Chapter 10

The unpleasant encounter between Musketeers and Red Guards at the main gate was not without consequences. Although she had done nothing wrong, d'Artagnan nevertheless found herself doing a punishment task the next evening to atone for the lack of discipline that Captain Luchaire accused her of.

The washhouse resembled hell's precipice. Hot clouds of steam wafted foggily through the vaults, making breathing difficult and work a torture. Thick drops beaded from the brick walls. The windows were no more than narrow nooks in the wall and did not let in enough fresh air. The ceiling was low and countless ropes strung along the beams, criss-crossed, so that it was impossible to move without crouching. Wet laundry had been thrown over them, not to dry, for that was impossible in the ever-humid rooms, but to separate the thoroughly washed and wrung laundry from the piles of dirty clothes collected in seemingly bottomless baskets.

The washerwomen sweated pathetically despite their rolled-up sleeves and gathered skirts, while they scrubbed the laundry in the tubs with tallow and ashes or boiled it in large copper kettles. Sweat ran down their faces, stood in dark patches under their armpits and stuck to their hair under their bonnets. Other maids constantly refilled hot water from buckets at the fireplace or took the laundry off the ropes to hang it outside to dry. The women took turns in the tasks, so that each could escape into the fresh air once loaded with heavy baskets.

Even among the white linen, tops and stockings, pointed collars and waifs, there was a hierarchy. The uniforms and shirts of the guardsmen, the liveries of the valets and maids, were cleaned with ash lye; only the best, expensive soap touched the clothes of the nobility. To the washerwomen, soap or ashes was the same, for their hands were bruised from every lye after their work was done, and they had to be cared for with lots of ointment and bandages. Their skin was nothing but calluses and leather, their fingernails cracked and brittle.

It seemed incomprehensible to d'Artagnan that, despite the laborious toil, the women could gossip, talk and laugh with each other in an oppressively sweltering atmosphere, as if they had met in the marketplace in the best of weather. Perhaps it was their bond, their very own kind of comradeship, that made the work bearable.

Mademoiselle Batz, as d'Artagnan had introduced herself abridged, had been accepted by the washerwomen in her ranks without reservations or curious questions. The only gossip was about the nobility, about those up there. The servants kept together and did not ask about background and personal history, as long as one was industrious and obedient.

D'Artagnan had borrowed a simple, plain dress from Madeleine Chevrette to do her punishment work after hours. Without ever having entered the washhouse before, she trusted her instinct and wore a dress instead of her uniform. On the one hand, so as not to give the washerwomen any reason for speculation or even making interested eyes at 'Monsieur' d'Artagnan. On the other hand, because it was practical, as she could get some relief in the hot haze with her corset laces loosened. She could not have taken off the uniform without giving herself away. But not taking it off while working would only have made it suspicious.

Thus it was that a Mademoiselle Charlotte Batz scrubbed and washed the uniforms of her comrades, her teeth clenched and her hands burning from the sharp lye. It was no pleasure at all, and after a while her skin was red and sore, her vision obscured by the stuffy steam, so that a superintendent finally took pity on her and sent her to sort the laundry. From the understanding and encouraging smiles of the other women, d'Artagnan could tell that every one of them had suffered the same experience in the beginning.

Her respect for the washerwomen grew at the same rate as it diminished for Jussac. The lieutenant could have thought of a day in arrest or more double guard duty as punishment for the incident at the main gate. It had ended lightly, partly because of Sorel's clever words against Pauger, for which d'Artagnan was grateful to him. The musketeers had left without having achieved anything, but their provocative appearance had made d'Artagnan a great nuisance in Captain Luchaire's eyes. As if she had personally invited the musketeers to loiter outside the gates and challenge the guardsmen to forbidden duels! Luchaire demanded an example. Jussac had no choice but to carry the captain's wrath on to her, and he had thought of the washhouse, of all places!

Her anger at Jussac and his strange sense of humour was only superficial. In truth, it was directed at Tréville, who tolerated that the once esteemed and respected lieutenant of the Musketeers was thought to be a traitor. It was a thrust, a stab in the back, worse even than any punishment Jussac could devise.

More violently than necessary, d'Artagnan shook out a uniform she has taken randomly from the laundry basket. She whipped the tunic through the air, not caring what the washerwomen might think of her behaviour. A small piece of paper slipped out of a pocket and fell to the floor. Quickly, d'Artagnan put a foot on it and hid the note from prying eyes. She put the uniform in a pile of similarly coloured clothes and in the same movement bent down for the note, only to hide it in the folds of her apron.

It was not so much curiosity that drove her, but a duty-bound loyalty to the Red Guard, of which she had become an involuntary part. A small rapprochement between her and the men had taken place at the gate, a tiny step away from mutual distrust and contempt. To hide a note, be it a secret love letter or a simple grocery list, from the washerwomen and later return it to the guardsman in question, if she found out which one it was, seemed the right thing to do.

The work went on relentlessly, hour after hour passed without the mountains of laundry seeming to shrink. Darkness has long since fallen, and soon the night watchman could be heard calling out the verses to the ten in the streets. D'Artagnan's limbs ached from the unaccustomed activities, her arms were heavy and her legs tired, her hands burning red and yet freezing cold. But then, the last shirt was milled, the last underskirt hung up to dry. The women had become exhausted and taciturn, but satisfied and proud of their work.

