Thank you so much, Beeblegirl, for your comments on the last chapter! It's lovely to hear that you're still enjoying this slow-moving train of a story.
Chapter Notes:
There are many historical references in this chapter, particularly in the second part, which might be slightly confusing to dive into. But the main plot is in there, so I'll ask you to please be patient with it. General Bernhard of Saxe-Weimar, whom there's a lot of talk about, was an important German general/duke who entered into French service in October 1635. While the events of this chapter are taking place (October 1636), an imperial (i.e. Habsburg) allied general called Matthias Gallas had control of the Burgundy region (southeast of Paris). Finally, Sweden is being ruled by a regency because their king was slain in battle two years prior.
I did my best to explain everything within the narrative, and the very lengthy notes at the end are there for those who are interested; they do not contain necessary information for the flow of the story. No compulsory reading. ;)
Finally, if you're interested in seeing some historical images to go with the text, I'm cross-posting this story on AO3 which allows for inserting visuals directly into the chapters. History is always more fun when there's stuff to look at. You can find it under the same username and story title.
Thanks for reading, and without further ado..
Chapter Eight:
Civilization While You Can
Paris had never seemed as bleak, as unwelcoming and ugly as it did the day d'Artagnan rode his horse through the Saint-Honoré gate and entered the city for the first time in seventeen months.
The rain was incessant, the clouds overhead constantly grumbling as the two musketeers rode through the recently renovated western gate. The last time d'Artagnan had been here, it had still been under construction and causing much inconvenience to travellers coming to the city from Rouen and Le Havre. Those within the walls had quickly learned to avoid it and revert to Porte Gaillon instead, but today, d'Artagnan was merely grateful for the shelter it provided. He shrugged his pauldron to the guards who asked his business in the city, then guided the horses towards the single torch beneath the arched passage opening to the small square beyond. The horses' hooves echoed coldly within the stone enclosure, sounding so different from the squelching mud or the muffled thumping on earth. Stone buildings and paved roads – two glorious signs of civilization – and what a relief they were. Under the warm light of the high torch on the wall d'Artagnan turned and gazed at his companion. The Musketeer Favray was slumped forward in his saddle, a hunched, misshapen shape under the large black cape he donned; his face, utterly drained of colour, was hidden under the brim of his hat. d'Artagnan reached out and shook the man's shoulder.
"Favray? Are you awake?"
"Hmm," the man groaned.
"You need to hold on a bit longer, alright? We're at Saint-Honoré already; we'll reach the garrison soon."
"Lad," Favray huffed, raising his head just a little with enormous effort, "I have no intention.. of dying in Paris. Didn't I... tell you that before?"
d'Artagnan grinned as he patted the man's back. He took up the second set of reins along with his own and guided them both out of the gate, and took an immediate right towards the Seine. Following the western wall of the Jardins des Tuileries and then the quay, they crossed the Pont Royal down to Saint-Germaine. The route down Rue-des-Saint-Péres and Rue de Grenelles took them straight to the small square of Croix-Rouge, and from there, it was a matter of turning a corner into Rue Vieux-Colombier, where, fifteen minutes after their brief rest at Saint-Honoré, the two riders found themselves looking upon the gloriously familiar façade of the Musketeer garrison.
A few steps within the arched gate, two men with blue bands around their arms stood guard. They traced the approach of the newcomers with narrowed eyes, but wisely refrained from asking d'Artagnan what their business was. The Gascon would have offered them a grin; put on a friendly 'no need for alarm' face, but he could not bother. He was exhausted, filthy and starving. He rode through the gate with the self-assurance of one who was returning to his family home, and as the guards approached them with identical frowns on their faces, d'Artagnan gave them a nod.
"Afternoon," he said, holding the thoroughly unresponsive Favray on his horse, "give him a hand, would you?"
The man on the left blinked, then walked over, somewhat tentatively, and reached up to catch Favray's unconscious weight as d'Artagnan tipped the man over. Once Favray was securely propped up d'Artagnan dismounted and rushed to help the guard. A stable boy had already materialised to care for the horses.
"Help me carry him to the infirmary," d'Artagnan grunted, slinging Favray's arm over his shoulder, "and send for a physician."
