Chapter LVIII. The Angel of Death.
Athos was at this part of his marvelous vision, when the charm wassuddenly broken by a great noise rising from the outer gates. A horsewas heard galloping over the hard gravel of the great alley, and thesound of noisy and animated conversations ascended to the chamber inwhich the comte was dreaming. Athos did not stir from the place heoccupied; he scarcely turned his head towards the door to ascertain thesooner what these noises could be. A heavy step ascended the stairs; thehorse, which had recently galloped, departed slowly towards the stables.Great hesitation appeared in the steps, which by degrees approached thechamber. A door was opened, and Athos, turning a little towards the partof the room the noise came from, cried, in a weak voice:
"It is a courier from Africa, is it not?"
"No, monsieur le comte," replied a voice which made the father of Raoulstart upright in his bed.
"Grimaud!" murmured he. And the sweat began to pour down his face.Grimaud appeared in the doorway. It was no longer the Grimaud we haveseen, still young with courage and devotion, when he jumped the firstinto the boat destined to convey Raoul de Bragelonne to the vessels ofthe royal fleet. 'Twas now a stern and pale old man, his clothes coveredwith dust, and hair whitened by old age. He trembled whilst leaningagainst the door-frame, and was near falling on seeing, by the light ofthe lamps, the countenance of his master. These two men who had lived solong together in a community of intelligence, and whose eyes, accustomedto economize expressions, knew how to say so many things silently--thesetwo old friends, one as noble as the other in heart, if they wereunequal in fortune and birth, remained tongue-tied whilst looking ateach other. By the exchange of a single glance they had just read tothe bottom of each other's hearts. The old servitor bore upon hiscountenance the impression of a grief already old, the outward token ofa grim familiarity with woe. He appeared to have no longer in use morethan a single version of his thoughts. As formerly he was accustomed notto speak much, he was now accustomed not to smile at all. Athos read ata glance all these shades upon the visage of his faithful servant, andin the same tone he would have employed to speak to Raoul in his dream:
"Grimaud," said he, "Raoul is dead. _Is it not so?_"
Behind Grimaud the other servants listened breathlessly, with theireyes fixed upon the bed of their sick master. They heard the terriblequestion, and a heart-breaking silence followed.
"Yes," replied the old man, heaving the monosyllable from his chest witha hoarse, broken sigh.
Then arose voices of lamentation, which groaned without measure, andfilled with regrets and prayers the chamber where the agonized fathersought with his eyes the portrait of his son. This was for Athos likethe transition which led to his dream. Without uttering a cry, withoutshedding a tear, patient, mild, resigned as a martyr, he raised his eyestowards Heaven, in order there to see again, rising above the mountainof Gigelli, the beloved shade that was leaving him at the moment ofGrimaud's arrival. Without doubt, while looking towards the heavens,resuming his marvelous dream, he repassed by the same road by which thevision, at once so terrible and sweet, had led him before; for afterhaving gently closed his eyes, he reopened them and began to smile: hehad just seen Raoul, who had smiled upon him. With his hands joined uponhis breast, his face turned towards the window, bathed by the fresh airof night, which brought upon its wings the aroma of the flowers andthe woods, Athos entered, never again to come out of it, into thecontemplation of that paradise which the living never see. God willed,no doubt, to open to this elect the treasures of eternal beatitude,at this hour when other men tremble with the idea of being severelyreceived by the Lord, and cling to this life they know, in the dread ofthe other life of which they get but merest glimpses by the dismal murkytorch of death. Athos was spirit-guided by the pure serene soul of hisson, which aspired to be like the paternal soul. Everything for thisjust man was melody and perfume in the rough road souls take to returnto the celestial country. After an hour of this ecstasy, Athos softlyraised his hands as white as wax; the smile did not quit his lips, andhe murmured low, so low as scarcely to be audible, these three wordsaddressed to God or to Raoul:
"HERE I AM!"
And his hands fell slowly, as though he himself had laid them on thebed.
