Epilogue

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 birding-party which the King intended to make in that uneven plain which the Loire divides in two, and which borders on the one side on Meung, on the other on Amboise. These were the captain of the King’s harriers and the governor of the falcons- personages greatly respected in the time of Louis XIII, but rather neglected by his successor. These two horsemen, having reconnoitred the ground, were returning, their observations made, when they perceived some little groups of soldiers here and there whom the sergeants were placing at distances at the openings of the enclosures. These were the King’s Musketeers. Behind them came, upon a good horse, the captain, known by his richly embroidered uniform. His hair was gray, his beard was becoming so. He appeared a little bent, although sitting and handling his horse gracefully. He was looking upon him watchfully.

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

“That is true,” replied the falconer. “I haven’t seen any change in him for the last twenty years.”

But this officer was mistaken; d’Artagnan in the last four years had lived twelve years. Age imprinted its pitiless claws at each corner of his eyes; his brow was bald; his hands, formerly brown and nervous, were getting white, as if the blood began to chill there.

D’Artagnan accosted the officers with the shade of affability which distinguishes superior men, and received in return for his courtesy two most respectful bows.

“Ah! what a lucky chance to see you here, M. d’Artagnan!” cried the falconer.

“It is rather for me to say that to you, Messieurs,” replied the captain, “for nowadays the King makes more frequent use of his Musketeers than of his falcons.”

“Ah! it is not as it was in the good old times,” sighed the falconer. “Do you remember, M. d’Artagnan, when the late King flew the pie in the vineyards beyond Beaugency? Ah, dame! you were not captain of the Musketeers at that time, M. d’Artagnan.”

“And you were nothing but under-corporal of the tiercels,” replied d’Artagnan, laughing. “Never mind that; it was a good time, seeing that it is always a good time when we are young. Good-day, Monsieur the Captain of the harriers.”

“You do me honor, Monsieur the Count,” said the latter. D’Artagnan made no reply. The title of count had not struck him; d’Artagnan had been a count four years.