"Gaston, Duc d'Orléans!" Steward Fontaine announced in the courtyard of the château as the duke stepped out of the carriage.
"Your Grace." Captain Tréville bowed in respectful greeting of the duke, brother to King Louis XIII.
"Captain Tréville, of the King's Musketeers, I presume?" The Duke of Orléans asked, looking the captain over from head to toe.
"Yes, Your Grace," the captain nodded, keeping his eyes straight ahead.
"The king speaks very highly of you as Captain of His Majesty's Musketeers, I must say." Duke Gaston circled around the captain, as though inspecting him. "Indeed, I have heard a great many good things about the Musketeers."
"Thank you, Your Grace." The captain bowed his head again, waiting patiently where he stood as the duke turned back toward the carriage.
"Mademoiselle Marie de Hautefort." Steward Fontaine announced as he received her hand, assisting her down the steps of the carriage; he led her to stand beside Duke Gaston.
"Mademoiselle de Hautefort," the captain greeted as he kissed her proffered hand. "I am very pleased to finally meet you."
"As I am pleased to finally meet you, Captain Tréville." Marie's blue eyes danced as she smiled at the Captain of the Musketeers. "We have much to discuss, Monsieur."
Steward Fontaine bowed and prompted the group to go inside with a sweeping gesture toward the door. Duke Gaston and Marie led the way into the château with Captain Tréville and Steward Fontaine following closely behind.
"Your Grace, you can meet with your guests in the study." Steward Fontaine led the group to the large room with walls of deep brown wood, sparsely decorated with oil paintings of royal ancestors and other family members. Ornately carved wooden beams accentuated the high vaulted ceilings, giving the room a very masculine and stately feel. The soft sound of a log crackling in the opulent fireplace echoed off the high ceiling, warming the large room to the perfect temperature.
"Would you and your guests like any tea or wine to drink, Your Grace?" The steward inquired of the duke before turning to the others to ask about refreshments.
"No, Steward Fontaine," the duke answered for everyone. "I believe we are all fine, thank you." Duke Gaston waved off the offer of drinks. "Leave us, please, and see to it that we are not disturbed."
"Yes, Your Grace." Steward Fontaine shut the double doors, leaving the group of three alone.
"I believe you have something for me, Captain Treville." Mademoiselle de Hautefort smiled, getting right down to business.
"Yes, Mademoiselle de Hautefort, I do." Captain Tréville pulled the folded and wrinkled letter from his doublet pocket. "I apologize for the condition of the letter but it had to be concealed in a very small space to prevent it from being found."
"I heard that your men were captured and tortured," the pretty lady said softly as she took the letter from the captain.
"Yes, two of my men endured much suffering after they were ambushed, though they never revealed the whereabouts of the letter—as per the orders of the king," Captain Tréville replied resolutely.
"Your men carried out their duty valiantly, Captain," de Hautefort whispered softly. "I cannot express to you enough the extreme importance of keeping these letters secret. If they had gotten into the wrong hands, the consequence would be devastating."
"I understand, Mademoiselle," the captain nodded. "The king stressed the importance of keeping the letter secret and I do not ever wish to let the king down when entrusted on such a crucial mission."
"I should like to meet the two gallant Musketeers who remained brave—yet silent—while being tortured so cruelly."
"Yes, I am sure Porthos and d'Artagnan would be happy to meet you, Mademoiselle," Captain Tréville agreed politely.
"Yes, well, I am sure we can arrange meetings with everyone at a later time." Duke Gaston interrupted as he grew impatient to move on to details of a more private nature. "However, for the moment, Mademoiselle de Hautefort and I have business to discuss privately, if you please, Captain."
"Of course, Your Grace." Captain Tréville nodded, understanding it was time for him to take his leave. "Mademoiselle de Hautefort, it was a pleasure." The captain kissed her proffered hand and returned her smile. "Thank you, Your Grace." Tréville bowed before the duke then turned on his heel to leave the room.
Shutting the door behind him, Captain Tréville blew out a breath of relief as he scrubbed a hand over his face. "Thank God, that's over," the captain grumbled. "I don't like this; there is something odd about their behavior." Tréville walked upstairs toward the bedchambers when he paused. "The mystery of that envelope is growing ever darker—Mademoiselle de Hautefort said 'these letters'."
