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49 FATALITY
Meantime Milady, drunk with passion, roaring on the deck like a lioness
that has been embarked, had been tempted to throw herself into the sea
that she might regain the coast, for she could not get rid of the
thought that she had been insulted by d’Artagnan, threatened by Athos,
and that she had quit France without being revenged on them. This idea
soon became so insupportable to her that at the risk of whatever
terrible consequences might result to herself from it, she implored the
captain to put her on shore; but the captain, eager to escape from his
false position—placed between French and English cruisers, like the bat
between the mice and the birds—was in great haste to regain England,
and positively refused to obey what he took for a woman’s caprice,
promising his passenger, who had been particularly recommended to him by
the cardinal, to land her, if the sea and the French permitted him, at
one of the ports of Brittany, either at Lorient or Brest. But the wind
was contrary, the sea bad; they tacked and kept offshore. Nine days
after leaving the Charente, pale with fatigue and vexation, Milady saw
only the blue coasts of Finisterre appear.
She calculated that to cross this corner of France and return to the
cardinal it would take her at least three days. Add another day for
landing, and that would make four. Add these four to the nine others,
that would be thirteen days lost—thirteen days, during which so many
important events might pass in London. She reflected likewise that the
cardinal would be furious at her return, and consequently would be more
disposed to listen to the complaints brought against her than to the
accusations she brought against others.
She allowed the vessel to pass Lorient and Brest without repeating her
request to the captain, who, on his part, took care not to remind her of
it. Milady therefore continued her voyage, and on the very day that
Planchet embarked at Portsmouth for France, the messenger of his
Eminence entered the port in triumph.
All the city was agitated by an extraordinary movement. Four large
vessels, recently built, had just been launched. At the end of the
jetty, his clothes richly laced with gold, glittering, as was customary
with him, with diamonds and precious stones, his hat ornamented with a
white feather which drooped upon his shoulder, Buckingham was seen
surrounded by a staff almost as brilliant as himself.
It was one of those rare and beautiful days in winter when England
remembers that there is a sun. The star of day, pale but nevertheless
still splendid, was setting in the horizon, glorifying at once the
heavens and the sea with bands of fire, and casting upon the towers and
the old houses of the city a last ray of gold which made the windows
sparkle like the reflection of a conflagration. Breathing that sea
breeze, so much more invigorating and balsamic as the land is
approached, contemplating all the power of those preparations she was
commissioned to destroy, all the power of that army which she was to
combat alone—she, a woman with a few bags of gold—Milady compared
herself mentally to Judith, the terrible Jewess, when she penetrated the
camp of the Assyrians and beheld the enormous mass of chariots, horses,
men, and arms, which a gesture of her hand was to dissipate like a cloud
of smoke.
They entered the roadstead; but as they drew near in order to cast
anchor, a little cutter, looking like a coastguard formidably armed,
approached the merchant vessel and dropped into the sea a boat which
directed its course to the ladder. This boat contained an officer, a
mate, and eight rowers. The officer alone went on board, where he was
received with all the deference inspired by the uniform.
The officer conversed a few instants with the captain, gave him several
papers, of which he was the bearer, to read, and upon the order of the
merchant captain the whole crew of the vessel, both passengers and
sailors, were called upon deck.
When this species of summons was made the officer inquired aloud the
point of the brig’s departure, its route, its landings; and to all these
questions the captain replied without difficulty and without hesitation.
Then the officer began to pass in review all the people, one after the
other, and stopping when he came to Milady, surveyed her very closely,
but without addressing a single word to her.
He then returned to the captain, said a few words to him, and as if from
that moment the vessel was under his command, he ordered a maneuver
which the crew executed immediately. Then the vessel resumed its course,
still escorted by the little cutter, which sailed side by side with it,
menacing it with the mouths of its six cannon. The boat followed in the
wake of the ship, a speck near the enormous mass.
During the examination of Milady by the officer, as may well be
imagined, Milady on her part was not less scrutinizing in her glances.
But however great was the power of this woman with eyes of flame in
reading the hearts of those whose secrets she wished to divine, she met
this time with a countenance of such impassivity that no discovery
followed her investigation. The officer who had stopped in front of her
and studied her with so much care might have been twenty-five or
twenty-six years of age. He was of pale complexion, with clear blue
eyes, rather deeply set; his mouth, fine and well cut, remained
motionless in its correct lines; his chin, strongly marked, denoted that
strength of will which in the ordinary Britannic type denotes mostly
nothing but obstinacy; a brow a little receding, as is proper for poets,
enthusiasts, and soldiers, was scarcely shaded by short thin hair which,
like the beard which covered the lower part of his face, was of a
beautiful deep chestnut color.
When they entered the port, it was already night. The fog increased the
darkness, and formed round the sternlights and lanterns of the jetty a
circle like that which surrounds the moon when the weather threatens to
become rainy. The air they breathed was heavy, damp, and cold.
Milady, that woman so courageous and firm, shivered in spite of herself.
The officer desired to have Milady’s packages pointed out to him, and
ordered them to be placed in the boat. When this operation was complete,
he invited her to descend by offering her his hand.
Milady looked at this man, and hesitated. "Who are you, sir," asked she,
"who has the kindness to trouble yourself so particularly on my
account?"
"You may perceive, madame, by my uniform, that I am an officer in the
English navy," replied the young man.
"But is it the custom for the officers in the English navy to place
themselves at the service of their female compatriots when they land in
a port of Great Britain, and carry their gallantry so far as to conduct
them ashore?"
"Yes, madame, it is the custom, not from gallantry but prudence, that in
time of war foreigners should be conducted to particular hotels, in
order that they may remain under the eye of the government until full
information can be obtained about them."
These words were pronounced with the most exact politeness and the most
perfect calmness. Nevertheless, they had not the power of convincing
Milady.
"But I am not a foreigner, sir," said she, with an accent as pure as
ever was heard between Portsmouth and Manchester; "my name is Lady
Clarik, and this measure—"
"This measure is general, madame; and you will seek in vain to evade
it."
"I will follow you, then, sir."
Accepting the hand of the officer, she began the descent of the ladder,
at the foot of which the boat waited. The officer followed her. A large
cloak was spread at the stern; the officer requested her to sit down
upon this cloak, and placed himself beside her.
"Row!" said he to the sailors.
The eight oars fell at once into the sea, making but a single sound,
giving but a single stroke, and the boat seemed to fly over the surface
of the water.
In five minutes they gained the land.
The officer leaped to the pier, and offered his hand to Milady. A
carriage was in waiting.
"Is this carriage for us?" asked Milady.
"Yes, madame," replied the officer.
"The hotel, then, is far away?"
"At the other end of the town."
"Very well," said Milady; and she resolutely entered the carriage.
The officer saw that the baggage was fastened carefully behind the
carriage; and this operation ended, he took his place beside Milady, and
shut the door.
Immediately, without any order being given or his place of destination
indicated, the coachman set off at a rapid pace, and plunged into the
streets of the city.
So strange a reception naturally gave Milady ample matter for
reflection; so seeing that the young officer did not seem at all
disposed for conversation, she reclined in her corner of the carriage,
and one after the other passed in review all the surmises which
presented themselves to her mind.
