Chapter Twenty-Six: Froid.
Jacques weaved deftly through the legs of merchants and patrons, crossing the market square with little difficulty. It was only mid-afternoon, but some of the vendors were packing away their wanting stalls at the behest of the gathering storm clouds above. Jacques felt himself start as a globule of rainwater landed cold and hard on the tip of his nose. It was accompanied by a feeling of sadness; he still didn't understand exactly what had happened to make his uncle return home in a hot temper. He had managed to pick up Elle's name, spat in indignation, but he was hastily ushered upstairs by his mother as she shrieked at the sight of blood on the hidden Musketeer's torso.
Jacques had obeyed the instruction, but spent the next half hour or so with his ear pressed to the floorboards, straining to hear the conversation below. It had ended abruptly with a spiteful remark from Etienne, the sound of smashing glass, some incomprehensible shouting and, finally, the slamming of the front door. He had crept downstairs then, only to find his mother sweeping up the remnants of a bottle, her demeanour quietened by the altercation. Little Jacques spent the next few hours trying to cheer her up and, though she acted as though nothing had happened, she occasionally forgot herself and he glimpsed her eyelids quiver with the weight of moisture or the corners of her mouth turn downwards.
Jacques had tried to ask about Etienne and whether anything had happened to Elle, but Genevieve had been in no mood to entertain such questions and, instead, she sent him out into the streets of Paris, insisting that he locate his uncle and bring him back in time for supper.
The route was a familiar one, the inn a favourite haunt for a troubled Etienne and Jacques knew the steps all too well; turn left out of the front door, follow the street to the end. Another left and then keep right, following la rue's natural curve and dodging patrons of the few stalls that took advantage of the regular footfall near the bakers and the butchers. After that, it was a case of traversing the alley a little way until the opening leading to the market square. Across the square lay the tavern, the rotund entrance set between two lanes which were often blocked by carousing customers. Today though - possibly owing to the earliness of the hour - the lanes were clear, but the bustle of activity within could still be clearly heard.
Setting his sights on the tavern, Jacques made for the establishment, powering his little legs forward and weaving through the bustling crowd. He was right in the centre of the square by the time he heard commotion erupt around him. Instinctively, his muscles stopped, his lungs held the breath he had been taking, his eyes flew to the cacophony of shouting voices and the whinnies of a startled horse. The black creature, muscular and youthfully energetic, hurtled across the square towards him.
Those members of the crowd with enough forethought to predict the following events, leapt out of the way. Though, in their selfish haste, not one gave a thought to the transfixed youngster now standing in the horse's path and very possibly too small to be seen by the rider.
Louisa heard the door opening as she passed it and she fought hard the urge to turn back. She had caught a glimpse of a face in her peripherals and her mind's eye had immediately summoned the image of Aramis, though she could not be certain. For a moment, images of her dagger crept into her consciousness and, for a second, she thought to turn.
Setting her brow, she continued forth, her gait determined, something she hoped would convince the musketeers of the conviction behind her stinging words. She had no time to turn back, it was probably even too late. And even if there was time, if she could guarantee that the Memento Mori was much less the death warrant it seemed, a dagger was not going to help her one bit against the foe she had now to face.
By the time she had reached the courtyard, her stomach had twisted itself into a sickening knot and her skull was buzzing with suppositions; she could go back and ask for Porthos' help or she could go alone. She could ignore the necklace and the meaning behind it or she could face her fears and hope she was in time to save yet another person whose life was only in danger because of her.
This last thought alone fortified Louisa's resolve. Too many people had already died for her selfish cowardice. This was her fight and hers alone.
And she had to finish it. One way or another.
There were voices to her left in the otherwise quiet courtyard and she turned her attention to them, being careful to flatten herself against a wall so as not to be seen. Her gaze fell upon the stables and a detail of two Musketeers simultaneously discussing their recent watch of the night and barking orders at the stable boy. They handed the reigns of their steeds to the lad and took their leave, heading across the square in search of sustenance.
