Disclaimer – 3 Musketeers and the characters belong to Alexandre Dumas.
Chapter 2
London, April 1793
London was a little like Paris, but far cooler and wetter. D'Artagnan fought the urge to sneak off to the local apothecary for more laudanum. Mme de Beaumont was right. He gained nothing from indulging in his drugged dreams of what might have been. He caused his friends nothing but grief. He was disgusted with himself and swore never to return to that stuff again. Still, the urge gnawed at him like a worm at times. D'Artagnan had learned earlier that the old apothecary on Stand Lane was none too particular when dispensing his powders and the boy Durand was easily bribed to bring him the drug. Then de Beaumont caught on to his addiction and challenged him to a sparring match.
He never admitted to himself how much his health had suffered from his addiction until his hostess had disarmed him thrice in a row. De Beaumont was an accomplished swordswoman in her own right but losing to a woman well into her sixties was enough to put things into perspective for D'Artagnan. He was out of breath by the end of the third round but de Beaumont was only as winded as if she had taken a leisurely stroll in the park. D'Artagnan agreed to be locked up in the cellar for a full month, chained to his heavy cot and surviving on bread and water with only the old lady to tend to him. No threats or pleas would move her. He had suffered through the worst of the cravings and pains in his self-imposed prison while his hostess read aloud from the Bible at his bedside.
"Monsieur! You got me!" the servant boy yelped and clutched his chest as if stabbed. He flopped onto the floor and faked a death rattle. The poker rolled out of his grasp. D'Artagnan lowered his weapon, a knobbly walking stick. They had been chopping wood for the fire before the rain started and then Durand wanted to practise at fencing in the cramped quarters of the servants' parlour.
"Durand! Get off the floor, you lazybones. Our guests would be here any minute…" the cook yelled and swatted the boy with a dishrag. Durand flipped back onto his feet like an acrobat before scampering off to attend to his other chores. "As for Monsieur… Madame invites you to join her for dinner…" D'Artagnan groaned inwardly. Part of his hostess' good intentions involved introducing him to eligible young women in the hopes he would start a new life and family, but he was not quite ready for that yet. The ache of losing Constance was still too fresh. At least he had defeated his addiction, for now. He had the old harridan to thank for it.
De Beaumont was knitting in the library, beside the nearly empty bookshelves. She had been forced to sell her extensive collection of books after the revolution cut off her pension from the French court, leaving her near-penniless. Looking at her now, it was hard to believe she had served under Louis XV as both a spy and soldier in the guise of a man. Yet people claimed her loyalties were often divided and the old king had her banished. It was only during the reign of Louis XVI that she was allowed to return from her exile in England briefly. It was then that she confessed her true gender. Sometime during her too brief return to France, she had befriended Aramis.
In her time as a soldier, she had met D'Artagnan's father and the late de Treville. Perhaps it was this past acquaintance with his father that finally persuaded the old woman to take D'Artagnan on as a guest in her home for the meagre fee Aramis and Athos could spare between them. "One was too honest and it cost him his career, the other too loyal and paid for it with his life. We live in troubled times indeed," she had remarked of D'Artagnan's father and the late captain. The spinster was prone to wry observations of various nobles.
"The Darnays and their daughter would be visiting us… You do remember Dr Manette? He will be joining us too…" the old woman clicked her needles as she spoke. D'Artagnan let out an audible sigh of relief. He recalled the good doctor and his charming granddaughter, a mere child.
"Has there been any news from Athos or Aramis?" D'Artagnan asked. The old woman shook her head.
D'Artagnan had been too caught up in his own grief and the subsequent addiction to feel anything much when news of de Treville's death reached him at Athos'. Now that he was his own master again, he feared daily for his friends' safety.
"They say Comte de la Fere is a stubborn man, but he is still a father. He will think of his son and send him to safety… As for Aramis, he has enough cunning to match a fox. Don't think of going back to France now, Charlot…" she clicked her needles without missing a stitch.
"Ma'am, it's Georges. Charlot's my father's name…" D'Artagnan corrected her gently to no avail. De Beaumont always got his name confused with someone else's. Sometimes it was a sign she wanted to end the conversation. He walked over to the bookcase.
"If you are looking for Voltaire, I've just handed those books to Carton. Jarvis will pay a princely sum for them, enough to put food on the table…" There was a waspish tone to her voice. In kinder times she would never have deigned to part with her precious books. D'Artagnan nodded and picked up one of the few books left on the shelves, a battered and well-worn Bible.
Dinner was fraught with forced gaiety, with their hostess trying her best to keep up everyone's spirits. The few bottles of Burgundy wine left in the house were uncorked. The kind gift of a roast ham from their guests was gratefully received. Throughout dinner, de Beaumont regaled her guests with anecdotes from her long ago sojourn in distant St Petersburg.
"Did the Empress have a dozen white horses with diamonds in their saddles?" young Lucie asked.
"Oui, white as snow with pearls in their bridles. The Empress Elizaveta and her ladies would ride them down the main streets of St Petersburg every Tuesday," the old lady beamed as she wove an outlandish tale for the child. D'Artagnan tried to draw Darnay into conversation and failed. Lucie's father was troubled. He watched his family with an air of concern. D'Artagnan soon found himself caught up in a discussion on the latest laws passed governing the medical profession with the good doctor. It was as if everyone had undertaken an oath not to speak of the events in France.
