Bot-S: The Three Musketeers

"Besides, what did I ask of you?" resumed Porthos, with a
movement of the shoulders full of good fellowship. "A loan,
nothing more! After all, I am not an unreasonable man. I know
you are not rich, Madame Coquenard, and that your husband is
obliged to bleed his poor clients to squeeze a few paltry crowns
from them. Oh! If you were a duchess, a marchioness, or a
countess, it would be quite a different thing; it would be
unpardonable."

The procurator's wife was piqued.

"Please to know, Monsieur Porthos," said she, "that my strongbox,
the strongbox of a procurator's wife though it may be, is better
filled than those of your affected minxes."

"The doubles the offense," said Porthos, disengaging his arm from
that of the procurator's wife; "for if you are rich, Madame
Coquenard, then there is no excuse for your refusal."

"When I said rich," replied the procurator's wife, who saw that
she had gone too far, "you must not take the word literally. I
am not precisely rich, though I am pretty well off."

"Hold, madame," said Porthos, "let us say no more upon the
subject, I beg of you. You have misunderstood me, all sympathy
is extinct between us."

"Ingrate that you are!"

"Ah! I advise you to complain!" said Porthos.

"Begone, then, to your beautiful duchess; I will detain you no
longer."

"And she is not to be despised, in my opinion."

"Now, Monsieur Porthos, once more, and this is the last! Do you
love me still?"

"Ah, madame," said Porthos, in the most melancholy tone he could
assume, "when we are about to enter upon a campaign--a campaign,
in which my presentiments tell me I shall be killed--"

"Oh, don't talk of such things!" cried the procurator's wife,
bursting into tears.

"Something whispers me so," continued Porthos, becoming more and
more melancholy.

"Rather say that you have a new love."

"Not so; I speak frankly to you. No object affects me; and I
even feel here, at the bottom of my heart, something which speaks
for you. But in fifteen days, as you know, or as you do not
know, this fatal campaign is to open. I shall be fearfully
preoccupied with my outfit. Then I must make a journey to see my
family, in the lower part of Brittany, to obtain the sum
necessary for my departure."

Porthos observed a last struggle between love and avarice.

"And as," continued he, "the duchess whom you saw at the church
has estates near to those of my family, we mean to make the
journey together. Journeys, you know, appear much shorter when
we travel two in company."

"Have you no friends in Paris, then, Monsieur Porthos?" said the
procurator's wife.

"I thought I had," said Porthos, resuming his melancholy air;
"but I have been taught my mistake."

"You have some!" cried the procurator's wife, in a transport that
surprised even herself. "Come to our house tomorrow. You are
the son of my aunt, consequently my cousin; you come from Noyon,
in Picardy; you have several lawsuits and no attorney. Can you
recollect all that?"

"Perfectly, madame."

"Come at dinnertime."

"Very well."

"And be upon your guard before my husband, who is rather shrewd,
notwithstanding his seventy-six years."

"Seventy-six years! PESTE! That's a fine age!" replied Porthos.

"A great age, you mean, Monsieur Porthos. Yes, the poor man may
be expected to leave me a widow, any hour," continued she,
throwing a significant glance at Porthos. "Fortunately, by our
marriage contract, the survivor takes everything."

"All?"

"Yes, all."

"You are a woman of precaution, I see, my dear Madame Coquenard,"
said Porthos, squeezing the hand of the procurator's wife
tenderly.

"We are then reconciled, dear Monsieur Porthos?" said she,
simpering.

"For life," replied Porthos, in the same manner.

"Till we meet again, then, dear traitor!"

"Till we meet again, my forgetful charmer!"

"Tomorrow, my angel!"

"Tomorrow, flame of my life!"




30 D'ARTAGNAN AND THE ENGLISHMAN

D'Artagnan followed Milady without being perceived by her.
He saw her get into her carriage, and heard her order the
coachman to drive to St. Germain.

It was useless to try to keep pace on foot with a carriage
drawn by two powerful horses. d'Artagnan therefore returned
to the Rue Ferou.

In the Rue de Seine he met Planchet, who had stopped before
the house of a pastry cook, and was contemplating with
ecstasy a cake of the most appetizing appearance.

He ordered him to go and saddle two horses in M. de
Treville's stables--one for himself, d'Artagnan, and one for
Planchet--and bring them to Athens's place. Once for all,
Treville had placed his stable at d'Artagnan's service.

Planchet proceeded toward the Rue du Colombier, and
d'Artagnan toward the Rue Ferou. Athos was at home,
emptying sadly a bottle of the famous Spanish wine he had
brought back with him from his journey into Picardy. He
made a sign for Grimaud to bring a glass for d'Artagnan, and
Grimaud obeyed as usual.

D'Artagnan related to Athos all that had passed at the
church between Porthos and the procurator's wife, and how
their comrade was probably by that time in a fair way to be
equipped.

"As for me," replied Athos to this recital, "I am quite at
my ease; it will not be women that will defray the expense
of my outfit."

"Handsome, well-bred, noble lord as you are, my dear Athos,
neither princesses nor queens would be secure from your
amorous solicitations."

"How young this d'Artagnan is!" said Athos, shrugging his
shoulders; and he made a sign to Grimaud to bring another
bottle.

At that moment Planchet put his head modestly in at the
half-open door, and told his master that the horses were
ready.

"What horses?" asked Athos.

"Two horses that Monsieur de Treville lends me at my
pleasure, and with which I am now going to take a ride to
St. Germain."

"Well, and what are you going to do at St. Germain?" then
demanded Athos.

Then d'Artagnan described the meeting which he had at the
church, and how he had found that lady who, with the
seigneur in the black cloak and with the scar near his
temple, filled his mind constantly.

"That is to say, you are in love with this lady as you were
with Madame Bonacieux," said Athos, shrugging his shoulders
contemptuously, as if he pitied human weakness.

"I? not at all!" said d'Artagnan. "I am only curious to
unravel the mystery to which she is attached. I do not know
why, but I imagine that this woman, wholly unknown to me as
she is, and wholly unknown to her as I am, has an influence
over my life."

"Well, perhaps you are right," said Athos. "I do not know a
woman that is worth the trouble of being sought for when she
is once lost. Madame Bonacieux is lost; so much the worse
for her if she is found."

"No, Athos, no, you are mistaken," said d'Artagnan; "I love
my poor Constance more than ever, and if I knew the place in
which she is, were it at the end of the world, I would go to
free her from the hands of her enemies; but I am ignorant.
All my researches have been useless. What is to be said? I
must divert my attention!"

"Amuse yourself with Milady, my dear d'Artagnan; I wish you
may with all my heart, if that will amuse you."

"Hear me, Athos," said d'Artagnan. "Instead of shutting
yourself up here as if you were under arrest, get on
horseback and come and take a ride with me to St. Germain."

"My dear fellow," said Athos, "I ride horses when I have
any; when I have none, I go afoot."

"Well," said d'Artagnan, smiling at the misanthropy of
Athos, which from any other person would have offended him,
"I ride what I can get; I am not so proud as you. So AU
REVOIR, dear Athos."

"AU REVOIR," said the Musketeer, making a sign to Grimaud to
uncork the bottle he had just brought.

D'Artagnan and Planchet mounted, and took the road to St.
Germain.

All along the road, what Athos had said respecting Mme.
Bonacieux recurred to the mind of the young man. Although
d'Artagnan was not of a very sentimental character, the
mercer's pretty wife had made a real impression upon his
heart. As he said, he was ready to go to the end of the
world to seek her; but the world, being round, has many
ends, so that he did not know which way to turn. Meantime,
he was going to try to find out Milady. Milady had spoken
to the man in the black cloak; therefore she knew him. Now,
in the opinion of d'Artagnan, it was certainly the man in
the black cloak who had carried off Mme. Bonacieux the
second time, as he had carried her off the first.
d'Artagnan then only half-lied, which is lying but little,
when he said that by going in search of Milady he at the
same time went in search of Constance.

Thinking of all this, and from time to time giving a touch
of the spur to his horse, d'Artagnan completed his short
journey, and arrived at St. Germain. He had just passed by
the pavilion in which ten years later Louis XIV was born.
He rode up a very quiet street, looking to the right and the
left to see if he could catch any vestige of his beautiful
Englishwoman, when from the ground floor of a pretty house,
which, according to the fashion of the time, had no window
toward the street, he saw a face peep out with which he
thought he was acquainted. This person walked along the
terrace, which was ornamented with flowers. Planchet
recognized him first.

"Eh, monsieur!" said he, addressing d'Artagnan, "don't you
remember that face which is blinking yonder?"

"No," said d'Artagnan, "and yet I am certain it is not the
first time I have seen that visage."

"PARBLEU, I believe it is not," said Planchet. "Why, it is
poor Lubin, the lackey of the Comte de Wardes--he whom you
took such good care of a month ago at Calais, on the road to
the governor's country house!"

"So it is!" said d'Artagnan; "I know him now. Do you think
he would recollect you?"

"My faith, monsieur, he was in such trouble that I doubt if
he can have retained a very clear recollection of me."

"Well, go and talk with the boy," said d'Artagnan, "and make
out if you can from his conversation whether his master is
dead."

Planchet dismounted and went straight up to Lubin, who did
not at all remember him, and the two lackeys began to chat
with the best understanding possible; while d'Artagnan
turned the two horses into a lane, went round the house, and
came back to watch the conference from behind a hedge of
filberts.

At the end of an instant's observation he heard the noise of
a vehicle, and saw Milady's carriage stop opposite to him.
He could not be mistaken; Milady was in it. D'Artagnan
leaned upon the neck of his horse, in order that he might
see without being seen.

Milady put her charming blond head out at the window, and
gave her orders to her maid.

The latter--a pretty girl of about twenty or twenty-two
years, active and lively, the true SOUBRETTE of a great
lady--jumped from the step upon which, according to the
custom of the time, she was seated, and took her way toward
the terrace upon which d'Artagnan had perceived Lubin.

D'Artagnan followed the soubrette with his eyes, and saw her
go toward the terrace; but it happened that someone in the
house called Lubin, so that Planchet remained alone, looking
in all directions for the road where d'Artagnan had disappeared.

The maid approached Planchet, whom she took for Lubin, and
holding out a little billet to him said, "For your master."

"For my master?" replied Planchet, astonished.

"Yes, and important. Take it quickly."

Thereupon she ran toward the carriage, which had turned
round toward the way it came, jumped upon the step, and the
carriage drove off.

Planchet turned and returned the billet. Then, accustomed
to passive obedience, he jumped down from the terrace, ran
toward the lane, and at the end of twenty paces met
d'Artagnan, who, having seen all, was coming to him.

"For you, monsieur," said Planchet, presenting the billet to
the young man.

"For me?" said d'Artagnan; "are you sure of that?"

"PARDIEU, monsieur, I can't be more sure. The SOUBRETTE said,
'For your master.' I have no other master but you; so-
a pretty little lass, my faith, is that SOUBRETTE!"

D'Artagnan opened the letter, and read these words:


"A person who takes more interest in you than she is willing
to confess wishes to know on what day it will suit you to
walk in the forest? Tomorrow, at the Hotel Field of the
Cloth of Gold, a lackey in black and red will wait for your
reply."


"Oh!" said d'Artagnan, "this is rather warm; it appears that
Milady and I are anxious about the health of the same
person. Well, Planchet, how is the good Monsieur de Wardes?
He is not dead, then?"

"No, monsieur, he is as well as a man can be with four sword
wounds in his body; for you, without question, inflicted
four upon the dear gentleman, and he is still very weak,
having lost almost all his blood. As I said, monsieur,
Lubin did not know me, and told me our adventure from one
end to the other."

"Well done, Planchet! you are the king of lackeys. Now jump
onto your horse, and let us overtake the carriage."

This did not take long. At the end of five minutes they
perceived the carriage drawn up by the roadside; a cavalier,
richly dressed, was close to the door.

The conversation between Milady and the cavalier was so
animated that d'Artagnan stopped on the other side of the
carriage without anyone but the pretty SOUBRETTE perceiving
his presence.

The conversation took place in English--a language which
d'Artagnan could not understand; but by the accent the young
man plainly saw that the beautiful Englishwoman was in a
great rage. She terminated it by an action which left no
doubt as to the nature of this conversation; this was a blow
with her fan, applied with such force that the little
feminine weapon flew into a thousand pieces.

The cavalier laughed aloud, which appeared to exasperate
Milady still more.

D'Artagnan thought this was the moment to interfere. He
approached the other door, and taking off his hat
respectfully, said, "Madame, will you permit me to offer you
my services? It appears to me that this cavalier has made
you very angry. Speak one word, madame, and I take upon
myself to punish him for his want of courtesy."

At the first word Milady turned, looking at the young man
with astonishment; and when he had finished, she said in
very good French, "Monsieur, I should with great confidence
place myself under your protection if the person with whom I
quarrel were not my brother."

"Ah, excuse me, then," said d'Artagnan. "You must be aware
that I was ignorant of that, madame."

"What is that stupid fellow troubling himself about?" cried
the cavalier whom Milady had designated as her brother,
stooping down to the height of the coach window. "Why does
not he go about his business?"

"Stupid fellow yourself!" said d'Artagnan, stooping in his
turn on the neck of his horse, and answering on his side
through the carriage window. "I do not go on because it
pleases me to stop here."

The cavalier addressed some words in English to his sister.

"I speak to you in French," said d'Artagnan; "be kind
enough, then, to reply to me in the same language. You are
Madame's brother, I learn--be it so; but fortunately you are
not mine."

It might be thought that Milady, timid as women are in
general, would have interposed in this commencement of
mutual provocations in order to prevent the quarrel from
going too far; but on the contrary, she threw herself back
in her carriage, and called out coolly to the coachman,
"Go on--home!"

The pretty SOUBRETTE cast an anxious glance at d'Artagnan,
whose good looks seemed to have made an impression on her.

The carriage went on, and left the two men facing each
other; no material obstacle separated them.

The cavalier made a movement as if to follow the carriage;
but d'Artagnan, whose anger, already excited, was much
increased by recognizing in him the Englishman of Amiens who
had won his horse and had been very near winning his diamond
of Athos, caught at his bridle and stopped him.

"Well, monsieur," said he, "you appear to be more stupid
than I am, for you forget there is a little quarrel to
arrange between us two."

"Ah," said the Englishman, "is it you, my master? It seems
you must always be playing some game or other."

"Yes; and that reminds me that I have a revenge to take. We
will see, my dear monsieur, if you can handle a sword as
skillfully as you can a dice box."

"You see plainly that I have no sword," said the Englishman.
"Do you wish to play the braggart with an unarmed man?"

"I hope you have a sword at home; but at all events, I have
two, and if you like, I will throw with you for one of
them."

"Needless," said the Englishman; "I am well furnished with
such playthings."

"Very well, my worthy gentleman," replied d'Artagnan, "pick
out the longest, and come and show it to me this evening."

"Where, if you please?"

"Behind the Luxembourg; that's a charming spot for such
amusements as the one I propose to you."

"That will do; I will be there."

"Your hour?"

"Six o'clock."

"A PROPOS, you have probably one or two friends?"

"I have three, who would be honored by joining in the sport
with me."

"Three? Marvelous! That falls out oddly! Three is just my
number!"

"Now, then, who are you?" asked the Englishman.

"I am Monsieur d'Artagnan, a Gascon gentleman, serving in
the king's Musketeers. And you?"

"I am Lord de Winter, Baron Sheffield."

"Well, then, I am your servant, Monsieur Baron," said
d'Artagnan, "though you have names rather difficult to
recollect." And touching his horse with the spur, he
cantered back to Paris. As he was accustomed to do in all
cases of any consequence, d'Artagnan went straight to the
residence of Athos.

He found Athos reclining upon a large sofa, where he was
waiting, as he said, for his outfit to come and find him.
He related to Athos all that had passed, except the letter
to M. de Wardes.

Athos was delighted to find he was going to fight an
Englishman. We might say that was his dream.

They immediately sent their lackeys for Porthos and Aramis,
and on their arrival made them acquainted with the
situation.

Porthos drew his sword from the scabbard, and made passes at
the wall, springing back from time to time, and making
contortions like a dancer.

Aramis, who was constantly at work at his poem, shut himself
up in Athos's closet, and begged not to be disturbed before
the moment of drawing swords.

Athos, by signs, desired Grimaud to bring another bottle of
wine.

D'Artagnan employed himself in arranging a little plan, of
which we shall hereafter see the execution, and which
promised him some agreeable adventure, as might be seen by
the smiles which from time to time passed over his
countenance, whose thoughtfulness they animated.




31 ENGLISH AND FRENCH

The hour having come, they went with their four lackeys to a
spot behind the Luxembourg given up to the feeding of goats.
Athos threw a piece of money to the goatkeeper to withdraw.
The lackeys were ordered to act as sentinels.

A silent party soon drew near to the same enclosure,
entered, and joined the Musketeers. Then, according to
foreign custom, the presentations took place.

The Englishmen were all men of rank; consequently the odd
names of their adversaries were for them not only a matter
of surprise, but of annoyance.

"But after all," said Lord de Winter, when the three friends
had been named, "we do not know who you are. We cannot
fight with such names; they are names of shepherds."

"Therefore your lordship may suppose they are only assumed
names," said Athos.

"Which only gives us a greater desire to know the real
ones," replied the Englishman.

"You played very willingly with us without knowing our
names," said Athos, "by the same token that you won our
horses."

"That is true, but we then only risked our pistoles; this
time we risk our blood. One plays with anybody; but one
fights only with equals."

"And that is but just," said Athos, and he took aside the
one of the four Englishmen with whom he was to fight, and
communicated his name in a low voice.

Porthos and Aramis did the same.

"Does that satisfy you?" said Athos to his adversary. "Do
you find me of sufficient rank to do me the honor of
crossing swords with me?"

"Yes, monsieur," said the Englishman, bowing.

"Well! now tell I tell you something?" added Athos, coolly.

"What?" replied the Englishman.

"Why, that is that you would have acted much more wisely if
you had not required me to make myself known."

"Why so?"

"Because I am believed to be dead, and have reasons for
wishing nobody to know I am living; so that I shall be
obliged to kill you to prevent my secret from roaming over
the fields."

The Englishman looked at Athos, believing that he jested,
but Athos did not jest the least in the world.

"Gentlemen," said Athos, addressing at the same time his
companions and their adversaries, "are we ready?"

"Yes!" answered the Englishmen and the Frenchmen, as with
one voice.

"On guard, then!" cried Athos.

Immediately eight swords glittered in the rays of the
setting sun, and the combat began with an animosity very
natural between men twice enemies.

Athos fenced with as much calmness and method as if he had
been practicing in a fencing school.

Porthos, abated, no doubt, of his too-great confidence by
his adventure of Chantilly, played with skill and prudence.
Aramis, who had the third canto of his poem to finish,
behaved like a man in haste.

Athos killed his adversary first. He hit him but once, but
as he had foretold, that hit was a mortal one; the sword
pierced his heart.

Second, Porthos stretched his upon the grass with a wound
through his thigh, As the Englishman, without making any
further resistance, then surrendered his sword, Porthos took
him up in his arms and bore him to his carriage.

Aramis pushed his so vigorously that after going back fifty
paces, the man ended by fairly taking to his heels, and
disappeared amid the hooting of the lackeys.

As to d'Artagnan, he fought purely and simply on the
defensive; and when he saw his adversary pretty well
fatigued, with a vigorous side thrust sent his sword flying.
The baron, finding himself disarmed, took two or three steps
back, but in this movement his foot slipped and he fell
backward.

D'Artagnan was over him at a bound, and said to the
Englishman, pointing his sword to his throat, "I could kill
you, my Lord, you are completely in my hands; but I spare
your life for the sake of your sister."

D'Artagnan was at the height of joy; he had realized the
plan he had imagined beforehand, whose picturing had
produced the smiles we noted upon his face.

The Englishman, delighted at having to do with a gentleman
of such a kind disposition, pressed d'Artagnan in his arms,
and paid a thousand compliments to the three Musketeers, and
as Porthos's adversary was already installed in the
carriage, and as Aramis's had taken to his heels, they had
nothing to think about but the dead.

As Porthos and Aramis were undressing him, in the hope of
finding his wound not mortal, a large purse dropped from his
clothes. d'Artagnan picked it up and offered it to Lord de
Winter.

"What the devil would you have me do with that?" said the
Englishman.

"You can restore it to his family," said d'Artagnan.

"His family will care much about such a trifle as that! His
family will inherit fifteen thousand louis a year from him.
Keep the purse for your lackeys."

D'Artagnan put the purse into his pocket.

"And now, my young friend, for you will permit me, I hope,
to give you that name," said Lord de Winter, "on this very
evening, if agreeable to you, I will present you to my
sister, Milady Clarik, for I am desirous that she should
take you into her good graces; and as she is not in bad odor
at court, she may perhaps on some future day speak a word
that will not prove useless to you."

D'Artagnan blushed with pleasure, and bowed a sign of
assent.

At this time Athos came up to d'Artagnan.

"What do you mean to do with that purse?" whispered he.

"Why, I meant to pass it over to you, my dear Athos."

"Me! why to me?"

"Why, you killed him! They are the spoils of victory."

"I, the heir of an enemy!" said Athos; "for whom, then, do
you take me?"

"It is the custom in war," said d'Artagnan, "why should it
not be the custom in a duel?"

"Even on the field of battle, I have never done that."

Porthos shrugged his shoulders; Aramis by a movement of his
lips endorsed Athos.

"Then," said d'Artagnan, "let us give the money to the
lackeys, as Lord de Winter desired us to do."

"Yes," said Athos; "let us give the money to the lackeys--not
to our lackeys, but to the lackeys of the Englishmen."

Athos took the purse, and threw it into the hand of the
coachman. "For you and your comrades."

This greatness of spirit in a man who was quite destitute
struck even Porthos; and this French generosity, repeated by
Lord de Winter and his friend, was highly applauded, except
by MM. Grimaud, Bazin, Mousqueton and Planchet.

Lord de Winter, on quitting d'Artagnan, gave him his
sister's address. She lived in the Place Royale--then the
fashionable quarter--at Number 6, and he undertook to call
and take d'Artagnan with him in order to introduce him.
d'Artagnan appointed eight o'clock at Athos's residence.

This introduction to Milady Clarik occupied the head of our
Gascon greatly. He remembered in what a strange manner this
woman had hitherto been mixed up in his destiny. According
to his conviction, she was some creature of the cardinal,
and yet he felt himself invincibly drawn toward her by one
of those sentiments for which we cannot account. His only
fear was that Milady would recognize in him the man of Meung
and of Dover. Then she knew that he was one of the friends
of M. de Treville, and consequently, that he belonged body
and soul to the king; which would make him lose a part of
his advantage, since when known to Milady as he knew her, he
played only an equal game with her. As to the commencement
of an intrigue between her and M. de Wardes, our
presumptuous hero gave but little heed to that, although the
marquis was young, handsome, rich, and high in the
cardinal's favor. It is not for nothing we are but twenty years old,
above all if we were born at Tarbes.

D'Artagnan began by making his most splendid toilet, then
returned to Athos's, and according to custom, related
everything to him. Athos listened to his projects, then
shook his head, and recommended prudence to him with a shade
of bitterness.

"What!" said he, "you have just lost one woman, whom you
call good, charming, perfect; and here you are, running
headlong after another."

D'Artagnan felt the truth of this reproach.

"I loved Madame Bonacieux with my heart, while I only love
Milady with my head," said he. "In getting introduced to
her, my principal object is to ascertain what part she plays
at court."

"The part she plays, PARDIEU! It is not difficult to divine
that, after all you have told me. She is some emissary of
the cardinal; a woman who will draw you into a snare in
which you will leave your head."

"The devil! my dear Athos, you view things on the dark side,
methinks."

"My dear fellow, I mistrust women. Can it be otherwise? I
bought my experience dearly--particularly fair women. Milady
is fair, you say?"

"She has the most beautiful light hair imaginable!"

"Ah, my poor d'Artagnan!" said Athos.

"Listen to me! I want to be enlightened on a subject; then,
when I shall have learned what I desire to know, I will
withdraw."

"Be enlightened!" said Athos, phlegmatically.

Lord de Winter arrived at the appointed time; but Athos,
being warned of his coming, went into the other chamber. He
therefore found d'Artagnan alone, and as it was nearly eight
o'clock he took the young man with him.

An elegant carriage waited below, and as it was drawn by two
excellent horses, they were soon at the Place Royale.

Milady Clarik received d'Artagnan ceremoniously. Her hotel
was remarkably sumptuous, and while the most part of the
English had quit, or were about to quit, France on account
of the war, Milady had just been laying out much money upon
her residence; which proved that the general measure which
drove the English from France did not affect her.

"You see," said Lord de Winter, presenting d'Artagnan to his
sister, "a young gentleman who has held my life in his
hands, and who has not abused his advantage, although we
have been twice enemies, although it was I who insulted him,
and although I am an Englishman. Thank him, then, madame,
if you have any affection for me."

Milady frowned slightly; a scarcely visible cloud passed
over her brow, and so peculiar a smile appeared upon her
lips that the young man, who saw and observed this triple
shade, almost shuddered at it.

The brother did not perceive this; he had turned round to
play with Milady's favorite monkey, which had pulled him by
the doublet.

"You are welcome, monsieur," said Milady, in a voice whose
singular sweetness contrasted with the symptoms of ill-humor
which d'Artagnan had just remarked; "you have today acquired
eternal rights to my gratitude."

The Englishman then turned round and described the combat
without omitting a single detail. Milady listened with the
greatest attention, and yet it was easily to be perceived,
whatever effort she made to conceal her impressions, that
this recital was not agreeable to her. The blood rose to
her head, and her little foot worked with impatience beneath
her robe.

Lord de Winter perceived nothing of this. When he had
finished, he went to a table upon which was a salver with
Spanish wine and glasses. He filled two glasses, and by a
sign invited d'Artagnan to drink.

D'Artagnan knew it was considered disobliging by an
Englishman to refuse to pledge him. He therefore drew near
to the table and took the second glass. He did not,
however, lose sight of Milady, and in a mirror he perceived
the change that came over her face. Now that she believed
herself to be no longer observed, a sentiment resembling
ferocity animated her countenance. She bit her handkerchief
with her beautiful teeth.

That pretty little SOUBRETTE whom d'Artagnan had already
observed then came in. She spoke some words to Lord de
Winter in English, who thereupon requested d'Artagnan's
permission to retire, excusing himself on account of the
urgency of the business that had called him away, and
charging his sister to obtain his pardon.

D'Artagnan exchanged a shake of the hand with Lord de
Winter, and then returned to Milady. Her countenance, with
surprising mobility, had recovered its gracious expression;
but some little red spots on her handkerchief indicated that
she had bitten her lips till the blood came. Those lips
were magnificent; they might be said to be of coral.

The conversation took a cheerful turn. Milady appeared to
have entirely recovered. She told d'Artagnan that Lord de
Winter was her brother-in-law, and not her brother. She had
married a younger brother of the family, who had left her a
widow with one child. This child was the only heir to Lord
de Winter, if Lord de Winter did not marry. All this showed
d'Artagnan that there was a veil which concealed something;
but he could not yet see under this veil.

In addition to this, after a half hour's conversation
d'Artagnan was convinced that Milady was his compatriot; she
spoke French with an elegance and a purity that left no
doubt on that head.

D'Artagnan was profuse in gallant speeches and protestations
of devotion. To all the simple things which escaped our
Gascon, Milady replied with a smile of kindness. The hour
came for him to retire. D'Artagnan took leave of Milady,
and left the saloon the happiest of men.

On the staircase he met the pretty SOUBRETTE, who brushed
gently against him as she passed, and then, blushing to the
eyes, asked his pardon for having touched him in a voice so
sweet that the pardon was granted instantly.

D'Artagnan came again on the morrow, and was still better
received than on the evening before. Lord de Winter was not
at home; and it was Milady who this time did all the honors
of the evening. She appeared to take a great interest in
him, asked him whence he came, who were his friends, and
whether he had not sometimes thought of attaching himself to
the cardinal.

D'Artagnan, who, as we have said, was exceedingly prudent
for a young man of twenty, then remembered his suspicions
regarding Milady. He launched into a eulogy of his
Eminence, and said that he should not have failed to enter
into the Guards of the cardinal instead of the king's Guards
if he had happened to know M. de Cavois instead of M. de
Treville.

Milady changed the conversation without any appearance of
affectation, and asked d'Artagnan in the most careless
manner possible if he had ever been in England.

D'Artagnan replied that he had been sent thither by M. de
Treville to treat for a supply of horses, and that he had
brought back four as specimens.

Milady in the course of the conversation twice or thrice bit
her lips; she had to deal with a Gascon who played close.

At the same hour as on the preceding evening, d'Artagnan
retired. In the corridor he again met the pretty Kitty; that
was the name of the SOUBRETTE. She looked at him with an
expression of kindness which it was impossible to mistake;
but d'Artagnan was so preoccupied by the mistress that he
noticed absolutely nothing but her.

D'Artagnan came again on the morrow and the day after that,
and each day Milady gave him a more gracious reception.

Every evening, either in the antechamber, the corridor, or
on the stairs, he met the pretty SOUBRETTE. But, as we have
said, d'Artagnan paid no attention to this persistence of
poor Kitty.



32 A PROCURATOR'S DINNER

However brilliant had been the part played by Porthos in the
duel, it had not made him forget the dinner of the
procurator's wife.

On the morrow he received the last touches of Mousqueton's
brush for an hour, and took his way toward the Rue aux Ours
with the steps of a man who was doubly in favor with
fortune.

His heart beat, but not like d'Artagnan's with a young and
impatient love. No; a more material interest stirred his
blood. He was about at last to pass that mysterious
threshold, to climb those unknown stairs by which, one by
one, the old crowns of M. Coquenard had ascended. He was
about to see in reality a certain coffer of which he had
twenty times beheld the image in his dreams--a coffer long
and deep, locked, bolted, fastened in the wall; a coffer of
which he had so often heard, and which the hands--a little
wrinkled, it is true, but still not without elegance--of the
procurator's wife were about to open to his admiring looks.

And then he--a wanderer on the earth, a man without fortune,
a man without family, a soldier accustomed to inns,
cabarets, taverns, and restaurants, a lover of wine forced
to depend upon chance treats--was about to partake of family
meals, to enjoy the pleasures of a comfortable
establishment, and to give himself up to those little
attentions which "the harder one is, the more they please,"
as old soldiers say.

To come in the capacity of a cousin, and seat himself every
day at a good table; to smooth the yellow, wrinkled brow of
the old procurator; to pluck the clerks a little by teaching
them BASSETTE, PASSE-DIX, and LANSQUENET, in their utmost
nicety, and winning from them, by way of fee for the lesson
he would give them in an hour, their savings of a month--all
this was enormously delightful to Porthos.

The Musketeer could not forget the evil reports which then
prevailed, and which indeed have survived them, of the
procurators of the period--meanness, stinginess, fasts; but
as, after all, excepting some few acts of economy which
Porthos had always found very unseasonable, the procurator's
wife had been tolerably liberal--that is, be it understood,
for a procurator's wife--he hoped to see a household of a
highly comfortable kind.

And yet, at the very door the Musketeer began to entertain
some doubts. The approach was not such as to prepossess
people--an ill-smelling, dark passage, a staircase half-
lighted by bars through which stole a glimmer from a
neighboring yard; on the first floor a low door studded with
enormous nails, like the principal gate of the Grand
Chatelet.

Porthos knocked with his hand. A tall, pale clerk, his face
shaded by a forest of virgin hair, opened the door, and
bowed with the air of a man forced at once to respect in
another lofty stature, which indicated strength, the
military dress, which indicated rank, and a ruddy
countenance, which indicated familiarity with good living.

A shorter clerk came behind the first, a taller clerk behind
the second, a stripling of a dozen years rising behind the
third. In all, three clerks and a half, which, for the
time, argued a very extensive clientage.

Although the Musketeer was not expected before one o'clock,
the procurator's wife had been on the watch ever since
midday, reckoning that the heart, or perhaps the stomach, of
her lover would bring him before his time.

Mme. Coquenard therefore entered the office from the house
at the same moment her guest entered from the stairs, and
the appearance of the worthy lady relieved him from an
awkward embarrassment. The clerks surveyed him with great
curiosity, and he, not knowing well what to say to this
ascending and descending scale, remained tongue-tied.

"It is my cousin!" cried the procurator's wife. "Come in,
come in, Monsieur Porthos!"

The name of Porthos produced its effect upon the clerks, who
began to laugh; but Porthos turned sharply round, and every
countenance quickly recovered its gravity.

They reached the office of the procurator after having
passed through the antechamber in which the clerks were, and
the study in which they ought to have been. This last
apartment was a sort of dark room, littered with papers. On
quitting the study they left the kitchen on the right, and
entered the reception room.

All these rooms, which communicated with one another, did
not inspire Porthos favorably. Words might be heard at a
distance through all these open doors. Then, while passing,
he had cast a rapid, investigating glance into the kitchen;
and he was obliged to confess to himself, to the shame of
the procurator's wife and his own regret, that he did not
see that fire, that animation, that bustle, which when a
good repast is on foot prevails generally in that sanctuary
of good living.

The procurator had without doubt been warned of his visit,
as he expressed no surprise at the sight of Porthos, who
advanced toward him with a sufficiently easy air, and
saluted him courteously.

"We are cousins, it appears, Monsieur Porthos?" said the
procurator, rising, yet supporting his weight upon the arms
of his cane chair.

The old man, wrapped in a large black doublet, in which the
whole of his slender body was concealed, was brisk and dry.
His little gray eyes shone like carbuncles, and appeared,
with his grinning mouth, to be the only part of his face in
which life survived. Unfortunately the legs began to refuse
their service to this bony machine. During the last five or
six months that this weakness had been felt, the worthy
procurator had nearly become the slave of his wife.

The cousin was received with resignation, that was all. M.
Coquenard, firm upon his legs, would have declined all
relationship with M. Porthos.

"Yes, monsieur, we are cousins," said Porthos, without being
disconcerted, as he had never reckoned upon being received
enthusiastically by the husband.

"By the female side, I believe?" said the procurator,
maliciously.

Porthos did not feel the ridicule of this, and took it for a
piece of simplicity, at which he laughed in his large
mustache. Mme. Coquenard, who knew that a simple-minded
procurator was a very rare variety in the species, smiled a
little, and colored a great deal.

M. Coquenard had, since the arrival of Porthos, frequently
cast his eyes with great uneasiness upon a large chest
placed in front of his oak desk. Porthos comprehended that
this chest, although it did not correspond in shape with
that which he had seen in his dreams, must be the blessed
coffer, and he congratulated himself that the reality was
several feet higher than the dream.

M. Coquenard did not carry his genealogical investigations
any further; but withdrawing his anxious look from the chest
and fixing it upon Porthos, he contented himself with saying,
"Monsieur our cousin will do us the favor of dining with us
once before his departure for the campaign, will he not,
Madame Coquenard?"

This time Porthos received the blow right in his stomach,
and felt it. It appeared likewise that Mme. Coquenard was
not less affected by it on her part, for she added, "My
cousin will not return if he finds that we do not treat him
kindly; but otherwise he has so little time to pass in Paris,
and consequently to spare to us, that we must entreat him to
give us every instant he can call his own previous to his
departure."

"Oh, my legs, my poor legs! where are you?" murmured
Coquenard, and he tried to smile.

This succor, which came to Porthos at the moment in which he
was attacked in his gastronomic hopes, inspired much
gratitude in the Musketeer toward the procurator's wife.

The hour of dinner soon arrived. They passed into the eating
room--a large dark room situated opposite the kitchen.

The clerks, who, as it appeared, had smelled unusual perfumes
in the house, were of military punctuality, and held their
stools in hand quite ready to sit down. Their jaws moved
preliminarily with fearful threatenings.

"Indeed!" thought Porthos, casting a glance at the three hungry
clerks--for the errand boy, as might be expected, was not
admitted to the honors of the magisterial table, "in my
cousin's place, I would not keep such gourmands! They look
like shipwrecked sailors who have not eaten for six weeks."

M. Coquenard entered, pushed along upon his armchair with
casters by Mme. Coquenard, whom Porthos assisted in rolling
her husband up to the table. He had scarcely entered when
he began to agitate his nose and his jaws after the example
of his clerks.

"Oh, oh!" said he; "here is a soup which is rather
inviting."

"What the devil can they smell so extraordinary in this
soup?" said Porthos, at the sight of a pale liquid, abundant
but entirely free from meat, on the surface of which a few
crusts swam about as rare as the islands of an archipelago.

Mme. Coquenard smiled, and upon a sign from her everyone
eagerly took his seat.

M. Coquenard was served first, then Porthos. Afterward Mme.
Coquenard filled her own plate, and distributed the crusts
without soup to the impatient clerks. At this moment the
door of the dining room unclosed with a creak, and Porthos
perceived through the half-open flap the little clerk who,
not being allowed to take part in the feast, ate his dry
bread in the passage with the double odor of the dining room
and kitchen.

After the soup the maid brought a boiled fowl--a piece of
magnificence which caused the eyes of the diners to dilate
in such a manner that they seemed ready to burst.

"One may see that you love your family, Madame Coquenard,"
said the procurator, with a smile that was almost tragic.
"You are certainly treating your cousin very handsomely!"

The poor fowl was thin, and covered with one of those thick,
bristly skins through which the teeth cannot penetrate with
all their efforts. The fowl must have been sought for a
long time on the perch, to which it had retired to die of
old age.

"The devil!" thought Porthos, "this is poor work. I respect
old age, but I don't much like it boiled or roasted."

And he looked round to see if anybody partook of his
opinion; but on the contrary, he saw nothing but eager eyes
which were devouring, in anticipation, that sublime fowl
which was the object of his contempt.

