The Cardinal's Red Lily E-Book

M. von Strom

• Herausgeber: epubli
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 429

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Beschreibung

Alexandre Dumas published The Three Musketeers in 1844 and the sequel Twenty Years After in 1845. But what happened to the protagonist of both novels, the famous hero d'Artagnan, in the meantime? The Cardinal's Red Lily tells an alternate story about what might have been... Paris 1640 - One for all and all for one! For a long time, the brave Musketeers' reputation preceded them, but when Captain de Tréville falls from grace, the regiment is disbanded. The former Lieutenant d'Artagnan is determined to save the corps - even if that means joining the Red Guard of the scheming Cardinal Richelieu. Scorned as a traitor, d'Artagnan must confront a web of intrigues, dangerous love affairs and vengeful enemies in order to achieve his mission.

Leseprobe

The Cardinal's Red Lily

The Cardinal's Red LilyDramatis personaePrologueI - Prisoners of warII – ResignedIII – RecruitedIV – DegradedV - ComradesVI - Council of WarVII - Enemy contactVIII - Taking up dutyIX - Front lineX – ConflictsXI – SideshowXII – PatrolXIII - Scouting PartyXIV - Ruse of WarXV – RapprochementXVI - Move out!XVII – SkirmishXVIII – DesertionXIX - Flank AttackXX – RenegadeXXI – MessengerXXII – Petticoat GovernmentXXIII – ReconnaissanceXXIV - BattlefieldXXV – InfirmaryXXVI – LurkingXXVII – MousetrapXXVIII – RetreatXXIX – TreasonXXX - Brothers in ArmsEpilogue

The Cardinal's Red Lily

by

Maren von Strom

Historical Novel

About

 Alexandre Dumas published The Three Musketeers in 1844 and the sequel Twenty Years After in 1845. But what happened to the protagonist of both novels, the famous hero d'Artagnan, in the meantime? The Cardinal's Red Lily tells an alternate story about what might have been...

Paris 1640 - One for all and all for one!

For a long time, the brave Musketeers' reputation preceded them, but when Captain de Tréville falls from grace, the regiment is disbanded. The former Lieutenant d'Artagnan is determined to save the corps - even if that means joining the Red Guard of the scheming Cardinal Richelieu. Scorned as a traitor, d'Artagnan must confront a web of intrigues, dangerous love affairs and vengeful enemies in order to achieve his mission.

Author

Maren von Strom, born 1983, studied history and holds a Magistra Artium in literary history and medieval studies. Dumas' The Three Musketeers has fascinated her since childhood. Early on, she wrote new stories and continued the adventures of the heroes in them.

Printing History

Die Lilie in Kardinalrot

Originally published in Germany 2019

English Translation published 2021

Imprint

Text: © Copyright by Maren von Strom

Translation: © Copyright by Maren von Strom

Editing: © Copyright by Maren von Strom and by Kristin Schoppe

Cover: © Copyright by Maren von Strom and © Copyright Michael Stratmann

Publisher: Maren von Strom

Blumenstraße 20

42119 Wuppertal

Germany

[email protected]

Dramatis personae

The following is a list of the characters involved, with those marked * being historical and/or based on the work of Alexandre Dumas père.

Musketeers and Loyalists

Arnaud de Tréville*, captain in exile

Charles de Batz-Castelmore d'Artagnan*, former lieutenant

Pauger, former musketeer

Jumonville, former musketeer

Fernand de Grinchamps, Baron

Duke de la Nièvre, father of Odette

Guardsmen and Cardinalists

Armand-Jean du Plessis, Cardinal Richelieu*

Charles-César de Rochefort*, Richelieu's stable master

Luchaire, captain of the red guard

Auguste de Jussac*, lieutenant

Grégoire de Sorel, blithe spirit

Bernajoux*, swashbuckler

Biscarat*, occasional spy

Cahusac*, senior soldier

Civilians and Others

Odette de la Nièvre, grandniece of Richelieu

Elise Perrault, maidservant of Odette

Sarah Simon, friend of Elise

Gustav Moraut, valet

Gabrielle de Jussac, mother of Lucas and Mathilde

Madeleine "Chevrette "*, landlady of d'Artagnan

Étienne Martel, majordomo of Tréville

Prologue

The Hôtel towered up stony and unyielding in front of the visitor. It was an impressive and magnificent building, unparalleled in its pomp and size. The gate wings were closed, their copper-coloured fittings shined dully in the light of the setting sun. Above the archway was a coat of arms; a golden lion in a red field, wrapped around it in a banner with the motto; Fidelis et fortis.

The main entrance to the Hôtel de Tréville was always locked at night, when long shadows fell on the street and the other houses nestled together for protection. Paris was a blindingly beautiful woman by day, enticing and beguiling. At night she was a whore, old and worn out, always holding a knife behind her back.

This morning, the gate has not been reopened to let the daily, endless stream of visitors pass into the Hôtel. Now the afternoon has already been leaning towards the evening. The inner courtyard was lonely and deserted. The horse stables were abandoned, as were the utility rooms. The extensive staircase at the entrance hall was no longer the scene of an everyday siege, and no one had to find a way past the many guests and musketeers to the captain's cabinet; it was locked and when a hand cautiously pressed the doorknob, the door did not open.

Less surprised than concerned about this fact, Lieutenant d'Artagnan tried again by knocking emphatically. But there was no one left in the rooms, which that had served as the headquarters of His Majesty's Musketeers for many years. The regiment was disbanded, the officers dismissed. What remained was an unusually empty house and a former lieutenant of the Musketeers, who was visibly struggling with himself to finally turn away and leave into the uncertain.

Steps approached d'Artagnan from behind and he heard a familiar voice saying, ʹIt has become very quiet.ʹ The words were spoken softly, almost in a whisper, as if the orator feared the echo that could reverberate unbroken from the bare walls. ʹOne will have to get used to it.ʹ

D'Artagnan hesitated noticeably before turning around. ʹThat will not be easy, mon capitaine.ʹ He showed a bitter smile. Ten years of tireless service for king and fatherland, ten years between life and death on countless battlefields, had not left the lieutenant unaffected.

