Chapter Twenty-Seven: Devoir.

Jacques lay awake, listening to the steady and untroubled breathing of his mother in the bed beside him. He had wriggled out from under her affectionate arm in something of a protest and now lay in the chill air, his eyes trained on the shuttered window, a defiant yet thoughtful scowl etched into his brow.

The little boy did not know whether it was the beating of the rain against the shutters or the dull throbbing behind his eyes that prevented sleep, but if he had to guess, he would have said the latter.

His heart still felt sore about it; the fact that his mother had not believed him and his uncle had abandoned him.

Jacques raised his chin, gaze shifting to the hallway and the room opposite, where his uncle lay, his breathing too denoting slumber.

Bitterly, the boy recalled the scene (barely anything else had occupied his mind since).

Jacques and Etienne had returned home to the smell of boiling meat broth. Genevieve had been at the hearth, busying herself purposely with the cooking pot. The little boy had quite forgotten himself and had bounded merrily towards the woman at the fire, tugging at her skirts and brandishing the necklace proudly. He had only been half aware of his uncle latching the door behind them and striding wordlessly to the dresser, selecting a bottle, deftly uncorking it and bringing it to his lips.

'Mama! Mama! Mama! Look!' Jacques cried, wondering at his mother's apparent disinterest.

Eventually, she turned, ladle still in hand and an agitated, 'What is it, Jacques?' on her lips.

The little boy beamed and held the pendant up to her. It glistened in the fire light, but instead of summoning awe and pride to his mother's expression, her brow twisted into one of anger and suspicion.

'Wherever did you get this, Jacques?'

The boy did not answer, perplexed at the unexpected question.

'It looks expensive. Where did you get it?'

'Elle…Elle gave it to me.' Jacques stammered, watching as a darkness crossed Genevieve's countenance.

Genevieve shook her head, moisture suddenly at her eyes. 'Don't lie to me, Jacques.' she began again in a quieter, somewhat wounded tone, 'Did you steal it?'

'No, mama…' he breathed, tears too clouding his vision. He subconsciously clutched the precious object in his tiny hand, hoping that if his mother couldn't see it, her anger might disappear.

There was a beat of silence where his mother looked away, closing her eyes, taking a breath.

'Jacques Guillaume Martin! You will tell me where you got this necklace right this moment or you will be sent to bed without supper…And God help me if you have stolen it!'

Jacques shook his head and spoke again, self-pitying sobs punctuating his words, 'Mama! I didn–didn't steal it! I-I promise! Elle gave it to me! She said-said she was leaving P-Paris! Please! I-I didn't steal it!'

A sudden, desperate thought crossed his mind and he bid his gaze fall to the man who had since seated himself at the table, his own eyes fixed on the now half empty bottle.

'Oncle! Tell mama! I-I didn't steal it, did I?'

Genevieve's brow furrowed and she straightened somewhat, expectantly awaiting confirmation from her brother. When none came she pressed him, 'Etienne?'

The response was a shrug and the sound of another gulp taken from the bottle in his palm.

Finally, Etienne broke the fetid silence, 'Let the boy alone, Genevieve…'

Both the boy in question and his mother stared to Etienne incredulously as the sentence - spoken with a sigh and a note of distinct apathy - did nothing to satisfy either.

With a shake of her head, Genevieve gestured sharply to the doorway and the staircase beyond, 'To bed with you Jacques!'

The boy had tried to protest, imploring his uncle with watery eyes to help him and throwing his arms around his mother's waist in something of a desperate hug. These efforts appeared fruitless; Genevieve responded only by disentangling Jacques' arms from her waist and repeating her stern instruction.

Jacques, for wont of any other option had followed this damming command, but not without laying heavy feet on each step.

It seemed as if hours had passed when he finally heard the slow and weary steps of his mother and uncle ascending the stairs.

Jacques had slowed his breathing and closed his eyes, wishing his mother to believe him sleeping, punishing her with his silence. He had tried his best not to move as she readied herself for sleep and threaded an arm around him. Jacques steeled his heart at the action, choosing instead to focus on the sound of his uncle's boots finding the floor in the room opposite and the stinging grumble of his empty stomach.

He barely even felt his mother's tender kiss on his cheek, before she settled in to sleep.

It seemed to take a long while for both adults to drift into unconsciousness, but try as he might, Jacques could not quiet his mind; every time he closed his eyes the blackness summoned images of the horse, Elle and the necklace.

