D’Artagnan left the h?tel instead of going up at once to Kitty’s chamber, as she tried to persuade him to do, and for this he had two reasons: the first, because in this way he avoided reproaches, recriminations, and entreaties; the second, because he was not sorry to have an opportunity to read his own thoughts, and, if possible, to fathom this woman’s.
He walked six or seven times round the Place Royale, turning every ten steps to look at the light in milady’s apartment, which was to be seen through the blinds. It was evident that this time the young woman was not in such haste to retire to her bedroom as she had been the first.
At length the light disappeared.
With this light was extinguished the last irresolution in D’Artagnan’s heart. He recalled to his mind the details of the first night, and with beating heart and brain on fire he re-entered the h?tel and rushed up to Kitty’s chamber.
The young girl, pale as death, and trembling in all her limbs, wished to delay her lover; but milady, listening intently, had heard the noise made by D’Artagnan, and opening the door,
“Come,” said she.
The door closed after them.
She immediately came close to him again.
We cannot say how long the night seemed to milady, but D’Artagnan imagined he had been with her scarcely two hours when day began to appear at the window-blinds, and soon invaded the chamber with its pallid light.
Then milady, seeing that D’Artagnan was about to quit her, recalled to his mind for the last time the promise he had made to avenge her on the Comte de Wardes.
“I am quite ready,” said D’Artagnan; “but in the first place, I should like to be certain of one thing.”
“What?”
“Whether you love me.”
“I have proved to you that I do.”
“Yes, and so I am yours body and soul. But if you love me as you say,” continued he, “do you not feel a little fear on my account?”
“What have I to fear?”
“Why, that I may be dangerously wounded—even killed.”
“Impossible!” cried milady; “you are such a valiant man, and such an expert swordsman.”
“You would not, then, prefer a means,” resumed D’Artagnan, “which would avenge you all the same, while rendering the combat useless?”
Milady looked at her lover in silence. The wan light of the first rays of day gave to her clear eyes a strangely baneful expression.
“Really,” said she, “I believe you are now beginning to hesitate.”
“No, I do not hesitate; but I really pity poor Comte de Wardes, since you have ceased to love him. And it seems to me that a man must be so severely punished merely by the loss of your love that he needs no other chastisement.”
“Indeed!” said milady, with a look of some anxiety. “Explain yourself, for I really cannot tell what you mean.”
And she looked at D’Artagnan, who held her in his arms, while his eyes seemed gradually to turn into flames.
“Yes, I am a man of honour,” said D’Artagnan, determined to end the matter. “and since your love is mine, and I am sure I possess it— for I do possess it, do I not?”
“Absolutely and entirely. Go on.”
“Well, I feel as if transformed—a confession weighs on my mind.”
“Your confession,” said she, growing paler—“what is this confession of yours?”
“You invited De Wardes on Thursday last to meet you here, in this very room, did you not?”
“I? No, certainly not!” said milady, in a tone so firm and with a face so unconcerned that if D’Artagnan had not been so absolutely certain he would have doubted.
“Do not tell a lie, my angel!” exclaimed D’Artagnan, smiling; “it would do no good.”
“What do you mean? Speak! You frighten me to death!”
“Oh, reassure yourself; you are not guilty toward me, and I have already pardoned you.”
“What more? what more?”
“De Wardes cannot boast of anything.”
“How so? You yourself told me that my ring—”
“My love, I have your ring. The Duc de Wardes of last Thursday and the D’Artagnan of to-night are one and the same person.”
