The Journey
"You're greedy today, aren't you," D'Artagnan said to his horse, feeding the animal the last of three apples which the garrison kitchen had provided. The apples had been given him only after D'Artagnan's brown eyes had used a pleading look on Serge. He stroked the horse's nose and continued talking affectionately to the horse until a racking cough ended his one-sided conversation.
"D'Artagnan, there's a lady waiting to see you," the stable boy announced, coming into the livery.
D'Artagnan coughed again, and then took a deep breath. "I'm coming." When he emerged from the stable, he saw Lucie De Foix waiting for him, winter sunlight shining on her blonde hair. He came towards her with a welcoming smile. "Lucie, it's good to see you again."
"And you," she replied, with an answering smile, as he hugged her.
"What brings you here?"
"I spoke with Captain Treville just now. He said that you and your friends will be leaving tomorrow to escort a dangerous prisoner to stand trial."
"That's right. The captain told us about the assignment, but he hasn't told us the details yet."
"Since Capt. Treville said that the prisoner was considered dangerous, I wanted to give you this." She dug into the pocket of her dress and brought out a rabbit's foot on a short, gold chain. "My grandfather gave this to me for good luck when I was a child. I carry it with me always and I want you to take it with you on your trip." She reached for his hand and pressed the good luck charm into his palm.
He started to protest. "Lucie, I can't take—"
"You must. I want you to carry it with you. You can return it to me when you get back safely. I'm going to be staying with my aunt and uncle. They live just outside of Paris. They frequently entertain guests and the captain has visited them a number of times. He can give you directions to their house for when you return. Good-bye, D'Artagnan, and be careful, won't you?" She leaned forward to kiss him on the cheek, but he grabbed her around the waist and kissed her lingeringly on the mouth instead.
When the kiss ended, his arms remained around her. "Thank you, Lucie. I'll be honored to carry your good luck charm with me, and I'll return it when I get back."
She gave him a serious look. "May it keep you safe, D'Artagnan. I have to go now. My relatives are waiting for me in their carriage."
"Good-bye, then." D'Artagnan let her go. She gave him a last lingering look and a brief wave as she went through the garrison gate.
That afternoon, D'Artagnan, Athos, Aramis and Porthos gathered in Capt. Treville's office to be filled in on their mission. "The prisoner's name is Lothaire Vachon," the captain said.
"Lothaire Vachon," Porthos exclaimed. "Vachon is wanted throughout France. What was 'e doin' here in Paris?"
"That we don't know, but he managed to get into their majesties' palace, possibly through an unlocked kitchen door. He was discovered near the king's bedroom suite by a passing servant, who alerted the Red Guards. The only reason he has given for being inside the palace was some nonsense about wanting to personally express his admiration for the king. He failed to get to the king, so he can't be charged with any crime against his majesty, but he obviously poses a threat. According to Rochefort, he readily admitted to his identity and gave the impression of being quite proud of his reputation. He would probably have been recognized at any rate. He has numerous scars on his face, and he's a heavy and powerful man with a thick, wiry mass of black hair. Witnesses have identified him as a suspect in quite a number of murders and robberies."
"Where is he now," Athos asked.
"In the Chatalet. You will pick him up from there first thing in the morning."
"I would think that a criminal as notorious as Vachon would rate the Bastille," Aramis commented.
"Rochefort chose the Chatalet as the place to hold him."
"Figures," Porthos grumbled. "Rochefort would enjoy makin' us come to a place that stinks as bad as the Chatalet to pick 'im up instead of keepin' 'im in the Bastille."
"Porthos is correct," Athos said. "Rochefort would take pleasure in knowing that we will have to smell the stench of the sewers and slaughterhouses around the Chatalet. That's the way his mind works. Where are we to escort the prisoner?"
Treville looked down at the map spread out on his desk. "Here," he said, placing his finger on the map, "The town of Grenoble. Some time ago, Vachon broke into a church there, stole a pair of silver candlesticks and even the church's collection for the poor. The worst thing was that he murdered the church's elderly priest. The priest was much beloved by the parishioners there and the mayor of Grenoble has been most insistent that the murderer be returned there to stand trial, regardless of whatever crimes he may have committed elsewhere."
"What proof is there that it was Vachon who committed this crime," D'Artagnan asked.
"The priest's housekeeper got a good look at Vachon when he ran from the church. When she described him to some of the townspeople, one of the men there said that he had worked briefly with a man matching the description in a village not far from Grenoble and that the man was named Lothaire Vachon."
Aramis looked grim. "What kind of a bastard would murder a harmless old priest."
"A man with apparently no conscience, like Vachon," Treville said. "Aramis, you've been not too far from Grenoble when you were at Savoy, but what about the rest of you?"
The others shook their heads.
Treville went on. "I was through there once years ago. The weather is usually wet and very cold this time of year. You will need to be prepared with warm clothes and thick blankets. I want you to take the shortest, most direct route. Inns are sparse along the way, even if the Musketeers' budget allowed for such accommodations. Once you've reached Grenoble, I think that staying overnight at an inn would be allowable. I trust that I don't have to remind you not to seek out the most expensive one there. Otherwise, you will be expected to camp out." Treville gave the youngest musketeer a sharp look. "I need all four of you as escorts, but D'Artagnan, it's against my better judgment to send you."
D'Artagnan looked crestfallen. "But, Captain—"
Treville held up his hand to stop him. "I'm not certain that you've fully recovered from being ill with pneumonia, and I don't think it's wise to send you on a trip with the probability of encountering severe weather."
"You said that you needed all four of us." His brown eyes took on their most pleading expression. "I'm almost completely well. The weather is clear and it may not be all that bad where we're going. Please, Captain."
Treville's eyes held a twinkle of amusement. "And why are you so anxious to go, boy?"
He looked at the other musketeers. "I want to be with them. We belong together, don't we? Besides, if I stay here, I'll probably get stuck with duty at the palace. The king is always in a pissy mood lately where musketeers are concerned and Rochefort hates our guts. You can understand why almost any kind of duty would be better than that, can't you?"
"I can. Very well, then, I'll allow you to go with your friends. Go down and tell Serge to get provisions ready for the mission."
"Yes, Sir."
After D'Artagnan had departed, Treville turned to the other musketeers. "I know that I don't have to remind you to watch out for D'Artagnan around Vachon. He's certainly courageous enough to deal with a criminal like Vachon, but he's still much less experienced than the rest of you."
"We always keep an eye on him, Captain," Athos said, "Even though he sometimes complains about it."
"Good. That's all, gentlemen. Go and get ready to leave tomorrow."
Early the following morning, the musketeers arrived at the entrance to the Chatalet. The Comte de Rochefort, holding a perfumed handkerchief to his nose, awaited them along with a small contingent of Red Guards and the prisoner. Vachon, already seated on a horse, looked at the musketeers with a sneer on his face. Rochefort raised an eyebrow at them. "You are late. Not that it's unexpected, considering the general ineptitude of the Musketeers." He fastened his gaze on D'Artagnan. "And I see you're sending a boy to do a man's job. That's hardly unexpected, either."
