the musketeer's seamstress

by Sarah D'almeida

  Porthos’s bulk, by himself, took up the entire rung on the stairs. The stairs being open on the right side—with a mere railing dividing them from a fall onto the floor below, it was perilous to attempt to climb three abreast. But D’Artagnan managed to hold hold up Aramis all by himself all the way up. Though it slowed the young man down. By the time the two of them reached the top of the stairs, Porthos was already there, knocking at the door with what he hoped was a discreet and low-key knocking and was vaguely aware was only slightly less thunderous than the pounding he’d given the door downstairs.

  He had a moment to be afraid that Bazin would not be at home. Most of their servants would be home if they were not out with their masters, but Bazin was an odd one and had interests and plots of his own. Truth be told he only followed Aramis because he hoped Aramis would still live up to the vocation the family had decided for him early on and become a priest or a monk.

  But the worry passed as Bazin opened the door. He was a short man and almost as wide as he was tall. Nature had graced him with the round face of a medieval monk and a bald head that resembled a monk’s tonsure. He looked at them out of little surprisingly blue eyes.

  His stare at Porthos conveyed displeasure, then a look at Aramis changed it to a half-open mouth and the appearance of shock. “My master,” he said. “The Chevalier . . . Have you devils got him drunk again?”

  Porthos always found it amusing that, as far as Bazin was concerned, Aramis was an angel of light and innocence forever led astray by the demonlike musketeers and guard, his friends. Now he simply nodded and said, “Let us get him inside.” He was not about to debate, here on the landing, how Aramis had got in his present incoherent condition. He would bet Pierre or other members of his family were down there, ear glued to the door, listening for any stray word from up the stairs.

  Bazin’s expression looked like he’d very much like to pick a fight on this point, but in the end he didn’t. Instead, he stepped back and back into the room, till he allowed Aramis and D’Artagnan, who was supporting him, to come in. Porthos followed into a little room outfitted much like a monk’s cell. There was a narrow bed, a peg on the wall that held a change of clothes, and a massive wrought iron cross at the foot of which lay an oak-and-velvet kneeler much too ornate and elaborate to have belonged to a humble abode.

  The candles burning at the foot of the cross cast a bright—if trembling—light upon the room. Enough light to allow Porthos to run the three security bolts on the door after he closed it behind them. Enough for Bazin to see his master’s true state.

  As D’Artagnan pulled the borrowed cloak off Aramis, more became apparent and Bazin covered his mouth with his pudgy hand. “My master . . .” he said again, but no more.

  “Your master escaped the scene of a murder,” Porthos said.

  Bazin turned startled eyes to him. “My master murdered someone?”

  “No. But he is suspected. Presently, there might be people along trying to arrest him.”

  “Arrest him?”

  “That is what I said,” Porthos answered. “Do not open the door to anyone but us. We’ll be back to talk to your master. He’s not coherent enough to answer questions just now.”

  “Will he . . . is he drunk?”

  Porthos looked at Aramis who stood, where D’Artagnan had left him, near the cross and its complement of candles. Aramis swayed slightly on his feet and seemed dazed. But Porthos hadn’t smelled any alcohol on his breath or his person in helping him here.

  “Not noticeably. In fact, I doubt he has drunk at all. But put him to bed. He will be better in the morning.”

  “But—” Bazin started. He was pale, and his eyes wide.

  “Don’t ask questions,” Porthos said. “We don’t know how to answer them and it wouldn’t do you any good to ask.”

  “And besides,” D’Artagnan put in, his voice soothing and smooth. “The least said about these events, the better the chance you can find a religious house to take the two of you.”

  Bazin’s eyes, still reflecting shock and surprise, now filled with the cunning of the desperate, and he closed his mouth and nodded.

  When they left, Porthos heard the bolts slide home behind him. He had seen Bazin in a mood, and he did not fear that the rotund would-be monk would let intruders in. Aramis would sleep well tonight.

  Which was more than Porthos could say for Porthos. He would lay awake and wonder at what trouble his friend had got into and how they were going to get him out of it.

