The Three Musketeers - Dumas

61 THE CARMELITE CONCERT AT BETHUNE
Great criminals bear bout them a kind of predestination which makes them
surmount all obstacles, which makes them escape all dangers, up to the
moment which a wearied Providence has marked as the rock of their
impious fortunes.
It was thus with Milady. She escaped the cruisers of both nations, and
arrived at Boulogne without accident.
When landing at Portsmouth, Milady was an Englishwoman whom the
persecutions of the French drove from La Rochelle; when landing at
Boulogne, after a two days'' passage, she passed for a Frenchwoman whom
the English persecuted at Portsmouth out of their hatred for France.
Milady had, likewise, the best of passports-her beauty, her noble
appearance, and the liberality with which she distribute her pistoles.
Freed from the usual formalities by the affable smile and gallant
manners of an old governor of the port, who kissed her hand, she only
remained long enough at Boulogne to put into the post a letter,
conceived in the following terms:
"To his Eminence Monseigneur the Cardinal Richelieu, in his camp before
La Rochelle.
Monseigneur, Let your Eminence be reassured. His Grace the Duke of
Buckingham WILL NOT SET OUT for France.
MILADY DE-
"BOULOGNE, evening of the twenty-fifth.
"P.S.-According to the desire of your Eminence, I report to the convent
of the Carmelites at Bethune, where I will await your orders."
Accordingly, that same evening Milady commenced her journey. Night
overtook her; she stopped, and slept at an inn. At five o''clock the
next morning she again proceeded, and in three hours after entered
Bethune. She inquired for the convent of the Carmelites, and went
thither immediately.
The superior met her; Milady showed her the cardinal''s order. The
abbess assigned her a chamber, and had breakfast served.
All the past was effaced from the eyes of this woman; and her looks,
fixed on the future, beheld nothing but the high fortunes reserved for
her by the cardinal, whom she had so successfully served without his
name being in any way mixed up with the sanguinary affair. The ever-new
passions which consumed her gave to her life the appearance of those
clouds which float in the heavens, reflecting sometimes azure, sometimes
fire, sometimes the opaque blackness of the tempest, and which leave no
traces upon the earth behind them but devastation and death.
After breakfast, the abbess came to pay her a visit. There is very
little amusement in the cloister, and the good superior was eager to
make the acquaintance of her new boarder.
Milady wished to please the abbess. This was a very easy matter for a
woman so really superior as she was. She tried to be agreeable, and she
was charming, winning the good superior by her varied conversation and
by the graces of her whole personality.
The abbess, who was the daughter of a noble house, took particular
delight in stories of the court, which so seldom travel to the
extremities of the kingdom, and which, above all, have so much
difficulty in penetrating the walls of convents, at whose threshold the
noise of the world dies away.
Milady, on the contrary, was quite conversant with all aristocratic
intrigues, amid which she had constantly lived for five or six years.
She made it her business, therefore, to amuse the good abbess with the
worldly practices of the court of France, mixed with the eccentric
pursuits of the king; she made for her the scandalous chronicle of the
lords and ladies of the court, whom the abbess knew perfectly by name,
touched lightly on the amours of the queen and the Duke of Buckingham,
talking a great deal to induce her au***or to talk a little.
But the abbess contented herself with listening and smiling without
replying a word. Milady, however, saw that this sort of narrative
amused her very much, and kept at it; only she now let her conversation
drift toward the cardinal.
But she was greatly embarrassed. She did not know whether the abbess
was a royalist or a cardinalist; she therefore confined herself to a
prudent middle course. But the abbess, on her part, maintained a
reserve still more prudent, contenting herself with making a profound
inclination of the head every time the fair traveler pronounced the name
of his Eminence.
Milady began to think she should soon grow weary of a convent life; she
resolved, then, to risk something in order that she might know how to
act afterward. Desirous of seeing how far the discretion of the good
abbess would go, she began to tell a story, obscure at first, but very
circumstantial afterward, about the cardinal, relating the amours of the
minister with Mme. d''Aiguillon, Marion de Lorme, and several other gay
women.
The abbess listened more attentively, grew animated by degrees, and
smiled.
"Good," thought Milady; "she takes a pleasure in my conversation. If
she is a cardinalist, she has no fanaticism, at least.
She then went on to describe the persecutions exercised by the cardinal
upon his enemies. The abbess only crossed herself, without approving or
disapproving.
This confirmed Milady in her opinion that the abbess was rather royalist
than cardinalist. Milady therefore continued, coloring her narrations
more and more.
"I am very ignorant of these matters," said the abbess, at length; "but
however distant from the court we may be, however remote from the
interests of the world we may be placed, we have very sad examples of
what you have related. And one of our boarders has suffered much from
the vengeance and persecution of the cardinal!"
"One of your boarders?" said Milady; "oh, my God! Poor woman! I pity
her, then."
"And you have reason, for she is much to be pitied. Imprisonment,
menaces, ill treatment-she has suffered everything. But after all,"
resumed the abbess, "Monsieur Cardinal has perhaps plausible motives for
acting thus; and though she has the look of an angel, we must not always
judge people by the appearance."
"Good!" said Milady to herself; "who knows! I am about, perhaps, to
discover something here; I am in the vein."
She tried to give her countenance an appearance of perfect candor.
"Alas," said Milady, "I know it is so. It is said that we must not
trust to the face; but in what, then, shall we place confidence, if not
in the most beautiful work of the Lord? As for me, I shall be deceived
all my life perhaps, but I shall always have faith in a person whose
countenance inspires me with sympathy."
"You would, then, be tempted to believe," said the abbess, "that this
young person is innocent?"
"The cardinal pursues not only crimes," said she: "there are certain
virtues which he pursues more severely than certain offenses."
"Permit me, madame, to express my surprise," said the abbess.
"At what?" said Milady, with the utmost ingenuousness.
"At the language you use."
"What do you find so astonishing in that language?" said Milady,
smiling.
"You are the friend of the cardinal, for he sends you hither, and yet--"
"And yet I speak ill of him," replied Milady, finishing the thought of
the superior.
"At least you don''t speak well of him."
"That is because I am not his friend," said she, sighing, "but his
victim!"
"But this letter in which he recommends you to me?"
"Is an order for me to confine myself to a sort of prison, from which he
will release me by one of his satellites."
"But why have you not fled?"
"Whither should I go? Do you believe there is a spot on the earth which
the cardinal cannot reach if he takes the trouble to stretch forth his
hand? If I were a man, that would barely be possible; but what can a
woman do? This young boarder of yours, has she tried to fly?"
"No, that is true; but she--that is another thing; I believe she is
detained in France by some love affair."
"Ah," said Milady, with a sigh, "if she loves she is not altogether
wretched."
"Then," said the abbess, looking at Milady with increasing interest, "I
behold another poor victim?"
"Alas, yes," said Milady.
The abbess looked at her for an instant with uneasiness, as if a fresh
thought suggested itself to her mind.
"You are not an enemy of our holy faith?" said she, hesitatingly.
"Who--I?" cried Milady; "I a Protestant? Oh, no! I call to witness
the God who hears us, that on the contrary I am a fervent Catholic!"
"Then, madame," said the abbess, smiling, "be reassured; the house in
which you are shall not be a very hard prison, and we will do all in our
power to make you cherish your captivity. You will find here, moreover,
the young woman of whom I spoke, who is persecuted, no doubt, in
consequence of some court intrigue. She is amiable and well-behaved."
"What is her name?"
"She was sent to me by someone of high rank, under the name of Kitty. I
have not tried to discover her other name."
"Kitty!" cried Milady. "What? Are you sure?"
"That she is called so? Yes, madame. Do you know her?"
Milady smiled to herself at the idea which had occurred to her that this
might be her old chambermaid. There was connected with the remembrance
of this girl a remembrance of anger; and a desire of vengeance
disordered the features of Milady, which, however, immediately recovered
the calm and benevolent expression which this woman of a hundred faces
had for a moment allowed them to lose.
"And when can I see this young lady, for whom I already feel so great a
sympathy?" asked Milady.
"Why, this evening," said the abbess; "today even. But you have been
traveling these four days, as you told me yourself. This morning you
rose at five o''clock; you must stand in need of repose. Go to bed and
sleep; at dinnertime we will rouse you."
Although Milady would very willingly have gone without sleep, sustained
as she was by all the excitements which a new adventure awakened in her
heart, ever thirsting for intrigues, she nevertheless accepted the offer
of the superior. During the last fifteen days she had experience so
many an such various emotions that if her frame of iron was still
capable of supporting fatigue, her mind required repose.
She therefore took leave of the abbess, and went to bed, softly rocked
by the ideas of vengeance which the name of Kitty had naturally brought
to her thoughts. She remembered that almost unlimited promise which the
cardinal had given her if she succeeded in her enterprise. She had
succeeded; D''Artagnan was then in her power!
One thing alone frightened her; that was the remembrance of her husband,
the Comte de la Fere, whom she had believed dead, or at least
expatriated, and whom she found again in Athos-the best friend of
D''Artagnan.
But alas, if he was the friend of D''Artagnan, he must have lent him his
assistance in all the proceedings by whose aid the queen had defeated
the project of his Eminence; if he was the friend of D''Artagnan, he was
the enemy of the cardinal; and she doubtless would succeed in involving
him in the vengeance by which she hoped to destroy the young Musketeer.
All these hopes were so many sweet thoughts for Milady; so, rocked by
them, she soon fell asleep.
She was awakened by a soft voice which sounded at the foot of her bed.
She opened her eyes, and saw the abbess, accompanied by a young woman
with light hair and delicate complexion, who fixed upon her a look full
of benevolent curiosity.
The face of the young woman was entirely unknown to her. Each examined
the other with great attention, while exchanging the customary
compliments; both were very handsome, but of quite different styles of
beauty. Milady, however, smiled in observing that she excelled the
young woman by far in her high air and aristocratic bearing. It is true
that the habit of a novice, which the young woman wore, was not very
advantageous in a contest of this kind.
The abbess introduced them to each other. When this formality was
ended, as her duties called her to chapel, she left the two young women
alone.
The novice, seeing Milady in bed, was about the follow the example of
the superior; but Milady stopped her.
"How, madame," said she, "I have scarcely seen you, and you already
wish to deprive me of your company, upon which I had counted a little, I
must confess, for the time I have to pass here?"
"No, madame," replied the novice, "only I thought I had chosen my time
ill; you were asleep, you are fatigued."
"Well," said Milady, "what can those who sleep wish for--a happy
awakening? This awakening you have given me; allow me, then, to enjoy
it at my ease," and taking her hand, she drew her toward the armchair by
the bedside.
The novice sat down.
"How unfortunate I am!" said she; "I have been here six months without
the shadow of recreation. You arrive, and your presence was likely to
afford me delightful company; yet I expect, in all probability, to quit
the convent at any moment."
"How, you are going soon?" asked Milady.
"At least I hope so," said the novice, with an expression of joy which
she made no effort to disguise.
"I think I learned you had suffered persecutions from the cardinal,"
continued Milady; "that would have been another motive for sympathy
between us."
"What I have heard, then, from our good mother is true; you have
likewise been a victim of that wicked priest."
"Hush!" said Milady; "let us not, even here, speak thus of him. All my
misfortunes arise from my having said nearly what you have said before a
woman whom I thought my friend, and who betrayed me. Are you also the
victim of a treachery?"
"No," said the novice, "but of my devotion--of a devotion to a woman I
loved, for whom I would have laid down my life, for whom I would give it
still."
"And who has abandoned you--is that it?"
"I have been sufficiently unjust to believe so; but during the last two
or three days I have obtained proof to the contrary, for which I thank
God--for it would have cost me very dear to think she had forgotten me.
But you, madame, you appear to be free," continued the novice; "and if
you were inclined to fly it only rests with yourself to do so."
"Whither would you have me go, without friends, without money, in a part
of France with which I am unacquainted, and where I have never been
before?"
"Oh," cried the novice," as to friends, you would have them wherever you
want, you appear so good and are so beautiful!"
"That does not prevent," replied Milady, softening her smile so as to
give it an angelic expression, "my being alone or being persecuted."
"Hear me," said the novice; "we must trust in heaven. There always
comes a moment when the good you have done pleads your cause before God;
and see, perhaps it is a happiness for you, humble and powerless as I
am, that you have met with me, for if I leave this place, well-I have
powerful friends, who, after having exerted themselves on my account,
may also exert themselves for you."
