Chapter Twenty: Penser

'She could be lying.'

Porthos had considered this, of course he had. He didn't need Athos to reinforce the doubt in his mind. After all, he barely knew Louisa. Hell, he still couldn't quite believe that was her real name, but something to him still felt wrong about the situation; The woman could have asked for her freedom, could have attempted to barter her way out of the Chatelet, but she hadn't. She had asked for the safety of one man.

'I don't think so.' Porthos countered, fixing the former Comte de la Ferre with an enforcing gaze, 'You weren't there. You didn't see how scared she was.'

D'artagnan shook his head. 'Quite the actress, then.' he theorised, looking to Aramis for agreement, but finding only stoicism in his friend.

The musketeer in question was sitting on a stool by the fireplace, the woman's blade holding his focus as it glinted and glimmered in the firelight. He turned it in his fingers, seemingly oblivious of the ensuing conversation happening at his back.

Eventually, he felt the itch of eyes upon him and rose from his seat, stowed the dagger.

'Maybe Porthos is right.' Aramis offered, coming to stand alongside his friend. Porthos rewarded him with grateful nod, 'I don't know many prisoners who would put the life of another over their own freedom.'

The young Gascon's façade darkened and he looked up, incredulously, from the small table at which he sat. After finding no reason in Porthos and Aramis, he turned his eyes to Athos, 'Are you seriously suggesting, that we put our lives at risk in order to protect a Red Guard?'

There was a moment's silence, during which Athos pushed away from the door frame, ignored the prospective musketeer, turned searching eyes to Porthos.

'Did you ask her about the plans?'

'I did.'

Athos raised silently coaxing eyebrows in response. Aramis and D'artagnan watched the larger musketeer with renewed interest.

'She assures me they're safe; hidden. She'll give us the location as soon as she is certain there's no further threat to Renaud.'

'So she is the one who brought them to Paris, after all?' This question came from Aramis, a strangely certain note in his voice, almost as if he knew the answer but merely wanted verification.

Porthos confirmed this with a nod and thought back on the conversation in le Chatelet, 'She says she wanted to sell them, raise enough money to make a new life for her and the child.'

'A noble enough motive, I suppose.' Aramis pondered, inwardly warming to the incarcerated woman. He both pitied her and admired her; wanting both to embrace her and to fight alongside her. He had seen something of the woman's spirit in their brief encounter, her courage and audacity, her kind-heartedness and rationality.

His offering earned him an incredulous glance from D'artagnan, 'Yes, it is. If you conveniently forget about the number of people who will die if the plans fall into the wrong hands.'

Porthos narrowed his eyes at the young Gascon, squared up to him even though the boy was seated.

'She's not a monster, D'artagnan. She could have gone anywhere with those plans, but she didn't. She came here, to Paris, to France. Because she's not the enemy. She's just trying her best to deal with what has happened to her, something she had no control over.'

The larger musketeer finished with a scowl, leaving the words heavy in the air around them. He wanted his comrades to know why things had happened the way they had, why Louisa had taken the risks that she did.

A sensation akin to uncertainty swept over him then and a question crept unbidden to his mind: why was he so willing to trust her? For all he knew, the woman could be lying, trying to deceive him again. Louisa might just be another made up name; he already knew she was fond of fabricating such things. The unborn child could be just a tool to change his mind about her, nothing more than a prop. Maybe she hoped it would prompt him to have her freed, to remove her from her prison and convey her to the warmer and more comfortable climes of the garrison instead. True, she had said that she wasn't going to ask to be freed, but that didn't mean there was no ulterior motive behind her actual request. Perhaps she had hoped for both: release from le Chatelet and someone to protect her old friend whilst she fled the city.

And why tell all of this to him? Why had she chosen him for an ally? Had they shared something in L'auberge de Renard?

He had loved her for her spirit, her outburst and the unbridled anger behind it. He remembered seeing a spark in her eyes as she reprimanded him and, at the time, he thought it an anger more than he had incited. She had fascinated him and perhaps, there was a chance that he had intrigued her as well.

Then again, maybe the loft had been a test, a trial to see how dim-witted he actually was, how easy he was to deceive. Perhaps the 'truths' she had only recently imparted, were told to him because of the trickery in the tavern. She had spoon-fed him lies, knowing that she could fool him with no great difficulty, knowing that wherever she led him, he would most likely follow.

This notion jarred with him, however, tainted his logic with a glint of hope. She had not known she was to meet him again (he most certainly had not counted on it) so why bother testing him?

Porthos' train of thought was broken by movement on D'artagnan's part. He watched the Gascon take a breath, rise from the table and raise his palms in a half gesture of surrender.

'Look, Porthos…'

The man in question raised a testing eyebrow, awaiting D'artagnan's next insensitive remark.

'…I'm not saying that that should have happened to Louisa - That should never have to happen to anyone - but just think! What if the Cardinal gets hold of the plans? What if these rumours find their way to an enemy of France? This is bigger than one woman, Porthos…and I don't think Louisa thought about that before she came here.'

Aramis tensed, ready to intervene should Porthos take offence to D'artagnan's assessment. In the end, his effort was premature and the static hum of tension dissolved at the behest of Athos' calm instruction.

'At any rate, nothing can be done now.' He gave a nod to the window, beyond which darkness lay over the city, 'We will speak to Treville in the morning and see what he suggests.'

Porthos opened his mouth to protest, but was silenced by Athos' pointed stare and the addition of, 'I'm sure Renaud will be fine for one night.'

The older Musketeer half-turned, reached for the handle, opened the door. Aramis and D'artagnan made to move to the now empty frame, the young Gascon sparing Porthos a nod that was both apologetic and urging. Aramis passed the larger musketeer, patting him on the shoulder as he did so, starting down the corridor beyond the door.

Porthos turned to leave, defeated when he was halted by the closing of the door before him. It did not swing completely closed, but it still left a gap that he was sure was not ample enough for him to leave through.

He pivoted in bemusement, found Athos wearing a scheming smile.

'Now, Porthos, you know I cannot authorise protection detail for any member of the Red Guard, retired or otherwise…'

The larger musketeer narrowed his eyes in miscomprehension. He had half a mind to ask Athos what he was going on about, but was prevented from doing so by his comrade's raised hand.

'However…if you just so happened to find yourself outside Renaud's house, of your own accord and out of uniform…technically, there would be nothing that could be said about it.'

A short laugh escaped Porthos' lips then and he looked upon Athos with a renewed sense of respect and admiration.

He dipped his chin and crossed the threshold when the door had been opened enough for him to pass through.

'Besides, I think Gaspard will be worried about Louisa…someone should tell him where she is.'