r for a moment suppose that the
son would not offer the best part to the father? The rough mind of
Porthos had fathomed all these causes, seized all these shades more
clearly than law, better than custom, with more propriety than taste.

"Porthos had indeed a heart," said D'Artagnan to himself with a sigh.
As he made this reflection, he fancied he hard a groan in the room above
him; and he thought immediately of poor Mousqueton, whom he felt it was
a pleasing duty to divert from his grief. For this purpose he left the
hall hastily to seek the worthy intendant, as he had not returned. He
ascended the staircase leading to the first story, and perceived, in
Porthos's own chamber, a heap of clothes of all colors and materials,
upon which Mousqueton had laid himself down after heaping them all on
the floor together. It was the legacy of the faithful friend. Those
clothes were truly his own; they had been given to him; the hand of
Mousqueton was stretched over these relics, which he was kissing with
his lips, with all his face, and covered with his body. D'Artagnan
approached to console the poor fellow.

"My God!" said he, "he does not stir--he has fainted!"

But D'Artagnan was mistaken. Mousqueton was dead! Dead, like the dog
who, having lost his master, crawls back to die upon his cloak.

Chapter LVI. The Old Age of Athos.

While these affairs were separating forever the four musketeers,
formerly bound together in a manner that seemed indissoluble, Athos,
left alone after the departure of Raoul, began to pay his tribute to
that foretaste of death which is called the absence of those we love.
Back in his house at Blois, no longer having even Grimaud to receive
a poor smile as he passed through the parterre, Athos daily felt
the decline of vigor of a nature which for so long a time had seemed
impregnable. Age, which had been kept back by the presence of the
beloved object, arrived with that _cortege_ of pains and inconveniences,
which grows by geometrical accretion. Athos had no longer his son to
induce him to walk firmly, with head erect, as a good example; he had no
longer, in those brilliant eyes of the young man, an ever-ardent focus
at which to kindle anew the fire of his looks. And then, must it be
said, that nature, exquisite in tenderness and reserve, no longer
finding anything to understand its feelings, gave itself up to grief
with all the warmth of common natures when they yield to joy. The Comte
de la Fer