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gellavonhamster · 2 years ago

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half savage and hardy, and free

The Musketeers BBC || pre-canon || how Constance first met Athos, Porthos, and Aramis (alternatively, how to make friends as an adult)

ao3 link rus || ao3 link eng

When Constance was ten years old, she spent a night at the cemetery. To be precise, she spent there merely an hour, but it is a grand undertaking for a child to slip away from home at night without waking up the father, the little brother who would start begging to come along and wake everyone up with his whining, and the big brother who would pull her by the ears and not let her leave – and then to make it to the cemetery in the dark, hang around for an hour, and get back home, so it really felt like she stayed there from midnight till the break of dawn.

“You can head back as soon as the tower clock strikes one,” told her Jean-Luc, the middle brother, the one she bet with that she would dare such a feat. “And bring me something from there, or I won’t believe you were there.”

“What can you bring from a graveyard?” Constance asked. It hadn’t even occurred to her that she could cheat and spend that hour, say, hiding behind the neighbouring house. She was no coward, and she was going to prove that to the entire world – or at least to Jean-Luc, who loved to set all sorts of challenges for his little sister.

“Whatever you like,” Jean-Luc permitted graciously. “But if you lie and pick up something in our yard, I will find out!”

“Bah!” Constance stuck her nose up in the air.

“Well, then you’d better be there by midnight.”

“Can I take Simone with me?”

“No way, sis. You’re going alone. Or are you scared?”

“Bah!” Constance spat up again, and stomped her foot in indignation.

“What are you doing?” asked little Thomas, entering the kitchen with a kitten in his arms.

“Nothing,” his siblings replied in unison, and did not discuss their plans that day anymore.

That was how it came to be that little Constance wrapped herself up in her mother’s old shawl and took the dusty road to the graveyard. And the memories of that summer night wouldn’t leave her mind another summer night twelve years later, when she, also wrapped up in a shawl, was walking through the streets of Paris at a brisk pace after midnight, making haste to get home.

Well, she thought, at least this time it’s all because I’m stupid and kind, not just stupid.

It went like this: as she was returning from her acquaintance’s that evening, Constance ran into Mme Vannier, the aged mother of the cobbler who the Bonacieux spouses usually took their shoes to for mending. Constance had only ever exchanged greetings and pleasantries with her before, but as she saw the old woman wiping away the tears and looking utterly defeated, she felt compelled to stop and ask if she could help her in any way.

The old lady unburdened herself at once, seemingly abashed by her own openness. Her son had been drinking like a fish for the last couple of days, in and out of taverns where he lost at cards everything he hadn’t drunk away yet. That day, having gambled away all he had, he took the money his mother had been putting aside to ensure a decent burial for herself, and disappeared with it. In hopes of salvaging her savings before it was too late, Mme Vannier went to the inn her son used to frequent, but he was not there, and his usual drinking companions ordered her to tell her son to pay them back all that he owed them – and ordered that in a highly threatening way. Mme Vannier was already waiting in fear for those ruffians to make her empty her pockets and surrender them the mere pittance she had on her, but the innkeeper intervened and pacified the rowdy guests. Still, the distress she experienced reduced her to tears.

Constance really wished to express all she thought of the cobbler out loud, but the feeling that his mother might not appreciate that held her back.

“Don’t worry, Madame Vannier,” she said instead, and took the wizened hands of her interlocutress into her own. “I will help you find your son.”

They made the rounds of four more establishments in search of Vannier that evening and left all four empty-handed. The prodigal son was in none of them. Instead, there were a lot of brazen, noisy people who just laughed at Mme Vannier’s timid inquiries and tried to attract Constance’s attention in a most unpleasant manner. Meanwhile, it was growing dark outside, the sky was being sprinkled with stars, and there were less and less passers-by, especially the kind whose presence caused no anxiety. Constance was about to propose tactfully that they should stop searching when they finally had the luck to find Mme Vannier’s son at the fifth inn.

