. . . “You’ll have to excuse our lack of manners, but we weren’t expecting visitors,” Aramis told the boy and then took on the role of Athos making the introductions. He nodded at the blond-haired man in the corner. “Allow me to introduce you to Athos, d’Artagnan and Porthos. And I am Aramis.”
She formally acknowledged the greetings. Athos looked at the boy and recognition finally dawned on his throbbing brain. De Langeac. “I didn’t expect to meet you in Marseilles,” she commented. “Does your father know you’re here?” Laurel didn’t respond, just blinked dumbly and remained speechless. She blinked again as if she was trying to clear her suddenly dazed senses.
It was unusually hot here, and an incessant buzzing began to throb louder and louder behind his eyeballs. Why was the room spinning? She wobbled uneasily on her feet, wobbling half to the side. At that moment Athos noticed the crimson streak that extended along his side.
With a movement quick as lightning, he jumped to his feet to help.
“I’ll be quite all right,” Laurel insisted stubbornly. But her body betrayed her and she lost the last vestiges of her balance. Her last coherent thought was that her injury would have to be more serious than she thought.
Athos caught her as she fell forward and, with Porthos’s help, carried her carefully to the bed. The older musketeer stepped over the young man and fixed his gaze on Porthos for a moment. Get me that basin of water and some rags. I’ll see what I can do for the boy. Porthos retrieved the items and gave them to his companion. Typical of Athos to take charge even when he wasn’t feeling well.
D’Artagnan froze, indecision tormenting him. He had to say something before the situation got completely out of hand. “Athos,” he said finally, and the musketeer stopped his preparations to look at d’Artagnan. “I really don’t think it’s wise for a crowd like that to be here. I could take care of it.”
‘D’Artagnan, I have no time to argue with you. This boy needs attention, and you know nothing about treating sword wounds. Not long enough, anyway,” Athos replied dryly, turning his attention from him to Laurel.
D’Artagnan took a step towards the bed and the motionless figure on it. His brow furrowed in an outward reflection of inner turmoil. Athos, you don’t understand.
“I understand that this boy needs help now and not in five minutes,” Athos said as he began to tear the fabric from the wound.
“That’s right,” replied d’Artagnan, despite himself. “That is not a boy you are dealing with. Christophe is a woman. A lady.”
“What?” Athos looked at the young man in astonishment and saw that he was completely serious. Porthos, Aramis, perhaps you should go. D’Artagnan and I will take care of this. Porthos and Aramis soon discussed the matter and simply left their companions to attend to the wounded man.
“Get some more rags, come over here and give me a hand.” I have to stop the bleeding, Athos instructed as he tore the last cloth from the wound. The woman better not have a fit of modesty when she wakes up. Because of her own masquerade, the lady didn’t like her conventions very much, so she had no right to be hysterical because a strange man saw her naked body when she was tending a wound. And Athos really wasn’t in the mood for that.
“Water, please,” the patient croaked upon awakening. She immediately placed a glass in her hand, she drank it and her eyes met Athos’s. “I guess I owe you all an explanation.”
“That could be very useful,” replied Athos. At least without a fit of modesty. It was not even mentioned who had attended her. “Whenever you feel like it, we’re all waiting to hear.”
Laurel tried to sit up and her head swirled. “Easy,” Athos said as he helped her sit up against the bedpost.
“How long have I been here?” she suddenly asked and was informed that two days had passed. “I have to go”.
“MrsAthos told him, using the most formal address available to him. You won’t be going anywhere for at least several days. Anyway, you’re not leaving until you explain to me what brings you to Marseilles and why the deception. They both looked up as the door opened and Porthos, Aramis and d’Artagnan entered. “Perhaps,” suggested Athos. “You could start by telling us who you really are.”
He took a deep breath and closed his eyes in resignation. She opened them again and looked from one man to another. “My name is Laurel Christophe d’Anlass, daughter and heiress, more or less, of the Marquis de Langeac. As for why I am in Marseille, suffice it to say that my home was no longer safe for me.”
“I guess you’ll have to forgive me then,” Porthos informed Laurel. But it doesn’t seem like you’re safer in Marseilles than in Langeac.
“That was just bad luck,” she replied with surprising energy. “Those men coincidentally stumbled across my horse and identified it as belonging to the Marquis de Langeac when a dealer pointed me out as the young man he had last seen riding the animal. And, well, you know the rest.” Hopefully, Rebelle was still safe where the attackers had left him. Another thing to check when he was able to get out and move.
“With all due respect, Mrshow do we know he is telling us the truth now? asked d’Artagnan, doing his best not to insult the lady, although she was making that goal quite difficult.
“Not you,” Laurel admitted, absently adding that Mrs it was not her proper title as she was not married. “There is no possible way I can convince you that I am who I claim to be. I assure you that falsely claiming that I am Laurel d’Anlass would be suicidal. So I place my life in your hands; you have already saved my life.” life twice by my calculations, so I hope they don’t kill me now trying to confirm my identity,” she told the musketeers, particularly d’Artagnan.
Athos motioned for his three companions to back off and sat down next to the woman whose wound he had recently treated. “How could I kill you trying to confirm your identity?”
He lowered his eyes and grimaced as the wound nearly ripped open again. Silence filled the room and no one moved for a few moments that seemed to go on forever.
“Promise me that what I tell you will not go beyond the four of you. It is not only my life that depends on the secret, but also many others, including the king’s.” Somehow, his instincts favored believing his statement. One by one they gave her her words, and she proceeded to tell them about her past. She told them how her mother had died giving birth and how her little brother had died a week later, and then explained that their father decided that the best way to protect his only living child was to take her with him in the car. their missions for the king. . . .
