Three D'Artagnans and a Musketeer

Three D'Artagnans and a Musketeer.

                       Conclusion.

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 Chapter 9. The Road to the Coast.

 The musketeers stopped to rest in some rural village.
 To start with, they ordered mutton and something for the soul.
 "A strange thing," Aramis said thoughtfully, "here we are gallivanting at full tilt toward England..."
 "Cantering," Athos inserted, who loved precision in all things. (Rumor had it that because of this, he had once been entrusted with the calculations for the construction of the Leaning Tower of Pisa.)
 "May I voice a thought," Porthos suddenly cut into the conversation.
 The musketeers looked intently at Porthos—such delicacy was entirely uncharacteristic of him, and frankly contraindicated. Porthos even had a certificate to that effect from Monsieur de Tréville's personal dentist, which stated:
 "The bearer of this document possesses the potential capability of an expulsive nature, which distinguishes his personality as extraordinary and inclined toward violent outbursts of emotion."
 Therefore, when Porthos, during a soirée at the Marquise de Lacour's, threw a grand piano and eighty-six pieces of Chinese porcelain out the window, not only did he get away with it, but he was actually applauded.
 "The reflection of the external world constitutes the essence of our internal universe and presents itself as unique to each individual," Porthos said.
 Following these words, D'Artagnan downed a glass of wine in one gulp, while Aramis said hesitantly:
 "I'll go check on the horses."
 Athos, however, showed not the slightest sign of concern, gazing off into the distance with complete indifference.
 "Developing this statement," Porthos continued, "I would like to ask you a few questions. You may maintain total silence, for anything you say will fly out like a sparrow and might be used as a visual illustration to construct a general image."
 "What kind of horse manure are you spouting?" a voice came from an adjacent table.
 "Silence, you blessed soul!" Porthos answered him sweetly.
 "I'm having a bit of trouble grasping the thread of your reasoning," D'Artagnan noted cautiously.
 "The point is that the existence of anything depends on how much we perceive it," Porthos explained. "Take this bottle of wine, for example. What does it represent in and of itself? Merely our perception of it, such as the visual impression of the bottle, the tactile sensation thereof, as well as smell and taste."
 "And didn't you forget anything?" Athos asked him.
 "Once upon a time," Porthos replied, "when I was five years old, I went into an outhouse and forgot to take off my pants. But that's a secret, and I'm telling it to you as my friends. If anyone else finds out about this incident, I'll skewer him on my rapier like a goose on a spit."
 Everyone in the tavern went quiet for a moment, and then they all spoke at once in unison:
 "We didn't hear a thing and we don't know a thing."
 And one voice clarified:
 "I didn't hear how the gentleman musketeer crapped his pants when he went into an outhouse and forgot to pull them down, either."
 "That's more like it," Porthos said menacingly, then smiled peaceably.
 Everyone exhaled in relief; laughter and jokes were heard, and that exact same voice shouted out, addressing Porthos:
 "Don't you feel bad, it could happen to anyone, especially with a hangover and after eating sour pickles."
 At that moment, Aramis returned.
 "Well, how are the horses?" D'Artagnan asked him.
 "They said not to worry and send their regards."
 "How sweet," D'Artagnan admitted.
 "That's nothing," Athos argued with him. "During the Spanish campaign, I had an Arabian stallion. I taught him to bring me slippers in the morning and steal chickens. But he came to a bad end—one night at a grand ball he got plastered like a pig and picked a fight with the hussars."
 "Yes," Aramis confirmed, "I knew him well. He had piercing blue eyes and a monocle that he wore on holidays."
 "I'm feeling a bit unwell," D'Artagnan remarked and went out for some fresh air.
 The musketeers looked after him with pity.
 "He's so young and knows so little," Athos noted in an undertone.
 "And he certainly hasn't seen the mountaineering penguins yet," Porthos chimed in.
 D'Artagnan stepped outside and beheld an amazing landscape. Without wasting a minute, he took an easel in hand and began hastily making sketches. On his third attempt, he got it right. In the depiction, the Gascon recognized himself. "Probably a mirror," D'Artagnan thought, though it was a puddle.
 Athos and Aramis stepped out of the tavern, their faces grim and serious. To the proposal to continue their journey to England, D'Artagnan agreed, but asked where Porthos had gone.
 "He was attacked by his alter ego, and Porthos challenged him to a duel," Athos replied sadly.
 "The Cardinal's hand is in this, no doubt," D'Artagnan conjectured.
 "He is undoubtedly very clever," Athos thought.
 They set their horses to a gallop, and at one point Aramis slipped from the saddle, but managed to snag his spur on the stirrups. In this position, he rode for about ten miles before falling under the wheels of a random carriage and being put out of action.
 On the departing carriage, D'Artagnan managed to make out the inscription:
 "From each according to his ability, to the rest—a punch in the face. Cardinal Richelieu."
 "Now there are only two of us left," D'Artagnan noted, "and the coast is still eight miles away."
 "We ought to have a talk," Athos said suddenly.
 The Gascon looked at Athos in surprise.
 "Just don't interrupt me," Athos warned right away. "Only you will make it to the coast, while I am destined to get stuck somewhere halfway. Perhaps I will even perish."
 "Why this pessimism?" D'Artagnan inquired.
 "I've read the script," Athos explained.
 "In that case, let twenty of the Cardinal's guards attack us right now; I will gallop ahead, and you will engage in an unequal combat," D'Artagnan suggested.
 "Twenty is a bit much," Athos doubted.
 "Well, maybe five then," the Gascon offered.
 "Better make it one, for an even count," Athos suggested.
 "So, the headcount is settled," D'Artagnan summarized. "All that's left is to choose the equipment and appearance. In my opinion, the enemy should wear a feathered hat and be armed to the teeth."
 "Fear God," Athos objected. "Let him wear a Scottish kilt and bedroom slippers, and as for weapons, a penknife will be quite enough."
 "The things one does for a friend," D'Artagnan agreed.
 Suddenly, Rochefort jumped out of a thicket of wild currants clutching a penknife and yelled at the top of his lungs:
 "Forgive my ridiculous appearance, but I am attacking you!"
 To which Athos, struggling with great difficulty against the laughter that was choking him, uttered:
 "Ride on, D'Artagnan, to England—I'll hold him off!"
 D'Artagnan drew his pistol and fired several times. The laughter staggered and fell rather awkwardly.
 "It won't choke you anymore," D'Artagnan explained.

