priest, that coquette took it into her head that it would be
a happy souvenir for her old age, among the many happy
souvenirs she already possessed, if she could win that of
having damned an abbe.”
“Count,” said the duchess, “upon my word, you frighten me.”
“Alas!” continued Athos, “the poor abbe was not a St.
Ambroise, and I repeat, Marie Michon was an adorable
creature.”
“Monsieur!” cried the duchess, seizing Athos’s hands, “tell
me this moment how you know all these details, or I will
send to the convent of the Vieux Augustins for a monk to
come and exorcise you.”
Athos laughed. “Nothing is easier, madame. A cavalier,
charged with an important mission, had come an hour before
your arrival, seeking hospitality, at the very moment that
the cure, summoned to the bedside of a dying person, left
not only his house but the village, for the entire night.
The priest having all confidence in his guest, who, besides,
was a nobleman, had left to him his house, his supper and
his chamber. And therefore Marie came seeking hospitality
from the guest of the good abbe and not from the good abbe
himself.”
“And that cavalier, that guest, that nobleman who arrived
before she came?”
“It was I, the Comte de la Fere,” said Athos, rising and
bowing respectfully to the Duchess de Chevreuse.
The duchess remained a moment stupefied; then, suddenly
bursting into laughter:
“Ah! upon my word,” said she, “it is very droll, and that
mad Marie Michon fared better than she expected. Sit down,
dear count, and go on with your story.”
“At this point I have to accuse myself of a fault, madame. I
have told you that I was traveling on an important mission.
At daybreak I left the chamber without noise, leaving my
charming companion asleep. In the front room the follower
was also still asleep, her head leaning back on the chair,
in all respects worthy of her mistress. Her pretty face
arrested my attention; I approached and recognized that
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little Kitty whom our friend Aramis had placed with her. In
that way I discovered that the charming traveler was —- ”
“Marie Michon!” said Madame de Chevreuse, hastily.
“Marie Michon,” continued Athos. “Then I went out of the
house; I proceeded to the stable and found my horse saddled
and my lackey ready. We set forth on our journey.”
“And have you never revisited that village?” eagerly asked
Madame de Chevreuse.
“A year after, madame.”
“Well?”
“I wanted to see the good cure again. I found him much
preoccupied with an event that he could not at all
comprehend. A week before he had received, in a cradle, a
beautiful little boy three months old, with a purse filled
with gold and a note containing these simple words: `11
October, 1633.'”
“It was the date of that strange adventure,” interrupted
Madame de Chevreuse.
“Yes, but he couldn’t understand what it meant, for he had
spent that night with a dying person and Marie Michon had
left his house before his return.”
“You must know, monsieur, that Marie Michon, when she
returned to France in 1643, immediately sought for
information about that child; as a fugitive she could not
take care of it, but on her return she wished to have it
near her.”
“And what said the abbe?” asked Athos.
“That a nobleman whom he did not know had wished to take
charge of it, had answered for its future, and had taken it
away.”
“That was true.”
“Ah! I see! That nobleman was you; it was his father!”
“Hush! do not speak so loud, madame; he is there.”
“He is there! my son! the son of Marie Michon! But I must
see him instantly.”
“Take care, madame,” said Athos, “for he knows neither his
father nor his mother.”
“You have kept the secret! you have brought him to see me,
thinking to make me happy. Oh, thanks! sir, thanks!” cried
Madame de Chevreuse, seizing his hand and trying to put it
to her lips; “you have a noble heart.”
“I bring him to you, madame,” said Athos, withdrawing his
hand, “hoping that in your turn you will do something for