Chapter 35

A week could feel like an endlessly long time. Especially when there was nothing but the usual chores to do, when everyday life was just routine with too much opportunity to think.

Madeleine looked over her shoulder at the kitchen table because she had the feeling that she has been talking to the wall instead of d'Artagnan for a while now. In fact, her friend was staring into space, oblivious of things around herself, drumming a restless rhythm on the table with her fingers. For the first time in days, she was not wearing the red uniform, but street clothes. It was Sunday and even the first lieutenant of the Red Guard was entitled to a break from duty now and then. Free time that d'Artagnan seemed to want to spend brooding instead of resting and regenerating.

Madeleine dried her hands on a cloth and left the cleaned vegetables for the stew on the chopping board. Church bells were chiming in the distance, the streets were quiet, as befitted a Sunday. In her kitchen, however, it was definitely too silent a company for the Chevrette. »Will you talk to me about it, dear?«

The drumming stopped as Madeleine thrust her hands to her hips, her term of endearment a declaration of war on her friend's stubbornness. D'Artagnan mirrored it with a tight-lipped mien, acting inscrutable. »No.«

The beautiful Fleming wrinkled her nose and tossed her braid back over her shoulder. »Fine!«

Nothing was fine. For a week now, d'Artagnan had been in a foul mood and Madeleine was neither stupid nor ignorant enough not to be able to interpret the signs. Her friend was, as so often, practising repression of a truth she could not run away from and which would catch up with her as soon as a certain squad of guardsmen would return from their mission.

Madeleine had given Bernajoux many kisses on his way. Sorel had taken Charlotte's heart with him.

The Chevrette decided, with the arrogance of a woman who has found true love and was savouring every minute of it, that d'Artagnan, too, finally deserved this bliss. She thought of a plan to help and make it happen. Instead of turning back to the stew in a huff, she positioned herself at the kitchen table. »We're going to Marais. I need to visit the market and you need to stop moping.«

»I'm not moping, I told you!« rebuffed d'Artagnan immediately, unacknowledging the lie to herself.

Madeleine brooked no objection. »Whatever! Outside it's one of the last sunny days. It's too glorious weather to sit indoors.«

»All week I'm up and about in the town, let me spend my free time at home.«

»Fine, if you stay, you'll knock the house into shape! It still needs cleaning, the vegetables won't get cut by themselves. The laundry needs to come off the line and the shutters are unsightly from the last rain. The attic hasn't been tidied for a long time and-«

»All right already!« D'Artagnan quickly gave up her resistance in the face of the mountains of housework Madeleine wanted her to do. »I'll go with you, the comrades will laugh at me if you make me do all this kind of woman's chores!«

She wanted to get up to get her coat and hat, but the Chevrette was still not satisfied. »You will accompany me. Not Monsieur d'Artagnan. The neighbours know about Robert and me. How will it look if I leave the house arm in arm with another cavalier, hardly that my sweetheart is a few days absent?«

D'Artagnan closed her mouth again, which she had just opened to protest. She could not counter that argument, her landlady's reputation was at stake! Neither women joked with gossip as long as there were other secrets. Even if Monsieur d'Artagnan was currently considered to be a real cuckold, whose girlfriend had been stolen by a guardsman - her honour remained unaffected. Madeleine, on the other hand, would have quickly become disreputable.

»In that case, I suppose you'll have to lend me a dress again.«

Shortly afterwards, two mesdemoiselles left the house and no one would have taken them for anything other than best friends, on a stroll through Paris. The neighbours did not ask where Charlotte Batz had come from, who has been seen here from time to time. Mostly when she left the house, rarely when she entered it beforehand. Perhaps the neighbours were not as incorrigible gossips as Madeleine thought, or perhaps they had long since made up a plausible story about it and no longer questioned it.

The weather was indeed glorious, pleasantly warm and bright after the foggy, gloomy days of the last few weeks. Autumn seemed to want to once again offer everything in the way of colourful splendour and balmy air before the cold harbingers of winter would lie in wait for the town.

