Sixteen
"He says he feels ill and is not sleeping well," Aramis informed the others as he pulled out his usual seat at the head of the table and sat down for breakfast. Porthos's chair was conspicuously empty, which had compelled the priest to go upstairs to check on him.
"I don't envy him the next few days," D'Artagnan said.
Aramis reached for the platter of bread. "Well, I wouldn't worry too much about it. I seriously doubt that he can accomplish this foolish notion of quitting the drink, anyway. It is a part of who he is, and the sooner we all accept that, the better."
"We have all enjoyed drinking over the years," Athos agreed, drawing a quick nod from Aramis, who assumed that he was backing him up. "However, Porthos's drinking has progressed far beyond excessive. We used to drink together to celebrate our victories or to drown our sorrows, but lately Porthos has been drinking from the moment he wakes up until the moment he goes to bed. I haven't seen him completely sober since we began this project."
"It is a way of life for him since the death of his wife," Aramis said, reiterating what he had told D'Artagnan a few days prior.
"Loneliness is probably the reason he started drinking," Athos said.
"Porthos isn't lonely!" Aramis scoffed. "He was saddened by the loss of his wife, as any man would be, but he has moved past that. He frequents a brothel in Paris, and I can attest to the fact that he spends a great deal of time there surrounded by women who are quite eager to satisfy all his wants and needs."
D'Artagnan looked up, arching his eyebrow curiously, wondering just how Aramis would be so certain of that fact, then decided he really did not want to know. Some things were best left alone. He caught a quick glance from Philippe, and realized that the same thought had crossed his mind.
"And then he goes back to his estate alone." Athos shook his head, slowly, regretfully. "We should never have drifted apart. We were friends for eternity, the Inseparables, and yet we allowed this separation to occur. If we had stayed closer, we would have seen this happening to him and perhaps been able to stop it before it reached this level. I never thought he could get in this bad of shape."
"I have kept in touch with Porthos, and before we came here I was seeing him nearly every week. It is certain that he loves his drink, but I just do not believe the difference in him is as dramatic as you seem to think."
"Perhaps you weren't looking. Aramis, he tried to kill himself a few weeks ago! You do not think that indicates a serious problem?"
Something flashed in Aramis's eyes at the accusation he believed he had heard in Athos's words; words that seemed to suggest that he had been inattentive to his friend's deterioration into the bottle. He looked back at him from the length of the long table, then shoved back his plate, irritably, and rested his elbow on the table as he stroked his mustache, but he did not respond verbally to the question.
Athos knew he had struck a nerve, and backed off. "What is done is done. But solving the problem is not easy," he continued, "and I am certain he is having a rough time of it. We must all be patient with him and offer whatever encouragement he needs to help him get through this."
"He will likely go through hell and back before this is over," D'Artagnan said.
"Which is exactly why he was doomed to failure before he even began," Aramis said, his tone of voice indicating that he was still offended. "Porthos does not tolerate discomfort well, and he enjoys his drinking too much to give it up. Now that he is experiencing some discomfort without it, it is only a matter of time before he gives up and seeks solace in the bottom of a bottle once again. Quite frankly, I am surprised he has lasted this long."
"You have so little faith in anything except yourself," Athos accused with a scowl of disapproval. "If that is how you intend to speak to him of it, then you are probably right. You tend to trivialize things too much, Aramis. Porthos can beat this, but he needs our support. Yours, especially, since you and he were always close."
"Athos is right," D'Artagnan agreed. "It is not easy to stop drinking, and things are going to get much worse before it gets better. He is going to become very, very sick, and if he fails, we will have to shoulder some of the responsibility for not helping him through it."
Athos nodded his agreement. "This is serious, Aramis. We need your help. Porthos needs your help."
Aramis sighed, clearly in disagreement, but finally shrugged. "I see you are both against me in this matter. He is complaining of a headache. I shall make him some of my herbal tea and see if that will help."
"Well, that is a start," Athos said. "But you are going to have to do a lot more than that. He needs you, not your tea! You must start offering support and encouragement instead of these remarks that ridicule his resolve. You are a priest! Do what you have been trained to do!"
