Title: The Bet
Summary: August 1626, Paris. Porthos and d'Artagnan discern that losing is the only one way to win.
Disclaimer: Dumas & Maquet works are public domain.
To Umeko, with my respect and admiration.
The Bet
by Arithanas
Athos pushed the door of their usual tavern open, his stern gesture warned the host to clear the table in the darkest corner immediately, for the sake of his own business. That warning was heeded promptly because, when that specific patron was in a dark mood, his books registered a distinct raise. That man was a like a barrel of five quintals when summer and moodiness came to him.
The regulars in the tavern didn't move when they saw the four men enter in the room; their attention was diverted by a couple of gypsy girls who danced at the center of the room. They both managed to divert Aramis and d'Artagnan eye straightaway, Porthos and Athos shared a quick glance in secret dialogue.
"Monsieurs, you are a sight for sore eyes!" The host greeted them over the sound of the guitar.
"A table and six of your best wine of Anjou!" Porthos demanded and his big hand clutched Athos by the shoulders with a gesture full of congeniality. "Spanish wine is his favorite."
"Good grief, Porthos!" Athos rebuked, annoyance was clear in his face. On days like these he would appreciate if his friends remembered his preferences. "That's only the third best option. Eight Champagne, corked!"
The host listened impassively to this exchange; those two had repeated the scene for the last seven years. He just smiled and made a little reverence.
"Right away, monsieur. Would you like to taste our wine and to select our best vintage?"
As soon as Athos followed the host, Porthos tugged d'Artagnan's collar to call his attention.
"This is the night," Porthos said and, to his friend's amazement, he did it in a soft whisper, "Aramis is in good spirits for that letter and, maybe even better, for that purse which I reckon is rather heavy. Athos is getting into a huff and gypsies are in the town..."
"We cannot win, Porthos," d'Artagnan followed his cue.
"That's why I devised a way to lose and to win anyway," he gave d'Artagnan a wink. "You just bet with Aramis, I'll take care of the other end of the bargain."
D'Artagnan heaved a sigh and wondered which of them was crazier: he for following Porthos' idea or Porthos, for proposing it in the first place; spring was over and they have not an excuse for the mantles now. Since that last scuffle with the Cardinal Guards, their doublets were in a lamentable state, they need hard cash soon without sacrificing their pride. None of them had any scruple on fleecing their friends.
"Say Aramis," d'Artagnan called out to his friend as they both walked toward their table. "Have you ever seen Athos dance?"
"I don't believe that feat would be possible."
"Porthos and I believe he could be terrific in such an impossible feat."
"By this time, you should have noticed that impossible feats are Athos' specialty, but you will never get him near a woman, at least no sober enough to dance!"
"I bet you we can!"
"I would pay to see it done."
"You will see it this night, my word!"
Aramis stopped and looked d'Artagnan in the eye; he could never be sure when the young Gascon was serving some bravado or when he was speaking in all seriousness.
"And how much are you two ready to lose?"
D'Artagnan got closer and whispered a number which made Aramis raise his eyebrows in disbelief.
"Such sight is worth the price," d'Artagnan said with a mischievous smile.
"I just doubt you and Porthos have the means to cover such bet."
"Porthos is ready to sell some of his suits."
"If he does it by the meter, he will get a good price."
D'Artagnan laughed heartily: "There is no risk, Aramis, for we will win the bet!"
Athos returned with half a bottle in his hands, one could infer that he had knocked down the other half on his way to his friends.
"Athos is not going make it easy for you," Aramis replied smugly, "it would be amusing to see you try!"
D'Artagnan tried to smile, but he wasn't at all sure about the whole thing. Porthos better be sure of his strategy or they were going to be in a good trouble, since Aramis was never inclined to forgive game debts. He tried to find a reassurance on Porthos, but he was busy discussing with Athos about the properties of the devil's wine, to Athos' chagrin. They soon struck up a conversation by the heat of sparkling wine, Aramis declaimed some inspired verses about bubbles and taste and somehow he managed to make them a metaphor about women. Athos cut short the poem by dishing out a witty remark about the wine's reputation, and his friends roared a laugh that made the rest of the patrons turn their heads toward them for them had surpassed the noise the gypsies made with their guitars and tambourines. Four patrons dinning together were not an unusual view; it was odd to see such a merry group in the most secluded spot.
"That's our Athos!" Porthos laughed, supporting his weight on Athos slouched body. "He's never afraid to show us how much he's terrified of women!"
