the nobility at four.
- Well, what about me, sir?
— Monsignor will dine at five o'clock today.
- Oh! At five o'clock!
- Yes, Monseigneur, like a king!
- Why like a king?
— Because the list that I was honored to receive contains one royal name.
- Not at all, sir, you are mistaken; among my guests today there are only simple noblemen.
"Monseigneur, no doubt, enjoys joking with his humble servant. But Count de Haga , one of Monseigneur's guests..."
- Well?
- Count de Haga is the king.
“I don’t know of any king who bears such a name.”

Then the marshal still demands that dinner begin at four o'clock, but the butler insists that dinner begin at five o'clock.

“Let it be as the Lord wills ,” he said at last, “but Monsignor will dine at five o’clock!”
"Why? How is this possible?" the marshal exclaimed.
— Because it is physically impossible for Monsignor to have lunch earlier.
“Sir,” said the marshal, “if I am not mistaken, you have been in my service for twenty years?”
- Twenty-one years, Monsignor, one month and two weeks.
"So, sir, to these twenty-one years, one month, and two weeks you will not add a single day, not a single hour. Do you hear?" the old man exclaimed. " Starting this evening, find yourself another master."

The butler then explains that he's ensured the finest Tokaji wine, of which there are only two bottles left in all of France, is served at the table. He also explains how this wine will arrive at the Marshal's house at four o'clock, and that it needs to rest for at least an hour. When the Marshal learns all the tricks necessary to ensure the wine is served at dinner, he reverses his decision to fire the butler.

“I beg your pardon, sir,” he exclaimed, “you are the king of butlers!”
“And you drove me away,” he answered with an indescribable movement of his head and shoulders.
- I'll pay you a hundred pistoles for this bottle.
"And another hundred pistoles for travel expenses. That makes two hundred pistoles. My lord, I must confess it's for nothing."
“I am ready to confess to anything you want, sir, but from today I am doubling your salary.”

"Did I really write so vividly and so succinctly?" I asked. "And how did you manage to remember all of this?"

“I only quoted the most colorful parts of the dialogue, although I know it all by heart,” Vivi replied.

I blushed with pride. Besides, I wasn't angry with Vivi anyway, having read the fee on the check they'd given me as an advance. And it was only half the fee I'd been promised!

"Vivi, you're no longer my secretary ," I said. "You're my executive director now. You'll be negotiating with the publishers. But your secretary duties remain."

"With all the clauses that were agreed upon earlier?" Vivi asked with a sly smile.

“Of course!” I replied.

"What about my salary?" Vivi asked. "What amount are you setting for me?"

"You yourself hinted to the publisher what she's like," I replied. "I accept your terms."

“Dudou, you’re wasting your time trying to outdo the heroes of your novels ,” Vivi said. “The Marshal in ‘The Queen’s Necklace’ only doubled the butler’s salary. You’re planning to increase it fivefold. You’ll go broke very quickly! Your heroes spend purses full of gold left and right. Your Fouquet treats his guests to a vase full of beautiful pearls, inviting each guest to scoop out as much as they can. If your heroes acted like that in real life, they would all be broke in a couple of weeks, or at best, a couple of months. When you feel like going on a spree, first mentally name the maximum amount you can afford, then the minimum that would still be acceptable. The true price lies somewhere in the middle of these two extremes.”

“I will obey you, and you obey me in those matters in which I still remain your boss ,” I said.

“As you say, dear,” Vivi replied.

And I began to think hard about the areas where my authority over this amazingly charming and astonishingly brazen little girl still held its own. I admit, it wasn't easy for me to find such areas.

"Let's talk about this instead," I continued. "What is this second volume that you promised on my behalf, and for which I just received the fee?"

"Oh, that," Vivi waved her hand dismissively. "Nothing special. It'll be a play. Maybe a trilogy. It'll begin with a hunting scene featuring young Athos, whom you call 'the Vicomte.' He'll be friends with the young Marquis Hurot, the Comte de Cheverny , and the Baron de Livarot . In the first act, the Vicomte, the Baron, and the Marquis are hunting in the forests of the Vicomte's father, the Comte de La F;re. The action opens with a scene in a hunting lodge, where the Vicomte, the Baron, and the Marquis, waiting for the servants to roast the venison they've caught, share various stories, and perhaps even plans for the future.

“Not bad!” I said. “What are they talking about?”

"There shouldn't be too much talking in the play," Vivi added. "But first, the Baron tells a story. Roughly, it goes like this."

And Violetta began her story.

“While the venison is roasting, allow me, gentlemen, to tell you an instructive story ,” says the Baron. “Do you know the old Count de Rochefort?”

“I think I’ve heard something about him,” the Viscount replied.

"He had only one son from his first marriage, and his wife died in childbirth," the baron continues. "He chose a wife from a group of women of modest rank, but, as he was told, quite wealthy. Although the count had spent a little money in his first marriage, he was not averse to improving his fortunes with a second marriage."

"It's business as usual, what's so interesting about it?" asked the Viscount.

"Listen to what happened next," the baron continued. "The count was particularly lustful, and his young wife greatly aroused his passion. Unlike most exemplary husbands, moderately restrained and rational, he wanted to see her in all her glory. And so one day, in a fit of passion, he tore her shirt, and what do you think he found on her shoulder?"

"What could one find on the young wife's shoulder?" asked the Marquis. "A birthmark? A rash? Smallpox marks? Or some minor deformity? Surely not signs of leprosy!"

"Much worse than anything you've mentioned, Viscount," the Baron countered. "He found a brand on her left shoulder. His wife turned out to be a thief!"

The Viscount turned pale.

“What did the Count do?” he asked.

"He immediately filed for divorce, but the baron refused, since the divorce would have been possible if the lady had married him under a false name," the baron replied. "The baron ruled that since the lady had not lied about her name and origin, the fact that she had been branded did not change the essence of the matter. The Count de Rochefort married the very woman whose name she had given him, so the marriage could not be dissolved at the request of only one party."

"How did it end?" asked the Marquis.

"The Count paid his way out," the Baron replied. "He gave up half the real estate he still owned and almost all the cash he had. Only under these conditions did his wife agree to a divorce, and the barons granted their divorce."

“And then?” asked the Viscount.

"The old Count de Rochefort married for a third time, and this time his wife was rich, well-born, and unbranded," the baron replied. "She bore the Count four sons, but for his love for her, the old Count completely disowned his son from his first marriage, depriving him of everything. The poor fellow received neither money nor estates. The old Count, at the instigation of his young wife, wanted to send him to the priesthood, but young Rochefort ran away and entered the service of Cardinal Richelieu. He endeared himself to him because he tried in every way to curry favor with him."

"But tell me, Baron, how did Countess de Rochefort explain to her husband the presence of her brand?" asked the Marquis.

"What difference does it make?" the baron replied. "After all, whatever she says is a lie."

"And what is the moral of this story?" asked the Marquis.

"Firstly, don't marry for convenience," the Viscount said gloomily. "Secondly, try to see your future wife's shoulder before you marry."

"Viscount! What kind of girl would allow such liberties to a young man?" the Baron objected. "Only one he should never marry!"

"You're right, Baron," the Viscount agreed. "In that case... I don't even know what to do in that case."

"And I would follow my father's example!" said the Marquis. "I will tell you a true story that no one knows."

Here Violetta interrupted her story.

"If the play was all talk, it would be boring. The audience needs to see the action. So while the Marquis is talking, everything he's talking about will be happening on stage."

“Well then, tell me how you imagine it!” I said.


CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE



Vivi offered her retelling of the future play.

- So, the baron, the viscount and the marquis are located on the left side of the stage and after the Marquis of Yuro begins to tell the story of his family, the action begins to take place in the middle of the stage.

"Did you know, gentlemen, that every noble family has its own secret? I'll prove it to you using my own family as an example. I know you are noble people, and our friendship won't end just because I let you in on my family secret."

"Marquis, you shouldn't tell us this ," says the Viscount. "A secret must remain a secret."

"But I want to tell it to you!" the Marquis objects. "Listen, you won't regret what you hear."

The Baron says there's nothing wrong with listening to something interesting. Marquis Yuro begins his story. The light illuminating the interlocutors dims, revealing the center of the stage, where the young Marquis Yuro is describing the scene.

"My father, Henri Hurot, Marquis de Cheverny , married the young Fran;oise Chabot, who was only eleven years old at the time, and went off to war the day after the wedding," recounts Marquis Hurot . "It must be said that on their wedding night, the Marquis de Cheverny did not touch his young wife, considering her too young to fulfill her marital duties. He was very reluctant to leave his young wife alone, but he believed she loved him, since she had vowed to be a faithful and loving wife at the altar, as was customary. Visiting his castle only occasionally, the Marquis delightedly observed how the girl was gradually growing into a beauty. He looked forward to the days when military campaigns would finally no longer occupy all his time, when he would be able to bestow his tenderness and love on his young wife in the fullness of a man's affection." Until this time, the Marquis had only platonically loved his young wife, loved her madly, more than life itself!

“Not a bad start!” I approved.

"The center of the stage lights up, and the audience sees the tender parting of the Marquis and Fran;oise," Vivi continued. "The Marquis disappears into the background, Fran;oise waves after him with a handkerchief, then wipes away her tears with it. The center of the stage darkens. The narrator lights up again, and he continues his story to the Viscount and Baron. The stage darkens, and the Marquis's voice says: 'The Marquis often visited the court of King Henry IV. Once, at a ball, he saw this scene in a mirror.' The stage lights up again, and the audience sees a hall where courtiers stand in small groups. The King approaches one group, then another, and all the remaining courtiers politely turn to face the monarch.

King Henry says, "Marquis! Look, your fellow countryman and neighbor, Chevalier Chamelin, has arrived !" Yuro turns to face the newcomer and says, "You are mistaken, sire; it is not he, though he resembles him. As far as I know, Chevalier Chamelin is currently in Blois." At that moment, Henry IV places both hands, shaped like stag's antlers, on the back of the Marquis's head. All the courtiers, except Yuro, laugh. Yuro looks in the mirror and realizes what is happening. Then he slowly turns to face the King, who manages to remove his hands.

Yuro says, "Your Majesty, it seems you haven't hunted deer in a while? I invite you to join me in Blois! There's excellent deer hunting there! I invite you all, gentlemen!" Then Yuro bows coldly and leaves the hall. The scene fades to black, and the lighting returns to reveal the Viscount and the Marquis. The Marquis continues his story: "The young Marquise knew for certain that her husband had left for Paris for a long time. But she was mistaken; the Marquis rode home on horseback, not sparing his horse, having spent the entire night in the saddle. He arrived at the ancestral castle at dawn, while everyone was still asleep.

The stage lights up, and the Marquise's bedroom is in the center. Behind the wall, a maid's cries: "Mistress! Your husband has returned!" The Marquise screams in horror and wakes the handsome young man sleeping next to her. "Get up quickly, Chamelain ! My husband will enter the bedroom now! Run through the window! Quickly!" Chamelain, still in his underwear, grabs his clothes and jumps out the window at the back of the stage. A scream is heard. At that moment, the Marquis enters the room. "So, this is how you wait for your husband!" He goes to the window and looks down. "The scoundrel has broken his leg! Well, that means he won't escape me!" He goes out the door. Loud words are heard: "Hold your sword, puppy!" "I can't defend myself, my leg is broken!" "I will fight you on my knees!" "Impossible! I will not fight you!" "Well, it's your choice! "Die, you scoundrel!" Chameleon's croak is heard . The Marquis re-enters the door. He holds a goblet and a dagger. "Marquise, choose what you prefer. This very dagger with which your lover was stabbed, or poison?" The Marquise silently points to the goblet. The Marquis hands her the goblet, she drinks it and falls unconscious. Fade out.

The light illuminates the narrator again. "The doctor stated that the Marquise died of indigestion, or perhaps from unhealthy food. The doctor also noted that the Marquise was three months pregnant."

The Viscount asks the Marquis: "Why did you tell me this story? I'm not at all hungry now, although I believe the venison was roasted perfectly!"

- Sorry, friends, I drank too much, and when I drink, I become excessively talkative and tell some scary stories.

"However, Marquis, your story is very useful, because we can draw a moral from it!" the Viscount suddenly says.

"What is this moral?" asks the baron.

“First of all, don’t leave your wife alone for long ,” says the Viscount.

“Secondly, leave no witnesses!” says the Marquis. “Really, no one can say for sure that anything like that happened. All that is known is that Chamelin apparently fell from his horse, and so unsuccessfully that his sword broke and a fragment entered his throat. In any case, everything pointed to that. It is also known that the young Marquise died of indigestion. My father remarried. This time his wife was my mother, the Marquise de la Morini;re . I believe he married quite well this time, at least for me. Otherwise, I simply would not have been born. So, in a way, I am even grateful to this same Chamelin for giving me the chance to be born and to become my father’s eldest heir, that is, the Count de Jureau, Marquis de Cheverny !”

"I understand, Marquis, why you told us this story ," the Viscount says. "You've answered the question of what the old Comte de Rochefort should have done! Your father's example, Marquis, is worthy of attention. There is no justice for an unworthy wife higher than that of her deceived husband. And in such a case, no one has the right to condemn him."

"Do you agree with this, my child?" I asked.

"Absolutely not!" Violetta replied. "But this is a story about events in the early seventeenth century, and we live in the middle of the enlightened nineteenth century! More than two hundred years separate us from that savage time, when a count or marquis could completely control the fate of his servants, even their lives, and considered himself the absolute master of the fate of his wife and children! Now, I think such a thing is impossible! And I hope that never again will such a thing be possible. From the perspective of our enlightened times, Athos is simply a criminal!"

“As painful as it is for me to agree with you, I am forced to admit that you are right, my child ,” I said.

"But you'll tell us about how Athos conducted his own investigation and discovered that Charlotte, Anne de Beyle, is a criminal deserving the death penalty by all human and divine laws!" Vivi continued.

“How is that possible, my dear?” I asked.

“You will tell us about her criminal past and how Athos found out about it,” Vivi answered with firm conviction.

I didn't want to argue with her.


CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX



“And yet, allow me to object, my child ,” I said. “Firstly, in your version the play relies too heavily on stories about the past. And a drama should have dramatic action unfolding right before the audience’s eyes. Secondly, the episode with King Henry IV requires a large number of characters who are then not used anywhere. It’s expensive and ineffective. Thirdly, one small digression, unrelated to either the main characters or the main action, requires two additional sets of scenery. The impresario will laugh at me. Fourthly, the story of the discovery of the brand on the young wife’s shoulder is the key episode of my drama. But in your version, this episode is revealed to the audience practically from the very first scene. The element of surprise will disappear, and the tragedy will turn into farce. Instead of being horrified by this incomprehensible, incredible, and impossible discovery, Athos will simply have to acknowledge that exactly the same thing happened to him as the one he heard the day before! And finally, his subsequent actions, which could be justified by the shock of the horror of the entire situation, will now appear as a cold calculation, based on the firm conviction that a divorce from the deceiver, although possible, would cost him half of everything he owned. So, it turns out that he tried to kill his wife only to save half his money? A mercantile hero evokes no sympathy, and a mercantile villain is just that—a villain, theatrical, deliberate! And if we add to this the fact that he has not yet come into his inheritance, then he risked very little. This turn of events turns Athos into a monster! Thus, your additions are interesting as a sample of a flight of thought, but I will not accept them.

"As you say, dear ," Vivi said. "You can lower my rate, since I'm not yet smart enough to be your secretary, much less your executive director."

"Oh, Vivi!" I objected. "I'm simply trying to teach you a better understanding of the laws of drama, of character development, and, most importantly, of the needs of the audience! You're an excellent student, with a very fresh perspective, as well as a literary talent that I would have called innate, had I not learned from you that you developed it alongside your young friend, who was like a sister to you."

"You're the genius of us all, and I'm just an apprentice," Vivi continued. "My job is to bring you stones from which you carve works of art, the ones with which you enter eternity."

“I must admit, you described the situation quite accurately ,” I said with the most serious look, after which we both burst out laughing.

"Just don't get too cocky, my friend!" Vivi added playfully, her tone suddenly shifting to mischievous. "I intend to firmly establish myself as your best muse. Best because I'm the only one. I won't tolerate any other muses, just so you know!"

“I don’t need anyone else; you’re more than enough,” I replied. “I completely capitulate to your very flattering offer, which I have neither the strength nor the desire to object to. By the way, write down everything you told me for memory; it might come in handy. Not for a play, of course. But for a new chapter, or even a book. If I decide to write an introductory novel about the youth of the Musketeers, this could be used at least in part. But the reference to the troubles of the Comte de Rochefort senior doesn’t interest me. I already used this episode in The Three Musketeers, and there will be no other stigma in my novels. This terrible lily on the shoulder of a woman of indescribable beauty, looking as innocent as she is attractive, is my discovery, which should not be repeated in other novels, except for a play on the same theme and with the same characters.”

"Your discovery is in the 'Memoirs of the Count de Rochefort,' " Violetta clarified with a smile. "I don't want to upset you, but I must inform you that the 'Memoirs of the Count de Rochefort' weren't written by Rochefort at all, but by a certain author named Sandra de Courtil ."

“I guessed as much, but I didn’t know the real author’s name,” I lied. “How do you know that?”

"I found the book 'The True Memoirs of Messire d'Artagnan, Captain-Lieutenant of the First Company of the King's Musketeers, Containing Many Personal and Secret Matters Occurring During the Reign of Louis the Great' and learned the name of its true author, and then I discovered what else this same author had written," Vivi replied. "These fake memoirs were written by the same author who wrote the fake 'Memoirs of the Comte de Rochefort.'"

I was shocked. How clever and inquisitive this girl was! Perhaps I shouldn't have so categorically rejected her interpretation of Athos's youth? I felt ashamed; I had been overly categorical. In literature, there is no definitive "improbable" or definitive "impossible," just as there is no definitive "plausible" or "psychologically accurate." Everyone is different. One person's reaction to the same events differs from another's, sometimes diametrically. One person in Athos's situation would rage and curse, another would storm away, a third would sit down and remain silent, as if petrified, a fourth might actually decide to commit murder, a fifth would prefer suicide. So, a writer describing his characters' reactions to certain events is most often describing his own reaction to something similar, but only in his imagination. It may well be that he would actually react completely differently in a similar situation. Perhaps he is describing not his own reaction, but the reaction he considers correct, or better, or more natural, but he himself may have never been in similar circumstances and never will be. So, all of us writers are liars, fantasists, storytellers. And what is required of a storyteller? That he entertain! That is the first and foremost. But it is also required that he not teach bad things, isn't that so? Not everyone remembers this. And not everyone knows about it! And I myself almost always forget about it. If I turn my novels into didactic parables, my royalties will not feed me. Even on the most modest diet. Perhaps they will simply disappear! If I write what should speak to my fellow citizens, not a single publisher will take my books on! I am forced to pander to the tastes of the depraved crowd. It seems the days are long gone when people would happily gather at the Place de Gr;ve to watch a criminal's execution. The more gruesome the execution, the larger the crowd. Citizens would bring small children, including infants. Wealthier people would rent neighboring houses with windows overlooking the square during the execution, so they could watch the execution from the most convenient vantage point, where they could get the best view, sit comfortably, and observe every detail. Are those days gone? It seems the First Revolution and its aftermath sated the crowds with these horrific spectacles. Public executions are a thing of the past. Forever? I fear not! If a new Marat were to come to power and transform these executions into a new form of entertainment for the crowd, then future generations would join the spectators with no less pleasure than their forefathers did! Such performances no longer thrill Paris. Therefore, the people yearn to see them on stage. They want to see the execution of Mary Stuart, or Charles I of England, or Ravaillac, or Jacques Clement , or Joan of Arc , or the Marquise de Brinvilliers.

I write for the crowd! This girl opened my eyes to my creativity! She exaggerated and exaggerated one episode of my best novel, using familiar plots. And I saw it in all its ugliness! I should withdraw the drama "Youth of the Musketeers" from the stage and return the advance to the publisher, as well as return the royalties already received to the entrepreneur and the theater director! And I would be ready to do it! I could do it! Easy! But in that case, I must immediately move out of the apartment I rented for Violetta and me. And break up with Violetta. Am I ready to pay this price for the right to look down on my readers?

No, no, and no! I love this girl. This angel. This living ancient goddess! Every curve of her young body evokes youthful delight in me. I feel half my age! I feel almost her peer next to her. I am old Doctor Faustus, who, in his old age, well over forty, and therefore standing with one foot in the grave, suddenly sipped the life-giving drink of eternal youth. I don’t care that Mephistopheles filled this cup for me! He gave it to me and pointed to this new Margarita, to Violetta, who is younger, more beautiful, more stunning than my wildest dream of a beauty! The Trojans kidnapped Elena, because of whom the war began. I always thought this was nonsense. But if Elena was like my Violetta, I firmly believe that such a thing is possible. Two states could easily go to war with each other at the whim of their rulers if those rulers were disputing the right to possess Violetta! And if I were the head of one of those states, I would lead my troops without a second thought; I would die for her! No, I don't trust myself. Why die for love? So that someone else could take advantage of that love? My beloved Alexander Pushkin died to defend the honor of his beloved Natalie! And what was the result of this sacrifice? Was it that his beloved wife became the wife of one of the three Lansky brothers, the generals who turned a blind eye to his wife's excessively frequent dances with Emperor Nicholas I? And so that to her four children by Pushkin, the poor widow would add three daughters by Pyotr Lansky in her second marriage ? And even by Lansky ? No, I am not ready to lay down my life for love! But I am ready to love one woman all my life, and no matter how difficult it may be, unnatural for any man, and no matter how impossible it may be given the experience of communicating with the female sex that I already had by the time I got to know Violetta closely, I am still voluntarily and consciously ready to give up all the women in the world for her alone, to be with her forever, until that fateful moment when my heart stops beating, so that I can bless her with my last kiss.

What dark thoughts, however, are born in me at the thought of bright love!

"What are you thinking about, dear?" Vivi asked.

"Let's make a stop ," I said. "We'll have lunch at Maxim's restaurant, and then head home. We'll continue reading my drama, The Young Musketeers, which you've been so wonderfully critical of. I enjoyed this activity."

"Because of the addition to the contract?" Vivi asked, smiling slyly.

“For the most part, it’s for this very reason,” I admitted frankly.

"In other words, you acknowledge my victory over you?" Vivi asked with a proud, smug smile.

"Remember, my child ," I said. "In all times and in all wars, the winner is not the one who actually wins, but the one who manages to convince the whole world that they are the winner. No one won the Battle of Borodino, so the Russians consider themselves the victors, and we consider ourselves the victors. In reality, however, Satan and the marauders won. More precisely, the true victors of the battle are those who did not take part in it. Every war is a defeat for all sides. But in history, the victors are those who write that history. You may think you defeated me, but if the world thinks I conquered you, that's how it will remain in history."

"Did our relationship go down in history?" Vivi asked.

"All of France reads me," I reminded him. "And France is always world history. Therefore, the ladies who honor me by allowing me to share their bed will be seen by history as ladies whom I, a great writer, honored by sharing my bed."

With these words I cemented my victory over Violetta, at least in my own mind.

"Sir, I have honored you, and that will always be the case between us ," Violetta said with exaggerated pride. "And I don't care what the world thinks. It wasn't you who won me over, but I who won you over."

“But even before that, I won you over with my books, without even realizing it and without intending to do so,” I reminded him.

“An involuntary victory in an undeclared war doesn’t count ,” Violetta said.

I kept silent. After all, I know that the best way to win an argument with a woman is to pretend that she has won and let her have the last word in the dispute.


CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN



We had a wonderful lunch at Maxim's and returned home in an excellent mood.

"Well then, my dear, shall we continue reading?" I asked, hoping it would proceed in the same charming manner in which Vivi and I had been communicating for the past two evenings in a row.

"Stop mixing work and play," Vivi countered. "My suggestion about how and where we should work on your texts came from an inexperienced candidate for your secretary, and now I'm your business manager. One Russian poet, a pretty good one, by the way, though he only created one significant work and a bunch of trivial ones, and also wrote a couple of waltzes, said, 'When I'm working, I hide from work; when I'm fooling around, I fool around. There are plenty of people who like to mix these two crafts, but I'm not one of them!'"

“Well said, it’s a pity it doesn’t rhyme,” I replied.

“In the original Russian, it rhymes,” Vivi answered.

“What is the author’s last name?” I asked.

“ Griboyedoff , which means a truffle lover,” Vivi said.

"Truffle Eater Griboyedov ," I repeated. "What's the name of that one piece you praised?"

"Woe from Wit," Vivi replied. "That would be a very fitting title for your memoirs when you get around to writing them."

"So, you're denying me those innocent amusements to which I've become so accustomed these past two times that I can't even imagine how I'll manage without them?" I asked.

“You will have my body and my love after we finish work, otherwise it begins to seem to me that you simply bought me like a whore, and are only pretending that you need my secretary services.

"I'm happy with this state of affairs ," I said. "I should have known your love couldn't be bought; it would have to be won daily. And I'd have to pay for it not with money, but with my whole life. But I'm happy with it, I repeat. So, my cruel child, let's begin dissecting the work of the star-crossed author Alexandre Dumas."

“I disagree with the definition of ‘unfortunate,’ but I won’t argue, you know better,” Vivi replied. “But before we move on, let’s return to the beginning of the drama. So, Charlotte arrived with her supposed brother Georges in Blois in 1620. Everyone in the area was talking about the brother and sister who loved each other very dearly. Athos mentions the brother’s name. He says that Charlotte’s devotion to her brother ‘was like a sacrifice, for the sullen and unsociable nature of Georges Backson deprived you of the opportunity to go into society.’ He goes on to say that her intelligence, youth, and beauty would have earned her a position in society, where she would have been if not for her brother. So, he, too, is a Backson, and his presence hinders her advancement. Am I correct?”

"That's all true, my dear," I agreed, not expecting a catch. "Then he says, 'Admit it, this sacrifice didn't make you happy.'"

"Very well, but Athos is reading Charlotte's documents. Her father is William Buckson, a Welsh nobleman, and her mother is Anne de Beyle. It's a pity you didn't listen to me and give Charlotte the name Anne de Beyle, but oh well. But why is Charlotte suddenly saying that her brother Georges is her brother from her mother's first marriage? And then she says that she's talking about the very brother the Viscount knows. So it must be Georges Buckson. Georges Buckson is the son of Anne de Beyle, not the son of William Buckson. To begin with, what name did Milady's imaginary brother go by? He goes by the name Georges. In the future, she will definitely address him by the same name whenever he appears on the scene. They invented the surname, forged the documents of nobility. We know from The Three Musketeers that Milady cohabited with her lover, passing him off as her brother. But if this is Milady's mother's first son, as the documents show, and her mother's name was Anne de Beyle... And Backson was Milady's father's surname, who is not at all the father of her supposed brother Georges, according to the documents... Then why is he called "Georges Backson"?!? After all, we are talking specifically about Georges; Charlotte says the Viscount knows him, but he only knows her brother, Georges Backson, or a man who introduced himself under that name. Are Charlotte and Georges really so stupid that they supposedly call Anne de Beyle's son Georges Backson ? If Anne de Beyle's first husband was a nobleman, then after his death his son should have inherited his name; he would not have needed his stepfather's name! Or was Anne de Beyle's first husband not a nobleman? But by the standards of the nobles of that time, this would automatically have relegated Anne de Beyle herself to the category of not a noblewoman! Why didn't Athos notice this discrepancy? After all, he is so sensitive about matters of noble blood!

"What are you suggesting, my dear?" I asked, completely taken aback by her torrent of words.

“There wouldn’t be a problem in the following cases ,” Vivi said in a mentoring tone. “First. If Charlotte hadn’t claimed that Georges was her mother’s son from her first marriage. It would have been enough to simply call him his brother. Then she’s Charlotte Buckson, he’s Georges Buckson. It’s all logical. Second. If Charlotte had said that Georges was her father’s son from his first marriage. Obviously. Third. If Georges had a different surname. In this case, Georges de Beyle, if Charlotte’s mother received the name de Beyle as a result of her first marriage. Or any other name except Georges Buckson. Then it would have been enough to mention that Georges is Charlotte’s mother’s son from her first marriage. Anyone with an understanding understanding understands. Fourth. If Charlotte had said that her father adopted her brother from her mother’s first marriage. Then it would have been better to have such a document in hand.”

"Let's sum it up," I said. "Either Charlotte shouldn't have emphasized the fiction that Georges is his mother's son from her first marriage, or, if she did, it should have explained the fact that he has a different surname. Is that what you're trying to achieve?"

"Of course!" Vivi replied. "Otherwise it would look awkward, and the author could be accused of being careless."

“That’s enough for today!” I said.

"Shall we move on to something better?" Vivi asked, smiling slyly. "I see our sulking author isn't in the mood for mischief? We'll fix that now."


She came up to me and did... No, I absolutely refuse to describe our intimate affairs. It's no one's business, after all, except her and me!

That evening, we didn't discuss my play any further. Incidentally, it's actually quite good, my play, if it's the second time it's been the cause of our delightful entertainment, which I'll remember for the rest of my life! Especially since this time Vivi came up with something new, but I'll keep that to myself!


CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT



After I had once again proven my masculinity to Violetta and thus slightly improved my prestige as a great writer, we paid tribute to light snacks and light wine, which were prepared for us by our maid and part-time cook.

"Darling, I hope you're not angry with me for the criticism I gave your play?" Vivi asked.

"If your criticism always ends like this, I'll start deliberately making mistakes and inaccuracies in my writing so that you'll never run out of secretary work for the rest of my life!" I replied, feeling extremely good-natured.

"Then let's continue!" she said with an enthusiasm that was offensive to me.

"You know, my dear, I'm no longer at the age or in the strength to prove my worth as a man again after you destroy my sense of pride as a writer ," I said anxiously. "Your criticism is so merciless that not a trace will remain of my sense of my own greatness. And that, you know, is insulting and tiring."

“I’ll just summarize what I’ve read, without much criticism,” Violetta replied, and without waiting for my consent—or rather, anticipating that she wouldn’t get it—she continued. “So, we see that documents about Charlotte’s origins are extremely important to the Viscount. This would be understandable if the Viscount wanted his father’s consent to his marriage. But he has no intention of obtaining such consent. His father opposes this marriage for reasons unclear to the viewer. Then we see Athos give Charlotte an entire box of his mother’s diamonds. Even before the wedding. Why and for what reason? It would be logical if the Viscount had no spare money, and if for some strange reason the Viscount had the freedom to dispose of his mother’s diamonds in such a way that it would never occur to his father, under any circumstances, even to look at them. He could offer to pawn them in order to present himself to the old Comte de la F;re as a bride worthy of his son. But that’s not even close.” Moreover, the Viscount himself could have pawned the jewels, but if Charlotte had done so, she could have been suspected of theft. So this gift seems odd. It would have been better if the Viscount had made an effort to reconcile Charlotte with his father. In a wealthy family, the sole heir shouldn't be short of money. And if he wanted to hide his marriage from his father, it would have been unwise to take his mother's jewels from his father's house, even if they already nominally belonged to the Viscount himself. The Viscount might have wanted to see the jewels of his late wife before his death, undoubtedly his beloved one. He would have wanted to touch them, remembering the days of his youth when the Countess wore them. Therefore, it would have been better if he had given her something less threatening to expose his secret marriage to Charlotte—that is, simply given her a gift. He could have commissioned a piece of jewelry for her that would express his love for her, a symbol of that love. A ring with a fine diamond would have been sufficient. But if he had the means to spend money on Charlotte, it would have been much easier for him to ask Charlotte to inform her father—that is, the Viscount's father and her future father-in-law—that she was, in fact, rich and noble, but that her money and lands were in England, and that her brother was currently managing them, but managing them for her benefit. That is, to present himself as a bride with a sufficient dowry and sufficient nobility. This would have been desirable in order to obtain the Viscount's father's consent to the marriage. After that, the marriage would take place, and Charlotte could become the Viscount's wife in every sense, openly and officially, without having to wait for the old count's death. And how old is he? And why is the Viscount so certain that his father will die soon? And why doesn't this bother him at all? It seems he can't wait for his father's death to fully consummate the marriage. Or rather, to stun Charlotte with his wealth and usher her into the house as the full-fledged Countess de La F;re!

"Have mercy," I begged. "You promised not to be too cruel to my play or to me."

"Fine, let Athos give Charlotte the jewels, but I can only understand that in one case ," Vivi said. "Let Athos say he barely remembers his mother, but he loves her, and he remembers her as she is depicted in the family portrait. In this portrait, she is depicted wearing her family diamonds, which became her so well! And Charlotte is remarkably similar to his mother in her youth, so he begs her to wear these jewels so that he can admire her and especially enjoy this resemblance to his mother. And then, when Charlotte puts on the jewels, he delightedly offers her to keep them as his wedding gift.

“That’s good, I like it ,” I said.

"That's no good!" Vivi suddenly exclaimed. "If she reminds the Viscount of his mother, then she reminds the old Count of his mother too. Then the old Count should have happily agreed to the marriage of the Viscount and Charlotte. Men always equate a woman's appearance with her soul. At least that's true of young, attractive girls! The old Count simply couldn't be angry with a young beauty who reminded him of his beloved wife in appearance."

"Why dearly beloved?" I asked. "Nowhere in my books is this stated."

"Needless to say, Athos was extremely demanding of his wife?" Vivi asked. "This proves he wanted his wife to be just like his mother. Therefore, his mother was perfect in his mind. And in the old count's, too. That's not up for debate. That much is clear. So, it's strange that Athos insistently demands Charlotte tell him about her parentage, but, having received the papers, makes no use of their existence to resolve the issue. Either he shouldn't have bothered to find out and demand the papers, or, having received the papers, he should have, based on that, tried to arrange this marriage with his father's consent. Besides, if the Viscount's father was dying, he would obviously have wanted to make sure before he died that the Viscount would marry, and thus that his line would continue." If Charlotte was beautiful, charming, as we find later, Athos himself says that he fell in love "with a lovely sixteen-year-old girl, beautiful as love itself, she not only pleased, she intoxicated"—then why shouldn't this charming woman enchant the dying Count as his future daughter-in-law, demonstrating to him that she was worthy of his son's love? How astonishingly illogical!

"You naughty, cruel girl!" I exclaimed.

“The viewer may not share your opinion of Charlotte,” Vivi replied.

“I called you, not her, a worthless, cruel girl,” I clarified.

“I understand you, but you are just as biased in your assessments of living people as you are in your literary heroes,” Vivi objected. “After reading your play, I fell in love with Charlotte and hated Athos. I don’t like it! I protest! I read The Three Musketeers and its two sequels. I love Athos! I adore Athos! And you made me hate him! And I’ve always hated Milady, but with this play, you literally made me pity her and love her! Dumas, you destroy your characters, you slander them. See for yourself. Charlotte was only sixteen years old! The same age as I am now! Maybe your Georges was the same age as you?” But in this case, Georges is responsible for everything that happened to them, and Charlotte is only a victim—first the victim of Georges, who corrupted her and drew her into criminal activity, then of his executioner brother, who branded her, and then, finally, the victim of the Viscount, who swore his love to her, promised that she would be the Countess de la F;re, and then hanged her, first tearing off all her clothes and tying her hands! He destroyed her physically and, before that, he destroyed her morally, humiliated her in a way that could hardly be more humiliating! Without even understanding the reasons for this brand!

“We’ll quarrel,” I predicted sadly.

“Not at all,” Violetta waved her hand dismissively. “ And by the way, what could have angered Athos so much later? Was it the fact that she, branded, agreed to marry him secretly, or the fact that she, branded, provided forged documents of noble birth, thereby convincing both him and his aged father that she was worthy of being Athos’s wife? I think his indignation would have been more understandable in the second case! And one more thing. Where did Charlotte get such documents?! She, as we know, fled from the convent with Georges. That is, she lived in a convent. Therefore, the documents proving her birth were in the convent. Did she steal them? Then we must assume the documents are not forged? In any case, she is, in fact, Charlotte Buckson, the daughter of William Buckson, an English nobleman, and Anne de Beyle, apparently a French noblewoman?” Well, in that case, it would have been easy for the Viscount to inquire about her and discover that she had no brother! Why, then, did she take such a risk by presenting him with genuine documents? And if the documents were forged, then again, Athos could easily have discovered that Charlotte had no relation to the de Beyle family! If he were going to forge documents, then it would have been better to indicate that both of Charlotte's parents were foreigners! And where did a petty thief who stole sacred vessels from a monastery and his young sixteen-year-old mistress get forged documents? They themselves could hardly have been experts. Ordered them, bought them? Where did the money come from? After all, they didn't have time to sell the stolen vessels; they were returned to the monastery! And forged documents of nobility aren't so easily acquired! Or was Georges a notorious criminal with connections, capable of pulling off this scam as well? And anyway, Dudu, don't you think that if Charlotte arrived at the Viscount's residence at the age of sixteen—very young, like myself—and her lover had already secured a position as a cur;, not so young as she, then the claim that she persuaded him to steal the sacred vessels somehow doesn't fit with all these circumstances? Her executioner brother is wrong to shift the blame! Rather, these actions should be classified as follows: Georges, already quite experienced, gained her trust and seduced the underage Charlotte. He stole the sacred vessels from the convent and ran away with them, and also persuaded Charlotte to join him and flee the convent with her. He then coerced her into concubinage and lived with her in sin for six months. During this time, he obtained forged documents proving their noble birth. According to these documents, they were never married. So it turns out that Georges managed to seduce Charlotte, persuade her to live with him as his mistress, but failed to convince her to marry him. Unable or unwilling? More likely, unwilling! It seems he was relying on her beauty! He deliberately disguised himself as her brother to lure wealthy nobles or merchants with his mistress's beauty—that seems very likely, doesn't it? And how else did they manage to live together for six months if they never managed to sell the sacred vessels? Most likely, thanks to Athos's favor, which is what they had originally counted on! And how easy is it to sell such things? They could only be sold by melting them down or flattening them, so no one would realize they were sacred vessels, otherwise they would be suspected of theft. And if the vessels were returned to the monastery, then nothing of the sort was done to them. And why was Georges sent to hard labor if the vessels were returned? Granted, the law is so strict, but how did he manage to escape from the galleys after six months? How? Did his brother, the executioner, help him? Did the executioner have connections with the galley owners?

"You're throwing questions at me like hail on a tiled roof ," I said. "We'll discuss all this later."

“I agree, but for now let’s sum it up ,” Vivi said, essentially contradicting me. “ In the passage we cited, Athos is inconsistent, Charlotte is inconsistent, they all behave strangely. It’s all impossible, Dudu! And, most importantly, Charlotte, in general, can’t be accused seriously enough to agree that she deserves the death penalty. So Georges seduced a minor! So it’s Georges who deserves punishment! But not her! In this play, there are three villains and one victim. The villains are Georges, his brother the executioner, and the Viscount. And the victim is Charlotte Buckson!”

"You deserve a spanking for making fun of France's favorite writer like that!" I protested.

"You finally figured out what I'm trying to achieve!" Vivi replied with a laugh. "Go ahead!"

And the shameless woman lifted her dress, under which, of course, there was nothing, showing me her lovely buttocks and offering them to me for punishment.

Well, what can I say! I don't like to hurt anyone, and the beautiful scoundrel, of course, knew it. Very gently, lovingly, I nevertheless did what she asked for, after which we again indulged in tender intimacy, for which, to my surprise, not only did I have the strength, but, funny enough, this strength manifested itself with such persistence, against my will, that there was nowhere to retreat. Having punished or rewarded the scoundrel—or, more accurately, having done both simultaneously—I was no longer angry with her at all. Damn it, if she had suggested burning the play, I would have agreed with ease!

No, actually. I'll leave that for tomorrow and other days. She will continue to criticize my transgressions against the truth, and then—it's already been decided and confirmed—I will reward myself with this action, which I haven't yet decided what to call it—punishment for my insolence, or gratitude for the intellectual analysis of my errors.


CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE



The next morning, after we had breakfasted and returned home, I suggested to Violetta that she continue her criticism of my play, which I, of course, liked, but not as much as the results that had already followed three times a similar heated discussion.

"Well, my dear, shall we continue tormenting my drama and my soul with your impudent remarks?" I asked in high spirits, preparing first to hear unpleasant words and then to receive pleasant compensation for them.

"Darling, I'm no longer interested ," Violetta said, somewhat lazily and languidly. "I certainly didn't want you to hack your play to pieces and change it beyond recognition with countless revisions! The play was a success yesterday. And I suppose it wasn't the first time it was staged? The dress rehearsal was simply because this particular troupe was finalizing preparations for this production this season, and perhaps with a slightly different cast? I'm probably right in assuming that it was the premiere of this production, but not the premiere of the drama itself?"

"You can't fool me ," I said. "Yes, the audience has seen the play before, though not with this cast, and probably not exactly this audience. Audiences are constantly changing, otherwise theaters would go bankrupt; no drama could be performed twice, or, in any case, it would be impossible to repeat it next season."

"So, we're both bored," Violetta concluded. "You're bored and offended by criticism from such a young and inexperienced reader or viewer, and I, frankly, am tired of the subject matter being chewed over in this drama. It offers virtually nothing new to the audience. If it showed the musketeers in a new and unexpectedly noble light, it would be interesting. But the way I've seen it, it rather discredits them. At least, as I've already said, it discredits Athos and rehabilitates Milady in the eyes of the audience."

"But it seemed to me that the audience applauded, and that the spectators took the side of the musketeers and were outraged by Milady's behavior!" I objected.

"So much the worse for the audience, for they are rude and insensitive; so much the worse for the theatre company, for it is offensive to play for the spiritually callous; so much the worse for the entrepreneur, for the play has not caused a scandal, and therefore the public will soon cool towards it; and so much the worse for you, for you are proud of something you should not be proud of ," said Violetta. "Shouldn't you try writing a new version, not by correcting the old one, but from scratch, eliminating all the twists and dialogue that are in this version?"

"Why write a new play if this one is well received by the public and brings in more revenue than expected?" I asked.

"Indeed!" Violetta agreed. "Why strive for the best if mediocre works are accepted as excellent? Tomorrow, take the advance for the second volume to Monsieur Chateren. I hope the penalty he charges you won't be too high."

How could I forget about the advance?! The two-volume set is practically already purchased! I can't get by with just one volume!

"Perhaps I should write something else instead of a second volume, in the form of a revised edition of the same play?" I asked.

"There was a universal uncertainty in the questioner's voice!" Violetta recited. "My dear, you know yourself that your conditions will be considered unacceptable. Shateren has probably already ordered an announcement of the second volume to be printed in the first volume, along with a brief preview, indicating that in the second volume, readers will learn new details about the Musketeers' youth. He was surely also wise enough to claim that the new edition is not only more detailed, but will also make readers shudder at the revelation of a new, previously unknown secret, and experience other emotions, from wild joy to bewilderment, from indignation to laughter."

“Why do you think he uses these epithets?” I asked.

“Because I sent him the text of this announcement and recommended that he place it on the first page of the first volume,” Violetta answered with a smile.

I wanted to spank the little scoundrel, and not just jokingly, but seriously!



"Listen, Dudu ," Vivi said. "I want to discuss Charlotte's image with you."

"Excellent!" I supported her idea. "I'm listening to you carefully!"

"The fact that you portrayed her in your play as a perfectly good girl who deserves leniency, forgiveness, and sympathy inspired me to think that it would be a good idea to add this note of sympathy to the first chapters of The Three Musketeers, don't you think?" Vivi asked.

"The Three Musketeers" is not subject to revision," I retorted coldly. "Whatever its merits or demerits, this novel has firmly entered into..."

I was having trouble coming up with the right term without sounding boastful, but Vivi came to my rescue.

"It's become a world classic, a treasure trove not only of French literature but of all world literature," Vivi prompted. "You can say that without the slightest hesitation; modesty has nothing to do with it, because it's the absolute truth. And I wasn't going to suggest you rewrite this novel, because that really is impossible. The reader won't accept revisions. But the reader might accept an expanded version of the book. As long as the author lives, no work can be called complete."

“That’s an interesting thought, but I don’t rewrite my novels, I write new ones,” I replied.

- That's exactly what I'm talking about! – Vivi was delighted. – You could write a novel called “The Musketeers: The Beginning,” or even better: “The Musketeers. Genesis".

"What kind of stupid title is that?" I objected. "No one will ever buy a novel with a title like that!"

“Okay, let it be ‘The Youth of Milady’ or ‘The Youth of Athos’, or, as you’ve already called your drama, ‘The Youth of the Musketeers’,” Vivi agreed.

“I’m not giving my consent, but I’m not saying that I don’t agree either, I’m just ready to listen to you ,” I said.

I confess to you, my reader, sometimes you have to let a woman speak. Listening to her isn't at all necessary, but you must be able to conceal your feelings. A woman won't forgive you for not paying attention to her words, even one as young as Vivi was then. Even a five-year-old girl wouldn't forgive you for not paying attention! You should also conceal the fact that you're not interested in what she's saying, that you're bored, or that you disagree with her. All of this can greatly damage your relationship with her, and even cause a complete breakup. Of course, the best advice would be to listen attentively, agree with everything or almost everything she says, and if she disagrees, simply ask very tactful and gentle questions. However, even this is dangerous. And besides, sometimes it's simply impossible! You must admit, it's impossible for a venerable writer in his mature years to be told by some fifteen-year-old, or even sixteen-year-old girl, what and how he should write, how he should portray the characters he's suffered through, and whom your readers already love or hate, depending on the feelings you wanted to evoke in them . And what kind of whim is it to portray an antihero in rosy tones? To describe a villain so that the reader feels sympathy for him? To sympathize with the criminal? What if she then suggests describing the vile character traits of the good guys? Perhaps I should portray Athos as a drunkard, Aramis as a libertine, Porthos as a fool, and d'Artagnan as a treacherous adventurer?!

And then I stopped short! After all, I really did show them that way! True, Athos doesn't drink all the time, but he does for quite a long period of time, described in The Three Musketeers! Porthos is almost always a bit of a fool, and what's more, he lives off his married mistress. And so does Aramis, who, while not stupid, is cunning, secretive, cruel—in a word, a Jesuit among Jesuits! And hypocritical, too! Among Musketeers, he is an abbot, among abbots, a musketeer, he manages the Order's money as if it were his own, gives Superintendent of Finances Fouquet such advice that it ultimately ruins him, and even ruined his friend Porthos, drawing him into an adventure that was alien to him! Lured him with the promise of a duchy and a peerage! Worse, he simply abandoned poor Philippe, Louis's brother, without any support! He simply ran away from him! And d'Artagnan, the trilogy's protagonist? How is he any better than the others? He kidnapped his own superior, Mazarin! He only let him go for a ransom, which was quite substantial! He kidnapped General Monk by deception. Well, war is war, but true soldiers wage war face to face with the enemy, and don't hide like thieves, disguised as simple fishermen, abusing the enemy's trust. And they don't attack with overwhelming numbers an enemy who has made a mistake, not expecting a trick! Of course, I love my heroes, my musketeers, but what's the point? After all, I've shown them as far from perfect! And I'm beginning to believe Violetta that in my play, Charlotte is not a criminal at all! That is, if by human law she is guilty, then she received a punishment far more severe than she deserved!

"What do you say to that?" Vivi asked, falling silent as she waited for my answer.

A cold sweat broke out across me! I realized that, lost in my thoughts, I hadn't been listening to her at all! I wasn't yet ready to hurt her so cruelly by telling her I'd ignored everything she said. Her almost childlike soul was so vulnerable! Or was it only my imagination? I wondered if she would bear such clear proof of my disregard for her words and her opinions. The cruelest test for her would be to hear the truth, and a severe trial for me—to continue the conversation as if I'd been listening and understanding every word she said!

"Darling, that's a great idea, it's intriguing. Let's talk about it again, and this time in a little more detail, with all the details, okay?" I replied.

Vivi looked at me carefully and nodded.

 “Okay, if you want to hear the same thing, but in more detail, I’ll try to present it exactly as you ask ,” she said.

“Wonderful!” I replied, preparing to listen to her attentively, not missing a thing she said.

“So, Georges turned out to be not Charlotte’s false brother, but her real brother, while the Lille executioner was an impostor sent by Count Rochefort, and the Count’s goal was to create exactly the situation that arose, so that Charlotte would be abandoned by Athos, and then Rochefort pulled her out of the noose and made her a key for Cardinal Richelieu ,” said Violetta.

I was stunned. After all, I had already said that I liked the idea, and Violetta had spouted some utter nonsense that I couldn't have agreed to even in a state of intoxication and for an advance four times larger than what I had been given.

“You know, Vivi, regarding the details of this line, I would like to clarify a few points first,” I said slowly.

"Okay, admit you weren't listening to me, and then I'll admit that everything I told you has nothing to do with what I just told you !" Vivi said with a laugh. "You should have seen the stupid look on your face, first when you were trying to find a way to gently admit to me that you weren't listening, and then when you listened to all the nonsense I told you in revenge for your inattention to me! Oh, you're so funny!"

She couldn't resist bursting into such laughter that I couldn't help but laugh too. The wretch had fooled me! She read me like a book! There was no way to fool her.

"My dear, you're right ," I said finally. "I repent, I beg you to give me the chance to atone and make amends! I wasn't listening to you, I was thinking about the idea you expressed at the very beginning of your monologue, so yes, I am an old donkey who didn't listen to my smart girl, who should always be listened to! Let me beg your forgiveness with kisses!"

I leaned against Vivi's hand, and did so with some satisfaction. Then I tried to kiss her cheek, but my lips met her hastily extended palm. Well, I had to settle for that; I kissed her palm.

"You're pardoned conditionally ," Vivi said. "If something like this happens again, you'll be punished."

"What punishment have you come up with for me?" I asked with a sly smile.

“You will not enter my bedroom for three days ,” Vivi said.

“Well, that’s too cruel!” I tried to object.

"So, Mr. Writer, are you already trying to negotiate a lesser punishment for yourself?" Violetta remarked. "So, you intend to offend me again by disregarding my words in the same way? In that case, my punishment will be harsher. If you repeat your offense, you will not enter my bedroom for a week."

"Vivi!" I cried. "Be reasonable!"

“Two weeks,” Vivi said coldly.

“Okay, so be it, you won’t have to punish me, because I will always listen to what you tell me ,” I said. “I give in!”

"That's better ," Vivi said. "Now let's see how you'll keep your promise. I'll repeat my thoughts to you, and just try not to listen! It'll cost you dearly. Two weeks, no less!"

“I’m listening carefully to your every word ,” I said seriously.


CHAPTER THIRTY


“Try to describe Charlotte in the same words you would use to describe the girl you were head over heels in love with,” Vivi suggested.

“Why do this?” I asked.

"You must convince your readers that Athos, d'Artagnan, Felton, and the other men who fell in love with Milady weren't mad," Violetta replied. "Can you make your readers fall in love with Charlotte the first time they meet her? So much so that they agree with these men that it was impossible not to fall in love with her! I would advise you to make both Aramis and Porthos feel something akin to falling in love the first time they meet her. Only then will your words about her being Satan himself be convincing, and the very idea of a charming beauty who drives everyone who meets her crazy be both terrifying and charming. You need to evoke strong emotions in your readers. Then they won't just enjoy your book, they'll be addicted to it!" They will be eagerly awaiting the continuation, and if there is no continuation, they will storm the publishing house, demanding that a new book about the adventures of the musketeers be published!

“It’s too late, I already wrote in the third book of the trilogy that all my heroes, except Aramis, died,” I replied.

“That’s nothing,” Violetta objected. “You could write books about what the Musketeers did before the first novel, and what they did between the first and second novels, and between the second and third, and what Aramis did after the third novel, whether he managed to become a bishop again, or perhaps even a cardinal? You have so many possibilities! Describe how the Duke of Buckingham fell in love with Milady when he met her at a ball, the very ball where she cut off two of his twelve pendants! Surely she used all her charms. She was enchanting, captivating! He wanted to make her his mistress, and she made it clear to him that it was possible. He let down all his guard, and as a result, she was able to do it!”

"But Buckingham couldn't have fallen in love with Milady, since at that time he was in love with Queen Anne!" I objected.

"What nonsense!" Vivi replied with a laugh. "I never thought I'd hear such nonsense from a man! How could being in love stop a man from desiring another woman when the one he loves is far away, unattainable, even more unattainable than the moon, since the moon, at least, can be looked at and admired, while Queen Anne was lost to Buckingham forever; only her portrait could convey her frozen image to him, provided the resemblance was sufficient."

“But love doesn’t allow for other passions,” I lied, because I knew from my own experience that Vivi was right. I was only upset by the fact that she thought that all men were like that, and, therefore, included me among the frivolous men, which I categorically did not want.

We're not as offended by the spread of absurd rumors about us as we are by the fact that sometimes someone discovers the real truth about us. This is far more dangerous, and it demeans our dignity, because we have nothing to say in response, and even if we do, we'll be unconvincing, and, most importantly, we don't believe ourselves. And being ignoble in our own eyes is simply unbearable! It's very difficult not to be able to deceive ourselves in our own eyes. So, I took such revelations from someone I wanted to convince of my sincere love and my extreme constancy painfully, as any man in my place would have.

"Let me remind you, my dear, that the Duke of Buckingham was married at the very time he declared his love to Queen Anne ," Vivi said with considerable malice. "He also had some relations with King Charles of England, as he had with his father in his time."

“I don’t like that you’re aware of all these outrages and talk about these nasty things so calmly, as if this is the most common thing ,” I said with understandable irritation.

"What do you want, darling?" Vivi asked. "This is England!"

“Well, yes, this is a completely wild country,” I agreed.

"Exceptionally wild," Vivi confirmed. "Almost like France. This island monarchy is so wild that its kings behaved exactly like Henry III and Louis XIII! And so wild, too, that they chopped off the heads of royals there—Charles I and Mary Stuart! Just like in France, where they chopped off the heads of Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette !"

"Let's leave politics and return to Milady ," I said. "So you want me to describe her as if I were in love with her myself? But do I know how to do that? When you love, all words seem inadequate, every description is dull, every comparison only insults the object of your love, which you dare compare to something or someone!"

“Well then, describe her, at least the way you described Diane de Monsoreau , or some other positive heroine from one of your many romantic books,” suggested Vivi.

"I'll try ," I said. "So, Charlotte de Beyle." A very young girl, sixteen at the time, but looking fifteen, or even fourteen.

“Great, keep going!” Vivi encouraged me.

"It was as if nature had strived to combine in her all the beauty that could be found in a single creature," I continued, carefully examining Violetta. "If Cupid, the son of Venus, had been a girl, and if he had looked fifteen, he would not have been as beautiful as Charlotte was. Luxurious blond hair fell in curls over her shoulders, and when her open dress allowed this hair to touch not only her delicate neck but also her perfectly shaped shoulders, any man would have envied this hair, which had the opportunity to constantly caress those delicate shoulders."

“Colorful,” Vivi supported me.

“Her high, round, perfectly shaped forehead not only inspired admiration, but also made one suppose that this head with its charming curly hair contained enough intelligence to become a most interesting conversationalist not only for her peers, but also for worldly-wise mature men, which they could easily see for themselves if they entered into a conversation with her,” I added.

"Why are you complimenting her intelligence without finishing describing her appearance?" Vivi asked. "Don't get distracted from describing her appearance."

Large blue eyes, long eyelashes comparable to the almond-shaped eyes of a gazelle, and thin, expressive eyebrows whose arch gave her face an expression of playful interest, combined with extraordinary trust in her interlocutor, made anyone who looked at her believe that she liked and found them interesting, that they would be listened to with attention and favor. Yet, her angelic face surprisingly conveyed a childish and naive impression, purity and natural tenderness. Her neat nose, slightly plump lips, and perfectly shaped oval face—all of this combined so perfectly that it attracted the attention of not only men but women as well. Even those unfortunate, unattractive women who hated all beauties could not harbor ill feelings toward her; on the contrary, they were filled with complete trust, affection, and compassion. It was impossible not to want to get closer to her, and if not touch her, then at least inhale the scent of her light hair and gaze at her delicate skin.

"Finally turning on your imagination, darling?" Vivi asked approvingly. "Go on!"

"And indeed, she exuded the most exquisite aroma," I continued. "She smelled elusively of jasmine, or lilac, or rose—or rather, none of the above, but a little of all of them, and perhaps something even more alluring, just as the scents of pine needles, orange, freshly cut watermelon, and snow melted in the sun create a fantastical sense of celebration, freshness, and purity. I can't describe the scent of her body, but I can only insist that it was maddening."

"Darling!" Violetta exclaimed. "Why are you staring at me so intently? I think you're trying to trick me, and instead of letting your imagination run wild, you're just painting my portrait? And the scents too! After all, this is the Cologne water you bought me!"

"It's your own fault," I objected. "You told me to describe a girl I could love for the rest of my life, so what kind of description do you expect from me, other than a description of you in every detail? I simply reject any other options!"

"Oh, really?" Vivi exclaimed cheerfully. "Then go on! But what will you do after you've described my figure, my arms and legs?"

"I'll demand you show me everything else so I can create the most accurate and detailed portrait!" I said.

"But you're not going to paint a picture of Susanna bathing and the elders peeping at her, are you?" Vivi asked. "You're not going to describe a scene from ancient stories, in which women, and especially goddesses, believed that the beauty of their bodies was their best clothing, and that no other was needed? The Musketeer trilogy can't have detailed descriptions of Milady's body! After all, this series isn't about romance, but about adventure!"

"Who's talking about changing the Musketeer trilogy?" I objected. "We're talking about additional chapters or an additional book, and the genre of this work could be any! Including romance!"

“It’s too late to write romance novels at your age,” Vivi objected.

"Isn't it too late to be the hero of one of those novels?" I asked. "Given our relationship, I wouldn't say so!"

"Be the hero of a romance novel all you want, I'm all for it, as you've noticed, but the publisher won't accept such a novel from you, and the readers will laugh at you or excommunicate you!" Vivi replied.

“In that case, I’ll save these descriptions for another novel, in which I’ll describe our relationship ,” I said. “I’ll call it ‘A Novel about Violetta.’”

“There aren’t enough events in our relationship for a new romance,” Vivi objected.

"But they're full of feelings and sensual relationships!" I insisted.

"Go on, dear, continue your description of my appearance ," Violetta said with a sly smile. "Or rather, Charlotte's appearance for your new book."

“Charlotte’s skin was so soft and translucent that when the light fell on her face from the side, it seemed as if she was glowing from within,” I continued.

Violetta sat sideways to the window so I could check the accuracy of my descriptions. This prompted me to continue my descriptions.

"Her charming head distracted the gaze from her perfect neck and exquisite shoulders, but not forever," I continued. "Having paid tribute to the perfection of her face, you couldn't help but admire everything else. Her wrinkle-free maiden neck seemed to invite one to admire her chiseled shoulders, which would have been the pride of Praxiteles' chisel or the mythical Pygmalion , who created a perfect work of marble with which he himself fell in love."

Looking at Violetta, I realized that if I had created such a miracle out of marble, I too would have begged all the gods of all religions and denominations to bring her to life, so that I could love her with more than just my gaze. Fortunately, Violetta was alive, not made of stone! How grateful I was to her for that!

"Well, shoulders are just shoulders!" Vivi decided to flirt. "Nothing special!"

She ran her hand over her bare shoulders, and I, looking at her, felt a slight tremor, as if it were not her hand, but mine, that was gently touching her shoulders.

“I know that you men are not interested in the shoulders at all, but in what lies below,” Vivi continued.

"You're wrong, we're interested in everything together," I objected. "You know, my dear, every man wants to look at the breasts and below, especially if he likes the face, although the beauty of the breasts isn't necessarily connected to the beauty of the face! But that's how we all are! For us, the breasts and stomach of a woman with a seductive face are much more desirable than the same attributes of a woman without a striking facial beauty."

"And for this reason, you attribute incomparable beauty to breasts if their owner boasts a pretty face?" Violetta declared, rather than asked.

“We are not lying, because we feel the same way ourselves,” I replied.

“Well, go on and describe the rest ,” Violetta said, taking off her robe and rewarding my gaze with a beautiful sight that was already familiar to me, but even more beloved than before.



CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE


“By the way, you should add to your name Charlotte the middle name Anna, in honor of her mother,” suggested Violetta. “And let the monastery she ran away from be Abbaye.” de Bardell , Bardell Abbey .

"Very well, my dear," I agreed. "You mean the very same abbey that Baron Laubardemont, on the orders of Cardinal de Richelieu, conducted an investigation into its activities in connection with the trial of Urban Grandier ?"

“Exactly,” Violetta agreed.

"Are you okay with it if you tell me what the point is?" I asked.

"My Slavic roots tell me it would be funny that Milady is called Charlotte-Anne , Sharoltte -Anne of Bardell ," Violetta replied. "We could also call her de Bill instead of de Beyle, but that would be too much."

To be honest, I didn't see what was funny about it.

"You were going to describe my beauty not only in terms of my face, neck, and shoulders, but also further," Vivi reminded. "Go on, Dudu."

I must admit, I was starting to get annoyed by this familiar way she addressed me, this Dudu, and I was about to stand firm and object, but she began slowly unbuttoning the buttons of her blouse, which she wore nothing underneath. This sight caught my attention so much that I didn't even think of protesting.

"Let her call me whatever she wants, as long as this relationship continues," I thought. "After all, what's offensive about 'Dudu'? She simply took the first syllable of my family name and repeated it twice. I do the same thing! If Violetta became Vivi, why shouldn't Dumas become Dudu? I feel like I'm getting younger with this little one, so why shouldn't I become Dudu?"

However, the new Dudu couldn't finish this thought. Having thrown off her blouse, she revealed views of her body that still thrilled me, despite the fact that we had already been together for several days, and those few days seemed like a whole life to me, and a new life at that, completely happy and attractive. I would have given all my fame as France's premier writer and all my royalties to remain with her in every sense we had achieved in our relationship. Moreover, I caught myself in a new sensation. If before I had felt some responsibility for her life, for her fate, for her moral chastity, then this address "Dudu," which placed me on the same level as her, seemed to relieve me of all moral responsibility for her and for myself. We were two lovers, two young people who cared for nothing but mutual feelings, who wanted nothing but intimacy and possession of each other. I felt a strong desire to approach her, to touch her breasts with my hands, to press her to me, or to press my lips to her seductive body, and now, again, but as for the first time, freed from the shadow of responsibility, truly in love, loving and loved without restrictions, without fears, without caution, to take possession of her as if for the first time, and to feel the fullness of sweetness and convulsive happiness, completing the sweetest path to the pinnacle of pleasure.

“Darling…” I whispered and walked towards her.

"Don't rush, Dudu, pee on me first!" Vivi retorted. "Otherwise I'll put on a blouse and hide from you in my bedroom!"

"What are you doing to me!" I exclaimed with feigned indignation.

The intensity of my feelings, making themselves felt, demanded immediate action, but I tried to convince myself that I could control them. For the first time in my life, I was engaged in literature marked by a special form of inspiration, which in a man manifests itself in such a peculiar way that, had I been naked, she could not have failed to notice the change in my physical state and understand that this change arose from contemplating her seductive beauty.

"The flesh distracts me and prevents me from being objective, but I will try," I replied. "Well, I will tell you that your body, young, with soft skin, slender and firm, is adorned with such delicate curves that reveal both the virginal youth of your body and the early maturity of your beauty. The soft pastel tones of the nipples on your breasts, matching the tone of your lips, make me want to press my lips to them, as tenderly and as long as possible." I think I said something like that, or perhaps something completely different.

I can only confess that I was talking nonsense, and I was disgusted by the words I was speaking, because I knew that they were not at all worthy of the subject I was trying to describe, nor of the feelings I was experiencing, nor of the overall picture that could have been immortalized in songs written by someone more talented than King Solomon, who wrote his Song of Songs.

"Listen, Dudu, you stupid genius, this is so funny, and not at all erotic!" Vivi said with a laugh. "You're not a master of erotic prose. You're a master of dialogue, unexpected plot twists, a master of describing characters, moods, historical scenes, and all sorts of feasts, banquets, balls, and military battles. In other words, you're a genius at describing everything except female beauty!"

"I confess that my pen is weak before your indescribable beauty," I agreed meekly. "I have never written in a setting that forces me to feel and perceive rather than think and choose words. If I were at a feast, I wouldn't be able to describe the food; I would be savoring it. If I were among historical figures, I wouldn't describe them; I would be watching and listening. If I were in the middle of a battle, I wouldn't write; I would be staring. So why do you want me to describe you when I want to contemplate, touch, and smell?"

"You've convinced me, you nasty boy!" Vivi said, throwing her blouse aside with a feigned capriciousness. "Come into my arms, contemplate, touch, and smell!"

"Let me free your divine body from the few remaining coverings!" I whispered in delight.

"It sounds vulgar and pompous at the same time," Vivi whispered. "Away with words. Act and be silent, my tireless Demosthenes, Cicero and Homer rolled into one."

"Your comparisons aren't exactly a masterpiece either," I replied. "So shut up, too."

"Totally keep quiet?" Vivi whispered, offering me her lips for a kiss.

"If you want to moan, howl, or laugh, do it, or whatever you want, you can even chatter and spout all this nonsense, but know that I'm not listening to you anymore!" I said and sealed her lips with mine.

Reader, I won't describe what happened next. If you've ever loved, you'll fill in the rest in your imagination, and if you haven't, you won't understand, so there's no point in you reading this.



CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO


“Why did you do it this way?” I asked.

“I just wanted to,” Vivi replied. “Do you mind?”

"Not at all!" I replied. "But it seems to me that you've shortchanged yourself in this case?"

“I was pleased to feel that you were happy, that you had new sensations, and all this brought me great pleasure too,” Vivi answered.

"Amazing!" I exclaimed. "I thought such a relationship was so intimate... Anyway, I must admit, this is the first time I've experienced anything like this."

"It makes me even more happy to know that they were truly fulfilling until the very end," Vivi replied with a sly smile. "You know, my dear, all over the world this way of loving is called French love."

“I didn’t know, but now I will,” I lied. “And since we’re both French, I can count on the fact that…”

“You can count on anything and anytime, as long as you don’t hurt me,” Vivi replied.

"I hope I won't offend you unintentionally, because I would never, under any circumstances, intentionally allow anyone to treat you in a way that might offend you," I hastened to assure her. "Tell me what might offend you, and I will try never to allow it."

"The same as any other girl ," Vivi said. "Inattention, disrespect, neglect, deception."

"And to this, obviously, should we add excessive attention to other women?" I asked with a smile.

"I can't stop you from being interested in other girls," Violetta replied. "If I stopped you, it would mean I was forcing you to choose: lie to me or break up with me. I'm not stupid enough to behave like that."

"You're incredibly smart, but there are times when a man isn't interested in any woman but his own!" I replied. "Why don't you admit that such a relationship could arise between us?"