"Oh, when I said I was alone," said Milady, hoping to make the novice
talk by talking of herself, "it is not for want of friends in high
places; but these friends themselves tremble before the cardinal. The
queen herself does not dare to oppose the terrible minister. I have
proof that her Majesty, notwithstanding her excellent heart, has more
than once been obliged to abandon to the anger of his Eminence persons
who had served her."
"Trust me, madame; the queen may appear to have abandoned those persons,
but we must not put faith in appearances. The more they are persecuted,
the more she thinks of them; and often, when they least expect it, they
have proof of a kind remembrance."
"Alas!" said Milady, "I believe so; the queen is so good!"
"Oh, you know her, then, that lovely and noble queen, that you speak of
her thus!" cried the novice, with enthusiasm.
"That is to say," replied Milady, driven into her entrenchment, "that I
have not the honor of knowing her personally; but I know a great number
of her most intimate friends. I am acquainted with Monsieur de Putange;
I met Monsieur Dujart in England; I know Monsieur de Treville."
"Monsieur de Treville!" exclaimed the novice, "do you know Monsieur de
Treville?"
"Yes, perfectly well--intimately even."
"The captain of the king''s Musketeers?"
"The captain of the king''s Musketeers."
"Why, then, only see!" cried the novice; "we shall soon be well
acquainted, almost friends. If you know Monsieur de Treville, you must
have visited him?"
"Often!" said Milady, who, having entered this track, and perceiving
that falsehood succeeded, was determined to follow it to the end.
"With him, then, you must have seen some of his Musketeers?"
"All those he is in the habit of receiving!" replied Milady, for whom
this conversation began to have a real interest.
"Name a few of those whom you know, and you will see if they are my
friends."
"Well!" said Milady, embarrassed, " I know Monsieur de Louvigny,
Monsieur de Courtivron, Monsieur de Ferussac."
The novice let her speak, then seeing that she paused, she said, "Don''t
you know a gentleman named Athos?"
Milady became as pale as the sheets in which she was lying, and mistress
as she was of herself, could not help uttering a cry, seizing the hand
of the novice, and devouring her with looks.
"What is the matter? Good God!" asked the poor woman, "have I said
anything that has wounded you?"
"No; but the name struck me, because I also have known that gentleman,
and it appeared strange to me to meet with a person who appears to know
him well."
"Oh, yes, very well; not only him, but some of his friends, Messieurs
Porthos and Aramis!"
"Indeed! you know them likewise? I know them," cried Milady, who began
to feel a chill penetrate her heart.
"Well, if you know them, you know that they are good and free
companions. Why do you not apply to them, if you stand in need of
help?"
"That is to say," stammered Milady, "I am not really very intimate with
any of them. I know them from having heard one of their friends,
Monsieur d''Artagnan, say a great deal about them."
"You know Monsieur d''Artagnan!" cried the novice, in her turn seizing
the hands of Milady and devouring her with her eyes.
Then remarking the strange expression of Milady''s countenance, she said,
"Pardon me, madame; you know him by what title?"
"Why," replied Milady, embarrassed, "why, by the title of friend."
"You deceive me, madame," said the novice; "you have been his mistress!"
"It is you who have been his mistress, madame!" cried Milady, in her
turn.
"I?" said the novice.
"Yes, you! I know you now. You are Madame Bonacieux!"
The young woman drew back, filled with surprise and terror.
"Oh, do not deny it! Answer!" continued Milady.
"Well, yes, madame," said the novice, "Are we rivals?"
The countenance of Milady was illumined by so savage a joy that under
any other circumstances Mme. Bonacieux would have fled in terror; but
she was absorbed by jealousy.
"Speak, madame!" resumed Mme. Bonacieux, with an energy of which she
might not have been believed capable. "Have you been, or are you, his
mistress?"
"Oh, no!" cried Milady, with an accent that admitted no doubt of her
truth. "Never, never!"
"I believe you," said Mme. Bonacieux; "but why, then, did you cry out
so?"
"Do you not understand?" said Milady, who had already overcome her
agitation and recovered all her presence of mind.
"How can I understand? I know nothing."
"Can you not understand that Monsieur d''Artagnan, being my friend, might
take me into his confidence?"
"Truly?"
"Do you not perceive that I know all--your abduction from the little
house at St. Germain, his despair, that of his friends, and their
useless inquiries up to this moment? How could I help being astonished
when, without having the least expectation of such a thing, I meet you
face to face--you, of whom we have so often spoken together, you whom he
loves with all his soul, you whom he had taught me to love before I had
seen you! Ah, dear Constance, I have found you, then; I see you at
last!"
And Milady stretched out her arms to Mme. Bonacieux, who, convinced by
what she had just said, saw nothing in this woman whom an instant before
she had believed her rival but a sincere and devoted friend.
"Oh, pardon me, pardon me!" cried she, sinking upon the shoulders of
Milady. "Pardon me, I love him so much!"
These two women held each other for an instant in a close embrace.
Certainly, if Milady''s strength had been equal to her hatred, Mme.
Bonacieux would never have left that embrace alive. But not being able
to stifle her, she smiled upon her.
"Oh, you beautiful, good little creature!" said Milady. "How delighted
I am to have found you! Let me look at you!" and while saying these
words, she absolutely devoured her by her looks. "Oh, yes it is you
indeed! From what he has told me, I know you now. I recognize you
perfectly."
The poor young woman could not possibly suspect what frightful cruelty
was behind the rampart of that pure brow, behind those brilliant eyes in
which she read nothing but interest and compassion.
"Then you know what I have suffered," said Mme. Bonacieux, "since he
has told you what he has suffered; but *****ffer for him is happiness.
Milady replied mechanically, "Yes, that is happiness." She was thinking
of something else.
"And then," continued Mme. Bonacieux, "my punishment is drawing to a
close. Tomorrow, this evening, perhaps, I shall see him again; and then
the past will no longer exist."
"This evening?" asked Milady, roused from her reverie by these words.
"What do you mean? Do you expect news from him?"
"I expect himself."
"Himself? D''Artagnan here?"
"Himself!"
"But that''s impossible! He is at the siege of La Rochelle with the
cardinal. He will not return till after the taking of the city."
"Ah, you fancy so! But is there anything impossible for my D''Artagnan,
the noble and loyal gentleman?"
"Oh, I cannot believe you!"
"Well, read, then!" said the unhappy young woman, in the excess of her
pride and joy, presenting a letter to Milady.
"The writing of Madame de Chevreuse!" said Milady to herself. "Ah, I
always thought there was some secret understanding in that quarter!"
And she greedily read the following few lines:
My Dear Child, Hold yourself ready. OUR FRIEND will see you soon,
and he will only see you to release you from that imprisonment in which
your safety required you should be concealed. Prepare, then, for your
departure, and never despair of us.
Our charming Gascon has just proved himself as brave and faithful as
ever. Tell him that certain parties are grateful for the warning he has
given.
"Yes, yes," said Milady; "the letter is precise. Do you know what that
warning was?"
"No, I only suspect he has warned the queen against some fresh
machinations of the cardinal."
"Yes, that''s it, no doubt!" said Milady, returning the letter to Mme.
Bonacieux, and letting her head sink pensively upon her bosom.
At that moment they heard the gallop of a horse.
"Oh!" cried Mme. Bonacieux, darting to the window, "can it be he?"
Milady remained still in bed, petrified by surprise; so many unexpected
things happened to her all at once that for the first time she was at a
loss.
"He, he!" murmured she; "can it be he?" And she remained in bed with
her eyes fixed.
"Alas, no!" said Mme. Bonacieux; "it is a man I don''t know, although he
seems to be coming here. Yes, he checks his pace; he stops at the gate;
he rings."
Milady sprang out of bed.
"You are sure it is not he?" said she.
"Yes, yes, very sure!"
"Perhaps you did not see well."
"Oh, if I were to see the plume of his hat, the end of his cloak, I
should know HIM!"
Milady was dressing herself all the time.
"Yes, he has entered."
"It is for you or me!"
"My God, how agitated you seem!"
"Yes, I admit it. I have not your confidence; I fear the cardinal."
"Hush!" said Mme. Bonacieux; "somebody is coming."
Immediately the door opened, and the superior entered.
"Did you come from Boulogne?" demanded she of Milady.
"Yes," replied she, trying to recover her self-possession. "Who wants
me?"
"A man who will not tell his name, but who comes from the cardinal."
"And who wishes to speak with me?"
"Who wishes to speak to a lady recently come from Boulogne."
"Then let him come in, if you please."
"Oh, my God, my God!" cried Mme. Bonacieux. "Can it be bad news?"
"I fear it."
"I will leave you with this stranger; but as soon as he is gone, if you
will permit me, I will return."
"PERMIT you? I BESEECH you."
The superior and Mme. Bonacieux retired.
Milady remained alone, with her eyes fixed upon the door. An instant
later, the jingling of spurs was heard upon the stairs, steps drew near,
the door opened, and a man appeared.
Milady uttered a cry of joy; this man was the Comte de Rochefort--the
demoniacal tool of his Eminence.

62 TWO VARIETIES OF DEMONS
"Ah," cried Milady and Rochefort together, "it is you!"
"Yes, it is I."
"And you come?" asked Milady.
"From La Rochelle; and you?"
"From England."
"Buckingham?"
"Dead or desperately wounded, as I left without having been able to hear
anything of him. A fanatic has just assassinated him."
"Ah," said Rochefort, with a smile; "this is a fortunate chance--one
that will delight his Eminence! Have you informed him of it?"
"I wrote to him from Boulogne. But what brings you here?"
"His Eminence was uneasy, and sent me to find you."
"I only arrived yesterday."
"And what have you been doing since yesterday?"
"I have not lost my time."
"Oh, I don''t doubt that."
"Do you know whom I have encountered here?"
"No."
"Guess."
"How can I?"
"That young woman whom the queen took out of prison."
"The mistress of that fellow D''Artagnan?"
"Yes; Madame Bonacieux, with whose retreat the cardinal was
unacquainted."
"Well, well," said Rochefort, "here is a chance which may pair off with
the other! Monsieur Cardinal is indeed a privileged man!"
"Imagine my astonishment," continued Milady, "when I found myself face
to face with this woman!"
"Does she know you?"
"No."
"Then she looks upon you as a stranger?"
Milady smiled. "I am her best friend."
"Upon my honor," said Rochefort, "it takes you, my dear countess, to
perform such miracles!"
"And it is well I can, Chevalier," said Milady, "for do you know what is
going on here?"
"No."
"They will come for her tomorrow or the day after, with an order from
the queen."
"Indeed! And who?"
"D''Artagnan and his friends."
"Indeed, they will go so far that we shall be obliged to send them to
the Bastille."
"Why is it not done already?"
"What would you? The cardinal has a weakness for these men which I
cannot comprehend."
"Indeed!"
"Yes."
"Well, then, tell him this, Rochefort. Tell him that our conversation
at the inn of the Red Dovecot was overheard by these four men; tell him
that after his departure one of them came up to me and took from me by
violence the safe-conduct which he had given me; tell him they warned
Lord de Winter of my journey to England; that this time they nearly
foiled my mission as they foiled the affair of the studs; tell him that
among these four men two only are to be feared--D''Artagnan and Athos;
tell him that the third, Aramis, is the lover of Madame de Chevreuse--he
may be left alone, we know his secret, and it may be useful; as to the
fourth, Porthos, he is a fool, a simpleton, a blustering booby, not
worth troubling himself about."
"But these four men must be now at the siege of La Rochelle?"
"I thought so, too; but a letter which Madame Bonacieux has received
from Madame the Constable, and which she has had the imprudence to show
me, leads me to believe that these four men, on the contrary, are on the
road hither to take her away."
"The devil! What''s to be done?"
"What did the cardinal say about me?"
"I was to take your dispatches, written or verbal, and return by post;
and when he shall know what you have done, he will advise what you have
to do."
"I must, then, remain here?"
"Here, or in the neighborhood."
"You cannot take me with you?"
"No, the order is imperative. Near the camp you might be recognized;
and your presence, you must be aware, would compromise the cardinal."
"Then I must wait here, or in the neighborhood?"
"Only tell me beforehand where you will wait for intelligence from the
cardinal; let me now always where to find you."
"Observe, it is probable that I may not be able to remain here."
"Why?"
