In no time at all, the alley resounded with the noise of crossed swords.

A Rude Awakening; A Lady in Distress; A Monstrous Idea

D’ARTAGNAN slept. At the back of his mind, in the part of him that was somewhat conscious, there was the idea that he had slept too long. But there was also another feeling, a feeling of needing rest and of relishing it, which was quite unusual to this young man of seventeen and of an active disposition.

And then upon his deep, dreamless sleep there impinged a sound of crossing swords and a couple of exclamations that he knew for a fact to be uttered in Porthos’s voice-well, either to be uttered in Porthos’s voice or to have been shouted right by his bed, because that was the only way a voice could be that loud.

Adding insult to injury, a hand seized rough hold of D’Artagnan’s shoulder and shook it. “Monsieur D’Artagnan, Monsieur D’Artagnan.” The voice was undoubtedly Planchet’s and yet it couldn’t be, because Planchet was not fool enough to wake his master from a deep, dreamless sleep.

Without opening his eyes, D’Artagnan half turned and muttered as much through his teeth, though he might have taken the time to add a couple of choice swearwords to make Planchet understand the enormity of what he was about to do.

“Monsieur,” Planchet said. “You’d never forgive me if I let you sleep. If what I can see from this window is true, then it’s Monsieur Aramis and Monsieur Porthos and as many as half a dozen of the guards of the Cardinal.”

At these words, D’Artagnan was instantly awake and sitting up. He’d had the foresight of lying down to sleep fully attired and as he stood, he found Planchet with admirable promptness, helping him strap on his sword. The boy would make an excellent servant yet.

Fully attired, D’Artagnan started down the stairs to his front door two at a time. It was a measure of how much better he felt that he did not misstep a single time. He pulled his door open and ran out, fully intending to run across the street to the alley, to help his friends.

Only instead he careened full force into a warm, soft body, and both of them fell. It took him only a moment to realize the person he’d toppled, and atop of whom he was now lying, smelled of some soft roselike perfume. Another moment to realize it was undoubtedly a female. And a blink of his disbelieving eyes, to take in blond hair, oval face and amazed blue eyes, and to realize he was lying atop Madame Bonacieux.

“Monsieur D’Artagnan,” she said, and the two of them did a creditable job of springing up and apart.

She blushed and he blushed, and only the sound of swords from across the street could force him to move. He reached for his hat, and started to remove it and to bow, when to his confused mind there came the thought that he had lost the handkerchief she’d given him. And in his befuddled state he said, “Only… I’ve lost your handkerchief. ”

She blushed a dark, dark pink, and lowered her eyes, then looked back up at him, and sighed. “Don’t worry about the handkerchief,” she said. “It is safe.”

He couldn’t understand why she looked ashamed, nor what she might mean by it, but he only bowed again, and then he ran into the alley, screaming “To me,” and calling the attention of two of the opponents who had engaged Porthos and Aramis. He could perceive he had arrived just in time, since both Porthos and Aramis-each of whom had been fighting three enemies at once, for who knew how long-gave the impression of being very tired.

The problem, as D’Artagnan realized, is that this still left each of them defending himself from two enemies. Except that at that moment, from the entrance of the alley, there echoed in Athos’s most resonant voice, “To me, musketeers. ”

A moment later, Athos claimed the attention of one of D’Artagnan’s opponents, whom he discharged in very short order, just as D’Artagnan managed to dispatch his own. Which left both of them in the position of being able to relieve Porthos and Aramis, just as three more musketeers, called by Athos’s yell, charged into the alley. Moments later, another two arrived running from the other end.

The two guards of the Cardinal who were still unscathed made the rational decision of running full tilt towards the newly arrived musketeers, while the two who were wounded leaned against the wall and surrendered their swords.

Leaving their comrades to dispose of dead and wounded, the four inseparables walked towards D’Artagnan’s home. D’Artagnan led them, of course not expecting to see Madame Bonacieux anywhere. And indeed, she was gone, and he didn’t have time to look at the windows of her house, to see if she might be watching him. Besides, what she had said really troubled him.

What could she mean by saying the handkerchief was safe? And by looking so guilty?

D’Artagnan led the other men up the stairs to the room where they normally had their councils. They each took his accustomed place at the table.

“So, Athos, what’s your verdict on Madame de Comeau?” Aramis asked.

“I don’t think she had anything to do with the boy’s death,” Athos said. He was frowning, as if something were troubling him. D’Artagnan could interpret the expression accurately because it mirrored his own puzzle over Madame Bonacieux’s words.

“Why not?” Porthos asked.

Athos shrugged. He spoke lightly, though his forehead remained knit in a frown. He spoke as though all of this were less important than some puzzle he must solve. “Because… well, she said her husband was very fond of rogues and imposters, but I think she nurtures a fondness for them herself. Or at least for the boy. His audacity in threatening to denounce her husband for horse trading seemed to delight her.”

“So…” Porthos said slowly. “We are coming to the conclusion no one killed Guillaume. Perhaps it was just a seizure?”

“No,” Aramis said. “No. It was definitely belladonna poisoning. And while it’s possible it was eaten by mistake, Guillaume didn’t look so hungry that he would eat any leaf or berry that…”

“No,” Athos said. “But… something is puzzling me. Something different. There is something new-something Madame de Comeau told me-and which we have not yet accounted for.”

“Oh?” Porthos asked.

“She gave the boy five hundred pistoles.”

“Five hundred pistoles?” D’Artagnan asked, his eyes opening wide. “How? And why?”

“Oh, he threatened to reveal that her husband dealt in horses. And though she knows of it and doesn’t seem to mind, she says that appearances have to be kept for the sake of society.”

“But then…” Porthos said. “Perhaps she killed him to recover the money. That’s quite a sum.”

Athos shrugged. “She didn’t seem to think that was quite a sum. It was just some jewelry, she said. And, Porthos, I don’t think she was lying because I don’t think she had the slightest suspicion of the child being dead. The way she talked of him…” He shook his head.

“But then…” Aramis said. “There was no money in his pouch when he was found.”

And all the while, while the others looked at each other and tried to reason it out, D’Artagnan was thinking-how would Madame Bonacieux know that the handkerchief was safe? She’d given it to him the night of the day they’d met. It said “CB” on it. And then, almost immediately a series of anonymous rogues that D’Artagnan had never seen before had started attacking him, demanding he give them it.

“Are you saying the boy was hit on the head and robbed?” Porthos asked.

“No,” Athos said, shaking his head. “No. He wasn’t hit on the head, and indeed, who would poison him to rob him? Unless…”

“Unless?”

What could it be but that handkerchief? But why would a band of ruffians and-D’Artagnan frowned-the guards of the Cardinal want Madame Bonacieux’s handkerchief? It made no sense at all.