After twenty years apart, the Three Musketeers reunite to right an old wrong.
Madelon-la-Belle fled Paris two decades ago to escape disgrace, leaving her infant daughter, Louise, in the care of her sister. Now a wealthy widow, Madelon has returned—determined to claim her role as mother and transform Louise into a high-born heiress. All it requires is a touch of deception.
But Captain d’Artagnan of the Royal Musketeers, Louise’s father, has other ideas. He wants his daughter safely married before she can follow in her mother’s footsteps, and he has already chosen a suitable husband. Alas, the formidable Madelon refuses to accept his plan.
A battle of wills ignites, drawing in d’Artagnan’s long-lost comrades—Athos, Porthos, and Aramis—for one last adventure.
A tale inspired by Alexandre Dumas’s immortal classic story.
“Women!” exclaimed d'Artagnan. "They’re Eve’s daughters. Treacherous creatures, every last one."
Once the most dashing of the King's Musketeers, d'Artagnan was now a middle-aged captain with lines of experience etched around his eyes, and traces of silver interwoven through his dark, curly hair and neatly trimmed beard.
He lounged in the doorway of Planchet's prosperous dry goods store, hand on his sword, boot resting against the frame. The year was 1650, and France, like d’Artagnan’s love life, was in a state of confusion: its boy-king too young to rule, its nobles too restless to behave, and the streets too noisy and dangerous at night.
The air in Rue des Lombards, a busy commercial street, was thick with the smell of horse urine, roasting chestnuts, and cheap soap. It echoed with the sounds of citizens going about their business—merchants hawking their wares, nobles traveling in their elegant carriages, and the ever-present urchins darting between legs and hooves. A piglet—escaped from a butcher's cart—snorted indignantly at d'Artagnan's boot.
But the musketeer's scowl was for greater problems. "I risk my life for King and country, and what do I find when I return? A Swiss Guard in my bed. Figure that, Planchet! A Swiss Guard!"
Planchet's fingers absently straightened the lace at his cuffs, a small vanity that betrayed his rise in station. His waistcoat strained slightly at the buttons—a man grown prosperous on spices and gossip. His round face bore a diplomatic expression, caught between sympathy for his former master and the amusement any man might feel at another's romantic misfortunes.
"Well, sir, if she thought you were dead—"
"It was my servant who died!" d'Artagnan snapped. "Some fool got the message muddled. But the speed with which she filled the vacancy—mon Dieu! You'd think she kept the Swiss on standby, just in case."
Planchet gave a small cough to hide a chuckle. "A reasonable precaution. These are uncertain times."
"Uncertain, you say?" d'Artagnan bristled. "I've fought Spaniards, bandits, and the Cardinal's assassins, and none stabbed as swiftly as that woman."
Planchet cast a quick look inside the shop to see whether the apprentice was not pilfering nuts as was his habit. The grocery storefront opened into a treasure trove of exotic merchandise that spoke of distant lands and perilous sea voyages. Shelves lined with gleaming jars of spices, barrels of coffee beans, Oriental perfumes, and ostrich feathers reflected France's expanding reach into distant lands.
Confirming that his precious merchandise was secure, Planchet turned to d'Artagnan and leaned against the doorframe, which had been worn smooth by years of similar conversations.
"What did you do?" he inquired, curious about how the famously temperamental Gascon had handled such an affront.
D'Artagnan's eyes flashed with residual anger. "I threw the Swiss out, bags and baggage. It's my bed after all." He fell silent for a moment, brooding, his fingers drumming against his sword hilt. "All I want is a little decency. Apparently, that's too much to ask."
Planchet might have offered further consolation, but his attention was suddenly drawn to a figure moving purposefully along the street. "There he goes!" he exclaimed, pointing discreetly. "That's the chappie who courts Mademoiselle Louise."
Both men observed Laurent, a tall, bespectacled thin youth who walked with the slightly stooped posture of one who spends too many hours bent over books and ledgers. His attire, though not lavish, was tidy and well-kept, indicating a middle-class status. His face, partly obscured by a shock of unruly brown hair that fell across his forehead, bore the thoughtful expression of a young man with ideas fermenting in his mind. He was carrying a parcel wrapped in oil cloth and heading toward the bookseller's shop across the way, his steps quickening as he approached his destination.