“This happens all the time, but not forever, only temporarily,” Vivi replied. “Loyalty isn’t a life position or a defining characteristic of a man. It’s a state of mind, a mood, a life situation. No situation is eternal. Demanding that you be only with me is as absurd as demanding that anyone else not change over time—not grow old, not get sick, but live forever. Nothing lasts forever. Even our Earth hasn’t always existed and won’t always exist. So why should the feeling of rapturous intimacy last forever? Even the most intense surprise eventually passes. And delight is just one of the rarest forms of surprise. Even the most intense feelings of joy and happiness become boring, fade, and turn into the everyday feeling that everything is going as it should. And in this case, even the slightest reason for upset occupies all feelings and thoughts, if everything else is constant, stable, and reliable.” A poor man thinks he'd be happy if he had ten louis, but give him a thousand louis, and he'll soon begin to lament not having a hundred thousand. A king who owns an entire kingdom is capable of being upset that one of his ladies-in-waiting has refused him special attention.

“This has never happened to any King, as far as I know,” I objected.

"Yes, it only happened to your fictional Louis XIV and Mademoiselle de La Valli;re, and even then only for a short time," Vivi agreed. "I suppose your mademoiselle was very cunning and understood that the fish must first swallow the baited hook firmly before it can be pulled out of the pond."

“I don’t know what de La Valli;re was like in reality, but my literary La Valli;re was sincere in her love,” I replied.

“I can’t judge what the real La Valli;re was like, but the La Valli;re you described in The Vicomte de Bragelonne is a coquette and a hypocrite, she is cunning, dishonest, and her main weapon is hypocrisy and ostentatious piety,” Vivi answered.

"Were you just talking about my book?" I asked, puzzled.

"Yes, Dudu, about yours, whose else?" Vivi confirmed. "Or do you know another book with the same title?"

"But I suppose the author knows best who he's depicted in his work!" I objected enthusiastically.

"Let me discuss this with you, dear ," said Vivi. "Suppose an artist, determined to depict an animal he'd never seen, draws it from a description. Suppose he depicts a lion as a large wolf with a human head. Or suppose he depicts a horse with a horn on its forehead and claims to have painted a rhinoceros. Or he depicts a horned zebra, two fathoms tall, and claims to be a giraffe. Or he depicts a pig, also two fathoms tall, with a rat's tail instead of a nose, and claims to have painted an elephant. What would you call such paintings?"

“I would call them chimeras,” I replied, beginning to guess what she was getting at.

"What if an artist draws an elephant and says it's a giraffe?" Vivi asked.

“Then he should be corrected and told that his painting depicts an elephant,” I replied, feeling defeated. “Tell me, why are you behaving like this with me?”

"How?" Vivi asked, smiling slyly again.

“You are humiliating me as an author, as a creative person, by finding mistakes in my works ,” I said.

"On the contrary, I boost your self-esteem, and not only that," Vivi replied, glancing at what was still three inches from her face. "And I think you like it; it turns you on when I criticize your work."

Here again she used her lips in such a way that I was unable to give her a worthy literary answer, and my answer to her actions was completely and entirely unliterary.

A few minutes later, which I won't describe, no matter how much readers might expect me to, I, completely happy and relaxed, had already forgotten all about our literary differences. But Vivi wasn't like that. She decided to expand on our discussion.

“Darling, I must open your eyes to some nuances of the relationship between a man and a woman ,” she said.

“I was afraid that you were too naive and inexperienced a girl, and I was wary of letting you in on the intricacies of such a relationship, but as it turned out, my fears were in vain, you know a lot, I don’t know where from, whether from books or somewhere else,” I began.

"Darling, if you assume I know any of this from personal experience, you'll offend me, and it'll happen twenty minutes after you promised not to," Vivi reminded him. "Everything I know about this, I know from books, from reflection, and from our brief experience of communicating, which was very comprehensive, as you may have noticed!"

"Yes, yes, sorry, that's exactly what I wanted to say!" I quickly corrected myself. "But I just wanted to understand how you know what you're about to tell me, and what do you think I'm unaware of?"

"I already told you, from books and from my thoughts!" Vivi replied. "You listen to me first, and then you'll be surprised at the source of my information! I wanted to tell you that you're not so much a man as a writer. I realized that a long time ago. Even before we started... Before our first meeting in your apartment."

“I’m not a man?” I asked, confused and a little offended.

"You're not a man so much as you are a creative person, and believe me, that doesn't detract from your masculinity in the least," Vivi hastened to clarify. "That doesn't mean you're any less masculine than other men, it just means you have far more of a literary streak than a boor who'd rather have as many women as possible."

“Well, in that sense, I guess you’re right ,” I said, not fully understanding what she meant.

"You are such a literary figure, deep down, that you are bored by the women who are bored by your novels ," Vivi said bluntly. "Your literature is the most essential and largest part of your life. It is real to you. You live entirely in it. Your musketeers are not just your friends, they are even your family, closer than family, they are a part of you. Your kings, queens, cardinals, dukes, marquises, your Napoleon and your admiral Nelson, your Queen Margot, your Henry of Navarre, your Chicot and your brother Goranflo—they are essential parts of you."

"Perhaps, my child, you're right," I agreed. "But it's not so bad! I give them life, and they feed me! So it's not parasitism, but symbiosis. My literary heroes get along perfectly with me, and I with them!"

"Exactly, my dear!" said Vivi. "And I'm planning on getting along with you too, and I think I'm doing quite well."

"So good that we're going to get married right away. I'll be your husband, and we'll be together for life!" I said.

"Don't rush, dear!" Vivi objected. "I haven't finished yet. You, my Dudu, will be unhappy if you tie your life to a woman who isn't interested in your literary works."

“But you’re not like that!” I exclaimed.

"But I'm not like that," Vivi agreed. "I'm not like that at all. I'm interested in all your works, I've read them all, more than once. Your literary life is my literary life too. It's entered me, it's become a part of me."

“Let’s go to church today and get married ,” I said.

"Why are you rushing off to such a great deal?!" Vivi retorted. "Instead of enjoying freedom, life, and the pleasant discussion of your works, you're rushing to chain yourself to me, and me to you, with the chains of marriage, the chains of Hymen, so that you can lose all choice, all freedom, the right to your own separate life? You possess freedom, and yet you act as if it were a burden! Why do you want to do this? Do you want to lose your freedom, or do you want to deprive me of my freedom?"

“Neither one nor the other, I’m just afraid of losing you!” I exclaimed.

"You won't lose me until you decide to lock me in a cage, whether it's stone, iron, or gold," Vivi countered. "We're free and happy, and every day is ours, spent together not out of obligation, but by free choice! You're the one who wants to turn our meetings into obligations!"

"But why resist my destiny?" I wondered. "After all, it was fate itself that brought us together! I love you, you love me, so why shouldn't we be united as a family forever, until the grave?"

"Darling, what makes you think I love you?" Vivi asked. "My dear, you're making it all up. As far as I can remember, I never, not even once, said a single word to you that I love you."



CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

“But…” was all I could say.

I was shocked.

"I'm a very bad girl!" Vivi exclaimed cheerfully. "Would you like to punish me for this? You've already had your fill of pleasure twice, and I'm still only sympathetic to your joys, and nothing more! Work, darling!"

I won't describe the rest of the scene either. Damn it, I felt like I was eighteen with this beast!

Half an hour later, when the passionate expressions of my love for Violetta and our tender embrace after the height of that passion had calmed somewhat, our thoughts returned to earthly matters, and I realized that, alongside the anger that had intensified my passion, I was also feeling sadness. This sadness had not yet darkened my mood seriously, but like a small cloud that can, over time, grow into a huge storm cloud, this sadness, this dissatisfaction, this feeling of undeserved resentment had already begun to corrode my soul, like the first stain of rust begins to eat away at an iron knife dipped in seawater, foreshadowing its imminent end.

“Tell me, my dear, that you were joking when you told me that you don’t love me, and never have ,” I said.

"Why are you trying to get into my soul if you can have my body whenever you want?" Vivi asked.

“I would like to feel not only physically that you are mine in the bodily sense of the concept, but also to know this in relation to your soul,” I answered.

“Sorry, dear, I can’t give you that,” Vivi replied.

"Where does such cruelty come from in such a young creature?" I asked more of myself than of my interlocutor.

"It's cruel to lie, promising more than you can deliver," Vivi retorted. "But not making unfounded promises isn't cruel; it's reasonable and merciful."

“If you had deceived me, you would have given me more complete happiness,” I continued to reason.

"I would have planted a mine called 'unbearable disappointment' in our relationship," Vivi countered. "All this time I've been thinking about my compatriot, Alexander Pushkin. I think you, my dear, are partly to blame for this misfortune."

"How can I be held responsible for what happened in Russia?" I asked, surprised and indignant.

"Imagine, my dear, that your namesake, who, like you, has African ancestry, which makes his temperament as explosive as yours, fell in love, like you, with a girl much younger than him!" said Vivi. "In fact, she was almost my age when she married him, and when they first met, she was even younger than I am now! He was your age, if I'm not mistaken. He spoke of his love to her, and she replied that if her mother consented to the marriage, she would not oppose the union."

“If there are some similarities between our situation and theirs, that doesn’t make me responsible for what happened to them,” I objected.

“Don’t jump to conclusions, my dear, and listen further,” Vivi replied. “Pushkin is a genius, a poet and a prose writer. He existed in his own world. The teachers at the lyceum, well-read by the ideologists of our revolution and imbued with the ideas of the French Revolution, raised their students in the spirit of freedom and condemnation of the monarchy, which they all called absolutism and which they all sought to overthrow. France influenced the formation of Alexander Pushkin’s character. At first, he dreamed of transforming the absolute monarchy into a constitutional one. Then he began to dream of its complete overthrow. He wrote poetry, which his friends read, copied, and circulated with delight. Then the storm broke. Most of his friends participated in the uprising against the new emperor; more than a hundred of them were sentenced to death, but only five were executed; the rest had their sentences commuted to exile in Siberia or hard labor. All those executed were Pushkin’s friends. Do you understand, my dear, what kind of man he was? When Emperor Nicholas asked Pushkin where he would be if he were in the capital, the poet replied that he would, of course, be with his friends. He confessed to the emperor that he would fight against him with arms in hand! But the emperor refused to deal with the rebellious poet; instead, he informed him that from now on he would become his own censor, that Pushkin could no longer travel within his homeland without the emperor's permission, and that he could no longer publish anything without his permission. They put a collar, a leash, and a muzzle on the poet! But he tried to disobey. He met with friends, read them his works, which his sovereign censor had not yet had time to read! Do you understand that this man existed entirely only in his own literary work; he perceived everything else only through the prism of his desire to fight for so-called "freedom"?

“This is all very instructive, but I don’t understand what it has to do with me,” I replied.

"And such a man, for example, tired of being persecuted, decided to live the simple life of a married man, in prosperity and peace," Vivi continued. "He married an eighteen-year-old beauty, the most beautiful woman in the capital, according to the descriptions of those who saw her and had the opportunity to compare! He married for love, a girl who had no idea what 'love' was! He simply convinced her that she loved him too, and in her naivety she believed him. Exactly what you're about to do to me!"

"Perhaps I'm repeating Pushkin's mistakes, but your idea of my guilt remains outrageous and unbelievable to me!" I continued.

"I'm not angry that you interrupt me, just because any dialogue is better than a monologue," Vivi replied. " But if you stop interrupting me, you'll soon get my point. So, this charming fool bears her brilliant husband three lovely children, then meets a young dandy of French descent. She falls head over heels in love with him, despite the fact that he's already captivated half the married ladies of St. Petersburg's demi-monde, and from a good quarter of those ladies, he received his share of reciprocal love, adorning the crowns of their husbands' heads with branching ornaments that make them resemble deer. Naturally, this Don Juan couldn't help but notice the most beautiful lady of the demi-monde, and he tried with all his might to convince her of his deep love. To this end, he convinced her that she alone was the meaning of his life, the purpose of his existence, and so on and so forth. It ended with the lady completely losing her head; there were several private dates, and it all ended in a duel, the victim of which was her brilliant, but not far-sighted and even in some ways completely childishly stupid husband, the greatest poet of Russia, Alexander Pushkin.

"What does this have to do with me?" I asked stubbornly.

"The young womanizer's name was Georges d'Anth;s ," Vivi replied coldly. "Imagine this cavalryman, who couldn't ride a horse but danced beautifully, supplied Pushkin's wife with French novels. She read the novels he gave her before she lost her head over him, she read them during her fourth pregnancy, she read them after the birth of her fourth child, she read them even after her jealous husband learned of her affair first from acquaintances, then witnessed her indecent attraction to him at numerous balls, and finally received anonymous letters completely exposing his wife." Even after the most serious conversation between Pushkin and his wife, she did not stop meeting with d'Anth;s , did not stop receiving the most fashionable French novels from him, was carried away by them, these novels excited her imagination, awakened sensuality in her and strengthened her love for the visiting French baron.

"You mean to say that d'Anth;s sent her my novels ," I said. "I understand, but I reject your accusation that my novels contributed to this adultery! In my novels, I did not teach women that, while married, they can and should love other men, betraying their marital duty."

"Why are you lying to me, Dudu?" Vivi asked. "If I'm telling you that your novels corrupted Natalie Pushkina, wouldn't it be better for you to think about which novels I'm referring to?"

"In my novels, I celebrate true and pure love!" I replied. "I have never violated marital duty in my novels!"

"As if!" Vivi chuckled. "Don't you remember anything?"

"You mean that Aramis was the Duchess de Chevreuse's lover, that Porthos was Madame Coquenard's lover?" I guessed. "Well, those are such trifles!"

"Dudu, my dear, in your novels, almost all the married women become mistresses of men whose husbands they are not, and I haven't found any condemnation of these relationships in your authorial assessment!" Vivi exclaimed.

"But listen, my dear, it seems these two examples prove nothing at all!" I said.

“Two examples?” Vivi asked. “Two examples, you say? Queen Anne of Austria and the Duke of Buckingham. Charles d’Artagnan and Constance Buonacie ! Aramis and Madame de Bois- Tracy ! Louise de La Valli;re and Louis XIV! Athos and the Duchess of Chevreuse! Aramis and the Duchess de Longueville! D’Artagnan and Madeleine, the owner of the Goat Inn! Porthos even has his eye on Planchet’s wife! In your Musketeer trilogy, wherever there is love, it is always not the love between husband and wife! And the husband and wife are Athos and Milady! Louis XIII and Anne of Austria! Hateful marriages that bring only misfortune to both parties!”

"Did Mrs. Pushkin really read my trilogy about the musketeers?" I asked.

"No, she read her husband's works, is that what you're saying?" Violetta replied ironically. "Of course she did! She never read a single line of what her genius husband wrote, because all geniuses are always worthless in the eyes of their spouses and their lackeys! She, who lived in a house filled with five thousand volumes of selected books, gratefully received French novels from her lover, which she devoured greedily one after another!"

"Well, I didn't write The Musketeers for ladies," I dismissed. "It's not my fault that Madame Pushkina was fascinated by the Musketeers."

"If she hadn't read The Musketeers, she would have read your other novels, which were no better in that regard," Vivi replied. "Your Queen Marie Antoinette is in love with the Comte de Charny , and not only that. Your Diane de Poitiers is the mistress of King Henry II. Your Princess of Monaco is in love with Philippe, the brother of King Louis XIV. Diane de Monsoreau is in love with Bussy , Marguerite of Navarre is unfaithful to her husband left and right, and her husband, Henry of Navarre, also changes one mistress after another; you could lose count of his conquests. Many of the married women and men in your novels behave similarly."

"Well, okay, these are common features of many of our novels ," I said. "Such is fashion, such are the demands of readers."

"Georges d'Anth;s sent Madame Pushkin your novel, The Count of Monte Cristo, with the note: 'Natalie, read my uncle's story!'" Vivi exclaimed. "No more, no less!"

“Where did you get this information?” I asked.

"Natalie's sister, Catherine, married Georges d'Anth;s , and six months after the ill-fated duel, the family arrived in France ," Vivi said. "My mistress knew her well. We sewed her a few little things, as I was a seamstress. She probably still wears some of the things I made. So, this Catherine told my mistress about the books her sister Natalie had read. As for the inscription I'm talking about, it was written right on the book. Catherine saw it with her own eyes, she believed it, and for that very reason she read the book three times herself, and, of course, fell in love with the enigmatic and mysterious descendant of your Count of Monte Cristo!"

"What nonsense!" I exclaimed. "Edmond d'Anth;s is a fictitious name!"

"My dear, isn't it strange that you give your characters fictitious names that correspond to real noble names? Your Edmond d'Anth;s bears the name of a real noble family," Vivi continued. "This allowed Georges d'Anth;s to claim that the book recounts true events that took place in France. And since the novel takes place practically in the present day, this allowed Georges to pass himself off as the Count of Monte Cristo's closest relative. A naive woman, noticing the similarity of the names and the fact that Edmond d'Anth;s had no children, believed that Georges was the Count of Monte Cristo's sole heir. The story of Georges's mysterious adoption by a certain Baron Heeckeren , who was far too old to be his father, was presented as yet another mystery connected to some mysterious story." Georges told her that, in the interests of justice, he was forced to conceal his true identity from his enemies remaining in France, and that this whole adoption affair was orchestrated for this purpose. In other words, he shrouded himself in an aura of mystery, hinted at some vile actions against him and his relative, the Count of Monte Cristo, and also hinted at the untold wealth that would come to him after his uncle's death. The foolish girl didn't sleep for two nights straight after he stunned her with all these piles of lies, which were indirectly confirmed by the story from your novel, Doudou. Of course, you're not to blame for what happened. But if there hadn't been your novel, or if the hero of your novel hadn't been named Edmond d'Anth;s , everything might have been completely different.

"I'll rewrite the name in the novel!" I exclaimed. "I'll change the name of my hero!"

"Don't be silly, Dudu, it's impossible. The book has been published in huge print runs," Violetta replied. "And the main thing is, it won't bring Pushkin back."

"Tell me, Violetta, why did you tell me this whole horrible story?" I asked. "Surely it wasn't so I'd be tormented by guilt? My novel didn't call for anything villainous or obscene. With my novel, I condemn meanness, betrayal, and other evil deeds. I taught people to be better, purer, kinder! If Mercedes doesn't love her husband, but loves Edmond, she nevertheless didn't betray her marital duty and didn't become Edmond's mistress! I'm not guilty of the death of your fellow countryman and my namesake, Alexander Pushkin!"

"Yes, of course, dear, it's not your fault ," Vivi said. "I just wanted to tell you not to rush into marrying a girl just because you find her beautiful, tender, and desirable. Any girl twelve years younger than you can be desirable. Today it's me, tomorrow another, and the day after—God knows! You need a wife who will love the genius in you, who will read every line you write! You're a writer, and you need a writer's wife, and that's a special kind of woman!"

"But you're just like that!" I exclaimed. "You love my novels, you know my work like no one else!"

“Maybe so, maybe not,” Vivi replied. “How can you know?”

“I’ve been convinced more than once that you know my novels,” I replied. “And you yourself admitted that you love them!”

"I guess so," Vivi agreed. "But what if I meet another author who writes better than you? And I fall in love with them?"

It was a blow to my pride!



CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR


"Vivi, you could certainly easily find a man younger and more handsome than me ," I said. "I also admit that he might be superior to me in many ways, including temperament and physical attributes, which I would be futile to compete with. But do you really expect to meet someone more talented than me in the very field in which I am an undisputed master? Being with a man known not only throughout France but throughout the world—and I'm not exaggerating in the least—do you seriously expect to find here in Paris someone who could match my literary talent?"

Violetta remained silent, only smiling slyly and waiting for my tirade to continue.

“I can understand and forgive you if you become infatuated with a man who is my superior in everything, perhaps even in everything,” I continued passionately. “Thousands of women here in Paris alone do not value literary talent in a man; they simply do not know what it is. Perhaps tens of thousands of women are not interested in literature at all, and they require something entirely different from a man. But if you say that you value my literary talent above all else, and for this reason you allowed something to arise between us that, I hope, was not just a passing amusement, but something more significant, and not only for me, but for you as well. I hope that our relationship is at least a quarter as important to you as it is to me.” And if this relationship arose and was established on the basis of your recognition of my literary gift, then how could you have imagined that somewhere nearby, here in Paris, you could easily find another, before whom my literary talent would fade so much that you would be carried away by this person more than you are now carried away by me?

“Go on,” Violetta said quietly, looking into my eyes.

“Very well ,” I said. “Perhaps I was hasty. Perhaps I am far from the best writer. Let’s suppose that even here in Paris, somewhere, there lives and hones his literary talent a young, handsome, slender, rich, generous, and single writer who, after a while, surpasses me in everything that is good about me. Let’s say in his presence and against his background, all my virtues fade, as the moon’s light fades in the presence of the sun. I am a realist, and I admit that such a thing is entirely possible.”

"Seriously?" Violetta asked with an incredulous smile.

“It’s a little difficult for me to imagine this, but I admit this possibility, if not in my heart, then in my common sense,” I replied.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I forgot you were sane ," Violetta said. "I'll keep that in mind and take this news into account in the future. Please continue."

“I ignore that jab,” I replied indulgently. “And I’ll continue my thought. So, let’s say you meet a man who’s better than me in every way. He’ll not only be younger, more handsome, stronger, but also more talented than me. Maybe he’ll also be a great dancer, singer, or whatever? I don’t know. Swim, climb trees? So be it, he’ll be better than me in everything. But will he love you the way I love you?”

After that, I looked tenderly into Violetta’s eyes.

She was silent. It even seemed to me that she was holding her breath.

"I love you, Violetta, as I've never loved anyone, and never will ," I said, continuing to look into her eyes. "Will you ever find the kind of love in someone else that I feel for you? And if my feelings haven't yet ignited a reciprocal fire of love in you, maybe we simply haven't had enough time for you not only to get to know me better, but also to feel the full depth of my love for you?"

"Are you serious?" Violetta whispered. "How can you claim to love me when you barely know me?"

“I know enough about you to trust my heart,” I replied. “To do this, I don’t necessarily need to know absolutely everything about you, I don’t need to know all your strengths and all your flaws, if you have them. I simply allowed myself to listen to the feelings I have for you. Believe me, the undoubted skill of any writer is the ability to listen to oneself, to hear and understand one’s inner voice. After all, the feelings of all the heroes in all my books are what I heard in myself, how I myself would react to similar situations in which they find themselves! So believe me, I know myself! Perhaps I don’t know something about you that would repel me, perhaps I am about to discover something not entirely good about you, or even downright bad, but I am not at all afraid of this. After all, my love for you has already happened, it happened, it has become my destiny, it has grown within me to incredible proportions. Therefore, whatever I discover in you that I might not like, in my eyes it will not be your shortcoming, but something I will accept without objection, and this will become our shared destiny. If there are flaws in you that can and should be corrected, we will correct them together. If they prove irreparable, I will resign myself to them. If they are such that life with you becomes unbearable for me, then I will live this unbearable life and thank fate for allowing all this to happen to me. If our life together does not give me another moment of happiness, I will remember the happiness I have already experienced with you, and this happiness experienced with you will suffice for my entire future life; these memories will nourish my love for you as long as I live. And if something new, better, comes along, then I will regard this event as a gift from heaven.

Vivi looked at me with wide eyes.

“Is it true?” she finally asked in a quiet whisper.

“Of course, darling,” I answered in the same whisper and kissed her hand.

"You know, darling, I had no idea it was so serious ," she said. "I read in books that only mature and strong-willed men are capable of the deepest love, that it's rare, but it does happen. But only now have I become convinced that it's true. After that confession of yours, I felt with all my soul, with all my heart, that I love you too. And that I can and must confess it to you. I'm simply happy that this happened to me!"

I embraced her, and our lips met in a long kiss, followed by a mutual demonstration of our strong feelings for each other. Of course, this took place in bed, and, naturally, I will not recount any details of this interaction in this book.

After that, Violetta stopped teasing me, and I think she truly fell in love with me. Well, I have reason to be proud. I won her over. And the entire scene I described confirms that I am, after all, a brilliant writer. Almost instantly, I composed that monologue that brought me victory. That's what true talent as a dramatic writer signifies, along with colossal literary experience. Not only did I improvise brilliantly, but as an actor, I performed my role so well that even I believed in myself.

My reading talent won out and disarmed the distrustful and skeptical Vivi.

Reader, you don't think I actually felt everything I said to Violetta at that very moment, do you? I've had enough experience to understand that there are no eternal feelings in this world, and also to understand that a man should, whenever possible, tell his woman exactly what she wants to hear, and that understanding exactly what she wants to hear isn't exactly a talent. After all, every daughter of Eve constantly wants to hear that she is the best of her sex, at least in the eyes of her boyfriend, and that he is fervently convinced of this, once and for all, for the rest of his life. For some reason, women are much more pleased to hear that a man wants to live the rest of his days side by side with her and die on the same day, whereas a man would be much happier to hear that for the next six months, or at least three months, his relationship with the woman he likes will be unsullied. A promise of a longer term is worth nothing, like the promise of fine weather for the next few months. Everyone knows that the weather has a way of turning bad, only to clear up again later, and everyone knows that the same thing happens to any woman's mood, and that this is especially acutely felt by the man who is fortunate enough to have a special kind of intimacy with her. To ignore a woman's sudden changes for the worse and avoid experiencing the harshest emotions from them, one would have to be a complete stranger to that woman.

So, our relationship had improved greatly, although it hadn't deteriorated even once by this point, but I was already quite tired of Violetta's occasional barbs and hurtful remarks. The unpleasant impression of her confession of dislike for me was completely smoothed over by the joy of her subsequent declaration of love. I was at the height of bliss, especially after receiving the most reliable proof of the genuineness of her feelings, which immediately followed this confession.

But Violetta still didn’t calm down.

"Tell me, my dear, how do you envision our future life?" she asked. "You're a romantic, aren't you? You've probably already planned out our future life, like one of your new novels? I'm going to have to bear you several children? That's fine for a monotonous family life like everyone else's, but it's hardly suitable for a tearful romance that young ladies will shed tears over, hiding it under their pillows from their parents and caregivers! I suppose I should contract some kind of consumption and slowly, drop by drop, lose my life, lying on white sheets, coughing up blood and confessing my endless love to you, lamenting that Fate is unfair, and then blessing it for giving me you?" And after my death, you will devote an entire chapter to describing my funeral, and an epilogue to describing my lonely grave, of course, in an open field, under a simple wooden cross, to which you will bring a bouquet of freshly picked lilies of the valley or primroses once a year on the day of my death for the next thirty years?

"What's gotten into such a melancholy mood?" I asked with displeasure.

"It's not me, my dear, it's your writer brethren's fault," Vivi replied with a laugh. "Every romance novel is a tear-jerker with a sad ending. There's no story sadder in the world than the tale of Dumas and Violetta!"

"I ask, no, I demand, that you live a long time, and outlive me by thirty years!" I replied, without any pretense. "You can bring flowers to my grave for a couple of years, but you'd better marry someone more respectable. I'll be pleased to know that even after my death, your life will be settled. I'd like, of course, for you to grieve for a while, but a couple of years is plenty for my pride."

“I was joking, but you answered this topic so seriously that I didn’t find it funny at all, but sad,” Vivi replied.

"There's nothing sad about the young outliving their elders," I countered. "I didn't say I'd die anytime soon. Let it be later, in about forty years. And you live after that happens."

"And who will need me at fifty-five?" Violetta exclaimed.

"How can you say you'll be fifty-six in forty years if you told me you were sixteen?" I asked in surprise.

“Sorry, I’m weak in math,” Vivi replied.

"You're as cunning as my Aramis!" I said with a grin.

“You underestimate me, darling,” Vivi whispered tenderly.

At that moment, someone knocked on the door very insistently. The knocking was so loud that one might have thought the visitor was trying to break down my door. Furthermore, the slamming of feet on the door was accompanied by a harsh, hoarse male voice cursing at me.

“What would you like, my dear?” I asked through the door.

"Open up, or I'll tear this door down!" someone shouted from outside, far from noble, judging by the swearing he was using.

"If you don't stop tormenting my doors, I'll be forced to resort to the help of the gendarmes!" I said through the door.

"If you, sir, don't open the door for me, I'll show up here myself, accompanied by gendarmes, and then you'll go to prison, I guarantee it!" growled a voice from outside.

“Okay, I agree to talk through the chain ,” I said and, throwing the chain on the door, opened it slightly.

A rather ferocious-looking man, who, judging by his bluish complexion and red nose, was a great devotee of Bacchus, pressed his face into the resulting gap. A disgusting mixture of garlic, cheap alcohol, and burnt chicken offal wafted over me.

"You have my underage daughter!" the visitor exclaimed. "You lured her to you with deception and seduction! I demand her return to me immediately, and I will also ensure that you are severely punished for your vile actions in corrupting my dear little one!"

"You said you were an orphan, didn't you?" I asked Violetta. "What's this news?"

"This is my mother's last partner, Martin Terquier , whom she appointed as my guardian ," Violetta said with a sigh. "He's not my father, but by law he can demand an account of my behavior from me for almost another year."

"But you just turned sixteen, didn't you?" I asked.

“I exaggerated a little ,” Violetta said with an embarrassed smile.

"The surprises you give me are mind-blowing!" was all I could reply.

After that I went to the door.

“My dear, I will open the doors if you promise that our conversation will be peaceful and constructive ,” I said.

“I won’t cripple you without good reason, if that’s what you mean,” grumbled Violetta’s unexpected guardian.

I opened the doors, and my uninvited guest immediately burst into my hallway.

"There you are, you wretch!" he said, barely glancing at Violetta. "You forgot all about your father! You've settled in here with some rich nobleman."

"You're not my father, and I don't have to account to you for who I spend my time with," Violetta snapped. "Mama left you her meager savings so you could take care of me. She should have given them to the church to give to the poor! I haven't received a penny from you, and yet you stick your nose in everywhere and won't let me rest! You're not a guardian, you're a parasite, clinging to me, trying to profit from my existence, my youth, my attractiveness, anything that can be turned into money!"

"It's because she loves me, my little one," Terkje chuckled . "She's always scolding me, just like her mother. Come on, baby, don't get angry and don't yell! I'm only concerned about your happiness."

"I was happy until you showed up," Violetta replied. "If you came to see for yourself, then you've got your chance. Once you're convinced, go away."

“Okay, I’ll leave, but only to call the gendarmes so that they can arrest this gentleman,” Terkier answered and pointed his hand at me.

“How much do you want?” I asked.

Terkier said, feigning indignation . "Are you saying that I'm capable of selling my daughter to you?!"

"That's exactly what I want to say, and I'll ask you again: how much would you like for neither Violetta nor I to ever see you or hear anything about you again?" I replied, trying to keep my cool.

"I won't make any deals with you!" Terkier exclaimed angrily . "But I could perhaps accept your terms if you compensate me for my expenses incurred as guardian to my dear Violetta."

“How much?” I asked again.

“Baby, don’t eavesdrop, I need to whisper something in your friend’s ear ,” Terkier said .

After that, he brought his face close to my ear and, enveloping me in the smells of onions, garlic, fumes and burnt chicken, whispered the amount he was counting on.

"What an appetite you have, my dear fellow!" I exclaimed. "You're no fool! Very well, I agree to pay you this sum. But not all at once, but in installments. In doing so, you will sign a document acknowledging that you renounce all rights to Violetta. It would be best if you appointed me her guardian until she comes of age."

Terkier asked incredulously .

"You sign the contract, and I'll give you a tenth of the required amount right now, and I'll write you a receipt for the rest," I replied. "I'll pay you the same amount every month, and in nine months we'll settle up. Incidentally, in that case, you'll benefit too, as it will provide for you for a long time, preventing you from blowing all the money I give you on booze and other mischief in three days, which I imagine you're quite capable of."

“I don’t like your conditions,” Terkier grumbled .

"In that case, I ask you to leave my house as quickly as possible," I replied. "You can bring the gendarmes or whoever you like. We'll see whose side they take."

"You're lucky I don't like dealing with the gendarmes myself," Terquier grumbled . "The hell with you! I agree. Write your papers."

I immediately grabbed paper and a pen and wrote two documents. One of them, Mr. Martin Terquier renounced his guardianship of Violetta in my favor; the other, I pledged to pay Martin Terquier the agreed-upon sum at the agreed-upon dates. To my surprise , Terquier proved literate; he carefully read both documents, signed the first, and demanded that I sign the second. After that, we exchanged documents. Having received my receipt, Terquier carefully folded it in four and tucked it into his waistcoat pocket.

“Your good fortune, monsieur, is that I am in a good mood today,” he grumbled, to my great relief, and left my house.

"How much did you promise him?" Violetta asked.

I named the amount.

"Dudu, are you crazy!" Violetta exclaimed. "He would have been perfectly satisfied with a quarter of that amount!"

“I can’t bargain in a matter when my happiness is at stake,” I replied.

"That's very sweet, and it flatters my ego, but you're an incorrigible romantic, my dear!" Vivi replied. "Besides, you're completely incompetent in business! That's exactly the amount you were promised for the new book!"

"Well, if I don't know how to run a business, I hired you for this job!" I replied. "You're right that I don't have that kind of money, and you're right that I can earn it with a new book. Well, then, I'll have to write that book, and I'll do it with joy, because it will give you the freedom you desire, and I'll have the happiness of being your guardian."



CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

"You're so sweet!" said Violetta. "You're noble, kind, generous! You're my hero!"

"Your hero's hungry, come on, my dear, let's go out for lunch somewhere," I replied. "After your stepfather's visit to our sweet little nest, I won't be able to scrape together enough money for a fancy restaurant, but I can still afford a good dinner."

"What will happen tomorrow?" Violetta asked.

"Tomorrow is a new day, and with it, new problems and new opportunities," I replied. "If I write three or four chapters of a new book tonight, then by tomorrow I'll be able to persuade the publisher to give me something beyond the advance I received."

We went outside and headed toward a well-known, decent restaurant, "Renard Gris ," where the prices were steep during the day, but they didn't devour your wallet like a pig devours fallen apples, whole and crumb-free. The weather was magnificent, and my current purse was still thin, making it even more conducive to a stroll. But we hadn't walked more than a couple of blocks when a woman called out to Violetta.

"Violetta!" she cried again. "Is it you?! Oh, my God! What a joy it is to have found you!"

Violetta, who had shuddered all over at the first sounds of this voice, looked back at this call and turned pale.

“Mom?” she whispered. “Is that you? Are you alive?”

A modestly dressed, still quite beautiful woman of about forty years old, who called out to my Violetta, ran up to us and began to passionately embrace Vivi, covering her face with kisses, while Vivi herself seemed unable to move, for she was in shock.

"My girl! I found you!" she repeated. "Thank you, God! My Violetta, how glad I am to see you again!"

"Violetta, is this your mother?" I asked. "Answer me! But you said you were an orphan!"

“An orphan!” the woman repeated. “Of course! Of course, an orphan! Her father is long gone, and her mother is running around looking for her! My poor girl, my poor little orphan! How hard it must have been for you!”

And she again began to hug, kiss and tug at Violetta, lamenting and thanking the Lord and Fate.

Finally, Violetta came to her senses.

“Mom, but I thought you were dead!” she said finally.

“I thought so myself, but, as you see, the Lord has taken pity on me twice!” the woman replied. “First by not letting me die, and now by bringing us together. Now we will never be separated! Never! Never! My girl! Alive! Next to me, in my arms! Lord, what happiness!”

I delicately stepped aside to allow the ladies to speak out and come to their senses.

I had hoped, however, that I would overhear their conversation, but my expectations were dashed. Both ladies, mother and daughter, began speaking so quietly that I couldn't hear a single word they said. Finally, their conversation broke off and they both turned to face me.

“Mom, meet my good friend and benefactor, the famous writer Alexandre Dumas ,” she said.

"Like Moli;re and Corneille?" asked the lady. "Or like Voltaire, Diderot, Montesquieu ? Or perhaps an embittered poet like Robespierre?"

"Mom, have you really never heard of Dumas?" Violetta asked in a petulant voice. "Don't pretend! All of Paris knows Dumas!"

"And not just Paris, madam, I dare say," I added. "True, we're only talking about the reading portion of the distinguished public. Or, at least, about those who go to the theater at least once a year."

"Violetta, my girl, but he's old!" Madame said in a tone as if I wasn't there.

"Perhaps, Violetta, after you introduced me to your mother, you would introduce her to me as well?" I asked.

“Dumas, this is my mother, Anne-Genevieve Parisot ,” Violetta said solemnly.

“Madame Parisot, very nice to meet you,” I replied and gallantly kissed Anne-Genevieve’s hand.

"Unfortunately, I cannot reciprocate," Madame Parisot replied. "At least not until I understand the role you play in my daughter's fate and your relationship with her."

“I can assure you, madam, that I… That between us… That I will under no circumstances…” I answered, embarrassed.

"Mom, Dudu and I are cohabiting," Vivi replied. "I'm his kept woman."

"Violetta's joking," I replied. "Mademoiselle Parisot is my commercial director and also my secretary. She receives a fair salary for her work, as she has proven her exceptional abilities as my secretary, and then also demonstrated her enormous talent in managing my financial affairs."

"So, you're a kept woman," Madame Parisot said coldly, completely ignoring my words. "You live in the apartment he rents for you, you sleep in the same bed with him, you make love to him, without the slightest hope of marrying him."

"Coming from you, that sounds terrible," I objected. "But in fact, I have already proposed to Mademoiselle, and although my proposal was rejected, I hope that I will soon be able to convince Mademoiselle not only of the purity of my intentions, but also that I will be a good husband to her and, God willing, the father of our children."

"Why did you turn him down?" Madame Parisot asked Violetta. "I understand that writing isn't the most worthy occupation for a man, and, as I said, he's a bit old for you, but if he has a regular income and honest intentions, perhaps it wouldn't be such a bad option?"

"Mom! I'll sort out my personal life myself!" Violetta objected.

“Of course, my dear, but not until you come of age, and until then…” Madame Parisot replied and looked at me meaningfully.

"I understand your feelings, Madame Parisot," I replied. "But since your daughter believed that you were no longer alive, and so did your other relatives, including your second husband, Mademoiselle Violette's stepfather, who, in accordance with your will, assumed the duties and rights of Mademoiselle Violette's guardian, and since he and I have already settled this matter by drawing up an agreement under which the rights of guardianship have passed to me, then I am Mademoiselle Violette's full guardian, and upon her reaching adulthood, I hope to become her husband in every sense of the word."

“Guardian? Her stepfather? According to my will?!” Madame Parisot exclaimed. “What nonsense are you talking about? I never made or signed any will! I have nothing to bequeath! Especially not to that drunkard, my second husband! He deceived you! Have you seen any document that would give him any rights as Violetta’s guardian?”

"I confess, I forgot to ask for the document," I muttered, realizing how stupid I'd been. "I trusted Violetta's words, as well as his assertion that he was her legal guardian."

"And I believed him!" Violetta replied. "He told me this three years ago! What do you expect from a little girl? Should I have asked him for documents? I didn't understand anything about it then, and I still don't really understand all these agreements, contracts, and agreements!"

"You don't understand?" asked Madame. "And your lover said you're great at dealing with contracts, so much so that he made you his director!"

"Mom, that's different, and besides, I'm not fourteen years old now!" Violetta exclaimed.

"Ladies, we are standing in the middle of the street, trying to sort out such complex matters that require careful consideration, and certainly not on an empty stomach!" I said. "Violetta and I were heading to lunch, and I ask Madame Parisot to do me the honor of dining with us at the Renard Gris restaurant ."

“I’m not dressed decently enough to go to a restaurant,” Madame Parisot replied coquettishly.

"We'll get a private room where no one but me and your daughter will see you," I replied. "So you won't embarrass anyone with your appearance, no matter what you're wearing. Besides, if a woman is as beautiful as you are, any clothes will suit her."

"We've only known each other for five minutes, and suddenly you're paying me such compliments!" Madame Parisot replied. "It's clear you really are a writer! You never mince words. But if you think you'll win me over with your compliments to the point where I'll let you treat my daughter like... like..."

"Mom, we're very hungry!" Violetta intervened. "Please, let's go and eat, and then we can discuss everything at our leisure."

"Very well, let's go," Madame Parisot relented. "I wouldn't mind a bite to eat either."

“It wasn’t in vain that I made her my commercial director,” I thought. “She knows how to negotiate.”



CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Madame Parisot placed her order with complete disregard for my financial means, which are usually sufficient, but not this time, after meeting her last husband. Still, I figured I could afford the required amount, including a tip for the waiter. So I resolved to simply enjoy the food and try not to let our pleasant conversation interfere.

"So, madam, you seem to have some questions for me ," I said when dessert arrived. "I suggest you enjoy it, and then we can discuss everything that interests you."

“My lawyer will be asking my questions to you, and the result of the answers to them, I assume, will be for you to move to a government building, where you will have the opportunity to think about your behavior regarding my daughter, instead of inventing intricate plots for your pathetic little books,” Madame Parisot answered with dignity, starting on dessert.

"Madam, I know without a lawyer that any problem should first be resolved peacefully, by drawing up a pre-trial settlement agreement," I replied. "As far as I know, the favors I provided to your daughter do not fall under any criminal law, and our personal relationship could hardly be the basis for any serious claims on her part, since all our conversations with her have always been consensual, without coercion or violence, and without even the slightest quarrel or disagreement."

“Make your bed soft, Mr. Writer, but he will sleep hard,” Madame replied coldly, finishing her dessert and happily turning to a cup of aromatic coffee.

"Well, if we're done with lunch, and you intend to entrust this conversation with me to your lawyer, whose existence I seriously doubt, then it looks like we're wasting our time ," I said with a sigh, then pulled out my watch in a gold case with six small diamonds and pointedly looked at the dial. "Lunchtime is over for me, so I'm afraid I must take my leave to begin my daily work."

"You have a fine watch, Mr. Writer ," said Madame Parisot. "It must be expensive! A thousand francs, no less!"

“One thousand three hundred and fifty ,” I said in an indifferent tone and put the watch back in my pocket.

“Perhaps I would agree to turn a blind eye to your pranks in gratitude for such hours ,” said Madame Parisot.

“Okay, now I’ll ask the waiter for some paper and writing utensils, after which you’ll write me a statement that you have no claims against me in connection with my friendly and official relationship with your daughter Violetta Parisot, after which I’ll hand you this watch ,” I said.

“I agree,” replied Madame.

A few minutes later I was dictating the text of the statement, which Madame Parisot had written without a single mistake, in an even handwriting, which indicated that this was not the first time she had written such a document.

"Give me your watch!" said Madame Parisot.

"I will take the watch in my right hand, and you will take your document in your right hand. On the count of three, I will hand you the watch, which you will take in your left hand, and you will place your document in my left hand ," I said. "If you attempt to tear or snatch this document from my hands, I will take decisive measures to ensure that my watch is returned to its rightful owner."

Madame agreed, and we went through the exchange procedure I proposed.

“It was nice to meet you, Mr. Writer ,” said Madame, tucking her watch away in her pocket. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go.”

She intended to get up and leave, but I held her back with a gesture of my hand.

“A few more words, please wait ,” I said.

“I’m listening to you,” agreed Madame.

"I'll ask the owner to detain you until the police arrive ," I said. "I'll report you to the police for tricking me into giving you this watch, offering me a worthless document in exchange. You, madam, are a fraud, and you will be punished to the fullest extent of the law."

“What’s going on here?!” Madame exclaimed. “You, sir, are a scoundrel! So this is who my daughter has gotten involved with? Violetta! Why aren’t you saying anything? Why aren’t you standing up for your mother? How can you allow him to talk to me like that?”

"I'm not at all sure she's your daughter, but I have no doubt that you and your husband are her accomplices," I replied. "All three of you, madam, including the man who called himself Martin Terquier and introduced himself as her guardian, you're all a gang of swindlers and liars, conspiring to pick the pockets of honest and decent people. You'll be introduced to the police, and your accomplice, Martin Terquier, will also be found."

"Dudu! What are you talking about?" Violetta exclaimed. "What's wrong with you? Are you really that angry over some watch?!"

“Enough!” I replied. “I’m fed up with this circus. Even back then, when you accused me of having a certain d’Anth;s use my novel to gain Madame Pushkina’s trust. All this time, you tried to convince me that you adored everything I wrote, that you were an expert on my work. But then you should have known that I wrote my novel, The Count of Monte Cristo, between 1844 and 1846, so the aforementioned d’Anth;s couldn’t have given it to Madame Pushkina before its publication, while his duel with Mr. Pushkin took place in early 1837. Don’t you think that’s an unforgivable mistake for someone interested in my work, as well as the fate of this Russian poet? Besides, you insisted that you had some Russian roots, which I seriously doubt.” You deceived me from the very first moment of our meeting, slandering Mr. Ernest. You lied to me about your age. You also lied about your inexperience in love. I saw it right away. You also lied to me about your mother and your stepfather. You confirmed that your stepfather supposedly has guardianship rights, facilitating his obtaining a very significant sum of money from me. Your family is a gang of swindlers, fraudsters, and crooks. From now on, the gendarmes will deal with you. Waiter! The bill, please.



CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN


Madame Parisot blushed, her nostrils flared, and she looked like a bull about to charge the bullfighter, ready to gore him. But that didn't bother me. I looked into Violetta's face.

"Dudu, I'm pregnant," Violetta said. "You'll be the father of our child. I don't know if you already have children, or how many. I didn't even ask if you were married. But I will give birth to this child, raise it myself, and educate it properly! Forgive me for playing this little prank to ensure its future. Mom, give the writer his watch back. My father will bring you the money you gave him tomorrow, along with a receipt for the rest. Don't worry about this child; he'll be happy, much happier than me! I hope it's a girl, because men are so rude!"

For several minutes, I was speechless. I was stunned by this news, and somehow I immediately sensed she was telling the truth. Moreover, at the end of her words, she uttered the same phrase Queen Anne of Austria had used about two men she was dealing with at the time—King Louis XIII and the Duke of Buckingham. All three were heroes of my Musketeer trilogy; Violetta couldn't have been unaware of this!

“So, am I as rude as Buckingham and as insensitive as Louis XIII ?” I asked irritably. “Wait a minute… You said you were pregnant? How did you know?”

“Not from my own experience, of course, but from signs that are undeniable, if you believe the books,” Violetta answered.

"Monsieur Dumas," Madame Parisot addressed me, "I will give you my answer regarding your accusations in due course, but for now, allow me and my daughter to converse in confidence about the news we just heard. Leave us for a few minutes."

"As the father of the unborn child, I believe I have the right to have a confidential conversation with the mother-to-be immediately after this news, but I will defer to your insistence," I replied. "After you finish your conversation, I, too, would like to share something confidential with Mademoiselle Parisot."

I paid the bill and left the ladies as they wished. Needless to say, Madame Parisot didn't even think of returning my watch. Besides, I wasn't even looking forward to it anymore. My thoughts were on entirely different matters!

If I'd smoked or drunk alcohol, I probably would have calmed down with one or both. A good dessert usually lifts my spirits, but firstly, I'd already finished it, and a second dessert would have been too much even for a gourmet like me; secondly, my wallet didn't allow for such excesses; and thirdly, I simply wouldn't have been able to consume sweets when I was seething like this inside!

I was undoubtedly right: Violetta and her accomplices were simply deceiving me, trying to squeeze everything they could out of me as efficiently as possible. But I knew Violetta was right too! She didn't feel sufficient confidence in me, and so she'd started all this simply to save up a little money for her future child. My child!

I wasn't so sentimental as to be driven crazy by the thought of fathering another child. In fact, by then I couldn't have said exactly how many children I'd fathered. And I had no intention of limiting myself. I helped the children I knew about as best I could. But I didn't consider myself bound by any obligations. Moreover, most of the mothers of my offspring were well off, as their husbands sincerely considered these children their own. I even heard one such woman tell another woman in the same community that the sun over Paris had been so conducive to tanning babies for the past five years, so much so that they were already tanned while still in the womb. This joke, about some newborn Parisians recently far surpassing their parents in skin tone, spread through the salons. Fortunately, it was passed down only by word of mouth among women; the men who received the gift of an unexpected addition to their families from me apparently weren't too bothered by it. Fortunately for me and my friends, we live in a time when married men are so preoccupied with other people's wives and so neglectful of their own that they don't even bother to look at their newborn offspring, leaving the task of raising the infants to their wives and wet nurses, nannies, and caregivers of all sorts.

Finally, the ladies left the restaurant.

"Mr. Writer ," said Madame Parisot, "we've agreed on everything. Violetta loves you and is very sorry she played that trick on you. If you insist, Martin will return your advance, and I'll return your watch. Don't be angry with us, I pray the Lord. We simply wanted to help our daughter secure her future. We did everything as she asked."

"I would be grateful for the return of my watch, as it means a lot to me ," I said. "Tell me, is Martin really Violetta's guardian or just a powerless stepfather? What rights have you delegated to him over her?"

"He's not her stepfather, he's her real father!" Madame Parisot replied. "Stepfather! What could they possibly come up with? They just made it up, playing on her pity. Violetta's not an orphan. But as it turns out, you can't fool her!"

“What’s his real name?” I asked.

"Martin Parisot, what else?" Madame Parisot asked in surprise. "And you mean he called himself Martin Terquier ? That's his mother's name. Violette put him up to it! Forgive her, for God's sake! She meant well!"

"Well, if you're living as a family and in perfect harmony, then consider the down payment your husband received a gift to you," I replied. "But there will be no more gifts. As for Violetta, I've given her a good salary, although she probably didn't tell you anything about it. I'm not going to break my contract with her. Unless, of course, she starts deceiving me again. Do you hear me, Violetta? One more lie like that, and our contract will be broken! I'm not joking! Well, as for the child..."

"Don't abandon him, the little orphan!" Madame Parisot began to wail.

"I had entirely honest intentions regarding your daughter, madam," I said coldly. "God is my witness, I offered to marry her, but she refused. Now, after the circumstances have come to light, I have reason to refrain from that offer, as I have no intention of tying my life to a deceiver. But if she proves trustworthy, we will return to this matter. For now, I can only firmly promise that the child, should it be born, will not be condemned to poverty. I will ensure that it has everything it needs. As will your daughter, if she does not violate the contract again. I will include such a penalty for deceiving her employer that she will think three times before she dares to resort to such a stunt again."

"God bless you, sir!" said Madame Parisot, then took my watch from her pocket and placed it in my hand.

"Madam, as soon as I receive my next payment, I'll reimburse you for the cost of this watch ," I said. "I don't think you'll have to wait long—a week or two, tops. Come and chat with us, maybe with your husband. But just let me know in advance. We don't dine at home every day."

Madame Parisot bowed and left. I glanced at Violetta, who had remained silent the entire time.

“If you think I’m going to fawn over you now out of guilt, you’re mistaken ,” she said.

"I don't think you'll change at all, and I wouldn't want you to," I replied. "I liked you just the way you were, and I'd like you to stay that way. Not for the better, not for the worse. But don't try to deceive me, that's all I ask."

"I can't promise you that about absolutely everything," Violetta replied with a coquettish smile. "After all, every girl should have her own secrets from her man! At least some! Women's ones!"

“Well, I can put up with that somehow ,” I said. “But I have a special request for you.”

"What kind?" Violetta asked coquettishly. "Isn't French love enough for you? Do you want there to be three of us?"

"There will be three of us, but in the most respectable sense, if you weren't lying about the pregnancy," I replied. "I want you to play Milady in my play. You are the embodiment of femininity, purity, beauty, and everything a man could dream of in terms of appearance, but your intelligence, your ingenuity, your cunning, and even, forgive me for the word, your guile, as well as your unparalleled talent for dissimulation—that's exactly what's needed for this role."

"Well, thank you!" Violetta replied. "You compared me to the most vile woman in your most famous novel!"

“She’s not vile at all!” I retorted heatedly. “Only after meeting you did I realize I hadn’t fully grasped my Milady’s character and appearance! In every line of my novel, I portrayed her as a fiend from Hell. And only in Athos’s memoirs did I allow myself to compare her appearance to that of an angel. I separated these two qualities in time. And I was wrong! She should have looked every second like an angel of the highest heavenly purity! And at the same time, she should have been plotting and executing her dark plans. Don’t be offended, my dear, by my comparison. Your intrigues are childishly naive and relatively harmless. But they exist in your head alongside your angelic twittering.”

“I don’t even know if I should be offended by your words ,” Violetta said.

“I think my little Vivi won’t be offended by her mischievous Dudu ,” I said slightly playfully and very tenderly.

"You understand, the power of this image must lie in the fact that everything within her changes instantly—the treachery and angelic appearance, the gentle voice and the terrible meaning of what she says and what she incites her accomplices to! This must be a new word in literature! Not a positive hero, not a negative one, but an explosive mixture of both! I have found new colors. I tried to make the reader breathe a sigh of relief when reading the scene of Milady's execution! I was wrong! I will correct this in my drama! The audience must be filled with dual feelings. Half of the audience will rejoice that Constance has been avenged, while the other half of their soul must lament her ruined youth and beauty!"

"Well, you see, Dudu!" Vivi rejoiced. "You're an inexhaustible source of new ideas! You'll fulfill the contract and get your fee very soon!"

“With your help,” I replied and hugged Vivi, who kissed me back.

Of course, Vivi melted, and peace reigned between us again. For how long? And one more thing. About her pregnancy. Is she leading me by the nose again? I wouldn't be surprised. The rogue! You can't trust her in anything!



CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

"Dudu, have I ruined you?" Violetta asked when we returned home.

"Oh, come on!" I said dismissively. "I'm not poor at all. I just spend a little faster than I earn, so I've decided to put some money aside to build a cozy little nest where I intend to spend the rest of my days, hopefully happy ones. Perhaps we'll move in together, if you don't break the terms of our contract. I'll build us a castle and call it Monte Cristo Castle. Some progress is already being made, so when I say I'm running low on money, I only mean the money I've designated as pocket money, not earmarked for my grandiose plans or other pressing matters, like my son's allowance."

“You have a son, I understand,” Violetta answered.

“Son, daughter, and more,” I replied. “Is something bothering you?”

"Absolutely nothing!" Violetta replied. "Telling me you're married won't change anything about how I feel about you."

"I was married, but we separated," I replied. "A long time ago. But I have some female acquaintances. Very close acquaintances. I'm not promising you fidelity, because I've made it a rule never to promise anything I can't keep."

"Who's talking about fidelity?" Violetta asked. "I just want to receive the attention I deserve from you. When you realize you don't need anyone but me, you'll strive to spend all your free time with me. Voluntarily, without any coercion, and not at all out of some notorious sense of duty."

"You remind me of Sylvia from George Farquhar's comedy 'The Recruiting Officer,'" I said. "She also conveyed her views on marital fidelity to her friend in words roughly like these: 'I don't count on his constancy. I couldn't love a man for whom there was only one woman in the world. That would only prove his narrow-mindedness. Constancy is laziness at best. It has no place among masculine virtues. And I, too, wouldn't rank it alongside courage, skill, experience, fairness, and the other virtues of the stronger sex.'"

“That’s a perfectly reasonable argument,” Violetta agreed.

I took her in my arms and we began the very way of communicating that each of us was born from.

Half an hour later I told her that in recent days I had begun to lead an overly idle lifestyle that was uncharacteristic of me.

"I haven't written anything for several days ," I said. "I'm starting to feel like a slacker, a worthless, idle person. I need to sit down at my desk and write at least ten pages."

"Of course, dear!" Violetta replied. "I'm not going to disturb you. I just want to remind you that during this time you've received much food for thought, many emotions—if not new to you, then, I hope, no less delightful than you've experienced before in similar circumstances. And also some thrills, which won't hurt your writerly imagination. You yourself told me you've reimagined Milady! Of course, it's a bit late in the day to rewrite a well-known novel, but any author can make revisions to a play for the new season; it's their inalienable right."

“That’s what I’ll do,” I agreed and sat down at my beloved desk, where clean paper, pens and ink were waiting for me.

"So, my dear, shall we begin reworking your play, 'The Youth of the Musketeers'?" Violetta asked. "Shall we add a touch of charm and romanticism to Milady's character?"

“This new image will be painted from you,” I agreed.

"Then perhaps you could add a little human vice to your beloved musketeers?" Vivi continued.

"People of the past can't be judged by modern moral standards," I objected. "From the perspective of enlightened mid-nineteenth-century France, my heroes don't look like angels anyway. But for their time, they were quite good."

"You're reasoning like a historian, but you should be reasoning like a theatrical director," Violetta countered. "You're absolutely right in your assertion, but don't expect the same exact performances from the average audience. Audiences are simple folk. They lack depth. They'll sympathize with those the author cast in the role and condemn those the author condemns. They're unwilling to consider how moral values change over time. They came to enjoy the play, and they'll judge everyone by their own standards. In this sense, they're like ducklings who only go to the pond because they follow their mother duck."

"You know, Violetta, the idea of making Milady a victim of circumstance is completely unacceptable ," I said after some thought. "I could, of course, describe her story in such a way that readers or viewers will weep over her unfortunate fate, but then my dear musketeers, my d'Artagnan, Athos, Porthos, and Aramis, would turn into scoundrels and murderers. And I don't want that. Then I'd have to rewrite the novel so that she simply died by accident, as if God himself had punished her. Perhaps that's how it should have been done initially, but my heroes aren't wimps. They can defend themselves and punish the perpetrator of these terrible crimes! So, rewriting it would only harm the plot. But there's an even more serious objection! This innovation will not be accepted by the most esteemed public, nor will my readers.

“And the publisher has already written out an advance for this idea,” Violetta reminded.

"A publisher will pay for any book by Alexandre Dumas," I replied. "Even if the idea for the book is completely different from what the publisher expected. Believe me, I've studied them thoroughly. Even if I start writing a cookbook or just a culinary dictionary, publishers will snatch it up and pay me a decent fee. Not a bad idea, by the way! That's how it works. As long as no one knows you, no matter how great your book, they'll either reject it or offer to publish it themselves. No one will read it. Such a book is doomed to sit on the shelves forever. And publishing it yourself means not only failing to justify the time spent writing it, but also paying for the entire printing, including delivery to various shops across the city and the profits of those shops' owners, and then offering the books to every possible bookstore in the hopes that someone will buy them at even a tenth of the cost." And when you're famous, they'll pay for any work you write without even looking. And to ensure they're confident in the deal, you need to demand far more than they'd intended to pay. Only then will they pay with the full confidence that the deal is profitable, and it will be, with the book selling well, since the publishers themselves will be desperate to advertise and distribute it as widely as possible. And readers will buy a book by a famous author they know, but won't even glance at a book by an author they've never heard of.

"Famous writer, do you always spend so much time talking about trivial matters before you start creating?" Violetta asked.

“What seems like tediousness from the outside is actually philosophical reasoning before a moment of insight,” I answered calmly, since it was high time to put this arrogant person in his place.

I took a blank sheet of paper from the stack and wrote on it in my neat, beautiful handwriting: "Alexandre Dumas. The Youth of the Musketeers. Second version."

"Maybe you should write an outline of the play first?" Violetta asked.

"I don't need a plan to adapt a novel into a play," I replied. "It's not such a difficult task that I can't handle it without a preliminary plan."

“Oh, so you were just planning to turn the novel into a play?” Violetta asked with feigned surprise. “That’s a bit of a bummer for a genius! This work will be done hundreds of times over by some literary workhorse after you. After all, your novel is already famous! There’s always some hack who’ll want to cash in on your successes. So let those poor souls rework your brilliant novel into a play by eliminating details and turning the original text into dialogue where the meaning would otherwise be lost. That’s such a low-grade work! And for the author, I imagine, it’s especially painful! After all, you can only cut away the superfluous, but when a novel is written, when it’s famous, when readers love it, there’s nothing left to cut! There’s nothing superfluous in it! Are you really going to hack away at your own novel?” It's like a gardener growing a marvelous tree and then cutting off its branches just so he can transplant it into a tub and drag it onto the veranda! If that's not murder, then it's certainly mutilation. It's castration, my dear! Would you really castrate your best novel?!

"My best novel is The Count of Monte Cristo!" I countered without much enthusiasm.

"Then why aren't you mangling this novel for the stage, instead of slashing The Three Musketeers?" Violetta asked. "And besides, you're wrong, Dudu. Your best novel hasn't been written yet. I believe your future novels will be even better than those that have already conquered the world."

Don't think that I'm very susceptible to flattery, but I suddenly felt that even the slightest remnants of my resentment towards Vivi disappeared without a trace.

"You're right, Vivi, my best novel hasn't been written yet, and it's waiting for me," I agreed. "It's still here (I pointed to my forehead), and you'll help me move it here (here I pointed to the huge stack of paper on my desk). After all, you're my secretary! If you write faster than I do, then I won't have to write it, but simply dictate the text of my new novel to you. That way things will go much faster!"

"You're right, dear, it would be faster that way, but you're doubly right, because it would only be faster if I could write faster than you," Violetta replied. "Unfortunately, that's not the case. But I will try to learn to write quickly. I'll try to learn the system of Cossart , Coulon de Th;venot , Bertin , and Pr;vost. These systems allow you to significantly speed up your writing speed."

"Stop this nonsense, these pointless amusements will lead to nothing good," I waved my hand. "These inventors are trying to transform writing. Well, they'll have it in cursive, meaning that it will be possible to quickly and incomprehensibly record any speech, so that no one will be able to decipher it afterwards, including those who took these notes. No, I'm not going to babble, and you won't have to write down texts spoken quickly, without thinking. I need to think through every phrase and be able to read what you write. But maybe writing isn't your thing? You know, I have very beautiful handwriting, and when I see the letters merge under my hand into words, words into sentences, and sentences into chapters, I receive an incomparable pleasure from the Creator."

Reader, did you notice that I wrote “Creator” with a capital letter?



CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE


"Do you think, Dudu, was Milady from your Three Musketeers born a fiend from Hell, or did she become one under the influence of the circumstances in which she grew up and was raised?" Vivi asked.

"Of course she wasn't born a devil!" I replied. "But bad blood..."

"Ah, Dudu, I understand that readers find it quite amusing to read about family curses and also about family nobility!" Vivi objected. "But do you seriously believe that a person's character and destiny are determined by the nobility of their blood? Were all royals truly so noble? I mean their character traits, not their titles!"

"Of course, there have been all sorts of people among the Kings and Princes of the Blood," I reluctantly agreed. "But I'm not a scientist, I'm a dramatic writer. I have to offer people drama, clashes of characters, random events, hidden motivations for actions, and what it all boils down to! People love tales about noble princes, and everyone knows perfectly well that most bandits come from the lower classes."

"But birth doesn't necessarily determine character!" Vivi objected. "In your novels, three brothers, sons of the same King Henry II , exhibit completely different personalities."

“Well, they were different, that’s a historical fact, and I added to and completed their characters and destinies,” I replied.

"And it turned out great!" Vivi replied, I hoped sincerely.

"How cleverly you've turned everything around!" I marveled. "It turns out I'm arguing with myself, refuting my literary approach with my own works!"

"Your approach isn't just refuted by your own works, Dudu," Vivi said. "Even the Gospels report it. If we leave aside Jesus himself, even though his mother wasn't a noblewoman of royal blood, then at least consider the apostles. Simple fishermen, even a tax collector among them! And yet they are paragons of Christian morality!"

“Not exactly a model, and far from all, but I admit that there is a fair amount of truth in your words,” I replied.

"Herod was of noble blood, the king, but his character and behavior were anything but noble," Vivi continued the argument. "The high priests were also men of noble birth, as was Pontius Pilate. The same cannot be said of the Good Samaritan."

“So you reject the nobility of the noble and the ignoble of the ignoble,” I concluded.

"Not entirely, and not completely, but why not describe the path Anne de Beyle had to take before she became who she was at the end of her life," Vivi said. "That would be interesting for your readers."

"That would make her a victim of circumstance, which would make readers feel sorry for her, and then my beloved musketeers would become common murderers," I replied. "I wouldn't want that outcome."

"Then add some dark colors to her character description," Vivi continued. "It will further justify your beloved musketeers in the eyes of the readers."

"They don't need justification, they are children of their time, for the mid-seventeenth century they were quite good!" I objected.

"Of course, but your novels are read by people of the enlightened nineteenth century, and I think they'll be read in the twentieth century, and even in the twenty-first! Maybe in the twenty-second!" Vivi said.

She thought she'd flattered me. What kind of "maybe"? I imagine my novels will endure through the centuries as easily as they have through the decades. I told her so, and she didn't object, but it seemed to me she wasn't entirely convinced, which upset me somewhat.

“My dear, I will not write a story that would describe how, from a young, pure and innocent girl, which Anne de Beyle undoubtedly was, at least in her earliest childhood, she gradually hardened as a result of many blows of fate and became treacherous, vindictive, cruel, and vile,” I replied. “I have my reasons. Do you know, my child, that kind of literature became too widespread in France after the late and most brutal times of the Revolution. Human life lost its value. Executions took place daily and on a large scale. People became accustomed to the idea that anyone could be executed. First, the royalists were executed, then those who sympathized with them, then those who were not zealous enough to support these executions, and finally, those who led these executions. Everyone was forced to realize that their life could end at any day. Many young people emerged who cast aside the bounds of morality, because morality offered no protection from social persecution. Their motto became something along the lines of: it's better to live a year in luxury, casting aside fear and taking everything one can get from life, than to shiver under the covers, afraid of breaking this or that commandment or law, barely making ends meet, and ultimately dying somewhere in utter insignificance. Bandits, thieves, and robbers emerged, proud of their choice. Many of them, perhaps even all of them, were eventually caught and sent to the guillotine. But most of them didn't regret it, and if they did, it was only that they had robbed, perhaps not too brazenly, or that they hadn't managed to squander the loot. These condemned men, awaiting their execution, had nothing to look forward to in the future; they lived out their final hours only with memories of the past.

"What's the connection between them and Milady?" Violetta asked.