Athos glared at him from beneath his hat brim. "We are here at the appointed time and all of us, including D'Artagnan, are capable of handling the prisoner."
"So you say, but if he escapes, it will be yet another black mark against the Musketeers. His Majesty will be most displeased, I assure you. I will expect you to report back to me, Athos, when you return to Paris, regardless of whether or not your mission is successfully completed."
Athos's jaw tightened. "You're wasting our time, Rochefort, making speeches. We need to be on our way."
"Perhaps, it would be advisable for you to first gather reinforcements," Rochefort said in a silky voice. "It would be truly unfortunate if you've taken on a responsibility that's too much for you … again."
Athos leaned over the neck of his horse, coming face-to-face with Rochefort. "It's been my experience that it's women who fight with their tongues. Real men use real weapons. Let me know if you ever decide to match your sword against mine. I'll be more than pleased to accommodate you." Athos wheeled his horse around suddenly, causing Rochefort to hastily step back to avoid being knocked down. Athos gave him a cold smile and the musketeers set off with Vachon positioned in the middle of them.
The musketeers and their prisoner made good time on the road. The weather, while chilly, remained clear. They talked little among themselves, concentrating upon keeping to a steady pace. They stopped in early afternoon beside a clear brook. "D'Artagan, water all the horses," Athos ordered, after he and Porthos pulled Vachon from his horse and sat him on the ground. The musketeers seated themselves on some rocks, while Aramis passed around parcels containing ham, bread and cheese.
"What about me," Vachon loudly demanded. "I'm hungry, too."
"You will eat after we finish," Athos told him, munching on a slice of ham. "That way, we can all keep watch on you when we untie your hands."
"If there's anything left to eat after you damn musketeers get through," Vachon groused. He glanced over at D'Artagnan. "It shouldn't take much for you, skinny as you are, but I'm a big man. I need plenty to keep up my strength."
Athos's tone conveyed his indifference. "You'll get an adequate amount. If you're expecting a feast, you'll be sorely disappointed."
Porthos glowered at the prisoner. "You're lucky to get anythin' after you killed a priest. The priest was a good man, we've been told."
Vachon shrugged. "He was old. Probably didn't have too much longer to live anyway."
"You didn't have the right to decide when his life should end," said Aramis.
"Not that it matters, but I didn't set out to kill him. I went there to steal what I could. The old fool shouldn't have tried to stop me. I shoved him and he fell and hit his head. It was his own fault that he died over a pair of candlesticks and a measly amount of coins from the poor box."
D'Artagnan face reflected his disgust. "That's low even for you – stealing from the poor!"
"I was entitled to it. I didn't have a sou to my name at the time. That money was intended for people like me. I was as poor as anybody else, so I took it. Who are you to judge me anyway? Are you really a musketeer, boy? I figured you for the musketeer mascot." He threw back his head and laughed. D'Artagnan bristled at the man's mockery, but didn't know how to respond.
Athos stood up. "D'Artagnan is a musketeer, every bit as much as the rest of us even though he is young. You may find that out to your regret." He came over to Vachon. "I'm going to untie you so that you can eat. If you try anything, it will give me great pleasure to stick my sword in you."
Porthos spoke to Aramis. "Vachon's got a mouth on 'im reminds me of Rochefort."
"I do detect a certain similarity," Aramis agreed, wiping the crumbs from his hands on his breeches. "He's like a lower class Rochefort."
As they continued their trip, Vachon kept up a running string of complaints about the lack of food he'd been given, the roughness of the road they took, the uncomfortable gait of his horse and the insufficient length of the stirrups for his long legs. When they stopped to rest or eat, Vachon amused himself by taunting D'Artagnan for his youth and making thinly veiled slurs about the type of woman who must have been Porthos's mother. Knowing nothing of Athos's drinking or of Aramis's amorous escapades, he found them unsatisfactory targets for his jibes.
Contrary to the musketeers' expectations, their prisoner made no attempts to escape, despite the gallows waiting for him in Grenoble. Their trip remained uneventful, and they saw few travelers on the road, aside from the occasional carriage and farm wagons loaded with winter vegetables or crates of squawking fowl, headed to market. Athos's instincts warned him that there was something not quite right about so smooth a mission. He felt a vague uneasiness that he confided to Aramis as they rode side-by-side. "What do you make of Vachon," Athos asked. "I thought that he would have given us more trouble by now."
"So did I, but he's done nothing other than running his mouth. I don't trust him for an instant. He reminds me of a snake coiled to strike."
"We should continue to watch him closely."
"Agreed."
They stopped a little earlier than usual that evening as the horses appeared in need of rest. "Gather up plenty of firewood, D'Artagnan," Athos told him. "The weather feels like it's getting colder." Athos turned away to see to their prisoner.
"Why doesn't Athos ever tell you to get the firewood," D'Artagnan grumbled to Aramis, who was devoting his attention to smoothing out the creases in his hat.
"Think of it as an honor, D'Artagnan," Aramis said, critically inspecting his hat. "Athos trusts only you to gather the best firewood available in order to prevent us from freezing our asses off."
"Aramis, you're full of crap."
Aramis stopped fiddling with his hat and placed an arm around D'Artagnan. "I fear that you lack the proper respect for your superiors. I've been meaning to have a talk with you about that."
"Superiors? You mean like, Aramis, you're full of crap, Sir." He laughed and grabbed Aramis's hat, sailing it away over into thick bushes.
"D'Artagnan!" Athos's voice held an impatient note. "What about that firewood that you're supposed to be collecting?"
D'Artagnan turned and began to trudge off in search of firewood, only to be stopped by Porthos's voice. "D'Artagnan!"
D'Artagnan turned back towards Porthos. "What is it now?"
Porthos grabbed D'Artagnan's cloak and walked over to him, thrusting the cloak at the young musketeer. "Put this on before you go searchin' for the firewood. It's too cold for you not to be wearin' it."
With a look a resignation, D'Artagnan took the cloak. "Yes, Mother." He followed up by giving Porthos a cheeky grin.
In response, Porthos grinned back and aimed a kick at D'Artagnan's backside, which he narrowly managed to sidestep.
"You missed," he said, laughing.
"There's always next time," Porthos threatened.
From his vantage point a short distance away, Vachon watched the goings-on, his usual hostile expression unchanged.
Long before dawn, Athos awoke, went to relieve himself and returned to put more wood on the fire, which had dwindled down. He went back to his blankets and lay down, but sleep eluded him. Lying awake, he heard a faint rustle in the surrounding bushes. He lay still, waiting to find out if the sound would continue. Other faint, rustling noises followed and he heard the crack of a twig breaking. He knew that the sounds could have come from an animal, a deer or a rabbit possibly, but instinct made the hair on the back of his neck prickle. Silently, he got up, went over and touched Aramis on the arm. Aramis awoke instantly, but made no sound. Likewise, Porthos and D'Artagnan awoke quickly and quietly at Athos's touch. Their prisoner snored vigorously, showing no sign of awakening.
The musketeers were fully prepared when five men burst out of the bushes, yelling and brandishing swords. The noise woke Vachon, and his eyes widened as he avidly followed the dueling figures outlined by firelight. Two of the men attacked D'Artagnan. He adeptly battled both of them, with a finishing off assist from Athos. At last, all five of the attackers lay on the ground. Athos and Aramis checked them, finding that none had survived.
