[Shiva & Mystic] - Sunset in Saccourvielle

[mystictiger]

The rain was cool on his face as he barrelled down the dark alleyway, boots splashing on the rain-slick stone slabs. His dark eyes were bright with the manic grin that danger and adrenaline brought, maybe a little touch of fear if he was honest. The eagle, bundled in his cloak, made none of this any easier - and just a turn or twist behind he could hear the commotion of the Cardinal's Guard. They were clearly eager to recover their lost honour, but literally and metaphorically, and would enjoy beating Musketeer Second Class Jacques Desaix to a pulp. Assuming, of course, that they ever managed to catch him.

And suddenly the alleyway gave way to one of the yawning chasms between the dilapidated tenement blocks that made up this part of town. He didn't have time to wonder what had snatched the bridgeway out from his path, nor did he have the traction to stop. Arms flailing in a parody of flight he sailed across the 2 meter gap; there was no hope of reaching the other side of his tile-shrouded pathway, not in these conditions. He slammed through what had a moment ago been the flimsy shutters that the inhabitants had used to keep the sunlight out, and careened into what felt like a chest of drawers.

Yes, that was a handle. Ouch.

He picked himself up as he checked to make sure he was still mostly intact. Yes, his sword was still at his hip. Hard to be a musketeer without one. He could feel the sticky trickle of blood on the inside of his shirt, but a quick check revealed it to be nothing serious. Or rather, nothing that required to be dealt with now. And so he scooped his eagle back into his arms and did his best to find his way out of the maze of squalid shanties that filled the stone skeletons of more sumptuous times. It would take the Guards time to find another way across, and it seemed that none had been brave - or foolish - enough to attempt his method of transit. So that meant he could relax from an adrenaline-fuelled sprint to a more sedate jog. The Commanderie was still a few blocks distant, nestled up against the city walls. This one had none of the finery or ceremony of the one in the centre of Saccourveille, rather it was filled with hard-nosed, steel-eyed soldiers. Soldiers yes, but they were still musketeers, meaning that they may well have been hard-nosed, steel-eyed, but they were usually well-dressed soldiers, patriots and royalists all. Unlike the Cardinal's Guard - made up of sellswords from the near abroad with loyalty due only to the (considerable) amount of coin that they were given.

Jacques nodded to the gate-guard, a man not un-surprised by seeing his fellows arrive in all states of distress, disrepair, and drunkenness, as he returned to safe ground. Of course there would be complaints. But this was all part of the game. The queen would chide her musketeers in public, but would thrill at the thought of giving the regent a metaphorical black eye. That thought made Jacques laugh out loud. Which he immediately stifled because the splinter of drawer in his chest made him wince with pain. And then the thought of hurting himself by laughing made him laugh all the more. Which reduced him to sitting in the drizzle just inside the perimeter, clutching a misshapen cloaked-shrouded bundle.

 

[Shiva the Cat]

Of all the shabby little inns within the town of Saccourvielle, Le Maison Charbonneau had the distinction of being both the littlest and the shabbiest. In the days of the building's youth it might have had a slender grace with its five stories and white-painted walls, but over the years the owners had abandoned the higher reaches of the house to the rot of years, though they still kept the lower floors in functional order with a daub of whitewash here and there. The sparsely shingled roof resembled the patchy-bald back of a sick alley cat, complete with plenty of holes through which the resident pigeons of top floor could make their egress. In the past decade or so the owners of the inn had sealed off the top two floors entirely, leaving only six sparsely-furnished rooms to attract lodgers who rarely stayed more than a night or two, and this particular evening Monsieur and Madame Charbonneau had attracted only a single guest.

Only a few years ago I was at court in Paris thought Madame Azélie Sauveterre grimly as her maid handed her a black cloak. And now I am here on a fool's errand. And I the fool, no less.

To its credit, Azélie had it on good authority that Le Maison Charbonneau was perfectly safe for a woman traveling alone (well, a woman traveling with a 14-year-old maid who was frightened of her own shadow), and quite affordable for a lady of reduced circumstances. And even in a place like Saccourvielle, the woman had suspicions that the widow of the traitorous Marquis de Blancfleuve might not be welcome at all establishments, or at the very least would attract some very negative attentions. While the general consensus in the nation was that Madame Sauveterre had not been involved with her husband's conspiracy, too often those who recognized the lovely young widow bombarded her with troubling questions she neither would nor could answer. But Aunt Mimi's cook had assured her that the Charbonneaux would bother her with no such inquiries so long as they received their paltry rent, and Aunt Mimi's cook ought to know; Madame Charbonneau was her younger sister.

"Madame, must you go out this evening?" the little red-haired maid asked her mistress, glancing out the window at the rain slithering down the panes. "I'm afraid the weather may get worse."

"It'll be all right, Isabelle," Azélie replied as she fastened the cloak at her long white throat. "It's not very cold out, even with the rain, and if I go out tomorrow I'll have to deal with more people. Besides, I expect I won't be gone very long. You should see if Madame Charbonneau has any mending you can help with, or any dishes that might need washing up. Suzette said she'd pay you for any work you can do around here." Madame Sauveterre tried to smile at the girl, but the expression was curdled with guilt. It had been more than a year since she had paid the poor child a wage, and yet Isabelle refused to seek work elsewhere. She was so terrified of being at the mercy of a cruel mistress, even one with money, that she preferred to work for only food and half a bed with the one she had known her entire life.

Even now she shook her head and sat down on the rug before the paltry fire beside her mistress' open traveling bag. "No thank you, Madame. I have a few things of yours I'd like to do up before church on Sunday, if you don't mind."

This time, Azélie smiled for real as she raised the hood over her shining golden curls. "As you wish, sweetheart. I'll be back soon."

She did not encounter the landlords on her way out of the inn, nor did anyone appear to be in the street, likely due to the rain. Madame Sauveterre had taken note of the location of the Commanderie when they had arrived in town that afternoon, and had been pleased to see it was not particularly far from her lodgings. It would only be a ten minute walk or so, and if she stayed close to the eaves of the nearby buildings she would be able to avoid the worst of the rain. Perhaps they will not let me see him she thought to herself as she walked, half sure that would be the case even if she didn't identify herself. Most likely they would think her some desperate lover come for a tryst with a handsome musketeer, and in a way they would be right. But even if she got past the guards, would Jacques himself even agree to listen to her?

Well, he might not want anything to do with Madame Sauveterre (and who did, these days?), but he probably had some choice words for Azélie Durand. And Azélie would take them with all the humility she owed, if only he would help her.