Monsieur de Tréville, tired and apparently deprived of all his strength in just one night, waved off his former subordinate who was bowing respectfully to him. ʹPolite and embarrassed formalities have been exchanged enough. I am not your captain anymore.ʹ He leaned against the banister and glanced down into the hall of his house. Tréville had fought many battles over the years, brave and faithful, as his family's motto on the archway manifests. But now the captain looked years older, exhausted from politics and the wars at the royal court of Louis XIII.

It was only after a while, during which he remained absorbed in his own thoughts and seemed almost to forget the presence of the other man, when Tréville asked, ʹWhat leads you back here?ʹ

D'Artagnan shrugged. Had old habit summoned him? Or was it nostalgia that haunted him painfully? Or did he not want to accept a defeat without a fight and searched the Hôtel for brothers in arms? Tréville was the only one who could have gained a victory in this kind of political war, but he seemed to be finally defeated. It frightened d'Artagnan, who could neither be accused of being afraid of death nor the devil. ʹIt is over?ʹ

ʹYes.ʹ A very sober word without contradiction. It did not sound as if the decision of a prime minister and a weak king could be reversed in any way. The regiment of musketeers remained disbanded, for it had fallen victim to courtly intrigue.

In a spontaneous gesture, forgetting all formalities and differences in rank, d'Artagnan leaned against the banister next to his captain, also letting his eyes wander. He knew every detail in the entrance hall, every notch in the parquet flooring, every impurity in the window glasses. The impressions had burned in over the years, it only became clear to him with the loss. ʹWhen will you come back, mon capitaine?ʹ

Tréville smiled fugitively about the the special emphasis with which d'Artagnan pronounced his old rank. ʹI am banished in disfavour.ʹ

ʹWrongfully!ʹ

ʹYou think so?ʹ

D'Artagnan was too upset to even briefly be in doubt. ʹYes! Mordieux, he who calls you a traitor is one himself!ʹ

ʹWatch your words!ʹ reproved Tréville. ʹThe house may be deserted, but there are still plenty of rats.ʹ

ʹLet them burrow in the dirt, I fear them not!ʹ

ʹThen you are a fool.ʹ The captain pushed himself off the banister to follow the stairs down.

D'Artagnan hesitated, but he was not yet as melancholy as Tréville was. With a few determined steps, he was therefore back at the captain's side. ʹThere must be a way to prevent this!ʹ

ʹYou will do nothing! Do you understand, monsieur le lieutenant? The king's word is law and you still have a bright future ahead of you.ʹ The two men reached a side gate, an unadorned door out into the street, intended for the servants. Like a thief, Tréville was now about to sneak away, leave Paris and never return.

D'Artagnan knew nothing more to say. Everything would have been inappropriate and wrong, and so he remained silent and dejected as Tréville boarded a carriage. An escort on horseback stood ready. It would ensure that the traveller reached his distant destination in the Gascony.

ʹGood luckʹ, Tréville said in parting. D'Artagnan murmured to the departing carriage, ʹTo you too.ʹ

And then he was left alone with his bright future.

I - Prisoners of war

The autumn of 1640 reached Paris with dark, gloomy prospects. Tenacious fog crept through the streets, penetrating every crack, every crevice and groping for people and animals with clammy fingers. The sun remained covered with heavy clouds, no wind was blowing and the already oppressive atmosphere was joined by the ineradicable stench of piss pots, latrines and rubbish in the streets.

After a hot summer, the Seine carried little water, the river was brown, muddy and sluggish and unspeakable things drifted under the bridges. The whole town seemed to be waiting for a relieving storm that would finally wash away the dirt, the rubbish and the rats.

While the grey cloud cover threatened Paris without bringing rain, the valet Gustave Moraut drowned in a trough. With his hands, he tried to find a hold, slipped off, reared up and was pressed even deeper with his face into the water. Air bubbles rose when he instinctively screamed in panic, shortening his life by precious seconds.

Suddenly, he was grabbed by his hair and pulled back. He spat water and gasped for air. Lying on his knees, his head brutally pulled back into the neck, he could not see his tormentors. Only cold, dark stone walls, damp, mossy; his prison for weeks now.

He was yelled at, ʹWhere is she?ʹ

He was crying, wetting himself and coughing. Again his head was pressed into the trough. This time it took longer, because now he didn't scream and saved his breath. That made it worse, because they waited until his lungs were burning and he was breathing water. He died, was dragged mercilessly back to life and had to vomit.

Back in the water, without a question before. Moraut's body still resisted, wanted to lash about and free itself, wanted to survive in mortal fear. The pain stabbed deeply into his chest as he was torn from hell just before drowning.

ʹI don't know!ʹ he shouted up to the dungeon ceiling and was beaten to the ground. In front of the guards' boots, his tormentors, he curled up, spat water, gasped and whimpered, ʹDunno, dunno...ʹ

*~*~*~*~*

ʹGustave Moraut.ʹ The name was in the first line of the report. Rochefort knew the contents by heart and now summarised it for his master. ʹUntil a few weeks ago, he was one of the servants here at the Palais Cardinal. Now he is in prison.ʹ

ʹI remember, monsieur le comte.ʹ There was something cutting and impatient in the voice of the prime minister of France. His stable master had seldom heard this undertone from Richelieu and it told him to get straight to the heart of the report. ʹEven after the torture, he does not know where she is.ʹ

The cardinal showed no emotion whether the report surprised him or whether he had expected it. Richelieu kept his thoughts to himself as he looked down from his study window onto the Cour d'Honneur, the courtyard. His face was tense and pale, his cheeks sunken and marked by illness. But his gaze was clear and penetrating, the spirit defying the weakened body. He had put his hands together behind his back.

Rochefort was a skilled observer of details, so he noticed the ink stains on the cardinal's fingertips. On the desk lay the manuscript of the Political Testament. Clearly written reflections, not a word, not a single sentence had been crossed out and replaced by a different wording while the creation. The last feather pen strokes were still drying, His Eminence had been working on the manuscript when Rochefort had entered the study.

