Chapter Eighteen: Affrontement
She learned quickly enough that the new man's name was Etienne Levesque and, judging by the way in which her captors regarded him, he was known to them all. She supposed musketeer and spent a few moments wondering at his unkempt appearance and habitation of this particular house. Comprehension broke over her and she hardened her heart against him. He had been watching Gaspard, spying on him, following his visitors, keeping check on the former Red Guard. She remembered the night she had arrived in Paris, the footsteps behind her as she left, almost indistinguishable against the din of the raging storm. She had thought her follower a ruffian or thief, easily eluding him and putting the pursuer swiftly out of mind. It was only now that she realised who had been shadowing her.
At this revelation, she decided against further co-operation and set her mouth firmly closed as this new man began to interrogate her. The fervour of his questions alarmed her and, though she did her utmost to remain stoic and unmoving, she failed to fight back the subtle widening of her eyes as Levesque mentioned the plans.
'There!' Levesque breathed excitedly at this minute expression of knowledge, 'She knows something about them, I tell you.'
'Only rumours.' She offered, perhaps a little too quickly.
'Strange though,' Levesque continued, attentive eyes trained on her, 'that the rumours should start the morning after you arrive in Paris…the morning after you visit Renaud.'
A laugh escaped her lips and she fixed her new inquisitor with a contemptuous and reprimanding smile, 'I thought you a musketeer, sir, but now I see I was misled; the King's personal guard would never recruit such a dim-witted individual as yourself.'
Levesque took a step towards her, she responded by rising from the chair suddenly, fixing his angered and searching gaze with a self-assured one of her own. The men residing in her peripherals and either side of Levesque instinctively reached for their swords expectantly, but none made the move to draw them.
The tension hung like a smog around them and she believed, for a second, that it might suffocate her. It dissolved at the straightening of Athos behind Levesque and, at his instruction, the musketeers (including her most fervent opponent) filed into the hall beyond the door way.
There was no chance of escape, the musketeers had effectively blocked the only exit. She surveyed her surroundings, looked about for any weapons she might use against her incarcerators. However, as she started towards a large kitchen knife the clink of the shackles reiterated the futility of the endeavour. Her wrists were bound, hindering her dexterity for attack. She could perhaps catch one of them off guard, but would gain no further advantage, before they overpowered and apprehended her. She was outnumbered and lacking in suitable munitions. What's more, they knew this, otherwise they would not have left her alone in the room.
For want of other options, she lowered herself defeated into the chair, trying to listen for hints of her fate in the murmurous exchange in the hall.
She had averted her gaze from the door only a moment, but this was enough, it seemed for someone to approach her unseen. She lifted her eyes suddenly at the bidding of a small noise, something of a whimper or a minute plea for attention. She took in the form of the boy and he employed the same excitable grin as she had seen before. The expression was heart-warming and contagious and, within no time at all, she felt herself matching it.
'Hello.' She greeted warmly, careful to keep her voice low so as not to be heard by the men.
'Bonjour.' Responded the boy, following her lead.
'What's your name?'
'Jacques. What's yours?'
'Elle.' She paused a moment, taking the time to shift focus to the gathered musketeers. Whatever it was they were discussing, they seemed utterly enthralled with it. It seemed to her that there was no imminent danger in speaking with the child.
'Is Etienne your father, Jacques?' She pried, watching the boy give a shake of his head.
'Non, mon père est mort. Etienne is my uncle.'
Her heart went out to the boy. He could have been no older than eight years old and already he had been acquainted with death. She knew that this was not uncommon amongst the peasant masses of Paris, dying young of disease or exhaustion. She had seen such things first hand and she could only hope that whatever had taken Jacques father had been quicker and kinder than that which had stolen her own from her.
'I'm sorry to hear about your father, Jacques…My father died when I was young, as well. You are lucky to have your uncle to look after you.'
Jacques nodded excitedly at this, 'He's a musketeer and someday I will be one too!'
'And I'm sure you will make a brilliant musketeer.' She found herself forgetting her situation, warming to Jacques passionate admiration of Levesque. It was clear that the boy looked up to the man, adored him even.
'I've already started training!' The boy breathed suddenly, holding her focus. She offered her reply in a tone of mock suspicion.
'Oh really?'
'Oui! I am currently undercover. I am pretending to be my uncle's son whilst he spies on a bad man who lives across la rue.'
She found her heart sinking at the statement. Not because Jacques had just insulted Gaspard's character, but rather that Levesque had dragged the child into his devised charade. The vocation of a musketeer was dangerous and fraught with peril. It was no work for a young boy.
She took a breath to steel her composure, felt her smile begin to slip and fought hard to hold it in place.
