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The following day seemed again ideally perfect, if not for the Comte's words hanging like a dark cloud over their thoughts. Porthos and d'Artagnan had both woken early and exited into the courtyard once they were dressed. The courtyard seemed even emptier than the day before, most of the preparations having been completed the day prior and the first visitors not expected until after the mid-day meal.
Having a look around at the few people present, Porthos turned to his companion. "Think it's time we did some snoopin' around to see what else we can find out about these people who are gettin' sick."
The Gascon nodded to him and passed his gaze over the courtyard. "Meet back in your room in an hour?" he suggested.
Porthos nodded and moved away to explore the area to his left, while d'Artagnan focused on the right side of the large square. He wandered slowly, smiling and nodding at some of the people he passed. He was attracted to a stand holding bolts of finely woven cloth, one of the few carts that had been filled at this point. Approaching it, he fingered a particularly brilliant red piece of fabric that he imagined would set off the vibrant tones in Constance's hair – if only she wasn't still with her husband. Pulling his hand away, he was about to leave when his ears picked up the low sounds of a woman sobbing. Walking around the side of the cart, he pushed aside a piece of draping that hid a small alcove behind the stand, finding a young woman who was clearly distraught.
At his entrance, the young girl looked up, startled at his approach. She looked at him cautiously, asking, "May I help you, Monsieur?"
d'Artagnan offered a small smile, "Actually, I was wondering the same about you?"
The girl smiled shyly, realizing he was referring to the fact that she'd been crying. She wiped at her face with her sleeve, attempting to dry the tears. Seeing her predicament, d'Artagnan pulled a finely embroidered handkerchief – another memento of his time with Constance - from his doublet and offered to the young woman who accepted it with a timid smile.
Dabbing at her eyes, she looked at him curiously, "Thank you, Monsieur. I did not realize that anyone would find me here."
"I'm certain that no one else realized your distress," d'Artagnan offered gallantly, recognising that the girl was embarrassed to have been discovered. "May I ask what has you so upset?"
The girl ducked her head, considering what, if anything, she should share with this handsome stranger. Raising her eyes to his, she said, "But, Monsieur, I don't even know your name."
It was d'Artagnan's turn to duck his head in embarrassment as he introduced himself. "Forgive my poor manners, Mademoiselle, I am d'Artagnan of the King's Musketeers."
The girl's eyes widened, "A Musketeer?" The Gascon nodded. "I am Nicol Chauvet. My father owns these fine fabrics and he is the reason for my sadness." Nicol twisted the handkerchief in her hand in nervousness and d'Artagnan sensed that she was trying to decide how much more she should say.
"A pleasure, Mademoiselle Chauvet," he replied sincerely, patiently waiting for more.
The girl must have sensed that he was hoping to hear more of her story and continued, "My father has been unwell this past week, but yesterday he took a high fever and has been suffering from stomach upset. My sisters are with him now, but I've heard rumours of others being sick as well and even dying." Her eyes watered again and d'Artagnan realized that this young woman's father could potentially be infected with the fevers that were affecting those living on the lands of de Chartres.
"Mademoiselle, how many others have become sick?" the Gascon probed.
"Over a dozen," she replied softly.
d'Artagnan's stomach dropped at the news that those caring for the sick were also in their midst, suggesting that the gates of the estate needed to be closed sooner rather than later to avoid carrying the illness beyond de Chartres' borders.
Not wanting to concern the young women further, the Gascon asked, "I assume that there are those who have recovered from this illness?"
Nicol seemed to be taken back by the question as though it was something she hadn't yet considered. "I'm not certain, Monsieur," she said, unsteadily. "I suppose there must be but the only ones I've heard about so far are still sick."
Not wanting to alarm the girl further, d'Artagnan smiled charmingly, "But of course there must be those who have gotten well." He leaned in as though sharing a secret, "It is simply that news of the sick makes for better gossip."
