Читать книгу The Cardinal's Red Lily - M. von Strom - Страница 11

Sorel hurried along the gallery in great haste and evaded a door at the last moment. ʹPardon me!ʹ he called over his shoulder while the curses of a valet pursued him. How bloody huge the cardinal's palace was if one was in a hurry!

ʹWatch out!ʹ The warning cry was meant for a comrade who was about to turn the very same corner, which Sorel sprinted around. ʹGonna be late!ʹ he shouted apologetically and ran on. His footsteps echoed loudly through the corridors; in the early morning he was one of the few people who were already on their feet. He started to sweat gradually and had yet to cross another gallery to the cardinal's study.

Sorel blamed himself silently as he took the next staircase with verve. He had let himself be distracted by private affairs. Very engaging, pretty private affairs, with a charming smile and full lips, from which he had found it difficult to break loose. He had almost forgotten Jussac's order to pick up a new comrade. Just in time for the morning roll call he had remembered and now he had to hurry up.

On the last distance Sorel fell first into a relaxed trot and then back into normal marching to calm his quick breath. The newcomer did not need to know that he had almost been forgotten. At the double door to the antechamber Sorel nodded at the two comrades on duty, Meunier and Forgeron, and entered. A quick glance through the room showed the usual scene; a valuable, polished wooden floor, an elaborate tapestry on the right, glazed windows on the left, upholstered chairs for waiting guests. No one else was there.

ʹHuh?ʹ Confused, Sorel let his eyes wander once more, but the antechamber remained abandoned. Should he dare to enter the study itself? The young man hesitated. It would have been highly unusual for a new recruit to appear before the cardinal on his first day of service.

ʹI'm not the only one late, am I,ʹ Sorel murmured, half amused and half annoyed. He turned on his heel and stepped outside the door again. ʹMeunier! Has there been anyone wandering around here in the last few minutes who would have looked conspicuously nervous, lost, but insanely proud of himself at the same time?ʹ

The mentioned guardsman smiled leniently. ʹSorel! You mean just the way you looked like at your first day?ʹ It had long been known that a new recruit was to join their ranks today. Sorel pulled himself up to his full height and was still half a head smaller than his comrades. ʹI am justly proud of myself!ʹ

ʹWell, of course.ʹ Meunier shrugged. ʹNo, there was no one around.ʹ

ʹJussac will be overjoyed...ʹ Sorel did not need much of an imagination to presage the lieutenant's scowl. Not a good way for the new recruit to start.

ʹOver there.ʹ

Sorel turned to look into the direction that Forgeron suddenly pointed towards. In fact, a man marched up with a resolute step, he had pulled his feathered hat low over his forehead and looked utterly grim underneath. It took Sorel a moment to recognise him. ʹMonsieur d'Artagnan again?ʹ

Meunier snorted contemptuously and Forgeron watched the appearance of the former musketeer attentively. D'Artagnan approached them and seemed to have understood clearly what the guards were exchanging among themselves, for he showed a combatively expression. Perhaps it would have been more impressive if he had not still been adorned by a gradually fading black eye. Unconsciously, Sorel put a hand on the hilt of his sword.

D'Artagnan noticed this gesture and got a hold of himself. At the entrance to the palace, Cahusac had detained him once more. Rochefort had apparently again failed to announce that he could be admitted. After a brief exchange of words, the guardsman let him pass, today without an escort. Small wonder, since his nanny was already waiting at the study's double doors and eyed him curiously. ʹSorel.ʹ D'Artagnan greeted him with a neutral face and glanced at the other two guardsmen. Complete distrust was evident from their attitude. Great, that was how he had imagined his future life at the red guard. The next weeks would be full of serenity and pure joy for sure!

