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AS LUCK WOULD have it, d’Artagnan was assigned to work in the reception chamber the following day, giving him his first glimpse of the man who was so central to all of their plans. After hearing the whispers about the Bloody Cardinal—His Red Eminence—d’Artagnan wasn’t quite certain what he was expecting—perhaps some skeletal vision of Death in his cloak, or the Devil made incarnate, hiding hooves underneath his robes.
The reality was somewhat more mundane, of course. The person who entered when the steward announced Cardinal Armand Jean du Plessis de Richelieu was a slender man, somewhere between the age of forty and fifty; upright of bearing and gray of hair. His eyes were pale and piercing; his long, narrow face made even longer by the neatly trimmed point of his beard. He was dressed fashionably for court—his cloak and skullcap were, in fact, a bloody shade of scarlet, and a large, bejeweled crucifix hung around his neck. He bowed low to Isabella, and his voice, when he spoke, was mild and cultured.
“Your Majesty,” he said, “it is both an honor and a pleasure to appear before you today.”
“Cardinal,” Isabella replied in her clumsy, heavily-accented French, so different from Queen Anne’s soft, clear voice. “Your presence has been missed these past few days. I trust you had good reason to abandon us in such a way?”
“Alas,” said the Cardinal, “I was called away for weighty matters of Church and State. As partial recompense for my absence, however, I am pleased to be able to present to Your Majesty the Comtesse de le Fére, who has traveled here to seek connections at court after the tragic death of her husband.”
The Cardinal stepped gracefully to the side, and indicated the doorway with an elegant gesture of one hand. D’Artagnan held his breath as Milady appeared, resplendent in a red dress trimmed with ermine and ostrich plumes. Her catlike eyes scanned the room, passing over d’Artagnan as if he were nothing more than a piece of furniture. With a demure smile, she approached the throne and dipped into a deep curtsy.
One of the nobles loitering near d’Artagnan snorted softly and leaned in close to his companion. “Weighty matters of Church and State, indeed,” he said under his breath. “I think we can all guess what has kept His Eminence occupied for the last few days.”
D’Artagnan kept his face expressionless only with difficulty. While it was doubtless a good thing that Milady’s cover story seemed to be working so effectively, it still rankled. He wondered, idly, how much of Chartres’ supply of wine had been sacrificed to Athos’ need to forget, if only temporarily, where his wife was and what people were likely saying about her. Watching Milady as closely as he could without breaking his attentive servant’s stance, he also wondered what she thought of it—whether she cared about the sly asides and assumptions. If so, it did not show on her face, which was as smooth and cool as a mirror.
“It is a great honor to be here, Your Majesty,” Milady said upon rising. “I have heard stories of the court at Paris and the wonders of the palace, but they did not do it justice. We have nothing to compare in the north.”
“The north, you say?” Isabella asked, peering down at Milady from her seat on the dais. “La Fére, was it? I’m afraid I have not heard of it.”
It was almost certainly intended as a slight, but Milady only dipped her chin in a shallow bow. “I am not surprised, Your Majesty. It is but a small estate, of little note or importance. It is only through the Cardinal’s patronage that I was able to travel to Paris since completing the mourning period after my beloved husband’s unexpected passing.”
“Hmm,” Isabella said, clearly losing interest. “I suppose you’ll be looking for a new husband, then. Take care... there are those at court who would seek to take advantage of a woman alone, without allies.”
Isabella’s final words were laced with bitterness, and Richelieu stepped in smoothly, before the exchange could descend further into awkwardness. “Tell me, Your Majesty. How fares our young King?”
“Why do you ask?” Isabella said sharply, and a brief frown of consternation crossed Richelieu’s face, so quickly that d’Artagnan thought he might have imagined it.
“Forgive me—it was merely out of my own curiosity and affection for our sovereign,” the Cardinal answered carefully. “The King celebrates his second birthday later this week, does he not?”
Isabella’s face softened slightly. “Oh. Yes, that’s right. We have ordered a small celebration for the occasion. You are, of course, invited to attend, Cardinal.”
