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La vengeance est un plat qui se mange froid. ~French proverb
"Problem?" Aramis asked quietly, scanning the same area where Athos had been staring.
"No," Athos replied. "Over the past several days, I've felt the sensation of being watched, but--" He shook his head once with a small, quick movement as if to dislodge an annoying insect. "-- it's nothing. Besides, I think we've quite enough in front of us to be getting on with, don't you?"
Aramis raised his eyebrows and huffed out a breath. "That's putting it mildly."
The earthly remains-- if they could even properly be called that anymore-- of the unfortunate Vicomte d'Orsay were hung artfully over and around the wrought iron fence edging one corner of the public plaza. The corpse's eyeless sockets stared blankly at the fountain in the centre of the square. His shattered wrists and ankles were bound with his own intestines, which looped and draped around the iron rails and finials before terminating in a gaping abdominal wound. The man's sexual organs were stuffed into his mouth, a feat made easier, one assumed, by the grotesquely broken jaw.
"This is the third one this month," Aramis said. "If it keeps up, there's going to be unrestrained panic in the streets."
"How's d'Artagnan?" Athos asked.
"Green," Aramis replied succinctly. "And I can't say I blame him."
The youngest member of their group had made a hasty retreat into an alley upon first seeing the atrocity they'd been called to investigate. The sounds of retching that immediately followed made it obvious why.
Porthos chose that moment to return to the scene with a wagon carrying sheets and poles for a makeshift stretcher. Athos helped him tie the wood into a rough frame and wrap one of the lengths of fabric around it. Porthos straightened and looked to Aramis.
"Well?" said the big man with what Athos judged to be unwarranted hopefulness. "Go on then. Get him down."
"You get him down," Aramis said, screwing up his face in disgust.
Athos sighed, and began-- rather gingerly-- to unwind the lengths of gut from the railings, disturbing the swarms of flies and wincing a bit whenever he had to pry intestines away from the sun-warmed metal, where the flesh was starting to dry and glue itself in place. As he expected, the others joined him a few moments later, Porthos supporting the weight of the corpse while Aramis cut away the cords holding it in position against the fence.
By the time they had finished, d'Artagnan had regained enough control over his gorge to rejoin them, helping them contain the mess on the stretcher and cover it with more sheets so it could be loaded on the cart.
"This is insane," d'Artagnan said once the wagon had departed with its sad, broken cargo; flies buzzing in mad frustration around the linen sheets. "Who would even conceive of doing something like this?"
"The victim's always a member of the nobility," Porthos mused, "and always displayed in a public place. Even in the dead of night, the chances of getting caught while setting up the body..."
"Just so," Athos agreed. "For whatever reason, this display of the body is apparently important enough to the murderer for him to disregard a significant risk of discovery."
"Don't forget the calling cards left behind wherever the victims were taken," Aramis added. "This madman seems almost desperate for people to know exactly what he's doing."
"With luck, that will make him easier to catch," Athos said. "And since that is what we have been tasked with, gentlemen, I suggest we remove ourselves to the morgue and see what, if anything, can be learned from our latest victim."
"Oh good," said d'Artagnan, still looking unnaturally pale. "I was really hoping you'd say that."
* * *
Burns and shallow cuts formed swirling patterns across the back, chest, arms, legs... even the palms of the hands and soles of the feet. All of the finger and toenails had been torn out. Bruises and whip marks accented the deranged artwork painted in the medium of a man's suffering.
The unmistakable marks of manacles could be seen clearly on the wrists and ankles of the victim. A gaping slash across the throat suggested the killing stroke.
"So, he abducts them from the street in a familiar location and leaves a tarot card at the scene for the victim's family or friends to find, takes them somewhere private enough that no one stumbles across them for days, binds them with manacles, tortures them, and finally kills them before desecrating the body and leaving it in a public place for the authorities," Aramis said.
"That about sums it up," Porthos agreed. "Though it doesn't get us any closer to finding the crazy bugger."
"We should try coming at it from a different angle," d'Artagnan suggested. "Perhaps the tarot cards can tell us something about the way the killer thinks?"
Athos nodded his approval, pleased with d'Artagnan's initiative given his obvious-- and understandable-- discomfort with the case.
"How about we go to the Swan to hash it over," Porthos suggested. "I dunno about the rest of you, but I'm famished."
"A reasonable plan," Athos agreed. "Darkness will be falling soon. We won't learn anything useful on the streets until tomorrow."
"Sounds good to me," Aramis said.
"Yes, of course it does. After all, we've just spent two hours in close examination of a desecrated corpse. How about dinner?" D'Artagnan studied the three of them with a quirked eyebrow, and shook his head ruefully. "You know, no offence, but I seriously wonder about you three sometimes."
* * *
"The killer always leaves a trump card where the victim was taken; never a court or a pip card," he observed.
Porthos pushed his empty bowl of stew away and sat back.
"It could be nothing," he began, "but in the Court of Miracles, tarot decks are used for divination as well as for card games. It's rubbish, of course, but the idea is that the cards describe attributes or situations that might arise, like recklessness, or being trapped in an untenable situation, or having to make a difficult choice."
"Is that interpretation widely known outside of the Court?" Aramis asked.
"Nah, I don't think so," Porthos said. "Most people just use 'em to play card games."
"Perhaps our killer is more literal-minded," Athos said. "What were the cards found so far?"
"The Fool was left where the Duc de Nemours was taken," d'Artagnan said. "Temperance was left for the Comtesse de Choiseul, and The Devil for the Vicomte d'Orsay."
"Well, the Vicomte was known for having a terrible temper with his staff, according to court gossip," Aramis said. "And the Comtesse had been known to drink to excess in social situations."
"An' how exactly would you know about that kind of court gossip?" Porthos asked.
"A gentleman never tells," Aramis replied airily, ignoring the flat stare Athos sent his way.
"Hmph," Porthos grunted. "Good thing there aren't any gentlemen at the table, then, innit?"
"Whatever the source," Athos cut in, bringing them back to the matter at hand, "if this is true, it suggests that the killer is making statements about the private lives and personalities of his victims. In which case, the question becomes, how does he know about these attributes? Is he personally acquainted with them? Does he stalk them beforehand?"
Athos paused as the all-too-familiar, uncomfortable prickle of being watched raised the small hairs on the nape of his neck; whipping his head around to search the well known interior of the alehouse for anything out of place.
"Athos, what is it?" d'Artagnan asked, studying him with worried eyes.
