Dear all,

Here is the next chapter on the suffering of Athos. Finally his brothers and Captain learn what they are facing. Thank you so much for all the lovely comments and to the many who have chosen to follow this story. More next week. I hope you enjoy this!

THE FOURTH HOUR

Gabon watched and listened to it all, a faintly rueful smile playing across his features as their reaction to his announcement that Athos could be dead within an hour was predictable, loud and full of objections.

Amidst the outburst of their raised voices, he gestured them to quieten down.

"Think of the patient," he gently chided them.

"What do you mean there is no cure? What do you think it is?" Tréville had demanded.

"I would prefer to wait until I have consulted my books," he stalled, "and I really would prefer it if three of you went through to the other room. I will, of course, remain here with one volunteer and we will look after Athos between us."

His insistence was met, as he expected, by firm refusals. Porthos, as if to demonstrate the fact that he was immoveable from his friend's side, slid down the wall and sat on the floor, his legs outstretched, arms folded across his chest in open defiance and the expression on his face just inviting Gabon to push his luck.

"Then I demand a compromise at the very least," Gabon persisted, pulling a clean sheet from a nearby bed and tearing it into wide strips before distributing one to each of the men. "Whilst you remain in this room, you will wear this over your nose and mouth to minimise breathing in any possibly noxious vapours from the patient. Of course, it may be too late for such a precaution but we may as well make the attempt."

There was plenty of grumbling but they did agree eventually.

"Makes me look an' feel like a bandit," Porthos complained, his voice slightly muffled by the material, but still did as he was bidden.

Aramis was concerned. "We will frighten Athos to death if he sees us wearing these," and then he realised what he had said and an embarrassed flush coloured his olive skin.

"We know what you mean," Trėville said, attempting to diffuse the tension that had noticeably risen in the room with the physician's directive. Looking at Athos, it was clear that he was not taking any notice of what was going on around him. "If you are that worried, Aramis, we will leave it to your discretion as to how to explain things to him when he is fully awake."

The sick musketeer was drifting in and out of wakefulness despite the continued shivering.

Towards the end of the fourth hour, some semblance of peace and quiet descended upon the infirmary. The books arrived for Gabon, two weighty tomes in size, leather bindings and content, and he poured over them with deep concentration and in stark contrast to the musketeer officer, who joined him in taking up position at the table usually used for treatment. The Captain had sent for paperwork and quills from his desk and was trying to immerse himself in the mundane and rudimentary tasks of running the garrison; he had tried to deal with a more important missive but had to admit defeat when he spoiled several sheets of paper with crossings out and then pressed down too hard upon the quill pen so that it split suddenly and spat ink back at him in a gesture of mild insubordination. Having cleaned himself and the table as best he could, he settled to repeating an order for stores, for little had changed over a week so that he did not have to think too hard. His repeated sighs, harrumphs and irritated heavy scratchings on the paper were the best indicators that his heart was not truly in his work and he repeatedly cast distracted glances towards Athos and where Aramis continued to sit by him on the floor.

Having requested paper and quill for himself, Gabon turned the thick vellum pages of the texts and set about making copious notes, the ink filling the pages in a large but neat, forward-sloping, cursive hand. Even this was totally unlike the writing style of the Captain for the soldier had a hasty scrawl, testament to the many demands upon his time during any day. Athos himself had been heard to describe it as being like a drunken spider that had fallen into the ink bottle, clambered out and staggered across the page with interesting and often barely legible results.

Food was brought for the group and Serge listened worriedly as Trėville furnished him with a stream of further instructions appertaining to those incarcerated within the infirmary and the others in the garrison at large. Aramis eventually insisted that Porthos and d'Artagnan retire to the adjacent room to rest by stretching out on the cots there, even if they could not actually sleep and he had dispatched them there with food when Gabon, pressed yet again for information, re-iterated his devastating news. In short, if Athos was infected with what he suspected, the next stage of symptoms, if they did not kill him swiftly, would be such that he would need a lot of care and support over the ensuing hours.

