Three D'Artagnans and a Musketeer
Part 2
D'Artagnan briefly recounted his conversation with Bonacieux.
"My young friend," Aramis replied, "other men's wives aren't stolen for nothing. The difference between a wife and a coin is obvious. It strikes me that the Cardinal must have had a hand in this."
"You only confirm my suspicions," D'Artagnan remarked and looked at Aramis. Their eyes met.
It's very dangerous, Aramis's eyes said.
The game is worth the candelabrum, D'Artagnan's eyes firmly answered.
The candles are burning down to the very end, warned Aramis's left eye.
I'm counting on you, replied the Gascon's corresponding eye.
"By the way," Aramis noted, "your eyes are different colors."
And yet, D'Artagnan's eyes insisted.
Aramis's eyes thoughtfully crossed at the bridge of his nose, quietly consulted with one another, after which they blinked merrily in agreement.
"We must warn Athos and Porthos," D'Artagnan declared.
"In that case, forward," Aramis said decisively, pulling his hat down firmly.
D'Artagnan cast a glance at Aramis, but the latter deftly dodged it and even found the strength to make an ill-timed joke:
"Many probably consider me a bore," Aramis said in particular, "yet every day begins at zero hours, zero minutes."
D'Artagnan didn't get the joke, but laughed out loud out of politeness.
They ran into Porthos on the street. He was hurling cobblestones at the windows of some house. After each successful throw, the sound of shattering glass would ring out, followed by a head poking out of the opening and calling Porthos a pederast, to which Porthos would unperturbedly take off his hat and, bowing gallantly, politely inquire:
"Madame, would you care to get better acquainted?"
However, upon noticing his friends, Porthos ceased his activity and, with his characteristic calm, explained:
"I think she likes me."
As if to confirm these words, something flew out of the window and landed right before the musketeers.
"Flowers," Aramis said.
"In a pot," D'Artagnan confirmed.
"A chamber pot," Porthos concluded.
D'Artagnan retold his story to Porthos, and Porthos told D'Artagnan a musketeer joke:
"A musketeer and a Cardinal's guardsman are walking down the street. The guardsman says: 'I get the feeling my legs are growing straight out of my head.' And the musketeer replies: 'Loosen your suspenders.'"
Having arrived at Athos's house, the musketeers proceeded to hold council. The essence of the matter was clear: the Cardinal was plotting something wicked against the Queen, and so forth. To get to the bottom of the Cardinal's true motives, the musketeers sent Athos's servant, Grimaud, out among the common folk—to listen for the latest gossip.
Meanwhile, they occupied themselves with a game of dice. These were Mademoiselle de La Vallière's bones.
Grimaud returned about fifteen minutes later.
"Well?" Athos asked him laconically.
"There," Grimaud replied just as laconically, and went off to his room.
"Bad news," Athos mused. "Grimaud says the blokes in the tavern are discussing the Duke of Buckingham's secret arrival in Paris."
"But how is that connected to our case?" Porthos asked again.
"It's simple," D'Artagnan explained. "The Duke is meeting with the Queen, the Cardinal is getting in their way. So far, the reasons aren't entirely clear to me, but..."
"They love each other," Aramis interjected and blushed.
"In what sense?" D'Artagnan inquired.
"So far, strictly in a moral sense," Aramis replied and blushed again.
"Meaning there has been no physical intimacy?" Porthos clarified.
"No closer than a hundred and fifteen centimeters," Aramis flushed crimson.
"Why do you keep blushing like that?" D'Artagnan wondered.
"Blood rushes into the tiniest capillaries and makes them swell," Aramis replied.
"And so," D'Artagnan summarized, "what can we do to find Madame Bonacieux?"
"I shall play my saxophone," Aramis said. "Perhaps she will respond to the sounds of exquisite music."
"And I shall drink to her health," Athos chimed in. "Perhaps that will help her."
"And I shall wait for her at home," D'Artagnan said. "Perhaps she'll return on her own."
"And I'll smash the tavern keeper's face in," Porthos remarked.
