Chapter III: November 18th, 1640
THE MADAM WAS A MIDDLE-AGED WOMAN with yellow teeth and deep frown lines marring her face. Milady rose from the faded settee where she had been waiting and stepped forward.
“What can I do for you, Mademoiselle...?” the woman asked, eyeing her up and down with open distrust.
Milady ignored her blatant fishing for a name and replied, “I find myself in need of a very particular sort of girl. I was told your establishment caters to various tastes, and is suitably discreet.”
“That all depends,” said the Madam, still watching Milady with an unimpressed stare.
Milady drew Aramis’ purse out of the folds of her cloak with a casual movement, letting it dangle enticingly from her fingers. Immediately, the other woman’s gaze fixed on it, her eyes flooding with avarice.
“Well, now, my dear. I can see immediately that you are a respectable woman,” said the Madam. “What sort of tastes are we talking about, exactly?”
“My husband and I prefer companions who are... fresh. Girlish, if you take my meaning,” Milady said, still letting the purse dangle. “The sort who might be passed over by many establishments due to their, shall we say, inexperience.”
The Madam didn’t even blink. “Ah, yes. I understand perfectly. You are in luck, my dear. I have exactly what you are looking for. Three girls, in fact, who would fit your needs admirably.”
“Send for them immediately, if you please,” Milady ordered in the voice of a bored comtesse. “I will examine them and make my decision.”
The Madam bristled slightly at the tone, but hid it well. “Of course,” she said. Turning to a prostitute currently arranged in a provocative pose on a chaise longue nearby, she called, “Marie. Go upstairs and send the three youngest ones down.”
Marie rose, her dead eyes skimming over Milady briefly, and disappeared up the staircase. Milady examined her own glove-clad hand in a show of boredom, picking imaginary lint off of it and ignoring the Madam as she waited. A couple of minutes later, three pale girls in white shifts descended the stairs, eyes cast downward. They trouped dutifully into the room and stood in a line for inspection.
Milady circled them slowly, assessing. The one on the right was older than she looked—too old, in fact, to be of any use. The other two, however, were heartbreakingly young, with dark circles under their eyes and the smell of desperation overpowering the cheap perfume that hung around them in a cloud.
“These two, I believe,” she said, indicating the younger ones. “These will do quite nicely indeed. I would like to purchase their services and take them with me for our use tonight, if I might.”
“The merchandise doesn’t leave the premises,” said the Madam. “Your man’ll have to come here if he wants ‘em.”
Milady canted her head, drawing attention to the purse in her hand. “Surely some kind of special arrangement can be made.”
The Madam snorted. “That won’t pay to replace ’em if they’re damaged or lost, now will it? I told you, the merchandise doesn’t leave the premises. Now, d’you still want ’em, or not?”
Milady thought quickly. The doorman was watching the exchange closely, his hand resting on his sword hilt with more than a casual touch. She might be able to purchase some time upstairs with the girls on the pretense of examining them for any obvious signs of disease, but the room would almost certainly have a peephole for their handlers to keep an eye on proceedings and step in if it appeared a client was about to cause irreparable damage or injury. Even if the girls weren’t too frightened to respond to her, any attempt at speaking to them and explaining the situation would likely be overheard.
Making a snap decision, she replied, “Yes, yes. Of course. I suppose my husband and I will have to come back tomorrow night—or, rather, tonight, since it is after midnight already. An inconvenience, to be sure, but needs must.”
Both the Madam and the doorman relaxed. Milady loosened the drawstring on the purse and shook out a handful of coins.
“I assume a down payment of thirty pistoles will be sufficient to ensure that the girls are kept fresh for us until we return?” she asked, though it was obvious that the poor children standing in front of her had not been fresh in some time. Right now, though, it was the best she could do for them.
Greed had once again overpowered distrust in the Madam's eyes. “Oh, yes, my dear,” she said. “Thirty pistoles will do quite nicely.”
