The Cardinal's Red Lily

by

Maren von Strom

Historical Novel

About

Alexandre Dumas published The Three Musketeers in 1844 and the sequel Twenty Years After in 1845. But what happened to the protagonist of both novels, the famous hero d'Artagnan, in the meantime? The Cardinal's Red Lily tells an alternate story about what might have been...

Paris 1640 - One for all and all for one!

For a long time, the brave Musketeers' reputation preceded them, but when Captain de Tréville falls from grace, the regiment is disbanded. The former Lieutenant d'Artagnan is determined to save the corps - even if that means joining the Red Guard of the scheming Cardinal Richelieu. Scorned as a traitor, d'Artagnan must confront a web of intrigues, dangerous love affairs and vengeful enemies in order to achieve his mission.

Author

Maren von Strom, born 1983, studied history and holds a Magistra Artium in literary history and medieval studies. Dumas' The Three Musketeers has fascinated her since childhood. Early on, she wrote new stories and continued the adventures of the heroes in them.

Printing History

D ie Lilie in Kardinalrot

Originally published in Germany 2019

English Translation published 2021

Imprint

Text: © Copyright by Maren von Strom

Translation: © Copyright by Maren von Strom

Editing: © Copyright by Maren von Strom and by Kristin Schoppe

Cover: © Copyright by Maren von Strom and © Copyright Michael Stratmann

Publisher: Maren von Strom

Blumenstraße 20

42119 Wuppertal

Germany

MarenvS@gmx.de

Dramatis personae

The following is a list of the characters involved, with those marked * being historical and/or based on the work of Alexandre Dumas père.

Musketeers and Loyalists

Arnaud de Tréville*, captain in exile

Charles de Batz-Castelmore d'Artagnan*, former lieutenant

Pauger, former musketeer

Jumonville, former musketeer

Fernand de Grinchamps, Baron

Duke de la Nièvre, father of Odette

Guardsmen and Cardinalists

Armand-Jean du Plessis, Cardinal Richelieu*

Charles-César de Rochefort*, Richelieu's stable master

Luchaire, captain of the red guard

Auguste de Jussac*, lieutenant

Grégoire de Sorel, blithe spirit

Bernajoux*, swashbuckler

Biscarat*, occasional spy

Cahusac*, senior soldier

Civilians and Others

Odette de la Nièvre, grandniece of Richelieu

Elise Perrault, maidservant of Odette

Sarah Simon, friend of Elise

Gustav Moraut, valet

Gabrielle de Jussac, mother of Lucas and Mathilde

Madeleine "Chevrette "*, landlady of d'Artagnan

Étienne Martel, majordomo of Tréville

Prologue

The Hôtel towered up stony and unyielding in front of the visitor. It was an impressive and magnificent building, unparalleled in its pomp and size. The gate wings were closed, their copper-coloured fittings shined dully in the light of the setting sun. Above the archway was a coat of arms; a golden lion in a red field, wrapped around it in a banner with the motto; Fidelis et fortis.

The main entrance to the Hôtel de Tréville was always locked at night, when long shadows fell on the street and the other houses nestled together for protection. Paris was a blindingly beautiful woman by day, enticing and beguiling. At night she was a whore, old and worn out, always holding a knife behind her back.

This morning, the gate has not been reopened to let the daily, endless stream of visitors pass into the Hôtel. Now the afternoon has already been leaning towards the evening. The inner courtyard was lonely and deserted. The horse stables were abandoned, as were the utility rooms. The extensive staircase at the entrance hall was no longer the scene of an everyday siege, and no one had to find a way past the many guests and musketeers to the captain's cabinet; it was locked and when a hand cautiously pressed the doorknob, the door did not open.

Less surprised than concerned about this fact, Lieutenant d'Artagnan tried again by knocking emphatically. But there was no one left in the rooms, which that had served as the headquarters of His Majesty's Musketeers for many years. The regiment was disbanded, the officers dismissed. What remained was an unusually empty house and a former lieutenant of the Musketeers, who was visibly struggling with himself to finally turn away and leave into the uncertain.

Steps approached d'Artagnan from behind and he heard a familiar voice saying, ʹIt has become very quiet.ʹ The words were spoken softly, almost in a whisper, as if the orator feared the echo that could reverberate unbroken from the bare walls. ʹOne will have to get used to it.ʹ

D'Artagnan hesitated noticeably before turning around. ʹThat will not be easy, mon capitaine.ʹ He showed a bitter smile. Ten years of tireless service for king and fatherland, ten years between life and death on countless battlefields, had not left the lieutenant unaffected.

Monsieur de Tréville, tired and apparently deprived of all his strength in just one night, waved off his former subordinate who was bowing respectfully to him. ʹPolite and embarrassed formalities have been exchanged enough. I am not your captain anymore.ʹ He leaned against the banister and glanced down into the hall of his house. Tréville had fought many battles over the years, brave and faithful, as his family's motto on the archway manifests. But now the captain looked years older, exhausted from politics and the wars at the royal court of Louis XIII.

It was only after a while, during which he remained absorbed in his own thoughts and seemed almost to forget the presence of the other man, when Tréville asked, ʹWhat leads you back here?ʹ

D'Artagnan shrugged. Had old habit summoned him? Or was it nostalgia that haunted him painfully? Or did he not want to accept a defeat without a fight and searched the Hôtel for brothers in arms? Tréville was the only one who could have gained a victory in this kind of political war, but he seemed to be finally defeated. It frightened d'Artagnan, who could neither be accused of being afraid of death nor the devil. ʹIt is over?ʹ

ʹYes.ʹ A very sober word without contradiction. It did not sound as if the decision of a prime minister and a weak king could be reversed in any way. The regiment of musketeers remained disbanded, for it had fallen victim to courtly intrigue.

In a spontaneous gesture, forgetting all formalities and differences in rank, d'Artagnan leaned against the banister next to his captain, also letting his eyes wander. He knew every detail in the entrance hall, every notch in the parquet flooring, every impurity in the window glasses. The impressions had burned in over the years, it only became clear to him with the loss. ʹWhen will you come back, mon capitaine?ʹ

Tréville smiled fugitively about the the special emphasis with which d'Artagnan pronounced his old rank. ʹI am banished in disfavour.ʹ

ʹWrongfully!ʹ

ʹYou think so?ʹ

D'Artagnan was too upset to even briefly be in doubt. ʹYes! Mordieux, he who calls you a traitor is one himself!ʹ

ʹWatch your words!ʹ reproved Tréville. ʹThe house may be deserted, but there are still plenty of rats.ʹ

ʹLet them burrow in the dirt, I fear them not!ʹ

ʹThen you are a fool.ʹ The captain pushed himself off the banister to follow the stairs down.

D'Artagnan hesitated, but he was not yet as melancholy as Tréville was. With a few determined steps, he was therefore back at the captain's side. ʹThere must be a way to prevent this!ʹ

ʹYou will do nothing! Do you understand, monsieur le lieutenant? The king's word is law and you still have a bright future ahead of you.ʹ The two men reached a side gate, an unadorned door out into the street, intended for the servants. Like a thief, Tréville was now about to sneak away, leave Paris and never return.

D'Artagnan knew nothing more to say. Everything would have been inappropriate and wrong, and so he remained silent and dejected as Tréville boarded a carriage. An escort on horseback stood ready. It would ensure that the traveller reached his distant destination in the Gascony.

ʹGood luckʹ, Tréville said in parting. D'Artagnan murmured to the departing carriage, ʹTo you too.ʹ

And then he was left alone with his bright future.

I - Prisoners of war

The autumn of 1640 reached Paris with dark, gloomy prospects. Tenacious fog crept through the streets, penetrating every crack, every crevice and groping for people and animals with clammy fingers. The sun remained covered with heavy clouds, no wind was blowing and the already oppressive atmosphere was joined by the ineradicable stench of piss pots, latrines and rubbish in the streets.

After a hot summer, the Seine carried little water, the river was brown, muddy and sluggish and unspeakable things drifted under the bridges. The whole town seemed to be waiting for a relieving storm that would finally wash away the dirt, the rubbish and the rats.

While the grey cloud cover threatened Paris without bringing rain, the valet Gustave Moraut drowned in a trough. With his hands, he tried to find a hold, slipped off, reared up and was pressed even deeper with his face into the water. Air bubbles rose when he instinctively screamed in panic, shortening his life by precious seconds.

Suddenly, he was grabbed by his hair and pulled back. He spat water and gasped for air. Lying on his knees, his head brutally pulled back into the neck, he could not see his tormentors. Only cold, dark stone walls, damp, mossy; his prison for weeks now.

He was yelled at, ʹWhere is she?ʹ

He was crying, wetting himself and coughing. Again his head was pressed into the trough. This time it took longer, because now he didn't scream and saved his breath. That made it worse, because they waited until his lungs were burning and he was breathing water. He died, was dragged mercilessly back to life and had to vomit.

Back in the water, without a question before. Moraut's body still resisted, wanted to lash about and free itself, wanted to survive in mortal fear. The pain stabbed deeply into his chest as he was torn from hell just before drowning.

ʹI don't know!ʹ he shouted up to the dungeon ceiling and was beaten to the ground. In front of the guards' boots, his tormentors, he curled up, spat water, gasped and whimpered, ʹDunno, dunno...ʹ

*~*~*~*~*

ʹGustave Moraut.ʹ The name was in the first line of the report. Rochefort knew the contents by heart and now summarised it for his master. ʹUntil a few weeks ago, he was one of the servants here at the Palais Cardinal. Now he is in prison.ʹ

ʹI remember, monsieur le comte.ʹ There was something cutting and impatient in the voice of the prime minister of France. His stable master had seldom heard this undertone from Richelieu and it told him to get straight to the heart of the report. ʹEven after the torture, he does not know where she is.ʹ

The cardinal showed no emotion whether the report surprised him or whether he had expected it. Richelieu kept his thoughts to himself as he looked down from his study window onto the Cour d'Honneur, the courtyard. His face was tense and pale, his cheeks sunken and marked by illness. But his gaze was clear and penetrating, the spirit defying the weakened body. He had put his hands together behind his back.

Rochefort was a skilled observer of details, so he noticed the ink stains on the cardinal's fingertips. On the desk lay the manuscript of the Political Testament. Clearly written reflections, not a word, not a single sentence had been crossed out and replaced by a different wording while the creation. The last feather pen strokes were still drying, His Eminence had been working on the manuscript when Rochefort had entered the study.

Rochefort had recently often seen the memorandum lying there; it was truly a testament. Even if the prime minister did not let on, did not spare himself, his health was not in good shape these days. He elevated reason to the supreme discipline of a sovereign; perhaps the manuscript was now growing faster under the impression of the last few weeks.

ʹYou will find out the whereabouts of her, Rochefort! Young women do not disappear without a trace. Not from this palace, right under my eyes! Not without-ʹ Suddenly Richelieu grabbed his breast with a tortured face. ʹNot without-ʹ A coughing fit shook the prime minister, he staggered and at the same time refused to lean on the windowsill.

Rochefort took a step forward, but then, despite his concern, hesitated to offer support himself. Richelieu would have turned down the aid and not admitted any weakness. So instead, Rochefort took the glass of warmed wine from the desk and handed it to him. He hold on to the glass as Richelieu took it with trembling fingers. With rattling breath, the cardinal brought the wine to his lips and drank until his affected lungs had calmed down.

Rochefort put the glass back and picked up the thread as if nothing had happened. ʹShe must still have one or more allies. This lackey, Moraut, is not one of them.ʹ

ʹAllies, confidants, admirers.ʹ Richelieu's voice still sounded fragile and husky. But his red cassock had fortunately not been stained by coughing bloodstains. ʹWhat about Fernand de Grinchamps?ʹ

ʹIn hiding, probably still in Paris.ʹ

ʹProbably?ʹ

ʹI will soon know for sure.ʹ

Richelieu looked at his stable master for a long moment and Rochefort stood his ground. He had already served the cardinal for too many years, had caught more than one scar, had suffered more than one wound, to be unsettled by a judgemental look. Rochefort had sharpened his mind on the royal court's obscure intrigues, but he was still rarely able to read the prime minister's thoughts. Even now he failed.