"Ever since her uncle has gone on a selling tour, this one sneaks in every so often," Planchet said, his tone suggesting he found the pattern questionable. "Carrying books," he added.
D'Artagnan momentarily displaced his own romantic grievances. Everything concerning Mademoiselle Louise demanded his immediate attention. His soldier's instinct for potential threats and opportunities stirred to life. "Carrying books to the bookseller? Shouldn't the opposite happen? What kind of commerce is that?"
"He carries them back and forth," Planchet said with a shopkeeper's skepticism toward any unconventional business practice. He shook his head slightly, causing the small gold earring he'd adopted as a symbol of his prosperity to catch the light. "The purpose escapes me."
The musketeer's eyes narrowed thoughtfully as he studied the young man's retreating figure. "Strange fellow. What else do you know about him?"
Planchet, ever the source of local intelligence, leaned in slightly. The scent of expensive Persian perfume, another marker of his improved circumstances, mingled with the exotic aromas from his shop. "Laurent Besson. I found he's from a respectable family and he works at the Paris Guild as an under-secretary. Apparently, he's a boy with prospects."
A slight smile tugged at d'Artagnan's lips, causing the fine web of wrinkles at the corners of his eyes to deepen. "Prospects, eh? I'm starting to like the young man." He watched as Laurent entered the bookstore, then frowned suddenly, his brow furrowing with concern. "And the child's alone in the shop? Are there no customers inside?"
"No one, for a while," Planchet confirmed, his tone matching d'Artagnan's growing concern. He was hoping for an amusing confrontation to enliven his dull life.
D'Artagnan's protective instincts flared, his hand tightening almost imperceptibly on his sword hilt. The metal, worn smooth from years of such unconscious gestures, felt reassuring beneath his calloused palm. "I don't like that. Who knows what the two are doing there, unsupervised."
Inside the bookstore, far from any impropriety d'Artagnan might imagine, Louise and Laurent were engaged in serious scholarly work. The shop was a haven of learning, its shelves stacked with volumes bound in leather, their gilt titles catching the light from the tall windows. The scent of paper, ink, and binding glue permeated the air, creating an atmosphere of quiet reverence for the written word.
Louise, barely twenty years old, possessed a quiet beauty and intelligence. Her dark curls were tied back simply with a ribbon the color of ripe plums, and her dress, though modest in its cut, was neat and becoming, revealing a slender waist. Her skin was of fashionable paleness favored by wealthy ladies and envied by all who aspired for noblesse. But it was the brightness in her eyes, the color of amber held to sunlight, as she discussed the book with Laurent, that truly animated her features.
"This is good," Laurent said, examining the volume they were studying. His fingers, long and slightly ink-stained like hers, traced the lines of text. "How long may I keep it?"
Louise glanced at the shelves. "There are still two copies left. A week? Do you think it will be enough?"
"It has to be enough," Laurent replied with the determination of a scholar on a mission. "All we want is the essence."
He unwrapped the oilcloth, revealing a manuscript written in a meticulous hand, the letters flowing across in orderly manner. Louise took it with evident pleasure. The paper rustled softly as she turned the pages.
"Ah! You have been busy," she said approvingly. "And so was I," she added, opening a drawer to remove a similar stack of papers. "The Italian text confirms the function of mandarins so we can keep the entry."
She picked up two books from the counter. "Are you done with these?"
"Entirely," Laurent affirmed, his gaze lingering on her face a moment longer than strictly necessary for scholarly discourse.
Louise climbed the ladder to return the books to their place on the bookshelves. Laurent, despite his bookish demeanor, was not at all immune to the charms of the young woman. He enjoyed the brief glimpse of her ankles as she ascended, the curve disappearing beneath the hem of her skirt, leading to regions unknown, but calling for further exploration. He quickly lowered his eyes as she returned to ground level—a gentleman despite his momentary weakness. The blush that colored his cheeks betrayed his thoughts more clearly than any words could have done.
