Part 43

A heavy step ascended the porch; the horse, which had lately galloped with such speed, set off slowly toward the stable. A few tremblings accompanied those steps, which little by little drew nearer to Athos's chamber.

Then a door opened, and Athos, turning slightly toward the direction from which the noise came, cried in a weak voice:

— It is a courier from Africa, is it not?

— No, Monsieur le Comte, answered a voice that made Raoul's father start up on his bed.

— Grimaud! he murmured.

And the sweat began to slide down his emaciated cheeks.

Grimaud appeared on the threshold. This was no longer the Grimaud we have seen, still young in courage and devotion, when he was the first to leap into the skiff meant to carry Raoul de Bragelonne to the ships of the royal fleet.

He was a stern and pale old man, his clothes covered with powder, his sparse hair whitened by the years. He trembled as he leaned upon the doorframe, and nearly fell when he saw from afar, by the lamplight, his master's face.

These two men, who had lived so much together in community of mind and whose eyes, accustomed to sparing their expressions, knew how to say so many things to each other in silence; these two old friends, as noble one as the other at heart, though unequal in fortune and birth, remained speechless as they looked upon one another. With a single glance they had read to the very depths of each other's heart.

Grimaud bore upon his face the imprint of a sorrow already grown old into a dismal habit. He seemed to have left to his use but a single translation of his thoughts.

As formerly he had grown accustomed to speaking no more, so now he accustomed himself to smiling no more.

Athos read at a glance all these shades upon the face of his faithful servant, and, in the same tone he would have used to speak to Raoul in his dream:

— Grimaud, he said, Raoul is dead, is he not?

Behind Grimaud, the other servants listened with palpitating hearts, their eyes fixed upon the sick man's bed.

They heard the terrible question, and a frightful silence followed it.

— Yes, answered the old man, tearing this monosyllable from his breast with a raucous sigh.

Then lamentable voices arose, which moaned without measure and filled with regrets and prayers the chamber where the dying father sought with his eyes the portrait of his son.

This was for Athos like the transition that led him to his dream.

Without uttering a cry, without shedding a tear, patient, gentle, and resigned like the martyrs, he raised his eyes to heaven in order to see again, rising above the mountain of Djidgelli, the dear shade that was withdrawing from him at the moment Grimaud had arrived.

Doubtless, in looking toward heaven, in taking up his marvelous slumber, he passed again by the same paths where the vision at once so terrible and so sweet had led him before; for, after gently closing his eyes, he opened them again and began to smile: he had just seen Raoul, who smiled back at him in turn.

His hands joined upon his breast, his face turned toward the window, bathed by the cool night air that brought to his bedside the aromas of flowers and woods, Athos entered, never to leave it again, into the contemplation of that paradise which the living never behold.

God willed, no doubt, to open to this chosen one the treasures of eternal beatitude, at the hour when other men tremble to be severely received by the Lord, and cling to this life they know, in terror of the other life they glimpse by the dark and stern torches of death.

Athos was guided by the pure and serene soul of his son, who drew the paternal soul toward him. All, for this just man, was melody and perfume, upon the rugged path that souls take to return to their celestial homeland.

After an hour of this ecstasy, Athos gently raised his hands white as wax; the smile never left his lips, and he murmured, so low, so low, that one could scarcely hear him, these two words addressed to God or to Raoul:

— _Here I am!_

And his hands fell slowly back as if he himself had laid them upon the bed.

Death had been easy and caressing to this noble creature. It had spared him the rendings of agony, the convulsions of the supreme departure; it had opened with a favorable finger the doors of eternity to that great soul worthy of all its respect.

God had doubtless so ordained it, that the pious remembrance of this so gentle death might remain in the hearts of those present and in the memory of other men, a passing away which made the passage from this life to the other beloved by those whose existence upon this earth cannot make them dread the last judgment.

Athos kept even in eternal sleep that placid and sincere smile, an ornament that was to accompany him to the tomb. The quiet of his features, the calm of his nothingness, long made his servants doubt that he had left life.