Were there two letters in that envelope when the king only spoke of one? Is the king trying to be discreet, or are Mademoiselle de Hautefort and Duke Gaston hiding something? What in the hell is in those letters that nearly got my men killed? I'm going to get to the bottom of this—so help me, the captain swore to himself.
"You fool!" Duke Gaston snapped. "Do you realize that you mentioned both letters to the captain? Let us both hope the captain is not clever enough to have caught that little slip of your tongue, Marie; I would think in your line of work that you wouldn't make such careless mistakes. Considering the severity of the stakes between the people involved and putting our plan into motion, you must be more careful!"
"I am sure the captain didn't give it any thought, Gaston," Mademoiselle de Hautefort replied. "It was an honest mistake that, I am certain, the captain took no notice of."
The duke snatched the article of interest from Marie's hand and hastily tore open the sealed envelope to look inside. Finding two neatly folded letters, Duke Gaston closed his eyes with relief. "I believe this letter is for you." The duke handed off the second letter after seeing the salutation addressed to Marie.
Gaston, Duke de Orléans sat down behind his large desk to begin reading the letter, so anticipated and desperately sought after that a group of thugs felt it worth torturing and killing for.
Dear Gaston,
Please forward this letter to my brother, Cardinal-Infante Ferdinand, as he has the influence to persuade Ambassador Mirabel to raise sufficient troops for the invasion.
My Dearest Brother,
It has come to my attention that my husband suspects an impending invasion of Spanish troops entering France from the south—all routes from Spain must be avoided at all cost. I will leave it to the Ambassador and you as a military commander to choose the best, least expected route on which your troops will travel to avoid detection.
You must enforce a solution to political events leading to war at the sword's point, rather than by the pen of the diplomatist, dear brother.
We must not waste any further time but put this plan into action immediately if we wish it to succeed. Please inform me immediately of your intentions.
Your Beloved Sister,
Anne
"My God, Marie, this is it!" Gaston exclaimed, standing abruptly. "We must deliver this letter to Ferdinand as soon as possible; it's time to put our plan put into action." The duke smiled wryly.
"I can't believe the nerve of Louis!" Marie huffed with disgust. "He wants me to spy on Anne, informing him of what she talks about and who she corresponds with. The king must be out of his mind if he thinks I'm going to spy on Anne, especially when she already has so few people she can trust. I have the confidence of the king, and I do work for him in a secretive manner, but I will not do this!"
"Marie, did you hear what I said?" Gaston shook his head. "This matter here," he held up the letter, "is far more critical and time-sensitive than the king asking you to spy on his wife."
"I'm sorry, Gaston," she apologized. "What did you say?"
"I said we must deliver this letter promptly to the Cardinal-Infante," Gaston's irritation was clear. "Prepare to travel immediately," he ordered. "We must deliver this letter to Spain and begin our plans for the invasion; the time has come to put our plan into action."
Marie took the letter from Duke Gaston and read it with her mouth agape in surprise. "I will summon Pierre and we will leave at once." Marie paused as she stood to leave. "You had better pray for this plan to be a success or we will all be killed; none of us will be safe. Once this letter is delivered, there is no turning back."
"I don't plan to turn back, Marie," Gaston resolved. "Besides, it's too late to turn back now. We must succeed; or we will die trying."
Athos' breathing was labored and raspy, but at least he wasn't gasping for air anymore. The fight to breathe left him weak, sapping more life out of him. No longer able to keep his drooping eyes open, he let them slide shut.
"Don't you dare go to sleep on us," Aramis ordered. "You stay with us; you stay awake!" Aramis took Athos' hand, "I'm not letting go," he squeezed hard. "Don't you let go either!"
A tear spilled from Athos' eye, dripping onto the pillow.
Aramis and Porthos stared at each other with wide eyes, listening to the rattling sound coming from deep inside Athos' chest as he breathed.
"Don't do this, Athos," Aramis whispered in his ear. "Please, don't leave us, brother. What will we do without you?"
"Athos, please," Aramis begged in his friend's ear. "Please don't leave me alone."
