Une Fable Pour Noel
Shrouded in a thin mantle of snow, the stone chimera crouched on the roof edge of Notre Dame de Paris and stared down through the delicately falling flakes, its mouth frozen in a frightening snarl as if repulsed by the best and the worst of the city's humanity. Christmas Eve and the mantra for several days – peace on earth and goodwill to all men (and women) – was about to be revealed as a shallow obeisance to the season's best intentions. The mythical creature – the bizarre invention of an imaginative or inept stonemason – appeared to be an amalgam of several animals known to mankind with its dog-like snout; protuberant incisors; large, pointed ears and frightening horns. Squatting amidst the ugly, open-mouthed gargoyles, these sentinels of the night seemed more like the heralds of the Devil himself, hell-bent on a malevolent crusade with the heavenly host.
Far below, a blue-clad figure stumbled through the snow that began to drift in the main thoroughfares and into a side alley leading nowhere, exhausted and desperately seeking any shelter from the freezing temperatures that relentlessly pierced the thin garment and inadequate woollen shawl. The woman slipped on the snow, reaching out one hand to halt her descent, the other clinging protectively to the bundle of rags she carried. Emaciated and ashen-faced, she scrambled on her knees, thankful for the safe purchase with the ground and devoid of the strength necessary to push herself to her feet. Reaching the darkest corner where two buildings met, she sat with her back against the chilled stone of a wall and drew her knees up in a last, desperate fortification against the elements, the bundle clutched tightly to her breast as a lone tear, an ineffectual protest to life's unfairness, tracked its way down her cheek and froze on her skin before it had the chance to drop.
Inside the cathedral, voices soared towards the elaborate ceiling in celebration of the nativity. Flickering light from hundreds of candles bathed the worshippers at the midnight mass in a warm glow and the whole scene was a rich panoply of white, gold, purple, blues and reds: from the altar cloth to the vestments of the priests; from the thick, ornate frames bordering the massive paintings depicting religious scenes to the breathtaking colours evident in the stained glass of the thirteenth century south rose window; from the marble and gold statuary to the array of royalty and courtiers dressed in their finest.
Discreetly stationed in the shadows between the pillars supporting the high vaulted nave, many of the King's regiment of Musketeers stood deceptively at ease, their posture and experience of lengthy duties guaranteed to avoid the humiliation of fainting and subsequent sanction. Their eyes ever watchful for any threat to the royal party and guests, they were on the periphery of the religious observance but many of their number could not fail to be touched by the significance of the event.
Aramis' gaze had been fixed upon Queen Anne who, in the early months of motherhood, was dressed in gold and white and exuded an air of warm, ethereal radiance. He allowed his attention to wander from the proceedings at last as he glanced around him and into a semi-darkened chapel. A triptych on the altar was dimly lit by a pair of simple candles, illuminating the centre panel to reveal a delicately featured Madonna and baby Jesus. His breath caught at the image's resemblance to his Queen – the woman he loved - and a further stab of pain pierced his heart with the unwelcome realisation that, just as with the Christ child, this was the first Christmas for his son, a child he would never be able to acknowledge as his, destined as the boy was to accede to the French throne.
He sensed rather than saw the movement to his left side.
"Focus," came the whispered warning. It was Athos.
"I'm sorry." Aramis turned anguished eyes upon him.
Athos sighed, understanding in an instant what had probably disturbed his friend. After all, he was the only other person privy to the treacherous secret of the Dauphin's likely parentage. Although not overly fond of the festive season himself in recent years for personal reasons, it did sadden Athos to think that his brother's usual love and enthusiasm for the religious celebration was summarily tainted by the year's events, the emotions heightened by the message of the Holy family. He rested a hand lightly on Aramis' shoulder, taking care not to jar the arm in its sling, courtesy of a slight yet annoying injury received on patrol a few days earlier. "I know. It is hard but you must be strong."
Aramis nodded his acquiescence, squared his shoulders and drew himself up to his full height again. Athos made to move back into his original position, glancing as he did so towards the transept and catching the eye of Captain Treville who frowned at this break from protocol. Athos nodded that all was well and resumed his place, his face adopting its usual mask of stoicism as inwardly he wanted nothing more than a rapid cessation of the service.
