Porthos scooped up the medic in his arms and carried him to the bed where he gently laid him next to Athos. Doctor Berteau worked at cutting away the medic's pants with a pocketknife as Porthos held a cloth against the leg to staunch the bleeding.
Doctor Molyneux still tended to Athos, holding a bloodied cloth to the Musketeer's neck. At the moment, the physician could do little more than control the bleeding due to Cécile having taken both medical bags to resupply the kits before the shooting began. Unfortunately, this left the doctors with no medical equipment in the room.
"D'Artagnan, go see if you can find Cécile," Doctor Molyneux ordered. "We need our medical kits—needles and thread especially—and we need them immediately!"
"Porthos, keep putting pressure on the wound while I take a peek to assess the damage," Doctor Berteau instructed. He carefully removed a portion of the cloth, fully expecting a gushing spurt of blood as pressure was removed; when nothing happened, the physician removed the cloth to examine the wound more thoroughly. He watched the flow of blood coming from the wound and held his breath.
After several seconds of intense examination, the doctor let out a cry of delighted relief. "I believe the ball missed the artery; I see no spurting of blood with his heartbeat, which is very good news!" Berteau exclaimed to the men. "Whether the ball hit the bone, I will not know until I do surgery, but it appears our dear medic was spared when that ball missed the femoral artery."
"We need a few moments of peace and quiet- without the exchange of gunfire- so we can begin acting like doctors and treating our patients! Instead, we have been relegated to soldiers or recluses in hiding, while fearing for our lives," Doctor Molyneux grumbled. "Athos needs his neck stitched; Aramis needs his forehead stitched—and now his leg too; Porthos, you need to get those stone shards removed from your neck, and that cut above your eye stitched; d'Artagnan needs that head wound looked at. Good God, what more could possibly go wrong that hasn't already?"
"Don't ask!" Porthos growled as the Gascon returned with Cécile and the desired medical kits. The nurse stood in the doorway, frozen in shock, at the bloody scene in the room.
"Mother Mary, what happened in here?" Cécile gasped, her jaw dropping open. Her eyes scanned around the room in horror as she clung tightly to the medical bags in her hands.
"Don't ask!" the doctors replied in unison. "Nevermind, we have urgent work to do." Molyneux grabbed his bag from the nurse then dug through it for his sutures kit.
"Oh God, Aramis," Cécile cried out as she rushed to his side. "What happened to him?"
"Didn't I just say don't ask?" Doctor Molyneux scolded. "Aramis requires surgery on his leg and he needs stitches for that cut on his forehead; Doctor Berteau will need a nurse to assist him. Either pull yourself together, Cécile, or I'll get another nurse to take your place."
"No, I'm staying," the nurse replied with determination. "I love Aramis and I will be his nurse—no one else. What do you need me to do, Doctor Berteau?"
"What don't I need my nurse to do?" Doctor Berteau growled. "We have four patients again, as we did when we first arrived at the château. Just as the men were recovering and healing nicely, they were hurt again; now everyone is right back where they started."
"It's beginning to feel like we're going in circles!" Doctor Molyneux kicked a bloodied pistol across the floor. "The mayhem caused to these Musketeers has been relentless and cruel; it is a wonder any of them still draws breath. If this has been the work of some higher power for entertainment's sake—perhaps out of boredom—so help me…"
"Doctor Molyneux, please!" Cécile interrupted the uncharacteristic rant. The country physician was obviously under stress and was feeling more than fed up with the continuous suffering forced on the Musketeers.
"Doctor, why don't we focus on getting the men taken care of," Cécille suggested calmly. "We have much work to do and it doesn't do any good to complain about circumstances that we had no control over. Let's get to work, shall we?"
Aramis:
Doctor Berteau poured wine over the gunshot wound in Aramis' thigh and dried it with a towel; he then took the scalpel and cut along the wound to examine the damage internally. The doctor and nurse worked quietly as the leg was carefully examined; the duo worked in silence for such a time that when the doctor finally voiced his thoughts, it startled Cécile.
"The luck of these boys," the doctor said, shaking his head with disgust. "That's a contradictory statement, isn't it? These are the most unlucky lucky boys I've ever encountered."
"Whatever do you mean, doctor?" Cécile asked, puzzled.
"I understand these boys are Musketeers and their job is very dangerous—sometimes deadly—but I have never known a group of men who manage to get themselves into more trouble than this foursome," the doctor huffed. "Somehow, these men always manage to squeak by- not that I'm complaining."
"Doctor Berteau!" Cécile exclaimed in surprise.