'Well, you're doing a very good job.' She praised, the statement now tainted with fear and sadness for the boy. She succumbed to her melancholy then and, once again, quietude surrounded her.
This was broken abruptly as Jacques reached out for the irons in her lap. Fretful blue eyes found the doorway in a heartbeat, but the men beyond were still deep in discussion. She turned her attention back to the boy, watching warily as he lifted the chain that bound her hands.
'Are you a bad person?' the boy queried innocently, as only a child can.
She blinked slowly, deliberating on the response. In the end, all she could offer was a shake of her head and a slow, self-preserving answer.
'I don't think so.'
'Are you a murderer?'
'No…' There was an unbidden tone of uncertainty there and she wondered if the child might pick up on it. He appeared not to have realised and instead posed another question.
'Then why are you wearing these?'
She bit her lip, tilted her head to the side, 'Because your uncle and his friends think I have done something wrong. I have to talk to them, answer their questions and, hopefully, in the end, they'll realise that I am innocent.'
'Oh.' Jacques pondered, finally releasing the chains, 'I could talk to my uncle for you.'
Such a selfless offer, from a child no less, almost summoned tears to her eyes.
'Maybe, if I tell him you're innocent, he'll let you go. He'll listen to me! Just you wait and see!'
A fervour descended on the child and he pivoted, took a step towards the musketeers. Without thinking, she reached out, caught his trailing hand, held it gently. The shackles protested the action with a clamour.
'Jacques, wait! You mustn't talk with your uncle on my behalf. We'll both get in trouble if he finds out we've been speaking…but thank you for your most noble offer.'
The boy's face fell and he gave a defeated nod. Her heart ached with the sight of the saddened child and she searched for something comforting to say. In the end she released his hand, lifted his chin gently so that he could see the sincerity in her eyes.
'You know, I hope that someday I have a son who is as honourable, as compassionate and as valiant as you…You will grow up to be a fine gentleman, one day, Jacques, and I am all the better for having met you.'
The words settled comfortably in the space between them. She thought the boy might leave her then, fearful of the prophesised reprimand at the hands of Levesque, but instead, he leapt towards her, draped his arms about her neck.
The child's embrace had been unexpected, so much so that she could not help but to gasp at it. She slid her hands sideways so as not to poke at Jacques' little body with the shackles around her wrists and eventually, the warmth of the child melted away the surprise.
Abruptly, her form was jolted by a fretful shriek from the floor above and the little boy released her with a start.
'Jacques!'
All at once, the eyes of the musketeers were on her, foremost those of Levesque. He stormed towards her, looking all the more frightening in his dishevelled rage. She rose again, ready to defend the child's actions as Jacques was wrenched away from her. Hurried footsteps descended the stairs and the woman appeared in the doorway, the musketeers parting to let her through. Levesque fixed her with rabid, unmoving eyes as he pushed the child swiftly, yet with great care, into the awaiting arms of his mother. She began to fawn over him, checking for bruising or bleeding. All the while, Jacques protested the hostility towards the shackled woman. Neither his mother nor his uncle paid his avowals any heed.
'How dare you lay a hand on him!' Levesque snarled, raising his own hand and striking her across her left cheek.
A sharp, searing pain exploded at her cheekbone and spread steadily across her face. However, she did not cry out at it and, even though the strike had briefly averted her gape, she returned it soon enough, ire and resoluteness swirling in royal blue orbs.
She heard one of the musketeers object to the sudden violent act by calling out for the man, but she couldn't be sure who it was. At any rate, Etienne seemed to pay the warning no notice.
'Your nephew has more to fear from you than I.' she provoked, making a conscious effort to ignore the throbbing in her face, 'What kind of a man would wantonly place his family in danger, all for the sake of glory and recognition?'
Her eyes widened at the bidding of a second raised hand from Levesque. This one did not find its mark, however, and was halted no sooner had it been raised.
Her heart swelled to see the strike restrained by none other than Porthos.
'That's enough.' He warned, his comrades striding forth to stand at his back.
Levesque jerked his arm from Porthos' grasp and swiftly turned his back on his would-be adversary. He addressed Athos instead.
'I think it best that you all leave now.' He instructed, his breathing ragged through wavering self-restraint.
Athos gave a nod.
