ated. She lived
in a small town with her brother, who was a curate. Both had recently
come into the country. They came nobody knew whence; but when seeing her
so lovely and her brother so pious, nobody thought of asking whence they
came. They were said, however, to be of good extraction. My friend, who
was seigneur of the country, might have seduced her, or taken her
by force, at his will--for he was master. Who would have come to the
assistance of two strangers, two unknown persons? Unfortunately he was
an honorable man; he married her. The fool! The ass! The idiot!"

"How so, if he love her?" asked d'Artagnan.

"Wait," said Athos. "He took her to his chateau, and made her the
first lady in the province; and in justice it must be allowed that she
supported her rank becomingly."

"Well?" asked d'Artagnan.

"Well, one day when she was hunting with her husband," continued Athos,
in a low voice, and speaking very quickly, "she fell from her horse
and fainted. The count flew to her to help, and as she appeared to be
oppressed by her clothes, he ripped them open with his ponaird, and
in so doing laid bare her shoulder. d'Artagnan," said Athos, with a
maniacal burst of laughter, "guess what she had on her shoulder."

"How can I tell?" said d'Artagnan.

"A FLEUR-DE-LIS," said Athos. "She was branded."

Athos emptied at a single draught the glass he held in his hand.

"Horror!" cried d'Artagnan. "What do you tell me?"

"Truth, my friend. The angel was a demon; the poor young girl had stolen
the sacred vessels from a church."

"And what did the count do?"

"The count was of the highest nobility. He had on his estates the rights
of high and low tribunals. He tore the dress of the countess to pieces;
he tied her hands behind her, and hanged her on a tree."

"Heavens, Athos, a murder?" cried d'Artagnan.

"No less," said Athos, as pale as a corpse. "But methinks I need wine!"
and he seized by the neck the last bottle that was left, put it to his
mouth, and emptied it at a single draught, as he would have emptied an
ordinary glass.

Then he let his head sink upon his two hands, while d'Artagnan stood
before him, stupefied.

"That has cured me of beautiful, poetical, and loving women," said
Athos, after a considerable pause, raising his head, and forgetting
to continue the fiction of the count. "God grant you as much! Let us
drink."

"Then she is dead?" stammered d'Artagnan.

"PARBLEU!" said Athos. "But hold out