Richelieu turned back to the window. ʹOur interest is mainly in Odette de la Nièvre.ʹ

ʹShe will have made some friends in your care over the past few months. Someone will still be in contact with her and could give us a vital clue to her whereabouts.ʹ Rochefort shrugged. ʹBut no one in the Palais will speak openly to me.ʹ

ʹMy other spies?ʹ

ʹToo well known among the servants. Some of them are the servants, Monseigneur.ʹ

ʹSo, in my own house, everyone is suspicious of everyone else in this matter.ʹ

Rochefort remained silent. This had gone from family strife to political intrigue and he knew no advice for his master. The father of the headstrong Odette de la Nièvre would certainly soon lose patience and, as threatened, air Richelieu's dirty laundry in public that could shake even a powerful prime minister. Then there would not be a more welcome victim like the captain of the musketeers, who this time had interfered in the wrong affairs.

Richelieu let a few moments slip by, then seemed to make up his mind. ʹSo I have to commission a new, innocent and useful man in my service.ʹ

ʹUndoubtedly, Monseigneur has a certain man in mind?ʹ Rochefort thought his part. In this context, 'innocent' and 'useful' meant 'easy to direct' and 'bought with money'.

The cardinal bowed his head and surprised Rochefort with the next question, which seemed to address a completely different subject. ʹTell me, after the dissolution of the Royal Musketeers, what happened to the soldiers and officers?ʹ

ʹThey have been mostly assigned to other regiments. Some of the musketeers are in the field against Spain at Arras. The officers have either retired from service and retreated to their estates or have been given new posts in the king's troops.ʹ While he was still pronouncing the last sentence, Rochefort understood the sudden interest in the king's former musketeers. It was brilliant.

Richelieu pretended to be thoughtful, pondering, when he said, ʹSurely there will be one among these officers who is dissatisfied with his fate. Someone who wants to see the musketeers reinstated. Perhaps even as their next captain.ʹ

Rochefort smiled knowingly. One of those officers had behaved so rebellious after the dissolution of the regiment that he initially took a lieutenant's commission without a post. ʹI will seek out this definite one immediately and make him an offer.ʹ

Richelieu raised his hand with a warning gesture. ʹDo it wisely! I want a soldier for my guard. Someone who has not belonged to this house before, but who will be in the palace every day from now on. Someone who will have to endure the contempt of old and new comrades and who, with ambition for another cause, will earn enough trust to find the mademoiselle for us.ʹ The cardinal took a sharp look at Rochefort. ʹNo musketeer, and certainly not this lieutenant, will accept such an offer. Monsieur d'Artagnan had refused our generosity a few years earlier, when his situation was no less difficult.ʹ

ʹI will find the right incentive. I know him.ʹ

ʹGood.ʹ Richelieu was visibly exhausted by the long speech, so he sat down at his desk. There he picked up the quill and pulled the manuscript towards himself. ʹReport back to me immediately.ʹ

ʹAs you wish, Monseigneur.ʹ After a last hesitation, when Richelieu seemed to be suppressing another budding cough, Rochefort left the study and went in search of an old friend.

II – Resigned

The punch came from the right. D'Artagnan immediately fell to the ground and remained lying there dazed. He blinked disoriented and with a veiled look, not sure how he had landed on the tavern floor. Only his aching chin, where the blow had hit him, and the hammering in his head made him instinctively gasp for air. Just in time he saw the attacker draw out for a kick.

Before his ribs could make the acquaintance of a heavy working boot, d'Artagnan caught the kick with his hands. For a fraction of an instant, his opponent's face was covered with a bewildered expression before a roll to the side pulled him off his feet. In the same movement, d'Artagnan jumped up and faced the two companions of the craftsman. Two strong men, each half a head taller than the lieutenant himself. They were simple minded and extremely angry with him. They had necks like oxen and upper arms like rafters. Apparently, they earned their money with honest, hard work and only wanted to spend their wages in the tavern Three Crowns.

A rather drunk former musketeer had thwarted their plans when he got up from his seat at one of the back tables, but was no longer in control of his feet and had bumped into one of these good men. One outraged word gave the next and then a bare fist spoke.

The fact that d'Artagnan had taken their friend by surprise seemed to stop them from pouncing on him immediately. Maybe they had a spark of sense left in their heads not to mess with a fully armed officer. D'Artagnan was no longer allowed to wear the musketeer's tunic, but he had not renounced his nobility rights to the dagger and sword. He carried his pistol hidden under his cloak.

The other guests watched the spectacle and had not yet decided whose side they were on. A barmaid, on the other hand, had already run into the street and one could hear her calling for the town guard. The innkeeper had reached for a poker by the fireplace. Judging by his anxious expression, the gesture was more in defence than attack.

It would have now been wise to mumble half-hearted apologies and let the matter drop. But d'Artagnan still tasted the last cup of wine on his tongue and he was way too proud to retreat. ʹCome on!ʹ

The command was enough and three embittered lives collided. This time, d'Artagnan was prepared and dodged the first blow, only to strike in his turn. Except for a snort, his opponent was completely unimpressed. His sidekick jumped in and took the opportunity for another kick. D'Artagnan was hit in the knee and stumbled. He had also completely forgotten the third one on the ground. The man was back on his feet and grabbed the lieutenant from behind with both arms. The grip was relentless. The other two craftsmen grinned gleefully.

The other guests became restless. Some of them jumped up and cheered the opponents, because they wanted to see an exciting spectacle. Others took refuge before they would unexpectedly become part of the tussle. The first jugs and chairs were knocked over, insults flew through the tavern. The innkeeper looked pleadingly to the door to see if his maid had finally alerted the guards, but still no one shouted for a stop and an arrest.

D'Artagnan took the first blow with tense muscles, yet it almost drove the air out of his lungs. Instinctively, he writhed in the clasp - and got free. His success surprised not only himself. The entire Three Crowns held its breath as the craftsman groaned and collapsed. He remained lying with a bleeding wound at the back of his head.

ʹHave you not learned your lesson from the village of Meung yet?ʹ Rochefort put down a beer mug and took a step over the unconscious man on the ground to join d'Artagnan. He rebuked him, scrutinising him like a teacher scrutinised a pupil. ʹYou should only start bar brawls with a friend in your back.ʹ

D'Artagnan snorted disparagingly, without letting the two remaining roughnecks out of his sight. ʹThen better stay behind my back before you get a black eye.ʹ

ʹA black eye? The mob wants blood.ʹ

D'Artagnan pulled up an arm just in time to protect himself when a cup flew just past his ear. That was the general signal and where the spectators had just formed a semicircle, a beating crowd suddenly swayed back and forth. The lieutenant lost sight of Rochefort as he had to duck away in the confusion of the battle under a swing with a broken chair leg. Retreat had suddenly become a desirable option.

It was due to the good reputation of the Three Crowns that no weapons were drawn during the next few moments. The fight was nevertheless noisy and fierce, and even spread to the street in front of the tavern; one moment passers-by were peering curiously through the windows, and the next moment they were participating in fistfights, in which everyone was punching each other without really knowing why. The innkeeper pressed himself into a corner and someone realised that not only jugs and cups but also wine bottles could be thrown splendidly.

Glass shattered just above d'Artagnan's head and shards fell down onto his feather hat. He had stayed too long in one place and had become a worthwhile target. Cursing, he gave up looking for Rochefort and made his way past overturned tables and chairs. Two fronts fought with each other; left against right, maybe even front against back. Once one of the two parties was defeated, the remaining one would turn the conflict against itself until the town guards intervened.

D'Artagnan had no desire to be arrested and thus to lose the meagre remnants of his reputation and honour, which he had still retained. A man came running towards him with his fists raised. He tripped him up and then looked around in the breathing space. At the back of the taproom, a door led out into the courtyard; and there was Rochefort.

The stable master did not seem to have gotten a scratch, at most his coat had gotten a bit messy. He waited at the door until d'Artagnan had found a way to get to him with further ducking and evading. They exchanged glances, then he followed Rochefort out into the courtyard immediately. But d'Artagnan had barely left the door behind himself when someone grabbed his shoulder, tore him around and hit him. Again, he staggered dazed, again, it was Rochefort in his back who saved him from falling.

With an angry roar, d'Artagnan shook off the helping hand and drew his pistol. The craftsman's attack ended abruptly as he stared into the muzzle of the gun. Cold sweat dripped from his forehead, fear of death in his eyes. For a seemingly endless moment nothing happened. Then d'Artagnan's finger pulled the trigger.

ʹD'Artagnan!ʹ

The commanding tone made the former musketeer pause. His finger remained on the trigger, just before firing, when Rochefort stepped next to him. ʹShoot and you will be in the Bastille within an hour.ʹ

ʹYou would get me out of there, my friend.ʹ

ʹYes, I would.ʹ Rochefort nodded narrowly and without pity for the unfortunate roughneck, who was still staring at the pistol and making a whimpering sound. D'Artagnan replied, laboriously restrained, ʹWell?ʹ

ʹWell, you will owe me your life and more than one favour. That simplifies matters for me, of course.ʹ Rochefort made a discarding gesture. ʹGo ahead, shoot this fool. Is he worth the debt? I still suspect one last bit of sense in you.ʹ

ʹAh, you suppose?ʹ

ʹSelf-respect is obviously not an issue.ʹ

The pistol grip missed Rochefort only because he grabbed d'Artagnan's wrist in time and deflected the blow. A shot went off and got lost somewhere in the sky over Paris. The craftsman screamed in panic and stumbled over his own feet as he fled, while behind him the lieutenant and stable master fought doggedly for the upper hand.

In the tavern, the shot had been heard and now everyone was just trying to get away. The noise of the fighting changed, it sounded now like naked fear for one's life and escape. Finally, the roughneck stumbled back into the taproom. The door to the courtyard closed. When the clacking could be heard in the lock, Rochefort released the lieutenant from the headlock and patted him on the shoulder. ʹYou are slacking.ʹ

D'Artagnan shot him a sinister look and picked up his pistol, which had been lost during the struggle. ʹDo you still want to get a black eye? The next blow will not be a charade to frighten a fool.ʹ

ʹI will do without, you have already not escaped unscathed for both of usʹ, Rochefort said dryly, while d'Artagnan looked sourly at the blood stain on his shirt sleeve after wiping his face. The musketeer said nothing more, fit his hat and envisaged the courtyard. A cul-de-sac, framed by ivy-covered house fronts. His gaze finally caught on an open window on a higher floor of the neighbouring house. He sighed.

ʹExactly.ʹ Rochefort turned away too quickly for d'Artagnan to actually accuse him of having a wolfish grin. The stable master went on ahead and climbed up to the window on a stable rose trellis. After a prudent glance, he pulled himself into the house by the shutters.

D'Artagnan waited a while for horrified screeches or angry shouts from the inhabitants. When this did not happen, he too set out on his ascent. Despite his aching knee, the lieutenant managed to climb into the house. Just in time. As soon as he had taken his foot off the window sill, he had to duck, because the town guards stormed the courtyard with a loud din. Now, at the latest, nobody wanted to have anything to do with the incidents at the Three Crowns.

D'Artagnan listened to the noise outside, to the imperious shouts and slamming doors, while he glanced quickly at the surrounding space. It was a bedroom. Near the window was a bed, the sheets rumpled as if they had been hectically left in the morning. A dresser stood at the foot of the bed, in one corner was a stool placed. A shirt had been carelessly thrown over it. It covered a pair of riding boots leaning beside it. A bachelor's dwelling, it seemed. There was no reason to stay here any longer.

D'Artagnan snuck out of the room and met Rochefort in the long corridor behind. They found themselves in a half-timbered house, solidly built, but quite dark because of the small windows. The ceilings were low, and one could reach for the beams without stretching too much. The walls felt chilly and did not meet at a single straight angle. It smelled of wood and plaster, of fresh laundry and bread, of a good middle-class parlour. Rochefort looked around to see if they had really gone unnoticed and then gave a sign to follow him. D'Artagnan caught up with him and asked quietly, ʹAre we alone?ʹ

ʹNo.ʹ Rochefort pointed to a door a few steps away. It was left ajar, a shadow was moving under the crack, seemed to lurk. Whoever was there had noticed the burglary, the noise from the tavern, the gunshot and the loud shouts of the town guards. ʹLet us get out of here.ʹ

It would not have been necessary to ask, Rochefort had already followed half the stairs to the lower floor, peered over the banister and hurriedly continued his way. D'Artagnan didn't limp along quite so skilfully and looked back over his shoulder at the landing.

The young woman at the door returned his gaze without shyness and more sceptically than surprised. She seemed to be the daughter of the house, barely twenty years old. She was wearing a simple dress, which served more for usefulness in everyday life than to emphasise her beauty. Her copper-coloured hair was braided into a loose braid and framed a narrow face. She patterned the intruder in an estimating manner, her green eyes in fascinating contrast to her red head. Had she stepped out of the room out of curiosity instead of hiding? She seemed suspicious and determined, not a trace of fear - and she had a pistol pointed at d'Artagnan.

