Chapter 32

About noon, Jussac summoned the new lieutenant to his study. D'Artagnan was surprised at the unmistakably urgent request. Jussac had been involved in his duties throughout the morning and has left the regiment to her after morning roll call. There was nothing unusual about this; they had divided the duties between them in such a way that Jussac received and implemented Captain Luchaire's instructions, while d'Artagnan took care of the practical matters such as posting the guard and watch the weapons drills.

Jussac has not spent the last few hours getting his own promotion. D'Artagnan had almost expected it, for the guardsmen were whispering among themselves that the lieutenant has been seen in the captain's study and afterwards in Richelieu's cabinet, in long conversations.

What has actually taken up so much time there was only the waiting that had been ungraciously imposed on Jussac. But it was not he who has incurred the displeasure of the superiors, and he immediately passed it on to d'Artagnan as soon as she stood before him.

»A broken nose.« He said nothing more than that, his expression was all the more eloquent. D'Artagnan did not know whether his ire was really directed at her. It seemed as if something else angered Jussac far more than the quarrel in the Fir Cone, the hotheaded punch of an officer against a drunkard.

She did not deny it. »Just a broken nose.«

»For heaven's sake!« Jussac slammed his hands flat on the table to give vent to his anger. D'Artagnan let the storm pass by impassively. She meant her words as they were said; Pauger was lucky to have escaped with just a broken nose - and Jussac understood this perfectly; she had not been able to act otherwise after the provocation to prevent a much bloodier skirmish between guardsmen and musketeers. The attack on Sorel had gone unpunished again with Pauger's unexpected release, mercy before justice. A fist in the face was better than a blade in the gut.

Jussac said between his teeth, »His Majesty is very displeased.«

»Has Monsieur de Tréville made a complaint to him that his Musketeers are being beaten up?«

»Of course not!« Such an embarrassment the captain would have hushed up and even denied. The news had been spread elsewhere. »A Baron de Grinchamps told it fresh to the King and in the most colourful terms, to distinguish himself by an amusing anecdote.«

D'Artagnan listened attentively. Grinchamps! Yes, she could well imagine that. The baron was a bon vivant, he let himself drift and when he had the rare opportunity to distract Louis XIII from whose constant boredom with a story... It need not even have been done with ill intent, but in complete thoughtlessness out of the moment. The king had been only slightly amused by it and had turned to the cardinal. Richelieu to Luchaire. Luchaire to Jussac. D'Artagnan had no one left to whom she could pass the buck. She sighed. »What sentence has His Majesty passed on me?«

»You may keep your head this time, too. But you will carry it to the Hôtel de Tréville and there personally reconcile the Red Guard with the Musketeers.«

This was what actually angered Jussac; the humiliation of having a guardsman to eat humble pie before their rivals and that Captain Luchaire accepted it unchallenged because he no longer cared before retiring. D'Artagnan snorted. »Of course, His Majesty requires a miracle from me.«

»A minor one, which you are quite capable of performing.«

»Bah, I see. The reconciliation is not between regiments, but officers.« It was obvious, Louis XIII was still regretting a grandiose blunder that had almost torn his Musketeers apart and that had sundered Tréville and d'Artagnan forever. These two, of all people, whom he valued and loved equally! Jussac did not have to say anything about it; d'Artagnan answered his unasked question. »The king is blissfully ignorant since time immemorial.«

»His privilege and his weakness. Depart at once and take Sorel with you!«

»Sorel? There's no need, he wasn't involved and will be able to contribute nothing.«

»You will not go confront Tréville alone. That is an order!«

»Yes, Sir!«

»Save your 'Yes, Sir'! I wouldn't send a single guardsman alone into the whipped-up atmosphere there. Sorel is your backing - and don't claim I'm exaggerating! You know the Musketeers better than I do.«

At first, d'Artagnan wanted to contradict. Then she bowed her head, having grown wiser over the past weeks and months. »We will return unscathed,« she could not help making a sarcastic remark before she left the study.

It was easy for her to find Sorel. Since her promotion, he always seemed to be around when he was not on patrol or on sentry duty. He stayed close to her and it bothered her surprisingly little, never became an inconvenience. It reminded her of the days when the Inseparables had never been seen alone, or one always looking for the others. She had missed that kind of intimate friendship so longingly, without realising it until the moment Sorel took that place anew. He was stealing into her heart without permission and she did not fight back.

