Chapter VII... in which the author gets a sigh of relief from one segment of the fandom, and a "noooo!" from another segment. An OC is also introduced, and will come to play an important part later on.
CHAPTER VII
"Aramis!" Athos shouted, pushing him out of the way just in time to prevent the new father from becoming a casualty. The unfortunate result of this heroic action was that Athos found himself lying dazed on the floor, blood pouring from his shoulder. His hearing seemed to have dulled considerably, but he thought he heard another pistol fire in the distance. Then Aramis was at his side, and everything seemed to be in slow motion. A detachment of Red Guards was suddenly milling about, and Aramis seemed to be arguing with them in a rather heated fashion. His vision seemed to dim, and he felt so incredibly fatigued. I'll just close my eyes, just for a moment. The thought had just left his brain when a resounding slap across his face jolted his eyes open.
"Don't you dare!" Constance's face swam above him, and her voice trembled.
"You must have me confused with Aramis," Athos croaked, his throat feeling impossibly dry. "I seriously doubt I've done anything to merit that kind of treatment."
"Yes you have! Do not go to sleep on me! Aramis has gone to fetch a physician."
Those words cut short his vain attempt at humour, and his face turned even paler than it already was. "I must be dying, then," murmured Athos in a voice full of confusion and shock. "Aramis would never leave me unless he felt my injuries were beyond his skills." He lifted his blue eyes, usually so clear and alert, but now dulled by pain and uncertainty, to Constance. "Am I correct?"
She hesitated for a moment, then took her hand in his.
"Don't lie to me, Constance," he rasped, coughing weakly.
"Before Aramis left, he said the wound was serious, and the services of a skilled physician were required," she said gently, choosing her words with care.
"I am dying," Athos said listlessly, convinced now by her poorly disguised agitation. He turned his head to the side with an effort, struggling to control his breathing, which seemed to be becoming more difficult by the second. "I know Porthos has already left for Chartres….but where is D'Artagnan? I must see him."
"He's coming," Constance replied softly. "I sent for him as soon as I could." She bit her tongue, wondering if it was a sin to tell a lie to a man whose life was draining out of him. The truth was that the reply from the garrison from to her urgent message had been handed to her just a moment ago. D'Artagnan is nowhere to be found. I will be there as soon as I can—gone to find an apothecary, in case a physician cannot be found on Christmas Eve. Treville.
A member of the kitchen staff had been pressed into service as a reluctant delivery boy. He sullenly dropped a blanket into Constance's lap before averting his eyes and scurrying out of sight. She glared at his back as he disappeared, then turned to cover up a shivering Athos, smoothing back the hair from his face. Her touch seemed to relax him, and the shaking chills appeared to abate somewhat.
At that moment, Aramis reappeared, and dropped on the other side of Athos, kneeling to face her. He shook his head, his eyes wild and desperate. No luck, he mouthed, unwilling to have Athos hear him. Did he ask for me? She nodded slowly, and saw the distress in his eyes. Her heart froze. He will know there is no hope now.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Meanwhile, Treville was several streets away, frantically pounding on the door of the apothecary for the third time. It had taken him ten minutes to find the shop—ten precious minutes that he could ill afford to waste while Athos lay bleeding. The captain could see the flicker of a candle through a chink in the wood, and cursed at the intransigence of the man in refusing to open the door. "Apothecary! Open up! I know someone's in there!" he roared, kicking the door with his heavy boot. "By the order of the king, open up now!"
Tentative footsteps were heard, along with the noise of someone scrabbling with the latch. The door creaked open an inch, and a young woman peered out. Her brown eyes, soft and intelligent, regarded him cautiously, taking in his blue cloak and authoritative manner. Curly auburn hair spilled down her shoulder, escaping from a hastily tied knot at the back of her head. She did not appear to be intimidated, but was respectful and courteous, addressing him by his rank. "I apologize, Monsieur Captain. I see you are on Musketeer business, so I can only assume your situation is of the utmost importance. My father is the apothecary whom you seek, but he is unfortunately not at home at present. Whom may I say called?"
Treville hit the frame of the door in frustration, cursing under his breath. He looked up to see that the young woman had shrank back slightly from the door, and just a hint of trepidation had appeared on her face. "Forgive me, mademoiselle," he said softly. "I am not myself tonight. One of my best men, a true hero of France, lies on the edge of death at the palace. He was grievously wounded defending the life of the Dauphin. I had hoped your father might be able to assist in healing him, or if that proves-impossible-perhaps ease his..." he swallowed, his throat tightening at the unthinkable.
Charlotte Gaillard could hear the misery in his voice, and her heart filled with compassion for the injured man who had sacrificed so much for a helpless infant, the son of her king. Her mind was made up instantly, and she unlatched the door and reached for her cloak. "I am not a licensed apothecary, for obvious reasons," the young woman stated calmly, fastening the worn metal clasp at her throat. She extinguished quickly the flash of rage she felt against French law, which made it virtually impossible for women to practice in any field that was even remotely related to medicine, with the exception of midwifery. "But my father has taught me much, and I have picked up some knowledge from the healers that come to our shop. I'll do what I can to help."
It was true that she had gained a reputation as having some degree of skill, so it was not unheard of for her to be asked for assistance for the sick. However, she was well aware that she was only ever considered as a last resort. When she was working in the shop and her father was out, a flustered man would often come in, panic building in his eyes when he saw her father was not at his usual position at the herb-grinding table. Charlotte knew well what would happen next—a request would follow for the apprentice. "Michel is here, is he not?" the customer would ask hopefully, eyeing her with scepticism. And it wasn't just the men—women often followed the same routine.
