The Vicomte de Bragelonne

by Alexandre Dumas

  CHAPTER CXXX.

  THE OLD AGE OF ATHOS.

  While all these affairs were separating forever the four musketeers,formerly bound together in a manner that seemed indissoluble, Athos,left alone after the departure of Raoul, began to pay his tribute tothat anticipated death which is called the absence of those we love.Returned to his house at Blois, no longer having even Grimaud to receivea poor smile when he passed through the parterre, Athos daily felt thedecline of the vigor of a nature which for so long a time had appearedinfallible. Age, which had been kept back by the presence of the belovedobject, arrived with that cortege of pains and inconveniences, whichincreases in proportion as it makes itself looked for. Athos had nolonger his son to induce him to walk firmly, with his head erect, as agood example; he had no longer, in those brilliant eyes of the youngman, an ever-ardent focus at which to regenerate the fire of his looks.And then, must it be said, that nature, exquisite in its tenderness andits reserve, no longer finding anything that comprehended its feelings,gave itself up to grief with all the warmth of vulgar natures when theygive themselves up to joy. The Comte de la Fere, who had remained ayoung man up to his sixty-second year; the warrior, who had preservedhis strength in spite of fatigues, his freshness of mind in spite ofmisfortunes, his mild serenity of soul and body in spite of Milady, inspite of Mazarin, in spite of La Valliere; Athos had become an old manin a week, from the moment at which he had lost the support of hislatter youth. Still handsome, though bent; noble, but sad; gently, andtottering under his gray hairs, he sought, since his solitude, theglades where the rays of the sun penetrated through the foliage of thewalks. He discontinued all the strong exercises he had enjoyed throughlife, when Raoul was no longer with him. The servants, accustomed to seehim stirring with the dawn at all seasons, were astonished to hear seveno'clock strike before their master had quitted his bed. Athos remainedin bed with a book under his pillow, but he did not sleep, neither didhe read. Remaining in bed that he might no longer have to carry hisbody, he allowed his soul and spirit to wander from their envelope, andreturn to his son, or to God.

  His people were sometimes terrified to see him, for hours together,absorbed in a silent reverie, mute and insensible; he no longer heardthe timid step of the servant who came to the door of his chamber towatch the sleeping or waking of his master. It often occurred that heforgot that the day had half passed away, that the hours for the twofirst meals were gone by. Then he was awakened. He rose, descended tohis shady walk, then came out a little into the sun, as if to partakeits warmth for a minute with his absent child. And then the dismal,monotonous walk recommenced, until, quite exhausted, he regained thechamber and the bed, his domicile by choice. For several days the comtedid not speak a single word. He refused to receive the visits that werepaid him, and, during the night, he was seen to relight his lamp andpass long hours in writing, or examining parchments.

  Athos wrote one of these letters to Vannes, another to Fontainebleau;they remained without answers. We know why: Aramis had quitted France,and D'Artagnan was traveling from Nantes to Paris, from Paris toPierrefonds. His valet-de-chambre observed that he shortened his walkevery day by several turns. The great alley of limes soon became toolong for feet that used to traverse it formerly a hundred times in aday. The comte walked feebly as far as the middle trees, seated himselfupon a mossy bank which sloped toward a lateral walk, and there waitedthe 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, although he didnot complain, although he had a smile on his lips, although he continuedto speak with his sweet voice--his people went to Blois in search of theancient physician of the late Monsieur, and brought him to the Comte dela Fere in such a fashion that he could see the comte without beinghimself seen. For this purpose, they placed him in a closet adjoiningthe chamber of the patient, and implored him not to show himself, in thefear of displeasing their master, who had not asked for a physician. Thedoctor obeyed; Athos was a sort of model for the gentlemen of thecountry; the Blaisois boasted of possessing this sacred relic of the oldFrench glories. Athos was a great seigneur compared with such nobles asthe king improvised by touching with his yellow fecundating scepter thedry trunks of the heraldic trees of the province.

