At the Tomb of Athos
The grove behind the chapel had changed little in two years, and as d'Artagnan wandered quietly into it, he recalled to his memory the very day that the Comte de la Fère and his beloved son had been laid, together in death, beneath the lush sward of moss which blanketed the center of the grove.
The hedges and shrubs enclosing the little clearing were neatly trimmed and healthy; Grimaud, in his eternal devotion to his deceased master, had not failed to maintain the beauty of that place which he sanctified beyond all others. The whitethorn bushes were speckled with the sweet buds of spring; heliotropes and asters arrayed themselves freely in the tranquil grass; and in the chestnut trees a robin was raising his voice in a brilliant song to welcome the coming of the day.
D'Artagnan approached the single young cypress that shaded the mossy tombs. He stepped slowly, cautiously, as if fearing to disturb the souls that once rested within the bodies that now lay a few scant feet beneath the ground. He need not have feared; the springy moss cushioned the iron-shod tread of the musketeer, and not a sound was to be heard.
In a sudden movement the captain sank to his knees, trembling, perhaps, from emotion or weariness, or some combination of the two.
"Athos, my friend!" he murmured. "Pardon I ask of thee. Thou art in deserved paradise, accompanied by joy and love and the son thou lovest so dearly. I do thee disservice to recall thee to this gray world. And yet," D'Artagnan paused, shivering slightly, though the sun was warm and the wind unmoving; "and yet I could not keep myself away. Oh Athos!" cried the aged musketeer, his intelligent dark eyes dimmed with sorrow. "Thou wert the noblest man of us all, the best to ever walk the roads of Paris – nay, of France, and of all the world. I think now of the things I desired in days of youth – I recall that terrible day when we crossed swords as enemies, and may have done so yet again that night, were it no for thy humility – thy nobility! And even then I yet sought riches and glory. Well, I cannot regret that I have gained my fair share of both. But what are they against thee, my best – my most beloved friend? I would gladly change places with the most pitiful prisoner of the Bastille, if I could but see thy kind face and hear thy wise words one last time. If that could be, then I hold my life forfeit, and to God or the Devil I care not. But that would betray thy love and thy trust, dearest Athos, so I shall yet persevere in this world. Mordioux! I should do anything to keep thy love, for it is all that thou hast bequeathed me."
At this point in d'Artagnan's mournful address, a sonorous ringing echoed through the early morning, sounding solemnly from the chapel. The redoubted captain waited until the sixth and final toll of the bell had ceased to tremble in the quiet air before raising himself from the mossy grave. His lavishly embroidered tunic was damp from the morning dew, but he did not move to wring it dry. With a bowed head and heavy steps, d'Artagnan treaded to the marble cistern, in which sat a bright pool of water that was soothing to look upon and sweet to drink. The musketeer did both, and when he retreated from the silent grove and the quiet tomb, his noble head stood erected proudly, and his powerful, if sad eyes were bright with life once more.