“Of Madame d’Aiguillon?”
“Still higher.”
“Of Madame de Chevreuse?”
“Of the—” d’Artagnan checked himself.
“Yes, Monsieur,” replied the terrified citizen, in a tone so low that he was scarcely audible.
“And with whom?”
“With whom can it be, if not the Duke of—”
“The Duke of—”
“Yes, Monsieur,” replied the citizen, giving a still fainter intonation to his voice.
“But how do you know all this?”
“How do I know it?”
“Yes, how do you know it? No half-confidence, or—you understand!”
“I know it from my wife, Monsieur—from my wife herself.”
“Who learns it from whom?”
“From M. Laporte. Did I not tell you that she was the goddaughter of M. Laporte, the confidential man of the queen? Well, M. Laporte placed her near Her Majesty in order that our poor queen might at least have someone in whom she could place confidence, abandoned as she is by the king, watched as she is by the cardinal, betrayed as she is by everybody.”
“Ah, ah! It begins to develop itself,” said d’Artagnan.