Aramis's eyes darkened, feeling stung that they opposed him on this issue and that they apparently believed him derelict in his duty as a minister of the faith. "I am very much aware that I am a priest, Athos," he said, quietly.
"There are times when it is not an obvious fact," Athos retorted.
Aramis raised his hands as if in surrender. "Oh, very well. I shall put forth the effort to assist Porthos in this matter."
As soon as breakfast was over and Angelina and her sisters had completed the task of cleaning the kitchen, Aramis went to work making his foul tasting and foul smelling brew, which drove the other men into the drawing room to escape the odors. With outdoor activities postponed due to the rain that continued to patter on the roof, Philippe again went to work on his penmanship, learning to duplicate his brother's style of script.
The rain stopped mid-morning, and the sun finally came out to begin the task of drying the wet landscape.
Porthos failed to show up again for lunch, and again Aramis carried up a mug of his home-made pain reliever, but was dismayed to discover that Porthos had not drunk the first mug. He came back down the stairs, muttering to himself that his old friend was not cooperating.
In the middle of the afternoon, D'Artagnan walked out to the paddock to view the condition of the surface. To no great surprise, the soft wet soil was a sloppy, muddy mess. If used for the riding lesson, he knew the gelding would sink to its pasterns in the soft mud and it would not provide a pleasant surface on which to fall should Philippe be thrown.
Philippe came up behind his father while D'Artagnan was deliberating over the paddock, and his eyes fell upon the muddy surface, knowing that it did not bode well with his lesson. "Does this mean I will not get to ride today?" he asked.
"No. We have other options. Come, let us saddle your horse and we will commence with the lesson."
The two men went inside the stable and saddled and bridled the horse inside the stall, then, just as they were departing the stable, D'Artagnan returned to the tack room and found a long driving line. He then led the way outside the city walls with Philippe walking swiftly alongside with his horse.
When they found a suitable spot, D'Artagnan attached the driving line to the snaffle ring.
Philippe was watching, curiously. "What is that for?"
"Because you have only been on the horse's back the one time and lacking the confines of the paddock fence, I think it is best if we use some precautions. The horse may be feisty after the rain, and this will offer more control of him. I will explain as we go. First, mount up."
Philippe gathered his reins as he had been instructed the day before, and carefully mounted. He felt his sore muscles protest the movement, but except for a twitch of his cheek, he managed to maintain a neutral expression as he pulled himself successfully into the saddle.
"You are improving," D'Artagnan praised.
"I've been practicing, as you taught me."
"Are you a bit sore today?"
"More than a bit, I'm afraid," the boy said as he shifted position, trying to place less pressure on certain parts of the anatomy. "In places I would rather not mention!"
D'Artagnan laughed. "The soreness will work itself out as you ride. Pick up your other stirrup."
As he had seen his father do the day before, he maneuvered his foot until he had worked the toe of his shoe into the stirrup, then waited for D'Artagnan to give him instructions.
"All right, I'm going to back away as far as the line will allow, and you will walk around me. This will keep the horse in a circle and encourage him to behave." As he spoke, D'Artagnan began backing away, releasing the length of the driving line until he reached the end of it. "Now, squeeze with your legs."
Philippe obeyed, and they horse moved off at a controlled walk, making a circle around the Musketeer. His reins were loose, and his posture relaxed. It was all too obvious that the horse was following D'Artagnan's instructions, not Philippe's.
"No, you're relying on me to control the horse with the driving line," D'Artagnan said. "Shorten your reins. I want you to control him yourself. Tell him what you want him to do through your legs and your hands. All I'm doing is keeping him in a circle, the same way the paddock fence would. And sit up straight."
Damn! The expletive stopped just short of Philippe's tongue. Was he never going to remember to sit up straight? As instructed, he shortened his reins until he could feel the horse's mouth and straightened his back, determined that he would strive harder to work on his posture. They walked several times around D'Artagnan, while the Musketeer observed him from the ground.
