Dying By The Sword Part 11

ARAMIS, having left the tavern in good time, and finding himself, as of yet, devoid of followers, stood in a narrow alley, removing his gloves and slipping them back on, a trick he had when he was in something of a puzzle.

He could return to Athos's house, but he could not imagine why he would be needed there. After all, the two most affected by alcohol were sleeping and, if he knew Porthos, the one least affected by alcohol would be snoring-and loudly too. This meant that Athos's chamber was the last place to seek repose. As for the sitting room, he supposed he could sleep on a chair, or rolled upon his cloak on the floor. In fact, he'd slept in far worse conditions, when the King's honor demanded that they march to battle. He remembered nights in arms, spent sleeping standing up, against a wall, under the pouring rain.

He had no wish to repeat that experience, though he was fairly sure he would, when next the kingdom embroiled itself in war with its neighbors over someone's religion or someone else's vacant throne. Until then, he had absolutely no interest in recollecting the hards.h.i.+ps of battle by putting himself in discomfort.

Thoughts of his bed, its soft mattress and immaculate linen sheets, came to mind. Only he remembered the tone of voice in which Huguette had told about the woman, Charlotte. If she was one of the Cardinal's minions; if she was even half so dangerous as Huguette believed . . . Well, it would be all up. Perhaps Aramis was becoming as afraid of shadows as his friends had been under the influence of alcohol, but he still couldn't dispose of the conviction that the last place he should go was his lodgings. If she had asked for Athos's life-and by extension their lives-as recompense, then heaven only knew what information the Cardinal might have given her, and what it might mean as far as their being safe in their own homes and in their own beds. And if he went home now, he wouldn't even have the relatively ineffective Bazin as a guard.

And yet, he couldn't imagine going to Athos's house and crowding upon the already crowded floor or the even more crowded bed. He could, he thought, ask Grimaud for his bed, and he was fairly sure Grimaud would give it to him too. But Grimaud was old enough to be Athos's father, which meant, in the end, that he was almost old enough to be Aramis's grandfather. No good could come of this. Aramis could obtain his bed, but he would find himself unable to sleep for the remorse.

The other part of it was that he did not, very much, feel like sleeping. His body was charged with a sort of electrical energy, and he could not help but want to do something. Part of it was, he very much feared, that he wasn't sure he could go home and sleep. Not with the idea that Athos's wife was far worse than anything that Athos could represent with his story and that she wanted all their lives. If Huguette had not exaggerated-and though the girl could be fairly zany, in the past he had found her rather purple information, if anything, on the side of understated-then this woman was of the type that could not possibly have tolerated the injury that Athos had done her. He and everyone a.s.sociated with him would be slated for death and this would most certainly include the friends that everyone knew spent most of every day with him.

Aramis was very much afraid even his well-appointed bed would not soothe him into sleep. And he certainly didn't want to go back to Athos's lodgings, wake his friend and tell him that the wife he'd thought dead was not only alive, but she was no common grade of criminal or fugitive. No, she was the sort of criminal or fugitive who could climb to the top rungs of society and destroy all those who stood in her way.

Aramis became aware that he was holding the tip of his tongue between his teeth, as though he were forcibly attempting to keep himself from telling the absent Athos the bad news. Which meant he definitely wasn't ready to face his-who would be extremely hungover-friend. And he wasn't ready to seek comfort in his bed, supposing there were no sharpened stakes waiting at his own doorstep, which at the moment was a somewhat unwarranted supposition.

So . . . So he would go to the armory, he thought. He had heard Porthos's description, and D'Artagnan's account of local gossip, but he was quite willing to bet that there was a nightlife in the area also, and that those abroad at that time would be more willing to talk to him than to Porthos or D'Artagnan. After all, people were more respectful of someone who was obviously a n.o.bleman and wasn't afraid to command their respect.

Of course, Athos could probably do the n.o.bleman act better than Aramis, but Athos was more likely to scare them into silence than to get them to speak. Aramis they tended to think of as a fool and a dandy, and as such they viewed him as quite inoffensive.

With this happy thought, he set off at a fast clip towards the neighborhood of small close houses where the armory was. It had the advantage of being-he supposed-the very last place where anyone would look for him, just now. And it should keep Aramis happily occupied till dawn when perhaps he would be ready to brave his friends.

