Chapter XXXV...in which Milady works to manipulate Michel, and Aramis is noticed when he attempts to slip out of the palace...
CHAPTER XXXV
Early on New Year's morning, Aramis made his way down the staircase from the queen's sitting room to the chapel, an exuberant smile on his face. Anne had assured him that it would be easy to slip out undetected. After all, no one was ever in the chapel that early in the morning, especially on New Year's Day. Emerging into the cool air of the sacred space and closing the door behind him softly, he stopped in his tracks when he a small boy kneeling in front of the statue of the Virgin Mary where he himself had prayed several days ago.
Backing up to retrace his steps, he inadvertently knocked over a stack of hymnals that had been piled on top of a small table, and winced as they fell to the ground with a loud thud.
Gabriel looked up, and his thin face, which seemed paler than usual, lit up to see his new friend.
"Monsieur Aramis!" he exclaimed. "I did not realize you spent the night!"
Momentarily lost for words, Aramis recovered quickly. "Actually, my friend, I slept at the garrison. I just came back early to -to do a final inspection of the palace grounds to ensure all is secure after the unfortunate events of New Year's Eve."
He suddenly noticed that the boy was staring at him. "Weren't you wearing the same clothes last night?" Gabriel asked slowly, a puzzled expression on his face.
Aramis laughed, doing his best to appear careless. "My boy, I'm a musketeer! All of my clothes look alike." He leaned over and whispered conspiratorially, "It's called a uniform. More importantly, what are you doing alone in a chapel on New Year's Day?"
The page looked down, becoming quiet. "I was—thinking—and praying."
"You looked very intent," responded Aramis in a companionable tone. "I am sure God was listening."
"I was remembering my father," Gabriel murmured. "He died two months ago today. I was also thinking of Father Marcel, the palace chaplain. You must have heard that he was killed last night, at the ball. Everyone is talking about it."
"Did you know him?" asked Aramis gently, sitting down on the kneeler next to Gabriel.
"Yes," said the boy, his lower lip beginning to tremble. "He was kind to me when I came here. Everything was new, and I was—very lonely. He took me on a tour of the palace, and made sure I had tea with the Queen. I got to hold the Dauphin that day." He looked up at Aramis and smiled wistfully. "He was so little then- just a brand new baby."
Something about the boy touched Aramis' heart. He had an instinctive feeling that Gabriel was still a bit lost in the ceremony and etiquette of the palace. He probably desperately wishes he was at home with his family to celebrate the New Year. Here, he really has no one to look out for him. The musketeer felt a pang of remorse. Admittedly, he had seized the chance to mentor the page in order to have a ready excuse to see his son from time to time. However, as he looked at Gabriel, he decided that the boy likely needed the structure of the relationship just as badly as he did, but for a more noble reason.
"How would you like start the New Year off by visiting the garrison?" Aramis inquired slowly. "I have to warn you," his face assumed an expression of mock gravity, "there may not be much there to entertain a boy. There is always a lot of action—combat training, sword lessons, marksmanship practice…that sort of thing. You probably would find it boring."
"Can we go now?" blurted out Gabriel, his face shining. "I've never held a sword or fired a musket. Please?"
Aramis chuckled, and clapped a hand on the boy's shoulder. "Well, there won't be much going on today, as it's a holiday, but how about tomorrow morning? You might even get a decent breakfast out of it if our cook, Serge, is in a good mood."
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As evening fell and snow flurries began to fall, the traffic on the streets became thinner. Milady drew her cloak around her, threading her way towards the destination for her meeting with Michel. Rounding the last corner, she sighed in relief as she saw the inn loom into view.
The Inn of the Three Arrows was a rather uninspiring timber frame building, with really nothing to make it stand out from the hundreds of other taverns and inns in Paris. Even the sign proclaiming its name was old and faded, and it was often difficult to tell how many arrows were actually protruding from the quiver that had been fancifully painted on it some years ago. However, once one stepped inside the establishment, the layout was quite singular.
The main taproom was the oldest part of the inn, and dated back two hundred years. Other various rooms had been haphazardly added on over the decades, and the interior resembled a large rabbit warren, with some of the floors tilting at angles that varied markedly from the horizontal, even for those customers who were completely sober.
Milady had found this inn to be an excellent place for conducting her affairs, as she could request to be seated in one of the back rooms that were far from the alert eyes of musketeers or anyone else who might deign to be interested in whatever plot she currently had underway. She had ensured tonight that she and Michel were to dine in the smallest and most remote of these rooms. The space was little larger than a commodious closet, but offered the privacy and quiet that most of the other rooms did not possess.
She was already waiting when Michel arrived, his vacantly handsome face breaking into an appreciative grin when he saw the low-cut crimson gown that she was wearing. "You look ravishing," he said flirtatiously, giving her a lingering kiss.
"Business first," she answered with a smile, groaning inside as she tried to think of how she could ply Michel with enough alcohol to discourage him from any clumsy attempt to bed her later that evening. "So, how was your day? Did your employer have a heart-warming reunion with his daughter?"
Michel barked out a laugh, and fished a roll out of the basket on the table, taking a hearty bite out of it. "Hardly," he mumbled, his mouth full.
