Title: Wedding Bells
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Dumas and Maquet's works are public domain
Synopsis: May 16, 1629, Paris. Let us be witness of the last two hours of bachelorhood of the Chevalier Du Vallon. Part 2/2

Wedding Bells
By Arithanas

The Parisian's winter dim light filtered lazily through the curtains of the humble rooms on the second floor of what was once the most visited home on Rue Ferou. The reader will forgive us us not to make a great description of the numerous furniture and the placement of the aforesaid for, no doubt, he has been with us in it at other times and he surely felt at home almost as much as its own inhabitants. For the purposes of our present story is enough, for the reader, to know that two men in shirt shared the table and their servants were busy putting the finishing touches to the gala attire. Those men had to give their best presence in the present date.

The largest of these men was beaming bonhomie as he carried to his lips a big bowl of steaming liquid with the right hand while his left hand held a piece of bread. His companion, leaning on the table and with his hair in disorder over the half of his features, did his best to keep up without apparent success.

"Come on, Athos, soldier it on!" The big man said to him, his great hand pointed his friend out with the piece of bread. "You need to eat well to celebrate with me."

"Porthos, I don't remember the last time I was this sober…" the so called Athos said aloud, trying to swallow the chicken broth that Grimaud served for a breakfast.

"Are you trying to make me feel remorse?" asked Porthos as he wiped clean the bottom of the cup with a piece of bread. "Fat chance! You swore you'd be sober for my wedding and you're too honorable to back out now. Sip it!"

Athos grumbled. All of them had returned alive from La Rochelle, but things had not been the same. Aramis had locked himself in his house, devoted in body and soul to his ecclesiastical career. Artagnan sighed and spent his days thinking of his murdered paramour and Athos did not sigh, but to remove Milady out of his head, he drank most of his spare time away.

One particularly loud night, Porthos came to him with a cup in his hand, it was obvious he wanted to play and made his bet in a tone too low for the brain of Athos, completely drowned in Chambertin, could hold it the right way; Without caring about it, Athos threw the dice, leaving it to the chance and, as usual, he lost. 'Your word is enough,' Porthos said smiling when his dice gave a sum higher than that of his friend, 'I'll see you sober on May 16'.

Porthos was right. Gambling debts were debts of honor, but food never suited him well in the morning.

With great difficulty, the broth was consumed and soon both men were found in separate copper bathtubs with the intention of being clean as if it were Easter Sunday. The water seemed to have better effect than the food on Athos and he was soon relaxing in the warm water. Soberness was not bad by itself, Athos considered it while dipping his head in soapy water, maybe someday he would give it a try. Porthos splashed water out of the tub while moving his huge body through the small space but the disaster that he was doing on the floor of his friend's house didn't seem to matter to him.

"Athos..." Porthos called out when he was sure he was clean and his friend was in better spirits.

"What is it?"

"I know you believes that people only ask advice not to follow it; or if they do follow it, it is for the sake of having someone to blame for having given it."

"I maintain that statement," Athos was thinking of leaving the bath and did not pay much attention to this prelude.

"But it's me, Athos, your friend, and I have always found your advice excellent," Porthos insisted, leaning over the edge of the tub to get closer to Athos and peep his reaction. As there was none through sweet, nice words, he persisted: "Today, I need your advice."

"My best advice for today is: don't step on her dress and try not to faint."

"Be serious, peste!"

"Porthos, I know too well how much practice you've had," Athos protested, using a rag to wipe well behind his neck. "I doubt very seriously that you have to seek advice to live a married life."

"You were the only one of us who was married," Porthos and argued and, by the way in which Athos jumped in his bathtub, he knew that this was not the right way, but already on interrogation he could not stop. "The only woman I've lived with was my mother; and back then I was too young to dwell on what a wife does. I know not what to do..."

Athos squeezed the cloth as if to dry it under pressure. His knuckles were white but had two large red patches on his face, which could have been the product of the heat of the bath or the lack of alcohol. Then, with a deep sigh, he dropped his hands in the water.

"Let her be."

"What?"

"I learned from my mother all the practical things in life. My life with..." Athos made a small, but noticeable, pause, "her" the word almost choked him "was almost paradise as I followed the advice of my blessed mother. Want to know what you should do?"

"Please. Tell me!"

"Outside the walls of your house you are the master, but once you go beyond the threshold, she is the mistress. You must respect her territory. You must let her handle the house and the servants. If your wife is poor managing the household, she will never let you know. If she's good, she will brag about it for you to acknowledge it and you have to recognize it with all gratitude, because she does so for you."

"So... All I have to do is make her believe that she controls something?"

"Thanks for reminding me the main reason for never giving advice," Athos said, leaving the bath water with a sudden and almost unpleasant noise.

