Chapter 33
The impressions from the Hôtel stuck to d'Artagnan and Sorel left her alone until they have crossed the Pont Neuf and were thus out of the district. Only behind the bridge did he dare to expose himself to her bad mood. »You'll have to get that bandaged.«
»Sure.«
»Seriously, d'Artagnan!« He grabbed her by the shoulder, forcing her to stop and look at him. He risked more than a reprimand for his disrespect, but his concern was greater.
D'Artagnan frowned without immediately wiping his hand off. »What the hell's this about?!«
»That's what I could ask you! This nonsensical battle, it could have ended quite differently! What then? J'en ai ras le bol!«
D'Artagnan stared in astonishment. Never before had she heard a curse pass Sorel's lips or seen him enraged. He was sick of it? Of what? Of having to save her over and over again? She has never asked him to do that!
One look into his eyes stopped her from flying off the handle herself and putting him in his place. She swallowed with sudden remorse at the fear that must have shaken him to the core back at headquarters. Fear for her, for her life. He could not let her be without wound care, he had to make sure she was all right. She gave in. »Then let's bandage this.«
Sorel nodded curtly and took the lead now, as if they had exchanged rank and roles. He did not want to lose any more time; perhaps he estimated the cut to be worse than it was. At the first crossroads, d'Artagnan stopped him, for his destination was obvious; the Palais Cardinal. Basically the right decision to seek care there from the surgeon.
Right, and yet wrong. »No, to my place. It's... closer.«
The excuse was easy to see through, yet Sorel did not seem half as surprised as he should have been. Perhaps he thought that his lieutenant, for one thing, did not think much of the doctors and, for another, did not want to admit to the fight in front of Jussac. He looked a little doubtful nevertheless and d'Artagnan added sarcastically, »I have enough bandages at home to reattach all severed limbs.«
»I bet you have.« Sorel was equally well versed in biting sarcasm. Enough bandages not only to tend to one's own wounds after such dangerous contests, but to conceal other secrets as well.
He blinked at this last thought. D'Artagnan said this so frankly, invited him to her home and appointed him to be her orderly. Did that mean, he has gained enough trust and friendship to be officially allowed to learn about her secret?
Fortunately, she failed to notice his broad grin, she was already turning into the Rue Tiquetonne; nor did she notice how well-behaved and obedient Sorel suddenly was again. It was only in the corridor of her house that she realised, with some discomfort, that Madeleine was absent.
D'Artagnan had hoped that her landlady would take care of the wound and throw Sorel out, because he would only be a nuisance anyway and, instead of gawking, would be better off on duty or anywhere else - in any case not here! Madeleine was always to be counted on for the drama being played out, to scare away all well-meaning comrades. But lately the Chevrette seemed too preoccupied with her very own guardsman to show herself reliable in this regard any more.
A hand at her back, a very gentle touch only, snapped d'Artagnan out of this thought and the fright she has brought upon herself. Sorel eyed her with concern. »Are you all right?«
»I'm fine.«
»Of course. Except for that cut.«
»How sarcastic you can be!«
»I learned from the best.« Sorel had imperceptibly guided her into the kitchen, which he had spotted on the right. A seat was found at the dining table and it was only with the chair under her backside that d'Artagnan noticed how weak her knees felt by now. The thrill of the battle, which had made her feel neither pain nor exhaustion, no longer had an effect.
She grimaced and sucked in a sharp breath as she peeled herself out of her tunic and glanced at her shirtsleeve. What she has thought was just an annoying scratch turned out to be an impressively large, bloody stain.
»Bandages are in the kitchen cupboard,« she instructed Sorel to give him something to do, hoping she would be spared needle and thread. She heard him rummaging, he would find everything else he needed among the bandages. Compresses, alcohol, clean cloths, ointment. Madeleine kept order for such cases, which in her eyes were far too frequent.
Somewhat laboriously, d'Artagnan freed herself from the baldric, took her dagger and cut up the sleeve to the shoulder. The shirt was ruined anyway and she would not take off her doublet in front of Sorel, let alone any other piece of clothing!
She startled when he suddenly sat by her again and took a closer look at the wound. He had dumped his findings on the table and pulled up a chair. Hell, how could she be so careless in his presence and let him get close? Close enough that he could see through her!
