A Candle For d'Artagnan

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “If my oath allowed it, I would meet you, Gascon or no.” His voice was low and tension made it rough. “And should you ever say such a thing again where anyone but I can hear you, I will ask you to name your friends. My oath does not require me to be dishonored, not for you or any man.”

  Montlezun de Besmaux stepped back so hastily that he almost tripped over the leg of the upholstered bench. His eyes were shiny with fright and wrath, and for an instant his hand hovered near the hilt of his sword. “No; no,” he protested, raising his hand to where the gloves had struck him. “You misunderstood me, d’Artagnan. You insult me as well.” He busied himself brushing crumbs from his collar. Where was that priest now that he had need of him? He watched Charles covertly and improvised. “I am … a bit drunk, I admit it. And like other men, my jests are not always made well when I drink.” He tittered. “Why should I wish to insult you? We are both couriers. We have been Musqueteers. We are Gascons. Mere Marie and the Saints, I am as poor as you are. I only intended to say that I … that I wish I had a patron, one who would provide what His Eminence does not.” He smoothed his moustache. “I have not yet received the gold we were promised at the Nativity, and my purse is as empty as Herod’s treasure house.”

  Charles’ voice remained low. “What I told you stands. I will not have my name, or the name of my mistress, defamed.”

  “What man would?” asked Montlezun de Besmaux, as if appealing to an audience. “You are very right. I did not realize my wit would fail me.” He moved as far away from Charles as the room would permit, the imprint of the gloves becoming a bright swath above his beard. “It’s the drink.”

  “If that is certain,” said Charles with icy politeness, “then I excuse your remarks. And I will never hear them again, will I?” This last, so gently spoken, was heavy with threat.

  “Naturally not,” said Montlezun de Besmaux, becoming more sober with every breath. “It is a bad night; I must be tired, and the wine went to my head before I knew what was what.” He glared at Charles. “Will that suffice, or must I grovel?”

  Charles gave him a formal bow and a terrifying smile. “I am satisfied with your apology now. If it ever happens again, I will demand your life.”

  Montlezun de Besmaux swore in an undervoice, then looked directly at Charles. “You are a madman, d’Artagnan. Madmen should be humored.” He licked the butter off his fingers as he watched Charles narrowly. “I must attend His Eminence.”

  “He is waiting,” said Charles in oblique agreement.

  “I wonder what he would think if I told him what has transpired here?” The gleem in his eyes was speculative and irate. “Considering your oath and all.”

  “The woman whose honor you impugned is part of his embassy,” Charles pointed out coolly. “You might discover that His Eminence shares my opinion.” He glanced at the door as it opened and Pere Chape, an open bottle of wine in his hands, came back into the antechamber.

  “Oh!” exclaimed Pere Chape, startled to see the Cardinal’s two couriers poised to do battle. “I did not know—”

  Charles moved back, his attitude changing quickly. “Do not keep the Cardinal waiting, Montlezun de Besmaux. If there is anything more to say, we will discuss it later.”

  Montlezun de Besmaux’s bow was so slight it was barely civil. “I have no doubt,” he said as he swept from the room.

  Pere Chape stared after him, sensing some of the violence developing between the two men. He put the bottle of wine down and regarded Charles. At last he said, “If you wish some—”

  “No; but thank you,” Charles said absently. He had come near the fire and stood staring down into the smoldering logs. After a short while, he asked, “Will His Eminence require my presence any further tonight?”

  “I don’t believe so,” said Pere Chape, bemused by the question.

  Charles reached for his plumed hat. “Then convey my compliments to Montlezun de Besmaux; I am going to return to my quarters.” He started toward the door.

  Pere Chape moved to detain him. “You ought to wait. It is advisable for you to wait.” He had almost touched Charles’ sleeve, but drew his hand back quickly, as if the fabric were hot. He made himself stop. “I will ask the lackey to bring your cloak,” he offered, but made no move to do so. Then he added in a kind of panic, “And if there is any remark on your departure, be it on your head. I will not answer for you.”

