Chapter 18
The next morning arose far too early. Light-hearted minds would have claimed that the first, gentle ray of sunlight fell through a crack between the shutters and tickled d'Artagnan in the bed on her nose.
The opposite was the case. Outside it was pouring rain and in the room it was still gloomy as night. The wind rattled the shutters and whipped the rain furiously before it. The weather was a cacophony of howling and roaring that made you want to do nothing but pull the covers over your head and wait out the storm.
D'Artagnan had hardly slept a wink during the night. Restlessly, she had tossed and turned from one side to the other, pondering the same thoughts over and over again without really being able to grasp them and bring them to an end. Everything ran through her head at the same time and was mixed to feverish images of old friends, new comrades, unforgivable mistakes, intrigues and her role in it all.
She must have fallen asleep at some point, because at the usual time she opened her eyes and took a disorientated moment to wake up properly.
The sheets barely wanted to let her go as she struggled out of bed with stiff limbs and a tense neck. She massaged her shoulders with one hand and shuffled to the wash bowl to rinse the weariness from her face by a cat bath. If Jussac was going to continue the weapons practice today as relentlessly as he had ordered yesterday, she needed to be lucid and alert. Just a small scratch, a necessary wound treatment and all would be lost.
The thought did not worry her nearly as much as she would have expected. Perhaps she even longed for such an excuse to get revealed? So that all of this would come to an end at last.
D'Artagnan contorted her face as she looked into the russet copper mirror. She could only see her countenance blurred in the polished plate, but it was clearly angry with herself. At the fact that she was seriously thinking of giving up, of escaping. Just when things seemed to be slowly changing for the better! When yesterday the Red Guard had accepted her with comradeship, and even Jussac admitted that d'Artagnan was not the worst soldier, a capable officer in their ranks. They had found mutual respect for each other.
Perhaps it was precisely this, her change of sides, that made her wish for everything to be quite different. She had loved being a musketeer, Tréville's loyal lieutenant, the camaraderie, the freedom, and yet yesterday she had committed treason against the regiment and her captain. A thousand orders might have demanded it of her, but it had still been her decision to persuade Lécuyer to accompany them, her instinct to save Jussac - she would always have done it, even if the shooter had really been a musketeer. For the duration of one blink, she had actually mistaken the mercenary for a musketeer.
D'Artagnan pushed herself off the commode and at the same time shoved these useless thoughts aside. They had hardly let her sleep all night, enough was enough! She put on her clothes, checked her appearance for complete disguise and when she found everything to her satisfaction, she opened the shutters.
The rain had eased, was now just a steady, uncomfortable drizzle. Puddles were in the street, the men had turned up their collars, the women were wrapped tightly in their coats. Every passer-by seemed anxious to make his way as quickly as possible and soon get back onto some dry place.
D'Artagnan took a deep breath of the fresh air with her eyes closed, she eased herself and regained a clear head in the process. She could hear a low rumbling from the kitchen. Madeleine was busy preparing breakfast. According to her usual ritual, she would soon knock on the bedroom door and call her friend to the table.
D'Artagnan was all the more wary when the clatter of bowls and cutlery in the kitchen abruptly stopped and a few moments later Madeleine called out loudly to her tenant, »Monsieur?«
It was a secret arrangement between the women if unexpected visitors showed up. To warn d'Artagnan to tighten a perhaps loosened lacing around the chest again and not to be taken off guard. Today something else sounded in Madeleine's voice, a certain indignation. Someone had gained entry into the house whom the Chevrette was extremely reluctant to let in.
D'Artagnan crossed her room with three long strides, reaching for her épée which was leaning against the clothes chest at the end of the bed. Immediately ready to draw the weapon and threw the unwanted guest out, she wrenched open the door and secured the corridor with a quick glance.
Madeleine stood on the threshold of the kitchen, hands on hips, her blonde braid tossed forward over one shoulder; a Valkyrie without armour, in dress and apron, whose very gaze could kill. She faced a giant man in a red uniform who left wet boot prints on the floorboards in the corridor.
Bernajoux did not fall cold and dead under Madeleine's gaze, but tried one of those disarming smiles with which Biscarat often succeeded with the dames. But his face was not made for kindness, his smile was caught somewhere between a scarred grin and a snarl. He would have intimidated anyone with it, willingly or not.
Madeleine, however, only glared at him angrily and did not move an inch from her place so as not to let the guardsman get a step further than the corridor and certainly not as far as to her tenant's bedroom. Perhaps it was more the dirt that Bernajoux had carried into the house along with the wind and weather that made the Chevrette so angry with him. They faced each other, both experienced in battle in their own way, neither willing to give way, and kept each other at bay.
