Chapter 22

Even the cardinal's master spy could be taken by surprise. Rochefort looked closely at the seal on the letter. The coat of arms of the Nièvre family was imprinted in red wax. But not only that, the message was doubly sealed with the sign of the du Plessis family. Someone was referring to two important descents at once and probably hoped to make oneself heard more easily by Richelieu by pointing out the kinship to him.

The letter had travelled a long way. The paper was worn and stained on the outside, crumpled and dented at the edges. The seals, however, were unbroken, the messenger may not have been very careful, but at least he had not wanted to learn any secrets. Or perhaps he had, Rochefort would only be able to find out when Richelieu broke the seals and then it became clear whether they had already been scraped with a knife and resealed again.

Rochefort looked up from the letter into a motionless face without any special feature, without a distinguishing flaw or a prominent peculiarity. His best agent, a man of such unimposing appearance and inconspicuous presence that he was forgotten after each encounter. If 'Monsieur', as he was called, had ever possessed a name or an origin, not even the stable master remembered it.

»Was the messenger wearing gloves?«

Monsieur denied it and awaited new orders. Rochefort had none. Not yet knowing the contents of the letter, and the messenger having given no cause for suspicion, he handed it back to the spy. »A family matter, deliver this to His Eminence.«

Not every dispatch or sealed message to the Prime Minister had to be opened first by others, to take every precaution to rule out an attack with poisonous ink and paper or dangerous fumes. Sometimes the secretary's profession could be a life-threatening one. Rochefort had found the seals to be genuine at first glance, he had not noticed any conspicuous odour and the messenger, too, was apparently enjoying good health, although he had carried the letter close to his body for over two weeks - without protecting himself with gloves.

What's more, Rochefort guessed by whom this letter might have been written; a completely harmless person who was asking her great-uncle for advice. A family matter in the literal sense. It had been looming ever since the arrest of the Vicomte de Lécuyer, and now things were running their course. All that remained unclear was how much outside interference would follow, and the stable master had the nasty suspicion that Tréville had not only written a single letter of recommendation a few weeks ago, but that other marriage candidates wanted to play along. Time would tell. The ball had been set rolling and could no longer be stopped, even if there was nothing left to gain for the captain of the Musketeers.

Monsieur disappeared somewhere between the columns in the hallway, only a fading memory and soon after completely lost from the collective memory of the servants. Rochefort, too, no longer wasted a thought on the matter, he was entrusted with an errand of his own; he was to bring d'Artagnan before the cardinal.

Richelieu had left no doubt that it had to be done immediately, because his sentence was to be passed. Jussac's report was a week old, that's how much time the cardinal had taken with a final decision - or just had more important things on his mind, the world was revolving around other ongoings of far greater impact, too. Jussac might see it differently, but his priorities lay with the Red Guard and not the big world politics.

Rochefort, for his part, willingly let himself be demoted to messenger boy in this matter. He could have sent some lackey to the guardroom, but he wanted to deliver this news personally. Also to see for himself. It had not escaped his notice that the rumour mill of the palais was no longer as hard working as it had been last month. The interest in d'Artagnan seemed to have died out, possibly because she now wore the red uniform as naturally as if there had never been a conflict.

This was the first thing Rochefort noticed when he entered the guardroom and spotted his friend in a group of other guardsmen. The changing of the sentry was imminent, and the men gathered in corresponding numbers to wait for the bell to ring and to receive any final instructions from their lieutenant, if there were any. D'Artagnan did not remain on the sidelines as she had done all the weeks before, but had found company in Cahusac, Bernajoux and Biscarat, of all people. They were having a comradely talk near the fireplace.

Rochefort had to push his way through, here they did not avoid him with exaggerated respect. This was not his territory, he was only a tolerated guest. He used the forced detours to assess the situation. Which was obviously fairly good. Distrust and hostility had given way to a cautious reserve that d'Artagnan covered up with gascon impudence. Cahusac remained eloquently silent, Bernajoux grumbled taciturn and Biscarat smirked with amusement. It was normal in a way that could sweep away any doubt.

