Chapter 8
Days passed and the Rue de Vieux-Colombier lived up to its name; it was like a dovecote, a constant coming and going, strutting and bragging of men in royal blue plumage, whose meeting place and headquarters was the Hôtel de Tréville. For some time now they knew that their lieutenant has abandoned them and changed sides. Pauger and Jumonville had discovered it and their comrades believed their story.
The captain, meanwhile, locked himself in his study, foul-tempered. The musketeers suspected murderous thoughts against his former lieutenant and the cardinal behind his gloomy thoughts. Adjutant Duprés organised the daily routine within the regiment so that nothing would leak out until Tréville recovered from the blow or come up with a counter plan.
The musketeers did not know what was really going on. Only Duprés knew what has really happened, but he could offer the desperate captain no advice on what to do. The men trusted their superiors unconditionally, they went about their duties as usual and pulled themselves together. It was their way of backing up the captain by not causing him any additional trouble - although many of them felt like provoking guardsmen or cardinalists in the streets and taking revenge for the foul attack that has hit them right in the heart.
The blame was to be found with d'Artagnan and this confused and unsettled the musketeers. It simply did not fit with the lieutenant's character like they used to know 'him', and since Tréville was silent and no word could be obtained from Duprés, resentment grew in the corps. Pauger's anger in particular gradually changed from hostility to hatred. Up to now, he had only clenched his fists and let his friend Jumonville calm him down. But now he called for a secret war council after duty hours to consult with some comrades from the innermost circle.
Robeaux was there, Moirod, Leroi and of course Jumonville. They met in a secluded corner of the courtyard, between the stables and the laundry. The meeting did not go unnoticed by the other musketeers, not by the servants. It was easy to guess what was to be discussed there, and people went about their own duties extremely conscientiously in order to distract Duprés. The old adjutant would never have tolerated such conspiratorial gossip at headquarters in the name of Tréville and would have disbanded the meeting.
Pauger chewed on his beard, his face haggard and pale from a wrath that fed on itself and grew every day. Jumonville watched this with concern, he has always been the more even-tempered of the two friends and the musketeers trusted his assessment of the situation as he seemed more impartial in the matter. But Jumonville knew equally little explanation, though he had exchanged two words more with d'Artagnan, there at the servants' entrance to the Palais Cardinal. He did not want to believe in treachery, even though he had been brusquely shooed away instead of receiving an answer to his 'why'.
»Maybe it's all a ruse to spy on Richelieu?" he asked his thoughts alloud. »So elaborate that none of it has leaked out to us?«
»A ruse that almost tears us apart?« Leroi had the cleverest head of them and now shook it in disbelief. »The captain would have foreseen that, and Duprés would have advised him that the disadvantage outweighed the benefit.«
»D'Artagnan can be very stubborn when he has a supposedly good idea,« said Jumonville, and even Robeaux, who could not be said to be a particularly open-hearted and cheerful person, smirked. They all knew their lieutenant well; they had at least always thought they were familiar with the officer and his peculiarities. They had never questioned some of the oddities in d'Artagnan's character, some inconsistencies in his demeanour, and never suspected that their lieutenant might be someone quite different from what they believed him to be and what they had been told.
All the more doubt gnawed at them now because of never openly expressed conjectures and vague suspicions, that d'Artagnan was hiding a secret from them.
Pauger's breath smelled alcohol as he spat out, »Whitewash! We are betrayed, only that is true!«
»Do you have an explanation?«
»What for? It changes nothing, nothing at all!« Pauger wanted to yell at the others how stupid they were to keep making up new stories to defend d'Artagnan. There was nothing to embellish, their lieutenant had been bought by the cardinal and now strutted through the streets day in and day out in a red tunic, taunting the musketeers by this sight. »That bastard lives for his new vocation!«
The others hesitated after these harsh words. By now they had all been able to see d'Artagnan in the new uniform, by chance only, glimpsed from across the street whenever their paths crossed. They had been ignored, avoided as if they suddenly no longer existed; they had no idea that d'Artagnan was dodging them out of shame.
Once or twice, various comrades had considered seeking a conversation with their former lieutenant. Privately, after duty. But d'Artagnan was always to be found only between the way home and the Palais Cardinal, as if her free time no longer meant anything to her, as if she lived only for her service as a guardsman. She was neither to be found in her favourite tavern, the Fir Cone, nor on a walk in the Jardin du Luxembourg or conversing with acquaintances, as she had been in the past.