"I wish that one of them had lived a bit longer," Athos said, rising from beside the last man to be checked, "We might have gotten some answers from him. It's possible that they were bandits out to rob us, but I suspect that their intent was to free Vachon."
Porthos came over, holding his right arm above the wrist. Aramis gave him a keen look. "How bad is it?"
Porthos was dismissive. "Not bad. The blade glanced off of me." Aramis examined Porthos's arm. "The cut is long, but it doesn't appear to be deep. Come over here and sit down. I'll take care of it."
While Aramis treated Porthos's cut, Athos and D'Artagnan turned their attention to the prisoner. "Do you know these men," Athos demanded.
Vachon gave the bodies a casual glance. "No."
"Take a better look. We don't have the appearance of a party likely to be carrying valuables. I can think of no reason for them to attack unless it was to free you. They're all dead. There's no point in lying about their identities."
"They're friends of yours, aren't they," D'Artagnan said.
"No." He gave D'Artagnan a calculating look. "I underestimated you, boy. Thought you was nothing more than a pretty face, but you're good with a sword. Damned good. To get back to what you said, they couldn't be friends of mine. I got no friends who would risk their lives in a fight with musketeers to save me. That's the truth."
D'Artagnan was adamant. "I would risk my life to save my friends, and they would do the same for me."
Vachon gave a cynical laugh. "That's not how life is. You must still be a child if you think that. Children bore me, so get away from here and leave me alone."
As the musketeers and their prisoner got closer to Grenoble, the air turned much colder. The streams where they filled their water skins and watered their horses were colder still. They stopped beside a wide stream where only the swiftness of the rushing water had kept the stream from freezing over. "This looks like a good place to stop for the night," Aramis suggested when they had finished watering the horses. "It won't be long until darkness falls."
While the musketeers assessed the site and found it satisfactory, Vachon used his strength to stretch the rope around his wrists, allowing him to wriggle his hands free. Once unbound, he gave his horse a strong kick and splashed into the river. D'Artagnan sprung into the saddle and raced after him, catching up with Vachon before he reached the opposite river bank. D'Artagnan leapt from his horse onto Vachon. They struggled briefly and then both fell off the horse and into the stream, where the frigidness of the water had them both gasping from shock. The swift current carried them downstream until they reached shallower and slower moving water. Vachon attempted to make for the river bank, but D'Artagnan grabbed him and fought to get control of the escaping prisoner. The heavier and much more powerful Vachon gained the upper hand without much effort, and held D'Artagnan's head under water as the young musketeer thrashed and kicked in a struggle to reach the surface.
The other three musketeers quickly re-mounted and followed them downstream, urging their horses into the water. Using the hilt of his sword, Porthos struck at Vachon, but the man dodged and received only a glancing blow to the side of his head. Vachon retained his iron grip on D'Artagnan, whose movements had become more sluggish. "You son of a bitch," Porthos swore, aiming another blow at Vachon's head, which had more impact.
Athos and Aramis jumped from their saddles and both fought to loosen Vachon's grip on D'Artagnan. Porthos joined them and Athos's fist connected with Vachon's face. Vachon staggered backwards, as Porthos fist crashed into his mouth, knocking out a tooth.
While Porthos and Athos dealt with Vachon, D'Artagnan was hauled upright, sputtering and gasping for air, by Aramis. After getting a firm grip on D'Artagnan, Aramis dragged him out of the water and onto the riverbank. D'Artagnan fell to his hands and knees, coughing and gagging from the river water he had swallowed. Finally, he stopped spitting out the water and rolled over on his back, trying to regain his breath.
Athos and Porthos manhandled their prisoner out of the water and threw him down on the ground, where he sat rubbing his bleeding and aching head. "If you try to get up before I tell you, I'll kill you," Porthos threatened. He looked over at Aramis. "Is he all right?"
"He will be, I think," Aramis answered, pushing a long, dripping strand of hair out of D'Artagnan's eyes.
Athos rounded up the horses and came over to D'Artagnan, scrutinizing him and noticing how violently he was shivering. He placed a hand on the boy's shoulder. "We need to get back to the campsite and get a fire going, so that you can warm up."
"What about me, you bastards! Vachon gingerly fingered the place where his tooth had been. "I'm as wet and cold as he is!"
Athos barely glanced at their prisoner. "You tried to kill D'Artagnan. I don't give a damn about you."
At the campsite, Aramis and Porthos swiftly set about building a fire. A shivering D'Artagnan sat near the fire, a blanket clutched around him, but still shaking. The wind began to pick up and the frigid gusts caused them all to shudder. Vachon was placed a safe distance away from the musketeers, and kept up a steady stream of curses about the cold and his treatment from them.
"You're gettin' what you deserve," Porthos told him. "I'm tired of your mouth. Keep it up and we'll move you further away from the fire.
Vachon uttered one more curse and went silent.
"D'Artagnan," Athos said, "You have more clothes in your saddle bags." He paused and fastened his cloak tighter in response to another freezing blast of wind. "You need to get your wet clothes off and put on some dry ones."
D'Artagnan pulled his blanket tighter. "No."
"Your clothes are soaking wet," Aramis said. "You need to get them off."
D'Artagnan looked up at Aramis, his teeth chattering. "You're c-crazy if you t-think I'm going to t-take all m-my clothes off in t-this w-wind. I'll f-freeze if I do t-that."
"You're freezin' right now if you 'addn't noticed," Porthos said.
"The c-clothes I have on w-will g-get dry."
Aramis threw up his hands. "You're as stubborn as a mule, but have it your way."
"Don't c-call m-me a m-mule."
"You're a stubborn brat, then," Athos said, "If you prefer that. Get up closer to the fire."
His teeth still chattering, D'Artagnan obeyed.
Aramis left and returned with a bottle from his saddlebags.
"What's that," Athos asked.
"Cider." Aramis opened the bottle and poured some into a cup, which he held over the fire to warm. He handed the cup to D'Artagnan. "Drink this. It will help you to warm up. For that matter, we got wet ourselves, so we could all use some of it." He poured shares of the cider for Athos, Porthos and himself.
"If you can all stop fussing over the damn boy long enough, give me some of that, too," Vachon demanded.
Aramis gave Athos and Porthos a questioning look. Porthos shook his head and Athos made a thumbs down gesture. "It's decided." Aramis reached over for D'Artagnan's cup and filled it with the last of the cider. He then held the bottle upside down to show Vachon that the bottle was empty.
Vachon erupted in fury, cursing the musketeers with a string of obscene names.
"He must have called us every foul name I've ever heard," observed Aramis.
"E's makin' my ears bleed," Porthos growled, getting up and advancing on the prisoner, who was showing no signs of letting up.
"Piss on all you misbegotten bastards! Whore sons! Fuck you! I'll see you in hell! Mother fucking bastards! Cock su-!" Vachon's foul-mouthed tirade ended abruptly when Porthos's fist hit him hard in the jaw. He looked up at Porthos, rage in his eyes, but said no more.