  The Inconvenience of a Murdered Noblewoman; Athos’s Doubts; Aramis’s Anger

  ATHOS arrived at Aramis’s lodgings the next day not sure how to face the coming trial, how to question Aramis, how to face Aramis’s guilt, if it were such.

  He’d awakened and dressed in silence, glad he’d trained his servant, Grimaud, to utter and silent obedience long ago. Oh, as a child Athos had been garrulous, talkative in the way of a smart boy. And as a teenager his overwrought emotions had flowed out in poetry and elegant prose.

  But all had changed on the day that Athos had killed his wife and his innocence with her, and left his domains to escape condemnation and censure for what he then viewed as justice and had—in later years—started to fear had been murder.

  The image of Charlotte pursued him still—her blond hair, her sweet features—and some days he would very much like to believe that the fleur-de-lis branded on her shoulder had been a mistake or an enemy’s ploy. Even if that meant he was guilty.

  And yet, his clear and uncluttered reason told him he’d never committed murder, or not unprovoked. He’d simply punished an escaped murderess, who’d wormed her way into his heart, his home, his family name.

  Caught between guilt and grief, he’d stopped being able to speak. Or at least being able to enjoy speaking with any fluency at all. Instead, he hoarded silence like a treasure, and ordered Grimaud through a system of gestures and expressions.

  He’d had few occasions to congratulate himself as much on this arrangement as he had this day. Because if he had needed to explain it all to Grimaud, he’d not have known how to, nor what to say. Because, after all, what did he know about Aramis?

  Later, yesterday, in the way of such news, rumors and hints had filtered down. After Porthos and D’Artagnan had returned to their guard post at the royal palace, they had heard through the servants of the duchess, murdered in her room, the weapon missing. And everyone talked of her lover, that musketeer who pretended to be a priest—or perhaps that priest who pretended to be a musketeer—and who visited her in her room so many times. Who had been seen—the maid was sure—entering her room just that night.

  It was no use at all for Athos to mention to Porthos that perhaps Aramis had killed his lover. Porthos’s face just closed and his red eyebrows descended upon his eyes like storm clouds announcing a gale. Porthos said it was monstrous to even suspect Aramis of such a thing. That Aramis wouldn’t do any such thing. Not ever.

  But the truth was more complex than that. No one who knew Athos, before or after his wife’s death, would suspect him of killing her, either. He had always struggled to be the embodiment of honor, the soul of probity. Striking an unarmed woman didn’t seem to be within his abilities.

  In fact, Athos himself would never have believed he could do it and only half understood it as he saw his own hands fashion a noose and hang Charlotte from a low-hanging branch.

  In retrospect, it made all too much sense. Almost too much sense for his taste, as it could not in any way be called a crime of passion. He’d been revolted and shocked to see the fleur-de-lis on her shoulder when he’d opened her gown to give her air, after she’d fallen from her horse. The fleur-de-lis was the mark of an adulteress, a murderess headed for the gallows. She’d escaped somehow.

  Oh, he could have denounced her to the local magistrates. But that would only ensure that his ancient family name of la Fere would be dragged through the mud along with her. So he’d killed her.

  He’d killed her quickly and
ruthlessly, before his brain had even had time to reason through all this.

  What if Aramis had found the like treason and decided to take a similar solution?

  With this in mind, Athos fetched up outside of Aramis’s door just in time to meet Porthos and D’Artagnan coming from the other side of the street.

  They both looked as badly as he felt. Well—Porthos had taken his usual care about his appearance, which was quite a bit more than other people took. For such a large man and one so sensible, Porthos had a broad streak of peacock. Right then that streak manifested itself in venetian breeches in velvet ornamented with Spanish lace, and an embroidered doublet whose sleeves showed a profusion of needless ribbons and buttons. All of this was topped off with a sky blue cloak and the hat of his musketeer’s uniform, which—in Porthos’s case—seemed to have been ornamented with a few more plumes than was normal. And D’Artagnan had dressed as he usually did, his wiry, muscular build lending elegance to the blue grey uniform of the guards of Monsieur des Essarts and the oval, olive-skinned face that showed between collar and plumed hat displaying well-trimmed facial hair and well cared for black hair pulled back with a leather tie.

