The Musketeer's Seamstress - By Sarah D'Almeida Page 0,8

for a pointless interruption to be over so he can resume his all-important game of dice.

“There are no horse hoof prints,” one of the men said.

“Oh, don’t be an idiot,” the other answered. “Can’t you tell the horses would be on the paved road?”

“Hey you,” one of them yelled turning towards Athos. And, doubtless, seeing the expression on Athos’s face hastily changed it to, “Monsieur Musketeer, would you please tell us if this man had horses?”

“There were horses and a group of people by the road,” Athos said. He pointed down the road. “They rode away towards Paris.”

A discussion followed among the men and the one woman, about which of them would go on, which ones would stay and who would go tell the captain of the musketeers as well as their majesties themselves, that there had been murder done within the royal precinct.

Horses were brought forth. Two of the men mounted, to follow the imaginary fugitives.

The other ones melted into the night but, before doing it, one of them looked at Athos and said, “Why did you not stop this fugitive, then?”

Athos shrugged. “My purpose,” he said. “Is to prevent people from coming into the palace, not to stop people from leaving. I couldn’t desert my post to go haggle with people disposed to leaving.”

They had no defense against those words which were— even if insane—undeniably, true.

When they had vanished into the night and even the whining and scuffling of the dogs on the leash could no longer be heard, he turned to see how Aramis was holding up.

Aramis had slumped forward onto the sand and lay immobile.

Where Strength Is Tested; The Sad Lot of the Musketeer’s Servant; The Inevitability of Drunken Musketeers

PORTHOS rounded on Aramis. He knew there had been some great harm done. Not that he quite understood it. From what he had heard of the servants’ talk, a woman had been killed.

Porthos had known Aramis for many years—since the young man, then barely more than a child, had arrived at Porthos’s thriving fencing school and asked to be taught— within a month or less—all there was to know about the art of sword fighting. Though Aramis had learned well enough and fought the duel, too, Porthos had never thought Aramis could kill a woman. In fact he’d never seen Aramis quite angry enough to even be rude to a woman.

As Porthos had observed of his young friend’s life, Aramis had no need at all to attack women. Women fell over themselves to please Aramis and never seemed to even exhibit much jealousy over his other sincere worshippers.

Confused and shocked at seeing his friend collapse forward, Porthos put out a huge hand upon Aramis’s shoulder. “Aramis,” he said.

But Aramis only made a sound, not quite a word. He’d been kneeling and sitting on his ankles, and upon collapsing, he’d collapsed forward, folding on himself. Porthos grasped his shoulder and pulled him upright by force of strength and determination. “Aramis, are you wounded? And who have you killed? And why?”

Aramis looked at Porthos, but his green eyes normally inclined to mirth and intent with observation looked unfocused. It was, Porthos thought, as though Aramis were very drunk or had suffered a blow to the head, as his eyes would not focus. “I didn’t—” he said. “Violette.” And then he slumped forward again, in silence.

Porthos noticed that D’Artagnan and Athos traded a look. Athos nodded, as though some conversation had passed between them. Porthos hated it when his friends did that, communicating without saying the words openly. It smacked, it seemed to him, of treachery and slyness.

“We’ll get no sense out of him,” D’Artagnan said. Then he lowered his voice. “And, besides, it is quite likely anything he might say could sound incriminating. We should get him away to his lodgings as soon as it may be.”

Porthos nodded. “I’ll take him,” he said.

“Porthos,” Athos said. “You cannot. You are on guard duty.”

Porthos shrugged. “If anyone should check, tell them I am walking around, because I heard a suspicious sound. On a night such as this, no one will find it amiss.”

“But—” Athos said.

Porthos reached down and clasped his hands just under Aramis’s arms, hauling him up. The younger musketeer looked at him with nothing beyond mild surprise. “Can either of you hold him up, should he not find his feet?”

Both his friends shook their heads. Porthos nodded, as if his question had been perfectly answered. He was a simple man and unused to matters of philosophy and theology. When