"Touché"
"Et-la_ and there!" One of the fencers shouted the traditional phrase as he made a hit on his opponent. The style was easily recognizable as he charged aggressively, cutting with the sabre across his opponents face mask and scoring. The style of course was Russian.
The two men had been sparring for quite some time and decided to end their workout with a match. It lasted less than three minutes with the Russian scoring the enough points to win. His opponent scored a few hits, but not anywhere near the requisite number of fifteen.
"That's bout." the judge called out, bringing an end to the match.
The two men removed their steel mesh masks before shaking hands with their free hands, while maintaining a grip on their weapons with the other.
"Illya, you have got to show me how to do that move, it really is indefensible." Charlie Robbins laughed.
"Oh no my friend, I do not give away my secrets, but I will tell you it is defensible. You just have to puzzle it out for yourself." He smiled slyly.
They walked off the piste, past the weight lifting area in the UN.C.L.E. gymnasium when someone yelled to watch out, but it was too late as a rack of dumbbells collapsed, falling on top of Kuryakin as he pushed Charlie out of the way.
The Russian was knocked out cold, and rushed immediately to medical. There Illya awoke, his eyes fluttering as he tried to focus them on a familiar face bent over and staring at him.
"Napoleon?This bed is not very comfortable." lllya mumbled, noting the mattress was rock hard.
"Qui monsieur_what sir?"
Illya leaned up on his elbows, wondering why Napoleon was speaking French to him and addressing him so formally. Suddenly he looked down, noticing his attire. He last remembered being dressed in a fencing jacket, knickers, white sox and fencing shoes. Now he was clothed in knee-high leather boots, black trousers, a billowing white ruffled blouse, red waist coat and a sky blue silk jacket. He reached up, removing from his head in dismay, a brocaded black tricorn hat with white and blue ostrich plumes.
He was laying on the ground outdoors and not in a comfy bed in medical.
"Qu'est-ce l'enfer?_what the hell?" He found himself speaking French.
"You are a clod-hopping bumpkin, monsieur." Napoleon scowled. "You rudely crashed into me, interrupting my afternoon wenching and now you'll pay." He was surrounded by a bevy of buxom beauties, a few in a state of near undress as their white peasant blouses had slipped far down the shoulder, revealing their ample bosoms.
"Qu'est-ce c'est des conneries_what is this bullshit!" Illya blurted out. "Where are we? Napoleon I have a very bad headache and am not in the mood for one of your practical jokes!"
"I'll have you watch your mouth," Napoleon said. "There are ladies present."
"Ladies? I think not." Illya mumbled, rubbing his head."And your accent is still awful." He must have gotten a harder hit than he thought as he remembered that rack of weights coming down on him. "Is Charlie alright?"
Napoleon grabbed him by his jacket, pulling him up from the ground."
"That's it, I'll meet you behind the Cathédrale Saint-Louis, in the old Quartier Saint-Louis neighbourhood at noon. He put his hand on the pommel of his rapier, then released Illya, letting him drop to the ground.
"Napoleon, what is this? What is going on? And why are you dressed... why are we costumed this way?"
His partner was clothed in silver grey jacket and breeches, with lace cuffs and collar, typical of 17th century France, the dark feathered hat on his head was beyond description. Over his shoulder was draped a leather baldric that held a scabbard and sword. Atop that was a royal blue velvet cape with the an ornate silver, white and gold cross embroidered over the left breast. It was unmistakably recognizable as the garb of a Louis the XIII Musketeer.
"Why do you keep calling me Napoleon bumpkin? Ye gods you are a stinky one; I detect the noxious odor of barn animals!" Napoleon pulled a silk handkerchief from his shirt sleeve, wiping the hand that had held the Russian. "I am Isaac de Porthau, first cousin once removed of theComte de Troisville, captain of theMusketeers of the Guard, and first cousin ofArmand d'Athos, but I am better known as Porthos, Musketeer to the King of France. Are all you country people this ignorant?"
Illya shook his head. "I must be dreaming? I was in the gym at U.N.C.L.E. headquarters and was hit in the head by a wayward dumbbell."
"I do not know your Uncle, Monsieur Stinky. Regardless, I will have satisfaction at noon." Napoleon gathered three of the women to him, nuzzling his face to their necks and breasts with a satisfied growl as he escorted them into a nearby tavern.
Illya picked himself up from the street, careful to avoid the horse droppings that surrounded him. He shook his head again, questioning his surroundings.
"This is a dream, if I go lie down somewhere and close my eyes then I will wake up in medical." That was his plan and he was going to stick to it.
He turned without looking, intending to find a tree under which he could position himself comfortably, but instead walked headfirst into another person dressed as a Musketeer.
"You idiot," a female voice howled at him, " Watch where you're going peasant."
"April?" Illya stared at her. She was richly dressed in Frenchman's clothing from the period, over which was draped the same Musketeers cape that Napoleon sported.
"Non, my son. You are mistaken it is September," she answered.
"No I meant your name is April. Why are you dressed as a King's Musketeer? What has Napoleon put you up to now?"
"I don't know, it's your dream," she smiled. "Now out of my way, I have an appointment with a priest."
"But April, it is all so vivid." He latched onto her arm, restraining her.
"How dare you lay hands on me you impertinent fool. You'll pay for your audacity! Meet me out behind the Cathédrale Saint-Louis at midday."
Illya sighed at this second challenge. "And who is it I shall be meeting then?"
"Aramis, Musketeer to the King of course." She spun on her heels, heading toward the same tavern that Napoleon had disappeared into.
"Bozhe moi, this is one hell of a dream." Illya declared as he headed out of the city, still hoping to find that tree.
He wandered for a bit, finding himself a large oak behind what looked like an old church, and there he settled himself, closing his eyes.
