The Three Musketeers - Dumas

51 OFFICER
Meanwhile, the cardinal looked anxiously for news from England;
but no news arrived that was not annoying and threatening.
Although La Rochelle was invested, however certain success might
appear--thanks to the precautions taken, and above all to the
dyke, which prevented the entrance of any vessel into the
besieged city--the blockade might last a long time yet. This was
a great affront to the king''s army, and a great inconvenience to
the cardinal, who had no longer, it is true, to embroil Louis
XIII with Anne of Austria--for that affair was over--but he had
to adjust matters for M. de Bassompierre, who was embroiled with
the Duc d''Angouleme.
As to Monsieur, who had begun the siege, he left to the cardinal
the task of finishing it.
The city, notwithstanding the incredible perseverance of its
mayor, had attempted a sort of mutiny for a surrender; the mayor
had hanged the mutineers. This execution quieted the ill-
disposed, who resolved to allow themselves to die of hunger--this
death always appearing to them more slow and less sure than
strangulation.
On their side, from time to time, the besiegers took the
messengers which the Rochellais sent to Buckingham, or the spies
which Buckingham sent to the Rochellais. In one case or the
other, the trial was soon over. The cardinal pronounced the
single word, "Hanged!" The king was invited to come and see the
hanging. He came languidly, placing himself in a good situation
to see all the details. This amused him sometimes a little, and
made him endure the siege with patience; but it did not prevent
his getting very tired, or from talking at every moment of
returning to Paris--so that if the messengers and the spies had
failed, his Eminence, notwithstanding all his inventiveness,
would have found himself much embarrassed.
Nevertheless, time passed on, and the Rochellais did not
surrender. The last spy that was taken was the bearer of a
letter. This letter told Buckingham that the city was at an
extremity; but instead of adding, "If your succor does not arrive
within fifteen days, we will surrender," it added, quite simply,
"If your succor comes not within fifteen days, we shall all be
dead with hunger when it comes."
The Rochellais, then, had no hope but in Buckingham. Buckingham
was their Messiah. It was evident that if they one day learned
positively that they must not count on Buckingham, their courage
would fail with their hope.
The cardinal looked, then, with great impatience for the news
from England which would announce to him that Buckingham would
not come.
The question of carrying the city by assault, though often
debated in the council of the king, had been always rejected. In
the first place, La Rochelle appeared impregnable. Then the
cardinal, whatever he said, very well knew that the horror of
bloodshed in this encounter, in which Frenchman would combat
against Frenchman, was a retrograde movement of sixty years
impressed upon his policy; and the cardinal was at that period
what we now call a man of progress. In fact, the sack of La
Rochelle, and the assassination of three of four thousand
Huguenots who allowed themselves to be killed, would resemble too
closely, in 1628, the massacre of St. Bartholomew in 1572; and
then, above all this, this extreme measure, which was not at all
repugnant to the king, good Catholic as he was, always fell
before this argument of the besieging generals--La Rochelle is
impregnable except to famine.
The cardinal could not drive from his mind the fear he
entertained of his terrible emissary--for he comprehended the
strange qualities of this woman, sometimes a serpent, sometimes a
lion. Had she betrayed him? Was she dead? He knew her well
enough in all cases to know that, whether acting for or against
him, as a friend or an enemy, she would not remain motionless
without great impediments; but whence did these impediments
arise? That was what he could not know.
And yet he reckoned, and with reason, on Milady. He had divined
in the past of this woman terrible things which his red mantle
alone could cover; and he felt, from one cause or another, that
this woman was his own, as she could look to no other but himself
for a support superior to the danger which threatened her.
He resolved, then, to carry on the war alone, and to look for no
success foreign to himself, but as we look for a fortunate
chance. He continued to press the raising of the famous dyke
which was to starve La Rochelle. Meanwhile, he cast his eyes
over that unfortunate city, which contained so much deep misery
and so many heroic virtues, and recalling the saying of Louis XI,
his political predecessor, as he himself was the predecessor of
Robespierre, he repeated this maxim of Tristan''s gossip: "Divide
in order to reign."
Henry IV, when besieging Paris, had loaves and provisions thrown
over the walls. The cardinal had little notes thrown over in
which he represented to the Rochellais how unjust, selfish, and
barbarous was the conduct of their leaders. These leaders had
corn in abundance, and would not let them partake of it; they
adopted as a maxim--for they, too, had maxims--that it was of
very little consequence that women, children, and old men should
die, so long as the men who were to defend the walls remained
strong and healthy. Up to that time, whether from devotedness or
from want of power to act against it, this maxim, without being
generally adopted, nevertheless passed from theory into practice;
but the notes did it injury. The notes reminded the men that the
children, women, and old men whom they allowed to die were their
sons, their wives, and their fathers, and that it would be more
just for everyone to be reduced to the common misery, in order
that equal con***ions should give birth to unanimous resolutions.
These notes had all the effect that he who wrote them could
expect, in that they induced a great number of the inhabitants to
open private negotiations with the royal army.
But at the moment when the cardinal saw his means already
fructify, and applauded himself for having put it in action, an
inhabitant of La Rochelle who had contrived to pass the royal
lines--God knows how, such was the watchfulness of Bassompierre,
Schomberg, and the Duc d''Angouleme, themselves watched over by
the cardinal--an inhabitant of La Rochelle, we say, entered the
city, coming from Portsmouth, and saying that he had seen a
magnificent fleet ready to sail within eight days. Still
further, Buckingham announced to the mayor that at length the
great league was about to declare itself against France, and that
the kingdom would be at once invaded by the English, Imperial,
and Spanish armies. This letter was read publicly in all parts
of the city. Copies were put up at the corners of the streets;
and even they who had begun to open negotiations interrupted
them, being resolved to await the succor so pompously announced.
This unexpected circumstance brought back Richelieu''s former
anxiety, and forced him in spite of himself once more to turn his
eyes to the other side of the sea.
During this time, exempt from the anxiety of its only and true
chief, the royal army led a joyous life, neither provisions nor
money being wanting in the camp. All the corps rivaled one
another in audacity and gaiety. To take spies and hang them, to
make hazardous expe***ions upon the dyke or the sea, to imagine
wild plans, and to execute them coolly--such were the pastimes
which made the army find these days short which were not only so
long to the Rochellais, a prey to famine and anxiety, but even to
the cardinal, who blockaded them so closely.
Sometimes when the cardinal, always on horseback, like the lowest
GENDARME of the army, cast a pensive glance over those works, so
slowly keeping pace with his wishes, which the engineers, brought
from all the corners of France, were executing under his orders,
if he met a Musketeer of the company of Treville, he drew near
and looked at him in a peculiar manner, and not recognizing in
him one of our four companions, he turned his penetrating look
and profound thoughts in another direction.
One day when oppressed with a mortal weariness of mind, without
hope in the negotiations with the city; without news from
England, the cardinal went out, without any other aim than to be
out of doors, and accompanied only by Cahusac and La Houdiniere,
strolled along the beach. Mingling the immensity of his dreams
with the immensity of the ocean, he came, his horse going at a
foot''s pace, to a hill from the top of which he perceived behind
a hedge, reclining on the sand and catching in its passage one of
those rays of the sun so rare at this period of the year, seven
men surrounded by empty bottles. Four of these men were our
Musketeers, preparing to listen to a letter one of them had just
received. This letter was so important that it made them forsake
their cards and their dice on the drumhead.
The other three were occupied in opening an enormous flagon of
Collicure wine; these were the lackeys of these gentlemen.
The cardinal was, as we have said, in very low spirits; and
nothing when he was in that state of mind increased his
depression so much as gaiety in others. Besides, he had another
strange fancy, which was always to believe that the causes of his
sadness created the gaiety of others. Making a sign to La
Houdiniere and Cahusac to stop, he alighted from his horse, and
went toward these suspected merry companions, hoping, by means of
the sand which deadened the sound of his steps and of the hedge
which concealed his approach, to catch some words of this
conversation which appeared so interesting. At ten paces from
the hedge he recognized the talkative Gascon; and as he had
already perceived that these men were Musketeers, he did not
doubt that the three others were those called the Inseparables;
that is to say, Athos, Porthos, and Aramis.
It may be supposed that his desire to hear the conversation was
augmented by this discovery. His eyes took a strange expression,
and with the step of a tiger-cat he advanced toward the hedge;
but he had not been able to catch more than a few vague syllables
without any positive sense, when a sonorous and short cry made
him start, and attracted the attention of the Musketeers.
"Officer!" cried Grimaud.
"You are speaking, you scoundrel!" said Athos, rising upon his
elbow, and transfixing Grimaud with his flaming look.
Grimaud therefore added nothing to his speech, but contented
himself with pointing his index finger in the direction of the
hedge, announcing by this gesture the cardinal and his escort.
With a single bound the Musketeers were on their feet, and
saluted with respect.
The cardinal seemed furious.
"It appears that Messieurs the Musketeers keep guard," said he.
"Are the English expected by land, or do the Musketeers consider
themselves superior officers?"
"Monseigneur," replied Athos, for amid the general fright he
alone had preserved the noble calmness and coolness that never
forsook him, "Monseigneur, the Musketeers, when they are not on
duty, or when their duty is over, drink and play at dice, and
they are certainly superior officers to their lackeys."
"Lackeys?" grumbled the cardinal. "Lackeys who have the order to
warn their masters when anyone passes are not lackeys, they are
sentinels."
"Your Eminence may perceive that if we had not taken this
precaution, we should have been exposed to allowing you to pass
without presenting you our respects or offering you our thanks
for the favor you have done us in uniting us. D''Artagnan,"
continued Athos, "you, who but lately were so anxious for such an
opportunity for expressing your gratitude to Monseigneur, here it
is; avail yourself of it."
These words were pronounced with that imperturbable phlegm which
distinguished Athos in the hour of danger, and with that
excessive politeness which made of him at certain moments a king
more majestic than kings by birth.
D''Artagnan came forward and stammered out a few words of
gratitude which soon expired under the gloomy looks of the
cardinal.
"It does not signify, gentlemen," continued the cardinal, without
appearing to be in the least swerved from his first intention by
the diversion which Athos had started, "it does not signify,
gentlemen. I do not like to have simple soldiers, because they
have the advantage of serving in a privileged corps, thus to play
the great lords; discipline is the same for them as for everybody
else."
Athos allowed the cardinal to finish his sentence completely, and
bowed in sign of assent. Then he resumed in his turn:
"Discipline, Monseigneur, has, I hope, in no way been forgotten
by us. We are not on duty, and we believed that not being on
duty we were at liberty to dispose of our time as we pleased. If
we are so fortunate as to have some particular duty to perform
for your Eminence, we are ready to obey you. Your Eminence may
perceive," continued Athos, knitting his brow, for this sort of
investigation began to annoy him, "that we have not come out
without our arms."
And he showed the cardinal, with his finger, the four muskets
piled near the drum, on which were the cards and dice.
"Your Eminence may believe," added D''Artagnan, "that we would
have come to meet you, if we could have supposed it was
Monseigneur coming toward us with so few attendants."
The cardinal bit his mustache, and even his lips a little.
"Do you know what you look like, all together, as you are armed
and guarded by your lackeys?" said the cardinal. "You look like
four conspirators."
"Oh, as to that, Monseigneur, it is true," said Athos; "we do
conspire, as your Eminence might have seen the other morning.
Only we conspire against the Rochellais."
"Ah, you gentlemen of policy!" replied the cardinal, knitting his
brow in his turn, "the secret of many unknown things might
perhaps be found in your brains, if we could read them as you
read that letter which you concealed as soon as you saw me
coming."
The color mounted to the face of Athos, and he made a step toward
his Eminence.
"One might think you really suspected us, monseigneur, and we
were undergoing a real interrogatory. If it be so, we trust your
Eminence will deign to explain yourself, and we should then at
least be acquainted with our real position."
"And if it were an interrogatory!" replied the cardinal. "Others
besides you have undergone such, Monsieur Athos, and have replied
thereto."
"Thus I have told your Eminence that you had but to question us,
and we are ready to reply."
"What was that letter you were about to read, Monsieur Aramis,
and which you so promptly concealed?"
"A woman''s letter, monseigneur."
"Ah, yes, I see," said the cardinal; "we must be discreet with
this sort of letters; but nevertheless, we may show them to a
confessor, and you know I have taken orders."
"Monseigneur," said Athos, with a calmness the more terrible
because he risked his head in making this reply, "the letter is a
woman''s letter, but it is neither signed Marion de Lorme, nor
Madame d''Aiguillon."
The cardinal became as pale as death; lightning darted from his
eyes. He turned round as if to give an order to Cahusac and
Houdiniere. Athos saw the movement; he made a step toward the
muskets, upon which the other three friends had fixed their eyes,
like men ill-disposed to allow themselves to be taken. The
cardinalists were three; the Musketeers, lackeys included, were
seven. He judged that the match would be so much the less equal,
if Athos and his companions were really plotting; and by one of
those rapid turns which he always had at command, all his anger
faded away into a smile.
"Well, well!" said he, "you are brave young men, proud in
daylight, faithful in darkness. We can find no fault with you
for watching over yourselves, when you watch so carefully over
others. Gentlemen, I have not forgotten the night in which you
served me as an escort to the Red Dovecot. If there were any
danger to be apprehended on the road I am going, I would request
you to accompany me; but as there is none, remain where you are,
finish your bottles, your game, and your letter. Adieu,
gentlemen!"
And remounting his horse, which Cahusac led to him, he saluted
them with his hand, and rode away.
The four young men, standing and motionless, followed him with
their eyes without speaking a single word until he had
disappeared. Then they looked at one another.
The countenances of all gave evidence of terror, for
notwithstanding the friendly adieu of his Eminence, they plainly
perceived that the cardinal went away with rage in his heart.
Athos alone smiled, with a self-possessed, disdainful smile.
When the cardinal was out of hearing and sight, "That Grimaud
kept bad watch!" cried Porthos, who had a great inclination to
vent his ill-humor on somebody.
Grimaud was about to reply to excuse himself. Athos lifted his
finger, and Grimaud was silent.
"Would you have given up the letter, Aramis?" said D''Artagnan.
"I," said Aramis, in his most flutelike tone, "I had made up my
mind. If he had insisted upon the letter being given up to him,
I would have presented the letter to him with one hand, and with
the other I would have run my sword through his body."
"I expected as much," said Athos; "and that was why I threw
myself between you and him. Indeed, this man is very much to
blame for talking thus to other men; one would say he had never
had to do with any but women and children."
"My dear Athos, I admire you, but nevertheless we were in the
wrong, after all."
"How, in the wrong?" said Athos. "Whose, then, is the air we
breathe? Whose is the ocean upon which we look? Whose is the
sand upon which we were reclining? Whose is that letter of your
mistress? Do these belong to the cardinal? Upon my honor, this
man fancies the world belongs to him. There you stood,
stammering, stupefied, annihilated. One might have supposed the
Bastille appeared before you, and that the gigantic Medusa had
converted you into stone. Is being in love conspiring? You are
in love with a woman whom the cardinal has caused to be shut up,
and you wish to get her out of the hands of the cardinal. That''s
a match you are playing with his Eminence; this letter is your
game. Why should you expose your game to your adversary? That
is never done. Let him find it out if he can! We can find out
his!"
"Well, that''s all very sensible, Athos," said D''Artagnan.
"In that case, let there be no more question of what''s past, and
let Aramis resume the letter from his cousin where the cardinal
interrupted him."
Aramis drew the letter from his pocket; the three friends
surrounded him, and the three lackeys grouped themselves again
near the wine jar.
"You had only read a line or two," said D''Artagnan; "read the
letter again from the commencement."
"Willingly," said Aramis.
"My dear Cousin, I think I shall make up my mind to set out for
Bethune, where my sister has placed our little servant in the
convent of the Carmelites; this poor child is quite resigned, as
she knows she cannot live elsewhere without the salvation of her
soul being in danger. Nevertheless, if the affairs of our family
are arranged, as we hope they will be, I believe she will run the
risk of being damned, and will return to those she regrets,
particularly as she knows they are always thinking of her.
Meanwhile, she is not very wretched; what she most desires is a
letter from her intended. I know that such viands pass with
difficulty through convent gratings; but after all, as I have
given you proofs, my dear cousin, I am not unskilled in such
affairs, and I will take charge of the commission. My sister
thanks you for your good and eternal remembrance. She has
experienced much anxiety; but she is now at length a little
reassured, having sent her secretary away in order that nothing
may happen unexpectedly.
"Adieu, my dear cousin. Tell us news of yourself as often as you
can; that is to say, as often as you can with safety. I embrace
you.
"Marie Michon."
"Oh, what do I not owe you, Aramis?" said D''Artagnan. "Dear
Constance! I have at length, then, intelligence of you. She
lives; she is in safety in a convent; she is at Bethune! Where
is Bethune, Athos?"
"Why, upon the frontiers of Artois and of Flanders. The siege
once over, we shall be able to make a tour in that direction."
"And that will not be long, it is to be hoped," said Porthos;
"for they have this morning hanged a spy who confessed that the
Rochellais were reduced to the leather of their shoes. Supposing
that after having eaten the leather they eat the soles, I cannot
see much that is left unless they eat one another."
"Poor fools!" said Athos, emptying a glass of excellent Bordeaux
wine which, without having at that period the reputation it now
enjoys, merited it no less, "poor fools! As if the Catholic
religion was not the most advantageous and the most agreeable of
all religions! All the same," resumed he, after having clicked
his tongue against his palate, "they are brave fellows! But what
the devil are you about, Aramis?" continued Athos. "Why, you are
squeezing that letter into your pocket!"
"Yes," said D''Artagnan, "Athos is right, it must be burned. And
yet if we burn it, who knows whether Monsieur Cardinal has not a
secret to interrogate ashes?"
"He must have one," said Athos.
"What will you do with the letter, then?" asked Porthos.
"Come here, Grimaud," said Athos. Grimaud rose and obeyed. "As
a punishment for having spoken without permission, my friend, you
will please to eat this piece of paper; then to recompense you
for the service you will have rendered us, you shall afterward
drink this glass of wine. First, here is the letter. Eat
heartily."
Grimaud smiled; and with his eyes fixed upon the glass which
Athos held in his hand, he ground the paper well between his
teeth and then swallowed it.
"Bravo, Monsieur Grimaud!" said Athos; "and now take this.
That''s well. We dispense with your saying grace."