Rochefort had recently often seen the memorandum lying there; it was truly a testament. Even if the prime minister did not let on, did not spare himself, his health was not in good shape these days. He elevated reason to the supreme discipline of a sovereign; perhaps the manuscript was now growing faster under the impression of the last few weeks.

ʹYou will find out the whereabouts of her, Rochefort! Young women do not disappear without a trace. Not from this palace, right under my eyes! Not without-ʹ Suddenly Richelieu grabbed his breast with a tortured face. ʹNot without-ʹ A coughing fit shook the prime minister, he staggered and at the same time refused to lean on the windowsill.

Rochefort took a step forward, but then, despite his concern, hesitated to offer support himself. Richelieu would have turned down the aid and not admitted any weakness. So instead, Rochefort took the glass of warmed wine from the desk and handed it to him. He hold on to the glass as Richelieu took it with trembling fingers. With rattling breath, the cardinal brought the wine to his lips and drank until his affected lungs had calmed down.

Rochefort put the glass back and picked up the thread as if nothing had happened. ʹShe must still have one or more allies. This lackey, Moraut, is not one of them.ʹ

ʹAllies, confidants, admirers.ʹ Richelieu's voice still sounded fragile and husky. But his red cassock had fortunately not been stained by coughing bloodstains. ʹWhat about Fernand de Grinchamps?ʹ

ʹIn hiding, probably still in Paris.ʹ

ʹProbably?ʹ

ʹI will soon know for sure.ʹ

Richelieu looked at his stable master for a long moment and Rochefort stood his ground. He had already served the cardinal for too many years, had caught more than one scar, had suffered more than one wound, to be unsettled by a judgemental look. Rochefort had sharpened his mind on the royal court's obscure intrigues, but he was still rarely able to read the prime minister's thoughts. Even now he failed.

Richelieu turned back to the window. ʹOur interest is mainly in Odette de la Nièvre.ʹ

ʹShe will have made some friends in your care over the past few months. Someone will still be in contact with her and could give us a vital clue to her whereabouts.ʹ Rochefort shrugged. ʹBut no one in the Palais will speak openly to me.ʹ

ʹMy other spies?ʹ

ʹToo well known among the servants. Some of them are the servants, Monseigneur.ʹ

ʹSo, in my own house, everyone is suspicious of everyone else in this matter.ʹ

Rochefort remained silent. This had gone from family strife to political intrigue and he knew no advice for his master. The father of the headstrong Odette de la Nièvre would certainly soon lose patience and, as threatened, air Richelieu's dirty laundry in public that could shake even a powerful prime minister. Then there would not be a more welcome victim like the captain of the musketeers, who this time had interfered in the wrong affairs.

Richelieu let a few moments slip by, then seemed to make up his mind. ʹSo I have to commission a new, innocent and useful man in my service.ʹ

ʹUndoubtedly, Monseigneur has a certain man in mind?ʹ Rochefort thought his part. In this context, 'innocent' and 'useful' meant 'easy to direct' and 'bought with money'.

The cardinal bowed his head and surprised Rochefort with the next question, which seemed to address a completely different subject. ʹTell me, after the dissolution of the Royal Musketeers, what happened to the soldiers and officers?ʹ

ʹThey have been mostly assigned to other regiments. Some of the musketeers are in the field against Spain at Arras. The officers have either retired from service and retreated to their estates or have been given new posts in the king's troops.ʹ While he was still pronouncing the last sentence, Rochefort understood the sudden interest in the king's former musketeers. It was brilliant.

Richelieu pretended to be thoughtful, pondering, when he said, ʹSurely there will be one among these officers who is dissatisfied with his fate. Someone who wants to see the musketeers reinstated. Perhaps even as their next captain.ʹ

Rochefort smiled knowingly. One of those officers had behaved so rebellious after the dissolution of the regiment that he initially took a lieutenant's commission without a post. ʹI will seek out this definite one immediately and make him an offer.ʹ

Richelieu raised his hand with a warning gesture. ʹDo it wisely! I want a soldier for my guard. Someone who has not belonged to this house before, but who will be in the palace every day from now on. Someone who will have to endure the contempt of old and new comrades and who, with ambition for another cause, will earn enough trust to find the mademoiselle for us.ʹ The cardinal took a sharp look at Rochefort. ʹNo musketeer, and certainly not this lieutenant, will accept such an offer. Monsieur d'Artagnan had refused our generosity a few years earlier, when his situation was no less difficult.ʹ

ʹI will find the right incentive. I know him.ʹ

ʹGood.ʹ Richelieu was visibly exhausted by the long speech, so he sat down at his desk. There he picked up the quill and pulled the manuscript towards himself. ʹReport back to me immediately.ʹ

ʹAs you wish, Monseigneur.ʹ After a last hesitation, when Richelieu seemed to be suppressing another budding cough, Rochefort left the study and went in search of an old friend.

II – Resigned

The punch came from the right. D'Artagnan immediately fell to the ground and remained lying there dazed. He blinked disoriented and with a veiled look, not sure how he had landed on the tavern floor. Only his aching chin, where the blow had hit him, and the hammering in his head made him instinctively gasp for air. Just in time he saw the attacker draw out for a kick.

Before his ribs could make the acquaintance of a heavy working boot, d'Artagnan caught the kick with his hands. For a fraction of an instant, his opponent's face was covered with a bewildered expression before a roll to the side pulled him off his feet. In the same movement, d'Artagnan jumped up and faced the two companions of the craftsman. Two strong men, each half a head taller than the lieutenant himself. They were simple minded and extremely angry with him. They had necks like oxen and upper arms like rafters. Apparently, they earned their money with honest, hard work and only wanted to spend their wages in the tavern Three Crowns.

A rather drunk former musketeer had thwarted their plans when he got up from his seat at one of the back tables, but was no longer in control of his feet and had bumped into one of these good men. One outraged word gave the next and then a bare fist spoke.