Seeing-- as ever-- nothing out of the ordinary, Athos forced himself to relax back into his seat, and poured more wine with a hand that was, hopefully, not trembling enough to be noticeable to the others in the dim light of the tavern's dirty lamps.
"Nothing; it's nothing. Merely the slow unravelling of the final threads of my sanity," he muttered, trying to make a joke of it.
"Bull," Porthos said. "You've been on edge for days. Spill it, or we'll pester you until you really do go mad."
Aramis quirked a smile at him. "Come on, Athos. You know Porthos; he's like a dog worrying at a bone once he gets hold of something like this. You might as well save yourself the aggravation."
Athos closed his eyes and threw back the wine, relishing the feeling as it finally began to dull the edges of his mind.
"As I said, it's nothing," he said firmly. "For the past few days, I've had the feeling of being watched. When I look, though, there's no one there. Merely a fancy of the mind, I assure you."
Aramis snorted. "I don't believe that for a minute. If you think someone's watching you, then someone is watching you."
"You have far more faith in my mental acuity than I, in that case."
"Believe me, I'm well aware of that," Aramis replied in a tone Athos was unable to decipher. On his other side, Porthos huffed a breath of laughter, and Athos sent a glare his way to little effect.
"Do you still feel it?" d'Artagnan asked.
Athos stilled for a moment, and shook his head. "No, it's gone. All three of you place too much emphasis on a trifle. Go home; get some sleep. We'll reconvene at the garrison an hour after dawn, and pursue the idea that the killer may have had previous contact with his victims."
Aramis nodded and retrieved his hat, taking his leave of them with a sketched bow, and ushering d'Artagnan out as well when it looked like the younger man would protest. Porthos lingered, resting a hand on Athos' shoulder from behind.
"Sure you wouldn't like me to stick around... keep you company?"
Athos shook his head, tamping down on the flood of warmth at the unspoken offer, make sure you get home safe. He canted his head up enough to make eye contact, offering the big man a small half-smile.
"Not necessary, old friend. I'll head home soon myself. Early start tomorrow; get some rest. I'll be fine."
The hand on his shoulder squeezed firmly before disappearing, and Athos watched Porthos head out the door and into the evening chill. He sat back, pouring the last of the wine and finishing it slowly, letting the facts of the case swirl through his mind in hopes of making a new connection, but to no avail.
Settling his hat low over his eyes, he threw a few coins on the table and rose, only slightly unsteady, ready to return to his rooms and take his own advice. The air outside was damp and heavy, and the shadows deep as he started down the familiar side road, still enmeshed in thought.
As he passed an alleyway, one of the shadows behind him detached itself, and a heavy blow landed at the juncture of neck and shoulder before he was even aware of the threat. Blackness swallowed him, and he knew no more.
* * *
Hanging up the riding whip he'd been using on the man's pale back, he reflected that this one was turning out to be something of a disappointment-- so far, at least. All of the others had started whinging and begging for mercy almost immediately upon awakening in his little dungeon. This one, on the other hand, barely seemed frightened at all.
To start with, it took him a frustratingly long time to wake up from the blow to the head. Not even a ewer-full of water to the face had been enough to rouse the man for the first three hours after Henri got him back here and trussed up, ready for the first round of Henri's treatment. He just hung there from the shackles, dripping on the floor like a dead fish strung up on a line.
Then, when he finally did wake up with a groan, rather than panic, he staggered a bit until he could get his feet under him to take the weight off his shackled wrists, and looked around the small cellar until his eyes alit on Henri, sitting in his chair in the corner.
"You?" the man asked, blinking once in an expression of restrained surprise. "I must admit, I didn't see that coming."
Henri could see him thinking, and he didn't like the way it made him feel-- like he wasn't the one in control. Like he needed to pay attention to his prisoner's thoughts and feelings, and not simply focus on his own enjoyment.
"You're going to die here, Olivier," he'd said, wanting to rattle the man. The Comte.
His victim's eyes had widened slightly at the use of his name, but he only said, "Yes, it certainly seems a distinct possibility," in a bored-sounding drawl.
Henri felt his blood boil in anger, but he'd clamped down on his temper. He would not be goaded to rash action. He'd not be cheated of his days of slow revenge. Therefore, rather than succumb to the temptation to do something irrevocable, he had picked up the riding whip resting on the bench next to him and crossed to stand behind his prisoner, raising his arm to rain blow after blow onto the man's back and ribs, trying with little success to draw more than soft grunts and the occasional pained gasp from him.
Now, contemplating his victim as he shook the kinks out of his whip arm, Henri was starting to think that this one needed a different approach from the other three. His little Mathilde had followed the man around for days, hiding in the shadows and reporting everything that she'd seen and heard. Added to what Henri already knew about the comte-turned-musketeer from his other sources, he was confident that he held the key to overturning the man's unnatural composure.
Stepping up into the man's personal space, he gripped the prisoner's chin, forcing him to raise his head. Blue eyes with a spark of anger hidden behind them met his; one pupil blown wide and the other, barely a pinprick.
Henri grinned at him and transferred his grip from chin to throat, squeezing until pain-filled gasps turned into choked wheezing. He drew a thin dagger from his belt with his free hand and drew the point in a teasing pattern an inch away from his victim's right eye. The blue gaze never wavered from his face, not even deigning to acknowledge the threat, and Henri snarled in anger, flicking the blade down to open a long cut across the man's cheek.
He loosened his chokehold long enough for the Comte to drag in a ragged breath and squeezed again. Oh, yes. He knew how to break this man.
"You know what hurts worse than a knife flayed across your cheek and a hand throttling the life out of you, vermin?" he asked, pulling the other man forward until they were separated by mere inches. "I'll tell you what. Betrayal. Someone like you once betrayed my family's trust. He was supposed to protect us... to look after us... and instead, he turned on us. And now, your inseparable friends have turned on you."
He relaxed his hand again for a few seconds, not wanting the eyes staring into his to become too cloudy before he could strike his blow.
"All it took was a purse full of shiny coins for your three so-called comrades to tell me everything about you, Comte de la Fére. All about your sordid past, and your wife, and exactly where I could find you, drunk and alone. How does it feel to be all alone, abandoned by your friends, Olivier?"
A strange, hitching spasm fluttered against Henri's hand where it was squeezing the vermin's neck, and he loosened his grip once again, not wanting his vengeance to be unintentionally cut short. The man's gasps for air were still punctuated by a rhythmic jerking of the chest which gradually resolved itself into stifled laughter, as if he couldn't quite contain his mirth at Henri's words.
