The Cardinal's Red Lily

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 Rue St. 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