Porthos rubbed his knuckles. "Enough! Keep your mouth shut if you don't want to lose the rest of your teeth."
After darkness descended and the musketeers had eaten their evening meal, D'Artagnan got into his blankets for the night. Despite his confidence that his clothes would be dry, they were still too damp for comfort. He wished that he had listened to Athos and Aramis, but he refused to get up and change clothes. He would rather be uncomfortable than to have to listen to their "I told you so" comments. He spent the night tossing and turning, unable to get warm and snatching only brief periods of sleep.
The following morning, the musketeers awoke to the rumble of thunder. Quickly, they wolfed down a breakfast of bread and cheese and resumed their trip. Big raindrops splattered all around them as they set off, with the rain continuing to fall and the road getting muddy and harder to travel.
The first night after the rain began, the only shelter they could find was under the overhanging branches of an ancient evergreen tree. A campfire was out of the question with the rain still falling, so they huddled under their cloaks in an effort to stay dry. Vachon, they draped with a smelly horse blanket, which resulted in several curses from their prisoner.
The next night, they found shelter from the rain in a shallow cave. After eating the last of their remaining food, they rolled out their blankets in preparation for a night's sleep.
Vachon, however, was in a talkative mood. "I want you to know something, boy," he told D'Artagnan, "I would've been willing to drown you a dozen times if it meant that I got away, but don't take it personal."
"Save your breath," D'Artagnan retorted. "I don't want to hear it. You—" He broke off as he was seized by a fit of coughing.
"Kind of delicate, aren't you," Vachon said, with a sneer. "A pretty boy like you can't be expected to take it when things get tough."
Porthos spoke sharply to the man. "We need to get some sleep and so do you. I'll gag you if you don't shut up."
"You need to make your peace with God," Aramis said. "We should be in Grenoble by tomorrow evening and there's a hangman's noose waiting for you."
"You can take your pious speech, Musketeer, and shove it up your ass. Don't count me out yet. I've escaped some tight spots before. Even if I don't make it this time, I don't regret anything I've done. Stealing beats working any day. I know. I've done both. I've had plenty of adventure, and I've fucked my share of women, some of them willing, some of them not. Made no difference to me." He laughed. "I wouldn't trade places with any of you."
It was a cold, drizzly evening when the musketeers turned their prisoner over to Grenoble's mayor and some of the town's men. After inquiring, they received advice on where to spend the night. The musketeers stopped in front of a small inn with a modest, but pleasant exterior. They turned their horses over to the care of an elderly man who maintained the inn's stables and went inside. "We need rooms for the night," Athos informed the innkeeper.
"I'm afraid that we only have one room left," he told them. "We're filled up, what with the bad weather and travelers wanting to get off the road, but I think you'll find the room satisfactory. There's only one bed, and it's narrow, but I have ample bedding if some of you don't mind sleeping on the floor."
"That will suffice," Athos said.
"Very good, Monsieur. I'll have a maid prepare the room. In the meantime, you can all have a meal in the dining room."
"We would like to have a bath before we eat, if that's possible."
"We've been on the road for days," Aramis added.
The innkeeper looked from one to the other and raised an eyebrow. "All of you want baths?"
"That's right," Porthos answered. "Can we get one or not?"
"Yes, to be sure. We have a room set up for baths, but yours is an unusual request. Hardly ever do we have guests who want baths in the winter, and few enough request them even in warmer weather. If this is what you desire, I can provide hot water for the four of you."
"That would be much appreciated," Athos responded.
The innkeeper spoke firmly. "I should also let you know that I run a quiet, respectable inn. Excessive noise and women of the streets are not permitted in the rooms, otherwise you will not be allowed to stay."
After the luxury of hot baths, the musketeers put on clean clothes and proceeded to the dining room for a dinner of roast pork. D'Artagnan was forced to eat more slowly than the others due to his sore throat making it painful to swallow.
Once their empty stomachs had been filled, the musketeers leaned back in their chairs and enjoyed a bottle of wine. "I been thinkin' about the men who attacked us on the road," Porthos said. "Vachon never would admit that he knew 'em."
"While Vachon would hardly be averse to lying," Aramis added, "I can see no advantage for him in lying about knowing them. If the men didn't know him, though, why would they try to free him?"
"Perhaps freeing Vachon wasn't their only purpose," Athos said thoughtfully, scratching his chin.
"Then what," D'Artagnan asked.
"Their intent may have been to kill us or to allow Vachon to escape, making us look like bumbling incompetents and discrediting us again with the king."
Porthos grunted. "The only one I can think of who would want to do that is Rochefort."
"I agree, Porthos, but there's no way to prove it," Athos said.
"Rochefort is as slippery as an eel," Aramis added.
"Then Rochefort gets away with scheming against us again," D'Artagnan said dejectedly.
"Cheer up, D'Artagnan," Porthos said, pouring himself more wine. "Rochefort won't get away much longer with 'is plottin' against us. 'E has to slip up sometime."
"If Rochefort was behind the attack, he failed to succeed in his plan," Athos reminded them. "None of us got killed and our prisoner was delivered to authorities just as we were assigned to do. That's a victory for us."
D'Artagnan stifled a yawn, prompting Aramis to say, "I think we should consider turning in. It's getting late."
The musketeers entered their room, finding a fire blazing in the fireplace, the bed turned down and three pallets spread out on the floor, replete with pillows and blankets.
"Who gets the bed," Porthos asked.
Athos responded with an indifferent shrug.
D'Artagnan said nothing. As the youngest and newest musketeer, he knew better than to assume that he had a chance for the bed.
"Since I'm the biggest one of us," Porthos said. "I think I should get the bed. A man my size needs a bed for proper rest."
"Well, if that's your argument," Aramis responded, "I have to say that I need the bed for proper rest so that I can maintain the looks that women find irresistible."
Porthos's voice got louder. "That's a bullshit reason even for you, Aramis!"
Aramis was equally loud. "It's as good a reason as yours!"
"If you two don't lower your voices," Athos warned, "The innkeeper may decide to throw all our tails out into the snow."
"It's not snowing, Athos," D'Artagnan said. "It's still raining."
"I meant it as a figure of speech, D'Artagnan."
"Oh."
Aramis and Porthos, arms crossed over their chests, stood glaring at each other. "There's only one way to settle this," Porthos decided. "We'll flip a coin." He started to reach into his pocket, but Aramis forestalled him.
"We're not using one of your trick coins for this. I don't trust you not to cheat. I'll provide the coin."
"You think I would try to cheat you?"
"I know you would. Heads, I win." Aramis took a coin out of his pocket and tossed it in the air, fumbling it as it landed. He held it up in triumph. "See! I won."
"You turned it over. You cheated! I saw you. We're goin' to do this over again."
"You're a sore loser and we're not doing it over again. Accept your defeat gracefully."
"I'd like to get some sleep over here if you and Porthos don't mind." Both Aramis and Porthos turned around to find Athos lying in the disputed bed.
Aramis was indignant. "You didn't even want the bed, Athos!"
"I never said that. As the leader of this band of misfits, I decided that if anyone deserves the bed, it's me. Goodnight, Aramis, Porthos. You can snuff out the candles."