At the end of a quarter of an hour, however, surprised at the length of
the journey, she leaned forward toward the door to see whither she was
being conducted. Houses were no longer to be seen; trees appeared in the
darkness like great black phantoms chasing one another. Milady
shuddered.
"But we are no longer in the city, sir," said she.
The young officer preserved silence.
"I beg you to understand, sir, I will go no farther unless you tell me
whither you are taking me."
This threat brought no reply.
"Oh, this is too much," cried Milady. "Help! help!"
No voice replied to hers; the carriage continued to roll on with
rapidity; the officer seemed a statue.
Milady looked at the officer with one of those terrible expressions
peculiar to her countenance, and which so rarely failed of their effect;
anger made her eyes flash in the darkness.
The young man remained immovable.
Milady tried to open the door in order to throw herself out.
"Take care, madame," said the young man, coolly, "you will kill yourself
in jumping."
Milady reseated herself, foaming. The officer leaned forward, looked at
her in his turn, and appeared surprised to see that face, just before so
beautiful, distorted with passion and almost hideous. The artful
creature at once comprehended that she was injuring herself by allowing
him thus to read her soul; she collected her features, and in a
complaining voice said: "In the name of heaven, sir, tell me if it is to
you, if it is to your government, if it is to an enemy I am to attribute
the violence that is done me?"
"No violence will be offered to you, madame, and what happens to you is
the result of a very simple measure which we are obliged to adopt with
all who land in England."
"Then you don’t know me, sir?"
"It is the first time I have had the honor of seeing you."
"And on your honor, you have no cause of hatred against me?"
"None, I swear to you."
There was so much serenity, coolness, mildness even, in the voice of the
young man, that Milady felt reassured.
At length after a journey of nearly an hour, the carriage stopped before
an iron gate, which closed an avenue leading to a castle severe in form,
massive, and isolated. Then, as the wheels rolled over a fine gravel,
Milady could hear a vast roaring, which she at once recognized as the
noise of the sea dashing against some steep cliff.
The carriage passed under two arched gateways, and at length stopped in
a court large, dark, and square. Almost immediately the door of the
carriage was opened, the young man sprang lightly out and presented his
hand to Milady, who leaned upon it, and in her turn alighted with
tolerable calmness.
"Still, then, I am a prisoner," said Milady, looking around her, and
bringing back her eyes with a most gracious smile to the young officer;
"but I feel assured it will not be for long," added she. "My own
conscience and your politeness, sir, are the guarantees of that."
However flattering this compliment, the officer made no reply; but
drawing from his belt a little silver whistle, such as boatswains use in
ships of war, he whistled three times, with three different modulations.
Immediately several men appeared, who unharnessed the smoking horses,
and put the carriage into a coach house.
Then the officer, with the same calm politeness, invited his prisoner to
enter the house. She, with a still-smiling countenance, took his arm,
and passed with him under a low arched door, which by a vaulted passage,
lighted only at the farther end, led to a stone staircase around an
angle of stone. They then came to a massive door, which after the
introduction into the lock of a key which the young man carried with
him, turned heavily upon its hinges, and disclosed the chamber destined
for Milady.
With a single glance the prisoner took in the apartment in its minutest
details. It was a chamber whose furniture was at once appropriate for a
prisoner or a free man; and yet bars at the windows and outside bolts at
the door decided the question in favor of the prison.
In an instant all the strength of mind of this creature, though drawn
from the most vigorous sources, abandoned her; she sank into a large
easy chair, with her arms crossed, her head lowered, and expecting every
instant to see a judge enter to interrogate her.
But no one entered except two or three marines, who brought her trunks
and packages, deposited them in a corner, and retired without speaking.
The officer superintended all these details with the same calmness
Milady had constantly seen in him, never pronouncing a word himself, and
making himself obeyed by a gesture of his hand or a sound of his
whistle.
It might have been said that between this man and his inferiors spoken
language did not exist, or had become useless.
At length Milady could hold out no longer; she broke the silence. "In
the name of heaven, sir," cried she, "what means all that is passing?
Put an end to my doubts; I have courage enough for any danger I can
foresee, for every misfortune which I understand. Where am I, and why am
I here? If I am free, why these bars and these doors? If I am a
prisoner, what crime have I committed?"
"You are here in the apartment destined for you, madame. I received
orders to go and take charge of you on the sea, and to conduct you to
this castle. This order I believe I have accomplished with all the
exactness of a soldier, but also with the courtesy of a gentleman. There
terminates, at least to the present moment, the duty I had to fulfill
toward you; the rest concerns another person."
"And who is that other person?" asked Milady, warmly. "Can you not tell
me his name?"
At the moment a great jingling of spurs was heard on the stairs. Some
voices passed and faded away, and the sound of a single footstep
approached the door.
"That person is here, madame," said the officer, leaving the entrance
open, and drawing himself up in an attitude of respect.
At the same time the door opened; a man appeared on the threshold. He
was without a hat, carried a sword, and flourished a handkerchief in his
hand.
Milady thought she recognized this shadow in the gloom; she supported
herself with one hand upon the arm of the chair, and advanced her head
as if to meet a certainty.
The stranger advanced slowly, and as he advanced, after entering into
the circle of light projected by the lamp, Milady involuntarily drew
back.
Then when she had no longer any doubt, she cried, in a state of stupor,
"What, my brother, is it you?"
"Yes, fair lady!" replied Lord de Winter, making a bow, half courteous,
half ironical; "it is I, myself."
"But this castle, then?"
"Is mine."
"This chamber?"
"Is yours."
"I am, then, your prisoner?"
"Nearly so."
"But this is a frightful abuse of power!"
"No high-sounding words! Let us sit down and chat quietly, as brother
and sister ought to do."
Then, turning toward the door, and seeing that the young officer was
waiting for his last orders, he said. "All is well, I thank you; now
leave us alone, Mr. Felton."
End of Chapter 49
50 CHAT BETWEEN BROTHER AND SISTER
During the time which Lord de Winter took to shut the door, close a
shutter, and draw a chair near to his sister-in-law’s fauteuil, Milady,
anxiously thoughtful, plunged her glance into the depths of possibility,
and discovered all the plan, of which she could not even obtain a glance
as long as she was ignorant into whose hands she had fallen. She knew
her brother-in-law to be a worthy gentleman, a bold hunter, an intrepid
player, enterprising with women, but by no means remarkable for his
skill in intrigues. How had he discovered her arrival, and caused her to
be seized? Why did he detain her?
Athos had dropped some words which proved that the conversation she had
with the cardinal had fallen into outside ears; but she could not
suppose that he had dug a countermine so promptly and so boldly. She
rather feared that her preceding operations in England might have been
discovered. Buckingham might have guessed that it was she who had cut
off the two studs, and avenge himself for that little treachery; but
Buckingham was incapable of going to any excess against a woman,
particularly if that woman was supposed to have acted from a feeling of
jealousy.
This supposition appeared to her most reasonable. It seemed to her that
they wanted to revenge the past, and not to anticipate the future. At
all events, she congratulated herself upon having fallen into the hands
of her brother-in-law, with whom she reckoned she could deal very
easily, rather than into the hands of an acknowledged and intelligent
enemy.
