Fic: 17th Century Booty Call
Title: 17th Century Booty Call
Rating: NC-17
Pairings: Athos/Aramis; Aramis/duchess de Longueville
Warnings: epistolary fic, religious references, graphic descriptions of sexual activity, bondage, etc, good times.
Plot: Aramis is a very busy man at the onset of la Fronde. He has a Very Important Mistress to please, the escape of the duc de Beaufort to plot, and the soul of Athos to save from the tar pits of Hell, and all this while writing sermons for others.
Notes: This narrative takes place immediately prior to the beginning of Vingt ans apres (Twenty Years After). As a reference for the dates, I have used the escape of the duc de Beaufort from the chateau at Vincennes (May 31, 1648), but I cannot account for any instances of “Dumas time.” Written for yuletide for jerico_cacaw!
17th Century Booty Call
February 5, 1648
From: l’Abbé d’Herblay, at the Jesuit convent in Noisy-le-Sec
To: le comte de La Fère, at château de Bragelonne, Blois
My dear friend,
Since last we parted in the verdant hills of the Loire Valley, and I returned to the bosom of the Church here in Noisy-le-Sec, I confess I have been overcome with such a vast amount of sloth as to border upon sinful. You would not believe to hear me say it, but I rarely make it to Paris at all these days, close as it is. I’ve grown averse to sermons, and rather than giving or attending them, I now get bribed, that is - charitably entreated, into writing them for others. This activity has at least lent some amusement to my otherwise dull existence. Only the other day, one of the Brothers asked me for a sermon on St. Agatha, a rather lugubrious affair, if you recall, and far too macabre for my sensibilities. In a moment of inspiration, I took the opportunity to instead slip him something on St. Sebastian. Imagine his surprise, and my delight, when he discovered himself in the middle of a drawn out tangent on the peculiar frequency of artful depictions of the Roman saint pierced with arrows, whereas any good Christian ought to know that he was in fact clobbered to death. A lesson learned, on several accounts.
Loathe as I am to rejoin society, I did happen to have an errand that required me to visit Paris recently. By a complete chance of circumstance, I ran into an old acquaintance of mine, a M. de Retz. Peculiar little fellow, perhaps you remember me mentioning him upon my last visit to Blois. Peculiar though he may be, still, I’m fond of him, as he appears to share some of our common goals. Always full of bizarre tales, that de Retz, and this time was no different. He told me a somewhat protracted and unfortunate tale of a friend of a friend, in fact, I believe he’s a cousin of your esteemed neighbor, who has been languishing in some prison or other for quite some time. I forget which, you know how my memory fails me at times, but I believe it rhymed with Suzanne. “Wouldn’t it be marvelous if I could find a loyal and reliable person who could carry my friend’s lamentations to his poor incarcerated companion?” What should I say to such a man? The whole world is a prison, after all, so what makes one Suzanne any better or worse or easier to escape than another man’s Bastille? But I digress, and begin to spout inconsequential tales to which you should pay no heed.
Incidentally, I find myself rather feeling the lack of you these days, especially in the lower regions of town. You made certain representations to me and I hope you will not be putting off bringing them to fruition out of sheer pride masked behind claims of paternal responsibilities. Speaking of which, do give my affectionate regards to your ward. I hope you have heeded my advice and introduced him to some children his own age. It does no one any good being cooped up with you and those bouts of melancholy that you’re so prone to developing.
Somewhat impatiently yours,
Aramis
***
February 6, 1648
From: la duchess de Longueville, l’Hôtel de Longueville in Paris
To: l’Abbé d’Herblay, at the Jesuit convent in Noisy-le-Sec
My dear René,
What in the world has been keeping you away from l’Hôtel de Rambouillet? It has been months since your last visit and I suspect your devotion to the Lord is making you neglect your earth-bound friends. I have known men, such as my brother M. de Conti, who have answered the higher calling with much lesser enthusiasm than yourself. Then again, it has always been your enthusiasm in all your passions that had so endeared me to you to begin with.
