Three D'Artagnans and a Musketeer

Alexey Zakharov

Three D'Artagnans and a Musketeer

The Setup

Fine weather had set in over Paris. An anticyclone arriving from the southeast brought warm air, occasionally shifting from place to place. No changes were expected for the next forty-eight hours. The water temperature in the River Seine reached twenty degrees Celsius, and even more on the Fahrenheit scale.

In Cannes, Monte Carlo, and Saint-Tropez, the proximity of the sea could be felt, and vineyards grew. Occasional gusts of wind swayed snow-white sails.

In Washington and New York, the first colonists were landing, with the second and even third already hurrying in their wake.

In the Pyrenees, the War of the Spanish Succession was raging. The French, Huguenots, and local residents were fighting it out.

In distant Russia, Tsar Alexei Mikhailovich reigned, while in Japan, samurai roamed in droves, constantly trying to stab someone.

The year was 16...

D'Artagnan rode slowly on a dapple-grey steed, gloomily gazing upon the nonexistent sights.

Brief Profile.

D'Artagnan (given name and patronymic immaterial). French, of Gascon nationality. Age 18. Bachelor. Financial status nonexistent. Blue eyes, black hair, curly in places.
Does not resemble Boyarsky.

D'Artagnan was traveling from his native village to Paris, where he wished to enter military service as a musketeer. In those days, they didn't just take anyone into the musketeers, only the most agile and capable. A true musketeer had to be able to shoot accurately, eat heartily, sleep soundly, fight with swords, or at the very least with foils, and participate in court intrigues and amorous pleasures. In short, His Majesty's musketeers were romantics to a man, and to two or three as well. That was how D'Artagnan pictured himself in his new field, and he also noticed a small tavern, which he visited for reasons quite understandable. The young Gascon's stomach—he and his stomach were peers—demanded food.

However, at the entrance an unpleasant surprise awaited D'Artagnan in the person of some passing nobleman, who took the liberty of mocking D'Artagnan's horse with the following words:

"Well, look at that horse, what a son of a bitch."

The blood rushed to D'Artagnan's head, and unable to restrain himself, he asked sharply:

"Would you like to buy this mare?"

"I think not," the stranger shook his head.

"You are making a grave mistake," the Gascon said angrily, "perhaps the greatest mistake of your life!"

Brief Profile.

The stranger, alias Rochefort. A loyal servant of the Cardinal. A wealthy man, occasionally favored by fortune. Hobbies: table tennis and sex.

However, the stranger had already turned away and hurried toward his carriage. D'Artagnan watched him go and wanted to hurl an offensive word at him, but couldn't think of one and therefore refrained.

"You should have challenged him to a duel," advised the innkeeper, who had been an accidental witness to this scene.

"Don't worry, I managed to spit on his cloak," replied the Gascon, entering the tavern.

"What would you like to order?" asked the innkeeper, imbued with respect for our hero.

"Food," D'Artagnan said laconically.

"And what will you drink?"

"My mother gave me a miraculous balm for the road, and I want to try it," D'Artagnan confessed frankly. "Though," he added, "bring some beer, I'll make a cocktail."

"Not to worry, sir," the host fawned and hurried to fulfill the order. But D'Artagnan stopped him:

"My good man, could you give me a list of all sorts of curses and insults? For I feel the gaps in my upbringing may do me a disservice while in service to the King. (Pardon the abundance of service in the last sentence.)"

Five minutes later, food, beer, and a small, tastefully decorated dictionary lay on the table. Opening it to the letter "G", D'Artagnan read:

"'Goat' (Kozel) — one of the most widespread insults. Used by all social classes to express hostility toward male persons. For females, a softened version is used — 'Nanny-goat' (Koza). To be used in combinations with words like 'blockheaded', 'grey-snouted', or on its own. Not to be confused with 'Cosa Nostra'."

"Just what I was missing," the youth muttered thoughtfully. "I must study this booklet thoroughly."

...Meanwhile, Rochefort hurried to meet Milady.

Brief Profile.

