"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, wretch!" cried she, "you have basely betrayed me, and still more,
you have my secret! You shall die."

And she flew to a little inlaid casket which stood upon the dressing
table, opened it with a feverish and trembling band, drew from it