Chapter Thirty-Five, Harsh Recountings, by Mordaunt

Some men say an army of horses and some men say an army on foot and some men say an army of ships is the most beautiful thing on the black earth. But I say it is what you love. (Sappho, 16 transl. by Anne Carson)

The journey returning from Saintonge to Glénay takes longer. They blame it on the slush that freezes overnight making the roads impassable and on the mire that slows down their horses. But there is a part– different for each man–that welcomes the delay, as they welcome the hours spent in the saddle each enveloped in his own thoughts. In returning there is recounting, and in their recounting of the battle at Saintonge there is neither defeat nor victory. In their recounting there is no resolution. And then, there is Athos. 

“You can’t reason with him!” d’ Artagnan despairs. In the salon at Glénay, where they have gathered, after the battle and the journey have been washed off, the recounting is pending. Lucien is here, Aramis, Porthos, and Raoul too, but Athos only stood with them for a few silent minutes and then walked out. “I will see if Petite is still asleep,” he said. 

“I daresay this has nothing to do with reason,” Aramis ventures. 

“This is Athos!” d’ Artagnan insists. 

Porthos turns to Lucien and Raoul. He sounds apologetic. “In the many years we have known him–as much as it is possible to know any man, and a man like Athos at that–in these many years…” he clicks his tongue as if annoyed that he is unable to find the right words, “many things happened in these many years, and each one of us,” he points to himself and to his two friends, “we found ourselves at an impasse. At a loss or forced to make impossible choices.  But there was always Athos…The one who would never lose his cool…”

“Athos would object to this, Porthos. He abhors all forms of flattery,” Aramis observes carefully. 

“No flattery at all! Porthos is right,” d’ Artagnan interjects forcefully. He turns to Lucien and Raoul also. “There were difficult times for each one of us just as Porthos says, and Athos was there…” 

“Now we must all be there for him, all of us in this room,” Porthos pushes.

“He will not let us,” d’ Artagnan says.

Lucien has been staring at the bottom of his glass all this time, listening, swirling the wine left. “Then let him be,” he says quietly although there is something in his tone that sounds peeved.

“How can we? He is family, Lucien!” Porthos protests. “We must do something. All of us here are his family!”   

“He thinks she is still alive,” d’ Artagnan shakes his head. 

“Well I am not convinced she is dead either,” Raoul interjects tersely. “No, it is not because she is my Mother. But I will never trust the venom of some vengeful maddened fiend and…”

“And what the fiend said makes no sense,” Lucien adds in a deliberate tone, not raising his eyes from his glass. 

“I agree, it does not,” Porthos says quietly. “But even if she lies about the details–just as they have been lying and misdirecting- even so…”

“Misdirecting is what they have been doing all along and they continue to misdirect us,” Lucien raises his eyes for the first time, his voice resonating with anger. 

“Their only purpose is cruelty, I agree,” d’ Artagnan says. “The first time we met Catherine –remember Porthos? Aramis?– when we first met her she was not de Renard’s wife. We first met that woman at Pinon.” He turns to Lucien and Raoul. Both appear to be listening to this recounting carefully. “It was her cruelty that struck me the most and her conceit.  She thought we were, all of us, soldiers, below contempt; Athos too. She treated the people of Pinon as if they were dirt.”  

“It is true,” Porthos affirms. “Not unlike the Baron de Renard whom she later married.”

“Vile cannot describe that man” Aramis sounds disgusted. “He abducted young women from Pinon so that he and his son…He had a son…A piece of work, just like the father. They abducted young women for their entertainment, invited their friends, and…”

“No need to say more, I understand,” Lucien says darkly. 

But Raoul’s mind seems intent toward a different calculation: “What happened to that son?” 

“An interesting twist,” Aramis says. “Catherine shot him dead.” Raoul raises a surprised brow. A small terse chuckle escapes Lucien’s lips. 

“None of us were privy to what happened between Athos and Catherine but Athos gave the land to the people of Pinon,” d’ Artagnan says. “The Baron de Renard, who had been trespassing and abusing the villagers, was determined to take Pinon for himself with his men. The land was his for the taking, Renard claimed, since there was no seigneur to protect the tenants and they could never own the land, even if it was given to them. In that, he agreed with Catherine. Both saw those farmers as less than human.” His voice trembles, vexed. “Forgive me, but my father was a farmer. I come from a family of farmers, decent and hardworking people, just like the people of Pinon. I could not stomach this then and I can’t now.” 

