She asked him questions-about his mother, about his father, about his friends. He tried to answer in a way that wouldn’t compromise anyone, should she be, in fact, Athos’s wife and an agent of the Cardinal himself. But as the night went on, she dismissed the servants, and he started finding his tongue considerably more difficult to control.
Perhaps it was the wine. After she dismissed the servants, she’d start serving him the wine herself, cup after cup of some sparkling vintage, that tasted deceptively sweet and light. He’d tried to refuse it, but she’d laughed at his gesture, and just added more wine to his cup. And she’d cajoled him and smiled at him, till he did not know what he was doing.
His mind became more clouded than he ever remembered wine making it. Perhaps it was the fact that he’d drunk so much just the day before. Perhaps the drunkenness built on his so recently disordered senses. Or perhaps he simply had no head for liquor, or not such a head as he’d always assumed he had.
He never understood how, but he found himself in her bed, quite stripped and under the covers, next to her. And she was under the covers too, her hair loose down her back, wearing a nightgown of the sheerest silk.
He tried to speak and said something about Constance. Even he wasn’t sure what he’d said, or what it meant, and all it got him in return was laughter. “Your village lass back in Gascony,” milady said, ruthlessly, “wouldn’t know how to do this.” And in saying it, she touched him in a way he didn’t even know it was possible to be touched.
Her hands were knowing, as was her mouth, and his confused mind managed to form the thought that there couldn’t possibly be any courtesans, any women who lived by the trade of pleasure who were more skilled at the arts of love than this Englishwoman.
And yet not all her efforts could cause him to rise to the occasion. He’d have liked to think that it was his fidelity to Constance, but he was very much afraid it was his excess of alcohol.
When he tried to apologize, milady laughed at him. “Don’t worry. It will wear off, and you will still be here, in the morning.”
And then she’d blown out the candle, and D’Artagnan had fallen asleep. Naked, in milady’s bed.
The Many Uses of a Dish of Pigeons; A Parlor Boarder in the Bastille; A Confused Tale of Young Love
PORTHOS walked along the darkening streets, a dish of pigeons held firmly in his right hand. Fortunately, it was the type of dish they used in the palace kitchens, designed to be carried from the depths of the palace to attics of the palace on the opposing side-that is, designed to preserve as much as possible of its heat and quality even though some poor valet or maid might have to carry it the equivalent of many, many city blocks, before it ever reached its destination. It was made of heavy clay and covered with a lid of heavier clay.
This was part of the reason Porthos had taken it, of course. Had it been in some silver chafing dish, or hidden away in some concoction of painted porcelain, he would have known it was a dish destined for some high personage who had brought his own dishes with him to the palace.
Personages high enough to do that would make life very uncomfortable for the poor valet or maid who waylaid the food. And worse, the plate often being worth far more than the food, they might very well bring up charges against the musketeer who took them.
But this humble clay dish meant that the food was meant to go to one of the palace guests who was either a minor nobleman or perhaps, even, with some luck, an accountant or an artist brought in to serve the court. Which meant it was safe to take.
As for why he’d taken it, Porthos couldn’t have explained that exactly until he was well away from the palace and working at a fast clip towards the forbidding facade of the Bastille. Truthfully, his ideas were normally like this, and he rarely knew what he meant to do till he did it, and this time was no different. It was as though some better informed Porthos thought things through up in the depths of Porthos’s mind, and, being as unable to translate thought to words as the real Porthos, he only revealed his plans to the musketeer as they came up to the instant when he had to know.
This time, by the time he reached the Bastille, he had a fairly clear idea of what he meant to do-he approached the nearest entrance, carrying his dish of pigeons, and hailed the guard-a dark-haired man whose dingy uniform looked as though it hadn’t been washed in several lifetimes. On seeing Porthos so near, he straightened from his previous position of lolling, bonelessly, against the nearest wall. “Holla,” he said, and before he could get to the qui vive, Porthos answered back boomingly, “Holla.”
And then before the man could say anything more, he launched into a hearty explanation of his circumstances. “I wish to see my servant Boniface, who also answers to Mousqueton, before this dish of pigeons with apples grows cold.”
The guard frowned at him, a squinting expression that seemed to indicate a long-unused brain made some attempt to become active behind the small, porcine eyes. “A… a dish of pigeons?” he asked, quiveringly.
“Certainly,” Porthos said. “A dish of pigeons. It was prepared expressly by the Princess de-But one must not be indiscreet. The thing is that my dear friend the Princess is very fond of Mousqueton and she prepared him this dish with her very own hands. In the circumstances, you must realize, my dear man, it would be quite fatal if the dish should grow cold before Mousqueton enjoys it.”
The guard looked at Porthos with a disoriented expression, then looked around himself, as if to ascertain his surroundings, and, finally, turning to Porthos said in an outraged voice, “Monsieur! This is the Bastille!”
“Of course,” Porthos said, reassuringly. “I was counting on that, because, you see, Mousqueton is held in the Bastille. Indeed, it would be very inconvenient if I were to find I was somewhere else altogether.”
“Monsieur!” the man said disbelievingly. “People get… get tortured here. There are people who disappear in here and are never heard of.” He hissed out these words with a dramatic flair that seemed to indicate his own place of employment awed him. “And you come in with a dish of pigeons for an inmate.”
Porthos disciplined his face to slight annoyance. “Oh, I know, it seems fantastical, but as I said, my dear friend, the Princess de-well, she has made this dish of pigeons because she knows Mousqueton favors it. Her own recipe.” He smiled, foolishly. “And you know, her husband the Prince de-but no. I can’t tell you. Suffice it to say he would have the head of any man who displeased her. For he dotes most forcibly on her. And if she hears I was barred from taking her own special recipe to her own dear Mousqueton… well… I can’t swear how she’ll react.” He looked sheepish. “I wouldn’t swear to it that she won’t react badly. A very uncertain temper, has my dear Princess.”
The man looked caught between two uncomfortable decisions. He stared at Porthos, then at the dish in Porthos’s hand. “Open it up, you. To show there is nothing there but food.”
“But…” Porthos said. “The Princess. If the dish grows cold or congeals…”
“Never mind the Princess. If you don’t show us there’s nothing dangerous in there, you shall never get in.”
Sighing and with a show of much reluctance, Porthos opened the dish. The aroma of the stewed pigeons wafted up. The guard took a deep breath, and Porthos decided it was time for more foolish expatiating. “See how good it looks and how well it smells. She has never told me the recipe, but I believe she uses little currants and just a dash of brandy.”
The guard sighed. “You may cover it,” he said, then looked at Porthos. “The thing is, monsieur,” he said, “that no matter what your Princess thinks, I’m not supposed to let just anyone come in and visit the prisoners. I suppose you don’t even know when he was arrested.”