  The smile Charles gave him was wide and fierce. “How kind you are,” he said with all the false sincerity of a practiced courtier.

  Watching him depart, Pere Chape did his best to appear self-effacing and apologetic; he had the nagging sense that he had not convinced d’Artagnan of his disinterest. He started to give a blessing, but the words and the gestures would not come, and he remained still as Charles closed the door.

  Text of a letter from Isaac de Portau to Charles d’Artagnan.

  To my good comrade-in-arms, my greetings.

  We have been chasing that infernal Elector Maximillian all over his damned Bavaria. What the man expects to gain now I cannot guess, for he is outnumbered and outmaneuvered, but continues to fight on. Both we French and the Swedes have had our fill of this place. The campaign is becoming boring: each time we meet his forces, we win, he retreats, we give chase, and then we fight again. It would be better if you were here instead of careering off in any direction Mazarin sends you, but that would end the favor he shows you. I would then have someone to laugh with.

  I took a ball in the shoulder a week ago, and have come through the fever with only laudable puss to show for it. The farrier attended to my wound, which is why I have survived, I think. Left to the physicians I would probably be laid in my grave by now: you know what physicians are.

  The result is, as you have probably guessed, that I am to be sent back to Paris for three or four months while I recover my strength. At least the season will be pleasant, not too hot as it is in high summer, and not insufferably cold as it has been in winter. If Maximillian is brought to heel in that time, I will remain in Paris. That will be a mixed blessing until the Musqueteers are reactivated, for unless the Guard takes me on campaign, I will be on half pay, like the rest of the Musqueteers not fighting with other companies. It is my hope that you will have a few hours to share with me. A bottle of wine, a dish of soup, a joint of meat, what more could we ask? I will leave the women to you for the time being, until my arm does not hurt quite so much. Then we will see which of us has the greater success. If I must be inactive in our duty, I will put my attention to more pleasant tasks.

  There are rumors again that the Cardinal will reinstate the Musqueteers. True, there have been such rumors before and I have not heard it from anyone I trust enough to believe, but the rumor is a persistent one, and so it may be that we will be back in the First Company again before this year is out. I confess that war is not the same without the Musqueteers. It is all well and good to fight with the Guard, but there is no glory in it. Glory comes with the musquet and the first position in battle. I need not tell you this, I know; we are of like thought in this matter.

  I will be at the barracks of the Guards until I can find better lodging. I’d like a room at a tavern, somewhere near the Guards barracks if they are not already full of soldiers. If you hear of one such, tell me. Or better yet, tell the landlord and secure the place for me. I have money coming yet and will repay you for your trouble. Choose somewhere with good food and not too much noise, if that is possible. Yes, now that I read over it all, it seems to be a dream, but if you will do what you can you may be sure there will always be a place for you to go to ground if you must.

  You told me before I left on this absurd campaign that you might be able to find me a good horse for a reasonable sum. I would greatly appreciate that now. My grey was shot out from under me last September and the dun was taken over by one of the Swedes and I have not seen her since. If I am to be of any use at all, I will need a horse—a good horse, mind you, strengthy and sensible—not one to balk at every s
hadow or a worn-down creature that trots no faster than an old dog.

  I see I have asked quite a lot of you. No doubt I am imposing on our friendship. Well, I will not expect you to do all of the things I mention, but sitting here with my arm bound up, I am given to daydreaming, and you are reading the results. Do as you wish, and I will look forward to many evenings of wine and food and boasting. The rest is not so important as the camaraderie. We will drink to being Musqueteers again, and to the First Company, the best of the lot of them.

  Isaac de Portau

  On the 9th day of March, 1647.

  4

  To celebrate the Resurrection, Anne of Austria allowed Mazarin to persuade her to come to Paris to give a grand fete. She brought her children with her and kept them constantly surrounded by nursemaids and King’s Guards for the two weeks she required to prepare for the event.