It was nearly two in the morning before the royal couple, guests and other courtiers had been escorted back to the palace, leaving a skeletal guard on duty whilst the remainder of the musketeers gathered shivering in a snow-covered courtyard and prepared to re-mount their patiently waiting horses. Treville emerged from a side door donning his hat and flanked by Athos and Porthos. With an ease that belied the late hour, the Captain swung into his saddle, pulled on the reins to turn the stallion and surveyed his weary men with a rare smile.
"A job well done, gentlemen, and His Majesty extends his thanks. Now let's get back to the garrison and out of this bad weather. Serge has instructions to have hot, spiced wine and a late supper awaiting us so don't take too long stabling the horses properly."
Conditions had deteriorated quickly and the men filed out of the palace courtyard to thread their way carefully and slowly back through the streets to the garrison, the Inseparables for once bringing up the rear as the lively discourse between d'Artagnan and Porthos on something totally inconsequential served to lighten the sombre mood that pervaded the other two. Before long, three were laughing heartily and even Athos could not suppress an amused chuckle.
As the riders ahead of them disappeared into the swirling snow, a weak cry from a side alley reached Athos' ears and he abruptly brought his horse to a stop as he tried to identify the source of the noise.
"Listen," he said.
The others halted and twisted to look at him.
"What is it?" d'Artagnan asked, eager to return to the garrison and partake of the food.
Athos frowned, "I am not sure." He waited and the faint noise came again.
"Oh that's just a cat," Porthos said dismissively and prepared to encourage his mount to move.
"No, listen," Athos insisted.
The strange mewling sounded once more and there was urgency to Athos' movements as he slipped gracefully from the saddle and disappeared down a side alley.
"We have to talk to him about not goin' lookin' for trouble," Porthos complained as he dismounted and walked round to assist Aramis.
"Especially on Christmas Eve," added d'Artagnan, his thoughts already on the men who had probably arrived back at the garrison and who were, at this very moment, rubbing down their horses, feeding and watering them and heading into the refectory to take their own sustenance. He feared that, at this rate, there would be nothing left for them when they eventually rode into the yard.
"Aramis!" There was an insistence in the tone that had the three remaining men exchanging wary glances before they hastily followed in their friend's footsteps to find him crouched over something at the end of the alley.
"What's the matter?" Aramis asked, unable to see what had drawn his friend's attention.
Athos straightened up and took a step backwards. "She's dead," he announced flatly.
Aramis sidled past him and squatted on his heels as he briefly examined the woman who sat in the corner, her eyes wide and staring unseeing at the four men as though beseeching them to come to her aid, albeit belatedly. Placing a hand over the upper part of her face, he attempted unsuccessfully to close her unresponsive lids.
"I would say she froze to death; a hard end on any day but especially on Christmas Eve," he stated.
"Her dress is only thin. Why did she not use her shawl?" d'Artagnan queried, looking at the woollen shawl and other material bundled between her body and her knees.
"There have been many strange instances of people who, when faced with death because of the cold, have removed more clothing rather than attempting to preserve what little body heat they have left. Perhaps the low temperature addles the brain," Aramis explained as he went to push himself to his feet. At that moment, the bundle moved of its own accord and a plaintive cry came from within.
Aramis scrabbled at the material with his free hand and gasped as tiny fingers reached upwards into the cold night.
As one, the four soldiers, usually men of action and reliant upon instinct, were immobilised by shock until another mournful wail rent the air.
"It's a baby," breathed d'Artagnan, stating the obvious.
"It's alive," said Porthos, equally unnecessarily.
"Not for long unless we get it to shelter," Aramis observed and stood up. "One of you needs to take the child." He indicated the sling on his left arm. "I can't with one hand."
"Erm," Porthos hesitated.
"I'll go and organise a cart," d'Artagnan offered, almost in a panic.
"I'll wait here with the body until d'Artagnan gets back. You two take the baby and get to some warmth," Porthos insisted.
"Afraid of a baby?" d'Artagnan teased.
"Certainly not!" Porthos snapped a little too readily. "There's things that have got to be done; we all know it."
"What makes me think you protest a little too much?" Aramis asked with a wry smile.
Porthos glanced towards Athos for support but only received a raised eyebrow by way of reply. The big musketeer shrugged. "A baby's a delicate thing. I don't want to catch it on the studs on my doublet," he explained. D'Artagnan snorted in disbelief at the excuse. "All right. I don't want to be clumsy. I might drop it," he admitted, reluctantly. Derisive snorts from the others accompanied his self-confession.
"That just leaves you," Aramis said, looking at Athos who had otherwise not moved.
