CHAPTER CXXXIV.
THE LAST CANTO OF THE POEM.
On the morrow, all the noblesse of the provinces, of the environs, andwherever messengers had carried the news, were seen to arrive.D'Artagnan had shut himself up, without being willing to speak toanybody. Two such heavy deaths falling upon the captain, so closelyafter the death of Porthos, for a long time oppressed that spirit whichhad hitherto been so indefatigable and invulnerable. Except Grimaud, whoentered his chamber once, the musketeer saw neither servants nor guests.He supposed, from the noises in the house, and the continual coming andgoing, 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 seatedhimself upon a joint-stool near the door, like a man who meditatesprofoundly; then, rising, he made a sign to D'Artagnan to follow him.The latter obeyed in silence. Grimaud descended to the comte'sbed-chamber, showed the captain with his finger the place of the emptybed, and raised his eyes eloquently toward heaven.
"Yes," replied D'Artagnan, "yes, good Grimaud--now with the son he lovedso much!"
Grimaud left the chamber, and led the way to the hall, where, accordingto the custom of the province, the body was laid out, previously to itsbeing buried forever. D'Artagnan was struck at seeing two open coffinsin 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 theother, Raoul, with his eyes closed, his cheeks pearly as those of thePallas of Virgil, with a smile on his violet lips. He shuddered atseeing the father and son, those two departed souls, represented onearth by two silent, melancholy bodies, incapable of touching eachother, 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 thehand, he led him to the coffin, and showed him, under the thinwinding-sheet, the black wounds by which life had escaped. The captainturned away his eyes, and, judging it useless to question Grimaud, whowould not answer, he recollected that M. de Beaufort's secretary hadwritten more than he, D'Artagnan, had had the courage to read. Taking upthe recital of the affair which had cost Raoul his life, he found thesewords, which terminated the last paragraph of the letter:
"Monsieur le Duc has ordered that the body of Monsieur le Vicomte shouldbe embalmed, after the manner practiced by the Arabs when they wishtheir bodies to be carried to their native land; and Monsieur le Duc hasappointed relays, so that a confidential servant who brought up theyoung man might take back his remains to M. le Comte de la Fere."
"And so," thought D'Artagnan, "I shall follow thy funeral, my dearboy--I, already old--I, who am of no value on earth--and I shallscatter the dust upon that brow which I kissed but two months since. Godhas willed it to be so. Thou hast willed it to be so, thyself. I have nolonger the right even to weep. Thou hast chosen death; it hath seemed tothee preferable to life."
At length arrived the moment when the cold remains of these twogentlemen were to be returned to the earth. There was such an affluenceof military and other people that up to the place of sepulture, whichwas a chapel in the plain, the road from the city was filled withhorsemen and pedestrians in mourning habits. Athos had chosen for hisresting-place the little inclosure of a chapel erected by himself nearthe boundary of his estates. He had had the stones, cut in 1550, broughtfrom an old Gothic manor house in Berry, which had sheltered his earlyyouth. The chapel, thus re-edified, thus transported, was pleasantbeneath its wood of poplars and sycamores. It was administered everySunday, by the cure of the neighboring bourg, to whom Athos paid anallowance of two hundred francs for this service; and all the vassals ofhis domain, to the number of about forty, the laborers, and the farmers,with their families, came hither to hear mass, without having anyoccasion to go to the city.
Behind the chapel extended, surrounded by two high hedges ofnut-trees, elders, white thorns and a deep ditch, the littleinclosure--uncultivated, it is true, but gay in its sterility; becausethe mosses there were high, because the wild heliotropes and ravenellesthere mixed their perfumes, because beneath the tall chestnuts issued alarge spring, a prisoner in a cistern of marble, and that upon the thymeall around alighted thousands of bees from the neighboring plains, whilechaffinches and redthroats sang cheerfully among the flowers of thehedge. It was to this place the two coffins were brought, attended by asilent 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 thecoast of Africa.
By little and little, all noises were extinguished, like the lampsillumining the humble nave. The minister bowed for a last time to thealtar and the still fresh graves, then, followed by his assistant, whorang a hoarse bell, he slowly took the road back to the presbytery.D'Artagnan, left alone, perceived that night was coming on. He hadforgotten the hour, while thinking of the dead. He arose from the oakenbench on which he was seated in the chapel, and wished, as the priesthad done, to go and bid a last adieu to the double grave which containedhis two lost friends.