Richelieu bowed. “I would not miss it, my Queen. Now, however, I must prepare a report on the most recent intelligence regarding the small uprising in Chartres, so that I may brief Your Majesty on the news this evening.”
Small uprising? D’Artagnan could not help wondering what, in the Cardinal’s eyes, would constitute a large uprising.
Isabella leaned forward with renewed interest, and d’Artagnan had to school himself not to do the same. “Yes, yes. Do that now, Cardinal. We would know the latest details of this cowardly act of rebellion as soon as possible.”
“Of course, Your Majesty,” said Richelieu, bowing once again and backing away, ushering Milady out of the room ahead of him.
The rest of the afternoon was one of the longest d’Artagnan could remember. When he was finally relieved of his duties for the day, he could hardly contain his impatience as he hurried to meet Constance by the servants’ gate. Rather than risk letting free any of the questions that wanted to tumble from his mouth, he accompanied her back to their rooms in near silence. It was only when they were safe inside that he turned to her and blurted, “Well?”
Constance looked nearly as excited as he was. “We’re to take this to Porthos,” she said, drawing a folded square of paper from her décolletage. They unfolded it in the dim evening light filtering through the window, and looked down in confusion.
“It’s blank,” d’Artagnan said, stating the obvious.
A frown marred Constance’s brow. “So it is. Well, you should take it to Porthos anyway. Perhaps he’ll know what it means.”
* * *
D’Artagnan swore he could feel the mysterious piece of paper burning a hole through the linen of his shirt, where he had tucked it inside his jerkin for the trip to the Leaping Bard. Porthos was engrossed in a game of dice with half a dozen other hard-looking men when he arrived at the tavern. The big man glanced up and met his eyes with a quick, sharp grin, but immediately returned his attention to the table and his opponents.
Knowing how important it was not to draw unwanted attention, d’Artagnan stood back to watch the game, trying not to fidget with impatience. After several more minutes of back-and-forth, an emaciated old man with several missing teeth rolled an eleven, and there was a general cry of dismay from the other players. Porthos threw up his hands and slapped them down on the table in disgust before shoving a small pile of coins and jewelry into the larger pile in the center. With a gap-toothed grin, the old man swept his winnings into a cloth bag and saluted his opponents as he rose and took his leave.
The other players dispersed, and d’Artagnan flopped down in an empty chair next to his friend. Porthos took one look at his face, and, in a voice too low to be heard by anyone else, asked, “News?”
D’Artagnan tipped his chin in a bare hint of a nod.
“Well,” Porthos said in a voice loud enough to carry to those nearby, “I just lost all my coin, so I can’t afford to buy drinks, and I know you’re poor as a church mouse. Come back to my place for a bit—I’ve a bottle of wine at home that we can share while we bemoan my ill fortune.”
D’Artagnan readily agreed, and followed Porthos out of the noise and stink of the tavern into the noise and stink of the streets beyond.
“I have something for you, but I don’t understand it,” d’Artagnan said, keeping his voice low.
“Not here,” Porthos warned, and clapped a companionable arm across his shoulders.
They had barely traveled thirty steps when a hoarse cry and a thump of flesh on flesh from an alley nearby caused them both to tense and turn toward the noise.
“Trouble?” d’Artagnan asked, cocking an eyebrow.
“All of Paris is trouble after dark, these days,” Porthos said, cracking his knuckles in anticipation, “but... yeah.”
Their bodies blocked the flickering light of the street lamps as the pair entered the mouth of the alley, leaving the scene before them illuminated only by the faint moonlight filtering down through the buildings. D’Artagnan recognized the thin, slightly stooped form of the successful gambler from the tavern, his back pinned against the wall by a masked figure. A second attacker stood with his arm cocked, poised to land another vicious blow on the old man’s body.
“Oi! You two,” Porthos growled. “Put down that old swindler and come get some of this instead!”