Louisa narrowed her eyes, skirted the wall and appeared, much to the stable boy's surprise, behind the horse to his right. She outstretched a hand, gently smoothing the horse's silky black coat, offered the stable boy a smile. He reciprocated, adding a note of confusion to the expression. This was further amplified when the strange woman slipped the reigns deftly from his fingers, placed a foot in the stirrup, mounted the horse and spurred the creature out of the stables in a blur that left the poor lad reeling. He stood, open-mouthed and staring after the horse as it raced across the courtyard and through the garrison gate. He gathered his wherewithal only a few seconds later, but by the time he had shouted an alarm to anyone who might be around, the horse and its new rider had vanished from sight.
Louisa may as well have been blindfolded, her thoughts roiling like a fog behind her eyes. She could see only the harbour, the ship a foreboding silhouette against the blood blackened sunset. She knew where he would be and he knew that she would come. He had chosen his bait well, knew that she couldn't possibly resist it. The memento mori could only have belonged to one person and he, Capitaine Jean Perrault, knew only too well that she couldn't afford to let that one person die.
He had already taken so much from her; her dignity, her oldest friend, her hope, but this would be the final straw. It may have been some vague semblance of altruism that had seen Perrault keep him until last; the good doctor. After all, he was a man of great skill, a man who had patched him and his crew up time and time again. He had even put Louisa back together on many an occassion, making sure she was ready for the next time the Captain called on her.
Alternatively, Perrault might have figured it too much hassle to recruit another surgeon for the ship, only threatening him as a last resort, a last ditch attempt to get Elle back without having to follow her across all of France. He could be replaced, but Perrault would rather not expend the energy.
Scenes of the good doctor's fate writhed before her, clouding her vision in a haze of gushing blood and cracking bones. Would Perrault beat him like Purcell? Shoot him like Gaspard? Louisa hoped so, but was sure the surgeon's fate would be something much worse…
Something in her gut told her that the Captain would reserve his blackest cruelty for the doctor and not just for the fact he was an Englishman, but more for the times that he had warned him away, had given Louisa a few nights of rest, imploring Perrault that she would not survive without respite. Arguments helped by their location; months away from any land, the doctor picked his timings well.
She could picture him chiding her now, attempting to persuade her in his unusually accented French, imploring her to forget about him and save herself. She could hear the words, choice phrases.
'Think of the child.'
'Forget about me. I will be content so long as you live.'
'For your sake…please…'
She knew he would use them; he had done so before. The night he had helped her escape, led her to the long boat already bulging with supplies. He had laid his hands on her stomach and she had pleaded with him to accompany her. He had refused, saying that he would be needed here. Without him, her absence would be discovered too soon. She had climbed carefully into the tiny craft, looked back and told him that she would never forget him, that she would be forever grateful for his help.
'Merci…merci et adieu, my doctor. My good doctor Grosvenor.'
They had shared the saddest smile, a jot of humour at her pronunciation, the name sounding strange in her Parisian lilt, as it always had.
And then she had gone, had made her escape, fled to a future she hoped she could love and ignored the foolhardiness and the naiveté that said she could get away so easily, that said he would just let her go without quarrel. Ignoring the thoughts that burrowed deep, the ones that said her good Grosvenor, her kind and just Samuel would be left unscathed.
His screams. She could hear them now, a multitude in different pitches as Perrault dug and gouged and tore and scraped. At first they sounded as a man's scream would, with anger and defiance and then, when no other option presented itself and the attack was certain, a gravelly grunting, the sound short-lived, but ready to re-emerge through gritted teeth. Her ears then pricked at the irrational shrieking of women, cries of despair and sheer terror. Sounds that made her brow furrow. And then there was the strangest sound of all, the whimper and gasp of a child. She did not know how she heard it, but it jarred within her, dispelling her gory visions in an instant, bringing her back to the cobble streets and crooked houses, the air foul with city life, but all-at-once free from the coppery tinge of blood.
She wrenched on the horse's reigns, turned it sharply to the right, felt it overbalance and cry out in surprise as it hit the cobbles first with its flank and then with its shoulder. Louisa lost her grip on the reigns, was thrown a few feet away, managed to tuck her body in to a roll and come to halt on her left side.
