THE THREE MARRIAGES OF HORTENSE A Tale of Medieval France PART ONE THE MISER'S TRANSFORMATION CHAPTER I THE WOMAN OF MYSTERY In that year of our Lord 1427, when the English still maintained their stubborn grip upon the northern provinces of France, and the Dauphin Charles wandered from castle to castle, a fugitive in his own realm, there lived in the prosperous merchant city of Lyon a certain Gérard Fauconnier, whose name was spoken with equal measures of envy and contempt by all who knew him. Gérard Fauconnier was, by the standards of his age, a man of considerable fortune. His warehouses along the Saône contained silks from the Orient, spices from the Venetian trade routes, and fine woolens from Flanders. His counting house, situated in the most respectable quarter of the city near the Cathedral of Saint-Jean, employed six clerks who worked from Prime to Vespers, recording the endless flow of transactions that swelled their master's coffers. Yet despite this abundance, Gérard Fauconnier was known throughout Lyon as the most parsimonious man in a city renowned for its commercial acumen. His house, a substantial stone structure on the Rue Mercière, presented to the street a façade of respectable prosperity. But those few who were admitted to its interior—and they were very few indeed—spoke of furnishings that had not been replaced in thirty years, of tapestries faded to the color of dust, of a single fire in the great hall even in the depths of winter, around which the master and his servants huddled like peasants in a barn. The servants themselves, three in number where a man of Fauconnier's station should have kept twenty, were clothed in garments that would have shamed a modest burgher, and fed upon fare that a Carthusian monk might have found austere. Yet if Gérard Fauconnier starved his household, he fed his appetites. Not for him the simple pleasures of good wine or fine company. No, Gérard Fauconnier's sole indulgence was the accumulation of wealth, and the contemplation of that wealth in the solitude of his counting house, where he would sit for hours running his fingers through bags of gold florins, or unfolding and refolding the bills of exchange that represented his far-flung commercial empire. The gold, when he held it, seemed to warm him more than any fire ever could. It was in the autumn of that year, when the vineyards of Beaujolais were heavy with the harvest, that the woman appeared. She came, as such women often do, without warning and without explanation, stepping out of the twilight mists that rose from the river like the breath of some ancient dragon. Gérard Fauconnier, returning from his warehouse to his house, found her standing in the shadow of his doorway, wrapped in a cloak of crimson velvet that seemed to glow with its own inner light. "Good sir," she said, and her voice was like honey poured over silver, "I am in need of shelter, and I am told that you are a man of substance who might offer protection to a woman alone." Gérard Fauconnier, who had not entertained a woman in his house since the death of his mother twenty years past, should have sent her away. His instinct for preservation, honed by decades of commercial warfare, should have warned him that mysterious women appearing at twilight brought nothing but trouble. But there was something in her face—in the perfect oval of her features, in the dark eyes that seemed to hold the wisdom of ages, in the way her hair, black as a raven's wing, escaped from beneath her hood to frame her pale complexion—that stayed his refusal. "Who are you?" he asked, and his voice, usually so firm in commercial negotiations, trembled slightly. "I am called Hortense," she replied. "Hortense de Valcourt. My family—" she paused, and a shadow crossed her features, "—my family is no more. The wars have made me an orphan, and I seek only a roof over my head and the protection of a respectable man." Gérard Fauconnier looked at her with the calculating eye of a merchant appraising a questionable investment. She was beautiful, certainly—more beautiful than any woman he had ever seen in his sixty years of life. But beauty was a depreciating asset, and women were expensive to maintain. Still, the thought of possessing such a creature, of having her grace his dreary household, of seeing the envy in the eyes of his fellow merchants when she accompanied him to Mass—this thought worked upon him like a potent wine. "I am a plain man, demoiselle," he said finally. "I live simply. I cannot offer you the luxuries to which a woman of your birth may be accustomed." Hortense smiled, and in that smile was something that Gérard Fauconnier could not quite decipher—something that might have been amusement, or pity, or a calculation that matched his own. "I ask for nothing but shelter, monsieur. The luxuries of the world have never brought me happiness. I am content with simplicity." So it was that Hortense de Valcourt entered the house of Gérard Fauconnier, and Lyon, which thought it knew all there was to know about the miserly merchant, prepared to witness the spectacle of a beautiful young woman slowly withering away in that dreary prison of avarice. How wrong they were. CHAPTER II THE TRANSFORMATION BEGINS For the first month of her residence, Hortense behaved exactly as Gérard Fauconnier might have wished. She rose early, before even the servants, and swept the great hall herself, for the servant who should have performed that task had long since been dismissed to save wages. She prepared simple meals of bread and cheese, of thin soup made from bones that a butcher had thrown away, and she ate them with apparent contentment at the rough table where Gérard Fauconnier conducted his business. The merchant watched her with suspicious eyes, waiting for the demands to begin. Surely, he thought, this delicate creature would soon tire of such privations. Surely she would begin to ask for new gowns, for jewels, for the thousand and one extravagances that women seemed to require as the air itself. But Hortense asked for nothing. She sat in the fading light of the single candle that Gérard Fauconnier permitted in the evenings, and she mended his shirts with fingers that seemed too fine for such work, and she spoke to him of his business with an intelligence that surprised him. "You have a large quantity of pepper in your warehouse, monsieur," she said one evening, looking up from her needlework. "I noticed it when I passed by today. But the price of pepper has fallen in Venice, or so I hear from the traveling merchants. Would it not be wise to sell what you have before the news reaches Lyon, and buy instead the saffron that is rising in value?" Gérard Fauconnier stared at her. "How do you know of such things?" "My father was a man of business," she replied simply. "I learned at his knee to watch the markets, to understand the flow of commerce. A woman alone in the world must have some knowledge, if she is to survive." This was the first of many such conversations. Hortense, it seemed, possessed an uncanny understanding of the commercial world. She could read a bill of exchange at a glance, detecting errors that had escaped Fauconnier's own experienced clerks. She could predict the rise and fall of prices with an accuracy that seemed almost supernatural. And she spoke of these things not with the greed that Fauconnier recognized in himself, but with a detached intelligence, as if commerce were a game whose rules she had mastered. Slowly, imperceptibly, Gérard Fauconnier began to change. It started with small things—a second candle in the evenings, so that Hortense might see her needlework more clearly. Then a fire in the bedchamber that had been cold for twenty years. Then, miracle of miracles, a new gown for Hortense, purchased from the finest dressmaker in Lyon, in a shade of blue that matched her eyes. The merchant told himself that these expenditures were investments. A well-dressed woman enhanced his standing in the commercial community. A warm house preserved his health, and his health was necessary for the