It was near dark before the youthful Comte, after his discourteous reception by the headsman, was able to arrange suitable quarters in one of the deserted houses for his charge. As he was leaving her for the night, he seemed to reach a decision and was about to speak when she anticipated him.
“You are kind, indeed, M. le Comte,” she exclaimed, “to one in such misfortune.”
“Kindness, Mlle. Bonacieux, comes easily when one views beauty in distress.”
Mlle. Bonacieux shook her head reprovingly.
“Ah, Comte, to one whose tenure of existence is limited by a bit of parchment to ten hours the occasion does not seem fitting for mere compliment.”
“The occasion, Mademoiselle, is not entirely unpropitious if one considers all the possibilities.”
The woman gave him a quick look.
“To just what, pray, does the Comte de Mousqueton refer?”
The young Frenchman paced the room, giving signs of a state of tension. Then he began to speak rapidly:
“The Mlle. Bonacieux, some of us feel at the court, has been ill treated both by the King and the Dauphin. The King, by his gratuitous harshness, and the Dauphin, by his, his—”