Mme. Coquenard drew the dish toward her, skillfully detached
the two great black feet, which she placed upon her
husband's plate, cut off the neck, which with the head she
put on one side for herself, raised the wing for Porthos,
and then returned the bird otherwise intact to the servant
who had brought it in, who disappeared with it before the
Musketeer had time to examine the variations which
disappointment produces upon faces, according to the
characters and temperaments of those who experience it.

In the place of the fowl a dish of haricot beans made its
appearance--an enormous dish in which some bones of mutton
that at first sight one might have believed to have some
meat on them pretended to show themselves.

But the clerks were not the dupes of this deceit, and their
lugubrious looks settled down into resigned countenances.

Mme. Coquenard distributed this dish to the young men with
the moderation of a good housewife.

The time for wine came. M. Coquenard poured from a very
small stone bottle the third of a glass for each of the
young men, served himself in about the same proportion, and
passed the bottle to Porthos and Mme. Coquenard.

The young men filled up their third of a glass with water;
then, when they had drunk half the glass, they filled it up
again, and continued to do so. This brought them, by the
end of the repast, to swallowing a drink which from the
color of the ruby had passed to that of a pale topaz.

Porthos ate his wing of the fowl timidly, and shuddered when
he felt the knee of the procurator's wife under the table,
as it came in search of his. He also drank half a glass of
this sparingly served wine, and found it to be nothing but
that horrible Montreuil--the terror of all expert palates.

M. Coquenard saw him swallowing this wine undiluted, and
sighed deeply.

"Will you eat any of these beans, Cousin Porthos?" said Mme.
Coquenard, in that tone which says, "Take my advice, don't
touch them."

"Devil take me if I taste one of them!" murmured Porthos to
himself, and then said aloud, "Thank you, my cousin, I am no
longer hungry."

There was silence. Porthos could hardly keep his
countenance.

The procurator repeated several times, "Ah, Madame
Coquenard! Accept my compliments; your dinner has been a
real feast. Lord, how I have eaten!"

M. Coquenard had eaten his soup, the black feet of the fowl,
and the only mutton bone on which there was the least
appearance of meat.

Porthos fancied they were mystifying him, and began to curl
his mustache and knit his eyebrows; but the knee of Mme.
Coquenard gently advised him to be patient.

This silence and this interruption in serving, which were
unintelligible to Porthos, had, on the contrary, a terrible
meaning for the clerks. Upon a look from the procurator,
accompanied by a smile from Mme. Coquenard, they arose
slowly from the table, folded their napkins more slowly
still, bowed, and retired.

"Go, young men! go and promote digestion by working," said
the procurator, gravely.

The clerks gone, Mme. Coquenard rose and took from a buffet
a piece of cheese, some preserved quinces, and a cake which
she had herself made of almonds and honey.

M. Coquenard knit his eyebrows because there were too many
good things. Porthos bit his lips because he saw not the
wherewithal to dine. He looked to see if the dish of beans
was still there; the dish of beans had disappeared.

"A positive feast!" cried M. Coquenard, turning about in his
chair, "a real feast, EPULCE EPULORUM. Lucullus dines with
Lucullus."

Porthos looked at the bottle, which was near him, and hoped
that with wine, bread, and cheese, he might make a dinner;
but wine was wanting, the bottle was empty. M. and Mme.
Coquenard did not seem to observe it.

"This is fine!" said Porthos to himself; "I am prettily
caught!"

He passed his tongue over a spoonful of preserves, and stuck
his teeth into the sticky pastry of Mme. Coquenard.

"Now," said he, "the sacrifice is consummated! Ah! if I had
not the hope of peeping with Madame Coquenard into her
husband's chest!"

M. Coquenard, after the luxuries of such a repast, which he
called an excess, felt the want of a siesta. Porthos began
to hope that the thing would take place at the present
sitting, and in that same locality; but the procurator would
listen to nothing, he would be taken to his room, and was
not satisfied till he was close to his chest, upon the edge
of which, for still greater precaution, he placed his feet.

The procurator's wife took Porthos into an adjoining room,
and they began to lay the basis of a reconciliation.

"You can come and dine three times a week," said Mme.
Coquenard.

"Thanks, madame!" said Porthos, "but I don't like to abuse
your kindness; besides, I must think of my outfit!"

"That's true," said the procurator's wife, groaning, "that
unfortunate outfit!"

"Alas, yes," said Porthos, "it is so."

"But of what, then, does the equipment of your company
consist, Monsieur Porthos?"

"Oh, of many things!" said Porthos. "The Musketeers are, as
you know, picked soldiers, and they require many things
useless to the Guardsmen or the Swiss."

"But yet, detail them to me."

"Why, they may amount to--", said Porthos, who preferred
discussing the total to taking them one by one.

The procurator's wife waited tremblingly.

"To how much?" said she. "I hope it does not exceed--" She
stopped; speech failed her.

"Oh, no," said Porthos, "it does not exceed two thousand
five hundred livres! I even think that with economy I could
manage it with two thousand livres."

"Good God!" cried she, "two thousand livres! Why, that is a
fortune!"

Porthos made a most significant grimace; Mme. Coquenard
understood it.

"I wished to know the detail," said she, "because, having
many relatives in business, I was almost sure of obtaining
things at a hundred per cent less than you would pay
yourself."

"Ah, ah!" said Porthos, "that is what you meant to say!"

"Yes, dear Monsieur Porthos. Thus, for instance, don't you
in the first place want a horse?"

"Yes, a horse."

"Well, then! I can just suit you."

"Ah!" said Porthos, brightening, "that's well as regards my
horse; but I must have the appointments complete, as they
include objects which a Musketeer alone can purchase, and
which will not amount, besides, to more than three hundred
livres."

"Three hundred livres? Then put down three hundred livres,"
said the procurator's wife, with a sigh.

Porthos smiled. It may be remembered that he had the saddle
which came from Buckingham. These three hundred livres he
reckoned upon putting snugly into his pocket.

"Then," continued he, "there is a horse for my lackey, and
my valise. As to my arms, it is useless to trouble you
about them; I have them."

"A horse for your lackey?" resumed the procurator's wife,
hesitatingly; "but that is doing things in lordly style, my
friend."

"Ah, madame!" said Porthos, haughtily; "do you take me for a
beggar?"

"No; I only thought that a pretty mule makes sometimes as
good an appearance as a horse, and it seemed to me that by
getting a pretty mule for Mousqueton--"

"Well, agreed for a pretty mule," said Porthos; "you are
right, I have seen very great Spanish nobles whose whole
suite were mounted on mules. But then you understand,
Madame Coquenard, a mule with feathers and bells."

"Be satisfied," said the procurator's wife.

"There remains the valise," added Porthos.

"Oh, don't let that disturb you," cried Mme. Coquenard. "My
husband has five or six valises; you shall choose the best.
There is one in particular which he prefers in his journeys,
large enough to hold all the world."

"Your valise is then empty?" asked Porthos, with simplicity.

"Certainly it is empty," replied the procurator's wife, in
real innocence.

"Ah, but the valise I want," cried Porthos, "is a well-
filled one, my dear."

Madame uttered fresh sighs. Moliere had not written his
scene in "L'Avare" then. Mme. Coquenard was in the dilemma
of Harpagan.

Finally, the rest of the equipment was successively debated
in the same manner; and the result of the sitting was that
the procurator's wife should give eight hundred livres in
money, and should furnish the horse and the mule which
should have the honor of carrying Porthos and Mousqueton to
glory.

These conditions being agreed to, Porthos took leave of Mme.
Coquenard. The latter wished to detain him by darting
certain tender glances; but Porthos urged the commands of
duty, and the procurator's wife was obliged to give place to
the king.

The Musketeer returned home hungry and in bad humor.



33 SOUBRETTE AND MISTRESS

Meantime, as we have said, despite the cries of his
conscience and the wise counsels of Athos, d'Artagnan became
hourly more in love with Milady. Thus he never failed to
pay his diurnal court to her; and the self-satisfied Gascon
was convinced that sooner or later she could not fail to
respond.

One day, when he arrived with his head in the air, and as
light at heart as a man who awaits a shower of gold, he
found the SOUBRETTE under the gateway of the hotel; but this
time the pretty Kitty was not contented with touching him as
he passed, she took him gently by the hand.

"Good!" thought d'Artagnan, "She is charged with some
message for me from her mistress; she is about to appoint
some rendezvous of which she had not courage to speak." And
he looked down at the pretty girl with the most triumphant
air imaginable.

"I wish to say three words to you, Monsieur Chevalier,"
stammered the SOUBRETTE.

"Speak, my child, speak," said d'Artagnan; "I listen."

"Here? Impossible! That which I have to say is too long,
and above all, too secret."

"Well, what is to be done?"

"If Monsieur Chevalier would follow me?" said Kitty,
timidly.

"Where you please, my dear child."

"Come, then."

And Kitty, who had not let go the hand of d'Artagnan, led
him up a little dark, winding staircase, and after ascending
about fifteen steps, opened a door.

"Come in here, Monsieur Chevalier," said she; "here we shall
be alone, and can talk."

"And whose room is this, my dear child?"

"It is mine, Monsieur Chevalier; it communicates with my
mistress's by that door. But you need not fear. She will
not hear what we say; she never goes to bed before
midnight."

D'Artagnan cast a glance around him. The little apartment
was charming for its taste and neatness; but in spite of
himself, his eyes were directed to that door which Kitty
said led to Milady's chamber.

Kitty guessed what was passing in the mind of the young man,
and heaved a deep sigh.

"You love my mistress, then, very dearly, Monsieur
Chevalier?" said she.

"Oh, more than I can say, Kitty! I am mad for her!"

Kitty breathed a second sigh.

"Alas, monsieur," said she, "that is too bad."

"What the devil do you see so bad in it?" said d'Artagnan.

"Because, monsieur," replied Kitty, "my mistress loves you
not at all."

"HEIN!" said d'Artagnan, "can she have charged you to tell
me so?"

"Oh, no, monsieur; but out of the regard I have for you, I
have taken the resolution to tell you so."

"Much obliged, my dear Kitty; but for the intention only--for
the information, you must agree, is not likely to be at all
agreeable."

"That is to say, you don't believe what I have told you; is
it not so?"

"We have always some difficulty in believing such things, my
pretty dear, were it only from self-love."

"Then you don't believe me?"

"I confess that unless you deign to give me some proof of
what you advance--"

"What do you think of this?"

Kitty drew a little note from her bosom.

"For me?" said d'Artagnan, seizing the letter.

"No; for another."

"For another?"

"Yes."

"His name; his name!" cried d'Artagnan.

"Read the address."

"Monsieur El Comte de Wardes."

The remembrance of the scene at St. Germain presented itself
to the mind of the presumptuous Gascon. As quick as
thought, he tore open the letter, in spite of the cry which
Kitty uttered on seeing what he was going to do, or rather,
what he was doing.

"Oh, good Lord, Monsieur Chevalier," said she, "what are you
doing?"

"I?" said d'Artagnan; "nothing," and he read,


"You have not answered my first note. Are you indisposed,
or have you forgotten the glances you favored me with at the
ball of Mme. de Guise? You have an opportunity now, Count;
do not allow it to escape."


d'Artagnan became very pale; he was wounded in his SELF-
love: he thought that it was in his LOVE.

"Poor dear Monsieur d'Artagnan," said Kitty, in a voice full
of compassion, and pressing anew the young man's hand.

"You pity me, little one?" said d'Artagnan.

"Oh, yes, and with all my heart; for I know what it is to be
in love."

"You know what it is to be in love?" said d'Artagnan,
looking at her for the first time with much attention.

"Alas, yes."

"Well, then, instead of pitying me, you would do much better
to assist me in avenging myself on your mistress."

"And what sort of revenge would you take?"

"I would triumph over her, and supplant my rival."

"I will never help you in that, Monsieur Chevalier," said
Kitty, warmly.

"And why not?" demanded d'Artagnan.

"For two reasons."

"What ones?"

"The first is that my mistress will never love you."

"How do you know that?"

"You have cut her to the heart."

"I? In what can I have offended her--I who ever since I have
known her have lived at her feet like a slave? Speak, I beg
you!"

"I will never confess that but to the man--who should read to
the bottom of my soul!"

D'Artagnan looked at Kitty for the second time. The young
girl had freshness and beauty which many duchesses would
have purchased with their coronets.

"Kitty," said he, "I will read to the bottom of your soul
when-ever you like; don't let that disturb you." And he gave
her a kiss at which the poor girl became as red as a cherry.

"Oh, no," said Kitty, "it is not me you love! It is my
mistress you love; you told me so just now."

"And does that hinder you from letting me know the second
reason?"

"The second reason, Monsieur the Chevalier," replied Kitty,
emboldened by the kiss in the first place, and still further
by the expression of the eyes of the young man, "is that in
love, everyone for herself!"

Then only d'Artagnan remembered the languishing glances of
Kitty, her constantly meeting him in the antechamber, the
corridor, or on the stairs, those touches of the hand every
time she met him, and her deep sighs; but absorbed by his
desire to please the great lady, he had disdained the
soubrette. He whose game is the eagle takes no heed of the
sparrow.

But this time our Gascon saw at a glance all the advantage
to be derived from the love which Kitty had just confessed
so innocently, or so boldly: the interception of letters
addressed to the Comte de Wardes, news on the spot, entrance
at all hours into Kitty's chamber, which was contiguous to
her mistress's. The perfidious deceiver was, as may plainly
be perceived, already sacrificing, in intention, the poor
girl in order to obtain Milady, willy-nilly.

"Well," said he to the young girl, "are you willing, my dear
Kitty, that I should give you a proof of that love which you
doubt?"

"What love?" asked the young girl.

"Of that which I am ready to feel toward you."

"And what is that proof?"

"Are you willing that I should this evening pass with you
the time I generally spend with your mistress?"

"Oh, yes," said Kitty, clapping her hands, "very willing."

"Well, then, come here, my dear," said d'Artagnan,
establishing himself in an easy chair; "come, and let me
tell you that you are the prettiest SOUBRETTE I ever saw!"

And he did tell her so much, and so well, that the poor
girl, who asked nothing better than to believe him, did
believe him. Nevertheless, to d'Artagnan's great
astonishment, the pretty Kitty defended herself resolutely.

Time passes quickly when it is passed in attacks and
defenses. Midnight sounded, and almost at the same time the
bell was rung in Milady's chamber.

"Good God," cried Kitty, "there is my mistress calling me!
Go; go directly!"

D'Artagnan rose, took his hat, as if it had been his
intention to obey, then, opening quickly the door of a large
closet instead of that leading to the staircase, he buried
himself amid the robes and dressing gowns of Milady.

"What are you doing?" cried Kitty.

D'Artagnan, who had secured the key, shut himself up in the
closet without reply.

"Well," cried Milady, in a sharp voice. "Are you asleep,
that you don't answer when I ring?"

And d'Artagnan heard the door of communication opened
violently.

"Here am I, Milady, here am I!" cried Kitty, springing
forward to meet her mistress.

Both went into the bedroom, and as the door of communication
remained open, d'Artagnan could hear Milady for some time
scolding her maid. She was at length appeased, and the
conversation turned upon him while Kitty was assisting her
mistress.

"Well," said Milady, "I have not seen our Gascon this
evening."

"What, Milady! has he not come?" said Kitty. "Can he be
inconstant before being happy?"

"Oh, no; he must have been prevented by Monsieur de Treville
or Monsieur Dessessart. I understand my game, Kitty; I have
this one safe."

"What will you do with him, madame?"

"What will I do with him? Be easy, Kitty, there is
something between that man and me that he is quite ignorant
of: he nearly made me lose my credit with his Eminence. Oh,
I will be revenged!"

"I believed that Madame loved him."

"I love him? I detest him! An idiot, who held the life of
Lord de Winter in his hands and did not kill him, by which I
missed three hundred thousand livres' income."

"That's true," said Kitty; "your son was the only heir of
his uncle, and until his majority you would have had the
enjoyment of his fortune."

D'Artagnan shuddered to the marrow at hearing this suave
creature reproach him, with that sharp voice which she took
such pains to conceal in conversation, for not having killed
a man whom he had seen load her with kindnesses.

"For all this," continued Milady, "I should long ago have
revenged myself on him if, and I don't know why, the
cardinal had not requested me to conciliate him."

"Oh, yes; but Madame has not conciliated that little woman
he was so fond of."

"What, the mercer's wife of the Rue des Fossoyeurs? Has he
not already forgotten she ever existed? Fine vengeance
that, on my faith!"

A cold sweat broke from d'Artagnan's brow. Why, this woman
was a monster! He resumed his listening, but unfortunately
the toilet was finished.

"That will do," said Milady; "go into your own room, and
tomorrow endeavor again to get me an answer to the letter I
gave you."

"For Monsieur de Wardes?" said Kitty.

"To be sure; for Monsieur de Wardes."

"Now, there is one," said Kitty, "who appears to me quite a
different sort of a man from that poor Monsieur d'Artagnan."

"Go to bed, mademoiselle," said Milady; "I don't like
comments."

D'Artagnan heard the door close; then the noise of two bolts
by which Milady fastened herself in. On her side, but as
softly as possible, Kitty turned the key of the lock, and
then d'Artagnan opened the closet door.

"Oh, good Lord!" said Kitty, in a low voice, "what is the
matter with you? How pale you are!"

"The abominable creature" murmured d'Artagnan.

"Silence, silence, begone!" said Kitty. "There is nothing
but a wainscot between my chamber and Milady's; every word
that is uttered in one can be heard in the other."

"That's exactly the reason I won't go," said d'Artagnan.

"What!" said Kitty, blushing.

"Or, at least, I will go--later."

He drew Kitty to him. She had the less motive to resist,
resistance would make so much noise. Therefore Kitty
surrendered.

It was a movement of vengeance upon Milady. D'Artagnan
believed it right to say that vengeance is the pleasure of
the gods. With a little more heart, he might have been
contented with this new conquest; but the principal features
of his character were ambition and pride. It must, however,
be confessed in his justification that the first use he made
of his influence over Kitty was to try and find out what had
become of Mme. Bonacieux; but the poor girl swore upon the
crucifix to d'Artagnan that she was entirely ignorant on
that head, her mistress never admitting her into half her
secrets--only she believed she could say she was not dead.

As to the cause which was near making Milady lose her credit
with the cardinal, Kitty knew nothing about it; but this
time d'Artagnan was better informed than she was. As he had
seen Milady on board a vessel at the moment he was leaving
England, he suspected that it was, almost without a doubt,
on account of the diamond studs.

But what was clearest in all this was that the true hatred,
the profound hatred, the inveterate hatred of Milady, was
increased by his not having killed her brother-in-law.

D'Artagnan came the next day to Milady's, and finding her in
a very ill-humor, had no doubt that it was lack of an answer
from M. de Wardes that provoked her thus. Kitty came in,
but Milady was very cross with her. The poor girl ventured
a glance at d'Artagnan which said, "See how I suffer on your
account!"

Toward the end of the evening, however, the beautiful
lioness became milder; she smilingly listened to the soft
speeches of d'Artagnan, and even gave him her hand to kiss.

D'Artagnan departed, scarcely knowing what to think, but as
he was a youth who did not easily lose his head, while
continuing to pay his court to Milady, he had framed a
little plan in his mind.

He found Kitty at the gate, and, as on the preceding
evening, went up to her chamber. Kitty had been accused of
negligence and severely scolded. Milady could not at all
comprehend the silence of the Comte de Wardes, and she
ordered Kitty to come at nine o'clock in the morning to take
a third letter.

D'Artagnan made Kitty promise to bring him that letter on
the following morning. The poor girl promised all her lover
desired; she was mad.

Things passed as on the night before. D'Artagnan concealed
himself in his closet; Milady called, undressed, sent away
Kitty, and shut the door. As the night before, d'Artagnan
did not return home till five o'clock in the morning.

At eleven o'clock Kitty came to him. She held in her hand a
fresh billet from Milady. This time the poor girl did not
even argue with d'Artagnan; she gave it to him at once. She
belonged body and soul to her handsome soldier.

D'Artagnan opened the letter and read as follows:


This is the third time I have written to you to tell you
that I love you. Beware that I do not write to you a fourth
time to tell you that I detest you.

If you repent of the manner in which you have acted toward
me, the young girl who brings you this will tell you how a
man of spirit may obtain his pardon.


d'Artagnan colored and grew pale several times in reading
this billet.

"Oh, you love her still," said Kitty, who had not taken her
eyes off the young man's countenance for an instant.

"No, Kitty, you are mistaken. I do not love her, but I will
avenge myself for her contempt."

"Oh, yes, I know what sort of vengeance! You told me that!"

"What matters it to you, Kitty? You know it is you alone
whom I love."

"How can I know that?"

"By the scorn I will throw upon her."

D'Artagnan took a pen and wrote:


Madame, Until the present moment I could not believe that it
was to me your first two letters were addressed, so unworthy
did I feel myself of such an honor; besides, I was so
seriously indisposed that I could not in any case have
replied to them.

But now I am forced to believe in the excess of your
kindness, since not only your letter but your servant
assures me that I have the good fortune to be beloved by
you.

She has no occasion to teach me the way in which a man of
spirit may obtain his pardon. I will come and ask mine at
eleven o'clock this evening.

To delay it a single day would be in my eyes now to commit a
fresh offense.

From him whom you have rendered the happiest of men,
Comte de Wardes


This note was in the first place a forgery; it was likewise
an indelicacy. It was even, according to our present
manners, something like an infamous action; but at that
period people did not manage affairs as they do today.
Besides, d'Artagnan from her own admission knew Milady
culpable of treachery in matters more important, and could
entertain no respect for her. And yet, notwithstanding this
want of respect, he felt an uncontrollable passion for this
woman boiling in his veins--passion drunk with contempt; but
passion or thirst, as the reader pleases.

D'Artagnan's plan was very simple. By Kitty's chamber he
could gain that of her mistress. He would take advantage of
the first moment of surprise, shame, and terror, to triumph
over her. He might fail, but something must be left to
chance. In eight days the campaign would open, and he would
be compelled to leave Paris; d'Artagnan had no time for a
prolonged love siege.

"There," said the young man, handing Kitty the letter
sealed; "give that to Milady. It is the count's reply."

Poor Kitty became as pale as death; she suspected what the
letter contained.

"Listen, my dear girl," said d'Artagnan; "you cannot but
perceive that all this must end, some way or other. Milady
may discover that you gave the first billet to my lackey
instead of to the count's; that it is I who have opened the
others which ought to have been opened by de Wardes. Milady
will then turn you out of doors, and you know she is not the
woman to limit her vengeance. "Alas!" said Kitty, "for whom
have I exposed myself to all that?"

"For me, I well know, my sweet girl," said d'Artagnan. "But
I am grateful, I swear to you."

"But what does this note contain?"

"Milady will tell you."

"Ah, you do not love me!" cried Kitty, "and I am very
wretched."

To this reproach there is always one response which deludes
women. D'Artagnan replied in such a manner that Kitty
remained in her great delusion. Although she cried freely
before deciding to transmit the letter to her mistress, she
did at last so decide, which was all d'Artagnan wished.
Finally he promised that he would leave her mistress's
presence at an early hour that evening, and that when he
left the mistress he would ascend with the maid. This
promise completed poor Kitty's consolation.



34 IN WHICH THE EQUIPMENT OF ARAMIS AND PORTHOS IS TREATED
OF

Since the four friends had been each in search of his
equipments, there had been no fixed meeting between them.
They dined apart from one another, wherever they might
happen to be, or rather where they could. Duty likewise on
its part took a portion of that precious time which was
gliding away so rapidly--only they had agreed to meet once a
week, about one o'clock, at the residence of Athos, seeing
that he, in agreement with the vow he had formed, did not
pass over the threshold of his door.

This day of reunion was the same day as that on which Kitty
came to find d'Artagnan. Soon as Kitty left him, d'Artagnan
directed his steps toward the Rue Ferou.

He found Athos and Aramis philosophizing. Aramis had some
slight inclination to resume the cassock. Athos, according
to his system, neither encouraged nor dissuaded him. Athos
believed that everyone should be left to his own free will.
He never gave advice but when it was asked, and even then he
required to be asked twice.

"People, in general," he said, "only ask advice not to
follow it; or if they do follow it, it is for the sake of
having someone to blame for having given it."

Porthos arrived a minute after d'Artagnan. The four friends
were reunited.

The four countenances expressed four different feelings:
that of Porthos, tranquillity; that of d'Artagnan, hope;
that of Aramis, uneasiness; that of Athos, carelessness.

At the end of a moment's conversation, in which Porthos
hinted that a lady of elevated rank had condescended to
relieve him from his embarrassment, Mousqueton entered. He
came to request his master to return to his lodgings, where
his presence was urgent, as he piteously said.

"Is it my equipment?"

"Yes and no," replied Mousqueton.

"Well, but can't you speak?"

"Come, monsieur."

Porthos rose, saluted his friends, and followed Mousqueton.
An instant after, Bazin made his appearance at the door.

"What do you want with me, my friend?" said Aramis, with
that mildness of language which was observable in him every
time that his ideas were directed toward the Church.

"A man wishes to see Monsieur at home," replied Bazin.

"A man! What man?"

"A mendicant."

"Give him alms, Bazin, and bid him pray for a poor sinner."

"This mendicant insists upon speaking to you, and pretends
that you will be very glad to see him."

"Has he sent no particular message for me?"

"Yes. If Monsieur Aramis hesitates to come," he said, "tell
him I am from Tours."

"From Tours!" cried Aramis. "A thousand pardons, gentlemen;
but no doubt this man brings me the news I expected." And
rising also, he went off at a quick pace. There remained
Athos and d'Artagnan.

"I believe these fellows have managed their business. What
do you think, d'Artagnan?" said Athos.

"I know that Porthos was in a fair way," replied d'Artagnan;
"and as to Aramis to tell you the truth, I have never been
seriously uneasy on his account. But you, my dear Athos--
you, who so generously distributed the Englishman's
pistoles, which were our legitimate property--what do you
mean to do?"

"I am satisfied with having killed that fellow, my boy,
seeing that it is blessed bread to kill an Englishman; but
if I had pocketed his pistoles, they would have weighed me
down like a remorse.

"Go to, my dear Athos; you have truly inconceivable ideas."

"Let it pass. What do you think of Monsieur de Treville
telling me, when he did me the honor to call upon me
yesterday, that you associated with the suspected English,
whom the cardinal protects?"

"That is to say, I visit an Englishwoman--the one I named."

"Oh, ay! the fair woman on whose account I gave you advice,
which naturally you took care not to adopt."

"I gave you my reasons."

"Yes; you look there for your outfit, I think you said."

"Not at all. I have acquired certain knowledge that that
woman was concerned in the abduction of Madame Bonacieux."

"Yes, I understand now: to find one woman, you court
another. It is the longest road, but certainly the most
amusing."

D'Artagnan was on the point of telling Athos all; but one
consideration restrained him. Athos was a gentleman,
punctilious in points of honor; and there were in the plan
which our lover had devised for Milady, he was sure, certain
things that would not obtain the assent of this Puritan. He
was therefore silent; and as Athos was the least inquisitive
of any man on earth, d'Artagnan's confidence stopped there.
We will therefore leave the two friends, who had nothing
important to say to each other, and follow Aramis.

Upon being informed that the person who wanted to speak to
him came from Tours, we have seen with what rapidity the
young man followed, or rather went before, Bazin; he ran
without stopping from the Rue Ferou to the Rue de Vaugirard.
On entering he found a man of short stature and intelligent
eyes, but covered with rags.

"You have asked for me?" said the Musketeer.

"I wish to speak with Monsieur Aramis. Is that your name,
monsieur?"

"My very own. You have brought me something?"

"Yes, if you show me a certain embroidered handkerchief."

"Here it is," said Aramis, taking a small key from his
breast and opening a little ebony box inlaid with mother of
pearl, "here it is. Look."

"That is right," replied the mendicant; "dismiss your lackey."

In fact, Bazin, curious to know what the mendicant could
want with his master, kept pace with him as well as he
could, and arrived almost at the same time he did; but his
quickness was not of much use to him. At the hint from the
mendicant his master made him a sign to retire, and he was
obliged to obey.

Bazin gone, the mendicant cast a rapid glance around him in
order to be sure that nobody could either see or hear him,
and opening his ragged vest, badly held together by a
leather strap, he began to rip the upper part of his
doublet, from which he drew a letter.

Aramis uttered a cry of joy at the sight of the seal, kissed
the superscription with an almost religious respect, and
opened the epistle, which contained what follows:


"My Friend, it is the will of fate that we should be still
for some time separated; but the delightful days of youth
are not lost beyond return. Perform your duty in camp; I
will do mine elsewhere. Accept that which the bearer brings
you; make the campaign like a handsome true gentleman, and
think of me, who kisses tenderly your black eyes.

"Adieu; or rather, AU REVOIR."


The mendicant continued to rip his garments; and drew from
amid his rags a hundred and fifty Spanish double pistoles,
which he laid down on the table; then he opened the door,
bowed, and went out before the young man, stupefied by his
letter, had ventured to address a word to him.

Aramis then reperused the letter, and perceived a
postscript:


P.S. You may behave politely to the bearer, who is a count
and a grandee of Spain!

"Golden dreams!" cried Aramis. "Oh, beautiful life! Yes, we
are young; yes, we shall yet have happy days! My love, my
blood, my life! all, all, all, are thine, my adored
mistress!"

And he kissed the letter with passion, without even
vouchsafing a look at the gold which sparkled on the table.

Bazin scratched at the door, and as Aramis had no longer any
reason to exclude him, he bade him come in.

Bazin was stupefied at the sight of the gold, and forgot
that he came to announce d'Artagnan, who, curious to know
who the mendicant could be, came to Aramis on leaving Athos.

Now, as d'Artagnan used no ceremony with Aramis, seeing that
Bazin forgot to announce him, he announced himself.

"The devil! my dear Aramis," said d'Artagnan, "if these are
the prunes that are sent to you from Tours, I beg you will
make my compliments to the gardener who gathers them."

"You are mistaken, friend d'Artagnan," said Aramis, always
on his guard; "this is from my publisher, who has just sent
me the price of that poem in one-syllable verse which I
began yonder."

"Ah, indeed," said d'Artagnan. "Well, your publisher is
very generous, my dear Aramis, that's all I can say."

"How, monsieur?" cried Bazin, "a poem sell so dear as that!
It is incredible! Oh, monsieur, you can write as much as you
like; you may become equal to Monsieur de Voiture and
Monsieur de Benserade. I like that. A poet is as good as
an abbe. Ah! Monsieur Aramis, become a poet, I beg of you."

"Bazin, my friend," said Aramis, "I believe you meddle with
my conversation."

Bazin perceived he was wrong; he bowed and went out.

"Ah!" said d'Artagnan with a smile, "you sell your
productions at their weight in gold. You are very
fortunate, my friend; but take care or you will lose that
letter which is peeping from your doublet, and which also
comes, no doubt, from your publisher."

Aramis blushed to the eyes, crammed in the letter, and
re-buttoned his doublet.

"My dear d'Artagnan," said he, "if you please, we will join
our friends; as I am rich, we will today begin to dine
together again, expecting that you will be rich in your
turn."

"My faith!" said d'Artagnan, with great pleasure. "It is
long since we have had a good dinner; and I, for my part,
have a somewhat hazardous expedition for this evening, and
shall not be sorry, I confess, to fortify myself with a few
glasses of good old Burgundy."

"Agreed, as to the old Burgundy; I have no objection to
that," said Aramis, from whom the letter and the gold had
removed, as by magic, his ideas of conversion.

And having put three or four double pistoles into his pocket
to answer the needs of the moment, he placed the others in
the ebony box, inlaid with mother of pearl, in which was the
famous handkerchief which served him as a talisman.

The two friends repaired to Athos's, and he, faithful to his
vow of not going out, took upon him to order dinner to be
brought to them. As he was perfectly acquainted with the
details of gastronomy, d'Artagnan and Aramis made no
objection to abandoning this important care to him.

They went to find Porthos, and at the corner of the Rue Bac
met Mousqueton, who, with a most pitiable air, was driving
before him a mule and a horse.

D'Artagnan uttered a cry of surprise, which was not quite
free from joy.

"Ah, my yellow horse," cried he. "Aramis, look at that
horse!"

"Oh, the frightful brute!" said Aramis.

"Ah, my dear," replied d'Artagnan, "upon that very horse I
came to Paris."

"What, does Monsieur know this horse?" said Mousqueton.

"It is of an original color," said Aramis; "I never saw one
with such a hide in my life."

"I can well believe it," replied d'Artagnan, "and that was
why I got three crowns for him. It must have been for his
hide, for, CERTES, the carcass is not worth eighteen livres.
But how did this horse come into your bands, Mousqueton?"

"Pray," said the lackey, "say nothing about it, monsieur; it
is a frightful trick of the husband of our duchess!"

"How is that, Mousqueton?"

"Why, we are looked upon with a rather favorable eye by a
lady of quality, the Duchesse de--but, your pardon; my master
has commanded me to be discreet. She had forced us to
accept a little souvenir, a magnificent Spanish GENET and an
Andalusian mule, which were beautiful to look upon. The
husband heard of the affair; on their way he confiscated the
two magnificent beasts which were being sent to us, and
substituted these horrible animals."

"Which you are taking back to him?" said d'Artagnan.

"Exactly!" replied Mousqueton. "You may well believe that we
will not accept such steeds as these in exchange for those
which had been promised to us."

"No, PARDIEU; though I should like to have seen Porthos on
my yellow horse. That would give me an idea of how I looked
when I arrived in Paris. But don't let us hinder you,
Mousqueton; go and perform your master's orders. Is he at
home?"

"Yes, monsieur," said Mousqueton, "but in a very ill humor.
Get up!"

He continued his way toward the Quai des Grands Augustins,
while the two friends went to ring at the bell of the
unfortunate Porthos. He, having seen them crossing the
yard, took care not to answer, and they rang in vain.

Meanwhile Mousqueton continued on his way, and crossing the
Pont Neuf, still driving the two sorry animals before him,
he reached the Rue aux Ours. Arrived there, he fastened,
according to the orders of his master, both horse and mule
to the knocker of the procurator's door; then, without
taking any thought for their future, he returned to Porthos,
and told him that his commission was completed.

In a short time the two unfortunate beasts, who had not
eaten anything since the morning, made such a noise in
raising and letting fall the knocker that the procurator
ordered his errand boy to go and inquire in the neighborhood
to whom this horse and mule belonged.

Mme. Coquenard recognized her present, and could not at
first comprehend this restitution; but the visit of Porthos
soon enlightened her. The anger which fired the eyes of the
Musketeer, in spite of his efforts to suppress it, terrified
his sensitive inamorata. In fact, Mousqueton had not
concealed from his master that he had met d'Artagnan and
Aramis, and that d'Artagnan in the yellow horse had
recognized the Bearnese pony upon which he had come to
Paris, and which he had sold for three crowns.

Porthos went away after having appointed a meeting with the
procurator's wife in the cloister of St. Magloire. The
procurator, seeing he was going, invited him to dinner--an
invitation which the Musketeer refused with a majestic air.

Mme. Coquenard repaired trembling to the cloister of St.
Magloire, for she guessed the reproaches that awaited her
there; but she was fascinated by the lofty airs of Porthos.

All that which a man wounded in his self-love could let fall
in the shape of imprecations and reproaches upon the head of
a woman Porthos let fall upon the bowed head of the
procurator's wife.

"Alas," said she, "I did all for the best! One of our
clients is a horsedealer; he owes money to the office, and
is backward in his pay. I took the mule and the horse for
what he owed us; he assured me that they were two noble
steeds."

"Well, madame," said Porthos, "if he owed you more than five
crowns, your horsedealer is a thief."

"There is no harm in trying to buy things cheap, Monsieur
Porthos," said the procurator's wife, seeking to excuse
herself.

"No, madame; but they who so assiduously try to buy things
cheap ought to permit others to seek more generous friends."
And Porthos, turning on his heel, made a step to retire.

"Monsieur Porthos! Monsieur Porthos!" cried the
procurator's wife. "I have been wrong; I see it. I ought
not to have driven a bargain when it was to equip a cavalier
like you."

Porthos, without reply, retreated a second step. The
procurator's wife fancied she saw him in a brilliant cloud,
all surrounded by duchesses and marchionesses, who cast bags
of money at his feet.

"Stop, in the name of heaven, Monsieur Porthos!" cried she.
"Stop, and let us talk."

"Talking with you brings me misfortune," said Porthos.

"But, tell me, what do you ask?"

"Nothing; for that amounts to the same thing as if I asked
you for something."

The procurator's wife hung upon the arm of Porthos, and in
the violence of her grief she cried out, "Monsieur Porthos,
I am ignorant of all such matters! How should I know what a
horse is? How should I know what horse furniture is?"

"You should have left it to me, then, madame, who know what
they are; but you wished to be frugal, and consequently to
lend at usury."

"It was wrong, Monsieur Porthos; but I will repair that
wrong, upon my word of honor."

"How so?" asked the Musketeer.

"Listen. This evening M. Coquenard is going to the house of
the Due de Chaulnes, who has sent for him. It is for a
consultation, which will last three hours at least. Come!
We shall be alone, and can make up our accounts."

"In good time. Now you talk, my dear."

"You pardon me?"

"We shall see," said Porthos, majestically; and the two
separated saying, "Till this evening."

"The devil!" thought Porthos, as he walked away, "it appears
I am getting nearer to Monsieur Coquenard's strongbox at
last."



35 A GASCON A MATCH FOR CUPID

The evening so impatiently waited for by Porthos and by
d'Artagnan at last arrived.

As was his custom, d'Artagnan presented himself at Milady's
at about nine o'clock. He found her in a charming humor.
Never had he been so well received. Our Gascon knew, by the
first glance of his eye, that his billet had been delivered,
and that this billet had had its effect.

Kitty entered to bring some sherbet. Her mistress put on a
charming face, and smiled on her graciously; but alas! the
poor girl was so sad that she did not even notice Milady's
condescension.

