The Cardinal's Red Lily

The Cardinal's Red Lily

1  The Cardinal's Red Lily

2  Dramatis personae

3  Prologue

4  I - Prisoners of war

5  II – Resigned

6  III – Recruited

7  IV – Degraded

8  V - Comrades

9  VI - Council of War

10  VII - Enemy contact

11  VIII - Taking up duty

12  IX - Front line

13  X – Conflicts

14  XI – Sideshow

15  XII – Patrol

16  XIII - Scouting Party

17  XIV - Ruse of War

18  XV – Rapprochement

19  XVI - Move out!

20  XVII – Skirmish

21  XVIII – Desertion

22  XIX - Flank Attack

23  XX – Renegade

24  XXI – Messenger

25  XXII – Petticoat Government

26  XXIII – Reconnaissance

27  XXIV - Battlefield

28  XXV – Infirmary

29  XXVI – Lurking

30  XXVII – Mousetrap

31  XXVIII – Retreat

32  XXIX – Treason

33  XXX - Brothers in Arms

34  Epilogue

The Cardinal's Red Lily

by

Maren von Strom

Historical Novel

About

Alexandre Dumas published The Three Musketeers in 1844 and the sequel Twenty Years After in 1845. But what happened to the protagonist of both novels, the famous hero d'Artagnan, in the meantime? The Cardinal's Red Lily tells an alternate story about what might have been...

Paris 1640 - One for all and all for one!

For a long time, the brave Musketeers' reputation preceded them, but when Captain de Tréville falls from grace, the regiment is disbanded. The former Lieutenant d'Artagnan is determined to save the corps - even if that means joining the Red Guard of the scheming Cardinal Richelieu. Scorned as a traitor, d'Artagnan must confront a web of intrigues, dangerous love affairs and vengeful enemies in order to achieve his mission.

Author

Maren von Strom, born 1983, studied history and holds a Magistra Artium in literary history and medieval studies. Dumas' The Three Musketeers has fascinated her since childhood. Early on, she wrote new stories and continued the adventures of the heroes in them.

Printing History

D ie Lilie in Kardinalrot

Originally published in Germany 2019

English Translation published 2021

Imprint

Text: © Copyright by Maren von Strom

Translation: © Copyright by Maren von Strom

Editing: © Copyright by Maren von Strom and by Kristin Schoppe

Cover: © Copyright by Maren von Strom and © Copyright Michael Stratmann

Publisher: Maren von Strom

Blumenstraße 20

42119 Wuppertal

Germany

MarenvS@gmx.de

Dramatis personae

The following is a list of the characters involved, with those marked * being historical and/or based on the work of Alexandre Dumas père.

Musketeers and Loyalists

Arnaud de Tréville*, captain in exile

Charles de Batz-Castelmore d'Artagnan*, former lieutenant

Pauger, former musketeer

Jumonville, former musketeer

Fernand de Grinchamps, Baron

Duke de la Nièvre, father of Odette

Guardsmen and Cardinalists

Armand-Jean du Plessis, Cardinal Richelieu*

Charles-César de Rochefort*, Richelieu's stable master

Luchaire, captain of the red guard

Auguste de Jussac*, lieutenant

Grégoire de Sorel, blithe spirit

Bernajoux*, swashbuckler

Biscarat*, occasional spy

Cahusac*, senior soldier

Civilians and Others

Odette de la Nièvre, grandniece of Richelieu

Elise Perrault, maidservant of Odette

Sarah Simon, friend of Elise

Gustav Moraut, valet

Gabrielle de Jussac, mother of Lucas and Mathilde

Madeleine "Chevrette "*, landlady of d'Artagnan

Étienne Martel, majordomo of Tréville

Prologue

The Hôtel towered up stony and unyielding in front of the visitor. It was an impressive and magnificent building, unparalleled in its pomp and size. The gate wings were closed, their copper-coloured fittings shined dully in the light of the setting sun. Above the archway was a coat of arms; a golden lion in a red field, wrapped around it in a banner with the motto; Fidelis et fortis.

The main entrance to the Hôtel de Tréville was always locked at night, when long shadows fell on the street and the other houses nestled together for protection. Paris was a blindingly beautiful woman by day, enticing and beguiling. At night she was a whore, old and worn out, always holding a knife behind her back.