She lay there a few moments, unmoving, listening to the chaos around her. There were reprimands spat in indignation, wondering how she could be so stupid. There were also expression of concern as she lay still, anonymous eyes running up and down her body, surveying her (much the same as she inwardly was) for any bleeding or breaks.
It seemed a long time before anyone touched her and as she became aware of a small hand on her shoulder, she in turn took in the whinnying of the horse and the clack of the shoes as it righted itself. She breathed a sigh of relief, rolled slightly and flattened her palms to the ground, fighting the urge to press a hand to her stomach. There was no aching, no bleeding that she could feel. Her side was sore from the impact, but for the moment she was certain there was nothing amiss.
Louisa instead, tilted her head sideways towards the hand. Miscomprehension threatened when she followed the arm to a familiar face; a face youthful, innocent and yet heartbreakingly full of worry.
'Elle?' came the boy's voice, tentative yet fretful, 'Elle? Are you okay?'
It took a moment for her to understand, her mind recalling the sound that had awoken her, shaken her from her terrible daydream. The startled cry of a child.
Louisa didn't feel herself push away from the ground, nor settle on her haunches, but she did feel the warmth of Jacques' little body pressing into hers, his thin arms around her neck. He was not crying, nor shaking, nor sniffling. He was simply concerned for her safety, brave beyond his years and not even dwelling on the fact that she might have ridden over him, that his tiny frame might have been trampled beneath her horse, only moments ago.
As these thoughts danced their nightmarish jig before her mind's eye, Louisa's arms encircled little Jacques and she could feel the beginnings of a sob crackle within her, her resolve waning, her body too tired to fight it.
The air around the pair suddenly seemed lighter as the crowd began to disperse. A few people grumbled disparaging remarks and others seemed loathe to leave the boy in the company of the woman who almost killed him not two minutes ago, but within moments, only a few onlookers remained.
Louisa took a breath, pushing Jacques gently away from her.
'Jacques, I am so sorry. Are you alright? My brave little musketeer, are you alright?'
Jacques treated her to a smile and a most fervent nod and, although the smile seemed tainted with a note of sadness, Louisa looked the boy up and down and satisfied herself that Jacques seemed none the worse for wear. The little boy's smile faded though as her gaze fell upon the horse, who although a little on edge seemed also to be unharmed.
'Where were you going?' He asked, 'Are you leaving Paris? Did the musketeers listen to you?'
Louisa stifled a laugh and furrowed her brow, wondering which question to answer first. In the end she gave a determined nod.
'I am leaving Paris. I have to. I was selfish, Jacques; I have placed so many people in danger…' Her voice trailed off and she looked away momentarily, unintentionally resting her gaze on the horse.
'Including you…' She added inwardly.
'You don't have to leave Paris. I was running to find my Uncle, you can come with me and maybe we can make him listen. If the other musketeers didn't believe you then maybe we can make him see. Come on!' Jacques stood, pulling at Louisa's left wrist excitedly, however, she could not ignore the slight vibrating of the little boy's voice, the slightest tremour that denoted sadness and betrayal.
Louisa remained still, gently resisting Jacques' attempt at getting her to follow. She gave a coaxing smile and slowly turned him to face her.
'Jacques. I have to go. The musketeers did listen to me, but I still can't stay in Paris. Trust me…I would if I could…'
Her thoughts wandered with this statement, this unbidden admission and she found herself questioning why she had said it. Why did she say it? Was it true? Would she stay if she could? Part of her doubted the truth of it; it was just a ploy, a tactic so as not to make a small boy cry. Of course it was. After all, she had nothing to keep her in the city any more. What with Gaspard dead and the fact she couldn't guarantee her safety or that of anyone else she met, it would be reckless to stay.
Jacques stared up at her, head tilted to the side, half-accepting this conclusion, but still wanting something more.
'Will you come back?'
'Yes, of course.' came Louisa's all too hasty reply.
The little boy furrowed his brow, crossed his arms defiantly, 'I don't believe you.'
