________________________________________________
_ Scarcely had D'Artagnan re-entered his apartment with his two friends,
when one of the soldiers of the fort came to inform him that the governor
was seeking him. The bark which Raoul had perceived at sea, and which
appeared so eager to gain the port, came to Sainte-Marguerite with an
important dispatch for the captain of the musketeers. On opening it,
D'Artagnan recognized the writing of the king: "I should think," said
Louis XIV., "you will have completed the execution of my orders, Monsieur
d'Artagnan; return, then, immediately to Paris, and join me at the
Louvre."
"There is the end of my exile!" cried the musketeer with joy; "God be
praised, I am no longer a jailer!" And he showed the letter to Athos.
"So, then, you must leave us?" replied the latter, in a melancholy tone.
"Yes, but to meet again, dear friend, seeing that Raoul is old enough now
to go alone with M. de Beaufort, and will prefer his father going back in
company with M. d'Artagnan, to forcing him to travel two hundred leagues
solitarily to reach home at La Fere; will you not, Raoul?"
"Certainly," stammered the latter, with an expression of tender regret.
"No, no, my friend," interrupted Athos, "I will never quit Raoul till the
day his vessel disappears on the horizon. As long as he remains in
France he shall not be separated from me."
"As you please, dear friend; but we will, at least, leave Sainte-
Marguerite together; take advantage of the bark that will convey me back
to Antibes."
"With all my heart; we cannot too soon be at a distance from this fort,
and from the spectacle that shocked us so just now."
The three friends quitted the little isle, after paying their respects to
the governor, and by the last flashes of the departing tempest they took
their farewell of the white walls of the fort. D'Artagnan parted from
his friend that same night, after having seen fire set to the carriage
upon the shore by the orders of Saint-Mars, according to the advice the
captain had given him. Before getting on horseback, and after leaving
the arms of Athos: "My friends," said he, "you bear too much resemblance
to two soldiers who are abandoning their post. Something warns me that
Raoul will require being supported by you in his rank. Will you allow me
to ask permission to go over into Africa with a hundred good muskets?
The king will not refuse me, and I will take you with me."
"Monsieur d'Artagnan," replied Raoul, pressing his hand with emotion,
"thanks for that offer, which would give us more than we wish, either
monsieur le comte or I. I, who am young, stand in need of labor of mind
and fatigue of body; monsieur le comte wants the profoundest repose. You
are his best friend. I recommend him to your care. In watching over
him, you are holding both our souls in your hands."
"I must go; my horse is all in a fret," said D'Artagnan, with whom the
most manifest sign of a lively emotion was the change of ideas in
conversation. "Come, comte, how many days longer has Raoul to stay here?"
"Three days at most."
"And how long will it take you to reach home?"
"Oh! a considerable time," replied Athos. "I shall not like the idea of
being separated too quickly from Raoul. Time will travel too fast of
itself to require me to aid it by distance. I shall only make half-
stages."
"And why so, my friend? Nothing is more dull than traveling slowly; and
hostelry life does not become a man like you."
"My friend, I came hither on post-horses; but I wish to purchase two
animals of a superior kind. Now, to take them home fresh, it would not
be prudent to make them travel more than seven or eight leagues a day."
"Where is Grimaud?"
"He arrived yesterday morning with Raoul's appointments; and I have left
him to sleep."
"That is, never to come back again," D'Artagnan suffered to escape him.
"Till we meet again, then, dear Athos - and if you are diligent, I shall
embrace you the sooner." So saying, he put his foot in the stirrup,
which Raoul held.
"Farewell!" said the young man, embracing him.
"Farewell!" said D'Artagnan, as he got into his saddle.
His horse made a movement which divided the cavalier from his friends.
This scene had taken place in front of the house chosen by Athos, near
the gates of Antibes, whither D'Artagnan, after his supper, had ordered
his horses to be brought. The road began to branch off there, white and
undulating in the vapors of the night. The horse eagerly respired the
salt, sharp perfume of the marshes. D'Artagnan put him to a trot; and
Athos and Raoul sadly turned towards the house. All at once they heard
the rapid approach of a horse's steps, and first believed it to be one
of those singular repercussions which deceive the ear at every turn in a
road. But it was really the return of the horseman. They uttered a cry
of joyous surprise; and the captain, springing to the ground like a young
man, seized within his arms the two beloved heads of Athos and Raoul. He
held them long embraced thus, without speaking a word, or suffering the
sigh which was bursting his breast to escape him. Then, as rapidly as he
had come back, he set off again, with a sharp application of his spurs to
the sides of his fiery horse.