“There was a fight–you may even call it a battle–although those poor farmers knew little of weapons and such,” Porthos says.  

“We can all surmise that passing the land to the villagers stripped Catherine of any hope of ever being mistress of anything. Which is what she wanted.” Aramis says. “I was there when she shot Renard’s son. It happened right before my eyes. Athos was fighting him. He had forced the brute to the ground, the man was helpless without a sword.”

“She pointed her pistol at Athos,” Porthos chimes in. “Her words have stuck with me. ‘I cannot breathe in a world where your wife is alive’ she said. I was not sure what to make of her words until I heard her screaming something similar in that sordid house at Saintonge. It seems to me she tried to kill your mother before and failed, Raoul.”

“Doesn’t matter what she meant,” d’ Artagnan hurries to interject. “Catherine was as resentful at Pinon, as she was at Saintonge, this is what matters. And the rest of it, remember? She kept Athos at gunpoint with Renard’s son at his feet: ‘Perhaps he can give me what you will not,’ she threatened Athos.” 

“Yes, yes indeed! It happened seconds,” Aramis adds. “Renard’s son pulled a dagger and threw himself at Athos. She fired. I could not tell if she fired at Renard’s son or at Athos.” He sounds  frustrated. “ Thinking back to what she said then–you are right d’ Artagnan– and what we heard her screaming at Saintonge, and the fact that she married the father of that brute, convinces me now that it was Athos she intended to kill.” 

“And Renard married her,” Raoul remarks.

“They had much in common. If it was Athos she intended to kill, as I realize now, then they both hated him, probably, later they blamed him for the death of Renard’s older son. They both detested the villagers of Pinon,” Aramis sneers. “And they raised another son, equally vile.” 

“Catherine’s son is dead,” Raoul says coldly. 

Lucien slants a disbelieving glance at Raoul: “Well, the Dog’s Head has his hands full,” is all he says. 

“What about our Athos?” Porthos returns to it. 

“I agree with Lucien and Raoul,” Aramis objects. “We should let Athos be. I was with him in Italy.” He fixes his eyes on Raoul. “He never faltered, Raoul. He persisted in finding you, no matter how futile it felt at times. There were moments, I admit, when I doubted. But your father never doubted. Not once. I trusted him then and I trust him now. Whatever drives him–mind or heart– I will never question his judgment.”

“Still. Even if the story Catherine de Renard spouted is fabricated, we must consider the circumstances,” d’ Artagnan insists. “Raoul was strong and healthy. He could fight and resist. Everything we know so far asserts that Alessandra, who is with child, has been ill. Those fiends even risked bringing a nurse.” 

“That nurse can speak. I am sure she has much to say,” Lucien sets his glass on a table and stands. “Which means, we have much to do. You ask what must be done and I say, let Athos be. I don’t know him as well as you do, but I know Alessandra. She too can fight and resist.” He turns to Raoul, stressing every word. “If your father says that your mother is alive, then I too say that she is.” 

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“Athos!” 

Constance carefully closes the door of the room next to Bianca’s room, and steps into the corridor outside. “I am sure Bia is still sleeping, all the little ones are. Alexandre too. Giulia is with her but I just saw her maid, and she was on her way to fetch hot water and press Bia’s morning dress.”

Athos hesitates for a moment. “I will be quiet.” He motions to enter his daughter’s room but she stops him. 

“I heard about …. Charles did not say much… Is it true?” 

“Not now,” there is something severe in his voice and unyielding, or perhaps it is her sense of guilt, Constance tells herself. 

“But Bia…If it is true that her mother…” she pushes. 

“Not now!” Athos repeats stressing the words, and it is not his tone of voice, it is his eyes— steely and foreboding—that compel Constance to retreat.  

 ⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️

“I was looking for you,” Raoul says. 

The gallery with the portraits is flooded with the bright light of midday, the kind of light, crisp and clear, that holds the promise of spring. 

He finds his father seated on a bench across the portrait of the duchess’ father; Raoul still finds it hard to think of the man in the portrait as his great-grandfather, but he looks like a man Raoul would like to have met. 

