Seventeen

Philippe led him to the shady area in which he had been using to swim. D'Artagnan had been there once before, when he had resolved his differences with Athos, but due to the circumstances at hand he had paid little attention to it then. He observed it now with the interest of a fisherman seeking the best spot to cast his line.

A narrow artery had branched off from the river at some point in its history, terminating in the pond-sized body of water. In the wake of the rain showers, the river was moving faster than normal, and the fish would likely be seeking a sheltered place in calm water. There were plenty of trees lining the bank, many of them leaning over the water offering shade to the aquatic wildlife that inhabited the pond.

D'Artagnan nodded his approval. "Yes, this will do nicely."

They sat down on the bank, and baited their lines, then tossed them into the water and settled back to wait.

For several minutes, they sat silently watching the ripples on the clear water. Then, after a while, D'Artagnan said, "So, did you meet your lady friend here again last night?"

A slight blush colored Philippe's cheeks, but he was becoming less self-conscious about his interest in the young woman. "Yes, but her father found out that I was meeting her, and he was not pleased. He thought we were sneaking off together."

"Shall I speak with him?" D'Artagnan asked. "Father to father?"

Philippe was clearly pleased that D'Artagnan offered to speak with the man, but he shook his head. "I like her, but I'm not sure a relationship would work anyway, especially if I decide go to Paris." He fell silent again for several minutes, pondering something that was on his mind, as if trying to work up the courage to speak. Shifting position, so that he faced the Musketeer, Philippe said, hesitantly, "Father, I was wondering something . . . " His voice trailed, and he looked away, as if the words were difficult to speak.

It was obviously a serious subject to the boy, and when he failed to continue, D'Artagnan prompted, "Is something troubling you?"

Philippe turned to face him again, and asked bluntly, "If I become king, will I be forced to marry a woman I do not love, as my mother was forced to marry a man that she did not love?"

D'Artagnan's expression was sympathetic, and the expression alone told Philippe what he needed to know, but the man felt compelled to explain it to his son anyway. "Your mother was a child, Philippe. Her marriage was arranged by her father for political reasons, to unite the countries. That is common among royals, and is seen as a good thing to establish ties with allies. It is true that you must marry someone of royal blood; there is no way out of that. But with luck perhaps you can find a princess for whom you may at least have feelings of affection for, if not love."

Philippe nodded his understanding. "But there are no guarantees."

"No, I am afraid not. Your first duty will be to France, not your heart, and you must do what is best for the country."

"As you have done," he mused. "You stepped back from the woman you loved for the sake of the country."

"It was not an easy thing to do, but sometimes there is no other way," D'Artagnan said. "Do not consider it a noble sacrifice on my part. There was simply no alternative."

After another stretch of silence, Philippe said, "You have not asked me if I have made a decision yet."

D'Artagnan glanced at him quickly, surprised that he had brought up the subject, and wondering if he had, in fact, made his decision. "I told you I would not pressure you. I will honor that promise."

"Aramis asks every day if I have made my decision."

"You must tell him that when you make a decision, you will let him know. Do not let him pressure you."

"He is impatient to get me on the throne. Is my brother such a bad king?"

D'Artagnan sighed, heavily. In his love for Louis, it was difficult to see beyond the love and focus on the faults. "Louis is a bad king," he admitted, "but the blame does not lie entirely with him. He behaves the way he was taught to behave. The former king taught him to be hard and selfish, and that underlings are less important than the privileged. The common people are suffering great poverty under his reign, but to him they are insignificant."

Philippe felt a tug on his pole, and yanked it up, bringing with it a decent sized fish. He pulled the fish onto the grass, and held the struggling creature down while he removed the hook.

"I would say that is an excellent start," D'Artagnan praised.

Philippe looked up at him, beaming with joy. "Now that you and I have our dinner, we need a few more to feed the rest."

He baited his line again, and tossed it into the water.

After a moment, the conversation returned to Louis. "Why does he not seek the advice and assistance of others with such matters?" he asked.

