In the afternoon, Charles took a carriage to pay a visit to the residence of the Duke de Tréville.
Compared to the shabby and dilapidated estate of the Marquis, the sprawling residence of the Duke de Tréville truly lived up to the words "grand, opulent, and classy."
There were meticulously manicured gardens and a magnificent, gilded mansion. The servants, with powdered hair and cravats—just like in the bygone era—bustled about with an air of self-importance.
After stating his purpose, Charles waited in the gatehouse to be announced.
Although the two brothers' residences were only a few miles apart, Charles could count on one hand the number of times he had been here in his entire life.
After a short wait, a haughty-looking servant emerged from the mansion. "The Duke is not receiving visitors today."
Giving me the cold shoulder? Charles was taken aback.
"Then go and announce me again. If the Duke refuses visitors today, then my cousin's wedding will have to be called off tomorrow," Charles said, staring at the servant with undisguised malice.
The servant was startled. His earlier arrogance was replaced by panic. Without another word, he turned and went back to announce the visitor again.
A little while later, the servant returned, his expression now much more deferential. "The Duke is available to receive you now. He is waiting for you in the study. Please, follow me, Monsieur de Tréville."
"Wouldn't it have been better to start like this?" Charles said with a smile, giving the servant's cravat a gentle tug.
The servant ignored Charles's malicious joke and turned to lead the way.
Walking along a path through the small garden, Charles entered the mansion.
Following the servant down a hall carpeted with Persian tapestry, Charles made his way to the Duke's study. Along the way, he didn't forget to offer a silent salute to the portraits of his Tréville ancestors hanging on the walls.
The servant knocked gently on the study door, then opened it and gestured for Charles to enter.
The door was closed as soon as Charles stepped inside.
The study's furnishings were exquisite but not ostentatious. Several bookshelves were lined up against the walls, and the Duke's desk was positioned directly opposite the door.
And there, seated behind the desk, was Charles's great-uncle, Philippe, the Duke de Tréville, who was gazing at the visitor before him with a somber, gloomy expression.
Philippe and his brother Victor were both alike and unalike—their facial features were very similar, and both their heads of hair had turned completely white. But the two old men projected entirely different temperaments.
His brother Victor had sharp eyes and fiery words, the bearing of a soldier in his every glance, appearing like a blazing fire. His brother Philippe, however, had a somber gaze and a reserved demeanor, the poise of a politician, as cold as a block of ice.
Indeed, the Duke de Tréville had been greatly trusted by King Louis XVIII during the Bourbon Restoration and had been appointed to important posts multiple times, even serving a term as Foreign Minister. After the Revolution of 1830, when the junior branch of the family usurped the throne from the senior line, the Duke de Tréville, out of contempt for Louis-Philippe, chose to retire from politics and lead a semi-reclusive life.
With the elder brother being a die-hard royalist and the younger brother a Bonapartist, it was only natural that the two had cut off all ties and refused to see each other.
Of course, a semi-reclusive life by no means meant the Duke was without influence. During his time in power, he had befriended many people he favored. After the political turmoil, these men had advanced even further, and many held high office—like the current Prime Minister, Marshal Soult. He frequently expressed his views on national and foreign affairs, and quite a few powerful figures listened to and considered his opinions.
In short, the Duke de Tréville was still a statesman of influence.
After Charles entered the room, the study fell into a period of silence. The Duke stared intently at his grandnephew, while Charles met his gaze with a smile.
After a good while, the Duke finally spoke, his tone flat and emotionless.
"How much do you know?"
Straight to the point, no beating around the bush. Good.
"I know quite a lot, I think, but there are still some questions I haven't figured out," Charles replied. "For instance, how the Léaurand family plans to split the 1.7 million with you."
"It seems you really do know a lot," the Duke stated, showing no surprise. "If you wish to hear it, I can tell you. One hundred thousand for me, one hundred thousand to be divided among the middlemen, and the rest for the Comte de Léaurand to keep himself."
"You are surprisingly generous," Charles said, a little surprised himself.
"To marry off a Duke's granddaughter these days, the dowry would be at least half a million, let's just say 500,000. As it is, I can marry Charlotte to a man from a great noble house without spending a sou, and even make 100,000 on top of it. That's a net gain of 600,000. In France today, there are not many deals where one can make 600,000 in a single transaction," the Duke's tone remained flat, as if he were recounting someone else's business. "I may be old, but I can still do that much math. If I were to ask for more, the Léaurand family could just as easily find someone else."
Charles raised his eyebrows in admiration. "Put that way, it is indeed a good deal..."
"How much do you want? Seeing as you also bear the name Tréville, I can give you fifty thousand at most. A business deal where you can make a clear fifty thousand francs is also not that common in France today."
"And what if I want the poor young lady to return?" Charles retorted.
The Duke's expression finally shifted. He re-examined Charles. "So you want to take the 1.7 million and the young lady with you? In that case, I really have no way to buy you off."
Charles coughed.
Where did this old man's mind go?!
Then again, I suppose one can't blame him for thinking that way...
"I am only doing this for justice, Monsieur le Duc," Charles said, looking at the other man with righteous indignation.
"Oh, yes. A justice worth 1.7 million francs," the Duke nodded.
"That's still better than you, who would snuff out a beautiful young girl's entire life in a convent for this sum of money!" Charles shot back.
"It was her parents who made that choice, not even waiting a full day after her aunt's death. That young lady doesn't even know yet that she is the legal heir to a great fortune."
"At the very least, you chose to aid and abet evil!"
"If I didn't do it, someone else certainly would," the Duke said, his face still a grim mask.