This morning, the gate has not been reopened to let the daily, endless stream of visitors pass into the Hôtel. Now the afternoon has already been leaning towards the evening. The inner courtyard was lonely and deserted. The horse stables were abandoned, as were the utility rooms. The extensive staircase at the entrance hall was no longer the scene of an everyday siege, and no one had to find a way past the many guests and musketeers to the captain's cabinet; it was locked and when a hand cautiously pressed the doorknob, the door did not open.

Less surprised than concerned about this fact, Lieutenant d'Artagnan tried again by knocking emphatically. But there was no one left in the rooms, which that had served as the headquarters of His Majesty's Musketeers for many years. The regiment was disbanded, the officers dismissed. What remained was an unusually empty house and a former lieutenant of the Musketeers, who was visibly struggling with himself to finally turn away and leave into the uncertain.

Steps approached d'Artagnan from behind and he heard a familiar voice saying, ʹIt has become very quiet.ʹ The words were spoken softly, almost in a whisper, as if the orator feared the echo that could reverberate unbroken from the bare walls. ʹOne will have to get used to it.ʹ

D'Artagnan hesitated noticeably before turning around. ʹThat will not be easy, mon capitaine.ʹ He showed a bitter smile. Ten years of tireless service for king and fatherland, ten years between life and death on countless battlefields, had not left the lieutenant unaffected.

Monsieur de Tréville, tired and apparently deprived of all his strength in just one night, waved off his former subordinate who was bowing respectfully to him. ʹPolite and embarrassed formalities have been exchanged enough. I am not your captain anymore.ʹ He leaned against the banister and glanced down into the hall of his house. Tréville had fought many battles over the years, brave and faithful, as his family's motto on the archway manifests. But now the captain looked years older, exhausted from politics and the wars at the royal court of Louis XIII.

It was only after a while, during which he remained absorbed in his own thoughts and seemed almost to forget the presence of the other man, when Tréville asked, ʹWhat leads you back here?ʹ

D'Artagnan shrugged. Had old habit summoned him? Or was it nostalgia that haunted him painfully? Or did he not want to accept a defeat without a fight and searched the Hôtel for brothers in arms? Tréville was the only one who could have gained a victory in this kind of political war, but he seemed to be finally defeated. It frightened d'Artagnan, who could neither be accused of being afraid of death nor the devil. ʹIt is over?ʹ

ʹYes.ʹ A very sober word without contradiction. It did not sound as if the decision of a prime minister and a weak king could be reversed in any way. The regiment of musketeers remained disbanded, for it had fallen victim to courtly intrigue.

In a spontaneous gesture, forgetting all formalities and differences in rank, d'Artagnan leaned against the banister next to his captain, also letting his eyes wander. He knew every detail in the entrance hall, every notch in the parquet flooring, every impurity in the window glasses. The impressions had burned in over the years, it only became clear to him with the loss. ʹWhen will you come back, mon capitaine?ʹ

Tréville smiled fugitively about the the special emphasis with which d'Artagnan pronounced his old rank. ʹI am banished in disfavour.ʹ

ʹWrongfully!ʹ

ʹYou think so?ʹ

D'Artagnan was too upset to even briefly be in doubt. ʹYes! Mordieux, he who calls you a traitor is one himself!ʹ

ʹWatch your words!ʹ reproved Tréville. ʹThe house may be deserted, but there are still plenty of rats.ʹ

ʹLet them burrow in the dirt, I fear them not!ʹ

ʹThen you are a fool.ʹ The captain pushed himself off the banister to follow the stairs down.

D'Artagnan hesitated, but he was not yet as melancholy as Tréville was. With a few determined steps, he was therefore back at the captain's side. ʹThere must be a way to prevent this!ʹ

ʹYou will do nothing! Do you understand, monsieur le lieutenant? The king's word is law and you still have a bright future ahead of you.ʹ The two men reached a side gate, an unadorned door out into the street, intended for the servants. Like a thief, Tréville was now about to sneak away, leave Paris and never return.

D'Artagnan knew nothing more to say. Everything would have been inappropriate and wrong, and so he remained silent and dejected as Tréville boarded a carriage. An escort on horseback stood ready. It would ensure that the traveller reached his distant destination in the Gascony.

ʹGood luckʹ, Tréville said in parting. D'Artagnan murmured to the departing carriage, ʹTo you too.ʹ

And then he was left alone with his bright future.