management of his affairs. But in his heart, he knew the truth: he was happy for the first time in his miserable life, and he would pay any price to preserve that happiness. Hortense received these gifts with a grace that made them seem like nothing. She wore the new gown to Mass on Sunday, and the eyes of the entire congregation followed her as she walked up the aisle. She sat by the fire in the evenings and read aloud to Gérard Fauconnier from the romances of Chrétien de Troyes, her voice bringing to life the adventures of Lancelot and Guinevere in a way that made the old merchant forget his ledgers. And she continued to advise him in his business, with a wisdom that increased his fortune beyond his wildest dreams. "You are too cautious, monsieur," she told him one day, as they reviewed his accounts. "You have ten thousand florins in the vault of the Lombard bankers, earning no interest. The world is changing. The English wars will not last forever, and when they end, there will be opportunities for those who are prepared. Invest in land, in the vineyards of Burgundy. Buy the debts of the minor nobility who are desperate for cash. When peace comes, these investments will yield tenfold." Gérard Fauconnier, who had never invested in anything that he could not see and touch, who had kept his fortune in gold and silver like a dragon of legend, hesitated. But Hortense's dark eyes were upon him, and in their depths he saw something that might have been confidence, or challenge, or the promise of greater rewards to come. "I will do as you advise," he said. That year, Gérard Fauconnier doubled his fortune. The following year, he tripled it. The merchant who had been the laughingstock of Lyon for his parsimony became the most respected man in the commercial community, consulted by aldermen and magistrates, invited to sit at the high table at civic banquets. And everywhere he went, Hortense was at his side, beautiful and mysterious and wise, the visible symbol of his transformation. But the transformation was not yet complete. CHAPTER III THE TEST OF GENEROSITY In the winter of 1429, when the news reached Lyon that a young peasant girl named Joan had raised the siege of Orléans and set in motion the events that would eventually drive the English from French soil, Gérard Fauconnier received a visitor who would test the limits of his newfound prosperity. The visitor was a monk, Brother Anselme from the monastery of Saint-Benoît-sur-Loire, a venerable foundation that had fallen upon hard times. The English raids had destroyed their granaries, the plague had decimated their numbers, and they were in desperate need of funds to rebuild. "We ask for nothing that we cannot repay in prayers, monsieur," Brother Anselme said, his worn hands clasped in supplication. "Your name has become known to us as a man of substance and piety. The monastery has been a beacon of learning for three centuries. Without help, it will be extinguished." Gérard Fauconnier listened to the monk's plea with his customary expression of calculation. In his mind, he was weighing the cost of the requested donation against the benefit of the prayers that would be offered in return. The old Gérard Fauconnier, the miser who had sent beggars away from his door with curses, would have dismissed the monk without a second thought. But the new Gérard Fauconnier, the man who had learned to appreciate beauty and wisdom, hesitated. "How much do you require?" he asked. "Five hundred florins would restore the roof of our scriptorium," Brother Anselme said. "A thousand would allow us to replenish our library, which was burned by the English." Gérard Fauconnier felt the familiar tightening in his chest, the physical pain that the prospect of parting with money always caused him. Five hundred florins! A thousand! The sums were enormous, enough to buy a house, to fund a year's living for a noble family. He opened his mouth to refuse, to offer some smaller sum that would salve his conscience without seriously depleting his hoard. But before he could speak, Hortense entered the room. She had been listening from the doorway, and her face was grave. "Monsieur Fauconnier," she said, "may I speak?" The merchant nodded, grateful for the delay. "I have heard of the monastery of Saint-Benoît-sur-Loire," Hortense continued, addressing the monk. "It is said that your scriptorium produces the finest illuminated manuscripts in all of France. That your library contains works that exist nowhere else. That your monks have preserved the learning of the ancients through these dark times." Brother Anselme bowed his head. "You honor us, demoiselle. But what you say is true." "Then it seems to me," Hortense said, turning to Gérard Fauconnier, "that a donation to such a foundation would be not an expense, but an investment. An investment in the preservation of knowledge, which is more precious than gold. An investment in the prayers of holy men, which are worth more than any commercial speculation. And an investment in your own reputation, monsieur, which will be enhanced throughout Christendom by your generosity to a worthy cause." Gérard Fauconnier looked at her, and then at the monk, and then back at Hortense. In her eyes, he saw no calculation, no hidden motive—only a sincere belief in what she was saying. And he realized, with a sudden clarity that surprised him, that he wanted to be the kind of man she believed him to be. "I will give two thousand florins," he heard himself say. "And I will endow a scholarship for the education of poor scholars, so that the learning your monastery preserves may be spread throughout the land." Brother Anselme fell to his knees, tears streaming down his weathered cheeks. "May God bless you, monsieur! May the Virgin Mary intercede for you! May all the saints—" "Rise, Father," Gérard Fauconnier said, and there was a new note in his voice, a note of quiet pride that had nothing to do with the accumulation of wealth. "I do this not for blessings, but because it is right." When the monk had departed, laden with promises and the draft for the donation, Hortense turned to Gérard Fauconnier with a smile that seemed to illuminate the room more brightly than any fire. "You have done a noble thing, monsieur," she said. "I have done what you wished me to do," he replied. "But I find that I do not regret it. For the first time in my life, I feel... light. As if a burden I did not know I carried has been lifted from my shoulders." Hortense took his hand in hers. Her touch was cool and soft, and yet it seemed to burn like a brand. "That burden was your fear, monsieur. The fear of loss that drove you to hoard your wealth like a dragon. You have discovered the truth that all wise men eventually learn: that wealth is only valuable when it is used, when it flows like water to nourish the world. A stagnant pool grows foul. A running stream remains pure." Gérard Fauconnier looked at her with something like worship in his eyes. "How is it that you know these things? You are young, beautiful, born to privilege. How can you understand the fears that drive a man like me?" Hortense's expression became distant, as if she were looking at something far away, something invisible to ordinary eyes. "I have lived many lives, monsieur," she said softly. "I have been rich and poor, high and low. I have learned that the circumstances of our existence are like garments that we wear and discard, but the soul beneath remains the same. And the soul, whatever its outward condition, needs only two things to flourish: love and the opportunity to give." Gérard Fauconnier did not understand her words, but he felt their truth. And from that day forward, he was a changed man. The donations that had once seemed like theft from himself became a source of joy. He endowed hospitals, rebuilt churches, funded the education of poor scholars. His name became synonymous with generosity throughout France, and when he died—peacefully, in his bed, with Hortense holding his hand—his fortune had been reduced to a mere fraction of what it had once been, but