Madeleine, glancing sideways at d'Artagnan, realised that she was right. The walk was doing her friend good, her forehead smoothed, her cheeks gained a healthy colour and a smile played on her lips. The lieutenant of the Red Guard lagged behind with every step and a vivacious woman enjoyed the carefree outing to the Marais market.

Madeleine smiled with affection for her little sister. »You can be so pretty, Charlotte.«

»Huh?« D'Artagnan blinked, confused at the compliment. »Well, thank you? But compared to you, I'm a plain-Jeanne, a wallflower. You catch the looks, I'm always ignored.«

»That's what you tell yourself. It makes everything easier, doesn't it?« Madeleine stopped abruptly and eyed her friend critically from top to bottom. »We are of similar height, but your build is much slimmer. The bodice is laced too tightly so my dress won't slip right off your body.«

D'Artagnan looked down at herself to see if the assertion was true and found nothing to complain about. Whether tight lacing or bandage wrapping, she had not much to present if anything had slipped off her body. »You're exaggerating.«

»You're ruining my outer garment! Every time I have to stiffen it again and rethread the bodice. I don't want to lend you anything anymore.«

»Oh.« Embarrassed, d'Artagnan plucked at the folds of the skirt, stroking them unnecessarily uncreased. She knew nothing to say in response to a problem of which she had never been aware until now.

When the silence continued and d'Artagnan still had not come up with the only right consequence on her own, Madeleine sighed. »Dear, you finally need a dress of your own. Or two or three right away.«

»That's quite unnecessary...«

»As often as you've stuck your nose in my wardrobe lately, it's even more than necessary! Let's go to a tailor. Don't be like that, it'll be fun!«

Madeleine took her friend by the hand and dragged her along. D'Artagnan was too taken by surprise to resist; and secretly she was too fond of the idea of venturing out more often as Charlotte. Her recent appearances as a woman had proved that no one would recognise her unless her masquerade was known already anyway. She has changed her disguise frequently in the past weeks, from a musketeer's uniform to the red guard's tunic, and in between she wore a dress every now and then, so that old conventions seemed to have completely melt away from her.

So much has changed. Why not that too? Why not dare to be feminine more often and finally enjoy this freedom, too? Now, that she hardly had any more enemies to fear?

A tailor was quickly found in Marais. In the aristocratic quarter, the craftsmen served men and women of the nobility. Madeleine was not intimidated by this when she invaded the tailor's shop. She was now a chambermaid in the company of a noble woman and d'Artagnan adapted to the spectacle quickly and convincingly. She had to deal with courtly society every day, it needed not much to become aware of her own status again and to remember how a gentlewoman acted. At some point in her life it had been drilled into her before chivalric discipline took its place.

The tailor was convinced at the latest the moment the pretended maid handed him a considerable deposit. The increase in pay by the promotion was well invested.

The friends spent almost two hours discussing fabrics and styles, colours, playful details and accessories. The tailor took measurements, pinned expensive cloth with needles and used drawings to show what the finished piece might look like. D'Artagnan, contrary to expectations, felt the fun Madeleine has predicted for her, and even some anticipation, even if it would be days before she could fetch her desired dress and wear it for the first time. Until then, there might even be a suitable occasion, for the fine garment would be more worthy of a royal court festivity than for everyday wear.

Madeleine could see that her plan was working from the dreamy expression on Charlotte's face. She certainly saw herself at a ball, asked to dance by the one man who would find her as pretty in her true guise as the Chevrette had before.

The tailor, too, was taken in by the enthusiasm and money of his customers. He offered to spruce up the dresses they were wearing in a few minutes with a little ruffle here and some lace there. His wife joined them, equipped with hairpins and rouge. The merry circle had lured her into the room and she wanted to do her part to transform the not-so-ugly duckling.