As she approached the Commanderie, she became aware of the sound of laughter coming from just beyond the gate. It sounded like just one man, clearly amused with himself, and probably drunk. Azélie rolled her sapphire blue eyes and turned her attention to the gate guard. "Excuse me, sir," she began, pushing her hood just far enough to reveal her face and show she meant no trouble. "I was told Monsieur Jacques Desaix was stationed at this post. Would it be possible to speak with him?" she asked in a voice clear enough to be heard inside.

 

[mystictiger]

Unlike the greeting that Jacques received from the taciturn guard, he snapped to attention when Azélie approached. Even on tedious rain-soaked guard-duty, musketeers were ever polite to women. Especially pretty ones.

"I shall take you to him directly, ma'am."

Jacques was a mess. His shirt was spattered with mud, blood, and splinters, and was currently up about his neck. His chest was muscular in the way of someone constantly active and practising rather than bulging like a labourer. His face was screwed up in a bitter-lemon eyes-shut grimace as he extracted two, no, three slivers of little-finger-length wood from his side. Only when the last was out did he lean his head back against the cool stone of the wall behind him and let out the breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding. Eyes still shut, he let his shirt fall back into place and reached back to cradle the eagle.

"Who's a pretty b..." he started before realising that there were people standing over him. He cracked one eye open to look up into the unimpressed face of Eduard. But Eduard wouldn't have been impressed had the Lord Almighty descended in a pillar of flame. And then both eyes went wide with surprise - the other figure was...

"Azélie!" and there was young Jacques - impetuous, fearless, and as easy to read as a folio. At least for a moment. The prize that he'd risked his neck for tumbled out of his lap as he scrambled to his feet, and ended up head-down in a puddle, further ruining his cloak. But then the walls came down and he straightened up to a very good approximation of attention - even when mildly injured and covered in mud, musketeers were ever polite to women. Especially pretty ones.

"Good evening, Mademoiselle Durand." he said with all the enthusiasm of someone about to have their teeth pulled, and all the warmth of a Scottish summer. "I assume you're here to speak to the commander. I can take you to him."

Eduard turned to Azélie. "Monsieur Desaix, as you requested. I trust he won't be too much of a disappointment." before returning to his post.

 

[Shiva the Cat]

She should have recognized that laugh, now that the gate guard was leading her towards its owner. How many afternoons of her youth had she reveled in that sound, and its owner? But somehow Azélie only recalled those happy memories when her eyes fell on the musketeer sitting on the ground, clutching at some strange, lumpy object and his shirt stained with something she couldn't make out in the dim light of the evening.

"Oh Jacques, what scrape have you gotten into now?" she couldn't help but murmur. More than once during her acquaintance with Monsieur Desaix had Azélie Durand greeted him with those exact words, but she'd been a silly little girl back then, in love with a mischievous boy and his tireless sense of adventure and good humor. And even though he now wore the livery of a musketeer (or, the torn remnants of one at least) and had more than a boyish shadow of stubble on his face, she could still see the young man she had known all those years ago. She could even see that lightning-quick spark of recognition in his dark eyes when he looked on her, and for a moment she wanted to smile at him.

But of course he could not have forgotten what she had done. Azélie didn't expect him to. As the frigid mask of propriety descended over Jacques' face, so too did her own harden, and she offered him a curtsy equal to a woman of her station. Or at least, her former station. As she rose she couldn't help but notice the musketeer had dropped whatever he'd be holding to make him laugh so hard, but whatever mirth he might have felt seemed to have been drowned in the rain.

After thanking the guard for his trouble, Azélie took a steady breath and fixed her eyes on Jacques'. "Actually, Monsieur Desaix," she began in a level tone, careful not to allow such a casual use of his name a second time. "I came to see you. I was staying with my great aunt Mimi in Lourdes and I heard you were stationed here. I...thought it would be nice to see an old friend."

She had noted the fact that he addressed her by her maiden name. Was Jacques just being polite and avoiding the mention of her deceased husband (whose name, by the Cardinal's decree, was not to be mentioned again), or was he unaware of the ill-fated marriage she had made? If it was the latter, Azélie took some comfort in the fact she might cheer him by letting him know how disastrously things had worked out for her after she'd failed to meet him on that night so long ago. Surely a man of Jacques' humor would have to appreciate the irony.

"Oh, but you're hurt," the widow added quickly, taking a step forward when she realized the stain on his shirt was growing. "Do you need a doctor? Is there somewhere I can take you?" Purely out of habit, she had raised a hand as if to reach for him, but recalled herself and let it drop. A slight blush came to her cheeks, but the rustling of the cloaked object on the ground gave her good excuse to turn away. "What in the world is that?"

 

[mystictiger]

"Esti de câlice de tabarnak!" he swore to himself as he looked down at the bundle that was slowly drowning in the puddle and scooped it back into his arms with the care of a parent recovering their child. With bright, proud eyes he started to carefully unwrap the bundle, revealing the blinking form of a rather sorry-looking bird, it's dull eye flickering back and forth between the humans, cawing pathetically at the outrage to its dignity. Further unwrapping revealed a bird of prey of some kind in a poor state.

"This is... I have no idea what they call you, but we're taking you to a better place, mon brave." he was talking to the eagle now, as one did to a pet. The coolness he'd felt to Azélie was forgotten as he looked down at the pathetic form in his arms. "Come on - we're going to take him to stores and see if we can't find him something decent to eat and a warm, dry place to call home. The bastards in the Guard had been keeping him as a pet in a tiny cage." and that was Desaix - he'd risked injury and potentially even death because his big heart had seen something suffering. His response might not have been the brightest option, but it was absolutely the Jacques option.

He headed deeper into the fortress, and when Azélie didn't immediately follow, he turned to beckon her onwards. "Well, you've found me but as you can see I'm a touch preoccupied. Can you walk and talk? And nothing that a glass of brandy and a fresh shirt won't fix. " And he didn't even wait for an answer, merely expecting her to agree. Their walk took them passed a small stable and blacksmith, and into a slouch-walled granary of sorts. The air was warm and dry and smelt of dry grain and cured meats. An older man with thinning hair and a crude leather eyepatch stood up one Jacques' entry, and stood further up into a close approximation of attention on seeing Azélie.

"Monsieur Desaix - what can I do for you this... oh no. Not more strays."

"Not a stray, Pierre. A prisoner that we have freed!"

Despite the long-suffering sigh he gave, the man ambled towards the door. "Your friend's overly keen on rescuing anything pathetic or in trouble, ma'am. At least the cat he brought me's proved to be a good mouser." Desaix surrendered his bundle like a mother parting with her newborn child. Pierre made clucking noises as he inspected the bird, shaking his head. "Someone's really done you dirty, my little friend. But we'll have you right... why are you wet? Nevermind. Kindly bugger off, Monsieur Desaix - I've got a lot of work to do. Ma'am."