What he did not exactly count on was on finding the streets around the armory as empty as those of a ghost town, where everyone had suddenly died in the privacy of their houses, leaving the outside areas haunted only by shadows. Aramis took a moment to reason that, after all, he was used to musketeers and to taverns, to wenches who prowled the night and to courtiers. He was not used to people who actually woke up in the morning and worked. He supposed those would need to sleep at night.

Yet, unwilling to turn and go back to his friends, he, instead, walked around the armory. He tested the front door which, doubtless as a follow-up to Porthos's interesting adventure, had been chained. Then he walked around, noticing how close the armory was to the house. Leaning one on the other, in fact. He wondered if there was an internal connecting pa.s.sage and went along to poke his head in the narrow s.p.a.ce between the two-so narrow, in fact, that it was hard to get his hand in between the two walls. Which he was in the process of doing when he heard a crunch of feet on gravel behind him. He started to turn around, but before he could someone or something swept his hat from his head. And something heavy hit him hard on the back of the head and the world went black.

He woke up in complete darkness and being jolted about. His first thought was that he was in a carriage, but judging from the jolts, he was being carried around in something that shook all over the place-which meant a not very good carriage, he supposed. He reached up, only to find out that if it was a carriage, it was a very small one, since he was confined, in a sitting position, with his back bent over forward, in a s.p.a.ce barely large enough to contain him. A frantic feeling of the s.p.a.ce around him disclosed that they had taken his sword and-apparently-his hat as well.

His first, terrifying thought was that he was in a coffin. But if he were in a coffin, the coffin was still being carried around and not confined in the ground. And besides, Aramis had never seen a coffin the shape his enclosure appeared to be-fairly high and rectangular at the base, and covered over by a domed s.p.a.ce.

Because his head hurt like blazes, it took him a moment for the shape to connect in his head to the only thing it could be-a storage trunk, of the sort used to deposit tools and clothes, or anything else. It smelled faintly of sap, so it must be fairly new and made of wood. And, now that his eyes were accustomed to the darkness, Aramis could tell that there was a small crack all around, through which light and air came. There was also a hole which was clearly a keyhole.

Aramis peeked through this keyhole and to his shock saw light of morning and also what appeared to be a swath of countryside. And someone's back, dressed in rough homespun. He was being taken somewhere in an open cart, by men dressed in homespun. Probably men who did not know him and whom he did not know, though it was always possible, of course, that they were wearing disguises.

In Aramis's mind, he had a view of the trunk, with him inside it, being dropped into a hole in the ground and covered over. That, doubtless, would be a solution to his having penetrated some portion of De Chevreuse's conspiracy. Perhaps to other things too. Perhaps the whole thing with the armorer was that it was part of the same conspiracy. It would explain the guards' presence on the scene so soon after the murder and their eagerness to take Mousqueton in. In fact, as far as that went, it explained a lot. Including why Aramis was now inside a trunk.

Well, he might in the end finish his life in a hole in the ground while still alive, but he would be d.a.m.ned if he allowed them to do it while he was still and well behaved.

Raising his fist, he pounded hard on the lid of the trunk. "Hey," he called. "Hey, you above, let me out."

"Ah, woke up, have you, sleeping beauty?" A rough voice, with a plebeian accent, answered him. "Well and good, now be quiet and no harm will come to you."

"Why should I be quiet?" Aramis said, pounding on the lid again. "What are you doing to me?"

"You'll see," the man said. "And soon enough. Let's just say you'll be put in a safe place, from which you'll never get out, not in a thousand years."

The image of the hole in the ground, and dirt being shoveled in on top of him made Aramis s.h.i.+ver. "There are no places safe enough," he said. "My friends will come for you, you'll see."

"Oh, don't be going on about your friends. Rest a.s.sured they will be taken care of, and they won't be coming for n.o.body when we're done with them."

Aramis, despite himself, heard a moan escape between his lips. "You'll find them harder to deal with than you think," he said, in a low voice, from which he could barely keep the sting of fear. Oh, sure, Athos, Porthos, D'Artagnan were all able men and capable of turning the world upside down at sword point. They were, however, as vulnerable as all other men to being taken in, fooled, cajoled and/or destroyed by a woman's wiles.