"Just a moment, and you'll understand," I replied. "Some of these young bandits, robbers, and murderers were handsome and young. But even if they weren't, their cruel fate evoked sympathy from the people, and even admiration from the young women. Many of these men were vain, so they were quite concerned about how they would appear to the young townswomen who gathered to gawk at the horrific, bloody spectacle, in which the condemned man was called the groom, and the guillotine his bride. Even those among them who never thought of dressing like dandies would not have refused a more respectable suit for their final parade. And so one idle journalist from an insignificant newspaper had the good sense to conduct a final, pre-death interview with one such condemned man. At first, the young man was reluctant to reveal anything about himself, but the journalist offered to pay for a sumptuous dinner and provide him with a decent suit for his final appearance. The young man found this offer tempting, so he agreed to tell his story. The story turned out to be boring and unremarkable, so the journalist decided to embellish it with a few details. This made the young man famous, so much so that when he walked to his execution, girls wept, and young men shouted greetings and expressed their approval in every possible way. The tradition took hold. Journalists flocked to the condemned men. And the newspapers were filled with heart-rending stories about the moral decline of these poor young men. The journalists sometimes told these recollections in the first person, accompanying them with a disclaimer stating that everything was recorded exactly from the words of the poor robber, whose only fault, in fact, was that he was born into the wrong family. Often, the first thought of such a recollection was standard: "My parents were poor but honest," or "I grew up an orphan from childhood. My mother died giving birth to me, my father immediately married another woman, my stepmother disliked me, so I was raised by a kindly neighbor aunt," and so on. These stories were full of lies , lies, and the authors' fantasies, but they were invariably passed off as the true story of an unfortunate young man condemned to death. Interest in legendary robbers, all these Robin Hoods, Cartouches, and the like, also grew. Society began to justify robbers by citing the difficult pasts they had endured. Incidentally, there is a young writer in Russia, Theodore Dostoevsky , I think he did, who ordered whole reams of our newspapers and, apparently, began translating police reports and journalistic fabrications passed off as his latest interview. By the way, he was popular, but recently he was severely punished! Now, my dear Violetta, I am not one of those would-be journalists, those Devil's advocates who are ready to justify any criminal by claiming he was born into a poor but honest family, that for a crust of bread he was forced first to steal, then to rob, that his sister was a prostitute, that her pimp beat her to death, and that he killed the pimp, avenging his sister, after which, to avoid revenge from his friends, he was forced to become a robber. I could invent a thousand such stories without leaving my desk. Perhaps it is possible to touch the fragile soul of a naive reader with such a story. But spare me such experiences! In England, a certain Charles Dickens amuses himself by inventing such stories to squeeze tears out of his fellow citizens. I hold these stories in extremely low esteem, though their verbosity astonishes even me! He should have followed the example of Jonathan Swift, his compatriot. There were other good authors in England, such as Isaac Bickerstaffe , M.B. Drapier , Simon Wackstaffe , and a certain L. Haliver . They all wrote much better than this Charles Dickens, who will never achieve world fame, I believe. So, my dear Vivi, I will never write tearful stories about how a pure, beautiful soul, under the influence of circumstances, became criminal and evil. I simply do not sympathize with such things! If the soul is truly pure, then trials only temper it. Circumstances are the touchstone for the soul's treasures. If circumstances turned an angel into a devil, then this angel was an angel only in appearance. I have no sympathy for such people. So I share my musketeers' decision that the Earth must be rid of Milady's presence. I'm even willing to take some of their sin upon my conscience, although, of course, there was no Anne de Beyle, and Lady Carlyle , of whom La Rochefoucauld wrote, and who served as the prototype for my Milady, was, of course, never executed, and she didn't bear a fleur-de-lis brand on her shoulder. So why justify a non-existent scoundrel? I'm not a researcher into the nature of evil. I'm not a philosopher, I don't study ethics or morality. Morality is boring, and my books, every single one of them, I hope, have one thing in common: they're not boring.

"How I've got you hooked, Dudu!" said Vivi, who hadn't dared interrupt me during this monologue. "That was the longest tirade you've ever delivered to me and for me alone. I was so engrossed in it that I forgot I was your secretary and should have written it down word for word!"

"I don't need to write down my beliefs and rules. This is my personal kitchen, my artistic workshop, it's all right here," I replied, tapping my forehead meaningfully. "No one needs or cares to know what I think. Readers are only interested in what I've written specifically for them."

"Dudu, you're so interesting, so erotic!" Vivi whispered. "I want you to love me right now."

Reader! Don't expect me to describe what happened between us after this conversation. I leave you to your own imagination, and my recollections will remain just that, and will not be included in this book.



CHAPTER FORTY

The next day, Violetta solemnly handed me a small stack of sheets of paper.

“What is this?” I asked.
 
"I edited the beginning of your play a little," Vivi replied. "Sorry, dear, I cut out Grimaud. I already said that it's highly illogical for Athos to take any of the servants from the old count's house with him after he fled, faking his own death. So I renamed the servant; I called him Bertrand."

"Bertrand!" I replied discontentedly. "Is that really a good name for a servant? You might as well call him Henry or Francis! Bertrand! It's no good! Let it be, well, at least Jacques. There are many Jacques, the name doesn't commit one to anything, and it's quite suitable for a bit part."

- Then wait, don’t read it, I’ll make the corrections.

A few minutes later, Violetta handed me the sheets of paper with the corrections. I began to read.

THE YOUTH OF THE MUSKETERS

PROLOGUE

Interior of the Vitry presbytery house in Berry. Lower room, door at the rear, door on the left; window on the right; large fireplace; staircase leading to the second floor.

SCENE ONE

(Jacques stands and waits; Charlotte descending the back stairs; then Claudette.)

CHARLOTTE
Claudette, get your clothes and linens ready so the valet can pick them up in one trip. You were warned we need to leave today, weren't you? Hurry up and make sure your clothes aren't wrinkled, and pack everything neatly.

Claudette

(from the door of his bedroom).

Yes, miss.

CHARLOTTE

(Notice Jacques).

Ah! It's you, Monsieur Jacques! Glad to see you. News from the Viscount?

JACQUES

Yes, mademoiselle, I brought you a letter from the Vicomte. Please, the door was open, I didn't want to ring the bell for fear of disturbing mademoiselle. I went in and simply waited.

CHARLOTTE

A letter? Why didn't he come himself? Isn't he going hunting today? When he goes hunting, he usually passes by this house, but today I didn't have the honor of seeing him. Is he ill?

JACQUES

Lately, when the Viscount went hunting, he did not go further than this house, mademoiselle, and one can understand him.

CHARLOTTE

(Coquettishly)

What can one say? After all, the Viscount's family owns everything in the area! The forests, the meadows, and this house! The Viscount is the absolute master here! Why doesn't he change his mind and give up hunting, opting instead for a simple stroll through the forest and a chat with a kind girl? I'm not so ugly that the Viscount would shun me, am I?

JACQUES

Mademoiselle, you are as beautiful as an angel, and the Viscount has noticed it, believe me! But perhaps he declined the hunting trip, or rather, the visit to you, but not out of free will or illness, but out of prudence.

CHARLOTTE

What prudence are you talking about, Jacques? Do I pose a danger to the Viscount?!

JACQUES

Oh no! What are you saying, mademoiselle! Besides, the Viscount never avoids danger. I believe he abandoned the trip only to avoid upsetting his father, the old Comte de la F;re. Their relationship is already very strained. If the Countess were alive, she would have smoothed over these differences, but, alas! The Count is too proud to make peace with his son, and the Viscount is so much like him in this regard! Two proud men, and neither of whom is willing to be the first to propose peace. From the outside, you wouldn't even guess that they are at odds; they are emphatically polite. If they were receiving guests, those guests would think that the Count and the Viscount have the warmest of relations. But the Count is unwilling to grant the Viscount the freedom he needs like air. Would a man of free will pretend to go hunting just to call on you? If he hasn't come yet, he probably won't come now.

CHARLOTTE

You said, Jacques, that the Viscount didn't come so as not to upset his father. Is the Count displeased with his son's visits to me? What happened that made the Viscount decide to cancel his visit today?

JACQUES

The Count wouldn't have objected to these visits if he hadn't noticed that the Viscount took them very seriously. So seriously, in fact, that he'd recently begun avoiding any discussions about meeting the noble ladies of marriageable age the Count was so anxious to see. They'd had a bad conversation yesterday. At first, the conversation had been quiet and calm, but then the Count had grown heated. The Viscount responded calmly, but he was adamant. Then the Count asked point-blank why the Viscount contradicted him on everything and said he thought he knew the reason.

CHARLOTTE

So the Viscount ended up falling out with his father? How unlike a Viscount! I thought he was such a dutiful son! In his conversations, the Viscount speaks of his father with the utmost respect.

JACQUES

The Viscount knows how to control himself, especially when talking to his father. But I noticed his lips trembling and his eyes narrowing.

CHARLOTTE

What was the reason for the argument? You hinted that it might have been his visits to me? What could have displeased his father so much about his visits that it caused a fight?

JACQUES

Perhaps this is connected with the Count's plans. The Count intended to introduce the Viscount to Mademoiselle de la Luss;e .

CHARLOTTE

(Scared)

Oh, really?! Introduce the Viscount to Mademoiselle? We're talking about this orphan who's reputed to be the richest heiress in the country? And therefore considered the most eligible bachelorette in all of France?

(Having calmed down a little)

Hmm! The Viscount doesn't know her, but he's already certain he won't like her? They say she's a beauty! And the Viscount avoids even casual contact with her so much that he even quarreled with his father! Interesting.

JACQUES

It's exactly as you say, mademoiselle. The Count would very much like to meet them, but the Viscount resisted it with all his might.

CHARLOTTE

The Count certainly had this acquaintance in mind for the long term! Why didn't the Viscount give in to his father? Did he object so resolutely?

JACQUES

Horrible, how decisive! The Viscount flatly refused to meet Mademoiselle, citing ill health and the fact that he wasn't ready to meet new young women, lest he raise false hopes. Then the Count said frankly that these hopes could and should be anything but false. The Viscount thanked the Count for his frank explanation of his parental plans for himself, but even more decisively rejected the meeting. He declared that he wasn't yet ready for a marital relationship, that he didn't want to commit himself to marriage. He declined the Count's proposed trip to Lussey to prevent him from coming to you.

CHARLOTTE

But in the end he didn't come here either! So he doesn't want to get married? I see. Well, that could be a good thing, or it could be very bad. It depends on what exactly is turning the Viscount away from marriage. He doesn't want to marry Mademoiselle de la Luss;e , or he doesn't want to get married at all. However, this is just thinking out loud; don't pay attention to my question, Jacques. We'll see what the Viscount says when... Thank you for your story. But I completely forgot! You mentioned the letter! Give it here quickly, my dear Jacques!

(Jacques gives the letter to Charlotte and steps back. Charlotte reads it "to the side," so that the viewer hears it, but Jacques seems not to hear it.)

"Mademoiselle Charlotte, a new priest arrives today to replace your brother, who, due to his long absence, has been considered to have abandoned his service in Vitry." Today!

(Continue reading out loud)

Is a new priest coming today? Is that true?

JACQUES

Yes, mademoiselle! Six months have passed since your brother left, and there is no other priest here. For the local parishioners, as you can imagine, that is too long. Six months without Mass.

CHARLOTTE

(Continues reading "to the side")

"I know how much you cherish this house where you lived with your brother. From today on, this house is yours. I recommend offering the new priest quarters in another presbytery. I have ordered everything necessary for this to be prepared in the pavilion of the castle. So stay at home, do not worry or fret. Trust me. With sincere devotion and affection to you, mademoiselle,
Your devoted servant, Viscount de B."

CHARLOTTE

Why did he sign it like that?

JACQUES

The County of La F;re adjoins the Viscounty of Bragelonne. Together, these properties constitute the property of the Comte de La F;re. His father bequeathed this viscountcy to his son, so he bears the name and title of the estate he already owns. Upon the death of the old count, the viscount will also inherit the County of La F;re and will be known as the Comte de La F;re, Viscount de Bragelonne. However, as a rule, nobles retain only the most basic title in their name.

CHARLOTTE

Not always! I heard that the Duke de La Rochefoucauld could have been called Prince Marsillac , but he preferred to be called Duke.

JACQUES



The rich and noble have their quirks. Will Mademoiselle have an answer, written or verbal?

CHARLOTTE

This is unnecessary, Jacques. I hope to see the Viscount today. Reading my letter will only delay the meeting, while not having a letter will hasten it.

JACQUES

As you say, mademoiselle.

CHARLOTTE

Yes, I will wait and thank him personally.

(Jacques bows and leaves)

* * *

"What do you say, Dudu?" Violetta asked.

"I was so tempted to rewrite my play and add lengthy paraCOUNTs!" I grumbled and carelessly tossed the sheets of paper onto the table.

“You’re right, Dudu, I shouldn’t have tried to correct the great Dumas,” Violetta answered serenely.

After that, she took the sheets of paper from the table, folded them in half, then in half again, and threw it all into the trash can.

“I’ll go fix my hair and then we can go to breakfast ,” said Violetta and went to the bathroom.

I was surprised how easily she retracted all her edits. She has no authorial pride whatsoever. I took the folded sheets of paper out of the trash, straightened them out, and placed them under the mattress.

Ten minutes later, Violetta and I left the house to have breakfast and take a short walk.

I was in a very good mood during the walk.

"You know, my dear, I've been thinking that your edits to my works are revealing a little bit of your character ," I said casually. "It would be incredibly interesting to see how you would revise other scenes in my play. Do it for me. This game excites me. Don't be afraid to contradict my interpretation of my characters with what I've already written. The more decisively you make your edits, the more exciting this game will be for both of us."

"How much drastic editing do you allow me to do?" Violetta asked playfully.

"Most decisively!" I replied. "What could possibly hold you back? After all, this is just our game! We're not planning to publish your experiments! We're simply having this interesting conversation. As I said, I'm only interested in your opinion, since I'm very interested in you. Don't worry, this won't affect the play that's going to be staged, or anything at all, except our relationship and conversations."

“Of course, that’s exactly how I perceived it from the very beginning,” Violetta answered calmly.

I looked at her carefully. No, I didn't notice any mischief, resentment, or irony in her eyes. She is a marvel, after all!




CHAPTER FORTY-ONE


One not-so-fine morning, Violetta announced to me that she was going away for the day to see her friend. I didn't like it, but I was already quite experienced in the art of dealing with women.

If a woman wants something, give it to her. This will be the most painless course of action for you, regardless of your attitude toward her. Whether you love her or hate her, whether you wish her happiness or are looking for a way to get rid of her, whether you treat her with curiosity or with utter contempt—it doesn't matter at all. Just believe that the best choice is to give her what she wants. If you can't give it to her, don't try to explain it to her; she won't understand anyway. Give her something else and tell her it's exactly what she asked for. For this reason, if a woman is about to leave, walk her to the door and , if it's winter, give her a fur coat.

Don't specify where exactly she's going, what time she'll be back, or even if she'll be back at all. It's pointless. If she wants to come back, she will. If she wants to tell you about her plans, she will. Perhaps her answer will be honest. Perhaps she herself doesn't yet know whether she'll come back. If a woman has lied to you, it doesn't mean she's a liar. It only means that you are the kind of person a woman is capable of lying to. That is, a perfectly ordinary person, since there are no men to whom a woman couldn't lie. There are no such women either. A woman can simply tell another woman the truth about herself that she would never tell any man, and tell a man the truth that she would never tell any woman, even under torture.

We don't stop admiring natural phenomena just because we can't control them! We don't argue with a waterfall, a river, or the rain! Therefore, don't stop a woman from doing what she's planning, except in the rare case where she's planning something that's clearly dangerous for you, herself, or society. Allow her to do what she intends to do without you, without consulting you, when she's simply deigned to inform you of her intentions. Believe me, that's already a lot.

If you're worried your indifference will offend her, don't be. Indifference, at least, won't show your weakness. Asking a question shows vulnerability. It's better to appear ridiculous than weak.

"I was just about to write a dozen chapters for something I've been wanting to do for a while ," I said in response to her message. "If you get back before seven, we'll have time to have dinner at Maxim's."

Violetta nodded and left me alone.

I had time to consider the situation without being distracted by Vivi. Women and literary work are incompatible. And an attractive woman is incompatible with being taken seriously. You can't analyze your relationship with an attractive woman when she's nearby. At the very least, you need to part with her occasionally and be completely confident that she won't return unexpectedly, but also won't leave forever. Only then, and only a few men, are capable of soberly analyzing their relationship with them.

Who is Violetta, anyway? I couldn't help but ask myself this question, just as I couldn't help but wonder about her place in my life. It wasn't about her place today, that's more or less clear. I was thinking about the future, would she be in it? Of course, I'd like to know about her past, but was it worth finding out? We men always hope our women simply don't have a past. And we're always wrong.

So many Christians, or rather, all of them, sincerely believe that the world was created specifically for them to live in, and that it was created relatively shortly before their birth. Billions of years before that, God simply existed alone, surrounded by chaos. Why not assume that, since He exists forever, He must have repeated this experiment with Adam and Eve and the creation of the world at least a million times, maybe more? After all, He had eternity to spare! He didn't tell Adam about this experiment, you say? And do you always tell the women you meet how many women you knew before them? Why should women do that? Be grateful that they don't let you in on this secret; it will make you more comfortable and at peace. No, I don't want to know Violetta's entire life story. God forbid.

Of course, Violetta wasn't born yesterday, and when she met me, she was already well-versed in certain matters that a girl her age would typically be completely ignorant of. She certainly didn't figure it all out through books and reflection, or maybe I'm mistaken. Perhaps they're all quite knowledgeable about everything, but they also know perfectly well that they should hide their knowledge as best they can, especially from men, and especially from those men with whom they intend to build any kind of relationship. Men love it when girls acquire a certain kind of knowledge from them! There's a teacher of erotica within each of us, and we're eager to apply our pedagogical gifts to girls who are completely ignorant. Well, they play that game with us. But if you think about it, perhaps at that moment they're like a math professor to whom a bachelor's degree student is trying to explain the basics of arithmetic, who listens, hiding a smile, pretending to hear it all for the first time, and even asking questions occasionally. Believing we're teaching them something, we're actually just taking an exam.

Violetta was undoubtedly a lorette. That is, a celestial being, born by some unknown force from a family devoid of any merit other than the ability to produce this miracle. In most cases, this can't even be called a family. Every child has a mother, but is the man who shared that mother's bed at the moment of birth the child's father? Not necessarily. And sometimes there is no such man, and never was, in fact, present with the child's mother. A chance encounter, material consequences. Some mothers find it difficult not only to name their child's father, but even to recall what he looked like. If they were to meet him again, they wouldn't recognize him. Others genuinely don't know which of the men they had relationships with became the child's father.

Violetta, it seems, had a father. But that's not certain. There was a man who agreed to admit he was her father. Or believed he was. What does that prove? Absolutely nothing! Perhaps that's how it was. I'll never know, and I'm not trying to.

I know of cases where even the King of France himself couldn't say with certainty whether he was truly the father of the child he claimed. This is trivial compared to the situation where the King of some kingdom—I'm not talking about France—can't be sure whether he is the son of the man he claims as his father. But the important thing here is that everyone else, and above all, the man himself, be certain of it.

What did I care about Violetta's origins? It was just the idle curiosity of a writer. Far more important was to understand who she was, or what she was? Almost every day, those cherished fifteen or twenty minutes came between us when I was completely uninterested in her past or her future, because I, like her, I hoped, was completely captivated only by our shared present. In that moment, I wasn't even myself, I was just a part of us. I had never experienced this with any woman. And I had no one to compare it to. In moments of intimacy with other women, I usually remained myself. I was still the same successful writer and man making love to the woman he liked.

When we were with Violetta, I was the whole Universe, I was the deity of my own religion, in which there is neither me nor her, but only our joint We.

It's foolish to dwell on it. I don't want to know about her past. It's better to think that she appeared out of thin air, materialized in my apartment out of nowhere. She arose especially for me by the grace of God. All her knowledge, her skills, her mysteriously formed literary talent, her inexplicable insights, her philosophy and ethics, her unique experience of love—all this was just an intuition that arose with her the very second I first saw her. I settled on this version, rejecting the others as unworthy of attention. I deliberately chose the version that was most pleasing to me.

I remembered that yesterday, when I went to rehearsal at the theater, Violetta stayed home, citing illness. When I returned, she informed me that she had spent a little time editing and pointed to several sheets of paper lying on the table. I nodded and pretended not to be interested. Now I had the opportunity to read her work. Naturally, I did not neglect this opportunity.


SCENE TWO

(Charlotte is alone).


CHARLOTTE

The time has come! If I had to leave this house, pay new rent, increase my expenses, my resources would be exhausted within a month. So, this house is mine. Not a very rich estate! It will do for a start. All this is only a prelude to my future possession. The real value is there. The castle. Wealth. Nobility and all that follows. Luxury. Servants and footmen. Yes, but for now these are just dreams, a dream. The count's castle is there. The castle of the count and soon the countess! A county with a three-hundred-year pedigree. Noble like Montmorency, Poitiers, Grammont. It was not very tactful to settle me in this poor house near this magnificent castle. If this is the sum of my life, all I can hope for is humiliating! Especially for a proud girl like me. But perhaps this was done deliberately? To further inflame my desire to move there? Seeing the castle towers from your window every day is a temptation! But the proverb is a lie: "To be able to see whenever you want is to possess." A lie! To see is to desire. And to possess... Oh!.. That's something entirely different!

(Claudette enters.)

Claudette, don't pack your things. Put them back where they belong.

Claudette

(on the landing with clothes).

Yes, mademoiselle. Shall we stay here longer?

CHARLOTTE

As much as we wish! This house is now mine.

Claudette

Congratulations, mademoiselle!

CHARLOTTE

Thank you. But that's nothing. I need something completely different. Although my chances have increased. Now I have more time, which means more opportunities. Claudette, would you like to be the Viscountess's maid?

Claudette

Is Mademoiselle firing me?

CHARLOTTE

Quite the opposite! I intend to become a viscountess, and then, perhaps, a countess. Help me. Perhaps the viscount will go hunting after all! If only so that, on his way back, he can pass by my new house once more and see how I am. Hear my gratitude. And he will be pleased to refresh himself with a sip of wine. Put wine and fruit on the table. Draw the curtains.

(Claudette complies and places the fruit and pitcher on the table.)

Ah! There, in the gaps between the trees, I think I see a horseman galloping towards us! My God, what a fast gallop! He doesn't spare his horse at all. It's him! He's coming this way. Excellent! Claudette, I don't need you anymore. Go away. No, not that way, through the other exit.

(Claudette leaves)

SCENE THREE

(The Viscount enters)

VISCOUNT

I saw you from afar at your window, Charlotte. Why did you move away from the window when I drove up?

CHARLOTTE

You see, Viscount! To come out of the house to meet you!

VISCOUNT

Is this true? Thank you! That's so nice! And encouraging.

(Kisses her hand)

CHARLOTTE

You're very late today! What kept you? Is everything alright? Is the Count well?

VISCOUNT,

Thank you, Count, thank God, I'm well. There's no reason to worry. But I wrote to you. Did you read it? Did Jacques give you my letter?

CHARLOTTE

Oh, yes! You are infinitely kind to me, Viscount! Why are you giving me, a poor girl without means, a creature of no importance, such sumptuous gifts? An entire house! Of course, by right of my birth I could have much more than this, but now I am in a situation where I don’t even know how I will live tomorrow! And you, Viscount, you are so kind to me! Believe me, I am very grateful to you! I hope that someday I will be able to repay you so as not to burden you with these expenses.

VISCOUNT

Charlotte, don't say that! You don't owe me anything. This house is yours, no strings attached.

CHARLOTTE

You are so noble, Viscount! There are so many men in the world who would expect such gratitude, which in the eyes of some women is a trifle, but for me is an exorbitant price for anything! I'm afraid I shouldn't accept this gift either. Perhaps it would be better if I refused it. I would have done so immediately and more decisively if I weren't afraid of offending you with my refusal! Therefore, I needed to explain. Tell Viscount that you will not be angry at my refusal of this gift, that we will remain friends, and I will refuse your gift with a light heart. Claudette and I will leave tomorrow.

VISCOUNT.

Don't say that, Charlotte! Your refusal to accept this humble hut breaks my heart. You don't owe me any thanks for it. In fact, I should thank you for condescending to accept it from me. Let's just say I need a place to stop by on my way back from hunting! I'd be delighted to stop here for a moment, drink a glass of water, and hear a kind word from you.

CHARLOTTE

Viscount, you're frightening me! So you're hiring me to be the guardian of this hovel? And in return, to wait on you whenever you'd like to stop by? But you're mistaken! I'm no lorette! My God, how cruel fate has been that I could have been reduced to such a state that such a noble man as you, Viscount, could even think for a second that I could be hired as a servant, or worse! I'm leaving immediately!

VISCOUNT

Forgive me, you misinterpreted my words! Charlotte, you don't owe me anything, you don't have to meet me. You'll be doing me a favor if you simply agree to settle here and live in this house for as long as you find convenient. You don't have to stay here. But if you decide to linger in this house until such time as I can offer you something better... Something more... In short, something you deserve... It will happen very soon! I beg you to agree to accept this house, at least for a while!

CHARLOTTE

I could, of course, live here for a while. Just for a short while, until my departure, which will be very soon. That's a done deal.

VISCOUNT

Why are you so determined to leave? Do you want to leave Vitry? Leave Blois? I will follow you! Do you intend to leave France? Impossible! What is driving you to flee from here? I hope you are not fleeing from me? I hope I have not offended you with a single word or thought and have not deserved such treatment. Disdain. If I am repulsive to you, at least be indulgent of my feelings for you. Charlotte! I am going mad! What is stopping you from being by my side? What is driving you away from me?

CHARLOTTE

Viscount, you are a very kind, noble man. But so much the worse for me. We can't continue these meetings. When a nobleman visits a poor, unknown girl too often, the girl will become a source of ill repute. First, your servants will think God knows what of me...

VISCOUNT

My servants would never dare even think of insulting you, Charlotte! All those who are permitted to lay eyes on you treat you with the utmost respect. It could not be otherwise!

CHARLOTTE

This area isn't just populated by your servants. You can't stop people from saying whatever they want about me, and even if you could shut their mouths, you can't control their thoughts. I can't bear to think that any of them might consider me your concubine!

VISCOUNT

What are you saying, Charlotte? It's unthinkable! Just look at you, and anyone will know you're a heavenly angel, descended to earth simply to ennoble with your presence any place you deign to dwell in!

CHARLOTTE

If people find out that you gave me this house, everyone will draw their own conclusions from it.

VISCOUNT

Should we worry about the opinions of those who judge everyone by themselves?

CHARLOTTE

A man with a sword, a nobleman of high rank, needn't worry about what the commoners say about him. But a girl from a good family, an orphan left without means of support due to unfortunate circumstances, cannot accept a house as a gift without it casting an indelible shadow on her reputation. A girl supported by a man who is not her husband is rightly called a kept woman. Is that really how you want people to think of me? I'd rather drown myself!

VISCOUNT

What a terrible thought! Charlotte! What should I do? I only wanted to give you a small gift! If your brother were here with you now, I would give him this house! And then no one would think you were my kept woman! First, I would take him hunting with me, and everyone would see that we were friends. After that, my gift wouldn't arouse any suspicion!

CHARLOTTE

My brother is a priest, and priests don't hunt.

VISCOUNT

I missed that. But it would still be easier! I would give this house to the church, and you and he would live in it.

CHARLOTTE

All this doesn’t work because my brother is no longer here, he left.

VISCOUNT

It's a pity!

CHARLOTTE

Why should you attach yourself to me? A different destiny awaits you! Your father, the venerable Count, wishes you to marry Mademoiselle de la Luss;e , who is young, beautiful, noble, and whose fortune will double your income! You will be perfectly happy with her! I will know that you have found happiness, and this will be a great consolation to me, perhaps the last joy accessible to me, a poor orphan! Do this for me! Be happy, give me a reason to rejoice for you! And I... I will retire to some monastery, and spend my whole life praying to God to send upon your dear family all the joys in the world that are possible. What bliss that is! To think of you, to pray for you, to love you... God! I think I said too much! I didn't mean to say that at all!

VISCOUNT

No, no, speak up! I love you too, Charlotte! Don't you know that I refused not only marriage, but even the mere acquaintance of Mademoiselle de la Luss;e ? My father thinks I've insulted this ancient family by doing so! So be it! I can decide for myself whom I want to meet and whom I should avoid.

CHARLOTTE

Oh my God! The last thing I need is for you to quarrel with your father because of me! He'll disinherit you!

VISCOUNT

So be it! I'll renounce my inheritance just to see you! Don't leave, I beg you!

CHARLOTTE

No, this cannot be allowed! I cannot be the cause of your misfortune, your poverty. If I must live in poverty, let it be my fate, but not yours, Viscount! Ah, why weren't you born into a family less rich, less noble?! I might have hoped that our love could have been crowned... But, God, I'm saying the wrong thing again! Forget my words, Viscount! Be happy with the one your worthy father has chosen for you! I do not wish to be the cause of your disobedience to your father, do you hear me? I will not survive the remorse for having destroyed your happiness.

VISCOUNT

Listen to me, mademoiselle! You will destroy my happiness if you leave here forever! I can't bear it!

CHARLOTTE

Viscount...

VISCOUNT

(Approaching Charlotte)

Please listen to me, Charlotte. You've been living here in Vitry for fourteen months now. You arrived here with your brother. Not only are you young and beautiful, you also possess every virtue a girl could have. Your brother, the priest Georges Backson, was always gloomy and loved solitude. But you were always so kind to him! Your touching care for him amazed me; I began to take a closer look at you and discovered true treasures in your soul! You are an angel; no matter how much I praise you, it will not be enough to describe your best qualities. I firmly believe that there is no better girl in the world than you. If not for my father, I would have asked for your hand in marriage long ago!

CHARLOTTE

But your father is against you marrying me!

VISCOUNT

I didn’t ask him, but I’m afraid he will be against it, and it will be simply impossible to talk about this topic a second time.

CHARLOTTE

You see, Viscount! Our happiness, alas, is impossible!

VISCOUNT

I will ignore his objections.

CHARLOTTE

I will never marry you against your father's wishes. Without his blessing, you won't be happy, and therefore, neither will I!

VISCOUNT

Are you so concerned about my inheritance and title?

CHARLOTTE

I've already told you that I care about you, Viscount! As for me, I would prefer you to be a simple chevalier!

VISCOUNT

But, Charlotte! What should I do? After all, I love you!

CHARLOTTE

Viscount! Don't say that! My heart will burst with happiness and grief at the same time!

VISCOUNT

Mine too! Let's die together!

CHARLOTTE

There's time for that. Wait, Viscount, I've got an idea.

VISCOUNT

Go ahead, Charlotte, I agree to everything!

CHARLOTTE

Your father. After all, he's already old! We could have kept him from telling him about our engagement. We could have resolved this matter without his consent, but also without his curse. After all, he's old. And, it seems, seriously ill.

VISCOUNT

I understand. Postpone the wedding until the count's death?

CHARLOTTE

Well, why bother? We could marry secretly. In that case, I'd be your legal wife, and then... Perhaps we won't have to wait that long for the time when you can freely announce our marriage.

VISCOUNT

Well, I'm ready to go for it. Tell me, Charlotte, can at least your brother be present at our wedding?

CHARLOTTE

What do you need it for?

VISCOUNT

You don't seem to want this? Why? After all, I noticed that you love him! Did he offend you in some way? There's some secret here! You lived so harmoniously with him here, in this house. But one night he disappeared. It looks like an escape.

CHARLOTTE

Oh! My Lord Viscount, believe me, he had his reasons, and it had nothing to do with me.

VISCOUNT

I believe you, Charlotte, and if this isn't your secret, let's forget about it forever. If you don't want him at our wedding, or if he can't, let's forget about that too.

CHARLOTTE

Listen, Viscount, if you have decided to take me as your wife, you must know whom you are going to marry.

(Charlotte goes to the closet and takes out parchments from it, hands them to the Viscount)

Read this, Viscount. These documents will prove to you that Charlotte Buckson is of sufficiently noble blood not to disgrace the line of the Viscount, the sole heir of the Comte de La F;re!

VISCOUNT

I don't want to know this, Charlotte! I love you just the way you are! No papers can add anything to my love!

CHARLOTTE

Viscount, I insist! Read this now so you will never doubt me again.

VISCOUNT

Ah, what's the point of all this? Well, if you demand it...

(reads)

"William Buckson, gentleman of Wales..."

CHARLOTTE

My father.

VISCOUNT

(reads)

"Anna de Bray..."

CHARLOTTE

My mother. My elder brother, from his first marriage, was supposed to inherit our entire fortune. By right of entail. My second brother, the one you knew, Georges, was ordained a priest. Georges and I inherited nothing. He took me with him because it was better for two to live on a priest's modest income than for one to live without a livelihood. I had long since lost my father and mother. My elder brother could have given Georges and me some share of our parents' inheritance, but he disliked our mother, and his stepmother. And he transferred this dislike to Georges and me. He left us without a livelihood . And although by right of entail he inherited our father's entire fortune, he could and should have given us an inheritance from our mother, who, after all, was far from poor either! But he persuaded my father, while he was still alive, to formalize this part of our family's property as an indivisible share, so that he inherited not only the entire inheritance from his father and his mother, but also from Georges and my mother, without leaving us a penny.

VISCOUNT

What baseness!

(Continues reading the papers)

Your father in 1612... Forgive me! Your mother in 1615... My condolences! Poor child!

(Gives her the papers)

CHARLOTTE

So, you all know everything about me. At least, I don’t know much more myself!

VISCOUNT

So, you're an orphan, Charlotte? You have no one to ask for a blessing for this marriage, and your brother's whereabouts are unknown?

CHARLOTTE

Alone in the whole wide world! And defenseless! All I have left is my good name. That's why I value it so much!

VISCOUNT

Nobody has any rights over you?

CHARLOTTE

Nobody!

VISCOUNT.

Do you love me, Charlotte? Will you consent to become my wife, first in secret, and then… In short, are you not afraid that I will disregard my old father's blessing?

CHARLOTTE

Viscount, I've already told you that I love you! And if I hadn't, wouldn't you have seen it in my eyes?

VISCOUNT.

Will you repeat this confession at the altar?

CHARLOTTE

If necessary, a thousand times! Monsieur Viscount, I love you and agree to become your wife.

VISCOUNT

Charlotte Buckson, I invite you to become my wife!

CHARLOTTE

From now on and forever – I agree!

VISCOUNT

In half an hour, Jacques will bring you your fianc;'s gifts, Charlotte. These are diamonds from my mother, who will send us her blessing from heaven. The box will also contain a sapphire ring. I know it's a stone of sorrow, but for me, it's a memory of my mother, who removed it from her finger, bidding me farewell forever, a minute before her death. In this box, everything that now belongs to you, my future wife!

CHARLOTTE

Your wife will accept your gift and thank you, Olivier! These jewels will not leave the family. But I will be pleased to look at them and think about our soon-to-be wedding!

VISCOUNT

In an hour, I'll be waiting for you in the chapel; the bell will give you the signal. Come there alone. Wear jewelry or not, do as your heart tells you. I love you just the way you are. But jewelry will make you a little more my wife. Today has already been the happiest day of my life! I hope it's yours too! And the end of this day promises so much more! Until then, Charlotte, my love!

CHARLOTTE

See you in the chapel, my husband!

(The Viscount kisses Charlotte's hand and leaves)

CHARLOTTE

Viscountess! It came true! And the documents came in handy! Georges is a master at this! He drew them so well you can't tell them apart from the real thing! Soon I'll be a viscountess, and then, maybe, the Countess de la F;re! Countess! Yes, sir!

* * *

I read this text written by Violetta and threw it aside in irritation. Violetta knows nothing about the rules of stagecraft! So much verbosity! What audience member would sit through this tearful confession to the end? Some kind of sugar-coated Shakespeare with his saccharine comedies! Everyone loves each other, everyone is happy, no intrigue! This is completely unacceptable! I should have been patient enough not to voice my displeasure directly to Violetta's face. I carefully folded the sheets of paper back where I found them, lest Vivi suspect me of having read this disgrace. No matter what I say, she's a far cry from Dumas! It would have been better if she hadn't even tried to compete with me!




CHAPTER FORTY-TWO


I thought I should have been wrong to allow Violetta to so decisively edit my play. Of course, her edits are meaningless, and the play in my version has already been submitted to the theater for production. Besides, I have the proof copy, and another is in typesetting at the publisher. No matter how many edits she makes, it won't change anything. And she knows this, but she continues to work on the play, continues to make edits. Or rather, she rewrites everything from scratch! It's a good thing she hasn't gone too far yet. After all, it will be difficult to explain to her that all her work is in vain. I supplied her with ample paper. I wonder how many drafts she threw out before writing these few sheets of paper? Well, it's very easy to find out! I'll look in the desk drawer and see how much the stack of paper has shrunk!

That's what I did. I opened the drawer and saw a stack of papers inside. It had shrunk somewhat, but there was another stack next to it. These sheets were already covered in writing. I took them out and began to read.

The first piece of paper read as follows:

"Dudu! Don't be offended that I got carried away with this work. I had insomnia, and you were sleeping so soundly, I didn't dare wake you. I started this work just for fun, for myself. I understand perfectly well that it won't go anywhere. But I want to explain to you a little what confused me about your play.

Firstly, as I've already said, the servant must not bear the name Grimaud. It can't be the same servant who served Athos during his time as a Musketeer.

Secondly, the Viscount shouldn't have come to Charlotte with a box full of diamonds inherited from his mother. If that were the case, it would mean he'd come from the start to give Charlotte this gift, and therefore intended to propose. This is inconsistent. In your version, the Viscount came without such an intention; he only intended to ensure Charlotte accepted his gift and also to make inquiries about her family. It appears the Viscount orchestrated these events, although it should have been otherwise.

Thirdly, the Viscount scheduled the wedding for an hour later. This is illogical, since the new vicar had not yet arrived when the Viscount wrote his letter to Charlotte. Besides, an hour is very little time to organize everything. And finally, in your version, too much happens between the Viscount's departure and the wedding in the chapel. It couldn't have happened in an hour, especially considering that Charlotte still had to change into her best clothes and get from her home to the chapel. Furthermore, the Viscount should have given Charlotte a dress for the bride, not his mother's jewels, which would have been better given after the wedding or even after the wedding. However, if you wanted to show how much the Viscount trusted Charlotte, this detail about handing her the jewels is very touching. I kept it, but wrote it so that the Viscount sent them a little later with his servant.
 
Fourth, the behavior of the Lille executioner and his brother is completely bizarre, illogical; I don't understand it. It's impossible. No offense, Dudu, but I gave free rein to my imagination, because you gave me permission!

I love you, darling! Try not to be too mad at me for my edits! Be right back! Yours, Vivi."

"Damn it!" I thought. "She knew I'd read the edits she left on my desk and look in the drawer! What made her think I'd be angry about her edits?"

I took the rest of the sheets and started reading them.


SCENE FOUR

(Charlotte is alone)

CHARLOTTE

In an hour I'll be a viscountess! And then, not long after, I'll be the Countess de la F;re! Never in my wildest dreams had I imagined this!

(Jacques enters)

JACQUES

Madam, the Viscount ordered this box to be brought to you.

CHARLOTTE

Madam? But you called me simply Mademoiselle! What happened?

JACQUES

The Viscount told me to call you that.

CHARLOTTE

Oh, yes! Give me the box!

(Takes the box)

Thank you, Jacques, you are free.

JACQUES

The Viscount also asked me to convey his deepest apologies for not being able to...

CHARLOTTE

He can't?! Oh my God! What happened?!

JACQUES

He won't be able to arrange everything by the appointed time. He asked you to be in the chapel at six o'clock. The new vicar hasn't arrived yet, so the wedding will have to be postponed a bit.

CHARLOTTE

(Having calmed down)

Ah, just a delay. God, how you scared me, Jacques! Well, by six o'clock, I understood. Okay, you can go.

(Jacques bows and leaves)

CHARLOTTE

(Sits down and opens the box, sorting through the jewelry)

This is mine now!

(Goes through the jewelry and tries it on).

Is it possible? I've never seen such magnificent diamonds! And what have I ever seen? Almost nothing! What occasionally passes through my hands doesn't even compare to this magnificence! And this sapphire isn't bad either! The stone of sorrow! What superstitions!

(Puts a sapphire ring on her finger and goes to the mirror)

Looks good! Suits my eyes.

( A man appears in the doorway.)

Who are you? What do you want? Claudette! Where are you? Over here, quickly!

SCENE FIVE

(Charlotte and the Stranger)

STRANGER

Claudette left, I let her go.

CHARLOTTE

Who are you? I warn you, I am under the Viscount's protection!

UNKNOWN

Are you Miss Charlotte Buckson?

CHARLOTTE

It's me. What's next?

UNKNOWN

Don't rush, it's not in your best interests. You'll find out everything soon enough.

(He walks into the room and sits down in the chair opposite Charlotte)

CHARLOTTE

I demand an answer: who are you and what do you want from me?

UNKNOWN

I am Georges' brother.

CHARLOTTE

Georges' brother? Did he have a brother?

UNKNOWN

It's very accurately said: was. Because now everything is in the past for him. Including me. And you, mademoiselle.

CHARLOTTE

Are you saying that Georges died?

UNKNOWN

Not quite, madam. He didn't die. He was murdered.

CHARLOTTE

(Calmed down, but feigning fear)

What a horror!

UNKNOWN

I don't believe, madam, that you are truly saddened by this. I think you are quite satisfied with this outcome.

CHARLOTTE

This is slander, but I understand your situation and do not judge you. Who killed him?

UNKNOWN

You, mademoiselle.

CHARLOTTE

What are you saying! Are you out of your mind? How could I? I don't need this, and I physically couldn't do such a thing!

UNKNOWN

You certainly didn't kill him with your own hands, but you killed him with your actions.

CHARLOTTE

I thought you were out of your mind. What are you saying?

UNKNOWN

I repeat, mademoiselle, you killed my brother. He was a simple monk. You were sent to a monastery for your past sins. I have learned that you were not sent there because of the death of your parents. You were sent for re-education! Special care was established for you. You are a juvenile delinquent, and the servants of God hoped to rehabilitate you, to bring you closer to God. Many criminals in the past have changed their lives after entering a monastery. Some even became saints. But not you, mademoiselle!

CHARLOTTE

You have false information, you are slandering me, you are overexcited about your brother's death. I ask you to leave me alone.

UNKNOWN

You are mistaken, madam. I am not agitated, I am completely calm. My information about you is reliable; I have double-checked it several times. Different people have confirmed the same thing to me. You have many sins on your conscience. But that is of no concern to me. If you were sent to a monastery, it means those who ordered it believed you could still reform. But they were mistaken. You seduced my brother, on your advice he stole the sacraments, you escaped from the monastery together and sold these sacraments, turning them into money! You lived with him in sin, convincing everyone that you were brother and sister. But those you robbed turned to justice, and justice caught up with him. He was the primary suspect, as the main culprit! He was considered the organizer of all your crimes. I don’t know for what reason, but no one was looking for you. Apparently, no one expected to find you, knowing how adept you were at disguise. I warned Georges it was dangerous for him to stay here, and he fled during the night.

CHARLOTTE

You see for yourself that he fled from here, and we never saw each other again! How can I be guilty of his death?

UNKNOWN

Don't rush, madam. I'll tell you everything in order. Georges, as you know, loved you very much. He hoped that as soon as they stopped looking for him, he would return for you and you would leave for Canada together. But this didn't happen. He learned that you were being courted by a viscount whose castle was nearby. So he wrote you a letter in which he begged you to leave this place and come to him.

CHARLOTTE

I didn't receive it.

UNKNOWN

That's a lie, madam. You not only received this letter, you responded to it.

CHARLOTTE

How do you know?

UNKNOWN

I know because Georges showed me this letter. I have it. You told him that you no longer loved him, that everything between you was over, and that he should never write to you again, never seek to meet you, and that he should disappear from your life forever.

CHARLOTTE

A girl can fall out of love with the man who dumped her. It happens. What am I to blame for?

UNKNOWN

It's your fault that you first made my brother a criminal and then broke his heart!

CHARLOTTE

Every person is responsible for himself!

UNKNOWN

My brother is two years younger than you! He's practically still a child! You seduced him! You never loved him, you simply used him to escape the monastery! To you, he wasn't a person, just a means to an end!

CHARLOTTE

These are your speculations.

UNKNOWN

This might have been the case if I hadn't learned your story! But I know who you are!

CHARLOTTE

Why should I listen to this?

UNKNOWN

You will listen to me, because my dead brother speaks through me, blaming you for his death! When he learned that you had fallen out of love with him, he returned to the monastery and voluntarily surrendered to the authorities.

CHARLOTTE

It's his choice!

UNKNOWN

He was sentenced to five years in prison, but first the executioner had to brand his shoulder with a royal lily.

CHARLOTTE

What cruel laws! You yourself said he's essentially still a child! Why weren't the authorities lenient towards him?

UNKNOWN

The weight of your crimes fell upon him! The prosecutor read out the story of your crimes, and he was named as your accomplice. If you had seen the look on Georges' face as he listened to the prosecutor's speech! He turned pale, his face was completely lost! But when he was given the floor, he admitted to being the mastermind behind the crimes and even took responsibility for the crimes you committed before you even met him. He was trying to shield you, the primary and most important culprit!

CHARLOTTE

This is not slander! I am innocent!

UNKNOWN

I'm not slandering; what I'm telling you is the pure truth. After his speech, Georges was beside himself. Even when they branded him, when the red-hot metal in the furnace seared his shoulder, he didn't scream. It was as if he felt nothing. Because his soul ached more than his body!

CHARLOTTE

How can you know this?

UNKNOWN

This is the most interesting thing for you, madam. The fact is, I know this because my profession is executioner. I am the executioner of the city of Lille. That's why I had to brand my own brother.

CHARLOTTE

It's horrible!

UNKNOWN

The terrible thing is that Georges was horrified by your crimes, but he continued to love you, taking your sin upon his soul. A triple grief fell upon him: spurned love, public disgrace, and enormous disappointment in you, madam. He couldn't bear it. The next morning, he was found dead in his cell. He had torn his clothes, made a rope out of them, and hanged himself from the prison window.

CHARLOTTE

It's all terrible, but it's unbearable to listen to. If you're his brother, why are you retelling it to me in such gruesome detail? Do you enjoy it? Wouldn't it be better to forget it all, like a bad dream?

UNKNOWN

I would like to forget it, but every night I see my brother in my dreams, asking me to visit you and tell you of his terrible fate.

CHARLOTTE

Well, you have fulfilled his request, and now go away.

UNKNOWN

I suggest you return to the monastery immediately, confess your sin, and then devote your entire life to atoning for your and Georges's sin. If you pray for his soul, I will forgive you.

CHARLOTTE

What nonsense! You're out of your mind! Leave me alone! I'm not going to any monastery! I'm getting married!

UNKNOWN

Take my advice and go to a monastery. It will be better that way, madam, believe me. Better for his soul, and for you. Turn to the Lord. He is merciful, He will forgive you.

CHARLOTTE

Get out of here.

UNKNOWN

Is this your final decision?

CHARLOTTE

Get out of here, I tell you, and don't even think about coming back here. Forget about me, forget this whole story!

UNKNOWN

Forget Georges? Forget your crimes? Are you serious?

CHARLOTTE

Get out of here and don't you dare bother me again, otherwise I'll complain to the Viscount and he'll deal with you!

UNKNOWN

If you have decided so, I will leave, madam, but first I will do one little thing.

(He goes to the fireplace, throws some wood into it, then takes an iron rod with a brand on the end out of his travel bag and places it into the fire)

CHARLOTTE

What are you doing? By what right?

UNKNOWN

Look at this fire, madam, do you see how it burns?

(Charlotte looks at the fire, the unknown person suddenly grabs Charlotte by the hands and deftly ties them behind her back)

CHARLOTTE

What's wrong? Help!

UNKNOWN

Don't worry, madam, I know my business, I'll do everything quickly.

CHARLOTTE

What are you planning?

UNKNOWN

I will simply leave you with a reminder of your sin and of Georges that will be with you throughout your life.

CHARLOTTE

What is this? What do you want to do to me?

UNKNOWN

I will simply brand you, exactly the same as I was forced to brand my brother Georges because of you.

CHARLOTTE

This is lynching! You have no right!

UNKNOWN

Of course, madam, I have no right to take this lynching. Just as you had no right to do what you did in your short life. Need I remind you? Look at this ring! Does it look familiar? And also at this necklace. Does it remind you of anything?

(Shows Charlotte the ring and necklace)

CHARLOTTE

Ah! My God! Where did you get this? You are the devil!

UNKNOWN

No, I am the finger of God, and the devil is here, madam! But from now on, his seal will be on you forever!

(He approaches the fireplace and takes the branding iron, the horse's brand being heated to red hot)

If you're in such a hurry to get to your wedding, you'll still make it. It'll only take three minutes, no more.

(The Unknown Man approaches Charlotte with a brand, blocking her from the audience with his back. Charlotte screams, after which the Unknown Man picks up his travel bag and leaves.)

CHARLOTTE

God! It hurts so much!

Claudette's Voice

Madam! Look at this wonderful dress the Viscount sent you!

(Blackout)

I tossed the papers aside. Violetta wrote all this, inspired by my play and my novel, The Three Musketeers. Damn her! The she-devil had terrified the audience. Her interpretation of the play was no good. But I wanted to read on!




CHAPTER FORTY-THREE


I sat down resolutely at the table, placed blank sheets of paper in front of me, and dipped my pen in ink, intending to write the first chapter of a new book. But I lost my train of thought. I couldn't get the sheets of paper with Violetta's notes out of my head! I took a few more sheets from the drawer and began to read.

SCENE SIX

(Morning, the same room, but luxuriously decorated, Charlotte asleep in bed, a luxurious bouquet of flowers on the table, the table set for breakfast with elegant dishes, an open wardrobe on the right near the wall, in which luxurious dresses hang. Claudette enters)

Claudette

Madam, it's time to get up , the Viscount will be arriving soon!

CHARLOTTE

Oh, Claudette, I slept so sweetly! I had the most wonderful dream! It was as if the old count had finally died, and we were having our wedding again , instead of the secret one. – a real one, with guests, a feast, dancing! Not the way she really was! Hand me my robe!

(Claudette hands over a robe, Charlotte puts it on and goes to the closet)

What should I wear?

Claudette

Madam, you are beautiful in any dress!

CHARLOTTE

The Viscount thinks so too, but I don't want to be boring. If I always look the same, the Viscount will fall out of love with me and annul our secret marriage!

Claudette

It's impossible, madam! The Viscount loves you so much!

CHARLOTTE

How can you know? It's impossible to look into a person's heart! And what a person says is of no consequence! If the Viscount wants our marriage to be public, since I only agreed to become his true wife after that, he'll easily talk about love! Just like me, who wants not just to be married to him secretly in a chapel, but to become his real wife, to live in a castle, have many servants, and manage his property! But in a real marriage, everything can be different. The charm of novelty will wear off, everyone will get what they want, and then...

Claudette

And yet, I'm convinced the Viscount truly loves you, after all, he refused such a bride! I can only imagine her disappointment!

CHARLOTTE

(Laughs)

Yes, I'd love to see her sour face! But the Viscount doesn't keep company with them, so I won't get to enjoy that spectacle! However, when I'm a Viscountess in every sense of the word—that is, when I'm a Countess—I'll persuade Olivier to make their acquaintance, so that I can triumph over her not in absentia, but face to face, so to speak! But not until the old Count has passed away, and I become the Countess de La F;re!

Claudette

You've already mentioned the Count's death twice. Be careful, madam, lest you invite disaster!

CHARLOTTE

You dare tell me what to do?

Claudette

Sorry, madam, I got carried away.

CHARLOTTE

I'm not angry, but be more respectful from now on, because I am practically a viscountess! Although this hasn't been made public yet, and I'm forced to huddle here in this miserable hovel. Well, I'll confess to you. I won't be too upset if the old count passes away. It's high time. I wouldn't want to become a countess in my declining years. I want to start living as soon as possible.

Claudette

I hear the sound of hooves! The Viscount is coming!

CHARLOTTE

He'll walk in here without knocking! I won't have time to change. It would be nice to go back to bed and pretend to be asleep. But God knows where that might lead! And if Olivier gets what he wants, he might think my move to the castle unnecessary! I don't relish the prospect of remaining a secret wife and living in this hovel. Get dressed, now!

(Charlotte pointed to one of the dresses and went into the next room. Claudette took off the dress and followed Charlotte with it. As soon as they left, there was a knock at the door.)

THE VOICE OF THE VISCOUNT

Charlotte, may I come in? It's me, Olivier! Charlotte, are you home? May I come in?

(The Viscount enters the room)

She's not here? Where is she?

CHARLOTTE'S VOICE

Olivier! I'm right there, I'm getting dressed!

VISCOUNT

Don't rush, Charlotte, I'll wait.

(Charlotte comes out luxuriously dressed, followed by Claudette)

CHARLOTTE

Olivier! You're early today! I'm so glad to see you!

VISCOUNT

Charlotte, I came to inform you of a misfortune.

CHARLOTTE

(Scared)

What's happened?!

VISCOUNT

Count, my father... He died this morning.

CHARLOTTE

( With feigned horror)

Oh my God! What a disaster! Olivier, my dear, this is terrible!

(He embraces the Viscount and presses him to his chest)

I would like to attend the funeral. But it's impossible, because no one knows I'm your wife! Your society won't understand my presence!

VISCOUNT

Charlotte, you're not a nobody, you're my wife! It wouldn't be appropriate to have a wedding right after my father's death, but it's perfectly polite to announce the fact. I'll let everyone know you've been my legal wife for two weeks now! So your presence at my father's funeral won't embarrass anyone.

CHARLOTTE

As you say, my dear! I will be where you command me, and I will fulfill the duties you impose upon me. Go then, my dear, to the castle. Your presence is needed there. And send Jacques for me with a carriage. In the meantime, I'll pack my things so I can come to you.

VISCOUNT

The Countess de la F;re will not travel to her castle in any carriage. I have given the orders. The carriage is already on its way and will be here for you. For us. We will travel in it together. Don't bother with your things; Claudette will pack your things, and she and Jacques will bring them to our house by evening. Take only the essentials.

(Charlotte rushes to the Count and hugs him around the neck, but then quickly moves away from him)

Olivier! I would say I'm happy, but I can't lie to you. I'm not happy because you're not happy. You're saddened by the Count's death, and I'm saddened too. Although we never met, I fell in love with him with all my heart, as far as I know him from your stories. I can't ride with you in the carriage without a mourning cape.

VISCOUNT

I know. I brought a mourning cape and a dress. I'm embarrassed to offer you a dress from my mother's wardrobe, but we won't have time to sew a new one. Besides, you and she are the same height, and she was as slender as you.

CHARLOTTE

Then let's go! Don't worry, Olivier, I can wear dresses from your late mother's wardrobe for a while—but not for long! After all, I'm wearing her diamonds.

(The Viscount and Charlotte exit)

Claudette

(Teases)

"I would say that I am happy, but I am very saddened by the Count's death!" Just think! I would believe her words if I didn't know she was triumphant! She is truly happy that the Count is dead! However ... Perhaps she really is sad? For a week now, she has suddenly become very solicitous. Every day she sent the Count cherries from our garden. Simply biblical solicitude! After all, she asked Jacques not to tell the Count where these fruits were from! She said that if the Count found out that she sent them, he would have them given to the pigs. And she, poor thing, is so worried about his health! Well, today these cherries will remain here. Jacques will not come for them. He will come for the lady's things, and the cherries... They are no longer needed. I can freely eat them myself!

(He approaches the basket of cherries and extends his hand, but then hesitates)

No, I don't think I'm going to eat this cherry! I'll throw it out the window!

(Resolutely throws the basket out the window)

Knowing our mistress, I wouldn't be surprised if it turned out that... Perhaps I should find another mistress? But the mistress will now be a countess! She'll give me an excellent salary! She promised! And the cherries... What am I afraid of? Besides, it's not proven! And besides, the count was so old and so ill!

(Curtain)

* * *

I threw the sheets of paper down indignantly. What was she doing? These weren't just revisions! These were two whole new scenes that weren't in my play! How many scenes will there be in this prologue of hers? This isn't even a prologue, it's a full-fledged first act! She clearly doesn't understand anything about drama! I'll be restrained, of course, when we discuss these opuses of hers, but still! If I were to tear these sheets of paper, it would only be fair! But I won't do it! I'd be showing her my character. Tearing them up! That would mean admitting my weakness! She might even think I felt defeated! I couldn't care less about these experiments in drama writing. Let her amuse herself as much as she wants. She certainly has no talent whatsoever. If she studied, worked on herself, I could perhaps assign her to write routine fragments, some insignificant scenes. But I must admit, what she writes is boring. The characters are so wooden. I don't see any living people in this collection of words! They're not people, they're just some kind of diagrams! Dolls. I'm a bit worried. But why should I be, really? The girl is having fun. Oh well, so be it.

I decided to go outside and take a walk, and have lunch at the same time. I wasn't expecting Violetta for lunch today; she'd only promised to be back for dinner. Well, what did she promise? I think she intended to be back for dinner. But I'm not worried about when she'll be back, or even if she'll be back at all! Of course she'll be back, damn it!



CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR


"Violetta, guess what this riddle is about?" I asked. "It's easy to get, even if you don't ask, but impossible to keep, no matter how much you ask?"

“I know!” Vivi exclaimed. “That’s life!”

“Hmm, perhaps you’re right, but I meant something else ,” I said thoughtfully. “I meant you.”

"Really?" Violetta was surprised. "Are you afraid of losing me?"

"It's foolish to fear the inevitable," I replied. "I'll definitely lose you; you won't be with me forever. So why fear? We'll all lose our lives one day, but living in constant fear of losing it isn't life, it's sheer torture."

"Why did you ask me this riddle?" Vivi asked quietly, bringing her eyes closer to mine.

“I don’t know,” I whispered. “It just came to mind out of the blue.”

"Dudu, nothing ever happens out of the blue in this world!" Vivi replied. "Especially not in your life, the life of a writer, in whose books nothing like that ever happens!"

“So, something from above commanded me to ask you this question?” I asked.

“Something from above commanded you to realize that life and I are one and the same, since both fit your riddle as an answer,” Violetta whispered in my ear.

"Why are you whispering?" I asked. "We're alone. There's no one here, no one can hear us, we have nothing to hide from an empty room."

“I whisper so that I can be closer to you, so that my lips touch your ear when I whisper these words to you,” she replied. “Don’t you like it?”

I took her head in my hands, turned it sideways and whispered in her ear:

– I like it very much... Very much... Tell me more...

"No, that won't do!" she protested loudly and proudly. "You've missed the point!"

"Shouldn't I have whispered back? Shouldn't I have touched your head with my hands? Shouldn't I have whispered? Did I whisper the wrong words? What did I do wrong?" I asked.

"I don't know!" Violetta replied. "I don't know anything! A minute ago I was feeling good, I was wonderful, but now everything is wrong, not right!"

"Is it in me? Or in you?" I asked, trying to remain calm.

"It's not in you, or me, or us," Violetta replied. "It's outside of us. I don't know what it is. Don't be angry."

“You’re pregnant ,” I said.

“Me? Pregnant?” Vivi asked. “Don’t be silly! Why would you be?”

"Indeed, why should I!" I exclaimed and burst out laughing. "How did mademoiselle manage to get pregnant when she hasn't had a man for six months!"

"Don't joke like that!" Vivi replied, pouting. "Yeah, we've been together for six months, but what does this have to do with it? Why did this have to happen to me?"

"Because we're both healthy, because we make love almost every day, sometimes even several times a day, and because things like this happen all the time under these circumstances," I replied. "It would be surprising if it didn't happen. It's already surprising that it happened only now, and not five months ago!"

"Why do you think this happened?" Vivi asked.

"Didn't you tell me and your mother about this yourself?" I asked. "Or was it just a joke? Have you deceived me again? You're breaking the contract that says I'll hold you accountable if you try to cheat me again!"

"I didn't lie to you, but I could have been wrong!" Vivi replied.

“So you fooled me again ,” I said, trying to look calm.

"Don't jump to conclusions, I don't know for sure myself!" Vivi retorted. "How clever you men are at avoiding questions! I asked, 'What signs made you decide I was expecting?' Answer me! Oh, right! You've had a lot of experience as a father! Now, share your observations with me! How does it happen? What did you notice?"

– It’s different for everyone, and I didn’t pay any particular attention to anything, but…

“You don’t pay attention to me because you don’t care about me, and you only pretended to love me,” Violetta said, offended and rather sharply.

“Well, let’s just say you’ve changed dramatically in the last few days ,” I said. “Some women have a bad temper every month, lasting anywhere from a week to a week and a half, or even longer. But with you, it was barely noticeable. However, now you’re a little out of sorts. I think you’re pregnant, and you know it, so you’re worried about your future and anxious. You want to make sure I won’t leave you, and so you’re provoking me into a fight to see how I’ll behave around you. Like a person with a bad tooth who constantly touches it with his tongue or finger to make the sharp pain replace the aching one, so that when it subsides, there’ll be some relief.”

"You're thick-skinned, narcissistic, disgusting, a vile egotist!" Violetta said. "You think you're the center of the universe, you think you can read me like a book, you're convinced I love you, you've made up the idea that I'm pregnant and that I know about it and am hiding it from you! How disgusting! Vile! Repulsive!"

I silently stroked her hand.

"And the most disgusting thing about all this is that you're right!" she said. "I really am pregnant, and I'm afraid of losing you!"

Then she buried her face in my shoulder and began to sob. I gently stroked her back.

"You're scared for nothing, baby, I won't leave you ," I said. "Everything will be fine, and I'm with you. Drink some water, lie down, calm down."

"Did you know that the word 'calm down' never calmed anyone down?" Violetta asked. "When they tell you to 'calm down,' they just want you to shut up and stop crying, or to stop throwing a tantrum . What happens inside you is of no concern to anyone! Just lie quietly on your bed, sob and snore, just so you don't scream or swear."

“You may be right nine hundred and ninety-nine times out of a thousand, but I really want you to not worry and accept our life as it is, and by the way, it’s not that bad,” I replied.

"Well, I don't know," Violetta answered, almost completely calm. "Maybe I'm not pregnant at all."

“That would be a pity,” I replied.

"Would it be a shame?" Violetta asked. "So you only need me to bear you a child? Is that what you meant? If I'm not pregnant, will you be disappointed in me? And if I never have a child at all, will you leave me?"

"A minute ago you were upset that you might be pregnant, now you're indignant because it makes me happy. What will happen in the next five minutes?" I asked.

"Instead of comforting me, you're playing with me like a cat with a mouse," Violetta grumbled, but, it seemed to me, quite calmly. "Do you enjoy driving me hysterical? Why do you do this?"

"Whatever I say will only make things worse ," I said. "Perhaps it would be better for both of us to remain silent and think about something pleasant, something abstract. You could read a book."

“Get some paper and ink ready, I want to write,” Violetta answered.

"Are you sure?" I asked. "Sit at my desk. There's always paper, pens, and ink ready there."

“No, I don’t want to write, read me something,” Violetta replied. “Something of your own. Preferably something unpublished. What did you write yesterday while I was gone? You were going to start a new book. Read me your notes from yesterday.”

“I didn’t write anything yesterday ,” I said. “I read your edits.”

"Did you get to them?" Violetta asked. "You scoundrel! I didn't give you permission."

But her face was kind, with a tired smile on it.

"I don't need it," I replied. "You're my secretary, and this house is also my office, so anything you write in this house belongs to me, and I can read it whenever I want without asking your consent. By the way, I haven't finished reading it yet, and I intend to continue."

"It's worse for you," Violetta replied. "I know you'll criticize everything I've written, but know that I don't care what you think. I know everything about myself. You can throw it all in the fire, but I'll still write what I think is right."

"Why into the fire?" I asked. "We have enough wood for the fireplace. I'll keep these sheets of paper."

“Did you like it?” Violetta asked.

“I didn’t say that,” I replied.

"Didn't like it?" Vivi suggested.

"I didn't say that either," I objected. "I haven't formed an opinion yet, because I haven't finished reading it. But I intend to."

"As you wish," Violetta said in a voice in which I detected no emotion whatsoever, no concern, no interest, nothing. "I'll sleep for now then. When you get tired of reading, lie down next to me. Just don't wake me. If you want me, be patient until morning. Right now I just want to sleep."

I covered her with a blanket, took the sheets of paper with her notes and moved to the high-backed Voltaire chair, after which I began to read.


SCENE SEVEN

(A bedroom in the castle of the Count de La F;re, Charlotte lies on the bed, covered with a light blanket, the Count de La F;re stands next to her with his back to her)

COUNT

This fainting spell is lasting too quickly. I need to revive her with something with a rare scent . What is this remedy?

( He takes the bottle, opens it, sniffs it carefully and quickly moves his face away from the bottle)

That's what we need. Let's try it.

(Brings the bottle to Charlotte's face)

CHARLOTTE

And what?!

COUNT

So you've come to your senses!

CHARLOTTE

How did I end up here, Olivier?

(Looks at himself under the blanket)

Why am I wearing no clothes at all?

COUNT

Madam, please address me by my title, I beg you, call me Count.

CHARLOTTE

What strange fantasies are these, Olivier? Since when do you not like it when I call you by your first name?

COUNT

This is necessary, madam, and I ask you to leave the familiar tone, we need to talk and very seriously.

CHARLOTTE

What are you talking about? ... Okay, what are you talking about, Count?

COUNT

Yes, that's right. And I will be asking the questions, and you, madam, will deign to answer them with all the frankness befitting a married woman answering questions from her lawful husband.

CHARLOTTE

I don't understand anything, but I obey, my Count.

COUNT

Do you recall, madam, that we were hunting together today? We cornered a boar on a sandy beach, leaving it with nowhere to retreat. I was about to shoot it, but unfortunately my gun misfired, and then the boar, defending itself, suddenly attacked your horse.

CHARLOTTE

Oh, yes, I remember! I was so scared! I think the horse reared and I fell out of the saddle! I don't remember anything after that!

COUNT

It is quite true that you hit your head, but perhaps fortunately, or perhaps unfortunately, the sand and soft grass softened your fall, so that, as far as I can judge, you did not receive any injuries.

CHARLOTTE

Thank God! This is great luck!

COUNT

Perhaps so, but who knows, madam? Perhaps if there had been rocky ground beneath our horses' feet, it would have been a blessing from God?

CHARLOTTE

But then I could have killed myself!

COUNT

Then I would bury you with all the honors that the representatives of the Count de La F;re family deserve.

CHARLOTTE

What a horror! What are you talking about, Olivier?

COUNT

Please do not forget my request, madam, call me as I asked you.

CHARLOTTE

You must have fallen off your horse and hit your head too. Why are you taking such a tone with me?

COUNT

Madam, you fell on the sand and lost consciousness. I dismounted to render aid. Your Amazonian hunting attire seemed to be constricting your chest unnecessarily, and I needed to restore your breathing. The first thing I did was cut your jacket and blouse with my dagger. And then I saw something I had never expected to see on your left shoulder.

CHARLOTTE

Ah! Olivier... Count!.. I understand your surprise!.. But let me explain to you...

COUNT

So, madam, explain how you ended up with the stigma of a state criminal on your shoulder? I pray to God that your explanation is convincing.

CHARLOTTE

I'll explain, Count. I'll explain everything. But before I answer your question, please remember that we are married before God, and therefore, no matter what sin I may have committed against you, I remain her...

COUNT

Please don't digress from the heart of my question. Yes, we are married, and therefore your shame is my shame too. Perhaps we will both have to go to monasteries—different ones, of course—you to a convent, I to a monastery, to atone for your sin. But first, I want to know what it is, and why you concealed this important fact from me and didn't reveal it before we were married.

CHARLOTTE

Count, this is a misunderstanding! This brand on my shoulder was placed by a scoundrel who had no right to do so! I received this brand illegally! I was violated!

COUNT

Who is this person who dared to encroach on your body without having any right to do so?

CHARLOTTE

The Lille Executioner.

COUNT

The Lille executioner? But an executioner acts in accordance with a court order, and nothing else!

