Happy Birthday, Santiago! :-D

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Dimanche prochain, bonne chance, France! L'espoir est on marche.

Chapter 6

Beyond Control

A few minutes of utter silence followed the revelation, disturbed only by d'Artagnan's laboured breathing. Finally, he let his hands sink and raised his head, staring at Anne with glassy eyes.

"Tell me more." It was barely more than a whisper, yet the words rang through the room as deafeningly as if they had been shouted.

"Constance named him after you and your father. Charles Alexandre. Charles and Louis became close friends during their time together at the palace, despite their age difference." Anne gazed at Athos, seeking advice whether she should continue or not.

Athos inclined his head slightly.

Anne grabbed Aramis' hand, squeezing it tightly. What she was about to say was new for him, too. "When I lay on my deathbed, Charles accompanied his mother to the convent where I had spent my last years. He had grown into a dashing young man, and he reminded me so much of you, for a moment I confused him with you." Anne's eyes shimmered with unshed tears, recalling the old times. "For a short moment, I thought my loyal Musketeers were back with me, that you all had come to bid me farewell, one last time, even though I knew-" Anne broke off to take a couple of deep breaths, trying to calm her shaky voice. "Charles was in uniform. I knew Constance had hoped he would not choose a soldier's life, but when she stood by his side I could see how proud she was. Charles had joined the Musketeer regiment, and I knew he would watch over my son's life with the same loyalty and courage you all had before."

"They never lacked anything, I saw to it personally, even after Constance had left Paris. I think, when she looked at your son, she saw you, and it was consolation and comfort to her. She grieved your death, but she had a son to look after, and for him she remained strong. He commemorated your life, d'Artagnan. And he grew up with the stories Brujon told him about his valiant and honorable father whenever Brujon was at the palace. Or later, when he accompanied Constance to the Garrison. Young Charles grew up with the stories about your courage and greatness, and Brujon told him all the magic tales about the Inseparables. Your son knew you well."

"Brujon? He survived?" asked Athos.

"Yes, he came back after the war. Soon he was a role model for new recruits and only a few years later he followed in the steps of Tréville and you, Athos, and was appointed Captain of the Musketeer's regiment. He never tired, in all the years, of relating the tales about the Inseparables' courage, daredevilry and greatness, and it was not only d'Artagnan's son who listened with bated breath." She smiled reminiscing the stories that had been told about the Musketeers.

A weak smile formed on d'Artagnan's face. "I'm glad Constance was not alone, but I wish I had seen my son, only once." He swallowed, "It's not good if a son has to grow up without his father."

Athos and Aramis shared concerned glances. This was not what they had hoped to hear tonight. It only added to all the distress d'Artagnan already felt ever since he had remembered his old life. But there was nothing they could do.

Anne rose and walked over to d'Artagnan, crouching down in front of him. "I'm so sorry, d'Artagnan, but you must let bygones be bygones. You and Constance have found each other again, here, in this new life. Don't mourn what you could not have. I regret you never had the chance to meet your son, but I'm convinced you will have the chance soon in this life. Constance had a contented life and I know she never regretted marrying you; she would never have chosen another life. Your son was your legacy to her."

D'Artagnan nodded. "Thank you." Then his expression changed and he twisted in his seat, grabbing Athos' hand on his shoulder. "She must never remember! Oh God, Constance must never know of her old life!" With wide-blown eyes he stared at Athos.

Athos said, "If Constance really died of old age, she may never regain her memories until the day she dies. All our memories have been stirred by wounds and injuries inflicted on us that had led to our death in the 17th century." His gaze flickered to Anne. "Or ailments, which have returned. If Constance passed away in her sleep or at a great age, this might indicate that it will be a very long time until she remembers her old life. Maybe never." He squeezed d'Artagnan's shoulder once more. "We will do everything in our power to keep any danger from her. I promise you, d'Artagnan, we'll try to keep every harm from her that might stir memories."

D'Artagnan gazed at Athos for a moment, seeing in the other's eyes the determination and fondness underlining the declaration. Mollified, he nodded in thanks.

"It's a promise we're all bound by," Aramis said, "Porthos and Tréville, too. I'll see to that. She won't have to suffer twice what she's been through before."

And so, tacitly, a pact was made that from all those who had found their way from the 17th century to this new life, friend or foe, Constance would be the only one who should never have to remember.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x

The next day, Aramis strolled into Porthos' office. "Are you busy?"

"Naw, just going through a few lists d'Artagnan gave me."