He did not dare to move. Instead, he tried his most charming, apologetic smile and reaped a disapproving frown in return. The gun lay calmly in the mademoiselle's hand, she seemed to be able to handle it. She was still thinking about her next steps and did not say a word. She did not ask for an explanation, but seemed to draw her own conclusions from what she saw and heard.

For a moment, d'Artagnan wondered what her voice might sound like. Now she looked at him in indignation as he boldly raised a finger to his lips, winked at her and then descended the stairs as if it were a matter of course. The mademoiselle's voice remained a secret, for she did not ask him to stand still nor did she alarm the other residents or called for help from the town guards in the courtyard.

She did not shoot a bullet at him either.

D'Artagnan wondered how he could get to the front door safely. Hell, he wondered when he had even taken the last steps to the front door and whether this brief encounter had not just been a daydream! Battered, bloody, and filthy, he would not have let himself get away with just a disarming smile.

Rochefort waited at the door and grabbed him impatiently by the arm to draw d'Artagnan's attention back to the escape. The stable master did not seem to have noticed the young woman, and d'Artagnan forgot to mention her about the more urgent problem of not being arrested after all.

Fortunately, the door was no further obstacle, it opened without any problems and after a last, prudent hesitation, the two men stepped out into the street. All things considered, they had stayed in the house for less than five minutes - but d'Artagnan suspected that it had been five of the most important minutes of his life.

III – Recruited

When d'Artagnan reached his accommodation in Rue Tiquetonne, he was no longer limping. Perhaps he was too absorbed in his thoughts to pay any further attention to his injuries or he simply did not want to admit any weakness to Rochefort. The stable master had joined him, saying only, ʹI shall accompany you.ʹ D'Artagnan had not contradict him.

On the way to d'Artagnan's home they were not disturbed by the town guards, at best a few suspicious looks followed them because of the dishevelled appearance of the former musketeer. D'Artagnan did not care, he had started enough arguments for today. He had lived in Paris for so many years now that he no longer thought that every remark or glance was an attack on his honour. Even the last duel with Rochefort was several years ago and from that they had emerged as friends. So they walked the path together in silence, and just as naturally, d'Artagnan let the stable master enter his lodgings without the need for any words.

While d'Artagnan refreshed himself at the wash bowl in his bedroom and made himself more or less presentable again, Rochefort uncorked a bottle of good wine from Anjou taken from the stock in the kitchen. Equipped with cups and wine, the stable master strolled over to the salon and sat down in a comfortable armchair. He had to admit that d'Artagnan had not furnished himself badly. As lieutenant, he could not exactly live off the fat of the land, but he had found a good accommodation after moving out of his old attic room. He seemed to be well looked after here, and Rochefort asked mockingly when d'Artagnan joined him in a fresh linen shirt and with a less bloody nose, ʹIs your landlady not here at all? She usually rushes over immediately if you get even the slightest scratch and raises a hue and cry.ʹ

ʹMock me all you like, Rochefort,ʹ the younger replied with half a smile and had wine poured for himself. ʹMy Chevrette is a good woman.ʹ

ʹShe keeps your bed warm.ʹ

ʹShe lets me stay for rent even when I am not paid.ʹ D'Artagnan found that while he was talking about his landlady, his mind was already wandering back to the rear building at the Three Crowns and to the unexpected meeting with the mademoiselle. Her determined look, the pistol. Had she really threatened him? No, she could have just stayed in her room. Had she perhaps protected someone else? Like younger siblings? She had a lovely dimple on her chin.

Rochefort leaned back in his armchair and watched the lieutenant over the edge of his cup of wine. ʹHow long are you going to keep this up?ʹ

ʹI very much hope for a while longer!ʹ D'Artagnan knew that Rochefort did not mean his relationship with Madeleine Chevrette and unfortunately, after this evasive answer, the stable master did not let it go.

ʹYou want to commute between home and tavern for a while longer, depending on where is more wine? My dear friend, you have picked up some bad habits.ʹ

ʹFrom you?ʹ

ʹFrom Athos.ʹ

An expression of bitterness was evident in d'Artagnan's face. ʹAthos has inherited. On his country estate, he has other worries than looking after the affairs of Paris. You, Rochefort, are the only friend I have left.ʹ

ʹIndeed, and I still bear the marks of your friendship.ʹ Rochefort greeted the other with a raised cup and without grudge. ʹI was spared another scar today, but next time I will not pull you out of the turmoil.ʹ

D'Artagnan laughed. ʹSo you saved me! I am curious, how does it feel to rush in at the right moment and be the hero?ʹ

ʹYou tell me. According to the stories, you save noble ladies almost every day, even queens or the whole of France.ʹ

ʹThere are stories?ʹ

ʹNo.ʹ

ʹRegrettable.ʹ The lieutenant sighed sadly. ʹI'm just a soldier who has resigned and is no longer needed. I have been forgotten at royal court. Without the musketeers, I am nothing.ʹ

ʹIndeed,ʹ Rochefort agreed completely unaffected and d'Artagnan pulled a wry face. ʹI love you too.ʹ

ʹDid you want to hear something else?ʹ The comte shook his head. ʹI'm not here to listen to your self-pitying whining.ʹ

ʹBut you drink my wine anyway!ʹ

ʹAnd it is quite excellent, I admit.ʹ

D'Artagnan realised that his piercing looks bounced off Rochefort without effect, so he turned up his nose and gave them both a refill. ʹIf not for a comforting embrace and an encouraging slap on the back, why are you here?ʹ

ʹFor two reasons; First, to repeat my question. How long are you going to keep this up?ʹ

ʹSecondly?ʹ

Rochefort shrugged. ʹTo maliciously exploit your situation for my own purposes, of course.ʹ

ʹAh, you never give me any warning beforehand? You must be serious, and we are not just talking in friendship, we are talking business.ʹ D'Artagnan eyed the stable master with interest. Rochefort was certainly exaggerating; perhaps he was truly offering the former musketeer a good opportunity to get back into paid employment after weeks of inactivity and worries about his own future.

After the last conversation with Monsieur de Tréville, d'Artagnan had still been determined not to simply accept the dissolution of the regiment. He should have followed the captain's advice to do nothing. All d'Artagnan had achieved by an audience with the king was to remove himself from his post.

Louis XIII. was disappointed, shaken in his confidence because of Tréville's alleged betrayal. D'Artagnan did not know how much truth there was in the charges against the captain; conspiracy against His Eminence, cardinal Richelieu, the prime minister - against France itself. He did not know what had really happened. All parties were silent about the details, and rumours were not very credible. Such intrigues were regulated by the royal court among itself and the end of a small regiment was collateral damage.

D'Artagnan's request to be heard by the king was granted, but the lieutenant should not have been so naive as to believe that his intercession and his arguments would cause anything other than even greater anger on His Majesty's part. The audience passed... stormy. While the other musketeers were finally divided and transferred, their lieutenant was no longer needed.

D'Artagnan was petrified and completely stunned for the first few days. He had served loyally for more than ten years, had even ridden right by the king's side and been asked for his opinion many times - and now he was forgotten, in disgrace. Not dishonourably discharged, not that! Just not reinstated.

The lieutenant had spent the following weeks in a stupor, actually he had spent them between home and changing taverns. Whenever he had met former comrades on the street, he had felt ashamed, had harshly dismissed friendly and encouraging words until they were completely lacking.

How he would have loved to exchange letters with Athos, Porthos and Aramis, asking for friendly advice! But they had not written to each other for several years. Hell, d'Artagnan did not even know where to look for his old friends! Aramis was convoked an abbé, Porthos newly married for the umpteenth time. Athos had not returned from his last mission and had only left a letter of resignation to the captain. Never before had d'Artagnan felt so abandoned. Never before had he felt so superfluous, for he had no more mission to perform. Rochefort had asked a rhetorical question; he could not continue like this for much longer.

The stable master nodded knowingly. ʹI have an offer to make, indeed. Unless you want to go on loitering like an abdicated soldier at the back tables of the tavern.ʹ

ʹWhere is the malice in that?ʹ

ʹYou will not like the suggestion.ʹ

D'Artagnan almost laughed cynically. With one single exception, he would have liked every recommendation if it would only bring back solid ground under his feet. ʹAre you going to convey to me His Eminence's generous offer to admit me to the ranks of his guard?ʹ

ʹYes.ʹ

At first nothing happened. Then d'Artagnan jumped up and a torrent of flowery exclamations fell upon the stable master, who waited patiently until the Gascon ran out of air and curses. It took quite a while.

ʹAre you finished?ʹ Rochefort did not give his friend the opportunity to get newly angry about this. ʹSit down and listen!ʹ

For a moment longer d'Artagnan seemed to regret having left his sword in the bedroom. Then he sat down again and pressed his lips so tightly together that they formed a thin line. The outburst of anger had given him a healthy complexion, making the scratches from the beating even more prominent. Tomorrow he might expect a headache and a swollen eye.

Rochefort almost smiled about it. D'Artagnan had not changed that much since his first days in Paris; he had kept his hot temper, which the stable master now tried to tame. ʹIf you want to wait until the king forgives you for your impertinent behaviour, fine. I wish you good luck in this hopeless endeavour.ʹ

ʹImpertinence is more to blame on you than meʹ, growled d'Artagnan. ʹNow I understand what you meant in that courtyard. How you would have liked it if I had owed you my life and a favour. To make me such an offer! Fie, Rochefort!ʹ

ʹIndeed, blackmailing your freedom against your sword for His Eminence would not be able to get at you.ʹ

ʹTo hell! Do you have no sense of honour at all that you would extort an old friend?ʹ

Rochefort waved it off. ʹAbove all, I do not have time for games like this. To get you out of the Bastille would even cost me several days and who can say what condition you would be in then.ʹ

ʹOne could almost think that you are worried about me.ʹ

ʹD'Artagnan, I play with my cards on the table. Whether I care for you or not is not important now. This is business, and I am just the messenger.ʹ

ʹWell, my dear garçon de courses!ʹ The lieutenant proudly straightened up himself. ʹThen tell the cardinal that no price on my blade is high enough to sell it to him!ʹ

ʹThe musketeers corps.ʹ

ʹPardon?ʹ

Rochefort swivelled the wine in the cup and looked at it in a pensive way. ʹThe price. The reinstatement of the regiment in full honour. Perhaps even with you as the new captain. Richelieu's influence on His Majesty is more than sufficient for that.ʹ

ʹHa, it certainly is!ʹ D'Artagnan snorted disparagingly. ʹWhy the circuitous route via the red guard? You are out of your mind, Rochefort! The musketeers and guardsmen were never on good terms. Even if it was worth the price, I would hardly survive a week!ʹ

ʹIf you do not play dumb, both of you are going to get along for a while.ʹ Rochefort shrugged as if all concerns were trivial and dismissed with a simple gesture. ʹIt should only last for a few weeks, enough time to prove your qualities again. You will have to endure every difficulty and every contempt for a greater goal. Perhaps even you will be able to avoid a duel for once.ʹ

ʹI feel a great desire to fight with you in my parlour right now!ʹ

ʹBut meanwhile you are too prudent for that.ʹ

ʹYes, I am!ʹ D'Artagnan still could hardly believe what was being offered to him. He, a cardinal's guardsman! Not only the abhorrence of his new comrades would await him, but also the contempt of all former musketeers, all his old friends and companions, if they ever learned of it. If he should ever see Monsieur de Tréville again, the captain would turn away angry and disappointed. Would it be worth it saving the regiment? To become a red guard for a short period of time, as Rochefort demanded? He was anything but so willing to make sacrifices, he was no hero. For good reason the prospect of promotion was still beckoning. ʹShow me your remaining cards! My eternal gratitude and loyalty for Richelieu's generosity in granting me this opportunity and baiting me with the post of senior officer - that will hardly be all.ʹ

ʹDo you hold yourself in such low esteem that your loyalty may not be profit enough?ʹ

ʹWhen was the last time I was standing in the cardinal's way that he needed to retain me?ʹ

Rochefort sighed. ʹI must have been mistaken, you have lost your guts. I will keep my cards closed if you lack ambition to take a risk.ʹ He put down his cup and rose. ʹThen we have nothing more to say to each other for today.ʹ

ʹWait!ʹ called d'Artagnan from a moments impulse. He had clenched one hand to a fist and was now using it as a support on his chin to give it a meaning other than beating up a stable master. Rochefort gave the lieutenant the opportunity to sort out a few thoughts and d'Artagnan finally said, ʹWe both know there is more to it. Will you tell me before I agree to give away everything I have lived for the last few years? Are you willing to take that risk?ʹ

ʹAre you asking a creature of the cardinal or a friend?ʹ

ʹI ask you, you always act both ways.ʹ

Rochefort eyed him for a long moment. Then he turned to leave and said at the door, ʹCome tomorrow morning to the Palais Cardinal, His Eminence's study. I promise you, as a friend, you will be allowed to leave unhindered, if you wish so.ʹ

D'Artagnan waited until he heard the front door fall into the lock. Only then did he rest his head in his hands and murmured softly ʹMordieuxʹ.

