Read The musketeer's apprentice Online
Authors: Sarah d' Almeida
The musketeer's apprentice (37 page)
Without opening his eyes, D’Artagnan half turned and muttered as much through his teeth, though he might have taken the time to add a couple of choice swearwords to make Planchet understand the enormity of what he was about to do.
“Monsieur,” Planchet said. “You’d never forgive me if I let you sleep. If what I can see from this window is true, then it’s Monsieur Aramis and Monsieur Porthos and as many as half a dozen of the guards of the Cardinal.”
At these words, D’Artagnan was instantly awake and sitting up. He’d had the foresight of lying down to sleep fully attired and as he stood, he found Planchet with admirable promptness, helping him strap on his sword. The boy would make an excellent servant yet.
Fully attired, D’Artagnan started down the stairs to his front door two at a time. It was a measure of how much better he felt that he did not misstep a single time. He pulled his door open and ran out, fully intending to run across the street to the alley, to help his friends.
Only instead he careened full force into a warm, soft body, and both of them fell. It took him only a moment to realize the person he’d toppled, and atop of whom he was now lying, smelled of some soft roselike perfume. Another moment to realize it was undoubtedly a female. And a blink of his disbelieving eyes, to take in blond hair, oval face and amazed blue eyes, and to realize he was lying atop Madame Bonacieux.
“Monsieur D’Artagnan,” she said, and the two of them did a creditable job of springing up and apart.
She blushed and he blushed, and only the sound of swords from across the street could force him to move. He reached for his hat, and started to remove it and to bow, when to his confused mind there came the thought that he had lost the handkerchief she’d given him. And in his befuddled state he said, “Only . . . I’ve lost your handkerchief. ”
She blushed a dark, dark pink, and lowered her eyes, then looked back up at him, and sighed. “Don’t worry about the handkerchief,” she said. “It is safe.”
He couldn’t understand why she looked ashamed, nor what she might mean by it, but he only bowed again, and then he ran into the alley, screaming “To me,” and calling the attention of two of the opponents who had engaged Porthos and Aramis. He could perceive he had arrived just in time, since both Porthos and Aramis—each of whom had been fighting three enemies at once, for who knew how long—gave the impression of being very tired.
The problem, as D’Artagnan realized, is that this still left each of them defending himself from two enemies. Except that at that moment, from the entrance of the alley, there echoed in Athos’s most resonant voice, “To me, musketeers. ”
A moment later, Athos claimed the attention of one of D’Artagnan’s opponents, whom he discharged in very short order, just as D’Artagnan managed to dispatch his own. Which left both of them in the position of being able to relieve Porthos and Aramis, just as three more musketeers, called by Athos’s yell, charged into the alley. Moments later, another two arrived running from the other end.
The two guards of the Cardinal who were still unscathed made the rational decision of running full tilt towards the newly arrived musketeers, while the two who were wounded leaned against the wall and surrendered their swords.
Leaving their comrades to dispose of dead and wounded, the four inseparables walked towards D’Artagnan’s home. D’Artagnan led them, of course not expecting to see Madame Bonacieux anywhere. And indeed, she was gone, and he didn’t have time to look at the windows of her house, to see if she might be watching him. Besides, what she had said really troubled him.
What could she mean by saying the handkerchief was safe? And by looking so guilty?
D’Artagnan led the other men up the stairs to the room where they normally had their councils. They each took his accustomed place at the table.
“So, Athos, what’s your verdict on Madame de Comeau?” Aramis asked.
“I don’t think she had anything to do with the boy’s death,” Athos said. He was frowning, as if something were troubling him. D’Artagnan could interpret the expression accurately because it mirrored his own puzzle over Madame Bonacieux’s words.
“Why not?” Porthos asked.
Athos shrugged. He spoke lightly, though his forehead remained knit in a frown. He spoke as though all of this were less important than some puzzle he must solve. “Because . . . well, she said her husband was very fond of rogues and imposters, but I think she nurtures a fondness for them herself. Or at least for the boy. His audacity in threatening to denounce her husband for horse trading seemed to delight her.”