D'Artagnan listened with strained politeness to what else there was to gossip about on the way out into the courtyard, through the gate into the streets and homewards. The goodbyes to each other passed her by unheard, she staggered home and her last memory before falling into a dreamless sleep was a sharp cry by Madeleine as she caught sight of her friend's hands, and then the invitingly soft pillow beneath d'Artagnans head.

Jussac's jaws were grinding, he clenched his hands into fists. There was just one wince, one wrong word missing, that he would have given free rein to his rage.

The sun was not quite up yet, the dawn was just faintly grazing the peaked roofs and, apart from the lieutenant, only the earliest servants and the palace's night watch were awake. The Palais Cardinal was still sleepily dozing, and yet Jussac has already received the first report before formally going on duty. From Biscarat, who had again demonstrated his talent as an attentive observer and occasional spy last night and had kept his promise to Rochefort and Jussac to always keep an eye on their new recruit.

The laundry lay neatly folded, clean and fragrant, sorted into several piles of tunics, shirts, trousers and other clothing on the shelves in front of the washhouse. The guard's stuffmaster just had to have them fetched. With a tremendous effort of will, Jussac turned his gaze from the laundry to Biscarat, who was standing next to him. He shrugged, which inflamed his friend's already combustible mood even more.

Jussac's gaze moved on to Bernajoux, who stood like a rock, gigantic and scarred-faced, an incorruptible gatekeeper, posted at the door to the washhouse. No one got past him without permission. Especially not the Mademoiselle in the dress of a mere commoner, who stood apart, intimidated by Bernajoux' presence, her eyes fixed on the tips of her shoes and her hands folded under her apron. A few curls had fallen from her simple hairdo over her forehead and hid her face behind a dark curtain. The pale twilight did the rest to make her soft features unrecognisable in the shadows.

D'Artagnan had been surprised by the three guardsmen just as she had put the last stack of clothes on the shelves. The strenuous and dangerous life of a soldier meant that she could get by on little sleep and still be up on time. Before the first cockcrow, she has therefore wanted to get rid of the last task of her punishment, has fetched the dried clothes, folded them and sorted them for the stuffmaster. She has borrowed one of Madeleine's dresses again to be let into the washhouse as a maid without long explanations.

By no means was she intimidated now by her capture! But her heart was beating wildly because her disguise must not to be seen through. Her hands were still sore and sensitive, even though Madeleine has applied a healing ointment to them. Her fingers felt for the note she carried in her apron and she gripped it firmly. Brave as she might be on a battlefield wearing an uniform, she had now robbed herself of her disguise and got into dangerous hot water.

Fortunately, Jussac's attention was more on the shelf than on the woman, who had merely done her work on it. The lieutenant only glanced at her fleetingly before he turned to Biscarat and said between gritted teeth, »So someone has been doing the corvée in his place?«

Biscarat nodded slowly, not needing to point at d'Artagnan to have explained everything with that. »Yes.«

»You, Maiden!«

D'Artagnan flinched under Jussac's thunderous command as she would never have done otherwise in the line of duty. But right now she lacked the protective shield of an officer's commission and her primary concern was not to be recognised. So her overly feminine behaviour was not inconvenient.

»Monsieur?« she whispered, barely audible, in an undisguised voice, hoping to distinguish herself enough from the rough and gruff tone of a Monsieur d'Artagnan.

»Was it you?«

It was useless to deny it. Biscarat must have watched the washerwomen closely and he had not noticed a reprimanded guardsman among them. How stupid she had been! How naïve to think it was enough to show the clean laundry and not the work itself! »Yes, Mons-«

Her last syllable was lost in an angry roar. Jussac lost his temper, he reached into the compartments with both hands and tore out the laundry, flung the shirts to the floor, threw the tunics with them and might have knocked over the entire wardrobe if Biscarat had not stopped him by a grip on his arm.

Bernajoux abandoned his post at the door to step between Jussac and d'Artagnan. An unnecessary gesture, perhaps just part of an often well-tried game between good and evil to sufficiently intimidate the pretended maid. Jussac did not get violent against her, of course not. He was angry with a certain musketeer, but he would have never, ever beat a woman nor any other innocent. But he gave vent to his rage by curses that would have made a carter's face blush with shame. It took many soothing words from Biscarat and the unwavering composure of Bernajoux to get over the tantrum.

Meanwhile, d'Artagnan has only stared motionlessly at the crumpled laundry in the dust instead of fleeing through the open door, as the guardsmen might have expected her to do, into the arms of her supposed lover, who would thus be in for a double scolding, first from her, later from Jussac. The fact that she stayed and clenched her fists hidden under her apron in the face of the destruction of her hard work, her lips no more than a thin line, seemed first to catch Biscarat's and Bernajoux' attention, and finally Jussac's as well. He frowned.

»What is your name, Maiden?«

She was no maid, nor a helpless female or a timid fawn, mordieux! D'Artagnan raised her head and strode past the guardsmen. At the door she paused and threw at them, »Charlotte Batz!« with pride.

The men let her go unmolested. D'Artagnan slammed the door behind her as only an enraged lieutenant would have thrown it and marched back into the Rue Tiquetonne. Homeward to exchange the dress for the uniform and then face Jussac again in her true guise - and to get an inevitable disciplinary punishment.