The misadventures did not end there. Vannier was thoroughly plastered; it was not that he refused to leave, he just didn’t look like he’d be able to. Fortunately, he hadn’t managed to spend all of his mother’s burial money, but the suggestion that they could take it from him and go home was met by another fit of sobbing – whatever her son might be like, now that she had found him, she didn’t want to leave him God knows where for the night. With a promise of payment, Constance enlisted a boy that worked at the inn to help them take the cobbler home. The lad agreed – and when Vannier had been finally dragged into bed and the poor old lady had thanked and kissed Constance about a dozen times, he disappeared with his earnings at once. Constance was left alone on the twilit streets before she realized she would have to get home on her own then.

Of course, Cercy-la-Tour had nothing on Paris, and a graveyard populated by the dead was not the same as a city populated by the living. Still, as her quick steps struck the paving stones, Constance couldn’t help thinking back on that one night and the fear and excitement she felt back then. She had already been living in Paris for five years at that time, but she’d never went anywhere so late without her husband. On the one hand, she felt quite ill at ease all alone, even though the August twilight and the city lights let her pick out the way without much effort. On the other hand, it was awfully interesting to see Paris the way it had never yet appeared before her eyes. It must have been darkness hiding the litter and the cool of night relieving her fatigue after wandering the city for so long, but in spite of herself, her wariness and disinclination to encounter someone like those boozers she and Mme Vannier had had to deal with earlier did not stop Constance from enjoying the way everything looked so unusual and mysterious.

It was an adventure – such as it was – and her life had been lacking adventures for quite a while. However, there was no point thinking about it. Bonacieux, who was away on business, was to return from Troyes the next morning. It would be nice to catch some hours of sleep before his arrival so that nothing in her appearance evidenced that she had a late night. Another kind of man might have admired her compassion, or might have been amused by her bad luck, but not Bonacieux.

Sunk in thought, Constance didn’t notice at once that the sound of someone else’s footsteps had joined her own, so she flinched when a squat man with his hat askew appeared in front of her. She recollected herself, and moved aside to let him by.

The man moved in the same direction.

“How much?” he asked. The way he said that was enough to see he was drunk.

“Pardon?”

“I said how much?” and the man reached out for her. Constance took a step back.

“You are mistaken, Monsieur,” she pronounced, offended. “I am going home.”

“Are you now? Wanna make some money?”

“No, I don’t.”

The man stepped towards her.

“You sure?” he asked. The smell of bad wine hit her nostrils. “I’ll be quick, honest.”

Constance turned around to run, and he immediately grabbed her by the waist from behind.

“Going somewhere, gorgeous?”

“Help!” Constance yelled, struggling to break free.

“Don’t buck, sweetheart, or I will… Argh, you bitch!” she must’ve managed to hit some sensitive or sore spot with her heel because one of his hands quit his hold of her, but she could not break away because that same hand instantly, and painfully, seized her hair. “Well, you asked for this, cunt!”

“Let her go at once!” a new voice rang out. Some man was approaching them; there was no discerning his face in the semi-darkness, but she could make out a sword at his hip. He was approaching them – and swaying a little.

Wonderful, Constance thought with resignation, another drunk.

“And who the hell are you?” the first one asked, holding Constance with an iron grip as she desperately tried to get away.

“I said let her go,” the other repeated, pointing his sword at him. The light of the lantern fell upon a pale face with an unreadable expression and unshaven cheeks.

Constance’s assailant let her go at last – or rather, flung her away so that she almost fell.

“All right then, you bastard,” he said grimly and whipped out a short knife.

She should have run. Instead she froze, pressed to the wall, unable to look away from the fight unfolding in front of her. Despite clearly being under the influence of alcohol, the stranger who came to her aid wielded his weapon confidently, but his opponent was displaying unexpected agility by managing to dodge him until the sword and the knife crossed each other. For a few very long moments a blade pressed hard against a blade, but the one who assaulted Constance apparently was stronger – he also looked larger than the other. He succeeded in repelling the attack, pushed his opponent away, and stabbed him in the thigh. The musketeer – and he was a musketeer, Constance could make out the uniform and the pauldron – gave a feeble moan.