Outside the bookstore, d'Artagnan was growing impatient. His paternal instincts, though openly unacknowledged, had been aroused by the situation. He paced a few steps, his boots striking the cobblestones, before returning to his position beside Planchet. His hand moved from his sword hilt to his mustache and back again, a nervous habit from his younger days that surfaced in moments of agitation.
"If he doesn't get out soon, I'm going in," he declared to Planchet, who raised an eyebrow at his former master's exaggerated anger.
"Is that necessary?" he asked reasonably, his former wish for entertainment discarded as he started to fear for Laurent Besson's safety. "What can they do in a shop with the door open?" He gestured toward the bookstore's entrance, where the door stood ajar, allowing glimpses of the interior.
D'Artagnan's expression darkened, shadows gathering in the lines of his face like storm clouds on the horizon. "If she's anything like her mother, they can do plenty. I want to see her married as soon as possible, before she gets into trouble." The memory of another woman seemed to hover in the air between them, unspoken but powerfully present.
"Trouble. Women mean nothing but trouble," he said under his breath and turned to Planchet. "You say the boy is from a good family?"
"Solid bourgeois stock, so I hear," Planchet confirmed, his fingers absently adjusting the lace at his collar. "His father is known for fair dealings in the cloth trade."
D'Artagnan frowned, considering the implications, the furrow between his brows deepening. "They may object to their son marrying a bastard."
"A bastard without dowry," Planchet added, the practical merchant in him surfacing.
"A small dowry can be found. Will be found," d'Artagnan said firmly, then sighed, the sound carrying the weight of years of regret and responsibility. "As for the unfortunate circumstance of her birth, little can be done."
Their conversation was interrupted as Laurent exited the bookstore, carrying his parcel. The young man's face was slightly flushed, though whether from scholarly excitement or the proximity to Louise was impossible to determine.
Planchet nodded toward the departing figure. "There he goes, with that parcel again."
D'Artagnan straightened, squaring his shoulders, his mind made up. "I'll check him out, that birdie. Thank you, Planchet. I appreciate your help."
"My pleasure, sir," Planchet replied, smiling. The smile transformed his face, revealing the loyal servant still lurking beneath the prosperous exterior. "Glad to be of use for old times' sake."
As d'Artagnan strode after Laurent, his hand resting on his sword hilt, Planchet watched with the knowing look of one who had witnessed the musketeer's impulsive actions many times before. The afternoon sun continued its descent over Paris, casting long shadows that stretched across the cobblestones, hinting at the intrigues yet to unfold in the city of a thousand secrets.
***
D'Artagnan threaded through the crowd with the ease of a man who had navigated these same streets for decades, his eyes fixed on Laurent's retreating figure. He closed the distance and seized the youth's shoulder.
"A few words, young man," he said, his voice carrying the unmistakable authority of command.
Laurent turned, startled by the sudden contact.
"Monsieur?" he said, adjusting his spectacles which had been knocked askew by the abrupt halt.
D'Artagnan's grip tightened. "Your name's Besson. First name Laurent. Am I right?"
"Why? ... Yes... What?" Laurent stammered, clutching his parcel tightly against his chest, as though it might shield him from this unexpected confrontation.
"Captain d'Artagnan, Royal Musketeers," d'Artagnan declared, noting with satisfaction the widening of Laurent's eyes. No one was comfortable when facing king's authority. "I want to know what's in that parcel. We've been informed you may carry seditious printed material."
Laurent's face drained of what little color remained. "Monsieur d'Artagnan... Sir... I mean Captain..." His voice faltered as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other.
D'Artagnan seized the advantage of the young man's discomfort, gripping Laurent's elbow. "Follow me!" The command brooked no argument.
He steered Laurent toward a nearby inn, a well-known establishment where merchants and travelers mingled with locals seeking refreshment. The smell of roasting meat and spilled wine permeated the air, creating an atmosphere both inviting and intimidating for the young scholar. The buzz of conversation provided privacy for their discussion—perfect for d'Artagnan's purpose.
