Chapter 4

Paris looked the same. D'Artagnan shifted, flicked his wrist back and forth, causing the reins to sway. He kept his eyes on the archway to the garrison. Aramis chuckled, looked to his right, and watched Porthos shrug. The young man would — if he could — slip from his skin and run home if permitted. The excitement of being back in Paris, of seeing Constance, and being home had them all sitting up taller in their saddles, and looking at Paris with fresh eyes. As they entered through the gates, several patrons stepped from their businesses and watched the four musketeers ride by. A few people smiled, waved, and slapped each other on their backs. Others dried their hands on the aprons tied around their waists, and some simply dumped their buckets of slop and continued their duties, ignoring everything around them except their task. Five children ran through the streets without a care in the world. A dog chased after them, barking with his ears forward, and his tail wagging. A woman leaned out her window on the second story of the brothel. Her bosoms pushed upward around her neck as she pressed herself against the frame and waved.

"Welcome back, boys!" She hollered and then laughed when several others joined her. "Aramis, come see us soon!"

Aramis craned his head and neck and watched them as he rode past. He had not seen that much flesh in months and his smile increased in size as he looked at Athos.

"I've missed Paris," Aramis said, and looked again at the women. One opened her blouse and quickly closed it, before she laughed and ducked back inside the building. "I've really missed Paris."

Athos turned in the direction Aramis was looking and rolled his eyes. "You'll never live to the age of thirty-four if you pursue that route. You'll wind up with the pox — and what about your newfound commitment?" He raised his eyebrow and tilted his head toward Aramis' chest, where he kept his Bible.

Aramis took a deep breath and nodded. He remembered the abbot's words of denying himself rather than running from it. "A beautiful woman should always be admired, Athos… take a moment and look." He waved his hand toward a young woman as she stepped from her home, tossed bread and kitchen scraps to her chickens, and then looked toward them. Her dark hair glistened within the sun's brightness, and she blushed when Aramis winked at her. She quickly grabbed her skirt and her apron and returned to the house.

"Obviously," Athos said, "not all women appreciate the gaper in you." He looked at d'Artagnan, who scratched his jaw to busy his hand, and then looked at those watching them.

"They have no idea what is happening outside of Paris… of the bloody war," d'Artagnan said, and watched two boys fight with wooden swords. One jumped off the banister of the small deck, slipped into the fighting stance, and then the other boy pursued. Their mother yelled from behind the door for them not to play in the streets.

"Why would they?" Porthos said. He looked toward the archway of the garrison as they drew closer and felt his heart clench. He carefully pressed his hand to the timepiece that was carefully tucked within the folds of his doublet. While he was better at hiding his excitement than d'Artagnan, he was just as nervous and just as excited. Home meant something more now. He had a wife who loved him. A wife that he adored.

D'Artagnan bit his bottom lip as he controlled the urge to kick his horse's sides and gallop home. He wouldn't leave his brothers, his family, his friends. He wanted to ride beneath the garrison's archway with them, not without them. It was a display of strength in all their parts. They would not be defeated, and they would not surrender. The four of them believed in something that bonded them, made them who they were, and what they had become: the Musketeers knew it, the Parisians knew it, and their king knew it.

D'Artagnan swallowed. He wanted to see Constance's face, her smile, her eyes as they looked at him for the first time in months. He had left knowing he would return, and he returned grateful that he had a life left to share with her. D'Artagnan wanted to run his fingers through her hair and lay beside her. He wanted to watch her from the entry of the kitchen as she prepared a meal, or as she carefully and lovingly darned his clothing, and the feel of her fingers against him when she thought he wasn't paying attention.

"Gentlemen," Athos said as they approached the archway. He looked at them, adjusted his seat, and curled his lips into a grateful smile. "We're home." He nudged Kelpie's sides and rode beneath the entry with the others.

Several Musketeers clapped and stomped their feet as they stood at the edges of the courtyard. Those who had remained to protect the king and Paris looked just as tired as the rest of them, with the long hours and longer days that had stretched them thin. Remi stood on the platform that overlooked the courtyard and smiled. He descended the staircase, walked toward Kelpie and held the reins as Athos dismounted.

"Welcome back, Captain," Remi said with a chuckle and embraced him. "When I saw the men ride into the fields behind the garrison, I had hoped to see you soon."

Athos clamped his hand along his side as his rib protested to the movement, and nodded. "It's good to see you too, Remi."

Remi's smile grew in size and he pointed toward the hallway that led to Constance and d'Artagnan's quarters. "You'll not want to miss this," he said as he leaned toward Athos. He turned, led Athos and Porthos' horses out of the way and then stood watching from the edge of the courtyard and near the steps to the balcony.