Grimaud silently swallowed the glass of Bordeaux wine; but his
eyes, raised toward heaven during this delicious occupation,
spoke a language which, though mute, was not the less expressive.
"And now," said Athos, "unless Monsieur Cardinal should form the
ingenious idea of ripping up Grimaud, I think we may be pretty
much at our ease respecting the letter."
Meantime, his Eminence continued his melancholy ride, murmuring
between his mustaches, "These four men must positively be mine."

52 CAPTIVITY: THE FIRST DAY
Let us return to Milady, whom a glance thrown upon the coast of
France has made us lose sight of for an instant.
We shall find her still in the despairing attitude in which we
left her, plunged in an abyss of dismal reflection--a dark hell
at the gate of which she has almost left hope behind, because for
the first time she doubts, for the first time she fears.
On two occasions her fortune has failed her, on two occasions she
has found herself discovered and betrayed; and on these two
occasions it was to one fatal genius, sent doubtlessly by the
Lord to combat her, that she has succumbed. D''Artagnan has
conquered her--her, that invincible power of evil.
He has deceived her in her love, humbled her in her pride,
thwarted her in her ambition; and now he ruins her fortune,
deprives her of liberty, and even threatens her life. Still
more, he has lifted the corner of her mask--that shield with
which she covered herself and which rendered her so strong.
D''Artagnan has turned aside from Buckingham, whom she hates as
she hates everyone she has loved, the tempest with which
Richelieu threatened him in the person of the queen. D''Artagnan
had passed himself upon her as De Wardes, for whom she had
conceived one of those tigerlike fancies common to women of her
character. D''Artagnan knows that terrible secret which she has
sworn no one shall know without dying. In short, at the moment
in which she has just obtained from Richelieu a carte blanche by
the means of which she is about to take vengeance on her enemy,
this precious paper is torn from her hands, and it is D''Artagnan
who holds her prisoner and is about to send her to some filthy
Botany Bay, some infamous Tyburn of the Indian Ocean.
All this she owes to D''Artagnan, without doubt. From whom can
come so many disgraces heaped upon her head, if not from him? He
alone could have transmitted to Lord de Winter all these
frightful secrets which he has discovered, one after another, by
a train of fatalities. He knows her brother-in-law. He must
have written to him.
What hatred she distills! Motionless, with her burning and fixed
glances, in her solitary apartment, how well the outbursts of
passion which at times escape from the depths of her chest with
her respiration, accompany the sound of the surf which rises,
growls, roars, and breaks itself like an eternal and powerless
despair against the rocks on which is built this dark and lofty
castle! How many magnificent projects of vengeance she conceives
by the light of the flashes which her tempestuous passion casts
over her mind against Mme. Bonacieux, against Buckingham, but
above all against D''Artagnan--projects lost in the distance of
the future.
Yes; but in order to avenge herself she must be free. And to be
free, a prisoner has to pierce a wall, detach bars, cut through a
floor--all undertakings which a patient and strong man may
accomplish, but before which the feverish irritations of a woman
must give way. Besides, to do all this, time is necessary--
months, years; and she has ten or twelve days, as Lord de Winter,
her fraternal and terrible jailer, has told her.
And yet, if she were a man she would attempt all this, and
perhaps might succeed; why, then, did heaven make the mistake of
placing that manlike soul in that frail and delicate body?
The first moments of her captivity were terrible; a few
convulsions of rage which she could not suppress paid her debt of
feminine weakness to nature. But by degrees she overcame the
outbursts of her mad passion; and nervous tremblings which
agitated her frame disappeared, and she remained folded within
herself like a fatigued serpent in repose.
"Go to, go to! I must have been mad to allow myself to be
carried away so," says she, gazing into the glass, which reflects
back to her eyes the burning glance by which she appears to
interrogate herself. "No violence; violence is the proof of
weakness. In the first place, I have never succeeded by that
means. Perhaps if I employed my strength against women I might
perchance find them weaker than myself, and consequently conquer
them; but it is with men that I struggle, and I am but a woman to
them. Let me fight like a woman, then; my strength is in my
weakness."
Then, as if to render an account to herself of the changes she
could place upon her countenance, so mobile and so expressive,
she made it take all expressions from that of passionate anger,
which convulsed her features, to that of the most sweet, most
affectionate, and most seducing smile. Then her hair assumed
successively, under her skillful hands, all the undulations she
thought might assist the charms of her face. At length she
murmured, satisfied with herself, "Come, nothing is lost; I am
still beautiful."
It was then nearly eight o''clock in the evening. Milady
perceived a bed; she calculated that the repose of a few hours
would not only refresh her head and her ideas, but still further,
her complexion. A better idea, however, came into her mind
before going to bed. She had heard something said about supper.
She had already been an hour in this apartment; they could not
long delay bringing her a repast. The prisoner did not wish to
lose time; and she resolved to make that very evening some
attempts to ascertain the nature of the ground she had to work
upon, by studying the characters of the men to whose guardianship
she was committed.
A light appeared under the door; this light announced the
reappearance of her jailers. Milady, who had arisen, threw
herself quickly into the armchair, her head thrown back, her
beautiful hair unbound and disheveled, her bosom half bare
beneath her crumpled lace, one hand on her heart, and the other
hanging down.
The bolts were drawn; the door groaned upon its hinges. Steps
sounded in the chamber, and drew near.
"Place that table there," said a voice which the prisoner
recognized as that of Felton.
The order was executed.
"You will bring lights, and relieve the sentinel," continued
Felton.
And this double order which the young lieutenant gave to the same
individuals proved to Milady that her servants were the same men
as her guards; that is to say, soldiers.
Felton''s orders were, for the rest, executed with a silent
rapi***y that gave a good idea of the way in which he maintained
discipline.
At length Felton, who had not yet looked at Milady, turned toward
her.
"Ah, ah!" said he, "she is asleep; that''s well. When she wakes
she can sup." And he made some steps toward the door.
"But, my lieutenant," said a soldier, less stoical than his
chief, and who had approached Milady, "this woman is not asleep."
"What, not asleep!" said Felton; "what is she doing, then?"
"She has fainted. Her face is very pale, and I have listened in
vain; I do not hear her breathe."
"You are right," said Felton, after having looked at Milady from
the spot on which he stood without moving a step toward her. "Go
and tell Lord de Winter that his prisoner has fainted--for this
event not having been foreseen, I don''t know what to do."
The soldier went out to obey the orders of his officer. Felton
sat down upon an armchair which happened to be near the door, and
waited without speaking a word, without making a gesture. Milady
possessed that great art, so much studied by women, of looking
through her long eyelashes without appearing to open the lids.
She perceived Felton, who sat with his back toward her. She
continued to look at him for nearly ten minutes, and in these ten
minutes the immovable guardian never turned round once.
She then thought that Lord de Winter would come, and by his
presence give fresh strength to her jailer. Her first trial was
lost; she acted like a woman who reckons up her resources. As a
result she raised her head, opened her eyes, and sighed deeply.
At this sigh Felton turned round.
"Ah, you are awake, madame," he said; "then I have nothing more
to do here. If you want anything you can ring."
"Oh, my God, my God! how I have suffered!" said Milady, in that
harmonious voice which, like that of the ancient enchantresses,
charmed all whom she wished to destroy.
And she assumed, upon sitting up in the armchair, a still more
graceful and abandoned position than when she reclined.
Felton arose.
"You will be served, thus, madame, three times a day," said he.
"In the morning at nine o''clock, in the day at one o''clock, and
in the evening at eight. If that does not suit you, you can
point out what other hours you prefer, and in this respect your
wishes will be complied with."
"But am I to remain always alone in this vast and dismal
chamber?" asked Milady.
"A woman of the neighbourhood has been sent for, who will be
tomorrow at the castle, and will return as often as you desire
her presence."
"I thank you, sir," replied the prisoner, humbly.
Felton made a slight bow, and directed his steps toward the door.
At the moment he was about to go out, Lord de Winter appeared in
the corridor, followed by the soldier who had been sent to inform
him of the swoon of Milady. He held a vial of salts in his hand.
"Well, what is it--what is going on here?" said he, in a jeering
voice, on seeing the prisoner sitting up and Felton about to go
out. "Is this corpse come to life already? Felton, my lad, did
you not perceive that you were taken for a novice, and that the
first act was being performed of a comedy of which we shall
doubtless have the pleasure of following out all the
developments?"
"I thought so, my lord," said Felton; "but as the prisoner is a
woman, after all, I wish to pay her the attention that every man
of gentle birth owes to a woman, if not on her account, at least
on my own."
Milady shuddered through her whole system. These words of
Felton''s passed like ice through her veins.
"So," replied De Winter, laughing, "that beautiful hair so
skillfully disheveled, that white skin, and that languishing
look, have not yet seduced you, you heart of stone?"
"No, my Lord," replied the impassive young man; "your Lordship
may be assured that it requires more than the tricks and coquetry
of a woman to corrupt me."
"In that case, my brave lieutenant, let us leave Milady to find
out something else, and go *****pper; but be easy! She has a
fruitful imagination, and the second act of the comedy will not
delay its steps after the first."
And at these words Lord de Winter passed his arm through that of
Felton, and led him out, laughing.
"Oh, I will be a match for you!" murmured Milady, between her
teeth; "be assured of that, you poor spoiled monk, you poor
converted soldier, who has cut his uniform out of a monk''s
frock!"
"By the way," resumed De Winter, stopping at the threshold of the
door, "you must not, Milady, let this check take away your
appetite. Taste that fowl and those fish. On my honor, they are
not poisoned. I have a very good cook, and he is not to be my
heir; I have full and perfect confidence in him. Do as I do.
Adieu, dear sister, till your next swoon!"
This was all that Milady could endure. Her hands clutched her
armchair; she ground her teeth inwardly; her eyes followed the
motion of the door as it closed behind Lord de Winter and Felton,
and the moment she was alone a fresh fit of despair seized her.
She cast her eyes upon the table, saw the glittering of a knife,
rushed toward it and clutched it; but her disappointment was
cruel. The blade was round, and of flexible silver.
A burst of laughter resounded from the other side of the ill-
closed door, and the door reopened.
"Ha, ha!" cried Lord de Winter; "ha, ha! Don''t you see, my brave
Felton; don''t you see what I told you? That knife was for you,
my lad; she would have killed you. Observe, this is one of her
peculiarities, to get rid thus, after one fashion or another, of
all the people who bother her. If I had listened to you, the
knife would have been pointed and of steel. Then no more of
Felton; she would have cut your throat, and after that everybody
else''s. See, John, see how well she knows how to handle a
knife."
In fact, Milady still held the harmless weapon in her clenched
hand; but these last words, this supreme insult, relaxed her
hands, her strength, and even her will. The knife fell to the
ground.
"You were right, my Lord," said Felton, with a tone of profound
disgust which sounded to the very bottom of the heart of Milady,
"you were right, my Lord, and I was wrong."
And both again left the room.
But this time Milady lent a more attentive ear than the first,
and she heard their steps die away in the distance of the
corridor.
"I am lost," murmured she; "I am lost! I am in the power of men
upon whom I can have no more influence than upon statues of
bronze or granite; they know me by heart, and are steeled against
all my weapons. It is, however, impossible that this should end
as they have decreed!"
In fact, as this last reflection indicated--this instinctive
return to hope--sentiments of weakness or fear did not dwell long
in her ardent spirit. Milady sat down to table, ate from several
dishes, drank a little Spanish wine, and felt all her resolution
return.
Before she went to bed she had pondered, analyzed, turned on all
sides, examined on all points, the words, the steps, the
gestures, the signs, and even the silence of her interlocutors;
and of this profound, skillful, and anxious study the result was
that Felton, everything considered, appeared the more vulnerable
of her two persecutors.
One expression above all recurred to the mind of the prisoner:
"If I had listened to you," Lord de Winter had said to Felton.
Felton, then, had spoken in her favor, since Lord de Winter had
not been willing to listen to him.
"Weak or strong," repeated Milady, "that man has, then, a spark
of pity in his soul; of that spark I will make a flame that shall
devour him. As to the other, he knows me, he fears me, and knows
what he has to expect of me if ever I escape from his hands. It
is useless, then, to attempt anything with him. But Felton--
that''s another thing. He is a young, ingenious, pure man who
seems virtuous; him there are means of destroying."
And Milady went to bed and fell asleep with a smile upon her
lips. Anyone who had seen her sleeping might have said she was a
young girl dreaming of the crown of flowers she was to wear on
her brow at the next festival.

53 CAPTIVITY: THE SECOND DAY
Milady dreamed that she at length had D''Artagnan in her power,
that she was present at his execution; and it was the sight of
his odious blood, flowing beneath the ax of the headsman, which
spread that charming smile upon her lips.
She slept as a prisoner sleeps, rocked by his first hope.
In the morning, when they entered her chamber she was still in
bed. Felton remained in the corridor. He brought with him the
woman of whom he had spoken the evening before, and who had just
arrived; this woman entered, and approaching Milady''s bed,
offered her services.
Milady was habitually pale; her complexion might therefore
deceive a person who saw her for the first time.
"I am in a fever," said she; "I have not slept a single instant
during all this long night. I suffer horribly. Are you likely
to be more humane to me than others were yesterday? All I ask is
permission to remain abed."
"Would you like to have a physician called?" said the woman.
Felton listened to this dialogue without speaking a word.
Milady reflected that the more people she had around her the more
she would have to work upon, and Lord de Winter would redouble
his watch. Besides, the physician might declare the ailment
feigned; and Milady, after having lost the first trick, was not
willing to lose the second.
"Go and fetch a physician?" said she. "What could be the good of
that? These gentlemen declared yesterday that my illness was a
comedy; it would be just the same today, no doubt--for since
yesterday evening they have had plenty of time to send for a
doctor."
"Then," said Felton, who became impatient, "say yourself, madame,
what treatment you wish followed."
"Eh, how can I tell? My God! I know that I suffer, that''s all.
Give me anything you like, it is of little consequence."
"Go and fetch Lord de Winter," said Felton, tired of these
eternal complaints.
"Oh, no, no!" cried Milady; "no, sir, do not call him, I conjure
you. I am well, I want nothing; do not call him."
She gave so much vehemence, such magnetic eloquence to this
exclamation, that Felton in spite of himself advanced some steps
into the room.
"He has come!" thought Milady.
"Meanwhile, madame, if you really suffer," said Felton, "a
physician shall be sent for; and if you deceive us--well, it will
be the worse for you. But at least we shall not have to reproach
ourselves with anything."
Milady made no reply, but turning her beautiful head round upon
her pillow, she burst into tears, and uttered heartbreaking sobs.
Felton surveyed her for an instant with his usual impassiveness;
then, seeing that the crisis threatened to be prolonged, he went
out. The woman followed him, and Lord de Winter did not appear.
"I fancy I begin to see my way," murmured Milady, with a savage
joy, burying herself under the clothes to conceal from anybody
who might be watching her this burst of inward satisfaction.
Two hours passed away.
"Now it is time that the malady should be over," said she; "let
me rise, and obtain some success this very day. I have but ten
days, and this evening two of them will be gone."
In the morning, when they entered Milady''s chamber they had
brought her breakfast. Now, she thought, they could not long
delay coming to clear the table, and that Felton would then
reappear.
Milady was not deceived. Felton reappeared, and without
observing whether Milady had or had not touched her repast, made
a sign that the table should be carried out of the room, it
having been brought in ready spread.
Felton remained behind; he held a book in his hand.
Milady, reclining in an armchair near the chimney, beautiful,
pale, and resigned, looked like a holy virgin awaiting martyrdom.
Felton approached her, and said, "Lord de Winter, who is a
Catholic, like yourself, madame, thinking that the deprivation of
the rites and ceremonies of your church might be painful to you,
has consented that you should read every day the ordinary of your
Mass; and here is a book which contains the ritual."
At the manner in which Felton laid the book upon the little table
near which Milady was sitting, at the tone in which he pronounced
the two words, YOUR MASS, at the disdainful smile with which he
accompanied them, Milady raised her head, and looked more
attentively at the officer.
By that plain arrangement of the hair, by that costume of extreme
simplicity, by the brow polished like marble and as hard and
impenetrable, she recognized one of those gloomy Puritans she had
so often met, not only in the court of King James, but in that of
the King of France, where, in spite of the remembrance of the St.
Bartholomew, they sometimes came to seek refuge.
She then had one of those sudden inspirations which only people
of genius receive in great crises, in supreme moments which are
to decide their fortunes or their lives.
Those two words, YOUR MASS, and a simple glance cast upon
Felton, revealed to her all the importance of the reply she was
about to make; but with that rapi***y of intelligence which was
peculiar to her, this reply, ready arranged, presented itself to
her lips:
"I?" said she, with an accent of disdain in unison with that
which she had remarked in the voice of the young officer, "I,
sir? MY MASS? Lord de Winter, the corrupted Catholic, knows
very well that I am not of his religion, and this is a snare he
wishes to lay for me!"
"And of what religion are you, then, madame?" asked Felton, with
an astonishment which in spite of the empire he held over himself
he could not entirely conceal.
"I will tell it," cried Milady, with a feigned exultation, "on
the day when I shall have suffered sufficiently for my faith."
The look of Felton revealed to Milady the full extent of the
space she had opened for herself by this single word.
The young officer, however, remained mute and motionless; his
look alone had spoken.
"I am in the hands of my enemies," continued she, with that tone
of enthusiasm which she knew was familiar to the Puritans.
"Well, let my God save me, or let me perish for my God! That is
the reply I beg you to make to Lord de Winter. And as to this
book," added she, pointing to the manual with her finger but
without touching it, as if she must be contaminated by it, "you
may carry it back and make use of it yourself, for doubtless you
are doubly the accomplice of Lord de Winter--the accomplice in
his persecutions, the accomplice in his heresies."
Felton made no reply, took the book with the same appearance of
repugnance which he had before manifested, and retired pensively.
Lord de Winter came toward five o''clock in the evening. Milady
had had time, during the whole day, to trace her plan of conduct.
She received him like a woman who had already recovered all her
advantages.
"It appears," said the baron, seating himself in the armchair
opposite that occupied by Milady, and stretching out his legs
carelessly upon the hearth, "it appears we have made a little
apostasy!"
"What do you mean, sir!"
"I mean to say that since we last met you have changed your
religion. You have not by chance married a Protestant for a
third husband, have you?"
"Explain yourself, my Lord," replied the prisoner, with majesty;
"for though I hear your words, I declare I do not understand
them."
