Fic: Something Entirely Different
The first duel, admittedly, was fairly inconsequential in the grand scheme of things. Words were exchanged, and though neither of them would have shown it under the Cardinal’s watchful eye, they both knew that the bitter business between them could only be expiated in blood. D’Artagnan wanted to kill someone, and Rochefort suited his goals better than anyone else he knew. As for the Count himself, he seemed to have an itch that only d’Artagnan’s blade could scratch: the boy got under his skin in more ways than he found to be imaginable. And so they fought, and d’Artagnan had dared to let him live, an act that to Rochefort only heaped insult on top of his blistering injury.
The second duel, a bit more personal than the first, was precipitated by somewhat different circumstances. Rochefort could always smell weakness, he preyed on it, and would not let such an opportunity get away from him, no matter what Richelieu had ordered him to do. The truth of the matter was, it was fairly obvious that d’Artagnan had been left alone. First, the Big-Dumb One got married. Rochefort was not sure what surprised him more: the speed with which the man had extricated himself from “the four inseparables” or the fact that he had apparently had the sagacity and the willpower to garner himself such a profoundly rich widow. Then, in an act that seemed random to his musketeer friends, but for reasons that Richelieu made it a point to acquaint himself with, the Shifty-Eyed One also disappeared. That one, Rochefort figured, would have been gone a lot sooner had he not taken up a rather ridiculous liaison with his comrade in arms, or, as Rochefort referred to him, the Drunk One. This affair went on for years, he was certain although he had no proof, but it was only really in the end that Shifty and Drunk started to get sloppy. After all, something had to give when you’re carrying on with both the Duchess de Chevreuse and the Comte de La Fère at the same time, for Christ’s sake! Rochefort was not in favor of multi-tasking.
To sum up, with Big-Dumb and Shifty out of the picture physically, and the Drunk One being more in his cups than ever before and, therefore, out of the picture in a more metaphorical sense, the boy was ripe for the picking. Rochefort decided to approach him, seemingly accidentally, when the Gascon was getting off duty after spending the entire night on guard at the Louvre. Rochefort loved to hunt in the early hours of the morning, when the prey is usually the weakest.
“Monsieur Lieutenant,” the Count began with mock civility, doffing his hat. “Allow me to greet you, as I greet the dawn!”
“With feigned courtesy, Rochefort?” the Gascon countered. Rochefort bristled and gave the young man one of his crooked smiles.
“Monsieur, I would never deny,” he continued, “that I still hate both you and the ugly, red, dying horse you rode into Paris on.”
“You will not even let the poor animal rest in peace, will you, Rochefort?”
“Not on your life,” the Cardinal’s agent grinned, sending a familiar shiver up d’Artagnan’s spine.
“Very well. Shall it be at the Carmes-Deschaux then?”
“My dear Lieutenant,” Rochefort continued in the same tone, “I do not believe it would be fair for me to fight you now, finding you as I do without any available seconds.”
“You really do want me to kill you, don’t you, Rochefort?” d’Artagnan spat out, realizing the direction into which this confrontation was veering.
“Unless… you think M. Athos can separate himself from the bottle long enough..,” but at this point Rochefort’s elocution was interrupted by d’Artagnan violently shoving him up against the wall and pinioning him to it with the length of his body.
“You do not speak of him,” the young musketeer hissed through clenched teeth.
Rochefort could feel his heart beating wildly inside his chest. It was not fear that held him, but whatever it was, the confusion had rendered him temporarily silent. Seeing his enemy at a loss for words, d’Artagnan had loosened his grip a bit.
“Carmes-Deschaux. Be there at sun down. You’ll get your wish.” D’Artagnan waited for the other man to nod his assent before completely unhanding him. It was inconceivable that Rochefort would not say something else entirely offensive, and so d’Artagnan stood there holding his gaze for a moment longer.
“Carmes-Deschaux,” Rochefort mumbled and walked away. D’Artagnan remained rooted to the ground, stupefied. What the hell had just happened?
Rochefort was asking himself the same question. Among many thoughts that were running through his prolific brain, was the unexpected joy of the newly born suspicion: had the boy taken up with the Drunk One? And, if so, how could he use this knowledge against him? But, more importantly, Rochefort wondered, why in God’s name did he find himself being so inconveniently aroused when the damn Gascon slammed him against that wall?
Rochefort knew better than anyone how thin that line could be between love and hate. He had often used and blended them together in the past, at times as a means of vengeance, at times as a consequence of his work, but always so close were those two feelings intertwined in him as to become almost one impossible emotion. When he had initially received the scar that now forever graced his face, his vanity could not withstand such a blow, and so he had convinced himself that since the path to love was blocked to him forever, he would have to embrace the path to hatred. But life does not always work out the way you planned. And so, when their blades crossed at the Carmes-Deschaux as the sun descended, Rochefort felt as if another sun was setting on him. He knew he was going to let the boy win and he was hoping for death so that he would not have to live with this new type of shame.
And so it was to no surprise that the fact that d’Artagnan spared him this second time was literally unbearable. Consumed with the hatred, now tinged with the crimson of lust, that bordered more and more on an obsession with each passing day, Rochefort decided that what was good enough for the Comte de La Fère, would be good enough for him. He took up drinking again. He did not wish to be too obvious about it, but on occasions that their paths would cross at the same tavern, Rochefort was hard-pressed to admit which of them was truly “the Drunk One.” Leaning closer in towards the face of his one-time enemy, Rochefort took a good sniff and let out a provocative laugh.