A woman was praying, kneeling on the moist earth. D'Artagnan stopped atthe door of the chapel, to avoid disturbing this woman; and also toendeavor to see who was the pious friend who performed this sacred dutywith so much zeal and perseverance. The unknown concealed her face inher hands, which were white as alabaster. From the noble simplicity ofher costume, she must be a woman of distinction. Outside the inclosurewere several horses mounted by servants, and a traveling carriagewaiting for this lady. D'Artagnan in vain sought to make out what causedher delay. She continued praying, she frequently passed her handkerchiefover her face, by which D'Artagnan perceived she was weeping. He saw herstrike her breast with the pitiless compunction of a Christian woman. Heheard her several times proffer, as if from a wounded heart: "Pardon!pardon!" And as she appeared to abandon herself entirety to her grief,as she threw herself down almost fainting, amid complaints and prayers,D'Artagnan, touched by his love for his so much regretted friends, madea few steps toward the grave, in order to interrupt the melancholycolloquy of the penitent with the dead. But as soon as his step soundedon the gravel the unknown raised her head, revealing to D'Artagnan aface inundated with tears, but a well-known face. It was Mademoiselle dela Valliere! "Monsieur d'Artagnan!" murmured she.
"You!" replied the captain, in a stern voice--"you here!--oh! madame, Ishould better have liked to see you decked with flowers in the mansionof the Comte de la Fere. You would have wept less--they too--I too!"
"Monsieur!" she said, sobbing.
"For it is you," added this pitiless friend of the dead--"it is you whohave laid these two men in the grave."
"Oh! spare me!"
"God forbid, madame, that I should offend a woman, or that I should makeher weep in vain; but I must say that the place of the murderer is notupon the grave of her victims."
She wished to reply.
"What I now tell you," added he, coldly, "I told the king."
She clasped her hands. "I know," said she, "I have caused the death ofthe Vicomte de Bragelonne."
"Ah! you know it?"
"The news arrived at court yesterday. I have traveled during the nightforty leagues to come and ask pardon of the comte, whom I supposed to bestill living, and to supplicate God, upon the tomb of Raoul, that Hewould 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; Ihave two crimes to reproach myself with; I have two punishments to lookfor from God."
"I will repeat to you, mademoiselle," said D'Artagnan, "what M. deBragelonne said of you at Antibes, when he already meditated death: 'Ifpride and coquetry have misled her, I pardon her while despising her. Iflove has produced her error, I pardon her, swearing that no one couldhave loved her as I have done.'"
"You kn
ow," interrupted Louise, "that for my love I was about tosacrifice myself; you know whether I suffered when you met me lost,dying, abandoned. Well! never have I suffered so much as now; becausethen I hoped, I desired--now I have nothing to wish for; because thisdeath drags away all my joy into the tomb; because I can no longer dareto love without remorse, and I feel that he whom I love--oh! that isthe law--will repay me with the tortures I have made others undergo."
D'Artagnan made no reply: he was too well convinced she was notmistaken.
"Well! then," added she, "dear Monsieur d'Artagnan, do not overwhelm meto-day, I again implore you. I am like the branch torn from the trunk, Ino longer hold to anything in this world, and a current drags me on, Icannot say whither. I love madly, I love to the point of coming to tellit, impious as I am, over the ashes of the dead; and I do not blush forit--I have no remorse on account of it. This love is a religion. Only,as hereafter you will see me alone, forgotten, disdained; as you willsee me punished with that with which I am destined to be punished, spareme in my ephemeral happiness, leave it to me for a few days, for a fewminutes. Now even, at the moment I am speaking to you, perhaps it nolonger exists. My God! This double murder is perhaps already expiated!"
While she was speaking thus, the sound of voices and the steps of horsesdrew the attention of the captain. M. de Saint-Aignan came to seek LaValliere. "The king," he said, "was a prey to jealousy and uneasiness."Saint-Aignan did not see D'Artagnan, half concealed by the trunk of achestnut-tree which shaded the two graves. Louise thanked Saint-Aignan,and dismissed him with a gesture. He rejoined the party outside theinclosure.
"You see, madame," said the captain bitterly to the young woman--"yousee that 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 ill-judged me. On that day,it is I who will pray God to forgive you for having been unjust towardme. Besides, I shall suffer so much that you will be the first to pitymy sufferings. Do not reproach me with that happiness, Monsieurd'Artagnan; it costs me dear, and I have not paid all my debt." Sayingthese words, she again knelt down, softly and affectionately.
"Pardon me, the last time, my affianced Raoul!" said she. "I have brokenour chain; we are both destined to die of grief. It is thou whodepartest the first; fear nothing, I shall follow thee. See only, that Ihave 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 haveredeemed thine, I would have given that life without hesitation. I couldnot give my love. Once more, pardon!"
She gathered a branch, and stuck it into the ground; then, wiping thetears from her eyes, she 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 turnto depart?" said he, in an agitated voice. "What is there left for manafter youth, after love, after glory, after friendship, after strength,after riches? That rock, under which sleeps Porthos, who possessed all Ihave named; this moss, under which repose Athos and Raoul, who possessedstill much more!"
He hesitated a moment, with a dull eye; then, drawing himself up:"Forward! still forward!" said he. "When it shall be time, God will tellme, as He has told others."
He touched the earth, moistened with the evening dew, with the ends ofhis fingers, signed himself as if he had been at the _benitier_ of achurch, and retook alone--ever alone--the road to Paris.
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