I am beset on all sides by friends who constantly desire my attention. Between M. de La Rochefoucauld and M. de Marcillac, I begin to despair of ever finding any solace of solitude and turn to you to advise me upon how one might procure a hermitage such as your own.
As for my previously mentioned brother, M. de Conti, he is eager to have news of his friend, of whom you have often spoken with such sympathy. Do be a sweet pet and send word when you’ve torn yourself from your breviary.
Yours,
Anne Genevieve
***
February 8, 1648
From: l’Abbé d’Herblay, at the Jesuit convent in Noisy-le-Sec
To: la duchess de Longueville, l’Hôtel de Longueville in Paris
My sweetest Anne Genevieve,
You are unjust to accuse me of abandoning my earth-bound friends. In fact, the reason for my absence from the gay salons of l’Hôtel de Rambouillet has been a somewhat unexpectedly protracted visitation with a friend of mine in Blois. As much as I longed to be in your most gracious company, my friend’s need to keep me in his ended up winning out, and I may not be jesting when I say restraints were involved. But do forgive him: the count is a person of most excellent qualities, and, incidentally, I hope that he will help us find a way to allay your brother’s worries. I pray, however, that you never meet him, as his historical record with beautiful women is nothing short of abysmal.
As to your need for hermitage, does your uncle, the Archbishop, not own the château just across the hedge from my convent? I am certain that should he agree to let you seek refuge there, you would not be troubled by any Rochefoucaulds or Marcillacs.
I bid you au revoir and kiss those alabaster hands,
René d’Herblay
***
February 15, 1648
From: le comte de La Fère, at château de Bragelonne, Blois
To: l’Abbé d’Herblay, at the Jesuit convent in Noisy-le-Sec
My dear friend, my spiritual guide,
How astonishing to see you mention St. Sebastian: did you know he was at some point chosen by my female progenitor to be the patron saint of our family? What can I say? My mother was unabashedly shallow and given to aesthetic thoughts, whereas my father was overly indulgent, if rather apathetic to the male form. I appear to have inherited more of my mother’s inclinations, given, as you may have observed, my fondness for objects of beauty, and my uncanny ability to surround myself with them. Still, you must admit, a depiction of a young man strapped to a log and shot full of strategically placed arrows and artful drips of blood is far more appealing to paint and look upon than a body of a man who had been bludgeoned to death. Although, should you ever find such a depiction, we should not delay in acquiring it and gifting it to our friend Porthos, as a memento of his preferred modus operandi. As for poor St. Agatha, well… that’s just disgusting. Well done, my friend!
A fascinating story about your thrice removed friend, and I know exactly the Suzanne of which you speak, and if I mistake myself not, it’s the same place that was once honored by the birth for your admirer, the niece of the Archbishop of Paris. (A lovely person, by the by, but I understand one of her suitors shares your tastes in all things, so do be careful.) A veritably impenetrable fortress, that “Suzanne,” but I have had a few thoughts on the kind of person your acquaintance would need to employ in order to render the favors to which you allude. But then again, why should we involve ourselves in other people’s family affairs at our age, even if they do share our common goals and have our mutual respect?
You speak of my bouts of melancholy, but do not chide me too much over them, as they are most often caused by the absence of others. As an ardent and long-practicing misanthrope, I at times find myself at odds with my inexplicable need to be with the people I love. You know you have always been a great source of spiritual succor to me, and as I know that this letter will be delivered to you by most trusted hands, or else end up consumed and digested, as was tradition in years gone by, I can entrust to you, my most-oft-confessor, a certain rather bizarre dream that has troubled me of late.
