X – Conflicts

Being banished to a completely insignificant post was more than just tiring. Not only did d'Artagnan's boredom gnaw at him, but his own circling thoughts hauled at his morale. He had expected this difficult beginning as a guard, he had believed he was prepared for it. While he stood at this old, long forgotten side door, his legs tired from standing for hours and there was nothing to distract at least the eye, he realised that absolutely nothing could have prepared him for such a situation.

Perhaps he had felt lonely on some evenings in the past, when he sat alone in an tavern, where otherwise Athos would have given him a lot of support to empty a bottle of wine. But the next morning, the lieutenant of the musketeers had another day full of official duties, over which he forgot the loss of his old companions. He was respected by his brothers-in-arms, even though as an officer he could not freely banter and quarrel with them. His superiors in turn prophesied him a brilliant career, a future as a senior officer in the regiment. Comradery and appreciation? Those times were clearly over now.

D'Artagnan shifted his weight to the other leg, thus providing some relief. He hadn't been standing motionless in one spot for a damn long time and hadn't believed that this endurance could be unlearned again. As a young recruit under the command of Captain des Essarts of the royal guards he hadn't minded long-lasting guard duty. There had always been a comrade close by who shared the same fate and they had raised each other's moral. But now there was nobody here. He experienced being alone in a completely new way.

And then he saw her. His unexpected ray of hope on this gloomy morning. Suddenly she was there, walking light-footedly past and not noticing him. Copper-coloured hair, braided in a loose pigtail. The wind played with her curls, stroking gently over reddened cheeks. Fine features, a barely noticeable smile on her lips, a dreamy look from half-closed eyelids. In what beautiful thoughts was she absorbed in? She was all in her own world. And in his. She was adorable, even in the unadorned, simple dress of a maid.

Besides, this time she was not pointing a gun at him.

He noticed that she quite deliberately did not step on the joints between the stone slabs, even made a playful little jump when the distance was once too great. For a moment he was able to catch a glimpse of her ankles before they were hidden again by the hem of her dress. A few pigeons were startled, she paused and looked at the birds. For the blink of an eye, her gaze glanced at him without her noticing d'Artagnan, the one guardsman among many. She seemed so carefree, so full of life. So far away. D'Artagnan stumbled over his own feet as he almost abandoned his post. He pulled himself together immediately, but in that brief moment the mademoiselle had already left.

His eyes flew frantically over the colonnades until he found her. She stopped and raised one arm to wave. D'Artagnan grabbed the musket tighter. Sorel. He waved back and she hurried to reach him quickly. The young people greeted each other restrainedly with soft words. They were well aware of the public and did not want to appear too familiar. Sorel finally politely offered her his arm, she accepted and disappeared with him into the palace.

D'Artagnan defended himself against the budding jealousy, the completely irrational feeling of having been betrayed. With moderate success. He almost missed the chime of the bell that finally signalled the end of the guard. Four hours had passed. Only four hours, but a felt endlessness. Of course no one came to relieve him. But Bernajoux had given him half permission to leave the post for a short report and a meal. D'Artagnan would invoke this if Jussac needed any excuse again.

It was good to be able to stretch his legs and relax his tense shoulders during the few steps to the guardroom. Besides the servants and visitors of the palace, he met on the way other guardsmen. Strangely enough, they always seemed to be engrossed in conversation as soon as he approached, so that they would not have noticed a greeting from the new comrade. Others didn't even bother, but ignored him unmistakably.

This time no one at the door stopped him from entering the guardroom. The hall was well attended, d'Artagnan estimated about a third of the regiment was present. The men enjoyed their rest with card and dice games, boasted anecdotes to each other or ate bread with soup. The room could almost have been mistaken for a tavern had it not been for the arsenal and the red uniforms that dominated the scene. It happened to be loud, but not undisciplined. D'Artagnan was sure that at a single word from their lieutenant, the guards would have moved out immediately in a closed row, without the need for many commands to keep order.

D'Artagnan made his way to the fireplace, where he could help himself to the soup from a heavy cast-iron pot. The rations were not exceptional. Tomorrow there was perhaps only porridge with a few scraps of meat. The guardsmen were no more spoiled than other soldiers. D'Artagnan took a ladle full and some bread and looked around for a place to sit. None of the tables were fully occupied and yet he hesitated before he made an effort and walked to a bench that had already been taken by some other guardsmen.

Fitting in. Jussac wanted it that way and d'Artagnan had no intention of making his life unnecessarily difficult by isolating himself. If he had noticed Bernajoux or Biscarat somewhere, he would even have gone to them brashly. The group he had now decided to join interrupted their conversation when he sat down at the edge and measured him partly with sceptical looks, partly with open rejection. In any case, no one returned his greeting, not to mention at least a polite nod.

Among the guardsmen was the taciturn Cahusac. As the longest-serving man, the others seemed to wait for his reaction. D'Artagnan noticed the scar on Cahusac's throat all the more distinctly in this moment of tense silence. He probably should have chosen another table.

