The Musketeer's Apprentice

A War Council; What the Servants Said; A Wife’s Loyalty

BACK in Paris, and after a night slept in their respective beds-a night, for the first time in many, not interrupted by strange attacks-the three musketeers plus one gathered early morning to break fast and talk at D’Artagnan’s lodging.

Porthos judged that the young man looked peaked. Perhaps it was the knock on the head. You never knew how it would take someone, and though the boy had survived worse scrapes before, perhaps this one had truly undone him. On the other hand, it might be the loss of the handkerchief.

Porthos, who still remembered very well the heady rush of being seventeen, and who, unlike Athos, had not managed in his life to conceive of much distaste for feminine company, found himself smiling at the boy’s disappointment as D’Artagnan announced, “Madame Bonacieux seems to be at the palace.”

Athos had merely frowned, and Aramis had grinned. “She will come back, young fool,” Aramis had said. “And probably rather soon.”

Planchet, having served them all with bread and cheese and wine, had retreated to enjoy his own meal in a corner. Porthos thought it was as good a time as any to bring the other ones up to date on his movements since coming back to the capital. “I went to see Athenais,” he said. “Late last night, after her household was asleep.”

“And?” Athos asked. “What is her word on her husband’s dealings and on Monsieur de Comeau?”

Porthos frowned. “Well… Those are… complex. To begin with, as far as she could find, Monsieur de Comeau is not now, nor has he ever been in her husband’s debt. On the contrary, perhaps, since Monsieur de Comeau seems to deal… in horses. He has bought horses from Monsieur Coquenard and sold them to Monsieur Coquenard. And he has bought and sold other horses with Monsieur Coquenard acting as intermediary. In the whole of their exchanges, Monsieur Coquenard is probably the debtor.”

Athos raised his eyebrows. He looked more shocked than Porthos had ever seen him look. “A horse trader…?” he said in shock.

Porthos laughed. Even though he still felt as though he were in mourning for Guillaume, and even though their situation remained dire, his amusement at Athos’s shock dragged the laughter from him. “Athos,” he said, gravely, “it is not as though he were a murderer. You must allow that horse trading is a lesser offense.”

Athos sat back on his chair, his mouth half-open. “Yes, yes. But… horse trading? Zounds, man. He’s a nobleman. And married to a woman of even higher pedigree.”

“Well…” Porthos said. “As to that, Athenais said she doesn’t think his wife knows anything of his… trading activities. She was, Athenais believes, married to him in the expectation of his having a greater fortune than he did. And she thinks he’s drawing money from his estates. Which he is, in a way-since he cycles the horses through his estates.”

“Horse trading,” Athos repeated, as though both words were in some arcane foreign language and he had trouble understanding them.

Aramis looked just as shocked, but D’Artagnan, for his still not fully focused looked, seemed more amused than anything else. He traded a look with Porthos, across the table.

“So, we can cross Monsieur de Comeau off our list?” Aramis asked.

“Well, perhaps,” Athos said. He frowned at them.

“What do you mean perhaps?” Aramis said. “If he’s making his money from horse trading, he’s not receiving it from either Monsieur Coquenard or the Cardinal.”

“True, but we know that Guillaume had a lamentable tendency to try to extort money from people based on the things of which they were ashamed and-”

“He never tried to get money from me,” Porthos protested. “I think you are jumping to conclusions.”

“Perhaps,” Athos said. “But Porthos, he did try to extort from you something he wanted-sword fighting lessons- based on his knowledge that you were hiding your true name under an assumed name in the musketeers.”

Porthos inclined his head. “I would have taught him sword fighting anyway.”

“But he didn’t know that,” Athos said. “What I don’t understand is why he would lie and tell Comeau he was his son, when it should be obvious Comeau would know he wasn’t. I wonder why he didn’t use Comeau’s horse trading as the true string on which to draw the lord’s purse.”

“Or perhaps he did,” Aramis said, raising an eyebrow.

“Or perhaps he did,” Athos said, and sighed. “And Comeau lied to us.”

Porthos frowned. “Well… perhaps, at that… but you know, I went back there and I asked around this morning before coming here.”

“You went back there?” Athos said. “You didn’t tell us.”

“I’m telling you now. I was going to tell you, but you were so shocked at the horse trading…” He shrugged. “Well… You see… I went back, on the way here, and I talked to the servants and maids at the house. And all of them agree that Monsieur de Comeau tossed the boy out on his ear and gave him short shrift on his attempt to blackmail him.”

“Yes, but did he intend to kill him, perhaps so that he couldn’t talk to his wife.”

“His wife,” Porthos said, remembering. “Well, the thing is that the maids tell me Guillaume continued coming to the house, you know, and that he went and talked to his wife too.”

“He I assume being Guillaume?” Athos asked.