"What for?" D'Artagnan asked.
"For a Briysk point," Porthos replied proudly.
Chapter 5. Pleasant Acquaintances.
D'Artagnan was walking home along a deserted street. His head was full of thoughts. Here are a few of them:
- how is Mme. Bonacieux involved in the affair with the Duke, and where could she be right now?
- why did the mammoths die out?
- does the King know about the Cardinal's intrigues?
- what is fifty-eight multiplied by five hundred forty-seven?
- where to get some money?
- what is the highest mountain in Australia?
- why did M. Bonacieux come specifically to me?
- is there life on Mars?
Right near his house, a certain woman caught the Gascon's eye. She was wrapped from head to toe in a cloak and seemed to be in a hurry. D'Artagnan gave a quiet whistle, rightly assuming it couldn't do any harm. The woman quickened her pace. Then D'Artagnan began waving his hat and shouting loudly:
"Hey-hey-hey, shap-deba-dooba, poom-poo-room-poo-room-poom-poom-pooroom!"
The stranger quickly vanished behind the first available door, and muffled words reached the Gascon: "What an idiot!"
Not an idiot, a joker, D'Artagnan thought, offended, and noticed with surprise that the door the woman had entered was the door to his own house.
No sooner had the Gascon stepped inside than Someone attacked him. However, D'Artagnan paid him no heed and hurried straight into the living room.
There, Certain Someones (four of them) were tying up the stranger. Without a word, D'Artagnan rushed to the rescue. The Certain Someones, in full force, got terrified and fled quickly; slowly trotting behind them was Someone, who had struggled with being overweight and prone to gluttony since childhood.
Brief Character Sketch.
Certain Someones and Someone occupied humble posts in the Cardinal's service. Their duties included spying, tattling, and thoroughly picking on small children, women, cats, and pensioners.
D'Artagnan examined the unknown woman with a watchful eye. At first glance, she didn't make the best impression on him, but since the woman was unconscious, the Gascon had a few minutes to spare. He turned away, pondered for a moment, and looked at her again, yet still felt no positive emotions whatsoever. Then, clenching his fists and knitting his brows, D'Artagnan tried as hard as he could, and by the very next glance, the Gascon finally figured out that he was hopelessly in love with the mysterious stranger.
She opened her eyes and looked tenderly at D'Artagnan.
"So that's what you're like," the girl said.
"I can do much more than that," D'Artagnan replied modestly.
The stranger turned out to be Constance Bonacieux. D'Artagnan was thrilled by this news, but still asked:
"So you weren't kidnapped, then?"
"Not entirely," Bonacieux smiled enigmatically.
"How d'you mean?" D'Artagnan couldn't comprehend. "In installments, or what?"
Constance smiled even wider, and the Gascon suggested putting together dinner for two. Bonacieux hesitated slightly, but D'Artagnan, to avoid any misunderstanding, warned her:
"My dear, I am a nobleman."
"Oh, you're all noblemen," Constance waved her hand, but agreed nonetheless.
The dinner went by by candlelight and in the company of Planchet, who reported that Monsieur Bonacieux had been arrested and locked up that afternoon.
"Where?!" Constance grew worried.
However, D'Artagnan rushed to reassure her, saying they'd let him go anyway, because, as D'Artagnan put it: "A husband isn't answerable for his wife." In doing so, the Gascon rather recklessly referred to Bonacieux as a criminal and a hooligan. Constance found his arguments persuasive and calmed down completely.
After dinner, Bonacieux hurried off on her own business, and D'Artagnan volunteered to see her off.
Relations between them had blossomed wonderfully, seeing as Constance called D'Artagnan "sweetie-pie," and he, in turn, called her "chick."
They strolled through night-time Paris, cracking sunflower seeds. D'Artagnan bragged about his agility and sharp eye, while she blabbed a few royal secrets to him. Finally, as lovers are wont to do, they shared a French kiss, and Bonacieux, having made the Gascon give his word that he wouldn't follow her, stepped into an archway bearing a sign:
"Secret Residence of the Duke of Buckingham in Paris.
