“A confession!”
“If I had the least doubt of your love I would not make it, but you love me, my beautiful mistress, do you not?”
“Without doubt.”
“Then if through excess of love I have rendered myself culpable toward you, you will pardon me?”
“Perhaps.”
D’Artagnan tried with his sweetest smile to touch his lips to Milady’s, but she evaded him.
“This confession,” said she, growing paler, “what is this confession?”
“You gave de Wardes a meeting on Thursday last in this very room, did you not?”
“No, no! It is not true,” said Milady, in a tone of voice so firm, and with a countenance so unchanged, that if d’Artagnan had not been in such perfect possession of the fact, he would have doubted.
“Do not lie, my angel,” said d’Artagnan, smiling; “that would be useless.”
“What do you mean? Speak! you kill me.”
“Be satisfied; you are not guilty toward me, and I have already pardoned you.”
“What next? what next?”
“De Wardes cannot boast of anything.”
“How is that? You told me yourself that that ring—”