“Frightful! frightful!” murmured Athos, while Porthos broke the bottles and Aramis gave orders, a little too late, that a confessor should be sent for. “Oh, my friends,” said D’Artagnan, “you come once more to save my life, not only mine but that of these gentlemen. Gentlemen,” continued he, addressing the Guardsmen, “I request you will be silent with regard to this adventure. Great personages may have had a hand in what you have seen, and if talked about, the evil would only recoil upon us.” “Ah, monsieur!” stammered Planchet, more dead than alive, “ah, monsieur, what an escape I have had!” “How, sirrah! you were going to drink my wine?” “To the health of the king, monsieur; I was going to drink a small glass of it if Fourreau had not told me I was called.” “Alas!” said Fourreau, whose teeth chattered with terror, “I wanted to get him out of the way that I might drink myself.” “Gentlemen,” said D’Artagnan, addressing the Guardsmen, “you may easily comprehend that such a feast can only be very dull after what has taken place; so accept my excuses, and put off the party till another day, I beg of you.” The two Guardsmen courteously accepted D’Artagnan’s excuses, and perceiving that the four friends desired to be alone, retired. When the young Guardsman and the three Musketeers were without witnesses, they looked at one another with an air which plainly expressed that each of them perceived the gravity of their situation. “In the first place,” said Athos, “let us leave this chamber; the dead are not agreeable company, particularly when they have died a violent death.” “Planchet,” said D’Artagnan, “I commit the corpse of this poor devil to your care. Let him be interred in holy ground. He committed a crime, it is true; but he repented of it.” And the four friends quit the room, leaving to Planchet and Fourreau the duty of paying mortuary honors to Brisemont. The host gave them another chamber, and served them with fresh eggs and some water, which Athos went himself to draw at the fountain. In a few words, Porthos and Aramis were posted as to the situation. “Well,” said D’Artagnan to Athos, “you see, my dear friend, that this is war to the death.” Athos shook his head. “Yes, yes,” replied he, “I perceive that plainly; but do you really believe it is she?” “I am sure of it.” “Nevertheless, I confess I still doubt.” “But the _fleur-de-lis_ on her shoulder?” “She is some Englishwoman who has committed a crime in France, and has been branded in consequence.” “Athos, she is your wife, I tell you,” repeated D’Artagnan; “only reflect how much the two descriptions resemble each other.” “Yes; but I should think the other must be dead, I hanged her so effectually.” It was D’Artagnan who now shook his head in his turn. “But in either case, what is to be done?” said the young man. “The fact is, one cannot remain thus, with a sword hanging eternally over his head,” said Athos. “We must extricate ourselves from this position.”