A chill ran down Louisa's spine, but she could not say why. Perhaps it was the fact her ploy hadn't worked, that Jacques hadn't bought her promise. Or maybe it was the storm clouds quickening above them that had brought with them a sudden drop in temperature. Or perhaps it was the subconscious sense that she should be taking her leave, that there was no chance that the commotion she had caused would go unnoticed and that any moment now a troop of Red Guard or Musketeers would come to arrest her and return her to her Chatelet cell.
Looking into Jacques' now watery eyes, Louisa wracked her brain for something to say, something that would allow her to leave quickly to finish what she had started only a few nights ago, but most importantly, something that would not break this little boy's heart.
She thought on him a moment, the smallest musketeer, the boy who had known such sorrow and danger already in his short life. The boy who would grow up to be a great soldier and who would see things that she would never wish anyone to see. His fate seemed sealed in her eyes, his mind so full of stories and promises that he would never see. She knew the feeling. Hope. That which told you everything was going to be alright, that adventure awaited you at every turn and with it, the idea that you were invincible, that the world was a good and honest and just place and that, just as long as you believe such a thing, nothing would ever hurt you or the ones you loved.
Louisa swallowed back a lump in her throat, forced a smile and subconsciously closed a hand around the momento mori.
She allowed her smile to widen and slipped the trinket from around her neck. She placed it almost ceremoniously over Jacques' head and, no sooner had she rested it on his shoulders, did he take it in his tiny hand and study it with such intense awe as Louisa had never seen.
'Jacques,' she began, waiting for his gaze to turn to her before continuing, 'This is very, very dear to me. It was given to me by a man who saved my life on many an occasion, a very dear friend of mine. I want you to have it and look after it and keep it safe. Understand?'
Jacques gave a nod, 'What is it?'
'It's a promise. Understand? If I can…if I live through what I am about to do…I will come back to Paris. I will come back to Paris and come and find you to get that back, alright?'
There was a beat of hesitation as the words settled on little Jacques' brow. He understood the words, but didn't want to believe them. He couldn't think of any situation where Elle might not survive. But she believed it, that there was something she had to do, someplace she had to go where she might not make it back and, even though this scared him, Jacques was grateful that she had made that promise. That she had promised 'if'. Solemnly and honestly.
He finally uttered that he understood and that he would wait for her to come back. Louisa gave a nod, stood and approached the horse cautiously. The animal seemed to bear her little ill-will and let her mount with only the slightest hesitation. She afforded Jacques her most sincere smile and turned the horse round gently to leave the square. As she moved the creature out in a slow and cautious manner, ignoring the pointed stares from any lingering witnesses, her heart skipped a beat, taking in the familiar dishevelled form of the hidden musketeer.
With a breath, she halted the horse and fixed Levesque with not a scowl or a teasing smile, but merely a quiet querying and determined expression. She expected a tirade, a pair of hands wrenching her from her mount, a pellet in her belly, but nothing came.
She was about to spur the horse on when the musketeer cried for her to wait.
'Are you headed for Le Havre?' he asked simply.
Louisa eyed him suspiciously, her gaze momentarily shifting to Jacques before giving a nod in acquiesce.
'They know you're coming…they're waiting for you.'
Levesque's eyes locked with Louisa's and, to her surprise, they held nothing but a mere speck of the animosity they had once. She narrowed her eyes and opened her mouth to ask him how he would know such a thing, but the hidden musketeer seemed to have predicted her query, gave a shake of his head.
'Nevermind.' He took a breath, reached out for Jacques' hand and half turned to walk away, 'Bonne Chance, Louisa…and…I'm sorry.'
The apology took her aback and for moments she could do nothing but stare after Levesque as he led his nephew away towards their home. She didn't even take note of Jacques turning back and waving to her, calling out for her to remember her promise.
Eventually, her reverie was broken by a crash of thunder above her and the horse started slightly at the noise. Shaking her head, she led the horse out of the square and towards the city gates, but not before turning back and sparing Levesque a genuine and sincere, even if inaudible, 'Thank you.'
