The Man in the Iron Mask
Promises.
Scarcely had D’Artagnan re-entered his with his two friends, when one of the soldiers of the came to him that the was him. The which Raoul had at sea, and which appeared so to the port, came to Sainte-Marguerite with an for the captain of the musketeers. On opening it, D’Artagnan the of the king: “I should think,” said Louis XIV., “you will have the of my orders, Monsieur d’Artagnan; return, then, to Paris, and join me at the Louvre.”
“There is the end of my exile!” the with joy; “God be praised, I am no longer a jailer!” And he the to Athos.
“So, then, you must us?” the latter, in a tone.
“Yes, but to meet again, dear friend, that Raoul is old now to go alone with M. de Beaufort, and will his father going in company with M. d’Artagnan, to him to travel two hundred to home at La Fere; will you not, Raoul?”
“Certainly,” the latter, with an of regret.
“No, no, my friend,” Athos, “I will Raoul till the day his on the horizon. As long as he in France he shall not be from me.”
“As you please, dear friend; but we will, at least, Sainte-Marguerite together; take of the that will me to Antibes.”
“With all my heart; we cannot too soon be at a from this fort, and from the that us so just now.”
The three friends the little isle, after paying their respects to the governor, and by the last of the they took their of the white of the fort. D’Artagnan from his friend that same night, after having fire set to the upon the by the orders of Saint-Mars, according to the the captain had him. Before on horseback, and after the arms of Athos: “My friends,” said he, “you too much to two soldiers who are their post. Something me that Raoul will 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 me, and I will take you with me.”
“Monsieur d’Artagnan,” Raoul, pressing his hand with emotion, “thanks for that offer, which would give us more than we wish, either le or I. I, who am young, in need of labor of mind and of body; le wants the repose. You are his best friend. I him to your care. In over him, you are our in your hands.”
“I must go; my is all in a fret,” said D’Artagnan, with the most of a was the of ideas in conversation. “Come, comte, how many days longer has Raoul to here?”
“Three days at most.”
“And how long will it take you to home?”
“Oh! a time,” Athos. “I shall not like the idea of being too from Raoul. Time will travel too fast of itself to me to it by distance. I shall only make half-stages.”
“And why so, my friend? Nothing is more than traveling slowly; and life not a man like you.”
“My friend, I came on post-horses; but I wish to purchase two animals of a kind. Now, to take them home fresh, it would not be to make them travel more than seven or eight a day.”
“Where is Grimaud?”
“He yesterday with Raoul’s appointments; and I have left him to sleep.”
“That is, to come again,” D’Artagnan to him. “Till we meet again, then, dear Athos—and if you are diligent, I shall you the sooner.” So saying, he put his in the stirrup, which Raoul held.
“Farewell!” said the man, him.
“Farewell!” said D’Artagnan, as he got into his saddle.
His a movement which the from his friends. This had taken place in of the house by Athos, near the gates of Antibes, D’Artagnan, after his supper, had ordered his to be brought. The road to branch off there, white and in the of the night. The the salt, perfume of the marshes. D’Artagnan put him to a trot; and Athos and Raoul sadly the house. All at once they the approach of a horse’s steps, and it to be one of those which the ear at every turn in a road. But it was the return of the horseman. They a of surprise; and the captain, to the ground like a man, his arms the two of Athos and Raoul. He them long thus, without speaking a word, or the which was his to him. Then, as as he had come back, he set off again, with a of his to the of his horse.
“Alas!” said the comte, in a low voice, “alas! alas!”
“An omen!” on his side, said D’Artagnan to himself, making up for time. “I not upon them. An omen!”
The next day Grimaud was on again. The service by M. de Beaufort was accomplished. The flotilla, sent to Toulon by the of Raoul, had set out, after it in little nutshells, almost invisible, the and friends of the and put in for the service of the fleet. The time, so short, which for father and son to live together, appeared to go by with rapidity, like some that eternity. Athos and Raoul returned to Toulon, which to be with the noise of carriages, with the noise of arms, the noise of horses. The their marches; the their strength; the were overflowing with soldiers, servants, and tradespeople. The Duc de Beaufort was everywhere, the with the and of a good captain. He the of his companions; he his lieutenants, those of the rank. Artillery, provisions, baggage, he upon all himself. He the of every soldier; himself of the health and of every horse. It was plain that, light, boastful, egotistical, in his hotel, the the soldier again—the high noble, a captain—in of the he had accepted. And yet, it must be that, was the with which he over the for departure, it was easy to careless precipitation, and the of all the that make the French soldier the soldier in the world, because, in that world, he is the one most to his own physical and resources. All having satisfied, or appearing to have satisfied, the admiral, he paid his to Raoul, and gave the last orders for sailing, which was ordered the next at daybreak. He the had his son to with him; but they, under a of service, themselves apart. Gaining their hostelry, under the trees of the great Place, they took their in haste, and Athos Raoul to the which the city, mountains, the view is and a liquid which appears, so is it, on a level with the themselves. The night was fine, as it always is in these happy climes. The moon, the rocks, a on the of the sea. In the the which had just taken their rank to the embarkation. The sea, with light, opened the of the that the and munitions; every of the up this of white flames; from every liquid diamonds. The sailors, in the of the admiral, were their slow and songs. Sometimes the of the was mixed with the noise of into the holds. Such harmonies, such a spectacle, the like fear, and it like hope. All this life speaks of death. Athos had seated himself with his son, upon the moss, among the of the promontory. Around their passed and large bats, along by the of their chase. The of Raoul were over the of the cliff, in that which is by vertigo, and to self-annihilation. When the moon had to its height, with light the peaks, when the was in its full extent, and the little red had their openings in the black of every ship, Athos, all his ideas and all his courage, said:
“God has all these that we see, Raoul; He has us also,—poor mixed up with this universe. We like those and those stars; we like those waves; we like those great ships, which are out in the waves, in the wind that them an end, as the of God us a port. Everything to live, Raoul; and to things.”
