Author's note: I took a few liberties in this chapter when Philippe tells D'Artagnan of his upbringing, but I tried to keep it within the context of what could have happened. The movie was quite abstract on this point, offering only a few hints that gave me some ideas to pursue. This is not my favorite chapter, but I felt I needed to cover some of these details. The next chapter will be better.
SEVEN
Upon rising from the table, the men returned to the drawing room while Angelina cleaned up the kitchen. Aramis sat at the desk beneath the window where the light was good, working up a schedule of things they needed to teach Philippe and who would conduct each lesson. Athos sat down on his bench against the wall and sharpened the blade of his favorite dagger, slowly and methodically stroking the long slender blade with the whetstone. Porthos, with nothing useful to do, sipped on a mug of ale for a while, and then dozed in his chair.
D'Artagnan and Philippe sat at the end of the table together with the intention of going over some of Louis' expressions and mannerisms, but both of them found it difficult to keep their attention on the lessons, and they frequently detoured onto more personal matters.
They spoke quietly, so quietly that Aramis could not hear what was being said, but he knew that they were getting very little accomplished in the way of preparing Philippe for his ascension to the throne. He cast an occasional glance at them, observing them as they sat at the far end of the table, father and son, getting acquainted with one another after a lifetime of separation, but in spite of his anxiety to complete the training process, he could not bring himself to spoil their time together.
A knock on the door jolted Aramis out of his thoughts, and he rose from the desk to lean out the open window to see the identity of their visitor. "Ah, Doctor Bonniere! Come on inside," he beckoned. Withdrawing his head from the window, he turned to D'Artagnan and said, "It is the physician who tended to you yesterday."
The priest left the desk and met the doctor at the door to the drawing room, offering his hand, which the doctor grasped in a friendly handshake.
"I just dropped by to look in on my patient," the doctor said. "How is he feeling today?"
Gesturing toward the out-of-uniform Musketeer, Aramis said, "As you can see, he is up and about today."
D'Artagnan rose from the table to meet the physician who had cared for his head wound the day before. He was a slightly portly man of average height, probably a few years older than Athos, but with a round jolly face and twinkling eyes.
The doctor looked pleased to see his patient on his feet. Stepping forward, he shook the Musketeer's hand, vigorously. "Excellent, Captain, excellent! I don't often get to see famous patients, tucked away in this humble little borough. Aside from delivering babies, farming accidents are my primary cases." He chuckled. "I understand that you came from a farming family as well, so I am sure that you are familiar with such things."
D'Artagnan smiled. "Farming accidents, or delivering babies?"
The doctor chuckled. "I am pleased to see that your sense of humor is intact. However, I was a bit concerned about you. You were unconscious longer than I would have liked. Aramis came by last evening to let me know that you had awakened, but we must make certain that there are no complications. That was quite a hard blow you took. In fact, you probably should have stayed in bed for a few days to rest."
D'Artagnan shrugged. "I'm afraid I am unaccustomed to lying around in bed, Doctor. I was up at dawn, as I usually am."
"I can appreciate that, Captain. A man in your profession must be kept very busy indeed."
D'Artagnan did not fail to catch the trace of sarcasm in the doctor's voice, and knew that it was a reference to his primary task of looking out for Louis. The doctor was obviously another Jesuit who despised the king that the Musketeer had sworn to defend.
"Still, you do not want to overexert yourself so soon after being injured," the physician continued, resuming the pleasant tone he had used before. "Even if you refuse to stay in bed, I do expect you to take it easy for a few days. So, how are you feeling? Are you experiencing any dizziness? Any blackouts?"
"Some dizziness last night, but none today."
"The dizziness was worse than he is admitting," Aramis spoke up. "I was going into his room yesterday evening when he tried to get up, and I saw him fall against the bedside table. Quite hard, if you must know. I feared he might have caused himself additional injury." He cast a quick, accusing glance at Athos.
The whetstone paused briefly on the blade before continuing, indication that the retired Musketeer was listening to the conversation and perhaps experienced a twinge of guilt, but he did not look at either the priest or the man he had struck.
"There has been none today?" the doctor inquired with concern. "Not even when you first got up?"
"No," D'Artagnan answered.
"That is good. Any nausea?"
"Rather severe nausea when I first woke up yesterday, but it went away after a few hours."
"What about headaches? Have you suffered any headaches since you awakened?"