She found him, as soon as she entered the courtyard, in a group of other guardsmen who were gathered around Cahusac; the rumour mill had apparently rushed ahead of her, the mood of the men revealed a lot about that. They thought no differently than Jussac - and she herself - about this Walk to Canossa.

One of them, Forgeron, wondered aloud why it was not the other way round, and why the Captain of the Musketeers did not visit the Palais Cardinal for a talk. D'Artagnan had come just close enough to hear it and reply with a snarl, »Because His Majesty knows that only one of us is brave enough to venture into foreign territory.«

Her words, soaked in sarcasm through and through, resonated enough to appease the guardsmen. They now met the matter with derision rather than anger and wished her luck.

Sorel followed d'Artagnan's gesture to join her with a questioning expression and she explained, »You accompany me. Someone should stop me in time before I would have to discipline any more musketeers.«

The laughter of the guardsmen at this followed them to the gate, and there d'Artagnan forestalled a remark by Sorel, who was not so easily deceived as the others. »Jussac thought it safer if I didn't go into the headquarters alone.«

»You share his view?«

»He made the right decision.«

»But?«

D'Artagnan hesitated, not knowing whether she liked the fact that Sorel was able to read her like an open book. Of all the guardsmen, he was closest to her and yet knew so little. Did he? Would she ever find the courage to confess to him, too, and risk the loss of their friendship? »...but I hope he's wrong about that.«

»I see.« Sorel smiled encouragingly, confident as he always did, and as he succeeded every time in lifting d'Artagnan's gloomy mood. Perhaps Jussac had chosen him to accompany her for that very reason. In the end, it was not her who had to be protected from vengeful musketeers, but Tréville from her, and Sorel stood between them as a reassuring mediator.

Even the way to the headquarters proved to be an arduous gauntlet of mistrust and contempt, which the two guardsmen encountered in the Musketeers' district. Unlike Lécuyer's arrest, the townspeople were not intimidated by a strong-armed patrol and so some men had the nerve to openly scold and some women to whisper loudly enough behind their hands for everyone to hear. No one, however, dared to come so close as to be pierced by more than d'Artagnan's irate glare.

Sorel noticed the strained clenching of his lieutenant's teeth to keep from giving in to her hot temper and instilling decency and respect back into the impudent burghers. The more resistance the guardsmen faced, the more upright and proud they strode down the streets. Sorel was her support, d'Artagnan's moral rock. He refused to be ruffled and she was grateful for that.

Unmolested except for nasty words, they finally turned into the Rue du Vieux-Colombier. Many uniforms gathered at the Hôtel de Tréville, lily-embroidered, with tongues of flame in the coat of arms on a blue background. Loose groups of musketeers stood at the gate, scattered in the street and around the headquarters. They formed a respectable deployment to welcome the guardsmen, whose arrival had long since been announced by street urchins.

The mood was hostile, ready to attack at every wrong word, every thoughtless gesture. Now the musketeers had to recognise their former lieutenant in the cardinal's emissaries and the provocation was perfect. They drew their lines even closer and crushed the enemy with their numerical superiority, with their presence.

On another day, with another fate, d'Artagnan would have been proud of the cohesion of the corps. But now it was directed against Sorel and her, making it impossible for them even to pass the main gate. At every step, another musketeer stood in their way as if by chance, demonstratively ignoring the visitors and looking over their heads, past their shoulders.

The reinforcement was everywhere, none of the men stood alone; no leader could be spotted to be targeted. Apparently, the musketeers had learned since the Fir Cone not to send anyone ahead as cannon fodder.

The guardsmen were surrounded, but by no means intimidated. A lightly touch by d'Artagnan on his arm told Sorel not to put his hand on the sword hilt under any circumstances, not even to graze the weapon as if by chance. Demonstrative serenity was to be their pass. They would not allow themselves to be chased away and certainly would not back down!

A musketeer was leaning at ease against the archway. Leroi, who had already been present at the gathering in front of the Palais Cardinal. One of Pauger's friends, of all people. He was part of a group of three other men who took up just enough space that one could barely squeeze past them without having to push them out of the way.

D'Artagnan accepted the challenge and planted herself in front of the men she had once called her brothers in arms. »Let us pass! His Majesty wishes dialogue and reconciliation.«

Leroi eyed her unimpressed; Sorel was not even worth a fleeting glance to him. Then he continued his conversation with his comrades, waving one hand as if to shoo away an annoying buzzing insect in front of his face.