"I do not want anything to happen to these boys, mind you," Doctor Berteau sighed. "But Aramis cheated death once before when the musket ball grazed the side of his head in Torfou; now he's done it again with this leg wound."
"How so, doctor?" Cécile wiped away the blood as it seeped from the wound.
"The ball went through the fleshy right side of his thigh, missing the major arteries in the center and completely missing the bone! Incredibly, if he had to be wounded, this was how it should happen," the doctor smiled. "He'll be hobbling around with a sore leg for a while, but at least he's alive—and with both legs intact!"
"Since the ball traveled through the leg cleanly, does that mean there will be no permanent damage?" Cécile asked as she swabbed the wound.
"Well, there shouldn't be any permanent damage, but I'll need to complete the surgery before I can determine a final prognosis," the doctor replied truthfully. "I will make sure there is no fabric embedded in this wound; I'm also going to further examine around the bone before we close him up." Berteau probed through the open wound with his tweezers searching for any foreign objects, such as fabric or lead.
"Ah, here we go." Berteau nodded at finding a small piece of clothing embedded deep inside the femoral muscle. "I need you to hold the wound open while I use the tweezers to remove that fragment," he ordered the nurse.
Doctor Berteau used the tool's sharp tip and hooked retractor to gently pull out the fragment. "Pour some more brandy over the towel so I can swab the area." The doctor then carefully swabbed around the wound and dried it. "I need the probing tool, please," he instructed.
Cécile dried the wound more thoroughly then handed the doctor the requested tool. Once again, the duo worked in complete silence as the doctor probed around the thigh to make sure the femur was still intact. Finding the bone undamaged, the doctor sutured the entrance wound on the front of the thigh.
Carefully, the team turned the patient onto his side and then repeated the same procedure on the outer edge of the thigh where the ball had exited. The exit wound took the team more time and effort to repair, as the flesh was torn ragged from the ball pushing out. Once the work was complete, they sanitized the wound and then wrapped it tightly with a clean bandage.
"Now, let us stitch up that hard head of his," the doctor said as they rolled Aramis onto his back.
"He does have a hard head, indeed," Cécile chuckled. "It's that stubborn nature of his; he refuses to let a ball stop him—or the butt of a musket. Oh, a musket ball may bring him down, but Aramis is just ornery enough to declare how far he'll allow the ball to bring him down," the nurse laughed.
"Oi, that's 'Mis all right," Porthos chimed in, chuckling. "You haven't known him 'at long, but you already have 'im figured out right proper."
The jovial comment elicited a round of laughter in the make-shift surgical room where each Musketeer was being worked on by either a physician or a nurse. Porthos was busy flirting with his nurse as she attempted to pull the fragments from his neck, which he wasn't making easy for her.
Porthos:
Nurse Adele was doing her best to pluck the shrapnel from Porthos' neck with a sharp set of tweezers, but the large man didn't want to sit still. "Monsieur Porthos, if you don't stop squirming, I may have to tie you down!" the pretty blonde nurse blurted.
"Oi, 'at doesn't sound too bad." Porthos grinned at the nurse and winked.
"Um, maybe I should rephrase that," the nurse giggled, her face flushed red. "How about we tie you to this chair, then have either doctor Berteau or Molyneux remove the shrapnel, hmm?"
"I'll be still," Porthos replied, looking deflated as his shoulders sagged. "But hey, both doctors are busy."
"Well, that didn't last long," the nurse chuckled. "Now, sit still…" Adele pulled out a piece of stone and dropped it into the porcelain tub with a clink! She pulled on another piece but had to stop when the large man flinched, causing her to poke his neck with the sharp edge of the tool.
"Ouch," Porthos growled, then began his squirming anew. "Sorry," he apologized, sheepishly.
"Well, for such a big strong man, you sure do squirm a lot," Adele scolded. The nurse used the tool as an extension of her wagging finger, but paused as an idea came to mind. "Would some wine help calm you?"
"That is exactly why Aramis has Athos 'prepare the patient' before beginning treatment on Porthos," d'Artagnan quipped from the chair next to his friend.
"What do you mean, 'prepare the patient', d'Artagnan?" Adele asked, pointing the sharp tool toward the Gascon.
D'Artagnan stared at the tool with wide eyes; he moved over to the edge of his seat until he was out of the nurse's reach. "Oh, that is Aramis' way of preventing Porthos from squirming while he's performing surgery." D'Artagnan grinned at Porthos, who narrowed his eyes at his young friend.
"What does Aramis do?" Adele asked, her eyes darting between Porthos and d'Artagnan. Porthos gave a throaty growl, but d'Artagnan simply grinned back.