"Because he is king, and his word is law," D'Artagnan answered, simply. "He has reminded me of this on occasion, when I have attempted to offer suggestions that would help him. He has knowledgeable advisors who have attempted over the years to guide him toward making the proper decisions, but he disregards anything that goes against his own opinions. I have seem moments of great encouragement, when I have believed that he would ultimately do the right thing, only to be disappointed when he rejects the advice of wiser men. You see, Philippe, he came into power at a young age, much too young to handle the pressures that were suddenly thrust upon him. Had he been more willing to accept the advice of older, more knowledgeable men, he might have become the king we had all hoped he would be, a king we would have been proud to serve."

Philippe nodded, apparently satisfied. "I have not made my decision yet," he said, answering the question he could see in his father's eyes, but which had remained unspoken.

Philippe's pole dipped toward the surface again. He braced himself and gripped the pole tighter to avoid having it pulled from his hands. "I think this one is huge!" he exclaimed as the fish fought the line. Finally, he struggled to his feet for leverage, and braced himself as the pole bent down until the tip was almost touching the water. Finally, with a mighty tug, he managed to hoist the fish out of the water.

It dangled from the end of the line, a fish that was a mere four inches long, inspiring amused laughter from both men.

"That would only give us about two bites," Philippe grinned. After a moment of deliberation, he removed it from the line and tossed it back into the water. "After the gallant struggle it made for such a small size, I believe it deserves a chance to grow up," he explained. He glanced at D'Artagnan's line. "You have not even had a nibble?"

D'Artagnan withdrew the line from the water to examine the hook, and found that his worm had vanished. "Ah, I think we have a smart fish in this river. It took my bait without taking the hook."

Retrieving another worm from the bucket, he baited his line again, and tossed it out.

Returning to the conversation, he said, "You must take as much time as you need to think though everything that comes with becoming king."

"If I decide to take Louis' place, I know I must live in the palace, and that you and Mother will be there with me. I will have many wonderful things, things I never even dreamed of having, things of such value that I cannot even begin to imagine. But those things are not really mine. They belong to my brother."

"They belong to the king, handed down from generation to generation. They do not belong specifically to Louis."

Philippe waved aside the discussion, for that opened up a new debate about his right to even claim the throne when he was not of the direct royal line. That matter had already been settled, and was not pursuant with the direction of his current thoughts. "What if I decline? Where will I live if I choose not to do it?"

D'Artagnan was silent for several moments. Even though he wanted the decision to be Philippe's, there had been little doubt in his mind that the boy would accept the position. He had given no thought whatsoever to the possibility that he might decline. "I do not know. I suppose that is up to you. Just remember; wherever you go, you will have to be careful that you are not noticed. Louis' face is well known, and your face is identical to his."

"I have been thinking a lot about that. Perhaps we could both stay here in this village," he suggested, eagerly. "I know you like it here, and so do I. They do not seem to notice or care that I look like the king. In fact, I suspect most of them do not even know what the king looks like. They are farmers, and are not likely familiar with the court."

D'Artagnan was startled by the suggestion, but as much as he would have loved to live out his remaining days in the peaceful village in the company of his son, he knew it would be difficult to give up his tasks as captain of the Musketeers. As long as Louis was on the throne, he would require constant vigilance to protect him, and he feared the other Musketeers, who had less to lose than he, might not be as attentive. To leave Louis might be to condemn him to eventual death. But how could he explain all this to a young man who had been isolated from the world his entire life?

Sensing his father's inner struggle, Philippe turned away quickly. "I'm sorry. I should not have suggested that. You have duties and responsibilities in Paris, and I had no right to try to take you away from that."

D'Artagnan placed his hand on his son's shoulder, bringing him to silence. "Do not think for a moment that I would not enjoy spending the rest of my life in this place with you. Nothing would give me more pleasure, for I have found a peace in this village that I have never known before, and a pride in my son that I had never expected to have. You have brought me more joy than I have ever thought possible. I love you dearly, Philippe. I never imagined that I could experience a love for a son as deeply fulfilling as my love for you, and I will always treasures this time we had together. But I hope you can understand that to abandon Louis would probably condemn him to death. As long as he sits on the throne, I must be there to protect him. And as for remaining in this village, that cannot be. We have been lucky so far, but eventually, someone would recognize the resemblance between you and the king; a traveler or a visiting relative of someone who lives here. Word would get back to Louis, and you would be in grave danger."