"You're a fool," the prisoner rasped, once he'd regained control of his voice.
Henri's brief sense of satisfaction was subsumed under a wave of fury. With a feral yell, he drove a fist into the vermin's bleeding cheek; then another, and another, until his prisoner once again hung limp from the shackles, blood dripping onto the floor like rain.
* * *
He poked his head in the kitchens, only to be shooed back out by Serge. Sighing, d'Artagnan made himself comfortable at a table near the alcove where Géroux, the hulking leathersmith, was repairing broken saddle straps with a mallet and awl. The old cook appeared a moment later with a plate of bread and cheese, which he placed by the young musketeer's elbow.
"Bit early for you lot, ain't it?" he asked.
"For the others, maybe," d'Artagnan replied with a smile. "I grew up on a farm. Athos, Porthos, and Aramis should be along shortly."
"Eh, speak of the devil," Serge replied, nodding in the direction of the entryway, where Aramis and Porthos had just appeared looking slightly the worse for wear. "'Ang on. I'll be right back with more food."
The new arrivals flopped down onto the bench next to d'Artagnan.
"Remind me again why I'm dragging myself out of bed at the crack of too-bloody-early-by-half?" Porthos asked.
"Desecrated corpses," Aramis said with a thoughtful nod.
"Panic in the streets," d'Artagnan added helpfully. "Where's Athos?"
"At home, asleep, if he's half as smart as I think he is," Porthos said.
"I'm surprised he's not here, actually," said Aramis. "For someone who drinks as much as he does, he can be frightfully ascetic at times. I fully expected him to be waiting for us, ready to deliver a measured and sombre lecture on the importance of being punctual."
"Maybe we should walk over to his rooms; make sure he's all right," d'Artagnan suggested with a furrowed brow. "That way we'll run into him if he's on his way."
"That would also take us past the Swan," Porthos said. "He said when I left that he was heading home early last night, but you know how he gets sometimes..."
Aramis shook his head. "Not when there's work to be done, though. No-- that's not like him at all. I think d'Artagnan is right. We should check on him. If nothing else, it will give me the pleasure of teasing him for oversleeping."
Géroux lifted his head from his leatherwork, straightening to his full-- and rather impressive-- height. "You gents looking for Athos?" he asked.
"Yeah, we are," Porthos said. "You seen him today?"
The big tradesman nodded nonchalantly. "Oh, sure. He was in bright and early this morning. Barely past dawn, it was. Said he had to leave unexpectedly. Something about needing to attend to important business in, uh, La Fére, if I remember right."
D'Artagnan raised both eyebrows in shock, turning just in time to see Porthos and Aramis share an indecipherable look. He staggered to his feet in surprise when the two men surged up in unison, the heavy bench skittering backward as they rose.
"What--?" d'Artagnan began, only to cut himself off when Aramis pulled a pistol from his belt and levelled it at Géroux's head. Géroux paled and stumbled back against his workbench.
"Don't. Move." Aramis' tone was as deadly as d'Artagnan had ever heard it.
D'Artagnan's mind began to catch up with events. "Athos would never go back to La Fére voluntarily," he said with sudden certainty.
"Damn right he wouldn't," Porthos growled.
"Which leads one to wonder," said Aramis, "what reason the garrison's leathersmith could possibly have for lying to us about something like that."
"We should check Athos' rooms," d'Artagnan said, a trickle of something resembling dread shivering up the length of his spine to settle at the back of his throat. It tasted cold and metallic, like old blood.
"Yes," Aramis agreed, his pistol never wavering from a point equidistant between Géroux's eyes. "You and Porthos go. Hurry. If he's not at his rooms, ask around at the Swan and see if anyone noticed him leave last night. In the mean time, Henri Géroux, you and I are going to have a little chat with the captain."
"H-how dare you point a gun at me! I'll... I'll see you clapped in irons for this, you maniac!" Géroux said, his voice rising to a shout; pointing a quaking finger at Aramis. "You're crazy, all of you!"
"As it happens, you're not the first person to say so," Aramis said, voice hard. "Now, unless you want to find out just how crazy we are, you'll walk up those stairs right now and knock on Treville's door."
"You got this?" Porthos asked, clasping Aramis' shoulder with one hand..
"Do I ever," Aramis answered in a low growl as Géroux gingerly eased his way out of the alcove and toward the stairs. "Now go."
They went.
* * *
"Come on," Porthos said. "We need to get back to the Swan."
D'Artagnan nodded, and the two of them hurried back down the Rue Férou toward the Rue Palatine. As they passed the mouth of an alley a block from the Swan, a flash of white in the muck at the edge of the street caught d'Artagnan's eye.
"Porthos!" he said, turning back to look more closely. The blood drained from his face in a cold rush as he crouched down and pulled a single playing card from the mud.
"What is it?" Porthos asked.
D'Artagnan looked up at him helplessly. "Porthos, it's... God, it's a tarot card. It's labeled 'Judgment'."
Porthos cursed.
"Maybe it's for someone else," d'Artagnan said, not believing the words even as they passed his lips. "Or a coincidence. People drop playing cards all the time, right?"
"Athos is nobility," Porthos said, voice heavy. "And he's missing. Besides, when have you ever known Athos to stay out of trouble when it crossed his path?"
"When have I ever known any of you to stay out of trouble?" d'Artagnan muttered under his breath, knowing in his gut that Porthos was right. Judgment. Merciful Father. What other card would someone choose for Athos, knowing him to be the disgraced Comte de la Fére, who had hanged his own wife?
"What are we going to do?" he asked.
"Right now, we're going back to the garrison, to see what Aramis and Treville have learned from Géroux," Porthos said. "Bring the card."
They rushed back the way they had come, the morning market crowds parting like sheep before Porthos' fierce, single-minded demeanour. Unfortunately, the trip back gave d'Artagnan far, far too much time to think about what it meant if Athos had been taken by the killer... to think about blank eye sockets and spilled guts.
"Stop it," Porthos said out of nowhere.
"What?" d'Artagnan asked, startled out of his thoughts.
"What you're thinking," Porthos said. "You'll be no use to anyone if you tumble down that rabbit hole. The killer tortures his victims for days, d'Artagnan. For days."
"And Athos was taken last night," d'Artagnan finished, trying to latch onto the metaphorical rope that Porthos had thrown to him. But what might Athos have suffered already at the hands of a madman?
The garrison was coming to life as the two of them arrived, pounding up the stairs to Treville's office.
