Dying by the sword Read Online Free
Author: Sarah d'Almeida
D’Artagnan. “Don’t worry. This is not dueling. It’s slaughter. I am going to—”
Before he had a chance to say what he was about to do, the voice that everyone in that antechamber obeyed rang from the top of the stairs. “Porthos! Athos! Aramis!” And, after the slightest hesitation, since Monsieur de Treville was not, after all, his captain, “D’Artagnan.”
The mass of men in the antechamber shifted again, parting like the sea before divine will. A clear path up the stairs was suddenly evident and through this loped Aramis, followed by Athos, who managed to rush while looking as if he weren’t doing so at all, and finally D’Artagnan, who tugged at Porthos’s sleeve on the way and whispered, “Sheathe.”
Porthos turned and sheathed, as he started up the stairs after his friends. Even at that moment, if one of the five had dared speak again, he feared he must turn back and massacre them, simply for the principle of it.
But there was no sound behind him, as he made it all the way up the stairs and got into the office in last place, just as Monsieur de Treville—taking his place behind a massive and cluttered desk—waved at the rest of them to take chairs.
Being invited to sit, in Monsieur de Treville’s office, was a rare occurrence and usually reserved for the delivery of bad news. Normally a conference in the captain’s office was restricted to one of two functions—informing the musketeers how far they’d trespassed on their captain’s goodwill and how they’d need to present really good reasons for their conduct or be dismissed; or listening to their problems and offering solutions.
Either type of conference usually took no more than a few minutes, though the musketeers could often swear that the first type took whole days or perhaps weeks. But now, something was very different. Worrisomely different, Porthos noticed, as he settled himself on a small chair with a cushioned seat, whose dainty proportions hadn’t been designed even for the normal musketeer much less someone of Porthos’s overlarge and over-muscular frame.
He held his breath and tried to keep his weight at least partly on his feet, afraid that if he shifted it to his behind the chair would splinter and crash to the ground in pieces beneath him. But even this concern wasn’t enough to keep him from noticing that Monsieur de Treville looked ashen pale, and his brow was knit in a frown of worry.
“The devil,” Porthos’s mouth blurted out. “Don’t tell me Mousqueton’s case is that difficult, Captain.”
The captain’s dark eyes turned to Porthos, in something like wonder. Many people who met Porthos looked at him in wonder when he spoke at all. It seemed to be against the laws of nature that someone that tall and that bulky, let alone possessed of the type of features that made people think of Viking longships, should be endowed with the French tongue and speak it without the least hint of an accent. Other people were surprised when Porthos perceived their intentions or saw through their motives. Because Porthos was not facile of language, and sometimes in fact said quite the wrong word at the most inappropriate time, people tended to assume he was stupid.
But Monsieur de Treville had known Porthos for years, and knew, furthermore, that none of his friends would associate with a dumb person because, all of them being quick of mind, the intercourse with a mental inferior would grate. Porthos knew he knew this, yet he looked upon Porthos with an astonished, wandering look for a long while.
At last he sighed. “It’s not Mousqueton, Porthos.” He frowned slightly and leaned forward on his desk, interlacing his hands atop of it. “I’m afraid it is far more complex than that, and perhaps . . .” He shrugged. “You could not have chosen a worse time, nor could have poor Mousqueton, to put himself in the hands of Richelieu.”
Porthos felt bewildered “But we didn’t choose—”
“No, of
Before he had a chance to say what he was about to do, the voice that everyone in that antechamber obeyed rang from the top of the stairs. “Porthos! Athos! Aramis!” And, after the slightest hesitation, since Monsieur de Treville was not, after all, his captain, “D’Artagnan.”
The mass of men in the antechamber shifted again, parting like the sea before divine will. A clear path up the stairs was suddenly evident and through this loped Aramis, followed by Athos, who managed to rush while looking as if he weren’t doing so at all, and finally D’Artagnan, who tugged at Porthos’s sleeve on the way and whispered, “Sheathe.”
Porthos turned and sheathed, as he started up the stairs after his friends. Even at that moment, if one of the five had dared speak again, he feared he must turn back and massacre them, simply for the principle of it.
But there was no sound behind him, as he made it all the way up the stairs and got into the office in last place, just as Monsieur de Treville—taking his place behind a massive and cluttered desk—waved at the rest of them to take chairs.
Being invited to sit, in Monsieur de Treville’s office, was a rare occurrence and usually reserved for the delivery of bad news. Normally a conference in the captain’s office was restricted to one of two functions—informing the musketeers how far they’d trespassed on their captain’s goodwill and how they’d need to present really good reasons for their conduct or be dismissed; or listening to their problems and offering solutions.
Either type of conference usually took no more than a few minutes, though the musketeers could often swear that the first type took whole days or perhaps weeks. But now, something was very different. Worrisomely different, Porthos noticed, as he settled himself on a small chair with a cushioned seat, whose dainty proportions hadn’t been designed even for the normal musketeer much less someone of Porthos’s overlarge and over-muscular frame.
He held his breath and tried to keep his weight at least partly on his feet, afraid that if he shifted it to his behind the chair would splinter and crash to the ground in pieces beneath him. But even this concern wasn’t enough to keep him from noticing that Monsieur de Treville looked ashen pale, and his brow was knit in a frown of worry.
“The devil,” Porthos’s mouth blurted out. “Don’t tell me Mousqueton’s case is that difficult, Captain.”
The captain’s dark eyes turned to Porthos, in something like wonder. Many people who met Porthos looked at him in wonder when he spoke at all. It seemed to be against the laws of nature that someone that tall and that bulky, let alone possessed of the type of features that made people think of Viking longships, should be endowed with the French tongue and speak it without the least hint of an accent. Other people were surprised when Porthos perceived their intentions or saw through their motives. Because Porthos was not facile of language, and sometimes in fact said quite the wrong word at the most inappropriate time, people tended to assume he was stupid.
But Monsieur de Treville had known Porthos for years, and knew, furthermore, that none of his friends would associate with a dumb person because, all of them being quick of mind, the intercourse with a mental inferior would grate. Porthos knew he knew this, yet he looked upon Porthos with an astonished, wandering look for a long while.
At last he sighed. “It’s not Mousqueton, Porthos.” He frowned slightly and leaned forward on his desk, interlacing his hands atop of it. “I’m afraid it is far more complex than that, and perhaps . . .” He shrugged. “You could not have chosen a worse time, nor could have poor Mousqueton, to put himself in the hands of Richelieu.”
Porthos felt bewildered “But we didn’t choose—”
“No, of
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