Laundry Day
by Arithanas
Mousqueton was happy with his life as a servant of a gentleman, even when he changed his name for a quite arbitrary word. The work as easy and food was good, and he found it was even easier to fool his master into believe he was doing a hard labor. At least that was what Mousqueton thought, but last night his master returned early, that was bad enough, and sober, which was even worst.
He was a terrifying sight.
Mosqueton was even more scared because the man was unable to utter a word through his pursed, purple lips, even when he made some threatening signals toward him. Then, that man turned around and started to shed his clothes and throwing them to the floor. With an annoyed grunt, Mousqueton set himself to pick them in silence. He was still folding the rich doublet when the gentleman made his statement.
"This night you should thank the Heavens because I'm not Athos," he said with a heavy sigh that made the hangings flutter.
Mousqueton couldn't help but to watch him, he seemed so sad under the light of that tallow candle, the only light on this small room. He had his shoulders slumped, his head bent, his eyes were downcast. Had he lost a bet? Maybe the gentleman noticed his observation because he lay down in the bed and covered himself from head to toe with the simple fustian sheet.
Something was about to change, and Mousqueton don't like change.
...
The very next morning, Mousqueton was reclined on the windowsill, looking outside with a bored expression. His master was finishing his first meal and soon he would depart to the roll call in the Musketeers' Headquarters. The servant was looking forward to spend his day alone, maybe he could take a fine nap or he could fiddle a little and get some pocket money. Nah, he maybe sleep a good part of the day. It was pretty obvious that last night scene was completely forgotten.
Mousqueton was still musing about how he could employ his day when his eyes caught a familiar figure among the passerby of the adjacent street. Mousqueton could recognize that hat and the way those shoulders move following that martial gait. As if to confirm the sighting, behind this familiar figure was another lanky figure, one of a scarecrow, stiff by the poles on his shoulders and the weight of a couple of washing pails in its ends. Mousqueton laughed aloud at the scene, he didn't think greatly of his fellow lackey.
"Master! I can see M. Athos coming through Rue du Petit Vaugirard," Mousqueton announced with a smirk. "And he has a packing mule on his tow."
"Yes, I know," Porthos mumbled, the mouth full of hard bread that he washed with warm beer. "You better start packing the laundry because you are going to spend the day with him."
"I beg your pardon?" Mousqueton was taken aback by that statement.
"Grimaud will teach you how to wash my clothes properly," the musketeer state, raising from the table. "You are to follow him and to heed each of his words, or signs, or whatever instruction he gave you."
"That moron is so stiff!" Mousqueton protested, that ruined completely his day, "as if he wasn't born with a navel like the rest of us!"
"Mousqueton, I gave you an order!" Porthos insisted with an haughty, loud tone that almost deafened that stubborn Normand.
That was a voice that admitted no reply. Mousqueton with heavy heart and light feet started to pick up the soiled shirt and hoists, wondering how was possible his easy life became a heavy burden so suddenly.
...
Porthos went ahead to greet his friend, and to prevent him to climb the stairs. Mousqueton was aware his master never allowed visits in the apartment, not even his own friends, so he made haste and bundled up the dirty clothes which made a respectable bulk. The three of them were next to the door, Grimaud had placed his heavy pails on the soil and that made visible the sack on his back. The masters were exchanging friendly words. Mousqueton arrived with the clothes.
"Here's the lazy one, Athos" Porthos said giving his servant a mean regard.
"Oh, mast..." Mousqueton tried to protest but the pungent aroma of sewage stopped in the middle of the sentence. "What a stench!"
"It's just the lant," Athos said, as if that was an explanation and then he gave his lackey his complete attention, his hands signaled Mousqueton, and then the bulk. Grimaud followed each signal and nodded. The master rubbed his fists together and the servant smiled.
"Athos, I don't believe Mousqueton could understand the signals," Porthos pointed out with his most polite tone.
"That's why I'm using them," Athos replied, his hand with the fingers drew together signaled his mouth and Grimaud shook his head. The master produce a shiny coin and placed it on his servant's hand.
Grimaud kissed his master's hand with a wide smile. That dumb fool only lacked a tail to wag. Mousqueton liked him less by the minute.
"You can speak to him," Athos finished, patting his servant shoulder, "but just to impart him instruction, understood?"
Grimaud nodded and then gave his colleague a rude gaze.
"Teach him good, Grimaud," Porthos said and he placed another coin in the servant's hand. "Let's go, Athos!"
Grimaud keep his respectful countenance until the masters lost themselves in the next corner. Mousqueton tried to peak into his loosely closed fist and then the twit gave him the surprise: with a quick movement he passed the coins to his other fist and use his free hand to pin Mousqueton to the facade of the building. His eyes were half closed and his lips where bloodless in a stiff smile.
