“Monsieur,” cried Raoul, pressing D’Artagnan’s hand, “I entreat you in the name of the friendship you vowed my father!”
“The deuce take it, you are really ill—from curiosity.”
“No, it is not from curiosity, it is from love.”
“Good. Another big word. If you were really in love, my dear Raoul, you would be very different.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that if you were really so deeply in love that I could believe I was addressing myself to your heart—but it is impossible.”
“I tell you I love Louise to distraction.”
D’Artagnan could read to the very bottom of the young man’s heart.
“Impossible, I tell you,” he said. “You are like all young men; you are not in love, you are out of your senses.”
“Well! suppose it were only that?”