“Accompany us on board,” said the duke, very much affected; “you will gain a good half-hour.”
“No,” said Athos, “my farewell is spoken. I do not wish to speak a second.”
“Then, Viscount, embark,- embark quickly!” added the prince, wishing to spare the tears of these two men, whose hearts were bursting. And paternally, tenderly, very much as Porthos might have done, he took Raoul in his arms and placed him in the boat; the oars of which, at a signal, immediately were dipped in the waves. He himself, forgetful of ceremony, jumped into his boat, and pushed it off with a vigorous foot.
“Adieu!” cried Raoul.
Athos replied only by a sign, but he felt something burning on his hand; it was the respectful kiss of Grimaud,- the last farewell of the faithful servant. This kiss given, Grimaud jumped from the step of the pier upon the stem of a two-oared yawl, which had just been taken in tow by a chaland served by twelve galley-oars. Athos seated himself on the pier, stunned, deaf, abandoned. Every instant took from him one of the features, one of the shades of the pale face of his son. With his arms hanging down, his eyes fixed, his mouth open, he remained confounded with Raoul,- in one same look, in one same thought, in one same stupor. The sea by degrees carried away boats and faces to that distance at which men become nothing but points, loves nothing but remembrances. Athos saw his son ascend the ladder of the admiral’s ship; he saw him lean upon the rail of the deck, and place himself in such a manner as to be always an object in the eye of his father. In vain the cannon thundered; in vain from the ship sounded a long and loud tumult, responded to by immense acclamations from the shore; in vain did the noise deafen the ear of the father, and the smoke obscure the cherished object of all his aspirations. Raoul appeared to him up to the last moment; and the imperceptible atom, passing from black to pale, from pale to white, from white to nothing, disappeared from the view of Athos very long after, from all the eyes of the spectators, had disappeared both gallant ships and swelling sails.
Towards mid-day, when the sun devoured space, and scarcely the tops of the masts dominated the incandescent line of the sea, Athos perceived a soft, aerial shadow rise and vanish as soon as seen. This was the smoke of a cannon, which M. de Beaufort ordered to be fired as a last salute to the coast of France. The point was buried in its turn beneath the sky, and Athos returned painfully and slowly to his hostelry.
Chapter LXII: Among Women
D’ARTAGNAN had not been able to hide his feelings from his friends so much as he would have wished. The stoical soldier, the impassible man-at-arms, overcome by fear and presentiments, had yielded for a few minutes to human weakness. When therefore he had silenced his heart and calmed the agitation of his nerves, turning towards his lackey, a silent servant, always listening in order to obey the more promptly, “Rabaud,” said he, “mind, we must travel thirty leagues a day.”
“At your pleasure, Captain,” replied Rabaud.
And from that moment, d’Artagnan, accommodating his action to the pace of his horse, like a true centaur, employed his thoughts about nothing,- that is to say, about everything. He asked himself why the King had recalled him; why the Iron Mask had thrown the silver plate at the feet of Raoul. As to the first subject, the reply was only of a negative character. He knew right well that the King’s calling him was from necessity; he still further knew that Louis XIV must experience an imperious want of a private conversation with one whom the possession of such a secret placed on a level with the highest powers of the kingdom; but as to saying exactly what the King’s wish was d’Artagnan found himself completely at a loss.
The musketeer had no longer any doubt as to the reason which had urged the unfortunate Philippe to reveal his character and his birth. Philippe, hidden forever beneath a mask of iron, exiled to a country where the men seemed little more than slaves of the elements; Philippe, deprived even of the society of d’Artagnan, who had loaded him with honors and delicate attentions,- had nothing more to look forward to than spectres and griefs in this world; and despair beginning to devour him, he poured himself forth in complaints, in the belief that his revelations would raise an avenger for him.