"I had a very bad headache yesterday, but none today." He shrugged. "Well, I had a little bit of a headache this morning, but it went away." He glanced at Philippe, and a knowing smile passed between them, sharing a moment of private humor.
"Sit down and let me have a look at it," Bonniere ordered.
D'Artagnan sat down in his chair again and leaned forward, folding his arms on the table and waited for the doctor to instigate the examination.
The physician placed his satchel on the table then leaned over and with deft fingers parted the hair behind the Musketeer's ear to expose the injury to his experienced eyes. Shaking his head slowly, he clucked his tongue with a pensive frown as he examined the angry looking wound. "That looks very painful," he said, pressing his finger against the swelling, noting the black and blue tint of the normally white skin.
D'Artagnan flinched and grimaced, pulling away from the doctor's touch. "Yes, it is," he said, resisting the urge to swat away the offending fingers that continued to probe and prod at the wound with relentless persistence. His brows knitted together in a very annoyed frown, and following one particularly painful probe, he jerked his head back. "Ouch!"
"My apologies, Captain." The doctor said calmly, but he made no move to resume his examination, understanding that the Musketeer would not tolerate any more prodding on the painful injury. "I know that hurt, but it was necessary to see if I could feel any fractures. I am happy to say that I did not feel any."
D'Artagnan gave him a reproachful look that plainly said he did not believe the doctor was sorry at all, but he refrained from speaking the rude remark that was on the tip of his tongue. After all, the man was just doing his job. He hoped that was the end of the examination, and felt a twinge of annoyance when he realized it was not.
The physician turned to the priest: "Father Aramis, would you light one of those candles and bring it to me, please?"
Aramis picked up a candle and took it to the kitchen, where he inserted it to the fire in the hearth until it ignited. Then he brought it back to the drawing room and passed it to the physician.
"Look up at me," Bonniere instructed.
D'Artagnan did as directed, focusing his gaze on the end of the doctor's rather bulbous nose while the physician held the candle in front of each eye, starting with the left and then moving to the right, looking carefully into his eyes. Occasionally, he placed his hand between D'Artagnan and the flame for a moment and then withdrew it, his intense gaze never leaving the Musketeer's eyes.
Aramis leaned close to watch with the curiosity of a cat. "What does that do?" he asked.
"I'm just checking the reaction of his pupils in response to the light. You see, the pupil should expand in low light, and retract in bright light, and the transition between them should be quick and smooth . . . as his appear to be," he added with satisfaction.
"And what would it mean if they weren't?"
"Then it could have meant that there was some sort of lingering brain injury. But everything seems all right," he added. He blew out the candle and set it down on the table. "You were very lucky this time, Captain. I think you will make a complete recovery, but the results of a blow that hard could have been much, much worse. You must be careful not to re-injure yourself, or there could be dire consequences. I have heard that you Musketeers are a tough lot."
"Good thing, too," Aramis stated, meaningfully. "This incident could have ended tragically."
"It certainly could have," the doctor agreed. He picked up his satchel and draped it over his arm. "Summon me at once if you experience any changes in vision, or if you start developing headaches or any other adverse symptoms."
"I will," D'Artagnan said. "What do I owe you for your services?"
The doctor waved him away in a friendly manner. It was my pleasure."
"I insist. You must let me pay you."
"I would be offended, Captain. I consider it an honor to treat a man of your reputation."
D'Artagnan gave a single nod of acknowledgement. "Then I give you my thanks."
"That I can accept," he replied with a smile.
While Aramis escorted the physician to the door, Philippe sat quietly for a long time, deep in thought. After a while, he said, "If you had died because of this injury, I never would have known that you are my father. Of all the cruelties that have been done to me, that would have been the cruelest of all."
Still seated on his bench, Athos's whetstone abruptly stopped at the center of his blade as the full impact of his actions and of Philippe's words struck him with more regret than he had ever felt; regret that he could have been the cause of Philippe never knowing his own paternity.
Laying aside the stone, he slipped the dagger back into the sheath he carried at his waist, then pressed his fingertips against his forehead and shifted his gaze to the window, gazing out at the sunny landscape, deep in thought.
D'Artagnan and Philippe quietly returned to their lesson, and after seeing the doctor outside, Aramis returned to the drawing room. As he passed Porthos, he paused to cast a lingering glance at his snoring friend who continued his ale-induced sleep, unaware that they had even had a visitor.
