“You have commanded, Monsieur,” replied Raoul, “and I obey.”
“Commanded!” cried Athos. “Is it thus you reply to me? I have commanded you! Oh! you distort my words as you misconceive my intentions. I do not command you; I request you.”
“No, Monsieur, you have commanded,” said Raoul, persistently; “had you requested me, your request is even more effective than your order. I have not seen Mademoiselle de La Vallière again.”
“But you are unhappy! you are unhappy!” insisted Athos.
Raoul made no reply.
“I find you pale; I find you dull. The sentiment is strong, then?”
“It is a passion,” replied Raoul.
“No—a habit.”
“Monsieur, you know I have traveled much, that I have passed two years far away from her. A habit would yield to an absence of two years, I believe; whereas, on my return, I loved not more, that was impossible, but as much. Mademoiselle de La Vallière is for me the one lady above all others; but you are for me a god upon earth—to you I sacrifice everything.”
“You are wrong,” said Athos; “I have no longer any right over you. Age has emancipated you; you no longer even stand in need of my consent. Besides, I will not refuse my consent after what you have told me. Marry Mademoiselle de La Vallière, if you like.”
Raoul was startled, but suddenly: “You are very kind, Monsieur,” said he; “and your concession excites my warmest gratitude, but I will not accept it.”
“Then you now refuse?”
“Yes, Monsieur.”
“I will not oppose you in anything, Raoul.”
“But you have at the bottom of your heart an idea against this marriage: it is not your choice.”
“That is true.”
“That is sufficient to make me resist: I will wait.”
“Beware, Raoul! What you are now saying is serious.”
“I know it is, Monsieur; as I said, I will wait.”
“Until I die?” said Athos, much agitated.
“Oh! Monsieur,” cried Raoul, with tears in his eyes, “is it possible that you should wound my heart thus? I have never given you cause of complaint!”
“Dear boy, that is true,” murmured Athos, pressing his lips violently together to conceal the emotion of which he was no longer master. “No, I will no longer afflict you; only I do not comprehend what you mean by waiting. Will you wait till you love no longer?”
“Ah! for that!—no, Monsieur. I will wait till you change your opinion.”
“I should wish to put the matter to a test, Raoul; I should like to see if Mademoiselle de La Vallière will wait as you do.”
“I hope so, Monsieur.”
“But, take care, Raoul! suppose she did not wait? Ah, you are young, so confiding, so loyal! Women are changeable.”
“You have never spoken ill to me of women, Monsieur; you have never had to complain of them; why should you doubt of Mademoiselle de La Vallière?”
“That is true,” said Athos, casting down his eyes; “I have never spoken ill to you of women; I have never had to complain of them; Mademoiselle de La Vallière never gave birth to a suspicion; but when we are looking forward, we must go even to exceptions, even to improbabilities! If, I say, Mademoiselle de La Vallière should not wait for you?”
“How, Monsieur?”
“If she turned her eyes another way.”
“If she looked favorably upon another, do you mean, Monsieur?” said Raoul, pale with agony.
“Exactly.”
“Well, Monsieur, I would kill him,” said Raoul, simply, “and all the men whom Mademoiselle de La Vallière should choose, until one of them had killed me, or Mademoiselle de La Vallière had restored me her heart.”
Athos started. “I thought,” resumed he, in an agitated voice, “that you called my just now your god, your law in this world.”
“Oh!” said Raoul, trembling, “you would forbid me the duel?”
“Suppose I did forbid it, Raoul?”
“You would not forbid me to hope, Monsieur; consequently you would not forbid me to die.”
Athos raised his eyes toward the vicomte. He had pronounced these words with the most melancholy inflection, accompanied by the most melancholy look. “Enough,” said Athos, after a long silence, “enough of this subject, upon which we both go too far. Live as well as you are able, Raoul, perform your duties, love Mademoiselle de La Vallière; in a word, act like a man, since you have attained the age of a man; only do not forget that I love you tenderly, and that you profess to love me.”
“Ah! Monsieur le Comte!” cried Raoul, pressing the hand of Athos to his heart.
“Enough, dear boy, leave me; I want rest. Apropos, M. d’Artagnan has returned from England with me; you owe him a visit.”
“I will pay it, Monsieur, with great pleasure. I love Monsieur d’Artagnan exceedingly.”
“You are right in doing so; he is a worthy man and a brave cavalier.”
“Who loves you dearly.”
“I am sure of that. Do you know his address?”
“At the Louvre, I suppose, or wherever the king is. Does he not command the Musketeers?”
“No; at present M. d’Artagnan is absent on leave; he is resting for awhile. Do not, therefore, seek him at the posts of his service. You will hear of him at the house
