“How wrong you are, Athos; how you gainsay your origin and the destiny of your noble nature. Men of your stamp are created to continue, to the very last moment, in full possession of their great faculties. Look at my sword, a Spanish blade, the one I wore at La Rochelle; it served me for thirty years without fail; one day in the winter it fell upon the marble floor on the Louvre and was broken. I had a hunting-knife made of it which will last a hundred years yet. You, Athos, with your loyalty, your frankness, your cool courage, and your sound information, are the very man kings need to warn and direct them. Remain here; Monsieur Fouquet will not last as long as my Spanish blade.” “Is it possible,” said Athos, smiling, “that my friend, D’Artagnan, who, after having raised me to the skies, making me an object of worship, casts me down from the top of Olympus, and hurls me to the ground? I have more exalted ambition, D’Artagnan. To be a minister--to be a slave,--never! Am I not still greater? I am nothing. I remember having heard you occasionally call me ‘the great Athos’; I defy you, therefore, if I were minister, to continue to bestow that title upon me. No, no; I do not yield myself in this manner.” “We will not speak of it any more, then; renounce everything, even the brotherly feeling which unites us.” “It is almost cruel what you say.” D’Artagnan pressed Athos’s hand warmly. “No, no; renounce everything without fear. Raoul can get on without you. I am at Paris.” “In that case I shall return to Blois. We will take leave of each other to-night; to-morrow at daybreak I shall be on my horse again.” “You cannot return to your hotel alone; why did you not bring Grimaud with you?” “Grimaud takes his rest now; he goes to bed early, for my poor old servant gets easily fatigued. He came from Blois with me, and I compelled him to remain within doors; for if, in retracing the forty leagues which separate us from Blois, he needed to draw breath even, he would die without a murmur. But I don’t want to lose Grimaud.” “You shall have one of my musketeers to carry a torch for you. _Hola!_ some one there,” called out D’Artagnan, leaning over the gilded balustrade. The heads of seven or eight musketeers appeared. “I wish some gentleman, who is so disposed, to escort the Comte de la Fere,” cried D’Artagnan. “Thank you for your readiness, gentlemen,” said Athos; “I regret to have occasion to trouble you in this manner.” “I would willingly escort the Comte de la Fere,” said some one, “if I had not to speak to Monsieur d’Artagnan.” “Who is that?” said D’Artagnan, looking into the darkness. “I, Monsieur d’Artagnan.” “Heaven forgive me, if that is not Monsieur Baisemeaux’s voice.” “It is, monsieur.” “What are you doing in the courtyard, my dear Baisemeaux?” “I am waiting your orders, my dear Monsieur d’Artagnan.”