 Chapter 54 of The Man in the Iron Mask The King had returned to Paris, and with him D'Artagnan, who, in twenty-four hours, having made with greatest care all possible inquiries at Bel-Eel, succeeded in learning nothing of the secret so well kept by the heavy rock of Locke-Maria, which had fallen on the heroic porthos. The captain of the musketeers only knew what those two valiant men, these two friends, whose defence he had so nobly taken up, whose lives he had so earnestly endeavored to save, aided by three faithful Bretons, had accomplished against a whole army. He had seen, spread on the neighbouring heath, the human remains which had stained with clouted blood the scattered stones among the flowering broom. He learned also that a bark had been seen far out at sea, and that, like a bird of prey, a royal vessel had pursued, overtaken, and devoured the poor little bird that was flying with such palpitating wings. But there D'Artagnan's certainties ended. The field of supposition was thrown open. Now, what could he conjecture? The vessel had not returned. It is true that a brisk wind had prevailed for three days, but the corvette was known to be a good sailor, and solid in its timbers. It had no need to fear a gale of wind, and it ought, according to the calculation of D'Artagnan, to have either returned to breast or come back to the mouth of the Loire. Such was the news, ambiguous it is true, but in some degree reassuring to him personally, which D'Artagnan brought to Louis XIV, when the king followed by all the court returned to Paris. Louis, satisfied with his success, Louis, more mild and affable as he felt himself more powerful, had not ceased for an instant to ride beside the carriage-door of Mlle. de la Valière. Everybody was anxious to amuse the two queens, so as to make them forget this abandonment by son and husband. Everything breathed the future. The past was nothing to anybody. Only that past was like a painful bleeding wound to the hearts of certain tender and devoted spirits. Scarcely was the king reinstalled in Paris when he received a touching proof of this. Louis XIV had just risen and taken his first repast when his captain of the musketeers presented himself before him. D'Artagnan was pale and looked unhappy. The king, at the first glance, perceived the change in accountants generally so unconcerned. "'What is the matter, D'Artagnan?' said he. "'Sire, a great misfortune has happened to me. Good heavens! What is that?' "'Sire, I have lost one of my friends, Monsieur du Valant, in the affaire of Belisle.' And while speaking these words, D'Artagnan fixed his falcon eye upon Louis XIV to catch the first feeling that would show itself. "'I knew it,' replied the king quietly. "'You knew it and did not tell me?' cried the musketeer. "'To what good? Your grief, my friend, was so well worthy of respect. It was my duty to treat it gently. To heaven formed you of this misfortune, which I knew would pain you greatly, D'Artagnan, would it have been in your eyes to have triumphed over you?' "'Yes. I knew that Monsieur du Valant had buried himself beneath the rocks of Laquemaria. I knew that Monsieur de Blay had taken one of my vessels with its crew and had compelled it to convey him to Bayonne. But I was willing you should learn these matters in a direct manner in order that you might be convinced my friends are with me, respected and sacred, that always in me the man will sacrifice himself to subjects, whilst the king is so often found to sacrifice men to majesty and power. But Sire, how could you know? How do you yourself know, D'Artagnan?' "'By this letter, Sire, which Monsieur de Blay, free and out of danger, writes me from Bayonne.' "'Look here,' said the king, drawing from a casket placed upon the table close to the seat upon which D'Artagnan was leaning. Here is a letter copied exactly from that of Monsieur de Blay. Here is the very letter, which Colbert placed in my hands a week before you received yours. I am well served, you may perceive.' "'Yes, Sire,' murmured the musketeer. You were the only man whose star was equal to the task of dominating the fortune and strength of my two friends. You have used your power, Sire. You will not abuse it, will you?' "'D'Artagnan,' said the king, with a smile beaming with kindness. I could have Monsieur de Blay carried off from the territories of the king of Spain and brought here alive to inflict justice upon him. But, D'Artagnan, be assured I will not yield to this first and natural impulse. He is free. Let him continue free.' "'Oh, Sire, you will not always remain so clement, so noble, so generous as you have shown yourself with respect to me and Monsieur de Blay. You will have about you counselors who will cure you of that weakness.' "'No, D'Artagnan, you are mistaken when you accuse my counsel of urging me to pursue rigorous measures. The advice to spare Monsieur de Blay comes from Colbert himself.' "'Oh, Sire,' said D'Artagnan, extremely surprised. "'As for you,' continued the king, with a kindness very uncommon to him, I have several pieces of good news to announce to you. But you shall know them, my dear captain, the moment I have made my accounts all straight. I have said that I wish to make and would make your fortune. That promise will soon become reality.' "'A thousand times thanks, Sire. I can wait. But I implore you, whilst I go and practice patience, that your Majesty will deign to notice those poor people who have for so long a time besieged your antechamber, and come humbly to lay a petition at your feet. "'Who are they?' "'Enemies of your Majesty,' the king raised his head. "'Friends of Monsieur Fouquette,' added D'Artagnan. "'Their names, Monsieur Gauville, Monsieur Pellissant, and a poet, Monsieur Jean de la Fontaine,' the king took a moment to reflect. "'What do they want?' "'I do not know.' "'How do they appear?' "'In great affliction.' "'What do they say?' "'Nothing.' "'What do they do?' "'They weep.' "'Let them come in,' said the king, with a serious brow. D'Artagnan turned rapidly on his heel, raised the tapestry which closed the entrance to the royal chamber, and directing his voice to the adjoining room, cried, "'Enter!' The three men D'Artagnan had named immediately appeared at the door of the cabinet, in which were the king and his captain. A profound silence prevailed in their passage. The courtiers, at the approach of the friends of the unfortunate superintendent of finances, drew back, as if fearful of being affected by contagion with disgrace and misfortune. D'Artagnan, with a quick step, came forward to take by the hand the unhappy men who stood trembling at the door of the cabinet. He led them in front of the king's foetoya, who, having placed himself in the embrasure of a window, awaited the moment of presentation, and was preparing himself to give the supplicants a rigorously diplomatic reception. The first of the friends of Phuket's to advance was Pellissant. He did not weep, but his tears were only restrained that the king might better hear his voice and prayer. Gourvier bit his lips to check his tears, out of respect for the king. Lafontaine buried his face in his handkerchief, and the only signs of life he gave were the convulsive motions of his shoulders raised by his sobs. The king preserved his dignity. His countenance was impassable. He even maintained the frown which appeared when D'Artagnan announced his enemies. He made a gesture which signified, Speak, and he remained standing, with his eyes fixed searchingly on these desponding men. Pellissant bound to the ground and Lafontaine knelt as people do in churches. This dismal silence, disturbed only by sighs and groans, began to excite in the king, not compassion, but impatience. Monsieur Pellissant, said he in a sharp, dry tone. Monsieur Gourvier, and you, Monsieur, and he did not name Lafontaine. I cannot, without sensible displeasure, see you come to plead for one of the greatest criminals it is the duty of justice to punish. The king does not allow himself to soften, save at the tears of the innocent, the remorse of the guilty. I have no faith, either in the remorse of Monsieur Fouquette, or the tears of his friends, because the want is tainted to the very heart, and the others ought to dread offending me in my own palace. For these reasons I beg you, Monsieur Pellissant, Monsieur Gourvier, and you, Monsieur, to say nothing that will not plainly proclaim the respect you have for my will. Sire, replied Pellissant, trembling at these words, we are come to say nothing to your Majesty that is not the most profound expression of the most sincere respect and love that are due to a king from all his subjects. Your Majesty's justice is redoubtable. Everyone must yield to the sentences it pronounces. We respectfully bow before it, far from us the idea of coming to defend him who has had the misfortune to offend your Majesty. He who has incurred your displeasure may be a friend of ours, but he is an enemy to the State. We abandon him, but with tears, to the severity of the king. Besides, interrupted the king, calmed by that supplicating voice and those persuasive words, my Parliament will decide, I do not strike without first having weighed the crime, my justice does not wield the sword without employing first a pair of scales. Therefore we have every confidence in that impartiality of the king and hope to make our feeble voices heard with the consent of your Majesty when the hour for defending an accused friend strikes. In that case, Monsieur, what do you ask of me? said the king with his most imposing air. Sire, continued Pellissant, the accused has a wife and family. The little property he had was scarcely sufficient to pay his debts, and Madame Fouquet, since her husband's captivity, is abandoned by everybody. The hand of your Majesty strikes like the hand of God. When the Lord sends the curse of leprosy or pestilence into a family, everyone flies and shuns the abode of the lepros or plague-stricken. Sometimes, but very rarely, a generous physician alone ventures to approach the ill-reputed threshold, passes it with courage, and risks his life to a combat death. He is the last resource of the dying, the chosen instrument of mercy. Sire, we supplicate you, with clasped hands and bended