Jeanne, a cunning courtesan, had Cardinal Rohan wrapped around her finger. His Eminence, smitten, believed she was Queen Marie Antoinette’s confidante. Jeanne’s laugh—sparkling like Versailles chandeliers—made Rohan’s cassock feel like a furnace. She’d bat her lashes, whispering of royal favors, and he’d dream of her lips, not the throne. Their clandestine meetings, veiled by Paris fog, were a scandal waiting to ignite.
One moonlit night, Jeanne dangled a scheme: a diamond necklace, fit for a queen, could win Marie’s heart—and hers. “Procure it, my lord,” she purred, her breath warm on his ear. Rohan, lust-drunk, agreed, imagining Jeanne draped only in gems. He secured the necklace, 2,800 carats of trouble, from jewelers Boehmer and Bassenge. His hands shook as he handed it over, picturing forbidden nights.
But Jeanne vanished, the necklace pawned, and whispers spread. The queen? Never involved. Rohan’s trial was a circus—courtiers gasped, Jeanne winked from the dock, and Rohan’s dignity crumbled like stale brioche. “She bewitched me!” he cried, half in love, half in ruin. Jeanne’s smirk was his undoing, her charm a blade sharper than any guillotine.
He was exiled, she imprisoned, and the necklace’s scandal fueled revolution. Yet Rohan, in his lonely chateau, still clutched a ribbon she’d left, cursing his heart for beating to her tune.