IV – Degraded

D'Artagnan stood on Rue St. Honoré, his back to the Louvre and the Palais Cardinal in front of him. He had been staring at the huge town palace for quite a while. By now it seemed to stare back at him.

The rest of Paris only slowly awoke from its nocturnal twilight state. Scattered carriages tore the fog to shreds as they drove past, but the first faint light of the day was still not enough to banish the mist out of the streets. The few passers-by were tightly wrapped in their coats and went by quickly. No one paid any attention to the lonely officer, who was visibly struggling.

After a very short night, d'Artagnan had convinced himself how ridiculous Rochefort's offer was. However, his reflection above the wash bowl looked back in a very tired and exhausted way. As he carefully touched his black eye, he argued with himself that he could at least listen to what the cardinal had to offer. D'Artagnan shaved and sneaked out without waking up his Chevrette.

Further minutes passed by, the dawn was flowing over the roofs and a change of watch was rung in. A familiar process, only in the wrong palace. Angered, the former musketeer chewed on his beard, finally pulled his feathered hat deeper into his forehead and marched towards the Palais Cardinal. No one stopped him as he left the pillar-framed archway and crossed the front courtyard. But as he approached the entrance to the main wing along the gallery, two red-clad guardsmen were already waiting for him. With blatant scepticism they followed his movement and finally blocked his way at the stairs.

ʹCahusac. Sorel.ʹ D'Artagnan nodded at them. They knew each other in the rival troops. Cahusac had fought against Athos in the famous duel at the carmelite monastery one decade ago. Although this happened half an eternity ago and Cahusac had turned grey, no one among the musketeers nor the guards had forgotten the incident.

ʹMonsieur le lieutenant.ʹ greeted Cahusac harshly and with just enough politeness that it could not be interpreted as sarcasm. ʹWhere to?ʹ He asked monosyllabically, not for lack of respect. Speaking was difficult for him, his voice sounded hoarse. He had been injured by Athos at his throat back then and Cahusac had been bearing the consequences until today.

Sorel stood by in the background, ready to intervene immediately in case of doubt. He was young, in his mid-twenties and in his second year of service. He had yet to earn his spurs and watched the lieutenant, who was barely older than him, carefully without being worried or even intimidated. Sorel still lacked experience of war, but his right hand rested confidently on the handle of the blade. He wore a narrow gold ring on his finger.

Apparently, no one had yet told the guardsmen that they and d'Artagnan were from now on involuntary allies. On another day, d'Artagnan might have been amused by the distrustful behaviour of the two men. Now, however, this delay made him angry in the light of a difficult task. ʹI am invited, step aside!ʹ

ʹNo.ʹ Cahusac replied concisely and his young comrade spoke up for him. ʹWith all due respect, we will not do so until you can prove this invitation.ʹ Sorel sounded almost amused. The lad was a real teaser, he grinned challenging. However, his demand for proof was entirely justified and d'Artagnan would have pulled the wool over the eyes of his own musketeers if they had let anyone into the Louvre on the basis of a single claim. Cursed Rochefort for not having considered this!

ʹAh, what if I cannot prove it? Will you shoot me down on the spot? Messieurs are going to do a lot of explaining, Jussac will be beside himself with joy. My word of honour will have to suffice.ʹ

At the mention of their own lieutenant, the guardsmen hesitated. Cahusac obviously had a sharp answer on his tongue. That a word of honour alone would not suffice here might be connected with old resentment; the scar on his throat was a constant reminder of his first encounter with d'Artagnan. On the other hand; lieutenant de Jussac would indeed not be grateful for the riot, for an arrested officer or even a dead man on the steps. Captain Luchaire was too much of a politician, he left dirty matters to his substitute. While Tréville was happy to enter into any confrontation with Richelieu personally, Luchaire fulfilled his duties from his desk. The captain of the guards was a civil servant, an administrator. Jussac was thus given more responsibility and d'Artagnan rightly referenced him.

Cahusac finally decided with a nod to Sorel. ʹJoin him!ʹ

The younger one was saluting eagerly. He seemed to gladly take on the role of a nanny. D'Artagnan wondered for a brief moment whether he himself had shouted ʹYes!ʹ at the beginning of his career, so enthusiastically and impishly. Sorel was refreshingly innocent and the former musketeer looked at Cahusac with a raised eyebrow. ʹI know the way to His Eminence's study very well.ʹ

ʹThither? Good.ʹ Cahusac pointed behind him with an inviting gesture. D'Artagnan saved himself another sinister look and passed the veteran soldier. With two steps Sorel caught up with him and could not be shaken off or persuaded to turn back.

In the palace, another gallery soon followed the stairs. Richelieu had the former Hôtel d'Angennes magnificently furnished after the purchase. It had already been spacious before, now it could be called highly glamorous, even pompous. Every corner reflected the influence and power of the owner, from the porticoes to the famous gardens. The palace could have belonged to a king because of its sheer size and pomp.

ʹThis way.ʹ Sorel took the lead, and d'Artagnan had to admit reluctantly that the guardsman took a shorter route to their destination than the lieutenant would have chosen. On the way, they met some liveried servants, every now and then also a maid. Soon the whole household would know who was a guest today.

D'Artagnan, with a trained eye, noticed other guardsmen at their posts at seemingly important double doors or stairways, apart from the byways that Sorel and he followed. The sight stung him. An intact guard in the wrong uniform coat. What mockery and ridicule the musketeers would have uttered if the cardinal's guards had been disbanded! But Jussac must have inculcated in his men to keep a low profile and, for the good of the town, not to provoke a dispute about it. That too was aching.

At the gullwing door to the study of the prime minister, two other men stood guard. Sorel greeted his comrades and without further ado or discussion they were allowed to enter the anteroom. Cahusac had indeed made a wise decision not to let d'Artagnan go alone. Sorel was his pass.

D'Artagnan pulled himself together. He had to overcome his own resentment, put his pride aside and act wisely. Serenity instead of anger was required here. He took a few steps into the antechamber, Sorel on the other hand turned to leave, which earned him a surprised look from the lieutenant. The young guardsman seemed to suspect the unspoken question and answered it with a shrug. ʹCahusac waved you through on your word of honour. I have accompanied you, and that settles the matter.ʹ

D'Artagnan nodded slowly. Apparently, he still enjoyed a reputation among his enemies for keeping his word. They gave him far more credit than he was giving himself. He waited until Sorel had left, then he went on alone. Apart from a liveried servant, who watched over the arrangement of chairs and benches along the walls, no one else was present. Well, almost; the lieutenant was also patterned by Rochefort, who happened to be at the other end of the room at the door, which leads to the actual study.

D'Artagnan suppressed an impulse to defiantly cross his arms. He was decidedly too old for such gestures, even though Rochefort was too fond of paternal kindness and forbearance towards him. Instead, he marched over and greeted, ʹYou should have told your master's guards that I had been summoned.ʹ

ʹI would have. If I had actually expected you to show up.ʹ Rochefort made no secret of the fact that he had almost given up on the lieutenant after their conversation yesterday. All the more sarcastically, d'Artagnan remarked, ʹFor so many 'if' and 'would have' you wait for me with surprising patience.ʹ

ʹI prefer small chances, you know that. And I am apparently not waiting in vain, a good sign. How is your black eye?ʹ

ʹYou see signs where there are noneʹ, d'Artagnan announced brusquely, ignoring the question. ʹI may leave at any time.ʹ

ʹAt any time.ʹ Rochefort gave a silent order to the servant, who then left the anteroom. ʹBut only after this conversation.ʹ

He had hardly spoken when the door to the study was opened by another lackey. Obviously, d'Artagnan's arrival had already been announced and for a moment he was flattered that he seemed important enough not to be kept waiting. Of course he was wrong. Rochefort restrained him by the arm as he was already about to cross the threshold.

At this very moment an elderly Monsieur marched out of the study in an angry hurry. D'Artagnan estimated him to be just over fifty years old, his hard gaze from grey eyes and the upright posture referred to a confident character. The expensive clothes, his whole appearance suggested a nobleman of no small rank. A comte or even a duke? A steep pleat stood on his forehead, undoubtedly this man had fallen into conflict with the prime minister. One had to dare to do that with Richelieu!

D'Artagnan could not assign a name to the monsieur, neither from the face nor from the colours he wore. He could not be a frequent guest at royal court. Or his status meant there was no need for him to be permanently near the king and cardinal. There were two other men in his retinue, undoubtedly a personal guard in everyday clothes. An adjutant or secretary and some younger relative perhaps, well trained and loyal.

D'Artagnan immediately evaded respectfully as the monsieur walked past him. His companions followed him in a hurry because of the old man's determination. In passing, d'Artagnan was only honoured by a fleeting glance. Rochefort even received a disapproving frown. They seemed to know each other.

The stable master bowed his head respectfully and d'Artagnan did the same as if he had been ordered to do. Rochefort said half-loud, intended more to enlighten the friend than as an actual greeting, ʹMonseigneur de la Nièvre.ʹ He received no reply.

The name did not sound familiar and a few moments later the three visitors left the anteroom. Their footsteps faded behind the door and d'Artagnan considered this whole encounter unreal. When he looked up again, Rochefort was no longer beside him. Shortly afterwards, he understood the sudden haste with which the stable master had entered the study and where the lieutenant finally followed him into; Richelieu looked bad. The usually so unapproachable, powerful man stood bent over at his desk, as if the responsibility weighed too heavily on his shoulders after all these years of tireless duty. A fine film of sweat gleamed on his forehead. He looked pale, weakened. Now he coughed violently. Rochefort was beside him immediately and handed him a crystal glass of fresh water.

D'Artagnan remained standing undecidedly in some distance. While Rochefort looked after his master, d'Artagnan closed the door discreetly. Partly to make himself halfway useful in this quite unexpected situation, partly to be able to turn away with an excuse and not stare at the cardinal. He covered up his embarrassment by looking at the room. The furnishings were functional. Large windows let in the daylight. The heavy velvet curtains were probably only for decoration, similar to the valuable, heavy tapestry on the opposite. The lieutenant could not identify the motif on the goblin. Something historical or religious, probably, d'Artagnan had never dealt with such things. He was a man of arms and not of art. Therefore, the countless books and codices in the shelves did not only look sumptuous to him but also intimidating. Could a single man read so much in his life? Which of the books were even written by Richelieu himself?

But it was the dark rosewood desk that dominated the study. The furnishings had changed over the years, but the desk remained and seemed to have taken on parts of its owner's personality. It was impossible to imagine how many documents had been lying on it that had determined the fate of a state, a continent, ah! the whole world. The desk was treated with respect, even when the cardinal was not present.