"After all, you're the one that heard it," Porthos reminded him.
"And you're the one in charge of us," added d'Artagnan, trying to be helpful in his reference to seniority.
Athos sighed, rolled his eyes and stepped forward to prise the infant from its mother's death grip. With unexpected ease, he cradled the child in one arm and strode swiftly towards the alley entrance calling back over his shoulder as he did so. "One of you will need to take the child from me temporarily though whilst I mount and then pass it up to me."
He was already standing beside his stallion and therefore missed the exchange between his brothers. At his pronouncement, there was a moment of stillness and then, simultaneously, the three pointed to each other, preparing to volunteer another for the task.
Back at the garrison, horses were stabled and settled for the short night and the men gathered for revelry in the refectory. Treville sipped at the hot, spiced wine from a pewter cup, savouring the fragrance and welcoming the heat to ward off the chill that seemed to have seeped into his bones during the ride back to the home of the musketeers. It did cross his mind that he was getting too old for these long, bitter nights were it not for the sight of other soldiers elbowing their way to the open fire side, hands outstretched, or rubbing hands up and down opposing arms to encourage a thawing of cold limbs or pulling off gauntlets to blow on frozen fingers.
He grabbed a chicken leg from a heaped plate on the table and perched against a windowsill, the combination of the fire's heat, alcohol and long-overdue food serving to relax him so that an incipient lethargy crept over him. He glanced around the room, watching the men warming and enjoying themselves whilst celebrating the season in company with their brothers. His eyes roved more urgently as he realised four were absent still. Where were the Inseparables?
The door opened in a flurry of snow and burst of cold air to admit Colbert. Another man lounging against the wall helped him shut the door again on the elements and, as Colbert headed towards the table, Treville moved to intercept him.
"Are Athos and the others still in the stable?" he asked.
Colbert shook his head. "No, Sir. They haven't arrived back yet."
Treville merely nodded his thanks and stepped back to allow Colbert access to hot drink and food. His brow furrowed. Where were they? What could have happened? They were the self-appointed rearguard of the column heading back to the garrison and it was hardly likely they would slip away and find some decent hostelry still open to revellers at this hour. Surely nothing had befallen them on the short ride to the garrison! He sighed. Trouble seemed to attract them like a duck to water. The one consolation was that they were all together, not that that would bode well in the current conditions. Concerned, he picked up his blue cloak from where he had discarded it and threw it about his shoulders before struggling outside again. As the door closed behind him, he remembered belatedly that he had left his gloves inside so he stood, hatless as well, in the falling snow, the pewter mug gripped tightly in a bare hand as he relished the warmth it provided.
With his eyes fixed on the entrance archway to the garrison, he watched the guards stamping their feet on the frozen ground and walking to and fro in an effort to maintain feeling and circulation, their breath steaming on the icy air as they stopped periodically to speak. He made a mental note to enhance the duty change throughout the night; it was unfair and unwise to leave any man exposed to these temperatures for any longer than necessary.
The initial seeds of disquiet were threatening to burgeon into something more when two horsemen appeared and he sighed with relief as he recognised Athos and Aramis from the way they sat in their saddles. Their heads were down, hats protecting their faces from the worst of the wind and snow, the blue of their cloaks almost totally obliterated by a layer of white. That still did not explain where the other two were though!
He watched as Aramis dismounted and went round with a steadying hand outstretched as Athos slid carefully to the ground. Surely he had not found somewhere to obtain alcohol in that short space of time! The men moved cautiously over the snow-covered ground to where Treville stood waiting. Aramis paused long enough to yell twice for the stable boy and issued a stream of instructions as the boy reluctantly approached through the large snowflakes.
Treville was just about to take them to task for not tending the animals themselves when Athos drew level with him, holding his cloak close around his body.
"We need to get inside quickly," Athos said as if that were sufficient explanation. Treville looked at Aramis as he slapped his mount's flank, encouraging it to follow the stable boy who attempted to lead the two horses by the reins into the shelter of the stable. Athos waited, as if expecting Treville to open the door for him but it was Aramis who reached between the two to raise the latch.
The warmth hit the three men as they re-entered the refectory and Treville felt the initial tingling in his fingertips as feeling was restored. Athos was pulling on the tie to his cloak as Aramis, having already shed his outer garments, shook his head free of the melted snowdrops and reached to divest Athos' of his cloak. Treville, curious at their behaviour, was about to ask if Athos had somehow been injured on his return journey from the cathedral when he noticed the bundle of rags the younger man held in the crook of his left arm. The layers were peeled back to reveal a poorly swaddled infant who, with the sudden light and heat, let out a high-pitched keening.