Lunch break from 14:00 to 15:00. Closed on Sundays."D'Artagnan's first impulse was to head home. But then, under the pretext that he wasn't peeping, but merely getting some fresh air, D'Artagnan stayed put—and not in vain.
After a short while, eight suspicious individuals emerged from the archway. Six of them immediately plummeted into an uncovered sewer manhole, while the remaining two, engrossed in conversation, continued on their way. As they passed by D'Artagnan, who was hiding in the shadows, it seemed to the Gascon that they were laughing merrily. In one of them, D'Artagnan recognized Constance; the other, judging by the mustache and rapier, was a man.
D'Artagnan stopped them with a menacing shout and immediately launched into a lengthy lecture on etiquette and good manners.
"This is downright boorish," D'Artagnan said. "A lady of high society cannot afford to have more than one guy at a time."
"What kind of guy is he, anyway?" Constance defended herself, pointing a lovely finger at her companion. "He's just the Duke of Buckingham."
Brief Dossier
The Duke of Buckingham. His distinguishing trait was a tender attachment to horses, the Queen of France, and salted peanuts.
"Let him prove it," the Gascon demanded.
"Yestuday all mai trabl sin sou far eway," the Duke proved.
"Sounds convincing," D'Artagnan mused.
"Come along with us," the Duke suggested. "You can guard us while you're at it."
D'Artagnan felt a little embarrassed by his outburst, so he agreed.
"If we run into anyone," the Gascon assured them, "I'll teach him a lesson."
"That's not enough," the Duke chimed in. "You'd better impale him."
"No problem," D'Artagnan promised.
"And then slit his throat," Buckingham grew heated.
"Without question," D'Artagnan agreed again.
"And then shoot him," the Duke wouldn't quit.
"Now that's overkill," D'Artagnan objected. "First of all, by nature I'm a kind and forgiving person, and second of all, I forgot my pistol."
Nevertheless, everything went smoothly, and Buckingham managed to reach the Louvre without any trouble.
Chapter 6. A Summit Meeting.
The Duke stood outside the Queen's door, visibly nervous.
"The last time I was this agitated was when I fell off a horse during a hunt and struck my head against a tree. The doctors said I would either not survive or turn into an idiot. But it all worked out," Buckingham confessed in a whisper.
"You were born under a lucky star," Bonacieux replied quietly. "An acquaintance of mine, a certain Jean Amiens who lived in Marseille, was famous for his perpetual bad luck. Sometimes he'd just go for a walk in town, and he'd either get captured by the Turks or break a leg."
"What on earth would Turks be doing in Marseille?" Buckingham asked, bewildered.
"There were never any Turks there to begin with," Bonacieux explained, "but that didn't make things any easier for him. Yet one day, all his hardships suddenly ceased."
"How so?" the Duke inquired, intrigued.
"Jean decided to end his life and be done with his misfortunes once and for all. This happened right after a barber carelessly sliced off his ear. But when he hanged himself, the rope snapped; Jean fell and broke three ribs, not to mention a concussion. As he was being driven to the hospital, the carriage overturned into the sea. The locals saved Jean, though they dislocated his arm in the process. And everything would have ended well, but at the hospital, they mistakenly removed Jean's appendix and performed a trepanation of the skull. Still, Jean was a sturdy fellow and, to everyone's surprise, was soon on the mend. But just as he was nearing a full recovery, Jean accidentally caught double pneumonia, dysentery, and congenital strabismus. And the very moment the hospital doors closed behind Jean, his right fingers were slammed in the door; but they wouldn't admit him back in, because a meteorite fell on Jean, and that was the end of it."
"What a tragic finale," Buckingham sighed.
"That's not all," Bonacieux continued. "During his funeral service, a stray spark set the church roof on fire, which then spread to the gunpowder mill, blowing half of Marseille into the air."
"You don't say!" the Duke marveled.
