Read the musketeer's seamstress Online
Authors: Sarah d'Almeida
the musketeer's seamstress (38 page)
She said, “Well, that’s far more than one, but—” She looked at the coin in his fingers. “You are being generous with your money, so ask.”
“What other troupes are there in town, just now? How many? Where are they performing?”
She grinned. “Right now I know of six, and the nearest ones are performing there.” She pointed. “At the Plaza de Saint Anne. “And one there—at where the street of Saint Antoine meets cobbler’s street.”
Porthos let the coin fall. “Thank you mademoiselle.” And, with that, he stalked away, in the direction she’d pointed, still thinking.
He knew if he told his friends anything about his idea, that an acrobat had done it, they’d both laugh at him. Both being D’Artagnan and Athos, of course. He supposed Aramis might listen—Aramis seemed very subdued since all this had happened. None of which meant that Porthos thought that Aramis would believe him.
It would seem impossible to them—it seemed somewhat unlikely to him—that the lives of a duchess and an acrobat should intersect so much that one would wish to kill the other.
But the thing was, they were living in strange times. Porthos remembered the stories from his father and his grandfather. There was a time, and not so long ago, when noblemen were noblemen and peasants were nothing but dust under the noblemen’s feet.
Porthos wasn’t sure when it had all changed, but he suspected it was with commerce, and craftsmen, and, of course, accountants. Some of them had started making more money than the fixed incomes of the noblemen. And then there was the sad fact that no nobleman could keep serfs on his land, anymore. Or not without giving some real care and thought to keeping those serfs and tenants happy. Long gone were the days when a nobleman treated his serfs not much better than his oxen. If he did treat them better.
Nowadays, a serf, a craftsman, a tenant who was ill-treated could always leave the land and disappear into one of the big cities, where he could easily make money from learning a craft or becoming a servant to a wealthier man. Not a lot of money, and the life wouldn’t be easy. But it would be easier than in most feudal domains.
And then, the sons of the lords, those who, left without serfs and servants, saw their rents diminish by the day, left their lands, too, and came to Paris. That was Porthos’s story, and D’Artagnan’s too. Athos’s was, of course, different, as was Aramis’s. But Porthos would wager that there were far more people like him in the city than people like Athos and Aramis.
In the city, as in a big pot, stirred by disruption and need, the more prosperous sons of the newly rich interacted with the sons of the poor old families. And sometimes, too, both of them fell a long deal lower than either of the classes would like to admit. Sometimes—Porthos smiled into his moustache—noblemen’s sons became musketeers. And perhaps noblemen’s daughters or repudiated wives became acrobats?
He stopped, short of the second troupe, and watched them perform. The stuff was much what he had seen the other troupe do. Only this troupe, instead of a trained bear, had a little troupe of trained dancing dogs, dressed in the fashion of the day, the bitches as court ladies, the male dogs as musketeers.
Porthos watched the performance and roared—as the crowd around him laughed too—as one of the dogs dressed as a musketeer tried to mount one of the bitches dressed as a court lady. An endeavor persisted upon until the trainer bodily dragged him, whining, away.
Walking away, Porthos found himself smiling still. Sometimes, he thought to himself, these shows had a way of showing truth that was more true than truth itself.
The thought crossed his mind that the dog dressed as a musketeer probably had another outfit that was a cassock, and that the trainer, clearly, was only waiting till the dog was ready to put the cassock on him. And the dog’s name would be Aramis.
He was still amused as he approached the third group of acrobats. They had a larger attendance and, from a distance, Porthos heard a barker’s voice. It wasn’t until he got closer that he understood the words though.
“A daring, death defying feat,” the barker was saying. “You will see Violeta walk on sheer air between these balconies.”
Porthos looked up at the balconies. As far as he could tell, in the night air, and so far above the torches that lit the street level, there didn’t seem to be anything between the balconies.
