WM Topic: Shrewd.
It was on the first blush of the sunrise that I had received request from Monsiuer de Tréville for my presence alone in his hotel. What was to transpire did not become much of a surprise to me, you see, as it was the morning following the eventide I had pledged my loyalty and allegiance to Monsieur de Tréville, to His Majesty, and to France. It had become expected of me. My blade, my life, and the very essence of my existence belonged to them; to wield in any way they deemed necessary. If they had asked me to plunge myself to my own demise from the edge of a cliff I would have done so with little complaint. I was my own man no longer. It was as I saw fit to serve something greater than myself. An inner retribution, perhaps.
I forbade any further onward steps from my mute servant, Grimaud, at the entrance before I presented myself in my higher officer's hotel. It was completely barren, unlike the many days I had witnessed the floors being stampeded by footsteps and the air boisterous with laughter from fellow Musketeers who had made Tréville's hotel their own. It must have been a meeting he wished be completely discreet if he had barred his own Musketeers for the morning, whom were very much like his own children through his eyes. I had donned the Musketeer tunic less than a day and already I was beginning to wonder if it was to be stripped from me for some unforeseen reason, after I had spent the last two years working to achieve it. What else could have been so urgent and so secretive? To have your tunic taken away was the lowest dishonor a Musketeer could forego. It was as painful an action as it was, in contrast, a grand honor to earn it. Tréville had been known to be a man honorable enough to undertake this punishment without the company of invasive ears.
With a pounding heart, I knocked my fist timidly against the large oaken door.
"Come in, Athos," Tréville's voice rang from the other side.
I opened the door and declined my head in a respective bow at the first sight of my officer; a legendary face within the borders of France. His very name alone was uttered with complete fear from his enemies and respect from his friends. I closed the door behind me and met Tréville's demeaning gaze with a humble one. "You sent for me, monsieur?"
A smirk twitched the corner of his lip and he curled his fingers against his mustache, observing me in silence. It was a method, I think. A tactic that he used often to leave whoever it was carrying the arduous misfortune of being summoned in such a manner. He had the intention to leave me nervous and it was working well in his favor. The sadist.
"Do you believe me to be made a fool, Musketeer?"
My eyes widened abruptly and I cast my gaze fully to him, disbelieving that the question was meant for me. "I would have to be a ninny to think of you one, monsieur," came my answer quickly.
"Then what has led you to think that I would not find you out?" He asked sharply.
A million thoughts swarmed my mind as angered bees around a hive and I bit into my lip until the first coppery taste of blood was drawn out. I maintained my silence, praying that doing so would prompt him to continue. Fortune was with me at least for that moment.
"Among the two years you have been in my scope, Athos, I have observed you closely," said Tréville while pacing in front of me, his eyes never once relinquishing from their sturdy grasp on my still stricken gaze, "Adrien, you claimed your name was. A simple man from a quaint village outside of Paris, you said. Simple men, however, do not carry the well-born chin you have consistently portrayed. Your falconry knowledge alone even impressed His Majesty himself!"
I closed my eyes, knowing exactly on what track his words were riding. It was a fault, my father had told me, that I could not lie even to save my own life. It was why I had created the unspoken presence that many knew to be part of my identity. What was never spoken would never be spoken, questions would be less likely asked, and I had hoped to make my past just that: my past. That Tréville wanted to know me when I admitted my intention of becoming a Musketeer, I had introduced myself by the first name my mind thought of. Adrien was my middle name and the village that I claimed to be from was, in fact, the same village from whence came the nurse who had once served me.
"Further investigation and observance," he continued, "I had discovered there was no Adrien from the town you claimed to be from, as if I did not already expect that. Moreover, there was reported missing a noble, the Comte de La Fére Olivier, to be precise. How interesting it is that the time of his reported missing closely matches that of your sudden appearance?"
The name of my true identity was enough to cast my eyes open and I felt my heart skip a beat. I knew, one day, I would be discovered, but I did not consider that it would come so soon. Tréville had proven himself a cunning and shrewd man. Though the presented evidence was not something that would've taken a scholarly investigator to discover, I had not thought that a man of his standing would find interest in the task. I was often in the habit of underestimating some, truth be told, and that mistake was now rearing its ugly head. However, Muskeeters were forced to adopt a new name when they pledge their loyalty, much in effort to protect them.
Tréville's pacing gait came to a stop when he offered the final question, "You are the Comte de La Fére, aren't you?"
I fought myself for a response. My honor bade me to honesty, but my pride and, perhaps, fear controlled the answer that came. "Do I look like a man of station?"
I was barely able to finish my response when the sting of his leather glove across the left side of my face jostled my senses and left me in a state of shock. He had struck me! I hesitantly, much like that of a subservient dog, straightened myself to look at him.