Reluctant as they were to leave the main room, Aramis assured them that they were within an easy call if needed and that there was little to be gained by them all crowding into the one area. The Captain and the physician were about their business, Athos remained in a restless slumber and did not need much tending and, if truth be told, the patience of both Aramis and Trėville was being sorely tested by d'Artagnan's failure to sit still. His constant pacing with sudden interjections about how he should have realised something was wrong sooner – despite the others all pointing out to him that there was absolutely nothing he could have done to prevent the situation – and Porthos' efforts to occupy himself by carving a pattern into the seat of a stool, making an error and cursing first himself, then the stool, then the self-imposed isolation in the infirmary followed by all the people who could be held remotely responsible for making Athos ill, all served to try the patience of a saint. That was a nomenclature that could not be attributed to either Trėville or Aramis at this juncture and when the Captain finally snapped and threatened both of them with a month of mucking out stables if they did not keep quiet, they conceded and headed to the other room.

Gabon, amused by the interaction between the men, continued to work in silence for some time until he sat back in his chair, laid his quill very carefully down upon his notes and pinched the bridge of his nose with tiredness. Both Trėville and Aramis sensed that something of great import was about to be shared and leaned forward, mentally preparing themselves for what they were about to hear.

"I would ask d'Artagnan a few more questions if you would be so kind." The old physician looked directly towards Aramis, his implication clear – he wanted the musketeer to summon the young man.

Obligingly, Aramis called to d'Artagnan but made him stand in the doorway whilst he listened and responded as far as he could to the searching inquiries of Gabon.

Now mid-September, the area in Picardy through which they had ridden had been subjected to violent summer storms which had resulted in torrential rain and substantial flooding along both major and minor river banks. This was for the second successive year and harvests had been adversely affected on both occasions; although the local populace might face some hardship through the coming winter and did not have much spare produce to sell at market, it was not to the extent that they were in danger of starvation.

As they travelled, the two musketeers had been aware of increased insect activity but, no, he had not been bitten – it was something from which he had not suffered when on his father's farm – and he did not recall either hearing Athos speak of the same nor had he seen him scratching at a bite. That was not to say that it might not have occurred. At this point in the proceedings, Aramis gingerly tried to examine Athos for any tell-tale spots that might indicate an insect bite but the sick musketeer had not been very co-operative and so Aramis had abandoned the search.

There also seemed to be a greater number of vermin in the area and they had been troubled with rats and voles when they had camped on their last night. Gabon had then wanted to know about their bedding and where they had stretched out upon the ground.

Bemused as he might have been about the range of questions and their apparent disjointedness, d'Artagnan continued to provide information, remembering the words of the Captain when he had urged full disclosure of information, no matter how irrelevant the content might seem. Gabon seemed content with his answers and continued to make extensive notation on his papers.

Tréville had listened quietly enough to both questions and answers whilst watching the physician very carefully and now he spoke, the authority in his voice clear. "Enough of the procrastination, Sir. You have your suspicions and I would have you give them voice for I suspect that you have long been convinced of your diagnosis. I want to know what is wrong with my man, what we are facing and what the risk is to my regiment and, potentially, Paris."

Gabon looked from one to the other of the men and saw the same resolute expression on each face. "I would have preferred to wait for the next symptoms but if you insist …"

"I do." Tréville would brook no more nonsense.

"Sudor Anglicus," Gabon announced and realised, from their rapidly shared glances, that they were none the wiser.

"The English sweating sickness," he translated.

Tréville and Aramis frowned as Porthos spoke up. "English? Can't be. Athos has never been there."

Gabon took a deep breath. "Whilst the first epidemics were all confined to England, the fourth one did spread to mainland Europe in 1528 culminating in the deaths of thousands. The only part of France affected at that time was the Calais region. The last major outbreak of the disease in England was in 1551 and I have here an eyewitness account of an eminent physician of the time, Joh Caius." His hand lightly grazed the volume. "It is a fascinating read as is this other treatise, 'Tractatus contra pestilentiam thenasmonen et dissinteriam'."