"You forget that my enemies may arrive at any minute."
"That''s true; but is this little woman, then, to escape his Eminence?"
"Bah!" said Milady, with a smile that belonged only to herself; "you
forget that I am her best friend."
"Ah, that''s true! I may then tell the cardinal, with respect to this
little woman--"
"That he may be at ease."
"Is that all?"
"He will now what that means."
"He will guess, at least. Now, then, what had I better do?"
"Return instantly. It appears to me that the news you bear is worth the
trouble of a little diligence."
"My chaise broke down coming into Lilliers."
"Capital!"
"What, CAPITAL?"
"Yes, I want your chaise."
"And how shall I travel, then?"
"On horseback."
"You talk very comfortably,--a hundred and eighty leagues!"
"What''s that?"
"One can do it! Afterward?"
"Afterward? Why, in passing through Lilliers you will send me your
chaise, with an order to your servant to place himself at my disposal."
"Well."
"You have, no doubt, some order from the cardinal about you?"
"I have my FULL POWER."
"Show it to the abbess, and tell her that someone will come and fetch
me, either today or tomorrow, and that I am to follow the person who
presents himself in your name."
"Very well."
"Don''t forget to treat me harshly in speaking of me to the abbess."
"To what purpose?"
"I am a victim of the cardinal. It is necessary to inspire confidence
in that poor little Madame Bonacieux."
"That''s true. Now, will you make me a report of all that has happened?"
"Why, I have related the events to you. You have a good memory; repeat
what I have told you. A paper may be lost."
"You are right; only let me know where to find you that I may not run
needlessly about the neighborhood."
"That''s correct; wait!"
"Do you want a map?"
"Oh, I know this country marvelously!"
"You? When were you here?"
"I was brought up here."
"Truly?"
"It is worth something, you see, to have been brought up somewhere."
"You will wait for me, then?"
"Let me reflect a little! Ay, that will do--at Armentieres."
"Where is that Armentieres?"
"A little town on the Lys; I shall only have to cross the river, and I
shall be in a foreign country."
"Capital! but it is understood you will only cross the river in case of
danger."
"That is well understood."
"And in that case, how shall I know where you are?"
"You do not want your lackey?"
"Is he a sure man?"
"To the proof."
"Give him to me. Nobody knows him. I will leave him at the place I
quit, and he will conduct you to me."
"And you say you will wait for me at Armentieres?"
"At Armentieres."
"Write that name on a bit of paper, lest I should forget it. There is
nothing compromising in the name of a town. Is it not so?"
"Eh, who knows? Never mind," said Milady, writing the name on half a
sheet of paper; "I will compromise myself."
"Well," said Rochefort, taking the paper from Milady, folding it, and
placing it in the lining of his hat, "you may be easy. I will do as
children do, for fear of losing the paper--repeat the name along the
route. Now, is that all?"
"I believe so."
"Let us see: Buckingham dead or grievously wounded; your conversation
with the cardinal overheard by the four Musketeers; Lord de Winter
warned of your arrival at Portsmouth; D''Artagnan and Athos to the
Bastille; Aramis the lover of Madame de Chevreuse; Porthos an ass;
Madame Bonacieux found again; to send you the chaise as soon as
possible; to place my lackey at your disposal; to make you out a victim
of the cardinal in order that the abbess may entertain no suspicion;
Armentieres, on the banks of the Lys. Is that all, then?"
"In truth, my dear Chevalier, you are a miracle of memory. A PROPOS,
add one thing--"
"What?"
"I saw some very pretty woods which almost touch the convent garden.
Say that I am permitted to walk in those woods. Who knows? Perhaps I
shall stand in need of a back door for retreat."
"You think of everything."
"And you forget one thing."
"What?"
"To ask me if I want money."
"That''s true. How much do you want?"
"All you have in gold."
"I have five hundred pistoles, or thereabouts."
"I have as much. With a thousand pistoles one may face everything.
Empty your pockets."
"There."
"Right. And you go--"
"In an hour--time to eat a morsel, during which I shall send for a post
horse."
"Capital! Adieu, Chevalier."
"Adieu, Countess."
"Commend me to the cardinal."
"Commend me to Satan."
Milady and Rochefort exchanged a smile and separated. An hour afterward
Rochefort set out at a grand gallop; five hours after that he passed
through Arras.
Our readers already know how he was recognized by D''Artagnan, and how
that recognition by inspiring fear in the four Musketeers had given
fresh activity to their journey.

63 THE DROP OF WATER
Rochefort had scarcely departed when Mme. Bonacieux re-entered. She
found Milady with a smiling countenance.
"Well," said the young woman, "what you dreaded has happened. This
evening, or tomorrow, the cardinal will send someone to take you away."
"Who told you that, my dear?" asked Milady.
"I heard it from the mouth of the messenger himself."
"Come and sit down close to me," said Milady.
"Here I am."
"Wait till I assure myself that nobody hears us."
"Why all these precautions?"
"You shall know."
Milady arose, went to the door, opened it, looked in the corridor, and
then returned and seated herself close to Mme. Bonacieux.
"Then," said she, "he has well played his part."
"Who has?"
"He who just now presented himself to the abbess as a messenger from the
cardinal."
"It was, then, a part he was playing?"
"Yes, my child."
"That man, then, was not--"
"That man," said Milady, lowering her voice, "is my brother."
"Your brother!" cried Mme. Bonacieux.
"No one must know this secret, my dear, but yourself. If you reveal it
to anyone in the world, I shall be lost, and perhaps yourself likewise."
"Oh, my God!"
"Listen. This is what has happened: My brother, who was coming to my
assistance to take me away by force if it were necessary, met with the
emissary of the cardinal, who was coming in search of me. He followed
him. At a solitary and retired part of the road he drew his sword, and
required the messenger to deliver up to him the papers of which he was
the bearer. The messenger resisted; my brother killed him."
"Oh!" said Mme. Bonacieux, shuddering.
"Remember, that was the only means. Then my brother determined to
substitute cunning for force. He took the papers, and presented himself
here as the emissary of the cardinal, and in an hour or two a carriage
will come to take me away by the orders of his Eminence."
"I understand. It is your brother who sends this carriage."
"Exactly; but that is not all. That letter you have received, and
which you believe to be from Madame de Chevreuse--"
"Well?"
"It is a forgery."
"How can that be?"
"Yes, a forgery; it is a snare to prevent your making any resistance
when they come to fetch you."
"But it is D''Artagnan that will come."
"Do not deceive yourself. D''Artagnan and his friends are detained at the
siege of La Rochelle."
"How do you know that?"
"My brother met some emissaries of the cardinal in the uniform of
Musketeers. You would have been summoned to the gate; you would have
believed yourself about to meet friends; you would have been abducted,
and conducted back to Paris."
"Oh, my God! My senses fail me amid such a chaos of iniquities. I feel,
if this continues," said Mme. Bonacieux, raising her hands to her
forehead, "I shall go mad!"
"Stop--"
"What?"
"I hear a horse''s steps; it is my brother setting off again. I should
like to offer him a last salute. Come!"
Milady opened the window, and made a sign to Mme. Bonacieux to join her.
The young woman complied.
Rochefort passed at a gallop.
"Adieu, brother!" cried Milady.
The chevalier raised his head, saw the two young women, and without
stopping, waved his hand in a friendly way to Milady.
"The good George!" said she, closing the window with an expression of
countenance full of affection and melancholy. And she resumed her seat,
as if plunged in reflections entirely personal.
"Dear lady," said Mme. Bonacieux, "pardon me for interrupting you; but
what do you advise me to do? Good heaven! You have more experience
than I have. Speak; I will listen."
"In the first place," said Milady, "it is possible I may be deceived,
and that D''Artagnan and his friends may really come to your assistance."
"Oh, that would be too much!" cried Mme. Bonacieux, "so much happiness
is not in store for me!"
"Then you comprehend it would be only a question of time, a sort of
race, which should arrive first. If your friends are the more speedy,
you are to be saved; if the satellites of the cardinal, you are lost."
"Oh, yes, yes; lost beyond redemption! What, then, to do? What to do?"
"There would be a very simple means, very natural--"
"Tell me what!"
"To wait, concealed in the neighborhood, and assure yourself who are the
men who come to ask for you."
"But where can I wait?"
"Oh, there is no difficulty in that. I shall stop and conceal myself a
few leagues hence until my brother can rejoin me. Well, I take you with
me; we conceal ourselves, and wait together."
"But I shall not be allowed to go; I am almost a prisoner."
"As they believe that I go in consequence of an order from the cardinal,
no one will believe you anxious to follow me."
"Well?"
"Well! The carriage is at the door; you bid me adieu; you mount the
step to embrace me a last time; my brother''s servant, who comes to fetch
me, is told how to proceed; he makes a sign to the postillion, and we
set off at a gallop."
"But D''Artagnan! D''Artagnan! if he comes?"
"Shall we not know it?"
"How?"
"Nothing easier. We will send my brother''s servant back to Bethune,
whom, as I told you, we can trust. He shall assume a disguise, and
place himself in front of the convent. If the emissaries of the
cardinal arrive, he will take no notice; if it is Monsieur d''Artagnan
and his friends, he will bring them to us."
"He knows them, then?"
"Doubtless. Has he not seen Monsieur d''Artagnan at my house?"
"Oh, yes, yes; you are right. Thus all may go well--all may be for the
best; but we do not go far from this place?"
"Seven or eight leagues at the most. We will keep on the frontiers, for
instance; and at the first alarm we can leave France."
"And what can we do there?"
"Wait."
"But if they come?"
"My brother''s carriage will be here first."
"If I should happen to be any distance from you when the carriage comes
for you--at dinner or supper, for instance?"
"Do one thing."
"What is that?"
"Tell your good superior that in order that we may be as much together
as possible, you ask her permission to share my repast."
"Will she permit it?"
"What inconvenience can it be?"
"Oh, delightful! In this way we shall not be separated for an instant."
"Well, go down to her, then, to make your request. I feel my head a
little confused; I will take a turn in the garden."
"Go and where shall I find you?"
"Here, in an hour."
"Here, in an hour. Oh, you are so kind, and I am so grateful!"
"How can I avoid interesting myself for one who is so beautiful and so
amiable? Are you not the beloved of one of my best friends?"
"Dear D''Artagnan! Oh, how he will thank you!"
"I hope so. Now, then, all is agreed; let us go down."
"You are going into the garden?"
"Yes."
"Go along this corridor, down a little staircase, and you are in it."
"Excellent; thank you!"
"And the two women parted, exchanging charming smiles.
Milady had told the truth--her head was confused, for her ill-arranged
plans clashed one another like chaos. She required to be alone that
she might put her thoughts a little into order. She saw vaguely the
future; but she stood in need of a little silence and quiet to give all
her ideas, as yet confused, a distinct form and a regular plan.
What was most pressing was to get Mme. Bonacieux away, and convey her to
a place of safety, and there, if matters required, make her a hostage.
Milady began to have doubts of the issue of this terrible duel, in which
her enemies showed as much perseverance as she did animosity.
Besides, she felt as we feel when a storm is coming on--that this issue
was near, and could not fail to be terrible.
The principal thing for her, then, was, as we have said, to keep Mme.
Bonacieux in her power. Mme. Bonacieux was the very life of D''Artagnan.
This was more than his life, the life of the woman he loved; this was,
in case of ill fortune, a means of temporizing and obtaining good
con***ions.
Now, this point was settled; Mme. Bonacieux, without any suspicion,
accompanied her. Once concealed with her at Armentieres, it would be
easy to make her believe that D''Artagnan had not come to Bethune. In
fifteen days at most, Rochefort would be back; besides, during that
fifteen days she would have time to think how she could best avenge
herself on the four friends. She would not be weary, thank God! for
she should enjoy the sweetest pastime such events could accord a woman
of her character--perfecting a beautiful vengeance.
Revolving all this in her mind, she cast her eyes around her, and
arranged the topography of the garden in her head. Milady was like a
good general who contemplates at the same time victory and defeat, and
who is quite prepared, according to the chances of the battle, to march
forward or to beat a retreat.
At the end of an hour she heard a soft voice calling her; it was Mme.
Bonacieux''s. The good abbess had naturally consented to her request;
and as a commencement, they were *****p together.
On reaching the courtyard, they heard the noise of a carriage which
stopped at the gate.
Milady listened.
"Do you hear anything?" said she.
"Yes, the rolling of a carriage."