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Shortly after lunch, D'Artagnan slipped between the rails of the paddock and approached the black gelding. Philippe did not enter the paddock, but watched from the railing as his father caught the horse, then led it to the paddock fence, where he tied it securely to one of the posts to immobilize it.
With a skilled eye, he carefully examined each of the long black legs, checking them for soundness. Only one appeared to be problematic.
Squatting down beside the left foreleg, he cupped his hands around the swollen fetlock, appraising the degree of heat that lingered in the puffy flesh beneath the dense black hair.
"Damn it," he muttered.
Philippe knew that the quiet expletive indicated unfavorable news. Bending at the waist, he folded his arms on the center rail and leaned between it and the top rail for a closer look, but his untrained eye noticed very little in regard to the horse's condition. "Is it bad?" he asked.
"The other three legs seem all right, but there is still a lot of fever in the joint on the left front. I had hoped it would subside during the day, but if anything the heat and swelling is getting worse."
Curious about the young human who leaned into the paddock almost under its neck, the black horse nuzzled his long hair playfully and tickled his cheek with its whiskers. Philippe withdrew from between the rails and stood up straight again, smiling as he stroked the velvety muzzle. "Can anything be done for him?"
"I need to bring the fever and swelling down." He paused briefly to determine his course of action. Back at the Musketeers' stable, a bucket of cool water would be used, but here there were other options. "Open the gate. I'll take him down to the river and soak the leg in the water for a while. That should help."
Philippe unlatched the gate and pulled it open. D'Artagnan untied the lead rope from the railing and led the horse out, turning toward the river. Philippe quickly latched the gate again and trotted after them to catch up, falling in on the other side of the horse as they walked down the road toward the bridge.
As it plodded along beside him, bobbing its head up and down as it walked and swishing its long tail back and forth over its flanks, the Musketeer observed that the horse's stride remained long and casual, with no indication of a limp.
"He doesn't appear to be in any discomfort," D'Artagnan commented. "That is a good sign."
"What does the water do for it?" the boy asked, curiously.
"It isn't the water in itself. It is the coolness of it. It will sooth the swelling and reduce the heat."
"What happens if it doesn't?"
D'Artagnan shrugged, searching for a comparison that Philippe would understand. "The fetlock is similar to your own ankle. It can become bruised or sprained with overuse, and I am afraid my hard ride yesterday has caused a serious strain on the joints and ligaments."
Philippe continued to look worried. Walking alongside, he reached out to pat the horse's arched neck, stroking the warmth beneath the long, course mane. "I hope he will be all right. It would be a shame to lose such a magnificent animal."
D'Artagnan smiled. "I have no intention of losing him, Philippe, so don't worry. He will be fine. Everyone has different degrees of healing ability, and horses are no different. It just may take some time to heal."
As they neared the bridge, D'Artagnan led the horse off the road and down the gently sloping ground toward the river. At the edge, he hesitated, reluctant to step into the water in his leather boots. Afterward, they would have to be carefully oiled to prevent the leather from drying and becoming brittle. There were no rocks on which he could walk or stand, and the horse would not likely enter the water without being coaxed.
Philippe instantly understood his father's hesitancy, for the shiny black boots with the turned-down cuffs at the top looked very expensive. "Let me do it," he offered. Without waiting for a response, he dropped down on the bank and began pulling off his shoes and knee stockings. His breeches reached just below his knees, leaving him barelegged from that point down.
D'Artagnan only hesitated briefly, reluctant to expect his son to tend to the horse, but made no comment, accepting the boy's eagerness, to help. When Philippe was ready, he stood up with the agility of youth and reached for the lead rope, which the Musketeer handed over to him with a teasing smile. "Don't let him step on your foot!"
Carefully, Philippe waded into the shallow water at the river's edge, and he felt the gooseflesh rise on his skin in reaction to it. "It's cool," he said.
"Good. That's what we want," D'Artagnan replied.
Philippe took another step forward as his skin adjusted to the cooler temperature of the water. The soft sandy bottom of the river bed squished between his toes and the sunshine sparkled on the rippling surface, bringing back pleasant memories of his youth when the priest had allowed him to wade in the pond near the house in which he was raised. Tiny minnows swarmed about his ankles, nibbling at the hairs on his legs. When he felt tension on the lead rope, he turned back toward the horse, which had stopped at the edge.