He soaked a cloth with the apothecary's alcohol and seemed to want to get to work instead of leaving d'Artagnan to clean the wound by herself. She instinctively withdrew her arm and immediately regretted it because the cut made itself painfully noticeable and began to bleed more profusely.
Sorel pressed the cloth on the wound to stop the bleeding and commented dryly, »I guess it hasn't healed miraculously in the last few minutes.«
At first, the treatment felt pleasantly cold. A blink later it burned like hell and almost brought tears to d'Artagnan's eyes. »That amuses you?«
»Only because it makes the invulnerable first lieutenant of the Red Guard human at last.«
»Invul-? Who says so?«
»You yourself. Hold that!« Sorel left it to the recalcitrant patient to press the cloth further onto the cut and soaked another with alcohol to gently wipe her arm clean. He shook his head. »No matter what argument it is, you always put yourself in the middle as if nothing could happen to you.«
»If you fellows would pull yourselves together and be more reasonable for once, then I wouldn't always have to stand in the middle,« she countered. »Ow!«
»Pardon,« Sorel muttered, concentrating fully on his task. The cut was not very deep, a compress and a tight bandage would probably do; if he could convince his hot-headed lieutenant to keep calm for at least half an hour. »Hush now!«
»Bah!« To her own astonishment, d'Artagnan obeyed and let Sorel let her wound be cared for. Normally, she would not have allowed such treatment by a comrade; even Athos, Porthos or Aramis had only been allowed to look after their friend under the threat of much worse consequences - such as calling in Monsieur de Tréville's personal physician.
But there was nothing unpleasant about Sorel's closeness, about his gentle care, and that struck her as altogether peculiar. It was wrong and right at the same time. She watched him, not understanding her conflicting feelings, and whispered his name as if there were an explanation in it. »...Grégoire?«
He looked up and met her mien of sweet confusion. She held his gaze inescapably captive and seemed to want to read something in his eyes. The answer to an unasked question and a shy invitation that was beginning to dawn on him, making his heart beat faster, drawing him to her irresistibly. »Charlotte...«
»You- Scoundrel!«
The spell broke, Sorel blinked as if torn from a beautiful dream. He sat back and swallowed as it hit him what he had just said. What he had admitted to, what he had almost done - and still wanted to do with... Charlotte. »Oh, crap.«
»You-!« D'Artagnan seemed to have a monstrous imprecation on the tip of her tongue, a name for him far beyond scoundrel. Her cheeks burning, she pulled herself together and settled for a chilly, »So you know.«
»Uh-huh.« Sorel nodded cautiously, not daring to make a sound otherwise. He was a dead man. Definitely. Strangled in her kitchen by an angry woman. If they would write that on his tombstone? A nice epitaph that would be! 'Here I rest, it's for the best; but I will miss her deadly kiss.'
»Since when?«
Sorel banished the silly rhyme from his thoughts, already suspecting that he wouldn't it, and what might have been, shake off any time soon. Oh, crap, indeed. »The day of your promotion, when Rochefort and you talked in a side corridor.«
With that, he has also answered the 'where from' and his lieutenant looked at him waiting to see if he had anything else to bring forth in his defence. He slid the salve pot from left to right, opened the lid and murmured, »I'm sorry.«
»For eavesdropping? Or that you kept silent?«
Sorel looked up at d'Artagnan again. She did not glare at him half as angrily as he had just thought. She seemed rather relieved that she no longer had to fear a confession and the consequences. Her anger at him came from the fact that in a moment of trusting closeness she had finally summoned up the courage to talk to him - and then had to realise that she had spent days worrying unnecessarily!
She waved off when he did not answer immediately and acted quite composed. »I don't know why you didn't tell the others. But... thank you.«
She smiled shyly, and Sorel avoided making the same mistake, misinterpreting her gestures, her smile, by cheekily asking permission in advance. »So may I continue where we left off?«
D'Artagnan ignored any nuances, deciding that Sorel meant the wound care and not- She nodded curtly. »Hurry up with that, Jussac is waiting eagerly for my report. I'll get an earful by him.«
»Will you tell about the fight?« Grégoire was surprised that he escaped unscathed despite his cockiness. Maybe Charlotte wouldn't have strangled him at all if he had leaned forward, if he had pressed his lips gently to hers, if he had drawn her close to him? ...it was better if he did not think too much about it, even if he was realising quite a few things now.
