“Have had?”

“He…” Porthos considered rapidly. He could tell the girl a lie, but chances were Boniface-Mousqueton would only tell her the truth. And besides, the girl had proven trustworthy in the past. “He showed up late and very ill today, and then he… he died. When he died I realized I had no idea where he lived or who his parents were.”

“Didn’t his parents contract the lessons with you?”

“No,” Porthos shook his head. “His parents didn’t want him to learn to fight. They probably destined him for the church.”

“Oh,” she said. And then, “But then they don’t know he is dead.”

“No,” Porthos said, and for the first time felt a pang at the thought of having to tell them. What would they think? And what feel? What could he say to ease their pain, he who wasn’t a parent?

He pulled the picture from his sleeve and passed it on to Hermengarde. “I am trying to tell them as soon as possible, ” he said.

She unfolded the picture and looked at it reverentially, like someone would look at a saint’s relics. “Beautiful young man,” she said. “But I’ve never seen him.” Folding the picture again, she handed it to Porthos. “I would answer for his not having been anywhere near the palace,” she said. “People would have noticed otherwise. Handsome boy. I can count in both hands the number of boys that age around the palace who are not already in someone’s employ. Most people who come to court are older.”

Porthos nodded, but pushed the picture back at her. “Can you ask around?” he said. “Just in case. I can’t because of the cook. But… I’d truly like to know for sure.”

Hermengarde looked dubious but then nodded. “Yes, I’ll ask. You’ll wait here?”

“No,” Porthos said. “I’ll wait in the courtyard by the south entrance. If you’d be so kind.”

She nodded. “I will be as quick and thorough as I can. I do wish to help you in your errand of mercy. Better than the fetching and carrying I do all day.”

Porthos managed a smile of encouragement and a full-hearted bow at her, hat in hand. But in his heart he felt she would find nothing.

Somewhere, Guillaume’s parents were worrying over his absence and Porthos had no way of even finding out who they were. And, if perchance he did find them, he would be able to do nothing but cause them more grief.

Where Porthos is Missing; Where Information is Missing; Where One Thinks the Unthinkable

WHEN Athos arrived at Porthos’s home, he found D’Artagnan and Aramis already there. As a worried Mousqueton led him up the stairs, and Athos emerged into the spacious room where they met at Porthos’s, the other two rose from their seats at the massive table, and turned to look.

“Oh,” Aramis said. “I thought…”

“You thought?” Athos asked.

Aramis sighed. He looked tired and drained, more so than he had looked for many a week now. Aramis normally managed to look perfectly groomed, perfectly attired and not at all affected by any situation no matter how unpleasant. It had taken Athos sometime to realize this was not because he did not, in fact, care about anything, but rather because he was in his way almost as stoic as Athos. Even if his way required perfectly manicured hands, a wealth of lace and silk and the latest in plumes for his hat.

“I thought you might be Porthos,” Aramis said, and allowed himself to slump back into his chair, in a distinct un-Aramis-like slump. “Here, Bazin, fetch us some wine. I think the tavern down the street has some that might be less than vinegar.” He tossed Bazin a coin that the servant plucked overhand from the air.

“You have money?” D’Artagnan asked, not accusatorial, but more curiously as a man for whom money has become one of those marvels often heard about but never seen with ones own eyes, or by anyone one knows.

Aramis looked at D’Artagnan, and shrugged a little. “I sold some theology books,” he said.

Athos was amused to note a hesitation in Bazin’s step, but the servant seemed to have decided against warning them on the evils of drinking holy books. To stop the risk altogether, Athos moved forward, pulled his chair and sat. “Why would you think I was Porthos?” he asked. “Where is Porthos?”

D’Artagnan shook his head and Aramis sighed.

“But you were with him,” Athos said, looking at Aramis.

“And you were with D’Artagnan,” Aramis said.

“D’Artagnan and I separated, so we could talk to twice as many landlords and tavern keepers,” Athos said, sternly. “We didn’t see any reason to meet again until we met here with whatever intelligence we gathered.”

“And did you gather any?” Aramis asked.

Athos shook his head and looked at D’Artagnan who opened his hands in a silent show of helplessness.

Athos leaned forward. “And you, Aramis? You separated from Porthos, and-?”

“I separated from Porthos at the palace,” Aramis said, hotly, as though he expected one of them to accuse him of snobbery. “His acquaintance and mine at the palace are different and we thought we’d get more information by going to our separate sources. We were supposed to meet in the courtyard where whoever arrived first would wait for the other.”

“And he didn’t meet you?” Athos asked.

Aramis shook his head. “Not only that, but as I waited there, I was overtaken by a palace maid, Hermengarde, whom I gather is a good friend of our Mousqueton.” Aramis nodded towards the servant. “She had the drawing of Guillaume with her. She said she had been asking around the palace, to all other servants and no one had seen him.” The long, well-manicured finger drew a circle on the polished wood of Porthos’s massive table. “Which accords with the witness from the noble ladies to whom I spoke.”

“So, no one at the palace has seen him?” Athos asked.

“None,” Aramis said. “We asked, as I said, between us, to most servants and most noblemen, and no one had seen the boy. No one knew, either, of a family by the name Jaucourt. And you know, even if they are the smallest of minor nobility, I don’t think it’s possible for them to be in Paris and be in such splendid isolation. Surely, if they came to court, they have to have met with some distant cousin, or some lost friend from their homeland. Somehow, someone at least who has some hold on the court and who knew who they are.”

“I’ve thought of that too. I didn’t find any anything among the landlords to whom I spoke, either. And surely someone would at least have heard of them, or seen them visit relatives or friends.”

“Unless they are truly so isolated, or from some godforsaken province where they have no contacts with the court,” D’Artagnan said. “Look at myself. When I came to Paris, my best chance of making my fortune and my name was the letter my father gave me for Monsieur de Treville with whom he’d served so many years ago.” He smiled a little. “If I hadn’t been foolhardy enough to arrange a duel with three of the most notorious duelists in the corps, I’d doubtless have ended up lost and forgotten in some corner of Paris.”

Aramis cleared his throat, the way he did when impolite laughter arose and must be suppressed. “Three duels, D’Artagnan. You attempted to start three duels.”

“But see-I only got myself known and noticed because I’d brought with me the notion that fighting early and often was my way into the musketeers and perhaps into fame and fortune.”

“Yes,” Athos said. “But you came alone, a single young man, seeking to make your fortune at the tip of your sword. It’s not that way, is it, when one comes with children? When families come to the capital they have to come with the belief-no matter how deluded-that they know someone or that someone will help them get favor with the King. They can’t afford the weeks of starving or living off chocolate or-” He allowed his gaze to slide slyly towards Aramis, who, he was sure, had been given coin by some lady of his acquaintance, and had not, in fact, sold his theology books. “Or theology books.”