Charlotte had learned to suppress the disappointment she had felt the first several times that her father's apprentice was requested instead of her. She knew it was not fair, but it could not be helped—Paris in her time was not accepting of a woman operating in a man's world. She was the first to admit that she was definitely not the best or most experienced person in the business of preparing and dispensing medicine, but she cared about her work, and had genuine concern for the people they served. Michel, on the other hand, often complained about the customers, whom he more often than not found long-winded and annoying, and was mainly interested in tallying up the weekly receipts and charting the profits.
Keeping the shop in the black and food on the table was important to Charlotte, but it was not all-consuming, as it was for Michel. The young woman had a talent for working with the sick, and her patience and kindness allowed her to sort through the often labyrinthine story of the illness a cure was being sought for. Her father was gifted with the ability to quick establish rapport with customers, and she had learned from him how to direct the conversation adroitly in order to ask incisive questions. She sensed at times that Michel was almost jealous of her father's pride in her similar ability, but she kept that suspicion to herself. Her father was easily fatigued of late, and he relied upon Michel to keep the shop running when he had to rest.
However, the fact that Michel didn't care enough to spend the time to ask the right questions bothered her. Taking a proper history was the key to keeping the risks to the patient at a minimum. With the right pieces of information, it was more likely that the correct medicine would be chosen to help the patient. Apothecaries did not typically have the advantage a physician did of being able to directly examine the patient. While she enjoyed the challenge of putting the clues together from a conversation with a customer, Michel, on the other hand, was impatient.
His usual routine would start by smoothly cutting off a customer before he had more than the most rudimentary facts at hand. He would then steer the conversation to try to discern how wealthy or important the person standing in front of him was. Someone who met his standards for being a member of the higher strata of society would then receive a second, more detailed, round of inquiries into the ailment that treatment was being sought for. If, on the other hand, he thought the order was coming from someone poor or insignificant, and thus not worth his time, he would quickly throw together an herbal concoction and usher them out the door with a false smile, jingling their coin in his hand as the door banged.
Michel was helped greatly by the fact that he had the unfair advantage of being both charming and handsome. Customers thought highly of him, unaware that he often made fun of their accents or stories once they had left the shop. More problematic was the fact that Charlotte increasingly had an uneasy feeling that he had his sights on inheriting the shop from her father, which he would be able to neatly accomplish by marrying her. And that, she did not think she could possibly stomach.
Just last week, she had caught her father wistfully watching them working side by side at the long counter in the shop. Michel had actually said something somewhat witty for once, and she had laughed despite the fact that she often felt her skin crawl when he came near her. Claude Gaillard had looked at his daughter approvingly, and that evening, he had said quietly. "We were so lucky to find Michel. He is good for business, and he has allowed me to step back a bit to take care of my health. He is a true gentleman, Charlotte."
"Yes, he has been a help," said Charlotte neutrally.
Her father had taken her face in his hands and given her a gentle smile. "I know you are not in love with him, Charlotte-but he would make a fine husband. Perhaps you should give him a chance."
She had been so shocked that she had been at a loss for words. Then she had summoned a reassuring look to her face, not wanting to upset him on a day when he had been feeling better than usual. Charlotte had paused a moment, then replied softly, "I am still young, Papa, and I do not think I am quite ready for marriage. But I will consider what you have said."
Papa. Charlotte hastily scribbled a note explaining that she had been summoned to the palace, and carefully pinned it to the door. As she slung a leather satchel around her shoulder and locked the door, she asked casually, "Will there be a physician in attendance?"
Treville paused for a moment, suddenly realizing he might be putting the young woman in a difficult spot. He was well aware of the feud that was currently raging between physicians and apothecaries in Paris. The physicians jealously guarded their territory, and any time an apothecary became involved in direct patient care, he (or she in this rare instance) was taking the risk that a medical doctor might be consulted on the case. The typical outcome of such situations was that the physician, insulted that an apothecary had been called first, would lodge a formal complaint with the mayor's office. A claim would be made that the apothecary had overstepped the bounds of his expertise, especially if the condition of the patient had worsened. It was well known that the physicians' guild had significant influence in the city. In fact, heavy pressure was commonly applied to municipal judges to ensure that apothecaries in such cases were declared guilty and assessed heavy fines.
"I cannot lie to you," admitted Treville with a sigh. "It is more than certain that once the King finds out what has transpired, a physician will be quickly found. But right now, the King is at Mass, and the message has not yet reached him-and my man cannot wait." His steady gaze met that of the young woman, and his voice became urgent. "Mademoiselle, Athos has suffered much in his days, and I will not deprive him of any chance, however slim, of saving his life. So if you cannot accept the risk, tell me now, and I will be on my way to continue the search for someone who can help me."
Charlotte was touched by his dedication to his men. "I am with you," she replied softly, placing her hand on his arm. "Let us delay no longer." Treville gave her an approving look, and helped her up onto his horse. A moment later, they were galloping through the dark streets at breakneck speed. Ten minutes' ride away, Athos lay in a large four poster bed, his body wracked with pain. A church bell in a tower several blocks away tolled once to signal the one o'clock hour, then fell silent.
I know there is less of Aramis and Athos in this chapter, but I wanted to make a little detour to fill in Charlotte's back story. Disclaimer: I know next to nothing about apothecaries/pharmacies and laws regarding them in 17th century France, so if there are any experts out there, please excuse any inaccuracies. However, being able to fill in the blanks with my imagination allows for more wiggle room in plot development...
