TWELVE

It was mid-morning of the following day when Porthos entered the drawing room and looked around at those present. He had apparently been searching for Philippe, for his expression lit up like a beacon when he saw him. "Ah! There you are!"

Seated on the far side of the table, Philippe looked up from the parchment he was studying. Aramis had provided him with a document written in Louis' handwriting, so that the younger twin might work on duplicating his brother's style of script. A sheet of blank parchment and a quill allowed him to practice the lettering unique to the king. D'Artagnan had expressed interest in the document and how Aramis had obtained it, but it was nothing covert, merely a simple letter of summons requesting the presence of the priest at the palace, and had been issued almost a year prior. The only surprise was that Aramis had retained it after all this time.

Porthos walked past D'Artagnan, stumbling rather forcefully against the back of his chair before recovering. The Musketeer looked up with concern, detecting a distinct whiff of ale as he passed. Looking closer, he noticed that Porthos's face was flushed and his eyes were bloodshot. Apparently, he had chased away last night's hangover with a mug of ale.

He was carrying a musket pistol, a powder horn, and a pouch of musket balls, which he proudly displayed for the young man to see. "Athos has been showing you the sword, but now, it is time you learn to shoot!" he announced in a rather loud and boisterous voice. "Louis likes to hunt, so you must know how to shoot a musket with some accuracy."

After an early morning workout with the sword, the tired young man was less enthusiastic about this lesson, and he cast a fatigued glance at his father, as if imploring him to intervene.

D'Artagnan glanced at Aramis, who had turned around from the desk at his friend's rather animated announcement. "Must it be right now?" the priest asked. "If he is to pass as Louis, he must also learn to write in a manner similar to his brother's."

"He can do that in the evening, when it is too dark to do more important things," Porthos replied.

"Learning to write like the king is very important," Aramis retorted. "A sudden change in handwriting will surely be noticed."

Porthos cast Aramis's concerns away with a wave of his hand. "Later. Right now, he will learn to shoot!"

Philippe looked at Aramis for instruction, and the priest finally nodded his consent. "I suppose it doesn't matter which lesson he is getting, as long as he is working toward the eventual goal," he mused. "Very well, since you are so insistent. Philippe, you can work on the handwriting this evening."

Philippe's sigh was loud in the quiet room, but he had promised to work hard, so he merely nodded his acceptance and stood up. His fatigue was apparent to everyone in the room, with the exception of Porthos, but he knew it should not require a great deal of physical activity to stand and shoot.

"I have spent the morning setting up targets to shoot at outside the wall, so let us be off!" Porthos said, still speaking loudly. He made a beckoning gesture, urging the boy to hurry. "Come, lad! We have much to do," he said, reiterating the words that Aramis used so frequently.

Philippe followed him outside once again, but the other three men noticed the distinct slump to his shoulders as he walked.

Satisfied that Philippe was willingly making up the time he had lost over the past few days, Aramis returned to his paperwork. D'Artagnan, however, gazed at the door through which his son had just passed with a troubled expression on his face. It was not his intention to interfere in any of Philippe's training, but he could not suppress the feelings of parental protectiveness that had surfaced, and Porthos's conduct was disturbing him.

"Has he been drinking?" he asked, speaking to no one in particular.

"He smells like he fell into a vat of ale," Athos agreed, the first civil words he had spoken to the Musketeer since his arrival. In spite of the tension that existed between them, they were both apparently united in this one thought, for they held the other's gaze for a long moment, and it was apparent that both were concerned.

After several moments of deliberation, D'Artagnan stood up and strode toward the door.

Aramis looked up, surprised. "You're not going with them, are you? Did you not say that your presence was a distraction for him during yesterday's lesson with the sword?"

"This is different," he replied, stopping at the door to look back at him. "Athos was sober, Porthos is not. He is drunk and carrying a pistol. Do you really think that I could sit here and leave my son alone with him?"

"Porthos is a better shot drunk than most men are sober," Aramis reminded him, exhibiting no concern for the boy's safety.

