A Candle For d'Artagnan

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “Come in, come in,” de Troisvilles said brusquely, gathering the letters together and forcing himself to attend to business.

  Isaac de Portau favored de Troisvilles with a short, respectful bow. Both were Bearnais, and both spoke that dialect more comfortably than they did the French of Paris. “God give you good day,” said de Portau, coming to stand on the other side of de Troisvilles’ writing table.

  “Is anything the matter?” de Troisvilles asked, staring up at de Portau. “Why did you interrupt me?”

  “I have heard that the King will summon the Italian here officially in the next month.” He cleared his throat. “I heard it from one of the lackeys in the Royal Household, a fellow who has been reliable in the past.”

  “I have heard much the same thing,” said de Troisvilles heavily. “It would have to happen eventually, I suppose. But if only it could have been longer; with Richelieu in such poor health, he cannot hang on much longer.” He leaned back in his chair. “It is a sin to pray for the death of another, and a Cardinal at that, but every night I beg God to gather Richelieu to His bosom before this Abbe can be summoned.”

  “God forgives such requests,” said de Portau in an offhanded way. “Especially in matters of state.”

  “So I hope,” said de Troisvilles in a soft, weary tone. “I tried to stop his coming. I dread what may happen to us at his hands. No matter what the King declares, the man is a foreigner, and cannot be trusted. He is related to the Colonnas! How can we permit such a creature to hold the reins of France?”

  De Portau’s merry little eyes glittered. “How can we permit the French to hold the reins of France?”

  “The French,” said de Troisvilles, making the word a curse. “When I was a child we did not allow Frenchmen to enter the house. We gave them no hospitality, for they were not Bearnais, and could not be trusted. And now, look at us: here we are in Paris, speaking their language to them because they disdain ours.” He glanced toward the window. “Close the shutter for me, will you? It looks as if we’re going to have more rain.”

  “A wet winter,” said de Portau as he drew the shutters in and locked them. “My sister sent me a letter last week and said that all the signs are for a wet winter. Her husband’s brother is a monk and writes for her.”

  “What Order of monk?” asked de Troisvilles sharply.

  “Benedictine,” said de Portau. “A Gascon; my sister would not have married other than a Bearnais or Gascon. She said also that there have been Spanish scouts in the mountains.”

  De Troisvilles made a gesture of helplessness. “And we are to do nothing. My last petition to His Majesty, asking for an increase in our numbers, was denied. You know at whose door that refusal may be laid.”

  “Richelieu,” said de Portau roundly as he busied himself lighting the candles, for with the shutters closed the room was dark. “I saw some of his Guards on the street this morning. I did not return their salute.”

  “Not that they are troubled by such conduct,” said de Troisvilles. “They know that thanks to their Cardinal, our hands are tied and we are useless.”

  De Portau for once had no easy answer. “Is there a way to increase our numbers without the permission of the King?”

  “How?” asked de Troisvilles. “Oh, there are men who would be pleased to serve with us.” He indicated the letters on his desk with a fatalistic smile. “Yet I must refuse them. His Majesty has given us no funds for more men and weapons, and he is not likely to. To bring in new men now would make it appear that we are cutting ourselves off from the Crown, and that could mean prison or worse for all of us.”

  “Surely the King would not go so far,” said de Portau.

  “It is not the King who must concern us, it is Richelieu. Always Richelieu.”

  “And that Italian,” added de Portau. He pulled up a wooden bench and sat down. “Is there anything that can be done about the Italian?”

  “Not any longer, I fear. He will be back in France within six months; I’d wager my eyes on it.” De Troisvilles glared at the nearest candles. “I have tried everything I know.”

  “What of the Queen? Would she aid you?” De Portau leaned forward as he offered this suggestion, as if that would increase its possibility.

  “If the King and the Queen were less at odds, I suppose it might. But she will not set herself directly against him, not with the fate of the heir so precarious, and her future as well.” Now de Troisvilles looked haggard. “And who is to blame her, given the circumstances? There are rumors already, and if she defies the King, even the most outrageous of the rumors will be believed.” He rubbed the bridge of his prominent nose. “A few are believed already.”

