It was the longest speech he made in a long time, and it rendered both of his friends speechless. Porthos still looked upset at the implication that Aramis might be less than honest, but he had stopped his protests.
“But how could someone else have killed her if the room was locked and Aramis was there all the time, except when he went to . . . uh . . . relieve himself?” Porthos asked.
Secret Passages and Palace Maids; A Count’s Connections and a Gascon’s Loyalty
T
HAT was the question that D’Artagnan could never answer. Only Porthos would put it so clearly, because—in the month that D’Artagnan had known Porthos he’d come to know this—Porthos’s mind was clear and direct and untroubled like a straight road.
He sighed, as he looked at his friend. “I don’t know Porthos, and I don’t understand it. But when Aramis took me to the palace with him, when we were investigating the death of . . . Of the lady we thought to be the Queen,” D’Artagnan said. He didn’t dare look towards Athos whose heart had gotten broken perhaps forever during that investigation.
1
“I found that the palace is honeycombed with tunnels and passages. Is it possible that there is a passage into the lady’s room?”
Athos shook his head. “Didn’t Aramis say that there wasn’t? That there was furniture against every wall?”
“Yes,” D’Artagnan said. “But Aramis was scarcely thinking clearly then. And besides, I know from seeing it, some of the doors to these passages have furniture built onto them. Surely Aramis knows that too, since he was the one who showed me these passages. But he was not himself...”
“Are you saying that there could be a passage into the lady’s room that Aramis didn’t know about?” Athos asked.
D’Artagnan nodded. “I am saying that is the only way I can think of for someone to gain access to her apartments.”
“How are we to gain access to the palace, though?” Athos said.
“I don’t know. Surely you have some people you know within?” He wasn’t so slow that he hadn’t long ago realized that his friend, in his unassuming musketeer’s uniform, with his small rented lodgings and one servant whom he had trained to obey signals and gestures, was really someone else—some Lord brought up in luxury and honor.
Athos shook his head. “Not . . . in my present station. Oh, they would know me, but not in my musketeer’s uniform. I avoid the palace except for when I’m on guard or when Monsieur de Treville escorts us there.”
“But surely the secrecy . . .” D’Artagnan started, meaning to ask if the secrecy was needed or if it could serve a purpose larger than clearing Aramis’s name. But he looked up at Athos’s face and saw Athos’s glance close as firmly as if doors had shut upon the dark blue eyes.
“Well, then, it leaves us with no means of investigating the secret passageways of the palace and no way to verify if there are any into that room,” D’Artagnan said.
“It would be difficult, at any rate,” Athos said. “From what I understand, in the palace, as in all old noble houses, sometimes even those who live there aren’t sure where the passages are or if they exist.”
“Is there . . . any other way we can start to investigate . . . ?”
“What about the maids?” Porthos asked.
D’Artagnan turned to look at Porthos. The big man was often cryptic, sometimes inscrutable, but his opinion could never be discounted as being of no importance. And yet, D’Artagnan could not have the slightest idea what he meant.
“The maids?” he asked, staring.
“The palace has maids,” Porthos said, waving his hand as if this explained everything. And, as the other two stared at him in utter confusion, he sighed heavily. “Maids are easy to approach.” He blushed slightly. “I find it easy to talk to maids and working women.”
“Of course,” Athos said. “You do have that gift, Porthos.”
“And if anyone knows of secret passages,” D’Artagnan said. “Maids would. They clean and maintain and . . .”
“Keep secrets from their masters,” Athos said, his eyes shining with the ironical light they sometimes acquired.
D’Artagnan nodded.
“I can take care of that part then,” Porthos said. “Getting maids to talk to me is easy.”
D’Artagnan smiled, as he saw Athos give Porthos a shocked look.
“I enjoy their company,” Porthos said. “And I believe they enjoy mine.”
D’Artagnan could only imagine how this shocked the very aristocratic Athos. He, himself—brought up in a manor house so small and unimportant that it had exactly two servants, both treated as family—was not so much shocked as amused. It seemed to him the contrast between Porthos’s desperate seeking for the appearance of high connections and his enjoyment of maids’ company made the man more human and warm than either of his two other friends.
“So what am I to ask them?” Porthos said.
“If there are any passages into the room,” Athos said.
“That is all? There is no part of this conversation that I failed to understand?” Porthos asked, standing up.
“There is no part you failed to understand,” Athos said.
“Good, because I don’t want to be told later that there was something else I was to ask.”
Athos frowned thunderously in Porthos’s direction.
“What have I done now?” Porthos asked. “Did I ask something I should not have asked?”
Athos blinked. It seemed to D’Artagnan that the musketeer had awakened from some deep thought. “No Porthos, I was just thinking.” He looked at D’Artagnan, then back at Porthos. “Did Aramis, ever, in his gossip, tell you of anyone who might have hated Madame de Dreux?”
D’Artagnan, never having heard that name before this day shook his head and added, “No, and no one who hated his seamstress, either.”
“I thought his seamstress—” Porthos started.
“Never mind, Porthos. Did he tell you of anyone who wished ill to either?”
“Aren’t they the same person?” Porthos asked.
“Yes, but Aramis would have referred to them as being two different people.”
“Oh. No, he never spoke of anyone bearing animosity to either.”
Athos let out breath with every appearance of anger. “He didn’t speak of anyone who hated her to me, either,” he said. “Which is remarkable in itself. For someone living in the hothouse that is the court, the lady made few enemies. Perhaps because her interest was more in Aramis than in court intrigue.”
“I know she supported the Queen,” D’Artagnan said, recalling the events of a month ago. “And as such, perforce, the Cardinal must be her enemy.”