"I know that, and ordinarily I would trust him with my life." He paused briefly. "But I do not trust him with Philippe's life; not when he's drunk. His drinking is getting to be a serious problem, Aramis," he added with conviction.

"I know," the priest sighed, regretfully, laying his quill down on the desktop. He leaned back in his chair. "I have tried talking to him, but nothing I say seems to have any influence on him."

"Then I must do it," the Musketeer said, firmly.

"Gently, D'Artagnan," Aramis insisted. "Porthos's state of mind is very fragile right now. The wrong words could push him over the edge. He used a rope the first time; he may use the pistol next time, and if that happens ---"

"I will not be cruel to him," D'Artagnan promised, "but I will not allow him or anyone else to harm my son." He stopped abruptly, carefully considering the words he had just spoken. They were hauntingly similar to the words Athos had spoken shortly before Raoul had been killed. His gaze rested briefly on Athos, observing that his old friend had recognized the similarity. He tipped his head in a slight nod of acknowledgement, an understanding between fathers, then strode out the door.

Aramis was shaking his head with apparent disapproval. "I really do not understand all this fuss," he said to Athos. "Porthos is an outstanding marksman and a good friend. He would never do anything to harm Philippe."

"Not intentionally," Athos replied. "You are much too careless with the lives of others. D'Artagnan is right. In Porthos's state of mind, he is a danger to himself and everyone around him. He should be watched."

"Watching him will only make him think we do not trust him. That could be very upsetting to him."

"Look, I care for Porthos as much as you do, Aramis, but alcohol and weapons are a dangerous mix. How do you think Porthos would feel if he accidentally caused harm to Philippe? He's already been suicidal over less important things. I don't think he would ever recover from something like that."

"Well, even though I disagree on this point, it is nice to see that you and D'Artagnan agree on something for a change. The tension between the two of you is getting on my nerves."

Athos stared at the priest for several moments as the irrational anger began to rise in him again. "Is it always about you?" he raged. "The world doesn't revolve around you, Aramis." Still glaring over his shoulder, he strode from the room and stomped up the stairs. A moment later, his bedroom door slammed.

Left alone in the drawing room again, Aramis stroked his forehead with his fingertips and sighed, heavily. "I never said it did," he said to the silent room.

Shaking his head, he picked up his quill and returned to his paperwork, the incident already forgotten in the face of more pressing matters.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

D'Artagnan had no idea what he was going to say as he walked down the road toward the high wall where Porthos had set up a series of targets at which to shoot, but he was terrified of the idea that Philippe might somehow be hurt during an accidental discharge. Muskets could be unpredictable, especially if loaded by a novice, and Porthos's judgment was clearly inhibited by alcohol.

As he approached the two of them, standing well back from the wall, he observed the targets that the former Musketeer had set up. Three in all, they were scarecrows borrowed from the fields. He could only wonder if they were being used with permission. Constructed of old discarded clothing stuffed with hay or grass, they made life-size, if not lifelike, figures at which to shoot. They were propped up against the wall, so that missed shots would be contained by the solid barrier, rather than risk a stray shot hitting a bystander.

Porthos was attempting to demonstrate the correct method of loading the pistol, but it was immediately clear that he was fumbling with unsteady hands. Philippe watched attentively, understanding that this was one of the more dangerous lessons he would have.

He looked up when he saw D'Artagnan approaching, and the Musketeer thought he saw a look of relief on the boy's face at his presence.

The round lead ball that Porthos was attempting to place inside the barrel of the pistol slipped from his fingers and dropped into the grass at his feet. He took a step back and bent over at the waist, his eyes scanning the ground for the lost lead. As a result of his inebriation, he was unable to maintain his balance in that position, and he felt himself tipping forward. He took a quick step forward to catch himself, and Philippe's hand shot out to grasp his arm in an effort to steady him. Porthos straightened himself upright again and shook his head to clear the buzzing in his ears.

Philippe cast another helpless glance at D'Artagnan, then knelt down and retrieved the ball that was nestled in the grass. He stood up again and extended it toward Porthos.

