|
|
 |
|
 |
 |
Excerpt from
by
Sarah D'Almeida
Those Who Live By The Sword; The Honor of A Musketeer’s Servant; All
For One
The Antechamber of Monsieur de Treville; The inadvisability of
Tempting A Musketeer; The Limits of the Possible
Doubts and Fears; The Ever Vanishing Musketeers; Only One Thing To
Do
hg
Athos was not used to being looked at with suspicion and
hostility, much less when the suspicion and hostility came from mere commoners –
a confused rabble of women and children, servants and passerby, the dregs and
crowds of early afternoon in Paris.
In fact, the oldest of the three Musketeers and
the guard of Monsieur des Essarts commonly known as the inseparables – Athos,
Porthos, Aramis and D’Artagnan – wasn’t used to being looked at directly at
all. Though he had now, for some years, lived under a nom de guerre in the
ranks of his majesty’s Musketeers, Athos was normally treated as the nobleman
he was.
No matter how much blond and elegant Aramis preened, and no
matter how many yards of lace and gold brocade the splendid red headed giant Porthos
draped himself in, Athos could make them all fade into the background simply by
stepping forward and throwing back his head. In his much mended Musketeer’s
uniform, his curly black hair tied back with a bit of ribbon, the gaze from his
dark blue eyes guarded, he looked like what he was born to be: the scion of one
of France’s oldest and noblest families.
And he wasn’t used to people not listening when he spoke; he
wasn’t used to being doubted; he certainly wasn’t used to having his words
shouted down.
Yet the words, “I will stand by– ” had barely left his lips
when the crowd shouted back at him, in confused tumult, drowning them out.
What the crowd shouted -- murder and thief and hang
him – was not directed at the Musketeer himself, but Athos could not have
been more surprised if it had been.
He surveyed the scene before him, his face setting into a
hard look composed half of determination and half of disdain.
Porthos’ servant, Mousqueton, almost as tall as his master
and nearly as powerful, looked bewildered, held by five guards of the
Cardinal. And around them the crowd surged. Behind them was the armorer’s
shop, where Porthos had sent Mousqueton to arrange for Porthos’ sword to be
mended.
It was a low-slung building, and its wide door normally stood
open to the outside street – to allow the inner air, warmed by the forge, to
cool. But now the heavy oak doors were shut and there were yet more guards
standing in front of them. When the Musketeers had come to find the
long-delayed Mousqueton, they’d stumbled on this scene of confusion and public
disorder and just managed to step in front of the guards dragging Porthos’
servant away.
Athos raised his hand toward the crowd, palm out, an
imperious gesture. His assumption of authority quieted them for a moment.
Into the silence, Athos poured his words, “I will vouch for Mousqueton. He is
my friend Porthos’” he indicated the redheaded giant just behind him with a
head tilt, “servant and I’ve known him long. He is not a murderer.”
He abstained from swearing that Mousqueton was not a thief
because, in truth, Porthos had recruited the then famished waif into his
service upon Mousqueton’s trying to steal from him. And even now, when he had
for many years been employed in a steady if not necessarily respectable
position as a Musketeer’s servant, Mousqueton was known to supplement Porthos’
irregular pay in various and creative ways. Athos would be loathe to say how
many times the young man had shown up at one of their assemblies carrying a
bottle, which he swore had just fallen from an overloaded cart or a chicken
which he claimed had been run over by a cart and to which Mousqueton had felt
compelled to give mercy.
But Athos was sure, as he was sure of breathing, that
Mousqueton would not murder anyone. And yet his words met with the sneer of
one of the guards holding Mousqueton’s arm. “A fine thing to say, Monsieur,
when he was found next to the murdered armorer. And the armorer’s best sword
in this ruffian’s hand!”
And on this the crowd shouted again. Murderer and Thief
and other things. Things about the Musketeers and their servants, duelers and
bullies and riff-raff all.
Athos felt his hand fall onto the hilt of the sword strapped
at his waist. “Do you call me a liar?” he shouted above the abuse of the
crowd, “Do you doubt me?”
His voice, or the outrage in it, again bought a few moments
of silence. But another of the guards said, “Well, Monsieur, it is not as if
it is not known that this man,” he shook Mousqueton whose hands were tied
together and who looked too bewildered to resist “is a thief, all too fond of
taking that which doesn’t belong to him – eggs and bread and wine.”
“But...” Porthos said, stepping forward. He was twice again
as large as most other men, red headed and dressed – as he normally was – in a
splendid suit of golden brocade in the latest court fashion. But he looked as
bewildered as his captive servant. “But, surely... taking a loaf of bread or
an egg is not the same thing as killing someone, or even stealing a sword.”
“Doubtless he killed in the heat of the moment,” another
guard said. “When discovered in theft.”
“We’ve told you he wouldn’t kill,” Porthos said.
“Yes, yes,” Athos said, impatiently. His hand held so tight
onto the hilt that he felt as though the metal itself might snap under the
force of his fury. “And they do not believe us, Porthos. They doubt the word
of the King’s Musketeers.”
“With all respect,” one of the guards said, in a voice that
denoted he had none, “It is not your word we doubt, so much as your knowing
anything about this. We found this man unconscious and holding a sword next to
an armorer that had been killed with that sword. No one else was in the shop.
No one else was seen to come in. He is the murderer.”
And on this the crowd started shouting again, demanding
Mousqueton’s death. And Athos – furious at being ignored feeling his face cool
as blood drained from it – pulled at his sword, removing about a quarter of it
from its sheath. He would have got it out all together, and challenged all
five of the guards of the Cardinal to defend themselves against his fury, had
not a hand held onto his arm, forcing the sword back down.
Athos turned to look into the cool gaze, the intent green
eyes of his friend Aramis. Tall, slim and blond, Aramis was admired by half
the women and not a few men at court. He claimed to wish to become a priest.
He claimed that his passage through the Musketeers was just that – a temporary
exile on his way to taking orders. But there were very few duelists in Paris
who would dare cross swords with him. And the grip of his white, elongated
fingers felt like bands of iron on Athos’ arm.