And with that, the two were hustled out of the store-room. It was only then that Jacques' mind caught up with his adrenaline-fuelled body.

"Azél... Mademoiselle Durand. You wished to see an old friend, and now you have seen him. What brings you to Saccourvielle? I think I remember Mimi; the lady with the ..." he mimed vaguely around his head. "I'm afraid that I've not been doing as good a job of keeping up with your career as you have with mine, but you look well."

It was clear he was trying. The pain of heartbreak had risen like bile in the back of his throat, and he was doing his best to swallow it; even realising that he was babbling. It was like trying to dance when you didn't know the steps, and were only vaguely familiar with the music. They had been so close - inseparable. And the same warmth, the same glint in her eyes was still there, just subdued - by time, distance and age. And it ... no. She made her choice. Desaix's emotional state was as clear to read as a large tapestry to anyone, let alone someone he'd grown up with.

 

[Shiva the Cat]

Did...did he steal a chicken? Azélie thought to herself, raising a delicately arched brow as the bird poked its head out of what she now realized was Jacques' cloak. But no, that was not the beak of a chicken (she'd seen far too many chickens as of late), and despite its rather confused demeanor she soon realized that the bird was some kind of raptor, too large to be a falcon, but...surely it couldn't be an eagle? "Where in the name of God did you find such a creature?" she asked, her gaze shifting from the bird back to the musketeer's face. As usual, or at least, as had always seemed usual to Azélie, Jacques did not seem so considered with the poor thing's origin as much as its future, and its present comfort. Compared to the bird's soaked condition and disorientation, even his own wound must have seemed paltry, although the woman still didn't like the look of it.

"Of course I can walk with you. But we ought to be quick. You'll catch a cold in this weather," she clucked gently, her light steps tripping after him quickly. "And then what will become of the next wretched creature that needs rescuing, while you're laid up in bed?" It occurred to her, but did not seem pertinent to mention, that said wretched creature might be following in his very footsteps at that time.

She could not help but smile though at Jacques' interactions with the man in the storeroom, and nod in agreement with his comrade's assessment of her old friend. "I do believe, monsieur, that such kindnesses are an asset in this world," she said to the master of the storeroom, with only a sidelong glance at Desaix. "They may be impractical at times, that is true, but it is always better to show mercy to God's creatures than cruelty. Besides, birds of prey can be good mousers as well. Or if you send it to Monsieur and Madame Charbonneau over in the Rue Vilain, it might be able to do something about reclaiming their upper floors from the pigeons," she added, her smile twisting a little at the thought of the white feathers fleeing in fright from the eagle.

The humor vanished though once she was alone with Desaix, and she had heard the sharp notes in his voice. She tried to lighten the mood again at the mention of Mimi, waiving off his insinuations. "Yes, people have always said Mimi was odd, but that's because she is the only one who ever stood up to Grandpère...that is, Le Comte." A grim shadow passed over Azélie's face. She had sworn never again to refer to the once kindly old man as anything but Le Comte. It had been his fault she'd gotten into this situation in the first place, arranging the match between the Marquis and herself, and since the former had been executed he'd had nothing to do with his only granddaughter, fearing the stain upon her might spread to the rest of the Durand family and endanger all their heads. Only his sister Mimi, an ancient maiden who had formerly been the black sheep of the clan for refusing to marry anyone at all, had been kind enough to welcome her great-niece into her home, small and poor as it was.

"She sends her regards, by the way," Azélie added. "She does not leave home often these days--arthritis, you know--but should you ever be in Lourdes, she asked me to extend an invitation for tea."

Color was rising in the widow's face, both at the absurd politeness of their conversation and the possible barb Jacques might have thrown by mentioning her career. So far in their conversation, she'd tried to gauge how much he might know about her current situation, and how she'd gotten there. Her gown certainly wasn't new or of the latest fashion, and had old stains along the hem thankfully hidden by the current wet weather. And yes, Saccourvielle was a long way from Paris, and even farther from Blancfleuve, both places she was known to have inhabited. And picturesque as Saccourvielle might be, it certainly wasn't a place for a woman of fashion to visit.

"Monsieur Desaix...." the words tasted unpleasant on her tongue as Azélie took a step towards him. It was a name that belonged to a stranger, not the well-known, well-loved face of the man in front of her. "Jacques," she began again, her voice much softer this time. "The truth is...I came to ask for your help. But before I beg for your aid, I must ask you for two other things: your discretion, and...your forgiveness."

She took a deep breath, then clasped her hands in front of her and bowed her head. "I am so sorry, Jacques, that I didn't meet you that night all those years ago. I meant to, I truly did. I had a bag packed and in my hand, and I really did run away. I even made it halfway to the main road, but then...Papa came riding down the drive to the house." When she raised her eyes, they appeared to be shining with tears, but they did not fall. "You remember he had been gone for four years, sailing to the new world? Oh Jacques, how could I leave him then, knowing I might never see him again?" Azélie quickly turned away then, determined not to let him see the tears fall. Just to be safe, she lowered her hood entirely, not caring if the rain soaked her through to the bone as long as it didn't let him see her cry.

"When I agreed to marry you, I thought Papa was lost at sea just like everyone else did. And you know I never cared for what anyone else in the family thought, not Maman, not Etienne, not even Le Comte. They could all hate me, I wouldn't care." That was true: they all hated her now, and she cared no more now than she did then, except for the fact that they might have helped her in her current troubles. "But I couldn't disappoint Papa like that. So I went back to the house with him, and before long all of my uncles and everyone came, and Le Comte was there, and that was when he told me about the marriage he'd made for me, and Papa was so happy at the match...anyway, I know all of that is not an excuse."

When Azélie turned back to face Jacques, her face and hair were soaked in the rain, and if she had let the tears fall, it was impossible to tell. "I broke a promise I made to you, Jacques, and I can never repair that. I did marry another man when I should have married you. The only justice in all of this is that I have paid for that broken promise with almost everything in the world that I hold dear. And it may be wrong of me to come to you now to ask for help, but I don't care anymore. There is no one else in the world who can or will help me, but if you refuse, I will understand. I suppose that is the last thing I must give up in order to atone for the way I've wronged you. At the very least though, I want you to know that I am sorry for any pain that I have caused you. I have never, never wanted to hurt you Jacques, and I still don't."

It was curious how she did not express any actual regret for marrying the Marquis de Blancfleuve, although it was a regret Azélie had often voiced privately to herself. She could not truly say that she wished she had married Jacques instead though, not when her hand went to the gold locket hanging around her neck (one of the only jewels Isabelle had successfully stolen away from the requisitioners on her mistress' behalf).