Porthos took the ball between his thumb and forefinger, and looked at it through glassy eyes, an uneasy expression on his face. "Try not to drop it," he advised, gloomily. "If this had been a life or death situation, I would be dead right now, or my comrades would be if I had been defending them." The knowledge of this fact seemed to unsettle him, and that palpable veil of depression settled over him again. "I think perhaps I am not the one who should be teaching you this. I fear I will only get you killed."

D'Artagnan glanced away, briefly, feeling a great deal of sympathy for his old friend, then he stepped forward to intervene. "How is the lesson going?" he asked, cheerfully.

Porthos looked up, despondently. "Not very well, D'Artagnan," he admitted in a distracted manner. "I am afraid I am no longer useful to anyone." He shoved the pistol and its accoutrements into the Musketeer's startled hands so roughly that D'Artagnan was forced to take a step backward to retain his balance. "Perhaps it would be better for all if you took over."

"Porthos, I –"

"I will just go back to the house and stay out of the way." Porthos pushed his way past him and started walking rather unsteadily back toward the village, leaving the other two gazing after him.

D'Artagnan shook his head with regret. "He reeks of ale."

"I smelled it too," Philippe said. "I'm worried about him, Father. He tried to kill himself a few nights ago."

"I know. Aramis told me."

"Do you think he will try it again?"

"I don't know. Aramis doesn't seem to think so, but in spite of his divine calling, Aramis is sometimes a bit too unconcerned about other people's feelings." He glanced down at the pistol in his hands. "At least I am in possession of his musket," he added. "I think we should save this lesson for another time."

Philippe nodded his agreement, and they began walking back toward the village. "I feel badly for him," the young man said with regret. "He wants so much to be useful, to help me learn something, anything, but he fails at everything he tries. How did he ever become a Musketeer?"

"He was not like this when he was young. In the old days, he was one of the best. I mean that. He could shoot a fly off the ear of a sow without so much a nicking the sow. Tell me, has he been drinking the entire time you've been in this village?"

"Pretty much. He has some days where he is less drunk than others, but I don't think I've seem him completely sober since the first day we arrived." He observed the pensive expression on his father's face, and knew immediately that he was mulling something over in his mind. "What are you thinking?"

"I think I know what is causing his problems."

"What?"

"The very thing he is using to escape from his problems. I believe it is time for a serious discussion with Porthos."

Still carrying the musket and its accoutrements, D'Artagnan entered the village with Philippe. As they reached the door to the house, D'Artagnan stopped his son.

"I think it best that I speak with him alone."

"All right." He gestured toward the weapon and its accessories. "I will take those upstairs and put them in his room."

"No. For now, I think it is best to put them in my room," D'Artagnan instructed as he turned the items over to him, and they entered the house. "I would rather keep them in my possession until he is feeling better." Philippe proceeded directly to the staircase, while D'Artagnan sought out his friend.

He found Porthos in the kitchen, seated at the table with a melancholy expression on his face. The retired Musketeer had poured himself a mug of wine, and was leaning over it, gazing into it. He glanced up when D'Artagnan entered, then returned his eyes to his drink.

D'Artagnan clapped his friend on the shoulder. "Angelina and her sisters will be coming in soon to start supper. They may run you out of here for being in the way!"

Porthos shrugged, dejectedly. "Yes, that is certainly possible. Getting in the way is what I do best these days."

"That isn't what I meant," D'Artagnan objected, realizing suddenly that he had said the wrong thing. Aramis had warned him of that. He would have to be more careful how he phrased his comments.

"You have been a good friend, D'Artagnan, but you do not have to try to make me feel better. A man knows when he has become useless. I am long past that point."

"You are not useless, Porthos."

"I could not even load the pistol!" He looked at his hands, spread before him and squinted his eyes at them, as if he had trouble seeing them. "I could not grip the musket ball firmly enough to accomplish even that small task. I could barely feel the lead between my fingers. It is only one task in a long line of failed attempts to do something helpful. And one more day in a long line of useless days in which there is nothing to look forward to except eventual death."

D'Artagnan pulled out a chair and sat down. "What has happened to you, Porthos?" he asked. 'I have never seen you like this."

"What has happened? I am getting old; that is what has happened."