Cahusac frowned, but then turned back to the comrade sitting opposite and signalled to continue with his interrupted story. It was not that Cahusac tolerated the former musketeer in their group. Rather, he seemed to have decided to overlook him like an insignificant bug and only crush him under his boot when he was about to become an annoyance. The other guardsmen also lost all interest and d'Artagnan did well to simply eat his meal in silence and neither join in the conversation nor even listen to it.

In order not to feel so stupid, d'Artagnan used feather and paper and scribbled down his watch report with almost illegible officer's handwriting. As if there had been something to report! But he could at least pretend to be busy to spare himself and the other guardsmen further embarrassment. He ended his break prematurely, handed in the report and left the guardroom again. In front of the door he first pulled himself together. Probably at no other table he would have been treated differently then Cahusac's and his friends. More evidence that he faced a difficult situation and was a persona non grata was hardly needed.

D'Artagnan spent the rest of the break strolling back to his post. He knew the Palais Cardinal well enough to avoid having to familiarise himself with every corridor on the first day. Soon he reached the old side entrance again and looked at the half petrified door in a thoughtful way. He still had a few minutes left before the tolling of the bells for middle watch. Time he wanted to spend outside these walls more than ever.

D'Artagnan released the latch and pushed the door open. It resisted him surprisingly little, not even squeaking or creaking in the hinges. D'Artagnan, due to his misjudgement of the amount of force required, almost stumbled out onto the Rue de Valois and hit his head at the low passageway. He recovered, stepped out crouched and inspected the door again from the outside.

Also from the roadside it made no other impression than that of being ancient and unimportant. But on the ground he could now see grinding marks. Folded, brown blades of grass and superficial furrows on the clayey ground, which must have been resulted from by small stones when they were pushed away with the door. The scuff marks were not caused by his single opening, for they reached up to the wall, further than d'Artagnan had pushed the door himself. Apparently this path was still in use after all. Only rarely, perhaps in secret.

»Monsieur le lieutenant?«

D'Artagnan looked up in surprise. No less surprised seemed the two men who had stopped a few steps away from him on the Rue de Valois. Their expressions spoke of incredulous astonishment and d'Artagnan resisted the urge to flee back into the palace. Instead, he acted as if he was all serene. »Pauger. Jumonville.«

The two other men exchanged a look. Pauger was wearing the uniform of His Majesty's royal guard. Jumonville accompanied him in normal everyday clothes, but he also belonged to captain Essarts' soldiers. Once they both had been musketeers; before the regiment was disbanded and they had been transferred. The sight of d'Artagnan in the red tunic of the Cardinal's guard made them understandably suspicious - and angry. Pauger snorted disparagingly as Jumonville now hesitantly approached their former lieutenant. »It really is you.«

D'Artagnan heard the unspoken question all too well. How could it be him? The lieutenant of the musketeers in that uniform? It had to be a very bad joke! »Idem. Are you on patrol?«

Jumonville massaged his neck with one hand and did not seem to know how to react to this astonishing news. For his part, the easily provoked Pauger growled: »We are on duty in the king's service.«

A verbal slap. »Then I suggest you do not disappoint His Majesty.« d'Artagnan replied roughly. »As you were!«

Pauger revealed a saturnine look. To see the former superior suddenly be put into the service of the Cardinal seemed to be a personal insult. D'Artagnan could not blame him. Had it been the other way around, he would have spat at the feet of every renegade. Pauger had been proud to be a musketeer and he had always shown the greatest respect to Tréville and d'Artagnan. He had to face a terrible disappointment here, close to betrayal, and clenched his hands into fists.

Jumonville stepped calmly in between. »Yes, that will be best. Come, my friend.«

Pauger shook off the hand that Jumonville had placed on his arm. D'Artagnan unconsciously took a firmer stance, but Pauger turned away abruptly and said aloud to Jumonville, »He stinks of shit,« before tramped back to the street.

Jumonville looked alarmed at d'Artagnan, for normally such a remark against the lieutenant of the musketeers would have resulted in a deadly duel appointment. But d'Artagnan only answered with a tiredly shake of his head, »Catch up with him, before he runs blind with rage into a carriage.«

»Yes, sir!« Jumonville saluted in old habit, although he had not received any orders, and with this he raised a swiftly fading smile from d'Artagnan. He then hesitated, as if he still had a thousand questions on the tip of his tongue. In the end, he seemed to be contented with the most important one. »There's a good reason for this, isn't there, Monsieur?«

D'Artagnan, after a terrible day so far, was not in the mood for explanations and certainly not for justifications towards former subordinates. He was a red guard now. He seemed to have betrayed and abandoned everyone, all of his old friends and comrades. Could there ever be a good reason for this?

