Chapter 16
The squad consisted of eight men, carefully selected by Jussac himself. He has chosen only the most reliable and experienced of the guardsmen for this mission; Bernajoux, the battle-hardened one. Biscarat, the smartest of them all. Cahusac, the most experienced. Three other deserving soldiers whom he could trust blindly on any battlefield.
And d'Artagnan.
She marched beside Cahusac and formed the rearguard with him. Sorel would have been Jussac's choice in d'Artagnan's place. Sorel, who wanted to earn his spurs and always stood up bravely and faithfully for his comrades. He almost had his officer's commission in his pocket. But Rochefort has demanded otherwise.
The lieutenant did not rack his brains and banished any annoyance that the stable master was again interfering in Jussac's concerns about the regiment. His attention was focused on the task ahead; to see the Vicomte de Lécuyer at his townhouse and deliver him an invitation to the Palais Cardinal. Rochefort has left no doubt that the invitation was to be obeyed immediately and that the guards were to deliver it to Lécuyer with insistence. An arrest, that was what it could come to in the end and that was why Jussac had assembled his squad wisely.
D'Artagnan had at first taken note of her allocation without wondering. It was only the lieutenant's tense expression that made her suspect that this time it was not one of the daily, simple patrols through Paris to show presence. There was more to it than that and her musing on it did not go unnoticed by her comrades. Before she had even taken up her position next to Cahusac, Biscarat, who had noticed her questioning mien, whispered to her, half explaining and half warning, »Some days we are the town guard.«
»In hard cases?« d'Artagnan asked back sarcastically when she caught the hint in the words. An arrest warrant, that was what Rochefort sent them out for. To teach the Cardinal's enemies the meaning of fear.
»If you want to put it that way.« Biscarat walked past d'Artagnan to his place by Bernajoux. »We have our orders.«
»Understood.« D'Artagnan nodded. The warning was clear; she was to leave off thinking and doubting. Obey, and not stab her comrades in the back. Watch and learn. Perhaps she had been assigned to the squad to complete her apprenticeship.
Like a good soldier, she complied and Jussac gave the order to leave. Purposeful and determined, the Red Guard plunged into the streets of Paris.
The squad left the Palais Cardinal and the Pont Neuf, under which the Seine flowed sluggishly and fetidly, behind them and kept on along the main street. On their way, no passer-by dared get in the way of the guardsmen. The citizens seemed to suspect that something was brewing, that a punitive expedition was on its way. They retreated behind locked doors and windows, avoiding with lowered gazes whenever the Red Guard passed them.
D'Artagnan had an uneasy feeling the further they went. Was their destination perhaps the Jardin du Luxembourg or even the palace itself? No, Jussac was now turning off towards the ruined church of Saint-Sulpice. D'Artagnan could have followed the course of the streets blindly. She knew every house in this district, every cobblestone under her boots. Hell, she could have called every horse turd by name!
Cahusac turned his head because d'Artagnan was falling behind with every step. Shutters were closed. Behind ajar doors, people watched the patrol suspiciously. They whispered, they waited, they recognised Monsieur d'Artagnan and wondered why he has returned to this part of town. In red uniform, with ill intent. There was nothing here for a traitor, this was the home of the King's loyalists.
Townhouse followed townhouse, one more magnificent than the next, each almost a palace in itself, rich in oriels and colourful ornaments. Jussac now turned into the side streets, because here, near the Rue du Vieux-Colombier, they could meet musketeers at any time. With d'Artagnan in their ranks, the battle would have been inevitable, was the provocation too great to let the guards go their way unmolested.
D'Artagnan almost froze altogether, but a sharp cough brought her to her senses. Cahusac often suffered from dry heaves because of his old throat wound, so none of the other comrades responded to the surreptitious wake-up call. With burning cheeks and three long strides, d'Artagnan took her place again.
The patrol continued on its way and d'Artagnan's dire premonition became a certainty when Jussac finally ordered them to stop at the wide gates of a hôtel. The master of the house was present and held his doors open invitingly to any visitor. The Vicomte de Lécuyer had nothing to hide, he was popular at royal court and a welcome guest in any fine salon. D'Artagnan knew him, they had exchanged a few friendly words over and over again when he had visited the Musketeers' headquarters during his stays in Paris. What had he done wrong that the cardinal should direct his ominous attention to him?
Jussac eyed the townhouse with a frown, deliberating and secretly worried. Looking at the ostentatious building, the numerous lackeys, errand boys and private mercenaries in the courtyard, it became clear; the guardsmen were too few. Too few of number in a part of Paris where, at the slightest stir, a dozen musketeers would have been on hand to start a fight, if only to inflict an ignominious defeat on Richelieu.
