regicide that he is.”
“And I,” said Porthos. “Wait.”
“What are you going to do?” asked Aramis.
“Throw myself in the water and strangle him.”
“Oh, gentlemen!” cried Athos, “be men! be Christians! See!
death is depicted on his face! Ah! do not bring on me the
horrors of remorse! Grant me this poor wretch’s life. I will
bless you — I —- ”
“I am dying!” cried Mordaunt, “come to me! come to me!”
D’Artagnan began to be touched. The boat at this moment
turned around, and the dying man was by that turn brought
nearer Athos.
“Monsieur the Comte de la Fere,” he cried, “I supplicate
you! pity me! I call on you — where are you? I see you no
longer — I am dying — help me! help me!”
“Here I am, sir!” said Athos, leaning and stretching out his
arm to Mordaunt with that air of dignity and nobility of
soul habitual to him; “here I am, take my hand and jump into
our boat.”
Mordaunt made a last effort — rose — seized the hand thus
extended to him and grasped it with the vehemence of
despair.
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“That’s right,” said Athos; “put your other hand here. “And
he offered him his shoulder as another stay and support, so
that his head almost touched that of Mordaunt; and these two
mortal enemies were in as close an embrace as if they had
been brothers.
“Now, sir,” said the count, “you are safe — calm yourself.”
“Ah! my mother,” cried Mordaunt, with eyes on fire with a
look of hate impossible to paint, “I can only offer thee one
victim, but it shall at any rate be the one thou wouldst
thyself have chosen!”
And whilst D’Artagnan uttered a cry, Porthos raised the oar,
and Aramis sought a place to strike, a frightful shake given
to the boat precipitated Athos into the sea; whilst
Mordaunt, with a shout of triumph, grasped the neck of his
victim, and in order to paralyze his movements, twined arms
and legs around the musketeer. For an instant, without an
exclamation, without a cry for help, Athos tried to sustain
himself on the surface of the waters, but the weight dragged
him down; he disappeared by degrees; soon nothing was to be
seen except his long, floating hair; then both men
disappeared and the bubbling of the water, which, in its
turn, was soon effaced, alone indicated the spot where these
two had sunk.
Mute with horror, the three friends had remained
open-mouthed, their eyes dilated, their arms extended like
statues, and, motionless as they were, the beating of their
hearts was audible. Porthos was the first who came to
himself. He tore his hair.
“Oh!” he cried, “Athos! Athos! thou man of noble heart; woe
is me! I have let thee perish!”
At this instant, in the midst of the silver circle illumined
by the light of the moon the same whirlpool which had been
made by the sinking men was again obvious, and first were
seen, rising above the waves, a wisp of hair, then a pale
face with open eyes, yet, nevertheless, the eyes of death;
then a body, which, after rising of itself even to the waist
above the sea, turned gently on its back, according to the
caprice of the waves, and floated.
In the bosom of this corpse was plunged a poniard, the gold
hilt of which shone in the moonbeams.
“Mordaunt! Mordaunt!” cried the three friends; “’tis
Mordaunt!”
“But Athos!” exclaimed D’Artagnan.
Suddenly the boat leaned on one side beneath a new and
unexpected weight and Grimaud uttered a shout of joy; every
one turned around and beheld Athos, livid, his eyes dim and
his hands trembling, supporting himself on the edge of the
boat. Eight vigorous arms lifted him up immediately and laid
him in the boat, where directly Athos was warmed and
reanimated, reviving with the caresses and cares of his
friends, who were intoxicated with joy.
“You are not hurt?” asked D’Artagnan.
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“No,” replied Athos; “and he —- ”
“Oh, he! now we may say at last, thank Heaven! he is really