The cough finally died down and d'Artagnan raised his eyes to His Eminence. Richelieu had taken a seat in his armchair and although he still looked pale and exhausted, he sat upright and measured him with an agile mind. Rochefort remained by the cardinal's side, who now imperiously commanded d'Artagnan to approach. ʹUsually you would not think of the lieutenant of the musketeers as a restrained man,ʹ Richelieu commented hoarsely, but with sharp sarcasm. ʹStop guarding the door!ʹ

Abruptly d'Artagnan disengaged from his post and stepped in front of the desk, a no less biting answer on the tip of his tongue. He swallowed it down and replied instead, ʹI am in a position where restraint suits me, Monseigneur. I have finally learned that lesson.ʹ

ʹHave you? Your black eye tells a different story. Not to mention Rochefort's account of it.ʹ

ʹYes, not to mention it,ʹ d'Artagnan said with a sinister glance at Rochefort. Then he turned back to the cardinal and looked past Richelieu's left earlobe, at the golden letters of a codex. ʹRochefort mentioned an offer, called it a business. You want my blade for the red guard.ʹ

Richelieu smiled thinly. ʹFamous gascon openness, almost impudence. Good. It was to be feared you would have indeed come to your senses.ʹ

New anger was seething in d'Artagnan, but he controlled himself. He could not let this chance slip away by his own hothead. Even if, apparently, he had only been summoned to be humiliated instead of getting to talk business with the cardinal, d'Artagnan said, ʹIt is always wise to listen.ʹ

ʹWell then, an open word.ʹ The cardinal gave a sign to Rochefort, who now took over and proved that yesterday he had by no means shown his cards completely. ʹYou have just met the Duc de la Nièvre and his entourage.ʹ

When d'Artagnan reacted to this with nothing but a blank face, Rochefort added, ʹThe husband of a niece of Cardinal Richelieu.ʹ

Hardly wiser than before, d'Artagnan frowned. A nephew by marriage who, for some reason, could afford not to kowtow to the prime minister. Probably la Nièvre himself was influential and powerful enough to do so, albeit on a different level than royal court politics. Family affairs, family quarrels. What was that to d'Artagnan? ʹHe is causing trouble?ʹ

ʹHis daughter is the trouble maker,ʹ Rochefort noted succinctly. ʹOdette de la Nièvre. She has disappeared. Having previously fled an arranged marriage into the Palais Cardinal under the protection of her great-uncle Richelieu.ʹ

D'Artagnan felt a slight touch of headache. Apparently the nephew had fallen out with his uncle and was pursuing a marriage policy against Richelieu through his own daughter. ʹMonseigneur did not agree to this proposed marriage either, so he granted protection?ʹ

ʹAstutely detected.ʹ

ʹGet to the point!ʹ

Rochefort waited for the cardinal to give his approval, then finally declared, ʹYou shall find us the mademoiselle again.ʹ

ʹ...in the red guard.ʹ For a moment the musketeers' lieutenant saw the image of a girl dressed as a soldier. Before he could decide whether to find such a masquerade either ridiculous or brave, Rochefort again disturbed his thoughts. ʹThe mademoiselle has a mind of her own and no longer wanted to be a guest here. She was not abducted, we already know that much. No, she voluntarily went into hiding somewhere in Paris to escape all influence - both from her father and the cardinal. We suspect she was receiving help from the palace when she disappeared.ʹ

ʹI see.ʹ D'Artagnan could no longer refrain from a mocking smile. ʹThe master spy cannot find the spy among his own ranks.ʹ

The cardinal remained silent and Rochefort ignored the last remark. ʹThis is where you come in. His Eminence's guard is always present in the palace. The best excuse for you to be here and ask around.ʹ

It was a convincing argument, but d'Artagnan still doubted the plan. ʹWill it be sufficient to find the mademoiselle's friends? I would like to keep my stay in the guard and in the Palais Cardinal as short as possible.ʹ

ʹIt will take as long as it takes.ʹ At last Richelieu spoke again, and despite his frail health, he did not lack authority. ʹYour reward will not be small.ʹ

ʹThe musketeers?ʹ

ʹYes.ʹ

ʹMe as their new captain-lieutenant?ʹ

ʹPossibly.ʹ

ʹMercy for Tréville?ʹ

ʹA good word with His Majesty.ʹ

D'Artagnan remained thoughtfully silent. The offer was good, very good indeed. It was more than he could have hoped for. Rochefort had not promised the moon in this respect. Finding a rebellious young woman again did not seem to be too difficult of a task. There must have had been a catch somewhere. One that he could not see at all.

The lieutenant's period of reflection seemed to have elapsed, as the prime minister was now calling for a decision. ʹWell?ʹ

ʹYes.ʹ D'Artagnan bowed his head resigned to fate and wondered for a moment that it had not been cut off right away. When he lifted his gaze again, his head still sat on his neck intactly, yet there was little benevolence in Richelieu's next words. ʹYou are hereby called up in my guard. You will assume the rank of common soldier.ʹ

ʹWhat...?ʹ Before d'Artagnan could fully comprehend this shocking opening, the prime minister continued harshly, ʹYou are demoted until I decide that you have proven your worth. No more pub brawls. You will learn discipline!ʹ

Rochefort suddenly found himself next to his friend and put a reassuring hand on his arm before d'Artagnan would have risked his head after all. ʹStart at the bottom and you will have more room for manoeuvre in your investigations than as an officer. Do you understand?ʹ

The question was asked so urgently that the degraded lieutenant slowly nodded without thinking. The cardinal had once given him the officer's licence, the cardinal had taken it away from him again. He listend to Richelieu's ʹReport to your superior officer for duty tomorrow morningʹ, as if frozen.

ʹYes, sir.ʹ D'Artagnan forgot the salute when he abruptly turned on his heel and marched out of the study without looking back.

V - Comrades

Rochefort had to admit that d'Artagnan had surprised him. The Gascon had not only chosen the sensible way and agreed to the trade; no, not a single unseemly curse had passed his lips! Even Richelieu seemed to be surprised the outcome when he now turned to his stable master. ʹDeliver the papers to him belated!ʹ

Rochefort bowed and took the conscription order for d'Artagnan. As quickly as the former musketeer had stormed off after this conversation, he had left out the official part with sign and seal altogether. This gave Rochefort the opportunity to discuss some more details with the newest guardsman in private. ʹI shall give him a few hours to calm down.ʹ

ʹInform Captain Luchaire.ʹ The cardinal leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. He did not allow himself any more rest then that. ʹOnly what is absolutely necessary. He is a good administrator and a brilliant strategist, but he does not need to know everything.ʹ

ʹUnderstood.ʹ Rochefort kept a furtive doubt about this instruction to himself. D'Artagnan was on his own in his investigation - and about to take his new place in the guard. ʹIs there a deadline for finding Mademoiselle de la Nièvre?ʹ

ʹHer father is aware of the situation.ʹ

Rochefort nodded. This probably meant that for the time being, the Duke of Nièvre was going to lay low and entrusted the search to the cardinal's men. Richelieu opened his eyes again, the short rest had let him at least gain some colour on his face. Rochefort's worried expression seemed to annoy him and he waved him out with a final command. ʹTell d'Artagnan about all details you consider to be important.ʹ

ʹMonseigneur.ʹ Rochefort confirmed the instructions and left the study. Outside the door, he paused to reflect. Details that he himself considered important? Richelieu seemed to want to give his stable master plenty of rope. Good. He could approach a first detail right here and now in the palace.

It was not far to the guardroom, and Rochefort did not even have to walk all the way to it; barely turned a few corners, he met Bernajoux, Biscarat and Jussac at the gallery level. These were exactly the men he had been looking for. Or at least one of them, the lieutenant. Normally, the three inseparable friends knew each other's whereabouts at all times, so Rochefort only had to find one of them at his post to ask about Jussac.

The three red guards stood by one of the columns and seemed to have a comradely conversation before they had to go off to their duties. Everyone could easily see that the men were very familiar with each other. Hardly a word, hardly a gesture was needed for them to understand each other. Just now, they were laughing together, patting each other on the back and seemed to take all the time in the world to themselves.

Rochefort watched the trio. Bernajoux was the most taciturn of them, who only interspersed single words to the conversation. He outdid his friends by almost a head and enjoyed the reputation of being a true wrangler. Whenever one had heard of a duel against musketeers, Bernajoux had certainly been there. The scuffles had left visible marks, which told more than any words. Biscarat often made fun of him, saying that if he was only half as dexterous in speech as he was with his blade, no dame could resist him. But with that scarred face, alas!, he would only be half a Lancelot, not yet disfigured enough to be fascinating to women.

Speaking of Biscarat! Like d'Artagnan, he, too, originated from Gascony. His Spanish mother had inherited not only particularly dark and beautiful eyes to him, but also a strict Catholicism in the land of the cathars and fin'amor. His knowledge of the Spanish language and customs often earned him important missions when Rochefort was absent. However, Biscarat was fully satisfied to be a guardsmen and only occasionally a spy, diplomat or simply an interpreter.

Jussac was very pleased with this attitude, as it meant that he did not lose one of his best men to Rochefort. The lieutenant proudly wore the uniform of the guards. It had become a second skin for him over the years, which he could not remove. He would not have wanted it either, the cardinal's guard was always on duty and vigilant. The commanders of other regiments often tried to poach Jussac, luring him with promotions and numerous privileges. Jussac always refused, his loyalty was to Richelieu, and the cardinal rewarded him with respect for his merits and an increase in pay. Jussac bore a lot of responsibility and frequently had a scowl on his face, especially when he saw His Eminence's stable master approaching. Like at that very moment.

ʹJussac!ʹ Rochefort ignored the barely restrained sighing of the lieutenant. It meant no disrespect to him, but was due to the experience that the stable master's appearance usually meant trouble for the guard.

ʹRochefort!ʹ Jussac called back in an enthusiastic tone, as if he had stood at attention at every ʹJump to it!ʹ This could have been interpreted as pomposity, but Jussac was purely and simply not under Rochefort's command; every now and then he had to remind the stable master of this.

Rochefort passed the group and briefly waved at Jussac to accompany him. Questioning looks were exchanged behind his back. Bernajoux and Biscarat seemed to suspect that Rochefort seriously meant business if he did not respond to the usual teasing between Jussac and himself. The lieutenant told the two friends to wait for him and then followed the stable master to a servants' entrance. There he asked, ʹWhat is so urgent?ʹ

However, Rochefort did not immediately give an explanation and Jussac frowned. He felt mocked, especially since Rochefort now exaggeratedly peered in all directions to see if they were alone. Of course they were not. In this palace, there was always someone around and gossiped later. Very in control, the lieutenant said, ʹThe change of guard is waiting.ʹ

Rochefort finally relaxed and thus, Jussac got even more annoyed. The matter could not be that important and serious after all, if the stable master had time for unnecessary secrecy. As usual, Rochefort did not get to the point immediately, but vaguely beat about the bush. ʹI have an important request to you.ʹ

ʹA... request?ʹ That sounded personal. Jussac looked at his vis-à-vis with new attention. Rochefort seemed calm, but the lieutenant had known him for too many years not to be sceptical. ʹNot an order? Really?ʹ

ʹYes. I have a favour to ask you.ʹ

ʹWhat, me?ʹ Jussac made no secret of his astonishment and improved himself; it had to be very important to Rochefort when he asked him a favour. ʹFor you?ʹ

ʹFor me.ʹ

Silence fell after this. For long moments, the men stared at each other observantly. When Jussac finally realised that no further explanation would follow, he threw his hands up and exclaimed, ʹYes, heavens! So if it lies within my powers, I will do you a favour! Without knowing beforehand what it is about.ʹ

ʹTrust me, it is in your power.ʹ The stable master smiled a touch too smug. ʹEspecially in yours, monsieur le lieutenant.ʹ

ʹNow tell me, what is this all about?ʹ the said lieutenant snorted and was secretly relieved to be mucked around with by Rochefort as usual. This probably meant that the cardinal had not yet met his God and would have left his pitiful creatures to their own devices.

ʹStarting from tomorrow, the guard will have a new man in its ranks.ʹ

Such announcements were usually not delivered by Rochefort. There had to be more to it than that. ʹSomeone you know?ʹ

ʹA... friend.ʹ Rochefort outweighed the clear hesitation in his words by quickly adding, ʹI ask you to keep an eye on him.ʹ

Jussac nodded slowly. ʹAs a commanding officer? I can do that.ʹ He had a watchful eye on each of his men anyway, like the mother hen on her chicks. In these matters, he was in no way inferior to a Captain Tréville, and one more guardsman would be of no consequence. But Jussac suspected that he would soon be in trouble because Rochefort suddenly turned an otherwise self-evident task in a personal favour.

ʹThank you. I am in your debt.ʹ The stable master indeed bowed his head gratefully and unusually relieved, which made Jussac not one bit wiser than before, but all the more angry. ʹYes, damn it! You are in my debt and not for the first time! But far too often I forgot to make you pay. One of these days, Rochefort!ʹ

ʹI will keep that in mind. Maybe.ʹ Before Jussac could get angry again, Rochefort turned to leave, but not without dropping a final remark. ʹYou can meet our newest guardsman tomorrow by His Eminence's study before roll call.ʹ

ʹMe personally?!ʹ

ʹPart of the favour!ʹ threw Rochefort back over his shoulder before he left behind a lieutenant who was as baffled as he was annoyed. It was only after he had blinked vigorously that Jussac came up with an appropriate response to this insolence. The stable master had long been gone by then, and so Bernajoux and Biscarat got the whole whim of their superior when he stomped back to them, muttering curses.

ʹRochefort?ʹ asked Bernajoux in his usual short manner and Jussac growled between his teeth, ʹCertainly, Rochefort.ʹ

ʹWhat did he want this time?ʹ Biscarat found more words, even if that made him the target of Jussac's wrath. ʹYou've to ask that?!ʹ

ʹTrouble?ʹ Bernajoux stood by his friend immediately to share Jussac's anger fairly among them. His crooked nose twitched in amusement.

