Eighteen

Porthos returned to the house two days later, still weak and a bit shaky from his ordeal, but his eyes were beginning to clear and his mood was significantly improved. Angelina fed his ego by generously praising him for his resolve, and he lapped it up eagerly, basking in the attention that she lavished upon him throughout the day.

Weary of spending so much time in bed, he rejected Aramis's urgings that he go immediately to his room to rest, preferring to spend most of his time in the library or in the drawing room, watching with renewed interest while Philippe's lessons resumed. He found great amusement in watching the dancing lesson, and roared with laughter when Philippe and Athos tripped over one another's feet while attempting to pirouette.

The day passed quickly, and soon evening arrived, bringing with it the ritualistic settling down of the residents, of putting away tools, and congregating with family and friends.

Darkness settled over the landscape, and the aroma of food being prepared and consumed in various households drifted over the fortified town. The friends who occupied the centralized house on the main thoroughfare barely noticed the enticing aromas, having only just risen from Angelina's most recent culinary masterpiece, a special "coming home" meal consisting of Porthos's favorite foods. The men were now relaxing in various parts of the large house, each drawn to his own tasks of pleasure or necessity. Angelina had been reluctant to leave Porthos's side, but had finally returned to her own home with her two sisters at his urging, insisting that she must take care of herself, and that he would be fine until she returned the next morning.

In the drawing room, Aramis was seated at the desk beside the open window, his quill scratching rapidly against a sheet of parchment as he put his thoughts down on his document or letter, presumably orders of some kind to his Jesuit rebels. He paused briefly to collect his thoughts, then dipped the quill in the ink again and the scratching sound began again.

The priest was becoming almost frantic in the nearness of the ball, and his desire to get Philippe on the throne. There was so much to be done in preparation of the young man's announcement: costumes must be readied, and arrangements for the deposed king must be made. Evidence of his frustration could be heard in the rapid, almost frantic, scratching of the quill.

Behind him, D'Artagnan was seated at the table in the center of the room, carefully cleaning his musket pistol, but he was not demonstrating the task to Philippe, for this was not something that he needed to know. If he decided to accept the position of king, he would always have someone to care for his weapons for him. And if he declined, he could be taught later how to care for his arms.

This was a routine task that had been drilled into the Musketeer captain by his late father. A weapon is only as good as the maintenance to keep it in good working order, the older man had often said while training his son for the service. A well-cared for weapon can save your life, but a neglected one can take it. So, following his father's advice, he maintained his muskets and his sword on a regular basis.

As his hands worked the mechanisms as much by touch as by sight, D'Artagnan allowed his mind to drift to his own son and the conversation they had shared at the river nearly a week prior. In many ways, he now found that he was conflicted on whether or not he wanted the boy to assume his brother's place on the throne, but until the boy had asked about it, he had never actually considered what might happen on a personal level if Philippe declined.

On one hand, if the boy became king, they would be together at the palace, and he could see him every day. His son would live a privileged life, far more elaborate than anything he could ever imagine. But, at least in public, their relationship would be that of servant to king, not as father to son.

If Philippe declined, however, things would be different, and he wondered where the boy would live. He could not live in Paris, unless he remained hidden, for his likeness to the king would be immediately noticed. That would be a decidedly unfulfilling life, akin to the isolation he had known while at the prison.

One option for them would be to resign his commission and take the boy to his ancestral home in Gascony, where he could spend the rest of his life with his son, a thought which was initially appealing. But there were drawbacks to that as well. The distance between him and Anne would be great, and the very thought of never seeing her again was enough to send his heart plummeting to his feet. And Philippe would be isolated from his mother; she would never get to know her younger son. There was also Louis to consider and the danger to his life if D'Artagnan was not there to protect him. It seemed there was no easy solution.

As he wiped off the weapon with a soft cloth, the Musketeer glanced at his son, noting that the young man seemed deep in thought.

