Sarah D'Almeida - Dying by the Sword

Jean squirmed and Marc cast a significant look at Aramis’s sword. “Well… it wasn’t really like that. You see, we didn’t know what we were going to do at first, so we thought, you know, we’ll see if we can find Pierre and talk to him. And this we did do last night.”

“When you say Pierre, it is Pierre Langelier you speak of?” Aramis asked, taking a bite of the fig and savoring its delicate sweetness. “The armorer whose father was killed?”

“Yeah,” Jean said. “You see… we heard about it. We have cousins in the city and…” He shrugged. “So we knew that Pierre had come into his inheritance. And he’s a fine armorer, don’t get me wrong your worsh… your musketeerness. But he is that fierce for the gaming, that, you know, I think he might have to sell the workshop, and all the swords and all the tools in it, just to be able to pay back his debts. And that’s if his father didn’t leave a provision in his will for his precious Faustine, which I will promise you he did, because he thought the sun rose and fell out of the brat’s crossed eyes.

“So we thought… we go and talk to Pierre, like a reasonable human being, no? And we point out to him that Marie won’t come to him barefoot, as it were, but well shod, and with a little something on the tip of her shoe.”

Marc must have seen Aramis’s utterly confused look, as he tried to imagine what the girl’s choice in footwear would have to say to the case and particularly what she might have in the tip of her shoe. Everything that he could think of that one might catch on the tip of one’s shoe weren’t anything to brag about. “What Jean means,” he said, in the tone of a man lecturing to the mentally impaired, “is that my sister has a dowry. My parents were wealthy farmers, and friends of Monsieur Langelier. And if Pierre married Marie he would be able to pay all his debts, see? And keep the workshop and his trade and reputation and his means of making more money. So we thought… well… he cannot resist it, can he?”

“And he didn’t resist it… in a way,” Jean said. “Instead, when we talked to him, he sounded very interested. Many questions about what Marie would bring, and how it would be bound and all.”

“He’s a mercenary fool,” Marc said, in a tone of annoyance. “Any man privileged to enjoy Marie’s love… but it matters not. Such as he is, he’s my nephew’s father, and so I said, yes, of course, Pierre, we’ll give you anything you want as soon as you marry Marie. And he said he would come with us at nightfall and do it. But, instead, he disappeared, don’t you know? Just vanished. We waited and waited for him, and finally we saw you, monsieur, and you see, we thought that with you being roughly the same build, and both of you having straw hair, at least as it appeared to us by moonlight, you would for sure be Pierre.”

“For which you felt yourselves justified to hit me on the head and carry me out of the city… in your arms? Wouldn’t that have attracted attention? Or had you had the providence to carry this charming clothes press in?”

Marc sighed. “No, it was like this-when we saw you looking around we thought of a sure thing it was Pierre. We didn’t… you don’t wear the uniform like the other musketeers wear the uniform, so we never thought that it could be…”

“A uniform,” Aramis said. “I quite comprehend your point. So you thought it would be a great idea to hit me over the head. And afterwards?”

“Well, afterwards,” Jean said. “We thought-what we really need is a good clothes press… and we can hide him in it. And then if we can find someone to lend us a wheelbarrow.”

“And you found a clothes press and a wheelbarrow in the dead of night, in the middle of Paris? I take my hat off to you gentlemen,” he said, though he didn’t really, because frankly, he was afraid they might think of something else creative to do with his hat or his head. Like, lift his hat and hit him on his head once more.

“Well,” Jean said. “I do have cousins in the neighborhood, so yes. We borrowed a clothes press, and a wheelbarrow.”

The idea of himself being wheeled about by these geniuses, in the middle of the night, made Aramis very angry, but it also gave him an incongruous wish to laugh. And behind all this, he was thinking that Pierre Langelier definitely would bear more looking into. Very closely.

Meanwhile, he looked at his erstwhile captors. “Well,” he said. “You’ve made a right muddle of it. For all you know, Langelier is in his workshop, waiting anxiously to tie the knot with your sister, while you two are running about the countryside, ignoring the complaints of the musketeer you’ve sequestered in a box.”

“I wouldn’t say we were running,” Marc said. “Not with Bossy and Betsy pulling us. They’re used to the plow, somewhat, but they’re the slowest-” He caught the look in Aramis’s eyes and stopped short.

“Right,” Aramis said, sighing. “Just get me to Paris as soon as humanly possible, and we will never speak of this debacle again.” And he hoped, hoped with all his heart, hoped on the fervent edge of prayer, that he would find all his friends alive and well.

D’ARTAGNAN, coming into his lodgings, was surprised to see Planchet coming in, also, from the other direction. And even more surprised when the young man’s spotty, gawky face wreathed in smiles. “Oh, sir, you are well. Oh, sir, grâce a Dieu.”

D’Artagnan frowned intently at him. “Have you taken leave of your senses? Why shouldn’t I be well?”

“It is only,” Planchet said, “with the goings on at the palace, and knowing you had been there and alone, earlier in the day, I was afraid you were either dead, or that you’d been taken as Mousqueton was taken.”

D’Artagnan decided that Planchet had been listening too much to Grimaud and Athos, who, frankly, both acted as if they were all dancing on the edge of the gallows. “Humor me, Planchet. Explain to me why I should be taken as Mousqueton was taken?”

“Why, for murder!” Planchet said.

“It might interest you to know,” D’Artagnan said, as he unlocked his door and allowed Planchet to go in before him, more because he wanted to keep an eye on the young man than because he was so zany as to give his servant precedence, “that I have not in fact murdered anyone. No, in fact, I haven’t even come close to murdering anyone. In point of truth, I haven’t even seen anyone angry at anyone else. That is, since a minor incident outside the royal palace walls,” he added, remembering the incident and wondering if it was the exaggerated report of it that had caused Planchet to take such a fright. “I went to the royal palace and spoke to Madame Bonacieux who was being most unreasonable, mostly because she seemed to think I’d left her to go fight a duel. I’m not even sure what she thought. And then I left there and I went to a tavern.” Better not tell Planchet about any alarming incidents. “Where I made a very good dinner on boiled beef. And now I’m home, and I understand the angelic choirs can be heard to rejoice.”

But Planchet had stopped on the stairs, just two steps ahead of him, and now dropped on his behind on the step. He looked at D’Artagnan, his face pale. “So, you… you did not in fact… That is…”

“I did not kill anyone?”

“No,” Planchet said, and it was almost a wail. “You haven’t heard about Hermengarde?”

“What about Hermengarde?” D’Artagnan asked.

Planchet looked up at him, his normally quick eyes now arrested and slow. He reached inside his sleeve for a handkerchief and mopped his forehead, though no sweat was visible upon it. “Monsieur, she was found in the little garden where… where they say you spoke to her. She was run through. They think by a sword. There is talk… there were rumors that Monsieur Porthos had killed her to prevent her speaking about something with Mousqueton. I had to say that… that is, I had to tell them that it could not be so, because Monsieur Porthos and Monsieur Athos too were still asleep when we got the message asking you to come to the palace. Grimaud woke them and I…” He shrugged. “I went along to find out what had happened. Behind them, as it were. And then I came here, because I kept hearing you’d talked to Hermengarde today and I wondered…”