In an instant, the two latecomers were bombarded with questions, surrounded by men clamouring for information and watched over by others who scrambled onto benches for a better view. One lone, male voice rose above the cacophany and commanded silence.
"That's better," Treville acknowledged as order was restored. He winced as the sound emanating from the baby resembled a strangled animal cry. "Let Athos through to the fire with the child." He watched as Athos was shepherded to a fireside chair, Aramis following in their wake to give an initial assessment. As the baby lay in Athos' arm, Aramis unfolded the last of the wrapping. Immediately, the naked boy child kicked out feebly at the sudden release, his cries dissipating to weak squawking.
The men were suddenly galvanised into action as Treville looked at those standing around him and issued a string of instructions. "Philippe, go up to the office desk - bottom left-hand drawer. Pull it out, empty its contents onto the top and bring it here. That'll serve as a cradle for now. Durand and Gustav, go together and see if you can find Doctor Lemay. Renée, put water on to boil. Pièrre, find a blanket and a couple of clean sheets and cut them up for bedding and for clean swaddling for the baby. Anton and Benoit, get some refreshments for Athos and Aramis; they'll need warming too as soon as they are able."
Athos and Aramis heard but ignored the plethora of instructions, concerned as they were for the child's well-being.
"Well?" Athos asked as Aramis took a deep breath and sat back on his heels.
"He's still cold to the touch; we have to raise his body temperature if he stands a chance of surviving the night," Aramis said. "He's very weak; I doubt he's had the chance of any food. His mother didn't look as if she were capable of feeding him, she was so wasted and frail herself."
"What can we feed him on?" Athos asked, perplexed.
"We'll not find a wet nurse at this hour of the night," Treville added anxiously. The prospect of the child expiring from lack of food on his watch was unacceptable.
Serge pushed his way to the front of the men. "Goat's milk," he announced.
"What?" Aramis was unsure whether or not he had heard correctly.
"Goat's milk," Serge repeated. "In the village where I was a lad, a number of women died in childbirth and there wasn't always a wet nurse available so they'd give the child watered goat's milk. It was kinder on their stomachs than that of a cow."
"Great!" Aramis groaned. "All we have to do is find a goat at three in the morning on Christmas Day in the middle of Paris."
"That's no problem," Serge answered confidently. "I'll get some from Esmeralda."
Many heads turned in Serge's direction but it was Athos who voiced their question. "Esmeralda?"
"My goat; I got her in the summer and keep her out the back. Where do you think the goat's cheese has been coming from?" The look he shot in the Captain's direction was tantamount to a challenge, daring the officer to castigate him for getting the animal without permission when even he had sampled the tasty produce. When there was no response, Serge harrumphed and forced his way back through the throng in order to prepare the milk.
"We'll try a warm bath first," Aramis suggested and Treville despatched more men to fetch a basin of water suitable for the small infant.
"Take him," Athos instructed, rising to lay the infant in Aramis' good arm. The marksman baulked briefly and then his features relaxed into a genuine smile as he felt the tiny weight shift in his hold and wondered fleetingly if this was what it had felt like to Anne when she first held their son months before. Athos divested himself of his doublet and rolled up the voluminous sleeves of his shirt just as Clarence returned with a large pottery bowl – the one Serge usually employed when mixing the ingredients for bread – and a jug. He was followed by Etienne bearing two more, the steam rising from one indicating that it was freshly boiled.
Athos gestured towards the table for Clarence to set down the bowl and half filled it with hot water before pouring in some cold. He suddenly dipped his elbow in the water, scowled and added more cold. He tried his elbow again.
"What are you doing?" Clarence asked.
"Testing to make sure the water is not too hot. I know the baby needs warming up but that doesn't mean he should be scalded," Athos explained as he extracted the naked child from Aramis, altering the boy's position in the crook of his arm before lowering the baby into the bowl. Eyes widened in surprise and there was a brief shout as the child encountered the new and strange sensation.
"Hush your noise," Athos admonished gently. "It won't hurt you. I'm just trying to get you warm, not kill you."
"I'm sure he is reassured to know that," Aramis said from the position he had taken up on the other side of the table from where he watched proceedings carefully. As Athos' eyes met his, he grinned in amusement.