He thought back on her promise of 'if' and with the tiny, otherwise insignificant word, there came a buzzing, swarming blackness in his mind. At first, he had been happy, that she had used the word, happy that she would be coming back to him. He couldn't imagine what other outcome there could be. Grown ups were strong and smart and safe. Elle would surely come back to Paris. Wouldn't she?

After all, grown ups couldn't get hurt could they?

Jacques' heart suddenly ached in such a way that it made him forget about the ache of his empty stomach. A cold and dizzying melancholy wrapped itself around his small frame, a bitter reminder.

The little boy felt suddenly foolish at having forgotten what he did indeed know, what he had himself witnessed.

He held his breath against the memories; he knew they would come, it was too late to stop them, but he would try to stay the tears this time. He had to focus. If he allowed himself to cry, to sob, to feel, he would wake his mother and he would not be able to punish her then. She would ask him why he was crying and he would have to say it. One word. His word. The word that would belong only to him for as long as there was breath in his little body. Jacques had vowed to keep that word sacred. It would suit no one else. No one else would compare. Papa.

Such a simple word, but so dark and sad. So heavy.

Jacques tried to remember happy memories, memories that might not hurt so much.

Like the time Papa had taken him riding beyond the city walls. They had left early in the morning as the sun was just rising and they had made their way over hills and through fields. It had been a special treat as Papa had not owned any horses, but he had borrowed one from a friend, someone he said he had been doing business with. Not that Jacques cared where the horse had come from; he had just been happy to spend the time with his father, beyond the city walls and beyond his work. They had ridden to a village, purchased fresh bread and milk and had whiled away a sunny afternoon, tucking into their acquisitions on the banks of a small river. It was a day bathed in laughter and golden light.

Jacques remembered that they had not returned until the sun had long since set and Mama had been cross at the sight of them. She had shouted and fretted and stripped Jacques of his mud-covered breeches and grass-stained shirt almost as soon as Papa had carried him into the house. Jacques had taken his bath in good humour that night, trying to explain to Mama - as she scrubbed him clean with the scratchy brush - how he had paddled barefoot in the cool water and had almost caught a fish with his bare hands.

Jacques screwed his eyes closed, trying to stop them itching and not quite understanding how this memory hurt more than the one where his father was in bed, barely able to open his eyes and crying out in pain at every touch.

See? A voice inside his head chimed, unbidden, Grown ups do get hurt!

Taking a breath and setting his brow, Jacques moved his leg slowly and surely to the edge of the bed. He waited a few seconds with his foot hanging over the edge of the frame, listening for anything that suggested his mother had noticed. When there was nothing, he moved the other leg and hooked his fingertips along the wooden edge. He tensed his muscles, pulled himself carefully forwards so that the edge of the frame was digging into his side.

His mother still did not stir and he took a moment to angle his head, straining through the darkness to see if his uncle remained asleep. He heard the tell tale snoring from the opposite bed chamber.

Jacques steeled his resolve with a small nod, before moving forward still, until his bodyweight was conveyed over the bed frame. He dripped onto the wooden floor, wincing as the floorboards protested the sudden weight. He remained on his hands and knees for a few seconds more, before sitting back on his haunches and leaning back, outstretching a hand. He felt his breath still in his chest as he searched the darkness for his clothes. He felt at first for the end of the bed where he would usually hang them, neatly and obediently.

However, as soon as he felt only the deep grainy wood, he realised his mistake, turning his attention to the floor instead; he had not wanted to be obedient tonight. He wanted to be messy and angry and cruel and, as soon as he had realised that his mother was not going to call him back downstairs for supper, he had readied himself for bed in a temper, throwing his jacket to the corner of the room and abandoning his trousers in the doorway, half hoping that Mama would see them and know how upset she had made him.

Jacques swallowed a lump in his throat, wondering, as he gently patted the floor with a tentative hand, whether his mother had picked them up for him; he had not been watching when she and his uncle had come upstairs and he had quite forgotten to listen, his mind so full of pretending to sleep.

The little boy fought hard the urge to cry out in triumph as he balled the familiar fabric up in his left palm. Something in his mind told him it would be safer to crawl and he held the breeches close to his chest, edging his way to the door on three limbs, all the while listening for any signs that he was about to be caught.

The stairs were harder and Jacques had deliberate for as long as he dared about the best way to descend them. In the end, he had decided to stand, but keep close to the edge, leaning on the banister and keeping as much weight off the steps as possible so as to not make them creak.

When he reached the bottom step, he had allowed himself a small sigh of relief before pulling on his trousers and tucking his nightshirt into the them. He then slipped on an old pair of boots that had been left to gather dust by the front door. He looked up at the coat rack, squinting in the darkness, before reaching up, carefully tugging his heavy winter cloak from the hook.