Constance rushed to the nearest porch and hammered at the door.

“Help!” she cried. “Somebody help! Call the guards!”

Just as when she was caught, no one responded to her call. The windows of most of the houses remained black, and the one that had light seeping through a crack between its shutters immediately went dark. No one was going to risk their life for heaven knows whom.

No one except that stranger who stood up for her even though he could have just walked by.

Constance took a fevered look around. By the porch next door, a bottle was lying on the ground. Giving a wide berth to the fighters, she darted to that house and picked up the bottle by its neck.

The men were engrossed in a fight and didn’t notice her come closer – quietly, carefully, mentally berating herself for moving too slowly. The first thing she was concerned about was not getting accidentally hit by the knife or the sword; the second was not accidentally hitting the wrong man. However, when she approached them, both had already lost their weapons and were engaged in hand-to-hand combat on the ground – more specifically, the wounded musketeer was lying on the ground and making all effort to throw off his enemy, who was on him, pressing his thumbs on the musketeer’s eyes.

Constance crept up on him and smashed the bottle on his head.

The man stopped. Hiccupped. Turned around slowly. That momentary confusion was enough for the musketeer to punch him twice on the jaw, throw him off, get on top of him, and deliver several blows more. The drunkard went limp and stopped fighting back.

Constance dropped the bottle she had been nervously clutching until the fight was over, and made a dash for the musketeer, who was crawling away from the vanquished foe, breathing heavily.

“You’re wounded,” Constance said in alarm, casting a glance at the blood-soaked pants of the musketeer.

“I have noticed,” he replied in a low voice and tried to sit up. Constance dropped on her knees next to him, holding him up – it looked like he was about to pass out. Suddenly he jerked away. “Move aside!”

Constance was taken aback.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Move aside, I said!” the musketeer pushed her away roughly and turned his back. Next thing he vomited – all but on his opponent, who was stretched out nearby.

Constance let him wipe his face with his sleeve without being embarrassed as she crawled away to pick up the drunkard��s knife off the ground, and then sighed and set to tearing a piece off her petticoat.

“Let me bandage it,” she ordered.

The musketeer obediently let her bandage his thigh.

“Thank you,” he muttered. After that one moan when he got stabbed, not a single sound gave away that he was in pain, except for loud breathing. Nevertheless, Constance saw that his face – a young face still, he didn’t look more than thirty years old – had an unhealthy pallor, and his forehead was covered with a film of sweat.

“Thank you for saving me,” replied Constance. It seemed like her body had been keeping all her senses strained to the limit since she was caught, and when the danger had finally passed, it was surrendering to exhaustion. But it was too early to relax – she still had to get home (would she get there tonight at all?), and now a man was bleeding out in her arms.

She cast a sidelong look at their enemy, who still hadn’t tried to stand up or at least sit up.

“Did you kill him?” she asked, dropping her voice. It felt wrong to speak of such things aloud, even though there was no one around.

“I don’t think so,” replied the musketeer. As if to confirm that, the wretch stirred and whined.

“You pieces of shiiit…”

Constance fiddled with the knife. A fleeting memory flickered before her eyes: here she was, trembling with fear and agitation, picking up a strange stone at the cemetery. She wrapped the knife in a handkerchief and stuffed it into her pocket.

“I am taking this,” she announced vengefully. “As a compensation for damage.”

The man spat out a couple of words which, according to him, described her exhaustively, and continued whining.

The musketeer tried to stand up and almost succeeded, but lost his balance at the last second and had to lean on Constance.

“You need a doctor,” she pointed out. “Sit on the porch, and I’ll find someone to call one.”

“No need… I’ll walk… my friend lives nearby.”