"Grateful descendants erected a cast-iron monument to Jean Amiens, which was blown over by a strong gust of wind and crushed the governor's wife. The citizens' patience snapped, and they resolved to tow the sculpture out to the open sea and dump it there. And nobody was surprised when news arrived that the ship had suddenly sunk. The only surviving sailor later recounted that during a storm, the statue smashed through the vessel's hull, and it went to the bottom along with the entire crew."
"You see," Buckingham remarked, "one man did survive after all."
"Not for long," Constance clarified. "To drown his sorrowful memories, the sailor drank himself into a complete stupor, and stray dogs tore him to pieces."
La Porte's voice echoed from behind the door:
"Send in the Duke."
Buckingham instantly began bustling about, smoothed his hair, touched up his eyebrows, dusted his boots, and asked Constance:
"Well, how do I look?"
Bonacieux inspected him thoroughly and said:
"For a first glance, not bad at all."
Heartened, Buckingham entered the Queen's chambers.
Brief Dossier
The Queen of France. Anne of Austria. Within her, two essences waged a constant struggle for existence—the womanly and the regal. She loved reading books, because, in her own words: "It lends an air of respectability even to the absolute biggest idiot."
Anne lay on the bed, reading a book about delicious and healthy food. She was wearing a polka-dot dress and the crown of France, which the queen had traded for her virginity at an early age.
"Oh, my darling," the Duke greeted her, "I am here."
"Yes, I can see that," Anne agreed.
"Obstacles stood in my way, but they are nothing compared to our love," Buckingham said, falling into a promising silence.
"I would like to get our priorities straight," Anne replied with surprising coolness. "Considering our high station, especially mine, I'd like to inquire about the aims and urges behind this mutual attraction."
"I love you as a woman," the Duke confessed.
"And as a man?" the Queen asked.
"Madam," Buckingham said frankly, "even if you were some sort of little woodland creature, it would not hinder my tender affection toward you."
"Ah," the Queen exclaimed, touched. "You are courtesy itself."
"Darling," said the Duke, "say 'Yes' to me, or else things will get worse."
"Perhaps," Anne of Austria subtly hinted.
"I will drop all my affairs in England, you will divorce Louis, and we will leave for the Maldives, living in a little hut on the seashore, eating coconuts, catching fish and pheasants, and in the morning we will joyfully greet the sunrise," Buckingham proclaimed.
In response to this proposal, the Queen expressively twirled a finger at her temple.
"Indeed, I got carried away," the Duke was forced to admit.
In the ensuing silence, the muffled chime of a bell could be heard. It was La Porte's warning.
"You must leave," Anne remarked with regret.
"Well, that's what you get for playing hard to get," Buckingham muttered in frustration.
Anne only sighed in reply.
"In memory of our meeting, I want to give you a pair of rabid bison leather boots," the Queen said in parting. "A gift from the King, by the way."
"Why are they green?" Buckingham wondered.
"I told you—the bison were rabid."
...Five days later, Louis entered the Queen's bedroom. Anne of Austria was standing by the window, waving a handkerchief sorrowfully.
"What are you doing?" the King asked.
"Shooing mosquitoes away," Anne replied.
"By the way, in three days there will be a festive banquet at the Cardinal's, and I want to see you wearing the boots I gave you," Louis said, downing a glass of wine.
The Queen turned pale, while Louis's nose turned red.
...Meanwhile, Cardinal Richelieu locked himself in his residence and gleefully sang "Ave Maria" to the tune of vulgar Russian limericks.
Chapter 7. The Gathering.
Bonacieux sat wearily in a rocking chair. A thin cord connected the chair to the front doorknob. Whenever a new visitor entered, the chair would begin to rock, and a smile would slowly spread across Bonacieux's face.
D'Artagnan had locked himself in his room. Having nothing better to do, he had just taken a shower and downed fifty grams of liquor. Suddenly, loud voices from Bonacieux's room caught his attention. Grabbing his rapier just in case, D'Artagnan rushed toward the sound. It turned out to be Monsieur Bonacieux shouting.
"What are you yelling for?" D'Artagnan asked.
"I'm singing a song," Bonacieux replied, offended, though he shut up.