Unless he much mistook his understanding of the man, and Aramis was not in the habit of misunderstanding anyone, Athos was still in love with the frightening creature. And as for D'Artagnan and Porthos, he would not give them a chance in a hundred of withstanding the charms of any female who approached them the right way and played the victim. They were even quite likely to overlook the fact that she looked uncommonly like Athos's lost and found wife.

The response to his threat was a chuckle. "Oh, good with a sword, your friends are," the man said. "But they are not very good with their minds. Trying to find you would require that they think and that, I fear, between drinking and wenching, they won't find much time to do."

Aramis considered shouting back that they didn't drink that much, but then again, he'd left two of them behind in a profound drunken stupor, so that would not work. And as for wenching . . . well . . .

He thought of the wench most likely responsible for this-for it wasn't to be supposed that Athos's wife by herself would come up with the brilliant idea of capturing and boxing up Aramis. Not for a moment. It was more likely that she would think of boxing up Athos. And probably setting fire to the box afterwards. He rolled his eyes. So the person responsible for this would more than likely be De Chevreuse, who wanted Aramis out of her affairs. Did she truly intend to have her henchmen drive him to the countryside and bury him alive?

Shallow and frantic though their connection was, Aramis could not help but think that he could not possibly mean so little to her that she would want him to die such a horrible death. Perhaps she didn't know. He knocked on the top of the box, this time more politely. "Pardon me, but does Marie know what you mean to do to me? Did she give you orders?"

"What?" the man said, and banged what seemed like a gigantic fist atop the box. "You dare use her name? All while you're intending to marry your highfalutin hussy, you dare use my sister's name? Let me tell you, my boy, that though she gave us no orders, as you presume, she will be more than happy to know you will not return to the world and the society of men until you do right by her. And pay back what you owe."

"Beg your pardon?" Aramis said, hearing his voice squeak with alarm. "Your . . . sister?" He wasn't aware of Marie Michon, aka De Chevreuse, having brothers who concerned themselves in her affairs. Truth be told, if they did, they would be the busiest swords in France, just keeping her name from being stained by rumors.

"Beg my pardon all you want. It is Marie's pardon you'll be begging in the end, and on your knees too. And don't think you'll convince us to let you out by using that well-bred voice, Pierre. We know where you come from. We know how you grew up. You're not going to impress us by dressing all in fas.h.i.+onable velvets and by speaking as though you were born to rule a kingdom."

Pierre! Aramis might be many things, but Pierre certainly he was not. Porthos's given name was Pierre, but Aramis would need to be insane to think anyone had mistaken him for Porthos, even on a dark night and while his face was obscured.

No. He'd been between the armory and the house, as he would have been if he'd been coming out of the inside, and about to go into the armory. As if he were the new owner of the armory, the son of the murdered armorer. A vague memory of D'Artagnan's account of the gentleman emerged. Something to do with his being in love with Hermengarde, doubtless the highfalutin hussy.

This being that way, and these men obviously intent on making Pierre marry someone by the name of Marie, this meant . . . That they weren't going to bury Aramis. In fact, they were hardly likely to hurt him. And when they opened the box and saw his face in the full light of day, they would have to let him go.

But when would they open the box? He put his eye to the keyhole again, in time to see a swath of trees go by, at creeping speed, on the other side of what appeared to be a country road. From the daylight it would be nearly noon. If they'd come away this slowly, it was possible he wasn't that far away from Paris. But how far away did he need to be to make it devilishly difficult for him to get back?

And he must get back. He absolutely must. His friends must be warned that the Cardinal had a new minion, and one who would be looking for their blood.

Where D'Artagnan Wakes Up in a Strange Bed; The Doubts of a Loving Heart; A Woman of Dazzling Beauty

D'ARTAGNAN woke up with his hand on a mound of silken-soft hair. He tugged at it, experimentally, and was answered with a low grunt that brought his eyes fully open and showed him someone who was most definitely not his Constance. For one, the person in his bed had dark hair. For another, from the width of the shoulders and the doublet stretched across them, he was male. He was also, as D'Artagnan realized, once he'd blinked the sleep from his eyes, Athos.