"It is the one my brother sends for us."
"Oh, my God!"
"Come, come! courage!"
The bell of the convent gate was sounded; Milady was not mistaken.
"Go to your chamber," said she to Mme. Bonacieux; "you have perhaps some
jewels you would like to take."
"I have his letters," said she.
"Well, go and fetch them, and come to my apartment. We will snatch some
supper; we shall perhaps travel part of the night, and must keep our
strength up."
"Great God!" said Mme. Bonacieux, placing her hand upon her bosom, "my
heart beats so I cannot walk."
"Courage, courage! remember that in a quarter of an hour you will be
safe; and think that what you are about to do is for HIS sake."
"Yes, yes, everything for him. You have restored my courage by a single
word; go, I will rejoin you."
Milady ran up to her apartment quickly: she there found Rochefort''s
lackey, and gave him his instructions.
He was to wait at the gate; if by chance the Musketeers should appear,
the carriage was to set off as fast as possible, pass around the
convent, and go and wait for Milady at a little village which was
situated at the other side of the wood. In this case Milady would cross
the garden and gain the village on foot. As we have already said,
Milady was admirably acquainted with this part of France.
If the Musketeers did not appear, things were to go on as had been
agreed; Mme. Bonacieux was to get into the carriage as if to bid her
adieu, and she was to take away Mme. Bonacieux.
Mme. Bonacieux came in; and to remove all suspicion, if she had any,
Milady repeated to the lackey, before her, the latter part of her
instructions.
Milady asked some questions about the carriage. It was a chaise drawn
by three horses, driven by a postillion; Rochefort''s lackey would
precede it, as courier.
Milady was wrong in fearing that Mme. Bonacieux would have any
suspicion. The poor young woman was too pure *****ppose that any female
could be guilty of such perfidy; besides, the name of the Comtesse de
Winter, which she had heard the abbess pronounce, was wholly unknown to
her, and she was even ignorant that a woman had had so great and so
fatal a share in the misfortune of her life.
"You see," said she, when the lackey had gone out, "everything is ready.
The abbess suspects nothing, and believes that I am taken by order of
the cardinal. This man goes to give his last orders; take the least
thing, drink a finger of wine, and let us be gone."
"Yes," said Mme. Bonacieux, mechanically, "yes, let us be gone."
Milady made her a sign to sit down opposite, poured her a small glass of
Spanish wine, and helped her to the wing of a chicken.
"See," said she, "if everything does not second us! Here is night
coming on; by daybreak we shall have reached our retreat, and nobody can
guess where we are. Come, courage! take something."
Mme. Bonacieux ate a few mouthfuls mechanically, and just touched the
glass with her lips.
"Come, come!" said Milady, lifting hers to her mouth, "do as I do."
But at the moment the glass touched her lips, her hand remained
suspended; she heard something on the road which sounded like the
rattling of a distant gallop. Then it grew nearer, and it seemed to
her, almost at the same time, that she heard the neighing of horses.
This noise acted upon her joy like the storm which awakens the sleeper
in the midst of a happy dream; she grew pale and ran to the window,
while Mme. Bonacieux, rising all in a tremble, supported herself upon
her chair to avoid falling. Nothing was yet to be seen, only they heard
the galloping draw nearer.
"Oh, my God!" said Mme. Bonacieux, what is that noise?"
"That of either our friends or our enemies," said Milady, with her
terrible coolness. "Stay where you are, I will tell you."
Mme. Bonacieux remained standing, mute, motionless, and pale as a
statue.
The noise became louder; the horses could not be more than a hundred and
fifty paces distant. If they were not yet to be seen, it was because
the road made an elbow. The noise became so distinct that the horses
might be counted by the rattle of their hoofs.
Milady gazed with all the power of her attention; it was just light
enough for her to see who was coming.
All at once, at the turning of the road she saw the glitter of laced
hats and the waving of feathers; she counted two, then five, then eight
horsemen. One of them preceded the rest by double the length of his
horse.
Milady uttered a stifled groan. In the first horseman she recognized
D''Artagnan.
"Oh, my God, my God," cried Mme. Bonacieux, "what is it?"
"It is the uniform of the cardinal''s Guards. Not an instant to be lost!
Fly, fly!"
"Yes, yes, let us fly!" repeated Mme. Bonacieux, but without being able
to make a step, glued as she was to the spot by terror.
They heard the horsemen pass under the windows.
"Come, then, come, then!" cried Milady, trying to drag the young woman
along by the arm. "Thanks to the garden, we yet can flee; I have the
key, but make haste! in five minutes it will be too late!"
Mme. Bonacieux tried to walk, made two steps, and sank upon her knees.
Milady tried to raise and carry her, but could not do it.
At this moment they heard the rolling of the carriage, which at the
approach of the Musketeers set off at a gallop. Then three or four
shots were fired.
"For the last time, will you come?" cried Milady.
"Oh, my God, my God! you see my strength fails me; you see plainly I
cannot walk. Flee alone!"
"Flee alone, and leave you here? No, no, never!" cried Milady.
All at once she paused, a livid flash darted from her eyes; she ran to
the table, emptied into Mme. Bonacieux''s glass the contents of a ring
which she opened with singular quickness. It was a grain of a reddish
color, which dissolved immediately.
Then, taking the glass with a firm hand, she said, "Drink. This wine
will give you strength, drink!" And she put the glass to the lips of
the young woman, who drank mechanically.
"This is not the way that I wished to avenge myself," said Milady,
replacing the glass upon the table, with an infernal smile, "but, my
faith! we do what we can!" And she rushed out of the room.
Mme. Bonacieux saw her go without being able to follow her; she was like
people who dream they are pursued, and who in vain try to walk.
A few moments passed; a great noise was heard at the gate. Every
instant Mme. Bonacieux expected to see Milady, but she did not return.
Several times, with terror, no doubt, the cold sweat burst from her
burning brow.
At length she heard the grating of the hinges of the opening gates; the
noise of boots and spurs resounded on the stairs. There was a great
murmur of voices which continued to draw near, amid which she seemed to
hear her own name pronounced.
All at once she uttered a loud cry of joy, and darted toward the door; she had recognized the voice of D''Artagnan.
"D''Artagnan! D''Artagnan!" cried she, "is it you? This way! this
way!"
"Constance? Constance?" replied the young man, "where are you? where
are you? My God!"
At the same moment the door of the cell yielded to a shock, rather than
opened; several men rushed into the chamber. Mme. Bonacieux had sunk
into an armchair, without the power of moving.
D''Artagnan threw down a yet-smoking pistol which he held in his hand,
and fell on his knees before his mistress. Athos replaced his in his
belt; Porthos and Aramis, who held their drawn swords in their hands,
returned them to their scabbards.
"Oh, D''Artagnan, my beloved D''Artagnan! You have come, then, at last!
You have not deceived me! It is indeed thee!"
"Yes, yes, Constance. Reunited!"
"Oh, it was in vain she told me you would not come! I hoped in silence.
I was not willing to fly. Oh, I have done well! How happy I am!"
At this word SHE, Athos, who had seated himself quietly, started up.
"SHE! What she?" asked D''Artagnan.
"Why, my companion. She who out of friendship for me wished to take me
from my persecutors. She who, mistaking you for the cardinal''s Guards,
has just fled away."
"Your companion!" cried D''Artagnan, becoming more pale than the white
veil of his mistress. "Of what companion are you speaking, dear
Constance?"
"Of her whose carriage was at the gate; of a woman who calls herself
your friend; of a woman to whom you have told everything."
"Her name, her name!" cried D''Artagnan. "My God, can you not remember
her name?"
"Yes, it was pronounced in my hearing once. Stop--but--it is very
strange--oh, my God, my head swims! I cannot see!"
"Help, help, my friends! her hands are icy cold," cried D''Artagnan.
"She is ill! Great God, she is losing her senses!"
While Porthos was calling for help with all the power of his strong
voice, Aramis ran to the table to get a glass of water; but he stopped
at seeing the horrible alteration that had taken place in the
countenance of Athos, who, standing before the table, his hair rising
from his head, his eyes fixed in stupor, was looking at one of the
glasses, and appeared a prey to the most horrible doubt.
"Oh1'' said Athos, "oh, no, it is impossible! God would not permit such
a crime!"
"Water, water!" cried D''Artagnan. "Water!"
"Oh, poor woman, poor woman!" murmured Athos, in a broken voice.
Mme. Bonacieux opened her eyes under the kisses of D''Artagnan.
"She revives!" cried the young man. "Oh, my God, my God, I thank
thee!"
"Madame!" said Athos, "madame, in the name of heaven, whose empty glass
is this?"
"Mine, monsieur," said the young woman, in a dying voice.
"But who poured the wine for you that was in this glass?"
"She."
"But who is SHE?"
"Oh, I remember!" said Mme. Bonacieux, "the Comtesse de Winter."
The four friends uttered one and the same cry, but that of Athos
dominated all the rest.
At that moment the countenance of Mme. Bonacieux became livid; a fearful
agony pervaded her frame, and she sank panting into the arms of Porthos
and Aramis.
D''Artagnan seized the hands of Athos with an anguish difficult to be
described.
"And what do you believe?'' His voice was stifled by sobs.
"I believe everything," said Athos biting his lips till the blood sprang
to avoid sighing.
"D''Artagnan, D''Artagnan!" cried Mme. Bonacieux, "where art thou? Do
not leave me! You see I am dying!"
D''Artagnan released the hands of Athos which he still held clasped in
both his own, and hastened to her. Her beautiful face was distorted
with agony; her glassy eyes had no longer their sight; a convulsive
shuddering shook her whole body; the sweat rolled from her brow.
"In the name of heaven, run, call! Aramis! Porthos! Call for help!"
"Useless!" said Athos, "useless! For the poison which SHE pours there
is no antidote."
"Yes, yes! Help, help!" murmured Mme. Bonacieux; "help!"
Then, collecting all her strength, she took the head of the young man
between her hands, looked at him for an instant as if her whole soul
passed into that look, and with a sobbing cry pressed her lips to his.
"Constance, Constance!" cried D''Artagnan.
A sigh escaped from the mouth of Mme. Bonacieux, and dwelt for an
instant on the lips of D''Artagnan. That sigh was the soul, so chaste
and so loving, which reascended to heaven.
D''Artagnan pressed nothing but a corpse in his arms. The young man
uttered a cry, and fell by the side of his mistress as pale and as icy
as herself.
Porthos wept; Aramis pointed toward heaven; Athos made the sign of the
cross.
At that moment a man appeared in the doorway, almost as pale as those in
the chamber. He looked around him and saw Mme. Bonacieux dead, and
D''Artagnan in a swoon. He appeared just at that moment of stupor which
follows great catastrophes.
"I was not deceived," said he; "here is Monsieur D''Artagnan; and you are
his friends, Messieurs Athos, Porthos, and Aramis."
The persons whose names were thus pronounced looked at the stranger with
astonishment. It seemed to all three that they knew him.
"Gentlemen," resumed the newcomer, "you are, as I am, in search of a
woman who," added he, with a terrible smile, "must have passed this way,
for I see a corpse."
The three friends remained mute-for although the voice as well as the
countenance reminded them of someone they had seen, they could not
remember under what circumstances.
"Gentlemen," continued the stranger, "since you do not recognize a man
who probably owes his life to you twice, I must name myself. I am Lord
de Winter, brother-in-law of THAT WOMAN."
The three friends uttered a cry of surprise.
Athos rose, and offering him his hand, "Be welcome, my Lord," said he,
"you are one of us."
"I set out five hours after her from Portsmouth," said Lord de Winter.
"I arrived three hours after her at Boulogne. I missed her by twenty
minutes at St. Omer. Finally, at Lilliers I lost all trace of her. I
was going about at random, inquiring of everybody, when I saw you
gallop past. I recognized Monsieur d''Artagnan. I called to you, but
you did not answer me; I wished to follow you, but my horse was too much
fatigued to go at the same pace with yours. And yet it appears, in
spite of all your diligence, you have arrived too late."
"You see!" said Athos, pointing to Mme. Bonacieux dead, and to
D''Artagnan, whom Porthos and Aramis were trying to recall to life.
"Are they both dead?" asked Lord de Winter, sternly.
"No," replied Athos, "fortunately Monsieur d''Artagnan has only fainted."
"Ah, indeed, so much the better!" said Lord de Winter.
