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X
CHAPTER LX. The Last Canto of the Poem.
On the morrow, all the noblesse of the provinces, of the environs, and wherever
messengers had carried the news, might have been seen arriving in detachments.
D'Artagnan had shut himself up, without being willing to speak to anybody.
Two such heavy deaths falling upon the captain, so closely after the death of
Porthos, for a long time oppressed that spirit which had hitherto been so
indefatigable and invulnerable.
Except Grimaud, who entered his chamber once, the musketeer saw neither servants
nor guests.
He supposed, from the noises in the house, and the continual coming and going, that
preparations were being made for the funeral of the comte.
He wrote to the king to ask for an extension of his leave of absence.
Grimaud, as we have said, had entered D'Artagnan's apartment, had seated himself
upon a joint-stool near the door, like a man who meditates profoundly; then, rising,
he made a sign to D'Artagnan to follow him.
The latter obeyed in silence. Grimaud descended to the comte's bed-
chamber, showed the captain with his finger the place of the empty bed, and raised his
eyes eloquently towards Heaven.
"Yes," replied D'Artagnan, "yes, good Grimaud--now with the son he loved so
much!"
Grimaud left the chamber, and led the way to the hall, where, according to the custom
of the province, the body was laid out, previously to being put away forever.
D'Artagnan was struck at seeing two open coffins in the hall.
In reply to the mute invitation of Grimaud, he approached, and saw in one of them
Athos, still handsome in death, and, in the other, Raoul with his eyes closed, his
cheeks pearly as those of the Palls of Virgil, with a smile on his violet lips.
He shuddered at seeing the father and son, those two departed souls, represented on
earth by two silent, melancholy bodies, incapable of touching each other, however
close they might be.
"Raoul here!" murmured he. "Oh! Grimaud, why did you not tell me
this?"
Grimaud shook his head, and made no reply; but taking D'Artagnan by the hand, he led
him to the coffin, and showed him, under the thin winding-sheet, the black wounds by
which life had escaped.
The captain turned away his eyes, and, judging it was useless to question Grimaud,
who would not answer, he recollected that M. de Beaufort's secretary had written more
than he, D'Artagnan, had had the courage to read.
Taking up the recital of the affair which had cost Raoul his life, he found these
words, which ended the concluding paragraph of the letter:
"Monseigneur le duc has ordered that the body of monsieur le vicomte should be
embalmed, after the manner practiced by the Arabs when they wish their dead to be
carried to their native land; and monsieur
le duc has appointed relays, so that the same confidential servant who brought up
the young man might take back his remains to M. le Comte de la Fere."
"And so," thought D'Artagnan, "I shall follow thy funeral, my dear boy--I, already
old--I, who am of no value on earth--and I shall scatter dust upon that brow I kissed
but two months since.
God has willed it to be so. Thou hast willed it to be so, thyself.
I have no longer the right even to weep. Thou hast chosen death; it seemed to thee a
preferable gift to life."
At length arrived the moment when the chill remains of these two gentlemen were to be
given back to mother earth.
There was such an affluence of military and other people that up to the place of the
sepulture, which was a little chapel on the plain, the road from the city was filled
with horsemen and pedestrians in mourning.
Athos had chosen for his resting-place the little inclosure of a chapel erected by
himself near the boundary of his estates.
He had had the stones, cut in 1550, brought from an old Gothic manor-house in Berry,
which had sheltered his early youth.
The chapel, thus rebuilt, transported, was pleasing to the eye beneath its leafy
curtains of poplars and sycamores.
It was ministered in every Sunday, by the cure of the neighboring bourg, to whom
Athos paid an allowance of two hundred francs for this service; and all the
vassals of his domain, with their families,
came thither to hear mass, without having any occasion to go to the city.
Behind the chapel extended, surrounded by two high hedges of hazel, elder and white
thorn, and a deep ditch, the little inclosure--uncultivated, though gay in its
sterility; because the mosses there grew
thick, wild heliotrope and ravenelles there mingled perfumes, while from beneath an
ancient chestnut issued a crystal spring, a prisoner in its marble cistern, and on the
thyme all around alighted thousands of bees
from the neighboring plants, whilst chaffinches and redthroats sang cheerfully
among the flower-spangled hedges.
It was to this place the somber coffins were carried, attended by a silent and
respectful crowd.
The office of the dead being celebrated, the last adieux paid to the noble departed,
the assembly dispersed, talking, along the roads, of the virtues and mild death of the
father, of the hopes the son had given, and
of his melancholy end upon the arid coast of Africa.
Little by little, all noises were extinguished, like the lamps illuminating
the humble nave.
The minister bowed for the last time to the altar and the still fresh graves; then,
followed by his assistant, he slowly took the road back to the presbytery.
D'Artagnan, left alone, perceived that night was coming on.
He had forgotten the hour, thinking only of the dead.
He arose from the oaken bench on which he was seated in the chapel, and wished, as
the priest had done, to go and bid a last adieu to the double grave which contained
his two lost friends.
A woman was praying, kneeling on the moist earth.
D'Artagnan stopped at the door of the chapel, to avoid disturbing her, and also
to endeavor to find out who was the pious friend who performed this sacred duty with
so much zeal and perseverance.
The unknown had hidden her face in her hands, which were white as alabaster.
From the noble simplicity of her costume, she must be a woman of distinction.
Outside the inclosure were several horses mounted by servants; a travelling carriage
was in waiting for this lady. D'Artagnan in vain sought to make out what
caused her delay.