The fact that d'Artagnan had taken their friend by surprise seemed to stop them from pouncing on him immediately. Maybe they had a spark of sense left in their heads not to mess with a fully armed officer. D'Artagnan was no longer allowed to wear the musketeer's tunic, but he had not renounced his nobility rights to the dagger and sword. He carried his pistol hidden under his cloak.

The other guests watched the spectacle and had not yet decided whose side they were on. A barmaid, on the other hand, had already run into the street and one could hear her calling for the town guard. The innkeeper had reached for a poker by the fireplace. Judging by his anxious expression, the gesture was more in defence than attack.

It would have now been wise to mumble half-hearted apologies and let the matter drop. But d'Artagnan still tasted the last cup of wine on his tongue and he was way too proud to retreat. ʹCome on!ʹ

The command was enough and three embittered lives collided. This time, d'Artagnan was prepared and dodged the first blow, only to strike in his turn. Except for a snort, his opponent was completely unimpressed. His sidekick jumped in and took the opportunity for another kick. D'Artagnan was hit in the knee and stumbled. He had also completely forgotten the third one on the ground. The man was back on his feet and grabbed the lieutenant from behind with both arms. The grip was relentless. The other two craftsmen grinned gleefully.

The other guests became restless. Some of them jumped up and cheered the opponents, because they wanted to see an exciting spectacle. Others took refuge before they would unexpectedly become part of the tussle. The first jugs and chairs were knocked over, insults flew through the tavern. The innkeeper looked pleadingly to the door to see if his maid had finally alerted the guards, but still no one shouted for a stop and an arrest.

D'Artagnan took the first blow with tense muscles, yet it almost drove the air out of his lungs. Instinctively, he writhed in the clasp - and got free. His success surprised not only himself. The entire Three Crowns held its breath as the craftsman groaned and collapsed. He remained lying with a bleeding wound at the back of his head.

ʹHave you not learned your lesson from the village of Meung yet?ʹ Rochefort put down a beer mug and took a step over the unconscious man on the ground to join d'Artagnan. He rebuked him, scrutinising him like a teacher scrutinised a pupil. ʹYou should only start bar brawls with a friend in your back.ʹ

D'Artagnan snorted disparagingly, without letting the two remaining roughnecks out of his sight. ʹThen better stay behind my back before you get a black eye.ʹ

ʹA black eye? The mob wants blood.ʹ

D'Artagnan pulled up an arm just in time to protect himself when a cup flew just past his ear. That was the general signal and where the spectators had just formed a semicircle, a beating crowd suddenly swayed back and forth. The lieutenant lost sight of Rochefort as he had to duck away in the confusion of the battle under a swing with a broken chair leg. Retreat had suddenly become a desirable option.

It was due to the good reputation of the Three Crowns that no weapons were drawn during the next few moments. The fight was nevertheless noisy and fierce, and even spread to the street in front of the tavern; one moment passers-by were peering curiously through the windows, and the next moment they were participating in fistfights, in which everyone was punching each other without really knowing why. The innkeeper pressed himself into a corner and someone realised that not only jugs and cups but also wine bottles could be thrown splendidly.

Glass shattered just above d'Artagnan's head and shards fell down onto his feather hat. He had stayed too long in one place and had become a worthwhile target. Cursing, he gave up looking for Rochefort and made his way past overturned tables and chairs. Two fronts fought with each other; left against right, maybe even front against back. Once one of the two parties was defeated, the remaining one would turn the conflict against itself until the town guards intervened.

D'Artagnan had no desire to be arrested and thus to lose the meagre remnants of his reputation and honour, which he had still retained. A man came running towards him with his fists raised. He tripped him up and then looked around in the breathing space. At the back of the taproom, a door led out into the courtyard; and there was Rochefort.

The stable master did not seem to have gotten a scratch, at most his coat had gotten a bit messy. He waited at the door until d'Artagnan had found a way to get to him with further ducking and evading. They exchanged glances, then he followed Rochefort out into the courtyard immediately. But d'Artagnan had barely left the door behind himself when someone grabbed his shoulder, tore him around and hit him. Again, he staggered dazed, again, it was Rochefort in his back who saved him from falling.

With an angry roar, d'Artagnan shook off the helping hand and drew his pistol. The craftsman's attack ended abruptly as he stared into the muzzle of the gun. Cold sweat dripped from his forehead, fear of death in his eyes. For a seemingly endless moment nothing happened. Then d'Artagnan's finger pulled the trigger.

ʹD'Artagnan!ʹ

The commanding tone made the former musketeer pause. His finger remained on the trigger, just before firing, when Rochefort stepped next to him. ʹShoot and you will be in the Bastille within an hour.ʹ

ʹYou would get me out of there, my friend.ʹ

ʹYes, I would.ʹ Rochefort nodded narrowly and without pity for the unfortunate roughneck, who was still staring at the pistol and making a whimpering sound. D'Artagnan replied, laboriously restrained, ʹWell?ʹ

ʹWell, you will owe me your life and more than one favour. That simplifies matters for me, of course.ʹ Rochefort made a discarding gesture. ʹGo ahead, shoot this fool. Is he worth the debt? I still suspect one last bit of sense in you.ʹ

ʹAh, you suppose?ʹ

ʹSelf-respect is obviously not an issue.ʹ

The pistol grip missed Rochefort only because he grabbed d'Artagnan's wrist in time and deflected the blow. A shot went off and got lost somewhere in the sky over Paris. The craftsman screamed in panic and stumbled over his own feet as he fled, while behind him the lieutenant and stable master fought doggedly for the upper hand.

In the tavern, the shot had been heard and now everyone was just trying to get away. The noise of the fighting changed, it sounded now like naked fear for one's life and escape. Finally, the roughneck stumbled back into the taproom. The door to the courtyard closed. When the clacking could be heard in the lock, Rochefort released the lieutenant from the headlock and patted him on the shoulder. ʹYou are slacking.ʹ

D'Artagnan shot him a sinister look and picked up his pistol, which had been lost during the struggle. ʹDo you still want to get a black eye? The next blow will not be a charade to frighten a fool.ʹ

ʹI will do without, you have already not escaped unscathed for both of usʹ, Rochefort said dryly, while d'Artagnan looked sourly at the blood stain on his shirt sleeve after wiping his face. The musketeer said nothing more, fit his hat and envisaged the courtyard. A cul-de-sac, framed by ivy-covered house fronts. His gaze finally caught on an open window on a higher floor of the neighbouring house. He sighed.