Aramis closed the door and walked over to the window, gazing outside. "D'Artagnan came by to speak to Anne yesterday evening."

Porthos had his eyes still glued to the screen, responding without looking up. "Yeah, I know, Athos mentioned it."

"He had a son. Constance was pregnant when we fell at Rocroi."

Porthos looked up stunned, staring at Aramis' back. "What? He never said a word. I mean, did he know? Back then?"

Aramis shook his head, still with his back to Porthos. "No, he didn't. He learned of it only yesterday."

"That's... hard. How did he react? How did he take it?"

"What do you think?" Aramis sighed, finally turning around. "He didn't take kindly to it, but I think he'll get over it. Athos took him home to his apartment afterwards. I hope they talked about it. Athos is quite good with such things, although you might not expect it of him."

"I'm really sorry to hear this, it must have been a shock. Then I guess it's better if Constance never remembers."

"That's what we all agreed on. There's a good chance of it, too, since Anne told us Constance outlived her and she had hoped Constance would have died of old age. If this is true, then her memory might never be stirred in this life." Aramis came back to the desk and slumped down in the chair opposite Porthos. "At least, not if we can prevent it. We promised the pup to do everything within our power to see to it." He eyed his friend.

Porthos nodded grimly. "Aye, that's the least we can do for him."

Aramis sighed, slowly exhaling.

"Hard evening, eh?"

Aramis nodded. "Could have been more cheerful. Which reminds me, how was your evening?"

"Mine?" An expression of cautious attentiveness appeared on the bigger man's face.

Aramis smirked. "Didn't you go to see your girlfriend?"

"Girlfriend?" Porthos blinked.

"Come on, Porthos. Don't take me for an idiot. I know you better than you know yourself. Is it Elodie? Alice? When will you introduce us?"

"Erm."

"The truth, Porthos, if you please. I saw you three nights ago when you said you were allegedly dating your supposed girlfriend. I saw you sitting at the metro station and I watched long enough to see you let three trains pass. And there was no woman in sight and you didn't look like you would expect someone to meet you there. What are you hiding?"

Porthos was speechless, but managed to press out words nonetheless. "Are you observing me?" he growled.

"No, I just happened to leave the train on the other platform and saw you, remembering you had said earlier you had a date. I was curious and hoped to see your girlfriend, instead I watched a sad-looking Porthos sit at the metro station for over fifteen minutes." After a short pause, he added quietly, "Don't you want to talk to me?"

Porthos silently gazed at Aramis for a short while, then he virtually slumped in his seat, starting to speak. "I haven't dared address her yet. She works at the Garage Saint Georges on the Avenue Secrétan where I saw her when I traced Madame Pelletier's errant husband. He had to –" Porthos was cut off by Aramis' hearty laughter. "What?"

"She's a car mechanic?" Aramis was pretty sure he knew now whom Porthos was talking about.

"Yes, why not? Anyway, I've been watching her since then sometimes. I don't think she has a boyfriend or something, she goes home after work and hardly ever goes out. And there's no one coming to visit her and I don't think she's living with someone, though I can't be sure about it, only because I've never seen anyone leaving in the morning, although doesn't mean she isn't with someone. Not that I'm standing there every morning to observe the comings and goings, or in the evenings, but I sometimes wait for her at the metro station. Erm, frequently. But I've never exchanged a word with her." The words literally bubbled out of Porthos, strung together without much sense.

But Aramis understood his friend's chatter. "Who exactly are you talking about?"

"Elodie."

"Thought so. Why are you not talking to her?"

Porthos stared at Aramis as if he had just made the world's most stupid suggestion ever. "What if she doesn't remember me? What if she doesn't want to get to know me? Or worse, what if she does remember?"

"Who says if she doesn't remember she wouldn't be interested in you? Granted, you're not me, but you're still a fine specimen of a man. And if she already remembers, wouldn't that be great? Isn't it what you'd want? To get back with her?"

"Aramis, I left Paris the day she arrived there. We hardly knew each other. And I'm not sure she felt the same."

"Even a blind man could see the sparks flying between you two when we were in their forest shelter near Eparcy. Besides, you literally talked of nothing else than proposing to her once the war was over."

"Yeah, and then we died and I never returned. It's not what I had in mind, you know."

"You're a coward."

"Come again?"

"Porthos, the worst thing that could happen is that she remembers and smacks you for never coming back. Then you can apologize and start over again with her. If so, I can tell you a few tricks about how to smooth-talk a lady. In no time at all she'll... ahh, well, you know, fall for you." Aramis beamed at Porthos. "At best, she won't remember and will fall for you instantly anyway. You've nothing to lose."

