Chapter 11

They assigned Bernajoux to keep an eye on her. 'Monsieur' d'Artagnan had escaped a few day's imprisonment although he had passed on his first punishment to a maid. But it was considered necessary to have the fulfilment of various tasks supervised from now on in order to discipline the former musketeer.

Bernajoux was not exactly grateful for having to act as a nanny and let d'Artagnan know it at every second. As if by accident, he knocked over the ash bucket by the fireplace and even more accidentally, he got his boots into the spilled sweepings, paced the freshly furbished guardroom and gave d'Artagnan double cleaning duty in that way.

In the stables, Bernajoux suddenly underestimated the width of his shoulders and, in passing, knocked over the rack of bridles that d'Artagnan had just sorted, greased and hung up. She endured it silently and did the work anew, ignoring the itching of her hands, the chapped, irritated skin that made every move an ordeal and reopened barely healed wounds.

Once she looked up, cursing, as a snaffle slipped clumsily from her stiff fingers, and noticed Bernajoux' thoughtful expression towards her. His crooked nose twitched contemptuously as d'Artagnan turned quickly away to hide her hands from him. Bernajoux had long since noticed the reddened, inflamed stains, but he kept his mouth shut and checked the stables instead. He noticed that there was a lot to muck out.

The muskets had to be cleaned thoroughly, because under mysterious circumstances sand had got into them after the shooting exercises. The same sand had to be swept out of every joint in the courtyard until not a grain was left. The latrines were almost overflowing, the servants seemed to have forgotten to empty them.

It went on like this throughout the day and d'Artagnan pushed any anger, any feeling of injustice away so as not to make it worse for herself. Bernajoux was a master of small malices, she wouldn't have thought him capable of it. Perhaps he owed it to his friend Jussac to make the cursed musketeer's life hell today and he had volunteered, entirely without orders, to watch over d'Artagnan.

Only Sorel said no word of derision or laughed with the others at a joke at her expense. On the contrary, he even offered to help her carry the charcoals for the fireplaces, but she gruffly shooed him away. For his own good, because in the eyes of the other guardsmen she did not deserve any comradery or friendship. Bernajoux pretended not to notice d'Artagnan's brief, grateful glance at Sorel's back as he reluctantly left.

Towards afternoon, he finally let her alone as she folded the last few sewn and mended shirts and handed them to the armourer. But she was granted only a short rest; guard duty at the lonely side entrance still awaited her. It was to be her last task for the day, but before that she was allowed to rest a little in the guardroom and treat herself to a meal.

D'Artagnan used the time to anoint her hands and knead her aching shoulder muscles for some relief. The note fell into her fingers again as she put the small ointment jar back into her trouser pocket. She had taken the small piece of paper out of her dress and pocketed it. Now seemed the right moment to finally take a look at it and return it to its owner, although all men in the guardroom ignored her to the best of their ability. The note was at least a good excuse to try to soften the hardened fronts between her and the others.

She unfolded it, it was a terse message. Right at the top of the first line, the recipient was politely addressed as Sorel. He was to be present at the side gate after duty hours today, it said, to exchange views on the matter. That was enough for her to know, she read no further, noting only fleetingly that it was signed 'Bisc.'. Obviously a message from comrade to comrade, which no one else was to know about and therefore it had not been delivered verbally. It was not a secret love letter with a request for a tryst.

Frowning at herself, she brushed the last thought aside, finished her meal and left for guard duty.

»Batz, Batz... I'm telling you, the name sounds familiar,« Biscarat murmured absently. His gaze seemed fixed on a point somewhere in the past, far from the here and now, from the archway and the street beyond. He searched his memory for times, for places and people, for occasions and events that could be connected and give a complete picture to his vague suspicions.

Bernajoux was not particularly helpful to him. He just shrugged and dismissed Biscarat's instinct as an exaggerated eagerness to spy, a spinning born of a vivid mind. Similar to his own thoughts about injured hands and tired arms. Imagination, nothing more. »From this morning.«

Biscarat brushed the objection aside. »No, no, I've heard the name before. It just won't occur to me when and where! Help me, will you?«

»Cannot.«

»Fine friend you are!«

Bernajoux snorted in offence and pointed with his chin at a third figure who was approaching them in good spirits. »Then ask him.«

It was Sorel who made his way towards them. He seemed at peace with himself and the world, as blithe as ever. Unlike Bernajoux, who had spent the whole day keeping an eye on a constant pest. Biscarat would not let him take five minutes to rest, but was still speculating about the maid they had surprised in the washhouse that morning.

Bernajoux did not care who she was. She played no part in finding out why d'Artagnan had been removed from the Musketeers to the Cardinal's Red Guard. Whereas he faced nothing but hostility from all sides because of it and had not made himself particularly useful as a guardsman so far. A strange decision, and one that was accompanied by a demotion. It smelled like a transfer for disciplinary reasons. But why? Why to the Red Guard of all regiments?

