The Timekeeper Conspiracy

4

Something was wrong.

No one had seen Jacques Benoit for days. In anyone else's case, this would not have been particularly noteworthy, but Doctor Jacques was well known to be a creature of scrupulous habit. For the past week, Hunter had been making all the rounds, but ex-army surgeon Jack Bennett, known to his Parisian friends as Doctor Jacques Benoit, was nowhere to be found.

He wasn't at his home on the Rue St.-Honore. His servants, Marie and Old Pierre, had found it necessary to turn away his patients, as they did not know where Doctor Jacques had gone or when he would return. This gave them cause for much concern, since their master never went anywhere without leaving them some word.

Moreau's Tavern, on the Rue Ferou, where Doctor Jacques could be found every evening enjoying a bottle of wine and playing a game or two of chess, had not been graced by his presence for over a week. This upset Moreau somewhat, as Benoit was something of an attraction at the tavern. It was the way that he played chess. He would sit with his back to the board, at another table, carrying on idle conversation with onlookers. His opponent would announce his move, and then Benoit would announce his, "Knight to King's Bishop four" or whatever, all without looking at the board. He had yet to lose a game. These casual, friendly matches brought in customers and these customers frequently bet upon the outcome — at least, those who had not seen Benoit play before would bet.

Moreau knew Hunter as "Monsieur Laporte," an old friend of Jacques Benoit's from Reims. Insofar as Moreau knew, Monsieur Laporte was a gentleman, a man who liked to live quietly and who did not often come to Paris, but when he did, he always made a point of it to visit his old friend and to stop in to see Moreau.

"It is not like Doctor Jacques," Moreau was saying, as he poured both himself and Hunter some red wine. "He never goes anywhere without at least telling Marie and Old Pierre. He has always been considerate of his friends and especially his patients."

"He didn't say anything the last time you saw him?" Hunter said. "He did not say he was going to the country for some rest?"

Anytime Jack Bennett made a trip to Plus Time, he always said that he was "going to the country." Members of the underground who kept in frequent touch with one another had various code phrases such as that to pass on messages. "He didn't say anything at all?"

"No, Monsieur," Moreau said. "If he had said anything, I would most assuredly have remembered."

"I hope nothing has happened to him," Hunter said. "Paris can be dangerous at times, especially these days."

"Who would hurt Doctor Jacques?" Moreau said. He shook his head. "He hasn't an enemy in Paris. He has his peculiarities, true, but who can argue with his results? I, myself, have never understood why he looks down on bleeding, for example. He insists that it does more harm than good. Still, he has helped many people hereabouts, and he even extends himself to those who cannot afford to pay. He may ask some little service or, as in the case of Marcel's ailing father, take payment in a chicken or two, but… no, I cannot imagine anyone who would wish him harm. He is the soul of compassion. And well-liked and respected."

"Then what could have become of him?" said Hunter.

Moreau shrugged. "Perhaps he had some business with those friends of his, from Flanders."

Hunter frowned. "Friends from Flanders?"

"Yes, five of them," Moreau said. "They were with him the last time he was here. And the time before that, too."

"Can you tell me anything about them?" Hunter said. "It could be important."

"They were a rough lot," Moreau said. He shrugged again. "Still, Doctor Jacques has friends from all walks of life, no? Not my sort, though. Not my sort at all. They would all grow silent whenever I approached their table, as though afraid that I would overhear their conversation."

"What did they look like? Perhaps I know them."

"They were all large men," Moreau said. "All except one, who was very slight and thin. About like so," Moreau said, indicating his own chest level. "Three of them were dark, rough-looking, as I said. One was bald. Him I remember very well. He was a bull, that one, a giant of a man. They didn't speak much, at least, not to me, but they were not French, that much was certain."

"They did not know the language," Hunter said.

"Oh, no, they knew the language very well," Moreau said, "but they learned it elsewhere. They had some sort of accent, but I could not place it."

"What about the fifth man?" Hunter said. "The slight one?"

