The Musketeer's Seamstress - By Sarah D'Almeida Page 0,9
his friends discussed such issues and used words that seemed to Porthos much too long to have any real meaning, Porthos either got bored or amused himself with his own thoughts.
A tall, strong man, he’s always been interested in the outdoors and physical sports. In fencing and riding and hunting. He thought with his hands as much as with his brain. This left him enough mind only to attempt to do what needed to be done and what needed to be done at that moment. It made him more practical and focused than any of his comrades and, in that, often the savior of them all.
And at this moment what needed to be done was getting Aramis back to his quarters with a minimum of notice. This—to Porthos—seemed to be most easily done by his supporting and half carrying Aramis.
The reputation of the musketeers was such that no one would notice if one of them were walking what seemed to be a very drunken comrade through the streets. Even if the comrade were barefoot. It wouldn’t be the first time that a musketeer lost his boots at dice. “Let D’Artagnan take my place,” he said. “While I walk Aramis back to his lodgings.”
“You must be careful,” Athos said. “There is every chance that his lodgings will be watched.”
D’Artagnan, who had been looking for a while as though he’d like to speak, now said, “I shall go with you Porthos. If we have to fight back an attack, I can take care of them.”
Porthos nodded. This seemed like a good idea to him. Besides, with two of them, one supporting Aramis on either side, it would look more natural. It was the classical way to help a drunken musketeer back to his abode.
“I’ll leave Aramis in the care of Bazin,” he said. Bazin was Aramis’s servant, who had followed him from his ancestral estate and who stayed with Aramis in the blessed hope that one day Aramis would join a monastery and Bazin would be able to join also as a lay brother. “And tell Bazin not to allow anyone in the house. You know he’s as capable as anyone of understanding that if Aramis is arrested for murder Bazin’s dream of joining a monastery will never come true.”
Athos nodded. He resumed his guard position, but his dour expression betrayed that he did not consider this a good arrangement.
Porthos worried about Athos. The man was, at the best of times, too hard drinking, too free with his gambling. At the worst times he became dour and inward looking, like a man meditating on some horrible memory.
That Athos had left behind some grand estate, some great position, was all too obvious. What would cause a great nobleman—a true nobleman and not like Porthos’s family only one step removed from its farming neighbors—to leave estate and family? Porthos had thought this over many times, and so far he’d come up with no answer. Only he fancied there was unhappy love in it and that a woman had caused his friend great hurt.
Glancing at D’Artagnan, Porthos nodded towards Aramis. D’Artagnan, as always, understood the words that were not said, and, as Porthos put his arm around Aramis’s waist, to support the younger man, he found D’Artagnan imitating the gesture from the other side.
They set out down the road towards the city of Paris proper. The palace the royal family was occupying just then sat on the outskirts of the city, in a sparsely populated suburb, bordering on woods. The road leading into town had been built by the Romans and assembled of stone blocks so finely fit together that not a blade could slide in between two of them. They’d been polished by centuries of use and till they’d become soft and slightly rounded under foot. Little stuck out that could cause Aramis to stumble, which was good because he seemed to stumble on his own feet.
They walked for a while in silence, passing nothing but trees and gardens that, while not enclosed in the palace wall, yet were part of the palace, used for rousing hunts and chaperoned walks. Past that, the road changed to one flanked by large houses set back within well maintained gardens. Farther down, the houses got closer to the road, until finally the front walls of the houses themselves, standing next to each other and connecting, formed as though a wall on either side of the road. The facades, ornate stone and carved windowsills, denoted these townhouses as