I - Prisoners of war

The autumn of 1640 reached Paris with dark, gloomy prospects. Tenacious fog crept through the streets, penetrating every crack, every crevice and groping for people and animals with clammy fingers. The sun remained covered with heavy clouds, no wind was blowing and the already oppressive atmosphere was joined by the ineradicable stench of piss pots, latrines and rubbish in the streets.

After a hot summer, the Seine carried little water, the river was brown, muddy and sluggish and unspeakable things drifted under the bridges. The whole town seemed to be waiting for a relieving storm that would finally wash away the dirt, the rubbish and the rats.

While the grey cloud cover threatened Paris without bringing rain, the valet Gustave Moraut drowned in a trough. With his hands, he tried to find a hold, slipped off, reared up and was pressed even deeper with his face into the water. Air bubbles rose when he instinctively screamed in panic, shortening his life by precious seconds.

Suddenly, he was grabbed by his hair and pulled back. He spat water and gasped for air. Lying on his knees, his head brutally pulled back into the neck, he could not see his tormentors. Only cold, dark stone walls, damp, mossy; his prison for weeks now.

He was yelled at, ʹWhere is she?ʹ

He was crying, wetting himself and coughing. Again his head was pressed into the trough. This time it took longer, because now he didn't scream and saved his breath. That made it worse, because they waited until his lungs were burning and he was breathing water. He died, was dragged mercilessly back to life and had to vomit.

Back in the water, without a question before. Moraut's body still resisted, wanted to lash about and free itself, wanted to survive in mortal fear. The pain stabbed deeply into his chest as he was torn from hell just before drowning.

ʹI don't know!ʹ he shouted up to the dungeon ceiling and was beaten to the ground. In front of the guards' boots, his tormentors, he curled up, spat water, gasped and whimpered, ʹDunno, dunno...ʹ

*~*~*~*~*

ʹGustave Moraut.ʹ The name was in the first line of the report. Rochefort knew the contents by heart and now summarised it for his master. ʹUntil a few weeks ago, he was one of the servants here at the Palais Cardinal. Now he is in prison.ʹ

ʹI remember, monsieur le comte.ʹ There was something cutting and impatient in the voice of the prime minister of France. His stable master had seldom heard this undertone from Richelieu and it told him to get straight to the heart of the report. ʹEven after the torture, he does not know where she is.ʹ

The cardinal showed no emotion whether the report surprised him or whether he had expected it. Richelieu kept his thoughts to himself as he looked down from his study window onto the Cour d'Honneur, the courtyard. His face was tense and pale, his cheeks sunken and marked by illness. But his gaze was clear and penetrating, the spirit defying the weakened body. He had put his hands together behind his back.

Rochefort was a skilled observer of details, so he noticed the ink stains on the cardinal's fingertips. On the desk lay the manuscript of the Political Testament. Clearly written reflections, not a word, not a single sentence had been crossed out and replaced by a different wording while the creation. The last feather pen strokes were still drying, His Eminence had been working on the manuscript when Rochefort had entered the study.

Rochefort had recently often seen the memorandum lying there; it was truly a testament. Even if the prime minister did not let on, did not spare himself, his health was not in good shape these days. He elevated reason to the supreme discipline of a sovereign; perhaps the manuscript was now growing faster under the impression of the last few weeks.

ʹYou will find out the whereabouts of her, Rochefort! Young women do not disappear without a trace. Not from this palace, right under my eyes! Not without-ʹ Suddenly Richelieu grabbed his breast with a tortured face. ʹNot without-ʹ A coughing fit shook the prime minister, he staggered and at the same time refused to lean on the windowsill.

Rochefort took a step forward, but then, despite his concern, hesitated to offer support himself. Richelieu would have turned down the aid and not admitted any weakness. So instead, Rochefort took the glass of warmed wine from the desk and handed it to him. He hold on to the glass as Richelieu took it with trembling fingers. With rattling breath, the cardinal brought the wine to his lips and drank until his affected lungs had calmed down.

Rochefort put the glass back and picked up the thread as if nothing had happened. ʹShe must still have one or more allies. This lackey, Moraut, is not one of them.ʹ

ʹAllies, confidants, admirers.ʹ Richelieu's voice still sounded fragile and husky. But his red cassock had fortunately not been stained by coughing bloodstains. ʹWhat about Fernand de Grinchamps?ʹ

ʹIn hiding, probably still in Paris.ʹ

ʹProbably?ʹ

ʹI will soon know for sure.ʹ

Richelieu looked at his stable master for a long moment and Rochefort stood his ground. He had already served the cardinal for too many years, had caught more than one scar, had suffered more than one wound, to be unsettled by a judgemental look. Rochefort had sharpened his mind on the royal court's obscure intrigues, but he was still rarely able to read the prime minister's thoughts. Even now he failed.

