Beginnings
By: MusketeerAdventure
Summary: The beginnings of unattainable true love; flirtatious admiration; and begrudging favors owed are recognized as an assassination attempt is foiled and bonds are strengthened.
Chapter Ten: Reverie
Murmuring voices, rhythmic toes tapping against polished marble floors; violin strands; harpsichord trills and lutes lilting above the heat of flaming chandeliers and candelabras resting on golden stands – had his head spinning. What dream world was this – he questioned and pinched himself for good measure.
The overpowering sensation of bright color, intertwined with smells of meats; pastries; and scented powders was a lot to take in. He had never in all his life seen such a spectacle of opulence, over the top make up – wigs, brightly tinted gowns with flashes of twinkling sequence and coats adorned with shiny buttons.
Looking down he studied his calloused hands, brown doublet and worn soled boots. Out of place; under dressed and underprivileged – he felt here among these advantageous favorites of His Majesty. A vision of Alexandre d'Artagnan toiling in the hard dirt of Lupiac flashed through his mind. What would his father make of such a sight – he wondered; and his son, a farmer at heart, here to witness such extravagance?
Outside this gilded cage of gold leaf decoration; vaulted ceilings painted by the masters; wine and spinning dance – many people of Paris and beyond her city borders, lived in abject poverty. Through no fault of their own, these hard working, ordinary people were unable to scrape two livres together in order to make ends meet; feed their children or make a decent living.
The wealth alone in this one room could feed the whole of Paris – he thought – for a week; maybe more. Fisting his hands tight, he stared out on the array of gaiety with awe; trepidation and much sadness. As Captain Treville suggested - it was best not to think on such things – just mind his manners; stay focused and do his duty – protect the King and his royal party.
So he put aside thoughts of disparity among men; walked the room slowly, smiled politely and gripped the hilt of his sword – hoping not to overlook something gone amiss amongst all the pomp and circumstance.
As the evening pressed slowly on, keeping his eyes peeled for trouble was becoming more and more difficult. Introductions into the ball room were being made at a fast clip and more people than he thought possible continued to squeeze into the already overflowing room.
So much was happening all around him. Billowing gowns swished and swayed in monotonous unity to the music; servants navigated through the throng of close sweating bodies of chattering aristocrats, traversing seamlessly around lively dancers; red guards and musketeers alike. Drink and food flowed past him, and he licked his lips to give them some sense of moisture – for his throat was parched and his mouth dry as sand.
The room was packed tight. The heat, the tapping; the strands of the ballet distracted him to no end. Athos had warned him during their briefing with his fellow recruits to stay on point, and not let the new sights and sounds of the wealthy overtake his sense of duty.
Looking out through the mass of courtly revelers, he could just make out his counterparts. Renard, Jaquez, and Marcus executed their turns around the outskirts of the room and smiled his way as they made eye contact. Smiling back, he wondered if they like him, were mesmerized by this foreign world, were hungry and above all hot, thirsty and a bit bored. What was the point of being at a party if you couldn't enjoy it?
A little water would be nice – he inwardly groaned. A short break to walk among the gardens in the cool air was what he needed. But when he scanned the room again, and noticed how Aramis stood vigilant alongside the Queen; how Porthos shadowed the King as if a cloak; and Athos hovered, an unwavering study in concentration at Cardinal Richelieu's elbow – he decided not to complain.
After all he was here to learn; to be of service – so that one day he would wear the pauldron and be considered an elite body guard of His Majesty.
d'Artagnan took a breath, dismissed his hunger and thirst, and then continued on his rounds of the great hall. And as he cast an eye over the room for anything untoward – there before him – through a maze of twirling merriment stood Madame Bonacieux … Constance. Without his permission, his feet grew roots and he could not look away. Of all the finery here, she stood out as the most beautiful woman he had ever laid eyes on.
Her simple, yet elegant dress of hunter green complimented her figure and set off the auburn of her hair. Swept up in a fashionable bun exposing her shapely neck; curls framing her face – she was the perfect picture of grace. Bare shoulders shown like alabaster and had him flushing red about his ears.
