Thank you everyone for taking this journey with me. I'm posting the last four chapters today. You're feedback has been wonderful and I appreciate you taking the time to write.
Hopefully, you'll enjoy the ending!
Even at night, Paris was beautiful, at least in the eyes of those who loved the city. The red evening sky showed promise of a calm and welcome morning. Fires burned, smoke filtered upward from chimneys, and torches lit the darkened roads. Taverns rumbled with noise and activity, and those who enjoyed the night life walked the streets seeking whatever suited their fancy. A dog barked in the distance. A burro, harnessed to a two-wheeled cart, was led by an old man with a heavy straw hat who mumbled under his breath as he shifted position to allow the musketeers by.
The garrison looked quiet, and Jacque was quick to run from the stables and collect their leads. All four men dismounted with a mixture of grunts, groans, and breaths of relief.
"Where's the captain?" Athos asked, gripped the hilt of his sword, and looked toward the balcony. He glanced toward Jacque.
"The king went for a hunt, cap'n sent the men to ride with 'im," Jacque said, and tied the horses to the posts outside the stables. "Took everyone 'ith 'im — even Gaston." He smiled as he ran his hand over the bay mare. "New horses for the garrison, sirs?"
"And a gift for the king," Porthos said. He grabbed Jacque's shoulder and squeezed. "Give 'em all a good rubdown, won't you?"
Jacque nodded and ran his hand along the mare's hip.
"Who's been feeding you?" Aramis asked.
"Madame Bonacieux, monsieur, she's been cookin' for me an' the guards — she's a much better cook than Gaston — but she makes us eat proper… elbows, napkins." He shrugged. "Manners."
Athos chuckled and rubbed his eyes.
"Let's pay 'er a visit," Porthos said, "I'm hungry, thirsty, an' tired… an' I ain't sleepin' on an empty stomach." He placed a heavy hand on Athos shoulder before he could protest and pushed him toward the exit.
Aramis chuckled and stepped in stride beside d'Artagnan. "What will you say when you see her?" He shrugged and pointed toward his own eyes. "You still look like a man who almost died."
D'Artagnan shoved him and shook his head. "I shouldn't go." He paused in his steps, but felt Aramis shove him forward.
"She cares for you, d'Artagnan, maybe like an old nun… but she does." Aramis said and then draped an arm across d'Artagnan's shoulders. "A good woman is always a challenge and those that aren't," he shrugged, "you should avoid."
"Expert advise from Paris' renowned libertine?" D'Artagnan cocked an eyebrow.
"Consider it advice from a friend," Aramis laughed and squeezed d'Artagnan's shoulder.
All four stepped aside as a wagon, pulled by two drafts, rolled past. A dog barked from the bed and quickly jumped to the seat as they continued up the road. A man was tossed from a tavern, landed with a groan, and slurred something in Latin before he slowly climbed to his feet and walked drunkenly down the street. The moonlight glistened off wet portions of stones, and the scent of urine filled the air as a patron relieved himself against a wall.
D'Artagnan paused suddenly when Constance stepped from behind a sheet that hung from the dry line. Hair fraying from the tie behind her neck swept across her cheek and forehead. She looked tired. He felt Aramis shove him forward.
She wiped her hands on her apron and cleared her throat as they drew near. "I thought you'd gone to Nivernais?" Constance said, as she pulled the sheet from the line. She watched them walk toward her and she paused, tossed the sheet into a basket, and then walked to meet them in the street. She grabbed d'Artagnan's hand, pulled up the sleeve of his doublet and shirt and sighed. "What happened?" She said and grabbed his chin to expose the bruising around his neck. "Are you alright?" She met his eyes, pulled her eyebrows together, and was slow to lower her hand from his shirt.
"Fine," d'Artagnan said, swallowed, and nodded.
Constance turned toward Porthos, grabbed his hand and winced when she exposed the scab covered wrist. "Can I assume whoever did this is dead?" She reached for Aramis's bandaged hand and shook her head. "How long has it been since this was changed?" She met his eyes. "You know better —" she looked toward Athos and the others, "I expect it from them."
Athos shifted uncomfortably.
"You all look exhausted," Constance said, "come inside." She took a deep breath and then gathered her skirts. "I've got some food on the warmer." She motioned with her hand toward the door.
Porthos nodded toward her, guided Athos forward, and entered the home. The smell of home-cooking filled their air: pea soup, sizzled steak with leeks, and apple pillows. It was warm, and the fire continued to blaze in the fireplace. Lantern flames flickered off the walls and highlighted the table, furniture, and the decor that made the space home.
Athos took a seat in the chair next to the fire and watched Porthos and Aramis seat themselves on the benches on either side of the table. Porthos' stomach growled, and Aramis chuckled. D'Artagnan walked toward the kitchen and leaned against the entry as Constance dished the food.