“Will you stop me?” Athos hissed back at him. “I can fight
all five of them. Not bad odds, one of the King’s Musketeers against five
guards of Richelieu. And the rabble will melt. You know they will.”
“No, Athos,” Aramis said. “You forget the edict.”
“The...” Athos said, and realized, as if on a wave of blind
fury that seemed to obscure his gaze, that indeed, he had. Oh, not the edict
against dueling. That had been in effect for so many years. Aramis’ own
downfall, as a young divinity student, had come about because he had killed
someone in a duel. But the edicts just drafted had a new force.
Dueling might have been illegal before, and brought the King’s
displeasure down on your head. It did not, however, bring down your head,
itself. The new edict called for any nobleman caught in duel to be beheaded in
the public square. And while it was said his majesty hadn’t signed it yet, the
Cardinal was bringing it before the king every day. Who knew if he’d not
signed it, just moments ago.
Athos took a deep breath, trying to control his anger. Many
years ago, in the grip of a lesser fury, he’d killed the woman he loved, the
woman he’d believed had lied to him and betrayed him in a grotesque way – a way
likely to destroy his and his family’s reputation forever. Then, on a wave of
doubt and remorse, he’d entered the profession of Musketeer to punish himself
for that crime – as other men might enter a monastery to expiate sin. And yet
his anger remained within him, in a confused coil with his overwhelming guilt.
That the rabble dared yell at a Musketeer– That they thought
they were safe– That his Eminence’s minions, themselves, would dare lay hands
on a Musketeer’s servant–
“That’s well,” he said, forcing his fingers to let go of the
sword. “That is all very well. But you have an innocent man, and the guilty
one is still at large.”
The guard who’d first spoken – a mean man, with a ferret-like
face and sparse moustaches – looked as though he was thinking of another insult
to heap on the Musketeers. But his imagination or his courage failed and, instead
of speaking, he gave Athos a stiff little bow. “Very well, Monsieur. If that
is so, you may be able to prove it to his Eminence before the man is hanged.
For now, we are taking him to the Bastille, to wait his Eminence’s pleasure.”
Mousqueton seemed to wake at those words. His eyes wild, he
stared at them. “The Bastille!” he said, with the terror that the name of that
infamous prison never failed to evoke. It was said that men disappeared into
it never to be heard from again.
“Certainly the Bastille,” the guard said, almost primly. “For
where else could we trust you to stay that your master might not break you out?”
This time it was Athos who put his arm out, to restrain
Porthos’ hand as it fell on his sword. The larger Musketeer did not protest
it, just stared at Athos, as the guards dragged Mousqueton away and the greater
part of the crowd followed.
“Come,” the fourth member of their group – an eighteen year
old Gascon, named D’Artagnan– said. “Come.” Though he was the smallest – and
youngest – of them all, the dark eyes on his olive-skinned face were full of
cunning and Athos knew for a fact that his head was always full of thoughts.
People like D’Artagnan looked at life as a game to be well played, a game in
which it was important to be always two or three moves ahead of the adversary.
“Come,” D’Artagnan said, again. And, turning, led them into
a nearby alley.
“They’re escaping,” one of the mob called behind them,
clearly having forgotten that they weren’t accused of anything.
“Well, if they escape, we still have their servant,” one of
the guards said, chortling.
It took all of Athos’ will power, while grinding his teeth so
it hurt, to keep from going back and punishing the insolence.
But D’Artagnan reached back and grasping the threadbare
sleeve of Athos’ second-best doublet, looked up and urgently at his friend, “No
Athos. No. It is no part of honor to fall into a trap.”
He led them right, then left again, seemingly at random,
until they came to an area where there was no one else around. There D’Artagnan
stopped, and turning his back to the blind wall of a garden, he looked at his
friends.
“By the Mass,” Porthos said. “You should have let me fight
them. They took my poor Mousqueton!”
“Your poor Mousqueton will be well, Porthos,” Aramis said.
“Well? In the Bastille?”
“Surely well, in the Bastille,” Aramis said, throwing back
his head and with it the blond, shining curtain of his hair. “Surely you don’t
think that they would mistreat him, much less kill him? Not when they know we
will be going to Monsieur de Treville with our grievance as soon as we can get
to his office. And that Monsieur de Treville will want to ensure Porthos’
servant is treated fairly? The Cardinal is not so foolish that he’ll overplay
his hand this soon. He would only risk the King’s ire.”
“But...” Porthos said. And opened his hands as though his
words had quite failed him. “The Bastille!”
Most Musketeers, most guards of Richelieu, probably most of
the people who knew the giant Musketeer would think he was stupid. Athos, who
had been one of Porthos’ closest friends for many years knew better. Porthos
was an observant man, an intelligent one, and quite capable of sudden, blinding
insight into the souls of men. However words themselves were Porthos’ foe, one
that refused to be drawn out into the light of day. And in moments of emotion,
like this, Porthos’ lack of facility with words managed to make him seem young
and almost small.
“He’ll be safe, even in the Bastille for a while,” D’Artagnan
said, taking the lead. “We will, of course, as Aramis says, go to our captain,
Monsieur de Treville, and ask him, at once, to make sure that Mousqueton is
well and that we have the time needed to prove his innocence.”
“But,” Porthos said, and clutched at his red locks in
despair. “How could it come to this? I only asked him to go and get my sword
repaired!”
“I was listening in the crowd,” D’Artagnan said, gravely. “While
you were... disputing with the mob, I was talking to some of them, and they say
that the armorer was found killed – run through with his best sword. And
Mousqueton was found unconscious next to him. And you must know that
Mousqueton’s reputation...” He floundered, doubtless catching some hint of
annoyance in his friend Porthos’ look. “Well, everyone knows how fast
Mousqueton’s fingers can be, Porthos.”
“But he wouldn’t steal a sword,” Porthos said. “To what
purpose? And if he ran the armorer through, why would he be unconscious? I
mean Mousqueton? Surely he wouldn’t faint at the sight of blood! He is my
servant. You did tell them that, D’Artagnan, did you not?”
