Chapter 46
In the crystal-clear night air, she could see her own, fitful breath. Elise would have liked to blow into her clammy hands to warm them while she flitted from cone of light to cone of light from the street lamps immediately behind d'Artagnan and Madeleine. But she clutched the pistol grip instead, her fingers by now quite stiff and rigid from the piercing cold that soaked through her coat and dress.
Madeleine pulled her feathered hat deeper into her forehead for protection from the icy wind that blew at them from every alley. It rattled the roof shingles and clattered the shutters as if to call their pursuers attention to the three women.
The mercenaries were close on their heels, they nearly bumped into the men at a crossroad. D'Artagnan pushed Elise and Madeleine back into the narrow side street between Rue Ferou and Rue des Fossoyeurs just in time. The houses to the left and right bent towards the deep black sky, and the women found shelter in their shadows.
A few steps away from them, the mercenaries were talking, their voices impatient and angry. They were tense, aggressive and restless at not having succeeded in catching the women yet. Five in number, d'Artagnan counted, one clearly identifiable as their leader, around whom the others gathered. Scraps of his commanding words wafted over to her, suggesting that more men were on their way in the streets.
The mercenaries had split up, searching the neighbourhood bit by bit and gradually tightening the circle around their prey. They were on the right track, all they would need to do was enter the alley - but the group separated to follow the main street in two directions, towards the Palais Cardinal.
Elise and Madeleine dared to breathe as the men's footsteps faded somewhere in the night. Their relief did not last long, for d'Artagnan peered out of the alley and made a decision. »We follow them.«
»What?!«
»We'll follow those who have separated from the group. Two alone aren't much of a threat.«
»Are you going to attack them?« Madeleine slapped a hand over her mouth as if that made her shrill exclamation unheard. Instinctively, the women ducked, listening to see if they were spotted. But everything remained quiet, almost as silent as the grave.
D'Artagnan whispered, »I want them to see us and run with us in the wrong direction. Away from Odette and Bernajoux.«
»But that's only two of them, what about the others?«
»They're acting methodical, tightly organised. Those men aren't ragamuffins picked up off the street to be made into cheap mercenaries. Only one will follow us so as not to lose us again. The other will fetch his comrades.«
»All right,« Elise nodded, her mind entirely on Odette, »let's distract them!«
Before the maid could have jumped up full of zest for action and send herself to her doom, d'Artagnan took the lead again. She understood Elise's urgent need to do something, not just to run away, but to take the initiative and make her own decisions instead of standing idly by. But she held Elise back by the arm and scurried ahead alone to the opposite side of the street, into a house entrance that offered her cover. She closed her eyes and listened into the darkness.
The night enveloped d'Artagnan with familiar sounds. The wind played its old melody of rustling and murmuring, wooden beams creaked, window hinges squeaked, a rat rummaged in the dirt. Nothing else was there. No telltale breathing nearby, no slap of a coat caught in a gust, no footsteps retreating deeper into the shadows. If Monsieur was following them, if he had also been deceived by Madeleine in the role of the false duke's daughter, he was neither to be seen nor heard. They were on their own.
Elise and Madeleine ran to her at d'Artagnan's hand signal. They went on, always close to the houses' shadows, through side streets and winding alleys, in a hurry but not rushing. The mercenaries progressed more slowly because they peered into every nook and paused at every noise to verify it. Their dark silhouettes were soon visible ahead of the women, they passed the men on a parallel path.
Then, at the edge of a lamp's cone of light, they flitted from one side street into another, barely visible and yet noticed out of the corner of the men's eyes.
As d'Artagnan had foreseen, the mercenaries split up; one of them stayed on the trail of the women and forced them to take detours to avoid being caught by him. He drove them further away from the Palais Cardinal, which had already been in sight. The other gathered his fellow henchmen and soon there were six, seven of them and they were getting closer and closer to their prey.
That had to be enough, Odette and Bernajoux were hopefully escaped undetected to Jussac, or even already back in the palace. Now the women had to concentrate on their own flight and confuse their pursuers, shake them off. The direct route to the palais was blocked, they would have lost a foot race; Madeleine and Elise were losing stamina fast in the cat-and-mouse game, they would not last much longer.
