7. Revelations

Midmorning of the next day found three Musketeers reclining in Siroc's workshop. Since d'Artagnan was not allowed to visit Café Nouveau, they had to make do with coffee scrounged out from the garrison kitchens. The topic of conversation had turned to the previous night's adventure.

"Are you sure the tannery was deserted? It doesn't make sense that they would go to so much trouble with the kidnapping only to leave her unguarded," Siroc surmised.

Ramon spoke over the rim of his mug, "It was clean. No footprints or anything. It was just Jacqueline standing on a beam." He inhaled deeply and took another sip.

Siroc pursed his lips in thought. "She said they were dressed in black masks. If they weren't the Cardinal's men, could they have been agents of this Spanish assassin of yours, d'Artagnan?"

Leaning against a shelf of books, it was now d'Artagnan's turn to think. "It's possible," he admitted, "He could have easily made up his story. She might have just been a hostage to get me to reveal the palace secrets. But we didn't hear anything from the palace last night, so he obviously did not try anything further on Mazarin's life. At least not yet."

Ramon piped in, "Then there is another problem we're overlooking: he knows about Jacqueline." The three men exchanged looks of alarm.

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Jacqueline jogged down the hallway, still buttoning her jacket and found her three friends in Siroc's workshop. "Why didn't anyone wake me up? It's probably past ten o'clock by now." They looked at her guiltily, and she knew they had been discussing her. Spotting a pastry on the table, she stepped over to pick it up and took a bite. "Mmmm… apple."

Siroc regained his composure first. "We thought we would let you sleep in. Nothing happened that required your particular expertise."

D'Artagnan spoke next, "And I figured you'd need your strength for a match today. We haven't had a good swordfight in weeks."

"That's because all our sparring has been verbal lately," she reminded him before stuffing the last corner of pastry in her mouth. She sat at the table across from her Spanish friend. It was such a relief to be herself around these men.

Ramon then noticed the cross around her neck. In her rush to get dressed, Jacqueline had neglected to tuck it under her shirt. "Where did you get that?" he asked suddenly, reaching for it.

Jacqueline unfastened the chain and let the cross drop into his outreached palm. "I've had it since I was a baby. Haven't you seen it before?"

Ramon studied it closely. "Yes, I've seen it. But not on you." Jacqueline frowned as he turned it over.

Siroc leaned in to see it over Ramon's shoulder. "J – A – R," he read the inscribed letters out loud.

"My initials," Jacqueline explained, "Jacqueline Armelle Roget."

"No," Ramon said. "It used to just have the 'A' in the middle. See, the 'J' and 'R' were added later."

D'Artagnan took it out of his friend's hand to examine it as Ramon looked up at Jacqueline. "It belonged to my sister, Arcelia Montalvo Francisco de la Cruz."

"That's impossible!" she scoffed. "I've had that for the last twenty years. My parents gave it to me."

"Do farm girls usually get crosses of Spanish gold from their parents?" Siroc inquired, the charm now in his hands.

D'Artagnan grinned at her. "Did you say you're only twenty?"

Jacqueline rolled her eyes in exasperation. "Yes, d'Artagnan, I fibbed about my age a little. As for the necklace, it is mine." She grabbed it out of Siroc's hand. "Now, I'm ready for a duel." She stood, tucking the cross securely under her shirt and challenging d'Artagnan to follow her to the courtyard.

"Yes, ma'am."

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Jacqueline sent d'Artagnan's blade flying across the courtyard, landing point down in a bale of hay. She lowered her rapier and wiped the sweat off her forehead with a sleeve. "That felt good," she told d'Artagnan under the applause showered on her by the enthusiastic bystanders. Ramon let out a loud whistle from the crowd for her.

"Yeah, it did," d'Artagnan admitted. It was nice to work out his frustrations; he had almost beaten her today. "Looked good, too," he told her in a low voice. Jacqueline gave him a playful shove but did not protest the comment like she usually did.

"Very nice, Private Jacques. You have improved even more, I see."

D'Artagnan would have recognized that voice anywhere. When he saw Jacqueline's face light up, his instinct was confirmed.

"Thank you, Compte d'Artagnan. All the better to serve our King." Jacqueline saluted him with her sword before sheathing it. Her smile was about to burst at the seams from his praise.

"Well said, my boy!" he replied, and the lingering Musketeers let out a cheer.

D'Artagnan the younger turned to face his father. "What brings you into Paris?" Jacqueline backed off to allow them some confidentiality.

"What? A man cannot stop by and see his own son?" he moved closer to make it more of a private conversation. "Or maybe my good friend Aramis is back from his self-imposed exile, and he has been made a Spanish Duke."

"Aramis?" the young d'Artagnan asked, "I haven't heard of him since I was a child. He must have been gone for…"

"Almost twenty years now," his father finished.