He was pleased to receive a smile in return at his comment. "If you will excuse me, Mademoiselle, I must find my friend. I wish your father a speedy recovery." With a slight inclination of his head, he made to leave.
"Oh, Monsieur, your handkerchief."
The Gascon eyed the square of linen in her hand and, knowing that the likelihood of her father recovering might be poor, he said, "Please, consider it yours."
"Thank you for your kindness, Monsieur," Nicol replied with another small smile.
d'Artagnan backed away from the alcove where they'd spoken and look at the sun hanging high in the sky; the hour had nearly passed and Porthos would be waiting for him soon. Stopping at the well, he pulled up a bucket filled with water and drank quickly, before heading back inside to share what he'd learned.
Upstairs, Porthos was already waiting for him and pacing anxiously; it was obvious that his news was not better than d'Artagnan's. Closing the door behind him, the Gascon seated himself at the table, Porthos following his lead and sitting across from him.
"You first," Porthos indicated to the Gascon.
"I spoke with a young woman whose father has been unwell. Yesterday his fever rose and his stomach has been upset. She knows of more than a dozen others who have fallen ill and was unable to name a single person who's recovered from whatever this is."
Porthos frowned at the young man's words, recounting his own information, "I managed to track down the Comte's man, Pinot. He wasn't very happy with my questions, but I hinted that he had to be honest since we're here on behalf of the King."
d'Artagnan looked at his friend sharply, "But we're not here on the King's business."
Yeah," Porthos grinned, "but he don't know that. Anyway, they've got at least four people inside the house that are sick and requests for help have been coming in from the surrounding farms from those who have sick family members. From the sounds of it, the count's more than a dozen and Pinot knows of at least two dead. Didn't think to ask if he knew of anyone who got better, but it's a good idea."
"So, what do we do?" d'Artagnan asked.
Porthos rose determinedly, "We have another talk with the Comte. If this is the fevers, we need him to close the gates, send word to anyone who's sick to stay in their homes and send word to the King so they know what's going on here."
"Do you think he'll listen?" d'Artagnan countered.
"Not sure," a smirk graced his face, "guess we'll need to be extra convincing."
The two friends descended the stairs to the main entry of the grand house and found Pinot giving orders to one of the household staff. Waiting until the man was finished, they approached him as soon as he was alone.
"Pinot, we're looking for the Comte. Have you any idea where we can find him?" d'Artagnan queried.
"The Comte is in the drawing room, reviewing the preparations for this evening. May I be of some assistance?"
"Actually, I had one more question for you," Porthos responded. "How many of the people who got sick have gotten well?"
"Gotten well, Monsieur Porthos?"
"Yes, there are those who have recovered, are there not?" d'Artagnan interjected.
Pinot had a pinched look on his face, obviously very uncomfortable at having to answer the Musketeers' questions. Finally, he answered in a low voice, "I know of none who have recovered yet." With that he turned away, motioning for them to follow. "Please, the Comte is this way." The man walked quickly and the Musketeers were forced to follow before he disappeared from their view. As they fell into step behind Pinot, d'Artagnan mouthed to Porthos "No one?" Porthos nodded and sped up by a half step, forcing the young man to quicken his pace again to keep up.
With a brief knock on the drawing room door, Pinot entered, bowing deeply to the Comte. "Comte, the Musketeers have urgent business they wish to discuss with you." Without waiting for permission, Pinot motioned them inside, then retreated from the room, closing the doors behind him.
The Comte looked somewhat surprised by their arrival, but recovered quickly, standing and approaching them, "I trust you have enjoyed your morning?"
"Yes, your reputation for generosity is well-earned and we thank you for your hospitality," Porthos started. "In speaking with some of your visitors, we have become aware of some concerning information that we'd like to share with you. It relates to our conversation last night."