Milady put the coins down on the small table next to her. “Good. We will return at eight o’clock in the evening. Please have them ready for us. Pretty dresses and shoes, I think, with ribbons in their hair... my husband and I always find that part of the pleasure of receiving a present is in the unwrapping.”
The Madam smirked knowingly. “Of course, my dear. They’ll be awaiting your arrival.”
* * *
Aramis was, unsurprisingly, still awake when Milady returned to his rooms at the back of the converted convent, despite the late hour.
“We need to return to the brothel on Rue Vavin at eight o’clock this evening, posing as a married couple with a predilection for pedophilia,” she greeted, closing the door behind her.
Aramis put down the quill he was holding very slowly and looked up at her. “We do?” he asked.
Milady threw her cloak over the back of a chair and flopped down with little grace, rubbing at her temples to try and quiet the deep ache that still resided there.
“Yes. We do,” she confirmed. “I’ve found two girls who seem likely candidates to help us, but I was unable to bribe the Madam into letting me take them with me for the night. The rooms at the brothel are almost certainly under surveillance, and the lout of a doorman was starting to fidget with his sword. I’ll need your help to break them out.”
“Perhaps I won’t share the details of this particular outing with Bazin,” said Aramis contemplatively. “It might be enough to send him into an apoplectic fit.”
“You were the one who said you wanted to keep your hand in, as I recall.” Milady scrubbed fingers over her face and let her arm fall to the table, looking up to meet her companion’s eyes with a frank gaze. Her voice grew quiet. “They are very young, Aramis.”
“We will do our best for them, of course,” he said. “You believe they have the sort of information we need?”
“With any luck,” Milady told him. “The clientele I observed seemed exceedingly well-dressed for the most part. There ought to be someone with clout in Parisian society among them. The trick will be getting the girls to identify one of them. Fortunately, though, powerful men love to brag and strut in front of the less powerful.”
Her hand had drifted back up to her forehead as she spoke. Aramis’ eyes tracked it, missing nothing.
“Is your head worse?” he asked.
“The same,” she said. “It pains me, but it’s no longer debilitating.”
“Go rest some more. It’s late, and there’s little to be done until our appointment at the brothel,” said Aramis.
“Pot, kettle,” she told him irritably. “You’re a fine one to be touting the merits of sleep.”
He only raised an eyebrow. “I’m not the one with two lumps the size of duck eggs decorating my skull. That said, I’ll be retiring shortly myself, now that you’re back safely. I shall have to rise early and attend morning prayers, or risk attracting too much attention with my absence.”
Milady eyed the bedroll in the corner of the room, which Aramis had presumably been using since he gave up his single bed to her. “Very well,” she said, deeply exhausted by all of the scheming... by her addled memories... by her worry for Charlotte and Olivier... by everything.
Aramis—damn the man—seemed to sense her sudden weakness almost immediately. He stood, offering her a hand up from her chair.
“You’ve made remarkable progress in little more than a day,” he said. “Tomorrow we will make greater strides yet, and perhaps change a couple of innocent lives for the better while we’re at it. Now, go
get some sleep.”
It’s not enough, Milady thought, but she only nodded and entered the bedroom, closing the door behind her. As she undressed for bed, her thoughts wandered to Olivier, locked up in the Bastille with a broken leg and trying his damnedest to get himself hung, for some reason known only to him. She clenched her hands to her temples convulsively. What had happened on the night of the attack, after she’d been overpowered and Olivier had fallen?
She sighed, letting her hands fall. She could not allow herself to succumb to desperation and despair. There was too much at stake. All she could do was move forward and try to force events into the shape she needed them to be. She pulled back the covers and blew out the candle, settling into bed and closing her eyes.
Nightmares dogged her rest. She eventually jerked awake to the ghostly echo of Charlotte's cries. “Maman! Maman!”
Clawing her way upright, she held her breath, waiting to see if any other memories would surface. They didn’t, and she let the air out of her lungs in a slow whoosh, her pounding heartbeat gradually slowing to normal. She was surprised to find that it was daylight; it seemed only moments ago that she’d gone to bed, and she felt no more rested than she had when she’d retired.