Richelieu turned back to the window. ʹOur interest is mainly in Odette de la Nièvre.ʹ

ʹShe will have made some friends in your care over the past few months. Someone will still be in contact with her and could give us a vital clue to her whereabouts.ʹ Rochefort shrugged. ʹBut no one in the Palais will speak openly to me.ʹ

ʹMy other spies?ʹ

ʹToo well known among the servants. Some of them are the servants, Monseigneur.ʹ

ʹSo, in my own house, everyone is suspicious of everyone else in this matter.ʹ

Rochefort remained silent. This had gone from family strife to political intrigue and he knew no advice for his master. The father of the headstrong Odette de la Nièvre would certainly soon lose patience and, as threatened, air Richelieu's dirty laundry in public that could shake even a powerful prime minister. Then there would not be a more welcome victim like the captain of the musketeers, who this time had interfered in the wrong affairs.

Richelieu let a few moments slip by, then seemed to make up his mind. ʹSo I have to commission a new, innocent and useful man in my service.ʹ

ʹUndoubtedly, Monseigneur has a certain man in mind?ʹ Rochefort thought his part. In this context, 'innocent' and 'useful' meant 'easy to direct' and 'bought with money'.

The cardinal bowed his head and surprised Rochefort with the next question, which seemed to address a completely different subject. ʹTell me, after the dissolution of the Royal Musketeers, what happened to the soldiers and officers?ʹ

ʹThey have been mostly assigned to other regiments. Some of the musketeers are in the field against Spain at Arras. The officers have either retired from service and retreated to their estates or have been given new posts in the king's troops.ʹ While he was still pronouncing the last sentence, Rochefort understood the sudden interest in the king's former musketeers. It was brilliant.

Richelieu pretended to be thoughtful, pondering, when he said, ʹSurely there will be one among these officers who is dissatisfied with his fate. Someone who wants to see the musketeers reinstated. Perhaps even as their next captain.ʹ

Rochefort smiled knowingly. One of those officers had behaved so rebellious after the dissolution of the regiment that he initially took a lieutenant's commission without a post. ʹI will seek out this definite one immediately and make him an offer.ʹ

Richelieu raised his hand with a warning gesture. ʹDo it wisely! I want a soldier for my guard. Someone who has not belonged to this house before, but who will be in the palace every day from now on. Someone who will have to endure the contempt of old and new comrades and who, with ambition for another cause, will earn enough trust to find the mademoiselle for us.ʹ The cardinal took a sharp look at Rochefort. ʹNo musketeer, and certainly not this lieutenant, will accept such an offer. Monsieur d'Artagnan had refused our generosity a few years earlier, when his situation was no less difficult.ʹ

ʹI will find the right incentive. I know him.ʹ

ʹGood.ʹ Richelieu was visibly exhausted by the long speech, so he sat down at his desk. There he picked up the quill and pulled the manuscript towards himself. ʹReport back to me immediately.ʹ

ʹAs you wish, Monseigneur.ʹ After a last hesitation, when Richelieu seemed to be suppressing another budding cough, Rochefort left the study and went in search of an old friend.

II – Resigned

The punch came from the right. D'Artagnan immediately fell to the ground and remained lying there dazed. He blinked disoriented and with a veiled look, not sure how he had landed on the tavern floor. Only his aching chin, where the blow had hit him, and the hammering in his head made him instinctively gasp for air. Just in time he saw the attacker draw out for a kick.

Before his ribs could make the acquaintance of a heavy working boot, d'Artagnan caught the kick with his hands. For a fraction of an instant, his opponent's face was covered with a bewildered expression before a roll to the side pulled him off his feet. In the same movement, d'Artagnan jumped up and faced the two companions of the craftsman. Two strong men, each half a head taller than the lieutenant himself. They were simple minded and extremely angry with him. They had necks like oxen and upper arms like rafters. Apparently, they earned their money with honest, hard work and only wanted to spend their wages in the tavern Three Crowns.