CHARLOTTE

He acted on his own. He harassed me, I refused him. Then he tricked his way into my house, attacked me, tied me up, and branded me.

COUNT

the Lille executioner branded you , and that he had no reason for it other than his criminal lust? And this brand is his revenge for your intransigence?

CHARLOTTE

Yes, Olivier! That's right!

COUNT

Madam, for the third time I ask you... Count, not Olivier.

CHARLOTTE

Count. I'm telling the truth. Trust your Countess and let's forget about this.

COUNT

I believe you, madam, but do you really think such a crime can go unavenged? I ask you to remain in this room and not leave it until I return.

CHARLOTTE

You will leave me alone, Count? And what about me?

COUNT

Your Claudette will serve you, you will want for nothing, but you will not leave this room until I return. And to ensure that my orders are not violated, Jacques will keep an eye on you both. You have nothing to fear. I will return soon, and if you have told me the truth, we will both forget this unpleasant episode from your past lives. You have told me the truth, haven't you, madam?

CHARLOTTE

Count, I told you the pure truth.

COUNT

Perhaps you've added something or hidden something from me? Think carefully. You'd better tell me everything, absolutely everything, that you've hidden from me. If I find out something important you've hidden from me, I won't be able to trust you anymore. Our marriage will be ruined. A monastery awaits us both. So, I ask you again, madam. Have you told me the whole truth about this event, without a trace, without hiding anything?

CHARLOTTE

Yes, my Count!

COUNT

Well, all you have to do is await my return. I hope I return with proof of your words and with proof that the Lille executioner will never again be able to do to anyone what he did to you, madam.

CHARLOTTE

But the Count! …

(The Count took the robe from the back of the bed, threw it on Charlotte's bed, and then quickly left the room. Fade out)




CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE


Violetta seems to have really gotten going! She's turned the prologue into a whole one-act play. I told her so.

"Well then, Dudu, let it be Act One," Violetta replied. "That's easy to fix, isn't it? Let's cross out the word 'Prologue' and write 'Act One.'"

"You're not taking into account that a prologue is like a different genre," I objected. "A prologue introduces the audience to the main characters and the central event that sets the stage for the ensuing drama. The prologue shouldn't feature any major dramatic events. No more than one, fundamental one."

"But let there be no prologue at all," Violetta replied. "Is it really that important to have a prologue? Don't pay attention to such trifles! Let there be a first act, not a prologue!"

"Let's first see what you've come up with in your version, and then we'll decide what to do with it," I replied. "Some of your ideas aren't so bad."

"That's all?" Violetta asked sadly.

"I didn't mean to say the rest is bad," I corrected myself. "Don't worry. You don't need to worry now, in your situation."

“Pregnancy is not an illness, don’t talk to me like I’m sick,” Violetta said angrily.

" You know what?" I asked. "Let's not argue. Let me read everything you wrote first, and then we'll discuss it."

“Just don’t read it out loud ,” said Violetta. “I’ll go take a bath, and you finish reading in the meantime.”

She left, and I pulled the remaining sheets of paper towards me.
 


SCENE EIGHT


(The bedroom in the castle of the Comte de La F;re. The Countess sits at the table in a dressing gown, powdering her face. The door opens and the Count enters. In his hands are thin leather reins, which he casually throws on the table.)

COUNT

Madam, you have cruelly betrayed my trust and forever disgraced me, casting an indelible stain of dishonor on my entire family. I can only thank fate that our brief union did not yield a joint heir to my family.

CHARLOTTE

Someone has misled you, Olivier!

COUNT

I found the executioner. He branded you for the death of his brother. But that's not all. He told me that Father Benedict brought you to the monastery two years ago.

CHARLOTTE

Father Benedict!

COUNTESS

I also looked him up, Madame. Father Benedict told me the story of a girl named Charlotte Munier, starting from her childhood. You're probably familiar with that name?

CHARLOTTE

This girl's name is the same as mine. So what? I don't know Charlotte Munier.

COUNT

Perhaps you don't know her, just as any person can say that he doesn't know himself completely.

CHARLOTTE

Whatever Father Benedict told you about me, he cruelly deceived you! Hear me out! Everything was as I've already told you! I am the victim of a treacherous scoundrel who kidnapped me and tried to take me by force! And when he realized I wouldn't give myself to him, but would rather die, he bound me and branded me with this vile mark, taking revenge on me for my honesty and inaccessibility. Believe me, Count! I'm not lying!

COUNT

A most interesting story, madam. I would believe you if it weren't for the numerous testimonies that prove you are a miserable liar, in addition to being a thief and a murderer, an accomplice to monstrous crimes and the perpetrator of no less monstrous atrocities.

CHARLOTTE

Would you really believe the slander? I am beautiful, Count. That is my only fault, and nothing else! Many men dreamed of possessing me, they pursued me, and when I refused them, they became my enemies.

COUNT

Very interesting.

CHARLOTTE

I'm not lying! I have so many enemies among the men I refused! Are you really going to hold that against me? Are you going to hold it against my honesty and modesty, which has led to so many men hating me? They have turned my life into hell, and I hoped it was all over because I met you! After all, I love you, Count!

COUNT

In that case, tell me, Charlotte, where did you get this medallion that you sold to throw dust in my eyes, pretending to be a noblewoman?

(The Count takes a medallion out of his pocket, shows it to Charlotte and places it on the table)

It depicts the Virgin Mary! But to you, it's just an image, a picture! You were seduced by the fact that it's adorned with diamonds. Even if Satan himself were depicted here, its value to you would be the same!

CHARLOTTE

This is a gift from my late mother, Anne de Bray, Countess of Backson!

COUNT

There never was a countess by that name. And this medallion is a family heirloom of the Marquise de Beltham. I knew the family, and I was acquainted with the Marquise de Beltham herself. There's a pair to this medallion, which I bought from them. It's exactly the same, depicting the Savior, and similarly adorned with diamonds. Here, take a look.

(The Count shows another almost exactly identical medallion and places it on the table next to the first one)

So you continue to insist that your locket was a gift from your mother, Countess Buxton? Or do you admit that this piece is from the collection of the Marquise de Beltham? When your mother died, both of these lockets were in the de Beltham family. She couldn't have given you this locket.

CHARLOTTE

Okay, I confess! I bought this locket with money my parents left me, and I really liked it, but later I was forced to sell it. So, essentially, it was a gift from my mother. I wanted to think of it that way! I had to have at least something to remember my mother by! Is a daughter's sentimentality a crime? Are you really going to blame me for buying something I liked with my own money and then deciding to consider it a gift from my mother?

COUNT

Another lie. Elizabeth de Beltham was so young when you poisoned her to get that medallion. I remember her as a very young girl. A very sweet and lovely girl, kind and intelligent. She would have been eighteen now. But she died before she was ten. You killed her.

CHARLOTTE

No! This is slander! Libel! I am not guilty of anything!

COUNT

Look at this mirror, madam! Who do you see in it?

CHARLOTTE

What nonsense! Everyone knows that they see themselves in the mirror!

COUNT

And I thought you would have seen poor Annabelle de Lernu in that mirror. After all, she looked so often in that mirror her mother gave her. She was a very beautiful girl, and could have become an equally beautiful woman, but, unfortunately for her, she met you, and so she died at the age of thirteen, five years ago.

CHARLOTTE

This is slander, libel, it's not true! The men I rejected have slandered me in your eyes, Olivier!

COUNT

Look at this monstrance. It contains the finger of Saint Augustine. It's all gold and adorned with sapphires, emeralds, pearls, and beryls. You convinced poor Jean to steal it and other jewels worth fifty-two thousand pistoles.

CHARLOTTE

Fifty-two thousand! I've never seen this thing, or any of the other things you're talking about, and I don't know any Jean!

COUNT

Don't know any Jean? Remember, madam! He is the man you introduced to me as your brother. But he is not your brother. He was your lover! You committed adultery with him even after we met. You continued to flirt with him before my very eyes. Submitting to you, he played the role of your brother. That is why he was always gloomy and silent!

CHARLOTTE

I have been slandered.

COUNT

It's all a lie, madam, nothing but a lie. Tell me at least one word of truth!

CHARLOTTE

I love you, Count, and it's true! Forgive me. I don't want to lose you!

COUNT

Do you love me? And would you love me even if I were not a count and did not possess the riches that tempted you?

CHARLOTTE

Olivier! I love you not for your riches!

COUNT

If this is true, and if you love me, then confess your crimes, tell me the truth about it all. Together, we will bear the weight of your sins on our shoulders.

CHARLOTTE

I told you the whole truth, Count. I was slandered, I don't know anything about what you just told me, I didn't see these things, my conscience is clear, I didn't commit the terrible crimes you speak of.

COUNT

So, you continue to lie. For your theft, you should have gotten twelve years in prison, of which you only served two weeks. For your murders, you should have been hanged.

CHARLOTTE

No, no! It's not my fault!

COUNT

Be silent, madam, I haven't finished yet. So that you might possess this lovely ring, your parents murdered a very kind old man. For this ring, a young man with green eyes and black curls, who had treated you to a sugar cockerel, was killed. This ring was snatched from the finger of a forty-year-old woman who called you a "lovely child" and gave you a tortoiseshell comb. This ring cost the lives of a young girl and her companion, who compared you to an angel. Shall I continue?

CHARLOTTE

No, no, no! It's a lie, it didn't happen!

COUNT

Don't worry, Charlotte Munier. Your parents, Michel and Jeanne Munier, have already been punished for these crimes, and you, due to your youth, were not charged with these murders, although, indeed, you knowingly assisted them by mixing sleeping herbs into the horses' feed and finding out where the doomed travelers hid their valuables, right?

CHARLOTTE

He knows! He knows everything!

COUNT

Don't worry, madam, you won't be hanged.

CHARLOTTE

Yes, Count! You won't betray me, will you? You won't tell anyone? I'll do anything for you, anything you want, just don't betray me!

COUNT

You don't face the gallows, because you deserved to be broken on the wheel. I know for a fact that if it weren't for your stubbornness, your parents wouldn't have dared to kill the priest. So the punishment your father suffered for you should have been applied to you.

CHARLOTTE

No! No! No! I don't want to! It's not my fault!

COUNT

Well, let's leave aside your childhood crimes. Your father took the blame. You were still so young, although, in the eyes of the law, that age is already old enough to charge you with such a serious crime as participating in the murder of a priest. But let's assume that this is forgotten. Then the only punishment you deserve is the gallows. Do you agree with me, madam?

CHARLOTTE

I know nothing, I understand nothing, I can’t speak, leave me, sir!

COUNT

This night, madam, you will spend in prayer, as I have. All night long, remaining here, you will beseech the Almighty to grant you forgiveness for your sins. In the morning, a priest will come to you so that you can repent of all your crimes, after which you will receive unction, and I will give you a drink similar to the one you prepared for your best friends, Elizabeth de Beltham and Annabelle de Lernu. However, the drink I give you will be more gentle. Your friends died in agony, fading away for several days, but you will simply fall into a peaceful sleep and appear before the Creator, unless He deems it necessary to send you straight to Hell. You will do so voluntarily, I hope, or I will force you to drink it.

CHARLOTTE

( In horror)

Do you want to poison me?

COUNT

You will drink the drink yourself, voluntarily. Perhaps we will drink it together. After all, we are a married couple, and your shame is my shame too.

CHARLOTTE

(Pretending)

Okay, I agree.

(The Count goes out and locks the doors. Eclipse)


SCENE NINE


(The same room as in the first scene. Charlotte pulls the mirror away from the wall; there's a door on the wall. Charlotte takes off the chain with the key from around her neck, unlocks the door in the wall, and takes out a box. The door opens and the Count enters.)

COUNT

So, you escaped!

CHARLOTTE

Count! I will explain everything!

COUNT

I left you in the bedroom, ordering Jacques not to let you out, and spent the night praying for your soul. In the morning, I went into the bedroom where I left you. You killed Jacques! He still lies with a fractured skull in a pool of blood, next to the heavy crucifix you killed him with! I guessed you'd decide to look here because you had some connection to this place. Of course, you had a secret hiding place here with treasures I wasn't supposed to know about!

CHARLOTTE

Jacques harassed me, I defended myself.

COUNT

Enough! Enough of these lies. I know Jacques. He is not capable of such vileness. And I already know you well enough, madam. You have proven to me that there is no crime so heinous that you are not capable. Enough of these fabrications. I do not believe a single word you say. You refused to atone for your sins, preferring to take upon your soul the new sin of murder. I will not say to you: "Die in peace," madam. I will say to you: "Go to Hell." I will not give you the last word. Everything you could say in this world, you have already said. Save your eloquence for your meeting with Satan.

CHARLOTTE

Count! Olivier!

COUNT

Everything will end here and now.

(The Count takes the leather reins in his hands and throws a noose around Charlotte's neck)

(Blackout)


SCENE TEN


(The shore of a deep lake, a country road nearby. A count with a rope looks around. Seeing a large stone, he approaches it and begins tying the rope around it. He makes a loop at the other end of the rope and tries it on himself, sticking his head through it. The clatter of several horses' hooves can be heard in the distance. The count throws aside the rope and stands up to see who is riding.)

COUNT

Curiosity is a suicide's last refuge before death. Well, I'll watch, wait for them to pass, and then finish the job.

(Sergeant's voice from behind the stage)

SERGEANT

Halt! We can refill our water bottles and then water the horses. Rest. I'll take a stroll and see what this place is like. This young man looks like a nobleman.

(The sergeant comes onto the stage)

SERGEANT

Young man! How far is it to the settlement?

COUNT

Not far at all, you are on your way to it.

SERGEANT

And you, it seems, have decided to go swimming?

COUNT

Don't mind me, Sergeant, go on your way.

SERGEANT

I see this is your last swim, isn't it? Don't mind me, I won't disturb you! Just a few words.

COUNT

If you don't try to dissuade me.

SERGEANT

That's up to you to decide. But I'll tell you honestly, you're incredibly lucky! I can see things aren't so great if you're bathing in your clothes in the morning. Lost your money at cards? Did your mistress cheat on you with your best friend? Did your uncle leave his inheritance not to you, but to your cousin? No problem! Enlist in the royal army. The army will take care of you! You'll have everything but problems. You'll forget about your mistress, your gambling debts, your inheritance, and all your other troubles.

COUNT

Why drag it out?

SERGEANT

Suicide is a grave sin. Better to die for the King! I will give you a thousand opportunities to do so!

COUNT

How soon can I be killed if I follow your advice?

SERGEANT

At any time from the moment you enlist in the army.

COUNT

But now there is no war.

SERGEANT

War is always waged, only by different means. But what does that matter to you? An army is an army. The King's soldiers do not seek death, but death often finds them. And then there are duels! They're forbidden, but they happen from time to time. Any duel could be the last for one of the combatants. And a duel for a piece of uniform, or a lady's honor... There are so many reasons!

COUNT

A duel for a lady's honor? You're making me laugh, by God! What a reason!

SERGEANT

Wait, young man, don't be so quick to refuse! I forgot to mention that one of the essential joys of the army is the thrill of playing with death, which is so nerve-wracking that it constitutes the unforgettable charm of military service.

COUNT

Which troops have the highest mortality rate?

SERGEANT

In wartime, everyone does, and in peacetime, like now, the King's Musketeers. But to join the Musketeers, you must be a nobleman and be skilled in fencing, pistol and musket shooting, and horsemanship.

COUNT

All this is here. Where do I sign?

SERGEANT

Here and here. When can you arrive at the assembly point?

COUNT

Immediately. I'll write my name. But may I ask you not to disclose it to anyone?

SERGEANT

No one, except Captain de Treville. But it won't go beyond the captain. We have several musketeers who serve under assumed names. Each has their own reason for doing so. It's allowed. What name will you choose for yourself?

COUNT

Perhaps... Athos. Yes, Athos. Will that do?

SERGEANT

Congratulations on joining the company of musketeers, Monsieur Athos!

(Curtain. End of Prologue)



CHAPTER FORTY-SIX


“Violetta, I read the prologue to the end ,” I said when Vivi came out of the bathroom.

"Are you going to scold me?" Vivi asked, drying her hair with a towel.

She was naked, her firm breasts trembled so temptingly with every movement that I did not dare to tell her my honest opinion.

“The prologue is certainly good…” I said. “Come here, my dear!”

"You wanted to say, 'The prologue is good, but...' and that 'but' of yours should have been followed by a list of its many shortcomings," Violetta guessed. "Well, go on! Don't deny yourself the pleasure of criticizing me to smithereens."

"Darling, is it necessary to discuss this now?" I said hesitantly.

"If you want to scold me , then scold me," Violetta said, seemingly calmly. "It's better to get this over with right now."

I tried to avoid this conversation, but in the end the writer in me won out over the man.

"I already said that the prologue has turned into a full-fledged act ," I said. "But that's really not important. The question is different. Why did you make up so much?"

"Dudu, the play's title obliges!" Violetta replied. "If you're going to retell your novel, The Three Musketeers, then make a play based on it, focusing on its most striking scenes, but making it a unified action with its own laws of development. Introduction, climax, and resolution."

“She’s teaching me!” I exclaimed and shrugged.

"Don't be offended, Dudu. But if the play is called 'The Youth of the Musketeers,' then you have to tell what happened to them before the event that opens the novel," Violetta continued. "You've slightly attracted the audience by telling the story of Athos's failed marriage in the prologue, adding only minor details. The audience gets hooked, thinking they'll see even more details about the musketeers' youth later. But their hopes are dashed. Then you let them see the events already in the book. Any mediocre writer can adapt a novel into a screenplay. For the great Dumas, it's too minor a task. Meanwhile, you could have told the audience, who have undoubtedly all read your novel 'The Three Musketeers,' something new, something not found in the novel." And the title suggests that you'll tell the story of how Aramis and Porthos became musketeers, and how the three of them became friends.

“That’s your interpretation, and I don’t agree with it,” I objected.

"Yes, of course," Violetta agreed. "You should figure out if you want dueling scenes in your play. If so, then you need to make sure the actors are trained by good fencers. But real fencers don't become actors, and good actors don't know how to fence. Not every audience member will be captivated by such a scene, but if such scenes are included in the play, they must be staged at the highest level."

“I don’t think I have any,” I reminded.

"What is the main idea of your play?" Violetta asked. "Did you want to show Milady's criminal nature? You failed, but I corrected that, and now it's undeniable. Did you want to show the friendship and loyalty of the musketeers? Then you need to put them in a situation where their friendship is tested, and they pass it with flying colors. Did you want to show Richelieu's treachery, or Queen Anne's love? The cunning of the Cardinal's spies, or the courage and honor of the musketeers? The intrigues of the Duchess de Chevreuse, or the arrogance of the Duke of Buckingham? What exactly did you want to show in this play?"
 
“All of the above and much more ,” I said. “By what right do you ask me these questions?”

"As part of my secretary duties, so I know what to record first," Violetta answered. "I just want to clarify my responsibilities so I can perform them as best I can."

"It seemed to me that you were dissecting my play and me at the same time," I replied. "It's as if I'm being picked apart and fried in a frying pan in purgatory. I'd call it a roasting. It's unpleasant. I thought you loved my work, but it seems I was wrong."

"When you love someone or something, you care about it with all your heart," Violetta countered. "When you care, you try to take away all the troubles and misfortunes, you want to improve what you can, smooth out the flaws, and highlight the strengths. You care with all your heart. Is it my fault that I care about your work? As a secretary, I'm simply doing my job. And I care about the results."

"But it seems to me that you're trying to replace me," I objected. "Thanks to your efforts, I've come to feel like your secretary instead of entrusting you with the secretary's work."

"I get it ," Violetta said. "I'm not doing a good job as your secretary. Fire me."

Let me remind you that all this time Violetta was standing in front of me naked, fresh from the bath.

Fire her! Unthinkable! This time the man in me finally won over the writer.

"I didn't mean to imply in the least that your writing endeavors were a failure ," I said in as conciliatory a tone as I could muster. "On the contrary! I really liked everything I read. Come to me! I'll thank you."

"Thank you?" Violetta asked. "Do you intend to give me a gift, pay me a salary, or use me for something other than just a secretary?"

“To be honest, I was going to do all of this starting with the last one,” I admitted.

"Your honesty, Dudu, is disgusting, but for some reason it turns me on ," Violetta said. "So, are we going to hold off on tearing up everything I've written just yet? You have enough wood for the fireplace, as you already said, and there's no point in heating it with the paper I've covered in writing?"

“Exactly,” I whispered, bringing my face closer to her charming ear so that she could better hear the words intended only for her.

Reader, leave us until the next chapter, and don't complain that this chapter is so short. It's short only for you, but for Violetta and me, it was no shorter than any other chapter in this novel!



CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

“Your play should be called ‘The Countess de La Fere’,” said Violetta.

"Are you talking about the play that's currently being staged at the theater, or the one you're writing yourself and for some reason call it mine?" I asked.

"Dudu, no one will stage two plays about the same period in the lives of your musketeers, not only in Paris, but also in France at the same time!" Violetta said.

“I’m glad you understand that, just as I hope you understand that if I’m the author of one of the plays, and any other author is listed on the other, then my play will be staged,” I replied.

"Of course!" Violetta agreed. "And this play should be called 'The Countess de la F;re.'"

“This play is already called ‘The Youth of the Musketeers’, and that will never change ,” I said firmly.

“I understand you ,” Violetta said and fell silent.

It would be better if she objected, loudly, emotionally. When a woman is silent, it's worse than any screaming. It means she's so offended that she doesn't even want to talk to you.

If Milady had simply remained silent when Athos asked her why she had the lily brand on her shoulder, Athos would never have dared lay a finger on her. A woman's silence sometimes affects men even more powerfully than their tears. If a woman cries, a man at least knows he should comfort her. When a woman is silent, a man doesn't know what to do. Leaving her could be a mistake, staying with her an even greater mistake. Ignoring her silence is impossible; trying to get to the bottom of it is as absurd as putting forward your own theories, either out loud or silently, to yourself. A woman's silence is her silent heavy artillery. One military leader I knew preferred to find himself on the battlefield under enemy crossfire rather than be in the same room with his silent wife. I suspect he would not be alone in making that choice.

Luckily for me, Violetta threw on her cape and left the house.

“He’ll take a walk and calm down,” I thought. “This will be good for both of us.”

I took a few more sheets of paper she'd written on from the desk drawer and continued reading. But first, I noticed there were more sheets of paper. I guessed Violetta hadn't left for nothing. She'd left to write these scenes. Where did she write them? Probably at some friend's place. I started reading.

ACT II

SCENE ONE

(A courtyard in Paris, the musketeer Aramis is walking down the street, on the other side of the street stands a noble lady, the Duchess)

DUCHESS

Mr. Musketeer! Could the lady ask you for a small favor? Could you lend me your cloak?

ARAMIS

What do you need my musketeer's cloak for, madam?

DUCHESS

When a beautiful lady asks you for a small favor, do you always ask her why she needs it?

ARAMIS

Excuse me, madam, are you asking for it for yourself or for your man?

DUCHESS

Is this important to you? Okay, I'll tell you. I'm asking for it for myself.

ARAMIS

You see, madam, this kind of clothing is not proper for ladies, and it is not proper for me to violate the dress code, so I will lose what is necessary, and give you what is superfluous, if I agree to give you my cloak.

DUCHESS

The Lord commanded us, His lambs, to love our neighbors. And this means helping them in need. If helping consisted only of giving away what is superfluous, there would be nothing noble about it. And as for your cloak being superfluous for me, you are mistaken. How can you know I don't need it if you don't know why I'm asking for it?

ARAMIS

Excuse me, madam, but I don't have another coat, so if you don't return it to me, tomorrow I will be forced to violate the dress code.

DUCHESS

I asked to borrow it, which means I'll return it to you. Okay, I'll tell you. I need your cloak to get rid of this annoying stalker, but hurry up, please, it'll be right there. And you don't need it right now, since you're already returning from duty. Make up your mind! If you help me escape this annoying stalker, I'll not only return your cloak, but I'll also thank you.

ARAMIS

So you're asking for protection! Why didn't you say so right away?

DUCHESS

Yes, I ask for protection.

ARAMIS

Madam! It's not becoming for a musketeer to undress in the street, nor for a noblewoman like you to don a man's cloak in full view. Besides, the person you're trying to escape from has apparently already noticed that we're having such a pleasant conversation, so such disguises won't help you any more. Let me simply stab your pursuer; it'll be safer that way, and I won't have to part with my cloak.

DUCHESS

Are you ready to kill a person like this in the middle of the street?

ARAMIS

Exclusively for you, madam. Besides, this won't be a banal murder, but a duel.

DUCHESS

But duels are forbidden! Aren't you afraid of being executed for violating the royal edict?

ARAMIS

I'm ready to give my life for a price far less than your sweet smile, madam. Sometimes we get into a duel just because someone we don't care about said something about us we couldn't care less about!

DUCHESS

But you can be executed just for standing up for a girl you don’t know!

ARAMIS

However, if I don’t stand up for such a sweet girl like you, then I will punish myself for the rest of my life, and after death the devils will roast me in hell!

DUCHESS

There's that man standing there. He's chasing me. If you can just distract him long enough for me to escape, you won't regret helping me.

ARAMIS

Should I kill him? Or should we give him life for the occasion, and will it be enough for him that I deprive him of the ability to spy on you?

DUCHESS

What holiday is it today?

ARAMIS

It's a holiday that I met you.

DUCHESS

You're a funny guy! Well, let him live!

(The Duchess goes to the right)

SCENE TWO

(A nobleman with a sword comes out from the left)

ARAMIS

Sir, don't you find today a particularly sunny day?

NOBLEMAN

Go, sir, about your business, and don’t interfere with me doing mine.

ARAMIS

Everything about today is harmonious, except for one thing.

NOBLEMAN

I don't care about your views on what is harmonious and what is not.

ARAMIS

But the problem is, your sour expression ruins the harmony of today. If it weren't for it, today could be called the best day not only this year, but in the past two!

NOBLEMAN

Sir, if you can't wait to go to the next world, then go ahead, tomorrow we'll cross swords, but now get the hell out of here!

ARAMIS

I, sir, am eager to make some corrections today, and therefore I intend to make sure that you go to hell and take your sour face with you.

(The nobleman draws his sword, Aramis draws his sword, both assume the pose of duelists before the start of a duel. The nobleman attacks furiously, he is hasty and swings his arms excessively, Aramis calmly parries several blows, after which he wounds his opponent in the right hand, so that the sword falls from his hand.)


ARAMIS

Forgive me, sir! I had absolutely no intention of wounding you in the arm! I intended to wound you in the leg so that you and your face would remain as long as possible where I met you both!

NOBLEMAN

I'll kill you, puppy! I'll show you how to duel His Eminence's musketeer!

ARAMIS

I have done you the honor of fighting a musketeer of His Majesty's, as you might recognize by my cloak. Where did you leave your red guardsman's cloak?

(Aramis kicks the nobleman's sword to his feet, he grabs it with his left hand and begins the duel again)

NOBLEMAN

It's none of your business, puppy! Defend yourself!

ARAMIS

Let's even the odds

(He shifts the sword to his left hand, both continue to fight, Aramis parries two more blows and strikes the nobleman in the leg)

NOBLEMAN

Damn it! I'm not giving up, I'll keep on dueling!

ARAMIS

Don't fuss. I've already forgiven you for your sour expression and consider the matter closed. However, if you insist on me killing you, come to Monsieur de Treville's regiment when your leg is healed and ask for Aramis. It's me. I'm ready to continue the fight, but not with a cripple.

(Aramis bowed dramatically and left the stranger)

NOBLEMAN

Scoundrel! You'll pay dearly for wounding me twice. Chevalier de Bedo doesn't tolerate such tricks!



CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

I tossed the sheets of paper on the table and began pacing the room. I felt uneasy. A competitor had appeared right next to me, at my side! She was composing the destinies of my heroes at her own discretion! But that wasn't what worried me. All sorts of imitators appeared from time to time for any moderately successful writer, and I was no exception. But all the imitators were far weaker, so they disappeared as quickly as they appeared. Publishers wouldn't accept their manuscripts. I thought I was safe from that end. But this mademoiselle had already become known to my publisher as my personal secretary! She could bring him her manuscript and say it was my book or my play!

No, she shouldn't have done that! But why, exactly? I've already had the opportunity to see that Violetta's sense of moral boundaries isn't quite the same as that of any other ordinary person. She's quite capable of doing things that none of us would. Specifically, passing off her own father as her stepfather to squeeze extra money out of me. Or as her guardian. Perhaps he's not her father at all. The same could be said about her mother. Passing off an innocent man as a rapist! Pretending to be pregnant! A mademoiselle with such flexible notions of what's permitted and what's not permitted could easily pass off her work as mine, or, worse, mine as hers. I'll have to keep an eye on her!

I looked out the window. Various passersby were walking along the street, but Violetta was not among them.

I took a few more sheets of paper and continued reading.

SCENE THREE

(The setting of the Duchess's luxurious rooms. The Duchess sits in a beautiful dress with a daring neckline, playing solitaire, a page enters.)

PAGE

Duchess, Jeanette has brought a musketeer to you.

DUCHESS

Let him enter alone.

(Aramis enters)

ARAMIS

Good evening, madam.

DUCHESS

So, you have come, Mr. Aramis.

ARAMIS

I don't know how you learned my name, but I am indeed Aramis. Last night, my servant, Bazin, told me that a lady, her face hidden under a thick black veil, had delivered a note for me. The note read: "Monsieur Aramis, you have rendered me a most important service, and I wish to thank you. Be at the entrance to your barracks tomorrow at eight o'clock this evening, and my page will come for you. Follow him. The lady to whom you did not give your cloak." That is why I am here. The one who called himself your page has come for me, although I believe it was a lady disguised as a man.

DUCHESS

You are insightful, Aramis.

ARAMIS

Not at all, because I, unlike you, do not know with whom I have the honor of talking.

DUCHESS

You will find out, and very soon. First, answer me, my glorious musketeer: have you come for your reward?

ARAMIS

Not in the slightest! I came at your call. You invited me, and I showed up. I have no reward to ask for; I did what I thought best, and I don't expect to take anything from anyone for it.

DUCHESS

Ah, noble knight! I had no idea that such selflessness and valor could still be found in France!

ARAMIS

Perhaps we move in different circles. Among the Musketeers, of which I have the honor of being a member, such a view of things is not uncommon.

DUCHESS

And among courtiers, of which I am a member, such a look is rare! I still intend to thank you for your intercession for a weak woman.

ARAMIS

I don't take money or gifts from women, madam.

DUCHESS

And I don’t intend to offer you anything material!

ARAMIS

Oh, madam, if you want to offer me something intangible, then I feel embarrassed.

DUCHESS

Sir! You've obviously misunderstood me. You think I'm offering you my love? But I'm not! I'm offering you my friendship, which is far more valuable, believe me. You don't know who I am, I'll tell you that.

ARAMIS

Madam, do you really think so? Are you convinced there's nothing to love about me? You refuse me without knowing me? Not even taking into account that I never asked for anything. How can you refuse a request that never happened? You think I misinterpreted your words, but don't you admit that you, too, misinterpreted mine?

DUCHESS

Explain yourself, sir.

ARAMIS

I do not reject your friendship, but friendship presupposes many mutual obligations, so I must first learn who you are and what kind of friendly services you might require from me. I must remind you that I am in the service of the King, and any actions or inactions that conflict with my duties as a musketeer are unacceptable to me, and requests for such are insignificant; I refuse in advance to accept any obligations of this kind.

DUCHESS

My friendship will in no way interfere with your service to the King, my knight! On the contrary, these duties overlap in almost every way.

ARAMIS

This “almost” of yours makes me wary.

DUCHESS

Who do you think rules France?

ARAMIS

His Majesty the King, of course.

DUCHESS

How naive you are! France is currently ruled by three men and three women. The three men are King Louis XIII , the Constable, the Duke of Luynes, and the Bishop of Lu;on, Monsieur de Richelieu. The three women are the Queen Mother, Marie de Medici, Queen Anne, and her closest friend, de Luynes' wife, Marie de Luynes.

ARAMIS

Let's assume that's the case, madam. I'm far from the court, so I agree in advance that you know best. So what?

DUCHESS

And the fact is that soon one man and one woman will be excluded from this list. The Queen Mother is rapidly losing power, and with her, that vile Richelieu will lose it too. Only four will remain.

ARAMIS

So be it. What does it matter to me?

DUCHESS

If you agree with what I've said, then you'll also agree that the King, raised from childhood to detest government, relies entirely on his best friend and confidant, his most important adviser, the Duc de Luynes. The Queen, meanwhile, consults her best friend, the Duchess de Luynes. Thus, France is effectively governed not by six or four people, but by two. Moreover, the Duc de Luynes would never do anything to harm his wife, Marie de Luynes.

ARAMIS

Everything you said is probably very interesting, but I still don't understand why you are telling me this.

DUCHESS

You are currently in the house of the Duke de Luynes and talking to the mistress of this house, Marie Aim;e de Luynes.

ARAMIS

Chevalier d'Aramitz , Abb; d'Herblay, madam.

DUCHESS

Abbot, is that so? I was told your name was simply Aramis. Was my information inaccurate?

ARAMIS

Quite correct, madam, since among the musketeers that is precisely what they call me, Aramis.

DUCHESS

But you haven't told me your name, Monsieur Aramis. What should I call you if you really are my friend? Jean? Ren;? Charles?

ARAMIS

Relatives who address me by my given name call me by the name my parents christened me, Henri. But I don't think such an address is appropriate for a duchess who, by her own admission, rules France.

DUCHESS

(With laughter)

You don't believe me, Aramis. But how can you call me Maria if you won't let me call you Henri?

ARAMIS

I didn't mean to call you Maria, madam.

DUCHESS

It doesn't matter. What you were going to do, or weren't going to do, is no longer important. What matters is what you will do. And you will be my friend, and so I will call you Henri, and you will call me Maria.

ARAMIS

What a woman wants, even God will not resist.

DUCHESS

Everything would be so provided that God knew what she really wanted.

ARAMIS

Knowing what God wants is my second profession, madam.

DUCHESS

(With laughter)

If only a woman herself knew what she wanted! However, there are men who, when they're with a woman, know her desires even better than she does!

ARAMIS

In that case, I will try to become such a man for you, madam.

DUCHESS

(Again with laughter)

At this moment I would like to slap you on the cheeks for all the insolence you have said to me, Monsieur Aramis, but instead I will simply kiss you, Henri!

(The Duchess approaches Aramis and kisses her briefly, but Aramis holds her back and prolongs the kiss)

DUCHESS

By what right did you dare to kiss me yourself? I didn't allow you to do that!

ARAMIS

Since you, madam, intended to borrow the musketeer's cloak from me only on loan, I decided that this kiss of yours was also only a loan, so I hastened to repay you.

DUCHESS

Okay, but in future, limit yourself to just kissing my hand. At least until you have reason to believe I want something more.

(He extends his hand for a kiss, Aramis kisses it)

ARAMIS

The time has come.

DUCHESS

What are you talking about?

ARAMIS

The time has come when I have reason to believe that you desire something more.

DUCHESS

How quick and agile you are! Even though you're an abbot! Tell me, are all your abbots like this?

ARAMIS

Only those who are more musketeers than abbots!

DUCHESS

And how many of these do you have?

ARAMIS

So far there is only one, and I hope there will be no others.

DUCHESS

You remind me of Fran;ois La Rochefoucauld.

ARAMIS

In that case, I will challenge him to a duel so that I no longer remind you of anyone but myself.

DUCHESS

Calm down, Henri, he's not my lover. Just a friend! And if you challenge him to a duel, I'll deny you my friendship, and more.

ARAMIS

In that case, I won't call him, but I don't promise you that I'll be friends with him.

DUCHESS

That's not necessary. Go then. I'll call you later. Not today. Another time.

ARAMIS

I hope so, madam.

DUCHESS

Go, Henri. My page... Very well, Jeanette, my maid. She will show you the way. And Henri! I beg you, get rid of that Gascon accent of yours and don't tell anyone you're Gascon. Even King Henry IV, your namesake, did so. Follow his example.

ARAMIS

Certainly, madam.

(Aramis kissed the Duchess's hand again, and then resolutely kissed her lips as well. The Duchess lightly tapped Aramis on the shoulder twice, as if to make him move away, after which her hand paused in the air for a second, then she resolutely pressed Aramis to herself and stroked his shoulder with her hand, and finally pushed him away.)

DUCHESS

(Whispering)

Go now... Go, go, Henri. Later. Later. Not now.

(Aramis leaves)

* * *

I was indignant! I threw the sheets of paper on the table again in my irritation. What is she doing! Violetta is encroaching on my prerogatives. That would be fine. But it's much worse. She's killing the writer in me! She's turned me from a writer into a reader! For three days now, I haven't written anything myself, only read her opuses! This is unthinkable! Do I like her opuses? I don't know! But when I finish reading, my mood doesn't improve. However, while I'm reading, I haven't once had the urge to stop. I've read as many sheets of paper as I've picked up in one fell swoop! This is unacceptable. There will only be one writer in this apartment - me. And she's not a writer, she's my secretary. There's no need for her to try to be anything more. I've already agreed to make her my business manager!

Agreed? No, I offered her the position myself. Whatever, something's wrong here, and it needs to be sorted out and put an end to as quickly as possible. I'm not going to turn into a reader. No, I'm not some Salieri. I don't intend to harm her. And she doesn't deserve it! What's to blame for her insatiable passion for writing? It's simply inappropriate for someone working as a secretary to a famous writer. That's all. I'll have to explain it to her.



CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

"You seemed to only want to slightly edit my play, but you completely reworked it!" I said to Violetta, trying to speak calmly, without emotion, although I was having trouble doing it.

“Dudu, you’re jealous of your play towards me, it’s completely understandable, don’t be nervous, it’s normal ,” said Violetta.

"Stop calling me Dudu!" I said, somewhat irritated.

"Oh my God, do men have those days too?" Violetta asked with feigned concern.

"What are you saying?" I asked, trying to appear calm.

"When we're in love, you even like it when I call you that," Violetta reminded him. "After all, you call me Vivi yourself. Would you like me to call you Alexandre? Or Monsieur Dumas?"

"No, what are you saying," I quickly objected. "I really did get carried away. Keep calling me Dudu, I'm not offended at all."

"No, if you say so, then you really don't like the name for some reason," Violetta insisted. "There's something about it that doesn't suit you. Maybe we should find another name? Something affectionate, but short. How would you like it if I called you my Little Bear? Or maybe my Tiger? Or my Lion?"

"Really, leave it alone. I told you I was hasty," I said dismissively. "I've gotten used to Dudu."

"Tell me, dear, what did you dislike most about my drafts?" Violetta asked.

"So these are just drafts?" I asked, surprised. "You intend to continue editing your texts? But it reads as if it were the final version!"

"Oh, come on, darling!" Violetta objected. "First you criticize it, then I'll correct it, then you criticize it again, then I'll correct it again, then you'll make the edits yourself, because you won't like any of my edits, then..."

“How do you know all this?” I asked.

"Well, for some reason, I feel like until you intervene with your radical edits, you won't be able to consider this text your own, you won't become familiar with it! And after your edits make this text almost your own, we can calmly discuss all its shortcomings first, make the final edits, and submit the new play to the publisher, as per the agreement."

"A contract!" I exclaimed. "But I signed a contract! It has to be fulfilled! I completely forgot!"

"But I haven't forgotten, after all, I'm your secretary!" Violetta reminded him. "When time is of the essence, I'll remind you."

"Okay, get out your drafts. What do you have there after the third scene of the first act, which will now actually be called the second?" I asked.

Violetta pulled out a few more sheets of paper and handed them to me. I began reading the fourth scene of the second act.


SCENE FOUR


(A Parisian street, a fence with a gate, Aramis passes by. Four of the cardinal's guards, including Bedaux, are walking towards him.)

BEDO

What a meeting! Could this really be the same Mr. King's Musketeer who so loves to meddle in other people's affairs?!

ARAMIS

This can hardly be called a meeting, Monsieur de Bedo. However, I would be happy to meet with you at any time you deign to appoint, with an equal number of seconds on both sides.

BEDO

Why put it off, Monsieur Aramis? That's your name, if I'm not mistaken? My time is extremely valuable, and I may never have the chance to speak with you again. Right now, I'm free to talk with you and settle all differences, and with you, too.

(The guards formed a semicircle around Aramis, expressing their readiness to support Bedo with their appearance)

ARAMIS

Well, gentlemen! I see that, apparently, you all have some questions for me?

BEDO

Yes! And we will converse in the language of swords!

ARAMIS

All four with me alone? If you, Monsieur de Bedaux, consider the present moment most opportune for such a conversation, then, although I have no seconds on my side, I am prepared to engage in a conversation in the language of the sword. I hope that you yourself will draw lots or otherwise decide the order of our conversations.

BEDO
(With laughter)

Order?! You mean whose sword will be the first to plunge into your chest? That will be decided by chance!

ARAMIS

So you intend to fight me, all four of you, at once? Very well! In that case, I'll no longer consider you nobles and will use every trick I know!

(The battle begins, Aramis, with a sword in his right hand and a dagger in his left hand, successfully repels the blows of the attackers, but gradually retreats)

GUARDIAN

He wounded me, so I wounded him too!

(A tall nobleman with a sword, Porthos, appears from behind Aramis on the left)

PORTOS

What the hell is going on here?! Three against one! I'll get you, you devils!

(Porthos draws his sword and joins the fight on Aramis's side. He quickly inflicts a serious wound on one of the guards, and his opponent falls.)

BEDO

The devil brought him here on our heads!

(Aramis also lunges and one of his opponents also falls)

GUARDIAN

We can't stand against them!

PORTOS

What an amazing gift of foresight!

(Porthos lunges, the third guard also falls seriously wounded)

PORTOS

Sir, your chances are even, I'm withdrawing from the fight. Unfortunately, you're wounded, but I see you're holding up well.

(Porthos sheathed his sword and stepped back to calmly watch the progress of the fight)

BEDO

Great, one on one – that suits me!

ARAMIS

(Continuing to fight)

After being attacked by four men, and receiving two wounds! What incredible nobility!

PORTOS

Sir, if you don't finish him off in the next three minutes, your chances of winning are slim, you're losing a lot of blood.

ARAMIS

Thanks for the advice!

(Makes a sharp lunge, piercing Bedo, who falls)

PORTOS

Sir, by right of the victor, you can take their swords and even their purses, but I recommend that you get out of here as quickly as possible.

ARAMIS

You are right, sir, let's cross to another street.

(They move to another part of the stage)

PORTOS

You're fighting well, but you need to stop the bleeding quickly. Let me help you. Do you have a handkerchief?

(Aramis gives Porthos a handkerchief, with which Porthos bandages Aramis's arm)

PORTOS

Well, in this form you will get to the doctor or to the place where you will receive help.

ARAMIS

Sir, I am eternally grateful to you for coming to my rescue! And a special thank you for helping me stop the bleeding. Besides, your remark about stopping the fight couldn't have been more opportune. Allow me to introduce myself, Abb; d'Herblay, or Aramis, as my comrades in arms call me. I am thrice in your debt.

PORTOS

Aramis? I think I've heard that name before. And I'm Isaac de Porto. I only arrived in Paris yesterday and plan to join the Musketeers. I just haven't decided where yet. I've heard that in Paris there are the King's Musketeers and the Richelieu Musketeers, whom we call the Guards. The Richelieu Musketeers are paid more.

ARAMIS

But the King's Musketeers are four times more noble than the Guards, as you saw today. After all, those men who attacked me were Richelieu's Guards, while I am the King's Musketeer!

PORTOS

Well, then, fate itself has made its choice for me! If I managed to quarrel fatally with Richelieu's guards on my second day in Paris, then my path lies with the King's Musketeers.

ARAMIS

Tomorrow I will speak with the captain of the king's musketeers, Monsieur de Treville. You know, we have short nicknames for quick reference in battle. Perhaps the name Porthos would suit you better?

PORTOS

Tell me, how long have you served in the King's Musketeers?

ARAMIS

A year and a half.

PORTOS

If a musketeer of such venerable stature tells me that I should be called Porthos, then from this moment on that is exactly what I shall be called! Your hand!

ARAMIS

I am your debtor and your friend forever!

(Porthos shakes Aramis's hand, Aramis cries out in pain)

PORTOS

Sorry, I misjudged the strength of my handshake a bit. I'm used to, you know, bending horseshoes for fun.

ARAMIS

Judging by the strength of your handshake, it looks like you're tying horseshoes into a knot!

PORTOS

I haven't tried it, but it's a great idea!

ARAMIS

Tomorrow we're going to see de Treville, and today I'll introduce you to Athos. We'll dine together, all three of us.

PORTOS

What a great way to start a new acquaintance with dinner! The only thing better than that is meeting someone over lunch.

ARAMIS

I see you're hungry after the walk and the battle. In that case, our dinner will be no more modest than our usual lunch. Let's call it a dinner-dinner and combine the menu of both. My treat, of course!

PORTOS

Now I understand what a huge mistake I would have made if I had chosen the Cardinal's Musketeers instead of the King's Musketeers! They certainly start off their acquaintances cold!

ARAMIS

Worse, they get to know each other during breaks between prayers. And although I'm half an abbot myself, these ostentatious sanctimonious figures, swarming around His Eminence, awaiting his blessing and his handouts, are as repulsive to me as cockroaches waiting under a tavern table for their share of crumbs from the patrons' tables.

PORTOS

Well said! So which pub shall we go to?

ARAMIS

Trust me, the food there is good, you'll like it. On the way there, we'll pick up Athos; he lives on Ferou Street .

(Aramis and Porthos laugh merrily and go back into the stage)


* * *

"So many pages and no events!" I said. "If things continue at this rate, the play will have fifteen acts!"

"But the play is called 'The Youth of the Musketeers'!" Vivi objected. "You don't have to retell the story of the trip to get the pendants!"

"Then what should I talk about?" I asked with undisguised sarcasm.

“About everything else that wasn’t included in the novels, about which there are only very distant indications or hints, or which remained completely in the shadows,” Vivi answered, pretending not to notice my sarcasm.

This is amazing! Women can be offended by your words and even the tone in which you said them, even when you least intended to offend them. But if they didn't intend to quarrel—which, by the way, is quite rare, as quarrels are a woman's weapon of choice for extracting anything from a man at any time, like a child's tantrums—then if a woman didn't plan a quarrel, it may not happen, even if you gave her a reason. But don't flatter yourself; this doesn't always happen, and it doesn't happen to everyone. It may even never happen. But this time, I did give her a small reason to be offended, and she ignored it, which leads me to believe that women can sometimes be more than reasonable. At least one example sticks in my memory, and I just shared it.

So, despite my sarcasm, she continued to talk to me as if nothing had happened, and I should have guessed that she had decided to get something more complicated out of me, something that could not be extracted from me by a banal quarrel.

That's how it was.


CHAPTER FIFTY

“Dudu, I want to offer you a fun game,” Vivi said.

"If you're going to dress up as a nun, you should let me know right away that it won't turn me on," I said, deciding to turn it all into a joke, because I heard too much seriousness in her voice, and ever since I met the first woman in my life, I don't like it when women intend to talk to me seriously; if I were King, I would forbid women by law from having serious conversations with their spouses or lovers.

"No, I'm not going to dress up as a nun!" Violetta replied with a laugh, which reassured me somewhat—a woman's laughter is a sign that it's safe to continue talking to her, unless she's just pretending.

"Well, if you'd like to dress up as the Queen or the Duchess, I have no objection, but I'm afraid it won't be easy to find a suitable dress," I continued the game, which seemed to be steering our conversation in a direction that was pleasant and safe for me. "Although, perhaps I could borrow such a dress from the theater under the pretext of having a rehearsal at home. But first, I need to introduce you to the director as a young acting talent."

"Yes, it has to do with your offer to have me play Milady in your play," Vivi agreed. "I'd like to clarify something about her character."

“Of course, dear, ask any questions,” I answered readily.

"I'd like to hold some kind of trial ," Vivi said. "Imagine if, in the afterlife, Milady filed a lawsuit against those who executed her. I'll speak on behalf of the victim, and you'll speak on behalf of your heroes, or, if you prefer, on your own behalf."

"Wait a minute!" I interrupted her. "I thought you called Milady a victim?"

"Isn't that so?" Vivi asked. "At least, they executed her! And what could be more terrible than an execution? Only an illegal execution, without a court order! And what's more, organized and carried out by people two of whom once declared their love for her!"

"So, Milady, as a victim, is calling for justice?" I asked. "This impudence promises some interesting entertainment!"

"So you agree!" Vivi exclaimed.

“Let’s try ,” I said.

"So, I am Charlotte de Beyle, Milady," Vivi exclaimed, clapping her hands. "First of all, may I address my husband, the Comte de La F;re?"

“I am listening to you, madam ,” I said, entering the role of Athos, and trying to adopt a correspondingly proud expression on my face, and also to show with my whole tone how noble I was, and how much I despised my interlocutor, whom I had the misfortune to call my wife before the altar.

Next, for ease of understanding, I will write down our dialogue as plays are written down.

MILADY

Tell me, Count, why were you so cruel to me? You executed me without trial or investigation! Simply because you saw on my shoulder the marks of the executioner's dishonorable violence against me! And try to explain why you executed me a second time? After all, no court in the world sentences the same person to death twice! If you executed me, but by a lucky chance I survived, you cannot execute me a second time! But let me remind you that your first reprisal against me, a weak woman, was a heinous crime! So, I wait.

ATOS (which in this case was me, your humble servant)

Madam, you are well aware of your crime. You became my wife by deceit, you have gravely insulted me and my entire noble family. You have tarnished our family honor by marrying me, a criminal branded as a state criminal. What further explanation do you expect from me?


MILADY

High-flown words about honor and nobility to cover up villainy! I asked, "For what crime did you deal with me? What justifies your crime against me, your young wife, who did not deceive you? I mean, I was an honest wife to you. I did not dishonor you with adultery! I loved you, Olivier!"

ATOS

Love is a myth invented by people to justify their madness.

MILADY

You are wrong, although you have partially answered my question! You are incapable of love, Count! You are a callous and insensitive man! That is why you knew no pity for me! You consider yourself a good Christian, but you did not pity your wife, to whom you swore your love until the grave. Meanwhile, the Savior stood up for a fallen woman, who was reliably known to be fallen, a prostitute! Even if I were a prostitute and fallen, and if this brand of the lily were placed on me for these sins, then even then you should have forgiven me, as the Savior forgave Magdalene. He said: "He who is innocent, who is unaware of his sins, let him cast the first stone at this woman." And not a single person was found who did not know of his own guilt. But you, Count de la F;re, obviously knew of no guilt! What is that if not inordinate pride? What is this if not unimaginable cruelty? You didn't even bother to inquire of me whether I might be carrying your child? However guilty I may have been, you should have found out, and if I was pregnant, you should have postponed your cruel and unjust sentence until I had borne you your child, perhaps your eldest son and heir, to whom you could pass on your title and your wealth!

ATOS

It is better to remain childless than to have a child from you, madam!

MILADY

Why? Am I not beautiful? Am I not a noblewoman? You didn't bother to find out the reason for the brand on my shoulder! While acknowledging that I am a noblewoman, that I am your lawful spouse before men and before God, you committed a terrible crime against me! You attempted to take my life simply because a red-hot iron touched my shoulder!

ATOS

You were a criminal, and it was a shame on my entire family!

MILADY

What kind of crime are you talking about? You called me a thief, I think? But what did I steal?

ATOS

You seduced a young monk, persuaded him to steal sacred gifts from the monastery, and fled with him from justice. You passed him off as your brother! By your mercy, he committed suicide. For this, his brother, the executioner, denounced you.

MILADY

You learned all this much later, and besides, it was all a lie! Only the Lille executioner himself told you this! Why did you believe the first man you met, a man of executioner's trade, but not your wife, to whom you swore eternal love at the altar?

ATOS

But I saw for myself that you and your brother lived together as a single family. When I learned that he wasn't a brother, but a runaway monk, I…

MILADY

You learned all this later, much later, and, I repeat, you dealt with me first, and only then inquired about what had happened to me before I met you. As for the young monk's suicide, you learned of it entirely by chance, from the Lille executioner, only after you had already decided to execute me a second time, and after you had caught me in your trap, hired the executioner to carry out this heinous crime, and even paid him for the job with the gold he had refused! All these tales in no way justify your reprisal against me, which you inflicted long before! So, Count de la F;re, I ask you, why did you hang your defenseless wife?

ATOS

You deceived me, you passed off your lover as your brother, you had the mark of a criminal on your shoulder.

MILADY

Count, look around! Everyone around you is deceiving everyone! And you are no exception! You, it seems, entered into an affair not sanctified by marriage with the Duchess de Chevreuse? You do not blame her for deceiving her husband? How many lovers did she have? She even persuaded one of her sons to acknowledge her husband as his own, even though he knew perfectly well that he was not the father of this child. For at the time of this child's conception, he himself was openly living with his mistress and simply did not see his wife! You do not condemn such deceptions! But I did not treat you like that, Count de la F;re!

ATOS

You did worse - you, being my wife, married Lord Winter a second time!

MILADY

This is not the cause, but the consequence of your crime! First, you executed me innocently, then I, a survivor by chance, penniless, met a nobleman who fell in love with me! Was I really supposed to refuse this marriage? Besides, remember, Count! You faked your suicide for everyone. You left some of your clothes on the shore of the pond so everyone would think you drowned while swimming. And your servants thought exactly that for a long time! I beg you, Count, do not justify your crime by what happened to me afterwards. I only want to know why you hanged me, your lawful wife, who did you no harm, who was a faithful and loving wife, and whom, judging by your confessions, you loved madly? Why did you speak of me as if I were a fiend from hell? Why did your hair stand on end when you suggested that I had not perished? Why did you tell your friend d'Artagnan that Hell must have rejected me and returned me to earth?

ATOS

I didn't say anything of the sort, but overall, you've captured my feelings about you accurately. My blood ran cold when I thought about how you might have been saved.

MILADY

You were afraid that I would take revenge on you!

ATOS

No one will dare to call Count de La Fere a coward!

MILADY

I dare, Count! You are a coward because you were afraid that I survived and that I would take revenge on you. You hid your name. I could have revealed it. You were also afraid that I might kill you. Well, I had every right to do so! Every person has the right to defend their life! And the existence above threatened mine! You killed me, and you could have killed me again, what could you have done? After all, that is what you did in the end! With someone else's hands! So much the more shame for you! It would have been better if you had strangled me or poisoned me than to drag the executioner into this family squabble! After all, an executioner is only an executioner when he carries out an execution by court order! An executioner who kills without a court order is also a criminal. And you are his accomplice, Count de la F;re. So, jealousy and inordinate pride—these are the reasons for your reprisal against me. And you had no proof that I actually lived with the monk as his mistress. It's not proven! I simply used him to escape from the monastery!

ATOS

You lived with him like lovers, like spouses!

MILADY

Lies. Slander. Not proven. You know that the monk hanged himself because I didn't want to be his. If I had already been his lover, do you think he would have hanged himself? Answer me, man! Do you men love a woman you've known many times as much as one you only dream of knowing? Forbidden fruit is tastier, everyone knows that. The unattainable is sweet, but what belongs to you is no longer so desirable. It is very difficult to part with what you strived for and what you did not achieve. It is the abandonment of your most cherished dream! Young people can commit suicide over such things if they are not yet spiritually strong. But even very young people usually endure separation from a former lover quite easily! I did not belong to Jean. And you yourself understood this, Comte de la F;re. Remember how many times you were tormented? D'Artagnan thought you paled from the horror the list of my crimes evoked in your noble soul! But I know you paled from the thought that perhaps you had been unjust, unjustly cruel, that you were wrong. Noble Athos, Count de la F;re, there was a skeleton in your closet that did not give you the right to look proudly into the eyes of representatives of noble families. Your crime reduced you from your pedestal of "noble as Dondolo " to the level of a banal villain who dealt with his noble wife. Surely you never doubted that I was a noblewoman? And before your second massacre of a defenseless woman, you called me Anne de Beyle. Why did Athos drink so relentlessly? Because he was ashamed of his deed! Why did he seek death? Because his soul was not in its place! You, Count de La F;re, cut the thread of your family instead of continuing to live peacefully with me as your lawful wife, which I really was.

ATOS

Your brand.

MILADY

You've already established that it was placed there illegally. If the executioner had chopped off a finger, a hand, or cut off an ear, or done something else, something even more terrible... You'd probably be surprised, but you'd feel sorry for me. I could explain the missing finger as some kind of accident—hunting, falling from a horse, or something else. You'd be kind to me. You'd feel sympathy. And if I told you that a man had forcibly mutilated me, you, as an honest husband, would have to find him and avenge me. But you were troubled by the image! A lily on my shoulder! Is that so terrible? Even if you know that this is arbitrary violence, violence perpetrated against me illegally?

ATOS

Madam, you know my soul too little, and therefore you attribute to me the basest feelings.

MILADY

Sir, I have facts that speak volumes about your soul. But you didn't even bother to get to know mine better, rushing to do everything you could to ensure my soul parted from my body, and in the most painful way possible.

* * *

I'm tired of this argument.

"Enough, Violetta!" I said. "You've gotten too carried away! I'm tired of arguing with you."

"You're out of arguments, dear," Vivi replied. "If you want to continue this game, we can come back to it later, but if you're afraid..."

"Me—afraid?!" I exclaimed. "Not at all! I'm ready to defend my rightness and the purity of my heroes as long as it takes! As long as my heart beats!"

“Well, then, we’ll continue later, but now, my dear, it wouldn’t be a bad idea for us to have some dinner ,” Vivi said.

And indeed, I was hungry. From some of my novels, my readers might think that I consumed enormous quantities of wine every time I ate. This, of course, wasn't true. But today, after this difficult conversation, I needed a couple of glasses of good Bordeaux.




CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE


After dinner, Vivi was in the mood to continue her game of cat and mouse with me.

“Dudu, I would now like to ask Charles d’Artagnan a few questions on behalf of Milady,” she said. “Do you mind?”


“I’ll be happy to continue this game with you,” I lied, because I didn’t enjoy participating in such an interrogation.

If I could easily defend my position, things would be easier for me. But the problem was that I seemed to have completely forgotten the novels, while Violetta's young and inquisitive mind kept suggesting new arguments for attacking my favorite heroes. But I couldn't capitulate!

“So, Milady, please ask your questions, here is the one you wanted to talk to ,” I said.

MILADY

D'Artagnan, admit honestly, why did you kill me?

D'ARTAGNAN

What's the point of all this talk now, madam? What happened was destined to happen. We are all in the Lord's power. You remember that before your death I forgave you for all your crimes.

MILADY

You forgave me! What impudence! I ask you again, D'Artagnan, why did you kill me? I'm not asking your opinion on whether your actions were legal. They were clearly illegal. You and your friends committed a crime! Six men, not counting the servants, against one defenseless woman! But I ask you and you alone: why did you kill me?

D'ARTAGNAN

As for me, madam, I did not kill you.

MILADY

You killed me. Sometimes a crime is committed by a lone individual, and then only that individual bears responsibility. But if it is committed by a group, all are equally responsible. You were present, you did not attempt to stop the crime, you remained friends with all those involved, or almost all of them. The Lille executioner was not your friend, you did not become friends with him, but you did not become his enemies either. He acted on instructions from you and your friends. And although only his hand did the chopping, you were all murderers. You even paid him for this crime.

D'ARTAGNAN

He didn't take this money.

MILADY

He ordered you to throw them into the water. If he ordered what you should do with the money, then he acted as its owner. Therefore, he accepted it, and you paid it. So he played the role of a hired killer, and you five are the ones who hired him!

D'ARTAGNAN

Madam, I didn't want to remind you, you yourself were the murderer, while we were only defending ourselves.

MILADY

Can you prove that my life, my existence in the world of the living, threatened your life? How could a weak woman threaten the lives of five, no, six, strong and healthy men?

D'ARTAGNAN

You have already attempted to take our lives, and more than once.

MILADY

It was your friend, the Count de la F;re, who attempted to take my life. Don't pretend you didn't know! He hanged me! Yes, yes! He hanged me! If the rope hadn't broken, I would have died a martyr's death before I even came of age! Doesn't this seem a little hasty and a little unfair, the action of a strong man against his newlywed? It hasn't even been a month since our wedding!

D'ARTAGNAN

Regarding your affairs with the Count, madam, you'd better speak to him. As for me, you hired the men who shot me, and you also sent us poisoned wine.

MILADY

But it didn't harm you!

D'ARTAGNAN

It hurt those you hired.

MILADY

You killed one of them yourself, the other was struck down by an enemy bullet! What does this have to do with me?

D'ARTAGNAN

I didn't want to talk about this. But I have to. You poisoned a wonderful girl, kind, beautiful, with a pure soul! You poisoned my beloved, Constance Bonacieux!

MILADY

This wonderful girl assisted the Queen in her intrigues against her lawful husband and, moreover, her King! All of us, including even the Queen and not excluding the Queen Mother, are subjects of His Majesty. To oppose him is to oppose our state. To betray the King is to betray France. Treason is punishable by death! If His Majesty, in the goodness of his heart, repeatedly forgave his wife and his brother for their treason, this should not have extended to those who assisted in this treason. But Queen Anne betrayed both the King as husband and her sovereign as head of the kingdom. She entered into an affair with the man who declared war on France! Moreover, it was precisely because of her intrigues, because of her playfulness with him, when she sometimes flirted, sometimes played hard to get, but wrote him passionate letters and gave him gifts received from the King—it was precisely because of this that this war broke out! Correspondence with the head of an enemy army! What could be worse ? She implicated you, d'Artagnan, and your friends in these treasonous acts! You should have been executed as traitors to the country! You accepted a gift from the enemy! You helped the enemy save his life! You helped criminals conceal their crimes! The King was merciful to the Queen, but that didn't make her crime any less of a crime, and her lieutenants were state criminals! And after all this, you tell me that your beloved Constance is wonderful, kind, and pure-hearted? A woman with a pure soul doesn't cheat on her husband! A pure woman doesn't have a lover, not even a platonic one. The Queen is depraved, and your Constance is depraved too. By what right do you call her yours? She had a husband. And he, only he, could have disposed of what you encroached upon! If you must know, she did not have time to consummate her adultery with you, since it became a bargaining chip between her and you. You were to deliver the pendants, and in exchange, she was to give you every sign and proof of love a man could receive from a woman. It was a bargain, a deal, a venal love. Be glad that I do not use a more precise and harsh word to describe your beloved Constance. What have I done! I am the one who snatched her from the clutches of Satan when she was already ready to remain there. She is now a martyr! She did not have time to consummate her adultery, and now she is perhaps in Purgatory or even Heaven, whereas she should remain in Hell for all eternity until the Last Judgment. If she had not accidentally drunk the poison I prepared for myself to prevent you and the Comte de la F;re from capturing me alive in the monastery of B;thune , she would have been yours! She would have committed adultery and now would have been forever trapped in Hell. But as a result of my mere oversight, she took the poison I had prepared for herself as a last resort against the shame of being executed by her own husband. As a result of this oversight, the path to Heaven was opened for her!

D'ARTAGNAN

It wasn't an oversight, you poisoned her on purpose.

MILADY

Even if that were true, how could you know? Only your own conjecture. Even if it were true... Think of the outcome! Now she has escaped punishment for her betrayal of her King and has not yet committed adultery. Yes, for that, of course, I cannot be forgiven! To save another's soul from Hell—that is permitted only to the Holy Inquisition. But you, d'Artagnan, did not kill me at all because I saved Constance Bonacieux from Hell and helped her get straight to Heaven? You should have thanked me. Tell me, Chevalier, if I had only this incident with your Constance on my conscience , would your friends have participated in the atrocity they committed against me? And if I had spared your Constance, would you have participated in it yourself? Don't answer, I know myself that the answer to both questions, if you are honest, will be no. I was a nuisance to Lord Winter because I stood to claim a share of his brother's inheritance. I was a nuisance to the Comte de la F;re because I was a living reminder of his vile crime against his lawful wife. You hated me for preventing your adultery with Madame Bonacieux, and Aramis and Porthos were merely acting as companions. Oh yes, and that vile executioner, who punished me a second time for what he had already punished me for once! For simply not becoming his brother's mistress! He had no right to accuse me the first time, let alone brand me! But that wasn't enough for him; he attacked me a second time for the same reasons, and I had inflicted no new insults on him. No court in any country, under any circumstances, would ever impose a second punishment for the same crime! And I was not the criminal, yet I suffered my punishment in full! For shame, d'Artagnan! You joined this gang of scoundrels against me—your victim. First, you committed your vile crime against me repeatedly, only then did I consider you an enemy and act against you. And for this, you turned against me, killed me, vilely, cruelly! And if you hadn't harbored lustful desires for me, and hadn't decided to satisfy that lust in this dishonest manner, I wouldn't have become your enemy, and none of this would have happened. So you are my true murderer.

D'ARTAGNAN

You are extremely talkative, madam. Apparently, you've been forced to remain silent for a long time. It's not easy to talk in a coffin, especially when your head is separated from your body. But you haven't convinced me of your innocence. You killed people treacherously and vilely! Because of you, Buckingham and Felton died!

MILADY

The leader of the enemy army that waged war against us, and his officer! I should have been rewarded for this! I received a commission from the First Minister of France and carried it out despite the fact that you and your friends made my job extremely difficult! It's unknown how long the war would have lasted, and how many more people would have died, if not for me! And you? Didn't you kill the English? After all, you fought them! Worse yet! You killed your compatriots – the defenders of La Rochelle! And worse yet! You killed people in duels! Despite the fact that, by order of your King, duels are prohibited and punishable by death! You disobeyed the First Minister's guard! Count how many duels you fought and you will get the answer to the question of how many times you deserved the death penalty!

D'ARTAGNAN

I was fulfilling my duty as a soldier and officer when I killed my enemies. And when I killed my opponents in a duel, I was defending my honor, which is the right and duty of any nobleman.

MILADY

The honor of any nobleman lies, above all, in following the King's orders. You entered the King's service, you joined the King's Musketeers, but did you really serve your King? You served the Queen against the King and against his best servant, friend, and mentor—the Queen's first minister, cardinal, and confessor! I entered the Cardinal's service and served him, and you! You entered the King's service, but you acted against him! Do you think I don't know why? You entered Mazarin's service and kidnapped him! And before that, you disobeyed his orders, for which you were arrested and imprisoned! A fine quartet of friends, who served the King's enemies in his service, and then did the same in the service of his son! So, I ask you for the third time, d'Artagnan. Why did you kill me?

D'ARTAGNAN

I said I forgave you for Constance's death, but I lied. I would not have forgiven you if you had lived. I only gave my forgiveness to one who could not escape death. I forgave you in the face of death. Therefore, Constance's death is the reason I wanted you dead.

