Chapter 23

»Will you tell us her name? I'll find out anyway!«

Bernajoux showed no reaction to Biscarat's curiosity about private matters. The Gascon could be like a gossip and all too often he dragged his friends into such conversations. Not that he actually wanted to meddle in things that were none of his business or that he had ill intentions. He just had fun of teasing Bernajoux about a new sweetheart and thus shortening their waiting time.

The guardroom had been left by everyone else by now, the changing of the guards was done. Jussac could still be found at his favourite place by the fireplace, engrossed in boring reports. Bernajoux and Biscarat kept him company while they waited for word from the cardinal's study; for d'Artagnan's return and if the assumption was confirmed that the Red Guard would get a new officer today.

Biscarat tapped his chin thoughtfully. The fact that Bernajoux had preferred to spend his free time elsewhere rather than with his best friends in recent days had not escaped anyone's notice. Biscarat had made a good guess that a woman must be the reason, and Bernajoux did not contradict him.

The giant kept silent about it, not because he wanted to make a big secret of his tender feelings for Madeleine Chevrette, but because there was not much to tell. He had fallen in love with the landlady of a comrade and hopefully she had fallen in love with him too. He brought her flowers, she kissed him. End of story.

»What woman would let half a Lancelot like you get close enough to her? It would have to be a very special one, with a lot of passion and little sense.«

»Careful!« growled Bernajoux warningly, but not seriously, and did not stop Biscarat with that.

»A lady-in-waiting or a maidservant? Sweet Sarah Simon, perhaps? Her merry laughter can be heard echoing through all the corridors, and much more frequently in recent days.«

»Perhaps.«

»Ah, no. That would have spread like wildfire by now. When did I last see you with a woman, anyway?« Biscarat searched his memory and clicked his tongue as he thought of something rather delicate. »The washhouse! Our enigmatic Mademoiselle Batz, shy and proud at the same time? Surely you haven't been flirting with a comrade's mistress? Ha, that's why you won't tell!«

»Still don't know who the Batz is?«

Bernajoux successfully deflected with a counter-question, for Biscarat sighed. »No. The name continues to ring familiar to the ears, but why? I can't remember.«

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a movement next to him. Jussac had lowered the watch report and was frowning. He repeated as if to himself, »Charlotte Batz...«

»Do you think similarly? The name brings back memories, but they just refuse to be caught.«

Jussac shrugged in half agreement, but half dismissed it as a mere figment either. If it were important, and if the name that had been angrily hurled at them at the washhouse would have any deeper meaning, it would occur to him in due course. So he left it to Biscarat to pinch and scrape about a riddle. »Research the archives if it won't let you sleep.«

»Is that an official order?« Biscarat rejoiced, although Jussac had meant the hint most ironically.

The archive of the Palais Cardinal. It was well hidden behind the wine cellar, a completely inconspicuous place where no one could mistakenly stray into. Anyone who set foot in there without permission was soon intercepted by the scribes and archivists, by shadowy men. They watched over the countless documents, secret messages and coded reports gathered by the cardinal's spies.

Indeed, something about the name of Batz might be ascertained there, but Jussac quickly exclaimed, »Absolutely not!«

»Regrettable.« Biscarat pretended to be disappointed, and Jussac suspected that he had put ideas into his friend's head. But before he could add to an admonishing look an unequivocal warning not to go poking around the archives on ostensible orders, Bernajoux suddenly gestured to the door.

»Sorel.«

In fact, they were no longer alone; Sorel had just walked into the guardroom. His first day back on duty after the attack. He still had a grace period and was only supposed to help out with the weapons exercises in the courtyard for the time being. Otherwise, he was exempted from duty today and free to go wherever he wanted and learn from his comrades the news of the past days.

The entire regiment was relieved to find him as alive, well and in good spirits as ever. He still moved his left arm a little stiffly, could not raise it above his head and could only clench his fist with a dragging soreness. But that too would soon be cured.