Henri Géroux was bound to a chair inside, still under the watchful eye of Aramis. The captain was rifling through papers in the large cabinet behind his desk, looking grim.
"Anything?" Aramis asked.
"No sign of Athos," d'Artagnan said, and held the tarot card aloft. "Just this. We found it by an alley near the Swan."
Aramis took in the square of dirty pasteboard, and his eyes grew murderous. He swung back toward the bound leathersmith, deadly as a snake.
"If you've harmed him, Géroux, I'll see you hang," he snarled. "And if he's dead, I'll kill you myself."
"Aramis. Control yourself!" Treville snapped. He flattened a piece of parchment onto the desk, running a finger down the page until he found the section he wanted. "Here it is-- I keep the addresses of most of the tradesmen on file. He lives at 15 Rue de Condé."
The Captain turned to the bound man. "Last chance, Géroux. Do you or do you not know the whereabouts of the musketeer Athos?"
"I told you! He's somewhere between here and La Fére," spat the leathersmith. "If you hurry, you could probably catch up to him on the road."
Treville scowled and turned to the others, his eyes taking in the three of them as he spoke. "Take him to the Rue de Condé and search his house. I'll stay here and talk to some of the other people who know him; see what I can learn. I'll follow you if I find anything."
"This is an outrage!" Géroux said, struggling against the ropes that bound his hands. "What evidence do you have for these wild accusations against me?"
"The fact that you're a liar, for a start," Porthos growled from his position next to d'Artagnan.
"I know Athos, Géroux," said Treville evenly, "and Athos wouldn't return to La Fére unless you hogtied him and dragged him there behind a horse. Now go with these three and let them search your house. And I strongly suggest you cooperate with them, because I can't really vouch for their good behaviour if you don't."
"Fine," the bound man snarled. "It's not as if there's anything to be found there. Rest assured, though-- the Cardinal will hear about this at the first opportunity. I do work for his Red Guards as well as the musketeers, you know!"
"Get him out of here," Treville said. "I'll follow as soon as I can."
* * *
D'Artagnan rushed through the door side by side with Aramis as soon as Géroux grudgingly unlocked it, the key awkward in his tightly bound hands. A startled scream drew his attention abruptly, and he whirled to see a slender girl of perhaps eleven or twelve years of age cowering beside the rough table where she had been chopping vegetables.
Porthos entered the room with Géroux in tow, and the girl turned frightened eyes toward them. Aramis gave her a single assessing glance and dismissed her, moving deeper into the house to search.
"Papa?" The girl squeaked. "What's going on? Why are your hands tied?"
"Hush, Mathilde, don't make a fuss," Géroux said as Porthos fastened his wrists to a sturdy desk in the corner. "Sit down and be quiet."
Aramis blew back into the room moments later, a slightly frantic look in his eye that d'Artagnan could well understand. "He's not here."
"Of course he's not here!" Géroux shouted. "Why would he be? Now let me go and get out of my house-- you're frightening my daughter!"
"Are they here for their friend, Papa?" Mathilde asked, and three sets of eyes landed on her with the intensity of hawks hunting prey.
"Mathilde, be quiet!" Géroux snarled, but the damage was done.
D'Artagnan stepped slowly toward the terrified child, trying to catch her eye.
"Mathilde?" he asked in his best calming voice. "Is our friend here? It's important. You can tell us, if he is."
Mathilde only slapped a hand across her mouth in a childish attempt to keep more words from spilling, and shook her head side to side rapidly. Her eyes were huge and scared, darting back and forth between the three soldiers and her father.
"You can see for yourself he's not here!" Géroux blustered. "You've just searched the house, haven't you?"
D'Artagnan watched as Aramis stalked toward Géroux with deadly intent, stopping with only inches separating them.
"Porthos," he said in a tone d'Artagnan had never heard from him before, and never wanted to hear again, "get the girl out of here. She doesn't need to see what's about to happen."
"Right," Porthos said grimly, and crossed the room toward the girl, who cowered back even farther.
D'Artagnan had seen Aramis and Porthos interrogate a prisoner to save Athos before. Even in those early days before he knew them properly, he had a sense at the time of underlying playacting, like two lazy tomcats toying with a mouse which they had no intention of eating. Now, though, Aramis was in deadly earnest. Géroux was about to endure the kind of pain that only a trained soldier could dish out, and damn the consequences.
Feeling vaguely queasy over what he was about to do to a child-- though not as queasy as he was at the thought of Aramis was about to do to his own soul in pursuit of information from the child's father-- d'Artagnan turned back to where Porthos had gathered the girl up in a firm but gentle hold.
"Mathilde," he said, still in the same calm voice, "this is terribly important. I need you to tell me where to find our friend. I'm afraid that if you don't, Aramis is going to hurt your papa."
"Mathil--" Géroux began, but cut himself off abruptly when Aramis' main gauche swished to a stop at a point directly over his jugular.
"Don't hurt him!" Mathilde begged, tears gathering in her eyes as she struggled fruitlessly against Porthos' implacable strength.
Something about the way she spoke and responded made d'Artagnan wonder if the girl was a bit simple. She was older than she looked at first glance, but seemed stunted and sickly; small for her age. The girl was taking in everything around her, but there was an air of innocence in her eyes and speech that seemed more appropriate for a much younger child. He took a deep breath, and tried to keep his words as straightforward and direct as possible.
"I don't want Aramis to hurt your papa, but he's angry and frightened because he can't find our friend, and I don't think I can stop him." Nothing but the truth, there. "If you can help us find our friend, Aramis won't be angry and frightened anymore, and he won't want to hurt your papa. Can you help us, Mathilde?"
Mathilde looked back and forth between d'Artagnan and her father, her eyes growing wet with tears. Her mouth opened and closed twice, but no sound emerged.
D'Artagnan forced himself to review what they knew-- or thought they knew-- about Géroux and his victims, making new mental connections in a wash of panic-fuelled adrenaline.
"You've been following us, have you not?" he asked gently. "Or, rather, following our friend Athos. So your papa could learn more about him?"
Mathilde's attention settled on him, though she said nothing, a single tear escaping down her cheek. Encouraged, d'Artagnan continued to probe, trying not to spook her again.
"Perhaps he came home with your papa last night?"
Mathilde's eyes skittered down and to the side.
D'Artagnan's mind raced, still putting things together. If Athos had been attacked, he might have been dazed or, more likely, unconscious. "Maybe he was sick? Maybe your papa was helping him? That would have been a nice thing for him to do for our friend."
