Olivier had a fascination with the Court of Miracles. The mystery intrigued him, the history interested him, the people fascinated him.
In only five years Judge Richelieu, who was often discussed by his father, had tightened a hold of authorities in Paris, and had taken a harsh stance against the street performers and travellers that hid away in the Court of Miracles. It was Paris’ biggest and most well-kept secret. Only the gypsy community knew where the Court was, and they protected it and each other in a way that astounded Olivier. Everyday there were whispers of gypsies being ‘quietly dispatched’ from the streets under Richelieu’s orders. They were to Richelieu the epitome of sin, and that was what Richelieu appeared to wish to stomp out of Paris.
It had been a boy, seven years ago now, that had first sparked Olivier’s interest in the gypsies. At the time it had been hard to comprehend that someone a similar age to himself could have such a different life. The boy had been in scruffy brown shorts and a loose white shirt, dark of skin and hair with, Olivier remembered, a huge smile. Olivier had seen the boy four more times within those seven years since their first meeting. Every time a little bit older, a little more handsome, and a lot more skilled in street performance.
The boy had been playing the tambourine the first time, with two older gypsies who were also playing instruments. He had caught nine-year-old Olivier’s eyes and the recognition had been there in an instant. Olivier had not waited around; he merely waved, winked and dropped a coin into the small sack on the floor in front of the performers.
The second time, the boy, possibly around age thirteen at that time, had been calling people in to watch a puppet show. Thomas had eagerly dragged his brother and his parents toward the stall and Olivier had come face to face with the boy. The boy had grinned, before disappearing into the puppet stall. When the puppets had jiggled and danced around, causing Thomas to laugh loudly amongst the other gathered audience, Olivier had wondered which puppet the boy was controlling as he ruffled Thomas’ hair with fond affection.
The third time it had been winter. Bitter cold. Olivier was thirteen, and hurrying alongside his father, when he had spotted a figure huddled in a bundle of ragged material. It had taken a moment or two of looking to see that it was the boy. Olivier had skidded to a halt, his father not noticing and carrying on down the street. Olivier had crouched before the boy, and the boy had looked up at him, breath clouding the air between them. Olivier had dropped a coin in the boy’s hat and pulled off his scarf. He wrapped it around the boy’s hands.
“What’s your name?” He had asked the boy, as the boy opened his mouth in astonishment.
“Porthos.” Came the reply. It was the first time the boy had truly spoken to him. The boy spoke in a cold rush, voice hoarse from the harsh wind.
“Porthos.” Olivier had repeated with a nod. He had squeezed Porthos’ hands before getting up to follow his father.
“Olivier.” Olivier had stopped in surprise at his own name being spoken. “Thank you.”
Olivier had nodded at the boy – Porthos - with a smile and then rushed away. His father had scolded him for being careless enough to lose his scarf. Olivier bore it with a secret smile.
The fourth time, Porthos had been dancing. Olivier was thirteen, which meant Porthos was a year or so older, and he had grown tall in the six months since Olivier had seen him last. He had been wearing loose brown pants and a V-necked white shirt, bangles on his wrists and a necklace about his throat. He was a great dancer. Olivier had stopped to watch, his brother beside him, and Porthos had caught Olivier’s eyes as he spun. Porthos had grinned brightly, and then carried on as though he had not been distracted. Olivier had decided not to distract him further and moved on.
Porthos had sparked Olivier’s interest in the Court. He often stopped to watch street performers in and around Paris, much to his father’s annoyance if they were in a hurry, and much to his mother’s chagrin.
“They will rob you blind, Olivier, if you are not careful.” She had warned him on many occasions.
“But I like watching them.” He had argued.
Thomas had caught his eye and smiled at him. Thomas loved watching them too, and knew of Olivier’s interest in the gypsies.
“It’s just, where do you suppose they go?” Olivier had asked his brother on many occasions. "Where do you think the Court of Miracles is?" His younger brother had just shrugged.
They often played games in their back garden, pretending to know the entrance to the Court of Miracles, evading capture, stealing and earning gold, and escaping Richelieu’s clutches every time.
Olivier was fourteen now, and it had been seven years since he had first met Porthos, and it had been a year or so since their last encounter. Every time Olivier ventured into Paris with his family he kept an eye out for Porthos, but like all of the street performers, Porthos never seemed to be in the same place twice, and Olivier did not come to Paris all that often; living a few miles out of the city in his family’s big country house and keeping busy with his home-schooling. He only got to go to Paris if he managed to persuade his father to allow him to join him when his father was on business.