A pained look appeared on the Comte's face, clearly unhappy about the direction of their discussion. Jumping in before the Comte could protest, d'Artagnan moved to share what he'd learned. "We understand that the sick number well over a dozen, both within and outside your walls." The Gascon paused for a moment to see if the other man would refute his claims, and continued when the man stayed silent. "Also, no one is aware of anyone who has gotten well again after succumbing to the illness."
de Chartres turned away from them, moving to look out the window at the crowds of people below. The Musketeers traded a look, wondering if they should say anything, but Porthos gave a slight shake of his head, indicating patience. With a loud sigh, the Comte finally turned to face them again, appearing to have aged years in the few minutes since they had entered.
"I have received similar news and believe it is time to act."
"If we may ask, Comte, what are your plans?" d'Artagnan inquired.
"I will close the gates so that we stop the spread of this illness. The Captain of my personal guard has been told to report and he will enforce my orders that no one may leave or enter." Where the Comte had looked shrunken before, now he drew himself up, a look of determination in his eyes.
"What of Paris and the outlying farms?" Porthos extended.
"It is too dangerous for us to send anyone to Paris, lest we infect them accidentally, and I will be sending men around to the farms on my lands to order everyone to stay indoors. Anyone here who shows symptoms will be placed into one of the common rooms, so we may slow the spread of this disease," de Chartres stated.
"Comte," Porthos started carefully, understanding the dangers of disagreeing with a nobleman, "with all due respect, Paris must be made aware of our situation."
"Perhaps they can send aid and physicians to care for the sick," d'Artagnan added, doing his best to support his friend's argument.
"No, I have decided and no one will leave these walls," de Chartres declared.
"Alright, do you have a physician here who can look at the sick?" Porthos suggested, changing tact.
The Comte shook his head in regret, "He was the first to die."
A knock at the door startled the three men, and a tall, middle-aged man peered inside. "Ah, Captain Bergerac, come in." The man entered, his gaze travelling over the two Musketeers, recognizing fellow soldiers by their stance and the weapons at their hips.
Bergerac nodded to both men, returning his gaze to de Chartres, "Comte, you sent for me?"
"Yes," the Comte waved his hand distractedly, "We must close the gates to the estate."
"Pardon?" the Captain queried, surprised, given that it was the first day of their annual festival.
"You have heard of the sickness that has befallen us?" the Comte asked, receiving a nod from the other man. "It has become clear to me that I must act to stop its spread so I am ordering you to close the gates and not allow anyone to pass through."
The Captain lifted an eyebrow, "There will be some who will want to leave."
"I know," de Chartres dropped his head, "you will do whatever is necessary to enforce my orders."
"Yes, Comte," the man inclined his head, glancing at the Musketeers.
The Comte noticed his look and hastened to introduce the men, "Ah, Bergerac, these are our Musketeer visitors."
"Porthos and d'Artagnan," the larger man offered. Catching the Comte's eye, he added, "Perhaps d'Artagnan and I could assist the Captain in some way?"
"Yes, of course, I'm sure the Captain will welcome your assistance," de Chartres acknowledged. At that, he turned to retake to his seat. Interpreting his actions as a dismissal, the three men exited the room, stopping outside to speak.
Knowing that it was dangerous to ask, but needing to understand where Bergerac's loyalties lay, Porthos asked the man, "What of the idea to send word to the King?"
The Captain seemed troubled by the question and hesitated a moment before answering, "I do not believe it was the Comte's wish to do so."
Understanding Bergerac's perspective and need to follow orders regardless of his personal views, Porthos nodded and focused on the task at hand. "How can we help?"
The Captain seemed grateful that the other man had let the matter drop and suggested they follow him to the gates to carry out the Comte's request. As the men exited the house, they heard Pinot's voice, calling for everyone's attention from a balcony overlooking the foyer to hear the Comte's announcement.
As the Comte spoke to the members of his household and the few others who were currently at the estate, the two Musketeers arrived with Bergerac at the gates where the Captain ordered his men to close and bar the only way in or out. Once closed, he positioned two of his men in front of the exit with orders to turn away anyone who attempted to get in or out.
