Dying by the Sword

The Disadvantages of a Hot Day; Many Ways to Slacken Thirst; Evangelists and Pigs

ARAMIS had realized, about an hour into the drive-no, the journey, for it was epic and involved shades of odyssey-that he probably could get to Paris earlier if he got down and walked. This because not only did the oxen move at a snail’s pace, but also the two men in charge of the oxen felt it incumbent upon them to stop at every roadside stall and every isolated farmhouse to purvey themselves with the necessities of life.

There were two reasons he hadn’t actually jumped off the oxcart. The first was that while the oxen were probably slightly slower than Aramis could walk, by sitting in the cart he was sparing his legs, for what he expected would be a run all over Paris to locate his friends, once he got to town. The second, and no less pressing, was that the necessities of life-according to his ex-captors-included a great deal of food and wine, which, of course, they shared freely with him, by way of reparation.

On the road so far, he had tasted some very good ham, some excellent bread, a strong-smelling cheese and a dozen boiled eggs. All of this-the day being hot for the end of winter-had necessitated washing it down with a great deal of wine.

So, by the time they stopped on the farm at the edge of town, where his amiable hosts had friends or contacts or cousins, or whatever it was they had, Aramis was feeling quite at ease with the world and, indeed, of a warm and glowing disposition, where all would be forgiven.

They let him off and explained they were about to go back to the neighborhood where they’d first mistakenly importuned him, so they could capture the original miscreant.

“Well,” Aramis had said airily, “only, be sure to take a box with you, in case he resists.”

This had resulted in many laughs, which had eventually dissolved into giggles and a never end of “your musketeerness,” and Aramis was never to understand exactly how, but he found himself walking along the street with Jean and Marc in the best of understandings.

Or at least, he hoped they understood him correctly, since he was attempting to lecture them on the biblical significance of their names and explaining that if they were evangelists, and his name were Luke, they would be three of a set of four. This seemed to impress them profoundly, and Marc expressed the earnest hope that, if he had his life to live again, he could become knowledgeable in Latin and Greek “and all that horse manure.” Forgiving his way of expressing himself, which was clearly due to his lack of exposure to the belles lettres, Aramis said, “My friend, Porthos, he has the same problem. That’s why… that’s why we have this plan.” He walked along for a while in silence, his mind assuring him that he’d said absolutely everything he needed to say, until Jean said, “Your musketeerness?”

“Yes, mon bon Jean?”

“You never told us your plan.”

“Oh, it’s simple. You take a word, any word. The word this week is inscrutable. And you learn that word for a week. And when the word is-” Aramis stopped because his intended audience had run in opposite directions, away from him, as fast as their legs could carry him.

Looking forward, Aramis discovered the cause of their fright. There were not one, not two, but at least six men, wearing dark cloaks and armed with swords. “I knew you would come back,” the leader of them said, advancing towards Aramis with drawn sword.

Aramis had a vague idea of having met with this treatment before, but the adventure he’d just undergone had given him fresh insight into the possible causes of this. “I think,” he said, as he crossed his arms, “that you have quite the wrong man. You see, I’m not Pierre.”

“Not Pierre?” the leader said, and looked so confused that, for a moment he halted his advance and lowered his sword. “What do you mean by this, that you’re not Pierre?”

“Well, I would think that is glaringly obvious,” Aramis said, hearing creep into his voice the peevish tone that he normally used to explain some point of theology to his religion-blighted friends. “If I were Pierre, I would be Pierre. But as it chances, I’m not Pierre. I am Re-I mean… I am Aramis.” He took his hat off and bowed, very correctly.

At which point the furies of Hell broke loose. At least that’s what Aramis thought at the time, though later on, on reflection, he realized that someone had got into the backyard of one of the nearby houses and opened the pens containing the usual collection of domestic animals. Or perhaps more than one backyard, since a veritable bedlam of pigs, chickens, and a few very frightened goats rushed onto the street at the same time.

Bewildered, not quite sure where he was, thinking that perhaps he had gotten off at one of the various isolated farmhouses they’d stopped at, Aramis heard, through the din of bleating, oinking and cackling, a familiar voice saying “Run, your musketeerness. Run.”

It seemed like as good an idea as any, and, besides, Aramis had always had a horror of living poultry, since, at the age of two, he’d been attacked by the family farm’s very territorial rooster. He ran.

He dodged a pig, stepped over a chicken, might possibly have stepped on another chicken’s neck, and thought it was a pity that Mousqueton wasn’t there to put it out of its misery and bring it to his friends, and then, running along a broad thoroughfare, realized that he was supposed to go to his friends. He was supposed to warn them that something was very seriously wrong.

From the color of the sunset, in the horizon, he suspected that his friends might very well be home, that is, if whoever she was-this woman-hadn’t got their heads, as she wished to. Either that, or Paris was burning, and Aramis hoped Paris wasn’t burning, otherwise all the chickens would get roasted before they were plucked and cleaned.

Vaguely recognizing the area he was in, he changed directions, and ran towards Rue Ferou, where Athos’s residence was. He arrived there out of breath, and knocked on the door, until it was opened by a very disapproving-looking Grimaud.

Aramis thought someone might overhear him, since he was outside, on the doorstep, so he leaned in close and said in what he thought was a whisper, and yet boomed confusingly in his ears, “Grimaud, fetch your master.”

“Monsieur Aramis!” Grimaud said.

“Yes, yes,” Aramis said. “I’m out of breath. I was running. The thing was, she’s out to kill us all, and the chickens are about to get roasted.” At which point and unaccountably, he lost his hold on verticality and started tilting forward. Grimaud stopped his fall and yelled, “Bazin, curse you, leave your rosary beads, your master needs you!”

And then the world went a long way away from Aramis.