"Alas!" said the comte, in a low voice, "alas! alas!"
"An evil omen!" on his side, said D'Artagnan to himself, making up for
lost time. "I could not smile upon them. An evil omen!"
The next day Grimaud was on foot again. The service commanded by M. de
Beaufort was happily accomplished. The flotilla, sent to Toulon by the
exertions of Raoul, had set out, dragging after it in little nutshells,
almost invisible, the wives and friends of the fishermen and smugglers
put in requisition for the service of the fleet. The time, so short,
which remained for father and son to live together, appeared to go by
with double rapidity, like some swift stream that flows towards
eternity. Athos and Raoul returned to Toulon, which began to be filled
with the noise of carriages, with the noise of arms, the noise of
neighing horses. The trumpeters sounded their spirited marches; the
drummers signalized their strength; the streets were overflowing with
soldiers, servants, and tradespeople. The Duc de Beaufort was
everywhere, superintending the embarkation with the zeal and interest of
a good captain. He encouraged the humblest of his companions; he scolded
his lieutenants, even those of the highest rank. Artillery, provisions,
baggage, he insisted upon seeing all himself. He examined the equipment
of every soldier; assured himself of the health and soundness of every
horse. It was plain that, light, boastful, egotistical, in his hotel,
the gentleman became the soldier again - the high noble, a captain - in
face of the responsibility he had accepted. And yet, it must be admitted
that, whatever was the care with which he presided over the preparations
for departure, it was easy to perceive careless precipitation, and the
absence of all the precaution that make the French solider the first
soldier in the world, because, in that world, he is the one most
abandoned to his own physical and moral resources. All things having
satisfied, or appearing to have satisfied, the admiral, he paid his
compliments to Raoul, and gave the last orders for sailing, which was
ordered the next morning at daybreak. He invited the comte had his son
to dine with him; but they, under a pretext of service, kept themselves
apart. Gaining their hostelry, situated under the trees of the great
Place, they took their repast in haste, and Athos led Raoul to the rocks
which dominate the city, vast gray mountains, whence the view is infinite
and embraces a liquid horizon which appears, so remote is it, on a level
with the rocks themselves. The night was fine, as it always is in these
happy climes. The moon, rising behind the rocks, unrolled a silver sheet
on the cerulean carpet of the sea. In the roadsteads maneuvered silently
the vessels which had just taken their rank to facilitate the
embarkation. The sea, loaded with phosphoric light, opened beneath the
hulls of the barks that transported the baggage and munitions; every dip
of the prow plowed up this gulf of white flames; from every oar dropped
liquid diamonds. The sailors, rejoicing in the largesses of the admiral,
were heard murmuring their slow and artless songs. Sometimes the
grinding of the chains was mixed with the dull noise of shot falling into
the holds. Such harmonies, such a spectacle, oppress the heart like
fear, and dilate it like hope. All this life speaks of death. Athos had
seated himself with his son, upon the moss, among the brambles of the
promontory. Around their heads passed and repassed large bats, carried
along by the fearful whirl of their blind chase. The feet of Raoul were
over the edge of the cliff, bathed in that void which is peopled by
vertigo, and provokes to self-annihilation. When the moon had risen to
its fullest height, caressing with light the neighboring peaks, when the
watery mirror was illumined in its full extent, and the little red fires
had made their openings in the black masses of every ship, Athos,
collecting all his ideas and all his courage, said:
"God has made all these things that we see, Raoul; He has made us also, -
poor atoms mixed up with this monstrous universe. We shine like those
fires and those stars; we sigh like those waves; we suffer like those
great ships, which are worn out in plowing the waves, in obeying the wind
that urges them towards an end, as the breath of God blows us towards a
port. Everything likes to live, Raoul; and everything seems beautiful to
living things."
"Monsieur," said Raoul, "we have before us a beautiful spectacle!"
