Read the musketeer's seamstress Online
Authors: Sarah d'Almeida
the musketeer's seamstress (36 page)
Aramis nodded. “A plain cross and a chain?” He shook his head. “I think I remember what you are talking about. Violette never wore it, but once, when I was going through her trunk, looking for a jewel I might borrow, I came across it. She said it was given to her in her early childhood, in the convent.”
“The convent?” Porthos asked. “Your mistress lived in a convent?”
Aramis shrugged. “I assume she was brought up in one.” They’d left behind the narrower streets of the working class and had entered broader streets. The houses were bigger, though they still abutted directly to the sidewalk. And there were gardens behind each house, often vegetable plots too.
“What do you know about her?” Porthos asked. “Her family?”
Aramis shrugged again. “She was not from a family far above mine, but early on, her sister and she became play-mates to Anne of Austria. I believe the Princess chose them herself, and enjoyed their company above all other mates. So when it was decided that the Queen would marry the King, the Queen decided that a French marriage should be arranged for Violette, also, so that Violette could accompany her to France and be her companion in her new life. So the marriage with de Dreux was arranged. And the Queen supplied the dowry required by the Duke’s family. I don’t think they’ve ever even lived together.”
Porthos nodded. “And her sister?” he asked.
“The Queen’s sister?”
“No, you fool, not the Queen’s. Your . . . Violette’s.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” he said and then, remembering the babble of Lida in the chapel at his mother’s house. “Wait, I do. Her sister is a nun in some monastery near the border with Spain, and is developing a reputation for sanctity. At least that’s what I heard from . . . one of my mother’s protégées.”
Porthos looked inquisitively at Aramis, but said only, “Did she have a miniature of her sister? Or a painting? Or some other means by which we might recognize her?”
Aramis shook his head. “No. In fact, she rarely spoke of her sister. Though I know she wrote to her, now and then.”
He had no idea why Porthos would want to see a portrait of Violette’s sister. Except that this was Porthos. He might very well have the idea that the quickest and most expedient way to cure Aramis’s shock and grief over Violette was to find the convent where Violette’s sister was professed and kidnap her for Aramis.
Aramis smiled, at the thought. And though it would be insane, he would likely still be grateful to Porthos. Oh, not for the woman, but for the thought, and the desire to make Aramis feel better. Right now Aramis wasn’t sure he ever would.
Porthos stopped in front of a somber house, and lifted his hand to knock, but before knocking, he whispered to Aramis, “Remember, once anyone comes, that your last name is Coquenard, and that you’re Monsieur Coquenard’s distant cousin. Your poor old mother died, and you have come to Paris to apprentice as a clerk. You were brought up in a convent. That will account for—”
“Porthos, I could not have been brought up in a convent.” And to Porthos’s quizzical look. “I am still male, Porthos.”
“Oh,” Porthos said. “You were brought up in a monastery. We were speaking of convents and I got confused. The monastery will account for your fine hand and your knowledge of Latin. You do not know me and only asked me to escort you across town in the dark of night, because you were afraid of robbers or murderers.”
“Then perhaps you should keep this,” Aramis said, undoing his belt and handing it to Porthos. “Clerks rarely wear swords.”
“An excellent point,” Porthos said, buckling Aramis’s sword belt alongside his own.
“Won’t they be suspicious?”
“Of someone coming and offering excellent skills for low wage? Aramis, even if Monsieur Coquenard thought you were the devil himself, he would keep you as long as he could. As for Madame Coquenard, she will know better, but Athenais knows when not to speak. And she’ll enjoy having someone in the house who understands her.”
Aramis must have given Porthos an alarmed look. Because when Porthos said that, about understanding her, Aramis though of all the women who, throughout the years, had thrown themselves at him and declared themselves madly in love with him. What if that happened to Madame Coquenard too?
But his look of panic was met with a genuine grin and a chuckle from Porthos. “Oh, Aramis,” he said. “I don’t fear your competition. You can dazzle your duchesses and enthrall your princesses, but I think that Athenais is just mine, and I wouldn’t trade her for all the crowned heads in Europe.”
