s, 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!"

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