A glance above showed him he was in Athos's bed, in Athos's lodgings. And that Athos was asleep, curled entirely away from him, save for his loosened curls. Athos was still wearing his full day attire, including his sword, in its sheath strapped at his waist, which bespoke his either having collapsed on the bed, dead tired, or his having been carried to the bed by Porthos and Aramis, who probably had carried D'Artagnan to bed also.

D'Artagnan sat up, experimentally, to a chorus of what sounded like bells, and a pull of nausea from his stomach. His eyes hurt with the light. His arm hurt too, but he wasn't so confused he did not remember he'd got wounded the day before in a duel. He'd been about to go see Constance. He remembered that. And then there had been men in black cloaks who fought as if possessed by the devil. And he had got wounded. After that, Porthos and Aramis had brought him to Athos's place, and they'd proceeded to make him drink more alcohol than he'd ever drunk before. And since he'd met the three musketeers, he'd drank quite a bit of liquor in almost painfully strange combinations.

He glared at Athos. Athos had given him brandy and wine, he remembered. What he couldn't remember was why. He was sure Athos had been angry, or at least at that edge of anger to which he allowed himself to go without ever tipping over. And he was sure, angry as he'd been, Athos had felt a need to get drunk. It had been a deliberate effort. One doesn't order up six bottles of burgundy all at once unless one means to get most seriously and intently drunk.

"Athos?" he said, slurring the word. But his comrade only grunted again, and curled yet tighter upon himself. "I see," D'Artagnan said.

What D'Artagnan needed was a good pail of cold water over the head, and then to find breakfast in the nearest tavern. He'd lost blood, and he'd never taken more than wine. That was a recipe for disaster.

He swung his feet off the bed, picked up his sword which-at least in this case-his friends had been kind enough to remove and prop against the wall, and sheathed it. Then, he stood up. They'd never removed his boots, which was fortuitous, as he did not wish to struggle with them.

Porthos was asleep on the floor, next to a chair, all rolled up in his cloak. D'Artagnan wondered if Porthos too had gotten drunk, and decided it truly wasn't worth his while to look for Aramis. For all he knew, he was perhaps on the other side of the bed, between bed and window, or maybe under the bed.

Instead, D'Artagnan opened the door, tiptoed out of the bedroom, and stepped over Planchet who was asleep in the hallway. He stared at his servant for just a moment. Planchet could not have been drunk, could he? There was no saying. Perhaps they'd finished up whatever wine their masters had left. Should D'Artagnan wake Planchet up? That was very doubtful. After all the young Picard had a worse head for wine than anyone that D'Artagnan knew, Bazin-who could get drunk off communion wine-included. If he had been drinking, he would be irascible and also sullen. And D'Artagnan was in no mood to drag a sullen, dismal servant behind himself.

So, he would go without Planchet. And joining action to word, D'Artagnan tiptoed down the stairs-avoiding waking anyone else who might be suffering from hangover in some other place in the house-and into the front hall, then opened the front door and slipped out into the bright morning.

He hadn't lived in Paris so long that he had learned to be indifferent to the city in the early morning hours. Perhaps because he rarely woke up this early-though sometimes he went to bed this early-he loved the look of the buildings under the early dawn light, enjoyed the pealing of morning bells that called various monastic orders and convents to matins, and enjoyed seeing people with their morning faces, still fresh and surprised by the daylight.

He enjoyed it so much, in fact, that before he had gone more than one block his sour mood and his frown had vanished, and he was thinking clearly, as he breathed in the cool, clear air.

Constance had sent him a note to meet her at the palace. Of this he was sure. She had sent him the note in some distress, and this was not normal, because when Constance was in distress, she came to see him-she did not send him notes. That meant the situation must have been unusual, and, as such, she must have needed him more than ever. And he had failed her.

So, he was willing to concede that he'd been attacked and wounded and finally made very thoroughly drunk by his very misguided friends. But did this excuse him? Would Constance forgive him?

And suddenly he was not hungry at all. He just wished to go and see Constance as soon as possible. He took the shortest route possible for that purpose, and got to the royal palace before the sun was fully up in the sky. The man on guard, he noticed, was De Jacinthe, one of his friends from the musketeers. He was a little confused when D'Artagnan told him he needed to speak to someone-a lady-within. It wasn't until he was on the point of giving his Constance's name, that his mind caught up with his racing mouth.