It was September when Olivier was next invited to go into Paris with his father. Thomas, aged twelve, decided to stay behind to play with the dogs from his day off from their lessons.
Olivier was even more pleased when his father gave him a coin or two, and told him he was free to wander around the building in which his father was meeting a friend, just ‘not too far’ and that he had to be ‘very careful’. Olivier readily agreed, having not ever wandered the streets of Paris alone before.
It was by some great coincidence, just as Olivier rounded the corner into the next street and was wondering whether or not he would see Porthos, that he spotted the boy himself. Porthos looked older again from when Olivier had last seen him. His dark curls were shorter to his head and his warm, mischievous face was showing all the signs that he would grow into a very handsome man. Porthos was wearing purple pants this time, slung low on his hips with a gold chained belt, a loose white shirt revealing a sliver of a toned stomach and chest. There was a small gold ring in his ear. Porthos was performing some sort of card trick, to a small yet captivated audience. He clocked onto Olivier’s presence a moment or two after Olivier had noticed him. Offering him a sly grin, Porthos turned to the women standing closest to him.
“Ladies, please look at these cards.” He fanned out a pack of cards in front of the women. “Each card has a different picture on it. Is this correct?”
“Yes.” One woman said.
“Thank you Miss. Now, there’s nothing on the other side, is there?” He turned the cards up so that they could see that the backs were blank.
“Yes.” She confirmed.
“Now, if I could have a volunteer.” Porthos’ eyes landed on Olivier immediately. “Sir, would you like to volunteer?”
“Of course.” Olivier stepped forward with an interested smirk.
“Now, pick out a card, make sure I don’t see the picture, show the audience and then slide it back into the pack. Ok?”
Olivier did as he was told. The card had a rearing stallion on it; beautiful and intricately hand painted. He showed the crowd, then slid it back in amongst the other cards. “Ok.” He said.
Porthos opened his eyes and stacked the cards altogether.
“Now.” Porthos said, shuffling the cards. He swept one out. “Is this your card?”
The picture was of a heart with a dagger through it. Olivier coughed. “Ugh, sorry. No.”
Porthos’ eyes crinkled with amusement. “No matter,” He picked another. “Is this your card?”
The picture was of a jester.
“No.” Olivier confessed, looking apologising.
The crowd began to mutter between themselves and a couple at the back began to shift.
“Ah, ah, good people, before you think me useless…” Porthos clucked his tongue. “I have been tricking you, I am afraid.” He stepped towards Olivier. “It appears my volunteer has something in his pocket.”
“I don’t…” Olivier started, before Porthos reached forward and plucked a card out from his pocket.
Olivier stared in disbelief at Porthos. How had that card got into his pocket?
Porthos smiled as the crowd began to chatter in excitement. “My last chance…” Porthos declared dramatically. “Before you all title me a fool.” He put a hand over his eyes and thrust the card out towards the onlookers. “Is this your card?”
It was. “It is.” Olivier said in amazement as the crowd started cheering.
Porthos dropped his hand and beamed at them all. “Thank you ladies and gentlemen.” He took a bow. “Now, I shall be but a moment before my next trick. Please stay and watch, or, if you enjoyed, a small amount of money would be more than welcome, to make sure I can come here again and entertain you all.”
Porthos leant close to Olivier. “I will be done with this show in a few minutes, I will speak to you after?”
Olivier nodded, and passed Porthos a coin. “I am truly amazed by what you just did.”
Porthos’ smile split his face. “I am glad to hear it.”
Olivier nodded and left Porthos to it, as much as he wanted to watch the next trick, he also wanted to get a look around. He would get a chance to see Porthos when Porthos had finished his show.
He wandered a little further down the street, smiling to himself at the exclaims of wonder from the audience that had gathered around Porthos. As he turned into the next street he stopped dead, there were two soldiers harassing a musician further down the street, and another couple of soldiers were heading his way.
Olivier doubled back when he realised the two soldiers were clapping irons on the musician. He had to warn Porthos. The crowd around Porthos was dispersing when Olivier reached him. “Thank you, thank you.” Porthos was saying with a huge grin.
“Porthos.” Olivier muttered as he wove through the straggling crowd.