Mathilde's eyes flicked back to his, and she chewed on her lip. "Papa... said..."
D'Artagnan held his breath, willing the child to continue, and was aware of Porthos doing the same. Across the room, Aramis pressed the knife harder against Géroux's neck to keep him quiet, dimpling the skin.
"... Papa said he was drunk," Mathilde finished in a rush. "He took him to the special room so he could sleep."
Porthos was pressing his lips together, visibly holding himself back from saying anything which might disrupt the fledgling rapport d'Artagnan had with the terrified girl. D'Artagnan felt his heart thudding against his ribcage like a trapped bird as he spoke, still outwardly presenting the picture of perfect calm.
"That was kind of him to do," he said carefully. "Can you show me the special room? That way I can wake Athos up and we can take him home."
"I'm not allowed," Mathilde said, voice hitching with tears of fear and upset.
"That's all right," d'Artagnan said quickly. "I can tell you're a good girl, and we don't want to get you in trouble. Maybe you could tell me how to find it instead?"
Mathilde's frightened eyes sought her father again, and d'Artagnan gently moved to block her line of sight and bring her attention back to him. After a few seconds that seemed like an eternity, the child raised a trembling finger to point at a faded tapestry hung slightly off-kilter on the wall opposite the front door.
Porthos and d'Artagnan lunged for the threadbare woven cloth as one. D'Artagnan ripped it aside, and Porthos put his shoulder to the low, rough door that was revealed. Stairs led down to an abandoned wine cellar illuminated by a handful of guttering candles placed at intervals in wall sconces.
The flickering orange light played on a horribly familiar broken body hanging by the wrists from shackles attached to the ceiling. D'Artagnan stumbled to a standstill, frozen. The sound that escaped him was that of a wounded animal, as every fear that he had suppressed throughout the long morning returned in a tumult to crush the breath from his lungs.
Porthos slid to a halt in front of Athos' body, raising a large hand that trembled slightly to hover a hair's breadth from the other man's nose and mouth. After an endless moment, Porthos sagged in relief, and d'Artagnan felt the air return to his lungs in a rush.
"Thank God," Porthos said hoarsely. "Thank God."
The large musketeer gathered Athos against himself carefully and lifted him enough to take the strain from his wrists. Athos' bruised, swollen face lolled against his shoulder.
"D'Artagnan, find the keys," Porthos said, and he immediately jumped to comply, searching the benches and tables scattered around the room; trying his best not to think about the implements of torture filling every available horizontal surface.
"Aramis!" Porthos shouted toward the doorway. "He's here! He's alive!"
* * *
"Is he hurt? How bad is it?" Aramis called, his eyes never leaving Géroux, and keeping the terrified girl in his peripheral vision.
"He's unconscious," Porthos shouted back. "We're getting the shackles off him now. I'll send d'Artagnan up to watch Géroux; then you need to get down here fast."
Red washed across Aramis' vision, and he ruthlessly clamped down on the urge to put a dagger through Géroux's stomach and leave him to writhe through the pain for hours. He would stand by his word.
"I will watch you hang," he whispered.
Géroux snarled and spit, the gob of saliva falling a few inches short of Aramis' left boot. Off to his side, Mathilde's sobbing grew louder.
D'Artagnan rushed up the stairs, and Aramis whirled without a backward glance and flew down the rickety stairway. He peered into the candle-lit gloom until his eyes made out Porthos' solid form, cradling a broken body in his arms.
"He's been beaten. And whipped," Porthos said in a strained voice. "An' something's badly wrong with his shoulder. I can't rouse him."
"Dislocated," Aramis replied grimly, his eyes adjusting quickly to the dim light as he examined the sickening bulge where Athos' left arm met his torso. "Just as well he won't be awake for this part."
Aramis removed his blue cloak and placed it on the filthy floor. "Lay him down on his back, Porthos. Support his head and neck."
Porthos eased Athos down wordlessly, making sure that his injured back rested on the blue suede and supporting the unconscious man's head in his lap. "You need my cloak for this?"
Aramis nodded, busy removing the strip of fabric he used as a belt as Porthos unhooked his cloak and rolled it up into a tight cylinder. Aramis handed Porthos the belt and took the wad of leather, kneeling at Athos' left hip. He placed the makeshift padding under his friend's armpit and gingerly straightened the injured arm, shifting position until he could brace his left boot on the rolled-up cloak for leverage.
"God," Porthos swore. "His wrists."
"You don't have to tell me," Aramis replied grimly. Normally, he would have used a grip on Athos' left wrist to carefully pull the arm back in its socket; however, both his wrists were a mass of bruises and slowly seeping blood where the shackles had dug in. He grasped Athos' forearm instead, muttering under his breath in Spanish whenever his sweaty hands threatened to slip.
Holding his breath, Aramis gradually leaned back, bracing his weight against the padding under Athos' arm. It always seemed to take forever for a dislocated shoulder to reseat itself this way, but the hotheads who insisted on violently shoving dislocated joints into place were as apt to render the injured limb permanently limp and useless as they were to cure it.
"I'm not sure whether to be relieved or worried at how relaxed he is for this," Porthos said.
"I'm going with 'worried'," Aramis replied through gritted teeth, still increasing the traction against the injured joint.
Porthos winced at the sickening, fleshy pop as the ball finally slipped back into its socket. Athos, on the other hand, didn't. Didn't react in any way, in fact-- and Aramis really, really wished that he would.
He arranged the injured arm against Athos' chest and took the length of fabric back from Porthos, using it to bind the wounds on Athos' wrist and strap the arm in place in a rough sling. When he was done, he peeled back Athos' eyelids, examining his eyes as best he could in the flickering light. Even in the relative dimness, it was obvious that his pupillary response was uneven.
"It's not good, is it?" Porthos asked in a flat tone.
"He's severely concussed," Aramis said, "and God knows what else has been done to him. Stay there with him for a moment. I want to get him up on a table, closer to the light."
Aramis crossed the room to the largest of the rough tables. Looking down at the collection of leather-working tools there, he took a moment to think about what the various blades and awls could do to living skin, and immediately wished he hadn't. With a surge of blind anger, he swept an arm across the surface and sent the tools clattering to the stone floor. When it was clear, he yanked and tugged the heavy wooden construction over between two of the wall sconces that still held brightly burning candles.
"Here, I'll get his legs," he said, returning to Porthos. "Careful with his head. Place him on his right side, so we can keep those whip marks clean."