"How good D'Artagnan is!" interrupted Athos, suddenly, "and what a rare
good fortune it is to be supported during a whole life by such a friend
as he is! That is what you have missed, Raoul."
"A friend!" cried Raoul, "I have wanted a friend!"
"M. de Guiche is an agreeable companion," resumed the comte, coldly, "but
I believe, in the times in which you live, men are more engaged in their
own interests and their own pleasures than they were in ours. You have
sought a secluded life; that is a great happiness, but you have lost your
strength thereby. We four, more weaned from those delicate abstractions
that constitute your joy, furnished much more resistance when misfortune
presented itself."
"I have not interrupted you, monsieur, to tell you that I had a friend,
and that that friend is M. de Guiche. _Certes_, he is good and generous,
and moreover he loves me. But I have lived under the guardianship of
another friendship, monsieur, as precious and as strong as that of which
you speak, since it is yours."
"I have not been a friend for you, Raoul," said Athos.
"Eh! monsieur, and in what respect not?"
"Because I have given you reason to think that life has but one face,
because, sad and severe, alas! I have always cut off for you, without,
God knows, wishing to do so, the joyous buds that spring incessantly
from the fair tree of youth; so that at this moment I repent of not
having made of you a more expansive, dissipated, animated man."
"I know why you say that, monsieur. No, it is not you who have made me
what I am; it was love, which took me at the time when children only have
inclinations; it is the constancy natural to my character, which with
other creatures is but habit. I believed that I should always be as I
was; I thought God had cast me in a path quite clear, quite straight,
bordered with fruits and flowers. I had ever watching over me your
vigilance and strength. I believed myself to be vigilant and strong.
Nothing prepared me; I fell once, and that once deprived me of courage
for the whole of my life. It is quite true that I wrecked myself. Oh,
no, monsieur! you are nothing in my past but happiness - in my future but
hope! No, I have no reproach to make against life such as you made it
for me; I bless you, and I love you ardently."
"My dear Raoul, your words do me good. They prove to me that you will
act a little for me in the time to come."
"I shall only act for you, monsieur."
"Raoul, what I have never hitherto done with respect to you, I will
henceforward do. I will be your friend, not your father. We will live
in expanding ourselves, instead of living and holding ourselves
prisoners, when you come back. And that will be soon, will it not?"
"Certainly, monsieur, for such an expedition cannot last long."
"Soon, then, Raoul, soon, instead of living moderately on my income, I
will give you the capital of my estates. It will suffice for launching
you into the world till my death; and you will give me, I hope, before
that time, the consolation of not seeing my race extinct."
"I will do all you may command," said Raoul, much agitated.
"It is not necessary, Raoul, that your duty as aide-de-camp should lead
you into too hazardous enterprises. You have gone through your ordeal;
you are known to be a true man under fire. Remember that war with Arabs
is a war of snares, ambuscades, and assassinations."
"So it is said, monsieur."
"There is never much glory in falling in an ambuscade. It is a death
which always implies a little rashness or want of foresight. Often,
indeed, he who falls in one meets with but little pity. Those who are
not pitied, Raoul, have died to little purpose. Still further, the
conqueror laughs, and we Frenchmen ought not to allow stupid infidels to
triumph over our faults. Do you clearly understand what I am saying to
you, Raoul? God forbid I should encourage you to avoid encounters."
"I am naturally prudent, monsieur, and I have very good fortune," said
Raoul, with a smile which chilled the heart of his poor father; "for,"
the young man hastened to add, "in twenty combats through which I have
been, I have only received one scratch."
"There is in addition," said Athos, "the climate to be dreaded: that is
an ugly end, to die of fever! King Saint-Louis prayed God to send him an
arrow or the plague, rather than the fever."
"Oh, monsieur! with sobriety, with reasonable exercise - "
"I have already obtained from M. de Beaufort a promise that his
dispatches shall be sent off every fortnight to France. You, as his aide-
de-camp, will be charged with expediting them, and will be sure not to
forget me."
"No, monsieur," said Raoul, almost choked with emotion.
"Besides, Raoul, as you are a good Christian, and I am one also, we ought
to reckon upon a more special protection of God and His guardian angels.
Promise me that if anything evil should happen to you, on any occasion,
you will think of me at once."
