agony; her glassy eyes had no longer their sight; a convulsive shuddering shook her whole body; the sweat rolled from her brow.
“In the name of heaven, run, call! Aramis! Porthos! Call for help!”
“Useless!” said Athos, “useless! For the poison which she pours there is no antidote.”
“Yes, yes! Help, help!” murmured Madame Bonacieux; “help!”
Then, collecting all her strength, she took the head of the young man between her hands, looked at him for an instant as if her whole soul passed into that look, and with a sobbing cry pressed her lips to his.
“Constance, Constance!” cried d’Artagnan.
A sigh escaped from the mouth of Madame Bonacieux, and dwelt for an instant on the lips of d’Artagnan. That sigh was the soul, so chaste and so loving, which reascended to heaven.
D’Artagnan pressed nothing but a corpse in his arms. The young man uttered a cry, and fell by the side of his mistress as pale and as icy as herself.
Porthos wept; Aramis pointed toward heaven; Athos made the sign of the cross.
At that moment a man appeared in the doorway, almost as pale as those in the chamber. He looked around him and saw Madame Bonacieux dead, and d’Artagnan in a swoon. He appeared just at that moment of stupor which follows great catastrophes.
“I was not deceived,” said he; “here is M. d’Artagnan; and you are his friends, MM. Athos, Porthos, and Aramis.”