"Then you have no religion at all; I like that best," replied
Lord de Winter, laughing.
"Certainly that is most in accord with your own principles,"
replied Milady, frigidly.
"Oh, I confess it is all the same to me."
"Oh, you need not avow this religious indifference, my Lord; your
debaucheries and crimes would vouch for it."
"What, you talk of debaucheries, Madame Messalina, Lady Macbeth!
Either I misunderstand you or you are very shameless!"
"You only speak thus because you are overheard," coolly replied
Milady; "and you wish to interest your jailers and your hangmen
against me."
"My jailers and my hangmen! Heyday, madame! you are taking a
poetical tone, and the comedy of yesterday turns to a tragedy
this evening. As to the rest, in eight days you will be where
you ought to be, and my task will be completed."
"Infamous task! impious task!" cried Milady, with the exultation
of a victim who provokes his judge.
"My word," said De Winter, rising, "I think the hussy is going
mad! Come, come, calm yourself, Madame Puritan, or I''ll remove
you to a dungeon. It''s my Spanish wine that has got into your
head, is it not? But never mind; that sort of intoxication is
not dangerous, and will have no bad effects."
And Lord de Winter retired swearing, which at that period was a
very knightly habit.
Felton was indeed behind the door, and had not lost one word of
this scene. Milady had guessed aright.
"Yes, go, go,!" said she to her brother; "the effects ARE drawing
near, on the contrary; but you, weak fool, will not see them
until it is too late to shun them."
Silence was re-established. Two hours passed away. Milady''s
supper was brought in, and she was found deeply engaged in saying
her prayers aloud--prayers which she had learned of an old
servant of her second husband, a most austere Puritan. She
appeared to be in ecstasy, and did not pay the least attention to
what was going on around her. Felton made a sign that she should
not be disturbed; and when all was arranged, he went out quietly
with the soldiers.
Milady knew she might be watched, so she continued her prayers to
the end; and it appeared to her that the soldier who was on duty
at her door did not march with the same step, and seemed to
listen. For the moment she wished nothing better. She arose,
came to the table, ate but little, and drank only water.
An hour after, her table was cleared; but Milady remarked that
this time Felton did not accompany the soldiers. He feared,
then, to see her too often.
She turned toward the wall to smile--for there was in this smile
such an expression of triumph that this smile alone would have
betrayed her.
She allowed, therefore, half an hour to pass away; and as at that
moment all was silence in the old castle, as nothing was heard
but the eternal murmur of the waves--that immense breaking of the
ocean--with her pure, harmonious, and powerful voice, she began
the first couplet of the psalm then in great favor with the
Puritans:
"Thou leavest thy servants, Lord,
To see if they be strong;
But soon thou dost afford
Thy hand to lead them on."
These verses were not excellent--very far from it; but as it is
well known, the Puritans did not pique themselves upon their
poetry.
While singing, Milady listened. The soldier on guard at her door
stopped, as if he had been changed into stone. Milady was then
able to judge of the effect she had produced.
Then she continued her singing with inexpressible fervor and
feeling. It appeared to her that the sounds spread to a distance
beneath the vaulted roofs, and carried with them a magic charm to
soften the hearts of her jailers. It however likewise appeared
that the soldier on duty--a zealous Catholic, no doubt--shook off
the charm, for through the door he called: "Hold your tongue,
madame! Your song is as dismal as a ''De profundis''; and if
besides the pleasure of being in garrison here, we must hear such
things as these, no mortal can hold out."
"Silence!" then exclaimed another stern voice which Milady
recognized as that of Felton. "What are you meddling with,
stupid? Did anybody order you to prevent that woman from
singing? No. You were told to guard her--to fire at her if she
attempted to fly. Guard her! If she flies, kill her; but don''t
exceed your orders."
An expression of unspeakable joy lightened the countenance of
Milady; but this expression was fleeting as the reflection of
lightning. Without appearing to have heard the dialogue, of
which she had not lost a word, she began again, giving to her
voice all the charm, all the power, all the seduction the demon
had bestowed upon it:
"For all my tears, my cares,
My exile, and my chains,
I have my youth, my prayers,
And God, who counts my pains."
Her voice, of immense power and sublime expression, gave to the
rude, unpolished poetry of these psalms a magic and an effect
which the most exalted Puritans rarely found in the songs of
their brethren, and which they were forced to ornament with all
the resources of their imagination. Felton believed he heard the
singing of the angel who consoled the three Hebrews in the
furnace.
Milady continued:
"One day our doors will ope,
With God come our desire;
And if betrays that hope,
To death we can aspire."
This verse, into which the terrible enchantress threw her whole
soul, completed the trouble which had seized the heart of the
young officer. He opened the door quickly; and Milady saw him
appear, pale as usual, but with his eye inflamed and almost wild.
"Why do you sing thus, and with such a voice?" said he.
"Your pardon, sir," said Milady, with mildness. "I forgot that
my songs are out of place in this castle. I have perhaps
offended you in your creed; but it was without wishing to do so,
I swear. Pardon me, then, a fault which is perhaps great, but
which certainly was involuntary."
Milady was so beautiful at this moment, the religious ecstasy in
which she appeared to be plunged gave such an expression to her
countenance, that Felton was so dazzled that he fancied he beheld
the angel whom he had only just before heard.
"Yes, yes," said he; "you disturb, you agitate the people who
live in the castle."
The poor, senseless young man was not aware of the incoherence of
his words, while Milady was reading with her lynx''s eyes the very
depths of his heart.
"I will be silent, then," said Milady, casting down her eyes with
all the sweetness she could give to her voice, with all the
resignation she could impress upon her manner.
"No, no, madame," said Felton, "only do not sing so loud,
particularly at night."
And at these words Felton, feeling that he could not long
maintain his severity toward his prisoner, rushed out of the
room.
"You have done right, Lieutenant," said the soldier. "Such songs
disturb the mind; and yet we become accustomed to them, her voice
is so beautiful."

54 CAPTIVITY: THE THIRD DAY
Felton had fallen; but there was still another step to be taken.
He must be retained, or rather he must be left quite alone; and
Milady but obscurely perceived the means which could lead to this
result.
Still more must be done. He must be made to speak, in order that
he might be spoken to--for Milady very well knew that her
greatest seduction was in her voice, which so skillfully ran over
the whole gamut of tones from human speech to language celestial.
Yet in spite of all this seduction Milady might fail--for Felton
was forewarned, and that against the least chance. From that
moment she watched all his actions, all his words, from the
simplest glance of his eyes to his gestures--even to a breath
that could be interpreted as a sigh. In short, she studied
everything, as a skillful comedian does to whom a new part has
been assigned in a line to which he is not accustomed.
Face to face with Lord de Winter her plan of conduct was more
easy. She had laid that down the preceding evening. To remain
silent and dignified in his presence; from time to time to
irritate him by affected disdain, by a contemptuous word; to
provoke him to threats and violence which would produce a
contrast with her own resignation--such was her plan. Felton
would see all; perhaps he would say nothing, but he would see.
In the morning, Felton came as usual; but Milady allowed him to
preside over all the preparations for breakfast without
addressing a word to him. At the moment when he was about to
retire, she was cheered with a ray of hope, for she thought he
was about to speak; but his lips moved without any sound leaving
his mouth, and making a powerful effort to control himself, he
sent back to his heart the words that were about to escape from
his lips, and went out. Toward midday, Lord de Winter entered.
It was a tolerably fine winter''s day, and a ray of that pale
English sun which lights but does not warm came through the bars
of her prison.
Milady was looking out at the window, and pretended not to hear
the door as it opened.
"Ah, ah!" said Lord de Winter, "after having played comedy, after
having played tragedy, we are now playing melancholy?"
The prisoner made no reply.
"Yes, yes," continued Lord de Winter, "I understand. You would
like very well to be a liberty on that beach! You would like
very well to be in a good ship dancing upon the waves of that
emerald-green sea; you would like very well, either on land or on
the ocean, to lay for me one of those nice little ambuscades you
are so skillful in planning. Patience, patience! In four days''
time the shore will be beneath your feet, the sea will be open to
you--more open than will perhaps be agreeable to you, for in four
days England will be relieved of you."
Milady folded her hands, and raising her fine eyes toward heaven,
"Lord, Lord," said she, with an angelic meekness of gesture and
tone, "pardon this man, as I myself pardon him."
"Yes, pray, accursed woman!" cried the baron; "your prayer is so
much the more generous from your being, I swear to you, in the
power of a man who will never pardon you!" and he went out.
At the moment he went out a piercing glance darted through the
opening of the nearly closed door, and she perceived Felton, who
drew quickly to one side to prevent being seen by her.
Then she threw herself upon her knees, and began to pray.
"My God, my God!" said she, "thou knowest in what holy cause I
suffer; give me, then, strength *****ffer."
The door opened gently; the beautiful supplicant pretended not to
hear the noise, and in a voice broken by tears, she continued:
"God of vengeance! God of goodness! wilt thou allow the
frightful projects of this man to be accomplished?"
Then only she pretended to hear the sound of Felton''s steps, and
rising quick as thought, she blushed, as if ashamed of being
surprised on her knees.
"I do not like to disturb those who pray, madame," said Felton,
seriously; "do not disturb yourself on my account, I beseech
you."
"How do you know I was praying, sir?" said Milady, in a voice
broken by sobs. "You were deceived, sir; I was not praying."
"Do you think, then, madame," replied Felton, in the same serious
voice, but with a milder tone, "do you think I assume the right
of preventing a creature from prostrating herself before her
Creator? God forbid! Besides, repentance becomes the guilty;
whatever crimes they may have committed, for me the guilty are
sacred at the feet of God!"
"Guilty? I?" said Milady, with a smile which might have disarmed
the angel of the last judgment. "Guilty? Oh, my God, thou
knowest whether I am guilty! Say I am condemned, sir, if you
please; but you know that God, who loves martyrs, sometimes
permits the innocent to be condemned."
"Were you condemned, were you innocent, were you a martyr,"
replied Felton, "the greater would be the necessity for prayer;
and I myself would aid you with my prayers."
"Oh, you are a just man!" cried Milady, throwing herself at his
feet. "I can hold out no longer, for I fear I shall be wanting
in strength at the moment when I shall be forced to undergo the
struggle, and confess my faith. Listen, then, to the
supplication of a despairing woman. You are abused, sir; but
that is not the question. I only ask you one favor; and if you
grant it me, I will bless you in this world and in the next."
"Speak to the master, madame," said Felton; "happily I am neither
charged with the power of pardoning nor punishing. It is upon
one higher placed than I am that God has laid this
responsibility."
"To you--no, to you alone! Listen to me, rather than add to my
destruction, rather than add to my ignominy!"
"If you have merited this shame, madame, if you have incurred
this ignominy, you must submit to it as an offering to God."
"What do you say? Oh, you do not understand me! When I speak of
ignominy, you think I speak of some chastisement, of imprisonment
or death. Would to heaven! Of what consequence to me is
imprisonment or death?"
"It is I who no longer understand you, madame," said Felton.
"Or, rather, who pretend not to understand me, sir!" replied the
prisoner, with a smile of incredulity.
"No, madame, on the honor of a soldier, on the faith of a
Christian."
"What, you are ignorant of Lord de Winter''s designs upon me?"
"I am."
"Impossible; you are his confidant!"
"I never lie, madame."
"Oh, he conceals them too little for you not to divine them."
"I seek to divine nothing, madame; I wait till I am confided in,
and apart from that which Lord de Winter has said to me before
you, he has confided nothing to me."
"Why, then," cried Milady, with an incredible tone of
truthfulness, "you are not his accomplice; you do not know that
he destines me to a disgrace which all the punishments of the
world cannot equal in horror?"
"You are deceived, madame," said Felton, blushing; "Lord de
Winter is not capable of such a crime."
"Good," said Milady to herself; "without thinking what it is, he
calls it a crime!" Then aloud, "The friend of THAT WRETCH is
capable of everything."
"Whom do you call ''that wretch''?" asked Felton.
"Are there, then, in England two men to whom such an epithet can
be applied?"
"You mean George Villiers?" asked Felton, whose looks became
excited.
"Whom Pagans and unbelieving Gentiles call Duke of Buckingham,"
replied Milady. "I could not have thought that there was an
Englishman in all England who would have required so long an
explanation to make him understand of whom I was speaking."
"The hand of the Lord is stretched over him," said Felton; "he
will not escape the chastisement he deserves."
Felton only expressed, with regard to the duke, the feeling of
execration which all the English had declared toward him whom the
Catholics themselves called the extortioner, the pillager, the
debauchee, and whom the Puritans styled simply Satan.
"Oh, my God, my God!" cried Milady; "when I supplicate thee to
pour upon this man the chastisement which is his due, thou
knowest it is not my own vengeance I pursue, but the deliverance
of a whole nation that I implore!"
"Do you know him, then?" asked Felton.
"At length he interrogates me!" said Milady to herself, at the
height of joy at having obtained so quickly such a great result.
"Oh, know him? Yes, yes! to my misfortune, to my eternal
misfortune!" and Milady twisted her arms as if in a paroxysm of
grief.
Felton no doubt felt within himself that his strength was
abandoning him, and he made several steps toward the door; but
the prisoner, whose eye never left him, sprang in pursuit of him
and stopped him.
"Sir," cried she, "be kind, be clement, listen to my prayer!
That knife, which the fatal prudence of the baron deprived me of,
because he knows the use I would make of it! Oh, hear me to the
end! that knife, give it to me for a minute only, for mercy''s,
for pity''s sake! I will embrace your knees! You shall shut the
door that you may be certain I contemplate no injury to you! My
God! to you--the only just, good, and compassionate being I have
met with! To you--my preserver, perhaps! One minute that knife,
one minute, a single minute, and I will restore it to you through
the grating of the door. Only one minute, Mr. Felton, and you
will have saved my honor!"
"To kill yourself?" cried Felton, with terror, forgetting to
withdraw his hands from the hands of the prisoner, "to kill
yourself?"
"I have told, sir," murmured Milady, lowering her voice, and
allowing herself to sink overpowered to the ground; "I have told
my secret! He knows all! My God, I am lost!"
Felton remained standing, motionless and undecided.
"He still doubts," thought Milady; "I have not been earnest
enough."
Someone was heard in the corridor; Milady recognized the step of
Lord de Winter.
Felton recognized it also, and made a step toward the door.
Milady sprang toward him. "Oh, not a word," said she in a
concentrated voice, "not a word of all that I have said to you to
this man, or I am lost, and it would be you--you--"
Then as the steps drew near, she became silent for fear of being
heard, applying, with a gesture of infinite terror, her beautiful
hand to Felton''s mouth.
Felton gently repulsed Milady, and she sank into a chair.
Lord de Winter passed before the door without stopping, and they
heard the noise of his footsteps soon die away.
Felton, as pale as death, remained some instants with his ear
bent and listening; then, when the sound was quite extinct, he
breathed like a man awaking from a dream, and rushed out of the
apartment.
"Ah!" said Milady, listening in her turn to the noise of Felton''s
steps, which withdrew in a direction opposite to those of Lord de
Winter; "at length you are mine!"
Then her brow darkened. "If he tells the baron," said she, "I am
lost--for the baron, who knows very well that I shall not kill
myself, will place me before him with a knife in my hand, and he
will discover that all this despair is but acted."
She placed herself before the glass, and regarded herself
attentively; never had she appeared more beautiful.
"Oh, yes," said she, smiling, "but we won''t tell him!"
In the evening Lord de Winter accompanied the supper.
"Sir," said Milady, "is your presence an indispensable accessory
of my captivity? Could you not spare me the increase of torture
which your visits cause me?"
"How, dear sister!" said Lord de Winter. "Did not you
sentimentally inform me with that pretty mouth of yours, so cruel
to me today, that you came to England solely for the pleasure of
seeing me at your ease, an enjoyment of which you told me you so
sensibly felt the deprivation that you had risked everything for
it--seasickness, tempest, captivity? Well, here I am; be
satisfied. Besides, this time, my visit has a motive."
Milady trembled; she thought Felton had told all. Perhaps never
in her life had this woman, who had experienced so many opposite
and powerful emotions, felt her heart beat so violently.
She was seated. Lord de Winter took a chair, drew it toward her,
and sat down close beside her. Then taking a paper out of his
pocket, he unfolded it slowly.
"Here," said he, "I want to show you the kind of passport which I
have drawn up, and which will serve you henceforward as the rule
of order in the life I consent to leave you."
Then turning his eyes from Milady to the paper, he read: "''Order
to conduct--'' The name is blank," interrupted Lord de Winter.
"If you have any preference you can point it out to me; and if it
be not within a thousand leagues of London, attention will be
paid to your wishes. I will begin again, then:
"''Order to conduct to--the person named Charlotte Backson,
branded by the justice of the kingdom of France, but liberated
after chastisement. She is to dwell in this place without ever
going more than three leagues from it. In case of any attempt to
escape, the penalty of death is to be applied. She will receive
five shillings per day for lodging and food''".
"That order does not concern me," replied Milady, coldly, "since
it bears another name than mine."
"A name? Have you a name, then?"
"I bear that of your brother."
"Ay, but you are mistaken. My brother is only your second
husband; and your first is still living. Tell me his name, and I
will put it in the place of the name of Charlotte Backson. No?
You will not? You are silent? Well, then you must be registered
as Charlotte Backson."
Milady remained silent; only this time it was no longer from
affectation, but from terror. She believed the order ready for
execution. She thought that Lord de Winter had hastened her
departure; she thought she was condemned to set off that very
evening. Everything in her mind was lost for an instant; when
all at once she perceived that no signature was attached to the
order. The joy she felt at this discovery was so great she could
not conceal it.
"Yes, yes," said Lord de Winter, who perceived what was passing
in her mind; "yes, you look for the signature, and you say to
yourself: ''All is not lost, for that order is not signed. It is
only shown to me to terrify me, that''s all.'' You are mistaken.
Tomorrow this order will be sent to the Duke of Buckingham. The
day after tomorrow it will return signed by his hand and marked
with his seal; and four-and-twenty hours afterward I will answer
for its being carried into execution. Adieu, madame. That is
all I had to say to you."
"And I reply to you, sir, that this abuse of power, this exile
under a fictitious name, are infamous!"
"Would you like better to be hanged in your true name, Milady?