Her smile dazzled as she took in all the activity around her with giddy pleasure; her cheeks blushed a wonderful shade of pink, while her eyes practically sparkled with life. There were no words to express how incredibly happy it made him to see such joy on her face. He could tell she wanted to dance; and watched with some amusement as she tapped her foot lightly and swayed back and forth in time with the trilling harpsichord.
What he would give to take her hand; bow low - then embrace her in his arms and twirl her across the shimmering polished floor for the world to see.
Aware he was that the Bonacieux's were invited here to the palace this night. This special ball to present King Louis' libretto and costumes he himself designed for his Ballet de la Marlaison. Invited they were, as Constance had excitedly imparted to him weeks ago – because Monsieur Bonacieux's cloths were to be used to create the fine garments. "What a wonderfully divine reward for all of his hard work", she had exclaimed with a hint of pride.
She had talked of nothing else for several days as she flitted about the house cooking; cleaning; and preparing her own gown for this auspicious occasion. And there she was – outshining them all; brighter than any tiara, diamond necklace or emerald clasp. Bonacieux stood proudly at her side – holding her hand placed in the crook of his arm. She smiled so openly up at him as he pointed out the costumes worn with panache on the dance floor.
A flood of something he did not recognize filled his heart, and he frowned attempting to discern its meaning. And then a sense of clarity descended.
He knew then; knew in that instant that he loved her – that he had loved her all along, from the very beginning. His heart skipped a beat…he was in love with another man's wife; had been since the moment he met her; gathered her in his arms and kissed her. It was as if he had always known her. He could not help himself. Could not help that he wished it was his arm she held onto; his side that she stood by; his countenance she graced her smile upon.
And as he turned away to hide his emotions; still his pounding heart; and gain back his composure – a single shot fired from a musket and all hell broke loose.
Over the past five years she had been aware of him on many occasions in attendance, but more so on duty at such court functions as this – standing proud, stoic; a melancholy air about him. But tonight was the first time she really noticed him – took stock; separated him from the others in similar uniform, and truly saw the musketeer…..Athos.
Upon entering the ball room, without realizing it, she found herself searching him out. The room was extremely crowded, but eventually she found him – standing still; cool in the stifling heat of bodies in close quarters. Positioned beneath the royal tapestry; at attention near Richelieu's elbow – his emotionless green eyes roamed the room, skimming over her face without recognition and causing her breath to catch in her throat.
He was magnificent – more beautiful than handsome; lean, tall, and moved with languid ease. The brim of his hat seemed to serve as a shield against the ardor directed his way. Either he did not know it – or cared little for such things, but she could sense every female eye in the room gaze at least once in his direction and comment on his good looks with a slight raise of an eyebrow, a lick of the lips, a blush of cheeks – all hoping he would look their way…..even if only for a moment; and see them.
Placing a hand at her neck, she had to admit that she wished it also. The heat there, rising to smolder in her eyes, a dead giveaway for her attraction to him. But he had eyes only for his duty; so she was content – as were the others here to admire from a distance and wonder what woman among them already held his heart.
Chuckling lightly to herself; she thought on this uncharacteristic response to him – to any man for that matter. For she prided herself on being independent in thought, progressive – educated and in no way beholden to any man or the constraints of how society thought a woman should live.
What was it about him that drew her in? Was it the startling green of his eyes; the curl of his hair at the nape of his neck; the twitch at his cheek that belied the relaxed nature of his body? Or was it something other than his pleasing physical attributes? Something below the surface that he dare not expose, but she could sense none the less?
"Ninon, my dear Comtesse, how pretty you look", exuded the King with genuine delight – himself decked out in his most regal attire; proud in his choice of wardrobe - if his boyish grin was of any indication. "Come, take a turn about the room with me", and held out his arm in invitation – her thoughts now all but scattered with the interruption. She could not refuse, so bowed low in acquiescence; and flipped open her fan to flutter swiftly in order to cool her heated neck. She then walked with her King, along with the very large, intimidating musketeer Porthos who followed closely at their backs.
