Dying by the Sword

Where Aramis Talks of Conspiracy and Athos Talks of Ghosts; The Honor of a Nobleman

“DID you see a ghost?” D’Artagnan asked, as he came into the salon where his friends had been speaking desultorily, while waiting for him.

Athos looked at him, surprised. The boy was wearing clean clothes-Athos’s, but they looked, Athos thought, better on the Gascon. And he looked as if he was just slightly weakened. Perhaps a little dizzy from the medicinal application of brandy, but he wasn’t stumbling near enough to allow him to speak foolishness.

And yet, when Athos looked up at him, he wondered if it was foolishness. Instead of ridiculing D’Artagnan, he shrugged and said, “Where did you come by that notion?”

“Grimaud,” D’Artagnan said, simply, as he settled himself into a chair, “said that you looked as though you’d seen a ghost.”

Athos tilted his head to the side, examining the Gascon. It had been sometime in the last few minutes, while Aramis had been coy about his seamstress and Porthos had made the usual mess out of his attempts at explaining his actions, that Athos had realized he would have to tell them what he had seen, as well as what he had done.

He wasn’t sure which of his pieces of news would cause the most uproar amid his friends-the sudden resurrection of a long-dead countess, or the clear-eyed way in which Athos had walked into the Cardinal’s trap, rather than allow it to close on his neck when he least expected it.

He sighed deeply. “I have, in a way,” he said. “Save that I believe a ghost would have disconcerted me less. But first, I’d like to know what Aramis has to say about…”

“The attack?” Aramis said. He had sat himself down on one of the more elaborate armchairs, immediately beside Athos, probably, Athos thought, because he didn’t want Athos looking directly at him as he questioned him. “As I said, all of you know about my… friend.”

“Seamstress,” Athos said, both amused and confused that Aramis was not using the term he usually used.

Aramis shrugged. He’d pulled a handkerchief from within his sleeve, and was examining its lace edging with utter care. “She… is a lady of the highest nobility and she resides in the palace.”

“I would expect nothing less,” Athos said.

Again Aramis shrugged, when in the past he would have looked either very gratified or somewhat upset when they penetrated the meaning of his words. He looked up at Athos, sidewise, and his green eyes seemed full of worry. “Well, after I spoke to Hermengarde, I went to my friend’s lodgings. I… well… for various reasons I was in need of a friend and she was the nearest.”

Athos nodded and forebore to say anything. He was fairly sure the reason was that Aramis had had to walk along certain hallways which awakened memories of his dead lover, Violette. He’d noticed that when the four of them had to go to the royal palace for any reason, Aramis avoided that area of the palace like the plague. And, in fact, since the most common reason they had to go to the palace was to stand guard there, he did his best not to go inside at all, but to take a post outside, near the entrance, and stay there.

“Well, while I was in her room we… argued. It is possible… That is… I angered her, and she is a woman of strong passions. I would not swear that she did not send assassins after me. Though I wouldn’t believe it likely. But I…” He half rose and sat himself again, and gave Athos a look so full of piteous protest that it was plain he very much wished himself elsewhere, and he very much wished not to have to go on with his revelations.

Athos said nothing, just continued looking his enquiry at his blond friend. If Aramis thought he could escape telling what worried him, he did not know what Athos, himself, would have to reveal.

Aramis sighed, heavily, as though realizing no one would facilitate his escape. “As I was leaving her room,” he said, “I saw on a table, a letter, written and sealed to someone…” He took a deep breath. “Enfin, to Caesar, the duke of Vendôme, the half-brother of the King.” As though he’d spent all his speech braving himself for this, he said, “I was going to simply show you her handkerchief, but I gave it to Hermengarde to dry her tears, and then I ruined one I thought was mine on D’Artagnan’s arm, in the palace. Now I find I still have mine, and am at a loss to find which handkerchief I did ruin.” He shrugged.

“Well, where did it come from?” Porthos asked.

Aramis shrugged again. “I found it on the ground at my feet, in such a position that I thought it could only have dropped out of my sleeve, and since it was clean, I used it to tourniquet D’Artagnan’s arm.”

