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.”
“On the contrary,” Porthos said. “He was arrested three days ago and a friend of mine has spoken to the Cardinal and ensured that nothing bad will happen to Mousqueton until… that is, until his eminence has ascertained a few things relating to the case.”
He thought that showing that the Cardinal and Porthos had common friends could not possibly hurt his case, and, in fact, the guard looked at him very intently for a moment, then said, “Oh, one of the parlor boarders! Why didn’t you tell me that?”
He walked towards the back of his guard booth, and pulled on a handle on the wall. From somewhere, deep within the bowels of the fortress turned prison, came the sound of a bell tolling. Moments later, a man who looked like he hadn’t shaved in at least three years, and whose uniform made the first guard’s appear a model of cleanliness and pressing, came to the door at the back of the booth.
“Holla, Gaston,” the first guard said. “This gentleman here is here on behalf of a Princess, to see one of the parlor borders-the one they call Boniface or Mousqueton.”
“The rat!” Gaston said, which seemed like an odd enough comment, since neither Porthos, nor Mousqueton could be in any way confused with small rodents. He looked Porthos up and down, and shrugged, with a sort of resigned look that seemed to say it wasn’t any of his business, and besides, he was there to follow orders. He motioned with his hand, and turned.