“Can he help you?”

“He knows how to treat wounds.”

“Where does he live? I will help you get there.”

“I told you, I’ll walk…”

“Walk where, into the gutter? Where does he live?”

“Between the Rue Cassette and the Rue Servandoni. I’ll show the way,” suddenly he frowned and touched his neck, then lowered his head and looked at his chest. “The devil!”

“What is it?”

“I lost my locket. That brute must have torn the chain,” the musketeer looked first under his feet and then around him. “Wait.”

“Is it so important?” Constance asked impatiently. “You are bleeding out.”

“Yes, it is important, and I’m not going anywhere until I’ve found it.”

Constance rolled her eyes.

“Sit on the porch, and I’ll look for it.”

The locket turned up in a few steps from her – a small, delicate thing on a long broken chain. It was open, probably by force of hitting the ground. Usually such lockets had someone’s locks of hair or miniature portraits inside them, but this one contained just a dried flower – a forget-me-not. A gift from his ladylove, without a doubt.

“Here,” Constance held out the locket to the musketeer. He looked at it in an odd way – as if she was offering him not a piece of jewellery he wanted to find so much, but a rope to hang himself, or a pistol to shot himself with. In a moment that shadow passed.

“Thank you,” he said calmly, took the locket from Constance, and put it in his pocket.

Constance helped him get up, he leaned on her, and they set off together, leaving behind their acquaintance, who was still lying down but must have built up a little strength, because his whining gave way to loud swearing.

“What is your name, monsieur?”

“Athos.”

“Is that a name or a surname?” Constance was only familiar with a mountain by such name.

“It’s a name, and that name is enough. Turn left here. And your name is?..”

“Constance Bonacieux. Are you unwell, monsieur?”

“No,” Athos replied firmly, closed his eyes for an instant, reeled, and continued walking.

If he faints, I won’t be able to carry him, Constance thought grimly. She needed to engage him in a conversation to make sure he stays conscious.

“Where to now?” she asked aloud.

“On that corner… turn right,” all of a sudden he stopped and she felt him grow heavier against her the way people do when their legs give way, but he mustered his strength and stepped forth again.

“Have you been in the Musketeers long, monsieur?” Constance inquired, trying to think what to ask him on the spot.

“For two years. What of it?”

“You must have been returning from your watch.”

“I was returning from a tavern.”

He smelled like wine indeed, even if less than the one he had fought.

“And your friend that we’re going to…”

“Is also a musketeer. His name is Aramis. And, mademoiselle…”

“Madame,” she corrected him reflexively.

“Madame Bonacieux, if you believe that… oh, damn it… that I’m about to swoon, you are mistaken. This is far from being the gravest injury I’ve received.”

“Said the man who can barely move.”

“As I’ve told you, I was returning from a tavern,” Athos remarked, mildly irritated. “What about you, Madame? Not a tavern as well?”

“No!” Constance exclaimed in outrage. “I mean, yes, but I wasn’t drinking. I was looking for the cobbler.”

“What on earth did you need a cobbler for at night?”

“Not I; his mother.”

As she was recounting their search of Vannier to Athos and observing his reaction – grunting, nodding, most importantly not passing out – they reached a small house lost in greenery. Tall bushes and tangled vines of wild grapes all but completely obscured the entrance Athos pointed out – a plain door much like one for the servants.

“Here,” said the musketeer, leaning against the banister. Drops of sweat were rolling down his face.

Constance banged down the door.

“Monsieur Aramis!” she called. “Your friend’s here, he needs help! Monsieur Aramis!”

She stopped, gulping for air, and listened. Fortunately, there obviously was someone inside – she could hear the noise and muffled voices. Hoping to hurry up the resident and whoever was there with him, Constance began knocking again. Finally, the door flung open, and she was face to face with a young man of about the same age as Athos, wearing an open shirt, barefoot.

