men, 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!"

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."

He touched the earth, moistened with the evening dew, with the ends
of his fingers, signed himself as if he had been at the _benitier_ in
church, and retook alone--ever alone--the road to Paris.

Epilogue.

Four years after the scene we have just described, two horsemen, well
mounted, traversed Blois early in the morning, for the purpose of
arranging a hawking party the king had arranged to make in that uneven
plain the Loire divides in two, which borders on the one side Meung, on
the other Amboise. These were the keeper of the king's harriers and the
master of the falcons, personages greatly respected in the time of
Louis XIII., but rather neglected by his successor. The horsemen, having
reconnoitered the ground, were returning, their observations made, when
they perceived certain little groups of soldiers, here and there,
whom the sergeants were placing at distances at the openings of the
inclosures. These were the king's musketeers. Behind them came, upon a
splendid horse, the captain, known by his richly embroidered uniform.
His hair was gray, his beard turning so. He seemed a little bent,
although sitting and handling his horse gracefully. He was looking about
him watchfully.

"M. d'Artagnan does not get any older," said the keeper of the harriers
to his colleague the falconer; "with ten years more to carry than either
of us, he has the seat of a young man on horseback."

"That is true," replied the falconer. "I don't see any change in him for
the last twenty years."

But this officer was mistaken; D'Artagnan in the last four years had
lived a dozen. Age had printed its pitiless claws at each angle of his
eyes; his brow was bald; his hands, formerly brown and nervous, were
getting white, as if the blood had half forgotten them.

D'Artagnan accosted the officers with the shade of affability which
distinguishes superiors, and received in turn for his courtesy t