“What, Milady! has he not come?” said Kitty. “Can he be inconstant before being happy?”
“Oh, no; he must have been prevented by Monsieur de Treville or Monsieur Dessessart. I understand my game, Kitty; I have this one safe.”
“What will you do with him, madame?”
“What will I do with him? Be easy, Kitty, there is something between that man and me that he is quite ignorant of: he nearly made me lose my credit with his Eminence. Oh, I will be revenged!”
“I believed that Madame loved him.”
“I love him? I detest him! An idiot, who held the life of Lord de Winter in his hands and did not kill him, by which I missed three hundred thousand livres’ income.”
“That’s true,” said Kitty; “your son was the only heir of his uncle, and until his majority you would have had the enjoyment of his fortune.”
D’Artagnan shuddered to the marrow at hearing this suave creature reproach him, with that sharp voice which she took such pains to conceal in conversation, for not having killed a man whom he had seen load her with kindnesses.
“For all this,” continued Milady, “I should long ago have revenged myself on him if, and I don’t know why, the cardinal had not requested me to conciliate him.”
“Oh, yes; but Madame has not conciliated that little woman he was so fond of.”
“What, the mercer’s wife of the Rue des Fossoyeurs? Has he not already forgotten she ever existed? Fine vengeance that, on my faith!”
A cold sweat broke from d’Artagnan’s brow. Why, this woman was a monster! He resumed his listening, but unfortunately the toilet was finished.
“That will do,” said Milady; “go into your own room, and tomorrow endeavor again to get me an answer to the letter I gave you.”
“For Monsieur de Wardes?” said Kitty.
“To be sure; for Monsieur de Wardes.”
“Now, there is one,” said Kitty, “who appears to me quite a different sort of a man from that poor Monsieur d’Artagnan.”
“Go to bed, mademoiselle,” said Milady; “I don’t like comments.”
D’Artagnan heard the door close; then the noise of two bolts by which Milady fastened herself in. On her side, but as softly as possible, Kitty turned the key of the lock, and then d’Artagnan opened the closet door.
“Oh, good Lord!” said Kitty, in a low voice, “what is the matter with you? How pale you are!”
“The abominable creature” murmured d’Artagnan.
“Silence, silence, begone!” said Kitty. “There is nothing but a wainscot between my chamber and Milady’s; every word that is uttered in one can be heard in the other.”
“That’s exactly the reason I won’t go,” said d’Artagnan.
“What!” said Kitty, blushing.
“Or, at least, I will go–later.”
He drew Kitty to him. She had the less motive to resist, resistance would make so much noise. Therefore Kitty surrendered.
It was a movement of vengeance upon Milady. D’Artagnan believed it right to say that vengeance is the pleasure of the gods. With a little more heart, he might have been contented with this new conquest; but the principal features of his character were ambition and pride. It must, however, be confessed in his justification that the first use he made of his influence over Kitty was to try and find out what had become of Mme. Bonacieux; but the poor girl swore upon the crucifix to d’Artagnan that she was entirely ignorant on that head, her mistress never admitting her into half her secrets–only she believed she could say she was not dead.
As to the cause which was near making Milady lose her credit with the cardinal, Kitty knew nothing about it; but this time d’Artagnan was better informed than she was. As he had seen Milady on board a vessel at the moment he was leaving England, he suspected that it was, almost without a doubt, on account of the diamond studs.
But what was clearest in all this was that the true hatred, the profound hatred, the inveterate hatred of Milady, was increased by his not having killed her brother-in-law.
D’Artagnan came the next day to Milady’s, and finding her in a very ill-humor, had no doubt that it was lack of an answer from M. de Wardes that provoked her thus. Kitty came in, but Milady was very cross with her. The poor girl ventured a glance at d’Artagnan which said, “See how I suffer on your account!”