"Ah, yes, him. I thought he was a girl, at first." Moreau chuckled. "It was a bit embarrassing. I called him 'mademoiselle' and it seemed to amuse the others and it was only then that I saw he was a man. A very young man, no more than a boy, really. Some boys, in their youthfulness, well…"

"Yes, I understand," said Hunter. "And some young girls look like young boys sometimes, especially if they are not wearing dresses."

"Quite so," Moreau said, visibly relieved. "Still, this one… he wore his hair quite long, much longer than is the fashion. And it was like spun gold, Monsieur. Most unsettling. His French, now, was flawless. A real gentleman, that one. I heard Doctor Jacques call him 'Adrian.' " Moreau lowered his voice. "An English name, no?"

"Could be," said Hunter. "I know no one by that name. This all sounds very mysterious, Moreau."

Moreau looked around, then leaned closer to Hunter. "Tell me, Monsieur," he said, "Doctor Jacques… I have never known him to, that is, he has no… political leanings, has he?"

"I don't know," said Hunter. "What makes you say a thing like that?"

Moreau shrugged again. "One learns a thing or two in this business, Monsieur. After all, you must admit, it does look strange. Five strangers, four of whom are decidedly not French and the fifth with an English-sounding name, all speaking in low voices in the corner…"

"I see what you mean," said Hunter. "But political intrigue? That does not sound like the Jacques Benoit I know."

"One never knows for sure, Monsieur," Moreau said. "Intrigue seems to be the watchword of the day. I would hate to learn that Doctor Jacques was in some sort of trouble."

"So would I, Moreau. So would I. Listen, if you should see him before I do, tell him that I'm staying at the Luxembourg. Ask him to come and see me on a matter of some importance."

"I will, Monsieur Laporte. And if you should see him first, you tell him that he has friends who will stand by him, eh? If there is trouble, you tell him to come to old Moreau."

Hunter looked at Moreau and smiled. The burly Frenchman had a face that looked like old leather and broad shoulders that suggested a previous trade more strenuous than being a tavernkeeper. If there would be trouble, Jack would do well to have someone like Moreau beside him.

"I'll tell him," Hunter said.

He left the tavern feeling very worried. Something was definitely wrong. Jack Bennett had disappeared without leaving behind any message whatsoever. With Jack, that sort of thing simply didn't happen, unless those men had something to do with it and he had not had time to leave a message. But then, according to Moreau, those men had been with Jack for at least a week and they would not have known the signals that Hunter and Jack had arranged between themselves. Jack should have been able to leave word if something out of the ordinary had occurred. But he hadn't.

Those "friends from Flanders" made Hunter nervous. Jack didn't have any friends in Flanders that he knew of. Then there was Moreau's description of them. Large. Spoke French excellently, but with an accent that Moreau, an ex-seaman, could not place. Perhaps it was because it was an accent unknown to this time.

"Where are you, Doc?" Hunter mumbled. "What have you gotten yourself into?"

He was so preoccupied, he didn't notice that he was being followed.

Andre realized that she owed Hunter a great deal, but there was a limit to any obligation. She had promised Hunter that she would learn to act like a lady, but she had never promised him to play that role continuously. Nor had she promised him to, as he had said it, "stay put" in their apartments.

He had brought her to another time, to another world, and he expected her to stay in their hotel unless told otherwise. Yes, she owed him a great deal, but she did not owe him blind, unquestioning obedience. He had developed a tendency to order her around and she didn't like it. She understood that he was only being protective, because he knew much and she knew little of this time, because he was in his element and she was in an alien environment. Still, that did not make her confinement easier to bear. She felt herself dependent upon Hunter and she didn't like having to depend on anyone. She never had. She liked feeling caged up even less.

