f, with a sigh. As he
made this reflection, he fancied he heard a groan in the room above him;
and he thought immediately of poor Mousqueton, whom he felt it was a
pleasing duty to divert from his grief. For this purpose he left the
hall hastily to seek the worthy intendant, as he had not returned. He
ascended the staircase leading to the first story, and perceived, in
Porthos' own chamber, a heap of clothes of all colors and all materials,
upon which Mousqueton had laid himself down after heaping them together.
It was the legacy of the faithful friend. These clothes were truly his
own; they had been given to him; the hand of Mousqueton was stretched
over these relics, which he kissed with all his lips, with all his face,
which he covered with his whole body. D'Artagnan approached to console
the poor fellow.

"My God!" said he, "he does not stir--he has fainted!"

But D'Artagnan was mistaken--Mousqueton was dead! Dead, like the dog
who, having lost his master, comes back to die upon his cloak.

CHAPTER CXXX.

THE OLD AGE OF ATHOS.

While all these affairs were separating forever the four musketeers,
formerly bound together in a manner that seemed indissoluble, Athos,
left alone after the departure of Raoul, began to pay his tribute to
that anticipated death which is called the absence of those we love.
Returned to his house at Blois, no longer having even Grimaud to receive
a poor smile when he passed through the parterre, Athos daily felt the
decline of the vigor of a nature which for so long a time had appeared
infallible. Age, which had been kept back by the presence of the beloved
object, arrived with that cortege of pains and inconveniences, which
increases in proportion as it makes itself looked for. Athos had no
longer his son to induce him to walk firmly, with his head erect, as a
good example; he had no longer, in those brilliant eyes of the young
man, an ever-ardent focus at which to regenerate the fire of his looks.
And then, must it be said, that nature, exquisite in its tenderness and
its reserve, no longer finding anything that comprehended its feelings,
gave itself up to grief with all the warmth of vulgar natures when they
give themselves up to joy. The Comte de la Fere, who had remained a
young man up to his sixty-second year; the warrior, who had preserved
his strength in spite of fatigues, his freshness of mind in spite of
misfortunes, his mild serenity of soul and body in spite of Milady