You are unworthy, princess of the royal blood though you may be, of the love of a man of honor; I offer my life as a sacrifice for having loved you too tenderly, and I die despairing you.'" "Oh!" cried Raoul, terrified at the accents of profound truth which De Guiche's words betrayed, "I was right in saying you were mad, Guiche." "Yes, yes," exclaimed De Guiche, following out his own idea; "since there are no wars here now, I will flee yonder to the north, seek service in the Empire, where some Hungarian, or Croat, or Turk, will perhaps kindly put me out of my misery." De Guiche did not finish, or rather as he finished, a sound made him start, and at the same moment caused Raoul to leap to his feet.

As for De Guiche, buried in his own thoughts, he remained seated, with his head tightly pressed between his hands.

The branches of the tree were pushed aside, and a woman, pale and much agitated, appeared before the two young men.

With one hand she held back the branches, which would have struck her face, and, with the other, she raised the hood of the mantle which covered her shoulders.
By her clear and lustrous glance, by her lofty carriage, by her haughty attitude, and, more than all that, by the throbbing of his own heart, De Guiche recognized Madame, and, uttering a loud cry, he removed his hands from his temple, and covered his eyes with them.

Raoul, trembling and out of countenance, merely muttered a few words of respect.
"Monsieur de Bragelonne," said the princess, "have the goodness, I beg, to see if my attendants are not somewhere yonder, either in the walks or in the groves; and you, M.de Guiche, remain here: I am tired, and you will perhaps give me your arm." Had a thunderbolt fallen at the feet of the unhappy young man, he would have been less terrified than by her cold and severe tone.