The three guardsmen were all the more struck of Sorel's absentmindedness, with which he stared pale-faced in space and seemed to perceive nothing around him. Now that he had found his way into the guardroom, his next steps led him to the cast-iron cauldron with the rations. There, however, he just stared into the boring, grey porridge of oats with a few scraps of meat inside. He did not seem to have noticed the presence of the other men at all. It was a very unfamiliar, completely introverted impression that Sorel showed, it immediately aroused concern.

Jussac nodded at Biscarat when he gave him a questioning look and was already to standing up. Careful empathy was needed here, which neither Bernajoux nor Jussac could have mustered without appearing brusque. Perhaps Sorel was still under the impression of the dastardly attack and only now, outside the safety of his home, was the shock haunting him. It was advisable not to let him deal with it all by himself.

It was not the first time Biscarat acted as chaplain; he had listened to many a story over copious amounts of flowing wine. Sorel did not look as if he wanted to seek oblivion in alcohol. More as if he had lost some thought, which was now simmering and seething in the stew. Biscarat found it was time to skim it off, and joined Sorel with the remark, »No old boots have been boiled, even if it tastes like it.«

Sorel turned his head jerkily. He recognised Biscarat only after blinking twice, then laughed sheepishly and acted quite light-hearted. »Am I in the way?« He moved aside, the distraction of his comrade making him regain some colour. So his paleness did not stem from the wound, something else had to be bothering him.

Biscarat shrugged. »You stare into the porridge as if you know more than we do.«

Sorel looked briefly over at Bernajoux and Jussac, who were engaged in conversation themselves. Then he took a plate and filled it to the brim. »I don't want the cook to clobber me with a ladle, not another word about the ration.«

»Then what else is it you mull over?«

Sorel balanced his plate clumsily, shifting it from one hand to the other as if it were a tricky subject. Biscarat handed him a spoon and by that all stalling for time came to an abrupt end.

»I saw Rochefort and d'Artagnan in one of the old side passages earlier,« Sorel murmured.

»Richelieu summoned them.« Biscarat dismissed it as further subterfuge. Sorel was always like an open book, easy for anyone to read, without secrets. Ostensibly. Biscarat knew better, if only because 'Sorel' was a war name behind which the young Ventadour hid his origins without ever having told his reasons.

Belatedly, still quite lost in thought, Sorel replied, »Yes... I suppose so.«

»What's unusual enough about that to make you lose your appetite?«

»D'Artagnan is-« Sorel hesitated and seemed to be searching for his next words in the plate of porridge. When he finally found them, he looked up. »D'Artagnan is soon to be our new lieutenant. That's unusual, isn't it? For a musketeer.«

»We've been expecting that for some time.« Biscarat admitted to himself his mistake. Apparently the encounter in an old side passage was the cause of Sorel's confusion. Had he seen or overheard something there that was not meant for the guardsmen? Was Rochefort already scheming the next intrigue? »What do you know that we don't?«

Sorel could not answer immediately. He happened to have just shoved an entire spoonful of the porridge into his mouth and now grunted apologetically. He chewed it as thoroughly and heavily as if he were not dealing with oats but with wall plaster.

Biscarat did not comment further on this easily seen-through manoeuvre to gain time. He waited patiently and at last Sorel seemed to have thought about what new excuse he was going to make. »I know the reason for this duel that led to d'Artagnan's reassignment.«

Biscarat listened in surprise. Not an excuse, Sorel was telling the truth.

Suddenly, Jussac was with them, not a word had escaped him in the empty guardroom, and he was in a hurry to command, »In my study, in private!«

Sorel nodded obediently and pushed his plate into Biscarat's hands. The Gascon looked disappointed that he was on the verge of solving one of many mysteries, but the solution was snatched from right under his nose; Sorel's explanations were initially for the ears of a superior officer only and he followed Jussac out of the guardroom.

They were silent during the few steps to the study and Sorel was just fine with that. He still had to sort out his frantically flying thoughts and to realise himself what he had observed and overheard, what he had discovered.