Philippe nodded his head, indicating that he did understand, but D'Artagnan could see the disappointment on his face.

This time, it was D'Artagnan's pole that dipped as a fish took the bait, but inwardly he cursed the interruption. He removed the large fish from the hook, and placed it with the one Philippe had caught, but this time he did not bait the hook and return it to the water, for a more important matter needed his full attention.

Laying the pole aside, he said, "Philippe, there have been a half dozen assassination attempts against your brother just in the past year, and there will likely be more. Eventually, one of those attempts will be successful, and I would always wonder if I could have prevented it had I been there."

Philippe turned quickly to look at D'Artagnan, suddenly experiencing a deep sense of concern for his father's safety, a troubling realization of just how far he would go to protect his son. "You would give your life to protect him?"

"Yes."

The ramification of his father's reply crashed down on him like a heavy weight that seemed to crush the air from his lungs, and his breathing accelerated to compensate for the sudden lack of oxygen. "How can you speak so casually of offering you life in exchange for someone else's?" he asked, incredulously. "I – I could lose you as quickly as I found you!"

D'Artagnan placed a comforting hand on his son's shoulder. "It is the duty of the Musketeers to protect the king with our lives if need be. There is not a man in the service who would not do the same. That is why the Musketeers are so highly regarded."

"But you have a much more profound reason to protect him than the others, is that not so?"

"That is so. He is my son, as are you. I love you both, and I do not wish harm to come to either of you. If you become king, I will protect you with my life as well."

"That would not be an easy thing to bear, should you lose your life in defense of me because of my brother's past mistakes. I don't want to lose you!"

"Philippe, there are no guarantees in life. You are troubling yourself over something that is not likely to occur. If you accept the position, as soon as you are comfortably settled in, we will begin making the changes that will improve the king's standing among the people. But there has always been a need for protection to the king, and there always will be."

"Then if I accept the position, over time your life will be less danger because the situation among the public will get better and there will be less dissension. Then I must do it," he said with conviction. "I could not bear it if something happened to you."

"That is not what you must base your decision on, Philippe."

Philippe did not seem to hear the directive. "Thank you for your honesty, Father. No one else has made mention of these things to me."

D'Artagnan's hand was still on his son's shoulder, and he squeezed it affectionately. "Philippe, you must think long and hard about all the things that involve your decision on whether or not to take your brother's place as king. You must not focus on those that involve me. There is too much at stake here, and I am insignificant in the overall scope of things."

Philippe was shaking his head. "Not to me. But I will do as you ask, and I will consider everything carefully that you have told me."

"That is all I can ask." He reached for his fishing pole and baited the line once again.

xxxxxxxxxxxxx

The sun was sinking lower in the sky as D'Artagnan and Philippe returned to the village with their catch. When they reached the house, they proceeded around to the back where they placed the fish in a row on the low stone wall. With a sharp knife, D'Artagnan scaled and beheaded the fish, then carefully filleted the flesh from the bones while Philippe watched. Neither of them noticed the calico cat that was sitting nearby, watching with great interest.

"Not everyone does it this way," the Musketeer explained. "I have a dislike for picking bones out of my mouth while I'm eating, so I prefer to separate the flesh from the bones."

"Good idea," Philippe agreed. "Father Laroque never did that, and Yvette got choked on a bone once."

"To be sure, there is nothing dignified about choking on a fish bone," Athos said as he approached from behind. He was carrying a platter on which to put the cleaned fish. "I thought perhaps you gentlemen could use some help," he offered as his eyes wandered over the fish that had been placed on the wall, awaiting their turn under the knife. "Looks like you had a great success."

"Philippe caught most of it," D'Artagnan replied, to which the young man beamed with pleasure.

