“De Wardes cannot boast of anything.”
“How is that? You told me yourself that that ring—”
“That ring I have! The Comte de Wardes of Thursday and the D’Artagnan of today are the same person.”
The imprudent young man expected a surprise, mixed with shame—a slight storm which would resolve itself into tears; but he was strangely deceived, and his error was not of long duration.
Pale and trembling, Milady repulsed D’Artagnan’s attempted embrace by a violent blow on the chest, as she sprang out of bed.
It was almost broad daylight.
D’Artagnan detained her by her night dress of fine India linen, to implore her pardon; but she, with a strong movement, tried to escape. Then the cambric was torn from her beautiful shoulders; and on one of those lovely shoulders, round and white, D’Artagnan recognized, with inexpressible astonishment, the fleur-de-lis—that indelible mark which the hand of the infamous executioner had imprinted.
“Great God!” cried D’Artagnan, loosing his hold of her dress, and remaining mute, motionless, and frozen.
But Milady felt herself denounced even by his terror. He had doubtless seen all. The young man now knew her secret, her terrible secret—the secret she concealed even from her maid with such care, the secret of which all the world was ignorant, except himself.
She turned upon him, no longer like a furious woman, but like a wounded panther.