“Do you know what my opinion is?” continued she, addressing D’Artagnan.
“No, mademoiselle; but I should like very much to know it.”
“My opinion is, then, that all the men who go to this war are desperate, desponding men, whom love has treated ill; and who go to try if they cannot find jet-complexioned women more kind than fair ones have been.”
Some of the ladies laughed; La Valliere was evidently confused; Montalais coughed loud enough to waken the dead.
“Mademoiselle,” interrupted D’Artagnan, “you are in error when you speak of black women at Gigelli; the women there have not jet faces; it is true they are not white—they are yellow.”
“Yellow!” exclaimed the bevy of fair beauties.
“Eh! do not disparage it. I have never seen a finer color to match with black eyes and a coral mouth.”
“So much the better for M. de Bragelonne,” said Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente, with persistent malice. “He will make amends for his loss. Poor fellow!”
A profound silence followed these words; and D’Artagnan had time to observe and reflect that women—mild doves—treat each other more cruelly than tigers. But making La Valliere pale did not satisfy Athenais; she determined to make her blush likewise. Resuming the conversation without pause, “Do you know, Louise,” said she, “that there is a great sin on your conscience?”
“What sin, mademoiselle?” stammered the unfortunate girl, looking round her for support, without finding it.