door of M. de la Fere's apartment, he rapped impatiently,
and entered almost without waiting for the word "Enter!"
which was vouchsafed him by a voice at once sweet and
serious. The comte was seated at a table covered with papers
and books; he was still the noble, handsome gentleman of
former days, but time had given to this nobleness and beauty
a more solemn and distinct character. A brow white and void
of wrinkles, beneath his long hair, now more white than
black; an eye piercing and mild, under the lids of a young
man; his mustache, fine but slightly grizzled, waved over
lips of a pure and delicate model, as if they had never been
curled by mortal passions; a form straight and supple; an
irreproachable but thin hand -- this was what remained of
the illustrious gentleman whom so many illustrious mouths
had praised under the name of Athos. He was engaged in
correcting the pages of a manuscript book, entirely filled
by his own hand.

Raoul seized his father by the shoulders, by the neck, as he
could, and embraced him so tenderly and so rapidly, that the
comte had neither strength nor time to disengage himself, or
to overcome his paternal emotions.

"What! you here, Raoul, -- you! Is it possible?" said he.

"Oh, monsieur, monsieur, what joy to see you once again!"

"But you don't answer me, vicomte. Have you leave of
absence, or has some misfortune happened at Paris?"