and the shutters barred; the dogs became in their turn silent.
At last a nightingale, lost in a thicket of shrubs, in the midst of
its most melodious cadences had fluted low and lower into stillness and
fallen asleep. Not a sound was heard in the castle, except of a footstep
up and down, in the chamber above--as he supposed, the bedroom of Athos.

"He is walking about and thinking," thought D'Artagnan; "but of what? It
is impossible to know; everything else might be guessed, but not that."

At length Athos went to bed, apparently, for the noise ceased.

Silence and fatigue together overcame D'Artagnan and sleep overtook him
also. He was not, however, a good sleeper. Scarcely had dawn gilded
his window curtains when he sprang out of bed and opened the windows.
Somebody, he perceived, was in the courtyard, moving stealthily. True to
his custom of never passing anything over that it was within his power
to know, D'Artagnan looked out of the window and perceived the close red
coat and brown hair of Raoul.

The young man was opening the door of the stable. He then, with
noiseless haste, took out the horse that he had ridden on the previous
evening, saddled and bridled it himself and led the animal into the
alley to the right of the kitchen-garden, opened a side door which
conducted him to a bridle road, shut it after him, and D'Artagnan
saw him pass by like a dart, bending, as he went, beneath the pendent
flowery branches of maple and acacia. The road, as D'Artagnan had
observed, was the way to Blois.

"So!" thought the Gascon "here's a young blade who has already his love
affair, who doesn't at all agree with Athos in his hatred to the fair
sex. He's not going to hunt, for he has neither dogs nor arms; he's not
going on a message, for he goes secretly. Why does he go in secret? Is
he afraid of me or of his father? for I am sure the count is his father.
By Jove! I shall know about that soon, for I shall soon speak out to
Athos."

Day was now advanced; all the noises that had ceased the night before
reawakened, one after the other. The bird on the branch, the dog in his
kennel, the sheep in the field, the boats moored in the Loire, even,
became alive and vocal. The latter, leaving the shore, abandoned
themselves gaily to the current. The Gascon gave a last twirl to his
mustache, a last turn to his hair, brushed, from habit, the brim of his
hat with the sleeve of his doublet, and went downstairs. Scarcely had
he descend