Not that much. Athos wondered in what class the lady had been reared, exactly, that five hundred pistoles was not that much. A hundred pistoles could keep the four of them in style for quite a while, and their needs were greater than most. Five hundred pistoles would certainly have bought a lot for both Guillaume and Amelie. Perhaps not enough to make her a lady, as he had promised her, but enough to see them lodged in some comfort and without daily drudgery.
But there had been no money at all on Guillaume, when he had been found. Where could the money have gone?
Athos bowed to Madame de Comeau and made his good-byes in his most correct fashion, somehow thinking the only way to deal with this very unconventional lady was with the utmost civility. She responded and rose as he turned to leave.
And then by the door, he noted a small table, piled with perfumes and creams, and he turned to look at the lady. “Milady, do you use belladonna?”
She blinked. “Not very often. Only now and then on my eyes. Why?” Her reply was quite innocent and devoid of guilt.
“No reason,” Athos said. Hat in hand, he bowed low. “Madam, your most humble servant.”
She smiled at him. “Do come back when this is all resolved and you’ve found the scamp,” she said. “I’d like to know how the story turns out.”
So did Athos.
Family and Familiarity; The Complications of an Inheritance; The Lot of the Youngest Son
DE Termopillae got up from where he had been, sitting on a low stone bench, casting dice with his fellow guard.
Aramis suppressed an irritation he was very aware of being hypocritical. It was all very well to fume at de Termopillae for playing the dice while he should be guarding one of the many entrances to the royal palace, but the truth was that every musketeer did it, and Aramis not least of all.
“Porthos,” de Termopillae said, as the redheaded musketeer stepped in front of him and then, with a more pleased tone, “And Aramis.”
The truth was that de Termopillae was, for lack of a better explanation one of a few young musketeers who idolized Aramis and tried to copy his style of dressing, his manner of speaking and his gestures, down to the careful examination of their nails when in a tight spot. What none of them could imitate, of course, was Aramis’s intelligence and his ability to find his way through complex situations.
At least, this was what Aramis liked to think. But none of this helped him feel better about de Termopillae who, to own the truth, was the most successful of Aramis’s imitators, and for that the one he detested the most. Just looking at de Termopillae, who combed his blond hair exactly like Aramis and who wore venetians in a shade of grey that exactly matched some that Aramis often wore, and who tied his doublet in the exact same way. And-what was most galling-he pinned a lovelock to the side of his hair in the exact same way as Aramis, with a pin that looked almost exactly like Aramis’s save for being of cheap construction. This made Aramis’s blood boil, and something like a shade of rage fall in front of his eyes.
Porthos was looking at de Termopillae with a frown. And when Porthos frowned people were likely to pay attention. Oh, Aramis knew that frown. It was Porthos’s confused frown, and Aramis would bet he was trying to imagine in what way this foppish man, almost half his size and looking very much like a dandy, could be related to the du Vallons.
But de Termopillae, clearly, had no idea why either of them had taken an interest in him. He took a step back, and then another. “I… er…” he said, and stared at them. “I… er… used the balm you sold me, Aramis, and it has worked wonders. You’d never know I was stabbed almost clean through the arm. It is almost completely healed.”
Porthos made a sound deep in his throat, and then rumbled something half under his breath. De Termopillae jumped and stared. “I beg your pardon?” he said.
“I said,” Porthos said, making each of his syllables a small work of art, polished and perfectly set out for examination, “that it is a characteristic of the family. I never need a salve. I just heal.”
“The… the family?”
“My family,” Porthos said.
De Termopillae’s throat worked. He was looking up at Porthos, his eyes wide, and he had lost color so that what was normally a triangular and catlike, impish face looked like a tallow sculpture or the face of someone about to die of blood loss. “You know,” he said, his voice low.
This, Aramis could have told him, was the most stupid thing he could say. He clearly didn’t know how Porthos’s mind worked. Porthos was here about Guillaume’s murder, and though Aramis very much doubted that by “you know” de Termopillae meant to confess to it, to Porthos’s direct mind it would seem exactly like he had.
