Читать книгу The Cardinal's Red Lily - M. von Strom - Страница 12

Biscarat and Bernajoux initially watched the departure of the former lieutenant of the musketeers in confusion. When d'Artagnan barked ʹArmourer!ʹ the matter was obvious. Biscarat rubbed his forehead as if he had a headache and glanced at his friend with a meaningful look. Bernajoux, for his part, did not hesitate to step into the guardroom to support Jussac. He was able to imagine how his lieutenant had digested the news; it had been impossible not to hear his reaction.

In fact, he and Biscarat, who followed him immediately, found Jussac sitting apparently completely relaxed on a bench in front of the fireplace, his nose buried in his current favourite book, Exercitatio Anatomica de Motu Cordis et Sanguinis in Animalibus.

Bernajoux had no understanding of those kinds of things. Jussac's brother, a doctor, had sent the book to him. An Anatomical Exercise on the Motion of the Heart and Blood in Living Beings. Their lieutenant was interested in such things, blood circulation and skeletons, gruesome stuff in Bernajoux's eyes. It was enough for him to know where to strike with the sword to damage organs, not how they worked.

Biscarat discreetly closed the door before the other guardsmen curiously stormed the room as well. It was an old story; whenever Jussac was in the worst mood of all, his closest friends were sent ahead until the situation had calmed down. The situation now seemed so bad that Jussac ignored even Bernajoux, who wordlessly put back up the table, which their lieutenant had knocked over in anger.

While Bernajoux was still calmly collecting playing cards scattered on the floor, Biscarat was even brave enough to take a seat next to Jussac. The lieutenant stared stubbornly at his book without reading a single line. Biscarat patiently let a few moments pass, then moistened his little finger and put it in Jussac's ear.

ʹHeaven's sake!ʹ The lieutenant wiped Biscarat's arm fiercely to the side and stopped himself in time before he would instinctively thrust hist fist in his friend's face. Biscarat raised his hands in an appeasing manner and tried the disarming smile with which he had escaped from many delicate situations before. ʹWelcome back.ʹ

Jussac was not in a joking mood. ʹI swear, if it wasn't you…ʹ he growled and gave Bernajoux a warning look as well. He absolutely did not want to be cheered up. On the contrary, he had just made himself very comfortable in his rage against certain stable masters, musketeers and incomprehensible decisions.

Biscarat could see through his lieutenant effortlessly. ʹI can well imagine whom you'd break the nose instead of me.ʹ

ʹTalk to me about that matter again and I will break your nose!ʹ

ʹSo I can get a crooked face like our dear Bernajoux?ʹ Behind them, the mentioned Bernajoux threw the playing cards back on the table in a more untidy fashion than necessary, grunting something not understandable. Biscarat grinned. ʹI renounce.ʹ

ʹGood.ʹ Jussac still looked scowling, but when his friends made no move to leave him alone, he sighed and called himself to order. ʹYou two were listening?ʹ

ʹIs it him?ʹ Bernajoux, as always, was short on words, but still got to the point. Most of the time, Jussac was grateful to be able to answer just as concisely. They understood each other with few gestures, with half sentences. Now, however, he grimaced when the facts were once again thrown at him without any explanation and there was absolutely nothing he could do about it. ʹYes. The bastard is now a guardsman.ʹ

ʹLieutenant?ʹ Bernajoux seemed to be as worried about d'Artagnan's position in their ranks as Jussac had been before. Fortunately enough in this respect, there was good news.

ʹCommon soldier.ʹ Jussac snorted disparagingly. ʹThe cardinal must have stripped him off his patent, there's no other explanation.ʹ

ʹIt suggests that d'Artagnan's transfer is his last chance.ʹ Biscarat speculated. ʹOtherwise he would at least have had to be offered the post of senior lieutenant in order to honour us.ʹ

Bernajoux's face was unexpectedly graced by a rare smile. Actually, only the corners of his mouth seemed to be more wry than usual. If one did not know him better, a smile from the combative guardsman appeared quite... disconcerting. ʹHe'll have to behave himself.ʹ

Jussac nodded thoughtfully. ʹIf it's his last chance and he doesn't want to lose it. Now I'm no longer surprised by Rochefort's request to keep an eye on the new recruit. He'll only provoke agitation in the corps.ʹ