It always starts the same way: I walk into my bedroom, and I find a man bound to the top posts of my bed. The mechanism of the bounding changes from night to night, but in the version of this dream I had most recently I am fairly sure silken cords were involved. Now, the man in my dream, that is a constant, and it never changes, although I could not tell you who he is, only that in these dreams I sense that I have known him for a very long time. In fact, I seem to be very well acquainted with every curve and angle of his body. While his arms are restrained, his legs lie akimbo among the rumpled sheets, beckoning me. His eyes are dark and smoldering, and I am powerless to resist them. I climb into the bed. I can feel heat rising off my dream lover’s naked limbs, as his arms strain against the silken cords, making his veins stand out starkly against his pale skin. I cannot help myself, and I lower my mouth over his, amazed to discover how familiar these tastes and these sensations are. He moans softly as I run my hand over the finely etched muscles of his abdomen, the light hair covering his skin feeling almost like down against my fingers. He raises his hips off the bed, straining into my touch, his teeth gently clamped against my lower lip. I am so overcome with desire that I can barely contain myself as I try to dispose of at least the most cumbersome of my clothes. He writhes before me like some kind of a giant cat in heat and I cannot wait to mount him. I whisper his name, “René,” (most peculiar, I know!) like a desperate prayer leaving my lips, and then my lips are all over him, drawing deliberately slow circles and trails over all the grooves of his resplendent body. My teeth find each one of the tender nubs of his nipples, pulling gently, as I plan the rest of my assault on his willing ramparts. He begs, he pleads, he wants me inside him, and I am a very generous lover, so I am happy to do as he asks, but my mouth is hovering just above his straining organ and I do so wish to lick it and watch his eyes roll into the back of his head, that I am quite befuddled as to what to do. In a flash, I remember that this is my dream, and that, therefore, I should do whatever I wish. In a single stroke, I am inside him, riding him deeply. He moans and throws his head back, exposing the familiar small birthmark at the base of his neck, and I do not hesitate to latch my teeth around those ligaments, marking him as my own, marking him forever (for everything is possible in my dreams). Meanwhile, my lover emits such an outpouring of blasphemies that would make you blush and fall to your knees in earnest prayer. (In fact, I am picturing you on your knees as I write this.) He tries to wrap his thighs around my waist, to regain some form of purchase or control, but I will not allow that, and I hold his thighs wide apart with my hands and I thrust into him at a truly punishing pace. I can see sweat pooling in the groove of his well-defined chest, and I lick little drops of it from his pointed jaw, and order him to keep his thighs spread while I ride him, in no mood to be contradicted. He is begging me to touch his throbbing cock, to let him spill his seed into my hand, but I am resolved to make him spend himself just like this, just from the feel of my cock deep inside him. He calls out my name, but I shut his mouth up with my own, swallowing both his moans and his breath. At last, I feel the spasms of his body unleashing underneath me, and I fill him up with my emissions until it all comes dripping down his thighs and soaks the sheets. Dreams can be wonderful things, don’t you find?
As you can imagine, I am rather beside myself with worry over the Hell for which I am surely bound, and do not begin to know how to expiate the entire depth and breadth of my lustful sins. Perhaps you, my friend, who knows so much about the mortification of the flesh, can find a suitable to scourge to deal with all my dream demons, so that I too can one day hope to return to the bosom of Our Lord.
This and the other issue discussed in this letter might be better addressed at the time of your next visit, which I exhort myself to believe will occur in the coming weeks. I would say “days,” but knowing you, you will have several similar requests to dispatch in and around Noisy. Until then, I remain,
Your devoted servant,
Athos
P.S. I did give your regards to Raoul, who sends his love back. In fact, he’s in the room with me right now, so you can rest assured that prurient thoughts could not have been accompanied by lewd deeds. Yet.
***
February 17, 1648
From: l’Abbé d’Herblay, at the Jesuit convent in Noisy-le-Sec
To: le comte de La Fère, at château de Bragelonne, Blois
Fires of perdition, Athos!
I return this letter to you the same way in which your letter reached me, for the post is rather unreliable, and your Grimaud, even though you have allowed him to speak, is still as mute as the grave.
