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?

"Thank God, monsieur," replied Raoul, calming himself by degrees,
"nothing has happened but what is fortunate. The king is going to be
married, as I had the honor of informing you in my last letter, and, on
his way to Spain, he will pass through Blois."

"To pay a visit to Monsieur?"

"Yes, monsieur le comte. So, fearing to find him unprepared, or wishing
to be particularly polite to him, monsieur le prince sent me forward to
have the lodgings ready."