No, Monsieur the Count, replied a voice which made the father of Raoul start upright in his bed.
Grimaud! murmured he; and the sweat began to pour down his cheeks. Grimaud appeared in the doorway. It was no longer the Grimaud we have seen, still young with courage and devotion, when he jumped the first into the boat which was to convey Raoul de Bragelonne to the vessels of the royal fleet. He was a stern and pale old man, his clothes covered with dust, his few scattered hairs whitened by old age. He trembled while leaning against the door-frame, and was near falling on seeing by the light of the lamps the countenance of his master. These two men, who had lived so long together in a community of intelligence, and whose eyes, accustomed to economize expressions, knew how to say so many thi