A little later, a distinguished noble dame and her maid stepped back into the street, quite different in appearance and bearing, and most astonished about it themselves. They looked at each other and then Madeleine giggled, her amusement so infectious that it finally dispelled even d'Artagnan's last doubts. She felt surprisingly comfortable in this role, which was not a new play at all, but revealed the truth for the first time without fear of discovery. No pretended maid, no false or shortened names; the real Mademoiselle Charlotte de Batz-Castelmore d'Artagnan showed herself in Paris and enjoyed every second of it.

It was unusual for Madeleine to have been made a maid of honour instead of being a bourgeois landlady. Mischief flashed in her eyes at this, a certain adventurousness possessed her. »Let's take the frilly dresses for a walk! On to the market and present ourselves to the people!«

Charlotte hesitated in old habit, but then shook off any last trepidation and nodded. »Let's collect compliments for you. I'm curious to see how many it will be.«

Before Madeleine could correct her friend that she, too, deserved compliments, Charlotte marched off and a few steps later was laughingly told not to stride along so very much like a soldier. Charlotte first looked confused, then blushed in embarrassment and actually had to practise for the length of a street not imagining a male package in her trousers. Soon she was no longer tripping over the swinging of her hips, a woman's swaying gait, and was moving naturally without having to think about it.

Madeleine received her first compliment at the entrance to the covered market of Marais. A young craftsman whistled cheekily at her, feeling brave. D'Artagnan was about to look over the shoulder after him, but Madeleine quickly dragged her on. Not to react, that was the next lesson and it was extremely difficult for the lieutenant of the Red Guard, who found in everything an insult, an attack on honour. Mademoiselle de Batz-Castelmore, on the other hand, was supposed to ignore looks and remarks with feminine haughtiness. Not an easy task, for she imagined that she was attracting more attention than she actually was, given the large number of visitors to the market.

The market was almost overwhelming. After church, half of Paris seemed to have set out to do the groceries or share novelties and gossip. On a balmy autumn day like today, the smells of fruit and cheese, fish and bread, tanned leather and smoked ham went heavy and wild. There was nothing enticing about the smells; they were intrusive and intense, of everyday life, of toil and sweat. The market criers shouted their throats out, the women cleaned fish and plucked chickens; everywhere a cackle, a neigh, a grunt and a hundredfold babble of voices in which it was easy to get lost and hardly find each other again.

The crowd was large, the hustle and bustle colourful. Madeleine moved through it with the naturalness of an experienced housewife and d'Artagnan followed in her wake. She was used to an officer being respectfully avoided. A dame had to be much more self-conscious, for consideration and courtesy could not be hoped for in a lively place like this.

Madeleine did not mind being pushed through the crowd. She drifted along, no less recklessly stopping in the middle of the way for a chat when she met an acquaintance, and gossiped and laughed a lot. D'Artagnan then stood by smiling noncommittally, keeping more of an eye on the surroundings than Madeleine's friends; where one would have assumed a man to be just plain disinterested, one considered a mademoiselle to be shy and insecure.

The Chevrette was engaged in a conversation with a neighbour and did not notice that her companion was gradually being separated from her in the crowd. D'Artagnan did not remind Madeleine of herself, indeed she was relieved not to be drawn into the superficial chatter. She knew nothing to say anyway, however trivial. The world of housewives and servants was not hers, this terrain belonged entirely to Madeleine.

D'Artagnan was not familiar with the rules of the market and she made the mistake of giving in to her curiosity, lured by a fruit stall a few steps away. Apples, pears, plums, cherries, everything lay appetisingly ready in large wicker baskets. The merchant loudly advertised the fresh harvest, he charmingly negotiated with his customers, had a personal word for each of them and seemed to be completely in his element. While he was still weighing the cherries for one maid, he was already negotiating the price for oranges and peaches with the next servant.