ʹHe's not one of us and no one here will ever trust him. Our feud with the musketeers is not forgotten,ʹ Biscarat agreed. ʹThis will be fun!ʹ

ʹEnough of this.ʹ Jussac put his book down on the bench and stood up. The conversation with his friends had dampened his anger. ʹMorning roll call in half an hour, muster the men! We will adequately introduce our appreciated newcomer to duty.ʹ In the next half hour he had to think about what to do now. Captain Luchaire certainly did not want any trouble within the red guard during his last weeks of duty. The only question left was how his lieutenant could prevent this based on the latest developments. ʹDismissed!ʹ

Bernajoux and Biscarat confirmed and left the guardroom. Outside the door, they only had to exchange a quick glance to agree with each other. They would adequately introduce d'Artagnan to the guard, oh yes. So adequately that the former musketeer would soon come to terms with his new position and could be sure that he was always kept in sight watchfully. Both friends went off to call their comrades together as they had been ordered to do.

*~*~*~*~*

D'Artagnan tugged uncomfortably at his new uniform, the red tunic of His Eminence's guard. On his arrival, the armourer had only eyed him with a brief, appraising glance, while Sorel explained the matter, and then handed him his equipment; a musket and the cloak-like uniform with the characteristic, unadorned cross on the chest, back and sleeves. Reluctantly, d'Artagnan had put on the new colours, ignoring Sorel's encouraging nod.

Perhaps Sorel had then deliberately chosen the path through the gallery of mirrors down into the courtyard so that d'Artagnan could cast furtive side glances. In passing, the former musketeer had actually dared to examine his appearance. The tunic fitted him as if he had never worn another. Like tailor-made, fabric of the best quality. D'Artagnan forced himself to stop another tugging and accept that the cardinal equipped his guards better than the king had his musketeers.

A considerable number of guards had already gathered in the inner courtyard. The morning roll call seemed imminent and d'Artagnan felt visibly out of place. Everything appeared so disciplined and organised here as it had never been in the musketeers' headquarters. He had always appreciated the loud hustle and bustle there, the rough jokes, the mock battles on the stairs or the gambling in the entrance hall. The full life, seemingly unbridled and carefree. The guardsmen, on the other hand, had gathered here in loose groups, were talking to each other, but only quietly, and they always seemed to keep a watchful eye on the surroundings so that they could react immediately to the arrival of an officer.

From one of these groups Cahusac now waved in their direction. To be more precise, he waved to Sorel, who also briefly raised one arm and immediately joined the comrade. He did not seem to notice that d'Artagnan was not following him. Perhaps the young guard was also relieved to be able to leave with an excuse. The former lieutenant knew when he was welcome among the common soldiers and when not. In case he still did not understand, he caught another warning look from Cahusac and shrugged his shoulders.

Without really knowing what to do with himself, d'Artagnan remained below one of the windows, which were facing the court at regular intervals. It was only a small square in the entrance area of the town palace, almost directly facing the street. 'Small', of course, only compared to the impressive gardens and the vast Cour d'Honneur further inside. One could have built several houses here easily and even then there would have been room left for a modest forecourt with a statue and pigeon droppings.

The Palais Cardinal was a stone monument, three storeys high and topped with pointed roofs. The façade was straight, symmetrical on all sides, with only a few decorations on the windows. The gates were framed by double columns because it had been inspired by Italian architecture at that time. The Louvre was within a stone's throw, d'Artagnan saw it from an unusual perspective. Never before had he felt so much in the wrong place.

ʹYou look like one of us.ʹ

D'Artagnan was torn from his thoughts and he cursed for having been inattentive. Suddenly, he saw himself surrounded by a semicircle of guardsmen, Bernajoux and Biscarat ahead of them. The latter had dropped this unkind remark and, amidst the approving murmurs of his comrades, added now, ʹBut are you one of us?ʹ

Not particularly impressed by the superior forces and certainly not intimidated, d'Artagnan responded, ʹI shall be.ʹ He surprised himself by sounding not only determined but also sincere. Perhaps Rochefort had taken correctly measure of himself and this seemingly impossible task resuscitated his ambition.