She was silent a few moments, then shook her head vigorously, sending a sparkle of raindrops flying in all directions. "But we shouldn't have this conversation out in the rain, with you still injured on top of things. Please, let's get you cleaned up, and I can tell you more in a while. Besides," her voice lowered again. "If you have heard anything about my former husband, you will understand he should not be discussed where any passing man might hear us."

 

[mystictiger]

The major advantage of the weather was that it hid the tears; pain, both physical and emotional was something that one should laugh at and shrug off. The description of her family were the way-points of a very different life; one where they'd done what they'd promised to do. Yes, her family would have cordially hated him - the Desaix family were at best gentry and strictly speaking theirs would've been a marriage above their station - but it would've been a burden that they would've carried together. It felt like having stitches ripped from a wound that one had thought healed.

The wall he felt himself building - consciously or subconsciously - to cordon off that pain crumbled when she said that she'd come to ask for your help. The dark parts of his mind were raging, snarling that the stuck-up bitch had made her bed and that she should sleep in it. But all the heart - what had driven him to become a musketeer - could hear was that someone needed help. And not just any someone, but rather a someone that still had her hooks - her claws, the dark part corrected - in him. He had wanted to hear her beg and plead. For her to need him. These were the things that Jacques-the-Boy might have wanted to hear, but Jacques-the-Man had spent his time in the company of brave, courteous patriots. But actually hearing it was ... unpleasant. Like watching a drunk man make a fool of himself. She was - had always been - a lady, and to need to come to him in the dark, here of all places, was like watching the sun rise in west. It felt wrong.

It had been Jacques Desaix père's fondest wish that Jacques Desaix fils become a musketeer. And the only way to join the musketeers - even in a picturesque backwater - for those not of noble birth was through the very bottom door, as an unmarried private soldier. And so he'd turned his grief into purpose. And in trying to live out his father's dream, he'd found a community of like-minded men. Though most were running away from something, they were all also running towards something better. One for all and all for one indeed. They each wanted to prove themselves worthy to the tales of elan, courage, and skill that their uniforms were heir to. And no such story ever started with A beautiful woman in need of my help turned up and I turned my back on her and instead went home to sleep off a fleshwound.

He had never been one for quiet contemplation; rash action had become his hallmark, one that lent itself well to the reputation and culture of his newfound home. But at the same time, she had a weight to get off her chest. And it was an impressive chest. And so he offered her is arm - in the manner a gentleman would to a friend.

"There's only one Monsieur Desaix, Zeli, and that was my father. You call me Jacques. And I know nothing of your former husband other than that I part-hated, part-envied a man I'll never met." he didn't have quite as much control over his voice as he'd thought, and he cleared his throat against the hoarseness that her outpouring had brought on.

Deep breath. A gasp of pain from his side. Not that deep.

"You've probably already seen everything that Saccourvielle has to offer even if you arrived this afternoon. The only reason we're here at all is because the Cardinal has men stationed here. Now, let's get out of the rain. I have lodgings on Rue du Pot der Fer over a not entirely terrible tavern."

 

[Shiva the Cat]

Azélie's heart skipped a beat when she heard Jacques' old nickname for her pass his lips. How many years had it been since he, or anyone really, had called her Zeli? For that matter, how long had it been since someone had looked at her (well, her chest at least) the way the musketeer was now? For heaven's sake, even Georges had lost interest in her after he'd met Hélène. Not that Azélie minded too much at the end of all things; the Marquis had never been known as a handsome man or a particularly attentive lover. It might not have been appropriate, considering the widow's husband hadn't even been dead a year, but if the King and Cardinal had forbade her mourning, well, she certainly couldn't be blamed for enjoying the stares of a handsome musketeer.

More importantly though, from the way he spoke and the way he looked at her, Azélie was starting to feel a small spark of hope that Jacques might be willing to help her in her troubles, and after all, wasn't that the reason she had come to Saccourvielle in the first place? Although a passerby might have suspected the woman of slightly less honest motivations, what with the slight color in her cheeks and the swiftness with which she accepted his arm.

"That sounds very nice, Jacques," she replied, feeling the old comfort of addressing him by his first name. "Although I'm afraid I haven't quite gotten the lay of the land just yet. You'll need to lead on. Unless of course you wish to call upon my own lodgings, which I fear may indeed be entirely terrible. Nearly half the building is uninhabitable though, so I cannot say for sure." Her eyes glittered slightly with a hint of mischief that would hopefully cover the disgrace of her status having sunk so low. But when she heard her companion's sharp intake of breath, the self-deprecating humor instantly vanished, and she loosened her grip on his arm ever so slightly.

"Ah mon ami," Azélie murmured. "We need to see to that injury as soon as possible. The last thing you need is an infection. Does it pain you so badly?" Of course, she didn't expect him to answer the question truthfully. Men of Jacques' ilk never liked to admit their weaknesses, and certainly not in front of women. Not even women that had seen their scrapes and cuts since childhood, and on more than one occasion sacrificed a good lace handkerchief to the cause.

Until they reached the tavern at least, it seemed best not to linger too much on the wound. Instead, the woman lightened her step so as not to hold him back, and forcibly injected a bit more cheer into her voice to match her pace. "I suppose being in the musketeers you must be having all sorts of adventures these days. Have you been stationed here long?" Azélie glanced through the nearly-deserted streets, wondering just what sort of trouble Jacques could have gotten into in such a desolate and gloomy place. There was a certain familiarity in walking with him like this though; she could recall many other such walks with him after dark, away from her family's prying eyes. Ironically, these days it was likely Jacques' reputation that would suffer if he was seen with her, and at the idea she quickly raised her hood again, lest she be recognized.

"Your family must be proud of you as well," she continued. "They are all well, I hope?"

 

[mystictiger]

Jacques had no problem at all being recognised; out of the tabard and brassard he looked like any other young-ish man about the raindamp moonlit streets. Not that there were many of them. Still, he walked with the sort of swagger and confidence that came with the territory. But for someone who had known the younger-Jacques, it would look a little comical, like a boy trying wear a man's outfit, and not quite filling it out; the strut he had now being so different from the younger man he'd been.

"There truly isn't much to get the lay of. It's a wretched place, but for a shrine that the late queen mother was fond of. The only advantage of seeing it in daylight is that you're less likely to walk into things. Far enough from Paris that no-one notices you; close enough to be a convenient dumping ground." he gave a shrug and immediately regretted it. It was hard to hide the reflexive wince that came with the pain to someone holding his arm. "But being a musketeer in a dump is better than not being a musketeer in Paris, I think. And it's been an interesting few months. Not exactly what I had expected - nor what the stories had made out, but no, the novelty still hasn't worn off ." This was the provinces and no-one who was anyone spent any time here that they could spend elsewhere.

