Epilogue
The two guardsmen to the left and right of the double door kept a watchful eye on the antechamber to Richelieu's study. Their posture remained watchfully relaxed as d'Artagnan approached; unlike a few weeks ago, when his appearance had been followed with utmost distrust. Today, however, their faces spoke of esteem, indeed, the impossible had occurred; d'Artagnan had earned their respect.
He nodded to them in greeting. »Meunier. Forgeron.« He knew their names, they were no longer faceless figures in red uniforms. No eternal rivals, no scapegoats for others in the name of their master. They fulfilled their duty, disciplined, honourable and loyal. They were the Red Guard.
That morning, no other visitor, no supplicant, no diplomat or messenger had yet appeared in the antechamber. Outside, it dawned subdued behind heavy, grey clouds. Paris was tainted with sadness; a farewell was imminent. D'Artagnan had been summoned to His Eminence and the comrades willingly let him pass.
Silence enveloped him as soon as he had crossed the threshold to the study and the door closed behind him. His eyes wandered fleetingly over the desk made of dark rosewood. It was abandoned, the throne-like armchair behind it unoccupied. A strange emptiness struck d'Artagnan. There was no sound of a quill scratching on paper, no rustling of old book pages as they were turned, or at least the crackling of logs in the fireplace. He was shivering and suddenly flinched when it sounded in quiet amusement in his back, »I am not dead.«
Richelieu stood at one of the windows and watched the Cour d'Honneur below, which was crossed by only isolated figures at this early hour; lackeys and servants, couriers and messengers, maids and abigails, all on their way to their daily chores. Hard-working ghosts behind the scenes, without whom life in the palace would have slackened soon.
The Cardinal put his hands behind his back. His fingertips were black, he had made the final feather stroke under his Political Testament lying on the desk. The ink was still drying. »Even though numerous gossiper in this household may claim otherwise.«
Richelieu's reflection in the window fixed his gaze on the former musketeer in red uniform. The Prime Minister's face was marked by long illness, hollow-cheeked and gaunt. But his mind was clear, his intellect sharp, and his body was not allowed to give way. The fits of weakness, the cough seemed overcome.
D'Artagnan bowed. »You are doing well, Monseigneur.«
»Against secretly cherished wishes and hopes.« A barely perceptible smile lifted the corners of Richelieu's mouth before his attention returned to the courtyard. He seemed to be listening and d'Artagnan instinctively did the same. A muffled voice came up to them. It sounded familiar, vigorous and commanding; Jussac whilst morning roll call. The wind blew his orders into indistinct sounds and the Cardinal asked, »Is there a storm brewing on the horizon?«
D'Artagnan hesitated. He had certainly not been called in to philosophise about the weather, a day after he had fulfilled his mission. Rochefort would have known a suitable answer, enamoured of enigmatic, all-and-nothing speeches. But the master spy was not here to whisper the right answer to his friend, and so d'Artagnan said straight out what he thought. »Things are unchanged. There will not be a storm, the guard is faithfully devoted to you.«
Richelieu turned to him, half astonished and half amused. »That is not what I asked, Chevalier.«
»Forgive me if I misinterpreted the question.« D'Artagnan straightened and corrected himself, »There will be rain.«
The cardinal eyed him thoughtfully. »I appreciate the answer of an honest, loyal soldier. You have proved your worth.«
»Thank you, Emi-«
»But as for your mission,« Richelieu interrupted him, »I am less satisfied.«
He went from the window to the desk with conspicuously slow and cautious steps. His full health was obviously not restored yet but still he would have personally led an army into battle if political necessity had demanded it. He did not allow himself any respite by settling into his armchair. Instead, he picked up a report and read it over like an indictment. »A valet - dead. A maid - dead. A guardsman - dead.«
The words stung at d'Artagnan with a pointed blade. He parried them impassively, cold-bloodedly. »Mademoiselle Odette de la Nièvre has been found again.«
Richelieu raised a brow. »And that is all that matters?«
»That is all I was asked to do,« d'Artagnan replied boldly, and already saw himself sent to the gallows. Perhaps his name was the only thing missing from this unpleasant list to satisfy the most powerful man in France.