Athos seemed entirely unimpressed by this incomprehensible gesture, and eyed Rochefort with detached amusement.
“Monsieur le comte,” Rochefort mumbled, clumsily tripping over his own shoes in his state of inebriation and almost landing his face into the table and yet, somehow, making a surprisingly graceful recovery at the last moment. “Has anyone ever told you that you smell like cock?”
Were Athos to be truly sober himself, he probably would have gone for his sword immediately, or better yet, thrown his opponent out of the window, as he’s done on numerous similar occasions. Defenestration appealed to his humanist side: the side that hoped that the unfortunate man being defenestrated would actually land safely on the other side of the window. But he had drunk just enough wine that night to dull his basest homicidal urges for the time being and let the other ones run free.
“No, Count,” Athos replied, “I am afraid you’ll have to be more specific. Whose cock do you imply I smell like?”
Rochefort seemed taken aback. He was expecting to be hit, but not with that kind of a repartée. He actually felt his face blush at the insinuation.
“I merely ask,” Athos went on in his usual phlegmatic tone, “because I wish to know how many cocks you had to sniff to arrive at your stunning deduction.”
“You still give a lot of lip, all things considered!” Rochefort growled.
“Which things?”
“I know about you and the boy,” Rochefort lowered his voice to a whisper. It was a ruse, but not one he was above, and he hoped it would work.
“What are you talking about?” Athos asked.
“I’m talking about your lover,” Rochefort was not feeling discouraged yet.
“Are you mad?”
“I am no less sane than you, or else equally as insane.”
“You are grasping at straws, Rochefort.” The look Athos was giving him was not a look that many people saw and lived to tell the tale. That look encouraged Rochefort more than any words could.
“Is this why your Shifty-Eyed friend left you? Because you had gone sweet on the young one?” Just one punch, Rochefort thought. It’s worth taking it right in the face because then you will be giving yourself away. He saw that Athos had already clenched his right hand into a fist.
“Walk away, Rochefort, before I smash your goddamn teeth in,” Athos said in a terrifyingly quiet tone.
“Which one of them is better in the sack, anyways? I’ve always wanted to know!” This time, Rochefort was not disappointed, for he was immediately knocked clearly across the table by the musketeer’s fist. When Rochefort was able to focus his unharmed eye, he found that the other man had quit the tavern. Some coins were lying on top of the bench, next to the overturned table. As was his habit, Athos compensated the host for the damages.
You might think that you won, Rochefort snickered to himself, but I know your secret now. It’s only a matter of time before the Cardinal knows too. And then… well, there is no telling in which direction your strings will be pulled and how tightly.
Rochefort found himself thinking of d’Artagnan on a string: his own puppet, to do with as he pleased. The things he would not do to him then… Rochefort descended into a most pleasant of his drunken reveries. There were ropes and musketeers tied up with these ropes, specifically musketeers named d’Artagnan, who begged for mercy. No, not for mercy, he begged to be fucked. By him, by the Count de Rochefort, his eternal foe.
Their paths crossed a few more times over the next few years, although Rochefort was careful to keep his distance, no longer trusting himself to remain on solid ground as opposed to the quicksand that it turned to beneath his feet every time d’Artagnan was involved. He kept a watchful eye on the two of them, trusting no other agent to give him accurate accounts of their involvement. But, predominantly, he kept himself in the shadows.
At last, one morning, Rochefort received two letters. One was from an agent informing him that the Drunk One had apparently fled the coop and was last seen leaving Paris on the road to Nancy. Rochefort snickered at the poor besotted fool. The man you seek is no longer there, Monsieur le Comte, he thought bitterly. Perhaps you should have asked me. There was a time I would have told you, if only to get you out of the picture entirely.
The second letter was addressed from “M. d’Artagnan, Lieutenant of the King’s Musketeers,” and this letter cordially invited the Count de Rochefort for a nighttime promenade outside the Luxembourg later the same day.
They needed no reasons, and it certainly required no explanation when they had met at the appointed time for this, their third, duel.
“I simply missed you, Rochefort,” d’Artagnan declared, as they made perfunctory bows towards one another.
“If you wanted an excuse to see me, you need not have looked further than behind you,” the other man replied.
“I was afraid you would eventually confirm my suspicions about that,” d’Artagnan responded with a slight snicker.
“I never told anyone else, you realize, about the two of you.”
“Never the less,” d’Artagnan said, drawing his sword, “Someone has to pay for the foul mood I am in today and it might as well be you.”
“At your service,” Rochefort bowed gracefully, extricating his own sword from the scabbard.
This time, the bout lasted longer than the others. It was clear that despite indulging himself with wine, Rochefort had kept up with his fencing. He was giving d’Artagnan much more of a challenge than the other man had expected, and so it was with an even greater satisfaction that the Gascon finally delivered the blow in quatre that fell his opponent to the ground with yet another bleeding wound. Seeing the man go down, d’Artagnan immediately sheathed his weapon and came up to Rochefort.
“I’ll probably kill you the fourth time,” he said to him, as he offered a hand to get him to his feet.
“It would be better, then, for you and for me, if we stopped here,” replied the wounded man. “Corbleu! I’m more of a friend to you than you think, for from our first meeting on, with one word to the cardinal, I could have had your throat cut.”
This time they kissed each other good-heartedly and with no second thoughts.