Milady. Woman. Bottle blonde. Quite young and attractive. Without definite employment. Cantankerous disposition. Favorite man: Belmondo. Loves black caviar and champagne. Speaks disparagingly of Italians.
Distinguishing marks: a shoulder joint tattoo.

Milady was waiting for Rochefort in the bushes, pretending to pick blackcurrants.

"My dear," Rochefort addressed her, "I come to you with an assignment from the Cardinal and, so to speak, in a private capacity."

"You look rather spat upon today, Count," Milady replied coldly, peering at his cloak.

"What the devil?" Rochefort thought and began assuring her that it was merely caked-on dirt, but Milady actively disagreed with him and, taking the casket with the Cardinal's instructions, began bidding farewell.

"You know what, Rochefort," she said in an icy tone, "I think you should forget about our private meetings. You are not my type of man."

...For a long time, Rochefort watched the dust settle in the wake of the departing Milady. Two thoughts spun in his head: "Farewell, my love, forever" and "All women are bitches." The second thought, moreover, seemed more relevant and closer to the truth.

Chapter 1. Entering Paris.

Paris greeted D'Artagnan with the stench of slops and horse dung. Petty traders and shady characters roamed the streets in search of beer. D'Artagnan picked out one of them as a servant.

"Hey, lad," D'Artagnan shouted, "care to serve me?"

"I do not," the man answered proudly.

"Fit for duty," D'Artagnan threw out curtly.

Now the young man rode proudly in front, followed by his new servant.

"What's your name?" asked D'Artagnan.

"My friends call me Sébastien."

"In that case, I shall call you Planchet."

Brief Profile.

Planchet. Real name: Sébastien. In his childhood, he engaged in football and petty swindling. Currently retired from sports, thereby finding a purpose in life.

To begin with, D'Artagnan rented a room in an inn with two conveniences and one inconvenience. The conveniences consisted of two windows overlooking the street. The inconvenience was that there was nothing else in the room, if one did not count the bed, the table, a stool, and Planchet, who had joined them.

The innkeeper was a certain Monsieur Bonacieux.

Brief Profile.

Bonacieux. Petty proprietor; the beginning of his working day falls in the morning hours. Cooks a decent homemade ketchup and fried eggs.

D'Artagnan and Bonacieux nearly had a dispute over financial considerations. Bonacieux demanded payment in advance, while d'Artagnan offered a choice between a punch in the eye or credit. After a little thought, Bonacieux chose credit, and the friction was smoothed over.

Hardly having settled into his new lodgings, d'Artagnan decided to pay a visit to the captain of the King's Musketeers, Monsieur de Tréville. Wasting no time, the young man headed for the barracks.

Speaking of barracks, back in those days the word designated a nominal gathering place for servicemen. Here one could pass the time pleasantly until evening, and then head off to a tavern, to a duel, or to a party. It should also be noted that, besides the aforementioned duties, the musketeers were also responsible for the internal guard of the Louvre.

The musketeers' nominal gathering place was de Tréville’s residence. It was a mansion with a spacious garden and an ample vestibule.

In the captain’s antechamber, the crowd was especially dense. Making his way toward the door, d'Artagnan overheard snatches of three conspiracies, two intrigues against the Cardinal and five in favor of the Cardinal, four duels, two thefts of personal property—including the hijacking of the King's personal automobile—the hijacking of a plane by terrorists in Argentina, and the romantic escapades of the Pope of Rome. D'Artagnan's soul quivered. Taking what was happening close to heart, he was overcome by a sense of the moment's importance. Catching sight of the secretary, or whatever they called him there, d'Artagnan began waving his arms and winking vigorously in the hope of attracting attention to his person, which he succeeded in doing. Without uttering a word, the secretary walked swiftly up to d'Artagnan, took him by the arm, and led him away.

Before he could catch his breath, d'Artagnan found himself in the study. De Tréville glanced around and asked straight off:

"Been back long?"

Brief Profile

De Tréville: Captain of the King's Musketeers. Rose to a high station thanks to perseverance and hard work. Knew the number Pi down to the second decimal place, of which he was exceedingly proud. Furthermore, he was the King's right hand and held influence over the Queen. Beloved and revered among the people for his sharp wit and penchant for humor.