The Rue du Pot de Fer may have had a grander aspect during daylight, but in the overcast darkness the tall, narrow houses managed to look like mourners clustered together. People of sense were happily tucked away behind the thick curtains that were no doubt present behind all the shutters. The one spot of brightness was the inn; its sign, a pair of swans, was lit by a flickering lantern that managed to make the darkness around it darker rather than casting any real illumination. Someone of real sophistication might have, if being polite, called it quaintly rustic. It shared many of the same decorative choices that the Charbonneaus had adopted; whitewash in stead of paint, polish instead of repairs. But the fire was warm and kept the wet darkness at bay.

"Monsieur Jacques" the publican said in resigned greeting. He was a prematurely balding man, portly in the way of prosperous merchants and burghers, and standing in front of the fire. From the look of it, he'd hastily ended the conversation with the other man - dark haired, cloaked, and with a scar on his face that looked to have been caused by a musket-ball - who had promptly retreated into the darkest, quietest booth available. If he'd been wanting to hide his presence, his ostentatious stealth had served the opposite.

Jacques nodded in greeting to the publican and gestured to one of the larger tables. "Hot food please, Monsieur Chauve. My friend has travelled far and I've spoken highly of the warmth of your establishment and the quality of your wine." His comments were met with an eye-roll, but Chauve bustled off to tend to their needs.

Letting out a sigh of relief at finally being able to sit - but only after Zeli had done so - Jacques leaned back in his chair.

"And this is the exciting life of a very junior member of the company of musketeers in Sacourville. Not as glamorous as the places you must be used to, but I am glad to have made it so far regardless." He didn't intend any sleight in his words; he was openly and honestly proud of the life he'd built for himself.

 

[Shiva the Cat]

Azélie couldn't help but smile a little as she walked with Jacques through the rainy streets. At least he's happy she thought, even if the setting of his dream-come-true was not exactly what he expected. Then again, when did things ever turn out exactly as one imagined?

"In Lourdes they seem to think Saccourvielle is a great city, second only to Paris herself," she replied, thinking of the sleepy little village that had been her home for the past few months. "Of course, Lourdes has more sheep than people, and it seems like there are more chickens there than there are residents here." Her blue eyes glanced around the seemingly deserted houses for any sign of life behind their grim exteriors. They finally came across a bit of light at the end of the road where a cheery little inn was nestled. Now why hadn't she thought to stay in a place like this, instead of in that dreary little maison back near the Commander? Probably because you can't afford even a place like this anymore a cruel voice said in the back of her mind, causing the woman's pretty face to sour for a moment.

Before entering the building, she paused long enough to raise her hood and keep her face well-shadowed. She didn't like what Jacques had said about Saccourvielle being close enough to Paris to serve as a dumping ground. Despite the fact that she had not done anything wrong (in the legal sense, at least), Azélie still did not like the idea of being seen in public just yet by anyone connected to the royal court. Part of it was her own wounded pride: there were many in her past that would have loved to see Madame Sauveterre forced to beg for shelter from her relatives and carefully count her coins for supper. But there was also the favor she needed to beg, and the danger of begging it.

"I still say you should tend to that wound before anything else," she murmured as she sat down at the table across from the musketeer. Beneath her hood, she quickly surveyed the room for signs of familiar faces. Of course there were none, and while the other patrons of the establishment did not have a particularly friendly look about them, there was no one who raised a sense of alarm in the widow's heart. And Jacques himself seemed a bit more at-ease as he leaned back in his chair, clearly as comfortable here as he might have ever been in his own house.

"I'm afraid your life is quite glamorous in comparison to mine these days," Azélie replied in a voice just loud enough to reach Jacques' ears. "It is only through the kindness and generosity of that dear old woman in Lourdes that I am here at all, and not starving in the street somewhere." She looked as though she wanted to say more on the subject, but did not do so until food and drink had been brought to their table, and she was quite sure they would not be interrupted. Even so, it took a long draught from her cup (despite the disgusting taste of the cheap wine) before she could bring herself to say more.

"Jacques, you said you did not know anything about the man I married. While you certainly would not be alone in hating him, I do not think you can envy him when I tell you that I married Georges Sauveterre, Marquis de Blancfleuve." The name and title of the man were barely a whisper on her breath, and quickly drowned in another mouthful of wine. "The same Marquis de Blancfleuve that conspired with the Duc d'Orléans in an attempted to have the Cardinal assassinated. If you have not heard of the affair--though I don't know who hasn't--the story is my husband and his mistress, she herself being a former favorite of the Duc's, were plotting to lure His Eminence to one of our country houses for a visit and arrange a 'hunting accident' or some such nonsense."

It was not out of loyalty to her husband that Azélie had always deemed the story ridiculous. Georges certainly hadn't liked the Cardinal, that was true, but he was far too timid and, frankly, stupid to come up with an assassination plot of any degree. Hélène, well...there was no accounting for Hélène's capabilities, but it was hard for a wife to sympathize with her husband's lover, especially when she most likely led to both of their downfalls.

Azélie sighed and took a more ladylike sip of her wine, the most dangerous part of the story now having been told. "The traitors were, of course, beheaded last winter. Thankfully, His Eminence and His Majesty both know that I had nothing to do with the plot. In fact," she blushed a little in wifely shame. "Georges and I had been living separate lives for nearly a year before the whole affair started. We only ever saw each other at court, which I attended rarely. I so hated to be parted from...my children."

The woman paused as she spoke the words, wondering how Jacques would react. It was one thing to marry another man, the musketeer might have forgiven her for that, especially now that George was dead. But bearing his children? Would Jacques abide such a thing?

Reaching up around her neck, Azélie unclasped the locket that hung around her neck and carefully removed it. After opening the delicate clasp, she passed the necklace over to her companion. Inside the locket were two miniatures, one of a boy perhaps around five or six, and one of a baby girl, perhaps two or three years younger. Both had Azélie's curly golden hair, but the boy had dark brown eyes and features strikingly similar to her older brother, Etienne. Her daughter was nearly a facsimile of Azélie herself, with the same blue eyes and the smile she had always worn as a child.

"Their names are Edmond and Cecile," the woman said quietly. "I had these painted nearly four years ago. Edmond is nine now, but his birthday is only two months away. Cecile just turned six." Her voice had begun to take on the same shake as earlier when she had spoken of her regrets to him, and she quickly drained her wine glass before taking back the locket and fastening it securely around her neck again. "I...have not seen either of them since Georges was executed."

 

[mystictiger]

"You remember the village I grew up in? Anything with more than three stone buildings still feels like a metropolis to me. And some of the sheep in Lourdes have better breeding and manners than most of the people I've run into here. The sheep, at least, do not assume that the cut or the colour of their cloak makes them better. But then if they knew the value of their wool?" a shrug. Her comment about her being poor and on the streets would've drawn a scowl from him, but he was doing his best not to show anything other than the support and compassion that someone in need - a friend indeed - needed.

