“And what can we do there?”

“Wait.”

“But if they come?”

“My brother’s carriage will be here first.”

“If I should happen to be any distance from you when the carriage comes for you—­at dinner or supper, for instance?”

“Do one thing.”

“What is that?”

“Tell your good superior that in order that we may be as much together as possible, you ask her permission to share my repast.”

“Will she permit it?”

“What inconvenience can it be?”

“Oh, delightful!  In this way we shall not be separated for an instant.”

“Well, go down to her, then, to make your request.  I feel my head a little confused; I will take a turn in the garden.”

“Go and where shall I find you?”

“Here, in an hour.”

“Here, in an hour.  Oh, you are so kind, and I am so grateful!”

“How can I avoid interesting myself for one who is so beautiful and so amiable?  Are you not the beloved of one of my best friends?”

“Dear d’Artagnan!  Oh, how he will thank you!”

“I hope so.  Now, then, all is agreed; let us go down.”

“You are going into the garden?”

“Yes.”

“Go along this corridor, down a little staircase, and you are in it.”

“Excellent; thank you!”

And the two women parted, exchanging charming smiles.

Milady had told the truth—­her head was confused, for her ill-arranged plans clashed one another like chaos.  She required to be alone that she might put her thoughts a little into order.  She saw vaguely the future; but she stood in need of a little silence and quiet to give all her ideas, as yet confused, a distinct form and a regular plan.

What was most pressing was to get Mme. Bonacieux away, and convey her to a place of safety, and there, if matters required, make her a hostage.  Milady began to have doubts of the issue of this terrible duel, in which her enemies showed as much perseverance as she did animosity.

Besides, she felt as we feel when a storm is coming on—­that this issue was near, and could not fail to be terrible.

The principal thing for her, then, was, as we have said, to keep Mme. Bonacieux in her power.  Mme. Bonacieux was the very life of d’Artagnan.  This was more than his life, the life of the woman he loved; this was, in case of ill fortune, a means of temporizing and obtaining good conditions.

Now, this point was settled; Mme. Bonacieux, without any suspicion, accompanied her.  Once concealed with her at Armentieres, it would be easy to make her believe that d’Artagnan had not come to Bethune.  In fifteen days at most, Rochefort would be back; besides, during that fifteen days she would have time to think how she could best avenge herself on the four friends.  She would not be weary, thank God! for she should enjoy the sweetest pastime such events could accord a woman of her character—­perfecting a beautiful vengeance.