Athos merely raised an eyebrow and turned his attention back to the infant, adjusting his hold so that the baby's head was cupped supportively in one hand whilst he soothingly palmed water over the child's upper torso and arms. Such was his concentration that he was unaware the musketeers had fallen silent and watched, mesmerised by his actions that calmed and comforted the new-born.
"His colour is improving," Aramis noted. Athos nodded in agreement. "How do you know such things?" he asked softly, touched by the uncharacteristically gentle intensity and confidence in his friend.
Athos hesitated, his quiet contentment momentarily disturbed by a frown at a painful memory. "I had a younger brother, remember? I used to watch the gentlewoman bathe and tend Thomas. On occasions, if she had the time, I was allowed to assist." He gave an embarrassed smile. "What she did must have stayed with me." The infant began to whimper again, reclaiming his attention. "The water's cooling. We need to get him dry."
As the messengers sent for Lemay arrived with the news that the doctor was unavailable, Pièrre returned with the cut-up blanket and sheets and handed them to Treville who began to line the drawer retrieved by Philippe. Aramis took one of the pieces of sheeting and held it out to Athos as he raised the baby from the impromptu bath and wrapped him up before starting to rub lightly at the little limbs.
Minutes later, Athos sat in the chair by the fire rocking the now fretful baby who was swaddled in fresh sheeting and a portion of blanket.
"He must be hungry," the musketeer surmised as his vain attempts to placate the child failed.
"Goodness knows what Serge is doing with the goat's milk," Treville grumbled, trying to see past the wall of curious soldiers in the hope that relief was at hand.
"We don't even know if he can suckle," Aramis warned.
Mystified, Athos glanced from the baby in his arms to his friend. "How can we help him?"
Aramis thought for a moment. "Are your hands clean?"
Athos studied his free hand. "I would say so. Why?"
"Put your little finger in his mouth to see what he does."
Athos grimaced at the prospect but did not pause for long. Easing his little fingertip between the gums, he waited, his hesitancy suddenly giving way to a low chuckle. "He's sucking on my finger. It's a weird feeling and I doubt it will satisfy him for long."
"At least he knows what to do," said Aramis.
Serge pushed to the front holding a brandy bottle wrapped in a cloth. "Funnily enough we don't keep things 'ere for feeding babies so we'll 'ave to make do. I've got some muslin with 'oles in it in the neck of the bottle. If you tip the bottle and soak the muslin, maybe the littl'un can suck on it enough to get the milk."
"If that doesn't work, you'll have to keep dipping your finger in the milk to feed him," Aramis advised.
"Something tells me it might be a long night," Athos observed with a wry smile. Aramis held and tipped the bottle as Athos directed the homemade muslin teat between the baby's lips and squeezed gently to ease the sucking process. It was a process of trial and error with more milk dribbling down the infant's chin at first and he grizzled with frustration, a sense born of instinct telling him that the proffered food was a necessity.
"He needs something in his belly to fight his way through the night," Aramis stated. The men surrounding them had not moved, almost holding their breaths as, entranced, they witnessed the infant's battle for survival after his traumatic first few hours upon the earth.
"It's working," Athos assured him as the baby ceased his wriggling and focused upon sucking at the milk soaked cloth.
"The little one needs a name," one of the men whispered loudly as the soldiers began to relax with the knowledge that the child was taking on sustenance.
"Anselm," another immediately suggested and, when others eyed him quizzically, explained, "It means helmet or protection and from God. The little one had to have had God's protection for him to be found the way he was."
There were general murmurs of agreement until others began to share their ideas.
"You might as well call him Félix; that means lucky and successful. That says he was lucky to be found and he may well be successful in his future life." That contribution was well-received.
"Anything but Louis after the King."
"Better not use Armand either; don't want him growin' up like the Cardinal." Low laughter filled the air at that thought.
"What about Evariste? It means well-pleasing. It's certainly that if the little man pulls through."
"Noel," suggested another. "Him bein' born on Christmas Eve and all."
"Gabriel," Aramis interjected, "after the Archangel on this special night. It also means 'God is my strong man.' The child will need God's strength in his future as an orphan."
It was a sobering thought for there was no way the infant could be raised amongst soldiers.
"Perhaps the Daughters of Charity could take him," suggested Treville, referring to Vincent de Paul's newly formed group of people concerned for the plight of the city's poor.
