“Perhaps，” said Athos. “But， at least， listen to what I say. Assassinate the Duke of Buckingham， or have him assassinated； it makes no difference to me. I don’t know him； besides， he is an Englishman. But do not touch with the tip of your finger a single hair of D’Artagnan， who is a faithful friend， whom I love and defend， or I swear to you by my father’s life the crime which you shall have committed shall be your last.”
Athos was seized with a kind of vertigo. The sight of this creature， who had nothing womanly about her， recalled devouring remembrances. His desire for her death returned， burning， and pervaded him like a raging fever. He put his hand to his belt， drew out a pistol， and cocked it.
Milady， pale as a corpse， struggled to cry out； but her frozen tongue could utter only a hoarse sound， which had nothing human in it， and seemed a wild beast’s rattle. Clinging to the dark tapestry， she appeared， with her hair in disorder， like the frightful image of terror.
Athos slowly raised his pistol， stretched out his arm， so that the weapon almost touched milady’s forehead； and then， in a voice the more terrible from having the supreme calmness of an inflexible resolution，
“Madame，” said he， “you will this instant deliver to me the paper the cardinal signed； or， on my soul， I will blow your brains out.”
With another man， milady might have preserved some doubt； but she knew Athos， yet she remained motionless.
“You have one second to decide，” said he.
Milady saw by the contraction of his countenance that he was about to pull the trigger； she put her hand quickly into her bosom， pulled out a paper， and held it toward Athos.
“Take it，” said she， “and be damned！”
Athos took the paper， returned the pistol to his belt， approached the lamp to be assured that it was the right paper， unfolded it， and read，
“August 5， 1628.
“By my order， and for the good of the State， the bearer hereof has done what he has done.
Richelieu.”
“And now，” said Athos， taking up his cloak again and putting on his hat—“now that I have drawn your teeth， viper， bite if you can.”
And he left the chamber without once looking behind him.
At the door he found the two men， and the horse which they held.
“Gentlemen，” said he， “you know monseigneur’s order is for you to conduct that woman， without losing time， to Fort de la Pointe， and not to leave her till she is on board.”
As his words agreed exactly with the order they had received， they bowed in sign of assent.
Athos leaped lightly into his saddle， and set out at full gallop； only， instead of following the road， he took across the fields， urging his horse to the utmost， and stopping occasionally to listen.
In one of his halts he heard the trampling of several horses on the road. He had no doubt it was the cardinal and his escort. He immediately galloped on ahead， rubbed his horse down with some heather and leaves of trees， and then placed himself in the middle of the road， about two hundred paces from the camp.
“Who goes there？” cried he， as soon as he saw the horsemen coming.
“That is our brave musketeer， I think，” said the cardinal.
“Yes， monseigneur，” said Porthos， “it is he.”
“Monsieur Athos，” said Richelieu， “receive my thanks for the good guard you have kept. Gentlemen， we are here； take the gate on the left. The watchword is ‘King and Ré.’ ”
On saying these words the cardinal bent his head in salutation of the three friends， and took the right hand， followed by his attendant， for that night he himself was to sleep in camp.
“Well，” said Porthos and Aramis together， as soon as the cardinal was out of hearing—“well， he signed the paper she asked for！”
“I know he did，” said Athos， “and here it is.”
And the three friends did not exchange another word till they got to their quarters， except to give the watchword to the sentinels.
But they sent Mousqueton to tell Planchet that his master was requested to come to the quarters of the musketeers the instant he left the trenches.
Milady， as Athos had foreseen， on finding the two men awaiting her， made no objection to going with them.
Consequently， after travelling all night， she was at seven o’clock at Fort de la Pointe； at eight o’clock she had embarked； and at nine the vessel， which， with letters of marque from the cardinal， was supposed to be going to Bayonne， raised anchor and set sail toward England.