»Even if I remain silent about it, sooner or later he will suspect the injury and assign me fencing exercises until I can no longer lift the sword and have to tell him. Still, confession is not easy for me.«
»Why?«
»Admitting being vulnerable and human after all? That's a lot to ask!«
Sorel laughed, d'Artagnan smirked and that dispelled the last, awkward embarrassment between them which still remained because of secret wishes and unfinished gestures on both sides.
D'Artagnan held the compress in place and Sorel began a tight bandaging. He seemed to know what he was doing and went about it silently and carefully, but she could see the thoughts on his forehead. It was not her first wound to be cared for. »You're wondering if none of the musketeers ever noticed.«
Sorel looked up in surprise, but then nodded. »Captain Tréville, and perhaps his adjutant, seemed to be the only ones.«
»True. The others must have been blind by choice, or at some point in the past did value me enough to think nothing of it. Only three knew for certain.«
»Athos, Porthos and Aramis? The Inseparables?«
»Inseparable! You let the comrades tell you too many old stories and even believe in them!«
D'Artagnan immediately felt ashamed of the bitterness she thought she had long overcome at the loss of her friends. This was a scar that would never heal. She moved her arm tentatively after Sorel has pinned the bandage in place with clamps. The fabric did not immediately turn red, but only the next few minutes would show whether needle and thread would really be unnecessary. In the meantime, she had to be patient and might as well talk about the past.
»Even those three didn't see through me as quickly as you did, like Bernajoux, Biscarat and Jussac. But you guardsmen also had much more pressing reasons for keeping a close eye on me and not just seeing a weird character.« D'Artagnan joked only half-heartedly, and after some hesitation finally summoned courage for a question that had not occurred to her in front of Bernajoux and Biscarat; before Grégoire's answer, however, she trembled. »Don't you think it disgusting at all? This masquerade, me. A virago, a liar.«
Sorel was taken aback by the harsh words with which d'Artagnan described herself. As if he were sitting opposite a criminal, a completely different person who did not deserve his friendship and affection, but contempt. All the more emphatically, he brushed aside her fears. »No. It's confusing at first, everything about you, but when we become friends I accepted you for what you are.«
»You say that like it comes naturally.«
»It is! You chose this life and you can only live it like this. It's not a lie, it's your way.« He grinned. »Children, kitchen, church? It's not to your taste, you don't let a preordained destiny be imposed on you.«
D'Artagnan was surprised, because Sorel seemed to really understand her, unlike Jussac. The latter's question about her motives had only aimed at the triad of the female role. She resisted it, she strove for freedom and accepted a laborious game of hide-and-seek and quite different constraints for it. But this was what she had chosen willingly, no one else had imposed it on her.
And Grégoire? He too had secrets. Why was he in Paris instead of fulfilling his predetermined role? »You chose a war name, it's in the soldier's list. Vicomte de Ventadour. Is there more to it than proving yourself by your own name?«
Sorel smiled wryly, a bit caught. His secret was far less adventurous or dangerous, but owed to a similar yearning for freedom. »The burden of origin can weigh heavily. Expectations, obligations... The responsibility towards the family is great, so are the constraints. Men are no different from women in that respect. As a simple guardsman named Sorel, I'm free of that. At least, as long as my worthy father enjoys good health and does not burden me with the additional title of Marquis de Levis.«
D'Artagnan gave a suppressed cough and croaked. »Wha-? You are the heir to the Marquis de Levis?« A son of one of the most important families in all of France was sitting in her kitchen?!
»Not if I'm lucky and fall in battle in time!«
He almost caught a slap on the head for this stupid remark. D'Artagnan only did not finish the gesture because it would not have been good for her wound. Instead, she growled as she stood up, »Be careful that you don't meet an early death in my home. I'll just quickly put on a fresh shirt, wait here.«
»I'm not allowed in the bedroom? The way you blatantly did it with me?«
»An - early - death.« D'Artagnan added a threatening look to her warning, unable to hide her burning, flushed cheeks by doing so, before she left the kitchen.
Sorel looked after her completely innocently and moments later, purely by chance, leaned back on the chair to make himself more comfortable. As he did so, he peered - quite inadvertently! - down the corridor to an ajar door behind which lay d'Artagnan's bedroom.
A shadow moved in the room, a silhouette on the wall. Even after a thorough scrutiny, Grégoire could not detect a supposedly disgusting virago, and he grinned to himself in high spirits all the way back to the Palais Cardinal.
