'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.
5
