ent, that she compromises herself, and I tremble lest, on our arrival
at Paris, M. de Bragelonne may not denounce both of you."

"For shame, De Wardes, again attacking De Bragelonne."

"Come, come, a truce to child's play," replied the count's evil genius,
in an undertone; "you know as well as I do what I mean. Besides, you
must have observed how the princess's glance softens as she looks at
you;--you can tell, by the very inflection of her voice, what pleasure
she takes in listening to you, and can feel how thoroughly she
appreciates the verses you recite to her. You cannot deny, too, that
every morning she tells you how indifferently she slept the previous
night."

"True, De Wardes, quite true; but what good is there in your telling me
all that?"

"Is it not important to know the exact position of affairs?"

"No, no; not when I am a witness of things that are enough to drive one
mad."

"Stay, stay," said De Wardes; "look, she calls you,--do you understand?
Profit by the occasion, while your pedagogue is absent."

De Guiche could not resist; an invincible attraction drew him towards
the princess. De Wardes smiled as he saw him withdraw.

"You are mistaken, monsieur," said Raoul, suddenly stepping across
the barrier against which the previous moment the two friends had been
leaning. "The pedagogue is here, and has overheard you."

De Wardes, at the sound of Raoul's voice, which he recognized without
having occasion to look at him, half drew his sword.

"Put up your sword," said Raoul; "you know perfectly well that, until
our journey is at an end, every demonstration of that nature is useless.
Why do you distill into the heart of the man you term your friend all
the bitterness that infects your own? As regards myself, you wish to
arouse a feeling of deep dislike against a man of honor--my father's
friend and my own; and as for the count you wish him to love one who
is destined for your master. Really, monsieur, I should regard you as
a coward, and a traitor too, if I did not, with greater justice, regard
you as a madman."

"Monsieur," exclaimed De Wardes, exasperated, "I was deceived, I find,
in terming you a pedagogue. The tone you assume, and the style which
is peculiarly your own, is that of a Jesuit, and not of a gentleman.
Discontinue, I beg, whenever I am present, this style I complain of, and
the tone also. I hate M. d'Artagnan, because he was guilty of a cowardly
act towards my father."

"You lie,