Think Only This of Me

[igenlode]

Having been through the stage of finding myself surprisingly pleased with this story, I am now back in the more expected reaction of realising that it doesn't sound much like Porthos after all (apart from a few lines where he helpfully comes out with the blindingly obvious); I had managed to create a 'voice' for him, but it really wasn't the rather ponderous one from the book (or even Smirnitsky-Porthos, who gets to deliver some of d'Artagnan's canon dialogue ;-p)

I spent a good deal of time trying to tweak out the more obviously non-Porthosian bits of vocabulary ('ensconced', 'oblivion') and decided that it wasn't improving, though I did remove a lot of repetition. The tiny pages of this notebook really don't help in that respect, and they make editing incredibly difficult, especially on top of an already heavily-amended-at-the-time-of-writing text; there are no margins and empty spaces between ruled lines to scrawl amendments into!

The fic actually came out at over 5,000 words, which was rather more than I was expecting but can still pass as a one-shot. And I decided I could justify squeezing two of my screenshots in, one indoor one where d'Artagnan is looking away as Porthos speaks and one of the nice outdoor ones of the two of them as a sort of general introduction, even though it can't apply to any specific part of the story here... I hope I can get away with that. I needn't have worried about low resolution and reducing the cropped images down to 500x300, since in order to run them alongside 12/13-point body text I found I had to reduce them further in order not to break up the paragraphs too much!

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Think Only This of Me

Athos gave his life to save Charles Stuart. A grieving d’Artagnan must deal with the consequences. And there are some things, at least, that Porthos sees more clearly than any of them.

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The Seigneur de Pierrefonds blew in from the little park at Bragelonne like a great gust of wind and demanded Mouston, who had made himself scarce somewhere in the depths of the house. But since his attendant was for the moment nowhere to be seen and the establishment was shrouded in the dismal air that had driven him out-of-doors in the first place, he caught up a candlestick and went himself in search of d’Artagnan. He had a certain uncomfortable sense that in abandoning the house of mourning he had likewise abandoned his friend, and now that the winter dusk had enforced his return, it was time to relieve d’Artagnan of his duties and stand guard in his place, so to speak, over the young Vicomte Raoul. For even if the Comte de La Fère had bequeathed his ward into d’Artagnan’s care, Porthos had a firm intention that the boy should become his son also.

They had gone together to break the dreadful news. D’Artagnan had not asked for support in that task, but Porthos had been quite certain that he needed it.

And it had been every bit as bad as he had thought. Worse, almost, than the moment when he had lifted Athos in his two arms and seen that he was gone— gone, with that ugly wound in his breast and half a smile on his lips, and his eyes fixed beyond them all on a sight that only he could see. Porthos’ hands clenched all over again in helpless rage at the memory.

But to have to bring back word of the Comte de La Fère’s death... it had felt, plainly put, like a sentence of execution. Porthos was not a man given to fancies, but it was as if their friend had not been truly dead until that hour, and it was the telling of it that made him so.

And now they were at Bragelonne with all the triumph that should have been theirs drained away, in a house that was silent and gloomy as the grave. There was none of the happy riot of gold here that Porthos had lavished on all his own properties. Little to be envied at all, in fact. No doubt a place like this brought in a small enough sum in rents. Well, the boy would not have any worries of that sort; not with the Seigneur du Vallon de Bracieux de Pierrefonds to take care of it...

Only if Athos had been here in this setting, Porthos knew somehow that it would not have seemed small or shabby at all. In just the same way, in the old days in Paris, he had managed to outshine the magnificence of Porthos’ clothing and the elegance of Aramis’ appearance without, so far as anyone could tell, taking any care in the matter whatsoever. He had only to lift up his head or quietly enter a room to take first place as of right. It was an inborn gift, and try as he might Porthos had not been able to outrival it. Surrounded by the quiet furnishings of Athos’ home, he had that same confused sense now... only it was no longer envy, but the aching knowledge of something missing that should have been there.

He thrust it down, growling. Just where had d’Artagnan taken himself off to? No sign of anyone anywhere... With no patience for the search, he called out, and got a muffled reply.

