Welcome to the next installment of Sans Peur & Sans Reproche! As you might have gathered from my tumblr, a first version of this was written a while ago, but it needed a heavy edit. Good things come to those who wait! It's here now and all that's left for me to say about this chapter is that I'm sorry... I'm so sorry...
6. Jamais être pris vivant
(Never to be taken alive)
Aramis woke with a start.
He shouldn't have fallen asleep. He needed to be watchful. He needed to be there for Athos. He needed to stay awake. He needed to...
What if...
There was a soft voice and it wasn't Porthos' or d'Artagnan's, it was Tréville's. And if Tréville was here...
He shouldn't have fallen asleep.
He had only sat down for a minute, weary when he shouldn't be, and had only meant to sit, not sleep sprawled all over the captain's desk. Tréville was here, which could only mean...
Aramis stood, the sudden motion making him dizzy. He ruthlessly squashed the feeling. He couldn't be weak, not in the face of... this.
Yet, against all expectation, the scene in front of him was... beautiful.
They were all there and it looked... peaceful. Tréville was on a chair next to the bed, with d'Artagnan sitting at his feet, leaning against the low nightstand. Porthos stood behind them, his arms crossed over his chest, a fond smile on his face as he looked down onto the three of them, somehow finding contentment even in this.
Athos was on the bed, and even though the stiffness had returned, he was undeniably breathing.
Aramis took a deep breath that turned out shakier than he would have liked.
Athos was still there.
He was alive.
He was breathing.
Porthos turned his head and gave him a slow smile of his own. It grounded Aramis in some strange, miraculous way, as he took the few steps from the desk to stand shoulder to shoulder with Porthos.
D'Artagnan grinned up at him swiftly before focussing back on the story that Tréville continued to read without interruption. Slowly, some of Porthos' calm seemed to seep into Aramis by sheer virtue of standing next to him.
For once the room was peaceful, the pain temporarily masked, smothered by kindness and caring.
Aramis vaguely recognised the story. It was military history, obviously, a story of the defence of France from conquest by the Holy Roman Empire. Not quite as dreadfully boring as Athos' usual fare of treatises on strategy, but still something he'd enjoy.
Tréville had been well aware of the previous day's events, that last ill-fated attempt to bring Athos some relief. Of course he had wanted to check on Athos. He had always been closest to Athos, even back in the early days when Athos had been little more than a shadow of himself, haunted as he was by the demons of his past.
They were all more than soldiers to their captain, more than mere subordinates, but Athos was special. Tréville kept him close; he trusted him, even when Athos did not trust himself. In this moment they looked almost like a family, with Tréville a father, or at the very least an older brother to Athos.
Aramis leaned into Porthos slightly, seeking comfort in his proximity.
God had sent help.
He needed to believe it, that Athos was not alone in this. The Lord had shown mercy, though not in the way Aramis had wished for. They were all here and now Tréville was as well, and together they would make sure that Athos got well again.
"Ah! Monsieur de Bayard... I am very sad to see you in this state; you who were such a virtuous knight," Tréville read. It reminded Aramis of nights spent with his sisters at his father's feet, listening as he told them fantastical tales of long-lost kings and brave knights.
He recognised the story now, the tale of Bayard, the good knight, dead and buried a hundred or more years ago, but still very much alive in the minds of his countrymen.
They seemed to be closing in on the dead and buried part of the story, as Tréville read out the next line.
"Monsieur, there is no need to pity me. I die as a man of honour ought, doing my duty; but I pity you, because you are fighting against your king, your country, and your oath."
D'Artagnan sighed wistfully as Tréville carefully closed the book.
"So died Bayard, le bon chevalier sans peur et sans reproche," Tréville concluded.
"He really was," d'Artagnan said. "Fearless, faultless... the perfect soldier, really."
Aramis heard Porthos chuckle next to him. Romanticising war was a privilege of the young and inexperienced. Undoubtedly, d'Artagnan imagined some future version of himself matching Bayard step for step, a distinguished officer, heroic military commander, indeed, why not a Maréchal de France.
"I wanted to..." Athos said in a feeble yet perfectly calm voice. "To die like him... for our king, our country, our oath."
For a few minutes, Aramis' spirits had lifted, but Athos' words brought them crashing to the ground in an instant. He felt guilty for allowing his thoughts to stray.
"My apologies... for failing to..." Athos said, his eyes on Tréville.
The captain shook his head slowly and reached out for Athos' hand.
What is man, that You are mindful of him? And the son of man that You should care about him?
