Mme. Bonacieux tried to walk, made two steps, and sank upon her knees.  Milady tried to raise and carry her, but could not do it.

At this moment they heard the rolling of the carriage, which at the approach of the Musketeers set off at a gallop.  Then three or four shots were fired.

“For the last time, will you come?” cried Milady.

“Oh, my God, my God! you see my strength fails me; you see plainly I cannot walk.  Flee alone!”

“Flee alone, and leave you here?  No, no, never!” cried Milady.

All at once she paused, a livid flash darted from her eyes; she ran to the table, emptied into Mme. Bonacieux’s glass the contents of a ring which she opened with singular quickness.  It was a grain of a reddish color, which dissolved immediately.

Then, taking the glass with a firm hand, she said, “Drink.  This wine will give you strength, drink!” And she put the glass to the lips of the young woman, who drank mechanically.

“This is not the way that I wished to avenge myself,” said Milady, replacing the glass upon the table, with an infernal smile, “but, my faith! we do what we can!” And she rushed out of the room.

Mme. Bonacieux saw her go without being able to follow her; she was like people who dream they are pursued, and who in vain try to walk.

A few moments passed; a great noise was heard at the gate.  Every instant Mme. Bonacieux expected to see Milady, but she did not return.  Several times, with terror, no doubt, the cold sweat burst from her burning brow.

At length she heard the grating of the hinges of the opening gates; the noise of boots and spurs resounded on the stairs.  There was a great murmur of voices which continued to draw near, amid which she seemed to hear her own name pronounced.

All at once she uttered a loud cry of joy, and darted toward the door; she had recognized the voice of d’Artagnan.

“d’Artagnan!  D’Artagnan!” cried she, “is it you?  This way! this way!”

“Constance?  Constance?” replied the young man, “where are you? where are you?  My God!”

At the same moment the door of the cell yielded to a shock, rather than opened; several men rushed into the chamber.  Mme. Bonacieux had sunk into an armchair, without the power of moving.

D’Artagnan threw down a yet-smoking pistol which he held in his hand, and fell on his knees before his mistress.  Athos replaced his in his belt; Porthos and Aramis, who held their drawn swords in their hands, returned them to their scabbards.

“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!”