"First and at once! Oh! yes, monsieur."
"And will call upon me?"
"Instantly."
"You dream of me sometimes, do you not, Raoul?"
"Every night, monsieur. During my early youth I saw you in my dreams,
calm and mild, with one hand stretched out over my head, and that it was
which made me sleep so soundly - formerly."
"We love each other too dearly," said the comte, "that from this moment,
in which we separate, a portion of both our souls should not travel with
one and the other of us, and should not dwell wherever we may dwell.
Whenever you may be sad, Raoul, I feel that my heart will be dissolved in
sadness; and when you smile on thinking of me, be assured you will send
me, from however remote a distance, a vital scintillation of your joy."
"I will not promise you to be joyous," replied the young man; "but you
may be certain that I will never pass an hour without thinking of you,
not one hour, I swear, unless I shall be dead."
Athos could contain himself no longer; he threw his arm round the neck of
his son, and held him embraced with all the power of his heart. The moon
began to be now eclipsed by twilight; a golden band surrounded the
horizon, announcing the approach of the day. Athos threw his cloak over
the shoulders of Raoul, and led him back to the city, where burdens and
porters were already in motion, like a vast ant-hill. At the extremity
of the plateau which Athos and Bragelonne were quitting, they saw a dark
shadow moving uneasily backwards and forwards, as if in indecision or
ashamed to be seen. It was Grimaud, who in his anxiety had tracked his
master, and was there awaiting him.
"Oh! my good Grimaud," cried Raoul, "what do you want? You are come to
tell us it is time to be gone, have you not?"
"Alone?" said Grimaud, addressing Athos and pointing to Raoul in a tone
of reproach, which showed to what an extent the old man was troubled.
"Oh! you are right!" cried the comte. "No, Raoul shall not go alone; no,
he shall not be left alone in a strange land without some friendly hand
to support him, some friendly heart to recall to him all he loved!"
"I?" said Grimaud.
"You, yes, you!" cried Raoul, touched to the inmost heart.
"Alas!" said Athos, "you are very old, my good Grimaud."
"So much the better," replied the latter, with an inexpressible depth of
feeling and intelligence.
"But the embarkation is begun," said Raoul, "and you are not prepared."
"Yes," said Grimaud, showing the keys of his trunks, mixed with those of
his young master.
"But," again objected Raoul, "you cannot leave monsieur le comte thus
alone; monsieur le comte, whom you have never quitted?"
Grimaud turned his diamond eyes upon Athos and Raoul, as if to measure
the strength of both. The comte uttered not a word.
"Monsieur le comte prefers my going," said Grimaud.
"I do," said Athos, by an inclination of the head.
At that moment the drums suddenly rolled, and the clarions filled the air
with their inspiring notes. The regiments destined for the expedition
began to debouch from the city. They advanced to the number of five,
each composed of forty companies. Royals marched first, distinguished by
their white uniform, faced with blue. The _ordonnance_ colors, quartered
cross-wise, violet and dead leaf, with a sprinkling of golden _fleurs-de-
lis_, left the white-colored flag, with its _fleur-de-lised_ cross, to
dominate the whole. Musketeers at the wings, with their forked sticks
and their muskets on their shoulders; pikemen in the center, with their
lances, fourteen feet in length, marched gayly towards the transports,
which carried them in detail to the ships. The regiments of Picardy,
Navarre, Normandy, and Royal Vaisseau, followed after. M. de Beaufort
had known well how to select his troops. He himself was seen closing the
march with his staff - it would take a full hour before he could reach
the sea. Raoul with Athos turned his steps slowly towards the beach, in
order to take his place when the prince embarked. Grimaud, boiling with
the ardor of a young man, superintended the embarkation of Raoul's
baggage in the admiral's vessel. Athos, with his arm passed through that
of the son he was about to lose, absorbed in melancholy meditation, was
deaf to every noise around him. An officer came quickly towards them to
inform Raoul that M. de Beaufort was anxious to have him by his side.
"Have the kindness to tell the prince," said Raoul, "that I request he
will allow me this hour to enjoy the company of my father."
"No, no," said Athos, "an aide-de-camp ought not thus to quit his
general. Please to tell the prince, monsieur, that the vicomte will join
him immediately." The officer set off at a gallop.