"Yes, let us chat, brother," said she, with a kind of cheerfulness,
decided as she was to draw from the conversation, in spite of all the
dissimulation Lord de Winter could bring, the revelations of which she
stood in need to regulate her future conduct.
"You have, then, decided to come to England again," said Lord de Winter,
"in spite of the resolutions you so often expressed in Paris never to
set your feet on British ground?"
Milady replied to this question by another question. "To begin with,
tell me," said she, "how have you watched me so closely as to be aware
beforehand not only of my arrival, but even of the day, the hour, and
the port at which I should arrive?"
Lord de Winter adopted the same tactics as Milady, thinking that as his
sister-in-law employed them they must be the best.
"But tell me, my dear sister," replied he, "what makes you come to
England?"
"I come to see you," replied Milady, without knowing how much she
aggravated by this reply the suspicions to which d’Artagnan’s letter had
given birth in the mind of her brother-in-law, and only desiring to gain
the good will of her auditor by a falsehood.
"Ah, to see me?" said de Winter, cunningly.
"To be sure, to see you. What is there astonishing in that?"
"And you had no other object in coming to England but to see me?"
"No."
"So it was for me alone you have taken the trouble to cross the
Channel?"
"For you alone."
"The deuce! What tenderness, my sister!"
"But am I not your nearest relative?" demanded Milady, with a tone of
the most touching ingenuousness.
"And my only heir, are you not?" said Lord de Winter in his turn, fixing
his eyes on those of Milady.
Whatever command she had over herself, Milady could not help starting;
and as in pronouncing the last words Lord de Winter placed his hand upon
the arm of his sister, this start did not escape him.
In fact, the blow was direct and severe. The first idea that occurred to
Milady’s mind was that she had been betrayed by Kitty, and that she had
recounted to the baron the selfish aversion toward himself of which she
had imprudently allowed some marks to escape before her servant. She
also recollected the furious and imprudent attack she had made upon
d’Artagnan when he spared the life of her brother.
"I do not understand, my Lord," said she, in order to gain time and make
her adversary speak out. "What do you mean to say? Is there any secret
meaning concealed beneath your words?"
"Oh, my God, no!" said Lord de Winter, with apparent good nature. "You
wish to see me, and you come to England. I learn this desire, or rather
I suspect that you feel it; and in order to spare you all the annoyances
of a nocturnal arrival in a port and all the fatigues of landing, I send
one of my officers to meet you, I place a carriage at his orders, and he
brings you hither to this castle, of which I am governor, whither I come
every day, and where, in order to satisfy our mutual desire of seeing
each other, I have prepared you a chamber. What is there more
astonishing in all that I have said to you than in what you have told
me?"
"No; what I think astonishing is that you should expect my coming."
"And yet that is the most simple thing in the world, my dear sister.
Have you not observed that the captain of your little vessel, on
entering the roadstead, sent forward, in order to obtain permission to
enter the port, a little boat bearing his logbook and the register of
his voyagers? I am commandant of the port. They brought me that book. I
recognized your name in it. My heart told me what your mouth has just
confirmed—that is to say, with what view you have exposed yourself to
the dangers of a sea so perilous, or at least so troublesome at this
moment—and I sent my cutter to meet you. You know the rest."
Milady knew that Lord de Winter lied, and she was the more alarmed.
"My brother," continued she, "was not that my Lord Buckingham whom I saw
on the jetty this evening as we arrived?"
"Himself. Ah, I can understand how the sight of him struck you," replied
Lord de Winter. "You came from a country where he must be very much
talked of, and I know that his armaments against France greatly engage
the attention of your friend the cardinal."
"My friend the cardinal!" cried Milady, seeing that on this point as on
the other Lord de Winter seemed well instructed.
"Is he not your friend?" replied the baron, negligently. "Ah, pardon! I
thought so; but we will return to my Lord Duke presently. Let us not
depart from the sentimental turn our conversation had taken. You came,
you say, to see me?"
"Yes."
"Well, I reply that you shall be served to the height of your wishes,
and that we shall see each other every day."
"Am I, then, to remain here eternally?" demanded Milady, with a certain
terror.
"Do you find yourself badly lodged, sister? Demand anything you want,
and I will hasten to have you furnished with it."
"But I have neither my women nor my servants."
"You shall have all, madame. Tell me on what footing your household was
established by your first husband, and although I am only your
brother-in-law, I will arrange one similar."
"My first husband!" cried Milady, looking at Lord de Winter with eyes
almost starting from their sockets.
"Yes, your French husband. I don’t speak of my brother. If you have
forgotten, as he is still living, I can write to him and he will send me
information on the subject."
A cold sweat burst from the brow of Milady.
"You jest!" said she, in a hollow voice.
"Do I look so?" asked the baron, rising and going a step backward.
"Or rather you insult me," continued she, pressing with her stiffened
hands the two arms of her easy chair, and raising herself upon her
wrists.
"I insult you!" said Lord de Winter, with contempt. "In truth, madame,
do you think that can be possible?"
"Indeed, sir," said Milady, "you must be either drunk or mad. Leave the
room, and send me a woman."
"Women are very indiscreet, my sister. Cannot I serve you as a waiting
maid? By that means all our secrets will remain in the family."
"Insolent!" cried Milady; and as if acted upon by a spring, she bounded
toward the baron, who awaited her attack with his arms crossed, but
nevertheless with one hand on the hilt of his sword.
"Come!" said he. "I know you are accustomed to assassinate people; but I
warn you I shall defend myself, even against you."
"You are right," said Milady. "You have all the appearance of being
cowardly enough to lift your hand against a woman."
"Perhaps so; and I have an excuse, for mine would not be the first hand
of a man that has been placed upon you, I imagine."
And the baron pointed, with a slow and accusing gesture, to the left
shoulder of Milady, which he almost touched with his finger.
Milady uttered a deep, inward shriek, and retreated to a corner of the
room like a panther which crouches for a spring.
"Oh, growl as much as you please," cried Lord de Winter, "but don’t try
to bite, for I warn you that it would be to your disadvantage. There are
here no procurators who regulate successions beforehand. There is no
knight-errant to come and seek a quarrel with me on account of the fair
lady I detain a prisoner; but I have judges quite ready who will quickly
dispose of a woman so shameless as to glide, a bigamist, into the bed of
Lord de Winter, my brother. And these judges, I warn you, will soon send
you to an executioner who will make both your shoulders alike."
The eyes of Milady darted such flashes that although he was a man and
armed before an unarmed woman, he felt the chill of fear glide through
his whole frame. However, he continued all the same, but with increasing
warmth: "Yes, I can very well understand that after having inherited the
fortune of my brother it would be very agreeable to you to be my heir
likewise; but know beforehand, if you kill me or cause me to be killed,
my precautions are taken. Not a penny of what I possess will pass into
your hands. Were you not already rich enough—you who possess nearly a
million? And could you not stop your fatal career, if you did not do
evil for the infinite and supreme joy of doing it? Oh, be assured, if
the memory of my brother were not sacred to me, you should rot in a
state dungeon or satisfy the curiosity of sailors at Tyburn. I will be
silent, but you must endure your captivity quietly. In fifteen or twenty
days I shall set out for La Rochelle with the army; but on the eve of my
departure a vessel which I shall see depart will take you hence and
convey you to our colonies in the south. And be assured that you shall
be accompanied by one who will blow your brains out at the first attempt
you make to return to England or the Continent."
