The imprudent young man expected a surprise, mixed with shame⁠—a slight storm which would resolve itself into tears; but he was strangely deceived, and his error was not of long duration.

Pale and trembling, Milady repulsed d’Artagnan’s attempted embrace by a violent blow on the chest, as she sprang out of bed.

It was almost broad daylight.

D’Artagnan detained her by her night dress of fine India linen, to implore her pardon; but she, with a strong movement, tried to escape. Then the cambric was torn from her beautiful shoulders; and on one of those lovely shoulders, round and white, d’Artagnan recognized, with inexpressible astonishment, the fleur-de-lis⁠—that indelible mark which the hand of the infamous executioner had imprinted.

“Great God!” cried d’Artagnan, loosing his hold of her dress, and remaining mute, motionless, and frozen.