One Life, No Regrets
She was lying on her back, completely still, listening to the sound of her own breath echoing in her ears. She had folded her hands over her stomach to keep them quieted. She had considered praying, but the rush of her exhales filled her mind more completely. The slight ache in her limbs from holding the same position for so long had dissipated to a numbness that made her feel leaden. Moving would take an effort of will and this helped her remain still. It was hours yet to dawn and the end of her torment. Her eyes flicked to her left, to the man lying all but motionless next to her, and she felt a twinge of fear ripple through her belly – she clasped her hands more tightly praying now that her slight motion wouldn't wake him. Her fear slipped past the careful blankness she had been cultivating in her mind and once again she felt despair rise through her chest. She longed to roll on her side, to curl her arms around herself and allow herself to sink into oblivious sleep with the pretense she was held by strong arms not her own. But she dared not move, and instead her only physical relief were the hot tears that silently tickled down her cheeks. She was a prisoner in her marriage bed.
She sighed quietly in relief that her service to the Queen only forced her to return here once every fortnight. Sometimes even then she could find an excuse to remain at the palace or he would be traveling and the house would be her own, but in the end, he was her husband and she had little say when he demanded his rights. It was not so bad during the day. She would be busy about the house, airing his bedding, baking him bread, mending his socks. But now at night, she lay stiffly beside him praying she had given him enough wine for him to sleep unmoving through the night.
She had not undressed, hoping her corset and woolen stockings would be a deterrent to his affections. If he was drunk enough and disrobing her too challenging then perhaps . . . her thoughts trailed off as her mind refused to consider the alternative. So she lay there, still and stiff, and forced her mind to other things.
At the very beginning, it had not been bad. In fact, she had thought she was happy – or at least content. The end of her girlhood had been an almost unremarkable passage. She thought of her mother, lacing her in her first corset, brushing her hair, preparing her to meet the cloth merchant from Paris who was here to visit her father. Constance knew this visit was really about her. What girl did not know her duty to her family? She had been raised to expect this, to be prepared for the day her father would select her husband and make a good match for the security of her own future and the good fortune to her family. The merchant would provide her with a home, with food, and with a peaceful life. Her father had worked diligently to set aside a dowry sufficient to attract a businessman or merchant. She put her effort into being charming and pleasant that day.
M. Bonacieux was not unpleasant, and in fact he had been kind. He brought her small trinkets when he stopped by en route to the cloth mills outside of Paris. She chatted with him about dressmaking, her garden, her cooking. He was quiet, but attentive and she a natural talker happy to have a patient listener. If she began to see more infatuation in his eyes than perhaps she had for him, it did not concern her. Not then anyway. She knew she was young and that in time, she might grow to love the man. But love was not her main concern, the security of herself and her family demanded the match be a good one. She put her efforts to its success.
They were married three months to the day of their meeting. He took her in a cart to Paris, to this house, to this bed, and she learned then the intimate duties of being a wife. He was not unkind, but she was not prepared. Over time, she grew to accept that this was just something she had to endure as a payment perhaps, for the comfort of her life. It was not one she had to pay often as he travelled frequently and he himself seemed to perform the action as more of a duty than a pleasure. If he was disappointed that she had not brought him a child, he did not say it. He had no rebukes for her other than when she would take to talking with strangers she met in the market or staying out for hours when her simple errand should have taken her half the time. He was disturbed when others gave her attention, but more so when her attention was on someone other than him. She had grown bolder over time. Stretching the boundaries of her life to include selling bread and cloth at the market, taking in laundry from the musketeer garrison, doing small things to add to the income of their household. Eventually, she was always busy about something, but he never complained too much about it. It was alright, this life.
Until the Gascon kissed her in the market.
Thoughts of D'Artagnan overwhelmed her and her breathing hitched. She inhaled sharply and stifled the anguished cry she felt rising in her chest. She wanted to sob but dared not. Still she could not control the small whimpers that slipped from her lips as she tried to steady her breathing. Oh God, she thought, how can any one person feel this much and not just break? She felt herself begin to tremble and fear again stabbed through her that she would rouse her sleeping husband. She didn't know what to do, so just slowly, slowly rolled to the side of the bed and let herself slip silently to the floor. She huddled there, her back to the low bedframe, wrapped in a ball, her tear streaked face buried on her knees. It was cold on the floor, but it was better this way, at least letting her body find expression for her misery.