 Chapter 10. London.

 The waves slapped lazily against the schooner's hull. D'Artagnan stood impatiently at the prow, peering into the thickening fog. At last, slowly but inevitably, the outline of a great city began to take shape.
 Spotting someone on the shore, D'Artagnan asked:
 "Is this London?"
 "No, monsieur," the man replied, "this is Boston."
 D'Artagnan spun around to the skipper and yelled:
 "Turn it around, we've already overshot England!"
 "Hardly surprising," the skipper replied placidly. "In a fog like this, you wouldn't just miss England, you'd fail to spot Greenland right off."
 D'Artagnan bit his lip; the skipper's blunder had cost him an extra twenty minutes, and time was more precious than ever.
 At last, they began to dock. First the skipper dropped anchor, then his striped shirt and his watch, and finally he had to give up the ghost.
 D'Artagnan grabbed the first horse he could find and galloped toward the Duke of Buckingham's palace. D'Artagnan did not know English, but he had jotted down a few words on a piece of paper and showed it to the trusting inhabitants of foggy Albion:
 "A transaction occurs when a simulated customer makes a deposit or withdrawal from an account through a teller."
 For some reason, the English laughed loudly, pointed fingers at D'Artagnan, but then gave directions and asked for an autograph as a keepsake.
 D'Artagnan found the Duke out hunting. Having skimmed the Queen's letter, Buckingham recalled an association with an ancient Scottish song, which he promptly sang. In translation, the song went as follows:

     Verse 1:
     An old and faithful friend of mine
     Rode through the woods in chase of game
     When suddenly his heart gave thump
     Like thunder rolling through the sky

     Chorus:
     Oh, my dearest beloved—twice
     Bangolo-bangolo-bangolo-Pim—twice
     What did you leave for in a distant land—twice
     Tyryry-rym-Tyryrym-Tyryrym—twice

     Verse 2:
     He called his hound from out the woods
     Upon his steed he climbs right then
     He locked his door with a padlocked bolt
     And the wind is howling in his ears.

     Chorus.

     Verse 3.
     He never returned to his native hearth
     Perished somewhere in a mire
     This song reminded me just now
     Of the tale of Lancelot.

