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Chapter 40

In the letter, she was instructed to hire a sedan chair to make her entrance into the Palais Cardinal. Her feigned rank was not high enough for a carriage, although she would have been entitled to a small crown on the side doors.

Charlotte de Chanlecy, Dame de Sainte-Croix. D'Artagnan still had to get used to the name and title and she was glad that she only had to show the official invitation with the cardinal's seal to the gate guards through the thick curtains of the palanquin. This way, she did not get confused about having to introduce herself and allowed no more than a glance at her hand with the letter.

Cahusac was leading the evening watch and might have recognised her by face. No, he would have recognised her assuredly, stared in surprise or laughed at her throatily! But the senior guardsman was content to see only a delicate woman's hand, oblivious to the calluses in its palm left there by a soldier's life. The palanquin bearer were waved through without the guards making sure of any other possible passengers.

There was no room left for fellow travellers inside anyway, due to the sweeping hem of the dress. The tailor had recently finished the dress she had commissioned on her outing with Madeleine, and since d'Artagnan would not have known to what other occasion she should have worn it, it now came into use. The good garment has been degraded as a means to an end, was no longer a secret reverie to show a different side of herself to a certain man. A feminine side, a perhaps even... endearing one. A silly wish anyway!

It had taken d'Artagnan quite a bit of pulling and pushing back and forth to be able to take a seat. Madeleine had to help stuff and thought the whole affair wonderfully amusing. D'Artagnan suspected that she was mainly pleased that the cat was away for a few weeks or even months and that she could play with her Bernajoux whenever she pleased.

The palanquin was swayed across the forecourt to the stairway, a ship on a light sea breeze. D'Artagnan was experienced with the storm and yet glad when the journey was over. She took a deep breath, from now on the spectacle began, the stage was set and the actress in her role. The palanquin was set down and soon after, the door was opened from the outside for the dame.

Charlotte de Chanlecy made every effort to stand up reasonably elegantly and not get tangled in her own dress. A hand was politely extended to her to help her dismount. Of old habit, she would have almost refused the gesture and leapt briskly out. The impractical lace, the voluminous ruffles prevented any misbehaviour all by themselves. She instinctively grasped the support offered to her and was careful not to step on the hem.

At last she had solid ground under her feet again - under the elegant dame's shoes with the pretty bows. They were nowhere near as comfortably worn out as her boots, but were shiny clean and quite tight. Small steps could only be made with them and she carefully balanced one away from the palanquin. Her hand was still a little unsteady in the litter bearer's and she raised her eyes from the hem to thank him for his help.

Not a word escaped her mouth, but the blood suddenly rushed to her cheeks. Sorel just smiled slyly, a teasing gleam in his brown eyes, and he made a gallant bow that almost brought d'Artagnan's fingertips to his lips.

She withdrew her hand just in time. He surely was making fun of her, of her awkwardness and... and her dress! A silly reverie, a foolish wish, forsooth, now she knew for certain! With just one word she reminded him who he was facing. »Ensign.«

The chilly greeting was not able to dampen Sorel's spirits. He played his own part with bravura, with confidence and some joviality towards the situation. »Bonsoir, Madame. Be welcome to the Palais Cardinal, your arrival has been eagerly awaited.«

»Of course it has been.« D'Artagnan dismissed the palanquin bearers with a beckon that was only slightly more gently swung than the curt gesture of an officer. The men obeyed promptly and carried the sedan chair off, leaving her alone with Sorel.

Apparently, he didn't think much of her advice to take care of himself, to beware of women, especially not to get too close to her. He politely offered her his arm, quite cavalierly - and he blinked in surprise when, contrary to all expectations, d'Artagnan accepted with a sugary sweet and extremely dangerous smile.

»Thank you, my noble Knight,« she mimicked Odette, without any of that girlish giggle, and then led Sorel into the palace instead of the other way around. He was dragged along and gave a barely suppressed laugh at her confident, hardly ladylike, yet charming demeanour. D'Artagnan decided to ignore it and asked, »Wasn't Elise supposed to meet me?«

»Mademoiselle de la Nièvre still claims her services.«

»A possessive damsel she is, once you got caught in her clutches.«

»She's just lonely and doesn't want to be without company.«

»How well you know that already!«

»You learn your lessons about women,« Sorel replied with an unequivocal sideways glance at d'Artagnan, and quickly looking forward again as his eyes threatened to wander across her cheeks, her lips, her neck, even lower to- »But I'm just guessing what's really on her mind.«

»You're probably guessing right. Poor girl! But now her future companion has finally arrived to stand by her day and night.«

»I don't know which of you I should pity more.«

»Elise. She has to put up with both of us.« D'Artagnan looked stubbornly ahead so as not to let Sorel guess her own mind correctly by her mien. He probably did not even have to, but knew very well what she was thinking; she was out of place in this role, she felt uncomfortable and wanted to escape. It was only him, only his arm, on which her hand rested gently, that was keeping her from flight.

She listened and in the evening silence heard the noise from the guardroom echoing even into this hallway. »Shouldn't you be at your own promotion celebration?«

»I'll get there soon enough to let the others play a prank on me.«

»So that's what it's all about, you're hiding out with me!«

»It's not like you're there to save me in case they want to throw me naked into the Seine!«

»Hmm, would I save you? Or just watch?« She eyed Grégoire unabashedly from top to bottom and laughed when he grimaced in embarrassment at the retort to his own stare, which had by no means escaped her notice.

