Sign of the Cross
By JeanTre16
Chapter 14
Pigeonholed
Author's Note: "Pigeonhole" is a term derived from the old roll-top desks that contained a series of pigeonholes where papers could be conveniently placed and easily forgotten. Thus, to "pigeonhole" a document would be to put it aside and purposefully forget it.
Martin Duval was a patient man; he considered it an inborn trait. As captain of the King's Royal Musketeers, his calm nature had lent greatly to doing his job. In a garrison of rough men ready to pull swords at the first sign of a skirmish, it benefited their leader to be level-headed. Yet, his present quandary tried even his constitution.
Taxing his mind was the current state of affairs. It had been nearly a week since he had sent word to his friend, Charles d'Artagnan, of the grave news regarding his son and daughter-in-law's charges. He expected the Gascon to arrive from the south of France at any time. From the north, Duval had gathered wind of the Calais incident. Jacqueline and d'Artagnan had arrived there all right. But this morning the captain had received a private dispatch revealing they had never made it to the Vestige. They were missing, and the enacting liaison had nothing to offer his Paris-bound friend other than the consolation that his three famed comrades were, no doubt, doing all they could to recover his family. Distastefully being tied with his hands in the middle, the captain could do nothing but wait—wait, wonder and worry.
The deadlock that surrounded the wanted couple seemed to have even perplexed the king. When the arrest warrant had been brought to Louis' attention the morning after the d'Artagnans' flight from Paris, Duval recalled the look on the young king's face. The captain and Mazarin stood flanking the king, each in representation of opposite appeals—one for life and the other for death. His Majesty, still in his night robe, had turned a ghostly white upon hearing the charge. He made no sound, only pulled his robe tighter about himself as if a chill had seized his lanky frame, and without a word he abandoned the two men and withdrew from the room. Louis had reacted as though his own mother had just received that death warrant, and yet the king appeared powerless to stop it.
In stalling his decision, Louis had given Duval another week to come up with a viable defense before succumbing to the Cardinal's wishes—to execute the couple and disband the Royal Musketeers. That week had nearly expired.
With time pressing in on all concerned, the young royal had become more and more reclusive. The only company he condoned to keep was that of Marie Mancini. The captain believed his Sire's entanglement with the Cardinal's niece was clouding his duty. His Majesty appeared visibly torn, as though he fought an inward battle of influences. Duval suspected the manipulative parascientific work of Mazarin's man, Jean Baptiste Morin, to be at the heart of Louis' anguish; yet, he had no proof the work even existed or of its effect on Marie and ultimately Louis. Thus, he had no legal course of action to take.
His only option had been to spend day and night pouring over the lettres and warrant, in hopes of finding a loophole releasing his Musketeers from incrimination. Yet, his efforts had been to no avail.
The captain wanted to bring his king relief, his soldiers life and France her freedom from Mazarin's yoke. He had tirelessly done everything within his power. Now, seated forward in his office chair, the battle-worn soldier held his cane lightly over his lap in one hand with a copy of the d'Artagnans' arrest warrant before him in the other. With his eyes closed, he silently prayed for them all.
It was in this mode of petitioning for heavenly intervention that Duval's logical-minded cadet knocked soundly on his office door and stood back to await an answer.
"What is it?" queried the commanding voice from the other side of the closed entry. "Can it wait?"
"Captain," the inquisitive man called through the solid wood, "If I might have a word with you." Imagining he could hear a deep sigh from the troubled man on the other side of the barrier, the calculating man placed his hand on the latch, anticipating permission to be granted.
"Come on in," resounded the captain's irritated surrender. Plagued in thought, yet not as a result of his intruding Musketeer, he permitted himself a break from his mental game of chess. Being rather harrowed over his missing and very much in trouble soldiers, at this point he was questioning his sanity for ever enlisting either d'Artagnan in his service—let alone both of them. He relaxed his taut face and reminded himself not to take it out on their comrade.
Siroc peeked his head around the edge of the door. "Sir, um, sorry for the disturbance," he apologetically stuttered for the intrusion. The scientist considered that his superior's melancholy mood called for a sensitive approach, much like one of his recent chemistry experiments—too much exposure at once and the room would be filled with smoke. Thus, the blond-haired man approached his volatile captain with care.