A rather drunk former musketeer had thwarted their plans when he got up from his seat at one of the back tables, but was no longer in control of his feet and had bumped into one of these good men. One outraged word gave the next and then a bare fist spoke.

The fact that d'Artagnan had taken their friend by surprise seemed to stop them from pouncing on him immediately. Maybe they had a spark of sense left in their heads not to mess with a fully armed officer. D'Artagnan was no longer allowed to wear the musketeer's tunic, but he had not renounced his nobility rights to the dagger and sword. He carried his pistol hidden under his cloak.

The other guests watched the spectacle and had not yet decided whose side they were on. A barmaid, on the other hand, had already run into the street and one could hear her calling for the town guard. The innkeeper had reached for a poker by the fireplace. Judging by his anxious expression, the gesture was more in defence than attack.

It would have now been wise to mumble half-hearted apologies and let the matter drop. But d'Artagnan still tasted the last cup of wine on his tongue and he was way too proud to retreat. ʹCome on!ʹ

The command was enough and three embittered lives collided. This time, d'Artagnan was prepared and dodged the first blow, only to strike in his turn. Except for a snort, his opponent was completely unimpressed. His sidekick jumped in and took the opportunity for another kick. D'Artagnan was hit in the knee and stumbled. He had also completely forgotten the third one on the ground. The man was back on his feet and grabbed the lieutenant from behind with both arms. The grip was relentless. The other two craftsmen grinned gleefully.

The other guests became restless. Some of them jumped up and cheered the opponents, because they wanted to see an exciting spectacle. Others took refuge before they would unexpectedly become part of the tussle. The first jugs and chairs were knocked over, insults flew through the tavern. The innkeeper looked pleadingly to the door to see if his maid had finally alerted the guards, but still no one shouted for a stop and an arrest.

D'Artagnan took the first blow with tense muscles, yet it almost drove the air out of his lungs. Instinctively, he writhed in the clasp - and got free. His success surprised not only himself. The entire Three Crowns held its breath as the craftsman groaned and collapsed. He remained lying with a bleeding wound at the back of his head.

ʹHave you not learned your lesson from the village of Meung yet?ʹ Rochefort put down a beer mug and took a step over the unconscious man on the ground to join d'Artagnan. He rebuked him, scrutinising him like a teacher scrutinised a pupil. ʹYou should only start bar brawls with a friend in your back.ʹ

D'Artagnan snorted disparagingly, without letting the two remaining roughnecks out of his sight. ʹThen better stay behind my back before you get a black eye.ʹ

ʹA black eye? The mob wants blood.ʹ

D'Artagnan pulled up an arm just in time to protect himself when a cup flew just past his ear. That was the general signal and where the spectators had just formed a semicircle, a beating crowd suddenly swayed back and forth. The lieutenant lost sight of Rochefort as he had to duck away in the confusion of the battle under a swing with a broken chair leg. Retreat had suddenly become a desirable option.

It was due to the good reputation of the Three Crowns that no weapons were drawn during the next few moments. The fight was nevertheless noisy and fierce, and even spread to the street in front of the tavern; one moment passers-by were peering curiously through the windows, and the next moment they were participating in fistfights, in which everyone was punching each other without really knowing why. The innkeeper pressed himself into a corner and someone realised that not only jugs and cups but also wine bottles could be thrown splendidly.

Glass shattered just above d'Artagnan's head and shards fell down onto his feather hat. He had stayed too long in one place and had become a worthwhile target. Cursing, he gave up looking for Rochefort and made his way past overturned tables and chairs. Two fronts fought with each other; left against right, maybe even front against back. Once one of the two parties was defeated, the remaining one would turn the conflict against itself until the town guards intervened.

D'Artagnan had no desire to be arrested and thus to lose the meagre remnants of his reputation and honour, which he had still retained. A man came running towards him with his fists raised. He tripped him up and then looked around in the breathing space. At the back of the taproom, a door led out into the courtyard; and there was Rochefort.

The stable master did not seem to have gotten a scratch, at most his coat had gotten a bit messy. He waited at the door until d'Artagnan had found a way to get to him with further ducking and evading. They exchanged glances, then he followed Rochefort out into the courtyard immediately. But d'Artagnan had barely left the door behind himself when someone grabbed his shoulder, tore him around and hit him. Again, he staggered dazed, again, it was Rochefort in his back who saved him from falling.