"Well done," Athos praised. He withdrew his knife from its sheath and began working on one of the fish. "We will be one short for supper, however. Porthos went to see Doctor Bonniere about his drinking problem, and the doctor decided to keep him there for a few days."

D'Artagnan looked up, startled. "His condition is that serious?"

"Apparently so. Bonniere dropped by a short time ago to talk to us about it. He wishes to oversee his progress." He fell silent for several moments, thinking about a troubling past experience, then added, "That may be a good thing. I had a cousin who died from trying to quit drinking."

Concern flashed across Philippe's face. "You mean Porthos could die from this?"

"For someone who has been drinking as long and as hard as Porthos has, it is very dangerous to suddenly deny the body the alcohol it craves. Aramis is very humbled by this revelation," Athos said. "He has scoffed at Porthos's determination to quit drinking, and he really feels bad about this. When Bonnier came by with the news, Aramis decided to return with him, to help in whatever way he could and to sit with him for a while. He says he will return for supper, though."

"I have truly been out of touch with my friends over the years," D'Artagnan said with regret. "I had no idea it had progressed this far."

"Well, you have been busy," Athos said, careful to keep his voice from sounding accusing. "Seeking Bonniere's help in conquering this addition was a wise thing for Porthos to do. I don't think he could do it on his own."

"How is Angelina taking the news?" D'Artagnan asked.

"She is worried, as we all are. The doctor would not allow her to visit him, which has upset her. Porthos said he has not slept in two nights, so Bonniere gave him something that he says will make him sleep. That will be for the best, since he seems to be in a great deal of discomfort."

"I spoke with him shortly before Philippe and I went fishing," D'Artagnan said. "He was shaking terribly, and complaining about having a headache."

"Yes, it has steadily grown worse over the past few days," Athos agreed. "I have never seen a man shaking as badly as he was."

"I am to blame for this," D'Artagnan mused. "It was I who suggested he stop drinking."

"Do not blame yourself," Athos said. "He needs to quit. It was only a matter of time before he either drank himself to death or succeeded in committing suicide because of his depression. This had to be, D'Artagnan."

As they were talking, the cat continued to watch with intense yellow eyes while the men worked on cleaning the fish, and seemed to be aware that they were distracted. She licked her whiskered, eagerly, as the scent of the fish permeated the air around her. Now was the time to act. Stealthily, she hopped up onto the wall, grabbed the nearest fish, and then leaped out of reach before Philippe could grab her.

"You little thief!" he shouted after her as she scampered down the hill toward the tree line with the fish in her mouth.

D'Artagnan and Athos laughed. "Smart cat," Athos said. "She knew when to make her move. If ever you want to learn stealth, Philippe, watch a cat. They are the experts."

Philippe was gazing over the stone wall toward the trees where the cat had disappeared. "Father Laroque said that cats are a window to Satan; that they are evil beings and should be destroyed."

"With all due respect to Father Laroque, that is utter nonsense and pure superstition," D'Artagnan said. "They are just animals, and they do a great deal of good, like killing rats and mice. They serve a needed purpose."

"She stole our dinner!" Philippe complained.

"We have plenty to share," D'Artagnan said, reminding them all that Porthos would not be joining them for supper.

When the fish was cleaned and filleted, they carried them into the kitchen, where Angelina and her sisters were waiting to cook them. Angelina's face was tense with worry, but her hands deftly prepared the fish for the fire, and placed each one in the skillet to cook over the flames.

Porthos's absence was palpable as they sat down at the table for supper, and Aramis, who had returned only a short time before, was unusually quiet, but he remembered their absent comrade in his prayer as he said grace. As soon as the meal was completed, he returned to Bonniere's house to offer what assistance he could to his good friend.

xxxxxxxxxxxxx

A soft voice penetrated Porthos's fogged mind, bringing him slowly to awareness. He was so familiar with the voice that he recognized it as Aramis even before he reached full cognizance, and quickly realized that his friend was praying steadily and continually. That was not so unusual; Aramis was frequently found at prayers.