»Then you have accomplished your task.« The Cardinal put the report back to a pile of similar documents. It was impossible to tell what he was actually thinking, whether calculus or ire resonated in his voice. »A reward was agreed.«
D'Artagnan took notice that Richelieu spoke only vaguely of a reward and did not mention their earlier agreement in a single syllable. It did not surprise him. The Musketeers had forfeited their chances once and for all by the ambush on the Pont Marie, the regiment would not be reinstated with honour and therefore no lieutenant-captain was needed. D'Artagnan abandoned his hopes. He could be called lucky if he was not accounted for the unfortunate loss of the young Vicomte de Ventadour, Sorel's, to nip this newly flared-up politicking in the bud straight away. »Eminence?«
»I owe you my great-niece's safe and sound return. However, that was not achieved discreetly and without harm.« Richelieu shook his head as if he had expected it no differently and yet, against his better judgement, had hoped for a more pleasing outcome in this affair. »So I give you a choice whether to take a generous life annuity and leave Paris. Or to stay and answer for your actions.«
D'Artagnan did not have to think about it. With an annuity he was set for life, his honour and reputation remained untouched. He could leave as a free man. A peaceful existence in Gascony awaited him, an end to all wars and intrigues; sent into banishment like Tréville, who had preceded him weeks before with the same fate. »I shall stay, Monseigneur. Command me according to your judgement.«
Richelieu seemed neither astonished nor in any way impressed by the death-defying courage with which d'Artagnan had made his choice. On the contrary, he did not seem to have expected any other answer and reached for another document, which had obviously been prepared long ago. With a stroke of the quill he placed his signature. Hot wax dripped onto the paper and the Cardinal pressed his seal into it. An arrest warrant, a death sentence? Someone had to be the last pawn in this intrigue to offset the political damage, the indiscretion.
Richelieu waited patiently for the ink and wax to dry. He did not utter a syllable about the contents, nor did he hand over the document as if d'Artagnan's fate were of no further interest. Instead he said en passant, »Captain Luchaire has asked to retire. I will grant his request.«
»Monseigneur?« D'Artagnan kept a blank expression. The concerns of the regiment were of no further concern to him, and yet he listened attentively.
»I shall designate Jussac as captain.« Richelieu checked if the wax had colden and folded the paper. »He will need a capable second in command, a lieutenant.«
D'Artagnan focused his gaze on the golden letters of a codex on the shelf behind the cardinal. »There are many excellent men among the guards who are suitable to be officers. I suggest Bernajoux or Biscarat.«
»I did not ask for that assessment either.« Richelieu twisted his lips into a tired smile, weary of the feint attacks and parries in this skirmish. »You have passed your probation. So take back your patent and bear the consequences, entirely according to your choice. As senior lieutenant of my guard.«
D'Artagnan stared in disbelief at the hand that now held the document out to him. The patent. His patent. He had reckoned with everything, with a transfer to the front, with prison, with the gallows. But a promotion? Senior lieutenant of His Eminence's guard?
»You are hesitating.«
D'Artagnan blinked out of a thousand thoughts. »May I speak frankly?«
»You may try.«
»Was my decision against the life annuity in accordance with Your Eminence's wishes?«
»Will you ever treat gifts from my hand with anything but suspicion?« The Cardinal sighed audibly. He seemed to be running out of patience with this Gascon who was always far too rebellious and yet so useful. »Return to duty, fulfil it as before. Those are my wishes!«
»Understood!« D'Artagnan bowed, still confused by the unexpected turn of events - and at the same time surprised at how much he liked the idea of having found a new role.
Only when he was standing in the antechamber again and Meunier and Forgeron saluted briskly before congratulating him with a broad grins and a handshakes, did he fully realise; This uniform was hardly any different from the one he had worn before.
The soil was recently piled up and still moist. Rochefort took a few crumbs between his fingers and rubbed them together. They smelled aromatic, of turf and moss. The gravesite was adorned with a single white lily, laid down by a grieving woman's hand. A simple stone slab showed more details; Sorel was buried here. A common name for a common soldier.
They had put him six feet under without a lengthy ceremony. His comrades had held death watch during the night after his corpse had been laid out in an outbuilding of the cemetery. Rochefort had only taken a quick look at the motionless body, which had been washed and wrapped in cloths. He respected the guardsmen's wish to leave Sorel to them and did not disturb the farewell any further.
An undecorated wooden coffin had been lowered into the grave that morning amid the murmured prayers of a priest. A traitor would not have been allowed even that little, but Jussac had prevailed and designated this semi-anonymous grave in the cemetery as Sorel's final resting place. Odette de la Nièvre was forbidden to come here. She mourned in solitude in her rooms, a maid had placed the lily in her name.