knees, as a divinity is supplicated. Madame Fouquet has no longer any friends, no longer any means of support. She weeps in her deserted home, abandoned by all those who besieged its doors in the hour of prosperity. She has neither credit nor hope left. At least, the unhappy wretch upon whom your anger falls receives from you, however culpable he may be, his daily bread, though moistened by his tears. As much afflicted, more destitute than her husband, Madame Fouquet, the lady who had the honour to receive your Majesty at her table, Madame Fouquet, the wife of the ancient superintendent of Her Majesty's finances, Madame Fouquet has no longer bread. Here the mortal silence, which had chained the breath of Pellissant's two friends, was broken by an outburst of sobs, and D'Artagnan, whose chest heaved at hearing this humble prayer, turned round towards the angle of the cabinet to bite his mustache and conceal a groan. The king had preserved his eye dry, and his countenance was severe, but the blood had melted to his cheeks, and the firmness of his look was visibly diminished. What do you wish? said he, an agitated voice. We come humbly to ask your Majesty, replied Pellissant, upon whom emotion was fast gaining, to permit us, without incurring the displeasure of your Majesty, to lend to Madame Fouquet two thousand stories collected among the old friends of her husband, in order that the widow may not stand in need of the necessaries of life. At the word widow, pronounced by Pellissant whilst Fouquet was still alive, the king turned very pale. His pride disappeared. Pity rose from his heart to his lips. He cast a softened look upon the men who knelt sobbing at his feet. God forbid, said he, that I should confound the innocent with the guilty. They know me but ill who doubt my mercy towards the weak. I strike none but the arrogant. Do, messieurs, do all that your hearts counsel you to assuage the grief of Madame Fouquet. Go, messieurs, go. The three now rose in silence with dry eyes. The tears had been scorched away by contact with their burning cheeks and eyelids. They had not the strength to address their thanks to the king, who himself cut short their solemn reverences by entrenching himself suddenly behind the foetoya. D'Artagnan remained alone with the king. Well, said he, approaching the young prince, who interrogated him with his look. Well, my master, if you had not the device which belongs to your son, I would recommend you one which Monsieur Conrart might translate into eclectic Latin. Calm with the lowly, stormy with the strong. The king smiled and passed into the next apartment after having said to D'Artagnan, I give you the leave of absence you must want to put into affairs of your friend, the late Monsieur du Valan, in order. End of chapter. Chapter 55 of The Man in the Iron Mask. The Man in the Iron Mask by Alexandre Dumas. Chapter 55. Porthos's Will. At Pierre Fond everything was in mourning. Courts were deserted, the stables closed, the parterres neglected. In the basins, the fountains, formerly so jubilantly fresh and noisy, had stopped of themselves. Along the roads around the chateau came a few grave personages mounted on mules or country nags. These were rural neighbors, curies and bailiffs of adjacent estates. All these people entered the chateau silently, handed their horses to a melancholy-looking room, and directed their steps, conducted by a huntsman in black, to the great dining-room where Muscaton received them at the door. Muscaton had become so thin in two days that his clothes moved upon him like an ill-fitting scabbard in which the sword-blade dances at each motion. His face, composed of red and white, like that of the Madonna of Van Dyke, was furrowed by two silver rivulets which had dug their beds in his cheeks, as full formally as they had become flabby since his grief began. At each fresh arrival Muscaton found fresh tears, and it was pitiful to see him press his throat with his fat hand to keep from bursting into sobs and lamentations. All these visits were for the purpose of hearing the reading of Porthos's will, announced for that day, and at which all the covetous friends of the dead man were anxious to be present, as he had left no relations behind him. The visitors took their places as they arrived, and the great room had just been closed when the clock struck twelve, the hour fixed for the reading of the important document. Porthos's procurer, and that was naturally the successor of Master Kokinar, commenced by slowly unfolding the vast parchment upon which the powerful hand of Porthos had traced his sovereign will. The seal broken, the spectacles put on, the preliminary cough having sounded, everyone pricked up his ears. Muscaton had squatted himself in a corner the better to weep and the better to hear. All at once the folding doors of the great room which had been shut were thrown open as if by magic, and a warlike figure appeared upon the threshold, resplendent in the full light of the sun. This was D'Artagnan, who had come alone to the gate, and finding nobody to hold his stirrup had tied his horse to the knocker and announced himself. The splendor of daylight invading the room, the murmur of all present, and, more than all, the instinct of the faithful dog, drew Muscaton from his reverie. He raised his head, recognized the old friend of his master, and, screaming with grief, he embraced his knees, watering the floor with his tears. D'Artagnan raised the poor intendant, embraced him as if he had been a brother, and, having nobly saluted the assembly, who all bowed as they whispered to each other his name, he went and took his seat at the extremity of the great carved oak hall, still holding by the hand poor Muscaton, who was suffocating with excess of woe, and sank upon the steps. Then the procureur, who, like the rest, was considerably agitated, commenced. Porthos, after a profession of faith of the most Christian character, asked pardon of his enemies for all the injuries he might have done them, at this paragraph array of inexpressible pride being from the eyes of D'Artagnan. He recalled to his mind the old soldier all those enemies of Porthos brought to earth by his valiant hand. He reckoned up the numbers of them, and said to himself that Porthos had acted wisely, not to enumerate his enemies or the injuries done to them, or the task would have been too much for the reader. Then came the following schedule of his extents of lands. I possess, at this present time, by the grace of God, one, the domain of pierre faune, lands, woods, meadows, waters, and forests surrounded by good walls. Two, the domain of brassure, chateaus, forests, plowed lands, forming three farms. Three, the little estate du Valant, so named because it is in the valley. Brief Porthos. Four, fifty farms in Turrain, amounting to five hundred acres. Five, three mills upon the chair, bringing in six hundred livres each. Six, three fish-pools in berry, producing two hundred livres here. As to my personal or movable property, so-called because it can be moved, as is so well explained by my learned friend, the Bishop of Vaan, D'Artagnan shuddered at the dismal remembrance attached to that name. The procurer continued imperturbably, They consist, one, in goods which I cannot detail here for want of room, and which furnish all my chateaus or houses, but of which the list is drawn up by my intendant. Every one turned his eyes towards Muscatan, who was still lost in grief. Two, in twenty horses for saddle and draught, which I have particularly at my chateau of Pierre-Fonds, and which are called Bayard, Roland, Charlemagne, Pepin, Dunois, Lahir, Augier, Samson, Milo, Nimrod, Urganda, Armida, Flastrade, Dalila, Rebekah, Yolanda, Finet, Grisette, Lisette, and Musette. Three, in sixty dogs forming six packs, divided as those, the first for the stag, the second for the wolf, the third for the wild boar, the fourth for the hare, and the two others for setters and protection. Four, in arms for war and the chase contained in my gallery of arms. Five, my wines of Anjou, selected for Athos, who like them formally. My wines of Burgundy, Champagne, Bordeaux, and Spain, stocking eight cellars and twelve vaults in my various houses. Six, my pictures and statues, which are said to be of great value, and which are sufficiently numerous to fatigue the site. Seven, my library, consisting of six thousand volumes, quite new and have never been opened. Eight, my silver plate, which is perhaps a little worn, but which ought to weigh from a thousand to twelve hundred pounds, for I had great trouble in lifting the coffer that contained it and could not carry it more than six times round my chamber. Nine, all these objects, in addition to the table and house linen, are divided in the residence I liked the best. Here the reader stopped to take breath. Everyone sighed, coughed, and redoubled his attention. The procurer resumed. I have lived without having any children, and it is probable I never shall have any, which to me is a cutting grief. And yet I am mistaken, for I have a son, in common with my other friends, that is Monsieur Raoul Auguste Jules de Michelin, the true son of Monsieur Le Compte de la Faire. This young nobleman appears to me extremely worthy to succeed the valiant gentleman of whom I am the friend and very humble servant. Here a sharp sound interrupted the reader. It was D'Artagnan's sword, which, slipping from his baldrick, had fallen on the sonorous flooring. Everyone turned his eyes that way, and saw that a large tear had rolled from the thick lid of D'Artagnan, half way down to his aqualine nose, the luminous edge of which shone like a little crescent moon. This is why, continued the procurer, I have left all my property, movable or immovable, comprised in the above enumerations, to Monsieur Le Vicompte Raoul Auguste Jules de Brajelon, son of Monsieur Le Compte de la Faire, to console him for the grief he seems to suffer, and enable him to add more luster to his already glorious name. A vague murmur ran through the auditory. The procurer continued, seconded by the flashing eye of D'Artagnan, which, glancing over the assembly, quickly restored the interrupted silence. Unconditioned that Monsieur Le Vicompte Brajelon do give