MILADY

What do you have to do with this? You say you loved her? Are you talking to me? Me, who was deceived into assuming rights that can only belong to someone to whom a woman voluntarily surrenders them? I, deceived by you, mistook you in the dark for the Count de Wardes , and therefore you deceived me into giving you what should have belonged only to him! You, the fickle man who seduced and corrupted my servant, Kitty, only to gain access to me through her and satisfy your lust with me! And you did it several times! For this alone, I had the right to kill you a thousand times! If a woman has no right to take revenge on someone who has so treacherously and vilely violated her, then what need are the concepts of justice, honor, and decency even necessary? If a woman cannot avenge such humiliation, then a woman is the most disenfranchised creature on earth! One man hanged his wife because another man had damaged the skin of her shoulder without any right to do so! Another, his friend, disguised as the man I love, sneaks into my bedroom like a thief at night to steal something he wasn't supposed to have! Then these two, along with their friends and servants, arrange the execution of the one who was the victim of their treachery and vile deception!

D'ARTAGNAN

Madam…

MILADY

Be silent! Pathetic adventurer from a family of ruined Gascon nobles, who came to Paris to seek adventure, wealth, and position at court! What is a woman's honor to you? Expendable! You were about to cheat on the man who gave you food and shelter! Having promised him protection from his enemies and promising to find his wife, you kidnapped his wife and allowed his enemies to arrest him before your very eyes, even encouraging them! It is not for you to speak of such concepts as honor, revenge, or justice. Don't answer. I have no interest in you or your moral values.

* * *

- Phew, Violetta! - I said. - How far you've come! My head is spinning!

"Me too," Violetta replied. "I've gotten too caught up in the role of this damned Milady. I'm tired. Let's go to bed."

“With pleasure, my dear!” I replied with a smile.

“No, no, you’re sleeping in your room today,” Violetta hastened to object to my voluptuous smile.

"Well, well!" I exclaimed. "Why am I suddenly being punished?"

"You're not being punished, Dudu, I'm just tired," Violetta countered. "Forgive me. If you want, lie down next to me, just don't touch me."

"Oh no, that's too much of a temptation," I objected. "I'd rather sleep alone in my bedroom. Maybe you'll be in a better mood in the morning."

"Who knows?" Violetta replied in a tone that oddly combined playfulness and weariness.




CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO


In the morning, after our usual chores, such as washing, breakfast, and so on—the reader will be waiting in vain for erotic scenes, for there were none!—we resumed our game, which I, too, was beginning to find amusing. Of course, I didn't care a lick about Violetta's opinion on the moral underpinnings and evaluations of the characters in my novels! But, you know, there's a certain charm in listening to opinions that aren't the most sensible. African peoples have a series of tales about the Wise Turtle. She was the smartest person in the world, in their opinion. So this Wise Turtle decided to gather all the wisdom of the earth and place it in the largest pumpkin, hiding it at the top of the largest tree. But when she tried to climb the tree with the pumpkin, she had a hard time. Then she heard someone laughing. It turned out that it was the Dirty Hen laughing at her—the stupidest creature in all of Africa. This Dirty Hen said to her:

- If you decided to climb a tree with this pumpkin bottle, you should have hung it not on your chest, but on your back, so it would get in your way less!

And then the Wise Turtle realized that even the most stupid creature on earth might have a grain of wisdom that you didn't have.

So, remembering this parable, I decided to continue Violetta’s game and see what would come of it.

We took our places in the chairs facing each other.

"Who would Milady like to ask her questions to today?" I asked.

“Aramis,” Violetta answered.


"Well then, I beg you!" I replied. "So, you are Milady, and I am Aramis."

MILADY

Tell me, Chevalier Aramis, why did you decide to basely shoot my son with a pistol when he, standing on the shore, mocked you, sailing on a ship to England?

ARAMIS

Life itself has proven I was right! After all, if I had killed him, many people, Englishmen, would still be alive! First, he killed Lord Winter. Second, he facilitated the capture of King Charles. Third, he acted as executioner and executed that unfortunate King. Finally, he mined the Felucca and blew it up with the entire crew. Only by a miracle did we escape. If not for that, we would all have perished.

MILADY

I understand that you Jesuits are trained to wriggle out of any argument. But I didn't ask you what my son did after you nearly shot him. I asked you why you wanted to shoot him? After all, only the intervention of one of my assassins, the Comte de la F;re, prevented you from doing so! Why did you want to kill him? What harm did he do to you?

ARAMIS

He killed the Lille executioner.

MILADY

He killed a criminal and a murderer! Just think, who did you feel sorry for? An executioner! Killed an executioner! I can't believe my ears! An executioner is a creature unworthy of life. A man who has chosen the murder of others as his profession! But even if we leave that aside! He is a common murderer! First, he branded me, unlawfully and violently! He ruined my entire life! And then he executed me for leading only the lifestyle to which he condemned me! After all, it was because of him that I lost my husband, nearly lost my life, and was forced to seek other means of existence! And this man, who already thought he had sufficiently avenged me for all his real and imagined grievances, dared to raise his hand against me again! And yet, after he forcibly branded me, I did nothing wrong, neither to him personally, nor to any of his friends or family! Why he decided to brand me again, I'll ask him again if I get the chance. But don't avoid the question. You said you wanted to kill my son simply because he killed the executioner? But did you know that the executioner was already dying? He only had a few minutes, half an hour at most, to live. His only desire was to confess or otherwise absolve himself of the sin he carried like a stone! This man understood that he had committed a terrible crime, and he wanted to cleanse his soul of it before death. He didn't want to go to Hell. Of course ! The executioner wanted to go to Heaven! What kind of society is Heaven if executioners end up there? And what kind! Those who, on their own initiative, execute defenseless women to avenge the death of a brother who committed suicide because of unrequited love! Just think! Is a girl obliged to reciprocate the feelings of anyone who desired her? Where is this written down? In what commandments or laws? On the contrary! A girl should not give in to the advances of someone who is not married to her!

ARAMIS

But you cohabited with him.

MILADY

Did you see this? Why do you claim things you cannot know? I ran away from the monastery with him. That's all. He made his plans, I made mine. He stole the monastery's monstrance - I didn't do it. He confessed to his crime. Why do you attribute it to me? He was sentenced to prison. What does this have to do with me? My only guilt is that, seeing an opportunity to escape from the monastery, I took it! And did I ask to be placed in a monastery? Did anyone ask about my wishes? I ended up there against my will! I, a girl who had not yet reached adulthood, was forcibly placed in a monastery! A noblewoman, I could have been happily married! Instead, I was sent to a convent, where I would have had to spend the rest of my life killing my soul and body! How am I worse than other girls whose parents did everything so that they would live happily, without knowing troubles and worries. Everyone else can get married, have children, and even, by the way, lovers! Your beloved Duchess de Chevreuse and Duchess de Longueville had husbands, children, and lovers! And you were one of their lovers! Madame Bonacieux didn't refuse to have one either, even though she already had a husband. Why should I rot in a convent? Why shouldn't I try to escape with the one who proposed it to me? And, you know, he didn't set any conditions for me, such as making me an accomplice to his theft, or obliging me to become his lover! And I wouldn't have accepted those conditions! I'm not like that! My son was conceived in marriage, the son of my second husband, Lord Winter! Is it really his fault that fate itself helped him meet the one by whose hand he died—innocently! – his poor mother, and he could have avenged her at least by robbing the vile murderer of those last half-hours he might have had left to live on this earth! And mind you! The man who died at the hands of my son was happy before his death! He understood that since he had suffered the deserved punishment for his crime, he had washed away his guilt with his blood. As bizarre as it may sound, the path to Heaven had been opened for him! No priest could have absolved him of this sin as effectively as my son's knife. Avenged means forgiven; he understood that himself. My son robbed my executioner of the last few minutes of his life in exchange for eternal bliss in Paradise. Is that why you wanted to kill him, Monsieur Aramis?

ARAMIS

He wouldn't stop there. He found out the names of everyone else—the four of us, and his uncle, Lord Winter. He intended to kill us all.

MILADY

So this is cowardice! Five warriors feared the vengeance of one young man?! So you decided to simply shoot him down like game. Like a hunter in the forest, shooting down an unsuspecting deer! From ambush. Vile. Even with those who had offended you, you acted more mercifully and nobly – you fought with swords! But with my son, you chose a different tactic! Not a challenge to a duel, no! You simply took aim at him and intended to pull the trigger! Aramis, I understand that you are a Jesuit and that you have different moral values, but you are a scoundrel.

ARAMIS

No more so than your son, Milady. He killed many and intended to kill the four of us. Let me remind you again, it was his fault that innocent people blew up on the felucca.

MILADY

Was it he who lit the fuse?

ARAMIS

He ordered the felucca's hold to be filled with gunpowder.

MILADY

Monk's orders , wasn't he? And why do you call people innocent who were about to blow up that felucca? They simply got what they had in store for others, and it wasn't my son's fault at all, but by chance. He managed to jump into the water in time, but your friend, the Comte de la F;re, killed him!

ARAMIS

He defended his life.

MILADY

Perhaps, if he had died, he, like the executioner, would have washed his sin from his soul with his blood, atoned for his crime. But instead, he chose to commit another. Having killed the mother, he also killed her son. Which didn't stop you from calling him "Noble Athos"! Of course, you are noble! How much more noble to kill your wife, twice, and then her son!

ARAMIS

Madam…

MILADY

Go away, you miserable holy man, you hypocrite, pretending to be a true Catholic, but vilely violating all the Catholic commandments! Go away.

* * *

"Well, my dear, you were wonderful ," I said. "You completely transformed yourself into the character I'm offering you to play on stage. It's just a shame the lines you spoke had nothing to do with the role. But if you keep these arguments in mind for your character, it could be a great help."

"Dudu, your praise is like a slap in the face," Violetta replied indifferently. "Pour me something... At least coffee. I feel broken, as if I really were a mother attacking her son's killer."

“I must remind you that Aramis did not shoot Milady’s son, and, besides, this could not have bothered her in any way, because she had already been in the other world by that time for more than twenty years,” I replied.

"A mother is always a mother, even if she's a ghost or a literary character," Vivi replied. "So will you give me some coffee?"

“Yes, dear, just one minute,” I replied.


Everyone knows you can't brew good coffee in a minute. It's just a literary turn of phrase. Well, well! I've already become a barista for this little wretch who's smashing my beloved heroes to smithereens. Why do I put up with this? Because I enjoy this game.




CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE


After a cup of aromatic coffee, I suggested that my next hero, with whom Violetta would like to talk on behalf of Milady, would be Porthos.

"Why did you decide that, Dudu?" Vivi asked in surprise.

"After all, these four inseparable friends, their motto is 'One for all, all for one'!" I reminded them. "If you've interviewed three, then it's logical that the fourth will be next, right?"

"Listen, Dudu, I don't want to ask any questions of this colorless literary hero," Vivi objected. "What's the point? He, if you remember, trusted his three friends completely, and they took full advantage of him. Will he be able to answer my questions clearly? I doubt it! Putting that mountain of muscle down in a verbal argument is easier than taking candy from a three-year-old. I'm not interested. He's as obedient as a dog and just as loyal to his comrades-in-arms, whom he mistakenly considers friends."

"Wait a minute," I interrupted her. "But they really are friends! Why do you say he's mistaken in thinking they're friends?"

"Because if these three are his friends, then any merchant at the fair is a friend to any horse thief or swindler!" Violetta replied. "It's wiser for a wealthy peasant returning from the fair with his pockets full of money to ask for a night's lodging in a gypsy camp than for this simpleton to trust these so-called friends."

"Okay, I'm willing to admit that Aramis involved Porthos in the King's kidnapping scheme in a less-than-friendly manner, but what's wrong with the others?" I asked.

"Aramis merely repeated what Athos and d'Artagnan had done before him!" Vivi objected.

“What do you mean?” I asked, genuinely surprised.

"Well, anyone can see that d'Artagnan used Porthos left and right as his personal bodyguard and muscle man!" Violetta began her attack on me. "When he needed to strengthen his position under Mazarin, he went to summon his supposed friends, not shying away from deception. He used his own bait for each. Since he failed to lure Aramis and Athos, he seduced Porthos by promising him the title of baron."

“But he kept his promise!” I exclaimed.

"The baronial title was promised for services to King Louis XIV and his first minister, Mazarin," Vivi clarified. "But d'Artagnan manipulated Porthos so much that it landed him in prison. And then, to save his own life or freedom, he persuaded him to stage an escape, used his strength, captured the first minister, and negotiated this and other concessions for Mazarin's freedom and secrecy about his secret vault. This wasn't the job he invited Porthos to do, and it wasn't for such adventures that he promised him the baronial coat of arms. After all, after such blackmail, Porthos was forced to hide again on his estate. Who knows? If death hadn't claimed Mazarin almost immediately after this deal, perhaps he would have reminded them all of how these privileges and largesses were obtained? And perhaps he would have punished them all? Most likely, that's exactly what would have happened. D'Artagnan is an adventurer who played with the life and freedom of the one he called his friend no less than Aramis.

"Okay, maybe you're right, but what's your claim on Athos?" I asked, figuring she'd have nothing to complain about here.

"But he was the first to show everyone else that his definition of a 'friend' is someone you can set up, someone whose life you can risk without even asking their permission!" Violetta replied.

“ When was that?” I asked indignantly.

"Oh, Dudu, have you forgotten about that stupid bet, according to which the entire four of us were supposed to hold out in the useless Saint- Gervais bastion —a bastion that never existed, by the way?" Violetta reminded me.

I didn't like her tone. You know, of course, how sarcastic our women can be when they're wrong? Listening to them at that moment is doubly tormenting. First, their very sarcasticness wounds our pride. Second, contradicting them is not the best choice. Third, they consider themselves the winners at that very moment. The only thing worse than that is their sarcastic tone when they're right!

"Okay, so you'd like to talk to the Lille executioner?" I asked.

"A scoundrel and a murderer who deserves no pity!" Violetta objected. "What can you talk about with him? He's clearly a villain! Is there anything more to it than the fact that he first dealt with the poor girl simply because she refused to cohabit with the young man who was in love with her, a man who had stained his soul by stealing the sacrament from a convent? Her only crime was using him to escape the convent. She's no more guilty than your beloved Edmond Dant;s, who escaped from the Ch;teau d'If , taking advantage of the death of his mentor, Abb; Faria . But Dant;s also embezzled other people's wealth, while Milady has never been accused of anything of the sort."

"Then, apparently, we can expect a dialogue with Lord Winter?" I suggested.

"Another colorless nonentity in your novel!" Violetta replied. "No intelligence, no character, no nobility. He disinherited his nephew after plotting and carrying out the execution of his sister-in-law. A murderer, a repeat offender, who uses who knows how to cover up his actions. No fine words, no noble deeds. A nonentity. And a fool, too. Serving a fallen King when everyone around him has already realized that this King is not only incapable of ruling a large island country, but is incapable of even mustering the resolve to protect or even ease the fate of his most loyal servants or friends, if a King can have friends. A foolish servant to a foolish King."

“Karl is just a loser,” I objected.

“It’s quite possible that the real historical Charles was nothing more than a loser, but the King Charles of your novel is a foolish nonentity,” Violetta countered. “With a million livres, he didn’t pay his debt to the Scottish troops, who betrayed him because they were mercenaries. Mercenaries who don’t get paid always betray. That’s how it has been and that’s how it will always be. He owed his Scots far less than a million! A tenth of that money would have been enough to appease them. The kingdom was at stake. The entire British kingdom, uniting both England and Scotland! What did he need that million for? To put gold aside for a rainy day, only to not use it when that rainy day came? What could be more stupid? He lost both the kingdom and his life. And he could have easily saved both. A nonentity. I’m talking only about your literary hero, not the real Charles of England, although…”

"Then who would you like to speak to on behalf of Milady?" I asked.

“With Constance Bonacieux ,” said Violetta with a smile.



CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR



"Well then, my dear ," I said after dinner. "Would you like to speak to Constance Bonacieux on behalf of Milady? It will be difficult for me to speak on behalf of the young woman, but I will try, for an author must take responsibility for his characters."

"Dudu, don't play the poor guy! You're perfectly capable of speaking for any of your characters. After all, you call yourself a 'Dramatic Writer,' meaning character dialogue is your forte!" Vivi countered.

She was right and flattered me a little, so things got going.

MILADY

Dear Constance, would you be so kind as to talk to me a little?

CONSTANCE

Ah, madam, after the harm you have done me, I have no desire to communicate with you. I refuse to speak to you for fear of saying too much. You have betrayed my trust! I believed you to be as much a victim of the cardinal as I am. So I trusted you, but I see I was wrong. What a disappointment!

MILADY

You blame me, I suppose, for offering you wine that did not greatly improve your health?

CONSTANCE

It turned out to be poison. What kind of health improvement can we talk about here?

MILADY

My dear, of course, I'm talking about the most important health—your spiritual health. Didn't I tell you that you should strengthen your spirit? Didn't the holy books say that if your hand tempts you, cut it off and cast it away, for it's better for you to lose your hand than your immortal soul?

CONSTANCE

Why argue about the Holy Scriptures with a murderer?

MILADY

And why not? You were killed, but so was I. We are both victims. But you know that everything in this world is done according to God's plan, and without His consent or will not a blade of grass falls, nor a bird loses a feather? Do you really think that anyone could take your life without the Savior's permission? And wouldn't it have been better for you to leave the vain world within the walls of a monastery, that is, on the first steps to Heaven, at the very foot of the ladder leading to our Lord, than to become a fallen woman who betrayed her husband, that is, who broke the oath sworn on the altar before the face of the Lord? If you had succeeded in committing adultery, you would have offended the Lord by failing to keep the oath sworn before His face. You would also have caused irreparable harm to your husband, who is in no way to blame for your adventures, but as a result of your inappropriate enterprise, this law-abiding citizen was thrown into prison!

CONSTANCE

Don't go on. I forgive you for interrupting my life, but I still don't want to talk to you.

MILADY

In vain! We could discuss so much! Do you know, for example, that your handsome d'Artagnan went to extraordinary lengths to become my lover against my will, and carried out this insult on me several times.

CONSTANCE

Ah, men are forgiven much more than women.

MILADY

This is simply because women tend to forgive their men for things that men are sometimes completely unwilling to forgive. But the sin of adultery, the sin of betrayal, remains the same sin, no matter whether it is committed by a man or a woman!

CONSTANCE

But you, too, if I understood you correctly, committed this same sin, didn’t you?

MILADY

The difference between him and me was that I was willing to yield to a man out of love, and as a widow, I had no obligations to anyone of the opposite sex. Whereas your beloved Gascon, it seems, promised to love you and even, if I'm not mistaken, swore vows of love, which doesn't mean he simultaneously intended to pluck the flowers of carnal love in several other places?

CONSTANCE

You said in several places, madam?

MILADY

Exactly! He was courting not only me, but also my maid, Katie, and perhaps others as well—I daresay. If he found two women in my house alone, whom he beguiled into bed through deception, it would be strange to assume that the doors of other houses and other bedrooms were sacred to him and remained forever closed. However, I don't care. After all, I was not in love with him. I ask you, madam. Did you intend to become yet another conquest for a man who besieges several such fortresses simultaneously? As far as I can judge, your good husband maintained sincere devotion, deep love, and complete fidelity to you. This did not protect him from your intention to commit not only spiritual infidelity—which you managed to commit—but also an attempt at physical infidelity. You promised your suitor to reward him for the risk of a trip to England and back. Just think! The risk! What exactly did he risk? The Cardinal's Musketeers were ordered to detain the messenger at any cost. That's a very broad concept. If he had surrendered, he would have risked nothing. After all, he was acting against the interests of his King, in whose service he was! And if he had failed to carry out your instructions, his action would have been in the interests of both the King and the Prime Minister! So his heroism consisted in traveling to London and back to possess you. A simple transaction. You sold yourself to him for this price, he bought you for this price, but fate, through my hands, simply prevented this shameful deal from being completed. I saved your soul by ruining your body. Well, you're lucky! Fate has treated me worse! When I was much younger than you, I was first branded by force for the misdeeds of another man, simply for not giving myself to a monk who was in love with me. But the nun shouldn't have thought about me! I saved his soul, and I paid for it! Yes, yes, don't argue. He shouldn't have broken his vow of celibacy. For stealing the sacraments, he could have done penance on earth and received absolution. He would have served his time and could have reentered the monastery. He could have chosen the fate of a schemamonk, he could even have become a saint! Every repentance begins with a small sin. But if he had broken his vow of celibacy, it would have been more difficult for him to reconcile with the Lord. And what did I get for my kindness? A brand! A brand that turned my whole life upside down! Because of it, less than a month later, my newlywed husband hanged me. Only a miracle saved me, but only so that I could experience new torments! And in the end, I was executed. Without a court verdict! Secretly! Five noblemen, a hired executioner, and four servants. But can an executioner really ply his trade for money, on behalf of private individuals? Of course not! He's as much a criminal as they are! And I'm the victim of the greatest crime! Compared to my fate, is it fitting for you, madam, to complain about yours?

CONSTANCE

Madam, I grieve for you, as I grieve for those you mentioned in your curses. I believe that the Lord is merciful, that He will forgive everyone.

MILADY

Believe yourself, perhaps, but agree that it would have been easier for you, the victim who did not have time to sin, to get to heaven than if you had managed to enrich your spouse with a branched head decoration that is suitable only for ungulates, such as deer, rams, goats and bulls.

CONSTANCE

I beg you, not another word, madam, your words corrode my soul. Please forgive me, but I will leave you.

MILADY

That's not all. I want to remind you that you abetted the intrigues of the vile Duchess de Chevreuse. You helped her arrange meetings between the Queen and Buckingham. You helped her deceive her husband and your King. Tell me, has the Heavenly Father forgiven you for this sin?

CONSTANCE

I don't consider myself guilty, I obeyed my Queen.

MILADY

Don't lie! You took the initiative. You suggested to the Queen that she use an envoy to bring the diamond pendants, a gift from the King, which the Queen had given to her lover, Buckingham! You succeeded in this idea, finding the envoy and convincing him to carry out this mission—or rather, you bought him with the promise of your availability.

CONSTANCE

I offered to help my Queen when she was in trouble, that's all.

MILADY

Thanks to your mercy, several people died while trying to detain this envoy of yours, following the Prime Minister's orders. And don't lie to yourself, at least now. You didn't save the Queen. You simply found a way to please the Queen and, at the same time, test your lover, to see how trustworthy he is, whether he's worthy of your love. Nothing more!

CONSTANCE

I don't understand why you say this, but I repeat that I was saving my Queen.

MILADY

What exactly were you saving her from? From her husband finding out she favors that overdressed English peacock?

CONSTANCE

If the King had known of this rash gift, …

MILADY

Nothing terrible would have happened! Your Queen would have been in no danger at all! You're forgetting that the Duchess de Chevreuse was appointed Keeper of the Queen's Jewels and was fulfilling that role at that very time. If any of the Queen's jewels had gone missing, Marie de Chevreuse would have been the one to turn to for an explanation. And she would have managed somehow! Even if she had taken the blame, what would she have faced? A demand for compensation? She wouldn't have been ruined by that! Besides, Queen Anne would certainly have found a way to reward her for such a sacrifice, and with interest!

CONSTANCE

This is too complicated for me.

MILADY

Exactly. Therefore, it would have been far better if you, as Monsieur Bonacieux's wife, had fulfilled your marital duties better and not claimed more. Your godfather, de La Porte, did you a disservice by arranging for you to be the Queen's maid. And how did he manage it? You are not noble enough for such a position. And the question remains: how did your mother manage to secure such a godfather for you? However, I have no intention of delving into these adulterous affairs; spare me the trouble.

CONSTANCE
How dare you defame the memory of my good mother!

MILADY

I dare, my dear. I dare. Now go away. I'm done talking to you.

* * *

"It seems, Vivi, you've decided to give all the heroes of my trilogy a hard time!" I said, when we were ourselves again, having finished this unusual game.

“No, that’s enough, I’ve dealt with the main characters in this drama, the rest don’t interest me,” Violetta answered.

“Well, that’s great, otherwise this game was already starting to seriously stress me out,” I answered completely honestly.

“I hope I’ve convinced you ,” Violetta said.

"Were you trying to convince me of something?" I asked, surprised.

"Yes, my dear!" Violetta confirmed. "I wanted to convince you that your version of events didn't paint Milady in a sufficiently sinister light. For this reason, your beloved Musketeers, who were supposed to be positive heroes, don't seem so at all. At least, upon reflection. So you'll either have to supplement your trilogy with Milady's sinister crimes, which would exonerate the Musketeers and Lord Winter for what they did to her, or, in order to maintain the objectivity of an honest writer, add a note of serious condemnation of your characters for what they did."

"Somewhere in my trilogy, Athos and d'Artagnan express remorse for Milady's execution," I replied. "Besides, her son, Mordaunt, also did something wrong."

"You've managed to denigrate Mordaunt even less, Dudu, my dear, but don't be offended!" Violetta blurted out. "Think about it! He wanted to avenge his mother. He learned that six men executed her without trial. He discovered, quite by chance, that one of them was the executioner, four others were French nobles, and the sixth was his own uncle. Incidentally, his uncle hadn't provided for his upbringing or support at all. And yet he was his own nephew, and if I'm not mistaken, Lord Winter had no children of his own. Perhaps he did. It doesn't matter. Out of respect for his brother's memory, he should have raised him as a nobleman and provided him with a comfortable living." Is eliminating your uncle, the murderer of your own mother, who robbed you, a greater crime than challenging to a duel and killing a man who was not polite enough to you?

“Darling, let’s drink some coffee and talk about something more pleasant,” I suggested, because this conversation had become too burdensome for me.


CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE


"Well, my dear Vivi, if the protection of the Musketeers requires delving deeper into Milady's criminal nature, perhaps it makes sense ," I said. "I told you something about her in my play, 'The Youth of the Musketeers.'"

"Nothing serious," Violetta countered. "You should have at least made the obvious hint I did. In my version of the play, I don't directly accuse Milady of hastening the death of her father-in-law, the then Comte de la F;re, Athos's father, but I did add a small hint. Charlotte regularly sent the old Count cherries from her garden. Her maid considered trying them, since her father no longer needed them—he had already died, just two weeks after Charlotte and the Viscount's secret wedding—but in the end, she decided against it and threw them out the window.

“I remember, my dear, don’t think I’m that inattentive,” I replied. “After all, I read your drafts.”

I thought the word "drafts" offended Violetta a bit. What else could it be? What was I supposed to call her handwritten sheets?

“But a mere hint of Charlotte’s possible guilt for the old count’s death isn’t enough to justify Athos’s actions ,” I said, as Violetta remained silent. “I see you’ve added a generous dose of dark colors to Milady’s character. This viscount’s diatribe contains allusions to certain crimes. If this is, as you intended, a dramatic work, the audience will be perplexed. You don’t understand the rules of dramatic genre. The audience must have sufficient information, gradually but clearly presented to them. The audience won’t read a program or a playbill to figure out who’s who. If a play features a father and daughter, then when they enter the stage, one of them must address the other in such a way that the audience understands that this old man is the father of this young girl! It’s better if the daughter calls her father father, and the father calls his daughter daughter. The audience then enters the situation without undue mental strain.” Watching a play shouldn't be a riddle, a puzzle, or a challenge to your wits. It's entertainment for a brain relaxed after the day's worries.

"What do your audience care about?" Violetta asked ironically. "Digest a hearty lunch to prepare for a hearty dinner? After all, they're all quite well-off!"

“You’re mistaken, there are also spectators from the very bottom of the people in the gallery,” I objected.

"But they don't bring in the theater's main income, and therefore the author's," Vivi countered. "Income is determined by expensive tickets, so the author must cater to the whims of wealthy audiences."

"So be it, but then even more so!" I continued arguing. "This crowd doesn't like to study the program either, doesn't read anything on the posters that isn't in the largest font. They don't like omissions. If Athos says, 'Remember the story of this ring,' he must tell it. And the audience must not doubt his veracity."

“Let him tell it, I don’t mind,” Violetta answered, sticking out her lower lip as a sign of some displeasure.

"But theatrical performances shouldn't have overly long narratives!" I persisted. "The audience comes to see the action! They should experience some kind of emotion the entire time the play is running. It's best if these emotions alternate—laughter with sadness evoked by sympathy, anxiety for the characters' fate with the relief of a happy resolution. The audience should admire someone, despise someone, hate someone, worry about someone. They shouldn't be able to get distracted, to stop following the action, because the action should captivate them, keep them on the edge of their seats! Writing a play is an art in itself! It's not as simple as just writing a play, and the theater will stage it! That only happens if the author has established themselves so well that every audience member knows their name!...

"What's the name of Alexandre Dumas!" Violetta said, pointing her palm at the ceiling with obvious irony.

“Well, at least,” I agreed with feigned modesty. “Perhaps in England it would be better to bear the name of William Shakespeare. In Germany, it would be better to bear the name of Johann Wolfgang von Goethe. Here in France, we can bear the name of Jean-Baptiste Moli;re, or Pierre-Augustin Beaumarchais. If you must know, the name of Auli;res or Victor Hugo is not famous enough to guarantee a play success in Paris. Pierre Corneille or Jean Racine no longer attract anyone. Eug;ne Scribe is also inferior to your humble servant. The most esteemed public wants to see Dumas’ plays on the stage, and they get them, even if Dumas demands a fee for a single page of a play that other authors do not receive for an entire book. You know, Vivi, a certain author—I will not mention his name—once helped me with the choice of the plot and with the development of certain sections of one of my novels. Of course, all his work was very primitive. I had to go over his drafts with my pen and correct everything that needed editing. That is, I practically rewrote his entire text. But I wanted to encourage him, so I offered him the co-authorship of this novel. This was, of course, overly generous of me, but I sometimes reward up-and-coming talents even if they're not worth it. So, I brought the publisher a novel with two authors listed as authors—me and this poor guy.

"I haven't heard of any novel you co-authored with anyone!" Vivi said in surprise.

"And you won't hear it, because the publisher told me the royalty amount for this novel if there were two names on the cover, mine being the first, and also the amount if there were only my name on the cover, with no other co-authors," I continued. "This amount was more than three times higher than the first quoted figure. With this information, I went off to see my young colleague. Having heard about the two possible royalty amounts, he was delighted with the second one and firmly renounced any claims to co-authorship."

"That kind of money in my pocket is much better than my name on the cover of books that will sit on store shelves or in the cupboards of my fellow citizens who are not accustomed to reading anything longer than a newspaper article!" he said.

“But if you insist on having your name on the cover of the book, you’ll still get your share of the royalties,” I reminded him.

"But a completely different sum!" my colleague reminded him. "No way! Refuse two-thirds of a potential fee to satisfy empty ambitions! No way! The matter is settled, my name won't be on this novel, but I'll get half the sum you mentioned at the beginning of our conversation!"

"You're mistaken, my friend!" I corrected him. "At the beginning of our conversation, I didn't mention the total fee, but only half of it—your share."

"Even more so!" he exclaimed. "Extremely generous! I couldn't have earned such royalties on my own, even after thirty years of hard work."

“He was probably right,” Violetta suggested.

"He was only wrong in his estimate of how long it would take him to reach my salary," I clarified. "He thought it would take him thirty years, but I'm sure his entire life wouldn't be enough."

"How presumptuous, Dudu!" Violetta remarked.

"I'm not trying to appear modest!" I agreed. "If I were modest and self-critical, I might never have published a single book. And it's quite possible I wouldn't have dared to show my manliness toward you. Modesty is good for a monastery, but in everyday life it's a path to dishonor, childlessness, and powerlessness."

"Well then, don't lecture me on modesty!" Violetta exclaimed, drawing a conclusion from my words that surprised me. "I thought I'd write my draft, as you called it, just for my own amusement and, perhaps, to have something to talk about with you. But now you've convinced me otherwise. I'll aim for this play to be read someday by someone other than you and me, and maybe even staged by someone, somewhere, someday."

I felt like I'd slapped myself. I'd wanted to slightly curb Vivi's creative impulses, but instead I'd instigated their intensification.
 
I realized with particular clarity a simple truth: when a man brings a woman into his territory, he gradually begins to transfer all rights to her. I was ready to cede to Violetta all rights to the apartment we rented, which I paid for in full. I was also ready to cover all her expenses—I even enjoyed paying for her food, clothing, shoes, perfume, other small and not-so- small needs, and even her whims. I didn't particularly value all of this, or even the funds that, as I've already said, I had allocated for my living expenses, which now had to be called "our cohabitation." I invested the bulk of my royalties in the construction of the Ch;teau de Monte Cristo. This was the focus of my financial life at that time. My assistance to my ex-wife and our son also constituted separate expenses.

But Violetta had invaded my territory, which I had previously allowed no one to enter. This territory is my creative workshop! I can assign my younger colleagues to develop some subplot of my novel. I can pay them for this work. This is a normal expansion of the business, similar to how a blacksmith or carpenter hires an apprentice to help him. But Violetta, it seems, had decided to settle into the territory of my fantasies as a mistress; she intended to push me out of the hitherto untouched territory of my authorial creativity. She decided that gradually she would be able to decide for herself where to plant gardens and flowerbeds, where to lay roads, where to build houses, and where to dig ponds and erect charming bridges in this little corner of my soul called " Mes" Plaisirs ." Letting her into this territory is already a significant infringement of my rights, but allowing her to become the mistress of my refuge from the grief and injustices of reality is unthinkable, I certainly did not plan for that!

Women! Dark thoughts swirled in my head.

The sweet tale of meeting an angel, who then transforms so slowly before your eyes into a vampire, sucking your juices, that you don't even notice and can't say when exactly this miraculous transformation happened – it's happened to me before. And more than once.

What did you expect? I'm a man who's been through both marriage and divorce!

Could you, my reader, imagine that a young girl, an angel in the flesh, would first, before your eyes, turn more and more into an ordinary person, and then this person would begin to make a career in your small society consisting of two people?

We all make this same mistake. And don't think, reader, that if you try out relationships with dozens of other women before marriage, you'll become an expert on the matter and therefore make the only right choice. The truth is that it's impossible to become an expert on a woman's soul, and if you do become one, you'll likely never marry. But without marriage, you won't truly become a man, and you certainly won't become an expert on women, because the way a woman opens up in a long marriage is something she never opens up with anywhere, anywhere, with anyone. In the East, there's a tea called "Tea of Tea." It looks like a dried-out ball. But when you drop it into hot water, it gradually expands, unfurls, and then takes up almost a fifth of the glass. At the same time, it emits a very pleasant aroma.

Perhaps the character of the woman you enter into a relationship with is revealed in exactly the same way. And the pleasant aroma is also present. But you're left with less and less space in your life. If this tea flower eventually filled the entire glass, absorbing all the moisture with which it was poured, then the analogy would be perfect. The woman in your destiny is the first step toward becoming just this woman's man and nothing more, so that there's nothing left for yourself! Nothing. Just a dried-up, empty shell. And all the juices of your soul are spent on satisfying her vanity, desires, and whims.

But I'm a dramatic writer! I must maintain my freedom and independence. I don't care where my money goes; it's not enough to realize all my plans. But I won't allow anyone to intrude on the territory of my literary fantasies. I hired her as my secretary, and she's already telling me what the heroes of my novels should be like! And this applies not to new heroes of new novels, but to those who have already firmly entered the hearts of my readers and earned their rightful place there!

I love this sweet and tender child, this angel in every way, but I will not allow her to become a new Dumas, and even more so – to replace the Dumas known throughout France and even, perhaps, throughout Europe!

I could make her promise to stop interfering with my creative process. But would that help?

Demanding promises from women is unwise. And trusting their promises is downright foolish, because no woman in the world is an expert on her own soul, no woman can predict her own behavior, for she is not a trained animal that always reacts the same way to the same stimuli. On the contrary, she is capable of demonstrating a completely diverse range of reactions to the same stimuli, but what she cannot do is be predictable.

For us men, nothing is more pleasing in human relationships, or in everything else, than predictability and control. We desire to control our destiny. And if we've taken responsibility for another person's fate, then we even more so desire to always retain the ability to influence everything, or at least the most fundamental aspects, of our current and future lives through our actions. We're capable of exhausting ourselves with hellish labor if we're confident it will yield the desired results. But we won't lift a finger to accomplish tasks we know in advance are futile. Rarely will any of us invest all our energy in building castles in the air. This madness called romanticism is fine when courting a young and foolish girl, but for a man who has taken responsibility for the fate of the woman with whom he's decided to tie the knot, it's unforgivable infantilism.
 
Men are mostly pragmatists. We don't buy a horse unless we plan to ride. And even if we did, we'd start by renting one and taking five to ten lessons. If we don't like it, we abandon the idea.

Yes, we are pragmatic. We don't buy clothes we don't intend to wear, and we don't buy theater tickets unless we want to see the performance. Therefore, we can't feign genuine joy when receiving a useless gift. And we don't know how to give gifts we don't see as useful.

Once we've achieved a certain position in society, we prefer to move up, or at least maintain it. We abhor the very thought that our position could deteriorate as a result of some reckless move on our part.

So, once a woman has become ours, we consider her ours forever. We're not prepared to conquer her every day. We're not going to devise ever more sophisticated surprises and new methods of seduction for the woman who has already bestowed upon us every proof of her superior affection. If this woman is mine, and if she's acknowledged my superiority in certain matters, I'm not going to cede it to her. But no woman will ever accept this position. She wants to conquer more and more territory within their shared existence. This subtle but constant aggression gradually leads to a man's powerlessness over this woman in everything.

Why did I so readily take on Violetta's guardianship? First and foremost, it was because she had absolutely no right to demand anything from me. Everything I could and wanted to give her, she was supposed to perceive, according to my initial feeling, as a gift from me.

And we men, by assuming the role of such guardian, teach our women not to forever be in the position of powerless hangers-on, obligated to ask permission on absolutely everything. We encourage them to be free and to dispose of whatever we freely give them as they see fit. But this only applies to what we truly, voluntarily give them.

However, they get the hang of it. Today she'll dust your desk, tomorrow she'll rearrange the items on it so they lay more evenly and look more harmonious, then she'll call what she sees disorder and begin to restore order to your desk, or rather, what she calls order . She'll criticize your clothes, shoes, hairstyle—in other words, everything. She'll give unsolicited advice on absolutely everything: what you should buy and wear, and what you should definitely avoid, where you should go, and where you shouldn't show up, what you should eat, what you should read, what you should say in the presence of mutual friends, and what you should keep quiet about. Her right to kick you under the table to tell you that you're not behaving the way she'd like is not up for debate—it belongs to her, period! Finally, she'll start reading your notebook, your correspondence, tidying up what she considers not just your desk but everything in your possessions. She'll even suggest you throw out, replace, or give away many of your things. The worst examples will simply throw your things away without asking your consent. Eventually, every single one of your possessions will be scrutinized and an unquestioning decision will be made about whether it deserves to remain in your personal possession. You shouldn't have more books than you can read in the time she allots you. And you won't have any right to read in her presence, so, come to think of it, you don't need any books. You shouldn't have this, use that, put this or that here or there, and so on. But every month, you should mercilessly banish from your life those articles of clothing and, in general, all things that, in her opinion, are out of fashion, or don't suit you, or simply irritate her. She might not like your hat, your frock coat, or your cane. You must finally give up your habits, as they are all harmful or inappropriate for your status. You must dress according to this woman's taste and attend those receptions that bore you, and avoid those places that make you happy. You must accompany her to places where she finds joy, even when you have no business there. In the end, she will treat your friends and acquaintances exactly as she treats your things: these are not your friends, those are not your friends, don't meet with those, don't go to those, but you must definitely get to know and become friends with both of them. All pleasant women should be excluded from the list of mutual acquaintances, but you are simply obliged to become friends with the women who least correspond to this concept. You must learn that any more or less beautiful woman is simply vulgar. And only that woman can be good when you see her and feel regret that the Lord did not deign to bestow upon her even a drop of that feminine attractiveness which He did not skimp on giving to almost all the young daughters of Eve.

The married Alexandre Dumas will gradually become a walking memory of the famous dramatic writer.

And then, when he becomes henpecked, your wife will completely lose interest in you. Of course! After all, she was attracted to you when you were being yourself. And when she manages to remake you to her liking, you will cease to be of any interest to her.

And then you'll just turn into the person who carries her purse or her dog, pays her bills, and whom she'll call " Juste " in conversations with her friends. Mon Alexander . "Just my husband, Alexander! That's what I'm destined to become. Regardless of whether we marry or not.

And I've already taken the first step. After all, I was Alexandre Dumas! And what have I become?! Dudu! Just Dudu!

You can fall in love with Alexandre Dumas, admire his talent, and be captivated by his novels. But what feelings can you have for Dumas?

“Dudu, give me my purse!”

"Dudou, I forgot to tell you: I bought you a wonderful tie, and a few little things for myself, so the five hundred francs you gave me for a week were gone in a day. But give me credit, I got that blouse for half price! I'm really thrifty, aren't I? By the way, Dudu, five hundred francs a week for small expenses is too little. If you can't give me a thousand a week yet, I suggest a compromise—let's start with eight hundred francs every four days."

This whole picture flashed before my eyes in about thirty or forty seconds.

"Violetta," I said, "I see you're seriously interested in writing. I can't help but approve of that. It would be easier for us to communicate if we became colleagues of sorts. But do you know what I'd like to suggest? Why don't you start writing books or plays with your own characters? Is it really necessary for you to delve into the flaws and strengths of my novels? Why don't you start by developing your own ideas? That would be interesting!"

"Dudu, you're right, of course," Violetta replied. "But you hired me to be your secretary, not your competitor, didn't you? I'm supposed to help you with your work as much as I can, my dear! And you're suggesting I do something that has nothing to do with you? But I'm not interested in that! I'm only interested in what excites you, my dear! Of course, if you forbid me from taking an interest in your books and your work... I'm willing to accept that..."

Her voice became quieter, Violetta's eyelashes trembled, and one could expect a couple of tears in the corners of her eyes any minute.

No, it was unbearable!

"Besides," she continued, "you yourself used various sources to better acquaint yourself with the era in which you placed your characters. In your library, I found many books, heavily bookmarked and with notes in the margins. The memoirs of La Rochefoucauld, the memoirs of Cardinal de Retz, the memoirs of the Count de Rochefort in three volumes, the memoirs of Captain d'Artagnan, also in three volumes, the memoirs of Madame de Lafayette, the memoirs of Talement de R;aux , the memoirs of Cardinal Richelieu..."

"Enough!" I said. "You misunderstood me. I'm not insisting that you stop rewriting my novels and plays. I merely expressed some doubts about the advisability of doing so..."

“It’s the same thing, Mr. Dumas, but it would be better if your instructions as my employer were formulated in a categorical form and did not allow for ambiguous interpretations; this would save me from many mistakes,” Violetta said in a quiet tone that sounded demonstratively submissive.

"Oh, come on, my dear!" I quickly retracted my complaints, not prepared to lose her so stupidly and unexpectedly. "You misunderstood me. I didn't mean to forbid you anything. On the contrary, I appreciate your interest in my work. And your advice—you know, it's all very interesting, and yes, it's useful, it's amazing! I'll definitely listen to your opinion. Everything you said was very interesting and intelligent. Write it all down, after all, you're my secretary. I'll definitely use these notes when I work on the play."

"Really?" Violetta exclaimed, her eyes filling with tears of joy. "Darling! Do you really want me to continue my writing experiments with the material that has captivated me so much?"

“Of course, darling, I like it very much, and I will eagerly await your new thoughts on this topic,” I lied.

"Wonderful!" Violetta exclaimed. "Would you like to seal this little agreement of ours with a sip of champagne?"

I didn't mind.

After we had taken a sip, then another sip, and another... In other words, after each of us had two full glasses, Violetta suddenly stood up decisively, went into her bedroom, and returned from there with a new stack of written sheets of paper.

"Here you go, dear!" she said solemnly. "A surprise! These are more sheets of my, as you called them, 'rough drafts.'"

I thought I'd merely voluntarily withdrawn my troops to a more advantageous position, that I'd lost the battle but not yet lost the war. I was wrong. I was completely, utterly, and irrevocably defeated. I'd lost the entire campaign. I'm a henpecked husband. Laugh at me, everyone! I've surrendered my most important territory—the territory of my literary fantasies, my heroes, and their adventures.

If I don't flee and launch a victorious counterattack in the very near future, consider Alexandre Dumas finished. At least as a free and independent man.

I was hoping this novel would have a happy ending. God, how naive I would have been!



CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX



I looked at the first page of the stack of sheets of paper brought to me and read:

"Countess de La F;re"

ACT ONE

"Interior of the Vitry presbytery house in Berry. Lower room, door at the back, door on the left; window on the right; large fireplace; staircase leading to the second floor."


The author wasn't listed. Well, that's a bit of a concession to me. It's like cheese in a mousetrap. She hasn't yet decided whether to put just my name on this opus, or add hers as well, or perhaps leave it entirely hers.

I dipped my pen in ink and wrote her name over it: "Violet Parisot." I wrote it large on purpose, so there wouldn't be room to add my own name next to it in a font even half as large. The matter was finally settled. Let her fantasize what she pleases, but the name of Alexandre Dumas will not appear on such works!

I skimmed through everything I'd already read. It was the same text I'd already quoted, rewritten in fair copy. Perhaps she'd made some minor edits, but was it worth wasting time studying that? Of course not! Next came "Scene Four." I began reading.


SCENE FIVE


(In the left corner of the stage is the tavern where Aramis and Porthos are having dinner; the large right part of the stage is darkened)

ARAMIS

By the way, Porthos, before you meet Athos, I hadn't yet decided which I preferred—being a musketeer or remaining an abbot. I became an abbot out of family considerations. A small abbey entitled our family to a modest income, but only if a member of our family was abbot. A musketeer's salary initially seemed a more reliable source of income, but it was paid irregularly and turned out to be much less than I expected. So on days off from duty, I confessed the parishioners, and on days free from this important duty, I devoted myself entirely to serving in de Tr;ville's regiment. Athos and I knew each other by sight, but hadn't yet gotten around to introducing ourselves, and had only managed to exchange a few meaningless words. As I was leaving the abbey, I met him. It seems he was commissioning a service for a relative of his, and paid a considerable sum for it. I think he spent his entire monthly salary on it. Perhaps it was the anniversary of the death of a close relative.

SCENE SIX

(The right corner of the stage gradually fades into darkness, the left side of the stage lights up, and the viewer sees that this is the entrance to a temple, with the Holy Fool sitting at the entrance. Athos emerges from the temple.)

Holy Fool

Give two sous to a poor beggar!

ATOS

I will give you a louis d'or if you promise to pray for the absolution of Anne-Charlotte de Beyle's sins.

Holy Fool

If these are two different women, give me two louis d'or! Don't be stingy; our Savior's ears are always open to the prayers of the poor and the foolish, while His ears are closed to the requests of the rich and noble, and His soul is unapproachable.

ATOS

This is the same woman, her name is Anna-Charlotte, but here is a second louis d'or for you and pray as if this woman is dearer to you than your mother, dearer than your sister, and dearer than your daughter.

Holy Fool

I have no mother, no sister, no daughter, but I will pray for her as for the purest soul, on whom the sins of the inhabitants of all circles of Hell have fallen, so that she needs the intercession of all the holy fools of Paris and all the holy fathers of all France.

ATOS

(Athos takes the ring from his finger and places it in the hand of the Holy Fool in addition to the two louis d'or previously given to him)

So pray sincerely and fervently.

ARAMIS

(He comes out of the temple doors, notices Athos, nods his head to him and makes a musketeer's salute, then comes to his senses and blesses him)
 
ATOS

What a miracle! First, the abbot greeted me like a musketeer, and then a musketeer, whom I think I've already met in our regiment, blesses me like the abbot!

ARAMIS

The ways and destinies of men are inscrutable, and sometimes they deviate greatly from their hopes and intentions.

ATOS

So, you're both a musketeer and an abbot, if I'm not mistaken? Your name, I believe, is Aramis?

ARAMIS

It is as true as your name is Athos, and you are, so far as I have been told, one of the bravest and most skillful swordsmen of de Treville.

ATOS

I spent some time learning fencing at my father's insistence, and I have no reason to regret it. As for courage, it's natural for someone who doesn't value their life too much.

ARAMIS

The Lord has gifted each of His children with life, and it is not fitting for us mortals to value it less than He values our lives. We simply need to follow His instructions, which are sometimes unambiguous; we just need to be able to recognize and read them in simple, seemingly insignificant events. For those who fail to recognize the Lord's signs, the Church is given to help.

ATOS

You speak well, Monsieur d'Abb;. May I ask, which of your two professions is your primary one?

ARAMIS

I wish I could find the answer to this question myself!

ATOS

This is the first time I've seen you in an abbot's garb, but I've seen you among the musketeers several times before. It seems to me that you would make a magnificent musketeer, judging by your skill with a sword and a musket. Shouldn't you leave the cassock behind forever?

ARAMIS

The Lord has not yet been able to guide me on the true path, but I console myself with the hope that he will soon number me among his servants, so that I will forever leave behind this absurd passion for military affairs.

ATOS

Did I understand you correctly that you prefer to be a full-time abbot rather than a military man?

ARAMIS

I think a cassock would suit me better than a musketeer's uniform.

ATOS

In that case, Holy Father, please forgive me for daring to suggest that you might need my advice.

ARAMIS

You have nothing to apologize for. On the contrary, I would be delighted if you would do me the honor of crossing rapiers with me in the fencing hall. I would be happy to take a few fencing lessons from you. For my part, I think I could show you a few techniques, as I, too, have taken lessons from some very good masters in my time.

ATOS

Forgive me, sir, but I cannot cross swords with the abbot.

ARAMIS

I'll just pop home for a couple of minutes to change my clothes, and the abbot will disappear until next Tuesday, and the musketeer Aramis will be at your service.

(Athos and Aramis go back into the stage)

Holy Fool

Well, well! It turns out our abbot knows this generous musketeer! I wonder how much they'll give for this ring? These naive nobles seem to really believe that the prayers of the poor can guarantee a direct path to Heaven for their deceased wives! Of course he was asking for his wife! After all, if it had been his late mother or his prematurely deceased infant, he wouldn't have shuddered so when I mentioned the circles of Hell. This Anne-Charlotte must have sinned greatly. Well, I'll say a few prayers for the repose of her soul, really. Not that I believe it will help her, but I'm ashamed to deceive such a generous nobleman.

SCENE SEVEN

(The left side of the stage darkens, and the right corner of the stage lights up, where Porthos and Aramis are still sitting at the table in the tavern)

ARAMIS

We actually fenced a lot with Athos. On the first evening, Athos took three of my thrusts, while I took four from him. Then he suggested I try fencing left-handed.

PORTOS

Well, I never trained to fight with my left hand!

ARAMIS

said the same thing to Athos, but he convinced me that it could be useful in a fight or a duel. I expressed concern that fencing with the left hand could be significantly worse than with the right. But he convinced me otherwise. He said: “Firstly , your opponent may be left-handed, in which case fighting him with the right hand will be extremely difficult for you, whereas he has trained his entire life to fight right-handed people. If you know how to fence with the left, then your skill will be a novelty for him; he will most likely be unprepared for it, which gives you a significant advantage. Secondly, you may be wounded in the right hand, since any duelist primarily aims for the right hand, not the left, believing that your left hand is less dangerous for him. Then your only choice is to continue the fight with the wounded hand, or intercept the sword with your left, but healthy hand. Judge for yourself what will be best for you."

PORTOS

Very convincing! I like this Athos, I already want to meet him!

ARAMIS

He gave me a few more arguments. He said, "Thirdly, you might be confronted by two or more opponents. In that case, your left hand will be very useful. Fourthly, mastering the left hand gives you the ability to fight with both hands simultaneously if necessary."

PORTOS

Tomorrow I will start training in fencing and with my left hand too!

ARAMIS

And you'll do the right thing! Now I suggest we finish our wine and finally go meet Athos.

(Athos and Porthos finish their wine, Aramis throws money on the table and they both leave)

* * *

I tossed the sheets of paper onto the table with contempt. What a bunch of incoherent garbage! Boring monologues, a complete lack of action! Was this really a play about my musketeers? Who did it think it was?



CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN



One of the many vices of any writer is insatiable curiosity. Before me lay sheets of paper, written by a girl who had been all I'd been for weeks. My intention not to read them was momentary, but my desire to do so was all-encompassing. Naturally, I continued reading.


SCENE EIGHT

(Cardinal Richelieu's office. The Cardinal is seated at his desk, takes papers from the stack on his left, looks them over, makes notes on them, and places them on the corner of the desk on the right. The secretary enters.)

SECRETARY

-C;sar de Rochefort has been brought to you .

RICHELIEU

(Without looking up from the papers and without stopping taking notes)

Let him come in.

(Rochefort enters, a very young man dressed as a guardsman. Richelieu ignores him and continues working with the paperwork. Rochefort notices a chess set on the chess table, with a few pieces on the board. He examines it for a moment, calculating, twirling his finger over the pieces without touching them.)

ROCHEFORT

Your Eminence, excuse me, whose move is it in this position?

RICHELIEU

(He raises his head and looks at Rochefort in surprise)

Who are you? Who allowed you to enter without announcing yourself?

ROCHEFORT

Allow me to introduce myself, Charles -C;sar de Rochefort. I thought I had been announced.

RICHELIEU

Are you Rochefort? That same Rochefort? I thought you were much older!

ROCHEFORT

I am young, Your Eminence, but this shortcoming quickly passes.

RICHELIEU

No, why not! It's not a drawback at all! On the contrary ! I'm surprised! You're so young and you captured two enemy officers? How did you manage to do it?

ROCHEFORT

If Your Eminence orders, I will continue to fight for the honor of France no worse!

RICHELIEU

Stop with these pompous assurances; I've heard enough of them in my time. You haven't answered my question.

ROCHEFORT

I believed that I answered because loyalty to Your Grace and God's help helped me to do so.

RICHELIEU

Tell everyone that, but tell me the truth. Only the truth. Keep in mind, even though I'm a priest, and for that very reason, I know for certain that relying on the Lord's help is always worthwhile, and always beneficial, but it's equally beneficial to do everything possible to ensure that such help isn't needed, or that the help you need is only minimal, down to luck, chance, or pure chance. The less help you expect from the Lord, the more effective your endeavor will be.

ROCHEFORT

I dare not disagree with Your Grace. I will tell you everything frankly.

RICHELIEU

This is the only way to talk to a person of clergy.

ROCHEFORT

I really wanted to distinguish myself so that Your Grace would notice me.

RICHELIEU

Understandable and commendable. Continue.

ROCHEFORT

Since I was involved in military operations in Salsa , against the Catalans, I thought that I should somehow take advantage of the fact that in appearance I quite resemble a Spaniard, and also that I am a little familiar with the Spanish language, which Monsieur de Marillac taught me.

RICHELIEU

Your ancestral castle of Olainville is located between Paris and Etampes , and Monsieur de Marillac is your neighbor and a good friend of your father?

ROCHEFORT

He was a much greater friend to me than to my father, Your Eminence! Besides, I can't call my father my friend—not since he married a second time… My half-brothers from that marriage and my stepmother—that's all he thinks about. He prefers not to think about me, since I look so much like my mother, and my father believes I'm responsible for her death, since she died in childbirth.

RICHELIEU

You managed to tell the story of your entire life, something I didn't ask you to, and barely say a word about what I asked you about. You'd make a good spy! If you fall into enemy hands, he'll tire of interrogating you.

ROCHEFORT

Please forgive me, Your Eminence. I said I knew Spanish and looked Spanish. That's why I decided to infiltrate the enemy camp.

RICHELIEU

On your own initiative? Without informing your commander? That sounds like you're planning to defect, and that's worse than desertion!

ROCHEFORT

My stunt looks crazy, but its result proves my intentions and my rightness.

RICHELIEU

Let those who are older and more experienced than you evaluate your behavior, but I want to hear the details of your foray as soon as possible.

ROCHEFORT

In that case, I'll be brief. I must say that our lieutenant allowed me to do a little reconnaissance of the area. He probably didn't take me seriously, but he only warned me that if I didn't return by morning, he would consider me a deserter. Even if I was killed. But I decided to take the risk anyway. First, I managed to sneak up on the enemy camp and overhear two officers talking about their plans to visit some ladies.

RICHELIEU

Well, well, this is interesting!

ROCHEFORT

I guessed they were planning to violate military discipline and therefore wouldn't bring any guards. I decided to ambush at least one of them and catch them off guard. You see, when a man is in close contact with a woman, he usually doesn't carry a weapon. Or, so to speak, he's occupied with a completely different kind of weapon.

RICHELIEU

And at this very moment he can be captured?! Funny!

ROCHEFORT

Absolutely correct, Your Eminence! It's ironic that the ladies don't live somewhere deep in the rear, but in their own homes, which are as close to our location as they are to the Spaniards'!

RICHELIEU

Can we say that they live in a so-called grey zone, where there are neither us nor the Spaniards, being confident that neither one nor the other will touch them?

ROCHEFORT

Exactly, Your Eminence! So, I decided to wait until the officers went to the ladies. Immediately after sunset, they set off for their share of affection.

RICHELIEU

But how were you going to deal with two officers alone?

ROCHEFORT

The thing is that I was not alone, but with a friend.

RICHELIEU

This is getting even more interesting! Keep going!

ROCHEFORT

The ladies lived in a small hut. The officers locked the door behind them, but we managed to force it open by slipping a knife blade through the crack. We watched through the window, and although the light was out, the white sheets were visible in the moonlight. So, we waited for the moment when both officers were well away not only from their weapons but even from their trousers. We burst into the house and, threatening them with our pistols, ordered them to stand up and raise their hands.

RICHELIEU

Fabulous!

ROCHEFORT

Everything would have been even better if my friend hadn't decided to do one more thing. He wanted to have some fun with one of the ladies he'd spotted in the moonlight.

RICHELIEU

How careless!

ROCHEFORT

I told him about it too. But he ordered me to tie up the captured officers and share the fun with him. I objected that our goal was entirely different, and his plans were completely inappropriate. Then he replied: "Just try to stop me!" With these words, he pointed his pistol at me.

RICHELIEU

What a scoundrel! He should be hanged!

ROCHEFORT

I agree with you, Your Eminence, but I'm afraid it won't work. I told him he wouldn't dare shoot me, after which he looked at the lady again, then at me, and replied that he would. An argument ensued. I was afraid the officers would flee and told him I'd shoot him myself if he didn't comply. Then he fired at me, but fortunately missed, because at that very moment I bent down to pick up one of the officers' belts to tie up its owner. As soon as the traitor realized his pistol was unloaded and mine was still loaded, he decided to flee. He ran out the door and I never saw him again.

RICHELIEU

Never mind, we'll catch him and punish him. So what happened next?

ROCHEFORT

I ordered the ladies to tie the officers tightly, and I took their weapons. I also ordered them to bundle all the officers' clothing into a single bundle. Taking the bundle in my left hand, and holding a pistol in my right hand aimed at the enemy officers, I ordered them to step out and march ahead of me wherever I indicated.

RICHELIEU

And the ladies? Weren't you afraid they'd make a fuss and that they might catch up with you?

ROCHEFORT

Before setting off, I ordered them to drink all the wine on the table, threatening to shoot them otherwise. They complied without further ado.

RICHELIEU

So you brought them into our camp, half naked, pointing one pistol at them?

ROCHEFORT

I also had two of their loaded pistols, and I kept at the best distance from them—five paces. I could have hit any of them at ten paces, and they couldn't have suddenly attacked me before I had time to shoot them.

RICHELIEU

If your story is the absolute truth, you deserve not only praise but also a more substantial reward. However, due to your youth, I cannot promote you to an active-duty officer. To be an officer, you must have experience commanding military units in wartime conditions. Promoting you to an active-duty officer would be dangerous for your subordinates, so such a promotion is premature. After all, your military experience is limited to this sortie, isn't it?

ROCHEFORT

Exactly so, Your Eminence.

RICHELIEU

I have an idea, Monsieur de Rochefort. By the way, your father is a count, I believe?

ROCHEFORT

Yes, Your Grace, he is a count, but he has too many children from his second marriage for me to count on the title of count.

RICHELIEU

But you are the eldest son. Okay, we'll discuss that later. First of all, tell me, why did you ask whose move it was in that chess game on my table?

ROCHEFORT

Because the position is very interesting. Whoever moves loses this game.

RICHELIEU

You noticed, huh? Well, you're quite a clever fellow! So my idea for you, as I thought, might work. So, I'm taking you out of the army. You'll be my page, to begin with. You'll carry out all sorts of assignments for me. These will be quite delicate ones. If you handle them well, you'll be eligible for more, and quite soon. You could become my personal orderly for special assignments.

ROCHEFORT

Your Eminence! Thank you! You make me the happiest of mortals!

RICHELIEU

Take it easy, young man. First of all, learn to control your emotions. Even if you intended to express your profound gratitude, a simple bow and kiss on my hand would be enough, since I am a member of the clergy. Learn to speak calmly, dispassionately, so that no one can understand your true feelings. That's the first thing. And one more thing. Admit it, did you ever want to take advantage of the availability of these two women?

ROCHEFORT

As I already said, I had other plans, more important ones!

RICHELIEU

You have explained to me the reason why you did not do this, but I ask you, did you have the desire?

ROCHEFORT

I am a man, Your Eminence, I have not given a celibate dinner, I have completely natural desires in the appropriate situation.

RICHELIEU

Thank you for your frankness. This is exactly what I wanted to hear. So, unlike your accomplice—I hesitate to call him your comrade—you had the same desires, but you found the strength to control yourself and your desires. This is commendable! Well, this quality of yours, the ability to renounce what you desire in the name of a higher purpose, will come in handy. In our affairs, you will need a woman. Remember, young man, that in a secret and most effective war, a woman can prove a more powerful weapon than muskets, pistols, and cannons. You must master this method of fighting your enemies—using the strength and attractiveness of a woman. For this, we need beautiful women, as attractive as possible and young, but their convictions must be sufficiently flexible in all but one thing—serving their master. The women you find to carry out my assignments will need to possess all the necessary qualities, both external and internal. They must be wily, clever, able to disguise themselves and pass themselves off as something they're not. My people recently reported to me about one such person. Remember her name.

ROCHEFORT

May I write it down with your permission?

RICHELIEU

Learn to remember without writing. Forget about taking notes. All my orders will be given orally, and you will report them to me personally, orally, without witnesses. So, remember. Anne-Charlotte de Beyle, Countess de La F;re. These are the names by which she is known. They must be forgotten. From now on, she will have to bear another name. Let's say, hmm... Lady Anne Claric. Yes, that's right! We will find her a groom from among the Frenchified English. This is my long-term plan. This Englishman will only need to know her new name, Lady Claric. She already knows English, but she will need to master it much more deeply. Do you understand me?

ROCHEFORT

Yes, Your Eminence.

RICHELIEU

The secretary will give you the address where she currently resides. You will visit her and tell her that you have come from a man named Fran;ois Leclerc du Tremblay. He is a friend of mine, and you will meet him in due course. So, tell her that you are a friend of du Tremblay. Give her twenty pistoles. The secretary will give you forty—twenty for her and twenty for you. Begin working with her.

ROCHEFORT

What will my job consist of?

RICHELIEU

To begin with, you'll explain to her who, in fact, is her boss from now on. You'll also explain to her the nature of the services she'll be performing. She'll have to be as bold as you, as dedicated, and as resourceful. She'll receive her assignments from me through you. At least until I'm convinced of her loyalty enough to allow her to meet with me in person.

ROCHEFORT

I understand everything, Your Eminence!

RICHELIEU

That's not all yet. Remember, young man! You must not fall under the spell of this woman. I will keep an eye on you through my men. If I learn that anything has developed between you, beyond purely business relations, you both will be excluded from the list of my friends. Do you understand what this means? In this case, no one will find you, and it will be as if you had never existed on this earth. For I do not tolerate traitors. Your dalliances, should they arise, I will regard as treason. A dagger must not be blunted by its sheath! A woman whose charm I intend to use against enemies must not waste it on friends. And friends must not fall under the spell of such a woman. Remember this! Even an unloaded pistol should never be pointed at friends, because even an unloaded pistol can go off! The same applies in this case. This lady is my weapon. Beware of falling under her spell!

ROCHEFORT

Your Eminence, I understand everything.

RICHELIEU

Repeat the name of this woman - the one she has borne until now, and which she must forget, and also the one she will bear from now on.

ROCHEFORT

Anne-Charlotte de Beyle, Countess de La F;re. From now on, she is Lady Anne Claric.

RICHELIEU

Okay, go ahead, Rochefort.



CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT


I was perplexed. Why did she need to harp on the Rochefort plot? Was she going to continue telling tall tales about Charles- C;sar de Rochefort instead of talking about the Musketeers of Tr;ville? Was she really going to keep telling this nonsense about Rochefort? I turned the page and read the next scene.


SCENE NINE

(The courtyard in front of the barracks of the king's musketeers, Aramis and Athos greet each other)

ATOS

Aramis, de Treville is looking for you.

ARAMIS

Do you know what the occasion is?

ATOS

I suppose the occasion was not a pleasant one, since he said: “As soon as this…”

ARAMIS

This one? Is he talking about me?

ATOS

Allow me not to reproduce the exact words he used; they denote an abbot, but such words are not customary in noble society. His vocabulary was approximately that usually employed by Marshal de Br;z;.

ARAMIS

Wow, really?

(Captain de Treville approaches, Athos greets Treville, then steps aside and leaves the stage)

TREVILLE

Listen, Aramis! What happened there on the Quai Henri IV?

ARAMIS

I don't quite understand what you're talking about, Captain.

TREVILLE

Don't try to fool me. I was there. While you could fool Richelieu's guards, you can't fool me. I saw their wounds. At least two of them were killed by you. In any case, it was a sword blow from below to the throat... Not one of the guards would have dealt such a blow. Granted, the bodies lay as if they had been in a two-on-two duel. But the catch is, those four were four crows from the same nest, and I'm of the opinion that one crow won't peck out another crow's eye. So what really happened there, you tell me!?

ARAMIS

I don't know what to say, Captain.

TREVILLE

Tell the truth or silently admit I'm right. Better to remain silent than to continue lying. Luckily, Richelieu's idiots decided that things were exactly as you wanted them to think. But I understand perfectly well how it happened. Four guards attacked you. You probably did something to upset them, and they, I admit, intended to kill you.

ARAMIS

In that case, am I responsible for not approving of their plan? I disliked it from the start. Keep in mind, Captain, I will always object to being killed by one of His Eminence's guardsmen. Dying at the hands of a guardsman is bad form.

TREVILLE

I share your views in general, and even admit that you disagree with these four.

ARAMIS

You know, opinions about the weather don't always agree. Some people like it, while others are simply annoyed.

TREVILLE

Don't prevaricate, Aramis! I'm outraged myself. How dare they attack four of the King's musketeers? I don't believe they would have dared such a thing! Four against four—that's reckless of them.

ARAMIS

In that case, the forces would really be on the side of the musketeers.

TREVILLE

And who were those three who helped you deal with the rest? And besides, if there were as many of you as there were of them, why kill them? Wouldn't it have been easier to simply wound them, take their swords, and send them away in disgrace?

ARAMIS

Mr. Captain, I didn't have four friends with me.

