CHAPTER 3
Epilogue
A few days later
"Tell me, my friend," Aramis said, casually throwing his arm around d'Artagnan's shoulders, and so hindering the young man's escape. "What did you do to upset Serge? Athos is a bit reluctant to share this information."
"Why don't you ask Serge, if you're so keen on finding out?" d'Artagnan replied, wriggling his shoulders to get out of Aramis' grip.
"You're a bit cheeky for a man in your position, pup." Porthos materialised in front of the young man, blocking his path and towering over him.
"If Athos won't tell you, why should I?" d'Artagnan replied defiantly. "He'll have his reasons and so do I."
"Well, that sounds logical." Aramis still had a tight hold on the Gascon, though with less strength than usual. The sickness had weakened him and he was not fully recovered yet. Smiling sweetly, he said, "I'd just thought we were friends, and friends tell each other everything."
"Yeah, that was my idea of friendship as well," added Porthos.
"Friends care for each other and look out for each other. I mean, why do you think you haven't been snatched from some dark corner until now and put through the initiation ritual?" Aramis let go of d'Artagnan's shoulder, looking expectantly at the boy. "So far, none of our comrades has dared do so because you're friends with us. And they respect that. Just as an example."
"Dared is not the right word, though. It's not that the initiation ritual would be anything out of the ordinary, everyone has to do it. It's kind of fun," Porthos remarked.
"Yes. Fun. Well, for the others at least, a shade less for the rookie," Aramis said apologetically.
Porthos chuckled. "We've all been through it, haven't we?"
"Well, I haven't," Aramis pointed out. "I was here when the regiment was founded, so no initiation ritual for me. And so far as I remember no one dared to even think about giving you the ritual. They all were too afraid of you."
Porthos looked thoughtfully at Aramis. "Yes, you're right. And Athos, when he joined, was spared because Tréville flatly refused to allow anyone to harm a comte. Right?"
"Quite so. But it's really nothing you'd have to be frightened of. It's not really dangerous." Aramis flashed a false smile at d'Artagnan.
"Nothing has ever happened. Nothing serious."
Aramis gazed at Porthos, replying, "Well, Hubert died."
Porthos stared at Aramis for a moment, and it looked like both men had forgotten about the Gascon, who watched them with ever-widening eyes. "That was unfortunate," said Porthos and turned, walking over towards the mess.
Aramis followed him. "And Yves lost a leg and Jean-Baptiste his right eye."
"That was really his own fault. No one could be blamed for it."
"Agreed! Oh, and I saw Jean just a few weeks ago. Do you remember him?"
"Jean with the gammy knees? How's he doing?"
They had strolled away from d'Artagnan and the boy started trailing behind so he didn't miss what was said.
Aramis shrugged his shoulders. "He looked fine to me. He's still selling baskets at the market. I haven't spoken to him, you know he doesn't speak to any of us any more."
Porthos sighed. "Yes, it's really a pity about Jean."
"I complained about the food!" D'Artagnan's shout carried over the courtyard.
Aramis and Porthos stopped and turned, looking at d'Artagnan with an expression of growing horror on their faces. "You did what?" both asked simultaneously in a tone that sounded like Tréville had just revealed to them that he had killed the King personally by cutting out their sovereign's heart and eating it afterwards.
D'Artagnan closed the distance between them and hissed, "I simply said that he forgot to put marjoram into the stew."
Aramis and Porthos stared at the boy with wide eyes.
"You said what?" asked Porthos.
"Listen, I only told him the only way to make a gabure is how my mother made it, and no one makes a gabure like my mother did, and that he needed to at least add marjoram and jambon de Bayonne, not some kind of-" D'Artagnan was interrupted.
"Stop it, please!" Porthos said with a pleading undertone in his voice, throwing glances over his shoulders, apparently to check if Serge was anywhere within earshot.
"I can't believe Athos didn't shoot you there and then," Aramis declared unbelievingly, his voice shocked. "I can't believe he let you live."
"But what-"
"Let's say no more about it! What you did is worse than treason," Porthos hissed, his thunderous stare making d'Artagnan quiver.
Aramis shook his head, tsking disapprovingly. "Come," he said to Porthos, and both men turned their back on the young Gascon and walked away, leaving him behind.
x-x-x-x-x-x-x
They only just managed to reach Aramis' quarters before they erupted into laughter, tears streaming from their eyes. Aramis soon was short of breath due to his recent lung disease, and Porthos had problems keeping upright, continuously doubling over, apparently not able to stop laughing any time soon.
