The Musketeer's Seamstress - By Sarah D'Almeida Page 0,11
But D’Artagnan managed to hold hold up Aramis all by himself all the way up. Though it slowed the young man down. By the time the two of them reached the top of the stairs, Porthos was already there, knocking at the door with what he hoped was a discreet and low-key knocking and was vaguely aware was only slightly less thunderous than the pounding he’d given the door downstairs.
He had a moment to be afraid that Bazin would not be at home. Most of their servants would be home if they were not out with their masters, but Bazin was an odd one and had interests and plots of his own. Truth be told he only followed Aramis because he hoped Aramis would still live up to the vocation the family had decided for him early on and become a priest or a monk.
But the worry passed as Bazin opened the door. He was a short man and almost as wide as he was tall. Nature had graced him with the round face of a medieval monk and a bald head that resembled a monk’s tonsure. He looked at them out of little surprisingly blue eyes.
His stare at Porthos conveyed displeasure, then a look at Aramis changed it to a half-open mouth and the appearance of shock. “My master,” he said. “The Chevalier . . . Have you devils got him drunk again?”
Porthos always found it amusing that, as far as Bazin was concerned, Aramis was an angel of light and innocence forever led astray by the demonlike musketeers and guard, his friends. Now he simply nodded and said, “Let us get him inside.” He was not about to debate, here on the landing, how Aramis had got in his present incoherent condition. He would bet Pierre or other members of his family were down there, ear glued to the door, listening for any stray word from up the stairs.
Bazin’s expression looked like he’d very much like to pick a fight on this point, but in the end he didn’t. Instead, he stepped back and back into the room, till he allowed Aramis and D’Artagnan, who was supporting him, to come in. Porthos followed into a little room outfitted much like a monk’s cell. There was a narrow bed, a peg on the wall that held a change of clothes, and a massive wrought iron cross at the foot of which lay an oak-and-velvet kneeler much too ornate and elaborate to have belonged to a humble abode.
The candles burning at the foot of the cross cast a bright—if trembling—light upon the room. Enough light to allow Porthos to run the three security bolts on the door after he closed it behind them. Enough for Bazin to see his master’s true state.
As D’Artagnan pulled the borrowed cloak off Aramis, more became apparent and Bazin covered his mouth with his pudgy hand. “My master . . .” he said again, but no more.
“Your master escaped the scene of a murder,” Porthos said.
Bazin turned startled eyes to him. “My master murdered someone?”
“No. But he is suspected. Presently, there might be people along trying to arrest him.”
“Arrest him?”
“That is what I said,” Porthos answered. “Do not open the door to anyone but us. We’ll be back to talk to your master. He’s not coherent enough to answer questions just now.”
“Will he . . . is he drunk?”
Porthos looked at Aramis who stood, where D’Artagnan had left him, near the cross and its complement of candles. Aramis swayed slightly on his feet and seemed dazed. But Porthos hadn’t smelled any alcohol on his breath or his person in helping him here.
“Not noticeably. In fact, I doubt he has drunk at all. But put him to bed. He will be better in the morning.”
“But—” Bazin started. He was pale, and his eyes wide.
“Don’t ask questions,” Porthos said. “We don’t know how to answer them and it wouldn’t do you any good to ask.”
“And besides,” D’Artagnan put in, his voice soothing and smooth. “The least said about these events, the better the chance you can find a religious house to take the two of you.”
Bazin’s eyes, still reflecting shock and surprise, now filled with the cunning of the desperate, and he closed his mouth and nodded.
When they left, Porthos heard the bolts slide home behind him. He had seen Bazin in a mood, and he did not fear that the rotund would-be monk would let intruders in. Aramis would sleep well tonight.