“It’s in the kitchen,” D’Artagnan said, starting to rise. “Perhaps we should get it, before it is fed into the fire?”

Porthos, seated beside the youth, put a massive hand on his shoulder. “I’ll go, my friend. It is not likely I’ll understand this intrigue of court ladies and handkerchiefs.”

Though Athos thought this was the absolute truth, he said nothing else, nor did any of them, until Porthos galloped back up the stairs, a square of blood-soaked linen and lace in his hand. He handed it to Aramis. “It is most certainly not yours, though it might very well be the handkerchief of your seamstress. In which case, I’d very much like to know why you were carrying three handkerchiefs along on your sleeve.”

“He uses them as safe conducts,” D’Artagnan said, sounding somewhere between tired and amused.

“Safe conducts to three ladies?” Porthos said. And added fervently, “Sometimes, Aramis, I get the sense that you wish to sleep with every woman in France.”

And Aramis, looking down at the handkerchief with an expression of the greatest horror, said, absently, “I do. Twice.” And as he said it, he passed the handkerchief to Athos, allowing him to see the embroidered initials in the corner, MAR.

“Marie Michon?” Athos asked, at the same time that Porthos, having reached some sort of conclusion from what Aramis had said, exclaimed in a sullen tone, “If you so much as look at Athenais…”

Athos’s look at Aramis was quick enough to capture the expression of horror on his face. Madame Athenais Coquenard was Porthos’s lover of some years now. She was also-though born to minor nobility-the wife of an aged accountant, and well past thirty. On all these counts, she was disqualified from the pool of women that interested Aramis. On the other hand, it was hard to deny that she was indeed one of the women of France and that Aramis had, therefore, just declared his intention of sleeping with her. Twice. Athos would have laughed, were it not for the fact that he had a strong feeling if the girl wanted Aramis-or in fact, himself-he would find himself in her bed before he could think twice.

Aramis, realizing where his words had led him, turned to Porthos. “Oh, be still, Porthos. I was only… That is… You know that Athenais is not a woman.” And, as Porthos bristled at this, rapidly he added. “She is something far beyond woman, something that, to own the truth, terrifies me a little. I’m afraid should I pursue any intimacy with her, she would suggest I wear a green dress.” [6]

Porthos didn’t smile. He nodded, thoughtfully. “Well,” he said. “She scares me a little too, but the thing is that…” He shrugged. “Some of us like to know we are courting a woman who could, if needed, take us in combat. Though perhaps not in fair combat,” he added, even more thoughtfully. “I’m sure Athenais is not an amazon.”

Aramis nodded, but turned towards Athos. “Yes, Marie Michon. We’ve been… I think… using each other for some months now. But you know she is… that is, there is no intrigue, in the palace, in which she does not have her dainty hands. Which leads me to thinking of what Monsieur de Treville said.” He shrugged, again. “It is entirely possible I am wrong,” he said. “It is entirely possible that the letter concerned private matters. The lady is, as we all know, as much involved in affairs as she is in intrigues.”

“Yes, this is quite possible,” Athos said. “And yet…” He got up. He would have to tell them his story, and he hesitated. He would have to tell them everything, including the detailed story of why he’d left his domains to become a musketeer. He’d more or less told it to them before, in bits and pieces and, sometimes, he was sure they knew much more than they showed. But he had never explained to them, exactly, what he’d felt… What he still felt for Charlotte.

“Is Marie Michon the nom de guerre of the Duchess de Chevreuse?” Porthos asked.

“What?” Aramis said. “Yes, but you are being insufferably blunt. You must know I was avoiding pronouncing her name.”

“Why? Is it like a magical invocation? Of the sort we’re not supposed to do? You said she was as fond of affairs as of intrigues, and you must know this means you might as well have pronounced her name, because we are not so stupid as not to know that all of the court speaks of both of these characteristics of the lady.”

“Yes, but one should hardly be so blunt as to admit like that, to one’s friends, that one is enjoying a highborn lady’s favors.”

