D’Artagnan threw off his hood, and disengaged his hands from the folds of the cloak. At sight of the mustaches and the naked sword, the poor devil perceived he had to deal with a man. He then concluded it must be an assassin. “Help! murder! help!” cried he. “Hold your tongue, you stupid fellow!” said the young man; “I am D’Artagnan; don’t you know me? Where is your master?” “You, Monsieur d’Artagnan!” cried Grimaud, “impossible.” “Grimaud,” said Athos, coming out of his apartment in a dressing gown, “Grimaud, I thought I heard you permitting yourself to speak?” “Ah, monsieur, it is—” “Silence!” Grimaud contented himself with pointing D’Artagnan out to his master with his finger. Athos recognized his comrade, and phlegmatic as he was, he burst into a laugh which was quite excused by the strange masquerade before his eyes—petticoats falling over his shoes, sleeves tucked up, and mustaches stiff with agitation. “Don’t laugh, my friend!” cried D’Artagnan; “for heaven’s sake, don’t laugh, for upon my soul, it’s no laughing matter!” And he pronounced these words with such a solemn air and with such a real appearance of terror, that Athos eagerly seized his hand, crying, “Are you wounded, my friend? How pale you are!” “No, but I have just met with a terrible adventure! Are you alone, Athos?” “_Parbleu!_ whom do you expect to find with me at this hour?” “Well, well!” and D’Artagnan rushed into Athos’s chamber. “Come, speak!” said the latter, closing the door and bolting it, that they might not be disturbed. “Is the king dead? Have you killed the cardinal? You are quite upset! Come, come, tell me; I am dying with curiosity and uneasiness!” “Athos,” said D’Artagnan, getting rid of his female garments, and appearing in his shirt, “prepare yourself to hear an incredible, an unheard-of story.” “Well, but put on this dressing gown first,” said the Musketeer to his friend. D’Artagnan donned the robe as quickly as he could, mistaking one sleeve for the other, so greatly was he still agitated. “Well?” said Athos. “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?” “Yes.” “Tall, well-made? She has lost a tooth, next to the eyetooth on the left?” “Yes.” “The _fleur-de-lis_ is small, rosy in color, and looks as if efforts had been made to efface it by the application of poultices?” “Yes.” “But you say she is English?”