Once inside, d'Artagnan directed Laurent to a quiet corner, observing how the young man's hands trembled slightly as he placed his precious parcel on the rough wooden table. The innkeeper approached, a portly man with the shrewd eyes of one who had seen all manner of transactions conducted in his establishment.
"Come back later, man," d'Artagnan ordered curtly, then turned his attention to Laurent. "Let's have a look."
He reached for the parcel. Noticing that the innkeeper still hovered nearby, curiosity written plainly across his face, D'Artagnan fixed him with a stern glare. "I did say later, did I not?" The words were delivered with quiet menace.
The innkeeper frowned at the dismissal but withdrew, leaving them to their business.
D'Artagnan carefully unfolded the oilcloth, revealing two books and a manuscript. He inspected the titles with a critical eye, his brow furrowing as he examined the unfamiliar subjects. With methodical thoroughness, he shook the books open to see whether something might fall out—a hidden message perhaps—but finding nothing suspicious. Finally, he scanned the handwritten pages, his expression shifting from suspicion to complete puzzlement.
"What's all this?" he demanded, pointing to the books with a calloused finger. "Midwifery? Minerals?" He shook the manuscript impatiently, its pages rustling like autumn leaves. "And this jumble? What's the meaning of this?"
Laurent straightened slightly, finding his voice at last. "That's an encyclopedia, Captain."
"A what?" d'Artagnan asked, the unfamiliar term only deepening his suspicion.
"An encyclopedia is the compilation of all knowledge," Laurent explained, his eyes brightening with intellectual fervor despite his precarious situation. "A single work containing information on every subject known to man, organized alphabetically for ease of reference."
D'Artagnan regarded him skeptically. "Is it now? And who is gathering this knowledge? A milksop like you?"
Laurent's response came with unexpected conviction, his chin lifting slightly. "Everybody can gather knowledge. From books. That's the beauty of it. Knowledge isn't just for scholars or nobles. It's for anyone who can read."
D'Artagnan digested this information, his irritation growing. Was this some kind of deception? A clever ruse to hide more nefarious activities? He grabbed Laurent under the collar, his patience wearing thin. "Is that why you have been courting the bookseller's clerk? To borrow books from her?" His voice lowered to a menacing growl. "Did you, by any chance, promise her marriage?" The implication hung heavy in the air between them. "You do know what the law says about false promises to women, don't you?"
"I did nothing of the sort, Captain!" Laurent protested, distress flushing his cheeks. "Mademoiselle Louise is an exquisite human being. I'm not worth half of her."
"I entirely agree with you," d'Artagnan said.
Something in the young man's earnestness gave d'Artagnan pause. The sincerity in his voice was unmistakable, his admiration for the young woman clearly heartfelt. He studied Laurent's face with new interest.
"It is true!" Laurent continued passionately. "I would never purposefully mislead or deceive her. Never!" His voice cracked slightly on the last word, betraying the depth of his feelings.
D'Artagnan released Laurent's collar, considering. After a moment's reflection, he raised his hand to summon the innkeeper who had been watching from a discreet distance. "A pitcher of wine and two goblets."
Turning back to Laurent, he added, "Since you're not guilty of distributing forbidden material, let's drink to this Mademoiselle Louise's health in compensation for my error."
Laurent's body visibly slumped with relief, the tension draining from his shoulders. "I'll be honored, Captain."
The innkeeper brought the pitcher. As he poured the dark red liquid into the goblets, both men measured each other warily—d'Artagnan with the calculating assessment of a veteran soldier, Laurent with the nervous deference of a young man who had just escaped a dangerous situation.
"To the good and smart Mademoiselle Louise, then," d'Artagnan proposed, raising his drink with a flourish. "May she live long and be happy!"
"So she may," Laurent responded, his voice still constricted with lingering tension.
He swallowed his wine too quickly and immediately began to cough. D'Artagnan repeatedly slapped his back with a force that nearly toppled the slender scholar.
"Calm down, young man!" he advised, a hint of amusement creeping into his voice. "You're not going to prison. Not for... What did you call it? An en... what?"
"An encyclopedia," Laurent repeated, wiping his watering eyes. He took a more cautious sip from his goblet, determined not to embarrass himself further.