Milady listened with an attention that dilated her inflamed eyes.
"Yes, at present," continued Lord de Winter, "you will remain in this
castle. The walls are thick, the doors strong, and the bars solid;
besides, your window opens immediately over the sea. The men of my crew,
who are devoted to me for life and death, mount guard around this
apartment, and watch all the passages that lead to the courtyard. Even
if you gained the yard, there would still be three iron gates for you to
pass. The order is positive. A step, a gesture, a word, on your part,
denoting an effort to escape, and you are to be fired upon. If they kill
you, English justice will be under an obligation to me for having saved
it trouble. Ah! I see your features regain their calmness, your
countenance recovers its assurance. You are saying to yourself: ’Fifteen
days, twenty days? Bah! I have an inventive mind; before that is expired
some idea will occur to me. I have an infernal spirit. I shall meet with
a victim. Before fifteen days are gone by I shall be away from here.’
Ah, try it!"
Milady, finding her thoughts betrayed, dug her nails into her flesh to
subdue every emotion that might give to her face any expression except
agony.
Lord de Winter continued: "The officer who commands here in my absence
you have already seen, and therefore know him. He knows how, as you must
have observed, to obey an order—for you did not, I am sure, come from
Portsmouth hither without endeavoring to make him speak. What do you say
of him? Could a statue of marble have been more impassive and more mute?
You have already tried the power of your seductions upon many men, and
unfortunately you have always succeeded; but I give you leave to try
them upon this one. PARDIEU! if you succeed with him, I pronounce you
the demon himself."
He went toward the door and opened it hastily.
"Call Mr. Felton," said he. "Wait a minute longer, and I will introduce
him to you."
There followed between these two personages a strange silence, during
which the sound of a slow and regular step was heard approaching.
Shortly a human form appeared in the shade of the corridor, and the
young lieutenant, with whom we are already acquainted, stopped at the
threshold to receive the orders of the baron.
"Come in, my dear John," said Lord de Winter, "come in, and shut the
door."
The young officer entered.
"Now," said the baron, "look at this woman. She is young; she is
beautiful; she possesses all earthly seductions. Well, she is a monster,
who, at twenty-five years of age, has been guilty of as many crimes as
you could read of in a year in the archives of our tribunals. Her voice
prejudices her hearers in her favor; her beauty serves as a bait to her
victims; her body even pays what she promises—I must do her that
justice. She will try to seduce you, perhaps she will try to kill you. I
have extricated you from misery, Felton; I have caused you to be named
lieutenant; I once saved your life, you know on what occasion. I am for
you not only a protector, but a friend; not only a benefactor, but a
father. This woman has come back again into England for the purpose of
conspiring against my life. I hold this serpent in my hands. Well, I
call you, and say to you: Friend Felton, John, my child, guard me, and
more particularly guard yourself, against this woman. Swear, by your
hopes of salvation, to keep her safely for the chastisement she has
merited. John Felton, I trust your word! John Felton, I put faith in
your loyalty!"
"My Lord," said the young officer, summoning to his mild countenance all
the hatred he could find in his heart, "my Lord, I swear all shall be
done as you desire."
Milady received this look like a resigned victim; it was impossible to
imagine a more submissive or a more mild expression than that which
prevailed on her beautiful countenance. Lord de Winter himself could
scarcely recognize the tigress who, a minute before, prepared apparently
for a fight.
"She is not to leave this chamber, understand, John," continued the
baron. "She is to correspond with nobody; she is to speak to no one but
you—if you will do her the honor to address a word to her."
"That is sufficient, my Lord! I have sworn."
"And now, madame, try to make your peace with God, for you are judged by
men!"
Milady let her head sink, as if crushed by this sentence. Lord de Winter
went out, making a sign to Felton, who followed him, shutting the door
after him.
One instant after, the heavy step of a marine who served as sentinel was
heard in the corridor—his ax in his girdle and his musket on his
shoulder.
Milady remained for some minutes in the same position, for she thought
they might perhaps be examining her through the keyhole; she then slowly
raised her head, which had resumed its formidable expression of menace
and defiance, ran to the door to listen, looked out of her window, and
returning to bury herself again in her large armchair, she reflected.
End of Chapter 50
51 OFFICER
Meanwhile, the cardinal looked anxiously for news from England; but no
news arrived that was not annoying and threatening.
Although La Rochelle was invested, however certain success might
appear—thanks to the precautions taken, and above all to the ***,
which prevented the entrance of any vessel into the besieged city—the
blockade might last a long time yet. This was a great affront to the
king’s army, and a great inconvenience to the cardinal, who had no
longer, it is true, to embroil Louis XIII with Anne of Austria—for that
affair was over—but he had to adjust matters for M. de Bassompierre,
who was embroiled with the Duc d’Angouleme.
As to Monsieur, who had begun the siege, he left to the cardinal the
task of finishing it.
The city, notwithstanding the incredible perseverance of its mayor, had
attempted a sort of mutiny for a surrender; the mayor had hanged the
mutineers. This execution quieted the ill-disposed, who resolved to
allow themselves to die of hunger—this death always appearing to them
more slow and less sure than strangulation.
On their side, from time to time, the besiegers took the messengers
which the Rochellais sent to Buckingham, or the spies which Buckingham
sent to the Rochellais. In one case or the other, the trial was soon
over. The cardinal pronounced the single word, "Hanged!" The king was
invited to come and see the hanging. He came languidly, placing himself
in a good situation to see all the details. This amused him sometimes a
little, and made him endure the siege with patience; but it did not
prevent his getting very tired, or from talking at every moment of
returning to Paris—so that if the messengers and the spies had failed,
his Eminence, notwithstanding all his inventiveness, would have found
himself much embarrassed.
Nevertheless, time passed on, and the Rochellais did not surrender. The
last spy that was taken was the bearer of a letter. This letter told
Buckingham that the city was at an extremity; but instead of adding, "If
your succor does not arrive within fifteen days, we will surrender," it
added, quite simply, "If your succor comes not within fifteen days, we
shall all be dead with hunger when it comes."
The Rochellais, then, had no hope but in Buckingham. Buckingham was
their Messiah. It was evident that if they one day learned positively
that they must not count on Buckingham, their courage would fail with
their hope.
The cardinal looked, then, with great impatience for the news from
England which would announce to him that Buckingham would not come.
The question of carrying the city by assault, though often debated in
the council of the king, had been always rejected. In the first place,
La Rochelle appeared impregnable. Then the cardinal, whatever he said,
very well knew that the horror of bloodshed in this encounter, in which
Frenchman would combat against Frenchman, was a retrograde movement of
sixty years impressed upon his policy; and the cardinal was at that
period what we now call a man of progress. In fact, the sack of La
Rochelle, and the assassination of three of four thousand Huguenots who
allowed themselves to be killed, would resemble too closely, in 1628,
the massacre of St. Bartholomew in 1572; and then, above all this, this
extreme measure, which was not at all repugnant to the king, good
Catholic as he was, always fell before this argument of the besieging
generals—La Rochelle is impregnable except to famine.
