on
the stem of a two-oared yawl, which had just been taken in tow by a
_chaland_ served by twelve galley-oars. Athos seated himself on the
mole, stunned, deaf, abandoned. Every instant took from him one of the
features, one of the shades of the pale face of his son. With his arms
hanging down, his eyes fixed, his mouth open, he remained confounded
with Raoul--in one same look, in one same thought, in one same stupor.
The sea, by degrees, carried away boats and faces to that distance at
which men become nothing but points,--loves, nothing but remembrances.
Athos saw his son ascend the ladder of the admiral's ship, he saw him
lean upon the rail of the deck, and place himself in such a manner as
to be always an object in the eye of his father. In vain the cannon
thundered, in vain from the ship sounded the long and lordly tumult,
responded to by immense acclamations from the shore; in vain did the
noise deafen the ear of the father, the smoke obscured the cherished
object of his aspirations. Raoul appeared to him to the last moment; and
the imperceptible atom, passing from black to pale, from pale to white,
from white to nothing, disappeared for Athos--disappeared very long
after, to all the eyes of the spectators, had disappeared both gallant
ships and swelling sails. Towards midday, when the sun devoured space,
and scarcely the tops of the masts dominated the incandescent limit of
the sea, Athos perceived a soft aerial shadow rise, and vanish as soon
as seen. This was the smoke of a cannon, which M. de Beaufort ordered to
be fired as a last salute to the coast of France. The point was buried
in its turn beneath the sky, and Athos returned with slow and painful
step to his deserted hostelry.

Chapter XXXIV. Among Women.

D'Artagnan had not been able to hide his feelings from his friends
so much as he would have wished. The stoical soldier, the impassive
man-at-arms, overcome by fear and sad presentiments, had yielded, for
a few moments, to human weakness. When, therefore, he had silenced
his heart and calmed the agitation of his nerves, turning towards his
lackey, a silent servant, always listening, in order to obey the more
promptly:

"Rabaud," said he, "mind, we must travel thirty leagues a day."

"At your pleasure, captain," replied Rabaud.

And from that moment, D'Artagnan, accommodating his action to the pace
of the horse, like a true centaur, gave up his thoughts to nothing--that
is to say, to everything.