"He has Athos knock him out." The Gascon shrugged, then winked at his friend. "Athos throws a good punch—knocks Porthos out cold every time."
"Why, that's barbaric!" Adele gasped.
"Whatever works," d'Artagnan chuckled.
"Speak for yourself," Porthos growled again.
"Alright, not another word from either of you boys- especially from you, d'Artagnan," the nurse chided. "You are too much of a distraction and I can't get my work done. Please, give me silence!" Adele muttered, dropping a fragment into the tub. Clink!
Nurse Adele pulled out the remaining pieces of stone from Porthos' neck in blessed silence; she was able to work quickly without the unnecessary distractions. Resigned, the large Musketeer behaved and stopped squirming, deciding it was best to keep still and quiet. He appeared to have fallen asleep, until jolted to alertness as the nurse removed the last stubborn fragment. Clink!
"There, all the fragments are out," the nurse reported. "Now, I'll stitch up the larger wounds and that area above your eye; I will then apply witch hazel and juniper salve to prevent infection. I'll bandage you up when I'm done with the salve."
"Alright, 'at's good," Porthos yawned. It seemed the humor and bantering had dissolved into sleepiness.
The nurse carefully stitched the neck wound closed then began work on the wound above his eye. Once the stitching was complete, she cleaned the wounds thoroughly with brandy and dried the skin with a towel. Adele rubbed the healing salve in calming circles over the various wounds, being careful not to cause pain. As her gentle fingers rubbed and massaged the medicine into the skin, the nurse soothed away the tension and soreness of his muscles with a light touch.
"Mmm," Porthos moaned softly. Suddenly, his infectious smile returned to his face as he gave a wink to the nurse. "You can do the rest of my body jus' like 'is."
"Oooh," the nurse threw her hands up with exasperation. "You are insufferable, Porthos! Are you always like this with your caregivers?"
"Only the pretty nurses," Porthos bobbed his head in a rascally manner. "I don't get 'em too often, you know."
"I can see that." Nurse Adele finished bandaging his neck, then she squeezed his shoulders softly. "Now, I expect that you will give yourself time to heal—don't go looking for any trouble."
"Well, 'at depends on what kind of trouble you're referrin' to," he replied with a grin.
"Argh… you men are like children!"
D'Artagnan snickered softly and rolled his eyes. "Excuse me, but not all of us, Nurse Adele," he corrected. "Porthos and Aramis are like children, yes," the Gascon grinned. "But Athos and me, well, we're far more mature," he winked.
"Is 'at a fact, whelp?" Porthos growled. . . again.
"That's a fact," d'Artagnan replied pointedly. The Gascon scooted his chair out of Porthos' reach, much to the amusement of the nurses.
d'Artagnan:
"Alright, if you two boys are quite done playing games, I'd like to take care of this head wound," Nurse Marta huffed with amusement.
"Yes, I'm ready." D'Artagnan closed his eyes and relaxed.
Nurse Marta unwrapped the old bandage from the Gascon's head and winced at the angry cut across his scalp. "Does it hurt much?" she asked. The nurse raised her eyebrows at the luck of this young Musketeer; as a nurse, she knew this wound could have easily been fatal.
"It's a little sore… but I've had worse," d'Artagnan grumbled.
"Yes, I can see that," she said, pointing to the black and blue bruise above his eyebrow. Nurse Marta decided to engage her patient in conversation in order to distract him while she treated the wound. "Now, I'll bet you have plenty of young ladies throwing themselves at you," she mused aloud as she cleaned the blood from his skin.
"Not really," d'Artagnan shrugged with disinterest. "Besides, I have someone special; I don't pay attention to the other girls."
"Oh, come now," Marta replied with surprise. "A handsome young man like yourself. . . has given up flirting?"
"Yes, is that so strange?"
"What's her name?"
"Constance," d'Artagnan sighed at the thought of her.
"Constance," the nurse repeated. "That is a pretty name," she threaded a suture. "Is she as pretty as her name?"
"No, prettier," the Gascon replied dreamily. But suddenly, the Musketeer's demeanor soured. "Is she going to be repulsed by all my scars? Will Constance still think of me the same after she sees… all of this?" D'Artagnan waved a hand over the many lacerations from the whipping.
"Of course she will, d'Artagnan," Nurse Marta paused her ministrations. "If she loves you—I mean, if she really loves you—the scars will do nothing to lessen her opinion of you. Those scars," the nurse gently touched the Gascon's forehead and shoulder, "will not diminish her love for you."
