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When he arrived home, D’Artagnan found Kitty waiting for him. A month of fever could not have ravaged the poor child’s countenance more direly than her night of sleeplessness and sorrow. She declared falteringly that her mistress, mad with love and overwhelmed with passion, had dispatched her once again to the Comte de Vardes to ask when this superlative lover would meet her for a second night. Poor Kitty, pale and trembling, awaited D’Artagnan’s reply. Thinking it all over—the advice Athos had given him, the confidence he had in Athos, his pride redeemed, his vengeance satisfied, and finally, the cries of his heart, D’Artagnan was determined to be quit of Milady. Accordingly he penned the following brief missive:

Do not count upon me to meet you again, Madame. Since my convalescence, I have so many affairs of this sort to settle that I am obliged to regulate them somewhat. When your turn comes again, I shall have the honor to apprize you. Meanwhile, I kiss your hand and remain,

Your Ladyship’s most faithful servant,

de Vardes

Of the sapphire, not one word. Did the Gascon expect to use it as a weapon to be held over her head? Or bluntly, did he keep it to use as a last resource to provide his equipment for the forthcoming campaign?

D’Artagnan showed Kitty what he had written. At first she could not understand; then, after a second reading, his purport dawned upon her. A wild joy coursed through her veins, a tingling happiness she could scarcely bring herself to believe. At her earnest request, D’Artagnan had viva voce to renew his written assurances. Despite the danger Kitty ran—given Milady’s violent character—she sped blithely back to the Place Royale, fast as her legs could carry her. (Verily, the heart of the kindliest of women is pitiless toward the misery of a rival!)

Milady opened the letter with an expectancy as lively as Kitty’s in delivering it; but at the first word she read, she turned livid. Then, furiously, she crushed the paper and, her eyes blazing, demanded:

“What is this?”

“The answer to Milady’s letter,” Kitty replied, shaking like a leaf.

“Impossible,” cried Milady. “Impossible. No gentleman would write such a letter to a woman.” Then starting, she cried, “O God!” she cried out. “Can he possibly know—” And she stopped, aghast.

Gnashing her teeth, her face ashen, she tottered toward the window for air. But her strength failed her; she could do no more than stretch out her arms, her legs crumpled, and she collapsed into an armchair. Kitty, fearing she was ill, hastened to her aid. Bending over her mistress, she was about to loose her bodice, when Milady rose fiercely.

“What are you trying to do?” she demanded. “How dare you touch me!”

“I thought Madame was ill,” the maid answered, terrified at Milady’s savagery. “Forgive me, Madame, I was only trying to help you. I thought you had fainted.”

“I, faint? I, ill? Do you take me for a half-woman or a simpering schoolgirl? When I am insulted, I do not faint and I do not turn ill. No, I seek revenge, do you hear?”

And she motioned to Kitty to leave the room.

XXXVI

DREAMS OF VENGEANCE

That evening—it was a Monday—Milady gave orders that when Monsieur D’Artagnan came as usual, he was to be admitted immediately. But he did not come. Next morning Kitty called again on the young man to report all that had happened the day before. D’Artagnan smiled, for Milady’s jealous anger was his revenge.

Tuesday evening Milady was even more impatient than on Monday; she renewed her orders concerning the Gascon, but once again she waited for him in vain.

Wednesday morning, when Kitty stopped in at D’Artagnan’s, she was no longer lively and joyous as on the two preceding days, but on the contrary sad as death. D’Artagnan asked the poor girl what was the matter. For all answer she drew a letter from her pocket and handed it to him. It was of course in Milady’s handwriting, only this time it was addressed to D’Artagnan not to de Vardes. Opening it, he read:

Dear Monsieur d’Artagnan—

It is wrong of you thus