“No, no; it is one of my friends who loves her— M. Athos, this gentleman here.”
“I?” cried Athos, with an accent like that of a man who perceives he is about to tread upon an adder.
“You, to be sure!” said d’Artagnan, pressing Athos’s hand. “You know the interest we both take in this poor little Madame Bonacieux. Besides, Kitty will tell nothing; will you, Kitty? You understand, my dear girl,” continued d’Artagnan, “she is the wife of that frightful baboon you saw at the door as you came in.”
“Oh, my God! You remind me of my fright! If he should have known me again!”
“How? know you again? Did you ever see that man before?”
“He came twice to Milady’s.”
“That’s it. About what time?”
“Why, about fifteen or eighteen days ago.”
“Exactly so.”
“And yesterday evening he came again.”
“Yesterday evening?”
“Yes, just before you came.”
“My dear Athos, we are enveloped in a network of spies. And do you believe he knew you again, Kitty?”
“I pulled down my hood as soon as I saw him, but perhaps it was too late.”