"Whether we part here or part there," added the comte, "it is no less a
separation." He carefully brushed the dust from his son's coat, and
passed his hand over his hair as they walked along. "But, Raoul," said
he, "you want money. M. de Beaufort's train will be splendid, and I am
certain it will be agreeable to you to purchase horses and arms, which
are very dear things in Africa. Now, as you are not actually in the
service of the king or M. de Beaufort, and are simply a volunteer, you
must not reckon upon either pay or largesse. But I should not like you
to want for anything at Gigelli. Here are two hundred pistoles; if you
would please me, Raoul, spend them."
Raoul pressed the hand of his father, and, at the turning of a street,
they saw M. de Beaufort, mounted on a magnificent white _genet_, which
responded by graceful curvets to the applause of the women of the city.
The duke called Raoul, and held out his hand to the comte. He spoke to
him for some time, with such a kindly expression that the heart of the
poor father even felt a little comforted. It was, however, evident to
both father and son that their walk amounted to nothing less than a
punishment. There was a terrible moment - that at which, on quitting the
sands of the shore, the soldiers and sailors exchanged the last kisses
with their families and friends; a supreme moment, in which,
notwithstanding the clearness of the heavens, the warmth of the sun, of
the perfumes of the air, and the rich life that was circulating in their
veins, everything appeared black, everything bitter, everything created
doubts of Providence, nay, at the most, of God. It was customary for the
admiral and his suite to embark last; the cannon waited to announce, with
its formidable voice, that the leader had placed his foot on board his
vessel. Athos, forgetful of both the admiral and the fleet, and of his
own dignity as a strong man, opened his arms to his son, and pressed him
convulsively to his heart.
"Accompany us on board," said the duke, very much affected; "you will
gain a good half-hour."
"No," said Athos, "my farewell has been spoken, I do not wish to voice a
second."
"Then, vicomte, embark - embark quickly!" added the prince, wishing to
spare the tears of these two men, whose hearts were bursting. And
paternally, tenderly, very much as Porthos might have done, he took Raoul
in his arms and placed him in the boat, the oars of which, at a signal,
immediately were dipped in the waves. He himself, forgetful of ceremony,
jumped into his boat, and pushed it off with a vigorous foot. "Adieu!"
cried Raoul.
Athos replied only by a sign, but he felt something burning on his hand:
it was the respectful kiss of Grimaud - the last farewell of the faithful
dog. This kiss given, Grimaud jumped from the step of the mole upon the
stem of a two-oared yawl, which had just been taken in tow by a _chaland_
served by twelve galley-oars. Athos seated himself on the mole, stunned,
deaf, abandoned. Every instant took from him one of the features, one of
the shades of the pale face of his son. With his arms hanging down, his
eyes fixed, his mouth open, he remained confounded with Raoul - in one
same look, in one same thought, in one same stupor. The sea, by degrees,
carried away boats and faces to that distance at which men become nothing
but points, - loves, nothing but remembrances. Athos saw his son ascend
the ladder of the admiral's ship, he saw him lean upon the rail of the
deck, and place himself in such a manner as to be always an object in the
eye of his father. In vain the cannon thundered, in vain from the ship
sounded the long and lordly tumult, responded to by immense acclamations
from the shore; in vain did the noise deafen the ear of the father, the
smoke obscured the cherished object of his aspirations. Raoul appeared
to him to the last moment; and the imperceptible atom, passing from black
to pale, from pale to white, from white to nothing, disappeared for Athos
- disappeared very long after, to all the eyes of the spectators, had
disappeared both gallant ships and swelling sails. Towards midday, when
the sun devoured space, and scarcely the tops of the masts dominated the
incandescent limit of the sea, Athos perceived a soft aerial shadow rise,
and vanish as soon as seen. This was the smoke of a cannon, which M. de
Beaufort ordered to be fired as a last salute to the coast of France.
The point was buried in its turn beneath the sky, and Athos returned with
slow and painful step to his deserted hostelry. _
Read next: CHAPTER XXXIV - Among Women
Read previous: CHAPTER XXXII - Captive and Jailers
Table of content of Man in the Iron Mask
GO TO TOP OF SCREEN
Post your review
Your review will be placed after the table of content of this book