"Here, let me take him, sir." Another young man approached unexpectedly, gesturing towards Favray - sir - really? - d'Artagnan allowed him to take Favray's weight in his stead, and stood for a moment to take in the two men now supporting the unconscious musketeer. Somewhat belatedly, he realized that they must be Musketeer cadets.
As Favray was taken away, d'Artagnan turned and looked to the second guard waiting aside with an uncertain expression on his face.
"Send word to the palace," he told him, taking off his hat and raking a hand through his hair. He regretted it immediately as he remembered how filthy it was and his fingers came back with several dirty strands attached. He shook his hand to get rid of them. "Let Minister Tréville know d'Artagnan has arrived in the garrison along with a wounded Musketeer, Antoine Favray." Then he looked up at the cadet, frowning slightly. "What is your name?"
"Fouchard, monsieur."
"Don't monsieur me," d'Artagnan said with a grimace, "It's d'Artagnan." Frankly, the last thing he felt like at the moment was a respectable monsieur. "I'd be grateful if you could also send word to Madame d'Artagnan at the Louvre. The royal governess," he added at the slightly confused expression on the lad's face. Fouchard's eyes widened in realization and he nodded enthusiastically.
"Yes, of course."
"Thank you."
As Fouchard hurried away, d'Artagnan spotted yet another cadet close by. He summoned him closer with a tilt of his chin.
"Have any other Musketeers arrived in the garrison this past week?"
"Yes; Captain Athos is here, with Aramis and Porthos, and two others; d'Arvieux and Tavernier."
"Good. They're all in good health?"
"Well, relatively, sir," the young man replied, "Tavernier and d'Arvieux arrived with Aramis and the captain; they were both wounded, and are now in the palace sick quarters. Porthos arrived yesterday and I believe he, too, had sustained a wound, but he's alright; he and Aramis are in the refectory."
"Very good," d'Artagnan said, satisfied. It would have been foolish not to expect the other units to encounter trouble as well, but he was relieved to hear that at least there were no casualties. "What was your name?"
"Jean Chardin."
"Chardin," d'Artagnan acknowledged. The lad looked barely twenty years of age. d'Artagnan fleetingly wondered if he, too, had seemed to Athos, Porthos and Aramis like this when he'd first arrived in Paris six years ago. It was a very odd thought.
To him, standing in the courtyard after such a lengthy absence, the garrison appeared unusually quiet. The ugly weather had chased everyone indoors; aside from Chardin, the few cadets that had greeted him were already out of sight. Charles d'Artagnan was not a sentimental man by any measure; he was happy to be back in the garrison, but not so much as to stand there in the rain and be taken with nostalgia. He was, however, a practical man, so while his eyes trailed over the balustrade of the balcony before Tréville's old office, a sudden thought occurred to him.
"Who has been running the garrison while we were away?" How hadn't he even wondered about this before?
"That would be Monsieur de Neuviette, sir. He oversees everything and also instructs us in sword fighting."
d'Artagnan blinked. "Who's Monsieur de Neuviette?" He'd never heard the name.
"He.. erm..."
The loss on the cadet's face made d'Artagnan smile wanly, more to himself than to the cadet. "Never mind. He could be the king's brother-in-law for all I care; the only thing I'm interested in right now is a room with a bed."
After leaving his sparse belongings into the barrack room Chardin showed him, d'Artagnan did a cursory work of cleaning himself up. He managed not to fall asleep on the low stool while sponging himself, and fifteen minutes later, he was walking across the courtyard in a fresh set of garments towards the welcoming door of the garrison's refectory.
The hinges creaked, the bottom of the door scraped against the uneven floor as he pushed it, making d'Artagnan grin. Porthos had grouched about having it fixed just before they'd ridden out of the garrison two years ago; Monsieur de Neuviette, it seemed, was more concentrated on the cadets' training than such trivial matters– either that, or he never frequented the Musketeers' hideout.
"There he is!"
From within the yellow-tinted walls and the welcoming warmth of the refectory, Porthos's booming voice reached up to envelop the Gascon from across the far end of room. Silence fell over the crowd of cadets filling the place, all of them turning to look as one towards the door.
"Gentlemen." Still grinning, d'Artagnan walked over the narrow room and took a seat next to his friends.
"Trouble on the road?" were Aramis's word of greeting; his tone was light, his eyes sharp on the Gascon.
"Favray's took a bullet to the side. He's in the infirmary."
"Bad?"
"Not great."