ʹMaking trouble!ʹ Jussac paused and took a deep breath. Although Rochefort had called him away from the others, he had not confided a secret to him in the end. He was allowed to tell them. ʹRochefort wishes me to keep a watchful eye on a new recruit in our ranks.ʹ

ʹWhom?ʹ

ʹHe didn't say.ʹ

Bernajoux snorted. ʹHelpful.ʹ

ʹExtraordinary! We'll find out tomorrow who is foisted on us.ʹ Jussac caught himself clenching one hand in a fist. He eased his fingers without feeling much better.

Meanwhile, Biscarat rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ʹThat doesn't sound good. Nepotism? Someone who isn't cut out to be a guardsman and should learn under your wing? Someone who doesn't belong here?ʹ The spy in Biscarat suddenly seemed to continue this thought with a little too much enthusiasm. ʹOr he has a skeleton in his closet, he is someone under surveillance. Whose loyalty is not guaranteed. Possibly Rochefort is preparing a trap for him and-ʹ

Jussac had to put a stop at this point before the Gascon got bogged down in heated speculation. ʹHeavens, I do not know! As always, we are only vicarious agents, with no right to get any explanations!ʹ

Biscarat cleared his throat. ʹDid Rochefort mention nothing else?ʹ

ʹHe called him reservedly 'a friend'.ʹ

ʹThen he's definitely not one!ʹ said Biscarat gleefully and with his own logic. Bernajoux, on the other hand, took a more pragmatic approach and said, ʹWe'll help you.ʹ

Jussac achieved half a smile. Talking to his friends had dampened his anger. He could rely on their support. There has never been any talk of this task really was falling to the lieutenant alone. ʹRochefort will have six eyes at his service. He should be satisfied with that. Let's leave it by that for now. To duty, shirkers!ʹ

Bernajoux and Biscarat knew when the friend became the superior. They saluted obediently and then parted ways for today's guard duty and patrols or, in Jussac's case, for a consultation with the captain. The lieutenant of the guards doubted that Luchaire had learned more from Rochefort and indeed, an hour later, Jussac could be quite sure of it; The captain, too, had been given this new addition without prior discussion, and he was not exactly happy about it. Still no name, no background. Either Luchaire did not know or forgot to share his knowledge. Instead, he immediately passed the responsibility on to Jussac. The lieutenant concealed the fact that Rochefort had already given him this honourable task.

Later, Cahusac and Sorel told him that lieutenant d'Artagnan had paid an unexpected visit to the palace in the morning. For an interlocution with His Eminence in person! That troublesome musketeer - former musketeer! - of all things crawled out of the hole today that he had dug for himself! D'Artagnan was known to be constantly involved in royal court intrigues. What might it be this time? Jussac only hoped to remain unmolested and not to have to chase the bastard and arrest him. Not again.

The news was not more conducive to Jussac's mood, but at least it distracted him from brooding over Rochefort's unusual request. By evening, he had almost forgotten about the new recruit. He remembered just in time before official hours ended to instruct young Sorel to go to the cardinal's study tomorrow and to expect there... whomever. Jussac really had better things to do than personally pick up every insignificant foot soldier!

Exhausted from duty, Jussac finally left for home and promised himself a soothing bath in the tub to end the day in a halfway conciliatory manner.

VI - Council of War

ʹGo away!ʹ D'Artagnan lay on his bed, face turned to the wall, and rolled his eyes as the knocking on his door repeated insistently. His landlady was a great nuisance, he had no appetite - neither for her nor for her good stew.

He remained obstinately silent when there was a third knock on his bedroom door. He toyed with the idea of simply pulling the blanket over his head and sleeping through this terrible day. But the Chevrette didn't seem to want to let him do that. Broads! Behind Madeleine's beautiful deer-like eyes and bulging breasts was not much common sense to be found.

D'Artagnan did not move and for the next few moments it remained silent outside his bedroom. Then the handle was pushed and the door swung open. Angrily, d'Artagnan threw his pillow at the Chevrette, who really should have known better after all these years! He also struck superbly, right in the face.

However, one blink of an eye later, it was not his pretty landlady who stared at him flabbergasted, but the Comte de Rochefort. D'Artagnan stared back with the same expression and sat up. ʹWhat do you want now?ʹ

Without any further invitation, Rochefort stepped into the room and loosely threw the pillow back on the bed. ʹYou left something in the study.ʹ

ʹAnd that could not have waited until tomorrow?ʹ D'Artagnan watched the stable master discontentedly as he pulled up a chair. Apparently, he wanted to settle down here as if it were his own home. The former musketeer, and since a few hours also former lieutenant, remained seated on the edge of the bed and watched his visitor hostilely. Completely unimpressed by this, Rochefort presented a letter with the cardinal's seal. D'Artagnan glanced at it and immediately recognised an order to conscript. Along with the reference to his new rank as a common soldier.

Instead of accepting the documents, he snorted disparagingly. ʹYou really did not have to bring me this.ʹ

ʹBefore they fell into oblivion, I had to hand them over to you.ʹ

ʹAre you here just to verify if I am already packing my belongings and deserting?ʹ D'Artagnan made a sweeping arm movement that completely enclosed the room. ʹYou will not find any travel bundle. I will be on duty on time tomorrow. Adieu until then!ʹ

Rochefort deposited the letters on the clothes chest at the end of the bed and ignored the ejection. ʹI have no doubt about that. I find you here buried in sinister thoughts rather than in the nearest tavern. According to that you want to stay sober for tomorrow.ʹ

ʹRight! I just want to make the best impression on my new superiors and comrades. They will greatly appreciate me for facing them with a clear mind, without waver or babble.ʹ

ʹNot to mention that you are not going to smell of cheap alcohol,ʹ Rochefort added with such a serious nod that it was impossible to tell whether he had not at least considered the possibility.

ʹI can still afford the expensive wine, Monsieur! Hell, I could buy the whole Louvre! I accepted Richelieu's offer out of philanthropy and a sense of duty.ʹ

Rochefort waved off. ʹExpect no objection by me, at this late hour it is already too foggy in town for a duel.ʹ

ʹEven the weather is against me.ʹ D'Artagnan sighed. Instead of arguing further, he asked dejectedly, ʹDid you know I would be degraded?ʹ

ʹNoʹ, replied the stable master honestly and d'Artagnan believed him. They were friends despite everything, whom else should he have trusted more? Rochefort was obviously not only here for the documents, but also to offer help and advice in a bleak situation. ʹLike I said, it is a clever move. You can circulate freely in the palace between patrols and weapons exercises.ʹ

ʹI might as well do that as an officer and without having to account to the other guardsmen.ʹ

ʹDo not deceive yourself. You are going to have less obligations but more time and nobody will ask why you will be on guard duty in seemingly trivial places. That is what the benefit is all about.ʹ

ʹIf you say so...ʹ D'Artagnan would have liked to be convinced by Rochefort. But it still felt like a punishment, not a strategic advantage, especially since there was another problem besides his personal difficulties with the red guard. ʹThe cardinal seems to be seriously ill.ʹ

ʹIndeed. This time it is more than simple exhaustion or a cold.ʹ

ʹDo you fear the worst?ʹ

The stable master shook his head at a loss. ʹIt is hard to estimate.ʹ

ʹI see. That makes it difficult to judge when my deadline for this assignment is going to expire.ʹ D'Artagnan hesitated. ʹAnd whether our agreement dies with Richelieu.ʹ

ʹIt is in your papers.ʹ Rochefort pointed at the letter. With a frown, d'Artagnan took it and read it thoroughly. In the end, he found a sentence in such a roundabout way that its meaning was not immediately clear to him. After he had read it a few more times, trying not to silently move his lips while Rochefort was watching him, he looked up. ʹThe convocation already contains the promise of promotion?ʹ

ʹUnder special conditions and after a reasonable period of service.ʹ

ʹHa! Neither what is reasonable, nor what these special conditions are, is written down here.ʹ

ʹIt is for His Eminence to judge.ʹ

ʹThe dead make no more judgements.ʹ

ʹNo, but his successor will. You may assume that this man would also appreciate a loyal vassal.ʹ

D'Artagnan was not very satisfied with these uncertain prospects, even though he could always refer to Richelieu's letter and seal in the future. ʹIn fact, you are telling me I should better hurry.ʹ

ʹThat would be in everyone's best interests, no matter the health of His Eminence.ʹ

ʹBut not in the best interest of the sought-after Odette de la Nièvre,ʹ d'Artagnan mocked, and at the same time he was curious what exactly had happened. She seemed to be a headstrong, adventurous mademoiselle. Certainly she was confident enough to resist her own family. Courageous? D'Artagnan's thoughts wandered back to last night, back to the house they had climbed into on the run. Back to that young woman with the pistol. How determined she had encountered him. ʹDoes she happen to have copper-coloured hair and green eyes?ʹ

Rochefort frowned, obviously confused by the very specific question. ʹNo.ʹ

ʹWould have been too easy anyway,ʹ d'Artagnan mumbled and changed hastily the subject when he noticed the other's doubtful gaze. ʹThen what does she look like?ʹ

Fortunately, Rochefort did not dig deeper. Instead, he reached into the inside pocket of his coat. D'Artagnan was given a miniature, the image of a young woman of perhaps twenty years of age. The artist had not wasted much effort on details and had chosen for the portrait the typical pose held sideways, with the head slightly turned towards the viewer, but her gaze still directed past him. Blonde hair was pinned into an elaborate braid, a curl fell over her bare shoulder of flawless alabaster skin. Her face was full, almost roundish, soft and feminine, her eyes of indeterminate colour with a shine that made her seem almost angelically removed from the world. The mademoiselle was, well... standard-pretty and characterless.

ʹIs it her, or one of the many other interchangeable court ladies, and you want to put me to the test?ʹ d'Artagnan asked while studying the miniature in detail and still could not discover any conspicuous features on the person herself. No beauty spots or other blemishes, nothing that would have made her naturally memorable. Instead she wore two gem-set signet rings on her delicate fingers. D'Artagnan could not make out more than blots of colour, but he suspected that these were the family crests and insignia of those of la Nièvre and du Plessis - if the portrait did indeed show him a daughter of these houses.

ʹThis is Mademoiselle de la Nièvre.ʹ

ʹShe seems to be... boring.ʹ

ʹMaybe that is why no one expected her to successfully run away twice.ʹ

D'Artagnan placed the portrait with the documents on the clothes chest. ʹIs that all you have for me? Tell me the whole story! You already said that she was not abducted. How can you be so sure about that?ʹ

ʹBecause her fiancé did indeed attempt a raptio and failed spectacularly.ʹ The incredulous expression on d'Artagnan's face almost made the stable master laugh. ʹYes, to climb into the cardinal's palace of all places, offended in one's own honour, in order to abduct an unwilling woman was at best ill-considered. It could have been an idea of yours.ʹ

ʹI asked for the story, not for your comments,ʹ d'Artagnan growled. ʹWho is this fiancé and what happened?ʹ

ʹFernand de Grinchamps.ʹ Rochefort watched his friend attentively, almost lurking. With irritation, d'Artagnan replied, ʹShould I know the name?ʹ

ʹObviously not.ʹ The stable master seemed strangely relieved for a brief moment, but d'Artagnan was unsure of his assessment, especially as Rochefort quickly added an explanation and distracted him. ʹHe is a young baron who thought he had to obtain justice by himself. The guardsmen foiled the abduction. A lackey and a friend of Grinchamps were arrested.ʹ

ʹHurray to my new comrades!ʹ

ʹUnfortunately, Grinchamps has escaped preliminary and gone into hiding himself.ʹ

ʹI take back all praise.ʹ

ʹWho is commenting now, d'Artagnan?ʹ

The former musketeer waved off. ʹSo Grinchamps failed, and yet Mademoiselle de la Nièvre has vanished.ʹ

ʹA few days after that incident, yes. Either she no longer felt safe enough in the palace or she realised that Richelieu had his own plans for her, too.ʹ

ʹI assume that His Eminence was now looking for a more agreeable marriage candidate than Grinchamps was.ʹ

ʹIt was an obvious decision. This family affair was becoming more than tiresome. Someone must have told Odette. Someone must have helped her to leave the palace unrecognised. But she is still in Paris.ʹ

ʹAre you also sure about that or just hoping that she has not left the town already?ʹ D'Artagnan did not expect an answer to that. Rochefort had his ways and means of investigating in the outskirts of Paris and so he continued, ʹI should search for that 'someone'.ʹ

ʹThis is part of your task, indeed. It should be easier for you if you can win the trust of the guardsmen.ʹ Rochefort raised a hand before the friend could react to it again with wicked sarcasm. ʹOne thing at a time. Rearrange your life, if you find out something useful incidentally, tell me about it.ʹ

D'Artagnan burst out laughing. ʹYou, of all people, talk about rearrangement although the cardinal's household is apparently in great disarray! Now, moreover, you are infiltrating red guard with a spy. I hope you are aware of what you are requesting.ʹ

ʹI know that I am not asking too much and that you secretly eager for this task, for new deeds.ʹ Rochefort rose and strolled to the door, followed by a sinister look from his friend. ʹSo do not expect me to visit you every day to pat your back soothingly.ʹ

The gesture that Rochefort thereupon received by d'Artagnan expressed more than any words of farewell.