Athos tilted his head. “So are we the Cardinal’s enemies. Yet I don’t see him going through some trouble to murder us by stealth. Those the Cardinal wants dead or vanished either are killed in open daylight or disappear during the night into the Bastille, never to be heard from again. Besides, Cardinal Richelieu is not a fool. He would not murder a duchess and expect it to pass unnoticed.”
He drummed his fingers, impatiently upon the table. “There is nothing for it,” he said. “I must go as soon as possible and pay a visit to Raoul—Monsieur de Dreux.”
It did not escape D’Artagnan’s attention that Athos had first mentioned the man by his given name. Twice so far. There was also something to the way that Athos said the name that implied great affection or great familiarity— perhaps both. He wondered if Athos thought he needed to go see Monsieur de Dreux because he wished to see him or because he really wanted to assess his guilt. And he suspected the first more than the second. “Her husband?” he asked, drily. “But you said, only a few moments ago, that her husband could not possibly be the murderer. That he was not in love with her.”
Athos looked at him, for a moment, blankly, then rubbed his forehead with the fingertips of his bloodied hand. Though the blood had dried, it nonetheless left little flakes upon the pale skin. “I did. And it is true I don’t think he loved her, which means he had no reason to kill her in jealousy and rage. But there is another way he could have killed her, and I did not give it enough thought.” He looked at D’Artagnan and said, slowly, as though the words pained him. “He might have killed her in cold blood and calculatingly. He might have fallen in love with someone else, and killed his wife to be rid of her.”
“Do you think that’s likely?” Porthos asked, resting one huge hand upon the table. “I presume you knew the man well enough to guess that.”
Athos inclined his head. “It would not be possible for the man I knew, but some years have passed. People change.”
“Indeed,” D’Artagnan said thinking how much he, himself had changed since he’d come to Paris full of high flung hopes and his father’s instructions to obey the Cardinal and the King equally.
“So,” Athos said, and sighed. “I shall borrow horses from Monsieur de Treville. Having been wounded this morning, I think I’m justified in taking a few days for my recovery. I shall go and see Raoul and study how much he’s changed. I’ll be back in a week.”
“You are not going alone,” Porthos said.
“I believe I must,” Athos said. “You must stay behind and get to know all the maids in the palace. Even for a man of your excellent talents, such a work should take at least a week.”
“But—” Porthos said, “If by chance her husband did murder her, and if he perceives your intentions in visiting him, he might try to kill you also. You cannot go alone.”
“I believe I must,” Athos repeated.
And once more, as he had many times in the past month, D’Artagnan felt as though he were invisible, as if his friends could not see him and would not dream of taking him into account in their plans.
Oh, he did not hold it against them or not exactly. He knew that for years there had been three inseparables, in feasting and fighting, in duel and field of battle. The three leaned on each other without thinking, as a man leaned on his own legs and counted on them to support his weight. To add a fourth to that number must feel as strange as adding a third leg.
At least D’Artagnan hoped that was it. He was not so foolish that he hadn’t perceived, in their investigation of the last murder, that there were secrets his friends kept from all—even each other. Perhaps Athos was afraid that by accompanying him D’Artagnan would penetrate the secret of Athos’s identity? But surely, D’Artagnan had gone a long way towards that with the last murder they’d solved. And he had spoken to no one about it. Not even to Porthos or Aramis. Surely Athos remembered that act of loyalty?
At any rate, D’Artagnan felt he must speak. “Athos,” he said, very quietly. “I am sure I can visit Monsieur des Essarts and let him know that I must accompany you on your trip for your health. Monsieur de Treville will vouch for all of us. Oh, he’ll know we’re all helping Aramis in some way, but he will not refuse us his help. You know he values Aramis.”
Athos frowned at D’Artagnan through this speech. Almost before D’Artagnan was done speaking, Porthos thundered his fist down on the table, making table and floor shake. “
Sangre Dieu
,” he said. “That’s it. The boy must go with you. He’s almost a child, still—” Porthos flashed D’Artagnan a smile, as though aware of the wound he was causing to the young guard. “But he’s the devil himself with a sword and he’s almost as devious as Aramis. With him by your side, I shall not worry.”
“But that leaves you alone in town,” Athos said.
“Oh, I know how to take care of myself,” Porthos said, and twirled the end of his red moustache. He grinned, a devil-may-care grin. “Look, Athos, most of the court thinks me too thick and too slow of mind to pose any threat in this type of case. They will think that Aramis is plotting something, and that you and D’Artagnan have been called to him. Me? I shall pass unnoticed.”
The idea that someone could not notice the redheaded giant struck D’Artagnan as laughable, and yet he knew exactly what Porthos meant. He had seen that attitude himself. People tittered behind their hands at Porthos, and laughed at his utterances as they would never dare do to either of the other musketeers. They didn’t seem to realize that Porthos’s lack of interest in discussions or philosophy, his inability or disinterest in complex plots, did not mean he lacked wit or sense.
“Well,” Athos said. He looked D’Artagnan over, appraisingly. “Certainly you’ve given proof of your trustworthiness in the last month.” He extended his hand to the young man. “I shall be pleased with your company. Meet me at Monsieur de Treville’s this evening, after you make your arrangements. I shall borrow horses for us and for Grimaud and Planchet. They must all be swift horses, for our servants must keep up with us.”
D’Artagnan shook Athos’s hand. The left one, he noted. And thought perhaps Athos was at least half-serious at going away to recover. D’Artagnan didn’t think his friend could easily fight another duel like today’s. “We shall meet here tonight, then,” he said.
The Prodigal Musketeer; French Manners and Spanish Mourning; Regrets of Exile
T
HE sun was setting when Aramis reached his ancestral domains. The D’Herblay lands were neither very extensive nor very prosperous, but rather in both struck that happy medium that Greek philosophers held to be the mark of all virtue.