The count's people wished to lead Grimaud away, who, from afar, devoured that paling face and drew not near, in pious fear of bringing to it the breath of death. But Grimaud, weary though he was, refused to withdraw. He sat upon the threshold, guarding his master with the vigilance of a sentinel, and jealous to gather his first glance on awakening, his last sigh at death.

Sounds died away throughout the house, and each respected the lord's slumber. But Grimaud, lending ear, perceived that the count no longer breathed.

He raised himself, his hands upon the floor, and, from his place, looked whether some quivering would not awaken in his master's body.

Nothing! fear took hold of him; he rose wholly, and, at the same moment, he heard someone walking on the stairs; a noise of spurs struck by a sword, a warlike sound familiar to his ears, stopped him as he was about to walk toward Athos's bed. A voice more vibrant still than brass and steel rang out three paces from him.

— Athos! Athos! my friend! cried this voice, moved even to tears.

— Monsieur le Chevalier d'Artagnan! stammered Grimaud.

— Where is he? continued the musketeer.

Grimaud seized his arm in his bony fingers, and showed him the bed, upon whose sheets the livid tint of the corpse already contrasted.

A panting breath, the contrary of a shrill cry, swelled d'Artagnan's throat.

He advanced on tiptoe, shivering, appalled at the noise his steps made upon the parquet, and his heart torn by an unspeakable anguish. He brought his ear near Athos's breast, his face near the count's mouth. Neither sound nor breath. D'Artagnan drew back.

Grimaud, who had followed him with his eyes and for whom each of his movements had been a revelation, came timidly to sit at the foot of the bed, and pressed his lips to the sheet lifted by his master's stiffened feet.

Then broad tears were seen to escape his reddened eyes.

This old man in despair, who wept bowed without uttering a word, offered the most moving spectacle that d'Artagnan, in his life of emotions, had ever encountered.

The captain remained standing in contemplation before this smiling dead man, who seemed to have kept his last thought to give his best friend, the man he had most loved after Raoul, a gracious welcome, even beyond life, and, as if to answer this supreme flattery of hospitality, d'Artagnan went to kiss Athos upon the forehead and, with his trembling fingers, closed his eyes.

Then he sat at the bedside, without fear of this dead man who had been so sweet and so kindly to him during thirty-five years; he fed avidly upon the memories that the noble face of the count brought crowding into his mind, some flowered and charming like that smile, others dark, gloomy, and frozen, like that face with eyes closed for eternity.

Suddenly, the bitter flood that rose minute by minute invaded his heart, and broke his breast. Unable to master his emotion, he rose, and, tearing himself violently from that chamber, where he had just found dead him to whom he came to bring the news of Porthos's death, he uttered sobs so rending, that the servants, who seemed to await but an explosion of grief, answered them with their lugubrious clamors, and the lord's dogs with their lamentable howlings.

Grimaud was the only one who raised not his voice. Even in the paroxysm of his sorrow, he would not have dared profane the death, nor for the first time disturb his master's sleep. Athos, moreover, had accustomed him never to speak.

At daybreak, d'Artagnan, who had wandered in the lower hall biting his fists to stifle his sighs, d'Artagnan climbed the stairs once more, and, watching for the moment when Grimaud would turn his head his way, he signaled him to come; which the faithful servant executed with no more noise than a shadow.

D'Artagnan went back down, followed by Grimaud.

Once in the vestibule, taking the old man's hands:

— Grimaud, said he, I have seen how the father died: tell me now how the son died.

Grimaud drew from his breast a large letter, upon whose envelope was traced Athos's address. He recognized M. de Beaufort's handwriting, broke the seal, and began to read, pacing, in the first rays of the bluish daylight, the somber walk of old linden trees still marked by the visible footsteps of the count who had just died.

Chapter CCLXV — Bulletin

The Duke of Beaufort wrote to Athos. The letter destined for the living man arrived only to the dead. God changed the address.

