Chapter 17
They reached the Palais Cardinal without further incident. When the Red Guard had been met with suspicion before, now the citizens' faces showed real concern as soon as they noticed the supposed captive. The Vicomte was still pale and had to be supported by his servant. At least no mob was gathering to free the unfortunate man from the clutches of the cardinal's guards.
D'Artagnan did not know if such a thing has ever happened before, but she herself was wearing that uniform long enough by now to make another stand together with the guardsmen if an angry rabble attacked them. Protecting Jussac from a bullet meant much more than just changing to the other side; d'Artagnan now stood with her life up for her new comrades, however poorly they might think of her.
They took a side gate into the palace; at the main entrance their arrival would only have attracted more attention. Within the impregnable walls of the Palais Cardinal, they took Lécuyer to a well-secured room in a side wing, watched over by more guardsmen. The Vicomte was a guest in house arrest until Richelieu would want to talk with him. He would lack nothing but his freedom for an indefinite period.
When that was done, Jussac disbanded the squad and sent the guardsmen back to their duties according to sentry schedule, to keep them from thinking until the attack was but a fading dread in their minds.
For a moment d'Artagnan was tempted to resist the order. She had some urgent questions to ask Rochefort. Why had she, of all people, been chosen for this task? Did the cardinal want to humiliate her, did he want to provoke Tréville beyond measure? Maybe Lécuyer knew something, if only she could talk to him...
A strong hand on her shoulder prevented her from messing with Jussac. Bernajoux' gesture meant no warning or threat this time. It was recognition and gratitude for her efforts, which had made this mission easier for them and, above all, saved their lieutenant from death.
Biscarat stood near and when d'Artagnan did not immediately shake off the hand, the other Gascon gave a barely perceptible nod. With that, the former musketeer lieutenant was accepted in their ranks definitively as a new guardsmen and no longer the tolerated guest only.
Bernajoux lowered his hand and mumbled something unintelligible. Perhaps it had to do with unexpected fraternisations or the capricious fate. In any case, his scarred face twitched because he noticed d'Artagnan's wry grin at him. With a snort not quite as snide as usual, he walked away and Biscarat watched him go with raised brows. He then shrugged and announced, as if it has been an uneventful day so far, »Lunch break!«
D'Artagnan understood the hidden question, the invitation that resonated in the word. She looked once more at the door, behind which Lécuyer and his servant were locked away, presumably recovering from the fright of the last hour. Neither the Vicomte nor Rochefort would be on the run. Unlike Jussac, who has already left to report back to the stable master. D'Artagnan would have to wait to speak to Rochefort herself. With a serenity she did not feel, she accepted Biscarat's invitation.
In the guardroom, they did not remain alone at the table for long. Bernajoux seemed to have made sure in no time that the story of d'Artagnan's determined deeds has spread among the guardsmen. Suddenly, she found herself in the company of more comrades than in the past weeks put together.
Of all people, the otherwise untalkative Bernajoux told over and over again of the cunning with which the Vicomte de Lécuyer has been persuaded to follow them willingly and peacefully. What dangers they had endured on the street and how they had narrowly escaped with their lives. One mercenary became a whole host of enemies. Biscarat, for his part, was excellent at weaving in new details and jokes to keep things exciting even for those guardsmen who were hearing the story for the third or fourth time.
No one noticed that d'Artagnan herself remained silent about all this. She put a good face on the countless, comradely handshakes she received for Jussac's rescue and ignored the crude jokes about Monsieur de Tréville's friends that some guardsmen uttered carelessly and which were soon swallowed up by the laughter of the others.
At one point, d'Artagnan caught the glance of a guardsman who seemed to be the only one more interested in her than in the story. Sorel eyed her attentively, noting her exhaustion, and did not pelt her with congratulations and questions like the others. She put his encouraging smile like a warming cloak around her restless heart and survived the last few minutes until the bell for the next guard change.
At last they seemed to remember that they were not in a tavern at a late hour celebrating a victory, but that there were still duties to perform. D'Artagnan finally regained breathing room and leaned back in her chair as Sorel, Bernajoux and Biscarat left last. The guardsmen did not urge her to return to duty either, perhaps she looked more worn out than she wanted to admit.