She made her way to the market stall and her covetous looks immediately caught the trader's eye. »Ah, Mademoiselle! The peaches arouse your interest? The oranges? Only the best goods, arrived today! To a beautiful woman like you I make a special offer!«

He named a price and it seemed reasonable to d'Artagnan, especially since his flattery resonated even with her. She nodded, selected some fruit and pulled out her purse.

But before jingling coins could change hands, another woman suddenly stepped in and put her hands on her hips. Her eyes flashed angrily, her brown lion's mane was only reluctantly tamed under a bonnet and her whole nature seemed just as unruly. »Are you enriching yourself on unsuspecting customers again?«

The trader rebuffed struck by the accusation, one hand exaggerated at his heart. »Never, Madame! Best goods, best price!«

»Well, well. Show them to me, your best goods!« The madame took an orange in her hand, weighed it appraisingly and sniffed it. »Overripe and soft under the skin! Mademoiselle, I must strongly advise you to keep your hands off these mushy fruits.«

D'Artagnan blinked and felt awfully stupid and naïve. She reached out a hand for the basket herself to follow the madame's assessment. But before her fingers could even touch an orange, the trader suddenly changed his mind; the altercation had already attracted the attention of other market-goers.

»On my honour! I'll gift the dames with this purchase, even if it means ruining myself!«

The madame smiled dangerously friendly and helped herself to the apples, which she found nothing wrong with. »For the children, I gladly accept your generous offer. And how many do you want, Mademoiselle?«

»Half a dozen should suffice, thank you.« Peur would certainly like the treat and the porridge at lunchtime would become more palatable with apple slices.

The trader put on a good face while the two women filled their bags. He murmured, »A pleasure, always, Madame. The children are well? I don't see them running wild at all across the market.«

»Lucas and Mathilde are with their governess, the crowds are too great, and I suppose I may enjoy two hours of quiet all to myself for once.«

»Deserved! Give my regards to your husband,« said the trader charmingly, but with the clearly audible wish to get rid of the two women before they drove away all his other customers.

The madame nodded. »I will tell him. Yes, I will certainly not forget.«

D'Artagnan would have sworn black and blue that there was a threat in the harmless parting words. The husband in question must have had a certain reputation for not being trifled with when someone tried to trick his wife.

The madame carried her purchases triumphantly away. With a few quick steps, d'Artagnan caught up with her. »Madame?«

»Yes? Oh, it's you again.« Her kindness towards the younger woman was sincere and not of the same mercilessness as it had hit the trader. She forestalled d'Artagnan's intentions to thank her for the help and the valuable lesson by waving it off with a laugh. »It's all right, that's how we both got some especially good value apples, isn't it? Gabrielle de Jussac.«

»Oh! Madame de Jussac!«

Gabrielle looked in wonder and d'Artagnan quickly regained her composure. She introduced herself with a mixture of embarrassment and amusement at this amazing coincidence. »Charlotte Batz.«

»Oh!« Now it was Gabrielle's turn to be surprised. »In fact the same Mademoiselle Batz who turned our Biscarat's head?«

»...pardon? He- what?«

»How pleasant to meet you at last and no longer have to guess! Biscarat brooded for days, my Auguste was not very fond of it. I knew at once it could only be about a woman, for otherwise the men are not that obdurate and secretive; and then your name was mentioned once.«

»I had no idea,« replied d'Artagnan, with a blank face and not particularly amused. »I assure you it was not my intention to turn any heads.«

»You say that as if you would rather lop them off instead.«

»You are not entirely wrong, Madame,« d'Artagnan said between her teeth. Biscarat seemed to have been even more assiduous with his enquiries into 'Charlotte Batz' than she had hitherto suspected and as he had admitted to her. Jussac's wife had immediately got the wrong impression about his intentions.

