“We sent you wine?”
“Yes; you know what I mean—the wine from the slopes of Anjou.”
“Did you send this wine, Aramis?” said Athos.
“No; and you, Porthos?”
“No; and you, Athos?
“No!”
“Well, but if it was not you, it was your steward,” said D’Artagnan.
“Our steward!”
“Here is his letter,” said D’Artagnan, and he exhibited the note to his comrades.
“That is not his writing!” said Athos; “I know it. Before we left Villeroi I settled the accounts of our crowd.”
“It is a forged letter,” said Porthos. “We have not been under arrest.”
D’Artagnan rushed towards the messroom, the three musketeers and the two guards following him.
The first object that met D’Artagnan’s eyes on entering the diningroom was Brisemont stretched on the ground and rolling in horrible convulsions.
Planchet and Fourreau, pale as death, were trying to aid him; but it was plain that all assistance was useless—all the features of the dying man were distorted with the death struggle.
“Ah!” cried he, perceiving D’Artagnan—“ah! it is frightful! You pretend to pardon me, and you poison me!”
“I swear to you on the Gospel,” said D’Artagnan, throwing himself down by the dying man, “that I didn’t know the wine was poisoned, and I was going to drink of it as you did.”
“I do not believe you,” cried the soldier.
And he expired under redoubled torments.
“Oh, my friends,” said D’Artagnan, “you come once more to save my life—not only mine, but the lives of these gentlemen.—Gentlemen,” continued he, addressing the guardsmen, “I request you say nothing about this adventure. Great personages may have had a hand in what you have seen, and if talked about, the evil would only recoil on us.”
“Ah, sir,” stammered Planchet, more dead than alive—“ah, sir, what a narrow escape I have had!”
“Gentlemen,” said D’Artagnan, addressing the guardsmen, “you will easily see that such a feast can only be very melancholy after what has just taken place; so I beg you to accept my excuses, and put off the party till another day.”
The two guardsmen courteously accepted D’Artagnan’s excuses, and perceiving that the four friends desired to be alone, they retired.
When the young guardsman and the three musketeers were without witnesses, they looked at each other with an air which plainly expressed that each of them realized the seriousness of the situation.
“In the first place,” said Athos, “let us leave this room; a dead man, especially the victim of a violent death, is not agreeable company.”
The manager gave them another room, and served them with boiled eggs, while Athos went himself to draw water at the spring. In a few words Porthos and Aramis were informed of all that had occurred.
“Well,” said D’Artagnan to Athos, “you see, dear friend, that it is war to the death!”
“Bah!” said Athos; “God has preserved us hitherto; God will preserve us still.”
“Yes, He has. Besides, we are men; and all things considered, it is our lot to risk our lives. But she—” added D’Artagnan in an undertone.
“She? Who?” asked Athos.
“Constance.”
“Madame Bonacieux! Ah, that’s true!” Said Athos. “My poor friend, I had forgotten.”
“Well,” said Aramis, “but have you not learned by the letter you found on the dead assassin that she is in a convent? One may be very comfortable in a convent; and as soon as the siege of Rochelle is over, I promise you, I take upon myself to get news of her.”
“You, Aramis!” cried the three friend. “How?”
“By the queen’s almoner, with whom I am very intimately acquainted.”
And with this assurance the four friends, having finished their modest repast, separated, promising to meet again that evening. D’Artagnan returned to the Minimes, and the three musketeers repaired to the king’s quarters, where they had to prepare their lodging.