He was lying in a comfortable feather bed, and for a long time he was reluctant to open his eyes, enjoying the warmth and the relaxation he felt beneath the bedcovers. Apart from the drone of the priest's voice, he became aware of other small noises in the room as his consciousness continued to advance: the soft rustle of clothing, the turning of a page in a book, a quiet cough.

Aramis continued to pray, speaking too softly for the drowsy ex-Musketeer to make out the specific words, but he felt the worry and intensity in the persistence, and felt a stab of concern, wondering why the priest would be praying so fervently. Was someone ill? Had someone, God forbid, passed away?

Slowly, he opened his eyes and experienced a jolt when he saw that Aramis was seated beside his bed, dressed in his cassock. A Bible lay open on his lap, and he was fingering his Rosary Beads in his hand as he prayed.

Porthos opened his mouth to speak, but his tongue felt strangely thick and unresponsive. His throat was unbearably dry, and he realized in that moment that it was he who had been ill. He swallowed hard, trying to moisten his throat, but his voice was a peculiar croak as he asked, "Aramis?"

The priest looked up, and his eyes brightened with relief as they met those of the desperately sick man. "Porthos! How are you feeling, my friend?"

"Not very well. I heard you praying. Were you giving me Last Rites? Am I dying?"

"No! No! I am only here as friend."

"You look like you are here as priest!" Porthos retorted, his eyes dropping to the floor length cassock.

Aramis closed the Bible and laid it aside. With a smile, he said, "Well, I am here as friend and priest, but I have not given you Last Rites because it has not been necessary, praise God. I was only praying for your continued recovery."

He licked his cracked, dry lips with his puffy tongue. "Could I have some water?"

"Certainly."

Aramis immediately fetched a dipper of water from the bucket on the table, and held it beneath his lips. Porthos gulped it greedily, spilling a portion of it on his nightshirt. He reached for it to steady it, but Aramis pulled it away, ignoring that hand that followed it as if bidding it to stay. "N-no, please . . . "

"Bonniere said you would be thirsty, but you have been terribly sick, so he said you must only drink a little at a time," he explained. "Any more than that is likely to come right back up." He returned the dipper to the water bucket, and sat down on the edge of the bed. "The crisis is past, my dear friend. You still have a long way to go, but you are well on your way to recovery."

Porthos's eyes darted around the unfamiliar room, taking in the objects with the unease of a man who did not know where he was. "This is not my room at the house. Where am I?"

"You do not remember?"

"No, I . . ." His brow puckered in concentration. "I remember going to see Doctor Bonniere because I was feeling so bad, but I remember nothing after that."

"Nothing at all?"

Porthos's brow was furrowed in concentration. "Perhaps brief moments, but they are like a dream, and are just out of my grasp. I cannot distinguish what was real and what was not."

"Most of it was probably real," Aramis told him. "You are still at Doctor Bonniere's house. He wanted to keep you here for a few days to help you through this recovery. You have been here ever since."

'How long?"

"Three days."

"Three days?" Porthos exclaimed, alarmed. "I have been unconscious for three days?"

"Not entirely. You were with us from time to time, cursing us and fighting us. Doctor Bonniere has a black eye from one of your tirades, and you ripped the front of one of my best shirts. You do not remember?"

Porthos's frown deepened as he concentrated very hard. "No, I do not remember any of that. I struck the doctor?"

"Knocked him clear across the room! I dare say, you have been quite a handful! We had to tie you to the bedposts for a time, but then yesterday you became very lethargic, and then you fell asleep and have slept ever since. You had us very worried, but thankfully you are much better today." He crossed himself, quickly, and pressed his crucifix against his lips.

Porthos lowered his gaze to the nightshirt, dampened on the front by the water he had spilled. "Who -- Who --?"

Aramis cocked his head, inquisitively. "You sound like an owl. 'Who' what?"

"Who dressed me in this?" he asked, lifting the collar with his fingers. "It is much too clean and white to be mine."