TREVILLE

I don't believe you, Aramis. I'd be convinced Athos was with you if I didn't know for a fact that he wasn't, since he was with me all evening yesterday, carrying out my instructions. So, who are these three?

ARAMIS
 
I assure you, there was not a single musketeer with me, so none of the King's musketeers are responsible for the fact that I am still alive.

TREVILLE

So, you had three guardsmen from Deszesar's company with you? Or three new recruits? Or simply three sword-wielding townspeople? Well, that explains why Richelieu's guardsmen dared to attack you.

ARAMIS

There was not a single soldier with me, not a musketeer, not a guard, not a recruit.

TREVILLE

Are you telling me that you were alone?

ARAMIS


At first, yes, but after I dealt one of them that very blow that gave me away, …

TREVILLE

Do you mean to say that, while fighting against four, you killed one of them with the first blow?

ARAMIS

Athos taught me to use both hands, which allowed me to hit the first one who attacked me and at least temporarily neutralize the second one.

TREVILLE

What are you saying? In that case, it would truly be a shame if, after such a glorious start, they still killed you.

ARAMIS

I decided so too, Captain. This consideration compelled me to fight on.

TREVILLE

You said that only at first were you alone. When did these three, or perhaps two, come to your rescue?

ARAMIS

Almost at the same moment, but there were not two of them, but one.

TREVILLE

One?!

ARAMIS
One. A random passerby.

TREVILLE

A random passerby?

ARAMIS

That's right, just a passerby. But a nobleman, of course. He had a sword.

TREVILLE

Are you saying that there was someone who wasn't a career military man, just a random passerby, who sided with you despite the fact that even in this case there were only two of you left against three?

ARAMIS

That's exactly how it was, Captain.

TREVILLE

It happens that good citizens, when there are many of them, stand up for the musketeers, for which I am deeply grateful, but one random passerby? Against three of your opponents? Judging by the two blows he landed on two of your three opponents, he must be a very strong and tall man!

ARAMIS

You have very accurately determined the texture and strength of this savior of mine from the wounds.

TREVILLE

Well, two against four. And neither of you received any injuries?

ARAMIS

None, Mr. Captain!


TREVILLE

(He looks closely at Aramis, who stands at attention under his gaze.)

Or perhaps just trivial injuries?

ARAMIS

(Again it says "at ease")

Perhaps completely trivial.

TREVILLE

Which, hopefully, will heal in three weeks? Or five?

ARAMIS

In three, Mr. Captain.

TREVILLE

But there is a decree prohibiting duels.

ARAMIS

But there's no decree prohibiting defense against an attack by four men against one. It can't even be called a skirmish, because I was simply caught. Two were walking behind me, and two were coming towards me, and they all approached me at the same time, after which they drew their swords.

TREVILLE

It's a disgrace, yes... But you... How?.. Well... What do you want from me? For what purpose did you come to me this morning? To boast of your exploits? Why were you looking for me?

ARAMIS

I was told that you were looking for me.

TREVILLE

I was looking for you? Oh, yes! Yes, I was looking for you… I was looking for you, but you were looking for me too, weren't you? Let me guess. You've come to ask me to accept your savior as one of the King's Musketeers?

ARAMIS

No.

TREVILLE

No?

ARAMIS
 
Yes.

TREVILLE

So yes or no?

ARAMIS

Yes. In the sense that no. But I thought that…

(He makes several gestures as if he were striking the enemy with a sword from below upwards . Treville repeats this gesture, then looks closely at his hand. Then he repeats the gesture slowly and thoughtfully.)

TREVILLE

Did you know that the King is not accepted into the Musketeers without a sufficiently strong recommendation?

ARAMIS

Mr. Captain, touch me.

TREVILLE

For what?

ARAMIS

Touch it.

TREVILLE

(Touches Aramis on the shoulder)

And what?

ARAMIS

I am not a ghost. I am me, Aramis.

TREVILLE

I have no doubt about it.

ARAMIS

You see, I'm alive, Mr. Captain!

TREVILLE

You can't argue with that.

ARAMIS

Isn't this a recommendation?

TREVILLE

I told you that I cannot accept a nobleman unknown to me, even though he has remarkable strength and is a good fencer, into the musketeers today.

ARAMIS

It turns out that this way, Mr. Captain, right today is absolutely impossible!

TREVILLE

Impossible!

ARAMIS

But that’s why tomorrow exists: to do tomorrow what is absolutely impossible to do today.

TREVILLE

And although you know, Aramis, that I don’t like to put off until tomorrow things that can be done today, today is absolutely impossible.

ARAMIS

Absolutely impossible, Captain. But tomorrow is no longer today, is it?

TREVILLE

But on the other hand, what do you think I should offer this nobleman? Offer him a temporary place in my son-in-law Deszesar's guard?

ARAMIS
This will probably be the only possible solution.

TREVILLE

And to allow, therefore, that such a strong and dexterous swordsman should be in the possession of someone other than me, is this what you are proposing to me, Mr. Aramis?

ARAMIS

That would be unfortunate.

TREVILLE

Is he Gascon?

ARAMIS

Yes.

TREVILLE

Is it noticeable?

ARAMIS

No.

TREVILLE

What a pity! As luck would have it – two such additional advantages!

ARAMIS

Yes, it would be a shame to miss such an opportunity.

TREVILLE

Can I at least take a look at this giant?

ARAMIS

He should arrive at the entrance to the barracks at this very moment.

TREVILLE

Bring him here.

ARAMIS
One minute

(He approaches the edge of the stage, waves his hand, Porthos comes out onto the stage, and they approach de Treville. Porthos gallantly salutes and bows to Captain de Treville)


TREVILLE

Your name …

PORTOS

Chevalier Isaac de Porthos du Valon. Or simply Porthos for short!

TREVILLE

Chevalier du Valon, I thank you for the assistance you have given to one of my finest musketeers.

(Aramis straightens up proudly)

PORTOS

I did what anyone would have done in my place.

TREVILLE

Wonderful! Commendable! It's commendable that you acted this way, commendable that you think anyone would have acted the same way in your place, but you're mistaken. People, for the most part, aren't the type to stand up for someone without a significant chance of preserving their own life and health, and, especially, without a personal stake in the outcome. I'm grateful to you. But I ask you not to dwell on this episode. Believe me, it's in your own best interests. You know, the edict on duels...


PORTOS

Our chances of winning were quite good. Luckily, they weren't trying to run away, so we managed to defeat them. If they had run away, you know, I'm not a very fast runner. I'm afraid I wouldn't have caught them. But since they didn't run away, our chances of winning were certain! But you're right, I would have intervened even if there had been two or three times as many attackers. In that case, our chances would have been slightly worse.

PORTOS

Are you saying that you were confident that you could defeat three of them together?

PORTOS

I could have defeated three men alone. At home, I often amused myself this way, using a rapier with blunted ends instead of a sword, fighting against four or even six. But I soon had to put an end to these amusements, as I had broken too many bones, although, God knows, I didn't mean to.

TREVILLE

Really? Well, you're probably hoping to become the King's musketeer?

PORTOS

I already became one, yesterday evening, from the moment I made this decision.

TREVILLE

Well, it doesn't happen that quickly. I haven't yet decided whether to enroll you, and even after I make that decision—if I do—it still needs to be approved by the King.

PORTOS

The King will approve any decision you make regarding joining the Musketeers, because he trusts you. So it's up to you.

TREVILLE

Why do you think that the King trusts me so blindly in everything?

PORTOS

But is a man who is not trusted appointed captain of the king's musketeers?

TREVILLE

You're damn right! Of course, His Majesty will approve my decision, but I haven't made it yet!

PORTOS

So accept it. Why put off such a good deed for later?


TREVILLE

But you don't have any recommendations.

PORTOS

It will be there in five minutes.

TREVILLE

Who will write it?

PORTOS

Aramis!

TREVILLE

Two recommendations are needed.

PORTOS

Then you write the second recommendation.

TREVILLE

On what basis?

PORTOS

Let's take a stroll today near Rue Bic;tre or Rue du Ch;telet . You can hang your wallet on your belt in full view even while strolling through these areas, as long as I'm nearby. You'll see me in action.

TREVILLE

Damn it, he really is Gascon! You've completely outdone me! And it had to happen just when I had a vacancy. Just promise to stop bragging about Gascony. This isn't Auch, Bordeaux, Lourdes , or Bayonne . This is Paris, remember that.

PORTOS

Hooray for Captain de Treville!

ARAMIS

Please accept my congratulations, Musketeer Porthos.

TREVILLE

Not today! I said – tomorrow! That means – tomorrow.

* * *

I put the sheets of paper aside again. He writes like a liar! Easily, brazenly, and airily. If only this energy could be used for a good cause!



CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE


With mixed feelings of annoyance, surprise and curiosity, I continued reading Violetta’s sheets.


SCENE TEN

(The room of a poor aristocrat, Charlotte is sitting at the dressing table, there is a knock on the door)

CHARLOTTE

Come in, I'm not locked.

ROCHEFORT

(Enters, bows)

Madame Countess de La Fere?

CHARLOTTE

(Shudders and looks at Rochefort with fear)

Who are you? How do you know my name? Only two people know that I…

ROCHEFORT

Only one, because the other one thinks you're dead.

CHARLOTTE

So, you come from the Cardinal? Did he read my letter?

ROCHEFORT

Not quite so, my lady, but every letter addressed to His Eminence is sure to be read by someone. In this case, I have come on behalf of His Eminence's closest friend, Fran;ois Leclerc du Tremblay.

CHARLOTTE

From Father Joseph? That's almost the same as from the cardinal himself!

ROCHEFORT

Perhaps so, but still I was sent to you by Monsieur du Tremblay.

CHARLOTTE

Why did you call me my lady?

ROCHEFORT

Because you have been ordered to forget all your previous names, from now on you are Lady Anna Claric.

CHARLOTTE

(To myself)

He speaks with such confidence as if he were sent from the cardinal himself! Well, I'll accept his game!

(Aloud)

I obey Father Joseph's orders. What else did he tell me?

ROCHEFORT

Monsieur du Tremblay strongly recommended that you show certain qualities if you really wish to enter into the service of His Eminence.

CHARLOTTE

You can't even imagine how much I desire to enter the Cardinal's service! The fact is, my greatest enemy has entered the service of Captain de Treville. Therefore, my only chance of revenge is to enter a special service with the Cardinal. I want to be his eyes, his ears, and his punishing hand!

ROCHEFORT

But His Grace is a spiritual figure. He has no need of a punishing hand.

CHARLOTTE

How long have you been in the Cardinal's service? Don't answer, I see it's only recently. And don't deny it, you serve the Cardinal, not Father Joseph! But that's not important, it's the same thing. Listen! Richelieu is not only a priest, not only a cardinal, but also the first minister, the secretary of state, and the head of the king's troops. In fact, he is everything! He is omnipotent! Or almost omnipotent in all of France. You are interested in a career, it's clear! You are young, like me, and you are ambitious. I don't know which of two passions is stronger—the thirst for money and power, or the thirst for revenge. But I think the second is stronger. I am familiar with both, but since the desire for revenge has gnawed at me, everything else has faded into the background.

ROCHEFORT

Why are you telling me this, my lady?

CHARLOTTE

So you understand the situation. You've come to declare yourself my superior, or at least a liaison between the cardinal and you. Well, I don't mind, as long as the cardinal trusts me. But know this: you're no match for the power of my unquenchable passion for revenge on my hated ex... Revenge on the scoundrel.

ROCHEFORT

I suppose to your husband, the Count de La Fere.

CHARLOTTE

Young man, not everything you've guessed should be spoken aloud immediately. This is my advice to you for the future. So, I tell you of my passions and my intentions for one purpose only. Do not doubt me. And I, in turn, promise not to doubt you. Help me gain the Cardinal's favor as quickly as possible, and then I will help you.

ROCHEFORT

How can you help me?

CHARLOTTE

Do you think I can't provide you with any kind of protection? You're mistaken! You underestimate the potential of a woman with the kind of looks that attract any man, unless he's blind. Very well, I'll prove it to you easily. I'll give you a gift. I'll give you advice that will help you quickly climb the career ladder and win the Cardinal's trust once and for all. Would you like it? Just promise that in return, you'll help me in any way you can.

ROCHEFORT

We still know each other so little, and you demand so much.

CHARLOTTE

On the contrary . I only needed one look at you to understand who you are and what you need. That's enough. Okay, I'm not asking you for any promises. Just remember that I'm about to give you some very important advice, and if this advice proves decisive in your career, don't forget that you'll be able to repay me—not for the sake of justice, which I've long since stopped believing in, but so that I can remain your friend. Because if you take my advice, you'll understand that being my friend is much better than being considered my enemy.

ROCHEFORT

My lady, this conversation with you goes far beyond the scope of the assignment I was given.

CHARLOTTE

So much the better! It's always helpful to demonstrate to the sovereign that you're not just carrying out his orders, but doing much more for him.

ROCHEFORT

So what do you suggest I do?

CHARLOTTE

Go to Brussels and try to gain the trust of the Marquis of Lecoux.

ROCHEFORT

Gaining trust? What does that mean? And who is he? Why is he so important?

CHARLOTTE

To get wine to leak from a barrel, you don't have to break the entire bottom. Even mosquitoes know: just a small hole is enough.

ROCHEFORT

You speak in riddles.

CHARLOTTE

And you will learn to understand the hints. The Marquis is the lover of the Duchess de Chevreuse, a friend of the Queen.

ROCHEFORT

Further?

CHARLOTTE

You haven't guessed. Very well, I'll explain. The Duchess is a walking conspiracy. If one plot fails or is abandoned, she immediately hatches a new one. Note that her weapon is the same one the Cardinal wants in me. Don't argue, he wants it. I wrote him a letter offering my services. I also wrote him that I had shown great interest in the Duchess de Chevreuse and told him the proverb: "Fight fire with fire." To overcome a beautiful and cunning woman, it takes another beautiful and cunning woman. If you have come in the name of Father Joseph, this means that the Cardinal has heeded my letter and has decided to send you unofficially, as if not in his own name, but in the name of another person who is essentially the same as the Cardinal himself. Why did he do this? The conclusion is clear! He was interested in my proposal, but he wants to remain in the shadows. Therefore, he has big plans for me. This means the cardinal understands perfectly well the power of a young, beautiful, and yet intelligent woman who is willing to go far in her relationship with a man without losing her head. And who is determined enough to bring down another beautiful woman and ignore false pleas and promises to mend her ways. In a confrontation with a beauty, a man loses his head, and this beauty, especially if she appears innocent, can convince him of anything and do any foolish thing for her. Even put this lost head in a noose. Not literally, but figuratively. A beauty can involve a man in love with her in a conspiracy against the King, which is even worse than hanging himself. After all, the inheritance of a man who hangs himself goes to his heirs, while the property of a man executed goes to the treasury.

ROCHEFORT

Continue.

CHARLOTTE

To tame the Duchess or completely remove her from the political chessboard, the Cardinal needs someone like me. He sent you to ensure that I am truly beautiful, intelligent, and sufficiently motivated to serve him faithfully. I'm sure he didn't give you any specific instructions regarding me. And I will be the antidote. I assure you that the Cardinal is more interested not in what you've told me or will tell me, but in how I look, what impression I made on you, and how I answered your questions. Yes, he needs me now, and urgently, since you're here, the Cardinal's enemies also need the Duchess de Chevreuse. She is the soul of all conspiracies!

ROCHEFORT

Who, in your opinion, are the cardinal’s enemies?

CHARLOTTE

First of all, all the nobles who would like to stand on the same level as the King, or at least just a small step below him, they would like to breathe the same air as him, that is, to be little Kings in their duchies, marquisates , and counties. All these nobles do not desire the greatness of the current King and therefore place their bets on the Dauphin. That is, they hope, as always in history, completely in vain, that the heir to the current King will be a better ruler for them than the one who rules them now. A sweet and foolish hope! But how many conspiracies it has set in motion! Most of them were rejected at the conception stage. Many crumbled before they could crystallize into something serious and truly dangerous. But many conspiracies have succeeded! History is full of examples of this!

ROCHEFORT

So you believe that the Duchess de Chevreuse, urged on by the grandees, is plotting, and that the best place to uncover it is in circles close to the Marquis of Lecoux?

CHARLOTTE

Yes, you're quite smart, but next time you don't have to repeat everything you've been told to prove you were smart enough to understand what was going on. Don't be offended, I didn't mean to offend you. On the contrary, I'm giving you lessons in politics, which always contains elements of intrigue and acting. And we need acting to hide our true thoughts. You express surprise when you're not surprised at all, and hide it when you are. You display an outward interest in things that don't interest you, and appear indifferent to things that greatly interest you. You don't appear to be what you are, but you appear to everyone to be something you are not. Take an example from insects. A beetle pretends to be a leaf or stick, a harmless fly pretends to be a wasp, a dangerous predator pretends to be a flower or a piece of bark, poison pretends to be food, and food pretends to be poison.

ROCHEFORT

How can I gain the trust of Marquis Leku?

CHARLOTTE

I've learned something. Don't ask me how I did it, just trust me. Order a cambric scarf from a seamstress, with two intersecting "M"s embroidered in the corner. Like these.

(Charlotte takes out a piece of paper and gives it to Rochefort)

ROCHEFORT

Does this symbolize Marie de Medici?

CHARLOTTE

Rochefort, you're not taking my advice seriously! You've figured it out, so keep quiet! Yes, it symbolizes Marie de Medici, the Queen Mother. Such a scarf serves as a sign of membership in the conspiratorial community.

ROCHEFORT

I understand.

CHARLOTTE

White cambric, red and gold thread for the letters. Don't waste time, Rochefort.

ROCHEFORT

But how can I explain my absence to His Grace … Father du Tremblay?

CHARLOTTE

Don't delude yourself, Rochefort. Until you've rendered the Cardinal the service you still have time to render, he won't remember you, and after you've rendered it, he'll never forget you. However, while the handkerchief is being sewn, you will come to the Cardinal and tell him everything about me, except my advice to go to the Marquis de Lecoux.

ROCHEFORT

Perhaps it would be better to tell the cardinal about the marquis?

CHARLOTTE

If you tell him about this, he'll send one of his men, who's been in his service for a long time, to the Marquis. Simply because he trusts them more than he does you, for now.

ROCHEFORT

But it will be safe and will contribute to his even greater trust in me and in you.

CHARLOTTE

All the cardinal's men are known to the marquis. This idea will come to nothing. This magnificent plan will fail. Is that what you want? And why should the cardinal feel any gratitude to you and me in that case? And if my plan fails, then it might be that the duchess's plot will not. And then the one we hope to gain his trust will lose his power. Our careers will be cut short before they even begin.

ROCHEFORT

You are very persuasive, my lady. I believe you, but I will believe you even more if you explain why you are so actively helping my career.

CHARLOTTE

It's simple. I see who you are. You are very young, but you try not to look at me. You are not one of those who prefer men. You are normal. And you like me. It's noticeable. But all normal men keep their eyes on me. I have never met any exceptions, even among priests. Even one executioner looked at me with such eyes that I could have controlled him if my head had not been occupied with completely different thoughts at that moment. I will not make such a mistake again, I swear! But you are not like that. You are afraid to look me in the face. But it is not embarrassment or disgust. I see that you are afraid of my charms. And why should you be afraid of me, why would this suddenly happen? I understand that you were ordered not to succumb to my influence. You, therefore, are carrying out the Cardinal's orders, trying to carry them out as precisely as possible. You are a man of duty. Or a very calculating man, for whom a career is more important than love. That is even better. My advice in no way conflicts with the Cardinal's orders. You will spend your free time on the trip—a couple of days, no more. But it's worth it. You will appreciate my advice. So what? Do you agree? Shall we be friends, Count Rochefort?

ROCHEFORT

I'm not a count.

CHARLOTTE

You'll be a count, and very soon. Maybe even a marquis. Just listen to my advice and don't forget to thank me when the opportunity arises. Deal, Count?

ROCHEFORT

Shake it, but since you are not a man, I will not shake your hand, but rather kiss it.

CHARLOTTE

(Offers his hand for a kiss)

Sealed with the seal of friendship. Oh, by the way... Do you know a certain Lord Winter?

ROCHEFORT

Yes, I know him, but not closely. He's in Paris incognito under the name of the Marquis de Brinvilliers.

CHARLOTTE

When you return from your trip and receive a reward from the cardinal, introduce me to him.

ROCHEFORT

Certainly, my lady.

(Rochefort leaves)

CHARLOTTE

Another one has fallen into my net. It's enough to praise a man for being more resilient than all the others, and he's already starting to melt like wax. Why do I need power over him? Who knows! Maybe he'll come in handy. He's a handsome boy. And Lord Winter is rich! Rochefort said he's in Paris incognito. So much the better. If I can please him, the wedding can be held secretly. I don't need any surprise guests at the wedding.


CHAPTER SIXTY

Violetta seemed to have become quite engrossed in the story of Rochefort and Milady. I felt hurt. How could this be? She'd started out by saying she'd only intended to express her opinion on the play "Youth of the Musketeers," and it had all degenerated into her writing a play called "The Countess de la F;re"! Yet she'd shamelessly borrowed my characters, my plot, my idea, but decided to explore the nooks and crannies of the story I'd told! It's as if you'd invited guests, setting aside the banquet hall, the smoking room, and the gaming room for them, only for them to enter through the back door and explore the servants' quarters, the kitchen, and your bedroom!

This is outrageous. This is no way to write novels. And especially not plays. I need to take her pen and paper away from her. That's what I'll do. Although I did hire her as my secretary. And a secretary needs paper, pen, and ink. There's no other way.

I'll have to think about this in my spare time. For now, I'll read on, just for the fun of it. I wonder how her opus ends? I don't like looking at the back of books, but why not take a look at the last page?

I took the second to last sheet and read the following:

“Dudu! Thank you for reading. You can do with this whatever you want. Burn it, tear it up, or perhaps you’d agree to leave your name on the title page too? I know you crossed it out the moment you saw it. But perhaps you’ve changed your mind? You probably don’t like having your name next to mine. And it’s not commercially viable, as you’ve already explained to me. So, just in case, my last page is another title page for this very same work. Especially if you correct anything with your brilliant hand. Yours forever, Violetta.”

Disgusting! Like some kind of posthumous letter, a will, or at least a letter before a distant parting.

I felt a chill at the thought that perhaps that was true. Perhaps she had decided to leave me forever, to go away, to disappear, and that was why she had hidden this farewell letter among a pile of these meaningless sheets of paper?

I looked at the very last page. It was another title page for a play. I was listed as the author alone, and the title of the play was "The Youth of the Musketeers."

I pulled out the second-to-last page, as it was her letter to me. It didn't belong among those pages of a worthless opus, written clumsily and untalentedly by a girl who suddenly fancied herself a writer equal in talent to France's foremost writer. I left the last page as the last. I should have immediately torn it up and thrown it away, but I don't know why I left it there. It was just a sheet of paper with two lines. Perhaps this is the only result of her labors that doesn't necessarily need to be thrown in the trash. It will come in handy for the final version of my play, should I decide to edit it.

Yes, the idea of peeking at the end hadn't been the best, and now I was glad I hadn't read the final lines of her opus there. Disgust and joy should come gradually; then they'll be stronger. And a writer should experience every emotion as intensely as possible, because that helps hone their craft.


SCENE ELEVEN

( Cardinal Richelieu's office, the cardinal is sitting at the table, Rochefort enters)

RICHELIEU

Come in, come in, Rochefort. I must say, you surprise me! Tell me the details.

ROCHEFORT

I have laid everything out in my letter to Your Grace, but I will try to remember the details.

RICHELIEU

First of all, how did you come up with the idea to dress up as a Capuchin?

ROCHEFORT

My most kind benefactors, Monsieur de Marillac and Madame d'Abrouville, wished me to become a priest. The same was also the wish of Monsieur the Cur; de L'Isle d'Ecurel .

RICHELIEU

But you are your father's eldest son?

ROCHEFORT

It happens that an eldest son is so unloved that his father is determined to make him a priest. This is especially true if he loves his second wife, who wants to bypass this son from his first marriage in favor of her own children.

RICHELIEU

I understand. As far as I understand, you weren't particularly vocal in your protest against this choice, and even tried on the cassock and studied theology. So, what happened next?

ROCHEFORT

I showed Marquis Lecu a cambric handkerchief with a double letter "M".

RICHELIEU

I've seen scarves like these on the Queen Mother. Don't ask when or why. But who suggested you use such a thing as a password? Wasn't it our Lady Clarik?

ROCHEFORT

Yes, she is.

RICHELIEU

But you didn't tell me about this when you asked for my approval for this trip.

ROCHEFORT

Only because I wasn't completely confident of success. I was embarrassed to promise something I wasn't completely sure I could fulfill.

RICHELIEU

It is commendable how you extricated yourself, but admit that you kept silent about this detail at Lady Claric's request, and now you realize that this argument sounds unconvincing and not in your favor.

ROCHEFORT

Nothing can escape your insight, Your Eminence.

RICHELIEU

Exactly so, Rochefort, exactly so. Well, the Marquis has taken a liking to you and sent several letters to Paris through you. But the letters were encrypted. I don't think the Marquis's trust in you was less than complete. More likely, it was simply a simple precaution. You weren't able to decipher the letters, but fortunately, I have a talented mathematician, Antoine Rossignol, who was able to crack the cipher quite quickly. Imagine, it only took him two hours! These letters have been resealed. You will deliver them to the addressees you were given. This, as far as I understand, is the lawyer Lapierre , on the Rue Lubert or somewhere nearby.

ROCHEFORT

Exactly so, Your Eminence.

RICHELIEU

Don't try to follow Lapierre . Other people will do that, but you leave immediately, as soon as you deliver the letter.

ROCHEFORT

The recipient may want to send a reply.

RICHELIEU

Refuse categorically. Say that you agreed to deliver the letters because you were on your way to Paris, and you have no intention of returning. Besides, I don't think Lampi;re is the real addressee. He's merely a transit point. The true addressee is someone else, and I've already guessed who he is. So a reply won't be coming soon, and let the conspirators find ways to send the return letters themselves. At worst, we'll help them by sending another messenger. Go then, Rochefort, don't waste time. Or rather, wait. Tell me, Rochefort, you seem to have very good feelings for Monsieur Marillac, don't you?

ROCHEFORT

As I said, he and Madame d'Abrouville were very kind to me. The Marillacs are related to us.

RICHELIEU

Will you still consider him your family if it turns out that he is one of the main conspirators?

ROCHEFORT

May I ask what the conspiracy is?

RICHELIEU

First of all, the accomplishment of the first minister.

ROCHEFORT

You, Your Eminence? This is terrible!

RICHELIEU

And since the first minister is not the kind of person who will compromise with the conspirators, the consequence is the murder of the first minister.

ROCHEFORT

I no longer have a relative named Mariyak!

RICHELIEU

And, of course, the vile murder of His Majesty.

ROCHEFORT

I can't stand this! What treachery!

RICHELIEU

The Duchess de Chevreuse has conceived a marriage between the King's younger brother, Gaston d'Orl;ans, who, due to the absence of a son from His Majesty, is, as you know, the Dauphin, and will inherit the throne in the event of His Majesty's death, and - who do you think?

ROCHEFORT

I have no idea, Your Eminence.

RICHELIEU

Well, of course, and the future Dowager Queen, Anne of Austria.

ROCHEFORT

Could such baseness really be conceived and carried out at the court of the most just King Louis XIII and under such a wise and magnanimous prime minister as Your Eminence?
RICHELIEU
 
Don't get too carried away by the torrent of flattery, Rochefort, although essentially you're right. It's precisely baseness. And precisely under a most just King, and everything else you said. So, what about Marillac?

ROCHEFORT

Even if this is just a suspicion, I solemnly declare to Your Grace that from now on I no longer have such a relative. Once this is officially established and proclaimed—and I dare not doubt the veracity of Your Grace's words—no one in this family will dare call me their kin!

RICHELIEU

You haven't disappointed me, Rochefort. Go ahead. Deliver the letters to their addressee. On your way back, visit Lady Claric. What favor did she ask for in exchange for the idea of going to the Marquis with a cambric handkerchief with two "M"s?

ROCHEFORT
 
She didn't ask for anything specific, Your Eminence.

RICHELIEU

Am I mistaken? If she didn't name a price right away, her demands might be prohibitive. Do you recall if she mentioned any estates or names?

ROCHEFORT

She asked me if I knew Lord Winter.

RICHELIEU

Oh, wonderful! She wants to get married. Well, tell her she'll be Lord Winter's wife very soon. I'll introduce her to him myself at the next reception. And until then, I highly recommend her to him. This marriage will be a very good political investment for us. It will open the way for her to England, to the Duke of Buckingham's entourage! Wonderful! Go then, Rochefort!

(Rochefort bows and leaves with the letters)

* * *

I threw the sheets of paper on the table in irritation. She doesn't understand how plays are written at all! Boring dialogue that interests no one! Where is the action? Where are the unexpected turns of events? Where are the dangerous situations for the main characters? Where are the miraculous escapes from mortal danger? Where are the cunning decisions of the main characters that allow them to achieve their desires? What moral can be drawn from these dialogues? However, morality is nonsense! The main thing is entertainment! I was simply bored reading this opus. No, Violetta will never become a writer! And it's not a woman's job! If she had talent, I could perhaps teach her a few things. But it's completely useless! She has neither talent nor a sense of proportion. All this is no good.

Then the doors opened – Violetta had returned home.

"Darling, look at this wonderful ink set and two candlesticks I bought you!" she said.

What she pulled out of the bundle and placed on the table was beyond belief! Reader! These were three, so to speak, silver objects, representing something, how can I put it mildly? It was a scene from a so-called bacchanalia, which was in full swing. The fat ancient god of wine, Bacchus or Bacchus, sat in the most obscene pose, clutching an inkwell, fashioned in the form of a lidded wine barrel, between his legs. Four dryads served as quill holders, two on each side of Bacchus, wearing only necklaces around their necks, and their poses would allow for a detailed study of the female anatomy. The quills were to be placed in the hands of these bacchantes, which, with their elbows bent downwards, they extended toward anyone who would dare use the inkwell for its intended purpose. The poses of these bacchantes were no more modest than those of Bacchus himself, so much so that each of them could have had an inkwell between their legs, had they possessed one. And though I'm far from prude, I longed to place something there, at least a large walnut, to cover the overly detailed anatomical details of these beautiful, yet excessively revealing, ladies. As for the candlesticks... Each was fashioned in the form of the god Pan, with goat legs and a tail, which was occupied with two nymphs. He was currently rendering one of them the kind of gallant service that usually sends women into a state of anticipation less than a year after the birth of a child. The second lady, on the first candlestick, was apparently awaiting her turn for a gallant adventure with Pan. Meanwhile, she was helping her nymph friend to the fullest extent of this unforgettable event. The only difference between the first and second candlesticks was that the girls seemed to have changed places, which could be confidently stated by such signs as the necklace on the neck of one of them and the flower crown on the top of the head of the other.

"Darling, no matter how much these things are worth, the smartest thing to do with them is to immediately hand them over to the scrap yard, because they are silver, aren't they?" I asked.

- Yes, my dear, it is silver, but the artistic value of this set is four times greater than the cost of scrap, because this is the great Benvenuto himself. Cellini !

“I doubt that Cellini was so frank in such anatomical details,” I tried to object.

"You're just not familiar with his work," Violetta snapped. "Darling! Don't be a prude! Don't pretend you don't like the figurines of these eight girls!"
 
“I cannot deny that the girls are beautiful,” I replied, “but my erotic senses are lulled to sleep at the sight of this fat Bacchus and these two Pans with goat legs and tails, and also with goat beards.”

"Erotica and humor must go hand in hand," Violetta countered. "I've already come up with a plot where these figures will play a significant role in your new novel. And to describe them better, you need to have them in front of you."

"So many dubious assertions in one sentence!" I objected. "Firstly, the plot of my novel can't be the figurines of an inkwell and two candlesticks, even such original ones. Secondly, I don't need to have something in front of my eyes to describe it in my novel."

"Sorry, dear," Violetta conceded. "If you really don't like them, I'll take them back tomorrow. Look, I won't even throw away the packaging. I'll wrap them myself, just as they were, and take them back to where I bought them. Just look at them and try to remember them, so if need be, you can describe them in your wonderful new novel. You don't mind if they just sit on your desk until tomorrow morning, do you?"

“Well, let them stand there until the morning, I suppose,” I reluctantly agreed.

"Well, that's great!" Violetta rejoiced. "I'll just tidy myself up a bit, change my clothes, and then we'll go to dinner."

I nodded, Violetta grabbed a towel and robe and went into the bathroom, and I began to examine the figurines closely. They were beautifully executed. Could they really be Cellini ? I reached out and touched one of the nymphs. An exceptionally talented execution. It would be a shame to part with such amusing little things. Perhaps I should let them stay with me for another week?



CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE


As soon as Violetta had changed her clothes and we were about to go out for dinner, there was a knock at the door, I said, “Come in,” and in came my publisher, Monsieur Chateren.

"Monsieur Dumas, allow me to pay my respects to you!" he said, showering him with polite words and gestures.

"And I, too, am very glad to see you, Monsieur Chateren," I lied. "To what do I owe the honor of your late visit?"
 
"My most humble apologies," the publisher replied. "I was busy with work and couldn't find a time earlier."
 
"So you were planning to come see me today, but earlier?" I asked.

I saw strong bewilderment on the publisher's face.
 
"Oh, yes, of course!" he finally said. "But I couldn't imagine you'd come see us yourself, so I decided it would be much more convenient for you if I picked up the manuscript myself than forcing you to take it to our publishing house!"

“A manuscript?” I asked in surprise.
 
"Monsieur Dumas is joking," Violetta interjected. "He certainly remembers the deadline for submitting the manuscript for the new edition of 'Youth of the Musketeers.' It's been ready for a long time. Monsieur Dumas only wanted to make the final edits, but as you can see, he didn't bother to make any changes. Here, take it."

With these words, Violetta took her manuscript from the table, without a shadow of a doubt threw away the title page, where the title “Countess de La F;re” was written and only her name was on it, and I had crossed out my name, took the last page, where before the title “Youth of the Musketeers” only my name was on it, made sure that the penultimate page with her letter to me was no longer in this pile and handed this manuscript to the publisher.

"I see that the entire text is written in your hand, mademoiselle!" the publisher exclaimed. "I see you're doing a wonderful job as a secretary!"

"Thank you, Monsieur Chateren," Violetta replied. "Serving as Monsieur Dumas's secretary is the greatest honor for me. Allow me to wrap up the manuscript."

She took the stack of sheets from the publisher's hands, wrapped it in the same packaging in which the inkwell and two candlesticks had been wrapped before, tied it with the same string, and solemnly handed it to the publisher.

"Monsieur Chateren ," I said, "we were going to have dinner. Would you like to join us?"

"With pleasure!" exclaimed Shateren. "I'd love to, but I'm sorry – I can't! I'll hurry to get it to the proofreader, and then to the typesetter. I expect to bring you the proofs in two days!"

"Well, I can still make my edits at the proof stage," I thought. "Of course, this nonsense shouldn't have been published. But returning an advance that's already been partially spent would not only be stupid, but also completely inappropriate. There probably isn't much left. Especially after buying those silver figurines!"
 
"Oh, Monsieur Chateren, if you only knew how disappointed Monsieur Dumas and I are that you won't be able to join us!" Violetta said with such an air that it would have been impossible to agree with the sincerity of her words, but at the same time her words left no chance for the publisher to change his mind and agree to accept my proposal.

I must admit, it was cleverly done, because if he'd agreed to dine with us, I would have had to fork out for a fancy restaurant and pay for the dinner myself, as that's simply not the way to deal with publishers—provided, of course, that the royalties have been paid in full. In the case where the contract hasn't yet been signed, and the publisher is far more interested in the author than the author is in the publisher, the one who treats the reader at the restaurant is, of course, the publisher.

It's a damned constant problem! I'm not a poor man, but I always have some kind of cash flow problem. I have some money, but I don't always have enough to afford taking a group of three to any restaurant in Paris and offering my companions a free choice of food and wine. It costs twelve times more than simply having dinner with your companion at a restaurant of your choice, with delicious and filling, but not the most pretentious dishes. As much of a gourmet as I am, a celebratory dinner hasn't yet become the obligatory end of my day.

I'll have to go to the bank tomorrow and withdraw the necessary amount for current expenses and not immediately give the lion's share to Violetta.

We drove to the restaurant in silence. Violetta pretended it was completely natural. Finally, I couldn't take it anymore.

"Tell me, how dare you pass off your manuscript as your own?" I asked finally. "It's unthinkable!"

I expected her to call me "Dudu" and I would snap back, "Don't call me Dudu anymore!" But I'm a terrible fortune teller.

"Forgive me, Monsieur Dumas," Violetta replied. "I completely forgot that the manuscript's deadline is today."

"I could easily get a couple of days' grace," I continued. "Two days would be enough for me to write three such plays! And if I add a night, then four!"

"That's precisely why I thought it wouldn't do for the great Dumas to beg a day or two from the publisher, because that would signal to him that the play was completely unfinished," Violetta replied. "In that case, it would be easy to see that Monsieur Dumas hadn't even started on the play. After all, if Dumas sits down at his desk, he won't get up before he's written thirty or forty pages! So the play must either have already been completely written, or the great Dumas hadn't even begun writing it. But the very idea that Dumas might forget about the contract he'd signed undermines his reputation beyond all recognition. Whereas any play with your name on it is, by definition, magnificent, and no one would dare doubt it."

"You may be right, my dear, but I haven't even read everything you've written in my name!" I objected. "That's unacceptable! And if I didn't challenge your words in the publisher's presence, it was only because I imagined what he would think of you and me if we started arguing over something so important, something on which an author and his secretary simply couldn't disagree completely. He'd immediately think you were just my common-law wife, that I'd become so infatuated with you that I'd forgotten about the contract, that I'd never even picked up a pen since we started living together practically as a married couple!"

"You're right, my dear, Monsieur Chateren can't know the whole truth about us ," Violetta said, gently placing her hand on mine. "No one must know that I'm just your common-law wife, that you're so infatuated with me that you've forgotten about the contract, that you haven't even picked up a pen since we started living together practically as a married couple!"

"What a memory this scoundrel has!" I thought. "She remembered my phrase word for word and twisted it to spite me!"

“Vivi, I will somehow resolve this misunderstanding, but from now on I ask you not to go beyond the limits of your functions as my secretary ,” I said.

“Okay, darling, I won’t sleep in your bed anymore and I won’t let you into my bed,” Vivi chirped in a submissive, tender voice.

"Oh, my God!" I exclaimed. "That's not what I meant at all! I just want all your literary initiatives to remain under my control. In any case, I'm not happy about something being published under my name that I haven't even read."

"Don't be so quick with such assurances, my dear," Violetta countered. "No famous artist can protect themselves from the constant counterfeiting of their work in the future. Other artists will profit from your name. So it's only fair that some of these royalties end up directly in your hands."

It sounded disgusting, but from a logical point of view, it was impeccable!

“I propose that we devote all our attention to dinner and not spoil it with arguments on literary topics ,” I said.

"I'm making a clarification," Violetta replied. "I propose that we not ruin not only our dinner, but also our evening, and our night together."

She looked at me so tenderly that I thought, damn it, let her continue calling me Dudu.

"Just answer me one question before we start enjoying dinner, wine, and each other ," I said. "How will I know what you wrote next in this play of yours? What if the publisher asks me something about the next chapters? I mean scene twelve and beyond."
 
“Don’t worry, Dudu, you read the final copy, but I still have the rough draft,” Violetta replied.

This girl got the better of me again!


CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO



We completed the entire program planned for the evening and night. After morning coffee, I resolutely approached the desk where I had recently been doing nothing but reading. I saw the inkwell and candlesticks and felt the urge to comment further on Violetta's ridiculous acquisition, but I courageously restrained myself. I simply covered the entire display with a napkin and pulled the sheets of paper toward me. But my old inkwell was nowhere to be found.

"Violetta, is this your doing again?" I asked, trying unsuccessfully to sound good-natured. "But we agreed that your purchase would be returned to the seller! So, I need my old inkwell. Where did you hide it? I bet you've already transferred the ink to a new inkwell! But in this state, the seller will refuse to take it back! I'll have to clean it off, and that's not so easy."

"A couple of days won't change anything. Just use this set for two days while you write your new version of your famous play, 'The Youth of the Musketeers,'" Violetta replied. "Isn't that exactly what you intended to do? And then we'll say we mistakenly gave the publisher the wrong papers, that's all."

"But he'll have sent them off to typesetter by then!" I objected.

"First, he'll bring you the proofs, which will be tomorrow afternoon or evening," Violetta clarified. "That's when you'll figure out there was a mistake and hand your manuscript to the publisher. Two days of proofreading isn't that much money. If you like, we'll compensate the publisher from my salary, which, by the way, you've never paid me before."

I was about to object about the gifts and my expenses, but I realized in time that it wouldn't be polite, and besides, I knew myself that these gifts had nothing to do with Violetta's work as a secretary. So I had to admit she was right about everything except the inkwell. I sighed, removed the napkin I'd used a moment earlier to cover the silver obscenity, and began my work.

I wrote the first two lines without difficulty, since it was my name and the same title: “Youth of the Musketeers.”

Then I thought. If I keep the old version in front of me, the entire creative process turns into simple editing. New things aren't created that way. But without the old version in front of me, it requires too much memory. Perhaps it makes sense to just skim it, then put it aside, and start a new work essentially from scratch. That's a good idea. By the way, I don't have to write it myself, since I have a secretary! I can just sit on the couch or pace the room and dictate. While I'm doing this, I can look out the window, wind the wall clock, or tie my tie—in other words, do whatever I want. Like, say, drink another cup of coffee.

- Violetta, could you...?

“Right now, darling, I’ll bring you your first draft of the play and make us another cup of coffee,” Vivi responded.

"Is she reading my mind?" I asked, surprised. "Or am I thinking out loud? Or am I thinking too loudly?"

"You just looked in the desk drawer. I thought you might need the first draft of the play. I put it away in the nightstand," Violetta explained. "And then you looked at the coffee pot with such longing that I thought you wanted more coffee."

“It’s simple,” I rejoiced. “She’s not a witch, and I haven’t gone crazy yet and I’m not thinking out loud.”

Having received my play in the first version, I began to reread it.

YOUTH MUSKETEERS

PROLOGUE

(Presbytery of Vitry in Berry. Lower room, door at the back, door on the left; window on the right; large fireplace; staircase leading to the second floor).

SCENE ONE

(Grimaud stands and waits for Charlotte , who is descending the back stairs; then Claudette.)

CHARLOTTE

Okay, get your clothes and linens ready so the valet can pick it all up in one trip. Didn't they tell you the house was supposed to be vacant today?

Claudette

(From the door of his bedroom).

Yes, miss.

CHARLOTTE

(Notice Grimaud).

Ah! It's you, Monsieur Grimaud.

MAKE-UP

I brought a letter from the Viscount. The door was open, and I didn't want to ring the bell for fear of disturbing Mademoiselle. I went in and waited...

CHARLOTTE

Hmm... The Viscount is in the habit of passing through the presbytery on his way to the hunt... Why didn't I have the honor of seeing him this morning?..

MAKE-UP

Why did this happen? The Viscount undoubtedly showed prudence in declining today's visit out of caution...

CHARLOTTE

Out of caution?..

MAKE-UP

Yes!.. Yesterday the Viscount had a quarrel with his father...


CHARLOTTE

With his father!.. The Viscount quarreled with his father? But he is such a dutiful son?.. And what could have been the cause of the quarrel?

MAKE-UP

The old Count wanted to introduce Monsieur Viscount to Mademoiselle de la Luss;e ...

CHARLOTTE

Ah! to this beautiful orphan, who is said to be the richest heiress in the land...

MAKE-UP

Exactly!..

CHARLOTTE

Well?..

MAKE-UP

So, the Viscount flatly refused to make the acquaintance... under the pretext that he did not feel ready for marriage... He said so as not to go to Lussey ... but to come here... do you understand?..

CHARLOTTE

Well, well... Thank you, Grimaud. Let's see what the Viscount writes.

(Grimaud steps back. Charlotte reads.)

"Today, mademoiselle, a new priest arrives to replace your brother, whose long absence has led to the discontinuance of services in Vitr; ." Today! The new priest will arrive today?

MAKE-UP

Mademoiselle, it's been six months since your brother left... and for Christians that's a long time... six months without Mass...

CHARLOTTE

(continuing to read).

"But since you value this house where you lived with your brother, from today this house is yours; and I will recommend that the new priest be placed in another room. I have prepared him in the pavilion of the castle. So stay at home, do not worry and do not worry. Trust me, mademoiselle,
Your devoted servant
Viscount where La Fer .

MAKE-UP

Will mademoiselle have an answer?

CHARLOTTE

Perhaps not a day will pass without me seeing the Viscount...

MAKE-UP

Oh! Of course.

CHARLOTTE

So I'll wait... and thank him personally.

(Grimaud leaves the stage)

* * *

I threw the pages down with a sudden surge of irritation. Damn me! She's right. Grimaud is completely out of place in this play. He shouldn't be the Comte de la F;re's old servant! The Grimaud who fought through several wars as Athos's servant and squire couldn't possibly be the Viscount's young servant in his youth. He would know too much about Athos's history! And she's damn right that if Athos disappeared with Grimaud, it couldn't possibly look like suicide. So if he intended to make it look like he drowned in the lake, accidentally or deliberately, if he seriously intended to make it look like he was dead to his relatives and servants, he shouldn't have taken one of his servants with him. Therefore, Grimaud couldn't have been a servant. That must be corrected. She's also right that the Comte de la F;re's son can't be called the Viscount de la F;re. What nonsense! Where was my head when I wrote this?

I leafed through the remaining pages of my play. It disgusted me. Even more disgusted than Violetta's opus!

I'll look at the very end.

SCENE II

(The same, Athos appears , followed by Porthos and Aramis , Lord Winter and the Man V mask ).

ATOS

So you tracked her down?

MAKE-UP

Yes

ATOS.

Where is she?

MAKE-UP

Here!

ATOS

But she could leave this house if she decided to run away!

MAKE-UP

There's only one door and one window. Planchet guards the door, and Mousqueton guards the window.

ATOS

(Turning around).

Went.

MILADY

Do I think I hear footsteps?

ATOS

And where are the owners of this house?

TABLET

A woodcutter lived in the house. She asked to come in, citing fatigue from the long journey. She asked for a rest and sent the woodcutter to fetch the post horses to Armenti;res.

ATOS

And where is this lumberjack?

TABLET

We've detained him. Bazin is holding him five hundred paces from here.

ATOS

Porthos, at this door; I, at the window

(to the rest)

And you are here and there.

PORTOS

I'm already at my post.

MILADY

(shudders).

What's that? Someone's come over there.

(She looks at the window and sees Athos.)

Oh my God! I hope this is a ghost?

(She wants to escape through the door.)

PORTOS

(Aiming the gun)

Slow down , lady.

(Meanwhile, Athos broke the window with his fist and entered the room.)

ATOS

Put down the pistol, Porthos, let this woman be judged, not killed. Come closer, gentlemen, sit down.

We are looking for a certain Charlotte Backson, also called Countess de La Fere, then Lady de Winter, Baroness de Clarik.

MILADY

You know perfectly well that it is me!

ATOS

That's good. I wanted to hear this confession from your lips.

MILADY

What do you want from me?

ATOS

We wish to judge you for your crimes. You are free to defend yourself. Justify yourself if you can. Chevalier d'Artagnan, you will be the first to accuse.

D'ARTAGNAN

(Appears on the door threshold).

Before God and before men, I accuse this woman of having poisoned Constance Bonacieux, who died two hours ago in my arms in the Carmelite monastery of B;thune .

ATOS

My Lord de Winter, it's your turn.

MILADY

My Lord de Winter!

DE WINTER

(on the door threshold).

Before God and before man, I accuse this woman of having corrupted a naval officer named Felton, of having murdered the Duke of Buckingham, a murder for which Felton is now paying with his head... Murderer of Buckingham... murderer of Felton... murderer of my brother, I demand justice against you, and declare that if I do not obtain it, I will do it myself.

ATOS

My turn! I married this woman when she was seventeen, I married her in defiance of my father, I gave her my property, I gave her my name. One day, by chance, I saw something terrible. This woman had a brand on her left shoulder in the shape of a heraldic lily! That's how they brand thieves and criminals.

THE MASKED MAN

(Near the door).

I confirm this.

MILADY

Who said: "I confirm this?"

THE MASKED MAN

I!

MILADY

You? On what grounds? Only someone in the know can confirm this! I challenge you to find the court that handed down this vile and treacherous sentence! There is no such court! I challenge you to find the man who branded this and executed him! You won't find him!

THE MASKED MAN

(takes off the mask).

He has been found.

MILADY

(falling to her knees, in horror).

Who is this man? Who is this man?

MAN

Oh! I see you recognize me!

MILADY

God!

ATOS

Are you that person?..

HUMAN

I am the brother of the unfortunate man she loved, whom she abandoned, who ruined his soul, and then killed himself because of her!.. I am Georges' brother!

ATOS

Chevalier d'Artagnan, what punishment do you demand against this woman?

D'ARTAGNAN

Death penalty!

ATOS

My Lord de Winter, what punishment do you demand from this woman?

DE WINTER

Death penalty!

MILADY

Oh! Gentlemen ! Gentlemen ! You won't...

ATOS

Charlotte Backson, Countess de la F;re, Milady de Winter, Baroness de Claric, your crimes have exhausted the patience of men on earth and the mercy of God in heaven. If you know a prayer, say it, for you are condemned and are about to die... Executioner, this woman is yours!

MILADY

You are cowards! You are murderers! There are six of you to kill a woman! Beware, you will be avenged for me!

ATOS

You are not a woman, you are not human; you are a demon who escaped from Hell , and we are going to send you back.

MILADY

Murderers! Murderers ! Murderers !

HUMAN

An executioner can kill without being a murderer, madam. He is the final judge, that's all!

MILADY

Even if that is the case, in order for him not to be a murderer, he needs an order.

MAN

This order exists, here it is. "It was by my order and for the good of the state that the giver of the gift did what he did. Richelieu."

MILADY

Oh God! I'm lost!

ATOS

Executioner, do your duty.

MILADY

( In the hands of the executioner).

You have no pity! D'Artagnan ! Remember, you loved me! Will you really allow such cruelty?

D'ARTAGNAN

I can't see it, I can't hear it. It's a terrible sight! It's unthinkable that this woman could die like this.

MILADY

Oh! D'Artagnan , save me! I will be yours forever!

(D'Artagnan takes a step towards Milady)

ATOS

(Stands between d'Artagnan and Milady).

If you take one more step, we will cross swords.

D'ARTAGNAN

Oh no, Athos! Not with you!

ATOS

All you have the right to ask, madam, is to die with our forgiveness. I forgive you the evil you have done me! I forgive you my shattered future, my lost honor, my salvation, forever compromised by the despair into which you plunged me. Die in peace.

DE WINTER

I forgive you for poisoning my brother, for killing Lord Buckingham, for Felton's death. Die in peace.

D'ARTAGNAN

And forgive me, madam, if you can, for having provoked your anger with an act unworthy of a gentleman, and in return I forgive you for the murder of my poor friend, my Constance. I forgive you and mourn you! Die in peace.

MILADY

Oh! The last hope is lost! If d'Artagnan had made up his mind, he could have saved me. But he... There is no hope.

(To the executioner)

Let's go...

(To the Musketeers)

Beware! If I am not rescued, I will be avenged!
(The executioner takes her away)

ATOS

On our knees, gentlemen, let us pray for her soul, because a guilty but forgiven creature will die...

(Everyone except Athos kneels and prays)

EXECUTIONER

Let's go!..

(Athos takes a step, clutches his heart and almost falls, leaning against the wall)

D'ARTAGNAN

Athos!..

(Jumps up and picks up Athos)

Athos?..

(Athos pulls himself together, kneels down and begins to pray)

Athos...

(Milady's scream is heard outside the hut window, but it abruptly ends. The executioner returns, with a drawn sword in his hand)

EXECUTIONER

Now only God's justice is upon her.

D'ARTAGNAN

(stands up)

It's all over. Forgive us, Lord!

(Curtain)

* * *

My God, how disgusting! It seems I've entered a new genre. That genre is the horror book. I've outdone Shakespeare's Titus Andronicus in this horrific scene. For what, for what? Was it really to satisfy the public's thirst for brutal scenes, their insatiable thirst for the base and vulgar? Couldn't it have been staged more calmly and decently? My beloved musketeers look like cruel executioners. And is this suitable for a play that's not at all supposed to be a bloody tragedy of the Shakespearean kind, where all but the minor characters die in the end? After all, in this scene, the treacherous Milady has become the center of all events, like the unfortunate Joan of Arc, portrayed as a martyr! A nightmare. This scene, of course, needs to be rewritten, too.

So, I've read the first scene and the last scene of my play, and I'm categorically dissatisfied with both scenes. What on earth did that blonde girl do to me?

I pushed my play to the corner of the table. Then I looked at Violetta and tried to mentally invite her to bring me her drafts.

“Come on, Violetta!” I thought. “Bring me your play! I want it!”

Violetta looked at me.

"Would you like some more coffee, darling? Isn't that too much for one morning?" she asked in her soft voice, looking innocent.

"She saw perfectly well that I had postponed my play," I noted to myself. "She guessed what I wanted to ask her! She's making fun of me!"

“Remember, my dear, I will drink as much coffee as I want and whenever I want,” I replied, trying to soften the harshness of my answer with the gentleness of my voice.

“Of course, darling!” she replied. “I’ll make it right now!”

She's definitely making fun of me, there's no doubt about it!

“ You know what, my dear?” I replied. “When you read a masterpiece, there’s no desire to edit anything. That’s a dead end. Put that play of mine back in the drawer and bring me your drafts. I noticed that when I read them, I had a strong urge to correct everything and rewrite it in fair copy. Nothing stimulates creativity more than the sight of someone else’s mistakes. So bring them here, and then, if you don’t mind, make some coffee.”




CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE


Violetta brought me her draft. It was almost completely unedited. This convinced me she'd rewritten the entire text in a fair copy just to have a second copy. Had she really planned this whole charade with the publisher all along? Unthinkable! However, she could have simply kept the second copy for herself in case I started making edits to her final version. Well, that would explain the practicality of a second copy. Of course, only if she didn't have a third somewhere.

What difference does it make? I found the next scene and started reading.

SCENE TWELVE

(The boudoir of the Duchess de Chevreuse. The Duchess is sitting at a table writing a letter. The doors open silently and an unknown person in monastic habit, with a hood on his head, enters.)

MONK

Good evening, Duchess.

CHEVR;UZ

(Without turning around, he calmly folds the letter and hides it behind his bodice, then stands up, approaches the monk and kisses his hand)

Your Eminence, you have the wrong door. Her Majesty is in other rooms.

(The monk throws back his hood; it is Cardinal Richelieu)

RICHELIEU

You have excellent self-control, Duchess. You weren't even surprised or turned around at the sound of my voice.

CHEVR;UZ

I recognized your voice perfectly, Cardinal. And having recognized your voice, I realized that, as the Queen's confessor, you had simply entered the wrong door. So what should I fear? Does a priest pose any danger to the pious and honest Duchess de Chevreuse?

RICHELIEU

Firstly, I have not mistaken the door, as you could judge by the fact that I addressed you, so I understand perfectly well whose room I have entered. Secondly, all the doors, like all the rooms of the Louvre, like all the other palaces honored to be the property and residence of His Majesty, are familiar enough to me that I would never confuse the Queen's doors with those of her lady-in-waiting, the Superintendent of Finances and the keeper of her jewels, the Duchess de Chevreuse. So I have come to see you and have a quick chat.

CHEVR;UZ

If you weren't a spiritual person, a man's visit at such a late hour might compromise me. But for the Queen's confessor, the doors of my modest chambers are always open. Except, of course, when I'm changing.

RICHELIEU

And probably except when you write secret letters or read correspondence you receive.

SCHVER;Z

What are you talking about, Cardinal?

RICHELIEU

That's about it.

(He takes a stack of letters tied with string out of his pocket and throws it on the table)

CHEVR;UZ

I don't understand anything! This makes no sense! This isn't French, or Spanish, or Italian. It's not Latin either. If it's some other language, I don't know it.

RICHELIEU
 
It's a code, Duchess.

CHEVR;UZ

All the more reason! Take this away, I don't understand anything about it.

RICHELIEU

It's not nice to deceive a cleric, Duchess. You understand this code perfectly well.

CHEVR;UZ

I'm telling you, I don't understand what's written here!

RICHELIEU

In that case, please read the translation of these letters.

(He takes out another stack of papers and throws it on the table)

My codebreaker is no match for your naive cipher clerks, Duchess! He spent no more than two hours deciphering these papers.

CHEVR;UZ

(At first he looks at the letters with horror, then he pulls himself together and speaks calmly)

I don't know the handwriting in which these papers were written. This applies not only to the translation but also to the originals. I'm not familiar with it.

RICHELIEU
 
Of course, Duchess, these are merely copies of the original and their translation. But the original has also been in my hands. And I know not only the addressee, but also the author of these letters. The addressee is the Marquis de Chalais. Henri de Talleyrand-P;rigord de Chalais. Courtier of Gaston d'Orl;ans. And the author and sender is the Marquis de Lecu. Your gallant friend. By the way, is the Duke de Chevreuse aware of how far your friendship with the Marquis has gone? What are you saying, Duchess! There are so many dukes and princes at court, and you, n;e de Rohan, Duchess de Luynes by her first marriage, Duchess de Chevreuse, and therefore a close relative of the Guises , the Dukes of Lorraine, and suddenly some marquis? What a misalliance!

CHEVR;UZ

Have mercy, cardinal.

RICHELIEU

And you spared me? Your joke, when you sent me a letter in Queen Anne's name, saying that she showed me the highest favor, but would like to see how they danced the saraband in my homeland. And, knowing that in my youth I was quite a good dancer, she asks me to dance for her! She promised me that she would watch me from behind a screen, hidden only by the musicians, who would play blindfolded. And what came of it? I, like a jester, dressed in a dance costume, performed the dance of my homeland solely for her, and suddenly I hear laughter from behind the screen? And whose laughter? It turns out that it wasn't just the Queen who was spying on me, but also you and Gaston d'Orl;ans! Do you think I enjoyed this prank of yours?

CHEVR;UZ
 
Forgive me, for God's sake, Your Eminence! I had no intention of presenting you... in such a bad light. And what's wrong with a person privately performing the dances of their homeland? Besides, it wasn't my idea at all!

RICHELIEU

Duchess, a little lie breeds great mistrust. Don't lie. I know it was your idea.

CHEVR;UZ

Very well, Cardinal! I confess. I was wrong, I was stupid! Are you really going to take revenge on me? Is revenge proper for a clergyman?

RICHELIEU

Vengeance is not proper for a cleric, but it is proper for a prime minister to be concerned about the security of the state and the King. These letters expose a conspiracy against…

CHEVR;UZ

But I had no intention of harming you, Your Eminence! I know nothing about these letters! I bear no responsibility for the actions of people with whom I may be a little more friendly than I should be.

RICHELIEU

It's all a lie from beginning to end. You masterminded this whole affair, you influenced the Queen, convincing her of the conspiracy's success and profitability. You captivated young de Chalais. And you drew the Marquis into the plot, as well as other nobles, including the King's brother and many others. For example, Marillac.

CHEVR;UZ

I have nothing to do with it at all, I assure you!

RICHELIEU

Besides, the conspiracy wasn't aimed solely at me. If you had all turned against me, I wouldn't have resisted. I would have quietly asked His Majesty for my resignation. And retired to my estate, where I would have lived out my years in peace. But the conspiracy is directed against His Majesty! That's unthinkable.

CHEVR;UZ

My God! Did they really want to arrest the King?!

RICHELIEU

No, we didn't want to.

CHEVR;UZ

God bless!

RICHELIEU

As with all plots against royalty, the conspirators intended to kill him under the pretext that he had refused to allow himself to be arrested. And you are well aware of this. After all, it was your idea—the marriage of Anne of Austria to Gaston d'Orl;ans?

CHEVR;UZ

What a horror! How could you even think that!?

RICHELIEU

Well, Duchess, I've heard enough of your denials. They don't impress me, because I know the truth. I don't need your confession, because I have proof of your guilt. Irrefutable proof, mind you. So why did I come to you?

CHEVR;UZ

(Straightens her neckline and makes eyes at the cardinal)

For what purpose, Cardinal?

RICHELIEU

I came to consult with you, Duchess.

CHEVR;UZ

(Continuing to flirt)

Excellent, Cardinal! What advice do you need? About what?

RICHELIEU

I wanted to ask you this, Duchess. What would be more beneficial for the kingdom? Dealing with the ringleader of the conspiracy as law and justice demand, or perhaps she might still be of use to me?

CHEVR;UZ

With the head of the conspiracy?

RICHELIEU

With you, Duchess.

CHEVR;UZ

God! Deal with it! What a terrible word!

RICHELIEU

Let's put it more gently. Send them to Grevskaya Square.

CHEVR;UZ

This sounds even more terrible! Even more terrible than the Bastille!

RICHELIEU

Those who are still capable of reform are sent to the Bastille. Those who are incorrigible are sent to the Place de Gr;ve. But don't worry, Duchess. You won't be hanged, of course! A lady of your rank deserves to be beheaded. You can be proud to share the fate of your distant relative by second marriage, Mary Stuart. Another Mary of the Dukes of Lorraine. To share the fate of a royal courtesan—isn't it an honor?

CHEVR;UZ

Stop it! Cardinal, I beg you! We were such friends in our time!

RICHELIEU

Of course, because every betrayal comes from a previous friendship.

CHEVR;UZ

You asked for advice, I believe? Well, I give you this advice. No need for the Place de Gr;ve, no need for the Bastille, your old friend Marie de Chevreuse will be an even greater friend in the future. Whatever you want! Demand it!

RICHELIEU

But how can the head of what is already far from the first conspiracy be useful to me?

CHEVR;UZ

Oh, I don't know! Everyone! Tell me, dear Armand! I promise not to take part in any more conspiracy!

RICHELIEU
 
Don't promise what you can't deliver, because it's beyond your power. Besides, I need something completely different.

CHEVR;UZ

Anything you like, Your Eminence!

RICHELIEU

My conditions are these. You will be punished, of course, but not severely. You will be exiled to your estate for a short time, then the Queen will intercede for you, and you will return. All your positions and privileges will be restored to you.

CHEVR;UZ

How long will my disgrace last?

RICHELIEU

Not for long, just until all the remaining conspirators are neutralized, brought to justice, and, according to its verdict, each receives their due. Naturally, the King will forgive his wife and his brother, the Dauphin.

CHEVR;UZ

Sounds tempting.

RICHELIEU

As you understand, until the Lord sends His Majesty a son, Gaston remains the Dauphin, that is, the one for whom the death of His Majesty will open the direct path to the throne.

CHEVR;UZ

I pray day and night for the Lord to send the Queen an heir!

RICHELIEU
 
Me too. And yet. As long as things remain as they are, Gaston will never rest. Cliques of friends will form around him and the Queen, inciting them to new plots.

CHEVR;UZ

I will not participate in this!

RICHELIEU
 
You will participate in this, Duchess, in order to inform me of all the conspirators' plans. You will also tell me their names. Every conspiracy must be known to me. And before it is carried out, I must receive proof from you that it is directed not only against me, but also and above all against His Majesty. I must receive written evidence that will help me expose the conspirators. Do not fear, this will not harm your beloved Queen. On the contrary, it will protect her from harm. After all, the King is just and merciful. And the Queen is a representative of two ruling families, Spanish and Austrian. Such a Queen cannot be tried in an ordinary court. Even for the most insidious crimes. I will speak with His Majesty and prove to him that the Queen is merely engaged in friendly correspondence with her Spanish relatives, nothing more. I assure you, I will be able to protect the Queen in the eyes of His Majesty.

CHEVR;UZ

And Gaston?

RICHELIEU

The Dauphin? Of course! At least as long as he remains the Dauphin. But then, what business is it of yours? Or of mine?

CHEVR;UZ

If the King does not forgive the Dauphin, he will not forgive me.

RICHELIEU

That's fair. Well, it would be better if His Majesty's clemency extended to both the Dauphin and you. But remember, Duchess, the King's clemency rests on my advice—the advice of the confessor and the cardinal, the first minister and the secretary of state.

CHEVR;UZ

I see how merciful the Lord is, who sent our King such a brilliant first minister!

RICHELIEU

I will not make any treaties with you, Duchess.

(He takes the letters he put on the table and hides them in his pocket)

Remember, I already have enough documents and other evidence to send you to the Place de Gr;ve. Moreover, I will soon have in my hands the originals of those letters, which I deliberately let slip in order to catch all the fish with this bait. And my advice to you: don't try to warn de Chalais, de Lecu, or Marillac . They are doomed. And you... Well, you'll easily find new friends to chat with in your charming boudoir.

CHEVR;UZ

But I…

RICHELIEU

We've already agreed on everything, Duchess, good night.

(The Cardinal comes out)

CHEVR;UZ

Poor Marquis! Poor Count! What will become of them?

(Sighs)

Clearly. Grevskaya Square. Woe to them, woe to me. Well, against this backdrop, a brief exile to my estate isn't so bad. I'll go to Tours. Hopefully, not for long.




CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR


How ashamed I was to refuse to read my own play and choose to read Violetta's! But it was my desire, it was the only way to move forward with this play. So I humbled my pride and continued reading the next scene, the thirteenth.


SCENE THIRTEEN
 
(Fleury, residence of Cardinal Richelieu, park in front of the palace. Chalet enters, accompanied by eight like-minded noblemen)

CHALET

Gentlemen, now it's all over. Remember this day! The cardinal will come to us, we will arrest him, and then consider our task successfully completed.

FIRST NOBLEMAN

If he has servants with him, we may have to kill them.

THE SECOND NOBLEMAN

So what if I killed a couple of the tyrant's servants? There's nothing sinful about that.

THE THIRD NOBLEMAN

What if they resist?

CHALET

Don't worry, gentlemen! I've been to the cardinal's house many times. His servants are mere pages; they've never even held a weapon! If we risk finding anyone here, it'll be his niece and a dozen cats, along with a couple of secretaries with quill pens and a treasurer with the keys to his private treasury and a ledger of income and expenditure. The cardinal is a recluse; his servants rarely show themselves to him. We could easily arrest him in his own home.

(A young page comes out of the door)

CHALET

Listen, my dear sir. I know you, you are Anatole, I believe?

PAGE

Anselm, Your Grace.

CHALET

Yes, exactly! Anselm! Dear Anselm, inform His Eminence that the Count of Chalais has arrived with news of the imminent arrival of His Highness the Dauphin, Duke Gaston of Orleans. My friends and I will be happy to report to His Eminence all the details of the Dauphin's arrival and discuss plans for the gala reception.

PAGE

One moment, Your Excellency.

