“An enemy who has insulted me so cruelly that between him and me it is war to the death. May I count on you as my ally?”
D’Artagnan at once perceived what the vindictive creature was aiming at.
“You may, madame,” said he, with emphasis. “My arm and my life are yours, as my love is.”
“But,” said milady, “how shall I repay such a service? I know what lovers are: they are men who will not do anything for nothing.”
“You know the only reply that I desire,” said D’Artagnan—“the only one worthy of you and of me!”
And he drew her gently to him.
She scarcely resisted.
“Selfish man!” cried she, smiling.
“Ah!” cried D’Artagnan, really carried away by the passion this woman had the power to kindle in his heart—“ah! because my happiness appears so incredible to me, and because I am always afraid of seeing it fly away from me like a dream, I am anxious to make a reality of it.”
“Well, deserve this pretended happiness, then!”
“I am at your disposal,” said D’Artagnan.
“I love your devotion,” said milady.
“Alas! is that all you love in me?” asked D’Artagnan.
“I love you also—you!” said she, taking his hand.
And the warm pressure made D’Artagnan tremble, as if the fever consuming milady communicated itself to him by the touch.
“You love me—you!” cried he. “Oh, if that were so, I should lose my reason!”
And he folded her in his arms. She made no effort to avoid the kiss which he pressed upon her lips, only she did not return it.
Her lips were cold; it appeared to D’Artagnan that he had kissed a statue.
He was not the less intoxicated with joy, electrified by love. He almost believed in milady’s tenderness; he almost believed in De Wardes’s crime. If De Wardes had at that moment been at hand, he would have killed him.
Milady seized her opportunity.
“His name is—” said she, in her turn.
“De Wardes; I know,” cried D’Artagnan.
“And how do you know?” asked milady, seizing both his hands, and trying to read with her eyes to the bottom of his heart.
D’Artagnan felt that he had gone too far, and that he had made a mistake.
“Tell me! tell me! tell me, I say!” repeated milady; “how do you know?”
“How do I know?” said D’Artagnan.
“Yes.”
“I know, because yesterday M. de Wardes, in a parlour where I was, displayed a ring which he said you gave him.”
“Scoundrel!” cried milady.
The epithet, as may be easily understood, resounded to the very bottom of D’Artagnan’s heart.
“Well?” continued she.
“Well, I will avenge you of this ‘scoundrel,’ ” replied D’Artagnan, giving himself the airs of Don Japhet of Armenia.
“Thanks, my brave friend!” cried milady. “And when shall I be avenged?”
“To-morrow—immediately—when you please!”
Milady was about to cry out “immediately,” but she reflected that such precipitation would not be very gracious toward D’Artagnan.
Besides, she had a thousand precautions to take, a thousand counsels to give to her defender, in order that he might avoid explanations with the count before witnesses. All this was answered by an expression of D’Artagnan’s.
“To-morrow,” said he, “you will be avenged.”
She rang the bell. Kitty appeared.
“Go out this way,” said she, opening a small private door, “and come back at eleven o’clock; we will then finish our conversation. Kitty will conduct you to my chamber.”
The poor girl thought she should faint at hearing these words.
“Well, miss, what are you doing, standing there like a statue? Come, show the chevalier the way; and this evening at eleven o’clock—you understand!”
“It seems her appointments are all made for eleven o’clock,” thought D’Artagnan. “That’s a fixed habit.”
Milady held out her hand to him, and he kissed it tenderly.
“There, now,” said he, as he withdrew, scarcely heeding Kitty’s reproaches—“there, I must not play the fool. This woman is certainly very bad. I must be on my guard.”
