44. THE SIMPLE ACT OF BREATHING (4)
Aramis:
"Breathe, Aramis."
He was trying.
It had been getting more difficult.
This morning, he had been sparring with Athos. Driven across the yard by a particular volley of complex manoeuvres, he had finally conceded, his back against a post and very much winded.
Athos backed off, frowning as he watched Aramis bend over in an attempt to pull in air.
It wasn't really working, and, unsteady on his feet, Athos caught his flailing arm, dropping his own sword to the ground.
"What ails you, Aramis?" Athos asked urgently, looking around for Porthos and beckoning him over with a quick wave of his hand; the other on the back of Aramis's neck.
"What's 'appened?" Porthos asked, himself a little breathless from his hand-to-hand combat with several of the recruits.
"Winded, I think," Athos replied quietly, "but let us get him away from this dust," he added, as they both took an arm and began to move him slowly to the infirmary; fortunately not too far away.
By the time they got him there, he was breathing a little more easily and Porthos was cracking jokes about him getting old, losing his touch and needing more uninterrupted sleep; the last said with an accompanied lascivious wink.
"Just a little breathless," Aramis gasped, as they helped him down onto a vacant cot.
"And not a maiden in sight," Porthos laughed.
However, he did reach forward and helped Aramis discard his sparring doublet.
"Just winded," Aramis managed, as he relinquished the jacket and pulled his shirt sleeves down.
Athos and Porthos exchanged a puzzled look.
"That would require a blow to the abdomen," Athos countered. "We've all had that. You did not receive such a blow."
Just as he was about to object, Aramis was seized by a severe bout of coughing.
"Porthos," Athos said gently, "Please go for Dr Lemay."
"There's...no need..." Aramis gasped as Athos moved to the table in the corner and poured water into a cup.
Striding back, Athos thrust the cup at him.
"There is every need. None of your nonsense," he said firmly.
"Porthos, if you please," he added, and Porthos nodded. Turning to go, he pointed at their stricken friend;
"Stay there," he growled. "I won't be long."
Athos took the cup back from Aramis and moved across the room to sit at the table, giving the man some space.
Dr Lemay duly arrived and after a thorough examination, he diagnosed secretions of the chest.
They all moved outside to discuss the patient, knowing he would not wish to be discussed as if he were not there. Sitting at their usual table, they waved d'Artagnan across when he rode through the archway on his return from Palace guard duty.
"What is it?" he asked, hurrying over at the sight of the good doctor and his worried friends conversing.
"Aramis has taken ill," Athos replied quietly, waving his hand for Lemay to continue their discussion, now including d'Artagnan, who sat down heavily next to Porthos. Porthos nodded at him and patted his arm.
"It is a build up of mucus and fluid. It must run its course, I fear," Lemay was saying.
"How could this 'appen?" Porthos asked the question they were all thinking. It seemed to have come on so suddenly.
"It can build up slowly over time, until the lungs are compromised," Lemay responded. "Have you noticed any other symptoms?"
"He's been off 'is food," Serge said gruffly, as he approached the table with a tray of cups and a flagon of wine.
"He's been hidin' some aches too," Porthos added taking the flagon, pouring wine and passing it around.
"You'll 'ave your work cut out, keeping that one still," Serge muttered, shaking his head. "He 'as my good wishes, though," he added quietly as he limped off, empty tray in hand.
Lemay nodded at the additional information the Musketeers offered, becoming lost in thought for a moment;
"Rub his back vigorously as he coughs; he will need to expel the mucus," he said. "There are some herbs and roots I can try. I will make up some lozenges of myrrh, cinnamon and angelica root. The herb wintergreen will help settle any pain in his chest. Otherwise, rest and a light diet is all I can offer."
"And if he gets worse?" Athos asked somberly, looking down at the cup of wine held tightly in his hand.
"Then, I will come, of course. But, I have nothing else to offer. I will make some medicinal preparations up and return in a few hours. In the meantime, close the shutters. The foul air of Paris will not help him breathe."
Lemay took his leave and the three men moved back into the Infirmary.
Porthos closed the shutters, shutting out light and sun and leaving the room shrouded in gloom; much like their moods.
Watching them, Aramis spoke up.
"This is all rather gloomy."
"Why didn't you say something?" d'Artagnan asked, sitting heavily on the next cot.
"Nothing to tell," Aramis said, pressing his hand to his uncomfortable chest, and taking small measured breaths.
"Aramis," Athos sighed, leaning against the window frame.
Looking at them all in turn, Aramis sighed.
"It was just a little tiredness. A little tightness," he replied.
"Why did you spar with me?!" Athos said fiercely then. "Did you not think you would be compromised?"
"Sorry," Aramis said quietly.
"No, no, carry on," Athos replied angrily. "Allow me to be responsible for your collapse."
Athos glared at Aramis for a long moment, before turning and striding quickly from the room. Aramis stared at the door, a sudden fit of coughing confirming Athos's admission of despair. Porthos sighed and pulled the sheet up, trying to make his brother as comfortable as he could.
"Don't mind 'im. He's just incredibly angry at you," he said, raising a weak smile from Aramis.
"I'll get you another pillow," d'Artagnan said, then, following his mentor out of the room.
"Get some rest. Lemay's coming back with some of 'is foul-tasting medicine," Porthos said.
"That's cheering," Aramis said, settling himself as best he could; exhausted from the morning's events.
Later, on hearing about the infirmary's latest patient, courtesy of d'Artagnan, Madame Crecy brought him his lavender-scented pillow, her usual practise with each of The Inseparables. She took her leave quickly, not wishing to intrude or overstep her duties. As she left though, she cast her eye around the dim room and at the two quiet men sitting at the table in the corner.
The only sound in the room was Aramis's laboured breathing.
Over the next few days, Aramis's breathing did not improve. He was listless and miserable. He and Athos made their peace and together, his brothers all attempted to care for and entertain him but his usual cheerful outlook had fled. He lay propped up in bed and had taken to holding his pillow to his chest, breathing in the scent of lavender. Although, along with his usual good humour, that too was fading.
His chest was tight and no amount of coughing could loosen the mucous in his lungs; the air wheezed in and out of him as he attempted to pull in any air he could.
Thoroughly exhausted, yet restless, he opened his eyes one morning to find Madame Crecy looking down at him, a concerned look on her face, a freshly laundered and scented pillowcase in her hand.
"I have a better place for you," she said. "But we will need help."
She turned and strode purposefully from the room, leaving him puzzled.
A few hours later, Aramis could be found sitting in the laundry, adjacent to one of the large copper tubs; surrounded by appreciative women.
He was in his shirt sleeves, his hair slicked back courtesy of the damp, steamy atmosphere. Madame did not countenance shirkers though and she had set him a task; his fingers were nimbly rolling freshly washed bandages.
If any of his Parisian ladies saw him like this, his reputation as a fearless marksman-musketeer would be sorely damaged.
But here, in the company of humble laundresses in the steamy atmosphere of the laundry, he was breathing calmly, better than he had been in days; the atmosphere infinitely preferable to the dim infirmary room.
He was, in fact, in his element.
oOo
Thanks for reading!
A/N:
Much still had to be learnt in the early part of the 17th century. I wanted to used the term, "chest infection," but of course I couldn't. Those lozenges were actually used though. Whether they were palatable is another matter.
By the end of the 17th century, a more clinical and scientific approach to health, based on actual observation, gradually began to appear. This laid the foundations for the much greater progress that was to be made in the next century.
More Infirmary Talks soon, after my holiday. Unless, inspiration strikes before I go ...