And then the girl appeared. And Porthos held his breath. She was as blond as Aramis, though her hair was caught up and tied with a giant bow. The rest of her attire was masculine, a bright, sparkling suit in red and purple, shimmering in the night air. She wore slippers. And she was walking, midair, between the two balconies.
Magic
, Porthos thought. Only he didn’t believe in magic. “There must be a way,” he said.
, Porthos thought. Only he didn’t believe in magic. “There must be a way,” he said.
The man next to him snorted. “Oh, there is. I saw them set it up just before nightfall. It’s a very thin rope. In twilight, you cannot see it. To be honest, it’s so fine you can’t see it in daytime either, or not very well. It is made of silk and very strong. Some strange eastern art.”
“She’s walking on a rope?” Porthos asked. “That must be devilishly difficult.”
The man shrugged. He was attired in peasant clothes, with an immense leather apron that meant he was probably a smith. “It’s as with everything else,” he said and shrugged. “You practice enough that you do it without thinking. Not that accidents don’t happen. Last year a boy who did this, with this troupe, in fact, plunged to his death from the rope. It was all the time we had to get the crowd out of the way. And even then, he fell so near my shoes, he splashed them with blood and brains.” The man looked down at his boots, as if the splashes of blood and brains might still be visible, and he went on talking, in an animated voice.
But Porthos was no longer listening to him. He was looking up at the blond woman, who seemed eerily familiar. The strange thing was, though he’d only seen Aramis’s lover once or twice and from a distance, she looked exactly like that.
But how could it be? Porthos had already decided that she couldn’t possibly be a ghost. Ghosts didn’t wear masks.
He remembered that D’Artagnan, and perhaps Athos had seen the woman up close. And then there was Aramis. It would be dangerous for Aramis to come out. These twilights in summer could last forever, and be bright enough to recognize anyone by. But Porthos would ask Athenais. Athenais would have some idea. Aramis was, of course, the ultimate authority. Plus, if this woman was his Violette— and hadn’t the barker just called her Violeta—surely she would respond to him, and stop when she saw him. Perhaps it was all tied up with her being pregnant? Perhaps she’d had to escape to hide it.
Though looking up, at the slim figure in its male attire, Porthos could not discern any signs of her being pregnant. But then . . . you never knew.
He leaned close to the man who had stopped talking, but who was still watching the wire walker with a fascinated expression, as though sure that at any minute he would get more blood and brains on his shoes.
“How late do they perform,” Porthos asked.
“Usually till full dark.”
Porthos nodded and squinted at the East. He thought he had an hour, perhaps a little more. He didn’t want to wait any longer, didn’t want to put it off for another night because, with the troupes’ itinerant habits, who knew where they would be tomorrow?
Quickly, he turned and almost ran all his way back home. There was no point inviting arrest by going through the front door, near which the bodies of the guards must already have been discovered. So he approached his house through the network of alleys, till he came to the alley that ran behind the property, where he jumped atop the low wall and . . .
And stared right up at Mousqueton, who was standing atop the henhouse—clearly, from his fresh clothes and bright look, on his way out—and looking puzzled.
“Monsieur,” the servant said.
Porthos grinned at Mousqueton’s discomfiture. Even if he had to figure out Mousqueton’s next attempt at disobedience, for now it was worth it just to see the self-assured Mousqueton look scared and confused.
“Good to meet you, Mousqueton,” he said, without giving away that he was in any way surprised, and without explaining why he, himself, was standing atop the low wall. “I need you to run to the Treville house. Go in through the back, as there might be people watching for us or our servants. Once inside, ask Athos and D’Artagnan—who are probably in one of the guest rooms—to meet me at the corner of Saint Antoine and cobbler’s street as soon as possible. There will be a show, and I’ll be in the crowd.”