his reputation was greater than that of any king. And Hortense? When the will was read, it was discovered that Gérard Fauconnier had left her everything that remained—a substantial sum, though nothing compared to what had been. But Hortense was not there to receive it. She had vanished in the night, as mysteriously as she had appeared, leaving behind only a note in her elegant hand: "I was sent to teach, and I have taught. I was sent to give, and I have given. Do not seek me, for I go where I am needed next." The servants whispered that she was a saint, or an angel, or a witch. The merchants of Lyon, who had watched her transformation of Gérard Fauconnier with amazement, spoke of her for years afterward as a miracle worker. But none of them knew the truth: that Hortense de Valcourt was something far more mysterious than any of these, and that her work in Lyon was only beginning. PART TWO THE NOBLEMAN'S RESTORATION CHAPTER IV THE RUINED CHÂTEAU In the province of Berry, where the rolling hills are covered with vineyards and the ancient forests still harbor wolves and wild boar, there stood in those days the Château de Montfort, a once-magnificent fortress that had seen better days. Its towers, which had withstood the sieges of the Hundred Years' War, were crumbling. Its moat, which had once been stocked with fish for the sustenance of the garrison, was dry and overgrown with weeds. And its lord, Julien de Montfort, Comte de Montfort-sur-Cher, was the last of a line that had traced its ancestry back to Charlemagne, and the poorest nobleman in all of France. Julien de Montfort was thirty-five years old, tall and dark and proud, with the bearing of a man who had been raised to command armies and administer justice, but who had never been given the opportunity to do either. His father had died when he was young, leaving debts that would have bankrupted a merchant prince. His mother had followed soon after, worn out by the struggle to maintain appearances on an income that would not have supported a modest bourgeois household. And Julien, the sole heir to the name and the ruin, had spent the last fifteen years watching his heritage crumble around him like the stones of his ancestral home. He had tried everything. He had sold the family jewels, one by one, until only his mother's wedding ring remained, which he kept in a locked box and could not bring himself to part with. He had sold the timber rights to the forest, the fishing rights to the river, the grazing rights to the meadows. He had mortgaged the château itself to the Jews of Paris, at interest rates that would have made a Lombard banker blush. And still the debts mounted, still the creditors pressed their claims, still the roof leaked and the walls crumbled and the servants departed for more prosperous establishments. By the time Hortense de Valcourt arrived at the gates of the Château de Montfort, Julien de Montfort had reached the end of his resources. The last of his servants, an ancient retainer who had served his father before him, had died the previous winter. The last of his horses, a sway-backed mare that could barely pull the plow, was all that remained of the fine stable that had once housed fifty chargers. And the last of his hope had vanished with the letter he had received that morning from his principal creditor, informing him that unless the sum of ten thousand livres was paid within the month, the château and all its lands would be seized and sold. Ten thousand livres! It might as well have been ten million. Julien de Montfort did not possess ten livres, let alone ten thousand. He sat in the great hall of his ancestral home, surrounded by the portraits of his illustrious ancestors, and he wept tears of rage and despair. It was at this moment that the gatekeeper—who was also the gardener, the groom, and the cook, for Julien could afford no other servants—announced that a lady had arrived, traveling in a carriage that bore no arms, accompanied only by a single maid. "A lady?" Julien wiped his eyes and tried to compose himself. "What lady would come to this ruin?" "She gives her name as Hortense de Valcourt, my lord. She says that she is a widow, and that she seeks shelter for the night." Julien laughed bitterly. "Shelter? She would find better shelter in a barn. Tell her to go to the village inn." "I did suggest that, my lord. But she insists upon seeing you. She says that she has business to discuss." Business! What business could a widow have with a ruined nobleman? But Julien was too tired, too defeated, to argue. "Show her in, then. And try to find some wine that is not vinegar." When Hortense entered the great hall, Julien de Montfort felt as if he had stepped into one of the romances his mother had read to him as a child. She was beautiful, certainly—more beautiful than any woman he had ever seen, even in the courts of Paris where he had once moved as a young man with prospects. But there was something more than beauty about her, something in the way she carried herself, in the calm intelligence of her dark eyes, in the simple elegance of her black widow's gown, that spoke of a quality far rarer than mere physical attractiveness. "Monsieur le Comte," she said, curtsying with a grace that would have done credit to a duchess. "I apologize for intruding upon your privacy. But I have traveled far, and I find myself in need of assistance that only a man of your station can provide." Julien looked around the dilapidated hall, at the faded tapestries and the cracked floor tiles and the single candle that struggled against the gathering darkness, and he laughed again, though this time without bitterness. "My station, madame? I have no station. I am the last of a ruined house, a man without prospects, without resources, without hope. If you seek assistance from me, I fear you have come to the wrong place." Hortense smiled, and in that smile was something that reminded Julien of his mother, of the stories she had told him about the strength of women, about the power of wisdom to overcome adversity. "I think not, monsieur. I have made inquiries. I know your situation. And I believe that I can offer you a proposition that will benefit us both." "A proposition?" Julien's pride, wounded though it was, stirred at the word. "I am not a merchant, madame, to bargain over the counting house table. I am a nobleman." "And I," Hortense replied, "am a woman of substance who finds herself in need of a protector. My husband, a merchant of Lyon, left me a considerable fortune upon his death. But a woman alone, in these troubled times, is vulnerable to those who would take advantage of her. I need a name, a title, the protection of a noble house. In exchange, I offer you the means to restore that house to its former glory." Julien stared at her. "You offer to buy my name?" "I offer to invest in your future, monsieur. And in mine. Marriage, in our world, has always been a matter of mutual advantage. I bring wealth. You bring lineage. Together, we can build something that neither of us could achieve alone." "You would marry me? A stranger? A ruined man?" "I would marry the Comte de Montfort," Hortense said quietly. "The descendant of crusaders and counselors of kings. The keeper of a tradition that stretches back a thousand years. Wealth can be acquired, monsieur. Lineage cannot. And I have learned, in my short life, that there are things more valuable than gold." Julien walked to the window and looked out at the overgrown garden, at the crumbling walls, at the setting sun that painted the sky in shades of blood and gold. He thought of his ancestors, of the proud men and women who had built this château, who had defended it against enemies foreign and domestic, who had maintained its honor through war and plague and revolution. And he thought of the shame of being the last, of letting it all slip away through his own incompetence, his own inability to adapt to a changing world. "I cannot promise you love," he said finally. "I do not know if I am capable of love anymore." "I do not ask for