Louise de la Valliere by Alexandre Dumas (best sales books of all time TXT) 📗

“A note in the keyhole!” exclaimed Saint-Aignan.

“That is not unlikely to be the missing letter, monsieur le comte,” said Porthos.

Saint-Aignan took out the paper. “A note from M. de Bragelonne!” he exclaimed.

“You see, monsieur, I was right. Oh, when I say a thing—”

“Brought here by M. de Bragelonne himself,” the comte murmured, turning pale. “This is infamous! How could he possibly have come here?” And the comte rang again.

“Who has been here during my absence with the king?”

“No one, monsieur.”

“That is impossible! Some one must have been here.”

“No one could possibly have entered, monsieur, since the keys have never left my pocket.”

“And yet I find the letter in yonder lock; some one must have put it there; it could not have come here of its own accord.”

Basque opened his arms as if signifying the most absolute ignorance on the subject.

“Probably it was M. de Bragelonne himself who placed it there,” said Porthos.

“In that case he must have entered here.”

“How could that have been, since I have the key in my own pocket?” returned Basque, perseveringly.

Saint-Aignan crumpled the letter in his palm, after having read it. “There is something mysterious about this,” he murmured, absorbed in thought. Porthos left him to his reflections; but after a while returned to the mission he had undertaken.

“Shall we return to our little affair?” Porthos resumed, addressing Saint-Aignan after a brief pause.

“I think I can now understand it, from this note, which has arrived here in so singular a manner. Monsieur de Bragelonne says that a friend will call.”

“I am his friend. I am the person he alludes to.”

“For the purpose of giving me a challenge?”

“Precisely.”

“And he complains that I have insulted him?”

“Mortally.”

“In what way, may I ask; for his conduct is so mysterious, that, at least, it needs some explanation?”

“Monsieur,” replied Porthos, “my friend cannot but be right; and, as far as his conduct is concerned, if it be mysterious, as you say, you have only yourself to blame for it.” Porthos pronounced these words with an amount of confidence which, for a man who was unaccustomed to his ways, must have revealed an infinity of sense.

“Mystery, so be it; but what is all the mystery about?” said Saint-Aignan.

“You will think it the best, perhaps,” Porthos replied, with a low bow, “if I do not enter in to particulars.”

“Oh, I perfectly understand. We will touch very lightly upon it, then, so speak, monsieur, I am listening.”

“In the first place, monsieur,” said Porthos, “you have changed your apartments.”

“Yes, that is quite true,” said Saint-Aignan.

“You admit it,” said Porthos, with an air of satisfaction.

“Admit it! of course I admit it. Why should I not admit it, do you suppose?”

“You have admitted it. Very good,” said Porthos, lifting up one finger.

“But how can my having moved my lodgings have done M. de Bragelonne any harm? Have the goodness to tell me that, for I positively do not comprehend a word of what you are saying.”

Porthos stopped him, and then said, with great gravity, “Monsieur, this is the first of M. de Bragelonne’s complaints against you. If he makes a complaint, it is because he feels himself insulted.”

Saint-Aignan began to beat his foot impatiently on the ground. “This looks like a spurious quarrel,” he said.

“No one can possibly have a spurious quarrel with the Vicomte de Bragelonne,” returned Porthos; “but, at all events, you have nothing to add on the subject of your changing your apartments, I suppose?”

“Nothing. And what is the next point?”

“Ah, the next! You will observe, monsieur, that the one I have already mentioned is a most serious injury, to which you have given no answer, or rather, have answered very indifferently. Is it possible, monsieur, that you have changed your lodgings? M. de Bragelonne feels insulted at your having done so, and you do not attempt to excuse yourself.”

“What!” cried Saint-Aignan, who was getting annoyed at the perfect coolness of his visitor—“what! am I to consult M. de Bragelonne whether I am to move or not? You can hardly be serious, monsieur.”

“I am. And it is absolutely necessary, monsieur; but under any circumstances, you will admit that it is nothing in comparison with the second ground of complaint.”

“Well, what is that?”

Porthos assumed a very solemn expression as he said: “How about the trap-door, monsieur?”

Saint-Aignan turned exceedingly pale. He pushed back his chair so abruptly, that Porthos, simple as he was, perceived that the blow had told. “The trap-door,” murmured Saint-Aignan.

“Yes, monsieur, explain that if you can,” said Porthos, shaking his head.

Saint-Aignan held down his head, as he murmured: “I have been betrayed, everything is known!”

“Everything,” replied Porthos, who knew nothing.

“You see me perfectly overwhelmed,” pursued Saint-Aignan, “overwhelmed to a degree that I hardly know what I am about.”

“A guilty conscience, monsieur. Your affair is a bad one, and when the public learns all about it, it will judge—”

“Oh, monsieur!” exclaimed the count, hurriedly, “such a secret ought not to be known even by one’s confessor.”

“That we will think about,” said Porthos; “the secret will not go far, in fact.”

“Surely, monsieur,” returned Saint-Aignan, “since M. de Bragelonne has penetrated the secret, he must be aware of the danger he as well as others run the risk of incurring.”

“M. de Bragelonne runs no danger, monsieur, nor does he fear any either, as you, if it please Heaven, will find out very soon.”

“This fellow is a perfect madman,” thought Saint-Aignan. “What, in Heaven’s name, does he want?” He then said aloud: “Come, monsieur, let us hush up this affair.”

“You forget the portrait,” said Porthos, in a voice of thunder, which made the comte’s blood freeze in his veins.

As the