The Musketeer's Seamstress - By Sarah D'Almeida Page 0,18
faced each other. At any time of the day the cries of “For the King” or “For the Cardinal,” the rousing yells, “To me musketeers,” or “To my aid, guards,” could be heard throughout the city, where blue and red would meet in a clash of swords, a spark of conflict. And smart bystanders stood well away from the brawling factions.
It was therefore no wonder that the guards were the ones sent to arrest Aramis. His being one of the more prominent musketeers, who had so often bested them in fight and duel, would make them only too eager to accuse him of murder. That eagerness now carried the red-attired guards, stumbling and cursing, pressed together up the stairs, each unwilling to give the other the chance to reach Aramis first.
D’Artagnan backed into the room, but had no time to close the door before three guards—with a resounding thud—planted their feet on the tiny landing at the same time. He recognized them by sight and remembered them by name. The one in front was Bagot, a large, florid man with a bristling moustache, and a good fighter if a little too prone to losing his concentration in a pinch. Pressed to his right side, his right arm swinging a sword, his left arm caught between his comrade’s body and the wall, stood Dlancey, a stripling of a man, reedy and tall, with a straggle of long blond hair. He’d gone the interesting shade of red-purple that fair people went when vexed. To the left side of Bagot, his left hand holding a large sword, his right hand clenched onto a railing being all that prevented him from falling headlong onto the hall downstairs, stood Fasset, a small Gascon man whom D’Artagnan had never exchanged words with but who was reputed throughout Paris to be almost as sharp as D’Artagnan himself.
They were all talking at the same time. Shouting. Disconnected words, “murder, arrest, law” emerged from their screaming.
D’Artagnan took a farther step back and fetched up against the wall-like solidity of Porthos. A quick glance showed him the sword in Porthos’s hand, and D’Artagnan, himself, swiftly pulled his sword out, and stood beside Porthos.
Bagot had managed to extricate himself from the press of his comrades, and stand slightly ahead of them on the narrow landing.
“Holla,” he said, looking from D’Artagnan to Porthos. “You receive us armed, do you? Stand aside and let us arrest the criminal or it will go worse with you.”
Without turning, D’Artagnan felt Porthos move. Then someone tapped D’Artagnan’s shoulder lightly. D’Artagnan stood aside to let Athos through.
The older musketeer looked composed, his sword in its sheath, his hat on his head. He now removed the hat, and, as Porthos and D’Artagnan took a step back to allow the space, bowed civilly to the red-faced Bagot.
“I will greet you with all due courtesy,” he said. “Though I should perhaps note that you were the first ones to unsheathe your swords.” He looked markedly at Bagot’s hand holding the sword.
Bagot followed his gaze and made a growl low in his throat. He punched his hat farther down on his head, didn’t sheathe his sword, and glared at Athos, “We are keeping our swords out because we are here on a mission to arrest a foul murderer.”
Athos threw his shoulders back. Even if he couldn’t see Athos’s face, D’Artagnan knew his aristocratic friend well enough to guess that Athos’s face had acquired the proud, blind dignity of a marble statue, and that his eyebrow would have raised the slightest bit, to indicate his disdain for Bagot. Athos was the noblest of the musketeers and, with a step forward and the throwing back of his well-shaped head could make even a prince in silks and velvets look like rabble.
Bagot was no prince. His reaction to Athos’s expression displayed itself clearly in a reddened face, eyes bulging out of their prominent sockets. “Mortdieux,” he said.
And had no time to say more, because Athos, speaking with the icy calm of one who addresses an inferior so beneath him that it’s hardly worth to waste words on him, said, “I know no murderers, nor do I associate with murderers. You are, perhaps, not apprised that this is the lodging of my good friend, Aramis?”
“Ah!” Bagot said. “Aramis is not even a proper name. It’s a nom de guerre, a fake name. I wonder what hides beneath it, and how many women fell prey to the foul monster in the years—”