love," Hortense replied. "I ask for partnership. For respect. For the opportunity to build something lasting. Love, if it comes, will be a gift. If it does not, we will still have accomplished something worthwhile." Julien turned to look at her. In the fading light, she seemed to glow with an inner radiance, like a statue of the Virgin in a cathedral niche. And he realized, with a sudden clarity that surprised him, that he did not care if she was mad, or a fraud, or a woman with some hidden agenda. She was offering him a chance—perhaps his last chance—to save his heritage, to restore his family's honor. Whatever the cost, whatever the risk, he had to take it. "Very well," he said. "I will marry you." CHAPTER V THE RESTORATION The marriage of Julien de Montfort and Hortense de Valcourt took place three weeks later, in the chapel of the Château de Montfort, with only the village priest and Hortense's maid as witnesses. The bride wore a gown of silver brocade that had cost more than the annual income of the estate. The groom wore his father's sword, the only remaining symbol of his family's former greatness. After the ceremony, Hortense set to work with a determination that astonished her new husband. She began with the accounts, sitting up late into the night with Julien's creditors, negotiating terms, consolidating debts, paying off the most pressing claims with the gold she had brought from Lyon. Within a month, the threat of foreclosure had been lifted. Within three months, the most urgent repairs to the château had been completed—the roof patched, the walls reinforced, the moat cleared of debris. But Hortense's ambitions went far beyond mere preservation. "Your estate has potential, monsieur," she told Julien one evening, as they reviewed the accounts in the newly restored library. "The land is good. The vineyards could produce excellent wine, if they were properly cultivated. The forests contain timber that could be sold to the shipbuilders of Nantes. And the château itself—" she paused, looking around the room with a critical eye, "—the château could be made into a showplace, a destination for the great families of France who seek to escape the turmoil of the court." "You speak of transformation," Julien said. "But transformation requires capital. I have spent my life watching my capital drain away." "You have spent your life defending a sinking ship," Hortense replied. "I propose that we build a new ship, one that can sail upon the changing currents of our times. The old ways are dying, monsieur. The feudal system that supported your ancestors is crumbling. But new opportunities are emerging for those with the vision to seize them." "What opportunities?" "Commerce, monsieur. Not the petty trade of the bourgeois, but the great enterprises that are reshaping the world. The silk merchants of Lyon are becoming princes. The bankers of Paris are more powerful than dukes. And the landowners who understand that land is a commodity to be developed, rather than a heritage to be preserved, are becoming richer than any nobleman of the old school." Julien frowned. "You speak of becoming a merchant. I am a nobleman." "I speak of becoming a modern nobleman," Hortense said. "A man who combines the prestige of lineage with the power of wealth. Your name opens doors that are closed to mere merchants. My money provides the means to walk through those doors. Together, we can create something new." Over the next two years, Hortense's vision became reality. She invested in the vineyards, bringing in Italian experts who introduced new techniques of cultivation and vinification. The wine of Montfort, which had once been a local curiosity, began to win prizes at fairs throughout France. She sold the timber rights, not to the first bidder as Julien's father had done, but to a consortium of shipbuilders who paid premium prices for the fine oak of the Montfort forests. And she transformed the château itself, restoring it to a glory that it had not known in two centuries, and opening it to guests who paid handsomely for the privilege of hunting in the preserved forests and dining at a table that rivaled the royal court. Julien, who had expected to be a mere figurehead in this enterprise, found himself drawn into the work with an enthusiasm that surprised him. He discovered that he had a talent for administration, for the delicate negotiations with suppliers and customers, for the management of the complex enterprise that his wife had created. And he discovered something else: that Hortense was not merely a clever woman with a head for business, but a partner who valued his judgment, who sought his counsel, who treated him not as a failed nobleman to be rescued, but as a man of worth and ability. Slowly, imperceptibly, love grew between them. It was not the passionate love of romance, the love that burns bright and dies quickly. It was something deeper, something built upon mutual respect, shared labor, the daily discovery of each other's virtues. Julien learned to appreciate Hortense's intelligence, her determination, her unwavering commitment to their common goals. Hortense learned to appreciate Julien's integrity, his pride, his deep connection to the land and the people who depended upon it. They worked together from dawn to dusk, and in the evenings they would walk in the restored gardens, discussing the day's business, planning for the future, sharing the small triumphs and setbacks that marked their progress. And sometimes, when the moon was full and the night air was sweet with the scent of roses, Julien would take Hortense's hand and speak to her of his hopes, his fears, his dreams for the family they would one day have. "I never thought I would be happy," he told her one such night, as they stood by the fountain that Hortense had installed in the center of the garden. "I thought my life was over, that I was the last of a failed line, destined to watch my heritage crumble into dust. You have given me back my life, Hortense. You have given me hope." Hortense leaned against him, feeling the strength of his arm around her shoulders. "You have given me something too, Julien. You have given me a home. A purpose. A place in the world. I was a wanderer before I came here, a woman without roots, without connections. Now I am the Comtesse de Montfort, and this land, these people, this life we have built together—they are mine as much as yours." "Will you stay?" Julien asked, and there was a note of anxiety in his voice that Hortense had never heard before. "I know that you came to me for protection, for a name. Now that you have those things, now that you have made this place prosperous—will you stay? Or will you move on, as women like you always seem to do?" Hortense turned to face him, and in the moonlight her eyes were dark and mysterious and full of something that might have been sorrow, or love, or wisdom beyond his understanding. "I will stay as long as I am needed," she said. "And I am needed here, Julien. Not just for my money, or my business sense. I am needed because I love you. Because this place, this life we have built together, is the closest thing to a home I have ever known." Julien kissed her then, for the first time since their wedding night, and the kiss was sweet and sad and full of promise. "Then let us build something that will last," he said. "Let us create a family, a legacy, a name that our children's children will be proud to bear." CHAPTER VI THE FRUITS OF LABOR The prosperity of the Château de Montfort became legendary throughout France. Visitors came from Paris, from Burgundy, from as far away as Italy and Spain, to see the miracle that had been wrought by the mysterious widow from Lyon and the proud nobleman who had been saved from ruin. They marveled at the vineyards that produced wine rivaling the best of Bordeaux. They admired the forests that were managed with scientific precision, yielding timber and game in sustainable abundance. And they envied the couple who had created this paradise, who seemed to possess the secret of happiness that