ʹExactly.ʹ Rochefort turned away too quickly for d'Artagnan to actually accuse him of having a wolfish grin. The stable master went on ahead and climbed up to the window on a stable rose trellis. After a prudent glance, he pulled himself into the house by the shutters.

D'Artagnan waited a while for horrified screeches or angry shouts from the inhabitants. When this did not happen, he too set out on his ascent. Despite his aching knee, the lieutenant managed to climb into the house. Just in time. As soon as he had taken his foot off the window sill, he had to duck, because the town guards stormed the courtyard with a loud din. Now, at the latest, nobody wanted to have anything to do with the incidents at the Three Crowns.

D'Artagnan listened to the noise outside, to the imperious shouts and slamming doors, while he glanced quickly at the surrounding space. It was a bedroom. Near the window was a bed, the sheets rumpled as if they had been hectically left in the morning. A dresser stood at the foot of the bed, in one corner was a stool placed. A shirt had been carelessly thrown over it. It covered a pair of riding boots leaning beside it. A bachelor's dwelling, it seemed. There was no reason to stay here any longer.

D'Artagnan snuck out of the room and met Rochefort in the long corridor behind. They found themselves in a half-timbered house, solidly built, but quite dark because of the small windows. The ceilings were low, and one could reach for the beams without stretching too much. The walls felt chilly and did not meet at a single straight angle. It smelled of wood and plaster, of fresh laundry and bread, of a good middle-class parlour. Rochefort looked around to see if they had really gone unnoticed and then gave a sign to follow him. D'Artagnan caught up with him and asked quietly, ʹAre we alone?ʹ

ʹNo.ʹ Rochefort pointed to a door a few steps away. It was left ajar, a shadow was moving under the crack, seemed to lurk. Whoever was there had noticed the burglary, the noise from the tavern, the gunshot and the loud shouts of the town guards. ʹLet us get out of here.ʹ

It would not have been necessary to ask, Rochefort had already followed half the stairs to the lower floor, peered over the banister and hurriedly continued his way. D'Artagnan didn't limp along quite so skilfully and looked back over his shoulder at the landing.

The young woman at the door returned his gaze without shyness and more sceptically than surprised. She seemed to be the daughter of the house, barely twenty years old. She was wearing a simple dress, which served more for usefulness in everyday life than to emphasise her beauty. Her copper-coloured hair was braided into a loose braid and framed a narrow face. She patterned the intruder in an estimating manner, her green eyes in fascinating contrast to her red head. Had she stepped out of the room out of curiosity instead of hiding? She seemed suspicious and determined, not a trace of fear - and she had a pistol pointed at d'Artagnan.

He did not dare to move. Instead, he tried his most charming, apologetic smile and reaped a disapproving frown in return. The gun lay calmly in the mademoiselle's hand, she seemed to be able to handle it. She was still thinking about her next steps and did not say a word. She did not ask for an explanation, but seemed to draw her own conclusions from what she saw and heard.

For a moment, d'Artagnan wondered what her voice might sound like. Now she looked at him in indignation as he boldly raised a finger to his lips, winked at her and then descended the stairs as if it were a matter of course. The mademoiselle's voice remained a secret, for she did not ask him to stand still nor did she alarm the other residents or called for help from the town guards in the courtyard.

She did not shoot a bullet at him either.

D'Artagnan wondered how he could get to the front door safely. Hell, he wondered when he had even taken the last steps to the front door and whether this brief encounter had not just been a daydream! Battered, bloody, and filthy, he would not have let himself get away with just a disarming smile.

Rochefort waited at the door and grabbed him impatiently by the arm to draw d'Artagnan's attention back to the escape. The stable master did not seem to have noticed the young woman, and d'Artagnan forgot to mention her about the more urgent problem of not being arrested after all.

Fortunately, the door was no further obstacle, it opened without any problems and after a last, prudent hesitation, the two men stepped out into the street. All things considered, they had stayed in the house for less than five minutes - but d'Artagnan suspected that it had been five of the most important minutes of his life.

III – Recruited

When d'Artagnan reached his accommodation in Rue Tiquetonne, he was no longer limping. Perhaps he was too absorbed in his thoughts to pay any further attention to his injuries or he simply did not want to admit any weakness to Rochefort. The stable master had joined him, saying only, ʹI shall accompany you.ʹ D'Artagnan had not contradict him.

On the way to d'Artagnan's home they were not disturbed by the town guards, at best a few suspicious looks followed them because of the dishevelled appearance of the former musketeer. D'Artagnan did not care, he had started enough arguments for today. He had lived in Paris for so many years now that he no longer thought that every remark or glance was an attack on his honour. Even the last duel with Rochefort was several years ago and from that they had emerged as friends. So they walked the path together in silence, and just as naturally, d'Artagnan let the stable master enter his lodgings without the need for any words.

While d'Artagnan refreshed himself at the wash bowl in his bedroom and made himself more or less presentable again, Rochefort uncorked a bottle of good wine from Anjou taken from the stock in the kitchen. Equipped with cups and wine, the stable master strolled over to the salon and sat down in a comfortable armchair. He had to admit that d'Artagnan had not furnished himself badly. As lieutenant, he could not exactly live off the fat of the land, but he had found a good accommodation after moving out of his old attic room. He seemed to be well looked after here, and Rochefort asked mockingly when d'Artagnan joined him in a fresh linen shirt and with a less bloody nose, ʹIs your landlady not here at all? She usually rushes over immediately if you get even the slightest scratch and raises a hue and cry.ʹ

ʹMock me all you like, Rochefort,ʹ the younger replied with half a smile and had wine poured for himself. ʹMy Chevrette is a good woman.ʹ

ʹShe keeps your bed warm.ʹ

ʹShe lets me stay for rent even when I am not paid.ʹ D'Artagnan found that while he was talking about his landlady, his mind was already wandering back to the rear building at the Three Crowns and to the unexpected meeting with the mademoiselle. Her determined look, the pistol. Had she really threatened him? No, she could have just stayed in her room. Had she perhaps protected someone else? Like younger siblings? She had a lovely dimple on her chin.