After a few turns; upon failing to interest His Majesty on the just merits of her cause of educating the women of Paris, Ninon tuned out his prattle; let him go on and on about some empty subject that he was so animated about; and did not listen. Instead she found her gaze once more upon the intense musketeer Athos – and daydreamed as to what were his interests; what were his beliefs; and how would his lips feel against hers. What would he think if she broke etiquette, left her King's side, and dared approach him?
Would he smile; be transformed and take note of her?
Suddenly a single staccato retort overpowered the music, and brought every sound to a brief halt. The musketeer Porthos pushed King Louis to the ground; covered him as a blanket, effectively dragging her down with him. When she looked up from the floor – there was total pandemonium.
Athos felt totally on edge. The room was too crowded; overflowing with noise and activity. So many things were going on at one time. It took every bit of concentration he could muster to keep focused on his charge.
Richelieu stood to his right airily discussing some political point with a nobleman of rank – Treville nearby in attendance; his brothers, fellow musketeers and recruits as well as red guards spread out among the crowd.
Notes from the ballet floated above the clamor of sound and instead of a sense of gaiety and lightness, the tune of the libretto grated against his nerves. Not only did the frivolity of this scene rub him wrong, but this way of life, this purposeless gaiety and falsehood had him rigid with memories he would as soon forget.
He gripped tight the hilt of his sword, heavy on his hip and narrowed his eyes as sweat trickled down the side of his face into his beard. The heat was stifling, but he ignored it and cursed Richelieu under his breath as the man attempted to leave his side and shake his protection for the hundredth time it seemed over the past few hours.
This controlled circus couldn't end soon enough as far as he was concerned.
As he swept the room again, a tingling sensation had him shivering, and the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. Suddenly a sense of foreboding overcame him, a weight of dread that fell heavy about his shoulders; arms and legs. Everything around him unnaturally slowed down and took on a surreal quality as if he walked beneath water and all was submerged with him.
Something was about to happen, something unseen; covert – missed among this melee. He sought out d'Artagnan who seemed safe enough – his brothers; the other check points….nothing. Aramis caught his eye and frowned at his silent question of "do you sense it?"
Zig zagging toward him through the maze of people, he could make out Henri de Talleyrand-Perigord, the Comte de Chalais – head of King's wardrobe. Always a presence at these events – he was one of King Louis' favorites at court. A smiling, ingratiating sort of man – a constant fixture; wholly trusted by His Majesty; and barely tolerated by His Eminence.
But something about him now set off warning bells as he moved with purpose through the crowd to intercept the Cardinal. His face now relieved of sniveling servitude showed instead a firm determination; a before undetected since of purpose. Eyes wild with single minded deliberation; face powdered white; lips unnaturally red, Chalais stepped close and yelled out, "For France!"
And in his slow downed surreal world, a musket appeared from beneath the man's glittering gold coat; and without thought Athos moved to stand before a startled Richelieu.
Knocked from his feet by a forceful blow to his side, Athos met the floor with a jolt. Air rushed from his lungs and the pain blossomed from a mere punch to an all-consuming fire within seconds.
Sound dispersed and he wondered if along with being shot he had also gone deaf. Squeezing his eyes tight, he attempted to draw in breath, to ease the constriction in his chest. All he could think was that he must get to his feet – see if Richelieu survived the attack; see to his brothers – know that Chalais was taken into custody, and that King Louis was protected.
But he could not breathe, could not move – control of his faculties lost in a haze of unbelievable pain. When he opened his eyes, darkness encroached around the edges of his vision – spots danced before him like flies over a corpse. He yelled out in frustration; hoping to stave off the inevitable, but knew that soon he would lose his battle with trying to remain conscious.
Without warning, real time emerged, and a cacophony of noise rolled toward him with extraordinary speed. The pain at his side heightened, and engulfed him along with an agonizing physical torture he had not felt since the day he condemned his wife to death.
Feet ran past him; screams rent the air; instruments clanged to the floor sending notes of dissonance to accompany the notes of terror. Aramis was bending over him – holding his face – saying words he did not understand. A beautiful woman with honey blond hair pulled up the hem of her flowing pale blue gown; tore her petticoats to shreds; and knelt by his side – a dangling wren at her neck catching the light. He could smell the scent of flowers that adorned her hair.