He thumped his muscular chest with one clenched fist. Beside him, d’Artagnan silently slid his dagger from its sheath, adjusting his grip on the hilt in readiness. The thieves let go of the old man, who slid down the wall and landed in a heap. A quick look showed that the alley terminated in a dead end, and the two men turned back toward Porthos and d’Artagnan, reaching for weapons at their belts as they readied themselves to fight their way out.
“I’ll take Knife; you take Chain,” Porthos said under his breath, and d’Artagnan nodded tightly in agreement, his blood pounding and singing in anticipation of the coming clash.
The man with the heavy length of chain wrapped around his fist was perhaps half a head taller than d’Artagnan, and a bit broader through the shoulders. He charged forward with a yell, swinging the chain at d’Artagnan’s head. D’Artagnan ducked and feinted right, slashing up and in toward the man’s torso. The blade sliced through leather, but did not bite into flesh. At the same instant a bare-knuckled fist caught d’Artagnan’s temple, making his ears ring. He danced back out of range, shaking his head and risking a quick glance toward Porthos, who was locked in a tight clinch with his own opponent.
The man standing across from d’Artagnan swung the chain in a slow circle, readying himself for another attack. Before he could think twice, d’Artagnan lunged in close and stabbed low, feeling the blade penetrate the man’s stomach even as the chain whipped around him, biting into his back and side with bruising force. His opponent’s cry of pain matched his own as the breath was forced from his lungs, but when they separated, d’Artagnan still stood tall while the would-be thief staggered back and fell to his knees, the chain slipping from his grasp as he clutched at his bleeding stomach.
There was a grunt and a yell from behind him, and he quickly backed around until he could see both the injured man and Porthos, whose blade flashed down in the uncertain light, hamstringing his opponent and sending him tumbling to the ground. Porthos staggered back, quickly looking around to assess the situation before meeting d’Artagnan’s eyes with an acknowledging nod.
With their opponents effectively neutralized, the two of them moved further into the alley, where the old man had regained his feet to lean against the filthy wall, wheezing and coughing.
“You hurt bad, mate?” Porthos asked, stopping a step away and ducking his head to meet the man’s eyes.
The man shook his head. “Just bruised, I think, young man,” he said, still breathless.
“Still got your winnings?” Porthos asked, as d’Artagnan stepped up to join them.
The old man nodded, pushing away from the wall and fumbling for the heavy purse at his belt. “Yes. Yes, thank you. Both of you.” he pulled out several coins and held his hand out toward them. “Here... take this. You deserve it, for helping an old man you don’t even know.”
D’Artagnan closed his own hand around their would-be benefactor’s and pressed it back down by his side. “Thank you, sir,” he said, “but that’s not necessary.”
The man nodded his thanks, peering at d’Artagnan and Porthos with rheumy eyes. “Very well. I am in your debt. What about... those two?”
Porthos glanced at the groaning men near the mouth of the alley and shrugged. “They’re not going anywhere. If you can find a guard patrolling—and good luck to you on that—tell ‘em what happened and where to find the thieves. Otherwise, forget about ‘em. They won’t be preying on anyone else for quite some time.”
“Well,” said the old man, “thank you again. You’re welcome at my table any time.”
Porthos chuckled. “Not sure I can afford to sit at your table too often, you old cheat.”
The man clapped Porthos on the shoulder with a wink and a shaky smile, before shaking d’Artagnan’s hand and limping off, giving the injured men on the ground a wide berth and disappearing into the Paris streets.
Porthos sighed and winced. “You all right, whelp?” he asked.
“I’ll have a lump on my temple and a chain-shaped bruise on my ribs for a few days, that’s all,” d’Artagnan said. Even now, the rush of battle was receding, leaving dull throbbing in its wake. “You?”
“I’ll live. Though I sure could’ve used that reward that you just turned down,” he said, nudging d’Artagnan with his shoulder. “C’mon. If the guards do show up, I don’t particularly want to be here. Besides, we’ve got other business to attend to.”
D’Artagnan suddenly remembered the mysterious piece of paper with a jolt, and his hand flew to his jerkin to ensure that it still rested inside, next to his chest.