Before addressing the rest, allow me to express my joy at finding your wits still as sharp as I was hoping. I am eager to hear more of your thoughts on the matter of the family affairs of others that we discussed. As one often notes, many families require a figurehead to lead them, and it is not always the most intelligent of the bunch, but rather the most beloved, behind whom the others can form a united front.
As to that symphony of perversion, so skillfully laid down on paper by your quill, you unrepentant deviant, I admit I fear for your soul and do not think your salvation can tarry a moment longer. Therefore, I hasten to attend you at Blois, and I am bringing with me my collection of whips and knotted cords to see if we can perchance thrash the very Devil out of you. Expect me in a day or two.
Liberame domine,
Aramis
***
February 17, 1648
From: l’Abbé d’Herblay, at the Jesuit convent in Noisy-le-Sec
To: la duchess de Longueville, at the château of the Archbishop of Paris in Noisy-Le-Sec
Dearest Anne Genevieve,
It is with my deepest regrets that I must inform you that I will be unable to keep to our rendezvous this evening. Something wholly unanticipated has arisen in Blois and I cannot delay my need to jump right on it. My friend the count has a veritable sorcerer’s way of making himself completely irresistible. But rest assured you will be in my thoughts during my travels.
Adieu for now,
R.
***
March 14, 1648
From: le comte de La Fère, at château de Bragelonne, Blois
To: l’Abbé d’Herblay, at the Jesuit convent in Noisy-le-Sec
My dear d’Herblay,
By God! That sojourn had positively rejuvenating effects on all my senses. Not only have you managed to exorcise every Demon from my thoughts, I do not feel that I have a single unfulfilled desire left in my whole body.
As a sign of my gratitude, please allow me to lend you my servant, M. Grimaud, who is, as per usual, the bearer of this letter to you. I think he’s uniquely well suited for handling the domestic situation you were so burdened with during your stay.
I dare suspect that this state of elation I find myself in will not fail to eventually pass, like all things do. At which time, believe that I will not hesitate to call on you again to come to my soul’s salvation as you always do.
Until then,
Athos
Rating: NC-17
Pairings: Athos/Aramis; Aramis/duchess de Longueville
Warnings: epistolary fic, religious references, graphic descriptions of sexual activity, bondage, etc, good times.
Plot: Aramis is a very busy man at the onset of la Fronde. He has a Very Important Mistress to please, the escape of the duc de Beaufort to plot, and the soul of Athos to save from the tar pits of Hell, and all this while writing sermons for others.
Notes: This narrative takes place immediately prior to the beginning of Vingt ans apres (Twenty Years After). As a reference for the dates, I have used the escape of the duc de Beaufort from the chateau at Vincennes (May 31, 1648), but I cannot account for any instances of “Dumas time.” Written for yuletide for jerico_cacaw!
17th Century Booty Call
February 5, 1648
From: l’Abbé d’Herblay, at the Jesuit convent in Noisy-le-Sec
To: le comte de La Fère, at château de Bragelonne, Blois
My dear friend,
Since last we parted in the verdant hills of the Loire Valley, and I returned to the bosom of the Church here in Noisy-le-Sec, I confess I have been overcome with such a vast amount of sloth as to border upon sinful. You would not believe to hear me say it, but I rarely make it to Paris at all these days, close as it is. I’ve grown averse to sermons, and rather than giving or attending them, I now get bribed, that is - charitably entreated, into writing them for others. This activity has at least lent some amusement to my otherwise dull existence. Only the other day, one of the Brothers asked me for a sermon on St. Agatha, a rather lugubrious affair, if you recall, and far too macabre for my sensibilities. In a moment of inspiration, I took the opportunity to instead slip him something on St. Sebastian. Imagine his surprise, and my delight, when he discovered himself in the middle of a drawn out tangent on the peculiar frequency of artful depictions of the Roman saint pierced with arrows, whereas any good Christian ought to know that he was in fact clobbered to death. A lesson learned, on several accounts.