"I arrived in Paris this morning," replied a somewhat abashed d'Artagnan.

"You should have come straight to me," the captain insisted, "you are being watched."

"By whom?" d'Artagnan wondered in genuine surprise.

"Now is not the time; let me have the papers."

D'Artagnan handed over the letter of recommendation. De Tréville unsealed it at once, read a few lines, and looked at d'Artagnan with interest.

"Does your surname happen to begin with the thirteenth letter of the alphabet?"

"I hate to disappoint you, but the answer is no," d'Artagnan answered politely.

"Alas," de Tréville muttered wearily, "our entire life is woven from the tiniest capillaries called moments. By the way, you wouldn't happen to be a spy for the Cardinal, would you?"

"I want to be a musketeer," d'Artagnan replied, thrusting his leg forward proudly.

"One can be a musketeer in thought as well," de Tréville countered. "To do so, wearing a uniform is not enough; one must earn that honorable title. However, I like you, and I shall put in a good word for you."

"Better put it in writing," d'Artagnan requested.

"All in good time, my young friend," de Tréville assured him. "For now, I am enrolling you with my brother-in-law, Des Essarts."

"That departs somewhat from my plans," d'Artagnan warned.

"Perhaps," de Tréville agreed, "yet the pursuit of a goal holds, perhaps, greater meaning than its attainment. There is no sense in doing something if it has already been done. I could enlist you in my company this very instant, yet that would hardly suit you. I knew your father well, and besides, I am quite a good physiognomist, which gives me grounds to have almost no doubt about your abilities. Being confident that you will make a fine musketeer, I leave you with a dream and pave the way toward it. This whole damned life is filled with profound sibylogism..."

"What did you say?" d'Artagnan asked.

"Sibylogism. A word I coined during my travels. At present, one cannot say with certainty what it means, but one can outline the general directions for understanding the phenomenon. Everyone gets that which they are ready for. You can achieve your set goal only in the event of inner readiness and the impossibility of any other outcome."

"I trust I made myself clear?"

"Of course," lied d'Artagnan.

"In that case, you understand that before entering a door, one must fling it open," de Tréville concluded.

Stepping out onto the porch, d'Artagnan took a deep breath. At that very second, the air began to crawl rapidly into his chest. First, the air passed through the nasopharynx, then, slowly warming up, it spread through the trachea, and finally, reaching the lungs, it began to transform. Oxygen bonded with carbon, and the purified blood, gurgling and bubbling, rushed throughout his body, while the ribcage inexorably contracted once more, preparing for the next cycle. But d'Artagnan wasn't thinking about that; he was walking briskly along the Parisian streets. Behind him, staggering strangely, walked some French citizen, who nonetheless soon fell down and fell asleep.

D'Artagnan's attention was caught by three unfamiliar musketeers (though so far d'Artagnan was acquainted only with de Tréville). They stood slightly apart and seemed to be discussing something. A few muffled words drifted over to the Gascon: "She touched the harpsichord, and a sweet languor coursed through my veins." The other two musketeers nodded in agreement and smiled enigmatically.

Looking more closely at the narrator, d'Artagnan noticed that he was standing on something brown; on closer inspection, it turned out to be a cello. D'Artagnan stepped closer and attempted to pull it out. The musketeer was about to object, but it was too late. The Gascon held out the cello to him, saying:

"Here, you dropped this."

The musketeer glared malevolently at the Gascon, whereas the other two felt a surge of merry excitement.

"That cello's shape resembles Madame M...," one of them remarked playfully.

"Especially in profile," the second confirmed.

"I have no idea how it got here," the musketeer pleaded in his defense.

"In that case, I'll take the cello with me," said one of the listeners. "Madame M... happens to be my cousin, and someone ought to return the lost instrument to her. One may, of course, hold diverse opinions on musical pursuits, but the cello is something quite special. It's like pulling a cat by the tail, yet it purrs."