D'Artagnan shrugged and said to Sorel, »Well then, it is not us who oppose the King. Tréville will be overjoyed when he has the pleasure of explaining this.«

Immediately the musketeers fell silent and some even took a firmer stance. They looked at the guardsmen with hostility, a progress, after all, from the previous total disregard. D'Artagnan gave them no time to think and made a sign to Sorel to leave without having achieved anything; just then, Leroi stepped back and gave way, unwillingly, resentfully - and he followed them in at a few paces' distance. It was ridiculous and at the same time predictable.

D'Artagnan ignored the grim escort and strode into the courtyard as if she has returned home from a longtime mission. Sorel trusted the peace less and murmured, »That was almost too easy.«

»It's the same way I got past Cahusac and you into the palais cardinal. With a friendly hint at the consequences.«

Sorel nodded and still kept an eye on the surroundings. What had already been a crowd outside the headquarters continued in the courtyard. Some musketeers were inspecting their equipment or fighting in mock battles. Others boasted of their feats of arms to their comrades, sharing anecdotes or many a deliberately provocative joke about the cardinal when the guardsmen were within earshot.

Every nook and cranny was besieged, and in the hôtel itself the bustle was no less. The whole regiment was present, in anticipation of hostile visitors. Even the staircase into the house had a sentry today, who gave the appearance of composure while playing dice, but would have jumped up ready to fight at the slightest provocation to escort any unwanted guest back outside the gates.

Sorel was astounded by the lack of discipline, which seemed so very different from the strict order in the Red Guard. »We have to go through this

To d'Artagnan, this was all normal, so she did not immediately understand his confusion. But then she waved it off all the more amused. »Don't worry. A distinguished nobleman, a pretty dame, or an officer will be allowed to pass unmolested.«

»So what about me?«

»You're my dame, I suppose.«

»Very funny.« Sorel swallowed a remark that it was more likely the other way round. Quite the distinguished nobleman, he puffed himself up with renewed self-confidence to somehow guide the dame and himself into the house.

But now it was d'Artagnan who suddenly hesitated at the entrance. She looked up at a certain window. The sun was reflected in the pane, blocking the view into the room beyond. Tréville's study. Did he in turn stand at the window there, watching her arrival?

A jolt to her back, made in passing by Leroi, snapped her out of this thought. They were unwelcome visitors, not allowed to linger too long in one place; to whom no nostalgia or old attachment was granted. They marched on.

Just as she has promised Sorel, the guardsmen, an officer and his companion, were let in. Where the noise from the courtyard was still dissipating into the sky, inside the house it echoed unbroken from the walls, through the entrance hall and the gallery. Nothing dampened the soldier's bulging life until nightfall.

The last hurdle was the staircase leading to the upper floor. It was wide, downright grandiose, made of expensive artificial stone. It stretched long in front of the visitors and made it clear that the master of the house was aware of his status and influence. One had to climb the stairs over many flat steps if one wanted to reach Tréville.

It was also the setting for a game that the musketeers played every day; one man defended the stairs against several attackers and whoever was hit or scratched was immediately disqualified. The blades were sharp and the game a serious exercise, even if there was much jeering and boasting.

A match was being fought just then and d'Artagnan, with deathly contempt, seemed unwilling to wait for it to end. She went resolutely up the stairs, but at least dodged towards the banister. Sorel followed her far less confident of not being impaled by a slipping blade in the most tragic and regrettable way - quite accidentally, of course.

He flinched when the swords clashed far too close to them. Laughter followed his instinctive reaction and did not stop even when the musketeers met d'Artagnan's angry gaze. The game was mercifully interrupted and the two guardsmen were allowed to pass.

Other guests were waiting in the antechamber, errand boys and supplicants who had not been sorted out in advance by the adjutant but were allowed to present their requests one by one. Many hours could pass before it was one's turn.

D'Artagnan was already toying with the idea of brazenly gaining access through the secret door - something she had never even considered doing as Tréville's lieutenant - or turning on her heel. To wait obediently and patiently, to expose herself to this further humiliation, was not in her temperament.

Fortunately, at that moment Duprés looked out of the study and his searching eyes immediately fell on the guardsmen. Their arrival had long since been noticed, perhaps one has already wondered why they have not yet announced themselves. Or perhaps none was wondering about the delay and the obstacles placed in their way. The adjutant generously cleared the last one by preferring them to the other visitors and waving them straight through into the study.