The guardsmen seemed to be moving imperceptibly closer, but still remained behind the front, which Bernajoux, with his physique, could form all by himself. D'Artagnan remembered him as a formidable opponent, back ten years ago when Bernajoux challenged him to a duel after a tennis match to avenge the wounds of the carmelite monastery. Without doubt he was the best fencer of the guardsmen. D'Artagnan had only been able to triumph over him because Bernajoux had not taken him seriously as an opponent due to his youth. With their duel they had started a small war between musketeers, the cardinal's guard and even the king's guard in the town, in which a house had almost been burned down. Bernajoux still did not seem particularly well disposed towards him. With a sideways glance at Biscarat, he said, ʹIt is in his papers.ʹ

ʹPaper does not blush,ʹ said Biscarat, playing helplessly with the question of how to answer the attitude of their new member. D'Artagnan, for his part, tried to keep an eye on each man so he would been forearmed. Unconsciously, he took a firmer stand. Bernajoux made clear what this meeting would lead to. ʹA test of loyalty?ʹ

Biscarat seemed to think about it while the rest of the guardsmen was already smirking. D'Artagnan had a sense of foreboding when the other Gascon nodded with a much too friendly smile. ʹAn introduction.ʹ

Suddenly d'Artagnan found himself hooked under the arms and in the middle of his new comrades, who immediately marched off as a merry group, dragging him along with them. They knew by now that he had been demoted and that they were not attacking any superior officer. ʹWhat the hell are you doing?!ʹ he shouted against Bernajoux and Biscarat, who marched ahead and led the group down from the yard to the laughter of the remaining guardsmen. He received no reply and after a pointless attempt to break away, he surrendered.

D'Artagnan did not have to puzzle over their destination for long. It could be smelled before it was heard too; the stables of the Palais Cardinal. The smell of horse manure, straw and the animals themselves hung intensely in the air and the damp, misty weather intensified it even more. D'Artagnan only got a brief glimpse of the horses in their compartments, as he was led straight into the back of the stables. The hostlers were clever enough to make themselves invisible as the noisy and frighteningly cheerful group passed by with an unhappy recruit in their midst.

Soon they left the roofed part of the stables and d'Artagnan resisted only half-heartedly. He achieved nothing more than to be grabbed even tighter. The stench of filth and dung had become overwhelming here in the backyard. The procession took a halt and Biscarat turned to the former musketeer. ʹNow you have got an idea.ʹ

ʹIt is blatantly obvious,ʹ d'Artagnan growled back and understood perfectly what was meant. The guardsmen were superior against him in every way, and this whole 'introduction' served only to point him out to his low-ranked position. The warning had reached him.

Bernajoux put a hand on the shoulder of his friend when he seemed to hesitate. Biscarat might have ended the matter here and now, because the supposed enemy had been put in its place and he kept calm. But the comrades did not want to be here for nothing, so the half Spaniard stepped aside.

D'Artagnan's arms were suddenly released, but a fierce thrust in the back made him stagger and because he could just manage to steady himself, someone tripped him up. Face first, the former lieutenant's fall ended in horse dung. Instinctively, he tried to get back up on his knees and was shoved down again accompanied by the cheers and spitefulness of the other men. He spat out and tried to straighten himself up, only to be doused with a bucket of more dung.

The choreography of this baptism had been long rehearsed, often practised. A disgusting liquid dripped from the brim of his hat into d'Artagnan's neck. He did not try to get up again and grudgingly endured the laughter. Probably all newcomers had to endure this humiliation. D'Artagnan doubted that the guardsmen would always be throwing their own uniforms into the dirt. This was reserved solely for former musketeers, so that they too would make a certain introduction of themselves to the senior officers on their first day of service.

Another recruit would now have reached out a hand to help him out after the traditional bath in horse dung. He would have been pulled back up on his feet, patted on his shoulders and thus be officially accepted by the guards. In the evening, there would have been a mutual celebration in their favourite tavern. But now the guardsmen congratulated each other only among themselves on their successful prank. Bernajoux was the first to turn away abruptly and leave the court. Soon the other men followed him and did not hold back with ridicule. One even threw a clean handkerchief to d'Artagnan. When he raised his eyes, he looked into Biscarat's face. There was neither triumph nor compassion in it when he said, ʹIt is your choice now.ʹ

D'Artagnan nodded, spat again and laboriously got up on his feet, disgusted by the unspeakable globs and fluids sticking to and under his clothes. He waded out of the dung heap and was just about to say a word to Biscarat, when he decided to do the same as his comrades and therefore walked away without looking back.