After this, the two took the cello and went on their way, while Aramis and d'Artagnan arranged a further meeting behind the Carmelite convent.

Brief Profile

Aramis became a musketeer due to circumstances. Had a musical education, leaning heavily on the saxophone. Enjoyed quite a reputation among women, which reached ridiculous proportions at times.

D'Artagnan stood on the pavement, gazing pensively after the departing Aramis, when suddenly a sound of shattering glass came from above, and tumbling from the second floor one after another came: a bottle, a chair, and three of the Cardinal's guardsmen. The guardsmen leaped up at once and ran off, while the chair and the bottle remained lying on the sidewalk, looking quite lifeless. Before he had time to be surprised, d'Artagnan felt something crashing down upon him from above. Sure enough, it was a musketeer.

"Damnation!" exclaimed the musketeer. "I didn't hurt you, did I?"

"Not yet," replied the Gascon.

"Then let us meet behind the Carmelite convent!" shouted Porthos, running off after the guardsmen.

Brief Profile

Porthos: Porthos's distinguishing feature was a longing to wear a necktie and a pince-nez, but his love for women, as a gender, outweighed this commendable desire.

After this incident, D'Artagnan stayed put, rightfully believing that third time's the charm. To the Gascon's surprise, the lull was dragging on. And just as D'Artagnan was already about to set off for his appointed duels, a musketeer suddenly appeared, seemingly looking for someone. Just in case, D'Artagnan waved his hand; the musketeer approached the Gascon with a barely perceptible smile and, instead of a greeting, said:

• I feel not the slightest antipathy toward you, but something tells me we shall soon meet behind the Carmelite convent.

• If that embarrasses you, I could give you a cuff round the ear, — D'Artagnan offered.

• My surname is Athos, — the musketeer introduced himself.

Brief dossier.
Athos. Possessed profound knowledge of the surrounding world, as a consequence of which he drank heavily. Had a good command of the rapier, the French language, and his servant Grimaud.

After getting acquainted, D'Artagnan and Athos headed off to the duel. From time to time Athos suggested dropping into some tavern, and to the young Gascon's credit it must be noted that he never once refused.

Chapter 2. Peace and a Feast.

A notice dangled upon the Carmelite convent:
"Due to preventive measures regarding the campaign for population numbers, dueling has been banned since last year!"
And appended below: "Vote for Cardinal Richelieu. Amen."

Porthos and Aramis were already on site and engaged in lively conversation.

• The image of apparitions is illuminated quite differently in polite society, — Aramis was recounting, in particular, — the depiction of occult forces constitutes an entire layer of folk portents and religious idiosyncrasies. How, by the way, do you like this quatrain:

And amidst the slender birches
It went leaping high and prone,
White as any bedsheet flapping,
Lighter than a wooden log.

• I find another transcription closer to heart, — Porthos countered:

And upon an oak tree gnarled
It had scrambled like a frog,
Filthy as a wretched bastard,
In its hand a heavy log, —

by the way, greetings Athos, — he finished his thought.

• I concur, — Aramis confirmed.

• Same to you, — Athos replied sedately.

After this, everyone looked at D'Artagnan; D'Artagnan returned the look.

• This is an acquaintance of mine, and I am about to slit his throat, — Athos introduced the Gascon.

• You don't say? — Aramis marvelled. — I have met him already as well, and harbour the very same intentions.

Porthos said nothing, but made such convincing use of facial expressions that everything became entirely clear.

• Naturally, — D'Artagnan was forced to admit, — my affairs are not quite hopeless, but roughly on par with a penguin's in Africa. On the other hand, one must always remain an optimist, or at least appear to be one.

• You reason like an acquaintance of mine who once fell from the Eiffel Tower, but luckily had a parachute with him, and although out of absentmindedness he forgot to deploy it, as they say, facts remain facts, — remarked Porthos.

• To tell the truth, I am somewhat troubled by the Cardinal's guards, who have been sitting in the bushes for about half an hour now and, as far as I can tell, watching us, — Aramis voiced his apprehension.

• Perhaps they have poor eyesight, — D'Artagnan suggested.

