Profuse apologies for the delay in this chapter but am trying to balance this with finishing the first draft of a different novel by the end of July and involvement in another play that opens next week at the city's theatre. All good fun!
Thank you to all those who have been reading and leaving comments. Apologies for any errors that have crept through my proof reading. This has been an awkward chapter for various reasons and I have deleted and rearranged much of the content.
ARAMIS
25 DAYS EARLIER
"Porthos, no!" I warn, as I see his fists clench and unclench.
Delacroix makes a big pretence of noticing Porthos for the first time. As far as he's concerned, my friend does not exist. For various reasons, he makes it very clear that he does not think Porthos is suitable Musketeer material and that he should not even be breathing the same air. Mind you, Delacroix does not think Athos or I should be Musketeers either and so he regards all three of us as beneath him, but by far his favourite pastime is to goad Athos as much as he can.
Porthos has been spoiling for a fight for days and any excuse serves his purpose. Let's face it, he was about to take me on just a few minutes ago, but now Delacroix has arrived and provides that long-awaited justification.
"There's no call to go talkin' to Serge like that; you should show him some respect rather than bein' offensive," Porthos says. The tone is calm and polite – deceptively so - but I can see the tension in his shoulders and what is inevitably going to happen.
So can Serge.
"S'alright, Porthos. Don't you go worryin' yourself on my account. Delacroix here didn't mean any offence and there's none taken by me. He an' his friends 'ave had a hard day, seen some bad things an' it's affected them. Like it does all of us at times."
"I don't need you to speak for me, old man," Delacroix continues, "and you hardly qualify for including yourself in having had a hard day."
There is a sharp, collective intake of breath from our colleagues at the nearby table whilst a few of Delacroix' friends titter at his condemnation.
"Now you definitely need to apologise," Porthos says slowly, his voice low and menacing.
"I have no need to apologise for anything," Delacroix opines. The man's arrogance knows no bounds.
"Well now," Porthos begins, "I don't agree with you. That man might be senior in years, but he's been workin' all hours to ensure that we lot come back to a hot meal so he's 'ad a hard day but in a different way. You need to be showin' your appreciation, not showerin' 'im with abuse."
"And there was I thinking he likened himself to us in the dreadful things we have witnessed this day," Delacroix says, a smile devoid of any pleasantry on his face.
"Serge has seen more action in battle an' the atrocities of war than you will ever see in your lifetime. You underestimate him, as you do with most of your Musketeer brothers," Porthos declares.
"I am sure there is a veiled message somewhere in your words," Delacroix says, turning back to look at his friends and laughing. "So veiled that I can't see it." At his words, his so-called friends join in; whether it is in misguided amusement or out of a sense of self-preservation so that they do not become the next object of his derision, I cannot tell.
Porthos' face contorts into unmistakable rage.
"Porthos," I say again, recognising the signs and inching towards him. "Hold, brother, please. He isn't worth it."
Of course, I mean Delacroix and I mean it; he is not worth it and never has been since the day he gained his pauldron. To be honest, Delacroix is not much good at anything; his self-delusions far outweigh the reality. I doubt he would have been accepted at the garrison on his own merit and so he had to depend upon his reasonably wealthy father to purchase his commission. The younger son of a minor noble, there was not much else he could do to earn some sort of living, but there is nothing noble or honourable in the man, either back then or now.
Delacroix beams in amusement and raises an index finger imock enlightenment.
"Ah! Perhaps you allude to your missing associate. Oh, I wholeheartedly agree with you; he most definitely is not worth it. His absence should be a cause of rejoicing rather than plunging the garrison into an atmosphere of doom and gloom."
Suddenly, I am the one angered by the man's jibes. I have never understood why Delacroix has taken against Athos so, other than the painfully obvious jealousy. Delacroix had long considered himself the most skilful swordsman in the regiment! The ludicrous thing is that this incredible ability that he supposedly possesses is all in his mind, and those of us who were in the regiment back in his early days knew the truth then as we do now. That was long before Athos turned up and proved it.
The humiliation and bullying tactics began almost from the first day Athos arrived at the garrison. Porthos and I have often wondered why Athos lets Delacroix treat him badly; it is so out of character for him, but I have a theory. Athos has a dark past that haunts him mercilessly and whatever it was that happened to him drives him to such levels of despair, self-loathing and guilt that I think he perceives Delacroix' harassment as a form of deserved punishment.
The other suspicion I have is that Athos is concerned about allowing himself to retaliate. He doesn't fear Delacroix, but he is scared of himself, that once he gives in and takes on the creep, he won't know when to stop and could do him serious harm … or worse.
Right now, though, I can think of various ways to silence Delacroix who hasn't got the sense to keep his mouth shut. He is ignorant of the overriding atmosphere in the room and that even his so-called friends have backed off a step or two, visibly disassociating themselves from him and his words.