"Why is it that whenever I get involved in anythin' with you, I come out on the short end of the stick," Porthos grumbled.
"Stop complaining. Think how uninteresting your life would be without me," Aramis replied, putting out the candles, "And I get the spot closest to the fire."
Porthos wrinkled his brow. "Why is that?"
"Because I won the coin toss, even though Athos grabbed my bed." Aramis settled himself down before the fire, followed shortly by a deep sigh.
"Why're you sighin' like that," Porthos asked in annoyance.
"I was just thinking that if it hadn't been for having to transport Vachon, tonight I would still be in Paris with a beautiful, warm, naked woman to cuddle up with."
"Don't you start dreamin' about naked women and begin cuddlin' up to me in your sleep," Porthos warned.
"You!" Aramis snorted. "As if I could ever mistake a big, hairy lump of muscle like you for a soft, silky feeling woman."
"You just make sure that I don't wake up with you nibblin' on my ear."
"Porthos! Will you and Aramis shut up so that I can get some sleep," Athos growled.
"Don't make Athos mad," D'Artagnan whispered, "Or he'll find a way to get even." The usual wrangling between Aramis and Porthos didn't disturb D'Artagnan. He was too accustomed to them by now and paid them little mind. He was more disturbed by the hard rain, which pounded continuously against the window panes and the gusts of wind, which howled down the chimney. He was tired and wanted to sleep, but the pain in his throat made sleep elusive and he could feel a coughing spell bubbling up in his chest. They were all anxious to get back to Paris and the last thing he wanted was to delay their departure by letting them find out that he was getting sick again.
The musketeers delayed leaving the next day until the clothes they had sent to the laundry were returned to them. When they did leave, the sky was gray with low hanging clouds and the wind bitterly cold, but the rain had let up. They took with them provisions of smoked ham, chunks of cheese and some loaves of bread. To this, Aramis added a container of milk, knowing that it wouldn't spoil in the cold, and more bottles of cider. Athos made certain to pack some bottles of wine.
On their way to Grenoble, they had followed the straightest, quickest route possible, wanting to get their prisoner into the hands of authorities without delay. On the way back to Paris, they took a different route and passed by small villages and farmhouses. Aramis, who rode beside D'Artagan, noticed him look wistfully at one of the farms they passed. "Does it remind you of the farm where you grew up," he asked.
D'Artagnan replied in a voice that was slightly hoarse. "In some ways. It's much warmer and greener in Gascony, though. I'd like to go back in the spring and—" He broke off as he started to cough.
"I have something I could give you for that cough," Aramis offered.
D'Artagnan shook his head. "I'd rather put up with the cough than take whatever awful tasting medicine you have for it."
"You sound hoarse. I'm guessing that your throat is sore, too."
"It's nothing I can't handle. Musketeers are supposed to be tough, aren't they?"
"They are." Aramis grinned. "At least, that's what Treville keeps telling us when we complain about something."
"Then stop fussing over me." They came to the top of a hill, and D'Artagan pointed towards the bottom. "I'll race you to the bottom of the hill."
Aramis hesitated. "A race when it's this cold is not such a good idea for your lungs."
"You afraid I'll beat you," D'Artagnan taunted, and his horse shot forward. Aramis was only a few seconds behind him. They reached the bottom in a virtual dead heat, but with D'Artagnan's horse barely ahead by a nose. D'Artagnan reacted with youthful exuberance. "I'm the winner!" He started to say more, but cold wind rushing into his lungs from the race brought on a fit of coughing. Aramis leaned over and whacked him on the back. He gave D'Artagnan an "I told you so" look, but passed up the opportunity to chide him.
By the time evening fell, the smell of rain was in the air once again, but the musketeers managed to find enough dry sticks to start a fire. When the bread, ham and cheese were passed around, D'Artagnan tried to swallow the food and winced, his throat too sore to manage more than a couple of small bites of cheese. Aramis got up and returned with the container of milk. He poured some in a cup and warmed it over the fire. "Here, take this," he told D'Artagnan, handing him the cup. "Try breaking off pieces of bread and dipping it in the milk. The milk will soften the crust and you'll have an easier time swallowing it."
D'Artagnan followed the suggestion and succeeded in eating a portion of the bread.
"That was a good idea to bring along some milk," Porthos said. "Me and Athos didn't think of that."
"That's because you and Athos aren't as smart as I am," Aramis said smugly.
Porthos snorted in derision, but Athos was watching D'Artagnan, pleased that he was eating.
By the time the musketeers resumed their journey the next morning, it had started raining again and didn't let up. The area they found themselves in was sparsely settled, and they were anxious to find a dry place to stay before night fell.
"Don't look like we're goin' to find any inns around here," Porthos said, surveying the empty countryside.
"It's been quite some time since we passed a village," Aramis added.
"With luck, we may be able to find a barn to stay in before it gets dark," Athos said. He turned in the saddle and looked back at D'Artagnan, who had been unusually quiet all day. He felt particularly anxious to get him out of the rain and under a roof. They rode for several hours in a steady drizzle before finally catching sight of a farmhouse. The house looked shabby and in need of repair, as did the barn, but light through the house's windows cast a welcoming glow.
They rode up to the front door of the house and Athos dismounted. "I'll ask permission for us to spend the night in the barn," he told the others. As Athos approached the front door, he could hear the babble of children's voices. He rapped on the door, and after a short delay, the door was opened by a man whose bony shoulders were stooped from labor. The man was dressed in the rough clothes of a farmer and his face held an inquiring expression. Athos touched the brim of his hat. "Bonsoir, Monsieur." A tired-looking woman in an apron, balancing a baby on her hip, came to stand beside the man. A small girl, who clung to the woman's skirt, peered shyly up at Athos, her thumb in her mouth. Behind them, Athos could see a group of children of various ages, seated on the floor near the fireplace. "I am Athos of The King's Musketeers," he went on. He turned and gestured behind him. "These are my friends Aramis, Porthos and D'Artagnan. They're also musketeers. I would like to ask you if we could spend the night in your barn."
The man seemed awed. "Musketeers! All the way from Paris! I am Albert Tourdot. This is my wife Henriette, and as you can see, these are two of my children … nine in all."
Athos acknowledged the introduction with a slight nod of his head.
"You and your friends are welcome to stay in our barn. There's not an abundance of feed for your horses, but you may take what you require."
Athos made a slight bow of his head. "Merci."
"We'll be having supper soon. All of you must join us."
Assuming that this would mean a scarcity of food for the family, Athos declined. "That's generous of you, but we wouldn't want to impose."
Henriette Tourdot spoke up. "You wouldn't be imposing. I have to cook enough food for our big family, and a few extra mouths won't make much difference. Our food is plain – nothing like what I'm sure you're used to – but there's enough to go around."
"That's very gracious of you, but—"
"I want to hear all about the king and queen and Paris. You must eat with us. I insist."
Athos was reluctant, but agreed. "Very well, Madame, if you insist."
"By the time you've finished taking care of your horses, the food should be ready," Monsieur Tourdot added.