The cardinal could not drive from his mind the fear he entertained of
his terrible emissary—for he comprehended the strange qualities of this
woman, sometimes a serpent, sometimes a lion. Had she betrayed him? Was
she dead? He knew her well enough in all cases to know that, whether
acting for or against him, as a friend or an enemy, she would not remain
motionless without great impediments; but whence did these impediments
arise? That was what he could not know.
And yet he reckoned, and with reason, on Milady. He had divined in the
past of this woman terrible things which his red mantle alone could
cover; and he felt, from one cause or another, that this woman was his
own, as she could look to no other but himself for a support superior to
the danger which threatened her.
He resolved, then, to carry on the war alone, and to look for no success
foreign to himself, but as we look for a fortunate chance. He continued
to press the raising of the famous *** which was to starve La Rochelle.
Meanwhile, he cast his eyes over that unfortunate city, which contained
so much deep misery and so many heroic virtues, and recalling the saying
of Louis XI, his political predecessor, as he himself was the
predecessor of Robespierre, he repeated this maxim of Tristan’s gossip:
"Divide in order to reign."
Henry IV, when besieging Paris, had loaves and provisions thrown over
the walls. The cardinal had little notes thrown over in which he
represented to the Rochellais how unjust, selfish, and barbarous was the
conduct of their leaders. These leaders had corn in abundance, and would
not let them partake of it; they adopted as a maxim—for they, too, had
maxims—that it was of very little consequence that women, children, and
old men should die, so long as the men who were to defend the walls
remained strong and healthy. Up to that time, whether from devotedness
or from want of power to act against it, this maxim, without being
generally adopted, nevertheless passed from theory into practice; but
the notes did it injury. The notes reminded the men that the children,
women, and old men whom they allowed to die were their sons, their
wives, and their fathers, and that it would be more just for everyone to
be reduced to the common misery, in order that equal conditions should
give birth to unanimous resolutions.
These notes had all the effect that he who wrote them could expect, in
that they induced a great number of the inhabitants to open private
negotiations with the royal army.
But at the moment when the cardinal saw his means already bearing fruit,
and applauded himself for having put it in action, an inhabitant of La
Rochelle who had contrived to pass the royal lines—God knows how, such
was the watchfulness of Bassompierre, Schomberg, and the Duc
d’Angouleme, themselves watched over by the cardinal—an inhabitant of
La Rochelle, we say, entered the city, coming from Portsmouth, and
saying that he had seen a magnificent fleet ready to sail within eight
days. Still further, Buckingham announced to the mayor that at length
the great league was about to declare itself against France, and that
the kingdom would be at once invaded by the English, Imperial, and
Spanish armies. This letter was read publicly in all parts of the city.
Copies were put up at the corners of the streets; and even they who had
begun to open negotiations interrupted them, being resolved to await the
succor so pompously announced.
This unexpected circumstance brought back Richelieu’s former anxiety,
and forced him in spite of himself once more to turn his eyes to the
other side of the sea.
During this time, exempt from the anxiety of its only and true chief,
the royal army led a joyous life, neither provisions nor money being
wanting in the camp. All the corps rivaled one another in audacity and
gaiety. To take spies and hang them, to make hazardous expeditions upon
the *** or the sea, to imagine wild plans, and to execute them
coolly—such were the pastimes which made the army find these days short
which were not only so long to the Rochellais, a prey to famine and
anxiety, but even to the cardinal, who blockaded them so closely.
Sometimes when the cardinal, always on horseback, like the lowest
GENDARME of the army, cast a pensive glance over those works, so slowly
keeping pace with his wishes, which the engineers, brought from all the
corners of France, were executing under his orders, if he met a
Musketeer of the company of Treville, he drew near and looked at him in
a peculiar manner, and not recognizing in him one of our four
companions, he turned his penetrating look and profound thoughts in
another direction.
One day when oppressed with a mortal weariness of mind, without hope in
the negotiations with the city, without news from England, the cardinal
went out, without any other aim than to be out of doors, and accompanied
only by Cahusac and La Houdiniere, strolled along the beach. Mingling
the immensity of his dreams with the immensity of the ocean, he came,
his horse going at a foot’s pace, to a hill from the top of which he
perceived behind a hedge, reclining on the sand and catching in its
passage one of those rays of the sun so rare at this period of the year,
seven men surrounded by empty bottles. Four of these men were our
Musketeers, preparing to listen to a letter one of them had just
received. This letter was so important that it made them forsake their
cards and their dice on the drumhead.
The other three were occupied in opening an enormous flagon of Collicure
wine; these were the lackeys of these gentlemen.
The cardinal was, as we have said, in very low spirits; and nothing when
he was in that state of mind increased his depression so much as gaiety
in others. Besides, he had another strange fancy, which was always to
believe that the causes of his sadness created the gaiety of others.
Making a sign to La Houdiniere and Cahusac to stop, he alighted from his
horse, and went toward these suspected merry companions, hoping, by
means of the sand which deadened the sound of his steps and of the hedge
which concealed his approach, to catch some words of this conversation
which appeared so interesting. At ten paces from the hedge he recognized
the talkative Gascon; and as he had already perceived that these men
were Musketeers, he did not doubt that the three others were those
called the Inseparables; that is to say, Athos, Porthos, and Aramis.
It may be supposed that his desire to hear the conversation was
augmented by this discovery. His eyes took a strange expression, and
with the step of a tiger-cat he advanced toward the hedge; but he had
not been able to catch more than a few vague syllables without any
positive sense, when a sonorous and short cry made him start, and
attracted the attention of the Musketeers.
"Officer!" cried Grimaud.
"You are speaking, you scoundrel!" said Athos, rising upon his elbow,
and transfixing Grimaud with his flaming look.
Grimaud therefore added nothing to his speech, but contented himself
with pointing his index finger in the direction of the hedge, announcing
by this gesture the cardinal and his escort.
With a single bound the Musketeers were on their feet, and saluted with
respect.
The cardinal seemed furious.
"It appears that Messieurs the Musketeers keep guard," said he. "Are the
English expected by land, or do the Musketeers consider themselves
superior officers?"
"Monseigneur," replied Athos, for amid the general fright he alone had
preserved the noble calmness and coolness that never forsook him,
"Monseigneur, the Musketeers, when they are not on duty, or when their
duty is over, drink and play at dice, and they are certainly superior
officers to their lackeys."
"Lackeys?" grumbled the cardinal. "Lackeys who have the order to warn
their masters when anyone passes are not lackeys, they are sentinels."
"Your Eminence may perceive that if we had not taken this precaution, we
should have been exposed to allowing you to pass without presenting you
our respects or offering you our thanks for the favor you have done us
in uniting us. D’Artagnan," continued Athos, "you, who but lately were
so anxious for such an opportunity for expressing your gratitude to
Monseigneur, here it is; avail yourself of it."