D'Artagnan looked at the two women, one after the other, and
was forced to acknowledge that in his opinion Dame Nature
had made a mistake in their formation. To the great lady
she had given a heart vile and venal; to the SOUBRETTE she
had given the heart of a duchess.

At ten o'clock Milady began to appear restless. D'Artagnan
knew what she wanted. She looked at the clock, rose,
reseated herself, smiled at d'Artagnan with an air which
said, "You are very amiable, no doubt, but you would be
charming if you would only depart."

D'Artagnan rose and took his hat; Milady gave him her hand
to kiss. The young man felt her press his hand, and
comprehended that this was a sentiment, not of coquetry, but
of gratitude because of his departure.

"She loves him devilishly," he murmured. Then he went out.

This time Kitty was nowhere waiting for him; neither in the
antechamber, nor in the corridor, nor beneath the great
door. It was necessary that d'Artagnan should find alone
the staircase and the little chamber. She heard him enter,
but she did not raise her head. The young man went to her
and took her hands; then she sobbed aloud.

As d'Artagnan had presumed, on receiving his letter, Milady
in a delirium of joy had told her servant everything; and by
way of recompense for the manner in which she had this time
executed the commission, she had given Kitty a purse.

Returning to her own room, Kitty had thrown the purse into a
corner, where it lay open, disgorging three or four gold
pieces on the carpet. The poor girl, under the caresses of
d'Artagnan, lifted her head. D'Artagnan himself was
frightened by the change in her countenance. She joined her
hands with a suppliant air, but without venturing to speak a
word. As little sensitive as was the heart of d'Artagnan,
he was touched by this mute sorrow; but he held too
tenaciously to his projects, above all to this one, to
change the program which he had laid out in advance. He did
not therefore allow her any hope that he would flinch; only
he represented his action as one of simple vengeance.

For the rest this vengeance was very easy; for Milady,
doubtless to conceal her blushes from her lover, had ordered
Kitty to extinguish all the lights in the apartment, and
even in the little chamber itself. Before daybreak M. de
Wardes must take his departure, still in obscurity.

Presently they heard Milady retire to her room. D'Artagnan
slipped into the wardrobe. Hardly was he concealed when the
little bell sounded. Kitty went to her mistress, and did
not leave the door open; but the partition was so thin that
one could hear nearly all that passed between the two women.

Milady seemed overcome with joy, and made Kitty repeat the
smallest details of the pretended interview of the soubrette
with de Wardes when he received the letter; how he had
responded; what was the expression of his face; if he seemed
very amorous. And to all these questions poor Kitty, forced
to put on a pleasant face, responded in a stifled voice
whose dolorous accent her mistress did not however remark,
solely because happiness is egotistical.

Finally, as the hour for her interview with the count
approached, Milady had everything about her darkened, and
ordered Kitty to return to her own chamber, and introduce de
Wardes whenever he presented himself.

Kitty's detention was not long. Hardly had d'Artagnan seen,
through a crevice in his closet, that the whole apartment
was in obscurity, than he slipped out of his concealment, at
the very moment when Kitty reclosed the door of
communication.

"What is that noise?" demanded Milady.

"It is I," said d'Artagnan in a subdued voice, "I, the Comte
de Wardes."

"Oh, my God, my God!" murmured Kitty, "he has not even
waited for the hour he himself named!"

"Well," said Milady, in a trembling voice, "why do you not
enter? Count, Count," added she, "you know that I wait for
you."

At this appeal d'Artagnan drew Kitty quietly away, and
slipped into the chamber.

If rage or sorrow ever torture the heart, it is when a lover
receives under a name which is not his own protestations of
love addressed to his happy rival. D'Artagnan was in a
dolorous situation which he had not foreseen. Jealousy
gnawed his heart; and he suffered almost as much as poor
Kitty, who at that very moment was crying in the next
chamber.

"Yes, Count," said Milady, in her softest voice, and
pressing his hand in her own, "I am happy in the love which
your looks and your words have expressed to me every time we
have met. I also--I love you. Oh, tomorrow, tomorrow, I
must have some pledge from you which will prove that you
think of me; and that you may not forget me, take this!" and
she slipped a ring from her finger onto d'Artagnan's.
d'Artagnan remembered having seen this ring on the finger of
Milady; it was a magnificent sapphire, encircled with
brilliants.

The first movement of d'Artagnan was to return it, but
Milady added, "No, no! Keep that ring for love of me.
Besides, in accepting it," she added, in a voice full of
emotion, "you render me a much greater service than you
imagine."

"This woman is full of mysteries," murmured d'Artagnan to
himself. At that instant he felt himself ready to reveal
all. He even opened his mouth to tell Milady who he was,
and with what a revengeful purpose he had come; but she
added, "Poor angel, whom that monster of a Gascon barely
failed to kill."

The monster was himself.

"Oh," continued Milady, "do your wounds still make you
suffer?"

"Yes, much," said d'Artagnan, who did not well know how to
answer.

"Be tranquil," murmured Milady; "I will avenge you--and
cruelly!"

"PESTE!" said d'Artagnan to himself, "the moment for
confidences has not yet come."

It took some time for d'Artagnan to resume this little
dialogue; but then all the ideas of vengeance which he had
brought with him had completely vanished. This woman
exercised over him an unaccountable power; he hated and
adored her at the same time. He would not have believed
that two sentiments so opposite could dwell in the same
heart, and by their union constitute a passion so strange,
and as it were, diabolical.

Presently it sounded one o'clock. It was necessary to
separate. D'Artagnan at the moment of quitting Milady felt
only the liveliest regret at the parting; and as they
addressed each other in a reciprocally passionate adieu,
another interview was arranged for the following week.

Poor Kitty hoped to speak a few words to d'Artagnan when he
passed through her chamber; but Milady herself reconducted
him through the darkness, and only quit him at the
staircase.

The next morning d'Artagnan ran to find Athos. He was
engaged in an adventure so singular that he wished for
counsel. He therefore told him all.

"Your Milady," said he, "appears to be an infamous creature,
but not the less you have done wrong to deceive her. In one
fashion or another you have a terrible enemy on your hands."

While thus speaking Athos regarded with attention the
sapphire set with diamonds which had taken, on d'Artagnan's
finger, the place of the queen's ring, carefully kept in a
casket.

"You notice my ring?" said the Gascon, proud to display so
rich a gift in the eyes of his friends.

"Yes," said Athos, "it reminds me of a family jewel."

"It is beautiful, is it not?" said d'Artagnan.

"Yes," said Athos, "magnificent. I did not think two
sapphires of such a fine water existed. Have you traded it
for your diamond?"

"No. It is a gift from my beautiful Englishwoman, or rather
Frenchwoman--for I am convinced she was born in France,
though I have not questioned her."

"That ring comes from Milady?" cried Athos, with a voice in
which it was easy to detect strong emotion.

"Her very self; she gave it me last night. Here it is,"
replied d'Artagnan, taking it from his finger.

Athos examined it and became very pale. He tried it on his
left hand; it fit his finger as if made for it.

A shade of anger and vengeance passed across the usually
calm brow of this gentleman.

"It is impossible it can be she," said be. "How could this
ring come into the hands of Milady Clarik? And yet it is
difficult to suppose such a resemblance should exist between
two jewels."

"Do you know this ring?" said d'Artagnan.

"I thought I did," replied Athos; "but no doubt I was
mistaken." And he returned d'Artagnan the ring without,
however, ceasing to look at it.

"Pray, d'Artagnan," said Athos, after a minute, "either take
off that ring or turn the mounting inside; it recalls such
cruel recollections that I shall have no head to converse
with you. Don't ask me for counsel; don't tell me you are
perplexed what to do. But stop! let me look at that
sapphire again; the one I mentioned to you had one of its
faces scratched by accident."

D'Artagnan took off the ring, giving it again to Athos.

Athos started. "Look," said he, "is it not strange?" and he
pointed out to d'Artagnan the scratch he had remembered.

"But from whom did this ring come to you, Athos?"

"From my mother, who inherited it from her mother. As I
told you, it is an old family jewel."

"And you--sold it?" asked d'Artagnan, hesitatingly.

"No," replied Athos, with a singular smile. "I gave it away
in a night of love, as it has been given to you."

D'Artagnan became pensive in his turn; it appeared as if
there were abysses in Milady's soul whose depths were dark
and unknown. He took back the ring, but put it in his
pocket and not on his finger.

"d'Artagnan," said Athos, taking his hand, "you know I love
you; if I had a son I could not love him better. Take my
advice, renounce this woman. I do not know her, but a sort
of intuition tells me she is a lost creature, and that there
is something fatal about her."

"You are right," said d'Artagnan; "I will have done with
her. I own that this woman terrifies me."

"Shall you have the courage?" said Athos.

"I shall," replied d'Artagnan, "and instantly."

"In truth, my young friend, you will act rightly," said the
gentleman, pressing the Gascon's hand with an affection
almost paternal; "and God grant that this woman, who has
scarcely entered into your life, may not leave a terrible
trace in it!" And Athos bowed to d'Artagnan like a man who
wishes it understood that he would not be sorry to be left
alone with his thoughts.

On reaching home d'Artagnan found Kitty waiting for him. A
month of fever could not have changed her more than this one
night of sleeplessness and sorrow.

She was sent by her mistress to the false de Wardes. Her
mistress was mad with love, intoxicated with joy. She
wished to know when her lover would meet her a second night;
and poor Kitty, pale and trembling, awaited d'Artagnan's
reply. The counsels of his friend, joined to the cries of
his own heart, made him determine, now his pride was saved
and his vengeance satisfied, not to see Milady again. As a
reply, he wrote the following letter:


Do not depend upon me, madame, for the next meeting. Since
my convalescence I have so many affairs of this kind on my
hands that I am forced to regulate them a little. When your
turn comes, I shall have the honor to inform you of it. I
kiss your hands.

Comte de Wardes


Not a word about the sapphire. Was the Gascon determined to
keep it as a weapon against Milady, or else, let us be
frank, did he not reserve the sapphire as a last resource
for his outfit? It would be wrong to judge the actions of
one period from the point of view of another. That which
would now be considered as disgraceful to a gentleman was at
that time quite a simple and natural affair, and the younger
sons of the best families were frequently supported by their
mistresses. D'Artagnan gave the open letter to Kitty, who
at first was unable to comprehend it, but who became almost
wild with joy on reading it a second time. She could
scarcely believe in her happiness; and d'Artagnan was forced
to renew with the living voice the assurances which he had
written. And whatever might be--considering the violent
character of Milady--the danger which the poor girl incurred
in giving this billet to her mistress, she ran back to the
Place Royale as fast as her legs could carry her.

The heart of the best woman is pitiless toward the sorrows
of a rival.

Milady opened the letter with eagerness equal to Kitty's in
bringing it; but at the first words she read she became
livid. She crushed the paper in her hand, and turning with
flashing eyes upon Kitty, she cried, "What is this letter?"

"The answer to Madame's," replied Kitty, all in a tremble.

"Impossible!" cried Milady. "It is impossible a gentleman
could have written such a letter to a woman." Then all at
once, starting, she cried, "My God! can he have--" and she
stopped. She ground her teeth; she was of the color of
ashes. She tried to go toward the window for air, but she
could only stretch forth her arms; her legs failed her, and
she sank into an armchair. Kitty, fearing she was ill,
hastened toward her and was beginning to open her dress; but
Milady started up, pushing her away. "What do you want with
me?" said she, "and why do you place your hand on me?"

"I thought that Madame was ill, and I wished to bring her
help," responded the maid, frightened at the terrible
expression which had come over her mistress's face.

"I faint? I? I? Do you take me for half a woman? When I am
insulted I do not faint; I avenge myself!"

And she made a sign for Kitty to leave the room.



36 DREAM OF VENGEANCE

That evening Milady gave orders that when M. d'Artagnan came
as usual, he should be immediately admitted; but he did not
come.

The next day Kitty went to see the young man again, and
related to him all that had passed on the preceding evening.
d'Artagnan smiled; this jealous anger of Milady was his
revenge.

That evening Milady was still more impatient than on the
preceding evening. She renewed the order relative to the
Gascon; but as before she expected him in vain.

The next morning, when Kitty presented herself at
d'Artagnan's, she was no longer joyous and alert as on the
two preceding days; but on the contrary sad as death.

D'Artagnan asked the poor girl what was the matter with her;
but she, as her only reply, drew a letter from her pocket
and gave it to him.

This letter was in Milady's handwriting; only this time it
was addressed to M. d'Artagnan, and not to M. de Wardes.

He opened it and read as follows:


Dear M. d'Artagnan, It is wrong thus to neglect your
friends, particularly at the moment you are about to leave
them for so long a time. My brother-in-law and myself
expected you yesterday and the day before, but in vain.
Will it be the same this evening?

Your very grateful,
Milady Clarik


"That's all very simple," said d'Artagnan; "I expected this
letter. My credit rises by the fall of that of the Comte de
Wardes."

"And will you go?" asked Kitty.

"Listen to me, my dear girl," said the Gascon, who sought
for an excuse in his own eyes for breaking the promise he
had made Athos; "you must understand it would be impolitic
not to accept such a positive invitation. Milady, not
seeing me come again, would not be able to understand what
could cause the interruption of my visits, and might suspect
something; who could say how far the vengeance of such a
woman would go?"

"Oh, my God!" said Kitty, "you know how to represent things
in such a way that you are always in the right. You are
going now to pay your court to her again, and if this time
you succeed in pleasing her in your own name and with your
own face, it will be much worse than before."

Instinct made poor Kitty guess a part of what was to happen.
d'Artagnan reassured her as well as he could, and promised
to remain insensible to the seductions of Milady.

He desired Kitty to tell her mistress that he could not be
more grateful for her kindnesses than he was, and that he
would be obedient to her orders. He did not dare to write
for fear of not being able--to such experienced eyes as those
of Milady--to disguise his writing sufficiently.

As nine o'clock sounded, d'Artagnan was at the Place Royale.
It was evident that the servants who waited in the
antechamber were warned, for as soon as d'Artagnan appeared,
before even he had asked if Milady were visible, one of them
ran to announce him.

"Show him in," said Milady, in a quick tone, but so piercing
that d'Artagnan heard her in the antechamber.

He was introduced.

"I am at home to nobody," said Milady; "observe, to nobody."
The servant went out.

D'Artagnan cast an inquiring glance at Milady. She was
pale, and looked fatigued, either from tears or want of
sleep. The number of lights had been intentionally
diminished, but the young woman could not conceal the traces
of the fever which had devoured her for two days.

D'Artagnan approached her with his usual gallantry. She
then made an extraordinary effort to receive him, but never
did a more distressed countenance give the lie to a more
amiable smile.

To the questions which d'Artagnan put concerning her health,
she replied, "Bad, very bad."

"Then," replied he, "my visit is ill-timed; you, no doubt,
stand in need of repose, and I will withdraw."

"No. no!" said Milady. "On the contrary, stay, Monsieur
d'Artagnan; your agreeable company will divert me."

"Oh, oh!" thought d'Artagnan. "She has never been so kind
before. On guard!"

Milady assumed the most agreeable air possible, and
conversed with more than her usual brilliancy. At the same
time the fever, which for an instant abandoned her, returned
to give luster to her eyes, color to her cheeks, and
vermillion to her lips. D'Artagnan was again in the
presence of the Circe who had before surrounded him with her
enchantments. His love, which he believed to be extinct but
which was only asleep, awoke again in his heart. Milady
smiled, and d'Artagnan felt that he could damn himself for
that smile. There was a moment at which he felt something
like remorse.

By degrees, Milady became more communicative. She asked
d'Artagnan if he had a mistress.

"Alas!" said d'Artagnan, with the most sentimental air he
could assume, "can you be cruel enough to put such a
question to me--to me, who, from the moment I saw you, have
only breathed and sighed through you and for you?"

Milady smiled with a strange smile.

"Then you love me?" said she.

"Have I any need to tell you so? Have you not perceived
it?"

"It may be; but you know the more hearts are worth the
capture, the more difficult they are to be won."

"Oh, difficulties do not affright me," said d'Artagnan. "I
shrink before nothing but impossibilities."

"Nothing is impossible," replied Milady, "to true love."

"Nothing, madame?"

"Nothing," replied Milady.

"The devil!" thought d'Artagnan. "The note is changed. Is
she going to fall in love with me, by chance, this fair
inconstant; and will she be disposed to give me myself
another sapphire like that which she gave me for de Wardes?"

D'Artagnan rapidly drew his seat nearer to Milady's.

"Well, now," she said, "let us see what you would do to
prove this love of which you speak."

"All that could be required of me. Order; I am ready."

"For everything?"

"For everything," cried d'Artagnan, who knew beforehand that
he had not much to risk in engaging himself thus.

"Well, now let us talk a little seriously," said Milady, in
her turn drawing her armchair nearer to d'Artagnan's chair.

"I am all attention, madame," said he.

Milady remained thoughtful and undecided for a moment; then,
as if appearing to have formed a resolution, she said, "I
have an enemy."

"You, madame!" said d'Artagnan, affecting surprise; "is
that possible, my God?--good and beautiful as you are!"

"A mortal enemy."

"Indeed!"

"An enemy who has insulted me so cruelly that between him
and me it is war to the death. May I reckon on you as an
auxiliary?"

D'Artagnan at once perceived the ground which the vindictive
creature wished to reach.

"You may, madame," said he, with emphasis. "My arm and my
life belong to you, like my love."

"Then," said Milady, "since you are as generous as you are
loving--"

She stopped.

"Well?" demanded d'Artagnan.

"Well," replied Milady, after a moment of silence, "from the
present time, cease to talk of impossibilities."

"Do not overwhelm me with happiness," cried d'Artagnan,
throwing himself on his knees, and covering with kisses the
hands abandoned to him.

"Avenge me of that infamous de Wardes," said Milady, between
her teeth, "and I shall soon know how to get rid of you--you
double idiot, you animated sword blade!"

"Fall voluntarily into my arms, hypocritical and dangerous
woman," said d'Artagnan, likewise to himself, "after having
abused me with such effrontery, and afterward I will laugh
at you with him whom you wish me to kill."

D'Artagnan lifted up his head.

"I am ready," said he.

"You have understood me, then, dear Monsieur d'Artagnan"
said Milady.

"I could interpret one of your looks."

"Then you would employ for me your arm which has already
acquired so much renown?"

"Instantly!"

"But on my part," said Milady, "how should I repay such a
service? I know these lovers. They are men who do nothing
for nothing."

"You know the only reply that I desire," said d'Artagnan,
"the only one worthy of you and of me!"

And he drew nearer to her.

She scarcely resisted.

"Interested man!" cried she, smiling.

"Ah," cried d'Artagnan, really carried away by the passion
this woman had the power to kindle in his heart, "ah, that
is because my happiness appears so impossible to me; and I
have such fear that it should fly away from me like a dream
that I pant to make a reality of it."

"Well, merit this pretended happiness, then!"

"I am at your orders," said d'Artagnan.

"Quite certain?" said Milady, with a last doubt.

"Only name to me the base man that has brought tears into
your beautiful eyes!"

"Who told you that I had been weeping?" said she.

"It appeared to me--"

"Such women as I never weep," said Milady.

"So much the better! Come, tell me his name!"

"Remember that his name is all my secret."

"Yet I must know his name."

"Yes, you must; see what confidence I have in you!"

"You overwhelm me with joy. What is his name?"

"You know him."

"Indeed."

"Yes."

"It is surely not one of my friends?" replied d'Artagnan,
affecting hesitation in order to make her believe him
ignorant.

"If it were one of your friends you would hesitate, then?"
cried Milady; and a threatening glance darted from her eyes.

"Not if it were my own brother!" cried d'Artagnan, as if
carried away by his enthusiasm.

Our Gascon promised this without risk, for he knew all that
was meant.

"I love your devotedness," said Milady.

"Alas, do you love nothing else in me?" asked d'Artagnan.

"I love you also, YOU!" said she, taking his hand.

The warm pressure made d'Artagnan tremble, as if by the
touch that fever which consumed Milady attacked himself.

"You love me, you!" cried he. "Oh, if that were so, I should lose my reason!"

And he folded her in his arms. She made no effort to remove
her lips from his kisses; only she did not respond to them.
Her lips were cold; it appeared to d'Artagnan that he had
embraced a statue.

He was not the less intoxicated with joy, electrified by
love. He almost believed in the tenderness of Milady; he
almost believed in the crime of de Wardes. If de Wardes had
at that moment been under his hand, he would have killed
him.

Milady seized the occasion.

"His name is--" said she, in her turn.

"De Wardes; I know it," cried d'Artagnan.

"And how do you know it?" asked Milady, seizing both his
hands, and endeavoring to read with her eyes to the bottom
of his heart.

D'Artagnan felt he had allowed himself to be carried away,
and that he had committed an error.

"Tell me, tell me, tell me, I say," repeated Milady, "how do
you know it?"

"How do I know it?" said d'Artagnan.

"Yes."

"I know it because yesterday Monsieur de Wardes, in a saloon
where I was, showed a ring which he said he had received
from you."

"Wretch!" cried Milady.

The epithet, as may be easily understood, resounded to the
very bottom of d'Artagnan's heart.

"Well?" continued she.

"Well, I will avenge you of this wretch," replied
d'Artagnan, giving himself the airs of Don Japhet of
Armenia.

"Thanks, my brave friend!" cried Milady; "and when shall I
be avenged?"

"Tomorrow--immediately--when you please!"

Milady was about to cry out, "Immediately," but she
reflected that such precipitation would not be very gracious
toward d'Artagnan.

Besides, she had a thousand precautions to take, a thousand
counsels to give to her defender, in order that he might
avoid explanations with the count before witnesses. All
this was answered by an expression of d'Artagnan's.
"Tomorrow," said he, "you will be avenged, or I shall be
dead."

"No," said she, "you will avenge me; but you will not be
dead. He is a coward."

"With women, perhaps; but not with men. I know something of
him."

"But it seems you had not much reason to complain of your
fortune in your contest with him."

"Fortune is a courtesan; favorable yesterday, she may turn
her back tomorrow."

"Which means that you now hesitate?"

"No, I do not hesitate; God forbid! But would it be just to
allow me to go to a possible death without having given me
at least something more than hope?"

Milady answered by a glance which said, "Is that all?--speak,
then." And then accompanying the glance with explanatory
words, "That is but too just," said she, tenderly.

"Oh, you are an angel!" exclaimed the young man.

"Then all is agreed?" said she.

"Except that which I ask of you, dear love."

"But when I assure you that you may rely on my tenderness?"

"I cannot wait till tomorrow."

"Silence! I hear my brother. It will be useless for him to
find you here."

She rang the bell and Kitty appeared.

"Go out this way," said she, opening a small private door,
"and come back at eleven o'clock; we will then terminate
this conversation. Kitty will conduct you to my chamber."

The poor girl almost fainted at hearing these words.

"Well, mademoiselle, what are you thinking about, standing
there like a statue? Do as I bid you: show the chevalier
out; and this evening at eleven o'clock--you have heard what
I said."

"It appears that these appointments are all made for eleven
o'clock," thought d'Artagnan; "that's a settled custom."

Milady held out her hand to him, which he kissed tenderly.

"But," said he, as he retired as quickly as possible from
the reproaches of Kitty, "I must not play the fool. This
woman is certainly a great liar. I must take care."



37 MILADY'S SECRET

D'Artagnan left the hotel instead of going up at once to
Kitty's chamber, as she endeavored to persuade him to do--and
that for two reasons: the first, because by this means he
should escape reproaches, recriminations, and prayers; the
second, because he was not sorry to have an opportunity of
reading his own thoughts and endeavoring, if possible, to
fathom those of this woman.

What was most clear in the matter was that d'Artagnan loved
Milady like a madman, and that she did not love him at all.
In an instant d'Artagnan perceived that the best way in
which he could act would be to go home and write Milady a
long letter, in which he would confess to her that he and de
Wardes were, up to the present moment absolutely the same,
and that consequently he could not undertake, without
committing suicide, to kill the Comte de Wardes. But he
also was spurred on by a ferocious desire of vengeance. He
wished to subdue this woman in his own name; and as this
vengeance appeared to him to have a certain sweetness in it,
he could not make up his mind to renounce it.

He walked six or seven times round the Place Royale, turning
at every ten steps to look at the light in Milady's
apartment, which was to be seen through the blinds. It was
evident that this time the young woman was not in such haste
to retire to her apartment as she had been the first.

At length the light disappeared. With this light was
extinguished the last irresolution in the heart of
d'Artagnan. He recalled to his mind the details of the
first night, and with a beating heart and a brain on fire he
re-entered the hotel and flew toward Kitty's chamber.

The poor girl, pale as death and trembling in all her limbs,
wished to delay her lover; but Milady, with her ear on the
watch, had heard the noise d'Artagnan had made, and opening
the door, said, "Come in."

All this was of such incredible immodesty, of such monstrous
effrontery, that d'Artagnan could scarcely believe what he
saw or what he heard. He imagined himself to be drawn into
one of those fantastic intrigues one meets in dreams. He,
however, darted not the less quickly toward Milady, yielding
to that magnetic attraction which the loadstone exercises
over iron.

As the door closed after them Kitty rushed toward it.
Jealousy, fury, offended pride, all the passions in short
that dispute the heart of an outraged woman in love, urged
her to make a revelation; but she reflected that she would
be totally lost if she confessed having assisted in such a
machination, and above all, that d'Artagnan would also be
lost to her forever. This last thought of love counseled
her to make this last sacrifice.

D'Artagnan, on his part, had gained the summit of all his
wishes. It was no longer a rival who was beloved; it was
himself who was apparently beloved. A secret voice
whispered to him, at the bottom of his heart, that he was
but an instrument of vengeance, that he was only caressed
till he had given death; but pride, but self-love, but
madness silenced this voice and stifled its murmurs. And
then our Gascon, with that large quantity of conceit which
we know he possessed, compared himself with de Wardes, and
asked himself why, after all, he should not be beloved for
himself?

He was absorbed entirely by the sensations of the moment.
Milady was no longer for him that woman of fatal intentions
who had for a moment terrified him; she was an ardent,
passionate mistress, abandoning herself to love which she
also seemed to feel. Two hours thus glided away. When the
transports of the two lovers were calmer, Milady, who had
not the same motives for forgetfulness that d'Artagnan had,
was the first to return to reality, and asked the young man
if the means which were on the morrow to bring on the
encounter between him and de Wardes were already arranged in
his mind.

But d'Artagnan, whose ideas had taken quite another course,
forgot himself like a fool, and answered gallantly that it
was too late to think about duels and sword thrusts.

This coldness toward the only interests that occupied her
mind terrified Milady, whose questions became more pressing.

Then d'Artagnan, who had never seriously thought of this
impossible duel, endeavored to turn the conversation; but he
could not succeed. Milady kept him within the limits she
had traced beforehand with her irresistible spirit and her
iron will.

D'Artagnan fancied himself very cunning when advising Milady
to renounce, by pardoning de Wardes, the furious projects
she had formed.

But at the first word the young woman started, and exclaimed
in a sharp, bantering tone. which sounded strangely in the
darkness, "Are you afraid, dear Monsieur d'Artagnan?"

"You cannot think so, dear love!" replied d'Artagnan; "but
now, suppose this poor Comte de Wardes were less guilty than
you think him?"

"At all events," said Milady, seriously, "he has deceived
me, and from the moment he deceived me, he merited death."

"He shall die, then, since you condemn him!" said
d'Artagnan, in so firm a tone that it appeared to Milady an
undoubted proof of devotion. This reassured her.

We cannot say how long the night seemed to Milady, but
d'Artagnan believed it to be hardly two hours before the
daylight peeped through the window blinds, and invaded the
chamber with its paleness. Seeing d'Artagnan about to leave
her, Milady recalled his promise to avenge her on the Comte
de Wardes.

"I am quite ready," said d'Artagnan; "but in the first place
I should like to be certain of one thing."

"And what is that?" asked Milady.

"That is, whether you really love me?"

"I have given you proof of that, it seems to me."

"And I am yours, body and soul!"

"Thanks, my brave lover; but as you are satisfied of my
love, you must, in your turn, satisfy me of yours. Is it
not so?"

"Certainly; but if you love me as much as you say," replied
d'Artagnan, "do you not entertain a little fear on my
account?"

"What have I to fear?"

"Why, that I may be dangerously wounded--killed even."

"Impossible!" cried Milady, "you are such a valiant man, and
such an expert swordsman."

"You would not, then, prefer a method," resumed d'Artagnan,
"which would equally avenge you while rendering the combat
useless?"

Milady looked at her lover in silence. The pale light of
the first rays of day gave to her clear eyes a strangely
frightful expression.

"Really," said she, "I believe you now begin to hesitate."

"No, I do not hesitate; but I really pity this poor Comte de
Wardes, since you have ceased to love him. I think that a
man must be so severely punished by the loss of your love
that he stands in need of no other chastisement."

"Who told you that I loved him?" asked Milady, sharply.

"At least, I am now at liberty to believe, without too much
fatuity, that you love another," said the young man, in a
caressing tone, "and I repeat that I am really interested
for the count."

"You?" asked Milady.

"Yes, I."

"And why YOU?"

"Because I alone know--"

"What?"

"That he is far from being, or rather having been, so guilty
toward you as he appears."

"Indeed!" said Milady, in an anxious tone; "explain
yourself, for I really cannot tell what you mean."

And she looked at d'Artagnan, who embraced her tenderly,
with eyes which seemed to burn themselves away.

"Yes; I am a man of honor," said d'Artagnan, determined to
come to an end, "and since your love is mine, and I am
satisfied I possess it--for I do possess it, do I not?"

"Entirely; go on."

"Well, I feel as if transformed--a confession weighs on my
mind."

"A confession!"

"If I had the least doubt of your love I would not make it,
but you love me, my beautiful mistress, do you not?"

"Without doubt."

"Then if through excess of love I have rendered myself
culpable toward you, you will pardon me?"

"Perhaps."

D'Artagnan tried with his sweetest smile to touch his lips
to Milady's, but she evaded him.

"This confession," said she, growing paler, "what is this
confession?"

"You gave de Wardes a meeting on Thursday last in this very
room, did you not?"

"No, no! It is not true," said Milady, in a tone of voice so
firm, and with a countenance so unchanged, that if
d'Artagnan had not been in such perfect possession of the
fact, he would have doubted.

"Do not lie, my angel," said d'Artagnan, smiling; "that
would be useless."

"What do you mean? Speak! you kill me."

"Be satisfied; you are not guilty toward me, and I have
already pardoned you."

"What next? what next?"

"De Wardes cannot boast of anything."

"How is that? You told me yourself that that ring--"

"That ring I have! The Comte de Wardes of Thursday and the
d'Artagnan of today are the same person."

The imprudent young man expected a surprise, mixed with
shame--a slight storm which would resolve itself into tears;
but he was strangely deceived, and his error was not of long
duration.

Pale and trembling, Milady repulsed d'Artagnan's attempted
embrace by a violent blow on the chest, as she sprang out of
bed.

It was almost broad daylight.

D'Artagnan detained her by her night dress of fine India
linen, to implore her pardon; but she, with a strong
movement, tried to escape. Then the cambric was torn from
her beautiful shoulders; and on one of those lovely
shoulders, round and white, d'Artagnan recognized, with
inexpressible astonishment, the FLEUR-DE-LIS--that indelible
mark which the hand of the infamous executioner had
imprinted.

"Great God!" cried d'Artagnan, loosing his hold of her
dress, and remaining mute, motionless, and frozen.

But Milady felt herself denounced even by his terror. He
had doubtless seen all. The young man now knew her secret,
her terrible secret--the secret she concealed even from her
maid with such care, the secret of which all the world was
ignorant, except himself.

She turned upon him, no longer like a furious woman, but
like a wounded panther.

"Ah, wretch!" cried she, "you have basely betrayed me, and
still more, you have my secret! You shall die."

And she flew to a little inlaid casket which stood upon the
dressing table, opened it with a feverish and trembling
band, drew from it a small poniard, with a golden haft and a
sharp thin blade, and then threw herself with a bound upon
d'Artagnan.

Although the young man was brave, as we know, he was
terrified at that wild countenance, those terribly dilated
pupils, those pale cheeks, and those bleeding lips. He
recoiled to the other side of the room as he would have done
from a serpent which was crawling toward him, and his sword
coming in contact with his nervous hand, he drew it almost
unconsciously from the scabbard. But without taking any
heed of the sword, Milady endeavored to get near enough to
him to stab him, and did not stop till she felt the sharp
point at her throat.

She then tried to seize the sword with her hands; but
d'Artagnan kept it free from her grasp, and presenting the
point, sometimes at her eyes, sometimes at her breast,
compelled her to glide behind the bedstead, while he aimed
at making his retreat by the door which led to Kitty's
apartment.

Milady during this time continued to strike at him with
horrible fury, screaming in a formidable way.

As all this, however, bore some resemblance to a duel,
d'Artagnan began to recover himself little by little.

"Well, beautiful lady, very well," said he; "but, PARDIEU,
if you don't calm yourself, I will design a second
FLEUR-DE-LIS upon one of those pretty checks!"

"Scoundrel, infamous scoundrel!" howled Milady.

But d'Artagnan, still keeping on the defensive, drew near to
Kitty's door. At the noise they made, she in overturning
the furniture in her efforts to get at him, he in screening
himself behind the furniture to keep out of her reach, Kitty
opened the door. D'Artagnan, who had unceasingly maneuvered
to gain this point, was not at more than three paces from
it. With one spring he flew from the chamber of Milady into
that of the maid, and quick as lightning, he slammed to the
door, and placed all his weight against it, while Kitty
pushed the bolts.

Then Milady attempted to tear down the doorcase, with a
strength apparently above that of a woman; but finding she
could not accomplish this, she in her fury stabbed at the
door with her poniard, the point of which repeatedly
glittered through the wood. Every blow was accompanied with
terrible imprecations.

"Quick, Kitty, quick!" said d'Artagnan, in a low voice, as
soon as the bolts were fast, "let me get out of the hotel;
for if we leave her time to turn round, she will have me
killed by the servants."

"But you can't go out so," said Kitty; "you are naked."

"That's true," said d'Artagnan, then first thinking of the
costume he found himself in, "that's true. But dress me as
well as you are able, only make haste; think, my dear girl,
it's life and death!"

Kitty was but too well aware of that. In a turn of the hand
she muffled him up in a flowered robe, a large hood, and a
cloak. She gave him some slippers, in which he placed his
naked feet, and then conducted him down the stairs. It was
time. Milady had already rung her bell, and roused the
whole hotel. The porter was drawing the cord at the moment
Milady cried from her window, "Don't open!"

The young man fled while she was still threatening him with
an impotent gesture. The moment she lost sight of him,
Milady tumbled fainting into her chamber.



38 HOW, WITHOUT INCOMMODING HIMSELF, ATHOS PROCURES HIS EQUIPMENT

D'Artagnan was so completely bewildered that without taking
any heed of what might become of Kitty he ran at full speed
across half Paris, and did not stop till he came to Athos's
door. The confusion of his mind, the terror which spurred
him on, the cries of some of the patrol who started in
pursuit of him, and the hooting of the people who,
notwithstanding the early hour, were going to their work,
only made him precipitate his course.

He crossed the court, ran up the two flights to Athos's
apartment, and knocked at the door enough to break it down.

Grimaud came, rubbing his half-open eyes, to answer this
noisy summons, and d'Artagnan sprang with such violence into
the room as nearly to overturn the astonished lackey.

In spite of his habitual silence, the poor lad this time
found his speech.

"Holloa, there!" cried he; "what do you want, you strumpet?
What's your business here, you hussy?"

D'Artagnan threw off his hood, and disengaged his hands from
the folds of the cloak. At sight of the mustaches and the
naked sword, the poor devil perceived he had to deal with a
man. He then concluded it must be an assassin.

"Help! murder! help!" cried he.

"Hold your tongue, you stupid fellow!" said the young man; "I am
d'Artagnan; don't you know me? Where is your master?"

"You, Monsieur d'Artagnan!" cried Grimaud, "impossible."

"Grimaud," said Athos, coming out of his apartment in a
dressing gown, "Grimaud, I thought I heard you permitting
yourself to speak?"

"Ah, monsieur, it is--"

"Silence!"

Grimaud contented himself with pointing d'Artagnan out to
his master with his finger.

Athos recognized his comrade, and phlegmatic as he was, he
burst into a laugh which was quite excused by the strange
masquerade before his eyes--petticoats falling over his
shoes, sleeves tucked up, and mustaches stiff with
agitation.

"Don't laugh, my friend!" cried d'Artagnan; "for heaven's
sake, don't laugh, for upon my soul, it's no laughing
matter!"

And he pronounced these words with such a solemn air and
with such a real appearance of terror, that Athos eagerly
seized his hand, crying, "Are you wounded, my friend? How
pale you are!"

"No, but I have just met with a terrible adventure! Are you
alone, Athos?"

"PARBLEU! whom do you expect to find with me at this hour?"

"Well, well!" and d'Artagnan rushed into Athos's chamber.

"Come, speak!" said the latter, closing the door and bolting
it, that they might not be disturbed. "Is the king dead?
Have you killed the cardinal? You are quite upset! Come,
come, tell me; I am dying with curiosity and uneasiness!"

"Athos," said d'Artagnan, getting rid of his female
garments, and appearing in his shirt, "prepare yourself to
hear an incredible, an unheard-of story."

"Well, but put on this dressing gown first," said the
Musketeer to his friend.

D'Artagnan donned the robe as quickly as he could, mistaking
one sleeve for the other, so greatly was he still agitated.

"Well?" said Athos.

"Well," replied d'Artagnan, bending his mouth to Athos's
ear, and lowering his voice, "Milady is marked with a
FLEUR-DE-LIS upon her shoulder!"

"Ah!" cried the Musketeer, as if he had received a ball in
his heart.

"Let us see," said d'Artagnan. "Are you SURE that the OTHER
is dead?"