"You have not failed, Athos," he said and Aramis hoped that those words carried more weight coming from Tréville, since Athos refused to believe his friends.
"Sans peur et sans reproche," d'Artagnan said, sitting up straight and smiling at Athos. "That's you."
"You are ever a steadfast servant to France, to the crown, and to the musketeers," Tréville added. Athos remained unconvinced, averting his gaze.
Tréville's voice did not belie his emotions, but it was evident to Aramis that their captain was saying so much more, was giving so much more comfort than what his words encompassed. If Athos had been as precious to his family as he was to Tréville — to them all — maybe they wouldn't be having this conversation now.
Next to him, Porthos drew in a shaky breath. Aramis could not begrudge him the sentiment. The tableau of love before them was heartrending. Those three men in front of them, with all their differences in character and position, to Aramis they summarised all that was good and grand in this world
For you have made him little lower than God, and crowned him with glory and honour.
Glory and honour, and here they were, comrades, friends, and brothers, working, understanding, caring — living and helping Athos do the same.
They were there for Athos, had been for years, and would continue to be there for him until he believed himself to be as precious to them as any other in their little brotherhood. Not for the first time, Aramis cursed the woman who had made such a great man doubt himself to this degree. Between the three of them, with Porthos' love, d'Artagnan's adoration and most of all Tréville's guidance, maybe they could break her spell. Aramis himself, he probably wasn't the best to aid anyone through relationships and their aftermath.
"Your bravery and sense of duty are an example to all," Tréville said. "Seeing you fight this evil fills me with pride."
"You must regret..." Athos started, but Tréville bade him halt with a raised hand.
"I regret to see you brought so low," he said earnestly.
Athos forced himself to be more awake and aware than he had been in days, his eyes forced wide open, eager to show dignity even in his current position.
"I only wish I could lend you strength," Tréville said and clasped Athos' shoulder tightly.
Athos tried to fight it; Aramis could see it in his eyes.
Sounds were muffled: their shouts, the clatter of breaking pottery as they all moved at once. It all seemed very far away.
The whole world zeroed in on Athos' eyes, so full of unspeakable pain and terror. Aramis saw the vain attempt to fight against the spasm in those eyes, Athos' desperate will to be strong for his captain, to live when Tréville forbade him to die.
It was futile.
The spasm shot through Athos with the deadly force of a musket ball. Slowly, inexorably, the spasms curved his spine and squeezed his limbs, forcing his body into grotesque contortions, reminding Aramis of the poor souls he had seen tied to the breaking wheel as punishment for their crimes. All but the most atrocious crimes earned a convict the right to be strangled before this torture. Yet Athos' eyes never closed, never stopped displaying his utter agony and fear.
It was the worst spasm yet.
It never ended; only worsened.
Athos' spine was going to snap. It curved backwards further and further until Athos was resting solely on the heels of his feet and the back of his head. His spine was going to snap and Aramis couldn't do anything about it.
Athos fell to his side, facing away from them. The position made the curvature of his body even more obvious. He was bent into a semi circle.
Aramis was vaguely aware of the other three, shocked, dismayed, and as helpless as he was. It was torture to even watch this and yet there they stood, helpless, unable to do anything but stare. They were here to bear witness to Athos' pain, to watch and listen, even if they could not take any of it away from him.
The whole world seemed dim and distant. There was only Athos and his ragged breath was the only sound.
Athos' breathing turned to sharp gasps, sucking in air with single-minded determination.
Minutes passed and the spasm didn't stop. Not for the first time, Aramis questioned how long any man could bear such agony.
Athos' breathing became harsher, noisier, scraping in his throat. Determination became desperation, the air making an unsettling whistling sound.
Athos was choking, Aramis realised numbly. Athos was being slowly strangled by his own contracting muscles.
And there was nothing he could do.
Tetanus was the hangman's noose, drawing tighter and tighter around Athos' throat. The gasps became shorter, harsher, louder, and still the invisible rope tightened in some perverse mockery of justice.
Then, only brief twitches remained.
The unnerving sound of Athos' choking ceased.
No sound. No air. No breath.
Athos wasn't breathing.
"Aramis, he's choking!"
Suddenly the whole world came crashing down on Aramis, too loud and too bright, and everywhere at once. D'Artagnan shouted for Athos; Porthos roared a wordless cry of agony.
Too much noise and still Athos wasn't breathing.
"Aramis! Aramis, you've got to help him!"
Hands grabbed him and shook him. Aramis fell to his knees, lips moving in silent prayer even though his mind was blank.