  De Portau had to screw up his courage to ask, “You, what do you think? Is the child Louis’ get, or did the Queen come to her senses at last and make other arrangements?”

  “I would not fault her if she did,” said de Troisvilles. “After so many barren years, and the King a stranger to her bed, she would not be the first woman to allow herself to be persuaded by the promise of a child and an ally.” He coughed. “I haven’t answered your question, have I? It is because I cannot. I am of two minds; I do not know what to think. I am grateful there is an heir, for France needs one desperately, yet I would rather not endorse a child who had not the Right.”

  “But how could you learn? How would you know? Isn’t there some way to be certain? The doubt alone is—” De Portau suddenly fell silent, his hand raised in warning.

  “Is someone there?” de Troisvilles called out sharply. He, too, had heard quiet steps in the hall.

  “They had the surgeon in earlier,” said de Portau quietly. “It could be the surgeon.”

  “It could be anyone, and whatever we have said could bring us to a traitor’s end at the block.”

  “Surely nothing so severe,” said de Portau.

  “The King cannot afford to have questions asked, not after the Buckingham affair. His position is much too vulnerable.” He cleared his throat. “Do you hear anyone now?”

  De Portau gave a signal for de Troisvilles to continue speaking; he rose and went silently to the door, indicating all the while to de Troisvilles that he should go on talking.

  De Troisvilles nodded his understanding. “All of France has questions about this birth, and who is to say they are without reason? Whether the King has his favorites or not, he is known not to admire women, and when his Queen has been so ill-used and has waited so many years to have children, there must be those who will be suspicious. It is not for us to determine if the Queen has erred, but to uphold the King.”

  Without warning de Portau flung open the door and sprang into the hall, one hand on the hilt of his dagger.

  A lackey cowered back as de Portau caught him by the sleeve, his manner so cringing and servile that de Portau wanted more than ever to have an excuse to pressure the man. “Well, see what I have here,” he said with false affability.

  “Cados,” said de Troisvilles, more shocked than he wanted to admit. “How it is you are listening to what we have been saying?” He made a gesture to de Portau.

  “Let’s not stand here in the hall,” said de Portau, taking a strong grip on Cados’ arm and forcing him to enter de Troisvilles’ room. “We can be more private this way, fellow.”

  Cados was horridly pale and he looked from de Troisvilles to de Portau as if he had been trapped between wild animals. “I … there is no reason for this, Monsieur de Troisvilles. You are mistaken. I was not listening to you, or nothing deliberate. I merely heard you mention the heir, and I am as curious as the next man…” He tried to go on, but he could find no words.

  “Idle curiosity, nothing more?” said de Portau, pretending solicitousness.

  “Yes, yes, idle curiosity. The same as any man.” He took a step toward de Troisvilles, but was stopped when the leader of the King’s Musqueteers raised his hand. “It was nothing, I swear it. It was nothing.”

  “Nothing,” said de Troisvilles in a contemplative wa
y. “How strange. From the way you have been behaving, I would suspect you anticipated worse at my hands than a few questions. It is odd how deceptive appearances are.”

  “But, Monsieur de Troisvilles,” protested Cados, “there is no reason for you to think the worst of me. I have given you no reason to do it, have I?” He looked once toward de Portau, as if he expected to be physically restrained, then hurried on. “You are too hasty, Monsieur. You are assuming—”

  “I am assuming nothing. I have discovered you listening at my door, and I am waiting now to find out why you have done this.” De Troisvilles moved his chair back from his writing table and folded his arms. “The only opinion I have formed is that you have conducted yourself unwisely.”

  “You are wrong,” said Cados, not as polite as he had been a moment ago. “I have done nothing unwise. I have done the bidding of the King.”

  “The King,” said de Troisvilles with the look of courteous disbelief, though inwardly he grew cold—what if Louis had asked Cados to watch him? The idea was absurd, of course, but it was so ridiculous that it might be true.

