Chapter 6: A short-lived hope

It had taken more than two hours to Aramis to regain consciousness plainly. These two more hours of waiting had almost driven the three others mad, just watching him, as the doctor, who had immediately returned at the news, had forbidden them to try to wake him by themselves, pretexting the blow the former priest received, and that it would be better to let him wake alone to see if there were some lesions. But once he was proven to have fully recovered, nothing could have prevented the three friends to agglutinate at "their" wounded's side during hours, chatting and joking like the old friends there were.

- "I would really prefer keep him at the hospice for the night", the doctor explained. "You will be able to pick him up tomorrow."

- "If you find it's better for him", Athos answered, a bit disappointed.

He knew that all were eager to go home, make a good meal and act as if nothing happens, some to forget the form of Aramis lying unconscious on the bed, at the hospice, and the latter to make his friends not worrying about him anymore.

When he told his friends the doctor's decision, a few minutes later, they were all in the same mood, Aramis even more than the others.

- "Well, if I have no choice…" he mumbled.

- "Hey, it's just one more night", Porthos smiled. "Think to de Tréville who will put us at work as soon as he will know you are safe! You are lucky!"

- "If you say it…"

- "Don't be so disappointed", Athos tried to comfort him. "We will come tomorrow. Just rest well.

Oh , I was forgetting to give this back to you," he added, showing the little cross the doctor gave him hours ago.

Aramis nodded, thanking the elder Musketeer and quickly putting the necklace around his neck. He immediately felt better by feeling the usual and reassuring weight of the cross and a few minutes later sat in his bed to watch his friends leaving.

I've got a feeling I will have a restless night; he thought however when the door closed. The concept about sleeping in an unknown place, without Athos, Porthos and D'Artagnan, just made him feel ill-at-ease.

The night had fallen hours ago on the small hospice. In the old manufactured building, everybody was asleep – or almost.

One of the windows on the ground floor suddenly creaked in the quiet silence. A black-dressed man wearing a mask entered the main hall before heading for a small room. He stopped at the door, looking at the wounded man sleeping in the bed that almost took the entire space. Even if he was on the mend, he still wore the bandage on his head to protect the injury.

The intruder took a few steps closer, in such a way that he was near the bed. Leaning over, he smiled : it was him. Aramis. The third of the musketeers.

He pulled a small bottle from his jacket's pocket. Its glass appeared almost black in the darkened mansion. It was time.

With his other hand, he retrieved a small, beige cloth and gripped it within his fingers. The beige cloth spread out in his palm. He lifted the glass bottle, unscrewing the cap. He had to move quickly; the smell alone could wake the dead.

Without waking the dead, it woke Aramis.

The bandit froze when he suddenly heard the young man stir. The latter frowned, probably from the smell. He was wakening.

The crook immediately flattened his hand over the musketeer's mouth in order to avoid any shout or noise likely to alert the nurses who, he knew, slept in a dormitory next to the patients' room.

With that, Aramis opened his eyes. He peered up. Both men froze in place. There was only a mild curiosity on the wounded's features, as if he was wondering if he was really awake. As his gaze found the other man's, however, his expression snapped to attention.

Then, his gaze dropped to the cloth in the intruder's hand, before returning to his eyes.

He couldn't escape - they both knew it. He was still too weak.

But Aramis didn't let that type of logic stop him. Managing to punch suddenly his enemy in the cheek, he stretched his arm to the other side of the bed, trying to reach the bedside table, where Athos had left his daggers before leaving with Porthos and d'Artagnan. But he never could seize them.

Planting a knee on the edge of the bed, the crook grabbed the former priest's right arm and forced him back around. It was easy, far easier than he'd expected. The recovering musketeer struggled with him, trying to shout despite the hand put over his mouth.

Pushing Aramis' left arm away, the man pressed the damp cloth onto his victim's face. The other man closed his eyes: he held his breath.

The masked man suddenly remarked the sun pointing in the skies. It would soon be dawn, and the nurses, who were nuns, too, would get up for the morning's prayers. He was running out of time.

He drew his attention back on his target. Aramis' hands were gripped to his opponent's sleeves. But there was no more fight in them. His eyelids flew open, and his gaze held to his abductor's eyes as he slowly began breathing into the cloth. Then, the musketeer's pupils glazed over. Any consciousness disappeared like a flame between two fingers.

The crook didn't wait. He pulled the former priest out of his bed, and taking him on his back, he retreated towards the window from which he had entered.