He'd not heard of the Marquis; the doings of anyone with a title of 'captain' or above were of little concern to him. But he knew well of the Cardinal. Not a man to trifle with, and certainly not one to think of killing. But rather than appearing ignorant, he nodded along to her words, making sympathetic noises at the appropriate times. But on hearing about her marriage his heart leapt and his stomach sank. It was a most peculiar sensation; a mixture of elation, despair, and pity. The idea of her with someone else was a hard one, but... the idea of her being cast aside like a used rag? That was hurtful at an almost existential level. That someone could... no. She's not yours. She had proved that; choosing charity rather than coming to ask for his help. It was the tiny, mean voice at the back of his mind.

One seeing the miniature of her children, though, he couldn't help but feel for her. It was like a tide of grief and pity; whatever bitterness he'd had was swept away. The children were, of course, beautiful.

"I cannot imagine how..." no. This isn't about you. This is about her and her pain. And her children. You at least had years and experience before your parents were taken from you.

His mouth was suddenly dry and the words didn't come.

"That you are left a widow and denied the comfort of your children..." no. It sounds like you're berating her for being a poor mother.

That made even less sense. He cleared his throat and tried for a third time. He gave up trying to come up with a sensible answer and spoke from his heart.

"There would have been a time, Zeli, that I would have wished these children were mine. But that is a world away, and in the distant past. I think that they are in need of an uncle - for which position I would gladly offer my services - but more urgently they are in need of their mother. I assume that is why you came to find me? So that I could intercede on your behalf to have this abominable separation lifted? I am certain I could speak to Monsieur Troisville on your behalf. He has a strong sense of justice and this is... this is unjust."

He, of course, had assumed that she was far better connected and informed, and had kept track of his career. Whilst she had been married and bearing children, he had served in an infantry regiment. A process that had turned the scruffy, gangly farmboy into something approximating a gentleman. And yet, for all of that, he found himself reaching for her hand, across the years and decisions that divided them.

 

[Shiva the Cat]

Azélie let out a bitter laugh as she held up her cup in a silent call for more wine, which the publican quickly obliged. After swirling the glass and taking another thoughtful drink, she turned to gaze thoughtfully out the window, as though she might find her missing offspring somewhere in the darkened streets.

"Believe it or not Jacques, according to the Cardinal--actually according to Le Vicomte de Fouine, he's the representative His Eminence has always used to carry his messages to me--the removal of my children is actually a charity. Of course, the Marquis' estate needed to be dissolved in order to set an example for other members of the nobility that might think of crossing the Cardinal. And of course, now that I am a woman of reduced circumstances, I cannot afford to provide for two young children on my own." She took another long drink and her eyes flashed with rage at the truth of that statement. There was barely enough room in Aunt Mimi's cottage for herself and Isabelle, let alone two young children that she could not afford to educate properly. "So the Cardinal has graciously arranged for Edmond and Cecile to be raised as Wards of the Church, hidden from their proper place in society and the family that loves them. And I...I am left to manage my own fate to the best of my ability."

She turned back to look her old friend directly in the eyes. Her cheeks were flushed red with the warmth of the room and the wine, but her sad expression had been replaced with one of hostile pride edged in desperate hope. "If I were alone in the world, mon ami, I would not trouble you with my own misfortunes. And if I had other friends who might act in my defense, I would go to them for aid instead. But the Sauveterre family was never numerous, and Georges is only survived by distant relations who never knew me or his children. My grandfather, Le Comte, is so terrified of the Cardinal and fears that his own friendship with the Marquis' family may bring suspicion down on the Durands, so he will have nothing to do with me. My uncles and cousins, of course, follow his lead. As for my immediate family..."

Here her face softened. "Papa's ship truly did go down three years ago in a storm in the West Indies. Maman has never been the same since. She is...confused, much of the time. When I have seen her, she does not even remember that I have children. She still thinks me a young girl and does not understand that years have passed since then. My brother's wife, Marie, is a good woman and cares for my mother as well as her own three little ones, but with Etienne stationed in New France she has more than enough difficulties of her own. That is why I have come to you, Jacques."

The blue eyes saw his hand reaching for hers, and without hesitation she grasped it firmly, going so far as to lace her fingers with him. "I have no one else to turn to in this time of need. If you can even help me determine where my children are--" she shut her eyes at this particular pain. If she could only know Edmond and Cecile were safe, that would ease her mind somewhat. "That would be more than enough. If you can help return them to me...I would have no way of ever repaying you, but you would have this poor, foolish woman's undying gratitude, if that amounts for anything. But I must be frank, mon ami."

Azélie withdrew her hand and took another drink of her wine, followed by a furtive glance around the room. "I have avoided the Cardinal's ire by acting the part of a contrite, submissive wife apologizing on behalf of her idiot husband. The moment that facade is dropped, and I begin openly acting in my own interests, I doubt he will be content to tolerate my rebellion against his mandates. Anyone assisting me in these matters will likely suffer the same risks." Tilting her head slightly, she smiled at him again, much more warmly and genuinely this time.

"I am so happy for the life you've made for yourself. And I would hate to see you or your career suffer because you interceded on my behalf." Then her face hardened again. "But for the sake of Edmond and Cecile, I must ask you to help me. Help me find them and help me bring them home."

She swallowed hard, then took his hand again. "Please, Jacques..." she whispered in that same beseeching tone she had so often used on him when they were young.

 

[mystictiger]

That voice had lead him down so many adventures in the past. It cut through any hesitation he might've had like sunlight through morning dew. He put his own hand atop hers; it felt somehow natural to do so. As if a gap had been filled, noticeable only by its absence. His mind was racing as he churned the problem over and again. Going against the Cardinal wasn't something one did lightly. And then the irony of that thought hit him; he had literally spent the last few hours in an act of open and brazen defiance. But treason was another matter. It had been a rash promise to offer his unconditional help but... how could he not? Punishing a man for his acts was right and proper; justice demanded it. But to punish a widow and to take their children and turn them into orphans was ...

He couldn't find the right word. Typical of the cardinal. A gesture designed to instil fear and obedience rather than being proportionate. He wasn't sure if he was angry because a friend had been hurt, because it was unjust, or because it was typical of the petty tyranny of the cardinal. Regardless, he was a man of (rash) action rather than of words.

"There is, I think, little we can do in here." he cast an eye around the room. The hooded, cloaked man quickly turned away, focusing his attention back at the fire. It was said that the cardinal had eyes and ears everywhere, and it wouldn't surprise him if ... well. For once it wouldn't be his petty and rash acts of defiance that brought down the cardinal's wrath! Someone had actually done something grand and impressive! That made him smile.