"Out with it," demanded the worry-ridden man with his eyes looming over the top of the d'Artagnans' warrant. "I can tell when you're up to mischief." Seeing that Siroc held something in his hands, he quipped, "Tell me, have you invented a contraption that turns time backwards to rescue your comrades from this folly?" Scoffing in his frustration, he leaned to the back of his chair and tossed the picture of the two missing Musketeers on his desktop, and then sighed.
Lightly smiling at the captain's uncanny remark, he timidly stepped into the office and shut the door. Glancing down at the object he nervously toyed with in his hand, he replied, "No, I haven't actually come up with anything quite that extraordinary, Sir." He moved his free hand momentarily over his mouth in thought, and then dropped it to gesture awkwardly at the item he held. "Ramon and I have been working with slingshots…of which this is a crude model, that I've modified for mass and distance..." He paused in hesitation. He knew how much his long-winded dissertations agonized his superior.
Looking down, he began tapping the wooden apparatus lightly against his free hand in contemplation of his upcoming speech. Clearing his throat, he continued. "But, I do have a plan that may present us an opportunity to see what's behind that armoire in the Cardinal's office." His eyes darted up to witness Duval's look of protest, before he sped on. "I know it's not exactly a solution to get Jacqueline and d'Artagnan out of hot water, but if we could only find proof of Mazarin's secret society…" Trailing off, he didn't have to explain what the implications of such a discovery would mean to his captain.
Frowning initially at the conversation's change in direction, the patient listener slowly warmed to the registering idea. Duval once again sat up straight in his chair, pursing his lips in thought. Then, gripping his cane squarely on his lap, he lifted his chin to study the object in his articulating soldier's hands. "You have my attention. Let's hear it. I haven't been able to come up with anything viable," he confessed.
Stepping forward, the inventor's voice became hushed. "A rumor's been circulating, Sir, that the palace has had…pigeon trouble." Siroc began his explanation, brow raised in intrigue.
"Pigeon trouble?" Duval's forehead lined at the fact that his scientist was making even less sense to him than before. Suddenly perceiving that his resident genius was about to launch into an animated presentation, the captain raised his hand to halt him from his rant. "Siroc, I have enough trying my thoughts. In plain words a tired mind can fathom, please keep it simple."
ooooooo
Taken below deck, Jacqueline and d'Artagnan were placed in a barred hold that was littered with crates and tightly packed containers of various sizes. Apparently, d'Artagnan had been right about the French heist not having been the Maiden Castle's first. In fact, it had most likely been the last—the ship was bursting at the seams. And with the large quantity of stolen goods, Calais, no doubt being their final port before returning to England, every available nook and cranny was being utilized as cargo storage.
In addition, the cargo-laden environment was also crammed with conflicting aromas competing for the stale air. "I never should have had that lime," d'Artagnan said, having to breathe in deeply to ride out his sudden wave of queasiness. "It's a good thing you turned it down," he added, slumping down next to where Jacqueline had taken a seat, while holding his stomach. "Sea-sickness is always worse below deck." One strained look at his companion revealed that she had fared only slightly better for not having eaten recently.
Once the guard placed himself a short distance away in the entryway, the less scent-affected woman leaned close to her husband to offer a suggestion, "It won't take them long to load that cargo. If we could only get back above deck without being noticed, we might be able to sneak onto the longboat and be picked up by that French vessel."
D'Artagnan leaned back heavily against the hull and rested his head on the cool wooden wall that partitioned him from the sea. "Great, we'd be free from Charles and prisoners of Mazarin," he mocked, while clutching his stomach and closing his eyes. "That's a big improvement." He opened his eyes just a slit and rolled the back of his head along hull to face her, revealing his pathetic enthusiasm for her plan.
Her face flinching in annoyance at his lack of support, she looked away from him and jeered, "And you have a better idea, Monsieur d'Artagnan?" She couldn't believe he was giving in to defeat. Then, recalling Siroc's contrived weaponry still tucked away in her pockets, her worried look transformed to one of inspiration. Recalling a line he once used on her, she returned her gaze back to him and gleamed between narrowed eyes. Toughening her voice, she baited, "I thought doing nothing was for women and fights were for men?"
