Chapter 31
The tavern Fir Cone was again well frequented today, a usual picture of its time. The air was heavy with cooking fumes and sweat, the atmosphere alcohol-soaked and loud, merry and always only a blink of an eye away from the next brawl.
The kitchen merged almost seamlessly into the taproom, where numerous wooden tables and long benches were set up. The shutters were open to let fresh air in and celebratory spirits out. Upstairs there were guest rooms for travellers to Paris and the tavern offered everything else that could be expected; good food, good wine, good women and, as a souvenir, scabies or other unpleasant diseases.
The Fir Cone was nevertheless considered clean and well-kept. It was neutral ground for both musketeers and guardsmen, for royal loyalists and cardinalists. The innkeeper, whom everyone called by the friendly name of Hélion, was careful to keep order in his house and usually respected the police hour. Brawls were seldom heard of and anyone who was short of pay could chalk up the drinks. Many a time in the past, d'Artagnan had also made use of this and always paid her debts to Hélion on time.
It had been her suggestion to spend the evening here. In the past, the Fir Cone had been her favourite tavern, that Athos, Porthos, Aramis and she regularly frequented. Today, accompanied by Bernajoux and Biscarat, she strode through the door and a smile stole onto her face as the cheerful noise of the revelers, the familiar smells of roast chicken and ragout wafted towards her.
D'Artagnan has avoided the Fir Cone for many weeks and months, today she carried the red tunic briskly into the taproom for the first time. The revelers were all busy with themselves and not interested in the newcomers. But Hélion, who always kept an eye on the door, was now laughing and slapping both hands on his potbelly. He was as surprised as he was pleased to see a regular again. The change of uniform did not surprise him at all, this novelty has not remained hidden from him for long because of the musketeers among his guests.
He made his way, more deftly than one would have guessed from his girth, past tables and benches and hurrying barmaids to receive d'Artagnan and companions in person. He wiped his fingers on his apron and then warmly grasped d'Artagnan's hand as if welcoming a prodigal member back into the family. He laughed again and exclaimed, »Do we finally see you in this tavern again, monsieur le lieutenant?«
»Ha, it's First Lieutenant now! Bring the best wine, we have something to celebrate!«
Hélion nodded eagerly and, with years of experience with all kinds of people, understood that not only a promotion but also unexpected new friendships were to be celebrated. He directed the three to a free table by the fireplace. Many a head was turned for the uniforms and then the colour shrugged off. The guardsmen were as welcome as anyone else.
Biscarat smirked as they settled in at the table and waited for their wine. The cordial moment between innkeeper and officer brought new light into the darkness that was d'Artagnan's private life for everyone until now. She knew how to enjoy a celebration, if she was not left alone with it.
D'Artagnan noticed Biscarat's amused look. »What are you smirking about?«
»Ah, I was just wondering...«
»Go on, out with it! Nothing will make me feel embarrassed today.«
»Do you trust us?«
D'Artagnan blinked. »Why, yes!«
»Then drink today, be frolicsome. We'll watch out.«
»You wish!« laughed d'Artagnan, covering the emotion of deep thankfulness, that was about to overwhelm her once more, to have unexpectedly found such good comrades and friends in the two guardsmen. »That your lieutenant should lose control and dance on the table? No, I leave that to Jussac.«
Bernajoux growled. »He's a terrible dancer.«
»He'll be no worse-« d'Artagnan started, and was interrupted by a high, clear voice of a brunette beauty.
»Oh, my dear friend d'Artagnan is acting coy again? Never mind, Messieurs, I too wait in vain for the day when he finally holds me in his arms for a dance. You scoundrel! Where have you been and forgotten me?«
»Sweet Josepha, I'm already taken, you know that,« lied d'Artagnan without blushing. »Now don't grimace, your face is too pretty for that.«
But the barmaid still pretended to be offended and sulky. She distributed the cups and placed a decanter of wine with which she has been sent to the table. As she did so, she leaned forward and, surely not by accident, allowed a deep look into her décolleté, at her pretty, firm breasts in the corset.
