The Three Musketeers

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."
    "And what is that?" asked Milady.
    "That is, whether you really love me?"
    "I have given you proof of that, it seems to me."
    "And I am yours, body and soul!"
    "Thanks, my brave lover; but as you are satisfied of my love, you must, in your turn, satisfy me of yours. Is it not so?"
    "Certainly; but if you love me as much as you say," replied d'Artagnan, "do you not entertain a little fear on my account?"
    "What have I to fear?"
    "Why, that I may be dangerously wounded—killed even."
    "Impossible!" cried Milady, "you are such a valiant man, and such an expert swordsman."
    "You would not, then, prefer a method," resumed d'Artagnan, "which would equally avenge you while rendering the combat useless?"
    Milady looked at her lover in silence. The pale light of the first rays of day gave to her clear eyes a strangely frightful expression.
    "Really," said she, "I believe you now begin to hesitate."
    "No, I do not hesitate; but I really pity this poor Comte de Wardes, since you have ceased to love him. I think that a man must be so severely punished by the loss of your love that he stands in need of no other chastisement."
    "Who told you that I loved him?" asked Milady, sharply.
    "At least, I am now at liberty to believe, without too much fatuity, that you love another," said the young man, in a caressing tone, "and I repeat that I am really interested for the count."
    "You?" asked Milady.
    "Yes, I."
    "And why YOU?"
    "Because I alone know—"
    "What?"
    "That he is far from being, or rather having been, so guilty toward you as he appears."
    "Indeed!" said Milady, in an anxious tone; "explain yourself, for I really cannot tell what you mean."
    And she looked at d'Artagnan, who embraced her tenderly, with eyes which seemed to burn themselves away.
    "Yes; I am a man of honor," said d'Artagnan, determined to come to an end, "and since your love is mine, and I am satisfied I possess it—for I do possess it, do I not?"
    "Entirely; go on."
    "Well, I feel as if transformed—a confession weighs on my mind."
    "A confession!"
    "If I had the least doubt of your love I would not make it, but you love me, my beautiful mistress, do you not?"
    "Without doubt."
    "Then if through excess of love I have rendered myself culpable toward you, you will pardon me?"
    "Perhaps."
    D'Artagnan tried with his sweetest smile to touch his lips to Milady's, but she evaded him.
    "This confession," said she, growing paler, "what is this confession?"
    "You gave de Wardes a meeting on Thursday last in this very room, did you not?"
    "No, no! It is not true," said Milady, in a tone of voice so firm, and with a countenance so unchanged, that if d'Artagnan had not been in such perfect possession of the fact, he would have doubted.
    "Do not lie, my angel," said d'Artagnan, smiling; "that would be useless."
    "What do you mean? Speak! you kill me."
    "Be satisfied; you are not guilty toward me, and I have already pardoned you."
    "What next? what next?"
    "De Wardes cannot boast of anything."
    "How is that? You told me yourself that that ring—"
    "That ring I have! The Comte de Wardes of Thursday and the d'Artagnan of today are the same person."
    The imprudent young man expected a surprise, mixed with shame—a slight storm which would resolve itself into tears; but he was strangely deceived, and his error was not of long duration.
    Pale and trembling, Milady repulsed d'Artagnan's attempted embrace by a violent blow on the chest, as she sprang out of bed.
    It was almost broad daylight.
    D'Artagnan detained her by her night dress of fine India linen, to implore her pardon; but she, with a strong movement, tried to escape. Then the cambric was torn from her beautiful shoulders; and on one of those lovely shoulders, round and white, d'Artagnan recognized, with inexpressible astonishment, the FLEUR-DE-LIS—that indelible mark which the hand of the infamous executioner had imprinted.
    "Great God!" cried d'Artagnan, loosing his hold of her dress, and remaining mute, motionless, and frozen.
    But Milady felt herself denounced even by his terror. He had doubtless seen all. The young man now knew her secret, her terrible secret—the secret she concealed even from her maid with such care, the secret of which all the world was ignorant, except himself.
    She turned upon him, no longer like a furious woman, but like a wounded panther.
    "Ah,