“There is nothing to keep me any longer in Paris,” said Raoul.
“Then we will go immediately.”
“And M. d’Artagnan?”
“Oh! as for me, I was only accompanying Athos as far as the barrier, and I return with Porthos.”
“Very good,” said the latter.
“Come, my son,” added the comte, gently passing his arm around Raoul’s neck to draw him into the carriage, and again embracing him. “Grimaud,” continued the comte, “you will return quietly to Paris with your horse and M. du Vallon’s, for Raoul and I will mount here and give up the carriage to these two gentlemen to return to Paris in; and then, as soon as you arrive, you will take my clothes and letters and forward the whole to me at home.”
“But,” observed Raoul, who was anxious to make the comte converse, “when you return to Paris, there will not be a single thing there for you—which will be very inconvenient.”
“I think it will be a very long time, Raoul, ere I return to Paris. The last sojourn we have made there has not been of a nature to encourage me to repeat it.”
Raoul hung down his head and said not a word more. Athos descended from the carriage and mounted the horse which had brought Porthos, and which seemed no little pleased at the exchange. Then they embraced, and clasped each other’s hands, and interchanged a thousand pledges of eternal friendship. Porthos promised to spend a month with Athos at the first opportunity. D’Artagnan engaged to take advantage of his first leave of absence; and then, having embraced Raoul for the last time: “To you, my boy,” said he, “I will write.” Coming from D’Artagnan, who he knew wrote very seldom, these words expressed everything. Raoul was moved even to tears. He tore himself away from the musketeer and departed.
D’Artagnan rejoined Porthos in the carriage: “Well,” said he, “my dear friend, what a day we have had!”