"Now what?" d'Artagnan asked Porthos.
"I wish I bloody well knew," the larger man replied, "I wish I knew."
Once the gates had been barred, Porthos suggested that the Captain do a count of those inside the walls of the estate, including getting an update of those who were sick; his suggestion would allow the Musketeers to better understand the level of resistance they might face if people started to panic, and the level of difficulty involved in getting a message back to Paris.
The two men wandered away from the gates once the Captain had left them so they could speak privately. d'Artagnan looked at his friend expectantly, hoping the older man might have more words of wisdom to offer.
Seeing the look on the young man's face, Porthos took a deep breath, collecting his thoughts. "We need more information about what's been going on here and we need to figure out whether this is a fever or something else. If it is the fever, we'll need to ride it out, but if we can prove something else has been makin' people sick, we'll be able to send to Paris for help."
d'Artagnan nodded at the man's logic. "Perhaps we can start by getting some more information about the symptoms, how long exactly people felt unwell before their fevers spiked, how long before death and so on."
Porthos agreed, suggesting, "Pinot knows more than he's lettin' on and he seems uncomfortable with the Comte's decision. Let's see what else he's willing to tell us and then we'll go from there."
The two friends fell into step beside each other, re-entering the house, spotting Pinot giving instructions to the cook. When he was finished, the two men walked over to speak with him.
"Pinot," d'Artagnan began, "we really need more information about what's been happening. Details about how long it takes for the fevers to appear, what happens next and what treatments have been tried." The young man could sense Pinot's desire to decline their request. "Pinot, we need to be able to prove what is causing this so we can act appropriately. The life of everyone on the Comte's land depends on our actions."
Reluctantly, the man acquiesced, suggesting, "You could speak with the maids who have been caring for the ill and I believe our physician kept notes of his and his patients' symptoms until the time when he succumbed to his own fever."
"Thank you Pinot," d'Artagnan responded.
The two Musketeers conversed quietly for a moment before informing Pinot that d'Artagnan would speak with the maids while Porthos went to the physician's rooms to find the man's notes.
Aramis looked up at the sky, lazily watching the clouds pass overhead. He sat on the stairs leading down to the garrison courtyard, leaning back on his elbows as he squinted against the glare of the sun. When he returned his gaze to the courtyard, he found Athos standing with one leg on the bottom step, looking at him with a faint quirk of his lips.
Aramis sighed at having been caught daydreaming and moved to sit up. Athos held up a hand to still his motions and took a seat beside him instead.
"They'll be back in a few days, you know," Athos reminded the other man.
"I know, it's just so," Aramis searched for the right word, "quiet here without them."
Athos knocked his shoulder against the other man's gently, understanding his feelings at missing their other two members. While it wasn't unusual for them to be separated for certain missions, the majority of the time they were deployed together as a foursome. The resulting bond that existed between the four men made the absence of one or more of their group uncomfortable, felt more keenly when there was nothing for the remaining members to do other than train and sit around at the garrison.
"The time they spend together will be good for them," Athos responded. While he also missed the two men, he knew that when the four were together, Athos and d'Artagnan invariably drifted to one another, as did Aramis and Porthos. Spending several days together would improve the understanding between the two men, ultimately deepening their friendship and improving their ability to work together during missions.
Aramis nodded, a small smile gracing his face, "And I suppose that we shouldn't begrudge them their reward at the Comte's festival either; after all, d'Artagnan did bleed for the right to go."
"And Porthos was exceptionally efficient in apprehending our would-be assassin," Athos replied.
"Alright, so enough of my melancholy. Time for wine?" Aramis asked with a grin.
"It is perhaps a bit early, but at least we'll be assured a good table if we go now," the other man agreed. Standing, Athos extended a hand to his friend, pulling Aramis to his feet and the two moved out of the courtyard in search of a tavern where they could get an early start on the evening's drinking.