  After the glorious celebration of Easter Mass, she went at once to the Louvre, for she needed three hours to dress for the banquet and gala of the evening. She paid little attention to the whispers that followed her, or the occasional snubs she was given by the most arrogant of the nobles, though she promised herself that each of them would pay dearly for what they did.

  The galleries and halls of the Louvre were ablaze with the light of thousands of candles. Lackeys given the task of making certain that none of the candles were extinguished went about with long poles in their hands, with lengths of fuse on the end. As the guests arrived in their finery, many were spattered with hot wax dripping from the chandeliers, but no one noticed this minor inconvenience, for the occasion was too splendid for such trivial complaint. Four little orchestras played in the largest room, each group of musicians playing music selected to represent the Four Humors. Two banquets were to be served, one at sunset and one at midnight. Five hundred guests were invited, and almost all of them attended.

  Olivia arrived shortly after the first banquet was served. Her carriage, being one of the last to arrive, had to be taken to an inn on the other side of the Seine once she was delivered to the fete. Bueve warned her from his box that it would take at least an hour from the time she sent for her carriage until they could be certain to appear. “Take one of our own lackeys, Madame,” he suggested for the fifth time.

  “I will,” she said as she stood beside the carriage looking up at him. “The Cardinal has already made arrangements.” She handed him a gold coin in thanks for his service. “Do not drink too much while I am here,” she warned him with a smile.

  “Cider only, Madame,” he promised, and glared at the two footmen clinging to the back of the coach. “And they will have no more than one brandy apiece, or I’ll have the hide off them.”

  “Make sure the horses are fed and watered,” she ordered, adding, “and clean their hooves before harnessing them tonight.”

  “Yes, Madame,” said Bueve, touching the brim of his coachman’s tricorn hat. Then he took the reins and started the carriage moving once more.

  Four lackeys had watched this interchange expressionlessly. As soon as her carriage was gone, the senior lackey approached Olivia and bowed to her. “What name, Madame?” he asked with the most elegant bow.

  “Bondame Atta Olivia Clemens, of Jules, Cardinal Mazarin’s suite,” she said formally as she followed the lackey indoors where she surrendered her dark velvet cloak to a very superior lady’s maid.

  In the light her gown was magnificent, more in the Roman style than the French; the bodice, outer sleeve, and overskirt were of the same bronze-colored damask silk, the corsage was embroidered with topazes and tourmalines. Her petticoat, stomacher, and undersleeves were of golden satin embellished with seedpearls. The high waist of the gown and the sleeve bands at the elbow were of dark brown velvet. Instead of lace cuffs, she had two wristbands of pearls and topazes in a rosette pattern. Her fawn-brown hair was simply dressed, the crimped locks falling in precise curls, the back of her hair done up in a complex knot contained by a golden net.

  The lackey, who had been looking at finery all through the fading afternoon, stared at her. He recovered himself enough to repeat her name and pass this information to the herald who announced her.

  Since more than half the guests were at dinner, Olivia’s arrival did not attract much attention beyond the awe of the lackey. She found herself a place to sit near the orchestra playing music that was thought to be bellicose, and gave herself a little time to gather her wits while the rambunctious melodies surged around her.

  “Madame Clemens,” said a fair young man she did not recognize in accented French as he bowed to her. He was gorgeous in a cerulean blue satin coat lavishly laced in silver.

  “You have the advantage of me, Monsieur,” she answered, rising and favoring him with a moderate curtsy. “I fear you are not known to me.”

  He kissed her hand, hardly touching her fingers with his lips. “I am commanded by Cardinal Mazarin to bring you to him.” He offered her his arm. “I am Jan Maarten Procopius,” he told her. “My title these days is in dispute.”

  “The Low Countries are very uncertain,” said Olivia, knowing that whatever side of the question the young man favored, he would agree with her.

  “Yes.” He drew her into a receiving room, saying as he brought a chair for her, “If things continue as they have gone thus far, I think I might be tempted to join Peter Stuyvesant’s company in Nieuw Amsterdam.” The look in his candid blue eyes was unhappy. “War or the New World,” he said, sighing.