When they got their burden settled, Aramis grabbed Porthos' rolled up cloak and used it to pillow Athos' head. His face was a mass of bruises, and blood clotted around a wicked gash in one cheek.
"Too old to stitch. The skin is too damaged," Aramis said. He moved to examine the wounds on Athos' back where the whip had torn the flesh. "I can't stitch any of this. Christ!" He slammed a fist against the tabletop in frustration.
Athos didn't stir. Aramis gripped the edge of the table, and felt himself begin to shake. His eyes burned. Strong hands closed on his shoulders from behind.
"All right," Porthos said. "You can't stitch 'em. You want to clean the wounds and bandage them instead?"
Aramis allowed his head to droop forward for a moment, letting Porthos be strong for both of them. With a deep breath, he straightened, swiping the pad of his thumb over his eyes surreptitiously.
"Yes. Yes, of course," he said. "See if you can find clean water and strong alcohol upstairs. I'll stay here and make sure there aren't any other injuries that we've missed."
Porthos squeezed his shoulders once and released him. "'Course. I'll be as quick as I can."
Aramis nodded wordlessly, and turned back to the prone form on the table.
* * *
"Delmárre! Morand! With me," he snapped at the musketeers he'd brought with him. He pounded on the wooden door and called "It's Treville! We're coming in!", knowing better than to burst in unannounced on soldiers who were already likely to be on edge.
The door was unlocked; he pushed it open. D'Artagnan, Géroux, and a little girl stood in the large room that was revealed, forming three points of a distrustful triangle. D'Artagnan straightened as Treville and his men entered. The girl cowered further into a corner. Géroux-- bound to the leg of a heavy desk-- looked murderous.
"Athos?" Treville asked d'Artagnan, noting the lad's pallor.
"He's downstairs," d'Artagnan said. "It's... not good."
Treville nodded his understanding and turned to Morand and Delmárre. "This man is under arrest for murder, and attempted murder. Watch him." He waited for their acquiescence and crossed to d'Artagnan. "Come, d'Artagnan. We'll help Porthos and Aramis see to Athos."
"This way, sir," d'Artagnan said, and led him through a low door and down a flight of rough steps.
His lieutenant was laid out on his side on a table, his left arm and torso swathed in makeshift bandages. Porthos straightened as the two of them entered; Aramis remained bent over his patient, cleaning a wound on Athos' cheek. Athos himself did not stir; barely seemed to breathe.
"Captain," Porthos said, acknowledging his entrance.
Treville nodded in return, approaching the table but being careful to stay out of Aramis' light.
"Aramis? What are his injuries?"
"Concussion; a bad one, though his skull doesn't seem to have cracked," Aramis replied without looking up from his work. "He's been hit from behind, which probably rendered him unconscious, allowing Géroux to take him. He has also been beaten, mostly about the face and head, though there are a few blows to the ribs. Dislocated shoulder, which I've reset. A knife cut to the cheek; damage at the wrists and ankles from manacles. And he's been whipped."
"Has he awoken?" Treville asked.
Aramis shook his head and straightened from his work. "No. He's been deeply unconscious since we found him. The other wounds, while serious, are not life-threatening. But there's no way of knowing if he'll recover from the head wound and beating with his wits intact. Or at all."
Treville nodded his understanding.
"I spoke to several of Géroux's friends and acquaintances at the garrison," he said. "Apparently he and his family lived in Guyenne. His wife-- a maid at the manor house-- was caught stealing, and the local vicomte had her hanged without a trial. He fled to Paris immediately after."
"So this has all been about revenge against the nobility for the execution of his wife?" d'Artagnan asked, wrapping his arms around himself tightly as he leaned against the wall by the staircase.
"It would appear so," Treville answered. "It will be up to a judge to decide, but for now, he'll be taken to the Châtelet to await trial."
"What about the daughter? He had her following his victims to learn about their comings an' goings, but she was ignorant of what he was doing," Porthos said.
"There's something not quite right about her; with her mind, I mean," d'Artagnan said. "She seems a sweet child, but odd. While I was guarding them, she recounted whole conversations that she'd overheard between myself and Athos in detail, but she didn't understand the content at all. She was just reciting them by rote. It was really rather extraordinary."
"If she was part of his scheme, it will probably not go well for her," Treville said, under no illusions about the likelihood of a judge showing mercy to such a child who had no one to stand up for her. She'd be lucky merely to receive the same sentence as her father, in lieu of being burned as a witch.
Porthos frowned, and d'Artagnan looked ready to protest. Treville studied the two of them for a moment before making a decision.
"Of course," he began, pointedly maintaining eye contact with Porthos, "if such a child had someplace to go-- someplace she could disappear from the sight of the authorities-- things might be different. They'd hardly feel the need to expend significant resources looking for her. Mind you, this is all conjecture, since I was unaware that Henri Géroux even had a daughter. No doubt he was able to gather all the intelligence he needed on his victims through his contacts in the Cardinal's red guards and the musketeer garrison."
Porthos' eyes widened, and he exchanged a look with d'Artagnan. "Right... " he said, drawing the word out. "Aramis, do you need the two of us for the next couple of hours?"
Aramis, whose focus had remained on Athos during the brief exchange, looked up in slight surprise. "Help me get him on the wagon so I can get him back to the infirmary at the garrison. After that, it's mostly a matter of waiting and watching him."
Porthos nodded, and went to fetch a stretcher from the back of the cart.
* * *
D'Artagan slid down from the saddle and grabbed the meagre sack of Mathilde's belongings. He slung it over his shoulder and reclaimed the girl, taking her by the hand.
Porthos was glad of the budding trust that the girl demonstrated toward d'Artagnan, though his ears still rang unpleasantly with her screams of "Papa! Papa!" as Géroux was dragged away to prison. It was obvious enough that d'Artagnan was upset about what they were doing, but Porthos figured he knew as well as anyone that the alternative was death or imprisonment-- and imprisonment was as good as a death sentence to anyone as small and weak as this child.
"Follow my lead," Porthos instructed, and d'Artagnan nodded his understanding and continued to murmur reassurance to the girl, who clung to him tightly and hid her face against his doublet when masked figures surrounded them silently.
"I need to see the Queen," he said, stepping forward to meet them fearlessly. "Tell her Porthos has returned to walk among the beggars and the whores."
A few minutes later, they were escorted into the same room where Porthos had been taken after being rescued from execution for a murder he didn't commit. This time, though, his welcome was more immediately friendly, and he smiled despite the dire circumstances of the past day as he found himself with an armful of Flea.
