Sign of the Cross

By JeanTre16

Chapter 10

Crossroads

Rosa strolled with Ramon down the quaint Parisian streets. Side by side they took their time on their way back to the d'Artagnans' apartment where she was staying. Swinging a small bag she held on a string to the rhythm of their waltz, she attempted to slow their pace. Happy melodies from street entertainers and sounds of laughing children cast a stark contrast to the young Spanish woman's melancholy thoughts. She fought off her bitter feelings. She wanted the last of their short moments together to be happy. But she knew they would not. Stopping their walk all together, she turned to him with the news. "Ramon," the hesitant woman soberly spoke with her face lowered down to the ground. "My sister's and I will be leaving tomorrow. We'll be sailing to the Americas." There, she had said it. Looking up, she beheld his shocked countenance.

"Why?" he asked. Her sudden change of conversation came without warning and made him wince. They were seemingly having a wonderful afternoon, and now this. He struggled to understand the source of her decision. "Did Queen Anne not say she would help you obtain French residency?" As if fumbling for a reason to convince her to stay, he cocked his head reflectively sideward, shaking it all the while in disbelief. But the only words to come out were, "Why so soon?" The tall Spaniard looked at the beautiful senorita before him, trying to say what he wanted, but feeling he had known her too short a time for the right to say it. All he could manage was, "Will you not give Paris a chance?" What he really wanted was for her to give him a chance—to give them a chance.

But the Spanish woman knew better than he realized what lay in his heart. She battled with it as well. In her decision to leave for the Americas, she was not only closing off her potential relationship with Ramon, she was facing the hard reality that she would never see her homeland again. Although she admitted to liking this man, she knew that the quality of life she could offer him would not be one he was deserving of. There was no hope of a future with this dashing young Spaniard who had struck a claim on her heart in such a short period of time. Reluctantly, she decided she would not tell him how she felt. She would make every effort to withdraw from him.

Trying to keep their conversation light as they walked, she put on a cheerful face. "We have a cousin, Julian, who has promised us a place to stay. He traveled to the Americas last year when trouble broke out at home. He took much of the family fortune with him, hoping it would never be necessary for us to flee. But I can see his decision was wise. We are only sorry we must impose upon his hospitality." As it was habit for this strong natured woman to do, she countered the gravity of her situation with optimism. Looking at her escort with her winsome smile, she encouraged, "So you see, there is nothing to fear for us. We are being well taken care of." She tried to nod in a convincing manner, but with him standing so close, her resolve proved difficult.

What she did not know was that although Ramon had fallen for her, he too held his tongue back from telling her so. He found his noble heart in conflict with his romantic one. He knew, as well as she, that there was no future in France for her. Although he wanted to ask her to stay, and even entertained the thought of asking her to marry him, he decided his desire came from pure selfishness. It was best that her sisters and she were to set sail for the Americas. He knew it, but he did not have to like it.

Thoughts of going with them had crossed his mind. After all, three women traveling alone could use the protection. He too was a Spaniard, not a Frenchman. He had asked himself if there really was an obligation for him to stay on French soil. But Ramon had already known the answer to that question. He had played the crux of it over and over before in his mind. He knew he was needed here in the service of King Louis XIV. Ramon Montalvo Francisco de la Cruz had genuine influence on the young king of a powerful nation. No, Ramon would not abandon his duty. Even though he was not a native of France, he had a higher duty in the battle against the oppression of good. And with his fellow Musketeer on the verge of a discovery that could possibly sway that battle for all time, he knew he must choose to stay. Perhaps he would reconsider later, but for now, he was needed where he was. Rosa and her sisters would sail without him.

For some time, the couple walked on in silence. Almost to their destination, Rosa stopped again and took out a small cloth-wrapped object from her bag. She faced Ramon with the pleasantest smile she could afford. "I would like very much if you would always remember me." Her words proved more difficult to say than she anticipated. Choking back her tears, she quickly placed her gift in his hand and closed his fingers tightly around it. Feeling the warmth of his hand, she looked once more to see his pain-stricken face before releasing her grip. Quickly, she turned and hurried to close the distance between her and the d'Artagnans' front door.