“I was told you went to see Bia but she was asleep. Then, that you visited the duch…grandmother.” 

His father turns for the first time. Raoul sees neither weariness nor agitation in his father’s features. He does not see the seething rage which surprised him at Saintonge. He sees the unwavering and resolute man that Captain d’ Artagnan described. He sees the man the duc d’ Herblay followed to Italy–despite everything Raoul thought about his father and what Rochefort would like Raoul to believe. He sees the man who was Captain of the Musketeers.  

“Are you following my every move?” there is an imperceptible hue of amusement in his father’s voice. 

Raoul smiles awkwardly. “No…Not at all. No, Monsieur. I was merely looking for you…and… This is a large… crowded house…” So ironic, Raoul thinks, just a glance from his father, and the Spymaster of France feels like a boy caught misbehaving.

His father raises a disbelieving brow and with a faint, almost imperceptible move, signals for Raoul to join him. They sit next to each other in silence for some time. 

“I know why you are looking for me,” his father says without turning.  

“We must tell her, Father” Raoul pushes. 

“I decide what I tell my daughter and when I say it,” Athos says sternly. 

“Father,” Raoul says gently, “Bia is a child but she is intuitive and clever. She knows we went to bring Mother back–even knows that the place is called Saintonge. Olivier showed it to her on a map. That is all she talks about. That is all she asks: when is Maman coming; how far is Saintonge.” 

His father turns to face him: “Your mother is not dead, Raoul.” 

“I know,” Raoul says simply and there is a glimmer in his father’s steely eyes that tells Raoul the answer was unexpected. “I do not say this to appease you, Monsieur, or because I know that this is what you want to hear. Catherine de Renard’s words reeked of malice and deception. Her account of what happened to my Mother makes no sense.” 

“I am confident that you will find all the inconsistencies,” Athos says.”I am certain that your mother is alive, not because of Catherine’s fabrications, but because I know. I would know if your mother was not in this world, Raoul. Your mother is alive and that is all there is to say about it. She is alive and I will bring her back.” He stands and Raoul does the same. 

“Father, we must tell Bia,” Raoul insists. 

His father shakes his head and draws in a deep breath. “It is a beautiful day. Let us go for a ride after her music lesson. She likes it when she rides with me on Balignant.”

“And what shall we tell her?” Raoul pushes. 

“That her mother will be back as soon as the snow melts and carriages can safely travel.” He says it so casually and with so much conviction that for a fleeting moment Raoul wonders if this could be true. 

“Father…wait…” Raoul hurries behind his father down the corridor. “And what…what if…”

“That will be all,” his father declares and motions to move ahead but stops and turns, fixing a probing gaze. “What happened to Thomas de Renard?” 

The question catches Raoul off-guard, but he sees his father’s point immediately, just as he sees that his father is a brilliant tactician albeit different from his uncle and the exact opposite of Rochefort. Raoul makes a half-shrug. “What I told Catherine de Renard.”

“I see,” his father says. He motions to move on, but again he stops and this time he walks back closer to Raoul and presses a firm hand on his shoulder. “Whatever it is, this thing you do, Raoul, know that I trust your judgement and always have.” 

It is a sinking feeling. How little he understood his father until Saintonge. Until now. How much he has misjudged his father. How pernicious Rochefort can be, even when you think yourself prepared for his games. “Father, I must speak to you!” 

Athos cups his son’s face in his hands. He fixes a penetrating gaze that compels Raoul to lower his eyes. “Not now, Raoul,” Athos says. “When your mother returns and after she rejoices in seeing you alive. You see, your mother was right and I was wrong and she must hear this from you. But by then you must also make a choice-and I don’t think you have made that choice yet.” He gently strokes his son’s cheek. “Now–I must tell Giulia to get Petite ready and I will meet you at the stables, but you may want to talk to your uncle first.” 

This is certainly unexpected. “Lucien? Why?” 

“Because the two of you are clear-eyed and practical, and can ferret out inconsistencies and connections in Catherine’s rantings, better than anyone I know. Better than me.” He attempts a small, impish smile. “Because you do not agree with me about Petite. Because your uncle may have some questions about…” he shrugs. “Oh, I don’t know…Olivain’s whereabouts?”