Sarah D'Almeida - Dying by the Sword

Athos looked at him, surprised. The boy was wearing clean clothes-Athos’s, but they looked, Athos thought, better on the Gascon. And he looked as if he was just slightly weakened. Perhaps a little dizzy from the medicinal application of brandy, but he wasn’t stumbling near enough to allow him to speak foolishness.

And yet, when Athos looked up at him, he wondered if it was foolishness. Instead of ridiculing D’Artagnan, he shrugged and said, “Where did you come by that notion?”

“Grimaud,” D’Artagnan said, simply, as he settled himself into a chair, “said that you looked as though you’d seen a ghost.”

Athos tilted his head to the side, examining the Gascon. It had been sometime in the last few minutes, while Aramis had been coy about his seamstress and Porthos had made the usual mess out of his attempts at explaining his actions, that Athos had realized he would have to tell them what he had seen, as well as what he had done.

He wasn’t sure which of his pieces of news would cause the most uproar amid his friends-the sudden resurrection of a long-dead countess, or the clear-eyed way in which Athos had walked into the Cardinal’s trap, rather than allow it to close on his neck when he least expected it.

He sighed deeply. “I have, in a way,” he said. “Save that I believe a ghost would have disconcerted me less. But first, I’d like to know what Aramis has to say about…”

“The attack?” Aramis said. He had sat himself down on one of the more elaborate armchairs, immediately beside Athos, probably, Athos thought, because he didn’t want Athos looking directly at him as he questioned him. “As I said, all of you know about my… friend.”

“Seamstress,” Athos said, both amused and confused that Aramis was not using the term he usually used.

Aramis shrugged. He’d pulled a handkerchief from within his sleeve, and was examining its lace edging with utter care. “She… is a lady of the highest nobility and she resides in the palace.”

“I would expect nothing less,” Athos said.

Again Aramis shrugged, when in the past he would have looked either very gratified or somewhat upset when they penetrated the meaning of his words. He looked up at Athos, sidewise, and his green eyes seemed full of worry. “Well, after I spoke to Hermengarde, I went to my friend’s lodgings. I… well… for various reasons I was in need of a friend and she was the nearest.”

Athos nodded and forebore to say anything. He was fairly sure the reason was that Aramis had had to walk along certain hallways which awakened memories of his dead lover, Violette. He’d noticed that when the four of them had to go to the royal palace for any reason, Aramis avoided that area of the palace like the plague. And, in fact, since the most common reason they had to go to the palace was to stand guard there, he did his best not to go inside at all, but to take a post outside, near the entrance, and stay there.

“Well, while I was in her room we… argued. It is possible… That is… I angered her, and she is a woman of strong passions. I would not swear that she did not send assassins after me. Though I wouldn’t believe it likely. But I…” He half rose and sat himself again, and gave Athos a look so full of piteous protest that it was plain he very much wished himself elsewhere, and he very much wished not to have to go on with his revelations.

Athos said nothing, just continued looking his enquiry at his blond friend. If Aramis thought he could escape telling what worried him, he did not know what Athos, himself, would have to reveal.

Aramis sighed, heavily, as though realizing no one would facilitate his escape. “As I was leaving her room,” he said, “I saw on a table, a letter, written and sealed to someone…” He took a deep breath. “Enfin, to Caesar, the duke of Vendôme, the half-brother of the King.” As though he’d spent all his speech braving himself for this, he said, “I was going to simply show you her handkerchief, but I gave it to Hermengarde to dry her tears, and then I ruined one I thought was mine on D’Artagnan’s arm, in the palace. Now I find I still have mine, and am at a loss to find which handkerchief I did ruin.” He shrugged.

“Well, where did it come from?” Porthos asked.

Aramis shrugged again. “I found it on the ground at my feet, in such a position that I thought it could only have dropped out of my sleeve, and since it was clean, I used it to tourniquet D’Artagnan’s arm.”

“It’s in the kitchen,” D’Artagnan said, starting to rise. “Perhaps we should get it, before it is fed into the fire?”

Porthos, seated beside the youth, put a massive hand on his shoulder. “I’ll go, my friend. It is not likely I’ll understand this intrigue of court ladies and handkerchiefs.”

Though Athos thought this was the absolute truth, he said nothing else, nor did any of them, until Porthos galloped back up the stairs, a square of blood-soaked linen and lace in his hand. He handed it to Aramis. “It is most certainly not yours, though it might very well be the handkerchief of your seamstress. In which case, I’d very much like to know why you were carrying three handkerchiefs along on your sleeve.”

“He uses them as safe conducts,” D’Artagnan said, sounding somewhere between tired and amused.

“Safe conducts to three ladies?” Porthos said. And added fervently, “Sometimes, Aramis, I get the sense that you wish to sleep with every woman in France.”

And Aramis, looking down at the handkerchief with an expression of the greatest horror, said, absently, “I do. Twice.” And as he said it, he passed the handkerchief to Athos, allowing him to see the embroidered initials in the corner, MAR.

“Marie Michon?” Athos asked, at the same time that Porthos, having reached some sort of conclusion from what Aramis had said, exclaimed in a sullen tone, “If you so much as look at Athenais…”

Athos’s look at Aramis was quick enough to capture the expression of horror on his face. Madame Athenais Coquenard was Porthos’s lover of some years now. She was also-though born to minor nobility-the wife of an aged accountant, and well past thirty. On all these counts, she was disqualified from the pool of women that interested Aramis. On the other hand, it was hard to deny that she was indeed one of the women of France and that Aramis had, therefore, just declared his intention of sleeping with her. Twice. Athos would have laughed, were it not for the fact that he had a strong feeling if the girl wanted Aramis-or in fact, himself-he would find himself in her bed before he could think twice.

Aramis, realizing where his words had led him, turned to Porthos. “Oh, be still, Porthos. I was only… That is… You know that Athenais is not a woman.” And, as Porthos bristled at this, rapidly he added. “She is something far beyond woman, something that, to own the truth, terrifies me a little. I’m afraid should I pursue any intimacy with her, she would suggest I wear a green dress.” [6]

Porthos didn’t smile. He nodded, thoughtfully. “Well,” he said. “She scares me a little too, but the thing is that…” He shrugged. “Some of us like to know we are courting a woman who could, if needed, take us in combat. Though perhaps not in fair combat,” he added, even more thoughtfully. “I’m sure Athenais is not an amazon.”

Aramis nodded, but turned towards Athos. “Yes, Marie Michon. We’ve been… I think… using each other for some months now. But you know she is… that is, there is no intrigue, in the palace, in which she does not have her dainty hands. Which leads me to thinking of what Monsieur de Treville said.” He shrugged, again. “It is entirely possible I am wrong,” he said. “It is entirely possible that the letter concerned private matters. The lady is, as we all know, as much involved in affairs as she is in intrigues.”