Porthos rubbed his brow. "Maybe you're right, I just hadn't the guts so far to face her. Face to face, I mean."

"Coward."

Porthos growled.

"How long have you been following her?"

"I've not been following her. After I saw her working in the garage I've been waiting here and there where I knew she would pass by on her way home."

"And always hidden so she would not have the tiniest chance of seeing you, I presume? No chance encounters?"

"Erm, no."

Aramis sighed deeply. "You're a lost case, Porthos, but rest assured, with me at your side you'll handle this. We will handle this. Just trust me."

"Don't you dare start meddling." Porthos replied, staring at Aramis. Squinting at his friend, he added, "Ok. Thursday nights she usually has an after work drink with her colleagues in a bar around the corner. I'll be there to try to speak to her. If she doesn't want to talk to me, I'll come by your place and you'll have to cheer me up all night." He grinned.

A rap on the door interrupted their conversation and d'Artagnan's cheerful face appeared in the door. "Bonjour, messieurs, I hope you're well!"

"Salut, pup," Porthos answered.

Aramis, with a more dimmed smile than Porthos, nodded a greeting, "Ça va?"

"Fine," d'Artagnan smiled back, turning to Porthos. "Athos says we can defer working on the London material for the time being, unless you've time to see those papers through. It's not of immediate importance any more."

Porthos nodded his consent, eyeing his screen. "I'll finish with what I have open here and then proceed with something else."

"Gotta go, I'm downloading some sensitive material."

"Does sensitive include illegal?" Porthos called after the retreating young man, but d'Artagnan only grinned before closing the door.

"Well, the pup looked pretty cheerful. Did he stay the night at Athos' place?"

Aramis shrugged his shoulders, which could mean anything from yes, to no, to I don't know. "It seems Athos found the right words to put his mind at ease. I'm glad of it."

"Who'd have thought? But then, Athos was always good at serious talk, what with all his brooding and introversion."

"He's seeing Ninon."

"Who, d'Artagnan?" Porthos sputtered.

Aramis rolled his eyes. "Athos. They're living on the same floor, she moved in a while ago. He did not say a word, didn't he?"

"No way, are you serious? You're speaking of the Comtesse de Larroque?"

"The very same, though she's no comtesse nowadays and has not a clue who she was or who Athos is. I venture to guess Athos is smitten." Aramis smirked.

A booming laugh erupted from deep within Porthos, resounding in the small office. Wiping tears from his face, he said, "I'm sure that is a choice of wording our fearless leader would never choose."

"Choose what?" came the question from the door. Athos leaned against the door frame. "Your spirits are high this morning, I see. What were you saying about your vindictive leader?"

Porthos grinned at Athos. "Nothing, really. I merely hinted at Aramis that your choice of words is so much more sophisticated than Aramis' linguistic usage."

Aramis rose. "You spoke to d'Artagnan, I presume? He's in a cheerful mood, or is he fooling us?"

"No. We talked a lot and I guess it helped. He felt a lot better this morning."

Aramis patted Athos' shoulder on his way out. "Well done, my friend, thanks," he murmured and proceeded to his room.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x

"Is Aramis in?" Tréville asked by way of greeting, already rushing by Constance's desk to Aramis' office.

"Yes," Constance replied, but Tréville had already opened the door without knocking.

Aramis, currently speaking on the phone, looked up in surprise, signaling to Tréville he needed a couple of minutes more. However, when he saw the expression on his former captain's face, he hurried to end the call, finally replacing the receiver after promising to call back as soon as possible. "How can I help you? What—" Aramis was cut off.

"Is this your handwriting?" Tréville slapped down a paper in front of Aramis, emphasizing his question by pounding his flat hand once more on the paper.

Aramis looked at Tréville, and then to the paper. "Yes, it's one of my notes. Why?"

"You wrote this down?"

"Yes."

"So this paper, the original, not the copy here, will have your fingerprints on it? Yes?"

Aramis was confused, he couldn't follow Tréville's questioning. "Yes, of course, I took these notes when Anne first came here to seek help." Just to be on the safe side, Aramis studied the copy more closely. It was a paper from the notepad he had used when he had talked to Anne on said first day when she had come to the office. It was trivial scribbling, most of what he had written down had been for the sake of his sanity, when he had tried to pretend he was listening intently to what she told him while his mind had been in turmoil. Nothing of what he had written down that day had had any relevance to him; Athos had noted all relevant facts later when Porthos and Athos had joined the meeting. He looked up again. "What about it?"

