h to be ready to set out at the
first summons. Who will make me that summons? life or death? God or
Raoul? My baggage is packed, my soul is prepared, I await the signal--I
wait, doctor, I wait!"

The doctor knew the temper of that mind; he appreciated the strength of
that body; he reflected for a moment, told himself that words were
useless, remedies absurd, and he left the chateau, exhorting Athos'
servants not to leave him for a moment.

The doctor being gone, Athos evinced neither anger nor vexation at
having been disturbed. He did not even desire that all letters that came
should be brought to him directly. He knew very well that every
distraction which should arrive would be a joy, a hope, which his
servants would have paid with their blood to procure him. Sleep had
become rare. By intense thinking, Athos forgot himself, for a few hours
at most, in a reverie more profound, more obscure than other people
would have called a dream. This momentary repose which this
forgetfulness afforded the body, fatigued the soul, for Athos lived a
double life during these wanderings of his understanding. One night, he
dreamed that Raoul was dressing himself in a tent, to go upon an
expedition commanded by M. de Beaufort in person. The young man was sad;
he clasped his cuirass slowly, and slowly he girded on his sword.

"What is the matter?" asked his father, tenderly.

"What afflicts me is the death of Porthos, ever so dear a friend,"
replied Raoul. "I suffer here of the grief you will feel at home."

And the vision disappeared with the slumber of Athos. At daybreak one of
his servants entered his master's apartments, and gave him a letter
which came from Spain.

"The writing of Aramis," thought the comte; and he read.

"Porthos is dead!" cried he, after the first lines. "Oh! Raoul, Raoul!
thanks! thou keepest thy promise, thou warnest me!"

And Athos, seized with a mortal sweat, fainted in his bed, without any
other cause than his weakness.

CHAPTER CXXXI.

THE VISION OF ATHOS.

When this fainting of Athos had ceased, the comte, almost ashamed of
having given way before this supernatural event, dressed himself and
ordered his horse, determined to ride to Blois, to open more certain
correspondence with either Africa, D'Artagnan, or Aramis. In fact, this
letter from Aramis informed the Comte de la Fere of the bad success of
the expedition of Belle-Isle. It gave him sufficient details of the
death of Porthos, to