this part of his marvelous vision, when the charm was
suddenly broken by a great noise rising from the outward gates of the
house. A horse was heard galloping over the hard gravel of the great
alley, and the sound of most noisy and animated conversations ascended
to the chamber in which the comte was dreaming. Athos did not stir from
the place he occupied; he scarcely turned his head toward the door to
ascertain the sooner what these noises could be. A heavy step ascended
the stairs; the horse which had recently galloped, departed slowly
toward the stables. Great hesitation appeared in the steps which by
degrees approached the chamber of Athos. A door then was opened, and
Athos, turning a little toward the part of the room the noise came from,
cried in a weak voice:

"It is a courier from Africa, is it not?"

"No, Monsieur le Comte," replied a voice which made the father of Raoul
start upright in his bed.

"Grimaud!" murmured he. And the sweat began to pour down his cheeks.
Grimaud appeared in the doorway. It was no longer the Grimaud we have
seen, still young with courage and devotion, when he jumped the first
into the boat destined to convey Raoul de Bragelonne to the vessels of
the royal fleet. He was a stern and pale old man, his clothes covered
with dust, with a few scattered hairs whitened by old age. He trembled
while leaning against the door-frame, and was near falling on seeing, by
the light of the lamps, the countenance of his master. These two men,
who had lived so long together in a community of intelligence, and whose
eyes, accustomed to economize expressions, knew how to say so many
things silently--these two old friends, one as noble as the other in
heart, if they were unequal in fortune and birth, remained interdicted
while looking at each other. By the exchange of a single glance they had
just read to the bottom of each other's heart. Grimaud bore upon his
countenance the impression of a grief already old, of a dismal
familiarity with it. He appeared to have no longer in use but one single
version of his thoughts. As formerly he was accustomed not to speak
much, he was now accustomed not to smile at all. Athos read at a glance
all these shades upon the visage of his faithful servant, and in the
same tone he would have employed to speak to Raoul in his dream--

"Grimaud," said he, "Raoul is dead, is he not?"

Behind Grimaud, the other servants listened breathlessly, with their
eyes fixed upon the b