Just then, the door opened and Constance entered the house. Bonacieux rushed toward her, but the agile D'Artagnan outpaced him and managed to be the first to wrap Constance in an embrace.
"Well, look at that!" Bonacieux exclaimed, but nobody even glanced at him.
"I demand an explanation!" Bonacieux stamped his foot.
D'Artagnan showed him a fist, and Bonacieux went quiet. To hide his frustration, he turned away and pretended not to see anything. After a while, for good measure, Bonacieux plugged his ears. This yielded results, and soon Bonacieux calmed down completely.
Meanwhile, the Gascon continued to socialize with Constance without any hindrance, to the mutual pleasure of both parties.
Following this communication, D'Artagnan received an assignment to travel to London, while Constance received a feeling of deep satisfaction.
The parting of the two lovers was particularly touching.
"I will fly to you like an albatross to the roar of the surf," said D'Artagnan.
"And I will wait for you as flowers await the morning dew," Constance echoed him.
"I will race like an Indian's arrow on a clear day."
"And I will be as calm as Japanese men after hara-kiri."
"I will be as cautious as a hang glider pilot without a parachute."
"And I will be as watchful as a duck during hunting season."
At this point, heartbreaking sobs rang out.
"Don't cry," D'Artagnan said.
"I'm not crying," Constance answered, yet the sobbing continued to take place.
"It's me," a quiet voice came from behind.
D'Artagnan turned around—sure enough, big tears were rolling down Monsieur Bonacieux's cheeks.
"Pay no attention to me," he waved his hand, "I'm just thinking about my own stuff."
D'Artagnan scratched his cheek, and the sound of crushing stubble filled the room. Constance tried to comfort her husband with words:
"Don't cry, my lop-eared little goat."
At that, Bonacieux completely broke down and ran off to report high treason to the Cardinal.
"We must hurry," said Constance.
And they hurried off on their respective errands—one to the Queen, the other to Athos, Porthos, and Aramis.
"Here's the deal," D'Artagnan said, "let's ride to London."
"What for?" the musketeers asked in unison.
"Here's the deal," D'Artagnan replied, "it's necessary."
"My cousin is supposed to visit me any day now," Aramis shook his head doubtfully, "and truly, I find myself in a quandary regarding an extended stroll abroad."
"Why don't you leave her a note?" D'Artagnan suggested.
"Good idea," Aramis agreed and set about writing a missive.
"Dear Cousin!
My love for you is as steadfast as the seabed, but our meeting is postponed due to subjective reasons; however, this is not because of women, and certainly not what you thought.
Aramis.
P.S. Breakfast is on the table, mayonnaise in the cellar."
"By the way," Porthos exclaimed, "I haven't had lunch today!"
"We'll take sandwiches with us," D'Artagnan reassured him.
Athos shook his head slightly.
"Any problems?" D'Artagnan asked.
Athos shook his head again, but said nothing. This went on for about five minutes, then Athos smiled and remarked, as if to himself:
"My head hit a resonant frequency."
The musketeers rode at a gallop. Fields and forests, villages and bridges, peasants and various insects flew past them. The sky was colored gray—either storm clouds had rolled in, or the local blokes were heavy chain-smokers.
Porthos's hair was standing on end.
"What's the matter with you?" D'Artagnan asked him.
"Wind in the face," Porthos answered.
(Option Two — highly artistic, abridged)
Outside the window, the wind howled in an unhuman voice; demonic laughter and a child's weeping could be heard within the sound.
Wrapped in a red-and-black plaid blanket, Bonacieux leaned back against the headrest of an antique armchair. His eyelids were lowered so far that his dull gaze barely peered through lashes glazed with slumber.
A finely crafted gothic cord linked the armchair to the door, which had been battered by the boots of midnight visitors. As soon as the door swung open, squeaking nastily along ungreased runners, the chair slowly and solemnly began to rock. A faint resemblance of a smile would appear on Monsieur Bonacieux’s gray face, and a barely noticeable flush would tint his cheeks, while eyes flared with a spark of unexpected joy for an instant before dying out again, like a wandering will-o'-the-wisp.
