“By me; and this morning he sent for me to ask me if I had obtained any information.” “And what did you reply?” “That I had none as yet; but that I was to dine to-day with two gentlemen, who would be able to give me some.” “You told him that?” said Porthos, a broad smile spreading over his honest face. “Bravo! and you are not afraid of that, Athos?” “No,” replied Athos, “it is not the search of Mazarin that I fear.” “Now,” said Aramis, “tell me a little what you do fear.” “Nothing for the present; at least, nothing in good earnest.” “And with regard to the past?” asked Porthos. “Oh! the past is another thing,” said Athos, sighing; “the past and the future.” “Are you afraid for your young Raoul?” asked Aramis. “Well,” said D’Artagnan, “one is never killed in a first engagement.” “Nor in the second,” said Aramis “Nor in the third,” returned Porthos; “and even when one is killed, one rises again, the proof of which is, that here we are!” “No,” said Athos, “it is not Raoul about whom I am anxious, for I trust he will conduct himself like a gentleman; and if he is killed—well, he will die bravely; but hold—should such a misfortune happen—well—” Athos passed his hand across his pale brow. “Well?” asked Aramis. “Well, I shall look upon it as an expiation.” “Ah!” said D’Artagnan; “I know what you mean.” “And I, too,” added Aramis; “but you must not think of that, Athos; what is past, is past.” “I don’t understand,” said Porthos. “The affair at Armentières,” whispered D’Artagnan. “The affair at Armentières?” asked he again. “Milady.” “Oh, yes!” said Porthos; “true, I had forgotten it!” Athos looked at him intently. “You have forgotten it, Porthos?” said he. “Faith! yes, it is so long ago,” answered Porthos. “This affair does not, then, weigh upon your conscience?” “Faith, no.” “And you, D’Artagnan?” “I—I own that when my mind returns to that terrible period I have no recollection of anything but the rigid corpse of poor Madame Bonancieux. Yes, yes,” murmured he, “I have often felt regret for the victim, but never the very slightest remorse for the assassin.” Athos shook his dead doubtfully. “Consider,” said Aramis, “if you admit divine justice and its participation in the things of this world, that woman was punished by the will of heaven. We were but the instruments, that is all.” “But as to free will, Aramis?” “How acts the judge? He has a free will, yet he fearlessly condemns. What does the executioner? He is master of his arm, yet he strikes without remorse.” “The executioner!” muttered Athos, as if arrested by some recollection. “I know that it is terrible,” said D’Artagnan; “but when I reflect that we have killed English, Rochellais, Spaniards, nay, even French, who never did us any other harm but to aim at and to miss us, whose only fault was to cross swords with us and to be unable to ward off our blows—I can, on my honor, find an excuse for my share in the murder of that woman.”