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The air is humid, the atmosphere suffocating; not even the slightest sunbeam can tear through the thick, gray plating of the clouds. It’s only a matter of time before the uncomfortable stillness is broken by the incoming thunderstorm, she reasons, and grabs an umbrella before she steps out and hurries to her carriage.
“To Mme de Fargis’”, she commands, and lays her head on the comfortable cushions as the runners hurry to make their way across Paris, no doubt as unenthusiastic as her at the prospect of getting caught in the rain. She tries to chase the ugly thoughts that have been gnawing at her for a few days now, but they prove as relentless as the bumps in the road, which hurt her back and make any semblance of relaxation a herculean task. Instead, she stares at nothing, and thinks of what she’s going to say.
They arrive before she can figure it out, and she awards them one pistole each for their efforts; she is not foolish enough to think that she could have come up with something, no matter how long it would have taken to get to her destination.
The door of the house is open, and people are buzzing in and out of the place, carrying precious pieces of furniture wrapped in hessian cloth secured with worn-out ropes. None of them move to stop her from walking in; no one of their status would dare question a woman adorned in fabrics as delicate as hers, no matter how modest her attire is. Not to mention their mistress has probably had her fair share of visits in the last few hours.
She finds her dwelling in a remote salon, nonchalantly thrown across an armchair which constitutes the last piece of furniture in the room. Discreetly, she makes her way across the wooden floor, and once she is sufficiently close for Madeleine to feel her presence, but sufficiently far away to not encroach on her personal space, she opens her mouth.
She does not get a chance to say anything.
“Why are you here, Marie ?” comes the bitter interrogation, and Mme de Fargis, although her back is turned, tilts her face farther away from her. “If you mean to taunt me, I will not entertain you. In fact,” she adds, and Marie can hear her frown, “I will not entertain you either way. Leave.”
Madame de Combalet moves one step closer.
“I came to make my goodbyes,” she states plainly, and keeps her voice as even as possible. “We may not have been close in a while, but still, I am sorry it came to this.”
The former dame d’atour scoffs, and taps her fingers along the arm of her seat in a feverish dance.
“I do not need any pity,” she retorts, “and especially not from the Cardinal’s lap dog.” The last words come out as a hiss; indubitably designed to drive her away, the statement only makes Marie feel more sorry for the other woman. Nevertheless, she did not come here to crawl at her feet and beg for forgiveness; it is far too late for that, and if anything…
“You are the one who threw everything away, Madeleine”, she reminds her, gently, and finally moves to stand in front of the armchair. She braves the steely glare that greets hers, and instead focuses on the red-rimmed corners of the woman’s eyes, mustering all of her strength to bury her self-righteousness and instead bring out the softness and affection she once felt for her former friend. “You threw us away, too. You do not get to treat me this way now.”
“Says the desperate little girl whose obsession over her uncle drove her to be hated by half of Paris.” Madame de Fargis squares her jaw, and her tone turns asinine as she ponders. “You know, I never gave those rumors about you and that snake much credit. But now… I am starting to think that maybe they had a point.”
Madame de Combalet tenses up at the allegation, and seethes. No matter the complicated nature of her feelings towards her protector, they are hers and hers alone to deal with, and any attack on his character is intolerable. Still, she does not intend to sink to the level of a person who is clearly hurting and lashing out out of desperation. She came here with the intent to be the bigger person, and she will be.
“You are the one who fell in love,” she speaks softly.
Madeleine’s eyes grow shiny with tears, and the words get caught in her throat; she stares down at the floor, seemingly defeated. Marie waits for a witty remark, or an insult; she gets neither, so instead, she kneels next to the armchair and gently grabs her hands.
“Oh, my dear friend,” she soothes. “You felt such care for me once. Do not play coy with me,” she shushes her before she can interrupt her, “I know how you felt about me, although I never had it in me to address those feelings back then. And in spite of my inaction, you shone brighter than any other jewel at the Court; pray tell me, then — why did you let your affections for her get to your head ?”
The eyes she meets have nothing to do with the rage-filled stare that was directed at her only seconds earlier. Instead, she meets the wide eyes of a girl she knew a lifetime ago, one with whom she once spent a great many nights hidden away in their shared cell at the convent, reading a great many smuggled books about romances between a prince and his princess.
“We were just children,” Madeleine stutters, and the tears she has been holding back start running down her cheeks. “You made me realise the unspoken truth about my nature, that much is true; but I always valued your friendship more than your love. She, however…” Her voice wavers, and she hides her face between her hands. “Oh, Marie, I loved her !”
Her arms find their way around her torso like they have never stopped embracing her in the first place, like they are still the same children who once swore nothing would ever come between them; and for a fleeting moment, as she holds her close, and pushes her face into her shoulder, it truly feels like nothing has changed.
“Oh, my beloved friend… Cry in my arms one last time.”