"THE OTHER?" said Athos, in so stifled a voice that
d'Artagnan scarcely heard him.

"Yes, she of whom you told me one day at Amiens."

Athos uttered a groan, and let his head sink on his hands.

"This is a woman of twenty-six or twenty-eight years."

"Fair," said Athos, "is she not?"

"Very."

"Blue and clear eyes, of a strange brilliancy, with black
eyelids and eyebrows?"

"Yes."

"Tall, well-made? She has lost a tooth, next to the
eyetooth on the left?"

"Yes."

"The FLEUR-DE-LIS is small, rosy in color, and looks as if
efforts had been made to efface it by the application of
poultices?"

"Yes."

"But you say she is English?"

"She is called Milady, but she may be French. Lord de
Winter is only her brother-in-law,"

"I will see her, d'Artagnan!"

"Beware, Athos, beware. You tried to kill her; she is a
woman to return you the like, and not to fail."

"She will not dare to say anything; that would be to
denounce herself."

"She is capable of anything or everything. Did you ever see
her furious?"

"No," said Athos.

"A tigress, a panther! Ah, my dear Athos, I am greatly
afraid I have drawn a terrible vengeance on both of us!"

D'Artagnan then related all--the mad passion of Milady and
her menaces of death.

"You are right; and upon my soul, I would give my life for a
hair," said Athos. "Fortunately, the day after tomorrow we
leave Paris. We are going according to all probability to
La Rochelle, and once gone--"

"She will follow you to the end of the world, Athos, if she
recognizes you. Let her, then, exhaust her vengeance on me
alone!"

"My dear friend, of what consequence is it if she kills me?"
said Athos. "Do you, perchance, think I set any great store
by life?"

"There is something horribly mysterious under all this,
Athos; this woman is one of the cardinal's spies, I am sure
of that."

"In that case, take care! If the cardinal does not hold you
in high admiration for the affair of London, he entertains a
great hatred for you; but as, considering everything, he
cannot accuse you openly, and as hatred must be satisfied,
particularly when it's a cardinal's hatred, take care of
yourself. If you go out, do not go out alone; when you eat,
use every precaution. Mistrust everything, in short, even
your own shadow."

"Fortunately," said d'Artagnan, "all this will be only
necessary till after tomorrow evening, for when once with
the army, we shall have, I hope, only men to dread."

"In the meantime," said Athos, "I renounce my plan of
seclusion, and wherever you go, I will go with you. You
must return to the Rue des Fossoyeurs; I will accompany
you."

"But however near it may be," replied d'Artagnan, "I cannot
go thither in this guise."

"That's true," said Athos, and he rang the bell.

Grimaud entered.

Athos made him a sign to go to d'Artagnan's residence, and
bring back some clothes. Grimaud replied by another sign
that be understood perfectly, and set off.

"All this will not advance your outfit," said Athos; "for if
I am not mistaken, you have left the best of your apparel
with Milady, and she will certainly not have the politeness
to return it to you. Fortunately, you have the sapphire."

"The jewel is yours, my dear Athos! Did you not tell me it
was a family jewel?"

"Yes, my grandfather gave two thousand crowns for it, as he
once told me. It formed part of the nuptial present he made
his wife, and it is magnificent. My mother gave it to me,
and I, fool as I was, instead of keeping the ring as a holy
relic, gave it to this wretch."

"Then, my friend, take back this ring, to which I see you
attach much value."

"I take back the ring, after it has passed through the hands
of that infamous creature? Never; that ring is defiled,
d'Artagnan."

"Sell it, then."

"Sell a jewel which came from my mother! I vow I should
consider it a profanation."

"Pledge it, then; you can borrow at least a thousand crowns
on it. With that sum you can extricate yourself from your
present difficulties; and when you are full of money again,
you can redeem it, and take it back cleansed from its
ancient stains, as it will have passed through the hands of
usurers."

Athos smiled.

"You are a capital companion, d'Artagnan," said be; "your
never-failing cheerfulness raises poor souls in affliction.
Well, let us pledge the ring, but upon one condition."

"What?"

"That there shall be five hundred crowns for you, and five
hundred crowns for me."

"Don't dream it, Athos. I don't need the quarter of such a
sum--I who am still only in the Guards--and by selling my
saddles, I shall procure it. What do I want? A horse for
Planchet, that's all. Besides, you forget that I have a
ring likewise."

"To which you attach more value, it seems, than I do to
mine; at least, I have thought so."

"Yes, for in any extreme circumstance it might not only
extricate us from some great embarrassment, but even a great
danger. It is not only a valuable diamond, but it is an
enchanted talisman."

"I don't at all understand you, but I believe all you say to
be true. Let us return to my ring, or rather to yours. You
shall take half the sum that will be advanced upon it, or I
will throw it into the Seine; and I doubt, as was the case
with Polycrates, whether any fish will be sufficiently
complaisant to bring it back to us."

"Well, I will take it, then," said d'Artagnan.

At this moment Grimaud returned, accompanied by Planchet;
the latter, anxious about his master and curious to know
what had happened to him, had taken advantage of the
opportunity and brought the garments himself.


d'Artagnan dressed himself, and Athos did the same. When
the two were ready to go out, the latter made Grimaud the
sign of a man taking aim, and the lackey immediately took
down his musketoon, and prepared to follow his master.

They arrived without accident at the Rue des Fossoyeurs.
Bonacieux was standing at the door, and looked at d'Artagnan
hatefully.

"Make haste, dear lodger," said he; "there is a very pretty
girl waiting for you upstairs; and you know women don't like
to be kept waiting."

"That's Kitty!" said d'Artagnan to himself, and darted into
the passage.

Sure enough! Upon the landing leading to the chamber, and
crouching against the door, he found the poor girl, all in a
tremble. As soon as she perceived him, she cried, "You have
promised your protection; you have promised to save me from
her anger. Remember, it is you who have ruined me!"

"Yes, yes, to be sure, Kitty," said d'Artagnan; "be at ease,
my girl. But what happened after my departure?"

"How can I tell!" said Kitty. "The lackeys were brought by
the cries she made. She was mad with passion. There exist
no imprecations she did not pour out against you. Then I
thought she would remember it was through my chamber you had
penetrated hers, and that then she would suppose I was your
accomplice; so I took what little money I had and the best
of my things, and I got away.

"Poor dear girl! But what can I do with you? I am going
away the day after tomorrow."

"Do what you please, Monsieur Chevalier. Help me out of
Paris; help me out of France!"

"I cannot take you, however, to the siege of La Rochelle,"
aid d'Artagnan.

"No; but you can place me in one of the provinces with some
lady of your acquaintance--in your own country, for
instance."

"My dear little love! In my country the ladies do without
chambermaids. But stop! I can manage your business for
you. Planchet, go and find Aramis. Request him to come
here directly. We have something very important to say to
him."

"I understand," said Athos; "but why not Porthos? I should
have thought that his duchess--"

"Oh, Porthos's duchess is dressed by her husband's clerks,"
said d'Artagnan, laughing. "Besides, Kitty would not like
to live in the Rue aux Ours. Isn't it so, Kitty?"

"I do not care where I live," said Kitty, "provided I am
well concealed, and nobody knows where I am."

"Meanwhile, Kitty, when we are about to separate, and you
are no longer jealous of me--"

"Monsieur Chevalier, far off or near," said Kitty, "I shall
always love you."

"Where the devil will constancy niche itself next?" murmured
Athos.

"And I, also," said d'Artagnan, "I also. I shall always
love you; be sure of that. But now answer me. I attach
great importance to the question I am about to put to you.
Did you never hear talk of a young woman who was carried off
one night?"

"There, now! Oh, Monsieur Chevalier, do you love that woman
still?"

"No, no; it is one of my friends who loves her--Monsieur
Athos, this gentleman here."

"I?" cried Athos, with an accent like that of a man who
perceives he is about to tread upon an adder.

"You, to be sure!" said d'Artagnan, pressing Athos's hand.
"You know the interest we both take in this poor little
Madame Bonacieux. Besides, Kitty will tell nothing; will
you, Kitty? You understand, my dear girl," continued
d'Artagnan, "she is the wife of that frightful baboon you
saw at the door as you came in."

"Oh, my God! You remind me of my fright! If he should have
known me again!"

"How? know you again? Did you ever see that man before?"

"He came twice to Milady's."

"That's it. About what time?"

"Why, about fifteen or eighteen days ago."

"Exactly so."

"And yesterday evening he came again."

"Yesterday evening?"

"Yes, just before you came."

"My dear Athos, we are enveloped in a network of spies. And
do you believe he knew you again, Kitty?"

"I pulled down my hood as soon as I saw him, but perhaps it
was too
late."

"Go down, Athos--he mistrusts you less than me--and see if he
be still at his door."

Athos went down and returned immediately.

"He has gone," said he, "and the house door is shut."

"He has gone to make his report, and to say that all the
pigeons are at this moment in the dovecot"

"Well, then, let us all fly," said Athos, "and leave nobody
here but Planchet to bring us news."

"A minute. Aramis, whom we have sent for!"

"That's true," said Athos; "we must wait for Aramis."

At that moment Aramis entered.

The matter was all explained to him, and the friends gave
him to understand that among all his high connections he
must find a place for Kitty.

Aramis reflected for a minute, and then said, coloring,
"Will it be really rendering you a service, d'Artagnan?"

"I shall be grateful to you all my life."

"Very well. Madame de Bois-Tracy asked me, for one of her
friends who resides in the provinces, I believe, for a
trustworthy maid. If you can, my dear d'Artagnan, answer
for Mademoiselle-"

"Oh, monsieur, be assured that I shall be entirely devoted
to the person who will give me the means of quitting Paris."

"Then," said Aramis, "this falls out very well."

He placed himself at the table and wrote a little note which
he sealed with a ring, and gave the billet to Kitty.

"And now, my dear girl," said d'Artagnan, "you know that it
is not good for any of us to be here. Therefore let us
separate. We shall meet again in better days."

"And whenever we find each other, in whatever place it may
be," said Kitty, "you will find me loving you as I love you
today."

"Dicers' oaths!" said Athos, while d'Artagnan went to
conduct Kitty downstairs.

An instant afterward the three young men separated, agreeing
to meet again at four o'clock with Athos, and leaving
Planchet to guard the house.

Aramis returned home, and Athos and d'Artagnan busied
themselves about pledging the sapphire.

As the Gascon had foreseen, they easily obtained three
hundred pistoles on the ring. Still further, the Jew told
them that if they would sell it to him, as it would make a
magnificent pendant for earrings, he would give five hundred
pistoles for it.

Athos and d'Artagnan, with the activity of two soldiers and
the knowledge of two connoisseurs, hardly required three
hours to purchase the entire equipment of the Musketeer.
Besides, Athos was very easy, and a noble to his fingers'
ends. When a thing suited him he paid the price demanded,
without thinking to ask for any abatement. D'Artagnan would
have remonstrated at this; but Athos put his hand upon his
shoulder, with a smile, and d'Artagnan understood that it
was all very well for such a little Gascon gentleman as
himself to drive a bargain, but not for a man who had the
bearing of a prince. The Musketeer met with a superb
Andalusian horse, black as jet, nostrils of fire, legs clean
and elegant, rising six years. He examined him, and found
him sound and without blemish. They asked a thousand livres
for him.

He might perhaps have been bought for less; but while
d'Artagnan was discussing the price with the dealer, Athos
was counting out the money on the table.

Grimaud had a stout, short Picard cob, which cost three
hundred livres.

But when the saddle and arms for Grimaud were purchased,
Athos had not a sou left of his hundred and fifty pistoles.
d'Artagnan offered his friend a part of his share which he
should return when convenient.

But Athos only replied to this proposal by shrugging his
shoulders.

"How much did the Jew say he would give for the sapphire if
be purchased it?" said Athos.

"Five hundred pistoles."

"That is to say, two hundred more--a hundred pistoles for you
and a hundred pistoles for me. Well, now, that would be a
real fortune to us, my friend; let us go back to the Jew's
again."

"What! will you--"

"This ring would certainly only recall very bitter
remembrances; then we shall never be masters of three
hundred pistoles to redeem it, so that we really should lose
two hundred pistoles by the bargain. Go and tell him the
ring is his, d'Artagnan, and bring back the two hundred
pistoles with you."

"Reflect, Athos!"

"Ready money is needful for the present time, and we must
learn how to make sacrifices. Go, d'Artagnan, go; Grimaud
will accompany you with his musketoon."

A half hour afterward, d'Artagnan returned with the two
thousand livres, and without having met with any accident.

It was thus Athos found at home resources which he did not
expect.



39 A VISION

At four o'clock the four friends were all assembled with
Athos. Their anxiety about their outfits had all
disappeared, and each countenance only preserved the
expression of its own secret disquiet--for behind all present
happiness is concealed a fear for the future.

Suddenly Planchet entered, bringing two letters for
d'Artagnan.

The one was a little billet, genteelly folded, with a pretty
seal in green wax on which was impressed a dove bearing a
green branch.

The other was a large square epistle, resplendent with the
terrible arms of his Eminence the cardinal duke.

At the sight of the little letter the heart of d'Artagnan
bounded, for he believed he recognized the handwriting, and
although he had seen that writing but once, the memory of it
remained at the bottom of his heart.

He therefore seized the little epistle, and opened it
eagerly.


"Be," said the letter, "on Thursday next, at from six to
seven o'clock in the evening, on the road to Chaillot, and
look carefully into the carriages that pass; but if you have
any consideration for your own life or that of those who
love you, do not speak a single word, do not make a movement
which may lead anyone to believe you have recognized her who
exposes herself to everything for the sake of seeing you but
for an instant."

No signature.


"That's a snare," said Athos; "don't go, d'Artagnan."

"And yet," replied d'Artagnan, "I think I recognize the
writing."

"It may be counterfeit," said Athos. "Between six and seven
o'clock the road of Chaillot is quite deserted; you might as
well go and ride in the forest of Bondy."

"But suppose we all go," said d'Artagnan; "what the devil!
They won't devour us all four, four lackeys, horses, arms,
and all!"

"And besides, it will be a chance for displaying our new
equipments," said Porthos.

"But if it is a woman who writes," said Aramis, "and that
woman desires not to be seen, remember, you compromise her,
d'Artagnan; which is not the part of a gentleman."

"We will remain in the background," said Porthos, "and he
will advance alone."

"Yes; but a pistol shot is easily fired from a carriage
which goes at a gallop."

"Bah!" said d'Artagnan, "they will miss me; if they fire we
will ride after the carriage, and exterminate those who may
be in it. They must be enemies."

"He is right," said Porthos; "battle. Besides, we must try
our own arms."

"Bah, let us enjoy that pleasure," said Aramis, with his
mild and careless manner.

"As you please," said Athos.

"Gentlemen," said d'Artagnan, "it is half past four, and we
have scarcely time to be on the road of Chaillot by six."

"Besides, if we go out too late, nobody will see us," said
Porthos, "and that will be a pity. Let us get ready,
gentlemen."

"But this second letter," said Athos, "you forget that; it
appears to me, however, that the seal denotes that it
deserves to be opened. For my part, I declare, d'Artagnan,
I think it of much more consequence than the little piece of
waste paper you have so cunningly slipped into your bosom."

D'Artagnan blushed.

"Well," said he, "let us see, gentlemen, what are his
Eminence's commands," and d'Artagnan unsealed the letter and
read,


"M. d'Artagnan, of the king's Guards, company Dessessart, is
expected at the Palais-Cardinal this evening, at eight
o'clock.

"La Houdiniere, CAPTAIN OF THE GUARDS"


"The devil!" said Athos; "here's a rendezvous much more
serious than the other."

"I will go to the second after attending the first," said
d'Artagnan. "One is for seven o'clock, and the other for
eight; there will be time for both."

"Hum! I would not go at all," said Aramis. "A gallant
knight cannot decline a rendezvous with a lady; but a
prudent gentleman may excuse himself from not waiting on his
Eminence, particularly when he has reason to believe he is
not invited to make his compliments."

"I am of Aramis's opinion," said Porthos.

"Gentlemen," replied d'Artagnan, "I have already received by
Monsieur de Cavois a similar invitation from his Eminence.
I neglected it, and on the morrow a serious misfortune
happened to me--Constance disappeared. Whatever may ensue, I
will go."

"If you are determined," said Athos, "do so."

"But the Bastille?" said Aramis.

"Bah! you will get me out if they put me there," said
d'Artagnan.

"To be sure we will," replied Aramis and Porthos, with
admirable promptness and decision, as if that were the
simplest thing in the world, "to be sure we will get you
out; but meantime, as we are to set off the day after
tomorrow, you would do much better not to risk this
Bastille."

"Let us do better than that," said Athos; "do not let us
leave him during the whole evening. Let each of us wait at
a gate of the palace with three Musketeers behind him; if we
see a close carriage, at all suspicious in appearance, come
out, let us fall upon it. It is a long time since we have
had a skirmish with the Guards of Monsieur the Cardinal;
Monsieur de Treville must think us dead."

"To a certainty, Athos," said Aramis, "you were meant to be
a general of the army! What do you think of the plan,
gentlemen?"

"Admirable!" replied the young men in chorus.

"Well," said Porthos, "I will run to the hotel, and engage
our comrades to hold themselves in readiness by eight
o'clock; the rendezvous, the Place du Palais-Cardinal.
Meantime, you see that the lackeys saddle the horses."

"I have no horse," said d'Artagnan; "but that is of no
consequence, I can take one of Monsieur de Treville's."

"That is not worth while," said Aramis, "you can have one of
mine."

"One of yours! how many have you, then?" asked d'Artagnan.

"Three," replied Aramis, smiling.

"Certes," cried Athos, "you are the best-mounted poet of
France or Navarre."

"Well, my dear Aramis, you don't want three horses? I
cannot comprehend what induced you to buy three!"

"Therefore I only purchased two," said Aramis.

"The third, then, fell from the clouds, I suppose?"

"No, the third was brought to me this very morning by a
groom out of livery, who would not tell me in whose service
he was, and who said he had received orders from his
master."

"Or his mistress," interrupted d'Artagnan.

"That makes no difference," said Aramis, coloring; "and who
affirmed, as I said, that he had received orders from his
master or mistress to place the horse in my stable, without
informing me whence it came."

"It is only to poets that such things happen," said Athos,
gravely.

"Well, in that case, we can manage famously," said
d'Artagnan; "which of the two horses will you ride--that
which you bought or the one that was given to you?"

"That which was given to me, assuredly. You cannot for a
moment imagine, d'Artagnan, that I would commit such an
offense toward--"

"The unknown giver," interrupted d'Artagnan.

"Or the mysterious benefactress," said Athos.

"The one you bought will then become useless to you?"

"Nearly so."

"And you selected it yourself?"

"With the greatest care. The safety of the horseman, you
know, depends almost always upon the goodness of his horse."

"Well, transfer it to me at the price it cost you?"

"I was going to make you the offer, my dear d'Artagnan,
giving you all the time necessary for repaying me such a
trifle."

"How much did it cost you?"

"Eight hundred livres."

"Here are forty double pistoles, my dear friend," said
d'Artagnan, taking the sum from his pocket; "I know that is
the coin in which you were paid for your poems."

"You are rich, then?" said Aramis.

"Rich? Richest, my dear fellow!"

And d'Artagnan chinked the remainder of his pistoles in his
pocket.

"Send your saddle, then, to the hotel of the Musketeers, and
your horse can be brought back with ours."

"Very well; but it is already five o'clock, so make haste."

A quarter of an hour afterward Porthos appeared at the end
of the Rue Ferou on a very handsome genet. Mousqueton
followed him upon an Auvergne horse, small but very
handsome. Porthos was resplendent with joy and pride.

At the same time, Aramis made his appearance at the other
end of the street upon a superb English charger. Bazin
followed him upon a roan, holding by the halter a vigorous
Mecklenburg horse; this was d'Artagnan mount.

The two Musketeers met at the gate. Athos and d'Artagnan
watched their approach from the window.

"The devil!" cried Aramis, "you have a magnificent horse
there, Porthos."

"Yes," replied Porthos, "it is the one that ought to have
been sent to me at first. A bad joke of the husband's
substituted the other; but the husband has been punished
since, and I have obtained full satisfaction."

Planchet and Grimaud appeared in their turn, leading their
masters' steeds. D'Artagnan and Athos put themselves into
saddle with their companions, and all four set forward;
Athos upon a horse he owed to a woman, Aramis on a horse he
owed to his mistress, Porthos on a horse he owed to his
procurator's wife, and d'Artagnan on a horse he owed to his
good fortune--the best mistress possible.

The lackeys followed.

As Porthos had foreseen, the cavalcade produced a good
effect; and if Mme. Coquenard had met Porthos and seen what
a superb appearance he made upon his handsome Spanish genet,
she would not have regretted the bleeding she had inflicted
upon the strongbox of her husband.

Near the Louvre the four friends met with M. de Treville,
who was returning from St. Germain; he stopped them to offer
his compliments upon their appointments, which in an instant
drew round them a hundred gapers.

D'Artagnan profited by the circumstance to speak to M. de
Treville of the letter with the great red seal and the
cardinal's arms. It is well understood that he did not
breathe a word about the other.

M. de Treville approved of the resolution he had adopted,
and assured him that if on the morrow he did not appear, he
himself would undertake to find him, let him be where he
might.

At this moment the clock of La Samaritaine struck six; the
four friends pleaded an engagement, and took leave of M. de
Treville.

A short gallop brought them to the road of Chaillot; the day
began to decline, carriages were passing and repassing.
d'Artagnan, keeping at some distance from his friends,
darted a scrutinizing glance into every carriage that
appeared, but saw no face with which he was acquainted.

At length, after waiting a quarter of an hour and just as
twilight was beginning to thicken, a carriage appeared,
coming at a quick pace on the road of Sevres. A
presentiment instantly told d'Artagnan that this carriage
contained the person who had appointed the rendezvous; the
young man was himself astonished to find his heart beat so
violently. Almost instantly a female head was put out at
the window, with two fingers placed upon her mouth, either
to enjoin silence or to send him a kiss. D'Artagnan uttered
a slight cry of joy; this woman, or rather this apparition--
for the carriage passed with the rapidity of a vision--was
Mme. Bonacieux.

By an involuntary movement and in spite of the injunction
given, d'Artagnan put his horse into a gallop, and in a few
strides overtook the carriage; but the window was
hermetically closed, the vision had disappeared.

D'Artagnan then remembered the injunction: "If you value
your own life or that of those who love you, remain
motionless, and as if you had seen nothing."

He stopped, therefore, trembling not for himself but for the
poor woman who had evidently exposed herself to great danger
by appointing this rendezvous.

The carriage pursued its way, still going at a great pace,
till it dashed into Paris, and disappeared.

D'Artagnan remained fixed to the spot, astounded and not
knowing what to think. If it was Mme. Bonacieux and if she
was returning to Paris, why this fugitive rendezvous, why
this simple exchange of a glance, why this lost kiss? If,
on the other side, it was not she--which was still quite
possible--for the little light that remained rendered a
mistake easy--might it not be the commencement of some plot
against him through the allurement of this woman, for whom
his love was known?

His three companions joined him. All had plainly seen a
woman's head appear at the window, but none of them, except
Athos, knew Mme. Bonacieux. The opinion of Athos was that
it was indeed she; but less preoccupied by that pretty face
than d'Artagnan, he had fancied he saw a second head, a
man's head, inside the carriage.

"If that be the case," said d'Artagnan, "they are doubtless
transporting her from one prison to another. But what can
they intend to do with the poor creature, and how shall I
ever meet her again?"

"Friend," said Athos, gravely, "remember that it is the dead
alone with whom we are not likely to meet again on this
earth. You know something of that, as well as I do, I
think. Now, if your mistress is not dead, if it is she we
have just seen, you will meet with her again some day or
other. And perhaps, my God!" added he, with that
misanthropic tone which was peculiar to him, "perhaps sooner
than you wish."

Half past seven had sounded. The carriage had been twenty
minutes behind the time appointed. D'Artagnan's friends
reminded him that he had a visit to pay, but at the same
time bade him observe that there was yet time to retract.

But d'Artagnan was at the same time impetuous and curious.
He had made up his mind that he would go to the Palais-
Cardinal, and that he would learn what his Eminence had to
say to him. Nothing could turn him from his purpose.

They reached the Rue St. Honore, and in the Place du Palais-
Cardinal they found the twelve invited Musketeers, walking
about in expectation of their comrades. There only they
explained to them the matter in hand.

D'Artagnan was well known among the honorable corps of the
king's Musketeers, in which it was known he would one day
take his place; he was considered beforehand as a comrade.
It resulted from these antecedents that everyone entered
heartily into the purpose for which they met; besides, it
would not be unlikely that they would have an opportunity of
playing either the cardinal or his people an ill turn, and
for such expeditions these worthy gentlemen were always
ready.

Athos divided them into three groups, assumed the command of
one, gave the second to Aramis, and the third to Porthos;
and then each group went and took their watch near an
entrance.

D'Artagnan, on his part, entered boldly at the principal
gate.

Although he felt himself ably supported, the young man was
not without a little uneasiness as he ascended the great
staircase, step by step. His conduct toward Milady bore a
strong resemblance to treachery, and he was very suspicious
of the political relations which existed between that woman
and the cardinal. Still further, de Wardes, whom he had
treated so ill, was one of the tools of his Eminence; and
d'Artagnan knew that while his Eminence was terrible to his
enemies, he was strongly attached to his friends.

"If de Wardes has related all our affair to the cardinal,
which is not to be doubted, and if he has recognized me, as
is probable, I may consider myself almost as a condemned
man," said d'Artagnan, shaking his head. "But why has he
waited till now? That's all plain enough. Milady has laid
her complaints against me with that hypocritical grief which
renders her so interesting, and this last offense has made
the cup overflow."

"Fortunately," added he, "my good friends are down yonder,
and they will not allow me to be carried away without a
struggle. Nevertheless, Monsieur de Treville's company of
Musketeers alone cannot maintain a war against the cardinal,
who disposes of the forces of all France, and before whom
the queen is without power and the king without will.
d'Artagnan, my friend, you are brave, you are prudent, you
have excellent qualities; but the women will ruin you!"

He came to this melancholy conclusion as he entered the
antechamber. He placed his letter in the hands of the usher
on duty, who led him into the waiting room and passed on
into the interior of the palace.

In this waiting room were five or six of the cardinals
Guards, who recognized d'Artagnan, and knowing that it was
he who had wounded Jussac, they looked upon him with a smile
of singular meaning.

This smile appeared to d'Artagnan to be of bad augury.
Only, as our Gascon was not easily intimidated--or rather,
thanks to a great pride natural to the men of his country,
he did not allow one easily to see what was passing in his
mind when that which was passing at all resembled fear--he
placed himself haughtily in front of Messieurs the Guards,
and waited with his hand on his hip, in an attitude by no
means deficient in majesty.

The usher returned and made a sign to d'Artagnan to follow
him. It appeared to the young man that the Guards, on
seeing him depart, chuckled among themselves.

He traversed a corridor, crossed a grand saloon, entered a
library, and found himself in the presence of a man seated
at a desk and writing.

The usher introduced him, and retired without speaking a
word. D'Artagnan remained standing and examined this man.

D'Artagnan at first believed that he had to do with some
judge examining his papers; but he perceived that the man at
the desk wrote, or rather corrected, lines of unequal
length, scanning the words on his fingers. He saw then that
he was with a poet. At the end of an instant the poet
closed his manuscript, upon the cover of which was written
"Mirame, a Tragedy in Five Acts," and raised his head.

D'Artagnan recognized the cardinal.



40 A TERRIBLE VISION

The cardinal leaned his elbow on his manuscript, his cheek
upon his hand, and looked intently at the young man for a
moment. No one had a more searching eye than the Cardinal
de Richelieu, and d'Artagnan felt this glance run through
his veins like a fever.

He however kept a good countenance, holding his hat in his
hand and awaiting the good pleasure of his Eminence, without
too much assurance, but also without too much humility.

"Monsieur," said the cardinal, "are you a d'Artagnan from
Bearn?"

"Yes, monseigneur," replied the young man.

"There are several branches of the d'Artagnans at Tarbes and
in its environs," said the cardinal; "to which do you
belong?"

"I am the son of him who served in the Religious Wars under
the great King Henry, the father of his gracious Majesty."

"That is well. It is you who set out seven or eight months
ago from your country to seek your fortune in the capital?"

"Yes, monseigneur."

"You came through Meung, where something befell you. I
don't very well know what, but still something."

"Monseigneur," said d'Artagnan, "this was what happened to
me--"

"Never mind, never mind!" resumed the cardinal, with a smile
which indicated that he knew the story as well as he who
wished to relate it. "You were recommended to Monsieur de
Treville, were you not?"

"Yes, monseigneur; but in that unfortunate affair at
Meung--"

"The letter was lost," replied his Eminence; "yes, I know
that. But Monsieur de Treville is a skilled physiognomist,
who knows men at first sight; and he placed you in the
company of his brother-in-law, Monsieur Dessessart, leaving
you to hope that one day or other you should enter the
Musketeers."

"Monseigneur is correctly informed," said d'Artagnan.

"Since that time many things have happened to you. You were
walking one day behind the Chartreux, when it would have
been better if you had been elsewhere. Then you took with
your friends a journey to the waters of Forges; they stopped
on the road, but you continued yours. That is all very
simple: you had business in England."

"Monseigneur," said d'Artagnan, quite confused, "I went--"

"Hunting at Windsor, or elsewhere--that concerns nobody. I
know, because it is my office to know everything. On your
return you were received by an august personage, and I
perceive with pleasure that you preserve the souvenir she
gave you."

D'Artagnan placed his hand upon the queen's diamond, which
he wore, and quickly turned the stone inward; but it was too
late.

"The day after that, you received a visit from Cavois,"
resumed the cardinal. "He went to desire you to come to the
palace. You have not returned that visit, and you were
wrong."

"Monseigneur, I feared I had incurred disgrace with your
Eminence."

"How could that be, monsieur? Could you incur my
displeasure by having followed the orders of your superiors
with more intelligence and courage than another would have
done? It is the people who do not obey that I punish, and
not those who, like you, obey--but too well. As a proof,
remember the date of the day on which I had you bidden to
come to me, and seek in your memory for what happened to you
that very night."

That was the very evening when the abduction of Mme.
Bonacieux took place. D'Artagnan trembled; and he likewise
recollected that during the past half hour the poor woman
had passed close to him, without doubt carried away by the
same power that had caused her disappearance.

"In short," continued the cardinal, "as I have heard nothing
of you for some time past, I wished to know what you were
doing. Besides, you owe me some thanks. You must yourself
have remarked how much you have been considered in all the
circumstances."

D'Artagnan bowed with respect.

"That," continued the cardinal, "arose not only from a
feeling of natural equity, but likewise from a plan I have
marked out with respect to you."

D'Artagnan became more and more astonished.

"I wished to explain this plan to you on the day you
received my first invitation; but you did not come.
Fortunately, nothing is lost by this delay, and you are now
about to hear it. Sit down there, before me, d'Artagnan;
you are gentleman enough not to listen standing." And the
cardinal pointed with his finger to a chair for the young
man, who was so astonished at what was passing that he
awaited a second sign from his interlocutor before he
obeyed.

"You are brave, Monsieur d'Artagnan," continued his
Eminence; "you are prudent, which is still better. I like
men of head and heart. Don't be afraid," said he, smiling.
"By men of heart I mean men of courage. But young as you
are, and scarcely entering into the world, you have powerful
enemies; if you do not take great heed, they will destroy
you."

"Alas, monseigneur!" replied the young man, "very easily, no
doubt, for they are strong and well supported, while I am
alone."

"Yes, that's true; but alone as you are, you have done much
already, and will do still more, I don't doubt. Yet you
have need, I believe, to be guided in the adventurous career
you have undertaken; for, if I mistake not, you came to
Paris with the ambitious idea of making your fortune."

"I am at the age of extravagant hopes, monseigneur," said
d'Artagnan.

"There are no extravagant hopes but for fools, monsieur, and you
are a man of understanding. Now, what would you say to an
ensign's commission in my Guards, and a company after the
campaign?"

"Ah, monseigneur."

"You accept it, do you not?"

"Monseigneur," replied d'Artagnan, with an embarrassed air.

"How? You refuse?" cried the cardinal, with astonishment.

"I am in his Majesty's Guards, monseigneur, and I have no
reason to be dissatisfied."

"But it appears to me that my Guards--mine--are also his
Majesty's Guards; and whoever serves in a French corps
serves the king."

"Monseigneur, your Eminence has ill understood my words."

"You want a pretext, do you not? I comprehend. Well, you
have this excuse: advancement, the opening campaign, the
opportunity which I offer you--so much for the world. As
regards yourself, the need of protection; for it is fit you
should know, Monsieur d'Artagnan, that I have received heavy
and serious complaints against you. You do not consecrate
your days and nights wholly to the king's service."

D'Artagnan colored.

"In fact," said the cardinal, placing his hand upon a bundle
of papers, "I have here a whole pile which concerns you. I
know you to be a man of resolution; and your services, well
directed, instead of leading you to ill, might be very
advantageous to you. Come; reflect, and decide."

"Your goodness confounds me, monseigneur," replied
d'Artagnan, "and I am conscious of a greatness of soul in
your Eminence that makes me mean as an earthworm; but since
Monseigneur permits me to speak freely--"

D'Artagnan paused.

"Yes; speak."

"Then, I will presume to say that all my friends are in the
king's Musketeers and Guards, and that by an inconceivable
fatality my enemies are in the service of your Eminence; I
should, therefore, be ill received here and ill regarded
there if I accepted what Monseigneur offers me."

"Do you happen to entertain the haughty idea that I have not
yet made you an offer equal to your value?" asked the
cardinal, with a smile of disdain.

"Monseigneur, your Eminence is a hundred times too kind to
me; and on the contrary, I think I have not proved myself
worthy of your goodness. The siege of La Rochelle is about
to be resumed, monseigneur. I shall serve under the eye of
your Eminence, and if I have the good fortune to conduct
myself at the siege in such a manner as merits your
attention, then I shall at least leave behind me some
brilliant action to justify the protection with which you
honor me. Everything is best in its time, monseigneur.
Hereafter, perhaps, I shall have the right of giving myself;
at present I shall appear to sell myself."

"That is to say, you refuse to serve me, monsieur," said the
cardinal, with a tone of vexation, through which, however,
might be seen a sort of esteem; "remain free, then, and
guard your hatreds and your sympathies."

"Monseigneur--"

"Well, well," said the cardinal, "I don't wish you any ill;
but you must be aware that it is quite trouble enough to
defend and recompense our friends. We owe nothing to our
enemies; and let me give you a piece of advice; take care of
yourself, Monsieur d'Artagnan, for from the moment I
withdraw my hand from behind you, I would not give an obolus
for your life."

"I will try to do so, monseigneur," replied the Gascon, with
a noble confidence.

"Remember at a later period and at a certain moment, if any
mischance should happen to you," said Richelieu,
significantly, "that it was I who came to seek you, and that
I did all in my power to prevent this misfortune befalling
you."

"I shall entertain, whatever may happen," said d'Artagnan,
placing his hand upon his breast and bowing, "an eternal
gratitude toward your Eminence for that which you now do for
me."

"Well, let it be, then, as you have said, Monsieur
d'Artagnan; we shall see each other again after the
campaign. I will have my eye upon you, for I shall be
there," replied the cardinal, pointing with his finger to a
magnificent suit of armor he was to wear, "and on our
return, well--we will settle our account!"

"Young man," said Richelieu, "if I shall be able to say to
you at another time what I have said to you today, I promise
you to do so."

This last expression of Richelieu's conveyed a terrible
doubt; it alarmed d'Artagnan more than a menace would have
done, for it was a warning. The cardinal, then, was seeking
to preserve him from some misfortune which threatened him.
He opened his mouth to reply, but with a haughty gesture the
cardinal dismissed him.

D'Artagnan went out, but at the door his heart almost failed
him, and he felt inclined to return. Then the noble and
severe countenance of Athos crossed his mind; if he made the
compact with the cardinal which he required, Athos would no
more give him his hand--Athos would renounce him.

It was this fear that restrained him, so powerful is the
influence of a truly great character on all that surrounds
it.

D'Artagnan descended by the staircase at which he had
entered, and found Athos and the four Musketeers waiting his
appearance, and beginning to grow uneasy. With a word,
d'Artagnan reassured them; and Planchet ran to inform the
other sentinels that it was useless to keep guard longer, as
his master had come out safe from the Palais-Cardinal.

Returned home with Athos, Aramis and Porthos inquired
eagerly the cause of the strange interview; but d'Artagnan
confined himself to telling them that M. de Richelieu had
sent for him to propose to him to enter into his guards with
the rank of ensign, and that he had refused.

"And you were right," cried Aramis and Porthos, with one
voice.

Athos fell into a profound reverie and answered nothing.
But when they were alone he said, "You have done that which
you ought to have done, d'Artagnan; but perhaps you have
been wrong."

D'Artagnan sighed deeply, for this voice responded to a
secret voice of his soul, which told him that great
misfortunes awaited him.

The whole of the next day was spent in preparations for
departure. D'Artagnan went to take leave of M. de Treville.
At that time it was believed that the separation of the
Musketeers and the Guards would be but momentary, the king
holding his Parliament that very day and proposing to set
out the day after. M. de Treville contented himself with
asking d'Artagnan if he could do anything for him, but
d'Artagnan answered that he was supplied with all he wanted.

That night brought together all those comrades of the Guards
of M. Dessessart and the company of Musketeers of M. de
Treville who had been accustomed to associate together.
They were parting to meet again when it pleased God, and if
it pleased God. That night, then, was somewhat riotous, as
may be imagined. In such cases extreme preoccupation is
only to be combated by extreme carelessness.

At the first sound of the morning trumpet the friends
separated; the Musketeers hastening to the hotel of M. de
Treville, the Guards to that of M. Dessessart. Each of the
captains then led his company to the Louvre, where the king
held his review.