A tear slipped from Athos' left eye and rolled across the bridge of his nose to drip down onto the pillow.
"I never had a brother, not 'til you and 'Mis and d'Artagnan. Now I have three; we're a family, Athos. We can't lose you," Porthos pleaded. "Please. . . don't do this—don't leave us."
"I l-l'v youuuu. . ." Athos said, taking one last breath.
Athos was gone.
His green eyes were open—unseeing and empty.
The unseeing eyes stared ahead at nothing. Unshed tears collected in lifeless eyes now spilled out, rolling down the cheeks to catch in the soft beard.
"No!" Aramis screamed, sitting bolt upright only to fall back against the soft bed with a howl as wrenching pain jolted through his ribs. "God no, Athos. . ." Aramis grieved, turning his face into his pillow to muffle the sobs. "Please. . . no!"
"Aramis!" a voice in the fog shouted. "Aramis!" the 'voice' was now shaking the medic by his shoulders. "Aramis, wake up!" Doctor Molyneux bellowed. "You were having a bad dream, Aramis. Son, it was just a dream."
"Athos died. . ."
"Athos is not dead, Aramis." Molyneux pointed toward the sleeping form of Athos on the nearby bed. "He's right over there, on the bed; I can see him breathing from here. You had that dream again, didn't you?"
"Doctor, why does that dream keep haunting me?" Aramis crunched his eyes closed then covered his face with his hands. "I can't shake the feeling that it's more than just a dream! It's like a foreshadowing of what's to come—it has to be—otherwise why would I keep having the same dream over and over again?"
"The brain is quite a fascinating—though little understood—organ in our heads, Aramis. There is so much we have yet to discover about the human brain; it is utterly fascinating to even contemplate the power we hold within our minds." Doctor Molyneux commented with an apparent sense of wonder.
"That doesn't explain why I keep having this same bad dream, Doctor." Aramis blinked repeatedly as he stared in Athos' direction. He questioned whether his own eyes were playing tricks on him—that maybe Athos wasn't really there, lying just feet away from him and very much alive.
"Aramis, the mind is very powerful and will often play tricks on us—we feel fear when there is nothing to be afraid of—yet the mind makes you believe that a very real threat exists. The same holds true for our deepest, most personal anxieties," Molyneux soothed. "You are so afraid of losing your brothers—and it could be any of the three—but in this specific case, it is Athos. Perhaps it's because of the gravity of his previous illness that Athos' death has loomed in your mind with such intense fear, the unconscious mind has picked it up as real."
Aramis stared at the doctor with his jaw dropped open. "I don't even know how to respond to that." The medic shook his head, his forehead creased with bewilderment. "Where did that come from, Doctor? Have you been studying human psychological behavior in addition to medicine?"
"No, honestly, Aramis, I don't know where those words of wisdom came from," Molyneux laughed. "But I did say that the mind is very powerful, didn't I? The mind can surprise us—even scare us."
"How is Athos, Doctor?" Aramis raised his head to peer at the still form on the bed. "When I walked into this room and saw that, that. . . doctor taking blood from Athos' neck with a grin on his face—I just lost it. There were two or three bowls on the table and another bowl he was filling in his hand," he shook his head at the memory. "When I walked in, I startled the doctor and he dropped the bowl… God, all that blood."
"Athos is very lucky you came into the room when you did," Molyneux replied grimly. "If the doctor had taken one more pint, I don't believe Athos would have survived. I found that Doctor Bonét had also taken blood from Athos' arm." The doctor pointed to his own elbow to demonstrate. "It's probable that Athos lost four to five pints of blood—he is very weak—but he is alive. In fact, it's time for his next transfusion treatment."
"Transfusion treatment?" Aramis repeated, his brow furrowing with confusion. "What do you mean transfusion? The blood transfusions attempted so far have proved deadly," Aramis panicked. "Surely you're not trying to transfer blood into Athos…"
"Aramis, calm down," the doctor held the medic by his shoulders. "I'm not transfusing blood but a saline solution directly into his bloodstream."
"It's true, Aramis," Cécile smiled. "It is time for his next treatment now; would you care to watch? Nurse Maria has been teaching me what she knows about the procedure and, considering my profession, it is a valuable skill to have as it may come in handy one day."