The door to the library was ajar. He thrust it open, almost sent a small table flying —why must all the furniture here be so spindly compared to that at Pierrefonds?— and saw, too late, the lieutenant of musketeers ensconced on the window-seat, making frantic signs with one hand for silence. D’Artagnan’s other arm was around the young Vicomte Raoul, and as Porthos came cautiously across the room it became clear in the wavering light of the candle that the boy had shed tears at long last, and in sheer exhaustion had wept himself to sleep. Curled against d’Artagnan with damp lashes down across his cheek, he was no longer the pale and horribly self-possessed young officer who had received the news, but a child bewildered by loss.

“Here, you had best take him upstairs,” d’Artagnan said a little roughly. “This arm of mine is getting cramp.”

But he brushed back straying locks from the boy’s face with a tenderness that belied the tone, and from certain unashamed traces on the lieutenant’s own bronzed cheeks it was plain to see that in speaking to Raoul of their loss he too had been weeping without constraint. Porthos, to whom tears came easily and as welcome relief, observed the signs with silent approval. Grief was still very raw for all of them, and it was not yet time to put it aside.

Raoul stirred but did not wake as Porthos stooped to gather him from the windowsill. For all his long limbs he was little more than a featherweight to carry, where Athos— Athos had been a man grown, broad with muscle and bone, and aging at the last, as were they all. And the unmoving dead were heavier, always, to lift up than the living.

Porthos’ great arms had tightened as if the Vicomte, too, might somehow slip away from his grasp.

“You’ll wake him.” D’Artagnan reached up from his seat to lay a hand on Porthos’ belt in warning. His thoughts were clearly following the same path. “He’s only asleep, thank God— and there is no Mordaunt.”

There would be no more Mordaunt, not ever. Porthos could still feel the murderer’s throat between his hands, savour the final struggles that had all too swiftly died away— but it was too late for that to be of any use now.

“If we had just followed Aramis’ advice—” Porthos got out between gritted teeth. There had been excellent reasons, he knew, not to strangle Mordaunt at the first opportunity. There were always excellent reasons, though they escaped him as often as not.

“It was Aramis”—under d’Artagnan’s breath—“who let Mordaunt slip past!”

The thing that had lain all this time unspoken between them. That had been in Aramis’ eyes every time their gazes met across the white face of Charles Stuart.

For they had set the English King free, despite all that Oliver Cromwell could do, or even Mordaunt. Brought him safely out of England, where he was King no longer. It was Athos who had been left behind in that foreign land. Who would never again return to the places and people he had loved, where he belonged.

Porthos himself did not know how it had happened. Perhaps even Aramis, who had been on the rearguard, did not.

Everything had worked out exactly as d’Artagnan had said. Free of Whitehall and all immediate pursuit, they had been riding hard for Greenwich, he and d’Artagnan fresh and rested in the lead, ready to cut a way through any opposition, Aramis at the back to oversee the servants and keep watch, Athos in the centre close beside the King.

Porthos had not, somehow, expected the King of England, when one stood beside him, to be so small. But he was as fine a horseman as any of them, and for all his delicate air it was clear he did not lack for courage. When Mordaunt, like a serpent rearing to strike, had been suddenly in their midst, Charles Stuart had drawn a dagger on the instant in his own defence.

Only it had been Athos’ own dagger, passed over not half an hour earlier for that purpose. There had been no time for a weary Athos’ sword to clear its sheath; no chance for Porthos to rein round, or d’Artagnan, swearing, to turn in his saddle, before it was too late.

In that confused moment there had been only one choice to be made, and it was Mordaunt who had made it. Porthos had not understood then, but he knew now how it had been.

Mordaunt had hated the Stuart. He’d had him at the end of his blade. But he had— he’d been offered, in that moment when they’d all seen Athos’ gaze fasten on Mordaunt’s own— the chance for a private vengeance, and he had betrayed his mission and struck instead for the Comte de La Fère.

There had been no second chance. Aramis had been upon them, his face ashen, dragging at the King’s bridle. D’Artagnan’s sword had flashed out, an instant too late, to strike Mordaunt’s blade aside. And Porthos’ hands had already been around his throat, dragging him down to roll like a dog in the street.

But Athos... Athos lay very still where he had fallen, bloodied and sprawled wide, but with that oddly peaceful hint of a smile just touching his mouth, like a man who has parried and watched his opponent’s attack defeat itself by its own force.

Athos had won. D’Artagnan had explained that very carefully several times since, but Porthos had a feeling he was trying just as much to convince himself. Athos had made a clear-eyed, split-second decision, and achieved his aim... and he had trusted them to see to the rest.

