And the four friends quit the room, leaving to Planchet and Fourreau the duty of paying mortuary honors to Brisemont.
The host gave them another chamber, and served them with fresh eggs and some water, which Athos went himself to draw at the fountain. In a few words, Porthos and Aramis were posted as to the situation.
“Well,” said d’Artagnan to Athos, “you see, my dear friend, that this is war to the death.”
Athos shook his head.
“Yes, yes,” replied he, “I perceive that plainly; but do you really believe it is she?”
“I am sure of it.”
“Nevertheless, I confess I still doubt.”
“But the fleur-de-lis on her shoulder?”
“She is some Englishwoman who has committed a crime in France, and has been branded in consequence.”
“Athos, she is your wife, I tell you,” repeated d’Artagnan; “only reflect how much the two descriptions resemble each other.”
“Yes; but I should think the other must be dead, I hanged her so effectually.”
It was d’Artagnan who now shook his head in his turn.
“But in either case, what is to be done?” said the young man.
“The fact is, one cannot remain thus, with a sword hanging eternally over his head,” said Athos. “We must extricate ourselves from this position.”