Ramon stood there with gaping jaw, looking at the closed door his beautiful rose had just bolted through. He looked toward the cloud strewn heavens and muttered, "Dios mio, why must this end this way?" With growing curiosity, he looked down at the carefully wrapped gift in his hand and slowly peeled back its layers. The beauty of what he saw caught his breath. Carved in a creamy white semi-precious stone, set on the backdrop of an amber oval base, was her delicate likeness. Looking down at her cameo, he ran his fingers over its smooth face. What he really wanted was to caress the face it depicted. Once again, the Spaniard felt a twinge of pain grip his breaking heart.

oooooooo

Jacqueline busily arranged her clothing for d'Artagnan and her night at the garrison. She had been present in the captain's office when Rosa, Dora and Maria announced their decision to leave France for the Americas. In the wake of that news, the couple decided to allow the sisters exclusive use of their place for the night. Despite knowing it was against their boss's explicit order, they would take a chance and stay in her husband's quarters at the barracks. After such a round of disappointments for everyone, they believed all concerned were in need of a night of privacy.

Without warning, a clearly upset Rosa burst into the apartment and startled the young woman packing her clothes. Offering no explanation as to her rush, the Spanish woman threw herself on her bed and wept. A bewildered looking Jacqueline set aside her task and took a seat by the sobbing woman. "What happened?" she asked, gently placing her hand on her friend's convulsing shoulders. She guessed her hurting friend's source of pain. Having just come from the garrison, she knew the young woman had been with Ramon. Not receiving a response, she offered consolation, "I understand…"

"What would you know of my troubles?" The distraught woman abruptly cut her off. Rising from the bed, she backed away from Jacqueline. Shaking, Rosa spoke, "You have a husband, a home and I can tell you hold a very dear place in the heart's of the king's Royal Musketeers." With a tinge of jealousy mingled in her anguish, she snapped, "So don't tell me you understand." Then, as quickly as she had spewed her words, she regretted them and collapsed to the bench at her side, crying. As soon as she could gather herself, she gave apology. "I'm sorry. I did not mean that. You've been nothing but kind to us. You did not deserve my misdirected frustration. I am just so…so…" but tears, rather than words were all that came.

A compassionate Jacqueline rose from the bed and once again went to comfort Rosa. "I'm sorry, too. I never intended to infer I knew your pain. What I was trying to say was that I know we all have our burdens to bear. You've been through so much already, and I know your decision to leave only brings more trials." The sole surviving Roget could feel a knot forming in her stomach, accompanying the flooding memories of her sorrows and her still unresolved issues. She pushed them away. She was there to reach out to the woman beside her now.

The Frenchwoman looked at this dear friend she had come to feel as a sister in such a short time. She took her friend's hand lightly in hers as she would do with her mother's when they had heart to heart talks. "You are such a strong woman. I would have liked for you to stay and help keep me in line."

With her tear-streaked face, Rosa found her laughter. "You don't need me here. You have a whole garrison of men to watch over you. You are so blessed."

To her inference, Jacqueline joined Rosa in her release of laughter. "I won't deny that I am blessed, but it still would be nice to have a sister like you around." The sincerity in her eyes told this woman her words were true.

An optimistic spirit returned to the houseguest as she advised her newly claimed sibling. "If I were your sister, I would tell you to stop hiding behind your mask and take a stand as that brave woman Musketeer."

Rosa's words came suddenly and unexpectedly. Disturbed at what Jacqueline heard, she withdrew her hand, stood and wiped the moisture building on her palms in her skirt. She looked to her guest and mildly reproved, "You do not know what you're saying."

Perceiving the alarmed look on her friend's face, Rosa offered an apology. "I'm sorry. I did not mean for my words to be unkind. I thought it would be a dream for a woman like you to hold such prestige among your people. But I can see I'm wrong. May I ask why?"

In her firm resolve, Jacqueline resisted the passion she too felt in Rosa's words. "I felt tempted with that route once." She crossed her arms and she spoke as though the memory physically worked on her. Jacqueline had learned that lesson in her encounter with the Invincible Sword. It seemed the vision that came with that experience acted as a reminder to her of the thin line she walked between being a blessing and a curse in her life. Whether it had been from God, she did not know, but it acted as a crossing point, a line of sorts. On one side, she lived her greatest deeds, while on the other her greatest failures. In seeking self importance and ambition, she became her worst enemy. But in remembering who she was, a called servant of God, and in esteeming others as more important than self, she would remain true. What a lesson she had learned about her own selfish will in wanting to be a Musketeer. How easily something as good as wanting to defend France's king, could be turned into something evil. It was an alarming discovery to see what potential lay within her very soul just waiting for the opportunity to devour everything she held dear.