D'Artagnan made no secret of her relief. She would not have been able to hide her feelings from Duprés anyway, the old adjutant knew her far too well. Perhaps she read from his stern expression, from the deep wrinkles on his forehead, something like secret amusement that this time she had not appeared in a dress to get through to Tréville.

She ignored her own thoughts, nodded gratefully to Duprés and entered the study, Sorel always at her side like an intimate shadow.

The captain sat at his desk, his mood balanced between dark thoughts and cold reason. He eyed d'Artagnan with feigned indifference, Sorel caught a sceptical glance before he was judged to be an embellishment. Clearly, Tréville thought little or nothing of the king's order and wanted to get this conversation over with quickly.

D'Artagnan shared his opinion, albeit from a different perspective than usual. If they still thought similarly as before, then they both considered a reconciliation or dialogue unnecessary. The walk through the hôtel had made it abundantly clear that musketeers and guardsmen would never be fraternally united. She was to eat humble pie and that, despite all old affection, was not to her liking.

While Sorel kept discreetly in the background, d'Artagnan stepped briskly up to the desk and pulled up her chair with the green upholstery without invitation. She fleetingly noticed that the paperweight in the shape of a lion's head had disappeared.

Tréville regarded her appearance with puckered brows and a calm but unequivocal warning. »Careful, Lieutenant...«

D'Artagnan pulled herself together. She was irked, but one more disrespect could earn her a reprimand or worse. It was nothing like times gone by and even in the past she had never pushed the envelope of insolence. It was a purely official talk, she opened it in the most matter-of-fact tone. »Thank you for welcoming us. His Majesty wishes to know more about the incident at the Fir Cone and demands truce between the regiments.«

»What I know of it I have communicated. I presume His Eminence did likewise?«

»It's to presume, indeed.« Knowing only her view of what had happened, she shrugged. »One found effusive words to congratulate me on my promotion.«

»As effusive also were your thanks for it.«

Sorel watched the cordially icy exchange from his remote post. Although they were emphatically reserved, there was a noticeable familiarity between the officers. Ten years could not so easily be erased; they did not need many words to clear the fronts. For himself, the conversation was full of gaps that he was unable to fill. It annoyed him in an unexplainable way. He ignored the strange gnawing feeling and listened to Tréville say, »Pauger is on leave to recuperate.«

»I wish him a quick recovery and the next visit to a tavern without bloodshed for a change.«

D'Artagnan so deliberately did not look at Sorel that Tréville's gaze went to him of its own accord and finally he understood who this guardsman was. It was he whom Pauger has stabbed for no reason at the Three Crowns - a broken nose was a mild outcome, especially as Sorel seemed to be quite familiar with d'Artagnan. It was easy to see in the way he backed her up just by his presence. As calm and prudent as Athos had always done.

While Tréville eyed the guardsman, having his own thoughts about new and intimate friendships, d'Artagnan tilted her head questioningly. »Are we reconciled therewith and at peace for the time being?«

»We are, unless other reasons prevent it.«

»I cannot think of any.«

»Good.«

Silence fell, filling the study to the hilt with awkward indecision. Neither did d'Artagnan ask to be allowed to withdraw, nor did Tréville order them to leave. There were things still unsaid and finally d'Artagnan gave in. »May I speak frankly?«

»Granted.«

»His Majesty insisted that I was to come here. Please do not see in this any provocation, any new cause for quarrel between us. Between the regiments.«

Tréville frowned. »I do not. Even if you no longer venture to come alone.«

»Is it already a venture for me to enter the Musketeers' headquarters?«

»It shouldn't be, but evidently you don't think so.«

»Jussac doesn't think so, and after the last hour I'm inclined to agree with him.«

»Then you had better go,« the captain replied, as if he did not care.

D'Artagnan saw through him with ease and stayed. »If all is really said between us.«

»Between musketeers and guardsmen. Between captain and lieutenant not yet, but it's neither the time nor the place for that.«

»The time you choose, the place is known.«

»I'll send you word. In the meantime, tell 'Captain' Jussac that this incident is forgotten. His Majesty should be satisfied.«

»Understood, mon capitaine,« d'Artagnan said in a tone much like the old days, and turned to leave. She signalled to Sorel and was secretly amused by the incredulous expression on his face at the supposed appointment for a duel. Well, she may knew nothing about the time, but the place would have been the hôtel, after duty hours, enjoying a glass of wine, privately, in all the friendship they had promised each other last time and which was now to be fulfilled.

