The Cimetière des Saints-Innocents at sunset was a harrowing place.
The silhouette of the Church of the Holy Innocents cast shadows across the courtyard, stained glass windows dark and bell tower tuneless, as it stood looming over the decomposing Parisians and nameless strangers it had been charged with guarding. The air was crisp and smelt of death, the wind whistling through the cloisters sounding, to Aramis' ears, like a woman wailing. Every step he had taken across the ground had reminded him of the centuries of bones, residue fat, maggot-infested flesh and forgotten lives that rested beneath his feet.
Marguerite was somewhere among them.
He knew that he would never forget the look she had as she'd testified against him. The misery set in her face as she succumbed to Rochefort's threats and to her own grief. The grey streaks that had appeared in her hair, far too premature for a woman so young. The lines around her eyes that held the same hopelessness as an elderly beggar standing before Death.
He knew that he would never forgive himself for using her so cruelly.
He was sat leaning against a stone monument in the centre of the cemetery. His hat rested obediently beside him. This was not the first time he had visited the mass grave and he had sworn that it would not be the last. He hated every moment he spent there, but he knew he had to stay.
I owe her that much, he wept.
And I will return to this place, to sit at the foot of this stone, to pray and remember this lonely woman, no matter where God decides I must go. Even if I am doomed to live away from France, without Anne and to watch my son grow up from afar, or even if, by some impossible miracle, we can love each other freely, I will return.
I must never leave this place to the mercy of time and poor memory.
"Aramis…?"
The gentle voice startled him. Jolting his head up, his gaze fell upon the sombre figure of Constance, head guarded from the cold by a delicate scarf and a shawl draped across her shoulders. She held a small handful of wild flowers. Their petals were a shade of lilac that seemed odd in such a colourless place.
"Constance…"
He could see his breath as he spoke.
"What are you doing here?" She approached, worriedly, "You look freezing… how long have you been sat like this?"
Aramis shrugged, shaking his head.
"A couple of hours, I think. I counted seven tolls of the bell at the last turn of the hour."
He tried to sound pleasant, but his words, stiffened by several hours silence, sounded melancholy and tired. Constance's brow furrowed a little with concern.
"Where is your coat?"
Aramis gestured vaguely.
"There was a young man here earlier, asleep on the ground, wearing only a shirt…" His eyes clouded over, reminiscing, "I think he'd been here for several days… I gave it to him."
With that gentle firmness that made the Musketeer realise what a wonderful mother she may one day make, Constance moved to kneel beside him. Tenderly, she removed her shawl, exposing her skin to the chilly air, and wrapped it around him. He went to protest, but she gave him a stern look.
"Now is not the time to be chivalrous, Aramis."
She spread her skirts out around her and sat with him at the foot of the monument.
The darkness had nearly fully settled. The moon was large and low in the sky, and an unusual red colour, as though God had severed the head of a giant and held it aloft. Aramis wondered if it bore some significance, but he knew of no-one who would be able to answer such a question. Instead, he was left to ponder its immense mystery, side by side with his compassionate friend.
Constance twirled the stems of the flowers between her fingers.
"I've just come from the palace," she murmured.
He started.
He had forgotten.
The Queen… she summoned a council, to discuss today's events. Those who she could trust. Athos, Porthos, d'Artagnan, Treville, Constance.
And Aramis.
Aramis looked down at his muddied boots, knowingly.
"You were the only one who didn't answer her call."
A sad smile crossed his face.
"The Captain thinks it best if I keep my distance during the proceedings. Athos too. They seem to be under the impression that I'll do something reckless again."
He did not raise his head to look at her again, simply staring at the dirt, hair falling across his eyes. He wondered if he would cry again, or whether his tear ducts had finally dried up, the last salty droplets now restrained by acceptance and numbness. He momentarily gripped Anne's crucifix, which still hung around his neck.
"So I came here."
"I see… It really is a beautiful place… even when you consider what's beneath your feet. Peaceful. " Constance breathed, taking it all in, grey eyes large in the red moonlight. "Perfect for praying, I imagine."
"Perhaps. But… I came to sit with her."
"With who…?"
He rested his hand on the dirt below him.
Realisation dawned on her face.
"Marguerite…?"
He nodded.
His voice shook when he spoke.
