"Thank you, that will be all," her tone was authoritative but not unkind.
The maid bowed and left the room. Renée sighed and stood in front of the large looking glass. It was a new day at the court, which meant a new dress. She had gotten into the habit of wearing conservative dresses with dark colors, but her "husband" insisted on this particular dress. Thus, contrary to the usual, this dress had a low décolletage, showcasing the firm roundness of her bosom while highlighting her fine waist. She was taller and slimmer than most women at court, which in and of itself was enough to draw attention, without her having to wear anything conspicuous.
Today, however, was a special occasion: The King and Queen were to have a tea party at the Louvre. As Captain of his guard, Treville had to be present by his monarch. As the wife of the Captain, she, in turn, had to accompany her husband as a proper lady of her rank.
She sighed again, this time more profoundly, as she placed her hands on her hips and gazed at herself from different angles. What monstrosity! The fashion was to wear pastel colors for a tea party, so Renée found herself in a rose-colored dress that was heavily trimmed with white lace. It brought out her figure quite handsomely but the color was abominable. She looked like a porcelain doll.
A soft knock on the door sounded as her maid poked her head in, "Madame, Monsieur de Treville is waiting impatiently for you."
Renée rolled her eyes. He had adopted this annoying habit of sending the maid to say he was "impatiently" waiting every time they had an occasion to attend.
"This is not the regiment," she had scolded him at dinner one time, "You cannot expect your wife to conform to a militaristic punctuality. You wanted Renée, not Aramis, n'est-ce pas? Well, there you have it so content yourself with it." They had argued heatedly afterwards, which, had they actually been married, she was sure would have ended in a night of passion. She smiled to herself coyly. After a couple of months of acting in this play they were staging, she had become accustomed to her own indecent thoughts about her Captain. They no longer troubled her. Rather, the intimacy that had formed between them made the forbidden part all too exciting, giving more fuel to her nascent fantasies.
As they rode in the carriage, he rebuked:
"May I remind you, that I am not a simple Comte or a Duke who has all the time in the world. I am Captain of the Musketeers and in charge of the King's security. You know this above all else, for God's sake, Aramis. We cannot be late. Do I make myself clear?"
They glared at each other before she turned away and murmured, "Yes, Capitaine."
He huffed and adjusted himself into a more comfortable, less tense position. He took her hand in his, a habit he had picked up recently in order to "keep up appearances".
She was displeased at the way he had just scolded her and he scolded her often. When he did that, she retaliated either with a vulgar witty reply, to which he would become angry and a heated argument would ensue, or she would simply ignore him for hours. In either case, he always came back to win her forgiveness and affection again. Today, however, she was in no mood for an argument. She abruptly took her hand away from his in a rebellious attempt to convey her crossness. He rolled his eyes, shook his head and looked out the window. This was going to be a long day…
…..
The tea party was held in one of the vast gardens of the Louvre. The women sat under a tent, chatting, giggling and gossiping while the men stood here and there, conversing and discussing affairs of the state. The King held audience with some duke or another, Captain de Treville on one side of him and the Cardinal Richelieu on the other.
Renee observed them with resentment. She felt suffocated in this infernal corset that came with the dress. It pressed on her lungs and dugs into her ribs. Her militaristic body desperately wanted to stand upright in what had become a usual and comfortable pose for her, but alas, she had to remain seated and endure.
She was getting tired. Could she really go on like this? She threw a glance or two at Captain de Treville, who seemed absorbed in his conversation. Naturally, for it was his occupation, his passion, his duty. Should she become his wife, this would become her duty. All of this, the court, the appearances, the ridiculous outfits. Once upon a time, Renee was ready for this, she had wanted this. She had wanted to be everything she could be for her husband, for Francois.
But Renee was no more.
With this profound realization, Aramis walked away from the crowd towards a fountain across the gardens. She stared at her reflection. Who was this person anyway?
"Madame de Treville!"
Startled, she turned around to see a man with a grand stature, an exaggerated moustache and a sly look on his face.
She grimaced. Admiral de Pouilleux.*
She had met the Admiral only once, many years ago, when she was only a musketeer cadet. She was in the company of Athos and Porthos – naturally – when the two intervened on behalf of a lady at court who was being harassed by him. He was a wealthy man with a grand title and a noble lineage, which greatly inflated his already gross sense of entitlement. Entitlement to wealth, to praise, to power and to women.