“Olivier.” Porthos smiled.
“There is no time Porthos.” Olivier hissed urgently. “There are soldiers coming this way.”
Porthos’ face fell. “What?”
“They are arresting a performer in the next street. You have to pack up and go.”
“Right.” Porthos went to packing up with practiced skill which showed he had had to clear out in a rush before. “It’s been getting more and more often recently.” He said, shoving the last of his things into his bag and grasping his bag of coins. Raised voices approached them, and just before the soldiers could round the corner, Porthos clasped Olivier’s wrist and tugged them into the nearest alleyway.
“I cannot stray too far from this street.” Olivier said urgently. “Or my father would ban me from coming back.”
“Then I will let you go.” Porthos said with a small smile. “I owe you once again, Olivier.”
“You do not owe me anything, though maybe one day we may be able to have a full conversation.”
Porthos ducked his head. “Hopefully.”
“It was good to see you again.” Olivier said. “Just make sure that you keep safe, I would hate not to see you next time I am in Paris.”
“You know about the crackdown on my people?” Porthos realised. “You know that they are being more ruthless?”
“I do.” Olivier said, he stuck out his hand. “So, keep out of their hands. Until next time?”
Porthos reached out and shook his hand. “Next time, my friend.” He promised.
Olivier watched Porthos rush down the alleyway and slip out of sight, just as the soldiers passed by the end of the alley, stunned at the realisation that Porthos considered him a friend. Olivier was not aware that he would not see the other boy – his friend - again for a long long time.
20th May 1470
To Judge Richelieu, Porthos and his kind were vermin. Over the years Richelieu’s iron fist grew tighter and tighter and he came down harder and harder on the gypsies. Porthos had lost countless friends to arrest, execution and outright murder, that no-one was brought to justice for. The Court of Miracles was still unfound. But it was becoming more and more of a common knowledge amongst the gypsy population in France that there was a safe haven in Paris, and every day more and more people came to Paris seeking safety against the condemnation and prejudice that was spreading country-wide under Richelieu’s watch.
Porthos spent a lot of his time performing, running and hiding, performing, running and hiding, trying to live whilst making a living. Porthos did not personally like stealing when earning the money was a possible option, but with street performers being targeted more frequently the crimes were increasing, and Porthos himself had had to steal more frequently in order to just get by. He had to.
With looking after his friends, his people, the closest thing he had to a home and family, he had not given much thought to the kind, wealthy boy he had befriended all those years ago. He had seen Olivier almost annually since their first meeting, but then he had not seen him for a while. He had never forgotten Olivier’s numerous acts of kindness; the money, the scarf, the warning of soldiers approaching. But he did not see him for a long time.
Then one day, he thought he saw him at a distance, a handsome young man with another – possibly Thomas – laughing beside him. Entranced at the possibility, Porthos tried to get closer, but had to duck into a doorway as soldiers patrolled nearby.
It was not until May 1470, a long six years after their last true encounter, that Porthos saw Olivier again for definite. The only issue was, Olivier did not see him. Porthos was twenty-one, sitting comfortably on a blanket and whittling a piece of wood into the shape of a flower. He had found a talent at whittling and it brought him a lot of trade. It was also easy to scoop his figures up in the blanket and make a break for it if soldiers came passing.
Porthos glanced up, almost as though drawn like a magnet, when he heard a bright, sunny laugh. Not many people laughed so openly in these dark days. His eyes landed on Olivier. Olivier, who had a woman on his arm. A beautiful and striking woman dressed in blue and white, with blue flowers in her brunette hair. She was smiling up at Olivier and he was gazing adoringly back. Olivier was so entranced by his beautiful woman, that he passed Porthos by without even looking away from his companion. The happy couple had another companion, undoubtedly Thomas, ever trailing behind his big brother, who did glance at Porthos as he passed, and tilted his head in vague recognition when he spotted him, but he must have dismissed it, as he soon looked away again. Olivier had looked so happy, so stunning in his fine clothing and adoration, that Porthos felt a saddening twist in his stomach. Had Olivier really outgrown his fascination with Porthos and his kind? Had Olivier really outgrown him?
It was, coincidentally, the last time Porthos would ever see Thomas. It was also the last time he would ever see Olivier, as he had once known him.
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timeasmymeasure
Fill: Sanctuary 2/?