Why, why, why? her mind cried. This was not the first time she'd asked this. She had played it over so many times in her head. Why didn't she push him away harder, why did she talk to him, and why, why, why did she bring him home? It was the stupidest thing she had ever done and it had ruined her life.
Or had saved it.
Kissing D'Artagnan had changed everything. Something had moved in her in a place deeper than fear, shock or anger. She felt something stir in response to his mouth urgently pressed to her lips, the gratitude and desperation that played in his eyes, and then the sadness that seemed to over whelm him when he collapsed to the flagstones. She couldn't identify the feelings rushing over her, but she felt compelled to have the unconscious man taken to her home. She bathed his overheated face with cool water and smoothed his dark hair from his forehead. She felt the comforting warmth of his breath upon her palm. She could not stop touching him. When his eyes fluttered open and looked up at her, something broke inside her and for the first time in her adult life, she understood what it meant to have a full heart.
If only she had never met him! She would not be here now, trapped in a miserable life. She had been a cage before. But this prison was worse. She could not be with her husband. She could not be with the musketeer either. She hated both of them sometimes. Hated Bonacieux for not being a devil when he came to court her. Hated D'Artagnan for his love for her and the passion for life - for him - that his kiss had stirred in her.
Did she regret the choice to marry Bonacieux? She thought her life had been a happy one, but . . .? Or did she regret her love for D'Artagnan, the man who had unwittingly unlocked the door to her forbidden freedom. She now knew what life, what living, what loving truly was. But was she better off before, when she didn't know what she had lost? She had vowed to herself she would not be with him. Knew she held the life of her husband in her hands. She prayed she would never see him again, and then in the next breath prayed that she would. Constance's heart pounded in her chest, and her breath started to come in ragged gasps as she shivered and cried silently on the floor. Like the serpent eating its own tail, her regrets were irresolvable without simply regretting living at all.
Lost in the black thoughts of her sorrowful soul it took her a moment to notice an intermittent rattle against the window, like branches from a tree brushing against the panes. And then a whistle, long and low, that she recognized immediately. Musketeers. Not just any, but her foursome as she'd begun to think of them. The whistle was one way they called to each other. The tapping came again, and the whistle. They weren't calling each other, they were calling her.
She rose slowly from the floor to peer out the window to the courtyard below. A large man, Porthos, she felt certain, was looking up at toward the second floor, his arm cocked back ready to release what she assumed were more pebbles at her window. He caught sight of her darkened form against the glass, and lowered his hand, motioning behind him instead. From out of the shadows of the trees, two men stumbled forward, supporting a third one between them. Constance gave a gasp and without even a glance to her sleeping husband, raced out of the room and down the stairs.
She bolted to the front door, and twisted the iron key in the lock. It seemed to take forever but the lock caught and she lifted the latch. Porthos's big hand pushed the door open and he stepped aside to let the other men enter. Athos and Aramis stumbled into the room, an unconscious D'Artagnan dangling between them. Any resolve she may have had to resist her feelings for the young musketeer shattered instantly.
"What happened," she breathed as she picked up D'Artagnan's flagging head from his chest and smoothed his hair from his face. It was pale and chilled as she held his cheeks between her palms, a small line of crimson creasing his temple.
"The Red Guard," Athos answered between clenched teeth, "may we have use of his old room, perhaps?" he asked her, his voice steady but his eyes revealing an urgency that would not be denied.
Flustered, Constance let go of D'Artagnan's head which dropped forward unceremoniously to his chest to elicit a small, tortured moan from the wounded man. "Ohh . . .," Constance was distraught as her fear and worry for D'Artagnan warred with her vow to her husband. How could she do this? How could she allow him into her house – his house – knowing the consequences could be Bonacieux's death on her hands. She couldn't bear it – but as she looked on the anguished faces of the men before her, she realized she could not bear what might happen to them if she did not. A frustrated, frantic sigh escaped from her lips and she threw up her hands, "Yes, yes . . . bring him in!" and she made herself busy collecting water, clean cloths and bandages from the cupboard. "Sssssshhhhh!" she admonished when someone banged into the candle stand, "my husband is upstairs. You are like a herd of cattle!" She added a bottle of wine to her collection of things and quickly made her way to D'Artagnan's old room.