"Have you quite finished?" I say carefully, stepping up beside Porthos.
"No, I don't think I have," Delacroix announces, arms wide as he performs to the onlookers. "Whilst dragging the dead of Paris from the mud and flood waters is not the best job in the world nor something that I believe Musketeers should be doing, it is at least more worthwhile than the hours we've wasted searching for him. I cannot believe that Tréville can justify using us so. All this stuff about an abduction is nonsense, designed to elicit some sympathetic concern where it is not due. I'll tell you what's happened to him. He has got himself so blind drunk that he is sleeping it off in an alleyway somewhere or in the arms of a whore, or," and here he dramatically turns around to show-off to his followers, "better still, a boy! He's lying low as he dare not show his face in the garrison."
I am too slow to stop Porthos and, to be honest, I have no desire to do so.
Porthos' left hand reaches out, grabs Delacroix by the shoulder, spins him round and lands a hefty punch on the jaw with his right fist, the noise of the blow making me wince.
Taken completely off-guard, Delacroix staggers backwards into the arms of his comrades who catch him and set him back on his feet before he reaches the floor. Dazed, he shakes his head, but is propelled forward by his friends and swings wildly, totally unprepared.
Head down and with a roar of rage, Porthos charges, catching his opponent in the torso, his momentum carrying them both onwards so that they unexpectedly cannon into the men standing behind Delacroix and they all go down, felled as easily as though they are a line of empty bottles. Some have crashed into a table and bench, the wood splintering beneath their combined weight and there are the cries of men hurt by the broken furniture or trapped below the bodies of those who have landed upon them.
Porthos and Delacroix are oblivious to what has happened as they roll on the floor, gouging, kicking and punching. Well, Porthos is doing the punching whilst trying to avoid Delacroix' flailing feet and clawlike hands as he aims at Porthos' face and eyes.
"Don't even think it," I snarl, as a couple of Delacroix' friends scramble to their feet and look as if they are about to join the fray. Two others lie on the ground, rocking as they groan and nurse injured limbs, whilst a third is unmoving. Perhaps my words deter the pair from further involvement, or perhaps it is the sight of the men at the next table slowly getting to their feet as one and Serge standing there swinging a heavy cooking pan, evil intent upon his face.
We're so absorbed by the violent fight going on in the middle of the room that none of us sees the door open, but we hear the pistol fired into the ceiling, showering the fighting pair with plaster, and there is no mistaking the commanding bellow.
"Enough!"
Porthos stops, fist raised as he is about to hit Delacroix again, and looks up at the newcomer. Sniffing, he gets to his feet, brushes some plaster dust from his arm and hangs on the front edge of his doublet to make it sit properly across his broad frame. Blood trickles down his face from a trio of deep scratches; Delacroix' nails have apparently found their mark. Bending, he grabs the other man by the front of his uniform and hauls him to his feet. Delacroix has definitely suffered the worse in their brawl. The others are also standing, helped up by those nearby and the unconscious man, thankfully, is now showing signs of life.
Tréville, ice blue eyes blazing with undisguised rage, clips his pistol back onto his belt and stands, hands on hips.
"What the hell is going on here?"
A cacophony of voices erupt and he raises a hand. Such is the man's presence that he commands immediate silence.
"One at a time!" he orders, and glares at each of us in turn, missing no-one and beginning with Porthos and Delacroix. "Do not think of editing the truth. Make no mistake, the consequences will be severe upon anyone who is not open with me. I suspect I know what's happened, but I shall reserve judgement until I have heard from each and every one of you.
"I am going up to my office and you will all line up at the bottom of the stairs in the rain; perhaps that will cool your tempers and make you think seriously about what has transpired here. There are people desperate for our help and yet they are dying in this city by the hour because we cannot get to them fast enough, not forgetting that we have a missing Musketeer for whom time is possibly also running out. I cannot believe that you deem it acceptable to behave in this manner. Even the overwhelming pressure we are all experiencing at this time does not justify fighting amongst yourselves. I cannot spare anyone at present who needs to recover from careless injury. We have just had Messant and Fairnault brought into the infirmary when a rotten floor gave way beneath them down by the waterfront.
"Spare a thought for those men, gentlemen, whilst you wish to do each other harm. Outside now, all of you."
And he stands to one side, holding the door open as we shuffle out into the relentless rain and form a line as ordered. From the shelter of the doorway, he watches us and shakes his head, angry and disappointed in equal measure. Porthos and Delacroix may have been the only pair to have come to blows but there are others, including myself, who were prepared to get involved and not one of us made a move to break it up.
Tréville hastens past us and is halfway up his stairs and almost out of the downpour when he calls out. "I'll start with you, Serge. After all, it's your domain where this fracas took place!"
"