Well, they had done so. Madame Henriette and her children had received back their husband and father, though as Aramis had said in a bitter aside there was little chance of a welcome for them in France any longer. Mordaunt was where he should have been sent months earlier, and Porthos’ only regret on that score was that it had all been over far too quickly. And if Athos’ oldest friends had been left desolate, that was not at all, d’Artagnan assured him very volubly and rather too often, what Athos himself would have wanted...

A tear had trickled down his nose and threatened to fall on Raoul’s face. Porthos turned his head aside, and felt the drop slide down instead into his beard.

“Upstairs,” d’Artagnan ordered gruffly, unfolding himself with a stiff wince from the windowseat and turning to close the shutters against the oncoming night. “His bedroom is the third door on the left. Let him sleep— it’s all we can do for him now. He’s young. He’ll heal, and keep the sweet memories and not the bitter... Athos told me that once, when I thought my world had ended, and I didn’t believe him. Heaven help us, but he was right. ”

And, aside at his own expense: “Too right.”

Porthos, to whom this was as clear as mud, waited for a moment to see if d’Artagnan was going to explain. But since his friend had become very silent, he came to the sensible conclusion that the remark had not been intended for him, settled the sleeping boy more comfortably, and bore him off, as instructed, in the direction of the stairs.

Beneath the blotches of his grief Raoul’s features were drawn and very pale, his eyes dark-ringed as if he had scarcely slept in days. He looked at once heartbreakingly young and more jaded than his years, as if haunted by dissipations yet to come, and a wisp of memory tugged at Porthos for an instant. But far more vivid and all too close was the image of carrying Athos up the steps into the little Calvinist church, his face upturned and unseeing in the dusk, to lay him there in what repose they could.

There had been no merciful Virgin, no saints, no lamp, not even an altar, but only a bare table and the remains of mutilated statues that had once watched over prayers. But it had been a holy place of a sort, and they could not leave him to lie cast aside like a rag in the street. The King would not have it, and Porthos did not think any of the rest of them could have borne it so.

There had been no time for anything better. They had dealt with the men who had followed in Mordaunt’s wake, but at least one had got away to give a warning, and in any case they could not carry the dead with them in the days of flight that must follow.

Aramis, white and shaken, had drawn the mantle of priesthood almost visibly about his shoulders and said the words that were necessary, and given what brief rites he could. He alone in that moment had not wept, though Porthos had seen the nail-marks of that mastery in his palms afterwards. And then they had ridden on in a terrible silence, with an empty horse following after Grimaud, who had made no sound when his master had fallen, and had scarcely let slip two syllables since.

Porthos had never spared much thought for Grimaud, who like all servants was a sort of shadow of note only when needed. But —as the man came forward to open the door to what must be Raoul’s bedchamber, and indicated by signs that M. du Vallon was to lay the young master on the bed, and he, Grimaud, would do the rest— it occurred to him now that the old servant, who had been with Athos in those earliest days in Paris, had perhaps known him longer and more intimately than any of them. He left the boy in Grimaud’s capable hands and went downstairs to rejoin d’Artagnan, rather more slowly and thoughtfully than usual.

His friend had closed the long shutters of the library windows and rung for lamps. He was pacing between the pools of light with all the pent-up energy of a mill-stream released, as if the enforced calm of the boy’s slumber had brought about its own reaction.

“What I can’t forget,” he jerked out as Porthos came in, “is the accursed way the boy knew— knew before we ever set eyes on him, let alone before I’d said a word. Just stood there without a tear, without a flinch —when he’d adored Athos, that was plain from the first— and took in the news as if it wasn’t news at all, though he was already white as a sheet.”

“Well,” Porthos pointed out, “he’d been raised by Athos, hadn’t he? He’d keep up his guard.”

At some point since they’d last been in the musketeers together their friend had learned to laugh, and no doubt Raoul had had something to do with that. But in all the years they’d known each other, when he’d seen Athos at the gambling table, Athos wounded and outnumbered, Athos subjected, far worse, to the lash of Captain de Tréville’s tongue... it was not until the last few days in that dreadful country, England, that he had ever seen Athos distressed enough to lose control. That had been an unsettling experience in itself, to say the least.

D’Artagnan was shaking his head. “Raoul? That boy’s sensitive to a fault. No, he knew in advance all right— had been facing it for days. You didn’t hear that tale he came out with later, after I— afterwards.”