Porthos moved forward, a siege engine slipping its moorings. Aramis made an ineffective grasp for his sleeve, but it was all for nothing.
Porthos’s huge hand caught de Termopillae on the chest and lifted him, under the sheer impulse and force of its own movement, pressing him up against the wall. “Why did you do it, wretch?” he asked.
“Porthos, I don’t think-” Aramis said.
“I…” De Termopillae, his wound healed or not looked like he was about to lose consciousness. “Do what? I couldn’t help being born to whom I was, could I?”
“What does your birth have to do with this, sirrah?” Porthos asked. “How does your birth make you a murderer. And a child, yet?”
From the other side of the gate, la Roselle, the musketeer who was standing guard with de Termopillae, stared. He stood, transfixed, his leather dice cup in his hand and looking like he was not sure whether to run for help or just to run, since Porthos had, clearly run mad.
De Termopillae stared at Porthos. “What child?” he asked.
“My son,” Porthos said. “Why would you murder my son? Did you intend to dispatch me as well? And fat good it would do you. The manor house is a pile of stones, and I would bet you none of the fields about, none under my father’s care, are worth any more than the largest farm in his domain. Bless me if any of them are worth as much, considering how the farms go around there.”
De Termopillae, pinned against the wall by the force of Porthos’s hand, half bent over the stone bench, blinked. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said. “I don’t know anything but that we’re cousins. Or at least, that’s what my father said when he visited last year. He said you had the mark and body of my mother’s family, and that bet it, you were my cousin. Other than that, I don’t even know your real name, much less that you have a son. And I couldn’t care less for your father or your son.”
“You don’t?” Porthos looked puzzled. He pulled his hand back, and de Termopillae fell, nervelessly upon the stone bench, and leaned against the wall.
“What did you think I had done?” he asked. “You have a son? Or did you say someone killed your son?”
Porthos glared. “It is none of your business,” he said.
“Granted, granted,” de Termopillae said, in the voice of someone who, just at that moment, would have granted anything, half the world included, if only Porthos would leave him alone.
Porthos seemed done with him, and ready to go, but Aramis was not quite of the same opinion. Instead, he held Porthos’s arm, now the giant looked as ready to retreat as he had been, first, to press de Termopillae to the wall. “Porthos, stay,” he said. Then, to de Termopillae, “Your father visited you in town?”
De Termopillae looked at Aramis. Aramis could tell, the way his gaze measured him that de Termopillae was totting up all the similarities and the differences between them, trying to decide how to make himself look more like Aramis, if that were possible.
“My father came,” he said and ducked his head, then started brushing at his collar in a gesture so reminiscent of Aramis’s own that it made Aramis seethe. “To talk to me of my affianced wife, who is but waiting to marry me, as soon as it is safe to go back to my home.”
“Why should it not be safe to go back to your home?” Aramis said. “And you have a w
ife waiting for you?”
“She is my cousin,” de Termopillae said. “On my father’s side. An only daughter set up with extensive lands and property, and wanting only a man’s hand on the rudder of her ship.”
Aramis bit back a terrible impulse to ask which man de Termopillae meant to find for the task, and instead said, “Then why can’t you go back home and be married.”
De Termopillae sighed. “I killed a man,” he said.
“I knew it,” Porthos said, starting forward towards de Termopillae again. “You are a vile murderer.”
Aramis put an arm up in front of his friend, without even looking. He knew very well that should Porthos not choose to stop-should he push forward-he could push Aramis’s arm and overturn Aramis too. But he also knew, with the comfort of long-accustomed friendship that Porthos would stop, and he did, even though de Termopillae, who had no such assurance, was doing his best to knit himself close with the wall.
“How did you kill a man?” Aramis asked.
“In a duel. Just a duel,” de Termopillae said. “And because of the edicts…” He shrugged.
“How likely would you be to get any inheritance from your mother’s side?” Aramis asked.