His last memory before succumbing to darkness was of her – pressing silk undergarments to his wounded side – his blood on her hands.
Biting his nails didn't help; pacing did not alleviate his fears; and rushing the room only got him restrained, then banned from entering the infirmary.
d'Artagnan held still and glared with menace at the closed door. Doctor Gerard had been adamant – Athos needed absolute quiet. Disturbing him was out of the question. There would be no visitors for the time being. Only Lamont – the doctor's assistant would be allowed in to tend to his needs. "There will be no excitement", the doctor had lectured – staring hard in d'Artagnan's direction.
Biting his lip, he flopped down in a nearby chair with exasperation. He just wanted to see for himself. The procedure to remove the musket ball – to clean away bits and pieces of material to clean out the wound had taken hours. Aramis assisted the doctor; Porthos and Treville had been there to hold him down – while he had been told to sit and wait; relegated to hearing Athos' screams – unable to provide comfort.
And he had done just what was asked of him – along with his fellow recruits; Serge; musketeers and even a few red guards who stopped in to ask how he was doing. So when they finally left the room – tired, weary; Athos' blood on their clothes, hands and streaked on their faces – Aramis had been cautious with the news. Removing the ball had been difficult – Athos would need to rest; his body had been through a terrible shock. But he lived, and with due diligence along with his infamous stubborn streak, should survive and recover.
He understood what Dr. Gerard and Aramis were saying. He did. But this waiting here was not something he could do much longer. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath; attempted to cleanse his mind, but the frantic race to the infirmary – Porthos running with Athos in his arms as if he were a sleeping child – still haunted him.
The aftermath of the shooting had been chaos. Screaming, frightened nobility – servants; and musicians racing from the hall; Treville yelling above the noise for order still echoed in his mind. Athos on the floor bleeding out; a puddle of red forming beneath his still form – Aramis shouting his name caused his eyes to sting even now.
Treville had taken control of the confusing scene immediately – instructing recruits to escort people out into the courtyard and be sure they made haste to their carriages and embark for home; for musketeers and red guards to search the palace grounds and to "Find Chalais!"
When Porthos and Aramis took off with Athos – he moved to follow; but Treville caught him about the arm firmly stating in his ear, "About your duty d'Artagnan." So he had vigorously with anger; pulled away from his Captain about to disobey. But when he turned to leave there stood Constance watching him with compassion in her eyes; her husband nowhere in sight. She held out her hand as if beckoning him to her side. Bowing his shoulders; his anger dissipated; he succumbed to her will without question and helped to lead her out to safety – stunned musicians close behind.
Now – a day later; Aramis, Porthos, Captain Treville a contingent of musketeers and red guards were gone – off to hunt down the would be assassin – the Comte of Chalais, while he had to endure sitting outside the infirmary door hanging onto every word about Athos' progress.
Beside himself with worry he buried his face in his hands and groaned. The last he saw of Athos he was pale, limp and bloodied. He seemed dead – but Aramis had performed a miracle – had done what he always did – pulled Athos back from the brink. Relief and happiness at the success of surgery had spread through him like a wild fire. He had wanted to go to him then, but Porthos had gripped his shoulders, "Not yet", he whispered – with an edge of apprehension tinged in his voice. "Let him get cleaned up and rest. Come and see us off. We leave to find Chalais within the hour."
So he had waited once again. Stood in the garrison yard to say his farewells; wished his friends a safe journey, and to bring Chalais to justice. But before riding away Aramis had spoken earnestly with him. "Stay near" – he urged, "And tell him…." With his voice quivering he continued, "No, never mind. I suspect when he sees you, he will know." Then they were gone in a rush of dust and pounding hooves.
He stood for some time in that very spot – disappointed not to be with them; but glad to be here for Athos. Bent on revenge; with a need to go and find the man responsible – but afraid to leave.
He tried to do what Aramis asked of him – what he wanted more than anything – to stay near. But after a day of waiting, this hallway wasn't near enough. Mind made up, d'Artagnan stood; shored up his resolve; disobeyed Doctor Gerard's directive and entered the room.
