“Yes. And so we talked about horses for a while and then I said I knew a boy who used to work…” He stopped, his voice failing. “A boy who used to live at the Hangman, and how his name was Guillaume.”
Porthos paused, a long pause and, for a moment, Athos was afraid that Porthos had, once more, become lost in his own thoughts and that he wouldn’t find his way out. But after a silence, the musketeer burst out with, “Athos, all of them knew him. I think he spent most of his day there.”
“But we knew this, Porthos, or suspected it. The hosteler, Martin, said that he’d tried to find employment…” Looking up, out of the corner of his eyes, he saw Porthos shake his head.
“Oh, no. That was not the sole thing. That wasn’t even the most important thing,” Porthos said. “I can’t verify that he tried to find employment at all, in fact, unless you count as employment that he came and helped the grooms at all their tasks, in exchange for a crumb of bread and a drop of wine. I don’t think he ever tried to attach himself to Monsieur de Comeau or wear his livery. And… Athos, he had him thrashed.”
“Yes,” Athos said, sensing the passion behind his friend’s words and making his own words as calm as possible. “Yes. He told me so himself.”
“God’s Blood, why?”
“Because the boy imposed on him,” Athos said. “Tried to tell him that he was his bastard son. Tried to get Monsieur de Comeau to make him an alliance and to-”
“Are you sure?” Porthos asked.
“It’s what Comeau told me,” Athos said. “In this case, of course, there is always the question of someone telling the truth.”
“In every case, ever, there is the question of whether people tell the truth,” Porthos said, speaking with the gravity of an oracle. “Guillaume never asked me for money and never told me he was my son.”
“And yet you think he was?”
There was a long and sharp intake of breath. “I think it very likely he was,” Porthos said. “Very, very likely. I don’t know how to… You see, there are too many coincidences. ” His voice trembled, part in grief and part in frustration, and once more he showed a tendency to become snared in his inner thoughts and unable to express himself.
“Just tell it as you came to it,” Athos said. “Slowly.”
“Well,” Porthos said. “All the grooms praised Guillaume. They thought he was very smart, and of course, he knew a lot about horses, because he was probably looking after travelers’ horses since he was old enough to stand and hold a bridle.”
“Probably,” Athos conceded.
“And he never asked for payment for his work, though the grooms did take him out to… other taverns, when they went. I gather they didn’t drink at home. And they would buy him food and drink. And they gave him things, you know… a used pair of breeches, a mended doublet.”
Athos nodded thinking that such clothes as the boy had died in would not have been come by through gifts from grooms or other people of like quality. He didn’t say anything, but Porthos’s mind must have been running on the same path, because he said, “Of course, they said he must have found someone else to give him clothes, recently, because he showed up in fine violet velvet, the likes of which they’d never seen. Or rather, he wore his normal clothes but he would change into fine violet velvet before leaving. I think he was coming to me for lessons then.”
Athos nodded. He thought so too.
“And they said,” Porthos said. “That he’d come by money too. You know, throwing money around and demanding to pay his share of the drinks and the meals.”
Athos didn’t say anything, as there was nothing he could say to that. Where money was coming from in this matter was something that he would very much like to know. It seemed to him, that alone might solve the whole thing, and for a moment was tempted to tell Porthos to ask his Athenais whether she could trace it.
But Porthos was going on. “And then,” he said. “About a month ago Guillaume was gone for a week. He told them he was going to a village, where his mother had come from. ” A struggling breath, as though Porthos’s head where breaking above water after a long dive. “And the village was St. Guillaume du Vallon.”
Porthos looked at Athos as if he had made some dramatic revelation, but Athos had absolutely no idea what it could be. So the boy had gone to the village his mother had come from. What did that mean? “Were you teaching him fencing then?”
“Had been,” Porthos said. “For a few weeks. And he did tell me he was going to be absent for a week, but I had no idea where he went. I thought…” He shrugged. “If I had known. If only I had known.”
“But why Porthos?” Athos asked. “What would it have signified? So the boy was named after his mother’s village. What can it mean to you?”