A door slammed behind him and Sorel stood at attention as Jussac demanded, »Report!«

»I was on my way to the guardroom when I happened to meet Rochefort and d'Artagnan. They seemed engrossed in conversation and did not notice me.«

»You overheard them?«

»No, Sir! Only picked up a few bits of their conversation in passing. By chance.«

Jussac left it at that for the moment. »Those bits were about the reason for the duel in question?«

»Yes, Sir!« Sorel's gaze wandered past the officer and grazed the shelf of books, not really reading the titles. Jussac let him get away with the lack of posture and finally Sorel came out with the rest of it. »The reason is to be seen in d'Artagnan's friendship with Rochefort.«

This was as close as he dared to get near the truth, but Jussac considered the answer so obviously meaningless that it was clear Sorel was hiding something from him. »Go on!«

»Monsieur de Tréville apparently thought his lieutenant was too close to His Eminence's master spy. He may have suspected betrayal of secrets.« Sorel gave up trying to find answers to his own thousands of questions written on the wall somewhere behind Jussac. »May I speak frankly?«

»Granted.«

»D'Artagnan really thinks himself guilty of everything; Rochefort, on the other hand, sees Tréville as responsible for having provoked this dispute for no reason at all.«

»I see. Do you consider d'Artagnan a traitor?«

»Absolutely not!« Sorel did not have to think twice. Of all the guardsmen, he probably knew d'Artagnan best. After today, even better than anyone else could have. He had heard it clearly.

Charlotte... Rochefort had called her Charlotte!

It stunned him, confused him and made many things understandable and yet incomprehensible at the same time. But of one fact he was still sure, of her loyal character. »D'Artagnan never divulged the regiment's affairs to Rochefort, neither in private nor on duty. Nor during the time with us.«

Jussac nodded slowly. It sounded plausible, a friendship misinterpreted as infidelity, as an agent's service. It also explained why it was almost impossible to gain d'Artagnan's trust in a new superior; To stand unconditionally loyal to Tréville had ultimately meant nothing but the loss of rank and honour. »So there is nothing I would have to report to Richelieu?«, he asked.

»His Eminence requested the transfer himself, he will have been informed of everything by Rochefort long before.« Sorel seemed to have been speaking more to himself, as if he had just found a good argument against his own doubts. Even a second one occurred to him to convince his lieutenant as well. A sickbed story a few days ago. »D'Artagnan once stood between the cardinal and an assassin at Versailles.«

Jussac frowned. »When is that supposed to have been?«

Sorel was surprised that the lieutenant did not remember such a serious incident. He unconsciously raised a hand to his cheek, to where d'Artagnan was adorned with a scar, thin and hardly noticeable unless one looked very closely - which one hardly had the opportunity to do, for d'Artagnan always avoided any curious glance by others, and Sorel understood her reasons at last. »Seven years ago, so I have been told. Was it not?«

»Possibly.« Jussac waved it off curtly and gruffly. That damn Gascon was causing him nothing but trouble, even now! It was time to send a signal, both internally and externally, that the loyalties have changed for good. There was no more room for suspicion and mistrust. There must be none any more. »Go back to the guardroom, tell Bernajoux and Biscarat to arrange a celebration. A new lieutenant is being designated at these moments and I want everyone to know!«

»Understood!« Sorel saluted, no longer worried about what he has figured out, especially since his superior made no big deal about the parts he has told him. The other parts, well... He needed to think about, what to do now. He left the study to deliver the instructions.

Jussac plunked down heavily in his armchair behind the desk and brooded once again. Whether guilty or not of this duel, of the transfer for punishment; Versailles was a lie, whoever might have told it to Sorel.

It was indeed seven years ago, Jussac still knew far too well what had happened during a certain hunting party. Who had really stood between Richelieu and a bullet back then - and now he also remembered who 'Charlotte Batz' was.

D'Artagnan's sister. Richelieu's agent, as Jussac has always suspected.

For heaven's sake, what was really going on here?!