“Oh, d’Artagnan, my beloved d’Artagnan! You have come, then, at last! You have not deceived me! It is indeed thee!”
“Yes, yes, Constance. Reunited!”
“Oh, it was in vain she told me you would not come! I hoped in silence. I was not willing to fly. Oh, I have done well! How happy I am!”
At this word SHE, Athos, who had seated himself quietly, started up.
“SHE! What she?” asked d’Artagnan.
“Why, my companion. She who out of friendship for me wished to take me from my persecutors. She who, mistaking you for the cardinal’s Guards, has just fled away.”
“Your companion!” cried d’Artagnan, becoming more pale than the white veil of his mistress. “Of what companion are you speaking, dear Constance?”
“Of her whose carriage was at the gate; of a woman who calls herself your friend; of a woman to whom you have told everything.”
“Her name, her name!” cried d’Artagnan. “My God, can you not remember her name?”
“Yes, it was pronounced in my hearing once. Stop–but–it is very strange–oh, my God, my head swims! I cannot see!”
“Help, help, my friends! her hands are icy cold,” cried d’Artagnan. “She is ill! Great God, she is losing her senses!”
While Porthos was calling for help with all the power of his strong voice, Aramis ran to the table to get a glass of water; but he stopped at seeing the horrible alteration that had taken place in the countenance of Athos, who, standing before the table, his hair rising from his head, his eyes fixed in stupor, was looking at one of the glasses, and appeared a prey to the most horrible doubt.
“Oh!’ said Athos, “oh, no, it is impossible! God would not permit such a crime!”
“Water, water!” cried d’Artagnan. “Water!”
“Oh, poor woman, poor woman!” murmured Athos, in a broken voice.
Mme. Bonacieux opened her eyes under the kisses of d’Artagnan.
“She revives!” cried the young man. “Oh, my God, my God, I thank thee!”
“Madame!” said Athos, “madame, in the name of heaven, whose empty glass is this?”
“Mine, monsieur,” said the young woman, in a dying voice.
“But who poured the wine for you that was in this glass?”
“She.”
“But who is SHE?”
“Oh, I remember!” said Mme. Bonacieux, “the Comtesse de Winter.”
The four friends uttered one and the same cry, but that of Athos dominated all the rest.
At that moment the countenance of Mme. Bonacieux became livid; a fearful agony pervaded her frame, and she sank panting into the arms of Porthos and Aramis.
D’Artagnan seized the hands of Athos with an anguish difficult to be described.
“And what do you believe?’ His voice was stifled by sobs.
“I believe everything,” said Athos biting his lips till the blood sprang to avoid sighing.
“d’Artagnan, d’Artagnan!” cried Mme. Bonacieux, “where art thou? Do not leave me! You see I am dying!”
D’Artagnan released the hands of Athos which he still held clasped in both his own, and hastened to her. Her beautiful face was distorted with agony; her glassy eyes had no longer their sight; a convulsive shuddering shook her whole body; the sweat rolled from her brow.
“In the name of heaven, run, call! Aramis! Porthos! Call for help!”
“Useless!” said Athos, “useless! For the poison which SHE pours there is no antidote.”
“Yes, yes! Help, help!” murmured Mme. Bonacieux; “help!”
Then, collecting all her strength, she took the head of the young man between her hands, looked at him for an instant as if her whole soul passed into that look, and with a sobbing cry pressed her lips to his.
“Constance, Constance!” cried d’Artagnan.
A sigh escaped from the mouth of Mme. Bonacieux, and dwelt for an instant on the lips of d’Artagnan. That sigh was the soul, so chaste and so loving, which reascended to heaven.
D’Artagnan pressed nothing but a corpse in his arms. The young man uttered a cry, and fell by the side of his mistress as pale and as icy as herself.
Porthos wept; Aramis pointed toward heaven; Athos made the sign of the cross.
At that moment a man appeared in the doorway, almost as pale as those in the chamber. He looked around him and saw Mme. Bonacieux dead, and d’Artagnan in a swoon. He appeared just at that moment of stupor which follows great catastrophes.