"My dear Count," wrote the prince with his large, clumsy schoolboy hand, "a great misfortune strikes us in the midst of a great triumph. The King loses one of his bravest soldiers. I lose a friend. You lose M. de Bragelonne.

"He died gloriously, and so gloriously, that I have not the strength to weep as I would wish.

"Receive my sad compliments, my dear Count. Heaven distributes trials to us according to the greatness of our heart. This one is immense, but not above your courage.

"Your good friend,

"The Duke of Beaufort."

This letter enclosed a relation written by one of the prince's secretaries. It was the most touching and truest account of that lugubrious episode which untied two existences.

D'Artagnan, accustomed to the emotions of battle, and his heart armored against tender feelings, could not keep from starting at the reading of Raoul's name, the name of that cherished child, become, like his father, a shade.

"In the morning," said the prince's secretary, "the Duke commanded the attack. Normandy and Picardy had taken position in the gray rocks dominated by the slope of the mountain, upon whose flank rise the bastions of Djidgelli.

"The cannon, beginning to fire, engaged the action; the regiments marched full of resolution; the pikemen had their pikes high; the musketeers carried their weapon on the arm. The prince followed attentively the march and movement of the troops, which he was ready to support with a strong reserve.

"Near Monseigneur were the oldest captains and his aides-de-camp. M. le Vicomte de Bragelonne had received the order not to leave His Highness.

"However, the enemy's cannon, which at first had thundered indifferently against the masses, had regulated its fire, and the balls, better directed, came to kill a few men around the prince. The regiments formed in column, and which advanced against the ramparts, were somewhat maltreated. There was hesitation on the part of our troops, who saw themselves ill seconded by our artillery. Indeed, the batteries established the evening before had but a weak and uncertain fire, by reason of their position. The direction from low to high hindered the accuracy of the shots and of the range.

"Monseigneur, understanding the bad effect of this position of the siege artillery, commanded the frigates moored in the small roadstead to begin a regular fire against the place.

"To carry this order, M. de Bragelonne offered himself at first; but Monseigneur refused to accede to the vicomte's request.

"Monseigneur was right, since he loved and wished to spare this young lord; he was quite right, and the event undertook to justify his foresight and his refusal; for, scarcely had the sergeant whom His Highness had charged with the message solicited by M. de Bragelonne arrived at the edge of the sea, than two great shots from a long carbine issued from the enemy's ranks and struck him down.

"The sergeant fell upon the wet sand, which drank his blood.

"Seeing this, M. de Bragelonne smiled at Monseigneur, who said to him:

"— You see, vicomte, I save your life. Report it later to M. le Comte de La Fère, so that, learning it from you, he may be grateful to me for it.

"The young lord smiled sadly and answered the duke:

"— It is true, monseigneur, without your kindness I should have been killed there where that poor sergeant fell, and in a very great repose.

"M. de Bragelonne made this reply in such a manner, that Monseigneur replied briskly:

"— True God! young man, one would say the water comes to your mouth for it: but, by the soul of Henri IV! I promised your father to bring you back alive, and, if it please the Lord, I shall keep my word.

"M. de Bragelonne blushed, and, in a lower voice:

"— Monseigneur, said he, forgive me, I pray you; it is that I have always had the desire to go into danger, and that it is sweet to distinguish oneself before one's general, especially when the general is M. le Duc de Beaufort.

"Monseigneur softened a little, and, turning toward his officers who pressed around him, gave various orders.

"The grenadiers of the two regiments arrived near enough to the ditches and entrenchments to throw their grenades, which had little effect.

"However, M. d'Estrées, who commanded the fleet, having seen the sergeant's attempt to approach the ships, understood that he must fire without orders and open the fire.

"Then the Arabs, seeing themselves struck by the fleet's balls and by the ruins and fragments of their poor walls, uttered frightful cries.

