“In time?”

“Right now. Today. These things take time.”

“I suppose,” Athos said, frowning. He could see that D’Artagnan had some maggot in his brain and some plan that would, more than likely, be foolhardy. If not as foolhardy as Porthos-or at least not as unheeding of consequences-not very far off. He narrowed his eyes at his friend. “Why today? What do you intend to do?”

“Well, I thought,” D’Artagnan said. “You know the place I come from. Not very… well… being the son of the lord didn’t mean I was that far above the peasants. And in my youth,” he said, quite unheeding of the irony of saying these words when the beard growth was still uncertain upon his chin, “I used to associate with farmers and crafters, and all manner of people.”

“Yes?” Athos asked, trying to get the boy to tell him the nonsense he intended, so that Athos, who was old enough to be D’Artagnan’s father, could stop him before he got hurt.

“Well, I thought I could borrow one of Planchet’s suits of clothes-”

“And look like a scarecrow,” Athos said, because Planchet, D’Artagnan’s servant, was taller than Athos himself and thinner than anyone Athos had ever seen-as opposed to the young Gascon’s broad-shouldered figure, which came no higher than Athos’s shoulder.

“Well, probably,” D’Artagnan shrugged. “But that is all to the good and only adds to the image I’m trying to create.”

“Which is?”

“That of a young man, from a farmer’s household, just come from Gascony to earn his living in Paris. You see,” he rushed ahead as though he feared that Athos would contradict him, “ Gascony is so poor, what with all the wars and invasions and all, that it is not just noblemen who can’t provide for their sons there. Even well-to-do farmers, if they have more than two sons, often send one to seek his fortune in Paris.”

“I fail to understand why you would want to pretend to be a peasant seeking employment,” Athos said, half-guessing where this was going and dreading it. D’Artagnan would walk in where angels feared to tread. No, he would dance in.

“Because then I can go to the neighborhood of the armorer,” D’Artagnan said. “And ask the people in the neighborhood if someone might have wanted him dead. If this is not a trap of the Cardinal’s, there’s a good chance that the person who murdered the armorer was someone in the family or one of his acquaintances. Only someone in the neighborhood will know who’s likely to have done it.”

“And so,” Athos asked, folding his arms. “You intend to leave your post as guard and go work as a chamber pot emptier at some inn?”

D’Artagnan laughed, the easy laughter of youth. “I was hoping,” he said, “for some more distinguished position. Perhaps swine feeder.” He shook his head. “But no, I did not intend to take a post. Tell them I have another thing waiting, you know, but I’m just… looking around for another post, in case the first one doesn’t come through. That way, I have an excuse for not staying there too long. And if I meet a likely lass around my age, I may return, and claim it is for her sake… and ask a few more questions.”

Athos thought a moment. The boy was right. If this was not a plot of Richelieu’s-and no matter how much power Richelieu had, he couldn’t be held accountable for every crime in France -then it must be something that had happened in the man’s family and neighborhood. He looked down at D’Artagnan, who was looking up at him, his eyes shining with mischief and that repressed excitement the youth always seemed to feel when they were in the middle of an adventure.

The boy might be right. But he could not go alone and unprotected. “I’ll come with you,” Athos said.

D’Artagnan’s eyes widened. “No. Everyone would know you for what you are.”

“But I’ll borrow a suit of Grimaud’s!”

D’Artagnan’s lips stretched in a convulsive smile, which he seemed to control only by a great effort of will. “Athos, my friend, no.” And to what Athos was sure was his own bewildered countenance, he added, “My friend, you could dress in rags and soot, and you’d still look like one of the noblest men in the land.” He bowed a little. “Which you are.”

“But-” Athos said. Oh, he was proud of his ancestry and his family name. For their sake, he had renounced his domain rather than drag that noble name through the mud by associating it with his marriage to a branded criminal. But he didn’t think, if he should dress as a commoner, anyone would guess his true origins.

“Trust me,” D’Artagnan said, with a slight smile. “Everyone who meets you knows you come from a noble background. I don’t think there’s anything you can do to make yourself look as a commoner. Cloaked and hidden, your posture must yet announce your quality to the world.”

Athos sighed. He didn’t want to believe it, but the truth was, there were many people who’d told him the same in the past. That there was something about him that stood out. And hadn’t he seen it, in his duels with strangers, that they always demanded to know his true name-that they always knew his name was one of the noblest in France. And yet. “But D’Artagnan, I don’t want any harm to come to you. You are the youngest of us.”

“And you are the oldest. Do not let it disturb you. No harm shall come to me. I can’t take my sword, but I shall take a dagger, and you know, if I’ve survived the snares we’ve escaped so far, I won’t be that easy to kill.”

He bowed slightly, almost formally, to Athos.

And Athos, standing alone on the street corner, watched him walk until he turned right and disappeared from sight, headed for the Rue des Fossoyers, where he would be getting an outfit for the expedition.

So, Aramis has gone to the palace. To see Hermengarde, he says. And D’Artagnan has gone to look about the neighborhood where the armorer lived. And I? What can I do? He stood on the street corner, and his mind went back to the interview with the captain. Monsieur de Treville had looked more worried than he should. As though he were not absolutely sure he could keep Mousqueton from harm in Richelieu ’s prison.

If that was true, what could Athos do? Only one thing came to mind. I must, he thought, go see if this is Richelieu ’s plan, myself.

Night was falling, the streets of Paris filled with the curious red of a wintry sunset. Athos squinted at the sunset, then at the crowds of commoners, noblemen, whores and musketeers pouring out for an hour or two of amusement.

And he turned and headed towards the compound that housed the Cardinal Richelieu and those he commanded.

TURNING towards the royal palace-the so called hôtel de ville-brought an already familiar bittersweet ache to Aramis’s heart. Last winter, when he turned this way, he’d been on his way to see his seamstress, Violette, Duchess de Dreux, one of the noblest women in the land and, in Aramis’s eyes, the most beautiful woman in the world.

She’d been a friend of Anne of Austria’s, come with her at the time of the Queen’s marriage and forcibly married to a French nobleman who spurned his new wife’s charms, charms that Aramis had been more than happy to enjoy. It seemed to him, these many months after she’d been cruelly murdered, that he’d only realized how much he loved her and how much he’d miss her after she was lost to him forever.

Her face haunted his dreams. He’d wake in the middle of the night and swear he’d just heard the tinkle of her musical laughter. His hand would stretch to find only cold bed, and no Violette, and he’d come awake in stark loss, as though it had just happened, as if she’d just been taken from him.

And he’d find himself, at a duel, or a game, a night of drinking or in the middle of a conversation with his friends, thinking “I must tell Violette of this,” only to realize he’d never tell Violette anything at all, because she was gone forever. And it was all he could do, at such moments, to turn his face and hide the tears that prickled at his eyes.