Rochefort brushed his hands off on his coat and stepped back. He turned up his collar, a steady drizzle pervaded the air, penetrating through his clothes chilling to the bone. Paris loved human tragedy and suitable weather.
The stable master kept a straight face as someone joined him, silently looking at the grave in the same way. After a while Rochefort broke the silence. »She was pregnant.«
He turned his head to watch d'Artagnan. The lieutenant frowned without taking his eyes off the epitaph and Rochefort explained, »The dead woman found in the Seine. She was with child, the physician noted at the post-mortem.«
»Awful.«
»Mundane.« Rochefort shrugged. »An unwanted pregnancy, a desperate young woman. She may have drowned herself when she knew no other way out. Her name was Sarah Simon.«
»Does it matter?« asked d'Artagnan brusquely, not seeming to want to hear any more answers.
Rochefort had no consideration. »Word among the servants says that she had been a maid to Mademoiselle de la Nièvre, even her confidante. Your serendipity on the bridge was none after all.«
»The ring?« D'Artagnan buried his hands deep in his coat pockets. »Are my new orders to track down the child's father? Or her murderer, if she did not take voluntarily to the water?« He finally raised his eyes from the grave and looked at Rochefort. »Are you again suspecting a guardsman and asking unspeakable deeds of me?«
»No, nothing like that.« The stable master made a placating gesture. »Tragic as her fate may be, her life was too insignificant and her death too ordinary to warrant further investigation.«
»Then why telling me about it?«
»I thought it might be of some interest to you. It means that Elise Perrault is actually innocent and just happened to get caught in the middle.« Rochefort patted the lieutenant encouragingly on the shoulder. »Well, anyway, she won't be making eyes at you again, she has disappeared.«
»Without a trace?«
»No one disappears completely without a trace, my friend. No matter whether it is a duke's daughter or a hapless maid. But why should I hunt an innocent?«
»Indeed, why should you?« D'Artagnan eyed his counterpart scrutinisingly and did not seem to give him full credence. Rochefort left it unanswered in the open and pointed to the lily instead. The rain beaded like spring dew from the blossom onto the grave. »A new arrangement has been made for Odette de la Nièvre.«
»With her father's consent?«
»The negotiations were tough and protracted, and were decided in the end by the vigorous appearance of a beautiful angel.« The corners of Rochefort's mouth twitched in amusement. Odette de la Nièvre's adventure had at least won her a say over her father and uncle. »A pleasing candidate for marriage has been agreed upon.«
»It will hardly be the Baron de Grinchamps,« mocked d'Artagnan. »And I have already been firmly promised to my Chevrette.«
»Poor woman!«
»Bah, you may keep a jealous watch over me, Rochefort, I don't care. But tell me, what lucky man will soon marry into the noble house of the Nièvre family?«
»A certain Marquis de Lévis.«
D'Artagnan nodded, seemingly wanting to hide his ignorance of the most important names of ancient nobility in France.
»Ah, just one of those important families who hold numerous honorary titles and offices that a mere guardsman would never-« Rochefort hesitated and ran his hand thoughtfully over his chin. »Did you know that 'Sorel' was merely a nom de guerre?«
»It was on the pay roll. What are you getting at?«
»It just slipped my mind for a moment that it should properly be named 'Marquis of Lévis-Ventadour'. Or Vicomte?« Rochefort laughed out. »These confounded name and title confusions as soon as it gets to marriage politics! You have to be precise with such things if you want to trace all these relationships to the last degree.«
D'Artagnan could not share the feigned amusement and growled, »Will you have the grave dug up to see if really Grégoire de Ventadour is buried here?«
»It occurred to me, but His Eminence has given no orders.« Rochefort's eyes grazed the freshly thrown-up soil, the lily, one last time, then he turned and walked serenely towards the cemetery's gate. As expected, d'Artagnan soon caught up with him, but seemed to be anything but in a talking mood. So it was up to Rochefort to continue their conversation. »Richelieu is satisfied with the outcome of the affair. What about you?«
»I have received none of what I was promised at the beginning.« D'Artagnan smirked and admitted, »It couldn't have turned out better.«
»Indeed. You chose wisely.«
»Did I? And what do you think of it?«
»Me?« Rochefort stopped at the cast-iron gate, secured only by a rusty lock. The dead needed no protection, no guard. He eyed d'Artagnan gravely. »I will always stand behind you. Whatever and however you decide. As friend. As master spy.«
D'Artagnan smiled thinly. »A thought as comforting as it is threatening.«
»So it is inherent in our beings. We are creatures of the Cardinal.«
The lieutenant nodded slowly. He seemed to have come to terms with his changed situation and the situation with him. His countenance suddenly brightened and he called out, »The most expensive wine in France as soon as it's over. You promised, Comte!«
»Very well, and the largest wheel of cheese!« added Rochefort, and in the best concord they left behind any sepulchral mood that might have clouded their friendship.