These words were pronounced with that imperturbable phlegm which
distinguished Athos in the hour of danger, and with that excessive
politeness which made of him at certain moments a king more majestic
than kings by birth.
D’Artagnan came forward and stammered out a few words of gratitude which
soon expired under the gloomy looks of the cardinal.
"It does not signify, gentlemen," continued the cardinal, without
appearing to be in the least swerved from his first intention by the
diversion which Athos had started, "it does not signify, gentlemen. I do
not like to have simple soldiers, because they have the advantage of
serving in a privileged corps, thus to play the great lords; discipline
is the same for them as for everybody else."
Athos allowed the cardinal to finish his sentence completely, and bowed
in sign of assent. Then he resumed in his turn: "Discipline,
Monseigneur, has, I hope, in no way been forgotten by us. We are not on
duty, and we believed that not being on duty we were at liberty to
dispose of our time as we pleased. If we are so fortunate as to have
some particular duty to perform for your Eminence, we are ready to obey
you. Your Eminence may perceive," continued Athos, knitting his brow,
for this sort of investigation began to annoy him, "that we have not
come out without our arms."
And he showed the cardinal, with his finger, the four muskets piled near
the drum, on which were the cards and dice.
"Your Eminence may believe," added d’Artagnan, "that we would have come
to meet you, if we could have supposed it was Monseigneur coming toward
us with so few attendants."
The cardinal bit his mustache, and even his lips a little.
"Do you know what you look like, all together, as you are armed and
guarded by your lackeys?" said the cardinal. "You look like four
conspirators."
"Oh, as to that, Monseigneur, it is true," said Athos; "we do conspire,
as your Eminence might have seen the other morning. Only we conspire
against the Rochellais."
"Ah, you gentlemen of policy!" replied the cardinal, knitting his brow
in his turn, "the secret of many unknown things might perhaps be found
in your brains, if we could read them as you read that letter which you
concealed as soon as you saw me coming."
The color mounted to the face of Athos, and he made a step toward his
Eminence.
"One might think you really suspected us, monseigneur, and we were
undergoing a real interrogatory. If it be so, we trust your Eminence
will deign to explain yourself, and we should then at least be
acquainted with our real position."
"And if it were an interrogatory!" replied the cardinal. "Others besides
you have undergone such, Monsieur Athos, and have replied thereto."
"Thus I have told your Eminence that you had but to question us, and we
are ready to reply."
"What was that letter you were about to read, Monsieur Aramis, and which
you so promptly concealed?"
"A woman’s letter, monseigneur."
"Ah, yes, I see," said the cardinal; "we must be discreet with this sort
of letters; but nevertheless, we may show them to a confessor, and you
know I have taken orders."
"Monseigneur," said Athos, with a calmness the more terrible because he
risked his head in making this reply, "the letter is a woman’s letter,
but it is neither signed Marion de Lorme, nor Madame d’Aiguillon."
The cardinal became as pale as death; lightning darted from his eyes. He
turned round as if to give an order to Cahusac and Houdiniere. Athos saw
the movement; he made a step toward the muskets, upon which the other
three friends had fixed their eyes, like men ill-disposed to allow
themselves to be taken. The cardinalists were three; the Musketeers,
lackeys included, were seven. He judged that the match would be so much
the less equal, if Athos and his companions were really plotting; and by
one of those rapid turns which he always had at command, all his anger
faded away into a smile.
"Well, well!" said he, "you are brave young men, proud in daylight,
faithful in darkness. We can find no fault with you for watching over
yourselves, when you watch so carefully over others. Gentlemen, I have
not forgotten the night in which you served me as an escort to the Red
Dovecot. If there were any danger to be apprehended on the road I am
going, I would request you to accompany me; but as there is none, remain
where you are, finish your bottles, your game, and your letter. Adieu,
gentlemen!"
And remounting his horse, which Cahusac led to him, he saluted them with
his hand, and rode away.
The four young men, standing and motionless, followed him with their
eyes without speaking a single word until he had disappeared. Then they
looked at one another.
The countenances of all gave evidence of terror, for notwithstanding the
friendly adieu of his Eminence, they plainly perceived that the cardinal
went away with rage in his heart.
Athos alone smiled, with a self-possessed, disdainful smile.
When the cardinal was out of hearing and sight, "That Grimaud kept bad
watch!" cried Porthos, who had a great inclination to vent his ill-humor
on somebody.
Grimaud was about to reply to excuse himself. Athos lifted his finger,
and Grimaud was silent.
"Would you have given up the letter, Aramis?" said d’Artagnan.
"I," said Aramis, in his most flutelike tone, "I had made up my mind. If
he had insisted upon the letter being given up to him, I would have
presented the letter to him with one hand, and with the other I would
have run my sword through his body."
"I expected as much," said Athos; "and that was why I threw myself
between you and him. Indeed, this man is very much to blame for talking
thus to other men; one would say he had never had to do with any but
women and children."
"My dear Athos, I admire you, but nevertheless we were in the wrong,
after all."
"How, in the wrong?" said Athos. "Whose, then, is the air we breathe?
Whose is the ocean upon which we look? Whose is the sand upon which we
were reclining? Whose is that letter of your mistress? Do these belong
to the cardinal? Upon my honor, this man fancies the world belongs to
him. There you stood, stammering, stupefied, annihilated. One might have
supposed the Bastille appeared before you, and that the gigantic Medusa
had converted you into stone. Is being in love conspiring? You are in
love with a woman whom the cardinal has caused to be shut up, and you
wish to get her out of the hands of the cardinal. That’s a match you are
playing with his Eminence; this letter is your game. Why should you
expose your game to your adversary? That is never done. Let him find it
out if he can! We can find out his!"
"Well, that’s all very sensible, Athos," said d’Artagnan.
"In that case, let there be no more question of what’s past, and let
Aramis resume the letter from his cousin where the cardinal interrupted
him."
Aramis drew the letter from his pocket; the three friends surrounded
him, and the three lackeys grouped themselves again near the wine jar.
"You had only read a line or two," said d’Artagnan; "read the letter
again from the commencement."
"Willingly," said Aramis.
"My dear Cousin, I think I shall make up my mind to set out for Bethune,
where my sister has placed our little servant in the convent of the
Carmelites; this poor child is quite resigned, as she knows she cannot
live elsewhere without the salvation of her soul being in danger.
Nevertheless, if the affairs of our family are arranged, as we hope they
will be, I believe she will run the risk of being damned, and will
return to those she regrets, particularly as she knows they are always
thinking of her. Meanwhile, she is not very wretched; what she most
desires is a letter from her intended. I know that such viands pass with
difficulty through convent gratings; but after all, as I have given you
proofs, my dear cousin, I am not unskilled in such affairs, and I will
take charge of the commission. My sister thanks you for your good and
eternal remembrance. She has experienced much anxiety; but she is now at
length a little reassured, having sent her secretary away in order that
nothing may happen unexpectedly.
"Adieu, my dear cousin. Tell us news of yourself as often as you can;
that is to say, as often as you can with safety. I embrace you.
"Marie Michon."
"Oh, what do I not owe you, Aramis?" said d’Artagnan. "Dear Constance! I
have at length, then, intelligence of you. She lives; she is in safety
in a convent; she is at Bethune! Where is Bethune, Athos?"