VII - Enemy contact

Sorel hurried along the gallery in great haste and evaded a door at the last moment. ʹPardon me!ʹ he called over his shoulder while the curses of a valet pursued him. How bloody huge the cardinal's palace was if one was in a hurry!

ʹWatch out!ʹ The warning cry was meant for a comrade who was about to turn the very same corner, which Sorel sprinted around. ʹGonna be late!ʹ he shouted apologetically and ran on. His footsteps echoed loudly through the corridors; in the early morning he was one of the few people who were already on their feet. He started to sweat gradually and had yet to cross another gallery to the cardinal's study.

Sorel blamed himself silently as he took the next staircase with verve. He had let himself be distracted by private affairs. Very engaging, pretty private affairs, with a charming smile and full lips, from which he had found it difficult to break loose. He had almost forgotten Jussac's order to pick up a new comrade. Just in time for the morning roll call he had remembered and now he had to hurry up.

On the last distance Sorel fell first into a relaxed trot and then back into normal marching to calm his quick breath. The newcomer did not need to know that he had almost been forgotten. At the double door to the antechamber Sorel nodded at the two comrades on duty, Meunier and Forgeron, and entered. A quick glance through the room showed the usual scene; a valuable, polished wooden floor, an elaborate tapestry on the right, glazed windows on the left, upholstered chairs for waiting guests. No one else was there.

ʹHuh?ʹ Confused, Sorel let his eyes wander once more, but the antechamber remained abandoned. Should he dare to enter the study itself? The young man hesitated. It would have been highly unusual for a new recruit to appear before the cardinal on his first day of service.

ʹI'm not the only one late, am I,ʹ Sorel murmured, half amused and half annoyed. He turned on his heel and stepped outside the door again. ʹMeunier! Has there been anyone wandering around here in the last few minutes who would have looked conspicuously nervous, lost, but insanely proud of himself at the same time?ʹ

The mentioned guardsman smiled leniently. ʹSorel! You mean just the way you looked like at your first day?ʹ It had long been known that a new recruit was to join their ranks today. Sorel pulled himself up to his full height and was still half a head smaller than his comrades. ʹI am justly proud of myself!ʹ

ʹWell, of course.ʹ Meunier shrugged. ʹNo, there was no one around.ʹ

ʹJussac will be overjoyed...ʹ Sorel did not need much of an imagination to presage the lieutenant's scowl. Not a good way for the new recruit to start.

ʹOver there.ʹ

Sorel turned to look into the direction that Forgeron suddenly pointed towards. In fact, a man marched up with a resolute step, he had pulled his feathered hat low over his forehead and looked utterly grim underneath. It took Sorel a moment to recognise him. ʹMonsieur d'Artagnan again?ʹ

Meunier snorted contemptuously and Forgeron watched the appearance of the former musketeer attentively. D'Artagnan approached them and seemed to have understood clearly what the guards were exchanging among themselves, for he showed a combatively expression. Perhaps it would have been more impressive if he had not still been adorned by a gradually fading black eye. Unconsciously, Sorel put a hand on the hilt of his sword.

D'Artagnan noticed this gesture and got a hold of himself. At the entrance to the palace, Cahusac had detained him once more. Rochefort had apparently again failed to announce that he could be admitted. After a brief exchange of words, the guardsman let him pass, today without an escort. Small wonder, since his nanny was already waiting at the study's double doors and eyed him curiously. ʹSorel.ʹ D'Artagnan greeted him with a neutral face and glanced at the other two guardsmen. Complete distrust was evident from their attitude. Great, that was how he had imagined his future life at the red guard. The next weeks would be full of serenity and pure joy for sure!

ʹMonsieur le lieutenant,ʹ Sorel replied politely, and d'Artagnan was taken aback. Lieutenant? Did they not know that from now on he had to serve as the least of them? For the moment he left it at that and asked, ʹWhere is your superior officer to find?ʹ

Sorel continued to watch him carefully. He seemed to be more shrewd than his comrades, who were stubbornly silent. Sorel, on the other hand, was able to put two and two together. ʹUnless you mean Captain Luchaire, then Jussac is in the guardroom.ʹ

D'Artagnan nodded and returned a half-hearted ʹMy thanksʹ. Yes, he meant Jussac. The cardinal's guard numbered several hundred, almost a thousand men on horseback or on foot, plus ensigns and lieutenants. But the hand-picked palace troop of 60 guardsmen, who were always present, was primarily under Jussac's command. Right after the captain, of course. ...and where was this guardroom located?

ʹI will lead you.ʹ Sorel noticed the surprised looks by his comrades and smiled apologetically. ʹEn route I might meet someone who has lost his way.ʹ

Meunier frowned, but did not comment. Forgeron also seemed to agree with Sorel's assumption that the new recruit was wandering around somewhere in the palace and had not asked his way to the meeting place. D'Artagnan waited until Sorel had taken the lead and followed half a step behind him. The young man smiled amusedly, self-confident and proud. He seemed to be at peace with the world and himself. Unlike his companion, who did not want to be reminded of whom he had been himself many, many years ago and grumpy demanded, ʹJust tell me where I have to go. I will find the guardroom on my own.ʹ

ʹCertainly, monsieur le lieutenant, you would, but I am bound by Jussac's orders.ʹ

ʹWhat orders?ʹ

ʹTo take the new recruit to him.ʹ

D'Artagnan silently congratulated himself on his reckon up of Sorel's character. The lad was a real clever. When would his shrewdness become his downfall? ʹYou will keep your mouth shut until I have spoken to Jussac!ʹ

ʹUnderstood!ʹ Sorel replied blithely. He shot the supposed lieutenant a curious side glance. D'Artagnan looked back so grimly that the young guard quickly swallowed all questions and concentrated only on the way ahead.

The guardroom also seemed to be an arsenal. While the guards carried a pistol discreetly hidden under the tunic during duty, muskets were stored in the room in case of an attack. A tiled fireplace dominated the rear wall and provided warmth, in front of it were rows of wooden tables and benches. D'Artagnan noticed that on one of the tables there lay a deck of cards, on another one a game of dice. Meals seemed to be handed out here, as a few bowls and cups left behind showed.

At the moment there was nobody on call here. Maybe the change of guards just started or the guardsmen were assembling in the yard for morning roll call. The only person sitting at one of the rear tables, close to the fireplace, absorbed in a narrow book, was the lieutenant of the regiment. D'Artagnan mutely told Sorel that he could manage the last steps without his company. The young guardsman withdrew immediately and without contradiction, apparently he still believed in the higher rank of the other.

D'Artagnan waited until the door closed behind him before stepping deeper into the lion's den. Jussac did not make a move to indicate whether he had noticed the presence of the other man. He seemed completely absorbed in his reading and did not look up even when d'Artagnan remained standing only two steps away from him.

Moments passed when the former musketeer wondered whether he should either brazenly draw attention to himself or continue to disparage himself by waiting for a sign from the gracious lieutenant. Jussac, however, only turned the page. D'Artagnan could not read the title of the book, but now he spotted a page with the anatomical drawing of a dog and some explanations. The text seemed to have been written in Latin and immediately d'Artagnan's interest hit rock bottom. He cleared his throat.

ʹHeaven forbid, who-ʹ Jussac snorted over the book, but he finished the question in disbelief, ʹ-you?!ʹ when he recognised the disturber.

D'Artagnan could not blame him. Nor was he pleased to be here, standing at attention and getting it over and done with in one quick and painless sentence. ʹReportingforduty, sir.ʹ

Jussac's look on his face was almost worth it. Consternation was too mild an expression for what spoke from his gaze. The lieutenant blinked several times and seemed to find out whether he had just understood correctly. D'Artagnan remained silent and examined a point just past the left earlobe of his new superior. A tile by the fireplace had a crack. No one moved.

Finally, Jussac very slowly put the book on the table and said with severe self-control, ʹIf this is supposed to be a joke, you are showing a very bad sense of humour, and if it is not a joke, God hates me enough by now to send you to me as a permanent nuisance.ʹ When d'Artagnan did not reply, Jussac stood up and stepped close to the other officer. ʹTell me this is a joke!ʹ

It was not the threatening undertone that kept d'Artagnan silent. Rather, there was nothing to say, the forced eye contact was enough to make Jussac understand. ʹYou have been announced by Rochefort.ʹ Without waiting for confirmation, the lieutenant brusquely turned towards the fireplace, grabbed the poker and poked into the embers. For the sake of his own health, d'Artagnan did not comment on this either. It would have been an inglorious end to be killed with a poker on the very first day. Or, in self-defence, to run a sword through his superior who now asked with gritted teeth, ʹWhat rank?ʹ

ʹPardon?ʹ

ʹWhat rank do you hold?!ʹ Jussac shouted and it must have been heard all the way to the door. The lieutenant of the guardsmen did not care, he was too angry. Perhaps he was getting on the wrong side of his captain-to-be? Luchaire had talked often enough in the last months about taking his well-deserved retirement. Jussac should have succeeded him, but of course, that damn Gascon meddled in his affairs now and outranked him.

ʹ... common soldier,ʹ d'Artagnan replied hesitantly. He was not sure if Jussac had heard him, because the lieutenant was still standing very tense and was staring into the ember. D'Artagnan controlled himself not to have to endure Jussac's slow-working mind too impatiently. Now the lieutenant hung the poker back up, but did not turn around when he ordered, ʹReport to the armourer and then to the roll call in the courtyard.ʹ

ʹYes, s-!ʹ

ʹImmediately!ʹ

D'Artagnan closed his mouth again, his jaws grinding. That went well, Rochefort's plan was never, ever doomed to failure! Without further confirmation, without a salute, he marched out of the guardroom. He had hardly banged the door behind him when a loud rumbling could be heard from inside. Jussac must have been venting his anger. The noise did not escape the small group of guardsmen who had just arrived. D'Artagnan saw Sorel among them, who was looking back and forth between the door and him. Sooner or later he had to face his new comrades and put up with their ridicule and contempt.

D'Artagnan decided for 'sooner' and approached the guardsmen. But suddenly he was grabbed by the arm and barked at, ʹDon't you hurry!ʹ

D'Artagnan instinctively broke free and recognised Bernajoux, along with Biscarat. Both men looked at him hostilely. If it had not been for their friend Jussac, they would never have treated an officer, for whom they still had to mistook d'Artagnan, in such a way.

ʹWhat were you doing in there?ʹ Biscarat did all the talking while Bernajoux flexed his muscles. In an almost absurd way, d'Artagnan felt reminded of Aramis and Porthos. However, he had little desire to mess again with every man on his first day and to fight duels. They had already done that more than ten years ago. Besides, his knee was still bothering him after the fight at the Three Crowns.

ʹAsk Jussac!ʹ he replied enraged and passed the two guardsmen. They let him go unmolested, perhaps they were too surprised by his behaviour. Even Sorel seemed to be hurriedly looking for an escape route when he realised that d'Artagnan was heading right for him. The young guard, however, bravely stood his ground as he was barked at, ʹArmorer!ʹ

Sorel nodded and again led d'Artagnan to the requested destination. This time the lad remained resolutely silent, disillusioned, if not disappointed. Bernajoux, Biscarat and even the taciturn Cahusac had repeatedly raked over old war stories and told them to their younger comrades; and although or perhaps even because they were enemies, the lieutenant of the musketeers also appeared in these stories. The daring conquest of Saint-Germain, for example. How annoying it must have been for His Eminence that the king had snatched the promising young soldier from under his nose after this adventure and made him a musketeer. Perhaps d'Artagnan would otherwise have become a cardinal's guardsman instead of being stuck in his post as a lieutenant for years.

Of course, d'Artagnan had no idea of these considerations, otherwise he might have told Sorel a completely different story by a jar of good wine. One about his best friends, about the naive dream of a young country nobleman. About unexpected twists and turns.

But instead d'Artagnan railed against fate and welcomed the silence.