In the 12th century, at least, she had known the rules. In England, she had been able to make her way alone. Hunter had spent many hours with her, teaching her to speak 17th-century French. The task was made easier by her knowledge of the Norman tongue, but it had proved bothersome when Hunter would not speak to her in any other language. He had explained that they would be in 17th-century Paris for an indefinite amount of time and that it was of paramount importance for her to know the language. Surprisingly, even though the constant repetition and the boring drills were tiresome, she had discovered that learning a new language came easily to her, far more easily than learning "the gentle art of acting like a lady," and only slightly less easily than learning how to use a rapier. Already, Hunter was no match for her. Her progress had astonished even him. Yet what was the point in knowing all these things if she was to be denied the opportunity to put them into practice? What was the use in learning how to act like a 17th-century Parisienne if she remained constantly within the walls of the Luxembourg Hotel, seeing no one, going nowhere?

"A lady never wanders through the streets of Paris unescorted," Hunter had said.

Well, perhaps a lady didn't. But then, she had never promised him that she would be a lady all the time.

She had inquired as to the whereabouts of the nearest tailor and the carriage took her to an exclusive little shop, patronized only by the wealthier citizens of Paris. The tailor had readily accepted her explanation that she was buying a surprise birthday present for her little brother, who was almost exactly the same size as herself. He had summoned a seamstress to measure her, telling Andre that when she presented the suit to her little brother, he would be more than happy to perform any necessary alterations free of charge. If the tailor or the seamstress were surprised at her unusual height and dimensions, they kept their comments to themselves. If the lady had arms and shoulders like a laborer's, that was no concern of theirs, especially since she didn't even remark upon the price.

The white silk shirt would feel good against her skin and the black brocade breeches would be infinitely more comfortable than skirts. The high leather boots would be a distinct improvement over her dainty little shoes. The doublet and cloak were also in rich black brocade, "the finest cloth available," the tailor had insisted. He had also insisted upon the "necessary lace adornments" about the collar, sleeves and boot tops, without which no proper gentleman could consider himself dressed. A dark red sash would complete the ensemble, along with an ornately plumed hat that would feel much more comfortable upon her head than that abominable wig. Attired in this manner, she would look like a dashing, well-to-do young cavalier. The tailor was ecstatic when she ordered two more suits, identical in nature. Still, he was not so ecstatic that his aesthetic sensibilities did not demand that he press upon her a change in color at the very least, if not in cloth. It made little difference to her, so she ordered one suit in burgundy and one in mauve. Delighted with himself, the tailor threw in several pairs of gauntlets in matching shades and two extra baldricks. "Oh, and a full complement of handkerchiefs, as well," he added, magnanimously. He thanked mademoiselle profusely for her business and promised that the clothes would be delivered to her hotel.

Andre spent the remainder of the morning driving around Paris. Hunter would be angry, but she didn't care. After all, it wasn't as though she was some pampered, helpless woman wandering about Paris alone and unprotected. She viewed the city from the safety of her carriage and she was perfectly capable of protecting herself if the need arose.

She didn't care for much of what she saw. Paris was dense and crowded and noisy beyond belief. How was it possible for people to live like this, like rabbits in a warren? If this was an example of what the future held in store for her, she wasn't at all certain that she wanted any part of it. Yet, on the other hand, there was a majesty to Paris, a beauty and elegance that far surpassed anything she had ever seen before. As the carriage passed the Louvre, she gasped. The Palais du Louvre was a far, far cry from the castle strongholds of her time. No builders of the 12th century would ever have been able to achieve such grandeur. Compared to Louis XIII, Prince John of Anjou was a peasant. The carriage took her along the Seine and she marveled at the Cathedral of Notre Dame, towering over all the other buildings on the Rue de la Cite. How had its builders been able to construct such a massive edifice; how had they built the majestic flying buttresses? If this was what the architects of the 17th century could achieve, what wonders awaited her in the 27th? She drove through the Marais, where the Knights Templar had once held their fief-a large, vast fortress of a temple built in 1107. That reminded her of one Templar in particular and, for a moment, there was a sinking feeling in her stomach as she recalled Sir Brian de Bois-Guilbert, the man who had murdered her brother, Marcel. She had avenged her brother's death, but it had not made the pain of her loss easier to bear. At present there was no trace of the temple. The Marais was now a residential area, the square filled with red brick and white stone buildings three stories high with window surrounds. On past la Place Royale, the carriage drove by the Bastille. The Bassin de Parsenal brought water from the Seine to the moat around the prison. Andre looked upon the massive stone walls and thought of the people rotting within them, never again to see the light of day. Hunter had told her a great deal about Paris, but seeing it for herself made her realize for the first time just how primitive she must seem to him, a man to whom this wondrous city would seem backward.