"Thank you," d'Artagnan said, and shifted his feet.
"No need," Constance said, and placed the apple pillows into a basket. "I promised Treville his men wouldn't go hungry — not that Jacque eats much." She turned to look at him. "You should join your friends."
"I'd rather stand here… if you don't mind?" He curled his lips into a subtle smile.
Constance turned, bit her bottom lip to avoid a grin, and grabbed a handful of utensils. "What happened?" She turned suddenly and looked at him. "You look like a man who's been strangled…" she raised her eyebrows, "or worse."
D'Artagnan shrugged and cleared his throat. "We… ah," he paused, licked his bottom lip, and sighed, "we were detained."
Constance cocked her eyebrow and shook her head. "You all look about ready to collapse." She placed her hand on her hip and looked at him. "Your eyes are red, d'Artagnan. When was the last time you looked in a mirror? And your throat — I've got black fabrics that are lighter." She turned and handed him two plates of food, walked past him, handed Athos a plate, and placed a plate before Porthos on the table.
"Eat," she instructed and dusted her hands. "Damn fools…" she muttered.
Porthos scooped a heaping mound onto his spoon and ate. He shook his head, raised his eyebrows, and moaned. For a moment he thought of Serge and his ability to make something out of nothing, but he had cooked for volume, not flavor. While Felix had done his best, his food may have tasted better in Paris, away from the baron's lands, and away from where they had spent too much time at the mercy of a madman. Porthos heaved another spoonful into his mouth and nodded.
This was home.
Constance chuckled, watched d'Artagnan place a plate before Aramis, and take a seat beside him. She gripped his shoulder and then quietly left the room.
Athos rested the plate on his thigh, listened as spoons scraped the bottom of bowls, cups lifted and returned to the table, and the metal of Porthos' doublet sleeve tapped with each shift of his arm. Athos felt his muscles relax as he rested his left elbow on the armrest of the chair and rubbed his brow. He closed his eyes, felt the warmth of the fire, and rested his forehead within the cup of extended fingers. The frantic beating of his heart slowed, muscles tingled and calmed, and bones suddenly felt heavy.
Aramis looked toward the chair as Athos dozed. He tapped Porthos' arm and chuckled.
"Two livres that he doesn't make it to his quarters without help," Aramis said as he raised his eyebrows and pulled the coins from his pouch and placed them on the table.
Porthos chuckled. "Man 'asn't slept in four days…" he shook his head, "he won't make it down the street." He added two coins.
D'Artagnan shook his head, broke off a piece of bread, and dipped it into his soup. He leaned back when Constance placed two coins of her own on the table.
"He won't make it out of this house," she raised her eyebrows, looked at Athos, and shook her head, "you're his friends… you should be ashamed of yourselves." She turned back toward her kitchen.
D'Artagnan shrugged and pulled two coins from his pocket. "I think he'll make it back to his quarters."
"Always the optimistic one," Aramis said, and resisted a grin.
Porthos huffed and shook his head. He nodded in thanks when Constance added another ladle of soup to his bowl and he shifted position as she walked past him and added more soup to Aramis' and d'Artagnan's as well.
"Four days," Aramis shook his head, "and that's what I know of." He took a bite of bread and raised his eyebrows. "He'll never make it."
Constance shook her head, slapped the back of Aramis' head with the flat of her hand, and walked back to the kitchen. Porthos chuckled, and Aramis rolled his eyes.
"She silently adores me," Aramis said, "I'm sure of it." He sighed, dipped more bread into his bowl.
D'Artagnan chuckled, rested his elbow on the table, and pushed the bowl away from the edge. "Perhaps your brazen charm brings out her softer side."
Porthos chuckled, and wiped his bowl with the last of his bread, and paused a moment to let his food settle. "I like 'er."
Constance entered the room and poured them each a goblet of wine. "Perhaps you can all get some rest now that you're home." She grabbed their empty dishes, stacked them together, and walked toward Athos and grabbed the dish from his knee.
Athos' suddenly jumped, pulled his pistol, and fell back against the fireplace. The chair's legs skidded and the fireplace poker and shovel clattered as they fell to the floor. The room spun, his vision blurred, and random images flashed through his mind. The heat of the fire warmed his thigh, and he shifted away and toward the wall.
Porthos jumped, caught his foot on the edge of the bench, and fell backward to the floor with a groan. Wine splashed upward and landed against his doublet. Aramis quickly stood, pushed the bench with the backs of his knees, and knocked it to the floor with a clatter. Constance fell backward and landed against the table, dishes clamored, and the bowl of soup flipped and sent contents across the room and onto the floor.
