ame."

"Yes, you must; see what confidence I have in you!"

"You overwhelm me with joy. What is his name?"

"You know him."

"Indeed."

"Yes."

"It is surely not one of my friends?" replied d'Artagnan, affecting
hesitation in order to make her believe him ignorant.

"If it were one of your friends you would hesitate, then?" cried Milady;
and a threatening glance darted from her eyes.

"Not if it were my own brother!" cried d'Artagnan, as if carried away by
his enthusiasm.

Our Gascon promised this without risk, for he knew all that was meant.

"I love your devotedness," said Milady.

"Alas, do you love nothing else in me?" asked d'Artagnan.

"I love you also, YOU!" said she, taking his hand.

The warm pressure made d'Artagnan tremble, as if by the touch that fever
which consumed Milady attacked himself.

"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 remove her lips
from his kisses; only she did not respond to them. Her lips were cold;
it appeared to d'Artagnan that he had embraced a statue.

He was not the less intoxicated with joy, electrified by love. He almost
believed in the tenderness of Milady; he almost believed in the crime of
de Wardes. If de Wardes had at that moment been under his hand, he would
have killed him.

Milady seized the occasion.

"His name is--" said she, in her turn.

"De Wardes; I know it," cried d'Artagnan.

"And how do you know it?" asked Milady, seizing both his hands, and
endeavoring to read with her eyes to the bottom of his heart.

D'Artagnan felt he had allowed himself to be carried away, and that he
had committed an error.

"Tell me, tell me, tell me, I say," repeated Milady, "how do you know
it?"

"How do I know it?" said d'Artagnan.

"Yes."

"I know it because yesterday Monsieur de Wardes, in a saloon where I
was, showed a ring which he said he had received from you."

"Wretch!" 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 wretch," replied d'Artagnan, giving
himself the airs of Don Japhet of Armenia.

"Thanks, my brave friend!" cried Milady; "and when shall I be avenged?"

"Tomorrow--immediately--when you please!"

Milady was about to cry out, "Immediately," but she reflected that such
precipitation would not be very gracious toward d'Art