"You have met the Baron whose lands border ours to the South. As equally delightful was the Comte Dufort, whose lands were adjacent to the northern edges of the de la Fére estate," Athos began drolly. "One day when I was thirteen, my father had me accompany him and our farrier to Comte Dufort's estate."
"Not Remy," d'Artagnan remarked recalling the blacksmith who was killed by Milady at Pinon. "Surely he was too young."
The swordsman glanced over at the youngest musketeer. The pain of Remy's death briefly reflected in Athos' eyes. "His father, Karl. Remy inherited the smithy from him." Lifting his mug, he took another long drink as if he were trying to drown the painful memory.
"Karl. Sounds German," Aramis remarked as he stretched a kink out of his back before resettling against his saddle, which he was using as a back-rest.
Slowly, Athos nodded his head. "Married a French woman and they settled in Pinon. My father always believed the Germans were superior blacksmiths. Not every estate had its own smithy and my father was proud that Pinon had one. Often, our neighbors would bring their horses to Pinon for shoeing, or ask if Karl could travel to their estates. My father, a good neighbor, always allowed it. Of course," Athos declared with a tight smile, "my father received compensation for his generosity. He was no man's fool."
Athos drained some more brandy from his mug before picking up the thread of his tale. "The Comte Dufort had three daughters, but no sons, no heir. Whenever I went there, I always felt like he and his wife were trying to determine which one of their offspring should marry me. It was…uncomfortable."
"Were they pretty, his daughters?" Aramis inquired, always intrigued when it came to the fairer sex.
"Judge not that ye not be judged," quoted Athos drily.
A small chuckle escaped Aramis' lips. "Matthew 7, verse 1. For a man who avoids the church like the devil himself your knowledge of the Bible is quite remarkable."
Athos rolled his eyes at his brother. For a noble, studying the Bible was considered part of a proper education. However, based on his life, he must not have retained the lessons imparted by the Good Book. Athos was convinced God wouldn't find him worthy and for the most part, he didn't care anymore. Let God watch over those that deserved His mercy and grace.
Porthos, trying to restart the tale that had stalled, prompted, "So you accompanied your father…"
"…and Karl the farrier to…" d'Artagnan tacked on.
"…the Comte Dufort's estate," Aramis finished.
Though it was not quite empty, the elite swordsman refilled his mug before settling back against his saddle and continuing his story. "We took a wagon as Karl needed to bring his tools. I really wanted to ride a horse my father had recently purchased from Comte Vergy, a mare of Arabian descent. She was very striking and smooth to ride. But my father relegated me to the wagon with the smith and he rode the mare." Athos gave a little sigh. After all these years, he still felt the disappointment of being confined to the wagon, even though he was an expert rider with a natural seat.
"We were about halfway to the Comte's estate when one of the servants from our estate came galloping up the road behind us. We halted the wagon and watched as my father rode out to talk to the man. A few moments later, my father came back to the wagon, instructing us to continue onward while he headed home to take care of an issue."
In a swift gesture, Athos downed half his brandy as his tormented eyes bore into the orange flames of the fire which were licking at the night sky. "It seemed my mother had taken ill."
"Seriously?" Aramis asked in a compassionate tone.
Looking away from the fire, Athos declined to answer which in a way was an answer.
Silence descended and lingered for a few contemplative moments before d'Artagnan softly intoned "I'm sorry."
Hearing, but refusing to accept the sympathy of his brothers, Athos forged on with his story. "My father told me I wasn't needed at home and I was to continue with Karl to Comte Dufort's estate. The Comte was surprised when he saw it was only myself and Karl, but understood after I explained the circumstances."
Athos' mind drifted back to that day and he could almost feel the heat of the summer sun as it had beaten down upon them in the Comte's courtyard.