D'Artagnan overcame her surprise, relaxed and tied the sword to the baldric. Bernajoux had obviously come alone and he did not take his eyes off Madeleine even when d'Artagnan approached resolutely, as befitted an officer and master of the house.
It was hard to tell whether Bernajoux feared that the Chevrette would add a few more scars to him if he turned his back on her - or whether he was rather captivated by the beautiful Fleming's confident and proud appearance. In any case, d'Artagnan had almost to vie for his attention and asked in a tone between greeting and astonishment, »Bernajoux?«
Somewhat reluctantly, the guardsman turned away from Madeleine and bowed his head in greeting. »Morning.«
His taciturn manner was familiar to d'Artagnan by now, even if the real meaning was far from clear to her from the half-sentences. Such as why he was here, whether it was a good morning or a bad one. Not yet in the mood for long speeches before breakfast herself, she invited Bernajoux into the kitchen with a nod. He shrugged and Madeleine wrinkled her nose. It became too silly for d'Artagnan, she pushed past the two of them, who were forced to sidestep and end their own personal skirmish by doing so.
On the table, everything was ready for a meal for two, thickly sliced bread lay in a bowl, butter and jam stood by, the mugs were steaming hot and the scent of fresh herbal stock filled the kitchen with a pleasant homeliness. Bernajoux seemed uncomfortable invading such privacy and Madeleine slammed down another place setting for him with obvious displeasure.
D'Artagnan gave her a warning look not to pick a fight with Bernajoux because of the last few weeks. That was in the past, they were reconciled, comrades by now. She pulled up a chair and ignored Madeleine's silent protest, with which the landlady demonstratively left the kitchen to do chores somewhere nearby, eavesdropping.
Bernajoux remained standing indecisively and rigidly until d'Artagnan rolled her eyes and pointed with her knife to the vacant place at the table. Then she went on buttering her bread as if the early company was perfectly normal. The guardsman pulled himself together, hung his dripping wet feathered hat on the back of the chair and sat down without touching any of the breakfast or finally explaining himself.
D'Artagnan let him keep his silence for the time being, however much she wondered about his morning visit. Between two sips of herbal tea, she watched Bernajoux over the rim of the cup. He seemed far less embarrassed than unable to cope with the situation. Several times he seemed to want to say something and then failed to utter a word.
D'Artagnan sighed impatiently. »What is it that brings you to me so early? Does Jussac want to make sure that I don't oversleep the start of duty? Are you to deliver his menaced love letter?«
Bernajoux grunted something unintelligible and then kneaded his hands. Obviously he had to tell something but had no idea how. D'Artagnan could have made some guesses as to what it might be. Instead, she relieved Bernajoux of his indecision by ordering in best officer's tone, »Out with it!«
»It's got Sorel badly.«
»...what?«
Bernajoux ran a hand over his face, visibly shaken by his own news. »He was stabbed. Last night.«
D'Artagnan stared at him, completely stunned. She uttered no sound and gripped the knife tighter to hide a telltale tremor of her hands. Bernajoux hurried to complete his report. »He's alive, it's a deep flesh wound in the shoulder. He's off duty for the next days.«
D'Artagnan very slowly laid the knife beside her plate and asked, striving for extreme calm, »What happened?«
She already suspected the answer before Bernajoux gave it in short sentences. In front of the tavern Three Crowns, not a dozen steps from his lodgings, Sorel had encountered some drunkards. One had come at him with a dagger. There had been no quarrel before, it was an attack out of nowhere. The culprits had escaped, not without being recognised by witnesses.
What Bernajoux did not say, d'Artagnan stated herself only in a whisper. »Musketeers...«
Bernajoux said nothing in reply, but his face was eloquent enough. Musketeers, indeed. Pauger and friends. They had taken revenge for Lécuyer, for all the recent invective the cardinal had inflicted on them. It had been indifferent to them which red uniform they encountered. The dagger thrust was aimed at His Eminence - and d'Artagnan.
She looked up from her hands, her expression blank. »I'll take care of it.«
Bernajoux bowed his head. He had been understood, even without saying many words. This was unofficial. No one else could take care, no one else bore the responsibility. There was only this chance for clarification before retribution came in the same way. »I shall tell Jussac you're going to visit Sorel and be late.«
»Thank you, Bernajoux.«
The guardsman nodded, reached for his hat and stood up. He hesitated and then strode out of the kitchen to face the cold, wet weather again. He gave Madeleine, who was lurking in the corridor, one of his dreadful smiles, stepped out into the street and left everything else to d'Artagnan.
