“What! Does M. du Vallon wish to polish you off?”
“Or to get me killed, which is much the same thing.”
“The deuce!”
“Do not laugh, sire, for I am not saying one word beyond the exact truth.”
“And you say he wishes to get you killed.”
“Such is that excellent person’s present idea.”
“Be easy; I will defend you, if he be in the wrong.”
“Ah! There is an ‘if’!”
“Of course; answer me as candidly as if it were someone else’s affair instead of your own, my poor Saint-Aignan; is he right or wrong?”
“Your Majesty shall be the judge.”
“What have you done to him?”
“To him, personally, nothing at all; but, it seems, to one of his friends, I have.”
“It is all the same. Is his friend one of the celebrated ‘four’?”
“No. It is the son of one of the celebrated ‘four,’ though.”
“What have you done to the son? Come, tell me.”
“Why, it seems that I have helped someone to take his mistress from him.”
“You confess it, then?”
“I cannot help confessing it, for it is true.”
“In that case, you are wrong; and if he were to kill you, he would be doing perfectly right.”
“Ah! that is Your Majesty’s way of reasoning, then!”
“Do you think it a bad way?”
“It is a very expeditious way, at all events.”
“ ‘Good justice is prompt’; so my grandfather Henry IV used to say.”
“In that case, Your Majesty will, perhaps, be good enough to sign my adversary’s pardon, for he is now waiting for me at the Minimes, for the purpose of putting me out of my misery.”
“His name, and a parchment!”
“There is a parchment upon Your Majesty’s table; and for his name—”
“Well, what is it?”
“The Vicomte de Bragelonne, sire.”
“ ‘The Vicomte de Bragelonne!’ ” exclaimed the king; changing from a fit of laughter to the most profound stupor, and then, after a moment’s silence, while he wiped his forehead, which was bedewed with perspiration, he again murmured, “Bragelonne!”
“No other, sire.”
“Bragelonne, who was affianced to—”
“Yes, sire.”
“But—he has been in London.”
“Yes; but I can assure you, sire, he is there no longer.”
“Is he in Paris, then?”
“He is at Minimes, sire, where he is waiting for me, as I have already had the honor of telling you.”
“Does he know all?”
“Yes; and many things besides. Perhaps Your Majesty would like to look at the letter I have received from him”; and Saint-Aignan drew from his pocket the note we are already acquainted with. “When Your Majesty has read the letter, I will tell you how it reached me.”
The king read it in a great agitation, and immediately said, “Well?”
“Well, sire; Your Majesty knows a certain carved lock, closing a certain door of carved ebony, which separates a certain apartment from a certain blue and white sanctuary?”
“Of course; Louise’s boudoir.”
“Yes, sire. Well, it was in the keyhole of that lock that I found yonder note.”
“Who placed it there?”
“Either M. de Bragelonne, or the devil himself; but, inasmuch as the note smells of musk and not of sulphur, I conclude that it must be, not the devil, but M. de Bragelonne.”
Louis bent his head, and seemed absorbed in sad and bitter thought. Perhaps something like remorse was at that moment passing through his heart. “The secret is discovered,” he said.
“Sire, I shall do my utmost that the secret dies in the breast of the man who possesses it!” said Saint-Aignan, in a tone of bravado, as he moved towards the door; but a gesture of the king made him pause.
“Where are you going?” he inquired.
“Where they await me, sire.”
“What for?”
“To fight, in all probability.”
“You fight!” exclaimed the king. “One moment, if you please, Monsieur le Comte!”
Saint-Aignan shook his head, as a rebellious child does, whenever anyone interferes to prevent him throwing himself into a well, or playing with a knife. “But, sire,” he said.
“In the first place,” continued the king. “I want to be enlightened a little further.”
“Upon all points, if Your Majesty will be pleased to interrogate me,” replied Saint-Aignan, “I will throw what light I can.”
“Who told you that M. de Bragelonne had penetrated into that room?”
“The letter which I found in the keyhole told me.”
“Who told you that it was de Bragelonne who put it there?”
“Who but himself would have dared to undertake such a mission?”
“You are right. How was he able to get into your rooms?”
“Ah! that is very serious, inasmuch as all the doors were closed, and my lackey, Basque, had the keys in his pocket.”
“Your lackey must have been bribed.”
“Impossible, sire; for if he had been bribed, those who did so would not have sacrificed the poor fellow, whom, it is not unlikely, they might want to turn to further use by and by, in showing so clearly that it was he whom they had made use of.”
“Quite true. And now I can only form one conjecture.”
“Tell me what it is, sire, and we shall see if it is the same that has presented itself to my mind.”
“That he effected an entrance by means of the staircase.”
“Alas, sire, that seems to me more than probable.”
“There is no doubt that someone must have sold the secret of the trapdoor.”
“Either sold it or given it.”
“Why do you make that distinction?”
“Because there are certain persons, sire, who, being above the price of treason, give, and do not sell.”
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, sire! Your Majesty’s mind is too clear-sighted not to guess what I mean, and you will save me the embarrassment of naming the person I allude to.”
“You are right: you mean Madame; I suppose her suspicions were aroused by your changing your lodgings.”
“Madame has keys of the apartments of her maids of honor, and she is powerful enough to discover what no one but yourself could do, or she would not be able to discover anything.”
“And you suppose, then, that my sister must have entered into an alliance with Bragelonne, and has informed him of all the details of the affair.”
“Possibly even better still, for she perhaps accompanied him there.”
“Which way? through your