"Porthos!" she exclaimed. "I must admit, I didn't expect to see you back so soon. Keeping a closer watch on your purse this time?"
He released her from the friendly embrace, moving her back so he could see her properly. She looked good.
"I'll give it freely this time, such as it is," he said. "But first, I need a favour."
She raised an eyebrow, her shrewd gaze falling immediately on the girl cowering at d'Artagnan's side. "Let me guess-- it involves finding a place for a little sparrow with no place else to land?"
"You were always the one with the brains, Flea," Porthos said ruefully.
"This is Mathilde. Her mother is dead, and her father is a vicious murderer and used her in his schemes," d'Artagnan said, holding the girl's shoulders protectively. "She was completely innocent to what was going on, but that will not save her life should the courts gain a hold over her."
"I see," Flea said, and crossed to crouch in front of the girl. "And what say you, little sparrow?"
"I want Papa," Mathilde whispered piteously.
"She has the mind of a much younger child, Flea," Porthos said. "I'm not convinced she understands what her father has done, even after seeing him caught red-handed."
"She has hidden talents, though," d'Artagnan said. "Her father sent her to shadow his victims and learn about their lives and habits. She can repeat, very nearly verbatim, any conversation she hears; she also melts into the shadows like she's made of smoke. Surely these are valuable skills in the Court."
It was a clever plea, but Porthos knew it was also an unnecessary one.
"Never mind about any of that, Musketeer," Flea said, looking up at d'Artagnan. "All are welcome in the Court of Miracles. It is a hard life, but one we share with anyone who has need of refuge. Your so-called 'justice' will not find her here."
D'Artagnan bowed slightly to her, acknowledging the sentiment. Flea reached a hand forward to Mathilde, who took it hesitantly.
"Come, Little Sparrow. Your papa is lost to you now, but we will make you a place. Take your things and we will go and meet some of the other children."
Mathilde looked up at d'Artagnan with tearful eyes and allowed him to settle her small sack of belongings over her shoulder. He nodded at her encouragingly and said, "Go on, it will be all right." She studied him for a moment longer and turned back to Flea, gazing at her wild hair and feathered skirts with a slight look of awe.
"Flea," Porthos said as she rose, "I've brought some money to pay for food and upkeep. It's not much, but it's something."
Flea smiled at him sweetly, the corners of her eyes crinkling. She flicked the hand that wasn't holding Mathilde's up into view, a small velvet purse dangling between her fingers. "Really? How thoughtful of you! Though I seem to recall telling you to keep a closer watch on it this time."
Unbidden, Porthos' hand leapt to his belt, only to find empty space where a bag of coins should be. He shook his head fondly as Flea disappeared with her new charge.
"Come on," he told d'Artagnan. "Let's get back to the others."
* * *
He ignored the jeers and catcalls around him, holding his burning gaze unflinchingly on Henri Géroux's face; willing the man to notice him. Géroux's attention seemed focused inward, as if his soul had already started to tug at its bonds within his body, desperate to flee before the horror of the hangman's noose.
The guards manhandled their charge into position, handing him over to the ministrations of the executioner. As the black-clad hangman readied the hood, Géroux's vacant eyes lit on Aramis' sharp ones, seeming to come back into focus for the first time since entering the square, and the man blanched as the reality of his situation came to the fore. An instant later, the rough burlap hood closed over that expression of horror, hiding it forever.
A flush of something that might have been satisfaction flooded Aramis' chest, briefly displacing the heaviness that had lodged there over the past days.
The musketeer stood in silent, steadfast witness as the noose was placed, the lever was pulled, and the hanged man's legs and feet gradually stopped twitching and relaxed in to stillness.
"In nomine Patris, et Fillii, et Spiritus Sancti," he murmured, making the sign of the cross. Still ignoring the excited babbling around him, he resettled his hat on his head, turned from the gallows, and strode away toward the garrison.
* * *
"Kept your promise, then?" he asked as his friend removed his hat, weapons belt, and doublet, hanging them neatly by the door.
Aramis nodded tiredly, before indicating the bed with a tip of the chin. "Any change?"
"He was muttering and thrashing around again earlier, but he seems quiet for now," Porthos replied.
The first time Athos had surfaced part way, rambling disjointedly about his wife and his brother with no seeming awareness of his surroundings, Aramis had proclaimed it a promising sign. That didn't stop it being painful to watch, though, and as the following twenty-four hours had dragged on with no further change or improvement, their morale was beginning to slip-- especially the whelp, who didn't have as much experience with wounded men as either of the others.
Porthos reminded them both periodically of the hardness of Athos' head, and pointed out that at least his periods of semiconsciousness allowed them to force a bit of water and broth down his throat... even if he did fight them the whole time. Still, d'Artagnan was taking it hard. Twice, he'd woken from nightmares of finding his mentor too late and had to be reassured that he was, in fact, still alive.
"D'Artagnan?" Aramis asked, his thoughts apparently mirroring Porthos' own.
Porthos indicated the younger man, propped up against the wall in the corner and fast asleep. "Finally gettin' some decent sleep. Thought he was gonna cry when you were gone and he had to be the one to hold Athos down while I got the broth into 'im, but he did the job an' did it well."
"Of course he did," Aramis answered, pulling a second chair over to the bedside.
"So, how do you think Géroux found out about Athos?" Porthos asked absently, smoothing the blanket where it hung over edge of the bed. "I mean, I know the girl was following him, but it's not like him bein' the Comte de la Fére ever came up in casual conversation."
Aramis shook his head. "I doubt we'll ever get solid answers. But Géroux worked for the red guards as well as Treville. It wouldn't surprise me if the Cardinal knew Athos' background-- he has a finger in every pie in France. And if he knew, then I wouldn't put it past him to let the information slip to his men-- scandal and all-- as a way to foster resentment and make Athos more of a target for duels. It's not the first time he has been quarry for the Cardinal's schemes, after all, and Géroux was in a prime position to hear any gossip flying around the red guards' garrison."
Porthos nodded, before adding something that had occurred to him last night. "I was also thinking about Treville's records. The Captain knows about Athos. Knew since he accepted him as a trainee in the regiment, or so I gather. He's so thorough about keeping records that he could find the leathersmith's address in almost no time. How much do you want to bet that he's got records on Athos? And if you could sneak into his office to look for records about Savoy, Géroux could sneak into his office to look for records on Athos."