"Saline transfusion?" Aramis carefully propped himself up higher on the pillows, wincing as pain in his ribs flared. "I read an article about nurses who treated wounded soldiers with saline…" the medic paused.
"Well, Nurse Maria is one of those battlefield nurses you read about, Aramis." Cécile motioned to the nurse next to her, gleaming with pride. "It's an honor just to work beside her and learn from her."
"Oh, really now, Cécile." Nurse Maria waved off the praise. "You are every bit as good a nurse as I am, my dear."
"Nurses," Doctor Molyneux called out. "Shall we get started?"
The doctor and two nurses repeated the procedure of attaching Athos to the transfusion apparatus with Cécile inserting the quill into the vein with steady fingers, though inside she was terrified. "You're doing fine," Nurse Maria encouraged. She held the bladder elevated, watching the nurse closely. "Very good!" The experienced nurse praised her protegé once the saline began flowing without a hitch.
"Did you see that, Aramis?" Cécile almost screamed with enthusiasm. "I did it!" she giggled with glee.
"Yes, you sure did." The medic beamed with pride as he watched Cécile. Soon his eyes grew heavy, and though he tried hard to stay awake, he finally allowed his eyes to close as he fell into a deep sleep.
"Let's let them both rest, ladies," Doctor Molyneux smiled. "We could all use a little nap ourselves.
Later:
"Why hasn't he woken up yet?" Aramis' demeanor seemed especially gloomy after waking from his nap; the worry was clearly evident on his face as he watched his motionless friend.
"Well, I've been meaning to wake him." Molyneux nodded, "I think it's about time I tried." Doctor Molyneux placed his knuckles over the patient's sternum and pressed down, rubbing hard across the bone in attempt to wake the Musketeer. He watched as Athos' hands twitched in reaction to the stimuli, though it did not fully revive him.
Aramis watched with wide eyes as the doctor rubbed across the sternum again, bringing about a moan of pain from Athos as he weakly turned his head to the side and went to sleep again. "Come on, Athos, wake up for me." Molyneux slapped the Musketeer's cheeks lightly.
"Athos, you have slept long enough," Cécile scolded. "Now, wake up!"
Athos moaned and weakly tried to pull his heavy eyelids open but they wouldn't cooperate. At another slap to his cheek, the Musketeer managed to pull his tired eyes open to glower at the offender hitting his face.
"Well, hello there, Athos," the doctor greeted. "It seems to me that the last time we parted I specifically instructed you to take better care of yourself with no unnecessary—and potentially harmful—activity, did I not?" Molyneux waited for a reply.
Athos ghosted a smile, allowing his eyes to slide closed again.
"No you don't, Athos!" The physician smacked his cheeks again, causing the Musketeer to pull open his eyes. "I need you to drink some water for me." Doctor Molyneux ordered.
The Musketeer's brow furrowed sharply in protest. "Noo, too tirrr'd."
"Athos, it's important that we get fluids back into your body," the doctor explained. "You're going to have to drink a considerable amount of water and juice to bring your strength up again, so I need you to stay awake for a while."
Nurse Maria held the glass of water as the doctor propped Athos up on the pillows just enough so he could drink without spilling. "Now, drink this water—slowly."
Athos wrapped his hand around the glass but didn't have the strength to lift it to his lips. Doctor Molyneux frowned at the weakness of his patient, this is not a good sign, he thought.
Aramis continued watching, his worry growing at the apparent weakness of the once-strong and proud Musketeer.
The doctor took the glass from Athos' hand and lifted it to his lips; he tilted it just enough so the water would pour into his mouth slowly to avoid choking. After a few minutes, the water was emptied but the effort had left the Musketeer exhausted.
"Go ahead and sleep for a while, son." Doctor Molyneux pulled the blankets back up to Athos' chin and tucked him in tight. "I will wake you again in about an hour to drink some juice."
"Is Athos going to pull through this, doctor?" Aramis asked from his cot, his face showing anxiety and worry.
The doctor sighed—reminding himself who he was talking to—knowing full well that he could not lie to Aramis without the medic seeing through his false comfort. "I don't know, but I'm going to do everything I can to save him—everything I know how."
