“We always have some difficulty in believing such things, if only from self-love.”

“Then you don’t believe me?”

“Why, I confess that unless you give me some proof of what you advance—”

“What do you say to this?”

And Kitty drew a little note from her bosom.

“For me?” said D’Artagnan, snatching the letter from her.

“No; for another.”

“For another?”

“Yes.”

“His name; his name!” cried D’Artagnan.

“Read the address.”

“The Comte de Wardes.”

The remembrance of the scene at St. Germain presented itself to the mind of the presumptuous Gascon. As quick as thought he tore open the letter, in spite of the cry which Kitty uttered on seeing what he was going to do, or rather what he was doing.

“Oh, good Lord! Chevalier,” said she, “what are you doing?”

“I?” said D’Artagnan; “nothing.” And he read,

“You have not answered my first note. Are you indisposed, or have you forgot the glances you gave me at Madame de Guise’s ball? You have an opportunity now, Count; do not allow it to escape.”

D’Artagnan became very pale.

“Poor dear Monsieur D’Artagnan!” said Kitty, in a voice full of compassion, and pressing the young man’s hand again.

“You pity me, my kind little creature?” said D’Artagnan.

“That I do, and with all my heart, for I know what it is to be in love.”

“You know what it is to be in love?” said D’Artagnan, looking at her for the first time with some attention.

“Alas, yes.”

“Well, then, instead of pitying me you would do much better to assist me in wreaking my revenge on your mistress.”

“And what sort of revenge would you take?”

“I would triumph over her, and supplant my rival.”

“I will never help you in that, Chevalier,” said Kitty warmly.

“Why not?”