Chapter LVI. The Old Age of Athos.

by Alexandre Dumas

　　While these affairs were separating forever the four musketeers, formerlybound together in a manner that seemed indissoluble, Athos, left aloneafter the departure of Raoul, began to pay his tribute to that foretasteof death which is called the absence of those we love. Back in his houseat Blois, no longer having even Grimaud to receive a poor smile as hepassed through the parterre, Athos daily felt the decline of vigor of anature which for so long a time had seemed impregnable. Age, which hadbeen kept back by the presence of the beloved object, arrived with thatcortege of pains and inconveniences, which grows by geometricalaccretion. Athos had no longer his son to induce him to walk firmly,with head erect, as a good example; he had no longer, in those brillianteyes of the young man, an ever-ardent focus at which to kindle anew thefire of his looks. And then, must it be said, that nature, exquisite intenderness and reserve, no longer finding anything to understand itsfeelings, gave itself up to grief with all the warmth of common natureswhen they yield to joy. The Comte de la Fere, who had remained a youngman to his sixty-second year; the warrior who had preserved his strengthin spite of fatigue; his freshness of mind in spite of misfortune, hismild serenity of soul and body in spite of Milady, in spite of Mazarin,in spite of La Valliere; Athos had become an old man in a week, from themoment at which he lost the comfort of his later youth. Still handsome,though bent, noble, but sad, he sought, since his solitude, the deeperglades where sunshine scarcely penetrated. He discontinued all themighty exercises he had enjoyed through life, when Raoul was no longerwith him. The servants, accustomed to see him stirring with the dawn atall seasons, were astonished to hear seven o'clock strike before theirmaster quitted his bed. Athos remained in bed with a book under hispillow - but he did not sleep, neither did he read. Remaining in bedthat he might no longer have to carry his body, he allowed his soul andspirit to wander from their envelope and return to his son, or to God.Transcriber's note: In some editions, "in spite of Milady" reads "inspite of malady". - JBHis people were sometimes terrified to see him, for hours together,absorbed in silent reverie, mute and insensible; he no longer heard thetimid step of the servant who came to the door of his chamber to watchthe sleeping or waking of his master. It often occurred that he forgotthe day had half passed away, that the hours for the two first meals weregone by. Then he was awakened. He rose, descended to his shady walk,then came out a little into the sun, as though to partake of its warmthfor a minute in memory of his absent child. And then the dismalmonotonous walk recommenced, until, exhausted, he regained the chamberand his bed, his domicile by choice. For several days the comte did notspeak a single word. He refused to receive the visits that were paidhim, and during the night he was seen to relight his lamp and pass longhours in writing, or examining parchments.Athos wrote one of these letters to Vannes, another to Fontainebleau;they remained without answers. We know why: Aramis had quitted France,and D'Artagnan was traveling from Nantes to Paris, from Paris toPierrefonds. His valet de chambre observed that he shortened his walkevery day by several turns. The great alley of limes soon became toolong for feet that used to traverse it formerly a hundred times a day.The comte walked feebly as far as the middle trees, seated himself upon amossy bank that sloped towards a sidewalk, and there waited the return ofhis strength, or rather the return of night. Very shortly a hundredsteps exhausted him. At length Athos refused to rise at all; he declinedall nourishment, and his terrified people, although he did not complain,although he wore a smile upon his lips, although he continued to speakwith his sweet voice - his people went to Blois in search of the ancientphysician of the late Monsieur, and brought him to the Comte de la Ferein such a fashion that he could see the comte without being himselfseen. For this purpose, they placed him in a closet adjoining thechamber of the patient, and implored him not to show himself, for fear ofdispleasing their master, who had not asked for a physician. The doctorobeyed. Athos was a sort of model for the gentlemen of the country; theBlaisois boasted of possessing this sacred relic of French glory. Athoswas a great seigneur compared with such nobles as the king improvised bytouching with his artificial scepter the parched-up trunks of theheraldic trees of the province.People respected Athos, we say, and they loved him. The physician couldnot bear to see his people weep, to see flock round him the poor of thecanton, to whom Athos had so often given life and consolation by his kindwords and his charities. He examined, therefore, from the depths of hishiding-place, the nature of that mysterious malady which bent and agedmore mortally every day a man but lately so full of life and a desire tolive. He remarked upon the cheeks of Athos the hectic hue of fever,which feeds upon itself; slow fever, pitiless, born