It was nearing noon and she decided it was time to turn back. There was still much more of the city that she had yet to see, but there was no point to trying to see it all in just one day. It would have been impossible, at any rate. As they passed the Carmes-Dechaux, Andre directed the coachman to stop for a while. Here was a small pocket of silence in the bustling city. She got out and walked slowly toward the convent, a large and windowless building surrounded by barren fields. Here, at least, there was something of the flavor of her time. She walked along the side of the building, running her hand along its wall. Curiously, although she had done nothing for the past several hours more strenuous than sitting in the carriage, she felt exhausted. She would just rest here for a moment in the peaceful silence of the courtyard of the nunnery. As she came to the corner of the building, almost to the inner courtyard, she heard the sound of running footsteps and hesitated. Foolishly, she had left her rapier behind in the carriage, along with her dagger. She was unarmed. She spun around quickly, but the footsteps were not coming from behind her. Cautiously, she peeked around the corner.

The running figure burst into the courtyard and paused a moment, out of breath. It was a young man, blond and bedraggled, wearing old and dusty clothes and a rapier that seemed far too long for him to handle. He glanced quickly around the courtyard and his gaze fell upon an older man, with a bandaged shoulder, dressed in the uniform of the king's musketeers, sitting casually atop a hitching post and picking at the mud upon his boots with his rapier.

"I trust I am not late, Monsieur?" said the blond youth.

The musketeer slowly raised his head, while he continued prodding at his boot absently. "No, you are quite punctual," he said. "I, myself, have only just arrived moments ago. I shall, however, have to beg your indulgence for a short while, as I have asked two friends of mine to be my seconds and, as you can see, they have not yet arrived."

"Ah," said the young man. "Ah. Well. I must confess that, since I am new to Paris, I have no seconds, Monsieur."

"What, none at all? Do you not know anyone in Paris?"

"Well, Monsieur de Treville…"

"Yes, well, he would hardly do, would he? The captain of the musketeers is hardly in a position to disobey the edict against dueling. Well, I must say, this is most irregular. Dueling with a youth who has no seconds, not good for appearances at all, I am afraid. I'll have the air of a boy-slayer."

"Not so much so," said D'Artagnan, bowing slightly. "After all, you do me the honor of drawing a sword against me while you still suffer from a wounded shoulder. I am afraid it is I who shall suffer from appearances, Monsieur, if I should kill a man whose wound prevented him from properly defending himself."

"Well spoken. However, I shall take the left hand," said the musketeer. "I usually do so in such circumstances. I use both hands equally well and a left-handed swordsman can be quite troublesome to one who is not used to it. I fear that the disadvantage will be yours, Monsieur. I regret that I did not inform you of it earlier."

"That's quite considerate of you, Monsieur," D'Artagnan said. "I hope my inadvertent collision with you earlier this day has not overly aggravated your condition."

"Well, you hurt me devilishly, but I'll survive. Thank you for your concern."

"If I may, Monsieur," D'Artagnan said, "my mother has given me a wondrous balsam with miraculous healing properties. I am certain that, in three days time, it would effect a cure upon your wound and then, when you are less inconvenienced, I would still be honored to cross swords with you."

"Well, that is a generous offer, indeed," said the musketeer, "not that I would accept it for a moment, but it savors of a gentleman a league off. It seems that you are not at all the ill-mannered lout I took you for. I'm almost sorry that I'm going to have to kill you. Merde. Where are those two?"

Listening to this exchange of courtesies, Andre was pleased to note that chivalry still seemed alive in the 17th century. She decided to linger and watch the outcome of this meeting.

"If you are in haste, Monsieur, and anxious to dispatch me at once," D'Artagnan said, "pray do not inconvenience yourself. I stand ready."

