XXIX – Treason

The beauty of death. Whoever might have formulated this in an hour of philosophical longing, full of ennui; he had never seen a floater. Or something else had to be wrong in his head to still be able to gain a certain fascination from this hideously disfigured, bluish-white body bloated with internal gases.

The skin was leached and pale, cluttered all over with postmortem lividity, bloated and rugose. It was peeling away in small shreds from the flesh beneath. The once blond hair was discoloured seaweed-green by a smudgy fouling and could be pulled off the head in strands without resistance. The fingernails were cracked and black, the blood vessels stood out clearly in purple ramifications, painted on a grotesque canvas.

Once this monstrously ripped pile of flesh had been a woman. Fine-bubbled, blood-stained foam gurgled during the necropsy from what had once been her mouth. The teeth stood open on display; birds and fish had eaten the soft lips. Her nose and eyes were completely missing, just gruesome, hollow holes. Crabs and crayfish had feasted on the end of her body, snails stuck between the blunt remains of her toes.

She had not suffered any broken bones, to all appearances she had not been beaten to death or strangled. She had drowned in the Seine. Her skull was intact, except for the animals' bite marks. The rotting process had slowed down in the ice-cold water and only the flotsam had prevented her from sinking undiscoverable to the river bottom. The sweet, sickening haze of decaying flesh did not yet emit from her, but the smell would soon set in. During the recovery, they had had to use nets to prevent body parts from coming loose and being carried away by the current.

Rochefort read the report on the first, superficially conducted necropsy an hour later. He had personally overseen the recovery at the Pont Marie. When the heavily filled net was pulled over the parapet, he had to hurriedly assist and lend a hand himself; one of the men dropped the hauling rope and vomited, gasping, into the Seine. The body splatted wetly on the ground and Rochefort buried his own horror deep inside himself, in a corner of his being that was never touched by the light of clear thought. He cut the net, pushed away branches and filth, and stared into empty eye sockets. Someone behind him choked and coughed, but Rochefort heard only his own inner cry; Not Odette! Not Mademoiselle de la Nièvre!

As unrecognisable as the corpse had been made, it did not lack a complete face. Pale features, small laugh lines, a birth mark on the left cheek. Rochefort had studied de la Nièvre's face in detail over the last few weeks, memorised every little feature, and he could say with certainty; this was not her.

Relieved of a dire suspicion, he arranged for the body to be kept in the morgue. A priest and a doctor were to look at her, an agent to establish her true identity. She was young, perhaps in her early twenties. It remained of the utmost interest who this Mademoiselle was.

Rochefort left the report on the desk in front of him and leaned back thoughtfully in his chair. It was quiet in his study, not even a grandfather clock ticking softly to fill the room with any man-made sound. Candlelight flickered in the night-dark window, in which Rochefort's reflection could only be made out as a faint silhouette. On a cupboard stood precious painted porcelain figurines, carefully selected and collected. The only passion the stable master allowed for himself, without any meaningful purpose behind it. His gaze lingered on the figure of a jester who, grinning broadly, seemed to be playing a practical joke on the high nobles and yet was himself nothing more than a sad figure, ridiculed and mocked.

Rochefort reached into his doublet and fished Odette de la Nièvre's ring out of a pocket. He studied the coat of arms thoughtfully. It was Odette's trinket, without a doubt. The floater had not worn it on her finger, there were no pressure marks, no abrasions to indicate that it had been torn from her by force. Obviously it had not been stolen, but had nevertheless been lost; perhaps at the moment when the young woman had been fallen over the handrail or been pushed. What was the relationship between her and Mademoiselle de la Nièvre?

Rochefort pressed his fingertips together and recalled a rather extraordinary encounter from the morning. Elise Perrault, almost lost in the corridors, looking for another maid: Sarah Simon. Would it make sense to show the body to the valet Nérat? Perhaps he recognised the missing Mademoiselle Simon whose ominous illness had probably been fatal. Perhaps it turned out that Sarah had served as one of Odette de la Nièvre's many handmaids. The ring could well have been payment for loyal service, for helping Odette to escape, or for keeping a secret. Final silence was now assured, even if d'Artagnan did find the ring on the bridge.

...did he?

How lucky was it to be standing on the Pont Marie at exactly the right moment, in exactly the right place, to pick up a lost trinket? Even more so if one had to defend himself in a relentless fight? How much coincidence was still plausible, even for a Monsieur d'Artagnan, on whom Fortuna had truly rarely smiled on in recent weeks?