"Illya?" A voice called to him. " You okay tovarisch?" He saw a blurry image of his partner's face, standing over him in medical. There was a sudden swirl of colors and he felt dizzy.
"Napoleon, I was having a strange dream, I... " He suddenly felt something poking him in the side and opened his eyes.
Illya found himself looking along the blade of a rapier that was pointed at him, and in the hand of Napoleon...no Porthos. He was apparently still dreaming.
"Well, you're here nice and early. I suppose that's actually something in your favor being timely for a bumpkin. It's a shame, perhaps you could have been trained as a decent manservant, but that won't be possible as I'll be killing you shortly."
Illya stood cautiously," Not if I can help it." He drew his rapier, allowing himself to be caught up in his dream.
April Dancer appeared a moment later. "Say what's going on here? Porthos, I'll have you know that fool is my scheduled duel."
"Aramis my dear fellow, he is mine,I saw him first. " Porthos returned his attention to Illya. "Say, what's your name bumpkin so I know what to put on your gravestone? I don't think Stinky would be appropriate."
Illya rolled his eyes. "You know my name."
Napoleon looked at him strangely." Monsieur, how would I possibly know your name? We met but a few hours ago, and it was hardly a proper meeting."
"Illya, my name is Illya." He said sharply.
"Ill-ee-ya?"Porthos repeated.
"Good God man you still do not pronounce it properly, and this is my dream!" The Russian blurted out.
"Illya?" April questioned. "Non, that's not your name. It's D'Artagnan you goose."
"Fine, then it is D'Artagnan," he huffed.
"That's a Gascon name." Napoleon said. "Though your accent sounds unfamiliar. Aramis and I are both from Gascony. That is shame to have to kill a fellow Gascon but alors..."
Illya quickly recalled the details from the Dumas novel. D'Artagnan was a young, impoverished nobleman who came to make his fortune in Paris. He was brave, noble, ambitious, crafty, and intelligent. A Romantic hero, driven by love and ruled by chivalry, but was occasionally prone to fall into amoral behavior.
The character of Porthos was self-important, somewhat vain, and enjoyed outfitting himself handsomely; but for all that, he was a valiant fighter and a courageous friend. Illya smiled for a second, realizing his subconscious had aptly filled the role of Porthos with that of Napoleon Solo.
April falling into the part of Aramis was a puzzle to him. That character was a handsome young man, quiet and somewhat foppish. He constantly protested that he was only temporarily in the Musketeers, and that any day now he would return to the Church to pursue his true calling. April had hinted at early retirement as she'd become engaged to a man she refused to name, but that was hardly a religious calling.
Illya stuck out his chin deciding to go along with the charade."I am no bumpkin. I come from an impoverished but noble family. My name is Charles Ogier de Batz de Castelmore, Comte d'Artagnan."
Porthos looked him up and down. "Impoverished indeed. I wouldn't be caught dead in such clothing. Where is your sense of fashion man? No matter, so Gascon and Comte d'Artagnan, shall we have at it. I have an appointment with my tailor, then with a delicious Countess." Porthos grinned.
"Hmm, still the same even in my dreams." Illya said. "Alright so be it, let us have this duel so I can wake up."
Porthos and Aramis gave each other a quick glance and a shrug, not understanding what the blond D'Artagnan was going on about.
"Engarde!" Illya smiled, not waiting for them to ready themselves as he charged, turning his sword arm and enveloping both their outstretched blades at the same time.
They battled back and forth, Illya parrying and performing riposte easily using both his dagger and rapier.
"That is not French style,"Porthos shouted, what sort of fencing style is this, it's not elegant at all!"
"Is is athletic and aggressive,"Illya hissed proudly, "Russian style." He nicked Napoleon on the forearm, drawing first blood. "No, this cannot be. I cannot harm you." He stepped back, lowering his blade. "This is a dream. I would never...I cannot harm you Napoleon."
"Again with the Napoleon? You've dropped your guard, that's a foolish mistake monsieur." Porthos snarled.
"Interrompre_halt!" Called the leader of a group of mounted soldiers who rode up behind the duelling men. Illya's mouth hung open, it was George, George Dennell. The men, unlike Aramis and Porthos were dressed in black capes with red crosses emblazoned on them. They were the guards of the notorious Cardinal Richelieu.
Dennell called out to them. "Though you are Mousquetaires du roi_ Musketeers to the King, you know full well that duelling is forbidden. You Porthos and Aramis will pay for it with a visit to the Bastille Saint-Antoine, your friend however will face la guillotine."
Ah yes the Bastille, Illya mused, "Louis's chief minister, Cardinal Richelieu, was credited with transforming the Bastille into a more formal use as a state prison. Richelieu broke with Henry IV's tradition of the Bastille's captain being a member of the French aristocracy. The prison was filled with thousands of poor souls, many of them innocent. Illya paused in his thoughts, addressing Dennell directly.
"George, take this with an open mind, but like hell I will!" The Russian shouted, raising his rapier toward the soldiers." Napoleon and April stepped beside him.
"I think this makes the odds more even," Porthos called out.
"Suit yourself." George replied, awkwardly slipping off his mount. "Get em' boys!" He shouted out, then stepped back, positioning himself safely out of the way.
The six soldiers charged the three, while Dennell moved farther away to watch the carnage, feeling assured his men outnumbering the others would have done with them in no time...he hoped.
Napoleon, Illya and April, or rather Porthos, D'Artagnan and Aramis engaged two men each, dispatching them quickly, barely breaking a sweat.
The Captain, seeing the tide change so quickly climbed on his horse and took off, spurring the animal to make a hasty retreat.
"Should we not go after him?" Illya asked.
"No, we'll go back to the tavern, I think I have a thirst that needs quenching." Porthos smiled," Not to mention a certain Countess to meet."