"You stand before me and tell me to my face you think me a fool!" He said, his voice raising. "The pride and honor of France you wear upon your breast and you, in the face of your superior, lie as though I were mindless!" He turned sharply from me, his words continuing to fly at me as though he were throwing knives and I was nailed to a bullseye. "Less than a day you bear that cross and now I stand to tell you that you are not worthy of it! A symbol of that honor and the title of a Musketeer which it carries are trademarks of a man who holds himself above all in the highest moral decree. Truth, justice, honor, loyalty to King and Country, but most of all, to each other!"
He turned to face me. I could hear the loose gravel on the floor scraping beneath the pivoting heels of his boots. I must have looked like an adolescent dog with its tail between its legs by this point, cut down so harshly by his words. "All for one and one for all."
That stung. The final dagger that he could've thrust into my breast, that was it. I was wordless and ashamed, unable to so much as raise my eyes to look at him. Of noble blood, of noble society, and this man before whom I stood made me feel as a commoner, if even that honored.
"Oui, monsieur," I was finally able to utter, though my dry voice presented the truth softly. "I am the Comte de La Fére. Though what I told you about my history may be falsehood, I want to propose that the oath I took and the vows I've made were true and from my heart. Speaking of loyalty to you, to the King, and to France should not be seen in the same light as the stories of my past." A heavy breath was inhaled and I slid my hands beneath the tunic, feeling its weight as I began to lift it off of me. I felt a hand settle on my shoulder and I stopped to look up.
"A couple of lessons, then, you will take with you today," Tréville said, his voice void of the sharp weapons that he had thrust at me mere minutes prior. He removed his hand from my shoulder to raise a single finger. "Lesson number one: we all have ghosts in our past. The mistakes we make do not have to condemn us if we do what we believe is the right way to repent." Turning from me to approach his desk, he folded his hands behind his back. "Lesson number two: I am not in the practice of dishonoring my Musketeers. If you wear that tunic it is because you have earned it, and you will not be void of it so easily. You wanted it? You're stuck with it." He turned again, that stone face of his cracking not even once. "But if you so much as break wind in the wrong direction for the next month, then I can guarantee you will wish I had stripped it of you this day. Understood?"
Though I tried not to show it, I felt my eyes light up. Without wanting to waste another moment in fear that I could say or do something that would cause him to change his mind, I performed a quick and respectful bow followed by a snapped salute. "Ou-oui, monsieur," I said quickly. "Merci, monsieur."
"Dismissed," he ordered with a curt nod.
From that day onward, my loyalty and respect could not have bled more passionately for him. Gratitude is not a word that could define what I felt when he had bestowed that generosity to me. I had swore and strove to become one of his strongest while the secret he possessed of me would remain dead. Never once did the Comte de La Fére breathe life until I was faced with another phantom of my past later down the road.
By then and because of it, my name would become one of those that would develope into legend.
I forbade any further onward steps from my mute servant, Grimaud, at the entrance before I presented myself in my higher officer's hotel. It was completely barren, unlike the many days I had witnessed the floors being stampeded by footsteps and the air boisterous with laughter from fellow Musketeers who had made Tréville's hotel their own. It must have been a meeting he wished be completely discreet if he had barred his own Musketeers for the morning, whom were very much like his own children through his eyes. I had donned the Musketeer tunic less than a day and already I was beginning to wonder if it was to be stripped from me for some unforeseen reason, after I had spent the last two years working to achieve it. What else could have been so urgent and so secretive? To have your tunic taken away was the lowest dishonor a Musketeer could forego. It was as painful an action as it was, in contrast, a grand honor to earn it. Tréville had been known to be a man honorable enough to undertake this punishment without the company of invasive ears.
With a pounding heart, I knocked my fist timidly against the large oaken door.
"Come in, Athos," Tréville's voice rang from the other side.
I opened the door and declined my head in a respective bow at the first sight of my officer; a legendary face within the borders of France. His very name alone was uttered with complete fear from his enemies and respect from his friends. I closed the door behind me and met Tréville's demeaning gaze with a humble one. "You sent for me, monsieur?"
A smirk twitched the corner of his lip and he curled his fingers against his mustache, observing me in silence. It was a method, I think. A tactic that he used often to leave whoever it was carrying the arduous misfortune of being summoned in such a manner. He had the intention to leave me nervous and it was working well in his favor. The sadist.
"Do you believe me to be made a fool, Musketeer?"
My eyes widened abruptly and I cast my gaze fully to him, disbelieving that the question was meant for me. "I would have to be a ninny to think of you one, monsieur," came my answer quickly.
"Then what has led you to think that I would not find you out?" He asked sharply.
A million thoughts swarmed my mind as angered bees around a hive and I bit into my lip until the first coppery taste of blood was drawn out. I maintained my silence, praying that doing so would prompt him to continue. Fortune was with me at least for that moment.