"We are all getting older," D'Artagnan reminded him. "Myself included."

"Yes, but you are still young."

At this, D'Artagnan could not help but smile. "I am not that many years younger than you, Porthos."

"No, but you have considerable more years than I do, and that is enough to consider you young."

"Not one of us knows how many years we have left," D'Artagnan reminded him. "I may die before you."

"If you die before me, then you will probably die respectably in action, as I had always hoped to do. No, I will die a tired old man in bed." He sighed, heavily. "Where I am useless, anyway."

D'Artagnan gazed at him for a long moment, detecting something significant in the older man's choice of words. "I get the distinct feeling that you have changed the subject on me," he said.

Porthos nodded slowly, shamefully. "It is true. I will admit it. I am useless in everything, even in bed. Especially in bed. Recently, it has taken more than one woman to get me excited enough to respond to activity of that sort. Now, not even the beautiful Angelina and her two sisters will motivate me." He sighed again, visibly discouraged. "I have become impotent, D'Artagnan. There, I have disclosed to you my worst nightmare and my greatest shame. Laugh at me if you will. I do not care anymore."

"I am not laughing, Porthos."

He glanced at the Musketeer to confirm that there was no hint of ridicule on his face, and felt relieved by his seriousness. "No, you are not laughing. I thank you for that."

He lifted his mug of wine to take a drink, but D'Artagnan placed his hand on it, stopping him. Porthos looked at him, and for a moment a fire of defiance flamed in his eyes, then it faded into submission, and he allowed the Musketeer to force the mug back down to the table.

"Do not deny me the only thing I have left that gives me pleasure, D'Artagnan," he pleaded.

"Did it ever occur to you that this thing that gives you pleasure might also be the source of your problem?" he asked.

"What do you mean?" Porthos challenged. "It is the only thing that gives me relief from my problem."

"There is no lasting relief from being drunk. I have watched you these past few days, and I see nothing that suggests to me that you are finding any relief from drinking. It seems to me that it is only making you more and more depressed."

"I am already depressed when I start drinking, D'Artagnan."

"How can you tell? You have been drinking almost nonstop since I arrived," the Musketeer retorted. "Just think about it for a moment. You say you drink because you are depressed. Tell me, what does the wine and ale do for you?"

Porthos shrugged. "It relaxes me, and when I am drunk it helps me forget that I am a worthless old failure at everything I try to do. I am too old to play these games, D'Artagnan. If you have something to say, just say it and be done with it."

"You are not that old, and this is not a game. Anything that affects you so adversely could never be considered a game. Wine and ale does relax you, as you said, but it does not appear to me that you have forgotten your troubles."

Porthos shrugged and looked away, refusing to admit that his problems were still foremost in his mind, even when he drank.

"I have seen this happen before," D'Artagnan continued. "If you drink enough wine and ale, it weakens you. It numbs your senses, slows your reaction to things. It can make you feel happy, but it can also make you feel sad and worthless, even suicidal. Those are serious problems. Looking at you now, I can see that you are very depressed." He grasped his friend's wrist to gain his full attention. "Porthos, it is my belief that your impotence is being caused by the drink."

The implication soaked in slowly as he mulled over D'Artagnan's words. "Slows reaction," he mused. "Numbs the senses." He twisted the ends of his mustache between his thumb and forefinger, pondering the significance of that statement with a mind that was still fogged from drink. "You may be right, D'Artagnan. I had not thought of that."

"Allow me to put forth a scenario for you. You drink; you discover that you have some problems, so in an effort to forget those problems, you drink a little more. The problems then get worse, so you drink even more. Is that a pretty accurate description of what has been happening with you?"

Porthos nodded, slowly. "Yes, it is." Hope found its way into his eyes. "Do you think?" he asked. "Do you really think that I might improve?"

"There is only one way to find out. Eliminate the wine and ale for a few weeks and see what happens."

"Weeks?" Porthos bowed his head to look into his mug, studying the liquid that he loved. "That will be difficult," he lamented. "It has been my best friend for a long time, now."

"I know. But I guess you have to decide which is more important to you: the wine or the women and the pleasure that they bring you."