The gelding pricked its ears and lowered its head to look at the water, reluctant to enter it, but Philippe maintained a firm grip on the rope and gently coaxed the injured animal until it submitted to his will and stepped tentatively into the shallow water.
"You don't have to go deep," D'Artagnan explained. "Just so that it is over the fetlock."
Standing shin-deep in the water, the horse lowered its head and drank deeply, then, when its thirst was satisfied, it moved its muzzle forward and back to splash in the water, playing like a foal.
"He's so beautiful," Philippe said. "I haven't been around horses much, but I've always admired them. He's one of the most handsome I've ever seen. He's black as coal, without a white hair on him anywhere."
"We're very selective about the quality of horses accepted into the service," D'Artagnan explained. "Not so much because of color, but for confirmation and stamina. I can personally vouch for the stamina of this animal. A swollen fetlock is minor compared to what I was afraid would happen on yesterday's hard ride. I feared I would break him down completely, and find myself on foot."
The horse lifted its head from the water and tossed its long, heavy mane, shaking water from its muzzle. Philippe stepped back to avoid being splattered on his clean shirt and smiled happily.
D'Artagnan watched from the bank, observing his son with the fascination of a man who, until that very morning, had been unaware that the boy even existed. He had heard of similar things happening to other men, of unknown children turning up years after a relationship with the mother, but he had never expected that it would happen to him. He had lived at the palace every day since Philippe's birth, and never once had the queen mother given him any indication that he existed.
"Where did you live before you were taken to the prison?" he asked, breaking the silence that had settled over them.
Philippe looked up, his easy smile coming once again to his lips. "In a small cottage in the country. I don't even know where, if you must know the truth. I was never told anything. I was a baby when I was taken there, and I was hooded when I was taken away."
"Who looked after you?"
"An old woman named Yvette and a priest, Father Laroque, but I had contact with no one else."
"No one at all?" D'Artagnan asked with surprise. "There was no one to play with as a child? No friends as you got older?"
"No. I was kept isolated from other people. I never had any friends. I never even saw anyone my own age, until I came here. I would sometimes see other people in the distance, but whenever that would happen, Father Laroque would order me inside the cottage. I don't think anyone in the village even knew that Yvette had someone living with her."
"And they did not think that you would find this strange? They never told you anything about why you were segregated from others?"
"Whenever I asked, they said it was for my own protection; that someone might do me harm if I was to be seen, but they never told me why, and I was discouraged rather strenuously from inquiring about it. Father Laroque would get very angry if I asked questions."
Several minutes of silence followed while D'Artagnan absorbed the information regarding his son's unusual upbringing. Of course, he knew that Aramis would have informed the priest about the necessity of keeping the boy's identity secret, but he had never imagined the degree to which they had kept him isolated.
During this time, Philippe could not keep his hands off the horse. He stroked its neck, patted its shoulder, and entwined his fingers in its long mane, all of it done with an expression of rapture on his face.
D'Artagnan watched with a subtle smile, pleased that his son possessed the same love of horses that he had always felt. "There were no farm horses at the cottage where you lived?"
"No. The cottage belonged to Yvette. She was a widow. The priest lived at the church just outside the village, but I was never allowed to go there. He came to the cottage to minister to us and to educate me. He had a mule that he rode and which he used to till the garden plot for Yvette, but I was not allowed to ride it. I was only permitted to give it water sometimes. It was a surly beast; it bit my arm, once."
"All the time you lived with Yvette, you never left the property?"
"Not once. The farthest I was allowed to go was a pond where the priest sometimes took me fishing just to give me something different to do, but I was not permitted to go there on my own." He averted his eyes, recalling a particularly unpleasant experience. "I was severely punished for that, once, so I never did it again."
D'Artagnan glanced at him sharply, clearly displeased that his son was punished for simply walking to the pond, a typical boyhood activity, in his opinion.
Philippe saw the expression on his father's face, and instantly knew that D'Artagnan would have defended him had he been there, a fact which lifted his heart considerably. "I realize now that they feared someone might see the resemblance between Louis and me, but back then, all I knew was how lonely I was."
"How did you pass your time?"