Behind closed eyelids, d'Artagnan tried to sort out her thoughts about the reasons and consequences of Lécuyer's arrest. However, after only a few moments, a scratching noise nearby disturbed her, a chair was pulled back. Someone took a seat opposite her and d'Artagnan suppressed a weary sigh. Instead, she opened her eyes and took a seated posture. If she was already loafing around, Jussac should not accuse her of disrespecting a superior officer.
Said superior officer waved off. »Sit at ease!«
D'Artagnan gladly accepted the offer, whether it was meant sarcastically or not. She leaned back and eyed Jussac for her part. The lieutenant looked exhausted himself, battered in body and mind. At the same time angry and barely restrained. It was not difficult to guess, for towards d'Artagnan, anger seemed to be one of Jussac's preferred moods.
Rochefort also had such an effect on people. At least d'Artagnan suspected that she was only partly responsible for Jussac's temper, for a change. She bit her tongue before a remark about this could slip out. Instead, she reached for a decanter and poured Jussac the diluted wine they were allotted here. »Not the best vintage, but it keeps up the morale of the troop.«
»I guess you know a lot about that.« Jussac replied with unaccustomed humour, accepting the cup that d'Artagnan pushed towards him.
»The worse the wine, the better the spirit?« she asked. »According to that we should be served water.«
»We did have water.«
»But?«
»When you can barely leave the latrine, morale goes downhill fast.« Jussac toasted her and emptied his cup with deep draughts.
D'Artagnan frowned. The lieutenant was certainly not here to talk to her about brackish water and troop morale. »Sir?«
»For God's sake, cut out this 'Sir' nonsense!« Jussac slammed the cup back as if the table deserved a beating. »You are no less an officer than I am!«
»Tell that to His Eminence, he took away my commission.«
»And that's a bloody mistake! You shouldn't be here.«
»We share the same opinion on that, Sir.«
»So why-?!« Jussac interrupted himself. He ran a hand over his face and forced himself to calm down. This conversation was not going along the lines he had in mind. He eyed d'Artagnan with a long look and searched for a new beginning. »If you were not here- I owe you my life.«
D'Artagnan stared in disbelief. That was all? Jussac was fishing for words because he had to bring himself to thank her, of all people? »I acted instinctively, I would have done it for anyone. You owe me nothing.«
Jussac snorted disparagingly and stared at the cup in his hands. For the first time he understood why d'Artagnan had been promoted at such a young age, why Tréville thought highly of his lieutenant, why Rochefort valued him as a friend. He was sitting opposite a damned hero. Right action at the right time, without hesitation, without thinking of one's own good. The bullet might as well have hit d'Artagnan when the musketeer jumped to his aid.
That damned hothead, a gascon parvenu, reckless and arrogant! Someone who took it for granted that all luck the world hold was reserved for him alone and would thus be distributed just right. The women's darling at every royal feast, the youthful daredevil, the king's favourite, who could allow himself every impertinence, every stupidity! - That's what Jussac had thought of d'Artagnan and he had wished the plague on him for every injured guardsman the musketeer had left behind on his way to the top.
In truth, d'Artagnan was at the bottom. Someone who was stuck for years at the same officer's post, forgotten by those at royal court who owed the musketeer much; and in the end, despite all devotion, just served as cannon fodder, lost everything. But even here, among enemies, despised on all sides and wished to hell, d'Artagan remained steadfast.
The cardinal must have seen the benefit. All he had to do was put d'Artagnan in the right place at the right time and wait for everything to turn out to his satisfaction.
Jussac emptied the cup. »Rochefort said you have passed a final trial of loyalty today.«
D'Artagnan frowned, not giving in to her first impulse to leap up angrily and go strangle a certain master spy. »So that's what it was? A trial?«
»Richelieu will soon give back the commission to you. You have won his confidence.« Jussac did not say whether d'Artagnan passed this trial also before him, and she was too proud to ask him for his personal assessment. Instead, she half-joked, »Can the Red Guard stand two lieutenants?«
»Are you asking if you will be transferred along with the promotion?«
»I'm asking if you could put up with me much longer.«
Jussac wrinkled his nose and stood up. He turned to the door and said into the room, »I'm getting used to you.«
With that, d'Artagnan was alone again in the guardroom and blinked once, twice, until she finally realised that she has become a renegade. With a jerk she got to her feet and marched out to confront Rochefort. She gruffly asked her way to the stable master and was directed to his study. Without knocking, she rushed in and stopped right on the threshold again to marvel.
