Chapter 58

Chapter LVIII
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 outward gates of the house. 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 count 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 with such rapidity departed slowly towards the stables. Great hesitation appeared in the steps which by degrees approached the chamber of Athos. A door then 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 the Count,” 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 cheeks. 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 which was to convey Raoul de Bragelonne to the vessels of the royal fleet. He was a stern and pale old man, his clothes covered with dust, his few scattered hairs whitened by old age. He trembled while 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 silent while looking at each other. By the exchange of a single glance they had just read to the bottom of each other’s heart. Grimaud bore upon his countenance the impression of a grief already old, of a familiarity with sorrow. He appeared now to have at his command but one interpreter of his thought. As formerly he was accustomed not to speak, he now had accustomed himself not to smile. 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 he not?”

Behind Grimaud the other servants listened breathlessly, with their eyes fixed upon the bed of their sick master. They heard the terrible question, and an awful silence ensued.

“Yes,” replied the old man, heaving up the monosyllable from his chest with a hoarse broken sigh.

Then arose voices of lamentation, which groaned without measure, and filled with regrets and prayers the chamber where the agonized father searched with his eyes