Porthos shrugged, looking bored, then lifted his huge hands, and counted off arguments on his fingers. “First,” he said, “from what I hear, the strangeness of this would be if, given the slightest interest in bedding her, you hadn’t managed to do so. From what I understand there is a line down the halls from her room, and there have been musketeers called in simply to make sure turns are taken in an orderly manner.”

“Porthos!” Aramis said.

Porthos ignored him, and touched the second of his fingers. “Second, we are alone and without our servants, so I fail to see what good secrecy would do us. And third…” He touched a third finger. “And third, did you truly propose to discuss how you suspect her of involvement in a conspiracy without ever once mentioning her name?”

“The lady,” Aramis said, “is not as you paint her.” He spoke through his teeth and had his hand on his sword hilt, but Athos noticed he seemed curiously detached. It was as though he felt he should defend the lady’s honor, and as such was going through it as though it were a play that he must perform, but without any of the feelings of outrage that would normally have colored his actions or motions. What was Aramis, arguably the most romantic of them all, since he was in love with the idea of woman, even when he was merely whiling his time away with the current specimen between his arms, playing at, to be sleeping with a woman he cared for so little?

“Well, I’m merely saying what everyone repeats,” Porthos said, not seeming the least bit embarrassed. “They all say that she will take as a lover anyone who is comely enough, so I have long expected that… well… you are comely enough.”

Athos looked towards Aramis to see how he took this announcement and found his friend making what he thought was a heroic effort not to laugh. “I think I should thank you, Porthos,” he said slowly, “for the compliment, but indeed…” He shrugged. “Well, I’ve been seeing the lady. And while her favors are not as widely given as gossip would have you believe, the truth is that part of the reason I settled upon her is that she will not expect from me that which I cannot give.”

Porthos, who had looked disposed for battle, darted a quick, sympathetic look at his friend and said nothing.

And Athos nodded. “You are probably right, Aramis about… er… Marie Michon being involved in something she should not be. But why do you think she would try to kill you because of it?”

“I don’t know,” Aramis said. “It’s just… I might have said something that irritated her also.”

“I’ve heard many things of the lady,” Athos said, “but none of them that she was in the habit of murdering her lovers over trifles.”

“Oh, not that, it’s just… I had the feeling I left her on less than good terms.”

“And she had cloaked assassins ready to follow you and attack us?” D’Artagnan said. “And she would send six men to attack you? You must pardon me, Aramis, but though the lady has graced you with her favors, do you mean to tell me she has such a high opinion of your sword arm?”

Aramis shook his head. “I don’t know. All of us are taken as gods with the swords, you know, to hear court gossip.”

“Demons, more like,” Athos said. And gave a look at D’Artagnan. “At least the Gascon there. He’s often been compared to a demon with a sword.”

He hesitated, and flung out of his chair, with an impatient movement. Walking to the door to the stairs, he called, “Holla, Grimaud. Bring us cups and half a dozen bottles of the burgundy.”

He couldn’t really hear Grimaud’s answer, an indistinct blur of syllables, such as they got at a distance, but he answered back, “Now, Grimaud. Your service and not your opinions are needed.”

Despite the distance, Athos could swear he heard Grimaud’s sigh with full clarity. After a while there were steps up the stairs, accompanied with a tinkle of crockery. He and Planchet emerged, Planchet carrying four white ceramic cups on a tray and Grimaud bearing bottles.

Though Athos had brought with him or, over time, sent for glasses and porcelain from his domains, normally he and the others drank out of serviceable ceramic mugs, which bore the distinct advantage of being sturdy and of large capacity. Even so, he didn’t know what to make of the fact that Grimaud had opened all the bottles. He set them on the table, side by side, his lips pressed into a tight line of disapproval, and Athos thought the fact that all the bottles were uncorked was meant as a reproach to him. As if to point out he couldn’t control himself.

Grimaud poured wine in each cup and handed one to each of them. D’Artagnan looked at his own dubiously. “I’m not sure if it’s such a good idea after all the brandy.”

But Aramis spoke up. “Drink it, D’Artagnan, for I’m sure that Athos will let you have accommodation for the night, and truth be told, I don’t think you should go back to your lodgings. Not in your state.”

