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.