would please me, Raoul, spend them."

Raoul pressed the hand of his father, and, at the turning of a street,
they saw M. de Beaufort, mounted upon a magnificent white genet, which
replied by graceful curvets to the applauses of the women of the city.
The duc called Raoul and held out his hand to the comte. He spoke to him
for some time, with such a kindly expression, that the heart of the poor
father even felt a little comforted. It was, however, evident to both
father and son that their walk was directed to nothing less than a
punishment. There was a terrible moment--that at which, on quitting the
sands of the shore, the soldiers and sailors exchanged the last kisses
with their families and friends; a supreme moment, in which,
notwithstanding the clearness of the heavens, the warmth of the sun, of
the perfumes of the air, and the rich life that was circulating in their
veins, everything appeared black, everything appeared bitter, everything
created doubts of a God, while speaking by the mouth, even, of God. It
was customary for the admiral and his suite to embark the last: the
cannon waited to announce, with its formidable voice, that the leader
had placed his foot on board his vessel. Athos, forgetful of both the
admiral and the fleet, and of his own dignity as a strong man, opened
his arms to his son, and pressed him, convulsively, to his heart.

"Accompany us on board," said the duc, very much affected; "you will
gain a good half-hour."

"No," said Athos, "my farewell is spoken. I do not wish to speak a
second."

"Then, vicomte, embark--embark quickly!" added the prince, wishing to
spare the tears of these two men, whose hearts were bursting. And
paternally, tenderly, very much as Porthos might have done, he took
Raoul in his arms and placed him in the boat; the oars of which, at a
signal, immediately were dipped in the waves. Himself, forgetful of
ceremony, he jumped into his boat, and pushed it off with a vigorous
foot.

"Adieu!" cried Raoul.

Athos replied only by a sign, but he felt something burning on his hand;
it was the respectful kiss of Grimaud--the last farewell of the faithful
dog. This kiss given, Grimaud jumped from the step of the mole upon the
stem of a two-oared yawl, which had just been taken in tow by a
_chaland_ served by twelve galley-oars. Athos seated himself on the
mole, stunned, deaf, abandoned. Every instant took from him one of the
features, one of the shades of the pale face of h