Yes, yes, Aramis had his affairs with married women. Countesses and d.u.c.h.esses and the occasional foreign princess, at least to believe gossip. But the thing was, gossip there was, and aplenty, and only the fact that most of the husbands of these ill.u.s.trious beauties had their own amus.e.m.e.nts and could not care less what their wives did in their spare time, kept it from being a problem, leading possibly to a duel or worse, to the setting aside of the lady.

Porthos, whose lover, Athenais Coquenard, was married to a mere accountant, had to be far more circ.u.mspect with his behavior, because Athenais could and would suffer, should it be discovered that she had a gallant. How much more so would Constance suffer, whose husband was twenty years older than her and besotted and far more alert and capable of obtaining revenge than Monsieur Coquenard. Let alone that he could turn D'Artagnan out, or demand that D'Artagnan pay him back the several months his rent was in arrears, there was the very real possibility he would divorce Constance. And much as D'Artagnan longed to marry his ladylove, he much doubted that anyone who had a say in it, including her G.o.dfather who was steward to the Queen's household, would allow her to marry a penniless eighteen-year-old guard with not a pistol to his credit.

He sighed. No. He must be discreet. And being discreet, he cast about for the name of a lady whom he could claim to be courting without in any way being compromising. The only name that came to mind was that of Mousqueton's inamorata, Hermengarde, and her name D'Artagnan gave with no remorse.

De Jacinthe sent word for her to come receive him, and when Hermengarde appeared at the door, her blushes and confusion on seeing D'Artagnan lent a credence to his story that the musketeer could not possibly have antic.i.p.ated. She led him into the palace, and it was only once inside that she turned to him and smiled. "You've come to see your lady, have you not, Monsieur?"

It occurred to him, belatedly, that she might take it amiss that he'd given her name when it was another he wanted to see. He looked at her, somewhat fearful of incurring her wrath, but found her smiling at him and shaking her head, indulgently. "She was very worried about you, yesterday, and she confided in me and asked me if there was any chance perhaps that you were out and working on behalf of my Mousqueton."

D'Artagnan shook his head. "I was . . . I think I was." He told her, rapidly, everything that the baker's family had said.

Hermengarde smiled. "Oh, that is so much nonsense. His daughter, Faustine, is a true fright, and Mousqueton would never marry her, if she were the only woman in the world. Though you know, it is his fault that the Langeliers entertained such thoughts, because he was so jealous of young Langelier that he used to go to the armorer's simply to be around and make sure he wasn't saying anything about me or that I . . . that I wasn't visiting. So he had to justify it and he pretended he was courting Faustine. But for all the money Monsieur Langelier would have given her, Mousqueton has too much sense to want to be married to a cross-eyed shrew. And as for me . . ." She shrugged. "It is said that Pierre Langelier spends as much money as he makes-and he makes a lot, for he was his father's best apprentice-upon the gambling tables. I don't think being married to me would have made him any better and, anyway, you see, I am probably carrying Mousqueton's child, so it is all to naught." She smiled hopefully at D'Artagnan. "Have you heard anything of Mousqueton? How does he fare? Is he in health? He has not . . ." She crossed both her hands at her chest. ". . . been tortured? Has he?"

"No, no. That of a certainty he has not," D'Artagnan said, and was rewarded for his lie-or at least his affirming of something he could not at all know-with a bright smile. Encouraged, he continued. "And I shall do my best to find the true culprit soon and to ensure that he shall not be detained much longer."

"Oh, good," Hermengarde said. "And then we may speak to Monsieur Porthos and get married."

D'Artagnan was sure of it, though he did not inform her, because if Mousqueton hadn't already, it would be useless to attempt it, that making Porthos understand what the situation was and what they meant to do might prove considerably harder than it would at first seem.

Instead, he sent Hermengarde to Constance to inform her that he was waiting. As Hermengarde was about to turn away, she turned to D'Artagnan. "Oh, your friend Aramis lent me such a pretty embroidered handkerchief yesterday, to dry my tears. I'm sure I was very silly to be crying at all. It must be a side effect of my condition, for never have my tears been more abundant." She smiled shyly. "At any rate, I have washed the handkerchief, and here it is back again."