“Monsieur,” said Raoul, “we have us a spectacle!”
“How good D’Artagnan is!” Athos, suddenly, “and what a good it is to be supported a whole life by such a friend as he is! That is what you have missed, Raoul.”
“A friend!” Raoul, “I have wanted a friend!”
“M. de Guiche is an companion,” the comte, coldly, “but I believe, in the times in which you live, men are more in their own and their own than they were in ours. You have a life; that is a great happiness, but you have your thereby. We four, more from those that your joy, much more when presented itself.”
“I have not 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 he loves me. But I have under the of another friendship, monsieur, as and as 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 you to think that life has but one face, because, sad and severe, alas! I have always cut off for you, without, God knows, to do so, the that from the tree of youth; so that at this moment I of not having of you a more expansive, dissipated, man.”
“I know why you say that, monsieur. No, it is not you who have me what I am; it was love, which took me at the time when children only have inclinations; it is the natural to my character, which with other is but habit. I that I should always be as I was; I God had me in a path clear, straight, with fruits and flowers. I had over me your and strength. I myself to be and strong. Nothing prepared me; I once, and that once me of for the whole of my life. It is true that I myself. Oh, no, monsieur! you are nothing in my past but happiness—in my but hope! No, I have no to make against life such as you it for me; I you, and I love you ardently.”
“My dear Raoul, your 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 done with respect to you, I will do. I will be your friend, not your father. We will live in ourselves, of and ourselves prisoners, when you come back. And that will be soon, will it not?”
“Certainly, monsieur, for such an cannot last long.”
“Soon, then, Raoul, soon, of on my income, I will give you the of my estates. It will for you into the world till my death; and you will give me, I hope, that time, the of not my extinct.”
“I will do all you may command,” said Raoul, much agitated.
“It is not necessary, Raoul, that your as aide-de-camp should lead you into too enterprises. You have gone through your ordeal; you are to be a true man under fire. Remember that with Arabs is a of snares, ambuscades, and assassinations.”
“So it is said, monsieur.”
“There is much in in an ambuscade. It is a death which always a little or want of foresight. Often, indeed, he who in one meets with but little pity. Those who are not pitied, Raoul, have died to little purpose. Still further, the laughs, and we Frenchmen ought not to allow to over our faults. Do you what I am saying to you, Raoul? God I should you to avoid encounters.”
“I am naturally prudent, monsieur, and I have very good fortune,” said Raoul, with a which the of his father; “for,” the man to add, “in twenty through which I have been, I have only one scratch.”
“There is in addition,” said Athos, “the to be dreaded: that is an end, to die of fever! King Saint-Louis prayed God to send him an or the plague, than the fever.”
“Oh, monsieur! with sobriety, with exercise—”
“I have already from M. de Beaufort a promise that his shall be sent off every to France. You, as his aide-de-camp, will be with them, and will be sure not to me.”
“No, monsieur,” said Raoul, almost with emotion.
“Besides, Raoul, as you are a good Christian, and I am one also, we ought to upon a more special protection of God and His angels. Promise me that if anything should 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 of me sometimes, do you not, Raoul?”
“Every night, monsieur. During my early I saw you in my dreams, and mild, with one hand out over my head, and that it was which me sleep so soundly—formerly.”
“We love each other too dearly,” said the comte, “that from this moment, in which we separate, a of our should not travel with one and the other of us, and should not we may dwell. Whenever you may be sad, Raoul, I that my will be in sadness; and when you on of me, be you will send me, from a distance, a of your joy.”
“I will not promise you to be joyous,” the man; “but you may be that I will pass an hour without of you, not one hour, I swear, unless I shall be dead.”
Athos himself no longer; he his arm the of his son, and him with all the power of his heart. The moon to be now by twilight; a the horizon, announcing the approach of the day. Athos his over the of Raoul, and him to the city, where and were already in motion, like a ant-hill. At the of the which Athos and Bragelonne were quitting, they saw a dark moving and forwards, as if in or to be seen. It was Grimaud, who in his had his master, and was there him.