It was so quiet beyond the door. One candle glowed warm on a nearby table, and flickered soft light about the room. The infirmary was free of others, except for where Lamont sat ramrod straight at Athos' bedside and seemed none too surprised to see him standing on the threshold.
The fire in the hearth gave off a sweltering heat of orange flame, and he could feel sweat forming at his brow after only seconds in the room. Eyebrows rising up to his hairline, Lamont waved him over. "Well then – if you insist on being here – come all the way in."
Now that he was finally here – he was inexplicably afraid; but stepped slowly toward the cot where Athos lay still and pale. Lamont rose from his seat, and stood close to his shoulder – pointing to the beside stand, "Now he has fever – so wipe him down and keep him as cool as you can with the water here in the bowl."
d'Artagnan nodded absently, his chin trembling with emotion – now a witness to his friend's dire condition. Lamont gripped his arm and gestured toward the water pitcher and cup, "Have him drink if you're able. I've been using this spoon to get it down him."
A stray tear escaped the corner of his eye and traced a path down his cheek. d'Artagnan quickly swiped at his face and berated himself for being such a child. Athos needed him. Aramis and Porthos needed him to get a hold of his emotions and stay close – take care of their friend.
Lamont then grasped his shoulder, "He has not opened his eyes lad – but with you here; perhaps now that will change. I'm going to take a break – sleep there down by the door; and will see you in the morning before Doctor Gerard comes in to check on him." With that Lamont quietly pushed him down in the vacant chair and moved to lay his head to pillow – a warm but sad smile on his face.
Once alone, d'Artagnan took in a sharp breath and studied his friend closely. Other than the slight tremors that wracked his body; and the shuddered rise and fall of his chest due to labored breathing; Athos did not move, or groan, or sigh. Leaning over he whispered in his ear, "You will see. Everything is going to be alright.", and picked up the damp cloth ready to begin the task of keeping infection at bay.
As he dipped the cloth in cool water, he realized suddenly that the room was much too quiet; too still – stagnant of life. Athos wouldn't like it he surmised, so as he wiped his friend's brow; pushed back tangled hair, and spoke of Constance – lamented on how beautiful she looked at the ball; how much he loved her; and that one day he would summon the courage to tell her so – married or not. And for the next hour spoke of nothing but her bravery; kindness and strength.
"A formidable woman – wouldn't you say?", he asked earnestly and sighed when there was no response.
During the midnight hour, he stoked the fire; returned to Athos' side and began again – rubbing the cool cloth along bare shoulders; arms and over the angry red wound at his side. He spoke of their misadventures in Pinon and pondered over the identity of their bow wielding savior. "Do you think we will ever know who saved our lives?"
Then just before dawn, he spoon fed water; silently thanked God that Athos swallowed; and told the story of his near fatal fall down the side of a ravine – and how by some miracle Aramis saved his life and pulled him up the slippery slope with rope that was not there.
And as the early tendrils of daylight crested, he wearily laid his head at Athos' shoulder and promised, "I will rest my eyes for only a moment", and did not hear Lamont open the shutters to let in the air and light to welcome the day. Did not feel him remove the cup and spoon from his hand or place a blanket about his shoulders.
Athos found himself, for no reason he could recall, clinging to the side of ravine. His side ached terribly and throbbed painfully in time with his rapidly beating heart. He did not know how long he had been hanging on here – or even why, but his arms were incredibly tired; heavy and unresponsive – weighted down by some impediment he could not see.
Cool air washed over his face; rustled his hair – and when he looked down a fire raged; burned angrily over the foliage, while flames reached up to grab at his heels and pull him into the heat. His wife screamed up at him from the edge of the flames to "Jump – leap down and join me in hell!"
At his side d'Artagnan smiled brightly – not tired at all, climbing upward with the ease of youth and yelled to him, "Aramis says that if we pray hard enough – God will not let us down. Keep going Athos – I'll meet you at the top."
And when he looked up, there were his brothers waiting. Aramis leaning over the edge with his hand outstretched, and Porthos urging him to, "Don't give up!" A wren screeched by his ear with open wings; and when he opened his eyes the dream wafted away with the breeze through the open window along with Porthos' encouraging words out into the bright sunshine.
