“From Monsieur Laporte. Did I not tell you that she was the goddaughter of Monsieur Laporte, the confidential man of the queen? Well, Monsieur Laporte placed her near her Majesty in order that our poor queen might at least have someone in whom she could place confidence, abandoned as she is by the king, watched as she is by the cardinal, betrayed as she is by everybody.”
“Ah, ah! It begins to develop itself,” said D’Artagnan.
“Now, my wife came home four days ago, monsieur. One of her conditions was that she should come and see me twice a week; for, as I had the honor to tell you, my wife loves me dearly—my wife, then, came and confided to me that the queen at that very moment entertained great fears.”
“Truly!”
“Yes. The cardinal, as it appears, pursues her and persecutes her more than ever. He cannot pardon her the history of the Saraband. You know the history of the Saraband?”
“Pardieu! Know it!” replied D’Artagnan, who knew nothing about it, but who wished to appear to know everything that was going on.
“So that now it is no longer hatred, but vengeance.”
“Indeed!”
“And the queen believes—”
“Well, what does the queen believe?”