The king was dull and appeared ill, which detracted a little
from his usual lofty bearing. In fact, the evening before,
a fever had seized him in the midst of the Parliament, while
he was holding his Bed of Justice. He had, not the less,
decided upon setting out that same evening; and in spite of
the remonstrances that had been offered to him, he persisted
in having the review, hoping by setting it at defiance to
conquer the disease which began to lay hold upon him.

The review over, the Guards set forward alone on their
march, the Musketeers waiting for the king, which allowed
Porthos time to go and take a turn in his superb equipment
in the Rue aux Ours.

The procurator's wife saw him pass in his new uniform and on
his fine horse. She loved Porthos too dearly to allow him
to part thus; she made him a sign to dismount and come to
her. Porthos was magnificent; his spurs jingled, his
cuirass glittered, his sword knocked proudly against his
ample limbs. This time the clerks evinced no inclination to
laugh, such a real ear clipper did Porthos appear.

The Musketeer was introduced to M. Coquenard, whose little
gray eyes sparkled with anger at seeing his cousin all
blazing new. Nevertheless, one thing afforded him inward
consolation; it was expected by everybody that the campaign
would be a severe one. He whispered a hope to himself that
this beloved relative might be killed in the field.

Porthos paid his compliments to M. Coquenard and bade him
farewell. M. Coquenard wished him all sorts of
prosperities. As to Mme. Coquenard, she could not restrain
her tears; but no evil impressions were taken from her grief
as she was known to be very much attached to her relatives,
about whom she was constantly having serious disputes with
her husband.

But the real adieux were made in Mme. Coquenard's chamber;
they were heartrending.

As long as the procurator's wife could follow him with her
eyes, she waved her handkerchief to him, leaning so far out
of the window as to lead people to believe she wished to
precipitate herself. Porthos received all these attentions
like a man accustomed to such demonstrations, only on
turning the corner of the street he lifted his hat
gracefully, and waved it to her as a sign of adieu.

On his part Aramis wrote a long letter. To whom? Nobody
knew. Kitty, who was to set out that evening for Tours, was
waiting in the next chamber.

Athos sipped the last bottle of his Spanish wine.

In the meantime d'Artagnan was defiling with his company.
Arriving at the Faubourg St. Antoine, he turned round to
look gaily at the Bastille; but as it was the Bastille alone
he looked at, he did not observe Milady, who, mounted upon a
light chestnut horse, designated him with her finger to two
ill-looking men who came close up to the ranks to take
notice of him. To a look of interrogation which they made,
Milady replied by a sign that it was he. Then, certain that
there could be no mistake in the execution of her orders,
she started her horse and disappeared.

The two men followed the company, and on leaving the
Faubourg St. Antoine, mounted two horses properly equipped,
which a servant without livery had waiting for them.



41 THE SEIGE OF LA ROCHELLE

The Siege of La Rochelle was one of the great political
events of the reign of Louis XIII, and one of the great
military enterprises of the cardinal. It is, then,
interesting and even necessary that we should say a few
words about it, particularly as many details of this siege
are connected in too important a manner with the story we
have undertaken to relate to allow us to pass it over in
silence.

The political plans of the cardinal when he undertook this
siege were extensive. Let us unfold them first, and then
pass on to the private plans which perhaps had not less
influence upon his Eminence than the others.

Of the important cities given up by Henry IV to the
Huguenots as places of safety, there only remained La
Rochelle. It became necessary, therefore, to destroy this
last bulwark of Calvinism--a dangerous leaven with which the
ferments of civil revolt and foreign war were constantly
mingling.

Spaniards, Englishmen, and Italian malcontents, adventurers
of all nations, and soldiers of fortune of every sect,
flocked at the first summons under the standard of the
Protestants, and organized themselves like a vast
association, whose branches diverged freely over all parts
of Europe.

La Rochelle, which had derived a new importance from the
ruin of the other Calvinist cities, was, then, the focus of
dissensions and ambition. Moreover, its port was the last
in the kingdom of France open to the English, and by closing
it against England, our eternal enemy, the cardinal
completed the work of Joan of Arc and the Duc de Guise.

Thus Bassompierre, who was at once Protestant and Catholic--
Protestant by conviction and Catholic as commander of the
order of the Holy Ghost; Bassompierre, who was a German by
birth and a Frenchman at heart--in short, Bassompierre, who
had a distinguished command at the siege of La Rochelle,
said, in charging at the head of several other Protestant
nobles like himself, "You will see, gentlemen, that we shall
be fools enough to take La Rochelle."

And Bassompierre was right. The cannonade of the Isle of Re
presaged to him the dragonnades of the Cevennes; the taking
of La Rochelle was the preface to the revocation of the
Edict of Nantes.

We have hinted that by the side of these views of the
leveling and simplifying minister, which belong to history,
the chronicler is forced to recognize the lesser motives of
the amorous man and jealous rival.

Richelieu, as everyone knows, had loved the queen. Was this
love a simple political affair, or was it naturally one of
those profound passions which Anne of Austria inspired in
those who approached her? That we are not able to say; but
at all events, we have seen, by the anterior developments of
this story, that Buckingham had the advantage over him, and
in two or three circumstances, particularly that of the
diamond studs, had, thanks to the devotedness of the three
Musketeers and the courage and conduct of d'Artagnan,
cruelly mystified him.

It was, then, Richelieu's object, not only to get rid of an
enemy of France, but to avenge himself on a rival; but this
vengeance must be grand and striking and worthy in every way
of a man who held in his hand, as his weapon for combat, the
forces of a kingdom.

Richelieu knew that in combating England he combated
Buckingham; that in triumphing over England he triumphed
over Buckingham--in short, that in humiliating England in
the eyes of Europe he humiliated Buckingham in the eyes of
the queen.

On his side Buckingham, in pretending to maintain the honor
of England, was moved by interests exactly like those of the
cardinal. Buckingham also was pursuing a private vengeance.
Buckingham could not under any pretense be admitted into
France as an ambassador; he wished to enter it as a
conqueror.

It resulted from this that the real stake in this game,
which two most powerful kingdoms played for the good
pleasure of two amorous men, was simply a kind look from
Anne of Austria.

The first advantage had been gained by Buckingham. Arriving
unexpectedly in sight of the Isle of Re with ninety vessels
and nearly twenty thousand men, he had surprised the Comte
de Toiras, who commanded for the king in the Isle, and he
had, after a bloody conflict, effected his landing.

Allow us to observe in passing that in this fight perished
the Baron de Chantal; that the Baron de Chantal left a
little orphan girl eighteen months old, and that this little
girl was afterward Mme. de Sevigne.

The Comte de Toiras retired into the citadel St. Martin with
his garrison, and threw a hundred men into a little fort
called the fort of La Pree.

This event had hastened the resolutions of the cardinal; and
till the king and he could take the command of the siege of
La Rochelle, which was determined, he had sent Monsieur to
direct the first operations, and had ordered all the troops
he could dispose of to march toward the theater of war. It
was of this detachment, sent as a vanguard, that our friend
d'Artagnan formed a part.

The king, as we have said, was to follow as soon as his Bed
of Justice had been held; but on rising from his Bed of
Justice on the twenty-eighth of June, he felt himself
attacked by fever. He was, notwithstanding, anxious to set
out; but his illness becoming more serious, he was forced to
stop at Villeroy.

Now, whenever the king halted, the Musketeers halted. It
followed that d'Artagnan, who was as yet purely and simply
in the Guards, found himself, for the time at least,
separated from his good friends--Athos, Porthos, and Aramis.
This separation, which was no more than an unpleasant
circumstance, would have certainly become a cause of serious
uneasiness if he had been able to guess by what unknown
dangers he was surrounded.

He, however, arrived without accident in the camp
established before La Rochelle, of the tenth of the month of
September of the year 1627.

Everything was in the same state. The Duke of Buckingham
and his English, masters of the Isle of Re, continued to
besiege, but without success, the citadel St. Martin and the
fort of La Pree; and hostilities with La Rochelle had
commenced, two or three days before, about a fort which the
Duc d'Angouleme had caused to be constructed near the city.

The Guards, under the command of M. Dessessart, took up
their quarters at the Minimes; but, as we know, d'Artagnan,
possessed with ambition to enter the Musketeers, had formed
but few friendships among his comrades, and he felt himself
isolated and given up to his own reflections.

His reflections were not very cheerful. From the time of
his arrival in Paris, he had been mixed up with public
affairs; but his own private affairs had made no great
progress, either in love or fortune. As to love, the only
woman he could have loved was Mme. Bonacieux; and Mme.
Bonacieux had disappeared, without his being able to
discover what had become of her. As to fortune, he had
made--he, humble as he was--an enemy of the cardinal; that
is to say, of a man before whom trembled the greatest men of
the kingdom, beginning with the king.

That man had the power to crush him, and yet he had not done
so. For a mind so perspicuous as that of d'Artagnan, this
indulgence was a light by which he caught a glimpse of a
better future.

Then he had made himself another enemy, less to be feared,
he thought; but nevertheless, he instinctively felt, not to
be despised. This enemy was Milady.

In exchange for all this, he had acquired the protection and
good will of the queen; but the favor of the queen was at
the present time an additional cause of persecution, and her
protection, as it was known, protected badly--as witness
Chalais and Mme. Bonacieux.

What he had clearly gained in all this was the diamond,
worth five or six thousand livres, which he wore on his
finger; and even this diamond--supposing that d'Artagnan, in
his projects of ambition, wished to keep it, to make it
someday a pledge for the gratitude of the queen--had not in
the meanwhile, since he could not part with it, more value
than the gravel he trod under his feet.

We say the gravel he trod under his feet, for d'Artagnan
made these reflections while walking solitarily along a
pretty little road which led from the camp to the village of
Angoutin. Now, these reflections had led him further than
he intended, and the day was beginning to decline when, by
the last ray of the setting sun, he thought he saw the
barrel of a musket glitter from behind a hedge.

D'Artagnan had a quick eye and a prompt understanding. He
comprehended that the musket had not come there of itself,
and that he who bore it had not concealed himself behind a
hedge with any friendly intentions. He determined,
therefore, to direct his course as clear from it as he could
when, on the opposite side of the road, from behind a rock,
he perceived the extremity of another musket.

This was evidently an ambuscade.

The young man cast a glance at the first musket and saw,
with a certain degree of inquietude, that it was leveled in
his direction; but as soon as he perceived that the orifice
of the barrel was motionless, he threw himself upon the
ground. At the same instant the gun was fired, and he heard
the whistling of a ball pass over his head.

No time was to be lost. D'Artagnan sprang up with a bound,
and at the same instant the ball from the other musket tore
up the gravel on the very spot on the road where he had
thrown himself with his face to the ground.

D'Artagnan was not one of those foolhardy men who seek a
ridiculous death in order that it may be said of them that
they did not retreat a single step. Besides, courage was
out of the question here; d'Artagnan had fallen into an
ambush.

"If there is a third shot," said he to himself, "I am a lost
man."

He immediately, therefore, took to his heels and ran toward
the camp, with the swiftness of the young men of his
country, so renowned for their agility; but whatever might
be his speed, the first who fired, having had time to
reload, fired a second shot, and this time so well aimed
that it struck his hat, and carried it ten paces from him.

As he, however, had no other hat, he picked up this as he
ran, and arrived at his quarters very pale and quite out of
breath. He sat down without saying a word to anybody, and
began to reflect.

This event might have three causes:

The first and the most natural was that it might be an
ambuscade of the Rochellais, who might not be sorry to kill
one of his Majesty's Guards, because it would be an enemy
the less, and this enemy might have a well-furnished purse
in his pocket.

D'Artagnan took his hat, examined the hole made by the ball,
and shook his head. The ball was not a musket ball--it was
an arquebus ball. The accuracy of the aim had first given
him the idea that a special weapon had been employed. This
could not, then, be a military ambuscade, as the ball was
not of the regular caliber.

This might be a kind remembrance of Monsieur the Cardinal.
It may be observed that at the very moment when, thanks to
the ray of the sun, he perceived the gun barrel, he was
thinking with astonishment on the forbearance of his
Eminence with respect to him.

But d'Artagnan again shook his head. For people toward whom
he had but to put forth his hand, his Eminence had rarely
recourse to such means.

It might be a vengeance of Milady; that was most probable.

He tried in vain to remember the faces or dress of the
assassins; he had escaped so rapidly that he had not had
leisure to notice anything.

"Ah, my poor friends!" murmured d'Artagnan; "where are you?
And that you should fail me!"

D'Artagnan passed a very bad night. Three or four times he
started up, imagining that a man was approaching his bed for
the purpose of stabbing him. Nevertheless, day dawned
without darkness having brought any accident.

But d'Artagnan well suspected that that which was deferred
was not relinquished.

D'Artagnan remained all day in his quarters, assigning as a
reason to himself that the weather was bad.

At nine o'clock the next morning, the drums beat to arms.
The Duc d'Orleans visited the posts. The guards were under
arms, and d'Artagnan took his place in the midst of his
comrades.

Monsieur passed along the front of the line; then all the
superior officers approached him to pay their compliments,
M. Dessessart, captain of the Guards, as well as the others.

At the expiration of a minute or two, it appeared to
d'Artagnan that M. Dessessart made him a sign to approach.
He waited for a fresh gesture on the part of his superior,
for fear he might be mistaken; but this gesture being
repeated, he left the ranks, and advanced to receive orders.

"Monsieur is about to ask for some men of good will for a
dangerous mission, but one which will do honor to those who
shall accomplish it; and I made you a sign in order that you
might hold yourself in readiness."

"Thanks, my captain!" replied d'Artagnan, who wished for
nothing better than an opportunity to distinguish himself
under the eye of the lieutenant general.

In fact the Rochellais had made a sortie during the night,
and had retaken a bastion of which the royal army had gained
possession two days before. The matter was to ascertain, by
reconnoitering, how the enemy guarded this bastion.

At the end of a few minutes Monsieur raised his voice, and
said, "I want for this mission three or four volunteers, led
by a man who can be depended upon."

"As to the man to be depended upon, I have him under my
hand, monsieur," said M. Dessessart, pointing to d'Artagnan;
"and as to the four or five volunteers, Monsieur has but to
make his intentions known, and the men will not be wanting."

"Four men of good will who will risk being killed with me!"
said d'Artagnan, raising his sword.

Two of his comrades of the Guards immediately sprang
forward, and two other soldiers having joined them, the
number was deemed sufficient. D'Artagnan declined all
others, being unwilling to take the first chance from those
who had the priority.

It was not known whether, after the taking of the bastion,
the Rochellais had evacuated it or left a garrison in it;
the object then was to examine the place near enough to
verify the reports.

D'Artagnan set out with his four companions, and followed
the trench; the two Guards marched abreast with him, and the
two soldiers followed behind.

They arrived thus, screened by the lining of the trench,
till they came within a hundred paces of the bastion.
There, on turning round, d'Artagnan perceived that the two
soldiers had disappeared.

He thought that, beginning to be afraid, they had stayed
behind, and he continued to advance.

At the turning of the counterscarp they found themselves
within about sixty paces of the bastion. They saw no one,
and the bastion seemed abandoned.

The three composing our forlorn hope were deliberating
whether they should proceed any further, when all at once a
circle of smoke enveloped the giant of stone, and a dozen
balls came whistling around d'Artagnan and his companions.

They knew all they wished to know; the bastion was guarded.
A longer stay in this dangerous spot would have been useless
imprudence. D'Artagnan and his two companions turned their
backs, and commenced a retreat which resembled a flight.

On arriving at the angle of the trench which was to serve
them as a rampart, one of the Guardsmen fell. A ball had
passed through his breast. The other, who was safe and
sound, continued his way toward the camp.

D'Artagnan was not willing to abandon his companion thus,
and stooped to raise him and assist him in regaining the
lines; but at this moment two shots were fired. One ball
struck the head of the already-wounded guard, and the other
flattened itself against a rock, after having passed within
two inches of d'Artagnan.

The young man turned quickly round, for this attack could
not have come from the bastion, which was hidden by the
angle of the trench. The idea of the two soldiers who had
abandoned him occurred to his mind, and with them he
remembered the assassins of two evenings before. He
resolved this time to know with whom he had to deal, and
fell upon the body of his comrade as if he were dead.

He quickly saw two heads appear above an abandoned work
within thirty paces of him; they were the heads of the two
soldiers. D'Artagnan had not been deceived; these two men
had only followed for the purpose of assassinating him,
hoping that the young man's death would be placed to the
account of the enemy.

As he might be only wounded and might denounce their crime,
they came up to him with the purpose of making sure.
Fortunately, deceived by d'Artagnan's trick, they neglected
to reload their guns.

When they were within ten paces of him, d'Artagnan, who in
falling had taken care not to let go his sword, sprang up
close to them.

The assassins comprehended that if they fled toward the camp
without having killed their man, they should be accused by
him; therefore their first idea was to join the enemy. One
of them took his gun by the barrel, and used it as he would
a club. He aimed a terrible blow at d'Artagnan, who avoided
it by springing to one side; but by this movement he left a
passage free to the bandit, who darted off toward the
bastion. As the Rochellais who guarded the bastion were
ignorant of the intentions of the man they saw coming toward
them, they fired upon him, and he fell, struck by a ball
which broke his shoulder.

Meantime d'Artagnan had thrown himself upon the other
soldier, attacking him with his sword. The conflict was not
long; the wretch had nothing to defend himself with but his
discharged arquebus. The sword of the Guardsman slipped
along the barrel of the now-useless weapon, and passed
through the thigh of the assassin, who fell.

D'Artagnan immediately placed the point of his sword at his
throat.

"Oh, do not kill me!" cried the bandit. "Pardon, pardon, my
officer, and I will tell you all."

"Is your secret of enough importance to me to spare your
life for it?" asked the young man, withholding his arm.

"Yes; if you think existence worth anything to a man of
twenty, as you are, and who may hope for everything, being
handsome and brave, as you are."

"Wretch," cried d'Artagnan, "speak quickly! Who employed
you to assassinate me?"

"A woman whom I don't know, but who is called Milady."

"But if you don't know this woman, how do you know her
name?"

"My comrade knows her, and called her so. It was with him
she agreed, and not with me; he even has in his pocket a
letter from that person, who attaches great importance to
you, as I have heard him say."

"But how did you become concerned in this villainous
affair?"

"He proposed to me to undertake it with him, and I agreed."

"And how much did she give you for this fine enterprise?"

"A hundred louis."

"Well, come!" said the young man, laughing, "she thinks I am
worth something. A hundred louis? Well, that was a
temptation for two wretches like you. I understand why you
accepted it, and I grant you my pardon; but upon one
condition."

"What is that?" said the soldier, uneasy at perceiving that
all was not over.

"That you will go and fetch me the letter your comrade has
in his pocket."

"But," cried the bandit, "that is only another way of
killing me. How can I go and fetch that letter under the
fire of the bastion?"

"You must nevertheless make up your mind to go and get it,
or I swear you shall die by my hand."

"Pardon, monsieur; pity! In the name of that young lady you
love, and whom you perhaps believe dead but who is not!"
cried the bandit, throwing himself upon his knees and
leaning upon his hand--for he began to lose his strength
with his blood.

"And how do you know there is a young woman whom I love, and
that I believed that woman dead?" asked d'Artagnan.

"By that letter which my comrade has in his pocket."

"You see, then," said d'Artagnan, "that I must have that
letter. So no more delay, no more hesitation; or else
whatever may be my repugnance to soiling my sword a second
time with the blood of a wretch like you, I swear by my
faith as an honest man--" and at these words d'Artagnan made
so fierce a gesture that the wounded man sprang up.

"Stop, stop!" cried he, regaining strength by force of
terror. "I will go--I will go!"

D'Artagnan took the soldier's arquebus, made him go on
before him, and urged him toward his companion by pricking
him behind with his sword.

It was a frightful thing to see this wretch, leaving a long
track of blood on the ground he passed over, pale with
approaching death, trying to drag himself along without
being seen to the body of his accomplice, which lay twenty
paces from him.

Terror was so strongly painted on his face, covered with a
cold sweat, that d'Artagnan took pity on him, and casting
upon him a look of contempt, "Stop," said he, "I will show
you the difference between a man of courage and such a
coward as you. Stay where you are; I will go myself."

And with a light step, an eye on the watch, observing the
movements of the enemy and taking advantage of the accidents
of the ground, d'Artagnan succeeded in reaching the second
soldier.

There were two means of gaining his object--to search him on
the spot, or to carry him away, making a buckler of his
body, and search him in the trench.

D'Artagnan preferred the second means, and lifted the
assassin onto his shoulders at the moment the enemy fired.

A slight shock, the dull noise of three balls which
penetrated the flesh, a last cry, a convulsion of agony,
proved to d'Artagnan that the would-be assassin had saved
his life.

D'Artagnan regained the trench, and threw the corpse beside
the wounded man, who was as pale as death.

Then he began to search. A leather pocketbook, a purse, in
which was evidently a part of the sum which the bandit had
received, with a dice box and dice, completed the
possessions of the dead man.

He left the box and dice where they fell, threw the purse to
the wounded man, and eagerly opened the pocketbook.

Among some unimportant papers he found the following letter,
that which he had sought at the risk of his life:


"Since you have lost sight of that woman and she is now in
safety in the convent, which you should never have allowed
her to reach, try, at least, not to miss the man. If you
do, you know that my hand stretches far, and that you shall
pay very dearly for the hundred louis you have from me."


No signature. Nevertheless it was plain the letter came
from Milady. He consequently kept it as a piece of
evidence, and being in safety behind the angle of the
trench, he began to interrogate the wounded man. He
confessed that he had undertaken with his comrade--the same
who was killed--to carry off a young woman who was to leave
Paris by the Barriere de La Villette; but having stopped to
drink at a cabaret, they had missed the carriage by ten
minutes.

"But what were you to do with that woman?" asked d'Artagnan,
with anguish.

"We were to have conveyed her to a hotel in the Place
Royale," said the wounded man.

"Yes, yes!" murmured d'Artagnan; "that's the place--Milady's
own residence!"

Then the young man tremblingly comprehended what a terrible
thirst for vengeance urged this woman on to destroy him, as
well as all who loved him, and how well she must be
acquainted with the affairs of the court, since she had
discovered all. There could be no doubt she owed this
information to the cardinal.

But amid all this he perceived, with a feeling of real joy,
that the queen must have discovered the prison in which poor
Mme. Bonacieux was explaining her devotion, and that she had
freed her from that prison; and the letter he had received
from the young woman, and her passage along the road of
Chaillot like an apparition, were now explained.

Then also, as Athos had predicted, it became possible to
find Mme. Bonacieux, and a convent was not impregnable.

This idea completely restored clemency to his heart. He
turned toward the wounded man, who had watched with intense
anxiety all the various expressions of his countenance, and
holding out his arm to him, said, "Come, I will not abandon
you thus. Lean upon me, and let us return to the camp."

"Yes," said the man, who could scarcely believe in such
magnanimity, "but is it not to have me hanged?"

"You have my word," said he; "for the second time I give you
your life."

The wounded man sank upon his knees, to again kiss the feet
of his preserver; but d'Artagnan, who had no longer a motive
for staying so near the enemy, abridged the testimonials of
his gratitude.

The Guardsman who had returned at the first discharge
announced the death of his four companions. They were
therefore much astonished and delighted in the regiment when
they saw the young man come back safe and sound.

D'Artagnan explained the sword wound of his companion by a
sortie which he improvised. He described the death of the
other soldier, and the perils they had encountered. This
recital was for him the occasion of veritable triumph. The
whole army talked of this expedition for a day, and Monsieur
paid him his compliments upon it. Besides this, as every
great action bears its recompense with it, the brave exploit
of d'Artagnan resulted in the restoration of the tranquility
he had lost. In fact, d'Artagnan believed that he might be
tranquil, as one of his two enemies was killed and the other
devoted to his interests.

This tranquillity proved one thing--that d'Artagnan did not
yet know Milady.



42 THE ANJOU WINE

After the most disheartening news of the king's health, a
report of his convalescence began to prevail in the camp;
and as he was very anxious to be in person at the siege, it
was said that as soon as he could mount a horse he would set
forward.

Meantime, Monsieur, who knew that from one day to the other
he might expect to be removed from his command by the Duc
d'Angouleme, by Bassompierre, or by Schomberg, who were all
eager for his post, did but little, lost his days in
wavering, and did not dare to attempt any great enterprise
to drive the English from the Isle of Re, where they still
besieged the citadel St. Martin and the fort of La Pree, as
on their side the French were besieging La Rochelle.

D'Artagnan, as we have said, had become more tranquil, as
always happens after a post danger, particularly when the
danger seems to have vanished. He only felt one uneasiness,
and that was at not hearing any tidings from his friends.

But one morning at the commencement of the month of November
everything was explained to him by this letter, dated from
Villeroy:


M. d'Artagnan,

MM. Athos, Porthos, and Aramis, after having
had an entertainment at my house and enjoying themselves
very much, created such a disturbance that the provost of
the castle, a rigid man, has ordered them to be confined for
some days; but I accomplish the order they have given me by
forwarding to you a dozen bottles of my Anjou wine, with
which they are much pleased. They are desirous that you
should drink to their health in their favorite wine. I have
done this, and am, monsieur, with great respect,

Your very humble and obedient servant,

Godeau, Purveyor of the Musketeers


"That's all well!" cried d'Artagnan. "They think of me in
their pleasures, as I thought of them in my troubles. Well,
I will certainly drink to their health with all my heart,
but I will not drink alone."

And d'Artagnan went among those Guardsmen with whom he had
formed greater intimacy than with the others, to invite them
to enjoy with him this present of delicious Anjou wine which
had been sent him from Villeroy.

One of the two Guardsmen was engaged that evening, and
another the next, so the meeting was fixed for the day after
that.

D'Artagnan, on his return, sent the twelve bottles of wine
to the refreshment room of the Guards, with strict orders
that great care should be taken of it; and then, on the day
appointed, as the dinner was fixed for midday d'Artagnan
sent Planchet at nine in the morning to assist in preparing
everything for the entertainment.

Planchet, very proud of being raised to the dignity of
landlord, thought he would make all ready, like an
intelligent man; and with this view called in the assistance
of the lackey of one of his master's guests, named Fourreau,
and the false soldier who had tried to kill d'Artagnan and
who, belonging to no corps, had entered into the service of
d'Artagnan, or rather of Planchet, after d'Artagnan had
saved his life.

The hour of the banquet being come, the two guards arrived,
took their places, and the dishes were arranged on the
table. Planchet waited, towel on arm; Fourreau uncorked the
bottles; and Brisemont, which was the name of the
convalescent, poured the wine, which was a little shaken by
its journey, carefully into decanters. Of this wine, the
first bottle being a little thick at the bottom, Brisemont
poured the lees into a glass, and d'Artagnan desired him to
drink it, for the poor devil had not yet recovered his
strength.

The guests having eaten the soup, were about to lift the
first glass of wine to their lips, when all at once the
cannon sounded from Fort Louis and Fort Neuf. The
Guardsmen, imagining this to be caused by some unexpected
attack, either of the besieged or the English, sprang to
their swords. D'Artagnan, not less forward than they, did
likewise, and all ran out, in order to repair to their
posts.

But scarcely were they out of the room before they were made
aware of the cause of this noise. Cries of "Live the king!
Live the cardinal!" resounded on every side, and the drums
were beaten in all directions.

In short, the king, impatient, as has been said, had come by
forced marches, and had that moment arrived with all his
household and a reinforcement of ten thousand troops. His
Musketeers proceeded and followed him. D'Artagnan, placed
in line with his company, saluted with an expressive gesture
his three friends, whose eyes soon discovered him, and M. de
Treville, who detected him at once.

The ceremony of reception over, the four friends were soon
in one another's arms.

"Pardieu!" cried d'Artagnan, "you could not have arrived in
better time; the dinner cannot have had time to get cold!
Can it, gentlemen?" added the young man, turning to the two
Guards, whom he introduced to his friends.

"Ah, ah!" said Porthos, "it appears we are feasting!"

"I hope," said Aramis, "there are no women at your dinner."

"Is there any drinkable wine in your tavern?" asked Athos.

"Well, pardieu! there is yours, my dear friend," replied
d'Artagnan.

"Our wine!" said Athos, astonished.

"Yes, that you sent me."

"We sent you wine?"

"You know very well--the wine from the hills of Anjou."

"Yes, I know what brand you are talking about."

"The wine you prefer."

"Well, in the absence of champagne and chambertin, you must
content yourselves with that."

"And so, connoisseurs in wine as we are, we have sent you
some Anjou wine?" said Porthos.

"Not exactly, it is the wine that was sent by your order."

"On our account?" said the three Musketeers.

"Did you send this wine, Aramis?" said Athos.

"No; and you, Porthos?"

"No; and you, Athos?"

"No!"

"If it was not you, it was your purveyor," said d'Artagnan.

"Our purveyor!"

"Yes, your purveyor, Godeau--the purveyor of the
Musketeers."

"My faith! never mind where it comes from," said Porthos,
"let us taste it, and if it is good, let us drink it."

"No," said Athos; "don't let us drink wine which comes from
an unknown source."

"You are right, Athos," said d'Artagnan. "Did none of you
charge your purveyor, Godeau, to send me some wine?"

"No! And yet you say he has sent you some as from us?"

"Here is his letter," said d'Artagnan, and he presented the
note to his comrades.

"This is not his writing!" said Athos. "I am acquainted
with it; before we left Villeroy I settled the accounts of
the regiment."

"A false letter altogether," said Porthos, "we have not been
disciplined."

"d'Artagnan," said Aramis, in a reproachful tone, "how could
you believe that we had made a disturbance?"

D'Artagnan grew pale, and a convulsive trembling shook all
his limbs.

"Thou alarmest me!" said Athos, who never used thee and thou
but upon very particular occasions, "what has happened?"

"Look you, my friends!" cried d'Artagnan, "a horrible
suspicion crosses my mind! Can this be another vengeance of
that woman?"

It was now Athos who turned pale.

D'Artagnan rushed toward the refreshment room, the three
Musketeers and the two Guards following him.

The first object that met the eyes of d'Artagnan on entering
the room was Brisemont, stretched upon the ground and
rolling in horrible convulsions.

Planchet and Fourreau, as pale as death, were trying to give
him succor; but it was plain that all assistance was
useless--all the features of the dying man were distorted
with agony.

"Ah!" cried he, on perceiving d'Artagnan, "ah! this is
frightful! You pretend to pardon me, and you poison me!"

"I!" cried d'Artagnan. "I, wretch? What do you say?"

"I say that it was you who gave me the wine; I say that it
was you who desired me to drink it. I say you wished to
avenge yourself on me, and I say that it is horrible!"

"Do not think so, Brisemont," said d'Artagnan; "do not think
so. I swear to you, I protest--"

"Oh, but God is above! God will punish you! My God, grant
that he may one day suffer what I suffer!"

"Upon the Gospel," said d'Artagnan, throwing himself down by
the dying man, "I swear to you that the wine was poisoned
and that I was going to drink of it as you did."

"I do not believe you," cried the soldier, and he expired
amid horrible tortures.

"Frightful! frightful!" murmured Athos, while Porthos broke
the bottles and Aramis gave orders, a little too late, that
a confessor should be sent for.

"Oh, my friends," said d'Artagnan, "you come once more to
save my life, not only mine but that of these gentlemen.
Gentlemen," continued he, addressing the Guardsmen, "I
request you will be silent with regard to this adventure.
Great personages may have had a hand in what you have seen,
and if talked about, the evil would only recoil upon us."

"Ah, monsieur!" stammered Planchet, more dead than alive,
"ah, monsieur, what an escape I have had!"

"How, sirrah! you were going to drink my wine?"

"To the health of the king, monsieur; I was going to drink a
small glass of it if Fourreau had not told me I was called."

"Alas!" said Fourreau, whose teeth chattered with terror,
"I wanted to get him out of the way that I might drink myself."

"Gentlemen," said d'Artagnan, addressing the Guardsmen, "you
may easily comprehend that such a feast can only be very
dull after what has taken place; so accept my excuses, and
put off the party till another day, I beg of you."

The two Guardsmen courteously accepted d'Artagnan's excuses,
and perceiving that the four friends desired to be alone,
retired.

When the young Guardsman and the three Musketeers were
without witnesses, they looked at one another with an air
which plainly expressed that each of them perceived the
gravity of their situation.

"In the first place," said Athos, "let us leave this
chamber; the dead are not agreeable company, particularly
when they have died a violent death."

"Planchet," said d'Artagnan, "I commit the corpse of this
poor devil to your care. Let him be interred in holy
ground. He committed a crime, it is true; but he repented
of it."

And the four friends quit the room, leaving to Planchet and
Fourreau the duty of paying mortuary honors to Brisemont.

The host gave them another chamber, and served them with
fresh eggs and some water, which Athos went himself to draw
at the fountain. In a few words, Porthos and Aramis were
posted as to the situation.

"Well," said d'Artagnan to Athos, "you see, my dear friend,
that this is war to the death."

Athos shook his head.

"Yes, yes," replied he, "I perceive that plainly; but do you
really believe it is she?"

"I am sure of it."

"Nevertheless, I confess I still doubt."

"But the fleur-de-lis on her shoulder?"

"She is some Englishwoman who has committed a crime in
France, and has been branded in consequence."

"Athos, she is your wife, I tell you," repeated d'Artagnan;
"only reflect how much the two descriptions resemble each
other."

"Yes; but I should think the other must be dead, I hanged
her so effectually."

It was d'Artagnan who now shook his head in his turn.

"But in either case, what is to be done?" said the young
man.

"The fact is, one cannot remain thus, with a sword hanging
eternally over his head," said Athos. "We must extricate
ourselves from this position."

"But how?"

"Listen! You must try to see her, and have an explanation
with her. Say to her: 'Peace or war! My word as a
gentleman never to say anything of you, never to do anything
against you; on your side, a solemn oath to remain neutral
with respect to me. If not, I will apply to the chancellor,
I will apply to the king, I will apply to the hangman, I
will move the courts against you, I will denounce you as
branded, I will bring you to trial; and if you are
acquitted, well, by the faith of a gentleman, I will kill
you at the corner of some wall, as I would a mad dog.'"

"I like the means well enough," said d'Artagnan, "but where
and how to meet with her?"

"Time, dear friend, time brings round opportunity;
opportunity is the martingale of man. The more we have
ventured the more we gain, when we know how to wait."

"Yes; but to wait surrounded by assassins and poisoners."

"Bah!" said Athos. "God has preserved us hitherto, God will
preserve us still."

"Yes, we. Besides, we are men; and everything considered,
it is our lot to risk our lives; but she," asked he, in an
undertone.

"What she?" asked Athos.

"Constance."

"Madame Bonacieux! Ah, that's true!" said Athos. "My poor
friend, I had forgotten you were in love."

"Well, but," said Aramis, "have you not learned by the
letter you found on the wretched corpse that she is in a
convent? One may be very comfortable in a convent; and as
soon as the siege of La Rochelle is terminated, I promise
you on my part--"

"Good," cried Athos, "good! Yes, my dear Aramis, we all
know that your views have a religious tendency."

"I am only temporarily a Musketeer," said Aramis, humbly.

"It is some time since we heard from his mistress," said
Athos, in a low voice. "But take no notice; we know all
about that."

"Well," said Porthos, "it appears to me that the means are
very simple."

"What?" asked d'Artagnan.

"You say she is in a convent?" replied Porthos.

"Yes."

"Very well. As soon as the siege is over, we'll carry her
off from that convent."

"But we must first learn what convent she is in."

"That's true," said Porthos.

"But I think I have it," said Athos. "Don't you say, dear
d'Artagnan, that it is the queen who has made choice of the
convent for her?"

"I believe so, at least."

"In that case Porthos will assist us."

"And how so, if you please?"

"Why, by your marchioness, your duchess, your princess. She
must have a long arm."

"Hush!" said Porthos, placing a finger on his lips. "I
believe her to be a cardinalist; she must know nothing of
the matter."

"Then," said Aramis, "I take upon myself to obtain
intelligence of her."

"You, Aramis?" cried the three friends. "You! And how?"

"By the queen's almoner, to whom I am very intimately
allied," said Aramis, coloring.

And on this assurance, the four friends, who had finished
their modest repast, separated, with the promise of meeting
again that evening. D'Artagnan returned to less important
affairs, and the three Musketeers repaired to the king's
quarters, where they had to prepare their lodging.



43 The Sign of the Red Dovecot

Meanwhile the king, who, with more reason than the cardinal,
showed his hatred for Buckingham, although scarcely arrived
was in such a haste to meet the enemy that he commanded
every disposition to be made to drive the English from the
Isle of Re, and afterward to press the siege of La Rochelle;
but notwithstanding his earnest wish, he was delayed by the
dissensions which broke out between MM. Bassompierre and
Schomberg, against the Duc d'Angouleme.

MM. Bassompierre and Schomberg were marshals of France, and
claimed their right of commanding the army under the orders
of the king; but the cardinal, who feared that Bassompierre,
a Huguenot at heart, might press but feebly the English and
Rochellais, his brothers in religion, supported the Duc
d'Angouleme, whom the king, at his instigation, had named
lieutenant general. The result was that to prevent MM.
Bassompierre and Schomberg from deserting the army, a
separate command had to be given to each. Bassompierre took
up his quarters on the north of the city, between Leu and
Dompierre; the Duc d'Angouleme on the east, from Dompierre
to Perigny; and M. de Schomberg on the south, from Perigny
to Angoutin.

The quarters of Monsieur were at Dompierre; the quarters of
the king were sometimes at Estree, sometimes at Jarrie; the
cardinal's quarters were upon the downs, at the bridge of La
Pierre, in a simple house without any entrenchment. So that
Monsieur watched Bassompierre; the king, the Duc
d'Angouleme; and the cardinal, M. de Schomberg.

As soon as this organization was established, they set about
driving the English from the Isle.