You know that the English laws are inexorable on the abuse of
marriage. Speak freely. Although my name, or rather that of my
brother, would be mixed up with the affair, I will risk the
scandal of a public trial to make myself certain of getting rid
of you."
Milady made no reply, but became as pale as a corpse.
"Oh, I see you prefer peregrination. That''s well madame; and
there is an old proverb that says, ''Traveling trains youth.'' My
faith! you are not wrong after all, and life is sweet. That''s
the reason why I take such care you shall not deprive me of mine.
There only remains, then, the question of the five shillings to
be settled. You think me rather parsimonious, don''t you? That''s
because I don''t care to leave you the means of corrupting your
jailers. Besides, you will always have your charms left to
seduce them with. Employ them, if your check with regard to
Felton has not disgusted you with attempts of that kind."
"Felton has not told him," said Milady to herself. "Nothing is
lost, then."
"And now, madame, till I see you again! Tomorrow I will come and
announce to you the departure of my messenger."
Lord de Winter rose, saluted her ironically, and went out.
Milady breathed again. She had still four days before her. Four
days would quite suffice to complete the seduction of Felton.
A terrible idea, however, rushed into her mind. She thought that
Lord de Winter would perhaps send Felton himself to get the order
signed by the Duke of Buckingham. In that case Felton would
escape her--for in order to secure success, the magic of a
continuous seduction was necessary. Nevertheless, as we have
said, one circumstance reassured her. Felton had not spoken.
As she would not appear to be agitated by the threats of Lord de
Winter, she placed herself at the table and ate.
Then, as she had done the evening before, she fell on her knees
and repeated her prayers aloud. As on the evening before, the
soldier stopped his march to listen to her.
Soon after she heard lighter steps than those of the sentinel,
which came from the end of the corridor and stopped before her
door.
"It is he," said she. And she began the same religious chant
which had so strongly excited Felton the evening before.
But although her voice--sweet, full, and sonorous--vibrated as
harmoniously and as affectingly as ever, the door remained shut.
It appeared however to Milady that in one of the furtive glances
she darted from time to time at the grating of the door she
thought she saw the ardent eyes of the young man through the
narrow opening. But whether this was reality or vision, he had
this time sufficient self-command not to enter.
However, a few instants after she had finished her religious
song, Milady thought she heard a profound sigh. Then the same
steps she had heard approach slowly withdrew, as if with regret.

55 CAPTIVITY: THE FOURTH DAY
The next day, when Felton entered Milady''s apartment he found her
standing, mounted upon a chair, holding in her hands a cord made
by means of torn cambric handkerchiefs, twisted into a kind of
rope one with another, and tied at the ends. At the noise Felton
made in entering, Milady leaped lightly to the ground, and tried
to conceal behind her the improvised cord she held in her hand.
The young man was more pale than usual, and his eyes, reddened by
want of sleep, denoted that he had passed a feverish night.
Nevertheless, his brow was armed with a severity more austere
than ever.
He advanced slowly toward Milady, who had seated herself, and
taking an end of the murderous rope which by neglect, or perhaps
by design, she allowed to be seen, "What is this, madame?" he
asked coldly.
"That? Nothing," said Milady, smiling with that painful
expression which she knew so well how to give to her smile.
"Ennui is the mortal enemy of prisoners; I had ennui, and I
amused myself with twisting that rope."
Felton turned his eyes toward the part of the wall of the
apartment before which he had found Milady standing in the
armchair in which she was now seated, and over her head he
perceived a gilt-headed screw, fixed in the wall for the purpose
of hanging up clothes or weapons.
He started, and the prisoner saw that start--for though her eyes
were cast down, nothing escaped her.
"What were you doing on that armchair?" asked he.
"Of what consequence?" replied Milady.
"But," replied Felton, "I wish to know."
"Do not question me," said the prisoner; "you know that we who
are true Christians are forbidden to lie."
"Well, then," said Felton, " I will tell you what you were doing,
or rather what you meant to do; you were going to complete the
fatal project you cherish in your mind. Remember, madame, if our
God forbids falsehood, he much more severely condemns suicide."
"When God sees one of his creatures persecuted unjustly, placed
between suicide and dishonor, believe me, sir," replied Milady,
in a tone of deep conviction, "God pardons suicide, for then
suicide becomes martyrdom."
"You say either too much or too little; speak, madame. In the
name of heaven, explain yourself."
"That I may relate my misfortunes for you to treat them as
fables; that I may tell you my projects for you to go and betray
them to my persecutor? No, sir. Besides, of what importance to
you is the life or death of a condemned wretch? You are only
responsible for my body, is it not so? And provided you produce
a carcass that may be recognized as mine, they will require no
more of you; nay, perhaps you will even have a double reward."
"I, madame, I?" cried Felton. "You suppose that I would ever
accept the price of your life? Oh, you cannot believe what you
say!"
"Let me act as I please, Felton, let me act as I please," said
Milady, elated. "Every soldier must be ambitious, must he not?
You are a lieutenant? Well, you will follow me to the grave with
the rank of captain."
"What have I, then, done to you," said Felton, much agitated,
"that you should load me with such a responsibility before God
and before men? In a few days you will be away from this place;
your life, madame, will then no longer be under my care, and,"
added he, with a sigh, "then you can do what you will with it."
"So," cried Milady, as if she could not resist giving utterance
to a holy indignation, "you, a pious man, you who are called a
just man, you ask but one thing--and that is that you may not be
inculpated, annoyed, by my death!"
"It is my duty to watch over your life, madame, and I will
watch."
"But do you understand the mission you are fulfilling? Cruel
enough, if I am guilty; but what name can you give it, what name
will the Lord give it, if I am innocent?"
"I am a soldier, madame, and fulfill the orders I have received."
"Do you believe, then, that at the day of the Last Judgment God
will separate blind executioners from iniquitous judges? You are
not willing that I should kill my body, and you make yourself the
agent of him who would kill my soul."
"But I repeat it again to you," replied Felton, in great emotion,
"no danger threatens you; I will answer for Lord de Winter as for
myself."
"Dunce," cried Milady, "dunce! who dares to answer for another
man, when the wisest, when those most after God''s own heart,
hesitate to answer for themselves, and who ranges himself on the
side of the strongest and the most fortunate, to crush the
weakest and the most unfortunate."
"Impossible, madame, impossible," murmured Felton, who felt to
the bottom of his heart the justness of this argument. "A
prisoner, you will not recover your liberty through me; living,
you will not lose your life through me."
"Yes," cried Milady, "but I shall lose that which is much dearer
to me than life, I shall lose my honor, Felton; and it is you,
you whom I make responsible, before God and before men, for my
shame and my infamy."
This time Felton, immovable as he was, or appeared to be, could
not resist the secret influence which had already taken
possession of him. To see this woman, so beautiful, fair as the
brightest vision, to see her by turns overcome with grief and
threatening; to resist at once the ascendancy of grief and
beauty--it was too much for a visionary; it was too much for a
brain weakened by the ardent dreams of an ecstatic faith; it was
too much for a heart furrowed by the love of heaven that burns,
by the hatred of men that devours.
Milady saw the trouble. She felt by intuition the flame of the
opposing passions which burned with the blood in the veins of the
young fanatic. As a skillful general, seeing the enemy ready to
surrender, marches toward him with a cry of victory, she rose,
beautiful as an antique priestess, inspired like a Christian
virgin, her arms extended, her throat uncovered, her hair
disheveled, holding with one hand her robe modestly drawn over
her breast, her look illumined by that fire which had already
created such disorder in the veins of the young Puritan, and went
toward him, crying out with a vehement air, and in her melodious
voice, to which on this occasion she communicated a terrible
energy:
"Let this victim to Baal be sent,
To the lions the martyr be thrown!
Thy God shall teach thee to repent!
>From th'' abyss he''ll give ear to my moan."
Felton stood before this strange apparition like one petrified.
"Who art thou? Who art thou?" cried he, clasping his hands.
"Art thou a messenger from God; art thou a minister from hell;
art thou an angel or a demon; callest thou thyself Eloa or
Astarte?"
"Do you not know me, Felton? I am neither an angel nor a demon;
I am a daughter of earth, I am a sister of thy faith, that is
all."
"Yes, yes!" said Felton, "I doubted, but now I believe."
"You believe, and still you are an accomplice of that child of
Belial who is called Lord de Winter! You believe, and yet you
leave me in the hands of mine enemies, of the enemy of England,
of the enemy of God! You believe, and yet you deliver me up to
him who fills and defiles the world with his heresies and
debaucheries--to that infamous Sardanapalus whom the blind call
the Duke of Buckingham, and whom believers name Antichrist!"
"I deliver you up to Buckingham? I? what mean you by that?"
"They have eyes," cried Milady, "but they see not; ears have
they, but they hear not."
"Yes, yes!" said Felton, passing his hands over his brow, covered
with sweat, as if to remove his last doubt. "Yes, I recognize
the voice which speaks to me in my dreams; yes, I recognize the
features of the angel who appears to me every night, crying to my
soul, which cannot sleep: ''Strike, save England, save thyself--
for thou wilt die without having appeased God!'' Speak, speak!"
cried Felton, "I can understand you now."
A flash of terrible joy, but rapid as thought, gleamed from the
eyes of Milady.
However fugitive this homicide flash, Felton saw it, and started
as if its light had revealed the abysses of this woman''s heart.
He recalled, all at once, the warnings of Lord de Winter, the
seductions of Milady, her first attempts after her arrival. He
drew back a step, and hung down his head, without, however,
ceasing to look at her, as if, fascinated by this strange
creature, he could not detach his eyes from her eyes.
Milady was not a woman to misunderstand the meaning of this
hesitation. Under her apparent emotions her icy coolness never
abandoned her. Before Felton replied, and before she should be
forced to resume this conversation, so difficult to be sustained
in the same exalted tone, she let her hands fall; and as if the
weakness of the woman overpowered the enthusiasm of the inspired
fanatic, she said: "But no, it is not for me to be the Ju***h to
deliver Bethulia from this Holofernes. The sword of the eternal
is too heavy for my arm. Allow me, then, to avoid dishonor by
death; let me take refuge in martyrdom. I do not ask you for
liberty, as a guilty one would, nor for vengeance, as would a
pagan. Let me die; that is all. I supplicate you, I implore you
on my knees--let me die, and my last sigh shall be a blessing for
my preserver."
Hearing that voice, so sweet and suppliant, seeing that look, so
timid and downcast, Felton reproached himself. By degrees the
enchantress had clothed herself with that magic adornment which
she assumed and threw aside at will; that is to say, beauty,
meekness, and tears--and above all, the irresistible attraction
of mystical voluptuousness, the most devouring of all
voluptuousness.
"Alas!" said Felton, "I can do but one thing, which is to pity
you if you prove to me you are a victim! But Lord de Winter
makes cruel accusations against you. You are a Christian; you
are my sister in religion. I feel myself drawn toward you--I,
who have never loved anyone but my benefactor--I who have met
with nothing but traitors and impious men. But you, madame, so
beautiful in reality, you, so pure in appearance, must have
committed great iniquities for Lord de Winter to pursue you
thus."
"They have eyes," repeated Milady, with an accent of
indescribable grief, "but they see not; ears have they, but they
hear not."
"But," cried the young officer, "speak, then, speak!"
"Confide my shame to you," cried Milady, with the blush of
modesty upon her countenance, "for often the crime of one becomes
the shame of another--confide my shame to you, a man, and I a
woman? Oh," continued she, placing her hand modestly over her
beautiful eyes, "never! never!--I could not!"
"To me, to a brother?" said Felton.
Milady looked at him for some time with an expression which the
young man took for doubt, but which, however, was nothing but
observation, or rather the wish to fascinate.
Felton, in his turn a suppliant, clasped his hands.
"Well, then," said Milady, "I confide in my brother; I will dare
to--"
At this moment the steps of Lord de Winter were heard; but this
time the terrible brother-in-law of Milady did not content
himself, as on the preceding day, with passing before the door
and going away again. He paused, exchanged two words with the
sentinel; then the door opened, and he appeared.
During the exchange of these two words Felton drew back quickly,
and when Lord de Winter entered, he was several paces from the
prisoner.
The baron entered slowly, sending a scrutinizing glance from
Milady to the young officer.
"You have been here a very long time, John," said he. "Has this
woman been relating her crimes to you? In that case I can
comprehend the length of the conversation."
Felton started; and Milady felt she was lost if she did not come
to the assistance of the disconcerted Puritan.
"Ah, you fear your prisoner should escape!" said she. "Well, ask
your worthy jailer what favor I this instant solicited of him."
"You demanded a favor,?" said the baron, suspiciously.
"Yes, my Lord," replied the young man, confused.
"And what favor, pray?" asked Lord de Winter.
"A knife, which she would return to me through the grating of the
door a minute after she had received it," replied Felton.
"There is someone, then, concealed here whose throat this amiable
lady is desirous of cutting," said De Winter, in an ironical,
contemptuous tone.
"There is myself," replied Milady.
"I have given you the choice between America and Tyburn," replied
Lord de Winter. "Choose Tyburn, madame. Believe me, the cord is
more certain than the knife."
Felton grew pale, and made a step forward, remembering that at
the moment he entered Milady had a rope in her hand.
"You are right," said she, "I have often thought of it." Then
she added in a low voice, "And I will think of it again."
Felton felt a shudder run to the marrow of his bones; probably
Lord de Winter perceived this emotion.
"Mistrust yourself, John," said he. "I have placed reliance upon
you, my friend. Beware! I have warned you! But be of good
courage, my lad; in three days we shall be delivered from this
creature, and where I shall send her she can harm nobody."
"You hear him!" cried Milady, with vehemence, so that the baron
might believe she was addressing heaven, and that Felton might
understand she was addressing him.
Felton lowered his head and reflected.
The baron took the young officer by the arm, and turned his head
over his shoulder, so as not to lose sight of Milady till he was
gone out.
"Well," said the prisoner, when the door was shut, "I am not so
far advanced as I believed. De Winter has changed his usual
stupi***y into a strange prudence. It is the desire of
vengeance, and how desire molds a man! As to Felton, he
hesitates. Ah, he is not a man like that cursed D''Artagnan. A
Puritan only adores virgins, and he adores them by clasping his
hands. A Musketeer loves women, and he loves them by clasping
his arms round them."
Milady waited, then, with much impatience, for she feared the day
would pass away without her seeing Felton again. At last, in an
hour after the scene we have just described, she heard someone
speaking in a low voice at the door. Presently the door opened,
and she perceived Felton.
The young man advanced rapidly into the chamber, leaving the door
open behind him, and making a sign to Milady to be silent; his
face was much agitated.
"What do you want with me?" said she.
"Listen," replied Felton, in a low voice. "I have just sent away
the sentinel that I might remain here without anybody knowing it,
in order to speak to you without being overheard. The baron has
just related a frightful story to me."
Milady assumed her smile of a resigned victim, and shook her
head.
"Either you are a demon," continued Felton, "or the baron--my
benefactor, my father--is a monster. I have known you four days;
I have loved him four years. I therefore may hesitate between
you. Be not alarmed at what I say; I want to be convinced.
Tonight, after twelve, I will come and see you, and you shall
convince me."
"No, Felton, no, my brother," said she; "the sacrifice is too
great, and I feel what it must cost you. No, I am lost; do not
be lost with me. My death will be much more eloquent than my
life, and the silence of the corpse will convince you much better
than the words of the prisoner."
"Be silent, madame," cried Felton, "and do not speak to me thus;
I came to entreat you to promise me upon your honor, to swear to
me by what you hold most sacred, that you will make no attempt
upon your life."
"I will not promise," said Milady, "for no one has more respect
for a promise or an oath than I have; and if I make a promise I
must keep it."
"Well," said Felton, "only promise till you have seen me again.
If, when you have seen me again, you still persist--well, then
you shall be free, and I myself will give you the weapon you
desire."
"Well," said Milady, "for you I will wait."
"Swear."
"I swear it, by our God. Are you satisfied?"
"Well," said Felton, "till tonight."
And he darted out of the room, shut the door, and waited in the
corridor, the soldier''s half-pike in his hand, and as if he had
mounted guard in his place.
The soldier returned, and Felton gave him back his weapon.
Then, through the grating to which she had drawn near, Milady saw
the young man make a sign with delirious fervor, and depart in an
apparent transport of joy.
As for her, she returned to her place with a smile of savage
contempt upon her lips, and repeated, blaspheming, that terrible
name of God, by whom she had just sworn without ever having
learned to know Him.
"My God," said she, "what a senseless fanatic! My God, it is I--
I--and this fellow who will help me to avenge myself."

56 CAPTIVITY: THE FIFTH DAY
Milady had however achieved a half-triumph, and success doubled
her forces.
It was not difficult to conquer, as she had hitherto done, men
prompt to let themselves be seduced, and whom the gallant
education of a court led quickly into her net. Milady was
handsome enough not to find much resistance on the part of the
flesh, and she was sufficiently skillful to prevail over all the
obstacles of the mind.
But this time she had to contend with an unpolished nature,
concentrated and insensible by force of austerity. Religion and
its observances had made Felton a man inaccessible to ordinary
seductions. There fermented in that sublimated brain plans so
vast, projects so tumultuous, that there remained no room for any
capricious or material love--that sentiment which is fed by
leisure and grows with corruption. Milady had, then, made a
breach by her false virtue in the opinion of a man horribly
prejudiced against her, and by her beauty in the heart of a man
hitherto hitherto chaste and pure. In short, she had taken the
measure of motives hitherto unknown to herself, through this
experiment, made upon the most rebellious subject that nature and
religion could submit to her study.
Many a time, nevertheless, during the evening she despaired of
fate and of herself. She did not invoke God, we very well know,
but she had faith in the genius of evil--that immense sovereignty
which reigns in all the details of human life, and by which, as
in the Arabian fable, a single pomegranate seed is sufficient to
reconstruct a ruined world.
Milady, being well prepared for the reception of Felton, was able
to erect her batteries for the next day. She knew she had only
two days left; that when once the order was signed by Buckingham-
-and Buckingham would sign it the more readily from its bearing a
false name, and he could not, therefore, recognize the woman in
question--once this order was signed, we say, the baron would
make her embark immediately, and she knew very well that women
condemned to exile employ arms much less powerful in their
seductions than the pretendedly virtuous woman whose beauty is
lighted by the sun of the world, whose style the voice of fashion
lauds, and whom a halo of aristocracy gilds with enchanting
splendors. To be a woman condemned to a painful and disgraceful
punishment is no impediment to beauty, but it is an obstacle to
the recovery of power. Like all persons of real genius, Milady
knew what suited her nature and her means. Poverty was repugnant
to her; degradation took away two-thirds of her greatness.
