“I beg you to excuse me, madame; I wish to add nothing to the recital of these gentlemen until they perceive themselves that they have perhaps been mistaken.”
“Mistaken!” cried the queen, almost suffocated by emotion; “mistaken! what has happened, then?”
“Sir,” interposed Monsieur de Flamarens to Athos, “if we are mistaken the error has originated with the queen. I do not suppose you will have the presumption to set it to rights—that would be to accuse Her Majesty, Queen Anne, of falsehood.”
“With the queen, sir?” replied Athos, in his calm, vibrating voice.
“Yes,” murmured Flamarens, lowering his eyes.
Athos sighed deeply.
“Or rather, sir,” said Aramis, with his peculiar irritating politeness, “the error of the person who was with you when we met you in the guardroom; for if the Comte de la Fere and I are not mistaken, we saw you in the company of a third gentleman.”
Chatillon and Flamarens started.
“Explain yourself, count!” cried the queen, whose anxiety grew greater every moment. “On your brow I read despair—your lips falter ere you announce some terrible tidings—your hands tremble. Oh, my God! my God! what has happened?”
“Lord!” ejaculated the young princess, falling on her knees, “have mercy on us!”