Young Lucie soon grew tired as the night drew on. D'Artagnan was sent to flag a coach for their guests as they bade their goodnights. He watched as the doctor, his daughter and grandchild mounted the coach before returning to the house. It was then that he overheard his hostess pleading with Charles Darnay.
"Charles, think of your wife and child if not for yourself," de Beaumont hissed in French.
"I can't abandon my loyal servant…" Darnay replied in French.
"It's too late for him, Charles Evermonde… Your father and uncle were scoundrels in life and your family name is much reviled. You have your mother's kind heart. It'd be a shame if you lost your life thanks to their sins! You think the law will hold sway there now that they demand blood be spilled? Noble blood? They executed poor Louis..."
"Charles, as a friend, I beseech you, reconsider!" Another voice broke in this time in English. D'Artagnan stepped through the doorway and was momentarily bewildered by the sight of a dishevelled-looking but identical man clutching their guest's arm. Darnay shook his doppelganger's hand off.
"Sydney, have you made the arrangements for travel?"
"Here are the papers… Ow!" Sydney yelped as the old woman purposefully kicked him in the shin. D'Artagnan winced, wondering if he should intrude on the argument. Darnay all but snatched the papers from his lookalike's hand and left in a huff, passing D'Artagnan in the process. Still limping, Sydney Carton hastened to stop him.
"Carton, you imbecile! You should've thrown those papers in the fire if you mean to stop him!" De Beaumont hitched up her skirts and hurried after both men.
"How bad are things in France, Mademoiselle? Please, tell me the truth!" D'Artagnan seized hold of de Beaumont's arm as she passed him. A commotion outside announced that poor Carton had failed to stop Darnay's departure.
"Sacre bleu! You want me to tell you what I do know? And I do not know half of it," de Beaumont's tone was serious and the lines in her face seemed deeper. "It is enough to drive a man to drink or worse! Promise me you'll keep away from the laudanum first…" She waited until D'Artagnan had sworn upon his father's grave not to return to his addiction.
"France as we know her is gone. It's the rule of the mob there… It has been festering like a sore even during the time of Louis XV the Beloved… Pah! Beloved? The people fear him. They do not love him, or the nobles who ignored them… When I was young, I wondered at the glided halls of Versailles. Later during the course of my work, I saw the mean streets of Paris… Louis XV had his means of keeping the riff-raff in check… His spies and the Bastille… Louis XVI lacked the heart or the drive. He shied away from what must be done to keep his country together…" The outburst seemed to exhaust her and she leaned back against the mantelpiece.
"Mademoiselle, is Aramis or Athos in any danger?" D'Artagnan urged as he helped her into an armchair. She motioned for him to pour her some brandy. Her accumulated discontent at the mistreatment she and her fellow spies received whilst in Louis XV's service was known to many.
"Athos, yes. He is of noble blood, born and bred. That is reason enough for the mob to demand his blood. Aramis? He is with those Jacobins or whatever those firebrands call themselves. Eventually, yes. The fires of revolution have a nasty habit of turning on those who lit them. Robespierre, Desmoullins, Danton, Marat… doubt any of those poor fools will live to see what they had wrought on poor France…" the old woman's laughter was dry.
"Then I must return…"
"You can't. Not without great risk to your own life and your friends'."
"But I can no longer sit here safe, while they…"
"Perhaps you can return as someone else…" De Beaumont's voice took on a dreamy air. "I was once D'Eon, a young soldier. Then I was Lia, a lady-in-waiting to an Empress in St Petersburg. What a masquerade that was… In the alleys I had another name and persona… Yes, perhaps it is possible for you to return… What paths are closed to one may open to another. First, we must plan… Durand! Come here!" the old woman reached for her hand-bell and rang for the boy.
She whispered something into the boy's ear before sending him out into the night.
Author's Notes:
D'Artagnan's settling in England, but he's fretting to get home now that he has gone through cold-turkey treatment for his addiction to laudanum (a derivative of opium commonly used in the past). I got the idea of the treatment from an account of how they treated opium addicts in China in the 19th and early 20th century. When an addict agreed to quit, he is shut up in a bare room with a small barred window and a sturdy door. Often, to prevent self-harm, they are asked to strip naked and pass their clothes out through the bars of the window. Food and water would be passed through the bars. The person who held the key to the room must be hard-hearted (or deaf) enough to ignore all the pleas and screams coming from inside when the craving kicked in. Not everyone made it through the process and some have even died or killed themselves because they could not take it. Drug addiction is a nasty business.
I can't help throwing in characters from Dickens' A Tale of Two Cities and the outlandish character of a cross-dressing former spy (Chevalier D'Eon de Beaumont) into the mix. When I was first introduced to this character via a Japanese anime (which took many liberties with history), I thought he was just the product of a good scriptwriter. Then I found out he was a real-life eccentric who had a more colourful life than his fictional counterpart. The amazing part was him convincing everyone he was actually a woman after forty years of living as a man, then keeping up the charade of being a woman until his death.