eluded everyone else. For Julien and Hortense were happy—happier than they had any right to be, given the troubled times in which they lived. The wars continued, the English and French armies marching back and forth across the land, leaving devastation in their wake. The plague returned, carrying off thousands in the cities, though the isolated estate of Montfort was spared. And the court of the Dauphin, now King Charles VII, was torn apart by faction and intrigue, as the great nobles jockeyed for position in the new order that was slowly emerging from the chaos. Through it all, the Château de Montfort remained an island of peace and prosperity. Julien and Hortense had three children: two sons, Charles and Henri, and a daughter, Marguerite. The boys were raised to be both warriors and scholars, trained in the arts of war by their father and in the arts of commerce by their mother. Marguerite was educated as befitted a girl who might one day marry into the highest ranks of the nobility, but she was also taught to read accounts, to understand investments, to manage an estate—skills that Hortense insisted were as necessary for a woman as embroidery and music. "The world is changing," Hortense told her daughter, as they walked together in the garden one spring morning. "The old ways, which confined women to the domestic sphere, are passing away. A woman who understands business, who can manage her own affairs, will always be secure, no matter what happens to her husband or her family." "But mother," Marguerite objected, "is it not a woman's duty to obey her husband, to submit to his authority?" "It is a woman's duty to be wise," Hortense replied. "And wisdom sometimes requires that we appear to submit, while in fact we guide. Your father is a good man, a wise man. But he would not have achieved half of what he has achieved without my counsel, my support, my management of the details that bore him. This is the role of a wife, Marguerite—not to be a servant, but to be a partner, a helpmeet, a source of strength and wisdom." Marguerite considered this. She was fifteen years old, beautiful like her mother, but with her father's dark coloring and proud bearing. Already she had received offers of marriage from half a dozen noble families, attracted by the wealth and prestige of the Montfort name. But Hortense had refused them all, insisting that her daughter should have the time to grow into herself before she took on the responsibilities of wife and mother. "Will I marry a poor man, as you did?" Marguerite asked. "Will I save him from ruin, as you saved father?" Hortense laughed. "I hope not, my dear. I hope you will marry a man who is already established, who can offer you the security and comfort that I had to create for myself. But if you do find yourself in difficulties, remember this: a woman is not helpless, no matter what the laws and customs may say. We have resources that men do not possess—patience, cunning, the ability to see connections that they miss. Use those resources wisely, and you can overcome any obstacle." The years passed, and the children grew. Charles, the eldest, was knighted by the King himself for his service in the wars against the English. Henri became a scholar, entering the Church and eventually rising to the position of abbot of the very monastery that Gérard Fauconnier had endowed. Marguerite married the Duc de Berry, becoming one of the most powerful women in France. And Julien and Hortense grew old together, surrounded by their grandchildren, honored and respected by all who knew them. The ruined nobleman and the mysterious widow had built an empire that would endure for generations, a testament to what could be achieved when wisdom and lineage, commerce and tradition, were joined in common purpose. But all things must end, even the happiest of lives. In the year 1461, when Julien de Montfort was seventy years old, he fell ill with a fever that the physicians could not cure. He lay in the great bed where he had been born, where his children had been born, where he had spent so many happy nights with the woman who had saved him from despair. And he knew that his time had come. "Hortense," he whispered, as she sat by his bedside, her hand in his. "My love. My savior. Promise me that you will be happy. That you will not mourn too long. That you will find someone to share your remaining years." "Hush, my dear," Hortense said, her eyes bright with tears. "You will recover. You have always been strong." "Not this time," Julien said. "I feel the cold approaching. I see my ancestors waiting for me. But I am not afraid, my love. You have given me a life beyond anything I deserved. You have given me children, and grandchildren, and a name that will be remembered. I die content." "Then die knowing that I love you," Hortense said. "That I have loved you from the moment I saw you, proud and desperate in your ruined hall. That I will love you until the end of my days." Julien smiled, and closed his eyes, and passed peacefully into that sleep from which no man awakens. The funeral was the grandest that the province had ever seen. Nobles came from all over France to pay their respects to the man who had transformed a ruined estate into a model of modern agriculture, who had shown that the old aristocracy could adapt to the new world without losing its honor. And they came to see the widow, the mysterious Hortense de Valcourt, who had performed this miracle and who now, at fifty years of age, was still beautiful enough to turn heads. But Hortense was not there. She had vanished in the night, as she had vanished once before, leaving behind only a note for her children: "Do not mourn for me. I go where I am needed. Take care of what we have built together. And remember that love, like wealth, is only valuable when it is given freely, without expectation of return." The children were bewildered, the grandchildren confused. But those who had known Hortense best, who had observed her over the years, were not surprised. There had always been something otherworldly about her, something that suggested she was not entirely of this earth. She had come from nowhere, built an empire, transformed lives, and now she had returned to nowhere, her work complete. But her work was not yet complete. In a monastery on the banks of the Loire, a young man was waiting, a prince in exile, whose destiny would be shaped by the woman who had already transformed a miser into a philanthropist and a ruined nobleman into a patriarch. The third act of Hortense de Valcourt's remarkable life was about to begin. PART THREE THE PRINCE'S RETURN CHAPTER VII THE EXILE The Abbey of Saint-Maurice d'Angers stood upon a rocky promontory overlooking the confluence of the Loire and the Maine, its ancient walls bearing witness to eleven centuries of prayer and contemplation. Founded by monks fleeing the Viking invasions, it had survived war and plague and revolution, a bastion of faith in a changing world. And in the year 1462, it housed a prisoner more valuable than any treasure in its vaults. Louis d'Anjou, Prince of the Blood, Duke of Orléans, Count of Angoulême, was twenty-five years old, and he had spent the last five years of his life in this monastery, a captive of his own cousin, King Louis XI. The circumstances of his imprisonment were complex, rooted in the tangled genealogies of the French royal family and the paranoia of a king who saw conspiracies everywhere. Louis d'Anjou was the great-grandson of King Charles V, through a cadet branch of the royal house that had once held the throne itself. His grandmother had been a queen of Sicily, his mother a princess of Milan. By blood, he was closer to the throne than the man who now occupied it, and that proximity had been his undoing. When Louis XI had come to power, he had moved quickly to neutralize any potential rivals. The young Prince d'Anjou, who had been raised at court and had shown dangerous signs of popularity among the people, was arrested on charges of treason—charges that were never proven, for there was no evidence