to Monsieur Le Chevalier d'Artagnan, captain of the king's musketeers, whatever the said Chevalier d'Artagnan may demand of my property. Unconditioned that Monsieur Le Vicompte de Brajelon do pay a good pension to Monsieur Le Chevalier de Blay, my friend, if he should need it in exile. I leave to my intended mousqueton all my clothes, of city, war or chase, to the number of forty-seven suits, in the assurance that he will wear them till they are worn out, for the love of and in remembrance of his master. Moreover, I bequeath to Monsieur Le Vicompte de Brajelon my old servant and faithful friend, musqueton, already named, provided that the said Vicompte shall so act that musqueton shall declare, when dying, he has never ceased to be happy. On hearing these words, musqueton bowed, pale and trembling. His shoulders shook convulsively. His countenance, compressed by a frightful grief, appeared from between his icy hands, and the spectators saw him stagger and hesitate, as if, though wishing to leave the hall, he did not know the way. Musqueton, my good friend, said D'Artagnan, go and make your preparations. I will take you with me to Athos's house, whither I shall go on leaving Pierre-Fonds. Musqueton made no reply. He scarcely breathed, as if everything in that hall would from that time be foreign. He opened the door and slowly disappeared. The procurator finished his reading, after which the greater part of those who had come to hear the last will of porthos, dispersed by degrees, many disappointed, but all penetrated with respect. As for D'Artagnan, thus left alone, after having received the formal compliments of the procurator, he was lost in admiration of the wisdom of the testator, who had so judiciously bestowed his wealth upon the most necessitous and the most worthy, with a delicacy that neither nobleman nor courtier could have displayed more kindly. When porthos enjoined Raoul de Brajalon to give D'Artagnan all that he would ask, he knew well, our worthy porthos, that D'Artagnan would ask or take nothing, and in case he did demand anything, none but himself could say what. Porthos left a penchant to Aramis, who, if he should be inclined to ask too much, was checked by the example of D'Artagnan, and that word, exile, thrown out by the testator, without apparent intention, was it not the mildest, most exquisite criticism upon that conduct of Aramis which he brought about the death of porthos. But there was no mention of orthos in the Testament of the dead. Could the latter for a moment suppose that the son would not offer the best part to the father? The rough mind of porthos had fathomed all these causes, seized all these shades more clearly than law, better than custom, with more propriety than taste. Porthos had indeed a heart, said D'Artagnan to himself with a sigh. As he made this reflection he fancied he heard a groan in the room above him, and he thought immediately of poor Muscatal, who he felt it was a pleasing duty to divert from his grief. For this purpose he left the hall hastily to seek the worthy intended, as he had not returned. He ascended the staircase leading to the first story, and perceived, in Porthos's own chamber, a heap of clothes of all colors and materials upon which Muscatal had laid himself down after heaping them all on the floor together. D'Artagnan was the legacy of the faithful friend. Those clothes were truly his own. They had been given to him. The hand of Muscatal was stretched over these relics, which he was kissing with his lips, with all his face, and covered with his body. D'Artagnan approached to console the poor fellow. My God! said he. He does not stir. He is fated. But D'Artagnan was mistaken. Muscatal was dead. Dead, like the dog who, having lost his master, crawls back to die upon his cloak. Chapter 56 The Old Age of Athos While these affairs were separating forever the four Musketeers, formerly bound together in a manner that seemed indeceliable, Athos, left alone after the departure of Raul, began to pay his tribute to that foretaste of death which is called the absence of those we love. Back in his house at Blois, no longer having even Grimaud to receive a poor smile as he passed through the parterre, Athos daily felt the decline of vigor of a nature which for so long a time had seemed impregnable. Age, which had been kept back by the presence of the beloved object, arrived with that cortege of pains and inconveniences which grows by geometrical accretion. Athos had no longer his son to induce him to walk firmly, with head erect as a good example. He had no longer, in those brilliant eyes of the young man, an ever-arted focus at which to kindle anew the fire of his looks. And then, must it be said, that nature, exquisite in tenderness and reserve, no longer finding anything to understand its feelings, gave itself up to grief with all the warmth of common natures which they yield to joy. The compdel affair, who had remained a young man to his sixty second year, the warrior who had preserved his strength in spite of fatigue, his freshness of mind in spite of misfortune, his mild serenity of soul and body in spite of malady, in spite of mazara, in spite of lavalier. Athos had become an old man in a week from the moment at which he lost the comfort of his later youth. Still handsome, though bent, noble, but sad, he sought, since his solitude, the deeper glades where sunshine's scarcely penetrated. He discontinued all the mighty exercises he had enjoyed through life, when Raul was no longer with him. The servants, accustomed to seeing him stirring with the dawn at all seasons, was astonished to hear seven o'clock strike before their master quitted his bed. Athos remained in bed with a book under his pillow, but he did not sleep. Neither did he read. Remaining in bed that he might no longer have to carry his body, he allowed his soul and spirit to wander from their envelope and return to his son, or to God. His people were sometimes terrified to see him, for hours together, absorbed in that silent reverie, mute and insensible. He no longer heard the timid step of the servant who came to the door of his chamber to watch the sleeping or waking of his master. It often occurred that he forgot the day it half passed away, that the hours for the two first meals were gone by. Then he was awakened. He rose, descended to his shady walk, then came out a little into the sun, as though to partake of its warmth for a minute in memory of his absent child. And then, the dismal monotonous walk recommenced, until exhausted, he regained the chamber and his bed, his domicile by choice. For several days the compt did not speak a single word. He refused to receive the visits that were paid him, and during the night he was seen to relight his lamp and pass long hours in writing or examining parchment. Athos wrote one of these letters to Van, another to Fontainebleu. They remained without answers. We know why. Aramis had quitted France, and D'Artagnan was travelling from Notte to Paris, from Paris to Pierre-Fonds. His valet de chambre observed that he shortened his walk every day by several turns. The great alley of limes soon became too long for feet that used to traverse it formally a hundred times a day. The compt walked feebly as far as the middle trees, seated himself upon a mossy bank that sloped towards a sidewalk, and there waited the return of his strength, or rather the return of night. Very shortly a hundred steps exhausted him. At length Athos refused to rise at all. He declined all nourishment, and his terrified people, though he did not complain, although he wore a smile upon his lips, although he continued to speak with his sweet voice. His people went to Blois in search of the ancient physician of the late Monsieur, and brought him to the compt de la Faire in such a fashion that he could see the compt without himself being seen. For this purpose they placed him in a closet adjoining the chamber of the patient, and implored him not to show himself, for fear of displeasing their master, who had not asked for a physician. The doctor obeyed. Athos was a sort of model for the gentlemen of the country. The blazois boasted of possessing this sacred relic of French glory. Athos was a great senior compared with such nobles as the king improvised by touching with his heart-official scepter the parched-up trunks of the heraldic trees of the province. People respected Athos, we say, and they loved him. The physician could not bear to see his people weep, to see flock round him the poor of the canton, to whom Athos had so often given life and consolation by his kind words and his charities. He examined, therefore, from the depths of his hiding-place, the nature of that mysterious malady which bent and aged more mortally every day, a man but lately so full of life and a desire to live. He remarked upon the cheeks of Athos the hectic hue of fever which feeds upon itself, slow fever, pitiless, born in a fold of the heart, sheltering itself behind that rampart, growing from the suffering and engenders at once cause and effect of a perilous situation. The comp spoke to nobody. He did not even talk to himself. His thought feared noise. It approached to that degree of over-excitement which borders upon ecstasy. Man thus absorbed, though he does not yet belong to God, already appertains no longer to the earth. The doctor remained for several hours, studying this painful struggle of the will against superior power. He was terrified at seeing those eyes always fixed, ever directed on some invisible object. He was terrified at the monotonous beating of that heart which never a sigh arose to vary the melancholy state, for often pain becomes the hope of the physician. Half a day passed away thus. The doctor formed his resolution like a brave man. He issued suddenly from his place of retreat and went straight up to Athos, who beheld him without evencing more surprise than if he had understood nothing of the apparition. Monsieur le Compte, I crave your pardon," said the doctor, coming up to the patient with open arms. But I have a reproach to make you. You shall hear me." And he seated himself by the pillow of Athos, who had great trouble in rousing himself from his preoccupation. What is the matter, doctor? Asked