Written By: Nick Young

It could be said with little disputation that there was no more desirable bachelor in all of France than Jean-Louis Armand de Compiègne, son of the Comte Lucien Armand, widely respected as a man of property and heralded as a favorite of Bonaparte. At the age of twenty-three, the young scion had distinguished himself as a member of the 5th Hussars, rising to the rank of capitaine with what was regarded as astonishing rapidity. 

Standing at six feet and one inch, from the scarlet plume atop his shako to the tips of his polished Hessian boots, he cut a singularly rakish figure. And this appearance had an even more dramatic impact given his striking handsomeness—a chiseled face, olive in tone, free of blemish, save for an two-inch-long saber scar on his right cheek, aquiline nose, sensuous mouth, deep-brown eyes, waxed moustaches and full, jet-black hair.

Of his skill and bravery in battle, whether a light skirmish or full-on assault, there was no shortage of testaments. His men often remarked among themselves over cards that their capitaine rode his mount like le diable. And when the wine flowed more freely along with the ribaldry, the same was bandied about his prowess in the boudoir. 

Indeed, the dashing officer had cut a wide romantic swath, whether among the filles de maison in the finest Parisian brothels or, discreetly, the daughters—and even some wives—among the landed gentry. Many were the sighs and plaintively uttered words “Ah, Jean-Pierre, mon cher, mon amour!” as he took his leave after a night of unbridled passion.

Among those most fervently entranced was Anastasia Miclescu, three years his junior, who had arrived with the advent of summer from Transylvania to spend the season with the d’Aubrennes family, wealthy landowners with whom her equally well-to-do parents had blood ties. A ravishing beauty with a flawless face, a cascade of thick brunette tresses and flashing green eyes, she brought with her from the shadows of the Carpathian Mountains a whispered reputation for intrigues of the heart to rival those of Armand.

Like flint upon stone, the sparks were immediate between the two, igniting a torrid romance while Jean-Louis’ regiment was stationed on the northern outskirts of Paris.

And while tongues wagged behind fluttering fans, all was not tranquil within the Armand family. Jean-Louis’ parents, who had adopted a laissez-faire attitude toward their son’s dalliances, were irritated over his involvement with Mlle Miclescu, regarding her as a foreign interloper. Instead, as an astute match, they favored the daughter of the French ambassador to Lisbon whose family summered near the Armand estate. 

Indeed, nineteen-year-old Madeleine de Bouchard was as fetching a beauty as there was in the whole of the region—blonde and petite with a coquettishness that charmed many a suitor. And it must be said, the dashing cavalry galant was not immune. For as much as he reveled in his romance with Mlle Miclescu, it was not enough to check the imperative of his wandering eye, and it soon fell on the captivating jeune fille.

As the languid summer days passed, Jean-Louis’ ardor toward Anastasia began to cool even as it warmed for Mlle de Bouchard. To the satisfaction of his parents, he spent more time with the young beauty and less with his paramour, much to her displeasure. Rumors spread of violent arguments—hurled porcelain objets d’art, fiery threats and even the appearance of nasty scratches across Armand’s cheek that could only have been made by well-manicured nails.

All of the drama built to a climax as autumn neared when Jean-Louis severed his relationship with the mercurial Anastasia and announced his engagement to Mlle de Bouchard. 

The prenuptial gala was the event of the season, drawing to the grand chateau d’Armand the very crème of French society. Jean-Louis never looked more handsome, his fiance never more appealing. Neither could take their eyes off the other as they wheeled in a stately polonaise or lively gavotte. And neither escaped the livid glare of the  enchantress from Transylvania. As she stood, smouldering, in the shadows, her mind teeming with jealousy, she made a solemn vow to herself.

I will have mon capitaine once more!

#

Three weeks after the wedding, judged by all to have been a splendid affair worthy of the melding of two of France’s leading families, the first hint of the new season was in the air. The sunlight took on a different slant, blunting the days’ oppressive heat, leading to evenings of cool delight and diaphanous moonlight. 

The newlyweds had barely taken up residence in their home, denied even a honeymoon because Jean-Louis and his Hussars had been called away to deploy south of the capital. Not long after the encampment had been established, a letter arrived for Capitaine Armand, written in the urgent hand of Mlle Anastasia Miclescu. In the missive, she importuned Jean-Louis to grant her one more meeting before she returned to her homeland.

“What I have to say cannot be conveyed upon the page,” she wrote, “but must needs be spoken to your person.” And she made a promise: “I do not disrespect your matrimony; thus, I pledge by the lives of the Holy Saints that I will not in any fashion seek to undermine your relationship with Madeleine.” She closed with a plea: “Please vouchsafe me this final favor. Meet me at the cottage you know well in two nights hence. Breathe no hint of it. I will be waiting.”

Jean-Louis’ initial reaction to the letter was one of consternation. Why was this woman insinuating herself once again into his life? But he was not a cruel man and his annoyance gradually melted, giving way to a feeling of sympathy for a woman obviously still struggling with the aftermath of their relationship. Her request then, he judged, was not unreasonable; so when the day arrived, having obtained permission to take a brief leave, he mounted his handsome Limousin stallion and made for the country.

#

When it was found by the gamekeeper on the d’Aubrennes’ estate, the body of Jean-Louis Armand was in repose upon a chaise longue in a tidy cottage he and Mlle Miclescu had used for their assignations. But his serene posture belied the horror that had been visited upon him, for his uniform’s light blue dolman had been ripped open and the white linen shirt beneath soaked a deep, dark crimson from the gaping wound in his chest. The young capitaine’s countenance, drained of all color, was a mask of profound incomprehension. It was a look matched by that on the faces of the local constables.

And while they stood aghast, inside a spacious coach drawn by four swift steeds that galloped to the east and the foothills of the Carpathians, Mlle Anastasia Miclescu carefully lifted a beautiful reticule fashioned of the finest purple silk, trimmed in gold brocade and inlaid with lustrous pearls. She clutched it to her breast. It was still warm and this brought a smile of intense satisfaction. She closed her eyes and said silently,

“You, mon cherié, will be with me  .  .  .  forever!”

Nick Young is a retired award-winning CBS News Correspondent.  His writing has appeared in dozens of reviews, journals and anthologies. His first novel, "Deadline," was published in 2023.  He can be found on Bluesky @youngnick.bsky.social.
He lives outside Chicago.

 


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