Chapter Text
The Musketeers garrison was a hive of activity. News had been coming in for the last few weeks about an uprising that was looking likely to happen within the next few days. Captain Treville sighed. He loved the King, and would do anything to protect him. But the Cardinal had reached out too far, and the common people were rising up, wanting the King's blood. The Cardinal's blood. It had to be quashed. Running a hand through his short, spiky light brown hair, he leaned on the railing of the walkway to his office, watching his Musketeers prepare for battle alongside the Red Guards, and all the other small, private armies of Paris. But what good would their numbers be if the entirety of the people rose up? It would be certain death for all. He turned as a messenger pressed a sheet of parchment into his hand before hurrying back down to the yard. Breaking the seal, he scanned the few lines swiftly. At last, they had a name. Although the name surprised him. After a few more moment of thought, Treville went into his office, summoning his best Musketeers – Athos, Aramis, Porthos and d'Artagnan – to attend to him as soon as they had finished their training session.
d’Artagnan was improving constantly. Even Athos, who was usually hard-pressed to defeat the Gascon, was impressed, and being defeated more and more regularly in a sword fight. However, regardless of his skill with a sword, he was still slow with the pistol and rifles. Aramis, even though he had the patience of a saint, learned from the order he once wished to join, found himself hard-pressed to keep his cool. However, under weeks of careful tutelage, the youngest Musketeer had improved to a rate that even the sharpshooter was pleased. Porthos, famed for his brute strength, had been keeping a sharp eye on his young friend’s development and occasionally supplying a few hints that would improve his swordplay or aim. When the summons from Treville came, the four were rather confused, but being well trained, they aimed to finish their session quickly and find out their new orders.
“What’re you thinking?” Porthos leaned in to ask Athos, both of them watching closely as Aramis and d’Artagnan both raced to load a pistol and fire an accurate shot at a target. Each gentleman had five shots. d’Artagnan was falling behind as usual, but only by a shot.
“That the boy’s improving.” Athos replied, being a man of few words, saying only what was necessary, in comparison to Porthos’ loud, elaborate style of wording.
“I can see that. Our little Gascon friend, growing into his own. But I was talking about these summons. It must be important, with Treville asking the four of us. Perhaps we’ll have to leave Paris again.” Athos shook his head grimly but stayed silent. He had his suspicions - being more in touch than most of the Musketeers thought with the commons - and it was unlikely that Treville would send them away when the secret rebellious sectors of Parisian society were becoming more vocal and active. Porthos, having not expected Athos to reply, occupied himself by trying to take one of Aramis’ packets of gunpowder without him noticing, to give d’Artagnan more of a chance, now two balls behind Aramis. With a loud ‘Ha!’, Aramis fired his last shot as d’Artagnan was loading his fourth ball. With a cocky grin, Aramis swiped d’Artagnan’s last shot, firing at the same time as he did. Laughing, slapping him on the back, Aramis met his friends’ eye with a cheeky, yet apologetic smirk.
“Still not there yet, my friend.” He laughed. Scowling, d’Artagnan kept the frown on his face for a time, that even Athos had to query if he was genuinely annoyed or just playing along. Glancing at Porthos and Aramis, as they both struggled to stop laughing, he raised an eyebrow before looking at d’Artagnan again. d’Artagnan was lost. Unable to stay angry, even pretending to be angry, with his friends was too much effort. Chuckling, he turned to Aramis and swatted his arm lightly.
“I’m getting better. Next time you won’t be able to steal any from me.” He said, a teasing smirk upon his lips.
“As charming as this is, we should find out what Captain Treville wants from us.” Athos cut in, always ready to remind them of their duty.
“Are we not even allowed to clean these pistols first, Athos? Treville may want us to set out straight away.” Aramis grinned. Rolling his eyes, Athos nodded, before sitting down to help his friends clean their weapons. Porthos sat with them, tugging part of the pistol out of Armis’ hand and running a rag through the breach of the weapon. Between the four of them, the two pistols were cleaned swiftly. Ascending the staircase to Treville’s office, the four Musketeers knocked and entered at his permission.