Athos waved the servants away, tossed back a cup of the full-bodied wine, then poured yet another and drank it. And found Aramis watching him with a cool look. “When you drink so much, Athos, it can only be because you wish to make yourself drunk. And if you wish to make yourself drunk, it can only be because-as you accused us earlier-you have been running all about, trying to get yourself killed.”

Athos frowned at him. “Wide off the mark, my friend,” he said, quietly. “Wide off the mark. When I wish to get myself drunk, it is that I am very much afraid I might kill someone. And not in duel.”

Aramis’s eyebrows went up. He took a sip of his wine, and said, almost fearfully, “Athos, you must tell us-what have you done?”

“Well,” Athos said. He walked towards the window, and looked out through the small panes of glass towards the street immersed in darkness. “I know you will, all of you, consider me disloyal, but I could not consider that Monsieur de Treville would have any hold over the Cardinal. Not if the Cardinal felt that his own life or interests were threatened.”

“No, I don’t consider you disloyal,” Aramis said.

“Nor I, either,” D’Artagnan said, his words slightly slurred by the drink. “The thing is, I thought that Monsieur Treville might very well be able to delay the execution of Mousqueton, but only that. There would be little else he could do.”

“It has occurred to me,” Porthos said, “that there wouldn’t be much the captain could do. I mean, they… they torture people in the Bastille, and if he couldn’t keep Mousqueton from being tortured, then he couldn’t keep him from being executed. People will confess to anything under torture.”

“So you all agree with me,” Athos said, as he drank yet another cup of the wine. It would take a while to take effect. All the more so, because he had long since grown used to the wine as a palliative for his distress. But even so, the more he drank, the more he would look to his friends as though he had justification for any wild words, or wild thoughts. He was glad too that there were only three candles lit in the room, so that perforce the details of his expression would be obscured to their eyes. He walked from the chairs to the window, then back again.

“You are behaving like a caged lion, Athos,” Aramis said. “And this, again, is never good.”

Athos shrugged. “I think there’s very little good in recent events. Let me explain first, my reasoning, when the three of you left me standing alone on a street corner while you went to investigate multiple and disparate things.” He walked towards the window again. “I thought that since the captain could do next to nothing against the Cardinal, it would come down to the Cardinal in the end, and we would have to deal with him directly.

“Now I couldn’t imagine living like this, waiting for the Cardinal’s trap to spring, so I…”

“So you did what you always do, and ran headlong into the trap?” Porthos asked.

Athos gave his large friend a surprised glance. Sometimes one forgot that Porthos, for all his difficulties with language, had a mind sharp enough to see through people’s motives. He shrugged and felt his cheeks heat. “You could say that,” he admitted, at length. “You could say I did, for you see, I reasoned that if it finally came to the Cardinal wanting someone to… to defray the conspiracy, I would…”

“No.” Aramis had half risen from his seat, his features contorted by something like anger. “You cannot have meant to deliver the Queen to the Cardinal, for that must be your whole plan.”

Athos frowned at his friend, and finished drinking the cup of wine he held. “It might be,” he said, and dipped his head a bit. “But I will admit, my dear Aramis, that the situation seems to me somewhat more complex than that.”

He had the gratification of seeing Aramis raise eyebrows at him.

“I mean,” Athos said, “that there might indeed be some sort of conspiracy at work, though most of the part where the Cardinal thinks it applies to him… well, it seems to have originated whole cloth out of his mind.” He poured himself more wine, then said, “As far as my conversations, first with his eminence,” he said.

“Athos,” Porthos said, in shock, his hand going to his sword hilt, then forcibly away, as though he had but remembered that Athos was his blood brother, and one of those who had so often and unstintingly risked his life for Porthos. As though only awareness of that kept him from drawing, even right here, in Athos’s own lodging.