  “His deputy came to me,” Cados explained. “He had the Royal Seal and he told me that I was needed to do the work of the King. I am a true Frenchman, more of a Frenchman than Bearnais and Gascons.” The last was said haughtily.

  “More of a Frenchman,” said de Portau. “I would not be so pleased as you are.”

  De Troisvilles agreed with de Portau. “Listen well, Cados, for de Portau is right: in this room, one does not boast of being a Frenchman.”

  Cados started to speak, then thought better of it. He refused to look at de Troisvilles, directing his gaze to the closed shutters as if he could see beyond them with ease. His expression had become scornful.

  “You are churlish, my good man,” said de Portau, clapping one hand on Cados’ shoulder with more force than was necessary. “Here is Monsieur de Troisvilles who has given you honorable work and a respectable wage, who has given you his confidence, his trust, and you have rewarded that with treachery.” He fixed his fingers more tightly, ignoring the way Cados winced at this treatment. “You have not done honorably, Monsieur, and have much to answer for; Monsieur de Troisvilles wishes to hear what you have to say in your own defense.”

  “I was acting at the behest of the King,” said Cados, more loudly than before, looking at de Portau’s profile as if that would make him move his hand.

  “As are we, as the King’s Musqueteers,” said de Troisvilles with extreme patience. He inclined his head to de Portau. “Every man here is the King’s man. Yet you behave as if we bow to different masters.”

  “The King has need of those to aid him,” said Cados, his face heating. “He must discover who among his subjects is worthy of his trust and favor.”

  “Trust and favor,” repeated de Troisvilles, musing. “So. You believe that we of the King’s Musqueteers have failed His Majesty: it appears that we are at an impasse.”

  “I have done what the King wished,” said Cados emphatically. “What you say is true, yes. You say you are King’s men, all sworn and loyal to the Crown, but the King has his reasons to doubt that. He desires to know if you are his defenders and champions or if you are working with his enemies to bring ruin upon him.”

  “We seek to do the King no harm,” said de Portau. “Our actions show that clearly. We have been first in battle for his honor and our own, all the world knows it. But it may be that the King has listened to poor counsel and wishes bad cess upon us.” He looked at de Troisvilles for confirmation.

  “If not the King,” said de Troisvilles sourly, “the Cardinal. This fool was not suborned by the King, but by Richelieu. We are all suspect and the Musqueteers are brought into bad circumstances because of my opposition to that Italian.” He faced the wall on his left where his books and maps were stored. “It was the Cardinal’s man, not the King’s, who approached you, wasn’t it?”

  Cados straightened himself. “I was told he was from the King,” he insisted, but there was an unsteadiness in this objection that made it ring false.

  “Whose livery did he wear?” de Troisvilles asked, suddenly feeling old and tired. How had he got enmeshed in politics after so many years of keeping away from it? What had he overlooked, who had he offended, that his men were made to pay for his blunder? Why had he allowed himself to be drawn into the debate over the Italian? It was an effort to listen to Cados with all the questions and accusations ringing in his thoughts.

  “The King’s livery,” said Cados, glowering at de Troisvilles as if he would not tolerate more contradiction. “He had the badge on his sleeve and the colors—”

  De Troisvilles arrested the flow of words with a wave of his hand. “No doubt, no doubt. How many of the Cardinal’s supporters are in the Royal Household?”

  “It was the King’s—”

  “—man, yes, certainly it was,” de Troisvilles finished for him, his voice quiet. He continued to look at his books and maps. “How did this man come to choose you, did he tell you?”

  “He knew I was part of your establishment,” said Cados, beginning to feel more important. “It wasn’t my livery alone that informed him; he said that he had observed this place and had learned to recognize many of your servants. I was selected because I am a Parisian, not some arrogant bully from the provinces.” This last was intended as an insult and both de Troisvilles and de Portau took it as such.