At that moment D''Artagnan opened his eyes. He tore himself from the
arms of Porthos and Aramis, and threw himself like a madman on the
corpse of his mistress.
Athos rose, walked toward his friend with a slow and solemn step,
embraced him tenderly, and as he burst into violent sobs, he said to him
with his noble and persuasive voice, "Friend, be a man! Women weep for
the dead; men avenge them!"
"Oh, yes!" cried D''Artagnan, "yes! If it be to avenge her, I am ready
to follow you."
Athos profited by this moment of strength which the hope of vengeance
restored to his unfortunate friend to make a sign to Porthos and Aramis
to go and fetch the superior.
The two friends met her in the corridor, greatly troubled and much upset
by such strange events; she called some of the nuns, who against all
monastic custom found themselves in the presence of five men.
"Madame," said Athos, passing his arm under that of D''Artagnan, "we
abandon to your pious care the body of that unfortunate woman. She was
an angel on earth before being an angel in heaven. Treat her as one of
your sisters. We will return someday to pray over her grave."
D''Artagnan concealed his face in the bosom of Athos, and sobbed aloud.
"Weep," said Athos, "weep, heart full of love, youth, and life! Alas,
would I could weep like you!"
And he drew away his friend, as affectionate as a father, as consoling
as a priest, noble as a man who has suffered much.
All five, followed by their lackeys leading their horses, took their way
to the town of Bethune, whose outskirts they perceived, and stopped
before the first inn they came to.
"But," said D''Artagnan, "shall we not pursue that woman?"
"Later," said Athos. "I have measures to take."
"She will escape us," replied the young man; "she will escape us, and it
will be your fault, Athos."
"I will be accountable for her," said Athos.
D''Artagnan had so much confidence in the word of his friend that he
lowered his head, and entered the inn without reply.
Porthos and Aramis regarded each other, not understanding this assurance
of Athos.
Lord de Winter believed he spoke in this manner to soothe the grief of
D''Artagnan.
"Now, gentlemen," said Athos, when he had ascertained there were five
chambers free in the hotel, "let everyone retire to his own apartment.
D''Artagnan needs to be alone, to weep and to sleep. I take charge of
everything; be easy."
"It appears, however," said Lord de Winter, "if there are any measures
to take against the countess, it concerns me; she is my sister-in-law."
"And me," said Athos,--she is my wife!"
D''Artagnan smiled--for he understood that Athos was sure of his
vengeance when he revealed such a secret. Porthos and Aramis looked at
each other, and grew pale. Lord de Winter thought Athos was mad.
"Now, retire to your chambers," said Athos, "and leave me to act. You
must perceive that in my quality of a husband this concerns me. Only,
D''Artagnan, if you have not lost it, give me the paper which fell from
that man''s hat, upon which is written the name of the village of--"
"Ah," said D''Artagnan, "I comprehend! that name written in her hand."
"You see, then," said Athos, :there is a god in heaven still!"

64 THE MAN IN THE RED CLOAK
The despair of Athos had given place to a concentrated grief which only
rendered more lucid the brilliant mental faculties of that extraordinary
man.
Possessed by one single thought--that of the promise he had made, and of
the responsibility he had taken--he retired last to his chamber, begged
the host to procure him a map of the province, bent over it, examined
every line traced upon it, perceived that there were four different
roads from Bethune to Armentieres, and summoned the lackeys.
Planchet, Grimaud, Bazin, and Mousqueton presented themselves, and
received clear, positive, and serious orders from Athos.
They must set out the next morning at daybreak, and go to Armentieres--
each by a different route. Planchet, the most intelligent of the four,
was to follow that by which the carriage had gone upon which the four
friends had fired, and which was accompanied, as may be remembered, by
Rochefort''s servant.
Athos set the lackeys to work first because, since these men had been in
the service of himself and his friends he had discovered in each of them
different and essential qualities. Then, lackeys who ask questions
inspire less mistrust than masters, and meet with more sympathy among
those to whom they address themselves. Besides, Milady knew the
masters, and did not know the lackeys; on the contrary, the lackeys knew
Milady perfectly.
All four were to meet the next day at eleven o''clock. If they had
discovered Milady''s retreat, three were to remain on guard; the fourth
was to return to Bethune in order to inform Athos and serve as a guide
to the four friends. These arrangements made, the lackeys retired.
Athos then arose from his chair, girded on his sword, enveloped himself
in his cloak, and left the hotel. It was nearly ten o''clock. At ten
o''clock in the evening, it is well known, the streets in provincial
towns are very little frequented. Athos nevertheless was visibly
anxious to find someone of whom he could ask a question. At length he
met a belated passenger, went up to him, and spoke a few words to him.
The man he addressed recoiled with terror, and only answered the few
words of the Musketeer by pointing. Athos offered the man half a
pistole to accompany him, but the man refused.
Athos then plunged into the street the man had indicated with his
finger; but arriving at four crossroads, he stopped again, visibly
embarrassed. Nevertheless, as the crossroads offered him a better
chance than any other place of meeting somebody, he stood still. In a
few minutes a night watch passed. Athos repeated to him the same
question he had asked the first person he met. The night watch evinced
the same terror, refused, in his turn, to accompany Athos, and only
pointed with his hand to the road he was to take.
Athos walked in the direction indicated, and reached the suburb situated
at the opposite extremity of the city from that by which he and his
friends had entered it. There he again appeared uneasy and embarrassed,
and stopped for the third time.
Fortunately, a mendicant passed, who, coming up to Athos to ask charity,
Athos offered him half a crown to accompany him where he was going. The
mendicant hesitated at first, but at the sight of the piece of silver
which shone in the darkness he consented, and walked on before Athos.
Arrived at the angle of a street, he pointed to a small house, isolated,
solitary, and dismal. Athos went toward the house, while the mendicant,
who had received his reward, left as fast as his legs could carry him.
Athos went round the house before he could distinguish the door, amid
the red color in which the house was painted. No light appeared through
the chinks of the shutters; no noise gave reason to believe that it was
inhabited. It was dark and silent as the tomb.
Three times Athos knocked without receiving an answer. At the third
knock, however, steps were heard inside. The door at length was opened,
and a man appeared, of high stature, pale complexion, and black hair and
beard.
Athos and he exchanged some words in a low voice, then the tall man made
a sign to the Musketeer that he might come in. Athos immediately
profited by the permission, and the door was closed behind him.
The man whom Athos had come so far to seek, and whom he had found with
so much trouble, introduced him into his laboratory, where he was
engaged in fastening together with iron wire the dry bones of a
skeleton. All the frame was adjusted except the head, which lay on the
table.
All the rest of the furniture indicated that the dweller in this house
occupied himself with the study of natural science. There were large
bottles filled with serpents, ticketed according to their species; dried
lizards shone like emeralds set in great squares of black wood, and
bunches of wild odoriferous herbs, doubtless possessed of virtues
unknown to common men, were fastened to the ceiling and hung down in the
corners of the apartment. There was no family, no servant; the tall man
alone inhabited this house.
Athos cast a cold and indifferent glance upon the objects we have
described, and at the invitation of him whom he came to seek sat down
near him.
Then he explained to him the cause of his visit, and the service he
required of him. But scarcely had he expressed his request when the
unknown, who remained standing before the Musketeer, drew back with
signs of terror, and refused. Then Athos took from his pocket a small
paper, on which two lines were written, accompanied by a signature and
a seal, and presented them to him who had made too prematurely these
signs of repugnance. The tall man had scarcely read these lines, seen
the signature, and recognized the seal, when he bowed to denote that he
had no longer any objection to make, and that he was ready to obey.
Athos required no more. He arose, bowed, went out, returned by the same
way he came, re-entered the hotel, and went to his apartment.
At daybreak D''Artagnan entered the chamber, and demanded what was to be
done.
"To wait," replied Athos.
Some minutes after, the superior of the convent sent to inform the
Musketeers that the burial would take place at midday. As to the
poisoner, they had heard no tidings of her whatever, only that she must
have made her escape through the garden, on the sand of which her
footsteps could be traced, and the door of which had been found shut.
As to the key, it had disappeared.
At the hour appointed, Lord de Winter and the four friends repaired to
the convent; the bells tolled, the chapel was open, the grating of the
choir was closed. In the middle of the choir the body of the victim,
clothed in her novitiate dress, was exposed. On each side of the choir
and behind the gratings opening into the convent was assembled the whole
community of the Carmelites, who listened to the divine service, and
mingled their chant with the chant of the priests, without seeing the
profane, or being seen by them.
At the door of the chapel D''Artagnan felt his courage fall anew, and returned to look for Athos; but Athos had disappeared.
Faithful to his mission of vengeance, Athos had requested to be
conducted to the garden; and there upon the sand following the light
steps of this woman, who left sharp tracks wherever she went, he
advanced toward the gate which led into the wood, and causing it to be
opened, he went out into the forest.
Then all his suspicions were confirmed; the road by which the carriage
had disappeared encircled the forest. Athos followed the road for some
time, his eyes fixed upon the ground; slight stains of blood, which came
from the wound inflicted upon the man who accompanied the carriage as a
courier, or from one of the horses, dotted the road. At the end of
three-quarters of a league, within fifty paces of Festubert, a larger
bloodstain appeared; the ground was trampled by horses. Between the
forest and this accursed spot, a little behind the trampled ground, was
the same track of small feet as in the garden; the carriage had stopped
here. At this spot Milady had come out of the wood, and entered the
carriage.
Satisfied with this discovery which confirmed all his suspicions, Athos
returned to the hotel, and found Planchet impatiently waiting for him.
Everything was as Athos had foreseen.
Planchet had followed the road; like Athos, he had discovered the stains
of blood; like Athos, he had noted the spot where the horses had halted.
But he had gone farther than Athos--for at the village of Festubert,
while drinking at an inn, he had learned without needing to ask a
question that the evening before, at half-past eight, a wounded man who
accompanied a lady traveling in a post-chaise had been obliged to stop,
unable to go further. The accident was set down to the account of
robbers, who had stopped the chaise in the wood. The man remained in
the village; the woman had had a relay of horses, and continued her
journey.
Planchet went in search of the postillion who had driven her, and found
him. He had taken the lady as far as Fromelles; and from Fromelles
she had set out for Armentieres. Planchet took the crossroad, and by
seven o''clock in the morning he was at Armentieres.
There was but one tavern, the Post. Planchet went and presented himself
as a lackey out of a place, who was in search of a situation. He had
not chatted ten minutes with the people of the tavern before he learned
that a woman had come there alone about eleven o''clock the night before,
had engaged a chamber, had sent for the master of the hotel, and told
him she desired to remain some time in the neighborhood.
Planchet had no need to learn more. He hastened to the rendezvous,
found the lackeys at their posts, placed them as sentinels at all the
outlets of the hotel, and came to find Athos, who ha just received this
information when his friends returned.
All their countenances were melancholy and gloomy, even the mild
countenance of Aramis.
"What is to be done?" asked D''Artagnan.
"To wait!" replied Athos.
Each retired to his own apartment.
At eight o''clock in the evening Athos ordered the horses to be saddled,
and Lord de Winter and his friends notified that they must prepare for
the expe***ion.
In an instant all five were ready. Each examined his arms, and put them
in order. Athos came down last, and found D''Artagnan already on
horseback, and growing impatient.
"Patience!" cried Athos; "one of our party is still wanting."
The four horsemen looked round them with astonishment, for they sought
vainly in their minds to know who this other person could be.
At this moment Planchet brought out Athos''s house; the Musketeer leaped
lightly into the saddle.
"Wait for me," cried he, "I will soon be back," and he set off at a
gallop.
In a quarter of an hour he returned, accompanied by a tall man, masked,
and wrapped in a large red cloak.
Lord de Winter and the three Musketeers looked at one another
inquiringly. Neither could give the others any information, for all
were ignorant who this man could be; nevertheless, they felt convinced
that all was as it should be, as it was done by the order of Athos.
At nine o''clock, guided by Planchet, the little cavalcade set out,
taking the route the carriage had taken.
It was a melancholy sight--that of these six men, traveling in silence,
each plunged in his own thoughts, sad as despair, gloomy as
chastisement.

65 TRIAL
It was a stormy and dark night; vast clouds covered the heavens,
concealing the stars; the moon would not rise till midnight.
Occasionally, by the light of a flash of lightening which gleamed along
the horizon, the road stretched itself before them, white and solitary;
the flash extinct, all remained in darkness.