“Right,” he said, and the two continued their interrupted journey toward Porthos’ lodgings.
When they reached the next corner, though, d’Artagnan frowned up at his companion and grabbed his arm, steering him back toward Rue Férou.
“What’re you doing?” Porthos asked.
“I’m taking you to my rooms, where Constance and I can take a look at you. You’re hurt worse than you’re saying. That other one cut you, didn’t he?”
“S’nothing,” Porthos muttered, but didn’t protest d’Artagnan’s manhandling.
By the time they reached the apartments on Rue Férou, Porthos was visibly flagging.
“Constance!” d’Artagnan called as he opened the door.
“What is it?” she replied as she bustled into the room, only to gasp as she took in Porthos’ appearance.
He helped the big man into the kitchen and onto a chair, only then taking in the wet bloodstain forming beneath a gash in Porthos’ leather jerkin, over his ribs.
“You should have said something, Porthos,” d’Artagnan said tightly. He tweaked the edge of the jerkin. “Get this off. How bad is it?”
“I don’t know, do I?” Porthos groused, making no move to unlace his clothing. “I haven’t seen it yet.”
D’Artagnan huffed in irritation and reached for the laces himself, only to have Porthos close a large hand around his wrist.
“I can take care of it,” Porthos said.
“I’m sure you could,” replied d’Artagnan, “but luckily you don’t have to, because Constance and I are here to help you.”
“I’ll get some water and clean rags,” Constance said, and bustled off.
Porthos frowned up at d’Artagnan for a moment before his eyes slid down and away. “Fine.”
It seemed an odd reaction for the man, and d’Artagnan’s brow furrowed. Still—at least Porthos let him go and started undoing the ruined jerkin, even if he was still avoiding eye contact. When it was unlaced and hanging, Porthos stood stiffly and let d’Artagnan help him get it off, exposing an ugly gash—still seeping blood—on his left side.
He was just angling Porthos into the light of the lamp on the table and leaning down to get a better look when he heard a sharp intake of breath from the doorway. He straightened in surprise, throwing Constance a questioning look when she paused in the doorway, towels and water in hand. D’Artagnan would not have expected her to be horrified by the relatively clean cut, and besides, Porthos’ back was to her.
“Porthos, are you hurt someplace else?” he asked, craning around to see his friend’s back.
He was confronted with a twisted mess of scar tissue, as Porthos huffed out a noise that in no way resembled his usual rich laughter. “Not exactly,” Porthos said. “Sorry, Constance—I didn’t mean to give you a shock.”
Whip marks. They were whip marks. Only... stretched. Distorted, as if the back they adorned had grown and filled out around them, over the years.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Constance said. “I’m sorry to be so rude. I just wasn’t expecting it.”
D’Artagnan was slower to find his voice, and Porthos turned to him. “Now you know why I’m a bit sensitive about whipping,” he said.
“What happened?” d’Artagnan asked quietly.
“I wasn’t born a gentleman. You probably know that already,” Porthos said. “I was born poor. ’Course, we might’ve been less poor if my father hadn’t been a slave to the bottle, but that’s neither here nor there. There was never enough money, so when I was six, my mother gave me over as an apprentice to a baker down the street. He was a kind enough master, but any coins I brought home went to buy wine or spirits for my father.
“That winter, there was no food for the table, so one day I stole some bread from the bakery and smuggled it home under my cloak. My mother was so relieved, she didn’t ask any questions. Two days later, I did the same thing again. Two days after that, the baker caught me and threw me out on my ear. When my father found out, he whipped me. I thought I’d die from it—I certainly wanted to die for awhile—but eventually, it healed.”
Here, he shrugged. “Well, it sort of healed, anyway. The vicious old bastard died the next summer, and my mother supported us with mending and lace work for a few years. She died when I was thirteen. After that, I took jobs working as a dockhand, and eventually, a sailor. That’s where I got the tattoos.” He gestured at the symbols inked onto his chest and arms. “I joined the army when I was seventeen, and you more or less know the rest of it.”