Raising his head off the hull at her challenge, he opened his eyes wide and protested, "You, Madame, are trying to rile me to do what you want." But a glimmer of life had returned to his appearance.
Seeing her slight gain, she pressed. "Please, d'Artagnan." She dropped her aloof demeanor and moved in to enfold her arms around his sword arm, gathering herself to his side. "I don't know why God allowed us to be here. I can't even say for sure that we made the right decision in not telling Morgan we're married. All I know is that we can't just stay down here and wait for opportunity to knock. We have to try something to get off this ship." Softening her look even more, she loosed one hand and gently brushed back a long dark strand of hair from his face. Encouragingly, she rallied, "Besides, I have confidence that Captain Duval and the others are doing everything on our behalf. They may have already convinced King Louis to drop the charges. And that ship in pursuit may be trying to retrieve us."
Jacqueline's optimism and faith were paramount among the things that made him love her. Unable to fend off her sensitive appeal, he conceded, "All right, let's see that arsenal Siroc rigged to accompany your dangerous feminine wit." His eyes glistened past her endearment and down her dress line to her pockets. Maneuvering himself into action, he couldn't help raising the corner of his mouth at the thought of how formidably irresistible his wife was to him.
ooooooo
D'Artagnan was not the only man finding himself carried away by the entrancing lure of an endeared woman. Louis could think of little else but his enchanting Marie Mancini. Finally consenting to discuss the finer points of the lettres de cachet with Captain Duval and Siroc, a distracted king had joined his Musketeers in the grand room of the palace. His head was fuzzy, and he was finding it increasingly difficult to concentrate on all the legal semantics.
King Louis' face scrunched in hearing Captain Duval's suggestion that he revoke Mazarin's application of the lettres in the d'Artagnans' case. "No, no, no!" Louis adamantly shook his wig-curled head and raised his hand in dismissal of Duval's request. "The Cardinal's use of the lettres was irresistible…I mean irreversible." Stuttering to recover his blunder, the young king turned his head away, eyes popping open wide as though he had just swallowed a bird whole. 'Irresistible?' he mouthed the word silently to himself, aghast at what had come out of his own mouth. He hoped his Musketeer Captain and assistant hadn't noticed his slip.
Before the king had to further cover his distraction, another diversion provided itself down the hall. All at once, the trio heard a commotion from the general direction of Cardinal Mazarin's office.
"God help us!" wailed a servant from the marbled corridor. "The palace is under attack!"
Three pairs of eyes raised immediately in alarm. Duval and Siroc instinctively stood to their feet, hands to hilts, ready to draw their rapiers. Louis tensed, unsure of what his response should be.
"Hold your tongue," blazed the familiar voice of France's Premier from somewhere beyond. "No such thing is happening." From the hallway connecting to his chambers, the man in red emerged like a disgruntled homeowner searching for the wayward child who had just knocked on his door and run. "Where is that pigeon trainer?" the ruffled man inquired of the baffled onlookers.
"Mazarin?" Louis shook his head in questioning wonderment, tossing his wigged-curls about. He looked intently at the inflamed man to explain himself.
Brushing shards of broken glass from his clothes, he calmly, but angrily expounded, "That is the second time in this past week his messenger pigeons have dive bombed into a palace window. If he can't keep his fouls in check, I want him hung." About to turn back, he halted to add, "And his birds roasted." He frowned and addressed the nearby servant shrinking from his reddened image, "And summon that glass smith to repair my office window!"
"But, Your Eminence," the servant made excuse, cowering with tilted head and fingers placed together in dread. "The glass man is currently fixing the chapel window from the last…er…bird incident and has asked not to be disturbed—" fidgeting, he chose his words carefully "—due to the delicate nature of repairing Saint John's broken image." Nervously, he made the sign of the cross at the mention of the blemished saint and hung his head before the speechless Cardinal.