in a fold of theheart, sheltering itself behind that rampart, growing from the sufferingit engenders, at once cause and effect of a perilous situation. Thecomte spoke to nobody; he did not even talk to himself. His thoughtfeared noise; it approached to that degree of over-excitement whichborders upon ecstasy. Man thus absorbed, though he does not yet belongto God, already appertains no longer to the earth. The doctor remainedfor several hours studying this painful struggle of the will againstsuperior power; he was terrified at seeing those eyes always fixed, everdirected on some invisible object; was terrified at the monotonousbeating of that heart from which never a sigh arose to vary themelancholy state; for often pain becomes the hope of the physician. Halfa day passed away thus. The doctor formed his resolution like a braveman; he issued suddenly from his place of retreat, and went straight upto Athos, who beheld him without evincing more surprise than if he hadunderstood nothing of the apparition."Monsieur le comte, I crave your pardon," said the doctor, coming up tothe patient with open arms; "but I have a reproach to make you - youshall hear me." And he seated himself by the pillow of Athos, who hadgreat trouble in rousing himself from his preoccupation."What is the matter, doctor?" asked the comte, after a silence."The matter is, you are ill, monsieur, and have had no advice.""I! ill!" said Athos, smiling."Fever, consumption, weakness, decay, monsieur le comte!""Weakness!" replied Athos; "is it possible? I do not get up.""Come, come! monsieur le comte, no subterfuges; you are a good Christian?""I hope so," said Athos."Is it your wish to kill yourself?""Never, doctor.""Well! monsieur, you are in a fair way of doing so. Thus to remain issuicide. Get well! monsieur le comte, get well!""Of what? Find the disease first. For my part, I never knew myselfbetter; never did the sky appear more blue to me; never did I take morecare of my flowers.""You have a hidden grief.""Concealed! - not at all; the absence of my son, doctor; that is mymalady, and I do not conceal it.""Monsieur le comte, your son lives, he is strong, he has all the futurebefore him - the future of men of merit, of his race; live for him - ""But I do live, doctor; oh! be satisfied of that," added he, with amelancholy smile; "for as long as Raoul lives, it will be plainly known,for as long as he lives, I shall live.""What do you say?""A very simple thing. At this moment, doctor, I leave life suspendedwithin me. A forgetful, dissipated, indifferent life would be beyond mystrength, now I have no longer Raoul with me. You do not ask the lamp toburn when the match has not illumed the flame; do not ask me to liveamidst noise and merriment. I vegetate, I prepare myself, I wait. Look,doctor; remember those soldiers we have so often seen together at theports, where they were waiting to embark; lying down, indifferent, halfon one element, half on the other; they were neither at the place wherethe sea was going to carry them, nor at the place the earth was going tolose them; baggage prepared, minds on the stretch, arms stacked - theywaited. I repeat it, the word is the one which paints my present life.Lying down like the soldiers, my ear on the stretch for the report thatmay reach me, I wish to be ready to set out at the first summons. Whowill make me that summons? life or death? God or Raoul? My baggage ispacked, my soul is prepared, I await the signal - I wait, doctor, I wait!"The doctor knew the temper of that mind; he appreciated the strength ofthat body; he reflected for the moment, told himself that words wereuseless, remedies absurd, and left the chateau, exhorting Athos'sservants not to quit him for a moment.The doctor being gone, Athos evinced neither anger nor vexation at havingbeen disturbed. He did not even desire that all letters that came shouldbe brought to him directly. He knew very well that every distractionwhich should arise would be a joy, a hope, which his servants would havepaid with their blood to procure him. Sleep had become rare. By intensethinking, Athos forgot himself, for a few hours at most, in a reveriemost profound, more obscure than other people would have called a dream.The momentary repose which this forgetfulness thus gave the body, stillfurther fatigued the soul, for Athos lived a double life during thesewanderings of his understanding. One night, he dreamt that Raoul wasdressing himself in a tent, to go upon an expedition commanded by M. deBeaufort in person. The young man was sad; he clasped his cuirassslowly, and slowly he girded on his sword."What is the matter?" asked his father, tenderly."What afflicts me is the death of Porthos, ever so dear a friend,"replied Raoul. "I suffer here the grief you soon will feel at home."And the vision disappeared with the slumber of Athos. At daybreak one ofhis servants entered his master's apartment, and gave him a letter whichcame from Spain."The writing of Aramis," thought the comte; and he read."Porthos is dead!" cried he, after the first lines. "Oh! Raoul, Raoul!thanks! thou keepest thy promise, thou warnest me!"And Athos, seized with a mortal sweat, fainted in his bed, without anyother cause than weakness.