was, this seemed to him like a banquet from the gods. And as for the spectacle of watching the two men trying to turn around oxen that were fully as stubborn as they were, it was doubtless as good as anything the theater had to offer.
Aramis, having also found his sword and his lost hat at the bottom of the cart, was starting to feel very much like himself again. So much so that, when the men had accomplished their purpose of getting the oxen turned around, he’d had time to think of how to take advantage of this very strange situation. He must talk to them. If Pierre was Pierre Langelier, and Aramis was almost sure he was, then Aramis would be able to find out more about the man, more about what interested him, and more about what might have caused the murder of the armorer than he would have otherwise been able to find out.
So when they took their place back on the bench, he said, “So, you took the oxen all the way into Paris?” he was marveling at the feat of logistics, since most streets in Paris were not wide enough for a carriage, much less a broad oxcart. And the idea of having to turn the oxen at close confines, even in a main street, caused Aramis to shudder.
They shook their heads. “No, your musketeerness,” Jean said. “We left it with my cousin, just on the outskirts, you know . . . And we went into the city on our own.”
He gave them an appraising look. “And you carried me out in that box by the force of your arms?” They looked sturdy enough, but not that strong. From where they’d been to the outskirts of Paris it would have taken at least an hour’s walk and maybe more.
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