Porthos, who was quite bright enough but disdained this type of underhanded intrigue, turned to the captain, only to be met with a nod of acquiescence. “Indeed, my dear Porthos,” he said. “I beg you you will leave his eminence’s pet musketeers alone,” he said with the hint of amusement. “However, this is how it stands-rightly or wrongly, his eminence has interpreted some correspondence which he intercepted between the Duchess de… well, I need not name her, only to give her her nom de guerre, Marie Michon, and the Queen. And he has taken it into his head that the purpose of the two ladies’ conspiracy is to kill him and install another one in his place, in the King’s favor.” He shrugged. “I’m sure it’s all overblown suspicion, however…” He shrugged again. “You can see how this would make him wish to have one of your servants in his power.”

“I see nothing of the kind,” Porthos said. “What has poor Mousqueton to do with duchesses and queens?”

“Well,” Monsieur de Treville fixed the four with a slightly considering gaze. “It is an open secret, though certainly not openly discussed, that the Queen owes the four inseparables a favor. This being so, she might be convinced to abandon her interest in this conspiracy and, in fact, to denounce her friend wholly to the Cardinal, in order to avoid the inseparables’ servant being condemned on a murder charge.”

“Dents Dieu,” Porthos said. “You’d think that if she’s indebted to us, they’d try to arrest one of us, not our servant.”

The look the captain gave him was grave enough it would not have been out of place at a funeral. “Undoubtedly they did and they will, Porthos. Mousqueton was probably simply the easiest prey at the time. They know how loyal the Queen is, and that she might commit whatever folly for her friend. She has near disgraced herself for other friends in the past.”

“But…” Porthos said. “But… I would not want the Queen to compromise herself for my sake.” And after a hesitation, “Or even Mousqueton’s.”

But at the same time that he spoke, Athos said, “Do you mean to tell us, sir, that Cardinal Richelieu ordered the armorer murdered solely in order to entrap Porthos’s servant?”

“If he thought that would result in saving his life?” Monsieur de Treville said. “Yes, I do believe he would do so, do you not?”

Porthos could easily believe that Athos did not. Athos was a noble person-not just born a nobleman-and often had trouble believing the intrigues and dishonorable maneuvers that seemed to be part of living at court. And as much as all of them hated Richelieu, Athos’s noble spirit sometimes shrunk from what that gentleman would not stoop to do.

“But…” Porthos protested. “What are we to do? How can we save Mousqueton without compromising her Majesty?”

“There is only one way,” Monsieur de Treville said.

“We must find the true murderer and expose him,” Aramis said. “If the true murderer is exposed, then they will, perforce, have to let Mousqueton go.”

Porthos thought through this. Yes, that was undeniably true. Even if it had been one of the guards of the cardinal, it should be possible to expose his guilt. “But we will need time,” he said.

Monsieur de Treville shrugged again. “I’ll talk to the King, my dear Porthos. I understand you practically raised the young man, and that he’s almost like a son to you. And you have this comfort, Porthos, that the Cardinal will not easily dispose of so valuable a hostage. There will be no rush to execute Mousqueton. Not when he has hopes of bending the Queen to his will by virtue of her indebtedness to you.”

Porthos felt somewhat reassured but not as much as he’d wish to be. He couldn’t avoid the thought that at this very moment, his poor Mousqueton was in a place reckoned as one of the antechambers of Hell.

Their being dismissed, he stopped at the door, and turned inside for a final question, “Captain… would it be possible for me to see him?”

THEY walked out of the captain’s office and out through the antechamber, while the crowds of rowdy musketeers parted for them as though they were infected with a dread disease. Athos noticed it only with part of his mind, while the rest of it worked at what the captain had said.

Although no one in Paris would have classed a single of the inseparables as naive-D’Artagnan being the only exception and him people would only call naive until they got to know him better-from Athos’s perspective all of them were naive, or at least more trusting than himself. He cast a look sideways at each of them in turn.

Porthos seemed confident that the captain could at least keep Mousqueton from being executed for a good while. This might or might not be true, of course. It all depended on how fast Mousqueton lost his value as a hostage and on whether the person who had committed the crime was someone Richelieu valued. Athos could hardly imagine Rochefort being handed in for the sake of sparing Porthos’s servant. No, for his right-hand man, the Cardinal would fight as for his own life.

And the whole idea that the trap had been set for Mousqueton just because he happened to be alone and away from them-and if this were engineered by Richelieu, it would need believing just that-was disturbing. Did this mean each and every one of them was in similar danger? Each and every one of their servants? “Aramis,” he said, speaking as though out of his dreams, without looking at his friend. “And D’Artagnan.” He took a deep breath, bracing for what he was about to say, and any questions that might follow. “We must send messages to our servants now, if you know where yours are. Grimaud should be at home. Ask your servants to meet Grimaud at my home and stay there. And for neither of them to go out without at least one of us.”

There was a silence, and for a moment, Athos believed his friends would argue, but instead, what he heard was a deep sigh from Aramis, followed by, “Oh, Bazin will not like that.”

“I understand,” Athos said. “But I believe his safety must trump his preference in this matter.”

“Yes, I believe so too,” Aramis said. D’Artagnan didn’t say anything. They walked back, and into the captain’s compound, where they found three servants to take hastily scrawled notes to their servants. Porthos waited by, silently, as if deep in thought. Athos would like to believe that Porthos’s being deep in thought meant he was thinking of something sensible.

The problem with the redheaded giant-beyond his open warfare with language-was that Porthos’s brain seemed to work in a very original manner. Perhaps this came from his having been raised, wild and almost illiterate, cut off from civilized interaction, in a distant domain. Or perhaps it was just the way Porthos’s genius-and it was genius-worked.

But while he might be the only one of them to think of examining the pattern of blood drops at the scene of a crime [2], and while this might be the key to the entire murder they were trying to solve, the truth was that Porthos’s ideas were often impractical, or disregarded such minor things as what other people might think or the possibility of being arrested for something.

Athos badly wanted to get Porthos to tell them what he was thinking about, but chances were the answer would muddle more than enlighten, so he kept quiet, as they walked back out of Monsieur de Treville’s residence, and onto the street once more. They walked, four abreast, down the street, forcing everyone else to take long detours around them, and to cast them almost fearful looks. Athos realized their steps were perfectly in rhythm, which, given their varying heights and walks, was somewhat of a miracle, and smiled despite himself.

In his life, he’d lost title and honor, wife and domain. But his friends made it possible for him to wake every day and do what must be done, no matter how many ghosts had haunted his remorse-plagued sleep.