"Their horsemen descended the mountain at a gallop, bent upon their saddles, and launched at full speed upon the infantry columns, which, crossing their pikes, stopped this furious charge. Repulsed by the firm attitude of the battalion, the Arabs came in great fury to throw themselves back toward the headquarters, which was at that moment unguarded.

"The danger was great: Monseigneur drew his sword; his secretaries and his people imitated him; the officers of his suite engaged combat with these madmen.

"It was then that M. de Bragelonne could satisfy the desire he had shown since the beginning of the action. He fought near the prince with a Roman's vigor, and killed three Arabs with his small sword.

"But it was visible that his bravery came not from a feeling of pride, natural to all who fight. It was impetuous, affected, even forced; he sought to intoxicate himself with the noise and the carnage.

"He warmed himself to such a degree, that Monseigneur cried to him to stop.

"He must have heard His Highness's voice, since we heard it, we who were at his side. Nevertheless he did not stop, and continued to run toward the entrenchments.

"As M. de Bragelonne was a very obedient officer, this disobedience to Monseigneur's orders greatly surprised everyone, and M. de Beaufort redoubled his instances, crying:

"— Stop, Bragelonne! Where are you going? Stop! resumed Monseigneur, I order you to.

"We all, imitating M. le Duc's gesture, had raised our hands. We awaited that the horseman would turn bridle; but M. de Bragelonne still ran toward the palisades.

"— Stop, Bragelonne! repeated the prince in a very loud voice; stop in the name of your father!

"At these words, M. de Bragelonne turned; his face expressed a lively pain, but he did not stop; we then judged that his horse was carrying him away.

"When M. le Duc had guessed that the vicomte no longer mastered his horse, and had seen him pass the first grenadiers, His Highness cried:

"— Musketeers, kill his horse! A hundred pistoles to whoever brings down the horse!

"But to fire upon the beast without hitting the rider, who could have hoped it? None dared. At last one presented himself, it was a marksman of the Picardy regiment, named La Luzerne, who aimed at the animal, fired, and hit it on the croup, for one saw the blood redden the white coat of the horse; only, instead of falling, the accursed nag grew even more furious.

"All Picardy, which saw this unhappy young man run to death, cried at the top of its lungs: 'Throw yourself down, Monsieur le Vicomte! down, down, throw yourself down!' M. de Bragelonne was a very beloved officer throughout the army.

"Already the vicomte had arrived within pistol shot of the rampart; a volley issued and enveloped him in fire and smoke. We lost sight of him; the smoke dissipated, he was seen again on foot, standing; his horse had just been killed.

"The vicomte was summoned to surrender by the Arabs; but he made them a negative sign with his head, and continued to walk toward the palisades.

"It was a mortal imprudence. However, the whole army was grateful to him for not retreating, since misfortune had led him so near. He walked a few steps more, and the two regiments clapped their hands at him.

"It was again at this moment that the second volley once more shook the walls, and the Vicomte de Bragelonne disappeared a second time in the whirlwind; but, this time, though the smoke dissipated as it would, we no longer saw him standing. He was lying, the head lower than the legs, upon the heather, and the Arabs began to wish to come out of their entrenchments to come cut off his head or take his body, as is the custom among the infidels.

"But His Highness M. le Duc de Beaufort had followed all this with his eye, and this sad spectacle had wrung from him great and painful sighs. He therefore began to cry, seeing the Arabs run like white ghosts among the lentisks:

"— Grenadiers, pikemen, will you let them take that noble body?

"In saying these words and waving his sword, he ran himself toward the enemy. The regiments, springing upon his traces, ran in their turn, crying out as terrible as those of the Arabs were savage.

"The combat began upon the body of M. de Bragelonne, and was so fierce, that a hundred sixty Arabs remained dead there, beside at least fifty of ours.

"It was a lieutenant of Normandy who charged the vicomte's body upon his shoulders, and brought it back into our lines.

"However, the advantage pursued; the regiments took the reserve with them, and the enemy's palisades were overthrown.