"Aramis!"
The scene around him seemed to be illuminated too brightly, as if a sudden flash of lightening had thrown it into sharp relief.
Tréville's legs gave out and he dropped heavily to the ground, burying his face in his hand.
Porthos rushed forward, closer to Athos, so close to him now that it was too late.
D'Artagnan wept.
"Aramis, do something!"
Requiem æternam dona ei, Domine
Et lux perpetua luceat ei:
Requiescat in pace.
The Amen would not come. Aramis had prayed these words so often, for friends and foes, soldiers and civilians. He had asked for eternal rest for so many. And now his brain could focus only on peace.
Peace.
Athos deserved peace. He never got peace in life and now it seemed God had deigned to keep it from him even in death. He deserved peace and all he got was agony.
Rest in peace.
The irony!
There had been nothing peaceful about this. Nothing.
A good man, condemned to perish like a rat.
Peace.
There was no such thing.
D'Artagnan was sobbing desperately, mourning his friend and mentor, his hero who vanquished every foe only to fall victim to this accursed pestilence.
Aramis didn't have the tears. No more prayers, no tears, just emptiness. He was as empty as the promises of eternal light and peace. Lies, nothing but lies.
And suddenly there was a sound, rough and raw.
A gasp for air.
Small.
Desperate.
But undeniably there.
Athos was breathing.
Weak and choked, still battling against the tightness of his own muscles, the cramp that held his throat in an iron grip, but he was breathing
Athos was alive.
But Aramis was still empty, impotent and powerless. Unable to help, unable to do anything; silent and unmoving.
Porthos was there, and he was still whole and strong and he wasn't stuck, wasn't helpless. Porthos could — was speaking, talking to Athos, touching him.
Porthos turned Athos over, keeping up a stream of gentle reassurances, of encouragements, talking, talking, always talking. Soft and steady.
Tréville and d'Artagnan rushed past Aramis, jostling him where he still kneeled on the ground. Some distant part of Aramis' brain recognised that Athos was panicking, unsettled by his inability to draw as much breath as he needed, panting desperately, trying to fill his lungs with the air his body was screaming for.
"Slow down. I've got you, Athos, I've got you. You're breathing. Slow down. You're breathing alright. Slow down, I've got you..."
Porthos' voice washed over Aramis, so steady and reliable, so calm. Porthos held Athos cradled against his chest, his head against his shoulder, reassuring him that he wouldn't let him slide away, that he was alive. His voice was soft, so gentle, so patient, as if he was talking to a spooked horse.
"Focus on my breathing. You can feel my breathing. Breathe with me now. Breathe, Athos. Slowly... slowly. Breathe with me. Breathe in. Breathe out. In two three. Out two three. Breathe with me..."
Athos, still stiff, but no longer bent like a bow, was moved up and down by Porthos' deep breaths. And he breathed. A rasping, scraping sound, desperate and painful, but undeniably there. He was breathing. He was slowly settling into the rhythm Porthos was setting. Slowly, very slowly.
They all breathed in perfect synchronisation, Athos, Porthos, Tréville and d'Artagnan. Aramis struggled to fall into the same rhythm.
The only thing that mattered was that Athos was breathing slowly and steadily because Porthos told him to, because Porthos knew what Athos needed. With endless patience, Porthos coached Athos back to regular breathing, deep and steady, giving his body the air it craved.
Athos' breathing was the only indication of life. His eyes were closed and he lay awkwardly across Porthos' body. But he was breathing.
Athos was not dead.
Yet.
At some point they moved. D'Artagnan dropped to the ground beside the bed, closer, as close as he could possibly be without touching Athos. It had been touch, a loving touch that triggered this spasm. Tetanus had taken even that small comfort from them. Tréville dragged himself onto a chair, swaying like a drunk, groaning as if in pain, and once again burying his head in his hands.
Aramis stood, staggering, for one moment tempted to step forward and join Porthos on the bed. Then he turned, stalking unsteadily towards the desk instead. He had slept there not too long ago. He had slept and almost missed his friend's death. Not that he had been any more use to Athos awake. Helpless and useless he had watched as Athos was choked by his own constricting throat. Had watched and done nothing.
God had forsaken him, just like He had forsaken Athos.
The thought came sudden and unbidden and Aramis tried to brush it aside. It remained, stubborn, growing until it occupied every corner of his mind.
God had forsaken him.