"Excellent. Now, stop him and turn him around, and walk the other direction."
Philippe drew back on the reins, stopping the horse, but hesitated to turn him around. "Do you need to switch sides on the rein?"
"No. Just make the turn toward me, and the rein will pass under his chin."
Philippe pulled on the inside rein, turning the horse toward his father as he turned to face the opposite direction. As D'Artagnan had said it would, the rein passed beneath the horse's chin.
After walking several more circles, the Musketeer was pleased with the young man's progress. "At the walk, the only thing you really need to work on is keeping your back straight. The position of your hands and legs are perfect."
"I guess my posture was not too good in the prison," Philippe said, lamely.
"You must work harder with Aramis on that lesson. You must learn to sit up straight without thinking about it. It must become second nature to you."
"I will," he promised.
"I think you are ready to trot," D'Artagnan said. "It is not the most comfortable gait, especially for the beginner, but it must be mastered before we move to the canter. Squeeze with your legs until you feel your mount change gaits. Keep your back straight and maintain contact with his mouth. Be careful not to jerk on the reins. He has a tender mouth."
Philippe squeezed with his legs, and felt a surge of exhilaration as the horse willingly stepped out into the faster gait, but his excitement was replaced by an immediate sense of failure when he began bouncing roughly in the saddle, knowing that it was not supposed to look like that. Realizing that the reins were jerking in his need to hang onto something that would steady him, he grasped the pommel, thereby losing all control of the horse.
"Push your heels down in the stirrups, and allow your legs to absorb the impact. You need to move with the horse, not against him."
Philippe attempted to do his father's bidding, but found that it was not easy. Unaccustomed to the brisk up and down motion of the horse's back as it trotted, he continued to bounce no matter how hard he tried to comply with the directions. One foot jerked free of the stirrup, and fearful that he would bounce right off the animal's back, he released his hold on the pommel and drew back on the reins to stop him. The horse came to such an abrupt halt that the young man, already off balance from the bouncing and the loss of the stirrup, fell forward onto the heavily maned neck. Startled, the gelding sidestepped quickly, and Philippe, unable to recover from the sudden movement, slid right off the side and landed heavily on the ground.
The gelding spooked and leaped away from its fallen rider with a snort, but was restrained by the long line held by the Musketeer. It trotted off a short distance and stopped, looking back with pricked ears.
D'Artagnan was at Philippe's side in an instant. "Are you all right, son?"
Shamefaced, the young man got up quickly to minimize the wetness that was seeping into his trousers from the rain-soaked grass. "I feel like a fool!" he said, brushing his hand across a wet patch on the seat of his breeches.
"There is not a horseman alive who has not fallen off his mount at one time or another," D'Artagnan told him. "You get up and try again. What happened?"
"I lost my stirrup."
"You must keep your heels down, with your weight in them. That will prevent such an incident from occurring."
"I know," Philippe said. "But saying it and doing it are two different matters entirely, especially when you are bouncing all over the horse's back."
D'Artagnan unfastened the driving line from the snaffle ring. For a brief moment of utter despair, Philippe believed his father was throwing in the towel, giving up on him completely. Dropping the line to the ground, the Musketeer took the reins and mounted in that enviously smooth, graceful movement that continued to elude Philippe.
"The correct position is this," he said, using his own body and position to demonstrate. "Heels are down. Grip with your knees. The small of your back must be straight but somewhat relaxed. This will allow your hips to move with the horse so that your buttocks remain on the saddle. Keep the reins together in front of you, just above the pommel."
With Philippe watching from the ground, D'Artagnan nudged the horse into a brisk, springy trot, working in a circle around him. The boy watched, impressed that his father's backside seemed glued to the saddle.
"Unfortunately, there is no exercise I can show you to help you practice this part of the lesson," D'Artagnan said. "You must simply work on the trot until you settle into the horse's stride. And you will become comfortable with it, son. It will only take time."
He continued to trot around the young man several more times, allowing his son to watch him, then he drew in the reins and stopped. Dismounting, he passed the reins back to Philippe.
