the musketeer's seamstress

by Sarah D'almeida

  And she’d played it like a woman used to these intrigues, so it wasn’t as if Aramis could feel guilty of déspoiling an innocent. When receiving his note, she’d done no more than slide it into her decolletage and flit away, as if nothing special had happened.

  But he’d waited no more than a few breaths in the cool, dim chapel before she entered, demure looking, wearing a small hat from which a veil hung that hid her face. Such his state of mind from the few days he’d been here, and subjected to his mother’s vigilance and chastising that for a moment, on seeing the veil, Aramis was reminded of the story of Leah and Rachel and wondered who his mother had sent in, instead of the fair Lida.

  But almost immediately, the temptress pulled the veil back to reveal her fine-featured olive-skinned face, with its mobile mouth, its large dark eyes. Her hair was modestly bound at the back, but he could still see it peeking, arranged in delicate ringlets, beneath the hat.

  On seeing him, she rushed the four steps that separated them, crossing the chapel in the movement, because the chapel was almost no length at all, being a narrow space with three chairs and five kneelers and designed for the private devotions of Madame D’Herblay and the Chevalier’s family.

  The family church proper, on the other side of the house, was much larger, more ornate, and contained pews at which the servants and the more important farmers of the domain would sit at Mass.

  This small chapel contained only—over the altar—a painting of a nursing Madonna, at which Aramis could not glance without blushing because it had been painted in the image of his mother when she was very young. It figured Madame D’Herblay as the virgin Mary, arrayed in much richer attire than ever the poor Galilean could have mustered—rich cloth of gold veil, and ornate brocade dress, from which a pert, white, round breast showed, offered to the mouth of the babe. The fact that Aramis knew the babe to be himself and not the holy infant did not in fact make things any better. He’d been pictured at six months or so of age, a plump, handsome little boy, attired in a frilly satin dress and reaching longingly towards the maternal breast.

  He knew breasts well enough to know the one portrayed in that painting had never nursed. In fact, not only couldn’t he imagine his mother doing something as uncouth as nursing her own child, as he had quite fond memories of his peasant nurse with her large breasts, her smell of milk and warmth. She had nursed him until he was three and a half and quite capable of speaking, so it was not extraordinary he should remember it.

  All the same, knowing he’d never sucked his mother’s breast didn’t make the picture any easier, and looking up at it, as he crossed himself hastily, Aramis wondered if he should have found another place for the rendezvous.

  But as Lida rushed towards him, she glanced at the figure over the altar, and smiled, a sweet smile, and coming closer, she asked him, “The woman is clearly the lady your mother—is the infant yourself as a babe?”

  He swallowed and nodded and felt his cheeks color.

  “Oh, he’s so sweet,” she said, and, standing on tiptoes, she planted a kiss on Aramis’s cheek. “And you’ve grown up to look just as sweet, if a lot more manly.”

  She spoke perfect French with just the slightest trace of a Spanish accent and, as she stood on tiptoe to kiss him, he caught a fragrance of roses from her, as if she had bathed in macerated flower petals. It reminded him very strongly of Violette, and of Violette’s smell, and for just a second, he hesitated.

  But then Lida threw her arms around his neck and, standing on tiptoe, covered his lips with hers, and pushed her tongue, boldly, between his lips.

  Her passion inflamed him. His hands reached to encircle her, then, as though of their own accord, up towards her hair, which he loosed down her back.

  His fingers entwined in her hair, so soft, so silky as to seem a substance that had been sent down from heaven. Like wisps of dream. Like bits of cloud. Her mouth tasted sweet and, faintly, of strawberries.

  As she pulled away, at last, to draw a deep breath, she said, “Oh, when I saw you at the entrance, I think I fell in love with you at first sight. I wanted so badly that you would be my intended husband, instead of some dry, old count whom I’ve never met and with whom my father wishes to curry favor.” She kissed him again, and pushed herself against him.

  Aramis was only human. She felt warm and delightful in his arms. It had been too long and he had endured great trials. And she was bold and capable—much too capable if truth be told. She pushed him down onto one of the chairs and sat on his lap, and toyed with his blond hair.

