Raoul perceived, from a distance, the two little turrets,
the dove-cote in the elms, and the flights of pigeons, which
wheeled incessantly around that brick cone, seemingly
without power to quit it, like the sweet memories which
hover round a spirit at peace.

As he approached, he heard the noise of the pulleys which
grated under the weight of the massy pails; he also fancied
he heard the melancholy moaning of the water which falls
back again into the wells -- a sad, funereal, solemn sound,
which strikes the ear of the child and the poet -- both
dreamers -- which the English call splash; Arabian poets,
gasgachau; and which we Frenchmen, who would be poets, can
only translate by a paraphrase -- the noise of water falling
into water.

It was more than a year since Raoul had been to visit his
father. He had passed the whole time in the household of M.
le Prince. In fact, after all the commotions of the Fronde,
of the early period of which we formerly attempted to give a
sketch, Louis de Conde had made a public, solemn, and frank
reconciliation with the court. During all the time that the
rupture between the king and the prince had lasted, the
prince, who had long entertained a great regard for
Bragelonne, had in vain offered him advantages of the most
dazzling kind for a young man. The Comte de la Fere, still
faithful to his principles of loyalty and royalty, one day
developed before his son in the vaults of Saint Denis, --
the Comte de la Fere, in the name of his son, had always