Double Trouble

Chapter Seven: The Prognosis

THE PROGNOSIS:

Porthos jumps down from his horse before the animal had even come to a stop. With strong arms, the Musketeer pulls Athos from the horse, cradling him in his arms as he rushes into the château. Jean-Luc leads the way to an upstairs bedchamber across the hall from the room Aramis lies in, shouting at the house servant to fetch M. Molyneux and Cécile.

"Bring him in here," M. Berteau called from the room's doorway. "How long ago was this man wounded?" The physician asked as he followed Porthos to where he was laid on the bed. "He is quite pale, assuming from extreme blood loss, and is in very poor condition," the doctor frowned.

"I had to leave him in the forest yesterday to bring d'Artagnan and Aramis here. There was no other choice-if we were to save them." Porthos explained abruptly.

"What are his injuries?" the doctor asked while examining Athos. "I ask because it saves time in having to determine what happened, so that I may treat him accordingly, and time is of the essence."

"When I went back into the forest last night I found Athos lying in a pool of blood, apparently shot through and through on his lower right side. I thought he was already dead but," Porthos paused, "but somehow he had survived."

"Indeed he did," M. Berteau said as he surveyed the injuries.

"Athos also has a wound to his left shoulder from early yesterday, looks like he was stabbed through from behind with a raider's sword," Porthos explained. The large Musketeer shuddered at the memory of finding Athos bent over the unmoving form of Aramis near the decoy's carriage. After everything that's happened since they were first attacked by the bandits, it seems like a lifetime ago they were traveling on the road to Orléans.

"I found Athos last night surrounded by the same group of raiders who chased us into the forest—all of them were dead—but someone shot Athos before he eventually killed them all. I don't know how long he had been lying on the ground, probably hours." Porthos backed away from the bed to give the doctor room, wringing his hands with worry.

M. Molyneux entered the room and walked over to Porthos, "try not to worry about your friend. I can assure you, he is in the best of hands," he said motioning with his head toward the doctor. "If there is such a thing as a miracle worker, it is Gérard Berteau," he smiled. "After all, I believe your young friend, d'Artagnan, is living proof that M. Berteau is the best physician you can hope for. With anybody else, young d'Artagnan would certainly be dead. Have faith, mon ami."

"M. Molyneux, I must cut off this doublet but first we must turn the patient over onto his stomach," the physician called out. "Please assist me in turning him, then bring me the scissors. We must get these clothes off before we can get him washed and prepared for surgery."

"Jean-Luc," M. Berteau continued, "please assist Cécile and bring me my tools and my medical bag. Also, please bring hot water, bowls, clean towels and cloths for bandages. Go quickly now, please," he instructed. The physician and M. Molyneux gently turned Athos over onto his stomach, removing all pillows so he laid flat, his face turned to the side. M. Berteau then began the task of cutting away the Musketeer's leather doublet.

Porthos stood watching with wide eyes, his jaw dropped open, as the physician cut in two Athos's distinguished doublet that had made the Musketeer look so elegant. Both halves of the doublet were tossed onto the floor like trash, the assistant kicking them away from the bedside with his feet. Porthos reached down to pick up the doublet halves, turning them over in his hands to locate the coveted pauldron so esteemed by the King's Musketeers.

To proudly wear this symbol of honor on his right shoulder meant more to Athos than the title of Comte de la Fère or any so-called rank of nobility. The pauldron on this doublet defined the very essence of the man who wore it—his title of nobility was long buried and forgotten.