“Less love than politics,” replied d’Artagnan, with a reflective air; “and what do you suspect?”

“I do not know whether I ought to tell you what I suspect.”

“Monsieur, I beg you to observe that I ask you absolutely nothing.  It is you who have come to me.  It is you who have told me that you had a secret to confide in me.  Act, then, as you think proper; there is still time to withdraw.”

“No, monsieur, no; you appear to be an honest young man, and I will have confidence in you.  I believe, then, that it is not on account of any intrigues of her own that my wife has been arrested, but because of those of a lady much greater than herself.”

“Ah, ah!  Can it be on account of the amours of Madame de Bois-Tracy?” said d’Artagnan, wishing to have the air, in the eyes of the citizen, of being posted as to court affairs.

“Higher, monsieur, higher.”

“Of Madame d’Aiguillon?”

“Still higher.”

“Of Madame de Chevreuse?”

“Of the—­” d’Artagnan checked himself.

“Yes, monsieur,” replied the terrified citizen, in a tone so low that he was scarcely audible.

“And with whom?”

“With whom can it be, if not the Duke of—­”

“The Duke of—­”

“Yes, monsieur,” replied the citizen, giving a still fainter intonation to his voice.

“But how do you know all this?”

“How do I know it?”

“Yes, how do you know it?  No half-confidence, or—­you understand!”

“I know it from my wife, monsieur—­from my wife herself.”

“Who learns it from whom?”

“From Monsieur Laporte.  Did I not tell you that she was the goddaughter of Monsieur Laporte, the confidential man of the queen?  Well, Monsieur Laporte placed her near her Majesty in order that our poor queen might at least have someone in whom she could place confidence, abandoned as she is by the king, watched as she is by the cardinal, betrayed as she is by everybody.”

“Ah, ah!  It begins to develop itself,” said d’Artagnan.

“Now, my wife came home four days ago, monsieur.  One of her conditions was that she should come and see me twice a week; for, as I had the honor to tell you, my wife loves me dearly—­my wife, then, came and confided to me that the queen at that very moment entertained great fears.”

“Truly!”

“Yes.  The cardinal, as it appears, pursues he and persecutes her more than ever.  He cannot pardon her the history of the Saraband.  You know the history of the Saraband?”

“Pardieu!  Know it!” replied d’Artagnan, who knew nothing about it, but who wished to appear to know everything that was going on.

“So that now it is no longer hatred, but vengeance.”

“Indeed!”

“And the queen believes—­”

“Well, what does the queen believe?”

“She believes that someone has written to the Duke of Buckingham in her name.”