Death had been kind and mild to this noble creature. It had spared himthe tortures of the agony, convulsions of the last departure; had openedwith an indulgent finger the gates of eternity to that noble soul. Godhad no doubt ordered it thus that the pious remembrance of this deathshould remain in the hearts of those present, and in the memory of othermen--a death which caused to be loved the passage from this life to theother by those whose existence upon this earth leads them not to dreadthe last judgment. Athos preserved, even in the eternal sleep, thatplacid and sincere smile--an ornament which was to accompany him to thetomb. The quietude and calm of his fine features made his servants fora long time doubt whether he had really quitted life. The comte's peoplewished to remove Grimaud, who, from a distance, devoured the face nowquickly growing marble-pale, and did not approach, from pious fear ofbringing to him the breath of death. But Grimaud, fatigued as he was,refused to leave the room. He sat himself down upon the threshold,watching his master with the vigilance of a sentinel, jealous to receiveeither his first waking look or his last dying sigh. The noises all werequiet in the house--every one respected the slumber of their lord. ButGrimaud, by anxiously listening, perceived that the comte no longerbreathed. He raised himself with his hands leaning on the ground, lookedto see if there did not appear some motion in the body of his master.Nothing! Fear seized him; he rose completely up, and, at the verymoment, heard some one coming up the stairs. A noise of spurs knockingagainst a sword--a warlike sound familiar to his ears--stopped him as hewas going towards the bed of Athos. A voice more sonorous than brass orsteel resounded within three paces of him.
"Athos! Athos! my friend!" cried this voice, agitated even to tears.
"Monsieur le Chevalier d'Artagnan," faltered out Grimaud.
"Where is he? Where is he?" continued the musketeer. Grimaud seizedhis arm in his bony fingers, and pointed to the bed, upon the sheets ofwhich the livid tints of death already showed.
A choked respiration, the opposite to a sharp cry, swelled the throat ofD'Artagnan. He advanced on tip-toe, trembling, frightened at the noisehis feet made on the floor, his heart rent by a nameless agony. Heplaced his ear to the breast of Athos, his face to the comte's mouth.Neither noise, nor breath! D'Artagnan drew back. Grimaud, who hadfollowed him with his eyes, and for whom each of his movements had beena revelation, came timidly; seated himself at the foot of the bed, andglued his lips to the sheet which was raised by the stiffened feet ofhis master. Then large drops began to flow from his red eyes. This oldman in invincible despair, who wept, bent doubled without uttering aword, presented the most touching spectacle that D'Artagnan, in a lifeso filled with emotion, had ever met with.
The captain resumed standing in contemplation before that smiling deadman, who seemed to have burnished his last thought, to give his bestfriend, the man he had loved next to Raoul, a gracious welcome evenbeyond life. And for reply to that exalted flattery of hospitality,D'Artagnan went and kissed Athos fervently on the brow, and with histrembling fingers closed his eyes. Then he seated himself by the pillowwithout dread of that dead man, who had been so kind and affectionateto him for five and thirty years. He was feeding his soul with theremembrances the noble visage of the comte brought to his mind incrowds--some blooming and charming as that smile--some dark, dismal, andicy as that visage with its eyes now closed to all eternity.
All at once the bitter flood which mounted from minute to minute invadedhis heart, and swelled his breast almost to bursting. Incapable ofmastering his emotion, he arose, and tearing himself violently from thechamber where he had just found dead him to whom he came to report thenews of the death of Porthos, he uttered sobs so heart-rending that theservants, who seemed only to wait for an explosion of grief, answered toit by their lugubrio
us clamors, and the dogs of the late comte by theirlamentable howlings. Grimaud was the only one who did not lift up hisvoice. Even in the paroxysm of his grief he would not have dared toprofane the dead, or for the first time disturb the slumber of hismaster. Had not Athos always bidden him be dumb?
At daybreak D'Artagnan, who had wandered about the lower hall, bitinghis fingers to stifle his sighs--D'Artagnan went up once more; andwatching the moments when Grimaud turned his head towards him, he madehim a sign to come to him, which the faithful servant obeyed withoutmaking more noise than a shadow. D'Artagnan went down again, followedby Grimaud; and when he had gained the vestibule, taking the old man'shands, "Grimaud," said he, "I have seen how the father died; now let meknow about the son."
Grimaud drew from his breast a large letter, upon the envelope of whichwas traced the address of Athos. He recognized the writing of M. deBeaufort, broke the seal, and began to read, while walking about in thefirst steel-chill rays of dawn, in the dark alley of old limes, markedby the still visible footsteps of the comte who had just died.
The Man in the Iron Mask Page 58