Worn leather, gun smoke, and sweat. These three scents women abhor when experienced individually, but their blend is the unmistakable ambrosial perfume of a musketeer. For the women that love them, it is an aroma so intoxicating it should be considered an addiction.
When her new husband went away to war, Constance kept his shirt. That dirty, old piece of cloth was a source of great comfort in her most lonely of moments. Missing the love of her life, fearing for his safety, alone in her room after a long day of tireless work at the garrison, she would grasp the shirt and breathe in the ever-waning scent of d'Artagnan. On a few nights, she slept with it clutched to her breast like a child's cloth doll, and sometimes it almost felt like he was really there. By the time he got back, it only smelled like her. The contact with the shirt gave her a memory of a memory, but by then she had the real thing.
Living in a refugee camp, and her involvement with helping the impoverished meant that Sylvie was often closely surrounded by many people, largely unwashed. She had learned very quickly to ignore the smells and focus on her important work. Yet there was one man whom she could never ignore. If she had to, Sylvie could easily find Athos in a crowd by scent alone. His is a blissfully unique, slightly sweet one, likely because of the southern wines he drinks. As strange as it is to consider, it brings her joy. Like the scent of a gifted rose, it lifts her spirits and makes her feel at ease.
Like Constance, Elodie was faced with an absent husband not long at all after they were married. This didn't phase her though. Of course it didn't. She too kept hold of his things that possessed the scent she had only just learned to recognise. It's a scent that served as a reminder that despite all that she went through in this hellish war, it was Porthos that made her feel safe and secure.
In her years that were spent in silent suffering and loneliness, Anne took comfort in the little things she was able to hold on to. Her son obviously brought her great happiness, but even he could not satisfy that nagging in her heart. In those times, her experience with the unique scent that accompanied Aramis was always brief, chaste. Along with the memory of the night they spent together, and the memories of all the times he was there for her, the memory of what he smelled like was something she kept in her mind at all times. It was memories of Aramis that sustained her.