Athos looked back at him, pleased to note that his eyes were becoming unfocused through the action of the alcohol. “Well, Porthos… I needed to do something. And no, Aramis, I was in no hurry to implicate our Queen in anything. In fact, as the Cardinal so kindly reminded me, a Queen’s value by far trumps a pawn’s, so that I would not even consider such an exchange.” He shook his head. “But I…” He drew a long breath. “I have told his eminence that I will try to unravel this conspiracy against him, if conspiracy it is.” He frowned, as he dredged from the depths a memory fast becoming clouded by the wine, the exact words and implications of what the Cardinal had told him. “Aramis, you who are up on all court rumors-have you heard of the Queen and… Marie Michon courting Ornano, the governor of the Prince’s house?”

“Oh, that,” Aramis said. “I heard some rumor that they were opposed to the marriage of Monsieur, his being the heir apparent and all. But I’m not sure…”

“I’m not sure either, except that the Cardinal seems to think that this means they are in a conspiracy to kill him, which he seems to have got from some correspondence between the Queen and Marie Michon. He also hinted-though I cannot credit it-that they intended to kill the King. Or rather, Rochefort hinted that. It is, I’m sure, something destined to spur me on into investigating this conspiracy the Cardinal pretends to see.”

“And will you investigate it?” Aramis asked. “How?”

Athos shrugged. “That, my friend, I do not have the slightest notion about. The Cardinal himself hinted that I do not… That I lack the cunning, and the contacts to penetrate this sort of court intrigue. I confess…” His gaze was now fairly unfocused, which promised that by the time he got to talking about what he feared, his brain would be fogged enough that perhaps he could avoid making a complete fool of himself. “I confess my intention was simply to buy time-to have Mousqueton unharmed, until we could find who killed the armorer.”

“Right,” Porthos said. “And that’s the sort of thing we know how to do.”

Athos looked at him, and lifted his cup of wine a little, in a silent toast. “That is indeed, Porthos, but perhaps this case is a little more complex?”

“How more complex?” D’Artagnan asked, and, from the way his voice sounded, he was quite a good bit ahead of Athos in pursuit of a good drunk. “So far… well… if it was not Mousqueton-and don’t glare daggers at me, Porthos. I don’t believe it was Mousqueton-then it seems likely it was something happening in the man’s life. Something, perhaps, having to do with his wish to marry his daughter to Mousqueton. Perhaps the daughter decided to kill the father and implicate Mousqueton.”

“Right now,” Athos said, “I am quite willing to believe anything of any woman. But it seems a little odd to be judging a creature we don’t even know, save for a report that she is cross-eyed.” For some reason, this struck him as funny, and he added softly, “I will remind you, D’Artagnan, that being cross-eyed is not a proof of being a murderer. In point of fact, it has been recorded, throughout history, that various people have been cross-eyed without being murderers.”

D’Artagnan looked up at him, his expression vacant, which probably meant that, being further on the road to drunkenness than Athos, he would not retain any of this. Athos must remember to ask Aramis to relay to the boy what he heard. Because Athos didn’t think he could repeat it. Right now, Athos shook his head, and poured himself another cup of wine.

Porthos frowned at the cup as Athos took it to his lips. “Athos… I don’t mean to count, but I think that is your fifth.”

“Sixth. I figured I needed at least that, to…” He shook his head again. “Look, I don’t know what we can do to investigate the conspiracy, but… Aramis, on the off chance the conspiracy exists… And frankly, I don’t like the idea that Marie Michon is writing to Monsieur de Vendôme. We all know he’s hated the King ever since they were very young, and the hatred has only grown with time.”

Aramis sighed. “You can’t deny it’s a sad thing for a sovereign to have been married ten years, and still lack an heir to the throne.”

“I can’t deny it,” Athos said. “But I do find that perhaps Richelieu’s iron grip on France is causing more conspiracies than it should. If every lord were still independent in his own domain, it would be far more difficult to consider Paris, and what happens in Paris, all-important.”

The others didn’t say anything, though Aramis nodded.

And after a while in silence, Porthos said, “But that is not why you are looking like you died on your feet and are looking for a good place to fall over.” And then in a rush, “Or, forgive me, perhaps it is, but I’ve never known you to look like this… well… not since…”

Athos could well imagine what the since was that took up his friend’s mind. He felt his jaw set, and a muscle work on the side of it, like a metronome to his anger and sorrow. Another woman, another… He shook his head, again. “No,” he said. “No, though for all I know that might be tied in. I can’t imagine the lady in question thinks well of me, or has any kindness towards me,” he said. “She has to have heard of me from…” He shook his head again. “She would… You know…” And suddenly, one question rising foremost in his mind, he asked. “Why didn’t she come to me? If it was all a misunderstanding… why didn’t she explain? Surely she knew I loved her still?”

