tomorrow endeavor again to get me an answer to the letter I gave you.”
“For Monsieur de Wardes?” said Kitty.
“To be sure; for Monsieur de Wardes.”
“Now, there is one,” said Kitty, “who appears to me quite a different sort of a man from that poor Monsieur d’Artagnan.”
“Go to bed, mademoiselle,” said Milady; “I don’t like comments.”
D’Artagnan heard the door close; then the noise of two bolts by which Milady fastened herself in. On her side, but as softly as possible, Kitty turned the key of the lock, and then d’Artagnan opened the closet door.
“Oh, good Lord!” said Kitty, in a low voice, “what is the matter with you? How pale you are!”
“The abominable creature,” murmured d’Artagnan.
“Silence, silence, begone!” said Kitty. “There is nothing but a wainscot between my chamber and Milady’s; every word that is uttered in one can be heard in the other.”
“That’s exactly the reason I won’t go,” said d’Artagnan.
“What!” said Kitty, blushing.
“Or, at least, I will go—later.”
He drew Kitty to him. She had the less motive to resist, resistance would make so much noise. Therefore Kitty surrendered.
It was a movement of vengeance upon Milady. D’Artagnan believed it right to say that vengeance is the pleasure of the gods. With a little more heart, he might have been contented with this new conquest; but the principal features of his character were ambition and pride. It must, however, be confessed in his justification that the first use he made of his influence over Kitty was to try and find out what had become of Mme. Bonacieux; but the poor girl swore upon the crucifix to d’Artagnan that she was entirely ignorant on that head, her mistress never admitting her into half her secrets—only she believed she could say she was not dead.
As to the cause which was near making Milady lose her credit with the cardinal, Kitty knew nothing about it; but this time d’Artagnan was better informed than she was. As he had seen Milady on board a vessel at the moment he was leaving England, he suspected that it was, almost without a doubt, on account of the diamond studs.
But what was clearest in all this was that the true hatred, the profound hatred, the inveterate hatred of Milady, was increased by his not having killed her brother-in-law.
D’Artagnan came the next day to Milady’s, and finding her in a very ill-humor, had no doubt that it was lack of an answer from M. de Wardes that provoked her thus. Kitty came in, but Milady was very cross with her. The poor girl ventured a glance at d’Artagnan which said, “See how I suffer on your account!”
Toward the end of the evening, however, the beautiful lioness became milder; she smilingly listened to the soft speeches of d’Artagnan, and even gave him her hand to kiss.
D’Artagnan departed, scarcely knowing what to think, but as he was a youth who did not easily lose his head, while continuing to pay his court to Milady, he had framed a little plan in his mind.
He found Kitty at the gate, and, as on the preceding evening, went up to her chamber. Kitty had been accused of negligence and severely scolded. Milady could not at all comprehend the silence of the Comte de Wardes, and she ordered Kitty to come at nine o’clock in the morning to take a third letter.
D’Artagnan made Kitty promise to bring him that letter on the following morning. The poor girl promised all her lover desired; she was mad.
Things passed as on the night before. D’Artagnan concealed himself in his closet; Milady called, undressed, sent away Kitty, and shut the door. As the night before, d’Artagnan did not return home till five o’clock in the morning.
At eleven o’clock Kitty came to him. She held in her hand a fresh billet from Milady. This time the poor girl did not even argue with d’Artagnan; she gave it to him at once. She belonged body and soul to her handsome soldier.
D’Artagnan opened the letter and read as follows:
This is the third time I have written to you to tell you that I love you. Beware that I do not write to you a fourth time to tell you that I detest you.
If you repent of the manner in which you have acted toward me, the young girl who brings you this will tell you how a man of spirit may obtain his pardon.
d’Artagnan colored and grew pale several times in reading this billet.
“Oh, you love her still,” said Kitty, who had not taken her eyes off the young man’s countenance for an instant.
“No, Kitty, you are mistaken. I do not love her, but I will avenge myself for her contempt.”
“Oh, yes, I know what sort of vengeance! You told me that!”
“What matters it to you, Kitty? You know it is you alone whom I love.”
“How can I know that?”
“By the scorn I will throw upon her.”
D’Artagnan took a pen and wrote:
Madame, Until the present moment I could not believe that it was to me your first two letters were addressed, so unworthy did I feel myself of such an honor; besides, I was so seriously indisposed that I could not in any case have replied to them.
But now I am forced to believe in the excess of your kindness, since not only your letter but your servant assures me that I have the good fortune to be beloved by you.
She has no occasion to teach me the way in which a man of spirit may obtain his pardon. I will come and ask mine at eleven o’clock this evening.
To delay it a single day would be in my eyes now to commit a fresh offense.
From him whom you have rendered the happiest of men, Comte de Wardes
This note was in the first place a forgery; it was likewise an indelicacy. It was even, according to our present manners, something like an infamous action; but at that period people did not manage affairs as they do today. Besides, d’Artagnan from her own admission knew Milady culpable of treachery in matters more important, and could entertain no respect for her. And yet, notwithstanding this want of respect, he felt an uncontrollable passion for this woman boiling in his veins—passion drunk with contempt; but passion or thirst, as the reader pleases.
D’Artagnan’s plan was very simple. By Kitty’s chamber he could gain that of her mistress. He would take advantage of the first moment of surprise, shame, and terror, to triumph over her. He might fail, but something must be left to chance. In eight days the campaign would open, and he would be compelled to leave Paris; d’Artagnan had no time for a prolonged love siege.
“There,” said the young man, handing Kitty the letter sealed; “give that to Milady. It is the count’s reply.”
Poor Kitty became as pale as death; she suspected what the letter contained.
“Listen,