the Compte after a silence. The matter is you are ill, monsieur, and have had no advice. I, ill, said Athos, smiling. Fever, consumption, weakness, decay, monsieur le Compte. Weakness, replied Athos. Is it possible I do not get up? Come, come, monsieur le Compte, no subterfuges. You are a good Christian. I hope so, said Athos. Is it your will to kill yourself? Never, doctor. Well, monsieur, you are in a fair way of doing so. Thus to remain is suicide. Get well, monsieur le Compte, get well. Of what? Find the disease first. For my part I never knew myself better. Never did the sky appear more blue to me. Never did I take more care of my flowers. You have a hidden grief. Concealed, not at all. The absence of my son, doctor, that is my malady, and I do not conceal it. Monsieur le Compte, your son lives. He is strong. He is all the future before him. The future of men of merit, of his race, live for him. And I do live, doctor. Oh, be satisfied of that. Added he with a melancholy smile. For as long as Raoul lives, it will be plainly known. For as long as he lives, I shall live. What do you say? A very simple thing. At this moment, doctor, I leave life suspended within me. A forgetful, dissipated, indifferent life would be beyond my strength. Now I no longer have Raoul with me. You do not ask the lamp to burn when the match is not illumined in the flame. Do not ask me to live amidst noise and merriment. I vegetate. I prepare myself. I wait. Look, doctor, remember those soldiers we have so often seen together at the ports, where they were waiting to embark, lying down, indifferent, half on one element, half on the other. They were neither at the place where the sea was going to carry them, nor at the place the earth was going to lose them. Baggage prepared. Mines on the stretch. Arms stacked. They waited. I repeat it. The word is the one which paints my present life. Lying down like the soldiers. My ear on the stretch for the report that may reach me. I wish to be ready to set out at the first summons. Who will make me that summons? Life or death? God or Raoul? My baggage is packed. My soul is prepared. I await the signal. I wait, doctor. I wait. The doctor knew the temper of that mind. He appreciated the strength of that body. He reflected for the moment, told himself that words were useless, remedies absurd, and left the chateau, exhorting Othos' servants not to quit him for a moment. The doctor being gone, Othos' events neither anger nor vexation and having been disturbed. He did not even desire that all letters that came should be brought to him directly. He knew very well that every distraction which should arise would be a joy, a hope, which his servants would have paid with their blood to procure him. Sleep had become rare. By intense thinking Othos forgot himself, for a few hours at most, in a reverie most profound, more obscure than other people would have called a dream. The momentary repose which this forgetfulness thus gave the body still further fatigued the soul, for Othos lived a double life during these wanderings of his understanding. One night he dreamt that Raul was dressing himself in a tent to go upon an expedition commanded by Mr. de Beaufort in person. The young man was sad. He clasped his queerast slowly and slowly he girded on his sword. What is the matter? Asked his father tenderly. What deflicks me is the death of Othos, ever so dear a friend? replied Raul. I suffer here the grief you soon will feel at home. And the vision disappeared with the slumber of Othos. At daybreak one of his servants entered his master's apartment and gave him a letter which came from Spain. The writing of Aramis, thought the compt, and he read. Porthos is dead! cried he after the first lines. Oh, Raul, Raul! Thanks. Thou keepest thy promise. Thou warnest me. And Othos seized with a mortal sweat, fainted in his bed without any other cause than weakness. End of chapter. Chapter 57 of The Man in the Iron Mask This LibriVox recording is in the public domain and is read by Mark Smith of Simpsonville, South Carolina. The Man in the Iron Mask by Alexander Dumas Chapter 57 Othos's Vision When this fading of Othos had ceased, the compt, almost ashamed of having given way before this superior natural event, dressed himself and ordered his horse, determined to ride to Blois, to open more certain correspondences with either Africa, D'Artagnan, or Aramis. In fact, this letter from Aramis informed the compt de l'affaire of the bad success of the expedition of Belisle. It gave him sufficient details of the death of Porthos to move the tender and devoted heart of Othos to its innermost fibers. Othos wished to go and pay his friend Porthos a last visit. He rendered this honor to his companion in arms. He meant to send to D'Artagnan to prevail upon him to recommence the painful voyage to Belisle, to accomplish, in his company, that sad pilgrimage to the tomb of the giant he had so much loved, then to return to his dwelling to obey that secret influence which was conducting him to eternity by a mysterious road. But Scarcely had his joyous servants dressed their master, whom they saw with pleasure preparing for a journey which might dissipate his melancholy. Scarcely had the compt's gentlest horse been saddled and brought to the door. When the father of Raoul felt his head become confused, his legs give way, and he clearly perceived the impossibility of going one step further. He ordered himself to be carried into the sun. They laid him upon his bed of moss where he passed a full hour before he could recover his spirits. Nothing could be more natural than this weakness after the inert repose of the latter days. Othos took a bouillon to give him strength, and bathed his dried lips in a glassful of the wine he loved the best, that old Anjou wine mentioned by Porthos in his admirable will. Then, refreshed, free in mind, he had his horse brought again, but only with the aid of his servants was he able painfully to climb into the saddle. He did not go a hundred paces, a shivering seized him again at the turning of the road. This is very strange! said he to his valet chambre, who accompanied him. Let us stop, monsieur. I conjure you! replied the faithful servant. How pale you are getting! That will not prevent my pursuing my route, now that I have once started! replied the compt. And he gave his horse his head again, but suddenly the animal, instead of obeying the thought of his master, stopped. A movement, of which Othos was unconscious, had checked the bit. Something, said Othos, wills that I should go no further. Support me! added he, stretching out his arms. Quick, come closer. I feel my muscles relax. I shall fall for my horse. The valet had seen the movement made by his master at the moment he received the order. He went up to him quickly, received the compt in his arms, and as they were not yet sufficiently distant from the house for the servants, who had remained at the door to watch their master's departure, not to perceive the disorder and the usually regular proceeding of the compt, the valet called his comrades by gestures and voice, and all hastened to his assistance. Othos had gone but a few steps on his return, when he felt himself better again. His strength seemed to revive, and with it the desire to go to Blois. He made his horse turn round, but at the animal's first steps he sunk again into a state of torpor and anguish. Well, decidedly, said he, it is willed that I should stay at home. His people flocked around him, they lifted him from his horse, and carried him as quickly as possible into the house. Everything was prepared in his chamber, and they put him to bed. You will be sure to remember, said he, disposing himself to sleep, that I expect letters from Africa this very day. Monsieur will no doubt hear with pleasure that Blazois's son is gone on horseback to gain an hour over the courier of Blois, replied his valet de chambre. Thank you! replied Othos with his placid smile. The compt fell asleep, but his disturbed slumber resembled torture rather than repose. The servant who watched him saw several times the expression of internal suffering shadowed on his features. Perhaps Othos was dreaming. The day passed away. Blazois's son returned, the courier had brought no news. The compt reckoned the minutes would despair. He shuddered when those minutes made an hour. The idea that he was forgotten seized him once, and brought on a fearful pang of the heart. Everybody in the house had given up all hopes of the courier. His hour had long passed. Four times the express sent to Blois had repeated his journey, and there was nothing to the address of the compt. Othos knew that the courier only arrived once a week. Here, then, was a delay of eight mortal days to be endured. He commenced the night in this painful persuasion. All that is sick man, irritated by suffering, can add of melancholy suppositions to probabilities already gloomy. Othos heaped up during the early hours of this dismal night. The fever rose. It invaded the chest, where the fire soon caught, according to the expression of the physician, who had been brought back from Blois by Blaiseuise in his last journey. Soon it gained the head. The physician made two successive bleedings, which dislodged it for the time, but left the patient very weak, and without power of action in anything but his brain. And yet this redoubtable fever had ceased. It besieged with its last palpitations the tense extremities, yet ended by yielding as midnight struck. The physician, seeing the incontestable improvement, returned to Blois after having ordered some prescriptions, and declared that the compt was saved. Then commenced for Othos a strange, indefinable state. Free to think, his mind turned towards Raoul, that beloved son. His imagination penetrated the fields of Africa in the environs of Gisele, where Monsieur de Beaufort must have landed with his army. A waste of grey rocks, rendered green in certain parts by the waters of the sea, when it lashed the shore in storms and tempest. Beyond, the shore, strewed over with these rocks like gravestones, ascended in form of an amphitheater among mastic trees and cactus, a sort of small town full of smoke, confused noises, and terrified movements. All of a