L'amante de Porthos Bonus Story

Marianne, Alone

The events of this sub-plot take place after chapter 23 of the main arc, L'amante de Porthos. Marianne flees from the Iron Mask and ends up somewhere unexpected... There are no original Anime Sanjushi characters in this arc, only mentions of them.

Marianne's eyes could barely open. Her body felt stiff and every muscle and joint felt sore and inaccessible. Her head spun dizzyingly, making her stomach turn. She groaned softly. There was pain everywhere. Dull, throbbing pain that reminded her of its presence with the most minute of gestures.

Where was she?

Did they finally capture her? The last thing she remembered was the frightening image of that large man who wore a mask made of iron on his face. Those red slits… She shivered with terror and her body ached once more. Was this her prison cell? Did they beat her senseless?

But this bed was rather comfortable and those sheets smelled clean and felt crisp. Unless they brought her to one of the houses of the aristocrats.

In her struggle to regain control over her body and senses, she began to hear voices. They were whispering and she could tell it was about her. She closed her eyes again and concentrated on listening.

"We can't keep her here, Cecile! Are you mad?" came the anxious voice of a man.

"And what would you have us do? It was your fault! You shot the musket!"

"I thought it was a robber, or a wolf! Besides, our horses are specifically trained not to be alarmed at the firing of weapons."

The woman with the exceptionally feminine voice let out an exasperated sigh and Marianne could almost see her rolling her eyes at her companion.

"But really, Cecile! And Princess Alexandra was bred for the shooting, I don't understand. I have to have a talk with that one."

"You and your horses, really Bertrand! There's a wounded girl in our home and all you can think of is the horse!"

"May I remind you that our horses are the only thing affording us a decent life and..."

She cut him off, "Yes, yes, I know."

"Well, find out what you can about her and then we have to send for someone to fetch her. I have to return the horse to the Cardinal's estate and I don't want to have to be asked many questions. It's bad enough that it came back to us. Oh, what would the Cardinal's Stable Master think of this!" he whined as he descended down the stairs.

The door to her room opened gently and Marianne could open her eyes enough to see a woman with dark hair and a large figure penetrate the room. She put her hands on her waist as she examined the limp body of her guest.

"You poor thing!" she clicked her tongue and ventured towards a small table where she brought a cold towelette and placed it on the back of Marianne's head.

The latter attempted to open her eyes a bit more. She opened her mouth to speak but she couldn't find her voice. However, she could now see the face of the woman clearly. She was young. Not yet in her thirties, but close. Her features were kind and motherly yet there was something in her touch, in her manner and in her build that showcased an unnatural strength.

"It's alright, don't tire yourself, Mademoiselle," she said, "You fell off Princess Alexandra. My husband shot a bullet into the air, thinking you were a robber or worse, a wolf, and it scared the horse and you were thrown off. Mind you, your form was rather poor and your grip almost absent, it was no surprise you fell with such force."

Marianne closed her eyes. So, that was the ringing in her ears. The last thing she heard before she went unconscious was a shot. Instinctively, her hands had gone to her chest. She thought she was hit, she thought she had died. And suddenly she felt guilty. Not too long ago she had been in a dark room, mourning her lot in life and wishing for death. Should she be relieved or disappointed that the bullet didn't find her?

She looked up at the concerned face of her hostess. Who was this woman? Where was she? Had she really escaped? What happened to her uncle? So many questions floated in her head. She began to lose consciousness once more and she fell back into oblivion at the calming touch of this stranger.

Marianne regained her consciousness by way of a sharp assault to her senses. It was as if the smell traveled all the way from the kitchen one floor down and like a targeted arrow, pierced through her nostrils and ignited her brain awake. It was none other than the delicious and scrumptious smell of salt-cured pork crisply fried in a pan: bacon.

For a moment, the young woman was disoriented. She felt as though she was back in her own room, in her own home, on a fine autumn morning when their German housekeeper, Frau Liesel, would be frying an endless supply of bacon and other cured meats for breakfast. She and Gerard would jump out of their beds, completely neglecting to make up the sheets or even to change and head straight down to the kitchen where they would quarrel over who would have the most pieces.

The memory elicited a pang to heart that jolted her more awake. No, she wasn't home and Gerard wasn't there. For the first time in her life Marianne realized she was completely alone. Alone and far away from home, in a stranger's house no less.

If it weren't for the allure of what the kitchen downstairs seemed to promise and her growling stomach, she would have given way to more of these ponderings. Instead, she sat upright, completely ignoring the heaviness in her head and the aches in her body. She could see the sun rays streaming from in between the curtains covering the only window in the room. She gulped down some water from the glass set next to the bed and pushed herself up and followed her nose.

Through her brief journey from her room to the kitchen and from the views she caught outside the windows along the way, Marianne could determine she was in a farmhouse.

