Phillipe was proud of his uniform. Unlike his companions, he believed what it represented was bigger than him.
Porthos said he respected the uniform, but for a man with such a statement on record he was rarely to be seen in it. Clothes and style mattered more to him than anything.
Aramis would use the uniform so long as the woman he was in pursuit of felt that uniforms were attractive, if not, or if successful in his wooing, the uniform would be discarded without a second thought.
Athos was so in love with his principles that the Muskateers were little more than a means to an end. He would be upholding justice in his own way even if he was a butcher, or simple farmhand.
Phillipe shuddered as he thought of the last member of his group. D’Artagnan hadn’t even wanted to be in the Muskateers. Hadn’t trained for the honour of the appointment. All he’d done is schedule a load of illegal duels, not fought any of them, and somehow here he was, lording it over Phillipe in a very unbecoming manner.
Not that Phillipe was bitter, not at all. He was glad to be out here, on a day to day basis, making the lives of the French peasant folk safer, and better. His companion's fame preceded them and they could get little done without a crowd forming around them. That is the only reason why it was he, Phillipe, up this tree and not Athos or Porthos. Phillipe often repeated this to himself. It was good to keep reminding himself of it, lest he break down. Especially when under the withering gaze of his mother as he had to tell her what he had been up to since last they met.
His girlfriend was starting to give him the same look. Maybe he was no better than Aramis, winning her favour with the glamour of the uniform. Unlike Aramis though he was then not delivering on said glamour.
The cat would not come down on its own though, and the catcalls of the 3 young men at the base of the tree were not helping Phillipe, or the animal , get down safely.
“Are you a real musketeer? Or is that a costume?”
Phillipe blocked it out. He was glad for those boys that it was him in the tree and not one of the others. They would have a firm word to say about it and no mistake.
“Trying to save France one pussy at a time?”
He finally got hold of the cat, and predictably it hissed and backed away from him, leaving him dangling briefly as he reached for it again.
“Just spit it on your sword and go home to your boyfriend, imbecile. It will be back up there as soon as you leave.”
Phillipe felt a cold irrational rage begin to simmer in his belly. He ignored the cat, and began to climb down the tree.
“Beaten by a cat? HAHA You are a disgrace to the uniform.”
He walked towards the men, smile fixed on his face, hands out in a conciliatory pose.
“Gentlemen”, he said, “why must you barrack me so. I am merely trying to help Madame LeCoq. She fears for her feline companion.”
The laughter only grew. The tallest of the 3 and probably the oldest too, judging by his weathered face, smirked at Phillipe.
“Because you should be back in your barracks, putain.” He appended a full stop of spittle to this witticism.
The feeling of the spit on his face did nothing to put out the rage burning in Phillipe. He knew his face was flushed. He probably looked close to tears. But that was not what he was near.
“Do you know who I am?”, Phillipe asked of the men.
“Know who you are? Fuck no, you’re nobody!”
Phillipe looked around. No-one to back him, or them up. He may be the least famous of the Muskateers, but unlike them, he kept up with his training and drills. He had killed better men than these for France and perhaps he felt he had enough credit to stretch to a withdrawal or three. His rage drew his hand to the hilt of his rapier.
“You don’t know who I am? Well, that’s fantastic news.”
His hand blurred, the rapier flashed.