D’Artagnan shrugged. He looked up and his gaze met Athos’.
D’Artagnan looked more troubled and worried than his calm words would lead
anyone to suppose. “Porthos, they say that a hammer fell from its peg nearby –
probably in the fight – and chanced to hit Mousqueton on the head, just as he
killed the armorer.”
“God’s teeth!” Porthos said. “Are you telling me you believe
Mousqueton killed him?”
“Mousqueton is your servant, Porthos, as you said, he cannot
be a stranger to blood and killing.”
“Yes, but... it is one thing to kill someone in a duel,”
Porthos said. “And another and quite different to murder someone by stealth.”
“But we don’t know if it wasn’t a duel, Porthos,” D’Artagnan
said. “Or a fight.”
Porthos shook his head. “What would he have to fight with
the armorer about? Good man, he was, let me have repairs on my sword on
credit. He knew Mousqueton...” Words failing him, Porthos simply opened his
hands.
Athos could have said many things, among them that the way
life was, it was quite possible that a sudden altercation had arisen, or sudden
anger. Or he could have said that Mousqueton was, after all, a little inclined
to ignore the eighth commandment. But the whole situation – Mousqueton’s being
unconscious when found, and clearly unable to give a coherent account of
himself, even by the time his master had arrived on the scene – seemed skewed.
Surely, it couldn’t be. The circumstances were just too strange. And the
guards had been all too quick to seize upon Mousqueton as a culprit.
Perhaps they had accused Mousqueton out of pique against the
Musketeers. Or perhaps, just perhaps, because they were hoping to hide the
true culprit, if they moved fast enough.
Athos took his hand to his forehead. “I do think, D’Artagnan,
that this is all a little too convenient. And, though Mousqueton is doubtless
human, and could doubtless have lost his temper, I must say that his being
found unconscious does not seem natural.”
“No,” D’Artagnan said. “Fear not. I agree with you. The
whole thing is too convenient by far, for Mousqueton to be found unconscious
with a bloodied sword in his hand. I don’t for a moment believe it all
happened like that, with no one else being involved.”
“But what can we do to prove it?” Aramis asked.
D’Artagnan shrugged. “What we always do. We’ll find out
what happened. We ask people who might know something. We examine the armorer’s
shop.”
“And we prove Mousqueton innocent!” Porthos said.
“And we prove him innocent,” D’Artagnan said. “Others among
us have been accused of murder before,” he looked at Aramis. “Surely the fact
that Mousqueton is a servant doesn’t make him any less our responsibility.”
“No,” Aramis said, doubtless remembering the circumstances
under which he’d been suspected of murder, circumstances far more incriminating
than even Mousqueton’s.1
“No. Perhaps more our responsibility, since he’s more defenseless than we are.”
“Yes,” Porthos said. “We are his only family, you know? He
was an orphan when I took him into my service.”
“Well, then,” Athos said, and though he heard the amusement
in his own voice, he knew he was in dead earnest. “Let it be for our servants
as it is for us. We’ll prove him innocent or die trying. One for all–”
“And all for one,” his friends answered in a single voice.
1The Musketeer’s Seamstress
Back
Top
hg
Porthos didn’t doubt that Monsieur de Treville would be able
to do something about Mousqueton. After all, Monsieur de Treville, captain of
the musketeers, often stood somewhere between a father and a confessor to his
musketeers. He was the one who got them pardons from the king when they were
arrested mid-duel. He was the one who protected them from trouble when their
amorous adventures landed them in hot water.
And he had been the one who, those many years ago, when
Aramis killed a man in a duel with Porthos as his second, had looked after them
and given them a place to hide and identities to hide under. He had also,
through the various travails in which the four friends found themselves
involved, stood by their side and protected them. Porthos was sure that
Monsieur de Treville could do something.
But when they arrived, the antechamber was crowded. Oh, it
was normally crowded, serving the musketeers as gathering place, sports chamber
and training room. The entire room – a huge, well proportioned room of
italianate influence, furnished with fine mosaic floors and columned expanse –
was the setting for impromptu mock duels, for battles for position and place,
in which the musketeers tested their mettle and fought with such abandon that a
stranger might imagine they wished to kill each other. On the stairs, the more
adventurous ones fought, gaining and losing a step or two, at the risk of eye
or ear or limb.
Normally when in the antechamber, Porthos, Athos, Aramis and
D’Artagnan whiled their time away fighting on the stairs – either each other,
or the four of them shoulder to shoulder against any challengers. But this
time they were in a hurry, and as they came into the room, Aramis searched
among the throng of musketeers for an harassed looking young man in the livery
of Monsieur de Treville – one of his attendants or clerks, who made it his
business to announce when someone might have an urgent need. He cut through
the crowd to approach the small dark haired gentleman and whisper in his ear.
As the gentleman turned to go through the dueling crowd on
the stairs and Aramis turned back to his friends, Porthos heard behind him, “–
I’d say they’re worried. I hear Porthos’ servant was arrested for murder.”
“He let his own servant be taken?” Another voice said.
“Worse. He let his servant be taken by Richelieu’s guards,”
another said.
And yet another quipped in, in the tone of someone who would
ape Aramis’ style of dressing and manner, without the slightest hint of the
blond musketeer’s suave personality, “Well, murder surprises me, but we all
know he’s a cursed little thief, don’t we.”
As Porthos felt his hand drop to the hilt of his sword,
another voice said, “Oh, no. I wouldn’t say that.” Porthos halted his
movement, but when the voice finished, “I’d never call Mousqueton little,”
Porthos hand pulled up and his sword with it, glinting by the light coming in
through the lead-paned windows of the antechamber.
“You dare,” he heard himself bellow, before he was even sure
what he was about. “You insult me and my servant? In my hearing?”
