Sarah D'Almeida - The Musketeer's Apprentice

Aramis cleared his throat, the way he did when impolite laughter arose and must be suppressed. “Three duels, D’Artagnan. You attempted to start three duels.”

“But see-I only got myself known and noticed because I’d brought with me the notion that fighting early and often was my way into the musketeers and perhaps into fame and fortune.”

“Yes,” Athos said. “But you came alone, a single young man, seeking to make your fortune at the tip of your sword. It’s not that way, is it, when one comes with children? When families come to the capital they have to come with the belief-no matter how deluded-that they know someone or that someone will help them get favor with the King. They can’t afford the weeks of starving or living off chocolate or-” He allowed his gaze to slide slyly towards Aramis, who, he was sure, had been given coin by some lady of his acquaintance, and had not, in fact, sold his theology books. “Or theology books.”

“So we have nothing at all on any Jaucourt family, and we do have a young boy’s corpse in my cellar,” Athos said. “To whom we cannot even give decent burial.”

Aramis shook his head, violently, not a negation, but more as if to call attention to something else. “More importantly, ” he said, impatient. “Porthos is missing. He’d told the maid that he’d wait in the courtyard to hear of her investigations, but he did not. So, there must be something that called him away… something important.”

“Did you…” Athos coughed and looked at Mousqueton, then back towards Aramis. “Did you go to the home of his Duchess, and ask if perhaps…”

“If perhaps she was hiding him under her skirt?” Aramis said. “Oh, that would have pleased her husband very much, wouldn’t it? And besides, how could I?” He looked towards the window. “When he left the palace, it was early afternoon. Why and how would Porthos gain admittance to the Coq-” A sharp glance from Athos, and Aramis stopped short. “To his Duchess’s palace? And how would he remain hidden there till now? He does not pass easily for a clerk. And I doubt he would fit anyone’s green dress.”

The last, said with feeling, and alluding to Porthos’s mistress’s attempts at hiding Aramis in the past, made Athos smile. To be honest, he was sure that Mousqueton knew very well that his master’s lover was not a duchess. He would even wager that Mousqueton knew who she was and where she lived. Porthos had hired Mousqueton when Mousqueton was little more than an undernourished urchin accustomed to living by his wits on the streets of Paris. Though Mousqueton now had admittedly respectable employment, he still used his wits quite well. And it didn’t take great cunning to penetrate the deceptions Porthos wove. Porthos always despised deception enough to not do too good a job at it.

“Wouldn’t that be the most likely place for him though?” Athos asked. “Surely they have their arrangements. ” He’d rather burst than share with the other two the rope ladder that he knew Athenais kept in her room and which she used to let Porthos up on occasion.

Aramis shrugged. “You always assume all of us are weak enough for any woman, that we’d be most likely to run to any woman at a time of trouble, but tell me, what rational sense does it make?”

“It makes no rational sense to me,” Athos said, speaking slowly. “That any of you get involved with these women and that you give them power over your lives and over your safety.”

Aramis’s eyes burned with quick offense that made Athos wonder if the blond musketeer was well on his way to replacing his seamstress. With Aramis, he dared say, they’d find out only when he was ready to let them find out, unlike the young Gascon whose partiality for his landlord’s wife flared in blushes, and showed itself in stammers, and whose thought was so dominated by the woman that he would bend the entire investigation around the need to see her.

“I think, Athos, that you, too, have done this in the past. You have behaved irrationally and given power over your life and your safety to women.”

Athos felt the cut, but it was an old wound and one that no longer bled. One that, like old battle wounds, flared only under very precise conditions and whose dull, aching venom could be ignored the rest of the time. “I never said, Aramis, that I was a saint. Only that I saw the error of my ways and I no longer follow my animal impulses when they could endanger my life and sanity.”

Aramis opened his mouth, as though to answer, but before he could speak, D’Artagnan said, “All that is very well, but granted, Athos, the rest of us are fools for women, still, where could Porthos have gone? The two of you have known him much longer than I have. What could have prompted him to forget his appointment with Aramis and to disappear?”

“A message,” Aramis said, and half rose. “A message saying it came from one of us, and demanding he meet us somewhere.”

“But none of us sent him a message. At least I didn’t, did you D’Artagnan?” Athos asked.

“Athos, I didn’t say one of us had sent it, only that someone came to Porthos and said we had. And thus…”

“Convinced him to go to an ambush?” Athos rose in turn.

“Sirs,” Mousqueton said, speaking quietly from where he’d been, near the fireplace, engaged in disposing wood upon it, against-Athos supposed-the time when nights became cold again. A corpulent young man, he looked most of the time like a simpleton disposed to smiling too much. But his dark eyes were shrewd and as full of cunning as Aramis’s green ones. “Sirs, I beg your pardon, but my master is no fool and-”

“I never said he was,” Athos said coldly.

“No, sir,” Mousqueton said, facing up to Athos’s displeasure with more aplomb than many a nobleman would have managed. “However, you believe that he would leave his post and go in search of whoever he believed had sent him a message.”

“All of us would,” Athos said. “If it came from one of the other three and said they needed help urgently.”

Mousqueton shook his head. “No monsieur. I hate to disagree with you, but… You see, my master is a modest man.” He saw Athos’s cocked eyebrow and responded to it. “He’s modest where it counts. Not perhaps in his attire or in the flair with which he displays his sword handling, but he is modest where it counts. He would never trust himself, by himself, to untangle whatever problem the others of you might be facing. So if that were the case, if someone had called him and told him that another of you needed rescuing, he would have gone in search of Monsieur Aramis. Or else, he would have sent someone in search of him. Hermengarde or someone else he could command.”

Having kept his countenance steady and his gaze straight on Athos all through this, Mousqueton now betrayed his nervousness by wiping his broad hands to the front of his doublet-a carefully refashioned old one of Porthos’s. “I hate to contradict such a noble person as yourself, Monsieur Athos, but the truth is I know my master.”

The man’s nervousness and his humility combined with his stuborness granted him one of Athos’s rare smiles. “You might be right, Mousqueton, but granting you that you are, would you tell me, please, where your master might have gone, and what he might be doing?”

Mousqueton shrugged. “If he went of his own accord it could be anywhere, sir. He… He was suffering shock from the death of the boy, was he not? And when he’s in shock or otherwise worried, my master is as likely as not to walk aimlessly for hours. He’s done it before, monsieur, before he decided to throw his lot in with Monsieur Aramis and to become a musketeer.”

“You say if he went of his own accord. You mean, you consider he might not have?”