VIII - Taking up duty

Biscarat and Bernajoux initially watched the departure of the former lieutenant of the musketeers in confusion. When d'Artagnan barked ʹArmourer!ʹ the matter was obvious. Biscarat rubbed his forehead as if he had a headache and glanced at his friend with a meaningful look. Bernajoux, for his part, did not hesitate to step into the guardroom to support Jussac. He was able to imagine how his lieutenant had digested the news; it had been impossible not to hear his reaction.

In fact, he and Biscarat, who followed him immediately, found Jussac sitting apparently completely relaxed on a bench in front of the fireplace, his nose buried in his current favourite book, Exercitatio Anatomica de Motu Cordis et Sanguinis in Animalibus.

Bernajoux had no understanding of those kinds of things. Jussac's brother, a doctor, had sent the book to him. An Anatomical Exercise on the Motion of the Heart and Blood in Living Beings. Their lieutenant was interested in such things, blood circulation and skeletons, gruesome stuff in Bernajoux's eyes. It was enough for him to know where to strike with the sword to damage organs, not how they worked.

Biscarat discreetly closed the door before the other guardsmen curiously stormed the room as well. It was an old story; whenever Jussac was in the worst mood of all, his closest friends were sent ahead until the situation had calmed down. The situation now seemed so bad that Jussac ignored even Bernajoux, who wordlessly put back up the table, which their lieutenant had knocked over in anger.

While Bernajoux was still calmly collecting playing cards scattered on the floor, Biscarat was even brave enough to take a seat next to Jussac. The lieutenant stared stubbornly at his book without reading a single line. Biscarat patiently let a few moments pass, then moistened his little finger and put it in Jussac's ear.

ʹHeaven's sake!ʹ The lieutenant wiped Biscarat's arm fiercely to the side and stopped himself in time before he would instinctively thrust hist fist in his friend's face. Biscarat raised his hands in an appeasing manner and tried the disarming smile with which he had escaped from many delicate situations before. ʹWelcome back.ʹ

Jussac was not in a joking mood. ʹI swear, if it wasn't you…ʹ he growled and gave Bernajoux a warning look as well. He absolutely did not want to be cheered up. On the contrary, he had just made himself very comfortable in his rage against certain stable masters, musketeers and incomprehensible decisions.

Biscarat could see through his lieutenant effortlessly. ʹI can well imagine whom you'd break the nose instead of me.ʹ

ʹTalk to me about that matter again and I will break your nose!ʹ

ʹSo I can get a crooked face like our dear Bernajoux?ʹ Behind them, the mentioned Bernajoux threw the playing cards back on the table in a more untidy fashion than necessary, grunting something not understandable. Biscarat grinned. ʹI renounce.ʹ

ʹGood.ʹ Jussac still looked scowling, but when his friends made no move to leave him alone, he sighed and called himself to order. ʹYou two were listening?ʹ

ʹIs it him?ʹ Bernajoux, as always, was short on words, but still got to the point. Most of the time, Jussac was grateful to be able to answer just as concisely. They understood each other with few gestures, with half sentences. Now, however, he grimaced when the facts were once again thrown at him without any explanation and there was absolutely nothing he could do about it. ʹYes. The bastard is now a guardsman.ʹ

ʹLieutenant?ʹ Bernajoux seemed to be as worried about d'Artagnan's position in their ranks as Jussac had been before. Fortunately enough in this respect, there was good news.

ʹCommon soldier.ʹ Jussac snorted disparagingly. ʹThe cardinal must have stripped him off his patent, there's no other explanation.ʹ

ʹIt suggests that d'Artagnan's transfer is his last chance.ʹ Biscarat speculated. ʹOtherwise he would at least have had to be offered the post of senior lieutenant in order to honour us.ʹ

Bernajoux's face was unexpectedly graced by a rare smile. Actually, only the corners of his mouth seemed to be more wry than usual. If one did not know him better, a smile from the combative guardsman appeared quite... disconcerting. ʹHe'll have to behave himself.ʹ

Jussac nodded thoughtfully. ʹIf it's his last chance and he doesn't want to lose it. Now I'm no longer surprised by Rochefort's request to keep an eye on the new recruit. He'll only provoke agitation in the corps.ʹ

ʹHe's not one of us and no one here will ever trust him. Our feud with the musketeers is not forgotten,ʹ Biscarat agreed. ʹThis will be fun!ʹ

ʹEnough of this.ʹ Jussac put his book down on the bench and stood up. The conversation with his friends had dampened his anger. ʹMorning roll call in half an hour, muster the men! We will adequately introduce our appreciated newcomer to duty.ʹ In the next half hour he had to think about what to do now. Captain Luchaire certainly did not want any trouble within the red guard during his last weeks of duty. The only question left was how his lieutenant could prevent this based on the latest developments. ʹDismissed!ʹ

Bernajoux and Biscarat confirmed and left the guardroom. Outside the door, they only had to exchange a quick glance to agree with each other. They would adequately introduce d'Artagnan to the guard, oh yes. So adequately that the former musketeer would soon come to terms with his new position and could be sure that he was always kept in sight watchfully. Both friends went off to call their comrades together as they had been ordered to do.

*~*~*~*~*

D'Artagnan tugged uncomfortably at his new uniform, the red tunic of His Eminence's guard. On his arrival, the armourer had only eyed him with a brief, appraising glance, while Sorel explained the matter, and then handed him his equipment; a musket and the cloak-like uniform with the characteristic, unadorned cross on the chest, back and sleeves. Reluctantly, d'Artagnan had put on the new colours, ignoring Sorel's encouraging nod.

Perhaps Sorel had then deliberately chosen the path through the gallery of mirrors down into the courtyard so that d'Artagnan could cast furtive side glances. In passing, the former musketeer had actually dared to examine his appearance. The tunic fitted him as if he had never worn another. Like tailor-made, fabric of the best quality. D'Artagnan forced himself to stop another tugging and accept that the cardinal equipped his guards better than the king had his musketeers.

A considerable number of guards had already gathered in the inner courtyard. The morning roll call seemed imminent and d'Artagnan felt visibly out of place. Everything appeared so disciplined and organised here as it had never been in the musketeers' headquarters. He had always appreciated the loud hustle and bustle there, the rough jokes, the mock battles on the stairs or the gambling in the entrance hall. The full life, seemingly unbridled and carefree. The guardsmen, on the other hand, had gathered here in loose groups, were talking to each other, but only quietly, and they always seemed to keep a watchful eye on the surroundings so that they could react immediately to the arrival of an officer.

From one of these groups Cahusac now waved in their direction. To be more precise, he waved to Sorel, who also briefly raised one arm and immediately joined the comrade. He did not seem to notice that d'Artagnan was not following him. Perhaps the young guard was also relieved to be able to leave with an excuse. The former lieutenant knew when he was welcome among the common soldiers and when not. In case he still did not understand, he caught another warning look from Cahusac and shrugged his shoulders.

Without really knowing what to do with himself, d'Artagnan remained below one of the windows, which were facing the court at regular intervals. It was only a small square in the entrance area of the town palace, almost directly facing the street. 'Small', of course, only compared to the impressive gardens and the vast Cour d'Honneur further inside. One could have built several houses here easily and even then there would have been room left for a modest forecourt with a statue and pigeon droppings.

The Palais Cardinal was a stone monument, three storeys high and topped with pointed roofs. The façade was straight, symmetrical on all sides, with only a few decorations on the windows. The gates were framed by double columns because it had been inspired by Italian architecture at that time. The Louvre was within a stone's throw, d'Artagnan saw it from an unusual perspective. Never before had he felt so much in the wrong place.

ʹYou look like one of us.ʹ

D'Artagnan was torn from his thoughts and he cursed for having been inattentive. Suddenly, he saw himself surrounded by a semicircle of guardsmen, Bernajoux and Biscarat ahead of them. The latter had dropped this unkind remark and, amidst the approving murmurs of his comrades, added now, ʹBut are you one of us?ʹ

Not particularly impressed by the superior forces and certainly not intimidated, d'Artagnan responded, ʹI shall be.ʹ He surprised himself by sounding not only determined but also sincere. Perhaps Rochefort had taken correctly measure of himself and this seemingly impossible task resuscitated his ambition.

The guardsmen seemed to be moving imperceptibly closer, but still remained behind the front, which Bernajoux, with his physique, could form all by himself. D'Artagnan remembered him as a formidable opponent, back ten years ago when Bernajoux challenged him to a duel after a tennis match to avenge the wounds of the carmelite monastery. Without doubt he was the best fencer of the guardsmen. D'Artagnan had only been able to triumph over him because Bernajoux had not taken him seriously as an opponent due to his youth. With their duel they had started a small war between musketeers, the cardinal's guard and even the king's guard in the town, in which a house had almost been burned down. Bernajoux still did not seem particularly well disposed towards him. With a sideways glance at Biscarat, he said, ʹIt is in his papers.ʹ

ʹPaper does not blush,ʹ said Biscarat, playing helplessly with the question of how to answer the attitude of their new member. D'Artagnan, for his part, tried to keep an eye on each man so he would been forearmed. Unconsciously, he took a firmer stand. Bernajoux made clear what this meeting would lead to. ʹA test of loyalty?ʹ

Biscarat seemed to think about it while the rest of the guardsmen was already smirking. D'Artagnan had a sense of foreboding when the other Gascon nodded with a much too friendly smile. ʹAn introduction.ʹ

Suddenly d'Artagnan found himself hooked under the arms and in the middle of his new comrades, who immediately marched off as a merry group, dragging him along with them. They knew by now that he had been demoted and that they were not attacking any superior officer. ʹWhat the hell are you doing?!ʹ he shouted against Bernajoux and Biscarat, who marched ahead and led the group down from the yard to the laughter of the remaining guardsmen. He received no reply and after a pointless attempt to break away, he surrendered.

D'Artagnan did not have to puzzle over their destination for long. It could be smelled before it was heard too; the stables of the Palais Cardinal. The smell of horse manure, straw and the animals themselves hung intensely in the air and the damp, misty weather intensified it even more. D'Artagnan only got a brief glimpse of the horses in their compartments, as he was led straight into the back of the stables. The hostlers were clever enough to make themselves invisible as the noisy and frighteningly cheerful group passed by with an unhappy recruit in their midst.

Soon they left the roofed part of the stables and d'Artagnan resisted only half-heartedly. He achieved nothing more than to be grabbed even tighter. The stench of filth and dung had become overwhelming here in the backyard. The procession took a halt and Biscarat turned to the former musketeer. ʹNow you have got an idea.ʹ

ʹIt is blatantly obvious,ʹ d'Artagnan growled back and understood perfectly what was meant. The guardsmen were superior against him in every way, and this whole 'introduction' served only to point him out to his low-ranked position. The warning had reached him.

Bernajoux put a hand on the shoulder of his friend when he seemed to hesitate. Biscarat might have ended the matter here and now, because the supposed enemy had been put in its place and he kept calm. But the comrades did not want to be here for nothing, so the half Spaniard stepped aside.

D'Artagnan's arms were suddenly released, but a fierce thrust in the back made him stagger and because he could just manage to steady himself, someone tripped him up. Face first, the former lieutenant's fall ended in horse dung. Instinctively, he tried to get back up on his knees and was shoved down again accompanied by the cheers and spitefulness of the other men. He spat out and tried to straighten himself up, only to be doused with a bucket of more dung.

The choreography of this baptism had been long rehearsed, often practised. A disgusting liquid dripped from the brim of his hat into d'Artagnan's neck. He did not try to get up again and grudgingly endured the laughter. Probably all newcomers had to endure this humiliation. D'Artagnan doubted that the guardsmen would always be throwing their own uniforms into the dirt. This was reserved solely for former musketeers, so that they too would make a certain introduction of themselves to the senior officers on their first day of service.

Another recruit would now have reached out a hand to help him out after the traditional bath in horse dung. He would have been pulled back up on his feet, patted on his shoulders and thus be officially accepted by the guards. In the evening, there would have been a mutual celebration in their favourite tavern. But now the guardsmen congratulated each other only among themselves on their successful prank. Bernajoux was the first to turn away abruptly and leave the court. Soon the other men followed him and did not hold back with ridicule. One even threw a clean handkerchief to d'Artagnan. When he raised his eyes, he looked into Biscarat's face. There was neither triumph nor compassion in it when he said, ʹIt is your choice now.ʹ

D'Artagnan nodded, spat again and laboriously got up on his feet, disgusted by the unspeakable globs and fluids sticking to and under his clothes. He waded out of the dung heap and was just about to say a word to Biscarat, when he decided to do the same as his comrades and therefore walked away without looking back.

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