"I had my lessons, which the priest was adamant that I study, even though I often wondered what good an education would do me if I was destined to spend my life on that farm. I also tended to the gardens, milked the cows, and sheared the sheep, which earned my keep for Yvette. She cooked my meals, made my clothes, washed my laundry and bandaged my cuts and scrapes." He paused, nodding his head affirmatively as he thought about the woman who had raised him. "She was good to me, and I think she was even fond of me. She wept when I was taken away."
"And it was Aramis who took you to the prison?"
"He told me the other day that it was him, but I never saw his face. A hood was placed over my head until I was put into the mask. I thought it was to prevent me from seeing where they were taking me, but later, I realized that it had something to do with my face. That is why they went to such great lengths to keep me hidden. I don't hold it against Aramis," he said after a brief pause. "I know he was just following orders. The blame lies with my brother."
"It seems there are a lot of people who will have much to answer for in their final judgment," D'Artagnan said, quietly. "I regret that you had to suffer so."
"Athos says that it is up to me whether my experience makes me a better man for it, or if I allow it to make me bitter. I hope for the former."
"Athos is right. But it is not only our experiences that determine our value. It is how we respond to them, what we learn from them, and the choices we make. I have known you for such a short time, but from what I have seen, I would say that your reactions to the things that have been done to you will not only make you a better man, but a great one."
Philippe looked up at him from the water, his eyes shining happily as if basking in his father's praise. Then, he shifted his attention back to the black gelding.
"If you want him, he is yours," D'Artagnan offered. "Every man must have a good mount."
Philippe looked startled, for no one had ever offered him such a wonderful gift. "No, I could not take your horse."
"He does not belong to me, actually. I ride a gray stallion, but he is well known as mine and I did not wish to be recognized on this trip. I also feared he might not have the stamina to endure such a long, hard trip. He is not as young as he once was, so I left him at the stable and used this one. The black has not been assigned to anyone, so if you desire him, simply say the word. As king, you may have any horse you wish."
Philippe was clearly tempted to claim the horse as his own, but then remembered that he would be required to impersonate the king, who probably already had a favored horse. "What of Louis? What does he ride?"
"He prefers a white stallion of Arabian blood."
Philippe patted the black's finely arched neck, longingly. "If I decide to accept the throne, I suppose it would look suspicious to claim a second horse, when the king already has one."
"Not necessarily. Simply state that you like the looks of the animal, and that you wish him for yourself. No one questions the king. In fact, it might be a good idea to start with this one. Stallions can be a handful. We will work hard for the next couple of weeks, and even after we return to Paris, should you decide to become king, we can take rides together to work on your skills. After all, I am head of the king's bodyguards. No one will think it suspicious if we ride together. You will simply say that you wish to take some air."
The idea of riding with his father was extremely appealing, and Philippe applied this to the mental list of pros and cons as he weighed the possibility of accepting the highest office in the country. "I would like that very much," he said.
"So would I," D'Artagnan agreed with a smile. "All right, bring him back up on the bank," he instructed.
With a tug on the lead rope, Philippe waded back up to the bank and stepped onto the grass. The horse climbed up beside him, and immediately lowered its head and began cropping the grass.
D'Artagnan squatted down to stroke the horse's foreleg, sliding his hand down the shin to the fetlock, gently squeezing the puffy flesh. It was cool and wet from the water. "I expect to see a difference in the swelling by morning."
Philippe was bending over, his hands on his knees, watching. "I hope so."
He extended the rope toward the Musketeer, but D'Artagnan did not take it. "He's your horse; you can lead him if you wish."
Philippe grinned, happily. "Thank you."
"You're welcome."
While the horse continued to graze, Philippe sat down on the ground and put on his socks and shoes, then stood up and held the lead rope up off the ground so that the horse would not step on it as it moved slowly about, plucking the tender grass near the edge of the river.
D'Artagnan moved back against one of the trees, leaning against the rough trunk to watch as his son interacted with the horse. He was in no hurry to return to the house, preferring the one-on-one time with his son.
"If I accept the offer of becoming king and move into the palace, I suppose I won't be able to spend much time with him, will I?"
D'Artagnan shrugged. "That is up to you. As king, you may do what you wish. However, you must remember that Louis is not known for being sentimental, so you will have to work into it slowly. Let everyone think that Louis is mellowing. Just because you are king, you should not assume that life will have no meaning for you. You will still be able to enjoy many of the pleasures you are now."
"I have had few pleasures to enjoy, ever," Philippe reminded him.