With a discouraged sigh, Philippe gathered the reins again and mounted. D'Artagnan placed his hand on the small of Philippe's back, something he would never do with Louis for fear of losing it, and felt the tautness beneath his palm. "Already, you're tensing your muscles," he observed. "Let your muscles relax."
Philippe forced his body to relax.
"Better. When you're trotting, you must concentrate on relaxing your back, just like you're doing now. Push your weight down into your stirrups."
He reattached the driving line, then stepped back until he reached the end of it, and nodded for Philippe to begin.
The horse began trotting again, but once again, Philippe found himself bouncing up and down as harshly as before. Around and around they went, with the young man flopping around on the horse's back like a sack of potatoes. The gelding worked up a light sweat in the warm, humid air, and sweat glistened on Philippe's face, but D'Artagnan would not allow him to stop.
"You are fighting it, Philippe," he said. "Try to relax."
Finally, just when the young man began to think himself a complete failure, he began to find the rhythm. Slowly, the jarring impact began to lessen and the space between his rear end and the saddle began to diminish as he grew accustomed to the gait, and his body began to accept it and move with it.
"You're doing much better, Philippe," D'Artagnan said encouragingly. "That is exactly the position you want."
Hope surged. Perhaps he could do this after all! Philippe concentrated hard on relaxing his back, allowing himself to move with the horse, and after a while the seat of his trousers remained against the saddle. Philippe beamed down at his father as D'Artagnan approached, coiling up the line.
"You're doing very well, Philippe," he praised. "So well, in fact, that I'm going to remove the line and allow you to take full control of the horse yourself." He unfastened the line from the snaffle ring, and stepped back. "All right, trot your horse around me a couple of times in a widening circle."
Philippe complied, trotting the horse at a controlled pace around the Musketeer, increasing the distance with each circle. Having total control of the horse in an open space without being confined to a paddock or assisted by a driving line was very different than the security he had felt before, yet the horse responded readily to his touch, and his confidence soared.
"Excellent. Now, do a couple of figure eights."
Again, Philippe obeyed, using the reins to guide his mount into the requested pattern. Finally, D'Artagnan gestured for him to come to him, and when he did, he said, "Tomorrow, we will continue to work on the trot, and when you are comfortable with it we will move up to the canter." When Philippe started to dismount, D'Artagnan suggested, "You can ride him up to the stable if you wish."
Philippe was all smiles as he rode his horse beside his father all the way to the stable, where Athos was waiting. He had been watching the lesson from the stone wall.
"You're doing very well, Philippe," Athos said. "But as soon as your horse is cared for, it is time for another dancing lesson."
Philippe barely suppressed his groan of dread, which drew a smile from both of the older men.
"It isn't my favorite lesson either, young man," he reminded him, "but it must be done and it must be done well if you are to pass for Louis."
Philippe dismounted, and began unfastening the girth on the saddle, delaying the dancing lesson as long as possible. The horse was walked slowly for a while, cooling the animal down, but all too soon, it was back in its stall, and he was forced to face the dreaded dancing lesson.
D'Artagnan watched as his son trudged back up to the house, looking like a young man going to his own execution, and was unable to suppress a smile. Love and pride filled his heart, and he decided that the young man deserved a reward for all his hard work. Removing a small ax from the stable, he carried it down to the grove of trees and searched until he found two strong poles that served his needs. He took them back up to the village, and seated himself on the low fortification wall across from the stable, propping his right boot on a flat outcropping of stone that protruded from the waist high barrier at knee level, giving him a pleasantly casual appearance.
In one hand he held one of the poles, while in his right hand was held a knife which he used to trim off the leaves and twigs, making a smooth surface. A second pole leaned against the wall beside him, awaiting the same attention.
This was an activity in which he had not engaged since childhood, and he felt happy and content in this quiet, peaceful village, far from the hustle and bustle of Paris. It was a time that he wished would never end, but a week had already passed, and time was running out for this personal time he shared with his son. Soon, Philippe would be forced to make a decision whether to return with him to Paris to assume his brother's throne, or go his own way in life.