One of the musketeers had been brave enough to go to her house in the Rue Tiquetonne and knocked on the door. But the landlady, Madeleine Chevrette, had sent the visitor away, claiming that d'Artagnan was indisposed. After that, no one has tried a second time. They had given up on their lieutenant, as d'Artagnan had on them. Their questions turned to insults and contemptuous stares. Perhaps Pauger was right and they should stop looking for explanations and excuses and face the facts.
Moirod, the youngest in the circle, was just listening to the others. But now, into the depressed silence, he asked the right question. »What should we do?«
All eyes went to Pauger. He had called them, he should make the decision. His jaws were grinding and everyone knew that his answer would amount to violence. Pauger wanted vengeance and believed he was acting in the captain's interests. »A duel!«
There was a low murmur of assent, though not a very enthusiastic one. It seemed only logical to fight for the honour of the regiment, to make amends for the disgrace. Only Jumonville vehemently contradicted his friend. »No! Teaching a lesson, all well and good. But to be run through by a sword?«
»Or run d'Artagnan through instead!«, Pauger threw back so loudly that the others looked around hastily. A few heads were turned in their direction, silent words exchanged with eyes. Then everyone went back to minding their own business and pretended that none of the secret council has leaked out.
Jumonville grabbed his friend by the arm, as he had done so many times in recent days, to call him to his senses. »I understand you, but damn it, this is insane!«
»Are you scared?«
Jumonville's grip tightened at the insult, his eyes glared angrily. »No, and if I had to, I would challenge d'Artagnan myself. But there are better means of teaching him a lesson.«
»Name one!«
Jumonville released Pauger and faced the others. Robeaux, Moirod and Leroi looked back expectantly. If they had to, any of them would have been ready to engage in battle, even against d'Artagnan. But they were still open minded about other ways of making amends and Jumonville proposed a bloodless solution to them.
They listened to his idea, thought it convincing and agreed to meet a few days later, when they had won over more comrades to their plan.
They parted, only Pauger stayed behind and clenched his fists in dissatisfaction until the blood has drained from his fingers.
Sorel had been waiting for exactly this moment.
He was lurking in the guardroom for what felt like hours and now, finally, d'Artagnan entered. The former musketeer was alone, as always. While the other guardsmen had at least one comrade for company at lunchtime, d'Artagnan sat down with the rations at a table far away, in the most secluded corner.
Sorel watched surreptitiously for a few more minutes. He did not want to jump right in, d'Artagnan did not need to know that he had been lying in wait; on behalf of Bernajoux and Biscarat, who wanted to suss out the unwanted recruit, to learn about the intention behind why d'Artagnan has suddenly sworn allegiance to the cardinal and yet has been demoted. Rochefort had asked to keep an eye on d'Artagnan. That was suspicious enough, everyone here knew that the stable master and the musketeer lieutenant were actually best friends. Something had to have happened between them.
Bernajoux and Biscarat had consulted Sorel because their enmity with d'Artagnan ran too deep for them to observe and investigate unobtrusively themselves. Their comrade was a friendly, neutral face, he was able to approach and spy on the enemy. Sorel thought nothing of this kind of espionage, when a frank conversation would probably be quite sufficient. The others were only too prejudiced against d'Artagnan to believe that they would receive honest answers to their questions.
Sorel was indeed neutral towards the musketeer, admittedly curious as well. The older comrades liked to tell their war stories and often the lieutenant of the musketeers played a role in them as a nasty adversary. They spoke of him in a mixture of derision for the enemy and respect for his skills. It did not fit into this picture that d'Artagnan has changed sides and carried out every order that Jussac issued without grumbling, without rebellion. One would have expected more resistance.
Sorel thought the right moment come. As if he has just entered himself, he strolled to the fireplace, helped himself to the stew and then pretended to look around for a free seat. At one of the tables, Cahusac caught his glance. The older guardsman frowned when Sorel nodded at him in greeting but then made his way directly to d'Artagnan.