“What can it mean to me, Athos? How can you be so calm? What would it mean to you to find you had a son, already grown to half man, and you not knowing him, not having any idea you had him?”
Athos blinked. “His name was Guillaume, and his mother’s village was St. Guillaume of something or other. How does this tell you that his mother…” And then Athos remembered. It had been stupid of him not to think of it earlier, only of course, when he’d met Porthos he already called himself Porthos. And yet he’d seen Porthos’s name but recently, in the genealogy in the boy’s pouch. “Du Vallon, ” he said. “By God, Porthos, du Vallon.”
Porthos sniffled, and Athos couldn’t tell if he was doing it to control tears or in annoyance at Athos’s slowness of mind. “I told you she was my Amelie. There’s nothing of her in that wench at the tavern, nothing I can tell you, at least, but I think there has to be… a turn of the head, a tilt of the brow. Something about her made me think of Amelie. And it was Amelie, Athos. It was. And Guillaume was my son.”
Biting his lip, confused, Athos thought how this would look now if the crime were found out and not a murderer ready for it. The boy had been Porthos’s bastard. The boy had already demanded money from Monsieur de Comeau on the pretext that Monsieur de Comeau was his father. What would people think but that he’d also demanded the like tribute from Porthos, and that Porthos had killed him instead of paying.
It wasn’t possible. No one should think it. Porthos was more likely to fell someone, anyone, with a blow of his huge fist, a quick strike of his nimble sword. What was more, he could easily have killed the boy-if he’d wanted that-and looking at Porthos who swallowed convulsively in an effort to control his tears, Athos knew he’d never wanted it. But if Porthos had wanted the boy dead, it would have been the work of a few seconds to strike out with his sword during one of their practices and claim it had all been by accident. Who could gainsay it who hadn’t been present? Who was there in the world who could have sworn otherwise?
And if Athos said that, if… If the crime were discovered and Porthos taken for it, and Athos were to say that striking by stealth, with poison, was all out of Porthos’s character, people would only tell him that Porthos was stupid and that he would think that a poisoning would never be found. Of course, Porthos wasn’t stupid, but few beyond his three most intimate friends would know that. Very few.
“Porthos,” he said. “It is a damnable situation.”
“Yes,” Porthos said. “Oh yes. If I’d known he was my son, Athos… If I’d known… I’d have…”
“Yes?” Athos asked.
“I’d have recognized him,” Porthos said. “I’d have… Why, in a few years we could have found him a guard post with some nobleman. We could…” He swallowed and was silent.
And in his mind’s eyes, Athos could see Porthos doing just the things he said he’d do. Porthos was no fool, but neither did he, unlike Aramis or Athos, care for the opinions of the world. He would have set the boy up in a proper position and introduced him to everyone in the world.
He would have withstood the pricks of mockery and the smiles of the world and the titters behind their hands at proud Porthos’s recognizing the son of a common whore. And he wouldn’t have cared two figs for it al
l, save that it would have given him the opportunity to fight some more duels with just cause.
And yet, what connections did Porthos have? What relatives that might mind what they would view as a humiliation for their whole line? And did Porthos have any relatives in Paris who might somehow have seen to the heart of the plot.
When Athos had told D’Artagnan that the great noble houses were all related to each other, he’d been speaking nothing but the truth. But the fact is, so was the lower nobility. In fact many people at about the same level married and married again, till their families were an interconnected web of affinity.
Of course Athos wouldn’t know much about families at Porthos’s level of nobility. Too young a line; too newly come to wealth and name. Athos could very well imagine what his father would say of Athos’s even deigning to greet such in the morning, much less be their close friend.
This meant Athos didn’t even know if Porthos might have near cousins in Paris, much less distant ones. And they were so secret about their identities-which Monsieur de Treville knew, and probably other people in Paris, but about which they never talked, not even to each other- that there had been no talk of family. He knew that Aramis and D’Artagnan were only children simply because they’d volunteered the information. But as for the others… For all he knew Porthos was the seventh of ten brothers, all of them living in Paris, and at least half of them resentful of the idea of a bastard nephew, and one born in a barn, yet.