He caught his breath. “He was asleep in his tent in the camp of M. le prince. Where we came to find him, you know.”

Porthos nodded, and d’Artagnan looked away, biting at his moustache. “He was asleep, he says, and dreaming. And he dreamt that he was back here at Bragelonne, walking with monsieur le comte —with Athos— in the park, as they used to do. In the way of dreams he knows only that they spoke together of everything and nothing, and were both of them glad. And when dusk came, in the dream, the comte embraced him and bade him go inside. Raoul obeyed, and presently, as night fell, he gazed out from his window and could see the figure of the comte still walking there beneath the trees. He called out, and Athos raised his head and smiled, but he did not come in. It grew so dark that Raoul, watching, could make out only a glimmer of shadow, and in the end there was nothing to be seen at all. In that moment and when he woke, he understood that Athos was gone from him for good and they would never see one another in this world again.”

Despite himself, Porthos shuddered, conscious all at once of the darkness pressing beyond the shutters. “I’m glad I don’t get such dreams.”

“I would to God I did,” d’Artagnan retorted, in an indescribable tone that made Porthos open his eyes very wide indeed. He began to pace again. “And then, of course, the boy wanted to hear how— how it happened. I... I couldn’t face it, Porthos. Not the whole thing all over again. So I told him he’d have to wait and ask the Chevalier d’Herblay.”

“The Abbé d’Herblay,” Porthos put in, and d’Artagnan rounded on him.

“Oh, let’s not pretend. Our dear Aramis has no more vocation these days for the priesthood than I have— if ever he had one at all. A fine fool he made of me when I was young and green and new to Paris, vanishing off for tender rendezvous with his breviary or his doctors of the church, and no doubt all of you smiled behind my back at the credulous little Gascon who swallowed those saintly excuses... If he has shut himself up in his convent now, I for one don’t believe it is any more a spiritual crisis than back in the days when he used to take to his prie-Dieu every time his latest mistress wounded his pride.”

Porthos, who had no idea what d’Artagnan meant by smiling at credulity but did know that his friend was entirely wrong about Aramis now, attempted a protest, but d’Artagnan was not listening. “At any rate our good Monsieur d’Herblay still has his silver tongue, even if that voice of his is more apt these days to grate on the ear. Let him be the one to find the words to tell the young Vicomte how Athos came to fall— for I have no stomach for it left.”

“But Aramis isn’t here,” Porthos pointed out carefully, in case d’Artagnan had not noticed.

“Precisely.” D’Artagnan’s mouth shut down on the word like a trap. “And when he does emerge, perhaps he can take his share of responsibility for what happened... instead of this pretence of seeking refuge in God.”

Aramis had let Mordaunt slip past, and had not forgiven himself, or been forgiven. Only it could have been any of them. Mordaunt had that accursed gift of appearing out of nowhere, and none of them, at that moment, had been on their guard. But there was no use in saying that to d’Artagnan, just as it had been of no use to try to say it to Aramis.

“I think he means it,” he said instead, in Aramis’ defence. “About God. It was something Madame Henriette’s confessor said, that evening when we brought King Charles...”

“Said to whom? To Aramis?” D’Artagnan, like everyone else, had barely spared a glance beyond the royal couple that night, both of them worn down by misfortune and exile and yet rejoicing amid tragedy in their reunion. Porthos had shed a tear or two, and for a moment it had all —almost— seemed worth it.

It was Madame Henriette who had sent her own confessor to speak to Aramis, after he had refused her gratitude and turned away. But it was the old priest with the lined, gentle face who had somehow come up with the words their friend so badly needed.

“So what did this confessor say?” d’Artagnan was demanding, and Porthos blinked at him.

“How would I know?” he said patiently. “I didn’t hear.” And then, before the impending Gascon explosion: “But I saw Aramis’ face. Before— and afterwards.”

It had looked a little less set and wretched; a good deal more... ‘Humble’ was not a word it would ever have occurred to anyone to use of the Abbé d’Herblay, but Porthos thought that Aramis had seemed humbled. And if he had found his God again, perhaps it was all for the best.

“Hmph.” D’Artagnan did not sound convinced, but he let the subject of Aramis drop, returning again, like a hound worrying at a wound, to the matter that was clearly gnawing at him. He tugged a little wildly at his moustache, in a way that made Porthos check surreptitiously on the continued curl of his own.