"Well spoken once again," said the musketeer. "I'm rather beginning to like you, young man. No, I think we'll wait for my seconds to arrive, if you don't mind. It would be the proper thing to do. Ah, here comes one of them right now."

Andre saw a stout, swarthy-looking man dressed flamboyantly in a cerulean blue doublet, crimson velvet cloak and gold-worked baldrick strut into the courtyard. The young man seemed quite surprised at his appearance.

"What? Is your second Monsieur Porthos?" he asked the musketeer.

"Yes," said the musketeer. "Why, is that not acceptable to you?"

"Oh, no, not at all," D'Artagnan said. "I'm perfectly agreeable."

"And here comes-"

"Monsieur Aramis," D'Artagnan finished for him. A tall, handsome, slim man approached. He was dressed more simply, in dark hues, and he had a somewhat pale look about him. He wore a delicate, thin moustache and he moved with an air of graceful nonchalance.

"You know Aramis?" said Athos.

"Only in a manner of speaking," said D'Artagnan, weakly.

"What, Athos!" Porthos said. "Don't tell me this is the man you're going to fight?"

"Yes," said Athos, "he-"

"But he is the man I am to fight, as well!"

"But not until one o'clock," said D'Artagnan, somewhat sheepishly.

"But I am to fight him, also!" said Aramis.

D'Artagnan cleared his throat uneasily. "Ah, yes, at two o'clock, Monsieur."

Andre, watching from concealment, suppressed a chuckle.

Athos raised his eyebrows. "It seems you've had quite a busy morning, my friend," he said to D'Artagnan. "And to think, you've only just arrived in Paris."

"Well, now that you three gentlemen are here together," said D'Artagnan, "permit me to offer you my excuses."

Athos frowned. "See here, young man," he said, "this is a most serious matter. If you-"

"Oh, no, you misunderstand me," said D'Artagnan. "I only meant to offer my excuses in the event that I am killed before I can give all of you your satisfaction, for Monsieur Athos has the right to kill me first, you see, and then Monsieur Porthos would come second and you, Monsieur Aramis, would be the third. I merely wish to apologize in advance in case I do not last out the afternoon."

"Very nicely said," said Porthos. "See here, Athos, what is your quarrel with this lad?"

"To tell the truth, I'm not sure I recall," said Athos. "He hurt my shoulder, I think; it arose somehow out of that."

"And what is your quarrel with him?" Aramis asked Porthos.

"Why, it's… it's… Damn me, I've forgotten! But it is of no matter, whatever it was, we'll settle it between ourselves. And what of you?"

"Ah, well, it was a matter of some delicacy-"

"Come, come, gentlemen," said Athos, "we're wasting time. For all we know, this youngster has other appointments to keep, at three, four and five o'clock, no doubt."

"On the contrary, Monsieur," D'Artagnan said, with some slight embarrassment. "I am at your disposal for the remainder of the afternoon." He drew his sword. "And now, if you're quite ready…"

"Not now, not now," said Aramis. "The cardinal's guards, the cardinal's guards! Sheathe swords, gentlemen, quickly!"

Andre saw a company of red cloaked men-at-arms approaching quickly. At first, she was puzzled by the last remark she overheard, and then she recalled that the one named Athos had mentioned something about there being an edict against dueling. She felt disappointed. She had been looking forward to a display of swordsmanship, so that she might assess her own skills in relation to those of these men.

"Aha, what have we here?" said the leader of the guards. "Musketeers dueling then, is it? And what's become of the edicts, eh?"

"Peace, Jussac," Athos said. "We were merely about to settle some small private matters. I promise you, were our roles reversed, we would not interfere with you in your own business."

"But you would not have to answer to the cardinal, Monsieur Athos," Jussac said. "No, I am afraid that I cannot allow it. I will have to ask you to sheathe your swords and follow me."

"I'm afraid that would be impossible," said Athos.

"You refuse, then?"

"I'm afraid we must."

"I warn you, sir, if you refuse to go along peaceably, we will have to charge you."

"Five against three," said Porthos, dryly. "Hardly the best of odds, I would say."