D'Artagnan waited for his decision with a new respect for Jussac and his difficult task. He has chosen just enough guardsmen to fight to save their own skins. But he has dispensed with an entire army, for with such a deployment they would never have reached even the gates of the hôtel, but would have been chased away the district in disgrace.
Jussac seemed to have made up his mind on how to proceed. With a few curt words and gestures, he ordered Bernajoux and Cahusac to wait near the gate. He sent three more guardsmen as scouts to the back of the building, down the street, to sound the alarm if necessary. Biscarat and d'Artagnan remained with him.
»We're going in,« Jussac decided, making no secret of the fact that he would have preferred a reliable guardsman at his side instead of d'Artagnan. »You will stay close to me.«
»Yes, Sir!«
Jussac merely snorted at the confirmation and turned towards the gate. Although the last few days among guardsmen has been more peaceful for d'Artagnan, her relationship with the lieutenant has hardly improved. True, he no longer assigned her to lonely posts, but allowed her to share in the daily duties like any other of his men. But she has by no means earned trust beyond her abilities as a soldier. Now to invade the house of a friend of the Musketeers to bring him before the Cardinal made Jussac even more suspicious of her than he already was.
At the gate stood a bored-looking mercenary who was keeping only a moderate eye on the street and therefore first noticed the guardsmen when they were already asking to be let in. His expression was simple-minded, the fellow was obviously not of profuse intellect, a ruffian in common street clothes, but with clearly visible armament. Gunpowder cartridges dangled from his baldric, the pistol was casually slipped between his doublet and leather belt. He did not carry a rapier, a sign that he was not of nobility. Perhaps the Vicomte had taken the man in as a gatekeeper out of pity, he appeared rather incapable, and he grunted alcohol-heavily at Jussac, »What's up?«
The lieutenant did not dwell on owing the dumb fellow any explanation. One look was enough for him not to waste his time with the drunkard. Jussac strode resolutely past him, immediately followed by Biscarat and d'Artagnan. The mercenary seemed to made a move to get in their way. But then he just shrugged and let them pass. Either the Vicomte did not choose his mercenaries wisely or he paid them too little.
He was better in choosing his lackeys. The guardsmen had only taken a few steps into the courtyard when a man in the fine livery of a majordomo ran towards them. »Messieurs, whereabouts are you headed?«
»Vicomte de Lécuyer, where do we find him?« Jussac's gruff tone left no doubt that the guardsmen had appeared on official and urgent business. The young majordomo hesitated, he seemed uncertain and his gaze flitted from Jussac to Biscarat and d'Artagnan. At the sight of her, he blinked in confusion and she nodded. Indeed it was her; lieutenant of the Musketeers, always on friendly terms with the Vicomte.
D'Artagnan's presence seemed to tip the scales, for the majordomo granting them an advance on trust at the end of his hasty deliberations. He gestured to the stables, which occupied the entire left side of the courtyard. »Please follow me, Messieurs. The Vicomte is just preparing a horseback ride.«
Jussac and Biscarat had not missed the silent communication between d'Artagnan and the lackey. Biscarat suspected that Rochefort had hoped for precisely that advantage of being able to gain access more easily when they had the musketeer with them. Jussac, for his part, did not let on whether he saw his authority undermined or was glad to take the opportunity to be let in to see the master of the house without discussions and threats. They followed the majordomo while everyday life in the hôtel resumed around them.
The stables smelled of fresh straw and oats, of horse and leather. The stalls were roofed and open to the courtyard. Stable boys looked after the animals, all grey horses. Lécuyer was so close to the Musketeers because the regiment's horses came from his stud. They were excellent beasts, an outstanding breed that had found favour with the King, who had therefore ordered that his personal Guard should receive them. They had given the corps the nickname »Grey Musketeers«.
The Vicomte was indeed by one of the stalls, impatiently watching the grooms get his favourite horse ready for a ride. The beast was stubborn, threw its head back when the curb bit was to be pushed into its mouth and pranced restlessly as soon as the saddle blanket was placed on its back. Maybe it was in pain, injured or lame.
Lécuyer obviously did not care, he wanted to present the beautiful mare to His Majesty on a ride. The riding crop in his hand bobbed and twitched as if it was about to strike a blow against the horse or the stable boy. His annoyance was clearly written on his feisty, blotchy features. He was not a handsome man, chubby and short, only towering over others on horseback. But in society he was eloquent and witty, knew how to use trenchant language and charm the women despite his physical imperfections.