His favourite armchair was his citadel, his castle, upholstered with wonderfully soft down-filled pillows and with a footstool ready for his feet. After a long day on duty for the Cardinal, there was nothing more pleasant than sinking into the armchair, a glass of wine in one hand and a good book in the other. The dear children already in bed, the best wife quietly embroidering - this, Jussac imagined, was how a day should end.
Reality looked different. His citadel had been stormed, his castle conquered. Mathilde was hopping on the cushion and Lucas was trying unsuccessfully to dissuade his little sister. Gabrielle was working somewhere in the kitchen, instructing the new governess, and Jussac stood overwhelmed in the frame of the parlour, not knowing whether to scold the children or to ignore their goings-on. He chose to live up to his new post as highest ranking officer and delegated the task further. »Gabrielle!«
She obviously did not hear him, for no maroon lion's mane appeared to support him with maternal authority and restrain the children. Jussac winced, for Mathilde emitted a deafening squeal as Lucas grabbed her. In a tangle of arms and legs, they both tumbled to the floor. Lucas jumped to his feet first and threw himself into the cushions, Mathilde somehow squeezed between and the scuffle continued with pinching and biting.
Jussac shook his head and slipped away to find a place of peace and quiet for himself. He did not pass the door to the kitchen unseen. However preoccupied and distracted Gabrielle had been a few moments ago, it did not escape her attention that her husband was now apparently trying to steal away.
»Darling?«
Just one word, and it was less a question than a command to stop and explain himself at once. Jussac sighed inaudibly and gestured over his shoulder. »A battle is raging in the parlour.«
A loud shriek confirmed him and then it suddenly went all silent. Someone must have done something bad. Jussac blinked in surprise as a shadow flitted past him. He just saw copper-coloured curls wafting, braided in a loose plait, and then the hem of a dress disappearing into the parlour.
He listened. The silence turned to no crying. The new governess was a natural talent in dealing with the children. At most, her way of disappearing almost invisibly into the background took some getting used to - and it was certainly extremely helpful for education.
Gabrielle smiled and towelled her hands, which had just had been in a bowl of bread dough, with her apron. »Madeleine Chevrette recommended her to me, we're going to hire her.«
Jussac nodded with an innocent air. »Maybe she would like to hear our appraisal in case she needs a nursemaid of her own in the near future.«
»Do you mean she and-?«
Gabrielle was already in a gossipy mood, but Jussac snorted away any further comment on that. »None of my business!«
»Oho! Monsieur is in one of his moods again!« Gabrielle laughed brightly when her husband grimaced in response. She nudged him teasingly with her elbow. »Do you think Richelieu actually wanted to punish you with this promotion? You can't hide anything from me, Auguste! You've been pondering all day how you two are supposed to get along.«
Jussac shrugged and looked towards the parlour, which seemed suspiciously peaceful and quiet. A lone down feather drifted out into the corridor. »We'll get used to each other.«
»-and learn to trust.« said Gabrielle with conviction and a little mischievously at the same time. »Or already do so, and just don't know it yourselves yet.«
A sly smile gleamed in her eyes as she walked past her perplexed husband to the parlour to check on the children and the young and very pretty governess. »I trust, in any case, that you won't only be eternally faithful to the Cardinal!«
The End
Author's note: Thanks for reading and special thanks to Greenlips24 for her many, great reviews and PM conversations!
The story may not have had a happy ending for all the characters and it may not be the ending readers were expecting. At least that's what I'm hoping for! I like to break with expectations, while not promising anything untrue; D'Artagnan's life has changed completely.
I have no plans for a sequel. But I have lots and lots of older Musketeer stories to share with you that I could translate. In some of them, the missing Athos, Porthos and Aramis also play a role, but d'Artagnan is always the main character. Also, they refer to the original book and not the series, but those who followed this story here to the end hopefully had no understanding problems or got to confused.
So if there is interest, I could publish more. I had a lot of fun translating, but I don't want to put all my energy into it without feedback first. I think you understand that.
Until (hopefully) the next time!
