“Well, then, instead of pitying me, you would do much better to assist me in avenging myself on your mistress.” “And what sort of revenge would you take?” “I would triumph over her, and supplant my rival.” “I will never help you in that, Monsieur Chevalier,” said Kitty, warmly. “And why not?” demanded D’Artagnan. “For two reasons.” “What ones?” “The first is that my mistress will never love you.” “How do you know that?” “You have cut her to the heart.” “I? In what can I have offended her—I who ever since I have known her have lived at her feet like a slave? Speak, I beg you!” “I will never confess that but to the man—who should read to the bottom of my soul!” D’Artagnan looked at Kitty for the second time. The young girl had freshness and beauty which many duchesses would have purchased with their coronets. “Kitty,” said he, “I will read to the bottom of your soul whenever you like; don’t let that disturb you.” And he gave her a kiss at which the poor girl became as red as a cherry. “Oh, no,” said Kitty, “it is not me you love! It is my mistress you love; you told me so just now.” “And does that hinder you from letting me know the second reason?” “The second reason, Monsieur the Chevalier,” replied Kitty, emboldened by the kiss in the first place, and still further by the expression of the eyes of the young man, “is that in love, everyone for herself!” Then only D’Artagnan remembered the languishing glances of Kitty, her constantly meeting him in the antechamber, the corridor, or on the stairs, those touches of the hand every time she met him, and her deep sighs; but absorbed by his desire to please the great lady, he had disdained the _soubrette_. He whose game is the eagle takes no heed of the sparrow. But this time our Gascon saw at a glance all the advantage to be derived from the love which Kitty had just confessed so innocently, or so boldly: the interception of letters addressed to the Comte de Wardes, news on the spot, entrance at all hours into Kitty’s chamber, which was contiguous to her mistress’s. The perfidious deceiver was, as may plainly be perceived, already sacrificing, in intention, the poor girl in order to obtain Milady, willy-nilly. “Well,” said he to the young girl, “are you willing, my dear Kitty, that I should give you a proof of that love which you doubt?” “What love?” asked the young girl. “Of that which I am ready to feel toward you.” “And what is that proof?” “Are you willing that I should this evening pass with you the time I generally spend with your mistress?” “Oh, yes,” said Kitty, clapping her hands, “very willing.” “Well, then, come here, my dear,” said D’Artagnan, establishing himself in an easy chair; “come, and let me tell you that you are the prettiest _soubrette_ I ever saw!”