"Do you really believe that?" D'Artagnan's voice cracked as he fought to control his emotions, swallowing a sob. "Are you just saying that to make me feel better?" he asked, wiping away a tear from his cheek.
"Yes, I mean it," Nurse Marta replied as tears welled in her own eyes. "My husband," she paused, "my late husband came back from the war so disfigured my family suggested that I put him in Hôtel-Dieu and leave him there; they wanted me to find someone less… scarred."
"What did you do?"
"I took care of him," she smiled as she completed another suture. "I bathed his wounds; I cleaned and dressed where they had amputated his leg; I kissed his scars. I would have cared for him and loved him—just as he was—until my dying day." The nurse wiped away her tears. "Instead, God wanted my husband's broken and battered body to rest and his spirit to be at peace."
"I'm so sorry for your loss, Marta."
"Thank you," Marta nodded, completing another suture. "Now, no more of this doubt about your Constance not loving you because of your scars. If she loves you less, or quits loving you because of this," she waved her hand up and down in front of his chest and head, "then she never really loved you to begin with."
"I never thought of it that way," d'Artagnan whispered. "Thank you."
"You're welcome, my dear," Nurse Marta replied as she pulled on the thread. "Being a nurse has taught me quite a bit about human nature and behavior; it doesn't vary much between two people who really care about each other. Now, sit quietly so I can finish suturing this wound." She completed another stitch. "You boys really are the luckiest things on two legs. Are you sure you weren't a cat in your previous life?"
"A cat?" d'Artagnan asked, perplexed. "What do you mean?"
"Haven't you heard of the superstition of cats having nine lives? It appears cats are quite hardy and can withstand some amazing falls and accidents that would normally kill anything else—but not the cat," Nurse Marta laughed. "I think you Musketeers are all cats in human form. Certainly with the many injuries and near-misses like you boys have had; I'm afraid you have spent a few of those nine lives already."
"Ouch!" D'Artagnan winced as Nurse Marta pulled the thread through a tender spot on his scalp. "I wouldn't call myself, or any of my brothers for that matter, lucky. Especially considering everything we've been through these last few weeks… months," he huffed with disgust. "I think we are about the unluckiest men on the planet; the only fate not brought down on us—yet—is death."
"Now don't you talk like that, young man," the nurse admonished. She finished with the sutures, knotted and cut the thread below the knot. "Be thankful—always be thankful—that you still draw breath. No matter how much you have suffered. . . at least you are still alive."
"I didn't feel that way at all when I was being tortured in the dungeon," he whispered softly.
"But you survived, young man. You survived to return to your Constance; you survived to return to Paris with your brothers. You survived, and you still have an entire future ahead of you," she paused as she wrapped a new bandage around d'Artagnan's head. "Never wish for death; death is permanent and it can never be turned back."
Athos:
Captain Tréville returned to the room, after meeting with the French commander, to find Aramis being operated on. "What happened to him?" the captain asked, his face creased with worry. "When I left, he only had the wound on his forehead."
"Just after you left to go outside, Aramis was shot by a Frenchman who mistook him for a Spanish soldier," d'Artagnan replied. The Gascon shook his head with disgust at the memory. "That soldier shouldn't have been so quick to fire; Aramis wasn't in a Spanish uniform."
"It was a mistake, d'Artagnan. . . an accident," Doctor Berteau interjected. "I'm sure the young man feels terrible for what he did. Don't make the situation any worse by placing undue blame."
"Undue blame?" d'Artagnan repeated incredulously. "That soldier could have killed Aramis!"
"Yes, he could have, d'Artagnan, but he didn't," Captain Tréville cautioned. "Right now, the fact that Aramis is alive is the most important outcome." With a nod, the captain turned his attention to Athos.
"How is he, Doctor?" Tréville asked Molyneux sitting beside Athos on the bed.
"It appears that the knife cut through his sutures and cut into his jugular again," Molyneux replied. "I believe that I've stopped the bleeding and I was about to repair the vein and replace the stitches."
"Do you need help with anything?" Tréville offered.
"Why yes," Molyneux nodded with appreciation. "I could use an assistant, thank you. Why don't you take that brandy and clean all around the wound; be sure to dry the area thoroughly. I will thread this needle while you do that, then we'll get started."
Captain Tréville did as he was instructed; he poured the wine liberally over Athos' neck then dried it with a towel. He stayed beside Athos, taking his limp hand in his own as he whispered near his ear. "This is the definition of déjà vu," the captain muttered to his lieutenant. "Only this time, I'm not the one stitching your neck."
"It was just a few days ago that I stitched your neck after finding you covered in all that blood," the captain shuddered. "In all my years as a soldier, I don't think I've witnessed anything more gruesome than this room on that night."
