He doesn't hurt.
The first bullet was painful, but now, he feels all right.
That can't be good, but he finds it difficult to worry.
The world is a blur but his mind is sharp. Some things, he perceives more accurately than ever. He remembers the time he interrogated a blind thief, who explained to him how much his other senses had improved after he'd lost his sight. "There's a Red Guard behin' me," he said. "Can tell fur the way his sword's pommel tinkles on thus nails on his doublet. Yer Musketeers still don't have nails on yur doublets, amirite? Also… yer had leek soup for lunch," he added with a smirk, and Tréville held his breath.
Now, he fully comprehends what the man meant. Colors and shapes blend as his vision shrinks, but the bullets' bangs and the blades' hissing are blaring. You have to wonder how he managed to live all his life in such noise without having his hearing impaired.
There is a voice behind him, that disagrees vehemently with something. He knows that voice. It's that of a person very dear to him.
x
"That's a pretty fine shot you made, back then."
The lad gazes at him with suspicion. Or contempt. Or fear. He's not sure. He's usually good at reading faces, and this young man's feelings are pouring from his wild brown eyes; except they are very difficult to fathom. He's like an open book in a foreign language. Deprived of an answer, Tréville carries on:
"I've been forming a new regiment. Elite soldiers. We could use a sharpshooter."
"I'm not very good at taking orders."
"You're military."
"I'm good at killing people."
x
The odors blend with the sounds, composing a shapeshifting symphony. It smells like leather, sweat, gun powder and humus. That's smoky, musky, comforting and wet. It smells like air, also. He never realized that air smelled like anything. It's delicious!
x
It was so cold that the air itself hurt his nostrils. Yet, the young man just sat there in the mud of the street, his back against the wall. There was enough alcohol in his system to make him oblivious to the risks, but he was shivering dangerously.
"Why did you become a Musketeer?"
"I already told you why."
"You did. And I welcomed you in this regiment, not only because you were the finest swordsman I'd ever seen, but because I believed that you would live up to your principles. If it's redemption you seeking, you won't find it sitting on your bottom. Now, get on your feet and go take a bath."
"I'm not cold."
"You are. But that's not what I meant. You reek of cheap wine."
x
It's as if he could feel every fluctuation of the ground under his back. An hour ago, it only looked flat and dusty. Now, even through the leathers, it seems that any pebble, any divot, any small root aim to make themselves known. Well, he's happy to have been devoid of that specific awareness, all those years he's been on a mission after another, sleeping on the ground half of the time. There is something soft and warm behind his head, and on his cheeks, though.
x
"Can I touch your hair? Oh my Goodness, it's so thick! And look! It moves back in place when I take my fingers off. Do you feel that, Louise?"
"I do!"
"You're a treat, young man. My husband was skeptical, but I'm certain it will be delightful to have you in the Palace!"
They tootle off, in a buzzing of lace petticoats. Smart, sharp eyes judge and condemn them as they do. Long, brawny limbs tense in the rich fabric that clothes them for the first time. Strong, large fingers grip the sword's pommel. Tréville steps closer.
"Why didn't you say anything?"
"I would spend me days blowin' people away and breakin' noses if I let that get to me, Sir."
The voice is composed but there's an edge to it. The kind that craves to collapse.
"You're a Musketeer, now, son. You have not only the right, but the devoir, to make people respect you in every aspect of your life. And when you do, you'll find your brothers standing by your side."
x
There is a sweet feeling in his mouth. The aftertaste of this candy Mademoiselle de Montbard offered him after the Council meeting this morning.
x
"That's a Chablis," the Cardinal informs, before sipping it. "Very charming, forward, full of ripe fruit, with maybe a meager lack of acidity, one might deplore. The structure and extract, though, go with the potential for long ageing."
"I am thrilled that my men risked their lives to replenish your cellar, Your Eminence."
"Please, Tréville. The Comte de Lodosa had been plotting against France for years."
"He wasn't this time."
"Are you implying that my informer was lying?"
Tréville has not been captain of the Musketeers for long, but he knows a rhetorical question when he hears one. He remains silent, taking advantage of the Prime Minister's good mood to pass on etiquette. The older man drinks a bit more of his wine and smiles before declaring:
"Rising above your condition comes with a price, Jean. If you're not disposed to pay it, maybe you should have taken over your father's workshop."