Porthos nodded grimly. "d'Arvieux was wounded, too."
"And Tavernier. His leg got mangled."
Aramis, at his own insistence, had stayed with the unit that Athos had led. d'Artagnan and Porthos had both been assigned to lead different units before taking their leave to head for Paris; the Musketeers had split into their groups and took off from the main regiment as they had marched southwest from Verdun, eventually scattering along the routes Tréville had specified for their securing.
"Then it is safe to assume that the others encountered action as well..?"
"Probably," Aramis nodded solemnly, "though we've not received word to confirm that. Tréville dispatched most of the remaining men from the King's Guard to supplement our units."
"He did? Good," d'Artagnan said, relieved. With just over eighty able men making up the regiment now, each unit had to have been small. Although none of them realistically expected to be targeted by any large company of enemy soldiers as to be overcome, it was nevertheless a relief to hear that more men had been dispatched to support their comrades. d'Artagnan's gaze fell on Porthos's hand as he remembered the cadet's words about him having sustained a wound.
"'tis nothin'," Porthos grumbled, picking up his wine cup as if to prove his point.
None of them had noticed that all conversation around them had dropped to whispers and a quiet had fallen over the refectory; all the cadets were listening in, not missing a single word the three Musketeers were speaking. So when someone placed a cup of wine and a delicious-looking bowl of stew before him, d'Artagnan looked up in surprise to see yet another cadet that seemed to him to materialize out of nowhere.
"Thank you…?"
"Planchet, sir." Again with the sir..
"d'Artagnan," he introduced himself yet again. Planchet nodded, deep brown eyes filled with undisguised curiosity, and retreated, sliding back into the bench he shared with his friends. d'Artagnan dipped a piece of bread into the stew and devoured it before speaking up again.
"So where is Athos?"
"He's at the Louvre. Last we heard, he was meeting with the king."
"Last you heard?"
"Meetin' with Tréville, meetin' with the king, meetin' the queen, meetin' Tréville again." Porthos rolled his eyes. "I don' fancy 'im, an' that's a fact."
"Hm. He'd be relieved to hear that, I'm sure," Aramis put academically. d'Artagnan was sure that if Porthos didn't support that thick bandage on his right hand, the heavy copper bowl on the table would have left an imprint on the marksman's face.
"Any particular reason for this meeting?"
"None that we know of," Aramis sighed, sitting back and swirling the wine at the bottom of his cup.
"Well - did you learn anything about why Tréville called us back to Paris?" (Really, did d'Artagnan have to ask everything one by one for these two to satisfy his curiosity about obvious things?)
His latest question made Aramis sigh again, and Porthos grunted. The marksman took a sip from his drink before speaking up.
"We've seen Tréville only once," he disclosed, not fully able to hide his displeasure. "And neither he nor our captain has yet said a word about a mission."
"Doesn't Athos know already?" d'Artagnan frowned, "Surely he must have learned something by now."
"We've not seen much of him lately." Then, a sly smile sneaked through the marksman's lips. "He's taken up lodgings in the Louvre."
"He—"
"– is staying at the palace. At the king's insistence."
d'Artagnan looked from Aramis and Porthos, looking for an explanation, but Aramis only shrugged. Then his smile faded a bit.
"It's just as well," he murmured, "A proper bed does him no harm."
Then d'Artagnan remembered his friend's state of health when they'd parted ways nine days ago. "How is he?" he questioned quietly.
"Got worse before it got better, but he's much improved. As I said, a proper bed is good. Besides, with the delightful Monsieur de Neuviette here taking up what would have been Athos's rooms..."
d'Artagnan's eyebrows rose.
"Have you met him yet?" There was an odd mixture of amusement and pity on the marksman's face.
"I've not had the pleasure."
"Just you wait," Porthos said, snorting into his cup. "You're in for a treat."
Most of his pressing questions -and a non-pressing matter- thus answered, for the next several minutes d'Artagnan was content to simply partake of his meal. He'd not noticed that Porthos had poured more wine into his cup whilst he ate. The journey from Rouen had been long and hard: Favray's wound was a through-and-through, but he'd split the bungling stitches one of the other Musketeers in their unit had put in, and d'Artagnan had decided not to risk stopping on the road, fearing he wouldn't be able to get his comrade back onto the horse once they dismounted. Mopping up the final drops of juice in the bowl, he chewed slowly, pushing aside the empty bowl, and put his forehead into his palms. He didn't realize that his eyelids were drooping.