He picked up his bible, but did not open it, turning it over in his hands instead. Tales of love and light felt utterly inadequate after what he had witnessed. There was no explanation on these pages for why a good man was made to suffer so dreadfully. Aramis would not wish tetanus upon his worst enemy, but God was less merciful.
Athos had done nothing to deserve this.
And yet God punished him.
The bible dropped from Aramis' numb fingers and fell face first onto the table. He stared at the creased and crumpled pages and did nothing.
D'Artagnan still sat huddled on the ground, staring up at Athos adoringly. He did not see the sorry state his friend was in, the pallor of the sweat-drenched skin, the weakness that made him shiver. Athos was balancing on a sheer edge between life and death, but all the boy saw was more heroism.
It made Aramis sick to his stomach.
Tréville remained hunched over in his chair, curled in on himself as if to shield against some great pain. He had lifted his head though, eyes fixed on the bed, watching the best man any of them knew die like a dog.
Athos was breathing; he was alive... but for how long? How long until the next spasm took hold of him? How long until it choked him permanently? Maybe it was a mercy, because what was the alternative? Dying of thirst would be slower. Or exhaustion might claim him, his courageous heart finally broken. Unless his neck broke first, obviously.
So many ways to die.
No way to live.
Porthos, as usual, was the only one to make himself useful. He had set Athos back down onto the bed once his breathing had calmed and settled into a regular rhythm. Aramis watched him wipe Athos' face; so gentle it hurt Aramis' heart. Porthos kept up a constant stream of tender reassurances, his low murmur the only sound in the room.
Porthos worked swiftly and efficiently, stripping both Athos and the bed, careful to jostle him as little as possible. And Aramis couldn't... He couldn't watch, couldn't bear to see his friend brought so low. There was no modesty left, no dignity. It was degrading to see a man so proud and strong made frail.
And Porthos took it all in his stride, made it out to be normal, a new reality he had settled into effortlessly.
And it hurt.
This was not normal and never would be. Athos so sick and feeble and dying and... dead if only for the space of a few heartbeats. It would never be normal to Aramis.
He couldn't watch Athos in this state. He couldn't watch Porthos take care of him with such ease. He couldn't watch d'Artagnan's hero worship or Tréville's obvious pain.
The air became suffocating, the room too warm and too small all of a sudden.
He couldn't stay.
So he bolted.
He didn't want to. He couldn't leave Athos alone. Not now. He didn't want to either. He wanted to be there for him, to support him and care for him, to make sure he lived and got better, but he couldn't do it.
He didn't go far, the guilt kicking in as soon as the door closed behind him. He stood out on the balcony, bracing himself against the wooden bannister. His heart beat hard and fast, and he breathed in deeply. He could breathe here, despite the heavy reality that still lay behind that door. Breathing felt an unfair luxury.
He almost turned and went back inside, but he couldn't find the strength to do so. He was useless anyways. He had tried everything he knew, then guessed, might help Athos. It had been to no avail. Athos was dying and nobody could do anything about it.
Aramis' fingers dug like claws into the wood.
He refused to let Athos go without a fight. He refused. In the past few months, Athos had been doing so well He drank less, his dark moods overcame him less frequently — he had been fit and healthy, more so than Aramis had ever seen him before. Athos was strong and Athos was good, and now he was being eaten alive by this accursed illness.
It wasn't fair.
Athos deserved so much better.
He deserved a heroic death, immortalised in song and bound in ink for future generations to treasure. Or at the very least, he deserved a quick and clean death.
Oh if d'Artagnan had only shot him for real! If that had been Athos' death! Just a few weeks ago they had faked Athos' death for Milady's benefit. Bleeding out in the streets of Paris over some minor squabble might not seem worthy of a great swordsman, but at least that time Athos had died in the arms of his friends, at least he had died without any prior suffering.
Dead within a few minutes — too good to be true!
The reality was cruel and drawn out.
Aramis shouted his frustration out across the courtyard, glad there was nobody else around. The shadows were lengthening, the sun setting somewhere beyond the walls and abandoning them all to another night of fear and frustration.
Not that the daytime was any better. There was no light here any more. They were encapsulated in perpetual darkness, abandoned and alone. They tried, they tried so hard to make their friendship be their light, but they were failing miserably. No man-made light could penetrate this gloom. They were powerless.
And the One who had the power to end it was indifferent to Athos' suffering.
Where was God now? Why had he abandoned them?
Athos was a good man, a sinner, certainly, but a repentant one. Aramis had seen him, had watched him prostrate himself countless times. He was an excellent soldier, a friend, a servant to the crown, and most of all a moral and considerate man.
