And Kitty, who had not let go the hand of D’Artagnan, led him up a little dark, winding staircase, and after ascending about fifteen steps, opened a door. “Come in here, Monsieur Chevalier,” said she; “here we shall be alone, and can talk.” “And whose room is this, my dear child?” “It is mine, Monsieur Chevalier; it communicates with my mistress’s by that door. But you need not fear. She will not hear what we say; she never goes to bed before midnight.” D’Artagnan cast a glance around him. The little apartment was charming for its taste and neatness; but in spite of himself, his eyes were directed to that door which Kitty said led to Milady’s chamber. Kitty guessed what was passing in the mind of the young man, and heaved a deep sigh. “You love my mistress, then, very dearly, Monsieur Chevalier?” said she. “Oh, more than I can say, Kitty! I am mad for her!” Kitty breathed a second sigh. “Alas, monsieur,” said she, “that is too bad.” “What the devil do you see so bad in it?” said D’Artagnan. “Because, monsieur,” replied Kitty, “my mistress loves you not at all.” “_Hein!_” said D’Artagnan, “can she have charged you to tell me so?” “Oh, no, monsieur; but out of the regard I have for you, I have taken the resolution to tell you so.” “Much obliged, my dear Kitty; but for the intention only—for the information, you must agree, is not likely to be at all agreeable.” “That is to say, you don’t believe what I have told you; is it not so?” “We have always some difficulty in believing such things, my pretty dear, were it only from self-love.” “Then you don’t believe me?” “I confess that unless you deign to give me some proof of what you advance—” “What do you think of this?” Kitty drew a little note from her bosom. “For me?” said D’Artagnan, seizing the letter. “No; for another.” “For another?” “Yes.” “His name; his name!” cried D’Artagnan. “Read the address.” “Monsieur El Comte de Wardes.” The remembrance of the scene at St. Germain presented itself to the mind of the presumptuous Gascon. As quick as thought, he tore open the letter, in spite of the cry which Kitty uttered on seeing what he was going to do, or rather, what he was doing. “Oh, good Lord, Monsieur Chevalier,” said she, “what are you doing?” “I?” said D’Artagnan; “nothing,” and he read, “You have not answered my first note. Are you indisposed, or have you forgotten the glances you favored me with at the ball of Mme. de Guise? You have an opportunity now, Count; do not allow it to escape.” D’Artagnan became very pale; he was wounded in his _self_-love: he thought that it was in his _love_. “Poor dear Monsieur d’Artagnan,” said Kitty, in a voice full of compassion, and pressing anew the young man’s hand. “You pity me, little one?” said D’Artagnan. “Oh, yes, and with all my heart; for I know what it is to be in love.” “You know what it is to be in love?” said D’Artagnan, looking at her for the first time with much attention. “Alas, yes.”