He was absorbed entirely by the sensations of the moment. Milady was no longer for him that woman of fatal intentions who had for a moment terrified him; she was an ardent, passionate mistress, abandoning herself to love which she also seemed to feel. Two hours thus glided away. When the transports of the two lovers were calmer, Milady, who had not the same motives for forgetfulness that D’Artagnan had, was the first to return to reality, and asked the young man if the means which were on the morrow to bring on the encounter between him and De Wardes were already arranged in his mind. But D’Artagnan, whose ideas had taken quite another course, forgot himself like a fool, and answered gallantly that it was too late to think about duels and sword thrusts. This coldness toward the only interests that occupied her mind terrified Milady, whose questions became more pressing. Then D’Artagnan, who had never seriously thought of this impossible duel, endeavored to turn the conversation; but he could not succeed. Milady kept him within the limits she had traced beforehand with her irresistible spirit and her iron will. D’Artagnan fancied himself very cunning when advising Milady to renounce, by pardoning De Wardes, the furious projects she had formed. But at the first word the young woman started, and exclaimed in a sharp, bantering tone, which sounded strangely in the darkness, “Are you afraid, dear Monsieur d’Artagnan?” “You cannot think so, dear love!” replied D’Artagnan; “but now, suppose this poor Comte de Wardes were less guilty than you think him?” “At all events,” said Milady, seriously, “he has deceived me, and from the moment he deceived me, he merited death.” “He shall die, then, since you condemn him!” said D’Artagnan, in so firm a tone that it appeared to Milady an undoubted proof of devotion. This reassured her. We cannot say how long the night seemed to Milady, but D’Artagnan believed it to be hardly two hours before the daylight peeped through the window blinds, and invaded the chamber with its paleness. Seeing D’Artagnan about to leave her, Milady recalled his promise to avenge her on the Comte de Wardes. “I am quite ready,” said D’Artagnan; “but in the first place I should like to be certain of one thing.” “And what is that?” asked Milady. “That is, whether you really love me?” “I have given you proof of that, it seems to me.” “And I am yours, body and soul!” “Thanks, my brave lover; but as you are satisfied of my love, you must, in your turn, satisfy me of yours. Is it not so?” “Certainly; but if you love me as much as you say,” replied D’Artagnan, “do you not entertain a little fear on my account?” “What have I to fear?” “Why, that I may be dangerously wounded—killed even.” “Impossible!” cried Milady, “you are such a valiant man, and such an expert swordsman.” “You would not, then, prefer a method,” resumed D’Artagnan, “which would equally avenge you while rendering the combat useless?”