Bernajoux was not interested, for he had his Madeleine. Biscarat, on the other hand, grinned all the wider and it was impossible to tell whether more of the lovely view or the amusing excuses of another woman at the table. »Eh, how exceedingly rude of Monsieur d'Artagnan!«
»You bet!« Josepha winked at Biscarat, it was not the first time she was performing this theatrical act. »Just tell him often enough until he finally gets smart. Such a handsome young man should not belong to one woman alone.«
»My speeches! How can he resist you, sweetums?«
»A Gascon, too?« Josepha eyed Biscarat with interest and not at all shyly. It was foreseeable that later he would either get a slap in the face or a warm lap by her - and she his pay in return.
Bernajoux was used to it and let the friend flirt. He toasted to d'Artagnan and emptied his cup in one go. The duel has made him thirsty and he could stand a lot of wine. His lieutenant joined him in the contest, just as she has been allowed; she was safe among friends, who watched out for her.
A merry hour passed, with much joking and laughter, mutual mockery for real and false affairs with women, and all the pomposity and boasting that went with it. Biscarat tried a few more times to embarrass d'Artagnan and failed because of her years of experience with other male company. It was truly not the first time she heard the subtle remarks and teasing, and it was amusing to respond to them and even develop them further herself. It was Bernajoux who had to clear his throat from time to time and drink even more.
To spare him, after a while Biscarat struck more serious tones and asked d'Artagnan, »Will Cahusac and Sorel accompany us at another evening?«
»I see, those two? Allow me some more time...« Before anyone could object or offer unwanted advice, she made a suggestion herself. »We should ask Jussac!«
»Sure, but then there will be dancing!«
»Who knows, maybe?« D'Artagnan chuckled into her cup, which was surprisingly empty no matter how many times she refilled it. She poured more, jumped up in high spirits and shouted, »Here's to us!«
»Here's to the best lieutenant we've ever stolen!« it echoed loudly back, and d'Artagnan bowed self-deprecatingly.
»Suits the Red Guard to celebrate turncoats. Suits the cardinal.«
D'Artagnan's expression darkened abruptly as the gross insult rolled heavily off a tongue at her back. Someone had taken a cup to much before daring to attack the guardsmen and especially their officer with words.
Biscarat moved his lips silently, 'three' could be read from them. Bernajoux' hand was on the sword hilt. D'Artagnan straightened without turning and growled between gritted teeth, »Do you dare repeat that, Pauger?«
She has recognised the voice immediately. Pauger was obviously at large again and still not in his right mind. It was easy to guess that his two companions must also be musketeers. Biscarat inconspicuously felt under his tunic for the dagger. Bernajoux appeared serene but ready to fight. So far, there was no immediate danger coming from the men on either side. That could change at any time and all too quickly, for Pauger spat out smearily, »A turncoat, a disgrace, a bastard!«
An unpleasant cracking sound was heard, then Pauger fell like a tree, his nose bloody, an altogether dumbfounded expression in his eyes.
D'Artagnan stood over him, trembling with hot rage, fists clenched, and only Bernajoux' quick grip at her arm kept her from lunging at Pauger and repaying him for Sorel's scar in the same way. Bernajoux pulled her back and put himself between her and Pauger's friends.
Hands sprung to arms, but as yet no one stirred to battle. The musketeers, one of them the young and still rather inexperienced Moirod, had probably not expected that d'Artagnan, after weeks of acquiescence and grudging silence, of evading conflict, would finally defend herself against the hostilities. What was more, the cardinal's guardsmen stood by her side, ready to fight, instead of cowardly withdrawing.
Moirod seemed torn between avenging the blow to Pauger's face or instead asking d'Artagnan's forgiveness for not having stopped the drunken comrade from doing something foolish. The other musketeer looked like feeling similarly, maybe they had been as surprised by Pauger's impertinence as the guardsmen.
Meanwhile, in the Fir Cone, the carousing went on briskly. A man has been knocked down, who cared? It happened often enough and someone would help him back to his feet, adjust his collar and then they would go on drinking.