  “You look so severe,” she said. “In your dark clothes. And your mother says you have a vocation for the church.”

  Aramis said nothing. He allowed her to press herself against him and to caress him. It seemed to him he had been cold for a long, long time, and her warmth against his flesh was a welcome comfort.

  And then he found his hand beneath her skirt and searching around for the girdle which cinched her undergarments.

  Her thigh, between girdle and the beginning of her stocking proper, was warm and soft. He moved his fingers upon it, feeling skin like velvet.

  Violette had felt so. And Violette had smelled like this. Of a sudden, it was all too much for him. He put his head on her shoulder and moaned, a soft moan of loss and regret, as his hand retracted, to rest upon his own thigh.

  “What is wrong?” Lida asked, alarmed. “What is wrong?”

  Aramis realized he was shaking. The overwhelming grief of losing Violette hit him suddenly and without reprieve. He thought of Violette’s soft skin, her luscious body. And he thought of other things . . . The way she played with him, the way she teased him. Her words, her letters where she pretended to be a mere seamstress. The way she understood him. The way their souls resounded together like goblets cut from the same crystal. He didn’t even know why or in what way.

  Before her there had been many, and perhaps there would be more after her, but not yet, not . . .

  He realized he was crying on Lida’s shoulder, his tears soaking the velvet of her dress. She pulled him to her, called by some ancient maternal instinct, resting his face upon her softly rising and falling bosom.

  This reminded him even more of his Violette, and it brought out his tears yet more abundantly, till he was sobbing openly, like a child.

  “You poor man,” Lida said. “You cry for fear of sinning, do you?” And, with gentle hand, she pulled back the hair that had got stuck to his moist face. “Don’t be,” she said. “You could marry me. I could break my engagement to the horrid old Count, and you could marry me. Then you could do as you please to me, and not feel guilty.”

  Slowly, slowly, Aramis brought himself under control.

  “Mademoiselle,” Aramis said. “If you must know . . .” He swallowed hard. “I had a lover. As close a lover as one can have without actually being married. I was with her for years, forsaking all others. And she got murdered, just a few days ago, while—”

  “While you were in her room,” Lida said. “I know. I thought you might feel guilty over that, and that’s why I say you could marry me.”

  Aramis stared into the dark, dark eyes and wondered if the girl was telling him she was sure he had killed his previous lover and then could marry her.

  “How do you know about my mistress?” he asked.

  “Your servant told your mother who told me, by way of warning me.” She smiled reassuringly at him. “I don’t know why your mother wished to warn me. The lady was not a lowly woman or a peasant,” Lida said. “Clearly your tastes are to the highest nobility. And if she had the misfortune of being already married when you met her, I do not have that misfortune. I find that your being so in love with Ysabella de Navarro de Dreux that you feel guilty about having an affair without marrying her is quite romantic. One of the tenderest things I’ve ever heard.”

  Aramis shook his head. How could he explain tender to her? And how could he explain love? He didn’t think any less of her because she didn’t understand the dept
hs of his feeling. He, himself, wouldn’t have understood anyone’s feelings on the matter. Hadn’t understood anyone’s feelings on the matter. He’d comprehended marriage only within the bounds of arranged unions. That someone could marry for love, marry by their own free will, contrive to live with one person his entire life was alien to him, and strange.

  Lida’s words poured into his ears, inconsequential and meaningless, like the pleasing babble of a brook, “You know, they were from our area of the country and they had only two girls—those two. To preserve the dowry of this one, her twin was consigned to a convent before the age of ten. They say she’s very holy and has visions. Strange, isn’t it? Perhaps she expiated the guilt of her sister, and perhaps Ysabella is in a better place.” Lida patted Aramis on the shoulder. “Yes, I’m sure that must have happened. So, you see, Chevalier, there’s really nothing to fear of guilt or sin, because Ysabella’s holy twin, the nun, will have expiated sins for both of them. And doubtless, even now, your lost lover is in heaven praying for you. And as for you, you don’t need to commit any more sin. You can marry me, as I’m yet maid, and then you can do as you please.” She smiled wide at him. “Your estate is not nearly as grand as that of the tiresome Count I was to marry, but you know, you are younger and more pleasing to the sight, and I don’t mind. I’m sure I can learn to be pleased with your small estate.”