Speaking that way, he lifted his hand and knocked hard on the door. When no one answered he repeated the action. After a long while, the door opened a sliver and a head appeared—a disheveled young male head, looking like it had just woken up.
“Good morning,” Porthos said, all happy courtesy. “I have brought someone who wishes to speak to Monsieur or Madame Coquenard.”
The young man gave them a weary eye. “It will have to be the mistress. If we wake the master like that, this early in the morning, it will kill him.”
“Well, the mistress then,” Porthos said, in the tone of one who thought this by far the worst alternative. “But make it quick. Tell her that Monsieur Porthos and Monsieur Francois Coquenard are waiting.”
“Francois?” Aramis asked, as soon as the door closed, and the young man presumably retreated into the house to call his mistress.
“Would you prefer Rene?” Porthos asked.
Aramis could only shake his head.
Moments later, Madame Coquenard—wearing a cap, and a dressing gown, appeared at the door. When he first saw her, Aramis was shocked. Oh, Porthos might lack the sophistication of the court, but surely even he could attract a woman whose skin wasn’t lined, whose eyes weren’t sunk from worry, and whose hair didn’t have many silver strands entwined in it.
And then, Athenais Coquenard raised her head. And Aramis found himself staring into the most intelligent eyes he’d ever seen in any woman. And realized that the woman had noticed and marked his look of distaste.
“Madame,” Porthos said. “This gentleman who says his name is Francois Coquenarde, claims to be your husband’s sixth cousin and has come from the provinces to seek a post as a clerk in your husband’s firm. He says he had a letter of introduction from his unfortunately late mother, and that it was stolen from him when ruffians set upon him on the way.”
Porthos’s playacting wouldn’t deceive a child. He recited the whole thing in a monotone, and Aramis was about to bristle with resentment at it, when he realized that, in fact, if Porthos were repeating what some new acquaintance had just told him, or someone he’d escorted across town out of charity, and whom he never intended to see again, he would not speak it with any more feeling than that.
Athenais looked Aramis over, then looked back at Porthos, her eyebrows raised. “Is this going to bring us any problems?” she asked.
“Harboring a distant relative who will help in the office?” Porthos asked. “I doubt it.”
“If he can help in the office. Can you, Monsieur?”
“I was brought up by the church, madame,” Aramis said, bowing. “And I write quite a convent hand.” This with a teasing glance towards Porthos.
Madame Coquenard frowned at the word convent, but then she must have caught the flicker of amusement in Porthos’s eyes and known this for a joke. She bowed slightly. “So long as he pulls his own weight and demands no privileges, nor complains of the food, I’ll keep him here, then,” she said. And, with a look at Porthos. “And safe.”
The Matter of the Knife; A Dead End
M
ONSIEUR de Treville had offered them a room. Or rather, D’Artagnan thought—as the servant led him into the small but well appointed room which actually had three narrow beds, a trunk for clothes, a washbasin, a pitcher of water and even towels—Monsieur de Treville had offered Athos a room for the night.
ONSIEUR de Treville had offered them a room. Or rather, D’Artagnan thought—as the servant led him into the small but well appointed room which actually had three narrow beds, a trunk for clothes, a washbasin, a pitcher of water and even towels—Monsieur de Treville had offered Athos a room for the night.
D’Artagnan was aware—and had no doubts—that no one would make such gestures to him. He didn’t resent it, any more than he resented that, without Athos, he’d not have been able to stay at the home of the Duke de Dreux.
If people had made such gestures for Athos just because he was, presumably, a count in disguise, D’Artagnan might have felt the sting of envy. But he knew that with Athos, people reacted as much to his nobility of character as to his nobility of birth.
What he resented was that he’d been sent up, with the servant, ostensibly to look at the room, but in fact so that Athos could speak with Monsieur de Treville in relative privacy.
He ambled over to the bed on the right side of the room and sat down on it. Even though it was a narrow and clearly a collapsible bed of some sort, it felt softer and springier beneath him than his bed at home ever had.