"Among the two years you have been in my scope, Athos, I have observed you closely," said Tréville while pacing in front of me, his eyes never once relinquishing from their sturdy grasp on my still stricken gaze, "Adrien, you claimed your name was. A simple man from a quaint village outside of Paris, you said. Simple men, however, do not carry the well-born chin you have consistently portrayed. Your falconry knowledge alone even impressed His Majesty himself!"
I closed my eyes, knowing exactly on what track his words were riding. It was a fault, my father had told me, that I could not lie even to save my own life. It was why I had created the unspoken presence that many knew to be part of my identity. What was never spoken would never be spoken, questions would be less likely asked, and I had hoped to make my past just that: my past. That Tréville wanted to know me when I admitted my intention of becoming a Musketeer, I had introduced myself by the first name my mind thought of. Adrien was my middle name and the village that I claimed to be from was, in fact, the same village from whence came the nurse who had once served me.
"Further investigation and observance," he continued, "I had discovered there was no Adrien from the town you claimed to be from, as if I did not already expect that. Moreover, there was reported missing a noble, the Comte de La Fére Olivier, to be precise. How interesting it is that the time of his reported missing closely matches that of your sudden appearance?"
The name of my true identity was enough to cast my eyes open and I felt my heart skip a beat. I knew, one day, I would be discovered, but I did not consider that it would come so soon. Tréville had proven himself a cunning and shrewd man. Though the presented evidence was not something that would've taken a scholarly investigator to discover, I had not thought that a man of his standing would find interest in the task. I was often in the habit of underestimating some, truth be told, and that mistake was now rearing its ugly head. However, Muskeeters were forced to adopt a new name when they pledge their loyalty, much in effort to protect them.
Tréville's pacing gait came to a stop when he offered the final question, "You are the Comte de La Fére, aren't you?"
I fought myself for a response. My honor bade me to honesty, but my pride and, perhaps, fear controlled the answer that came. "Do I look like a man of station?"
I was barely able to finish my response when the sting of his leather glove across the left side of my face jostled my senses and left me in a state of shock. He had struck me! I hesitantly, much like that of a subservient dog, straightened myself to look at him.
"You stand before me and tell me to my face you think me a fool!" He said, his voice raising. "The pride and honor of France you wear upon your breast and you, in the face of your superior, lie as though I were mindless!" He turned sharply from me, his words continuing to fly at me as though he were throwing knives and I was nailed to a bullseye. "Less than a day you bear that cross and now I stand to tell you that you are not worthy of it! A symbol of that honor and the title of a Musketeer which it carries are trademarks of a man who holds himself above all in the highest moral decree. Truth, justice, honor, loyalty to King and Country, but most of all, to each other!"
He turned to face me. I could hear the loose gravel on the floor scraping beneath the pivoting heels of his boots. I must have looked like an adolescent dog with its tail between its legs by this point, cut down so harshly by his words. "All for one and one for all."
That stung. The final dagger that he could've thrust into my breast, that was it. I was wordless and ashamed, unable to so much as raise my eyes to look at him. Of noble blood, of noble society, and this man before whom I stood made me feel as a commoner, if even that honored.
"Oui, monsieur," I was finally able to utter, though my dry voice presented the truth softly. "I am the Comte de La Fére. Though what I told you about my history may be falsehood, I want to propose that the oath I took and the vows I've made were true and from my heart. Speaking of loyalty to you, to the King, and to France should not be seen in the same light as the stories of my past." A heavy breath was inhaled and I slid my hands beneath the tunic, feeling its weight as I began to lift it off of me. I felt a hand settle on my shoulder and I stopped to look up.
"A couple of lessons, then, you will take with you today," Tréville said, his voice void of the sharp weapons that he had thrust at me mere minutes prior. He removed his hand from my shoulder to raise a single finger. "Lesson number one: we all have ghosts in our past. The mistakes we make do not have to condemn us if we do what we believe is the right way to repent." Turning from me to approach his desk, he folded his hands behind his back. "Lesson number two: I am not in the practice of dishonoring my Musketeers. If you wear that tunic it is because you have earned it, and you will not be void of it so easily. You wanted it? You're stuck with it." He turned again, that stone face of his cracking not even once. "But if you so much as break wind in the wrong direction for the next month, then I can guarantee you will wish I had stripped it of you this day. Understood?"
Though I tried not to show it, I felt my eyes light up. Without wanting to waste another moment in fear that I could say or do something that would cause him to change his mind, I performed a quick and respectful bow followed by a snapped salute. "Ou-oui, monsieur," I said quickly. "Merci, monsieur."
"Dismissed," he ordered with a curt nod.
From that day onward, my loyalty and respect could not have bled more passionately for him. Gratitude is not a word that could define what I felt when he had bestowed that generosity to me. I had swore and strove to become one of his strongest while the secret he possessed of me would remain dead. Never once did the Comte de La Fére breathe life until I was faced with another phantom of my past later down the road.
By then and because of it, my name would become one of those that would develope into legend.