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- Александр Дюма
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"
Truth
,
my
friend
.
The
angel
was
a
demon
;
the
poor
young
girl
had
stolen
the
sacred
vessels
from
a
church
.
"
"
And
what
did
the
count
do
?
"
"
The
count
was
of
the
highest
nobility
.
He
had
on
his
estates
the
rights
of
high
and
low
tribunals
.
He
tore
the
dress
of
the
countess
to
pieces
;
he
tied
her
hands
behind
her
,
and
hanged
her
on
a
tree
.
"
"
Heavens
,
Athos
,
a
murder
?
"
cried
d'Artagnan
.
"
No
less
,
"
said
Athos
,
as
pale
as
a
corpse
.
"
But
methinks
I
need
wine
!
"
and
he
seized
by
the
neck
the
last
bottle
that
was
left
,
put
it
to
his
mouth
,
and
emptied
it
at
a
single
draught
,
as
he
would
have
emptied
an
ordinary
glass
.
Then
he
let
his
head
sink
upon
his
two
hands
,
while
d'Artagnan
stood
before
him
,
stupefied
.
"
That
has
cured
me
of
beautiful
,
poetical
,
and
loving
women
,
"
said
Athos
,
after
a
considerable
pause
,
raising
his
head
,
and
forgetting
to
continue
the
fiction
of
the
count
.
"
God
grant
you
as
much
!
Let
us
drink
.
"
"
Then
she
is
dead
?
"
stammered
d'Artagnan
.
"
PARBLEU
!
"
said
Athos
.
"
But
hold
out
your
glass
.
Some
ham
,
my
boy
,
or
we
ca
n't
drink
"
"
And
her
brother
?
"
added
d'Artagnan
,
timidly
.
