“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 Madame 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 Madame 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 sobs.
“I believe everything,” said Athos, biting his lips till the blood sprang to avoid sighing.
“D’Artagnan, d’Artagnan!” cried Madame Bonacieux, “where art thou? Do not leave me! You see I am dying!”
D’Artagnan released the hands of Athos which he still held clasped in both his own, and hastened to her. Her beautiful face was distorted with