     Chorus.

"Well, how was it?" Buckingham asked.

"A fine soprano," D'Artagnan agreed.

"Speaking of boots," Buckingham pondered, "I'll be sorry to part with them: first of all, they're a gift from the Queen, and second, they don't pinch at all. You must agree, my friend—it's hard to find good footwear. And these boots, besides, barely get dirty; you can walk in them for hours, even whole days, and then just wipe them with a damp cloth and they look brand new. Between you and me, I don't even take them off at night, and not because I'm afraid someone might pinch them, but simply because I feel an inner need to always be near them, to look at them, stroke them, embrace them. Some call this fetishism, yet I believe that term is somewhat inaccurate. But on the other hand, call it whatever you like, just don't attribute anything extra to me, like automorphism. Anyway, I've rambled on. Follow me. I shall give you the boots now."

The Duke led D'Artagnan into the hall, fetched a coffer, and took out a boot.

Showering it (the boot) with kisses, the Duke noticed with surprise that the second boot was missing.

"Bullshot," said the Duke.

"And what are we supposed to do now? You must admit, Duke, the Queen will look rather silly in just one boot."

"Yes, you are right," Buckingham agreed, "though on the other hand, it's rather piquante and I'd even say sexy. In our era of long skirts, it's very hard to sneak a peek at anything, and sometimes such a need arises."

Evidently, the Duke had touched upon a vital subject for himself, so D'Artagnan hastened to steer the train of thought into a different channel.

"And what about the boot?" the Gascon asked, as if casually.

"Which boot?" The Duke had indulged in his own memories so deeply that he didn't immediately grasp what was being discussed.

"The left one, I believe," D'Artagnan said thoughtfully.

"Ah, yes," the Duke realized. "Hey, shoemaker!" he shouted.

About twenty men came running at the call and asked in unison:

"In what sense?"

"In the literal one," Buckingham replied.

Eighteen breathed a sigh of relief and headed back. Of the two remaining, one was the actual royal shoemaker. All kinds of rumors circulated about him, such as that while taking measurements of the Queen's foot, the shoemaker claimed he needed to know her hip circumference for complete information. That time, the measuring took about thirty minutes, after which both looked happy, albeit a bit tired, but the boots turned out magnificent.

The second of the remaining men was a certain Schumacher, who was German by birth and didn't understand a single word of English, but answered to the word "Shoemaker." He was quickly ushered away and even promised a free vacation voucher to Italy.

...And the next day, D'Artagnan was already galloping toward Paris, clutching the ill-fated boots in one hand and a chest expander in the other.

Chapter 11. The Ball.

The next morning, a ball was held in Paris. Carriages carrying invited guests rolled up to the town hall one after another. Casual passersby and unmarried maidens crowded around them, begging for an extra ticket.

The King was clearly in a foul mood and even stuck his tongue out at the Queen twice; the Cardinal, on the contrary, displayed high spirits and flirted with other men's wives.

Richelieu, with a vile smile that occasionally turned (a remarkably difficult word to spell. Author's note) into a smirk, casually strolled over to the King.

"Howdy!" the Cardinal said.

"Right back at you and in the exact same spot!" the King retorted.

"Nice day, isn't it?" Richelieu tried to strike up a conversation.

"Depends on how you look at it," Louis grew nervous. "From a meteorological standpoint, sure, but if you approach it from an inner feeling perspective, options may vary."

"No wonder you look so unwell!"

"What? Am I very pale?" the King asked.

"Nah, your fly is unzipped," replied the Cardinal.

"Is that a joke or a hint?" Louis inquired.

"It's a hint," Richelieu said calmly.

"Well then, be so kind as to zip up this little oversight."

"That is not within my job description," the Cardinal sulked.

"You always make a problem out of everything—first you snitch, and now you run for the hills?" Louis grew angry.

"You know, it actually suits you," Richelieu tried to soothe him. "Such a picturesque combination of colors really flatters your face."

"Flatters my what?" the King asked nervously.

"Your face," Richelieu confirmed.

"Let's change the subject," Louis suggested. "What is, is, and what isn't, can't be."

"By the way," Richelieu remarked.

The King flinched.

"Whenever you say 'by the way,' I always flinch," Louis explained.