Philippe stood quietly by the open window as he gazed out into the night sky. There was a pucker to his youthful brow which indicated that he was seriously considering something important or that he was worried about something that he was not sharing with them.

The sound of approaching footsteps interrupted D'Artagnan's thoughts, and he looked toward the door as Athos and Porthos entered. They paused briefly to look at the three men who were present, then pulled out chairs and sat down.

"I thought for a moment that I had walked into a cathedral," Porthos said. "It is quiet in here!"

Aramis glanced over his shoulder at them. "Did it never occur to you that we might be busy?"

Porthos glanced at the parchment on the desk, then at the musket pistol in D'Artagnan's hands, and shrugged. "Well, you and D'Artagnan are busy, but Philippe is not. He is just standing at the window. Looking troubled, I might add."

Athos had noticed this as well. "Is something bothering you, Philippe?"

Prompted by the question, Philippe turned to face them, his expression serious. "I have been thinking very carefully about your proposal and everything it carries, and I am ready to make a decision."

This statement alone was enough to attract the rapt attention of the other four men, and they all turned to face him, expectantly. Aramis looked particularly worried about the solemn expression on the boy's face.

"Well?" he prompted. "What have you decided?"

"Before I give you my answer, I must know something first. You have never told me what will become of my brother if I accept your offer to become king."

Aramis fumbled uncomfortably with his quill for several moments, then laid it down on the parchment and swung around in his chair to look at D'Artagnan, apparently deferring to him to inform his son of Louis' fate.

D'Artagnan laid the unloaded pistol down on the tabletop, considering how he would reveal this to him. He had suspected that eventually this question would come up, but knowing it did not make him any more prepared to answer. "Aramis and I have discussed this at length. It is not something I want to do, but for a while, at least, until other arrangements can be made, Louis will be imprisoned."

Philippe looked at him for a long, tense moment, detecting something unspoken in the words he had chosen. There was regret in D'Artagnan's expression, and the young man was quick to pick up on that. "There is more that you are not telling me. You are planning to put him in the mask, aren't you? To do to him what was done to me."

The priest and the Musketeer exchanged glances, both of them impressed by Philippe's perception. They then turned back to Philippe, but again Aramis remained silent, allowing the father to answer the questions of the son.

"For a time, at least, it will be necessary," D'Artagnan said. "Unfortunately, it cannot be avoided."

"Why?" the boy demanded.

"We cannot simply place him in prison without covering his face, for he would surely be recognized," Athos explained. "That would lead to questions that we cannot answer without exposing you."

Philippe's expression remained harshly disapproving. Folding his arms across his chest, he scowled at them, clearly displeased with the answers he had received, but uncertain how they could be favorably resolved. "I don't like it," he said, quietly. "Surely, there must be something else we could do, someplace where he could be hidden."

"Out of a controlled environment, there is a risk of escape," D'Artagnan said. "I don't like this either, Philippe, but there is no other way."

"I am bewildered by this attitude of yours," Aramis said, shaking his head slowly in disbelief that the younger of the twins would care what happened to his brother. "You suffered for years at Louis' hands. I would have thought you would be aching for revenge against the person who did that to you."

"My need for revenge is not that great. You have no idea what it is you're planning to do to him!" He shook his head in refusal. "No, I will not permit it! I would not do that to my worst enemy, let alone my own brother!"

"Your brother is your worst enemy, Philippe," Aramis pointed out, forcefully. "It is he who ordered me to place you in that mask and who ordered you imprisoned all those years. Your misery would never have happened except by his decree, and I will wager he did not lose a moment of sleep over it. He would do it again without hesitation should he discover that you are still alive and free. And that is only if he doesn't decide to kill you this time!"

"I am not Louis!" he protested, vehemently. "I cannot do these things to others. Not even to him."

Aramis shook his head in frustration, but forced himself to calm down in an attempt to reason with the boy. "I understand that you are kind-hearted, Philippe, and it is good that you wish to be kind to others. But sometimes, punishments must be given, and what more appropriate punishment than this? Why would you not wish for him to experience the things he did to you?"

