“Rest assured,” cried the duchess, “I shall do what I can. I have but little influence now, but all that I have shall most assuredly be his. As to his title and fortune——” “As to that, madame, I have made over to him the estate of Bragelonne, my inheritance, which will give him ten thousand francs a year and the title of vicomte.” “Upon my soul, monsieur,” said the duchess, “you are a true nobleman! But I am eager to see our young vicomte. Where is he?” “There, in the _salon_. I will have him come in, if you really wish it.” Athos moved toward the door; the duchess held him back. “Is he handsome?” she asked. Athos smiled. “He resembles his mother.” So he opened the door and beckoned the young man in. The duchess could not restrain a cry of joy on seeing so handsome a young cavalier, so far surpassing all that her maternal pride had been able to conceive. “Vicomte, come here,” said Athos; “the duchess permits you to kiss her hand.” The youth approached with his charming smile and his head bare, and kneeling down, kissed the hand of the Duchess de Chevreuse. “Sir,” he said, turning to Athos, “was it not in compassion to my timidity that you told me that this lady was the Duchess de Chevreuse, and is she not the queen?” “No, vicomte,” said Madame de Chevreuse, taking his hand and making him sit near her, while she looked at him with eyes sparkling with pleasure; “no, unhappily, I am not the queen. If I were I should do for you at once the most that you deserve. But let us see; whatever I may be,” she added, hardly restraining herself from kissing that pure brow, “let us see what profession you wish to follow.” Athos, standing, looked at them both with indescribable pleasure. “Madame,” answered the youth in his sweet voice, “it seems to me that there is only _one_ career for a gentleman—that of the army. I have been brought up by monsieur le comte with the intention, I believe, of making me a soldier; and he gave me reason to hope that at Paris he would present me to some one who would recommend me to the favor of the prince.” “Yes, I understand it well. Personally, I am on bad terms with him, on account of the quarrels between Madame de Montbazon, my mother-in-law, and Madame de Longueville. But the Prince de Marsillac! Yes, indeed, that’s the right thing. The Prince de Marsillac—my old friend—will recommend our young friend to Madame de Longueville, who will give him a letter to her brother, the prince, who loves her too tenderly not to do what she wishes immediately.” “Well, that will do charmingly,” said the count; “but may I beg that the greatest haste may be made, for I have reasons for wishing the vicomte not to sleep longer than to-morrow night in Paris!” “Do you wish it known that you are interested about him, monsieur le comte?” “Better for him in future that he should be supposed never to have seen me.” “Oh, sir!” cried Raoul. “You know, Bragelonne,” said Athos, “I never speak without reflection.”