sudden, from the bosom of this smoke arose a flame, which succeeded, creeping along the houses, uncovering the entire surface of the town, and increased by degrees, uniting in its red and angry vortices tears, screams, and supplicating arms outstretched to heaven. There was, for a moment, a frightful palmel of timbers falling to pieces, of swords broken, of stones calcined, trees burnt and disappearing. It was a strange thing that in this chaos in which Othos distinguished raised arms, in which he heard cries, sobs, and groans, he did not see one human figure. The cannon thundered at a distance, musketry madly barked, the sea moaned, flocks made their escape, bounding over the verdant slope, but not a soldier to apply the match to the batteries of cannon, not a sailor to assist in maneuvering the fleet, not a shepherd in charge of the flocks. After the ruin of the village, the destruction of the forts which dominated it, a ruin and destruction magically wrought without the cooperation of a single human being, the flames were extinguished, the smoke began to subside, then diminished in intensity, paled, and disappeared entirely. Night then came over the scene, night dark upon the earth, brilliant in the firmament, the large blazing stars which spangled the African sky, glittered and gleamed without illuminating anything. A long silence ensued which gave, for a moment, repose to the troubled imagination of Othos, and as he felt that that which he saw was not terminated, he applied more attentively the eyes of his understanding on the strange spectacle which his imagination had presented. This spectacle was soon continued for him. A mild pale moon rose behind the declivities of the coast, streaking at first the undulating ripples of the sea which appeared to have calmed after the roaring it had set forth during the vision of Othos. The moon, we say, shed its diamonds and opals upon the briars and bushes of the hills. The gray rocks, so many silent and attentive phantoms, appeared to raise their heads to examine likewise the field of battle by the moon, and Othos perceived that the field, empty during the combat, was now strewn with fallen bodies. An inexpressible shudder of fear and horror seized his soul as he recognized the white and blue uniforms of the soldiers of Picardy with their long pikes and blue handles and muskets marked with the flirtedly on the butts. When he saw all the gaping wounds looking up to the bright heavens as if to demand back of them the souls to which they had opened a passage, when he saw the slaughtered horses stiff, their tongues hanging out at one side of their mouths, sleeping in the shiny blood congealed around them, staining their furniture and their mains. When he saw the white horse of Monsieur de Beaufort with his head beaten to pieces in the first ranks of the dead, Othos passed a cold hand over his brow, which he was astonished not to find burning. He was convinced by this touch that he was present as a spectator, without delirium's dreadful aid, the day after the battle fought upon the shores of Giseli by the army of the expedition, which he had seen leave the coast of France and disappear upon the dim horizon, and of which he had saluted with thought and gesture the last cannon-shot, fired by the Duke as a signal of farewell to his country. Who can paint the mortal agony with which his soul followed like a vigilant eye, these effigies of clay-cold soldiers, and examine them one after the other to see if Raoul slept among them? Who can express the intoxication of joy with which Othos bowed before God, and thanked him for not having seen him he sought with so much fear among the dead? In fact, fallen in their ranks, stiff, icy, the dead, still recognizable with ease, seemed to term with complacency towards the comp de la faire, to be the better seen by him during his sad view. But yet he was astonished, while viewing all these bodies, not to perceive the survivors. To such a point did the illusion extend that his vision was for him a real voyage made by the father into Africa to obtain more exact information respecting his son. Fatigued, therefore, with having traversed seas and continents, he sought repose under one of the tents sheltered behind a rock, on the top of which floated the white-flurred-lead penne. He looked for a soldier to conduct him to the tent of M. de Beaufort. Then, while his eye was wandering over the plain, turning on all sides, he saw a white form appear behind the scented myrtles. This figure was clothed in the costume of an officer. It held in its hand a broken sword. It advanced slowly towards Othos, who, stopping short and fixing his eyes upon it, neither spoke nor moved, but wished to open his arms because in this silent officer he had already recognized Raoul. The comp attempted to utter a cry, but it was stifled in his throat. Raoul, with a gesture, directed him to be silent, placing his finger on his lips and drawing back by degrees, without Othos being able to see his legs move. The comped, still paler than Raoul, followed his son, painfully traversing briars and bushes, stones and ditches, Raoul not appearing to touch the earth, no obstacle seeming to impede the lightness of his march. The comped, who the inequalities of the path fatigued, soon stopped, exhausted. Raoul still continued to beckon him to follow him. The tender father, to whom love restored strength, made a last effort and climbed the mountain after the young man, who attracted him by gesture and by smile. At length he gained the crest of the hill and saw, thrown out in black, upon the horizon whitened by the moon, the aerial form of Raoul. Othos reached forth his hand to get closer to his beloved son upon the plateau, and the latter also stretched out his. But suddenly, as if the young man had been drawn away in his own despite, still retreating, he left the earth, and Othos saw the clear blue sky shine between the feet of his child in the ground of the hill. Raoul rose insensibly into the void, smiling, still calling with gesture. He departed towards heaven. Othos uttered a cry of tenderness and terror. He looked below again. He saw a camp destroyed, and all those white bodies of the royal army, like so many motionless atoms. And then, raising his head, he saw the figure of his son still beckoning him to climb the mystic void. Chapter 58. The Man in the Iron Mask. Chapter 58. The Angel of Death. Othos was at this part of his marvelous vision, when the charm was suddenly broken by a great noise rising from the outer gates. A horse was heard galloping over the hard gravel of the great alley, in the sound of noisy and animated conversations ascended to the chamber in which the compt was dreaming. Othos did not stir from the place he occupied. He scarcely turned his head towards the door to ascertain the sooner what these noises could be. A heavy step ascended the stairs. The horse, which had recently galloped, departed slowly towards the stables. Great hesitation appeared in the steps, which by degrees approached the chamber. A door was opened, and Othos, turning a little towards the part of the room the noise came from, cried in a weak voice. It is a courier from Africa, is it not? No, Monsieur Le Comte replied a voice which made the father of Raoul start upright in his bed. Grimaud! murmured he. And the sweat began to pour down his face. Grimaud appeared in the doorway. It was no longer the Grimaud we have seen, still young with courage and devotion. When he jumped the first into the boat destined to convey, Raoul de Bregelon to the vessels of the royal fleet. It was now a stern, impale old man. His clothes covered with dust, and his hair whitened by old age. He traveled whilst leaning against the door frame, and was near falling on seeing, by the light of the lamps, the countenance of his master. These two men who had lived so long together in a community of intelligence, and whose eyes, accustomed to economize expressions, knew how to say so many things silently. These two old friends, one as noble as the other in heart, if they were unequal in fortune and birth, remained tongue-tied whilst looking at each other. By the exchange of a single glance they had just read to the bottom of each other's hearts. The old servitor bore upon his countenance the impression of a grief already old, the outward token of a grim familiarity with woe. He appeared to have no longer in use more than a single version of his thoughts. As formally he was accustomed not to speak much, he was now accustomed not to smile at all. Athos read at a glance all these shades upon the visage of his faithful servant, and in the same tone he would have employed to speak to Raoul in his dream. Grimode said he, Raoul is dead, is it not so? Behind Grimode the other servants listened breathlessly with their eyes fixed upon the bed of their sick master. They heard the terrible question, and a heartbreaking silence followed. Yes. Replied the old man, heaving the monosyllable from his chest with the horse-broken sigh. Then arose voices of lamentation which groaned without measure, and filled with regrets and prayers the chamber where the agonized father sought with his eyes the portrait of his son. This was for Athos like the transition which led to his dream. Without uttering a cry, without shedding a tear, patient, mild, resigned as a martyr, he raised his eyes toward heaven, in order there to see again rising above the mountain of Giselle, the beloved shade that was leaving him at the moment of Grimode's arrival. Without doubt, while looking towards the heavens, resuming his marvellous dream, he re-passed by the same road by which the vision, at once so terrible and sweet, had let him before. For after having gently closed his eyes, he re-opened them and began to smile. He had just seen Raoul, who had smiled upon him. With his hands joined upon his breast, his face turned toward the window, bathed by the fresh air of night, which brought upon its wings the aroma of the flowers and the woods. Athos entered, never again to come out of it, into the contemplation of that paradise which the living never see. God willed, no doubt, to open to this elect the treasures of eternal beatitude, at this hour when other men tremble with the idea of