Unfortunately, Sorel was not the only one to misinterpret a harmless get-together. In the antechamber, Duprés must have been distracted, so that someone had secretly eavesdropped at the door. The adjutant was nowhere to be seen, but instead there were extremely angry-looking musketeers whom the guardsmen had to go past.

D'Artagnan was unaware of the seething atmosphere, unlike Sorel. They were surrounded and he murmured warningly, »They're after us.«

»Nonsense,« dismissed d'Artagnan it. She did not look entirely convinced, though, for with each step towards the stairs the wall of uniforms seemed more impermeable, the hostility more palpable. A narrow alley forced a path for them that led to the end of the gallery; right to Jumonville, Pauger's best friend.

Leroi, Robeaux and Moirod gathered around him, each of them infuriated and ready not to let the two guardsmen escape unscathed. Jumonville's lips formed only a thin line as he stepped forward. »You have arranged a duel with Monsieur de Tréville.«

D'Artagnan did not know whether Jumonville needed the pretext to take revenge on her for his friend Pauger. Or whether unconditional loyalty to his captain really drove him to stand in her way. She frowned. »That is absurd!«

»It was heard by everyone; time and place!«

»It may have been heard, but you conclude wrongly.«

»There is nothing wrong to conclude!« Jumonville felt for his sword. The words of a traitor convinced neither him nor the other musketeers.

Before d'Artagnan could retort sharply, Sorel intervened. He had no disarming smile for the musketeers to offer, no diplomacy or inspiring confidence. This cursed running the gauntlet did nag on him, too, and he stood determinedly before his lieutenant, as Jumonville before his captain. »You call d'Artagnan a liar?«

»I do!«

The mood that had just been seething really flared up after that insult. Angry murmurs went through the crowd and d'Artagnan pushed past Sorel to speak for herself, to protect him from a game whose rules he did not know and in which he has interfered with the best of intentions. She snapped at Jumonville, »Then I must cut off your tongue and beat some sense into you! Come on, right here and now! I challenge you at the staircase to battle!«

Loud jeering roared through the hôtel. Sorel stared aghast as d'Artagnan pushed her uniform-tunic into his hands and whispered, »It's just a ritual, call it a stage play. We will not leave headquarters without a fight.«

Sorel could say nothing in reply, for he suddenly found himself in a group of musketeers and was forced to the edge as a spectator. He still had a clear view of the staircase, but without being able to stand by d'Artagnan, without being able to fight his way out together with her. It was impossible for him to break away from his place at the banister. Whenever he tried, he was pushed back and eventually stuck altogether by a grip on his arm.

Reluctantly, he turned his head and faced the adjutant. Duprés had seen everything, heard everything, and murmured to him, »Listen to d'Artagnan. This battle has to be fought in order to make real peace.«

»...it's still because of the reassignment?«

»Yes.«

Sorel clenched his fists because there was nothing else he could do. »I will never forgive it if anything happens to d'Artagnan.«

»Neither will the captain,« answered Duprés with an easy to interpret undertone. He said no more, for the game began.

D'Artagnan knew that she was fighting a losing battle. She took up her position at the top of the stairs, her sword firmly in her hand and a watchful eye on her opponents. They were yet sizing each other up and waiting for the first lunge, for a signal. Jumonville was flanked by Leroi, they were two familiar comrades in arms who complemented each other in battle. Behind them, so as not to get in each other's way, Robeaux and Moirod waited for their cue to step into the breach if necessary.

For a while, d'Artagnan would be able to hold the line against the superior forces, fending off the attacks, perhaps even knocking out one of the musketeers with a counterattack. But immediately a comrade would step up and would not have allowed her any reprieve.

D'Artagnan could not win, but that was not the point. This game had rules and no one here would suffer more than superficial cuts, harmless stabs or bruises. Sorel had no way of knowing that and she was grateful that the musketeers were keeping him at a distance and out of it. The spectators would not interfere, they were eager for a good show. D'Artagnan had no intention of disappointing them.

Suddenly, her épée shot forward, was intercepted by Jumonville and Leroi saw the opportunity for a counterattack. The game was on and cheering erupted in the hôtel. Occasionally the cheer was also meant for the former lieutenant; not everyone wished d'Artagnan a crushing defeat.