• Who knows, — Porthos mused, — they don't seem to be wearing spectacles.

• All the better, — Athos declared, — if they have poor eyesight, without glasses they won't see a thing.

Rapiers flashed in the sun, nuns pressed themselves against the windows, birds flew south — the duel began.

Just then, out of the bushes as one leaped twenty Cardinal's guards, an unbroken mustang, and a champagne cork.

• Sheathe your swords and we shall arrest you! — the guards shouted joyfully.

The musketeers exchanged glances, but it didn't help.

• There are only two of us, — Porthos noted under his breath.

• Three, — Athos corrected him.

• Algorithmic calculations are my weak spot, — Porthos lamented.

D'Artagnan stepped up to the musketeers and said quietly, yet very solemnly: "Lads, I'm with you!"

• You might as well have called us homeboys, — Athos replied just as quietly, but shook his hand; Porthos patted D'Artagnan on the back, while Aramis did the same, yet also affectionately pinched his cheek and promised to show off his new sword-belt.

• And so, messieurs the Cardinal's guards, — Athos summed up, — we are attacking you.

Upon these words, three guards remembered urgent appointments, while another claimed he had a fever, supposedly from a cold, and under this pretext the quartet of guards headed for the exit at a brisk pace.

The remaining sixteen figuratively picked up the gauntlet thrown down to them. Athos drew one guard, Porthos another, Aramis engaged two.

One Cardinal's guard stayed in reserve, three more went flanking, and finally D'Artagnan crossed swords with eight opponents. These were the De Jussac identical twin brothers.

D'Artagnan demonstrated his entire wealthy arsenal of technical moves. His right-hand strike was particularly successful. The De Jussacs tried to back against the wall so D'Artagnan couldn't surround them, but it yielded no results. The bold Gascon pelted the enemies with bricks and sealed his triumph with a daring charge.

Now D'Artagnan could look around. The crimson-red light of conflagrations illuminated the battlefield. The centuries-old oak that had seemed steadfast just moments ago was hacked into splinters. Across ground pocked with craters crawled an unfinished guard in a charred jumpsuit, while all around him rapiers and yellowed leaves fell whistling through the air.

The victory was complete.

The musketeers stood filled with bliss and seemingly imbued the surroundings with the ringing joy of ardent hearts. Nuns waved handkerchiefs from the windows, shouted "Vivat!" and blew kisses. From the depths of the monastery came the strict voice of the prior: "Get to dinner, you sluts, for Mother of God's sake, the movie is over!"

The musketeers walked down the street hand in hand, winking at every passerby they met. Naturally, all squabbles with D'Artagnan were forgotten, and he had become their best friend. The Gascon even had a passing thought: "Ought I to kiss Porthos?", but due to certain reasons, D'Artagnan refrained.

The friends were heading to De Tréville's, to be the first to report the success and preempt any possible slander by the Cardinal's partisans. Quite casually, Aramis bought chrysanthemums, managing to pinch the flower-girl so deftly in the process that she blushed with pleasure and announced a price cut for messieurs the musketeers.

Chapter 3. Louis XIII in the Louvre and in Thought.

Louis XIII was peering intently through a keyhole. Even though all that met his gaze was an empty corridor of the Louvre, the king displayed patience and endurance. However, he didn't have to wait long.

Brief dossier.
Louis XIII (Bourbon). Womanizer and drunkard like all reigning monarchs. For recreation, preferred jig-fishing and taking a swig while jig-fishing.

Right after a musketeer patrol, which failed to attract royal attention in the slightest, came a certain individual. Taking a closer look, the king identified the figure as a woman. Casting a quick glance in the mirror to catch his reflection, Louis opened the door and seemingly by chance found himself facing a pretty brunette.

• Madame, do you not find..., — the king began.

• No, I don't, — the stranger snapped unexpectedly rudely, — and you, you crowned tomcat, had better mind your state business.

• Now see here, citizeness, — Louis was taken aback, — I could complain to the Cardinal, you know.

Brief dossier.
Pretty brunette. Constance Bonacieux. Evil tongues claimed she married for money, though in truth it happened out of youth and ignorance. Served to the Queen's delight.