“So . . .” Porthos said slowly. “We are coming to the conclusion no one killed Guillaume. Perhaps it was just a seizure?”
“No,” Aramis said. “No. It was definitely belladonna poisoning. And while it’s possible it was eaten by mistake, Guillaume didn’t look so hungry that he would eat any leaf or berry that . . .”
“No,” Athos said. “But . . . something is puzzling me. Something different. There is something new—something Madame de Comeau told me—and which we have not yet accounted for.”
“Oh?” Porthos asked.
“She gave the boy five hundred pistoles.”
“Five hundred pistoles?” D’Artagnan asked, his eyes opening wide. “How? And why?”
“Oh, he threatened to reveal that her husband dealt in horses. And though she knows of it and doesn’t seem to mind, she says that appearances have to be kept for the sake of society.”
“But then . . .” Porthos said. “Perhaps she killed him to recover the money. That’s quite a sum.”
Athos shrugged. “She didn’t seem to think that was quite a sum. It was just some jewelry, she said. And, Porthos, I don’t think she was lying because I don’t think she had the slightest suspicion of the child being dead. The way she talked of him . . .” He shook his head.
“But then . . .” Aramis said. “There was no money in his pouch when he was found.”
And all the while, while the others looked at each other and tried to reason it out, D’Artagnan was thinking—how would Madame Bonacieux know that the handkerchief was safe? She’d given it to him the night of the day they’d met. It said “CB” on it. And then, almost immediately a series of anonymous rogues that D’Artagnan had never seen before had started attacking him, demanding he give them
it.
it.
“Are you saying the boy was hit on the head and robbed?” Porthos asked.
“No,” Athos said, shaking his head. “No. He wasn’t hit on the head, and indeed, who would poison him to rob him? Unless . . .”
“Unless?”
What could
it
be but that handkerchief? But why would a band of ruffians and—D’Artagnan frowned—the guards of the Cardinal want Madame Bonacieux’s handkerchief? It made no sense at all.
it
be but that handkerchief? But why would a band of ruffians and—D’Artagnan frowned—the guards of the Cardinal want Madame Bonacieux’s handkerchief? It made no sense at all.
“Unless it was given to him by someone he trusted.”
Trust. He had trusted her. But the leader of the ruffians had an English accent. Constance Bonacieux. Charles Buckingham. CB. The same initials on that handkerchief.
Constance Bonacieux worked for her Majesty the Queen whose rumored lover was the Duke of Buckingham. In fact, it was a current joke at court that the Queen might yet give France an heir if only Buckingham would visit more often. But then . . .
The King and, more importantly, the Cardinal, forever anxious to catch the Queen in some faux pas that allowed him to have her divorced and exiled, often made it very difficult for the Queen to communicate with Buckingham at all. Even if her communication with him was often meant to tell him to stay away.
CB. A handkerchief sent as a signal. Had Constance Bonacieux, on first meeting him, thought him such a young . . . dullard, that she’d thought she could entrust the handkerchief to him as a love token and get it stolen from him without a problem, and no one would suspect?
He remembered how he’d protected her to take her important message somewhere. It had all been a sham. She had used him. She had . . .
D’Artagnan got up from the table, vaguely aware that his friends were also standing up. He had no idea why they were standing up. It had been some time since he’d stopped paying attention to their conversation. He rushed down the stairs, to the front of the house, where he looked up.
The window which she’d opened before to talk to him, now opened again. She looked out, her features full of guilt. “I’m sorry, monsieur,” she said. There was something other than guilt in her gaze, some deep appreciation, something he couldn’t quite read. “I thought it would be very simple. You are so young. I thought they could take the handkerchief again from you, without a problem. I thought they would never know and you would never know. They were under orders not to hurt you.”
“You used me,” D’Artagnan said. “You used my admiration for you.” His all too open admiration. “Oh, Athos is right. Women are the devil.”