"I didn't think this room could get any bloodier than it was on that night," Molyneux agreed as he looked around the room. The dead bodies had been removed, but their blood remained pooled on the floor.
"We need to have someone come in here to clean up this floor," the captain suggested. "This room reeks of death and blood; I would prefer it if we moved them to a new room."
"Normally, I would agree with you, but I don't think it would be wise to move the men just yet," Molyneux replied as he pulled the thread. "Captain, if you would hold the skin together for me, we can get this done more efficiently. Indeed, it's such a shame these stitches were torn; your needle work on his neck was excellent. Have you ever considered being a doctor?"
"Me, a doctor?" Tréville repeated with a huff. "No, not at all. Being a soldier—a Musketeer—is all I ever wanted to be; I couldn't imagine doing anything else. I do, however, get plenty of medical practice with these four men; they seem to find trouble around every corner."
"Well, the men are very lucky to have someone like you in command. You are someone very well-equipped to do the job as captain of the regiment, but yet you still maintain your humanity; you obviously have affection for the men under your command." Molyneux tied off the last stitch and cut the thread. "I've seen many commanders who couldn't care less about the lives or the welfare of the men they send into battle. It is obvious that you care deeply for these men- it has not gone unnoticed."
"Thank you, Doctor."
"We are almost done here," Molyneux said as sanitized Athos' neck with the brandy. He carefully wrapped the neck with a long strip of cloth bandage then nodded with satisfaction at the completed work. "Would you like to sit with him a while, in case he awakens?"
"Thank you, I would," Captain Tréville nodded as he curled his fingers around the cold hand of his lieutenant. He gently pushed away clumps of sweaty hair from the pale face, then sighed. "What would I ever do without you?"
"As your captain, these last few months have been a nightmare. First, arriving at the Château de Chamarande to find all of you so terribly wounded; it scared me more than I can ever admit. Images of escorting your lifeless bodies back to Paris have haunted my dreams, many a night."
"Then with the catarrh outbreak, so many of my men were sick and dying, yet there was nothing I could do to stop it. I am Captain of the King's Musketeers, but I was powerless against a silent enemy. My regiment was at the mercy of the reaper; I battled an enemy over which I had no control and no winning strategy. There was nothing I could do to save my dying men."
"When I was informed of you being so desperately ill, I feared for you every hour of the day and night. I feared that every knock on my door would bring news of your death. I had long since given up my faith, yet when you fell ill, I began praying again. I guess that it worked, because you and your brothers, and the rest of the men recovered."
"Then this had to happen. It started with that damned letter! Your brothers being tortured in the dungeon; Aramis attacked and beaten; you falling ill with bronchitis; Doctor Bonét draining away your blood; the Spaniards attacking. . ."
"God, of all the terrible sights, that bloody scene was the worst. I thought I had lost you. . . I thought you were gone."
"I told you that night I thought of you as a son, and I do," he paused. The captain cleared his throat, discreetly wiping away a tear rolling down his cheek. "I do consider you to be the son I never had; I never thought I could care so deeply about someone as I do you, Athos."
"As your captain, I could order you to fight this. Once again, injuries and illness plague your body, but orders to fight would seem so cold and shallow. Instead, I will plead, as though a father to his sick child, for you to fight and get well again. Please. You have filled an empty place in my heart; to lose you now, it would break my heart beyond repair."
"Get well and fight this, son." The captain stood, then leaned over to kiss Athos' forehead. With one last gentle sweep over the Musketeer's messy hair, Captain Tréville left the room choking back a sob threatening to erupt from somewhere deep inside.
The captain walked away to get some fresh air—to get some privacy—as he was about to lose control over his emotions in that sickroom. His men just had to recover and get back to normal; he wasn't going to allow himself a moment to think otherwise.
Captain Tréville had come too dangerously close to losing his men because of this mission—because of that letter.
That letter!
Tomorrow, the captain promised himself, he would find out exactly what was in that letter; he would find out what caused this series of disasters he never thought possible. "Did Porthos and d'Artagnan carry a treasonous letter calling for the start of some conspiracy?"
"Did the King's Musketeers carry a letter calling for removal of the very king they served? This conspiracy cost the lives of countless soldiers and citizens of France; and it almost cost the lives of my Musketeers!"
"I swore earlier that I would get to the bottom of this and, so help me God, I'll tear this château apart, if necessary, to get the answers I'm looking for. Every drop of blood, every drop of sweat, and every tear shed because of that damned letter warrants the truth—and I won't rest until I have it."