»Hurry up!« he ordered the stable boys. »It must be taken to the reins, Louis does not like to wait!«
»His Majesty will be able to dispense with you in favour of the Prime Minister.«
Lécuyer wheeled around, the riding crop sweeping through the air and narrowly missing Jussac's chest. The lieutenant demonstratively took another step forward and put more emphasis in his voice. »Cardinal Richelieu requests your presence in his palais. Immediately.«
Lécuyer blinked in surprise and looked over Jussac's shoulder at his majordomo, who stood by with an unhappy expression, ashamed that he has not kept this trouble away from his master. Then the vicomte noticed the other two guardsmen, and seemed to reckon that the cardinal sent out more men than just these three to deliver his invitation. »How rude!«
»This is no time for courtesies. Accompany us, Vicomte!«
Lécuyer might only towered up to Jussac's chin, but he was not intimidated at all. »With all due respect, but no. The Duc may recite the invitation to me again tomorrow, and then, maybe, I will think about it.« He signalled to the lackey. »Escort the gentlemen out!«
Jussac's jaw grinned dangerously; he was ready to give the cardinal's order considerably more emphasis. Biscarat looked around, assessing which of the stable boys and footmen could be dangerous to them before reinforcements rushed into the courtyard.
But then d'Artagnan stepped forward on an impulse. »Vicomte!«
»Oh?« Puzzled, Lécuyer turned away from Jussac to the other, insolent guardsman, and was once more astonished when he recognised him. »Monsieur d'Artagnan?«
»Idem. I beg your pardon, Vicomte, please lend me an ear.«
»Should I?« Lécuyer wrinkled his nose, but as Jussac seemed unwilling to retreat, and in turn took d'Artagnan's interference with evident disapproval, he put on a good face. »I suppose I should. Say, d'Artagnan, how is my good Peur?«
»Hale and hearty as he always is. He stands in the Cardinal's stables, stuffing himself.«
»The horse must go with him when his master changes sides.«
»That's how it is.« D'Artagnan nodded and did not address the stinger, the attack on her honour. Instead, she flattered Lécuyer. »A splendid beast like Peur stands out all the more in the ranks of the Red Guard.«
»Splendid, ha! Perfect he is, of the best breeding!«
»His Eminence has noticed that too.«
Lécuyer hesitated as the lure was held so tantalisingly close to his nose. »Certainly?«
»Yes. A good opportunity, isn't it?«
»Oh?« The dice rolled and seemed to fall slowly at first, one by one, then suddenly all at once. Lécuyer's countenance brightened and he exclaimed, »Oh, indeed! You!« He barked at his majordomo. »My cabinet, lay out appropriate clothing for me! Louis can wait!«
The majordomo hurried away to select the going-out clothes for a visit to the Prime Minister of France. Reprovingly, Lécuyer turned to Jussac. »There is always time for courtesies.«
Jussac accepted with a stony face that they had all been outsmarted. Biscarat nodded appreciatively at d'Artagnan's cunning, which has helped them to succeed. Lécuyer left the stables for his cabinet and told the cardinal's guards to wait for him outside the gate.
Outside again in the street, Jussac sent Bernajoux to order the other men back. The guardsmen waited and Biscarat quietly talked with Jussac.
D'Artagnan suspected that it was about her. Jussac had to be reassured that he had certainly not forfeited his command and that for once, just once, he could do without disciplining the brash musketeer lieutenant. She would have given herself a good tongue-lashing for her actions, which could have turned out completely differently. The confidence of the majordomo had made her try her luck with Lécuyer also.
They heard hoof beats and the Vicomte appeared on horseback on his favourite mare, which was tamed at last. Lécuyer was elegantly dressed, worthy of an audience with the cardinal. A servant, also in his best livery, walked in front and led the reins. As if the guardsmen were his personal escort of honour, Lécuyer waited for them to take his horse in the middle and lead him to the palais.
They did, Jussac gave the marching orders, the whole column set off. Cahusac glanced back over his shoulder to see if no one else was following them. The drunken mercenary at the gate stared after the procession out of reddened eyes. Otherwise everything remained quiet.
To their chagrin, the Vicomte insisted that they should not loiter in the side streets but follow the main road. He feared that he would not get enough attention, that it might escape the notice of someone in the neighbourhood that the Cardinal was sending out his men to put them at the service of the Vicomte, if only as a guard of honour for the duration of a walk. Jussac spared himself the fruitless discussion that would only have drawn more unwanted attention to them. Alert and tense, the Red Guard continued on its way.
Although Lécuyer was with them entirely of his own free will and did not give the impression of being under any kind of arrest or of being afraid of the future, the citizens of Paris remained withdrawn into their houses or huddled evasively at the side of the streets. People whispered and the word flew over heads and rooftops faster than any carrier pigeon could have done. Vicomte de Lécuyer was being led away! He had fallen into the hands of the cardinal's henchmen! They were taking him to the Bastille!
A simple-minded mercenary was leaning against the archway, wishing for the next bottle of wine, when children ran down the street shrieking loudly. They were playing briskly, guards and robbers. No. Vicomte and Red Guard. Arrest! To the rescue!