"It belongs to Bonniere. He keeps several nightshirts for patients who have to remain with him during their recovery from their illnesses and injuries. And a good thing, too. You threw up all over the first one."

"I did? I do not remember. But who – Who undressed me?"

"Oh, yes. Well, you undressed yourself the first day and went to bed, but after you became sick I'm afraid it took the combined effort of Doctor Bonniere and myself to get you out of the soiled nightshirt and into this one."

Porthos blinked and looked away.

"What is wrong?" Aramis asked.

"I am embarrassed by my behavior. I remember now. I did not just throw up on myself . . . I threw up on you as well."

"Yes, well, love for our friends compels us to tolerate even the most unpleasant of tasks. I know you would have done the same, my friend, so ease your mind and think nothing more of it." He fell silent for several moments, a distinctly guilty expression on his handsome face. "I had no idea you were so sick, Porthos. I came as soon as I heard that he wanted you to stay here during your recovery."

"You are a good friend, Aramis," Porthos said, patting Aramis's arm clumsily.

"Not as good as I should have been," Aramis admitted. "Forgive me, Porthos. I haven been terribly insensitive to what you have been feeling lately."

"You have been busy preparing Philippe to take the throne," Porthos reminded him.

Aramis shrugged. "Well, yes, that is true, but you mustn't trivialize my boorish lack of understanding for what you were going through. My focus has simply been too narrow. I was abrupt and intolerant, and I failed to recognize that you were suffering. For that, I am truly sorry."

Porthos could see that his friend was, indeed, very sorry, and it warmed him to receive his concern. "How is Philippe doing?"

"I have not been to the house in a couple of days, but I would assume that Athos and D'Artagnan are continuing with the lessons."

"Has he announced his decision yet?"

"Not yet, and I must confess, I grow impatient. Time is running out. The ball is little more than a week away now, and there is much to do before then."

"What will happen if he declines?"

Aramis glanced at him, sharply. "Do not even consider such a thing! He must accept! It is the only way."

"He may not agree. May I have another drink? My mouth feels like one hundred year old parchment!"

Aramis fetched the dipper again, and carefully positioned it under Porthos's mouth. "Slowly," he suggested.

Porthos carefully sipped the water from the dipper, swishing it around his dry mouth to allow its wetness to moisten his tongue before swallowing it and taking another sip.

Finally Aramis withdrew it again before Porthos was satisfied, and returned it to the bucket. "I've probably allowed you to have more than I should," he said.

"It still wasn't enough. I never thought plain water could taste so good."

"That is because you are badly dehydrated," Doctor Bonnier said from the doorway. "You need fluids, but we must get them into you slowly."

Both men looked toward him, surprised, for neither of them had heard the door open.

"It is good to see you are feeling better!" he said as he approached the bed. "You have had a very rough time the past few days."

Porthos watched him, noticing the discolored skin over the cheekbone beneath his left eye. "It appears you have had a rough time, also. I owe you an apology."

Bonniere's fingers went briefly to the darkened skin, and smiled. "A minor injury," he assured him. "It was not the first time I have been knocked down by a patient's flailing fists, and I doubt that it will be the last. I do believe you were the strongest, though, by far!"

"Well, I do apologize," Porthos insisted. "I must have been out of my head. I do not remember the incident."

"It has been a difficult few days for you, but you are through the worst of it now. As long as you stay away from the alcohol, I predict a successful recovery for you."

"When can I rejoin my friends back at the house?" Porthos inquired.

"Once you are able to eat solid food and keep it down, I will consider allowing you to go home. But first, you get only liquids. Are you hungry yet?"

"Yes, I believe I could do with a bite to eat."

"Very good. I will have my wife prepare some broth for you. We will see how you manage that. Tomorrow morning, we will try soft foods, like eggs." He turned to the priest. "Father Aramis, your dedication is inspirational, but I feel it is time that you should go home and rest. I need to examine my patient, and you need some sleep. You can come back later."

"Yes, I will do that. Thank you, Doctor. You saved my friend's life, and that is something I do not take lightly."

"I was just doing what I was trained to do, Father."