D’Artagnan sat down gracelessly on the nearest chair. “I’m surprised you didn’t punch me in the teeth the first time you caught me whipping myself,” he said mildly.
A genuine smile slid over Porthos’ face, much to d’Artagnan’s surprise. “Nah,” he said. “I didn’t know you well enough, see. I did punch Aramis in the teeth when I caught him doing it, though.”
That surprised a laugh out of d’Artagnan and a snort from Constance.
“Did it help?” she asked.
Porthos shrugged, and winced when it pulled on the wound. “Must’ve done. He never did it again, now did he?”
“I’ll keep your methods in mind, should I ever need to convince him of anything,” d’Artagnan said. “For now, though, I feel compelled to point out that you’re still bleeding onto our floor. Sit down by the lamp and let us patch you up.”
The slash was relatively shallow along most of its length, but they did end up putting two stitches in it, courtesy of Constance’s steady fingers. Once Porthos was sewn up and bandaged, d’Artagnan’s thoughts turned back to the original purpose of their meeting.
“Do you feel well enough to look at this paper from Milady?” he asked.
“Of course I do,” Porthos said. “Give it over; let’s have a look.”
“It’s blank,” Constance said as d’Artagnan removed the folded paper from his jerkin and handed it to Porthos.
Porthos only chuckled. “I sincerely doubt that,” he said. “Light a candle and bring it here.”
Constance gave him a confused look, but did as he asked. Porthos held the paper above the flame, adjusting it higher and lower for a moment until he was satisfied, and then slowly moving it back and forth as the paper began to scorch.
“She’s writing with diluted wine, or maybe vinegar,” he explained, keeping a careful eye on the message, where d’Artagnan could now see brown curls of handwriting beginning to appear. “It dries invisible, but when you heat it up, the ink starts to burn before the rest of the paper does, so you can read it again.”
“What does it say?” Constance asked eagerly.
Porthos set the revealed letter down by the lamp, and they all crowded around to read it.
It has taken several days to arrange everything, but I am now installed as the Cardinal’s new mistress. His Eminence is a man of considerable intelligence and cunning; I believe the worst mistake we can make is to underestimate him. The mere fact that he has managed to ingratiate himself with Isabella after being so famously influential in Louis’ court serves only to highlight this fact.
Before he will discuss current affairs with me in any detail, he requires of me a code word from your captain. Please acquire this code as quickly as possible, and send it to me through C. Do not write it down. In the mean time, continue your efforts to rally support for A among the people of Paris, and have D start to feel out the servants at the palace, though he must take care. My own position here is somewhat tenuous—I will be dealing by necessity only with the Cardinal, for now.
M.
“What does she mean about rallying support?” d’Artagnan asked Porthos.
Porthos snorted. “You think I’ve been spending all my time baking bread? A lot more goes on in the back room of the Leaping Bard than crooked dice games.”
“Isn’t that dangerous?” Constance asked. “Isabella is incredibly paranoid about uprisings and unrest. If she hears anything...”
“Of course it’s dangerous,” Porthos said. “All of this is dangerous, Constance—we’re staging a coup, after all. But Paris is at the breaking point. The whole of France is at the breaking point, really. Something’s got to be done, and no one else is stepping forward to do it... so it’s down to us.” He paused, and grinned his devil-may-care grin at both of them. “Besides, you have to admit, it does help keep the boredom at bay...”
Constance huffed a breath of laughter. “I suppose it does, at that.”
“Easy for you two to say,” d’Artagnan grumbled. “You’re not the ones standing around by doorways for hours on end, wearing a ridiculous wig.”
* * *
If d’Artagnan was hoping for a quick resolution now that the lines of communication between Richelieu and de Tréville were open, he was sorely disappointed. It took four days for a courier riding fast to get from Paris to Chartres and back with Milady’s message and de Tréville’s response with the code word. After that, it was a slow game of back-and-forth between the Captain and the Cardinal.
