By morning, the rumors had grown legs.
In the Hall of Mirrors, where nobles strolled beneath vaulted ceilings and admired their own reflections more than the art, a hush had settled. Courtiers spoke in veiled tones, laughter laced with venom.
A servant?
She must be ambitious.
Or foolish.
The gossip traveled faster than the carriages lining the marble courtyard. They did not name Marie outright—no one dared stain their lips with something so crude as the name of a common girl—but they spoke of "a chambermaid" with a "certain look" who had captured a powerful man's attention.
The Duke's attention.
At the center of the storm, the Duke of Montmorency moved through the court with his usual calm. He wore intrigue like a well-tailored coat—part armor, part charm. If the rumors troubled him, he showed no sign.
But he noticed them. Of course, he did.
He noticed the way conversation paused when he entered a room. The way smiles grew just a touch too wide. The way the Marquise de Villeneuve had begun to watch him with glittering, wolfish eyes.
He knew courtly whispers could turn into weapons, sharpened by envy and wielded without mercy.
---
Behind him, the Queen's ladies-in-waiting gathered like flocks of birds, feathers and pearls in their hair, their voices pitched high in mock innocence.
"I do hope the Duke finds himself a suitable match soon," one cooed. "A duchess with breeding."
"Oh yes," said another. "We cannot have the nobility… mingling too freely."
A few of them glanced toward the servants' door as Marie passed through, her eyes fixed to the ground, her shoulders drawn tight.
She heard them. Every word.
---
Later that day, in the private antechamber of the King's brother, the matter took a darker turn.
The Comte d'Artois, notorious for his love of scandal and games, leaned against a tapestry-lined wall, swirling wine in a crystal goblet.
"So, Montmorency's heart beats for a chambermaid?" he mused aloud, amused.
One of his companions snorted. "If true, it would be quite the scandal. The girl would be ruined."
The Comte smiled thinly. "Or useful. A weakness, perhaps. The Duke has too few of those."
The court was beginning to watch. And worse—it was beginning to plan.