Loathe as I am to rejoin society, I did happen to have an errand that required me to visit Paris recently. By a complete chance of circumstance, I ran into an old acquaintance of mine, a M. de Retz. Peculiar little fellow, perhaps you remember me mentioning him upon my last visit to Blois. Peculiar though he may be, still, I’m fond of him, as he appears to share some of our common goals. Always full of bizarre tales, that de Retz, and this time was no different. He told me a somewhat protracted and unfortunate tale of a friend of a friend, in fact, I believe he’s a cousin of your esteemed neighbor, who has been languishing in some prison or other for quite some time. I forget which, you know how my memory fails me at times, but I believe it rhymed with Suzanne. “Wouldn’t it be marvelous if I could find a loyal and reliable person who could carry my friend’s lamentations to his poor incarcerated companion?” What should I say to such a man? The whole world is a prison, after all, so what makes one Suzanne any better or worse or easier to escape than another man’s Bastille? But I digress, and begin to spout inconsequential tales to which you should pay no heed.
Incidentally, I find myself rather feeling the lack of you these days, especially in the lower regions of town. You made certain representations to me and I hope you will not be putting off bringing them to fruition out of sheer pride masked behind claims of paternal responsibilities. Speaking of which, do give my affectionate regards to your ward. I hope you have heeded my advice and introduced him to some children his own age. It does no one any good being cooped up with you and those bouts of melancholy that you’re so prone to developing.
Somewhat impatiently yours,
Aramis
***
February 6, 1648
From: la duchess de Longueville, l’Hôtel de Longueville in Paris
To: l’Abbé d’Herblay, at the Jesuit convent in Noisy-le-Sec
My dear René,
What in the world has been keeping you away from l’Hôtel de Rambouillet? It has been months since your last visit and I suspect your devotion to the Lord is making you neglect your earth-bound friends. I have known men, such as my brother M. de Conti, who have answered the higher calling with much lesser enthusiasm than yourself. Then again, it has always been your enthusiasm in all your passions that had so endeared me to you to begin with.
I am beset on all sides by friends who constantly desire my attention. Between M. de La Rochefoucauld and M. de Marcillac, I begin to despair of ever finding any solace of solitude and turn to you to advise me upon how one might procure a hermitage such as your own.
As for my previously mentioned brother, M. de Conti, he is eager to have news of his friend, of whom you have often spoken with such sympathy. Do be a sweet pet and send word when you’ve torn yourself from your breviary.
Yours,
Anne Genevieve
***
February 8, 1648
From: l’Abbé d’Herblay, at the Jesuit convent in Noisy-le-Sec
To: la duchess de Longueville, l’Hôtel de Longueville in Paris
My sweetest Anne Genevieve,
You are unjust to accuse me of abandoning my earth-bound friends. In fact, the reason for my absence from the gay salons of l’Hôtel de Rambouillet has been a somewhat unexpectedly protracted visitation with a friend of mine in Blois. As much as I longed to be in your most gracious company, my friend’s need to keep me in his ended up winning out, and I may not be jesting when I say restraints were involved. But do forgive him: the count is a person of most excellent qualities, and, incidentally, I hope that he will help us find a way to allay your brother’s worries. I pray, however, that you never meet him, as his historical record with beautiful women is nothing short of abysmal.
As to your need for hermitage, does your uncle, the Archbishop, not own the château just across the hedge from my convent? I am certain that should he agree to let you seek refuge there, you would not be troubled by any Rochefoucaulds or Marcillacs.
