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<h2> Chapter LX. The Last Canto of the Poem. </h2>
<p>On the morrow, all the <i>noblesse</i> of the provinces, of the environs,
and wherever messengers had carried the news, might have been seen
arriving in detachments. D'Artagnan had shut himself up, without being
willing to speak to anybody. Two such heavy deaths falling upon the
captain, so closely after the death of Porthos, for a long time oppressed
that spirit which had hitherto been so indefatigable and invulnerable.
Except Grimaud, who entered his chamber once, the musketeer saw neither
servants nor guests. He supposed, from the noises in the house, and the
continual coming and going, that preparations were being made for the
funeral of the comte. He wrote to the king to ask for an extension of his
leave of absence. Grimaud, as we have said, had entered D'Artagnan's
apartment, had seated himself upon a joint-stool near the door, like a man
who meditates profoundly; then, rising, he made a sign to D'Artagnan to
follow him. The latter obeyed in silence. Grimaud descended to the comte's
bed-chamber, showed the captain with his finger the place of the empty
bed, and raised his eyes eloquently towards Heaven.</p>
<p>"Yes," replied D'Artagnan, "yes, good Grimaud—now with the son he
loved so much!"</p>
<p>Grimaud left the chamber, and led the way to the hall, where, according to
the custom of the province, the body was laid out, previously to being put
away forever. D'Artagnan was struck at seeing two open coffins in the
hall. In reply to the mute invitation of Grimaud, he approached, and saw
in one of them Athos, still handsome in death, and, in the other, Raoul
with his eyes closed, his cheeks pearly as those of the Palls of Virgil,
with a smile on his violet lips. He shuddered at seeing the father and
son, those two departed souls, represented on earth by two silent,
melancholy bodies, incapable of touching each other, however close they
might be.</p>
<p>"Raoul here!" murmured he. "Oh! Grimaud, why did you not tell me this?"</p>
<p>Grimaud shook his head, and made no reply; but taking D'Artagnan by the
hand, he led him to the coffin, and showed him, under the thin
winding-sheet, the black wounds by which life had escaped. The captain
turned away his eyes, and, judging it was useless to question Grimaud, who
would not answer, he recollected that M. de Beaufort's secretary had
written more than he, D'Artagnan, had had the courage to read. Taking up
the recital of the affair which had cost Raoul his life, he found these
words, which ended the concluding paragraph of the letter:</p>
<p>"Monseigneur le duc has ordered that the body of monsieur le vicomte
should be embalmed, after the manner practiced by the Arabs when they wish
their dead to be carried to their native land; and monsieur le duc has
appointed relays, so that the same confidential servant who brought up the
young man might take back his remains to M. le Comte de la Fere."</p>
<p>"And so," thought D'Artagnan, "I shall follow thy funeral, my dear boy—I,
already old—I, who am of no value on earth—and I shall scatter
dust upon that brow I kissed but two months since. God has willed it to be
so. Thou hast willed it to be so, thyself. I have no longer the right even
to weep. Thou hast chosen death; it seemed to thee a preferable gift to
life."</p>
<p>At length arrived the moment when the chill remains of these two gentlemen
were to be given back to mother earth. There was such an affluence of
military and other people that up to the place of the sepulture, which was
a little chapel on the plain, the road from the city was filled with
horsemen and pedestrians in mourning. Athos had chosen for his
resting-place the little inclosure of a chapel erected by himself near the
boundary of his estates. He had had the stones, cut in 1550, brought from
an old Gothic manor-house in Berry, which had sheltered his early youth.
The chapel, thus rebuilt, transported, was pleasing to the eye beneath its
leafy curtains of poplars and sycamores. It was ministered in every
Sunday, by the cure of the neighboring bourg, to whom Athos paid an
allowance of two hundred francs for this service; and all the vassals of
his domain, with their families, came thither to hear mass, without having
any occasion to go to the city.</p>
<p>Behind the chapel extended, surrounded by two high hedges of hazel, elder
and white thorn, and a deep ditch, the little inclosure—uncultivated,
though gay in its sterility; because the mosses there grew thick, wild
heliotrope and ravenelles there mingled perfumes, while from beneath an
ancient chestnut issued a crystal spring, a prisoner in its marble
cistern, and on the thyme all around alighted thousands of bees from the
neighboring plants, whilst chaffinches and redthroats sang cheerfully
among the flower-spangled hedges. It was to this place the somber coffins
were carried, attended by a silent and respectful crowd. The office of the
dead being celebrated, the last adieux paid to the noble departed, the
assembly dispersed, talking, along the roads, of the virtues and mild
death of the father, of the hopes the son had given, and of his melancholy
end upon the arid coast of Africa.</p>
<p>Little by little, all noises were extinguished, like the lamps
illuminating the humble nave. The minister bowed for the last time to the
altar and the still fresh graves; then, followed by his assistant, he
slowly took the road back to the presbytery. D'Artagnan, left alone,
perceived that night was coming on. He had forgotten the hour, thinking
only of the dead. He arose from the oaken bench on which he was seated in
the chapel, and wished, as the priest had done, to go and bid a last adieu
to the double grave which contained his two lost friends.</p>
<p>A woman was praying, kneeling on the moist earth. D'Artagnan stopped at
the door of the chapel, to avoid disturbing her, and also to endeavor to
find out who was the pious friend who performed this sacred duty with so
much zeal and perseverance. The unknown had hidden her face in her hands,
which were white as alabaster. From the noble simplicity of her costume,
she must be a woman of distinction. Outside the inclosure were several
horses mounted by servants; a travelling carriage was in waiting for this
lady. D'Artagnan in vain sought to make out what caused her delay. She
