thing."

"Name it."

"Swear to me, Monsieur d'Artagnan, that you will not tell the king that
you have seen me, and that I am at the Carmelites."

"I will not swear that," said D'Artagnan, shaking his head.

"Why?"

"Because I know the king, I know you, I know myself, even, nay, the
whole human race, too well; no, no, I will not swear that."

"In that case," cried La Valliere, with an energy of which one would
hardly have thought her capable, "instead of the blessing which I should
have implored for you until my dying day, I will invoke a curse, for you
are rendering me the most miserable creature that ever lived."

We have already observed that D'Artagnan could easily recognize the
accents of truth and sincerity, and he could not resist this last
appeal. He saw by her face how bitterly she suffered from a feeling of
degradation, he remarked her trembling limbs, how her whole slight and
delicate frame was violently agitated by some internal struggle, and
clearly perceived that resistance might be fatal. "I will do as you
wish, then," he said. "Be satisfied, mademoiselle, I will say nothing to
the king."

"Oh! thanks, thanks," exclaimed La Valliere, "you are the most generous
man breathing."

And in her extreme delight she seized hold of D'Artagnan's hands and
pressed them between her own. D'Artagnan, who felt himself quite
overcome, said, "This is touching, upon my word; she begins where others
leave off."

And La Valliere, who, in the extremity of her distress, had sunk down
upon the ground, rose and walked toward the convent of the Carmelites,
which could now, in the dawning light, be perceived just before them.
D'Artagnan followed her at a distance. The entrance door was half open,
she glided in like a shadow, and thanking D'Artagnan by a parting
gesture, disappeared from his sight. When D'Artagnan found himself quite
alone, he reflected profoundly upon what had just taken place. "Upon my
word," he said, "this looks very much like what is called a false
position. To keep such a secret as that is to keep a burning coal in
one's breeches pocket, and trust that it may not burn the stuff. And
yet, not to keep it when I have sworn to do so, is dishonorable. It
generally happens that some bright idea or other occurs to me as I am
going along; but I am very much mistaken if I shall not now have to go a
long way in order to find the solution of this affair. Yes, but which
way to go? Oh! toward Paris, of course;