He jumped off the low wall, and started running again, this time towards Athenais’s house. If he ran all the way, he figured he could get Aramis back in time. Or if Aramis could not for some reason come and didn’t trust his disguise in the twilight, then Porthos would at least have the opinions of Athos and D’Artagnan on how much this Violeta looked like Aramis’s Violette.
Porthos was not even going to try to guess how all this fit into the plot, or how Violette could really be alive. All he wanted to know was if it was the same woman.
He arrived at the Coquenard home and walked around it, to the alley at the back. This time, he didn’t think it was the kind of visit he could bluster with disguise, past the servants and the household watchers.
Instead, he went around the back. Long ago, Athenais and Porthos had worked out a system where by he pelted her window with pebbles, and she let down a rope ladder. After Porthos climbed it, Athenais locked her bedroom door, and the two of them could stay together till dawn, uninterrupted.
Of course, sometimes Porthos erred and pelted with gravel the window next to Athenais—that of her husband, Monsieur Coquenard. This always led to problems and delays, which he was not willing to countenance now. So he threw carefully.
It occurred to him belatedly that it was rather early and Athenais might not be in her room yet. But then Athenais opened her window almost immediately.
She leaned down and her eyes widened at seeing him standing in the garden. “Porthos,” she said, leaning down. “It is too early. I was dressing for dinner.”
Porthos shook his head. “I just need to speak to you,” he said.
Athenais hesitated for a moment, then let the rope ladder down. Porthos climbed it with the agility of long practice. But once at the top, he didn’t try to jump into the room.
Instead, with all speed—because while on the ladder he was, of course, susceptible to discovery—he gave her a quick account of everything that had happened, from Violette’s murder to the show he’d just watched.
And Athenais, proving once more that there was a reason Porthos loved her, understood the account, though it was a garbled version of the events, even for Porthos.
She nodded once. “So you need Aramis, and Aramis cannot be seen abroad until full night, just in case someone recognizes him, since doubtless the Cardinal has a price on his head.”
Porthos nodded. “But by that time the acrobats will be gone!”
Athenais twisted her lips to the side, something she did when in deep thought. “Very well, Porthos, but . . . I’ll have to tell him it was your idea. I am guessing if I tell him it’s mine, he will not cooperate.”
“What was my idea?”
“Never mind, Porthos,” she said. “Trust me. I’ll open the front door in fifteen minutes, and send him out to you. Be waiting.”
Puzzled, but trusting his mistress implicitly, Porthos nodded and held onto the window sill, ready to start his descent of the rope ladder.
Before he could step down, though, Athenais reached for him. She put her lips over his, and kissed him, ardently. Dazed, it was all Porthos could do to hold on.
As she pulled away, he was sure he still looked dazed, because she wiped his mouth with her palm, then giggled as she said, “You are a fool man who makes me get in adventures a woman should not have to engage in.”
And with that dubious blessing, she sent him down the ladder and pulled the window closed.
He walked around the house, then paced up and down the street, attempting to look unremarkable, which he had some inkling was a lot like his trying to look like a bird or a frog.
At long last the front door of the Coquenard home opened, and Porthos hastened towards it. But the person who came out was not Aramis.
It was a tall woman, in a green velvet dress, ornamented at chest and waist, and hemline with a profusion of frills. Her waist was tiny, her bosom abundant, almost large enough to offset very capacious shoulders straining the seams of the tight dress. On her head was a matching hat, with a broad brim. A veil fell down to hide her face.
“Oh, pardon me, mademoiselle,” Porthos said, removing his hat and stepping back. “I thought you were someone else.”
“Porthos!” Aramis’s voice spoke from beneath the veils.
Porthos looked again. Well, when he had said he’d know Aramis no matter in what disguise, he’d been lying. Although, now that he looked closer, he could see Aramis’s long hair, tied with a series of bows at the back.
Having trouble keeping from laughing, Porthos lifted the veil and stared into Aramis’s maddened green eyes. “Oh my,” he said, in a tone of awe. “Athenais has a sense of humor.”
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