It was her first time in this room and she immediately noticed the porcelain figurines, neatly lined up but not sorted according to any particular pattern, on the shelves along the walls. Some were bright white, others colourfully painted. There were animal figures and mythical creatures, flower arrangements and entire miniature landscapes. In between, people of all professions and social status posed, craftsmen, nobles, soldiers, monks.
A jester on the shelf above the desk particularly caught her eye because his broad grin looked so sad and devoid. As if he were all too aware of the great irony of the world, as if he knew of all the small and great wickedness of which people were capable and he could do nothing about it but joke.
D'Artagnan knew Rochefort's passion for collecting, she just had no idea that he was displaying the figurines here and thus confusing every visitor. One expected simple furnishings, chosen entirely for their purpose. A desk and on it countless secret documents over which His Eminence's master spy brooded and prepared the next move in the game of intrigue. But this was too personal. And then again it was not, the porcelain was cold and distant, the figures mute and frozen in their poses.
»I almost went looking for you myself!«
D'Artagnan blinked and took an evasive step to the side as Rochefort appeared right next to her, stretched out an arm and pushed the door back into the lock behind her. He had not been joking with his remark, d'Artagnan could see it on his face. For weeks he had not cared about her at all and now he looked like wanted to pull her in an embrace, as if she has just returned from war. All the more mockingly, she said, »Were you worried about me?«
»Yes,« Rochefort admitted with surprising honesty, scrutinising her thoroughly from top to bottom to make sure she was unharmed. Jussac must have reported the attack on the Red Guard to him in vivid detail, including her jump between the lieutenant and a bullet. Or Rochefort had taken Bernajoux' fantastically embellished narrative too literally and expected to find d'Artagnan with torn clothes, painful bruises and stained in the blood of her enemies.
She waved it off gruffly. »You should have considered that before assigning me to the squad.«
»Believe it or not, I did and yet had to carry out Richelieu's orders.«
»So it's like Jussac said? I have passed a final trial and my probation time is over?« D'Artagnan shook her head before she could get an answer. »No, I do not believe that! There is more to it than that! Vicomte de Lécuyer is not just anyone, he's a patron of the Musketeers. A friend of Tréville - and I have arrested him!«
»Calm down.«
It was only well-intentioned advice, but Rochefort achieved the opposite with it. D'Artagnan clenched her fists and for a moment looked as if she wanted to wring the stable master's neck, regardless of all friendship and differences in rank. Fortunately for him, she contented herself with snapping at him. »Does the Cardinal want to provoke Tréville even more? Is his latest triumph not enough for him? Mordieux, I will no longer be part of this game, tell him that!«
She turned away brusquely and marched towards the door, not knowing where to put her anger to. Without an idea of how she could actually escape this game that had begun with a duel and continued with the arrest of Lécuyer.
»So Tréville has not talked to you.«
D'Artagnan paused, one hand on the door handle. »About what?«
She heard papers rustling behind her, Rochefort was searching for something on his desk, and finally he prompted d'Artagnan, »Look at this.«
Reluctantly, she turned around and looked at a letter Rochefort held out to her. »What's that?«
»The explanation you seek, for which you've come to me. Read for yourself, you won't trust my word alone.«
»But a letter, a forgery, I shall believe in more?«
Rochefort sighed, threatened to fail again at gascon stubbornness. »Think for a moment that I'm not Richelieu's master spy, but a well-meaning friend.«
D'Artagnan hesitated. Then she grasped the letter and said between her teeth, »How well you mean with me is yet to be discussed.«
Rochefort watched her silently while she read. With the first stroke of the quill, she recognised Tréville's handwriting. The elegantly curved initials at the bottom further confirmed to her who the author was and the salutation provided information about the recipient, a Duc de la Nièvre. »It's a letter of recommendation. Only the best words about the Vicomte de Lécuyer, about his reputation and his possessions. What's this supposed to explain to me?«
»The reason why Lécuyer is here. He is not under arrest, he merely awaits an audience with Richelieu. Afterwards, he will be released and is hopefully wise enough to no longer let himself be recommended to the Duc de la Nièvre, who is in opposition to us.«
»You mean to say that it's not Richelieu who provokes Tréville; it's the other way round.«
