"We go on and on about our differences. But, you know, our differences are less important than our similarities. People have a lot in common with one another, whether they see that or not."

William Hall

CHAPTER XXXVII

Treville sat in a chair next to the bed where d'Artagnan lay, still unconscious. His gaze lingered on the young man, wondering what he had been drugged with. He knew that some hallucinogenic compounds caused lasting damage on the brains of those exposed to them.

How will I explain this to Constance? She finally found the love of her life, only to have him turned into a crazed would-be killer, who is now possibly brain damaged. Sighing, he scrubbed his face with his hands, then leaned back in his chair. Suddenly, he heard d'Artagnan moan, then begin to stir.

He watched as the musketeer's eyelids fluttered open, his eyes glassy and unfocused. His gaze turned to Treville, and his face darkened. "You're with him."

"With who?"

"The killer! The one who kills innocent men…fathers…poor men who just want a better life for their family. He lives to kill—Alexandre the rat told me! That rat understands me...just like my father did. Athos doesn't care. He's a comte. He uses people, then throws them away. Everything he ever told me was a lie."

"D'Artagnan, you know that's not true…"

"Don't tell me MORE LIES!" The musketeer strained against the ropes binding him to the bed. "You have all lied to me, ever since I came to Paris! And I bet Constance is in on it too….she's just another pawn of yours, isn't she?! You WILL ALL PAY!" His voice rose to a scream. "The apocalypse is coming, and the rats will show us the truth when it does! You will all burn!" He spit at Treville, who dodged, then walked to the window, trying to shut out the stream of curses that came from the bed. It is worse than I thought. Gradually, d'Artagnan quieted, slipping back back into unconsciousness.

A knock came on the door. "Enter!" called Treville softly, and the door swung open to admit a blond man in a heavy cloak.

"Captain Treville, I presume?"

"And who might you be?" asked the Captain, his eyes wary.

"You may be familiar with my family name—Rochefort. I believe we have an enemy in common."

"I am likely to have enemies in common with many people. You will have to be more specific, Monsieur."

"I am Gilles Rochefort. The man I speak of is my brother, the Comte de Rochefort. I believe you are acquainted?"

"I know him, yes."

"And if I am correct, the young musketeer there—" he nodded at d'Artagnan, "-has also made his acquaintance."

"You speak of serious matters, Monsieur," murmured Treville, regarding the nobleman with a speculative look.

"I am a serious person, Captain. I have information I think you would find most useful." He paused. "Of course, if we had a mutual understanding…." His voice trailed off, leaving Treville to read between the lines.

"I am not naive enough to think that you came out of the goodness of your heart," said the Captain dryly. "Why don't you just tell me what you want, and then I can tell you whether I have any interest in hearing what you have to say."

"What do I want?" Gilles ran his fingers over the family crest on the hilt of his sword. "What does every second son want? What the heir has, of course."

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Charlotte had fallen into a deep sleep. Athos, grateful that she was finally resting peacefully, stepped out into the hall for a moment. A shaft of moonlight filtered through a window farther down the hall, illuminating a small figure in a white nightdress.

Catalina. She was staring at the window, and appeared dazed.

Perhaps she was sleepwalking? He approached her, afraid of awakening her abruptly. "Catalina…" He called her name in a soft, soothing voice. She gave no sign of having seen him, but began to smack her lips repetitively. Her right hand picked at the sleeve of her nightdress. As he came closer, he saw that her eyes were wide open, but she appeared to be in an altered state of consciousness.

Suddenly, her entire body stiffened, and she cried out, then fell to the floor. Her arms flexed, then straightened, remaining rigid for several seconds. Athos rushed to her side. Her teeth were clenched, and her face pale. Her breathing became a series of irregular gasps, and he panicked as she began to turn blue. At that point, her arms and legs began a series of rapid, rhythmic jerks, and he realized she was having some kind of a fit. The little girl began to drool, and he turned her on her side, fearing that she would choke on her saliva. After what seemed like an eternity, but was probably less than a minute, the jerking slowed and stopped, her body relaxing.

Catalina was ashen, her face damp with sweat. Athos took her in his arms, tears coming to his eyes. "Catalina, wake up!" he pleaded, stroking her cheek gently. "Let me see those pretty blue eyes."

"Papa?" she mumbled. "You found me."

"So I did," he whispered, feeling as if his heart was breaking.

"I want your arm to get better. I love you…" she said, tears running down her cheeks as her eyes remained tightly closed.

"I love you too, darling," he replied, his voice barely audible. Cradling her against his chest, he stood up with care, and made his way down the hallway to the suite of rooms where Annette and Andrés were staying. The door was ajar, and he backed into it, entering the sitting room just in time to see Annette rush out of the bedroom.

