Chapter 7

Captain Treville looked up from his desk as his best men entered his office. Athos walked to the window, looked across the courtyard, and then leaned against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest. He positioned himself with his attention on Treville and the garrison's entry. Aramis walked to the fireplace, rested an elbow on the mantle and gently toyed with an old brass bell that had captured his attention since joining to the regiment. The clapper was missing, and the brass was tarnished along the bowl where he had held it over the course of the years. The bell's history was as mysterious as Aramis' fascination with it, and Treville often wondered if Aramis was even aware of his habit. Porthos stepped before the heavy oak desk with his feet shoulder width apart and his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. He grinned, feeling the weight of his winnings in the coin-purse at his hip. Had it not been for Porthos' gregarious personality, the look of utter satisfaction of winning while embracing his propensity at cheating, Treville would have thought him overly confident and prideful. D'Artagnan, having joined the musketeers and attaching himself to the other three, had welcomed their influence as he stood with his arms crossed over his chest, hands tucked beneath his armpits, and a look of patience that defied his natural instinct of restless behavior.

Treville looked at Porthos, returned his quill to its stand, and then leaned back against his chair at an angle. "How much did you win?"

Porthos cleared his throat nervously and squared his shoulders. "I 'aven't counted."

Treville raised an eyebrow in disbelief but remained silent, and continued to wait.

Again, Porthos shifted nervously. He licked his bottom lip, looked side-eyed at Aramis and then at Athos, who raised his eyebrows in acknowledgment that the truth was always the best option.

Porthos finally cleared his throat and said, "Fifty-four sous."

Aramis abandoned the bell and whistled as he lowered his arm to his side while still leaning against the mantle.

D'Artagnan looked at Porthos, impressed, and clapped his shoulder in congratulations. Athos scratched his jaw to hide his amusement and looked at Treville, who sat with a deadpanned expression that gave away nothing.

There was something about them that Treville admired. Their energy when they entered a room. Their brotherhood that defied the laws of family and friends. The respect they held for each other, and their undying devotion to honor and duty. Treville looked at each of them, individuals with strengths all their own, personalities that differed like night and day, and strengths that defined who they were as soldiers. Together, they were as carefully threaded and as tightly interwoven as the finest tapestries that decorated the palace walls. Tapestries that added color and warmth to a room that told stories in the images they represented.

Treville looked at Aramis in question and said, "Spiders?"

Aramis grimaced, as though stabbed through the belly with a hot knife. He closed his eyes, twisted his face as he tried to hide himself from his embarrassment. Rather than expose the wound of fear, he slowly nodded, grasped at the crucifix around his neck, and then exhaled with a smooth, controlled sigh. Aramis, the consummate performer, said, "Since I was a child…"

Porthos threw his arms up in disbelief, familiar with the tone Aramis used when trying to sway a belief.

Aramis ignored him. "I saw one," he raised his hands and spread his fingers wide to emphasize the size of it, "it was big enough to saddle and ride, Captain, and I swore it's only intent was to attack me… at least that is what my five-year-old self believed." He pressed his hand to his chest and closed his eyes with a look of utter defeat.

Porthos snorted and rolled his eyes.

"It's true," Aramis said. "I've been," he paused, exhaled slowly to prove his point, and patted his chest gently, "proudly terrified of them since I was as a boy… a child, really."

Treville rubbed his brow and closed his eyes.

Porthos looked at Aramis as though he had grown two heads. "You screamed like a girl."

Aramis looked skyward, scrunched his face, and said, "A moment of weakness that should not haunt me, Porthos." His voice was calm, uniform, and only hinted at the emotion he had felt as a child.

"The assignment, Captain?" Athos asked. He looked at Aramis in exasperation and rolled his eyes when Aramis winked with a satisfied grin.

"I must inquire?" Aramis interrupted and cocked an eyebrow when four sets of eyes landed upon him. "What happened with the… unfortunate creature?"

Athos choked back a laugh and slapped at his chest to disguise his emotional outburst.