Philippe's blue eyes flashed angrily. "You have no idea what it is like to live in that mask. I lived in it for six years, the longest six years of my life. There were days I wished I would die just so I could escape it!"

"I am certain it was difficult for you, Philippe," Aramis said, "But you must try to understand –"

"No! You are the one who must understand!" Philippe retorted, raising his voice in frustration. "Let me tell you what it is like to wear that mask. I had frequent headaches from its weight, headaches so severe that they made me physically ill. Eating inside the mask is difficult; sleeping in it is nearly impossible, especially the first few weeks, until you become so exhausted from lack of it that you finally achieve it. In summer, the heat builds up inside the mask to an unbearable level, and the sweat trickles along your scalp with an unbearable itch." He lifted his hand to his head as if to scratch a phantom itch. "But when your head is inside a mask, you cannot relieve that itch. It nearly drives you mad before it finally goes away."

D'Artagnan looked away, greatly disturbed by the vivid account his son was providing them of his tormented years inside the mask.

Philippe noticed his father's struggles, and he shifted his attention to him, to appeal directly to the one person who might understand his reluctance to condemn Louis to such a terrible fate. "Father, you were hurt by the thought of me being in that mask, but this is the misery that you are planning to do to him, your other son, a son you have loved for years."

D'Artagnan sat quietly for several moments, his eyes resting on his musket without really seeing it, feeling the young man's imploring eyes on him. His mind and his heart were in turmoil, wishing there was another way to control the older son besides condemning him to the same fate that the younger had endured for so long.

Finally, he stood up and moved to his son. Placing his hands on each of the boy's shoulders, he looked directly into his eyes, eyes that were so much like his own. "Philippe, your description of your life inside the mask is thought provoking and as your father it is very painful for me to hear, but I do not intend that Louis will spend his entire life in the mask. It is only for a while, so that he can understand the horrors to which he condemns others. By contrast, he intended for you to wear it until you died in it."

Philippe looked away, irritated, but understanding that his father's words were the truth.

D'Artagnan continued, "And you are right: I do love Louis, and have since the day he was born. I did not agree to this proposal because I wish to cause him grief or that I have ceased to love him. I could never stop loving either of my sons, but this lesson that he must learn is an important one, one that he will remember for the rest of his life."

"Why? Why is it so important that he suffer as I did? Please explain this to me, because I cannot understand."

"Louis has never known punishment of any kind, yet he hands out the harshest punishments to others without blinking an eye. All his life, he has been given everything he ever wanted, with no consequences for his actions. As harsh as it seems to you, Philippe, he will benefit by it. He has no concept of the things he does to other people, of the pain he puts them through. He hands out these harsh punishments, and then puts them completely out of his mind. He has no conscience."

"But to put him in the mask –"

"All his life, I have been kept at arm's length from him, unable to teach him right from wrong. The only lessons I can give him now is to show him the cruelty that he has done to others by allowing him to experience it for himself, for it is the only way he will understand it."

Aramis spoke up again. "Only a few weeks ago, he ordered the execution of one of his advisors, the harshest punishment that can be given to anyone. Do you know what the man's offense was? Distributing rotten food to the public. But it was by Louis' decree that he did this."

"By Louis' decree?" Philippe asked, startled. "He knew?"

"Yes," D'Artagnan told him. "Louis gave the order to distribute the rotten food, knowing full well that it was rotten. That is what led to the rioting in Paris. The blame was placed fully on the shoulders of the advisor. Louis never assumes responsibility for his own decisions. He has never known accountability."

"And if the rioting starts up again," Aramis added, "Louis has ordered them to be shot without mercy."

Philippe fell silent for several moments, thinking about that. "Did the advisor have a family?" he asked.

"Yes," D'Artagnan replied. "His wife is now a widow, and his children are fatherless. They have been ostracized in the community, because Louis insisted that he accept the blame for the rotten food. Never doubt that I love Louis. He is my son, and it grieves me to see this done to him, but I know that he must understand that there are consequences to certain conduct. Eventually, we will make other arrangements for him, where he can live without it, at least in his private quarters."