Jacques then reached up for his hat, almost cursing when he found it gone. His brow furrowed, but then he remembered it's whereabouts. His gaze shifted to the top of the stairs, his heart sinking, imagining the hat still perched deftly beneath his uncle's bed. A clever decoy during his latest game of hide and seek.

He listened for a moment to the sound of the rain beating down outside.

Not so clever now…

The little boy felt the stinging of tears in his eyes. What could he do now? Elle was in danger and he had sabotaged his own chance at helping her. How could he have been so thoughtless, so childish? He was a musketeer. He should not be playing games.

How was he ever supposed to be a great musketeer like his uncle if he spent all his time playing silly games?

Wait…

The thought came like a glimmer of light and shifted his focus to the old chest, pushed into the space beneath the stairs.

Jacques all but leapt across the space, glad of the hard flagstone floor beneath his booted feet. He felt a smile cross his features as he reached the chest, knowing that it was never locked, but knowing what he would find within.

The lid was heavy, but opened silently, much to the boy's delight. He knew he had to be quick and tried his best to ignore his aching arm muscles whilst digging around with his free hand.

Before long, small fingers curled around a wide, leather brim. There was the slightest tickle of a feather on his nose as Jacques pulled the garment from the box, before cautiously closing the chest.

Clutching the stolen hat to his breast, Jacques crossed the space to the front door, twisting the iron key with baited breath and gingerly lifting the latch.

Jacques took a deep breath, screwed up his eyes, opened the door as much as he dared, squeezed his little body through the wanting gap and pulled the portal closed behind him.

He surveyed the sodden street with a mixture of disdain and apprehension. He shuddered at the hammering rain and howling wind. He made a move to clench his fists, before realising that his right hand wouldn't close, flattened against stiff leather though it was.

With a widening smile and a feeling of righteous duty brimming in his chest, Jacques lifted his hand, placing his uncle's hat (the hat of a true musketeer) atop his head.

He tried to lower his hand, but a gust of wind seemed to take a fancy to the garment and tried to lift it from his crown. Slapping his small palm hurriedly and defensively atop his head to stay the hat, Jacques, took his first step into the stormy night.

It was hard to remember the way he and his mother had walked the other day and Jacques realised, with a sinking feeling, that everything looked so much different in the dark and in the rain, but still he continued on.

He knew he could not turn back. He knew he had to at least try to help, to do what he could to make sure that Elle stayed alive.

The thought threatened that perhaps he was being selfish, that he had no right to offer help to Elle if she did not ask for it, just for the small chance that he would get to see her again.

No.

He chased the thought away, turning a corner and stopping in his tracks at what he saw.

Grown ups can get hurt…

He forced his legs into a run, the amber glow of lit torches warming his heart even though he was not yet close enough for them to warm his tiny frame.

Jacques called out to the men standing, one either side of the familiar archway. They turned their focus in unison, holding their torches out to see better. When he came close enough to see their features, he noted twin expressions of bewilderment, before one shifted a searching gaze behind Jacques and the other turned kindly eyes downwards, affecting a warm and comforting smile.

'I am here on urgent musketeer business.' Jacques began, raising his voice to be heard over the rain.

The man closest to him gave a dutiful nod and opened his mouth to speak. Jacques felt suddenly desperate and doubtful, a twinge in his stomach telling him that they wouldn't believe him and would merely send him away again.

'I need to speak with the musketeers named…'

Something cold and hard landed in the pit of his stomach as he wracked his brain for the names of the men he and his mother had spoken to the other day. When none came he shook his head.

'Well, I can't remember their names...but I have to speak with them at once.'

Jacques tried to inflect his words with as much authority as he could muster, wondering if the garrison guards would notice the slight uncertain tremor in his voice.

The musketeer who had been searching the darkness behind Jacques suddenly turned his focus to the small boy.

'Well, you won't be able to remember any names, stood out here in this!' He offered with a small chuckle, 'I think you'd best come and see Captain Treville. He'll know who you need to speak to.'

The musketeer then half turned, placing the hand that was not holding the torch between Jacques' shoulder blades. He spared his comrade a nod in parting before leading the boy across the courtyard and up the stairs to Treville's office and chambers, knocking hastily on the door.

Jacques could not help but feel some small semblance of success as an older man with piercing blue eyes and a commanding frown answered, giving a nod and gesturing that he enter.

If grown ups can get hurt…

Jacques thought to himself, allowing the musketeer and the man he took to be Captain Treville to take his sodden cloak and set a place for him before the fireplace.

Then they must need help sometimes too…