  “I had no notion,” said de Troisvilles as deliberately as he could, “that being employed here was so bitter for you. We have asked you to assume an intolerable burden, I see that now. Well, I have no wish to continue your distress now I have learned of it. Since you find … arrogant bullies from the provinces so unbearable, you are relieved of that oppression at once. You may present yourself in my office the first thing in the morning and your wages to that day and hour will be paid in full.” He did not permit himself the luxury of smiling.

  “Paid in full?” Cados repeated in a numb, tense way, his eyes growing wide. “How do you mean?”

  “I mean you will be paid and released. We have no desire to cheat you of your wages, and so you must permit us the night to gather together the necessary records. A purse and accounting will be ready by the end of Mass tomorrow.” He looked at de Portau. “Will you provide him the appropriate escort?”

  “When?” asked de Portau. “Tomorrow?”

  “Yes.”

  Cados looked wildly from one man to the other. “Wait!” he cried out. “I have a wife and children. They do not deserve this of you. You cannot do this to—”

  “Perhaps you might have done better to have thought of that before you acted on behalf of the Cardinal. Or the King, if that’s what you desire to have us believe.” De Troisvilles got to his feet and approached Cados deliberately. “You have not considered your position. I could find it in my heart to pity you, but not when it is my men you have harmed.”

  “I have not harmed them,” said Cados, but by now he lacked conviction. “Nothing I have done would harm them. They need only fear if they are in error.”

  “By whose terms do we decide error?” de Troisvilles asked, wanting to end the game. “Oh, get out, Cados. Go and toady to the Cardinal or anyone you like, but leave us alone.” He indicated the door and let de Portau shove the lackey through it. As de Portau closed the door, Cados’ threats began.

  “What do you think?” de Portau inquired, his head cocked to the side.

  “He’ll leave soon enough,” said de Troisvilles, pinching the bridge of his nose as much out of habit as headache. “What is the matter with me that I could not see what was happening?”

  “You mean with Cados?” de Portau said, jerking his thumb in the direction of the door. “What man has time to question all the lackeys for the regiment? It’s ridiculous.” He dragged his chair near de Troisvilles’ writing table. “Why should you be suspicious of a troll like Cados?”

  De Troisvilles would not be coaxed out of his grim thoughts. “Ever sinc
e Richelieu first proposed bringing the Italian Abbe to France, I ought to have been on the alert. I have been in more obvious matters. I know that the reason we cannot increase our numbers is more the Cardinal’s decision than His Majesty’s. Yet I overlooked something so simple as household spies.”

  “But we all use lackeys for information,” said de Portau reasonably. “And some of the time, they have useful information for us. Other times, we waste our gold, but”—he shrugged philosophically—“what can you expect from lackeys, in the end? They are nothing.”

  De Troisvilles looked away from his companion. “I made an error, a foolish, stupid, tactical oversight, and it may be the end of all of us.” He stared down at the letters piled before him as if he had never seen them before. “Look at these! What do I tell them? Do I warn them that if they want to join the Musqueteers it may mean making an enemy of Richelieu because I—I—do not like Mazarini?”

  “Most of us are not admirers of Richelieu,” said de Portau with exaggerated nonchalance. “And a few think it would be no bad thing if the King preferred a Frenchman to fill his post.”

  “The King does not consult with us on such matters,” said de Troisvilles distantly.

  “Perhaps he should, since he listens to your advice on other issues,” said de Portau. He scratched his jaw, where the neat beard gave way to day-old stubble. “A man given the task of defending the kingdom should be heard. The Musqueteers are known as the best fighting men on foot. That should count for something with Louis.”

  “But does it?” said de Troisvilles, listening as the first drops of rain splattered on the closed shutters. “Just in time.”

  De Portau would not be distracted from his theme so easily. “It would be very sensible, very wise, for the King to listen to what you have to say about protecting the kingdom, including from foreign Abbes and churchmen. He has taken your advice about armies and such—then why not about his … deputies? If you told His Majesty that an army officer, though he was of high rank and in mounted troops, was not reliable or was not trusted by his men, the King would listen to you and consider what you say. If a soldier fled under fire and you said to the King that the soldier was right to do this, Louis would accept your judgment. So there is no reason he will not—”