“Yes, of course,” Porthos said.

“And were you so enterprising as to go and find out from his wife what exactly Guillaume had talked to her about?” Athos asked.

Porthos shook his head. “What I hear, from the maids and everything,” he said, “is that his wife was of higher birth than him, and… you know, a true lady, full of her own importance. As such, I figured she wouldn’t want to talk to someone like me any more than she would want to go out in public in a stained gown, you see…”

Athos stared, eyebrows raised. “I suppose we should send Aramis to talk to her?”

“Indeed no,” Aramis said.

Athos looked at Aramis and Porthos could tell that Athos was surprised, which was not a very common thing with him. “No?”

Aramis sighed. “It turns out that Madame de Comeau is the friend of a lady who… well… she wouldn’t hold me in esteem.” He looked at his nails, which he usually did to disguise embarrassment or to hide confusion. “The thing is, at any rate, that she doesn’t consider me aristocratic enough to be part of her circle.”

“You?” Porthos asked, and sat back on his stool so heavily he almost caused it to overturn. Only a quick grasp of the edge of the table saved him. “You? Who were the lover of a duchess and who are routinely courted by princesses. You are not noble enough?”

Aramis sighed. He flecked away some imaginary dirt from his doublet. “Well, you see, Porthos, it is like this, that princesses and duchesses don’t care how noble you are and are likely to consider you noble enough for them if you are noble at all. But people like Madame de Comeau who are in the lower degrees of nobility… indeed, at about my level, like to flatter themselves that they are far more noble and of more ancient family line than they are, and thus they wouldn’t dream of associating with me.” He looked up. It was hard to tell if his green eyes were sparkling with something that might be annoyance or amusement or both combined. “I’m afraid, Athos, that you’ll have to talk to her. You, with your looks and every appearance of being descended from crowned heads, she might be willing to talk to.”

Athos made a face, and seemed to be about to refuse, but finally nodded, his expression still grim. “Very well, if I must talk to the woman, I will. Though I can’t imagine what you expect me to find.”

“Only what Guillaume told her, and what she might have answered,” D’Artagnan said. “Always taking in account her expression and reactions, of course. You must rely on your sensible examination of the circumstances.”

“But what do you hope to find?” Athos said.

“Anything, nothing,” Aramis said. “I don’t know. But if her husband did the boy violence, then she might know it.”

Porthos nodded. “This leaves as suspects Monsieur de Comeau, Amelie’s father and mother, my… father and, I suppose, my cousins.”

Aramis nodded. “I should mention,” he said, “that I talked to some people I know this morning.”

“People, you know?” Athos said.

“Mostly people of the female persuasion, I assume,” Porthos said, unable to resist ribbing his friend.

Aramis turned to him, his eyes oddly serious. “I can’t determine that either of Amelie’s parents approached the boy,” he said. “But both of them asked around enough about their daughter. And your Amelie’s father stayed at the Hangman for a while.”

“How did you find this out?” Porthos asked.

“Ah…” Aramis shrugged. “You’d be surprised what mendicant friars see and hear. I simply asked some whose normal station is near the tavern. It was easy enough, by description of her father and mention of where her mother would be from, you see…”

“And my father?” Porthos asked. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know. Oh, there was no love lost between himself and his father. There hadn’t been for many a year. But the thing was that no matter how much Porthos told himself his father was a boar and a madman with no manners and worse morals, he was still Porthos’s father.

Porthos could remember being a little boy in Marie’s care and thinking his father was the biggest, the strongest and the most wise man in the world too. He remembered seeing everyone in St. Guillaume du Vallon deferring to his father and thinking that he was truly the most important of men. Somehow, the old, cantankerous man who had sent Porthos to Paris and now refused to admit Porthos existed inhabited the same body as the idolized giant of Porthos’s childhood. And he didn’t wish either of them to have committed murder, much less murder of Porthos’s son.

Aramis shrugged. “Your father also looked around, though he must be credited with looking for you first, and then Guillaume. I think he spoke with Amelie. Guillaume’s sister. Other than that, I haven’t found much.”

Porthos closed his eyes and hoped his father hadn’t done anything stupid, but then he had to open his eyes again and go on hoping. He drank the wine in his cup, and nodded, all around. “I shall talk to de Termopillae,” he said.

“I shall go with you,” Aramis said.

“And I,” Athos said, speaking as though he were being asked to sacrifice himself to some unknowable pagan deity, “shall go and interview Madame de Comeau.”

“And I think,” D’Artagnan said, slowly. “That I shall go back to sleep.”

Porthos wondered if the boy was truly still addled from his knock on the head, or whether he wanted to stay home to see if the beautiful wife of his landlord would put in an appearance. Either way, it was a temporary affliction and would surely pass.