"Care to elaborate?" she inquired.
"Actually," he leaned forward conspiratorially, "It was quite the domestic drama. He arrived home to find Charlotte was nowhere to be found."
"Really?" Milady asked, her voice betraying her interest. "You mean she had spent the night somewhere else?"
"Yes!" he crowed. "The garrison—with her lover the Musketeer. But the best part was when we walked in on them when they were-occupied, shall we say?"
"Meaning what?" she asked sharply.
"Well, she was dressed in one of his shirts and was on top of him, kissing him in a rather lustful fashion." He grinned. "Her father was furious."
The hot flame of jealousy flared within Milady. She often found it curious that even though she would be willing to kill Athos in a heartbeat, the thought of him loving someone other than herself drove her wild with fury. She spoke, trying to keep her voice even. "Is that so? Then what happened?"
"Charlotte went down to the kitchen and her father, I, Athos, and Captain Treville met in his office. I must say that Athos is quite the sanctimonious bore. He gave this priggish speech about honour and virtue, and how he had become a musketeer after the grief of losing two people he loved….I was honestly more bored than I was last Sunday in church. Then he asked for permission to court Charlotte."
Milady's green eyes were thoughtful. "And let me guess—her father said no."
"You—" Michel waved another roll at her, "—are very clever! Yes, he said no. Then Athos attempted to attack me, but I easily threw him off and warned him not to provoke me again."
"All's well that ends well," responded Milady absently, her brain working furiously.
Suddenly, she looked at Michel and smiled. "Enough about them. Michel, what do you want out of life? What are your goals?"
Wondering if Milady was sizing him up as a marriage prospect, the apprentice puffed out his chest and sat a little taller. "Well, to run my own apothecary—and be fabulously wealthy...with a beautiful woman by my side, of course."
Ignoring his comment, Milady mused, "There are so many apothecaries at the moment in Paris, and quite a few have brought new knowledge and techniques from other countries. It seems like the most successful ones branch out beyond the standard cough remedies and rheumatism cures."
Michel nodded sagely. "Yes, when one adds skin creams to the list of items sold, it can be quite profitable."
Milady looked at him intently, her green eyes sparkling. "I was thinking of something more—inventive. Aphrodisiacs? Or perhaps what are lately called inheritance powders...it's become quite fashionable in certain circles to dabble in them, from what I understand. And peddling them can be very lucrative."
Looking over his shoulder, Michel whispered urgently, "Inheritance powders? You mean—poison?"
"That is a quick way to get one's hands on an inheritance that threatens to remain years away due to the robust health of a relative. And if the relative is somewhat infirm, well, the results can be almost instantaneous."
"But..." Michel glanced around uneasily, making sure no one was within earshot. "That's murder!"
"You just sell the powder," said Milady soothingly. "For all you know, it's for a rat, or a wolf that is troubling a farmer. And if it happens to be used on a person, it could even be an act of mercy, if they are suffering from a terminal illness. Monsieur Gaillard, for instance—" her slim fingers wrapped around the stem of her goblet, clenching the metal tightly. "You have said he is not well. How did he do with the whole drama at the garrison?"
"Well, when we were walking back, he had to stop twice because of chest pain—and when we got home, he could not even try to climb the stairs for a good hour or so, because he was having trouble breathing."
"You see!" Milady murmured encouragingly. "What if your employer were to come to you and tell you that the burden of life with his illness had become too much, and begged you to help him die. What would you do?"
"Erm—I don't know," said Michel in a hesitant voice.
"Yes, you do! Of course you would help him, for you are that kind of man. Loyal, resourceful—" she paused, then narrowed her eyes further. "And what if you saw him struggling with the simple daily tasks of life, gasping for air with every breath—would you not be doing him a favour to perhaps slip a bit of poison laced with sedative into his wine and bid him drink a medicinal glass? It would be a mercy to aid such a suffering man to die in a dignified, peaceful way."
"I'd like to lace Athos' wine with a poison," muttered Michel, glaring at the bottle of wine in front of him as if it was the musketeer.
"You'd like to make him suffer, wouldn't you?" inquired Milady sympathetically. "I don't blame you. This man sounds like a menace to society. However—" she paused theatrically. "Poisoning him might be too kind. If he were to be accused of poisoning someone, though-perhaps someone he has been very angry with recently-"
"Oh no!" Michel shook his head adamantly. "I am not letting anyone attempt to poison me, even if it were assured I would survive."
Not you, you idiot! thought Milady, annoyed beyond belief. Do I have to spoon feed you everything?
"I was thinking of old man Gaillard," she said softly, her voice cool and deliberate. "You could do the man a kindness by allowing him to die peacefully, on his own terms…while framing Athos, and—if you wish, Charlotte—to take the fall."
Michel put down the glass of wine he had just emptied. "You—" he muttered, a smirk spreading across his face, "—are not only clever, you're a genius!"
Next time…Charlotte and Athos mourn each other's absence…
I am feeling not so great right now...have come down with a nasty cold after working too many hours at my real job this weekend. Please send virtual chicken soup (302pilot, you're the best!) my way...