He thought that he needed to inquire about Favray. He'd already told someone to send for a physician, but now he felt a nudging guilt for not checking on the man. The fire in the nearby hearth was spreading an ensnaring warmth through the room; it seeped into his bones and allied with the contention of his full belly to numb his thoughts. He really needed to ask after Favray. Blearily he looked around, seeing if he could spot one of the cadets who'd greeted him in the courtyard, but he could not distinguish faces. Aramis was here.. He probably would check on Favray soon, would he not?... He was.. Aramis.. after all...
The last of his thoughts disappeared like wisps of vapour in the dark, and d'Artagnan, slumped over the table in the refectory, succumbed to sleep.
"There he is. I believe I told you he'd be fine."
"'I told you so' really doesn't become you, Athos." Such a nervous voice.
"Let us hope he doesn't wake up swingin'."
"What?" Shocked now, and female, too.
"He only means that we've just returned from the field. So startling him might not be a good idea."
"Of course I won't startle him, what are you taking me for?"
"Then why, might I inquire, have you still not moved?"
"..."
"Go to him, Constance. We will give you some privacy."
Approaching footsteps - steady but uncertain - the wood under his cheek is rough but so very pleasant; sleep has turned his limbs into lead.
"d'Artagnan?"
"Constance..." He's dreaming of her again.
"d'Artagnan..."
A light hand in his hair. His dirty greasy hair - but this is a dream so Constance won't care, right? Her soft fingers gently tracing his cheek... his jaw.. and ghosting over his lips.. There's the faintest whiff of her sweet flowery perfume in the air – ah Constance – he doesn't want to wake up from this, from her, to the rough ground beneath him and the thin blanket that can't keep away the chill, to ice-cold toes in mud-caked boots and a hundred warmongering men for company -
"Wake up or I will slap you."
What?
With a groan, d'Artagnan found himself waking despite his best efforts remain otherwise. He blinked his eyes open and lifted his head, looking around drowsily. Refectory – he was in the garrison.. Had he fallen asleep here like a fool-
"Constance!"
She laughed.
He sprung to his feet in a such a rush he sent the chair crashing down and scooped her into his arms.
She was laughing and crying and babbling at the same time.
"I believe I said something about privacy," Athos said, turning on his heel and looking pointedly at his grinning friends. But as they left the refectory and pulled the door behind them, his own eyes were no less sparkly.
Contrary to the three Inseparables' assumptions, until that day, Athos had not had the opportunity to sit down with Tréville to talk about why the Musketeers had been summoned to Paris. As Minister of War, Tréville was busier than Athos had even known him to be as captain: council meetings were lasting hours upon hours and when he wasn't in meetings, he was overwhelmed with what people demeaningly thought of as 'paperwork'. With an ever-growing sense of respect -and perhaps a bit of amusement as well- Athos observed that Tréville didn't have to do nearly as much as he seemed to be doing. He was still pouring over every report in person, still analysing every piece of intelligence himself– happy to relegate much of the scribing to his secretary, but waging a national war with much the same hands-on approach as he'd lead a garrison full of men into battle. Athos had watched him scrutinize a routine scout report with a smile he hadn't been able to conceal.
The day Athos had arrived in Paris – two days before, October 5th – Tréville had sent for him late in the evening. The clocks were chiming ten o'clock all around the palace as Athos was shown into the minister's private study, only to be welcomed with a second embrace and a huge grin that day. Their first meeting in the afternoon had had to be quick and brief. Both the captain and the minister were deeply tired, and instead of talking about prospective missions and a war that was most certainly not going well for France, they had spent the night as two old friends catching up after an eventful separation.
It had been a markedly different experience for Athos to converse with Tréville that night. Never had he ever had the level of insight into the man that he had now; never feeling quite this close to Tréville in any of the numerous times they'd shared a quiet drink in the captain's office in the garrison. Seventeen months shouldering the responsibility of the regiment had provided Athos with a perspective he couldn't have had before, and his respect -and gratitude- for Tréville had tripled since the march to Leuven last summer. There had been times when Athos had felt truly overwhelmed; times when, he'd been sure, that had it not been for the unwavering support of Porthos and d'Artagnan, he would have floundered. In such instances, he'd scoured through his memories to imagine what Tréville would have said or done.
