It was April 30th, the time for spring to blossom in Paris; the time of change and hope, of tender flowers and sudden chills. Two musketeers, followed by a single servant, were riding up the street at a leisurely pace. As the masters were talking and laughing without apparent care, the fellow took his leave to beam and wave at comely faces of maids who scurried by with empty or laden baskets.
If he could have had a closer look at the two men ahead of him, he would have perhaps grown more sombre, for their conversation was not as casual as it looked. One kept trailing off, twirling his moustache with an anticipatory grin. The other stared unseeingly between the ears of his horse, now slightly smiling, now pensively frowning.
For all his preoccupation, D'Artagnan's sharp eyes hadn't missed the frivolous silliness of his valet. He simply decided to let the matter slip for once. Ironically, the dignity of an officer would soon be made plainer to Planchet by the same token that would take the Picard from his service: he was to become a sergeant in the Piedmont regiment.
Yes, spring had come, the time for new beginnings… Porthos, too, would soon leave the ranks to marry his Madame – the day had been decided upon and Mousqueton was probably out sending the invitations. Even Athos promised to attend 'in full splendour'. In fact, the only man who was not certain to appear at the wedding was Aramis, who had yet to send a letter from his sudden and unexpected journey to Lorraine.
If Lorraine it was… though a little tale about the waters of Forges didn't let him cast stones.
D'Artagnan's countenance clouded. Aramis's natural reticence forbade questioning, but a few words would go a long way in dispelling his friends' worry. There were dangerous currents moving in high circles, currents that had dragged and drowned many a nobleman – being a Musketeer of the King was no protection to their power.
Porthos waved his hand, laughing infectiously, and D'Artagnan joined in. Porthos's new mare was a scamp: it always sought to run ahead of rather than under him. Given the man's sheer girth, it was perhaps not so surprising.
On the whole, life wasn't too bad. He was a Lieutenant with all hopes of advancement and Athos was not going anywhere. Even the war seemed to be finished – the one with England, anyway.
'Ah well,' he'd said to his commander, 'this campaign will not see me to the marshal's baton.'
M. de Treville, a true Gascon, grunted in appreciation.
'Do not despair, my lad. The peace is only signed, not ratified.' But though his voice was joking, he was far from merry.
'…and now Mousqueton unties her after I mount.'
'Eh?'
'Look!' Porthos pointed ahead. 'Another of the captives? They're crawling about like vermin these days.'
Their path was blocked by a small crowd of commoners, pressing in upon a man who cowered by a wall. He was clearly a Briton, unshaven, poorly dressed and pale, and didn't help himself by answering the jeers and taunts in his own language: the indignation and despair came through, but the meaning was lost.
They had reigned in at first, but when Porthos would have spurred his mare on – such spectacles were not at all uncommon in the great city of Paris – D'Artagnan raised a cautionary hand. He had not been deaf to his Captain's warning.
He looked hard at the frantic Englishman, and saw a young, clever face bearing unmistakable signs of hardship, perhaps illness; the sunken eyes were grim. His hair hung in matted tangles to his shoulders, but whether it indicated his standing or simply prolonged neglect, it was hard to say. He was leaning on the bespattered wall, not putting weight on his right foot. The many patched holes on his clothes, the worn boots caked with mud, the small bag he clutched to his side – all told of daily struggle and toil. He was pale, too – with a yellowish tinge to it that doesn't come from affront.
And oh, how easy would it be to dismiss him as a commoner and continue on to Athos's lodgings! They shouldn't linger; any minute now the Cardinal's agents would hear of the incident and come to collect the hapless man. Porthos was squinting suspiciously at some people in the small gathering with obviously the same thought. If they were seen on the scene, they could be invited to help Richelieu's lackeys…
'Planchet,' murmured the Lieutenant of the King's Musketeers. 'Come here.'
As if by magic, the servant appeared by his side. He was as silent as Grimaud.
'Go to Athos,' D'Artagnan went on in the same subdued tone. 'Tell him there will be four of us. Unless we arrive shortly after you, he is to appeal to the Captain immediately – we might miss the Bastille if he hurries.'
Planchet nodded once, turned his horse and was gone.
And not a moment too soon. The word that D'Artagnan dreaded to hear was gaining volume.
'Spy!'
'He's a spy!'
The Englishman stopped talking, only his eyes moved to and fro, taking in the savage pleasure of his motley hunters, of whom a large, venomous Breton was clearly the instigator. Now that, reflected d'Artagnan, was an interesting character; broad-shouldered, loud-voiced, with a thick wooden stump just peeking from beneath his cloak. Cunning and treachery were written in his features.