Athos shot him a dirty look. That kind of gazes could kill a man, but Porthos didn't seem to notice it.
"You better don't drink anymore, Porthos, given that you are saying nonsense."
"Friendly advice?"
"A warning," Athos, as usual, was laconic as a Spartan.
"But, dear Athos, the truth has to be said, even if it is source of scandal!" as if he were challenging his friend, Porthos took a long swig from his tankard. "You are never next to a woman, so people could only infer two things: Either you are afraid of women or you are..." Athos repeated his killer look; Porthos cleared his throat, "a gentleman of more exquisite tastes." A wink, a very mischievous one. "I'm only protecting your reputation!"
"My reputation needs no guardian!"
Porthos sported a saddened look, like he was seriously taking umbrage by the way Athos reacted. "Well, I let the people think... you know!"
Those last words were uttered with the special intonation that could make any man shudder. Athos went pale, and Aramis rolled his eyes upward as if he was begging mercy to the Heavens. D'Artagnan darted an alarmed look towards Porthos, that was going to far and Athos could chose to lay Porthos in the floor with a couple of sword thrusts for good measure.
"Take it back."
"Prove me wrong!"
"Be reasonable, Porthos," Aramis said absent-mindedly, he had seen the strategy and was ready to launch his counterattack. "The only way Athos could prove you wrong is not... for the eyes of public."
Porthos laughed hard.
"You wish!" Athos was not amused.
"Aramis has no imagination," Porthos took his big hand and knocked down Athos' hat in his way to mess his friend's hair. "I tell you what: dance with a woman and I'll take it back. I'll even pay a month of your wine!"
Athos was clearly taken aback for that proposition. A month of wine was a fine treat, on top of clearing his character in front of his friends. Aramis noticed he was outwitted by Porthos and he blushed in rage.
"There are gypsies here; surely they wouldn't make a fuss about it." Porthos whispered to his friend's ear but his whispers were like the sound of cannons when he was not trying to really conceal something.
"Gypsy girls are decent!" Aramis protested, almost outraged. D'Artagnan almost bet his had tried to pay court to a gypsy and was foiled in his intent.
"He's going to dance, not to do something unbecoming!" D'Artagnan was ready to reply, almost without thinking.
"How about that one?" Porthos took no notice of this exchange; he was busy doing the tempting demon over Athos' shoulder. His big hand signalled the older of the girls, one with a handkerchief over her dark curls. "Fresh, plump and spirited. She would surely fall for you..."
"She's married, you Picard brute!" Athos shook off Porthos' weight of his back, he seemed interested on the game.
Porthos gazed at him with a stunned expression, but Athos' countenance clearly said he should not ask how he knew that particular piece of information.
"Faith! We must not mingle with married women then. What about that one?" Porthos insisted, pointed with his chin to a young girl with a glorious mane of dark curls over her low-cut blouse. "Is she a married one?"
"The one with the tambourine who's standing next to his brother?" Athos asked and evaluated the girl with the same expression he would use to appraise a horse.
"You don't need to do this, Athos," Aramis commented, trying to tip the scale to his favor, but Porthos' boot on his shin made him shut up.
"A month of wine?" Athos repeated with his eyes half-closed. It was obvious he didn't hear Aramis' advice.
"That's on the table."
There was a small gaze contest; two stubborn hardheads challenged each other to back off.
"Talk is cheap, Porthos."
"My word is not."
Once Athos was satisfied, he took his hands to his doublet and made an astonishing deed: he started to undo his doublet laces.
"I didn't ask for a strip show!" Porthos protested with a mocking grin.
"Moron!" Athos said and slapped Porthos over the head. "A favor, d'Artagan..."
"Anything, Athos!"
"Keep it clean," he said, handing him the garment.
D'Artagnan took the doublet and tried to hide his smile, while Athos drained his tankard and placed his sword on the table. Then, with complete cool, he made his way to the center of the salon.
"Is he going to do it?" Aramis asked, sliding his weight to the edge of his seat; the color was drained from his face.
"He's going to do it!" d'Artagnan exclaimed, placing the doublet on the bench.