And so, a bottle of the minister's finest vintage was two-thirds gone by the time Athos had taken his leave well past that midnight, and as he'd walked to his newly-assigned quarters overlooking the Seine, he'd felt lighter than he could remember feeling in months.
Today, Tréville greeted him with a tight smile and unmistakable relief in his eyes. He measured wine for the both of them and sat down, not behind his large, walnut-tree desk which currently overflowed with scrolls upon scrolls of letters, reports and notes, but in the second chair across from Athos by the fire. The captain's eyebrows rose as he reached to accept the offered glass.
"I thought we were talking business this time."
"We are." Tréville sank more than sat down on the chair, and offered a smile. "I won't tell if you don't."
There was a brief, companionable silence between the two men before either of them spoke.
"I suppose," Tréville said, "I should explain why you and the others have been summoned back from Lorraine."
"That would satisfy some curiosity," Athos agreed somewhat dryly.
"The day after tomorrow, after the celebrations of Saint-Denis, the king is going to make a very important visit to Château de Rambouillet. You, along with Porthos, Aramis and d'Artagnan, will be accompanying him. It will be a covert affair: other than myself and the four of you, only three people know of it - the queen, the Marquis de Rambouillet, and General Toussaine."
"General Toussaine," Athos said tonelessly. His voice was so monotonous yet so full of implication, it was rather fascinating.
"I'm assuming he didn't give you many hints about this assignment," Tréville noted with a quirk of his lips.
"My valet at Pinon was mute. He'd lost his speech after a childhood illness. He was rather more prone to sharing than General Toussaine."
There was a touch of incredulity in Tréville's surprised snort, and he raised the glass to his lips in an effort to hide his laugh.
"It's just as well you don't have to serve under his command." Then, he sobered. "Toussaine is a very learned man, and a great strategist. I have known him for a long time; we are not exactly friends, but we've been acquainted well enough to appreciate one another."
Athos nodded, content with the explanation. "What is the nature of this visit to Rambouillet?"
"The king will be meeting the German general Bernhard of Saxe-Weimar. He is hoping to convince him to take charge of driving Matthias Gallas's forces out of Burgundy. That way, some of the pressure on our troops will be relieved, and we will be able to focus our attention on Picardy."
Athos's forehead creased until a deep frown was wedged into his brow. There was much in that explanation that didn't sound right – and Tréville seemed well aware of it.
"I can see your questions fighting to get in line," he said kindly. "Go ahead."
Athos thought for a few moments before speaking up. "Is there a reason why this meeting is taking place in Rambouillet instead of here in Paris?" It wasn't necessarily the most obvious question to ask, but Athos had felt it to be the most prudent one.
"Several," Tréville confirmed with a nod, "the most important being that the city is infested with spies. We cannot take the risk of our enemies getting wind of our plans."
"I do not understand." Athos's frown deepened as he thought. "Saxe-Weimar has been in French service for over a year now; his alliance with France is hardly a secret. Neither does it take much intelligence to gather that we're looking for means to relieve Burgundy of Gallas's men." He gazed intently at Tréville. "Why the secrecy? And why is the king himself riding out to meet him - why not you?"
"The king is adamant in meeting Saxe-Weimar in person," Tréville returned with a shake of his head, "I cannot accompany him, because if both the king and his minister disappear for several hours on the same day, it will send alarm bells ringing across every spy network operating in the city. It would defeat the entire purpose of secrecy. General Toussaine will be going in my stead."
"General Toussaine?" Athos's eyebrows shot upright in surprise. "He is in Paris?"
"Arrived early this morning. The meeting with Saxe-Weimar was his design. He will carry the negotiations on France's behalf."
Athos hesitated only for a moment before saying, "You trust him, then."
Any other man would have taken offence at Athos's carefully stated words. Tréville had already disclosed that he'd known the general for a long while and seemed to approve of the plan the man had conceived. But Tréville only smiled. It was only natural for Athos to need the reassurance.
"I do, Athos. He can be frustrating, I'll give you that, but there can be no doubt that he has France's best interest in heart."
Athos nodded, satisfied. "I thought Saxe-Weimar was in Lützen," he commented then.
"So does everyone else. His troop of 18.000 men remain stationed there, but the general, along with two of his high-ranking officers, will be coming down to Rambouillet for the meeting."