“Porthos,” Athos said, turning his head to ask his friend about all this. But there were glistening trails down Porthos’s face, running from his eyes to his beard.
And then men appeared before them. They were dressed like guards, perhaps. Certainly their bearing was military. But they wore black breeches and doublets, and no insignias.
The one in front was blond and looked like he was doing a pale imitation of de Termopillae, who normally tried to copy Aramis. He stood in the path that Athos walked and he spoke, with a slight foreign accent. “You will give it to us now.”
“It?” Athos asked. “I don’t have the pleasure of understanding. ”
“It. You know very well what it is. And you will give it to us,” the foreign man said, stomping his right foot.
Athos had absolutely no idea what they wanted. But he knew he was not about to give anything to anyone with such poor manners. “Perhaps,” he said. “I need to teach you how to speak to a musketeer.” He put his hand to his sword, but as he did, the man’s eyes enlarged.
“There is really no need to fight,” he said. “Just give it to us.”
“Monsieur, we don’t give anything to anyone, unless we know what it is and we’re asked properly.”
“Well, no,” Porthos said, drawing his sword. “We easily give them a fight.”
The expression on the man’s face was pure panic. His friends, behind him, gibbered something that appeared to be English. And then they belied their military bearing by turning and running.
Porthos stood, sword in hand, open mouthed with surprise. “Should we chase them?” he asked Athos.
Athos frowned. “Not today. We have other things to do. But it is very odd.”
“It’s the air of Paris,” Porthos said. “It makes even ruffians strange in the head. What they need is a good vacation in the country.”
As happened so often, Athos had no idea whether Porthos was jesting or not.
Dreams and Reality; The Unreasonable Behavior of High Noblemen; Going to the Source
D’ARTAGNAN had scarce slept the whole night, and waking to go to guard duty, he’d been less than alert. Now, after a long morning standing in the doorway of Monsieur des Essarts, without even the company of his friends to relieve his boredom, he was even more sleepy. So much so that he thought he was dreaming when he found all his friends assembled in his entrance room, around the table.
Only, their presence didn’t exactly surprise him, since he’d suspected today would be spent in enquiries surrounding the death of the child. Also, it was easy to know this couldn’t be a dream since his scrubbed pine table was as bare of all provisions as it had been this morning when he’d left, and the three didn’t even have wine in front of them.
D’Artagnan pulled a chair and sat on it, and then he wasn’t absolutely sure he wasn’t dreaming, because as soon as he’d sat, Aramis said, “Now we’re all here, and, D’Artagnan, you look like the dead, let us have something to revive us. Holá, Planchet?” And at the appearance of D’Artagnan’s servant, Aramis tossed a coin in the boy’s direction. “Get us wine. Decent stuff. And some bread and whatever meat you can find.”
As the boy caught the coin overhand and grinned, doubtless thinking of his share of the largesse, Athos smiled and asked Aramis, “Another theology book.”
Aramis shook his head. “Not as it would happen. I went to visit Brother Laurence who, as I told you, is a master of herbs and plants and the properties thereof. While I was there and asking about nightshade-of which I’ve brought a sample of its extract, so you can know the smell which Brother Laurence says is characteristic-and he gave me this new formula he’s had from a Gascon and which is rumored to have a miraculous effect on wounds.” He looked at D’Artagnan, whose eyes had widened. Aramis’s own eyes were merry with mischief. “Since we have our own source of that excellent curative, and my having found that de Termopillae had suffered a grievous wound in a fight with the guards of the Cardinal last night…” Aramis grinned. “He was very glad to empty his purse to get his hands on the specific. As it chanced his purse was quite fat.”
At this time, they were interrupted by the arrival of Planchet with an abundance of food and two bottles of wine, which he proceeded to serve. In addition to the bread there was some very good roasted mutton. Three of them ate in silence for a while, but it did not escape D’Artagnan’s notice that Porthos was merely nibbling on a little bread without much appetite.