“Madame,” he flashed a dazzling smile, smoothing down his tousled dark hair. “How can I…” then he noticed Athos. “Good God,” he uttered, instantly turning serious. “Porthos!”

Another man appeared in the doorway – big, broad-shouldered, brown-skinned. It was unlikely he really was the tallest person Constance had ever seen, but she’d never met anyone who just towered over everything the way he did.

“Damn it, Athos,” the giant said, pushed the other man aside, and hurried to the wounded. He was dressed much as his comrade, but he was wearing boots. “Good evening, Madame.”

“Good evening,” Constance nodded wearily.

“Help him in, and I’ll prepare everything we’d need,” said the one who apparently was Aramis, and made an inviting gesture. “Come inside, Madame.”

“And no ‘good evening’ for me?” Athos asked Porthos behind Constance’s back.

“You’ll manage,” Porthos replied. Constance didn’t see his face, but his voice sounded good-naturedly. “Let me guess, the Red Guard?”

“Didn’t look like one of theirs, no.”

The summer night and the light of two half-melted candles on the table and one on the small chest of drawers by the wall let Constance view the surroundings – a bottle of wine and a pack of cards on the table, the unmade bed, the washstand, a chest crowned with a small pile of books, a chair with pistols on its seat and coats on its back. The room was furnished rather modestly but looked lived-in and cozy, particularly in that soft light. Constance felt the awkwardness characteristic of the uninvited guests who are not without the sense of conscience.

“Madame Bonacieux,” said Athos as he entered the room, leaning on Porthos, “let me introduce to you Monsieur Porthos, the best fighter of our regiment, and Monsieur Aramis, our best shot.”

“Look, Madame, how he’s fawning over us so that we don’t come down on him too hard for getting in trouble without us again,” declared Aramis. While Porthos was helping Athos lie down on the bed, he poured water from a jug into a big bowl and opened the chest of drawers to take out a case containing tools, the purpose of most of which Constance couldn’t determine at a glance, save for scissors, a skein of thread, a needle, and a short knife. “Deeply pleased to meet you, and sorry for the mess.”

“The pleasure is mine, monsieur.”

“And I’m pleased to meet you too, madame,” said Porthos, “too bad it is under such circumstances. What happened?”

“I was attacked on my way home, and your friend stood up for me.”

Porthos smiled, which gave him dimples that completely ruined his formidable image.

“Yeah, that sounds like him.”

“Madame Bonacieux,” Aramis turned to her, “I am not sure you would like to watch this.”

“I am a married woman, Monsieur Aramis,” retorted Constance. She felt vaguely displeased that after she changed the course of a fight by whacking a stranger on the head with a bottle, someone still worried about offending her sensibilities. “You won’t shock me with a sight of a naked man.”

“I rather meant the sight of his wound.”

“I’d venture to suggest any woman has seen no less blood than you.”

Having blurted that out, Constance blushed – the joke was far from proper, to put it mildly. People like her husband’s friends would have been scandalized. But their host just laughed, and his friends, even the worn-out Athos, laughed with him.

“Upon my word, madame, I like you,” Aramis said merrily. Constance frowned a little under his mischievous glance; handsome men who were aware of their handsomeness were usually insufferable, and that one evidently was aware of his. “Well, in that case, let us begin.”

Out of respect for Athos, Constance looked away in the end while the other two musketeers helped him take off his pants and smallclothes. However, the long shirttail thereafter concealed everything that might have embarrassed a lady, at the same time not covering the wound, which certainly looked unpleasant but wasn’t bleeding as much as it did at first. While Aramis carefully cleaned the wound, Athos kept on enduring stoically, with his teeth set and his eyes closed, but when the needle pierced his skin for the first time, he let out a stifled groan. Porthos took the bottle off the table and helped Athos sit up, but the hand of the latter was trembling, so the Porthos took the bottle from him and put it to his friend’s lips himself. Athos drank greedily until he gagged and the wine ran down his chin. Perhaps these gulps renewed the influence of what he had dunk earlier that evening at the tavern and sufficiently numbed his senses, for he didn’t groan anymore, although his face was far from serene. For a moment Constance wished to take his hand, but she wasn’t sure how he’d take that and didn’t want to impede Aramis’s work, so she went with a look she hoped was reassuring enough. Athos nodded slightly, and in his eyes she read gratitude.

