“Well, pardieu! there is yours, my dear friend,” replied d’Artagnan.

“Our wine!” said Athos, astonished.

“Yes, that you sent me.”

“We sent you wine?”

“You know very well—­the wine from the hills of Anjou.”

“Yes, I know what brand you are talking about.”

“The wine you prefer.”

“Well, in the absence of champagne and chambertin, you must content yourselves with that.”

“And so, connoisseurs in wine as we are, we have sent you some Anjou wine?” said Porthos.

“Not exactly, it is the wine that was sent by your order.”

“On our account?” said the three Musketeers.

“Did you send this wine, Aramis?” said Athos.

“No; and you, Porthos?”

“No; and you, Athos?”

“No!”

“If it was not you, it was your purveyor,” said d’Artagnan.

“Our purveyor!”

“Yes, your purveyor, Godeau—­the purveyor of the
Musketeers.”

“My faith! never mind where it comes from,” said Porthos, “let us taste it, and if it is good, let us drink it.”

“No,” said Athos; “don’t let us drink wine which comes from an unknown source.”

“You are right, Athos,” said d’Artagnan.  “Did none of you charge your purveyor, Godeau, to send me some wine?”

“No!  And yet you say he has sent you some as from us?”

“Here is his letter,” said d’Artagnan, and he presented the note to his comrades.

“This is not his writing!” said Athos.  “I am acquainted with it; before we left Villeroy I settled the accounts of the regiment.”

“A false letter altogether,” said Porthos, “we have not been disciplined.”

“d’Artagnan,” said Aramis, in a reproachful tone, “how could you believe that we had made a disturbance?”

D’Artagnan grew pale, and a convulsive trembling shook all his limbs.

“Thou alarmest me!” said Athos, who never used thee and thou but upon very particular occasions, “what has happened?”

“Look you, my friends!” cried d’Artagnan, “a horrible suspicion crosses my mind!  Can this be another vengeance of that woman?”

It was now Athos who turned pale.

D’Artagnan rushed toward the refreshment room, the three
Musketeers and the two Guards following him.

The first object that met the eyes of d’Artagnan on entering the room was Brisemont, stretched upon the ground and rolling in horrible convulsions.

Planchet and Fourreau, as pale as death, were trying to give him succor; but it was plain that all assistance was useless—­all the features of the dying man were distorted with agony.

“Ah!” cried he, on perceiving d’Artagnan, “ah! this is frightful!  You pretend to pardon me, and you poison me!”

“I!” cried d’Artagnan.  “I, wretch?  What do you say?”

“I say that it was you who gave me the wine; I say that it was you who desired me to drink it.  I say you wished to avenge yourself on me, and I say that it is horrible!”