  Lida poured into his ears assurances that he could marry her and that once they’d engaged in conjugal bliss all would be well. He wished he could believe her. He wished life were that simple. In his heart, in his mind, he now realized he’d never forget Violette. When she’d died she’d taken a piece of him to the tomb.

  And he, wretch that he was, had accepted his friends’ offer of investigating for him. He, wretch that he was, had come all this way, had hid behind his mother’s skirts, had spent all this time thinking he could forget her. Had thought, even, that he could replace her. Or at least forget her beloved touch in the touch of another. But life would not permit it.

  Slowly, he edged himself out from beneath Lida till at last he moved her to the chair, and he stood beside her.

  She blinked her lovely eyes at him, in confusion. “Chevalier?” she asked.

  “I’m sorry, mademoiselle,” he said. “I am so sorry.”

  “But . . .” She blinked. “You have done nothing wrong. You have done nothing to me.”

  “No,” he said. And because, in looking at her, he felt guilty for bringing her all the way out here and then crying on her. In his long and abundant experience with women Aramis could safely say this was the first time he had cried on a woman’s shoulder.

  He left Lida sitting in the shadows of the chapel, and went in search of Bazin.

  Bazin was in the garden, sitting by the fountain, looking as though he were in deepest contemplation or perhaps in prayer.

  “Bazin,” he said. “I am not fooling. Get me my luggage and the horses. We’re going back to Paris.”

  Bazin looked at him, and his mouth dropped open. “Chevalier.”

  “Do. Not. Call. Me. That. Again. Go and get the luggage. We’re going to Paris. Now.”

  Bazin looked miserable. He blinked at Aramis, but he didn’t—as Aramis half expected—say anything about Madame D’Herblay or her expected wrath. Instead, he got up and left.

  “Meet me at the stable,” Aramis said to his retreating back.

  And though he half expected Bazin to come back with Aramis’s mother or some other way to restrain Aramis. But Bazin came back alone, carrying Aramis’s bag. A glance inside showed that both his brushes and the mirror were in there.

  Bazin’s strange acquiescence puzzled him, but he didn’t dare ask anything, lest his words broke it. It wasn’t until they stopped at tavern for some food that Aramis asked Bazin, “You’ve decided to throw your fate along with mine?”

  Bazin sighed, pushing is plate away. “Your mother . . . She said you’d never be a satisfactory monk and that she would find you someone to marry.” He looked up at Aramis. “Do you still intend to take orders?”

  “Of course,” Aramis said. “In due time.”

  A Masked Ghost; Dead Woman’s Jewelry; The Immovable Porthos

  PORTHOS held his breath as the balcony door of the dead woman’s room shook. It shook. It shuddered. The glass rattled in the frame.

  Visible through the small square panes was someone— or rather the shadow of someone. But even size and shape were a guess, at this distance and looking skewedly through a narrow hole in the wall.

  But the door shuddered open and was pushed inward with force. A small hand. That was Porthos first impression of the intruder. A small hand attached to a small arm in a black sleeve.

  “Someone is breaking in,” D’Artagnan whispered.

  Porthos said nothing. First, he was well aware that his voice boomed when he meant it to hiss. Second, the fact seemed well established and hardly warranted words.

  Then the intruder stepped into the room, and looked around—as though he suspected someone of watching him. As though he knew about them in their hideaway.

  The intruder was—Porthos thought—a boy, barely out of childhood. Small, slim and slight, he dressed in black— stockings, breeches, tunic and hat.

  The shapeless hat looked liked something a farmer’s boy might wear, or a fisherman’s son. It was a round thing, of some undefined black material looking spotty and faded in places.

  But the strangest thing was the face, which was covered in a hard, glittering white mask which looked like the shape of a face made out of porcelain and with holes cut out for the eyes and mouth.