When he blinked again, Doctor Gerard's kindly blue eyes met his. "Welcome back Monsieur", he said softly and completed his task of covering Athos' wounded side with clean linen bandages. "It is good to see you awake and with us."
Athos frowned, swallowed and attempted to bring his surroundings into focus. He was in the infirmary; his side hurt like bloody hell; the ball – Richelieu. "Chalais", he croaked out; and moved to get up.
But the fire at his side had him groaning, and falling back to his pillow – biting his lip and drawing blood. And when he no longer saw white and could catch his breath – felt Gerard squeeze his shoulder and speak, "That is not a good idea Monsieur."
Athos chuckled; licked copper from his lip and agreed whole heartedly on the wisdom of such words, then wondered about his friends, and aloud inquired, "Where is d'Artagnan?", who he knew could tell him of what transpired while he slept.
Doctor Gerard laughed also, and gestured to his side. "He sleeps here at your side. It seems Lamont could not resist his entreaty to stay and be near."
Athos looked down and true enough, there slept d'Artagnan – oblivious to the world around him, his hand resting on his arm; head at his shoulder – uncomfortably seated in the chair beside him – breathing steady, deep and slow.
"Would you like me to wake him, and have him…?"
Athos lifted his hand to stay the good doctor; and ruffled the boy's hair fondly, remembering now his unlikely dream of d'Artagnan beside him, clinging to the side of a ravine; smiling – confident they would make it to the top, and promptly drifted down into much needed sleep.
When he woke again, Athos could see that evening was near. Streaks from the setting sun filtered through and walking toward him from a shadowed corner of the room was Cardinal Richelieu, a scowl on his face – as if he were himself in pain.
After a few moments of mutual regard and inspection, Richelieu seemed to make up his mind about something and spoke haughtily with slow deliberate intent. "It seems Monsieur Athos that I owe you thanks for saving my life. A selfless act of bravery that not many men would undertake."
Athos shifted; pulled himself up to a seated position to have his back against the wall; studied the Cardinal with suspicion and bowed his head slightly. "My duty Your Eminence", he countered coolly.
Richelieu nodded back in acceptance of the truth of the statement.
"Yes – your duty for which I am grateful and have decided to repay with you with a favor. One favor only. For it will not be said that I owe something to any man."
Athos pressed his lips tight, as a heavy pause permeated the room. "And I will know your favor for what it is when you beg me for it; and if deemed worthy – I will grant it."
Athos squint his eyes and opened his mouth to disavow such a gift when in that moment d'Artagnan entered the room balancing a tray of food, accompanied by a wide smile, and an energy level that pushed aside the bleak offer of a strings attached favor, he did not want.
"I've brought your dinner. Serge has prepared all of your favorites…"d'Artagnan began with enthusiasm; but silenced his speech upon seeing the Cardinal looming over Athos' beside.
"Your Eminence", he said politely and lowered the tray to the nearby table.
Taking advantage of the uneasy quiet in the room, Athos asked, "What of Chalais?"
"He escaped the Louvre through a hidden passage way. Treville has taken a contingent of musketeers and red guards to track down the traitor and bring him back here. They are not to return without him." As he moved toward the door, Richelieu called over his shoulder, "Do not think too much on him musketeer. When he is brought into custody, I will seek retribution for his treachery for the both of us. Chalais will meet justice in a painfully beheading way", and with that left the room without saying anything more.
d'Artagnan let out a breath he did not know he was holding and sat heavily with a sense of relief; glad Richelieu took his dark aura out of the room with him.
After a moment he regained his positive disposition; lifted the tray and sat it on the cot ready to help his friend enjoy the evening meal. And as he moved to fill a cup with water – Athos remarked with some amusement – Richelieu all but forgotten and inquired, "Tell me d'Artagnan – what is this about you falling off a cliff?"
Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed this chapter. Please leave a review and let me know what you think! Just to clarify here – I have played fast and loose with history and hope it doesn't detract too much from the story. I want to say "Thank you" to all of you who have read; reviewed; favorited and who are following these 'beginnings'. Your thoughts are very much appreciated and make my day. You have no idea how many times I re-read your reviews!