Turning he faced a group of five musketeers – it was plain
they’d been the ones speaking. For one, even though the antechamber was so
crowded that it would have been difficult for any individual person to move,
everyone around them had managed to move back. They, themselves, looked as
though they’d been stopped in the middle of taking a step back – but had done
it too slowly to quite manage to integrate with the crowd behind them which
managed to look as though they had always been back there, looking with
interested eyes at the five, and the irate giant redhead with his sword in
hand.
Porthos eye alighted on each of the suddenly pale faces.
Yes. As he expected. Three of them he didn’t know by name, though they’d
probably been on the same side in a hundred street battles, when the cry of to
me, Musketeers went up and any musketeer in range came to support his
comrades.
The other two he knew all too well. One of them, Roux, who
shared with Athos the superficial resemblance of being tall and dark haired –
though his eyes were not dark blue and he did not have the same air of nobility
– had for some time now taken to wearing the same old fashioned, Spanish-style
tight doublets and breeches that Athos favored. The other, Bernard D’Augine,
was his best friend. Blond and slim like Aramis, he aped the blond musketeer
in everything, from his fashionable clothes, to his habits of speech and that
annoying habit that Aramis had of turning his hand to contemplate his
fingernails when he was about to say something particularly cutting.
In his defense – at least that Porthos knew – D’Augine had
not taken to claiming that his passage through the musketeer corps was just a
temporary detour on his way to becoming a priest. This, and this alone saved
Porthos from wanting to cut his heart out right there. But he was not feeling
particularly charitable for all that. “Draw,” he said, through clenched
teeth. “All five of you draw. Let’s see if you’re match for my steel. Let’s
see if, in my place, you would have been able to keep your servant from being
arrested.”
He was dimly aware – as one atop a runaway horse is aware of
the screams of those surrounding him – of Aramis’ voice saying “Porthos!” And
of D’Artagnan’s putting in, “The edicts.”
He answered D’Artagnan. “Don’t worry. This is not dueling.
It’s slaughter. I am going to–”
Before he had a chance to say what he was about to do, the
voice that everyone in that antechamber obeyed rang from the top of the
stairs. “Porthos! Athos! Aramis!” and, after the slightest hesitation, since
Monsieur de Treville was not, after all, his captain. “D’Artagnan.”
The mass of men in the antechamber shifted again, parting
like the sea before divine will. A clear path up the stairs was suddenly
evident and through this lopped Aramis, followed by Athos, who managed to rush
while looking as if he weren’t doing so at all, and finally D’Artagnan, who
tugged at Porthos’s sleeve on the way and whispered, “Sheathe.”
Porthos turned and sheathed, as he started up the stairs
after his friends. Even at that moment, if one of the five had dared speak
again, he feared he must turn back and massacre them, simply for the principle
of it.
But there was no sound behind him, as he made it all the way
up the stairs and got into the office in last place, just as Monsieur de
Treville – taking his place behind a massive and cluttered desk – waved at the
rest of them to take chairs.
Being invited to seat, in Monsieur de Treville’s
office, was a rare occurrence and usually reserved for the delivery of bad
news. Normally a conference in the captain’s office was restricted to one of
two functions – informing the Musketeers how far they’d trespassed on their
captain’s good will and how they’d need to present really good reasons for
their conduct or be dismissed; or listening to their problems and offering
solutions.
Either type of conference usually took no more than a few
minutes, though the musketeers could often swear that the first type took whole
days or perhaps weeks. But now, something was very different. Worrisomely
different, Porthos noticed, as he settled himself on a small chairs with a
cushioned seat, whose dainty proportions hadn’t been designed even for the
normal musketeer much less someone of Porthos’ overlarge and over-muscular
frame.
He held his breath and tried to keep his weight
at least partly on his feet, afraid that if he shifted it to his behind the
chair would splinter and crash to the ground in pieces beneath him. But even
this concern wasn’t enough to keep him from noticing that Monsieur de Treville
looked ashen-pale, and his brow was knit in a frown of worry.
“The devil,” Porthos’ mouth blurted out. “Don’t tell me
Mousqueton’s case is that difficult, Captain.”
The captain’s dark eyes turned to Porthos, in something like
wonder. Many people who met Porthos looked at him in wonder when he spoke at
all. It seemed to be against the laws of nature that someone that tall and
that bulky, let alone possessed of the type of features that made people think
of Viking longships, should be endowed with the French tongue and speak it
without the least hint of an accent. Other people were surprised when Porthos
perceived their intentions or saw through their motives. Because Porthos was
not facile of language, and sometimes in fact said quite the wrong word at the
most inappropriate time, people tended to assume he was stupid.
But Monsieur de Treville had known Porthos for years, and
knew, furthermore, that none of his friends would associate with a dumb person
because, all of them being quick of mind, the intercourse with a mental
inferior would grate. Yet he looked upon Porthos with an astonished, wandering
look for a long while.
At last he sighed. “It’s not Mousqueton, Porthos.” He
frowned slightly and leaned forwards on his desk, interlacing his hands atop of
it. “I’m afraid it is far more complex than that, and perhaps...” He
shrugged. “You could not have chosen a worse time, nor could have poor
Mousqueton, to put himself in the hands of Richelieu.”
Porthos felt bewildered “But we didn’t choose–”
“No, of course not,” Monsieur de Treville said, and looked
up, his dark eyes, despite their worry, managing to look somewhat amused at the
idea of Mousqueton voluntarily getting arrested by Richelieu. Monsieur de
Treville was from Gascony, D’Artagnan’s compatriot. And, like D’Artagnan, he
had the olive skin of the region, the quick eyes, the piercing gaze, and the
sense of humor that surfaced even at the moment of greatest tension. “No.” He
looked around the room, fixing each of them with his gaze in turn and
arresting, at last, on Aramis. “I would guess you know what this is about?”
