The jerks, abrupt and hasty, the not over rhythmic sways were made up of, grew less impetuous…

The consummating pull broke off with the final splash-slap of legs at the flagstones in the apparently drenched pavement—the motion ceased completely.

The claps of well-trained, full of rigorous vigor, heels neared the right door in the sedan chair. The skin hanging in the pleats of blinds quivered and slipped to sides yielding to the onward ram, firm and determined, by the bared head of long, salt-and-pepper hair with a parting along the middle of the pate, penetrating not violently yet deeply, with the ears and all.

"This is the place, Your Eminence."

"Very well, yet beware of breaking my incognitos."

"Beg your pardon, Your Eminence."

"Fuc... putain d'idiot!"

"It’s on the upper floor, Your… Monsieur."

The dark long cloak under the large cape, whose shade engulfed the whole face down to the very tip in the silver glimmer of the nail-beard styled à la Richelieu, followed the sword belt, glossy and wide, on the even wider back of the loutish cicerone leading, with clumsy slyness, the way.

Two jumbos were trooping the procession’s rear. In the silence of both, the accent of the Swiss Guard mercenaries was felt, palpably apparent and clear…

Behind the too wide open, however, still hanging on one hinge, door, an oil lantern, positioned by the wall, poured out thru its grated mica scanty light over the nearby slits and gaps in the floor boarding.

"Did the neighbors in the house notice anything?"

"Losses among the civilian population 7.05%, Your... Monsieur. 0.75% below the average... Monsieur."

"Très bien, très bien."

The cordon of the guide and the Swiss seal off the entrance, the sub rosa visitor enters the room of the similar illumination, where two men with feathers on their wide-brim hats and in black camisoles of the Cardinal Guard present their swords unsheathed.

A seasoned stool pigeon with the seal of obvious obsequiousness in the vicious features of his vile visage expressing zealous readiness for any base malice, clamps the right forearm of a woman, young, disheveled, frightened.

In the half-lit corner one can discern a male form donned in only a blue frock coat over his undoubtedly naked body.

The pretty crumpled bed—beneath a shabby canopy by the wall—stays empty.

"Fetch two chairs from the kitchen, I am having a brief tête-à-tête with this here Chevalier. And take the slut away…"

"Be kind to observe your manners, Monsieur!” cried Aramis. "This lady is an honest…"

"... seamstress from Toulouse or Pas de Calais," butted in his ardent proclamation the interlocutor from under the hood, "perhaps even from Portsmouth over the Channel, freshly from under the Duke of Buckingham’s protection, which doesn’t matter much because, at present, fake pendants of Chinese rhinestones are as cheep as horseshit on a market day... Out with her."

"So, my dear Aramis, please relax, let's talk like men of business."

"So, thrice dearest Dick-only-knows who," retorted Aramis in the equally nonchalant style of deportment, however, bordering in his interpretation on a scornful disdain, "what is the footing for your claim of belonging to the venerable circle? How many domes are tattooed on your back? Who of the thieves-in-law has crowned you?"

Sinking with a gently slow-downed wag of his hindquarters onto the oak chair hastily delivered and timely thrust under his butt, the intruder raised his hood and let it fall behind, over his back.

The austere light seemed to gain intensity glinting in the scarlet skullcap over the pomaded hair of artful, finely crispy, curls.

"Your Eminence!" strained yet courteous regards by Aramis proved his awareness of the regulations at the French Royal court concerning the high rank of the unexpected visitor.

"Sit down, Chevalier."

"Thanks, I’d better keep standing."

Inokenty's fingers went on struggling with the brass button in the lap of his double-breasted frock coat.

"I cannot help noting the frivolity of cut in the camisole you wear. A new collection by Verzacci?"

"No! What fuc… I mean it’s from a galleon…" still trying to force thru, answered he.

"So you’re also engaged in a part-time privateering? Commendable preoccupation. Making hay while the sun's up... And stop this fuss, please. We, thank heavens, have seen the views. It’s 17th century already, you know... The accomplished tolerance of all sorts of manners."

Aramis played along with the sacerdotal wish and let his hands hang by his hips, respectively. The skirts of the frock coat slid open…

"Holy Cow! He has risen, amen!" exclaimed the prelate in sheer bewilderment. "Yes, you are right, Aramis, such a center piece would better be buttoned up. It’s hard to concentrate on what we are about… distracts, you know…"

After a brief rummaging through the innards of his cassock (scarlet as well), the cardinal took out a tight roll of the pencil-shaped stick of a cigar.

Creaked the iron door of the lantern picked hastily up from the floor as one of the black-camisolemen flicked open this 17th-century lighter at ready for His Eminence.

Armand Jean du Plessis de Richelieu entered his nose and the cigar sticking out beneath it into the narrow rectangle of light shed by the oil-smoking wick thru the unclosed lid.