ʹMonsieur le lieutenant,ʹ Sorel replied politely, and d'Artagnan was taken aback. Lieutenant? Did they not know that from now on he had to serve as the least of them? For the moment he left it at that and asked, ʹWhere is your superior officer to find?ʹ

Sorel continued to watch him carefully. He seemed to be more shrewd than his comrades, who were stubbornly silent. Sorel, on the other hand, was able to put two and two together. ʹUnless you mean Captain Luchaire, then Jussac is in the guardroom.ʹ

D'Artagnan nodded and returned a half-hearted ʹMy thanksʹ. Yes, he meant Jussac. The cardinal's guard numbered several hundred, almost a thousand men on horseback or on foot, plus ensigns and lieutenants. But the hand-picked palace troop of 60 guardsmen, who were always present, was primarily under Jussac's command. Right after the captain, of course. ...and where was this guardroom located?

ʹI will lead you.ʹ Sorel noticed the surprised looks by his comrades and smiled apologetically. ʹEn route I might meet someone who has lost his way.ʹ

Meunier frowned, but did not comment. Forgeron also seemed to agree with Sorel's assumption that the new recruit was wandering around somewhere in the palace and had not asked his way to the meeting place. D'Artagnan waited until Sorel had taken the lead and followed half a step behind him. The young man smiled amusedly, self-confident and proud. He seemed to be at peace with the world and himself. Unlike his companion, who did not want to be reminded of whom he had been himself many, many years ago and grumpy demanded, ʹJust tell me where I have to go. I will find the guardroom on my own.ʹ

ʹCertainly, monsieur le lieutenant, you would, but I am bound by Jussac's orders.ʹ

ʹWhat orders?ʹ

ʹTo take the new recruit to him.ʹ

D'Artagnan silently congratulated himself on his reckon up of Sorel's character. The lad was a real clever. When would his shrewdness become his downfall? ʹYou will keep your mouth shut until I have spoken to Jussac!ʹ

ʹUnderstood!ʹ Sorel replied blithely. He shot the supposed lieutenant a curious side glance. D'Artagnan looked back so grimly that the young guard quickly swallowed all questions and concentrated only on the way ahead.

The guardroom also seemed to be an arsenal. While the guards carried a pistol discreetly hidden under the tunic during duty, muskets were stored in the room in case of an attack. A tiled fireplace dominated the rear wall and provided warmth, in front of it were rows of wooden tables and benches. D'Artagnan noticed that on one of the tables there lay a deck of cards, on another one a game of dice. Meals seemed to be handed out here, as a few bowls and cups left behind showed.

At the moment there was nobody on call here. Maybe the change of guards just started or the guardsmen were assembling in the yard for morning roll call. The only person sitting at one of the rear tables, close to the fireplace, absorbed in a narrow book, was the lieutenant of the regiment. D'Artagnan mutely told Sorel that he could manage the last steps without his company. The young guardsman withdrew immediately and without contradiction, apparently he still believed in the higher rank of the other.

D'Artagnan waited until the door closed behind him before stepping deeper into the lion's den. Jussac did not make a move to indicate whether he had noticed the presence of the other man. He seemed completely absorbed in his reading and did not look up even when d'Artagnan remained standing only two steps away from him.

Moments passed when the former musketeer wondered whether he should either brazenly draw attention to himself or continue to disparage himself by waiting for a sign from the gracious lieutenant. Jussac, however, only turned the page. D'Artagnan could not read the title of the book, but now he spotted a page with the anatomical drawing of a dog and some explanations. The text seemed to have been written in Latin and immediately d'Artagnan's interest hit rock bottom. He cleared his throat.

ʹHeaven forbid, who-ʹ Jussac snorted over the book, but he finished the question in disbelief, ʹ-you?!ʹ when he recognised the disturber.

D'Artagnan could not blame him. Nor was he pleased to be here, standing at attention and getting it over and done with in one quick and painless sentence. ʹReportingforduty, sir.ʹ

Jussac's look on his face was almost worth it. Consternation was too mild an expression for what spoke from his gaze. The lieutenant blinked several times and seemed to find out whether he had just understood correctly. D'Artagnan remained silent and examined a point just past the left earlobe of his new superior. A tile by the fireplace had a crack. No one moved.

