The Musketeer's Seamstress - By Sarah D'Almeida Page 0,43

was an old man, with an unruly crown of white hair, and the sort of manner old retainers tended to acquire. And he was looking up at Athos as if he’d seen a ghost.

Athos, atop his horse, not bothering to dismount, looked proud and magnificent, like the statue of some ancient king. He inclined his head, giving the impression of great condescension.

Behind them, Planchet and Grimaud caught up.

“We thought you dead,” the man said.

Athos sighed. “I am not, as you see.”

“The master will be pleased,” the servant said.

“He is here, then? Raoul?”

“The Duke is within,” the servant said and gestured vaguely towards the inner part of what looked to D’Artagnan like an immense garden. He noted the old retainer’s gaze examining him. Athos did not introduce D’Artagnan and D’Artagnan knew well that these old servants were by far more snobbish than their masters. Doubtless the old man was adding up the cost of D’Artagnan’s clothing and his all too common visage and coming up with a low total for D’Artagnan’s worth.

But Athos was spurring his horse ahead and there was nothing to do but to follow him down a lane bordered by trees. Which ended in a vast garden full of roses and bushes trimmed in amusing shapes, and interspersed by statues and fountains, all seemingly carved of white marble.

At the end of the garden was a vast space paved in a mosaic of white and black stones, the black stones forming the shape of a fantastical tree amid the white.

At the end of this space, two staircases with carved stone balusters climbed curving, to meet in the middle, on a vast balcony that led to an ornately carved door.

At the door stood a shorter man than Athos, wearing what looked—from this distance, like a plain russet suit, faded with age.

A servant, D’Artagnan thought, and had no more than thought it when the man started, raised his hand and shouted, “Alexandre,” in the way of a youth greeting a schoolfellow.

To D’Artagnan’s surprise, Athos, too, raised his hand and shouted, “Raoul.”

The man who must—D’Artagnan deduced—be the Duke de Dreux himself, came rushing indecorously down the stairs. Even up close, he was as unimpressive as Athos was impressive, and looked as little like a nobleman as it was possible to look.

A short man, shorter than D’Artagnan, he had hair of an indeterminate brown and features that could only be described as apelike—a flattened nose, a mobile mouth and deep-set eyes. Only those eyes, dark brown and lively, were in any way extraordinary. That, and, D’Artagnan thought as the man smiled, his look of intentness and welcome.

He ran all the way to Athos’s horse, and offered his friend his hand, to help him dismount. “Alexandre,” he said. “We thought you dead.”

“So your good Jacques has informed me,” Athos said. “And yet, you see, I am alive. And Jacques, too, which surprised me a little, considering he was an old man when we were young.”

“He wasn’t old,” Raoul said, and grinned. “He was only thirty. Younger than we are now. It was only that we were children and he was in charge of us and therefore seemed to us ancient.”

Athos dismounted and Raoul clasped Athos’s hand in one of his, while grasping Athos’s other shoulder, in something not quite an embrace and yet betraying more emotion and more relief and happiness to see his friend still alive than an embrace could have.

“You must tell me how you’ve been and where,” Raoul de Dreux said. “And why you disappeared in such a manner.”

Athos shrugged. “There isn’t much to tell,” he said. “I made a mistake, and I’ve been paying for it.”

De Dreux’s intelligent gaze searched Athos, and seemed to accept that this was all the explanation likely to come in the near future. He nodded. “I see,” he said, though it was clear he didn’t. “Well, you must come and wash yourself and rest. I’m sure you’ve had a long journey, from the looks of you.” He looked back at where Grimaud and Planchet had come to a stop, just behind D’Artagnan. “Your servant can take the horses to the stable and—”

“Raoul,” Athos said. “This is my fault, I should have introduced you.” He turned to D’Artagnan who, bewildered, remained on horseback.

D’Artagnan scrambled, hurriedly to dismount, while Athos said, “This is Monsieur Henri D’Artagnan, a guard in the regiment of Monsieur des Essarts, as well as a gentleman from Gascony.” One of Athos’s elusive smiles fled across the musketeer’s lips. “And the most trustworthy friend