"By the way, by the way, by the way, by the way, by the way," Richelieu joked. "Will the Queen wear the green boots that Your Majesty gifted her for the holiday?"

"Not another word," Louis interrupted him. "That must have been the harvest festival. Remember how the entire crop was brought to the storehouse, and out of sheer hooliganism, you and I set that grain elevator on fire? And then we blamed the Huguenots for everything and went to war with them. And the Huguenots beat the living daylights out of us, so we had to abandon all the cannons and the royal treasury. Truly fun times."

"No," said the Cardinal, "that was a different holiday."

"Well then, it must have been during the Pope's visit to Paris. You were exchanging experiences with the Hare Krishnas back then and shaved your head bald for greater effect. And just for laughs, De Treville and I rubbed your head with phosphorus. The Pope laughed heartily back then and granted you his blessing, and as a return gesture, you took him to a nightclub."

"No, that's not it either."

"Then I must have gifted the boots to the Queen at your engagement to Madame De La Croix. You claimed back then that striptease was the most important of all arts for us, and then you made a bet with the bishop on who could jump out the window faster. The bishop won, and three days later, we threw a splendid party at his wake. As I recall, you danced a jig and drank Bruderschaft with minors."

"No," the Cardinal interrupted Louis, "the boots were presented to the Queen for her birthday. You were rambling all sorts of nonsense back then about how these boots would become a symbol of unshakeable friendship between you and Their Majesty, and then you gorged yourself on pork and spent the evening in the crapper."

"That may well be how it was," Louis remarked coldly, adding, "The Queen will wear the boots today."

"In that case," said Richelieu, handing the King the boot that Milady had pinched from Buckingham, "show her this."

"What kind of boot is this?" Louis wondered.

"The left one, I believe," the Cardinal answered.

A little later, the ballet began. According to etiquette, Louis danced with the wife of the mayor, who had actually thrown the party. The Cardinal refused to dance under the pretext of feeling dizzy and breathless, though in reality Richelieu just wanted to hang out with the lads at the bar, where free beer was rumored to be on tap.

Hardly waiting for the ballet to end, the King approached the Queen and handed her the boot.

"But I already have two?" Anne of Austria gasped.

"Lift your skirt then," Louis said distrustfully.

Under the skirt were two boots and something else besides.

Louis summoned the Cardinal and asked:

"Well then, and what does this mean?"

Richelieu immediately launched into lies, saying he had merely wanted to present a boot as a gift, but hadn't quite dared to, and so he had resorted to this method as the only way out of the predicament.

"His Eminence probably believes I have three legs?" the Queen asked.

"Two of them left," the King added gleefully.

"You can never have too much of a good leg on a woman," the Cardinal replied as politely as he could muster.

This scene was witnessed by all, but its meaning was understood by few.

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Brief Digression. (The Cardinal Richelieu Anthology)

D'Artagnan: That night I was on watch. It was a small pocket watch with a silver lid. I remember the Duke De Guise came up to me then and asked if we were going to sing tonight. Frankly, I wasn't particularly keen, but Athos said we definitely had to take the stage.

Porthos: We had just returned from India, where we met with the Dalai Lama and Krishna Hari. By that time, our new album was ready.

Athos: D'Artagnan said back then, "I don't wanna play bass guitar," so basically a few difficulties arose. And I told him, "What's the problem, get behind the keyboards."

Aramis: We played a few songs and called it a night. Everyone around was shouting something; at times we couldn't even hear ourselves.

Athos: I remember the reception wasn't quite the usual at first. Normally we played for a young audience, but here the entire nobility had gathered, and subconsciously they weren't ready for that kind of music yet.

Porthos: The Queen and the King were in high spirits. Whistling and applauding the whole time. Anne of Austria wore a badge with the inscription "I love BekinGem." Richelieu, on the contrary, was sullen the entire time and seemed eager for it all to end. Then he tried to slip away unnoticed, but we saw everything from the stage.

D'Artagnan: People said about us—these lads have just returned from Hamburg, and that played into our hands: we became truly famous.

---

After the concert, D'Artagnan went backstage. Constance was waiting for him there; she threw herself at the Gascon, crying:

"Love me like an armored train!"

"Well then," D'Artagnan thought, "I suppose the evening was a success!"

Meanwhile, the Cardinal was biting his lips. They were the lips of Rochefort and Milady.

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THE END.