The king locked himself in his chamber, took up a mandolin, and bitterly lamented the lack of loyal sentiments in general and feminism in particular. After which he rang the bell and hollered quite loudly:

• La Chesnaye!

Brief dossier.
La Chesnaye. Valet to the king. Comrade-in-arms, ally, and drinking buddy.

"I am here, Your Majesty," came a voice from somewhere down below.

"And why can't I see you? Where are you anyway?" the king asked.

"I am lying under the table," La Chesnaye replied quietly, but with dignity.

"For long?" Louis inquired.

"Since yesterday evening," La Chesnaye lamented and crawled out.

The king inspected his valet closely and was forced to state:

"Terribly dusty, unfit for duty."

...Somewhere in the distance a clock struck. The king listened closely and counted thirty-six chimes. "Probably double vision in my ears," the king deduced.

Strolling slowly from corner to corner, Louis noticed a blonde. Ducking behind the first sculpture at hand, the king began to observe her.

She was gazing languidly out the window, her hair loose and dangling haphazardly. She moved smoothly and slowly, but suddenly, as if feeling someone's gaze upon her, the young woman turned around and spotted Louis behind the statue.

"Your Majesty," she said, curtsying.

"I am bored," the king replied. "Come, let us be bored together."

She laughed pleasantly, and Louis felt himself slowly melting into that sound. The rustling of silk filled the room. Lights flickered on and off. It seemed as though the light fell from the depths, scattering and gliding along the walls, reflecting off silvery pearls.

Soft music beckoned into the intoxicating aroma of sunlit spray.

From somewhere above fell roses—white, red, green—gently settling upon the fluffed featherbeds. The king leaned back against the cushions and saw the musketeers marching past in neat ranks, chanting in unison: "Love and rabbits!"

...Such were the strange thoughts that occasionally visited Louis the Thirteenth.

"Someone's here to see you," La Chesnaye interrupted the royal reverie.

"Save 'you' for the coroner," Louis flared up, "I happen to be a Majesty, in case you forgot."

"Forgive me, Your Majesty, a slip of the tongue," the valet blanched.

"Don't let it happen again," the king said sternly, "I am a born tyrant and petty despot. It's in my genes."

"Plain as day, Your Majesty," La Chesnaye confirmed. "Your family is quite a lively bunch, no denying that. Always stabbing someone or poisoning them. The Duke of Anjou alone was something else. He'd go boar hunting, shoot down all the other hunters, and then say: 'What's the difference, still a pig!'"

"Yes," Louis agreed, "an exceptional parasite, you can feel the kin blood right away. Anyway, who has come to see me?"

"De Tréville and Cardinal Richelieu. Will you deign to receive them?"

"Well, since they're here, let them in," the king decided. "Otherwise they'll take offense and cause some indecent mischief. Especially that one in the red cap."

Brief Profile

Cardinal Richelieu. Amassed his fortune through the illicit marijuana trade. Grew up a shy and sickly boy, but Qigong practice hardened him beyond recognition. In terms of attire, he preferred a red cap and Rebook sneakers.

The Cardinal was out of sorts. It showed in his tense face and tightly pursed lips.

"What troubles Your Eminence—indigestion or the terror of impending impotence?" the king inquired.

"Which art in heaven," Richelieu began from afar, "God grants us His fruits, tempting the tree of our daily existence with our tribulations."

"Speak like a human," the king grew nervous, "otherwise one might think the Pope has converted to Buddhism."

"His Eminence, damn his hide, in the best sense of the word," De Tréville cut in, "means to say that his guards were acting up, and my musketeers—or in other words, Your Majesty's musketeers—gave them a bit of a scolding as best they could."

"You don't say!" Louis rejoiced. "And did they do it well?"

"That depends on what you compare it to," De Tréville dodged a direct answer.

"Compare it to the flight of thought," the king advised.

"It's roughly like a watermelon and a pumpkin," De Tréville replied without batting an eye.

"I disagree about the pumpkin," the Cardinal chimed in.