As he continued to whittle on the pole, Porthos emerged from the house, paused briefly to look around as if uncertain where he wanted to go, and then spotted his friend seated on the stone wall.
D'Artagnan watched him approach out of the corner of his eye, pretending that he was not scrutinizing the ex-Musketeer's appearance as thoroughly as he actually was. Porthos was, quite simply, a wreck. Ever since giving up the drink several days prior, the older man was experiencing the expected alcohol withdrawal, and he was not handling it well. His hair and clothing were disheveled, and his doublet was buttoned up unevenly, giving him a distinctly unkept appearance.
Porthos sat down beside him and watched for several moments as his friend whittled on the pole. Finally, he said, "D'Artagnan, I do not know if I can tolerate this much longer. Look at me!" He held out his hands, palms down and fingers spread, to emphasize the trembling that had plagued him since yesterday. "I am shaking like a leaf on a windy day!" He clenched his hands together in an effort to steady them. "I cannot make it stop!"
D'Artagnan observed the trembling hands and heard the tremor in his voice. "Unfortunately, that is to be expected, Porthos. I fear it will get even worse before it gets better."
Porthos appeared horrified. "Worse? How could it get any worse than this? I have never felt this bad my entire life!"
"I have known men who have gone through exactly what you are going through now. There will be some tough times before it will get better. But it will get better, my friend, I assure you. You must be strong enough to ride it out."
"I do not know if I am strong enough to do that," Porthos lamented. "I am even more worthless now than I was before! I am tense and nervous, and my head hurts all the time! Aramis made me some of that foul-tasting brew of his to relieve the pain, but it has not helped. My head throbs like a drum. I am exhausted because I cannot sleep at night." He pressed his hands between his thighs in an effort to control the trembling, but it was apparent that his legs were shaking as well. "I cannot stop shaking! I hate feeling like this! At least the drink relaxed me."
D'Artagnan placed his hand on Porthos's shoulder in an effort to comfort his friend, but he knew there was little comfort to offer the distressed man at that moment. He could feel the uncontrollable trembling beneath his hand. "Trust me, Porthos. Given time, it will pass."
"I do trust you, D'Artagnan. It is I that I do not trust! Everyone is working hard to train Philippe in the things he must know; everyone except me! I was going to teach him to shoot a musket, but I do not trust myself to even hold a loaded weapon." He pointed to his eyes in a gesture of extreme agitation. "I am even seeing double! How can I be of use to anyone like this?"
"In a few days, your hands and eyes will begin to grow steady again. It will take determination, but think of the reward at the end of it all. You will be the man you once were; steady of hand and eye, a man to be reckoned with!"
Porthos fell silent for several moments, thinking about the respect he had always seen in the eyes of his opponents when he was younger, and it seemed to calm him a bit. "I was indeed a man to be reckoned with, was I not?"
"Absolutely," D'Artagnan agreed. "And you will be again. As for the shooting lessons, you offered your estate for Philippe to reside until the exchange is made. If you are unable to teach him here, you may teach him there. There is still time."
Porthos nodded. "Yes, I can do that. Thank you for understanding, D'Artagnan. I know Aramis tries to help, but sometimes he only makes me feel worse than before. And the wine is always nearby! I know where he keeps it, and I have to walk past that cupboard every day! You have no idea how hard it is to walk past it and not help myself to a drink!"
D'Artagnan looked up from his whittling, and his eyes met those of his friend. He had not considered the temptation Porthos might experience during his weakest moments. "Then we shall remove it from the house."
"Aramis will not like that," Porthos said. "He likes having it handy."
"Aramis will understand. Have you seen Doctor Bonniere? Perhaps he can offer you some guidance in beating this addiction. And I'm fairly certain he will have pain relievers that will not taste quite as foul as Aramis's," he added with a wink. "And probably work a lot better."
"I had not thought of seeking his assistance," Porthos admitted. "That volatile brew that Aramis makes always threatens to come back up as soon as I swallow it."
