Little Gentlemen (Ch3)
11 January 2026 02:12 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
igenlodeI am completely overwhelmed with the reaction to The Four of Us Together, which received a flood of hits and reviews within hours both on AO3 and when, on the off-chance, I travelled in to upload it to FFnet (where the BBC Musketeers section had looked pretty deserted). I'm not sure if the difference is the subject matter --but people weren't even *looking* at the other fics to see if they liked them-- or the alternative canon; probably the latter, in that this is the version of the characters with which far more people are familiar and which they want to read about.... (So possibly I should attempt to write that BBC Musketeers fic idea I came up with last March, and more or less ended up by deciding was too similar to "Think Only This of Me", with the exception being that it is Aramis' death at Porthos' hand --under orders-- that the survivors have to deal with. But I suspect that fluff is a lot more popular than tragedy in any case.)
At any rate it has given me sufficient motivation to finish proof-reading Chapter 3 of "Little Gentlemen", where it turned out I had made a great many editorial amendments while typing up, which I have almost without exception inserted back into the original manuscript as improvements. I am actually pretty pleased with this chapter; if I had run the scene between Athos and d'Artagnan at the start of the story instead of portraying the set-up through the eyes of my OC the fic might have managed more traction, but as it is nobody is likely ever to see this section. (Except that Venya and the crossover were more or less the *entire point* of writing the story in the first place...)
I have just glanced at somebody else's clearly OC-centric story, entitled "The Christine Chronicles", in which the first chapter consists of the benevolent Christine interceding on behalf of two young pickpockets with someone who turns out at the end of the chapter to be Aramis; on my very quick skim there was nothing obviously wrong with the writing, but the subject matter, presumably the adventures of Christine in the musketeers' Paris and her interactions with the canon characters, didn't interest me at all. And doubtless other people feel the same way about mine.
(Very likely my conscious attempts at nineteenth-century prose style -- complete with wandering PoV and editorial observations -- don't help either.)
Chapter 3 — Two Old Friends
It was some hours later that d’Artagnan, washed, refreshed, and well-dined, was taking his ease in his host’s private chambers, before composing himself to sleep, with the ease of an old campaigner, upon the mattress that had been made up for him upon the floor there — a privilege upon which, in deference to the dignity and grey hairs of his host, despite the protests of the latter he had adamantly insisted, the chateau being at present sorely short of spare accommodation and Charlot at his wits’ end to know where to bestow this honoured new arrival.
“And so you are bursting at the seams with boys,” he observed, regarding the Comte with some amusement as the latter furrowed his fine brow, head leaned upon his hand, in an attempt to decipher the scrawl of the young Vicomte de Vaugison. Adalbert’s command of a pen had not in any way been improved by his long line of ancestors. “I take it that means the experiment has not only endured, but become a success? Mordioux! who among us would have believed in the old days at La Rochelle that Athos, the cool-headed hero of the Baston Saint-Gervais, would end up as a schoolmaster?”
“It takes sang-froid to deal with boys,” Athos answered calmly without looking up, long since inured to the raillery of his friend. “In any case I would regard my rôle as arbiter of elegance, rather than that of a mere scrivener’s clerk.”
By which allusion he quietly returned the thrust, since d’Artagnan, whose Latin was even more lamentable than that of the unfortunate Adalbert, was entirely ignorant of Petronius Arbiter and knew no more of the reign of Nero than the name of his horse.
“And you’re teaching the du Vallon twins English?” d’Artagnan persisted, incredulous.
“After a fashion.” This time he did look up, with a smile. “It keeps them entertained— which, as you can imagine, is sometimes a challenge.”
“For my part, I’m surprised Porthos agreed to let them out of his sight in the first place. I thought he adored those two.”