D'Artagnan dismounted, thanked the musketeer, who took the reins, and then immediately looked for Constance. He brushed his hands along the front of his doublet, and then suddenly paused.

When she stepped out of the shadows, she smiled, hardly able to contain herself. She held steady and allowed d'Artagnan a moment to understand what he was seeing. He looked her in the eyes, then at the child in her arms, and then frowned. With a look of confusion, and then a sudden look of delight, he thought about what he was seeing. It was a sudden bolt of lightning. A moment so overwhelming his knees went weak, and his heart — despite its racing — could not possibly pump fast enough and his face paled. Constance glowed as she held the child with a look of pride she rarely allowed herself. His heart froze for a moment, and then suddenly it was just the three of them. The sounds of the courtyard had stopped, the aroma of horse manure, leather, and sweat had disappeared.

D'Artagnan cupped his hand over his mouth and looked at her. Overwhelmed with emotion, he stared at them both: his wife, and his child.

She smiled, nodded, and then shifted the baby in her arms to expose the boy's face. "Welcome home."

D'Artagnan felt Aramis clap his shoulder. He heard Porthos laugh as he stepped forward. "Ours?" he asked, stunned.

Constance nodded and said, "Meet your son… Alexandre."

D'Artagnan blinked, tears fell, and he kissed Constance as he placed his hand atop the boy's head and gently brushed his thumb across Alexandre's forehead. "You named him after my father?"

"Who else would I have named him after?" While holding her son like a well-practiced mother, she wrapped her free arm around d'Artagnan, and said, "I've missed you. We've missed you."

"Why didn't you tell me?" D'Artagnan looked at his son and gently ran a bent finger along the curve of the boy's cheek. He kissed him and then kissed Constance once more.

"I didn't want you to worry… I didn't want you to be thinking about me when you should have been thinking about the war." She looked him in the eyes and said, "It was more important for me to know you would come home than it was for me to tell you about my condition."

"I don't deserve you," d'Artagnan said. He chuckled, and then turned when Porthos, Aramis, and Athos stepped closer. "My son," he said, proudly. He wiped his eyes, wrapped an arm around Constance, and stood proudly beside her.

Porthos grasped the back of d'Artagnan's neck and squeezed. "He's a handsome boy…" he smiled and looked at Constance. "Are you sure he's d'Artagnan's?" He laughed when Constance rolled her eyes and teasingly slapped his chest.

"Believe it or not, Porthos, I've missed you too." She looked at the others. "The lot of you, really." She looked at Aramis and Athos.

D'Artagnan playfully punched Aramis' shoulder. "I'm a father," he said, and then reached for his son and Constance showed him how to hold him. D'Artagnan rocked gently back and forth and watched baby Alexandre coo and grip awkwardly to the edge of the blanket.

"He's so small," d'Artagnan whispered. He looked at Constance and smiled. "He's perfect."

"Of course he's d'Artagnan's," Aramis said. "Look at that black hair and that nose."

D'Artagnan smiled, touched his son's cheek, and said, "Of course he's mine."

There was a sudden gurgling and d'Artagnan curled his nose and sniffed.

"The boy passes wind like his father too," Athos said and clapped d'Artagnan's shoulder.

"That was more than wind, Athos," Porthos said and laughed.

Athos suddenly stepped back and said, "See me when you're settled." He looked at Constance, gently kissed her cheek and said, "Congratulations." He turned and walked to his office.

"I'll have to show you boys how to change a baby," Constance said, and reached for Alexandre. "With three uncles," she smiled and settled the boy, "he'll be needing to be watched on occasion…" She turned, grasped d'Artagnan's hand, gently squeezed, and walked back to the apartment.

D'Artagnan pressed his hand to his heart. "I have a son." He bent at the waist, grabbed his knees, and took a deep breath. "I have a son." Then, in a lower voice, and much less composed, he said once again, "I have a son."

Aramis grasped the back of d'Artagnan's neck and said, "Are you alright?"

D'Artagnan pushed himself upright, inhaled deeply, and then exhaled slowly. "I will be."

Porthos snickered, proudly pushed his shoulders back, and said, "I'll make a good uncle." He slapped his chest. "The boy will need someone to teach 'im 'ow to fight." He then glanced in the direction of the garrison's entry. He wanted to find Alice, but he wanted to stay. Conflicted, he cleared his throat and looked at Aramis, who cocked an eyebrow.

"Go," Aramis said, "Before you burst your heart."

Porthos nodded. He looked once more at d'Artagnan and then toward the door where Constance had entered, at the men who stood around watching, and then at Aramis, who knew what needed to be done. Porthos grasped his sword to keep it from swinging at his side, turned, and then jogged toward the streets of Paris.

"See to your wife and son, d'Artagnan," Aramis said and pushed him forward.