“Monsieur El 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, Monsieur 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 forgotten the glances you favored me with at the ball of Mme. de Guise? You have an opportunity now, Count; do not allow it to escape.”
D’Artagnan became very pale; he was wounded in his self-love: he thought that it was in his love.
“Poor dear Monsieur d’Artagnan,” said Kitty, in a voice full of compassion, and pressing anew the young man’s hand.
“You pity me, little one?” said D’Artagnan.
“Oh, yes, 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 much attention.