His voice was stifled by sobs.

“I believe everything,” said Athos.

“D’Artagnan! D’Artagnan!” cried Madame Bonacieux, “where art thou? Do not leave me! Thou seest that I am dying!”

D’Artagnan let fall Athos’s hand, which he still held convulsively clasped in his, and hastened to her.

Her beautiful face was distorted, her glassy eyes were fixed, a convulsive shuddering shook her body, the sweat stood on her brow.

“In Heaven’s name, run, call! Aramis! Porthos! call for help!”

“Useless!” said Athos, “useless! For the poison which she pours out there is no antidote.”

“Yes, yes! help, help!” murmured Madame Bonacieux—“help!”

Then collecting all her strength, she took the young man’s head between her hands, looked at him for an instant as if her whole soul had passed into her look, and pressed her lips to his.

“Constance! Constance!” cried D’Artagnan wildly.

A sigh escaped from Madame Bonacieux’s mouth and dwelt for an instant on D’Artagnan’s lips. That sigh was her soul, so chaste and so loving, reascending to heaven.

D’Artagnan held only a corpse pressed to his heart.

The young man uttered a cry, and fell by his mistress’s side as pale and as cold as she was.

Porthos wept, Aramis lifted his hand 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 room, looked round him, saw Madame Bonacieux dead and D’Artagnan fainting.

He appeared just at that moment of stupor which follows great catastrophes.

“I was not mistaken,” said he. “Here is M. d’Artagnan, and you are his three friends, MM. Athos, Porthos, and Aramis.

“Gentlemen,” continued the stranger, “since you will not recognize a man who probably owes his life to you twice, I must name myself. I am the Lord Winter—that woman’s brother-in-law.”

The three friends uttered a cry of surprise.

Athos rose and offered him his hand.

“You are welcome, milord,” said he; “you are one of our friends.”

“I left Portsmouth five hours after her,” said Lord Winter. “I arrived three hours after her at Boulogne. I missed her by twenty minutes at St. Omer. At last at Liliers I lost trace of her. I was going about at haphazard, inquiring of every one, when I saw you gallop by. I recognized M. d’Artagnan. I called to you; you did not answer. I tried to follow you, but my horse was too tired to go at the same rate as yours. And yet it seems that, in spite of all your diligence, you still arrived too late.”

At that moment D’Artagnan opened his eyes.