of any conspiracy—and confined to this remote monastery, far from the centers of power. For five years, Louis d'Anjou had lived in a cell that measured ten feet by eight, with a narrow window that looked out upon the river. His food was plain, his clothing coarse, his companions the monks who were his jailers as much as his caretakers. He was allowed no books, no visitors, no news of the outside world. The king had hoped that he would fade into obscurity, that the world would forget him, that he would eventually take the vows of a monk himself and remove himself forever from the line of succession. But Louis d'Anjou had not forgotten who he was. He was a prince of the blood, a descendant of crusaders and kings. He had been trained from childhood in the arts of war and government, educated by the finest scholars in Europe, prepared for a destiny that had been stolen from him. And every day of his imprisonment, he had sworn to himself that he would escape, that he would reclaim his birthright, that he would one day sit upon the throne that was his by right of inheritance. The problem was how. The monastery was guarded by a company of royal soldiers, commanded by a captain who was loyal to the king and well-paid for his vigilance. The monks, though kindly men, were forbidden to speak to the prince of anything but spiritual matters. And even if he could escape the monastery walls, where would he go? The king's agents were everywhere, his spies in every town and village. A man with Louis d'Anjou's face could not walk abroad without being recognized. It was in this state of despair that the prince received the news that a new guest had arrived at the monastery, a widow of high birth who had retired from the world to spend her remaining years in prayer and contemplation. The abbot, who was a kind man and secretly sympathetic to the prince's plight, mentioned this new arrival in passing, hoping to provide some distraction from the monotony of imprisonment. "She is a remarkable woman, by all accounts," the abbot said, as he sat with Louis in the garden that was the prince's only exercise ground. "The Comtesse de Montfort, widow of the great nobleman who transformed his estate into a model of modern agriculture. She has left her children and her grandchildren to seek peace in the service of God." Louis was only half-listening. He had heard of the Comte de Montfort, of course—the man's reputation had spread even to the isolated circles of the court before his fall. But the widow of a provincial nobleman seemed hardly worth his attention. "I hope she finds the peace she seeks," he said politely. "This is a place well-suited to contemplation." "Indeed. And yet—" the abbot paused, as if considering whether to speak further. "And yet, I sense in her something that reminds me of you, my son. A strength. A determination. A sense of purpose that is rare in those who come to end their days in such a place." Louis looked up, suddenly interested. "What do you mean?" "Only that she does not seem like a woman who has come here to die. She seems like a woman who has come here to work. To accomplish something. And I wonder—" the abbot paused again, "—I wonder if that something might involve you." Before Louis could respond, the garden gate opened, and a woman entered. She was older than the prince had expected—perhaps fifty, though she carried herself with the grace of a much younger woman. She was dressed in the simple black gown of a widow, with no jewelry but a single ring upon her finger. But there was something about her, something in the calm intelligence of her dark eyes, in the way she moved with the unconscious authority of one accustomed to command, that marked her as no ordinary petitioner. "Your Highness," she said, curtsying with a grace that would have done credit to a duchess. "I am Hortense de Valcourt, Comtesse de Montfort. I have come to offer my services." Louis stared at her. "Your services? Madame, I am a prisoner. I have no need of servants, and even if I did, I have no means to pay them." "I do not offer to be your servant, Your Highness. I offer to be your counselor. Your strategist. The architect of your return to power." Louis laughed, though there was no humor in the sound. "My return to power? Madame, I am confined to this monastery, guarded day and night by the king's soldiers. The king himself has sworn that I will never leave this place alive. What power do I have? What hope do I have?" "You have the power of your blood," Hortense replied. "You have the hope of your rightful claim. And you have me." "And who are you, madame? A widow from the provinces, however wealthy and well-connected. What can you do against the power of the crown?" Hortense smiled, and in that smile was something that reminded Louis of the stories his grandmother had told him, of the wise women of old who had guided kings and shaped the destinies of nations. "I am a woman who has learned, over many years and in many circumstances, that power is not something that is given. It is something that is taken. It is not something that resides in thrones and crowns, but in the minds and hearts of those who believe in a cause. The king has the army, the treasury, the apparatus of state. But he does not have the love of the people. He does not have the support of the great nobles, who fear and resent his tyranny. And he does not have me." Louis looked at her with new interest. "You speak boldly, madame. But words are cheap. What can you actually do?" "I can get you out of this monastery," Hortense said quietly. "I can provide you with the funds to raise an army. I can introduce you to the great nobles who will support your claim. And I can teach you how to be a king—not a tyrant like your cousin, but a true king, one who rules by justice and wisdom rather than fear." "And in exchange?" "In exchange, I ask only that you remember me when you come to power. That you listen to my counsel, even when it is not what you wish to hear. That you rule for the good of your people, rather than for your own aggrandizement. And that you allow me to retire, when my work is done, to live out my remaining years in peace." Louis studied her for a long moment. There was something about this woman, something that transcended the ordinary calculations of politics and power. She spoke with the authority of one who had seen the future, who knew with certainty that he would succeed. And despite himself, despite all the disappointments and betrayals of his imprisonment, he felt a spark of hope ignite in his breast. "Very well," he said. "Tell me your plan." CHAPTER VIII THE ESCAPE Hortense's plan was audacious in its simplicity. She had observed, during her first weeks at the monastery, that the guards were vigilant but predictable, following the same routines day after day. She had noted that the abbot, though outwardly loyal to the king, was privately sympathetic to the prince's cause. And she had identified a weakness in the monastery's defenses that could be exploited by someone with the right resources and determination. "The river," she explained to Louis, as they sat together in the garden, speaking in low voices that could not be overheard. "The monastery walls are impregnable from the landward side, but they were never designed to withstand an attack from the water. The monks have a small boat, used for fishing and for crossing to the villages on the opposite bank. If we could reach that boat, we could be miles away before the alarm is raised." "And how do we reach the boat?" Louis asked. "The garden is guarded, the gates are locked, the walls are patrolled." "The walls are patrolled," Hortense agreed. "But not the cellars. The monastery has a network of underground passages, built by the original founders as escape routes during the Viking invasions. The abbot has shown them to me. One of them leads from the crypt to a hidden door in the riverbank, not fifty yards from where the boat is moored." Louis stared at her. "The abbot has shown you? Why would he do that?" "Because I asked him