Siroc fought off a grin at the Cardinal's stupefied reaction to the servant's denying request. Intuitively, the blond-haired man recognized Ramon's cue knocking in the form of a stray bird. He made a mental note to congratulate the Spanish marksman later. But before the reddened man's displaced ire was about to find a new target, the still battle ready Musketeer intervened. "Ahem," he cleared his throat. With keenly timed precision and an irony in his choice of words, he continued, "Your Eminence, it would be no trouble at all for me to see to your pane." With a look of generosity, he stood waiting for a response to his offer.
Overlooking the pun, Mazarin considered Siroc's appeasement. "Very well, the sooner the better. And if you wouldn't mind removing the foul, I'd appreciate it. I'll be waiting for you in my office." Turning to leave, he looked at his sleeve and knocked off a lingering piece of broken glass. He mumbled something that no one else could make out and walked off.
ooooooo
Jacqueline emptied the contents of her pockets onto the floor. Along with the fan, which
she replaced in the hidden fold of her dress, D'Artagnan recognized other familiar gadgets he had seen his inventor friend concoct for his wife's feminine approach to Musketeering. His eyes wandered over the items, suddenly stopping at the sight of a familiar looking vial. 'That's strange,' he wondered, suspiciously looking up to observe his unsuspecting wife, 'why would Siroc have given her love potion?'
He frowned, jaw dropping down slightly, as he recalled several occasions he had confessed to her that she could get through his defenses and make him agree to do just about anything. Was that why she had seemed so irresistible to him only a few moments ago? Extending his hand to pick up the vial while still watching her, he speculated if she had used it on him as retribution for him trying it on her once before. And would that make his dear friend, Siroc, her conspirator?
He was about to call her out on her charges when she noticed him holding the vial. Her eyes lit up in alarm as she saw what he was about to do. "No! Don't open that…"
But, it was too late. The wry-faced man had already twisted and pulled the cork off the top releasing the violent chemical reaction within the glass. To the shock of them both, billowing smoke gushed forth to fill their barred cell, causing them to cough and gag.
D'Artagnan dropped the glass to put distance between him and the choking fumes. Blindly noting that Jacqueline had managed to grab the unlocked hinged grid and pull it open, he began feeling his way toward the exit. By memory he made for the hold's passage to the stairway and fresh air.
Hearing the commotion, the stationed guard looked down from the base of the stairs to see his charge rushing toward him. Then, noticing the cloud mass enveloping them, he cupped his mouth and hollered to his fellow sailors above, "Fire in the hold!"
With blurry, watering eyes, d'Artagnan lunged wildly past his wife in the general direction of the guard's voice. Erupting from the prolific smoke, the gagging Musketeer plowed into the unsuspecting target. Both men went careening back against the ship's adjacent inner wall.
"Why, you!" cursed the sailor. Wiping a trickle of blood from his lip where he had bitten it upon impact, he raised to his feet. Growling, he grabbed the Frenchman's collar and began his retaliation.
Still hunched over and gasping for air, d'Artagnan was unprepared for his assailant. He had hoped the element of surprise would give him a few moments to catch his breath. But the opponent had the upper hand in recovering from the blow first.
"Bloody Frenchman!" the bristly man protested. He hurled his assaulter, back first, onto the stairs before laying into him with his fists.
D'Artagnan somehow managed to blindly throw a left punch where he speculated the pummeling man's head was. Landing his blow, he bought himself just enough time to roll sideways off the stairs and take refuge behind the slatted rise. Catching his breath, he looked up to see Jacqueline come from the haze-filled hold with a handkerchief over her nose and mouth. Approaching the recouping guard from behind, she tossed the content of a small canister at the man's face.
"Argh!" the sailor yelled, grasping his eyes in pain.
"Siroc said the powder's effects are only temporary," she blurted to her husband. "Quick, they're coming."
"Make for the longboat," he choked. "So much for being inconspicuous." Whatever their inventor friend had packed in that vial, it gave the illusion of a voracious fire. D'Artagnan checked himself for ever doubting his wife and friend's characters, thinking they could have conspired against him. That was definitely not a love potion. Ironically, he figured that he had received his payment in full for having ever used one on her in the first place.