He realized he’d only slept a few hours tonight even though night had almost fully become morning and a thin, greyish light was starting to shine through the window.
With a gesture, he sent the servant away, indicating that he found the room adequate enough. He didn’t know if Athos would find it equally satisfactory, but then D’Artagnan was just a Gascon from a poor household. He could never and would never be able to understand the tastes of a French count.
Bending down he removed his boots, thinking that he would lie down and close his eyes and wait for Athos.
He woke with the bedroom door closing and with what sounded like stealthy footsteps. By instinct, he unsheathed his sword, and found himself, fully awake, sitting up, sword in hand . . . looking at Athos, who stood in the middle of the room, managing to appear, at once, alarmed and amused.
“I beg your pardon,” D’Artagnan said, sheathing his sword. He glanced towards the window, where the light was now full. In fact, from what D’Artagnan could determine, it was now possibly close to noon. With the light, noises filtered in through the window—vendors calling their wares, an insistent hammering, probably from some nearby workshop. Through the door came the incessant sea of noise from the antechamber. The yells of men, the confusion of brags and gossip, of jokes, the occasional sound of swords which meant that someone was playing king of the mountain on the staircase and defending it with his sword against all challengers.
Athos held a bundle of dark fabric in one hand and looked so tired he was swaying slightly on his feet. The middle bed, which D’Artagnan had mentally thought Porthos would occupy, was empty. “Porthos?” he asked Athos.
The older musketeer looked momentarily surprised, as though he’d forgotten all about Porthos or their agreement to meet here.
D’Artagnan rose, started looking for his boots. “He was waylaid,” he said. “Someone found him and Aramis. They tried to kill them once again and were successful. They—”
Athos smiled. He made his way to the farthest bed, laid the bundle of cloth beside him and sat down, to remove his boots.
“Athos, you don’t understand, they could even now, be preparing to sell their lives dearly.”
Athos shook his head. “I’ve known Porthos for five years,” he said. Having removed his boots, he looked down, with a dismayed expression, at his stockings which were a mass of holes, then shrugged. “I know something of the way he works. That expression he had, while we explained our theory to Aramis? Porthos has some theory of his own, or thinks we are fools for some reason, and he will not come back, he will not rest until he has either proven his theory or so totally disproved it that even he might give it up.” Athos frowned at his breeches as he started unlacing them. “D’Artagnan, do you know what kind of abuse one receives when crossing the antechamber twice wearing what is clearly the breeches of the uniform for the Cardinal’s guard?”
3
3
D’Artagnan blinked, realizing for the first time—so busy had they been—that Athos’s breeches were not only clearly a great deal too small for the musketeer, straining at the seams and ending a couple of palms below his knees. He remembered the story of how Fasset had helped Athos, and presumed the breeches were his. However, he must still have been staring in horror at Athos when Athos looked up.
“Mine were utterly ruined,” he said. “Between the sword thrust and the mud, and my ripping them further, in the dark, to try to feel the wound and assess my odds of surviving it.”
A shiver ran up D’Artagnan’s back. It was so much like Athos, and not like anyone else at all, that clinical examination of a wound while he was alone, in the dark. D’Artagnan didn’t doubt for a moment that, had the musketeer decided the wound was fatal and he could not survive it, he would have laid back down in the mud and patiently waited for death.
The idea was so disturbingly likely, and so inhuman, that D’Artagnan felt he had to banish it from his head. “So Porthos will come back to us when he has proven his theory wrong?” he asked.
“Or correct.” Athos had removed his breeches and was pulling on linen under breeches and a pair of dark blue breeches, clothes that—clearly—Monsieur de Treville had loaned him. He met D’Artagnan’s gaze, then looked down again, to tie his breeches together. “Porthos is not stupid, D’Artagnan, nor is he always wrong. You should not confuse facility with words with intelligence, though the two often work together. Look at Porthos, and the size of him. Can you not believe that everyone in his family, generation after generation, was trained as a warrior or a guardian? And that both they and those who employed them, found little use for a cultured mind in a body that was twice as large and strong as anyone else’s?”
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