, in
spite of Mazarin, in spite of La Valliere; Athos had become an old man
in a week, from the moment at which he had lost the support of his
latter youth. Still handsome, though bent; noble, but sad; gently, and
tottering under his gray hairs, he sought, since his solitude, the
glades where the rays of the sun penetrated through the foliage of the
walks. He discontinued all the strong exercises he had enjoyed through
life, when Raoul was no longer with him. The servants, accustomed to see
him stirring with the dawn at all seasons, were astonished to hear seven
o'clock strike before their master had quitted his bed. Athos remained
in bed with a book under his pillow, but he did not sleep, neither did
he read. Remaining in bed that he might no longer have to carry his
body, he allowed his soul and spirit to wander from their envelope, and
return to his son, or to God.

His people were sometimes terrified to see him, for hours together,
absorbed in a silent reverie, mute and insensible; he no longer heard
the timid step of the servant who came to the door of his chamber to
watch the sleeping or waking of his master. It often occurred that he
forgot that the day had half passed away, that the hours for the two
first meals were gone by. Then he was awakened. He rose, descended to
his shady walk, then came out a little into the sun, as if to partake
its warmth for a minute with his absent child. And then the dismal,
monotonous walk recommenced, until, quite exhausted, he regained the
chamber and the bed, his domicile by choice. For several days the comte
did not speak a single word. He refused to receive the visits that were
paid him, and, during the night, he was seen to relight his lamp and
pass long hours in writing, or examining parchments.

Athos wrote one of these letters to Vannes, another to Fontainebleau;
they remained without answers. We know why: Aramis had quitted France,
and D'Artagnan was traveling from Nantes to Paris, from Paris to
Pierrefonds. His valet-de-chambre observed that he shortened his walk
every day by several turns. The great alley of limes soon became too
long for feet that used to traverse it formerly a hundred times in a
day. The comte walked feebly as far as the middle trees, seated himself
upon a mossy bank which sloped toward a lateral walk, and there waited
the return of his strength, or rather the return of night. Very shortly,
a hundred steps exhausted him. At length Athos refused to ri