being severely received by the Lord, and cling to this life they know, in the dread of the other life of which they get but mirrors glimpses by the dismal murky torch of death. Athos was spirit-guided by the pure serene soul of his son, which aspired to be like the paternal soul. Everything for this just man was melody and perfume in the rough road souls take to return to the celestial country. After an hour of this ecstasy, Athos softly raised his hands as white as wax. The smile did not quit his lips, and he murmured low. So low was scarcely to be audible. These three words had dressed to God, or to Raul. Here I am. And his hands fell slowly, as though he himself had laid them on the bed. Death had been kind and mild to this noble creature. It had spared him the tortures of the agony, convulsions of the last departure. Had opened with an indulgent finger the gates of eternity to that noble soul, God had no doubt ordered it thus that the pious remembrance of this death should remain in the hearts of those present and in the memory of other men. A death which caused to be loved the passage from this life to the other by those whose existence upon this earth leads them not to dread the last judgment. Athos preserved, even in the eternal sleep, that placid and sincere smile, an ornament which was to accompany him to the tomb. The quietude and calm of his fine features made his servants for a long time doubt whether he had really quitted life. The calpse people wished to remove Grimode, who from a distance devoured the face now quickly growing marble pale, and did not approach, from pious fear of bringing to him the breath of death. But Grimode, fatigued as he was, refused to leave the room. He sat himself down upon the threshold, watching his master with the vigilance of a sentinel, jealous to receive either his first waking look or his last dying sigh. The noises all were quiet in the house. Everyone respected the slumber of their lord. But Grimode, by anxiously listening, perceived that the compt no longer breathed. He raised himself with his hands leaning on the ground, looked to see if there did not appear some motion in the body of his master. Nothing. Fear seized him. He rose completely up, and at the very moment heard someone coming up the stairs. A noise of spurs knocking against a sword, a warlike sound familiar to his ears, stopped him as he was going towards the bed of Athos. A voice more sonorous than brass or steel resounded within three paces of him. Athos! Athos! My friend! cried this voice, agitated even to tears. Monsieur le Chevalier d'Artagnan faltered out Grimode. Where is he? Where is he? continued the musketeer. Grimode seized his arm and his bony fingers and pointed to the bed, upon the sheets of which the livid tints of death already showed. A choked respiration, the opposite to a sharp cry, swelled the throat of d'Artagnan. He advanced on tiptoe, trembling, frightened at the noise his feet made on the floor, his heart rent by a nameless agony. He placed his ear to the breast of Athos, his face to Athos' mouth, neither noise nor breath. D'Artagnan drew back. Grimode, who had followed him with his eyes, and for whom each of his movements had been a revelation, came timidly, seated himself at the foot of the bed, and glued his lips to the sheet which was raised by the stiffened feet of his master. Then large drops began to flow from his red eyes. This old man, in invincible despair, who wept, bent, doubled without uttering a word, presented the most touching spectacle that d'Artagnan, in a life so filled with emotion, had ever met with. The captain resumed standing in contemplation before that smiling dead man, who seemed to have burnished his last thought to give his best friend the man he had loved next to Raul, a gracious welcome even beyond life. And for reply to that exalted flattery of hospitality, D'Artagnan went and kissed Athos fervently on the brow, and with his trembling fingers closed his eyes. Then he seated himself by the pillow, without dread of that dead man, who had been so kind and affectionate to him, for five and thirty years. He was feeding his soul with the remembrances the noble visage of the cult brought to his mind in crowds, some blooming and charming as that smile, some dark, dismal and icy as that visage with its eyes now closed to all eternity. All at once the bitter flood which mounted from minute to minute invaded his heart, and swelled his breast almost to bursting. Incapable of mastering his emotion, he arose, and tearing himself violently from the chamber where he had just found dead, him to whom he had come to report the news of the death of Porthos. He uttered sob so heart-rending that the servants, who seemed only to wait for an explosion of grief, answered to it by their lugubrious clamors, and the dogs of the late compt by their lamentable howlings. Grimaud was the only one who did not lift up his voice. Even in the paroxysm of his grief he would not have dared to profane the dead, or for the first time disturbed the slumber of his master. Had not Otho's bitten him be dumb? At daybreak, D'Artagnan, who had wandered about the lower hall, biting his fingers, distifled his sighs. D'Artagnan went up once more, and watching the moments when Grimaud turned his head towards him, he made him a sign to come to him, which the faithful servant obeyed without making more noise than a shadow. D'Artagnan went down again, followed by Grimaud, and when he had gained the vestibule, taking the old man's hands, Grimaud, said he, I have seen how the father died. Now let me know about the son. Grimaud drew from his breast a large letter upon the envelope of which was traced the address of Otho's. He recognized the writing of Messier de Beaufort, broke the seal, and began to read, while walking about in the first steel-chill rays of dawn, in the dark alley of old limes marked by the still visible footsteps of the compt, who had just died. God had changed the address. My dear compt, wrote the prince in his large school boy's hand, a great misfortune has struck us amidst a great triumph. The king loses one of the bravest of soldiers. I lose a friend. You lose Messier de Brajalon. He has died gloriously, so gloriously that I have not the strength to weep as I could wish. Receive my sad compliments, my dear compt. Heaven distributes trials according to the greatness of our hearts. This is an immense one, but not above your courage. Your good friend, Le Duc de Beaufort. The letter contained a relation written by one of the prince's secretaries. It was the most touching recital, and the most true of that dismal episode which unraveled two existences. D'Artagnan, accustomed to battle-emotions and with a heart armed against tenderness, could not help starting on reading the name of Raoul, the name of that beloved boy who had become a shade now, like his father. In the morning, said the prince's secretary, Monsignor commanded the attack. Normandy and Picardy had taken positions in the rocks dominated by the heights of the mountain upon the declivity of which were raised the bastions of Gicelli. The cannon opened the action. The regiments marched full of resolution. The pikemen with pikes elevated. The musket-bearers with their weapons ready. The prince followed attentively the march and movements of the troops, so as to be able to sustain them with a strong reserve. With Monsignor were the oldest captains and his eds to camp. Monsieur de Vicomte de Bragelon had received orders not to leave his highness. In the meantime, the enemy's cannon, which at first thundered with little success against the masses, began to regulate their fire, and the ball's better directed killed several men near the prince. The regiments formed in column and advancing against the ramparts were rather roughly handled. There was a sort of hesitation in our troops who found themselves ill seconded by the artillery. In fact, the batteries which had been established the evening before had but a weak and uncertain aim on account of their position. The upward direction of the aim lessened the justness of the shots as well as their range. Monsignor, comprehending the bad effect of this position on the siege artillery, commanded the frigates moored in the little road to commence a regular fire against the place. Monsieur de Bragelon offered himself at once to carry this order. But Monsignor refused acquiesce in the Vicomte's request. Monsignor was right, for he loved and wished to spare the young nobleman. He was quite right, and the event took upon itself to justify his foresight and refusal, for scarcely had the sergeant charged with the message solicited by Monsieur de Bragelon gain the seashore when two shots from long carbines issued from the enemy's ranks and laid him low. The sergeant fell, dying the sand with his blood, observing which Monsieur de Bragelon smiled at Monsignor, who said to him, You see, Vicomte, I have saved your life. Report that, some day, to Monsieur de la Comte de l'affaire, in order that, learning it from you, he may thank me. The young nobleman smiled sadly and replied to the Duke, It is true, Monsignor, that but for your kindness I should have been killed, where the poor sergeant has fallen and should be at rest. Monsieur de Bragelon made this reply in such a tone that Monsignor answered him warmly, Fredeur, young man, one would say that your mouth waters for death, but for the soul of Henry IV I have promised your father to bring you back alive, and please the Lord I mean to keep my word. Monsieur de Bragelon colored and replied in a lower voice, Monsignor, pardon me, I beseech you. I have always had a desire to meet good opportunities, and it is so delightful to distinguish ourselves before our general, particularly when that general is Monsieur le Duke de Beaufort. Monsignor was a little softened by this, and turning to the officers who surrounded him gave different orders. The grenadiers of the two regiments got near enough to the ditches and entrenchments to launch their grenades, which had but small effect. In the meanwhile, Monsieur de Stray, who commanded the fleet, having seen the attempt of the sergeant to approach the vessels, understood that he must act without orders, and open fire. Then