He stared long and hard into the mug, as if weighing the importance of both, then he stood up and tossed the contents of the mug out the door, watching with a feeling of regret as the liquid arched into the air and splattered on the hard ground. "Such a waste," he muttered. "Still, I will give it a try," he announced, slamming the empty mug down on the countertop with forceful determination.

"Give what a try?" asked Aramis as he stepped into the kitchen.

"You are about to see a new Porthos," he replied, feeling more excited about his future than he had in months. "I am giving up drinking for a while."

"That will be the day," Aramis scoffed.

"I think he means it," D'Aragnan said, offering moral support to his old friend.

"Of course I mean it!" Porthos said with motivation. "You will see, Aramis! You will see!"

With that declaration, he strode from the room, his shoulder glancing off the door jamb. He backed up to look at the door jamb, as if surprised that it was there, then successfully stumbled through the door.

Aramis turned to D'Artagnan with an amused expression. "He is so drunk he can barely walk!"

"It is my hope that that will change."

"Well, I hope you are right about that. Obviously, the shooting lesson did not go as planned?"

"No. He was unable to load the weapon, and decided that he is useless in that as well. I talked to him and tried to point out that the drink may be the source of his problems."

"When he sobers, he may not even remember this newly found determination. Do you really think he can give up the drink? It has been a way of life for him ever since his wife died."

"That long?" D'Artagnan asked with surprise. "I had no idea."

"Well, we haven't seen much of you the past few years," Aramis reminded him. "Athos either, for that matter. We seem to have drifted apart, something I never thought could happen."

The two men fell silent, thinking about that.

"When did it start to happen?" D'Artagnan wondered, genuinely puzzled by revelation that the four Inseparables could ever drift apart. "When did we start losing touch with one another?"

"I guess when we started to retire from the Musketeers. You were still in the service, but I became a priest and had my own duties. Athos had Raoul to devote his time and attention to. And Porthos had his wife. Still, we should have met for dinner once a week, or something, just to stay in touch."

"We will plan on that, this time," D'Artagnan said.

"We will do better than that," Aramis reminded him. "With Philippe on the throne, the three of us will be joining you at the palace quite frequently as his advisors. We will see each other often."

"I look forward to it." D'Artagnan paused for a long moment, his thoughts becoming more melancholy as he thought of Louis, the son who was being deposed in favor of the other son. Seeking the answer to the question about his older son's fate, he began, "Aramis, I was wondering –"

Philippe entered the room at that moment. "I put Porthos's things in your room as you asked," he said, then stopped, noticing his father's serious expression. "I'm sorry. Did I come in at a bad time?"

"No," Aramis said. "We were just talking about how we will all be together at the palace when you take the throne."

"If I take the throne," the young man reminded him.

"I don't suppose you have an answer for us yet on that matter," Aramis said.

Philippe glanced at D'Artagnan, who gave a slight nod of encouragement. "Not yet. When I am ready, I will tell you."

Aramis was visibly disappointed. "Very well. In the meantime, it is important that we get back to work. Since the shooting lesson did not go well, I suggest we return to the drawing room and work on your handwriting some more. After lunch, we will work on your posture. You still have a problem with slouching."

Philippe glanced at D'Artagnan and shrugged, then started to follow the priest.

"Philippe," D'Artagnan said, stopping him in the doorway. "I checked on the horse this morning, and the swelling is completely gone now. We will begin the riding lessons tomorrow afternoon."

Philippe's face brightened, and on that happier note he smiled with the anticipation of his riding lessons as he followed Aramis into the drawing room.

Left behind in the kitchen, D'Artagnan's thoughts returned to Louis. Philippe had entered at an inconvenient moment, stopping him from asking the question he had been dreading to ask. Still seated at the table, he stroked his mustache with his thumb as he pondered the possible things that Aramis could have in mind for Louis, but it was easy to deduce that Louis would have to be hidden away from the public, where no one would ever see his face again. That narrowed the possibilities considerably, and left him feeling disheartened, for he knew that Aramis intended that Louis would suffer the same fate he had placed upon his twin brother.