Athos, who was leaning beside the fire place, perked an eyebrow up and watched them with a stern face. After a while, a warm smile spread over his face, and, as was rarely the case, it even reached his eyes, making them shine like dark emeralds. He knew he would regret it soon, but right now it just felt good to see both his friends laughing their heads off on account of some mischief they had done. Too close still was the fear he had felt that both of them might be taken away from him.
x-x-x-x-x-x-x
"Porthos!"
Tréville's shout reached Porthos on his way up the stairs, and he hurried to his captain's office.
"Tell me, how many more complaints about maltreated horses do I have to expect?" Tréville flung down the paper he'd read.
Porthos looked embarrassed, his eyes wandering erratically. "Erm, well, depends on how many you've already had?"
Tréville sighed. "Two about dead horses, four about maltreated ones and one innkeeper complains about the ill manners and impertinent tone of the King's Musketeers as a whole. He says he's going to submit a complaint to the King. So?"
Porthos seemed to silently calculate, using his fingers to sum up the figures in his head.
"Forget it. I'll find a way to either pay them or reject their complaints." Tréville regarded Porthos for a moment. "I still haven't worked out how you managed to cover the distance in such a short time."
"You hold the explanation for it in your hands." Porthos pointed to the papers on the captain's desk. "In short, I didn't rest. I didn't sleep and I didn't eat and I only drank some water when I changed the horses. I spurred the horses all the way and when they started to slow down I exchanged them. I didn't leave the saddle for longer than a minute or two. Sometimes I had to appropriate a horse by sheer force, from a salesman on the road, a passer-by or a farmer, but I always paid for it."
"I also received two complaints from Le Havre. How exactly did you find a Spanish ship and negotiate with the crew?" Tréville squinted at Porthos. "You couldn't have spent more than an hour at the port, if my calculation is right."
Porthos shuffled with his feet and scratched his neck. "That's not easily explained. I've been to Le Havre before and know someone at the port whom I asked for help."
"Someone with connections to Spain? Why was the crew willing to circumvent Spanish law and sell the bark to you? Did you act as a Musketeer and negotiate with the ship's captain?"
"With all due respect, captain, I'm not sure if you'd really want to know how the bark got into my possession." Porthos stared at a point somewhere above Tréville's head, his mien unreadable. "I think, in your position, it'd be best if you didn't know."
Tréville mulled over Porthos' words for a moment, eyeing the big man thoughtfully. "Could it be considered as treason?"
"No, sir," came the prompt reply.
"Could it reflect badly on His Majesty or the regiment?"
Porthos hesitated for a tiny moment before answering, "No, it will not."
Tréville exhaled slowly. "Did you bring back any of the extra coins Athos slipped you?" This time, there was amusement in his voice.
Porthos lowered his eyes and looked at this captain. A smirk spread on his face when he answered, "No."
Tréville shook his head slightly, as if chiding himself for allowing his men to get away with their behaviour. "I thought so. You're a good and reliable soldier. Dismissed."
x-x-x-x-x-x-x
"D'Artagnan, I'd like to discuss something with you. I believe you would be the right man to help us get hold of a man called Vadim. It would mean putting you at risk, but if you're still determined to become a Musketeer, this would be a good chance to demonstrate your quality."
D'Artagnan beamed at the captain, nodding animatedly. "Yes, of course!"
Tréville put his plan forward, the young man listening intently. "All right. I'll give you more details as soon as the plan is worked out."
D'Artagnan rose and made his way to the door. There he lingered for a moment before he addressed the captain once more. "I know that only the King can commission a Musketeer, but I wonder if there is some kind of initiation ritual? Something that shows someone is a part of the regiment, a new recruit. Before he earns his commission."
Tréville stared at the young man, then his expression changed. He furrowed his brows and squinted his eyes. "If Aramis or Porthos are trying to make you believe that I would tolerate any kind of dare or ritual within the garrison, then you would be wise to quickly forget about it. Because I do not." When he saw the Gascon's relieved face, he added, "Let me give you some advice: If they try to worm a secret out of you by telling you lurid tales of alleged traditions, don't fall for it."
D'Artagnan nodded and left.
Tréville allowed himself a smirk. From the way d'Artagnan's smile had faded upon hearing the last words, Tréville would bet any money that his advice had come too late.
FIN.