Athos scoffs softly. What thanks could he require of Porthos? The man is right in one small sense: sometimes Athos does look at him and think, briefly but painfully, of his wife. Someone, somewhere - Treville, certainly, but likely others as well - had shown Porthos mercy, and allowed the goodness in his heart to grow. What if the same had been done for Anne de Breuil, or whoever she had once been? What if he had shown mercy?

Perhaps it would not have mattered. Perhaps the rottenness of her heart went to deep already. The question will always haunt him, just the same.

“I’ll leave you to it, then.” Athos pushes himself to his feet and goes to fetch his coffee that has gone lukewarm.