that Porthos knew he was right. No one would think that. Not for one moment. For one thing, no one had ever known Athos to be interested in any woman, no matter how young or how old. For another, if Athos should bestow his favors on someone, no one could imagine him developing any interest in anyone beneath the rank of princess.
And yet, if his story was true, then Athos had married the sister of a village curate. Or someone who passed as one. How odd life was. Either that or the lady must be something special in the way of beautiful and seductive. Something rather in the way of that woman, who was it, who set the towers burning and the ships sailing? Helen of Troy. Aramis had told Porthos of her, in the middle of a very boring sermon on something else, and Porthos remembered thinking that no one was that beautiful and that doubtless the woman would have been found to have protruding teeth, a cast in one eye, but the sort of commanding personality that made everyone think she was beautiful.
And yet, if Athos had married someone with neither title nor connections, she had to be like Helen of Troy and therefore Helen of Troy must have existed, and been flawless. While musing on such things, he’d followed Athos across two small gardens and a sort of terrace, where often the Queen and her ladies would play games in the spring. Set against the edge of that was what looked like a small door into the palace. At that door, another musketeer waited, this one well-known to the two.
He nodded to them and, once more, Athos advanced to talk to him, and once more, after a little resistence the musketeer went within. Moments later, Madame Bonacieux emerged. She looked like she’d been crying, and she started a little on seeing them. “Oh,” she said. “Monsieur D’Artagnan’s friends. Did he send you? Is he then afraid to see me?”
Athos bowed, correct and distant, just the sort of look that tended to make most women fall for him on sight. Even Athenais, Porthos recalled, had wavered on meeting him. Though of course, she’d swear she hadn’t. “Did you write to him, then, madam?”
She nodded. “It’s just that . . .” And tears started up again.
“He didn’t send us,” Athos said, punctiliously. “It’s just that he is involved in a matter of some importance and could not get away, and therefore we came . . . You said something about a maid?”
“Oh, yes, yes. It’s that poor maid that Monsieur D’Artagnan talked to this morning. The one that was involved with one of your servants?”
“Hermengarde,” Porthos said, unable to help himself. “What happened to Hermengarde?”
Fresh tears started and it was through them that madame Bonacieux said, “She was found dead in the garden this morning. She had been run through with a sword.”
Coffins and Boxes; Where When Praying Fails and Threats Wither, a Good Solid Back and Shoulder Shall Set You Free
“MONSIEURS,” Aramis said, very civilly through the keyhole, though he had to control the rage building in him to maintain civility. “Monsieurs. You have the wrong man. My name is Aramis. I am a musketeer of his majesty the King. I’m sure if you open the box, you’ll see that you have the wrong man.”
Laughter answered him. Distressingly, there was the noise of something that sounded suspiciously like bottles, followed closely by a crackle of something being broken and the smell of bread. Aramis’s stomach growled. He hadn’t even had a proper dinner the night before. Just wine with Athos.
“Listen, what can I say that will prove it to you that I am not your friend?”
“Nothing, Pierre. We already know your honeyed tongue, and we’re not young women whom you can convince. And you were never our friend. Friends don’t do things like seduce each other’s sisters. You might have friends, I don’t dispute that, but we’re not them.”
Aramis pounded on the lid to the trunk. “Open in, or, God’s Teeth, I shall come out and slaughter you.”
This one occasioned far more laughter. “Ah, Pierre, if we don’t let you out, how do you propose to slaughter us?”
“I am not Pierre and trust me, I will find a way.”
For a while there was a silence, and Aramis had time to hope that they were perhaps considering the ways in which he could reach them through the box. But then the two started trading epithets about the supposed Pierre,