Porthos and Milady kept d’Artagnan and Constance apprised of the contents of the messages they were smuggling, and the third such missive—this one from de Tréville—contained a passage that made Porthos frown darkly.
“The Captain finally revealed the details of his plan,” he told d’Artagnan. “He doesn’t think Isabella can raise a large enough force, at this point, to stop them getting into Paris. He wants to march on the Louvre, and in the confusion, you’re to snatch Isabella’s son and get him behind our lines, before his own guards can spirit him into hiding. He’ll be sent out of the country anonymously—just another child orphaned by the plague—leaving Isabella with no further claim to the throne.”
D’Artagnan felt Constance tense beside him.
“That’s a horrible plan,” she said. “The boy is guarded day and night. Isabella is convinced that plotters are hiding around every corner.”
“In her defense,” d’Artagnan couldn’t help pointing out, “she is actually right about that.”
“Well,” said Constance, “I don’t like it.”
The Cardinal didn’t like it either. Richelieu made his feelings clear in a scathing message delivered through Milady, which included a particularly memorable passage about “blood-soaked old soldiers too lily-livered to effectively remove the only obstacle in their path that matters”.
“Milady says he thinks we should kill Francis and be done with it,” Constance said. Her face was pale and troubled.
“De Tréville would sooner lose his other eye than order the death of a little boy,” Porthos said with complete certainty.
“Is anyone else thinking that by opposing the kidnapping plan and suggesting another plan which he knows de Tréville won’t support, Richelieu could simply be stalling for time and keeping his true allegiances hidden?” d’Artagnan asked.
“Yes,” said Constance and Porthos in unison.
“What does Milady think?” he asked Constance.
“She thinks he’s a brilliant man who is more than capable of running rings around the rest of us,” said Constance.
“Wonderful,” d’Artagnan sighed. “Well. That’s certainly helpful.”
* * *
While strategy and intrigue was being mapped out over their heads, Constance and d’Artagnan continued to navigate the complexities of a court teetering on the edge of chaos. D’Artagnan made every effort to learn about the routines and procedures involved in guarding the young Francis, without inviting any suspicion from the other servants. What he discovered was daunting. To have even the remotest chance of successfully carrying out de Tréville’s orders, he was going to need access to weapons within the palace, and quite possibly additional inside help.
To that end, he broadened his observations to include his fellow servants, hoping to discover whether any of them besides M. de La Porte might be sympathetic to Queen Anne’s cause. His quiet discussions with Constance’s godfather were not encouraging.
“Most of them hate Isabella, but they fear her more,” said the old man. “I have been alone here for a very long time.”
The never-ending stress of attempting to plan a coup while remaining completely above suspicion was exhausting, and d’Artagnan increasingly found himself looking forward to their Sunday mornings off. D’Artagnan had not been a church-going man since before his family in Gascony fell ill, but to be seen attending Sunday Mass was a good way to stay in Isabella’s very Catholic graces. More importantly, though, it seemed to be a comfort for Constance, and he had to admit that the stately, predictable service did help him relax and clear his mind somewhat.
Aramis would be so proud of me, he thought with a wry twist of his lips.
This particular Sunday—their fourth since arriving—the mood in the streets was different. As they walked the short distance from their rooms to l’Église Saint-Sulpice, the people they passed looked away nervously, eyes darting. It was hot—unseasonably so for late September, but slate gray clouds on the horizon promised storms before long. The air seemed to crackle with brittle energy.
D’Artagnan could not seem to settle as the service began. Something prickled at the back of his neck, and he had to fight the urge to keep looking back at the church’s entrance. When screams and shouting erupted beyond the stately doors some half hour later, it was nearly a relief. Without thought, he was up from the pew and pelting down the aisle, Constance only a step behind him. At the altar, priest’s voice stuttered to a halt, and the rest of the small congregation seemed frozen in place like rabbits. The heavy door creaked open on its hinges under d’Artagnan’s hands, revealing a growing mass of people in the street beyond.
“What’s going on?” Constance asked. “Are they after someone?”