Rochefort leaned back in his armchair and watched the lieutenant over the edge of his cup of wine. ʹHow long are you going to keep this up?ʹ

ʹI very much hope for a while longer!ʹ D'Artagnan knew that Rochefort did not mean his relationship with Madeleine Chevrette and unfortunately, after this evasive answer, the stable master did not let it go.

ʹYou want to commute between home and tavern for a while longer, depending on where is more wine? My dear friend, you have picked up some bad habits.ʹ

ʹFrom you?ʹ

ʹFrom Athos.ʹ

An expression of bitterness was evident in d'Artagnan's face. ʹAthos has inherited. On his country estate, he has other worries than looking after the affairs of Paris. You, Rochefort, are the only friend I have left.ʹ

ʹIndeed, and I still bear the marks of your friendship.ʹ Rochefort greeted the other with a raised cup and without grudge. ʹI was spared another scar today, but next time I will not pull you out of the turmoil.ʹ

D'Artagnan laughed. ʹSo you saved me! I am curious, how does it feel to rush in at the right moment and be the hero?ʹ

ʹYou tell me. According to the stories, you save noble ladies almost every day, even queens or the whole of France.ʹ

ʹThere are stories?ʹ

ʹNo.ʹ

ʹRegrettable.ʹ The lieutenant sighed sadly. ʹI'm just a soldier who has resigned and is no longer needed. I have been forgotten at royal court. Without the musketeers, I am nothing.ʹ

ʹIndeed,ʹ Rochefort agreed completely unaffected and d'Artagnan pulled a wry face. ʹI love you too.ʹ

ʹDid you want to hear something else?ʹ The comte shook his head. ʹI'm not here to listen to your self-pitying whining.ʹ

ʹBut you drink my wine anyway!ʹ

ʹAnd it is quite excellent, I admit.ʹ

D'Artagnan realised that his piercing looks bounced off Rochefort without effect, so he turned up his nose and gave them both a refill. ʹIf not for a comforting embrace and an encouraging slap on the back, why are you here?ʹ

ʹFor two reasons; First, to repeat my question. How long are you going to keep this up?ʹ

ʹSecondly?ʹ

Rochefort shrugged. ʹTo maliciously exploit your situation for my own purposes, of course.ʹ

ʹAh, you never give me any warning beforehand? You must be serious, and we are not just talking in friendship, we are talking business.ʹ D'Artagnan eyed the stable master with interest. Rochefort was certainly exaggerating; perhaps he was truly offering the former musketeer a good opportunity to get back into paid employment after weeks of inactivity and worries about his own future.

After the last conversation with Monsieur de Tréville, d'Artagnan had still been determined not to simply accept the dissolution of the regiment. He should have followed the captain's advice to do nothing. All d'Artagnan had achieved by an audience with the king was to remove himself from his post.

Louis XIII. was disappointed, shaken in his confidence because of Tréville's alleged betrayal. D'Artagnan did not know how much truth there was in the charges against the captain; conspiracy against His Eminence, cardinal Richelieu, the prime minister - against France itself. He did not know what had really happened. All parties were silent about the details, and rumours were not very credible. Such intrigues were regulated by the royal court among itself and the end of a small regiment was collateral damage.

D'Artagnan's request to be heard by the king was granted, but the lieutenant should not have been so naive as to believe that his intercession and his arguments would cause anything other than even greater anger on His Majesty's part. The audience passed... stormy. While the other musketeers were finally divided and transferred, their lieutenant was no longer needed.

D'Artagnan was petrified and completely stunned for the first few days. He had served loyally for more than ten years, had even ridden right by the king's side and been asked for his opinion many times - and now he was forgotten, in disgrace. Not dishonourably discharged, not that! Just not reinstated.

The lieutenant had spent the following weeks in a stupor, actually he had spent them between home and changing taverns. Whenever he had met former comrades on the street, he had felt ashamed, had harshly dismissed friendly and encouraging words until they were completely lacking.

How he would have loved to exchange letters with Athos, Porthos and Aramis, asking for friendly advice! But they had not written to each other for several years. Hell, d'Artagnan did not even know where to look for his old friends! Aramis was convoked an abbé, Porthos newly married for the umpteenth time. Athos had not returned from his last mission and had only left a letter of resignation to the captain. Never before had d'Artagnan felt so abandoned. Never before had he felt so superfluous, for he had no more mission to perform. Rochefort had asked a rhetorical question; he could not continue like this for much longer.

The stable master nodded knowingly. ʹI have an offer to make, indeed. Unless you want to go on loitering like an abdicated soldier at the back tables of the tavern.ʹ

ʹWhere is the malice in that?ʹ

ʹYou will not like the suggestion.ʹ

D'Artagnan almost laughed cynically. With one single exception, he would have liked every recommendation if it would only bring back solid ground under his feet. ʹAre you going to convey to me His Eminence's generous offer to admit me to the ranks of his guard?ʹ

ʹYes.ʹ

At first nothing happened. Then d'Artagnan jumped up and a torrent of flowery exclamations fell upon the stable master, who waited patiently until the Gascon ran out of air and curses. It took quite a while.

ʹAre you finished?ʹ Rochefort did not give his friend the opportunity to get newly angry about this. ʹSit down and listen!ʹ

For a moment longer d'Artagnan seemed to regret having left his sword in the bedroom. Then he sat down again and pressed his lips so tightly together that they formed a thin line. The outburst of anger had given him a healthy complexion, making the scratches from the beating even more prominent. Tomorrow he might expect a headache and a swollen eye.