She spooned the rations with little appetite and besides wrote down a watch report. She did not look up when Sorel approached, who failed to decipher the illegible handwriting of an officer. He sat down opposite her and asked belatedly, »Is this seat free?«
D'Artagnan looked up in surprise and instinctively withdrew the report to make room for Sorel's dish. She frowned. »Apparently so.«
»Thank you, bon appétit!«
While Sorel was now tucking into his stew, d'Artagnan cast a suspicious glance around the guardroom. Some men have noticed their comrade's unexpected choice of seat and Cahusac in particular showed some scepticism. But then the veteran guardsman went back to minding his own business and d'Artagnan breathed a sigh of relief. There seemed to be no prank planned against her, as it has happened several times in the past days. Those were never direct attacks, certainly not beatings or the worst humiliations; just little things to make life difficult for d'Artagnan in the Red Guard. Such things as thistles in the saddle blanket that had to be laboriously removed or a late notice that she was supposed to be somewhere and got in trouble for not being on time.
The guardsmen were clever enough to always make it look like d'Artagnan's own fault and negligence, so that Lieutenant Jussac, who did not know about it, would not get the captain's anger. The agreed truce applied only to serious incivility, not to minor malice, as d'Artagnan did soon understand. She kept her mouth shut and endured the pranks, which were annoying, childish, but not seriously dangerous. Jussac, however, extended her guard duty at the side gate indefinitely, since the new recruit apparently had to learn discipline before could be assigned elsewhere.
Not only did the monotonous guard duty gradually drain d'Artagnan's morale, but the blatant hostility of old and new comrades, the small and large taunts, slowly sapped her strength. She could not forget about the encounter with Jumonville and Pauger; she fled whenever she saw a musketeer. The angry, disappointed looks nevertheless followed her everywhere, even into her dreams.
She seemed to be on her own, for neither Rochefort nor Tréville sent any word, nor did they seek her out personally, and d'Artagnan did not attempt to make contact herself, where obviously none was wanted.
At least, after uncounted days in service to the cardinal, she was still unidentified as a woman. It was not only the Musketeers who were blind to some truths. In the Red Guard, d'Artagnan was protected by the sheer ignorance of the men; those who never spoke to her, disregarded her and relegated her to lonely posts, were also unable to uncover any secrets.
It was all the more surprising that Sorel now seemed to have willingly sought her company and he asked between bites, as if they had been comradely acquaintances for years, »How was duty today?«
D'Artagnan struggled to keep an inscrutable countenance that did not reveal her thoughts or her exhaustion. »Good.«
She feigned complete concentration on the report to avoid conversation. Sorel, however, was not to be brushed off so easily. »Did you immerse yourself in the Guard by now?«
»Hm.«
»I see. Perhaps next time we will be assigned to guard duty together. Jussac changes the schedule weekly.«
»Ah.«
Even old Cahusac uttered longer one-word sentences, or at least answered with an eloquent look. Sorel scrutinised d'Artagnan thoughtfully. The musketeer looked tired, visibly reserved and unwilling to offer any sustenance to the guardsman's curiosity. Could a demoted officer be blamed for not wanting to talk about duty? Sorel had to change his tactics if he wanted to learn anything, if he wanted to gain trust somehow. Perhaps with questions about private life?
»How do you spend your time after hours? One could almost think you live in the palace and emerge from some chamber in the morning to disappear into it again in the evening.«
D'Artagnan was not in the mood for jokes, for she looked up from her watch report with a frown. »What are you doing here, at my table?«
»...eating?«
»Nonsense! Nobody joins me for lunch.«
»No wonder, you are a lousy conversationalist.« Sorel gave up. There was no getting a sensible word out of the arrogant fellow, let others try their luck!
However, contrary to his first impulse to take his dish now and seek friendlier company, he remained seated in place. He has noticed a fleeting smile, less amused than bitter, and he wondered what joke he must have missed, when d'Artagnan murmured, »A lousy conversationalist, indeed, and a drunkard with a nasty affair with a woman.«
»What do you mean?«
D'Artagnan had to smile wearily at that question, Sorel's curiosity. He was not a bad person, quite the contrary. He had voluntarily accepted her on the first day and, even though she had rudely rejected him to protect herself, still dared to sit at her table. At another time, if fate had taken different paths, they might have become comrades. He was kind to her and without prejudice. He did not participate in the pranks of his comrades, because he was self-confident enough to stay out of such mischief.