“Just what am I to do about Raoul, Porthos? I love him for his own sake and doubly for the sake of Athos, but I’m only a soldier, and he has been brought up to a title and an estate. I can share his grief, but I have no skill to comfort him. My duties keep me constantly in Paris, or else away on campaign, and I have no fortune, no home— I can’t be a father to him as Athos was, and I don’t know how to give him what he needs now. Supposing even I took him up with me to the rue Tiquetonne... do you think the Comte de La Fère would have consented for one moment to see his heir under the roof of a woman like Madeleine, the pretty Flemish mistress of a musketeer?”

“Well, you could always make an honest woman of her, my friend,” Porthos proposed with a laugh. “A fine little piece, wasn’t she? I wouldn’t mind taking her on myself.”

The humour of it appealed to him strongly, but d’Artagnan was clearly in no mood to appreciate the jest, and Porthos softened his tone, reaching out with one big hand to envelop the other man’s shoulder. He himself had been a little in awe of Athos and his aristocratic ways, it was true, but he was quite certain that when it came to Raoul, the Comte de La Fère had set far more store on d’Artagnan’s love for the boy than on any amount of riches or Court privilege.

He patted d’Artagnan on the back, careful not to send the smaller man staggering. “When it comes to homes and fortunes, I’ve got more than enough of both, you know that. Raoul can come to Pierrefonds any time he likes. Or Bracieux. Or the Chateau du Vallon— it would chase out some of the old memories to have a young face about the place.”

His late wife had had her virtues, but she had given him neither sons nor daughters before her child-bearing years expired, and it would have been good to have his home filled with chatter and the scampering of eager feet. The house had felt all the more empty after she had passed away.

He remembered, with some embarrassment, that he had at first suspected d’Artagnan, for all his Gascon pride, of coming to Pierrefonds to borrow money, and cleared his throat. “And... my purse is always open, old friend. Anything you need —for Raoul, you understand— you have only to ask.”

He was rather proud of the ruse. But it was not at all only for d’Artagnan that he had made that promise.

“The thing is, you see...” A familiar lump caught in his throat. “I want a share in what’s left of him too. Of our Athos.”

And then the lump rose up beyond what he could bear, and he sank down with his head in his hands and wept all over again, with d’Artagnan patting him on the back in return, and presently shedding fresh tears of his own, as if the lieutenant were once again that young man of twenty who had wept without restraint on his friend Athos’ breast. Grief, after all, was better shared.

“Besides,” Porthos pointed out when they had both eased their hearts somewhat, “there is no saying, after all, that the mother of Raoul was any better than Madeleine. For he was a foundling, Athos said.”

“So Athos said,” d’Artagnan agreed, with a quite inexplicable intonation. “But then you could well be right— on that side, at least. I wonder... Well, we shall learn all about it, perhaps, tomorrow, when Raoul opens the famous family chest.”

He drew out the key of Athos’ bronze casket for a moment from his pocket, where it had rested since his friend had first entrusted it —and Raoul— to his care.

“I dare say”—he was trying for jocularity—“there will be a good many more papers in there now then when you, Porthos, last saw inside it when Athos lodged in the rue Ferou...”

Porthos, who had paid no attention to d’Artagnan’s more enigmatic remarks, rose suddenly as the last few words struck a memory. “You know, a while back, when Raoul was asleep, I had the strangest impression of something I’d seen before. Only I couldn’t place it. Well, I have it now. It was Athos: Athos, of all people, in those first weeks I knew him, when he used to pass out at the table, and they had me carry him home...”

“You— he— what?” D’Artagnan, for once, was apparently at a complete loss for words. Porthos was more than a little gratified by the effect.

“I was fresh to Paris myself then, not much older than our Raoul here, big and clumsy as a carthorse colt. But there were too many of us at home and I couldn’t wait to leave. Well, the regiment was still forming, and they took me on at once. I settled right in, and within a month I could thrash any one of them with a hand tied behind my back— and that before I’d come to my full strength.” He stretched out an arm to demonstrate, admiring its formidable dimensions.

“And then Athos came. Oh, he was young then, looking back on it, though of course I was only a lad myself and he seemed more than ancient enough to me... He kept himself to himself. Never so much as gave the rest of us the time of day, scarcely spoke at all— you remember how it was when first we met? Believe me, he was worse then, far worse. And he was drinking; drinking himself into oblivion every night.”