She poked her head through the kitchen door. It was a large kitchen with large stoves and plenty of food spread across its multitude of counters: breads, pastries, fruit and vegetables, cheeses, cured meats, hanging herbs and jugs of fresh milk. She was sure that there was another pantry somewhere housing all kinds of jams and preserves.

She devoured everything with her eyes and her stomach cried out loud, announcing her presence in the most indiscrete of ways, causing her hostess to turn around and laugh. Marianne blushed.

"There is nothing like a good breakfast to arouse even the frailest of us! Food is medicine," she mused, "And there is nothing like the smell of bacon to drive anyone out of bed." She chuckled, "You're just like a brother of mine. Always following his nose wherever it leads!"

Marianne smiled. She quickly learned that her hostess liked to chat, even if no one was particularly conversing with her. It was heart-warming and so different than the quiet reserve of the people she had grown up around.

She brought her hands to her temple as she felt her head throb again. Her hostess pulled out a chair by the kitchen table in the middle and helped her to it and for the first time, Marianne noticed that she was pregnant.

"Thank you," Marianne whispered. Her voice was as thick as the drink that was just put in front of her by the strange kind woman.

"Here you go, Mademoiselle. I expect you might be missing your chocolate," she said, with a look of concern on her face.

Chocolate! What, here? At a farm? Chocolate was expensive. She took a sip, letting the warm thick liquid flow through her body like a revitalising elixir. She could taste a hint of cinnamon and cardamom in it, too. She let out a soft moan of satisfaction that amused her hostess.

"Thank you," Marianne repeated herself. What was wrong with her! She, who spoke more than seven languages could barely utter anything else. She blushed once more. She felt like an intruder.

The lady of the house waved her hand in a dismissive gesture, "Not at all. We're not very fond of it, me and my husband. My husband supplies horses to many of the nobility around the country and we are sometimes fortunate to receive particular gifts of all manners of exotic things. Mind you, I prefer to receive golden pieces but Bertrand says that the cultural exchange is worth more. He likes to feel important," she chuckled. Marianne grinned at her over her cup.

"Well look how pretty you are this morning, Mademoiselle! You were a terrible sight last night," she shook her head pitifully. Marianne now knew that her hostess also had a panache for bluntness but that it was not unkind. "And that dress of yours. I would have taken it off you so as not to spoil the sheets but I daren't move you too much for fear you had broken something."

Marianne was mortified. Of course, it was the same dress she had been wearing for… how many days now? Two? Good God! She hardly wore the same dress throughout an entire day, let alone two days. She looked down at herself. It was muddy and covered with blood stains and the skirt had a tear in it.

Blood stains. The memory she had been working so incredibly hard to repress forced herself into her mind with such a herculean intrusion as to equal that of the person it belonged to. Porthos. Her Porthos. He, to whom, she had trusted her heart, trusted herself. He, whose smiles and lighthearted spirit warmed her heart like nothing ever did. The one she had wanted to run away with, whose presence she could not get enough of. And then, the one who had wounded her in more ways than one. Her right hand clasped her left forearm. The bandages were still there but they were becoming lose and were stained with dried blood.

While she was lost in her thoughts, she didn't notice the three pairs of eyes who were staring at her wildly with utter curiosity and wonder.

Her hostess was now piling up the last of the bacon onto a tray and she addressed the newcomers.

"Well? What do we say to guests?"

The three children fidgeted, still taken aback by this strange-looking person who suddenly appeared in their midst. Marianne, too, was regarding them with the same wild curiosity. The fact is, she had never been close to children in her life. She spent most of her time alone or in the company of adults or Gerard. She had seen children walking and playing in the village, but never had she had to interact with any of them.

"Bonjour," it was Marianne who spoke, as if the question had been directed at her. She waved her hand in a greeting gesture.

Two of them, a young boy about three years old and a girl about five, hid behind the eldest of them who stood in the middle: a seven-year old girl who looked very much like her mother.

"Bonjour, Madame," she spoke with assurance, "We are pleased to make your acquaintance." She inclined, lifting her tiny skirts.

Marianne's heart almost exploded with tenderness. Children were always such a foreign concept. She never gave them any thought and had never felt any kind of maternal instinct or a connection to her own body in that regard. And if it had ever crossed her mind, it only brought about feelings of uneasiness and disgust. Yet, faced with these adorable creatures, it was impossible not to want to shower them with loving hugs.

"Well done, Lucille!" mother, proudly praised her daughter.

After some encouragement from their mother, Marianne learned that the younger girl was called Colette and the boy, Peter, after his grandfather. She couldn't help but notice his messy little curls, his chubbiness and his mischievous grey-green eyes. He reminded her so much of… No, stop thinking of him. Her grief over this defunct relationship was making her mad. She was projecting his image on this little boy. And yet… She exhaled and brought herself back to the present, only to catch the last few words of her hostess.

"…and this is Mademoiselle…"

Everyone was looking at her expectantly. Oh God, they wanted to know her name. She couldn't think of anything else more original. She cleared her throat. "Katherine. De Villebois."