Athos’s look at Aramis was quick enough to capture the expression of horror on his face. Madame Athenais Coquenard was Porthos’s lover of some years now. She was also-though born to minor nobility-the wife of an aged accountant, and well past thirty. On all these counts, she was disqualified from the pool of women that interested Aramis. On the other hand, it was hard to deny that she was indeed one of the women of France and that Aramis had, therefore, just declared his intention of sleeping with her. Twice. Athos would have laughed, were it not for the fact that he had a strong feeling if the girl wanted Aramis-or in fact, himself-he would find himself in her bed before he could think twice.

Aramis, realizing where his words had led him, turned to Porthos. “Oh, be still, Porthos. I was only… That is… You know that Athenais is not a woman.” And, as Porthos bristled at this, rapidly he added. “She is something far beyond woman, something that, to own the truth, terrifies me a little. I’m afraid should I pursue any intimacy with her, she would suggest I wear a green dress.” [6]

Porthos didn’t smile. He nodded, thoughtfully. “Well,” he said. “She scares me a little too, but the thing is that…” He shrugged. “Some of us like to know we are courting a woman who could, if needed, take us in combat. Though perhaps not in fair combat,” he added, even more thoughtfully. “I’m sure Athenais is not an amazon.”

Aramis nodded, but turned towards Athos. “Yes, Marie Michon. We’ve been… I think… using each other for some months now. But you know she is… that is, there is no intrigue, in the palace, in which she does not have her dainty hands. Which leads me to thinking of what Monsieur de Treville said.” He shrugged, again. “It is entirely possible I am wrong,” he said. “It is entirely possible that the letter concerned private matters. The lady is, as we all know, as much involved in affairs as she is in intrigues.”

“Yes, this is quite possible,” Athos said. “And yet…” He got up. He would have to tell them his story, and he hesitated. He would have to tell them everything, including the detailed story of why he’d left his domains to become a musketeer. He’d more or less told it to them before, in bits and pieces and, sometimes, he was sure they knew much more than they showed. But he had never explained to them, exactly, what he’d felt… What he still felt for Charlotte.

“Is Marie Michon the nom de guerre of the Duchess de Chevreuse?” Porthos asked.

“What?” Aramis said. “Yes, but you are being insufferably blunt. You must know I was avoiding pronouncing her name.”

“Why? Is it like a magical invocation? Of the sort we’re not supposed to do? You said she was as fond of affairs as of intrigues, and you must know this means you might as well have pronounced her name, because we are not so stupid as not to know that all of the court speaks of both of these characteristics of the lady.”

“Yes, but one should hardly be so blunt as to admit like that, to one’s friends, that one is enjoying a highborn lady’s favors.”

Porthos shrugged, looking bored, then lifted his huge hands, and counted off arguments on his fingers. “First,” he said, “from what I hear, the strangeness of this would be if, given the slightest interest in bedding her, you hadn’t managed to do so. From what I understand there is a line down the halls from her room, and there have been musketeers called in simply to make sure turns are taken in an orderly manner.”

“Porthos!” Aramis said.

Porthos ignored him, and touched the second of his fingers. “Second, we are alone and without our servants, so I fail to see what good secrecy would do us. And third…” He touched a third finger. “And third, did you truly propose to discuss how you suspect her of involvement in a conspiracy without ever once mentioning her name?”

“The lady,” Aramis said, “is not as you paint her.” He spoke through his teeth and had his hand on his sword hilt, but Athos noticed he seemed curiously detached. It was as though he felt he should defend the lady’s honor, and as such was going through it as though it were a play that he must perform, but without any of the feelings of outrage that would normally have colored his actions or motions. What was Aramis, arguably the most romantic of them all, since he was in love with the idea of woman, even when he was merely whiling his time away with the current specimen between his arms, playing at, to be sleeping with a woman he cared for so little?

“Well, I’m merely saying what everyone repeats,” Porthos said, not seeming the least bit embarrassed. “They all say that she will take as a lover anyone who is comely enough, so I have long expected that… well… you are comely enough.”

Athos looked towards Aramis to see how he took this announcement and found his friend making what he thought was a heroic effort not to laugh. “I think I should thank you, Porthos,” he said slowly, “for the compliment, but indeed…” He shrugged. “Well, I’ve been seeing the lady. And while her favors are not as widely given as gossip would have you believe, the truth is that part of the reason I settled upon her is that she will not expect from me that which I cannot give.”

Porthos, who had looked disposed for battle, darted a quick, sympathetic look at his friend and said nothing.

And Athos nodded. “You are probably right, Aramis about… er… Marie Michon being involved in something she should not be. But why do you think she would try to kill you because of it?”

“I don’t know,” Aramis said. “It’s just… I might have said something that irritated her also.”

“I’ve heard many things of the lady,” Athos said, “but none of them that she was in the habit of murdering her lovers over trifles.”

“Oh, not that, it’s just… I had the feeling I left her on less than good terms.”

“And she had cloaked assassins ready to follow you and attack us?” D’Artagnan said. “And she would send six men to attack you? You must pardon me, Aramis, but though the lady has graced you with her favors, do you mean to tell me she has such a high opinion of your sword arm?”

Aramis shook his head. “I don’t know. All of us are taken as gods with the swords, you know, to hear court gossip.”

“Demons, more like,” Athos said. And gave a look at D’Artagnan. “At least the Gascon there. He’s often been compared to a demon with a sword.”

He hesitated, and flung out of his chair, with an impatient movement. Walking to the door to the stairs, he called, “Holla, Grimaud. Bring us cups and half a dozen bottles of the burgundy.”

He couldn’t really hear Grimaud’s answer, an indistinct blur of syllables, such as they got at a distance, but he answered back, “Now, Grimaud. Your service and not your opinions are needed.”

Despite the distance, Athos could swear he heard Grimaud’s sigh with full clarity. After a while there were steps up the stairs, accompanied with a tinkle of crockery. He and Planchet emerged, Planchet carrying four white ceramic cups on a tray and Grimaud bearing bottles.

Though Athos had brought with him or, over time, sent for glasses and porcelain from his domains, normally he and the others drank out of serviceable ceramic mugs, which bore the distinct advantage of being sturdy and of large capacity. Even so, he didn’t know what to make of the fact that Grimaud had opened all the bottles. He set them on the table, side by side, his lips pressed into a tight line of disapproval, and Athos thought the fact that all the bottles were uncorked was meant as a reproach to him. As if to point out he couldn’t control himself.

Grimaud poured wine in each cup and handed one to each of them. D’Artagnan looked at his own dubiously. “I’m not sure if it’s such a good idea after all the brandy.”

But Aramis spoke up. “Drink it, D’Artagnan, for I’m sure that Athos will let you have accommodation for the night, and truth be told, I don’t think you should go back to your lodgings. Not in your state.”