his courage failed and, instead of speaking, he gave Athos a stiff little bow. “Very well, monsieur. If that is so, you may be able to prove it to his eminence before the man is hanged. For now, we are taking him to the Bastille, to wait his eminence’s pleasure.”
Mousqueton seemed to wake at those words. His eyes wild, he stared at them. “The Bastille!” he said, with the terror that the name of that infamous prison never failed to evoke. It was said that men disappeared into it never to be heard from again.
“Certainly the Bastille,” the guard said, almost primly. “For where else could we trust you to stay that your master might not break you out?”
This time it was Athos who put his arm out, to restrain Porthos’s hand as it fell on his sword. The larger musketeer did not protest it, just stared at Athos, as the guards dragged Mousqueton away and the greater part of the crowd followed.
“Come,” the fourth member of their group—an eighteen-year-old Gascon, named D’Artagnan—said. “Come.” Though he was the smallest—and youngest—of them all, the dark eyes in his olive-skinned face were full of cunning and Athos knew for a fact that his head was always full of thoughts. People like D’Artagnan looked at life as a game to be well played, a game in which it was important to be always two or three moves ahead of the adversary.
“Come,” D’Artagnan said, again. And, turning, led them into a nearby alley.
“They’re escaping,” one of the mob called behind them, clearly having forgotten that they weren’t accused of anything.
“Well, if they escape, we still have their servant,” one of the guards said, chortling.
It took all of Athos’s willpower, while grinding his teeth so it hurt, to keep from going back and punishing the insolence.
But D’Artagnan reached back and grasped the thread-bare sleeve of Athos’s second-best doublet, looked up urgently at his friend and said, “No Athos. No. It is no part of honor to fall into a trap.”
He led them right, then left again, seemingly at random, until they came to an area where there was no one else around. There D’Artagnan stopped, and turning his back to the blind wall of a garden, he looked at his friends.
“By the Mass,” Porthos said. “You should have let me fight them. They took my poor Mousqueton!”
“Your poor Mousqueton will be well, Porthos,” Aramis said.
“Well? In the Bastille?”
“Surely well, in the Bastille,” Aramis said, throwing back his head and with it the blond, shining curtain of his hair. “Surely you don’t think that they would mistreat him, much less kill him? Not when they know we will be going to Monsieur de Treville with our grievance as soon as we can get to his office. And that Monsieur de Treville will want to ensure Porthos’s servant is treated fairly. The Cardinal is not so foolish that he’ll overplay his hand this soon. He would only risk the King’s ire.”
“But . . .” Porthos said. And opened his hands as though his words had quite failed him. “The Bastille!”
Most musketeers, most guards of Richelieu, probably most of the people who knew the giant musketeer would think he was stupid. Athos, who had been one of Porthos’s closest friends for many years, knew better. Porthos was an observant man, an intelligent one, and quite capable of sudden, blinding insight into the souls of men. However words themselves were Porthos’s foe, one that refused to be drawn out into the light of day. And in moments of emotion, like this, Porthos’s lack of facility with words managed to make him seem young and almost small.
“He’ll be safe, even in the Bastille for a while,” D’Artagnan said, taking the lead. “We will, of course, as Aramis says, go to your captain, Monsieur de Treville, and ask him, at once, to make sure that Mousqueton is well and that we have the time needed to prove his innocence.”
“But,” Porthos said, and clutched at his red locks in despair. “How could it come to this? I only asked him to go and get my sword repaired!”
“I was listening in the crowd,” D’Artagnan said, gravely. “While you were . . . disputing with the mob, I was talking to some of them, and they say that the armorer was found killed—run through with his best sword. And Mousqueton was found unconscious next to him. And you must know that Mousqueton’s reputation . . .” He floundered, doubtless catching some hint of annoyance