The stable master broke into the intimate circle like a troublemaker and ignored the astonished and suspicious glances against him. Only d'Artagnan looked at him not only questioningly, but with a friendly welcome. Things were probably not as bad between them as he had believed. For far too long, none of their evenings together had taken place over a relaxed game of chess and a glass of good wine. Perhaps he could venture an invitation later and find out if d'Artagnan had forgiven him for all the misfortune of recent times and they could call themselves friends again.

»His Eminence summons you.« The message was brief, but delivered in a much milder tone than Rochefort would have used with anyone else. Nevertheless, even Jussac now interrupted the issuing of orders and turned his head. D'Artagnan looked at him and nodded.

Rochefort was unable to interpret the silent communication that was taking place between them. But the suspicion against him waned among all guardsmen. Today he did not seem to have brought trouble along with him and so they let d'Artagnan and him go without objection.

Outside the door, when they were several steps away from the guardroom, d'Artagnan moved closer to him to ask in a lowered voice, »In what matter does Richelieu summon me?«

If she had not let on before, there was now a quiet uneasiness in the question. Rochefort could not blame her, but he had no satisfactory answer to offer. »I can't say.«

»You can't or you don't know?«

»No quibbles; I can't say because I don't know. But His Eminence looked not displeased when he sent me forth.«

In accordance with his old habit, Rochefort turned into a barely used side passage. If d'Artagnan noticed, she said nothing about it, trusting that he would have his reasons for the roundabout way. Perhaps she was also glad to no longer have to whisper so as not to be overheard. She pretended to be all serene and joked, »It must be of extraordinary importance if he sends his best spy after me. Once again.«

»And once again, I just happened to be in the vicinity, as so often in the past.«

»Eh, Rochefort! You never begrudge me to feel important even for a moment!«

»You are important and you know it. Important to the Guard.« Rochefort turned into another side corridor and said, before she could contradict, »Captain Luchaire will soon apply for a discharge, Jussac will need a capable second in command.«

»Jussac is to become captain?«

»That's likely.«

»...and I lieutenant?«

»You are a lieutenant, or have you already forgotten that?«

»At present, I'm a recruit being of no importance.«

»Now you're getting stubborn, my dear!« Rochefort exclaimed with a sigh, calling d'Artagnan by a nickname aloud only because by now they were entirely alone in a part of the Palais Cardinal that had nothing in common with the otherwise ubiquitous pomp and splendour of the main hallways. They were in a corridor from olden times, an unadorned circular passageway to move quickly through the palace. Rochefort preferred such remote paths out of habit and not because he always would have a secret intention by doing so. It had simply become his nature to pay attention to things that were not visibly before everyone's eyes directly. This corridor was rarely used even by the footmen and maids.

D'Artagnan noticed the unfamiliar shortcut, but her attention was entirely on the stable master and not on the many alcoves and low, old doors they passed. The windows were little more than embrasures, her face was in semi-darkness and yet her thoughts were easy to read. She knew that the cardinal would make a decision about her today. With a wave of his hand, Richelieu could give her back her old rank or abandon her. »I'm stubborn as much as you want to distract from the truth. You escort me!«

»I accompany you. As a friend, not a sentinel.«

»That can change at any time.«

It may have been due to d'Artagnan's worry about the near future, Rochefort had nevertheless had enough of the wild speculation and false accusations. Enough of enmity where there was none. He stopped abruptly and grabbed the stubborn mademoiselle by the arm to force her into an alcove where he thought they were unobserved and not overheard by any stray souls who might be lurking around a corner.

D'Artagnan could have broken free without effort, but she let herself be dragged along and protested only half-heartedly. Rochefort's expression clearly said she had better listen to him now. His face was close enough in front of her that she could not fully capture it. An unfamiliar candor was reflected in his eyes as he spoke quietly, insistently to her.