Sighing, she explained, "It is never that simple. God has already shown me where that path would lead. France, her king, and those I love and hold dear deserve my unrequited best. I'll lay aside my pride and give my life willingly for these things. That is what a Musketeer is. It cannot be different because I am a woman. To elevate myself as a woman would be to elevate myself as an individual over France, and it would make me no better than Cardinal Mazarin." Locking gaze with her friend, Jacqueline's voice softened in adding, "If I am elevated in the service of others, then that is a different case, but it should never be something I seek."

After a long silence, the young Spanish woman looked up with admiration on this woman who had just bore her heart. "You are a better woman than I," she said. "I see God has called the right lady for the job. For I, myself, would possibly not be so strong." She shared a warm-hearted smile with her friend.

"Rosa," Jacqueline reciprocated her confidant's high regard of the other, "Perhaps you are right about what God has called me to do. But don't think he hasn't an equal calling of importance on your life. You need to get your sisters to safety. And you've done nobly in your task so far." She walked over and once again put her hand on her friend's. "Don't be so hard on your self. I think you've done marvelously in your trying circumstances." Almost as a sobering afterthought, she raised her brow and ended, "In truth, we never know exactly what we'll do until we're faced with our trials. We just have to be sure who we are before we face them."

oooooooo

Evening was getting on and Cardinal Mazarin sat in his study with Jean Baptiste Morin, going over their progress with Marie and King Louis. The man in red was pleased with the events concerning the budding romance between his niece and the powerful new royal figurehead. The two were practically inseparable. Now, all he needed was reassurance from his parascientist that she would continue to be the right type of influence on their ruling subject.

"Monsieur Morin," the Cardinal professed, "although I am pleased with the apparent results of our scientific experiment, can you tell me for sure that it is not by some natural coincidence that Marie and Louis find their attraction? I want to know for certain that I can determine her bend and in turn control his? I want proof. What can you give me?" He sat with folded hands, awaiting a reply.

"Your Eminence…" Morin began, but was abruptly interrupted by a rapping on the study door.

"Who could that be at this hour?" Mazarin vented his displeasure at the inconvenience. "Enter," he permitted the intruder.

A guardsman swung the door ajar enough to announce, "Your Eminence, a courier has arrived for you who said he has a valuable message."

"Show him in," the Cardinal instructed. Not wanting Morin to be privy of its content, he immediately adjourned their meeting. "I apologize, but we will have to pick up our conversation tomorrow. Now if you'll excuse me." The premier stood to show the man in his deviant employ to the door.

As the short, stocky, balding man left, the courier stepped in to hand Cardinal Mazarin his entrusted parcel. Dusty and smelling of the countryside, he gave the presence of having ridden hard all day. "Pardon the intrusion, Your Eminence, I realize the hour is late, but there was one heck of a storm chasing my heels, and I trust you'll be thankful I did not wait it out."

"I'll be the judge of that," the Cardinal stoically replied as he received the courier's post. Even if it were to hand Roget over to the premier on a silver platter, he would never show a morsel of gratification to a mere messenger. "You may go," was all the man of importance offered, without even so much as a glance for dismissal. His eyes remained glued to the document he held.

With the messenger gone, Mazarin walked a slow, well-worn lap about his study as he pulled out the package's contents and began to read. "Leponte?" he pondered aloud, just moments after he began. The inconsistency made him stop. He double-checked the report heading. Yes, it was news regarding the dispatch he put out on Charles d'Artagnan—father-in-law to the subject at hand. But this was not the type of news he expected. He expected news on Roget, not Leponte. He read on, pouring over its entire content within a brief time. He ended his round about the room before his desk and dropped the papers down to its surface.

Cardinal Mazarin's search for information on Madame Jacqueline Roget d'Artagnan had been fruitful. It had taken an unexpected twist, but the man in red was growing in its pleasure with each passing moment. The news suggested deception, and therefore, foul-play. His dispatch had returned with information from Marseille that when Charles d'Artagnan left Paris, he had not taken Leponte. All documentation said otherwise. The innkeeper from where the legendary nuisance stayed showed no second king's soldier in his lodging records. With further research, no record of Jacques Leponte was found at any stop along the way. Apparently in his hasty departure, the man of fame had forgotten his aide. But no, at further investigation, the young apprentice had not been seen since the return from the coronation at Reims. So where was he? What did this mean?

Once again, a mystery presented itself in his search for this woman's secrets. Pacing his floor, he recalled his own recent surmising of the matter. He had posed the question that instead of being concerned as to where this woman was, he should have been more concerned as to who she was. Connecting the two mysteries, he considered, perhaps, once again, he should not be concerned as to the missing whereabouts of Jacques Leponte as he should be of the question of who this person was. After all, this Musketeer appeared as suddenly as he had disappeared.

