"Stay a moment, duchesse; would you like me to tell you why I will not
buy your letters?"

"Pray tell me."

"Because the letters you claim to be Mazarin's are false."

"What an absurdity."

"I have no doubt of it, for it would, to say the least, be very
singular, that after you had quarreled with the queen through M.
Mazarin's means, you should have kept up any intimate acquaintance with
the latter; it would look as if you had been acting as a spy; and upon
my word, I do not like to make use of the word."

"Oh! pray do."

"You great complacence would seem suspicions, at all events."

"That is quite true; but the contents of the letters are even more so."

"I pledge you my word, duchesse, that you will not be able to make use
of it with the queen."

"Oh! yes, indeed; I can make use of everything with the queen."

"Very good," thought Aramis. "Croak on, old owl--hiss, beldame-viper."

But the duchesse had said enough, and advanced a few steps towards the
door. Aramis, however, had reserved one exposure which she did _not_
expect.

He rang the bell, candles immediately appeared in the adjoining room,
and the bishop found himself completely encircled by lights, which shone
upon the worn, haggard face of the duchesse, revealing every feature
but too clearly. Aramis fixed a long ironical look upon her pale, thin,
withered cheeks--her dim, dull eyes--and upon her lips, which she kept
carefully closed over her discolored scanty teeth. He, however,
had thrown himself into a graceful attitude, with his haughty and
intelligent head thrown back; he smiled so as to reveal teeth still
brilliant and dazzling. The antiquated coquette understood the trick
that had been played her. She was standing immediately before a large
mirror, in which her decrepitude, so carefully concealed, was only made
more manifest. And, thereupon, without even saluting Aramis, who bowed
with the ease and grace of the musketeer of early days, she hurried
away with trembling steps, which her very precipitation only the more
impeded. Aramis sprang across the room, like a zephyr, to lead her to
the door. Madame de Chevreuse made a sign to her servant, who resumed
his musket, and she left the house where such tender friends had not
been able to understand each other only because they had understood each
other too well.

Chapter XLI. Wherein May Be Seen that a Bargain Which Cannot Be Made
with One Person, Can Be Carried Out with Another.

Ar