»It will never change, the heck! I am a friend and you are important to me. Will that do? You enjoy being here, as a guardsman. Anyone who knows you can see that. I cannot be sorry any longer for this duel with Tréville, you're better off in the Red Guard. Admit it to yourself! Take yourself important just for once, be honest; do you want to stay?«

D'Artagnan stood spellbound by a closeness that was entirely without hidden interests. She did not have to be wary of it or always be on guard; of her friendship with Rochefort, which she had thought she had lost. Once she had trusted him blindly, had even been more honest with him than with herself. »I... I want to stay.«

Rochefort nodded and let her go without withdrawing completely. Moments passed in which d'Artagnan had to compose herself and grasp her own confession. When she looked up at Rochefort again, he smiled confidently. »If that's your wish, Richelieu won't decide otherwise either.«

»As you suppose.«

»A good supposition.«

D'Artagnan was not yet completely convinced and continued to feel nervous about the conversation with the cardinal. Guilty, too, of imputing only ill intentions to Rochefort, of having seen only the master spy and not the friend in him, she asked, »Will you still accompany me?«

»I promise. All the way long.«

»Then we shall go,« she said bravely, and Rochefort let her step out of the alcove. He led the way and made it three steps, before there was a soft call behind him.

»Charles-César?«

Wondering, he looked back and found himself confronted with a d'Artagnan who was no longer brave at all, but downhearted. She stared at her boots and confessed, barely audibly, »I missed you. This cursed duel, all that came! It was too much. I-« She swallowed and brought out in a choked voice, »It's just all too much...«

The scent of leather and tangy perfume enveloped her when Rochefort was suddenly with her and pulled her into a tight embrace. At first, d'Artagnan froze, then she buried her face in his collar and clung to him, searching for support.

They stood like that for a while and Rochefort thought to himself that he had never before held a guardsman and stroked his hair comfortingly; nor had he ever held d'Artagnan. She always pretended to be the tough lass who could face all odds on her own, or thought she had to face them by herself. But even she needed a friend by her side after all.

She has missed him... He fool! She had known nothing of his support from the background, guessed nothing of his secret help and intercession. She must have felt completely abandoned by all her friends and nothing made that clearer than that she willingly let herself be embraced by him, when she otherwise shied away from any closeness.

Rochefort held her close in a protective gesture and kissed her forehead. She did not immediately recoil from it, but listened to his words close to her ear. »Forgive me, Charlotte. I won't fail you again.«

»You'd better not, I'm fully armed,« d'Artagnan murmured and Rochefort could feel her smirk against his own cheek before she broke away from him.

What had just been deep melancholy now gave way to a mischievous countenance that suited her much better. She seemed reassured, freed of a burden and finally like herself again, like the person Rochefort had known before the momentous duel; brave lieutenant, self-confident woman, not frightened by emotions that might have made her façade transparent. He could only shake his head at having almost lost his old friend - and not even because of his own stupidity! »The devil knows what's gotten into Tréville that day.«

»Well, he certainly knows.«

»...and so do you.« It was a statement, not a question. D'Artagnan evaded an answer with a meaningless shrug so as not to have to go into detail. Her expression was blank, she did not want to talk about it, but Rochefort could guess her thoughts.

»It's not your fault, Charlotte.« He brushed aside any objection as she was already opening her mouth to contradict. »No! Tréville alone made a mistake.«

»A mistake...?« D'Artagnan hesitated, then her face darkened and she did not recede from her conviction, that it truly was a mistake to fall in love with her, when she was obviously only capable of ruin men, of losing them. »It is my fault. You know everything! You yourself, after all, spelled it out for me to speak to Tréville about the reasons for this duel!«

»I didn't do it to provoke the final breach between you.«

»Why then?«

»So that you're free to decide where you wish to belong in the future. Tréville has challenged this duel for no reason.«

D'Artagnan inclined her head. »For no reason, Charles-César, really?«

It did not cross Rochefort's mind at all to look embarrassed. He turned to go with a hidden smirk, not wanting to keep the cardinal waiting any longer, and said casually, »Maybe that will change the day a new captain accuses us of being too close friends.«

At his back, a mademoiselle gasped indignantly, called half an imprecation at him and then she stumped after him all the less dame-like to meet her fate.