. The Angel of Death.

Athos was at this part of his marvelous vision, when the charm was
suddenly broken by a great noise rising from the outer gates. A horse
was heard galloping over the hard gravel of the great alley, and the
sound of 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 towards 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 towards the stables.
Great hesitation appeared in the steps, which by degrees approached the
chamber. A door was opened, and Athos, turning a little towards 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 face.
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. 'Twas now a stern and pale old man, his clothes covered
with dust, and hair whitened by old age. He trembled whilst 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 tongue-tied whilst looking at
each other. By the exchange of a single glance they had just read to
the bottom of each other's hearts. The old servitor bore upon his
countenance the impression of a grief already old, the outward token of
a grim familiarity with woe. He appeared to have no longer in use more
than a 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 it not so?_"

Behind Grimaud the other servants listened breathlessly, with th