For his lieutenant, Sorel would have had a suitable reply on the tip of his tongue. For Charlotte, Grégoire could only think of indecent retorts, which he suppressed with a clearing of his throat. He distracted them both and pointed to a double door. »There it is. Your chambers right next to la Nièvre's.«

The arrangement was no surprise. D'Artagnan would be right there if Odette called for her. Besides, she was her watchdog and saw and heard everything that happened around these premises. »Schedule Bernajoux and Biscarat as an unmissable sentry at Mademoiselle's door for tomorrow morning.«

»Understood!« Sorel confirmed in old manner, without questioning the order. He suspected that d'Artagnan was pursuing a plan by it, as strange and unnecessary as the sentry seemed.

She did not explain it to him, but stopped at the entrance to her own chambers. She hesitated and could not bring herself to let go of Sorel, to immerse herself in her new life.

»What is it?« Sorel asked in a low voice, sounding as if he knew the answer. D'Artagnan stared at the door handles and the gold fittings, the floral decorations along the wings. Just as quietly, she replied, »If I go through that door now...« She left the sentence unfinished and did not move.

A hand reached past her, Sorel pressed the handle and the door swung open. It revealed an antechamber stretching harmlessly before them. Only a chest of drawers was housed here, two upholstered chairs flanked the walls, expensive wallpaper added a little colour to the room. But it still remained nothing but a vestibule, which absorbed the noise from outside and led in front of another double door.

A gentle, barely perceptible touch at her back beckoned d'Artagnan to take a step over the threshold. She did so, and once advanced, she only stopped at the second door. She felt Sorel's reassuring closeness, he stayed with her, regardless of the gossips outside in the hallway who might have observed his outrageous accompaniment of a woman all the way into her bedchamber. More courageously than before, this time she opened the door herself and stepped into the room before she would be disheartened again.

Sorel followed her, discreetly closed the door and remained standing at it. He watched her as she shed her hesitancy with each step further into the room. The gold and pomp, the precious furniture and tapestries did not impress d'Artagnan; she has already seen the inside of dozens of such chambers. It was not the place itself, but the symbolic act of discarding the lieutenant's rank and becoming the dame of honour definitely by taking possession of the room.

The biggest hurdle was the bed. Large and inviting, it stood there against the far wall and dominated the chamber. A canopy was stretched over it, heavy velvet curtains hung between ornately carved wooden posts. D'Artagnan's fingers gently grazed the top sheet that was spread over the blankets for protection, without really touching the fabric as if she might soil it. It looked incredibly comfortable, soft and clean. One would have wanted to spend a whole day in this bed, building a castle with the pillows and snuggling into it with the blankets, warm and well protected.

D'Artagnan shuddered and whispered barely audibly, »Often, it was not even straw...«

»...sometimes, no more than clay and mud.« Sorel had moved unnoticed from the door and was looking at d'Artagnan from the other side of the bed now. »In the trenches, in the field camp.«

She nodded slowly, without taking her eyes off the puffy pillows, the comfortable mattress. »Will it look weird if I put the sheets on the floor and sleep there?«

»Probably.«

»Hmm.«

The guardsmen lapsed into silence. Their beds at home were the utmost luxury, no matter how hard the mattresses and how thin the blankets. This bed here was not a camp to long to return to. It was too much taken for granted. More valuable than a soldier's life. Only someone who had never learned to appreciate a protected, dry place to sleep could spend the night in it with a clear conscience.

The sheets were untouched and only waiting for Madame de Chanlecy. She looked up and met Grégoire's gaze in silent understanding. She had no command for him here, only a request to a friend. He nodded in determination and read Charlotte's lips in a silent count-off until she exclaimed, »Three!«

Grégoire fell forward elongated at the command, at the same moment, Charlotte sank belly-down into the feather bed beside him. Wood creaked, blankets puffed out, pillows gave way under the two bodies.

Triumphant, Sorel and d'Artagnan remained lying and did not move until the bed made no more sound. Then, d'Artagnan rolled onto her back and breathed a deep, liberated sigh of relief. Sorel folded his arms under his chin and grinned. They had taught that damned bed a lesson!

They lay like that for a while, enjoying the victory. D'Artagnan stared up at the canopy, which no longer seemed to hang so menacingly over her. The sheets smelled clean and fresh, like soap. A slightly more tangy scent mingled with it and she turned her head to Grégoire. He was relaxed next to her with his eyes closed. He seemed to be dreaming of beautiful things and she nudged him, not quite as roughly as a lieutenant would have done. »Don't fall asleep!«

»Just a little while longer...«

»...a little, fine.« relented d'Artagnan, listening to the silence in the chamber, the regular breaths beside her and her own heartbeat; it stumbled and leapt oddly as Grégoire whispered from close by, »I haven't slept in a bed like this for a long time.«

There were a few tiny holes in the canopy, as if one of the cardinal's cats had once sat there and dug its claws in. Charlotte counted the holes without result and finally said just as quietly, »You haven't called yourself Vicomte de Ventadour for a long time.«

»Sorel only knows plain camps and appreciates them.« He sat up and forced himself to take his eyes off a pretty dress, the beautiful wearer who seemed completely unaware of the effect her slightest gestures had on him. He slid to the edge of the bed, ready to escape, and said cheekily, »A bed or heavens, depending on who else sleeps in it.«

The last sentence on his lips, he jumped up and fled to the door. He dodged the pillow just in time that d'Artagnan threw after him with ladylike indignation and unladylike swearing. »Scoundrel...!«

Grégoire just laughed and went out. Charlotte, on the other hand, slumped back on the bed with a sigh and hugged the second pillow tightly to her chest. It smelled of soap and something more tangy.

She stared up at the canopy and after a while she dozed off, a smile of both happiness and sadness on her lips.