His Eminence percolated over the puzzling pieces in the report. If Jacques Leponte had vanished into thin air, then where did he go? Mazarin pulled the old arrest warrant for Jacqueline Roget from his desk. He wondered aloud, "Jacqueline Roget…Jacque..." He stopped mid-name, eyes staring at the picture before him. His face lit up. "Jacques. Jacqueline…Could it be? No, that would be too scandalous." His adrenaline was flowing now as he walked his well-worn circles about his study. "But it is. It's true." He knew it was.

A broad and devilish grin spread across His Eminence's face. Gathering up the report from Marseille, including the picture of Jacqueline, he strode with great purpose to speak to his acting captain. He would not bother the king at such a late hour. And with that storm his courier mentioned heading toward Paris, he would not want to risk delay. There would be time enough when the sun rose, to discuss all the nuances with the boy king. If, per chance, the young ruler gave him trouble, he would use Morin's persuasion on his niece to swing the royal pawn into agreement. Meanwhile, the premier would have the couple arrested under the "lettres de cachet," an open-ended, uncontestable prison sentence, signed by the king for the disposal of troublesome subjects. For now, he was determined to have the d'Artagnans apprehended and imprisoned. He was confident he finally had the evidence that would lay the troublesome Musketeers firmly in his grip. Yes, it looked as though the counter plans of the man in red, teeming as the approaching storm on the horizon, were about to turn and hit hard.

oooooooo

Duval was up late in his office finishing his day of menial tasks when a squad of Cardinal Mazarin's guardsmen brazenly barged in. Producing an arrest warrant for the d'Artagnans, Mazarin's men stated that they had just come from the couple's apartment, where they had found it occupied instead by three Mademoiselles. They complained that the three women told them nothing as to where to find the man and woman they were looking for. Thus, in their apparent empty handedness, the henchmen came to the next logical place to search—the Musketeer garrison.

Captain Duval angrily rose from where his paperwork lain strew across his desk and slammed the warrant down in its midst. Addressing the offensive guards who planted themselves just inside his office door, he stated, "They're not here. I house no married couples in my barracks." With that, he firmly stood his ground. But, hearing that the d'Artagnans were not in their home, made him wonder where they could be. The captain did not want these thugs to find his soldiers before he did. It was an outrage that the Cardinal had issued the warrant under the lettres de cachet, clearly proof that he had side-stepped the king's direct involvement. Although the letter bore the king's signature, Martin Duval was fully aware how the blanket edict worked. It gave the arrestor the right to act immediately without going through conventional channels. Duval would stall, at least until he had time to speak with King Louis.

"But you do employ this Musketeer impersonator and her unfortunate husband," said the brash red-coated assailant. "If you are caught harboring fugitives, you will hang with them as well." He rocked forward to his boot toes, clasping his sword hilt. He was proud of his opportunity to show the Cardinal he was a capable replacement for the former Captain Bernard.

"I will certainly not answer to you on accusations made against my men." Duval held his temper. He would not waste his breath on this arrogant pawn of the Cardinal's. But, he did want Mazarin's dupes out of his garrison, and he certainly did not want them searching it. "You will not disturb my sleeping soldiers at this late hour. I have a garrison to run and my men are in need of their rest. You will come back in the morning."

"We will do no such thing," brayed the haughty guard.

It was at that time that Siroc and Ramon returned from their evening patrol. Entering the lounge from the stables, the tired men were alarmed at the sight of red uniformed men in their captain's office. Although the guardsmen stood with their backs to them and did not see their entry, the two Musketeers did not escape Captain Duval's notice. While the silver-haired leader did not perceive the sought after man and woman to be in his garrison, he did suspect their two comrades knew of their whereabouts. To stall the search and get a word of warning out to his wanted soldiers, he spoke loudly enough for the returning men to hear. "If you are going to search my garrison for the d'Artagnans, you will do so under my supervision."

His speech had the desired effect. Ramon and Siroc quietly, but quickly made their way down the hall toward their comrade's quarters. They knew exactly where their married friends were. "Wake them up and inform them they're being searched for. Tell them to get to my lab, and I'll sneak them out," the forward thinking man hastily directed before leaving.

Ramon nodded his head in understanding at Siroc, and then rapped softly on his comrade's door. As soon as d'Artagnan cracked the door to see who was knocking, the tall Spaniard pushed his way in.

