The Three Musketeers as Reinterpreted by Tara Subtle Tingler

The Three Musketeers  as Reinterpreted by Tara Subtle Tingler

We join our brave D’Artagnan in the midst of his meeting with the Duke of Buckingham (Ch. 21). All of the previous chapters are victim-shaming colonialist apologies.

D’Artagnan blushed up to the whites of his eyes. He saw that the duke was searching for a means of making him accept something and the idea that the blood of his friends and himself was about to be paid for with English gold was strangely repugnant to him.

“Let us understand each other, my Lord,” replied d’Artagnan, “and let us make things clear beforehand in order that there may be no mistake. I am in the service of the King and Queen of France, and form part of the company of Monsieur Dessessart, who, as well as his brother-in-law, Monsieur de Treville, is particularly attached to their Majesties. What I have done, then, has been for the queen, and not at all for your Grace. And still further, it is very probable I should not have done anything of this, if it had not been to make myself agreeable to someone who is my lady, as the queen is yours.”

“Yes,” said the duke, smiling, “and I even believe that I know that other person; it is —”

“My Lord, I have not named her!” interrupted the young man, warmly.

“That is true,” said the duke; “and it is to this person I am bound to discharge my debt of gratitude.”

“You have said, my Lord; for truly, at this moment when there is question of war, I confess to you that I see nothing in your Grace but an Englishman, and consequently an enemy whom I should have much greater pleasure in meeting on the field of battle than in the park at Windsor or the corridors of the Louvre — all which, however, will not prevent me from executing to the very point my commission or from laying down my life, if there be need of it, to accomplish it; but I repeat it to your Grace, without your having personally on that account more to thank me for in this second interview than for what I did for you in the first.”

“We say, ‘Proud as a Scotsman,’” murmured the Duke of Buckingham.

“And we say, ‘Proud as a Gascon,’” replied d’Artagnan. “The Gascons are the Scots of France.”

D’Artagnan bowed to the duke, and was retiring.

“Well, are you going away in that manner? Where, and how?”

“That’s true!”

“Fore Gad, these Frenchmen have no consideration!”

“I had forgotten that England was an island, and that you were the king of it.”

“Whoa whoa whoa, what’s with all of this toxic masculinity here? And do I hear talk of pernicious nationalism? Are you not aware that this is the very type of talk that has kept Muslims, trans, gays, women and POC under the boot of the patriarchy until now?”

D’Artagnan and the Duke turned to see a figure with head flowing with blond locks and a tunic emblazoned in sparkling stones with the words: “Hug a refugee today.”

“And who must this wonderful mademoiselle be?” asked D’Artagnan, his mind instantly distracted from his beloved back home.

“Don’t --” started the Duke hoping to save the aggravation.

But it was too late, “I suppose on the other side of the channel you chauvinist French take it for granted cat calling a woman, an adult equal of yours. Well asshole, you’ve come to the wrong nobleman’s estate. Didn’t he Phineas?” With this she turned to the Duke.

“Phineas? You’re name is Phineas?” asked D’Artagnan, incredulous. Then realizing where he was he suppressed a snort. “But what about the Countess de Winter? She was--.”

The Duke appeared to be suppressing a migraine. “Yes, I know, I know, she was supposed to be here. But apparently this production has been taken over by the BBC Channel 4.” he turned toward the bonny lass before them. “Oh for fuck’s sake, I told you to run off to the village and buy some damn gardenias or whatever,” hissed the Duke.

“Yes, Phineas we’ve been over this. You’re imposing of gender roles on me will keep England stuck in the pre-Reformation days of the 16th century just like France. I suppose next you’re going to pledge fealty to the Pope.”

The Duke continued to mutter under his breath, before saying, “Well, I guess we have no choice now. My friend from Gascony, D’Artagnan, I’d like to introduce to you my cousin Tara from Newport, Virginia. Cousin, this is a brave guest come to fight against the tyranny of Cardinal Richelieu.”

The young adventurous Frenchman chose to activate his charm. “Ah, so you come from the New World my dear. My own uncle Louis has himself helped finance several expeditions of Samuel de Champlain. He shows me letters bringing tidings of the great riverways, lakes and woods of Québéc.”

“Oh, so it’s YOU that’s undertaking the subjugation of the great Iroquois nation. Not only are you not allowing enough refugees in from Algiers, Tunis, and Tangier, but you’re spending all of the money for the public services of the ones that you do on these foreign wars of OCCUPATION!”

D’Artagnan turned back to the Duke. “So anyway, talking about getting back to France. . .”

“Go to the riverside, ask for the brig SUND, and give this letter to the captain; he will convey you to a little port, where certainly you are not expected, and which is ordinarily only frequented by fishermen.”

“The name of that port?”

“St. Valery; but listen. When you have arrived there you will go to a mean tavern, without a name and without a sign — a mere fisherman’s hut. You cannot be mistaken; there is but one.”

“Afterward?”

“You will ask for the host, and will repeat to him the word ‘Forward!’”

“Which means?”

“In French, EN AVANT. It is the passw--”

“Wait are you trying to move on and MANSPLAIN yourself out of this Phineas?”

“N-no Tara --” the Duke protested, but she persisted.

“Yes you did, you macho bastard. I’ll have you know that I am the published author Tara Subtle Tingler of Al Quds, Sliced and Diced, and that I have received rave reviews on New Voices and Booktopia, available on Amazon and Barnes & Noble now.”

Finally the Duke’s patience was expended. “Tara, for the last time, NOBODY KNOWS WHAT THE FUCK YOU’RE TALKING ABOUT! This is 17th century Britain, and we’re still over 300 years before the Beatles’ Abbey Road album, so I have to listen to this Baroque period CRAP! Do you see this?” He pointed at his chest. “Look at this frilly crap that I’m wearing! I’d kill a Welshman but for a nice pair of Levi’s jeans and a fleece pullover. But am I complaining? No! Because this is a historical romance novel. Can we get beyond that already?

“No Phineas, we’re going to end your misogyny here.--” and on it continued.

The next  day, D’Artagnan having been distracted by the Great British Feminist Revolution of 1626, Louis XIII of France was deposed and replaced by Amélie. Yes that Amelie, from the movie. What, you don’t get it? Well fuck you! I run social media at the Chronicles of Geographical Palestine and the Levantine Shore. Why don’t you write a letter or something?