"Edouard and his wife lost their only child a couple of months back," said another, bringing to mind the sadness visited upon one of the garrison's married musketeers. "He tells me it's unlikely Colette'll be able to bear him another and they're desperate for a little one. Perhaps they'd be willing and able to take him; a precious Christmas gift like? It seems fitting."
There was general assent at that proposition; anything was better than seemingly abandoning the child to any well-meaning group.
"Still ain't given the boy a name though," growled Claude, a seasoned veteran of many a campaign whose gruff exterior tried to suppress the fascination he had for the infant who had suddenly been thrust into their brotherhood.
"Marius," Athos added, supporting the child in a sitting position with one hand and rubbing his back with the other in an attempt to wind him as he had seen the gentlewoman do to his baby brother Thomas so many years ago. "It's from Mars, the Roman God of War. He was found by musketeers, helped by musketeers and, if Edouard takes him, raised by a musketeer. He's a little fighter in his own right, having survived thus far and I've no doubt he'll make it through the night now."
"Our own little soldier," Serge breathed sentimentally and the swell of voices indicated that the name had been approved.
"Marius it is then," Treville confirmed, unable to tear his eyes away from the strange sight of one of his toughest musketeers holding and tending the infant with such apparent ease.
Suddenly a loud belch erupted from the child, his eyes widening in surprise that he was capable of making such a noise as a trickle of unwanted milk spilled over the back of Athos' hand.
"Mucky pup," the musketeer scolded softly and nodded appreciatively to Aramis who wiped away the mess.
The gathered men laughed at the noise, increasing in volume as Treville added wryly, "Porthos would have been proud of that one!"
"I wonder what keeps them," Aramis said.
"They'll be here soon," Athos answered re-assuringly.
...
It was shortly after four in the morning when the last pair of musketeers, their sad and unsavoury task completed, acknowledged those on duty as they rode into the yard, exhausted and frozen to the core, and dismounted stiffly from their horses before leading them into shelter. The stable boy, his sleep already interrupted several times over and full from being included in the late night feast, was there to take the reins, offering to tend the extra animals in the spirit of the season as he chattered on excitedly about the Christmas baby who had arrived in their company.
"The child lives then," Porthos noted with relief as he and d'Artagnan crossed the snow-covered yard towards the building where lamplight blazed through the windows on the ground floor, illuminating their way like a beacon guiding them home.
"Perhaps there's some food left," d'Artagnan said hopefully.
Porthos snorted in amusement at d'Artagnan's love of food that rivalled his own. The young man ate healthily but never seemed to add any substance to his slender frame. "I'm sure there will be. Looks like some of the men are still up," and he pushed open the door, his expression changing instantly to one of incredulity.
The room was full. Those still awake sat at tables, sipping on drinks and speaking in low voices so as not to disturb their sleeping comrades settled throughout the room on chairs or even on the floor.
Even as the two newcomers stripped off snow-dampened cloaks, hats and gloves, a figure materialised beside them holding out two mugs of the spiced wine.
"Get this inside you and go to the fire while I plate up some hot food," Serge ordered quietly.
Porthos and d'Artagnan threaded their way through the reclining figures and stopped by the fire, drinking in the amusing sight. Athos sat to the left of the fire, right elbow propped on the chair arm, hand supporting his head as he slept, his left arm cradling the babe nestled in his lap, the make-shift cradle ignored. Gone was the frighteningly bluish-white tinge to the child's skin when first rescued. Now he had a rosy pink glow, tiny fist held to his mouth as he slept on, delicate dark lashes fanning flawlessly soft cheeks. Aramis sat on the floor, back propped against Athos' chair, head touching his friend's leg as he snored gently. Opposite them in another chair, arms folded and legs outstretched before him, Treville slept on.
Grinning at each other, Porthos and d'Artagnan eased their aching bones down to take up positions on the floor, their backs supported by a table leg each. Reaching across, they clinked pewter mugs together in a belated toast celebrating this Christmas miracle that had so captured the men's imagination and united them that they had opted to stay together even when danger to the infant had passed.
Even so, the slight sound aroused Athos and he sleepily opened one eye. Reassured that his two brothers had returned unscathed and were warming themselves by the fire, he smiled and mouthed, "Merry Christmas." His brief glance took in Treville and Aramis before he settled again, content in the knowledge that the four men who meant more to him than anything else were gathered safely around him. With one last check on the child in his arms, his eye slowly closed and he drifted back into an untroubled slumber.