'Someone' did indeed appear, and in an unexpected way. A cavalier in the most distinguished clothes pushed past the musketeers, knelt by Pauger and looked at his broken nose. He clicked his tongue. »That's for Caillaux to fix. Come on, folks!« He waved to the musketeers and ordered as if it were a matter of course, »Take him to Tréville's personal physician, hurry up!«
The musketeers obeyed grumbling, secretly also grateful for the pretext of being able to get away without a fight against their former superior, for they would have neither really wanted to win nor lose such a duel. They pulled Pauger to his feet, put his arms around their shoulders and dragged him away. At the door, Moirod looked back, caught d'Artagnan's wrathful expression and hurried to get Pauger out of her sight, out of her mind.
Bernajoux and Biscarat watched the withdrawal suspiciously while the cavalier stood up and brushed off the dust from his knees with a self-satisfied gesture.
D'Artagnan massaged her hand. Her knuckles had creaked no less than Pauger's nose and throbbed painfully. Her heart hammered with rage, but she composed herself enough to turn to the somewhat world-weary fellow who had intervened. He had to be acquainted with the Musketeers, that was the only way he could have known about Tréville's personal physician and given the men instructions. Had they possibly found a replacement for her, a new lieutenant?
No. The cavalier turned to the guardsmen and d'Artagnan recognised him by his face. Narrow cheeks, brown eyes that were a little too close together and because of which one was easily tempted to underestimate the gentleman. A cultivated appearance, a man of handsome guise, charming, surrounded by an air of savoir vivre when talking to him. One of Tréville's closest friends, a welcome guest at the Musketeers' headquarters. Every few months he got bored at his country estate and visited Paris for the colourful life, the courtly bustle and the beautiful women.
D'Artagnan called out in surprise, »Monsieur Baron de Grinchamps!«
Grinchamps smiled winningly and raised his hands reassuringly. »Not such formalities! It is my sincere pleasure, Monsieur d'Artagnan! Well, let me not lie, though the circumstances for our meeting are most astonishing.«
D'Artagnan almost tugged at her uniform as if caught in the act. She shook off the impulse and kindly invited Grinchamps to join them at their table. The baron was always pleasant company, she had no feud with him and she owed him so much courtesy for preventing another war between the Musketeers and the Red Guard.
She introduced Bernajoux and Biscarat, who were quickly enlightened as to who the Baron de Grinchamps was, how they knew each other. He ordered another round of the best wine and the guardsmen knew they were now two men too many at this table. With vague excuses, the friends said goodbye until tomorrow and left d'Artagnan and the baron to their reunite between old acquaintances.
»So, tell me; you want to have become a guardsman of the cardinal? How did it come about?« Grinchamps did not hold back his questions; he was acquainted with d'Artagnan for many years and took a lively interest in her fate. Perhaps he hoped for an exciting story that would satisfy his own thirst for adventure.
D'Artagnan had to disappoint him. »These things happen, as a soldier you are never master of yourself. You have seen what that entails. Never mind about that, Monsieur de Tréville has already forgiven me.«
»He has, hasn't he? Well, that explains his gloomy mood, his sulky countenance with which he welcomed me. It was you, you did that to him, and I first suspected a woman!« said Grinchamp cheerfully and without ill intentions.
D'Artagnan quickly broached another subject. »Enough about me, what brings you to Paris these days?«
»The boredom, the dissolute life... Just as you expect me to be, and yet I shall probably have to give up both soon, if all goes according to plan.«
»Oh?«
»I'm thinking of getting married. Now don't look at me like that, at some point you have to choose one before it's too late! But then there'll be no more boredom.«
»And no more dissolute life. Have you already chosen a mademoiselle, has she answered you?«
Grinchamps shrugged and poured himself a refill. »There is an arrangement in prospect. But it's all still very vague, and until more develops, I'm enjoying the free urban air.«
»I see.« D'Artagnan smirked with amusement. Whichever woman the baron chose, she would get an unfaithful bon vivant who would nevertheless fulfil her every wish and treat her well. It was not for nothing that Grinchamps and Tréville got along splendidly, they had some things in common.
They talked for a while about this and that, about superficial trivia, as one did among acquaintances. The curfew was approaching and d'Artagnan longed more than ever for a bath. Grinchamps was both attentive and polite enough to let the Lieutenant of the Red Guard go soon. They took their leave on the best of terms and ironically recommended each other to the king and the cardinal.