Porthos winced. "Serge smashed it."

Athos pinched his nose several times between this thumb and knuckle of his index finger and turned to the window. "Amis," he said, with a composed voice, "is devastated."

D'Artagnan looked at Athos, then Porthos, and then finally at Aramis. "Am I missing something?"

Treville shook his head, scratched his jaw, and rested his elbows on the desk as he leaned forward. "I believe, d'Artagnan, that there is a collective — though unspoken — agreement that the spider, thankfully, had a very short life in Paris."

D'Artagnan arched his eyebrows and shrugged. "Who would care about a spider?" He stepped back when three sets of narrowed eyes landed on him.

Porthos leaned toward him, and quietly said, "None of 'em like spiders — at least the big ones."

Treville cleared his throat, grateful the creature had met its end, and reached for the notes from the king. He handed one to Aramis, and the other to Athos, both of whom took them and stepped back. "King Louis has planned a celebration for the queen and the dauphin. You," he looked at Athos, "and Porthos will travel to Allier to retrieve a bolt of fabric for the queen's dress."

"Fabric?" Porthos asked in disbelief. He raised his arm toward Treville and pinched at the sleeve of his blouse as if proving a point. "Cloth?"

"The fabric was imported and sent to Allier to be," Treville raised his fingers upward, "stitched with gold lace by Madame Clorette Buniox, who only agreed to create this for the queen — she is otherwise…" he raised his eyebrows in annoyance, "indisposed."

Dumbfounded, Porthos raised his eyebrows and exaggerated his exhale.

"There are rumors of a brigand making life difficult for the locals — see what you can discover. Without," Treville stressed, "getting involved." He raised his eyebrows and looked at Athos. "This is just an opportunity to gather information, and I encourage you to do it wisely. If there is indeed an issue, I will notify the king and will decide how to manage it."

Porthos exhaled, somewhat relieved, and said, "So this isn't just about cloth?"

Athos cocked an eyebrow and looked at the details of the note. It specified when the fabric was to be picked up, by whom, and who will carry it upon its delivery to the palace. Athos opened his mouth to say something but was quickly silenced by Treville.

"The fabric is worth nearly as much as the necklace d'Artagnan and Aramis are retrieving from Autun." He looked at both of them. "You will need to be careful and exceptionally meticulous when you verify the jewels. Make sure," he pointed to the note that Aramis looked at, "that it meets the specifications ordered by the king. He designed it himself."

"Why are we picking it up in Autun?" d'Artagnan asked.

"The finest jeweler in all of France lives there," Aramis said with a hint of a smile. "Monsieur Isnard Ramus grew tired of Paris some years ago. He said the mountain air was better for his mind's creativity."

"How do you know so much about 'im?" Porthos asked.

"I knew his daughter."

"Of course, you did," Athos said and folded the note and slipped it into his pocket. "Was she beautiful?"

"Stunning. Beautiful red hair, green eyes, and a face an artist would have begged to paint…" Aramis winced, "but the vilest woman I have ever… been — met." He quickly corrected. "She would pass wind more frequently, and loudly, than all the men at the garrison after eating Serge's legumes." He turned a pale shade of green and waved his hand before his nose. "And the stench."

Porthos snorted and d'Artagnan failed to control his laughter.

Athos' shoulders trembled as he tightened his stomach muscles and tried to keep his composure in check, which only caused his cheeks to hurt and his breaths to shorten.

"It was vile," Aramis said and continued to wave his hand in front of face as though just speaking about it caused him to remember the scent. "Had it not been for my agility in running for the window — I might very well have perished." He looked at the ceiling and asked, "How someone so small and delicate could produce something so… awful?"

Treville tapped his forehead between his eyes with two fingers and then cleared his throat. "You'll depart in the morning," he pointed to the door. "Out."

D'Artagnan turned with Porthos and left the office while chuckling. Aramis and Athos soon followed, both of whom discussed what might happen should he meet her again in Autun. The door clicked shut behind them and Treville leaned back in his seat and laughed.