It wasn’t, however, till they were done eating, and sat in front of newly refilled cups of wine, that Athos said, “I think we must speak of what we found this morning.”
He spoke in carefully measured sentences, of Monsieur de Comeau’s obsession with horses, of his vast stables and many grooms, then frowned. “Before I was done there,” he said, and looked towards Porthos as though worried about the result of his revelations, “I was wondering about the horses, and where money for all those horses comes from. For you must know that feeding that large a stable in the city cannot be easy. They can hardly turn them out to pasture. Even if the lord has a country estate, to which he sends horses in spring and summer, the expense has to be enormous.” He looked around the table, and then Aramis looked back at him with eyebrows raised, saying nothing. Porthos seemed to be lost in some sort of dream or nightmare of his own mind.
“You think he’s being paid by someone,” D’Artagnan said. “That this is the only way he can afford such a large stable.”
Athos inclined his head. His eyes showed that expression they often wore around D’Artagnan-an expression of curious amusement, as though the workings of D’Artagnan’s mind couldn’t fail to amuse him.
“Do you have in mind who could have done it?” D’Artagnan asked, feeling sure that Athos did. It was in Athos’s expression, in the way he was looking at D’Artagnan, as though willing D’Artagnan to voice something he didn’t wish to.
“Many people could have done it.” Athos said. “To begin with, the Cardinal, of course.”
“You mean,” D’Artagnan said. “That he might have done it to implicate Porthos in a crime? It has always seemed a little fantastic, though perhaps it is because I don’t have as much experience of Paris as you do.”
Aramis shrugged, one of his fashionably elaborate shrugs. He glanced at Athos, then turned to D’Artagnan. “Not that it’s impossible. He’s made other plots, just as elaborate, against other people. But normally, when he goes through this trouble, it is against crowned heads and those in power, not…”
“Not Porthos,” Athos sa
id. “This has occurred to me. And yet, if he’s taken on a particular animosity…” He shrugged.
“There is still another objection,” D’Artagnan said.
“That if the lord had that many horses and had it all before the boy first approached him, surely he can’t have been thinking of such a plan.”
Athos shrugged. “It is possible,” he said. “That he has been in the Cardinal’s pay all along, and that the boy coming along merely provided the opportunity for him to render his eminence a service.”
D’Artagnan inclined his head. It was possible. Perhaps it was even likely. Sometimes it seemed that half the court was in the Cardinal’s pay. “But if so,” D’Artagnan said, “how convenient should it be that he found just the right boy to convince Porthos to teach him, and how cold-blooded to seize on any boy-”
“It wasn’t any boy,” Porthos said, in what was for him a roar, and which must have been heard loud and clear by the neighbors on either side. Then he lowered his voice to say, “It was my son.” His face had gone pale, his features wooden.
“Your son?” D’Artagnan asked, now fully convinced this was some bizarre dream. It was all tied with Porthos’s outburst yesterday and none of it made a wit of sense and he-
“Guillaume,” Porthos said, “was my son.” And proceeded to lay the story before them, in what was, for Porthos, almost an eloquent manner. His lost girlfriend, and the something of her he’d detected in the girl, Amelie. And Guillaume, named after the saint who supposedly protected the village at the center of Porthos’s domain, the village in which his manor house was located. “It is a very small village, you understand,” he said. “It is a very small manor house as well. Just a little place at the butt end of nowhere, and nothing like any of you would trouble yourselves with, but… small and humble as it was, it was my father’s domain and yet he thought we were that much better than the peasantry that he would not allow me…” He opened his hands, as though to signify his helplessness. “He said Amelie was common as muck, with no name and no ancestors and no fortune either, and I needed someone with fortune, someone, he said, with something in her stocking foot. He said if I left the domain, he would not do anything to her. Only find her a marriage, and be done with it. But if I didn’t leave, he was going to send her parents from the land, for, you see, they only held the land from us.”
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