Bolting up the steps, they were stopped short by two sailors heading down. "Davy Jones!" scowled the first man, bowling to a halt. The sight of the pair materializing from the haze had startled him into thinking he had seen spirits coming forth from the depths of the sea. His sudden balk made the second man plow into his back, sending the first only a breath's distance from d'Artagnan. Soon a third and fourth water bearer were to be seen descending with buckets. Growling at the wide-eyed Frenchman, the forefront sailor recovered his wits and grabbed the stalled man by the arm and instructed his back-sided companion to escort the woman topside with him.
The party of four ascended while sneering men with water buckets began forming along the opposite edge of the stairs to put out the alleged fire. The Musketeers knew it wouldn't take long for them to find the abandoned gadgets on the hold's floor and figure out that the source of the smoke had been one of subterfuge. Either way, their innocent cover was now blown and they had no choice but to attempt escape.
First Officer Tucker met them as they emerged from below. Standing with his hands clasped behind his back, he coldly stared them down. Motioning with his head to his subordinates, he instructed, "Take them to the aft and keep them out of trouble until Captain Morgan can deal with them." He suspected his captain's humor would be soured in regards to this couple after this little escapade. Their games were finished.
The guard in the lead roughly pushed his tolerating captive forward as Jacqueline was prodded along from behind. Just out of sight of the crew, d'Artagnan whirled around and laid into his antagonist with a fist to his face and a boot to his chest. Jacqueline seized the opportunity of her husband's diversion to pull a nearby hoist netting over her escort's head. Engulfing the shocked man, she twisted the off-keel sailor around into a deliberating tangle of mesh. Before he had a chance to call for help, she shoved the handkerchief in his mouth that she had recently used to cover her face from smoke inhalation.
She grabbed the guard's sword to aid d'Artagnan in subduing his opponent. Anxiously maneuvering for an angle on the man, she directed at her brawling spouse, "Just say when you want my help."
"That won't be necessary. I can handle him," he quipped before the Englishman struck his stomach, making him groan loudly.
Jacqueline cringed. "Now can I help?" she asked, still impatiently doing footwork on the deck while awaiting his consent. Her face contorted even more at watching her partner take yet another onslaught from the well-fed man. Deciding he had had enough, regardless of his approval, she moved in to assist by raising her blade to the sailor's face.
Looking up at the beckoning of Jacqueline's sword tip, the surprised seaman received a blow to his temple by d'Artagnan, relieving him of his duty. With eyes rolling back into his head, the Frenchman's aggravator fell to the deck with a thud.
Catching his breath while straightening his unkempt appearance, he informed his accomplice, "I told you I had him."
Recognizing the thug to be the very one serving him a head blow earlier that day, d'Artagnan couldn't resist the retort, "I believe we're even now." Shaking his hand out to alleviate the tingling from the impact, he gave the man a final shove with his boot to make sure he was out. Satisfied, he grabbed Jacqueline by her sword-free hand and pulled her along. "Come on, we have a boat to catch."
Coming up along the bulwark where their ride off the Maiden Castle was tied, d'Artagnan made an abrupt veer to seek cover. There, between them and freedom was another sailor standing watch over the lowered longboat filled with French goods.
As a plan gelled in Jacqueline's mind, she wet her lips and silently signaled for her husband to go around from behind the man while she approached him from the front. Seeing him in position, she put on her feminine airs and casually waltzed up to the sailor as though she were taking an evening stroll.
Stupefied, the sentinel gawked and stammered, "Mi-Milady! What are you doing up here?"
Smiling with a shrug, she needed no comment, for just then d'Artagnan tapped the guard on the shoulder, causing him to turn around to receive a fist to his jaw. Pushing him roguishly against the bulwark to put him into a further daze, the Musketeer then grabbed the tottering man and lowered him to the deck. Eagerly leaning over the side of the ship, the escapee verified that their transport and country's goods were indeed ready to cast off.
Contriving a descent on the vertically strung ropes adjoined to the vessel, they were interrupted by approaching voices. D'Artagnan looked back over his shoulder, and then at Jacqueline. "There's not enough time for both us and the goods to make it. If we try to leave, they'll have us and the supplies." Without flinching, he concluded, "You go and I'll hold them off until you're safe."
