“And Aramis; I see you have not forgotten the name.”
“No,” she said; “poor Aramis; a charming man, elegant, discreet, and a writer of poetical verses. I am afraid he has turned out ill,” she added.
“He has; he is an abbé.”
“Ah, what a misfortune!” exclaimed the duchess, playing carelessly with her fan. “Indeed, sir, I thank you; you have recalled one of the most agreeable recollections of my youth.”
“Will you permit me, then, to recall another to you?”
“Relating to him?”
“Yes and no.”
“Faith!” said Madame de Chevreuse, “say on. With a man like you I fear nothing.”
Athos bowed. “Aramis,” he continued, “was intimate with a young needlewoman from Tours, a cousin of his, named Marie Michon.”
“Ah, I knew her!” cried the duchess. “It was to her he wrote from the siege of Rochelle, to warn her of a plot against the Duke of Buckingham.”