continued praying, and frequently pressed her handkerchief to her face, by
which D'Artagnan perceived she was weeping. He beheld her strike her
breast with the compunction of a Christian woman. He heard her several
times exclaim as from a wounded heart: "Pardon! pardon!" And as she
appeared to abandon herself entirely to her grief, as she threw herself
down, almost fainting, exhausted by complaints and prayers, D'Artagnan,
touched by this love for his so much regretted friends, made a few steps
towards the grave, in order to interrupt the melancholy colloquy of the
penitent with the dead. But as soon as his step sounded on the gravel, the
unknown raised her head, revealing to D'Artagnan a face aflood with tears,
a well-known face. It was Mademoiselle de la Valliere! "Monsieur
d'Artagnan!" murmured she.</p>
<p>"You!" replied the captain, in a stern voice, "you here!—oh! madame,
I should better have liked to see you decked with flowers in the mansion
of the Comte de la Fere. You would have wept less—and they too—and
I!"</p>
<p>"Monsieur!" said she, sobbing.</p>
<p>"For it was you," added this pitiless friend of the dead,—"it was
you who sped these two men to the grave."</p>
<p>"Oh! spare me!"</p>
<p>"God forbid, madame, that I should offend a woman, or that I should make
her weep in vain; but I must say that the place of the murderer is not
upon the grave of her victims." She wished to reply.</p>
<p>"What I now tell you," added he, coldly, "I have already told the king."</p>
<p>She clasped her hands. "I know," said she, "I have caused the death of the
Vicomte de Bragelonne."</p>
<p>"Ah! you know it?"</p>
<p>"The news arrived at court yesterday. I have traveled during the night
forty leagues to come and ask pardon of the comte, whom I supposed to be
still living, and to pray God, on the tomb of Raoul, that he would send me
all the misfortunes I have merited, except a single one. Now, monsieur, I
know that the death of the son has killed the father; I have two crimes to
reproach myself with; I have two punishments to expect from Heaven."</p>
<p>"I will repeat to you, mademoiselle," said D'Artagnan, "what M. de
Bragelonne said of you, at Antibes, when he already meditated death: 'If
pride and coquetry have misled her, I pardon her while despising her. If
love has produced her error, I pardon her, but I swear that no one could
have loved her as I have done.'"</p>
<p>"You know," interrupted Louise, "that of my love I was about to sacrifice
myself; you know whether I suffered when you met me lost, dying,
abandoned. Well! never have I suffered so much as now; because then I
hoped, desired,—now I have no longer anything to wish for; because
this death drags all my joy into the tomb; because I can no longer dare to
love without remorse, and I feel that he whom I love—oh! it is but
just!—will repay me with the tortures I have made others undergo."</p>
<p>D'Artagnan made no reply; he was too well convinced that she was not
mistaken.</p>
<p>"Well, then," added she, "dear Monsieur d'Artagnan, do not overwhelm me
to-day, I again implore you! I am like the branch torn from the trunk, I
no longer hold to anything in this world—a current drags me on, I
know not whither. I love madly, even to the point of coming to tell it,
wretch that I am, over the ashes of the dead, and I do not blush for it—I
have no remorse on this account. Such love is a religion. Only, as
hereafter you will see me alone, forgotten, disdained; as you will see me
punished, as I am destined to be punished, spare me in my ephemeral
happiness, leave it to me for a few days, for a few minutes. Now, even at
the moment I am speaking to you, perhaps it no longer exists. My God! this
double murder is perhaps already expiated!"</p>
<p>While she was speaking thus, the sound of voices and of horses drew the
attention of the captain. M. de Saint-Aignan came to seek La Valliere.
"The king," he said, "is a prey to jealousy and uneasiness." Saint-Aignan
did not perceive D'Artagnan, half concealed by the trunk of a
chestnut-tree which shaded the double grave. Louise thanked Saint-Aignan,
and dismissed him with a gesture. He rejoined the party outside the
inclosure.</p>
<p>"You see, madame," said the captain bitterly to the young woman,—"you
see your happiness still lasts."</p>
<p>The young woman raised her head with a solemn air. "A day will come," said
she, "when you will repent of having so misjudged me. On that day, it is I
who will pray God to forgive you for having been unjust towards me.
Besides, I shall suffer so much that you yourself will be the first to
pity my sufferings. Do not reproach me with my fleeting happiness,
Monsieur d'Artagnan; it costs me dear, and I have not paid all my debt."
Saying these words, she again knelt down, softly and affectionately.</p>
<p>"Pardon me the last time, my affianced Raoul!" said she. "I have broken
our chain; we are both destined to die of grief. It is thou who departest
first; fear nothing, I shall follow thee. See, only, that I have not been
base, and that I have come to bid thee this last adieu. The Lord is my
witness, Raoul, that if with my life I could have redeemed thine, I would
have given that life without hesitation. I could not give my love. Once
more, forgive me, dearest, kindest friend."</p>
<p>She strewed a few sweet flowers on the freshly sodded earth; then, wiping
the tears from her eyes, the heavily stricken lady bowed to D'Artagnan,
and disappeared.</p>
<p>The captain watched the departure of the horses, horsemen, and carriage,
then crossing his arms upon his swelling chest, "When will it be my turn
to depart?" said he, in an agitated voice. "What is there left for man
after youth, love, glory, friendship, strength, and wealth have
disappeared? That rock, under which sleeps Porthos, who possessed all I
have named; this moss, under which repose Athos and Raoul, who possessed
much more!"</p>
<p>He hesitated for a moment, with a dull eye; then, drawing himself up,
"Forward! still forward!" said he. "When it is time, God will tell me, as
he foretold the others."</p>
<p>He touched the earth, moistened with the evening dew, with the ends of his
fingers, signed himself as if he had been at the <i>benitier</i> in
church, and retook alone—ever alone—the road to Paris.</p>
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