“I’m not sure,” d’Artagnan said, trying to get closer.
There were more screams from the front of the crowd, and he climbed up on the steps of a stone monument in the churchyard to get a better perspective. Ahead, where the Rue Palatine met the Rue Garancière, a knot of the Cardinal's guards with their scarlet tabards were hacking away at the leading edge of the mob, trying to keep from being overrun.
“They’ve cornered some guards,” he told Constance, and hopped down, grabbing a man on the edges of the ever-swelling crowd. “You! What happened? What’s going on?”
The man cursed and spat, a deep frown drawing his bushy eyebrows together. “Bloody Cardinal's guards tried to raid the tavern, didn’t they? Something about breaking the price control laws, and serving food to paying customers on a Sunday. It’s likely to be the last warrant those lads ever serve, and good riddance to the lot of ‘em.”
D’Artagnan exchanged a worried look with Constance. The man pulled away and disappeared into the crowd, which was still growing around them, threatening to swallow them up.
“You don’t think Porthos—“ Constance began, only to break off with a small cry of surprise when someone shoved into her from behind.
Without noticing exactly when it had happened, d’Artagnan found that they had been surrounded by a wall of people. As he steadied Constance and turned to glare at the offender, a roar rose from the front of the mob and the mass of humanity around them surged forward, dragging them along with it.
“I don’t like this,” Constance said in a high, frightened voice, clinging to him as they stumbled along.
“Hold onto me!” he said above the noise. “Try to make for the edge of the crowd!”
At that instant, a thin, high-pitched scream of “Maman!” came from a few feet further in. Constance gasped and pulled away from him, diving toward it through the tiny gaps between people.
“Constance!” d’Artagnan called, and tried to follow her. The gaps closed around him, and they were separated for a terrifying moment before he caught a glimpse of her curly hair. “Constance!”
Constance was picking up a young girl who had fallen among the press of bodies, wrapping herself around the child and shouting in the face of anyone who came too near. Through an opening between two women, d’Artagnan saw her brandish the little dagger she kept in her boot with her free hand, making a small bubble of space around them. He shoved at the bodies separating him from the pair, ignoring the resulting shouts of anger. Elbows and fists jabbed against his ribs for his troubles.
Finally, after a horrific few seconds, he barged past the last bodies blocking his way. Gluing himself to the child’s back, he pressed her between himself and Constance, taking the brunt of the crowd’s rush. Constance might as well have been a boulder sitting in the middle of a river as she snarled and threatened and forced the tide of people to go around them or risk being stabbed in the face. He could feel the child between them shuddering and sobbing with fear, and spoke to her in a reassuring counterpoint to Constance’s protective viciousness.
Gradually, the mob passed them by, and the press of bodies eased until they were surrounded only by the curious and the stragglers. The girl quieted, looking up from where her face had been buried in Constance’s shoulder, and d’Artagnan let her go. Constance herself was shaking like a leaf in the wind despite the muggy heat, the knife still raised even though the threat had passed. D’Artagnan couldn’t fault her—to be perfectly honest, he didn’t feel all that steady himself.
“Élise! Élise!” came a near-hysterical cry from nearby.
The girl peered around through tear-stained eyes, as a slender woman with lank brown hair and a streak of blood running down her temple hurried toward them, favoring her right leg.
“Maman!” the girl shrieked, and launched herself from Constance’s arms into the newcomer’s.
“Oh, my precious Élise,” the woman said, holding the girl close. She looked up at them over the top of the child’s head with wet, shining eyes. “Thank you. She’s all I have left. Thank you.”
D’Artagnan managed a nod of acknowledgement, and the woman led the girl away. Beside him, Constance lowered the knife and collapsed into an awkward sitting position on the filthy ground, breathing hard. D’Artagnan slid down next to her a moment later, staring at her flushed, sweaty face.
“Marry me,” he said, because it was suddenly the most important thing in the world.
Constance looked back at him as if his eyes held the answers to all the questions in the world.
“Yes,” she said finally.