When the musketeers joined the farmer and his family, they were given places together at one end of twin benches that lined a long, roughhewn table. Bowls had been placed on the table, and Madame Tourdot and the eldest daughter ladled out a thin soup made from chicken broth, carrots and leeks. This was accompanied by small loaves of coarse, brown bread. Monsieur Tourdot gave a short blessing over the simple meal and everyone began to eat, aside from Henriette Tourdot, who was more interested in news of Paris. "Is it true that the queen's underwear is sewn with gold and silver thread and encrusted with pearls," she asked, looking to Aramis for an answer.
"I, uh, I couldn't say," he stammered.
Athos kept his eyes on his food and avoided looking at Aramis.
"How would a musketeer know something like that, wife," the farmer admonished. "That's a foolish question."
"They do guard the king and queen, Albert," she shot back, "And they stay around the palace. They might have heard talk."
She swallowed a spoonful of soup and looked at Porthos. "Tell me, what kind of food do they serve at the palace? I've heard they eat things like stuffed peacock, truffles, goose liver pate and fancy cakes, even fruit like oranges and strawberries from a greenhouse. Do they ever invite you musketeers to eat with them? What does the food taste like?"
Porthos gave a wry grin. "They got all kinds of things to eat, but I never tasted any of the food served at the palace. They don't invite musketeers to eat with 'em."
"What must it be like to live in a beautiful palace with servants to wait on you and never have to lift a hand to do anything. I can't imagine it."
Her husband broke in. "How do you musketeers like the wine? My brother lives further south and makes wine from his own grapes. He sometimes sends us a few bottles of it."
"It's quite good," Athos said, savoring the taste.
"If anyone knows wine," D'Artagnan said, "It's Athos. He drinks like—" He broke off as Athos gave him a look. "I mean," his voice trailed off, "Athos really knows his wines."
A cry from an adjoining room announced that the baby was awake and wanting something. Madame Tourdot spoke to the eldest girl. "Delphine, go see to the baby." She looked apologetically at Athos as the baby's cries became ear piercing wails. "I don't imagine that you would know anything about taking care of children, but I can tell you it's a constant chore."
Athos glanced over at D'Artagnan. "I may know more about that than you think." D'Artagnan gave Athos an indignant look, which Athos blandly ignored as he sipped his wine.
The musketeers spread their blankets out on clean straw in the barn, taking care to avoid getting under the areas where the roof leaked. Cold wind blew in through cracks in the drafty barn and D'Artagnan shivered as he lay back on his blanket. Ever since his plunge into the river with Vachon, he couldn't seem to get warm enough.
"D'Artagnan, move to the middle," Aramis told him.
D'Artagnan looked up at him. "Why?"
"You'll be warmer in the middle than on the end."
D'Artagnan got up and did as he was told. Not only was he cold, but his throat hurt and his head had begun to ache as well. He didn't feel like arguing, but he felt guilty over taking the warmest spot. He glanced around at the others. "Are you sure you don't mind?"
"We 'ave more bulk to keep us warm," Porthos said. "You're not much more than skin and bones."
Aramis said, "I'm glad that you got some hot food in you, but you didn't eat much of it."
"I was afraid there wouldn't be enough for Monsieur Tourdot's family, and I wasn't very hungry anyway."
"You need to rest," Athos told him, pulling the blanket up higher around D'Artagnan. "We'll leave early tomorrow after compensating Monsieur Tourdot for his hospitality. The family appears to have little extra of anything to spare."
D'Artagnan's blanket only partially kept out the chill of the drafty barn. More comforting than the blanket was the knowledge that the older musketeers were always looking out for him.
By noon of the following day, the musketeers were riding through rain, mixed with sleet, and buffeted by fierce winds that made the rain feel even colder. The musketeers found themselves in an uninhabited wilderness without even caves in which to escape the weather. For two nights, they sought shelter under the overhanging branches of trees. Although the limbs dripped moisture on them, they were protected somewhat from the heaviest downpours. On both nights, searching for wood dry enough for a fire, proved to be futile. Resigned to the cold and dampness, they sat down the second night and passed around the last of their cheese and bread.
The weather's so bad, even game is nowhere to be seen," commented Porthos, pulling up his shirt collar in an attempt to keep moisture from trickling down the back of his neck.
"If we found any game, we would have to eat it raw," Athos commented. "We can't get a fire going with everything so wet."
Aramis crouched down beside D'Artagnan, who was curled up on a damp blanket, covered by his equally damp cloak. "You should eat something, D'Artagnan."
D'Artagnan looked at him with listless eyes. "I know we're almost out of food. The rest of you should eat what's left. I don't really want anything." He was seized by a fit of coughing and Aramis brought him a water skin.
"Drink this." He helped D'Artagnan to sit up and swallow some water.
Porthos watched them, and then came over and sat down beside the young musketeer, leaning back against the tree. He reached out and pulled D'Artagnan to him.
"What're you doing," D'Artagnan protested in confusion.
"Tryin' to keep you a little bit warmer." Porthos drew D'Artagnan down into his lap, spread his cloak over both of them and added D'Artagnan's cloak for a second layer. D'Artagnan started to object, but decided that Porthos's beefy thighs were more comfortable than the hard ground and gave in to resting on his unconventional pillow.
Aramis spoke quietly to Porthos. "Not only are we out of food, but D'Artagnan is running out of time. He's getting sicker and he can't take too much more of constantly being wet and cold."
Athos joined them. "According to our map, we should be getting out of this wilderness and close to a village soon."
Porthos looked down at D'Artagnan and stroked his hair. "It better be real soon."
By mid-morning of the following day, the rain had slackened to a light drizzle, but the wind was still bone chillingly cold. The musketeers topped a hill and looked down into a valley and the welcome sight of a farm. Unlike the Tourdot farm, this one was well tended and appeared prosperous. A generously sized barn sat a short distance from a stone farmhouse. Fences enclosed a large flock of sheep and a small herd of milk cows. An orchard of fruit trees framed one side of the house.
Athos, Porthos and Aramis shared smiles of relief and put their horses into a trot, with D'Artagnan's horse following behind. As they rode into the farm yard, a middle-aged man emerged from the barn. Athos rode up to the man and introduced himself and the others with him.
"I am Gustave Joubert," the man said in a hearty voice. He was a tall, large-framed man with a weather beaten face, and the hand he extended to Athos was rough with calluses. "You are most welcome to my home. Musketeers did me a great service some years back when I had occasion to be in Paris and became the victim of a pickpocket. They caught the thief, gave him a sound beating and returned my purse to me intact. Bring your horses into the barn and when you've seen to them, I'll take you into the house and you can meet my wife Marceline."
Like her husband, Marceline Joubert was tall and big-boned. She possessed a pleasant, lined face, graying hair and a brisk manner. She ushered them to the fireplace to warm themselves and brought them cups and a bottle of brandy. "This will warm you on the inside, so drink generously," she ordered. She paused in front of D'Artagnan and tipped up his chin. "You are ill, mon enfant. Your face is flushed with fever."
Athos spoke up. "D'Artagnan has been ill this winter with pneumonia, Madame Joubert, and he wasn't completely well when we set out on our journey. I fear that getting wet and cold may have brought on a relapse."