They fell silent for a time, watching the horse graze, enjoying the cool shade and the other's company.
After a while, Philippe said, "Father?"
D'Artagnan looked up, startled, having never expected to hear himself called by that title.
Philippe noticed the man's visible surprise, and gave an apologetic shrug. "I know that if I go to Paris I must cease referring to you in that way, but I have never known what it was like to have a family. Here, in this place, I want to know you as my father."
"That would please me," D'Artagnan admitted, then added with a smile, "Just do not get too accustomed to it, for it would raise eyebrows if anyone outside our circle of friends should hear you refer to me as your father."
Philippe smiled. "Yes, I suppose it would. What I was wondering; maybe you and I could go fishing sometime before we have to go to Paris. I enjoyed it when I went with the priest. It would be more meaningful to do it with my father, since I hear it is something that fathers and sons do."
D'Artagnan was clearly tempted. "I don't suppose I have been fishing since I was a boy. And yes, it was my father who took me. We will make it a point to do so. And Angelina will cook what we catch."
Philippe grinned, knowingly. "Porthos likes her."
"That is rather obvious," D'Artagnan agreed. "He is constantly staring at her in ways that is very impolite when looking at a woman. Of course, it is obvious that she encourages it. Porthos likes women in general."
"When will we start the riding lessons?"
"Probably in the next couple of days. Athos wants to work with you on the sword tomorrow."
"Of all the lessons I've had over the past few days, learning to ride is the lesson I've looked forward to the most!"
"With a little luck, perhaps your own horse will be ready to ride by then."
"My own horse," Philippe repeated the words, hardly able to believe that it was true. "In the prison, I could never have imagined the wonderful things that would eventually come to me."
D'Artagnan shifted his eyes toward the tall stone walls of the village that loomed nearby. "How long have you been here, in this town?"
"Four days," Philippe replied. "I cannot even adequately express my relief to get out of that prison. It was stifling in the summer, freezing in the winter, and so oppressive that I could hardly breathe at times. I could not see the sky, except a tiny bit at the top of the ventilation shaft." He shuddered, remembering. "The filth and the stench were terrible. We were not permitted enough water to wash with. For six years, I could not even touch my own face."
D'Artagnan abruptly stepped forward and cradled his son's face in both his hands. Gently, he rubbed his thumbs over the fair skin, examining him carefully, feeling the soft, pliant skin beneath his fingers. Philippe stood very still, allowing the Musketeer to turn his face from side to side to examine him, and marveled that the gesture somehow seemed so appropriate; a father inspecting his son for injuries, and he felt great affection in his touch.
"You seem to have come through it with no blemishes or sores," D'Artagnan observed. "Your skin is as good as Louis'. Certainly better than I would have expected, considering what you have been through."
"I cannot explain it. I would have thought it would be the opposite, but perhaps the mask protected my face from the environment inside the prison. There was a small window on the door of my cell, and it was occasionally left open for airing. Through it, I could sometimes see some of the other prisoners, and many of them had open sores on their faces and their arms."
D'Artagnan's thumb lingered over the younger man's smooth cheek, and he smiled, as if amused by the softness of the skin. "Are you shaving yet?"
Philippe experienced a twinge of embarrassment. "When they removed the mask, I had some long thin hairs on my chin and along my jaw, but some of Aramis's helpers shaved it off for me. It was the first time a razor had ever touched my face. Athos showed me how to use it without cutting myself. It isn't growing very fast, though," he admitted.
D'Artagnan laughed amiably as he withdrew his hands. "You get that from me; my beard grows slowly, as well. It will come, in time, though."
As they stood facing one another, Philippe gazed into the eyes of his father, as if searching for something, and a pleased smile turned up the corners of his mouth as he found it. "They both had dark eyes, the priest and the old woman," he said. "Because I was isolated from everyone else, I didn't realize that eyes come in different colors." He shrugged, feeling embarrassed. "I know, that sounds silly, but I was just a child who did not know any better. I would look at my reflection and see my blue eyes and wonder if there was anyone else who had eyes like mine. And now, as I look at you, I see my eyes looking back at me through yours."
"They are my mother's eyes; your grandmother. I see much of her in you."
"I wish I could have known her."
"So do I."
After the few moments of extreme familiarity, D'Artagnan backed away again, and leaned back against his tree, watching as Philippe patted the horse, content for the moment with simply being in his son's company.