Elise Perrault sighed as the door knocker sounded again. She dried her hands, which a moment ago had been in a bucket of cleaning water and wrung out an old rag, on her apron and got up from her knees to her feet. Today, she would apparently not be able to mop the floor of her house.
Since last night, the Cardinal's guardsmen had been making a mess of her household, leaving wet boot prints and street dust everywhere. Elise was sympathetic to the fact that they visited their injured comrade and, in the case of Bernajoux, Biscarat and Cahusac, even took turns all night to stay by Sorel's bedside and watch him sleep. Nevertheless, the commotion was annoying.
Not that Grégoire had even noticed the presence of his friends. He had already been unconscious when they had carried him home from the Three Crowns and alerted a wound doctor.
Elise had not taken her time to be shocked and completely frozen. Pragmatically, she heated water and needles, pulled new sheets on Sorel's bed and organised the crowd of upset men in her house so that they were not just standing in the way while Sorel was being cared for. Of course she was also worried and afraid for Grégoire's life. But what was the use of her running around like a headless chicken and crying hysterically? Sorel was in capable hands with the wound doctor and soon they could all be reassured that, although he had lost a lot of blood, he would survive.
At dawn, Elise had last complimented Bernajoux out of the house in a friendly but firm manner so that she could finally do all the work that had been left undone and distract herself by doing so. She let her duties at the cardinal's palace slide; the old valet Gustave Moraut would certainly not reproach her for staying at home today.
She could do nothing but housekeeping until Grégoire would wake up of his own accord and she then could instil the medicine that would aid his recovery. She had boiled a decoction of willow bark and lime blossom for the pain and fever. If necessary, she was to make calf compresses for him and also regularly check the injury for gangrene, keep it clean and change the bandages. If blood and pus collected under the suture, she was to call for the doctor again so that he could open the wound and rinse it with hot oil. It was lucky for Grégoire that he had not been conscious yesterday during the treatment.
Elise crossed the corridor to the front door, catching a glimpse of what she would have to do after mopping the floor. There was always more dust to find in the old half-timbered house, more shutters to clean or rooms to tidy.
Madame Perrault was widowed young and had inherited the house before she could even start a family with her husband who had died suddenly. He had succumbed to illness before he even touched her for the first time. She mourned him - who had been a grocer and chosen by Elise's father for her - appropriately dutifully for a year, living off the dowry and inheritance. After that she let herself be called 'Mademoiselle' again, because it seemed nonsensical to her to be a 'Madame' after only a short time of marriage.
She would have had a sufficient income from her work as a maid. But her helpful nature and pragmatic attitude had finally brought her Grégoire de Sorel as a lodger, who had been urgently looking for a place to stay after his arrival in Paris and his conscription as a guardsman. His charm failed to catch on with Elise, but his provincial helplessness in the beginning with the big, overwhelming town did. It was only supposed to be temporary, and now he had been living here for several years. Landlady and tenant got along well and were on friendly terms.
Perhaps Grégoire would have liked to go further, but Elise was far too sensible to get involved with a guardsman. Especially one who hid his noble origins behind a nom de guerre. He had confessed this to her once when he had staggered out of the Three Crowns next door in the best of moods and wanted to ruffle his feathers in front of Elise.
She was quite impressed by his actual titles and claims to inheritance, but then all the more convinced that she would never have meant more to him than to be an interchangeable sweetheart, a bit of fun. Someone like Sorel did not take a simple maid as his mistress and certainly not as his wife. He was destined for higher aims, even when he evaded those aims for the time being and escaped them to Paris as a mere guardsmen.
So he had to sow his wild oats elsewhere, Elise had decided, and then made it clear to him. Sorel had grinned sheepishly, asked for forgiveness and from then on things were fine between them.
The knocking repeated itself and Elise sighed in surrender. With a stern expression that went very well with her fiery copper-red hair and green eyes, she opened the door to the visitor.
A second later, she blinked in surprise. She was not facing another guardsman, as she would have suspected. There was a rather slight, young lad standing in front of the door, at first glance barely of manly age. High cheekbones, beardless chin and a surprisingly soft rather than angular face. Around the corners of his mouth played a bitter feature that life itself had left there. The first wrinkles showed up at his eyes, a pale scar on his left cheek stood out against sun-tanned skin. He had to be older than he appeared, more experienced and definitely battle-hardened. In fact, not lanky, as Elise had initially misjudged, but lean and wiry, always ready to attack as the best defence.