He was not being punished. Aramis had told him he was not being punished, that God was merely testing him.
But why would God test him like this?
Had Athos not shown himself to be good?
God had the power to end his suffering. Why did he not have the mercy?
Why?
He punched the bannister. Of course that was about as effective as anything else he had done over the past week. Athos always threw the better punches. Or had done so when he was still the master of his own hands.
Athos was a fine man. Handsome, smart, and strong. And all his sharp mind did was give him a better understanding of the disastrous end he faced. All his strength did was heighten the pain as his muscles plotted to kill him. Oh Athos was blessed. He had been born into riches, with everything any man could ever want at his disposal. And now he was dying in a ditch.
"Aramis?"
"Captain."
He tried to keep his tone neutral. How had he not heard the door? How was Tréville suddenly next to him?
Tréville sighed heavily and leaned against the bannister next to Aramis. They stood in silence for several minutes, both looking out over the darkening courtyard, lost in their own thoughts.
Aramis was anxious. He had no desire to explain himself. He didn't think he could face Tréville's utter disappointment in him. The captain didn't know what Athos knew, but he still had perfectly good reasons to be frustrated with his failures.
Tréville scrubbed a hand over his face and sighed again.
"I have never come so close to killing one of my men," he said.
Aramis could not suppress a derisive huff at that. Twenty-one musketeers.
"Not with my hands," Tréville clarified. "With my orders, but never my hands."
He sounded so tired, looking at his hands like they were dipped in blood.
Aramis could have told him that it wasn't his fault, that he couldn't have known, that nobody could have foreseen the severity of the spasm, that it was the unpredictable nature of tetanus that had caused this and not his touch.
But Tréville knew that.
And it made no difference.
"I would go back," Aramis said instead. "If you sent me to Savoy again, I would go."
He said it softly, but firmly. He trusted Tréville, with his own life and with theirs.
Tréville nodded.
"Thank you."
They stood in silence again. Eventually, Tréville spoke.
"If Athos..."
"He won't."
"Of course."
Aramis was not upset with Tréville. It was his duty as their captain to plan, to think ahead, to adjust to the unfathomable. It was Aramis' prerogative as a friend to ignore it, even if his mind strayed occasionally.
"You have done well by him," Tréville said.
Aramis wanted to reply that he hadn't achieved anything, that he had only made it worse, that he had failed. But some part of him knew that he could not claim the blame for himself after he had given Tréville absolution. Neither one of them had any power over the disease and it felt preposterous to claim otherwise. But there was still something... the distinct feeling that he should have been capable of doing wore, that he had not done well at all.
Aramis hung his head. He didn't trust himself to speak without his voice — and his resolve — breaking.
"Have you sought reconciliation?"
It took Aramis a moment to realise what he meant. Not reconciliation with Athos. Reconciliation with God. The Sacrament of Penance. Confession.
Quorum remiseritis peccata remittuntur eis quorum retinueritis detenta sunt.
Aramis shook his head.
Tréville sighed and brushed a hand across his face.
"Unburden yourself," he said, giving Aramis a soft clap on the shoulder and a sad little smile before turning to leave. Once again there was so much more in those words. More than even Tréville realised.
Go home, prodigal son, go back to church, go back to God...
Leave behind the soldier, the medic, the friend, the failure... confess and wash away your sins.
Forgive and be forgiven.
No.
Aramis stared out into the gathering gloom, the dim light from the kitchen making the shadows flicker ominously.
This time Aramis heard the door open and close. He felt both irrationally grateful and bereft that Porthos did not try to touch him. He had to fight hard enough to keep his emotions in check. He would not be able to bear an embrace without falling to pieces.
"Is he..."
Breathing? Well? Dead?
Aramis did not dare to finish his question. His throat seemed to clench around that last word.
Porthos leaned against a pillar and ran his fingers through his hair.
"He is resting," he said. "He is... he's in pain, but he's... he's breathing steadily. He had a bit of wine and he... anyways, he's resting now."
"Did he say anything?"
"No, he's... he opened his eyes though," Porthos answered. For the first time since all of this had started, he sounded tired. "He's hanging on, Aramis."
Until the next spasm...
Until he's once again tossed about like a ragdoll. Until God decides he's in for another round of agony.
Aramis manfully suppressed the tears.
How many days, hours, minutes of hanging on? How much longer? How soon would Athos...?
"Relax, mon ami."
Aramis almost laughed, a harsh and bitter thing, because how could he relax? How could anybody relax in the face of this?