"Catalina! What happened? I woke up and she was gone! Where did you find her?!"

"She was standing in the corridor," Athos said quietly. "She was in some sort of a daze. Then she fell down, and had some sort of a fit. Her arms and legs were jerking, and she turned blue for a moment."

Annette's face crumpled. "I had so hoped it was over…"

Athos lowered Catalina to the couch, covered her with a warm blanket, then knelt next to her, holding her small hand in his. He turned to Annette.

"This has happened before?"

She nodded, and knelt next to him, tears running down her face as she stroked her daughter's hair. "Many times. Oh Athos, I can't stand it!"

He drew her against his chest, and she spoke again, her voice trembling. "You know what was like for me to be different, but this is-so much worse. Her—condition-is the reason we have had to move so many times. The last attack she had happened when we were living in Spain. Unfortunately, it occurred in public, at a church festival. Minutes later, a child was found drowned in a nearby pond. An old woman pointed a finger at Catalina, accusing her of being an instrument of the devil, and in an instant, the whole village turned on us. We barely made it out of there alive, Athos!" She began to sob in earnest, reliving the terror all over again.

Athos brushed the tears from her cheek with his thumb, his heart breaking as he thought of his innocent, happy child being attacked by a mob. "Is there no cure?"

Annette shook her head. "At least, none have been suggested that I would even think of considering. I have been advised to have her undergo exorcism more times than I can count, and the thought of that makes me physically ill. To have someone imply that a demon has taken up residence in my daughter…"

"Annette?" Andrés stood leaning against the door to the bedroom, Milady's words flashing through his head when he saw his wife in Athos' arms.

"Andrés…" She wiped her eyes and looked up at her husband, suddenly self-conscious. "Catalina had another episode. Thank God Athos happened to come upon her...she had walked out into the hall. What if she had been standing by the staircase?"

"Please...I don't even want to think about it." He rubbed his eyes wearily, then extended a hand to Athos. "Thank you, my friend."

"It was nothing," replied the musketeer. He rose to his feet, shook the Spaniard's hand, then helped Annette up. "I should get back to Charlotte. " His gaze drifted back to the little girl on the couch. "If you need anything…."

"Of course. But we have detained you long enough from your warm bed and your lovely wife. Our thanks once again." The falconer drew his wife to him, and kissed the top of her head.

As Athos closed the door behind him, he leaned against it for a moment. My first love-my wife-my daughter...why is it that they all must suffer?

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Porthos and Denise were curled up in front of the fire, nested in a pile of pillows and blankets. Denise lay on her side, snug against Porthos' broad chest. "It seems as if I am living a different life here," she murmured, lacing her small fingers into his.

"How so?"

"At home, it is just me, Madeleine, my mother—and my work. I do enjoy what I do. Some of it may seem mundane—mending torn shirts, for instance—but the satisfaction I get from making something usable again makes it worth it. And when I get to create a special garment, like a christening gown—or Charlotte's wedding dress—that is what I really love. If only I could do it all the time, and never have to worry about milking cows, or doing laundry, or dealing with my mother's idiosyncrasies."

Porthos chuckled. "Madame Etiennette sounds like quite a character."

"That's one way to describe her," replied Denise with a wry smile. "She loves to manage everyone and everything…and she really has no filter when It comes to her comments."

"What do you think she'd say about me?"

"Honestly? I don't think she'd like the fact that you are—different."

He was silent for a moment. "Did she like Alain?"

She laughed outright. "Umm…no."

"Why not? I assume he was white. Madeleine is quite fair."

"Yes, but he was from outside Paris…a country bumpkin. Remember, I grew up in the city, not far from Charlotte." She glanced up at him. "Just think…I might have been at the market as a little girl at the same time you were there with your mother."

"Or I might have been runnin' past you with the contents of a picked pocket," replied Porthos with a grin. "Your mother would definitely have not approved of that."

"You never know…she might have thought it enterprising," she said teasingly.

He rolled his eyes. "Or she might have hailed the nearest musketeer to arrest me."

He was silent for a moment. "Good job I ended up as one of the good guys. Maybe that will count for somethin'."

She looked up at him, tracing the curve of his jaw with her fingers. "It means a great deal to me. And what we think of each other—not what my mother thinks—is what's important."

"You are a wise woman," he murmured, kissing her neck and settling her against him again. A few minutes later, they were both asleep.

A bit of a twist...is Gilles to be trusted?

It is a sad fact that there has been discrimination against people with seizure disorders throughout history. The Malleus Maleficarum. a treatise on the prosecution of witches that I referred to in Silent Night, declared the presence of seizures to be a characteristic of witches. Countless people-men, women, and children-died as a result.