They had discussed it in the parlour of Jussac's house and decided they wanted to find out. If only to show Rochefort his limitations, that he had no business interfering in the regiment's concerns and smuggling in a bad egg. Sorel was helping them to find out d'Artagnan's character and intentions. He thought nothing ill of it; his natural curiosity and sincerity had made him seek comradeship where there was none. Bernajoux and Biscarat only had to ask him for his assessment, it was supposed to be a harmless conversation.

»You called, here I am!« Sorel saluted nonchalantly. He knew why he had been summoned and handled the whole matter with irony. By now he thought the accusations against d'Artagnan unfounded, the suspicion exaggerated.

»Any news?« growled Bernajoux irritably.

»You spent more time with him today than I did, so the question is deflected upon you.«

»Hmph.«

»No news, then.« concluded Sorel, amused, and looked questioningly at Biscarat to see if that meant he was dismissed for now or that they were going to visit a tavern after hours.

For his part, Biscarat did not take it so lightly. »Today was an exception. You, on the other hand, seem to get on better with d'Artagnan every day, especially since the incident at the gate.«

»The Musketeers wanted to provoke.« Sorel shrugged. »D'Artagnan could have chosen to let us charge at each other but he didn't. That has to count for something, doesn't it?«

Biscarat heard the criticism of Jussac's subsequent punishment between the lines and replied, »Captain Luchaire considers it a final warning.«

»I know, I know.« Sorel sighed. He understood the gravity of the situation and he did not doubt Jussac's judgement. But perhaps he could help make that judgement more reasonable. He understood the distrust against the supposed enemy in their own ranks. But he did not share it; to him, d'Artagnan seemed of honourable character, thrown into the unfamiliar corps without malicious plans, but struggling to find a new place for himself. Even someone like him deserved a chance.

Sorel gradually looked behind the rough façade and found no guile or danger there, but... He did not know exactly what was there. A smile behind the rudeness, a timidity in every rejection. Something that attracted him in a mysterious way and made him feel quite confused. He concealed these thoughts from Biscarat and Bernajoux, they were not interested in Sorel's vague speculations and so he summarised the obvious to them.

»I can't get a personal word out of him, no matter how carefully I ask. He's defensive and reserved, but I wonder if that's because he's really hiding something. Perhaps it's only due to the old enmity between musketeers and guardsmen.«

»Or devious intentions,« Biscarat replied, as if there was only that one conclusion possible, and Bernajoux agreed with him. »Espionage. I wouldn't talk to anyone either.«

Sorel looked doubtful, then remembered an incident a few days ago. »At least that much I learned at a shared meal; That he's not with us voluntarily, but he can't ask to be reassigned either, but has to stay because he'd have no other choice.«

»So there is more!« Biscarat exclaimed triumphantly, as if he had won a bet.

Bernajoux nodded to Sorel, »Just carry on.«

Sorel rolled his eyes at this childish inanities. »Of course, anything for the Red Guard! Just give me more time and-«

»That won't be necessary.«

Sorel flinched and turned towards the shaded stairway leading up to the ramparts. A low door was set into the archway. Rarely was it worthy of notice, for it was only an old reminder of times when Paris had to be as fortified as an ancient castle. The setting sun had made the shadows deep and hidden a person within a few paces of the guardsmen. A spy who now stepped forward with a stony mien and a bitter tug around the corners of the mouth. Anger and disappointment balanced each other out with a tiredness that did not stem solely from the many punitive tasks of the day.

D'Artagnan threw a crumpled note at the caught guardsmen's feet. »You think me a spy, and so send me one yourselves, to gain my confidence? Truly, if I wanted to know your secrets, I would have an easy time of it!«

She eyed the gentlemen with the withering look of a superior officer. Sorel ducked his head and seemed to ponder how the note had slipped from him and got into d'Artagnan's hands. Bernajoux grunted something inaudible that ranged between curses and imprecations. Biscarat returned the look challengingly, willing to fight their argument out right here and now.

D'Artagnan's hand shot up in an imperious gesture and ordered them to be silent. She seemed to have retained the authority of a lieutenant, for the men obeyed immediately and without grumbling. »Shameful. Dishonourable.« She had to take a deep breath to keep from shouting or doing anything else rash. More controlled, yet dangerously between her teeth, she continued, »If I were not your comrade, I would have to challenge all of you to a duel.«

She was damned serious about it. Deceived, betrayed. How could she have ever ventured to carelessly trust Sorel? »So you want to know my 'devious intentions'? If you send me no more false friends, I will confess. Answer!«

Bernajoux folded his arms, while Biscarat looked almost defiant. Sorel seemed to want to step forward to explain himself, but a warning look from d'Artagnan held him back. She nodded tersely. »That will do. A wretched bunch such as I have not yet come across, but you shall have the truth! His Eminence himself took the opportunity when it presented itself to him and conscripted me into his service. If there are any 'devious intentions' in his thoughts, then you will have to ask Rochefort about them. He knows better than I do how it came about, why my oath of allegiance is now to Richelieu. Pack off!«

Sorel wanted to say something, but Bernajoux and Biscarat just dragged him along with them. They had been put on a new track and did not care any further that they had been seen through.

They were equally indifferent to the fate of d'Artagnan, who still kept up the protective shield of rage until she was again left entirely to herself and felt lonelier than ever before.