  But despite this superficial care, both of them looked exhausted. Porthos’s eyes showed dark circles around them, marring his fair skin. And D’Artagnan’s normally deep set eyes now seemed to be looking through a tunnel of shadows. And even D’Artagnan’s youthful exuberance could not disguise the taut and worried line of his lips.

  They nodded at each other and didn’t speak, like strangers meeting for a difficult mission and unwilling to clutter it with unnecessary chatter.

  Porthos raised his hand to knock at the door, but Athos grabbed at his wrist and firmly pulled the hand down, before knocking at the door himself. Porthos’s knocking could, on a good day, eclipse the trumpet of the apocalypse.

  Athos wondered if Porthos had knocked the night before and if so how many of the neighbors had looked around their shutters and behind their curtains to see who was trying to knock down the door. And how many had seen the state Aramis was in.

  However, there was little for it. The time had passed to remedy that. Only thing he could do was not make it worse. Athos noticed Porthos’s shuffle of impatience when their knocking wasn’t immediately answered and raised his hand to knock again.

  The door opened to show a young girl, the daughter of the family that rented lodgings to the musketeer.

  Athos bowed to her and said, “We’re here to see our friend,” before pushing on, past her and up the stairs, to Aramis’s lodgings.

  There his knock went unanswered, but his whispered, “It is I, Bazin,” at the crack of the door, brought a satisfying sliding of the bolts from the other side.

  “My master is within,” was all Bazin said, pointing at the door that led to the inner room of the lodging. Aramis’s room.

  “Is he awake?”

  Bazin nodded. “He’s washed and dressed, and now he waits you.”

  This was very much like Aramis. Like any of them, truth be told. Over the years of their friendship—which had enlarged a month ago to include the Gascon D’Artagnan— they had always dealt with private crisis by holding a war council and listening to the advice of their fellows. That Aramis treated this no differently might mean that he harbored no guilt.

  Or it might mean that he trusted all of them to protect him despite what his private guilt might be.

  And he was—as much as Athos hated to admit it— probably right. While Athos wasn’t sure that Aramis hadn’t committed murder, he was very sure that the murder—if such it had been—would have been justified.

  He knocked at the door to the inner room and Aramis answered, “Come,” in what could reasonably be described as his normal voice.

  The room, twice as large as Bazin’s pass-through room, still looked too Spartan for the Aramis that Athos had come to know. There was just a tall, dark, curtained bed that had probably come with Aramis from his estate, a tall wardrobe and, in a corner, a writing desk, with plain paper.

  But Athos, who had known Aramis for very long, knew that the wardrobe concealed enough blue suits to outfit a whole regiment of the musketeers, and in silk and velvet enough to make even Porthos jealous. He’d seen those suits on Aramis often enough. He’d also wager that some false drawer on the desk, or some false bottom on the wardrobe concealed perfumed sheets of paper ornamented with a crest. Though Athos had to admit he’d never seen those, he could not imagine Aramis writing his duchesses, his countesses, his princesses, on plain and unmarked paper.

  However that were, today Aramis was dressed in clerical black, as unadorned as Bazin’s outfit. Still cut in the latest stare of fashion it consisted of venetians falling from waist to ankle, and a loose doublet with a ruffle that covered the hip. But unadorned and plain for Aramis. A breviary, the daily readings recommended for priests, sat close to his hand. Despite this, his hair shone, newly brushed, and it was quite clear he’d shaved and trimmed his beard. Which must mean, Athos thought with some relief, that Aramis was close to his normal state.

  As if to prove this, Aramis nodded to them as they came in and stood up—since there was no place for them to sit. “I want to thank you,” he said. “All three of you, for lending me succor in my extremity yesterday. I shudder to think what would have happened to me without your help.”

  Porthos shrugged and shuffled uneasily. “You’d have done the same for us,” he said.

  “But we do wonder,” D’Artagnan said. “What brought you to such need and what the circumstances were . . . why you fled the way you did, leaving even your uniform behind.”