The juncture was favorable. The English, who require, above
everything, good living in order to be good soldiers, only
eating salt meat and bad biscuit, had many invalids in their
camp. Still further, the sea, very rough at this period of
the year all along the sea coast, destroyed every day some
little vessel; and the shore, from the point of l'Aiguillon
to the trenches, was at every tide literally covered with
the wrecks of pinnacles, roberges, and feluccas. The result
was that even if the king's troops remained quietly in their
camp, it was evident that some day or other, Buckingham, who
only continued in the Isle from obstinacy, would be obliged
to raise the siege.

But as M. de Toiras gave information that everything was
preparing in the enemy's camp for a fresh assault, the king
judged that it would be best to put an end to the affair,
and gave the necessary orders for a decisive action.

As it is not our intention to give a journal of the siege,
but on the contrary only to describe such of the events of
it as are connected with the story we are relating, we will
content ourselves with saying in two words that the
expedition succeeded, to the great astonishment of the king
and the great glory of the cardinal. The English, repulsed
foot by foot, beaten in all encounters, and defeated in the
passage of the Isle of Loie, were obliged to re-embark,
leaving on the field of battle two thousand men, among whom
were five colonels, three lieutenant colonels, two hundred
and fifty captains, twenty gentlemen of rank, four pieces of
cannon, and sixty flags, which were taken to Paris by Claude
de St. Simon, and suspended with great pomp in the arches of
Notre Dame.

Te Deums were chanted in camp, and afterward throughout
France.

The cardinal was left free to carry on the siege, without
having, at least at the present, anything to fear on the
part of the English.

But it must be acknowledged, this response was but
momentary. An envoy of the Duke of Buckingham, named
Montague, was taken, and proof was obtained of a league
between the German Empire, Spain, England, and Lorraine.
This league was directed against France.

Still further, in Buckingham's lodging, which he had been
forced to abandon more precipitately than he expected,
papers were found which confirmed this alliance and which,
as the cardinal asserts in his memoirs, strongly compromised
Mme. de Chevreuse and consequently the queen.

It was upon the cardinal that all the responsibility fell,
for one is not a despotic minister without responsibility.
All, therefore, of the vast resources of his genius were at
work night and day, engaged in listening to the least report
heard in any of the great kingdoms of Europe.

The cardinal was acquainted with the activity, and more
particularly the hatred, of Buckingham. If the league which
threatened France triumphed, all his influence would be
lost. Spanish policy and Austrian policy would have their
representatives in the cabinet of the Louvre, where they had
as yet but partisans; and he, Richelieu--the French
minister, the national minister--would be ruined. The king,
even while obeying him like a child, hated him as a child
hates his master, and would abandon him to the personal
vengeance of Monsieur and the queen. He would then be lost,
and France, perhaps, with him. All this must be prepared
against.

Courtiers, becoming every instant more numerous, succeeded
one another, day and night, in the little house of the
bridge of La Pierre, in which the cardinal had established
his residence.

There were monks who wore the frock with such an ill grace
that it was easy to perceive they belonged to the church
militant; women a little inconvenienced by their costume as
pages and whose large trousers could not entirely conceal
their rounded forms; and peasants with blackened hands but
with fine limbs, savoring of the man of quality a league
off.

There were also less agreeable visits--for two or three
times reports were spread that the cardinal had nearly been
assassinated.

It is true that the enemies of the cardinal said that it was
he himself who set these bungling assassins to work, in
order to have, if wanted, the right of using reprisals; but
we must not believe everything ministers say, nor everything
their enemies say.

These attempts did not prevent the cardinal, to whom his
most inveterate detractors have never denied personal
bravery, from making nocturnal excursions, sometimes to
communicate to the Duc d'Angouleme important orders,
sometimes to confer with the king, and sometimes to have an
interview with a messenger whom he did not wish to see at
home.

On their part the Musketeers, who had not much to do with
the siege, were not under very strict orders and led a
joyous life. The was the more easy for our three companions
in particular; for being friends of M. de Treville, they
obtained from him special permission to be absent after the
closing of the camp.

Now, one evening when d'Artagnan, who was in the trenches,
was not able to accompany them, Athos, Porthos, and Aramis,
mounted on their battle steeds, enveloped in their war
cloaks, with their hands upon their pistol butts, were
returning from a drinking place called the Red Dovecot,
which Athos had discovered two days before upon the route to
Jarrie, following the road which led to the camp and quite
on their guard, as we have stated, for fear of an ambuscade,
when, about a quarter of a league from the village of
Boisnau, they fancied they heard the sound of horses
approaching them. They immediately all three halted, closed
in, and waited, occupying the middle of the road. In an
instant, and as the moon broke from behind a cloud, they saw
at a turning of the road two horsemen who, on perceiving
them, stopped in their turn, appearing to deliberate whether
they should continue their route or go back. The hesitation
created some suspicion in the three friends, and Athos,
advancing a few paces in front of the others, cried in a
firm voice, "Who goes there?"

"Who goes there, yourselves?" replied one of the horsemen.

"That is not an answer," replied Athos. "Who goes there?
Answer, or we charge."

"Beware of what you are about, gentlemen!" said a clear
voice which seemed accustomed to command.

"It is some superior officer making his night rounds," said
Athos. "What do you wish, gentlemen?"

"Who are you?" said the same voice, in the same commanding
tone. "Answer in your turn, or you may repent of your
disobedience."

"King's Musketeers," said Athos, more and more convinced
that he who interrogated them had the right to do so.

"What company?"

"Company of Treville."

"Advance, and give an account of what you are doing here at
this hour."

The three companions advanced rather humbly--for all were
now convinced that they had to do with someone more powerful
than themselves--leaving Athos the post of speaker.

One of the two riders, he who had spoken second, was ten
paces in front of his companion. Athos made a sign to
Porthos and Aramis also to remain in the rear, and advanced
alone.

"Your pardon, my officer," said Athos; "but we were ignorant
with whom we had to do, and you may see that we were good
guard."

"Your name?" said the officer, who covered a part of his
face with his cloak.

"But yourself, monsieur," said Athos, who began to be
annoyed by this inquisition, "give me, I beg you, the proof
that you have the right to question me."

"Your name?" repeated the cavalier a second time, letting
his cloak fall, and leaving his face uncovered.

"Monsieur the Cardinal!" cried the stupefied Musketeer.

"Your name?" cried his Eminence, for the third time.

"Athos," said the Musketeer.

The cardinal made a sign to his attendant, who drew near.
"These three Musketeers shall follow us," said he, in an
undertone. "I am not willing it should be known I have left
the camp; and if they follow us we shall be certain they
will tell nobody."

"We are gentlemen, monseigneur," said Athos; "require our
parole, and give yourself no uneasiness. Thank God, we can
keep a secret."

The cardinal fixed his piercing eyes on this courageous
speaker.

"You have a quick ear, Monsieur Athos," said the cardinal;
"but now listen to this. It is not from mistrust that I
request you to follow me, but for my security. Your
companions are no doubt Messieurs Porthos and Aramis."

"Yes, your Eminence," said Athos, while the two Musketeers
who had remained behind advanced hat in hand.

"I know you, gentlemen," said the cardinal, "I know you. I
know you are not quite my friends, and I am sorry you are
not so; but I know you are brave and loyal gentlemen, and
that confidence may be placed in you. Monsieur Athos, do
me, then, the honor to accompany me; you and your two
friends, and then I shall have an escort to excite envy in
his Majesty, if we should meet him."

The three Musketeers bowed to the necks of their horses.

"Well, upon my honor," said Athos, "your Eminence is right
in taking us with you; we have seen several ill-looking
faces on the road, and we have even had a quarrel at the Red
Dovecot with four of those faces."

"A quarrel, and what for, gentlemen?" said the cardinal;
"you know I don't like quarrelers."

"And that is the reason why I have the honor to inform your
Eminence of what has happened; for you might learn it from
others, and upon a false account believe us to be in fault."

"What have been the results of your quarrel?" said the
cardinal, knitting his brow.

"My friend, Aramis, here, has received a slight sword wound
in the arm, but not enough to prevent him, as your Eminence
may see, from mounting to the assault tomorrow, if your
Eminence orders an escalade."

"But you are not the men to allow sword wounds to be
inflicted upon you thus," said the cardinal. "Come, be
frank, gentlemen, you have settled accounts with somebody!
Confess; you know I have the right of giving absolution."

"I, monseigneur?" said Athos. "I did not even draw my
sword, but I took him who offended me round the body, and
threw him out of the window. It appears that in falling,"
continued Athos, with some hesitation, "he broke his thigh."

"Ah, ah!" said the cardinal; "and you, Monsieur Porthos?"

"I, monseigneur, knowing that dueling is prohibited--I
seized a bench, and gave one of those brigands such a blow
that I believe his shoulder is broken."

"Very well," said the cardinal; "and you, Monsieur Aramis?"

"Monseigneur, being of a very mild disposition, and being,
likewise, of which Monseigneur perhaps is not aware, about
to enter into orders, I endeavored to appease my comrades,
when one of these wretches gave me a wound with a sword,
treacherously, across my left arm. Then I admit my patience
failed me; I drew my sword in my turn, and as he came back
to the charge, I fancied I felt that in throwing himself
upon me, he let it pass through his body. I only know for a
certainty that he fell; and it seemed to me that he was
borne away with his two companions."

"The devil, gentlemen!" said the cardinal, "three men placed
hors de combat in a cabaret squabble! You don't do your
work by halves. And pray what was this quarrel about?"

"These fellows were drunk," said Athos. "and knowing there
was a lady who had arrived at the cabaret this evening, they
wanted to force her door."

"Force her door!" said the cardinal, "and for what purpose?"

"To do her violence, without doubt," said Athos. "I have
had the honor of informing your Eminence that these men were
drunk."

"And was this lady young and handsome?" asked the cardinal,
with a certain degree of anxiety.

"We did not see her, monseigneur," said Athos.

"You did not see her? Ah, very well," replied the cardinal,
quickly. "You did well to defend the honor of a woman; and
as I am going to the Red Dovecot myself, I shall know if you
have told me the truth."

"Monseigneur," said Athos, haughtily, "we are gentlemen, and
to save our heads we would not be guilty of a falsehood."

"Therefore I do not doubt what you say, Monsieur Athos, I do
not doubt it for a single instant; but," added he, "to
change the conversation, was this lady alone?"

"The lady had a cavalier shut up with her," said Athos, "but
as notwithstanding the noise, this cavalier did not show
himself, it is to be presumed that he is a coward."

"'Judge not rashly', says the Gospel," replied the cardinal.

Athos bowed.

"And now, gentlemen, that's well," continued the cardinal.
"I know what I wish to know; follow me."

The three Musketeers passed behind his Eminence, who again
enveloped his face in his cloak, and put his horse in
motion, keeping from eight to ten paces in advance of his
four companions.

They soon arrived at the silent, solitary inn. No doubt the
host knew what illustrious visitor was expected, and had
consequently sent intruders out of the way.

Ten paces from the door the cardinal made a sign to his
esquire and the three Musketeers to halt. A saddled horse
was fastened to the window shutter. The cardinal knocked
three times, and in a peculiar manner.

A man, enveloped in a cloak, came out immediately, and
exchanged some rapid words with the cardinal; after which he
mounted his horse, and set off in the direction of Surgeres,
which was likewise the way to Paris.

"Advance, gentlemen," said the cardinal.

"You have told me the truth, my gentlemen," said he,
addressing the Musketeers, "and it will not be my fault if
our encounter this evening be not advantageous to you. In
the meantime, follow me."

The cardinal alighted; the three Musketeers did likewise.
The cardinal threw the bridle of his horse to his esquire;
the three Musketeers fastened the horses to the shutters.

The host stood at the door. For him, the cardinal was only
an officer coming to visit a lady.

"Have you any chamber on the ground floor where these
gentlemen can wait near a good fire?" said the cardinal.

The host opened the door of a large room, in which an old
stove had just been replaced by a large and excellent
chimney.

"I have this," said he.

"That will do," replied the cardinal. "Enter, gentlemen,
and be kind enough to wait for me; I shall not be more than
half an hour."

And while the three Musketeers entered the ground floor
room, the cardinal, without asking further information,
ascended the staircase like a man who has no need of having
his road pointed out to him.



44 THE UTILITY OF STOVEPIPES

It was evident that without suspecting it, and actuated
solely by their chivalrous and adventurous character, our
three friends had just rendered a service to someone the
cardinal honored with his special protection.

Now, who was that someone? That was the question the three
Musketeers put to one another. Then, seeing that none of
their replies could throw any light on the subject, Porthos
called the host and asked for dice.

Porthos and Aramis placed themselves at the table and began
to play. Athos walked about in a contemplative mood.

While thinking and walking, Athos passed and repassed before
the pipe of the stove, broken in halves, the other extremity
passing into the chamber above; and every time he passed and
repassed he heard a murmur of words, which at length fixed
his attention. Athos went close to it, and distinguished
some words that appeared to merit so great an interest that
he made a sign to his friends to be silent, remaining
himself bent with his ear directed to the opening of the
lower orifice.

"Listen, Milady," said the cardinal, "the affair is
important. Sit down, and let us talk it over."

"Milady!" murmured Athos.

"I listen to your Eminence with greatest attention," replied
a female voice which made the Musketeer start.

"A small vessel with an English crew, whose captain is on my
side, awaits you at the mouth of Charente, at fort of the
Point. He will set sail tomorrow morning."

"I must go thither tonight?"

"Instantly! That is to say, when you have received my
instructions. Two men, whom you will find at the door on
going out, will serve you as escort. You will allow me to
leave first; then, after half an hour, you can go away in
your turn."

"Yes, monseigneur. Now let us return to the mission with
which you wish to charge me; and as I desire to continue to
merit the confidence of your Eminence, deign to unfold it to
me in terms clear and precise, that I may not commit an
error."

There was an instant of profound silence between the two
interlocutors. It was evident that the cardinal was
weighing beforehand the terms in which he was about to
speak, and that Milady was collecting all her intellectual
faculties to comprehend the things he was about to say, and
to engrave them in her memory when they should be spoken.

Athos took advantage of this moment to tell his two
companions to fasten the door inside, and to make them a
sign to come and listen with him.

The two Musketeers, who loved their ease, brought a chair
for each of themselves and one for Athos. All three then
sat down with their heads together and their ears on the
alert.

"You will go to London," continued the cardinal. "Arrived
in London, you will seek Buckingham."

"I must beg your Eminence to observe," said Milady, "that
since the affair of the diamond studs, about which the duke
always suspected me, his Grace distrusts me."

"Well, this time," said the cardinal, "it is not necessary
to steal his confidence, but to present yourself frankly and
loyally as a negotiator."

"Frankly and loyally," repeated Milady, with an unspeakable
expression of duplicity.

"Yes, frankly and loyally," replied the cardinal, in the
same tone. "All this negotiation must be carried on
openly."

"I will follow your Eminence's instructions to the letter.
I only wait till you give them."

"You will go to Buckingham in my behalf, and you will tell
him I am acquainted with all the preparations he has made;
but that they give me no uneasiness, since at the first step
he takes I will ruin the queen."

"Will he believe that your Eminence is in a position to
accomplish the threat thus made?"

"Yes; for I have the proofs."

"I must be able to present these proofs for his
appreciation."

"Without doubt. And you will tell him I will publish the
report of Bois-Robert and the Marquis de Beautru, upon the
interview which the duke had at the residence of Madame the
Constable with the queen on the evening Madame the Constable
gave a masquerade. You will tell him, in order that he may
not doubt, that he came there in the costume of the Great
Mogul, which the Chevalier de Guise was to have worn, and
that he purchased this exchange for the sum of three
thousand pistoles."

"Well, monseigneur?"

"All the details of his coming into and going out of the
palace--on the night when he introduced himself in the
character of an Italian fortune teller--you will tell him,
that he may not doubt the correctness of my information;
that he had under his cloak a large white robe dotted with
black tears, death's heads, and crossbones--for in case of a
surprise, he was to pass for the phantom of the White Lady
who, as all the world knows, appears at the Louvre every
time any great event is impending."

"Is that all, monseigneur?"

"Tell him also that I am acquainted with all the details of
the adventure at Amiens; that I will have a little romance
made of it, wittily turned, with a plan of the garden and
portraits of the principal actors in that nocturnal
romance."

"I will tell him that."

"Tell him further that I hold Montague in my power; that
Montague is in the Bastille; that no letters were found upon
him, it is true, but that torture may make him tell much of
what he knows, and even what he does not know."

"Exactly."

"Then add that his Grace has, in the precipitation with
which he quit the Isle of Re, forgotten and left behind him
in his lodging a certain letter from Madame de Chevreuse
which singularly compromises the queen, inasmuch as it
proves not only that her Majesty can love the enemies of the
king but that she can conspire with the enemies of France.
You recollect perfectly all I have told you, do you not?"

"Your Eminence will judge: the ball of Madame the Constable;
the night at the Louvre; the evening at Amiens; the arrest
of Montague; the letter of Madame de Chevreuse."

"That's it," said the cardinal, "that's it. You have an
excellent memory, Milady."

"But," resumed she to whom the cardinal addressed this
flattering compliment, "if, in spite of all these reasons,
the duke does not give way and continues to menace France?"

"The duke is in love to madness, or rather to folly,"
replied Richelieu, with great bitterness. "Like the ancient
paladins, he has only undertaken this war to obtain a look
from his lady love. If he becomes certain that this war
will cost the honor, and perhaps the liberty, of the lady of
his thoughts, as he says, I will answer for it he will look
twice."

"And yet," said Milady, with a persistence that proved she
wished to see clearly to the end of the mission with which
she was about to be charged, "if he persists?"

"If he persists?" said the cardinal. "That is not
probable."

"It is possible," said Milady.

"If he persists--" His Eminence made a pause, and resumed:
"If he persists--well, then I shall hope for one of those
events which change the destinies of states."

"If your Eminence would quote to me some one of these events
in history," said Milady, "perhaps I should partake of your
confidence as to the future."

"Well, here, for example," said Richelieu: "when, in 1610,
for a cause similar to that which moves the duke, King Henry
IV, of glorious memory, was about, at the same time, to
invade Flanders and Italy, in order to attack Austria on
both sides. Well, did there not happen an event which saved
Austria? Why should not the king of France have the same
chance as the emperor?"

"Your Eminence means, I presume, the knife stab in the Rue
de la Feronnerie?"

"Precisely," said the cardinal.

"Does not your Eminence fear that the punishment inflicted
upon Ravaillac may deter anyone who might entertain the idea
of imitating him?"

"There will be, in all times and in all countries,
particularly if religious divisions exist in those
countries, fanatics who ask nothing better than to become
martyrs. Ay, and observe--it just occurs to me that the
Puritans are furious against Buckingham, and their preachers
designate him as the Antichrist."

"Well?" said Milady.

"Well," continued the cardinal, in an indifferent tone, "the
only thing to be sought for at this moment is some woman,
handsome, young, and clever, who has cause of quarrel with
the duke. The duke has had many affairs of gallantry; and
if he has fostered his amours by promises of eternal
constancy, he must likewise have sown the seeds of hatred by
his eternal infidelities."

"No doubt," said Milady, coolly, "such a woman may be
found."

"Well, such a woman, who would place the knife of Jacques
Clement or of Ravaillac in the hands of a fanatic, would
save France."

"Yes; but she would then be the accomplice of an
assassination."

"Were the accomplices of Ravaillac or of Jacques Clement
ever known?"

"No; for perhaps they were too high-placed for anyone to
dare look for them where they were. The Palace of Justice
would not be burned down for everybody, monseigneur."

"You think, then, that the fire at the Palace of Justice was
not caused by chance?" asked Richelieu, in the tone with
which he would have put a question of no importance.

"I, monseigneur?" replied Milady. "I think nothing; I quote
a fact, that is all. Only I say that if I were named Madame
de Montpensier, or the Queen Marie de Medicis, I should use
less precautions than I take, being simply called Milady
Clarik."

"That is just," said Richelieu. "What do you require,
then?"

"I require an order which would ratify beforehand all that I
should think proper to do for the greatest good of France."

"But in the first place, this woman I have described must be
found who is desirous of avenging herself upon the duke."

"She is found," said Milady.

"Then the miserable fanatic must be found who will serve as
an instrument of God's justice."

"He will be found."

"Well," said the cardinal, "then it will be time to claim
the order which you just now required."

"Your Eminence is right," replied Milady; "and I have been
wrong in seeing in the mission with which you honor me
anything but that which it really is--that is, to announce
to his Grace, on the part of your Eminence, that you are
acquainted with the different disguises by means of which he
succeeded in approaching the queen during the fete given by
Madame the Constable; that you have proofs of the interview
granted at the Louvre by the queen to a certain Italian
astrologer who was no other than the Duke of Buckingham;
that you have ordered a little romance of a satirical nature
to be written upon the adventures of Amiens, with a plan of
the gardens in which those adventures took place, and
portraits of the actors who figured in them; that Montague
is in the Bastille, and that the torture may make him say
things he remembers, and even things he has forgotten; that
you possess a certain letter from Madame de Chevreuse, found
in his Grace's lodging, which singularly compromises not
only her who wrote it, but her in whose name it was written.
Then, if he persists, notwithstanding all this--as that is,
as I have said, the limit of my mission--I shall have
nothing to do but to pray God to work a miracle for the
salvation of France. That is it, is it not, monseigneur,
and I shall have nothing else to do?"

"That is it," replied the cardinal, dryly.

"And now," said Milady, without appearing to remark the
change of the duke's tone toward her--"now that I have
received the instructions of your Eminence as concerns your
enemies, Monseigneur will permit me to say a few words to
him of mine?"

"Have you enemies, then?" asked Richelieu.

"Yes, monseigneur, enemies against whom you owe me all your
support, for I made them by serving your Eminence."

"Who are they?" replied the duke.

"In the first place, there is a little intrigante named
Bonacieux."

"She is in the prison of Nantes."

"That is to say, she was there," replied Milady; "but the
queen has obtained an order from the king by means of which
she has been conveyed to a convent."

"To a convent?" said the duke.

"Yes, to a convent."

"And to which?"

"I don't know; the secret has been well kept."

"But I will know!"

"And your Eminence will tell me in what convent that woman
is?"

"I can see nothing inconvenient in that," said the cardinal.

"Well, now I have an enemy much more to be dreaded by me
than this little Madame Bonacieux."

"Who is that?"

"Her lover."

"What is his name?"

"Oh, your Eminence knows him well," cried Milady, carried
away by her anger. "He is the evil genius of both of us.
It is he who in an encounter with your Eminence's Guards
decided the victory in favor of the king's Musketeers; it is
he who gave three desperate wounds to de Wardes, your
emissary, and who caused the affair of the diamond studs to
fail; it is he who, knowing it was I who had Madame
Bonacieux carried off, has sworn my death."

"Ah, ah!" said the cardinal, "I know of whom you speak."

"I mean that miserable d'Artagnan."

"He is a bold fellow," said the cardinal.

"And it is exactly because he is a bold fellow that he is
the more to be feared."

"I must have," said the duke, "a proof of his connection
with Buckingham."

"A proof?" cried Milady; "I will have ten."

"Well, then, it becomes the simplest thing in the world; get
me that proof, and I will send him to the Bastille."

"So far good, monseigneur; but afterwards?"

"When once in the Bastille, there is no afterward!" said the
cardinal, in a low voice. "Ah, pardieu!" continued he, "if
it were as easy for me to get rid of my enemy as it is easy
to get rid of yours, and if it were against such people you
require impunity--"

"Monseigneur," replied Milady, "a fair exchange. Life for
life, man for man; give me one, I will give you the other."

"I don't know what you mean, nor do I even desire to know
what you mean," replied the cardinal; "but I wish to please
you, and see nothing out of the way in giving you what you
demand with respect to so infamous a creature--the more so
as you tell me this d'Artagnan is a libertine, a duelist,
and a traitor."

"An infamous scoundrel, monseigneur, a scoundrel!"

"Give me paper, a quill, and some ink, then," said the
cardinal.

"Here they are, monseigneur."

There was a moment of silence, which proved that the
cardinal was employed in seeking the terms in which he
should write the note, or else in writing it. Athos, who
had not lost a word of the conversation, took his two
companions by the hand, and led them to the other end of the
room.

"Well," said Porthos, "what do you want, and why do you not
let us listen to the end of the conversation?"

"Hush!" said Athos, speaking in a low voice. "We have heard
all it was necessary we should hear; besides, I don't
prevent you from listening, but I must be gone."

"You must be gone!" said Porthos; "and if the cardinal asks
for you, what answer can we make?"

"You will not wait till he asks; you will speak first, and
tell him that I am gone on the lookout, because certain
expressions of our host have given me reason to think the
road is not safe. I will say two words about it to the
cardinal's esquire likewise. The rest concerns myself;
don't be uneasy about that."

"Be prudent, Athos," said Aramis.

"Be easy on that head," replied Athos; "you know I am cool
enough."

Porthos and Aramis resumed their places by the stovepipe.

As to Athos, he went out without any mystery, took his
horse, which was tied with those of his friends to the
fastenings of the shutters, in four words convinced the
attendant of the necessity of a vanguard for their return,
carefully examined the priming of his pistols, drew his
sword, and took, like a forlorn hope, the road to the camp.



45 A CONJUGAL SCENE

As Athos had foreseen, it was not long before the cardinal
came down. He opened the door of the room in which the
Musketeers were, and found Porthos playing an earnest game
of dice with Aramis. He cast a rapid glance around the
room, and perceived that one of his men was missing.

"What has become of Monseigneur Athos?" asked he.

"Monseigneur," replied Porthos, "he has gone as a scout, on
account of some words of our host, which made him believe
the road was not safe."

"And you, what have you done, Monsieur Porthos?"

"I have won five pistoles of Aramis."

"Well; now will you return with me?"

"We are at your Eminence's orders."

"To horse, then, gentlemen; for it is getting late."

The attendant was at the door, holding the cardinal's horse
by the bridle. At a short distance a group of two men and
three horses appeared in the shade. These were the two men
who were to conduct Milady to the fort of the Point, and
superintend her embarkation.

The attendant confirmed to the cardinal what the two
Musketeers had already said with respect to Athos. The
cardinal made an approving gesture, and retraced his route
with the same precautions he had used incoming.

Let us leave him to follow the road to the camp protected by
his esquire and the two Musketeers, and return to Athos.

For a hundred paces he maintained the speed at which he
started; but when out of sight he turned his horse to the
right, made a circuit, and came back within twenty paces of
a high hedge to watch the passage of the little troop.
Having recognized the laced hats of his companions and the
golden fringe of the cardinal's cloak, he waited till the
horsemen had turned the angle of the road, and having lost
sight of them, he returned at a gallop to the inn, which was
opened to him without hesitation.

The host recognized him.

"My officer," said Athos, "has forgotten to give a piece of
very important information to the lady, and has sent me back
to repair his forgetfulness."

"Go up," said the host; "she is still in her chamber."

Athos availed himself of the permission, ascended the stairs
with his lightest step, gained the landing, and through the
open door perceived Milady putting on her hat.

He entered the chamber and closed the door behind him. At
the noise he made in pushing the bolt, Milady turned round.

Athos was standing before the door, enveloped in his cloak,
with his hat pulled down over his eyes. On seeing this
figure, mute and immovable as a statue, Milady was
frightened.

"Who are you, and what do you want?" cried she.

"Humph," murmured Athos, "it is certainly she!"

And letting fall his cloak and raising his hat, he advanced
toward Milady.

"Do you know me, madame?" said he.

Milady made one step forward, and then drew back as if she
had seen a serpent.

"So far, well," said Athos, "I perceive you know me."

"The Comte de la Fere!" murmured Milady, becoming
exceedingly pale, and drawing back till the wall prevented
her from going any farther.

"Yes, Milady," replied Athos; "the Comte de la Fere in
person, who comes expressly from the other world to have the
pleasure of paying you a visit. Sit down, madame, and let
us talk, as the cardinal said."

Milady, under the influence of inexpressible terror, sat
down without uttering a word.

"You certainly are a demon sent upon the earth!" said Athos.
"Your power is great, I know; but you also know that with
the help of God men have often conquered the most terrible
demons. You have once before thrown yourself in my path. I
thought I had crushed you, madame; but either I was deceived
or hell has resuscitated you!"

Milady at these words, which recalled frightful
remembrances, hung down her head with a suppressed groan.

"Yes, hell has resuscitated you," continued Athos. "Hell
has made you rich, hell has given you another name, hell has
almost made you another face; but it has neither effaced the
stains from your soul nor the brand from your body."

Milady arose as if moved by a powerful spring, and her eyes
flashed lightning. Athos remained sitting.

"You believed me to be dead, did you not, as I believed you
to be? And the name of Athos as well concealed the Comte de
la Fere, as the name Milady Clarik concealed Anne de Breuil.
Was it not so you were called when your honored brother
married us? Our position is truly a strange one," continued
Athos, laughing. "We have only lived up to the present time
because we believed each other dead, and because a
remembrance is less oppressive than a living creature,
though a remembrance is sometimes devouring."

"But," said Milady, in a hollow, faint voice, "what brings
you back to me, and what do you want with me?"

"I wish to tell you that though remaining invisible to your
eyes, I have not lost sight of you."

"You know what I have done?"

"I can relate to you, day by day, your actions from your
entrance to the service of the cardinal to this evening."

A smile of incredulity passed over the pale lips of Milady.

"Listen! It was you who cut off the two diamond studs from
the shoulder of the Duke of Buckingham; it was you had the
Madame Bonacieux carried off; it was you who, in love with
de Wardes and thinking to pass the night with him, opened
the door to Monsieur d'Artagnan; it was you who, believing
that de Wardes had deceived you, wished to have him killed
by his rival; it was you who, when this rival had discovered
your infamous secret, wished to have him killed in his turn
by two assassins, whom you sent in pursuit of him; it was
you who, finding the balls had missed their mark, sent
poisoned wine with a forged letter, to make your victim
believe that the wine came from his friends. In short, it
was you who have but now in this chamber, seated in this
chair I now fill, made an engagement with Cardinal Richelieu
to cause the Duke of Buckingham to be assassinated, in
exchange for the promise he has made you to allow you to
assassinate d'Artagnan."

Milady was livid.

"You must be Satan!" cried she.

"Perhaps," said Athos; "But at all events listen well to
this. Assassinate the Duke of Buckingham, or cause him to
be assassinated--I care very little about that! I don't
know him. Besides, he is an Englishman. But do not touch
with the tip of your finger a single hair of d'Artagnan, who
is a faithful friend whom I love and defend, or I swear to
you by the head of my father the crime which you shall have
endeavored to commit, or shall have committed, shall be the
last."

"Monsieur d'Artagnan has cruelly insulted me," said Milady,
in a hollow tone; "Monsieur d'Artagnan shall die!"

"Indeed! Is it possible to insult you, madame?" said Athos,
laughing; "he has insulted you, and he shall die!"

"He shall die!" replied Milady; "she first, and he
afterward."

Athos was seized with a kind of vertigo. The sight of this
creature, who had nothing of the woman about her, recalled
awful remembrances. He thought how one day, in a less
dangerous situation than the one in which he was now placed,
he had already endeavored to sacrifice her to his honor.
His desire for blood returned, burning his brain and
pervading his frame like a raging fever; he arose in his
turn, reached his hand to his belt, drew forth a pistol, and
cocked it.

Milady, pale as a corpse, endeavored to cry out; but her
swollen tongue could utter no more than a hoarse sound which
had nothing human in it and resembled the rattle of a wild
beast. Motionless against the dark tapestry, with her hair
in disorder, she appeared like a horrid image of terror.

Athos slowly raised his pistol, stretched out his arm so
that the weapon almost touched Milady's forehead, and then,
in a voice the more terrible from having the supreme
calmness of a fixed resolution, "Madame," said he, "you will
this instant deliver to me the paper the cardinal signed; or
upon my soul, I will blow your brains out."

With another man, Milady might have preserved some doubt;
but she knew Athos. Nevertheless, she remained motionless.

"You have one second to decide," said he.

Milady saw by the contraction of his countenance that the
trigger was about to be pulled; she reached her hand quickly
to her bosom, drew out a paper, and held it toward Athos.

"Take it," said she, "and be accursed!"

Athos took the paper, returned the pistol to his belt,
approached the lamp to be assured that it was the paper,
unfolded it, and read:


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


"And now," said Athos, resuming his cloak and putting on his
hat, "now that I have drawn your teeth, viper, bite if you
can."

And he left the chamber without once looking behind him.

At the door he found the two men and the spare horse which
they held.

"Gentlemen," said he, "Monseigneur's order is, you know, to
conduct that woman, without losing time, to the fort of the
Point, and never to leave her till she is on board."

As these words agreed wholly with the order they had
received, they bowed their heads in sign of assent.

With regard to Athos, he leaped lightly into the saddle and
set out at full gallop; only instead of following the road,
he went across the fields, urging his horse to the utmost
and stopping occasionally to listen.

In one of those halts he heard the steps of several horses
on the road. He had no doubt it was the cardinal and his
escort. He immediately made a new point in advance, rubbed
his horse down with some heath and leaves of trees, and
placed himself across the road, about two hundred paces from
the camp.

"Who goes there?" cried he, as soon as he perceived the
horsemen.

"That is our brave Musketeer, I think," said the cardinal.

"Yes, monseigneur," said Porthos, "it is he."

"Monsieur Athos," said Richelieu, "receive my thanks for the
good guard you have kept. Gentlemen, we are arrived; take
the gate on the left. The watchword is, 'King and Re.'"

Saying these words, the cardinal saluted the three friends
with an inclination of his head, and took the right hand,
followed by his attendant--for that night he himself slept
in the camp.

"Well!" said Porthos and Aramis together, as soon as the
cardinal was out of hearing, "well, he signed the paper she
required!"

"I know it," said Athos, coolly, "since here it is."

And the three friends did not exchange another word till
they reached their quarters, except to give the watchword to
the sentinels. Only they sent Mousqueton to tell Planchet
that his master was requested, the instant that he left the
trenches, to come to the quarters of the Musketeers.

Milady, as Athos had foreseen, on finding the two men that
awaited her, made no difficulty in following them. She had
had for an instant an inclination to be reconducted to the
cardinal, and relate everything to him; but a revelation on
her part would bring about a revelation on the part of
Athos. She might say that Athos had hanged her; but then
Athos would tell that she was branded. She thought it was
best to preserve silence, to discreetly set off to
accomplish her difficult mission with her usual skill; and
then, all things being accomplished to the satisfaction of
the cardinal, to come to him and claim her vengeance.

In consequence, after having traveled all night, at seven
o'clock she was at the fort of the Point; at eight o'clock
she had embarked; and at nine, the vessel, which with
letters of marque from the cardinal was supposed to be
sailing for Bayonne, raised anchor, and steered its course
toward England.



46 THE BASTION SAINT-GERVAIS

On arriving at the lodgings of his three friends, d'Artagnan
found them assembled in the same chamber. Athos was
meditating; Porthos was twisting his mustache; Aramis was
saying his prayers in a charming little Book of Hours, bound
in blue velvet.

"Pardieu, gentlemen," said he. "I hope what you have to
tell me is worth the trouble, or else, I warn you, I will
not pardon you for making me come here instead of getting a
little rest after a night spent in taking and dismantling a
bastion. Ah, why were you not there, gentlemen? It was
warm work."

"We were in a place where it was not very cold," replied
Porthos, giving his mustache a twist which was peculiar to
him.

"Hush!" said Athos.

"Oh, oh!" said d'Artagnan, comprehending the slight frown of
the Musketeer. "It appears there is something fresh
aboard."

"Aramis," said Athos, "you went to breakfast the day before
yesterday at the inn of the Parpaillot, I believe?"

"Yes."

"How did you fare?"

"For my part, I ate but little. The day before yesterday
was a fish day, and they had nothing but meat."

"What," said Athos, "no fish at a seaport?"

"They say," said Aramis, resuming his pious reading, "that
the dyke which the cardinal is making drives them all out
into the open sea."

"But that is not quite what I mean to ask you, Aramis,"
replied Athos. "I want to know if you were left alone, and
nobody interrupted
you."

"Why, I think there were not many intruders. Yes, Athos, I
know what you mean: we shall do very well at the
Parpaillot."

"Let us go to the Parpaillot, then, for here the walls are
like sheets of paper."

D'Artagnan, who was accustomed to his friend's manner of
acting, and who perceived immediately, by a word, a gesture,
or a sign from him, that the circumstances were serious,
took Athos's arm, and went out without saying anything.
Porthos followed, chatting with Aramis.

On their way they met Grimaud. Athos made him a sign to
come with them. Grimaud, according to custom, obeyed in
silence; the poor lad had nearly come to the pass of
forgetting how to speak.

They arrived at the drinking room of the Parpaillot. It was
seven o'clock in the morning, and daylight began to appear.
The three friends ordered breakfast, and went into a room in
which the host said they would not be disturbed.

Unfortunately, the hour was badly chosen for a private
conference. The morning drum had just been beaten; everyone
shook off the drowsiness of night, and to dispel the humid
morning air, came to take a drop at the inn. Dragoons,
Swiss, Guardsmen, Musketeers, light-horsemen, succeeded one
another with a rapidity which might answer the purpose of
the host very well, but agreed badly with the views of the
four friends. Thus they applied very curtly to the
salutations, healths, and jokes of their companions.

"I see how it will be," said Athos: "we shall get into some
pretty quarrel or other, and we have no need of one just
now. D'Artagnan, tell us what sort of a night you have had,
and we will describe ours afterward."

"Ah, yes," said a light-horseman, with a glass of brandy in
his hand, which he sipped slowly. "I hear you gentlemen of
the Guards have been in the trenches tonight, and that you
did not get much the best of the Rochellais."

D'Artagnan looked at Athos to know if he ought to reply to
this intruder who thus mixed unmasked in their conversation.

"Well," said Athos, "don't you hear Monsieur de Busigny, who
does you the honor to ask you a question? Relate what has
passed during the night, since these gentlemen desire to
know it."

