The Man in the Iron Mask

by Alexandre Dumas

  Chapter LVI. The Old Age of Athos.

  While 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 foretaste of death which is called the absence of those we love.Back in his house at Blois, no longer having even Grimaud to receivea poor smile as he passed through the parterre, Athos daily feltthe decline of vigor of a nature which for so long a time had seemedimpregnable. Age, which had been kept back by the presence of thebeloved object, arrived with that _cortege_ of pains and inconveniences,which grows by geometrical accretion. Athos had no longer his son toinduce him to walk firmly, with head erect, as a good example; he had nolonger, in those brilliant eyes of the young man, an ever-ardent focusat which to kindle anew the fire of his looks. And then, must it besaid, that nature, exquisite in tenderness and reserve, no longerfinding anything to understand its feelings, gave itself up to griefwith all the warmth of common natures when they yield to joy. The Comtede la Fere, who had remained a young man to his sixty-second year;the warrior who had preserved his strength in spite of fatigue; hisfreshness of mind in spite of misfortune, his mild serenity of soul andbody in spite of Milady, in spite of Mazarin, in spite of La Valliere;Athos had become an old man in a week, from the moment at which he lostthe comfort of his later youth. Still handsome, though bent, noble, butsad, he sought, since his solitude, the deeper glades where sunshinescarcely penetrated. He discontinued all the mighty exercises he hadenjoyed through life, when Raoul was no longer with him. The servants,accustomed to see him stirring with the dawn at all seasons, wereastonished to hear seven o'clock strike before their master quitted hisbed. Athos remained in bed with a book under his pillow--but he did notsleep, neither did he read. Remaining in bed that he might no longerhave to carry his body, he allowed his soul and spirit to wander fromtheir envelope and return to his son, or to God. [6]

  His people were sometimes terrified to see him, for hours together,absorbed in silent reverie, mute and insensible; he no longer heard thetimid step of the servant who came to the door of his chamber to watchthe sleeping or waking of his master. It often occurred that he forgotthe day had half passed away, that the hours for the two first mealswere gone by. Then he was awakened. He rose, descended to his shadywalk, then came out a little into the sun, as though to partake of itswarmth for a minute in memory of his absent child. And then the dismalmonotonous walk recommenced, until, exhausted, he regained the chamberand his bed, his domicile by choice. For several days the comte did notspeak a single word. He refused to receive the visits that were paidhim, and during the night he was seen to relight his lamp and pass longhours 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 a day.The comte walked feebly as far as the middle trees, seated himself upona mossy bank that sloped towards a sidewalk, and there waited the returnof his strength, or rather the return of night. Very shortly a hundredsteps exhausted him. At length Athos refused to rise at all; he declinedall nourishment, and his terrified people, although he did not complain,although he wore a smile upon his lips, although he continued to speakwith his sweet voice--his people went to Blois in search of the ancientphysician of the late Monsieur, and brought him to the Comte de la Ferein such a fashion that he could see the comte without being himselfseen. For this purpose, they placed him in a closet adjoining thechamber of the patient, and implored him not to show himself, for fearof 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 Frenchglory. Athos was a great seigneur compared with such nobles as the kingimprovised by touching with his artificial scepter the patched-up trunksof the heraldic trees of the province.

  People respected Athos, we say, and they loved him. The physician couldnot bear to see his people weep, to see flock round him the poor of thecanton, to whom Athos had so often given life and consolation by hiskind words and his charities. He examined, therefore, from the depthsof his hiding-place, the nature of that mysterious malady which bentand aged more mortally every day a man but lately so full of life and adesire to live. He remarked upon the cheeks of Athos the hectic hue offever, which feeds upon itself; slow fever, pitiless, born in a foldof the heart, sheltering itself behind that rampart, growing fromthe suffering it engenders, at once cause and effect of a periloussituation. The comte spoke to nobody; 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 appertains no longer to the earth.The doctor remained for several hours studying this painful struggle ofthe will against superior power; he was terrified at seeing those eyesalways fixed, ever directed on some invisible object; was terrified atthe monotonous beating of that heart from which never a sigh aroseto vary the melancholy state; for often pain becomes the hope of thephysician. Half a day passed away thus. The doctor formed his resolutionlike a brave man; he issued suddenly from his place of retreat, and wentstraight up to Athos, who beheld him without evincing more surprise thanif he had understood nothing of the apparition.

  "Monsieur le comte, I crave your pardon," said the doctor, coming upto the 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.

  "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 it possible? I do not get up."

  "Come, come! monsieur le comte, no subterfuges; you are a goodChristian?"

  "I hope so," said Athos.

  "Is it your wish to kill yourself?"

  "Never, doctor."

  "Well! monsieur, you are in a fair way of doing so. Thus to remain issuicide. Get well! monsieur 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 hidden grief."

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

  "Monsieur le comte, your son lives, he is strong, he has all the futurebefore him--the future of men of merit, of his race; live for him--"

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

  "What do you say?"

  "A very simple thing. At this moment, doctor, I leave life suspendedwithin me. A forgetful, dissipated, indifferent life would be beyond mystrength, now I have no longer Raoul with me. You do not ask the lampto burn when the match has not illumed the flame; do not ask me to liveamidst noise and merriment. I vegetate, I prepare myself, I wait. Look,doctor; remember those soldiers we have so often seen together at theports, where they were waiting to embark; lying down, indifferent, halfon one element, half on the other; they were neither at the place wherethe sea was going to carry them, nor at the place the earth was goingto lose them; baggage prepared, minds on the stretch, arms stacked--theywaited. I repeat it, the word is the one which paints my present life.Lying down like the soldiers, my ear on the stretch for the report thatmay reach me, I wish to be ready to set out at the first summons. Whowill make me that summons? life or death? God or Raoul? My bagga
geis packed, my soul is prepared, I await the signal--I wait, doctor, Iwait!"

  The doctor knew the temper of that mind; he appreciated the strengthof that body; he reflected for the moment, told himself that wordswere useless, remedies absurd, and left the chateau, exhorting Athos'sservants not to quit 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 thatcame should be brought to him directly. He knew very well that everydistraction which should arise 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 most profound, more obscure than other peoplewould have called a dream. The momentary repose which this forgetfulnessthus gave the body, still further fatigued the soul, for Athos lived adouble life during these wanderings of his understanding. One night,he dreamt 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 the grief you soon will feel at home."

  And the vision disappeared with the slumber of Athos. At daybreak one ofhis servants entered his master's apartment, and gave him a letter whichcame 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 weakness.