So far, Aramis had congratulated herself on there having been no scandal or ill behaviour on her part at court. It was not easy, that was for certain, but nothing of great significance had happened to warrant any kind of excessive reaction. She didn't mind the women who whispered behind her back, she didn't mind the men who discretely admired her, she didn't mind the fact that she was no longer wielding a sword or a musket at her disposal. Well, maybe a little, admittedly. All in all, however, it was better than she had expected. Mainly because she hadn't factored in one important thing: she was Capitaine de Treville's wife and no one would ever dare touch her or insult her, for they would have to answer to the third most powerful man in France.
That is, until now.
….
The carriage ride home was heavy with tension. Neither one of them spoke to the other. As they reached their demure, Aramis stepped off the carriage, unassisted and stormed into the house, stomping directly to her rooms, where she slammed the door with such force the whole concrete building shook.
Jean-Armand de Treville was a brave man known for his wit on the battlefield and his skill in armed conflict. So, as he grasped the handle of the door that his "wife" had just slammed and stepped into the room, he knew well beforehand that he was entering a losing battle.
…..
It had been a losing battle since the beginning. What was he expecting, really? Aramis was a soldier. She walked like one, she talked like one, she moved like one. Her very soul was the soul of a musketeer and as he began to realize that, he began to regret having made her that proposal in the first place. She didn't belong as a wife. At least not to him, rather, to the sword and to her regiment.
He longed to be angry at her, to reproach her, to scold her, to slap her even. But he could only look at her with a mixture of pity and compassion. He couldn't blame her. In fact, a part of him was even proud.
He only heard fragments of what had really happened. Some pieces he had collected from onlookers, some from the servants who rushed to the scene and some from in between her disgruntled speech, which he forced out of her on the way to the carriage, as he shamefully dragged her out of the gardens by her arm.
And like a good wife, she said nothing. She simply let him drag her out in that appalling manner. It was only after he heard her side of the story that he felt utter shame and remorse for his behaviour. He felt as though he was becoming a man he did not recognize. Maybe this married life was not for him after all.
Now, he stood helpless in the doorway, as he watched the woman he loved hysterically throwing what little belongings she had brought with her into the little bag she had come with. Her coiffure had become undone and dishevelled, her cheeks were red with whatever mix of unpleasant emotions she was feeling and occasionally, she would tug at her dress with such violence so as to tear it off, only to be met back with an incredible resistance.
"I can't do this…
this has to end now…
it's not for me…
I'm not Renee, I can't be who you want…
Bring back Aramis…"
She kept uttering these disjointed phrases as she sniffled and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, struggling to hold back her tears. Enough was enough. She could tolerate no more. There was no going back. There was only Aramis, Renee had died.
"Ahhhhh!" she screamed, "And this STUPID PIECE OF BLOODY HELL!"
She picked up a dagger and attempted to slice through the fabric of her corset when a gentle hand stopped her. He took the weapon away and encircled her in his arms. She let him and she let herself go along with the tears of frustration.
….
The Admiral had approached her to a point of intruding on her personal space. She had recoiled and taken a few steps back. He stopped and gave her a wry smile.
"There will be a hunting party in a week, I suppose you and your husband will be attending?"
"I think not."
"What a shame! I bet you are… quite skilled with a musket," he replied with a smirk, as he sized her up and down. Oh, what a treat Treville must be getting! What a pleasure to put a proud and haughty woman like her in a degrading position to fuck her in!
Before she could retaliate, he had grabbed her waist and pressed his lips onto her bare décolletage.
"Forget about Treville, I can show you a much more exciting sport," he breathed onto her skin.
Her eyes were wide with horror. The worst part was that, as a musketeer, Aramis would have anticipated and lunged at her opponent within the first split second of sensing an attack.
Maybe it was the dress, maybe it was the hair, maybe it was her vanity, or maybe she had simply been Renee for too long, but it took her quite a long minute to react and by that time, the Admiral had covered most of her upper half with his disgusting tongue.
But the reaction, when it kicked it, came swift and merciless. She kicked him in between his legs, then twisted his arm, grabbed his sword and, taking advantage of his loss of balance, she pushed him with all her force into the fountain, where he landed violently on his rear.
"You little…!" he began, but stopped short when he felt the blade of his own sword on his neck. She didn't stop there. She climbed onto the fountain and all the onlookers could hear was several consecutive slashes.
She ripped his clothes one by one, before delivering two very elegant slashes to his face.
"No one touches the musketeer Aramis," she said as she tossed the sword and walked away.
….
She now stood with her hands on her hips, regulating her breath. He had calmed her down. Unexpectedly, she found refuge in his arms from the storm that was brewing in her head.
