“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 your glass. Some ham, my boy, or we can’t drink.”
“And her brother?” added d’Artagnan, timidly.
“Her brother?” replied Athos.
“Yes, the priest.”
“Oh, I inquired after him for the purpose of hanging him likewise; but he was beforehand with me, he had quit the curacy the night before.”
“Was it ever known who this miserable fellow was?”