"Fancy that," d'Artagnan mused, leaning back against the worn wood of his chair. "I'm not much of a book reader myself. I gather knowledge from life." He lifted his goblet in a small salute. "Life and the blade have been my greatest teachers." He studied the young man with a new interest. "What gave you the idea to write such a thing? This... encyclopedia."
"It was Mademoiselle Louise's idea," Laurent admitted, a note of admiration entering his voice.
"What?" d'Artagnan's surprise was evident, eyebrows rising toward his hairline.
Laurent warmed to the subject; his earlier fear forgotten in his enthusiasm. "I used to go to the shop for paper and ink for our office, you know. Mademoiselle Louise talked me into buying a book. And then another." His expression brightened with the memory. "I started to read whatever I could get my hands on—histories, philosophies, accounts of foreign lands. Then I said it was a pity there was not a book that could gather all the knowledge in one place. Something to look into if you needed to know the essentials about one thing or another."
He leaned forward. "She said there was something like that in Italian. And that we could write a book like that and make it even better." Pride crept into his voice. "She's translating the Italian text, and I copy information from books she lends me. When we're done, we'll split the profits. We've reached the letter M now. Midwifery, minerals, and so on."
D'Artagnan listened with growing astonishment, his wine forgotten. This was not at all what he had expected to discover. "Where did she learn Italian?" he asked, unable to hide his curiosity.
"By herself," Laurent replied with undisguised admiration. "She first learned Latin from a schoolbook, and now she reads in several languages like Spanish or Portuguese. She says there are similarities everywhere, and you soon figure out the rest." He shook his head in wonder. "It never worked for me, and I learned Latin with the Jesuits for years."
For a while, d'Artagnan was too amazed for words. He emptied his goblet and poured more wine into both, the liquid catching the light from the inn's windows as it flowed.
"Drink, my friend, drink!" he encouraged, a new respect in his voice. "This extraordinary damsel deserves another toast. And this time, try not to choke yourself to death." His eyes twinkled with good humor, the stern interrogator replaced by a more genial companion.
They gulped their wine, Laurent finally relaxing in the captain's company. The late afternoon light slanted through the inn's windows, casting golden patterns across their table.
"For a while, I did it to please her," the young man confessed, running a finger around the rim of his goblet. "But now I'm caught up in it. I mean in the encyclopedia. Looking for knowledge is exciting." A shadow crossed his features as he added softly, "On the other hand, I don't want to finish it too fast. Because then..."
D'Artagnan's lips curved in understanding, recognition dawning in his eyes. "Do I detect a sentiment more tender than scholarly collaboration?" The question was gentle.
Laurent's face bore an embarrassed smile. He drank and played with his goblet, avoiding d'Artagnan's knowing gaze. The musketeer noted the flush that had nothing to do with the wine creeping up the young man's neck.
"And her?" d'Artagnan pressed, leaning forward slightly. "What do you think she feels about you?"
"I don't know. I don't dare..." Laurent's voice trailed off, his confidence deserting him in matters of the heart.
The idea of a secure and prosperous marriage resurfaced in d'Artagnan's mind. "But one has to dare, my friend," he declared with the conviction of a man who had faced countless dangers, both martial and romantic. "One has to dare! What's life without daring? A small, closed box for cowards." His voice took on a mentoring tone he had used with young musketeers. "I'll tell you what I see. I see a personable young man who clearly has both intelligence and heart. That young man would be an idiot not to make his feelings known. Nothing ventured, nothing gained."
"But what if the feelings are not shared?" Laurent asked, revealing the universal fear of rejection that has plagued shy suitors throughout history. "What if she laughs at me?"
D'Artagnan scoffed, waving a dismissive hand. "Book learning! Some things are not learned from books. Reading's not enough, my boy. One has to think as well." He tapped the side of his head for emphasis. "A woman asks a man to share something—what does it say to you, the big reader? It says that a woman asks a man to share something. Now what does the same thing say to me, a mature and wise man? To me, it says she's carrying a torch for you." He gestured expansively, nearly knocking over his goblet. "What is it to risk the short, sharp sting of a slap compared to a lifetime of sweet love?"