Rochefort almost smiled about it. D'Artagnan had not changed that much since his first days in Paris; he had kept his hot temper, which the stable master now tried to tame. ʹIf you want to wait until the king forgives you for your impertinent behaviour, fine. I wish you good luck in this hopeless endeavour.ʹ

ʹImpertinence is more to blame on you than meʹ, growled d'Artagnan. ʹNow I understand what you meant in that courtyard. How you would have liked it if I had owed you my life and a favour. To make me such an offer! Fie, Rochefort!ʹ

ʹIndeed, blackmailing your freedom against your sword for His Eminence would not be able to get at you.ʹ

ʹTo hell! Do you have no sense of honour at all that you would extort an old friend?ʹ

Rochefort waved it off. ʹAbove all, I do not have time for games like this. To get you out of the Bastille would even cost me several days and who can say what condition you would be in then.ʹ

ʹOne could almost think that you are worried about me.ʹ

ʹD'Artagnan, I play with my cards on the table. Whether I care for you or not is not important now. This is business, and I am just the messenger.ʹ

ʹWell, my dear garçon de courses!ʹ The lieutenant proudly straightened up himself. ʹThen tell the cardinal that no price on my blade is high enough to sell it to him!ʹ

ʹThe musketeers corps.ʹ

ʹPardon?ʹ

Rochefort swivelled the wine in the cup and looked at it in a pensive way. ʹThe price. The reinstatement of the regiment in full honour. Perhaps even with you as the new captain. Richelieu's influence on His Majesty is more than sufficient for that.ʹ

ʹHa, it certainly is!ʹ D'Artagnan snorted disparagingly. ʹWhy the circuitous route via the red guard? You are out of your mind, Rochefort! The musketeers and guardsmen were never on good terms. Even if it was worth the price, I would hardly survive a week!ʹ

ʹIf you do not play dumb, both of you are going to get along for a while.ʹ Rochefort shrugged as if all concerns were trivial and dismissed with a simple gesture. ʹIt should only last for a few weeks, enough time to prove your qualities again. You will have to endure every difficulty and every contempt for a greater goal. Perhaps even you will be able to avoid a duel for once.ʹ

ʹI feel a great desire to fight with you in my parlour right now!ʹ

ʹBut meanwhile you are too prudent for that.ʹ

ʹYes, I am!ʹ D'Artagnan still could hardly believe what was being offered to him. He, a cardinal's guardsman! Not only the abhorrence of his new comrades would await him, but also the contempt of all former musketeers, all his old friends and companions, if they ever learned of it. If he should ever see Monsieur de Tréville again, the captain would turn away angry and disappointed. Would it be worth it saving the regiment? To become a red guard for a short period of time, as Rochefort demanded? He was anything but so willing to make sacrifices, he was no hero. For good reason the prospect of promotion was still beckoning. ʹShow me your remaining cards! My eternal gratitude and loyalty for Richelieu's generosity in granting me this opportunity and baiting me with the post of senior officer - that will hardly be all.ʹ

ʹDo you hold yourself in such low esteem that your loyalty may not be profit enough?ʹ

ʹWhen was the last time I was standing in the cardinal's way that he needed to retain me?ʹ

Rochefort sighed. ʹI must have been mistaken, you have lost your guts. I will keep my cards closed if you lack ambition to take a risk.ʹ He put down his cup and rose. ʹThen we have nothing more to say to each other for today.ʹ

ʹWait!ʹ called d'Artagnan from a moments impulse. He had clenched one hand to a fist and was now using it as a support on his chin to give it a meaning other than beating up a stable master. Rochefort gave the lieutenant the opportunity to sort out a few thoughts and d'Artagnan finally said, ʹWe both know there is more to it. Will you tell me before I agree to give away everything I have lived for the last few years? Are you willing to take that risk?ʹ

ʹAre you asking a creature of the cardinal or a friend?ʹ

ʹI ask you, you always act both ways.ʹ

Rochefort eyed him for a long moment. Then he turned to leave and said at the door, ʹCome tomorrow morning to the Palais Cardinal, His Eminence's study. I promise you, as a friend, you will be allowed to leave unhindered, if you wish so.ʹ

D'Artagnan waited until he heard the front door fall into the lock. Only then did he rest his head in his hands and murmured softly ʹMordieuxʹ.

IV – Degraded

D'Artagnan stood on RueSt. Honoré, his back to the Louvre and the Palais Cardinal in front of him. He had been staring at the huge town palace for quite a while. By now it seemed to stare back at him.

The rest of Paris only slowly awoke from its nocturnal twilight state. Scattered carriages tore the fog to shreds as they drove past, but the first faint light of the day was still not enough to banish the mist out of the streets. The few passers-by were tightly wrapped in their coats and went by quickly. No one paid any attention to the lonely officer, who was visibly struggling.

After a very short night, d'Artagnan had convinced himself how ridiculous Rochefort's offer was. However, his reflection above the wash bowl looked back in a very tired and exhausted way. As he carefully touched his black eye, he argued with himself that he could at least listen to what the cardinal had to offer. D'Artagnan shaved and sneaked out without waking up his Chevrette.

Further minutes passed by, the dawn was flowing over the roofs and a change of watch was rung in. A familiar process, only in the wrong palace. Angered, the former musketeer chewed on his beard, finally pulled his feathered hat deeper into his forehead and marched towards the Palais Cardinal. No one stopped him as he left the pillar-framed archway and crossed the front courtyard. But as he approached the entrance to the main wing along the gallery, two red-clad guardsmen were already waiting for him. With blatant scepticism they followed his movement and finally blocked his way at the stairs.

ʹCahusac. Sorel.ʹ D'Artagnan nodded at them. They knew each other in the rival troops. Cahusac had fought against Athos in the famous duel at the carmelite monastery one decade ago. Although this happened half an eternity ago and Cahusac had turned grey, no one among the musketeers nor the guards had forgotten the incident.

ʹMonsieur le lieutenant.ʹ greeted Cahusac harshly and with just enough politeness that it could not be interpreted as sarcasm. ʹWhere to?ʹ He asked monosyllabically, not for lack of respect. Speaking was difficult for him, his voice sounded hoarse. He had been injured by Athos at his throat back then and Cahusac had been bearing the consequences until today.