A knock at the door interrupted Rochefort's reflections. He let the ring slide back into his pocket before giving permission to enter. Immediately afterwards, his eyebrows drew together as he noticed the bite mark on his counterpart's face. Deep, red teeth marks, they still shone bloody. The wound was swollen and had only been cleaned superficially. The agent was obviously in a hurry to report.

Rochefort listened in silence. Gustave Moraut was dead and a young woman had escaped. It was enough describing her copper-coloured curls, green eyes, a narrow face, a dimple on her chin. A recalcitrant and defiant character, of rather quick perception. Frightened, but by no means intimidated. Under her coat, the simple dress of a maid. Rochefort recognised her immediately; Elise Perrault. He kept it to himself for the time being.

The agent finished his statements and Rochefort reached for a quill pen. He wrote a note in two sentences at the report from the morgue and handed the papers over with the words, »Take this to His Eminence. Then have this wound treated.« Moments later, Rochefort was alone again with his thoughts.

Elise Perrault. Rochefort's attention had not been drawn to her in the morning solely because she had behaved conspicuously. He had been looking specifically for a maid who had come to the palace the day before in the company of two guardsmen and had thus caused a lot of gossip among her peers. Allegedly, she had been saved from drunkards by the soldiers The stable master usually did not care about such rumours. But this time his interest was piqued, because the maid whose description matched Mademoiselle Perrault had been clutching to d'Artagnan's arm, of all people.

The jester on the cupboard only wore a superficial grin. It did not reach his eyes, he was too aware of the great irony of the world, the numerous weaknesses and sins of people. A jester knew them all, all the little and big wickednesses people were capable of. His role was to play the fool and pull antics to make the lives of others bearable. A clever jester was always a schemer as well.

Rochefort was not one to jump to conclusions - and yet everything indicated that d'Artagnan had betrayed his mission. For a pretty face, a quick kiss. Women had always been his downfall, hadn't they? Nor was Rochefort willing to believe in chance. This second guardsman, who was he? What was his connection with Mademoiselle Perrault? What was hers with the dead woman in the river, with Gustave Moraut? In the end, d'Artagnan was on the right track without suspecting it himself; a useful fool for everyone else.

Rochefort would not find any answers in his cabinet. The gossip from the servants was exhausted in every detail. The only thing left to do was to ask the guardsmen themselves which of them, in charming company, had turned up late for roll call. Such information could be obtained quickly, without the diversions via secret listeners. No one dared to avoid a direct question from the stable master. Especially as the circumstances seemed to be quite harmless, Rochefort might just be curious. So he intruded into the sanctuary of the red guard, into the guardroom.

Rochefort would not find any answers in his cabinet. The gossip from the servants was exhausted in every detail. The only thing left to do was to ask the guardsmen themselves which of them, in charming company, had turned up late for roll call. Such information could be obtained quickly, without the diversions via secret listeners. No one dared to avoid a direct question from the stable master. Especially as the circumstances seemed to be quite harmless, Rochefort might just be curious. So he intruded into the sanctuary of the red guard, the guardroom.

The noise was like that of an tavern. Rochefort was already confronted with a babel of voices outside the door. Every now and then, a single timbre stood out from the others, making individual words and exclamations intelligible, but no full meaning could be gleaned from the choked fragments of sentences. In addition, dishes clattered, cutlery rattled, as if food was only served once a day and no one wanted to miss out. It almost seemed as if war preparations were being made in there - or Jussac's promotion to captain was being celebrated. There was a constant coming and going, Rochefort followed two guardsmen into the room, who immediately disappeared somewhere in the confusing hustle and bustle.

One could almost have suspected intent behind this bustle, the exuberant noises that drowned out everything. It all seemed too forced to Rochefort, too obviously dutiful, the way they were talking loudly about the changing of the guard, about uneventful patrols. At other tables, however, soldiers laughed unabashedly, slapped each other on the shoulders appreciatively and listened to amusing anecdotes from the Cardinal's antechamber. Some guardsmen took care of the arsenal, cleaned the muskets, checked the equipment particularly thoroughly, guided by the armourer, as if today was the day of a general stocktaking. No one seemed to be paying any attention to the stable master and yet Rochefort knew that every step he took was being watched by the men. They were putting on this spectacle for him. Their lieutenant's wrath had not been without repercussions for the rest of the corps.

Rochefort took note of all this in seconds and drew his conclusions. Then he moved towards a crowd of guardsmen at one of the back tables. Jussac sat in the middle of them, serious-faced, and seemed to be holding a consultation with his closest confidants. Secretly and furtively, this meeting seemed as if all the fuss in the guardroom served only as a distraction.