Laurent's eyes widened with hope, like a man seeing a distant shore after being lost at sea. "You really think so?"
D'Artagnan poured more wine. "I begin to think you're not clever at all, despite all your reading," he said. "You'd better make up your mind, chappie. That false report I got may be the scheme of a rival who's smarter than you."
Laurent took this in with visible alarm.
D'Artagnan, now well on his way to secure a husband for his illegitimate daughter, pushed his project home. "Listen to me, Laurent," he said solemnly, "I've seen brave men face cannon fire without flinching, yet quake at the prospect of telling a woman their true feelings. Don't be that man. Courage isn't just for the battlefield—it's for life's most important moments. And this, my young friend, is one of them."
Laurent nodded slowly, absorbing the veteran's wisdom. "You're right, Captain. I've been hiding behind my books, afraid to risk what matters most."
"That's the spirit!" d'Artagnan clapped him on the shoulder, nearly sending the slender scholar sprawling. "Tomorrow you'll march into that bookshop with your head high and your heart open."
More wine was poured after this. Neither of the two very recent friends knew their encounter would set in motion events that would entangle them both in a web of intrigue, false identity, and redemption—a web that had begun its weaving many years before, in the heart of a woman named Madelon.
***
Night had fallen over Paris, wrapping the city in velvet darkness illuminated only by scattered lanterns and golden rectangles of light spilling from tavern windows. In one quiet well-to-do neighborhood, the stillness was disturbed only by resonant snoring drifting from an open window high above the dangers of dark streets, where some fortunate soul enjoyed a peaceful rest.
A solitary light appeared in the distance, bobbing and weaving like a drunken firefly as it moved along the street. As it drew closer, the glow revealed itself as a lantern carried by d'Artagnan, who was supporting—or rather, half-dragging—a thoroughly inebriated Laurent. The young scholar, his intellectual reserve dissolved by numerous goblets of wine, proclaimed his affections with reckless abandon, his voice carrying far too well in the quiet night air.
"Louise!" he hollered, his voice echoing between the imposing stone façades of the bourgeois houses. "My heavenly Louise! My angelic Louise! I love you, Louise! LOUISE!!!"
The lantern cast grotesque, elongated shadows of the pair against the buildings as they staggered forward. D'Artagnan, who had encouraged the young man's consumption of wine to loosen his tongue, and to assess him as a marriage prospect for his daughter, was now beginning to regret his strategy. The musketeer's face, half-illuminated by the lantern's amber glow, contorted with growing irritation.
"Now that's enough," he admonished, struggling to keep Laurent upright as the young man lurched sideways. "Louise is not here, you bonehead. This is the street where you are supposed to live. Show me your house!"
As they drew closer to their destination, Laurent's declarations became increasingly amorous and explicit, his erudite vocabulary abandoned in favor of passionate imagery.
"Louise, be mine!" he shouted, gesturing wildly and nearly extinguishing their light. "I'll kiss your sweet lips, I'll nibble your smooth shoulders, I'll devour your white breasts—"
"Shut up, you blackguard!" d'Artagnan cut him off sharply, clamping a hand over the young man's mouth. The lantern swung wildly, causing shadows to dance madly around them. "I don't need to hear that. You try any of that before the wedding and I'll make a woman out of you." He frowned, reconsidering. "I begin to think I made a mistake. Now look around and show me your house!"
Setting down the lantern on a nearby step, where its glow pooled like liquid gold on the cobblestones, d'Artagnan seized Laurent by the shoulders and shook him vigorously.
"Your house! Look around! Where... is... your... house?"
The rough treatment finally penetrated Laurent's wine-fogged mind. He looked about blearily, his head wobbling on his neck, then pointed with unsteady finger to a house they had already passed. With a deep sigh that seemed to emanate from his very soul, d'Artagnan picked up the lantern with resignation on his face and dragged Laurent back to the indicated residence.
When they reached the main door, d'Artagnan held the lantern high, studying the façade with an appraising eye. The light revealed an elegant three-story townhouse with well-maintained shutters and ornate stonework—clearly the home of a family of means.