She handed D'Artagnan a square of lace and D'Artagnan, who was quite sure that in the confused babble of last night, between brandy and wine there had been a talk of monogrammed handkerchiefs, looked uneasily down at the monogram, which was MAR. Since he knew for a fact that Aramis was in another life Rene Chevalier d'Herblay, he could but marvel at those initials. And then he remembered the d.u.c.h.ess de Chevreuse who apparently-and for reasons known only to her, or to those more adept at court intrigue than D'Artagnan-called herself Marie Michon. He put the square of lace into his sleeve, and thanked Hermengarde, determined to ask Aramis what all this could mean at the first opportunity.

Not many minutes went by, before Constance came out of the little door through which Hermengarde had disappeared. D'Artagnan started to her, with both hands extended, but the lady made no effort at all to meet his hands. Her own were kept where they were, at the end of her crossed arms.

Instead of the affectionate greeting which the twenty-something blond was likely to give him, frosty accents echoed from her soft and luscious mouth. "So I see," she said, "that my summons are for nothing. I call you to me with the utmost urgency, and you decide to ignore me and instead"-she gave a pointed look to his arm, where the bandages were perfectly obvious by the lump beneath the borrowed s.h.i.+rt and doublet-"you choose to go to the duel you'd set before."

"A duel?" D'Artagnan said. He stared at her aghast. "Who told you there was a duel set?"

"Someone," she said, primly, "has said it. It is common knowledge at court. I heard someone say you and your friends had a duel set for yesterday. And you must know that his eminence is daily in expectation of getting the King to sign that edict which would make it fatal for you to fight. And yet, the marchioness tells me that you would have fought anyway, for you care nothing for your life, nor for how much you'd leave me desolate, should you die. No, you'd rather be killed and leave me quite alone."

The words came out in such a torrent that D'Artagnan's mouth dropped open in surprise. "Constance," he said. "You cannot meant it."

"What, that you should not fight so many duels? Of course I mean it. How many times have I imagined-"

"No, that you believe all this nonsense about my meaning to fight a duel. I never did."

"You weren't home when I delivered the note on my way to visit Monsieur Bonacieux."

"Yes, that is true, I wasn't. I spent most of my afternoon trying to find out something about who might have killed the armorer that Mousqueton is accused of killing. You must know, my dear, that we cannot let the poor boy rot in the Bastille. Not when . . . well." He couldn't bring himself to give away other people's secrets, so he finished in a halting tone. "Well, Hermengarde loves him, you know."

Constance, who had been examining D'Artagnan's features, as though desperately trying to fix in her mind any reason to believe him or disbelieve him, now sighed. "I cannot believe you. I'm sorry. I left the note, and you never came."

"I came," D'Artagnan said. "I came and Porthos with me. Ask whoever was at guard last night, to whom I gave Monsieur de la Porte's pa.s.sword. I came, and in that courtyard over there, before I could get to you, we were attacked by six men in dark cloaks. They . . . They wounded me," he lifted his arm slightly, in vain hope for sympathy. "And then some guards of the Cardinal appeared, and they accused my friends and I of dueling. 'Dueling' he said. Among us. And when Porthos proved to them that it wasn't so, they let us go, but by then I had lost so much blood, that the only thing to be done was to take me to Athos's place. And then I don't remember much of anything, save that, for some reason, I was given more brandy than I've ever drunk, and some excellent red wine."

At this point, he realized Constance was crying softly. He said, "No, no. What's this?" as he fished madly in his sleeve for a handkerchief. He found a square of lace and gave it to her. "Don't you believe me?"

"I know I believe the drinking," she said. "But I don't know how much more. You don't understand my fears," she said, and touched her eyes with the handkerchief. "I know you're out there, free, and so much younger than I, and I know how all the ladies of n.o.bility make it a point of picking out the most handsome of the musketeers. And I am not n.o.ble-born, not even of very good family. All I have is my gentle upbringing, my familiarity with the Queen and my beauty, such as it is, and sure to fade fast, as much as you worry me."

D'Artagnan said, "To me you are more beautiful than any princess."

