and of the victory obtained
over the Arabs. D'Artagnan stopped at the account of the death of poor
Raoul. "Oh!" murmured he, "unhappy boy! a suicide!" And turning his
eyes towards the chamber of the chateau, in which Athos slept in eternal
sleep, "They kept their words with each other," said he, in a low voice;
"now I believe them to be happy; they must be reunited." And he
returned through the parterre with slow and melancholy steps. All the
village--all the neighborhood--were filled with grieving neighbors
relating to each other the double catastrophe, and making preparations
for the funeral.

Chapter LX. The Last Canto of the Poem.

On the morrow, all the _noblesse_ 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.

"Yes," replied D'Artagnan, "yes, good Grimaud--now with the son he loved
so much!"

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, incapabl