D'Artagnan was whiling away his time over a bottle of fine wine from the Champagne province. His soul was brimming with iridescent emotions. A sunbeam crept slowly across the wall, either pausing as if deep in thought, or doing something else, but equally cheerful and bright.
A pleasant male voice slowly and majestically sang an aria from Tosca, from the opera by Puccini. Lured by the mysterious and romantic plot, the Gascon briskly turned his steps toward the enchanting voice.
To D'Artagnan’s astonishment, it was Bonacieux singing. The Gascon mustered the courage to hear the aria out to the end and asked with a subtle shade of irony and envy:
"So you sing songs too?"
"I studied at a ballet school for five years," Bonacieux explained, "but one day I fell into the orchestra pit and couldn't climb back out."
The door slowly opened, and Constance stood upon the threshold.
"My love!" D'Artagnan cried, throwing caution to the wind.
"Ah!" Bonacieux groaned and collapsed unconscious. His sublime soul snapped in two like a rapier in its scabbard.
The young lovers lost no time in taking advantage of this...
...“My friends,” said D'Artagnan, “my mind and my heart call us to England to aid the Queen.”
“We are not accustomed to asking unnecessary questions,” Athos answered on behalf of all. “The Queen’s honor is worth more than life itself. So to horse, and may fortune favor us.”
With a steady hand, Aramis dashed off a few lines — here they are:
“My sweet and kind cousin!
Our love faces a new ordeal. But parting is powerless not only to hinder us, but will bring our hearts even closer together. Agitation overwhelms me like an ocean raging across the open expanse.
I kiss your exquisite hands right on the lips.”
Chapter 8. Royal Préférence.
Meanwhile, in the Louvre, they were playing cards.
Louis XIII was cheating desperately, but it didn't help at all; quite the contrary, he had already caught a couple of slaps across the chops.
"It isn't what happened that hurts, but what could have happened," the King remarked on the matter.
"It's plain as day," De Tréville whispered into the Cardinal's ear. "His Majesty is plastered like a bishop on Easter. He's either going to doze off or lose his way in words."
"My money is on the former," the Cardinal replied just as quietly.
"Doubtful," De Tréville argued. "Lately, the King has been practicing long and hard."
Louis XIII, meanwhile, made an unsuccessful attempt to hiccup, after which he delivered a speech:
"You see, rumors are going around, spread willy-nilly by just about anyone, at times signifying something vaguely incoherent. After all..."
The King leaned back in his chair and made a limp motion with his foot. But pulling himself together, Louis pressed on.
"Anyway," he rambled, "I recently heard a tale about the Count of Montermini. He was born in the Alps, among snowdrifts and waterfalls. But the funniest part is, one day he was returning to his estate near Toulon and dropped by his friend, the ambassador. It gets worse: the ambassador had a daughter, and the Count married her. Yet not even three months passed before they met again. And what do you think?" Louis cried out joyfully, glancing at his audience.
The Cardinal was chewing a pastry at that moment and nearly choked. He immediately envisioned a somber gray granite slab beside a burial mound. Inscribed upon the granite in golden letters was:
"Cardinal Richelieu. Fell asleep in the Lord from choking."
The vision made the Cardinal shudder; then, after brief contemplation, he shuddered a couple more times until the long-awaited relief arrived.
"Well then," the King continued, having waited in vain for an answer, "so he says to him: 'Could you tell me what time it is?'..."
"Quarter to two," De Tréville noted mechanically.
"Thank you very much," said the King.
"Don't mention it, nothing to it," Tréville replied modestly.
"By the way, Cardinal," the King remembered, "tell us about the banquet you are hosting next week."
Richelieu rubbed his hands cheerfully, as though some thought had suddenly warmed his heart.
"First, a gala dinner, then dancing, fireworks, and afterward the unofficial part."
"And what dances, precisely, do you have in mind?" the King inquired.
"A minuet, a mazurka, and a belly dance," Richelieu answered.
"And what will the unofficial part entail?" Louis pressed.