Date: 2015-01-03 04:59 pm (UTC)Olivier had a fascination with the Court of Miracles. The mystery intrigued him, the history interested him, the people fascinated him.
In only five years Judge Richelieu, who was often discussed by his father, had tightened a hold of authorities in Paris, and had taken a harsh stance against the street performers and travellers that hid away in the Court of Miracles. It was Paris’ biggest and most well-kept secret. Only the gypsy community knew where the Court was, and they protected it and each other in a way that astounded Olivier.
Everyday there were whispers of gypsies being ‘quietly dispatched’ from the streets under Richelieu’s orders. They were to Richelieu the epitome of sin, and that was what Richelieu appeared to wish to stomp out of Paris.
It had been a boy, seven years ago now, that had first sparked Olivier’s interest in the gypsies. At the time it had been hard to comprehend that someone a similar age to himself could have such a different life. The boy had been in scruffy brown shorts and a loose white shirt, dark of skin and hair with, Olivier remembered, a huge smile. Olivier had seen the boy four more times within those seven years since their first meeting. Every time a little bit older, a little more handsome, and a lot more skilled in street performance.
The boy had been playing the tambourine the first time, with two older gypsies who were also playing instruments. He had caught nine-year-old Olivier’s eyes and the recognition had been there in an instant. Olivier had not waited around; he merely waved, winked and dropped a coin into the small sack on the floor in front of the performers.
The second time, the boy, possibly around age thirteen at that time, had been calling people in to watch a puppet show. Thomas had eagerly dragged his brother and his parents toward the stall and Olivier had come face to face with the boy. The boy had grinned, before disappearing into the puppet stall. When the puppets had jiggled and danced around, causing Thomas to laugh loudly amongst the other gathered audience, Olivier had wondered which puppet the boy was controlling as he ruffled Thomas’ hair with fond affection.
The third time it had been winter. Bitter cold. Olivier was thirteen, and hurrying alongside his father, when he had spotted a figure huddled in a bundle of ragged material. It had taken a moment or two of looking to see that it was the boy. Olivier had skidded to a halt, his father not noticing and carrying on down the street. Olivier had crouched before the boy, and the boy had looked up at him, breath clouding the air between them. Olivier had dropped a coin in the boy’s hat and pulled off his scarf. He wrapped it around the boy’s hands.
“What’s your name?” He had asked the boy, as the boy opened his mouth in astonishment.
“Porthos.” Came the reply. It was the first time the boy had truly spoken to him. The boy spoke in a cold rush, voice hoarse from the harsh wind.
“Porthos.” Olivier had repeated with a nod. He had squeezed Porthos’ hands before getting up to follow his father.
“Olivier.” Olivier had stopped in surprise at his own name being spoken. “Thank you.”
Olivier had nodded at the boy – Porthos - with a smile and then rushed away. His father had scolded him for being careless enough to lose his scarf. Olivier bore it with a secret smile.
The fourth time, Porthos had been dancing. Olivier was thirteen, which meant Porthos was a year or so older, and he had grown tall in the six months since Olivier had seen him last. He had been wearing loose brown pants and a V-necked white shirt, bangles on his wrists and a necklace about his throat. He was a great dancer. Olivier had stopped to watch, his brother beside him, and Porthos had caught Olivier’s eyes as he spun. Porthos had grinned brightly, and then carried on as though he had not been distracted. Olivier had decided not to distract him further and moved on.
Porthos had sparked Olivier’s interest in the Court. He often stopped to watch street performers in and around Paris, much to his father’s annoyance if they were in a hurry, and much to his mother’s chagrin.
“They will rob you blind, Olivier, if you are not careful.” She had warned him on many occasions.
“But I like watching them.” He had argued.
Thomas had caught his eye and smiled at him. Thomas loved watching them too, and knew of Olivier’s interest in the gypsies.
“It’s just, where do you suppose they go?” Olivier had asked his brother on many occasions. "Where do you think the Court of Miracles is?" His younger brother had just shrugged.
They often played games in their back garden, pretending to know the entrance to the Court of Miracles, evading capture, stealing and earning gold, and escaping Richelieu’s clutches every time.