Constance paused in the doorway and leaned heavily on the doorframe, her knees suddenly weak at the sight of a helpless D'Artagnan lain out on the bed. He was on his back, his arms flung to the side, his face seeming even paler than before in the dim candle light. Aramis sat at the foot of the bed, face weary and strained, while Porthos helped to unlace and remove his doublet. There was blood on the marksman's shirt, which Porthos stripped down to his waist to reveal an ugly gash across his side.
"Madame," she registered Athos in front of her, "allow me, please," he said gently and emptied her hands of the supplies she carried. Athos's presence seemed to rouse her and Constance bustled into the room.
"Of all of the stupid things to do, why did you bring him here," she hissed at Athos. "My husband is sleeping in the next room. Give me that," she demanded, pointing at the water basin on the bed stand. Athos complied, catching the wild look in Constance's eyes as she snatched it from his hands and placed it on the bed beside D'Artagnan. She pulled up the small stool and sat beside him, dipping a cloth into the basin and starting to carefully wipe away the blood and debris from the cut on his head. "What happened," she asked again, not looking up from her charge.
"We were simply at the wrong place at the wrong time," Athos said stoically, peering out the window to be sure they had not been followed to the Bonacieux house, "we were headed back to the garrison when we came across a squad of Red Guards who clearly were not happy to see us."
"And you couldn't just walk away, could you?" Constance let her angry words lash out, "no, you had to meddle. Your recklessness is going get him killed one day," she huffed, obviously referring to the man laying beneath her worried hands.
"To be honest," Aramis said painfully, "He's just got a knock on the head. I'm wounded much more badly," he said a little pathetically. He winced as Porthos vigorously slapped another wet cloth along his side. His eyes warned the marksmen to keep out of this.
"Shut up," Constance said, sparing a moment from her charge to shoot a fiery glance at the wounded musketeer, "and stop bleeding on my sheets! I've gone through three sets of linens because of the antics of you four, and how am going to explain needing another set to my husband," Constance sniped at them. She honestly didn't know what it was about these men that made her so fierce, so angry and so protective all at the same time. She said the most horrible things sometimes to them, yelled at them, slapped them, and then worried for them, prayed for them, and wept over them. Oh why did she let them in here! Too many feelings she thought again as tears welled up in her eyes.
She might have sobbed had she not felt D'Artagnan stir beneath her fingers. Just like that first time, his eyes fluttered open to gaze on her face hovering over him, but this time his recognition was instant and his look filled with love. She melted at those eyes, her hands brushing his hair from his face and a small sigh of relief escaping from her parted lips. He reached up and cupped her cheek, his other hand taking one of hers from his face.
"Constance," he whispered her name, and brought her hand to his mouth, pressing his lips to her knuckles. "Thank you," he breathed into her hand.
"You should consider thanking me," Athos said nonchalantly, now that he was reassured that his assessment of the injury being slight was a correct one, "I'm the one that had to carry you across half of Paris."
D'Artagnan looked up at his friend slightly bewildered. Still a bit muddled, it was hard to tell if Athos was joking but as he started to sit up Constance's firm hand pressed him back to the bed.
"You stay put," she firmly admonished him, "and you," she said, getting up to face Athos, "should be grateful he isn't dead, the trouble you put him through," she was on a roll now, and turned her wrath to Porthos and Aramis, "and you two, are no better, encouraging him to all kinds of foolishness. It's a miracle you are all here and not locked up in the Chatelet for dueling, or worse, lying dead in the street somewhere," and her voice cracked and she stormed out of the room.
D'Artagnan laid back on the pillow, eyes shining in the candle light, "Oh God, I love her when she gets like that" he sighed. Aramis laughed and then winced again, the wound in his side reminding him not to breathe so deeply.
"You're a lost cause," Porthos snickered at D'Artagnan and uncorked the wine to pass it to his prone friend.