the Arabs, finding themselves seriously injured by the balls from the fleet, and beholding the destruction and ruin of their walls, uttered the most fearful cries. Their horsemen descended the mountain at a gallop, bent over their saddles, and rushed full tilt upon the columns of infantry, which, crossing their pikes, stopped this mad assault. Repulsed by the firm attitude of the battalion, the Arabs threw themselves with fury towards the Etop Mejour, which was not on its guard at that moment. The danger was great. Monsignor drew his sword, his secretaries and people imitated him, the officers of the fleet engaged in combat with the furious Arabs. It was then, Monsieur de Bragelon was able to satisfy the inclination he had so clearly shown for the commencement of the action. He fought near the Prince with the valor of a Roman, and killed three Arabs with his small sword. But it was evident that his bravery did not arise from that sentiment of pride so natural to all who fight. He was impetuous, affected, even forced. He sought to glut, intoxicate himself with strife and carnage. He excited himself to such a degree that Monsignor called to him to stop. He must have heard the voice of Monsignor, because we who were close to him heard it. He did not, however, stop, but continued his course to the entrenchments. As Monsieur de Bragelon was a well-disciplined officer, this disobedience to the orders of Monsignor very much surprised everybody, and Monsieur de Beaufort redoubled his earnestness, crying, Stop, Bragelon! Where are you going? Stop! repeated Monsignor. I command you! We all, imitating the gesture of Monsieur Le Duc, we all raised our hands. We expected that the cavalier would turn bridal, but Monsieur de Bragelon continued to ride towards the palisades. Stop, Bragelon! repeated the prince in a very loud voice. Stop in the name of your father! At these words, Monsieur de Bragelon turned round. His countenance expressed a lively grief, but he did not stop. We then concluded that his horse must have run away with him. When Monsieur Le Duc saw cause to conclude that the Vicompt was no longer master of his horse, and had watched him precede the first grenadiers, his highness cried, Musketeers, kill his horse! A hundred pistolis for the man who kills his horse! But who could expect to hit the beast without at least wounding his rider? No one dared the attempt. At length one presented himself. He was a sharpshooter of the regiment of Picardy, named Luzern, who took aim at the animal, fired, and hit him in the quarters, for we saw the blood redden the hair of the horse. Instead of falling, the cursed genet was irritated and carried him on more furiously than ever. Every Picard who saw this unfortunate young man rushing on to meet certain death, shouted in the loudest manner, Throw yourself off, Monsieur Le Vicompt! Off! Off! Throw yourself off! Monsieur de Bragelon was an officer much beloved in the army, already had the Vicompt arrived within pistol shot of the ramparts, when a discharge was poured upon him that enshrouded him in fire and smoke. We lost sight of him. The smoke dispersed. He was on foot, upright. His horse was killed. The Vicompt was summoned to surrender by the Arabs, but he made them a negative sign with his head, and continued to march towards the palisades. This was a mortal imprudence. Nevertheless the entire army was pleased that he would not retreat, since ill chance had led him so near. He marched a few paces further, and the two regiments clapped their hands. It was at this moment the second discharge shook the walls, and the Vicompt de Bragelon again disappeared in the smoke. But this time the smoke dispersed in vain. We no longer saw him standing. He was down, with his head lower than his legs, among the bushes, and the Arabs began to think of leaving their entrenchments to come out and cut off his head, or take his body, as is the custom with the infidels. But Monsignor Ladouk de Beaufort had followed all this with his eyes, and the sad spectacle drew from him many painful sighs. He then cried aloud, seeing the Arabs running like white columns among the mastic trees. Grenadiers, Lancers, will you let them take that noble body? Saying these words and waving his sword, he himself rode towards the enemy. The regiments, rushing in his steps, ran in their turn, uttering cries as terrible as those of the Arabs, were wild. The combat commenced over the body of Monsieur de Bragelon, and with such inveteracy was it fought that a hundred and sixty Arabs were left upon the field, by the side of at least fifty of our troops. It was Lieutenant from Normandy who took the body of the V. Compt on his shoulders, and carried it back to the lines. The advantage was, however, pursued. The regiments took the reserve with them, and the enemy's palisades were utterly destroyed. At three o'clock the fire of the Arabs ceased. The hand-to-hand fight lasted two hours. It was a massacre. At five o'clock we were victorious at all points. The enemy had abandoned his positions, and Monsieur Le Duc ordered the white flag to be planted on the summit of the little mountain. It was then we had time to think of Monsieur de Bragelon, who had eight large wounds in his body, through which almost all his blood had welled away. Still, however, he had breathed, which afforded inexpressible joy to Monsignor, who insisted on being present at the first dressing of the wounds and the consultation of the surgeons. There were two among them who declared Monsieur de Bragelon would live. Monsignor threw his arms around their necks, and promised them a thousand Louis each if they could save him. The V. Compt heard these transports of joy, and whether he was in despair or whether he suffered much from his wounds, he expressed by his countenance a contradiction, which gave rise to reflection, particularly in one of the secretaries when he had heard what follows. The third surgeon was the brother of Sylvain de Saint-Cosme, the most learned of them all. He probed the wounds in his turn, and said nothing. Monsieur de Bragelon fixed his eyes steadily upon the skillful surgeon, and seemed to interrogate his every movement. The latter, upon being questioned by Monsignor, replied that he saw plainly three mortal wounds out of eight, but so strong was the constitution of the wounded, so rich was he in youth, and so merciful was the goodness of God, that perhaps Monsieur de Bragelon might recover, particularly if he did not move in the slightest manner. The rare Sylvain added, turning towards his assistant, above everything do not allow him to move, even a finger, or you will kill him. And we all left the tent in very low spirits. That secretary I have mentioned, on leaving the tent, thought he perceived a faint and sad smile glide over the lips of Monsieur de Bragelon, when the duke said to him, in a cheerful, kind voice, we will save you, be calmed, we will save you yet! In the evening, when it was believed the wounded youth had taken some repose, one of the assistants entered his tent, but rushed out again immediately, uttering loud cries. We all ran up in disorder, Monsieur le duke with us, and the assistant pointed to the body of Monsieur de Bragelon upon the ground, at the foot of his bed, bathed in the remainder of his blood. It appeared that he had suffered some convulsion, some delirium, and that he had fallen, that the fall had accelerated his end, according to the prognosis of Frère Sylvain. We raised the vie calte, he was cold and dead. He held a lock of fair hair in his right hand, and that hand was tightly pressed upon his heart. Then followed the details of the expedition, and of the victory obtained over the Arabs. D'Artagnan stopped at the account of the death of poor Raoul. Oh! murmured he. Unhappy boy! A suicide! And turning his eyes towards the chamber of the chateau, in which Athos slept in eternal sleep. They kept their words with each other. Said he in a low voice. And now I believe them to be happy. They must be reunited. And he returned through the parterre with slow and melancholy steps. All the village, all the neighborhood, were filled with grieving neighbors relating to each other the double catastrophe, and making preparations for the funeral. CHAPTER 60 OF THE MAN IN THE IRON MASK The man in the iron mask. By Alexander Dumas. CHAPTER 60. THE LAST CANTO OF THE POEM. On the morrow, all the noblesse of the provinces, of the environs, and wherever messengers had carried the news, might have been seen arriving in detachments. D'Artagnan had shut himself up without being able to speak to anybody. Two such heavy deaths, falling upon the captain, so closely after the death of Porthos, for a long time oppressed that spirit which had hitherto been so indefatigable and invulnerable. Except Grimoire, who entered his chamber once, the musketeers saw neither servants nor guests. He's supposed, from the noises in the house, continual coming and going, that preparations were being made for the funeral of the compt. He wrote to the king to ask for an extension of his leave of absence. Grimoire, as we have said, had entered D'Artagnan's apartment, had seated himself upon a joint stool near the door, like a man who meditates profoundly. Then, rising, he made a sign to D'Artagnan to follow him. The latter obeyed in silence. Grimoire, descended to the compspent chamber, showed the captain with his finger the place of the empty bed, and raised his eyes eloquently towards heaven. Yes, replied D'Artagnan, yes, good Grimoire, now with the sun he loved so much. Grimoire left the chamber and led the way to the hall, where, according to the custom of the province, the body was laid out, previously to being put away forever. D'Artagnan was struck at seeing two open coffins in the hall. In reply to the mute invitation of Grimoire, he approached and saw in one of them Athos, still handsome in death, and in the other, Raoul with his eyes closed, his cheeks pearly as those of the Pauls of Virgil, with a smile on his violet lips. He shuddered at seeing the father and son, those two departed souls, represented on earth by two silent melancholy bodies, incapable of touching each other, however close they might be. Raoul here, remembered he. Oh! Grimoire, why did you