“Madness it would be, I admit, if Madame were really indifferent to your martyrdom; but she takes so much notice of it, observes it to such an extent, that she compromises herself, and I tremble lest, on our arrival at Paris, M. de Bragelonne may not denounce both of you.”
“For shame, De Wardes, again attacking De Bragelonne.”
“Come, come, a truce to child’s play,” replied the count’s evil genius, in an undertone; “you know as well as I do what I mean. Besides, you must have observed how the princess’s glance softens as she looks at you;—you can tell, by the very inflection of her voice, what pleasure she takes in listening to you, and can feel how thoroughly she appreciates the verses you recite to her. You cannot deny, too, that every morning she tells you how indifferently she slept the previous night.”
“True, De Wardes, quite true; but what good is there in your telling me all that?”
“Is it not important to know the exact position of affairs?”
“No, no; not when I am a witness of things that are enough to drive one mad.”
“Stay, stay,” said De Wardes; “look, she calls you,—do you understand? Profit by the occasion, while your pedagogue is absent.”
De Guiche could not resist; an invincible attraction drew him towards the princess. De Wardes smiled as he saw him withdraw.
“You are mistaken, monsieur,” said Raoul, suddenly stepping across the barrier against which the previous moment the two friends had been leaning. “The pedagogue is here, and has overheard you.”
De Wardes, at the sound of Raoul’s voice, which he recognized without having occasion to look at him, half drew his sword.