"But there is even less that we can do tonight. Except maybe find some salve or stitches. Yes, I know. I should be more careful. It's a lesson you've been trying to teach me for ever."

He did his best to settle back into relaxed dinner-and-drinks conversation but the thought of the cardinal's agents had left him visibly on edge - his smile never quite reached his nose, let alone his eyes, and his hand stayed close to his sword.

 

[Shiva the Cat]

Azélie nodded in agreement at the idea there was nothing else to be done that particular evening. It was getting late, after all, and poor Isabelle was probably becoming more frantic than usual with each passing minute that her mistress did not return. But at the mention of salve or stitches, she suddenly pushed her plate and glass away, her cheeks burning in shame at having forgotten the musketeer's condition.

"My dear Jacques! How could you sit and let me ramble on with your wound untended to?" the woman gasped, blue eyes wide as the fell on the tear in his shirt. "My God, you must thing me the most selfish, stupid woman alive. I am so, so sorry, mon ami. What can I do for you? May I fetch you a doctor? Or...would you like me to take a look at it myself? I haven't any formal training, of course, but with little ones that like to get into scrapes and bumps you learn a thing or two about bandages and compresses. Why, when Edmond was learning to ride a pony..." Azélie's voice suddenly tightened at the image of the little boy, scowling through his tears and trying to hide his scraped knees from his maman, who surely would not let him get back on Pepe's back again if he could not learn to stay there.

But no, this was not the time to think of that. She'd had enough self-indulgence for one evening. Jacques had agreed to help her, if she had understood the touch of his hand (and oh how long had it been since she had felt a touch as gentle as his?). The least she could do would be to ease his own pain and diminish whatever burden she could for him. Lord only knew what future burdens she would be placing at his feet before long.

Reaching into her apron pocket, she pulled out a few of the scanty coins she had left. "Please, let me pay for your supper," Azélie began again, laying the coins on the table. "Then tell me what I can do to help you, Jacques. I would not have you hurting for my sake." Was it the embarrassment at her own behavior, or merely the wine that made the room suddenly seem so stiflingly hot? No doubt if she had not already scandalized herself beyond redemption, her family and friends might have had some choice words at the color in her cheeks and the beseeching tones with which she spoke to the handsome man across the table. But what could be worse than involving oneself with a man who had (allegedly) threatened the Cardinal's life?

Well, conspiring with another man to steal from His Excellency probably wasn't better, but it certainly wasn't worse. There was some comfort in that at least.

 

[mystictiger]

"Wound is too strong a word. More like... light stabbing pain. A mild case of being peppered with fragments of cupboard? It just stings" he lied. And no sooner did she lay the coins out but he picked them back up and pressed them back into her hand.

"The only reason I'm staying here is because of... an arrangement with the innkeeper. He had a problem with a few local toughs. The kind that thought they should get free wine and got handsy with mademoiselle Chauve." his faced darkened at that, frowning in distaste. "They'll not be repeating that mistake anywhere nearby. And as a result Madam and Monsieur Chauve give me room and board at a very reasonable rate. Which is rather good because the pay isn't why one joins the army. Now I would appreciate you taking a look but I suspect that it might scandalise Monsieur Chauve if I were to bring an aristocrat such as yourself to his upper rooms." he said with a grin. "He'd insist on using the best crockery and so on. He's really rather houseproud."

The thought he had wanted to say is "because you've already hurt me enough" but... but. No. That was unworthy. In what world would she have ever married him? In what world would those children ever be his? Well. Actually, in this one. Only after her fall was she actually within reach. That idea made him grin like an idiot. There was something ironic about it, he thought. That their paths should meet when he was the one with the promising future and she was the one lacking hope. How things had changed.

Stop it. That's your friend you're thinking of. That's not worthy of you, or her. And you'd do anything for her. As you've managed to amply prove with your words.

 

[Shiva the Cat]

Now Azélie was glad she could feel the heat of the wine in her face; it would at least hide the blush of embarrassment at Jacques' refusal of aid. Of course he didn't need her to come upstairs with him; her reputation might be ruined, but he still had his own to think of. She didn't think that he thought any less of her, per se (at least, she prayed he didn't), but he was just so damned honorable. He probably didn't want to be known as the type of man who casually brought a woman up to his chambers. Of course, that would make future rendezvous more challenging, but perhaps she could persuade him to call on her instead.

"Please, Jacques. I'm not an aristocrat. Not anymore. And I beg you, for both of our sakes, do not refer to me as such. By order of His Excellence, my late husband's name is not even to be spoken in public, and his title is to be stricken from all records. As far as anyone is concerned, I am the youngest child of the youngest child of a rural Comte, hardly a person of consequence. In fact," she sighed wistfully. "It is all I can hope for, once I have my children back, to go to England or Scotland and find work as a governess in some quiet place. I hear they pay educated Frenchwomen well there, and if I have nothing else to show for my life, I do have some womenly accomplishments. Remember that handkerchief I embroidered for you?"

A playful grin crossed her lips at the memory: what was meant to be the pair of them standing beneath her father's apple tree ended up looking rather like a spider devouring a pair of ants. Luckily her skills had advanced a good deal since those clumsy early days.

"But I have taken up too much of your time. Do see a doctor, won't you Jacques?" Azélie remarked, rising to her feet. "I'll be returning to Lourdes tomorrow afternoon, but Aunt Mimi asked me to run a few errands in town for her while I'm here. If you wish to call on me before I depart, I'm staying at Le Maison Charbonneau. Otherwise if you have any leave in the near future, Mimi would be happy to have you call upon her. She always did like you, even if no one else in my family did, and I'm sure she'd think it a great honor to have a dashing musketeer in her parlor for an afternoon."

Her blue eyes glanced furtively around the room yet again, still seeking some hidden enemy that might plague her steps back to the maison. She bit her lip for a moment, then looked back at her friend. "I am afraid to write you," she whispered. "My letters have be intercepted in the past. But may I call on you here periodically, say, once every two weeks or so? I have decided to start taking Italian lessons with one of Aunt Mimi's friends here in town." A ruse of course; the only Italian old Charlotte knew were the lines she had memorized from the operas she had starred in decades ago, but the doddering widow always appreciated company and would probably forget all about Azélie as soon as she departed. "I could meet with you afterwards if you name the day and time."

Looking at his handsome face again, Azélie was both hesitant to leave him, and eager to plan their next meeting. For the thousandth time, she cursed herself for being so cowardly as to forsake him. How lovely it would have been to have him come home to her every evening, instead of needing to leave him behind in shadow and dangers of her own making. But that was a dream of the past, dead and gone now, and it was her future that needed planning. Hers, and her children's.