It was thus his fingers that worked delicately and mechanically in undoing the laces that held this infernal rosy pink dress together.
"Isn't that the maid's task?" she ventured.
"I thought we might give her a break tonight. The poor girl, she wouldn't be able to withstand your temper," he teased her.
Aramis blushed and chuckled softly.
"Was I that bad?" she asked in a barely audible voice. Now that her indignation had left her, she suddenly became aware of how much scandal she had caused her Captain.
"Frankly…" he began. She held her breath, in anticipation of the scolding she was about to receive.
"Frankly, it was quite the comedic spectacle. He will forever be known as the man who swam naked in the King's fountain," he laughed.
A big smile dessinated on her face.
"But," he continued, in a more serious tone, "I still think he deserves a solid punishment. Perhaps the musketeer Aramis can oblige us when he returns shortly from his mission?"
She swallowed with difficulty. There it was. He had felt it too. This phrase marked the end of their trial.
…
They were silent for the next few minutes, contemplating the gravity of his last words and their implication. It was over. No more Monsieur and Madame de Treville.
No more balls, no more court, no more dresses.
No more dinners together, no more carriage rides, no more quiet nights in the library…
The hair on her skin stood up suddenly as she felt his fingers on her bare back. He had finally succeeded in undoing the laces and the corset, with its entourage, came undone. She quickly brought her hand to her bust to hold the dress in place before it slid to the floor and left her naked.
And yet… would that be such a bad thing?
She could feel his breath on her skin. His fingers lingered where they are, tracing invisible lines along her back. She leaned her head back towards him. He took a step forward, closing in the space between them.
Gosh, how tantalizing she was! He desperately wanted to glide his fingers lower and lower… From this vantage point, he could see over her shoulder. The dress had dropped a little and she was awkwardly clutching it in place; but he could see the pink hue of one of her breasts. He bit his tongue. How much longer can he possibly control himself?!
He brought his hand upwards to her bare shoulder, where he traced his fingers on the soft and supple skin between the shoulder blade and her neck. He could feel her body reverberate with his touch, her breath becoming heavier, louder. She closed her eyes and inclined her head to the other side, allowing him more room to caress her.
She wanted him! He thought excitedly. She wanted him as much as he wanted her!
With his other hand, he turned her head back towards him. Her eyes were filled with lust, with desire. She was pleading for him. She inched slightly more, offering him those sweet pink lips that he had dreamed of so much of late. Can he? Should he?
By God, yes!
His grip tightened on her body as he kissed her with all the passion that had been boiling within him over the last few months. It was further intensified by the delicious throaty sighs and moans that escaped her. She desired him. After all this time he had held back, thinking she could never want someone like him… She had wanted him all along.
He broke his embrace and began tracing a humid line with his tongue down her neck, biting her gently along the way, eliciting more of these obscene moans. And this was only the beginning! he thought to himself. How he ached to penetrate her, to fuck her, to make love to her over and over! This splendid and magnificent goddess! His musketeer, his Aramis, his…
Alas, but she wasn't his.
….
Her eyes were closed. Her body had completely melted into his. She was longing for him, anticipating, fantasizing about what will happen next. She lazily opened her eyes as she realized that his ardour was beginning to fade.
Maybe he was waiting for her to say something? To let him know she was agreeable to this.
She kissed him ardently and whispered, "You know, there is one thing we haven't… tried out as a married couple yet," she said suggestively.
He kissed her again on the lips, this time without using his tongue to explore her.
What on earth...?! Had she done something wrong?
He gazed at her longingly and said, "But we're not, are we?"
Her heart sank. She clutched her dress tighter to her body.
He took her hand and kissed it, "Good night, Aramis."
Then, he left.
…
"You cannot be serious!" she whispered to herself, flabbergasted by what just happened. She opened the door of her bedroom and stood in the doorway, a look of pure determination in her eyes.
"TREVILLE!" she shouted at him.
He stopped short in his tracks; half taken aback by this audacity of using his last name with no titles.
He turned around and they stared each other down like two opponents at the ready to fire their pistols.
After everything she had endured, he will give her exactly what she wanted.
"En garde," she challenged him. With that, she watched with such satisfaction as his features transformed into utter bewilderment, as her hand ungripped the dress and it came sliding down with all its rosy grandeur, leaving in its place a glorious nudity that was beguiling and utterly irresistible.
* Many thanks to Yael92 for introducing Admiral Pouilleux