"Why, upon the frontiers of Artois and of Flanders. The siege once over,
we shall be able to make a tour in that direction."
"And that will not be long, it is to be hoped," said Porthos; "for they
have this morning hanged a spy who confessed that the Rochellais were
reduced to the leather of their shoes. Supposing that after having eaten
the leather they eat the soles, I cannot see much that is left unless
they eat one another."
"Poor fools!" said Athos, emptying a glass of excellent Bordeaux wine
which, without having at that period the reputation it now enjoys,
merited it no less, "poor fools! As if the Catholic religion was not the
most advantageous and the most agreeable of all religions! All the
same," resumed he, after having clicked his tongue against his palate,
"they are brave fellows! But what the devil are you about, Aramis?"
continued Athos. "Why, you are squeezing that letter into your pocket!"
"Yes," said d’Artagnan, "Athos is right, it must be burned. And yet if
we burn it, who knows whether Monsieur Cardinal has not a secret to
interrogate ashes?"
"He must have one," said Athos.
"What will you do with the letter, then?" asked Porthos.
"Come here, Grimaud," said Athos. Grimaud rose and obeyed. "As a
punishment for having spoken without permission, my friend, you will
please to eat this piece of paper; then to recompense you for the
service you will have rendered us, you shall afterward drink this glass
of wine. First, here is the letter. Eat heartily."
Grimaud smiled; and with his eyes fixed upon the glass which Athos held
in his hand, he ground the paper well between his teeth and then
swallowed it.
"Bravo, Monsieur Grimaud!" said Athos; "and now take this. That’s well.
We dispense with your saying grace."
Grimaud silently swallowed the glass of Bordeaux wine; but his eyes,
raised toward heaven during this delicious occupation, spoke a language
which, though mute, was not the less expressive.
"And now," said Athos, "unless Monsieur Cardinal should form the
ingenious idea of ripping up Grimaud, I think we may be pretty much at
our ease respecting the letter."
Meantime, his Eminence continued his melancholy ride, murmuring between
his mustaches, "These four men must positively be mine."
End of Chapter 51 52 CAPTIVITY: THE FIRST DAY
Let us return to Milady, whom a glance thrown upon the coast of France
has made us lose sight of for an instant.
We shall find her still in the despairing attitude in which we left her,
plunged in an abyss of dismal reflection—a dark hell at the gate of
which she has almost left hope behind, because for the first time she
doubts, for the first time she fears.
On two occasions her fortune has failed her, on two occasions she has
found herself discovered and betrayed; and on these two occasions it was
to one fatal genius, sent doubtlessly by the Lord to combat her, that
she has succumbed. D’Artagnan has conquered her—her, that invincible
power of evil.
He has deceived her in her love, humbled her in her pride, thwarted her
in her ambition; and now he ruins her fortune, deprives her of liberty,
and even threatens her life. Still more, he has lifted the corner of her
mask—that shield with which she covered herself and which rendered her
so strong.
D’Artagnan has turned aside from Buckingham, whom she hates as she hates
everyone she has loved, the tempest with which Richelieu threatened him
in the person of the queen. D’Artagnan had passed himself upon her as de
Wardes, for whom she had conceived one of those tigerlike fancies common
to women of her character. D’Artagnan knows that terrible secret which
she has sworn no one shall know without dying. In short, at the moment
in which she has just obtained from Richelieu a carte blanche by the
means of which she is about to take vengeance on her enemy, this
precious paper is torn from her hands, and it is d’Artagnan who holds
her prisoner and is about to send her to some filthy Botany Bay, some
infamous Tyburn of the Indian Ocean.
All this she owes to d’Artagnan, without doubt. From whom can come so
many disgraces heaped upon her head, if not from him? He alone could
have transmitted to Lord de Winter all these frightful secrets which he
has discovered, one after another, by a train of fatalities. He knows
her brother-in-law. He must have written to him.
What hatred she distills! Motionless, with her burning and fixed
glances, in her solitary apartment, how well the outbursts of passion
which at times escape from the depths of her chest with her respiration,
accompany the sound of the surf which rises, growls, roars, and breaks
itself like an eternal and powerless despair against the rocks on which
is built this dark and lofty castle! How many magnificent projects of
vengeance she conceives by the light of the flashes which her
tempestuous passion casts over her mind against Mme. Bonacieux, against
Buckingham, but above all against d’Artagnan—projects lost in the
distance of the future.
Yes; but in order to avenge herself she must be free. And to be free, a
prisoner has to pierce a wall, detach bars, cut through a floor—all
undertakings which a patient and strong man may accomplish, but before
which the feverish irritations of a woman must give way. Besides, to do
all this, time is necessary—months, years; and she has ten or twelve
days, as Lord de Winter, her fraternal and terrible jailer, has told
her.
And yet, if she were a man she would attempt all this, and perhaps might
succeed; why, then, did heaven make the mistake of placing that manlike
soul in that frail and delicate body?
The first moments of her captivity were terrible; a few convulsions of
rage which she could not suppress paid her debt of feminine weakness to
nature. But by degrees she overcame the outbursts of her mad passion;
and nervous tremblings which agitated her frame disappeared, and she
remained folded within herself like a fatigued serpent in repose.
"Go to, go to! I must have been mad to allow myself to be carried away
so," says she, gazing into the glass, which reflects back to her eyes
the burning glance by which she appears to interrogate herself. "No
violence; violence is the proof of weakness. In the first place, I have
never succeeded by that means. Perhaps if I employed my strength against
women I might perchance find them weaker than myself, and consequently
conquer them; but it is with men that I struggle, and I am but a woman
to them. Let me fight like a woman, then; my strength is in my
weakness."
Then, as if to render an account to herself of the changes she could
place upon her countenance, so mobile and so expressive, she made it
take all expressions from that of passionate anger, which convulsed her
features, to that of the most sweet, most affectionate, and most
seducing smile. Then her hair assumed successively, under her skillful
hands, all the undulations she thought might assist the charms of her
face. At length she murmured, satisfied with herself, "Come, nothing is
lost; I am still beautiful."
It was then nearly eight o’clock in the evening. Milady perceived a bed;
she calculated that the repose of a few hours would not only refresh her
head and her ideas, but still further, her complexion. A better idea,
however, came into her mind before going to bed. She had heard something
said about supper. She had already been an hour in this apartment; they
could not long delay bringing her a repast. The prisoner did not wish to
lose time; and she resolved to make that very evening some attempts to
ascertain the nature of the ground she had to work upon, by studying the
characters of the men to whose guardianship she was committed.
A light appeared under the door; this light announced the reappearance
of her jailers. Milady, who had arisen, threw herself quickly into the
armchair, her head thrown back, her beautiful hair unbound and
disheveled, her *** half bare beneath her crumpled lace, one hand on
her heart, and the other hanging down.
The bolts were drawn; the door groaned upon its hinges. Steps sounded in
the chamber, and drew near.
"Place that table there," said a voice which the prisoner recognized as
that of Felton.
The order was executed.
"You will bring lights, and relieve the sentinel," continued Felton.