The ambiguity was confusing and stuck in Elise's mind. Later, when the agitation of the day had died down, she would try to unravel this mystery. Now she noted his polite nod of the head in greeting, which made the puffy feather on his hat bob. He introduced himself gruffly, perhaps to give his voice a deeper tone. »Lieut- d'Artagnan. Of His Eminence's Red Guard.«
Elise did not miss that broken fragment of a word and her expression brightened in understanding. So this was the former musketeer who had been the subject of the palace's rumour mill for weeks! He was not wearing the red uniform, but plain street clothes under a flared coat, which was probably meant to make narrow shoulders appear broader.
So indeed he was comrade who came to look after Sorel. Elise repeated tiredly, for the dozenth time, what she had already said to all the others before. »He's fine, he's asleep now. Grégoire, I mean.«
The fact that she did not leave the door to let the visitor in was noticed by this d'Artagnan. He hesitated and Elise was subjected to the same kind of scrutiny that she had given to the young... old? The boy- man? He did not seem to miss her quite pretty appearance, but where Elise otherwise all too often felt stripped and wolfed by glances, the former musketeer was polite enough to keep his eyes entirely on her face.
It was also for this reason that Elise, contrary to her intention not to let anyone else in today, relented when d'Artagnan finally asked, »May I check on him?«
»Fine, for a few minutes.«
»Thank you, Mademoiselle.«
Even more than all the other conspicuous characteristics of this strange guardsman, Elise noticed that he thoroughly wiped his boots on the straw mat in front of the door before he set foot over the threshold. With that he had completely won her over, was this rare concern due to good parenting or a strict landlady of his own. Elise went ahead, elated.
D'Artagnan followed the young woman of maybe twenty years deeper into the house. The rooms smelled of fresh bread, mud walls and wood. It all looked very homely, quiet and dignified. They climbed a staircase, the old floorboards creaking with every step. Many a mouse might be gnawing in the cavities between the walls and beams, but d'Artagnan found everything clean and tidy, no vermin droppings lurking in the corners. It reassured her in a strangely familiar way. Sorel was in good hands. »Mademoiselle Perrault, is that right?«
»Oh? You know me?«
D'Artagnan shrugged. »Sorel mentioned your name, I didn't want to mistake you for someone else.«
»I see.« Elise's tone was hard to interpret. Whether she was flattered or outraged that Sorel spoke of her to the other guardsmen. She stopped in front of a room which door was ajar. »Here. I'll be down in the kitchen, Monsieur.«
»You're not staying?« d'Artagnan asked, honestly astonished. She would have suspected that Sorel had a jealous landlady watching over him. He had hinted often enough that he thought Elise's company quite pleasant, even if she supposedly was not interested in him.
»You're here, aren't you?« said Elise, as if it were the most natural thing in the world for a stranger to be allowed to wander around the house all alone and keep a sick person company. Elise seemed to guess this thought and chuckled. »Oh, you know... Sorel mentioned your name.«
»I see.« D'Artagnan smirked. The two women obviously shared a similar sense of humour and found common ground in that, despite their differences. They thought each other likeable and d'Artagnan gratefully accepted the opportunity to slip into Sorel's room without a chaperone.
The dull weather made it unnecessary to close the shutters, the room lay in wet grey semi-darkness even without curtains and d'Artagnan took it in with a quick glance. A bachelor lived here who always stowed his belongings in the corner where there was still enough room, and who apparently only tidied up when he received female visitors. The last visit of this kind must have been a while ago. Admittedly, there were no clothes scattered wildly on the floor, carelessly dropped how they fell off Sorel's body at the end of the day. However, d'Artagnan suspected that Elise had taken care of that, so that one could move around the room without tripping.
While tidying up, the landlady had overlooked a shirt hanging down from a stool and covering a pair of riding boots that were standing right next to it. Or perhaps someone else had deliberately thrown the shirt from the chair by the bed to the stool to create a place to sit; someone had been watching over Sorel.
D'Artagnan stepped quietly closer to the bed, half worried about what sight might await her, half filled with rage at the events that had led to this visit. She stopped at the chair and held on to the backrest with cramped fingers, only then daring to look at the bed.
Sorel was lying on his back, his figure outlined under the blanket. His left arm was bare, the tight bandage wrapped around his shoulder and upper body was clearly visible. The dagger seemed to have entered his flesh below the collarbone. He was breathing shallowly, d'Artagnan could barely make out the rise and fall of his chest. Instead, his hair stuck wetly to his forehead, fine beads of sweat shone on his pale skin. His eyes moved erratically behind closed lids.