Tréville glowered at Aramis for a good half minute, then he sighed audibly and slumped into the chair in front of the desk. "That's more severe than I thought."

"What?" Athos asked. He had heard Tréville's raised voice through his open door and walked over to inquire what was going on. "What is severe?"

"This." Tréville pointed to the paper on Aramis' desk.

"I don't understand," Aramis said, looking to and fro between Athos and Tréville with a baffled frown on his face. "What's the problem?"

"This paper, the original of this copy, was found at the farmhouse where Monsieur Autriche was kept hostage. It doesn't explicitly have your name on it, but the firm's name is printed on top as you can see, so it's safe to assume it was you who took these notes since every handwriting expert will confirm this is your handwriting. Even I recognized it immediately and you just confirmed it's yours. Plus, it has your fingerprints on it. Now, what do you think the police will make of this?" Tréville's gaze switched from Aramis to Athos. "A piece of paper where Aramis wrote down information about how, when and where Monsieur Autriche spent the last few days before his abduction. It even contains the address and gives insight into his daily routine with exact dates and times on it. Now, try to convince me Aramis had nothing to do with the abduction." Tréville suddenly looked very tired.

"What? But..." Aramis trailed off.

"Aramis?" Athos asked, looking at his friend. When Aramis failed to answer, he tried again. "Aramis? What does this mean? How could this turn up at the farmhouse?"

Aramis looked up and shrugged. "I've no idea! This was the information I wrote down when Anne came to engage us in the search for her husband. It's simply gathering first information, no more, no less. Name, address, time of disappearance etc. What we usually write down." Aramis studied the paper again. "I just scribbled a few things to create the impression I was listening to Anne, that I was not freaking out about the fact she had just turned up, asking me of all people to search for her husband! I couldn't even remember what I had written." Aramis' eyes roamed over the paper. Besides the few stickmen, circles and one stylized fleur-de-lis he had drawn, there was not much on the paper. The name of Anne's husband. His address and the firm's address. The date of the last time Anne had talked to him – which was most likely the date of his abduction. A few times of day which repeated, like the time of day he usually left in the morning to go to work. "I can't even remember what I did with it after Anne left." Aramis looked at Athos again. "You noted everything of importance for the case, remember? I never again looked at this later."

"Do you know how this looks like? To a police officer?" Tréville asked.

Athos scanned the text. He knew what information it held for him as investigator. He dreaded to hear what this paper would provide for a police officer in an ongoing investigation.

"For me, as a police officer working on an investigation, this paper suggests someone has written down information about a possible victim. There's nothing on it suggesting this is information for a new case. No client name, no client number, no contract details, no date and time of the alleged client meeting, so no one can say if this was written down three weeks after the victim's disappearance, or possibly three days before. It has applicable, matching fingerprints, distinct handwriting, every vital information one would need to abduct a man on his way home and it was found at the place the victim had been held captive. And to add the final touch, it belongs to one of the current main suspects. Tell me, Aramis, what should I do with this?" Tréville had talked himself into rage, his raised voice ringing through the room again.

Aramis remained quiet, but Athos spoke after a moment, sharply and in a dangerously calm voice. "You don't believe he has anything to do with it, do you?"

Tréville rubbed a hand over his face before slowly looking up. "Of course not! I know he hasn't, but this is evidence directly connecting him with the crime. It will be hard to convince anyone of the contrary. That's just what Autriche's lawyers were waiting for! How on earth could this turn up in Friaize?"

Aramis shrugged again, his hands fiddling with a rubber band. "I've no idea. I can't recall that I ever looked at it again after Anne had left." He furrowed his brow, trying to remember when and where he had last seen his note, but he came up blank.

"Your notes, do you take them home with you? Leave them in the office? Who else has access to these rooms? Cleaning ladies, the owner?"

Athos answered, "The four of us have keys, as well as Charlène. A cleaning lady comes four times a week, usually late in the evening, sometimes early in the morning. It's a cleaning company, so it's not always the same person who comes. And we have hired a firm to collect the confidential waste once a month. They take it for shredding and disposal."

The three men stared at each other, comprehension dawning on them.

"Where do you collect the documents which need to go to the shredder?" asked Tréville.

"We have a locked container in the copy room, and the company exchanges the container for a new one when they collect it. Charlène has a key for it, but I don't think she gets a new key for each new box, so I presume the containers all have the same lock. But I'll have to ask her, I'm not really sure about the procedure."