And this double order which the young lieutenant gave to the same
individuals proved to Milady that her servants were the same men as her
guards; that is to say, soldiers.
Felton’s orders were, for the rest, executed with a silent rapidity that
gave a good idea of the way in which he maintained discipline.
At length Felton, who had not yet looked at Milady, turned toward her.
"Ah, ah!" said he, "she is asleep; that’s well. When she wakes she can
sup." And he made some steps toward the door.
"But, my lieutenant," said a soldier, less stoical than his chief, and
who had approached Milady, "this woman is not asleep."
"What, not asleep!" said Felton; "what is she doing, then?"
"She has fainted. Her face is very pale, and I have listened in vain; I
do not hear her breathe."
"You are right," said Felton, after having looked at Milady from the
spot on which he stood without moving a step toward her. "Go and tell
Lord de Winter that his prisoner has fainted—for this event not having
been foreseen, I don’t know what to do."
The soldier went out to obey the orders of his officer. Felton sat down
upon an armchair which happened to be near the door, and waited without
speaking a word, without making a gesture. Milady possessed that great
art, so much studied by women, of looking through her long eyelashes
without appearing to open the lids. She perceived Felton, who sat with
his back toward her. She continued to look at him for nearly ten
minutes, and in these ten minutes the immovable guardian never turned
round once.
She then thought that Lord de Winter would come, and by his presence
give fresh strength to her jailer. Her first trial was lost; she acted
like a woman who reckons up her resources. As a result she raised her
head, opened her eyes, and sighed deeply.
At this sigh Felton turned round.
"Ah, you are awake, madame," he said; "then I have nothing more to do
here. If you want anything you can ring."
"Oh, my God, my God! how I have suffered!" said Milady, in that
harmonious voice which, like that of the ancient enchantresses, charmed
all whom she wished to destroy.
And she assumed, upon sitting up in the armchair, a still more graceful
and abandoned position than when she reclined.
Felton arose.
"You will be served, thus, madame, three times a day," said he. "In the
morning at nine o’clock, in the day at one o’clock, and in the evening
at eight. If that does not suit you, you can point out what other hours
you prefer, and in this respect your wishes will be complied with."
"But am I to remain always alone in this vast and dismal chamber?" asked
Milady.
"A woman of the neighbourhood has been sent for, who will be tomorrow at
the castle, and will return as often as you desire her presence."
"I thank you, sir," replied the prisoner, humbly.
Felton made a slight bow, and directed his steps toward the door. At the
moment he was about to go out, Lord de Winter appeared in the corridor,
followed by the soldier who had been sent to inform him of the swoon of
Milady. He held a vial of salts in his hand.
"Well, what is it—what is going on here?" said he, in a jeering voice,
on seeing the prisoner sitting up and Felton about to go out. "Is this
corpse come to life already? Felton, my lad, did you not perceive that
you were taken for a novice, and that the first act was being performed
of a comedy of which we shall doubtless have the pleasure of following
out all the developments?"
"I thought so, my lord," said Felton; "but as the prisoner is a woman,
after all, I wish to pay her the attention that every man of gentle
birth owes to a woman, if not on her account, at least on my own."
Milady shuddered through her whole system. These words of Felton’s
passed like ice through her veins.
"So," replied de Winter, laughing, "that beautiful hair so skillfully
disheveled, that white skin, and that languishing look, have not yet
seduced you, you heart of stone?"
"No, my Lord," replied the impassive young man; "your Lordship may be
assured that it requires more than the tricks and coquetry of a woman to
corrupt me."
"In that case, my brave lieutenant, let us leave Milady to find out
something else, and go to supper; but be easy! She has a fruitful
imagination, and the second act of the comedy will not delay its steps
after the first."
And at these words Lord de Winter passed his arm through that of Felton,
and led him out, laughing.
"Oh, I will be a match for you!" murmured Milady, between her teeth; "be
assured of that, you poor spoiled monk, you poor converted soldier, who
has cut his uniform out of a monk’s frock!"
"By the way," resumed de Winter, stopping at the threshold of the door,
"you must not, Milady, let this check take away your appetite. Taste
that fowl and those fish. On my honor, they are not poisoned. I have a
very good cook, and he is not to be my heir; I have full and perfect
confidence in him. Do as I do. Adieu, dear sister, till your next
swoon!"
This was all that Milady could endure. Her hands clutched her armchair;
she ground her teeth inwardly; her eyes followed the motion of the door
as it closed behind Lord de Winter and Felton, and the moment she was
alone a fresh fit of despair seized her. She cast her eyes upon the
table, saw the glittering of a knife, rushed toward it and clutched it;
but her disappointment was cruel. The blade was round, and of flexible
silver.
A burst of laughter resounded from the other side of the ill-closed
door, and the door reopened.
"Ha, ha!" cried Lord de Winter; "ha, ha! Don’t you see, my brave Felton;
don’t you see what I told you? That knife was for you, my lad; she would
have killed you. Observe, this is one of her peculiarities, to get rid
thus, after one fashion or another, of all the people who bother her. If
I had listened to you, the knife would have been pointed and of steel.
Then no more of Felton; she would have cut your throat, and after that
everybody else’s. See, John, see how well she knows how to handle a
knife."
In fact, Milady still held the harmless weapon in her clenched hand; but
these last words, this supreme insult, relaxed her hands, her strength,
and even her will. The knife fell to the ground.
"You were right, my Lord," said Felton, with a tone of profound disgust
which sounded to the very bottom of the heart of Milady, "you were
right, my Lord, and I was wrong."
And both again left the room.
But this time Milady lent a more attentive ear than the first, and she
heard their steps die away in the distance of the corridor.
"I am lost," murmured she; "I am lost! I am in the power of men upon
whom I can have no more influence than upon statues of bronze or
granite; they know me by heart, and are steeled against all my weapons.
It is, however, impossible that this should end as they have decreed!"
In fact, as this last reflection indicated—this instinctive return to
hope—sentiments of weakness or fear did not dwell long in her ardent
spirit. Milady sat down to table, ate from several dishes, drank a
little Spanish wine, and felt all her resolution return.
Before she went to bed she had pondered, analyzed, turned on all sides,
examined on all points, the words, the steps, the gestures, the signs,
and even the silence of her interlocutors; and of this profound,
skillful, and anxious study the result was that Felton, everything
considered, appeared the more vulnerable of her two persecutors.
One expression above all recurred to the mind of the prisoner: "If I had
listened to you," Lord de Winter had said to Felton.
Felton, then, had spoken in her favor, since Lord de Winter had not been
willing to listen to him.
"Weak or strong," repeated Milady, "that man has, then, a spark of pity
in his soul; of that spark I will make a flame that shall devour him. As
to the other, he knows me, he fears me, and knows what he has to expect
of me if ever I escape from his hands. It is useless, then, to attempt
anything with him. But Felton—that’s another thing. He is a young,
ingenuous, pure man who seems virtuous; him there are means of
destroying."
And Milady went to bed and fell asleep with a smile upon her lips.
Anyone who had seen her sleeping might have said she was a young girl
dreaming of the crown of flowers she was to wear on her brow at the next
festival.
End of Chapter 52 