De Termopillae blinked in confusion. “I beg your pardon? My father describes his marrying of my mother as rescuing her from some forsaken place in the middle of nowhere where people lived still as in the time of Charlemagne. Why would I want to inherit any of it, even were any of it worth inheriting?”
Aramis felt the pressure of Porthos against his extended arm, as if Porthos had almost taken a step forward, doubtless eager to defend his domains. “Never mind that,” he told de Termopillae, quickly. “Just tell me-if there were no heir on that side, would you inherit?”
De Termopillae stared at Aramis as if he thought the musketeer likely to grow a second head. “No. How could I? My mother was the youngest sister, and all her three sisters have children. And then there’s my brothers who’d inherit before I ever did. You see, the reason that my father arranged me a marriage with an heiress is that of my three brothers, Charles will inherit my father’s land, and Felix will go into the church and Henri, enfin, is well in his way to become a general. That leaves me, and Father thought the best thing to do with me was marry me to my cousin, and I do not mind, only Father thinks we need to wait another year, till the scandal of the duel dies down.”
“Very well,” Aramis said, and turned to Porthos. “You see, it is all explained.”
He could tell from Porthos’s blank expression that nothing was explained, or at least not to Porthos’s satisfaction. But Porthos, used to trusting Aramis took a step back and nodded.
And Aramis said, “Thank you for answering our questions, de Termopillae. You’ve been very helpful.”
De Termopillae nodded, somewhat dazed looking, still casting a suspicious glance at Porthos, as if he suspected the huge redhead of who knew what. But he said nothing- being a wise man and intending to live-and Aramis turned as did Porthos, and they started to walk away, before Aramis turned back. “Oh, one last thing.”
“Yes?” a shaken de Termopillae asked.
“Where were you…” Aramis calculated mentally. “Five days ago, early morning?”
“Here,” de Termopillae said. “I was keeping guard from midnight till almost high noon, as I was taking my shift and Firmin’s on account of Firmin being pickled.”
“And did you see a skinny auburn-haired lad, named Guillaume?”
“I saw no one, really, except a veiled lady who went out. One of the Queen’s maids and the goddaughter of Lavalle. No one else. Right, la Roselle?” and, in an aside, “We stood guard together.”
“There was no one unusual, and certainly no lad,” la Roselle said.
“Right,” Aramis said, and bowed gracefully. “Thank you very much for helping us.”
Counting Cousins Out; Playing the Blame Game; The Mercy of Enemies
"SO, explain it again,” Porthos said. He knew that he wasn’t stupid. At least, oftentimes he saw things that escaped the other musketeers, even Aramis with his theology and rhetoric, and Athos with his classical learning. But whatever had happened back then had left him completely baffled.
They were now some distance away from the royal palace, and preceding at a good clip towards D’Artagnan’s place where, as Aramis had assured him, Athos was bound to head himself, once he had talked to the lord’s wife.
“Tell me why it is that it couldn’t possibly be de Termopillae. ”
“I’m not saying it couldn’t be de Termopillae,” Aramis said. He was frowning slightly. “It could of course be him if two conditions obtain.” He counted it off on his fingers. “One, if he is a consummate liar and lied to us about his circumstances. And two if he managed to make la Roselle lie as well.” He looked at Porthos and added, “About where he was, on the morning Guillaume was poisoned.”
“And are those two so hard to obtain?” Porthos asked, lowering his eyebrows over his eyes and glaring. “I’d say all musketeers are consummate liars, and that getting two of them to lie about the same thing, well…”
Aramis grinned. “Liars perhaps, but not consummate liars. I don’t think poor de Termopillae could lie convincingly. And if he could normally do it, he certainly couldn’t do it after you’d scared him within an inch of his threatened life.”
“So you don’t think he was lying?” Porthos asked.
“No,” Aramis said. “I don’t, and at any rate, it would be stupid of him to lie about such simple things as the number of children in his family or which of your aunts is his mother, because how did he know you didn’t have some idea? Or, how did he know you hadn’t talked to someone about it?”
“Still he could be bluffing it,” Porthos said.