Gabrielle, for her part, thinking it all very amusing, eyed the younger woman with undisguised curiosity. »You haven't lived in Paris long, have you?«

»Well-«

»Charlotte!« Madeleine called over the heads of a few passers-by, waving because she had finally found her friend again. She pushed straight to her and recognised the other madame with a shout of delight. »Gabrielle! How nice to see you!«

Madame de Jussac again marvelled at the Chevrette's acquaintance with Charlotte Batz and silently made up a story, which, much to d'Artagnan's chagrin, was then unintentionally and open-heartedly confirmed to her by Madeleine. »Ah, Charlotte? She's the sister of d'Artagnan and is visiting us from the provinces.«

»Is that so? I see,« Gabrielle insisted in a way that made Mademoiselle de Batz-Castelmore want to be swallowed up by the ground. She did not get to mutter any excuses or explanations, because Madeleine and Gabrielle immediately fell into a lively chat that was not only about outrageous stories from the neighbourhood, but mainly about the men and their numerous misdemeanours.

Gabrielle said half cheerfully and half indignantly, »I'm enjoying this week without Auguste. He's been acted terribly tense lately. Something in the regiment, but he won't talk to me about duty.«

D'Artagnan chewed on her lower lip with a guilty conscience, suspecting that she was the reason for Jussac's irritable mood. But the madame continued without pause, »Whatever happened seems to have subsided and he's enjoying this time far from Paris.«

»I miss my Robert...« Madeleine heaved a melancholy sigh. »How can you stand it for so many years of marriage, loving a soldier? He's often away and you never know when he'll return!«

»Or whether...« murmured d'Artagnan barely audibly and yet not quietly enough for Gabrielle not to have heard. The madame unconcernedly stuffed one of her curls back under her bonnet. »That's not how I think, when or whether. I trust Auguste, he would never abandon his family because he thinks he has to commit a stupid heroic deed. Ah, forgive me Madeleine! You've been through worse with d'Artagnan. Bernajoux is different, you surely fare better with him. No offence, Mademoiselle, but your brother can be very reckless with himself and others.«

»Uh-huh,« d'Artagnan muttered, and Madeleine turned to her with no less of the lovers' reckless selfishness.

»Is Robert taking better care of himself because he's thinking of me?«

»Yes, he thinks of you.« D'Artagnan sighed. As if she had known perfectly well and Bernajoux had romanticized his sweetheart in front of his comrades every spare moment. As if he had suddenly ceased to be a soldier who liked to brawl and boast and fulfil his duties to the bitter end. »There always remains an 'whether' alongside the 'when'. Even if Jussac certainly doesn't wish to have command over his friends in some situations; he will order them to do what is necessary, even if it means sending them to certain death.«

Gabrielle and Madeleine fell silent and stared at the younger woman. The madame was astounded that Charlotte Batz not only finally opened her mouth and said more than three syllables, but equally at the amazing understanding she revealed of Jussac's way of thinking.

Madeleine, for her part, heard bitter experience from the hard-hearted words and exclaimed, »I don't want to change places with the lieutenant, giving those orders must be terrible!«

»Ah, bah!« D'Artagnan had gone too far and now tried to placate. »He trusts in the capabilities of his friends, as Madame de Jussac trusts in him. It will all turn out well.«

»That sounds very certain, Mademoiselle.« Gabrielle said lurkingly. Something about Charlotte Batz was highly suspicious, she seemed to know Jussac and his best friends quite well, though she vehemently denied having turned heads.

D'Artagnan acted all innocent, the naïve damsel from the provinces. »My brother explained it to me that way and I believe him. It's just a boring escort, he said.«

Gabrielle was not quite convinced, but she could not pin her doubts on anything definite. »If that's the case. You hear, Madeleine, all will be well and Bernajoux will soon be back in your arms unharmed.«

»I'm eagerly awaiting that day!« the Chevrette actually exclaimed with a feverish gleam in her eyes that made the other two women smile indulgently. Gabrielle patted her arm and said, »I must say goodbye before the children keep pestering their governess and I have to hire a new one.«

»Kiss them for me, they are the best behaved little ones!« laughed Madeleine, and they parted for another day.

