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the moment he was about to fly into a passion, so as to procure either a horse or an explanation, he was struck with the recollection that the Comte de la Fere lived in the neighborhood.

“I am not traveling,” said he; “I do not want horses for a whole stage. Find me two horses to go and pay a visit to a nobleman of my acquaintance who resides near this place.”

“What nobleman?” asked the postmaster.

“M. le Comte de la Fere.”

“Oh!” replied the postmaster, uncovering with respect, “a very worthy nobleman. But, whatever may be my desire to make myself agreeable to him, I cannot furnish you with horses, for all mine are engaged by M. le Duc de Beaufort.”

“Indeed!” said Aramis, much disappointed.

“Only,” continued the postmaster, “if you will put up with a little carriage I have, I will harness an old blind horse who has still his legs left, and peradventure will draw you to the house of M. le Comte de la Fere.”

“It is worth a louis,” said Aramis.

“No, monsieur, such a ride is worth no more than a crown; that is what M. Grimaud, the comte’s intendant, always pays me when he makes use of that carriage; and I should not wish the Comte de la Fere to have to reproach me with having imposed on one of his friends.”

“As you please,” said Aramis, “particularly as regards disobliging the Comte de la Fere; only I think I have a right to give you a louis for your idea.”

“Oh! doubtless,” replied the postmaster with delight. And he himself harnessed the ancient horse to the creaking carriage. In the meantime Porthos was curious to behold. He imagined he had discovered a clew to the secret, and he felt pleased, because a visit to Athos, in the first place, promised him much satisfaction, and, in the next, gave him the hope of finding at the same time a good bed and good supper. The master, having got the carriage ready, ordered one of his men to drive the strangers to La Fere. Porthos took his seat by the side of Aramis, whispering in his ear, “I understand.”

“Aha!” said Aramis, “and what do you understand, my friend?”

“We are going, on the part of the king, to make some great proposal to Athos.”

“Pooh!” said Aramis.

“You need tell me nothing about it,” added the worthy Porthos, endeavoring to reseat himself so as to avoid the jolting, “you need tell me nothing, I shall guess.”

“Well! do, my friend; guess away.”

They arrived at Athos’s dwelling about nine o’clock in the evening, favored by a splendid moon. This cheerful light rejoiced Porthos beyond expression; but Aramis appeared annoyed by it in an equal degree. He could not help showing something of this to Porthos, who replied—“Ay! ay! I guess how it is! the mission is a secret one.”

These were his last words in the carriage. The driver interrupted him by saying, “Gentlemen, we have arrived.”

Porthos and his companion alighted before the gate of the little chateau, where we are about to meet again our old acquaintances Athos and Bragelonne, the latter of whom had disappeared since the discovery of the infidelity of La Valliere. If there be one saying truer than another, it is this: great griefs contain within themselves the germ of consolation. This painful wound, inflicted upon Raoul, had drawn him nearer to his father again; and God knows how sweet were the consolations which flowed from the eloquent mouth and generous heart of Athos. The wound was not cicatrized, but Athos, by dint of conversing with his son and mixing a little more of his life with that of the young man, had brought him to understand that this pang of a first infidelity is necessary to every human existence; and that no one has loved without encountering it. Raoul listened, again and again, but never understood. Nothing replaces in the deeply afflicted heart the remembrance and thought of the beloved object. Raoul then replied to the reasoning of his father:

“Monsieur, all that you tell me is true; I believe that no one has suffered in the affections of the heart so much as you have; but you are a man too great by reason of intelligence, and too severely tried by adverse fortune not to allow for the weakness of the soldier who suffers for the first time. I am paying a tribute that will not be paid a second time; permit me to plunge myself so deeply in my grief that I may forget myself in it, that I may drown even my reason in it.”

“Raoul! Raoul!”

“Listen, monsieur. Never shall I accustom myself to the idea that Louise, the chastest and most innocent of women, has been able to so basely deceive a man so honest and so true a lover as myself. Never can I persuade myself that I see that sweet and noble mask change into a hypocritical lascivious face. Louise lost! Louise infamous! Ah! monseigneur, that idea is much more cruel to me than Raoul abandoned—Raoul unhappy!”

Athos then employed the heroic remedy. He defended Louise against Raoul, and justified her perfidy by her love. “A woman who would have yielded to a king because he is a king,” said he, “would deserve to be styled infamous; but Louise loves Louis. Young, both, they have forgotten, he his rank, she her vows. Love absolves everything, Raoul. The two young people love each other with sincerity.”