"Then at least it wouldn't be a Tréville's hands that were dirtied, would it?" Charles raised his voice.
"Compared to six hundred thousand francs, what does getting one's hands a little dirty matter?" the Duke looked at his grandnephew with disdain. "One can always wash them clean later."
"Can a sullied conscience be washed clean?!"
"Of course it can, with money. If you have the time, I can tell you a hundred such stories," the Duke's voice was frighteningly steady.
"If we have no money, at least we can still have our dignity, Monsieur le Duc," Charles said, looking the Duke straight in the eye.
A look of mingled mockery and disgust suddenly appeared on the Duke's face, as if he were watching a clumsy clown at a circus.
"Dignity? Monsieur de Tréville, do you even know what dignity is?"
"I think I do," Charles returned his gaze.
"No, I don't think you do," the Duke said coldly, looking at his grandnephew. "Let me tell you what dignity is."
"After the mass execution of the priests, your great-grandfather realized things were going badly and quickly planned for us to flee France. He himself was being watched closely by the revolutionaries and held no hope for his own survival. Before we fled, he made me swear an oath to protect my younger brother, to get the two of us out of France alive." The Duke recounted the tale in a flat tone, as if speaking of someone else's experience. "I was eighteen that year, and your grandfather was only fifteen. We first traveled by carriage, the family servant driving the horses madly. When we reached Reims, the mob discovered we were fleeing nobles and opened fire, trying to kill us. The horses and the servant died. Your grandfather and I barely managed to hide, and then we continued running east..."
Historical Note: On September 2, 1792, revolutionaries executed 160 Catholic priests in a convent for refusing to swear allegiance to the new government, marking one of the beginnings of the Reign of Terror.
The Duke paused, seemingly lost in memory.
"We didn't dare seek shelter in private homes, nor did we dare look for a carriage. We had almost no money on us. We just walked east, sticking to the wilderness. We slept in the open fields along the way. Luckily, it wasn't very cold then..." After a moment, the Duke resumed, his tone still consistently flat. "We were hungry. So very hungry. I can still remember the feeling of my stomach clenching from hunger. Your grandfather came down with a high fever on the road. He was practically delirious the whole way, unable to walk. I practically had to drag and carry him east—thinking back now, I really should have forgotten my oath to my father! We survived on wild fruits and vegetables. Sometimes, if we were lucky, we could steal some vegetables from a farm. I always let your grandfather eat first. I don't know how long we ran, or how far, until one day, I felt I couldn't run anymore. My stomach was so empty you could stuff it with straw, and your grandfather's head was hot enough to start a fire. I thought then, this is where we're going to die..."
Charles felt his throat tighten.
"Just then, God smiled upon us," the Duke suddenly laughed, a smile that sent a chill down Charles's spine. "Do you know what I saw?"
"What..." Charles tried to maintain his composure, but his voice still trembled slightly.
"I saw a few field mice. In that moment, in my eyes, those field mice were more beautiful than any woman. Their faces were like angels, their fur as beautiful as satin, and their squeaking sounded sweeter than the music at the Paris Opéra..."
A wave of nausea rose in Charles's throat.
"What's wrong, Monsieur? Feeling disgusted? Is that the extent of your courage?" the Duke shot his grandnephew a scornful glance. "Without those angelic field mice, would you be able to stand before me today and lecture me about dignity? Without me stealing vegetables from farmland, would you be able to stand here today and lecture me about dignity? Monsieur, would you like to hear what happened next?"
Charles was silent.
"After that, I understood everything. Dignity is nothing. To be alive, and to live well, is more important than anything," the Duke sneered. "The Royal Princess had it right when she said, 'The Revolution trampled us into the mud, and we shall return that mud to France as a gift'."
Historical Note: The "Royal Princess" refers to Marie-Thérèse, the eldest daughter of Louis XVI and the only one of his children to survive the Revolution. She later married her cousin, the Duke of Angoulême. During the Bourbon Restoration, she harbored a deep hatred for the revolutionaries and vowed revenge.
Charles remained silent for a long time.
"Do you still intend to stop me?" the Duke asked calmly.
Charles continued his silence, until finally, he lifted his head again and looked the Duke straight in the eye.
"Your Grace, I admit that without your help, my grandfather might have died long ago, and I would never have been born into this world. I also admit that you suffered a great deal because of the Revolution. But... I do not believe that is an excuse for you to do as you please, and it is certainly not a reason for me to give up." The brilliant blue eyes, a hallmark of the Tréville family, shone with pride. "I have already promised someone that I would bring Mademoiselle Léaurand back. And until my client releases me from my commission, no one can stop me from fulfilling my promise."
The twenty years of bloody turmoil had stripped most of that generation of nobles of concepts like "honor" and "morality" (though many had never held them dear to begin with), instilling in them instead a creed of sword and blood. This type of "reactionary noble" was the most die-hard of counter-revolutionaries, with no thoughts for their enemies but blood for blood.
If this mentality were reserved only for enemies and foes, it might have some justification. But it quickly expanded to encompass everyone. Selfishness was thus cloaked in the guise of being "forced," and all sorts of vices were given justifications and excuses.
"Suffering is never a license to do as one pleases, nor is it a tool to rationalize evil deeds. If you believe that because you have suffered in the past, you can now arbitrarily bully those who are uninvolved, then that is something I will never accept," Charles said, giving his definitive, righteous refusal.
In truth, he wasn't really acting as a knight-errant for justice, nor did he see himself as a champion of righteousness. If it weren't for the thought that backing down now would make it impossible to face Forlan, he might have already changed his mind.
"So you are saying," the Duke asked coldly, "that you refuse to accept my terms for a settlement?"