»Indeed. This time, at least.«
D'Artagnan's eyes slid to the jester, who looked back with an expression of derision and pity in his mien. »And that I took part in this arrest was only a useful secondary?«
»Two birds with one stone.«
D'Artagnan nodded slowly, afflicted that she was once again caught between the fronts and worn down in them. »What should Tréville have been talking to me about? I knew nothing of this letter or the intentions behind it!«
»I was not making such an insinuation. My question was aimed at something else.« Rochefort lowered his voice as if he feared being overheard in his own study. »Did Tréville speak to you about the duel, about the reasons for it?«
»No, not a word. I know nothing, I shall continue to keep silent for you.« D'Artagnan twisted her lips into a mirthless smile. »Or will you confess to me at last?«
Rochefort remained silent. He would have loved to explain to his friend what this letter of recommendation was really about. That Tréville was making the cardinal an offer in exchange for his lieutenant. But all the captain has achieved was to drive d'Artagnan further into the arms of the Red Guard. She was far better off here, Rochefort thought grimly. At least, until Tréville overcame his cowardice, admitted his guilt and d'Artagnan could decide on the basis of the truth where she wanted to belong in the future. »It is entirely Tréville's affair, to explain the reasons for the duel to you.«
»And if I asked not Richelieu's master spy, but a friend?«
»He would tell you nothing else. He cannot.«
D'Artagnan tried a moment longer to read the truth in Rochefort's eyes. But there was nothing, he was as secretive as ever and she was left to speculate on his motives. And Tréville's. She shrugged. »It doesn't change anything now anyway. I've passed my trial of loyalty.«
»So you're staying?«
»If God wills,« d'Artagnan opened the door and stepped out into the corridor, »and the cardinal wishes.«
It certainly had its advantages to live in a house for subletting that was directly adjacent to a tavern. The distances were short after a night of drinking until curfew. You were popular with your comrades because you could give them shelter for the night after such a merry evening; at the risk of waking up the next morning with hungover limbs in the wash tub, being snapped at by an angry landlady and rudely kicked out on the street.
Sorel was now also to learn the disadvantages of this neighbourhood. All he wanted to do at the end of his duty was go past the "Three Crowns", have Elise serve him some supper and then crawl into bed. The weapon and physical exercises had been particularly strenuous today; Jussac had been especially hard on his guardsmen after the demoralising incident with Lécuyer. The lieutenant had shown no mercy, he made them exercise until they were tired out. Sorel suspected that this was to keep them all from thinking, and Jussac from taking a certain master spy to task for sending them out into the Musketeers' territory as cannon fodder.
The hustle and bustle of the revelers resounded loudly from the "Three Crowns" onto the street. Wine, women and song. Light fell from the windows and braced itself against the night. Sorel yawned behind his hand. Despite the noise, he would be able to sleep like a log, he didn't have to fool himself.
He passed the entrance to the tavern and blinked tiredly. A second later, he was wide awake and yet not fast enough to jump to the side in time. Immediately in front of him, three obviously drunken men staggered out of the tavern. They had to support each other and bumped into Sorel.
The incident would usually not have been worth mentioning. Sorel would have caught himself, pushed the fellows aside, perhaps with a mocking remark on his lips, and then walked the few steps further home. But he was still wearing his uniform and the men were not half as drunk as they appeared. The jostling had been intentional; Sorel knew it the second he recognised Pauger in one of the three men.
This time the musketeer had only two friends with him instead of an entire army. Sorel, for his part, was on his own and the appointment to exchange old war stories by a sword fight had not yet been forgotten.
It all happened quickly. One moment the other two were supporting Pauger, the next the musketeer could stand perfectly on his own legs again and roar, »For Lécuyer!« His strong alcoholic breath stung Sorel's nose unpleasantly.
Far more unpleasantly stabbed him the dagger that suddenly pierced his flesh. Sorel gasped, hot pain running through him, numbing his senses and nipping any resistance in the bud. He stumbled back, Pauger held the dagger in his hand, its blade gleaming wetly, dark red in the moonlight.
Sorel's knees gave way, he collapsed onto the ground. His world was left to only a flickering skirl, permeated by the shrill cries of a barmaid, boots next to his face and hard, cold cobblestones.
Then it all faded away in nothingness.