Aramis realised he was trembling and he was panting for breath. It was too much and not enough all at the same time.
"You're not doing yourself any favours, mon cher."
And then there was a warm and steady hand on his back and it was definitely too much now and he shuddered, drawing in a shaky breath. God had forsaken him, but Porthos was still here and real and warm, and Aramis clung to it, to Porthos' presence.
He didn't move, simply stood there clutching the bannister and trying desperately to calm himself. Keep breathing. Just keep breathing. This wasn't about him. This was about being there for Athos.
"Aramis..."
Porthos' voice was achingly gentle. He shouldn't be out here, he should be with Athos. He had to be with Athos. Athos needed Porthos so much more. It was selfish of Aramis to claim him for himself.
"Take the evening off, Aramis."
"No," Aramis gasped. He couldn't possibly leave Athos alone. Not now, not like this.
"We've all been away," Porthos said reasonably. "D'Artagnan and me, we've had our time away. You've barely left that room in the past week."
"I can't..." Aramis said and looked up. He knew he was panicking, he was being irrational. Porthos' face was a carefully composed mask.
"It's Wednesday," he said. It took Aramis a moment to catch the meaning behind his words.
Right. Wednesday. He had a life on Wednesday, every Wednesday — a long-standing appointment. Not today though. He couldn't. Not when Athos...
"Go," Porthos said. "We'll hold the fort here."
"I can't," Aramis repeated. He couldn't go there, not today.
"Go and get yourself sorted out," Porthos said. His smile had never looked so wrong. "You're no good like this."
"What if..."
"He won't," Porthos said firmly.
"You can't know that."
"I don't," Porthos admitted. "But I know you need a breather."
Rationally, Aramis knew he was right. He was no use to anybody just now. Emotionally, he was afraid... How typical of him to be otherwise engaged when his friends needed him the most. But he knew he couldn't go back in there, not yet, not when all he wanted to do was shout and rage against God. Nobody needed him like this.
He needed to breathe.
He straightened his shoulders and looked up at Porthos. Porthos nodded gravely and held out his sword and hat to him. Aramis hadn't even noticed them.
He forced that persistent lump down his throat and composed his features into something resembling his usual mask. He would simply be... Aramis. Aramis on a Wednesday night, out to find his entertainment.
Porthos had brought everything, even his boots. He didn't even need to go back inside. It was all so easy; slipping back into his uniform, into his normal life, into the persona he had built for himself. It was effortless.
Porthos looked at him as Aramis turned to leave.
"Give my regards to Madame Mercredi," he said.
Translations & Explanations
Jamais être pris vivant —"Never to be taken alive" grammatically not entirely correct motto of the chasseurs alpins, the elite mountain infantry of the French Army. If you think you've heard that before, you are quite right. They have two mottos, the other being Sans peur et sans Reproche.
Bayard — le bon chevalier sans peur et sans reproche ("the good knight without fear and beyond reproach") Pierre Terrail Seigneur de Bayard (1473-1524) a famed French military leader known for his impeccable character, his courage, as well as his exploits as one of the most magnificent cavalry commanders of all time. Died in Italy in the midst of his enemies. His last words are directed at a former friend who had switched sides and was attending to him. The book Tréville is reading is "La très joyeuse, plaisante et récréative histoire du bon chevalier sans peur et sans reproche, le gentil seigneur de Bayart" ("The very joyous, pleasant, and entertaining history of the good knight without fear and beyond reproach, the kind Lord of Bayard") written by Le Loyal Serviteur ("The Loyal Servant") commonly assumed to be his private secretary Jacques de Mailles. It was originally published in the 16th century, but I can only find an 1882 version on .fr — in that one the formidable death scene is on page 427.
Maréchal de France — Marshal of France, currently the highest military distinction in France, at the time the second highest after Marshal General of France. According to Dumas, d'Artagnan actually achieves this distinction eventually, albeit briefly. Excuse the painful reminder, book fans.
Psalm 8, 4-5 — What is man, that you are mindful of him? And the son of man that you should care about him? For you have made him little lower than God, and crowned him with glory and honour.
Requiem æternam... — "Eternal rest grant unto him, oh Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon him. May he rest in peace. Amen."
Quorum remiseritis peccata remittuntur eis quorum retinueritis detenta sunt — "Whose sins you shall forgive, they are forgiven them: and whose sins you shall retain, they are retained." John 20,23
Madame Mercredi — "Mrs. Wednesday" nickname the others have given Aramis' long-standing Wednesday night appointment.