"Why him?" Athos asked suddenly. "Saxe-Weimar carried the Swedes to victory after their king was slain in Lützen, but since the defeat in Nördlingen in '34, every campaign he has led has ended in disaster. Surely he's had his high time, but it seems to me have passed."
But Tréville sagely shook his head. "It's been barely two years since the debacle in Nördlingen. There is no reason to think it more definitive than Lützen in '32. It seems that the only constant in this war, Athos, is how quickly fortunes change. Regardless of his recent setbacks, Saxe-Weimar has plenty of experience in meeting the imperial forces on the battleground. Unlike us, he has proven tactics for countering the tercios' assaults."
"That is all well," Athos said carefully, "but it does not explain why the king is insistent in negotiating this deal personally. With enough motivation, it is unlikely that Saxe-Weimar should be difficult to convince. Why is Louis risking riding to Rambouillet himself?"
"You would be surprised," responded Tréville as he leaned forward to leave his glass down, "but the king has been quite hands-on since the beginning of the war." Something subtle shifted in his face as he looked to Athos again, as if a thin layer slid down from his gaze. "Ever since we've unfoiled Rochefort's treachery, Louis has shown more interest in the affairs of state than he has ever done before."
"Please do not tell me he is trying to make amends," Athos found himself saying. He could not fully disguise how unimpressed he was.
"He is embarrassed," Tréville reiterated with a stern look, then sighed. "It's been difficult for him to accept that he's been manipulated for so long. He's become almost paranoid about whom he takes into his trust. For two years he fully believed Rochefort to be his closest friend and ally; can you blame him for personally seeking revenge against Spain?"
Could he?
Athos knew it was a rhetorical question, that he was expected to answer in the negative, but found that he couldn't bring himself to feel emphaty for the king. He was aware that, having known Louis since he was a boy, Tréville cared for the man that was king. But while Athos himself lived to serve the crown, his own sympathy for Louis le Bourbon was falling short when he recalled the utter mayhem and misery Rochefort's reign had caused.
"The king's emotional investment does not explain or justify risking a six-hour ride back and forth into the country," he resolved to pointing out instead.
"Perhaps not," returned Tréville, seemingly ready to concede the point, "but the real reason behind his meeting with Saxe-Weimar does."
He pushed himself up from his seat, walked over to the desk, and with unhurried movements, picked up the wine bottle and refilled his cup. He wordlessly put it back down when Athos refused with a shake of his head, then turned and leaned back against the desk.
"The king," he began to explain, "is hoping to convince Saxe-Weimar to lend.. a number of high-ranking military men to France. Not just temporarily, but for the foreseeable future."
Athos was listening attentively.
"The plan is not for them to lead French armies into battle. His Majesty wishes for these men to train a small number of our infantry and cavalry troops in battle strategy. He's been convinced that Saxe-Weimar has a good deal to teach us in how to counter the tercios," he huffed slightly, "and I incline to agree." Pushing himself away from the desk, he walked back over and retook his seat.
"France's infantry is young, Athos," he said seriously, "There has been no shortage of able-bodied recruits since we've begun conscripting, but the vast majority is badly inexperienced. We are not winning; we're barely keeping the enemy from overrunning the country. Unless we solve the problem of effective training and discipline, and develop working strategies for the battleground, sheer numbers will only delay the inevitable."
"You think that by having our troops trained by Saxe-Weimar…"
"… it might very well change the fate of the war in the long term," Tréville completed. "That is why this will be no ordinary meeting; that is why the king insists on meeting the man himself. He wants to personally make sure that Saxe-Weimar will be convinced of this plan. It has to be a secret, because if Spain ever gets wind of this design, they will do everything in their power to prevent us from implementing it. If Sweden hears of it, at best, it would be an embarrassment we'd be hard-pressed to play down."
"The regency's relationship with Saxe-Weimar has been frosty since Nördlingen," Athos mused, nodding at that. "Regent Oxenstierna has a personal grudge against the man."
"He may very well take our further involvement with him as an insult to his regency. And the last thing we can afford right now is to offend our closest ally in the war."
Well. When Tréville put it like that, the stakes, indeed, seemed very high.
"What is the plan, then, for October 9th? How will the king be taken to Rambouillet?"
