Lire le chapitre 18: The Audience

The antechamber of Madame de Maintenon smelled of wax and old paper. Marguerite had spent three hours trading whispered promises to a footman who owed his cousin a favor, and another hour crouched behind a tapestry in the service corridor, counting the footfalls of guards who passed at irregular intervals. Her knees ached. Her palms were slick inside her gloves.

When the door finally opened, a thin woman in grey stood before her, unhurried, as though she had been expecting someone to emerge from the tapestries all along.

“You are the Duchesse’s maid,” Madame de Maintenon said. Not a question. She gestured to a straight-backed chair. “Sit. You have five minutes before my next obligation.”

Marguerite sat. She had rehearsed this speech a dozen times in her head, but the words scattered like startled pigeons the moment she met those pale, patient eyes.

“Madame,” she began, and then stopped. She had to be careful. One wrong word and she would be dismissed, or worse, delivered back to the Comtesse with a note of apology.

“The Duchesse de Montfort is being poisoned,” she said. “Slowly. Methodically. And I believe the Comtesse de Vaudreuil is responsible.”

Maintenon’s expression did not shift. She folded her hands in her lap—neat, capable hands that had risen from governess to the king’s favor by knowing exactly when to speak and when to remain silent.

“That is a grave accusation, child. Do you have evidence, or only suspicion born of a servant’s imagination?”

Marguerite felt the sting of the word *servant* but swallowed her pride. She reached into her bodice and withdrew the two objects she had carried pressed against her heart for two days now—the vial Dr. Beaumont had emptied, and her own locket, the one her mother had given her, the only thing of value she owned.

She set the vial on the low table between them. “This contained the poison. It was administered through scented salts, a gift from the Comtesse. My mistress suffered a violent seizure two nights ago. Dr. Beaumont saved her life with an antidote, but he could not identify the substance.”

Maintenon picked up the vial, held it to the light, sniffed the rim. Her brow furrowed—barely, but Marguerite caught it.

“And the locket?” Maintenon asked.

Marguerite opened it, revealing the miniature of her mother—a face weathered by years of service, kind eyes, a worn smile. “This is mine. But I found something in the Comtesse’s chamber that makes me believe she has a similar one. Not with a mother’s face inside. My mistress’s.”

Maintenon set the vial down slowly. “You searched her chambers?”

“Yes, Madame.”

“Without warrant. Without permission. In the palace of the king.”

The words hung in the air like a blade. Marguerite did not flinch.

“I did what was necessary,” she said. “The Duchesse is dying by inches, and the Comtesse has woven herself so deeply into her life that no one sees the threads anymore. Even her own husband has been turned against her—unwittingly, perhaps, but turned nonetheless.”

Maintenon’s eyes sharpened at the mention of Armand. “The Duc de Montfort returned to court not three days ago, seeking reconciliation, I understand.”

“He came because the Comtesse demanded it,” Marguerite said. “I found a letter fragment, dropped in the corridor. He owes her a debt. She has pressured him to ‘finish what was started’ before Christmas.”

For the first time, something flickered across Maintenon’s composed face. Interest, perhaps. Or calculation.

“And the Christmas deadline,” Maintenon murmured. “What do you believe it signifies?”

“I do not know,” Marguerite admitted. “But the Comtesse is not working alone. There are others—a courtier named Le Tellier, who is known for his poisons, and a payment was made to him in the Comtesse’s own hand. There is also a forged letter that implicates the Duchesse in matters she knows nothing of. A blackmail scheme against her husband, using her name.”

She had not meant to reveal so much, but the words tumbled out now, unstoppable. She reached into her pocket and produced the folded, worn letter—the one she had taken from the Comtesse’s hidden drawer.

“This is signed with the Duchesse’s initials, but the hand is not hers. It threatens her husband with exposure unless he cooperates. It is dated before Christmas.”

Maintenon took the letter, unfolded it, read it in silence. Her lips pressed into a thin line when she reached the bottom.

“This is damning,” she said quietly. “If it can be proven that the Comtesse authored it.”

“The Comtesse keeps records,” Marguerite pressed. “Careful ones. There will be matching drafts in her writing desk if you look. And the lock of hair I found—it matches the Duchesse’s color precisely, but that alone proves nothing. I need your help to find a witness, someone who has seen the Comtesse with Le Tellier. Someone who can testify.”

Maintenon set the letter down beside the vial. She regarded Marguerite for a long moment, and Marguerite felt herself being weighed, measured, judged—not for her class or her lack of title, but for her usefulness.

“You are more capable than most women in this court,” Maintenon said at last. “And you have put yourself in considerable danger to bring me this. I will not insult you by pretending that I act out of charity. The Comtesse has become… inconvenient. Her network extends further than is comfortable, and she has begun to reach toward matters that do not concern her.”

She rose, and Marguerite scrambled to her feet.

“I will have the Comtesse watched,” Maintenon continued, smoothing her skirts. “Discreetly, for now. If she moves against the Duchesse again, we will have her.”

“And if she moves against me?” Marguerite asked.

Maintenon’s smile was thin and cold. “Then you should hope that she is as cautious as she is ambitious. I have no power to protect a serving girl beyond these walls, Marguerite. You must understand that.”

Marguerite understood perfectly. She had known before she came that she would receive no guarantees. She had hoped for more than a promise of surveillance, but it was something.

“One more thing,” Maintenon said, and Marguerite paused at the door. “This vial you brought me. Dr. Beaumont emptied it, you say, and kept it?”

“Yes, Madame.”

“Then why did you bring me an empty vial that tells me nothing of its contents?”

The question struck Marguerite like a slap of cold water. She had been so intent on presenting evidence that she had not stopped to consider what the vial actually proved—nothing, without its contents. She opened her mouth to answer, but Maintenon raised a hand.

“I do not ask for your answer. I ask you to consider it.” She picked up the locket—Marguerite’s mother’s face gleaming in the candlelight—and turned it over in her fingers. “This is beautiful work. The clasp is unusual. I have seen something like it before, I think. At the Comtesse’s throat, two summers past.”

Marguerite’s breath caught. “Then she does have one.”

“She did,” Maintenon corrected. “She no longer wears it. But if you are correct, and she keeps a locket with the Duchesse’s portrait inside, then she has intended this for a long time. That is not a crime of circumstance. That is a plan.”

She handed the locket back to Marguerite. Their fingers brushed—cool, dry skin against Marguerite’s damp, trembling hand.

“Go back to your mistress,” Maintenon said. “Behave normally. Attend the Duchesse’s needs as though this conversation never happened. And do not approach the Comtesse directly. If she suspects you have come to me, her next move will not be subtle.”

Marguerite curtsied and fled the antechamber before Maintenon could change her mind. The corridor outside was empty, the candles guttering in a draft that smelled of snow and the approach of Christmas. Three days remained until the Comtesse’s deadline.

She had done what she could. She had spoken her piece, presented her evidence, extracted a promise of surveillance. But as she hurried back toward the Duchesse’s apartments, she could not shake the feeling that she had given Maintenon more than she had received. The Comtesse would be watched—but Marguerite was still alone.

And now the Comtesse knew, perhaps, that she had enemies who were willing to search her rooms.

The question was whether she would wait to be caught, or strike first.