(The page goes out the door. At that very moment, from all sides of the stage and from the depths of the stage, up to thirty armed soldiers and two officers appear, all well armed)

CHALET

What is this?

FIRST NOBLEMAN

Looks like security?

CHALET
 
Perhaps an honor guard. In that case, we'll postpone our plan for half an hour, until they leave.

(Cardinal Richelieu comes out of the door)

RICHELIEU

Your Excellency, Monsieur le Comte de Chalais! I can't say your arrival came as a surprise to me, but I am nevertheless glad to meet you.

CHALET

I brought you news.

RICHELIEU

I also have news for you. Let's hear it from you first.

CHALET

I have the honor to inform you of the imminent arrival of His Highness the Dauphin, Duke Gaston of Orleans.

RICHELIEU

This is very opportune! Tell me, de Chalais, de Marillac will certainly come with him?

CHALET

Undoubtedly.

RICHELIEU

Will we also have the good fortune to see Madame de Chevreuse? And, of course, the Marquis de Lecu?

CHALET

This is not excluded.

RICHELIEU

In that case, it seems we can also expect Monsieur Lapierre?

CHALET

Who, excuse me?

RICHELIEU

What? That same Lapierre, the lawyer who lives near Rue Lubert! You don't know him? Well, perhaps I was mistaken. So, gentlemen, I thank you for the good news you bring me. Come in, make yourself comfortable, and be guests in my humble abode.

CHALET

On behalf of all my friends, I thank you, Your Eminence, but we still have urgent matters to attend to here in Fleury. Perhaps later, if you please, we could visit you? Later in the evening?

(He moves to the edge of the stage with the rest of the nobles and speaks to them quietly)

Let's go! The time and place are bad. He's on the alert!

(The nobles and Chalet bow and leave)

RICHELIEU

(to the officer standing nearby)

The carriage immediately! We are leaving for Paris immediately. You, Hercule, and Gerard will ride with me in the carriage, the soldiers on horseback, sixteen in front of the carriage, fourteen behind. Keep your pistols loaded.

(Everyone leaves)


SCENE FOURTEEN
 
(Gaston d'Orl;ans's bedroom, Gaston lying in bed. Cardinal Richelieu enters without knocking)

GASTON

Cardinal? How are you here?

RICHELIEU

Forgive me for disturbing you, Your Highness. Your envoy, the Count de Chalais, accompanied by two nobles of your court, arrived in Fleury to solemnly inform me of your expected arrival. I assumed Your Highness needed me and hastened to meet you. Apparently, I was too hasty, as I found you in bed. I most humbly beg your forgiveness.

GASTON

Do you mind if I get dressed? I feel awkward talking to the cardinal while lying in bed. But it's even more awkward talking to you standing next to me in my pajamas.

RICHELIEU

Don't be embarrassed, Your Grace! You have nothing to hide from the Holy Catholic Church, do you? Incidentally, you'll need to invite servants to help you dress. But the news I'm about to share with you isn't intended for their ears. So, if you'd like, put on a robe while I tell you the most interesting things I've learned.

GASTON

This is very urgent, I suppose?

RICHELIEU

You yourself are probably eager to know that the Spanish King Philip IV really liked your proposal and sent you his positive response.

GASTON

To King Philip IV?

RICHELIEU

Yes, to the royal brother of our Queen Anne.

GASTON

But why would I write to him?

RICHELIEU

This is precisely the question that has also greatly preoccupied me. But perhaps we will learn this from King Philip IV's reply letter? After all, in it he answers the questions posed to him by Your Highness! So, if you have forgotten what you asked him about, this reply letter will easily remind you of all the topics you discussed with him. By the way! I remembered! How could you have forgotten? After all, you offered the King of Spain a peace treaty, and he agreed to sign it! What commendable pacifism on your part and on the part of His Majesty the King of Spain! Wonderful, simply wonderful! But allow me... Hm... It bothers me that you are still only the Dauphin, and not the King at all, aren't you? But in that case, why are you proposing this peace? It seems to me that His Majesty did not appoint you as his ambassador to Spain and did not give you the authority to make such proposals. How is this possible, Your Highness? It's not going well, don't you think?

GASTON

My God, I just... I was forced... I was deceived... I only agreed to negotiate for peace...

RICHELIEU

Of course! Exactly. Just a little effort! And that's why you personally signed the draft treaty between France and Spain, consisting of... Let me recall... Twenty points? Or twenty-two? Well, what difference does it make! Yes, exactly, twenty-two! How could I have forgotten so much? However, I shouldn't complain about my memory. I can, after all, list the contents of all twenty-two points. Would you like to listen? Or perhaps it would be easier if I read you the letter from the King of Spain?

GASTON

I don’t know anything, I’m lost…

RICHELIEU

Your Highness, your royal brother, the King, is kind. And just. He will forgive you, of course. But you understand that he has much to forgive. High treason is no joke. Your Highness, be a good boy. Take a piece of paper and write down the names of all the conspirators. All of them. All of them. After all, if you forget to mention someone, His Majesty might think you're covering for someone! And then I can't promise you that I can convince him to be merciful and lenient. Believe me, Your Highness, pardoning state criminals is in itself a state crime. Only the King is permitted such weakness, or rather, such sublime mercy. Anyone else simply has no right to it! After all, leniency towards a state criminal is a crime against the King! You must, you simply must, write down the names of all the conspirators.

GASTON

My God, I can name them all!

RICHELIEU

I understand you're ready to name them, but I suggest you write their names in your own handwriting and sign your name below. Just think about it! What if you name someone, and God forbid, I forget one of them? That would make me an accomplice to the conspiracy, and, what's worse, it would cast a shadow on the sincerity of Your Highness's repentance! No, it would be far better if you compiled this list with your own handwriting. And don't delay.

GASTON

I'll write down all the names immediately! All of them! I won't forget anyone!

RICHELIEU

Of course, Your Highness. And feel free to include our Queen's name. I'll tell you a secret: His Majesty knows all about the role of our poor Queen, who, like you, was, of course, deceived and misled. Our gracious King is ready to forgive his wife and his beloved brother, but only on the condition of complete repentance. And complete repentance presupposes a full admission of guilt by all involved. So don't forget to include Her Majesty's name. You can begin with her. You can end with her. It's as you wish. Well, I'll leave you for a few minutes. But don't delay. I hope ten minutes will be enough. But I'm giving you half an hour. So, in half an hour, I'll come to you for the list. Don't forget to sign it. All the best to you.

(Richelieu resolutely left Gaston's bedroom)

GASTON

My God! Everything is lost! What a horror! No, nothing terrible, I'm not dead, the cardinal promised me forgiveness, my brother won't raise a hand against his dearly beloved younger brother! Or will he? "Cain, what have you done to your brother Abel?" Lord, but I was going to!.. What a horror! Am I really Cain? Lord, forgive and protect me! Where is the paper, the pen? Quick! Don't be late! Before it's too late!

He hurriedly pulls on his robe, gets tangled in the sleeves for a long time, then runs up to the elegant table, takes paper and a pen and quickly writes down the names of the conspirators.

(Curtain)




CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE


"Come to think of it, the idea of bringing Milady and Rochefort into the play isn't so stupid," I thought, finishing reading the next scene. "The little wretch has undoubtedly made use of my library and read, or at least skimmed, the 'Memoirs of Rochefort'—the clever forgery that Gatien de Courtil de Sandras wrote, among many other counterfeit memoirs."
 
Actually, I had nothing to be angry about. After all, I also used historical sources, and when those weren't enough, I relied on such low-grade literature. While Courtil's works are replete with fine detail, his works haven't achieved popularity; they gather dust as biblioCOUNTical rarities in someone's personal library. In any case, the publishers didn't make much profit publishing these multi-volume works. Of course, when a memoir consists of three books, each fifty pages long, only a fan of the historical figure would read such a book. Our enlightened nineteenth century offers such a wealth of literature that few are willing to sit down and read memoirs of fifteen hundred pages in small print. I wouldn't have been able to attract readers if I had published my Musketeer trilogy as a single five-volume set. Reading such a large book is too much work, and the most respectable public of our nineteenth century has become too lazy to read.

Of course, Courtil wrote in the seventeenth century, when good books were scarcer, and almost all memoirs were fake. Although the public was not warned of this.

This fool decided it was enough to take a couple of lines from memoirs or history books and string her flowery fantasies onto them! Well, I won't deny that my method is close to that, but she still hasn't figured out my main secrets. And I have many.

First of all, of course, each chapter should be interesting in its own right, like a separate short story. The reader should get their fill of pleasure from each chapter. And to do that, they need to experience certain emotions, different in different parts of the chapter. Well, I've already tried to explain that to her, but I'm not sure if she understood.

Secondly, of course, it's good to have royalty as the protagonists. Preferably kings, queens, and princes. Cardinals are also good, but experience shows that only two of them have interested my readers. Richelieu, of course, and, of course, Mazarin. I also wrote about Cardinal de Retz, but only while he was Coadjutor Paul de Gondi. After becoming a cardinal, Retz began writing his own memoirs, and repeating what he had written would have been unwise. Using it as material—well, a writer can afford that. And if anyone asks me to explain why I'm handling this material so freely, I'll tell them that even a winemaker doesn't treat grapes with the utmost respect. However, the fruits of his labors are much more valuable than the grapes themselves, which is confirmed by the fact that at every table throughout great France, wine is always required and especially revered, but grapes are by no means an obligatory component of the feast, and even if they were on the table, the attention paid to them by the diners would in no way be comparable to the reverent attention and respect that is given to good wine.

Thirdly, fictional heroes are also important, embodying all the strongest character traits. Both beloved narrative heroes and villains are extremely important—the more vicious and treacherous, the better. After all, the reader should be filled with anger when reading about their baseness and treachery! Even Holy Scripture is replete with villains.

Fourth, readers love to learn about the true, small causes of great events. They are captivated by stories explaining the mechanism by which some oversight or some insignificant event unleashes a catastrophe. Why wars arise, why thrones crumble, why kings go to the chopping block, why petty nobles become emperors, why courtesans behave like queens, and queens like courtesans, why events of universal proportions are driven by the passions of individuals—love, hate, unbridled ambition, greed, vanity, envy, anger. Few understand that anger is the fear of impending loss, that inordinate ambition and the fear of death drive people into religious fanatics, that extreme cruelty is born of the most pernicious fusion of seemingly harmless emotions, such as those I have already listed here. And few have discovered the true causes of nobility, generosity, and magnanimity. Therefore, readers will never tire of reading about the greatest heights of self-sacrifice, just as they will about the greatest depths of human baseness. Therefore, a writer must choose between artistic truth and the authenticity they can glean from personal observations of people, their characters and actions, and the extreme manifestation of extreme character traits and behavior, which they can observe far less frequently than a simple chronicler would need to be interesting. Therefore, a chronicler is doomed to dull descriptions; a truthful account of events will never attract the same innumerable number of admirers and fans of a given author as the simple truth, sometimes bitter, sometimes peppery, sometimes too brief, and sometimes excessively detailed. No one needs the truth. At least not on the stage or in fiction. It's boring, and that would be half the trouble, but it's inconvenient, because it exposes in us, the readers, the very same traits, perhaps to a lesser extent, than in the villains we condemn. Therefore, the villains described must be such that the reader shudders and under no circumstances identifies with them, so that he doesn't feel a shred of sympathy for them, while the heroes must be such that the reader feels a connection with them and thinks that just a little more, he himself could be capable of something similar. Or, perhaps, so that he wishes with all his heart for the heroes of the books success and victory, even in situations where salvation is impossible. So that the reader would thus believe in miracles and invoke them. But sometimes you have to disappoint him in these hopes, so that he doesn’t consider the book too easy reading, a fairy tale for teenagers, where truth and honesty always win, and evil always remains punished.

Fifth, mystery is essential. The reader loves mysteries. They want to solve them. They need to be given false clues so they think they've almost figured out all the secrets, but the writer must surprise them with the true nature of the terrible secret. One excellent technique for creating mystery is prophecy, mystical symbols, mysterious signs of fate, and so on.

Violetta, of course, doesn’t understand this, and if she does, she hasn’t yet learned to use these techniques.

Well, take this one, for example... I turned the page and continued reading. But suddenly, in the margins of Violetta's manuscript, I saw one word: "Haidee."

A shiver ran down my spine. Gaidee! A young, lithe, charming mulatto. Or whatever they call children born of a mixed marriage? The heroine of my novel, The Count of Monte Cristo!

Why did Violetta write this name here, on this piece of paper? And why did it catch my eye now? Today!

Yes, Gaide, of course, Gaide!

Now I remember my dream... My last dream. Yesterday. I was riding in my carriage. Down a narrow street, in Paris, I think. But perhaps in Lyon. What was I doing in Lyon? It doesn't matter. Someone's luxurious carriage blocked the road. My coachman got off to find out what was going on. He approached and began talking to the driver of the carriage blocking the street. Suddenly the carriage door opened, revealing a luxuriously dressed, veiled lady. Two footmen immediately jumped off the carriage steps to help the lady disembark—fold back the steps, offer her a hand.

The lady got out of the carriage, walked confidently towards my carriage, opened the door and entered.

"Madam," I said, "if I had known that you intended to enter my carriage, I would have stepped out and offered you my hand."

“Not a word, Dumas,” replied the lady.

“But first I would like to know to what I owe the honor of your invasion, to which I, of course, have no objection.

The lady placed the index finger of her right hand on my lips and pulled back her veil with her left hand.

I saw the beautiful face of a young, dark-skinned woman. She looked no more than eighteen. Her smooth, even skin was beyond praise, and its light chocolate tint made it even more piquant. Her eyes were oriental, her eyebrows sharply defined and bold, her nose strikingly perfect, her lips slightly moist, beautiful in both a smile and a smirk. In short, she was a dark-skinned angel descended from heaven to earth. Apparently, this is how the dark-skinned lady to whom William Shakespeare dedicated so many of his sonnets must have looked. However, no, the English understand nothing of true feminine beauty. Shakespeare's dark-skinned woman would hardly have been worthy of supporting this beauty's train, had she worn a dress with a train. But she was dressed in that delightful style which would have been equally at home at the balls of our time, as at the brilliant heyday of the Napoleonic era, or at the Restoration era of Louis Philippe.

In other words , she was a beauty of beauties for any decade of our nineteenth century.

I had a feeling I knew who this woman was. But it was only a feeling. Now I realized it was Haidee. Yes, that same Haidee, a figment of my imagination! But in my dream she was alive, she possessed not only appearance but also voice, she was made of living flesh, and she possessed a delicate scent... A scent that mingled the aromas of pine warmed by the July sun, fresh strawberries, and blooming rose hips. I felt what any man in my place would have felt.

"Dumas, move over, I need a place to sit next to you!" said the lady.

I didn't recognize her in my dream. But I wasn't aiming for that. She wasn't the type for long conversations. We had a complete understanding. My gaze lingered on her neck and her rather modest, shallow cleavage. She correctly interpreted my gaze and slowly unbuttoned her shirt, revealing to me everything I'd been looking for.

I hope there's no need to describe our subsequent actions. It's not hard to guess that an act had begun between us that requires no witnesses. In the subdued light of the carriage, whose windows were covered with partially translucent purple curtains, I could see all the charms of the lady's young, slender, and supple body. Her entire demeanor indicated that she was prepared for any reciprocal action I might take and approved of it in advance.

When my hand reached those bastions that respectable ladies surrender only to their lawful spouse or out of great love, I thought for a second, "What about Violetta?" But my hand felt such tender and passionate flesh, responding to my caress so unequivocally, that I didn't even think to answer that question. Whatever might happen later, now I desired only one thing, and it was within reach; it was already beginning. My fingers found themselves where something else should have penetrated, and I felt within me the full force of the inexorable elasticity of desire. My entire body and soul felt the exquisitely sweet languor of love...

But nothing more significant happened. I woke up. I realized it had only been a dream. The only thing I wanted at that moment was to fall asleep again and watch the dream through to the end. But it didn't happen. I didn't sleep. Sleep didn't come to me. The full moon shone through the window, I was in Paris, in a rented apartment, Violetta was sleeping quietly in the next bedroom. It was only the middle of the night. The best thing would be to fall asleep again. I tried to do that. For about an hour, or maybe only ten minutes—I can't say for sure—I lay there, and all my desires boiled down to just one thing: to fall asleep and return to this magical dream, to finish it to our mutual satisfaction. But sleep didn't come. Finally, I don't know when exactly, I finally fell asleep. But I dreamed all sorts of nonsense, not worth remembering. Moreover, in the morning I didn't remember this dream, which I am writing here and now on these sheets of paper. I didn't remember anything.

But, having read this name - "Hayd;e" - I instantly remembered not only the content of the dream, but also all the sensations that I experienced, and the smell, and the face, and the magical aroma, and the slender curves of her naked body... I realized that the visitor to my dream was called "Hayd;e", because I myself gave this name to the heroine of the novel "The Count of Monte Cristo".

I was communicating with my fantasy! No wonder, after all, every dream is just a fantasy of a half-asleep brain. Is it any wonder that fantasy contains another fantasy?

To my deepest and sweetest disappointment, I realized that the very sensation of all-encompassing pleasure I'd experienced in my dream, even before I'd begun the act so desired, the act that leads to the complete and ultimate intimacy between man and woman, had given me such a rich gamut of pleasant emotions as I'd never experienced in real life. My intimacy with Violetta was real, fulfilling, and entirely happy, pleasant, passionate... I experienced sensations of the most complete caress and passion. But for some reason, the memory of that brief moment with this fleeting and completely fantastical Haidee was stronger, sharper, more important to me. Even if I'd cheated on Violetta in reality, it wouldn't have been as dangerous to our love as this dream. But why did Violetta write Haidee's name in the margins of her manuscript? Was I really speaking in my sleep?

Oddly enough, it didn't bother me. Violetta wasn't my wife, I hadn't vowed fidelity to her. If I'd uttered the name of my novel's heroine in my sleep, it simply meant that creativity and fantasy hadn't abandoned me, even in my dreams. And so it was in reality. But there was something strange about this mystical coincidence—the name Gaidee in the margins of Violetta's manuscript, which caught my eye on the very first day after that strange dream, which, as I then thought, divided my life into "before" and "after."

“All this is nonsense, forgivable for a thirteen-year-old, but not for a mature husband who, on top of everything else, is in a relationship with a charming young woman and is enjoying the complete happiness of mutual love,” I thought. “Even if Violetta doesn’t love me, but is only pretending, I have nothing to lose, I have everything to gain, because I constantly find only confirmation of her sincere love. And this is much better than if she loved me, but behaved in such a way that I would have plenty of reason to doubt her reciprocity. And I have something to compare with, believe me! I prefer feigned love to genuine irritation concealing true love! So, I’m happy with Violetta; the only thing that irritates me about her is her claims to co-authorship, to my profession, and to my characters! The last thing I need is for this happiness to be destroyed by some strange dream! I must forget it. And I will.”




CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX


So, I returned to Violetta's manuscript. By the way, she mistakenly refers to the cardinal as "Your Eminence." It should be corrected everywhere to "Your Eminence."

I suddenly wondered if she'd made this mistake on purpose so I'd have something to correct? And if she'd also deliberately included Marillac among the conspirators in the Chalet conspiracy? She'd be capable of such things!

Well, these little things are easy to fix. I'll tell her to correct every single one where the heroes address the cardinal.

By the way, as for the passage where Richelieu discusses Marillac with Rochefort, this dialogue can be easily corrected.

I took up the pen and made my edits. This is what I came up with in scene eleven.

ROCHEFORT

I no longer have a relative named Mariyak!

RICHELIEU
 
Calm down, young man, this hasn't been established or proven yet, so you're still related to Marshal de Marillac. However, your zeal is commendable. But let's return to the conspiracy. It involved, among other things, of course, the vile assassination of His Majesty.

ROCHEFORT

I can't stand this! What treachery!

RICHELIEU

The Duchess de Chevreuse has conceived a marriage between the King's younger brother, Gaston d'Orl;ans, who, due to the absence of a son from His Majesty, is, as you know, the Dauphin, and will inherit the throne in the event of His Majesty's death, and - who do you think?

ROCHEFORT

I have no idea, Your Eminence.

RICHELIEU

Well, of course, and the future Dowager Queen, Anne of Austria.

ROCHEFORT

Could such baseness really be conceived and carried out at the court of the most just King Louis XIII and under such a wise and magnanimous prime minister as Your Eminence?

RICHELIEU
 
Don't get too carried away by the torrent of flattery, Rochefort, although essentially you're right. It's precisely baseness. And precisely under a most just King, and everything else you said. So, what about Marillac?

ROCHEFORT

Even if this is just a suspicion, I solemnly declare to Your Eminence that from now on I no longer have such a relative. Once this is officially established and proclaimed—and I dare not doubt the veracity of Your Eminence's words—no one in this family will dare call me their kin!

RICHELIEU

You haven't disappointed me, Rochefort. But I repeat, I have nothing against him. I only know his views, and I admit that in the future these views could lead him down a dangerous path. For now, you should treat him with caution, nothing more. And don't let him draw you into such a dangerous undertaking.

ROCHEFORT

I will be extremely vigilant, Your Eminence!

RICHELIEU

Very well, my friend. That's all I wanted to tell you. Go and deliver the letters to the addressee. On your way back, visit Lady Claric. What favor did she ask for in exchange for the idea of going to the Marquis with a cambric handkerchief with two "M"s?

I also deleted the mention of Marillac in the dialogue between Richelieu and Gaston d'Orl;ans.

So, the hand of Alexandre Dumas touched Violetta’s creation, and now she had the right to put my name next to hers.

I continued reading from where I left off.


SCENE FIFTEEN
 
(One of King Louis XIII's rooms in the Louvre. The King is looking at a painting. Richelieu enters, followed by his secretary, who brings in two large, heavy briefcases, places them on the table, and leaves.)

RICHELIEU

Your Majesty, I ask you to accept my resignation.

KING

Cardinal, what's wrong? Are you unwell?

RICHELIEU

I still have some strength and health left, sufficient for the ordinary life of a prelate preparing to soon appear before God's judgment. But it seems time for me to withdraw from public affairs.

KING

(Happily)

Are you asking to be relieved of your post as First Minister? But you will, of course, remain at our court and assist me with your wise advice!

RICHELIEU

Just long enough to hand over all the affairs to my successor.

KING

Your successor? But nothing's been decided yet! It's not easy to find a worthy successor to you, after all, you held so many important government positions!

RICHELIEU

And I have faithfully performed even more positions without being appointed to them.

KING

Which ones are these?

RICHELIEU

In fact, as First Minister, I am responsible for the work of all of Your Majesty's ministries. But, unfortunately, some ministries that should be created have not yet been created, so these matters also remain under my jurisdiction. Along with managing finances, the army, the navy, and the guard, I am also responsible for construction, shipbuilding, the procurement of weapons and forage. I am also responsible for judicial matters, and for this reason, I have to organize the work of investigative commissions and ensure law and order. I have to manage the maintenance of order not only in the capital, but throughout the entire state. And this is an extremely difficult task, since many of the highest officials in the provinces are not appointed by Your Majesty, as they should be, but are elected by local lords and grandees. In fact, France has not yet become a unified whole; it consists of separate provinces, where the rightful owners are their governors—princes, dukes, marquises, peers, counts, viscounts, and barons. They all act as absolute masters of their domains. Each has not only their own men to carry out all sorts of tasks, but also their own army. If they all conspire to stage a coup d';tat, it will be simply impossible to resist them. Your Majesty does not have an army capable of subduing all the rebellious lords of your provinces.

KING

(With a mixed feeling of fear and despondency)

Is it really that bad?

RICHELIEU

No, Your Majesty, it's far worse than I've described. I keep them in line only by preventing them from conceiving and executing a unified plan that includes the overthrow of the legitimate ruler.

KING

But why might they need this?

RICHELIEU

When a pack of predators, not the strongest but the most organized, manages to bring down a large prey, everyone gets their share. And even those who didn't take part in the hunt have good reason to hope to snag a piece. Power always demands obedience, and obedience is a burden to everyone. Everyone wants to be their own master. But if this were allowed, France as a state would cease to exist. During the reign of your royal father, Henry IV , he was constantly forced to suppress nascent rebellions. And his predecessors from the Valois dynasty found it even more difficult to keep France in line. France was, in fact, not a unified state. And even now, the Duchy of Lorraine lives as if it were not part of France, but merely its ally. Your father was King of Navarre, and this is a great blessing, since as a result of his accession, Navarre became part of France without any conflict. But Navarre is full of Huguenots. And where there are Huguenots, there is rebellion. All this is so complex that my successor will have a great deal of work to do to grasp everything and not miss anything. And besides, Your Majesty, I would not place much trust in this successor. After all, concentrating such great responsibility in one person also means concentrating enormous power. And from there, it's not far to treason. Therefore, I would be happy if Your Majesty did not appoint a successor to me, but took over all my affairs, managing everything independently, fairly and wisely.

KING

(Doubtfully)

I'm certainly ready to embrace all your features, but not so quickly! I'll also need a lot of time and effort to figure everything out.

RICHELIEU

I have no doubt of your talents, Your Majesty. Start with foreign policy…

KING

(In horror)

And foreign policy too?

RICHELIEU

Of course, this is one of the most important problems. However, in governing a state, there are no unimportant matters. To begin with, I have brought you only the most urgent matters that require immediate attention.

(Points to two briefcases)

Here are only those matters that need to be resolved in the next two days.

KING

All this in two days?

RICHELIEU

Not only that, but here are only the most urgent matters. For example,

(Opens the first briefcase, pulls out a small stack of papers and intends to give them to the King)

KING

Listen, Cardinal, even if you just asked me to sign all these sheets, it would take up all my time! When else will I find the time to read all this, understand it all, and make the right decisions?

RICHELIEU

Your Majesty, leading a country is a lot of work and a lot of responsibility, but I believe in your strength and talents!

KING

Listen, Cardinal, could your resignation be postponed for a couple of months? I mean a couple of years? Work for another three or four, five or six years, and then, God willing, maybe I'll start to understand some of what you've told me and find a successor.

RICHELIEU

Your Majesty, it is not only a matter of Your Will and my consent.

KING

What else could it be? Who else could prevent me from leaving you in your post for as long as I deem necessary?

RICHELIEU

I don't want to tell you. It's very important, but it's so delicate. Should I, Your Majesty's mere First Minister, come between you and your family?

KING

My family? Are you talking about the Queen Mother?

RICHELIEU

I have already had the misfortune of failing in my attempt to reconcile you with your mother.

* * *

I put the reading down. She's gotten too distracted from the plot. What exactly does she want to tell readers? I mean, what does she want to show viewers? The story of the rivalry between Richelieu and Chevreuse? Or Richelieu's struggle for power? For the strengthening of absolutism in France? Does anyone care? Are there people who aren't aware of all these twists and turns? She's simply presenting a mixture of facts, gossip, and her own conjecture on a topic that interests no one! Battles, duels, skirmishes—that's what attracts the audience! The development of the action, not dialogue. And especially not monologues. The audience will get up and leave the theater, and that will be a failure. It would be a good thing if a play whose author is listed as Violetta and in which the Musketeers are not even mentioned flopped. Well, by all means, let her mention the Musketeers, but not my Athos, Porthos, Aramis, and d'Artagnan!


CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN


Perhaps I'm needlessly upset? I drink too much coffee. It invigorates me, but perhaps it excites me too much. After all, d'Artagnan was a real historical figure; I don't own any copyright to him. And Athos, Porthos, and Aramis were either real people or Courtil's inventions. In any case, I borrowed them too. Can I claim originality in the plot? She's right again—I concocted my own dish from historical facts and gossip gleaned from my memoirs. Even the story with the diamond pendants. I merely smoothed over the obscenities. Indeed, La Rochefoucauld, annoyed that after he had refused the high post offered to him by Cardinal Richelieu to woo him, had expected that after the death of the cardinal and the king, as soon as Anne of Austria became queen regnant, or at least regent for the young King Louis XIV , she would repay him with a post no less impressive than Richelieu's. Especially since he had refused the cardinal's favors precisely on the queen's advice, and had been forced to serve a week or two in the Bastille. On this basis, he considered himself a martyr. What a Saint Sebastian! So this La Rochefoucauld was so offended by the queen that he invented all sorts of things in his memoirs. According to his account, when Buckingham was left with the Queen for a few minutes, hidden from prying eyes by the wily Duchess de Chevreuse, the Duke was so insolent that he pounced on the Queen like a poodle on... I won't elaborate. He claims the Queen screamed not out of fear, and certainly not in defense of her honor, but because of the Duke's careless movements, who, he claims, scratched the Queen's thighs with the diamond embellishments of his breeches, and not on the outside of her legs. The scoundrel! To slander the Queen like that! He also added that the Queen subsequently wrote to Buckingham to inquire whether, during this encounter, he had given the kind of salute in honor of the royal personage that would have led to her expecting an addition to the King's family in nine months. Thus, the implication that His Majesty in this episode acquired a headdress that made him resemble Moses, or, more simply, that his shadow began to resemble that of a mature male Cervus ruber , was extremely unambiguous. This is how writers can denigrate royalty, from which the latter should learn a lesson.

I remembered how Violetta had laughed at me for saying that my beloved musketeers had merely taken a trip to London, and not for free, and that d'Artagnan—the only one to make it there and back and actually complete the errand—had received a ring with a large diamond as a gift. Later in the other two novels, he and his friends constantly remind the Queen of this favor, and other characters, like Mazarin and Rochefort, also remember it. For a ruler of the Queen's stature, this is certainly not the kind of favor she's obliged to remember for thirty years. Especially considering how easily she forgot La Rochefoucauld's obligingness. Well, perhaps I'm being too picky. I look at the flaws of Violetta's play through a telescope, through a microscope invented by Leeuwenhoek, but I look at the flaws of my own novels with the telescope turned upside down, and I see them greatly diminished.

Well, I'll continue reading. I'll continue this self-mockery.


KING

(Sharp)

It's her own fault! You have nothing to do with it! You did everything you could and more! At first, I distrusted you precisely because it was she who promoted you. Everything connected with her still makes me distrust you! But you are the most loyal person I have ever known! I changed my mind about you after you tried so diligently, yet so unsuccessfully, to reconcile us. It's over, the Queen Mother will never interfere in politics again, she will have no power beyond that which she has in her small court. In all honesty, she should not have been left with even that, but filial piety prevents me from treating her as she deserves. So, did you mean her when you spoke of my family? Don't take it to heart, these are all completely insignificant details, they will not affect your powers and, I hope, will not hinder your work.

RICHELIEU

To my great regret, it's not about the Queen Mother at all. The conspiracy I've uncovered is… No, I don't dare tell you!

KING

Speak, Cardinal, I demand it.

RICHELIEU

Truly, I'd rather resign than utter words that would so upset Your Majesty. In these briefcases...

KING

Keep your briefcases to yourself and tell us everything you know about the conspiracy!

RICHELIEU

Believe me, Your Majesty, as long as I believed that the conspirators intended only to physically eliminate me, I did not want to interfere with them...

KING

Eliminate you? Attack the spiritual person, the cardinal? It's unthinkable!

RICHELIEU

Let me remind you that your royal father was murdered by the treacherous Ravaillac before the eyes of the good Parisians. And before that, his predecessor, Henry III de Valois, was assassinated by Jacques Cl;ment.

KING

But they were not priests.

RICHELIEU

The person of the King, the anointed of God, is even more sacred than the person of a mere cardinal!

KING

You're right, but don't say that! Those who plot against the Cardinal will be able to plot against the King as well!

RICHELIEU

This is the most terrible thing I must reveal to you, Your Majesty. As I said, I would not have prevented a plot against me personally. But when I learned that the conspirators were also targeting your sacred person…

KING

They're trying to assassinate me? You said they're trying to assassinate me? Members of my family?! Princes?

RICHELIEU

If it were only about the princes, I would have already prepared an order for their arrest and brought it to Your Majesty for signature.

KING

So is this my brother? Or maybe my wife?

RICHELIEU

Worse. Both. His Highness and Her Majesty.

KING

Gaston and Anna? Conspired to kill me? But they wouldn't have dared to act alone! It must have been a whole network of conspirators?

RICHELIEU

That's right. Here's the list.

KING

This seems to be Gaston's hand?

RICHELIEU

I told him that I knew everything and convinced him to make this list and sign it with his own hand to prove his complete repentance, obedience and readiness to accept any punishment.

KING

How did you convince him? Intimidate him? Yes, I know, he's a coward.

RICHELIEU

I appealed to his better nature. I reminded him of the story of Cain and Abel. I promised him I would plead with you on his behalf. I promised him that if you did not forgive him, I would resign.

KING

You're setting me unacceptable conditions, Cardinal! I can't forgive him, and I can't dismiss you. What nonsense! You should resign! Now, when I need you more than ever! When you've uncovered the conspiracy! It's impossible!

RICHELIEU

I beg Your Majesty to pardon not only your brother, but also your wife, our Queen, and also the Duchess de Chevreuse.

KING

Listen, Richelieu, this is too much. I can pardon my brother, since he is the sole heir to the throne, the official Dauphin, but why should I forgive the Queen? And why should I forgive that schemer Chevreuse?

RICHELIEU

I wasn't talking about complete forgiveness. Just a quick reference.

KING

For the Queen? Okay, fine. But for the Duchess – the Bastille, that's the best I can offer her!

RICHELIEU

However, I beg Your Majesty to send the Duchess to Poitou and to provide the Queen with one of your palaces to live in separately, so that she can reflect on her behavior and understand that only the birth of an heir and complete obedience to Your Majesty is all that should concern her, this is her highest duty to you and to France, her second and last homeland.

KING

Send him to another palace. That's good. You're right, Richelieu, escalating tensions with the Queen now is inopportune.

RICHELIEU

This is highly inopportune, Your Majesty! This will give Philip IV grounds to enlist the support of other countries and attack France from all sides!

KING

Yes, this marriage with the Spanish princess, planned and carried out by my mother, brought me no good! And she couldn't even bear an heir! And that vile Duchess de Chevreuse is to blame for it all! If not for her frolicking in the palace, the Queen would not have miscarried, I would have had a son, my heir, Gaston would have had no chance of claiming the throne, and he would not have plotted against me! This is what that vile and disgusting Duchess has brought me to! And you ask me to forgive her just because she... Actually, what is she?

RICHELIEU

She's a member of the Rohan family, and now she's also linked by a second marriage to the House of Lorraine. Do we really need trouble with the Guises? Now, when the Habsburgs threaten us from all sides!

KING

Hmm... You're absolutely right. See, Cardinal, what a bright mind you have? And you're still talking to me about resigning! How could I possibly agree to accept it? You see for yourself – you're irreplaceable!

RICHELIEU

I am only describing the situation, and the decision is yours, Your Majesty.

KING

That's all true, Cardinal. And it's not for nothing that I'm called Louis the Just. I will make the only right decision. Gaston—reprimand and forgive, the Queen—sternly reprimand and banish to one of the remote palaces, Chevreuse—exile to Poitou. But what about the others? You showed me a whole list! Besides the three people you named, who was at the head of the conspiracy?

RICHELIEU

Henri de Talleyrand-P;rigord, Comte de Chalet.

KING

The grandson of Marshal de Montluc! Listen, he seems to be in love with the Duchess de Chevreuse, even though he's married to Charlotte de Courtille, who is every bit as attractive as the Duchess?

RICHELIEU

The boy got so carried away playing that he completely lost his head under the duchess’s charms.

KING

You're right, Cardinal. He lost his head because of the Duchess. Not figuratively, but literally. I think the executioner at the Place de Gr;ve will explain it to him.

RICHELIEU

Your Majesty, my duty as a good Catholic commands me to intercede for every lost soul, but my duty as your subject and Prime Minister of France seals my lips. I dare not intercede for him.

KING

So that's how we'll decide. Chalet's head will be gone. You see, Richelieu, I can handle all matters of state administration on my own, without your help. I can, but I still don't want to. And I ask you not to even think about resigning! Promise me, Cardinal, not to even hint at resignation for at least the next ten years.

RICHELIEU

Your Majesty, I promise to obey you in everything, as I have done before, but my resignation may be decided against my will and even against your will.

KING

What's wrong? Who dares decide this issue besides me?

RICHELIEU

The knife of the new Ravaillac or the new Jacques Clement, Your Majesty.

KING

Nonsense! Starting today, I'm increasing your personal bodyguard to... hmm... You seem to have twenty guards? Increase that number to thirty, and I'm assigning you, from this moment on, fifty mounted arquebusiers, who will accompany you fully armed everywhere except the Louvre. Remember, Cardinal, I need your life! Take care! And prepare orders for the punishment of all the remaining conspirators. Everyone must receive their just deserts. Only then will we protect ourselves from future conspiracies.

RICHELIEU

Thank you, Your Majesty, everything will be done exactly.

(To myself)

The best way to protect against conspiracies is to infiltrate the ranks of potential conspirators. Now I will learn about plots being hatched from the Duchess de Chevreuse and Gaston d'Orl;ans. I should probably work with the Queen. It's imperative that she also inform me of any danger threatening me, for fear that these two might get there first.

(Leaves)



CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT


XIII's mouth . It was ridiculous. Louis, who himself had suffered from a stutter since childhood and had overcome it with great difficulty! Could he have used that phrase? Of course not. But it could be left alone, let it amuse those who understand the matter.

I picked up a pen and corrected "filial piety" to "filial piety." I'm definitely becoming a co-author of this nonsense!

SCENE SIXTEEN
 
(The courtyard of the castle of Castelmore, the estate of the d'Artagnan family. Old Bertrand d'Artagnan, the father, his wife Fran;oise de Montesquiou, as well as Charles d'Artagnan, his younger brothers Jean and Arnaud, and his sisters Claude, Henriette, and Jeanne)


BERTRAN

Charles, my dear, the time has come for you to go to Paris to follow in your older brother Paul's footsteps in the military.

CHARLES

Father, I've been waiting for this moment with impatience!

FRANCOISE

Don't talk like that, son! You're breaking my heart! Bertrand, is it really necessary to send all our boys to Paris? Just think, you're predicting a military career for them, completely oblivious to the fact that a military career could end at any moment!

BERTRAN

Fran;oise, don't be silly. Any person's life can end at any moment. Everything happens by God's will, but a person shouldn't simply expect happiness to fall upon them out of nowhere. Fortune must be helped, remember that, my son!

CHARLES

I will remember, father!

FRANCOISE

You just want to get all our boys out of the house and marry off all our sweet girls as quickly as possible. Maybe you'll kick me out of the house too? What am I supposed to do in this Castelmore castle when we're left alone?

BERTRAN

Don't worry, Fran;oise, you'll live to see grandchildren, and you'll still be able to complain about their disobedience and lament that you're tired of them.

FRANCOISE

Where will your grandchildren come from if you force your eldest sons into the army and send your youngest to become a monk?

BERTRAN

If you so desire grandchildren, why then do you reproach me for wanting to marry off my daughters? Everyone does it, and so will we. As for my sons, I cannot provide all four with a worthy inheritance. Should they all four live in the old castle? You know yourself, our fortune is not great. And in the royal service these days, people quickly rise and make a fortune. Look how our relative, Henri de Talleyrand-P;rigord, Count of Chalais, has risen!

FRANCOISE

What a comparison! He's the grandson of Marshal de Montluc.

BERTRAN

The Marshal is no stranger to us. But none of that matters. My old comrade-in-arms, Captain-Lieutenant Jean-Jacques Armand du Peyret de Tr;ville, currently commands the King's Musketeers! Charles, I've written him a letter of recommendation. He'll see how skillfully you handle all types of bladed weapons—the sword, the sabre, the dagger. The finest swordsmen in Gascony have taught you everything you need to know.

FRANCOISE

These lessons didn't come cheap for us.

BERTRAN

Moreover, the time has come to receive dividends from this deposit.

CHARLES

Mother, you will not regret these expenses!

BERTRAN

Don't get distracted, Charles. I wrote to him about how skillfully you ride a horse, how any horse senses a calf, how brilliantly you shoot a musket and even those new contraptions they call pistols. That you can even hit a cherry pit at arm's length from thirty paces.

CHARLES

From fifty, father!

BERTRAN

Don't exaggerate your merits too much, Charles. De Treville is also a Gascon; he will be able to distinguish bragging from truth.

CHARLES

I'm not lying, father! Just yesterday I was shooting at targets! Jean, Arno, confirm!

JEAN

Yes, that's true!

ARNO

Father, he speaks the truth!

BERTRAN

They love you so much that they'll confirm any boast you make without blinking an eye, even with their hand on the Bible.

FRANCOISE

Enough chatter, Bertrand. Charles, listen to me. I put three clay pots of balsam in your bags. And I'm giving you the recipe for making it. Be careful not to lose it. It's best to read it through thirty times while you're traveling so you can memorize it perfectly. You'll lose it in Paris anyway. My God, Paris! They'll rob you on your first night! Don't stay at a hotel. Choose a building with a room for rent right away. Don't neglect a room on the second floor; you can save money that way. I don't know if there are any three-story buildings in Paris, but if there are, you can settle for the third floor. And be sure to check out the landlady of the building where you'll be renting an apartment. She should be kind and honest. Don't look at your husband; they're all scoundrels and tightwads, everyone trying to cheat the poor guest. But if the mistress likes you and agrees with her on a small fee, the husband won’t even peep.

BERTRAN

Fran;oise, your advice is useless, but you, my son, remember it too, just in case. Now listen to me. De Treville loves brave, enterprising, loyal men...

CHARLES

Father!..

BERTRAN

Don't interrupt! I know that's who you are. But don't forget that you won't get a second chance to make a first impression on your captain and your comrades. Always be who you are, that's enough. Don't be shy, don't be embarrassed, don't be overly modest. The modest remain poor, single, and childless.

FRANCOISE

But immodest men probably have children not only from their wives?

BERTRAN

Be quiet, wife. That's not what I'm talking about. Charles, Paris is not Gascony. Be that as it may, I know that de Chalais became a count not for his military merits, but through the patronage of ladies of influence at court. I don't forbid you from taking advantage of such patronage, but be careful. Rumor has it that Chalais is overly in love with the Duchess de Chevreuse. Perhaps this is good for his career, but he is married. In Paris, they don't pay much attention to this, but you are a native of Gascony. Have an affair if you want, but make sure only the two of you know about it.

CHARLES

Father, I'm going to fight for the King, not to make grandchildren for you!

BERTRAN

One doesn't exclude the other, and besides, no matter what I tell you, and no matter what promises you make, love doesn't listen to parental advice. Even in cases when it should. So I won't give you advice about love, but I'm saying only this: don't make a woman your second captain. Don't follow my example.

FRANCOISE

Bertrand!

BERTRAN

I'm being honest, don't argue. I don't know what de Chalais achieved thanks to the Duchess's patronage, but one must always know when to stop. Believe me, the best lady who will protect you is your sword. Give my regards to Paul. Tell him we've heard of his successes and wish him to continue serving in a way that makes us proud. And you do the same.

CHARLES

Father, Mother, I will become a musketeer, and you won't have to blush for me! I will make such a career that our name will go down in history.

BERTRAN

What can you say? These Gascon speeches again! In all of us Gascons, this boasting is our alter ego. It's ineradicable.

CHARLES

No worries, father, de Treville is also a Gascon, and our glorious King is half Gascon, because his father, Henry IV , was the King of Navarre, that is, a Gascon to the core!

BERTRAN

Okay, okay. Enough. Everything we're telling you now, you've probably heard about thirty times already.

CHARLES

More, father. I remember everything, don't worry!

BERTRAN

Well then, hug your brothers, kiss your sisters and mother, and then you and I will hug, and on our way.

CHARLES

Armand with me .

BERTRAN

Why is that?

CHARLES

I'll hire a Parisian servant. There are many advantages to this solution. First, you'll need Armand here at the castle. Second, I'll only need one horse for the journey. I'll also save half my travel expenses on food and forage. Third, in Paris I'll need a servant who's more familiar with the city and its customs and traditions than I am.

BERTRAN

This sounds logical, but it is not very convincing yet.

CHARLES

Besides, in Paris I cannot have a servant named Armand.


BERTRAN

Why is that?

CHARLES

Armands in Paris : Cardinal de Richelieu and Count de Treville. I can't call him by name or scold him wholeheartedly, because people might think I'm scolding my commander or my prime minister. That would be unwise and even, I think, dangerous.

BERTRAN

Charles, you've convinced me. As bitter as it is for me to let you go to Paris alone, your reasoning is very sound. Well then, bon voyage!

CHARLES

(Shouts offstage)

Armand! Lead my horse. And you can unsaddle Jauni . I'll ride Raven, and you stay behind.

BERTRAN

Since you're talking about saving money and you're traveling alone, maybe you should take Jauni with you ?

CHARLES

Father, I would like to ride Voronoy. Your only riding horses will be Gnedoy and Zhawny .

BERTRAN

Charles, the boys love skating together. Which one of them will get Jauni ?

CHARLES

The devil take me! I just need to get to Paris, and then, with my sword and courage, I'll get myself the best horse Paris can offer! So I'll have to sell my horse anyway. Well, of course, it makes more sense for me to set out for Jauni . A mere two hundred and fifty leagues! What difference does it make what horse I ride? Besides, it's not the horse that makes the rider, but the rider that makes the horse.

BERTRAN

You're right, Charles.

(It's quiet for him alone)

Forgive me, my son, I would like to equip you as best as possible and give you the finest horse in Gascony. But we cannot afford it. Besides, a richly dressed rider on a thoroughbred should not ride the roads of France alone.

CHARLES

(Only the father is quiet)

Father, I understand the main argument. As for the bandits, I'm not afraid of them. My muskets are loaded, and besides, you gave me your sword.

(Loudly to everyone)

Jean! Arnaud! See you in Paris! Claudette, Henriette, Jeanette, don't be sad, my dear sisters! God willing, I'll visit my native castle, and we'll see each other again! Mother, I'll write. Father, I won't dishonor the honor of the de Batzes , de Castelmores , d'Artagnans, and de Montesquiou! Our entire family will be proud of their kinship with me! Mother, don't be upset that, unlike de Chalais, I'm not the grandson of Marshal de Montluc. In that case, I'll become a marshal myself! For a man who considers his ancestors insufficiently distinguished and noble, the path is always open to becoming his own distinguished and noble ancestor! You'll hear from me again!


(Charles says goodbye to his brothers, sisters, mother and father and leaves the stage. Curtain)

* * *

My God, what a scene. It's like the burnt sugar candies that mothers treat their offspring to at Christmas. No, that's not my thing. I won't make any changes to this scene, or there will be too many! And why did Charles's brothers only say one line each, while his sisters remained silent the entire time? Why bring speechless characters onto the stage? No, Violetta still needs to be taught the rules of playwriting.



CHAPTER SIXTY- NINE


I've been spending too much time reading Violetta's opus, and she's been leaving too often. Is this a good thing? Both of these facts make me slightly annoyed. I took a sheet of paper, dipped my pen in ink, and… thought. What did I want to write?

"I'll write anything," I thought. "The main thing is to start writing, then the narrative will flow, I know how I am! And then I'll edit, cross out the unnecessary parts, add what's missing, and then it will turn out well."

What nonsense! I've already started talking to myself, trying to persuade myself to write at least something! But what should I write? Start writing the play all over again? No, that's used up material! Read and edit Violetta's opus? Yes, I wanted that, but I wanted to return to creativity, and to do that, I needed to break away from reading. I needed to write anything, even just one word. I needed to stop thinking about anything, just write at least one word first.

My hand wrote: "Gayde."

So that's it! Without realizing it, I had given away my secret thoughts to the paper. I crumpled the sheet of paper and hid it in my pocket.

Perhaps I’ll start writing about how... No, first I’ll finish reading Violetta’s opus.

But while I was thinking, Violetta returned.

"Darling, weren't you bored?" she asked.

"I read your opus," I replied. "But I was surprised by one of your notes in the margins. Why did you write 'Haidee'?"

"So you'll remember her," Violetta replied. "Remember the words you used to describe her. Everything about her is wonderful. Her looks, her education, her intelligence, her youth. She's perfect."

"I don't think it's all as you say, but let's say it is," I continued. "I still don't understand why I should remember her? Why?"

"How can you not understand!" Violetta exclaimed. "Your Haidee is the embodiment of every man's dreams, she is love itself, she is Venus and Artemis, contained in one woman! She is smart and clever, she is a warrior and a goddess of love."

“So what?” I asked.

“If you met a woman like Gaidee…” Violetta suggested.

At that moment it seemed to me that she read my thoughts.

"I don't understand what this is all about," I said, shaking off the obsession. "I've met you! That's enough. You are both the embodiment of love and the embodiment of intelligence. I don't need anyone else."

“No, you’ve already exposed some of my tricks, and that’s why you don’t trust me,” Violetta objected.

“I have the right to do so,” I replied.
 
"Yes, you have that right, and you took advantage of that right," Violetta insisted. "If you, having that right, had brushed it aside, neglected your right, not taken advantage of it, and continued to trust me just as if you had no reason not to, then..."

"What would have happened then?" I continued to inquire.

"I just wanted to say that this is how Milady should be portrayed in your play," Violetta concluded. "This woman should have such an appearance, such a manner of speaking, such a voice, that no man could imagine that she is anything but an angel."

"Well, that's exactly it – you!" I objected. "Judge for yourself! I know your treachery, I'm aware of how you've deceived me several times, but I haven't broken off relations with you!"

"Yes, you continued to communicate with me, and even live with me, but you've lost your trust," Violetta replied. "And that's much worse. I'd prefer if you continued to trust me, as if nothing had happened. Or if you stopped trusting me, then break up with me forever."

"I don't understand anything!" I cried out in despair. "How can this be? How can it be worse for you that I continued our life together, how is it worse than if we had separated?"

"If you continued our relationship, making allowance for the fact that you no longer trust me, then you can easily come to terms with my shortcoming, which I know for a fact is one of your most important," Violetta insisted. "You removed me from the pedestal of 'angel' and reduced me to the level of 'temporary partner', completely without pain to your soul. And you didn't feel any irritation towards me. So, having lost a part of me, you didn't even feel any loss. This means you didn't love me, and, of course, you don't love me now. Therefore, I'm not fit to play Milady. She can't be based on me, and I can't play her in your play."

“What nonsense are you talking about?” I asked.

"And now my words only surprise you, but they don't anger you," Violetta continued. "But if you were afraid of losing me and saw that it could happen, you'd be angry. But you're not angry because you're ready for us to part. You so easily discarded perhaps the most important thing in our relationship—your trust in me! That means you'll easily discard everything else, too. Your imaginary Gaidee probably means much more to you than the real Violetta. That's why I wrote her name in the margins of the page you were supposed to read today."

"You're a master at starting a fight out of the slightest thing," I said. "And even the absence of even the slightest thing isn't a hindrance to you. You can create an unpleasant conversation out of nothing."

"Women start unpleasant conversations to sort out unpleasant circumstances, hoping that once everything is clarified, those circumstances will disappear or at least weaken," Violetta countered. "And men initiate unpleasant conversations only when..."

"Never!" I replied. "Men never initiate unpleasant conversations with a woman they love. Or, at the very least, with whom they want to maintain a good relationship."

"You're basically right," Violetta agreed. "You can be proud of that, just as a surgeon would be proud of never using a scalpel, so as not to harm the patient."

“That’s something completely different!” I objected.

“It’s the same thing!” Violetta insisted.

"Listen, darling, we were discussing your opus, but you switched to discussing our relationship and started insisting that I don't love you, from which I conclude that you want to break up with me, which is not what I want at all," I said, trying to remain as calm as possible. "Although, to be honest, if every conversation we have turns into figuring out whether I love you... No, into you insisting that you know better than me who I love and who I don't love, that you read my heart better than I do, that you know something about me, and that I... In short, you see me as a much worse person than I really am, and you tell me this with an air of wounded pride."

"After such words, we should start arguing loudly, then go to our rooms and not talk for three days," said Violetta. "No, a week. A month. Three months."

"I'm not going to sulk for even a minute," I objected. "Let's continue our literary debate. So, Milady is supposed to be such that any man must believe her at any cost? Very well. Then why didn't Athos listen to her, but immediately... Well, anyway, you know what he did."

“It’s all of us, your readers, who must ask you why he did it,” Violetta retorted. “I believe it was one of two things. Either he was so madly in love with her, he saw her as an angel descended from heaven, that he couldn’t even imagine that she could spring such an unexpected surprise on him. He was disillusioned not only with her, but with life in general. That’s why he decided to commit suicide, and that’s why he also attempted to take her life. This version reveals him to be an unbalanced man, a danger to society, and certainly leaves no chance of calling him ‘the noble Athos.’ The other version is what I told you. He should have first conducted his own investigation, which would have convinced him absolutely that she should be executed, and in a manner even more cruel than the one he chose for her. But even in that case, he should have poisoned her, not hanged her. He shouldn’t have chosen such a torturous method of execution.” Therefore, we reject the second version, but this makes your Athos a villain. And if we remember that he dared to take her life a second time, then your Athos is simply a monster!

"This is unbearable!" I objected. "Three books. Five voluminous volumes of the trilogy about my musketeers! In this trilogy, Athos is the most noble man of them all, perhaps not counting d'Artagnan himself! And suddenly this! And you, the one who said you were crazy about my novels, are telling me this!"

"Another part of me you adored has ceased to matter to you," Violetta remarked with a sarcastic smile. "Well, now you'll drive me away, of course? Or will you keep me for the sake of my body? Do you still want me, even though you disagree with everything I say?"

"What does your body have to do with this?" I asked in a tired and indifferent voice.

"But doesn't it have anything to do with it?" Violetta asked sarcastically. "Really? Monsieur Dumas, are you no longer interested in my body? Is that what interests you?"

She bared her shoulder.

"There's no lily here, look, Mr. Writer!" she said, bringing her bare shoulder close to my face. "Not only has no executioner ever touched this shoulder, but no man besides you has either! Do you appreciate it? Would you like to stroke it?"

“Stop making jokes, Vivi,” I said, trying to pretend to be indifferent.

"You don't like the left shoulder, maybe you'll like the right one?" Violetta asked.

With these words, she bared her other shoulder and this time brought it closer to my face. The scent of the Cologne water I had given her, mixed with hers, was magical. I wanted to touch her shoulder with my lips, but I decided to control myself.

"I'm not in the mood right now," I said hesitantly. "And then after that conversation. Men don't get excited by arguments with their partners, you should know that. Maybe after, but right now I..."

"And you're not even interested in that?" Violetta asked, throwing off her blouse and bringing her tender breasts closer to my eyes.

- Listen, Vivi, my dear, why did you have to start this stupid thing in the first place...

"Like this?" Violetta whispered, taking my head in both hands and burying my face between her breasts.

Damn it all! I gave in. I mean, I went on the offensive, which is exactly what she wanted. Well, you know the kind of battle I'm talking about. The one where there are no losers, where both sides are winners. Where every bastion is happy to surrender to the onslaught they themselves provoked. We were in love again, complete understanding and mutual adoration. All thoughts of Gaidee vanished from my head and from my memory. Because Violetta was that Gaidee—the one who brings such intense pleasure that the mere memory of it makes the heart flutter.



CHAPTER SEVENTY


I woke up early that morning, realizing I'd wasted a day on some nonsense. The publisher could come at any moment. But taking advantage of the fact that Violetta was still asleep, I continued reading.

SCENE SEVENTEEN
 
(The house of the Count de Chalais. The Count is sitting at the table, writing a letter. A servant enters)

SERVANT

Count, your godfather, Monsieur de Valence, is here to see you.

CHALET

Ask!

(The servant leaves, de Valen;ay enters)

VALANCE

Chalet, my friend! What saddens you?

CHALET

And there's reason to despair! Imagine! We almost arrested Richelieu. But it all fell through! The Cardinal, who didn't bother with security at home, by pure chance surrounded himself with armed soldiers and officers. We would have defeated them all if there hadn't been so many of them. Twenty of them, against nine of us.

VALANCE

You said you were going to arrest the cardinal?!

CHALET

Of course ! Everyone dreams of it, but no one can bring themselves to do it. Anyone who did would be a hero!

VALANCE

And then, by what right did you intend to do this?

CHALET

By right of the strongest. He wouldn't have escaped us if he'd been alone, as usual, and there were nine of us. And why did he suddenly decide to invite such a guard to his home? Of course, it was an accident, but such bad luck! No matter, we'll have another chance to finish the job!

VALANCE

What next? Have you considered that the King might order the Cardinal's release and arrest you all?

CHALET

Everyone knows that the King dreams of nothing but getting rid of the Cardinal and his guardianship over him!

VALANCE

How do you know this?

CHALET

Everyone is talking about it.

VALANCE

Everyone is a nobody. Someone had to start this rumor! If the King really wanted to get rid of the cardinal, he would have done it. Who could stop him?

CHALET

You don't understand. The King is indecisive. He doesn't do everything he wants.

VALANCE

I wouldn't call a man indecisive who ordered the assassination of the all-powerful Marshal d'Ancre, his mother's lover—the reigning Queen, by the way—and then sent his mother into exile. Such actions require a certain amount of decisiveness.

CHALET

Believe me, he didn't decide anything himself; others decided for him. I know that!

VALANCE

How do you know so much? Let me guess. From the Duchess de Chevreuse, of course! Ha-ha!

CHALET

You're laughing in vain! The Duchess knows the workings of the royal family firsthand. She's part of the family herself, if you ask me . She's the Queen's closest friend.

VALANCE

First of all, she's a schemer. Everything you learned from her is a bunch of fairy tales, designed to confuse you and lure you into plotting.

CHALET

Even if half of what you say is true, the game is still worth the candle.

VALANCE

I see that the Duchess has worked on you quite a bit.

CHALET

Don't speak badly about her!

VALANCE

I won't. I know you're head over heels in love with her, poor boy! But she's no match for you. You have a young wife. What's wrong with her?

CHALET

She is boring, whereas the Duchess...

VALANCE

Tells you gossip about the royal family and flatters your vanity with unrealistic hopes.

CHALET

Why unrealistic?

VALANCE

Well, tell me, how did she manage to persuade you to do this?

CHALET

She didn't push me. I volunteered.

VALANCE

Tell me stories! I'm sure I believed you!

CHALET

Well, fine, even if you're right. It doesn't change anything. She once said to me: "You say you love me, Count, but you've never once thought of giving me any pleasure."

VALANCE

Provocation.

CHALET

I replied, "Ask me whatever you wish." Then the Duchess told me about the plan to overthrow the cardinal. I said I would lead the charge and even arrest the cardinal myself, and if necessary, kill him.

VALANCE

Madman! Don't you think this is only part of the plan? Don't you think the plan also includes eliminating the King? After all, it's in the Duchess's interests to have the Dauphin on the throne!

CHALET

I won't argue with you. You might have guessed right. But let's not get ahead of ourselves. If Gaston takes the throne, the Duchess certainly won't be offended by him. And in that case, it will only be better for me.

VALANCE

So you were going to arrest the cardinal at his summer residence in Fleury -en- Bi;res , just four kilometers from Fontainebleau.

CHALET

Yes, Monsieur, Duke Gaston of Orleans, intended to pay a visit there.

VALANCE

But after the cardinal had been arrested?

CHALET

Yes, of course. Gaston himself wouldn't have dared to arrest the cardinal.

VALANCE

To risk your neck to replace one indecisive King with another, even more indecisive! You're crazy, Chalet!

CHALET

No more mad than those who obey the cardinal, not realizing that he will soon deprive the grandees of all their privileges, and even throw some of them into the Bastille!

VALANCE

So what are you going to do now that your plan has failed?

CHALET

I'll wait for another more suitable opportunity and implement it.

VALANCE

Listen, godson. I think it would be best if you abandoned your plan. I advise you to go far away. Go to Beynac Castle or Castelnau Castle . Sit there until the noise dies down. In a month or two, you'll return as if nothing had happened.

CHALET

Should I leave? Why?

VALANCE

For the simple reason that, it seems to me, it was no accident that the cardinal found himself surrounded by soldiers and officers, a total of twenty people.

CHALET

This is simply ridiculous! Am I supposed to behave like a young horse, frightened by its own shadow? Never! I'll see this through to the end. Otherwise, the Duchess will laugh at me.

VALANCE

What do you need with this duchess? You've completely lost your mind.

CHALET

Well, I'm not offended, because in true love there is always something of madness.

VALENCE

That's certainly true, but not every madness is true love. I'm afraid it's simply ambition in this case. You want to be the lover of the Queen's best friend.

CHALET

Ah, I myself don’t know whether you’re right or not.

VALENCE

So, are you going to Beynac Castle or Castelnau ? I recommend Castelnau . It has a belt of fortifications.

CHALET

I won't go anywhere, everything is decided.

VALANCE

Well, whatever you want. By the way, I almost forgot! I came to you for the Muscat. de Rivesaltes, the kind that helps you sleep so well. Everyone knows that in your P;rigord region, this wine is the best for sleep.

CHALET

Yes, of course, let Anatole give you six bottles.

VALANCE

Thank you, Chalet, thank you! But still, think about a trip to Castelnau . Stay healthy!

(Walks to the edge of the stage, says to himself)

The Cardinal clearly knows everything! This boy will send us all to the Place de Gr;ve! The Cardinal will deal with everyone – friends, relatives, even his godfather. Chalet has completely lost his mind, damn him. There's only one way to salvation! I must forestall the Cardinal's revenge. Write him a letter and expose the conspiracy. I'll write that as soon as I accidentally learned of this plot, I immediately reported it. Damn it, the letter will take a long time to arrive, I might not make it! I'll bring it to the Cardinal personally!

(Leaves)

* * *
 
Why did she need to weave into the plot the idea that the cardinal learned of the conspiracy from Valen;ay? Wasn't it enough that Rochefort solved the case?




CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE


But imagine my surprise when I further discovered scene eighteen? Judge for yourself.

SCENE EIGHTEEN
 
(There, a servant enters)

SERVANT

Count, Count de Louvigny has arrived to see you .

CHALET

Call.

(The servant leaves, de Louvigny enters )


LOUVIGNY

Hello, Chalet. Where is your godfather going in such a hurry?

CHALET

To his home, to sleep. You see, he can't sleep, so he came to me for a few bottles of Muscat. de Rivesaltes .

LOUVIGNY

You know, I haven't been able to sleep lately either! These are the times! The war and everything else...

CHALET

When has France ever not waged war? At least, a foreign war is better than a civil one.

LOUVIGNY

That's true. I just can't get used to it.

CHALET

If you want to change something, join me.

LOUVIGNY

Aren't we already friends? Where else should I join?

CHALET

Let's get down to business.

LOUVIGNY

What are you saying, my dear! What other business? Don't you know there's nothing sweeter than idleness? Was it worth being a count to be busy with business?

CHALET

I'm talking about a business that will bear fruit for the rest of your life!

LOUVIGNY

Piracy? Treasure hunts? Crusades? No, my friend, no more! I have enough money of my own to avoid such ventures.

CHALET

What do you think about hunting?

LOUVIGNY

Well, hunting is fun. I don't turn down fun. What are we going to hunt? Deer? Boar? Fox? Wolf?

CHALET

A special kind of game. This game is as strong as a boar, as cunning as a fox, as proud as a deer, and as courageous as a wolf.

LOUVIGNY

I am weak in zoology, but it seems to me that we do not have such game in the forests of France.

CHALET

There is one. Red, like a boiled lobster.

LOUVIGNY

Cardinal! Are you planning to bring down Richelieu?

CHALET

How do you like this plan?

LOUVIGNY

You're crazy!

CHALET

Listen, it's all already decided! It's going to happen, no matter how you feel about it. It didn't work out once, but it will work out twice. We'll ambush him at the bedroom door!

LOUVIGNY

Be careful not to be waylaid at the exit from anywhere. But the end result will be that you'll only leave the Bastille after this, and only to go to the Place de Gr;ve.

CHALET

You're saying the same thing!

LOUVIGNY

Who else?

CHALET

Nobody, forget it. So, are you with me?

LOUVIGNY

Of course, I'm with you!

CHALET

This is a true friend!

LOUVIGNY

Yes, I am your true friend, and I am with you, and therefore, as your friend, I insist that you immediately write a letter of repentance to the Cardinal, lay out your plan to him, and write that you yourself, of your own free will, after sober reflection, have abandoned it. And write down the names of all the conspirators. After that, rush to the Cardinal as quickly as possible, to get ahead of any other conspirators who might come up with this idea before me.

CHALET

No way.

LOUVIGNY

Please listen to me. Do as I advise you.

CHALET

Firstly, never, secondly, it’s too late.

LOUVIGNY

It's never too late to abandon a suicidal plan, but it may be too late to repent. Once you're caught, you'll be heard, of course, but that won't make your sad fate any easier.

CHALET

Friend Louvigny , I have already decided everything, and this conversation is burdensome to me.

LOUVIGNY

Well, as you wish. Then I think I'll leave you.

CHALET

Yes, Louvigny . Tell Anatole to give you six bottles of Muscat. de Rivesaltes .

LOUVIGNY

Thank you, Chalet. It's a friendly gesture! But you should still think about my offer. And don't take too long! It might be too late!

CHALET

All the best, be healthy.

( Luvigny nods and goes to the edge of the stage. Then he says to himself)

The devil take him and this whole conspiracy! If he doesn't want to reveal everything to the Cardinal and repent, that's his business. But if they start investigating, and his servants testify that I visited him the day before, I won't be able to get away with it! They'll nab me too. Chalet is certainly a pleasant man, but his company isn't so enjoyable that I'd rush to share his latest performance on the Place de Gr;ve with him. I must go to the Cardinal and tell him everything. And in case he already knows everything and I'm seized right there in his waiting room, I must first write it all down in a letter. I'll write that as soon as I learned of this conspiracy, I began to dissuade Chalet, and since that didn't work, I decided to warn His Eminence of the danger threatening him. No time to waste! Hurry! But I must definitely take wine. If they ask me why I came to Chalet, I'll have a ready answer: I came for the best soporific wine in P;rigord. And Chalet won't be able to deny it. The last phrase sticks in my mind. It works to my advantage.

(Leaves)


* * *
 
So, this rogue has pieced together all the versions. Historians are puzzled over who exactly informed the cardinal about the conspiracy, and this beauty decided to reply that everyone did. Well, now I understand her plan. She wanted to demonstrate that even then, Richelieu had entangled all of France, or at least all of Paris, in a network of willing informants. And not even a network of informants, but an atmosphere of general fear. Those who learned of anything seditious rushed to inform the cardinal, lest they be accused of concealment and, therefore, complicity. Well, that even seems to be true.

I put the manuscript down and glanced at Violetta. It turned out she was already awake and was pleased to see me continuing to read her opus. Well... She'll get up soon, freshen up after sleep, and make some coffee, after which we'll go have breakfast. And while she's fussing around making coffee, I'll have time to read one more scene.




CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO


After our morning coffee we were about to go to breakfast, but just as we were about to leave our home, the publisher showed up.

"Good morning, Monsieur Chateren!" I said. "To what do I owe this early visit? Have you brought the proofs?"