His wife's pain-filled eyes locked with his. She handed him the sword in her hand. Then, taking out her fan, she popped the blade open and began to cut the rigging that held the longboat. "There's no way I'm leaving without you, Monsieur d'Artagnan, so you better hurry and cut that other rope if you don't want to loose both our freedom and the supplies." Knowing she had made her mind up, her partner acknowledged her decision and cut ardently with his acquired blade on the secondary rope. Just when their capture was sure, the ropes gave way and the French cargo quickly receded from sight as the Maiden Castle sped along on her evasive flight.
"Turn around, slowly," Captain Morgan's gravelly voice warned, "or I'll have Tucker put a bullet through one of your heads."
Being careful to keep his part of the bargain on his superior's threat, the first lieutenant maneuvered around the backside of the couple while keeping a keen eye on his charge. Smugly satisfied with himself, he added for his own appeasement, "I told the captain you two couldn't be trusted. It appears I was correct." Glancing over the side, he reported, "And the cargo is gone."
Spitting in his anger, Morgan gave a look of consideration on the circumstances.
The couple let go of their weaponry before the ire-faced captain could react. "You wouldn't have seen the galley anywhere around here, would you?" d'Artagnan tried to make light of their situation by the pretense of being lost. "Your room service is a bit lacking."
Upon hearing her husband's poorly timed comment, Jacqueline's head dropped and she exhaled deeply. She recognized her husband's cavalier attitude he often exhibited when knew he was beaten—the one that more often than not landed him in deeper trouble.
Good-humoredly, he placed his hands in the air for the second time that day before the English officer. Turning his head to smirk at Jacqueline standing beside him, everything suddenly swam around him and went blank.
Taking it upon himself, the unimpressed First Officer had effectively come up from behind to silence the jeering Frenchman by landing the butt of his pistol on the back of his head. As earlier that day, Tucker had not been amused with the nobleman's arrogance.
Jacqueline gasped in horror as she caught her husband's falling frame from plummeting over the bulwark and disappearing into the water. Gently pulling his unconscious body against her own, she lowered to her knees and sighed deeply in surrender.
Captain Morgan was furious over their attempted escape. It spoke to him that the loss of the Maiden Castle's cargo was for naught. The king would be deprived of his supplies, and Morgan's crew had lost several months worth of rations and monetary compensation. He confronted the consoling female with a finger of warning. "You two will wait aboard while I visit the king first. If I find that His Majesty has no recollection of you, I'll personally see to your fate myself."
Morgan's threat penetrated Jacqueline like the chill in the channel's air. From her squatted position, she held d'Artagnan closely and thought once again of the French cargo slipping off on the horizon. Relinquishing that their rapiers hidden in the container would have to be the only affect of theirs to make it back to France, she prayed they would sail into the right hands. Apparently, God had answered their knock on destiny's door with a resounding 'no'. Her husband and she were stuck on the England bound ship after all.
ooooooo
Siroc knocked soundly on Cardinal Mazarin's office door and stood back to await an answer from the other side. Gathered in his free hand was his leather bag containing assorted glass etchers, balled metal taps and pliers for the job of sizing the pane. Along with the additional finishing items for the job, he tossed in several unrelated tools for his self-assigned task. When the Cardinal wasn't watching, he was determined to be on the look out for a lever or mechanism suitable for displacing the large ornate armoire from against the drafty side wall.
Frowning at not receiving a response, Siroc rapped his knuckles on the door yet again. Still, he received no answer. Having anticipated the repair job, the Musketeer had prearranged his tool kit; thus, cutting the time it took for him to return to the minimal. Perhaps the Cardinal had not expected him so soon. Taking advantage of there being no one there to respond, Siroc looked over either shoulder to make sure no one was watching, and then took out his familiar slender bone pick and had the door unlocked in no time. Before entering, he saw a guard approaching, and backed off innocently from the door. Improvising a cover for himself, he ventured a conversation with the red-coated man. "Excuse me. I'm here to fix Cardinal Mazarin's broken window. There's no answer to my knock. Do you think he'd mind if I went in?" He explained as he pointed toward the sealed office.