"Five against four," D'Artagnan said, stepping closer to them. “That is, if you'll allow me.''

"We'll allow you, we'll allow you," Porthos said.

"Just one moment," Athos said. "He is not a musketeer. This is none of his affair, you know."

Aramis cleared his throat. "Uh, Athos, in case it has escaped your notice, there are five of them."

"But moments ago, we were to duel with him," said Athos.

"Just so," said Porthos. "We can kill him later, if you wish."

"Come, come, gentlemen," said Jussac. "What is it to be?"

"What is your name, young fellow?" Athos said.

"D'Artagnan."

"Well," he said, glancing at the oversized rapier, "I hope you know how to use that thing."

"But not too well," said Porthos, remembering their prior engagement.

The three musketeers drew their swords. "All for one," said Athos. The guards charged. "The hell with it," he said and sidestepped Jussac's rush.

Andre watched what followed with a great deal of interest and not a little amusement. The combatants used the Florentine style, meaning that one hand held the rapier while the other used a dagger, but to say that there was any style to their combat was to stretch all definitions of the term. There was none of the graceful intricacy which, according to Hunter, characterized the art of fencing. As he might have said it himself, instead of swash and buckle, it was more like slash and flail. Of all of them, only Jussac and Athos displayed some semblance of the finer points of swordsmanship. Jussac's manner of fighting was the closest to the classical form, whereas Athos fought with a minimum of motion and wasted effort, a sharp contrast to his comrades. Aramis moved like a dancer, using his footwork to compensate for his lack of strength. He played his opponent like a toreador working a bull, deflecting the guard's blade and moving gracefully sideways, causing the man's own forward momentum to carry him past, whereupon Aramis's blade would describe a lightning-quick series of overly flamboyant arabesques over the guard's exposed back and buttocks. Not one was a killing stroke, but the cumulative effect of all those pretty slashes would, if continued, result in his opponent bleeding to death.

Porthos was literally comical to watch. His movements were exaggerated, jerky, and he appeared to fight as though he were a man in abject panic. Yet, instead of fear, there was an expression of intense concentration on his face, forehead deeply furrowed, eyebrows knitted, tongue protruding slightly from his mouth. His footwork was that of a lumbering plough horse, ponderous and clumsy, and he looked as though at any moment he would trip over his own two feet. His thrusts and slashes were the most pronounced of all the fighters.

Athos, by contrast, appeared totally relaxed and insouciant. He was economy personified and he allowed his opponent to come to him, preferring to work close. Andre soon saw the reason why. At very close quarters, the bullish strength of the elder musketeer was a decisive advantage. He used his dagger sparingly, but when he did it was either to bludgeon his opponent with its blunt end or to attempt a stab into the upper torso. Curiously, he seemed unconcerned about his defense and, though he had avoided his opponent's rush at him and disposed of the next guard quickly, Andre saw how a skilled swordsman, wary of being lured in close, could take advantage of his careless guard.

Of them all, the blond youth named D'Artagnan was the most interesting to watch. He, alone, disdained to use a dagger. In fact, he didn't seem to have one, though he did not seem to suffer from its absence. His style, if style it could be called, was the most peculiar, yet by the same token, it was the most effective. Quite obviously, the guards had never come across anyone who used his sword in quite the same manner as he did and they seemed at a loss to deal with him. He used his free hand to alternately take a two-handed grip upon his oversized rapier and to wrench his opponents about as though he were a wrestler. Andre had to chuckle as she saw him deal with two of the guards at once. He parried the thrust of the first with a vicious back-handed two-hand blow, using his rapier almost as though it were a quarterstaff. His parry almost spun the guard around completely and, as the second guard came at him, D'Artagnan stepped in close to the first, his hand darting out to grasp him by the throat. Unprepared for this unorthodox maneuver, the first guard was momentarily shocked, giving D'Artagnan just enough time to parry the thrust of the second guard, then slam a knee into the first guard's groin. The man sagged and D'Artagnan released him, to concentrate his attention upon the second guard. With a bizarre, two-handed circular parry, he brought the guard's rapier around and down to touch the ground. Then he stepped upon it and lunged in to smash the guard of his rapier into the man's face. A quick thrust and it was over; then he was rushing to help Porthos with his man.