"Athos!" Aramis said. He raised his hands, glanced toward d'Artagnan as he helped Constance to her feet, and he slowly pushed her behind him.
Athos clenched his jaw, eyes wide, and pointed his pistol toward Aramis, who raised his hands and glanced toward Porthos as he slowly stood. Athos hitched his breath, stumbled backward, and placed his left hand on the wall as he guided himself toward the door. He bumped into a table to his left, knocked it over, and pointed his pistol toward the window.
"Athos… hey," Porthos said. "It's just us." He kept his hands raised, watched the pistol return toward him, and held his breath. "Athos… it's us."
Athos frowned as the lights from the lanterns flickered off the walls, across the faces of those before him, and reflected off the glass surfaces. He could hear breathing, words melded together, muted sounds of taps and scuffs as shoes scraped across the floor. The shifting of furniture across planks. He watched someone move to his right, and he shifted his weapon in that direction. His breathing hitched, his pulse raced, as adrenaline continued to spike. He heard glass shatter. He pressed his back to the wall, and squeezed his eyes shut for a moment to clear his vision.
He could smell cooked peas, but the memory scent of mildew, old straw, and piss lingered in his memory and caused his head to spin. Sounds ran through his head: scuffs of feet, chimes of tin, a rattle of chains, and heavy breathing.
"Athos," Aramis said again, hands still raised as he stepped closer. "Listen to me, brother… Athos… it's just us — nobody else is here." He watched Athos' arm quiver as he struggled to clear his vision. "Athos… put the pistol down…" Aramis stepped closer as the weapon was slowly lowered.
Athos swallowed. "Aramis?" He frowned, deepened the crease between his brow, and looked toward him.
"You startled us," Aramis said, and exhaled slowly.
Athos frowned and swallowed. He pressed his back to the wall as his knees grew weak.
"Nearly 'ave me a heart seizure," Porthos said, and slowly lowered his hands. He bent at the waist and took a deep breath.
D'Artagnan turned and looked at Constance, who looked startled, but wiped the front of her dress. She started to pick up the dishes, but he stopped her. "I'll get them." He looked toward Aramis' back when the pistol slipped from Athos' fingers and clanged against the wood floor.
"He shot the boy," Athos said. "Who shoots a child?" He swallowed, furrowed his brow, and looked toward the flames of the lanterns. He felt his knees weaken.
Aramis stepped forward and slipped his arms around Athos' before he could slip to the floor. "I know. I'm sorry, brother."
Athos pressed his forehead to Aramis' chest. "He just shot him." He grabbed the leather flanks of Aramis' long doublet and tightened his fist within the fabric. "Who does that?"
"Porthos," Aramis said, as he adjusted his position to take Athos' weight and keep him upright as he collapsed. "He's out."
Porthos stepped forward, grabbed Athos' left arm, and pulled it over his shoulders.
"Put him in d'Artagnan's old room — he can sleep there," Constance said, and pressed her hand to d'Artagnan's chest. She looked up and met his eyes. "My husband's out of town, and I have a guest room upstairs you're welcome to."
D'Artagnan flexed his jaw and nodded. He turned and followed Aramis into the bedroom. They stripped Athos of his doublet and boots, and covered him with a blanket.
Porthos leaned against the wall, rubbed his face, and watched Constance enter with a bowl of water and cloth. D'Artagnan shoved his hands beneath his armpits and stood at the end of the bed.
"How is he?" She asked. She placed the bowl on the nightstand, and gripped Aramis' shoulder while he sat on the edge of the bed.
"He'll be fine with some sleep."
Constance wrung out the cloth and placed it on Athos' brow. She touched his face with the backs of her fingers and looked toward Aramis. "He's warm."
"He needs to rest," Aramis said.
"You all do," Constance said, left the room and patted Aramis' arm as she walked by him.
D'Artagnan followed her from the room and immediately picked up the dishes. He up-righted the benches, the fireplace poker and shovel, and the small table. He turned in time to see her wipe the soup from the floor.
"I'm glad you're safe," she said, looked toward him, and met his eyes. "I know you won't tell everythin' that happened, but I'm here if you want to talk." She nodded once and returned to her scrubbing.
D'Artagnan turned as Porthos entered the room.
"There's another room upstairs," Constance said. "But I want to see to your injuries before you go up — it's bad enough that one of you collapses and my food goes to waste — I'll not have you bleedin' all over my sheets and blankets too… And by the way, gentlemen," she said over her shoulder, "I win the bet."
Porthos nodded. "Yes, ma'am." He watched her return to the kitchen. "She's got a barrel of gunpowder in her, d'Artagnan — you bes' be ready when it goes off."
D'Artagnan nodded, smiled, and said, "I'm looking forward to it." He tried to hold back his chuckle but failed.