  Even in his state of grave seriousness that implied, perhaps, true mourning, Aramis’s lips quivered and his green eyes sparkled at D’Artagnan’s tactful probing. “I did not have time to dress,” he said. “Because the servants were knocking the door down. I’m afraid I screamed when I found . . .” He swallowed. “When I realized that Violette was truly dead and it was not a prank she was playing on me.”

  “You were surprised at finding her dead, then?” Athos asked.

  “Of course he was, Athos, what a question,” Porthos said. “Who would expect his lover to be killed?”

  Athos didn’t answer Porthos, but looked steadily at Aramis, whose gaze, meeting his, showed an understanding of Athos’s question. Aramis, himself, clearly didn’t think he was incapable of murder, no matter what Porthos thought.

  “I was,” he said. “Shocked. I’d only stepped to this little closet beside her room, in which she keeps—kept a chaise percée for . . . such needs as arose. Only a few minutes. And I came out to find Violette dead. I was quite shocked. Though . . .” Aramis’s green eyes flickered with something, like a shadow passing over a sunlit landscape.

  “Though?” Athos prompted.

  Aramis sighed. “Though in the next few seconds, as I contemplated the locked door, the impossibility of a passage into the room, the inaccessibility of the balcony, I wondered if I . . .” Again he floundered, and he gestured, with his hands, as if expressing the inability of language to translate his meaning. Then he rubbed the tips of his fingers on his forehead, as if massaging fugitive memory. “I wondered if I could have committed the monstrous deed and forgotten all about it.”

  The Wisdom of the Tavern; A Musketeer’s Regrets; An Unpleasant Decision

  ARAMIS saw the look of disbelief in Porthos’s eyes, before his friend said, “You did not kill her.”

  He wished he could be as certain as Porthos was. The truth of it was that his and Porthos’s friendship had been founded on the fact that the two men were as different as two men could be. Aramis’s mind ran on words and maxims, on remembered readings, on the wisdom of the ages, while he very often thought that if someone cut off Porthos’s massive and skillful hands the man would become unable to think at all.

  In Porthos’s world the idea that one might not know whether he’d killed someone or not was preposterous, insane. If Porthos had taken the trouble
to murder anyone, Porthos would very well remember it.

  But Aramis knew his own mind and the perfidious way in which his thoughts could hide behind his words and his feelings behind his thoughts so that he could never be sure of himself until he’d acted. And sometimes not even then.

  Take Violette, for instance. It had all started as a harmless flirtation on a summer night, when she’d been too bored to remain alone in her room and had sought him out, at his guard post, to talk.

  And he had told himself it was just a silly romantic game, even as it progressed, from the guard post to her bedroom, from the bedroom to a thousand talks and discussions in her receiving room, until she knew all his thoughts and he knew all of hers. Until they were closer than most married people and, in fact, were married in all but law. That final union, her married state and his vocation forbade, as did the width of different classes that separated them.

  But he had loved her. And what lunacy will love not induce? “I don’t think,” he started, and his voice cracked and wavered shamefully. He cleared his throat. “I don’t think I killed her,” he said. “Truly, I don’t. But I cannot imagine how anyone else could. The inaccessible room, the locked door . . .” He shrugged. “I tell you, for a moment I wasn’t sure. I wasn’t sure at all.”

  “If you’d killed her,” Porthos said. “Why would you cry out when you found she was truly dead? Why would you think it was all a prank and a joke?”

  And in this, Porthos was correct, would be correct. Aramis was grateful to his friend for bringing the witness of his own actions to his rescue. “Perhaps I wouldn’t,” he said.

  But Athos cleared his throat. “You know how sometimes, when you drink too much you wake in the morning and have no memory at all of what you’ve done?” And to Porthos’s nod, he added. “I’ve heard this happens sometimes, too, when you do something the mind finds too terrible to accept. There was . . .” He paused. “There was this woodcutter in my father’s estate, who one day cut up his entire family with an ax. People saw him do it.” Athos shook his head, in wonderment. “And yet, he would swear by the Virgin and all the saints that he’d never done it, that his enemies must have gone in, behind him, and killed all his loved ones. And he wasn’t lying. We are sure of it. He just couldn’t remember it.”