Porthos gratefully relinquished his opponent to D'Artagnan, who attacked with exuberance and a boyish glee, grinning from ear to ear. In seconds, Jussac found himself sorely beset. Athos, having killed his man, joined Porthos, who was leaning against the hitching post and mopping his forehead with a handkerchief.

"Would that I could help him," Porthos said, breathing heavily, "but my breakfast still weighs heavily upon me and I fear that I am all worn out. Besides, he doesn't seem to require my assistance. God, did you see that? What a ghastly blow! I've never seen the like of it! He handles his sword as though it were a garden hoe!"

"I would hate to be his garden, then," said Athos, dryly. "The lad fights amusingly, but devilishly well. The thought that I was to duel with him gives me acute discomfort."

The guard matched up with Aramis, his uniform in tatters, was sidestepped by Aramis again and this time, taking advantage of his own forward momentum, he chose to continue in the same direction, taking flight and running directly toward Andre. She moved back into the shadows and pressed herself against the wall. He kept running until he was almost abreast of Andre, at which point he stopped, turned, and removed a pistol from his belt. As D'Artagnan ran Jussac through the shoulder, the guard stretched out his arm and took careful aim. Andre stepped out from the shadows and kicked high, knocking his pistol off the mark even as he fired. The ball went wide. The combination of being unaccustomed to her skirts and shoes and the slickness of the ground beneath her caused Andre to lose her balance and sit down hard into the muck, composed of mud from recent rain and the leavings of a horse which had earlier relieved itself upon that spot.

The look of rage upon the guard's face changed abruptly to one of immense frustration when he saw who had interfered with him. He sputtered incoherently for a moment, then caught his breath long enough to say, "Really, Mademoiselle!" He tucked his pistol back into his sash and took off at a run. Sitting on the ground, Andre sniffed and wrinkled her nose.

"Look at that!" said Aramis. "An angel in the mud!"

"She saved my life," said Athos.

"No, no, you are mistaken," Porthos said. "That shot was aimed at me."

"You are both wrong," said Aramis, "it was my life that she saved."

"No, but clearly, it was mine," D'Artagnan said. "That guard was aiming straight at me."

"Don't be ridiculous," said Aramis. "Your back was turned, how could you see?"

"Nevertheless, it was I who was the target," said D'Artagnan.

"My friend," said Porthos, "it is a miracle, indeed, that you are an accomplished swordsman, for clearly you are blind. I tell you, it was me she saved!"

"Gentlemen, gentlemen," said Aramis, "this matter can be settled easily. Let us go and pull the lady from the mud and ask her whom she meant to save."

Athos tapped him on the shoulder and pointed. There was no sign of Andre.

While they had been arguing, Andre had quickly made her way back to her carriage, directing the coachman to take her back to the Luxembourg Hotel. The coachman had raised his eyebrows when he saw her all covered with filth, but he made no comment. He was being well paid and if the lady chose to have an assignation in a puddle of manure, that was no concern of his. The recreational pursuits of the jaded well-to-do made little sense to him and he really didn't care. He counted himself fortunate to be employed.

Andre ignored the stares and wrinkled noses as she entered the lobby of the Luxembourg and made her way back to her rooms. She knew that Hunter would be furious. Doubtless, he had returned by now to find her gone with no word of explanation left. She had taken the carriage and some of their money and now she was returning, soiled and smelly, after having been gone all morning and much of the afternoon. She prepared herself to face his anger. Pausing at the door to their apartment, she took a deep breath and entered. There was no sign of Hunter. Relieved, she went into the bedroom to change her clothes.

Hunter was in bed, with the covers pulled up over his head. Quietly, so as not to wake him, she tiptoed to the closet. Then she noticed that the clean white sheets were stained with crimson. She jerked back the covers.

Hunter's throat was slashed from ear to ear.