That's hardly the first time they have this conversation. The last one, the Cardinal had wondered why such a virtuous, idealistic fellow didn't have a family.
"You are a statesman, now," he insists. "It would benefit your longevity if you started to act like one."
"I'm a soldier."
"Either way. If you're above moral compromise, you chose the wrong line of work."
"With all due respect, Your Eminence, I believe that morality is not an obstacle but an incentive. And maybe even a destination itself. And it might take time, it will require considerable effort but, trust me, it spreads."
The Cardinal rolls his eyes. That's unusual.
"For the love of God, Tréville. Drink this wine and rejoice! A notorious conspirator is in exile, His Majesty is pleased, and both our regiments have been praised. A peacemaker like you should be thrilled."
x
Has he been a peacemaker? He has fought all his life. Killed a lot of people and has the blood of many others on his hands.
He never raised children. He wishes he could say that there had been a woman, back in the days. Someone he had cared about so much, but whom he had had to leave behind to answer the call for service. But truth is, he's not even sure he's ever been in love.
He's never been a dreamer, but that doesn't mean he's never had any ideal. Quite the opposite, as a matter of fact. His lack of personal ambition has been the seedbed of his tremendous expectations for his country.
He did compromise. In retrospect, confiscating a semi-innocent man's possessions has been the lesser of his sins. Yet, he's never stopped working for the greatest good. He has resisted against inequalities, seen the capability, the passion and the dignity in others… He has offered to wounded but brave young men the opportunities they deserved and, as conceited as it is, he's tried to set an example
"It does spread," the Cardinal had sighed once, one of the numerous times Tréville had to step in to defend a Musketeer's rather passionate approach of fighting for justice. "Like a disease."
They had both wanted to protect France. They both killed for it, they both schemed, they both bet on other people's lives. But Armand had tried to make his country great at all cost, while he attempted to get France to deserve greatness.
Was that arrogant?
Did he succeed?
Someone is calling his name.
He raises his head and focuses on clearing his vision. It works. Barely. Enough to make out a pair of distraught brown eyes on a strong but still pure and innocent face.
x
"I'm looking for Athos!"
"You found him."
"My name is D'Artagnan of Lupiac in Gascony. Prepare to fight. One of us dies here."
x
He's here. They're all here.
"The king?"
"He's safe. He's with Porthos."
The King is safe, and they're all here.
Everything will be all right.
He doesn't hurt.
He's lying on something warm and damp, that tickles where it pours from his back. It has an odd, iron-like, smells, an echo of this new taste in his mouth. Is it a light fizzing that he hears, from where it runs on the dirt?
He can see them, now. He can see them clearly.
x
"I'm going to make you an honorable musketeer. It means you'll have to be brave, and clever, and strong."
"I've never walked away from a fight."
"This isn't what it is, is it? A battle. Men like us know the difference."
"Seems I never really went away."
"Well, for one night, you can be a Musketeer again. We'll show Feron and his Red Guard we're not to be humiliated."
"It's not the man we have to destroy. It's his lies."
"Did I earn my place as a Musketeer on merit alone?"
"Don't worry. You're both under our protection now."
"Don't let him humiliate you. Deliver this gift directly to the Queen herself. Let her see your devotion and loyalty, even in the face of provocation."
"You'll soon be wearing it again."
"Face down Renard. Defend the village, and the lands that your family has worked for generations will be yours."
"I didn't become a Musketeer to destroy an honest woman's reputation."
"I'm here about your husband. He died in service of the Crown, fighting to protect the King. His Majesty sends me here today to give you this, to express his personal gratitude."
"You know what will happen. The boy will disappear. He'll be murdered. And Agnes too, probably."
"Did you betray your own men to the Duke of Savoy?"
"We're soldiers, Captain. We follow your orders no matter where they lead. Even to death."
"All for one."
"One for all."
x
It has spread.
He succeeded.
His work is done.
FIN
x
Notes:
- I was surprised when I realized that the show had made Tréville a commoner, because the real Jean-Arnaud du Peyrer, Comte de Tréville was of high nobility. For the record, the real Athos and Aramis (Aramitz) were cousins of his, and the real Porthos his brother-in-law. Overall, the show depicts a far more liberal France than it was in the seventeenth century. To become a Musketeer, you had to be nobility.
- Edit following review: The real D'Artagnan was also from Tréville's family. Aparently a distant cousin, on his mother's side.
A big thank to Kevin for the proofreading!