“Well,” replied D’Artagnan, bending his mouth to Athos’s ear, and lowering his voice, “Milady is marked with a fleur-de-lis upon her shoulder!”
“Ah!” cried the Musketeer, as if he had received a ball in his heart.
“Let us see,” said D’Artagnan. “Are you sure that the other is dead?”
“The other?” said Athos, in so stifled a voice that D’Artagnan scarcely heard him.
“Yes, she of whom you told me one day at Amiens.”
Athos uttered a groan, and let his head sink on his hands.
“This is a woman of twenty-six or twenty-eight years.”
“Fair,” said Athos, “is she not?”
“Very.”
“Blue and clear eyes, of a strange brilliancy, with black eyelids and eyebrows?”