"It does not astonish me, monsieur, that you should have such a thought," replied the young man, "for I have at this moment the same, and think also that I shall never see MM. de Valon and d'Herblay again."
"Oh! you," replied the comte, "you speak like a man rendered sad by another cause; you see everything in black; you are young and if you chance never to see those old friends again, it will be because they no longer exist in the world in which you have many years to pass. But I—"
Raoul shook his head sadly, and leaned upon the shoulder of the comte, without either of them finding another word in their hearts which were ready to overflow.
All at once a noise of horses and voices, from the extremity of the road to Blois, attracted their attention that way. Flambeaux-bearers shook their torches merrily among the trees of their route, and turned round, from time to time, to avoid distancing the horsemen who followed them. These flames, this noise, this dust of a dozen richly caparisoned horses, formed a strange contrast in the middle of the night with the melancholy funereal disappearance of the two shadows of Aramis and Porthos. Athos went toward the house; but he had hardly reached the parterre, when the entrance gate appeared in a blaze; all the flambeaux stopped and appeared to enflame the road. A cry was heard of "M. le Duc de Beaufort"—and Athos sprang toward the door of his house. But the duc had already alighted from his horse, and was looking around him.
"I am here, monseigneur," said Athos.
"Ah! good-evening, dear comte," said the prince, with that frank cordiality which won him so many hearts. "Is it too late for a friend?"
"Ah! my dear prince—come in!" said the comte.
And, M. de Beaufort leaning on the arm of Athos, they entered the house, followed by Raoul, who walked respectfully and modestly among the officers of the prince, with several of whom he was acquainted.