Every minute Athos was forced to restrain D''Artagnan, constantly in
advance of the little troop, and to beg him to keep in the line, which
in an instant he again departed from. He had but one thought--to go
forward; and he went.
They passed in silence through the little village of Festubert, where
the wounded servant was, and then skirted the wood of Richebourg. At
Herlier, Planchet, who led the column, turned to the left.
Several times Lord de Winter, Porthos, or Aramis, tried to talk with the
man in the red cloak; but to every interrogation which they put to him
he bowed, without response. The travelers then comprehended that there
must be some reason why the unknown preserved such a silence, and ceased
to address themselves to him.
The storm increase, the flashes succeeded one another more rapidly, the
thunder began to growl, and the wind, the precursor of a hurricane,
whistled in the plumes and the hair of the horsemen.
The cavalcade trotted on more sharply.
A little before they came to Fromelles the storm burst. They spread
their cloaks. There remained three leagues to travel, and they did it
amid torrents of rain.
D''Artagnan took off his hat, and could not be persuaded to make use of
his cloak. He found pleasure in feeling the water trickle over his
burning brow and over his body, agitated by feverish shudders.
The moment the little troop passed Goskal and were approaching the Port,
a man sheltered beneath a tree detached himself from the trunk with
which he had been confounded in the darkness, and advanced into the
middle of the road, putting his finger on his lips.
Athos recognized Grimaud.
"What''s the manner?" cried Athos. "Has she left Armentieres?"
Grimaud made a sign in the affirmative. D''Artagnan groaned his teeth.
"Silence, D''Artagnan!" said Athos. I have charged myself with this
affair. It is for me, then, to interrogate Grimaud."
"Where is she?" asked Athos.
Grimaud extended his hands in the direction of the Lys. "Far from
here?" asked Athos.
Grimaud showed his master his forefinger bent.
"Alone?" asked Athos.
Grimaud made the sign yes.
"Gentlemen," said Athos, "she is alone within half a league of us, in
the direction of the river."
"That''s well," said D''Artagnan. "lead us, Grimaud."
Grimaud took his course across the country, and acted as guide to the
cavalcade.
At the end of five hundred paces, more or less, they came to a rivulet,
which they forded.
By the aid of the lightening they perceived the village of Erquinheim.
"Is she there, Grimaud?" asked Athos.
Grimaud shook his head negatively.
"Silence, then!" cried Athos.
And the troop continued their route.
Another flash illuminated all around them. Grimaud extended his arm,
and by the bluish splendor of the fiery serpent they distinguished a
little isolated house on the banks of the river, within a hundred paces
of a ferry.
One window was lighted.
"Here we are!" said Athos.
At this moment a man who had been crouching in a ***ch jumped up and
came towards them. It was Mousqueton. He pointed his finger to the
lighted window.
"She is there," said he.
"And Bazin?" asked Athos.
"While I watched the window, he guarded the door."
"Good!" said Athos. "You are good and faithful servants."
Athos sprang from his horse, gave the bridle to Grimaud, and advanced
toward the window, after having made a sign to the rest of the troop to
go toward the door.
The little house was surrounded by a low, quickset hedge, two or three
feet high. Athos sprang over the hedge and went up to the window, which
was without shutters, but had the half-curtains closely drawn.
He mounted the skirting stone that his eyes might look over the curtain.
By the light of a lamp he saw a woman, wrapped in a dark mantle, seated
upon a stool near a dying fire. Her elbows were placed upon a mean
table, and she leaned her head upon her two hands, which were white as
ivory.
He could not distinguish her countenance, but a sinister smile passed
over the lips of Athos. He was not deceived; it was she whom he sought.
At this moment a horse neighed. Milady raised her head, saw close to
the panes the pale face of Athos, and screamed.
Athos, perceiving that she knew him, pushed the window with his knee and
hand. The window yielded. The squares were broken to shivers; and
Athos, like the spectre of vengeance, leaped into the room.
Milady rushed to the door and opened it. More pale and menacing than
Athos, D''Artagnan stood on the threshold.
Milady recoiled, uttering a cry. D''Artagnan, believing she might have
means of flight and fearing she should escape, drew a pistol from his
belt; but Athos raised his hand.
"Put back that weapon, D''Artagnan!" said he; "this woman must be tried,
not assassinated. Wait an instant, my friend, and you shall be
satisfied. Come in, gentlemen."
D''Artagnan obeyed; for Athos had the solemn voice and the powerful
gesture of a judge sent by the Lord himself. Behind D''Artagnan entered
Porthos, Aramis, Lord de Winter, and the man in the red cloak.
The four lackeys guarded the door and the window.
Milady had sunk into a chair, with her hands extended, as if to conjure
this terrible apparition. Perceiving her brother-in-law, she uttered a
terrible cry.
"What do you want?" screamed Milady.
"We want," said Athos, "Charlotte Backson, who first was called Comtesse
de la Fere, and afterwards Milady de Winter, Baroness of Sheffield."
"That is I! that is I!" murmured Milady, in extreme terror; "what do
you want?"
"We wish to judge you according to your crime," said Athos; "you shall
be free to defend yourself. Justify yourself if you can. M.
d''Artagnan, it is for you to accuse her first."
D''Artagnan advanced.
"Before God and before men," said he, "I accuse this woman of having
poisoned Constance Bonacieux, who died yesterday evening."
He turned towards Porthos and Aramis.
"We bear witness to this," said the two Musketeers, with one voice.
D''Artagnan continued: "Before God and before men, I accuse this woman
of having attempted to poison me, in wine which she sent me from
Villeroy, with a forged letter, as if that wine came from my friends.
God preserved me, but a man named Brisemont died in my place."
"We bear witness to this," said Porthos and Aramis, in the same manner as before.
"Before God and before men, I accuse this woman of having urged me to
the murder of the Baron de Wardes; but as no one else can attest the
truth of this accusation, I attest it myself. I have done." And
D''Artagnan passed to the other side of the room with Porthos and Aramis.
"Your turn, my Lord," said Athos.
The baron came forward.
"Before God and before men," said he, "I accuse this woman of having
caused the assassination of the Duke of Buckingham."
"The Duke of Buckingham assassinated!" cried all present, with one
voice.
"Yes," said the baron, "assassinated. On receiving the warning letter
you wrote to me, I had this woman arrested, and gave her in charge to a
loyal servant. She corrupted this man; she placed the poniard in his
hand; she made him kill the duke. And at this moment, perhaps, Felton
is paying with his head for the crime of this fury!"
A shudder crept through the judges at the revelation of these unknown
crimes.
"That is not all," resumed Lord de Winter. "My brother, who made you
his heir, died in three hours of a strange disorder which left livid
traces all over the body. My sister, how did your husband die?"
"Horror!" cried Porthos and Aramis.
"Assassin of Buckingham, assassin of Felton, assassin of my brother, I
demand justice upon you, and I swear that if it be not granted to me, I
will execute it myself."
And Lord de Winter ranged himself by the side of D''Artagnan, leaving the
place free for another accuser.
Milady let her head sink between her two hands, and tried to recall her
ideas, whirling in a mortal vertigo.
"My turn," said Athos, himself trembling as the lion trembles at the
sight of the serpent--"my turn. I married that woman when she was a
young girl; I married her in opposition to the wishes of all my family;
I gave her my wealth, I gave her my name; and one day I discovered that
this woman was branded--this woman was marked with a FLEUR-DE-LIS on her
left shoulder."
"Oh," said Milady, raising herself, "I defy you to find any tribunal
which pronounced that infamous sentence against me. I defy you to find
him who executed it."
"Silence!" said a hollow voice. "It is for me to reply to that!" And
the man in the red cloak came forward in his turn.
"What man is that? What man is that?" cried Milady, suffocated by
terror, her hair loosening itself, and rising above her livid
countenance as if alive.
All eyes were turned towards this man--for to all except Athos he was
unknown.
Even Athos looked at him with as much stupefaction as the others, for he
knew not how he could in any way find himself mixed up with the horrible
drama then unfolded.
After approaching Milady with a slow and solemn step, so that the table
alone separated them, the unknown took off his mask.
Milady for some time examined with increasing terror that pale face,
framed with black hair and whiskers, the only expression of which was
icy impassibility. Then she suddenly cried, "Oh, no, no!" rising and
retreating to the very wall. "No, no! it is an infernal apparition!
It is not he! Help, help!" screamed she, turning towards the wall, as
if she would tear an opening with her hands.
"Who are you, then?" cried all the witnesses of this scene.
"Ask that woman," said the man in the red cloak, "for you may plainly
see she knows me!"
"The executioner of Lille, the executioner of Lille!" cried Milady, a
prey to insensate terror, and clinging with her hands to the wall to
avoid falling.
Every one drew back, and the man in the red cloak remained standing
alone in the middle of the room.
"Oh, grace, grace, pardon!" cried the wretch, falling on her knees.
The unknown waited for silence, and then resumed, "I told you well that
she would know me. Yes, I am the executioner of Lille, and this is my
history."
All eyes were fixed upon this man, whose words were listened to with
anxious attention.
"That woman was once a young girl, as beautiful as she is today. She
was a nun in the convent of the Benedictines of Templemar. A young
priest, with a simple and trustful heart, performed the duties of the
church of that convent. She undertook his seduction, and succeeded; she
would have seduced a saint.
"Their vows were sacred and irrevocable. Their connection could not
last long without ruining both. She prevailed upon him to leave the
country; but to leave the country, to fly together, to reach another
part of France, where they might live at ease because unknown, money was
necessary. Neither had any. The priest stole the sacred vases, and
sold them; but as they were preparing to escape together, they were both
arrested.
"Eight days later she had seduced the son of the jailer, and escaped.
The young priest was condemned to ten years of imprisonment, and to be
branded. I was executioner of the city of Lille, as this woman has
said. I was obliged to brand the guilty one; and he, gentlemen, was my
brother!
"I then swore that this woman who had ruined him, who was more than his
accomplice, since she had urged him to the crime, should at least share
his punishment. I suspected where she was concealed. I followed her, I
caught her, I bound her; and I imprinted the same disgraceful mark upon
her that I had imprinted upon my poor brother.
"The day after my return to Lille, my brother in his turn succeeded in
making his escape; I was accused of complicity, and was condemned to
remain in his place till he should be again a prisoner. My poor brother
was ignorant of this sentence. He rejoined this woman; they fled
together into Berry, and there he obtained a little curacy. This woman
passed for his sister.
"The Lord of the estate on which the chapel of the curacy was situated
saw this pretend sister, and became enamoured of her--amorous *****ch a
degree that he proposed to marry her. Then she quitted him she had
ruined for him she was destined to ruin, and became the Comtesse de la
Fere--"
All eyes were turned towards Athos, whose real name that was, and who
made a sign with his head that all was true which the executioner had
said.
"Then," resumed he, "mad, desperate, determined to get rid of an
existence from which she had stolen everything, honor and happiness, my
poor brother returned to Lille, and learning the sentence which had
condemned me in his place, surrendered himself, and hanged himself that
same night from the iron bar of the loophole of his prison.
"To do justice to them who had condemned me, they kept their word. As
soon as the identity of my brother was proved, I was set at liberty.
"That is the crime of which I accuse her; that is the cause for which
she was branded."
"Monsieur d''Artagnan," said Athos, "what is the penalty you demand
against this woman?"
"The punishment of death," replied D''Artagnan.
"My Lord de Winter," continued Athos, "what is the penalty you demand
against this woman?"
"The punishment of death," replied Lord de Winter.
"Messieurs Porthos and Aramis," repeated Athos, "you who are her judges,
what is the sentence you pronounce upon this woman?"
"The punishment of death," replied the Musketeers, in a hollow voice.
Milady uttered a frightful shriek, and dragged herself along several
paces upon her knees toward her judges.
Athos stretched out his hand toward her.
"Charlotte Backson, Comtesse de la Fere, Milady de Winter," said he,
"your crimes have wearied men on earth and God in heaven. If you know a
prayer, say it--for you are condemned, and you shall die."
At these words, which left no hope, Milady raised herself in all her
pride, and wished to speak; but her strength failed her. She felt that
a powerful and implacable hand seized her by the hair, and dragged her
away as irrevocably as fatality drags humanity. She did not, therefore,
even attempt the least resistance, and went out of the cottage.
