D'Artagnan makes a profound obeisance.
("My promotion is now assured," he says to himself, "as well as poor Lauzun's pardon. Mademoiselle has great interest with his Majesty.")
D'Artagnan passes his hand across his eyes, as if to brush away tears, which he does not shed.
"I have seen much since I served his Majesty,"—he continues in broken sentences, simulating deep grief. "I am an observer of human nature;—but never—never did I know a man of such elevation of mind, with feelings so warm, so genuine, as Monsieur de Lauzun. The charms of his person, the dignity of his manners, his fortitude and patience in adversity, are more honourable to him than the splendour of his position as the first nobleman in France."
Mademoiselle, unable to contain her feelings, lays her hand upon D'Artagnan's hand, and presses it.
"Your penetration does you honour, Monsieur d'Artagnan. Yet so mean, so base is the envy of a Court, that it is whispered about, loud enough even for me in my exalted position to hear, that Lauzun cares only for my revenues—not for myself."
"Good God, what a slander!" cried D'Artagnan, with a face of well-simulated horror.
"Yes; but I do not believe it," hastily adds Mademoiselle.
"I can pledge my honour as a soldier, your highness, it is a lie," breaks in D'Artagnan, anxious for his friend's prospects.