Comte Olivier d'Athos de la Fere

And then they are both gone. Aramis spreads his hand over his chest where Athos' hand had lingered, fingers pressed to the rosary beneath. He lifts it to his lips and forces himself downward, lowering himself into the dark below.

Even with the night above, the tunnel is dark, and it is difficult to see more than the shapes of Porthos and Athos ahead of him. Aramis grips his torch in one hand, his pistol in the other, and waits.