D'Artagnan almost breathed a sigh of relief. As interesting as it was to meet Gabrielle in person for the first time, she really did not want to hear any more anecdotes and private matters about Jussac. She was not made for gossip among women, their perspectives were too different.

Madeleine became noticeably silent. After a while, d'Artagnan realised this and again felt guilty for having aroused worries about Bernajoux. She stopped in front of the entrance to the confectionery, where the finest chocolate specialities were tempting. »Shall we buy sweets to crown it all?«

The Chevrette looked up, jolted from her thoughts. For the duration of a blink, she looked confused until the question got through to her. »If you're in the mood for chocolate, dear.«

»Oh, I am! They say it drives away sorrow and worry.«

»Then it must be a large portion for us!« Madeleine laughed affectedly and d'Artagnan lowered her gaze to her hands. »Forgive me, I didn't mean to frighten you with my silly words about orders and necessities.«

»It's not that.« The Chevrette shook her head and looked at d'Artagnan sympathetically. »I never realised what you must sometimes decide, what this life can force you to do.«

»Don't burden yourself with it. It matters seldom enough.«

»But it can happen!« insisted Madeleine. »You don't want to have that command all the time either. Over comrades, over friends. Over someone you lo-«

»No one in their right mind wants that.« D'Artagnan examined the window display without noticing the tempting sweets, the chocolates and small bars. A realisation dawned on her that she should have had long ago; that she had had for a long time and had always repressed it. Perhaps she had not only spoken for Jussac and herself, but also for Tréville, who had also been reluctant to give some orders and had always felt conflicted. »For that, other things should be, must be avoided in these cases and yet cannot always be averted.«

»...like love?«

»Oh, look! A little house made entirely of chocolate! And there, chocolate kittens and chocolate tools! On, let's go for it to our heart's content!«

D'Artagnan disappeared into the confectionery far too quickly to allow Madeleine the opportunity for any more unpleasant questions. The Chevrette suspected that she would only bite on granite here, put on a good face and together with her friend gathered everything for a big chocolate feast. The stew would probably remain untouched today.

Satisfied and in a much brighter mood, the two women found themselves back on the street and d'Artagnan suggested they take advantage of the glorious weather and spend the rest of the day in the gardens. Madeleine had no objection, especially as she had not forgotten her original intentions of distracting her friend from her gloomy musings. A walk among hedges and colourful flower beds, a break under a rustling canopy of oak leaves while snacking on delicious chocolates, that seemed perfect.

Things turned out quite differently. The streets were still crowded, especially the avenues of splendour inviting people to stroll. Between carriages and sedan chairs, there was hardly any space left for other pedestrians, for even the higher society spent their free time parading, competing and dividing Paris among themselves. The friends dodged to side streets and back alleys to avoid this kind of an open street fight. They were not the only ones who hoped to reach their destination quickly and unmolested in that way.

D'Artagnan was startled when suddenly Madeleine let out a shriek. Her hand instinctively shot to her hip where she would otherwise have grasped the sword's hilt and now felt only fabric under her fingers. A blink of an eye later Madeleine rushed off, she ran, she flew over the cobblestones down the alley and the other passers-by dodged her in surprise, scolding after her.

D'Artagnan followed her in alarm and felt for the dagger under the folds of her skirt as she ran. The pistol had been forbidden to her by Madeleine on the outing, but she did not leave the house completely unarmed. She dodged people, Madeleine meanwhile running a good distance ahead of her. D'Artagnan cursed the tailor and his penchant for frills and lace, the hem of the dress, and that she had allowed herself to be talked into the obstructive stuff.

»Madeleine!«

The Chevrette did not hear her, or did not want to hear; she rushed out of the connecting alley back into the street and kept running. D'Artagnan lost sight of her for a second and had to get her bearings at the end of the alley. Her gaze flew over countless heads and hats, over carriages and carts, and finally lingered on three people on horseback. Two of them wore red uniforms and turned in the saddle as a shrieking Flemish woman headed straight for them.

