France -- History -- Louis XIV, 1643-1715 -- Fiction
Scarron followed their movements with a glance from the corner of his
eye.
“Not one of them will do as he says,” he murmured, with his little
monkey smile; “but they may do as they please, the brave gentlemen! Who
knows if they will not manage to restore to me my pension? They can
move their arms, they can, and that is much. Alas, I have only my
tongue, but I will try to show that it is good for something. Ho,
there, Champenois! here, it is eleven o’clock. Come and roll me to bed.
Really, that Demoiselle d’Aubigné is very charming!”
So the invalid disappeared soon afterward and went into his
sleeping-room; and one by one the lights in the _salon_ of the Rue des
Tournelles were extinguished.
Chapter XXII.
Saint Denis.
The day had begun to break when Athos arose and dressed himself. It was
plain, by a paleness still greater than usual, and by those traces
which loss of sleep leaves on the face, that he must have passed almost
the whole of the night without sleeping. Contrary to the custom of a
man so firm and decided, there was this morning in his personal
appearance something tardy and irresolute.
He was occupied with the preparations for Raoul’s departure and was
seeking to gain time. In the first place he himself furbished a sword,
which he drew from its perfumed leather sheath; he examined it to see
if its hilt was well guarded and if the blade was firmly attached to
the hilt. Then he placed at the bottom of the valise belonging to the
young man a small bag of louis, called Olivain, the lackey who had
followed him from Blois, and made him pack the valise under his own
eyes, watchful to see that everything should be put in which might be
useful to a young man entering on his first campaign.
At length, after occupying about an hour in these preparations, he
opened the door of the room in which the vicomte slept, and entered.
The sun, already high, penetrated into the room through the window, the
curtains of which Raoul had neglected to close on the previous evening.
He was still sleeping, his head gracefully reposing on his arm.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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