"Help me up," Aramis demanded with an edgy tone he didn't intend.
"Where do you think you are going?" Cécile asked with sudden concern.
"I need to get over there; I need to be with Athos." Aramis grasped Cécile's hand with pleading eyes. "Maybe if he knows he's not alone, he'll be more willing to fight. With everything he's gone through these last few months, he may be tempted to give up too easily; I'm not going to let that happen."
"Alright, hold on just a moment." The doctor approached the cot to help Cécile get Aramis to his feet. "Nurse Maria, if you would pull down the covers on the bed to make room for Aramis," he directed. "Cécile, I'll help you get him up and move him, but let's keep his torso as straight as possible, please."
Doctor Molyneux and Cécile moved Aramis slowly over to the bed, setting him down on the edge. Carefully the nurse took his legs to swing them up onto the bed as the doctor pulled Aramis back against a mountain of pillows to keep him elevated. In one fluid motion, they had the medic lying down next to Athos, surprisingly without excessive pain to his ribs.
"Are you alright?" Molyneux asked Aramis with a smile. "You Musketeers are indeed the most stubborn patients I have ever encountered under my care—and the most demanding."
Aramis huffed weakly at the comment, knowing the doctor was speaking the truth. He smiled at the doctor he now considered a friend. "Yes, I'm fine—now that I'm here." Suddenly, the medic looked around the room, his eyes growing wide with panic. "Doctor, do you know where Porthos and d'Artagnan are located, are they alright? Please, tell me they're alright!"
"Aramis," Cécile soothed. "If you calm yourself down, I'll go check on them; they're just down the hall. I'm sure they are both fine," the nurse smiled.
Aramis smiled, allowing his eyes to close for a few minutes until the man next to him began to cough.
"God, notttt g'nnnn. . ." Athos curled into himself, wracked with coughs as his breath wheezed through his constricted windpipe.
Aramis pulled Athos close to him and whispered calming, soothing words into his ear. "Breathe slowly… through your nose… slowly in… now out through your mouth." He drilled the instructions again and again until Athos regained his composure and could breathe easier.
"We may need to set up an herbal steam tent if his breathing and the coughing gets any worse," Molyneux warned. "If we set up the tent, you will not want to be underneath it with him; it does get unbearably hot."
"Yes, I remember," Aramis huffed a breath at the memory. "I sat with him under the tent a while at the château… the other château."
Cécile returned after visiting down the hall with news of the missing two Musketeers. "Both Porthos and d'Artagnan came through their surgeries very well and are resting comfortably," the nurse reported happily. "Doctor Berteau said that he repaired Porthos' torn diaphragm and he's doing much better; d'Artagnan's shoulder is being treated for infection and, so far, the treatment appears to be working and the doctor is hopefully optimistic."
"Thank God!" Aramis sighed with relief, choking back a weary sob. "That's good to know." The medic wiped his eyes and sunk himself back into his pile of pillows. He pulled Athos gently against his chest, so that his friend's head rested in the crook of his neck. He shook his head at the cool temperature of his brother next to him and frowned. "Go to sleep, my brother. I'm right here with you and I'll keep you warm," he whispered. He wrapped an arm around Athos' chest then closed his eyes to sleep.
The doctor pulled the blankets over the two sleeping Musketeers. "Sleep well, brave men." Molyneux patted each of the Musketeer's heads. "You both will need your strength to make it through the next few days if that cough gets any worse."
"God please," Cécile prayed as she sat beside Aramis. "For once, spare Athos any further suffering; I don't know that he can survive it anymore."
A/N:
Queen Anne used to write her brother, Cardinal-Infante Ferdinand, often complaining of her miserable life and her terrible and lonely marriage to Louis. These letters were smuggled to him through her most trusted confidantes, Madame de Chevreuse and Mademoiselle Marie de Hautefort.
The paragraph in her letter to the Cardinal-Infante, "You must enforce a solution to political events leading to war at the sword's point, rather than by the pen of the diplomatist," were Queen Anne's actual words written to her brother.
Cardinal-Infante Ferdinand was one of the military commanders fighting for Spain during the Thirty Years War and the Franco-Spanish War.