Milady was only a queen while among queens. The pleasure of
satisfied pride was necessary to her domination. To command
inferior beings was rather a humiliation than a pleasure for her.
She should certainly return from her exile--she did not doubt
that a single instant; but how long might this exile last? For
an active, ambitious nature, like that of Milady, days not spent
in climbing are inauspicious days. What word, then, can be found
to describe the days which they occupy in descending? To lose a
year, two years, three years, is to talk of an eternity; to
return after the death or disgrace of the cardinal, perhaps; to
return when D''Artagnan and his friends, happy and triumphant,
should have received from the queen the reward they had well
acquired by the services they had rendered her--these were
devouring ideas that a woman like Milady could not endure. For
the rest, the storm which raged within her doubled her strength,
and she would have burst the walls of her prison if her body had
been able to take for a single instant the proportions of her
mind.
Then that which spurred her on ad***ionally in the midst of all
this was the remembrance of the cardinal. What must the
mistrustful, restless, suspicious cardinal think of her silence--
the cardinal, not merely her only support, her only prop, her
only protector at present, but still further, the principal
instrument of her future fortune and vengeance? She knew him;
she knew that at her return from a fruitless journey it would be
in vain to tell him of her imprisonment, in vain to enlarge upon
the sufferings she had undergone. The cardinal would reply, with
the sarcastic calmness of the skeptic, strong at once by power
and genius, "You should not have allowed yourself to be taken."
Then Milady collected all her energies, murmuring in the depths
of her soul the name of Felton--the only beam of light that
penetrated to her in the hell into which she had fallen; and like
a serpent which folds and unfolds its rings to ascertain its
strength, she enveloped Felton beforehand in the thousand meshes
of her inventive imagination.
Time, however, passed away; the hours, one after another, seemed
to awaken the clock as they passed, and every blow of the brass
hammer resounded upon the heart of the prisoner. At nine
o''clock, Lord de Winter made his customary visit, examined the
window and the bars, sounded the floor and the walls, looked to
the chimney and the doors, without, during this long and minute
examination, he or Milady pronouncing a single word.
Doubtless both of them understood that the situation had become
too serious to lose time in useless words and aimless wrath.
"Well," said the baron, on leaving her "you will not escape
tonight!"
At ten o''clock Felton came and placed the sentinel. Milady
recognized his step. She was as well acquainted with it now as a
mistress is with that of the lover of her heart; and yet Milady
at the same time detested and despised this weak fanatic.
That was not the appointed hour. Felton did not enter.
Two hours after, as midnight sounded, the sentinel was relieved.
This time it WAS the hour, and from this moment Milady waited
with impatience. The new sentinel commenced his walk in the
corridor. At the expiration of ten minutes Felton came.
Milady was all attention.
"Listen," said the young man to the sentinel. "On no pretense
leave the door, for you know that last night my Lord punished a
soldier for having quit his post for an instant, although I,
during his absence, watched in his place."
"Yes, I know it," said the soldier.
"I recommend you therefore to keep the strictest watch. For my
part I am going to pay a second visit to this woman, who I fear
entertains sinister intentions upon her own life, and I have
received orders to watch her."
"Good!" murmured Milady; "the austere Puritan lies."
As to the soldier, he only smiled.
"Zounds, Lieutenant!" said he; "you are not unlucky in being
charged with such commissions, particularly if my Lord has
authorized you to look into her bed."
Felton blushed. Under any other circumstances he would have
reprimanded the soldier for indulging in such pleasantry, but his
conscience murmured too loud for his mouth to dare speak.
"If I call, come," said he. "If anyone comes, call me."
"I will, Lieutenant," said the soldier.
Felton entered Milady''s apartment. Milady arose.
"You are here!" said she.
"I promised to come," said Felton, "and I have come."
"You promised me something else."
"What, my God!" said the young man, who in spite of his self-
command felt his knees tremble and the sweat start from his brow.
"You promised to bring a knife, and to leave it with me after our
interview."
"Say no more of that, madame," said Felton. "There is no
situation, however terrible it may be, which can authorize a
creature of God to inflict death upon himself. I have reflected,
and I cannot, must not be guilty of such a sin."
"Ah, you have reflected!" said the prisoner, sitting down in her
armchair, with a smile of disdain; "and I also have reflected."
"Upon what?"
"That I can have nothing to say to a man who does not keep his
word."
"Oh, my God!" murmured Felton.
"You may retire," said Milady. "I will not talk."
"Here is the knife," said Felton, drawing from his pocket the
weapon which he had brought, according to his promise, but which
he hesitated to give to his prisoner.
"Let me see it," said Milady.
"For what purpose?"
"Upon my honor, I will instantly return it to you. You shall
place it on that table, and you may remain between it and me."
Felton offered the weapon to Milady, who examined the temper of
it attentively, and who tried the point on the tip of her finger.
"Well," said she, returning the knife to the young officer, "this
is fine and good steel. You are a faithful friend, Felton."
Felton took back the weapon, and laid it upon the table, as he
had agreed with the prisoner.
Milady followed him with her eyes, and made a gesture of
satisfaction.
"Now," said she, "listen to me."
The request was needless. The young officer stood upright before
her, awaiting her words as if to devour them.
"Felton," said Milady, with a solemnity full of melancholy,
"imagine that your sister, the daughter of your father, speaks to
you. While yet young, unfortunately handsome, I was dragged into
a snare. I resisted. Ambushes and violences multiplied around
me, but I resisted. The religion I serve, the God I adore, were
blasphemed because I called upon that religion and that God, but
still I resisted. Then outrages were heaped upon me, and as my
soul was not subdued they wished to defile my body forever.
Finally--"
Milady stopped, and a bitter smile passed over her lips.
"Finally," said Felton, "finally, what did they do?"
"At length, one evening my enemy resolved to paralyze the
resistance he could not conquer. One evening he mixed a powerful
narcotic with my water. Scarcely had I finished my repast, when
I felt myself sink by degrees into a strange torpor. Although I
was without mistrust, a vague fear seized me, and I tried to
struggle against sleepiness. I arose. I wished to run to the
window and call for help, but my legs refused their office. It
appeared as if the ceiling sank upon my head and crushed me with
its weight. I stretched out my arms. I tried to speak. I could
only utter inarticulate sounds, and irresistible faintness came
over me. I supported myself by a chair, feeling that I was about
to fall, but this support was soon insufficient on account of my
weak arms. I fell upon one knee, then upon both. I tried to
pray, but my tongue was frozen. God doubtless neither heard nor
saw me, and I sank upon the floor a prey to a slumber which
resembled death.
"Of all that passed in that sleep, or the time which glided away
while it lasted, I have no remembrance. The only thing I
recollect is that I awoke in bed in a round chamber, the
furniture of which was sumptuous, and into which light only
penetrated by an opening in the ceiling. No door gave entrance
to the room. It might be called a magnificent prison.
"It was a long time before I was able to make out what place I
was in, or to take account of the details I describe. My mind
appeared to strive in vain to shake off the heavy darkness of the
sleep from which I could not rouse myself. I had vague
perceptions of space traversed, of the rolling of a carriage, of
a horrible dream in which my strength had become exhausted; but
all this was so dark and so indistinct in my mind that these
events seemed to belong to another life than mine, and yet mixed
with mine in fantastic duality.
"At times the state into which I had fallen appeared so strange
that I believed myself dreaming. I arose trembling. My clothes
were near me on a chair; I neither remembered having undressed
myself nor going to bed. Then by degrees the reality broke upon
me, full of chaste terrors. I was no longer in the house where I
had dwelt. As well as I could judge by the light of the sun, the
day was already two-thirds gone. It was the evening before when
I had fallen asleep; my sleep, then, must have lasted twenty-four
hours! What had taken place during this long sleep?
"I dressed myself as quickly as possible; my slow and stiff
motions all attested that the effects of the narcotic were not
yet entirely dissipated. The chamber was evidently furnished for
the reception of a woman; and the most finished coquette could
not have formed a wish, but on casting her eyes about the
apartment, she would have found that wish accomplished.
"Certainly I was not the first captive that had been shut up in
this splendid prison; but you may easily comprehend, Felton, that
the more superb the prison, the greater was my terror.
"Yes, it was a prison, for I tried in vain to get out of it. I
sounded all the walls, in the hopes of discovering a door, but
everywhere the walls returned a full and flat sound.
"I made the tour of the room at least twenty times, in search of
an outlet of some kind; but there was none. I sank exhausted
with fatigue and terror into an armchair.
"Meantime, night came on rapidly, and with night my terrors
increased. I did not know but I had better remain where I was
seated. It appeared that I was surrounded with unknown dangers
into which I was about to fall at every instant. Although I had
eaten nothing since the evening before, my fears prevented my
feeling hunger.
"No noise from without by which I could measure the time reached
me; I only supposed it must be seven or eight o''clock in the
evening, for it was in the month of October and it was quite
dark.
"All at once the noise of a door, turning on its hinges, made me
start. A globe of fire appeared above the glazed opening of the
ceiling, casting a strong light into my chamber; and I perceived
with terror that a man was standing within a few paces of me.
"A table, with two covers, bearing a supper ready prepared,
stood, as if by magic, in the middle of the apartment.
"That man was he who had pursued me during a whole year, who had
vowed my dishonor, and who, by the first words that issued from
his mouth, gave me to understand he had accomplished it the
preceding night."
"Scoundrel!" murmured Felton.
"Oh, yes, scoundrel!" cried Milady, seeing the interest which the
young officer, whose soul seemed to hang on her lips, took in
this strange recital. "Oh, yes, scoundrel! He believed, having
triumphed over me in my sleep, that all was completed. He came,
hoping that I would accept my shame, as my shame was consummated;
he came to offer his fortune in exchange for my love.
"All that the heart of a woman could contain of haughty contempt
and disdainful words, I poured out upon this man. Doubtless he
was accustomed *****ch reproaches, for he listened to me calm and
smiling, with his arms crossed over his breast. Then, when he
thought I had said all, he advanced toward me; I sprang toward
the table, I seized a knife, I placed it to my breast.
"Take one step more," said I, "and in ad***ion to my dishonor,
you shall have my death to reproach yourself with."
"There was, no doubt, in my look, my voice, my whole person, that
sincerity of gesture, of attitude, of accent, which carries
conviction to the most perverse minds, for he paused.
"''Your death?'' said he; ''oh, no, you are too charming a mistress
to allow me to consent to lose you thus, after I have had the
happiness to possess you only a single time. Adieu, my charmer;
I will wait to pay you my next visit till you are in a better
humor.''
"At these words he blew a whistle; the globe of fire which
lighted the room reascended and disappeared. I found myself
again in complete darkness. The same noise of a door opening and
shutting was repeated the instant afterward; the flaming globe
descended afresh, and I was completely alone.
"This moment was frightful; if I had any doubts as to my
misfortune, these doubts had vanished in an overwhelming reality.
I was in the power of a man whom I not only detested, but
despised--of a man capable of anything, and who had already given
me a fatal proof of what he was able to do."
"But who, then was this man?" asked Felton.
"I passed the night on a chair, starting at the least noise, for
toward midnight the lamp went out, and I was again in darkness.
But the night passed away without any fresh attempt on the part
of my persecutor. Day came; the table had disappeared, only I
had still the knife in my hand.
"This knife was my only hope.
"I was worn out with fatigue. Sleeplessness inflamed my eyes; I
had not dared to sleep a single instant. The light of day
reassured me; I went and threw myself on the bed, without parting
with the emancipating knife, which I concealed under my pillow.
"When I awoke, a fresh meal was served.
"This time, in spite of my terrors, in spite of my agony, I began
to feel a devouring hunger. It was forty-eight hours since I had
taken any nourishment. I ate some bread and some fruit; then,
remembering the narcotic mixed with the water I had drunk, I
would not touch that which was placed on the table, but filled my
glass at a marble fountain fixed in the wall over my dressing
table.
"And yet, notwithstanding these precautions, I remained for some
time in a terrible agitation of mind. But my fears were this
time ill-founded; I passed the day without experiencing anything
of the kind I dreaded.
"I took the precaution to half empty the carafe, in order that my
suspicions might not be noticed.
"The evening came on, and with it darkness; but however profound
was this darkness, my eyes began to accustom themselves to it. I
saw, amid the shadows, the table sink through the floor; a
quarter of an hour later it reappeared, bearing my supper. In an
instant, thanks to the lamp, my chamber was once more lighted.
"I was determined to eat only such things as could not possibly
have anything soporific introduced into them. Two eggs and some
fruit composed my repast; then I drew another glass of water from
my protecting fountain, and drank it.
"At the first swallow, it appeared to me not to have the same
taste as in the morning. Suspicion instantly seized me. I
paused, but I had already drunk half a glass.
"I threw the rest away with horror, and waited, with the dew of
fear upon my brow.
"No doubt some invisible witness had seen me draw the water from
that fountain, and had taken advantage of my confidence in it,
the better to assure my ruin, so coolly resolved upon, so cruelly
pursued.
"Half an hour had not passed when the same symptoms began to
appear; but as I had only drunk half a glass of the water, I
contended longer, and instead of falling entirely asleep, I sank
into a state of drowsiness which left me a perception of what was
passing around me, while depriving me of the strength either to
defend myself or to fly.
"I dragged myself toward the bed, to seek the only defense I had
left--my saving knife; but I could not reach the bolster. I sank
on my knees, my hands clasped round one of the bedposts; then I
felt that I was lost."
Felton became frightfully pale, and a convulsive tremor crept
through his whole body.
"And what was most frightful," continued Milady, her voice
altered, as if she still experienced the same agony as at that
awful minute, "was that at this time I retained a consciousness
of the danger that threatened me; was that my soul, if I may say
so, waked in my sleeping body; was that I saw, that I heard. It
is true that all was like a dream, but it was not the less
frightful.
"I saw the lamp ascend, and leave me in darkness; then I heard
the well-known creaking of the door although I had heard that
door open but twice.
"I felt instinctively that someone approached me; it is said that
the doomed wretch in the deserts of America thus feels the
approach of the serpent.
"I wished to make an effort; I attempted to cry out. By an
incredible effort of will I even raised myself up, but only to
sink down again immediately, and to fall into the arms of my
persecutor."
"Tell me who this man was!" cried the young officer.
Milady saw at a single glance all the painful feelings she
inspired in Felton by dwelling on every detail of her recital;
but she would not spare him a single pang. The more profoundly
she wounded his heart, the more certainly he would avenge her.
She continued, then, as if she had not heard his exclamation, or
as if she thought the moment was not yet come to reply to it.
"Only this time it was no longer an inert body, without feeling,
that the villain had to deal with. I have told you that without
being able to regain the complete exercise of my faculties, I
retained the sense of my danger. I struggled, then, with all my
strength, and doubtless opposed, weak as I was, a long
resistance, for I heard him cry out, ''These miserable Puritans!
I knew very well that they tired out their executioners, but I
did not believe them so strong against their lovers!''
"Alas! this desperate resistance could not last long. I felt my
strength fail, and this time it was not my sleep that enabled the
coward to prevail, but my swoon."
Felton listened without uttering any word or sound, except an
inward expression of agony. The sweat streamed down his marble
forehead, and his hand, under his coat, tore his breast.
"My first impulse, on coming to myself, was to feel under my
pillow for the knife I had not been able to reach; if it had not
been useful for defense, it might at least serve for expiation.
"But on taking this knife, Felton, a terrible idea occurred to
me. I have sworn to tell you all, and I will tell you all. I
have promised you the truth; I will tell it, were it to destroy
me."
"The idea came into your mind to avenge yourself on this man, did
it not?" cried Felton.
"Yes," said Milady. "The idea was not that of a Christian, I
knew; but without doubt, that eternal enemy of our souls, that
lion roaring constantly around us, breathed it into my mind. In
short, what shall I say to you, Felton?" continued Milady, in the
tone of a woman accusing herself of a crime. "This idea occurred
to me, and did not leave me; it is of this homicidal thought that
I now bear the punishment."
"Continue, continue!" said Felton; "I am eager to see you attain
your vengeance!"
"Oh, I resolved that it should take place as soon as possible. I
had no doubt he would return the following night. During the day
I had nothing to fear.
"When the hour of breakfast came, therefore, I did not hesitate
to eat and drink. I had determined to make believe sup, but to
eat nothing. I was forced, then, to combat the fast of the
evening with the nourishment of the morning.
"Only I concealed a glass of water, which remained after my
breakfast, thirst having been the chief of my sufferings when I
remained forty-eight hours without eating or drinking.
"The day passed away without having any other influence on me
than to strengthen the resolution I had formed; only I took care
that my face should not betray the thoughts of my heart, for I
had no doubt I was watched. Several times, even, I felt a smile
on my lips. Felton, I dare not tell you at what idea I smiled;
you would hold me in horror--"
"Go on! go on!" said Felton; "you see plainly that I listen, and
that I am anxious to know the end."
"Evening came; the ordinary events took place. During the
darkness, as before, my supper was brought. Then the lamp was
lighted, and I sat down to table. I only ate some fruit. I
pretended to pour out water from the jug, but I only drank that
which I had saved in my glass. The substitution was made so
carefully that my spies, if I had any, could have no suspicion of
it.
"After supper I exhibited the same marks of languor as on the
preceding evening; but this time, as I yielded to fatigue, or as
if I had become familiarized with danger, I dragged myself toward
my bed, let my robe fall, and lay down.
"I found my knife where I had placed it, under my pillow, and
while feigning to sleep, my hand grasped the handle of it
convulsively.
"Two hours passed away without anything fresh happening. Oh, my
God! who could have said so the evening before? I began to fear
that he would not come.
"At length I saw the lamp rise softly, and disappear in the
depths of the ceiling; my chamber was filled with darkness and
obscurity, but I made a strong effort to penetrate this darkness
and obscurity.
"Nearly ten minutes passed; I heard no other noise but the
beating of my own heart. I implored heaven that he might come.
"At length I heard the well-known noise of the door, which opened
and shut; I heard, notwithstanding the thickness of the carpet, a
step which made the floor creak; I saw, notwithstanding the
darkness, a shadow which approached my bed."
"Haste! haste!" said Felton; "do you not see that each of your
words burns me like molten lead?"
