The D'Artagnan Romances and the characters are the creation of Alexandre Dumas pere. They are now in the public domain.

Chapter 21

"How's he?" Porthos gasped as he stepped into the room. The fetid stench of blood was overpowering. He elbowed the doctor out of the way despite Aramis' protests. The doctor, having exhausted his methods of healing, hastily bid farewell. D'Artagnan had opted to remain outside the sickroom with Raoul and Toni. Porthos paused for a moment to scoop up young Henri so that he would not be underfoot. De Treville's face was drawn and pale. Beads of perspiration clung to his brow even as Marie worked tirelessly to wipe them away. Aramis hovered nearby with his cross in his hand. Porthos could not help noticing the cross was slightly bent, as if it had been hit with some great force and then clumsily straightened out. He understood that look on Aramis' face. He had seen it often enough when Aramis administered to a stricken comrade past mortal aid.

"Not good, he has been fading fast…" Aramis whispered.

De Treville's eyes fluttered open, pupils unfocused and almost unseeing. He had most likely been drugged to ease the pain of his last hours. Still, he managed to grasp the large man's hand with surprising strength.

"P-porthos… M-my…" he coughed and reached for Marie's hand. Deliberately, he placed Marie's small hand, chafed from housework, into Porthos' much larger one. "P-please, take care of t-them… M-Marie and H-Henri..." de Treville whispered hoarsely. "Sh-she loves you, you know…" he managed a weak smile.

Face flushing furiously, Marie turned away, but she did not pull her hand from his. Porthos gently closed his fingers around Marie's hand. Young Henri had thrown both his arms around Porthos' neck and clung to him with his face nestled against his shoulder. "Monsieur, I will take care of them both…" Blinking away tears, Porthos promised his dying captain.

D'Artagnan was racked with guilt. He stared at his boots. He should never have drawn de Treville into this, or his friends… He was painfully aware of Athos' absence. What if something had happened to Athos in Versailles? How would he ever live with himself?

Raoul watched the former musketeer with a mix of trepidation. There were lines on D'Artagnan's face, in addition to the scars which told of a life of much hardship. This was one of his father's colleagues, a man who would not be pleased if some upstart playwright paid his daughter court. There was at this moment no sign of any gaiety or the easy nature which characterised his godfather, Porthos. Sensing the younger man's eyes on him, D'Artagnan raised his head.

"Young man, you're Olivier de la Fere's son, aren't you?" D'Artagnan's brow furrowed when he noticed that the young man and his daughter were holding hands.

"Y-yes, monsieur… My name is Raoul…"

"You take after your father…" D'Artagnan said slowly. He did not miss the look of concern Toni gave the young man, or how she squeezed his hand so slightly. His daughter was in love. The look on her face reminded him so much of her departed mother that it hurt. Raoul had inherited his father's good looks but where Athos held himself with confidence, his son appeared hesitant. The clothes Raoul wore were the height of fashion and expensive without a doubt. He was pale, a far cry from the healthy tan the musketeers had acquired from their patrols in all weather.

D'Artagnan took hold of Raoul's hand. It was just as he feared. The wrist was too limp, the palm free of calluses. This was no swordsman. For all appearances, Athos' son was another one of those wastrel noblemen he had seen strutting about the palace in their finery. Surely he could not entrust his only child's happiness to a man like this.

"Papa," Toni blurted. She sensed her father's disapproval. "He's saved me from brigands…"

"Or was it you who saved him?" D'Artagnan sniped. "This young man is no swordsman."

"He might not be a swordsman yet, but he's on his way to being one. I'm tutoring him," Toni added.

There was a commotion from the sickroom. Marie came running out with a blood-filled basin. "He's taken a turn for the worse…"

Raoul turned pale at the sight of the blood. His knees threatened to buckle. No, not now, he can't faint in front of his future father-in-law! Toni was there to steady him. Fortunately, D'Artagnan was distracted by the dire situation of the patient. He slipped into the room, almost colliding with a sleepy-eyed young Henri. "Take him," he handed the child to Toni and he paused when he saw Raoul leaning heavily on his daughter. The young man was apparently on the verge of fainting.

"I'll take care of him, papa. He's just tired," Toni lied. D'Artagnan returned his attention to the sickroom. Aramis was praying despite the tears which came rolling down his cheeks. The sheets were bloodied. Cradling the patient in his arms, Porthos wiped a trickle of blood from de Treville's pale lips. He looked up and caught D'Artagnan's eye. He shook his head sadly and lowered de Treville back onto the bed. Their former captain was gone.

"D'Artagnan… the king… We must stop the cardinal's plan," Porthos spoke with steely determination.