A bell struck midnight not far away. It was not that of a church steeple; changing of the guard at the Louvre, musketeers relieved their comrades for the next vigil.
D'Artagnan almost laughed in relief. Of course, that's how they would find rescue! Not directly at the Louvre, getting there was just as impossible for them as getting to the Palais Cardinal. They were cut off from both palaces and all routes to them. But now allies had unexpectedly appeared in the streets; musketeers on their way to their lodgings. Like true men of honour, they would not leave three damsels in distress to their fate.
Sporadic shouts echoed nearby, already far too close. The mercenaries tightened the noose and proceeded geared to each other. The burghers of Paris might have mistaken the terse orders and confirmations for the habitual chanting of the night watchmen. That's why no shutters were opened, no doors left ajar, to see what was going on. What was happening in the darkness remained in the darkness.
Madeleine leaned forward with her hands on her knees and gasped when d'Artagnan ordered them to stop in the cover of a parked oxcart. There was not much other shelter to be found in the alley, they could not linger here for long. But the respite was urgently needed, Elise also had to catch her breath and asked haltingly, »What... now?«
»It's not far off, we've almost escaped.«
»I'm not falling... for that coaxing.«
»They'll get us, luv.« Madeleine wasn't fooled about the seriousness of the situation either. »Looks bad for us.«
»Yet you don't sound too worried.«
»Because Robert will save me!«
»Ah, of course.« D'Artagnan smiled slightly, suddenly listened up and peeked out from behind the wagon wheel. Boot steps sounded from the end of the alley, coming in their direction. It was a single man, his face hidden in the shadow of the brim of his hat. The wind played with a puffy feather, tugged at his coat and uniform. The silver threads of an embroidered fleur-de-lis gleamed on his chest.
A musketeer, found at last!
He was alone. Strange, even for this late hour and not yet far from the Louvre, not to be walking together with at least one comrade. But d'Artagnan was content with any reinforcement; a single musketeer was only the beginning. »Wait here, I'll give a signal.«
The musketeer was unusually inattentive, he neither hesitated nor looked up when suddenly a woman appeared as if from nowhere and ran towards him. Perhaps it should have been an additional warning to d'Artagnan that the wind was blowing the smell of alcohol towards her. But the musketeer was her best laid plan, her only hope even. »Monsieur! Oh, Monsieur! Help me! Help, please!«
Her cries were impossible to ignore or miss. The brim of his hat lifted to reveal a bloated face, reddish, greasy skin, interspersed with blue veins, narrowed eyes, a veiled, unfocused gaze. A broken, bulbous nose, crooked healed, bitterness in every feature. A man who no longer had friends because of what he had done, who was tolerated in the corps but at the same time an outcast.
»Pauger...« D'Artagnan froze, stunned at the sight of a fallen soldier, the once honourable and now abdicated musketeer. Seeing Pauger like this, even though he has become her enemy, struck her to the core. So much even, that she did not move from the spot as he approached, lurking like an animal, cautious, ready to charge, staring only at her and not looking around for the danger she was running from, hoping for help.
His gaze bored into her eyes, only into her eyes, while the rest of her face remained shadowy - and his hand sprang to the sword handle in a horrible realisation; the culprit in his ruin! Guilty of his misfortune, of Tréville's, of all the Musketeers'! There she stood, and, by God, he understood at last!
»D'Artagnan...!« The name escaped his throat with a growl, became a long, angry roar, and then an attack.
D'Artagnan leapt back and drew her own blade, every fibre of her body ready for battle. She caught the fierce blow against her, with which Pauger was blindly trying to hack the devil, his very own demon, asunder. He pursued her, ruthlessly, hatefully. He was not even aware of the stab in his leg that d'Artagnan gave him in counterattack. He thrust at her, he slashed, he struck. He screamed and roared with rage, and no blow to his hand, no cut to his arm stopped him.
Vengeance was his, that maness had to die!
