Chapter 12. Father and Son – Reforged in the Enchanted Realm

Noirtier—for it was indeed he who materialized from the mists of the Arcanum—watched the enchanted familiar until the warded portal was securely closed. Concerned that even a hushed conversation could be overheard from the antechamber, he reopened the door briefly. This caution proved wise: Germain, the servant, hastily slipped away, as if carrying a guilty secret. After verifying that no one was eavesdropping, M. Noirtier firmly bolted both the antechamber door and the door to the inner room. Only then did he turn to Villefort, the young adept who had followed each movement with a blend of awe and quiet apprehension.

"Ah, my dear Gérard," Noirtier said, his voice resonating like a softly spoken incantation, "you look as though you can't decide if you're pleased or alarmed by my sudden appearance."

"My father," Villefort replied, his tone quivering with respect and relief, "I'm truly happy to see you—but it all happened so fast, as if a brilliant spell burst without warning."

"My beloved child," Noirtier continued, taking a seat on an ornate obsidian chair etched with glowing glyphs, "I'm just as surprised. I recall you saying your wedding would be set for the twenty-eighth of the Harvest Moon, yet here you are in our enchanted capital on the third day of the New Dawn."

"And if I've come to the city, dear Father," Villefort answered, stepping closer while the faint aura of his innate magic pulsed around him, "it's to protect you. I crossed these lands solely to ensure you stay safe."

"Is that so?" Noirtier laughed, stretching as though trying to sense the ley-lines beneath them. "Well then, tell me about your journey—it must be quite the tale, filled with wonders worthy of our runic texts."

"Father," Villefort said softly, "I'm sure you've heard rumors of this hidden Bonapartist Circle meeting in secret at Rue Saint-Jacryl—"

"Number 53, yes," Noirtier interrupted with a knowing grin. "I happen to be Vice-Sigil there."

"Father, you speak so calmly that it unnerves me," Villefort whispered, clearly torn between admiration and dread.

"My dear boy," Noirtier replied, "when you've been outlawed by the mountain druids, fled Paris in a spellbound cart, and escaped the spectral hounds loosed by Robespierre's curse, you learn not to flinch at unusual happenings. But please, carry on. What of General Quesnel and these gatherings on Rue Saint-Jacryl?"

"They tricked him into attending one of those secret meetings. He left his manor when the clock struck nine at night, and by dawn, he was found floating in the Seine's enchanted currents."

"And how did you learn such a strange, grim detail?" Noirtier asked, an amused spark in his ancient eyes.

"The king told me himself—he seems well-informed of these events," Villefort answered.

"Well then," Noirtier said with a wry smile, hinting at the many runic secrets he held, "you've shared your story, so in return, let me share another enigma from our realm."

"Father," Villefort said with a half-proud, half-apprehensive tone, "I suspect I already know where this is going."

"Ah, so you're aware of the emperor's supposed landing?" Noirtier's voice dropped to a near whisper, the cadence of a conjuration.

"Not so loudly!" Villefort pleaded. "I'm worried for your safety and mine. Yes, I heard the news—indeed, I knew it before any official messenger confirmed it. Three days ago, I sent word from Marseilles to our capital, trying to outrun an enforced delay."

"Three days ago?" Noirtier repeated, slightly dubious. "But the emperor hadn't touched our shores yet."

"I still knew his plan," Villefort said, his eyes flashing with conviction, "thanks to a sealed letter from the Isle of Elba, written in special runes."

"A letter addressed to me?" Noirtier asked, clearly surprised.

"To you. It was found on a courier's person. If that letter had fallen into the wrong hands, Father, you would have been in grave danger long before now," Villefort warned, letting out a tense laugh.

"Come now," Noirtier retorted gently. "Would the Restoration resort to such savage measures? Execution by gunshot? Nonsense. But where is this letter now? I know you: you wouldn't let even a single rune slip away."

"I burned it, Father," Villefort confessed sadly. "I feared any trace of it could condemn you."

"So you sacrificed your own future for me," Noirtier said, his voice softening. "I can appreciate that. As long as I have you, there's little I fear."

"And in saving you," Villefort added, "I've bound our destinies closer than ever."