Porthos now turned to Aramis, arguably his best friend among
the inseparables, in utter bewilderment. “What is about,” he said, before
Aramis – who was studying his nails – could speak. “Captain, I don’t know what
you’ve been told, but here is what happened. I broke my sword, and I sent
Mousqueton to the armorer to mend it – you know, the one on the street des
Echarps. I didn’t have money for it, but Mousqueton and the armorer knew each
other, and I thought they could... well, Mousqueton often arranged to trade one
of my old cloaks or something, you see... So, anyway, I sent him. And next
thing we know, he’d been arrested for murder and attempted theft. And you know
he never stole anything,” And then, with sudden recollection of his servant’s
habits, and seeing the quickening of humor in Monsieur de Treville’s eyes. “Well,
not as such. Getting the occasional loaf of bread or bottle of wine isn’t
stealing. It’s... it’s keeping from starving.” He said, opening his hands in
a show of helplessness.
And Monsieur de Treville, who knew just how often Louis XIII’s
encumbered finances meant that he must delay paying his musketeers, and to what
straights his musketeers could be driven, nodded and opened his hands a little
in sympathy. “Yes, I know the facts of the case, Porthos. You know the
musketeers all bring news sometimes before the principals of the event,
themselves, know. In fact, just before you arrived, I was going to have you
called, in case you’d chanced to come in, because...” He paused, and looked,
this time to the chair by Porthos’ side, where D’Artagnan, the youngest and
smallest of them all sat, prim and proper like a school child. “D’Artagnan,”
he said. “Did nothing about what happened strike you as odd?”
“Only one thing,” D’Artagnan said. “Why five guards of the
Cardinal were right there, on hand, to arrest Mousqueton. I mean, it might be
nothing. They might have simply been getting their swords mended, as
Mousqueton was, but...” D’Artagnan took a deep breath. “All the same they
seemed a little too quick, almost gleeful to arrest him. Of course with the
edict hanging over our heads, they knew we wouldn’t dare fight them, and yet it
seems a little...” He seemed to hesitate. “Intemperate to arrest the servant
of someone like Porthos, on no more than the cry of the mob.”
“And to take him to the Bastille!” Porthos said, in a tone of
outrage.
Monsieur de Treville nodded at D’Artagnan and turned to
Aramis. “And you, Chevalier, I believe know why they were so quick to arrest
him, even if none of us can be sure what brought them there?”
“Yes,” Aramis said. “Or rather...” He hesitated. “I believe
I do, though you know, since I intend on taking orders as soon as it is
possible, I’m not very interested in these worldly affairs.” This was roughly,
Porthos thought, the equivalent of an ant not liking to be immersed in sugar.
Aramis was always alive to every rumor and knew the heart of every conspiracy.
He watched as his friend, apparently unaware of the irony of his words, looked
at his nails again and scratched, absorbedly at one with the index nail of the
other hand. “But I have heard that a certain Duchesse that is close friends
with the Queen... That is, I heard that some of their correspondence has been
intercepted, and that the Queen fears the duchesse will be taken from her as...
as so many of her friends have.”
“I see,” Monsieur de Treville said. “And you lack all
knowledge of the contents of this correspondence.”
“I’ve been given to understand,” Aramis said. “That someone
of a suspicious turn of mind might think that it fomented conspiracy against
him or even...” he shrugged slightly. “A plot to assassinate him.”
“You speak in riddles,” Porthos burst forth. “Who is this
duchess? And what can she mean with the Queen? And what does all of it have
to do with my poor Mousqueton? And when you say duchess, is she yet another of
your seamstresses?”
The shocked look from Aramis might mean anything – including
that the duchess was indeed one of his seamstresses, the name Aramis had used
for many years to signify whichever noble lady he was, at the time, having a
carnal liaison with. But before Aramis could answer, Monsieur de Treville
cleared his throat calling their attention.
“I’m not going to endorse Aramis’ rumor,” he said. “But I
have heard rumors myself and, what’s more...” He shrugged. “As you know, I
have friends among the guards of his Eminence as, doubtless, he has friends
among my musketeers.”
“If I find the dogs,” Porthos said understanding that by
friends Monsieur de Treville meant spies. “I will cut out their tongues.”
“You’ll do nothing of the kind,” Aramis interposed. “Do you
not think that Monsieur de Treville knows who they are? A known spy is almost
an ally. You can make sure he knows only what you want him to know and further
more that he knows a lot of things that aren’t true.”
Porthos, who was quite bright enough but disdained this type
of underhanded intrigue, turned to the captain, only to be met with a nod of acquiescence.
“Indeed, my dear Porthos,” he said. “I beg you you will leave his Eminence’s
pet musketeers alone,” he said with the hint of amusement. “However, this is
how it stands – rightly or wrongly, His Eminence has interpreted some
correspondence which he intercepted between the Duchess de... well, I need not
name her, or to give her her nom de guerre, Marie Michon, and the Queen. And
he has taken it into his head that the purpose of the two ladies’ conspiracy is
to kill him and install another one in his place, in the king’s favor.” He
shrugged. “I’m sure it’s all overblown suspicion, however...” He shrugged
again. “You can see how this would make him wish to have one of your servants
in his power.”
“I see nothing of the kind,” Porthos said. “What has poor
Mousqueton to do with Duchesses and Queens.”
“Well,” Monsieur de Treville fixed the four with a slightly
considering gaze. “It is an open secret, though certainly not openly
discussed, that the Queen owes the four inseparables a favor. This being so,
she might be convinced to abandon her interest in this conspiracy and, in fact,
to denounce her friend wholly to the Cardinal, in order to avoid the
inseparable’s servant being killed on a murder charge.”
“Dents Dieu,” Porthos said. “You’d think that if she’s
indebted to us, they’d try to arrest one of us, not our servant.”
The look the captain gave him was grave enough it would not
have been out of place at a funeral. “Undoubtedly they did and they will,
Porthos. Mousqueton was probably, simply the easiest prey at the time. They
know how loyal the Queen is, and that she might commit whatever folly for her
friend. She has near disgraced herself for other friends in the past.”
“But...” Porthos said. “But... I would not want the Queen to
compromise herself for my sake,” and after an hesitation. “Or even Mousqueton’s.”
But at the same time that he spoke, Athos said, “Do you mean
to tell us, Sir, that Cardinal Richelieu ordered the armorer murdered solely in
order to entrap Porthos’s servant?”
