M. von Strom - The Cardinal's Red Lily

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Alexandre Dumas published The Three Musketeers in 1844 and the sequel Twenty Years After in 1845. But what happened to the protagonist of both novels, the famous hero d'Artagnan, in the meantime? The Cardinal's Red Lily tells an alternate story about what might have been…
Paris 1640 – One for all and all for one!
For a long time, the brave Musketeers' reputation preceded them, but when Captain de Tréville falls from grace, the regiment is disbanded. The former Lieutenant d'Artagnan is determined to save the corps – even if that means joining the Red Guard of the scheming Cardinal Richelieu. Scorned as a traitor, d'Artagnan must confront a web of intrigues, dangerous love affairs and vengeful enemies in order to achieve his mission.

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ʹSo I can get a crooked face like our dear Bernajoux?ʹ Behind them, the mentioned Bernajoux threw the playing cards back on the table in a more untidy fashion than necessary, grunting something not understandable. Biscarat grinned. ʹI renounce.ʹ

ʹGood.ʹ Jussac still looked scowling, but when his friends made no move to leave him alone, he sighed and called himself to order. ʹYou two were listening?ʹ

ʹIs it him?ʹ Bernajoux, as always, was short on words, but still got to the point. Most of the time, Jussac was grateful to be able to answer just as concisely. They understood each other with few gestures, with half sentences. Now, however, he grimaced when the facts were once again thrown at him without any explanation and there was absolutely nothing he could do about it. ʹYes. The bastard is now a guardsman.ʹ

ʹLieutenant?ʹ Bernajoux seemed to be as worried about d'Artagnan's position in their ranks as Jussac had been before. Fortunately enough in this respect, there was good news.

ʹCommon soldier.ʹ Jussac snorted disparagingly. ʹThe cardinal must have stripped him off his patent, there's no other explanation.ʹ

ʹIt suggests that d'Artagnan's transfer is his last chance.ʹ Biscarat speculated. ʹOtherwise he would at least have had to be offered the post of senior lieutenant in order to honour us.ʹ

Bernajoux's face was unexpectedly graced by a rare smile. Actually, only the corners of his mouth seemed to be more wry than usual. If one did not know him better, a smile from the combative guardsman appeared quite... disconcerting. ʹHe'll have to behave himself.ʹ

Jussac nodded thoughtfully. ʹ If it's his last chance and he doesn't want to lose it. Now I'm no longer surprised by Rochefort's request to keep an eye on the new recruit. He'll only provoke agitation in the corps.ʹ

ʹHe's not one of us and no one here will ever trust him. Our feud with the musketeers is not forgotten,ʹ Biscarat agreed. ʹThis will be fun!ʹ

ʹEnough of this.ʹ Jussac put his book down on the bench and stood up. The conversation with his friends had dampened his anger. ʹMorning roll call in half an hour, muster the men! We will adequately introduce our appreciated newcomer to duty.ʹ In the next half hour he had to think about what to do now. Captain Luchaire certainly did not want any trouble within the red guard during his last weeks of duty. The only question left was how his lieutenant could prevent this based on the latest developments. ʹDismissed!ʹ

Bernajoux and Biscarat confirmed and left the guardroom. Outside the door, they only had to exchange a quick glance to agree with each other. They would adequately introduce d'Artagnan to the guard, oh yes. So adequately that the former musketeer would soon come to terms with his new position and could be sure that he was always kept in sight watchfully. Both friends went off to call their comrades together as they had been ordered to do.

*~*~*~*~*

D'Artagnan tugged uncomfortably at his new uniform, the red tunic of His Eminence's guard. On his arrival, the armourer had only eyed him with a brief, appraising glance, while Sorel explained the matter, and then handed him his equipment; a musket and the cloak-like uniform with the characteristic, unadorned cross on the chest, back and sleeves. Reluctantly, d'Artagnan had put on the new colours, ignoring Sorel's encouraging nod.

Perhaps Sorel had then deliberately chosen the path through the gallery of mirrors down into the courtyard so that d'Artagnan could cast furtive side glances. In passing, the former musketeer had actually dared to examine his appearance. The tunic fitted him as if he had never worn another. Like tailor-made, fabric of the best quality. D'Artagnan forced himself to stop another tugging and accept that the cardinal equipped his guards better than the king had his musketeers.

A considerable number of guards had already gathered in the inner courtyard. The morning roll call seemed imminent and d'Artagnan felt visibly out of place. Everything appeared so disciplined and organised here as it had never been in the musketeers' headquarters. He had always appreciated the loud hustle and bustle there, the rough jokes, the mock battles on the stairs or the gambling in the entrance hall. The full life, seemingly unbridled and carefree. The guardsmen, on the other hand, had gathered here in loose groups, were talking to each other, but only quietly, and they always seemed to keep a watchful eye on the surroundings so that they could react immediately to the arrival of an officer.

From one of these groups Cahusac now waved in their direction. To be more precise, he waved to Sorel, who also briefly raised one arm and immediately joined the comrade. He did not seem to notice that d'Artagnan was not following him. Perhaps the young guard was also relieved to be able to leave with an excuse. The former lieutenant knew when he was welcome among the common soldiers and when not. In case he still did not understand, he caught another warning look from Cahusac and shrugged his shoulders.

Without really knowing what to do with himself, d'Artagnan remained below one of the windows, which were facing the court at regular intervals. It was only a small square in the entrance area of the town palace, almost directly facing the street. 'Small', of course, only compared to the impressive gardens and the vast Cour d'Honneur further inside. One could have built several houses here easily and even then there would have been room left for a modest forecourt with a statue and pigeon droppings.

The Palais Cardinal was a stone monument, three storeys high and topped with pointed roofs. The façade was straight, symmetrical on all sides, with only a few decorations on the windows. The gates were framed by double columns because it had been inspired by Italian architecture at that time. The Louvre was within a stone's throw, d'Artagnan saw it from an unusual perspective. Never before had he felt so much in the wrong place.

ʹYou look like one of us.ʹ

D'Artagnan was torn from his thoughts and he cursed for having been inattentive. Suddenly, he saw himself surrounded by a semicircle of guardsmen, Bernajoux and Biscarat ahead of them. The latter had dropped this unkind remark and, amidst the approving murmurs of his comrades, added now, ʹBut are you one of us?ʹ

Not particularly impressed by the superior forces and certainly not intimidated, d'Artagnan responded, ʹI shall be.ʹ He surprised himself by sounding not only determined but also sincere. Perhaps Rochefort had taken correctly measure of himself and this seemingly impossible task resuscitated his ambition.

The guardsmen seemed to be moving imperceptibly closer, but still remained behind the front, which Bernajoux, with his physique, could form all by himself. D'Artagnan remembered him as a formidable opponent, back ten years ago when Bernajoux challenged him to a duel after a tennis match to avenge the wounds of the carmelite monastery. Without doubt he was the best fencer of the guardsmen. D'Artagnan had only been able to triumph over him because Bernajoux had not taken him seriously as an opponent due to his youth. With their duel they had started a small war between musketeers, the cardinal's guard and even the king's guard in the town, in which a house had almost been burned down. Bernajoux still did not seem particularly well disposed towards him. With a sideways glance at Biscarat, he said, ʹIt is in his papers.ʹ

ʹPaper does not blush,ʹ said Biscarat, playing helplessly with the question of how to answer the attitude of their new member. D'Artagnan, for his part, tried to keep an eye on each man so he would been forearmed. Unconsciously, he took a firmer stand. Bernajoux made clear what this meeting would lead to. ʹA test of loyalty?ʹ

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