"So the plot deepens," Noirtier remarked, raising an eyebrow. "Explain, my son."

"I must return to the subject of that meeting on Rue Saint-Jacryl," Villefort said, glancing at the shadows as if expecting a spy to lurk there.

"The authorities act like it's just another minor conspiracy. If they searched more thoroughly, they might have discovered—" Noirtier started.

"They haven't found the main conspirator yet, but they're on his trail," Villefort interjected.

"Yes, that old phrase: 'We're on his trail.' I've heard it a hundred times. Whenever the guards are clueless, they claim to be 'closing in,' while the king quietly waits for them to admit they've lost him again."

"Father, they pulled General Quesnel's body from the river. Everyone sees it as murder," Villefort insisted.

"Murder, perhaps—but they have no proof," Noirtier replied with a dismissive shrug. "People are found in the Seine daily, sometimes by suicide, sometimes by misfortune."

"Father, you know General Quesnel wasn't the type to throw himself into a freezing river. No, he was killed in cold blood."

"And who's calling it murder?" asked Noirtier with a faint smirk.

"The king," Villefort said simply.

"The king? I thought he was more of a philosopher than one to hurl accusations. In politics, men are obstacles—when they stand in the way, they're simply removed. Would you like a summary of what really happened? The general was approached, likely recommended by someone from Elba. He was invited to Rue Saint-Jacryl to learn about the plan: the emperor's departure from Elba, the rumored landing, and so on. Once he realized the depth of the plot, he announced his loyalty to the crown. Naturally, that set everyone on edge. They asked him to swear an oath—he did so awkwardly, and then he was allowed to leave. He never returned home. Does it mean he was murdered? My dear boy, you're a deputy procureur, yet you make quick judgments based on almost no evidence. Did I accuse you of murder when you executed your enemies for our cause? I merely said, 'Well done—tomorrow, we'll see what fate has in store.'"

"Father, be careful. When the time comes, vengeance might strike us both like a sudden storm."

"Vengeance for what, exactly?" Noirtier asked mildly.

"You believe in the usurper's return, do you not?" Villefort pressed.

"We do," Noirtier answered gravely.

"You're mistaken. He won't get more than two leagues inland before soldiers capture him like a dangerous beast."

"My dear boy, the emperor is already marching toward Grenoble. By the tenth or twelfth, he'll be in Lyons. By the twentieth or twenty-fifth, he'll stand at the gates of the capital."

"You think the people will just let him stroll right in?"

"They'll rush to welcome him."

"But he has barely any men. Our armies will surely stop him."

"They'll greet him, not fight him. Gérard, you're still new to how quickly loyalties shift. You only know what the telegraph told you, days late: that he landed at Cannes with a small force and is 'being pursued.' Yes, 'pursued'—but in reality, they'll simply keep driving him toward the capital without ever confronting him."

"Grenoble and Lyons are strongholds loyal to the king. They won't open their gates."

"They will," Noirtier corrected. "They'll open them with celebration. Trust me, I'm as informed as you are. You think you traveled here unseen, but I knew you'd arrived within half an hour of you crossing the city gate. You told no one but your postilion your route, yet I had your location in my records. Now, ring for a second knife, fork, and plate. Let's dine and talk."

"Incredible," Villefort whispered, shaken by his father's uncanny knowledge.

"Is it?" Noirtier asked. "You rely on money and official power. We rely on faith and devotion."

"'Devotion!'" Villefort echoed softly, sounding a bit skeptical.

"Yes, devotion—a potent force for those who wait."

Noirtier then reached for the bell-rope to summon the servant. Villefort gently stayed his hand.

"Hold on, Father. One more thing," Villefort said earnestly.

"Go on," Noirtier prompted.

"Even if the royal investigators seem clumsy, they've learned one dangerous fact."

"And that is?"

"They have a description of the visitor who showed up at General Quesnel's house the morning he vanished."

"Oh, do they now?" Noirtier said, arching a brow. "Pray tell, what is it?"

"A man with dark complexion, jet-black hair, eyebrows, and whiskers, wearing a deep blue frock-coat buttoned high, and the rosette of the Legion of Arcane Honor. He also wore a wide-brimmed hat and carried a bamboo cane."

