“It is impossible it can be she,” said he. “How could that ring be in Milady Clarick’s possession? And yet it is very difficult to find such an exact resemblance between two jewels.”

“Do you know that ring?” asked D’Artagnan.

“I thought I did,” said Athos; “but no doubt I was mistaken.”

And he gave it back to D’Artagnan, without ceasing, however, to eye it.

“Come, D’Artagnan,” said he after a moment, “take that ring off your finger, or turn the stone inside. It brings up to me such cruel memories that I could not keep cool enough to talk with you. Didn’t you come to ask advice of me? Didn’t you tell me you were in doubt what to do? But stop! let me take that sapphire again. The one I mentioned had one of its facets scratched in consequence of an accident.”

D’Artagnan took the ring again from his finger and gave it to Athos.

Athos shuddered. “Ha!” said he; “look, isn’t it strange?” And he showed D’Artagnan the scratches he remembered should be there.

“But from whom did you get this sapphire, Athos?”

“From my mother. As I tell you, it is an old family jewel, which never was to leave the family.”

“And you—sold it?” asked D’Artagnan hesitatingly.

“No,” replied Athos, with a singular smile; “I gave it away in a night of love, as it was given to you.”

D’Artagnan became thoughtful in his turn. He seemed to see in milady’s soul abysses the depths of which were full of darkness and mystery. He took back the ring, but put it in his pocket and not on his finger.

On reaching home D’Artagnan found Kitty waiting for him. A month of fever would not have changed the poor girl more than that night of sleeplessness and grief.

She was sent by her mistress to the false De Wardes. Her mistress was mad with love, intoxicated with joy. She wished to know when her lover would meet her again. And poor Kitty, pale and trembling, awaited D’Artagnan’s reply.

As his reply he took a pen and wrote the following letter:

“Do not depend upon me, madame, for the next meeting. Since my convalescence I have so many affairs of this kind on my hands that I am compelled to take them in a certain order. When your turn comes, I shall have the honour to inform you of it. I kiss your hands.

“Comte de Wardes.”

D’Artagnan handed the open letter to Kitty, who at first was unable to comprehend it, but who became almost wild with joy on reading it a second time. She could scarcely believe her happiness. She ran back to the Place Royale as fast as her feet could carry her.

Milady opened the letter with eagerness equal to Kitty’s in bringing it. But at the first words she read she became livid. She crushed the paper in her hand, and turning with flashing eyes on Kitty,

‘What is this letter?” cried she.

“The answer to yours, madame,” replied Kitty, all in a tremble.