Aramis tried to do a rapid translation of the Latin in his head to explain to the Captain as he began to sense that the officer's temper was wearing exceedingly thin. It seemed, all of a sudden, as if a war of words and temperament was beginning between the physician and the Captain as the former did not appreciate being ordered to divulge his thoughts before he was ready.

"Thomas Forestier was a French doctor originally based in England," Gabon explained, demonstrating his knowledge. "When he returned to France, he wrote about the first recorded epidemic of 1485, providing information on its impact and appearance during this initial outbreak. He wrote it in English and Latin, observing its rapidity and violence. These men, both knowledgeable in their time and observers of this sickness, list symptoms that Athos has displayed.:

He took a deep breath before he began to outline what these men were to face with their friend if the supposition was correct. "He has suffered from the chills for a while; any time now the sweat will begin. That, the accompanying fever and delirium will probably be worse than much that you have encountered before. He will struggle with breathing, panting for breath; victims have been described as drowning in their lungs. Then there will be the palpitations and the pain around his heart. He will have a prodigious thirst and be in a state of collapse, desperate to sleep, but the books advise against that. You must try to keep him awake. In short, it will not be pleasant, gentlemen. He will be fighting for his life."

Silence fell in the room as the musketeers absorbed his words. Porthos could not help but feel that it had been better when they did not know what might happen. Brave warrior he might be but to be forced to sit and watch a brother possibly die and be helpless to do anything about it made him angry, impotent. He would do all he could to ease Athos' suffering. D'Artagnan sank into a miserable reverie as he struggled to come to terms with what the physician had said.

"You said there was no cure," Aramis broke the silence. "Surely some people survived its effects."

"Yes they did," Gabon continued, giving them the first ray of hope. "Many died as swiftly as within the first three hours; he has already exceeded that. The first twelve hours are critical; every hour he survives beyond that increases his chances and if he lives through twenty-four, he will recover."

"Right then," said Porthos with renewed optimism, "we just have to persuade him to live through the next twenty or so hours." He looked at his brothers. "Where's the difficulty in that?" The apparent blasé attitude drew at least a smile from the other men.

Aramis shrugged, "No difficulty at all. We've faced worse odds."

"Glad I was never with you then," d'Artagnan quipped. He looked thoughtful for a moment. "Can we reduce the fever by giving him a cold bath or something?"

Gabon shook his head. "That would probably kill him even more quickly with shock for there are things going on with the heart that we really do not know about. It would be too great a risk."

"What about sheets soaked in cold water?" Tréville asked, determined that they would at least prepare for what was to come, rather than to sit there doing nothing.

"It is possible but I would certainly recommend simply washing him down with cool cloths in the first instance and see how he responds to that," Gabon replied.

As one, they looked at the sick musketeer and it was d'Artagnan who, frowning, went over to check upon his well-being. He had been silent and still for a while, none of them having noticed when the intense shivering had ceased. Now he had made a weak attempt to push the blankets down his body as far as he could reach.

"Aramis?" d'Artagnan softly called.

All three of the other musketeers moved to stand beside Athos, alerted by the hitch in the young man's voice.

"He did not have that flush to his face before," Tréville noted.

Aramis reached down, the back of his hand feeling his brother's brow, cheek and then his neck before he straightened up, alarmed. "He is so hot to the touch; he has a fever."

"So," began Gabon from behind them, gaining their attention, "the final stage of symptoms has begun."

A/N

As well as the Latin treatise mentioned above, Forestier also wrote a version in English: 'Treatise on the venyms fever of pestilens'.

John Caius' English eye-witness account of the 1551 epidemic was called 'A Boke or Counseill Against the Disease Commonly Called the Sweate, or Sweatyng Sicknesse.'