"I must tell you," continues the artful D'Artagnan, watching her as a cat does a mouse—"I must tell your highness that before these unfortunate events I had avoided the Comte de Lauzun. I imagined he despised every one." Mademoiselle shakes her head. "Proper pride—a conscious superiority," she murmurs. "Well, madame, when he was arrested on St. Catherine's day, at Saint-Germain, the Comte de Rochefort brought him into the guard-room, and consigned him to me. I started at once with him on his journey to Pignerol. From time to time he gazed at me, but did not utter a single word. When we passed your villa at Petit Bourg, he groaned, and tears gathered in his eyes." "Poor Lauzun!" says Mademoiselle softly, lifting up her eyes. "'That villa,' said the Count to me, 'belongs to Mademoiselle. Words cannot tell what I owe her. She is as good as she is great.'" "Did Lauzun really say this?" asks Mademoiselle, with melting eyes. "He did, madame," rejoins D'Artagnan with secret exultation at seeing how the bait is swallowed. "'I am unhappy, Captain d'Artagnan', he went on to say, 'unhappy, but not guilty. I have served my King faithfully. I have worshipped Mademoiselle—not for her wealth, but for herself.'" Mademoiselle puts her handkerchief to her eyes. She is convulsed with suppressed sobs. "Yes, madame; this and much more was said to me by the Count. Indeed, his words were so touching that, soldier as I am, I wept, your highness—I actually wept." "Excellent man," mutters Mademoiselle, stretching out her hand towards him. "I shall not forget your appreciation of so noble a gentleman." 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.