“Athos? Athos, who—”

“I suppose,” Porthos said slowly, thinking back over days almost forgotten, “he must have been new to it then. Oh, by the end, yes, he could take enough wine to fell an ox, and never turn a hair. But when he first joined the regiment he would sit down and match the rest of us two cups to one, and set out to drink himself under the table in silence.”

He sighed. “Maybe if he’d made a disturbance they’d have thrown us all out. But he was quiet enough, and my shoulders were the broadest. So I used to scrape him up and take him home, time after time after time. He was no sort of company awake, but asleep he was tolerable enough. There were bets out as to how long he’d last the pace... it was all a great many years ago.”

D’Artagnan was staring at him. Really listening, for once. Porthos shrugged.

“Well, you know the rest. He learned to live with it —whatever it was, for he never would say, not then— and with us. Or got a harder head for wine, at any rate. And I got to know him pretty well. I was happy to talk without asking questions, you see, and he liked that. We spent a lot of time together, and he showed me a sword-trick or two. He found me restful, he said.” He rubbed at a frown. “It was a compliment. I think.”

Had Athos slept at all, without the drink, in those first few weeks? Picturing that drawn white face with its sunken eyes —so desperately young it seemed now, looking back, when he himself was no longer that sprawling adolescent barely on the brink of his own manhood— it dawned on Porthos that perhaps the wine had been his only respite.

“It was a very long time ago, d’Artagnan.” He found himself oddly defensive on Athos’ behalf, as he had not been, back then. It had not always been easy, in those days— but then Aramis had come along, and somehow they had all fitted together. “A very long time ago... and we were all different people.”

D’Artagnan nodded, slowly, and Porthos cleared his throat.

“And the thing is— well, when I saw Raoul tonight, collapsed, pale, if I hadn’t known...” A helpless gesture, as words failed him. “It didn’t come to me at first, but... he looked for all the world like Athos, back then. Younger, but, for all that, devilishly like. You never saw our Athos just so, but— I did.”

D’Artagnan said nothing at all; then, all at once, as if it were being wrenched out of him, “I wish to God that Aramis were here.”

Porthos’ heart lifted suddenly, beyond hope. If there was one thing that could still be healed, it was this needless rift of guilt between them.

“Then write to him! He’d speak to Raoul— he’ll do anything that’s needed of him. Just tell him he’s wanted, d’Artagnan, and he’ll come.”

“And what of this spiritual crisis of his?” d’Artagnan shot back.

“You’re not taking him away from his God,” Porthos said stoutly. “Just... let him know he’s wanted. That’s what matters.”

It was what mattered to him, he knew that now, above all the wealth and ease he’d thought he desired. Aramis had found himself on the other side in this war of the Fronde, and that had been confusing and had hurt. It was unthinkable that they should be separated now over Athos, who meant more than any dukes and cardinals. He wanted Aramis back, the old Aramis who had hankered after religion as if it were a forbidden sweetmeat, and been teased for it, and who had been more to him than any of the quarrelsome brothers left behind in Picardy to find their way one by one to an early grave.

There had been a glimpse of him that evening at Madame Henriette’s, and whatever d’Artagnan believed, Porthos was certain he was not entirely gone. But he would take the most cold and cynical Aramis over the knowledge that a friend of his was suffering alone over something that had not been his fault.

Maybe the family chest of the Comte de La Fère did hold papers that would reveal the young Vicomte’s true history, such as it was, or maybe Athos himself had never been able to uncover it. Maybe d’Artagnan really did know something on the matter, though Porthos had no idea what it was his hints had been meant to say. None of it made any difference to Raoul, who had adored ‘monsieur le comte’ as all the father he had ever known, and would soon —if Porthos knew his d’Artagnan— come to regard ‘monsieur le chevalier’ in just the same light. And that future ghost of Athos’ old unhappiness would never be allowed to set root in the boy’s face; not if the Seigneur du Vallon de Bracieux de Pierrefonds had anything to do with it.

“You really think Aramis would come?” d’Artagnan was saying. And that note of uncertain hope told Porthos everything he needed to know.

“I’m sure of it. And besides”—he guffawed in advance—“the boy’s got to have someone in his life he can legitimately call ‘mon père’!”

D’Artagnan choked abruptly on something that was not quite a laugh. Porthos stooped in concern, and found his friend’s arms about his neck. “Dear Porthos...”

Porthos returned the embrace with his whole heart. It would be all right. Athos would have been glad... and everything would be all right.