“You know, Madame Bonacieux, if I were in his place, there’d be no wine for me,” Porthos observed. “These two would’ve just knocked me on the head and proceeded to stitch up my senseless body.”

“Because your body yells too loud when it’s not senseless,” said Athos through his teeth as he lay down again. Aramis chuckled, keeping his eyes on the wound. He was sewing it up with concentration, a slight frown on his face, and Constance couldn’t help thinking she liked that sobriety more than his former archness.

“So you’re also a doctor, Monsieur Aramis?” she asked.

“I am many things, madame,” he replied, without pausing his work, “as we all are.”

Are all of us, really? Constance thought. When she looked at the three of them, she was filled with a strange feeling, one she found hard to name.

Porthos moved the weapons to the table and put the chair closer to the bed so that she could sit down while remaining close to Athos, and gave her a glass of wine.

“We should’ve offered it sooner – you must be tired and thirsty,” he said as he sat back down on the bed next to Athos. “Sorry. There’s also water if you’d rather have it.”

“No, thank you, wine will do,” shook her head Constance. And smiled. “A whole evening spent in taverns without having a single drop, and now…”

“Taverns?”

Athos laughed – hoarsely, weakly.

“Tell them about your cobbler, madame,” he suggested.

To the accompaniment of Constance’s tale of the prodigal cobbler, Aramis finished treating Athos’s wound and bandaged it. Athos sighed and tried to sit up, but winced and went for just propping himself up on one elbow instead.

“Thank you,” he told Aramis, who was washing his hands over the washstand, and then turned to Porthos and Constance. “All of you.”

“Why, you’re welcome,” Porthos winked. “You know, one for all and so on.”

“It seems you happened to include Madame Bonacieux into ‘all’, my friend,” Aramis smiled, “but she gave no promises to watch your back in combat.”

“Madame Bonacieux helped me defeat her assailant,” Athos said with that subtle curl of his lips that in his case must’ve stood for a smile, “with a timely knock on his head.”

“Whoa!” Aramis exclaimed, sitting down on the edge the table. Porthos whistled in approval. “A heavy hand you must have.”

“More like a heavy bottle in that hand,” Constance smiled modestly. It was a strange compliment, but it pleased her.

“Good move! A classic,” Porthos approved. “But still, you’d better have some sort of weapon on you when you go out so late.”

Constance took the knife out of her pocket and unfolded the handkerchief.

“Now I will,” she said. She had no such intention when she took the knife from that man, but at that moment she suddenly realized that is what she should do.

“Whose blood is this?” asked Aramis.

“Mine, I fear,” Athos said and yawned. Porthos grinned and ruffled his hair, which made Athos furrow his brow a little, but he didn’t pull back. Constance shifted her gaze to Aramis, and the fondness with which he was looking at his friends brought back that strange feeling which pressed down on her chest and made her angry with herself for some reason.

“One of you should escort the lady home,” Athos told his friends. Constance felt a slight pang of shame. It was so agreeable here after the streets and their dangers that she had completely forgotten she should be on her way if she wanted to catch at least some sleep that night.

“I’ll go,” Porthos volunteered, and got up. “Just a moment, madame; I need to sort out which of these are mine,” he indicated the weapons on the table with a wave of his hand.

Constance put the knife back into her pocket and approached the bed.

“Get well soon, Monsieur Athos,” she said. “Thank you once again, and farewell.”

He must’ve felt self-conscious about lying down when she was on her feet, so he managed to sit up.

“I’ll be fine, Madame Bonacieux,” he replied, and bowed his head solemnly and courteously. “Goodbye. You two,” he looked at Porthos and Aramis. “Stop this right now.”

