“Did I not?” Porthos said, looking guilty. “I thought I had. Only I was thinking very hard on it, and it didn’t seem to bear the trouble of explaining.” He looked down at his feet. “I hope I value Aramis as I must, his being one of my best friends, and the noblest man in the whole world, excepting only Athos and… and perhaps yourself, D’Artagnan.”

“No, don’t strain your courtesy,” D’Artagnan said, fighting hard not to laugh. “It is not fair to include me in the same class as Athos or even Aramis. Let’s establish our two friends are the noblest men who ever drew breath and go from there.”

“Well, yes. And I know Aramis is my friend, and a kind friend too. But he asks questions, and he would want to know what I was going to do, and why, and he would… push me half to death, before I could explain what I was about to do. And by that time I might very well be confused on the why and the when.”

D’Artagnan nodded. He’d seen the process many times. “And Athos would try to convince you it was too dangerous.”

“You understand,” Porthos said.

“Oh yes, I understand, for you see, he tried to convince me it was too dangerous for us to go out at all, by ourselves, for however long it took to solve this murder. And then he tried to convince me that he could come with me and pass as a plebeian in this neighborhood.”

Porthos looked at him in shocked horror. “Good men,” he said. “They are. And noble, and Athos is so learned. But sometimes I wonder…”

“Where he gets his ideas,” D’Artagnan said. “Yes, so do I.” He spoke entirely without irony. Oh, D’Artagnan was cunning enough, and he understood the complex words that frustrated Porthos’s tongue and ear. But he also understood how Porthos’s mind worked better than he understood Athos’s or Aramis’s minds. Perhaps because he and Porthos, though noble born enough, had not after all, been raised as high nobility. It was a different country, almost, the level of pride and honor at which Athos had been brought up.

Porthos gave D’Artagnan the smallest of smiles, as though gratified to be making common cause with the Gascon, then shrugged. “At any rate, when I got there, I lit my candle, and I realized that there were indeed no hammers hanging from the upper racks. Nor should there be, since they could not be easily reached. You needed this hook thing I called the shepherds crook, just to remove the swords from their hooks.”

“So it was unlikely that Mousqueton could grab a sword quickly without anyone stopping him, and, therefore, it is unlikely he was stealing it.”

Porthos looked pained. “I have learned,” he said, primly, “that it is never a good idea to say it is unlikely for Mousqueton to steal anything at all, D’Artagnan. When I first met him, he managed to steal my monogrammed handkerchief from my sleeve, without my ever feeling him touch me. And I know at least one case where he stole two pigeons in a cage from a shop where they were the only livestock.” He shook his head. “Not that I intend to speak of these cases to anyone.”

“Please, do not,” D’Artagnan said. “No one needs to know who doesn’t already.”

Porthos touched the side of his nose in a conspiratorial way. “This I know,” he said. “But you see, I thought it was still possible that someone who didn’t know Mousqueton-particularly someone who didn’t know Mousqueton or myself-would say that he had asked Monsieur Langelier for the sword, and then run him through suddenly when he least expected it.”

“They wouldn’t say that if they knew Mousqueton or yourself?”

“No, because anyone who knew Mousqueton would know that he would never run a man through like that, in cold blood. And anyone who knew me…” He shrugged. “Anyone who knew me would know that I have no money for an expensive sword. And, what’s more, would know Monsieur Langelier knew it also.”

D’Artagnan nodded. Having walked all the while they spoke, they were now well away from the neighborhood of the armorer’s and at the point where they must choose whether to turn in the direction of Porthos’s lodgings or D’Artagnan’s. D’Artagnan motioned towards the alley which would lead them to the Rue des Fossoyers, where he lived. “Come with me,” he said. “I must change out of this suit.”

“Of course,” Porthos said, good-naturedly, and followed him. “So I thought perhaps they had hammers up there. Not… Not that I could see them there, and I don’t think anyone would have their work hammers so far up they would need a tool to retrieve them, but then… perhaps they’d made a hammer or two, to see how they would sell, you know… and hung them up there.”

“Unlikely,” D’Artagnan said.

“Very, but I was thinking, you see, of what people would say.”

“Of course,” D’Artagnan said. “And so…”

“I put a hammer up there, hung it with a bit of leather. And then I swung the rack, to see if it would fall.”

“And did it?” D’Artagnan asked.

Porthos shook his head. “Never did. And, you know, I could not allow it to fall on my head, but I’m sure we can get some large melons or something of that nature. I would wager you, if I can make it fall, coming from as far up as it would be coming, even a glancing blow would be enough to crush a melon. Or a human head.”

Frowning, D’Artagnan nodded. “You may be right,” he said.

“I know I am,” Porthos said, with that complete absence of arrogance and absolute certainty in his own experience that was his hallmark. “So it is quite impossible for Mousqueton to have done it. Of course, I already knew Mousqueton couldn’t do it, but… I didn’t have proof.”

“Yes, yes, and proof is very important.” They had reached D’Artagnan’s door, and D’Artagnan opened it and started up the stairs, to his lodging. Porthos followed.

“Planchet,” D’Artagnan said, “will be with Grimaud, so it would be perhaps a good idea for us to go there, after I have changed.”

“Certainly,” Porthos said. “Perhaps we may speak to Athos about the hammers and… and the impossibility of the whole thing, and perhaps he can lay that impossibility before Monsieur de Treville.”

Thinking that while Athos would be more than happy to lay the impossibility before Monsieur de Treville, it was highly unlikely that the captain could do anything more about it, D’Artagnan started to cross his vast front room, empty except for a table at which the four of them often held their war councils. And stopped. On the mantelpiece was a letter in a hand he knew much too well.

He stopped and broke the seal and was momentarily overwhelmed by the familiar perfume of Constance, Madame Bonacieux, the wife of his landlord, D’Artagnan’s lover and, incidentally, the first true love of his young life.

All of which made him frown at the shakiness of the hand in which she had written: “Please meet me at the palace as soon as you can. Monsieur de la Porte will make sure you can enter. Tell him I am expecting you. Yours, anxiously, C.B.”

He turned to Porthos, letter in hand.

“Bad news?” Porthos asked.

“Not… I hope not, but Constance wants to see me,” he said. “As soon as may be. I will change and go to her.”

“You know,” Porthos said, slowly, “Athos will never forgive me if I let you go alone. Perhaps I should accompany you now?” And then, in a rush, “Oh, I don’t mean I will go with you to see Constance. I don’t… have the need to see her. But I will accompany you to her door and wait for you. You know how Athos worries.”

And D’Artagnan, looking up at his friend’s eyes, knew how Porthos worried, also, and wasn’t cruel enough to refuse his offer. “I would be very grateful to you,” he said. And added with a hint of mischief, “But only if you promise not to drop hammers on my head.”

Porthos looked shocked. “Melons,” he said, drily. “Not Gascons.” And before D’Artagnan could decide whether his friend was joking or not, he added with a smile, “Everyone knows your average Gascon head is hard enough to break any hammers dropped on it, no matter from what height.”