“Unless it was given to him by someone he trusted.”

Trust. He had trusted her. But the leader of the ruffians had an English accent. Constance Bonacieux. Charles Buckingham. CB. The same initials on that handkerchief.

Constance Bonacieux worked for her Majesty the Queen whose rumored lover was the Duke of Buckingham. In fact, it was a current joke at court that the Queen might yet give France an heir if only Buckingham would visit more often. But then…

The King and, more importantly, the Cardinal, forever anxious to catch the Queen in some faux pas that allowed him to have her divorced and exiled, often made it very difficult for the Queen to communicate with Buckingham at all. Even if her communication with him was often meant to tell him to stay away.

CB. A handkerchief sent as a signal. Had Constance Bonacieux, on first meeting him, thought him such a young… dullard, that she’d thought she could entrust the handkerchief to him as a love token and get it stolen from him without a problem, and no one would suspect?

He remembered how he’d protected her to take her important message somewhere. It had all been a sham. She had used him. She had…

D’Artagnan got up from the table, vaguely aware that his friends were also standing up. He had no idea why they were standing up. It had been some time since he’d stopped paying attention to their conversation. He rushed down the stairs, to the front of the house, where he looked up.

The window which she’d opened before to talk to him, now opened again. She looked out, her features full of guilt. “I’m sorry, monsieur,” she said. There was something other than guilt in her gaze, some deep appreciation, something he couldn’t quite read. “I thought it would be very simple. You are so young. I thought they could take the handkerchief again from you, without a problem. I thought they would never know and you would never know. They were under orders not to hurt you.”

“You used me,” D’Artagnan said. “You used my admiration for you.” His all too open admiration. “Oh, Athos is right. Women are the devil.”

Madame Bonacieux nodded gravely. “Perhaps we are, monsieur. Perhaps we are. But… she is so lonely. My lady. She had a friend, but her friend was killed. She is so lonely and there’s no one she trusts. She thought, a handkerchief with the initials… Well… They’re the same as mine. Even if I were searched, the Cardinal would never guess that was the message. And words written upon it by a cunning ink that looks invisible till he uses the right chemical to deliver it.” She shook her head. “He wants to come to Paris, you see. He said he would come and see her unless she sent a note to deter him. And my lady, she can’t… She can’t risk her position, her crown, her whole life for love. Even if she loves him.”

“You used me,” D’Artagnan said. This single fact, persistent, in his mind, would not go away nor would it allow him space to think of anything else.

“Oh, monsieur. I thought it would be quick and easy.”

“Guards of the Cardinal attacked me. And my friends.”

“But none of it should have happened. I don’t know how the guards, how his eminence got word of it. They can’t have seen it, because they had no idea which of you had the handkerchief. Or even that it was a handkerchief. They just thought you or your friends had been given… something. But the palace is rotten with plots. You can’t trust anyone.”

“Yes,” D’Artagnan said, heavily. “Yes. I begin to perceive that.”

“Oh.”

At that moment D’Artagnan became aware that his friends had come out his front door and stood, looking like they were waiting for him.

“I bid you good afternoon, madam,” D’Artagnan said, removing his hat and bowing low, as he turned to accompany his friends.

He was young enough, though, that he couldn’t resist a look over his shoulder, just a glance, to see how she was taking his rejection. But her window had closed.

How One Speaks to Girl Children; The Advantages of Not Being Easily Convinced; The Vanished Coin

PORTHOS didn’t want to go into the Hangman. Everything else aside, he remembered the unpleasant face of the host’s wife and it seemed to curdle bile in his stomach. Besides, he imagined that if he tried to speak to the girl child again, she would only be called a whore and attacked by her unkind guardian again.

But the thing of it was that Athos was right. If anyone still alive in the world knew where Guillaume might have put the money or to whom he might have given it, it would be Amelie. So they must steel themselves to going into the Hangman.

Porthos had been talking to himself in stern terms, as they crossed the few blocks that separated them from the tavern. He had, in fact, been nerving himself up so much to go into the place that he did not realize that Amelie herself had just come out of the tavern. Barefoot and hurried, she was running in their direction and, in the way of a street urchin, moving back and forth, trying to spy an opening between the approaching men.

As she made to run between Porthos and Aramis, Porthos put a hand out and grabbed her little arm. The girl squealed in fright, but Porthos said, “Shhh. It’s us. We’re friends. We mean you no harm.”

Amelie looked up, her eyes searching. “Oh, you,” she said. “You asked all the questions about Guillaume. Have you seen him, monsieur? Because I think he might have got sick, something might have happened to him. He was acting funny when he left, five days ago, and he hasn’t come back.”

Porthos took the girl’s hand and led her to the side of the road, where he knelt in the dust, not caring if it marred his fine velvet suit. “Amelie,” he said. “Listen, you must tell me… Did Guillaume ever tell you he had money?”

Amelie looked at Porthos, then behind Porthos at the other three. “No. No. He said he was going to get money, and I would be a lady and dress like one.”

Porthos was aware of Athos kneeling beside him. A glance sideways revealed Athos looking grave, more serious than Porthos had seen him in a long time, but with a soft look to his eyes. And when he spoke, his voice that could make adults tremble came out very gentle. “Amelie, don’t lie to us. It is very important that we find out about the money. Whoever took the money probably hurt Guillaume, and might hurt you.”

The girl was silent, a long time. She looked away from them, at where her hand was twisting the frayed edge of her cloth dress. “Why do you say I’m lying?” she asked, at last, her eyes serious and her voice full of the businesslike aplomb of a much older person.

Athos answered just as seriously, seemingly making no allowances for his interlocutor’s young age. “Because I know Guillaume got money. I also know he didn’t have it with him when… when he left here five days ago. At least I don’t think he did. Did he, Amelie?”

The girl looked at him a long time, then, after a while, nodded. “No,” she said. “He didn’t take the money. There were two double handfuls”-she showed with her little hands-“of gold coins. His hands, bigger than mine. And he hid them in the stable. There’s a place in the upstairs where a board is lose, and he hid them there. But, you know, he must have come back for them, because when I went up there and checked yesterday, it was gone. I didn’t want you to know in case you thought he had done something bad with the money. Only he wouldn’t, you know? He wouldn’t do anything but what he said, and get a better life for us. And if he did something you don’t like-”

“He didn’t do anything I don’t like,” Porthos said, feeling tears come to his eyes. He wished Guillaume had grown. He wished in the course of a long life there would have been the time for him to disagree with Guillaume on some of Guillaume’s choices-his choice of profession or his choice of attire or his choice of bride. As it was, there was nothing, nothing, now for him to disagree with Guillaume on.