Chapter Sixty, Lines Drawn, by Mordaunt

In the library, they are recounting all those events which must determine their future. “I cannot stay,” Athos declares after a few restless moments. “Lucien knows what has transpired, how we found Alessandra, and will speak in my stead. I trust your decisions about what must be done next.”

It is his heart that moves Athos and he does not question that compelling call, not after Saintonge and the cottage at the cove. He never trusted his heart with Alessandra, convinced that to do so would cloud his good judgement. The love of a woman is mortal danger. A man can be conquered, vanquished, or worse, made weak. Athos was raised with such cautionary tales. They have provided solace and some sort of excuse. A dour expectation that he almost fulfilled. Too much precious time wasted defending his mind against his heart. Yet, his mind has never been more focused than it is now, when he finally allows his heart to lead.

In Alessandra’s chamber, he finds not just Dr. Guenaud and the nurse. He finds his mother’s physician, as well as Madame Bourgeois and her daughter Antoinette, the two competent midwives, who helped Suzanne deliver her daughter on the road to Glénay. He finds Elodie and Constance, his mother too, and presiding above them, like a general, is Sophia. Athos listens carefully to the physicians, their prognosis grim in its vagueness. Madame Bourgeois knows not to refute them directly: “The baby remains alive and healthy, a tribute to the mother’s strength and sheer determination,” she points out.

“Alessandra will prevail,” Sophia declares defiantly. “She has those who love her, her family, on her side.” It is not the resolve in Sophia’s tone that surprises Athos, it is the glimmer of frustration in her eyes which she keeps fixed on him. No one knows Alessandra better than we do, she is telling him, no one knows her better than you do.

“Pére Massey, Pére Francois, and Frère Aloysius should be summoned,” his mother commands. Athos understands her concern just as he understands Sophia’s frustration. His mother means well.

“Thank you, Mother, but I will have her daughter and her son here before any priest.”

“It is best if her children visit soon,” Dr. Guenaud advises, with the authority that his profession bestows. “We all agree, Madame Bourgeois too, that Madame’s condition will worsen, childbirth—if she lives until then—is dangerous under the circumstances. It is best if her children see her now when she looks peaceful.”

“Bianca is a little girl who misses her mother. She should see her mother, not surrounded by priests, but as she is, sleeping. Surrounded by her family,” Sophia chimes in. 

The Duchess d’ Aiguillon frowns at Sophia’s intervention. “Daughter, her poor soul cannot be left unguarded at such a time.” She turns to the physician. “Monsieur, I respect your comprehension of the physical and the medical, but we must fortify not just her body but her spirit.”

Athos presses his mother’s hands. “Then, pray for her swift recovery at the chapel, Mother.  I will be grateful for your prayers. But I will have no priests in this room. Only her children. Her son, whom Alessandra still thinks is missing. Her daughter who has suffered her mother’s absence for too long. No one will be invoking death in this room.”

His mother gasps at the impiety. Constance too. “Athos,” Constance ventures, “you do not mean this, it is your grief speaking.”

He reins in his anger as best as he can. “Do not presume to explain my meaning to me, Constance. You are free to join my mother at the chapel, if you find it in your heart.”

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Athos marvels at his daughter’s courage. He sees it in the tears that Petite holds back. He feels it in the tightness of her embrace when he picks her up from her mother’s bedside. “Maman is only sleeping, Papa. You must not worry. And her hair will be beautiful again before my brother is born. I know he will be a little brother. Like Asim and Kavyan,” she repeats, forcing a brave smile, trying to comfort him.

He cups her little face in his hands and kisses her brow. “My brave little warrior. We do not worry. We do our best to make sure Maman gets well. She is always beautiful, my love.” He says nothing about the baby. He cannot see that far.

“We should go to the chapel with your grand mère,” Marie Cessette proposes. She came to the door of Alessandra’s room with Raoul, but he asked her to wait outside. He’d see his mother alone. “Rayya is at the chapel with all the girls, with Olivier, Samy, and Alexandre.” Bianca scowls, unconvinced, her eyes fixed on her father.

“Go, sweetheart. It is important for Maman that we pray,” Athos encourages his daughter, gently. “I will be here with Maman until you return. Besides, she is with Raoul now. Go.” He watches Bianca as she follows Marie Cessette down the corridor, turning every now and then, her little scowling face warning him that she is not going willingly.

Athos sighs. He will not leave Alessandra either, but he will not intrude between Raoul and his mother. He walks to the opposite direction of the chapel, the direction of the gallery with his ancestors’ portraits. He has found that he thinks more clearly when he is there, even though, at the moment, all he can think about is that he will apologize to his mother for his harshness but not for his decision. It is a familiar step that makes him turn.

