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 all, 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.”