Lord de Winter, D''Artagnan, Athos, Porthos, and Aramis, went out close
behind her. The lackeys followed their masters, and the chamber was
left solitary, with its broken window, its open door, and its smoky lamp
burning sadly on the table.

66 EXECUTION
It was near midnight; the moon, lessened by its decline, and reddened by
the last traces of the storm, arose behind the little town of
Armentieres, which showed against its pale light the dark outline of its
houses, and the skeleton of its high belfry. In front of them the Lys
rolled its waters like a river of molten tin; while on the other side
was a black mass of trees, profiled on a stormy sky, invaded by large
coppery clouds which created a sort of twilight amid the night. On the
left was an old abandoned mill, with its motionless wings, from the
ruins of which an owl threw out its shrill, periodical, and monotonous
cry. On the right and on the left of the road, which the dismal
procession pursued, appeared a few low, stunted trees, which looked like
deformed dwarfs crouching down to watch men traveling at this sinister
hour.
>From time to time a broad sheet of lightning opened the horizon in its
whole width, darted like a serpent over the black mass of trees, and
like a terrible scimitar divided the heavens and the waters into two
parts. Not a breath of wind now disturbed the heavy atmosphere. A
deathlike silence oppressed all nature. The soil was humid and
glittering with the rain which had recently fallen, and the refreshed
herbs sent forth their perfume with ad***ional energy.
Two lackeys dragged Milady, whom each held by one arm. The executioner
walked behind them, and Lord de Winter, D''Artagnan, Porthos, and Aramis
walked behind the executioner. Planchet and Bazin came last.
The two lackeys conducted Milady to the bank of the river. Her mouth
was mute; but her eyes spoke with their inexpressible eloquence,
supplicating by turns each of those on whom she looked.
Being a few paces in advance she whispered to the lackeys, "A thousand
pistoles to each of you, if you will assist my escape; but if you
deliver me up to your masters, I have near at hand avengers who will
make you pay dearly for my death."
Grimaud hesitated. Mousqueton trembled in all his members.
Athos, who heard Milady''s voice, came sharply up. Lord de Winter did
the same.
"Change these lackeys," said he; "she has spoken to them. They are no
longer sure."
Planchet and Bazin were called, and took the places of Grimaud and
Mousqueton.
On the bank of the river the executioner approached Milady, and bound
her hands and feet.
Then she broke the silence to cry out, "You are cowards, miserable
assassins--ten men combined to murder one woman. Beware! If I am not
saved I shall be avenged."
"You are not a woman," said Athos, coldly and sternly. "You do not
belong to the human species; you are a demon escaped from hell, whither
we send you back again."
"Ah, you virtuous men!" said Milady; "please to remember that he who
shall touch a hair of my head is himself an assassin."
"The executioner may kill, without being on that account an assassin,"
said the man in the red cloak, rapping upon his immense sword. "This is
the last judge; that is all. NACHRICHTER, as say our neighbors, the
Germans."
And as he bound her while saying these words, Milady uttered two or
three savage cries, which produced a strange and melancholy effect in
flying away into the night, and losing themselves in the depths of the
woods.
"If I am guilty, if I have committed the crimes you accuse me of,"
shrieked Milady, "take me before a tribunal. You are not judges! You
cannot condemn me!"
"I offered you Tyburn," said Lord de Winter. "Why did you not accept
it?"
"Because I am not willing to die!" cried Milady, struggling. "Because
I am too young to die!"
"The woman you poisoned at Bethune was still younger than you, madame,
and yet she is dead," said D''Artagnan.
"I will enter a cloister; I will become a nun," said Milady.
"You were in a cloister," said the executioner, "and you left it to ruin
my brother."
Milady uttered a cry of terror and sank upon her knees. The executioner
took her up in his arms and was carrying her toward the boat.
"Oh, my God!" cried she, "my God! are you going to drown me?"
These cries had something so heartrending in them that M. d''Artagnan,
who had been at first the most eager in pursuit of Milady, sat down on
the stump of a tree and hung his head, covering his ears with the palms
of his hands; and yet, notwithstanding, he could still hear her cry and
threaten.
D''Artagnan was the youngest of all these men. His heart failed him.
"Oh, I cannot behold this frightful spectacle!" said he. "I cannot
consent that this woman should die thus!"
Milady heard these few words and caught at a shadow of hope.
"D''Artagnan, D''Artagnan!" cried she; "remember that I loved you!"
The young man rose and took a step toward her.
But Athos rose likewise, drew his sword, and placed himself in the way.
"If you take one step farther, D''Artagnan," said he, "we shall cross
swords together."
D''Artagnan sank on his knees and prayed.
"Come," continued Athos, "executioner, do your duty."
"Willingly, monseigneur," said the executioner; "for as I am a good
Catholic, I firmly believe I am acting justly in performing my functions
on this woman."
"That''s well."
Athos made a step toward Milady.
"I pardon you," said he, "the ill you have done me. I pardon you for my
blasted future, my lost honor, my defiled love, and my salvation forever
compromised by the despair into which you have cast me. Die in peace!"
Lord de Winter advanced in his turn.
"I pardon you," said he, "for the poisoning of my brother, and the
assassination of his Grace, Lord Buckingham. I pardon you for the death
of poor Felton; I pardon you for the attempts upon my own person. Die
in peace!"
"And I," said M. d''Artagnan. "Pardon me, madame, for having by a trick
unworthy of a gentleman provoked your anger; and I, in exchange, pardon
you the murder of my poor love and your cruel vengeance against me. I
pardon you, and I weep for you. Die in peace!"
"I am lost!" murmured Milady in English. "I must die!"
Then she arose of herself, and cast around her one of those piercing
looks which seemed to dart from an eye of flame.
She saw nothing; she listened, and she heard nothing.
"Where am I to die?" said she.
"On the other bank," replied the executioner.
Then he placed her in the boat, and as he was going to set foot in it
himself, Athos handed him a sum of silver.
"Here," said he, "is the price of the execution, that it may be plain we
act as judges."
"That is correct," said the executioner; "and now in her turn, let this
woman see that I am not fulfilling my trade, but my debt."
And he threw the money into the river.
The boat moved off toward the left-hand shore of the Lys, bearing the
guilty woman and the executioner; all the others remained on the right-
hand bank, where they fell on their knees.
The boat glided along the ferry rope under the shadow of a pale cloud
which hung over the water at that moment.
The troop of friends saw it gain the opposite bank; the figures were
defined like black shadows on the red-tinted horizon.
Milady, during the passage had contrived to untie the cord which
fastened her feet. On coming near the bank, she jumped lightly on shore
and took to flight. But the soil was moist; on reaching the top of the
bank, she slipped and fell upon her knees.
She was struck, no doubt, with a superstitious idea; she conceived that
heaven denied its aid, and she remained in the attitude in which she had
fallen, her head drooping and her hands clasped.
Then they saw from the other bank the executioner raise both his arms
slowly; a moonbeam fell upon the blade of the large sword. The two
arms fell with a sudden force; they heard the hissing of the scimitar
and the cry of the victim, then a truncated mass sank beneath the blow.
The executioner then took off his red cloak, spread it upon the ground,
laid the body in it, threw in the head, tied all up by the four corners,
lifted it on his back, and entered the boat again.
In the middle of the stream he stopped the boat, and suspending his
burden over the water cried in a loud voice, "Let the justice of God be
done!" and he let the corpse drop into the depths of the waters, which
closed over it.
Three days afterward the four Musketeers were in Paris; they had not
exceeded their leave of absence, and that same evening they went to pay
their customary visit to M. de Treville.
"Well, gentlemen," said the brave captain, "I hope you have been well
amused during your excursion."
"Prodigiously," replied Athos in the name of himself and his comrades.

67 CONCLUSION
On the sixth of the following month the king, in compliance with the
promise he had made the cardinal to return to La Rochelle, left his
capital still in amazement at the news which began to spread itself of
Buckingham''s assassination.
Although warned that the man she had loved so much was in great danger,
the queen, when his death was announced to her, would not believe the
fact, and even imprudently exclaimed, "it is false; he has just written
to me!"
But the next day she was obliged to believe this fatal intelligence;
Laporte, detained in England, as everyone else had been, by the orders
of Charles I, arrived, and was the bearer of the duke''s dying gift to
the queen.
The joy of the king was lively. He did not even give himself the
trouble to dissemble, and displayed it with affectation before the
queen. Louis XIII, like very weak mind, was wanting in generosity.
But the king soon again became dull and indisposed; his brow was not one
of those that long remain clear. He felt that in returning to camp he
should re-enter slavery; nevertheless, he did return.
The cardinal was for him the fascinating serpent, and himself the bird
which flies from branch to branch without power to escape.
The return to La Rochelle, therefore, was profoundly dull. Our four
friends, in particular, astonished their comrades; they traveled
together, side by side, with sad eyes and heads lowered. Athos alone
from time to time raised his expansive brow; a flash kindled in his
eyes, and a bitter smile passed over his lips, then, like his comrades,
he sank again into reverie.
As soon as the escort arrived in a city, when they had conducted the
king to his quarters the four friends either retired to their own or to
some secluded cabaret, where they neither drank nor played; they only
conversed in a low voice, looking around attentively to see that no one
overheard them.
One day, when the king had halted to fly the magpie, and the four
friends, according to their custom, instead of following the sport had
stopped at a cabaret on the high road, a man coming from la Rochelle on
horseback pulled up at the door to drink a glass of wine, and darted a
searching glance into the room where the four Musketeers were sitting.
"Holloa, Monsieur d''Artagnan!" said he, "is not that you whom I see
yonder?"
D''Artagnan raised his head and uttered a cry of joy. It was the man he
called his phantom; it was his stranger of Meung, of the Rue des
Fossoyeurs and of Arras.
D''Artagnan drew his sword, and sprang toward the door.
But this time, instead of avoiding him the stranger jumped from his
horse, and advanced to meet D''Artagnan.
"Ah, monsieur!" said the young man, "I meet you, then, at last! This
time you shall not escape me!"
"Neither is it my intention, monsieur, for this time I was seeking you;
in the name of the king, I arrest you."
"How! what do you say?" cried D''Artagnan.
"I say that you must surrender your sword to me, monsieur, and that
without resistance. This concerns your head, I warn you."
"Who are you, then?" demanded D''Artagnan, lowering the point of his
sword, but without yet surrendering it.
"I am the Chevalier de Rochefort," answered the other, "the equerry of
Monsieur le Cardinal Richelieu, and I have orders to conduct you to his
Eminence."
"We are returning to his Eminence, monsieur the Chevalier," said Athos,
advancing; "and you will please to accept the word of Monsieur
d''Artagnan that he will go straight to La Rochelle."
"I must place him in the hands of guards who will take him into camp."
"We will be his guards, monsieur, upon our word as gentlemen; but
likewise, upon our word as gentlemen," added Athos, knitting his brow,
"Monsieur d''Artagnan shall not leave us."
The Chevalier de Rochefort cast a glance backward, and saw that Porthos
and Aramis had placed themselves between him and the gate; he understood
that he was completely at the mercy of these four men.
"Gentlemen," said he, "if Monsieur d''Artagnan will surrender his sword
to me and join his word to yours, I shall be satisfied with your promise
to convey Monsieur d''Artagnan to the quarters of Monseigneur the
Cardinal."
"You have my word, monsieur, and here is my sword."
"This suits me the better," said Rochefort, "as I wish to continue my
journey."
"If it is for the purpose of rejoining Milady," said Athos, coolly, "it
is useless; you will not find her."
"What has become of her, then?" asked Rochefort, eagerly.
"Return to camp and you shall know."
Rochefort remained for a moment in thought; then, as they were only a
day''s journey from Surgeres, whither the cardinal was to come to meet
the king, he resolved to follow the advice of Athos and go with them.
Besides, this return offered him the advantage of watching his prisoner.
They resumed their route.
On the morrow, at three o''clock in the afternoon, they arrived at
Surgeres. The cardinal there awaited Louis XIII. The minister and the
king exchanged numerous caresses, felicitating each other upon the
fortunate chance which had freed France from the inveterate enemy who
set all Europe against her. After which, the cardinal, who had been
informed that D''Artagnan was arrested and who was anxious to see him,
took leave of the king, inviting him to come the next day to view the
work already done upon the dyke.
On returning in the evening to his quarters at the bridge of La Pierre,
the cardinal found, standing before the house he occupied, D''Artagnan,
without his sword, and the three Musketeers armed.
