Porthos: The Incident with the Flower: Epilogue
The days that were to follow would be a period of sadness and retribution. The remainder of the men, aching and bleeding, would take refuge under the sanctuary of Marguerite’s hospitality. Many would weep at the extent of their losses. However, none would weep so deeply as M. Treville on the day he received our Hero’s triumphant return.
On the day in question, M. Treville, had managed to acquire, at great cost to his person, two seemingly identical drawings. He was currently engaged in comparing the two side by side in the calm candlelit twilight of his office, which was his custom. He enjoyed his solitary evenings, and found that he could work for hours without distraction. It was for these occasions that he saved the work that required his complete concentration and involved his most delicate artifacts, as was the case at present.
Treville studied the two to drawings placed in parallel. One was a current depiction of an expansive Paris residence, with its usual profusion of bedrooms and elegant drawing rooms, and crowned with a grand ballroom, of course. Treville grinned to himself. The second depiction was much the same, but this drawing was much older; the paper was thin and worn through with age, the ink lines very much faded. Treville had taken great pains to secure this particular drawing, and as of yet his efforts had not come to fruition. But there was something about this building that drew him, and although his instincts were not often wrong, they were not often clear, either.
He aligned the two images on top of one another and held them up against the candlelight, so that both pages became transparent and Treville could manipulate and align the lines at will. In so doing, he traced each room, beginning with the northwest sector. Methodically, he would go through the entire building, room by room, line by line, until he found the discrepancy. It would not be obvious - they never were - or someone else would have made that discovery before him. No, there would be something very subtle and it would nag subtly at him over the course of days. Very rarely would his methodical inspections yield a solution on the instant, so he settled himself in for a long night, waiting for that light prickling sensation against his temple that would tell him that he had picked up on something.
Hours passed in this way, with Treville’s steady fingers tracing patterns across paper acting as the only sign of life until… Ah, there, he had felt it, that pricking, against his left temple, his very intuitive left temple that indicated that he was about to embark on an important discovery. He began scanning the pages furiously; his eye had clearly preceded his mind in catching this distinction before he had even been consciously aware. But then the discovery announced itself; the door to his offices were flung wide, and a beaming Porthos burst into the room carrying a large sack of potatoes, which he immediately threw across Treville’s desk, ripping straight through both drawings, so that each page touched briefly against the candle and burst into flames before Treville’s horrified eyes.
Treville could feel a tear swelling from the corner of his eye and reeled it back in by sheer force of will.
“I have found your anarchist!” Porthos announced, beaming in triumph.
“You have found potatoes!” Treville responded, kicking the offending bag off his desk. He quietly noted that D’Artagnan had also crept into the office behind Porthos and was also smiling, for no discernable reason.
From the ground, the potatoes let out a soft whimper.
“What is this?” Treville demanded. Had they brought him a large dog?
“Open it!” This came from D’Artagnan, who apparently was hoping to see him bitten.
“This is an animal in a bag, not a present! Porthos, open the bag.” Treville pondered this. “If you must.”
Porthos opened the bag, and inside was a very pretty, very scared girl with her mouth and hands bound.
“You tied and bound a young girl and put her in a sack!” Treville was horrified.
“Look closer,” Porthos prompted, but Treville was adamant.
“There is no need. Take this young girl and let her go someplace safe - ”
“It is the Duke of Rohan’s son, Henri de Rohan, the Second - the Rohan Bastard!” D’Artagan interjected.
“This is not a man. This is…” but Treville hesitated. He saw the dark eyes, the matted red hair, the exceptional height of the girl if she - no, he - were to stand. Yes, he could see it now, it was indeed the Rohan Bastard.
“Yes, this is a man. He is the head of the anarchists I sent you to look for? Is that so?”
“Yes, this is the one.”
“Why is he gagged?”
“He spits,” Porthos anwered.
“And he has exceptional aim!” D’Artagnan added, watching in apprehension.
“Fine then. Why is he bound?”
“He scratches.” D’Artagnan lifted his sleeve showed Treville several nasty gashes. Treville could easily picture how this had come about. Porthos would have grabbed the man by his torso, leaving D’Artagnan to deal with binding and gagging, hence the scratches and collateral spitting. Now he had to ask the most obvious question.
“Why, then, have you brought him to me in a potato sack?”
The two friends looked at each other. Porthos opened the back a little further, and a lurid odor found its way into the room. The young Rohan had the grace to look ashamed. Treville backed away.
“Right. I will deal with this in the morning. Take that potato sack and throw it in a cell, and throw yourselves out!”
“Right away, Captain!”
“Yes, right away!” Porthos retrieved the Rohan sack and lifted it seemingly without effort. If Treville were not so thoroughly annoyed, he would have been impressed. They were almost at the door now.
“Porthos.”
“Yes?”
“I have lost count already how many times I have told you this previously. When you see a door, and this door leads to my office. Before you open this door, you take your right hand and lift it up, this majestic and magnificent hand, and you use it to knock at my door before you open it. Or better yet, you knock at my door, and then wait for me to receive you. Do you understand me?”
“Of course!” Porthos replied. And Treville could tell from Porthos’ tone that the man had already forgotten what he had just been told. The man had a poor memory, the span of which would rival a guppy’s. He sighed and turned to look out his window, where he could barely make out the figures of the two retreating men.
After assuring himself that the two had indeed left his office and would not be returning, Treville sat down at his desk - he could not bear to look at the charred remains of his beautiful drawings - and laid out fresh ink and paper and began to write.
“My Dear Marguerite,” he began, “I am writing to you now to share with you my deepest condolences. Your suspicions regarding your friend have proven to be entirely correct. You acted admirably when you came to me with your concerns. Your friend is now in my custody, which is where he deserves to be, and I will use the greatest discretion to ensure that your privacy and that of your family are not soiled any further in connection with this matter. Your concerns will be treated as my own, but how you handle matters on your end, I will leave up to your better judgment.
“Most sincerely,
“Treville.”