Sorel stood by in the background, ready to intervene immediately in case of doubt. He was young, in his mid-twenties and in his second year of service. He had yet to earn his spurs and watched the lieutenant, who was barely older than him, carefully without being worried or even intimidated. Sorel still lacked experience of war, but his right hand rested confidently on the handle of the blade. He wore a narrow gold ring on his finger.

Apparently, no one had yet told the guardsmen that they and d'Artagnan were from now on involuntary allies. On another day, d'Artagnan might have been amused by the distrustful behaviour of the two men. Now, however, this delay made him angry in the light of a difficult task. ʹI am invited, step aside!ʹ

ʹNo.ʹ Cahusac replied concisely and his young comrade spoke up for him. ʹWith all due respect, we will not do so until you can prove this invitation.ʹ Sorel sounded almost amused. The lad was a real teaser, he grinned challenging. However, his demand for proof was entirely justified and d'Artagnan would have pulled the wool over the eyes of his own musketeers if they had let anyone into the Louvre on the basis of a single claim. Cursed Rochefort for not having considered this!

ʹAh, what if I cannot prove it? Will you shoot me down on the spot? Messieurs are going to do a lot of explaining, Jussac will be beside himself with joy. My word of honour will have to suffice.ʹ

At the mention of their own lieutenant, the guardsmen hesitated. Cahusac obviously had a sharp answer on his tongue. That a word of honour alone would not suffice here might be connected with old resentment; the scar on his throat was a constant reminder of his first encounter with d'Artagnan. On the other hand; lieutenant de Jussac would indeed not be grateful for the riot, for an arrested officer or even a dead man on the steps. Captain Luchaire was too much of a politician, he left dirty matters to his substitute. While Tréville was happy to enter into any confrontation with Richelieu personally, Luchaire fulfilled his duties from his desk. The captain of the guards was a civil servant, an administrator. Jussac was thus given more responsibility and d'Artagnan rightly referenced him.

Cahusac finally decided with a nod to Sorel. ʹJoin him!ʹ

The younger one was saluting eagerly. He seemed to gladly take on the role of a nanny. D'Artagnan wondered for a brief moment whether he himself had shouted ʹYes!ʹ at the beginning of his career, so enthusiastically and impishly. Sorel was refreshingly innocent and the former musketeer looked at Cahusac with a raised eyebrow. ʹI know the way to His Eminence's study very well.ʹ

ʹThither? Good.ʹ Cahusac pointed behind him with an inviting gesture. D'Artagnan saved himself another sinister look and passed the veteran soldier. With two steps Sorel caught up with him and could not be shaken off or persuaded to turn back.

In the palace, another gallery soon followed the stairs. Richelieu had the former Hôtel d'Angennes magnificently furnished after the purchase. It had already been spacious before, now it could be called highly glamorous, even pompous. Every corner reflected the influence and power of the owner, from the porticoes to the famous gardens. The palace could have belonged to a king because of its sheer size and pomp.

ʹThis way.ʹ Sorel took the lead, and d'Artagnan had to admit reluctantly that the guardsman took a shorter route to their destination than the lieutenant would have chosen. On the way, they met some liveried servants, every now and then also a maid. Soon the whole household would know who was a guest today.

D'Artagnan, with a trained eye, noticed other guardsmen at their posts at seemingly important double doors or stairways, apart from the byways that Sorel and he followed. The sight stung him. An intact guard in the wrong uniform coat. What mockery and ridicule the musketeers would have uttered if the cardinal's guards had been disbanded! But Jussac must have inculcated in his men to keep a low profile and, for the good of the town, not to provoke a dispute about it. That too was aching.

At the gullwing door to the study of the prime minister, two other men stood guard. Sorel greeted his comrades and without further ado or discussion they were allowed to enter the anteroom. Cahusac had indeed made a wise decision not to let d'Artagnan go alone. Sorel was his pass.

D'Artagnan pulled himself together. He had to overcome his own resentment, put his pride aside and act wisely. Serenity instead of anger was required here. He took a few steps into the antechamber, Sorel on the other hand turned to leave, which earned him a surprised look from the lieutenant. The young guardsman seemed to suspect the unspoken question and answered it with a shrug. ʹCahusac waved you through on your word of honour. I have accompanied you, and that settles the matter.ʹ

D'Artagnan nodded slowly. Apparently, he still enjoyed a reputation among his enemies for keeping his word. They gave him far more credit than he was giving himself. He waited until Sorel had left, then he went on alone. Apart from a liveried servant, who watched over the arrangement of chairs and benches along the walls, no one else was present. Well, almost; the lieutenant was also patterned by Rochefort, who happened to be at the other end of the room at the door, which leads to the actual study.

D'Artagnan suppressed an impulse to defiantly cross his arms. He was decidedly too old for such gestures, even though Rochefort was too fond of paternal kindness and forbearance towards him. Instead, he marched over and greeted, ʹYou should have told your master's guards that I had been summoned.ʹ

ʹI would have. If I had actually expected you to show up.ʹ Rochefort made no secret of the fact that he had almost given up on the lieutenant after their conversation yesterday. All the more sarcastically, d'Artagnan remarked, ʹFor so many 'if' and 'would have' you wait for me with surprising patience.ʹ

ʹI prefer small chances, you know that. And I am apparently not waiting in vain, a good sign. How is your black eye?ʹ

ʹYou see signs where there are noneʹ, d'Artagnan announced brusquely, ignoring the question. ʹI may leave at any time.ʹ

ʹAt any time.ʹ Rochefort gave a silent order to the servant, who then left the anteroom. ʹBut only after this conversation.ʹ

He had hardly spoken when the door to the study was opened by another lackey. Obviously, d'Artagnan's arrival had already been announced and for a moment he was flattered that he seemed important enough not to be kept waiting. Of course he was wrong. Rochefort restrained him by the arm as he was already about to cross the threshold.