“Oh, he does. But Madame du Vallon, you understand... she had given up all hope of children, and after presenting him with not one but two, and at the eleventh hour, she had scarcely a thought to spare for anything else. The twins were lapped in luxury until they could barely breathe, spoiled until they could hardly stir a hand, and Porthos, being accustomed to equal admiration, began in the end to feel that his own nose was being put out of joint. So in the name of marital harmony he was persuaded to send off Jeannot and Marguerite in search of education. Madame du Vallon wept a little and devoted herself all the more to her husband, and Porthos, who worships his children, descends upon Bragelonne as often as he can with open arms and open hands, and obtains in consequence the acclamation of a dozen youngsters and not only his own.”
“I gather then he is funding the entire establishment,” d’Artagnan commented, unsubtle as ever when it came to matters of money, but the Comte took no offence.
“Not quite. But the estate here, as you know, is a small one, and Porthos enjoys his munificence... and the children, in consequence, acquire all the accomplishments their parents’ ambition might desire.”
“Even Marguerite? I had not thought you would take on a girl, Athos...” D’Artagnan’s bright eyes danced a little. “Or can it mean that you have at last changed your prejudices against the fair sex, and have in mind even now some future Comtesse de La Fère?”
The Comte set down his papers abruptly. But it was not the look of reproach, but the momentary passage of the old shadow across his face that cut short the jest on the lips of his friend.
“I see no need for a mistress in this household,” he said at length, quietly. “Grimaud is as competent and gentle in caring for children as any woman alive, and Madame Charlot in the kitchen is more than capable of cossetting and comforting those young enough to be in need of it. And as for myself... it is too late now for me to marry again, and I am too set in my ways. I have my friends, and I have the affection besides of a host of open young hearts.”
He rose from his place and stood looking down at d’Artagnan, one eyebrow lifted in the merest hint of amusement. “And after all, what wife could I ask to endow me with a dozen sons at once?”
D’Artagnan came likewise to his feet, unwontedly serious. “But— you are happy? Athos, tell me you are not still haunted by... her?”
“Not in that way. Not for many years. I am content here, and as I am; as happy as any creature under God’s heaven now living, my friend, and there are few of us indeed who can say that.” And in the kindly light of the candles, the years of his youth lost to that bitterness seemed restored in truth.
“As for the child Marguerite, if it had not been for Porthos’ sake I admit I would not have chosen to take her. But she is the daughter of her father, a resilient little soul who cares not in the least that she is the only girl amongst boys so long as she can be in her brother’s company. In many ways they are as like as two peas— and as round and sweet, as madame la duchesse put it once when she did not know I was by.”
“Madame la duchesse?” D’Artagnan directed a quizzical look at his friend. “It seems to me you have acquired some high-ranking sprigs of the nobility since last I was at Bragelonne. From which, then, comes such a connection as this? That boy Philippe with the fine lace, and the same handsome, bovine air as M. de Beaufort? A worthy son of such illustrious parents—”
“My dear d’Artagnan, I hope you are more careful than to make such jokes at court.”
“Oh, a musketeer on duty is always silent, you know that. Besides, the Duc de Beaufort is at present out of favour... Now, what of your visiting Duchesse?”
“Simple enough; it is not a question of an illustrious parent, but of an illustrious patroness. The idea was that of d’Herblay, but it seemed not a bad one, and he undertook to find a suitable lady from amongst his acquaintance.” The Comte hesitated. “I was wrong about Marguerite, I confess that; it has been good for the boys to have her here amongst them as a lesson in courtesy and chivalry. So I agreed to madame la duchesse.”
“Indeed! and which of the ladies of the court has been persuaded to venture herself into your menagerie, for the sake of the dark eyes of the Abbé d’Herblay?”
A laugh from the Comte. “None of them— that is to say, my prior acquaintance with her, and yours also, was in the character of a certain little seamstress at Tours.”
It took a good deal to rob d’Artagnan of speech, but for a moment he was bereft of words. “Madame de Chevreuse? You have the Duchesse de Chevreuse amusing herself as patroness of your establishment?”