And when he had dealt this severe poniard-thrust, Athos, with a sigh, saw Raoul bound away beneath the rankling wound, and fly to the thickest recesses of the wood, or the solitude of his chamber, whence, an hour after, he would return, pale, trembling, but subdued. Then, coming up to Athos with a smile, he would kiss his hand, like the dog who, having been beaten, caresses a respected master, to redeem his fault. Raoul redeemed nothing but his weakness, and only confessed his grief. Thus passed away the days that followed that scene in which Athos had so violently shaken the indomitable pride of the king. Never, when conversing with his son, did he make any allusion to that scene; never did he give him the details of that vigorous lecture, which might, perhaps, have consoled the young man, by showing him his rival humbled. Athos did not wish that the offended lover should forget the respect due to his king. And when Bragelonne, ardent, angry, and melancholy, spoke with contempt of royal words, of the equivocal faith which certain madmen draw from promises that emanate from thrones, when, passing over two centuries, with that rapidity of a bird that traverses a narrow strait to go from one continent to the other, Raoul ventured to predict the time in which kings would be esteemed as less than other men, Athos said to him, in his serene, persuasive voice, “You are right, Raoul; all that you say will happen; kings will lose their privileges, as stars which have survived their aeons lose their splendor. But when that moment comes, Raoul, we shall be dead. And remember well what I say to you. In this world, all, men, women, and kings, must live for the present. We can only live for the future for God.”

This was the manner in which Athos and Raoul were, as usual, conversing, and walking backwards and forwards in the long alley of limes in the park, when the bell which served to announce to the comte either the hour of dinner or the arrival of a visitor, was rung; and, without attaching any importance to it, he turned towards the house with his son; and at the end of the alley they found themselves in the presence of Aramis and Porthos.





Chapter XXVI. The Last Adieux.

Raoul uttered a cry, and affectionately embraced Porthos. Aramis and Athos embraced like old men; and this embrace itself being a question for Aramis, he immediately said, “My friend, we have not long to remain with you.”

“Ah!” said the comte.

“Only time to tell you of my good fortune,” interrupted Porthos.

“Ah!” said Raoul.

Athos looked silently at Aramis, whose somber air had already appeared to him very little in harmony with the good news Porthos hinted.

“What is the good fortune that has happened to you? Let us hear it,” said Raoul, with a smile.

“The king has made me a duke,” said the worthy Porthos, with an air of mystery, in the ear of the young man, “a duke by brevet.”

But the asides of Porthos were always loud enough to be heard by everybody. His murmurs were in the diapason of ordinary roaring. Athos heard him, and uttered an exclamation which made Aramis start. The latter took Athos by the arm, and, after having asked Porthos’s permission to say a word to his friend in private, “My dear Athos,” he began, “you see me overwhelmed with grief and trouble.”

“With grief and trouble, my dear friend?” cried the comte; “oh, what?”

“In two words. I have conspired against the king; that conspiracy has failed, and, at this moment, I am doubtless pursued.”

“You are pursued!—a conspiracy! Eh! my friend, what do you tell me?”

“The saddest truth. I am entirely ruined.”

“Well, but Porthos—this title of duke—what does all that mean?”

“That is the subject of my severest pain; that is the deepest of my wounds. I have, believing in infallible success, drawn Porthos into my conspiracy. He threw himself into it, as you know he would do, with all his strength, without knowing what he was about; and now he is as much compromised as myself—as completely ruined as I am.”

“Good God!” And Athos turned towards Porthos, who was smiling complacently.

“I must make you acquainted with the whole. Listen to me,” continued Aramis; and he related the history as we know it. Athos, during the recital, several times felt the sweat break from his forehead. “It was a great idea,” said he, “but a great error.”

“For which I am punished, Athos.”

“Therefore, I will not tell you my entire thought.”

“Tell it, nevertheless.”

“It is a crime.”

“A capital crime; I know it is. Lese majeste.”

“Porthos! poor Porthos!”

“What would you advise me to do? Success, as I have told you, was certain.”

“M. Fouquet is an honest man.”

“And I a fool for having so ill-judged him,” said Aramis. “Oh, the wisdom of man! Oh, millstone that grinds the world! and which is one day stopped by a grain of sand which has fallen, no one knows how, between its wheels.”

“Say by a diamond, Aramis. But the thing is done. How do you think of acting?”

“I am taking away Porthos. The king will never believe that that worthy man has acted innocently. He never can believe that Porthos has thought he was serving the king, whilst acting as he has done. His head would pay my fault. It shall not, must not, be so.”

“You are taking him away, whither?”

“To Belle-Isle, at first. That is an impregnable place of refuge. Then, I have the sea, and a vessel to pass over into England, where I have many relations.”

“You? in England?”

“Yes, or else in Spain, where I have still more.”

“But, our excellent Porthos! you ruin him, for the king will confiscate all his property.”

“All is provided for. I know how, when once in Spain, to reconcile myself with Louis XIV., and restore Porthos to favor.”

“You have credit, seemingly, Aramis!” said Athos, with a discreet air.

“Much; and at the service of my friends.”

These words were accompanied by a warm pressure of the hand.

“Thank you,” replied the comte.

“And while we are on this head,” said Aramis, “you also are a malcontent; you also, Raoul, have griefs to lay to the king. Follow our example; pass over into Belle-Isle. Then we shall see, I guarantee upon my honor, that in a month there will be war between France and Spain on the subject of this son of Louis XIII., who is an Infante likewise, and whom France detains inhumanly. Now, as Louis XIV. would have no inclination for a

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