M. von Strom - The Cardinal's Red Lily

With an angry roar, d'Artagnan shook off the helping hand and drew his pistol. The craftsman's attack ended abruptly as he stared into the muzzle of the gun. Cold sweat dripped from his forehead, fear of death in his eyes. For a seemingly endless moment nothing happened. Then d'Artagnan's finger pulled the trigger.

ʹD'Artagnan!ʹ

The commanding tone made the former musketeer pause. His finger remained on the trigger, just before firing, when Rochefort stepped next to him. ʹShoot and you will be in the Bastille within an hour.ʹ

ʹYou would get me out of there, my friend .ʹ

ʹYes, I would.ʹ Rochefort nodded narrowly and without pity for the unfortunate roughneck, who was still staring at the pistol and making a whimpering sound. D'Artagnan replied, laboriously restrained, ʹWell?ʹ

ʹWell, you will owe me your life and more than one favour. That simplifies matters for me, of course.ʹ Rochefort made a discarding gesture. ʹGo ahead, shoot this fool. Is he worth the debt? I still suspect one last bit of sense in you.ʹ

ʹAh, you suppose?ʹ

ʹSelf-respect is obviously not an issue.ʹ

The pistol grip missed Rochefort only because he grabbed d'Artagnan's wrist in time and deflected the blow. A shot went off and got lost somewhere in the sky over Paris. The craftsman screamed in panic and stumbled over his own feet as he fled, while behind him the lieutenant and stable master fought doggedly for the upper hand.

In the tavern, the shot had been heard and now everyone was just trying to get away. The noise of the fighting changed, it sounded now like naked fear for one's life and escape. Finally, the roughneck stumbled back into the taproom. The door to the courtyard closed. When the clacking could be heard in the lock, Rochefort released the lieutenant from the headlock and patted him on the shoulder. ʹYou are slacking.ʹ

D'Artagnan shot him a sinister look and picked up his pistol, which had been lost during the struggle. ʹDo you still want to get a black eye? The next blow will not be a charade to frighten a fool.ʹ

ʹI will do without, you have already not escaped unscathed for both of usʹ, Rochefort said dryly, while d'Artagnan looked sourly at the blood stain on his shirt sleeve after wiping his face. The musketeer said nothing more, fit his hat and envisaged the courtyard. A cul-de-sac, framed by ivy-covered house fronts. His gaze finally caught on an open window on a higher floor of the neighbouring house. He sighed.

ʹExactly.ʹ Rochefort turned away too quickly for d'Artagnan to actually accuse him of having a wolfish grin. The stable master went on ahead and climbed up to the window on a stable rose trellis. After a prudent glance, he pulled himself into the house by the shutters.

D'Artagnan waited a while for horrified screeches or angry shouts from the inhabitants. When this did not happen, he too set out on his ascent. Despite his aching knee, the lieutenant managed to climb into the house. Just in time. As soon as he had taken his foot off the window sill, he had to duck, because the town guards stormed the courtyard with a loud din. Now, at the latest, nobody wanted to have anything to do with the incidents at the Three Crowns .

D'Artagnan listened to the noise outside, to the imperious shouts and slamming doors, while he glanced quickly at the surrounding space. It was a bedroom. Near the window was a bed, the sheets rumpled as if they had been hectically left in the morning. A dresser stood at the foot of the bed, in one corner was a stool placed. A shirt had been carelessly thrown over it. It covered a pair of riding boots leaning beside it. A bachelor's dwelling, it seemed. There was no reason to stay here any longer.

D'Artagnan snuck out of the room and met Rochefort in the long corridor behind. They found themselves in a half-timbered house, solidly built, but quite dark because of the small windows. The ceilings were low, and one could reach for the beams without stretching too much. The walls felt chilly and did not meet at a single straight angle. It smelled of wood and plaster, of fresh laundry and bread, of a good middle-class parlour. Rochefort looked around to see if they had really gone unnoticed and then gave a sign to follow him. D'Artagnan caught up with him and asked quietly, ʹAre we alone?ʹ

ʹNo.ʹ Rochefort pointed to a door a few steps away. It was left ajar, a shadow was moving under the crack, seemed to lurk. Whoever was there had noticed the burglary, the noise from the tavern, the gunshot and the loud shouts of the town guards. ʹLet us get out of here.ʹ

It would not have been necessary to ask, Rochefort had already followed half the stairs to the lower floor, peered over the banister and hurriedly continued his way. D'Artagnan didn't limp along quite so skilfully and looked back over his shoulder at the landing.

The young woman at the door returned his gaze without shyness and more sceptically than surprised. She seemed to be the daughter of the house, barely twenty years old. She was wearing a simple dress, which served more for usefulness in everyday life than to emphasise her beauty. Her copper-coloured hair was braided into a loose braid and framed a narrow face. She patterned the intruder in an estimating manner, her green eyes in fascinating contrast to her red head. Had she stepped out of the room out of curiosity instead of hiding? She seemed suspicious and determined, not a trace of fear - and she had a pistol pointed at d'Artagnan.

He did not dare to move. Instead, he tried his most charming, apologetic smile and reaped a disapproving frown in return. The gun lay calmly in the mademoiselle's hand, she seemed to be able to handle it. She was still thinking about her next steps and did not say a word. She did not ask for an explanation, but seemed to draw her own conclusions from what she saw and heard.

For a moment, d'Artagnan wondered what her voice might sound like. Now she looked at him in indignation as he boldly raised a finger to his lips, winked at her and then descended the stairs as if it were a matter of course. The mademoiselle's voice remained a secret, for she did not ask him to stand still nor did she alarm the other residents or called for help from the town guards in the courtyard.

She did not shoot a bullet at him either.

D'Artagnan wondered how he could get to the front door safely. Hell, he wondered when he had even taken the last steps to the front door and whether this brief encounter had not just been a daydream! Battered, bloody, and filthy, he would not have let himself get away with just a disarming smile.

Rochefort waited at the door and grabbed him impatiently by the arm to draw d'Artagnan's attention back to the escape. The stable master did not seem to have noticed the young woman, and d'Artagnan forgot to mention her about the more urgent problem of not being arrested after all.

Fortunately, the door was no further obstacle, it opened without any problems and after a last, prudent hesitation, the two men stepped out into the street. All things considered, they had stayed in the house for less than five minutes - but d'Artagnan suspected that it had been five of the most important minutes of his life.

When d'Artagnan reached his accommodation in Rue Tiquetonne, he was no longer limping. Perhaps he was too absorbed in his thoughts to pay any further attention to his injuries or he simply did not want to admit any weakness to Rochefort. The stable master had joined him, saying only, ʹI shall accompany you.ʹ D'Artagnan had not contradict him.

On the way to d'Artagnan's home they were not disturbed by the town guards, at best a few suspicious looks followed them because of the dishevelled appearance of the former musketeer. D'Artagnan did not care, he had started enough arguments for today. He had lived in Paris for so many years now that he no longer thought that every remark or glance was an attack on his honour. Even the last duel with Rochefort was several years ago and from that they had emerged as friends. So they walked the path together in silence, and just as naturally, d'Artagnan let the stable master enter his lodgings without the need for any words.