"At three o'clock, the Arabs' fire ceased; the hand-to-hand combat lasted two hours; it was a massacre.

"At five o'clock, we were victorious upon all points; the enemy had abandoned its positions, and M. le Duc had had the white flag planted upon the culminating point of the hillock.

"It was then that one could think of M. de Bragelonne, who had eight great wounds through his body, and of whom almost all the blood was lost.

"Nevertheless, he still breathed, which gave an inexpressible joy to Monseigneur, who wished also to assist at the first dressing of the vicomte and at the surgeons' consultation.

"Two of them declared that M. de Bragelonne would live. Monseigneur jumped to their necks, and promised them a thousand louis each if they saved him.

"The vicomte heard these transports of joy, and, whether he was in despair, or suffered from his wounds, he expressed by his physiognomy a vexation which gave much to think upon, especially to one of his secretaries, when he had heard what follows.

"The third surgeon who came was brother Sylvain de Saint-Cosme, the most learned of ours. He sounded the wounds in his turn and said nothing.

"M. de Bragelonne opened fixed eyes and seemed to interrogate each movement, each thought of the learned surgeon.

"He, questioned by Monseigneur, answered that he indeed saw three mortal wounds upon the eight, but so strong was the wounded man's constitution, so fertile youth, so merciful the goodness of God, that perhaps M. de Bragelonne would recover, if he made not the least movement.

"Brother Sylvain added, turning toward his assistants:

"— Above all, do not stir him even with a finger, or you will kill him.

"And we all went out of the tent with a little hope.

"This secretary, going out, believed he saw a pale and sad smile glide upon the vicomte's lips, when M. le Duc said to him in a caressing voice:

"— Oh! vicomte, we shall save you!

"But in the evening, when it was thought the sick man should have rested, one of the assistants entered the wounded man's tent, and came out again uttering great cries.

"We all ran in disorder, M. le Duc with us, and the assistant showed us M. de Bragelonne's body upon the ground, at the foot of the bed, bathed in the remainder of his blood.

"It appears that he had had some new convulsion, some feverish movement, and that he had fallen; that the fall he had made had accelerated his end, according to brother Sylvain's prognosis.

"The vicomte was raised; he was cold and dead. He held a lock of blond hair in his right hand, and this hand was clenched upon his heart."

There followed the details of the expedition and of the victory won over the Arabs.

D'Artagnan stopped at the account of poor Raoul's death.

— Oh! he murmured, unhappy child, a suicide!

And, turning his eyes toward the castle chamber where Athos slept an eternal sleep:

— They have kept their word to each other, he said very low. Now, I find them happy: they must be reunited.

And he took again at slow steps the path of the parterre.

All the street, all the surroundings already filled with weeping neighbors who told one another the double catastrophe and prepared for the funerals.

Chapter CCLXVI — The Last Chant of the Poem

From the next day, one saw arrive all the nobility of the surroundings, that of the province, everywhere the messengers had had time to carry the news.

D'Artagnan had remained shut up without wishing to speak to anyone. Two deaths so heavy falling upon the captain, after Porthos's death, had overwhelmed for long that spirit until then indefatigable.

Except Grimaud, who entered his chamber once, the musketeer saw neither servants nor dependents.

He guessed by the noise of the house, by that coming and going, that they were arranging everything for the count's funerals. He wrote to the King to ask for an extension of his leave.

Grimaud, we have said, had entered d'Artagnan's room, had sat upon a stool, near the door, like a man who meditates deeply, then, rising, had signaled d'Artagnan to follow him.

The latter obeyed in silence. Grimaud descended to the count's bedchamber, pointed with his finger to the place of the empty bed, and raised his eyes eloquently to heaven.

— Yes, resumed d'Artagnan, yes, good Grimaud, near the son he loved so much.

Grimaud went out of the chamber and arrived at the salon, where, according to the custom of the province, they had had to lay out the body in state before enclosing it forever.

“Stories of the world, in your language.”