Dear Readers,
Just a quick note to say thank you so much for sticking with this story until now! It's taken me a while to get back into it so excuse the subpar writing and flow for this and upcoming chapter or two. The beginning of writing is always exciting but the middle gets tough. It's sort of the "make it or break it" part for both the writer and story. Your reviews and encouragements keep me going so thank you. Also, now with this enforced quarantine, I plan on writing a lot more! I hope you enjoy and please feel free to leave feedback at any time during the story. Keep well! XOXO
L'amante de Porthos
Chapter 39: Through Philippe's Eyes
Prince Philippe listened absent-mindedly as the Captain of the Musketeers relayed the details of the events that had led up to this moment. Aside from the Comtesse's little misadventure, the Prince knew all the details from the Cardinal. Lemay's account only served to confirm it.
Philippe's gaze wandered around the room, landing first on the young woman standing at an arm's length opposite him. Marianne had fixed a random point in space to stare at. Her hair was dishevelled, her dress muddied and unflattering and she sported a wound on her head that left traces of blood on the side of her face. She looked older and weathered. He didn't know whether to pity her, or to be glad to see her well and alive, or whether he had wanted to see her at all. The fact that she was related to a man who had ruined his life gave him mixed feelings.
Having decided that this was not the time to consider those feelings, he turned to the man whom he had been looking forward to seeing all along. Gerard de Villebois had his arms crossed over his chest and was leaning back against the far wall, his eyes closed. His untidy appearance made him look all the more rugged, increasing his attraction by folds. All the poor Prince could think about was walking over decidedly to him, pulling his arms away from his chest and pressing himself onto him, joining their lips in a fiery embrace. He shook his head to chase away the fantasies. Not the time, Philippe, not the time!
Look elsewhere! Ah yes, Aramis! His special warrior guardian. Her discrete smiles usually imbued him with strength and hope. But his favorite musketeer's aura was rather lacking and uninspiring tonight. She looked tired and weary. Her face looked sallow and blemished from recent scars. Yet, he persisted, searching for some acknowledgment. Alas, it seemed that she only had eyes for one person: the musketeer Athos.
The Prince sniggered to himself internally. Of course. How could he not have seen it before? Athos was a man whose reputation preceded him. He radiated charisma. The quiet and mysterious kind of charisma. The kind that did not necessitate a loud declaration or the rambunctious exhibition of one's self through humour or entertaining anecdotes. No, those kinds of displays were well fitting for a man like Porthos, but certainly not Athos.
Philippe scrutinized the tall dark musketeer. Yes, he could see exactly what his femme-musketeer saw in him. His features emanated with nobility and intellect. His body was agile, strong, built and fit in all the right places. Philippe leaned his head to the side, taking in a side view of Athos' rear. He nodded discretely and approvingly to himself before allowing his eyes to dart over the area in between the musketeer's muscular legs. Yes, Athos was a man whose reputation preceded him.
A wry smile flashed over the Prince at the thought of his splendid warrior receiving her well-deserved pleasure in bed by that dashing man.
But the musketeer Athos was more just an attractive presence. He possessed an unusually high intelligence and a natural sense of leadership.
As he watched him now, listening intently to his Captain's account, at the ready to interject or correct, Philippe wondered why Athos had not been promoted to Captain of the Musketeers already. When he was King for a short time, he had hoped that Athos would be the one to accept the badge of the Captain.
For in many ways, Athos reminded Philippe of Francois, so it was only natural that he would be the object of Aramis' affections. But Philippe worried whether Athos would faithfully return his musketeer's love. After all, Athos' reputation did precede him. And in comparison, Francois was a man of honor who had led a limited and quiet life. He was saintly. Athos, on the other hand, was a man of the world; a man with a long trail of mistresses; a man with a mysterious past and who undoubtedly carried some deep scars within him.
Despite his admiration of him, he was also slightly intimidated by the musketeer.
Their eyes met at one point, causing Philippe to look away hastily.
A thought flashed into his mind: Porthos!
How is the dear chap? He thought to himself as he searched the room for the large musketeer.