I bid you au revoir and kiss those alabaster hands,
René d’Herblay
***
February 15, 1648
From: le comte de La Fère, at château de Bragelonne, Blois
To: l’Abbé d’Herblay, at the Jesuit convent in Noisy-le-Sec
My dear friend, my spiritual guide,
How astonishing to see you mention St. Sebastian: did you know he was at some point chosen by my female progenitor to be the patron saint of our family? What can I say? My mother was unabashedly shallow and given to aesthetic thoughts, whereas my father was overly indulgent, if rather apathetic to the male form. I appear to have inherited more of my mother’s inclinations, given, as you may have observed, my fondness for objects of beauty, and my uncanny ability to surround myself with them. Still, you must admit, a depiction of a young man strapped to a log and shot full of strategically placed arrows and artful drips of blood is far more appealing to paint and look upon than a body of a man who had been bludgeoned to death. Although, should you ever find such a depiction, we should not delay in acquiring it and gifting it to our friend Porthos, as a memento of his preferred modus operandi. As for poor St. Agatha, well… that’s just disgusting. Well done, my friend!
A fascinating story about your thrice removed friend, and I know exactly the Suzanne of which you speak, and if I mistake myself not, it’s the same place that was once honored by the birth for your admirer, the niece of the Archbishop of Paris. (A lovely person, by the by, but I understand one of her suitors shares your tastes in all things, so do be careful.) A veritably impenetrable fortress, that “Suzanne,” but I have had a few thoughts on the kind of person your acquaintance would need to employ in order to render the favors to which you allude. But then again, why should we involve ourselves in other people’s family affairs at our age, even if they do share our common goals and have our mutual respect?
You speak of my bouts of melancholy, but do not chide me too much over them, as they are most often caused by the absence of others. As an ardent and long-practicing misanthrope, I at times find myself at odds with my inexplicable need to be with the people I love. You know you have always been a great source of spiritual succor to me, and as I know that this letter will be delivered to you by most trusted hands, or else end up consumed and digested, as was tradition in years gone by, I can entrust to you, my most-oft-confessor, a certain rather bizarre dream that has troubled me of late.
It always starts the same way: I walk into my bedroom, and I find a man bound to the top posts of my bed. The mechanism of the bounding changes from night to night, but in the version of this dream I had most recently I am fairly sure silken cords were involved. Now, the man in my dream, that is a constant, and it never changes, although I could not tell you who he is, only that in these dreams I sense that I have known him for a very long time. In fact, I seem to be very well acquainted with every curve and angle of his body. While his arms are restrained, his legs lie akimbo among the rumpled sheets, beckoning me. His eyes are dark and smoldering, and I am powerless to resist them. I climb into the bed. I can feel heat rising off my dream lover’s naked limbs, as his arms strain against the silken cords, making his veins stand out starkly against his pale skin. I cannot help myself, and I lower my mouth over his, amazed to discover how familiar these tastes and these sensations are. He moans softly as I run my hand over the finely etched muscles of his abdomen, the light hair covering his skin feeling almost like down against my fingers. He raises his hips off the bed, straining into my touch, his teeth gently clamped against my lower lip. I am so overcome with desire that I can barely contain myself as I try to dispose of at least the most cumbersome of my clothes. He writhes before me like some kind of a giant cat in heat and I cannot wait to mount him. I whisper his name, “René,” (most peculiar, I know!) like a desperate prayer leaving my lips, and then my lips are all over him, drawing deliberately slow circles and trails over all the grooves of his resplendent body. My teeth find each one of the tender nubs of his nipples, pulling gently, as I plan the rest of my assault on his willing ramparts. He begs, he pleads, he wants me inside him, and I am a very generous lover, so I am happy to do as he asks, but my mouth is hovering just above his straining organ and I do so wish to lick it and watch his eyes roll into the back of his head, that I am quite befuddled as to what to do. In a flash, I remember that this is my dream, and that, therefore, I should do whatever I wish. In a single stroke, I am inside him, riding him deeply. He moans and throws his head back, exposing the familiar small birthmark at the base of his neck, and I do not hesitate to latch my teeth around those ligaments, marking him as my own, marking him forever (for everything is possible in my dreams). Meanwhile, my lover emits such an outpouring of blasphemies that would make you blush and fall to your knees in earnest prayer. (In fact, I am picturing you on your knees as I write this.) He tries to wrap his thighs around my waist, to regain some form of purchase or control, but I will not allow that, and I hold his thighs wide apart with my hands and I thrust into him at a truly punishing pace. I can see sweat pooling in the groove of his well-defined chest, and I lick little drops of it from his pointed jaw, and order him to keep his thighs spread while I ride him, in no mood to be contradicted. He is begging me to touch his throbbing cock, to let him spill his seed into my hand, but I am resolved to make him spend himself just like this, just from the feel of my cock deep inside him. He calls out my name, but I shut his mouth up with my own, swallowing both his moans and his breath. At last, I feel the spasms of his body unleashing underneath me, and I fill him up with my emissions until it all comes dripping down his thighs and soaks the sheets. Dreams can be wonderful things, don’t you find?