D'Artagnan chuckled, softly, remembering his one encounter with Aramis's herbal tea. He hoped never to experience it again. "I know what you mean!"
The sick man fell silent for several moments, pondering the Musketeer's suggestion. "That is a good idea about Doctor Bonniere. He has probably encountered problems such as mine before, eh?"
"I should think so."
"I shall do that this very day." Once again, his eyes fell upon the pole that was being meticulously trimmed. "What is that you are doing?"
"I am making a couple of fishing poles. Right now, Athos is giving Philippe a dancing lesson, which he hates. When he is finished with that, I will take him fishing."
"That is an excellent idea, D'Artagnan. He will like that. I haven't been fishing since I was a boy . . . many years ago." A frown creased his brow, as if he was trying to remember just how many years ago that had been.
D'Artagnan laughed softly. "Do not think about that, Porthos, or you will only depress yourself again! Think only of the good times that you have left to live."
Porthos nodded, then cringed when the movement made his head throb even worse. "Yes, I have many years of enjoyment yet to fulfill." He leaned closer, as if to reveal a secret. "Tell no one of this, but I would very much like to take Angelina back to Paris with me when we go. I think I am falling in love with her. Her patience with me, her willingness to wait for me, says a lot about her, right?"
D'Artagnan's mustache twitched as he struggled to keep from smiling at the implications of that remark. Typically, circumstances were the other way around, with the man waiting for the woman. "Indeed it does. You are a lucky man, Porthos, to have found love again. I am happy for you."
Porthos gazed at him for a long moment, his eyes filled with sympathy. "I wish love had been kinder to you, D'Artagnan."
The knife paused almost imperceptibly on the pole before resuming again. "Thank you, Porthos. I appreciate the thought, but we both know it can never be. I must cope with it the best I can."
Porthos nodded. "Yes, I suppose. Do not say anything to Angelina, though. I have not presented the idea to her yet. I am not certain that she will be interested in leaving her home to come live with me at my estate, especially when I am unable yet to be her lover."
"That will come, Porthos. Be patient."
Porthos stood up. "I will leave you to finish your fishing poles. Have a nice time with Philippe."
"I am certain we will. He has wanted to do this for some time, but we had not found the time until now."
Porthos stood up from his seat on the wall, and swayed, dizzily. He reached out and placed his hand on the cool stone wall to keep from falling down. D'Artagnan grasped his arm to help steady him.
"Are you all right?" he asked, concerned.
Porthos's face was ashen, and he looked like he might become ill. "I do not feel so very well," he said. "I believe I will go lie down for a while."
"Go see Doctor Bonniere," D'Artagnan reminded him. "Without delay."
"Oh, yes," Porthos said, as if he had forgotten. "My head hurts so badly I cannot keep a thought for very long. I feel like I am in a daze! I will go now." Leaving his friend, Porthos walked rather unsteadily down the street and turned toward the residence of the village physician.
D'Artagnan watched with concern until he had disappeared around the corner, then resumed his work. With one pole finished, D'Artagnan set it aside and picked up the other one, trimming and smoothing it in the same manner than he had done the first one. He was attaching the string to the poles when Philippe finally stepped from the house, freed at last from his grueling dancing lesson.
Eagerness filled his eyes when he realized what his father was doing, and he jogged toward him.
D'Artagnan presented him with one of the poles. "I think it's time we went fishing. I have informed Angelina that she should be prepared to cook a great deal of fish for supper tonight, as you and I intend to feed the entire household."
"And what is left, she can take home to her family," Philippe suggested.
"That is a nice gesture," he agreed.
"What are we going to do for bait?" Philippe asked.
"I paid a couple of boys to dig up some worms and bugs for us," he replied, indicating the bucket that was placed against the wall at his feet. It contained a small amount of dirt, keeping the earthworms cool and moist. "Do you know of a good place? It should be calm and shady, for that is where big fish like to rest."
"Yes, my special place. It has calm water and lots of shade."
"Then your inlet it will be."
Together, father and son hiked down the slope toward the river.