He smiled, thinking of Porthos. What delightful company he was! Always funny, chatty and charming. He possessed a joie-de-vivre that was radiant and worthy of envy. He was the kind of person that everyone wished they could be friends with. Porthos had seated himself on an armchair, clutching a hand that Philippe could tell was swollen. It looked awfully painful. It also looked like the grand musketeer's face was frozen in a perpetual wince. He did not smile, and barely moved. If anything, his presence felt… smaller.
What saddened the young Prince, though, was the absence of any kind of affection or warmth between the musketeer and his friend, the Comtesse. Neither one of them had even exchanged a glance with the other. They positioned themselves as far away from each other as they could, and the air between them felt stale, tense, worn out and dispassionate.
"…your highness?"
Treville's voice pulled Philippe back into reality. It was now his turn to speak, to let them know what he himself had found out and to piece the elements of the puzzle together.
…
Marianne practically collapsed on an armchair, as Philippe finished relaying his encounter with Cardinal Richelieu. While the young Prince had been anxious and worried about his friend, the Cardinal's revelation did put a damper on his excitement to see her. He thus found himself strangely cold towards her this evening, even though he had long fantasized of a happy and warm reunion.
Until now, he had been regarding her with caution and apprehension. Young Philippe had the tendency to see the best in people, even if they were the most corrupt. Some would say this was a virtue, but it was a disadvantage that made the Prince all-too trusting to his own detriment.
He had taken an instant liking to the Comtesse de Dandurand. She had become his friend and his tutor almost immediately.
Just like Milady, a part of him whispered, injecting evil doubts. He clenched his fists tightly. The sheer memory of Milady made him sick.
Yet in another corner of his soul, he knew that any anger or resentment he had towards the young Comtesse was false. He began to feel somewhat guilty.
He had stood in front of this anxious crowd, unveiling to them one of the biggest plots in France and with it, unfolding the web of lies that had securely formed the life of the Comtesse de Dandurand. He did so with hardly any pause or emotion and with complete detachment. In his bitterness, that dark part of himself wanted so desperately to blame someone for all his misfortunes. In a way, he had wanted to hurt her.
It was only when he finished and gazed at the young woman in front of him that he realized she was not his enemy. She was not responsible for the tragedy that was his life. For his imprisonment by the Iron Mask, for the plot that sought to kill his brother and mostly – the thing that tore him to pieces – Francois's untimely death.
She was overcome, he could tell. Lemay hadn't confirmed anything about the plot that concerned Philippe. He had had doubts, Treville said, but he never knew the truth.
Now it was Marianne who had to face it: that her uncle, the man she had trusted her whole life, was at the very heart of a grave and deadly plot. That she had assisted him in making the machine that was responsible for switching the twins. That she had also assisted him in making other inventions to aid the Iron Mask in his quest. He had used and manipulated her. He had educated her for his own purposes, not to give her satisfaction and purpose.
He had kept her in obscurity her whole life, about who she was, about her parents and the true circumstances of their death, while she had thought it was because the grief was too much to bear. Then, he had gambled with her life, and with Gerard's. And this whole time, he had been aware of the abuse Maxim inflicted on her and done nothing about it. He had been a coward. A liar. A traitor. A murderer.
How must she feel? Oh, but Philippe knew only too well. The lies, the plots, the Machiavellian underworkings of it all. The realization that she was someone else this whole time - that she could have been someone else. Someone different, happier, freer, more at peace.
And with all of that would come the ultimate comprehension of a simple yet disheartening fact: just like Philippe had been, Marianne was - as the Cardinal had so eloquently put it - "collateral damage."
A pawn in a game. Nothing more.
…..
A loud bang sounded in the room, startling everyone, as the big and powerful fist of the musketeer Porthos hit a large wooden table.
While the Prince had intended to comfort his friend, he immediately retreated on realizing that the space around her can only be occupied by one person. And it just happened that that one person was much grander than the average.
He watched as this god-like human rose from his seat, as if imbued with a newfound energy that rendered him larger-than-life figure.
He walked over to where Marianne had been sitting, undid his cloak and placed it gently around her. He then knelt in front of her, took her hand in his and with the other, seemingly injured hand, he stroked her face gently.