“Not, with you there, so near, and ready to slip the leash and hurt him at the slightest excuse,” Aramis said. “Not likely. I’d say not possible. Most sane people don’t want you turned on them in a rage.”
“You speak,” Porthos said, “as though I were some kind of war machine.”
Aramis grinned but said nothing, as there was nothing to say. They walked their way past the broad streets filled with imposing houses, their doors guarded by dogs and menials, and wended into the more populous quarters of town, towards the Rue des Fossoyers where D’Artagnan lodged.
“Mind you, if we’re going to cross out people who might have done it,” Porthos said. “Our list is getting mighty scant.”
Aramis nodded. “I suppose there’s little hope,” he said, “that Monsieur Coquenard might have done it.”
“Just as well,” Porthos said. “Much as I love Athenais, if I had to marry her in order to look after her, she would be very ill looked after.” He opened his hands in a show of helplessness. “I am in no condition to support a wife.”
“No,” Aramis said, smiling slightly. “Besides, I fancy your Athenais would drive poor Mousqueton insane if she started minding his housekeeping.”
“More likely he would drive her distracted with his unerring ability to step on chickens and bottles of fine wine.”
Aramis nodded. “And I suspect Monsieur de Comeau didn’t do it. Though of course, it is possible that Athos will find his wife did.”
“You don’t sound as if you believe it.”
“Well…” Aramis sighed. “I’ve heard something of the woman, and I daresay if she thought it was of some real advantage to her to kill a child, she’s the type of woman who would, quite likely, do it. However…”
“However?” Porthos asked.
Aramis opened his hands. “I must own to having lied to Athos.”
Porthos smiled a little. “That,” he said, “is very bad of you.”
“Indeed. The truth is I know the lady somewhat by reputation, and I know that she can wrap any man she wishes around her finger.”
“Oh. Which is why you set Athos on her.”
“Well, if a man can interview her and be undaunted by her charms, it is our friend.�
�
“Our friend,” Porthos said, “is not indifferent to women, particularly beautiful ones.”
“Oh, no. Not indifferent. There are such men, and if that were merely the case, then he would have no more trouble interviewing her than interviewing any man. Athos is more like a man who having nearly perished of a terrible disease-say, small pox-has developed such a reaction against it that he never will catch it again. Immunized, rather than indifferent.”
“So in practical terms, that people like me can understand…?”
“Well, it means that she will be less likely to convince him of her innocence by sheer charm, but…” Aramis frowned. “She is charming. And though there are, I’ve heard and read about, charming women who are famous criminals, and often famous poisoners, I don’t think it is her type of charm. From all I hear of those in her circle, she is a kind woman with a good sense of humor. And there, I must own, Porthos, that I don’t think poisoners do very often laugh.”
Porthos nodded. “Though I bet they do, I know what you mean. You mean you don’t feel her to be guilty, though you’ll wait Athos’s judgement.”
“Exactly,” Aramis said.
“So, this leaves whom still to be suspected?”
“Oh, the late Amelie’s mother and father,” Aramis said. “Though my mendicant friar could find no evidence that they’d ever been near the child himself. Or not near enough to poison him. Certainly, they established no relationship with him that would allow them to offer him food and have him eat it.”
“This doesn’t mean that they couldn’t have paid someone to…” Porthos frowned and sighed. “You know I don’t like to say it of my own father. Proud as the devil, of course, but bastards who don’t impinge on him and his land, provided they aren’t made legitimate by my marrying their mother…”
“Exactly,” Aramis said. “I would say it would not concern him. And indeed his main work in Paris seems to have been to make sure that you hadn’t married Amelie.”
While speaking, they’d arrived at D’Artagnan’s neighborhood and started, through dint of long habit to walk along a normally deserted alley between buildings. It was normally deserted because it was not in point of fact an alley, but only a space left when buildings had been put up. Musketeers and other big men not scared by the darkness cast by the tall buildings nor by the odor of urine caused by the many men who chose that place to relieve themselves cut through that space. But few other people did.
The Musketeer's Apprentice Page 26