“That is, never to come back again,” d’Artagnan suffered to escape him. “Till we meet again, then, dear Athos; and if you are diligent, well, I shall embrace you the sooner.” So saying, he put his foot in the stirrup, which Raoul held.
“Farewell!” said the young man, embracing him.
“Farewell!” said d’Artagnan, as he got into his saddle. His horse made a movement which divided the cavalier from his friends.
This scene had taken place in front of the house chosen by Athos, near the gates of Antibes, whither d’Artagnan, after his supper, had ordered his horses to be brought. The road began there, and extended white and undulating in the vapors of the night. The horse eagerly inhaled the salt sharp perfume of the marshes. D’Artagnan put him into a trot; and Athos and Raoul sadly turned towards the house. All at once they heard the rapid approach of a horse’s steps, and at first believed it to be one of those singular echoes which deceive the ear at every turn in a road; but it was really the return of the horseman. They uttered a cry of joyous surprise; and the captain, springing to the ground like a young man, seized within his arms the two beloved forms of Athos and Raoul. He held them long embraced thus, without speaking a word, or suffering the sigh which was bursting his breast to escape him. Then, as rapidly as he had come back, he set off again, with a sharp application of his spurs to the sides of his fiery horse.
“Alas!” said the count, in a low voice, “alas! alas!”
“Evil presage!” on his side said d’Artagnan to himself, making up for lost time. “I could not smile upon them. An evil presage!”
The next day Grimaud was on foot again. The service commanded by M. de Beaufort was happily accomplished. The flotilla, sent to Toulon by the exertions of Raoul, had set out, dragging after it in little nutshells almost invisible, the wives and friends of the fishermen and smugglers impressed into the service of the fleet. The time, so short, which remained for the father and the son to live together, appeared to have doubled the rapidity of its flight, as the swiftness of everything increases which moves towards the gulf of eternity.
Athos and Raoul returned to Toulon, which place began to be filled with the noise of carriages, the noise of arms, the noise of neighing horses. The trumpeters sounded their spirited marches; the drummers signalized their strength; the streets were overflowing with soldiers, servants, and tradespeople. The Duc de Beaufort was everywhere, superintending the embarkation with the zeal and interest of a good captain. He encouraged even the most humble of his companions; he scolded his lieutenants, even those of the highest rank. Artillery, provisions, baggage,- he insisted upon seeing all himself. He examined the equipment of every soldier; he assured himself of the health and soundness of every horse. It was plain that light, boastful, and egotistical in his hotel, the gentleman became the soldier again, the high noble a captain, in face of the responsibility he had accepted. And yet it must be admitted that whatever was the care with which he presided over the preparations for departure, it was easy to perceive careless precipitation, and the absence of all the precaution which makes the French soldier the first soldier in the world, because he is the one most abandoned to his own physical and moral resources.
All things having satisfied, or appearing to have satisfied, the admiral, he paid his compliments to Raoul, and gave the last orders for sailing the next morning at daybreak. He invited the count and his son to dine with him; but they, under a pretext of the service, kept themselves apart. Gaining their hostelry, situated under the trees of the great place, they took their repast in haste; and Athos led Raoul to the rocks which command the city,- vast gray mountains, whence the view is infinite, and embraces a liquid horizon which appears, so remote is it, on a level with the rocks themselves. The night was fine, as it always is in these happy climates. The moon, rising behind the rocks, spread out like a silver sheet upon the blue carpet of the sea. In the roadsteads manoeuvred silently the vessels which had just taken their places to facilitate the embarkation. The sea, loaded with phosphoric light, opened beneath the hulls of the barks which transported the baggage and munitions; every dip of the prow ploughed up this gulf of white flames, and from every oar dropped liquid diamonds. The sailors, rejoicing in the largesses of the admiral, were heard murmuring their slow and artless songs. Sometimes the grinding of the chains was mixed with the dull noise of shot falling into the holds. These harmonies and this spectacle oppress the heart like fear, and dilate it like hope. All this life speaks of death.