"Then," continued Milady, "then I collected all my strength; I
recalled to my mind that the moment of vengeance, or rather, of
justice, had struck. I looked upon myself as another Ju***h; I
gathered myself up, my knife in my hand, and when I saw him near
me, stretching out his arms to find his victim, then, with the
last cry of agony and despair, I struck him in the middle of his
breast.
"The miserable villain! He had foreseen all. His breast was
covered with a coat-of-mail; the knife was bent against it.
"''Ah, ah!'' cried he, seizing my arm, and wresting from me the
weapon that had so badly served me, ''you want to take my life, do
you, my pretty Puritan? But that''s more than dislike, that''s
ingratitude! Come, come, calm yourself, my sweet girl! I
thought you had softened. I am not one of those tyrants who
detain women by force. You don''t love me. With my usual fatuity
I doubted it; now I am convinced. Tomorrow you shall be free.''
"I had but one wish; that was that he should kill me.
"''Beware!'' said I, ''for my liberty is your dishonor.''
"''Explain yourself, my pretty sibyl!''
"''Yes; for as soon as I leave this place I will tell everything.
I will proclaim the violence you have used toward me. I will
describe my captivity. I will denounce this place of infamy.
You are placed on high, my Lord, but tremble! Above you there is
the king; above the king there is God!''
"However perfect master he was over himself, my persecutor
allowed a movement of anger to escape him. I could not see the
expression of his countenance, but I felt the arm tremble upon
which my hand was placed.
"''Then you shall not leave this place,'' said he.
"''Very well,'' cried I, ''then the place of my punishment will be
that of my tomb. I will die here, and you will see if a phantom
that accuses is not more terrible than a living being that
threatens!''
"''You shall have no weapon left in your power.''
"''There is a weapon which despair has placed within the reach of
every creature who has the courage to use it. I will allow
myself to die with hunger.''
"''Come,'' said the wretch, ''is not peace much better than such a
war as that? I will restore you to liberty this moment; I will
proclaim you a piece of immaculate virtue; I will name you the
Lucretia of England.''
"''And I will say that you are the ***tus. I will denounce you
before men, as I have denounced you before God; and if it be
necessary that, like Lucretia, I should sign my accusation with
my blood, I will sign it.''
"''Ah!'' said my enemy, in a jeering tone, ''that''s quite another
thing. My faith! everything considered, you are very well off
here. You shall want for nothing, and if you let yourself die of
hunger that will be your own fault.''
"At these words he retired. I heard the door open and shut, and
I remained overwhelmed, less, I confess it, by my grief than by
the mortification of not having avenged myself.
"He kept his word. All the day, all the next night passed away
without my seeing him again. But I also kept my word with him,
and I neither ate nor drank. I was, as I told him, resolved to
die of hunger.
"I passed the day and the night in prayer, for I hoped that God
would pardon me my suicide.
"The second night the door opened; I was lying on the floor, for
my strength began to abandon me.
"At the noise I raised myself up on one hand.
"''Well,'' said a voice which vibrated in too terrible a manner in
my ear not to be recognized, ''well! Are we softened a little?
Will we not pay for our liberty with a single promise of silence?
Come, I am a good sort of a prince,'' added he, ''and although I
like not Puritans I do them justice; and it is the same with
Puritanesses, when they are pretty. Come, take a little oath for
me on the cross; I won''t ask anything more of you.''
"''On the cross,'' cried I, rising, for at that abhorred voice I
had recovered all my strength, ''on the cross I swear that no
promise, no menace, no force, no torture, shall close my mouth!
On the cross I swear to denounce you everywhere as a murderer, as
a thief of honor, as a base coward! On the cross I swear, if I
ever leave this place, to call down vengeance upon you from the
whole human race!''
"''Beware!'' said the voice, in a threatening accent that I had
never yet heard. ''I have an extraordinary means which I will not
employ but in the last extremity to close your mouth, or at least
to prevent anyone from believing a word you may utter.''
"I mustered all my strength to reply to him with a burst of
laughter.
"He saw that it was a merciless war between us--a war to the
death.
"''Listen!'' said he. ''I give you the rest of tonight and all day
tomorrow. Reflect: promise to be silent, and riches,
consideration, even honor, shall surround you; threaten to speak,
and I will condemn you to infamy.''
"''You?'' cried I. ''You?''
"''To interminable, ineffaceable infamy!''
"''You?'' repeated I. Oh, I declare to you, Felton, I thought him
mad!
"''Yes, yes, I!'' replied he.
"''Oh, leave me!'' said I. ''Begone, if you do not desire to see me
dash my head against that wall before your eyes!''
"''Very well, it is your own doing. Till tomorrow evening, then!''
"''Till tomorrow evening, then!'' replied I, allowing myself to
fall, and biting the carpet with rage."
Felton leaned for support upon a piece of furniture; and Milady
saw, with the joy of a demon, that his strength would fail him
perhaps before the end of her recital.

57 MEANS FOR CLASSICAL TRAGEDY
After a moment of silence employed by Milady in observing the
young man who listened to her, Milady continued her recital.
"It was nearly three days since I had eaten or drunk anything. I
suffered frightful torments. At times there passed before me
clouds which pressed my brow, which veiled my eyes; this was
delirium.
"When the evening came I was so weak that every time I fainted I
thanked God, for I thought I was about to die.
"In the midst of one of these swoons I heard the door open.
Terror recalled me to myself.
"He entered the apartment followed by a man in a mask. He was
masked likewise; but I knew his step, I knew his voice, I knew
him by that imposing bearing which hell has bestowed upon his
person for the curse of humanity.
"''Well,'' said he to me, ''have you made your mind up to take the
oath I requested of you?''
"''You have said Puritans have but one word. Mine you have heard,
and that is to pursue you--on earth to the tribunal of men, in
heaven to the tribunal of God.''
"''You persist, then?''
"''I swear it before the God who hears me. I will take the whole
world as a witness of your crime, and that until I have found an
avenger.''
"''You are a prostitute,'' said he, in a voice of thunder, ''and you
shall undergo the punishment of prostitutes! Branded in the eyes
of the world you invoke, try to prove to that world that you are
neither guilty nor mad!''
"Then, addressing the man who accompanied him, ''Executioner,''
said he, ''do your duty.''"
"Oh, his name, his name!" cried Felton. "His name, tell it me!"
"Then in spite of my cries, in spite of my resistance--for I
began to comprehend that there was a question of something worse
than death--the executioner seized me, threw me on the floor,
fastened me with his bonds, and suffocated by sobs, almost
without sense, invoking God, who did not listen to me, I uttered
all at once a frightful cry of pain and shame. A burning fire, a
red-hot iron, the iron of the executioner, was imprinted on my
shoulder."
Felton uttered a groan.
"Here," said Milady, rising with the majesty of a queen, "here,
Felton, behold the new martyrdom invented for a pure young girl,
the victim of the brutality of a villain. Learn to know the
heart of men, and henceforth make yourself less easily the
instrument of their unjust vengeance."
Milady, with a rapid gesture, opened her robe, tore the cambric
that covered her bosom, and red with feigned anger and simulated
shame, showed the young man the ineffaceable impression which
dishonored that beautiful shoulder.
"But," cried Felton, "that is a FLEUR-DE-LIS which I see there."
"And therein consisted the infamy," replied Milady. "The brand
of England!--it would be necessary to prove what tribunal had
imposed it on me, and I could have made a public appeal to all
the tribunals of the kingdom; but the brand of France!--oh, by
that, by THAT I was branded indeed!"
This was too much for Felton.
Pale, motionless, overwhelmed by this frightful revelation,
dazzled by the superhuman beauty of this woman who unveiled
herself before him with an immodesty which appeared to him
sublime, he ended by falling on his knees before her as the early
Christians did before those pure and holy martyrs whom the
persecution of the emperors gave up in the circus to the
sanguinary sensuality of the populace. The brand disappeared;
the beauty alone remained.
"Pardon! Pardon!" cried Felton, "oh, pardon!"
Milady read in his eyes LOVE! LOVE!
"Pardon for what?" asked she.
"Pardon me for having joined with your persecutors."
Milady held out her hand to him.
"So beautiful! so young!" cried Felton, covering that hand with
his kisses.
Milady let one of those looks fall upon him which make a slave of
a king.
Felton was a Puritan; he abandoned the hand of this woman to kiss
her feet.
He no longer loved her; he adored her.
When this crisis was past, when Milady appeared to have resumed
her self-possession, which she had never lost; when Felton had
seen her recover with the veil of chastity those treasures of
love which were only concealed from him to make him desire them
the more ardently, he said, "Ah, now! I have only one thing to
ask of you; that is, the name of your true executioner. For to
me there is but one; the other was an instrument, that was all."
"What, brother!" cried Milady, "must I name him again? Have you
not yet divined who he is?"
"What?" cried Felton, "he--again he--always he? What--the truly
guilty?"
"The truly guilty," said Milady, "is the ravager of England, the
persecutor of true believers, the base ravisher of the honor of
so many women--he who, to satisfy a caprice of his corrupt heart,
is about to make England shed so much blood, who protects the
Protestants today and will betray them tomorrow--"
"Buckingham! It is, then, Buckingham!" cried Felton, in a high
state of excitement.
Milady concealed her face in her hands, as if she could not
endure the shame which this name recalled to her.
"Buckingham, the executioner of this angelic creature!" cried
Felton. "And thou hast not hurled thy thunder at him, my God!
And thou hast left him noble, honored, powerful, for the ruin of
us all!"
"God abandons him who abandons himself," said Milady.
"But he will draw upon his head the punishment reserved for the
damned!" said Felton, with increasing exultation. "He wills that
human vengeance should precede celestial justice."
"Men fear him and spare him."
"I," said Felton, "I do not fear him, nor will I spare him."
The soul of Milady was bathed in an infernal joy.
"But how can Lord de Winter, my protector, my father," asked
Felton, "possibly be mixed up with all this?"
"Listen, Felton," resumed Milady, "for by the side of base and
contemptible men there are often found great and generous
natures. I had an affianced husband, a man whom I loved, and who
loved me--a heart like yours, Felton, a man like you. I went to
him and told him all; he knew me, that man did, and did not doubt
an instant. He was a nobleman, a man equal to Buckingham in
every respect. He said nothing; he only girded on his sword,
wrapped himself in his cloak, and went straight to Buckingham
Palace.
"Yes, yes," said Felton; "I understand how he would act. But
with such men it is not the sword that should be employed; it is
the poniard."
"Buckingham had left England the day before, sent as ambassador
to Spain, to demand the hand of the Infanta for King Charles I,
who was then only Prince of Wales. My affianced husband
returned.
"''Hear me,'' said he; ''this man has gone, and for the moment has
consequently escaped my vengeance; but let us be united, as we
were to have been, and then leave it to Lord de Winter to
maintain his own honor and that of his wife.''"
"Lord de Winter!" cried Felton.
"Yes," said Milady, "Lord de Winter; and now you can understand
it all, can you not? Buckingham remained nearly a year absent.
A week before his return Lord de Winter died, leaving me his sole
heir. Whence came the blow? God who knows all, knows without
doubt; but as for me, I accuse nobody."
"Oh, what an abyss; what an abyss!" cried Felton.
"Lord de Winter died without revealing anything to his brother.
The terrible secret was to be concealed till it burst, like a
clap of thunder, over the head of the guilty. Your protector had
seen with pain this marriage of his elder brother with a
portionless girl. I was sensible that I could look for no
support from a man disappointed in his hopes of an inheritance.
I went to France, with a determination to remain there for the
rest of my life. But all my fortune is in England.
Communication being closed by the war, I was in want of
everything. I was then obliged to come back again. Six days
ago, I landed at Portsmouth."
"Well?" said Felton.
"Well; Buckingham heard by some means, no doubt, of my return.
He spoke of me to Lord de Winter, already prejudiced against me,
and told him that his sister-in-law was a prostitute, a branded
woman. The noble and pure voice of my husband was no longer here
to defend me. Lord de Winter believed all that was told him with
so much the more ease that it was his interest to believe it. He
caused me to be arrested, had me conducted hither, and placed me
under your guard. You know the rest. The day after tomorrow he
banishes me, he transports me; the day after tomorrow he exiles
me among the infamous. Oh, the train is well laid; the plot is
clever. My honor will not survive it! You see, then, Felton, I
can do nothing but die. Felton, give me that knife!"
And at these words, as if all her strength was exhausted, Milady
sank, weak and languishing, into the arms of the young officer,
who, intoxicated with love, anger, and voluptuous sensations
hitherto unknown, received her with transport, pressed her
against his heart, all trembling at the breath from that charming
mouth, bewildered by the contact with that palpitating bosom.
"No, no," said he. "No, you shall live honored and pure; you
shall live to triumph over your enemies."
Milady put him from her slowly with her hand, while drawing him
nearer with her look; but Felton, in his turn, embraced her more
closely, imploring her like a divinity.
"Oh, death, death!" said she, lowering her voice and her eyelids,
"oh, death, rather than shame! Felton, my brother, my friend, I
conjure you!"
"No," cried Felton, "no; you shall live and you shall be
avenged."
"Felton, I bring misfortune to all who surround me! Felton,
abandon me! Felton, let me die!"
"Well, then, we will live and die together!" cried he, pressing
his lips to those of the prisoner.
Several strokes resounded on the door; this time Milady really
pushed him away from her.
"Hark," said she, "we have been overheard! Someone is coming!
All is over! We are lost!"
"No," said Felton; it is only the sentinel warning me that they
are about to change the guard."
"Then run to the door, and open it yourself."
Felton obeyed; this woman was now his whole thought, his whole
soul.
He found himself face to face with a sergeant commanding a watch-
patrol.
"Well, what is the matter?" asked the young lieutenant.
"You told me to open the door if I heard anyone cry out," said
the soldier; "but you forgot to leave me the key. I heard you
cry out, without understanding what you said. I tried to open
the door, but it was locked inside; then I called the sergeant."
"And here I am," said the sergeant.
Felton, quite bewildered, almost mad, stood speechless.
Milady plainly perceived that it was now her turn to take part in
the scene. She ran to the table, and seizing the knife which
Felton had laid down, exclaimed, "And by what right will you
prevent me from dying?"
"Great God!" exclaimed Felton, on seeing the knife glitter in her
hand.
At that moment a burst of ironical laughter resounded through the
corridor. The baron, attracted by the noise, in his chamber
gown, his sword under his arm, stood in the doorway.
"Ah," said he, "here we are, at the last act of the tragedy. You
see, Felton, the drama has gone through all the phases I named;
but be easy, no blood will flow."
Milady perceived that all was lost unless she gave Felton an
immediate and terrible proof of her courage.
"You are mistaken, my Lord, blood will flow; and may that blood
fall back on those who cause it to flow!"
Felton uttered a cry, and rushed toward her. He was too late;
Milady had stabbed herself.
But the knife had fortunately, we ought to say skillfully, come
in contact with the steel busk, which at that period, like a
cuirass, defended the chests of women. It had glided down it,
tearing the robe, and had penetrated slantingly between the flesh
and the ribs. Milady''s robe was not the less stained with blood
in a second.
Milady fell down, and seemed to be in a swoon.
Felton snatched away the knife.
"See, my Lord," said he, in a deep, gloomy tone, "here is a woman
who was under my guard, and who has killed herself!"
"Be at ease, Felton," said Lord de Winter. "She is not dead;
demons do not die so easily. Be tranquil, and go wait for me in
my chamber."
"But, my Lord--"
"Go, sir, I command you!"
At this injunction from his superior, Felton obeyed; but in going
out, he put the knife into his bosom.
As to Lord de Winter, he contented himself with calling the woman
who waited on Milady, and when she was come, he recommended the
prisoner, who was still fainting, to her care, and left them
alone.
Meanwhile, all things considered and notwithstanding his
suspicions, as the wound might be serious, he immediately sent
off a mounted man to find a physician.

58 ESCAPE
As Lord de Winter had thought, Milady''s wound was not dangerous.
So soon as she was left alone with the woman whom the baron had
summoned to her assistance she opened her eyes.
It was, however, necessary to affect weakness and pain--not a
very difficult task for so finished an actress as Milady. Thus
the poor woman was completely the dupe of the prisoner, whom,
notwithstanding her hints, she persisted in watching all night.
But the presence of this woman did not prevent Milady from
thinking.
There was no longer a doubt that Felton was convinced; Felton was
hers. If an angel appeared to that young man as an accuser of
Milady, he would take him, in the mental disposition in which he
now found himself, for a messenger sent by the devil.
Milady smiled at this thought, for Felton was now her only hope--
her only means of safety.
But Lord de Winter might suspect him; Felton himself might now be
watched!
Toward four o''clock in the morning the doctor arrived; but since
the time Milady stabbed herself, however short, the wound had
closed. The doctor could therefore measure neither the direction
nor the depth of it; he only satisfied himself by Milady''s pulse
that the case was not serious.
In the morning Milady, under the pretext that she had not slept
well in the night and wanted rest, sent away the woman who
attended her.
She had one hope, which was that Felton would appear at the
breakfast hour; but Felton did not come.
Were her fears realized? Was Felton, suspected by the baron,
about to fail her at the decisive moment? She had only one day
left. Lord de Winter had announced her embarkation for the
twenty-third, and it was now the morning of the twenty-second.
Nevertheless she still waited patiently till the hour for dinner.
Although she had eaten nothing in the morning, the dinner was
brought in at its usual time. Milady then perceived, with
terror, that the uniform of the soldiers who guarded her was
changed.
Then she ventured to ask what had become of Felton.
She was told that he had left the castle an hour before on
horseback. She inquired if the baron was still at the castle.
The soldier replied that he was, and that he had given orders to
be informed if the prisoner wished to speak to him.
Milady replied that she was too weak at present, and that her
only desire was to be left alone.
The soldier went out, leaving the dinner served.
Felton was sent away. The marines were removed. Felton was then
mistrusted.
This was the last blow to the prisoner.
Left alone, she arose. The bed, which she had kept from prudence
and that they might believe her seriously wounded, burned her
like a bed of fire. She cast a glance at the door; the baron had
had a plank nailed over the grating. He no doubt feared that by
this opening she might still by some diabolical means corrupt her
guards.
Milady smiled with joy. She was free now to give way to her
transports without being observed. She traversed her chamber
with the excitement of a furious maniac or of a tigress shut up
in an iron cage. CERTES, if the knife had been left in her
power, she would now have thought, not of killing herself, but of
killing the baron.