“If he thought that would result in saving his life?”
Monsieur de Treville said. “Yes, I do believe he would do so, do you not?”
Porthos could easily believe that Athos did not. Athos was a
noble person – not just born a nobleman – and often had trouble believing the
intrigues and dishonorable maneuvers that seemed to be part of living at
court. And as much as all of them hated Richelieu, Athos’ noble spirit
sometimes shrunk from what that gentleman would not stoop to do.
“But...” Porthos protested. “What are we to do? How can we
save Mousqueton without compromising her majesty?”
“There is only one way,” Monsieur de Treville said.
“We must find the true murderer and expose him,” Aramis
said. “If the true murderer is exposed, then they will, perforce, have to let
Mousqueton go.”
Porthos thought through this. Yes, that was undeniably
true. Even if it had been one of the guards of the cardinal, it should be
possible to expose his guilt. “But we will need time,” he said.
Monsieur de Treville shrugged again. “I’ll talk to the king,
my dear Porthos. I understand you practically raised the young man, and that
he’s almost like a son to you. And you have this comfort, Porthos, that the
Cardinal will not easily dispose of so valuable a hostage. There will be no
rush to execute Mousqueton. Not when he has hopes of bending the Queen to his
will by virtue of her indebtedness to you.”
Porthos felt somewhat reassured but not as much as he’d wish
to be. He couldn’t avoid the thought that at this very moment, his poor
Mousqueton was in a place reckoned as one of the antechambers of hell.
Their being dismissed, he stopped at the door, and turned
inside for a final question, “Captain... would it be possible for me to see
him?”
Top
hg
They walked out of the captain’s office and out through the
antechamber, while the crowds of rowdy musketeers parted for them as though
they were infected with a dread disease. Athos noticed it only with part of
his mind, while the rest of it worked at what the Captain had said.
Although no one in Paris would have classed a single of the
inseparables as naive – D’Artagnan being the only exception and him people
would only call naive until they got to know him better, from Athos perspective
all of them were naive, or at least more trusting than himself. He cast a look
sideways at each of them in turn.
Porthos seemed confident that the captain could at least keep
Mousqueton from being executed for a good while. This might or might not be
true of course. It all depended on how fast Mousqueton lost his value as an
hostage and on whether the person who had committed the crime was someone
Richelieu valued. Athos could hardly imagine Rochefort being handed in for the
sake of sparing Porthos’ servant. No, for his right hand man, the Cardinal
would fight as for his own life.
And the whole idea that the trap had been set for Mousqueton
just because he happened to be alone and away from them – and if this were
engineered by Richelieu, it would need believing just that – was disturbing.
Did this mean each and everyone of them was in similar danger? Each and every
one of their servants? “Aramis,” he said, speaking as though out of his dreams,
without looking at his friend. “And D’Artagnan.” He took a deep breath,
bracing for what he was about to say, and any questions that might follow. “We
must send messages to our servants now, if you know where yours are. Grimaud
should be at home. Ask your servants to meet Grimaud at my home and stay
there. And for neither of them to go out without one of us, or all together.”
There was a silence, and for a moment, Athos believed his
friends would argue, but instead, what he heard was a deep sigh from Aramis,
followed by “Oh, Bazin will not like that.”
“I understand,” Athos said. “But I believe his safety must
trump his preference in this matter.”
“Yes, I believe so too,” Aramis said. D’Artagnan didn’t say
anything. They walked back, and into the Captain’s compound, where they found
three servants to take hastily scrawled notes to their servants. Porthos
waited by, silently, as if deep in thought. Athos would like to believe that
Porthos’s being deep in thought meant that he was thinking of something
sensible.
The problem with the redheaded giant – beyond his open
warfare with language – was that Porthos’s brain seemed to work in a very
original manner. Perhaps this came from his having been raised, wild and
almost illiterate, cut off from civilized interaction, in a distant domain. Or
perhaps it was just the way Porthos genius – and it was genius – worked.
But while he might be the only one of them to think of
examining the pattern of blood drops at the scene of a crime2, and while this might be the key to
the entire murder they were trying to solve, the truth was that Porthos’s ideas
were often impractical or disregarded such minor things as what other people
might think, or the possibility of being arrested for something.
Athos badly wanted to get Porthos to say what he was thinking
about, but chances were the answer would muddle more than enlighten, so he kept
quiet, as they walked back out of Monsieur de Treville’s residence, and onto
the street once more. They walked, four abreast, down the street, forcing
everyone else to take long detours around them, and to cast them almost fearful
looks. Athos realized their steps were perfectly in rhythm, which, given their
varying heights and walks was somewhat of a miracle, and smiled despite
himself.
In his life, he’d lost title and honor, wife and domain. But
his friends made it possible for him to wake everyday and do what must be done,
no matter how many ghosts had haunted his remorse-plagued sleep.
At the next crossing, Aramis paused, and the rest of them
stopped, one step forward, and turned to look at the blond musketeer.
Aramis tilted his hat back, to look at them, a frown of deep
thought on his regular features. “I wonder...” he said.
“Yes?” Athos said.
Aramis nodded, but his mind seemed to be very far away. “That
is,” he said. “I think I should go to the Palais Royal. After all, Mousqueton’s
... friend... Hermengarde, lives there. Surely, if he did do this or if ... if
the problem is with the armorer, Hermengarde will know?”
“Mousqueton did not do this!” Porthos said, harshly.
“No. I don’t believe he did Porthos, except maybe if it was
in self defense? Imagine that the armorer has some reason to hate Mousqueton.
Imagine that... Shall we say? The armorer thought he wanted to kill Mousqueton
and advanced on him. Can you doubt that Mousqueton has seen enough sword play
to instinctively pick up a sword and...”
Porthos snorted. “Mousqueton might have seen sword play, but
that doesn’t make him an expert. Surely you’d seen sword play before you came
to me because you wished to fight your first duel. If I hadn’t taught you to
wield a sword, how would that duel have gone with you?”
Aramis shook his head. “But he would be fighting against
someone who is not a dueler.”
