Forbidden Fruit

I do not claim to own the characters thought up by Alexandre Dumas' extraordinary mind. I just want to manipulate them in a puppet like manner.



Through the floorboards of d'Artagnan's room, he could hear Monsieur Bonancieux shouting downstairs, in the mid-afternoon. "Do not take me for a fool, Constance! I know you are young, and still with a wandering eye! If you think I do not see how you look at Monsieur d'Artagnan, then you are the fool and not I." It must have been strong wine Bonancieux had consumed with dinner, to make him so brave in his words, thought d'Artagnan. For usually the little man skulked around his own home, quiet as a mouse and even less noticeable. "You are my wife, and you will respect me! You will honor me, and no longer cast such longing glances of appeal at Monsieur d'Artagnan!"

"Yes! Yes I am your wife, and how dare you speak to me so! How dare you accuse me?" Constance stood up for herself. D'Artagnan could hear the surprise in her voice from M. Bonancieux's sudden streak of courage.

"How dare I accuse you? Well, if I did not then my eyes surely would! For at least THEY do not lie to me."

"Perhaps you are just jealous of M. d'Artagnan," expostulated Constance. This amused d'Artagnan, who was now sprawled out on his bed listening to this heated conversation.

"Jealous? Why would I possibly be jealous? I am a considerable business man, with a fair amount of wealth, and am in the favor of the Cardinal himself. What could I possibly be jealous of?"

"Perhaps you have procured wealth and favor, but d'Artagnan is a handsome promising young soldier, with obvious success in the future. Through M. Treville he holds the king's ear, where you scrabble to pick up scraps dropped to the floor by the Cardinal."

The sudden sound of flesh striking flesh reverberated through the downstairs, echoing in d'Artagnan's room. This made the young soldier sit up on his bed, concern written on his face. The squeak of the front door opening and slamming shut met his ears. He hurried to the window to witness M. Bonancieux leave the inn, his cloak pulled tight around his small build, and his hat pulled down around his rather bulbous head. When d'Artagnan was positive the unpleasant little man had gone for a while, he quickly made his way downstairs, to find the room softly lighted with a single candle, and Constance softly crying, sitting on the floor whence she had fallen.

D'Artagnan knelt down beside her. He touched the side of her face lightly, brushing a lock of disheveled hair behind her ear. "Constance?" he asked softly.

She turned her face up to d'Artagnan's, her cheeks wet with shed tears, and her eyes glistening with those waiting to fall. D'Artagnan observed the large red welt on the left side of her face, that was beginning to form into a bruise. He felt a sudden anger curl in the pit of his stomach for M. Bonancieux.

D'artagnan drew Constance into his arms, holding her petite form close. She protested meekly. "My husband, he could be back any minute, d'Artagnan."

"Shhh. He will not be back for some time. He took his cloak and hat."

This was all the assurance Constance needed, for she felt no romantic bond or loyalty towards her husband. She had been forced into this horrible little marriage at the age of 14. The plain M. Bonancieux was rather indifferent towards her, there was no love anywhere in the loop of that marriage. Constance relaxed in d'Artagnan's arms, allowing him to hold her as she cried silent tears onto his shoulder.

After a few minutes Constance gently pushed away and stood, drawing d'Artagnan to his feet. "Thank you, Monsieur, you are very kind." She turned away to go to her room, but d'Artagnan held her hand more tightly, turning her attention back to him.

"Why do you stay with him, Constance?"

"And where else would I go, Monsieur?" D'Artagnan tried to think of an answer, but was left without speech. Constance smiled at his naivety. She stood on tiptoe, kissing him on the cheek. "My point exactly, Monsieur." She drew away with a sad smile, going to her room to powder her face, to hide the inevitable bruise. D'Artagnan watched her go, and the place where she had kissed his cheek burned. Not with a painful fire, but a desirous one.

Constance walked back out of her chamber, hooded cloak in hand. "The Queen is expecting me, I must go to the Louvre," she explained on her way past d'Artagnan.

"Wait! May I escort you?" d'Artagnan asked.

"I should be fine. It wont be the first time I had walked this path in the dark."

"Perhaps. But Paris is full of rogues and cutthroats. I should like to know you arrived and returned to your destination safely."

Nodding, Constance agreed. "Very well."