“Of her whose carriage was at the gate; of a woman who calls herself your friend; of a woman to whom you have told everything.”
“Her name, her name!” cried D’Artagnan. “My God, can you not remember her name?”
“Yes, it was pronounced in my hearing once. Stop—but—it is very strange—oh, my God, my head swims! I cannot see!”
“Help, help, my friends! her hands are icy cold,” cried D’Artagnan. “She is ill! Great God, she is losing her senses!”
While Porthos was calling for help with all the power of his strong voice, Aramis ran to the table to get a glass of water; but he stopped at seeing the horrible alteration that had taken place in the countenance of Athos, who, standing before the table, his hair rising from his head, his eyes fixed in stupor, was looking at one of the glasses, and appeared a prey to the most horrible doubt.
“Oh!” said Athos, “oh, no, it is impossible! God would not permit such a crime!”
“Water, water!” cried D’Artagnan. “Water!”
“Oh, poor woman, poor woman!” murmured Athos, in a broken voice.
Mme. Bonacieux opened her eyes under the kisses of D’Artagnan.
“She revives!” cried the young man. “Oh, my God, my God, I thank thee!”