“Oh! my good Grimaud,” Raoul, “what do you want? You are come to tell us it is time to be gone, have you not?”
“Alone?” said Grimaud, Athos and pointing to Raoul in a of reproach, which to what an the old man was troubled.
“Oh! you are right!” the comte. “No, Raoul shall not go alone; no, he shall not be left alone in a land without some hand to support him, some to to him all he loved!”
“I?” said Grimaud.
“You, yes, you!” Raoul, touched to the heart.
“Alas!” said Athos, “you are very old, my good Grimaud.”
“So much the better,” the latter, with an of and intelligence.
“But the is begun,” said Raoul, “and you are not prepared.”
“Yes,” said Grimaud, the keys of his trunks, mixed with those of his master.
“But,” again Raoul, “you cannot le thus alone; le comte, you have quitted?”
Grimaud his diamond upon Athos and Raoul, as if to measure the of both. The not a word.
“Monsieur le my going,” said Grimaud.
“I do,” said Athos, by an of the head.
At that moment the rolled, and the the air with their notes. The for the to from the city. They to the number of five, each of companies. Royals first, by their white uniform, with blue. The colors, cross-wise, and leaf, with a of fleurs-de-lis, left the white-colored flag, with its fleur-de-lised cross, to the whole. Musketeers at the wings, with their and their on their shoulders; in the center, with their lances, fourteen in length, the transports, which them in detail to the ships. The of Picardy, Navarre, Normandy, and Royal Vaisseau, after. M. de Beaufort had well how to select his troops. He himself was the with his staff—it would take a full hour he the sea. Raoul with Athos his steps slowly the beach, in order to take his place when the embarked. Grimaud, with the of a man, the of Raoul’s in the admiral’s vessel. Athos, with his arm passed through that of the son he was about to lose, in meditation, was to every noise around him. An officer came them to Raoul that M. de Beaufort was to have him by his side.
“Have the to tell the prince,” said Raoul, “that I he will allow me this hour to the company of my father.”
“No, no,” said Athos, “an aide-de-camp ought not thus to his general. Please to tell the prince, monsieur, that the 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 the from his son’s coat, and passed his hand over his as they walked along. “But, Raoul,” said he, “you want money. M. de Beaufort’s train will be splendid, and I am it will be to you to purchase and arms, which are very dear in Africa. Now, as you are not actually in the service of the king or M. de Beaufort, and are a volunteer, you must not 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 me, Raoul, them.”
Raoul pressed the hand of his father, and, at the of a street, they saw M. de Beaufort, on a white genet, which by to the of the of the city. The called Raoul, and out his hand to the comte. He spoke to him for some time, with such a that the of the father a little comforted. It was, however, to father and son that their walk to nothing less than a punishment. There was a terrible moment—that at which, on the of the shore, the soldiers and the last with their families and friends; a moment, in which, the of the heavens, the of the sun, of the of the air, and the rich life that was in their veins, appeared black, bitter, of Providence, nay, at the most, of God. It was for the and his to last; the waited to announce, with its voice, that the leader had his on his vessel. Athos, of the and the fleet, and of his own as a man, opened his arms to his son, and pressed him to his heart.
“Accompany us on board,” said the duke, very much affected; “you will a good half-hour.”
“No,” said Athos, “my has been spoken, I do not wish to voice a second.”
“Then, vicomte, embark—embark quickly!” added the prince, to the of these two men, were bursting. And paternally, tenderly, very much as Porthos might have done, he took Raoul in his arms and him in the boat, the of which, at a signal, were in the waves. He himself, of ceremony, jumped into his boat, and pushed it off with a foot. “Adieu!” Raoul.
Athos only by a sign, but he something on his hand: it was the of Grimaud—the last of the dog. This given, Grimaud jumped from the step of the upon the of a two-oared yawl, which had just been taken in by a by twelve galley-oars. Athos seated himself on the mole, stunned, deaf, abandoned. Every took from him one of the features, one of the of the of his son. With his arms down, his fixed, his mouth open, he with Raoul—in one same look, in one same thought, in one same stupor. The sea, by degrees, away and to that at which men nothing but points,—loves, nothing but remembrances. Athos saw his son the of the admiral’s ship, he saw him upon the rail of the deck, and place himself in such a manner as to be always an object in the of his father. In the thundered, in from the ship the long and tumult, to by from the shore; in did the noise the ear of the father, the the object of his aspirations. Raoul appeared to him to the last moment; and the atom, from black to pale, from to white, from white to nothing, for Athos—disappeared very long after, to all the of the spectators, had ships and sails. Towards midday, when the sun space, and the of the the limit of the sea, Athos a soft rise, and as soon as seen. This was the of a cannon, which M. de Beaufort ordered to be as a last to the of France. The point was in its turn the sky, and Athos returned with slow and painful step to his hostelry.