"After the parade and the celebrations in the morning, the king will retreat back to the palace. The queen will announce that he's not feeling well. It will come as a surprise to no one; he's been 'not feeling well' more and more frequently whenever he needs to make a public appearance." Tréville smiled tightly, and there was something a touch mournful, and a touch indulgent in it. "You will meet him at a servant's entry, and ride out in plain clothing through Gaillion. The four of you and Toussaine will escort him to the château and return to Paris under cover of dark."
All of a sudden, Athos was reminded of the single disastrous occasion in which they'd accompanied the king when he'd gone out incognito. It had ended up with him and d'Artagnan being kidnapped and very nearly losing their lives.
With Paris still surrounded by enemy troops on all three sides, interminable spy networks operating all over the city, and the fate of the nation possibly hanging on the success of this meeting... what could possibly go wrong?
"One more thing," Tréville said.
Athos stopped and turned when he was about to take a step towards the door. Tréville's expression was grave as he looked to him.
"Athos... I would ask you to not tell the others the real nature of this meeting until after the king is back in the Louvre."
Athos felt like roots grew out of his feet to pin him down to the spot.
"May I ask why?" he inquired slowly, hardly needing to ask to whom Tréville referred.
Tréville shook his head, his expression appropriately troubled. "I won't insult you or them by saying it's for security reasons. But as to what it is for..." he looked straight into Athos's eyes, "I cannot tell."
Tréville did not need to say it. Athos already knew that whatever this was about, it had nothing to do with his trust in Aramis, Porthos or d'Artagnan. Tréville was regarding him with an open expression that said he had nothing to hide.
"Would you indulge me in this?"
Tréville was fully aware that what he was asking was no small favour. But even as something ice-cold began to sneak its way through his belly, Athos gave a small, heavy nod of consent. As distasteful as he found the prospect of keeping things from his friends, his trust in Tréville was implicit and direct.
"Thank you," the minister said with utmost sincerity.
Athos did not reply.
There was a knock on the door and Tréville called for them to enter; a page walked in with a small silver tray and held out an unsealed letter to Tréville. The minister's eyes quickly skimmed over the lines.
"d'Artagnan has arrived in the garrison. He is well, but Favray was injured." He pursed his lips. "They were attacked as well, then."
"It is not unexpected," Athos returned practically. Tréville's request was swirling uncomfortably in his stomach, but he was relieved that the news did not entail a further death. "What of Favray?"
"Doesn't say. I expect they'd include word if it was dire." He left the letter on the desk and glanced at the clock across the wall. "I must meet with Chancellor Dupré at four. Will you be heading back to the garrison?"
"If you have no further use for me." Tréville smiled again and Athos caught the same strange expression he'd glimpsed when Tréville had talked about Louis's lack of public appearances.
This time, he recognized it as regret.
"Constance must have received word that her husband has returned."
"I shall call on her before taking my leave," Athos assuaged him.
"Very well. Tell d'Artagnan I'm glad to hear he is back, if you would please. We'll reconvene tomorrow."
With a final inclination of his head, Athos left the minister's office with heavy steps and closed the door after him.
He stood there for a moment, in the empty corridor, silent and pensive, to take one deep breath, and release it slowly through his nose. Then he turned and nodded at the page waiting near the door.
"Please inform Madame D'Artagnan that her husband has returned from the front, and that Captain Athos is awaiting to accompany her to the garrison."
He would not admit it aloud, but after shouting down orders on the battlefield for so long, he found an odd comfort in the familiar formality of speech and polite request.
Five minutes later, he was carefully locking away his cumbersome thoughts, gently picking up Constance's hand to place it on his arm, and allowing himself the simple pleasure of reuniting the d'Artagnans.
Later that evening, as the sulking sun went down and the cadets began lighting the torches in all corners of the garrison, the five of them stood together in a tight group in the courtyard.
When Porthos suggested that they reacquaint themselves with some properly civilized establishments while they had the time, neither Aramis nor Athos refused. d'Artagnan, however, had different plans.
"No offence, gentlemen, but I've had enough of your company to last me a lifetime." The arm he'd snuck around his wife tightened, and Constance slightly blushed.
"Ouch," Aramis said with a fist to his heart.
When a young cadet accidentally dropped several unlit torches at d'Artagnan's feet, he apologized profusely in a bundle of 'sir's and 'monsieur's, looking positively mortified.