He reminded her of her own curiosity as to Athos' reticence and his favourite word, »vanities«, which could nip any conversation in the bud. Out of melancholy, the remark about drunkards and nasty affairs had slipped out of her mouth. »What should I mean? I just like a glass of wine in the evening.«
»What affair?«
Sorel did not seem to know when to leave it at that, and harsh answers did not scare him away. It forced d'Artagnan to tell a bald-faced lie, which she had repeated so often that it had already become a useful truth and which Madeleine Chevrette, for her own reasons, has never yet contradicted. »My landlady does not know that I am now wearing a different uniform. Every evening I sneak into my room so as not to have to talk to her. By now she must think I care more about another affair than her. Women, eh?«
Sorel frowned and his mental image of the glorious lieutenant of the Musketeers got another crack. Who wanted to learn that d'Artagnan was anything but a valiant man of honourable character? Even Bernajoux and Biscarat would have been less vindicated than disappointed by this. »Isn't that...?«
»Cowardly?« D'Artagnan shrugged, as if this insult could not hit her. Cowardice was not to be blamed on her, but on two gentlemen who had turned their backs on her and abandoned her. »You do not know my Chevrette! She has upper arms like a washerwoman and a stare that freezes souls.«
»Was that a joke?« Sorel was unable to tell if he was just being made fun of. Did the always scowling and haughty musketeer, who made it clear with every word and gesture that he wanted to keep the greatest possible distance from his comrades, have a sense of humour after all? Sorel had conceived an idea of d'Artagnan from what the other guardsmen had told. It dawned on him that he would have to form his own opinion. He was just learning that it was not only Biscarat who hid his thoughts behind gascon impudence, for d'Artagnan assured him with exaggerated sincerity, »By no means! Lying to my landlady will end badly!«
»So that is what you do after hours!«
»What about you?«, d'Artagnan distracted him from herself. Sorel played along. He showed an exaggeratedly unhappy face and resembled an abandoned puppy in such a way that he would have softened any heart, won any woman over by it. »Elise Perrault, that is my landlady's name, and she is not the least bit interested in me...«
D'Artagnan's brows drew together, not only because of Sorel's acting talent, but because she found herself wanting to pat his shoulder comfortingly. »Is she pretty?« she asked instead, biting her tongue at the same moment. What business was it of hers? Why did she continue talking to Sorel at all, instead of shooing him away from her table and avoiding the risk of becoming too familiar with him and possibly giving herself away?
»Very much so!" he nodded. »Young and pretty. Copper-coloured curls, a cute dimple on her chin and anything but skinny at the right parts.« He described the maid who had caught d'Artagnan's eye on the very first day during guard duty.
»You are in love?« she asked.
»Not that much.«
»I see. If she doesn't care for you, you are wise to fall 'not that much' in love and end up losing everything.« D'Artagnan could not have guessed that she was speaking more from Tréville's heart than from her own. If she had known, she would have become infinitely angry.
Sorel blinked in wonder. »Shall I not fight to win her over instead?«
»Bah, that's fighting a hopeless battle that will earn you nothing more than grief.«
»Do you speak from experience?«
»Not my own,« lied d'Artagnan, brushing aside further, all too personal questions. »Do you not fear the displeasure of your comrades if you linger any longer at my table?«
»I am too respected to be met with displeasure!« asserted Sorel with utter conviction, daring to joke, »Perhaps some of my reputation will shine on you if I continue to bother with you.«
»Too gracious, that will hardly happen. A former guardsman among musketeers would hardly fare differently. He would be no less undesirable, I accept that.«
»Although you know this, you stay?«
»I have no choice.« D'Artagnan realised her mistake before Sorel could respond. She had probably not been able to talk to anyone for too long, had not even spoken to Madeleine about her worries and fears, so she willingly fell for Sorel's friendly offer to listen to her. She fled to another untruth. »Somehow I have to earn my living, no one else would take in a demoted officer.«
Sorel laughed out. »Was that an insult against the Red Guard?«
»A fact. We are done here.« D'Artagnan ended the conversation. But against her will, she had to admit that Sorel has brightened her mood a little and things no longer seemed so bleak and hopeless. It was... pleasant not to sit alone and pretend to be busy, to distract herself from the fact that no one wanted to associate with her - because she herself had seen to that with her dismissive manner, for fear of discovery. Sorel might be quite a suitable comrade if he eventually shed this curiosity. »Until tomorrow, Sorel.«
»Tomorrow it is!«
D'Artagnan watched him go as he joined his own folk for the remaining lunchtime. If they teased him about fraternising with the enemy, d'Artagnan learned nothing of it, for she finished her meal, handed in the report and left the guardroom for her lonely post at the forgotten side entrance.