“Granted,” Porthos said. “But most armorers are trained in
the weapons they make. They study them and work at them and wield them in
practice, so that they can tell how the balance should be and whether the
weapon they just created is any good. And this one, Langelier Pere, was the
best armorer in Paris. Not the most expensive but the best. I went to him
because though his swords and knives were not ornate, they were the best
balanced and the sturdiest. I know. I used to teach fencing.” He shook his
head, gravely. “My poor Mousqueton would not have a chance.”
Aramis sighed. “You don’t know. People do strange things in
the grip of fear.”
Porthos shrugged. “By all means,” he said. “Go and ask
Hermengarde, but I don’t think you’ll find anything. If Mousqueton had felt
any animosity towards this armorer, count on it, I would have heard.”
Athos knew the interminable discussions Porthos and Aramis
could get into. They resembled the bickering between brothers and often gave
the impression they had been going on since the beginning of the world and
would go on until the final trumpet. In this one, Aramis, contrary to form,
was not using the longest words he could find in his vocabulary, or the
convoluted argumentation methods taught to him by his Jesuit masters, but
doubtless, that too would come, if Athos allowed the discussion to continue.
Which Athos had no intention of doing. Instead he cut in. “Aramis, you cannot
go off alone.”
Aramis graced him with a sudden smile. “I cannot? And why
not?”
“But you just saw... you just wrote a letter to Bazin,
telling him to go and stay with Grimaud. Surely, you don’t think that you’ll
be safe, if our servants aren’t?”
Aramis shrugged. “Bazin is notoriously bad with a sword,” he
said. “If someone attacked him, he’d probably either bless them, or – if we’re
lucky – hit them over the head with crucifix. And since he doesn’t normally
carry a crucifix about on his person, I’d have to guess the blessing part. I,”
he smiled again. “Am not Bazin.”
“I cannot approve of your risking yourself this way, Aramis,”
Athos said. “After all, with the edict hanging over our heads, any duel could
be a death sentence.”
“Not if you kill your enemy and his seconds, and there are no
witnesses,” Aramis said. “That will keep you from being arrested.”
“Aramis!” Athos said. He could well understand his friend’s
frustration at the idea that they were, yet again, in a situation where it was
not safe to conduct your business alone and without chaperonage. But then
again, he must see the situation as it was. “Why do you believe you will be
attacked, and not merely entrapped?”
Aramis shrugged. “If I’m entrapped, I”ll attack.”
“I could go with you,” D’Artagnan offered.
“I would prefer you don’t,” Aramis said. “If, as you
believe, the Cardinal is seeking to entrap the Queen by taking Mousqueton – if,
as the Captain believes and as it is rumored, the Cardinal imagines
conspiracies against his life... Then if I go alone to the palace, and they
see me talking to Hermengarde, they will think that I am just talking to yet
another woman.” He gave a little smile, quite different from his previous ones
– half filled with rueful self-mockery. “You must know it is believed I’ll
sleep with any woman at all. However, if I am with D’Artagnan, the Cardinal
will wonder if we’re trying to circumvent his plan to entrap Mousqueton. Or if
we’re part of some plot to kill him.” He looked at his fingernails. “You must
see it can’t be done.”
“Must I?”
Aramis smiled, and this time it was yet another smile – his
suave, practiced courtier’s smile, that gave the impression he could glide over
trouble and not feel it. “Indeed you must. Fear not. Nothing will happen to
me.”
And with that, he walked away. Athos, staring after him,
crossed his arms on his chest. What could he do? He might feel as responsible
for his younger friends as if they were his children or his vassals, but he
couldn’t tell them either of those. I would only enrage them. The second
possibly more than the first.
He looked back at his other friends, to realize there was
only one remaining. D’Artagnan, looking back at Athos with an expression
between amusement and worry. “Porthos must have walked away while we were
looking at Aramis,” D’Artagnan said.
Athos nodded and repressed a wish to sigh. “Indeed. Which
would not worry me as much, if I didn’t know how Porthos mind works. Or doesn’t.”
“Yes,” D’Artagnan said. “Me too. I wonder what he got it in
his head to do.”
“If we are lucky,” Athos said. “He’s gone to Athenais to ask
her opinion of all this. Athenais will keep him from doing something foolish.”
Athenais was Porthos’ long time lover, the younger wife of an aged notary. She
had met all of them under trying circumstances and had earned the respect of
them all and, possibly, a little of Aramis’s fear.
“If he’s gone to Athenais,” D’Artagnan said, doubtfully. “You
know, what I should do...” he said, and hesitated. Then, as though acquiring renewed
courage, continued, “You know, it is possible this is not the Cardinal’s trap.
Or at least that it wasn’t set by him. It is not unusual to see five guards of
the Cardinal walking around town in a group.”
“Though it’s more likely to see them sober, than it is to
find five sober musketeers,” Athos said, only half joking.
“Yes, very paltry fellows, the Cardinal’s men. Comes from
serving a churchman,” D’Artagnan said, and a humorous light danced in his dark
eyes. “But all the same, they walk all around town in groups, as much as we
do, which is what results in so many duels between the musketeers and the
guards.
“So, they might have been passing by, and might have seen an
opportunity. Perhaps they are of the trusted few who know that the Cardinal
needed an hostage. Or perhaps they just recognized Mousqueton and decided to
avenge themselves on Porthos through him.”
Athos shrugged. “Well, that does not matter. It would still
be the same, once the Cardinal had hold of him. A mind such as Richelieu’s
cannot have failed to see Mousqueton as a pawn in a game where he can entrap
the Queen. Or lead her to entrap herself.”
“Indeed,” D’Artagnan said. “But it makes a very great
difference towards two purposes, you see?” He lifted his hand and counted on
his fingers. “One, if the trap was not set on purpose, it is not likely the
Cardinal will try to entrap the rest of us, or our servants.” And as Athos
opened his mouth to reply, D’Artagnan said, “Not that I suggest we risk
ourselves unnecessarily. But the qualifying term there is unnecessarily. I
realize the Cardinal might think circumstances offered him a really good
opportunity to entrap us, and might seek to replicate them from now on. But
even so, he’s unlikely to get anything setup in time.”