 

[mystictiger]

The idea of Azelie ending up as a governess struck him as something between comical and depressing. She was certain to catch the eye of whatever lordling accepted her, but that wasn't what caused the reaction. Rather, it was the same sense of melancholy that had always struck him when he'd seen hunting trophies mounted on walls. They were the most ridiculous things he'd seen; what sort of idiot stuffed a fish? Rather, fish belonged either lithe and sinuous in the river (and he did his best not to think about how that lithe and sensuous body had filled out), or cooked and impaled on a... enough of that sort of thinking! He cleared this throat in an effort to clear his mind.

"I have it still!" he said, fumbling for a threadbare scrap of tear-stained, blood-darkened, wash-distressed fabric. He'd carried it out of habit, and then as a sort of bitter emblem of self-reproach; something to remember her by in all the hatred-basted sense of the word. To remember not to fall for any of the women that had crossed his path, to not open himself up for betrayal and pain. It was as if the hearts he had broken were an attempt to weigh up against his own youthful heartbreak in some cosmic ledger. But over time it had become something of a lucky charm; like the favour carried by a knight of old. It had stopped being the thing she had made, but had instead become the thing he carried - its weight lost somewhere in the battlefields of Flanders. Here, in the flickering lights of the tavern it looked more something that made have one covered in a heathen mummy in their dark tomb rather than anything made of silk or linen. He felt suddenly awkward and ashamed by it, as if showing a vulnerability. And that's exactly what it was. She had been the first woman that had breached his defences. In those heady days of spring, there'd been no defences; there'd be no need - you learn to build walls from your enemies not your friends. And she could still effortlessly dance over the cold emotional stone as if she were the castellan. Damn her and her infectious grin. She was of course far too classy and elegant to come up to his rooms. Hells, he probably still had dirty laundry on the floors.

As soon as she was on her feet, he did the same. "I have a great deal of leave due, and so would be delighted to call upon you in the afternoon tomorrow. It would be remiss of me, though, not to walk you to your lodgings. May I?"

 

[Shiva the Cat]

Wonder washed over Azélie's face at the sight of the ancient handicraft. "You kept it," she murmured, gazing down at a small square of muslin she had lovingly pored over so many years ago. A pleased laugh tumbled over her lips. "I'm surprised it's still in one piece. Maman never trusted me with the good fabric back then. I'd have guessed it would be in tatters by now." Both of her hands gently clasped over his, folding the stained handkerchief back into his palm. In truth she would have guessed he might have burned the thing after she'd abandoned him, and it filled her with guilty joy to think he might still hold some tenderness for her in that surely-armored heart.

And what good is that? she asked herself as her hands dropped from his. A shadow passed over her face as she raised the hood of her cloak. What can you hope for beyond his help? Would you drag him into poverty and obscurity with you, now that his star is rising?

No, she would not. Despite what she might have desired in her heart, she loved him too much even now to ruin his life any further. Once she had Edmond and Cecile back, she vowed, she would leave Jacques to his swords and horses and all the glory that was his due. But for now...for now she couldn't bear to send him away.

"Of course, if that is what you wish," she replied as he rose to follow her. "I imagine I cannot stop you now any more than I could stop you from following me home from the orchards. But you must see a physician after that, Jacques. Promise me you will?" Azélie asked as they passed out of the public house, taking his arm but being careful not to jostle his wounded side too roughly.

The rain had finally stopped, but a chilly mist had settled through the streets and gave the shadows a somehow even more ominous cast. As the public house receded behind the pair, a heavy silence crushed down over them, causing the woman to shrink a little more closely to her guard. "Is it always like this at night? I've seen graveyards more lively," Azélie murmured. Every now and then her eyes glanced backwards as if looking for pursuers, but in the short vantage allowed by the fog she could see no one but the musketeer. Still, it seemed that as they rounded the corner to enter the Rue Vilain, she could have sworn she heard three sets of footsteps, instead of the expected two.

"Jacques..." the woman breathed, picking up the pace instictively as her heart began to pound in her chest. There was no doubt about it; there was a third person coming down the street. But strangely enough, these feet were approaching them head on, not from behind, and the steps were light and quick as they splashed through the muddy puddles that littered the street. A moment later, something slammed full-force into Azélie's body, enough to knock her back a step, but without the strength to send her sprawling to the ground, though she had been pushed well away from the musketeer.

"Madame! Madame! Oh thank goodness you've come back," a little voice sobbed, and in a sigh of relief Azélie embraced the skinny form of her maid.

"Isabelle, mon cher, you gave me such a fright! What are you doing out here in the cold, without a cloak no less!" Reaching up, the woman unfastened her own covering and quickly tied it around the girl. This seemed to calm Isabelle somewhat, but when she looked at her mistress' companion, she shrank back somewhat in hesitation. Azélie kept one arm firmly around the redhaired girl's narrow shoulders, but gestured kindly with the other. "It's all right dear, this is Monsieur Desaix, a very old friend of mine. He knew your Maman, in fact."

Straightening a little, the blonde woman looked apologetically back towards Jacques. "You remember my old maid, Suzanne? This is her daughter, Isabelle." The servant, suspecting the handsome man could perhaps be trusted after all, stepped forward slightly to offer him a curtsy and a murmured bonsoir. Azélie watched the girl with maternal pride and gave one of her thin hands a squeeze. "Isabelle is my dearest friend and confidante these days. It is unlikely I would be standing here before you without her care."

Isabelle's pale cheeks darkened in a pretty blush. "You are too kind, Madame..." she murmured, but before she could revel too much in her mistress' joy she recalled what had sent her racing out of the maison in the first place. "But you must listen! A man in black came to the maison looking for you. Monsieur and Madame Charbonneau were already in bed, but he saw me through the windows and began pounding on the door demanding I let him in. I was so frightened he would break down the door, I had to let him in, Madame. Please forgive me!"

"Hush, sweetheart," the woman replied, sending the girl's growing distress. "It's all right. He didn't hurt you, did he?"

The maid shook her head. "No, Madame. But he offered me ten sous if I told him where you were, or when you were coming back. I told him I did not know, and he insisted on sitting in the front room and waiting for you. He only grew sick of waiting perhaps ten minutes ago, and I saw him go the other way up the street, towards the Commanderie. But he may come back."

Azélie frowned and bit her lip. "Thank you for telling me, Isabelle. But you should go back inside. I don't think we should be alone out here." She turned her gaze back to Jacques. "Are the streets well-guarded here? I would leave tonight, but I wouldn't want to be caught out in the open. I think it would be best if we locked ourselves into the maison and waited until morning. What would you suggest?" Her eyes and tone were beseeching and full of trust, just as they had been during so many of their childhood antics.