To see a man in his shirt sleeves was a queer spectacle, but Athos seemed impervious to the curious gaze of the crowd; his eyes were fixed on the young woman, who, in retribution made clear her lack of interest. The tavern got gradually quiet as those both continued their staring contest; it was not a usual occurrence that a Parisian man dared to publicly make his advances to a Romani woman. In spite of the sneers of the patrons and the scorn on that woman's eyes, Athos tapped his foot, his spurs jingled on the hard wooden floor and his right hand made an imperious signal to the woman, and, by the way the gypsy woman shook her hair and dropped her tambourine, that sign was interpreted as a challenge; that sign could never be seen as a half-hearted petition.
"Creo que el gajó te quiere camelar," (1) was the amused comment that another gypsy made to the chosen woman, his fingers played a spirited chord on the strings of his guitar.
"Toca, planó" she commanded with stern voice, she was not pleased with this vigorous call, "¡que a éste le haré ver su suerte!"(2)
Athos tapped again, this time following the rhythm of the music, it has been a while, but he surely could make his part; the girl came to him, with petticoats gathered, head high and a challenge in her eyes. The whole tavern erupted in clapping and cat-calls, the louder were those three in the corner. Athos was not distracted by that pair of strong legs which tried to invade his space, he just followed her cue, making his boots sound in consonance with the strong footsteps the girl made on the hard woods; his arms were wide open, away from his body, as if he was trying to keep them away from the girl. She smiled and nodded, acknowledging his good manners; not all the men in this city were gallant enough to know where to place their paws. The rest of the gypsies capitalized this opportunity and rambled around the tables, spreading the euphoria and gathering some spare coins.
"Is he dancing or not?" D'Artagnan asked but Aramis only mumbled something that sounded like Latin or, maybe, Greek.
The girl kept her eyes on Athos while she harass him, it was like she was trying to trod on Athos' boots, taunting him, daring him to touch her. Athos was not a novice, her hands were on her skirt and that was not a good sign. The public was enjoying the spectacle of those nude thighs, but the gypsies were sporting knowing smiles; they were expecting something... He was trying to overcome his mistrustful nature, she made something that confirmed his suspicions: She spun around and let go the long skirts. If Athos were another man, one less distrustful, he might be entangled on the fabric, but he was alert and took a step back before launching his body onward, surrounding her with his arms.
"¡Quita la cherja, gachí!" Athos exclaimed, his hand around the gypsy's waist, his hip caressing her side, his blue eyes locked into her dark ones. "No serás tu quien me haga marimé." (3)
The girl gasped her surprise and some strident chords filled the tavern when the gypsies noticed the daring maneuver, but soon they recover their cool, as Athos' hands were plainly visible and above the waist. Athos' friends, noticing that he went for the jugular cheered the movement with hats on air and loud catcalls.
"Are you sure he's not calé?" one gypsy with a guitar asked them over the noise of the foot stomping and the music.
The question was rather rhetorical because he returned to his job, holding out his hand to take some sous that a patron gave him for the show. The three musketeers, rather dumbfounded, looked at him before returning their attention to the couple. The cryptic comment was not going to spoil their fun.
Athos smiled as he was the one setting the beat, the girl tried to escape and he almost let her go before pulling her body against him again. She awarded him a seething gaze. Any other man could have cowered, but Athos was immune to anger in women eyes, he got it far so frequently that his person had become a whetstone for killing gazes. She uttered a very unladylike grunting noise, gathered her skirt and stepped hard, missing Athos toes by a line. Good, she was foiled, but not defeated.
"Impossible feats..." D'Artagnan whispered to Aramis' ear when Athos returned the favor to the little gypsy.
"You swindling Gascon...!"
"It was fair game, Aramis. I commend you to your word."
Aramis grumbled and counted a tall stack of coins with a sigh of resignation. Surely, he was thinking about sins that carry their own penance. Without a sight to the couple absorbed on their spirited dance, Aramis looked for a confirmation that his debt was settled and, once a double nod was given, he picked up his cup, getting ready to be riled up by Porthos' mockeries at his defeat, but the big Picard only signaled d'Artagnan to pocket the money.
"That's it?" Aramis spat, tying up his purse to his sword belt. "Do you spare me the winner's banter? Have you not words in jest at my defeat?"
"Faith, Aramis! Can't one man win graciously without being eyed suspiciously?"
"Especially once in a while!" d'Artagnan commented, raising his cup to toast with his defeated friend, "Hear, hear!"
"Glad you concur, my dear Gascon… WHOA!"
