“Go on with your recital, sirs,” said the queen, turning to the Duc de Chatillon. “You said that His Majesty, King Charles, my august consort, had been condemned to death by a majority of his subjects!”
“Yes, madame,” Chatillon stammered out.
Athos and Aramis were more and more astonished.
“And that being conducted to the scaffold,” resumed the queen—“oh, my lord! oh, my king!—and that being led to the scaffold he had been saved by an indignant people.”
“Just so madame,” replied Chatillon, in so low a voice that though the two friends were listening eagerly they could hardly hear this affirmation.
The queen clasped her hands in enthusiastic gratitude, whilst her daughter threw her arms around her mother’s neck and kissed her—her own eyes streaming with tears.
“Now, madame, nothing remains to me except to proffer my respectful homage,” said Chatillon, who felt confused and ashamed beneath the stern gaze of Athos.
“One moment, yes,” answered the queen. “One moment—I beg—for here are the Chevalier d’Herblay and the Comte de la Fere, just arrived from London, and they can give you, as eye-witnesses, such details as you can convey to the queen, my royal sister. Speak, gentlemen, speak—I am listening; conceal nothing, gloss over nothing. Since his majesty still lives, since the honor of the throne is safe, everything else is a matter of indifference to me.”
Athos turned pale and laid his hand on his heart.
“Well!” exclaimed the queen, who remarked this movement and his paleness. “Speak, sir! I beg you to do so.”