rewell! What do you mean by that? Is Raoul going anywhere?"

"Yes."

"Then I will lay a wager it is with M. de Beaufort."

"With M. de Beaufort it is, my dear friend; you always guess rightly."

"From habit."

While the two friends were commencing their conversation, Raoul, with
his head hanging down and his heart oppressed, seated himself on a mossy
rock, his gun across his knees, looking at the sea--looking at the
heavens, and listening to the voice of his soul--he allowed the
sportsmen to attain a considerable distance from him. D'Artagnan
remarked his absence.

"He has not recovered the blow," said he to Athos.

"He is struck to death."

"Oh! your fears exaggerate, I hope. Raoul is of a fine nature. Around
all hearts so noble as his there is a second envelope which forms a
cuirass. The first bleeds, the second resists."

"No," replied Athos. "Raoul will die of it."

"Mordioux!" said D'Artagnan, in a melancholy tone. And he did not add a
word to this exclamation. Then, a minute after. "Why do you let him go?"

"Because he insists upon going."

"And why do you not go with him?"

"Because I could not bear to see him die."

D'Artagnan looked his friend earnestly in the face. "You know one
thing," continued the comte, leaning upon the arm of the captain; "you
know that in the course of my life I have been afraid of but few things.
Well! I have an incessant, gnawing, insurmountable fear that a day will
arrive in which I shall hold the dead body of that boy in my arms."

"Oh!" murmured D'Artagnan; "oh!"

"He will die, I know. I have a perfect conviction of that; but I would
not see him die."

"How is this, Athos? you come and place yourself in the presence of the
bravest man you say you have ever seen, of your own D'Artagnan, of that
man without an equal, as you formerly called him, and you come and tell
him with your arms folded that you are afraid of witnessing the death of
your son, you who have seen all that can be seen in this world! Why have
you this fear, Athos? Man upon this earth must expect everything and
ought to face everything."

"Listen to me, my friend. After having worn myself out upon this earth
of which you speak, I have preserved but two religions: that of life, my
friendships, my duty as a father--that of eternity, love and respect for
God. Now, I have within me the revelation that if God should decree that
my friend or my son should render up his last sigh in my presence--oh,
no,