A young servant girl came out from the house with a pitcher of lemon-flavored water and cups. She bobbed a quick curtsey before pouring a glass of the pale liquid and handing it to the Comte, who took it without comment. Next, the serving girl poured and shyly offered Olivier a mug, which he gratefully accepted with a slight, polite, nod of his head. Then the girl filled a third glass and started towards were Karl stood by the team of horses that had drawn the wagon. However, before she had gotten more than two steps, the Comte's hand flashed out, hitting the girl, and knocking her to the ground. The pitcher of lemon-water shattered when it hit the hard earth and the liquid quickly seeped into the dry ground leaving only broken glass and a few forlorn lemon slices on the dirt.
"What do you think you are doing?" the Comte barked at the servant girl who cowered in the dirt.
"Giving water to the guest, Sir." The serving girl's voice was shaky and laced with fear as she knelt trembling on the ground.
"Guest! Guest! You already gave a glass to our guest, the heir of the Comte de la Fère. He," the Comte sneered, his voice full of contempt as he glared at the blacksmith, "is a commoner, no better than you, though at least he has a useful skill. You are good for nothing."
Angrily, the Comte shoved the kneeling servant with his boot and she fell over amongst the broken pieces of glass. A whimper of dismay escaped her lips as shards of glass pierced her skin.
"Clean up that mess. And rest assured there will be a whipping later for breaking the Comtesse's favorite pitcher."
"You," he gestured to the blacksmith standing by the horses. "Take the wagon to the stables. My foreman will show you what needs doing. And take care dealing with my stock. They have worth unlike some," he said giving a withering look to the bleeding servant who was hunched over in the dirt amongst the broken pieces of glass.
Turning on his heel, the Comte marched off, fully expecting that Olivier would follow.
The young Comte de la Fére stood there, his eyes darting from the weeping servant girl on the ground, to the blacksmith, to the retreating back of the Comte Dufort. He started moving towards the girl to help her to her feet, but the Comte stopped and admonished him.
"Your father would not be thanking me if I let you touch that filth. Leave her and come into the house. Dinner will soon be ready and my wife and daughters are anxious to see you," he commanded sternly in a manner that indicated he expected to be obeyed.
Olivier looked once more from the girl to Karl, the blacksmith. Reluctantly, he moved after the Comte who was striding towards his mansion.
"Good servants are impossible to find. Nothing but dirty, stupid, ignorant peasants that are incapable of the simplest of tasks." The Comte stomped up the stairs, across a small stone porch and into the house. He flung the front door open as Andre, the butler, came hurrying from a nearby room.
"Most sorry, Sir. I didn't hear your arrival," the butler apologized as he genuflected slightly from the waist.
"See! I am surrounded by incompetency," the Comte proclaimed as he halted to address the butler. "That stupid girl broke the Comtesse's favorite pitcher. Embarrassed me in front of my guest. What will the Comte de la Fére think of how I run my household? Ineptitude abounds. Insolence." He shook his head with disgust. "After dinner assemble the household staff on the front porch to observe and heed the girl's punishment."
A fleeting look of alarm raced across the butler's face, though he tried his best to hide it. "Surely you don't mean to whip her, Sir."
The Comte arched an eyebrow at his servant, clearly annoyed that the man had the audacity to question him. "Of course, I do. How else will she learn? The rest of the servants must witness what happens when they don't obey."
"I am sure she regrets the unfortunate incident," Olivier interjected which earned him a withering glare.
"She broke my wife's favorite crystal pitcher. I'll have you know that vessel came all the way from Paris and was made by the same glassblower who makes pieces for the King and Queen."
"But it was an accident! She is but a child!" Andre blurted out recklessly.
A very uncomplimentary shade of red crept up the back of the Comte's neck. "Such impudence. From you of all people, Andre. You forget your place. Be careful, or there will be two whippings this evening."
The butler dropped his eyes, bowed his head, and mumbled, "Sir."
Satisfied the servant had been put in his place, the Comte turned and headed towards the dining room. "Le Fére. Attend."