"What do you think?" the Cardinal retorted cheekily.
The King flushed bright red.
"Precisely," Richelieu agreed.
"By the way," Louis XIII caught himself, "I'm off to play strip poker with the Queen."
However, the King was gone for a surprisingly short time, so Tréville and the Cardinal didn't even have time to come to blows, which usually happened whenever they were left alone together. Louis cut an eloquent figure and looked like himself more than anyone else could. The only garments left on him were his breeches and a single stocking. A handprint was clearly visible on the reddened patch of his cheek.
"Well, Your Majesty, lost your shirt?" the Cardinal asked bitingly.
"That was me winning it back," the King replied solemnly and demanded a fresh suit of clothes.
"This story reminds me of an incident with one of my musketeers," De Tréville remarked. "His name was De Coubertin. Once, during his travels through Spain, he sat down to play twenty-one with a local grandee; to start off, he won fifty pesetas, then naturally got carried away and staked the Habsburg crown and a buried treasure in South America on his word of honor. The fellow was an honest lad, so he traveled to Austria and demanded unconditional surrender on the grounds that he had gambled everything away. They failed to understand him there and threw him out. Mind you, Coubertin managed to have a bit of fun first and torched a couple of hamlets. They say he walked around with a torch, shouting: 'What the hell do I need this for — I'll have to hand it over anyway!' To settle his gambling debts somehow, he had to challenge the Spaniard to a duel."
"And what happened?" asked the Cardinal.
"Coubertin won by clear superiority, but it turned out the Spaniard had already drawn up a will stating unequivocally that all debts were passed on to his heirs. Nothing for it, he had to fight the heir. That went on for about three years, until there were practically no suitable contenders left in the whole neighborhood. Seizing the moment, the peasants declared a republic, but fortunately a cholera epidemic broke out right there, and the monarchy was saved."
"And what became of Coubertin?" inquired the King, who had already managed to change, which had clearly done him good, as La Chesnaye had scrubbed the crown with tooth powder until it shone dazzlingly with iridescent mother-of-pearl sheen.
"After that, Coubertin set off wandering across Europe. He was last seen in Albania; they say he lives a settled life there and has almost gone native. According to other sources, though, he is busy assembling an anti-Austrian coalition there."
"And how many has he gathered?" the Cardinal asked.
"About ten head, two of them cattle."
"From this, one might conclude that expectations do not always match one's inner outlook on the world," the Cardinal observed.
"Indeed," Louis agreed, "it is just like..."
...climbing an apple tree and slipping just as you reach your goal. And then, on top of that, getting hit on the crown of your head by that very same apple.
"Personally, that doesn't surprise me," chimed in De Tréville. "In military service, I have seen a great deal and can judge life based on my own experience. Once we were storming a fortress in Flanders, when suddenly a stray cannonball sheared off the head of Guardsman La Lombe clean off. And he, instead of falling down and peacefully kicking the bucket, grabbed the banner and was the first to charge the assault. And only after the complete victory did he go to the infirmary, where our physician bled him."
"And did he survive?" the Cardinal asked in astonishment.
"Not a chance," De Tréville waved his hand dismissively. "No one leaves our infirmary alive. We had a duke once; he dropped by the infirmary because, you see, a boil had popped up on him."
"And what happened?" the King inquired.
"The boil was cured without an issue, but the duke couldn't be saved."
"Be that as it may," the Cardinal stated pompously, "to me it is clear that Guardsman La Lombe displayed composure and self-control in a moment of hardship."
The Cardinal emphasized the word "Guardsman" with particular relish.
"Above all, he displayed a lack of respect for military traditions," De Tréville disagreed. "If every soldier starts wandering around without a head, or worse yet, without some other attribute of martial valor, then this won't be an army anymore, but some two-bit brothel. Besides, La Lombe wasn't your guardsman—he was from Des Essarts' company."
The Cardinal swallowed that pill in silence and began taking his leave, claiming that affairs of state awaited him. But no one believed him—and they were certainly right, for the Cardinal was a cunning sort and could lie without batting an eye.
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