A blink of an eye passed. Then all the colour drained from the mercenary's face, he staggered forward and snatched the pistol from his baldric. He rushed down the streets, following the rumours, breathless, full of fear.
Market women pointed him one direction, craftsmen the next. He gasped and stumbled and had only one goal in mind; to save his master, to free the Vicomte! He was a good-for-nothing, just useful to drink and stand around, and yet he had been given a chance. He scoundrel, he simpleton!
A veil of mist wafted before his eyes, was it tears or was it the alcohol? Indifferent, quite unimportant. There they were, red uniforms. A grey horse and the Vicomte in their midst!
The mercenary threw himself into an alley, he ran over unpaved clay path, dove over a bucket and fell between a gap in the houses back onto the main road. He had overtaken the guardsmen, they were about to come around that corner! He ducked into a doorway and huffed and puffed and sniffed back his snot. His hands were shaking, then his whole arm as he raised his pistol. He squinted one eye shut, the daylight blinding him painfully. Where was his target? In front, the leader, that lieutenant. He waited for a clear field of fire.
Jussac ordered his squad to stop because there was a bottleneck ahead of them. The main road was a busy spot and the spectators at the side, the curious crowd caused by the Red Guard and which Lécuyer clearly enjoyed, did not make it any easier for them to move on - and now a carriage has broken down further ahead, the axle broken, the oxen nervous, while the carter cursed and raved and tore his hair out over his misfortune.
It seemed like a coincidence and not a prepared ambush to free Lécuyer from supposed captivity. Nevertheless, Jussac marched to the rearguard to pull d'Artagnan out. »Take a look around!«
Frowning, d'Artagnan stepped forward and obeyed the command. She noticed nothing unusual aside the curious crowd and the wrecked cart. Lécuyer seemed puzzled by the halt, but not alarmed. What was Jussac getting at?
She winced as if under a slap when he growled, »Are there any Musketeers nearby? Don't stare at me, tell me!«
It cost d'Artagnan considerable willpower to turn her gaze back to her surroundings. She scrutinised the many passers-by again, the market women, street children or day labourers. People stood in every nook and cranny, under archways, in house entrances, or they jostled past and went into other streets. She could not spot a familiar face. »There are none.«
»You're sure?«
»By the Devil!«
D'Artagnan clenched her fists and Jussac had no doubt that the other lieutenant would break him his nose at the next insult, the next outrageous insinuation, and that only the difference in rank for time was still holding d'Artagnan back. But Jussac had been provoked and disrespected too many times today not to ask bitingly, »Was that curse a 'no' or your way of hiding a lie?«
D'Artagnan did not linger over words. She sprang forward and threw herself against Jussac, who was knocked to the ground by the force of the attack. He landed painfully on his back, a loud thunder in his ears as his head hit the ground. He saw stars and for a moment the air was forced out of his lungs. Instinctively he grabbed the body that was on top of him, clawed at the clothing and threw himself around. Now he was on top and blindly lunged for a blow with his fist.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw hooves lash out past his head by a hair's breadth, he ducked just in time and the reality suddenly crashed down on him in screams and the stench of gunpowder.
Cahusac was the first to get to him, grabbed him by the arm and pulled him out of reach of the mare, who was lying in death spasms in her own blood, twitching uncontrollably and kicking about. The fabric of d'Artagnan's uniform slithered from Jussac's fingers and Biscarat helped her to her feet too.
She stumbled disoriented and asked in a confusion, »Un... injured? Is he...?«
Biscarat looked over to Jussac, as he pulled them both under cover, and found the lieutenant unharmed. »It hit the horse.«
He kept a lookout for Lécuyer. The Vicomte has also escaped with no more than a scare. When the shot banged, when the horse collapsed beneath him, the guardsmen had pulled him from the saddle and taken him to the shelter of a house entrance, which they were now defending against panicking people.
Bernajoux had spotted the attacker at the same moment as d'Artagnan, had rushed in his direction with his sword unsheathed and struck him down.
The mercenary was dead, the horse gone, and the world still in a frenzy, when Jussac, too, fully grasped the situation. He had been standing by the mare, in whose ribcage a black, bloody hole gaped. It could have been his ribs lying bare and his blood soaking the cobblestones.
At some point the panic died down, the last passer-by has fled and the guardsmen were convinced they were no longer under fire and could retreat. They lost no time, the trembling, pale Vicomte in their midst. Jussac sent his men forward to the palais and stayed behind to secure their departure.
As the rearguard passed him, he grabbed d'Artagnan by the arm. She stopped, looked up at him and braced herself for the next rebuke for her actions.
Jussac hesitated as he met the gaze of the former musketeer, the new guardsman. Then he nodded curtly, gratefully, and with that all was said between them.