An uncomfortable Olivier glanced over at the butler, who had raised his head after his employer had turned away. What the young man saw in the servant's eyes was not submission, but defiance and hatred. The servant schooled his features when he realized that Olivier had observed him, but it was too late. Olivier knew what he had seen and wondered what would come of it.
The Comte was almost into the dining room by the time that Olivier caught up with him. The instant Dufort entered the room, servants began appearing from the kitchen with bowls and platters of steaming hot food. Already seated was the Comtesse at one end of the table and her three daughters lining the sides, two on one side and one on the other. The Comte pointed to the empty chair to his left on the side with the one daughter. Obediently, Olivier slid into it after offering up a small bow to the Comtesse and her daughters.
Already a reserved introvert, Olivier would have preferred to go hungry rather than have to eat at a table of predatory females, who were eyeing him as if he were the main course. He wondered if faking an ailment was an option.
As the food was served, the Comtesse bombarded him with questions about his mother's health and his brother's well-being, interspersed with complaints about her own ailments and glorification of her three daughters who were all named after flowers: Rose, Lily, and Marguerite. Olivier tried to be charitable, but to him, the three daughters looked more like weeds than flowers.
The Comte ate quickly and efficiently, barking at and chastising the servants if they didn't keep his glass filled or respond to his needs within seconds. It became clear to Olivier why the Comte's servants hated and feared him.
Olivier wasn't stupid and he understood the caste system in France. It was not any different in his house where servants waited upon the nobility. He would admit his parents treated the hired help with indifference at best. But they were not cruel and harsh as was the Comte Dufort. The way the Comte treated his servants was despicable, as if they were dumb animals and not human beings. The Comtesse and daughters, from what Olivier had seen, treated the servants in the same manner, as an inferior species.
After the repast, the Comte announced he had business to attend to in his study, but afterwards he'd expect Olivier to accompany him to see how the blacksmith was coming along. As the Comte headed off to his study, the Comtesse declared that their eldest, Rose, who was four years older than Olivier, would show him to his rooms in case he would like to freshen up after his long journey. With a servant in tow, Rose practically dragged the reluctant Olivier by his arm up the winding staircase.
Glancing over his shoulder, Olivier saw two servants standing outside the Comte's office. From his vantage point on the stairs, Olivier could see the pretty, younger one was upset as the older one roughly pushed her into the study. It didn't take Olivier long to realize what was about to happen to the pretty servant. Business, indeed. Turning away with disgust, Olivier wondered how long it would take Karl to complete his tasks and how soon they could leave. The behavior of the Comte and his family was making him very uncomfortable. He also felt a strange undercurrent in the air and it made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.
When he, Rose and the servant arrived at the room assigned to him, he had to practically throw the Comte's eldest daughter out his door. Her behavior went from cultivated lady to wild woman. He had his hands full trying politely to deflect her unwanted, blatant advances upon his person. The servant girl that Rose had brought along stood awkwardly by the door trying hard to turn a blind eye to her mistress's unseemly behavior.
At one unfortunate point, Olivier used his wits and athleticism to avoid a particularly amorous advance. Unfortunately, this caused Rose to fall face-first on the bed, eliciting a slight snicker from the servant's lips. Rose, who at this point had clearly received Olivier's message that he wished to be left alone, got angry at being rebuffed. However, it wasn't the heir to the de la Fère title she took her wrath out on, but the servant. Marching across the room she slapped the poor girl across the face and then practically dragged her by her hair from the room issuing all sorts of ultimatums of what would happen if the girl breathed a word about what she had witnessed.
When they were gone down the hallway, Olivier silently moved over and shut the door before leaning his forehead against it. With a deep sigh, he pushed off the door and resigned himself, once again, to his fate. He was getting to despise his position as the de la Fére heir.
Exhausted from defending his honor from the groping so-called maiden, Olivier flopped down on the bed in sore need of a nap. A thought crossed his mind which had him getting up and securing the lock on his bedroom door. He had enough surprises for one day. In a matter of minutes, he drifted off into a troubled slumber.