Madame Bonacieux nodded gravely. “Perhaps we are, monsieur. Perhaps we are. But . . . she is so lonely. My lady. She had a friend, but her friend was killed. She is so lonely and there’s no one she trusts. She thought, a handkerchief with the initials . . . Well . . . They’re the same as mine. Even if I were searched, the Cardinal would never guess that was the message. And words written upon it by a cunning ink that looks invisible till he uses the right chemical to deliver it.” She shook her head. “He wants to come to Paris, you see. He said he would come and see her unless she sent a note to deter him. And my lady, she can’t . . . She can’t risk her position, her crown, her whole life for love. Even if she loves him.”
“You used me,” D’Artagnan said. This single fact, persistent, in his mind, would not go away nor would it allow him space to think of anything else.
“Oh, monsieur. I thought it would be quick and easy.”
“Guards of the Cardinal attacked me. And my friends.”
“But none of it should have happened. I don’t know how the guards, how his eminence got word of it. They can’t have seen it, because they had no idea which of you had the handkerchief. Or even that it was a handkerchief. They just thought you or your friends had been given . . . something. But the palace is rotten with plots. You can’t trust anyone.”
“Yes,” D’Artagnan said, heavily. “Yes. I begin to perceive that.”
“Oh.”
At that moment D’Artagnan became aware that his friends had come out his front door and stood, looking like they were waiting for him.
“I bid you good afternoon, madam,” D’Artagnan said, removing his hat and bowing low, as he turned to accompany his friends.
He was young enough, though, that he couldn’t resist a look over his shoulder, just a glance, to see how she was taking his rejection. But her window had closed.
How One Speaks to Girl Children; The Advantages of Not Being Easily Convinced; The Vanished Coin
PORTHOS
didn’t want to go into the Hangman. Everything else aside, he remembered the unpleasant face of the host’s wife and it seemed to curdle bile in his stomach. Besides, he imagined that if he tried to speak to the girl child again, she would only be called a whore and attacked by her unkind guardian again.
didn’t want to go into the Hangman. Everything else aside, he remembered the unpleasant face of the host’s wife and it seemed to curdle bile in his stomach. Besides, he imagined that if he tried to speak to the girl child again, she would only be called a whore and attacked by her unkind guardian again.
But the thing of it was that Athos was right. If anyone still alive in the world knew where Guillaume might have put the money or to whom he might have given it, it would be Amelie. So they must steel themselves to going into the Hangman.
Porthos had been talking to himself in stern terms, as they crossed the few blocks that separated them from the tavern. He had, in fact, been nerving himself up so much to go into the place that he did not realize that Amelie herself had just come out of the tavern. Barefoot and hurried, she was running in their direction and, in the way of a street urchin, moving back and forth, trying to spy an opening between the approaching men.
As she made to run between Porthos and Aramis, Porthos put a hand out and grabbed her little arm. The girl squealed in fright, but Porthos said, “Shhh. It’s us. We’re friends. We mean you no harm.”
Amelie looked up, her eyes searching. “Oh, you,” she said. “You asked all the questions about Guillaume. Have you seen him, monsieur? Because I think he might have got sick, something might have happened to him. He was acting funny when he left, five days ago, and he hasn’t come back.”
Porthos took the girl’s hand and led her to the side of the road, where he knelt in the dust, not caring if it marred his fine velvet suit. “Amelie,” he said. “Listen, you must tell me . . . Did Guillaume ever tell you he had money?”
Amelie looked at Porthos, then behind Porthos at the other three. “No. No. He said he was going to get money, and I would be a lady and dress like one.”
Porthos was aware of Athos kneeling beside him. A glance sideways revealed Athos looking grave, more serious than Porthos had seen him in a long time, but with a soft look to his eyes. And when he spoke, his voice that could make adults tremble came out very gentle. “Amelie, don’t lie to us. It is very important that we find out about the money. Whoever took the money probably hurt Guillaume, and might hurt you.”
The girl was silent, a long time. She looked away from them, at where her hand was twisting the frayed edge of her cloth dress. “Why do you say I’m lying?” she asked, at last, her eyes serious and her voice full of the businesslike aplomb of a much older person.
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