Versailles

Athos could not believe his good fortune as the page boy showed him to a large hall. He had been granted an audience with the Queen Mother. He had brushed the dust and dirt off his clothes the best he could, mindful that his bedraggled appearance was unfit for a queen's company. It had been so long since he last partook of court life. Did she still recall his name? Would she recognize him as one of the four musketeers who had served her husband so loyally? Athos tried to suck in his gut. He had developed a slight paunch over the years. To his horror, he noticed some old wine stains on his sleeve cuffs. There was mud from the gardens on his boot. The page boy had taken his sword and Athos felt painfully exposed despite the fact that he had not had cause to use his sword in ages. He never really considered how much a part of his person a sword had become.

The sun had long risen by now. Surely Queen Anne and her ladies would be coming into the reception hall he had been shown to. The gilded doors swung open. Instead of Queen Anne, it was His Majesty himself. Athos gasped and hurriedly knelt. Louis XIV wrinkled his nose in disgust.

"So this is a beggar who dares seek an audience with Her Majesty the Queen Mother… perhaps you should check with the lord chamberlain on the protocol first."

Athos clenched his jaw at those words coming from his royal master. A twitter of nervous laughter rippled through the throng of courtiers around the king. Athos swallowed hard. He had to warn the king and the queen mother of Mazarin's plans.

"Your Majesty, forgive my intrusion but I must warn you of a plot against your person and your mother by none other than the cardinal Mazarin himself. Her Majesty's servant D'Artagnan…"

"Oh, that old nuisance… Guards, I do believe this man is drunk or a lunatic. Captain, do lock him up before this room starts stinking…" Louis XIV scowled in displeasure. Athos tried to rise but he was immediately pinned down by a pair of burly guards. Their blades at his neck and hopelessly unarmed, he could only watch helplessly as the king and entourage exited.

"Really, la Fere, I thought we were friends…" Captain Francois muttered. Athos pondered if he should reveal the captain as a co-conspirator, but the king and his entourage were too far away by now and the guards restraining him might be fellow conspirators. Perhaps Francois would kill him there and then. The captain turned to a large curtain. Cardinal Mazarin emerged from the alcove behind the curtain.

"You have received your orders from His Majesty, captain, so follow them. Lock up this man until there is a suitable time to deal with him…" Mazarin ordered.

"You traitor!" In a move born more of desperation than any hope of success, he shoved the guards' blades aside and launched himself at the cardinal. A sharp pain shot through his skull before darkness overtook him.

Paris

News spread fast. Michel was a little perturbed to see the turnout of former students and fencing instructors who shuffled into de Treville's courtyard to pay their last respects. Even Andre, whom they had soundly thrashed to within an inch of his life, was there limping with the aid of two friends. The old man was well-liked in life and greatly admired. The assassin mused that if things had turned out differently for his family, his father might have chosen such a man as his fencing tutor, a true man of honour. He mingled with the mourners, careful not to draw attention to himself.

De Treville's housekeeper was weeping while a large man comforted her. The body had been lain out in a simple pine coffin, hastily-made. The housekeeper's boy wandered among the mourners, bewildered by the sudden influx of callers to his home. Michel had expected D'Artagnan to show but there was no sign of the man.

"Any luck?" Gabriel's voice boomed indiscreetly. Michel hurriedly shushed the man and shook his head. "Guess he's really gone, eh?" Gabriel shrugged his shoulders.

"Monsieur!" Young Henri recognized Gabriel from the pie shop and waved at him. The giant waved back. "What are you doing here?" he asked the boy. Michel slinked into the shadows of the perimeter wall.

"Monsieur de Treville died. His mother's the housekeeper…" Porthos strolled up, having caught sight of a familiar face. He lifted Henri into his arms in a fatherly manner.

"My sincere condolences… I hear he was old. Was it age?" Gabriel removed his hat and affected a sympathetic attitude.

"No, he was foully murdered!" Porthos spat out the words vehemently and loud enough for more than a few heads to turn his way. An uneasy whisper rippled through the mourners. His wound hidden under his clothes, de Treville could have been peacefully sleeping. Dying in your bed of old age was one thing, but murder?

Paris, D'Artagnan's hideout.

"I thought the sisters took back the house when the Musketeers were disbanded…" Aramis wondered at the once-familiar surroundings.

"They did, but Her Majesty decided I needed a place to stay in Paris outside the palace and had it rented from the convent," D'Artagnan replied. His wounds were still sore and he was glad Aramis was there to help him change the bandages properly. Unlike a meddlesome friar, Aramis would not hide his clothes or force him to stay in bed.

Aramis' eyes wandered over the battered but still-sturdy furniture. The table he used to write his letters at was still there with its many ink stains. There was a small portrait of a regal-looking youth on the wall, where Louis XIII's portrait once hung.

Author's Notes:

M. de Treville's gone and Athos has been found out.