to. Because I told him that I wished to understand the history of this place. And because, I suspect, he knows who I am and what I intend. The abbot is a wise man, Your Highness. He understands that the king's tyranny cannot last forever. He wants to be on the winning side when the change comes." "And when will this change come?" "In three days. The night of the full moon, when the guards are blinded by the light and the river is high with the spring rains. I have arranged for horses to be waiting on the opposite bank, and for guides to lead us through the forests to a place of safety." "Us?" Louis raised an eyebrow. "You intend to come with me?" "I do. You will need someone to manage the details, to pay the bribes, to negotiate with the great lords who will support your cause. I have the money, the connections, and the experience. You have the name and the claim. Together, we can succeed. Apart, we will both fail." Louis was silent for a long moment. He had learned, in his years of imprisonment, to trust no one. The king's agents were everywhere, disguised as friends, as servants, as fellow prisoners. He had been betrayed before, by those he had thought loyal, and the memory of those betrayals still burned. But there was something about this woman, something that inspired trust. Perhaps it was her age—she was old enough to be his mother, and she carried herself with the authority of one who had nothing to prove. Perhaps it was her reputation—the whole of France knew the story of the Comtesse de Montfort, who had transformed a ruined estate into a model of prosperity. Or perhaps it was simply the look in her eyes, the calm certainty that she could do what she promised. "Very well," he said finally. "In three days." The escape went exactly as Hortense had planned. On the night of the full moon, when the guards were blinded by the silver light and the river ran high and fast, Louis and Hortense made their way through the underground passages to the hidden door in the riverbank. The boat was there, as promised, and they pushed off into the current, letting it carry them downstream while the guards above continued their pointless patrols. On the opposite bank, the horses were waiting, with guides who spoke no words but led them through the forests by paths that only they knew. By dawn, they were twenty miles from the monastery, in a hunting lodge that belonged to a nobleman who had secretly pledged his support to the prince's cause. From there, the campaign began. Hortense had prepared for this moment with the same thoroughness that she had brought to her previous enterprises. She had letters of credit from the bankers of Lyon, sufficient to raise an army of five thousand men. She had contacts among the great nobles of France, many of whom were eager to throw off the yoke of the king's tyranny. And she had a plan—not merely for the prince's escape, but for his return to power. "The king is unpopular," she explained to Louis, as they sat together in the hunting lodge, planning their next move. "He has taxed the people beyond endurance. He has alienated the great nobles by his suspicions and his cruelties. He has fought unnecessary wars that have brought nothing but misery. If you offer yourself as an alternative—a prince of the blood, raised in the old traditions of chivalry and justice—you will find support throughout the land." "But I have no army," Louis objected. "I have no territory. I have nothing but my name." "Your name is enough. The people remember your father, who was beloved by all. They remember your grandmother, the good queen of Sicily. They will rally to your banner if you give them hope. And as for an army—" Hortense smiled, "—I have already begun to raise one." Over the next six months, Hortense worked with a determination that astonished even those who had known her longest. She traveled from castle to castle, meeting with nobles who had grievances against the king, negotiating alliances, promising rewards that she was confident Louis would be able to deliver. She visited the great cities, speaking to the merchant guilds who chafed under the king's taxes, convincing them that a change of regime would bring prosperity. And she managed the finances of the campaign with the same skill that had made the Montfort estate a model of efficiency. Louis, for his part, proved to be an apt pupil. He had been trained for leadership, and the years of imprisonment had only sharpened his desire to prove himself. He learned to speak to crowds, to inspire men with his vision of a better France. He learned to negotiate with the great lords, balancing their competing interests and ambitions. And he learned to trust Hortense's judgment, even when it contradicted his own instincts. "You have a gift for this," he told her one evening, as they reviewed the latest reports from their agents throughout the country. "You should have been born a man. You would have been a great general, a great statesman." Hortense smiled. "I do not need to be a man to be effective, Your Highness. In fact, being a woman has advantages that you might not appreciate. Men underestimate me. They speak freely in my presence, thinking that I cannot understand their schemes. They let down their guard, revealing weaknesses that I can exploit. And they are swayed by appeals to their chivalry, their desire to protect the weak, in ways that would not work if I were a man." "You are not weak," Louis said. "You are the strongest person I know." "I know that. And you know that. But they do not need to know it. Let them think me a foolish old woman, easily manipulated. It serves our purposes." By the autumn of 1462, the prince's cause had gathered sufficient momentum that open warfare became inevitable. The king, alarmed by reports of the growing conspiracy, sent an army to crush the rebellion before it could gain further strength. But Hortense had anticipated this move, and she had prepared a trap. "The king's army is large," she explained to Louis, as they surveyed the battlefield from a nearby hill. "But it is composed mainly of mercenaries, fighting for pay rather than conviction. Our army is smaller, but it is composed of men who believe in your cause. If we can force the king to attack us in a position of our choosing, we can defeat him." "And how do we force him to do that?" "By threatening something he values more than victory. The king is paranoid, Your Highness. He sees conspiracies everywhere. If we let it be known that we have agents in Paris, ready to seize the city in his absence, he will be forced to divide his forces. And when he does, we will strike." The battle that followed was not the largest or bloodiest of the wars that had torn France apart for the past century. But it was decisive. The king's army, divided and confused, was caught between the prince's main force and a secondary force that appeared suddenly on its flank. The mercenaries, seeing that the battle was lost, threw down their weapons and fled. And the king himself, who had accompanied the army to ensure its loyalty, was captured trying to escape. Louis d'Anjou entered Paris in triumph, hailed by the people as their savior from tyranny. The great nobles who had supported his cause gathered around him, eager to claim their rewards. And Hortense de Valcourt stood in the shadows, watching the culmination of her work with a smile of quiet satisfaction. CHAPTER IX THE KINGMAKER The coronation of Louis d'Anjou as King Louis XII of France took place in the Cathedral of Notre-Dame, on a cold December day when the snow fell like blessings from heaven. The ceremony was magnificent, attended by all the great nobles of the realm, by ambassadors from every court in Europe, by the common people who packed the streets to cheer their new king. Louis had proven to be everything that Hortense had predicted. He was just, but not weak. He was merciful to his enemies, but firm in his determination to reform the abuses of the previous reign. He lowered taxes, restored the privileges of the nobility, and established a council of