"Have you not taken a bastion?" said a Swiss, who was
drinking rum out of beer glass.

"Yes, monsieur," said d'Artagnan, bowing, "we have had that
honor. We even have, as you may have heard, introduced a
barrel of powder under one of the angles, which in blowing
up made a very pretty breach. Without reckoning that as the
bastion was not built yesterday all the rest of the building
was badly shaken."

"And what bastion is it?" asked a dragoon, with his saber
run through a goose which he was taking to be cooked.

"The bastion St. Gervais," replied d'Artagnan, "from behind
which the Rochellais annoyed our workmen."

"Was that affair hot?"

"Yes, moderately so. We lost five men, and the Rochellais
eight or ten."

"Balzempleu!" said the Swiss, who, notwithstanding the
admirable collection of oaths possessed by the German
language, had acquired a habit of swearing in French.

"But it is probable," said the light-horseman, "that they
will send pioneers this morning to repair the bastion."

"Yes, that's probable," said d'Artagnan.

"Gentlemen," said Athos, "a wager!"

"Ah, wooi, a vager!" cried the Swiss.

"What is it?" said the light-horseman.

"Stop a bit," said the dragoon, placing his saber like a
spit upon the two large iron dogs which held the firebrands
in the chimney, "stop a bit, I am in it. You cursed host! a
dripping pan immediately, that I may not lose a drop of the
fat of this estimable bird."

"You was right," said the Swiss; "goose grease is kood with
basdry."

"There!" said the dragoon. "Now for the wager! We listen, Monsieur Athos."

"Yes, the wager!" said the light-horseman.

"Well, Monsieur de Busigny, I will bet you," said Athos,
"that my three companions, Messieurs Porthos, Aramis, and
d'Artagnan, and myself, will go and breakfast in the bastion
St. Gervais, and we will remain there an hour, by the watch,
whatever the enemy may do to dislodge us."

Porthos and Aramis looked at each other; they began to
comprehend.

"But," said d'Artagnan, in the ear of Athos, "you are going
to get us all killed without mercy."

"We are much more likely to be killed," said Athos, "if we
do not go."

"My faith, gentlemen," said Porthos, turning round upon his
chair and twisting his mustache, "that's a fair bet, I
hope."

"I take it," said M. de Busigny; "so let us fix the stake."

"You are four gentlemen," said Athos, "and we are four; an
unlimited dinner for eight. Will that do?"

"Capitally," replied M. de Busigny.

"Perfectly," said the dragoon.

"That shoots me," said the Swiss.

The fourth auditor, who during all this conversation had
played a mute part, made a sign of the head in proof that he
acquiesced in the proposition.

"The breakfast for these gentlemen is ready," said the host.

"Well, bring it," said Athos.

The host obeyed. Athos called Grimaud, pointed to a large
basket which lay in a corner, and made a sign to him to wrap
the viands up in the napkins.

Grimaud understood that it was to be a breakfast on the
grass, took the basket, packed up the viands, added the
bottles, and then took the basket on his arm.

"But where are you going to eat my breakfast?" asked the
host.

"What matter, if you are paid for it?" said Athos, and he
threw two pistoles majestically on the table.

"Shall I give you the change, my officer?" said the host.

"No, only add two bottles of champagne, and the difference
will be for the napkins."

The host had not quite so good a bargain as he at first
hoped for, but he made amends by slipping in two bottles of
Anjou wine instead of two bottles of champagne.

"Monsieur de Busigny," said Athos, "will you be so kind as
to set your watch with mine, or permit me to regulate mine
by yours?"

"Which you please, monsieur!" said the light-horseman,
drawing from his fob a very handsome watch, studded with
diamonds; "half past seven."

"Thirty-five minutes after seven," said Athos, "by which you
perceive I am five minutes faster than you."

And bowing to all the astonished persons present, the young
men took the road to the bastion St. Gervais, followed by
Grimaud, who carried the basket, ignorant of where he was
going but in the passive obedience which Athos had taught
him not even thinking of asking.

As long as they were within the circle of the camp, the four
friends did not exchange one word; besides, they were
followed by the curious, who, hearing of the wager, were
anxious to know how they would come out of it. But when
once they passed the line of circumvallation and found
themselves in the open plain, d'Artagnan, who was completely
ignorant of what was going forward, thought it was time to
demand an explanation.

"And now, my dear Athos," said he, "do me the kindness to
tell me where we are going?"

"Why, you see plainly enough we are going to the bastion."

"But what are we going to do there?"

"You know well that we go to breakfast there."

"But why did we not breakfast at the Parpaillot?"

"Because we have very important matters to communicate to
one another, and it was impossible to talk five minutes in
that inn without being annoyed by all those importunate
fellows, who keep coming in, saluting you, and addressing
you. Here at least," said Athos, pointing to the bastion,
"they will not come and disturb us."

"It appears to me," said d'Artagnan, with that prudence
which allied itself in him so naturally with excessive
bravery, "that we could have found some retired place on the
downs or the seashore."

"Where we should have been seen all four conferring
together, so that at the end of a quarter of an hour the
cardinal would have been informed by his spies that we were
holding a council."

"Yes," said Aramis, "Athos is right: ANIMADVERTUNTUR IN
DESERTIS."

"A desert would not have been amiss," said Porthos; "but it
behooved us to find it."

"There is no desert where a bird cannot pass over one's
head, where a fish cannot leap out of the water, where a
rabbit cannot come out of its burrow, and I believe that
bird, fish, and rabbit each becomes a spy of the cardinal.
Better, then, pursue our enterprise; from which, besides, we
cannot retreat without shame. We have made a wager--a wager
which could not have been foreseen, and of which I defy
anyone to divine the true cause. We are going, in order to
win it, to remain an hour in the bastion. Either we shall
be attacked, or not. If we are not, we shall have all the
time to talk, and nobody will hear us--for I guarantee the
walls of the bastion have no ears; if we are, we will talk
of our affairs just the same. Moreover, in defending
ourselves, we shall cover ourselves with glory. You see
that everything is to our advantage."

"Yes," said d'Artagnan; "but we shall indubitably attract a
ball."

"Well, my dear," replied Athos, "you know well that the
balls most to be dreaded are not from the enemy."

"But for such an expedition we surely ought to have brought
our muskets."

"You are stupid, friend Porthos. Why should we load
ourselves with a useless burden?"

"I don't find a good musket, twelve cartridges, and a powder
flask very useless in the face of an enemy."

"Well," replied Athos, "have you not heard what d'Artagnan
said?"

"What did he say?" demanded Porthos.

"d'Artagnan said that in the attack of last night eight or
ten Frenchmen were killed, and as many Rochellais."

"What then?"

"The bodies were not plundered, were they? It appears the
conquerors had something else to do."

"Well?"

"Well, we shall find their muskets, their cartridges, and
their flasks; and instead of four musketoons and twelve
balls, we shall have fifteen guns and a hundred charges to
fire."

"Oh, Athos!" said Aramis, "truly you are a great man."

Porthos nodded in sign of agreement. D'Artagnan alone did
not seem convinced.

Grimaud no doubt shared the misgivings of the young man, for
seeing that they continued to advance toward the
bastion--something he had till then doubted--he pulled his
master by the skirt of his coat.

"Where are we going?" asked he, by a gesture.

Athos pointed to the bastion.

"But," said Grimaud, in the same silent dialect, "we shall
leave our skins there."

Athos raised his eyes and his finger toward heaven.

Grimaud put his basket on the ground and sat down with a
shake of the head.

Athos took a pistol from his belt, looked to see if it was
properly primed, cocked it, and placed the muzzle close to
Grimaud's ear.

Grimaud was on his legs again as if by a spring. Athos then
made him a sign to take up his basket and to walk on first.
Grimaud obeyed. All that Grimaud gained by this momentary
pantomime was to pass from the rear guard to the vanguard.

Arrived at the bastion, the four friends turned round.

More than three hundred soldiers of all kinds were assembled
at the gate of the camp; and in a separate group might be
distinguished M. de Busigny, the dragoon, the Swiss, and the
fourth bettor.

Athos took off his hat, placed it on the end of his sword,
and waved it in the air.

All the spectators returned him his salute, accompanying
this courtesy with a loud hurrah which was audible to the
four; after which all four disappeared in the bastion,
whither Grimaud had preceded them.



47 THE COUNCIL OF THE MUSKETEERS

As Athos had foreseen, the bastion was only occupied by a
dozen corpses, French and Rochellais.

"Gentlemen," said Athos, who had assumed the command of the
expedition, "while Grimaud spreads the table, let us begin
by collecting the guns and cartridges together. We can talk
while performing that necessary task. These gentlemen,"
added he, pointing to the bodies, "cannot hear us."

"But we could throw them into the ditch," said Porthos,
"after having assured ourselves they have nothing in their
pockets."

"Yes," said Athos, "that's Grimaud's business."

"Well, then," cried d'Artagnan, "pray let Grimaud search
them and throw them over the walls."

"Heaven forfend!" said Athos; "they may serve us."

"These bodies serve us?" said Porthos. "You are mad, dear
friend."

"Judge not rashly, say the gospel and the cardinal," replied
Athos. "How many guns, gentlemen?"

"Twelve," replied Aramis.

"How many shots?"

"A hundred."

"That's quite as many as we shall want. Let us load the
guns."

The four Musketeers went to work; and as they were loading
the last musket Grimaud announced that the breakfast was
ready.

Athos replied, always by gestures, that that was well, and
indicated to Grimaud, by pointing to a turret that resembled
a pepper caster, that he was to stand as sentinel. Only, to
alleviate the tediousness of the duty, Athos allowed him to
take a loaf, two cutlets, and a bottle of wine.

"And now to table," said Athos.

The four friends seated themselves on the ground with their
legs crossed like Turks, or even tailors.

"And now," said d'Artagnan, "as there is no longer any fear
of being overheard, I hope you are going to let me into your
secret."

"I hope at the same time to procure you amusement and glory,
gentlemen," said Athos. "I have induced you to take a
charming promenade; here is a delicious breakfast; and
yonder are five hundred persons, as you may see through the
loopholes, taking us for heroes or madmen--two classes of
imbeciles greatly resembling each other."

"But the secret!" said d'Artagnan.

"The secret is," said Athos, "that I saw Milady last night."

D'Artagnan was lifting a glass to his lips; but at the name
of Milady, his hand trembled so, that he was obliged to put
the glass on the ground again for fear of spilling the
contents."

"You saw your wi--"

"Hush!" interrupted Athos. "You forget, my dear, you forget
that these gentlemen are not initiated into my family
affairs like yourself. I have seen Milady."

"Where?" demanded d'Artagnan.

"Within two leagues of this place, at the inn of the Red
Dovecot."

"In that case I am lost," said d'Artagnan.

"Not so bad yet," replied Athos; "for by this time she must
have quit the shores of France."

D'Artagnan breathed again.

"But after all," asked Porthos, "who is Milady?"

"A charming woman!" said Athos, sipping a glass of sparkling
wine. "Villainous host!" cried he, "he has given us Anjou
wine instead of champagne, and fancies we know no better!
Yes," continued he, "a charming woman, who entertained kind
views toward our friend d'Artagnan, who, on his part, has
given her some offense for which she tried to revenge
herself a month ago by having him killed by two musket
shots, a week ago by trying to poison him, and yesterday by
demanding his head of the cardinal."

"What! by demanding my head of the cardinal?" cried
d'Artagnan, pale with terror.

"Yes, that is true as the Gospel," said Porthos; "I heard
her with my own ears."

"I also," said Aramis.

"Then," said d'Artagnan, letting his arm fall with
discouragement, "it is useless to struggle longer. I may as
well blow my brains out, and all will be over."

"That's the last folly to be committed," said Athos, "seeing
it is the only one for which there is no remedy."

"But I can never escape," said d'Artagnan, "with such
enemies. First, my stranger of Meung; then de Wardes, to
whom I have given three sword wounds; next Milady, whose
secret I have discovered; finally, the cardinal, whose
vengeance I have balked."

"Well," said Athos, "that only makes four; and we are
four--one for one. Pardieu! if we may believe the signs
Grimaud is making, we are about to have to do with a very
different number of people. What is it, Grimaud?
Considering the gravity of the occasion, I permit you to
speak, my friend; but be laconic, I beg. What do you see?"

"A troop."

"Of how many persons?"

"Twenty men."

"What sort of men?"

"Sixteen pioneers, four soldiers."

"How far distant?"

"Five hundred paces."

"Good! We have just time to finish this fowl and to drink
one glass of wine to your health, d'Artagnan."

"To your health!" repeated Porthos and Aramis.

"Well, then, to my health! although I am very much afraid
that your good wishes will not be of great service to me."

"Bah!" said Athos, "God is great, as say the followers of
Mohammed, and the future is in his hands."

Then, swallowing the contents of his glass, which he put
down close to him, Athos arose carelessly, took the musket
next to him, and drew near to one of the loopholes.

Porthos, Aramis and d'Artagnan followed his example. As to
Grimaud, he received orders to place himself behind the four
friends in order to reload their weapons.

"Pardieu!" said Athos, "it was hardly worth while to
distribute ourselves for twenty fellows armed with pickaxes,
mattocks, and shovels. Grimaud had only to make them a sign
to go away, and I am convinced they would have left us in
peace."

"I doubt that," replied d'Artagnan, "for they are advancing
very resolutely. Besides, in addition to the pioneers,
there are four soldiers and a brigadier, armed with
muskets."

"That's because they don't see us," said Athos.

"My faith," said Aramis, "I must confess I feel a great
repugnance to fire on these poor devils of civilians."

"He is a bad priest," said Porthos, "who has pity for
heretics."

"In truth," said Athos, "Aramis is right. I will warn
them."

"What the devil are you going to do?" cried d'Artagnan, "you
will be shot."

But Athos heeded not his advice. Mounting on the breach,
with his musket in one hand and his hat in the other, he
said, bowing courteously and addressing the soldiers and the
pioneers, who, astonished at this apparition, stopped fifty
paces from the bastion: "Gentlemen, a few friends and
myself are about to breakfast in this bastion. Now, you
know nothing is more disagreeable than being disturbed when
one is at breakfast. We request you, then, if you really
have business here, to wait till we have finished or repast,
or to come again a short time hence, unless; unless, which
would be far better, you form the salutary resolution to
quit the side of the rebels, and come and drink with us to
the health of the King of France."

"Take care, Athos!" cried d'Artagnan; "don't you see they
are aiming?"

"Yes, yes," said Athos; "but they are only civilians--very
bad marksmen, who will be sure not to hit me."

In fact, at the same instant four shots were fired, and the
balls were flattened against the wall around Athos, but not
one touched him.

Four shots replied to them almost instantaneously, but much
better aimed than those of the aggressors; three soldiers
fell dead, and one of the pioneers was wounded.

"Grimaud," said Athos, still on the breach, "another
musket!"

Grimaud immediately obeyed. On their part, the three
friends had reloaded their arms; a second discharge followed
the first. The brigadier and two pioneers fell dead; the
rest of the troop took to flight.

"Now, gentlemen, a sortie!" cried Athos.

And the four friends rushed out of the fort, gained the
field of battle, picked up the four muskets of the privates
and the half-pike of the brigadier, and convinced that the
fugitives would not stop till they reached the city, turned
again toward the bastion, bearing with them the trophies of
their victory.

"Reload the muskets, Grimaud," said Athos, "and we,
gentlemen, will go on with our breakfast, and resume our
conversation. Where were we?"

"I recollect you were saying," said d'Artagnan, "that after
having demanded my head of the cardinal, Milady had quit the
shores of France. Whither goes she?" added he, strongly
interested in the route Milady followed.

"She goes into England," said Athos.

"With what view?"

"With the view of assassinating, or causing to be
assassinated, the Duke of Buckingham."

D'Artagnan uttered an exclamation of surprise and
indignation.

"But this is infamous!" cried he.

"As to that," said Athos, "I beg you to believe that I care
very little about it. Now you have done, Grimaud, take our
brigadier's half-pike, tie a napkin to it, and plant it on
top of our bastion, that these rebels of Rochellais may see
that they have to deal with brave and loyal soldiers of the
king."

Grimaud obeyed without replying. An instant afterward, the
white flag was floating over the heads of the four friends.
A thunder of applause saluted its appearance; half the camp
was at the barrier.

"How?" replied d'Artagnan, "you care little if she kills
Buckingham or causes him to be killed? But the duke is our
friend."

"The duke is English; the duke fights against us. Let her
do what she likes with the duke; I care no more about him
than an empty bottle." And Athos threw fifteen paces from
him an empty bottle from which he had poured the last drop
into his glass.

"A moment," said d'Artagnan. "I will not abandon Buckingham
thus. He gave us some very fine horses."

"And moreover, very handsome saddles," said Porthos, who at
the moment wore on his cloak the lace of his own.

"Besides," said Aramis, "God desires the conversion and not
the death of a sinner."

"Amen!" said Athos, "and we will return to that subject
later, if such be your pleasure; but what for the moment
engaged my attention most earnestly, and I am sure you will
understand me, d'Artagnan, was the getting from this woman a
kind of carte blanche which she had extorted from the
cardinal, and by means of which she could with impunity get
rid of you and perhaps of us."

"But this creature must be a demon!" said Porthos, holding
out his plate to Aramis, who was cutting up a fowl.

"And this carte blanche," said d'Artagnan, "this carte
blanche, does it remain in her hands?"

"No, it passed into mine; I will not say without trouble,
for if I did I should tell a lie."

"My dear Athos, I shall no longer count the number of times
I am indebted to you for my life."

"Then it was to go to her that you left us?" said Aramis.

"Exactly."

"And you have that letter of the cardinal?" said d'Artagnan.

"Here it is," said Athos; and he took the invaluable paper
from the pocket of his uniform. D'Artagnan unfolded it with
one hand, whose trembling he did not even attempt to
conceal, to read:


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"


"In fact," said Aramis, "it is an absolution according to rule."

"That paper must be torn to pieces," said d'Artagnan, who
fancied he read in it his sentence of death.

"On the contrary," said Athos, "it must be preserved
carefully. I would not give up this paper if covered with
as many gold pieces."

"And what will she do now?" asked the young man.

"Why," replied Athos, carelessly, "she is probably going to
write to the cardinal that a damned Musketeer, named Athos,
has taken her safe-conduct from her by force; she will
advise him in the same letter to get rid of his two friends,
Aramis and Porthos, at the same time. The cardinal will
remember that these are the same men who have often crossed
his path; and then some fine morning he will arrest
d'Artagnan, and for fear he should feel lonely, he will send
us to keep him company in the Bastille."

"Go to! It appears to me you make dull jokes, my dear,"
said Porthos.

"I do not jest," said Athos.

"Do you know," said Porthos, "that to twist that damned
Milady's neck would be a smaller sin than to twist those of
these poor devils of Huguenots, who have committed no other
crime than singing in French the psalms we sing in Latin?"

"What says the abbe?" asked Athos, quietly.

"I say I am entirely of Porthos's opinion," replied Aramis.

"And I, too," said d'Artagnan.

"Fortunately, she is far off," said Porthos, "for I confess
she would worry me if she were here."

"She worries me in England as well as in France," said
Athos.

"She worries me everywhere," said d'Artagnan.

"But when you held her in your power, why did you not drown
her, strangle her, hang her?" said Porthos. "It is only the
dead who do not return."

"You think so, Porthos?" replied the Musketeer, with a sad
smile which d'Artagnan alone understood.

"I have an idea," said d'Artagnan.

"What is it?" said the Musketeers.

"To arms!" cried Grimaud.

The young men sprang up, and seized their muskets.

This time a small troop advanced, consisting of from twenty
to twenty-five men; but they were not pioneers, they were
soldiers of the garrison.

"Shall we return to the camp?" said Porthos. "I don't think
the sides are equal."

"Impossible, for three reasons," replied Athos. "The first,
that we have not finished breakfast; the second, that we
still have some very important things to say; and the third,
that it yet wants ten minutes before the lapse of the hour."

"Well, then," said Aramis, "we must form a plan of battle."

"That's very simple," replied Athos. "As soon as the enemy
are within musket shot, we must fire upon them. If they
continue to advance, we must fire again. We must fire as
long as we have loaded guns. If those who remain of the
troop persist in coming to the assault, we will allow the
besiegers to get as far as the ditch, and then we will push
down upon their heads that strip of wall which keeps its
perpendicular by a miracle."

"Bravo!" cried Porthos. "Decidedly, Athos, you were born to
be a general, and the cardinal, who fancies himself a great
soldier, is nothing beside you."

"Gentlemen," said Athos, "no divided attention, I beg; let
each one pick out his man."

"I cover mine," said d'Artagnan.

"And I mine," said Porthos.

"And I mine," said Aramis.

"Fire, then," said Athos.

The four muskets made but one report, but four men fell.

The drum immediately beat, and the little troop advanced at
charging pace.

Then the shots were repeated without regularity, but always
aimed with the same accuracy. Nevertheless, as if they had
been aware of the numerical weakness of the friends, the
Rochellais continued to advance in quick time.

With every three shots at least two men fell; but the march
of those who remained was not slackened.

Arrived at the foot of the bastion, there were still more
than a dozen of the enemy. A last discharge welcomed them,
but did not stop them; they jumped into the ditch, and
prepared to scale the breach.

"Now, my friends," said Athos, "finish them at a blow. To
the wall; to the wall!"

And the four friends, seconded by Grimaud, pushed with the
barrels of their muskets an enormous sheet of the wall,
which bent as if pushed by the wind, and detaching itself
from its base, fell with a horrible crash into the ditch.
Then a fearful crash was heard; a cloud of dust mounted
toward the sky--and all was over!

"Can we have destroyed them all, from the first to the
last?" said Athos.

"My faith, it appears so!" said d'Artagnan.

"No," cried Porthos; "there go three or four, limping away."

In fact, three or four of these unfortunate men, covered
with dirt and blood, fled along the hollow way, and at
length regained the city. These were all who were left of
the little troop.

Athos looked at his watch.

"Gentlemen," said he, "we have been here an hour, and our
wager is won; but we will be fair players. Besides,
d'Artagnan has not told us his idea yet."

And the Musketeer, with his usual coolness, reseated himself
before the remains of the breakfast.

"My idea?" said d'Artagnan.

"Yes; you said you had an idea," said Athos.

"Oh, I remember," said d'Artagnan. "Well, I will go to
England a second time; I will go and find Buckingham."

"You shall not do that, d'Artagnan," said Athos, coolly.

"And why not? Have I not been there once?"

"Yes; but at that period we were not at war. At that period
Buckingham was an ally, and not an enemy. What you would
now do amounts to treason."

D'Artagnan perceived the force of this reasoning, and was
silent.

"But," said Porthos, "I think I have an idea, in my turn."

"Silence for Monsieur Porthos's idea!" said Aramis.

"I will ask leave of absence of Monsieur de Treville, on
some pretext or other which you must invent; I am not very
clever at pretexts. Milady does not know me; I will get
access to her without her suspecting me, and when I catch my
beauty, I will strangle her."

"Well," replied Athos, "I am not far from approving the idea
of Monsieur Porthos."

"For shame!" said Aramis. "Kill a woman? No, listen to me;
I have the true idea."

"Let us see your idea, Aramis," said Athos, who felt much
deference for the young Musketeer.

"We must inform the queen."

"Ah, my faith, yes!" said Porthos and d'Artagnan, at the
same time; "we are coming nearer to it now."

"Inform the queen!" said Athos; "and how? Have we relations
with the court? Could we send anyone to Paris without its
being known in the camp? From here to Paris it is a hundred
and forty leagues; before our letter was at Angers we should
be in a dungeon."

"As to remitting a letter with safety to her Majesty," said
Aramis, coloring, "I will take that upon myself. I know a
clever person at Tours--"

Aramis stopped on seeing Athos smile.

"Well, do you not adopt this means, Athos?" said d'Artagnan.

"I do not reject it altogether," said Athos; "but I wish to
remind Aramis that he cannot quit the camp, and that nobody
but one of ourselves is trustworthy; that two hours after
the messenger has set out, all the Capuchins, all the
police, all the black caps of the cardinal, will know your
letter by heart, and you and your clever person will be
arrested."

"Without reckoning," objected Porthos, "that the queen would
save Monsieur de Buckingham, but would take no heed of us."

"Gentlemen," said d'Artagnan, "what Porthos says is full of
sense."

"Ah, ah! but what's going on in the city yonder?" said
Athos.

"They are beating the general alarm."

The four friends listened, and the sound of the drum plainly
reached them.

"You see, they are going to send a whole regiment against
us," said Athos.

"You don't think of holding out against a whole regiment, do
you?" said Porthos.

"Why not?" said Musketeer. "I feel myself quite in a humor
for it; and I would hold out before an army if we had taken
the precaution to bring a dozen more bottles of wine."

"Upon my word, the drum draws near," said d'Artagnan.

"Let it come," said Athos. "It is a quarter of an hour's
journey from here to the city, consequently a quarter of an
hour's journey from the city to hither. That is more than
time enough for us to devise a plan. If we go from this
place we shall never find another so suitable. Ah, stop! I
have it, gentlemen; the right idea has just occurred to me."

"Tell us."

"Allow me to give Grimaud some indispensable orders."

Athos made a sign for his lackey to approach.

"Grimaud," said Athos, pointing to the bodies which lay
under the wall of the bastion, "take those gentlemen, set
them up against the wall, put their hats upon their heads,
and their guns in their hands."

"Oh, the great man!" cried d'Artagnan. "I comprehend now."

"You comprehend?" said Porthos.

"And do you comprehend, Grimaud?" said Aramis.

Grimaud made a sign in the affirmative.

"That's all that is necessary," said Athos; "now for my
idea."

"I should like, however, to comprehend," said Porthos.

"That is useless."

"Yes, yes! Athos's idea!" cried Aramis and d'Artagnan, at
the same time.

"This Milady, this woman, this creature, this demon, has a
brother-in-law, as I think you told me, d'Artagnan?"

"Yes, I know him very well; and I also believe that he has
not a very warm affection for his sister-in-law."

"There is no harm in that. If he detested her, it would be
all the better," replied Athos.

"In that case we are as well off as we wish."

"And yet," said Porthos, "I would like to know what Grimaud
is about."

"Silence, Porthos!" said Aramis.

"What is her brother-in-law's name?"

"Lord de Winter."

"Where is he now?"

"He returned to London at the first sound of war."

"Well, there's just the man we want," said Athos. "It is he
whom we must warn. We will have him informed that his
sister-in-law is on the point of having someone
assassinated, and beg him not to lose sight of her. There
is in London, I hope, some establishment like that of the
Magdalens, or of the Repentant Daughters. He must place his
sister in one of these, and we shall be in peace."

"Yes," said d'Artagnan, "till she comes out."

"Ah, my faith!" said Athos, "you require too much,
d'Artagnan. I have given you all I have, and I beg leave to
tell you that this is the bottom of my sack."

"But I think it would be still better," said Aramis, "to
inform the queen and Lord de Winter at the same time."

"Yes; but who is to carry the letter to Tours, and who to
London?"

"I answer for Bazin," said Aramis.

"And I for Planchet," said d'Artagnan.

"Ay," said Porthos, "if we cannot leave the camp, our
lackeys may."

"To be sure they may; and this very day we will write the
letters," said Aramis. "Give the lackeys money, and they
will start."

"We will give them money?" replied Athos. "Have you any
money?"

The four friends looked at one another, and a cloud came
over the brows which but lately had been so cheerful.

"Look out!" cried d'Artagnan, "I see black points and red
points moving yonder. Why did you talk of a regiment,
Athos? It is a veritable army!"

"My faith, yes," said Athos; "there they are. See the
sneaks come, without drum or trumpet. Ah, ah! have you
finished, Grimaud?"

Grimaud made a sign in the affirmative, and pointed to a
dozen bodies which he had set up in the most picturesque
attitudes. Some carried arms, others seemed to be taking
aim, and the remainder appeared merely to be sword in hand.

"Bravo!" said Athos; "that does honor to your imagination."

"All very well," said Porthos, "but I should like to
understand."

"Let us decamp first, and you will understand afterward."

"A moment, gentlemen, a moment; give Grimaud time to clear
away the breakfast."

"Ah, ah!" said Aramis, "the black points and the red points
are visibly enlarging. I am of d'Artagnan's opinion; we
have no time to lose in regaining our camp."

"My faith," said Athos, "I have nothing to say against a
retreat. We bet upon one hour, and we have stayed an hour
and a half. Nothing can be said; let us be off, gentlemen,
let us be off!"

Grimaud was already ahead, with the basket and the dessert.
The four friends followed, ten paces behind him.

"What the devil shall we do now, gentlemen?" cried Athos.

"Have you forgotten anything?" said Aramis.

"The white flag, morbleu! We must not leave a flag in the
hands of the enemy, even if that flag be but a napkin."

And Athos ran back to the bastion, mounted the platform, and
bore off the flag; but as the Rochellais had arrived within
musket range, they opened a terrible fire upon this man, who
appeared to expose himself for pleasure's sake.

But Athos might be said to bear a charmed life. The balls
passed and whistled all around him; not one struck him.

Athos waved his flag, turning his back on the guards of the
city, and saluting those of the camp. On both sides loud
cries arose--on the one side cries of anger, on the other
cries of enthusiasm.

A second discharge followed the first, and three balls, by
passing through it, made the napkin really a flag. Cries
were heard from the camp, "Come down! come down!"

Athos came down; his friends, who anxiously awaited him, saw
him returned with joy.

"Come along, Athos, come along!" cried d'Artagnan; "now we
have found everything except money, it would be stupid to be
killed."

But Athos continued to march majestically, whatever remarks
his companions made; and they, finding their remarks
useless, regulated their pace by his.

Grimaud and his basket were far in advance, out of the range
of the balls.

At the end of an instant they heard a furious fusillade.

"What's that?" asked Porthos, "what are they firing at now?
I hear no balls whistle, and I see nobody!"

"They are firing at the corpses," replied Athos.

"But the dead cannot return their fire."

"Certainly not! They will then fancy it is an ambuscade,
they will deliberate; and by the time they have found out
the pleasantry, we shall be out of the range of their balls.
That renders it useless to get a pleurisy by too much
haste."

"Oh, I comprehend now," said the astonished Porthos.

"That's lucky," said Athos, shrugging his shoulders.

On their part, the French, on seeing the four friends return
at such a step, uttered cries of enthusiasm.

At length a fresh discharge was heard, and this time the
balls came rattling among the stones around the four
friends, and whistling sharply in their ears. The
Rochellais had at last taken possession of the bastion.

"These Rochellais are bungling fellows," said Athos; "how
many have we killed of them--a dozen?"

"Or fifteen."

"How many did we crush under the wall?"

"Eight or ten."

"And in exchange for all that not even a scratch! Ah, but
what is the matter with your hand, d'Artagnan? It bleeds,
seemingly."

"Oh, it's nothing," said d'Artagnan.

"A spent ball?"

"Not even that."

"What is it, then?"

We have said that Athos loved d'Artagnan like a child, and
this somber and inflexible personage felt the anxiety of a
parent for the young man.

"Only grazed a little," replied d'Artagnan; "my fingers were
caught between two stones--that of the wall and that of my
ring--and the skin was broken."

"That comes of wearing diamonds, my master," said Athos,
disdainfully.

"Ah, to be sure," cried Porthos, "there is a diamond. Why
the devil, then, do we plague ourselves about money, when
there is a diamond?"

"Stop a bit!" said Aramis.

"Well thought of, Porthos; this time you have an idea."

"Undoubtedly," said Porthos, drawing himself up at Athos's
compliment; "as there is a diamond, let us sell it."

"But," said d'Artagnan, "it is the queen's diamond."

"The stronger reason why it should be sold," replied Athos.
The queen saving Monsieur de Buckingham, her lover; nothing
more just. The queen saving us, her friends; nothing more
moral. Let us sell the diamond. What says Monsieur the
Abbe? I don't ask Porthos; his opinion has been given."

"Why, I think," said Aramis, blushing as usual, "that his
ring not coming from a mistress, and consequently not being
a love token, d'Artagnan may sell it."

"My dear Aramis, you speak like theology personified. Your
advice, then, is--"

"To sell the diamond," replied Aramis.

"Well, then," said d'Artagnan, gaily, "let us sell the
diamond, and say no more about it."

The fusillade continued; but the four friends were out of
reach, and the Rochellais only fired to appease their
consciences.

"My faith, it was time that idea came into Porthos's head.
Here we are at the camp; therefore, gentlemen, not a word
more of this affair. We are observed; they are coming to
meet us. We shall be carried in triumph."

In fact, as we have said, the whole camp was in motion.
More than two thousand persons had assisted, as at a
spectacle, in this fortunate but wild undertaking of the
four friends--an undertaking of which they were far from
suspecting the real motive. Nothing was heard but cries of
"Live the Musketeers! Live the Guards!" M. de Busigny was
the first to come and shake Athos by the hand, and
acknowledge that the wager was lost. The dragoon and the
Swiss followed him, and all their comrades followed the
dragoon and the Swiss. There was nothing but felicitations,
pressures of the hand, and embraces; there was no end to the
inextinguishable laughter at the Rochellais. The tumult at
length became so great that the cardinal fancied there must
be some riot, and sent La Houdiniere, his captain of the
Guards, to inquire what was going on.

The affair was described to the messenger with all the
effervescence of enthusiasm.

"Well?" asked the cardinal, on seeing La Houdiniere return.

"Well, monseigneur," replied the latter, "three Musketeers
and a Guardsman laid a wager with Monsieur de Busigny that
they would go and breakfast in the bastion St. Gervais; and
while breakfasting they held it for two hours against the
enemy, and have killed I don't know how many Rochellais."

"Did you inquire the names of those three Musketeers?"

"Yes, monseigneur."

"What are their names?"

"Messieurs Athos, Porthos, and Aramis."

"Still my three brave fellows!" murmured the cardinal. "And
the Guardsman?"

"d'Artagnan."

"Still my young scapegrace. Positively, these four men must
be on my side."

The same evening the cardinal spoke to M. de Treville of the
exploit of the morning, which was the talk of the whole
camp. M. de Treville, who had received the account of the
adventure from the mouths of the heroes of it, related it in
all its details to his Eminence, not forgetting the episode
of the napkin.

"That's well, Monsieur de Treville," said the cardinal;
"pray let that napkin be sent to me. I will have three
fleur-de-lis embroidered on it in gold, and will give it to
your company as a standard."

"Monseigneur," said M. de Treville, "that will be unjust to
the Guardsmen. Monsieur d'Artagnan is not with me; he
serves under Monsieur Dessessart."

"Well, then, take him," said the cardinal; "when four men
are so much attached to one another, it is only fair that
they should serve in the same company."

That same evening M. de Treville announced this good news to
the three Musketeers and d'Artagnan, inviting all four to
breakfast with him next morning.

D'Artagnan was beside himself with joy. We know that the
dream of his life had been to become a Musketeer. The three
friends were likewise greatly delighted.

"My faith," said d'Artagnan to Athos, "you had a triumphant
idea! As you said, we have acquired glory, and were enabled
to carry on a conversation of the highest importance."

"Which we can resume now without anybody suspecting us, for,
with the help of God, we shall henceforth pass for
cardinalists."

That evening d'Artagnan went to present his respects to M.
Dessessart, and inform him of his promotion.

M. Dessessart, who esteemed d'Artagnan, made him offers of
help, as this change would entail expenses for equipment.

D'Artagnan refused; but thinking the opportunity a good one, he
begged him to have the diamond he put into his hand valued,
as he wished to turn it into money.

The next day, M. Dessessart's valet came to d'Artagnan's
lodging, and gave him a bag containing seven thousand
livres.

This was the price of the queen's diamond.



48 A FAMILY AFFAIR

Athos had invented the phrase, family affair. A family
affair was not subject to the investigation of the cardinal;
a family affair concerned nobody. People might employ
themselves in a family affair before all the world.
Therefore Athos had invented the phrase, family affair.

Aramis had discovered the idea, the lackeys.

Porthos had discovered the means, the diamond.

D'Artagnan alone had discovered nothing--he, ordinarily the
most inventive of the four; but it must be also said that
the very name of Milady paralyzed him.

Ah! no, we were mistaken; he had discovered a purchaser for
his diamond.

The breakfast at M. de Treville's was as gay and cheerful as
possible. D'Artagnan already wore his uniform--for being
nearly of the same size as Aramis, and as Aramis was so
liberally paid by the publisher who purchased his poem as to
allow him to buy everything double, he sold his friend a
complete outfit.

D'Artagnan would have been at the height of his wishes if he
had not constantly seen Milady like a dark cloud hovering in
the horizon.

After breakfast, it was agreed that they should meet again
in the evening at Athos's lodging, and there finish their
plans.

D'Artagnan passed the day in exhibiting his Musketeer's
uniform in every street of the camp.

In the evening, at the appointed hour, the four friends met.
There only remained three things to decide--what they
should write to Milady's brother; what they should write to
the clever person at Tours; and which should be the lackeys
to carry the letters.

Everyone offered his own. Athos talked of the discretion of
Grimaud, who never spoke a word but when his master unlocked
his mouth. Porthos boasted of the strength of Mousqueton,
who was big enough to thrash four men of ordinary size.
Aramis, confiding in the address of Bazin, made a pompous
eulogium on his candidate. Finally, d'Artagnan had entire
faith in the bravery of Planchet, and reminded them of the
manner in which he had conducted himself in the ticklish
affair of Boulogne.

These four virtues disputed the prize for a length of time,
and gave birth to magnificent speeches which we do not
repeat here for fear they should be deemed too long.

"Unfortunately," said Athos, "he whom we send must possess
in himself alone the four qualities united."

"But where is such a lackey to be found?"

"Not to be found!" cried Athos. "I know it well, so take
Grimaud."

"Take Mousqueton."

"Take Bazin."

