Aramis, not daring to say more, still clenched his hand on the grip of his sword and glared his defiance at Athos.

But Athos only shook his head. “I never meant that. I would no more suspect Porthos of murdering a child than I would suspect any of us. No. What I mean is, was the child supposed to be found dead? Porthos says he found the boy collapsed behind some tavern. What if he had been found dead like that, and this the only thing in his pocket? Think you not that, to someone who doesn’t know Porthos, this”-he waved the written pages in the air-“might be believed to be enough cause for murder?”

Aramis opened his mouth, then closed it. He shook his head in turn. “Someone might think it was. Porthos, did the child ever talk to you of your family?”

Porthos sighed. “No. I might have told him things my father once or twice said while he was teaching me to use my sword, but that was about it. Other than that, my family was never mentioned.”

“So,” D’Artagnan said, his voice brisk, as if even he didn’t want to dwell too long on what he was saying, “what if someone else planted these pages on the boy and then poisoned him? So that when the boy was found everyone would think that Porthos did it?”

"IT’S a mare’s nest,” Porthos said, his mind thinking through everything that had happened. The boy being ill. His death. Then those papers. What could the papers mean? And what could they have to do with the boy’s death. “It has to be. None of it makes sense. Who would investigate my family line and copy it and put it in the boy’s pocket? And why would anyone kill him just to reach me?”

Aramis sighed. He looked tired. Truth be told, Porthos thought, Aramis hadn’t been the same these last couple of months, since his lover, Violette, had died. But he was starting to be more like himself, more… at ease with the world and those in it. Now, looking at Porthos, Aramis seemed haunted and hunted, like a man who sees something horrible pursuing him. It always worried Porthos when Aramis looked like this, because it was as good as betting that with any little push, anything gone the slightest bit wrong, Aramis would start talking of joining a monastical order again. And then for weeks he would stop drinking and wenching and swearing and wax all pious every time fighting was mentioned.

There had been several of these episodes, and usually they didn’t last longer than a couple of weeks, but however long they lasted, they were a great trial to Aramis’s friends. And it was best to stop them before they started. Only this time Porthos was not sure how to stop it.

“Aramis, I know you’re scared by something. I know you’re thinking something that frightens you, but I don’t know what it is nor how to make you stop thinking it.”

Aramis nodded. “I know. It is this-who would want to hurt you so badly that they were willing to use the boy? Who would want to get you condemned for murder so badly that they’d study your ancestry.”

“The Cardinal,” Athos said. “Only to be honest, his eminence normally targets heads higher than ours.”

“There are other people that Porthos might have made enemies of,” D’Artagnan said. “There are many he’s bested at duel. And there’s the husband of his… Duchess.”

Porthos caught the slight hesitation before D’Artagnan called Porthos’s lover a Duchess and of course D’Artagnan knew she was no such a thing. In the time he’d known the musketeers surely he’d caught on that Porthos’s loved lady, Athenais, was nothing but the wife of an accountant. Still, Athenais’s husband, Monsieur Coquenard, old and definitely not noble as he might be, did have power of a sort. Though he kept Athenais very short on the purse, it was rumored he had deep chests of coin somewhere. Which meant he could have bought conspiracy as surely as the Cardinal could have ordered it.

“All of these,” Aramis said, “are not so much a worry as his eminence. I do know there’s little chance of his being involved, but if there’s any chance at all, that means we must be very careful about all our movements in this matter. Twice already, by a bare thread, we’ve escaped coils that his eminence meant should kill us or stop us. Now…” Still looking too old and too worried, he hid his eyes with his hand for a moment, then let his hand drop. “We might not be so lucky.”

“So we investigate,” Porthos said, briskly, quickly, not wanting to give Aramis any chance to fall prey to that deep melancholy that, in him, could only be cured by sermonizing and the clinking of rosary beads. “We investigate as we must. Who better than us? It’s not as though it were the first time.”

On some level, he was aware of feeling grief and loss for the boy. For a moment, for a few weeks, the boy had supplied the illusion of having a son. He had made it less obvious what Porthos had sacrificed to the life of a musketeer. But now he was gone. Oh, Porthos wouldn’t and couldn’t pretend to the grief of a father. But grief it was, and no use denying it. “I want to find out who killed him, anyway. For his own sake,” he said. “Guillaume was… a good boy and would one day have been a great duelist. He didn’t deserve to die like this, with all of life untasted.”

It was the most eloquent condemnation he could manage, of the unknown person who’d killed the boy. He knew that Aramis or Athos, even D’Artagnan could have made a more moving speech, a more decisive case for catching the boy’s murderer.

But such as it was, it sufficed. It seemed to move the others to action.

“First,” Athos said, briskly, “we must find a place to put the body. It is no longer as hot as it was in the peak of summer, but it is still too hot to just leave him here. We might find his family quickly enough, but then we might not find it for a long, long time. The priest that Aramis knew, who could put coffins in his cool basement is himself dead [3] and therefore we can’t avail ourselves of his charity. My own cellar…” Athos shrugged. “Is cold enough for wine and at this time of the year it will do, if we can procure a coffin.”

“A coffin I can still arrange,” Aramis said. “I can direct Bazin to beg one from a monastery in town, and we can store the body in it.”

Athos nodded. “Good. That’s one problem taken care of. Of course, we’d better find the boy’s parents quickly nonetheless.”

“But how are we going to find his parents?” D’Artagnan said.

“By his name,” Aramis said. He flashed a superior smile. “We can ask around. D’Artagnan, we know you are a newcomer here, but the rest of us have many contacts in Paris and many people of whom we can ask the whereabouts of this family.”

D’Artagnan didn’t seem impressed, Porthos noted. In fact, one of the reasons he liked D’Artagnan, he decided, was that the young man seemed as little impressed with Aramis’s or Athos’s pronouncements as most other people were with Porthos’s.

“What if the boy used a false name? What if his family is truly not who he said it was? If the Cardinal is involved…” D’Artagnan said.

Aramis looked about to dismiss the comment out of hand. He got that fighting light to his green eyes that normally meant he was about to dismiss something as a piece of idiocy. But something seemed to come to his mind that stopped the protest on his lips. The mouth he’d opened, closed with a snap, and he frowned at D’Artagnan as if the boy had done something to annoy him. For a while he was quiet, glaring. Then he said, “Well, what do you suggest then?”

D’Artagnan shrugged. “I don’t know what to suggest,” he said, opening his hands in an expression of helplessness. “I’d say describe him, but description alone might not be enough. How many boys of eleven or twelve do you think there are, running around Paris? And how many who might have red hair, or wear a good violet velvet suit?”