It is almost sure his honeyed words and that charm of manner for which his countrymen were known would have carried the day. It would, that is, had not the fair lamenter's eyes fallen upon the square of lace in her hand. And then she stared at it, in something like horror, dropped it on the ground, and stomped on it with the tip of her dainty, slippered foot. "As beautiful as any princess, am I? Am I as beautiful as any d.u.c.h.ess, also?"

Bewildered, D'Artagnan said, and meant it, "To me you are the most beautiful woman in the entire world."

She sneered at him. She actually curled her lip in disdain and said, "Oh, I am done with you. I know you Gascons and your love of words, often empty of all meaning. How long have you been sleeping with the ladies of the court? Oh, answer me not. Probably before you met me, and probably it will go on long after you've ceased to care for me. I will not speak to you anymore. I will not . . ." She shook her head. "I married Monsieur Bonacieux at the behest of my family. Until I met you, Monsieur D'Artagnan, my heart was as innocent and untouched as that of a young girl in a convent. I could have lived my whole life long without knowing love. But you woke me to that emotion, and now it turns out it was all a lie." She stomped again on the square of lace on the ground, then reached into her own sleeve and threw a key at his feet. "I shall not be needing the access to your lodgings that you so kindly bestowed on me. It was only a matter of time before I detected you in some other woman's arms."

And D'Artagnan, who in his whole life had only one lover, and that lover Constance Bonacieux, stared at her in horror, quite convinced his beloved had taken leave of her senses. Such words as came to his mind-mostly her name and protests of his innocence, he knew too well than to say. Indeed, he didn't recover his voice till she had left and until, reaching down, he retrieved the maltreated handkerchief and saw that it was the one he'd meant to return to Aramis.

"The devil," he said to himself. He had suspected it all along, but the thing was that Constance had never given him a chance to defend himself. And that she could believe in his perfidy like that, without need of proof, without a single doubt. That cut into the center of his young heart. "Perhaps Athos is right," he told himself. "Perhaps all women are the devil."

In this sullen mood, he left the courtyard, and went through the door barely saying a word of thanks to De Jacinthe. In fact, his rejection of all of the fair s.e.x lasted exactly until he walked less than twenty steps from the palace entrance, towards his lodging, and saw a beautiful woman cowering against the wall, while two rough-looking men, with knives, tried to convince her to come with them.

"You'll come with us," one of the men said. "And there will be no debate. You are too tasty a morsel to escape us."

The woman was indeed a tasty morsel, D'Artagnan thought, as he rushed to her rescue. She had hair so blond and so s.h.i.+ny that it might as well be pure moonlight. It was braided simply down her back, over a pale grey cloak edged with some sort of fur. Her features were as beautiful as her hair or her attire, something that didn't seem quite real. Oval, perfect face, huge grey eyes, that matched her cloak, a straight nose, and lips so full and promising that they quite cast Constance's into shade. In fact, while Constance was beautiful, this woman was stunning.

His sword out of its sheath, D'Artagnan rushed in, and-in a mood of reckless chivalry-charged the two ruffians. "Leave the lady be," he said. "Or face me."

Clearly his demeanor was more fearful than he'd thought, for they didn't even wait for him to come near, but instead took to their heels. D'Artagnan, somewhat bewildered by so easy a rescue, reasoned that perhaps they were, out of reason, afraid of guards. Or perhaps they'd mistaken his uniform for that of a musketeer.

He now found his hands taken in both of the cool, soft hands of the woman, who was as beautiful as an angel. "Oh, my hero," she said. "You've saved a foreigner from a fate worse than death."

Her accent, though present, didn't so much sound foreign as like the accent of someone who'd spent a long time abroad. But then, D'Artagnan was quite willing to understand he knew nothing of accents.

He did however know of beauty, and this beautiful woman was curtseying to him. He bowed in return, removing his hat. "Henri D'Artagnan, madam," he said. "At your service."

She smiled. "I am Lady de Winter," she said. "And quite a stranger and friendless in Paris. I wonder," she said, "if you'd do me the honor of dining with me tonight?"

Before D'Artagnan had fully recovered, he found himself in possession of the beautiful woman's address and the time to present himself at her door. And standing there, in the full sun of morning, he thought that if Constance was going to accuse him of dallying with well-born ladies, by the Ma.s.s, he was about to give substance to her accusations.