"You see me perfectly overwhelmed," pursued Saint-Aignan, "overwhelmed to a degree that I hardly know what I am about."
"A guilty conscience, monsieur. Your affair is a bad one, and when the public shall learn all about it, and will judge—"
"Oh, monsieur!" exclaimed the comte, hurriedly, "such a secret ought not to be known, even by one's confessor."
"That we will think about," said Porthos; "the secret will not go far, in fact."
"Surely, monsieur," returned Saint-Aignan, "since M. de Bragelonne has penetrated the secret, he must be aware of the danger he as well as others run the risk of incurring."
"M. de Bragelonne runs no danger, monsieur, nor does he fear any either, as you, if it please Heaven, will find out very soon."
"This fellow is a perfect madman," thought Saint-Aignan. "What in Heaven's name does he want?" He then said aloud: "Come, monsieur, let us hush up this affair."
"You forget the portrait," said Porthos, in a voice of thunder, which made the comte's blood freeze in his veins.
As the portrait in question was La Valliere's portrait, and as no mistake could any longer exist on the subject, Saint-Aignan's eyes were completely opened. "Ah;" he exclaimed—"ah! monsieur, I remember now that M. de Bragelonne was engaged to be married to her."
Porthos assumed an imposing air, all the majesty of ignorance, in fact, as he said: "It matters nothing whatever to me, nor to yourself, indeed, whether or not my friend was, as you say, engaged to be married. I am even astonished that you should have made use of so indiscreet a remark. It may possibly do your cause harm, monsieur."