"I must felicitate you," he said with a voice so coarse by the lack of use, "I never managed to shame my master, let alone his friends."
"It was easy," Mousqueton tried to pay no attention to the sarcasm. "So easy I know not what I did."
"White, clean shirts are the sign of a gentleman," Grimaud explained, his expression was becoming more stern with each word. "Last night their officer noticed your master's dirty shirt. He laughed at him. His colleagues laughed at him. And whoever laugh at my master's friends, laugh at my master. I work hard to dress my master like a prince. I'll be damned if I let you stigmatize my master to the same rube state in which your master is!"
Mousqueton was a Norman, he was proud of being resourceful and brave, but after that tirade, it was safe to said he was utterly terrified.
He liked Grimaud better when the Breton didn't speak.
...
It was midday when hey reach the small part of the Seine where Grimaud wanted to wash the clothes, he mumbled something about the aegir and better sweet water, but Mousqueton didn't care, he replied he always did the laundry next to the house and his colleague gave him a slap on the neck but never a word. It seems that was a bad idea. So, they took their way toward Sèvres until that touchy mute found the place where he wanted to wash his master soiled hosiery.
The place was not a solitary spot, it was more like a communal washing place where every one knew his silent colleague, women and men alike and he answered their greetings with some friendly signs and they seemed to understand them. Mousqueton was surprised by how social the man was. They found a place with big rounded rocks and Grimaud nodded at him. The lesson was about to begin.
As a preliminary step, Grimaud tilted his buckets and the acrid stench filled the air but only Mousqueton seemed bothered by that stench.
"What was in the bucket?" Mousqueton asked still uneasy with the aroma.
Grimaud didn't answered, he just rest his poles and coiled his rope before taking his sack off his back and producing a bag with ashes and a brush with hard bristles. Mousqueton was left to his own resources to find what that foul smelling lant was.
The next few hours brought to Mousqueton a new comprehension on what hard work was. Grimaud taught him to soak the clothes, and to sprinkle ashes of hard wood on them, and how to brush the fabric — Who could have guessed that fabrics had a right side to brush!— to remove food bits and hard, crusted mud. He only spoke to him three times and every time he opened his mouth the people around him stare and stand agog, because they were practically witnessing a miracle.
"It's easier if you soak them for some days before washing them," Grimaud said, lending him his brush. "Lant is better than water."
Definitely, Mousqueton needed to research what lant was, because Grimaud easily rinsed a batch of white shirts while his fellow lackey was busy scraping some sauce from M. Porthos' shirt, or maybe it was blood? Then Mousqueton watched Grimaud as he beat the dirt out of the fabric with vigorous movements, and then to snap them to shake the excess of water; but when the Normand tried he was a complete mess.
"Don't rub it," Grimaud instructed with an annoyed grunt, rewarding Mousqueton's efforts with a mean look, "maul it!"
Mousqueton did his best to comply, but there was a lot of small details to attend and Grimaud was working so fast that when Mousqueton had one step mastered, Grimaud was concocting a new trick. Mousqueton was taking a break while Grimaud filled his buckets again and started to add some strange powder on them. One of those was white and the water became cloudy like bad cider, the other was gray and Grimaud smiled when it touch the water, turned blue and started to dissipate like a summer cloud.
"What was that?" Mousqueton wanted to know, because that gesture proclaimed the happiness of his colleague, even when the water seemed plain water.
"Blue" was all his answer, but he kept that blissful smile.
The shirts were rinsed again, dipped in the "blue" water and then in the cloudy water. Grimaud drive the poles into one of the walls and placed the shirts on them, the rest of the clothes were left to dry under the sun, secured with small rocks. Mousqueton followed his lead and soon they took a rest, while Athos' shirts were flapping happily on the breeze.
"Are we done?" Mousqueton asked with candor. His back was killing him.
Grimaud laughed heartily, shook his head and made a weird sign, pressing his fist to his open hand, laid horizontally.
Of course, they had to iron those clothes.
...
"So, Grimaud, did you have a good time?" Athos asked when he picked up his valet and his clothes.
The servant shook his head, since he was not allowed to speak. He was carrying the freshly washed clothes in a dry pail, his other hand held up the poles like a musketeer would carry his weapon, but the twelve apostles never hung from a musket like Grimaud's spare bucket did in that moment.
"Bored with laundry?" Athos insisted, watching Grimaud's reaction. The Breton beamed him a smirk, it was not a secret that he loved clean, crispy clothes just as much as his master; for him, the hard work worth it. "May I assume your laundry partner didn't suit you?"
A firm nod was the only comment. Athos raised his eyebrows in a mute question and signaled his valet that he had the privilege to use his voice.
"He's a half-wit," Grimaud pronounce with a worried expression.
"Poor Porthos," Athos said with a head shake, before signaling his domestic to rush home with a gently gesture.