This time, as he was well attended, he looked at them sternly, and made
a sign with his eye and hand for D''Artagnan to follow him.
D''Artagnan obeyed.
"We shall wait for you, D''Artagnan," said Athos, loud enough for the
cardinal to hear him.
His Eminence bent his brow, stopped for an instant, and then kept on his
way without uttering a single word.
D''Artagnan entered after the cardinal, and behind D''Artagnan the door
was guarded.
His Eminence entered the chamber which served him as a study, and made a
sign to Rochefort to bring in the young Musketeer.
Rochefort obeyed and retired.
D''Artagnan remained alone in front of the cardinal; this was his second
interview with Richelieu, and he afterward confessed that he felt well
assured it would be his last.
Richelieu remained standing, leaning against the mantelpiece; a table
was between him and D''Artagnan.
"Monsieur," said the cardinal, "you have been arrested by my orders."
"So they tell me, monseigneur."
"Do you know why?"
"No, monseigneur, for the only thing for which I could be arrested is
still unknown to your Eminence."
Richelieu looked steadfastly at the young man.
"Holloa!" said he, "what does that mean?"
"If Monseigneur will have the goodness to tell me, in the first place,
what crimes are imputed to me, I will then tell him the deeds I have
really done."
"Crimes are imputed to you which had brought down far loftier heads than
yours, monsieur," said the cardinal.
"What, monseigneur?" said D''Artagnan, with a calmness which astonished
the cardinal himself.
"You are charged with having corresponded with the enemies of the
kingdom; you are charged with having surprised state secrets; you are
charged with having tried to thwart the plans of your general."
"And who charges me with this, monseigneur?" said D''Artagnan, who had
no doubt the accusation came from Milady, "a woman branded by the
justice of the country; a woman who has espoused one man in France and
another in England; a woman who poisoned her second husband and who
attempted both to poison and assassinate me!"
"What do you say, monsieur?" cried the cardinal, astonished; "and of
what woman are you speaking thus?"
"Of Milady de Winter," replied D''Artagnan, "yes, of Milady de Winter, of
whose crimes your Eminence is doubtless ignorant, since you have honored
her with your confidence."
"Monsieur," said the cardinal, "if Milady de Winter has committed the
crimes you lay to her charge, she shall be punished."
"She has been punished, monseigneur."
"And who has punished her?"
"We."
"She is in prison?"
"She is dead."
"Dead!" repeated the cardinal, who could not believe what he heard,
"dead! Did you not say she was dead?"
"Three times she attempted to kill me, and I pardoned her; but she
murdered the woman I loved. Then my friends and I took her, tried her,
and condemned her."
D''Artagnan then related the poisoning of Mme. Bonacieux in the convent
of the Carmelites at Bethune, the trial in the isolated house, and the
execution on the banks of the Lys.
A shudder crept through the body of the cardinal, who did not shudder
readily.
But all at once, as if undergoing the influence of an unspoken thought,
the countenance of the cardinal, till then gloomy, cleared up by
degrees, and recovered perfect serenity.
"So," said the cardinal, in a tone that contrasted strongly with the
severity of his words, "you have constituted yourselves judges, without
remembering that they who punish without license to punish are
assassins?"
"Monseigneur, I swear to you that I never for an instant had the
intention of defending my head against you. I willingly submit to any
punishment your Eminence may please to inflict upon me. I do not hold
life dear enough to be afraid of death."
"Yes, I know you are a man of a stout heart, monsieur," said the
cardinal, with a voice almost affectionate; "I can therefore tell you
beforehand you shall be tried, and even condemned."
"Another might reply to your Eminence that he had his pardon in his
pocket. I content myself with saying: Command, monseigneur; I am
ready."
"Your pardon?" said Richelieu, surprised.
"Yes, monseigneur," said D''Artagnan.
"And signed by whom--by the king?" And the cardinal pronounced these
words with a singular expression of contempt.
"No, by your Eminence."
"By me? You are insane, monsieur."
"Monseigneur will doubtless recognize his own handwriting."
And D''Artagnan presented to the cardinal the precious piece of paper
which Athos had forced from Milady, and which he had given to D''Artagnan
to serve him as a safeguard.
His Eminence took the paper, and read in a slow voice, dwelling upon
every syllable:
"Dec. 3, 1627
"It is by my order and for the good of the state that the bearer of this has done what he has done.
"RICHELIEU"
The cardinal, after having read these two lines, sank into a profound
reverie; but he did not return the paper to D''Artagnan.
"He is me***ating by what sort of punishment he shall cause me to die,"
said the Gascon to himself. "Well, my faith! he shall see how a
gentleman can die."
The young Musketeer was in excellent disposition to die heroically.
Richelieu still continued thinking, rolling and unrolling the paper in
his hands.
At length he raised his head, fixed his eagle look upon that loyal,
open, and intelligent countenance, read upon that face, furrowed with
tears, all the sufferings its possessor had endured in the course of a
month, and reflected for the third or fourth time how much there was in
that youth of twenty-one years before him, and what resources his
activity, his courage, and his shrewdness might offer to a good master.
On the other side, the crimes, the power, and the infernal genius of
Milady had more than once terrified him. He felt something like a
secret joy at being forever relieved of this dangerous accomplice.
Richelieu slowly tore the paper which D''Artagnan had generously
relinquished.
"I am lost!" said D''Artagnan to himself. And he bowed profoundly
before the cardinal, like a man who says, "Lord, Thy will be done!"
The cardinal approached the table, and without sitting down, wrote a few
lines upon a parchment of which two-thirds were already filled, and
affixed his seal.
"That is my condemnation," thought D''Artagnan; "he will spare me the
ENNUI of the Bastille, or the tediousness of a trial. That''s very kind
of him."
"Here, monsieur," said the cardinal to the young man. "I have taken
from you one CARTE BLANCHE to give you another. The name is wanting in
this commission; you can write it yourself."
D''Artagnan took the paper hesitatingly and cast his eyes over it; it was
a lieutenant''s commission in the Musketeers.
D''Artagnan fell at the feet of the cardinal.
"Monseigneur," said he, "my life is yours; henceforth dispose of it.
But this favor which you bestow upon me I do not merit. I have three
friends who are more meritorious and more worthy--"
"You are a brave youth, D''Artagnan," interrupted the cardinal, tapping
him familiarly on the shoulder, charmed at having vanquished this
rebellious nature. "Do with this commission what you will; only
remember, though the name be blank, it is to you I give it."
"I shall never forget it," replied D''Artagnan. "Your Eminence may be
certain of that."
The cardinal turned and said in a loud voice, "Rochefort!" The
chevalier, who no doubt was near the door, entered immediately.
"Rochefort," said the cardinal, "you see Monsieur d''Artagnan. I receive
him among the number of my friends. Greet each other, then; and be wise
if you wish to preserve your heads."
Rochefort and D''Artagnan coolly greeted each other with their lips; but
the cardinal was there, observing them with his vigilant eye.
They left the chamber at the same time.
"We shall meet again, shall we not, monsieur?"
"When you please," said D''Artagnan.
"An opportunity will come," replied Rochefort.
"Hey?" said the cardinal, opening the door.
The two men smiled at each other, shook hands, and saluted his Eminence.
"We were beginning to grow impatient," said Athos.
"Here I am, my friends," replied D''Artagnan; "not only free, but in
favor."
"Tell us about it."
"This evening; but for the moment, let us separate."
Accordingly, that same evening D''Artagnan repaired to the quarters of
Athos, whom he found in a fair way to empty a bottle of Spanish wine--an
occupation which he religiously accomplished every night.
D''Artagnan related what had taken place between the cardinal and
himself, and drawing the commission from his pocket, said, "Here, my
dear Athos, this naturally belongs to you."
Athos smiled with one of his sweet and expressive smiles.
"Friend," said he, "for Athos this is too much; for the Comte de la Fere
it is too little. Keep the commission; it is yours. Alas! you have
purchased it dearly enough."
D''Artagnan left Athos''s chamber and went to that of Porthos. He found
him clothed in a magnificent dress covered with splendid embroidery,
admiring himself before a glass.
"Ah, ah! is that you, dear friend?" exclaimed Porthos. "How do you
think these garments fit me?"
"Wonderfully," said D''Artagnan; but I come to offer you a dress which
will become you still better."
"What?" asked Porthos.
"That of a lieutenant of Musketeers."
D''Artagnan related to Porthos the substance of his interview with the
cardinal, and said, taking the commission from his pocket, "Here, my
friend, write your name upon it and become my chief."
Porthos cast his eyes over the commission and returned it to D''Artagnan,
to the great astonishment of the young man.
"Yes," said he, "yes, that would flatter me very much; but I should not
have time enough to enjoy the distinction. During our expe***ion to
Bethune the husband of my duchess died; so, my dear, the coffer of the
defunct holding out its arms to me, I shall marry the widow. Look here!
I was trying on my wedding suit. Keep the lieutenancy, my dear, keep
it."
The young man then entered the apartment of Aramis. He found him
kneeling before a PRIEDIEU with his head leaning on an open prayer book.
He described to him his interview with the cardinal, and said, for the
third time drawing his commission from his pocket, "You, our friend, our
intelligence, our invisible protector, accept this commission. You have
merited it more than any of us by your wisdom and your counsels, always
followed by such happy results."
"Alas, dear friend!" said Aramis, "our late adventures have disgusted
me with military life. This time my determination is irrevocably taken.
After the siege I shall enter the house of the Lazarists. Keep the
commission, D''Artagnan; the profession of arms suits you. You will be a
brave and adventurous captain."
D''Artagnan, his eye moist with gratitude though beaming with joy, went
back to Athos, whom he found still at table contemplating the charms of
his last glass of Malaga by the light of his lamp.
"Well," said he, "they likewise have refused me."
"That, dear friend, is because nobody is more worthy than yourself."
He took a quill, wrote the name of D''Artagnan in the commission, and
returned it to him.
"I shall then have no more friends," said the young man. "Alas!
nothing but bitter recollections."
And he let his head sink upon his hands, while two large tears rolled
down his cheeks.
"You are young," replied Athos; "and your bitter recollections have time
to change themselves into sweet remembrances."

EPILOGUE
La Rochelle, deprived of the assistance of the English fleet and of the
diversion promised by Buckingham, surrendered after a siege of a year.
On the twenty-eighth of October, 1628, the capitulation was signed.
The king made his entrance into Paris on the twenty-third of December of
the same year. He was received in triumph, as if he came from
conquering an enemy and not Frenchmen. He entered by the Faubourg St.
Jacques, under verdant arches.
D''Artagnan took possession of his command. Porthos left the service,
and in the course of the following year married Mme. Coquenard; the
coffer so much coveted contained eight hundred thousand livres.
Mousqueton had a magnificent livery, and enjoyed the satisfaction of
which he had been ambitious all his life--that of standing behind a
gilded carriage.
Aramis, after a journey into Lorraine, disappeared all at once, and
ceased to write to his friends; they learned at a later period through
Mme. de Chevreuse, who told it to two or three of her intimates, that,
yielding to his vocation, he had retired into a convent--only into
which, nobody knew.
Bazin became a lay brother.
Athos remained a Musketeer under the command of D''Artagnan till the year
1633, at which period, after a journey he made to Touraine, he also quit
the service, under the pretext of having inherited a small property in
Roussillon.
Grimaud followed Athos.
D''Artagnan fought three times with Rochefort, and wounded him three
times.
"I shall probably kill you the fourth," said he to him, holding out his
hand to assist him to rise.
"It is much better both for you and for me to stop where we are,"
answered the wounded man. "CORBLEU--I am more your friend than you
think--for after our very first encounter, I could by saying a word to
the cardinal have had your throat cut!"
They this time embraced heartily, and without retaining any malice.
Planchet obtained from Rochefort the rank of sergeant in the Piedmont
regiment.
M. Bonacieux lived on very quietly, wholly ignorant of what had become of his
wife, and caring very little about it. One day he had the imprudence to
recall himself to the memory of the cardinal. The cardinal had him informed
that he would provide for him so that he should never want for anything in
future. In fact, M. Bonacieux, having left his house at seven o''clock in the
evening to go to the Louvre, never appeared again in the Rue des Fossoyeurs;
the opinion of those who seemed to be best informed was that he was fed and
lodged in some royal castle, at the expense of his generous Eminence.