He looked out at his friends, who, at that moment, through the foggy veil of his emotions, looked like so many figures, sculpted in stone, their features blurry. He saw one of them thrust his head forward. It was the blond figure, and it was Aramis’s voice which spoke out. “What do you mean? Who is this ‘she’ you speak of?”

“My wife.”

“Your…” Porthos said.

Athos felt suddenly very exasperated with his friends. He was not sure what he had told them before, but he was sure it had been enough for them to piece together something of his past. “I…” He normally told this story in the third person. He didn’t know how to tell it any other way. And yet, this time he must. “When I was very young, shortly after I inherited the domain from my father… well… I needed a wife and I knew that. My father had neglected to arrange a marriage for me, and I was in no hurry to find one through the usual channels. The daughters of my neighbors bored me; the prospect of marrying a stranger through some arranged exchange filled me with dread.

“I am… in the normal way of life, rather reserved and would prefer to keep private, or only in the company of my close friends. And the idea of coming to Paris, of leaving my domains, made me feel as though my heart was breaking. You see… I was very fond of my domains. I had great plans for orchards and vineyards, and I’d grown up there, amid the rolling ground, and I knew all of my peasants from infancy. I looked forward to living the rest of my life there.” He shrugged, dismissing this as one would dismiss an impossible childhood dream. “And then, suddenly, one of the parishes on my land came vacant and the new incumbent was a young man, almost my age. Very pious. Fervent, in fact. His beautiful sister lived with him. I was aware that in the eyes of the world, she was as far below me as one of my own peasants. But she was so beautiful, so chaste, so religious. I fell in love with her and spent many a pleasant evening talking to her brother in their little cottage. In the way of things, I, who had never fallen in love before, fell in love with this beautiful blond woman and I married her. One week after she’d been elevated to countess, we were out, hunting. She hunted like Diana, a swift rider and an exacting markswoman. She was riding ahead of me, and turned back to say something. As she turned, she went under a low branch. It caught her and pulled her off her horse.” He stopped, because he could hear his voice tremble, on the edge of tears. Fortunately not being able to see his friends’ faces made it easier, but he heard Porthos draw breath as though to say something and, right now, pity was more than he could endure. “I dismounted and ran to her, naturally. She had lost consciousness. I panicked, also naturally, and took my hunting knife and cut her dress away, to give her the room to breathe. Which is when I found that she was marked with a fleur-de-lis.”

This time he couldn’t avoid hearing someone-he thought Porthos-say “Sangre Dieu” under his breath.

“I, after all my careful picking, and my refusal to be drawn in to a contracted, loveless marriage, had given my hand, my lands, my honor, to a marked criminal. You must understand… I was as in love as anyone can be, and I was a callow youth. It would have been better, perhaps, if my father hadn’t raised me away from the world and its fashions, if he hadn’t kept me from society. If I’d been sent to Paris, years before, for a while, and spent some time with young men my age, I might not have fallen for Charlotte. Or, if I had, since she was so very beautiful and so very accomplished, I would have had more resources of mind and heart to turn my crushing pain into something more manageable. I had none of those. Thoroughly provincial, I could think only that my honor was crushed forever. I could divorce her. I could judge her publically, for having imposed upon me. In… in my domains, the feudal law still held. As such, I thought that I could… justly condemn her. Only… it wasn’t like that. If I tried her publically, all my tenants and all my serfs would know of it. It would be spoken about till the end of my life. I could not do that. It wasn’t in my mind-set.

“So, still shocked and grieved, you realize, my mind roiling, my heart in turmoil, I took her, and I lifted her and put around her neck a noose from my saddlebag. And I hanged her from a low branch. Only afterwards, when I was riding away, did I think that because I had not exerted my authority through the normal channels and in an open way, this would be believed to be a murder-that whoever found her would think someone had murdered, and doubtless would think of me.

