The Three Musketeers (The Modern Library) - Alexandre Dumas [193]
“Are you afraid, perhaps, my dear D’Artagnan?” she asked in a shrill scornful voice which rasped strangely across the darkness.
“You surely cannot think so, dear love. But suppose this poor Comte de Vardes were less guilty than you imagine?”
“At all events, he has deceived me,” Milady insisted. “Having deceived me, he deserves death.”
“He shall die then, since you condemn him!” D’Artagnan vowed with a firmness that convinced Milady of his unwavering devotion. And she at once returned gratefully to nestle against him.
It would be difficult to say how long the night seemed to Milady, but D’Artagnan would have sworn that it was barely two hours before daylight peeped through the shutters, then darted its pallid, intrusive rays into the chamber. Milady, knowing that D’Artagnan was about to leave her, recalled his promise to avenge her on de Vardes.
“I am quite ready,” he assured her. “But first I should like to be certain of one thing.”
“Certain of what?”
“Certain that you really love me.”
“Have I not given you sufficient proof?”
“Ay, you have, and I am yours, body and soul.”
“Thank you, my brave and gallant lover! But as I have just proven my love for you, so you in turn must now prove your love for me. Will you do that?”
“Of course I will. But if you love me as much as you say, why do you entertain no fear for what might happen to me?”
“What could possibly happen to you?”
“Well, I might be dangerously wounded or even killed!”
“Impossible,” Milady demurred. “Are you not a valiant man and an expert swordsman?”
D’Artagnan then suggested that she might prefer some means of revenge which, while proving as effective, would not necessitate a duel. Milady gazed at her lover in silence. The wan rays of the early morning light lent her eyes a strange, deadly expression.
“So!” she said disparagingly, “I suppose Monsieur is wavering now?”
“No, I’m not wavering. But honestly, I do feel sorry for poor de Vardes since you have ceased to love him. I would say that to lose your love was the supreme punishment and that no other punishment could hurt him more grievously.”
“How do you know that I ever loved him?” she asked sharply.
In a warm, caressing tone, D’Artagnan told her that now, without being too fatuous, he felt justified in assuming Milady loved some other, happier cavalier than de Vardes. Nevertheless, he went on, he could not help repeating his concern for the Comte.
“You?”
“Yes, I.”
“And why are you concerned with de Vardes?”
“Because I alone know—”
“What?”
“—that he is far from being, or rather from having been, as guilty as you think.”
“Indeed!” Milady seemed somewhat uneasy. “Pray make yourself clear; I really do not know what you mean.” And, locked in D’Artagnan’s embrace, she stared up at him, her gaze growing brighter apace. Determined to come to an end:
“Well, I am a man of honor,” D’Artagnan declared. “Since your love is now mine, and I am sure of it—for I can be sure of it, can I not?”
“Of course, my love is wholly yours. Go on.”
“To be honest, I am swept off my feet, and—” he paused, “a confession weighs on my mind.”
“A confession!”
“If I felt the slightest doubt of your love, I would not be making this confession. But you love me, my beautiful mistress, do you not?”
“I do!”
“Then if my excessive love for you has made me guilty of offending you, you will forgive me?”
“Perhaps!”
As D’Artagnan, summoning his tenderest and most convincing smile, sought to draw her lips to his, Milady evaded him. Turning very pale, she ordered him to confess at once.
“You invited de Vardes to visit you in this very room last Thursday, I believe.”
“No, no, that is not true,” Milady dissented with such assurance in her voice and such steadfastness in her expression that D’Artagnan, under different circumstances, would inevitably have believed her.
“Do not lie to me, my beautiful angel!” He smiled. “That would be useless!”
“What do you