A scarred face bared its teeth into the widest smile it was capable of without frightening little children. Bernajoux leapt from his horse and Madeleine fell into his arms, sinking into them and a passionate kiss.

D'Artagnan retreated into the shadow of a house entrance and watched the scene from there without being seen herself. It was not just the lack of masquerade, the dress in which she did not want to show herself to her comrades. There would have been no danger, because next to Bernajoux she recognised Biscarat in the other rider, who was amusedly calling out to the third in the group to wait. Sorel.

He led his mare by the reins, for he had a fourth person mounted in his place. A petite figure, hidden in a wide coat, the hood pulled deep into her forehead despite the glorious weather. She posed in a proud, upright attitude, despite the strange stealthiness. The wind itself seemed to cajole her, blowing golden blonde curls out from under the hooded cloak. She stroked her hair back with a gentle gesture, her delicate fingers adorned with two eye-catching rings of precious gems; worthy of a princess in a simple, inconspicuous travelling dress.

D'Artagnan caught only a glimpse of her face before the hood was adjusted again. An angelically beautiful countenance, barely twenty years old, almost enraptured from the world, skin of alabaster, lips of rose-red, eyes of indeterminate colour. A painting of innocence and diabolical seduction before which men kneeled down.

Or led it home like a trophy. Sorel stroked his mare's forehead while they waited and exchanged a few friendly words with the maiden. She answered, he laughed and d'Artagnan disengaged herself from the doorway.

She approached Biscarat and saw that he had his left arm in a sling. Only then did she realise that the squad had not returned to Paris in full. The worst fears overshadowed every other thought. A small voice wanted to whisper to her that the three guardsmen were in too good spirits to assume a catastrophe. That she strode over like a lieutenant and not like a mademoiselle.

But by then she had reached the squad, found Bernajoux and Madeleine unresponsive, Sorel's attention focused on another woman, and Biscarat quite perplexed when he was asked gruffly from the side, »What happened?«

He eyed d'Artagnan in complete bewilderment, apparently not recognising her before he had devised a charming phrase of courtesy, and replied, »Well, and what pretty face would like to know that from me?«

»One you'll get see often enough, and to whom it's better to answer at once!« d'Artagnan replied with such a scowl that Biscarat promptly and undoubtedly found himself face to face with his lieutenant. He cleared his throat and poorly hid a broad grin behind his hand as he said, »That won't be in the washhouse then, I suppose.«

D'Artagnan could have stabbed him only with glances, but he regarded her with fascination and not in the slightest reserved. He went too far, perhaps to sound out the waters, perhaps because the unusual appearance tempted him to make a mischievous remark. »I don't think this dress is particularly suitable for any kind of service.«

If Gabrielle had not claimed earlier that Mademoiselle Batz had kept Biscarat extraordinarily occupied, d'Artagnan might have come up with a suitable, sharp and warning remark. But so she only plucked at her dress in embarrassment, annoyed with herself immediately afterwards, and replied much too late, »Instead of uniforms, it's better suited to washing heads.«

»Not only for that.«

»You wouldn't take that risk!« laughed d'Artagnan, but Biscarat wondered at a quiet undertone of resignation that resonated there. He looked to the others and heard Bernajoux give a stifled but entirely happy grunt of a remark meant only for Madeleine. Sorel stared spellbound at a pretty woman, forgetting everything around him, including the other, much more beautiful girl on his mare, who wondered at the unplanned stop. D'Artagnan noticed nothing of this; she had turned her back entirely on all the couples.

Biscarat murmured to himself, amused, »No, I'm not as foolhardy as some other men.«

»So, where are the others? Where's Jussac?« asked d'Artagnan impatiently, also eyeing his arm in the sling with concern.

Biscarat was able to reassure her immediately. »They're well and a day's journey behind us.«

He pointed inconspicuously to the female rider. This escort mission had obviously not gone as planned, but it had nevertheless been accomplished. It was not the place for all the details. D'Artagnan nodded without even glancing at Sorel's mare. She had already grasped the essentials.