Pauger was soon bleeding from numerous wounds, none of them fatal, each new fire for his hatred. He was only still alive because d'Artagnan spared him, because she recoiled from what was necessary. She held the ground and defended herself rather than thrust the blade into his chest at last. Soon, she could afford no further scruples, they had to flee, the noise led the mercenaries to them!
»Stop! Pauger! That's an order! Enough!«
It did not reach him, there was no sanity left, no remnant of himself, no hesitation. Only rage, which gave him inhuman strength, made exhaustion and pain completely forgotten. He threw himself at her with everything he had, straight into her weapon and pushed d'Artagnan against a house wall, pinning her there with his own body. Her sword stuck deep in his flesh, he felt nothing. His breath sickeningly grazed her face, her neck, and he grabbed her throat with both hands, choking her and staring into her eyes.
Elise's pistol trembled in her hand. The fight between the musketeer and d'Artagnan lasted only seconds and yet what felt like an eternity passed during which she could only watch. Elise was not a good shot, she had never aimed at a human being, let alone pulled the trigger. To save her friend, she could, she had to! But there was too much movement, she might hit the wrong one!
Madeleine was standing next to her, they had both left their cover behind the cart. Should they rush over, throw themselves at the attacker in threes? Wait and stay out of the way while d'Artagnan fought? She was battle-hardened and not in distress - until suddenly the tide turned, until with both hands she desperately tried to loosen the iron stranglehold.
»Now! Now, Elise! Shoot! Shoot him!«
Was it Madeleine or was that Elise hearing herself screaming? She obeyed instinctively, closed her eyes and pulled the trigger.
The shot went off thunderously, the smoke almost suffocating her. An echo reverberated in the alley and someone jerked Elise's arm up, grabbed her and knocked the pistol out of her hand. Beside her, Madeleine scolded with all her might, she lashed out, squirmed, bit, scratched, bucked and was brought down. Their pursuers had caught up with them.
Elise fought back fiercely, wriggled, struck at the attackers, but they had not the slightest chance against the superior force. No one rushed to help them, all the windows and doors remained firmly closed, while the women were harassed and overwhelmed by the mercenaries.
Elise was lying on the ground, someone was holding her arms behind her back and pressing her down. They seemed not to want to hurt her unnecessarily, but with each try to rise up they pressed her harder back to the pavement. She heard Madeleine keep on swearing, cursing savagely at the mercenaries, until they stuffed a gag in her mouth and pulled her to her feet. The pretended daughter of the Duc de la Nièvre was treated mildly better than her maid. They did not realise their fallacy in the darkness.
Elise held still now and glanced at d'Artagnan out of the corner of her eye. Had she been saved, had the shot hit the musketeer?
D'Artagnan sat on her knees, holding her neck and coughing, gasping for breath against the terrifying feeling of tightness and suffocating. Pauger lay beside her, dead, shot. His eyes were rolled to the sky and his face afflicted with an expression of indefinitely bafflement.
D'Artagnan braced herself on her feet with sheer force of will, stumbled forward, retched - and was grabbed on one arm, held upright. The acrid smell of gunpowder reached her nostrils, she coughed and turned her head.
Monsieur stared back, expressionless. A thin thread of smoke curled from his pistol, the echo of Elise's untargeted shot. The agent eyed d'Artagnan without any kind of emotion. He could just as easily be a ghost she only imagined, who sent a cold shiver down her spine; who had saved her life and now let off of her.
The roaring in her ears would not cease and she grasped her forehead with a groan. She blinked, and Monsieur was gone. She forgot him in an instant, for a scuffle was surging a few steps away from her. Voices, desperate shouts, angry scolding. That was where the roar came from, it wasn't just in her head. Madeleine! Elise!
The daze suddenly faded away in the face of danger, she drew her blade out of Pauger's corpse as she ran towards to the new opponents. She knocked down one of the mercenaries with a blow to his head, then she, too, was overwhelmed and caught at her friends' side.
D'Artagnan's grim smile escaped the mercenaries as they dragged her gruffly back to her feet. No matter where the women were now taken to - a ghost followed them.