She touched his sleeve, finding it damp, and then took charge. "He needs to get out of these wet clothes and into bed right away. There are bedrooms upstairs." She looked to Athos. "Do you think he is able to walk up the stairs?"
"I can walk upstairs," D'Artagnan said, the extreme weariness in his voice casting doubt upon his assertion. He struggled to get to his feet until Porthos gave him an assist up.
"The rest of you come along," Madame Joubert instructed, "And you can help get the boy settled."
With Madame Joubert in the lead, they started upstairs, Athos immediately behind her. "Is it just you and your husband living here," he asked.
"Oh, no. We have three sons who live here also. They left yesterday for Provence and the village market in Saint Roseline de Villeneuve. They've gone to locate a bull for our cows as well as purchase more sheep and geese. You and the other musketeers can stay in their rooms while they're away and until D'Artagnan is able to travel. They'll be in no hurry to return. I'll go ahead and turn back the bed for D'Artagnan and get out more blankets and a nightshirt."
She went swiftly ahead, and Athos looked back to see how D'Artagnan was managing the stairs. He was leaning heavily on Porthos and Athos saw him stumble and his knees begin to sag. Porthos grasped him and slung him easily over his shoulder.
D'Artagnan tried to get loose. "Porthos, no! I can walk. Put me down. Athos! Help me! Make him put me down."
"Quiet," Porthos growled, giving D'Artagnan a smack on the behind.
"Athos, you're my mentor. You're supposed to help me."
Athos only smiled. "Sorry, D'Artagnan. You're on your own this time."
"Aramis," D'Artagnan pleaded.
Aramis shrugged. "If Athos won't help you, you can hardly expect me to do it."
At the top of the stairs, Madame Joubert was standing just inside the door to one of the bedrooms, smiling broadly at the overheard comments. "You musketeers remind me of my own boys, big, overgrown bear cubs that they are. This is the room of my oldest son Jean Claude. You can put D'Artagnan in here, but mind his muddy boots. I don't allow dirty boots on my clean beds."
"Yes, Madame," Porthos said obediently, sitting D'Artagnan down on the edge of the bed and then kneeling to remove his boots.
"There are extra blankets here on top of the chest and a nightshirt for him. My boys are tall like he is, but they have far more flesh on their bones. The nightshirt will be big on him, not that it will matter. You'll need to strip off all of his wet clothes. I'll help, if you like."
D'Artagnan looked up at her in alarm.
"I'm teasing you, mon enfant," she said with a chuckle and giving him a pat on the arm, "Although considering that I have a husband and three sons, it's unlikely that you have anything that I haven't seen before." She turned to the other musketeers. "There are two smaller bedrooms across from this one that belong to my other sons Francois and Leon. Two of you can sleep there. I regret that I don't have another bed, but I assume that someone will want to stay here with D'Artagnan at night and look after him. I'll bring more blankets that you can put on the floor."
"Thank you, Madame. The arrangements will suit us perfectly," Athos assured her.
"Well then, I had best be getting downstairs. There's always plenty of cooking, cleaning and sewing to keep me busy. I'll get the noon meal ready and prepare some broth for D'Artagan."
"The broth will be exactly what D'Artagnan needs," Aramis told her. "It's kind of you to prepare it. Aside from the food, you need not concern yourself about D'Artagnan, and we won't keep you or Monsieur Joubert from your work. We will look after all of his needs ourselves."
Once Madame Joubert had gone, D'Artagnan began to fumble with his clothes. His fingers felt slow and clumsy, and he didn't put up a fuss when the others quickly and efficiently stripped him and pulled the nightshirt over his head. He lay back, feeling drained of energy, as blankets were tucked in around him. He ached all over and felt too tired to move. He could hear the other musketeers talking and tried to focus on what they were saying, but it was too much effort and he felt himself drifting off.
He awoke later to a hand on his shoulder and Porthos's voice saying, "Wake up, D'Artagnan. Madame Joubert has made somethin' for you and you need to eat it." D'Artagnan opened his eyes and groggily tried to sit up. Porthos helped him to raise himself and shoved pillows close behind him for support. Porthos reached for a bowl of broth on a side table and spooned it into his mouth.
D'Artagnan made a face. "It tastes funny."
Porthos sampled a spoonful. "It tastes all right, D'Artagnan. There's nothin' wrong with it. It must be the sickness makin' you think it tastes funny. Madame Joubert is a fine cook. She made us onion soup, lamb chops, somethin' with eggs and cheese in it and pears baked with honey."
D'Artagnan began to feel queasy. "Don't talk about food, Porthos, or else the broth you gave me is going to come back up. Take it away, please. I'm too tired to eat, anyway."
"You rest then. Maybe you'll feel like eatin' later." Porthos flattened the pillows behind D'Artagnan, who lay back down and closed his eyes.
For the next few days, D'Artagnan could keep down little of what he ate and endured severe aches throughout his body. His temperature rose and hung on at a stubbornly high level, and nothing that was tried had any effect on reducing it.
Aramis sat beside D'Artagnan's bed, watching his restless movements. Suddenly, he sat up and his eyes flew open. "The fire," he gasped. "Have to stop the fire."
He tried to throw off his covers and get up, but Aramis restrained him. "Shh! There's no fire, D'Artagnan. Lie back down."
"He burned it," D'Artagnan mumbled. "Burned it all. I can't … go back now."
Athos and Porthos entered the room, followed by Gustave Joubert, just as Aramis placed a cool, damp cloth on D'Artagnan's forehead. "It's gone," he whimpered, thrashing fretfully. "Couldn't … couldn't stop it." He turned his head towards Aramis. "Aramis," he whispered. "You're in Gascony?"
"What's he talkin' about," Porthos asked, frowning.
"He's been rambling about his farm being burned down."
"He doesn't seem to be getting any better," Monsieur Joubert observed.
Aramis stood up and ran his fingers through his hair in frustration. "I don't know what else can be done for him."
"I think that it's time to send for a physician," Monsieur Joubert said. "Dr. Aristide Gamache lives in the village of Poulain, about seven kilometers from here.
Athos was blunt. "Is this doctor any good?"
Monsieur Joubert shrugged. "Most people think so. More of his patients live than die."
The musketeers looked doubtful at this less than ringing endorsement, but had no other choice. "I'll go now and fetch the doctor," Porthos offered.
"It's a straight road from here to the village, and I'll give you directions to his house."
Aramis and Athos were both with D'Artagnan when Porthos returned with a scholarly looking man carrying a black bag. "This is Dr. Gamache," Porthos said, introducing Athos and Aramis.
The physician gave a brief nod and stepped over to D'Artagnan's bed, observing his patient's feverish mutterings. He leaned over and listened to D'Artagnan's chest, felt his pulse and then placed his hand on his forehead. "How long has he been ill?"
Aramis answered. "Most recently, for about a week, but he had pneumonia earlier this winter. I don't think that he was truly well when we left Paris to escort a prisoner. The prisoner made an attempt to escape and tried to drown him in freezing cold water. He's been both wet and cold for days before we arrived here at the Joubert farm."
"Hmm. He has a definite rattle in his chest and I assume, a cough, as well?"
"Yes."