"Whoa, what do you think you're doing?" the sleepy-eyed man reproved. "Barging into my room in the middle of the night! Did you make a wrong turn? 'Cause your room's down the hall." D'Artagnan wore the expression as though his friend had just played a bad joke on him and pushed Ramon back toward the door.

The troubled midnight caller raised his hands to hush his friend as he lowered his voice in a rushed whisper, "Listen, d'Artagnan, we don't have time for this. Mazarin's men are searching the garrison for you and Jacqueline right now. You have to get out of here. Go to Siroc's lab…"

Beginning to understand his friend's intrusion was not one of jest and trying to make sense of his foggy thoughts, he interrupted, "Slow down, Ramon, what are you saying? Why are the Cardinal's men after us?" asked the confused Frenchman, now looking quite jolted from his sleep.

"Compadre, I don't know. We overheard the captain talking to Mazarin's guards. That's all I can tell you." The seriousness on Ramon's tired face was finally enough to convince his friend to rouse his slumbering wife.

oooooooo

Within only minutes, the wanted couple had dressed and made their way down the garrison corridors to Siroc's lab. D'Artagnan quickly gave his blond-haired comrade instructions on where to find them the following morning. Then, under the careful watch of their brothers-in-arms, the fugitives stealthily slipped out into the wee morning hours.

Half way across the sleepy town, the fleeing d'Artagnans suddenly heard a group of Cardinal Mazarin's men noisily heading in their direction. Taking cover, the couple dodged into a cluster of bushes. In their first break from non-stop running since Ramon broke the news of their hunt, Jacqueline felt the full weight of guilt for the imminent fall of the man who had pledged his life for hers. Her worst nightmare was slowly becoming a reality before her eyes.

Seeing his wife drift back into the despair she had experienced after her abduction, d'Artagnan took her firmly by the arms and in a hushed, but firm voice, spoke directly to her face, "Jacqueline, I know you feel responsible for this, but it's not your fault. Cardinal Mazarin is the one behind all this, and I won't have you taking his blame." The plea for strength in his eyes rallied her spirits. "You need to be strong right now so we can get safely out of town."

Trembling in his hands, her blue eyes met his and she choked back her tears. Breathing deeply, she closed her eyes to regain her composure. Despite her deep-rooted fear, she knew she would do anything for d'Artagnan. He deserved that from her, no matter what she felt like. That resolve pressed her on.

Echoing her husband's rally for her to be brave, she recalled her ailing mother's words to her when she had voiced the fear she felt of her mother's inevitable death. Matilde Roget had challenged her daughter not only to be brave, but to always to trust God as well, especially when the way grew particularly dark. Suddenly, it all came to mind with such clarity. In her mother's absence, Jacqueline drew courage from her words. Silently, she turned her thoughts toward God and prayed.

Crouched in hiding, d'Artagnan curtly felt a large rain-drop smack his face. "Just when you think things can't get any worse," Looking up he could see the glow of the city lights on the low clouds hovering overhead. As typical, he trivialized the seriousness of their circumstances. Eyeing her, he commented, "Great, I hope you're wearing something that looks good when it gets wet, because we're about to get dumped on."

Jacqueline shot him a disapproving look at his poorly timed wry comment. She was not amused.

Within moments it seemed the entire heavens opened up upon them. In the distance they heard the shouting voices of the Cardinal's men. "Head for the palace. We'll pick up the hunt when the storm lets up." And off the sounds of hoof beats went into the rain-obscured night.

Realizing what had just occurred, Jacqueline stood from behind her hiding place and spoke with glee, "They're gone!" She grabbed her drenched and bedazzled husband and threw her arms around him. "He did it! He did it!" She was beside herself with mirth.

For the likes of him, he could not fathom what made his wife flip from despair to being so happy, and in the midst of a cloudburst at that. "Who did what?" he questioned. He stood there gleaming at her streaked and matted down hair and clothing, but not for long.

Jacqueline quickly grabbed a hold of his hand and dragged him off in a dash as she explained in a panting whisper, still being careful not to be overheard running about the rain-soaked streets of Paris in the middle of the night. "I prayed and asked God for a safe path for us. And he did it. He gave us a path in the storm." The overjoyed woman and befuddled man ran on in the torrential downpour.

Realizing that they were alone and not being pursued, he began to reconsider his original groaning against the rain. "Maybe this rain's a blessing after all," muttered d'Artagnan, as he ran alongside his wife and assessed its benefits. Mazarin's men would not be out until morning—that much he knew about the red-coated men. They had just been bought crucial time. They had until daybreak to find their way through the storm.