Olivier was fourteen now, and it had been seven years since he had first met Porthos, and it had been a year or so since their last encounter. Every time Olivier ventured into Paris with his family he kept an eye out for Porthos, but like all of the street performers, Porthos never seemed to be in the same place twice, and Olivier did not come to Paris all that often; living a few miles out of the city in his family’s big country house and keeping busy with his home-schooling. He only got to go to Paris if he managed to persuade his father to allow him to join him when his father was on business.
It was September when Olivier was next invited to go into Paris with his father. Thomas, aged twelve, decided to stay behind to play with the dogs from his day off from their lessons.
Olivier was even more pleased when his father gave him a coin or two, and told him he was free to wander around the building in which his father was meeting a friend, just ‘not too far’ and that he had to be ‘very careful’. Olivier readily agreed, having not ever wandered the streets of Paris alone before.
It was by some great coincidence, just as Olivier rounded the corner into the next street and was wondering whether or not he would see Porthos, that he spotted the boy himself. Porthos looked older again from when Olivier had last seen him. His dark curls were shorter to his head and his warm, mischievous face was showing all the signs that he would grow into a very handsome man. Porthos was wearing purple pants this time, slung low on his hips with a gold chained belt, a loose white shirt revealing a sliver of a toned stomach and chest. There was a small gold ring in his ear. Porthos was performing some sort of card trick, to a small yet captivated audience. He clocked onto Olivier’s presence a moment or two after Olivier had noticed him. Offering him a sly grin, Porthos turned to the women standing closest to him.
“Ladies, please look at these cards.” He fanned out a pack of cards in front of the women. “Each card has a different picture on it. Is this correct?”
“Yes.” One woman said.
“Thank you Miss. Now, there’s nothing on the other side, is there?” He turned the cards up so that they could see that the backs were blank.
“Yes.” She confirmed.
“Now, if I could have a volunteer.” Porthos’ eyes landed on Olivier immediately. “Sir, would you like to volunteer?”
“Of course.” Olivier stepped forward with an interested smirk.
“Now, pick out a card, make sure I don’t see the picture, show the audience and then slide it back into the pack. Ok?”
Olivier did as he was told. The card had a rearing stallion on it; beautiful and intricately hand painted. He showed the crowd, then slid it back in amongst the other cards. “Ok.” He said.
Porthos opened his eyes and stacked the cards altogether.
“Now.” Porthos said, shuffling the cards. He swept one out. “Is this your card?”
The picture was of a heart with a dagger through it. Olivier coughed. “Ugh, sorry. No.”
Porthos’ eyes crinkled with amusement. “No matter,” He picked another. “Is this your card?”
The picture was of a jester.
“No.” Olivier confessed, looking apologising.
The crowd began to mutter between themselves and a couple at the back began to shift.
“Ah, ah, good people, before you think me useless…” Porthos clucked his tongue. “I have been tricking you, I am afraid.” He stepped towards Olivier. “It appears my volunteer has something in his pocket.”
“I don’t…” Olivier started, before Porthos reached forward and plucked a card out from his pocket.
Olivier stared in disbelief at Porthos. How had that card got into his pocket?
Porthos smiled as the crowd began to chatter in excitement. “My last chance…” Porthos declared dramatically. “Before you all title me a fool.” He put a hand over his eyes and thrust the card out towards the onlookers. “Is this your card?”
It was. “It is.” Olivier said in amazement as the crowd started cheering.
Porthos dropped his hand and beamed at them all. “Thank you ladies and gentlemen.” He took a bow. “Now, I shall be but a moment before my next trick. Please stay and watch, or, if you enjoyed, a small amount of money would be more than welcome, to make sure I can come here again and entertain you all.”
Porthos leant close to Olivier. “I will be done with this show in a few minutes, I will speak to you after?”
Olivier nodded, and passed Porthos a coin. “I am truly amazed by what you just did.”
Porthos’ smile split his face. “I am glad to hear it.”
Olivier nodded and left Porthos to it, as much as he wanted to watch the next trick, he also wanted to get a look around. He would get a chance to see Porthos when Porthos had finished his show.
He wandered a little further down the street, smiling to himself at the exclaims of wonder from the audience that had gathered around Porthos. As he turned into the next street he stopped dead, there were two soldiers harassing a musician further down the street, and another couple of soldiers were heading his way.
Olivier doubled back when he realised the two soldiers were clapping irons on the musician. He had to warn Porthos.
The crowd around Porthos was dispersing when Olivier reached him. “Thank you, thank you.” Porthos was saying with a huge grin.