“Well, I was sure I could defend my actions, but I had started all of this because I wished to keep my family and myself from notoriety. So I did what I could to keep the talk down. I arranged things so that a distant cousin of mine would come and administer my domains in my absence. And I took some possessions from my house, but not too much. I let it be known that I would be going on a long voyage and didn’t know when I could return. I didn’t explicitly say my wife would be with me, but I let it be understood that she would be. That she had, in fact, gone ahead of me. I thought that way, if no one found her, it would be believed that we had left on some voyage together and, if I chose to come back in many years, I could do so and mention she had died, without exciting comment. And if she were found, I would be far, far away, and even though they might suspect me, no one would search for me.

“By nighttime I was on my way to Paris, with Grimaud. By the end of the week I was installed, as you see me, and I’d spoken to Monsieur de Treville, an old family friend, and obtained a post in the musketeers. Since then, every year, I’ve considered returning. But I’ve found I have very little interest in revisiting the site of my misguided idylls. And even if I did, I’d prefer it if the present generation has passed away, and no one there remembers how much in love I used to be.”

He was pacing again, between chair and window, his steps rubbery, the room seeming to tilt under his feet. Through his window he saw lights come and go, like torches in the night. Carriages, he supposed, or perhaps parties of people walking and carrying a torch or a lantern. Though this was not a place known for revelers, there was some foot traffic, at night. “I thought it a little odd that I never heard of her being found, or even of her missing. We were somewhat lost in my hunting preserve, but after all, other people hunted there, if no one else, my cousin when he came into residence. And if someone had found her, they could not at all be at a loss about who she was. She was wearing her clothes. But no one found her, and I simply waited and was happy of a momentary respite.”

He stopped, his mind in confusion, thinking he hadn’t been glad of a respite at all. All this time, all the years he’d been away from La Fere, he’d been waiting for doom to come upon his head again. The one time he’d been happy in his life had ended in the greatest dishonor and pain. The one time. And now, he wasn’t even happy, but he had his position and his friends. He had been waiting for something horrible to happen. And it might well have had.

“And what happened?” a voice asked. He thought it was Porthos. “Did they find her?”

Athos heard a very odd sound, half cackle, half sob escape his lips. “No. No, my friend. I found her. Today. Outside the Palais Cardinal.”

“What?” another voice asked, almost certainly D’Artagnan’s. “But how can her body…”

“It wasn’t her body. Or rather, yes, it was, but she had moved it herself, she still being very much alive.”

“You never verified that you had killed her?” Porthos asked.

Athos shook his head. “I couldn’t. Even such as I did… it has tormented my mind and heart… all these years.”

“And are you sure it was her?” Aramis asked. “You know women can look devilishly alike, and after all this time…”

Athos nodded. “Aramis, I’ve dreamed about her every night since it happened. In my heart, I’ve never really stopped thinking about her. Her image is etched in my heart and seared in my soul. I could never not recognize her. It was her, but she went by me as if she didn’t recognize me… which… perhaps she didn’t, but… Why the Palais Cardinal?”

There was another soft bout of swearing. From its definite near-pious characteristics, and the soft voice in which it was pronounced, Athos was sure it was Aramis. He tried to protest that he truly wanted to know, but his tongue had, unaccountably gone thick and unyielding. So had his legs, which presently stopped obeying him and lost all force under him.

“Porthos,” Aramis’s voice said, as though from a long way off. “You help me carry him to the bed. And you’d best stay here. I think both he and D’Artagnan are quite out of human reach, just now. I… I have some things to do, and I will return in the morning.”

“Things to do?”

“I know a man,” Aramis said, “who might tell me who this blond servant of the Cardinal is. I’m hoping, I’m almost praying, that she is not… whom Athos thought she was.”

And Athos, lost between consciousness and a deep, black abyss of nothing, wanted to explain he wouldn’t prefer that. Then he would still be waiting for them to find her body.

But his mouth could form no more than a long, low moan, and, as he felt Porthos lift him, he plunged fully into the black nothingness.