“I believe everything,” said Athos, biting his lips till the blood sprang to avoid sighing.
“D’Artagnan, D’Artagnan!” cried Mme. Bonacieux, “where art thou? Do not leave me! You see I am dying!”
D’Artagnan released the hands of Athos which he still held clasped in both his own, and hastened to her. Her beautiful face was distorted with 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 Mme. 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 Mme. 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.