She continued praying, and frequently pressed her handkerchief to her face, by
which D'Artagnan perceived she was weeping. He beheld her strike her breast with the
compunction of a Christian woman.
He heard her several times exclaim as from a wounded heart: "Pardon! pardon!"
And as she appeared to abandon herself entirely to her grief, as she threw herself
down, almost fainting, exhausted by complaints and prayers, D'Artagnan, touched
by this love for his so much regretted
friends, made a few steps towards the grave, in order to interrupt the melancholy
colloquy of the penitent with the dead.
But as soon as his step sounded on the gravel, the unknown raised her head,
revealing to D'Artagnan a face aflood with tears, a well-known face.
It was Mademoiselle de la Valliere!
"Monsieur d'Artagnan!" murmured she.
"You!" replied the captain, in a stern voice, "you here!--oh! madame, I should
better have liked to see you decked with flowers in the mansion of the Comte de la
Fere.
You would have wept less--and they too--and I!"
"Monsieur!" said she, sobbing.
"For it was you," added this pitiless friend of the dead,--"it was you who sped
these two men to the grave." "Oh! spare me!"
"God forbid, madame, that I should offend a woman, or that I should make her weep in
vain; but I must say that the place of the murderer is not upon the grave of her
victims."
She wished to reply. "What I now tell you," added he, coldly, "I
have already told the king." She clasped her hands.
"I know," said she, "I have caused the death of the Vicomte de Bragelonne."
"Ah! you know it?" "The news arrived at court yesterday.
I have traveled during the night forty leagues to come and ask pardon of the
comte, whom I supposed to be still living, and to pray God, on the tomb of Raoul, that
he would send me all the misfortunes I have merited, except a single one.
Now, monsieur, I know that the death of the son has killed the father; I have two
crimes to reproach myself with; I have two punishments to expect from Heaven."
"I will repeat to you, mademoiselle," said D'Artagnan, "what M. de Bragelonne said of
you, at Antibes, when he already meditated death: 'If pride and coquetry have misled
her, I pardon her while despising her.
If love has produced her error, I pardon her, but I swear that no one could have
loved her as I have done.'"
"You know," interrupted Louise, "that of my love I was about to sacrifice myself; you
know whether I suffered when you met me lost, dying, abandoned.
Well! never have I suffered so much as now; because then I hoped, desired,--now I have
no longer anything to wish for; because this death drags all my joy into the tomb;
because I can no longer dare to love
without remorse, and I feel that he whom I love--oh! it is but just!--will repay me
with the tortures I have made others undergo."
D'Artagnan made no reply; he was too well convinced that she was not mistaken.
"Well, then," added she, "dear Monsieur d'Artagnan, do not overwhelm me to-day, I
again implore you!
I am like the branch torn from the trunk, I no longer hold to anything in this world--a
current drags me on, I know not whither.
I love madly, even to the point of coming to tell it, wretch that I am, over the
ashes of the dead, and I do not blush for it--I have no remorse on this account.
Such love is a religion.
Only, as hereafter you will see me alone, forgotten, disdained; as you will see me
punished, as I am destined to be punished, spare me in my ephemeral happiness, leave
it to me for a few days, for a few minutes.
Now, even at the moment I am speaking to you, perhaps it no longer exists.
My God! this double *** is perhaps already expiated!"
While she was speaking thus, the sound of voices and of horses drew the attention of
the captain. M. de Saint-Aignan came to seek La
Valliere.
"The king," he said, "is a prey to jealousy and uneasiness."
Saint-Aignan did not perceive D'Artagnan, half concealed by the trunk of a chestnut-
tree which shaded the double grave.
Louise thanked Saint-Aignan, and dismissed him with a gesture.
He rejoined the party outside the inclosure.
"You see, madame," said the captain bitterly to the young woman,--"you see your
happiness still lasts." The young woman raised her head with a
solemn air.
"A day will come," said she, "when you will repent of having so misjudged me.
On that day, it is I who will pray God to forgive you for having been unjust towards
me.
Besides, I shall suffer so much that you yourself will be the first to pity my
sufferings.
Do not reproach me with my fleeting happiness, Monsieur d'Artagnan; it costs me
dear, and I have not paid all my debt." Saying these words, she again knelt down,
softly and affectionately.
"Pardon me the last time, my affianced Raoul!" said she.
"I have broken our chain; we are both destined to die of grief.
It is thou who departest first; fear nothing, I shall follow thee.
See, only, that I have not been base, and that I have come to bid thee this last
adieu.
The Lord is my witness, Raoul, that if with my life I could have redeemed thine, I
would have given that life without hesitation.
I could not give my love.
Once more, forgive me, dearest, kindest friend."
She strewed a few sweet flowers on the freshly sodded earth; then, wiping the
tears from her eyes, the heavily stricken lady bowed to D'Artagnan, and disappeared.
The captain watched the departure of the horses, horsemen, and carriage, then
crossing his arms upon his swelling chest, "When will it be my turn to depart?" said
he, in an agitated voice.
"What is there left for man after youth, love, glory, friendship, strength, and
wealth have disappeared?
That rock, under which sleeps Porthos, who possessed all I have named; this moss,
under which repose Athos and Raoul, who possessed much more!"
He hesitated for a moment, with a dull eye; then, drawing himself up, "Forward! still
forward!" said he. "When it is time, God will tell me, as he
foretold the others."
He touched the earth, moistened with the evening dew, with the ends of his fingers,
signed himself as if he had been at the benitier in church, and retook alone--ever
alone--the road to Paris.