"Not bad, not bad at all," he muttered to himself. "No mistake after all. Any objection to the union of the here present Laurent Besson with Mademoiselle Louise shall be overcome with skillful persuasion."
He unceremoniously dropped Laurent, who collapsed into a heap on the steps with a groan, and banged the door knocker loudly. The sharp sound shattered the night's stillness like gunshots. After a moment, a window shutter creaked open above them.
"Good evening," d'Artagnan called up, his tone returning to the courteous manner befitting a gentleman musketeer. "I've delivered a milksop who cannot hold his liquor. Come and pick him up!"
With a touch of his hat, he departed, taking the pool of light with him and leaving Laurent to the care of his household, a formless shape huddled against the doorway.
On his way home, his mind churned over the day's events, particularly Louise's surprising scholarly achievements. As he turned a corner onto another dark street, his soldier instincts—honed through decades of combat—alerted him to danger. He heard the faint clink of metal against metal, a sound that would be meaningless to most but spoke volumes to a veteran warrior. He swiveled on his feet, reaching for his sword even as he turned.
The lantern light revealed three armed bandits emerging from the shadows like creatures born from darkness itself. Their faces remained obscured beneath wide-brimmed hats, but their weapons gleamed in the lantern light—a rapier, a cutlass, and a wicked-looking dagger. The light caught the edges of their blades, tracing thin lines of silver against the surrounding darkness.
"Be practical, monsieur, and appraise the situation," the leader of the brigands advised with mock civility, his voice smooth as silk. "You'll leave us your sword and your valuables, and you can be on your way in a minute, no harm done."
D'Artagnan nodded in apparent agreement and carefully set his lantern on a nearby step. The light now cast upward, illuminating the scene like a macabre theater performance, with elongated shadows stretching toward the sky. With deliberate slowness, using only two fingers, he drew out his sword.
Then, with the lightning-quick reflexes that had made him legendary among the musketeers, his wrist flicked into a full grip, and he attacked. The sudden movement sent his shadow flying across the cobblestones like a vengeful spirit.
The first bandit barely had time to raise his cutlass before d'Artagnan's blade slipped past his guard, slicing a neat furrow across his forearm. The man's cry of pain was cut short as d'Artagnan's foot crashed into his middle, sending him staggering backward, his skull meeting a wall with a thud.
The second assailant lunged forward with his rapier, aiming for d'Artagnan's heart. The musketeer pivoted, his body twisting like a dancer's, allowing the blade to whistle past him by a hair's breadth. His counterstroke was immediate and devastating—a precise cut opened the bandit's cheek from ear to mouth. The lantern light caught the spray of blood droplets, transforming them into tiny dark jewels suspended momentarily in the air.
The third bandit, seeing his companions so quickly dispatched, attempted to flee. D'Artagnan's boot shot out, catching the man's ankle and sending him sprawling onto the cobblestones. Before he could rise, the musketeer's blade was at his throat, the lantern light glinting menacingly off its polished surface.
"Perhaps next time, you'll choose your prey more carefully," d'Artagnan suggested conversationally, pressing the point just enough to draw a single drop of blood.
Within a minute of the first clash of steel, the assailants were clutching various wounds, their robbery attempt thoroughly foiled. The leader nursed a bleeding arm and faced the consequences of a concussion, the second dabbed at his ruined face, and the third remained frozen on the ground, eyeing the blade at his throat with terror.
With casual nonchalance, d'Artagnan wiped his blade on the man’s sleeve and returned it to its scabbard. He offered the trio one last warning glance, then turned on his heel, grabbed the lantern, and strode away into the Paris night, leaving the bandits to nurse their wounds and reconsider their life choices.
As he walked home, his thoughts returned to Louise and her remarkable linguistic abilities, a puzzle that had been nagging at the edges of his mind throughout the evening.
"Latin, Italian, Spanish. All by herself," he mumbled as he walked. "Hm. After all, it's no surprise. I was always good with languages. Although... not as good," he admitted with a fatherly pride.
The lantern light caught his satisfied smile, casting it in gold against the Parisian night.