While the denouement of the scene of the Palais-Royal was taking place at the Bastille, let us relate what was going on at the lodgings of Athos and of Bragelonne. Grimaud, as we have seen, had accompanied his master to Paris; and, as we have said, he was present when Athos went out. He had seen d’Artagnan gnaw the corners of his mustache; he had seen his master get into the carriage; he had narrowly examined both their countenances, and he had known them both for a sufficiently long period to read and understand, through the mask of their impassiveness, that serious events were taking place. As soon as Athos had gone, he began to reflect; then he remembered the strange manner in which Athos had taken leave of him, the embarrassment- imperceptible to any one but himself- of his master,- that man of clear ideas and straightforward will. He knew that Athos had taken nothing with him but the clothes he had on him at the time; and yet he thought he saw that Athos had not left for an hour merely, or even for a day: a long absence was signified by the manner in which he pronounced the word “Adieu.” All these circumstances recurred to his mind, with all his feelings of deep affection for Athos, with that horror of emptiness and solitude which invariably besets the minds of those who love; and all these, combined, rendered poor Grimaud very melancholy and particularly very apprehensive. Without being able to account to himself for what he did after his master’s departure, he wandered about the apartment, seeking as it were for some traces of him, like a faithful dog, who is not exactly uneasy about his absent master, but at least is restless. Only, as to the instinct of the animal Grimaud joined the reason of a man, he had at the same time restlessness and anxiety. Not having found any indication which could serve as a guide, and having neither seen nor discovered anything which could satisfy his doubts, Grimaud began to imagine what could have happened. Now, the imagination is the resource, or rather the punishment, of good and affectionate hearts. In fact, never does a good heart represent its absent friend to itself as being happy or cheerful. Never does the pigeon who travels inspire anything but terror to the pigeon who remains at home.
Grimaud soon passed from anxiety to terror; he carefully went over, in his own mind, everything that had taken place,- d’Artagnan’s letter to Athos, the letter which had seemed to distress Athos so much; then Raoul’s coming to Athos, upon which Athos had asked for his orders and his court dress; then his interview with the King, at the end of which Athos had returned home so gloomy; then the explanation between the father and the son, at the termination of which Athos had embraced Raoul with such sadness of expression, while Raoul himself went away sorrowfully; and finally, d’Artagnan’s arrival, biting his mustache, and his leaving again in the carriage, accompanied by the Comte de la Fere. All this composed a drama in five acts, very plain, especially so to an analyst as skilful as Grimaud.
In the first place Grimaud resorted to grand measures: he searched in his master’s coat for M. d’Artagnan’s letter; he found the letter still there, and this is what it contained:
“MY DEAR FRIEND: Raoul has been to ask me for some particulars about the conduct of Mademoiselle de la Valliere during our young friend’s residence in London. I am a poor captain of Musketeers, whose ears are battered every day by the scandal of the barracks and the bedchamber. If I had told Raoul all I believe I know, the poor fellow would have died from it; but I am in the King’s service, and cannot speak of the King’s affairs. If your heart tells you to do it, set off at once; the matter concerns you more than myself, and almost as much as Raoul.”
Grimaud tore, not a handful, but a finger-and-thumbful of hair out of his head; he would have torn out more if his hair had been more abundant.