At six o''clock Lord de Winter came in. He was armed at all
points. This man, in whom Milady till that time had only seen a
very simple gentleman, had become an admirable jailer. He
appeared to foresee all, to divine all, to anticipate all.
A single look at Milady apprised him of all that was passing in
her mind.
"Ay,!" said he, "I see; but you shall not kill me today. You
have no longer a weapon; and besides, I am on my guard. You had
begun to pervert my poor Felton. He was yielding to your
infernal influence; but I will save him. He will never see you
again; all is over. Get your clothes together. Tomorrow you
will go. I had fixed the embarkation for the twenty-fourth; but
I have reflected that the more promptly the affair takes place
the more sure it will be. Tomorrow, by twelve o''clock, I shall
have the order for your exile, signed, BUCKINGHAM. If you
speak a single word to anyone before going aboard ship, my
sergeant will blow your brains out. He has orders to do so. If
when on the ship you speak a single word to anyone before the
captain permits you, the captain will have you thrown into the
sea. That is agreed upon.
"AU REVOIR; then; that is all I have to say today. Tomorrow I
will see you again, to take my leave." With these words the
baron went out. Milady had listened to all this menacing tirade
with a smile of disdain on her lips, but rage in her heart.
Supper was served. Milady felt that she stood in need of all her
strength. She did not know what might take place during this
night which approached so menacingly--for large masses of cloud
rolled over the face of the sky, and distant lightning announced
a storm.
The storm broke about ten o''clock. Milady felt a consolation in
seeing nature partake of the disorder of her heart. The thunder
growled in the air like the passion and anger in her thoughts.
It appeared to her that the blast as it swept along disheveled
her brow, as it bowed the branches of the trees and bore away
their leaves. She howled as the hurricane howled; and her voice
was lost in the great voice of nature, which also seemed to groan
with despair.
All at once she heard a tap at her window, and by the help of a
flash of lightning she saw the face of a man appear behind the
bars.
She ran to the window and opened it.
"Felton!" cried she. "I am saved."
"Yes," said Felton; "but silence, silence! I must have time to
file through these bars. Only take care that I am not seen
through the wicket."
"Oh, it is a proof that the Lord is on our side, Felton," replied
Milady. "They have closed up the grating with a board."
"That is well; God has made them senseless," said Felton.
"But what must I do?" asked Milady.
"Nothing, nothing, only shut the window. Go to bed, or at least
lie down in your clothes. As soon as I have done I will knock on
one of the panes of glass. But will you be able to follow me?"
"Oh, yes!"
"Your wound?"
"Gives me pain, but will not prevent my walking."
"Be ready, then, at the first signal."
Milady shut the window, extinguished the lamp, and went, as
Felton had desired her, to lie down on the bed. Amid the moaning
of the storm she heard the grinding of the file upon the bars,
and by the light of every flash she perceived the shadow of
Felton through the panes.
She passed an hour without breathing, panting, with a cold sweat
upon her brow, and her heart oppressed by frightful agony at
every movement she heard in the corridor.
There are hours which last a year.
At the expiration of an hour, Felton tapped again.
Milady sprang out of bed and opened the window. Two bars removed
formed an opening for a man to pass through.
"Are you ready?" asked Felton.
"Yes. Must I take anything with me?"
"Money, if you have any."
"Yes; fortunately they have left me all I had."
"So much the better, for I have expended all mine in chartering a
vessel."
"Here!" said Milady, placing a bag full of louis in Felton''s
hands.
Felton took the bag and threw it to the foot of the wall.
"Now," said he, "will you come?"
"I am ready."
Milady mounted upon a chair and passed the upper part of her body
through the window. She saw the young officer suspended over the
abyss by a ladder of ropes. For the first time an emotion of
terror reminded her that she was a woman.
The dark space frightened her.
"I expected this," said Felton.
"It''s nothing, it''s nothing!" said Milady. "I will descend with
my eyes shut."
"Have you confidence in me?" said Felton.
"You ask that?"
"Put your two hands together. Cross them; that''s right!"
Felton tied her two wrists together with his handkerchief, and
then with a cord over the handkerchief.
"What are you doing?" asked Milady, with surprise.
"Pass your arms around my neck, and fear nothing."
"But I shall make you lose your balance, and we shall both be
dashed to pieces."
"Don''t be afraid. I am a sailor."
Not a second was to be lost. Milady passed her two arms round
Felton''s neck, and let herself slip out of the window. Felton
began to descend the ladder slowly, step by step. Despite the
weight of two bodies, the blast of the hurricane shook them in
the air.
All at once Felton stopped.
"What is the matter?" asked Milady.
"Silence," said Felton, "I hear footsteps."
"We are discovered!"
There was a silence of several seconds.
"No," said Felton, "it is nothing."
"But what, then, is the noise?"
"That of the patrol going their rounds."
"Where is their road?"
"Just under us."
"They will discover us!"
"No, if it does not lighten."
"But they will run against the bottom of the ladder."
"Fortunately it is too short by six feet."
"Here they are! My God!"
"Silence!"
Both remained suspended, motionless and breathless, within twenty
paces of the ground, while the patrol passed beneath them
laughing and talking. This was a terrible moment for the
fugitives.
The patrol passed. The noise of their retreating footsteps and
the murmur of their voices soon died away.
"Now," said Felton, "we are safe."
Milady breathed a deep sigh and fainted.
Felton continued to descend. Near the bottom of the ladder, when
he found no more support for his feet, he clung with his hands;
at length, arrived at the last step, he let himself hang by the
strength of his wrists, and touched the ground. He stooped down,
picked up the bag of money, and placed it between his teeth.
Then he took Milady in his arms, and set off briskly in the
direction opposite to that which the patrol had taken. He soon
left the pathway of the patrol, descended across the rocks, and
when arrived on the edge of the sea, whistled.
A similar signal replied to him; and five minutes after, a boat
appeared, rowed by four men.
The boat approached as near as it could to the shore; but there
was not depth enough of water for it to touch land. Felton
walked into the sea up to his middle, being unwilling to trust
his precious burden to anybody.
Fortunately the storm began *****bside, but still the sea was
disturbed. The little boat bounded over the waves like a nut-
shell.
"To the sloop," said Felton, "and row quickly."
The four men bent to their oars, but the sea was too high to let
them get much hold of it.
However, they left the castle behind; that was the principal
thing. The night was extremely dark. It was almost impossible
to see the shore from the boat; they would therefore be less
likely to see the boat from the shore.
A black point floated on the sea. That was the sloop. While the
boat was advancing with all the speed its four rowers could give
it, Felton untied the cord and then the handkerchief which bound
Milady''s hands together. When her hands were loosed he took some
sea water and sprinkled it over her face.
Milady breathed a sigh, and opened her eyes.
"Where am I?" said she.
"Saved!" replied the young officer.
"Oh, saved, saved!" cried she. "Yes, there is the sky; here is
the sea! The air I breathe is the air of liberty! Ah, thanks,
Felton, thanks!"
The young man pressed her to his heart.
"But what is the matter with my hands!" asked Milady; "it seems
as if my wrists had been crushed in a vice."
Milady held out her arms; her wrists were bruised.
"Alas!" said Felton, looking at those beautiful hands, and
shaking his head sorrowfully.
"Oh, it''s nothing, nothing!" cried Milady. "I remember now."
Milady looked around her, as if in search of something.
"It is there," said Felton, touching the bag of money with his
foot.
They drew near to the sloop. A sailor on watch hailed the boat;
the boat replied.
"What vessel is that?" asked Milady.
"The one I have hired for you."
"Where will it take me?"
"Where you please, after you have put me on shore at Portsmouth."
"What are you going to do at Portsmouth?" asked Milady.
"Accomplish the orders of Lord de Winter," said Felton, with a
gloomy smile.
"What orders?" asked Milady.
"You do not understand?" asked Felton.
"No; explain yourself, I beg."
"As he mistrusted me, he determined to guard you himself, and
sent me in his place to get Buckingham to sign the order for your
transportation."
"But if he mistrusted you, how could he confide such an order to
you?"
"How could I know what I was the bearer of?"
"That''s true! And you are going to Portsmouth?"
"I have no time to lose. Tomorrow is the twenty-third, and
Buckingham sets sail tomorrow with his fleet."
"He sets sail tomorrow! Where for?"
"For La Rochelle."
"He need not sail!" cried Milady, forgetting her usual presence
of mind.
"Be satisfied," replied Felton; "he will not sail."
Milady started with joy. She could read to the depths of the
heart of this young man; the death of Buckingham was written
there at full length.
"Felton," cried she, "you are as great as Judas Maccabeus! If
you die, I will die with you; that is all I can say to you."
"Silence!" cried Felton; "we are here."
In fact, they touched the sloop.
Felton mounted the ladder first, and gave his hand to Milady,
while the sailors supported her, for the sea was still much
agitated.
An instant after they were on the deck.
"Captain," said Felton, "this is person of whom I spoke to you,
and whom you must convey safe and sound to France."
"For a thousand pistoles," said the captain.
"I have paid you five hundred of them."
"That''s correct," said the captain.
"And here are the other five hundred," replied Milady, placing
her hand upon the bag of gold.
"No," said the captain, "I make but one bargain; and I have
agreed with this young man that the other five hundred shall not
be due to me till we arrive at Boulogne."
"And shall we arrive there?"
"Safe and sound, as true as my name''s Jack Butler."
"Well," said Milady, "if you keep your word, instead of five
hundred, I will give you a thousand pistoles."
"Hurrah for you, then, my beautiful lady," cried the captain;
"and may God often send me such passengers as your Ladyship!"
"Meanwhile," said Felton, "convey me to the little bay of--; you
know it was agreed you should put in there."
The captain replied by ordering the necessary maneuvers, and
toward seven o''clock in the morning the little vessel cast anchor
in the bay that had been named.
During this passage, Felton related everything to Milady--how,
instead of going to London, he had chartered the little vessel;
how he had returned; how he had scaled the wall by fastening
cramps in the interstices of the stones, as he ascended, to give
him foothold; and how, when he had reached the bars, he fastened
his ladder. Milady knew the rest.
On her side, Milady tried to encourage Felton in his project; but
at the first words which issued from her mouth, she plainly saw
that the young fanatic stood more in need of being moderated than
urged.
It was agreed that Milady should wait for Felton till ten
o''clock; if he did not return by ten o''clock she was to sail.
In that case, and supposing he was at liberty, he was to rejoin
her in France, at the convent of the Carmelites at Bethune.

59 WHAT TOOK PLACE AT PORTSMOUTH AUGUST 23, 1628
Felton took leave of Milady as a brother about to go for a mere walk
takes leave of his sister, kissing her hand.
His whole body appeared in its ordinary state of calmness, only an
unusual fire beamed from his eyes, like the effects of a fever; his brow
was more pale than it generally was; his teeth were clenched, and his
speech had a short dry accent which indicated that something dark was at
work within him.
As long as he remained in the boat which conveyed him to land, he kept
his face toward Milady, who, standing on the deck, followed him with her
eyes. Both were free from the fear of pursuit; nobody ever came into
Milady''s apartment before nine o''clock, and it would require three hours
to go from the castle to London.
Felton jumped onshore, climbed the little ascent which led to the top of
the cliff, saluted Milady a last time, and took his course toward the
city.
At the end of a hundred paces, the ground began to decline, and he could
only see the mast of the sloop.
He immediately ran in the direction of Portsmouth, which he saw at
nearly half a league before him, standing out in the haze of the
morning, with its houses and towers.
Beyond Portsmouth the sea was covered with vessels whose masts, like a
forest of poplars despoiled by the winter, bent with each breath of the
wind.
Felton, in his rapid walk, reviewed in his mind all the accusations
against the favorite of James I and Charles I, furnished by two years of
premature me***ation and a long sojourn among the Puritans.
When he compared the public crimes of this minister--startling crimes,
European crimes, if so we may say--with the private and unknown crimes
with which Milady had charged him, Felton found that the more culpable
of the two men which formed the character of Buckingham was the one of
whom the public knew not the life. This was because his love, so
strange, so new, and so ardent, made him view the infamous and imaginary
accusations of Milady de Winter as, through a magnifying glass, one
views as frightful monsters atoms in reality imperceptible by the side
of an ant.
The rapi***y of his walk heated his blood still more; the idea that he
left behind him, exposed to a frightful vengeance, the woman he loved,
or rather whom he adored as a saint, the emotion he had experienced,
present fatigue--all together exalted his mind above human feeling.
He entered Portsmouth about eight o''clock in the morning. The whole
population was on foot; drums were beating in the streets and in the
port; the troops about to embark were marching toward the sea.
Felton arrived at the palace of the Admiralty, covered with dust, and
streaming with perspiration. His countenance, usually so pale, was
purple with heat and passion. The sentinel wanted to repulse him; but
Felton called to the officer of the post, and drawing from his pocket
the letter of which he was the bearer, he said, "A pressing message from
Lord de Winter."
At the name of Lord de Winter, who was known to be one of his Grace''s
most intimate friends, the officer of the post gave orders to let Felton
pass, who, besides, wore the uniform of a naval officer.
Felton darted into the palace.
At the moment he entered the vestibule, another man was entering
likewise, dusty, out of breath, leaving at the gate a post horse, which,
on reaching the palace, tumbled on his foreknees.
Felton and he addressed Patrick, the duke''s confidential lackey, at the
same moment. Felton named Lord de Winter; the unknown would not name
anybody, and pretended that it was to the duke alone he would make
himself known. Each was anxious to gain admission before the other.
Patrick, who knew Lord de Winter was in affairs of the service, and in
relations of friendship with the duke, gave the preference to the one
who came in his name. The other was forced to wait, and it was easily
to be seen how he cursed the delay.
The valet led Felton through a large hall in which waited the deputies
from La Rochelle, headed by the Prince de Soubise, and introduced him
into a closet where Buckingham, just out of the bath, was finishing his
toilet, upon which, as at all times, he bestowed extraordinary
attention.
"Lieutenant Felton, from Lord de Winter," said Patrick.
"From Lord de Winter!" repeated Buckingham; "let him come in."
Felton entered. At that moment Buckingham was throwing upon a couch a
rich toilet robe, worked with gold, in order to put on a blue velvet
doublet embroidered with pearls.
"Why didn''t the baron come himself?" demanded Buckingham. "I expected
him this morning."
"He desired me to tell your Grace," replied Felton, "that he very much
regretted not having that honor, but that he was prevented by the guard
he is obliged to keep at the castle."
"Yes, I know that," said Buckingham; "he has a prisoner."
"It is of that prisoner that I wish to speak to your Grace," replied
Felton.
"Well, then, speak!"
"That which I have to say of her can only be heard by yourself, my
Lord!"
"Leave us, Patrick," said Buckingham; "but remain within sound of the
bell. I shall call you presently."
Patrick went out.
"We are alone, sir," said Buckingham; "speak!"
"My Lord," said Felton, "the Baron de Winter wrote to you the other day
to request you to sign an order of embarkation relative to a young woman
named Charlotte Backson."
"Yes, sir; and I answered him, to bring or send me that order and I
would sign it."
"Here it is, my Lord."
"Give it to me," said the duke.
And taking it from Felton, he cast a rapid glance over the paper, and
perceiving that it was the one that had been mentioned to him, he placed
it on the table, took a pen, and prepared to sign it.
"Pardon, my Lord," said Felton, stopping the duke; "but does your Grace
know that the name of Charlotte Backson is not the true name of this
young woman?"
"Yes, sir, I know it," replied the duke, dipping the quill in the ink.
"Then your Grace knows her real name?" asked Felton, in a sharp tone.
"I know it"; and the duke put the quill to the paper. Felton grew pale.
"And knowing that real name, my Lord," replied Felton, "will you sign it
all the same?"
"Doubtless," said Buckingham, "and rather twice than once."
"I cannot believe," continued Felton, in a voice that became more sharp
and rough, "that your Grace knows that it is to Milady de Winter this
relates."
"I know it perfectly, although I am astonished that you know it."
"And will your Grace sign that order without remorse?"
Buckingham looked at the young man haughtily.
"Do you know, sir, that you are asking me very strange questions, and
that I am very foolish to answer them?"
"Reply to them, my Lord," said Felton; "the circumstances are more
serious than you perhaps believe."
Buckingham reflected that the young man, coming from Lord de Winter,
undoubtedly spoke in his name, and softened.
"Without remorse," said he. "The baron knows, as well as myself, that
Milady de Winter is a very guilty woman, and it is treating her very
favorably to commute her punishment to transportation."
The duke put his pen to the paper.
"You will not sign that order, my Lord!" said Felton, making a step
toward the duke.
"I will not sign this order! And why not?"
"Because you will look into yourself, and you will do justice to the
lady."
"I should do her justice by sending her to Tyburn," said Buckingham.
"This lady is infamous."
"My Lord, Milady de Winter is an angel; you know that she is, and I
demand her liberty of you."
"Bah! Are you mad, to talk to me thus?" said Buckingham.
"My Lord, excuse me! I speak as I can; I restrain myself. But, my
Lord, think of what you''re about to do, and beware of going too far!"
"What do you say? God pardon me!" cried Buckingham, "I really think he
threatens me!"
"No, my Lord, I still plead. And I say to you: one drop of water
suffices to make the full vase overflow; one slight fault may draw down
punishment upon the head spared, despite many crimes."
"Mr. Felton," said Buckingham, "you will withdraw, and place yourself at
once under arrest."
"You will hear me to the end, my Lord. You have seduced this young
girl; you have outraged, defiled her. Repair your crimes toward her;
let her go free, and I will exact nothing else from you."
"You will exact!" said Buckingham, looking at Felton with astonishment,
and dwelling upon each syllable of the three words as he pronounced
them.
"My Lord," continued Felton, becoming more excited as he spoke, "my
Lord, beware! All England is tired of your iniquities; my Lord, you
have abused the royal power, which you have almost usurped; my Lord, you
are held in horror by God and men. God will punish you hereafter, but I
will punish you here!"
"Ah, this is too much!" cried Buckingham, making a step toward the door.
Felton barred his passage.
"I ask it humbly of you, my Lord" said he; "sign the order for the
liberation of Milady de Winter. Remember that she is a woman whom you
have dishonored."
"Withdraw, sir," said Buckingham, "or I will call my attendant, and have
you placed in irons."
