The Man in the Iron Mask

The Old Age of Athos.

While these were the four musketeers, together in a manner that indissoluble, Athos, left alone after the of Raoul, to pay his to that of death which is called the of those we love. Back in his house at Blois, no longer having Grimaud to a as he passed through the parterre, Athos daily the of of a nature which for so long a time had impregnable. Age, which had been by the presence of the object, with that of pains and inconveniences, which by accretion. Athos had no longer his son to him to walk firmly, with erect, as a good example; he had no longer, in those of the man, an ever-ardent focus at which to the fire of his looks. And then, must it be said, that nature, in and reserve, no longer anything to its feelings, gave itself up to with all the of common natures when they to joy. The Comte de la Fere, who had a man to his sixty-second year; the who had his in of fatigue; his of mind in of misfortune, his mild of and in of Milady, in of Mazarin, in of La Valliere; Athos had an old man in a week, from the moment at which he the of his later youth. Still handsome, though bent, noble, but sad, he sought, since his solitude, the where penetrated. He all the he had through life, when Raoul was no longer with him. The servants, to see him with the at all seasons, were to seven o’clock their master his bed. Athos in with a book under his pillow—but he did not sleep, neither did he read. Remaining in that he might no longer have to his body, he allowed his and to from their and return to his son, or to God. 6

His people were sometimes to see him, for hours together, in reverie, mute and insensible; he no longer the step of the who came to the door of his to watch the sleeping or of his master. It often that he the day had passed away, that the hours for the two were gone by. Then he was awakened. He rose, to his walk, then came out a little into the sun, as though to of its for a minute in memory of his child. And then the walk recommenced, until, exhausted, he the and his bed, his by choice. For days the did not speak a single word. He to the visits that were paid him, and the night he was to his lamp and pass long hours in writing, or parchments.

Athos one of these to Vannes, another to Fontainebleau; they without answers. We know why: Aramis had France, and D’Artagnan was traveling from Nantes to Paris, from Paris to Pierrefonds. His de that he his walk every day by turns. The great of soon too long for that used to it a hundred times a day. The walked as as the middle trees, seated himself upon a bank that a sidewalk, and there waited the return of his strength, or the return of night. Very a hundred steps him. At length Athos to at all; he all nourishment, and his people, although he did not complain, although he a upon his lips, although he to speak with his sweet voice—his people to Blois in search of the physician of the late Monsieur, and him to the Comte de la Fere in such a fashion that he see the without being himself seen. For this purpose, they him in a the of the patient, and him not to himself, for of their master, who had not asked for a physician. The doctor obeyed. Athos was a of model for the of the country; the Blaisois of this of French glory. Athos was a great with such as the king by with his the patched-up of the trees of the province.

People Athos, we say, and they loved him. The physician not to see his people weep, to see him the of the canton, to Athos had so often life and by his and his charities. He examined, therefore, from the of his hiding-place, the nature of that which and more every day a man but so full of life and a to live. He upon the of Athos the of fever, which upon itself; slow fever, pitiless, in a of the heart, itself that rampart, from the it engenders, at once and of a situation. The spoke to nobody; he did not talk to himself. His noise; it approached to that of over-excitement which borders upon ecstasy. Man thus absorbed, though he not yet to God, already no longer to the earth. The doctor for hours studying this painful of the will against power; he was at those always fixed, on some object; was at the of that from which a to the state; for often pain the of the physician. Half a day passed away thus. The doctor his like a man; he from his place of retreat, and up to Athos, who him without more than if he had nothing of the apparition.

“Monsieur le comte, I your pardon,” said the doctor, up to the patient with open arms; “but I have a to make you—you shall me.” And he seated himself by the pillow of Athos, who had great trouble in himself from his preoccupation.

“What is the matter, doctor?” asked the comte, after a silence.

“The is, you are ill, monsieur, and have had no advice.”

“I! ill!” said Athos, smiling.

“Fever, consumption, weakness, decay, le comte!”

“Weakness!” Athos; “is it possible? I do not up.”

“Come, come! le comte, no subterfuges; you are a good Christian?”

“I so,” said Athos.

“Is it your wish to kill yourself?”

“Never, doctor.”

“Well! monsieur, you are in a way of doing so. Thus to is suicide. Get well! le comte, well!”

“Of what? Find the first. For my part, I myself better; did the sky appear more to me; did I take more of my flowers.”

“You have a grief.”

“Concealed!—not at all; the of my son, doctor; that is my malady, and I do not it.”

“Monsieur le comte, your son lives, he is strong, he has all the him—the of men of merit, of his race; live for him—”

“But I do live, doctor; oh! be satisfied of that,” added he, with a smile; “for as long as Raoul lives, it will be known, for as long as he lives, I shall live.”

“What do you say?”

“A very thing. At this moment, doctor, I life me. A forgetful, dissipated, life would be my strength, now I have no longer Raoul with me. You do not ask the lamp to when the match has not the flame; do not ask me to live noise and merriment. I vegetate, I prepare myself, I wait. Look, doctor; those soldiers we have so often together at the ports, where they were waiting to embark; down, indifferent, on one element, on the other; they were neither at the place where the sea was going to them, at the place the earth was going to them; prepared, minds on the stretch, arms stacked—they waited. I repeat it, the word is the one which my present life. Lying like the soldiers, my ear on the for the report that may me, I wish to be to set out at the summons. Who will make me that summons? life or death? God or Raoul? My is packed, my is prepared, I the signal—I wait, doctor, I wait!”

The doctor the of that mind; he the of that body; he for the moment, told himself that were useless, absurd, and left the chateau, Athos’s not to him for a moment.

The doctor being gone, Athos neither anger at having been disturbed. He did not that all that came should be to him directly. He very well that every which should would be a joy, a hope, which his would have paid with their blood to him. Sleep had rare. By thinking, Athos himself, for a hours at most, in a most profound, more than other people would have called a dream. The which this thus gave the body, still the soul, for Athos a life these of his understanding. One night, he that Raoul was himself in a tent, to go upon an by M. de Beaufort in person. The man was sad; he his slowly, and slowly he on his sword.

“What is the matter?” asked his father, tenderly.