Chapter Four: The Hotel de Treville and Some Encounters [1/2]
anonymous
August 2 2009, 03:01:54 UTC
..........I did it. Apologies to Alexandre Dumas and Himaruya Hidekaz, and to everyone out there reading this. I blame finals; my brains are a lump of burnt oatmeal right now.
Notes: Author!anon has been reading Man in the Iron Mask. Extra research had to be done for The Three Musketeers, but it was hard, fast, and involved Project Gutenberg. Please forgive me if I've butchered anything that, er, shouldn't have butchered. Granted, much was butchered in the mad making of this fic.
Furious, d’Artagnan crossed the room in no less than three bounds and headed right for the stairs. He had half the mind to take them four at a time and the strength to make good on this resolution, and in his haste, he ran headlong into a Musketeer. The gentleman, who was coming from one of M. de Treville’s private rooms, was struck directly in his shoulder; so violently did they collide that he let out a howl and seized d’Artagnan by the arm to stop him.
“Young man,” said he. “Are you dying?”
“No, Monsieur,” d’Artagnan replied, bewildered once over from the shock of collision and a second time over by the Musketeer’s strange inquiry. “I am not, but-”
“Then surely there has been an accident,” the Musketeer pressed on.
“No, Monsieur,” d’Artagnan replied once more. “I am in a hurry, and meant no ill by it. Please excuse me, I-”
But d’Artagnan was interrupted once more by the Musketeer, for he still held the boy in his grip and with monstrous strength, he threw d’Artagnan to the ground. From his new vantage point, d’Artagnan could better see the man’s countenance, and he shuddered inwardly with awe - so fierce were his features, his blood-red eyes, and his unnatural pallor so unsettling, that d’Artagnan believed himself to be faced with the Saint Michael himself and he crossed himself.
“Then you are a fool,” cried the Musketeer, “And doubly so if you believe that ‘excuse me’ alone is sufficient. A fool who could stand to learn good manners.” This he said and he scoffed. “Obviously, you cannot conduct yourself as is befitting of one in the presence of his betters.”
When these words fell upon d’Artagnan’s ears, he leapt up in rage - his awe by then forgotten - and he rounded on the Musketeer.
“If there is someone who might teach me genteel conduct, Monsieur, then certainly it is not you. If you will pardon me, I must make haste.”
Straightening his doublet, he turned once more to the stairs, but stopped short once more, for he felt the flat of the Musketeer’s slim blade at his throat.
“Let us see if I might yet teach you some genteel conduct,” said the Musketeer, moving the blade so that it pressed threateningly against d’Artagnan. “Go now, and make your haste. Conduct your business and then meet me at the Carmes-Deschaux at noon. You will find me without running, I assure you.”
“Very well,” said d’Artagnan, and he was off once more as if the devil were at his heels.
But at the gate, the guard was speaking with a Spaniard and his retainer, and it seemed to d’Artagnan that he might be able to pass through the space between them comfortably. No sooner had he cleared the gate than did a hand seize his cloak behind him and pull him back in the direction from whence he came.
Notes: Author!anon has been reading Man in the Iron Mask. Extra research had to be done for The Three Musketeers, but it was hard, fast, and involved Project Gutenberg. Please forgive me if I've butchered anything that, er, shouldn't have butchered. Granted, much was butchered in the mad making of this fic.
Furious, d’Artagnan crossed the room in no less than three bounds and headed right for the stairs. He had half the mind to take them four at a time and the strength to make good on this resolution, and in his haste, he ran headlong into a Musketeer. The gentleman, who was coming from one of M. de Treville’s private rooms, was struck directly in his shoulder; so violently did they collide that he let out a howl and seized d’Artagnan by the arm to stop him.
“Young man,” said he. “Are you dying?”
“No, Monsieur,” d’Artagnan replied, bewildered once over from the shock of collision and a second time over by the Musketeer’s strange inquiry. “I am not, but-”
“Then surely there has been an accident,” the Musketeer pressed on.
“No, Monsieur,” d’Artagnan replied once more. “I am in a hurry, and meant no ill by it. Please excuse me, I-”
But d’Artagnan was interrupted once more by the Musketeer, for he still held the boy in his grip and with monstrous strength, he threw d’Artagnan to the ground. From his new vantage point, d’Artagnan could better see the man’s countenance, and he shuddered inwardly with awe - so fierce were his features, his blood-red eyes, and his unnatural pallor so unsettling, that d’Artagnan believed himself to be faced with the Saint Michael himself and he crossed himself.
“Then you are a fool,” cried the Musketeer, “And doubly so if you believe that ‘excuse me’ alone is sufficient. A fool who could stand to learn good manners.” This he said and he scoffed. “Obviously, you cannot conduct yourself as is befitting of one in the presence of his betters.”
When these words fell upon d’Artagnan’s ears, he leapt up in rage - his awe by then forgotten - and he rounded on the Musketeer.
“If there is someone who might teach me genteel conduct, Monsieur, then certainly it is not you. If you will pardon me, I must make haste.”
Straightening his doublet, he turned once more to the stairs, but stopped short once more, for he felt the flat of the Musketeer’s slim blade at his throat.
“Let us see if I might yet teach you some genteel conduct,” said the Musketeer, moving the blade so that it pressed threateningly against d’Artagnan. “Go now, and make your haste. Conduct your business and then meet me at the Carmes-Deschaux at noon. You will find me without running, I assure you.”
“Very well,” said d’Artagnan, and he was off once more as if the devil were at his heels.
But at the gate, the guard was speaking with a Spaniard and his retainer, and it seemed to d’Artagnan that he might be able to pass through the space between them comfortably. No sooner had he cleared the gate than did a hand seize his cloak behind him and pull him back in the direction from whence he came.
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