  “How sad,” she said, thinking of the number of times in her long life she had faced such decisions.

  “If the war ends soon, it would be one thing. If it does not, then I must reconsider.” He bowed to her and indicated the door. “I will fetch His Eminence.”

  Left alone, Olivia permitted herself a bemused smile. How like Mazarin to be so cautious, she thought. She looked around the room and was delighted to discover two alcoves on either side of the massive hearth that contained tall shelves full of books. Impulsively she rose and went into the nearer one, peering at the spines, for the alcove was in shadow and reading, even for her night-loving eyes, required concentration.

  She had taken down a handsome volume of Gomez de Quevedo y Villegas’ La Historia de la vida del Buscon, and was thumbing through it when she heard the door open. She was about to put the book down and greet Mazarin when she realized she did not recognize the voices.

  “It is not wise for you to be seen with me,” said the deeper of the two.

  “No one knows of this. Look; we are alone. They are all eating. We are safer here than we will be again until midnight.” This second man had a cultured voice, the voice of someone used to command. “By then, half these rooms will be filled with those having assignations. I don’t want to try to talk while others are coupling.”

  Olivia retreated to the darkest part of the alcove, wondering if she could offer a plausible excuse for her presence if she needed one.

  The man with the deeper voice was speaking. “But, Francois, it is not safe to mention Le Fouet here. There are too many spies. Have you seen how many Guards are in attendance? And there are more lackeys than are necessary.”

  “And who knows who Le Fouet is, but those who have reason to share our cause?” said Francois with an arrogant snort of laughter. “If a lackey hears Le Fouet, what does it mean to him?” He walked toward the fire.

  In her hiding place, Olivia sank down to her knees, hoping that the light from the fire would not reflect on her shiny gown.

  “It may mean something to his master when he reports it,” said the first man. “Francois, I do not want to vex you, but I think it is ill-considered to do this. If you must gather more nobles to our cause, do not attempt to do it here.”

  “What better place?” Francois asked grandly. “Everyone is here, and there is no reason to remark upon it. The Spanish whore has given us our opportunity. If we had a few more to stand beside us, we could end this disgrace tonight.” Fury had come into his voice, cold and implacable. “I hav
e sworn to see honor restored to France, and I will do it or I will die.”

  “But not here,” said the other man. “For the love of God, Francois, think a little.” He pulled up a chair and sat down, his back to the fireplace. “You are not prepared yet.”

  “That is why I must speak to those who are here tonight. Do not be concerned, mon Duc. I will be at pains to mention no name but my own. Your role, and the role of the others, will not pass beyond this room.” He paused. “Mon Duc, are you going to countenance this continued insult from our … hostess? Are you willing to bow down to her boys, knowing what you do?”

  There was a brief pause, then the Duc answered. “I am not pleased with the situation; not many of us are. All the more reason for care. If we are exposed here—” His voice became even deeper. “You know my thoughts.”

  “If we do not take this opportunity, it will take us months to bring all our allies together; we are too scattered for direct action. On our estates we are powerful, it is true, but you and I know that the Italian Cardinal watches where we go and whom we see. Here there is no danger, not tonight. Tonight we could be able to do so much if you will give me permission to speak to those who wish to hear.” Francois was now quite emphatic, his words coming quickly, like hammerblows.

  Olivia held very still, listening intently. All her attention was fixed on what the two men were saying. She was hearing treason, treason that was especially dangerous to Mazarin, and therefore to her as well. She would not let herself think what would happen to her if the two men found her now.

  “But that is the problem,” said the Duc. “We do not know, not for a certainty, which among our numbers truly agrees with us and which may not. Not yet. We must be certain before we proceed. If we are not, then the Queen and her bastards live, the Italian lives, and we will be lucky to have a quick death. Do you wish to risk all that on convenience? for you are proposing just that.”