"Ah," Noirtier mused. "And they still haven't caught him?"

"They lost him at Rue Coq-Héron," Villefort said, a hint of relief in his voice.

"Haven't I told you your constabulary aren't exactly brilliant?"

"But they might succeed in time," Villefort warned.

"That is, if he doesn't change his look," Noirtier noted with a calm, thoughtful air.

He stood and, with the grace of a practiced master of shadows, removed his signature frock-coat and black cravat. Approaching a chest containing Villefort's grooming supplies, he worked up a bit of soap and, with a steady hand, shaved away his whiskers. Watching this transformation, Villefort felt a mix of alarm and fascination.

With his whiskers gone, Noirtier adjusted his hair, exchanged his black cravat for a bright scarf he'd found atop a suitcase, and slipped on a dark brown coat borrowed from Villefort's collection—snipping it slightly for a perfect fit. Replacing his broad hat with a narrower one (also Villefort's), he discarded his old cane in favor of a lighter switch. He tested a few jaunty steps around the room, adopting a fresh bearing.

"Well," he asked, turning to his wide-eyed son, "will the authorities recognize me now?"

"No, Father," Villefort said, struggling to keep his voice steady, "I don't think they will."

"Excellent. Then please keep what I left behind in good care," Noirtier said.

"Rely on me," Villefort promised quietly.

"Yes, yes, I believe you saved my life, and one day I'll pay that debt," Noirtier said with a gentle smile.

Villefort gave a slight shake of his head, uncertain.

"You're still not sure?" his father teased.

"I just hope we're overestimating the danger," Villefort admitted hesitantly.

"Are you going to see the king again?" Noirtier asked.

"Perhaps," Villefort replied, carefully weighing each word.

"And do you plan to play oracle before him?" Noirtier said with a conspiratorial grin.

"Bad news is never well-received at court," Villefort observed wryly.

"True. Still, if there's another 'Restoration,' you might become quite important. What will you say to the king?"

"I'm not entirely sure," Villefort whispered, bracing himself.

"Then here's my advice," Noirtier said gently. "Tell him, 'Sire, you're wrong about how the people feel, about the mindset of your cities, about the loyalty of your soldiers. The man you call the Corsican Ogre is the 'usurper' at Nevers, but the beloved Bonaparte at Lyons, and the recognized Emperor at Grenoble. You think you're hunting him down, but he's moving faster than you realize—like a marching eagle. The soldiers you expect to fight him instead swarm to his side. Sire, you should leave, not because of fear, but because your enemy is strong enough to show mercy. Avoid the humiliation of a prince of Saint Louis bowing to the conqueror of Arcola, Marengo, and Austerlitz.' Or, if you prefer, say nothing at all. Stay quiet about your trip here, go back to Marseilles under the cover of darkness, and keep a low profile. That way, if fate shifts again, you'll be ready to save me a second time. Farewell, Gérard. Next time, let your arrival be a peaceful visit at my door."

With that, Noirtier departed as calmly as he had arrived, leaving Villefort pale and breathless. Racing to the window, Villefort pulled back the curtain and watched his father walk away—calm, unhurried, passing within sight of two or three grim-faced men stationed near the corner of the street. Those men, perhaps, had orders to detain someone with a black beard, a blue frock-coat, and a wide-brimmed hat. They wouldn't be looking for the changed Noirtier.

Villefort stood frozen until his father's figure vanished into the twilight on Rue Bussy. Then, moving with the meticulous quickness of a skilled runic caster, he gathered the discarded garments—tucking the black cravat and blue frock-coat into an old trunk, hiding the hat in a dark closet, and breaking the cane to feed its fragments into the fire. Afterward, he put on his traveling cap, flashed a meaningful glance at his silent but clearly curious valet—who seemed to read a thousand questions in Villefort's eyes—settled his bill, and hurried to the coach waiting outside. And so, spurred by both anxiety and ambition, he set off once more, prepared to face a land fraught with plots and the faint glimmer of looming success. For the first time, he felt the strange thrill of destiny's wings unfolding around him.