"The King branded her a traitor. And the church branded her a felo-de-se." Aramis whispered, "They wanted to put her in an unmarked grave, away from consecrated ground. But Treville told me that her parents made a plea to the Queen. They knew she would be more generous. More understanding. More willing to listen."
His hand became a fist, clutching at the soil.
"She persuaded the King to allow a church burial. But that's all he would permit. It was still one where she was tossed on a heap. With strangers and criminals. Still unmarked."
He flung the handful of filth away angrily, watching the dust from it be blown away.
"Still to be forgotten."
He stared down at his now dirty palms.
"She deserved better than this, no matter what she did."
Loud voices, laughter, echoed from over the cemetery walls, the population of Paris slowly making their way to taverns and brothels, ready to drink, gamble and seduce until the dawn. A dog barked loudly. Horses whinnied and trotted by. Aramis wished that for a moment, the world could fall silent. As quiet as if they were buried under the ground too. So quiet, that he would never have the opportunity to forget her face. Her voice. The way she moved. The way she had cried.
"It wasn't your fault, Aramis."
"It was." He softly cried, "It was. I tore out her heart and I handed it to Rochefort."
Madame Bonacieux made no argument against his confession. Instead, she rested a hand on his arm. He continued, spitting out the words.
"Athos, Porthos, D'Artagnan. They know it's my fault. They'd never say it. But they're thinking it." His stomach twisted with the lack of faith in his friends, a lack of trust that he'd never experienced before, never imagined he'd feel. Have I become so consumed with my own guilt that I will trust no-one? An honest man believes others to be as honest as he is. I am a liar and God knows it. Is this why I believe my friends to lie about their judgement of me?
"Even she blames me."
A soft hand cupped his cheek and turned his head, so he met her gaze.
"You know that's not true."
"I… I just wanted to be close to my son." He sobbed.
"And you will be. Someday. But for now, you must wait. Wait with the ones who are ready to stand with you. To die for you."
He felt a lump in his throat, his helplessness engulfing his voice box.
"They love you. All of them. You can doubt your own guiltlessness, Heaven knows I doubt mine too, but do not doubt your brothers' loyalty. And do not doubt her heart."
He absorbed her words for a few moments, before tilting his head, confusedly.
"You doubt your innocence? You are the most guiltless woman I know."
Something like shame crossed her face, as she regretted her words.
"No… it's not important… I shouldn't have said…"
"Constance…"
Constance slowly removed her hand from his cheek. She sat back, curled up, hugging her knees to her chest. Her breast rose and fell shudderingly, not with cold, but with the memory that haunted her most. Aramis could see her eyes moving slightly, as though she was witnessing something that he could not see.
"I only meant… I have committed such a terrible sin... so terrible that I will never forgive myself."
Aramis froze, watching her face contort with heartbreak.
"I lost him."
Her grip on the stems strengthened, crushing them between both hands, as though she was clutching at her own heart.
"First at the scaffold. And now… no one will tell me where he's buried. I lost him."
She seemed to have lost herself in the image of the poor man's fate.
"What must it be like? To be lost twice?"
Aramis's heart shriveled in his ribcage as he solved her riddle, turning to grey ash, smoke and dust, as though it had been set upon a pyre. He had been so absorbed in his own losses that he had hardly considered.
Lemay.
He would have received the most unbearable funeral imaginable.
A pit in a forest somewhere, a probably a piss or two onto his headless corpse.
At least Marguerite had some degree, however small, of decency.
"I came here hoping, deep down, that this is where he is. No matter how awful, this is better than…" She couldn't bring herself to say it. "The Red Guards who buried him are still loyal to Rochefort." She explained, "They laughed at me when I asked. They said he had deserved death. Deserved to be lost. And told me that I would have joined him in his grave…" her words caught in her throat as she relayed their words, "had the Musketeer I whored myself out to not come to save me."
A steely look set in her face.
"I no longer care what people think of me. None of it compares to dying having everyone think you a traitor. Lemay will never know that his name will be cleared."
A solitary tear fell from her left eye.
"I don't even know his first name."
She took a deep, angry breath.
"Rochefort held my head and made me watch. He made me see the look on Lemay's face when he realised what was going to happen. As he said... As…" Her back straightened, and she winced, as if she was reliving the sensation, "When the time comes, I will watch him walk to the scaffold. I will watch him die."