"I will see you soon, Porthos," he promised. Then he slipped through the door.

"You have a good friend in that man," Bonniere said after he had gone. "He hasn't left your side in two days, when you were going through the worst part of it. He has fasted and prayed and refused to sleep."

"Yes," Porthos agreed, his eyes resting on the door that Aramis had just passed through. "He has always been a good friend."

xxxxxxxxxxxxx

Aramis had not realized just how weary he was until he walked down the street toward the house he shared with his friends. Now, with the burden of worry eased, the weight of the entire experience came crashing down on him, and he found that he could barely place one foot in front of the other.

When he neared the house, he saw Athos standing at the stone wall near the place where the barn had once been. The former Count had folded his arms across his chest as he watched something in the field beyond. In spite of his weariness, he detoured to his friend's side to see what held his attention.

As he stopped beside him and gazed into the field at the bottom of the slope, he saw D'Artagnan standing there, watching while Philippe cantered a circle around him on the black gelding. After making several circles, the young man adjusted his reins and, without altering stride, began a figure eight. The gelding conducted flying lead changes and maintained a consistent gait. Philippe looked comfortable in the saddle.

"He is coming along nicely," Aramis said, pleased by his progress. "Already, he rides as well as Louis."

"He learns quickly," Athos agreed.

"I do not suppose . . . " he began.

"He has not yet announced his decision," Athos told him.

Aramis sighed, visibly disappointed. "Well, I suppose we will just have to wait, won't we? I do hope you have been keeping up the other lessons in my absence," he added.

Athos's brow furrowed. "Of course we have been keeping up the other lessons," he said, a bit more sharply than he intended. "Do you think you are the only one capable of keeping things going smoothly?"

Aramis gave a slight wave of his hand as if to dismiss the subject. "Forgive me. Of course I should have realized that you and D'Artagnan would keep things going. It has been a trying week."

"How is Porthos doing?" Athos asked.

"He is much improved this morning. He's awake now, and Bonniere is going to see if he is able to consume some broth. As soon as he can handle solid food, he should be able to come home."

"That is good to hear. We've been worried."

"How have the other lessons been going?"

"Well, we have discontinued the penmanship. He can now duplicate his brother's handwriting perfectly. And he has been working on his posture on his own."

Interest flashed in Aramis's eyes, interpreting this as a good sign. "He has? I believe he hates working on posture worse than any other lesson."

"I saw him walking around in the library yesterday with a book on his head," Athos continued. "He is very determined to master the task. The fencing lessons are also coming along very well, and as you can see, he is beginning to excel at the riding lessons."

"What about the dancing lessons?"

"We work on that every day, and will continue to do so until we reach the palace."

"Excellent. Thank you, Athos, for taking charge."

"No one has taken charge, Aramis. We just all know what needs to be done, and we do it."

Dutifully shamed, Aramis nodded. "Very well. I must retire for a few hours."

"You look dead on your feet," Athos agreed.

Aramis turned and walked back to the house, where he was met at the door by Angelina

He patiently answered her questions before going to the cupboard where the wine was kept. Opening the cupboard doors widely, he removed the jugs and handed them to her. "Remove these from the house. Store them somewhere; I do not care where, just someplace that they will not tempt Porthos when he comes back. After everything he has been through the past few days, it would be unfair to have these inside the house."

"He – he will be coming back soon?" Angelina asked, her voice hopeful.

"Yes. He is much improved this afternoon. Doctor Bonniere believes he will be able to return home in a few more days."

"Have you had anything to eat, Father Aramis?" she asked, eagerly, her spirits greatly lifted by the news. "It will only take a moment for me to prepare something for you."

"I appreciate the offer, but I fear I would fall asleep with my face in my plate. I wish to retire to my room for a while, and then when I awaken I will let you prepare something for me."

She curtseyed. "Just let me know when you are ready, Father."

Aramis did not answer. Wearily, he walked out of the kitchen, and a moment later she heard his boots going up the stairs.

Without bothering to undress, the exhausted priest stretched out on his bed and within minutes was sound asleep.