M. von Strom - The Cardinal's Red Lily

Jussac's look on his face was almost worth it. Consternation was too mild an expression for what spoke from his gaze. The lieutenant blinked several times and seemed to find out whether he had just understood correctly. D'Artagnan remained silent and examined a point just past the left earlobe of his new superior. A tile by the fireplace had a crack. No one moved.

Finally, Jussac very slowly put the book on the table and said with severe self-control, ʹIf this is supposed to be a joke, you are showing a very bad sense of humour, and if it is not a joke, God hates me enough by now to send you to me as a permanent nuisance.ʹ When d'Artagnan did not reply, Jussac stood up and stepped close to the other officer. ʹTell me this is a joke!ʹ

It was not the threatening undertone that kept d'Artagnan silent. Rather, there was nothing to say, the forced eye contact was enough to make Jussac understand. ʹ You have been announced by Rochefort.ʹ Without waiting for confirmation, the lieutenant brusquely turned towards the fireplace, grabbed the poker and poked into the embers. For the sake of his own health, d'Artagnan did not comment on this either. It would have been an inglorious end to be killed with a poker on the very first day. Or, in self-defence, to run a sword through his superior who now asked with gritted teeth, ʹWhat rank?ʹ

ʹPardon?ʹ

ʹWhat rank do you hold?!ʹ Jussac shouted and it must have been heard all the way to the door. The lieutenant of the guardsmen did not care, he was too angry. Perhaps he was getting on the wrong side of his captain-to-be? Luchaire had talked often enough in the last months about taking his well-deserved retirement. Jussac should have succeeded him, but of course, that damn Gascon meddled in his affairs now and outranked him.

ʹ... common soldier,ʹ d'Artagnan replied hesitantly. He was not sure if Jussac had heard him, because the lieutenant was still standing very tense and was staring into the ember. D'Artagnan controlled himself not to have to endure Jussac's slow-working mind too impatiently. Now the lieutenant hung the poker back up, but did not turn around when he ordered, ʹReport to the armourer and then to the roll call in the courtyard.ʹ

ʹYes, s-!ʹ

ʹImmediately!ʹ

D'Artagnan closed his mouth again, his jaws grinding. That went well, Rochefort's plan was never, ever doomed to failure! Without further confirmation, without a salute, he marched out of the guardroom. He had hardly banged the door behind him when a loud rumbling could be heard from inside. Jussac must have been venting his anger. The noise did not escape the small group of guardsmen who had just arrived. D'Artagnan saw Sorel among them, who was looking back and forth between the door and him. Sooner or later he had to face his new comrades and put up with their ridicule and contempt.

D'Artagnan decided for 'sooner' and approached the guardsmen. But suddenly he was grabbed by the arm and barked at, ʹDon't you hurry!ʹ

D'Artagnan instinctively broke free and recognised Bernajoux, along with Biscarat. Both men looked at him hostilely. If it had not been for their friend Jussac, they would never have treated an officer, for whom they still had to mistook d'Artagnan, in such a way.

ʹWhat were you doing in there?ʹ Biscarat did all the talking while Bernajoux flexed his muscles. In an almost absurd way, d'Artagnan felt reminded of Aramis and Porthos. However, he had little desire to mess again with every man on his first day and to fight duels. They had already done that more than ten years ago. Besides, his knee was still bothering him after the fight at the Three Crowns .

ʹAsk Jussac!ʹ he replied enraged and passed the two guardsmen. They let him go unmolested, perhaps they were too surprised by his behaviour. Even Sorel seemed to be hurriedly looking for an escape route when he realised that d'Artagnan was heading right for him. The young guard, however, bravely stood his ground as he was barked at, ʹArmorer!ʹ

Sorel nodded and again led d'Artagnan to the requested destination. This time the lad remained resolutely silent, disillusioned, if not disappointed. Bernajoux, Biscarat and even the taciturn Cahusac had repeatedly raked over old war stories and told them to their younger comrades; and although or perhaps even because they were enemies, the lieutenant of the musketeers also appeared in these stories. The daring conquest of Saint-Germain, for example. How annoying it must have been for His Eminence that the king had snatched the promising young soldier from under his nose after this adventure and made him a musketeer. Perhaps d'Artagnan would otherwise have become a cardinal's guardsman instead of being stuck in his post as a lieutenant for years.

Of course, d'Artagnan had no idea of these considerations, otherwise he might have told Sorel a completely different story by a jar of good wine. One about his best friends, about the naive dream of a young country nobleman. About unexpected twists and turns.

But instead d'Artagnan railed against fate and welcomed the silence.

Biscarat and Bernajoux initially watched the departure of the former lieutenant of the musketeers in confusion. When d'Artagnan barked ʹArmourer!ʹ the matter was obvious. Biscarat rubbed his forehead as if he had a headache and glanced at his friend with a meaningful look. Bernajoux, for his part, did not hesitate to step into the guardroom to support Jussac. He was able to imagine how his lieutenant had digested the news; it had been impossible not to hear his reaction.

In fact, he and Biscarat, who followed him immediately, found Jussac sitting apparently completely relaxed on a bench in front of the fireplace, his nose buried in his current favourite book, Exercitatio Anatomica de Motu Cordis et Sanguinis in Animalibus .

Bernajoux had no understanding of those kinds of things. Jussac's brother, a doctor, had sent the book to him. An Anatomical Exercise on the Motion of the Heart and Blood in Living Beings . Their lieutenant was interested in such things, blood circulation and skeletons, gruesome stuff in Bernajoux's eyes. It was enough for him to know where to strike with the sword to damage organs, not how they worked.

Biscarat discreetly closed the door before the other guardsmen curiously stormed the room as well. It was an old story; whenever Jussac was in the worst mood of all, his closest friends were sent ahead until the situation had calmed down. The situation now seemed so bad that Jussac ignored even Bernajoux, who wordlessly put back up the table, which their lieutenant had knocked over in anger.

While Bernajoux was still calmly collecting playing cards scattered on the floor, Biscarat was even brave enough to take a seat next to Jussac. The lieutenant stared stubbornly at his book without reading a single line. Biscarat patiently let a few moments pass, then moistened his little finger and put it in Jussac's ear.

ʹHeaven's sake!ʹ The lieutenant wiped Biscarat's arm fiercely to the side and stopped himself in time before he would instinctively thrust hist fist in his friend's face. Biscarat raised his hands in an appeasing manner and tried the disarming smile with which he had escaped from many delicate situations before. ʹWelcome back.ʹ

Jussac was not in a joking mood. ʹI swear, if it wasn't you…ʹ he growled and gave Bernajoux a warning look as well. He absolutely did not want to be cheered up. On the contrary, he had just made himself very comfortable in his rage against certain stable masters, musketeers and incomprehensible decisions.

Biscarat could see through his lieutenant effortlessly. ʹI can well imagine whom you'd break the nose instead of me.ʹ

ʹTalk to me about that matter again and I will break your nose!ʹ