As you can imagine, I am rather beside myself with worry over the Hell for which I am surely bound, and do not begin to know how to expiate the entire depth and breadth of my lustful sins. Perhaps you, my friend, who knows so much about the mortification of the flesh, can find a suitable to scourge to deal with all my dream demons, so that I too can one day hope to return to the bosom of Our Lord.
This and the other issue discussed in this letter might be better addressed at the time of your next visit, which I exhort myself to believe will occur in the coming weeks. I would say “days,” but knowing you, you will have several similar requests to dispatch in and around Noisy. Until then, I remain,
Your devoted servant,
Athos
P.S. I did give your regards to Raoul, who sends his love back. In fact, he’s in the room with me right now, so you can rest assured that prurient thoughts could not have been accompanied by lewd deeds. Yet.
***
February 17, 1648
From: l’Abbé d’Herblay, at the Jesuit convent in Noisy-le-Sec
To: le comte de La Fère, at château de Bragelonne, Blois
Fires of perdition, Athos!
I return this letter to you the same way in which your letter reached me, for the post is rather unreliable, and your Grimaud, even though you have allowed him to speak, is still as mute as the grave.
Before addressing the rest, allow me to express my joy at finding your wits still as sharp as I was hoping. I am eager to hear more of your thoughts on the matter of the family affairs of others that we discussed. As one often notes, many families require a figurehead to lead them, and it is not always the most intelligent of the bunch, but rather the most beloved, behind whom the others can form a united front.
As to that symphony of perversion, so skillfully laid down on paper by your quill, you unrepentant deviant, I admit I fear for your soul and do not think your salvation can tarry a moment longer. Therefore, I hasten to attend you at Blois, and I am bringing with me my collection of whips and knotted cords to see if we can perchance thrash the very Devil out of you. Expect me in a day or two.
Liberame domine,
Aramis
***
February 17, 1648
From: l’Abbé d’Herblay, at the Jesuit convent in Noisy-le-Sec
To: la duchess de Longueville, at the château of the Archbishop of Paris in Noisy-Le-Sec
Dearest Anne Genevieve,
It is with my deepest regrets that I must inform you that I will be unable to keep to our rendezvous this evening. Something wholly unanticipated has arisen in Blois and I cannot delay my need to jump right on it. My friend the count has a veritable sorcerer’s way of making himself completely irresistible. But rest assured you will be in my thoughts during my travels.
Adieu for now,
R.
***
March 14, 1648
From: le comte de La Fère, at château de Bragelonne, Blois
To: l’Abbé d’Herblay, at the Jesuit convent in Noisy-le-Sec
My dear d’Herblay,
By God! That sojourn had positively rejuvenating effects on all my senses. Not only have you managed to exorcise every Demon from my thoughts, I do not feel that I have a single unfulfilled desire left in my whole body.
As a sign of my gratitude, please allow me to lend you my servant, M. Grimaud, who is, as per usual, the bearer of this letter to you. I think he’s uniquely well suited for handling the domestic situation you were so burdened with during your stay.
I dare suspect that this state of elation I find myself in will not fail to eventually pass, like all things do. At which time, believe that I will not hesitate to call on you again to come to my soul’s salvation as you always do.
Until then,
Athos