I thought I had told you a most lamentable story." And he looked at the young man as if he would read the bottom of his heart.
"My faith," said d'Artagnan, "it appears that I was more drunk than you, since I remember nothing of the kind." Athos did not trust this reply, and he resumed; "you cannot have failed to remark, my dear friend, that everyone has his particular kind of drunkenness, sad or gay.

My drunkenness is always sad, and when I am thoroughly drunk my mania is to relate all the lugubrious stories which my foolish nurse inculcated into my brain.

That is my failing--a capital failing, I admit; but with that exception, I am a good drinker." Athos spoke this in so natural a manner that d'Artagnan was shaken in his conviction.
"It is that, then," replied the young man, anxious to find out the truth, "it is that, then, I remember as we remember a dream.

We were speaking of hanging." "Ah, you see how it is," said Athos, becoming still paler, but yet attempting to laugh; "I was sure it was so--the hanging of people is my nightmare." "Yes, yes," replied d'Artagnan.

"I remember now; yes, it was about--stop a minute--yes, it was about a woman." "That's it," replied Athos, becoming almost livid; "that is my grand story of the fair lady, and when I relate that, I must be very drunk." "Yes, that was it," said d'Artagnan, "the story of a tall, fair lady, with blue eyes." "Yes, who was hanged." "By her husband, who was a nobleman of your acquaintance," continued d'Artagnan, looking intently at Athos.
"Well, you see how a man may compromise himself when he does not know what he says," replied Athos, shrugging his shoulders as if he thought himself an object of pity.