“I must have,” said the duke, “a proof of his connection with Buckingham.”
“A proof?” cried Milady; “I will have ten.”
“Well, then, it becomes the simplest thing in the world; get me that proof, and I will send him to the Bastille.”
“So far good, monseigneur; but afterwards?”
“When once in the Bastille, there is no afterwards!” said the cardinal, in a low voice. “Ah, pardieu !” continued he, “if it were as easy for me to get rid of my enemy as it is easy to get rid of yours, and if it were against such people you require impunity—”
“Monseigneur,” replied Milady, “a fair exchange. Life for life, man for man; give me one, I will give you the other.”
“I don’t know what you mean, nor do I even desire to know what you mean,” replied the cardinal; “but I wish to please you, and see nothing out of the way in giving you what you demand with respect to so infamous a creature—the more so as you tell me this d’Artagnan is a libertine, a duelist, and a traitor.”
“An infamous scoundrel, monseigneur, a scoundrel!”
“Give me paper, a quill, and some ink, then,” said the cardinal.
“Here they are, monseigneur.”
There was a moment of silence, which proved that the cardinal was employed in seeking the terms in which he should write the note, or else in writing it. Athos, who had not lost a word of the conversation, took his two companions by the hand, and led them to the other end of the room.