“But we’re not saying anything,” objected Porthos.

“Exactly. Stop glancing at each other and kindly speak a language everyone understands at least when a guest is present. Goodbye, madame.”

“Goodbye.”

“We’re just happy to see you make new friends,” Aramis smiled slyly. “Goodbye, Madame Bonacieux. It was a pleasure to meet you.” Before she could answer, he took her hand and swiftly put it to his lips. Constance tried to glare at him, but it didn’t come out that impressive.

Porthos was waiting for her on the porch.

“Well, madame,” he gave her a lopsided smile and offered her his hand, “lead the way.”

Finally I’ll get home, Constance thought, and sighed.

***

Jean-Luc hadn’t specified where exactly she should wait at the graveyard for the stroke of the clock and what she should do all that time, so that night twelve years ago Constance started by spending about half an hour glued to the spot behind the crypt of a local noble family. After neither ghosts nor werewolves nor, most importantly, the caretaker appeared, she grew bolder and began strolling among the graves, looking for something to bring her brother as a proof of her coming here. There were flowers on some graves, but it seemed improper to steal from the dead.

Here and there clover was growing, and Constance picked a few flowers, found her mother’s grave, and placed them on it. It had only been three years since mother passed away, and the hole it left in her chest hadn’t even nearly begun to close. Constance stood in front of the grave until the sleeve she wiped her eyes with was completely soaked.

Then she looked up and saw a white face in the bushes.

Later Constance learned that it was none other than Jean-Luc. “Like I would’ve let you go alone! Father would’ve killed me if anything happened to you!” But he only made that confession many years later, at the feast in honour of her wedding to Bonacieux. As to that night, she had no idea that the creature staring at her was her brother, so, naturally, she shrieked and bolted. At some point she fell down, and her fingers found some sort of stone in the grass; she grabbed it without thinking, got up, and ran onwards.

When she was past the cemetery fence, she dared to look back. No one was following her. Then Constance felt ashamed – she wasn’t going to be a coward, after all. She made some steps at a leisurely pace but then ran anyway, except this time it wasn’t out of fear. It was just that the relief and the realization that she was completely alone that brisk and silent night and she could do whatever she wanted, and no one would tell her how to behave – it all filled her with a desire to run. It gathered all the summer wind, and put it into her lungs and into her legs.

As she was approaching home, she examined the stone she picked up for the first time. Turned out it was not just any stone but an adder stone with a little hole. People said those brought good luck. She didn’t even want to give it away, but an agreement was an agreement. That was why next morning she crept on Jean-Luc and pressed the stone to his neck.

“Dead man’s finger!” she cried in triumph. Jean-Luc yelled like he was younger than her, and dropped a pitcher full of milk. The pitcher broke to pieces, and both of them got some stick for that, but it was still worth it.

No one else knew about her – their – night foray. Constance didn’t even tell her friends anything – partly because she was worried their parents would find out and tell her father; partly because at some point that night she had been scared, and it didn’t reflect well on her. Likewise, twelve years later, she didn’t tell anyone about the events of another summer night, but mostly because she had no one to tell it to. Not her husband, that was for sure. He returned in the morning in high spirits – the trip hadn’t been for nothing, he managed to strike a good bargain – kissed her benignly, and sat down at the table. He saw neither the knife she cleared of blood and hid in a drawer among her undergarments nor the torn petticoat she stuffed into the same drawer, and if he noticed the dark circles under her eyes – she only got to sleep a couple of hours; it was as if her body refused to relax – then he made little account of it.

Soon after his return, Mme Vannier knocked on the door.

“Dear Madame Bonacieux,” the old woman offered her a little basket full of cherries, “this is for you.”

“Oh, Madame Vannier, you really shouldn’t have…”

“Constance, who is it?” Bonacieux called. The next instant he was peering over Constance’s shoulder. “Ah, Madame… umm…”

“Vannier,” prompted Constance.