"Good morning, Monsieur Dumas, good morning, Mademoiselle Parisot," replied the publisher. "Yes, of course, and I also wanted to ask you a few questions, Monsieur Dumas."

"We're heading to breakfast, and I invite you to join us, Monsieur Chateren," I replied. "Even if you've already had breakfast, an extra cup of coffee with a crispy roll and a couple of cookies won't dampen your spirits, I hope. That way, we can save time and spend breakfast in what I hope will be a pleasant conversation."

“I am very flattered, Monsieur Dumas, by your invitation, but we can perhaps resolve my questions on the way, so that my person will not burden your company for more than a few minutes.”

“You are not burdening us at all; on the contrary, we would be happy to share breakfast with you,” Violetta intervened.

Well, she took on the role of hostess and acted as if we were married. But I was in a great mood and didn't pay any attention to it.

"Okay, I'll walk you to the restaurant, and we'll decide from there," the publisher replied. "I have a lot of other things to do, so if my questions are resolved along the way, I won't keep you any longer."

"If you're in a hurry, ask your questions right now," I replied. "You probably want to know why the new version of the play doesn't maintain the unity of the setting and the characters."

“You anticipated my questions, Monsieur Dumas, and formulated them with the utmost clarity and brevity, while I was still only searching for the appropriate phrases,” replied Chateren.

"Because it wasn't me who wrote this play, but Violetta, you old ass!" I wanted to reply. "And this young brat has no idea about such things as the unity of time, action, and characters!"

But instead, I enlightened our dear publisher, to whom the epithet “old” was far from appropriate, I simply had a dying desire to call him exactly that.

"You see, dear Monsieur Chateren, you've probably already noticed that in the first version of my play, I didn't observe the unity of time," I replied. "You see, this is a new trend, to which I have the honor of initiating a new beginning. This has already been seen in some plays, but I decisively break with the old canons. The audience is not at all obliged to watch a play where everything unfolds at the same pace as in life. If several years have passed between individual events, that doesn't bother me. The prologue can take place several years before the first act, and I also allow any time interval between the first and second acts. Just as between any other acts, no matter how many there are.

“This is completely understandable and fair; this canon has long been violated by many authors,” Shateren agreed.

"Listen to me, and you'll understand everything," I continued. "In my new play, I've gone further. I've abandoned the unity of place and the unity of characters. I introduce as many characters as I deem necessary, and I change the setting as often as I wish."

"But this is, in a sense, a dramatic work, and not a novel, or, say, a story," Shateren objected weakly. "Regarding the unity of space, can a theater afford to make fifteen or twenty sets for a single play?"

I decided to be completely brazen.

“Thirty or fifty sets, if I need them, my dear Monsieur Chateren!” I continued confidently. “Note that I don’t demand high quality for these sets. For example, if the action takes place in a castle, or an inn, or a palace, the furniture can be the same. Please don’t interrupt. I understand that the furniture in a palace is different from that in an inn, but, damn it, if the audience starts paying attention to such trifles, then the play is worthless. And Dumas doesn’t write plays in which the audience, instead of following the plot, starts studying the upholstery of the chairs and the tablecloths on the tables. Besides, the same armchairs, or even chairs, can easily pass for armchairs from a palace if they are covered with more or less decent covers. So, the furniture can be almost the same, and the entire set can consist of a single large canvas on which whatever is required is depicted.” If necessary, this could be a forest, the inner chambers of a royal palace, the courtyard of a cardinal's castle, a park, a wild forest, or the interior of a modest vicar's cottage. Of course, it would be better if, along with the outermost, background set, intermediate sets could also be used. After all, any theater has this capability; the mechanisms for raising and lowering sets are arranged in rows, so simply raising one scene and revealing the one behind it creates a change of scene.

"That's all true, of course. I see you've given this matter some serious thought," the publisher agreed. "It's true that under such conditions, numerous scenes in completely different settings could change over the course of a single act. But wouldn't that be too primitive?"

"I'm not asking you whether the font you choose for printing my books will be too primitive or, conversely, too luxurious," I countered. "I don't interfere in matters in which you are an expert and I am a nobody. So leave questions about the sets and scenes to the theater director and the stage manager; we'll get along just fine."

"I have no doubt, Monsieur Dumas," Chateren conceded. "But what about the large number of characters?"

"Exactly the same," I snapped. "But where exactly did you find the excess number of characters? Twenty or thirty officers, along with the nine nobles who came to arrest the cardinal? Firstly, it's not at all necessary to have twenty soldiers on stage, although twenty forty people on stage isn't that many, believe me. But if I write 'crowd' in a play, that means it's enough to bring a dozen or so extras onto the stage, who will represent only a small fragment of the action being presented. The rest of the people can be designated tentatively. The audience will understand that they are also present if, simply from the depths of the stage or from the sides, there is the sound of the crowd, or isolated remarks from those present, with whom the people on stage seem to converse or communicate with gestures, and so on. Besides, I don't at all require that every other character be played by a different actor. Actors can play several roles in a single play. That's what makeup artists and costume designers are for."

"I see you've thought this through thoroughly, Monsieur Dumas!" Shaterin exclaimed admiringly.

"As always, and as in everything," I agreed. "Of course, I expected to still have a few things to correct even after your proofreader's work, and I'll get to that today, but overall, the entire play is deeply thought out and polished. Violetta won't let me lie about how much work went into writing this play."

"Monsieur Dumas worked tirelessly!" Violetta confirmed. "If you only knew how many sleepless nights he spent on this work!"

"You little scoundrel!" I remarked to myself. "I did work tirelessly and spend sleepless nights, but my labor wasn't exactly writing, although, considering that I was increasingly gaining a deeper understanding of certain very specific aspects of life, studying, so to speak, new aspects of sexual relations in practice, with your help, of course... All in all, we weren't lying all that much this time!"

“I believe that after the print run is released, we will be able to pay Mr. Dumas a bonus on top of the contract,” said the publisher.

"No, I didn't hire her for nothing!" I marveled. "She squeezes money out of publishers as skillfully as a winemaker squeezes grapes! I guess I shouldn't be offended that she's squeezing money out of me, after all, she's the one who helps me earn it. I need to finish reading the ending of this play quickly. If the publisher hasn't suspected anything, he's probably quite my type."

"Believe me, Monsieur Chateren, I have a rather keen sense of dramatic trends," I continued, feeling that my expectations for a tense and incisive conversation with the publisher had not been met. "The audience needs action. The audience likes new characters. And they will like new settings. Theatrical art is moving in that direction. Do you think an audience could be attracted to a play where the entire action takes place within four walls? Perhaps some vulgar vaudeville about the investigation of a single crime, where all the characters are suspects? Imagine a police commissioner showing up, perhaps with his assistant, and the entire play takes place in dialogue between these characters? Boring! Or, let's say, even worse—one late-night visitor who has mistakenly wandered into the wrong apartment, the frightened landlady, and two or three other random guests." Conversations about where each of them has been, how each of them lives, what their interests are, and at most, perhaps, a passing celebration of some holiday, like Christmas. Imagine what the dialogue and acting must be like to keep the audience from leaving the theater in the middle of the first act? No, my dear Monsieur Chateren, we must give the audience action, intrigue, struggle, sword fights, and, if necessary, cannon shots! That's what the audience wants from us, not unity of place, time, and characters! And let the director thank me for not bringing a horse onto the stage!

Here, from Shateren’s look, I realized that the last phrase was superfluous.

“But… Monsieur Dumas…” he muttered.

I went cold at the thought that Violetta had written a stage direction in the play about d'Artagnan riding a yellow horse.

"Oh, come on, Monsieur Chateren!" I exclaimed, condescendingly and peaceably. "That's just the author's own imagery for the stage! Of course, according to the text of the play, Rochefort mocks the yellow horse on which d'Artagnan rode to Meung! But how does that happen?"

"How does this happen?" Shateren asked.

"And it happens that Rochefort and the others seem to see d'Artagnan on a yellow horse, but the audience doesn't see him at the time!" I said. "Rochefort simply looks to the right of the stage, as if behind the scenes, points his finger at the rider, and says that he's never seen such a horse before. And then we hear d'Artagnan tell one of the hotel employees to take the horse to the stable and feed it, and then he comes on stage and says, as if addressing no one in particular, but specifically addressing Rochefort: 'He laughs at the horse who dares not laugh at its master!'"

“But in your play it’s written a little differently,” Shateren timidly objected.

"That's the whole point!" I retorted. "If a reader reads a play and finds a horseman appearing on stage, he'll definitely go to the show to see it. But when they show him that the horse doesn't appear, but is implied, and everything that happens on stage is believable, he'll forget all about the horse."

"How subtly you've conceived all this, Monsieur Dumas!" Shateren admired.

“Much more subtle than you think,” I replied. “After all, life does not stand still. My play, you’ll see for yourself, will be shown not just for one season, but, I’m sure, for at least five seasons, and maybe even ten or fifteen. So it’s quite possible that not only our theater will undertake a production of ‘Youth of the Musketeers,’ but other theaters, more daring and more wealthy, will be interested in my play. And in that case, why can’t we accept that some innovative director will hesitate to bring a horse to the stage? After all, a horse is not an elephant! It can easily fit on the stage. And that will be a real bombshell for all theatergoers! They can even fight with swords in such a way that the uninitiated audience will not be able to spot the trick, will not distinguish a show fight from a real one, and will actually care about the outcome of the battle! That, Monsieur Chateren, is true theatrical art.
 
"Monsieur Dumas, you have once again demonstrated to me, and I believe to Mademoiselle Parisot, just how great a man you are, and how different you are from the rest of us mere mortals," Chateren said with due pathos. "Your genius is simply astounding! However, we've arrived, here's your restaurant; isn't this where you most often have breakfast? And I've already resolved all the issues that were troubling me, so forgive me for disturbing you. I must take my leave, and see you soon. I hope you'll have reviewed the proofs by tomorrow evening, and I'll be able to pick up the final version of your play?"

"I think so, yes, I'll have time," I replied. "After all, Mademoiselle Parisot will be helping me. Incidentally, you can't imagine the enormous assistance she provided me in writing and editing the new version of the play. Frankly, it would only be fair to put her name next to mine."

“I am ready to agree with this and I will not dare to dispute it, Monsieur Dumas, but you know that the reader prefers the books of Monsieur Dumas to all books where there are two or more authors,” Shateren timidly objected.

"Monsieur Dumas was joking, and besides, that's exactly how it is," Violetta quickly interjected. "What the reader prefers is what he reads; that's, of course, an immutable law of the publishing business."

“It’s exactly like that, Mademoiselle Parisot, it’s exactly like that,” confirmed Chateren, after which he kissed Violetta’s hand and took his leave.



CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE


After breakfast we returned home.

"Dumas, are you angry?" Violetta asked playfully. "Well, punish me! It will make things easier for you."

I remained silent in response.

"You got out of this so cleverly! It was as if you had a ready answer to all the publisher's questions!" she continued. "Your mind works very quickly, Mr. Dramatic Writer!"

“You know, Violetta, my reputation is at stake, and I decided to play this card, because it’s easier for me to admit that my talent was not fully revealed once than to admit that I am a plagiarist who passed off someone else’s work as his own.”

"This work is not alien for three reasons!" Violetta objected.

“Name them,” I demanded.

"If I call you, will you promise not to be angry?" Violetta asked in an even more playful tone.

"I'm not angry now, and I wasn't angry when I talked to the publisher," I replied. "I had my reasons for acting the way I did."

"What?" Violetta demanded.

“You’ll find out a little later,” I replied.

“If you don’t tell me, then I won’t tell you the three reasons I promised to tell you,” Violetta began to be capricious.

“By doing so, you will only confirm Arthur Schopenhauer’s words that one should not expect or demand justice from women, because they are not sensitive to such a concept,” I stated.

"I don't know such an author!" Violetta exclaimed. "You probably made this author up on purpose just to irritate me!"

“The cabinet by the window, third shelf from the bottom, sixth book on the right or so,” I replied. “Read the essay called ‘Woman.’”

"I won't!" Violetta said, offended. "I think this work is a complete insult to any woman."

“That’s right,” I agreed.

"Then why don't you throw this book away?" Violetta demanded.

"Because its author is one of the most intelligent writers of all time and all peoples, even though he is German," I replied. "Besides, if this essay offends women, that is not my problem, but theirs. This essay does not offend men. On the contrary, it encourages us to accept the fact that a woman, in accordance with her biological destiny, seeks for herself and her future children, firstly, a man who will provide for her well and can take excellent care of her and her children, someone wealthy and thorough, intelligent and prudent; secondly, according to this same law, she seeks a man who is as strong, slender, handsome, and perhaps cheerful as possible, although the latter is not necessary, I added this on my own behalf; Schopenhauer does not have this."

"What's so smart about that?" Violetta asked.

"The clever thing here is that a woman is by no means obligated to find these two qualities in the same person," I replied. "If one man can best provide for and care for her, and another can best please her as a physically attractive individual, then this only proves that this woman is perfectly fulfilling her biological purpose. For she must care for the quality of her offspring and their health. And if the quality of her offspring is achieved by her relationship with a man who does not ensure their health, it is not her fault, but simply the circumstances to which she was forced to adapt. Therefore, a woman who adorns her husband with branching antlers most often feels no remorse about it."

"It's disgusting and funny at the same time," Violetta noted. "And that's the only reason you like this Schopenhauer of yours, and you consider him one of the smartest writers?"

"What are you saying? This is one of his weakest works, and quite short," I replied.

"And are all the others also against women?" Violetta asked.

“About something completely different,” I answered.

“Then okay, don’t throw this book away yet,” Violetta graciously agreed.

"You don't have to tell me the three reasons why I can consider your opus to be my own work as well," I said. "In any case, one of the reasons is that you used my characters and my plot."

“That’s the third reason, the least significant,” Violetta agreed.

“Well, then another reason is that you used some fragments of my play or my book when writing your opus,” I continued.

"That's the second reason," Violetta agreed. "And you'll never guess the third reason!"

“Name it yourself,” I said in a whisper, bringing my lips close to her ear, “because I’ve already guessed it.”

“I’ll tell you if you promise not to call my play an opus,” Violetta answered.

"The third reason is that you are mine," I whispered very quietly, barely touching her ear with my lips. "All of you. And therefore, everything you wrote is, to some extent, mine too."

"You guessed it!" Vivi exclaimed and pressed her lips to mine.

When we had both caught our breath, she demanded that I renounce the word “opus” in relation to her play, for the reason that she had admitted that I had guessed correctly.

“Okay, I won’t call your opus an opus anymore,” I replied. “Don’t be angry! I was joking! I won’t call your play that anymore. Our play.”

"I'm satisfied!" Vivi concluded. "Now you can punish me as you threatened."

"Absolutely not!" I objected. "If we call our love a punishment even just once, even just as a joke, then we'll gradually get used to the idea that love is punishment."

"Not me!" Vivi exclaimed.

"Neither do I, but we won't try," I replied. "Love is love, and punishment is..."

"Is this my literary work, you mean?" Vivi asked playfully.

"It's the absence of my literary activity while we're together," I answered seriously. "I feel good with you, but as an author, I'm perishing."

“What should we do?” Vivi asked.

“I don’t know,” I replied. “Maybe we should separate for a while? Why don’t you go to the spa? For a couple of weeks? Take your pick. Biarritz? Deauville? Nice? Cannes? Antibes? Saint-Tropez?”
 
"Biaritz or Cannes, Nice or Antibes! Anything suits me! Perfect! But only if we go together!" Violetta exclaimed delightedly.

"But what's the point of going together if the whole idea of the trip is for us to live apart for a while!" I asked in surprise.

"You need to get away from everything that distracts you from your creativity!" Vivi exclaimed. "Where do you work best?"

“I work best in Yvelines, on the outskirts of Paris,” I replied.

"It's decided, we're going to Yvelines!" Violetta exclaimed. "Is there a sea or beaches there?"

“There is nature there, adjacent to ancient buildings, gardens and parks, picturesque nature and the cleanest air,” I answered.

“Let’s go!” Vivi exclaimed. “Tomorrow!”

Schopenhauer is absolutely right: women's logic is a unique form of thinking, incomprehensible to men. From a man's perspective, it's a complete lack of logic! What's the point of us going somewhere together if the very idea of the trip stems from the idea of living apart?

When you don't know what's best to say to a woman, caress her. That's what we did, as we quietly made our way home while talking.

Reader, are you expecting descriptions? There won't be any. This is too personal.



CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR


"Vivi, my dear," I said, glancing quickly at the pages with the final three scenes of Act II of her play. "Are you insisting on these scenes? What's their purpose? These insignificant dialogues and events only distract the audience from their beloved characters."

"I was simply trying to connect the dots," Violetta replied. "From the Comte de Rochefort's memoirs, it appears that he uncovered the Chalais conspiracy almost immediately after entering the Cardinal's service, while still in a rather humble position."

“These memoirs are not authoritative for me,” I objected.

"But I partially relied on that book," Vivi reminded him. "After all, in our new play, Rochefort already appears as a young man."

“So what?” I asked.

– But in the reception room of Captain de Treville in your book “The Three Musketeers,” Porthos discusses the uncovering of the Chalais conspiracy as if it were events that happened quite recently!

"And what of it?" I asked in surprise.

"But Porthos spoke these words just as d'Artagnan arrived in de Treville's reception room!" Violetta insisted. "That means he arrived in Paris when Rochefort was still quite young himself. Probably the same age as d'Artagnan himself."

"I don't object to Count Rochefort being the same age as d'Artagnan," I replied. "In 'The Vicomte de Bragelonne,' they're both equally active. And yet d'Artagnan is well over fifty years old."

The events in The Three Musketeers unfold rapidly, perhaps over the course of a year, as do the events in Twenty Years Later. D'Artagnan arrives in Paris at the age of eighteen. And on the way to Paris, he meets Rochefort, who is already nearly forty years old!

"Darling, let him be a little younger in the play, what difference does it make?" I wondered.

"They must be the same age, otherwise Rochefort, who is twenty-two years older than d'Artagnan, or even more, could not possibly be the active man we see him as in The Vicomte de Bragelonne," Violetta insisted. "He must be well over seventy! Is that how we see him in this novel? And this is assuming that the events in each book took place over no more than a year, which cannot possibly correspond to actual historical facts. The execution of the Comte de Chalais took place in the summer of 1626. The siege of La Rochelle began in 1627 and ended only in 1628. Mazarin died in 1661, 34 years after your literary d'Artagnan arrived in Paris. If he met Rochefort at forty, then he would have been 74 years old at the time of Mazarin's death."

"You've made Rochefort look 22 years younger or something like that?" I asked. "Whatever, keep up the good work."

"But that doesn't square with the arrogance with which Rochefort speaks to d'Artagnan when they first meet," Violetta insisted. "Or rather, he doesn't even speak to him at all; he refers to him in the third person, which is even more insulting! If Rochefort was looking to make a career, was young, and cautious, why would he quarrel with a man his own age who had done him no harm?"

"Two young and daring noblemen got into a fight simply because they were young and daring, what's so special about that?" I asked, surprised.

"I think a play about the Musketeers' youth should answer the questions of why Rochefort arranged a rendezvous with Milady in Menge, why they were there at that time, and why Rochefort seemed older to d'Artagnan than he actually was. All of this needs to be explained, and I think I've found the answer."

"I found an explanation, and that's wonderful, but why bore the viewer with these details?" I asked.

"Details are always tiresome, Dudu!" Violetta exclaimed. "Just think about it! The Cardinal received his retinue of guards only after the Chalais conspiracy was uncovered! But in your novel, the Cardinal already had guards, quite a few of them, so many that the Cardinal could send them by the dozens on various errands! But there were only thirty of them, and their duty was to protect the Cardinal's person! Where else could they travel except from the barracks to the Cardinal, and from the Cardinal to the barracks? Why on earth are five of them walking around Paris to see if anyone's starting a duel? And before that, six of the Cardinal's musketeers attacked four of the King's musketeers. Don't they have anything better to do? And with such expenses, why didn't they disappear sooner?" And who will guard the cardinal all this time, while these guardsmen, or rather musketeers, are looking for trouble? Of course, over time, Richelieu's bodyguard detachment grew, but not in the first year immediately after de Chalais's execution! And the novel paints a picture of a whole regiment of these so-called guardsmen, a whole regiment of musketeers as well, and the main occupation of these regiments is to hunt each other down and destroy each other in duels.

"But the fact that they felt mutual hostility is confirmed in many memoirs!" I objected.

“Yes, but these were isolated, uncontrollable outbursts, and much later, when they had accumulated enough grievances and reasons for mutual claims based on a hypertrophied sense of justice, otherwise known as envy,” Vivi answered.

"So, you think these last scenes of the second act provide an explanation for all these inconsistencies?" I asked. "How?"

"I think it would be easier if you just read what you were about to discard as unnecessary," Violetta replied with feigned modesty bordering on impudence. "In the meantime, I'll make some coffee."

I never mind coffee, so I started reading her... No, not her opus. Her play.



CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE


I wonder what she came up with to smooth over the problems she found, or thinks she found. Here's what I read next.



SCENE NINETEEN
 
(The Cabinet of Cardinal Richelieu, the Cardinal and Rochefort)

RICHELIEU

Rochefort, I am pleased with you, and very pleased with Lady Claric.

ROCHEFORT

That is very nice to hear, Your Eminence.

RICHELIEU

Now I have a very important task for you and for her.

ROCHEFORT

I will be happy to serve Your Eminence.

RICHELIEU

Drop those titles, Rochefort. To my people, I am above all a minister of social affairs. Let's at least, in private, dispense with these pretentious words, necessary in public but utterly superfluous among our own. Let's not waste time on such phrases. Simply hear me out. So, you will go to Meung-sur-Loire and meet Lady Claric there, who will arrive there from Vend;me. She is currently carrying out an important task for me, and you will help her fulfill my next one. For this, you will take her a letter and money. Keep in mind, and also warn her of this, although the letter also states it, the amount I transfer must be exactly what I transfer. If even one louis d'or is lost, or even if even one louis d'or is added to this amount, it will not be accepted by its intended recipient. The amount itself is a kind of password, a distinguishing mark. And the coins must not be replaced.

ROCHEFORT

Maybe it would be better to sew up the wallet in this case?

RICHELIEU

Not a bad idea – sew it up and seal it. But I've thought about it. If the wallet is sewn up, it might arouse the suspicion in the recipient of this money that I don't trust my messengers enough. And that absolutely mustn't happen. This man, in providing me with an important service, is taking a considerable risk himself. If his accomplices learn of his contacts with me, he'll be in trouble. Therefore, I don't want him to have any reason to doubt.

ROCHEFORT

I understand, Your... Mr. Minister.

RICHELIEU

Very well. You, of course, like Lady Claric, will need funds for the trip. Here, take these two purses of silver. There's more than enough here for expenses, even unexpected ones, including, perhaps, a suitable wardrobe for the lady... By the way, let's not say her name often. It will be enough to simply call her Milady. That's enough for you and for me. And tell her that from now on she's simply Milady to us. So, this blue purse is for you, this pink one is for Milady, and for my addressee, the burgundy one with gold edging. You won't get confused, I hope?

ROCHEFORT

The recipient's wallet is much larger, naturally.

RICHELIEU

Naturally! There's also gold and five large diamonds in a separate pouch. The letter will give Milady instructions on who the recipient is and how to meet them. That's what I was thinking. Let me put both the purse and the letter for Milady in a chest, lock it, and hang the key on a chain around your neck. That way, you'll be sure no one reads the letter and no one touches the purse, even while you're sleeping.

ROCHEFORT

I won't allow this to happen even if the letter and wallet are without the chest.

RICHELIEU

I believe you, but a locked chest would be safer. And one more thing. You look too young. And I was told the Marquis mistook you for his own age. How did you manage that?

ROCHEFORT

I was interested in theater arts and sometimes played mature people and even old men. I can skillfully apply makeup and imitate a wide variety of postures. I can even change my voice a little. Should I demonstrate for you?

RICHELIEU

Later. But it will be very useful for your mission. Pretend to be older than you are. Don't ask why, just trust my experience and obey.

ROCHEFORT

Yes sir, Your… Your Highness.

(Rochefort bows and leaves)

RICHELIEU

(One)

So, Milady will follow Buckingham and bribe Count Holland. The Count is one of the Duke's closest confidants. He will introduce Milady to Buckingham's circle of acquaintances and also arrange this marriage with Lord Winter, Charles's closest friend. I am forming a whole circle of confidants to the King and the Duke, people dependent on me and obedient to me. This is wonderful; everything is proceeding entirely according to the intended goal. Then Chevreuse, now obedient to me, will extol the Duke's virtues to the Queen, and Milady will extol the Queen's virtues to the Duke and show him a miniature of her portrait. The miniature, of course, greatly flatters the Queen, but that is unimportant. The Duke, an extremely ambitious man, will be inflamed with love for the Queen and will find an excuse to come to France and see for himself what the Queen is really like. His Majesty then becomes convinced that the Queen is unfaithful to him, and her removal becomes permanent rather than temporary. After this, a savior appears to her in my person, who will reconcile Her Majesty with His Majesty. This role is nothing new to me. Reconciling and quarreling the King and Queen seems to be becoming my fourth profession. Now, after distancing the Queen Mother, the King will also distance himself from his wife, Queen Anne. Then I appear and lay out the terms of reconciliation. The Queen is happy and grateful to me, the King... Well, the King doesn't necessarily have to be happy. Besides, if his reconciliation with his wife doesn't make him happy, he'll find ways to console himself. Any woman would be happy. But first, for everything to go as planned, the Duchess de Chevreuse must be returned from Poitou to Paris. We'll get to that, two or three months after the Chalais affair is concluded. By the way, it's time to send him to the Place de Gr;ve, why drag it out?
 
(Curtain)

I tossed aside the pen I'd been meaning to use to make edits. What was there to edit? This entire scene could be removed without compromising the plot and for the sake of greater dynamism, that's all. Let's see what happens next...

Next came scene twenty. Twenty! This, despite the fact that she only had ten scenes in the first act! This is madness!




CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX


Yes, it will be hard for me to call Violetta's opus a play. But it can't be helped; I promised this to the woman with whom I share my roof and bed. I will continue reading.

SCENE TWENTY
 
(Athos, Porthos and Aramis are at the table in the tavern)

ARAMIS

Let us remember poor de Chalais, so young, only twenty-seven years old. May he rest in peace.

PORTOS

Let's remember.

(Athos nods, the musketeers silently drink the wine)

PORTOS

It's a pity, of course, for this good guy.

ARAMIS

The poor fellow suffered so much in his last hour that he will go straight to heaven, since already here on earth he atoned for his crime.

PORTOS

Or a miss.

ARAMIS

No, Porthos, a mistake is more difficult to atone for than a crime.

PORTOS

Speaking of mistakes, de Chalais's friends made an even bigger mistake. Just think! With friends like that, you don't need enemies!

ATOS

What happened?

ARAMIS

How come you don't know?

ATOS

I didn't want to know anything about this matter, since I couldn't do anything, so I spent the whole day... Reading.

ARAMIS

Athos, you sometimes drink too much wine.

ATOS

It brightens my life a little and probably brings my death closer. I welcome both.

ARAMIS

Don't rush to part with life; enjoy its gifts, especially since a musketeer's encounter with death can come much sooner than he expects. In fact, at any moment.

ATOS

What a wonderful profession, let's drink to that!

(Aramis and Porthos look at Athos in surprise, then he drinks alone)

So what did you dislike about de Chalais's friends?

ARAMIS

Let me tell you. The King graciously commuted his quartering to beheading, and poor Count de Chalais's death could have been easy. De Chalais's friends, determined to save him, kidnapped the executioner, hoping to prevent the execution. But Richelieu offered a condemned hangman his life in exchange for beheading the Count de Chalais. The criminal agreed. It turns out he'd never held a sword in his life, and was a coward, too; his hands trembled, and the blade wobbled. In short, unable to finish the job with a single blow, he was only able to complete the task on the twenty-ninth attempt. Poor Chalais lived until the last blow.

PORTOS

May these well-wishers burn in hell! If it weren't for them, he wouldn't have suffered so much.

ATOS

Sometimes, Porthos, people's actions should be judged not by their results, but by their motivations.

ARAMIS

A dangerous point of view, Athos. After all, they say the road to hell is paved with good intentions.

ATOS
 
This is because Hell itself is paved with evil intentions, as is the steep, chute-like slope down which sinners don't trudge, but rather plunge headlong into the vast cauldron for boiling the most notorious villains. On the way to Hell, one can at least reflect on one's deeds, which is already half the journey to salvation.

PORTOS

(Quietly to Aramis)

Athos is talkative today!

ATOS

Kidnapping the executioner was a brilliant idea, and I regret not being the one to carry it out. But if I had, I would have shot the one who wanted to carry out his duties.

ARAMIS

Another, a third, a fourth would have been found. And you, Athos, would have been captured and executed next to de Chalais.

ATOS

Not the worst ending.

ARAMIS

If you're so eager to die, hatch another plot against the cardinal and take the chopping block. But without me.

ATOS

Raising a hand against a cleric is a bad idea. If Richelieu had only been prime minister, that would have been a different matter.

ARAMIS

But we've been sitting here too long, friends. Isn't it time for us to go home?

ATOS

Aramis, if you have a date, you can go, we won't be offended.

ARAMIS

I promised to confess a certain countess... A very respectable lady, by the way... Yes, I promised to confess her at home. The countess is old and cannot walk. She is bedridden.

PORTOS

Bedridden—that's for sure, Aramis! I have no doubt the confession will take place in bed! Tell me honestly, is she even eighteen years old, this sick old countess? Is she pretty?

ARAMIS

Porthos, I truly don't pay attention to my parishioners' appearance or age. To me, they're all just parishioners.

ATOS

We believe you, Aramis.

(Drinks some more)

PORTOS

We trust you so much that we're letting you go. And I won't leave until I finish this perfectly roasted pig.

(Three more musketeers enter)

ATOS

De Fierval! De Lorme! De Chantin! Come to our table! Let's remember poor old de Chalais!

(Blackout)

SCENE TWENTY-ONE
 
(Six musketeers come out of the tavern and walk sideways along the stage in two rows, in the first row Aramis, Porthos and de Fierval, in the second row de Lorme, de Chantin and Athos)

PORTOS

The piglet was delicious and the wine was excellent! I love this tavern. Inexpensive and delicious.

ARAMIS

It's just sometimes a bit crowded. It seems the cardinal's guards were eavesdropping on our conversation. They looked at us with great hostility.

PORTOS

Why didn't you tell me? We could have had a friendly talk with them.

ATOS

It seems they were not inclined to fight and left quietly and peacefully.

ARAMIS

This is what is alarming.

(Six of the Cardinal's guards appear behind the musketeers, drawing their swords and rushing at the musketeers from behind without warning. De Lorme, de Chantin, and Athos fall, struck in the back by blows, managing to cry out. Aramis, Porthos, and de Fierval draw their swords and resist, and the battle begins. Athos tries to rise twice, but collapses, exhausted.)

PORTOS

Scoundrels! Attack from behind! Take that! Take that!

(The guards surround the musketeers from all sides. Curtain)

* * *

At this point, thank God, the second act ended and the third began. I glanced at it – there was a scene in de Treville's reception room. Well, judging by everything, what followed was a trivial plagiarism from my novel or from my play, its first and already widely known version, so to speak. In any case, I didn't feel like reading it now.




CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN


My readers are probably already seriously annoyed that, instead of telling me about Violetta, I'm retelling what I read on her handwritten notes. Believe me, reader, this is important. And can a writer's life really be divorced from his work and everything connected to it? Especially if that work is about someone dear to him, based on his own work?

And yet, I will put these pages aside for a while and tell you about our relationship.

After another cup of quite decent coffee brewed by Violetta, I approached her with what I believe was an unexpected proposal for her.

"Listen, my dear," I said to her. "We've already discussed several times, this way and that, that you could play Milady in my play. Or, if you prefer, in your new play, or we'll call it ours, if you insist. In any case, I can't call it mine, so let's at least call a spade a spade in our conversations."

"Dumas, do you want to take me to a rehearsal of your play again?" Violetta asked.

"Better! You'll rehearse yourself, and you'll be able to play Milady the way you see fit," I replied. "First, so as not to disrupt the theater's repertoire, you'll play the role in my play, and then, when your play is published and accepted by the theater, you'll star in it too. You'll have a wonderful opportunity to experience these two roles for yourself, try them on, and evaluate their authenticity."

“You want me to understand how schematic and unreliable the heroine of my play is, while your heroine is lifelike,” Violetta said, and it was not a question, it was a statement, although it was said in a completely calm tone.

"Oh, come on!" I protested. "I never even considered it! But I see you're serious about mastering my profession as a dramatic writer, writing for the theater. The best way to achieve even greater results is to experience the theater from the inside. To become one of the cogs in this complex machine. Or even the star of the play."

"Well, perhaps the stars of the play are the musketeers and Constance," Violetta countered. "In your play, at least, Milady should evoke the audience's hatred, and her execution should be received with satisfaction. I can't promise to play a villain in such a way that the audience will feel hatred for her from the moment she appears on stage."

"Nobody's asking you to!" I objected.

"Darling, I've already skimmed through your favorite Schopenhauer's book and found your notes in the article about how intelligence and character are revealed in a person's face," Violetta said, putting a fair amount of venom into the word "beloved" when applied to the German genius.
 
“I don’t and can’t have favorites among writers, much less among philosophers, much less among German ones,” I objected. “I can only say that this philosopher puts many of his colleagues to shame, and if I were truly interested in philosophy, I would probably read all his works with great pleasure. But this little book is quite enough for me. And even if he’s wrong about a hero’s character and intellect being reflected in their appearance, especially their face, you can be sure that this very approach has been practiced in the theater since the time of Aeschylus, Sophocles, Euripides, and Aristophanes. That’s at least two thousand years. I’ll even tell you more: I believe that in the ancient theatrical cultures of China and India, there were already differences and canons for the appearance of heroes and their antipodes. I believe masks were used in China, and bright paints applied to the face in India. The audience immediately saw who the hero and who the villain were. The audience loves to be perceptive.” If at the beginning of the play he falls in love with the villain or hates the hero, the play will bring him nothing but disappointment.

"I think, Dudu, you're oversimplifying the situation and giving the audience too little credit," Violetta persisted. "I'd like to play Milady in such a way that the audience, even the women, fall in love with her at the very beginning of the play, and only by the end would they form the correct opinion of her. I mean the one you want them to form. Although I have something to say about that."

"I remember you already outlined your views," I agreed. "I'm not opposed to experiments, especially if they're conducted on your play, but now you'll have a wonderful opportunity to try out your concept on mine and gauge the director's reaction. If you convince him of the soundness of your concept, you'll have the opportunity to try it out on a real audience. Until then, on the other actors and on some of the guests allowed to attend the rehearsal."

"When are you going to take me to the theatre?" Violetta asked.

“Today, practically right now,” I answered.

"Isn't it in the evening?" Vivi asked in surprise.

"My dear, there are performances at the theater in the evenings," I explained to her. "And on Sundays, even during the day. So rehearsals are only in the mornings and afternoons, except on Sundays and holidays."

"But I don't even know what to wear!" Violetta objected.

"Don't act like we've been married for ten years. You have three closets of dresses, but you've worn them all at least once, at least in front of the mirror at home, so for each new appearance you need three dresses—to try on all three in succession, decisively reject two, and settle on the third," I said. "We're not going to a performance, after all, but to a rehearsal. Whatever you wear will do. And if this were a dress rehearsal, they would even have given you a theatrical dress. Incidentally, at Shakespeare's Globe, the actors wore the same outfit for the entire performance. Nowadays, it happens that actors have to change costumes several times during a performance. Judge for yourself: d'Artagnan, who has already become a musketeer, can't be dressed the same as d'Artagnan, who left Castelmore for Paris."

“In your play, there is no exit from the castle,” Violetta said with a fair amount of sarcasm.

"But yours does, I've already read it," I replied with the same sarcasm. "We're leaving for the theater in half an hour."

* * *

At the theater, I arranged with the director to try rehearsing with Violetta. Since I had already expressed this idea to him after our previous visit to the dress rehearsal, and since my entire idea stemmed from Mademoiselle M.'s illness, Violetta had the opportunity to participate in the rehearsal. The actors were explained that they shouldn't judge the young performer of the role of Milady too harshly, since she was simply filling in for the lead role.

The rehearsal began. Violetta's first line was delivered with a completely off-key intonation. Instead of brazen self-confidence, she displayed timid embarrassment. This was natural, after all, this was her debut, albeit not a real one, not during a performance. She was surrounded by real actors, standing on a real stage, and in the audience seats sat people: me, the stage manager, and several stagehands ready to carry out the director's every instruction regarding changing the scenery and stage sets, managing the lighting, and other attributes. In addition, a prompter sat in his booth, ready to prompt the actors for the beginning of their lines should they forget them. Violetta knew my play by heart, so she didn't need a prompter's services.

I must admit that her timidity in delivering her lines, while inappropriate in my opinion, created a completely unexpected effect. Despite the fact that the lines she and the other characters spoke implied that Charlotte was a treacherous woman, she nevertheless created the impression of a sweet, kind, naive, and sincere girl whose only fault was that circumstances had not worked out in her favor. If I had been a viewer, and hadn't already fallen in love with Violetta, I would have absolutely loved Charlotte as she played her.

That's why it's not recommended to take children to plays. Even the older ones pay much more attention to the characters' intonation and appearance than to the meaning of what they say or their actions. I must say that when Violetta spoke, we all turned into children. We wanted nothing more than for her to keep talking, to say anything, just to look at her, to see her charming, kind face, and to hear her ringing, gentle voice.

So I hated the executioner who branded such a tender and defenseless girl. Fortunately, the rehearsal was limited to a prologue. The director made a few comments to the actors, and some scenes were repeated, with corrections based on the director's comments. The reader will find this strange, and it would be incomprehensible to me, too, if I didn't know that Monsieur Beaumont never rests on his laurels. His motto was that the same performance staged by his troupe should never be repeated. He demanded that the actors come up with new discoveries, ideas, and techniques in revealing their roles. Sometimes this was successful; more often, I believe, it only harmed the play. But there were also fans who went to the same performance several times, and even some fans never missed a single performance, so much so that they saw the same production up to ten times a season.

As I was leaving the theater, I spotted Monsieur Leurnois. I'm not on friendly terms with this second-rate writer. He somehow manages to get his tasteless plays staged even in the perfectly respectable theaters that have the honor of working with me. Seeing the titles of my plays and Leurnois's vulgar, colorless works on the same poster board doesn't please me, and it's probably written all over my face. Regardless, we maintain a semblance of respect for each other and even display a friendly demeanor in public, but neither of us is particularly eager to socialize.

I wondered if he'd come over to greet me. Our eyes met. He glanced at Violetta's face and figure, then looked away and walked past as if he hadn't noticed me. We usually only do this when we're alone. In the presence of third parties, we display a moderately cool but sufficiently polite greeting. Monsieur Leurnois acted unusually. It confirmed a suspicion I'd had about him for a long time. Well, it was he who invented and spread the rumor that I hardly write anything myself, hiring so-called "ghostwriters." Moreover, not only this rumor, but the very term itself, was apparently invented by him. A fool wouldn't have thought that my vocabulary couldn't possibly contain the word "Negro" with its derogatory connotation, for the blood of the black Haitian slave Marie-Cessette Dumas flows through my veins. Fool! It's far better to be the great-grandson of a slave and a wealthy nobleman than the great-grandson of proud nobles and have a slavish soul! For he who accepts slave labor is himself, to some extent, a slave—such is my profound conviction. Voluntary collaboration at the initiative of my colleagues and under the conditions they propose is, I would never call slavery, and it only occurs when I need detailed historical information to create the backdrop for my characters' adventures. A director staging a play could just as easily be accused of using slave labor—actors, musicians, set designers, costume designers, and lighting technicians.

During this meeting, I made another curious observation about Monsieur Leurnois, but more on that later. I'll just say that I didn't regret that trip to the theater. One of the reasons was the fervor with which Violetta thanked me, like a woman, for the new feelings and new entertainment I'd given her. I won't describe it, as sophisticated readers will be able to imagine everything perfectly well without such descriptions, while the immature are too young to read such things. I'll just say that everything you imagined was far worse than what I received.



CHAPTER SEVENTY-EIGHT

On our way out of the theatre we met Monsieur Chateren.

“Monsieur Dumas, I hope to come to you this evening to pick up the proofs,” he said.

“No need to wait until evening,” I replied. “Take it, everything is ready.”

I took a folder of papers out of my briefcase and handed it to the publisher.

Violetta looked at me in surprise. I nodded, and she held back her questions for now.

“Mademoiselle Parisot and I will be looking forward to picking up my author’s copies,” I added.

"Yes, I'd really like to see this book in print soon!" Violetta chimed in.

"I will do everything in my power to expedite the publication of this book!" Shateren replied.

With that, we parted, quite pleased with each other. When we had walked far enough away from him, Violetta looked at me meaningfully.

“I understand your surprise, my dear,” I said. “You see, your play interested me so much that I proofread it every minute I could get, even when you were only gone for a few minutes, I’d devour several pages. I read a good portion of it this morning, while you were still asleep. I noticed that my corrections were almost unnecessary, since you yourself made almost no mistakes, the typesetter was very attentive, or the proofreader did a superb job. Finally, I took it with me to the theater, and while they were putting on your makeup and while the director was explaining to you how to correct the pronunciation of this or that phrase, I finished reading the last few pages. But what do a few pages even mean here? It’s all dialogue! It doesn’t take much time to read a few pages. So, the proofreading is complete, and it’s a great stroke of luck that we met Monsieur Chateren. This will speed up the publication of the book by one day.”

"But why are you suddenly in such a hurry, Dudu?" Violetta asked.

"I decided to surprise you," I replied. "Remember how I suggested we spend some time apart, so I could regain my creative zeal? You suggested we go out of town together." It didn't seem logical, but I realized that men's logic and women's logic are completely different. Besides, I've always believed that if a woman wants something, it's better to give it to her right away, because otherwise you'll have to give it anyway, but the losses will be greater.

"Dudu, you're scaring me!" Violetta said with a laugh. "Are you saying you've become henpecked? Or that you've fallen so deeply in love with me?"
 
"I don't deny that I like you very much, but I wouldn't describe my compliance with that term," I replied. "The thing is, I have my own plans, views, and positions, which I will never allow to be undermined or revised. But I'm willing to painlessly reconsider anything that doesn't affect my fundamental plans and views. I don't want to be stubborn about small things, but I warn you that I don't intend to compromise on the most important things."

"Good!" Violetta replied. "That's good. It's clear and relatable to me, and I like you even more like this."

"Don't say that, it means you haven't liked me completely up until now!" I said jokingly. "So, you wanted to go to Yvelines? Let's go! But let's take paper, pens, and my travel inkwell. Sorry, but we won't be taking that sculpture you gave me. It will wait for us at home."

“It’s a pity, but if that’s what you’ve decided, then we’ll do as you say, dear,” Violetta answered.

In gratitude for the upcoming trip, she gave me a wonderful evening, which I have no intention of describing.

And now, my dear reader, have a few tears! If you were expecting a description of our trip together and everything that happened between us on these pages, I'm going to disappoint you.

Perhaps I would have described this some other time. But that would have been too personal. I don't intend to share such details with others. I've seen several books describing actions, words, and feelings that every self-respecting adult should experience for themselves, to understand this side of life not from someone else's retellings or, God forbid, from someone else's idle fiction.

I'll just say that ten days in Yvelines were magical. If heaven exists anywhere on earth, it's in Yvelines. Provided, of course, that my personal angel, Violetta, is also there. That's all I can tell my readers on the subject.



CHAPTER SEVENTY-NINE

If you want to know happiness, get a woman. If you want to know disappointment, marry her. In my case, I would say that it is enough to let her into your whole life.

A woman may be capable of being satisfied with happiness alone. But experience shows that this isn't for long. A woman isn't content with simply feeling valued by the man she's chosen. She requires a constant sense of increasing value. No man can satisfy these needs over the long term.

A man needs to recognize his own value. If he simply enjoys happiness, this awareness is gradually lost, and such a loss is difficult to compensate for with anything else and is completely impossible to fully recoup.

One must be a pampered King, groomed from early childhood for the King's destiny, so that, while enjoying all the material and moral blessings, one doesn't feel a sense of personal depletion and a loss of self-worth. However, it's possible that Kings, too, experience something similar, despite being taught their entire lives that everything they do is right and beyond criticism. Although, even Kings are subject to the laws of God. I've deliberately not yet mentioned conscience, which should govern every person, but history hasn't preserved any conscientious Kings in its records, and even among ordinary people, conscience is a rare, dying, or even extinct quality. Or, more likely, it never existed, a mythical concept. I'm referring to Conscience with a capital "C," which not only restrains a person from crime and unseemly actions, but also reminds them of the inadmissibility of moral or physical degradation, prolonged idleness, and indulgence.

So, two weeks of blissful merging with nature and with each other were, in my opinion, overshadowed by the gradual accumulation, at least for me, of a feeling of complete uselessness.

You might ask me: how can you feel useless next to someone who loves you? Yes, gentlemen! After all, you want someone to love you for more than just the key difference between a man and a woman. I'm talking about a wallet ready to open at the first request of a sexual partner.

A man instinctively chooses a woman younger than himself. If your woman is younger, it makes you seem more experienced and gives you unquestionable authority. That is, until you switch to simplified forms of communication, until she starts calling you by a pet name and allows you to do the same.

A mature man's authority melts like butter in a hot frying pan in the eyes of a young and inexperienced woman as they communicate. And not because the man is being stupid, but because the woman becomes accustomed to the man agreeing with her opinions, and therefore, there's no need to listen to his opinions, and if she does listen, it's only to challenge them.

Once a man realizes he needs something from her from time to time, any woman begins to pretend she doesn't need it, first to receive small handouts in the form of praise and compliments, then gifts and concessions, and finally, to completely dictate her will. And although the value of well-explored paths to pleasure certainly doesn't increase in a man's eyes with each new experience, he nevertheless becomes accustomed to the fact that he must pay an ever-higher price for continued possession of these paths. Although, if asked, he would offer discounts on these services, increasing with each loss of his partner's attractiveness. And some sophisticated spouses, disillusioned with the charms of their faithful partners , I suspect, even in the absence of any payment, would occasionally disdain such happiness or even demand compensation for their wasted passion.

Of course, our relationship was still far from catastrophic; it could well be called radiant, but as a seasoned writer, who is obliged to be an expert on human souls and their aspirations, I, like an experienced sailor, recognized a small cloud on the horizon as a sign of an impending storm. Was I wrong? I didn't know it yet, but I felt that with each new dismissive "Dudu" addressed to me, I was increasingly transforming in Violetta's eyes into something much more like a lady's tiny dog, her support, her protector, and her chief advisor.

In other words, every woman wants a husband, to turn him into her son, to have the right to know better than he does what he wants, what he doesn't want, what he should do, and—this is always true!—what he should never, ever do. The list of things he shouldn't do is constantly growing. At first, from harmless "don't joke like that" or "don't call me that," a woman moves on to "never say that in front of me" and "if you don't want us to end up in a terrible fight, don't do that." Eventually, the list of prohibited actions that will inevitably lead to hurt feelings rivals the Encyclopedia Britannica in its abundance and depth.

Gradually, instead of "Why did you do that?" you hear "Why are you like this?" and then "What else could you expect from you?" and "You've always been like this," followed by the most unflattering epithets. She gave you her best years, although she did it of her own free will and with obvious pleasure, but such an argument will fall on deaf ears.

At first, you note down what might upset your beloved friend and vow to avoid such words, gestures, facial expressions, and especially actions. Then she tells you about it. First gently, then insistently and demandingly. Finally, you reach a point where you simply don't want to know anything about it; you'd like to throw the list into the Seine in one fell swoop, so that it floats far downstream and drowns completely. Information about what might upset her is perceived as unnecessary, superfluous. Just as the clatter of wheels on the pavement outside your window is insignificant: it exists, but you don't care. Because a normal man can't communicate with a woman who once convincingly lied about loving him—communicating like he's navigating a minefield, fearing another bad mood.

At first, you notice that your friend's tone of voice isn't as cheerful or welcoming as usual. You're concerned about this and want to find out why.

In vain. Don't strive for this. There are two options. Either the cause is you yourself, something you said, did, or said in your tone. Or you'll be told it's not you, but something else, but that won't make things any easier, believe me. In any case, you're obligated to rectify the situation, and the more humiliation you endure by admitting nonexistent faults, the sooner reconciliation will occur. But often, reconciliation requires a storm. That is, first they'll push you to the point of losing your temper, and then demand apologies, flowers, and gifts. It doesn't matter that you've been harassed beyond belief; one careless word or even intonation from you is the key, the final result. She gets something to blame for the entire discord between you. You've been drained of your soul, and you've called her incompetent. Of course, all the blame lies with you. After all, she should be forgiven everything because she's a woman. But you shouldn't forgive anything because you're a man. You must live up to the fictitious image of a man she's formed in her head. But whatever your circumstances, all her victories over you, which are essentially your concessions, are perceived by her as absolutely necessary conditions for your relationship with her, while her new, increasingly harsh conditions are also perceived as necessary, but about which, simply because of her compliance, she was forced to keep silent for a long time, and now she simply can no longer keep them to herself.

What does this lead to? A terrible outcome! At first, you, the man in love, despair at the mere sight of a tear in your partner's eyes. But believe me, it will reach a point where you'd like to see her in tears, proving she still has a soul, and that soul may despair at the fact that she's doing everything to make you lose each other. Or at least from the disappointment that everything isn't going as planned, that instead of precious moments of shared happiness, you're experiencing unbearable hours, days, weeks, months, or even years of the constant torment of being together. But you won't see her shed tears after a scandal she caused herself, you won't see this sign of the remnants of her former love, even if it ever existed. When a woman feels that her "trained little dog," who still dares to consider himself a man, has suddenly begun to regularly display disobedience, she can become so stern, silent, and stingy with displays of kindness that even being close to her will become painful for you.

The fate of a married man is like that of a frog in a pot of water that heats up very slowly. If the frog were to fall into the hot water, it would instantly jump out, provided, of course, it had something to push off from. But if the water heats up gradually, the frog feels no discomfort and can allow itself to be boiled. At least, that's what Aesop's fable, or perhaps some other ancient fabulist, claims.

So, I was still having a great time with Violetta, but I already felt the water around me warming up. It was no wonder I noticed this, since I'd been married once before, and if I hadn't learned the necessary lessons from that experience, I should have given up writing once and for all! How can someone who doesn't at least learn from their own mistakes have anything intelligent or interesting to say to readers? After all, wisdom dictates that we learn from the mistakes of others, too, so as to make fewer of our own. And learning from one's own mistakes is a must.

Baltasar Gracian also said: “If you have made a mistake, then let it at least teach you not to do the same in the future!”

He seemed to be talking about actions to be ashamed of. But the same could be said of any actions whose repetition is to be feared.

If you're still reading this, you probably also understand that life isn't all honey. And so, a story about life—true or fictional—shouldn't consist of a list of the delights and delights of existence. Honey with a subtle bitterness may be more enjoyable than honey made entirely of sweetness. But if the bitterness increases with each spoonful, and in the end, nothing but bitterness remains—isn't that the truth of life?

Family is the patience of two. Politeness is always a small sacrifice. But politeness is not obligatory among friends. Therefore, within the family, selfishness becomes a natural line of behavior. Your reciprocal selfishness will not pacify her, and your compliance will only convince her of the correctness of her chosen course of action.

But in a normal family, there's a purpose to this patience. In moments of intense disappointment, you hold yourself close to your no longer so dearly loved one with thoughts about the fate of your children.

Violetta's fantasy or lie about pregnancy—whatever it was—had no basis in reality. We forgive a lot to the woman who gave us offspring, or to those expecting them, because that's our nature. We admire what we can't do ourselves, unless we're complete idiots. So gratitude to the mother of your children, admiration for her, and a love of a completely different order than carnal desire—that's the cement that holds together a relationship that no longer brings you the same joy but remains desirable. And, of course, the need to care for children is also a strong hook for a man with a conscience.

If our children matured in three years, as horses do, many families would break up as soon as a man felt his presence was unnecessary for the well-being of his offspring. But by the time their children reach adulthood, a husband has become so resigned to his servile position in the family that rebellion never even occurs to him. Someone accustomed to unappetizing prison food and an uncomfortable prison cell, to a caged sky, to the inability to go wherever and whenever he wants, apparently never considers escape. But while people generally never get used to physical imprisonment, they quickly and easily adapt to moral imprisonment. The time it takes for children to grow up is more than enough for the thought of escape to no longer cross the minds of unfortunate henpecked husbands.

Forgive me, my reader, this chapter should have been one of the last chapters of my novel. Its presence here, after the words about heavenly bliss that concluded the previous chapter of my narrative, is strange, inappropriate, and perhaps offensive. But the author's soul cries out as I write these lines now, when everything ended quite differently from how it might have ended in our dreams, cherished by our foolish understanding of the reality of moral values. From all this, my reader can, if he so desires, extract at least this simple thought: the happiness of our shared holiday in Yvelines was not entirely cloudless, not entirely complete, and was occasionally marred by those very clouds that were the harbingers of thunderstorms, tempests, and storms.

Tear this chapter out of my book, crumple it up, and rip it up. If you're a woman, this will bring you satisfaction. If you're a man, you'll be pleased to know that you're not the only one dissatisfied with your relationship with your beloved. Understanding someone else's misfortune makes it easier to bear your own.



CHAPTER EIGHTY

We returned to our Paris apartment exactly ten days after leaving. We were both happy, or seemed so. Whether happy because the trip had happened or happy because it was over, either way, we were both in excellent spirits.

Monsieur Chateren had been informed of our return date, so he had time to prepare a surprise. A couple of hours after our arrival, a messenger arrived with twenty copies of the author's books.

"Let's open it quickly and take a look!" Violetta exclaimed.

"Please don't touch them," I objected. "It's bad luck. I won't open the first copy of this book until at least two hundred copies have been sold. It would be better to wait until five hundred copies are sold; that's more in keeping with my status. But be that as it may, we'll open it as soon as the publisher announces the second hundred have been sold."

"I didn't know you were so superstitious!" Violetta replied.

"Haven't you read my Count Cagliostro series?" I asked. "And what about 'The Prophecy'? You discussed it with me, didn't you? And 'The Two Dianas'? And 'Queen Margot,' for that matter? There are fortune tellers everywhere."

"I thought it was something else," Violetta said thoughtfully. "Writing about fulfilled prophecies doesn't necessarily mean believing in them yourself."

"It's different for me," I insisted. "I never write about anything I don't believe in. Even the most incredible events I describe first happen in my imagination, and I believe they're true, or at least that they could very well have happened exactly as I describe them. If I don't believe in my characters and the events that happen to them, I don't write a single line about them."

"Well, the rituals of a seasoned writer like you should be observed," Violetta agreed. "Even if they're wrong, they work, and that's the main thing."

“Exactly,” I said.

We unpacked our things, tidied ourselves up and went to have lunch at our favorite restaurant nearby.

A day in Paris after a ten-day absence passed in the blink of an eye.

In the evening, the same messenger delivered a letter stating that, according to his information, more than four hundred books had already been sold.

“Well, now we can unpack these books,” I said.

I unfolded the stack. The books were bound with wide ribbon, and the cover bore only my name and the title, "The Youth of the Musketeers."

“I always untie the ribbon, I never cut it,” I said.

"Is that also a tradition?" Violetta asked with obvious irony.

“It’s more like just a habit,” I replied.

I think I pulled the wrong end. The knot tightened further, and it took a lot of patience to untie it.

"Maybe we should cut it up after all?" Violetta asked, more angrily than impatiently, it seemed to me.

"Why are you so nervous, dear?" I asked. "What's the matter? If you insist, we can cut it, of course, but I'd much rather untie it. I love the look of untied ribbons. It adds a special flavor to unwrapping gifts and well-deserved rewards for your efforts."

“No, Dudu, I’m not nervous,” Violetta said hesitantly.

I looked closely into her eyes.

“No?” I asked. “Well, then I was wrong, sorry.”

"Damn it! I can't do this!" Violetta finally cried. "Wait, don't untie it. You need to know this. You'll find out anyway."

“What will I learn?” I asked.

“That’s about it,” Violetta said, handing me a piece of paper with text on it that wasn’t written in her handwriting.

I read the following on it.

"The renowned writer Alexandre Dumas has been convicted of plagiarism. His so-called new version of the play for the theater, entitled 'The Youth of the Musketeers,' is plagiarism. Mr. Dumas didn't write a single line of this play, except perhaps for minor editorial changes, which proofreaders make before typesetting. The book, which was published today in a fairly large print run, significantly exceeding the usual trial print run, was received by the publisher a month ago. Meanwhile, this novel was written six months earlier by another author, whose name is known to the editor-in-chief of our newspaper. This author brought to the publisher a bound copy, on which the date and authenticity of the manuscript are certified by a notary. Our editorial board has compared the text of the manuscript and the book in question, and we find them completely identical. This allows us to accuse Alexandre Dumas of plagiarism with absolute certainty."

“It will be published in this evening’s paper,” Violetta said.

"How much did that miserable, envious Lesurnois pay you for this abomination you did to me?" I asked.

"How do you know his name?" Violetta asked in surprise.

"It wasn't hard to guess," I replied. "No one else is capable of something like this. Well, he didn't surprise me. But I'm very curious: how much did you agree to play this trick on me for?"

"For a sum sufficient to live comfortably for ten years," Violetta replied. "Please don't be offended, Dudu!"

“Mademoiselle Parisot, I ask you to call me ‘Monsieur Dumas,’” I answered coldly.

"Dudu, darling, don't do this to me!" Violetta pleaded. "But I love you! I didn't know I could love you!"

“But you lied to me that you loved me for my books,” I reminded.

“It’s the absolute truth, Dumas!” Violetta insisted. “I love you as the author of all your novels and plays! I love you very much! But I didn’t know you as a person, as a man! Besides, this plan led to us being together. Is that bad? Forgive me! Dumas, I truly fell in love with you! If you don’t forgive me… I don’t know if I can live. In any case, I’ll never be happy.”

"I think you're absolutely right about Milady," I said. "Charlotte Buckson should have been based on you. Such an angelic appearance, such dazzling youth, and such a corrupted soul. In any case, who else could play her if not you?"

"Dumas, don't say that!" Violetta pleaded desperately. "Why don't you believe me that I truly love you? Haven't you had enough proof of my love?"

"For the money I spent on you, I could have gotten five times as much evidence like that from the girls strolling near Versailles," I replied. "Why do you need my forgiveness? Do you really need a fallen titan? Wasn't it my downfall you were after?"

"But it's just a joke!" said Violetta. "Haven't the critics already criticized your plays? Scandal only makes an artist even more famous, doesn't it?"

“I’m not an artist, I’m a writer,” I replied.

“I meant any creative profession,” Violetta clarified.

"Accusing a writer of plagiarism could completely ruin his career. Have you considered that?" I asked, looking into her eyes.

“I’m sorry…” Violetta whispered and threw herself onto the bed in despair, covering her face with her hands.

"What good is my forgiveness to you? What does it matter to you whether I forgive you or not?" I continued to press. "Weren't you indifferent to my opinion of you when you agreed to this vile act? And won't you be indifferent to it now that we are undoubtedly parting ways?"

"No, Dumas, don't leave me, please!" she said with an angelic expression on her face and an equally angelic voice.

"Thank you, Violetta," I replied. "Thank you for showing me how easily a base soul can hide behind an angelic exterior. You showed me how easily an angelic voice can make someone believe someone who's already deceived me twice. I'm truly grateful to you for that lesson."

We were silent for a long time. Violetta was probably wondering what would happen next. She assumed I would immediately throw her out.

I returned to the stack of books. My hands weren't shaking at all; I easily untied the ribbon and took the top book from the pile.

"Would you like me to inscribe this book for you?" I asked. "What inscription should we choose? 'To the beloved woman who never became the mother of my child'? I assume you took special medication to prevent that from happening? Or perhaps it would be better to write 'To the one who stole my heart and opened my eyes to the image of the heroine of my novel'? That would be a fitting dedication. However, perhaps I should simply write 'To Violetta, in memory, along with my forgiveness'?"

"Dumas, do you forgive me?" Violetta exclaimed.

"Certainly, such a young and beautiful girl as you can count on the forgiveness of any man, as long as he's not a stone," I replied. "Tell me, did the scoundrel Lesurnois pay you in advance or did he promise to pay you only if he succeeded?"

"Oh, God! Why do you care?" Violetta asked desperately. "Fine, if you really want to know... He only gave me a tenth; he'll pay the rest after this article appears in the newspaper."

“Well, that means you have enough money for a year of comfortable living, and with my gifts and what I paid for your efforts, you’ll have enough for three or four years,” I calculated. “Try to find yourself a decent job during that time. When I say ‘decent,’ I don’t mean selling your soul. If you really want to sell something of yourself, it’s better to sell your body; it’s not so disgusting, although I categorically advise you against this profession. Find a job as a secretary. You’re a wonderful secretary, but overly active. Learn to limit your duties to those specified in the contract. The apartment is paid for until the end of the month. Live here. I’m moving out today, and no later than tomorrow I’ll send for my things. Keep the inkstand, sell it, or give it to your new employer.”

"Are you leaving right now, Dudu?" Violetta asked. "You don't believe that I love you?"

"I believe you think you might have loved me if you hadn't taken this disgraceful job earlier," I replied. "Yes, I'm leaving now, and I ask you to forgive me..."

"I have nothing to forgive you for, Dumas!" Violetta exclaimed.

"You didn't let me finish," I continued. "I ask you to forgive me for ruining your business. Lesournois won't pay you anything because this article won't run. The newspaper editor won't have any evidence to support this accusation. My book is already out and has sold over four hundred copies. This is my book, not yours. Take a look."

I opened a book at random and put it in front of Violetta.

“This is a new version of my previous play, edited and corrected by me,” I said. “I edited my manuscript at night while you slept. I forgot to tell you that as I get older, I sleep very little. Perhaps it’s because I drink too much coffee. It was for this that Shaterin gave me the advance we had agreed upon earlier. It was this that I delivered to him on the agreed-upon date. My memory is perfect; I don’t need a secretary to remind me of the contracts I’ve signed and their deadlines. And I have never been and never will be a plagiarist. I offer publishers only my own books, the ones I’ve written. If I collaborate with others, their contribution consists of developing minor plot lines and describing the historical background, as I’ve already told you. But even then, they only provide the general outline. They lay out the essence of the historical background. I could just as easily have excerpted from encyclopedias or historical references myself, but I regret wasting my time on such uncreative work. Besides, I always offered such assistants the opportunity to be my co-authors, but for commercial reasons they refused, and we always drew up notarized contracts to that effect. No one in the world would ever dare accuse Alexandre Dumas of plagiarism. I have never done such a thing and never will. I would rather die of hunger than agree to such baseness.

"But Chateren came for the play, and I gave him the one Lesurnois gave me!" Violetta exclaimed.

"I asked him to perform this sketch for me, and he received my book the day before," I explained. "When you offered to publish our joint book and slipped me a fully completed copy, and to top it all off, you had a second copy, identical to the first, with only a few corrections, I realized this play had been written before we even met. I instantly saw through your insidious plan. I even suspected Lesournoy of being the author of this idea. And when I saw the glances you exchanged with him as we left the theater, when he pointedly didn't come up to me and say hello, although he always does when we're not alone, everything became clear to me."

"Dumas! You're so much more complex than I thought!" Violetta said, either with despair or admiration, or perhaps a mixture of both. "If only I'd known! If only I'd known you weren't a grumpy old plagiarist, but a man so alive, body and soul, that I'd love you..."

"You would have finished the job anyway," I replied. "I won't inscribe the copy for you. Keep it as a keepsake, but a dedication would be unnecessary. I'm taking the rest of the books. I'm leaving the keys on the table. Goodbye."




EPILOGUE

The reader may be wondering about Violetta's subsequent fate? Did she find a worthy job? Perhaps she came to the theater and actually played Milady in my premiere? Or perhaps we reconciled and lived happily ever after? How did I take revenge on the scoundrel Leurnois? Did Violetta commit suicide out of great love for me? Or perhaps, like the heroines of many romance novels, she contracted some illness that drained the life from her drop by drop, leaving her pale, fragile, emaciated, with deep-set eyes, and, weeping on her pillows, died peacefully after a kind priest had confessed her, absolved her of her sins, and administered the sacrament?

Are you expecting me to describe a modest gravestone beneath a rickety wooden cross, surrounded by lilies of the valley and violets, on a hill overlooking a river bend?

Reader, none of this will happen. Don't attribute an autobioCOUNTical novel to me. Violetta is a figment of my imagination. I warned you, my dear reader, that I, Alexandre Dumas, never wrote a novel titled "The Romance of Violetta."
 
Remember, I told you that the novel, previously known as the product of the imagination of the Marquise de Mannoury d'Ecto, was attributed to me by cunning publishers without any basis. They discovered a brief, casual affair in my bioCOUNTy, which allowed them to insist, on top of everything else, that the novel was entirely autobioCOUNTical.

Naive, gullible reader! Although I love you for your trust, forgive me, but I must remind you that this novel is merely a demonstration of what I, Alexandre Dumas, would have written if I had been captivated by the same plot and decided to write my own novel on it. Compare this novel with the one written by the Marquise de Mannoury d'Ecto, and you will, I hope, notice the difference.

Violetta existed only in my imagination, I came up with all her lines for her, just like that completely different play with the same name, “The Youth of the Musketeers,” and my more famous play based on the novel, “The Three Musketeers.”

This play was merely a vignette in my eighty-chapter joke. If you wish, reader, I will introduce you to the rest of the play, but remember that it was written not by my fictitious Violette Parisot, but by myself, Alexandre Dumas.

As for the envious author Leurnois, he too is a completely fictitious character, and, as a warning to critics, I will say definitively that he is not a composite character either. Among us writers, there are all sorts of people, but we are never so hostile as to conceive such a vile act. And even if such a joker were to be found, he would not have spent on his prank a sum sufficient for a girl with above-average standards to live for ten years. Even I could not afford such an expense to satisfy personal ambitions or to appease my envy. No, no, no, there are no such writers in France, and none are expected.

If a writer conceives a joke, it lies in the realm of words, not in the material and mercantile realm. But if a writer of ours is planning revenge on someone, he'll write a feuilleton, or an epigram, or a humorous epitaph, or a fable—depending on his skill.

No, my friend, we writers are aggressive only in words. And I wish I had every reason to say the same about the politicians of my time.

On this note, I say goodbye to you, my dear reader, and wish you continued enjoyment of my books.

I wrote the last line and put my pen down. I did the right thing by returning to Yvelines . Writing is easy here.

There was a knock at the door...

Violetta stood on the threshold.

- Dumas! You said you forgave me, didn't you?

- I think so...

“We still have many happy days ahead of us,” she whispered in my ear. “And nights, too.”