Planchet looked up at him, his normally quick eyes now arrested and slow. He reached inside his sleeve for a handkerchief and mopped his forehead, though no sweat was visible upon it. “Monsieur, she was found in the little garden where… where they say you spoke to her. She was run through. They think by a sword. There is talk… there were rumors that Monsieur Porthos had killed her to prevent her speaking about something with Mousqueton. I had to say that… that is, I had to tell them that it could not be so, because Monsieur Porthos and Monsieur Athos too were still asleep when we got the message asking you to come to the palace. Grimaud woke them and I…” He shrugged. “I went along to find out what had happened. Behind them, as it were. And then I came here, because I kept hearing you’d talked to Hermengarde today and I wondered…”

“You wondered!” D’Artagnan repeated. He thought of the little maid, her sparkling eyes, her unfailing sense of humor. He couldn’t imagine killing her. He couldn’t imagine anyone doing it.

“Oh, not if you had done it, sir,” Planchet said. “I wondered where you’d been and with whom. And if they…” He shrugged.

“I was… I was on the street and then in a tavern. The Cheval D’Or, you know, where…”

“They know you there?”

“Of a certainty they do. I owe them quite a hefty sum on account.”

Planchet looked relieved, probably the first time that the estimable young man, who had once been apprenticed as clerk to an accountant, looked relieved at the mention of debt. “Good. Then they know you couldn’t have gone back and killed Hermengarde. We were worried… I mean… I was worried. And perhaps Monsieur Porthos and Athos were worried too.”

“Athos thought I might have killed her?”

Planchet looked up and shook his head. “I don’t think so. You know, with Monsieur Athos it is sometimes devilishly hard to tell what’s passing in his brain.”

“Yes. I do know that. And I suspect it’s intentional. He’d rather we don’t see within.”

Planchet nodded, then shrugged. “At any rate, I’m glad you were with people, all three of you, who can vouch for your innocence.” He stood up, and started up the stairs again, holding on to the wall. “Though I’m not at all glad about Hermengarde, of course, and I wonder how Mousqueton will take it. He thought the sun rose and set on the girl.”

D’Artagnan nodded. It would be hard on Mousqueton. And then he thought over what Planchet had said. “You said the three of us. Where is Monsieur Aramis?”

Planchet shook his head. “He left late at night,” he said. “After the rest of you went to sleep.”

“The devil!” D’Artagnan said, thinking that it was quite possible his friend had no one to vouch for him. Not that anyone could believe that either Aramis, or indeed any of the musketeers, could have killed the girl, but people would insist on believing impossible things, after all. “Where can he have gone?”

Planchet looked back, a most unbecoming flush on his face. “I don’t know, monsieur, but this being Monsieur Aramis, I would say for sure that he’s not been alone.”

“Oh, of that I’m very sure. I just hope whoever his companion is, she is able to own it.”

“There is that,” Planchet said.

They’d arrived at the top of the stairs, where Planchet turned around to look at D’Artagnan. “What I don’t understand, sir, is why you came here, and not to Monsieur Athos’s home. “I thought all of you had agreed that…”

D’Artagnan shrugged. “Indeed, I intend to go there, as soon as I’ve picked some clothes.” He looked at the boy. “I’ve been invited to dinner at the home of a lady for whom I did a trifling favor this morning.”

He told Planchet the whole story, as they went within, to D’Artagnan’s room. Now, while D’Artagnan knew his servant was inexperienced-at least he hoped he was, though he’d seen the boy eye the tavern wenches with a hungry eye once or twice-he’d never known him to be exactly prudish. So it was odd that, as his story progressed, he found Planchet becoming redder and redder, till presently he was looking at D’Artagnan with an odd, sheepish look.

“Oh, come, Planchet,” he said. “You can’t be that offended. After all, Madame Bonacieux spends the night here two or three times a week, and you do no more than make sure she’s had dinner, before you show her into my room.”

Planchet sighed. “And have you thought, sir, on Madame Bonacieux and… and what she will feel about all this?”

D’Artagnan, who had thought of scarcely anything else, shook his head resolutely. “Not at all. Her behavior to me-her implication that I had lied to her in order to avoid going to the palace and fighting a duel, her cruelty in sending me way… I must say, Planchet, that your loyalty becomes you, but it would be by far a better thing if the lady herself had any notion of loyalty or… or care for me.”

“She was crying when we got to the palace,” Planchet said. “She sent for you to tell you about Hermengarde, and she was crying when we got there.”

She was? D’Artagnan thought, as his hopeful heart leapt. But what he said, in restrained tones, was, “Good God, of course she was. You can’t think that she’s a monster. She might not have known Hermengarde very well, but I’m sure she’d paid special attention to the girl, since the girl was, after all, Mousqueton’s lover.” And on that he thought that Hermengarde had also, after all, been carrying Mousqueton’s child, and his heart turned within him in horror.

“It wasn’t that,” Planchet said. “I was nearby enough as Monsieur Athos spoke to her, and she said… she said she’d been remorseful over what she’d told you.”

Remorseful, D’Artagnan’s heart said, with relish, cherishing the word, but his mind had control of his mouth, which said, disdainfully, “She very well should be remorseful. She behaved to me as a veritable shrew.”

“Yes, but…” Planchet said. “From what I understand, women are like that. When they really care, at least. Not that I know much about women, of course, but… but… I’ve seen Madame Coquenard take Monsieur Porthos down a peg or two, and he, that giant that he is, he just stands there and takes it humbly, and you know, in the end, she didn’t mean to tear him down at all, but was, you know, all in solicitude for him.”

D’Artagnan, who had seen it too, could imagine his great giant of a friend standing there, if Athenais told him that he had avoided meeting her to go to a duel. It would all be, “I understand what you’re saying, my pigeon.” And “I regret having grieved you, my dearest.” And in the end, somehow, she would be still, and he would be able to speak, and tell her what had really happened.

Unfortunately, D’Artagnan was not Porthos. His Gascon temper would never allow him to stand meekly by and listen to himself being berated on grounds that were not only untruthful, but which made no sense whatsoever. But in his mind, he very much envied Porthos.

Having selected a bright blue suit from his armoire, he set it on the bed, removed his arm from its sling, and told Planchet, “I’m going to need some help dressing. You see, my arm is very painful still.”

“Of course, sir,” Planchet said, joining action to words. As he stripped his master of his coat and shirt, and started to slip fresh ones on, he said, “Monsieur?”

D’Artagnan gave him a sharp look. It was obvious that Planchet wanted to tell him something, and was equally afraid of saying anything. The combination was so unusual between the two youths, who, while master and servant, were close enough in age to speak with a disarming lack of ceremony when no one else was present, that it alarmed D’Artagnan.

“Yes, Planchet?” he said, very quietly, trying not to scare away whatever confidence was coming.

“Well, monsieur,” Planchet said, and then, as though losing all courage. “Well…”

“Planchet, if you say ‘well’ once more or hesitate to tell me what’s on your mind I shall flog you,” D’Artagnan said. And, as the young man widened frightened eyes at him, added, “Don’t think I can’t. A lot of musketeers-a lot of noblemen-thrash their servants.”