"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 Armentieres," whispered D'Artagnan.
"The affair at Armentieres?" 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."
"As for me," said Porthos, "now that you have reminded me of it, Athos, I have the scene again before me, as if I now were there. Milady was there, as it were, where you sit."
(Athos changed color.) "I -- I was where D'Artagnan stands.
I wore a long sword which cut like a Damascus -- you remember it, Aramis for you always called it Balizarde.
Well, I swear to you, all three, that had the executioner of Bethune -- was he not of Bethune? -- yes, egad! of Bethune!
-- not been there, I would have cut off the head of that infamous being without thinking of it, or even after thinking of it. She was a most atrocious woman."
"And then," said Aramis, with the tone of philosophical indifference which he had assumed since he had belonged to the church and in which there was more atheism than confidence in God, "what is the use of thinking of it all?
At the last hour we must confess this action and God knows better than we can whether it is a crime, a fault, or a meritorious deed. I repent of it? Egad! no. Upon my honor and by the holy cross; I only regret it because she was a woman."
"The most satisfactory part of the matter," said D'Artagnan, "is that there remains no trace of it."
"She had a son," observed Athos.
"Oh! yes, I know that," said D'Artagnan, "and you mentioned it to me; but who knows what has become of him? If the serpent be dead, why not its brood? Do you think his uncle De Winter would have brought up that young viper? De Winter probably condemned the son as he had done the mother."
"Then," said Athos, "woe to De Winter, for the child had done no harm."