On the other side of Paris, the Cafe Musain was also busy. Not having the luxury of being able to practice anything, having to save every single ball they made, every scrap of gunpowder, Les Amis de l'ABC was busy with the hustle and bustle of industry. Reports were coming in at regular intervals from other societies, contacts promising delivery of gunpowder or weapons. Louisian, proprietor of the Musain, was also busy, carefully storing a supply of food for the Amis and herself. This could change everything and she wanted to be prepared. Enjolras, the blonde student rebel leader was in the centre of it all. One minute he was hearing a report and the next he was over by the ball manufactures, talking and checking the number they could realistically make. He knew, unless he could source supplies from elsewhere, that it would be difficult to sustain enough fire simply because they didn’t have enough. Someone needed to steal them from the various guards and armies around Paris. But he wasn’t prepared to risk anyone. Combeferre, the logical one of the group, had also noticed. Waiting for a time when he could catch Enjolras alone, he pulled him aside.
“We’ve got nowhere near enough bullets.”
“You think I don’t know that, ‘Ferre?” Snapped Enjolras, his worry already stretched to breaking point.
“I was just saying, Enjolras. You know I’m fully behind you. But lives would be wasted. We need more.”
“What do you suggest then? How can we get more? There’s only one way I can see, and I am not going to risk anyones life. It’d be walking right into a trap!”
“Calm down, mon ami. You underestimate the support you have here. Ask them.” Clasping his friends shoulder briefly, Combeferre smiled and walked back into the centre, pushing his glasses up his nose. Watching him go, Enjolras sighed. Glancing around, his eyes narrowed as he saw Grantaire, the resident drunk, passed out in the corner. Again. That man was trouble. Cynical and bitter, he was also - Enjolras grudgingly admitted to himself - talented at getting people to talk. But he couldn’t trust him with something like this. Glancing around at the rest of the Amis with a sigh, he analysed his options. He didn’t want to risk anyone. He couldn’t. Courfeyrac caught his eye. Motioning Enjolras over, he waited a moment before complying. Glancing around at the men surrounding Courfeyrac, he raised an eyebrow.
“No Marius again?”
“No, Enjolras.” Courfeyrac replied with a sigh. “He’s spending more time with that girl.”
“Ursule?” He queried with a raised eyebrow, detesting the bourgeois name.
“Cosette.” Courfeyrac corrected him. “He found out her name at last.”
“What does it matter though, really? This is not a game for rich boys to play! Doesn’t he understand that?”
“He understands, Enjolras. But he prioritises differently.”
Biting his lip, Enjolras had to agree. Not everyone was like him.
“But he will fight, when the time comes?”
“I don’t know, Enjolras. I’m sorry.” Sighing, Courfeyrac looked at his friend, taking in the tiredness evident under his eyes, the stress and worry lines. “How long is it since you last slept?”
“There’s no time for sleeping, Courfeyrac. Not now.” Running a hand down his face, Enjolras muffled a yawn behind his hand.
“You’ll be no use to anyone in this state!”
“Just leave it, Courfeyrac. Alright? I know what I’m doing!”
Taken aback by the harshness in Enjolras’ tone, Courfeyrac nodded mutely. After watching him for another moment, Enjolras shook his head and moved away.
He was about to turn to another table when he was stopped by a gentle hand on his arm. Turning again, he looked at the curly-haired woman, who carried a bolt of red cloth under her arm.
“Monsieur Enjolras?” She queried.
“Yes? Can I help you, Mademoiselle?”
“I am Madame Bonacieux. I have your order for red cloth. My husband was unable to deliver it himself.”
“Ah! Thank you, Madame.” Taking the cloth from her, Enjolras inspected it quickly. Happy, he reached into his pocket, taking out 12 francs. “Tell your husband the Cause is indebted to him.”
“I will pass on his words, Monsieur.” Madame Bonacieux nodded, taking her leave. She was stopped by Courfeyrac on her way out.
“Madame Bonacieux. I’m sure a beautiful woman such as yourself has a beautiful first name.”
“I am a married, respectable woman, Monsieur.”
“I am just asking for your name. I could die tomorrow. Would you leave me with that question still unanswered?”
Looking at him slightly, she couldn’t help but smile. He reminded her so much of Aramis.
“Constance. Constance Bonacieux.”
“It has been a pleasure, Constance.” Bowing slightly, Courfeyrac returned to Joly and Feuilly, who looked at him with a mix of appraisal and a twinge of disbelief. Constance, after committing a layout of the room and the rough amount of ammunition and equipment to memory, smiled and left. She hated being used as such by the Musketeers, but could understand. At least she would be able to give them an accurate report. But they were all so young. She didn’t know what she wanted. Naturally, she wanted the Monarchy to succeed, but still. So many young men. All with their lives ahead of them. All going to fight and die. Shaking her head again, she pulled her shawl tighter around her and headed towards the garrison, to give her report to Captain Treville and the Musketeers.