"You shall not call," said Felton, throwing himself between the duke and
the bell placed on a stand encrusted with silver. "Beware, my Lord, you
are in the hands of God!"
"In the hands of the devil, you mean!" cried Buckingham, raising his
voice so as to attract the notice of his people, without absolutely
shouting.
"Sign, my Lord; sign the liberation of Milady de Winter," said Felton,
holding out paper to the duke.
"By force? You are joking! Holloa, Patrick!"
"Sign, my Lord!"
"Never."
"Never?"
"Help!" shouted the duke; and at the same time he sprang toward his
sword.
But Felton did not give him time to draw it. He held the knife with
which Milady had stabbed herself, open in his bosom; at one bound he was
upon the duke.
At that moment Patrick entered the room, crying, "A letter from France,
my Lord."
"From France!" cried Buckingham, forgetting everything in thinking from
whom that letter came.
Felton took advantage of this moment, and plunged the knife into his
side up to the handle.
"Ah, traitor," cried Buckingham, "you have killed me!"
"Murder!" screamed Patrick.
Felton cast his eyes round for means of escape, and seeing the door
free, he rushed into the next chamber, in which, as we have said, the
deputies from La Rochelle were waiting, crossed it as quickly as
possible, and rushed toward the staircase; but upon the first step he
met Lord de Winter, who, seeing him pale, confused, livid, and stained
with blood both on his hands and face, seized him by the throat, crying,
"I knew it! I guessed it! But too late by a minute, unfortunate,
unfortunate that I am!"
Felton made no resistance. Lord de Winter placed him in the hands of
the guards, who led him, while awaiting further orders, to a little
terrace commanding the sea; and then the baron hastened to the duke''s
chamber.
At the cry uttered by the duke and the scream of Patrick, the man whom
Felton had met in the antechamber rushed into the chamber.
He found the duke reclining upon a sofa, with his hand pressed upon the
wound.
"Laporte," said the duke, in a dying voice, "Laporte, do you come from
her?"
"Yes, monseigneur," replied the faithful cloak bearer of Anne of
Austria, "but too late, perhaps."
"Silence, Laporte, you may be overheard. Patrick, let no one enter.
Oh, I cannot tell what she says to me! My God, I am dying!"
And the duke swooned.
Meanwhile, Lord de Winter, the deputies, the leaders of the expe***ion,
the officers of Buckingham''s household, had all made their way into the
chamber. Cries of despair resounded on all sides. The news, which
filled the palace with tears and groans, soon became known, and spread
itself throughout the city.
The report of a cannon announced that something new and unexpected had
taken place.
Lord de Winter tore his hair.
"Too late by a minute!" cried he, "too late by a minute! Oh, my God, my
God! what a misfortune!"
He had been informed at seven o''clock in the morning that a rope ladder
floated from one of the windows of the castle; he had hastened to
Milady''s chamber, had found it empty, the window open, and the bars
filed, had remembered the verbal caution D''Artagnan had transmitted to
him by his messenger, had trembled for the duke, and running to the
stable without taking time to have a horse saddled, had jumped upon the
first he found, had galloped off like the wind, had alighted below in
the courtyard, had ascended the stairs precipitately, and on the top
step, as we have said, had encountered Felton.
The duke, however, was not dead. He recovered a little, reopened his
eyes, and hope revived in all hearts.
"Gentlemen," said he, "leave me along with Patrick and Laporte--ah, is
that you, De Winter? You sent me a strange madman this morning! See
the state in which he has put me."
"Oh, my Lord!" cried the baron, "I shall never console myself."
"And you would be quite wrong, my dear De Winter," said Buckingham,
holding out his hand to him. "I do not know the man who deserves being
regretted during the whole life of another man; but leave us, I pray
you."
The baron went out sobbing.
There only remained in the closet of the wounded duke Laporte and
Patrick. A physician was sought for, but none was yet found.
"You will live, my Lord, you will live!" repeated the faithful servant
of Anne of Austria, on his knees before the duke''s sofa.
"What has she written to me?" said Buckingham, feebly, streaming with
blood, and suppressing his agony to speak of her he loved, "what has she
written to me? Read me her letter."
"Oh, my Lord!" said Laporte.
"Obey, Laporte, do you not see I have no time to lose?"
Laporte broke the seal, and placed the paper before the eyes of the
duke; but Buckingham in vain tried to make out the writing.
"Read!" said he, "read! I cannot see. Read, then! For soon, perhaps,
I shall not hear, and I shall die without knowing what she has written
to me."
Laporte made no further objection, and read:
"My Lord, By that which, since I have known you, have suffered by you
and for you, I conjure you, if you have any care for my repose, to
countermand those great armaments which you are preparing against
France, to put an end to a war of which it is publicly said religion is
the ostensible cause, and of which, it is generally whispered, your love
for me is the concealed cause. This war may not only bring great
catastrophes upon England and France, but misfortune upon you, my Lord,
for which I should never console myself.
"Be careful of your life, which is menaced, and which will be dear to me
from the moment I am not obliged to see an enemy in you.
"Your affectionate
"ANNE"
Buckingham collected all his remaining strength to listen to the reading
of the letter; then, when it was ended, as if he had met with a bitter
disappointment, he asked, "Have you nothing else to say to me by the
living voice, Laporte?"
"The queen charged me to tell you to watch over yourself, for she had
advice that your assassination would be attempted."
"And is that all--is that all?" replied Buckingham, impatiently.
"She likewise charged me to tell you that she still loved you."
"Ah," said Buckingham, "God be praised! My death, then, will not be to
her as the death of a stranger!"
Laporte burst into tears.
"Patrick," said the due, "bring me the casket in which the diamond studs
were kept."
Patrick brought the object desired, which Laporte recognized as having
belonged to the queen.
"Now the scent bag of white satin, on which her cipher is embroidered in
pearls."
Patrick again obeyed.
"Here, Laporte," said Buckingham, "these are the only tokens I ever
received from her--this silver casket and these two letters. You will
restore them to her Majesty; and as a last memorial"--he looked round
for some valuable object--"you will add--"
He still sought; but his eyes, darkened by death, encountered only the
knife which had fallen from the hand of Felton, still smoking with the
blood spread over its blade.
"And you will add to them this knife," said the duke, pressing the hand
of Laporte. He had just strength enough to place the scent bag at the
bottom of the silver casket, and to let the knife fall into it, making a
sign to Laporte that he was no longer able to speak; than, in a last
convulsion, which this time he had not the power to combat, he slipped
from the sofa to the floor.
Patrick uttered a loud cry.
Buckingham tried to smile a last time; but death checked his thought,
which remained engraved on his brow like a last kiss of love.
At this moment the duke''s surgeon arrived, quite terrified; he was
already on board the admiral''s ship, where they had been obliged to seek
him.
He approached the duke, took his hand, held it for an instant in his
own, and letting it fall, "All is useless," said he, "he is dead."
"Dead, dead!" cried Patrick.
At this cry all the crowd re-entered the apartment, and throughout the
palace and town there was nothing but consternation and tumult.
As soon as Lord de Winter saw Buckingham was dead, he ran to Felton,
whom the soldiers still guarded on the terrace of the palace.
"Wretch!" said he to the young man, who since the death of Buckingham
had regained that coolness and self-possession which never after
abandoned him, "wretch! what have you done?"
"I have avenged myself!" said he.
"Avenged yourself," said the baron. "Rather say that you have served as
an instrument to that accursed woman; but I swear to you that this crime
shall be her last."
"I don''t know what you mean," replied Felton, quietly, "and I am
ignorant of whom you are speaking, my Lord. I killed the Duke of
Buckingham because he twice refused you yourself to appoint me captain;
I have punished him for his injustice, that is all."
De Winter, stupefied, looked on while the soldiers bound Felton, and
could not tell what to think of such insensibility.
One thing alone, however, threw a shade over the pallid brow of Felton.
At every noise he heard, the simple Puritan fancied he recognized the
step and voice of Milady coming to throw herself into his arms, to
accuse herself, and die with him.
All at once he started. His eyes became fixed upon a point of the sea,
commanded by the terrace where he was. With the eagle glance of a
sailor he had recognized there, where another would have seen only a
gull hovering over the waves, the sail of a sloop which was directed
toward the cost of France.
He grew deadly pale, placed his hand upon his heart, which was breaking,
and at once perceived all the treachery.
"One last favor, my Lord!" said he to the baron.
"What?" asked his Lordship.
"What o''clock is it?"
The baron drew out his watch. "It wants ten minutes to nine," said he.
Milady had hastened her departure by an hour and a half. As soon as she
heard the cannon which announced the fatal event, she had ordered the
anchor to be weighed. The vessel was making way under a blue sky, at
great distance from the coast.
"God has so willed it!" said he, with the resignation of a fanatic; but
without, however, being able to take his eyes from that ship, on board
of which he doubtless fancied he could distinguish the white outline of
her to whom he had sacrificed his life.
De Winter followed his look, observed his feelings, and guessed all.
"Be punished ALONE, for the first, miserable man!" said Lord de Winter
to Felton, who was being dragged away with his eyes turned toward the
sea; "but I swear to you by the memory of my brother whom I have loved
so much that your accomplice is not saved."
Felton lowered his head without pronouncing a syllable.
As to Lord de Winter, he descended the stairs rapidly, and went straight
to the port.

60 IN FRANCE
The first fear of the King of England, Charles I, on learning of the
death of the duke, was that such terrible news might discourage the
Rochellais; he tried, says Richelieu in his Memoirs, to conceal it from
them as long as possible, closing all the ports of his kingdom, and
carefully keeping watch that no vessel should sail until the army which
Buckingham was getting together had gone, taking upon himself, in
default of Buckingham, *****perintend the departure.
He carried the strictness of this order so far as to detain in England
the ambassadors of Denmark, who had taken their leave, and the regular
ambassador of Holland, who was to take back to the port of Flushing the
Indian merchantmen of which Charles I had made restitution to the United
Provinces.
But as he did not think of giving this order till five hours after the
event--that is to say, till two o''clock in the afternoon--two vessels
had already left the port, the one bearing, as we know, Milady, who,
already anticipating the event, was further confirmed in that belief by
seeing the black flag flying at the masthead of the admiral''s ship.
As to the second vessel, we will tell hereafter whom it carried, and how
it set sail.
During this time nothing new occurred in the camp at La Rochelle; only
the king, who was bored, as always, but perhaps a little more so in camp
than elsewhere, resolved to go incognito and spend the festival of St.
Louis at St. Germain, and asked the cardinal to order him an escort of
only twenty Musketeers. The cardinal, who sometimes became weary of the
king, granted this leave of absence with great pleasure to his royal
lieutenant, who promised to return about the fifteenth of September.
M. de Treville, being informed of this by his Eminence, packed his
portmanteau; and as without knowing the cause he knew the great desire
and even imperative need which his friends had of returning to Paris, it
goes without saying that he fixed upon them to form part of the escort.
The four young men heard the news a quarter of an hour after M. de
Treville, for they were the first to whom he communicated it. It was
then that D''Artagnan appreciated the favor the cardinal had conferred
upon him in making him at last enter the Musketeers--for without that
circumstance he would have been forced to remain in the camp while his
companions left it.
It goes without saying that this impatience to return toward Paris had
for a cause the danger which Mme. Bonacieux would run of meeting at the
convent of Bethune with Milady, her mortal enemy. Aramis therefore had
written immediately to Marie Michon, the seamstress at Tours who had
such fine acquaintances, to obtain from the queen authority for Mme.
Bonacieux to leave the convent, and to retire either into Lorraine or
Belgium. They had not long to wait for an answer. Eight or ten days
afterward Aramis received the following letter:
My Dear Cousin, Here is the authorization from my sister to withdraw
our little servant from the convent of Bethune, the air of which you
think is bad for her. My sister sends you this authorization with great
pleasure, for she is very partial to the little girl, to whom she
intends to be more serviceable hereafter.
I salute you,
MARIE MICHON
To this letter was added an order, conceived in these terms:
At the Louvre, August 10, 1628
The superior of the convent of Bethune will place in the hands of the
person who shall present this note to her the novice who entered the
convent upon my recommendation and under my patronage.
ANNE
It may be easily imagined how the relationship between Aramis and a
seamstress who called the queen her sister amuse the young men; but
Aramis, after having blushed two or three times up to the whites of his
eyes at the gross pleasantry of Porthos, begged his friends not to
revert to the subject again, declaring that if a single word more was
said to him about it, he would never again implore his cousins to
interfere in such affairs.
There was no further question, therefore, about Marie Michon among the
four Musketeers, who besides had what they wanted: that was, the order
to withdraw Mme. Bonacieux from the convent of the Carmelites of
Bethune. It was true that this order would not be of great use to them
while they were in camp at La Rochelle; that is to say, at the other en
of France. Therefore D''Artagnan was going to ask leave of absence of M.
de Treville, confiding to him candidly the importance of his departure,
when the news was transmitted to him as well as to his three friends
that the king was about to set out for Paris with an escort of twenty
Musketeers, and that they formed part of the escort.
Their joy was great. The lackeys were sent on before with the baggage,
and they set out on the morning of the sixteenth.
The cardinal accompanied his Majesty from Surgeres to Mauzes; and there
the king and his minister took leave of each other with great
demonstrations of friendship.
The king, however, who sought distraction, while traveling as fast as
possible--for he was anxious to be in Paris by the twenty-third--stopped
from time to time to fly the magpie, a pastime for which the taste had
been formerly inspired in him by De Luynes, and for which he had always
preserved a great predilection. Out of the twenty Musketeers sixteen,
when this took place, rejoiced greatly at this relaxation; but the other
four cursed it heartily. D''Artagnan, in particular, had a perpetual
buzzing in his ears, which Porthos explained thus: "A very great lady
has told me that this means that somebody is talking of you somewhere."
At length the escort passed through Paris on the twenty-third, in the
night. The king thanked M. de Treville, and permitted him to distribute
furloughs for four days, on con***ion that the favored parties should
not appear in any public place, under penalty of the Bastille.
The first four furloughs granted, as may be imagined, were to our four
friends. Still further, Athos obtained of M. de Treville six days
instead of four, and introduced into these six days two more nights--for
they set out on the twenty-fourth at five o''clock in the evening, and as
a further kindness M. de Treville post-dated the leave to the morning of
the twenty-fifth.
"Good Lord!" said D''Artagnan, who, as we have often said, never stumbled
at anything. "It appears to me that we are making a great trouble of a
very simple thing. In two days, and by using up two or three horses
(that''s nothing; I have plenty of money), I am at Bethune. I present my
letter from the queen to the superior, and I bring back the dear
treasure If go to seek-not into Lorraine, not into Belgium, but to
Paris, where she will be much better concealed, particularly while the
cardinal is at L Rochelle. Well, once returned from the country, half
by the protection of her cousin, half through what we have personally
done for her, we shall obtain from the queen what we desire. Remain,
then, where you are, and do not exhaust yourselves with useless fatigue.
Myself and Planchet are all that such a simple expe***ion requires."
To this Athos replied quietly: "We also have money left--for I have not
yet drunk all my share of the diamond, and Porthos and Aramis have not
eaten all theirs. We can therefore use up four horses as well as one.
But consider, D''Artagnan," added he, in a tone so solemn that it made
the young man shudder, "consider that Bethune is a city where the
cardinal has given rendezvous to a woman who, wherever she goes, brings
misery with her. If you had only to deal with four men, D''Artagnan, I
would allow you to go alone. You have to do with that woman! We four
will go; and I hope to God that with our four lackeys we may be in
sufficient number."
"You terrify me, Athos!" cried D''Artagnan. "My God! what do you
fear?"
"Everything!" replied Athos.
D''Artagnan examined the countenances of his companions, which, like that
of Athos, wore an impression of deep anxiety; and they continued their
route as fast as their horses could carry them, but without adding
another word.
On the evening of the twenty-fifth, as they were entering Arras, and as
D''Artagnan was dismounting at the inn of the Golden Harrow to drink a
glass of wine, a horseman came out of the post yard, where he had just
had a relay, started off at a gallop, and with a fresh horse took the
road to Paris. At the moment he passed through the gateway into the
street, the wind blew open the cloak in which he was wrapped, although
it was in the month of August, and lifted his hat, which the traveler
seized with his hand the moment it had left his head, pulling it eagerly
over his eyes.
D''Artagnan, who had his eyes fixed upon this man, became very pale, and
let his glass fall.
"What is the matter, monsieur?" said Planchet. "Oh, come, gentlemen,
my master is ill!"
The three friends hastened toward D''Artagnan, who, instead of being ill,
ran toward his horse. They stopped him at the door.
"Well, where the devil are you going now?" cried Athos.
"It is he!" cried D''Artagnan, pale with anger, an with the sweat on his
brow, "it is he! let me overtake him!"
"He? What he?" asked Athos.
"He, that man!"
"What man?"
"That cursed man, my evil genius, whom I have always met with when
threatened by some misfortune, he who accompanied that horrible woman
when I met her for the first time, he whom I was seeking when I offended
our Athos, he whom I saw on the very morning Madame Bonacieux was
abducted. I have seen him; that is he! I recognized him when the wind
blew upon his cloak."
"The devil!" said Athos, musingly.
"To saddle, gentlemen! to saddle! Let us pursue him, and we shall
overtake him!"
"My dear friend," said Aramis, "remember that he goes in an opposite
direction from that I which we are going, that he has a fresh horse, and
ours are fatigued, so that we shall disable our own horses without even
a chance of overtaking him. Let the man go, D''Artagnan; let us save the
woman."
"Monsieur, monsieur!" cried a hostler, running out and looking after
the stranger, "monsieur, here is a paper which dropped out of your hat!
Eh, monsieur, eh!"
"Friend," said D''Artagnan, "a half-pistole for that paper!"
"My faith, monsieur, with great pleasure! Here it is!"
The hostler, enchanted with the good day''s work he had done, returned to
the yard. D''Artagnan unfolded the paper.
"Well?" eagerly demanded all his three friends.
"Nothing but one word!" said D''Artagnan.
"Yes," said Aramis, "but that one word is the name of some town or
village."
"Armentieres," read Porthos; "Armentieres? I don''t know such a
place."
"And that name of a town or village is written in her hand!" cried
Athos.
"Come on, come on!" said D''Artagnan; "let us keep that paper carefully,
perhaps I have not thrown away my half-pistole. To horse, my friends,
to horse!"
And the four friends flew at a gallop along the road to Bethune.