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In the winter when there was little going on, it was the occasional habit of Athos, Porthos, and Aramis to accompany one another on guard, relieving the tedium with companionship and quiet conversation. As for the newest member of the little group, this was before d'Artagnan had received his posting with the guards of M. des Essarts, and his only occupation was to perpetually accompany the musketeers in all they did.
It was one day during this first winter that d'Artagnan arrived at the appointed place, as punctual and as eager as ever, but looking fatigued and pale, and coughing now and then into his handkerchief. The others were solicitous, and pointed out to him that he had no duty to stay; but he replied that he would make a poor sort of musketeer indeed if he allowed such a petty thing as a cough to keep him down. His friends praised the sentiment, and no more was said on the topic. Yet as the day wore on, the weather grew inhospitable. A light rain began to fall indecisively from the gray sky, whipped this way and that by biting wind. The young Gascon could be observed pulling his cloak tightly about him and shivering against the cold; it was evident, also, that as time passed his coughing became more frequent, while his contribution to the conversation dwindled to nothing.
At last Athos took him aside and said softly, "D'Artagnan, I assure you that no one will think less of you if you leave us for today. I do not doubt your fortitude; but it seems to me that the best place for you right now would be in bed."
"Faith, I believe you are quite right," replied d'Artagnan, in a croak that was painful to hear. "But, pardon me, you are always right." He tried to laugh, and broke into another fit of coughing that left him shuddering and breathless. "Sang Dieu," he murmured, pushing his wet hair out of his eyes. "I swear that I did not feel this badly this morning."
Something in his tone struck Athos. He pulled off his right glove and laid his hand upon d'Artagnan's cheek. In the cold air, the sudden heat was like touching a hearthstone. "You are ill indeed," he said, his voice betraying his concern. "Will you be able to manage the way back to the Rue des Fossoyeurs?"
"Yes," said d'Artagnan. "That is, I think so; only give me a moment..."
He fell forward so suddenly that his head hit Athos' chest with a thump, and nearly threw the latter off balance before he could support him.
Athos staggered under the awkward weight of the limp body. "Porthos!" he called, not loudly but sharply.
He and Aramis turned and ran up at once. "Why, what's happened?"
"He has a fever--he's fainted. Take him--"
Porthos lifted the young man into his arms as easily as a kitten. "Poor fellow!" said he. "I didn't think he was as ill as all that."
"No, nor I," Athos admitted. "I ought to have spoken sooner."
"The thing to do now is to get him home," said Aramis.
Athos straightened his stance and spoke with all his quiet authority. "Quite so. Porthos, can you--?"
"I could carry the three of you from here to Nantes," said Porthos easily.
"Good. Aramis, go with him." It would be easier for two men to manage the doors and stairs, and better to have them both at hand if anything more were to go wrong.
"Of course."
At this point there was a small cry from d'Artagnan, who, finding himself restrained, began to struggle to get away. It was a moment before he came fully to himself. "Porthos?" he asked, greatly surprised. "What is this? Put me down, I can walk."
The command was obeyed, but the trial was not successful. D'Artagnan was dizzy and weak, and by now shivering badly in every limb. Porthos was obliged to pick him up again before he fell. Aramis, who had already recovered the young man's hat, now removed his sword and guarded it carefully.
"Hush, hush," Porthos was saying to his continued protests. "You're not well. We're taking you home. Come along, don't fuss."
Athos resumed, speaking more rapidly than before. "I must stay here and finish my shift, or be relieved. Wait for me at d'Artagnan's. I will see you when I can. Go quickly."
The instruction was not needed. In spite of Porthos' burden, Aramis just matched him with twice as many of his own quick steps.
---
Athos entered the chamber three hours later, laden down with a loaf of bread, a bottle of wine, and an assortment of herbs from the apothecary's. There was a good warm blaze in the fireplace, and d'Artagnan's wet clothes hung in front of it, while he lay in the bed with his face turned to the wall, the blankets pulled up to his chin, and made no response to the opening of the door. Porthos and Aramis were seated at the table, playing a subdued and halfhearted game of cards.
"Thank heaven," said Aramis, rising to take the things off his hands. "Planchet has yet to return."
"How is the patient?" inquired Athos in an undertone.
"Sleeping--finally," Aramis replied, returning to the table and busying himself with inspecting and sorting out the herbs. "He became light-headed and restless on the way here; he kept asking for you."
"For me? Why, I am no superior nursemaid."
"Nevertheless, it was you he wanted. He was quite adamant."
"He would scarcely even look at us," added Porthos, somewhat ruefully.
Aramis smiled at this. "Come, we all have our little preferences. Do you remember last autumn, when it was your turn to be ill? You wouldn't sleep at all; you kept repeating, 'My Aramis! where is my Aramis?'"
"I remember how difficult it was to restrain him until you arrived," said Athos.
"Well, a man can't be held accountable for what he says under the influence of fever or drink," said Porthos sagely.
Aramis laughed at this reversal, but stopped, abashed, at a sound from the bed.
D'Artagnan stirred, and was seized with another attack of coughing that the three musketeers flinched to hear. He gasped and recovered his breath enough to speak, in a trembling voice: "Athos!"
Immediately and without a word, Porthos stood up. He lifted his chair with one hand, placed it by the bed, and retreated to lean against the wall at Aramis' side. Athos nodded in thanks and took the offered seat. "I'm here."
D'Artagnan turned towards him, frighteningly pale but for the bright flush over his cheekbones. His eyes were still unfocused and confused, almost frightened. "Athos? Is it you?"
"It's me," Athos replied, and although normally so conservative of words, he sensed that the sick man needed him to reiterate the point. "I'm here. It's me. Pray do not worry."
D'Artagnan looked ready to cry. "I thought you had gone," he tried to explain. "I don't know why. I thought someone had taken you away."
Impulsively Athos seized the young man's hand from atop the blankets and pressed it tightly. "No, I am here," he repeated: it was no great discourse, but the action expressed clearly the depth of the sentiment. "I will not leave you."
Quieted, d'Artagnan let his head drop back again, eyes shut. "Faith, Athos, your hands are cold," he murmured, with a slight shiver. But he held fast when Athos tried to pull back. "No, no; that's a good thing. 'A cold hand and a warm heart,' didn't you know that?"
Athos remained perfectly still. But he smiled to see d'Artagnan calm, and when he spoke again, it was light and conversational. "De Treville is worried about you, my son."
Half asleep again, d'Artagnan gave no reply, but Aramis looked up from where he was rummaging through the cabinets. "You spoke to the captain?"
"Yes; he was quite concerned." In fact, de Treville had seen the moment Athos entered his chamber that something was wrong, and earnestly offered to help in any way he could. Athos did not know whether to be impressed at the captain's perceptiveness, or surprised at his own transparency. "He has given the three of us leave for tomorrow, and insisted that we apprise him of our friend's progress."
"That was good of him," remarked Aramis.
Porthos was unsurprised. "Ah, he knows we look after our own. All for one and one for all, eh?"
Aramis found a mug and, returning to the table, began mixing in small amounts of this and that. "Indeed. Put on some hot water?"
Porthos did so. Seeing them both occupied, Athos half-rose, in some confusion. "Is there anything I can do to help?"
"Not a bit of it." Porthos clapped him affectionately on the shoulder, pushing him back down into the chair. D'Artagnan, who had groaned and turned over in his sleep at the separation, was still again at the renewal of his friend's touch.
"My dear fellow," said Aramis, "no one could possibly do more for him than you are doing now. Stay where you are, and we will take care of the rest."