“If it were one of your friends you would hesitate, then?” cried Milady; and a threatening glance darted from her eyes.
“Not if it were my own brother!” cried d’Artagnan, as if carried away by his enthusiasm.
Our Gascon promised this without risk, for he knew all that was meant.
“I love your devotedness,” said Milady.
“Alas, do you love nothing else in me?” asked d’Artagnan.
“I love you also, you !” said she, taking his hand.
The warm pressure made d’Artagnan tremble, as if by the touch that fever which consumed Milady attacked himself.
“You love me, you!” cried he. “Oh, if that were so, I should lose my reason!”
And he folded her in his arms. She made no effort to remove her lips from his kisses; only she did not respond to them. Her lips were cold; it appeared to d’Artagnan that he had embraced a statue.
He was not the less intoxicated with joy, electrified by love. He almost believed in the tenderness of Milady; he almost believed in the crime of de Wardes. If de Wardes had at that moment been under his hand, he would have killed him.
Milady seized the occasion.
“His name is—” said she, in her turn.
“De Wardes; I know it,” cried d’Artagnan.