“Who is, as I am sure you will inform me, as much out of favour at court as M. de Beaufort— and in consequence, only too glad to interest herself elsewhere. And in high favour at least with the boys, I assure you... I had not credited half the stories of her madcap doings before, but now I can. Her visits are always full of merriment, and the boys enjoy her company, and she theirs. Last summer she stole down to Raoul’s favourite fishing-hole in the little stream to watch them try to catch trout, and came back in an assortment of the boys’ borrowed clothing; I was told she had slipped and fallen from the bank, but I rather suspect she did it on purpose. The effect,” he added, unexpectedly, “was very fetching.”
“Oho! Do I understand that you, of all people—”
“No,” Athos said quietly, “but I am sorry for her. She has lost the hold she once had on Aramis, and knows it; her intrigues have failed her, and for a woman who laughs so much she does not seem to me happy. And she has a great fondness for Raoul, which may yet stand him in good stead, for he has no name and no fortune to help him make his way in the world.”
He looked away for a moment. “One should not have favourites, but I have watched over Raoul since he was a tiny child and come to love him as if he were my own. I have tried to live up, I hope, to the image of what he sees in me; it is hard to equal the hero-worship in the eyes of the young. And— loving him as I do, I find myself jealous on his behalf of what other boys have and he has not. I had thought to make of him a soldier, for it is an honourable career and one in which he might carve out a name for himself by force of merit... like a certain young Gascon whom I once knew.”
Here he pressed d’Artagnan’s hand warmly, and d’Artagnan, moved, returned the grip of his friend and forebore to speak of his own disappointments in promotion, or the constant constraints of his pay.
“A word or two of influence might do wonders for him in the wars,” he observed instead. “He could do worse; he is a bright boy, and well-grown, and if he has your hand and eye for the blade—”
“He has— but do not tell him I said so. The boy is inclined to be over-confident already, and I would not have him take risks out of sheer folly.”
“Then I’ll try a touch or two with him tomorrow, and see if I can’t teach your young Raoul to take a little care. I’m fond of him myself, and all the more so—” D’Artagnan broke off.
“Does it not seem to you,” he said, weighing each word carefully, “now that he is older —now that I see him again— that one might begin to... put a name to your foundling of Aramis’s providing?”
The Comte frowned a little. “I see no chance of that. He was left as a child on a church doorstep, by an unknown mother. Doubtless his father does not even know of his existence. He is illegitimate, of course. It is a pity, but it cannot be helped.”
“Doubtless... And it does not strike you—? but no, it would not. By the by,” he added with a shrug, as if to turn the subject, “when was he last here— Aramis, I mean?”
“Not since the summer; Raoul has grown a good deal. But I have a letter, as it happens, that is only a few days old. Here, read it.”
He drew out the document and passed it to d’Artagnan, who perused it with a smile both for the style in which it was couched and for the writer himself.
“And so this is your tongue-tied Venya,” he observed, diverted in truth, as the Comte had intended. Refolding the letter, he returned it. “Poor little lost scrap! I remember how vast the world seemed when first I came to Paris.”
“Yes, but you came with one hand forever on your sword-hilt and an invincible self-belief,” the Comte reminded him, laying an affectionate hand on his shoulder. “In his short life Venya has come, I think, far further than from Béarn —from beyond Vienna, if I do not mistake— and has nothing to cling to of what he once had.”
“And you think you can make something of him?”
“More at any rate than would have been made of him as a mute stranger in the gutters of Paris... He has musical talent; d’Herblay was right about that. And with music as his incentive, he has begun to learn his alphabet already with Franz, who learned his own letters in much the same way and not so very many years ago. As for his French, he is shy of speaking but understands more than you might think. In the company of the other boys he will soon improve... especially as it seems Raoul has undertaken to make him feel at home.”
D’Artagnan laughed. “I had assumed that was your doing.”