  Porthos felt his heart beat faster, and—as though in response to it, the person’s head turned, fully, to look in their direction. Or so it seemed. But even as Porthos felt D’Artagnan shuffle a little backwards, as though afraid his eye would be discerned, the figure crossed the room, quickly.

  There was something about the movement of the creature in the room that made Porthos uncomfortable and worried. It was as though the . . . person weren’t quite human. It moved like a cat, or as people did sometimes in dreams, when they floated past the dreamer, as if in another reality.

  Now it floated this way, then that, tiptoeing around the room and, silently, opening trunks. Porthos expected it to turn at any moment and hold a finger to its lips as though to impress an invisible audience with the need for secrecy.

  But it didn’t. It just went on, opening trunks and boxes, then closing them again rapidly, till it came to the ornate jewelry box, which it opened.

  It rummaged wildly through the jewelry throwing it here and there, like a cat or a small child. Porthos felt as though he were watching an act of madness or perhaps truly dreaming. Were it not for the presence of his friends, equally silent, equally immersed in what was happening, if it weren’t clear that they too were watching the figure, he would think he was dreaming it all.

  And then, the figure made a sound, for the first time. It was an exclamation of surprise and delight. A skinny, black clad arm plunged into the jewelry trunk, and out of it emerged, holding a gold chain from which depended a simple cross with no ornament.

  The arm, with the hand, moving while the rest of the body remained immobile, lifted the cross up by its chain. It shone in the light from the open door to the balcony, throwing sparkles of gold everywhere.

  With exaggerated motions, still, as if on the stage, the figure kissed the cross. And then . . .

  Porthos blinked. Before his amazed eyes, the dark-clad apparition took a caper, a bow, backflipped towards the door and then out the door to—

  Porthos realized that the person, whoever it was—and if it was indeed made of flesh—was about to jump from the balcony, just as Aramis had done.

  Porthos’s body was always one step ahead of his mind. In fact, Aramis, in his more sarcastic moments, would say it was Porthos’s mind. Now his body, whose quick reflexes served him so well in duel and dance floor realized he should intercept the creature, man or phantom,
who’d been in the room. Porthos leapt towards the door of the passage, half shoving D’Artagnan ahead of him.

  D’Artagnan, not prepared for the sudden move, perhaps because he could not see into the room as well as Porthos could, fell headlong under Porthos push. Or rather, seemed to twirl upon one leg, then fall crosswise in the passageway.

  Porthos could not stop in time and tripped on the boy, falling with his legs half entangled in D’Artagnan’s. His body, not fully understanding what had happened, kicked and squirmed by reflex, trying to push out, trying to get to the door, trying to intercept the phantom.

  And he realized he had caught Athos a smart kick to the knee that caused the older musketeer to roar and fall, in turn, upon them, in an entanglement of swords and limbs, of shoving, impatient feet and rushing, impatient minds.

  “Porthos,” Athos said, in his most polite voice. “If you should only stop kicking me, I believe I’ll have a chance to help you up, and then D’Artagnan should be able to get up also.”

  A polite voice in Athos—or that polite a voice in Athos, was always dangerous after one had just tried to break the older musketeer’s kneecap.

  Porthos was hurried and hassled. He could see in his mind’s eye the figure all in black standing poised at the edge of the balcony. He could imagine it escaping, out of their range forever.

  It wasn’t only that they couldn’t catch it, but that it, having made its way up here, should have a form of making its way down. And that even if this were not the murderer, it could give them an idea of how the murderer had got in.

  However Porthos’s self-preservation instinct knew that one did not trifle with Athos in this mood. By a supreme effort of will, Porthos managed to stand still, while Athos disentangled himself and stood.

  Athos waved a hand in front of Porthos eyes. “Here, Porthos, take my hand. I believe I can help you stand up.”

  Porthos obeyed, taking Athos’s hand. Despite his being almost twice the other man’s bulk, and all of it lean muscle, it did not surprise him that Athos could pull him upright with little effort. After all, he’d had other occasions to meet with Athos’s wiry strength and besides the older musketeer had that type of will power that often made up for physical prowess.