Jussac fell silent when he saw Rochefort approaching and, like one man, all eyes turned to the stable master. Cahusac and Bernajoux were among the conspirators - and d'Artagnan, whom Rochefort almost did not recognise in the red uniform. Heck, the former musketeer had truly adapted to his new comrades, just as the Cardinal had demanded! He was no longer any different from the others and at a hint from Jussac, d'Artagnan obediently took half a step to the side to welcome Rochefort into their group.

The gesture surprised the stable master, who, on the contrary, had assumed that he in particular should be excluded from this council. Shortly afterwards he found himself sitting on the bench, facing Jussac, while d'Artagnan and Bernajoux were next to him. If they wanted to heckle him, he was sincerely unimpressed, at best wondering what now awaited him. Half mockingly, he asked the lieutenant, »What battle do you intend to fight?«

»Against Odette de la Nièvre.«

Rochefort frowned. »Is that so?«

After a brief exchange of glances with Jussac, d'Artagnan took over the talking. It was his triumph, his mission, that he had finally acquit himself of, and so he reported grimly, »We found her. Her ally was Sorel all along.«

»I see.« Rochefort looked inquiringly at the faces of the guardsmen gathered around the table. They now knew that one of their own had betrayed the Cardinal. A mixture of restrained anger and determination surrounded the men. They apparently believed d'Artagnan willingly, and Rochefort admitted a mistake about the friend's usefulness. There was only one answer d'Artagnan still owed him, and he asked the pertinent question. »Am I correct in assuming that it was also Sorel in whose company Mademoiselle Perrault and you were late for morning roll call?«

D'Artagnan snorted disparagingly. »Good guess. Before you are poking around any further; Elise Perrault is reasonably innocent. She believes herself to be Sorel's only mistress. Her attempt to make him jealous by falling into my arms was out of a suspicion that Sorel might have another beloved. Bah, don't look so sceptical! I have long been cured of the female's pretty eyes, you should certainly put more confidence in me.«

Apparently Rochefort's thoughts were seen through. »You have anticipated everything of interest, indeed.« He made a sweeping gesture intended to include all present in the guardroom. »So what's the meaning of the commotion?«

Jussac interjected, with barely concealed wrath, »You get the duke's daughter. We get Sorel.« He cut him short before Rochefort could even think to contradict him. »For heaven's sake, you've done enough damage! We assume command now and none of your agents will interfere, it's our matter. The red guard's matter.« Jussac took a deep breath before stating, »My responsibility.«

Rochefort was silent for moments while the tension in the room grew almost palpable. It did not matter whether he agreed with Jussac's decision. His command did not extend over the guard and by the time he had informed Captain Luchaire, Jussac and his loyal men would have long since left. Even at the risk of being dishonourably discharged or worse. The lieutenant clearly took things too personally. Reluctantly, Rochefort relented. »You shall report to me later without delay. About every occurrence, every detail, especially how our conversation here came about.«

»Understood!«

Rochefort stood up, the guardsmen did the same and regrouped. Jussac accepted a pistol handed to him by the armourer and attached it between the gunpowder cartridges and the pouch for the bullets. It was loaded ready to fire and could be unlocked with a quick movement of the hand. Apparently the lieutenant expected resistance and was prepared to answer it accordingly.

Bernajoux and Cahusac received their pistols after Jussac had personally made sure that the weapons were impeccably ready for use. The lieutenant wasted no time with further explanations. He sent Bernajoux and Cahusac to the gate ahead and wrote a note to Captain Luchaire. With that, all preparations were done and Jussac was satisfied that he could rely on each and every one of his men.

In the meantime, d'Artagnan fulfilled his part of the bargain between the guard and the stable master by accompanying Rochefort to the door and summarising in a terse report, »Biscarat is watching every move of la Nièvre and Sorel until we return with reinforcements. They seem to be preparing their escape, alone I couldn't do anything.«

»Then it really was nothing but a coincidence,« Rochefort mused aloud, not without adopting a cryptic tone. D'Artagnan, unlike usual, didn't seem to be able to interpret it properly; he didn't ask about the ring or the dead woman in the Seine, as if he had forgotten these important things altogether. He seemed irritable, a little nervous and absent-minded. His explanations sounded hollow.

»A sick bed visit, yes. As you correctly guessed, Odette de la Nièvre became careless after Grinchamps's arrest.« D'Artagnan hesitated before continuing, »Jussac will put an end to it tonight.«

»From your lips to Cardinal's ears, my friend.« He looked back to Jussac, who seemed to have issued all the necessary orders and was now catching up with them. As he passed, he gestured at d'Artagnan to cut short the conversation and join him.

Rochefort did not watch the two officers leave. He made his way to Richelieu's cabinet, already making his own preparations and formulating a report.