There were faint noises of movement outside the bedroom door. Aramis, she surmised, already back from morning Mass and puttering around in the main room. No doubt he would be teaching seminary classes before hurrying back that evening to accompany her to the brothel. The juxtaposition seemed so ridiculous that it was difficult to credit. She rose and donned a dressing gown. The face that peered back at her from the looking glass was pale and gray-tinged with pain and worry.
When she emerged into the main room, Aramis looked up from the table.
“You could have slept longer,” he admonished.
Milady shook her head. “I heard Charlotte calling for me,” she said. “She was frightened. Frantic.”
“A memory?” Aramis asked.
“Or possibly a dream,” she said, not certain which option she considered preferable. “There was no context.”
Aramis appeared to be debating with himself over issuing some platitude or another, and she was relieved when he decided against it. “Eat something and go back to bed,” he said. “Perhaps more memories will come to light as you sleep, and if not, at least you’ll be rested for this evening’s events.”
Nodding silent agreement, Milady joined him at the table and ate a light breakfast.
“I will be teaching for the rest of the morning and part of the afternoon,” he said, perfectly willing to carry on the conversation for both of them, it seemed. “This evening, I propose we bring two horses and leave them on the next street over from the brothel. Each of us can take one of the girls in the saddle with us, and we’ll disappear into the backstreets before anyone can raise an organized search party.”
Milady hummed taciturn agreement around a piece of coarse bread.
“We should take them to d’Artagnan’s apartments,” Aramis continued. “Impropriety aside, there isn’t really room here for two more people. Besides, they will be more at ease and feel more secure with Constance and the twins, I think.”
Milady swallowed the mouthful of food she was chewing. “I assume you’ve cleared this with d’Artagnan and Constance ahead of time?”
Aramis shrugged one shoulder. “I sent them a note last night warning them we might show up with guests this evening. Can you honestly picture Constance turning these girls away?”
She couldn’t, of course.
“Very well,” she said, dabbing at her lips with a napkin. “Do you have everything you’ll need? Clothing? Weapons?”
“I will have, by this evening,” said Aramis. “You said there was only one guard at the brothel?”
“That’s right... though unfortunately you could fit two normally sized men inside him.”
Aramis only grinned. “Hmm... perhaps you should have recruited Porthos to play this role, instead of my good self. As it is, however, I’m afraid you’ll have to rely on the sword arm of an aging priest and hope for the best.”
“I won’t even ask if you’ve lifted a weapon these past few years,” Milady said dryly.
“Best not,” Aramis agreed with a sage tilt of the head, his earlier grin still playing around the corners of his eyes.
“And on that note, perhaps I will retire and sleep some more after all,” she said.
“You do that. Now, I fear I must take my leave of you. Young minds to shape...”
Once Aramis had left, Milady was, in fact, able to get some more sleep. No further memories returned to her as she slumbered, only old, well-worn nightmares of her rape by the gang of men who’d been involved in a failed business deal with her father. He’d been away, visiting the next town over when the five men forced their way into the house. One of them held a knife to her mother’s throat, threatening to kill the older woman if either of them resisted.
The threat had been enough to keep Milady quiet and meek, tears and snot streaking down her face as they each had their turn with her, either rutting into her virgin cunt or choking her as they fucked into her mouth, holding her in place with a painful grip on her hair.
The sound of her own whimper and the tears tracking down her cheeks were entirely familiar as she shuddered awake. She rolled to the right, instinctively seeking Olivier’s solid form as she had so many times before, after the dream released her from its clutches, but her arm fell on empty space in the too-small bed. She blinked open blurry eyes with a gasp, taking in the strange room illuminated by late afternoon light.
Aramis’ room.
Awareness and memory returned—all but those memories she needed the most, unfortunately—and she flopped back onto the pillow. The attack. The plan. The brothel. Charlotte.