She took note of the silent command and approached the men who had led her to the house in the first place. She felt a sudden guilt as she passed Jacques and, although Madame Martin had placed the child as far from her line of sight as she possibly could, she still heard the unmistakable sobbing of poor little Jacques. It was not likely that Jacques would be punished for speaking with her, at the very least he might receive a reprimand for having slipped out from beneath his mother's supposedly watchful eye, but her stomach still gurgled with guilt. In truth, she would have it no other way; it was best if all concerned placed the blame at her own feet, but it sat uneasy with her that Levesque had besmirched Gaspard's character and yet had struck her simply out of anger and miscomprehension. That was one thing she could say about Gaspard; even if he was a morally inept former Red Guard soldier, a crook and a money-hungry cheat, he had never (and she was certain would never) lay a hand on her.
Levesque followed them to the door and she was led over the threshold by Porthos' gloved palm on her shoulder.
No sooner had their boots met with the slurry of mud that denoted the street outside, did the door slam shut behind them. She did not miss the disappointment in the eyes of Aramis and again, there was a pinprick of guilt within her.
They removed themselves from the direct vicinity of the house and were silent as they made their way down the street to the left. She cleared her throat, tentatively posed a question, unsure as to whether this would be answered, given the recent transpirations.
'Where are we going now?'
The musketeers exchanged glances, doubtful but concurrent glances.
In the end, it was Aramis who spoke, a note of regret in the words.
'Le Chatelet.'
Gaspard hadn't exactly expected a warm embrace or a handshake born of camaraderie, but he had expected something more than the curt nod and momentary glance he received upon admittance to the Cardinal's study.
'I trust you have good reason to have come here at such an hour.' Richelieu offered, his eyes unmoving from the parchments lain like a tablecloth on the bureau before him. He took up a quill, dipped it in ink and made a cursive mark on one of them.
Only after returning the quill to a pot situated to his right beside a tapered candle of burgundy wax, did the Cardinal look up, an eyebrow raised expectantly.
'I believe I do.' Gaspard replied, confidence and complacency in equal measures in his tone. He outstretched a gloved finger and tousled the pot of feathers, much to the Cardinal's chagrin.
Richelieu eyed the man before him suspiciously, taking care to note the differences in him since last they met. He looked older and sicklier in both complexion and carriage, though there was a roundness to his physique that hadn't been there before.
It would not have surprised Richelieu to learn that Gaspard Renaud had accustomed himself to retirement and barely left his home nowadays. He would also not have been surprised to find Renaud having secured a little nest egg for himself; notorious for his penchant of the finer things and his allegiance being, more often than not, procured by the fattest purse though it was.
'What is it then?' Pressed the Cardinal after what seemed like an age of silence.
'I have a proposition for you, your eminence.' Gaspard allowed himself a knowing smile, 'You have, no doubt, heard the rumours circulating at present?'
Richelieu rolled his eyes and heaved a sigh in frustration, 'The plans for new and never before seen weaponry that may or may not even exist? What of them?'
'They do exist, your eminence…and I know how to get a hold of them.'
Renaud's smile widened as the Cardinal's eyes turned focused and searching suddenly. He studied Gaspard with renewed interest, but his countenance remained cold and steadfast.
'And yet, here you are, empty handed.' Richelieu stated finally, folding his arms and narrowing his eyes.
'Ah, yes…'
The right side of Richelieu's mouth twitched a little as if he wanted to smile, but his face forbade it.
'Ah, yes indeed.' he chided, inhaling deeply, 'Renaud, I am afraid you waste my time. A former member of the Red Guard you may be, but I cannot entertain you every time you indulge in one of your flights of fancy.'
The Cardinal rounded the desk, placed a hand between Gaspard's shoulder blades and began to lead him towards the chamber door.
'Your eminence, I may not have the plans, but I know the one who does.'
'And where is this 'one'?'
'Safe, but for how long, I couldn't say; the Musketeers may very well be watching my every move.'
To Gaspard's surprise, the Cardinal gave a short laugh at this.
'Why ever would they do that, Renaud?'
'I don't know, your eminence; perhaps they do not trust me.'
'Perish the thought!'
'Indeed!'
The pair shared expressions tainted by mistrust, blemished with uncertainty. The Cardinal continued to lead Renaud to the door and opened it an inch or so. His actions halted then and his brow furrowed as if a thought had just crossed his mind.
'I remember similar conversations with yourself, Renaud that, in hindsight, should have been followed by verification. With that in mind, I think I'd like to meet your man. Bring him to me, at his very earliest convenience, won't you?'
Gaspard gave a nod, but faltered momentarily.
'Yes and no, your eminence.' he stammered, watching the Cardinal's expression darken.
'What do you mean?'
'I mean, I can arrange a meeting, but there is no man.'
Richelieu's brow rose in miscomprehension. He took a moment and a breath and pinched the bridge of his nose.
'I'll ask once more, Renaud; what do you mean?'
'I mean…the one with the plans…is a woman.'