"What other arrangements?"

"We have been discussing the possibility of moving him to a house the country. He will be under constant guard, of course." He shrugged. "We have not yet worked out the details, for it means we must modify the house so that he cannot escape, and also that someone else will have to be made aware of his identity. Perhaps some of Aramis's Jesuit friends, people we can trust to maintain their silence, who cannot be bought with promises of greater wealth."

"And he will be allowed to live without the mask at this point?" Philippe asked.

"Most of the time, yes," Aramis replied.

"You are saying that there will be times when he must wear it?"

"While in the company of others, yes, he must wear it," the priest replied. "No one must ever see his face, Philippe. The danger to you is too great."

Philippe was clearly displeased. He turned his back abruptly on them, his frustration apparent in the way he dragged his hands through his hair, as if trying to discover an alternative way to deal with Louis. "You have no idea what it is like to be locked inside that thing, powerless to remove it," he said as he turned to face them again. "The helplessness; the hopelessness . . . It is indescribable."

Up until this point, Porthos had been listening to the conversation without joining it, absorbing everything that was being said without offering comment. He spoke up now with a suggestion that none had considered. "What if we had another mask made out of softer material? Perhaps cloth or leather; something that will be lighter and more comfortable."

Aramis and D'Artagnan looked at him in surprise, then at each other.

"That is an excellent idea, Porthos," Aramis said. "The only drawback is that it cannot be permanently affixed to his head. He will be able to remove it if he desires, and that can lead to bigger problems."

"No, this might work," D'Artagnan said. "It can be offered as a reward for his behavior. The softer mask in exchange for his willingness to wear it while in the presence of others."

"But can he be trusted to comply?" Athos asked. "Louis is not known for being trustworthy."

"He will always have the possibility of being returned to the iron mask and the Bastille as a motivator for his behavior," D'Artagnan said. "Once he is moved to his permanent residence, he will have his own apartments, rooms which are his alone and where he can leave the mask off. When he is outside those apartments or when the maid comes in to clean, he must put it back on. He will have a certain amount of freedom and mobility, as long as he conforms to the rules."

"I'm still not certain that he can be trusted," Athos said. "What if we assign a jailer to him? Someone to keep an eye on him?"

"It will have to be someone who can be trusted, for he will be the only person besides us who will know his true identity," Aramis said.

Athos nodded. "He can enter Louis' apartments first, and make certain that the cloth mask is in place before he allows the maids inside to clean, and then stand guard over him while they work to make certain he does not remove it in their presence."

D'Artagnan nodded. "That sounds reasonable, if we can find such a person." He turned to Philippe. "Will that be acceptable to you?"

Philippe nodded. "Yes. My conscience can live with that. It still bothers me that he must wear the mask until the house is renovated, but I suppose I can live with that as well, knowing that it is not permanent. But while he is imprisoned, I want him treated with respect. And I want him well-fed."

"That will not be a problem. Political prisoners are often treated with special regard." D'Artagnan turned to Porthos, and slapped his old friend heartily on the back. "Thank you, Porthos. You have solved a very big problem."

Athos also reached out to pat his shoulder, approvingly.

Aramis was smiling. "Good job, my friend."

Porthos smiled, basking in the praise and camaraderie.

"I will see about locating guards who are completely trustworthy," Aramis said. "I already have several in mind who might be willing to act as jailer. One of them had his tongue cut out on Louis' orders. I believe we can take him into our confidence completely."

An involuntary shudder rippled through Philippe's body. "His tongue was cut out?"

"As we have told you, Louis' punishments are far worse than the crimes committed. He was overheard speaking of his discontent with the king's policies, so he was silenced with the removal of his tongue. Needless to say, he is most eager to see the current king overthrown." His gaze fixed on Philippe, seeking the answer to the most important question. "From your questions, are we to deduce that your decision is yes?"