  People respected, we say, if they did not love Athos. The physiciancould not bear to see his people weep, and to see flock round him thepoor of the canton, to whom Athos gave life and consolation by his kindwords and his charities. He examined, therefore, from the depths of hishiding-place, the nature of that mysterious malady which bent down anddevoured more mortally every day a man but lately so full of life, andof a desire to live. He remarked upon the cheeks of Athos the purple offever, which fires itself and feeds itself; slow fever, pitiless, bornin a fold of the heart, sheltering itself behind that rampart, growingfrom the suffering it engenders, at once cause and effect of a periloussituation. The comte spoke to nobody, we say; he did not even talk tohimself. His thought feared noise; it approached to that degree ofover-excitement which borders upon ecstasy. Man thus absorbed, though hedoes not yet belong to God, already belongs no longer to earth. Thedoctor remained for several hours studying this painful struggle of thewill against a superior power; he was terrified at seeing those eyesalways fixed, always directed toward an invisible object; he wasterrified at seeing beat with the same movement that heart from whichnever a sigh arose to vary the melancholy state; sometimes the acutenessof pain creates the hope of the physician. Half a day passed away thus.The doctor formed his resolution like a brave man, like a man of firmmind; he issued suddenly from his place of retreat, and went straight upto Athos, who saw him without evincing more surprise than if he hadunderstood nothing of the apparition.

  "Monsieur le Comte, I crave your pardon," said the doctor, coming up tothe patient with open arms; "but I have a reproach to make you--youshall hear me." And he seated himself by the pillow of Athos, who hadgreat trouble in rousing himself from his preoccupation.

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

  "Why, the matter is, you are ill, monsieur, and have had no advice."

  "I! ill!" said Athos, smiling.

  "Fever, consumption, weakness, decay, Monsieur le Comte."

  "Weakness!" replied Athos; "is that possible? I do not get up."

  "Come, come, M. le Comte, no subterfuges; you are a good Christian?"

  "I hope so," said Athos.

  "Would you kill yourself?"

  "Never, doctor."

  "Well, monsieur, you are in a fair way of doing so; to remain thus issuicide; get well! M. le Comte, get well!"

  "Of what? Find the disease first. For my part, I never knew myselfbetter; never did the sky appear more blue to me; never did I take morecare of my flowers."

  "You have a concealed grief."

  "Concealed!--not at all; I have the absence of my son, doctor; that ismy malady, and I do not conceal it."

  "M. le Comte, your son lives, he is strong, he has all the future beforehim of men of his merit, and of his race; live for him--"

  "But I do live, doctor; oh! be satisfied of that," added he, with amelancholy smile; "as long as Raoul lives, it will be plainly known, foras long as he lives, I shall live."

  "What do you say?"

  "A very simple thing. At this moment, doctor, I leave life suspended inme. A forgetful, dissipated, indifferent life would be above my strengthnow I have no longer Raoul with me. You do not ask the lamp to burn whenthe spark has not enlightened the flame; do not ask me to live amidnoise and light. 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 uponone element, half upon the other; they were neither at the place wherethe sea was going to carry them, nor at the place where the earth wasgoing to lose them; baggages prepared, minds upon the stretch, looksfixed--they waited. I repeat it, that word is
the one which paints mypresent life. Lying down, like the soldiers, my ear on the stretch forthe reports that may reach me, I wish to be ready to set out at thefirst summons. Who will make me that summons? life or death? God orRaoul? My baggage is packed, my soul is prepared, I await the signal--Iwait, doctor, I wait!"

  The doctor knew the temper of that mind; he appreciated the strength ofthat body; he reflected for a moment, told himself that words wereuseless, remedies absurd, and he left the chateau, exhorting Athos'servants not to leave him for a moment.

  The doctor being gone, Athos evinced neither anger nor vexation athaving been disturbed. He did not even desire that all letters that cameshould be brought to him directly. He knew very well that everydistraction which should arrive would be a joy, a hope, which hisservants would have paid with their blood to procure him. Sleep hadbecome rare. By intense thinking, Athos forgot himself, for a few hoursat most, in a reverie more profound, more obscure than other peoplewould have called a dream. This momentary repose which thisforgetfulness afforded the body, fatigued the soul, for Athos lived adouble life during these wanderings of his understanding. One night, hedreamed that Raoul was dressing himself in a tent, to go upon anexpedition commanded by M. de Beaufort in person. The young man was sad;he clasped his cuirass slowly, and slowly he girded on his sword.

  "What is the matter?" asked his father, tenderly.

  "What afflicts me is the death of Porthos, ever so dear a friend,"replied Raoul. "I suffer here of the grief you will feel at home."

  And the vision disappeared with the slumber of Athos. At daybreak one ofhis servants entered his master's apartments, and gave him a letterwhich came from Spain.

  "The writing of Aramis," thought the comte; and he read.

  "Porthos is dead!" cried he, after the first lines. "Oh! Raoul, Raoul!thanks! thou keepest thy promise, thou warnest me!"

  And Athos, seized with a mortal sweat, fainted in his bed, without anyother cause than his weakness.