The Three Musketeers (The Modern Library) - Alexandre Dumas [187]
Next morning D’Artagnan hastened to visit Athos, for, involved in so singular an adventure, he wanted his advice. He therefore told him all. Athos listened without interrupting him but frowned several times in the course of the Gascon’s narration.
“Your Milady,” he said, “seems to me to be an infamous creature. All the same, you were wrong to deceive her. No matter how you look at it, you have a dangerous enemy on your hands.”
As he spoke, Athos looked steadily at the sapphire D’Artagnan wore in place of the Queen’s ring, now carefully stored away in a casket.
“I see you are looking at my ring,” said the Gascon, proud to show off such an expensive gift.
“Yes. It reminds me of a family heirloom.”
“It is beautiful, isn’t it?”
“Magnificent! I did not think two sapphires of such water existed. Did you trade your diamond for it?”
“No, it is a gift from my beautiful English mistress—or rather from my beautiful French mistress—for I am convinced she was born in France, though of course I didn’t ask her.”
“Milady gave you that ring?” Athos gasped.
“Certainly. She gave it to me last night.”
“Let me have a look at it.”
“With great pleasure,” D’Artagnan answered, slipping it off his finger.
Athos examined it carefully and, growing very pale, tried it on the third finger of his left hand; it fitted as though made to order. A shadow of vengeful wrath clouded his usually serene brow.
“It couldn’t possibly be the same ring!” Athos murmured. “How could it come into Lady Clark’s hands? And how in the world could two jewels look so much alike?”
“You know this ring?”
“I thought I did but I was probably mistaken,” Athos replied, handing it back to D’Artagnan but continuing to stare at it. Then after a moment of silence: “Will you please do me a favor?” he asked dully.
D’Artagnan nodded.
“Please take that ring off, D’Artagnan, for my sake. Or else turn the stone around!”
D’Artagnan looked askance.
“You see, it recalls such cruel memories,” Athos explained, “that I can scarcely pull myself together to converse with you. Yet you come to ask my advice; you hoped I might tell you what to do.” He sighed. “But stop! let me look at that sapphire again. The one I mentioned should have a scratch on one of its faces . . . the result of an accident, I recall . . .”
D’Artagnan again took the ring off his finger and gave it to Athos. Athos started.
“Look,” he said sharply, pointing to the scratch he had remembered. “What a coincidence!”
Mystified, D’Artagnan inquired how his friend had ever been in possession of Milady’s ring.
“I inherited it from my mother,” Athos told him, “and Mother inherited from her mother. I told you it was an heirloom, destined never to go out of the hands of our family.”
“And you—hm!—you s-s-s-sold it?” D’Artagnan stammered.
“No,” said Athos with an enigmatic smile, “I gave it away in a night of love, exactly as it was given to you—in a night of love!”
D’Artagnan in turn lapsed into a pensive silence, speculating what secrets lay deep in the dark mysterious abyss of Milady’s heart. Mechanically he took the ring back and slipped it into his pocket. Athos grasped his hand:
“D’Artagnan,” he said earnestly, “you know how much you mean to me. Had I a son, I could not cherish him more fervently than I do you. I implore you to follow my advice. For God’s sake, give up this woman. To be sure, I do not know her. But a sort of intuition tells me that she is a lost soul and that there is something fatal about her.”
“You are right, I will have done with her! Honestly, Athos, she terrifies me!”
“Will you have the courage to break away?”
“Of course I shall. And instantly!”
“Bravo, lad, you will be doing the right thing.” Athos pressed the young Gascon’s hand with almost paternal affection. “This woman came into your life but yesterday; God grant she leave no terrible traces in it.” And Athos nodded dismissal as who would make clear that he