“I thought I would find you here,” d’ Artagnan says.

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“I saw Marie Cessette on her way to chapel with Bianca. Raoul asked to be left alone with his mother, she said…” d’ Artagnan motions to retreat. “I should go. I am intruding.”

“Stay. The fact is that we are both intruding. Raoul should be alone with his mother. He has not seen her for almost a year. She has thought him dead all this time.” Athos points to the narrow bench under the windows, across the wall with the family portraits, and they sit next to each other.

“Physicians exaggerate, Athos. It makes them look competent when their patients thrive, and, if you ask me, in the end it is mostly luck. Half of them know less than an army surgeon’s apprentice.”

“She is very ill. She is with child.”

“She is Milady. I mean…she is resilient. Have we not seen this more than once?”

“That is not what you mean,” Athos says quietly.

D’ Artagnan winces. “I suppose not.”

“And yet you fought for her at Saintonge.”

“I fought for you. For Raoul. I cannot speak for Porthos or Aramis. In fact, I suspect I am alone in this. But it is the truth.” He fixes his eyes on Athos. “The truth is that I cannot look past the woman she has been. I cannot look past what I know. What you suffered because of her. That night when she set your house at La Fére on fire, intending to kill you. I knew it was her that night because I saw her riding away. I cannot look past how she threatened Constance, yes, not even after all that has transpired since, for when has Milady ever acted without some calculation or other? I cannot look past how she was Richelieu’s assassin. Rochefort’s too. A woman. On the side of our enemies.”

“And yet, here you are, with Richelieu’s son.”

 “That is not the same!” He eases his tone. “Perhaps I was the wrong man at the wrong place back then, Athos. I cannot look past that night at La Fére. Perhaps if you had confided in someone more refined, like Aramis, or a kindhearted and generous man like Porthos…”

“I chose the right man.”

“And yet, here I am.” D’ Artagnan sounds despondent. “Not the friend you’d wish for.”

“I thought it was brother.”

“You have a brother,” d’ Artagnan gasps just as the words escape his lips.

“So… We come to it,” Athos says gently.

“Mordieu! That was uncalled for. Sounding like some bitter, spoiled brat. I apologize!”

Athos rests a friendly hand on d’ Artagnan’s shoulder. “Think nothing of it. It is the sort of thing an older brother would know.” A faint mischievous grin crosses his lips. “The sort of thing too that an older brother would tease out of a younger one.”

“And yet…” He stops. “Brother! Truly? You mean it?”

“Always.” It is Athos’ turn to fix his eyes on d’ Artagnan. “And to answer that other question which you are not asking. I have yet to learn how to tease such truths out of Lucien, and whether we will ever share this kind of intimacy, I do not know, for I have truly known him as my brother for too short a time. It has been trial and error for us, so far. We muddle along, but we do it with honesty and as best as we can, given all the precious time that was robbed from us and the rift which our father so cunningly opened between us.”

D’ Artagnan lets his head drop. “I am unpardonable, nevertheless, prying thus, crossing that line.”

“It is important to lay out the truth just as you said. It is important between brothers. Between you and me. I speak now about Alessandra. That is the truth that we must settle, d’ Artagnan. I must settle it. I must mark that line that can never be crossed with her.”

“Of course, she is your wife,” d’ Artagnan sounds contrite.

“No, that is not it at all. Besides, we are not married,” a faint chuckle escapes his lips. “The eldest son of Richelieu and the Duchess d’ Aiguillon never married the only daughter of Andrea Morosini, the Venetian historian, and Bianca Minerva Anguissola, the Venetian painter.”

“I never thought about that.”

“It is ironic perhaps, but irrelevant. You see d’ Artagan, that night at La Fére, the night you cannot forget, that night, the real confession was neither about crimes nor about guilt. The real confession that night was about love. It has taken me decades to put it together and even longer to confess it to myself.” He shrugs. “It is a very simple truth really, a truth that you have known better and longer than I have. You have always defended and loved one woman, despite everything and everyone.”

“Yes, but I trust Constance,” d’ Artagnan begins to object but pauses. “Well…most of the time…” He chuckles. “Mordieu! The rest is love, I suppose.”

“And that is the line that no man can cross, no matter how much you love them, is this not so? It is so for me with Alessandra. Do you see why I insist that I chose the right man back then? Clearsighted, true, and honest. I choose the right man now, for this, here, is that old confession concluded.” 

“To be chosen thus is a rare privilege.” D’ Artagnan smiles, “and I take the admonishment along with it, for it is fair and just, and delivered with great subtlety from the wisest man I have ever known, whom I am honored to call brother.” D’ Artagnan seizes Athos in his arms. “Forget what the doctors say,” he whispers. “Trust only your heart. This is what I know.”