Philippe held his breath, his heart melting from the sheer tenderness of the moment he was witnessing.
The young musketeer lifted her chin up. She was at the edge of a cliff. Like she was holding her composure by a thin thread, struggling hard not to shout hysterically, not to bolt and run, not to take her revenge on those who wronged her. Much as he had felt once upon a time, when Milady first unveiled the truth to him.
Her eyes, which had glazed over, as if in limbo between tears, shock and the countless other emotions she was experiencing, seemed to have come alive once more as they met the musketeer's. She squeezed his hand shakily and he squeezed hers back tighter.
"No one will menace you while I am alive," he vowed to her. "And the Iron Mask and his band of miscreants will pay for everything they've done, I promise you."
…..
Porthos stood up and turned to his Captain with a determined and confident attitude.
"Captain," he addressed him, "I know I disobeyed your orders and came back to Paris without your permission. I accept that my punishment for this will be dismissal from the musketeers but just for this one ti-"
"YOU WHAT!" cried Athos and Aramis in unison.
"Captain, you cannot dismiss Porthos from the regiment!" reproached Athos.
"If he goes, I'll go," Aramis put in.
Porthos smiled inwardly, profoundly touched by the unconditional loyalty of his two best friends. Even after everything.
Capitaine de Treville took a deep breath and raised his eyes to the ceiling, as if praying for an invisible God. The last thing he needed right now was his three musketeers teaming up against him and threatening him with disobedience. Hadn't he learned anything about his men from d'Artagnan's arrival and the story of the broken swords?!
He put up his palm to silence them before turning to Porthos.
"What were you going to say?"
Porthos, who had lost a bit of his confidence in front of his Captain replied meekly, "Only that, were you to dismiss me, then let this be my last mission at least. Then, I will leave of my own accord."
"Porthos…" Aramis pleaded.
"Consider what you're saying," Athos cautioned.
Treville put his hand up again. Well, well, well, he thought to himself. It appears that some distance has done the trick to soften the edges between his musketeers. However, there was still more repairing to be done. Let this be a test to their friendship then, once and for all.
The Captain approached his musketeer such that his nose was almost touching the musketeer's large chest. Even though Porthos stood a foot taller than the Captain and weighed a great deal more, the giant still showed reverence to his superior as his superior showed dominance over him.
"Very well, I accept your condition."
….
"In any case," continued the Captain, "You're right. Rameau and the Iron Mask need to be eliminated. As soon as possible," Treville declared.
"And how do you propose to do that, Captain?" Philippe asked. "We don't even know where they are."
Treville went silent, as he contemplated the question. Indeed. If Richelieu – and even Rochefort himself – has confirmed that there were no signs in either Manson's house nor Rameau's, then they could be anywhere in France. They could go back and start the search from the Beaugrand estate, where the Iron Mask was last seen, but it was a longshot. They would have been far gone by now.
"We draw them out instead," it was Athos who spoke.
Everyone turned to look at him.
"If Paul-Francois de Dandurand was sufficient for their purposes, they would not have made another appearance until they had a weapon and were ready to strike. Clearly, they were missing something. And I believe we can provide that."
Philippe regarded him skeptically, "and what is it exactly that they are missing?"
Athos gestured towards Marianne, a mischievous smile on his face.
"The inventor's assistant, of course."
….
"You want to use her as bait? Are you out of your mind?" it was Porthos who first attacked Athos' suggestion.
"I can't let you do that," Gerard interjected, finally making his way across the room and joining the crowd. "Use me instead."
"Yes, use him," Porthos agreed.
"No!" cried Philippe and Aramis simultaneously.
Athos turned to Porthos and casually said:
"I think you should know that he," he paused and pointed to Gerard from head to toe, "INTENDS ON MARRYING HER!" With that, he pointed at Marianne with the same dramatic gusto.
Every one in the room gasped, as Gerard covered his face with his hands. How he wished the ground would open up and swallow him.
"You WHAT?" Porthos turned his attention on the young man.
Aramis crossed her arms over her chest and turned away in ire. Curious, Philippe thought. That could only mean one thing. It appears his femme-musketeer had a type: sensitive and intellectual men.