Porthos would answer, but Athos was already wrapped in the huge sheet, drying himself with furious movements that denounced his vexation. That was not the best time to try further explanations or an apology. While Grimaud was busy rubbing his master with dust of oats and dressing him with hose and shirt, Porthos let Mousqueton take care of shaving him —at that time was so nervous he could have cut his own throat by mistake— there would be time to make things right with Athos.

Athos was wearing his best dark blue breeches, and Porthos admired his good fashion sense, and the delicacy of his choice: elegant enough for the occasion but not too lavish to overshadow the groom. Grimaud was busy attaching the collar, to which he had sewn new lace, with unobtrusive cords inside the slashed doublet of the same color of the trousers. Mousqueton was ready to dress him with his new velvet doublet, but Athos who had been busy tying the spurs straps with new butterflies —smaller but more fashionables— to newly polished boots, stopped him in the spot.

"Grimaud, that collar needs starch," Athos ordered getting his feet inside the boots. "Porthos, Mousqueton should know the difference by now..."

"Fashion changes too fast..." Mousqueton tried to apologize but a glance from Athos was enough to shut him up.

Porthos didn't understand the difference, when he tried the suit in the shop the owner told him the dress was ready to use. Apparently, he had been taken for a person with lots of money and little sense. While Grimaud fixed the small problem, Mousqueton undertook the task to dress his master with the rest of the pieces, from the boot hose with his triple layer of lace to the soft batista shirt. But once Grimaud put his doublet on his broad shoulders and tied the collar under his chin, Porthos understood the reasons which had led to Athos to take part on the issue. His image in the small mirror that Athos had at home inspired him respect, the stand-up collar, taut with starch, framed his face with many lace points and gave him an air of gravity which was usually absent in his face. His moment of admiration was interrupted by a blue figure moving behind him.

"Let me make you a gift in this occasion, Porthos," Athos's voice, calm as usual, could not hide his emotion.

In the mirror's reflection, the hands of Athos presented the richly embossed sword. His crown jewel.

"It's just a loan, but I guess you would like to carry it on a day like today."

The proposal was made with Athos' habitual simplicity, but his friend couldn't be tricked. It was a huge gesture on his part, and it meant a lot for the husband-to-be. In Athos' naked hands the sword was as astonishingly beautiful, so rich... Every one of the gems shined with its own splendor and the fabulous silversmithing was enticing. Porthos still coveted the weapon, just like the day when he saw it for the first time.

"No, thank you," the words left his mouth in the thundering voice that happen to be Porthos' whisper, "my own sword, however humble it may be, must be enough for this day."

"Of course, what a silly thought on my part," Athos admited, hanging the sword in his usual place by the fireplace. "You don't need my sword for marrying your chosen lady."

"I appreciate your silly thought, though!"

"Well, blame it to the lack of wine and come here," Athos invited, his arms wide open.

Porthos didn't need to be asked twice; Athos was far more prodigal with his money than with his hugs, since not everyone was worth a place in his heart. A couple of mighty arms lift him from the ground, and held him tight against a big chest.

"Be her knight and let her be your queen." Athos said, holding on Porthos's wide frame. One could hear the smile in his voice. "You are ready."

"I don't know how to thank you for all these years..."

"That is an easy task: put me down and let us marry you before this damned soberness make me pull more nonsensical stunts."

Roaring with laughter Porthos complied. Freshly brushed hats and capes were ready, and these items were done with the characterized inclination that announced the martial extraction of both men. The servants had made their best to look well, Mousqueton already had his livery embroidered in fake silver and he opened the door for his master who magnificently clad in velvet was gorgeous by the sense of assurance that the words of Athos gave him.

"Get a hold of yourself," Athos mumbled, passing his fingers through the feather that decorated his hat, while Grimaud folded his boots properly, "or stay at home."

"Pardon?" Porthos voice betrayed his confusion.

"Grimaud is insufferable at weddings. I don't know why but he always weeps..." Athos' hand fall on his friend's shoulder. "Anyway, I'm all sober, the servants ready and surely your bride will not wait for you at the doors of the church, and you better don't get cold feet right now, Porthos."

Once Athos said that he pushed Porthos through the threshold and followed him with the resolved step of a man faithful to his decision. Mousqueton shoot a glance to his fellow lackey but Grimaud, with stern expression, raised his shoulders in the tacit sign that usually meant: 'Don't try to understand my master'. The good Norman nodded knowingly while Grimaud passed by his side, before closing the door of that small apartment of Rue Ferou.

The lazy winter light kept pouring into the empty room while in the distance the belfry called the faithful to Mass.

...

A/N: Thank you again for the corrections, Bookwormforlife