With an angry roar, d'Artagnan shook off the helping hand and drew his pistol. The craftsman's attack ended abruptly as he stared into the muzzle of the gun. Cold sweat dripped from his forehead, fear of death in his eyes. For a seemingly endless moment nothing happened. Then d'Artagnan's finger pulled the trigger.

ʹD'Artagnan!ʹ

The commanding tone made the former musketeer pause. His finger remained on the trigger, just before firing, when Rochefort stepped next to him. ʹShoot and you will be in the Bastille within an hour.ʹ

ʹYou would get me out of there, my friend.ʹ

ʹYes, I would.ʹ Rochefort nodded narrowly and without pity for the unfortunate roughneck, who was still staring at the pistol and making a whimpering sound. D'Artagnan replied, laboriously restrained, ʹWell?ʹ

ʹWell, you will owe me your life and more than one favour. That simplifies matters for me, of course.ʹ Rochefort made a discarding gesture. ʹGo ahead, shoot this fool. Is he worth the debt? I still suspect one last bit of sense in you.ʹ

ʹAh, you suppose?ʹ

ʹSelf-respect is obviously not an issue.ʹ

The pistol grip missed Rochefort only because he grabbed d'Artagnan's wrist in time and deflected the blow. A shot went off and got lost somewhere in the sky over Paris. The craftsman screamed in panic and stumbled over his own feet as he fled, while behind him the lieutenant and stable master fought doggedly for the upper hand.

In the tavern, the shot had been heard and now everyone was just trying to get away. The noise of the fighting changed, it sounded now like naked fear for one's life and escape. Finally, the roughneck stumbled back into the taproom. The door to the courtyard closed. When the clacking could be heard in the lock, Rochefort released the lieutenant from the headlock and patted him on the shoulder. ʹYou are slacking.ʹ

D'Artagnan shot him a sinister look and picked up his pistol, which had been lost during the struggle. ʹDo you still want to get a black eye? The next blow will not be a charade to frighten a fool.ʹ

ʹI will do without, you have already not escaped unscathed for both of usʹ, Rochefort said dryly, while d'Artagnan looked sourly at the blood stain on his shirt sleeve after wiping his face. The musketeer said nothing more, fit his hat and envisaged the courtyard. A cul-de-sac, framed by ivy-covered house fronts. His gaze finally caught on an open window on a higher floor of the neighbouring house. He sighed.

ʹExactly.ʹ Rochefort turned away too quickly for d'Artagnan to actually accuse him of having a wolfish grin. The stable master went on ahead and climbed up to the window on a stable rose trellis. After a prudent glance, he pulled himself into the house by the shutters.

D'Artagnan waited a while for horrified screeches or angry shouts from the inhabitants. When this did not happen, he too set out on his ascent. Despite his aching knee, the lieutenant managed to climb into the house. Just in time. As soon as he had taken his foot off the window sill, he had to duck, because the town guards stormed the courtyard with a loud din. Now, at the latest, nobody wanted to have anything to do with the incidents at the Three Crowns.

D'Artagnan listened to the noise outside, to the imperious shouts and slamming doors, while he glanced quickly at the surrounding space. It was a bedroom. Near the window was a bed, the sheets rumpled as if they had been hectically left in the morning. A dresser stood at the foot of the bed, in one corner was a stool placed. A shirt had been carelessly thrown over it. It covered a pair of riding boots leaning beside it. A bachelor's dwelling, it seemed. There was no reason to stay here any longer.

D'Artagnan snuck out of the room and met Rochefort in the long corridor behind. They found themselves in a half-timbered house, solidly built, but quite dark because of the small windows. The ceilings were low, and one could reach for the beams without stretching too much. The walls felt chilly and did not meet at a single straight angle. It smelled of wood and plaster, of fresh laundry and bread, of a good middle-class parlour. Rochefort looked around to see if they had really gone unnoticed and then gave a sign to follow him. D'Artagnan caught up with him and asked quietly, ʹAre we alone?ʹ

ʹNo.ʹ Rochefort pointed to a door a few steps away. It was left ajar, a shadow was moving under the crack, seemed to lurk. Whoever was there had noticed the burglary, the noise from the tavern, the gunshot and the loud shouts of the town guards. ʹLet us get out of here.ʹ

It would not have been necessary to ask, Rochefort had already followed half the stairs to the lower floor, peered over the banister and hurriedly continued his way. D'Artagnan didn't limp along quite so skilfully and looked back over his shoulder at the landing.