With slow twirls of the cigar end in between his caressing lips, he carefully lit it up, raising his eyebrows, in stages, higher and higher, and finalized the drag with a couple of catching-on shallow inhales thru his closed teeth, a kinda cork to keep the in-take in his up-risen lungs then, issuing a long moan, emitted the rarefied smoky mixture within the surrounding atmosphere.

The Guardsman click-closed the lighter and put the lantern back from where it had been grabbed.

Aramis's Adam's apple hopped spasmodically, he licked his lips with fleeting shoot of his tongue, sank onto the chair rejected by himself just a moment back, and slightly dragged it closer to the conversationalist.

In all the audience that followed, he kept breathing exclusively through his nose, as any Ministry of Health would advise upholding the advocacy of Master Denis, the founder of blood transfusion from ram to man.

"Yes, Chevalier, our tireless explorer, Monsieur Tavernier, did manage to establish connection with the Golden Triangle in Southeast Asia where he’s brought samples of the native variety of tobacco from, for the benefit of France."

The cardinal's eyelids drifted halfway down his eyeballs filled already with that oily luster so characteristic of the organs of vision, which happened to inadvertently catch the "welder’s bunny" from the wick directly, without the protective mica.

"I have no intention to conceal the fact of looking through your dossier presented by the State Chancellery on my demand. A seminarian picks the career of a Musketeer? Ha! This speaks volumes.

However, mon ami, why under the command of that martinet de Treville?

Though being a Captain, deep in his heart that war-horse still remains a salabon, a bugged-eyed rookie, as presented in his psychical portrait, compiled by that doctor from Vienna, what’s his name again?

It's time to think about your future. Submit a report for transfer to the Cardinal's Guard. The uniform of the bravest cut, not to mention the rations and high boots of tanned goatskin.

Besides, there are the most magnificent openings on our side after two of the best Guardsmen, de Kauzak and his provincial cousin from Provence, were put out of action with a boarding pistol, which one has been already attached to the investigation materials. Finger-prints and stuff, you know…

Do we understand each other correctly now? On the same wave-length, eh?"

Inokenty choked on the aroma of the cigar from Hong Kong—he suddenly remembered where the pistol had gone—but chose to offer no comment.

The cardinal took his silence for the confession and signing of Inokenty’s own accord the honest-to-God protocol stating his perpetration of the unlawful act…

"Fine. Now, let's turn to the defense of French interests.

You know as well as I do, that the king is still too young to be the Sun. And his widowed mother, Queen Anne of Austria, a juicy woman…

(Aramis, in a spontaneous body-language response, crossed his legs alertly and pressed across the lap the double-layer lid of his hands—right palm put firmly upon the left hand back)

...yes, sure… but more on that later…

so, she’s too weak to look after the state.

My biggest worry is the British MI6, that baked by the late Sir Walsington layer-cake where a James Bond’s overlying another and so all the way from bottom up.

Yes, of course, raw sodomy, but the smart asses do know the trade. And, take my word, quite penetrating bastards they are.

To out-smart them, we will offer Chamberlain the French fig version in the form of our secret weapon.

MWWTW: em-dub-dub-tee-dub : Man Who Walks Through Walls!

How about that? And Batman’s ass got kicked around!

The man who slips into the safe of the King of England containing the accountancy report for the fiscal year!

Who visits the Escurial vault full of the Aztec gold nuggets...

A flying excursion to the Pomegranate Chamber in the Kremlin—damn it! Can you keep up with those shifty Russians?.

A call to the Vatican's collection of paintings…

Do you follow the alluring nature of perspectives, mon cher?"

"Well, I dunno... need to consult with my friends... what will Athos say? and Parthos too…"

"Stop making monkey out of you, citizen suspect. You do know, Count De la Fere got gulped by the green shit, and Parthos has become a wheeled gimp under the investigation by Down Syndrome Scrutinizers.

To put it curtly, you’re allowed 48 hours to think, for the sake of humanism and all that jazz."

"But what about Maya, citizen cardinal?"

"The chick will be returned for the period specified and, as a former straight man, I advise you to purchase un preservatif.

The cutie’s just crossed the English Channel, but those British bulls are so too stupid—not realizing that Covid is an STD, they hook the masks onto the wrong piece in their anatomy…"

His Eminence approached the window and, like the most low-grade son-of-a-motherfucking-bitch and sadist, threw the unfinished Hong Kong fag end—at least of a couple of full drags yet—into the rainy dark night.

"Keep in touch, Aramis. And don't you try at getting lost, no use – the cardinal's spies know their stuff."

Slamming his brown hood back over his red skull-cap, accompanied by the pair of Guardsmen with drawn swords, the Duke du Plessis de Richelieu left the room with the obscenely lax gait of a gouty courtier and behind-the-scenes sneak..

* * *