He had never see her so enraged.
"And then I will forget where they bury him."
Aramis gazed at her admirably. A heavy silence filled the air as they both imagined that there could someday come a time when they would both be free, from Rochefort, from the lies and fear, from their remorse, from their hunger for vengeance. A time when the dead could finally be at peace. Then, momentarily forgetting all solemnity, with a rare semblance of his usual humour and charm, he teased:
"You should ask Treville for a commission."
She looked a little baffled.
"That way, you can stand on the scaffold." He clarified, before smirking, "I think d'Artagnan would swoon… you all dressed in leather, covered in the blood of your enemy."
She smiled for the first time that evening, a warm smile, happy at the sight of her friend finding the courage to laugh again.
"I think the Queen has more reason to stand there. Besides, I should hope d'Artagnan would be swooning at me in my wedding gown, rather than drenched in Rochefort's blood."
Aramis could not hide his surprise.
Her eyes widened as she realised what she had said and she looked mortified at having let the words slip from her mouth. Clearly, the Musketeer judged, it was a secret they had both wanted to keep a while longer.
"Congratulations." He said softly, unable to not think about how much he longed for the chance to marry Anne.
Constance shrugged and stared into the distance.
"You are the only one who knows… it's only been a couple of days since he asked."
She was trembling with the cold.
"We don't know what lies Rochefort will create next. It could be us on the scaffold soon. And if that time comes, we'd rather we went together… as husband and wife.
She sighed.
"At the moment, it feels a little like its more out of necessity than want…"
The tragedy of such circumstances placed another weight on Aramis' back, but he did not say anything. He knew that if he had been cautious, if he had denied his heart, his rage and his passion, then perhaps his dearest friends could have married without the threat of death looming over them. He desperately wanted to not dwell on it. I will go mad if I carry any more burdens. So he noticed the flowers in her hand again and nodded at them.
"A pretty colour for a wedding dress."
She looked back down at the lilac flowers in her hand
"Oh, no, these are…. they're not…"
She lifted one so Aramis could see it in clearer detail. It had four petals, with minute veins stretching from the centre to its edges and splashes of white, as though it was spattered with snow. It almost looked like a little fleur-de-lis.
"They're called 'Honesty'. They grow in hedges, in the woods… I thought it would be symbolic. Honesty is what Lemay… and what Marguerite deserved. Why not bring them some?"
Aramis rubbed his brow, smearing dirt across it.
And though he thought he could cry no more, his eyes filled with tears, comprehending the beauty of her gesture.
Madame Bonacieux softly placed the wild flowers down beside her and pulled a handkerchief out from seemingly nowhere. It was petite, with delicate flower details and lace edging. It was clearly new, and hadn't been used yet. She held it out to the grieving Musketeer, who looked confused and a little startled. She rolled her eyes.
"Don't be so silly, Aramis. I'm not giving it to you. It's for your hands. And your face. Believe it or not, not every woman is so easily seduced by a Musketeer's affections."
He raised a quizzical eyebrow.
"But you're going to marry a Musketeer…?"
"I'm going to marry the King's champion," she giggled, "There's a difference."
Aramis laughed through his sorrow and accepted the embroidered cloth, beginning to clean away the grime.
His tears dried into the material.
"D'Artagnan has a 'secret' collection of my handkerchiefs hidden in a box under his floorboards." She offered, as he tidied himself up, "He likes to pretend that he misplaced the last one so I will keep giving them to him. No doubt this one will end up amongst them eventually, just as 'lost' as the others."
She had begun to shiver.
Aramis removed her shawl and cocooned her in it once again. She opened her mouth to speak, but her jaw shuddered with the chill, teeth chattering. She made no verbal protest. Then, he wrapped his arms around her, her skin icy to the touch. She rested her head against his shoulder, sharing in his warmth. Two figures, bathed in the red moonlight, identical in their loneliness, only the dead to keep them company.
After a moment, she spoke.
"Perhaps…"
"…Yes?"
"Perhaps we should have a collection." She whispered contemplatively, gazing at the sky, "Like d'Artagnan."
"A collection of what?" He asked quietly.
They sat in loyal embrace, as she murmured her deepest wish.
"Of memories..."
She closed her eyes.
"Of misplaced memories."