"There's really no need for the formality," d'Artagnan called after him in helpless exasperation.
"Oi," Porthos frowned, turning towards him from where he'd walked several steps ahead, "speak for yourself, would you? I like the sound of monsieur before me' name."
Aramis grinned as he leaned in close and patted d'Artagnan's chest.
"Take Porthos's advice, my dear Monsieur d'Artagnan; we're in Paris after all! A little civilization while we can have it won't go remiss, don't you think?"
He winked, adjusted his hat, and strode out with the others with a flair.
And where had the past six years of battles and identity crises gone again?
Historical notes:
- The Saint-Honoré gate was indeed renovated in 1635 by order of King Louis XIII. You can see two 17th-century depictions of this gate on AO3.
- In The Three Musketeers, Dumas tells us that Monsieur de Tréville's maison is on Rue Vieux-Colombier. Since, in the series, Tréville lives in the garrison, I decided that the Musketeer garrison translates to Tréville's house, and drew the route d'Artagnan and Favray take from Saint-Honoré accordingly. It seems that the Rue Vieux-Colombier has at some point changed its name: comparing a 17th century map of Paris (from the wonderful website Gallica) with a modern-day map shows that it should be the street that runs between Rue Férou and Rue des Colettes; however today there are not one but two streets than run perpendicular to them, and between them stands Église Saint-Sulpice. After some deep scrutinizing, I came to the conclusion that Rue Vieux-Colombier today corresponds to part of Rue Saint-Sulpice, therefore the 17th century square of Croix-Rouge (which I imagined to be the market square we see in the series in front of the garrison gate), and thus the Musketeer garrison, would be somewhere near the junction of Rue-Saint-Sulpice, Rue des Four and Rue des Grenelles.
- Château de Rambouillet is a medieval castle located some 65 kms southwest of Paris. In the early-17th century it was owned by the Marquis de Ramboulliet; the castle was a favored location of Louis XIII particularly for hunting and, after the 1620s, for its eclectic pleasure gardens. Here's an admission: apparently a good horse can travel at most some 50 miles in one day. Realistically, a round-trip between Paris and Rambouillet should take two days; not six hours as I made it to be. Let us pretent I never looked that up!
- Bernhard von Saxe-Weimar was a German general who took up command and led the Swedes to victory after their king Gustav Adolphus fell in Lützen, soon after the siege of Nüremberg in 1632 (a.k.a. the battle "General de Foix" in S2Ep1 was supposed to be killed in. Although, what a French general would be doing in a quarrel between the Swedish king and a relentless German general called Wallenstein beats me). The historical information in this chapter about Saxe-Weimar, the battles mentioned, Sweden's -temporary- military superiority over the imperial forces, and Matthias Gallas's invasion of Burgundy are all historically true. General Toussaine, as you know, is my creation, and I (sort of) take credit for Athos and Tréville's interpretations and plans regarding the situation. France signed repetitive treaties of alliance with Sweden in 1635 and 1636 and hired foreign generals to fight in the name of France, but having Louis meet Saxe-Weimar and the plot to have him train French officers is fully my fabrication. I also tweaked and highlighted certain points for the sake of dramatization. [If anyone's interested, The Ashgate Companion to the Thirty Years War is a great book for factual information. It's easy-to-read, can be accessed online, and is admirably concise.]
- I'm practically peppering the story with names stolen with from real 17th and 18th century French figures. Antoine Favray was a late-18th century painter; (Jean-Baptiste) Tavernier a 17th century merchant and traveller who left behind a lengthy travelogue. Jean Chardin was the son of a Parisian jeweller, and another merchant-traveller; (Laurent) d'Arvieux, a chevalier, was a member of the diplomatic retinue of the French ambassador to Constantinople in 1670s. In previous chapters we had (Jean de) Thévenot, yet another traveller, and (Antoine) Galland, a so-called "Orientalist" and archaeologist who was also the first person to translate One Thousand and One Nights into a European language (Les Milles et Une Nuits). "Monsieur de Neuviette", however, is shamelessly clinched from Cyrano de Bergerac. I'm discovering my own arsenal while writing this fic, lol.
I won't pretend this wasn't exhausting to write, but what a great distraction it has been. The next two chapters are much less history-heavy, and both represent something of a turning point in the narrative. I can't wait to share them with you, and I really hope you've enjoyed reading this one.