“In time?”
“Right now. Today. These things take time.”
“I suppose,” Athos said, frowning. He could see that D’Artagnan
had some maggot in his brain and some plan that would, more than likely, be
foolhardy. If not as foolhardy as Porthos – or at least not as unheeding of
consequences – not very far off. He narrowed his eyes at his friend. “Why
today? What do you intend to do?”
“Well, I thought,” D’Artagnan said. “You know the place I
come from. Not very... well... being the son of the Lord didn’t mean I was
that far above the peasants. And in my youth,” he said, quite unheeding of the
irony of saying these words when the beard growth was still uncertain upon his
chin. “I used to associate with farmer and crafters, and all manner of people.”
“Yes?” Athos asked, trying to get the boy to tell him the
nonsense he intended, so that Athos, who was old enough to be D’Artagnan’s
father, could stop him before he got hurt.
“Well, I thought I could borrow one of Planchet’s suits of
clothes–”
“And look like a scarecrow,” Athos said, because Planchet, D’Artagnan’s
servant was taller than Athos himself and thinner than anyone Athos had ever
seen – as opposed to the young Gascon’s broad shouldered figure which came no
higher than Athos’ shoulder.
“Well, probably,” D’Artagnan shrugged. “But that is all to
the good and only adds to the image I’m trying to create.”
“Which is?”
“That of a young man, from a farmer’s household, just come
from Gascony to earn his living in Paris. You see,” he rushed ahead as though
he feared that Athos would contradict him. “Gascony is so poor, what with all
the wars and invasions and all, that it is not just noblemen who can’t provide
for their sons there. Even well to do farmers, if they have more than two
sons, often send one to seek his fortune in Paris.”
“I fail to understand why you would want to pretend to be a
peasant seeking employment,” Athos said, half guessing where this was going and
dreading it. D’Artagnan would walk in where angels would fear to tread. No.
He would dance in.
“Because then I can go to the neighborhood of the armorer,” D’Artagnan
said. “And ask the people in the neighborhood if someone might have wanted him
dead. If this is not a trap of the Cardinal’s, there’s a good chance that the
person who murdered the armorer was someone in the family or his
acquaintances. Only someone in the neighborhood will know who’s likely to have
done it.”
“And so,” Athos asked, folding his arms. “You intend to
leave your post as guard and go work as a chamber pot emptier at some in.”
D’Artagnan laughed, the easy laughter of youth. “I was
hoping,” he said. “For some more distinguished position. Perhaps swine
feeder.” He shook his head. “But no, I did not intend to take a post. Tell
them I have another thing waiting, you know, but I’m just... looking around for
another post, in case the first one doesn’t come through. That way, I have an
excuse for not staying there too long. And if I meet a likely lass around my
age, I may return, and claim it is for her sake... and ask a few more
questions.”
Athos thought a moment. The boy was right. If this was not
a plot of Richelieu’s – and no matter how much power Richelieu had, he couldn’t
be held accountable for every crime in France – then it must be something that
had happened in the man’s family and neighborhood. He looked down at D’Artagnan
who was looking up at him, his eyes shining with mischief and that repressed
excitement the youth always seemed to feel when they were in the middle of an
adventure.
The boy might be right. But he could not go alone and
unprotected. “I’ll come with you,” Athos said.
D’Artagnan’s eyes widened. “No. Everyone would know you for
what you are.”
“But I’ll burrow a suit of Grimaud’s!”
D’Artagnan’s lips stretched in a convulsive smile, which he
seemed to control only by a great effort of will. “Athos, my friend, no.” And
to what Athos was sure was his own bewildered countenance, he added. “My
friend, you could dress in rags and soot, and you’d still look like one of the
noblest men in the land.” He bowed a little. “Which you are.”
“But–” Athos said. Oh, he was proud of his ancestry and his
family name. For their sake, he had renounced his domain rather than drag that
noble name through the mud, by associating it with his marriage to a branded
criminal. But he didn’t think, if he should dress as a commoner, anyone would
guess his true origins.
“Trust me,” D’Artagnan said, with a slight smile. “Everyone
who meets you knows you come from a noble background. I don’t think there’
anything you can do to yourself to make you look as a commoner. Cloaked and
hidden, your posture must yet announce your quality to the world.”
Athos sighed. He didn’t want to believe it, but the truth
was, there were many people who’d told him the same in the past. That there
was something about him that stood out. And hadn’t he seen it, in his duels
with strangers, that they always demanded to know his true name – that they
always knew his name was one of the noblest in France. And yet. “But D’Artagnan,
I don’t want any harm to come to you. You are the youngest of us.”
“And you are the oldest. Do not let it disturb you. No harm
shall come to me. I can’t take my sword, but I shall take a dagger, and you
know, if I’ve survived the snares we’ve escaped so far, I won’t be that hard to
kill.”
He bowed slightly, almost formally, to Athos.
And Athos, standing alone on the street corner, watched him
walk until he turned right and disappeared from sight, headed for the rue des
Fossoyers, where he would be getting an outfit for the expedition.
So, Aramis has gone to the palace. To see Hermengarde, he
says. And D’Artagnan has gone to look about the neighborhood where the armorer
lived. And I? What can I do? He stood on the street corner, and his mind went back to
the interview with the captain. Monsieur de Treville had looked more worried
than he should. As though he were no absolutely sure he could keep Mousqueton
from harm in Richelieu’s prison.
If that was true, what could Athos do? Only one thing came
to mind. I must, he thought. Go see if this is Richelieu’s plan,
myself.
Night was falling, the streets of Paris filled with the
curious red of a wintry sunset. Athos squinted at the sunset, then at the
crowds of commoners, noblemen, whores and musketeers pouring out for an hour or
two of amusement.
And he turned and headed towards the compound that housed the
Cardinal Richelieu and those he commanded.
2A Death in Gascony
Back
Top
|
|
 |
|
 |
|