'Hang him!' the Breton roared and his neighbours cheered. There was finality in the cry, a greediness that united the people – it signalled fate and, strangely, it decided our hero. He had a vision of brandished sticks and tongs.
'Make way!' he shouted. 'Make way!'
Porthos shrugged in his usual affable manner and urged his mount along.
The man by the wall raised his head with a wild glimmer of hope, and the Breton snarled.
D'Artagnan's inborn ability to lead had been nurtured and polished in the months since his rising in the ranks. Even so, he was grateful for Porthos's menacing presence shadowing his orders, obeyed but sluggishly and sullenly. The people didn't like having to relinquish their prey. One grey-haired matron was slow to step aside, complaining under her ample nose.
'Ah, madame,' said the Gascon in stage whisper, leaning down with a regretful face. 'Not tonight, I'm afraid, but thank you for the kind offer.'
That improved the crowd's mood a notch, and the musketeers were able to edge closer to the Englishman, who wisely refrained from appealing to them. Porthos's mare snickered and tossed her head when someone would have darted ahead of her. D'Artagnan was tempted to turn around, but held himself at the last moment. He was edgy – no, that wasn't the right word; his hair was standing up in a desire to gallop away that he could not explain.
The shadows, too, were so dank here…
'Whoa,' said Porthos. 'Look where you're going, you dunderhead!'
'Ouf!'
'There you are,' Porthos said phlegmatically, as his horse whinnied and stomped and d'Artagnan did turn around.
The hulking Breton who'd tried to force his way past the tempestuous mare was now sitting on the cobblestones, shaking his head. Nobody was helping him up, and d'Artagnan seized the chance.
'Disperse! In the name of the King!'
Slowly, the huddle of people thinned and the narrow street was once again free for passage, leaving the four of them. Only then d'Artagnan noticed that Porthos had his hand on the hilt of his epee.
'That man is a traitor, a spy,' said the Breton tenaciously. 'He should be detained.'
'And you would be?' d'Artagnan asked, dismounting and motioning for his friend to do so as well. The feeling of foreboding lessened somewhat and he made a show of not watching the wretched foreigner. In truth, though, he was studying the man with customary shrewdness, noting the nodding head, the shivers wracking his thin form, the white-knuckled clutch he maintained on his bag… an oddly familiar bag…
'Nathanaël Jeun, at your service, Monsieur. And he's a thief, too! I have suffered at his hands!'
'Call the police,' Porthos grunted disgustedly.
'No,' said d'Artagnan, returning the full weight of his regard to the accusing party. 'We shall escort you both to be questioned, to investigate your claims.'
Jeun glowered. Porthos approached the Englishman, who had been slipping lower and lower down the wall; his nails had dug grooves in the plasterwork where he'd fought the inevitable fall. Porthos took him by the shoulder and picked up like a doll.
The similarity of expressions on both captives' miens made d'Artagnan laugh out.
'I say, this one doesn't look like he can walk.'
Indeed, the Englishman pointed at his foot and asked something.
'I wish they wouldn't mutilate our beautiful language,' d'Artagnan said with a sigh. He concentrated upon the one English word he did know.
'Come!'
Porthos beamed at such linguistic proficiency, but the man hanging from his grasp bit out a very heartfelt-sounding Goddam! – which, as they had no dictionary to establish its meaning, did not signify anything.
The Breton snorted. The Englishman wriggled in the musketeer's grip and his hands balled into fists.
'Goddam it is,' d'Artagnan agreed, and pointing, named himself.
'John Watson,' was the quick answer.
'Ask him what he stole,' Porthos advised helpfully.
'Later. Help him to my horse; I'll go on foot… why, you rascal!'
The Breton was legging it out. He didn't seem too interested in upholding justice. Hampered by their unquiet beasts, the musketeers could not start the pursuit in time.
'Let him go,' Porthos said, moustache bristling with vexation.
'As we should. To Athos!'
'To Athos?'
'Of course, my dear fellow, unless you prefer the Cardinal's fare.'
'Hm!' The giant hoisted their slight prisoner up and sat him upon d'Artagnan's horse as lightly as if he was a child; then, not to be outdone in diplomacy, he wagged his finger in his face and took out his great epee.
The Englishman's eyes grew round and he leaned as far from Porthos as he could – almost to the opposite house.
'Ease off, friend,' laughed d'Artagnan. 'I'm certain Mr. Watson has got your message.'
And with that he took his horse's bridle, quite unconcerned about possible attack, and led the way to Rue Ferou where Athos was probably arming himself to alert M. De Tréville of their unfortunate fate.