Gerard took a deep breath, a step back and addressed the one person whom he did not want to upset any further: Marianne.
"It was only as a last-resort option for your protection," then, turning to Porthos, "I promise."
The giant seemed satisfied with his answer turned back to his two comrades. Gerard, relieved, wiped the temporary sweat that had moistened his forehead and shot Athos a dark look. It would seem that Athos had chosen a more inconvenient route to settle his account with him.
Also, curious, Philippe remarked.
When the air was slightly calmer, Athos spoke again, this time with more caution:
"At the peril of sounding insensitive to several parties in this room, unfortunately we have no choice but to use you, Mademoiselle. I believe there is also a personal reason behind the Iron Mask's pursuit of you. Or at least, one of the Iron Masks. A scorned lover, n'est-ce pas?"
Marianne looked away, embarrassed. There was no point in denying it. Philippe had revealed all the details. Maxim de Rameau and her relationship with him was now on full display.
"There has to be another way," Porthos persisted.
For once throughout the evening, the young Comtesse finally spoke:
"No, he's right. There is no other way."
"Marianne…" Gerard addressed her pleadingly. But she did not acknowledge him.
"It's my life and it's my choice."
With that, she quieted the room and no one else opposed her.
"Well, then, Monsieur Athos, what is your plan?"
…..
Athos paced about the room as he spoke.
"First, we must consider how the Iron Mask knew about the Comtesse's whereabouts in the first place."
Porthos sneered, "Well we know how Rochefort knew. Thanks to my imbecile of a brother-in-law."
"Exactly. The two seemed to have arrived at the same time."
"What, do you think Rochefort is in cahoots with the Iron Mask?" Treville inquired.
Athos shook his head.
"No. But I do believe that there are spies amongst the Red Guard. Perhaps even Rochefort's servants. After all, how do you explain how easy it was for Rameau to carry out his plan at the Cardinal's residence? And then the failure of the Red Guard to follow them after they kidnapped the Comte de Danruand?"
"I don't know, the usual? A massive amount of incompetence?" Porthos offered.
Athos chuckled. "That may be. But the Red Guard are still devoted to their leader to a fault."
"Of course, Rameau is not the type to think the Cardinal has simply invited him to turn over a new leaf. He must have planted spies and allies everywhere," continued Athos. "He would not have sent his men on a goose chase looking for a lost damsel. Instead, he went right to the people who were looking for her and who had the means to do so. As soon as Rochefort received word, they followed him to the Beaugrand estate."
"If that's the case, why wouldn't they have killed Lemay already?" Treville interjected.
"That would look too suspicious. Just like Richelieu, they had banked on him dying a natural death."
"By this logic, then they must know by now that the Comtesse is here at the Louvre," Philippe pointed out.
Athos nodded.
"And also by this logic," Philippe continued excitedly, "You can pay Rochefort a visit and let him know what is to become of the Comtesse. You would pretend it is for her safety. You would tell him the exact location. They would get word of it and follow you and BAM! You ambush them!"
"Excellent, Your Highness!" Athos encouraged him.
"I will dispatch the men, then," Treville declared.
"No!" Athos objected. "We have to be a small group. We need to give the illusion that we are, in fact, a much weaker adversary. If it is only a handful of us, they will undoubtedly send all of their men to pursue us, including both Iron Masks."
"I'm sure he has it in for a certain group of musketeers. He will not to throw away this opportunity for revenge," Porthos added, rubbing the knuckles of his fist.
"So we will lure them to a place we have familiarized ourselves with well, define our escape plan and then use a great deal of gun powder to blow it up."
"A second Belle-Isle!" Aramis exclaimed. He nodded, smiling. If anyone could read his thoughts, it was Aramis.
"While I commend your thoroughness and strategy as always, Athos, there aren't many places in France like Belle-Isle. At least, not close enough for you to arrive before and make your reconnaissance."
Indeed. That was the only flaw in an otherwise perfect plan. The room fell silent for a while, each person absorbed in their thoughts.
"I know a place!" piped up the young Comtesse, looking excited, mischievous and radiant for the first time in a long time.
"Wonderful! Then, I'm coming with you!" declared Philippe, mimicking Marianne's enthusiasm.