Instinctively, d'Artagnan broke away from her observation post and reached out a hand. Sorel's cheek was hot, he had a fever. D'Artagnan flinched as soon as she touched him with her fingertips. Hectically, her gaze moved around the room and stopped at a wash bowl, a cloth lay folded over the rim. She dipped it into the cool water, wrung it out and dabbed the sweat from Sorel's face, very carefully and gently, as would certainly never have occurred to the lieutenant of the Musketeers. To a worried friend, however, it did, and d'Artagnan did not let her own thoughts about her actions get in the way.
Sorel turned his head restlessly, his fingers twitched, and then he opened his eyes. For a fraction of a second there was an infinite confusion and disorientation written all over his face. Then he grimaced in agony and instinctively pushed himself up.
A hand on his uninjured shoulder pressed him back into the pillows and someone spoke soothingly to him. He barely understood the words, the wound pain suddenly overwhelmed him, his left arm felt numb but burned at the same time as if under a thousand pinpricks. Strengthless, he sank back and concentrated on his own gasping breath, then on the voice near him, which seemed to waver between severity, relief, anger and worry, and at the end called out loudly, »Elise!«
Sorel was sure he recognised this voice. But his head was in a fog, his eyes blurred by tears and his senses numb. He knew he could trust that voice and he let himself fall completely into it, back into the darkness of a dreamless sleep.
Minutes later, Elise placed a cup of herbal decoction that they had very carefully drenched into a half-fainting Sorel back on the clothes chest, next to the wash bowl. »He sleeps calmer than the hours before.«
D'Artagnan nodded. »Your medicine is working.«
»It should, or I'll have to have a serious word with the apothecary.« Elise stuffed the blanket around Sorel tighter so that he would sweat out the fever. Then she turned to d'Artagnan, who stood by with a blank expression and seemed caught up in gloomy thoughts. The former musketeer had helped without hesitation, holding and supporting Sorel so that Elise could provide him with medicine and calf wraps. It had not taken many words between them to act quickly and appropriately. »This isn't the first time you've done something like that, is it?«
»That's the way of the soldier's life,« d'Artagnan brushed the question aside. »Sorel is not the first comrade to be injured and he won't be the last.«
»This is so stupid!« Elise shook her head angrily so that her copper-coloured curls flew and she scolded, »Have you actually been told what happened? Sorel was stabbed down just like that, just because he was in the wrong place and wearing the wrong uniform!«
D'Artagnan knew nothing to say in reply. She was overcome with guilt, as she had been when Bernajoux had delivered the news to her as helplessly in his rage as Elise. Mademoiselle Perrault had a sharp tongue and a bright mind, both of which she now angrily brought into play. »I know very well who you are! You once were the lieutenant of those who did this to Grégoire!«
»...yes.«
»Yes! And then you dare to say he won't be the last? Blimey! What are you, musketeer or guardsman or both? You can stop this! Go and tell them to end this silly feud! Both sides!«
»You think it's that simple?«
Elise nodded emphatically and d'Artagnan could not help but admire her determination. She herself had once been said to be so stubborn, Rochefort liked to tease her about it, and Tréville... He had had to give in time and again when his lieutenant had shown conviction for a cause. Perhaps she could achieve the impossible, convince both regiments of the truce?
»I will take care of it,« she firmly repeated a promise she had also made to Bernajoux.
Elise seemed to believe her, the anger drained from the young woman and quietly, a little ashamed of her outburst, she murmured, »Thank you.«
»Take good care of Sorel, Mademoiselle, will you?«
»Yes, of course.«
Elise was puzzled by this request, which she took for granted and was therefore superfluous. D'Artagnan lost not a word of explanation about the fact that the landlady asked nothing less of her than to venture into a hôtel where they thought she was a traitor and would have immediately turned the dagger thrust against Sorel against her.
It would be one way to end this feud if she disappeared for good. If she did not return for another visit, to look after Sorel as a comrade and officer, as a friend. Unless...? A sly smile played at the corners of d'Artagnan's mouth. »Will you allow me to check on Sorel again tomorrow after duty?«
»Why, yes!«
D'Artagnan put on her feathered hat and adjusted it. Her eyes grazed the bed one last time; Sorel had not moved and was sleeping more soundly than before. He would survive - and so would d'Artagnan. »See you soon then, Mademoiselle.«
Note: I hope all those celebrating enjoyed Christmas and some wishes have come true! I wish all readers a good start into the New Year, happiness and health for 2023!