Finally, Jussac very slowly put the book on the table and said with severe self-control, ʹIf this is supposed to be a joke, you are showing a very bad sense of humour, and if it is not a joke, God hates me enough by now to send you to me as a permanent nuisance.ʹ When d'Artagnan did not reply, Jussac stood up and stepped close to the other officer. ʹTell me this is a joke!ʹ

It was not the threatening undertone that kept d'Artagnan silent. Rather, there was nothing to say, the forced eye contact was enough to make Jussac understand. ʹYou have been announced by Rochefort.ʹ Without waiting for confirmation, the lieutenant brusquely turned towards the fireplace, grabbed the poker and poked into the embers. For the sake of his own health, d'Artagnan did not comment on this either. It would have been an inglorious end to be killed with a poker on the very first day. Or, in self-defence, to run a sword through his superior who now asked with gritted teeth, ʹWhat rank?ʹ

ʹPardon?ʹ

ʹWhat rank do you hold?!ʹ Jussac shouted and it must have been heard all the way to the door. The lieutenant of the guardsmen did not care, he was too angry. Perhaps he was getting on the wrong side of his captain-to-be? Luchaire had talked often enough in the last months about taking his well-deserved retirement. Jussac should have succeeded him, but of course, that damn Gascon meddled in his affairs now and outranked him.

ʹ... common soldier,ʹ d'Artagnan replied hesitantly. He was not sure if Jussac had heard him, because the lieutenant was still standing very tense and was staring into the ember. D'Artagnan controlled himself not to have to endure Jussac's slow-working mind too impatiently. Now the lieutenant hung the poker back up, but did not turn around when he ordered, ʹReport to the armourer and then to the roll call in the courtyard.ʹ

ʹYes, s-!ʹ

ʹImmediately!ʹ

D'Artagnan closed his mouth again, his jaws grinding. That went well, Rochefort's plan was never, ever doomed to failure! Without further confirmation, without a salute, he marched out of the guardroom. He had hardly banged the door behind him when a loud rumbling could be heard from inside. Jussac must have been venting his anger. The noise did not escape the small group of guardsmen who had just arrived. D'Artagnan saw Sorel among them, who was looking back and forth between the door and him. Sooner or later he had to face his new comrades and put up with their ridicule and contempt.

D'Artagnan decided for 'sooner' and approached the guardsmen. But suddenly he was grabbed by the arm and barked at, ʹDon't you hurry!ʹ

D'Artagnan instinctively broke free and recognised Bernajoux, along with Biscarat. Both men looked at him hostilely. If it had not been for their friend Jussac, they would never have treated an officer, for whom they still had to mistook d'Artagnan, in such a way.

ʹWhat were you doing in there?ʹ Biscarat did all the talking while Bernajoux flexed his muscles. In an almost absurd way, d'Artagnan felt reminded of Aramis and Porthos. However, he had little desire to mess again with every man on his first day and to fight duels. They had already done that more than ten years ago. Besides, his knee was still bothering him after the fight at the Three Crowns.

ʹAsk Jussac!ʹ he replied enraged and passed the two guardsmen. They let him go unmolested, perhaps they were too surprised by his behaviour. Even Sorel seemed to be hurriedly looking for an escape route when he realised that d'Artagnan was heading right for him. The young guard, however, bravely stood his ground as he was barked at, ʹArmorer!ʹ

Sorel nodded and again led d'Artagnan to the requested destination. This time the lad remained resolutely silent, disillusioned, if not disappointed. Bernajoux, Biscarat and even the taciturn Cahusac had repeatedly raked over old war stories and told them to their younger comrades; and although or perhaps even because they were enemies, the lieutenant of the musketeers also appeared in these stories. The daring conquest of Saint-Germain, for example. How annoying it must have been for His Eminence that the king had snatched the promising young soldier from under his nose after this adventure and made him a musketeer. Perhaps d'Artagnan would otherwise have become a cardinal's guardsman instead of being stuck in his post as a lieutenant for years.

Of course, d'Artagnan had no idea of these considerations, otherwise he might have told Sorel a completely different story by a jar of good wine. One about his best friends, about the naive dream of a young country nobleman. About unexpected twists and turns.

But instead d'Artagnan railed against fate and welcomed the silence.