not tell me this? Grimoire shook his head and made no reply, but taking D'Artagnan by the hand he led him to the coffin and showed him, under the thin winding-sheet, the black wounds by which life had escaped. The captain turned away his eyes, and judging it was useless to question Grimoire, who would not answer, he recollected that Monsieur de Beaufort's secretary had written more than he, D'Artagnan, had had the courage to read. Taking up the recital of the affair which had cost Raoul his life, he found these words, which ended the concluding paragraph of the letter. Monsignor Le Duc has ordered that the body of Monsieur Le Vie Comte should be embalmed after the man are practised by the Arabs when they wish their dead to be carried to their native land, and Monsieur Le Duc has appointed relays so that the same confidential servant who brought up the young man might take back his remains to Monsieur Le Comte de l'affaire. And so, thought D'Artagnan, I shall follow thy funeral, my dear boy. I, already old, do am of no value on earth, and I shall scatter dust upon that brow I kissed but two months since. God has willed it to be so. Thou hast willed it to be so thyself. I have no longer the right even to weep. Thou hast chosen death. It seemed to thee a preferable gift to life. At length arrived the moment when the chill remains of these two gentlemen were to be given back to Mother Earth. There was such an affluence of military and other people that up to the place of the sepulcher, which was a little chapel on the plain, the road from the city was filled with horsemen and pedestrians in mourning. Athos had chosen for his resting place the little enclosure of a chapel erected by himself near the boundary of his estates. He had had the stones cut in 1550 brought from an old Gothic manor-house in Barrie, which had sheltered his early youth. The chapel, thus rebuilt, transported, was pleasing to the eye beneath its leafy curtains of poplars and sycamores. It was ministered in every Sunday by the curie of the neighboring Burg, to whom Athos paid an allowance of 200 francs for this service, and all the vassals of his domain, with their families, came thither to hear mass without having any occasion to go to the city. Behind the chapel extended, surrounded by two high hedges of hazel, elder and white-thorn, and a deep ditch, the little enclosure, uncultivated, though gay in its sterility, because the mosses there grew thick, while heliotrope and ravenelles there mingled perfumes, while from beneath an ancient chestnut issued a crystal spring, a prisoner in its marble cistern, and on the time all around alighted thousands of bees from the neighboring plants, whilst chaffinches and red-throats sank cheerfully among the flower-spangled hedges. It was to this place the somber coffins were carried, attended by a silent and respectful crowd. The office of the dead being celebrated, the last adduce paid to the noble departed, the assembly dispersed, talking, along the roads, of the virtues and mild death of the father, of the hopes the sun had given, and of his melancholy end upon the arid coast of Africa. Little by little all noises were extinguished, like the lamps illuminating the humble nave. The minister bowed for the last time to the altar and the still-fresh graves, then, followed by his assistant, he slowly took the road back to the presbytery. D'Artagnan, left alone, perceived that night was coming on. D'Artagnan had forgotten the hour, thinking only of the dead. He arose from the oaken bench on which he was seated in the chapel, and wished, as the priest had done, to go and bid a last adieu to the double grave which contained his two lost friends. A woman was praying, kneeling on the moist earth. D'Artagnan stopped at the door of the chapel to avoid disturbing her, and also to endeavor to find out who was the pious friend who performed the sacred duty with so much zeal and perseverance. The unknown had hidden her face in her hands which were white as alabaster. From the noble simplicity of her custom she must be a woman of distinction. Outside the enclosure were several horses mounted by servants. A travelling carriage was in waiting for this lady. D'Artagnan in vain sought to make out what caused her delay. She continued praying, and frequently pressed her handkerchief to her face, by which D'Artagnan perceived she was weeping. He beheld her striker breast with the compunction of a Christian woman. He heard her several times exclaim as from a wounded heart, "'Pardon, pardon!' and as she appeared to abandon herself entirely to her grief, as she threw herself down, almost fainting, exhausted by complaints and prayers. D'Artagnan, touched by this love for his so much regretted friends, made a few steps towards the grave in order to interrupt the melancholy colloquy of the penitent with the dead. But as soon as his step sounded on the gravel, the unknown raised her head, revealing to D'Artagnan a face of blood with tears, a well-known face. It was Mme Mouselle de la Valière. "'Monsieur D'Artagnan,' murmured she. "'You,' replied the captain, in a stern voice, "'you here. Oh, madame, I should better have liked to see you decked with flowers in the mansion of the Comp de la Faire. You would have wept less, and they too, and I.' "'Monsieur,' said she, sobbing. "'For it was you,' added this pitiless friend of the dead, "'it was you who sped these two men to the grave.' "'Oh, spare me!' "'God forbid, madam, that I should offend a woman, or that I should make her weep in vain. But I must say that the place of the murderer is not upon the grave of her victims.' She wished to reply. "'What I now tell you,' added he, coldly, "'I have already told the king.' She clasped her hands. "'I know,' said she. "'I have cost the death of the Vicomte de Bregelon.' "'Ah, you know it!' The news arrived at court yesterday. I have travelled during the night forty leagues to come and ask pardon of the compte, whom I suppose to be still living, and to pray God, on the tomb of Raoul, that he would send me all the misfortunes I have merited, except a single one. "'Now, monsieur, I know that the death of the son has killed the father. I have two crimes to reproach myself with. I have two punishments to expect from heaven.' "'I will repeat to you, mademoiselle,' said d'Artagnan, "'what monsieur de Bregelon said of you at Antibes when he had already meditated death. If pride and coquetry have misled her, I pardon her while despising her. If love has produced her error, I pardon her, but I swear that no one could have loved her as I have done.' "'You know,' interrupted Louise, that of my love I was about to sacrifice myself, you know whether I suffered when you met me lost, dying, abandoned. Well, never have I suffered so much as now, because then I hoped, desired. Now I have no longer anything to wish for, because this death drags all my joy into the tomb, because I can no longer dare to love without remorse, and I feel that he whom I love, oh, it is but just, will repay me with the tortures I have made others undergo.' d'Artagnan made no reply. He was too well convinced that she was not mistaken. "'Well, then,' added she, "'Dear Monsieur d'Artagnan, do not overwhelm me today. I again implore you. I am like the branch torn from the trunk. I no longer hold to anything in this world. A current drags me on. I know not wither. I love madly, even to the point of coming to tell it, wretched that I am, over the ashes of the dead, and I do not blush for it. I have no remorse on this account. Such love is a religion. Only, as hereafter you will see me alone, forgotten, disdained, as you will see me punished, as I am destined to be punished, spare me in my ephemeral happiness, leave it to me for a few days, for a few minutes. Now, even at the moment I am speaking to you, perhaps it no longer exists. My God! This double murder is perhaps already expiated. While she was speaking thus, the sound of voices and of horses drew the attention of the captain. Monsieur d'Artagnan came to seek la valière. "'The king,' he said, "'is a prey to jealousy and uneasiness.' Sant'Artagnan did not perceive d'Artagnan half concealed by the trunk of a chestnut tree which shaded the double grave. Louis thanked Sant'Artagnan and dismissed him with a gesture. He rejoined the party outside the enclosure. "'You see, madam,' said the captain, bitterly to the young woman, "'you see your happiness still lasts.' The young woman raised her head with a solemn air. "'A day will come,' said she, "'when you will repent of having so misjudged me. "'On that day it is I who will pray God to forgive you for having been unjust towards me. "'Besides, I shall suffer so much that you yourself will be the first to pity my sufferings. "'Do not reproach me with my fleeting happiness, Monsieur d'Artagnan. "'It costs me dear, and I have not paid all my debt.' Saying these words, she again knelt down softly and affectionately. "'Pardon me the last time, my affiance, Raoul,' said she. "'I have broken our chain. "'We are both destined to die of grief. "'It is thou who departs first. "'Fear nothing, I shall follow thee. "'See, only, that I have not been base and that I have come to bid thee this last adieu. "'The Lord is my witness, Raoul, "'that if with my life I could have redeemed thine, "'I would have given that life without hesitation. "'I could not give my love. "'Once more. "'Forgive me, dearest, kindest friend.' She strewed a few sweet flowers on the freshly sauded earth, then, wiping the tears from her eyes, the heavily stricken lady bowed to d'Artagnan and disappeared. The captain watched the departure of the horses, horsemen and carriage, then crossing his arms upon his swelling chest. "'When will it be my turn to depart?' said he, in an agitated voice. "'What is there left for man after youth, love, glory, friendship, "'strength and wealth have disappeared? "'That rock, under which sleeps Porthos, "'who possessed all I have named, "'this moss, under which repose Athos and Raoul, "'who possessed much more?' He hesitated for a moment with a dull eye, then, drawing himself up. "'Foreward, still forward,' said he, "'when it is time, God will tell me, as he foretold the others.' He touched the earth, moistened with ease.