“Porthos.” Olivier muttered as he wove through the straggling crowd.
“Olivier.” Porthos smiled.
“There is no time Porthos.” Olivier hissed urgently. “There are soldiers coming this way.”
Porthos’ face fell. “What?”
“They are arresting a performer in the next street. You have to pack up and go.”
“Right.” Porthos went to packing up with practiced skill which showed he had had to clear out in a rush before. “It’s been getting more and more often recently.” He said, shoving the last of his things into his bag and grasping his bag of coins.
Raised voices approached them, and just before the soldiers could round the corner, Porthos clasped Olivier’s wrist and tugged them into the nearest alleyway.
“I cannot stray too far from this street.” Olivier said urgently. “Or my father would ban me from coming back.”
“Then I will let you go.” Porthos said with a small smile. “I owe you once again, Olivier.”
“You do not owe me anything, though maybe one day we may be able to have a full conversation.”
Porthos ducked his head. “Hopefully.”
“It was good to see you again.” Olivier said. “Just make sure that you keep safe, I would hate not to see you next time I am in Paris.”
“You know about the crackdown on my people?” Porthos realised. “You know that they are being more ruthless?”
“I do.” Olivier said, he stuck out his hand. “So, keep out of their hands. Until next time?”
Porthos reached out and shook his hand. “Next time, my friend.” He promised.
Olivier watched Porthos rush down the alleyway and slip out of sight, just as the soldiers passed by the end of the alley, stunned at the realisation that Porthos considered him a friend. Olivier was not aware that he would not see the other boy – his friend - again for a long long time.
20th May 1470
To Judge Richelieu, Porthos and his kind were vermin. Over the years Richelieu’s iron fist grew tighter and tighter and he came down harder and harder on the gypsies. Porthos had lost countless friends to arrest, execution and outright murder, that no-one was brought to justice for. The Court of Miracles was still unfound. But it was becoming more and more of a common knowledge amongst the gypsy population in France that there was a safe haven in Paris, and every day more and more people came to Paris seeking safety against the condemnation and prejudice that was spreading country-wide under Richelieu’s watch.
Porthos spent a lot of his time performing, running and hiding, performing, running and hiding, trying to live whilst making a living. Porthos did not personally like stealing when earning the money was a possible option, but with street performers being targeted more frequently the crimes were increasing, and Porthos himself had had to steal more frequently in order to just get by. He had to.
With looking after his friends, his people, the closest thing he had to a home and family, he had not given much thought to the kind, wealthy boy he had befriended all those years ago. He had seen Olivier almost annually since their first meeting, but then he had not seen him for a while. He had never forgotten Olivier’s numerous acts of kindness; the money, the scarf, the warning of soldiers approaching. But he did not see him for a long time.
Then one day, he thought he saw him at a distance, a handsome young man with another – possibly Thomas – laughing beside him. Entranced at the possibility, Porthos tried to get closer, but had to duck into a doorway as soldiers patrolled nearby.
It was not until May 1470, a long six years after their last true encounter, that Porthos saw Olivier again for definite. The only issue was, Olivier did not see him. Porthos was twenty-one, sitting comfortably on a blanket and whittling a piece of wood into the shape of a flower. He had found a talent at whittling and it brought him a lot of trade. It was also easy to scoop his figures up in the blanket and make a break for it if soldiers came passing.
Porthos glanced up, almost as though drawn like a magnet, when he heard a bright, sunny laugh. Not many people laughed so openly in these dark days. His eyes landed on Olivier. Olivier, who had a woman on his arm. A beautiful and striking woman dressed in blue and white, with blue flowers in her brunette hair. She was smiling up at Olivier and he was gazing adoringly back. Olivier was so entranced by his beautiful woman, that he passed Porthos by without even looking away from his companion.
The happy couple had another companion, undoubtedly Thomas, ever trailing behind his big brother, who did glance at Porthos as he passed, and tilted his head in vague recognition when he spotted him, but he must have dismissed it, as he soon looked away again.
Olivier had looked so happy, so stunning in his fine clothing and adoration, that Porthos felt a saddening twist in his stomach. Had Olivier really outgrown his fascination with Porthos and his kind? Had Olivier really outgrown him?
It was, coincidentally, the last time Porthos would ever see Thomas. It was also the last time he would ever see Olivier, as he had once known him.