“Right, yes. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Oh, I just brought a little gift for your wife, Monsieur,” the old lady, apparently made shy by his self-important demeanour, pointed at the basket. “She helped me so much yesterday…”

“To carry some heavy groceries,” Constance finished with a wide smile. “Thank you, Madame Vannier, that’s so sweet of you.”

All that day Constance was not herself. As she was cutting vegetables, patching an apron, shaking out the rugs, she could not rein in her wandering thoughts. The previous night had shown her that the daredevilry she possessed in her childhood and youth was still with her, and she didn’t know where to put it now.

The next day there was a knock on the door again – and this time it was Athos, leaning on a cane.

“I don’t believe a new petticoat to replace the one you tore for my sake would be an appropriate gift on my part,” he observed almost primly, after they exchanged greetings and Constance asked how he was feeling. “But I know a craftsman who would make you a fine sheath for your trophy, and I would gladly pay him for it. We could visit him together so that you could describe what result you’d like to see yourself.”

“Now?” Constance was at a loss.

“At any time you like when we’re both free. I am on duty and thus don’t belong to myself, but I have to thank you accordingly, so I’ll definitely make time for you.”

Constance smiled.

“Well, Monsieur, that’s nice to hear. Thank you. Where will I be able to find you?”

“At the garrison of Captain de Tréville’s regiment – and if I’m not there, they would likely be able to tell you where to find me. Perhaps Messieurs Porthos and Aramis will be there as well; they’d be happy to see you.”

“Particularly Aramis, I believe,” Constance remarked dryly.

Athos chuckled.

“Pay him no mind, Madame. No doubt he’ll try to flirt with angels in heaven when he’s dead – if he goes to heaven, of course – but he would never impose himself if a lady isn’t interested. Of course, unless you…”

“No, I’m not,” laughed Constance. She was young and not blind and she could see that all three of her new acquaintances were good-looking, but she could also clearly see that to want a sword, a pistol, the heat of the battle, the sweetness of adventure was not the same as to want the one who has all these things.

“Then you have nothing to worry about.”

“You love your friends,” Constance said, a statement not a question. Athos shrugged.

“I’d be lost without them,” he admitted matter-of-factly, as befits a fundamental truth.

Envy. That was what she felt looking at Athos and his friends – envy. And in her heart she’d been aware of what it was from the very beginning, but she could not admit that, for envy is a bad thing. But she wished these young men no ill, not at all, she just longed for what they had – fellowship, familiarity, unspoken understanding. The certainty that somewhere there’s a house where all your wounds would be cured. These three had each other. She had brothers who were far away, some acquaintances, none of whom was as close to her as her childhood friends in Cercy-la-Tour, and a husband she, frankly speaking, had never truly loved.

But she was brave. She remembered that now: she was brave. Brave enough to admit that she was lonely, and brave enough to do something about it.

“What time does that craftsman of yours open his shop?”

“About eight in the morning, usually.”

“Excellent. I’ll have to go to the market to buy some groceries tomorrow. If I drop by the garrison on my way there, say, at nine, will you be there?”

“I shall try to.”

Later, the knife Constance chanced to obtain was provided with a well-made patterned sheath, and she made a habit of carrying it any time she went anywhere, in case she came across someone like its previous owner again.

Later, that winter, when a strange young man grabbed her at the market and kissed her, it was that very knife that she pulled out.

But all of that – as well as many other surprising, at times happy, at times distressing, always thrilling events – came later.

#the musketeers #the musketeers bbc #constance bonacieux #athos #porthos #aramis #the address is where aramis lives in the novel and i believe it should be a much posher place #but the show threw book accuracy and historical accuracy out of the window so i decided not to worry about that #the title is from wuthering heights obvs #my fic #talk talk talk #gella talks musketeers #alexandre dumas #has next to nothing to do with this but i need author tags for organizational purposes

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