Athos and the Gypsy girl came swirling around next to the table, so involved in their little battle of wills, to notice the people around them. Aramis extended his leg, as if he was trying to rise from the bench, at the precise moment they both danced around the corner of their table, unfortunately the gypsy girl tripped over his feet, Athos extended his arm to catch her using his friend's thigh for support, she snatched up his shirt, forcing him to bend forward...
The gypsies stopped their music; the patrons quelled their cat-calls; the host rushed out his wife and daughters, too used to have a fight when this sort of mishap occurred in his establishment. The wit of Aramis was utterly lost at that moment, with a gasping, trembling gypsy girl almost in his lap and Athos, with his blue calm but determined eyes on her face, close enough to kiss her. The girl moaned; her hair a cascade of dark, hay smelling curls; her fingers loosened up the grip on Athos' collar; her fingertips caressed the coarse jaw line of her savior.
The invitation was there, anyone could see it.
Anyone but Athos who, seeing her in the relative safety of Aramis' lap let her go without any ceremony or regard.
The gypsy girl felt how she lost the support of those arms and, with a bold move, threw her arms forward, entangling them around the neck of Athos. A pair of scarlet lips drowned an exclamation of surprise with a kiss born of a passion unheard of.
Before the gypsies could approach with harmful intentions or Porthos and d'Artagnan could rise from the bench, Athos managed to untangle the beautiful girl from his arms —with all precautions to make her seated in a steady position— bowed his head and placed a soft kiss on that mischievous hand, all with dignity and complete cold blood, but his friends could notice the murderous glint in his eyes as he approached his place at the table.
"D'Artagnan!" Athos called while Aramis fumbled with the unexpected weight of an utterly confused girl. "Wine!"
"That kiss was not part of the deal, my dear!" Porthos managed to blabber, still astonished by the stunt.
Athos groaned as soon as he let his weight down on the hard wood.
"I don't care! I will need a cup of wine to wash away that kiss!"
Porthos laughed heartily as d'Artagnan filled the cup and handed him the doublet for him to cover with more propriety.
"Take the whole bottle!" Porthos invited, pushing the wine container in his general direction.
"Just one cup, I say!" Athos insisted, draining his container in one gulp, "I need my wits because Aramis never let sleeping dogs lie."
"Can you believe the outrageous claims your so-called friend made about you, Aramis?" Porthos asked.
But Aramis paid him no attention; he was busy in more enjoyable chores, namely, consoling the poor gypsy girl from the rude behavior of his friend.
"…Five years I knew this hard-headed mule, this is the first kiss he gets. So, don't take it personal," Aramis was saying, clearing a dark curl from a fresh, young forehead, "He's not used to kisses."
"It was about time some one give him a good one!"
The girl giggled but she didn't cast a leering eye on Athos. Good, she was a smart one.
"As far as I know, you are right." Aramis, to his friends's surprise managed to place a soft kiss in her cheek. "Say, will you dance with me later?"
"Mayhap…" She rose from Aramis' lap and went to her people with a rustling of underskirts.
As soon as the girl left them, the tavern returned to normal, the constant din of gossipy patrons and the clatter of trencher, dishes and glasses. One of the gypsies started a new song, a faint romanza to encourage people to notice them for their art. A far-off sigh from a host who managed to keep his way of life another night.
"To gypsies," d'Artagnan proposed, rising his cup, "and their decent girls!"
"To bets," Aramis said, following the young Gascon example, "for some risks needs to be taken!"
"To friends!" boomed Porthos, "with whom we can partake wine!"
The three friends threw a glance at Athos who, once the situation was again under control, had taken the bottle by the neck and was busy removing the liquid in great gulps. When it was obvious his friends were waiting for him to concrete the toast, Athos dried his lips on the sleeve and got up, devil's wine in hand, to compliment the occasion.
"To life," Athos pledged with dull voice, "which would be unbearable without wine, friends, bets and gypsies!"
"Hear hear!"
The wine was raised high, the metal clatter, and the friends sat in unison, ready to order the following round.
My gratitude to Lilgenious for her hard labor correcting the spelling and grammar. All the remaining errors are mine.
(1)I believe the gadjó is wooing you. Gadjó= non rom (Andalussian).
(2) Play something, brother, I'll teach him a lesson!
(3)Off with the skirt, woman!, you won't make a marimé of me.
A/N: Marimé refers both to a state of pollution or defilement as well as to the sentence of expulsion imposed for violation of purity rules or any behavior disruptive to the Gypsy community. Gypsy women can touch a man with the hem if her skirt or try to throw it over his head to express their scorn and disdain.