"Well then," Louis noted thoughtfully, "for decency's sake, let us hear your version as well."

"My guards went out for some fresh air, and the musketeers conjointly...," the Cardinal began.

"In what?" the king asked.

"Conjointly, that is, together," the Cardinal explained.

"Together in what place?" the king didn't understand.

"May I start from the beginning?" Richelieu asked.

"Go ahead," Louis agreed, "only clearer and shorter, please."

"Out for a stroll, hands up, bang-bang, piles of corpses, bastards," the Cardinal stated.

"Well, you should have said so right away," the king remarked, "the matter is clear to me, and I would even say less."

"Your Majesty probably meant to say more," the Cardinal checked.

"Six of one, screw the other," the king waved it off. "The point is this: to you, Cardinal, I express my royal sympathy, and you, De Tréville, I invite to dine with me. Agreed?"

"Hey, I've never turned down a freebie," De Tréville assured him.

Richelieu, however, suddenly frowned and noted in a voice dripping with gloomy sarcasm:

"At least my wife isn't cheating on me."

"That's only because you don't have a wife," De Tréville countered.

The Cardinal wanted to say something, but held his tongue and left, slamming the door loudly. Louis the Thirteenth looked after him thoughtfully and asked, as if to himself:

"I wonder whose wife he's hinting at?"

"Can't say for sure," De Tréville replied, "but I am a bachelor."

Chapter 4

D'Artagnan was awakened by a cautious knock on the door.

It was Bonacieux.

"Come in," the Gascon shouted without getting out of bed.

"But it's locked," Bonacieux answered.

"I know," D'Artagnan confirmed.

"Me too," Bonacieux agreed.

Not even three minutes had passed before the knocking sounded again. And once more, it was Bonacieux.

"Come in," the Gascon shouted without getting out of bed.

"How?" asked Bonacieux.

"I don't know," D'Artagnan answered.

A sigh was heard behind the door, and everything fell silent. Not for long, however.

A knock was heard.

"I'm willing to bet that it's you again," D'Artagnan ventured.

Bonacieux nodded his head.

"Come in," the Gascon shouted without getting out of bed.

Bonacieux went right ahead and walked in.

"You look rather unwell," D'Artagnan remarked.

"I've been like this since birth," Bonacieux reassured him.

"I'm very sorry," the Gascon sympathized.

"Oh, it's fine," Bonacieux waved a hand, "it's only hard at first, then you get used to it. And there are all the prerequisites for that—namely harsh working conditions and constant non-payments from clients."

Bonacieux looked hopefully at D'Artagnan, but the latter pretended to have fallen asleep and even snored a little for credibility.

Bonacieux was silent for a moment, as if pondering something, and then said:

"Monsieur D'Artagnan, I have heard so much about you that leaves me no doubt regarding your own interests."

D'Artagnan looked at Bonacieux with interest.

"Rivers flow, mountains rise," Bonacieux continued, "yet family values remain with us from generation to generation."

"You either read too much liberal arts literature, or you think too much. In any case, firstly, it does not suit you, and secondly, heaven forbid a third thing should happen," D'Artagnan remarked.

"Alas," Bonacieux spread his hands, "that is why I came to you."

Bonacieux took a brief pause, but catching the Gascon's angry glare, he put it back.

"My wife serves the Queen. She handles her personal affairs and sometimes stays late at work. But yesterday she didn't come home at all."

"And whom do you suspect?" asked D'Artagnan.

"I think she was kidnapped, and that is why I am asking for your help," Bonacieux confessed straightforwardly and frankly.

"I doubt I could replace your wife," the Gascon mused, "though I can recommend a very decent brothel."

"If you happen to run into her at the Louvre..." Bonacieux asked...

"I'll be sure to say hello to her," D'Artagnan assured him.

D'Artagnan entrusted the housekeeping to Planchet and set off for Aramis's place. Aramis was occupied with sniffing a perfumed letter, after which he would pick up a saxophone and blow into it pensively. One glance was enough to understand: Aramis had already spent several hours engaged in this activity.

To be continurd...