he king: 'I am on duty.'"

"And you, my dear Aramis," said Athos, smiling; "will you accompany me?
La Fere is on the road to Vannes."

"Thank you, my dear friend," said Aramis, "but I have an appointment in
Paris this evening, and I cannot leave without very serious interests
suffering by my absence."

"In that case," said Athos, "I must say adieu, and take my leave of you.
My dear Monsieur de Baisemeaux, I have to thank you exceedingly for your
kind and friendly disposition toward me, and particularly for the
specimen you have given me of the usual fare of the Bastille." And,
having embraced Aramis, and shaken hands with M. de Baisemeaux, and
having received their wishes for an agreeable journey from them both,
Athos set off with D'Artagnan.

While the _denouement_ of the scene of the Palais Royal was taking place
at the Bastille, let us relate what was going on at the lodgings of
Athos and Bragelonne. Grimaud, as we have seen, had accompanied his
master to Paris; and, as we have said, he was present when Athos went
out; he had observed D'Artagnan gnaw the corners of his mustache; he had
seen his master get into the carriage; he had narrowly examined both
their countenances, and he had known them both for a sufficiently long
period to read and understand, through the mask of their impassibility,
that something serious was the matter. As soon as Athos had gone, he
began to reflect; he then, and then only, remembered the strange manner
in which Athos had taken leave of him, the embarrassment--imperceptible
for any one else but himself--of the master whose ideas were, to him, so
clear and defined, and the expression of whose wishes was so precise.
He knew that Athos had taken nothing with him but the clothes he had on
him at the time; and yet he seemed to fancy that Athos had not left for
an hour merely, or even for a day. A long absence was signified by the
manner in which he pronounced the word "Adieu." All these circumstances
recurred to his mind, with feelings of deep affection for Athos, with
that horror of isolation and solitude which invariably besets the minds
of those who love; and all these combined, rendered poor Grimaud very
melancholy, and particularly very uneasy. Without being able to account
to himself for what he did, since his master's departure he wandered
about the room, seeking, as it were, for some traces of him, like a
faithful dog, who is not exactly uneasy about his absent master, but at
least