"His temperature feels dangerously high. It must be brought down or he could begin having convulsions. I have a powder which can be mixed with water and given to him every few hours for the fever. It has a bitter taste, but you must see that he drinks it. I've found it to be effective more often than not. In addition, he must be bled to rid his body of bad humors."
The physician retrieved a scalpel from his bag and made an incision in D'Artagnan's left arm. D'Artaganan stirred and whimpered. Athos grasped the boy's right hand. "Stay still, D'Artagnan," he cautioned.
D'Artagnan's eyes opened, but he seemed scarcely aware of what was happening. "Athos," he whispered. "Don't leave me."
Athos squeezed his hand. "I won't. I'm staying right here and so are Aramis and Porthos." Athos couldn't tell whether or not D'Artagnan comprehended what he had told him, but he grew still and closed his eyes.
Having done what he could, the doctor was paid by Athos for his services and departed. The older musketeers took turns sitting with D'Artagnan and forcing him to drink the medicine left for him. D'Artagnan's olive skin had grown paler after being bled, but he seemed to rest more easily.
Late the next morning, Athos was sitting with D'Artagnan when Madame Joubert looked in on them. Athos had just gotten D'Artagnan to swallow more of the medicine left by Dr. Gamache, the musketeers having learned that a combination of sternness and coaxing succeeded in getting the medicine into him. "How is D'Artagnan," Madame Joubert asked.
"His fever hasn't broken yet, but he's starting to sweat." Athos pushed back the damp hair from a forehead beaded with moisture. "So perhaps, it will break soon."
"Is he still talking foolishness?"
"Porthos said that he was out of his head all last night, but he's been quieter this morning."
"Has he any family?"
Athos shook his head. "No, no close relatives. He lost his father within the last year."
"I'm sorry to hear that. Have you any family?"
"No, not anymore."
"That's too bad. You need a family. Everyone needs a family. I despaired of ever having one of my own until Gustave came along. I was considered no prize – a great, gawky girl as tall as some of the boys in my village. But enough about me. Come downstairs now and eat. I've prepared leek and potato soup, roast mutton, freshly baked bread and dried apple tarts."
"That sounds enticing, but I don't want to leave D'Artagnan."
"Go." She shooed Athos towards the door. "I want you to eat, and I'm accustomed to being obeyed in my house. Ask my husband. I will stay and act as the boy's maman while you eat."
Athos made her a slight bow. "As you wish, Madame Joubert."
By that evening, D'Artagnan's fever had broken, leaving his sheets and nightshirt so drenched in sweat that they had to be changed. With the resilience of youth, he made a rapid recovery, aside from a persistent cough and a weight loss that he could ill afford.
Barely a week later, the musketeers departed the Joubert farm and resumed their return to Paris, under cold temperatures, but clear skies. Despite some trepidation over what Treville might say regarding the expense, they found inns along the way where they stayed each night, not willing to risk a setback for D'Artagnan by camping out in weather that could turn adverse.
On their last night at an inn before reaching Paris, the musketeers sat on the floor in front of a cheerful fire in their room, sipped wine and talked. "I was thinking of going back to Gascony in the spring," D'Artagnan said, "But now I don't think I will."
"Why not," Aramis asked.
D'Artaganan gazed into the fire. "I wanted to go home again. I haven't seen my farm since LaBarge destroyed it."
"It wouldn't be the same, D'Artagnan," Porthos said.
"I know, but I still thought it would seem like home even with the house and barn burned down and the orchard destroyed. Then I got to thinking, that even if everything was still there, it could never be home again because my father wouldn't be there. I decided that home isn't a place so much as it is people." He looked around at the other musketeers. "You're my home now, wherever we are."
"You're right," Aramis said, "You'll always be at home as long as you're with us."
"Damned right," Porthos said. "Just like you'll always be our little brother and our pesky brat." He leaned over and gave D'Artagnan a thump on the head.
"I'll drink to that," Athos said.
"You'll drink to anything," D'Artaganan said, with an impish look at Athos.
"Show a little respect for your mentor," Athos admonished.
"I'm showing as little respect as I can," he responded with a laugh, and even Athos had to smile.
When they approached the edge of Paris, D'Artagnan wrinkled his nose. "I had almost forgotten how bad some of Paris smells."
"Get used to it all over again, farm boy," Porthos said.
"I'll see the rest of you later at the garrison," D'Artagnan said, starting to turn his horse in a different direction from the rest of them, until a fit of coughing halted him.
"Where do you think you're going," Aramis demanded.
When his coughing had subsided, D'Artagnan said, "I'm going to see Lucie de Foix. There's something I need to return to her. Before we left with Vachon, the captain told me how to find the house where's she staying with her relatives."
Aramis glanced up at the dark, roiling clouds above them. "It's going to be raining before you can get there and back." As if to emphasize his words, there was a flash of lightning, followed by a loud crack of thunder. "You're going to get your butt back to the garrison with us and stay out of the rain. You can see Lucie later when the rain is gone."
"Aw, Aramis. I'm almost well."
Athos gave him a stern look. "That's what you said when we left here for Grenoble. Don't argue. Do as Aramis says." Athos looked at Aramis and Porthos. "I have to go to the palace and report back to Rochefort before going to the garrison."
"Glad it's you and not me," Porthos said. He grinned at Aramis and Aramis grinned back.
"You and Aramis are not off the hook, either. You're going to report to Treville on the mission and justify to him why it was necessary to stay at inns on the way back. Good luck with that. You'll need it. Be prepared to listen to a lengthy speech from the captain on how musketeers in his day never saw the inside of an inn when they were on missions and were fortunate to be provided with extra blankets. Don't expect Treville to be happy with having to explain the expense to the king, especially since he has little use for musketeers these days."
The grins on the faces of Aramis and Porthos were gone.
Athos entered the partially open door to Rochefort's office without knocking.
Rochefort looked up from a letter he had been writing. "Clearly, it's too much to expect some manners from musketeers."
Athos glared at him. "I need no instructions on manners from the likes of you, Rochefort. I've come here as you requested to report that our mission was accomplished, and Lothaire Vachon was turned over to the proper authorities in Grenoble."
Rochefort toyed with his quill pen. "It was actually an order for you to report to me, Athos, not a request. You should have learned the difference by now. I must say that I am surprised that you were actually successful in carrying out your duties. If I may be crass for a moment, most of the time you musketeers seem to be standing around with your thumbs up your asses."
Athos clenched his fists, resisting the urge to grab Rochefort by the throat. "It's unfortunate that you aren't as good with a sword as you are with insults."
"And it's too bad you aren't as good at protecting the king as you fancy you are with a sword. By the way, I expected you back days ago. What took you so long? Were you taking a sightseeing tour?"
Athos spoke with strained patience. "D'Artagnan became ill and was unable to continue traveling. That delayed us."
"Oh, I see. Naturally, you musketeers would consider it more important to pamper that boy that you seem to have adopted than to carry out your duties without delay."
Athos leaned over Rochefort's desk, his expression flinty. "We do our jobs, Rochefort. I've yet to determine what your true job is, but I will. Count on it." Athos gave him a mocking smile, turned his back and strode out of Rochefort's office.
End
