“And how do you know it?” asked Milady, seizing both his hands, and endeavoring to read with her eyes to the bottom of his heart.
D’Artagnan felt he had allowed himself to be carried away, and that he had committed an error.
“Tell me, tell me, tell me, I say,” repeated Milady, “how do you know it?”
“How do I know it?” said d’Artagnan.
“Yes.”
“I know it because yesterday M. de Wardes, in a saloon where I was, showed a ring which he said he had received from you.”
“Wretch!” cried Milady.
The epithet, as may be easily understood, resounded to the very bottom of d’Artagnan’s heart.
“Well?” continued she.
“Well, I will avenge you of this wretch,” replied d’Artagnan, giving himself the airs of Don Japhet of Armenia.
“Thanks, my brave friend!” cried Milady; “and when shall I be avenged?”
“Tomorrow—immediately—when you please!”
Milady was about to cry out, “Immediately,” but she reflected that such precipitation would not be very gracious toward d’Artagnan.
Besides, she had a thousand precautions to take, a thousand counsels to give to her defender, in order that he might avoid explanations with