Sorel, for his part, finally blinked again and turned his head, as if under an effort of will, when Odette de la Nièvre leaned towards him and asked quietly, »Is the bourgeois dame there with Monsieur Biscarat Lieutenant Jussac's wife?«

»Huh?«

»She asks about him so insistently and anxiously, I thought...« Odette blushed at the unabashedly private question, which was really not proper for a duke's daughter. Paris had almost overwhelmed her, the noise, the crowd, the smells, and she crawled a little deeper into her coat. Sorel seemed to think the question was completely absurd, he just shook his head silently. So he knew the other woman quite well and Odette disliked that. She held on to the pommel of the saddle and whispered, »She appears a bit... intimidating.«

»Hmm...« Sorel answered vaguely, his mind on a rather nice dress; on the wearer, who made every effort to appear brusque and dismissive, to be seen as an officer only, so that she would still be respected by the men.

How needless! No one would dare to disrespect her rank just because Charlotte- because d'Artagnan showed herself to them as a woman. As if anyone would have dared to follow Bernajoux' example and hold his sweetheart close, brush a strand from her forehead, gently run his fingertips along her cheek, place his hand on her neck, press his mouth onto her lips, make her-

»Is she then perhaps Monsieur Biscarat's sister?« Odette snapped Sorel out of an overly vivid fantasy with sweet naivety. He took a deep breath and then devoted himself entirely to the duke's daughter; she at least did not ignore him quite so ostentatiously!

»What makes you think that?«

»They speak with the same southern accent and seem very teasing with each other. Like between siblings.«

»They're just friends.«

»Oh?« Odette tilted her head. By friends she probably imagined something other than this very familiar interaction between a man and a woman. »They must be close friends.«

»...strikingly close.« Sorel ignored the jealous twinge in his chest and gave Odette his most charming smile. »Wrap yourself more tightly in your cloak again, Mademoiselle. We want to reach the Palais Cardinal unrecognised.«

»I shall not fear if you watch over me ever so bravely and good!«

»I will.« Sorel nodded politely to the duke's daughter, and her romantic notions.

He did not notice that d'Artagnan was by no means ignoring him, but had observed the furtive whispering out of the corner of her eye. She paid all the less attention to Biscarat's innocent expression and what he might be thinking, but ordered, »Ride ahead, I will follow as quickly as possible to the palace. There, I want to hear the whole report, understood?«

»Yes, Sir!«

»Madeleine! Come now, you can see your 'Little Robear' as much as you like later!«

Biscarat stifled a grin while the 'Little Robear' reluctantly released his beloved. What fun to tease Bernajoux later with that nickname! D'Artagnan with the dress. Sorel with his stare at it and its wearer. He had not been mistaken, he would not be bored soon with this lieutenant.

Madeleine sighed and shivered without the embrace of her lover. She wrapped her arms around herself and watched the men leave until they turned into another street and were out of her sight. Sulkily, she turned to d'Artagnan and blamed her for not being able to spend more time with Bernajoux. »He was going to lift me on his horse and lead me home like a bride!«

»Your plans go that far already? Does he know about them, too?«

»He certainly knows more than your Sorel, who prefers to be made eyes at by a princess. He likes that, it's so much easier for him with her!«

Madeleine immediately felt sorry for her venomous words when d'Artagnan only responded with a completely emotionless, stony expression, hiding all sorrow, any hint of vulnerability behind it.

»Listen, luv-«

»No, you're right. It was delightful to daydream a little on this outing. But now, duty catches up with me, I've to go to the palace.« D'Artagnan looked down at herself. She did not need that dress anymore or the chocolates, or those feminine sillinesses Madeleine had talked her into.

»Don't wait for me with the stew, it's going to be late,« said the lieutenant of the Red Guard, abandoning Mademoiselle de Batz-Castelmore behind impenetrable walls when she walked away.