But the Comte shook his head. “No, I gave him Franz, but Raoul has taken it into his head to befriend Venya entirely of his own accord, at no bidding of mine. They met by chance at the gate on the night that Venya arrived, and Raoul, of course, sought at once to set the boy at ease and make him welcome. He has been here so long himself that he takes delight in playing host. And he has a frank and social way about him that would draw out the most shy creature on God’s earth, and could not be more proud of the place if it were his own inheritance.”
“Nor you, I think, more proud of him,” d’Artagnan suggested, watching his friend colour slightly.
“That also... But it is what is needed for Venya just now.” He sighed. “That, and a bed. Poor Charlot is still scouring the countryside to find another hereabouts... I shall have to try to fit him in with one of the older boys, for he cannot sleep forever with the younger ones, whose room is already overcrowded.”
Here, as if by the force of suggestion, his guest yawned widely, and begged pardon for it.
“I, for one, could sleep forever just now, and on such a bed as this,” he added, sitting down on the edge of his paillasse. He began tugging at his boots, forestalling the Comte’s protests.
“No, Athos, we have been over all this already. I am an old campaigner and shall do very well down here. Nor do I have any intention of dispossessing my elders and betters. I have been up since dawn, and in the saddle for most of those hours, and besides, the wine at dinner —of which, alas, you did not partake— was excellent. I shall sleep like a log, while you are a gentleman of leisure and will doubtless sit up until the candles are burnt out.”
“And moreover I suppose I have one foot in the grave?” the Comte said, unable entirely to withhold a smile. But since d’Artagnan, divesting himself of his doublet and disposing himself comfortably on one elbow, merely regarded him peacefully from his chosen place of repose, he yielded the point with a good grace. “Very well then, dear d’Artagnan, if you are adamant... You will not be disturbed by the light, I hope? It is true I have these papers to finish.”
He dropped to one knee, as lightly as he might have done thirty years before, and grasped the hand that his friend held out to him from where he lay.
“Good night, my son— I may still call you that, I hope, though I have so many more?”
“How could it be anything else but an honour?” D’Artagnan returned the pressure and lay back. “And I am glad to be counted among that company... Good night.”
The Comte, snuffing the branch of candles in the wall sconce nearby, returned quietly to his desk, and to the questionable translations from Cicero produced by the young gentlemen currently in his tutelage.
Presently a sonorous, regular note began to make itself known amid his thoughts, as if in reassurance that d’Artagnan could indeed sleep like a log, albeit rather more loudly. The Comte rose from his seat again and crossed the room to draw the covers lightly over his friend’s recumbent form. He stood there a moment longer gazing down, with a smile, on the first and eldest of those whose lives he had helped to shape, and who was perhaps the closest to him among those four companions who had once been inseparable one from another, and whose paths still intertwined, in their own fashion, here at Bragelonne.
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Date: 2026-01-11 05:09 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2026-01-11 06:06 pm (UTC)Indeed :-( It's all very well to complain that most of the population has 'a reading age of nine' (true), but if you are trying to entertain people there is no point in being wilfully obscure.
Although it doesn't help that I do genuinely tend to think in dependent clauses. Back when I tried to write in German, my sentences had a tendency to end up in multiple layers: Ich habe so viele Geschichten gelesen, in denen Erik irgendeinen Vergewaltiger oder Straßenräuber ermordet, um die Heldin zu retten (Erik hat selbst mit diesem Tropus gespielt, durch die Bezahlung den "zwei Idioten", die auf den Graf einen Überfall verüben sollten) -- ouch: I can *just* about read that back, out of a vague memory of what it meant (a comment on random thugs getting killed off in order to make Erik's homicidal tendencies appear admirable) but I certainly couldn't write that sort of thing now!
I have just been attempting to knit lace (and fix mistakes) while watching the BBC's "Frozen Planet II" -- I honestly can't tell whether this is a repeat of something I've already seen or not, but have a suspicion it is :-p
Unsurprisingly, the knitting got rather more attention than the images on the TV, so I was basically *listening* to the programme; doesn't work all that well for nature documentaries, but there is at least less risk of missing something important than in drama!