Athos slipped from the room and quietly followed Constance downstairs. She was in the main room, rifling through the cupboards and piling bread, cheese and fruit on the tray in the middle of the room. What a lesson in contradictions she was. Angry and chastising them one minute, then going through the meager stock in her kitchen to feed them. She paused a moment to wipe her eyes with her apron, and smooth her disheveled hair from her face. She tried to regain her composure but a small sob escaped her lips and she bit down on her hand to stop from crying. Trying to shake it off, she grabbed one of the knives from the drawer and started hacking large bits off the hard wheel of cheese on the table.
"Can I help?" Athos asked quietly from the doorway.
"Can you help?" she repeated his statement with mockery in her voice. "Yes, you can help. You can help by not getting them all killed," she continued to slam the knife down through the unyielding cheese, tears starting to fall down her cheeks, "You can help by not bringing them here. You can help by not forcing me to see him again and again," she was openly weeping now, and Athos noticed she was now just talking about one of them, "You can help by letting me pretend I never met him, this never happened. You can help by letting me have my life back. I wish I had never laid eyes on him! I wish I didn't love him!" and she dropped the knife, sobbing into her apron.
Athos was not always one for words, but it didn't mean he didn't feel deeply. He crossed the room and held the weeping girl in his arms. She stiffened at his touch at first, but then relented, and buried her face in his shoulder. He stroked her hair and whispered small nothings of comfort as he held her. As she calmed down he pulled back from her a little, still holding her with one arm, but raising his hand to tuck her hair behind her ear so he could look into her eyes. "Never regret love, Constance," Athos whispered to her, "No matter the misery or pain it brings you, it is never wrong to have loved," he soothed.
She bit her lip and looked into his eyes, a glimpse of his own anguish for once appearing unchecked beneath her gaze. Constance felt a tug at her heart and realization dawned in her mind. She and this solitary musketeer shared a bond she had not recognized until now. They both were forced to live a life that denied them the loves that they bore. Her prison and his, both made of longing and of regret. She felt guilty now for bringing up the surge of painful emotions in her stoic musketeer. Her musketeers, her foursome. All of them, like her, in a prison of their own devising. She felt that fierce, protective love swell inside her again and knew now it was born of their common bond. The thing she had called life before, it had been nothing at all but wasted time until that kiss. Love, pain, loss, desire, agony - all of that was the thrum of life beating inside her heart.
"You are right, Athos. We have but one life," she smiled at him warmly, "and we cannot waste it with regret." He nodded his agreement and Constance patted his cheek and stepped from his embrace, regaining her composure and smoothing down her apron. She turned back to the table, and piled the hunks of cheese on a platter.
"Here," she thrust the tray into Athos's hands, "make yourself useful," she said glibly as she grabbed the bread and fruit and made her way to the stairs. Athos followed her obediently, grateful that no more words were needed. He caught sight of a form, a figure, in the doorway. Bonacieux, watching silently from the darkness. He nodded at the man, so that he knew he had been seen, but walked slowly up the stairs to show his lack of concern. A smirk played on Athos's lips as he considered what he might do to the man should he make a move toward him. He knew whatever it was, it was something he would not regret.
Constance entered the room confident and steady. She put the bread and fruit down on the small table and pulled it toward the bed so it would be in arm's reach. She lightly pushed Porthos aside to check how he had bound the marksmen's wound. Satisfied it looked clean and properly cared for, she smiled at him. "Well done," she said, "you're good at this for a man with such big hands," she teased. He chuckled at her, not surprised at her backhanded compliment.
She smoothed a hand over Aramis's curls and chucked his chin up to look at him. "I suppose you'll live," she said wryly, "but you look green – you better eat something," and she handed him a piece of brown bread and cheese, "and don't vomit on my floor unless you plan on cleaning it up yourself," she added impishly. Aramis nodded in gentlemanly acquiescence.
She resumed her place at D'Artagnan's side, stroking his face and taking a hand to kiss. "You need to get some food in you too," she smiled and then grabbed an apple from the bowl and her paring knife from her pockets. She started to thinly slice the apple, feeding him pieces off of the knife. Porthos started to tell the tale of the fight with the Red Guards, and she settled in beside D'Artagnan happy for the chance to be at his side for just one night, happy for the presence of her foursome making the crowded room feel like a home. How can any one person feel this much and not just break she thought again to herself, but this time, her heart was bursting with love.
# fin #