She sat up, her head momentarily protesting the change in elevation before subsiding back into a dull ache. She washed herself using the washbasin and ewer of water on the dresser, patting at her swollen, red eyes with a soft cloth. Dressing and arranging her hair with care, she was just closing the clasp of a jade necklace when the outer door opened.
Recognizing Aramis’ familiar tread, she emerged from the bedroom to greet him, pulling on gloves to cover the marks on her wrists. The dowdy priest had been transformed. There were hints of the chevalier of old in his boots and sword belt, but, overlaying them, Aramis had somehow managed to acquire the trappings of a gentleman—a member of court, perhaps, or a minor noble.
She narrowed her eyes suddenly, drawing breath to speak. That doublet...
“I may or may not have broken into your house an hour ago and liberated some of Athos’ clothing,” he offered, before she could say anything. Clearing his throat, he added, “Sorry about that.”
“I’ve always hated that doublet,” she said, recovering quickly.
Aramis quirked a crooked smile at her. “Well, I hope that means you won’t be too upset if it ends up a bit worse for wear after tonight.”
She could only shake her head. It was, after all, a fairly elegant solution to the problem of clothing. Aramis and Olivier were not far from each other in size— Aramis was perhaps an inch taller, and Olivier, slightly broader through the shoulders. It would suffice.
The pair of them dined, Aramis having stopped to purchase a selection of cold meats and cheeses at a shop on the way back from his brief foray into larceny. When the bells rang for Vespers, they made their way to the stables and readied the horses.
The nag she’d arrived on was an unprepossessing specimen, but adequate. Her dress was not ideal for riding astride, but unfortunately a seminary had no reason to keep a sidesaddle on hand. Aramis quickly readied his old Spanish mare, the gray horse now snow white with age, her back swayed slightly behind the withers.
“You should have liberated my gelding while you were liberating those clothes,” Milady said.
“Couldn’t,” replied Aramis. “Her Majesty had your horses brought to the royal stables, to ensure that they didn
’t quietly disappear in your absence. She’s doing her best for you and Athos, you know.”
Milady nodded tightly, and led the ewe-necked horse outside by the reins. Aramis followed her a moment later and helped her mount before climbing aboard his own horse. After some discussion, they decided to leave the horses tethered in an alley off Rue Sainte-Beauve, a block away from the brothel. It was only a short ride there from the seminary on Rue d’Assas; their planned flight from Rue Sainte-Beauve to the Rue Férou, where Constance and d’Artagnan lived, would be slightly longer.
Finally, ten minutes before the appointed time, the pair arrived on foot at the yellow door on Rue Vavin. Aramis knocked briskly, giving his best charming smile to the hulking guard who opened the door.
“Good evening,” he said. “My wife and I are expected.”
The doorman raked his gaze over Milady, his eyes catching hers for a moment too long before he grunted and stepped back to allow them entry. She hid her frown; her brief confrontation with the Madam last night had obviously made the man wary of her. It would bear watching.
The Madam herself came traipsing down the stairs a moment later. “Ah,” she said. “I see you are a punctual couple—an admirable trait. The girls will be ready for you shortly. In the mean time, there is the matter of payment. It will be an additional forty pistoles for the evening, assuming you still want both.”
Aramis raised an eyebrow. “You didn’t tell me the place was so overpriced, my dear,” he said to Milady.
The Madam only smiled. “Some services come with a steep premium, as I suspect you know, monsieur,” she said. “I assure you that the girls are well worth the added expense, for a man such as yourself.”
Aramis appeared to consider it. “Have them brought down,” he said after a slight pause. “I wish to inspect them before I make a decision.”
The Madam clicked her fingers, attracting the attention of one of the other girls and gesturing her to go upstairs. She came back a few moments later with the two children, dressed, as Milady had requested, in pretty dresses and shoes. Beside her, she felt Aramis stiffen, and when she glanced over, there was rage behind his eyes. Evidently she should have better prepared him for what they would encounter—a pair of flat-chested little girls barely older than her own Charlotte.
Book 4: The Queen's Musketeers, #4 Page 4