the musketeer's seamstress Read Online Free Page B

with the dogs looked at each other, while their companions traded equally suspicion-laden glares.

    “But,” one at the back that looked to be the brightest, or at least the most alert of them, said. “Someone ran ahead of us. Someone the dogs were following.”

    “Well,” Athos said. “As to that, there was a man who came running out of the palace. Blond and scared looking.” For just a moment he was afraid that Aramis, in the state he was, would assume Athos was giving him away and would try to run. But Athos didn’t dare to turn and look at Aramis, so he continued. “He ran past us and over there.” He pointed to the place where he had, carefully, scuffled the sand.

    “Look,” one of them said. “He’s right. The footprints lead this way.”

    They followed to the place where sand met road. Athos didn’t go with them, not wanting to look overeager. His friends were displaying cool heads and self-control even better than what he’d come to expect of them. Aramis and Porthos remained sitting, looking at the cup D’Artagnan was shaking with the motion and expression of the man who can barely wait for a pointless interruption to be over so he can resume his all-important game of dice.

    “There are no horse hoof prints,” one of the men said.

    “Oh, don’t be an idiot,” the other answered. “Can’t you tell the horses would be on the paved road?”

    “Hey you,” one of them yelled turning towards Athos. And, doubtless, seeing the expression on Athos’s face hastily changed it to, “Monsieur Musketeer, would you please tell us if this man had horses?”

    “There were horses and a group of people by the road,” Athos said. He pointed down the road. “They rode away towards Paris.”

    A discussion followed among the men and the one woman, about which of them would go on, which ones would stay and who would go tell the captain of the musketeers as well as their majesties themselves, that there had been murder done within the royal precinct.

    Horses were brought forth. Two of the men mounted, to follow the imaginary fugitives.

    The other ones melted into the night but, before doing it, one of them looked at Athos and said, “Why did you not stop this fugitive, then?”

    Athos shrugged. “My purpose,” he said. “Is to prevent people from coming into the palace, not to stop people from leaving. I couldn’t desert my post to go haggle with people disposed to leaving.”

    They had no defense against those words which were— even if insane—undeniably, true.

    When they had vanished into the night and even the whining and scuffling of the dogs on the leash could no longer be heard, he turned to see how Aramis was holding up.

    Aramis had slumped forward onto the sand and lay immobile.

Where Strength Is Tested; The Sad Lot of the Musketeer’s Servant; The Inevitability of Drunken Musketeers

    P ORTHOS rounded on Aramis. He knew there had been some great harm done. Not that he quite understood it. From what he had heard of the servants’ talk, a woman had been killed.

    Porthos had known Aramis for many years—since the young man, then barely more than a child, had arrived at Porthos’s thriving fencing school and asked to be taught— within a month or less—all there was to know about the art of sword fighting. Though Aramis had learned well enough and fought the duel, too, Porthos had never thought Aramis could kill a woman. In fact he’d never seen Aramis quite angry enough to even be rude to a woman.

    As Porthos had observed of his young friend’s life, Aramis had no need at all to attack women. Women fell over themselves to please Aramis and never seemed to even exhibit much jealousy over his other sincere worshippers.

    Confused and shocked at seeing his friend collapse forward, Porthos put out a huge hand upon Aramis’s shoulder. “Aramis,” he said.

    But Aramis only made a sound, not quite a word. He’d been kneeling and sitting on his ankles, and upon collapsing,