"It's certainly possible," Aramis allowed. "If I wasn't worried that we'd need to snoop through his cabinet sometime in the future, I'd tell him to hide his key better."
Porthos snorted, only to turn quickly back to the bed when Athos started moving restlessly. He gingerly took Athos' right hand in his, twining his fingers through the other man's; still red and swollen like sausages from the restricted blood flow caused by the manacles.
"Thomas..." Athos mumbled, thick-tongued. "Thomas... where--?"
"Shh, Athos," Aramis soothed, though Porthos knew he held no real hope that Athos would hear or understand. "It's all right. Calm yourself."
Athos' head thrashed back and forth. "Thomas," he moaned. "Thomas... no. No. Not Thomas. D'Artagnan?"
Porthos felt a jolt of excitement, and he and Aramis both leaned forward as if tugged upright by marionette's strings.
"Athos?" he asked. "Athos, can you hear me? Wake up!"
"Open your eyes, Athos," Aramis entreated. "Please. We need you to wake up now."
One of Athos' eyes was still swollen shut, but the other one cracked open, rolling a bit in the dim light from the single small window at the end of the room.
"Porthos? Ar'mis?" Athos asked, swallowing in an attempt to wet his tongue. "D'Artagnan-- where is--? He... he was... upset..."
Aramis slumped forward, letting his eyes fall closed in relief. "He was upset that you wouldn't wake up properly, you dolt."
"I expect he'll be much better once he's talked to you," Porthos added, grabbing a clean rag from the table next to him with his free hand and lobbing it at the whelp's head. "Oi! D'Artagnan! Wake up-- someone wants to see you!"
D'Artagnan clumsily swiped the rag away from his face. An instant later, his eyes went wide and he launched himself at the bed, stumbling against furniture in his half-awake haste.
"Athos?" he asked breathlessly.
Athos freed his hand from Porthos' and laid it clumsily over d'Artagnan's forearm. "Oh, good," he mumbled, letting his eye drift closed. "Was worried..."
"I'm not the one you should be worrying about," d'Artagnan managed in response, his eyes growing suspiciously bright.
Aramis smiled at him and eased him gently to the side so he could place himself in Athos' line of sight.
"He's right, you know," Aramis said. "Try to stay awake a bit longer for us. Can you drink some water?"
"Got... any wine?" Athos replied, blinking his eye open again.
"Now I know you're feeling better," Aramis responded dryly. "Wine will be your reward for keeping water and broth down today, my friend. Consider it something to look forward to."
"Tyrant," Athos said without heat, allowing Aramis to help him drink slowly from a goblet of clear, cool water. "So," he continued when he was once again settled back on the bed, "you found me, then."
"Did you doubt us?" Aramis asked lightly.
"Géroux would have had me believe that you three sold me out to him for a purseful of coins," Athos said, sounding more himself after the water. Porthos could detect the thread of humour in his voice, but it did little to soften the fresh flush of rage in his chest toward the dead leathersmith.
He forced it down, finding a smile and a quip for his injured friend instead. "What, for a few coins? Pfft. We would have required piles of gold and precious gemstones at the very least."
"I would expect no less," Athos replied with a half-smile.
"When you didn't show up at the garrison, Géroux tried to tell us you'd gone to La Fére," d'Artagnan blurted, as though the words had been pulled from him involuntarily.
Athos' eyebrows twitched together; then relaxed. "Really? What happened then?"
"Aramis pulled a gun on 'im," Porthos replied, deadpan.
Athos huffed out a breath that might have been laughter.
Did you kill him?" he asked.
"Not personally," Porthos replied. "We let the courts take care of that part. Aramis wanted to, though."
"And I seem to recall telling you earlier that if you thought you were being watched, you were damn well being watched," Aramis said. "Perhaps you'll start listening to me."
"I always listen to you, ami," Athos answered sleepily. "And then I ignore three-quarters of what has just come out of your mouth. Mostly for my own sanity, such as it is."
Aramis made an offended noise, Porthos grinned, and d'Artganan hid a laugh, poorly.
"Well, try not to ignore this: I want you to get some rest," Aramis said. "I think it would be best if we wake you every few hours, for the time being. Someone will be with you at all times, should you need anything. Now, go to sleep, and try never to scare us this badly again."
"Yeah. You're quiet enough at the best of times," Porthos put in. "This was just too quiet."
"I'll certainly do my best," Athos said. "I can safely say that I would prefer to avoid similar circumstances in the future, if at all possible."
"I'm just glad you're awake," d'Artagnan said, his sincerity obvious.
Athos gave him that tiny half smile, and patted his arm.
"Ask him sometime how he saved your life by charming a thirteen-year-old girl," Porthos said.
"Indeed," Aramis confirmed. "Soon I'll have him completely trained, and no female will be safe from his farm boy wiles. Now... sleep, Athos."
"I look forward to hearing the tale," Athos said, eyes closed.
"Aramis, take your own advice," Porthos said. "You, too, d'Artagnan. I'll keep watch for a few hours."
Aramis smiled and clapped him on the arm, giving in gracefully. D'Artagnan wrapped an arm around Porthos' shoulders and squeezed, letting his relief and happiness flow through the brief embrace before following the older man across the room to claim two of the other sick beds.
Once they were settled, Porthos smiled and stretched his legs out to rest his ankles on the foot of Athos' mattress, angling his chair so that he could keep all three of them in view. He clasped his hands behind his head, feeling the tension drain from his shoulders for the first time in days.
Porthos would have helped Aramis take Géroux apart piece by piece without a second thought if that's what it took to get to Athos. Truth was, though, he almost pitied the man.
Everyone in this room had lost loved ones unjustly.
Aramis had seen friends killed in battle and lovers lost to court intrigue. D'Artagnan lost his father to a soldier attempting to blacken the name of the very man lying on the bed in front of him. Athos had seen his brother murdered at the hands of his wife. Porthos himself had seen his mother treated as property and then discarded like trash to perish on the streets.
Yet instead of succumbing to hatred, they had cleaved to each other, loving more deeply and strongly than ever. Whereas Henri Géroux-- despite having a daughter who needed his support and protection-- had buried himself in the past, obsessing over vengeance and sadism.
He could have nurtured his daughter; campaigned for justice for his wife from the King; lived; loved-- even married again. Instead, he let down the one person who still cared about and relied on him, and now he was dead.
By the grace of God, though-- or possibly sheer cussedness-- the four friends lived to fight, and love, another day. And, in the end, that was all Porthos asked for.
For what more in life did any man truly need?