Philippe nodded. "Yes. The things you have been telling me, of the bad things my brother has done; I want to correct them. And the first thing I want to do is to provide compensation for the widow of that executed advisor. If she has children, she must be in need of assistance."

"Yes, I am certain that she is," D'Artagnan said. "But she may not accept it from you, since it was Louis who ordered her husband killed."

"Then we must persuade her. And I must countermand that order to shoot rioters. They must be negotiated with, not murdered."

Aramis stood up from his desk and embraced Philippe. "You have made me very happy, Philippe. You will make a fine king."

When Aramis released him from his embrace, D'Artagnan was waiting to embrace him. "I am very proud of you, son."

"Thank you, Father."

Athos and Porthos each took their turn as well, offering their praise for his decision.

As Aramis took his seat at the desk again, he said, "D'Artagnan, you and I must travel to Paris to inform the queen mother of what we are planning. Since we cannot visit with her in her chamber, can you think of any time when we might be able to speak to her alone? I know that she is a recluse, but there must be someplace on the palace grounds that she goes. The garden, perhaps? She cannot remain inside her apartments all the time."

"She goes to the chapel every evening, but her nun attendant is always with her. I do not know if the nun would be a danger to us or not. The only time I can think of that she goes to the chapel alone is when she goes to confession. That is always on the twentieth of every month."

Aramis cocked his head slightly, smiling. "You know all this for fact?"

Heat crept into D'Artagnan's cheeks, coloring them slightly. "My window overlooks the walkway she uses to go to the chapel. I see her sometimes."

"Sometimes?" the priest teased.

The color in his cheeks deepened. "Very well. If you must know, I watch for her every day." He glanced at the others in the room, and found that they were grinning at him.

"I do not believe I have ever seen you blush, D'Artagnan!" Porthos exclaimed, delightedly.

"Enjoy it while you can, because I never intend for you to see it again," he replied, smiling. As his mood sobered, the smile faded. "I rarely get to see her at all. Watching from the window, just for a glimpse of her now and then, is the highlight of my day."

"Love can be a painful enterprise," Aramis said. "Which is a good reason to become a priest!" he added with conviction. "So, she takes confession on the twentieth of every month?" He consulted his calendar, and his eyebrows went up. "Today is the eighteenth!"

D'Artagnan was surprised. "It is? Time has gotten away from me."

"From me also. She will have confession in two days, and we must be there. I know her priest. He is the one who brought Philippe to me the night he was born. I shall speak to him about turning her confession over to me this one time. We will work out the details when we get there. We leave in the morning!" He began gathering up his papers and his quill in preparation for the trip.

Likewise, D'Artagnan retrieved his weapons and accessories from the table top.

"I wish I could go with you," Philippe said. "I would love to see my mother."

"You will see her soon," D'Artagnan said. "But in the meantime, you must stay here and continue your lessons. You must work as hard as you can, for time is short."

"I will, Father," the boy promised.

Aramis turned to the former Count. "Athos, I know he is in safe hands until we return."

"I will keep the lessons going," Athos replied. "I will also construct a model of the palace floor plan, so that he can acquaint himself with the layout of the rooms and passages."

"Excellent idea. And perhaps Porthos can oversee the riding lessons until we return," D'Artagnan suggested. "If he feels up to it, that is."

Porthos's eyes brightened at the thought of having something constructive to do. "I would be happy to, D'Artagnan."

"He is coming along so nicely that there is little to do except stand there and watch him, but you may need to offer pointers or remind him to sit up straight."

Philippe blushed. "I'm getting better with my posture," he said in his own defense.

"Yes, you are," his father agreed. "But you still need to work on it, and you only have less than a week to master it."

Aramis slapped D'Artagnan's arm. "We must pack for the trip. And I must inform my driver to have my coach ready at dawn."

The two men immediately went upstairs to begin packing, then retired early in anticipation of a long and tiring trip.