Bragelonne looked at Madame Henrietta, and seeing how pale she was, not alone from what she was keeping back, but also from what she was burning to say, said: “Satisfied! what is there for me to be satisfied or dissatisfied about, Madame?”
“But what are those things with which a man of your age, and of your appearance, is usually either satisfied or dissatisfied?”
“How eager she is,” thought Raoul, almost terrified; “what venom is it she is going to distil into my heart?” and then, frightened at what she might possibly be going to tell him, and wishing to put off the opportunity of having everything explained, which he had hitherto so ardently wished for, yet had dreaded so much, he replied: “I left, Madame, a dear friend in good health, and on my return I find him very ill.”
“You refer to M. de Guiche,” replied Madame Henrietta, with imperturbable self-possession; “I have heard he is a very dear friend of yours.”
“He is, indeed, Madame.”
“Well, it is quite true he has been wounded; but he is better now. Oh! M. de Guiche is not to be pitied,” she said hurriedly; and then, recovering herself, added, “But has he anything to complain of? Has he complained of anything? Is there any cause of grief or sorrow that we are not acquainted with?”
“I allude only to his wound, Madame.”
“So much the better, then, for, in other respects, M. de Guiche seems to be very happy; he is always in very high spirits. I am sure that you, Monsieur de Bragelonne, would far prefer to be, like him, wounded only in the body... for what, in deed, is such a wound, after all!”
Raoul started. “Alas!” he said to himself, “she is returning to it.”
“What did you say?” she inquired.