Touché~ part deux

[mrua7.livejournal.com]

link to part one:
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“Do not tell me, “ Illya asked. “Madame Coquenard?”

“No, and how could you possibly know that? No one knows of my affair with Madame.” Porthos demanded. “You just arrived in the city.”

“Ummm, people talk and that is what they were saying about the great Porthos, a lover extraordinaire.” This was getting more bizarre, Illya thought to himself.. Why was his dream going this way? Perhaps it was because Napoleon was a ladies man, just as Porthos was.  Illya thought he wanted to wake up, but now he was intrigued as to how this hallucination was going to turn out.”

“Oh well, when you put it that way, fine. Let’s go, my thirst is growing, and I feel like more wenching, a good sword fight does that to me.” Porthos laughed.

“You’re always that way,”April said. “You never miss a chance to chase after a pretty girl.”

Illya tried not to snicker.



“You know for a bumpkin, noble or not you fight well with a sword. Perhaps we may not kill you after all, my fellow Gascon.” She smiled, giving him a hard thump on the back.

Illya was startled at her contact, unaccustomed to such boisterous behaviour from April, yet he reminded himself that it wasn’t her, it was Aramis.

He took a leap in logic. “Tell me Porthos, your Countess...she would not happen to be a bleach blonde, would she?”

“Bleach blonde? You speak very strangely for a Gascon. My Countess is a stunning creature, lithe and her hair is so fair, nearly white. Her eyes are captivating. Here is a photograph of her. “





“Angelique.” Illya muttered, “Why is this no surprise?”

“Not Angelique, though that is an intriguing name;  she is Milady de Winter.”

“A most deceitful and treacherous creature.” Illya hissed. “How you can be with a woman who is your enemy and could kill you if it were her whim. This I will never understand.” His dislike for Angelique was coloring his dream just as it did in the waking world.

“True true, but a little danger adds to the spice of life.”

“Same old Napoleon.” Illya muttered softly, not letting his partner...rather, Porthos hear.

They returned to the part of the city where Illya’s first meeting with Porthos and Aramis began, entering the tavern. Weaving in and out of the passers by, both rich and poor, on their daily business.  Horse drawn carriages, carts pulled by steer,  sheep being herded off to market.  The sights, sounds and intense smells assaulted Illya’s senses.

It was dark, smelled of smoke from a roaring fireplace as well as a musty dampness. There were a few roughly hewn tables scattered around the main room, with plenty of serving women there to fulfill the many needs of travellers who graced the taverns presence.

“Ah Porthos! I missed you!” One of the women called out to him.

“My beauty, I haven’t been gone that long.” He took her in his arms, fondling her breasts while kissing her, yet his other hand crept beneath her skirt.

“Porthos, there is a time and a place for that!” A voice called out, coming from a man seated in the shadows by the fireplace. He was simply dressed, a white short sleeve shirt and a lab apron over his clothes and no Musketeer cape covering his shoulders.  Puffs of smoke encircled his head, coming from a long white clay pipe he held in his hand.

Illya sneezed from the smell of it; wondering why he would have allergies in his dreams. Yet it was a distinctive and familiar scent that rose above the other odors in the tavern, Isle of Dogs # 22.

“This, D’Artagnan is my cousin, the dour Athos.” Porthos announced.

“To be precise young man, I am Armand, Seigneur de Sillègue, d'Athos, et d'Autevielle_"Lord of Sillègue, Athos, and Autivielle but I am better known as Athos, formerly of the King’s Musketeers.  He stood as he recited his lineage, and there was with no doubt in Illya’s mind, it was Alexander Waverly.

That image struck the Russian as funny, forcing him to not laugh out loud.  Alexander Waverly as Athos? The man was easily in his seventies. The character of Athos was the most important of the Three Musketeers, so that at least made sense given Waverly’s leadership position.

Athos was a bit of a father figure to d'Artagnan and Illya had sensed that same thing from the first time he met the Old Man in Moskva. It was that feeling of a father figure that must be influencing his dream this way.

Athos was older than his comrades, but in the book he was still a young man. Like Waverly, he was distinguished in every way--intellect, appearance, bravery, swordsmanship--yet unlike Waverly, he was tortured by a deep melancholy, the source of which no one knew. His secret of course was the Lady De Winter. A capable and beautiful spy, Milady was remorseless and unrepentant for her countless "misdeeds."

In the novel, Milady has a secret, and she kills anyone who finds it out--her left shoulder was branded with the Fleur-de-Lis, a mark put on the worst criminals. She was revealed to be the wife of Athos and after being expelled by him, she became an agent of Cardinal Richelieu, working as his spy, assassin and messenger.

She steals the jewels that Anne of Austria, wife of King Louis XIII, entrusted to her lover, the English minister Duke of Buckingham, but the intended scandal is averted. D'Artagnan himself later meets Milady and falls under her spell, though he also pursues an affair with her maid, Kitty.

Illya could only imagine who was going to show up in those roles.“Where the hell was this dream taking him?” He had never experienced one in which he was self aware, knowing that he was asleep.

“So Monsieur D’Artagnan, what brings you to Versaille?” Athos asked, turning his attention from a beaker full of chemicals from a workbench that was beside the fireplace, starting to mix them. He poured the concoction into a tankard of ale, handing it to Illya.





He accepted it warily and did not drink. “They would not happen to have vodka here would they?”

“Vodka, what is vodka young man?

“Chyort, my dream and I cannot even have vodka?”

“D’Artagnan, for a Gascon you have an odd way about you. What words are these that you’re speaking dear? They’re foreign to my ears.” Aramis questioned.

“It is Russian.”

“Russe? How could you, a country bump...a Gascon know  that language?” Porthos asked.

“Lucky I guess,” Illya shrugged. “I speak many languages.”

Porthos, Aramis and Athos burst out into a fit of laughter.

“And a talented liar in each of them I’m sure. Only Porthos has the luck. “ Aramis giggled.

“Yes,” He grinned,” Lucky in life, lucky in love.” Porthos pulled another of the tavern girls to his lap, kissing her as she squealed and squirmed, then pushed her away with a playful slap to the rump. “I think you are a very confused young man, D’Artagnan.” he said.

The door to the tavern opened, and a woman wearing a dark hooded cape stepped inside.  She uncovered her head slowly, revealing pale blonde hair.




“Angelique!” Illya growled, detesting her very presence.

PART Three