“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.

“I was not deceived,” said he; “here is Monsieur d’Artagnan; and you are his friends, Messieurs Athos, Porthos, and Aramis.”

The persons whose names were thus pronounced looked at the stranger with astonishment.  It seemed to all three that they knew him.

“Gentlemen,” resumed the newcomer, “you are, as I am, in search of a woman who,” added he, with a terrible smile, “must have passed this way, for I see a corpse.”

The three friends remained mute—­for although the voice as well as the countenance reminded them of someone they had seen, they could not remember under what circumstances.

“Gentlemen,” continued the stranger, “since you do not recognize a man who probably owes his life to you twice, I must name myself.  I am Lord de Winter, brother-in-law of that woman.”

The three friends uttered a cry of surprise.

Athos rose, and offering him his hand, “Be welcome, my Lord,” said he, “you are one of us.”

“I set out five hours after her from Portsmouth,” said Lord de Winter.  “I arrived three hours after her at Boulogne.  I missed her by twenty minutes at St. Omer.  Finally, at Lilliers I lost all trace of her.  I was going about at random, inquiring of everybody, when I saw you gallop past.  I recognized Monsieur d’Artagnan.  I called to you, but you did not answer me; I wished to follow you, but my horse was too much fatigued to go at the same pace with yours.  And yet it appears, in spite of all your diligence, you have arrived too late.”

“You see!” said Athos, pointing to Mme. Bonacieux dead, and to d’Artagnan, whom Porthos and Aramis were trying to recall to life.

“Are they both dead?” asked Lord de Winter, sternly.