"It would have been easy for Rochefort to bribe one of the workmen to let him have a look in your container, or throw the contents of your container into a bin bag instead of the shredder. Rochefort would have had all the time in the world to go through all your documents and pick the ones he could make use of."

"I'm not sure what I did with the note. Maybe I just left it there in the conference room and the cleaning lady put it away. Or I filed it somewhere."

"The fact is someone delivered the piece of paper to Rochefort," Tréville said with a desperation in his voice that made the other two men cringe. "In the end, it doesn't matter how he came into possession of it; he was able to place evidence against you at the site of crime."

"It could have been Grimaud himself who stole it and put it there only a few weeks ago," Athos growled bitterly. "It's not important who did it and how, what's done is done. It's a catastrophe!" He stared at Aramis, knitting his brows. "This is really, really bad."

Tréville looked at Aramis with an expression that was hard to read. Athos thought it almost looked like pity, or desperation; an expression Athos couldn't recall ever seeing before on their captain's face. "I'm sorry, Aramis, but there's nothing I can do for you at the moment."

"Where?" asked Athos. "Where was it found?"

"It had slipped behind a cupboard and was filed with every bit of evidence the police seized in and around the farmhouse. I only came across it this morning."

For a few minutes, no one spoke, everyone dwelt on his thoughts until Tréville broke the silence.

"My hands are bound, I'm not the responsible inspector in this case, I'm merely assigned to support the 6th arrondissement's police department. Decisions are not mine and I fear Inspector Moreau and I have already fallen out over this case, so his sympathy towards what I suggest is virtually zero. Furthermore, I'm under the impression he's more and more inclined to believe what Monsieur Autriche is whispering into his ear."

"What do you mean by this? Is he corrupt?" Athos asked, his voice hovering between astonishment and anger.

"That I didn't say, but Monsieur Autriche can be very convincing if he's set his mind on something, especially if he finds someone who's willing to hear out what he has to say. Don't forget, from the beginning we had no evidence that what he claims isn't true. His word stands against what Anne and Aramis say."

"It's ridiculous," Athos replied. "The fact that the police are even investigating into this direction tells me a lot about police work. Sorry, Captain, but there's not the slightest hint of a motive for either Anne or Aramis. That is so evident, even the police should see it. No matter what Autriche claims."

Aramis had gone suspiciously quiet in the meantime, but neither Tréville nor Athos were aware of it.

"Sadly, the police have no information on the ties that bind you, me, Anne, Rochefort, and Grimaud, together. They know nothing of the life we shared, the connections we had in old times. They have no insight into why Rochefort hates you all so much. Without this knowledge, watching this all from the sidelines, Autriche's claims make a lot of sense. Believe me, even if there are a lot of unresolved issues in Autriche's statement. I'm telling you this as a police officer, mind you, not as-" Tréville stopped mid-sentence when the door swung open.

Charlène slipped into the office without having knocked first, hurriedly closing the door behind her. "Two police officers are here, they have an arrest warrant. They're here to arrest Aramis," she whispered. Looking at Tréville, she added, "It's certainly a mistake, isn't it?"

Tréville's gaze turned towards the ceiling, closing his eyes he took a deep breath. Then he looked at Aramis who had blanched the moment Charlène started speaking. "I'm sorry, but I advise you to go with them without putting up a fight. In the current situation, the odds are against you."

"You'll simply let them arrest Aramis?" Athos asked, anger flaring up. "Because someone set him up and they found a paper anyone could have stolen? Do they really believe Aramis would be so stupid as to leave an evidence as obvious as this at the scene of crime if he was involved?"

Tréville rose. "No, I don't believe this. But it's not important what I believe. This is evidence not even the most dim-witted police officer could neglect. With this paper here, Aramis soared from alleged suspect to the top of the main suspects list. No police officer in the world would act in any other way. Even I would be obliged to arrest him, if I was in charge, no matter if I believed him guilty or not. Sadly, as it is, I'm expecting to be excluded from the case on grounds of bias. Neither Monsieur Autriche nor Inspector Moreau will miss grabbing this chance." He ran a hand over his face.

Before anyone could say more, there was a rap on the door and it was pushed open, revealing two police officers. "Commissioner," one of them greeted, slightly surprised, nodding, obviously recognizing Tréville. "Monsieur René Espaloungue?" He looked between Athos and Aramis, his eyes finally settling on the latter.

"That's me," Aramis confirmed.