advisors that included representatives from all the great families of France. The people called him "the Good," and the chroniclers wrote that his reign marked the beginning of a golden age. And Hortense? She had been offered every honor, every title, every reward that the grateful king could bestow. He had offered to make her a duchess, with lands and revenues that would have made her one of the richest women in France. He had offered to marry her, to make her his queen, despite the difference in their ages and the impossibility of such a union. He had offered to build her a palace, to establish a dynasty in her name, to ensure that her memory would be honored for a thousand years. She had refused them all. "I did what I did not for reward, but because it was right," she told the king, when they met for the last time in the private chambers of the Louvre. "You have a kingdom to rule, Your Majesty. You have a people to lead, a legacy to build. You do not need me anymore." "I will always need you," Louis said. "You have been my teacher, my counselor, my friend. How can I rule without your wisdom?" "You can rule because you have learned wisdom yourself. You have learned to listen, to consider, to weigh the consequences of your actions. You have learned that power is not an end in itself, but a means to achieve justice and prosperity for your people. These are lessons that will serve you well, long after I am gone." "But where will you go? What will you do?" Hortense smiled, and in that smile was something that reminded Louis of the stories his grandmother had told him, of the fairy folk who came from nowhere and returned to nowhere, leaving behind only the memory of their magic. "I will go where I am needed, Your Majesty. As I always have. There are other miserly men who need to learn generosity. Other ruined nobles who need to restore their fortunes. Other exiles who need to reclaim their birthrights. My work is never done." "Then at least tell me who you are," Louis pleaded. "Not the Comtesse de Montfort, I know that now. Not a widow from Lyon. You are something more, something greater. Tell me, so that I may honor you properly." Hortense looked at him with eyes that seemed to hold the wisdom of ages, that seemed to see beyond the present moment into the vast expanse of past and future. "I am what I have always been, Your Majesty. I am the spirit of wisdom that moves through the world, taking form when needed, vanishing when the work is done. I am the guardian of those who have lost their way, the teacher of those who wish to learn, the helper of those who cannot help themselves. I have been called by many names in many ages. In Greece, they called me Athena. In Rome, they called me Minerva. In the East, they call me Guanyin. And in this age, in this place, I am called Hortense." Louis fell to his knees, tears streaming down his face. "Then you are a goddess. I have been touched by the divine." "I am no goddess," Hortense said gently, raising him to his feet. "I am only what every human being can be, if they choose to open themselves to wisdom and compassion. You have that potential within you, Your Majesty. You have shown it in your rule, in your justice, in your mercy. Nurture it. Let it grow. And pass it on to those who come after you." She kissed his forehead, a blessing and a farewell. And then she was gone, vanishing into the shadows of the palace like a dream upon waking. Louis XII ruled France for twenty years, and his reign was remembered as one of the most prosperous and peaceful in the nation's history. He never forgot Hortense, though he spoke of her only to his closest confidants. And when he died, peacefully in his bed, surrounded by his children and grandchildren, his last words were a whispered "Thank you," directed to the empty air where he seemed to see a figure in black, smiling at him with eyes that held the wisdom of ages. As for Hortense de Valcourt, she was never seen again in France. But in the years that followed, stories began to circulate of a mysterious woman who appeared at moments of crisis, who transformed the lives of those she touched, who vanished as suddenly as she had come. She was seen in Italy, during the Renaissance, advising a young artist named Leonardo. She was seen in Spain, during the Inquisition, saving a scholar from the flames. She was seen in England, during the Wars of the Roses, helping a minor nobleman named Tudor to claim a throne. Some said she was an angel, sent by God to guide the destinies of nations. Some said she was a witch, using dark arts to manipulate the course of history. Some said she was simply a remarkable woman, whose intelligence and determination allowed her to achieve what others thought impossible. But those who had known her best—Gérard Fauconnier, if he could have spoken from beyond the grave; Julien de Montfort, if his spirit still walked the halls of his beloved château; Louis XII, if his soul still watched over the France he had loved—would have told a different story. They would have said that she was simply Hortense, a woman who understood that the greatest power in the world is not wealth, or lineage, or military might, but the wisdom to see what needs to be done and the courage to do it. And if, on a winter's evening, you were to walk through the streets of Lyon, or the gardens of Montfort, or the halls of the Louvre, you might catch a glimpse of a figure in black, moving with the grace of one who has lived many lives and learned many lessons. You might hear a voice, soft as silk and strong as steel, whispering words of wisdom to those who have ears to hear. "Be generous," the voice might say. "Be just. Be brave. And remember that love, like wealth, is only valuable when it is given freely, without expectation of return." And then the figure would be gone, vanished into the mists of time, leaving behind only the memory of three marriages, three transformations, three lives that had been touched by the mysterious power of Hortense de Valcourt. EPILOGUE THE LEGACY In the year 1527, one hundred years after the first appearance of Hortense de Valcourt in the doorway of Gérard Fauconnier's house, a young scholar named François Rabelais sat in the library of the Abbey of Saint-Maurice d'Angers, researching a book he intended to write about the history of France. In the course of his research, he came across three documents that caught his attention. The first was a will, dated 1430, in which a merchant named Gérard Fauconnier left his entire fortune to various charitable causes, with a note expressing his gratitude to "the woman who taught me that wealth is only valuable when it is shared." The second was a chronicle of the province of Berry, which described the transformation of the Château de Montfort from a ruin to a model estate, and attributed this miracle to "the wisdom and determination of the Comtesse Hortense, who came from nowhere and returned to nowhere, but whose legacy endures in the prosperity of the land." The third was a royal decree, issued by Louis XII in 1498, establishing a foundation for the education of poor scholars, with a preamble that spoke of "the woman who saved me from imprisonment, who taught me the meaning of justice, and who showed me that true power comes not from force, but from wisdom and compassion." Rabelais read these documents with growing fascination. He was a man who appreciated the strange and wonderful, who believed that the world contained mysteries that could not be explained by the dry logic of the scholars. And he began to see a pattern in these three stories, a connection that suggested something beyond mere coincidence. "Three men," he wrote in his notebook. "Three transformations. Three marriages to the same woman, or to three women who shared the same name and the same remarkable qualities. Is it possible that there is something more here than history records? Is it possible that we are in the presence of a mystery that transcends our understanding?" He never found the answer to these questions. But the story of Hortense de