"Ah…" the blank faced guard pondered for a reply. He had only been passing by at the time, but raising a speculative brow, he saw no reason to expedite the situation. Hesitantly reaching to grasp the handle on Mazarin's door, he turned his wrist and pushed the door ajar. Peeking in to find the room vacant, he turned around to Siroc and announced, "It appears to be open." Swinging one side of the double doors wide, he stepped back and ushered the repairman in. "Go right ahead. I see no reason why you should wait for His Eminence to return before you start. In fact, he would most likely appreciate you not bothering him with the disruption while he's here." Leaving him to his work, the guard closed the door to keep the noise level in the adjoining hallway down.
As the door closed, Siroc donned a wide grin at his favorable turn of events. Eyeing every possible lever-like object in the room, the inventor's first stop was to retrieve the pigeon lying in the broken glass on the floor. He smiled at the ingeniousness of where he had recovered his foul for its last airborne mission. Knowing how averse his comrades were about harming a living creature, he promised Ramon he would find a willing participant among the deceased. The scientist had no qualms in working with dead matter. It only gave him a clearer understanding of life. Gingerly, he tucked the pigeon in a bag and made haste to finish his next preliminary task.
Siroc propped protective lenses on the bridge of his nose and made his way over to examine the broken glass. In a hurry to get the task done, he looked for a place to set his work bag down. Doing a double take at the secretary near the window, he attempted to push the wooden horse bust aside to allow him space to work. Unable to move the carved image, he frowned. "That's odd, this shouldn't be attached," he uttered aloud. His curious nature prompted him to attempt shifting the object about. And when he did, he felt the head jar sideways. Concurrently, a low rumbling vibration from his posterior loosed his attention from the horse bust. Turning to face the sound's source, he looked over the top of his work spectacles and whistled. "What do you know, there is a God," he muttered to himself with a quirky grin.
He didn't know just how much time he had before the Cardinal returned, but he had no intention of being there to find out. Quickly setting the pane with his agile fingers, he applied himself to the real business at hand—exploring Mazarin's secret chamber.
ooooooo
Cardinal Mazarin returned to his office after taking care of his other business. Finding his door unlocked, he frowned deeply. He always locked his door in his absence. Hesitantly he turned the latch and opened the door to peer inside. Walking in, he scanned the room for signs of visitation. Striding over to the arched window behind his desk, he looked down to see the broken glass still sprawled across the floor; yet, the pigeon was missing. He continued toward the window and placed his hand on the replaced pane and looked off in distant thought. Siroc had apparently been there, removed the foul and made the repair as promised. But he had done so in his absence.
Still in consideration of the implications before him, Cardinal Mazarin's pondering was interrupted by the sound of footsteps in the corridor. Turning to see Captain Duval making his way past his entry, he lifted his chin and called out, "Captain."
Duval stopped to gather himself at the familiarity of the disliked man's voice. Turning he put a pleasant expression on his face and answered, "Your Eminence."
Studying the Musketeer leader for clues of what may have transpired in his office, he chose his words to conceal his suspicion. "Apparently I owe Siroc a thank you." His presented false humility was accompanied by a teethed grin.
"Siroc?" answered the Musketeer Captain, casually. He continued on as though he had no idea of what the Premier referred to. Captain Duval felt his skin prick at the thought that his man could be on the inside of the Cardinal's secret alcove, since he had not reported back to him yet. The seasoned soldier eased his countenance in mock recollection of the pane replacement. "Oh, yes." Keeping his response low key, he graciously replied, "I take it he did a satisfactory job?" Duval smiled at the glaring Cardinal without betrayal.
"Yes. He did," replied the red capped man, relaxing his till then frozen stance. He looked full of suspicion; yet, without a shred to hang on. "He did." Nodding once more in pondering, he turned back to look out his window without further word to the man who stood outside his office door.
The Musketeer captain broke out in a nervous sweat. In truth, he didn't know whether Siroc had been captured or had disappeared entirely. Once again, all the inherently patient man could do was to wait and pray.