She smiled grimly and continued the dance, dodged, recoiled and eluded to the side. Leroi urged her towards the banister and a valiant leap onto the next landing gained her saving ground. But there Robeaux and Moirod immediately encircled her, driving her back to Jumonville, to whom they wanted to leave the honour of first blood.

It was d'Artagnan's only advantage that her real opponent was Jumonville, the others just his seconds. She concentrated on him without letting her attention slip for the rest of her opponents. Out of the corner of her eye she saw a blow from Leroi against her, fended it off and in the movement got in front of Jumonville's blade. He stabbed out.

Sorel's cry of warning went unheard, swallowed by the clamour all around. He thrust aside a musketeer, rushed past him and made two steps before he was blocked again and forced back to the banister. Tense, in fear for d'Artagnan, he stared at the stairs. This was no longer a ritual, not a stage play! Jumonville had not held back, he had not steered the sword past at the last moment. He would have pierced d'Artagnan's chest if she had not thrown herself aside at the last second.

She stood backed against the wall, holding her arm, her sleeve was slashed. A thin thread of blood trickled between her fingers. She gasped, struggling for composure at the reckless attack. She had lost, much faster than expected. But she admitted it.

However, Jumonville was not ready to accept her early defeat. The rules suddenly changed, he charged at her again and d'Artagnan yanked up her sword just in time to escape being fatally stabbed.

Jumonville's brothers-in-arms were confused by the attack, as were the spectators. But no one called for a halt, only Sorel looked around frantically and finally found a gap between the uniforms. He burst through, dropped d'Artagnan's tunic and drew his dagger in the commotion. He fell from the crowd of spectators towards the stairs, threw himself against Leroi and knocked him down.

For a moment everything seemed frozen. Jumonville was distracted by the fight behind him and d'Artagnan dodged beneath his blade towards Sorel, who held Leroi at bay with his dagger at the musketeer's throat.

Time resumed. Moirod and Robeaux rushed forward, d'Artagnan pulled Sorel to his feet, out of reach of the two musketeers, and took a new stand with him against the attackers, back to back. Her shirtsleeve stuck like a plaster to the cut, slowly turning red.

They were surrounded, hopelessly outnumbered. Breathless, musketeers and guardsmen faced each other. The next attack would end it all.

»Enough!«

Tréville's voice thundered across the gallery, making men flinch like disobedient children under paternal wrath. The captain did not have to make room for himself; quite without his order an alley formed, the musketeers stood in a line and merely murmured half aloud. Jumonville and his friends also turned their heads in surprise, then retreated a few steps with lowered weapons.

D'Artagnan and Sorel did not trust the truce and waited in their defensive stance. Tréville stayed at the top of the stairs and looked at the scene with clear disapproval. He did not say a word, but his expression darkened menacingly when he saw d'Artagnan wounded, when he realised that the rules were not being respected.

Duprés stepped up beside him. He had gathered the red uniform from the floor and handed it to Tréville now. The captain went down the stairs and at this gesture d'Artagnan's tension eased. She signalled to Sorel to lay down the arms. They had lost this battle, but at least they would come out of it unharmed. Well, not quite as unscathed as she has promised Jussac.

D'Artagnan sighed in exhaustion, not only because of the physical exertion of the last few minutes. She composed herself as Tréville stood before her and handed her back her uniform. It was a symbolic act. The captain's acceptance that d'Artagnan had been called to be an officer in another corps and that he had finally come to terms with it without accusing her of treason.

D'Artagnan nodded gratefully and swung the tunic around her shoulders. The wound care would have to wait, the scratch hit her pride more than her flesh.

Tréville returned the salute, then raised his voice and ordered his musketeers unmistakably, »Let them go!«

Perhaps he meant ambiguously not to only let the two guardsmen pass, but to release d'Artagnan. The musketeers obeyed and made way for their former lieutenant.

Jumonville and his companions also backed away without hostility or threats. There was a mixture of relief and regret on their faces that was hard to place. As she passed, d'Artagnan also caught Jumonville's gaze. He did not seem to have a guilty conscience; he had avenged his friend Pauger and stood up for the honour of all musketeers. Peace was restored now and Tréville had decided that this was a conciliatory end.

Accompanied by silence, the two guardsmen finally found themselves in the street in front of the hôtel. Sorel seemed to want to say something, but d'Artagnan turned away far too quickly and marched down the Rue du Vieux-Colombier without looking back.