»Go away already!« he barked at Jumonville and fled back into the palace. He pulled the door shut behind him and locked it, but could not shut out Pauger's angry disappointment or Jumonville's incredulous confusion from his thoughts as well. He pounded the wall with a clenched fist, so hard that he could hear his ankles crack. The wall remained unimpressed, but the pain crawled up d'Artagnan's shoulder. »Aargh!«

»Hotheaded as a Gascon, they say.«

D'Artagnan gritted his teeth and tried to maintain a relaxed posture before slowly turning around. He opened and closed his hand several times until his fingers were no longer numb. »You must know best, Biscarat. What do you want?«

»I check on the sentries.« The other Gascon pretended to be listening and the guard bell chimed at that very moment. Biscarat's inquiring gaze fell back on d'Artagnan. »Just in time.«

»How long have you been standing here waiting for me to neglect my duties?«

Biscarat was alone, Jussac may have really ordered him to control the posts. All of them, not just this beginner's one. A mocking smile flickered in the corners of his mouth. »You are remarkably full of yourself. No one here has been waiting for you.«

»Quite possibly, but I am here now and you will have to come to terms with that.«

D'Artagnan reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the handkerchief with which he had cleaned himself. He had washed it out, but it was still stained and smelled of horse manure. »My sincerest thanks.«

»Keep it, you might need it again.«

D'Artagnan ignored the ridicule. »That's up to you. I have made my choice. Isn't that what you told me?«

Biscarat judged the other man out of dark, wise eyes. Apparently the guardsman had some experience in seeing through people and he was also able to read the former lieutenant of the musketeers. This might become a problem eventually. »You really choose to be one of us, one of the red guards? Then why did Richelieu striped you off the officer's patent?«

»I'm a probationary guardsman, but I'll fit in.«

»Is that so?«

They fought a silent duel of stares and, being most valiant Gascons, none of them backed away. They were men who only fell if they were killed. They would rather have broken their swords and whistled a song in honour of Cardinal or King than surrender.

Finally Biscarat reached out his hand. »Return it then!« He received the handkerchief, grimaced in disgust and stuffed it into his own coat pocket, undoubtedly to dispose of it later. »Don't misinterpret the gesture! I don't think you will be able to truly fit in.«

»You'd be surprised what I'm capable of. Given that I get the chance.«

Biscarat shrugged. »You have been baptised and the joke about guarding this forgotten entrance never gets old. Until now, you have not gone through anything that would not happen to every new recruit.«

»Certainly. Except for the minor bagatelle of almost missing the morning roll call. Afterwards Bernajoux told me everything I needed to know about duty.«

»Good old Bernajoux! He visited me subsequently and drew my attention to an interesting point.« Biscarat acted as if he had to remember strainedly and finally quoted, imitating d'Artagnan not bad at all, »I don't want to bother the captain with this, especially since Jussac will get in trouble for it.«

D'Artagnan raised an eyebrow. »And?«

»And we decided, for the sake of our friend Jussac, to leave you in peace.«

»Oh, no! My heart's overjoyed! Here, touch my chest!«

»Save your sarcasm,« Biscarat replied stridently. »Unfortunately, it is inevitable that you are not going to live among us in complete isolation. You're on probation in the guard - and we'll keep an eye on you.«

»I'm touched by how important you seem to think I am.« D'Artagnan wiped a feigned tear from the corner of his eye. »I'd like to be good and obedient of my own free will and cause no trouble to anyone.«

»You bring the trouble along anyway.« Biscarat glanced over the shoulder of his counterpart towards the door. The brief, unpleasant encounter between former musketeers had obviously not escaped his notice. D'Artagnan remained silent. Sooner or later, his change of troops would have become known. For some, like Pauger, he was branded a traitor, for others, like Jumonville, the situation was at first incomprehensible. It meant trouble in every direction, especially since no one here would be watching his back.

Even Biscarat made no secret of it. »You will not easily convince anyone that you would have pledged allegiance to the Cardinal.«

»Just leave me alone, as promised.« beckoned d'Artagnan tiredly and Biscarat nodded. »Truce, for now. You may leave in four hours.« Thus he finally left the hapless recruit to his own devices and another tiring guard duty.

D'Artagnan tried not to brood again. But he could only replace the memory of old comrades and his alleged infidelity with thoughts of copper-coloured hair and possible rivals, and vice versa. In the end, the mist rose again from the Seine, while the sun still brushed a pointed roof with its last ounce of strength before it set. The bell chimed, guard duty was over.

D'Artagnan left the palace heavy-legged and in a depressed mood, without anyone saying goodbye to him for a better next day. He found himself looking left and right more often than usual on his way back home to avoid random passers-by. He wanted to prevent further encounters with people who must have felt betrayed by him and whose respect he had lost.

At home, his landlady, the dear, good Madeleine, already had the bath tub in place for him. She was quite rightly sulking when her gallant expelled her from his rooms with gruff words and gestures.

The red tunic of the guard ended up on a chair and d'Artagnan without his lovely Chevrette in bed.