"Take Planchet. Planchet is brave and shrewd; they are two
qualities out of the four."

"Gentlemen," said Aramis, "the principal question is not to
know which of our four lackeys is the most discreet, the
most strong, the most clever, or the most brave; the
principal thing is to know which loves money the best."

"What Aramis says is very sensible," replied Athos; "we must
speculate upon the faults of people, and not upon their
virtues. Monsieur Abbe, you are a great moralist."

"Doubtless," said Aramis, "for we not only require to be
well served in order to succeed, but moreover, not to fail;
for in case of failure, heads are in question, not for our
lackeys--"

"Speak lower, Aramis," said Athos.

"That's wise--not for the lackeys," resumed Aramis, "but for
the master--for the masters, we may say. Are our lackeys
sufficiently devoted to us to risk their lives for us? No."

"My faith," said d'Artagnan. "I would almost answer for
Planchet."

"Well, my dear friend, add to his natural devotedness a good
sum of money, and then, instead of answering for him once,
answer for him twice."

"Why, good God! you will be deceived just the same," said
Athos, who was an optimist when things were concerned, and a
pessimist when men were in question. "They will promise
everything for the sake of the money, and on the road fear
will prevent them from acting. Once taken, they will be
pressed; when pressed, they will confess everything. What
the devil! we are not children. To reach England"--Athos
lowered his voice--"all France, covered with spies and
creatures of the cardinal, must be crossed. A passport for
embarkation must be obtained; and the party must be
acquainted with English in order to ask the way to London.
Really, I think the thing very difficult."

"Not at all," cried d'Artagnan, who was anxious the matter
should be accomplished; "on the contrary, I think it very
easy. It would be, no doubt, parbleu, if we write to Lord
de Winter about affairs of vast importance, of the horrors
of the cardinal--"

"Speak lower!" said Athos.

"--of intrigues and secrets of state," continued d'Artagnan,
complying with the recommendation. "there can be no doubt
we would all be broken on the wheel; but for God's sake, do
not forget, as you yourself said, Athos, that we only write
to him concerning a family affair; that we only write to him
to entreat that as soon as Milady arrives in London he will
put it out of her power to injure us. I will write to him,
then, nearly in these terms."

"Let us see," said Athos, assuming in advance a critical
look.

"Monsieur and dear friend--"

"Ah, yes! Dear friend to an Englishman," interrupted Athos;
"well commenced! Bravo, d'Artagnan! Only with that word
you would be quartered instead of being broken on the
wheel."

"Well, perhaps. I will say, then, Monsieur, quite short."

"You may even say, My Lord," replied Athos, who stickled for
propriety.

"My Lord, do you remember the little goat pasture of the
Luxembourg?"

"Good, the Luxembourg! One might believe this is an
allusion to the queen-mother! That's ingenious," said
Athos.

"Well, then, we will put simply, My Lord, do you remember a
certain little enclosure where your life was spared?"

"My dear d'Artagnan, you will never make anything but a very
bad secretary. Where your life was spared! For shame!
that's unworthy. A man of spirit is not to be reminded of
such services. A benefit reproached is an offense
committed."

"The devil!" said d'Artagnan, "you are insupportable. If
the letter must be written under your censure, my faith, I
renounce the task."

"And you will do right. Handle the musket and the sword, my
dear fellow. You will come off splendidly at those two
exercises; but pass the pen over to Monsieur Abbe. That's
his province."

"Ay, ay!" said Porthos; "pass the pen to Aramis, who writes
theses in Latin."

"Well, so be it," said d'Artagnan. "Draw up this note for
us, Aramis; but by our Holy Father the Pope, cut it short,
for I shall prune you in my turn, I warn you."

"I ask no better," said Aramis, with that ingenious air of
confidence which every poet has in himself; "but let me be
properly acquainted with the subject. I have heard here and
there that this sister-in-law was a hussy. I have obtained
proof of it by listening to her conversation with the
cardinal."

"Lower! SACRE BLEU!" said Athos.

"But," continued Aramis, "the details escape me."

"And me also," said Porthos.

D'Artagnan and Athos looked at each other for some time in
silence. At length Athos, after serious reflection and
becoming more pale than usual, made a sign of assent to
d'Artagnan, who by it understood he was at liberty to speak.

"Well, this is what you have to say," said d'Artagnan: "My
Lord, your sister-in-law is an infamous woman, who wished to
have you killed that she might inherit your wealth; but she
could not marry your brother, being already married in
France, and having been--" d'Artagnan stopped, as if
seeking for the word, and looked at Athos.

"Repudiated by her husband," said Athos.

"Because she had been branded," continued d'Artagnan.

"Bah!" cried Porthos. "Impossible! What do you say--that
she wanted to have her brother-in-law killed?"

"Yes."

"She was married?" asked Aramis.

"Yes."

"And her husband found out that she had a fleur-de-lis on
her shoulder?" cried Porthos.

"Yes."

These three yeses had been pronounced by Athos, each with a
sadder intonation.

"And who has seen this fleur-de-lis?" inquired Aramis.

"d'Artagnan and I. Or rather, to observe the chronological
order, I and d'Artagnan," replied Athos.

"And does the husband of this frightful creature still
live?" said Aramis.

"He still lives."

"Are you quite sure of it?"

"I am he."

There was a moment of cold silence, during which everyone
was affected according to his nature.

"This time," said Athos, first breaking the silence,
"d'Artagnan has given us an excellent program, and the
letter must be written at once."

"The devil! You are right, Athos," said Aramis; "and it is
a rather difficult matter. The chancellor himself would be
puzzled how to write such a letter, and yet the chancellor
draws up an official report very readily. Never mind! Be
silent, I will write."

Aramis accordingly took the quill, reflected for a few
moments, wrote eight or ten lines in a charming little
female hand, and then with a voice soft and slow, as if each
word had been scrupulously weighed, he read the following:


"My Lord, The person who writes these few lines had the
honor of crossing swords with you in the little enclosure of
the Rue d'Enfer. As you have several times since declared
yourself the friend of that person, he thinks it his duty to
respond to that friendship by sending you important
information. Twice you have nearly been the victim of a near relative,
whom you believe to be your heir because you
are ignorant that before she contracted a marriage in
England she was already married in France. But the third
time, which is the present, you may succumb. Your relative
left La Rochelle for England during the night. Watch her
arrival, for she has great and terrible projects. If you
require to know positively what she is capable of, read her
past history on her left shoulder."


"Well, now that will do wonderfully well," said Athos. "My
dear Aramis, you have the pen of a secretary of state. Lord
de Winter will now be upon his guard if the letter should
reach him; and even if it should fall into the hands of the
cardinal, we shall not be compromised. But as the lackey
who goes may make us believe he has been to London and may
stop at Chatellerault, let us give him only half the sum
promised him, with the letter, with an agreement that he
shall have the other half in exchange for the reply. Have
you the diamond?" continued Athos.

"I have what is still better. I have the price"; and
d'Artagnan threw the bag upon the table. At the sound of
the gold Aramis raised his eyes and Porthos started. As to
Athos, he remained unmoved.

"How much in that little bag?"

"Seven thousand livres, in louis of twelve francs."

"Seven thousand livres!" cried Porthos. "That poor little
diamond was worth seven thousand livres?"

"It appears so," said Athos, "since here they are. I don't
suppose that our friend d'Artagnan has added any of his own
to the amount."

"But, gentlemen, in all this," said d'Artagnan, "we do not
think of the queen. Let us take some heed of the welfare of
her dear Buckingham. That is the least we owe her."

"That's true," said Athos; "but that concerns Aramis."

"Well," replied the latter, blushing, "what must I say?"

"Oh, that's simple enough!" replied Athos. "Write a second
letter for that clever personage who lives at Tours."

Aramis resumed his pen, reflected a little, and wrote the
following lines, which he immediately submitted to the
approbation of his friends.

"My dear cousin."

"Ah, ah!" said Athos. "This clever person is your relative,
then?"

"Cousin-german."

"Go on, to your cousin, then!"

Aramis continued:


"My dear Cousin, His Eminence, the cardinal, whom God
preserve for the happiness of France and the confusion of
the enemies of the kingdom, is on the point of putting an
end to the hectic rebellion of La Rochelle. It is probable
that the succor of the English fleet will never even arrive
in sight of the place. I will even venture to say that I am
certain M. de Buckingham will be prevented from setting out
by some great event. His Eminence is the most illustrious
politician of times past, of times present, and probably of
times to come. He would extinguish the sun if the sun
incommoded him. Give these happy tidings to your sister, my
dear cousin. I have dreamed that the unlucky Englishman was
dead. I cannot recollect whether it was by steel or by
poison; only of this I am sure, I have dreamed he was dead,
and you know my dreams never deceive me. Be assured, then,
of seeing me soon return."


"Capital!" cried Athos; "you are the king of poets, my dear
Aramis. You speak like the Apocalypse, and you are as true
as the Gospel. There is nothing now to do but to put the
address to this letter."

"That is easily done," said Aramis.

He folded the letter fancifully, and took up his pen and
wrote:


"To Mlle. Michon, seamstress, Tours."


The three friends looked at one another and laughed; they
were caught.

"Now," said Aramis, "you will please to understand,
gentlemen, that Bazin alone can carry this letter to Tours.
My cousin knows nobody but Bazin, and places confidence in
nobody but him; any other person would fail. Besides, Bazin
is ambitious and learned; Bazin has read history, gentlemen,
he knows that Sixtus the Fifth became Pope after having kept
pigs. Well, as he means to enter the Church at the same
time as myself, he does not despair of becoming Pope in his
turn, or at least a cardinal. You can understand that a man
who has such views will never allow himself to be taken, or
if taken, will undergo martyrdom rather than speak."

"Very well," said d'Artagnan, "I consent to Bazin with all
my heart, but grant me Planchet. Milady had him one day
turned out of doors, with sundry blows of a good stick to
accelerate his motions. Now, Planchet has an excellent
memory; and I will be bound that sooner than relinquish any
possible means of vengeance, he will allow himself to be
beaten to death. If your arrangements at Tours are your
arrangements, Aramis, those of London are mine. I request,
then, that Planchet may be chosen, more particularly as he
has already been to London with me, and knows how to speak
correctly: London, sir, if you please, and my master, Lord
d'Artagnan. With that you may be satisfied he can make his
way, both going and returning."

"In that case," said Athos, "Planchet must receive seven
hundred livres for going, and seven hundred livres for
coming back; and Bazin, three hundred livres for going, and
three hundred livres for returning--that will reduce the sum
to five thousand livres. We will each take a thousand
livres to be employed as seems good, and we will leave a
fund of a thousand livres under the guardianship of Monsieur
Abbe here, for extraordinary occasions or common wants.
Will that do?"

"My dear Athos," said Aramis, "you speak like Nestor, who
was, as everyone knows, the wisest among the Greeks."

"Well, then," said Athos, "it is agreed. Planchet and Bazin
shall go. Everything considered, I am not sorry to retain
Grimaud; he is accustomed to my ways, and I am particular.
Yesterday's affair must have shaken him a little; his voyage
would upset him quite."

Planchet was sent for, and instructions were given him. The
matter had been named to him by d'Artagnan, who in the first
place pointed out the money to him, then the glory, and then
the danger.

"I will carry the letter in the lining of my coat," said
Planchet; "and if I am taken I will swallow it."

"Well, but then you will not be able to fulfill your
commission," said d'Artagnan.

"You will give me a copy this evening, which I shall know by
heart tomorrow."

D'Artagnan looked at his friends, as if to say, "Well, what
did I tell you?"

"Now," continued he, addressing Planchet, "you have eight
days to get an interview with Lord de Winter; you have eight
days to return--in all sixteen days. If, on the sixteenth
day after your departure, at eight o'clock in the evening
you are not here, no money--even if it be but five minutes
past eight."

"Then, monsieur," said Planchet, "you must buy me a watch."

"Take this," said Athos, with his usual careless generosity,
giving him his own, "and be a good lad. Remember, if you
talk, if you babble, if you get drunk, you risk your
master's head, who has so much confidence in your fidelity,
and who answers for you. But remember, also, that if by
your fault any evil happens to d'Artagnan, I will find you,
wherever you may be, for the purpose of ripping up your
belly."

"Oh, monsieur!" said Planchet, humiliated by the suspicion,
and moreover, terrified at the calm air of the Musketeer.

"And I," said Porthos, rolling his large eyes, "remember, I
will skin you alive."

"Ah, monsieur!"

"And I," said Aramis, with his soft, melodius voice,
"remember that I will roast you at a slow fire, like a
savage."

"Ah, monsieur!"

Planchet began to weep. We will not venture to say whether
it was from terror created by the threats or from tenderness
at seeing four friends so closely united.

D'Artagnan took his hand. "See, Planchet," said he, "these
gentlemen only say this out of affection for me, but at
bottom they all like you."

"Ah, monsieur," said Planchet, "I will succeed or I will
consent to be cut in quarters; and if they do cut me in
quarters, be assured that not a morsel of me will speak."

It was decided that Planchet should set out the next day, at
eight o'clock in the morning, in order, as he had said, that
he might during the night learn the letter by heart. He
gained just twelve hours by this engagement; he was to be
back on the sixteenth day, by eight o'clock in the evening.

In the morning, as he was mounting his horse, d'Artagnan,
who felt at the bottom of his heart a partiality for the
duke, took Planchet aside.

"Listen," said he to him. "When you have given the letter
to Lord de Winter and he has read it, you will further say
to him: Watch over his Grace Lord Buckingham, for they wish
to assassinate him. But this, Planchet, is so serious and
important that I have not informed my friends that I would
entrust this secret to you; and for a captain's commission I
would not write it."

"Be satisfied, monsieur," said Planchet, "you shall see if
confidence can be placed in me."

Mounted on an excellent horse, which he was to leave at the
end of twenty leagues in order to take the post, Planchet
set off at a gallop, his spirits a little depressed by the
triple promise made him by the Musketeers, but otherwise as
light-hearted as possible.

Bazin set out the next day for Tours, and was allowed eight
days for performing his commission.

The four friends, during the period of these two absences,
had, as may well be supposed, the eye on the watch, the nose
to the wind, and the ear on the hark. Their days were
passed in endeavoring to catch all that was said, in
observing the proceeding of the cardinal, and in looking out
for all the couriers who arrived. More than once an
involuntary trembling seized them when called upon for some
unexpected service. They had, besides, to look constantly
to their own proper safety; Milady was a phantom which, when
it had once appeared to people, did not allow them to sleep
very quietly.

On the morning of the eighth day, Bazin, fresh as ever, and
smiling, according to custom, entered the cabaret of the
Parpaillot as the four friends were sitting down to
breakfast, saying, as had been agreed upon: "Monsieur
Aramis, the answer from your cousin."

The four friends exchanged a joyful glance; half of the work
was done. It is true, however, that it was the shorter and
easier part.

Aramis, blushing in spite of himself, took the letter, which
was in a large, coarse hand and not particular for its
orthography.

"Good God!" cried he, laughing, "I quite despair of my poor
Michon; she will never write like Monsieur de Voiture."

"What does you mean by boor Michon?" said the Swiss, who was
chatting with the four friends when the letter came.

"Oh, pardieu, less than nothing," said Aramis; "a charming
little seamstress, whom I love dearly and from whose hand I
requested a few lines as a sort of keepsake."

"The duvil!" said the Swiss, "if she is as great a lady as
her writing is large, you are a lucky fellow, gomrade!"

Aramis read the letter, and passed it to Athos.

"See what she writes to me, Athos," said he.

Athos cast a glance over the epistle, and to disperse all
the suspicions that might have been created, read aloud:


"My cousin, My sister and I are skillful in interpreting
dreams, and even entertain great fear of them; but of yours
it may be said, I hope, every dream is an illusion. Adieu!
Take care of yourself, and act so that we may from time to
time hear you spoken of.


"Marie Michon"


"And what dream does she mean?" asked the dragoon, who had
approached during the reading.

"Yez; what's the dream?" said the Swiss.

"Well, pardieu!" said Aramis, "it was only this: I had a
dream, and I related it to her."

"Yez, yez," said the Swiss; "it's simple enough to dell a
dream, but I neffer dream."

"You are very fortunate," said Athos, rising; "I wish I
could say as much!"

"Neffer," replied the Swiss, enchanted that a man like Athos
could envy him anything. "Neffer, neffer!"

D'Artagnan, seeing Athos rise, did likewise, took his arm,
and went out.

Porthos and Aramis remained behind to encounter the jokes of
the dragoon and the Swiss.

As to Bazin, he went and lay down on a truss of straw; and
as he had more imagination than the Swiss, he dreamed that
Aramis, having become pope, adorned his head with a
cardinal's hat.

But, as we have said, Bazin had not, by his fortunate
return, removed more than a part of the uneasiness which
weighed upon the four friends. The days of expectation are
long, and d'Artagnan, in particular, would have wagered that
the days were forty-four hours. He forgot the necessary
slowness of navigation; he exaggerated to himself the power
of Milady. He credited this woman, who appeared to him the
equal of a demon, with agents as supernatural as herself; at
the least noise, he imagined himself about to be arrested,
and that Planchet was being brought back to be confronted
with himself and his friends. Still further, his confidence
in the worthy Picard, at one time so great, diminished day
by day. This anxiety became so great that it even extended
to Aramis and Porthos. Athos alone remained unmoved, as if
no danger hovered over him, and as if he breathed his
customary atmosphere.

On the sixteenth day, in particular, these signs were so
strong in d'Artagnan and his two friends that they could not
remain quiet in one place, and wandered about like ghosts on
the road by which Planchet was expected.

"Really," said Athos to them, "you are not men but children,
to let a woman terrify you so! And what does it amount to,
after all? To be imprisoned. Well, but we should be taken
out of prison; Madame Bonacieux was released. To be
decapitated? Why, every day in the trenches we go
cheerfully to expose ourselves to worse than that--for a
bullet may break a leg, and I am convinced a surgeon would
give us more pain in cutting off a thigh than an executioner
in cutting off a head. Wait quietly, then; in two hours, in
four, in six hours at latest, Planchet will be here. He
promised to be here, and I have very great faith in
Planchet, who appears to me to be a very good lad."

"But if he does not come?" said d'Artagnan.

"Well, if he does not come, it will be because he has been
delayed, that's all. He may have fallen from his horse, he
may have cut a caper from the deck; he may have traveled so
fast against the wind as to have brought on a violent
catarrh. Eh, gentlemen, let us reckon upon accidents! Life
is a chaplet of little miseries which the philosopher counts
with a smile. Be philosophers, as I am, gentlemen; sit down
at the table and let us drink. Nothing makes the future
look so bright as surveying it through a glass of
chambertin."

"That's all very well," replied d'Artagnan; "but I am tired
of fearing when I open a fresh bottle that the wine may come
from the cellar of Milady."

"You are very fastidious," said Athos; "such a beautiful
woman!"

"A woman of mark!" said Porthos, with his loud laugh.

Athos started, passed his hand over his brow to remove the
drops of perspiration that burst forth, and rose in his turn
with a nervous movement he could not repress.

The day, however, passed away; and the evening came on
slowly, but finally it came. The bars were filled with
drinkers. Athos, who had pocketed his share of the diamond,
seldom quit the Parpaillot. He had found in M. de Busigny,
who, by the by, had given them a magnificent dinner, a
partner worthy of his company. They were playing together,
as usual, when seven o'clock sounded; the patrol was heard
passing to double the posts. At half past seven the retreat
was sounded.

"We are lost," said d'Artagnan, in the ear of Athos.

"You mean to say we have lost," said Athos, quietly, drawing
four pistoles from his pocket and throwing them upon the
table. "Come, gentlemen," said he, "they are beating the
tattoo. Let us to bed!"

And Athos went out of the Parpaillot, followed by
d'Artagnan. Aramis came behind, giving his arm to Porthos.
Aramis mumbled verses to himself, and Porthos from time to
time pulled a hair or two from his mustache, in sign of
despair.

But all at once a shadow appeared in the darkness the
outline of which was familiar to d'Artagnan, and a well-
known voice said, "Monsieur, I have brought your cloak; it
is chilly this evening."

"Planchet!" cried d'Artagnan, beside himself with joy.

"Planchet!" repeated Aramis and Porthos.

"Well, yes, Planchet, to be sure," said Athos, "what is
there so astonishing in that? He promised to be back by
eight o'clock, and eight is striking. Bravo, Planchet, you
are a lad of your word, and if ever you leave your master, I
will promise you a place in my service."

"Oh, no, never," said Planchet, "I will never leave Monsieur
d'Artagnan."

At the same time d'Artagnan felt that Planchet slipped a
note into his hand.

D'Artagnan felt a strong inclination to embrace Planchet as
he had embraced him on his departure; but he feared lest
this mark of affection, bestowed upon his lackey in the open
street, might appear extraordinary to passers-by, and he
restrained himself.

"I have the note," said he to Athos and to his friends.

"That's well," said Athos, "let us go home and read it."

The note burned the hand of d'Artagnan. He wished to hasten
their steps; but Athos took his arm and passed it under his
own, and the young man was forced to regulate his pace by
that of his friend.

At length they reached the tent, lit a lamp, and while
Planchet stood at the entrance that the four friends might
not be surprised, d'Artagnan, with a trembling hand, broke
the seal and opened the so anxiously expected letter.

It contained half a line, in a hand perfectly British, and
with a conciseness as perfectly Spartan:


Thank you; be easy.


d'Artagnan translated this for the others.

Athos took the letter from the hands of d'Artagnan,
approached the lamp, set fire to the paper, and did not let
go till it was reduced to a cinder.

Then, calling Planchet, he said, "Now, my lad, you may claim
your seven hundred livres, but you did not run much risk
with such a note as that."

"I am not to blame for having tried every means to compress
it," said Planchet.

"Well!" cried d'Artagnan, "tell us all about it."

"Dame, that's a long job, monsieur."

"You are right, Planchet," said Athos; "besides, the tattoo
has been sounded, and we should be observed if we kept a
light burning much longer than the others."

"So be it," said d'Artagnan. "Go to bed, Planchet, and
sleep soundly."

"My faith, monsieur! that will be the first time I have done
so for sixteen days."

"And me, too!" said d'Artagnan.

"And me, too!" said Porthos.

"And me, too!" said Aramis.

"Well, if you will have the truth, and me, too!" said Athos.



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."



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.



51 OFFICER

Meanwhile, the cardinal looked anxiously for news from England;
but no news arrived that was not annoying and threatening.

Although La Rochelle was invested, however certain success might
appear--thanks to the precautions taken, and above all to the
dyke, which prevented the entrance of any vessel into the
besieged city--the blockade might last a long time yet. This was
a great affront to the king's army, and a great inconvenience to
the cardinal, who had no longer, it is true, to embroil Louis
XIII with Anne of Austria--for that affair was over--but he had
to adjust matters for M. de Bassompierre, who was embroiled with
the Duc d'Angouleme.

As to Monsieur, who had begun the siege, he left to the cardinal
the task of finishing it.

The city, notwithstanding the incredible perseverance of its
mayor, had attempted a sort of mutiny for a surrender; the mayor
had hanged the mutineers. This execution quieted the ill-
disposed, who resolved to allow themselves to die of hunger--this
death always appearing to them more slow and less sure than
strangulation.

On their side, from time to time, the besiegers took the
messengers which the Rochellais sent to Buckingham, or the spies
which Buckingham sent to the Rochellais. In one case or the
other, the trial was soon over. The cardinal pronounced the
single word, "Hanged!" The king was invited to come and see the
hanging. He came languidly, placing himself in a good situation
to see all the details. This amused him sometimes a little, and
made him endure the siege with patience; but it did not prevent
his getting very tired, or from talking at every moment of
returning to Paris--so that if the messengers and the spies had
failed, his Eminence, notwithstanding all his inventiveness,
would have found himself much embarrassed.

Nevertheless, time passed on, and the Rochellais did not
surrender. The last spy that was taken was the bearer of a
letter. This letter told Buckingham that the city was at an
extremity; but instead of adding, "If your succor does not arrive
within fifteen days, we will surrender," it added, quite simply,
"If your succor comes not within fifteen days, we shall all be
dead with hunger when it comes."

The Rochellais, then, had no hope but in Buckingham. Buckingham
was their Messiah. It was evident that if they one day learned
positively that they must not count on Buckingham, their courage
would fail with their hope.

The cardinal looked, then, with great impatience for the news
from England which would announce to him that Buckingham would
not come.

The question of carrying the city by assault, though often
debated in the council of the king, had been always rejected. In
the first place, La Rochelle appeared impregnable. Then the
cardinal, whatever he said, very well knew that the horror of
bloodshed in this encounter, in which Frenchman would combat
against Frenchman, was a retrograde movement of sixty years
impressed upon his policy; and the cardinal was at that period
what we now call a man of progress. In fact, the sack of La
Rochelle, and the assassination of three of four thousand
Huguenots who allowed themselves to be killed, would resemble too
closely, in 1628, the massacre of St. Bartholomew in 1572; and
then, above all this, this extreme measure, which was not at all
repugnant to the king, good Catholic as he was, always fell
before this argument of the besieging generals--La Rochelle is
impregnable except to famine.

The cardinal could not drive from his mind the fear he
entertained of his terrible emissary--for he comprehended the
strange qualities of this woman, sometimes a serpent, sometimes a
lion. Had she betrayed him? Was she dead? He knew her well
enough in all cases to know that, whether acting for or against
him, as a friend or an enemy, she would not remain motionless
without great impediments; but whence did these impediments
arise? That was what he could not know.

And yet he reckoned, and with reason, on Milady. He had divined
in the past of this woman terrible things which his red mantle
alone could cover; and he felt, from one cause or another, that
this woman was his own, as she could look to no other but himself
for a support superior to the danger which threatened her.

He resolved, then, to carry on the war alone, and to look for no
success foreign to himself, but as we look for a fortunate
chance. He continued to press the raising of the famous dyke
which was to starve La Rochelle. Meanwhile, he cast his eyes
over that unfortunate city, which contained so much deep misery
and so many heroic virtues, and recalling the saying of Louis XI,
his political predecessor, as he himself was the predecessor of
Robespierre, he repeated this maxim of Tristan's gossip: "Divide
in order to reign."

Henry IV, when besieging Paris, had loaves and provisions thrown
over the walls. The cardinal had little notes thrown over in
which he represented to the Rochellais how unjust, selfish, and
barbarous was the conduct of their leaders. These leaders had
corn in abundance, and would not let them partake of it; they
adopted as a maxim--for they, too, had maxims--that it was of
very little consequence that women, children, and old men should
die, so long as the men who were to defend the walls remained
strong and healthy. Up to that time, whether from devotedness or
from want of power to act against it, this maxim, without being
generally adopted, nevertheless passed from theory into practice;
but the notes did it injury. The notes reminded the men that the
children, women, and old men whom they allowed to die were their
sons, their wives, and their fathers, and that it would be more
just for everyone to be reduced to the common misery, in order
that equal 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 dyke or the sea, to imagine
wild plans, and to execute them coolly--such were the pastimes
which made the army find these days short which were not only so
long to the Rochellais, a prey to famine and anxiety, but even to
the cardinal, who blockaded them so closely.

Sometimes when the cardinal, always on horseback, like the lowest
GENDARME of the army, cast a pensive glance over those works, so
slowly keeping pace with his wishes, which the engineers, brought
from all the corners of France, were executing under his orders,
if he met a Musketeer of the company of Treville, he drew near
and looked at him in a peculiar manner, and not recognizing in
him one of our four companions, he turned his penetrating look
and profound thoughts in another direction.

One day when oppressed with a mortal weariness of mind, without
hope in the negotiations with the city, without news from
England, the cardinal went out, without any other aim than to be
out of doors, and accompanied only by Cahusac and La Houdiniere,
strolled along the beach. Mingling the immensity of his dreams
with the immensity of the ocean, he came, his horse going at a
foot's pace, to a hill from the top of which he perceived behind
a hedge, reclining on the sand and catching in its passage one of
those rays of the sun so rare at this period of the year, seven
men surrounded by empty bottles. Four of these men were our
Musketeers, preparing to listen to a letter one of them had just
received. This letter was so important that it made them forsake
their cards and their dice on the drumhead.

The other three were occupied in opening an enormous flagon of
Collicure wine; these were the lackeys of these gentlemen.

The cardinal was, as we have said, in very low spirits; and
nothing when he was in that state of mind increased his
depression so much as gaiety in others. Besides, he had another
strange fancy, which was always to believe that the causes of his
sadness created the gaiety of others. Making a sign to La
Houdiniere and Cahusac to stop, he alighted from his horse, and
went toward these suspected merry companions, hoping, by means of
the sand which deadened the sound of his steps and of the hedge
which concealed his approach, to catch some words of this
conversation which appeared so interesting. At ten paces from
the hedge he recognized the talkative Gascon; and as he had
already perceived that these men were Musketeers, he did not
doubt that the three others were those called the Inseparables;
that is to say, Athos, Porthos, and Aramis.

It may be supposed that his desire to hear the conversation was
augmented by this discovery. His eyes took a strange expression,
and with the step of a tiger-cat he advanced toward the hedge;
but he had not been able to catch more than a few vague syllables
without any positive sense, when a sonorous and short cry made
him start, and attracted the attention of the Musketeers.

"Officer!" cried Grimaud.

"You are speaking, you scoundrel!" said Athos, rising upon his
elbow, and transfixing Grimaud with his flaming look.

Grimaud therefore added nothing to his speech, but contented
himself with pointing his index finger in the direction of the
hedge, announcing by this gesture the cardinal and his escort.

With a single bound the Musketeers were on their feet, and
saluted with respect.

The cardinal seemed furious.

"It appears that Messieurs the Musketeers keep guard," said he.
"Are the English expected by land, or do the Musketeers consider
themselves superior officers?"

"Monseigneur," replied Athos, for amid the general fright he
alone had preserved the noble calmness and coolness that never
forsook him, "Monseigneur, the Musketeers, when they are not on
duty, or when their duty is over, drink and play at dice, and
they are certainly superior officers to their lackeys."

"Lackeys?" grumbled the cardinal. "Lackeys who have the order to
warn their masters when anyone passes are not lackeys, they are
sentinels."

"Your Eminence may perceive that if we had not taken this
precaution, we should have been exposed to allowing you to pass
without presenting you our respects or offering you our thanks
for the favor you have done us in uniting us. D'Artagnan,"
continued Athos, "you, who but lately were so anxious for such an
opportunity for expressing your gratitude to Monseigneur, here it
is; avail yourself of it."

These words were pronounced with that imperturbable phlegm which
distinguished Athos in the hour of danger, and with that
excessive politeness which made of him at certain moments a king
more majestic than kings by birth.

D'Artagnan came forward and stammered out a few words of
gratitude which soon expired under the gloomy looks of the
cardinal.

"It does not signify, gentlemen," continued the cardinal, without
appearing to be in the least swerved from his first intention by
the diversion which Athos had started, "it does not signify,
gentlemen. I do not like to have simple soldiers, because they
have the advantage of serving in a privileged corps, thus to play
the great lords; discipline is the same for them as for everybody
else."

Athos allowed the cardinal to finish his sentence completely, and
bowed in sign of assent. Then he resumed in his turn:
"Discipline, Monseigneur, has, I hope, in no way been forgotten
by us. We are not on duty, and we believed that not being on
duty we were at liberty to dispose of our time as we pleased. If
we are so fortunate as to have some particular duty to perform
for your Eminence, we are ready to obey you. Your Eminence may
perceive," continued Athos, knitting his brow, for this sort of
investigation began to annoy him, "that we have not come out
without our arms."

And he showed the cardinal, with his finger, the four muskets
piled near the drum, on which were the cards and dice.

"Your Eminence may believe," added d'Artagnan, "that we would
have come to meet you, if we could have supposed it was
Monseigneur coming toward us with so few attendants."

The cardinal bit his mustache, and even his lips a little.

"Do you know what you look like, all together, as you are armed
and guarded by your lackeys?" said the cardinal. "You look like
four conspirators."

"Oh, as to that, Monseigneur, it is true," said Athos; "we do
conspire, as your Eminence might have seen the other morning.
Only we conspire against the Rochellais."

"Ah, you gentlemen of policy!" replied the cardinal, knitting his
brow in his turn, "the secret of many unknown things might
perhaps be found in your brains, if we could read them as you
read that letter which you concealed as soon as you saw me
coming."

The color mounted to the face of Athos, and he made a step toward
his Eminence.

"One might think you really suspected us, monseigneur, and we
were undergoing a real interrogatory. If it be so, we trust your
Eminence will deign to explain yourself, and we should then at
least be acquainted with our real position."

"And if it were an interrogatory!" replied the cardinal. "Others
besides you have undergone such, Monsieur Athos, and have replied
thereto."

"Thus I have told your Eminence that you had but to question us,
and we are ready to reply."

"What was that letter you were about to read, Monsieur Aramis,
and which you so promptly concealed?"

"A woman's letter, monseigneur."

"Ah, yes, I see," said the cardinal; "we must be discreet with
this sort of letters; but nevertheless, we may show them to a
confessor, and you know I have taken orders."

"Monseigneur," said Athos, with a calmness the more terrible
because he risked his head in making this reply, "the letter is a
woman's letter, but it is neither signed Marion de Lorme, nor
Madame d'Aiguillon."

The cardinal became as pale as death; lightning darted from his
eyes. He turned round as if to give an order to Cahusac and
Houdiniere. Athos saw the movement; he made a step toward the
muskets, upon which the other three friends had fixed their eyes,
like men ill-disposed to allow themselves to be taken. The
cardinalists were three; the Musketeers, lackeys included, were
seven. He judged that the match would be so much the less equal,
if Athos and his companions were really plotting; and by one of
those rapid turns which he always had at command, all his anger
faded away into a smile.

"Well, well!" said he, "you are brave young men, proud in
daylight, faithful in darkness. We can find no fault with you
for watching over yourselves, when you watch so carefully over
others. Gentlemen, I have not forgotten the night in which you
served me as an escort to the Red Dovecot. If there were any
danger to be apprehended on the road I am going, I would request
you to accompany me; but as there is none, remain where you are,
finish your bottles, your game, and your letter. Adieu,
gentlemen!"

And remounting his horse, which Cahusac led to him, he saluted
them with his hand, and rode away.

The four young men, standing and motionless, followed him with
their eyes without speaking a single word until he had
disappeared. Then they looked at one another.

The countenances of all gave evidence of terror, for
notwithstanding the friendly adieu of his Eminence, they plainly
perceived that the cardinal went away with rage in his heart.

Athos alone smiled, with a self-possessed, disdainful smile.

When the cardinal was out of hearing and sight, "That Grimaud
kept bad watch!" cried Porthos, who had a great inclination to
vent his ill-humor on somebody.

Grimaud was about to reply to excuse himself. Athos lifted his
finger, and Grimaud was silent.

"Would you have given up the letter, Aramis?" said d'Artagnan.

"I," said Aramis, in his most flutelike tone, "I had made up my
mind. If he had insisted upon the letter being given up to him,
I would have presented the letter to him with one hand, and with
the other I would have run my sword through his body."

"I expected as much," said Athos; "and that was why I threw
myself between you and him. Indeed, this man is very much to
blame for talking thus to other men; one would say he had never
had to do with any but women and children."

"My dear Athos, I admire you, but nevertheless we were in the
wrong, after all."

"How, in the wrong?" said Athos. "Whose, then, is the air we
breathe? Whose is the ocean upon which we look? Whose is the
sand upon which we were reclining? Whose is that letter of your
mistress? Do these belong to the cardinal? Upon my honor, this
man fancies the world belongs to him. There you stood,
stammering, stupefied, annihilated. One might have supposed the
Bastille appeared before you, and that the gigantic Medusa had
converted you into stone. Is being in love conspiring? You are
in love with a woman whom the cardinal has caused to be shut up,
and you wish to get her out of the hands of the cardinal. That's
a match you are playing with his Eminence; this letter is your
game. Why should you expose your game to your adversary? That
is never done. Let him find it out if he can! We can find out
his!"

"Well, that's all very sensible, Athos," said d'Artagnan.

"In that case, let there be no more question of what's past, and
let Aramis resume the letter from his cousin where the cardinal
interrupted him."

Aramis drew the letter from his pocket; the three friends
surrounded him, and the three lackeys grouped themselves again
near the wine jar.

"You had only read a line or two," said d'Artagnan; "read the
letter again from the commencement."

"Willingly," said Aramis.

"My dear Cousin, I think I shall make up my mind to set out for
Bethune, where my sister has placed our little servant in the
convent of the Carmelites; this poor child is quite resigned, as
she knows she cannot live elsewhere without the salvation of her
soul being in danger. Nevertheless, if the affairs of our family
are arranged, as we hope they will be, I believe she will run the
risk of being damned, and will return to those she regrets,
particularly as she knows they are always thinking of her.
Meanwhile, she is not very wretched; what she most desires is a
letter from her intended. I know that such viands pass with
difficulty through convent gratings; but after all, as I have
given you proofs, my dear cousin, I am not unskilled in such
affairs, and I will take charge of the commission. My sister
thanks you for your good and eternal remembrance. She has
experienced much anxiety; but she is now at length a little
reassured, having sent her secretary away in order that nothing
may happen unexpectedly.

"Adieu, my dear cousin. Tell us news of yourself as often as you
can; that is to say, as often as you can with safety. I embrace
you.

"Marie Michon."

"Oh, what do I not owe you, Aramis?" said d'Artagnan. "Dear
Constance! I have at length, then, intelligence of you. She
lives; she is in safety in a convent; she is at Bethune! Where
is Bethune, Athos?"

"Why, upon the frontiers of Artois and of Flanders. The siege
once over, we shall be able to make a tour in that direction."

"And that will not be long, it is to be hoped," said Porthos;
"for they have this morning hanged a spy who confessed that the
Rochellais were reduced to the leather of their shoes. Supposing
that after having eaten the leather they eat the soles, I cannot
see much that is left unless they eat one another."

"Poor fools!" said Athos, emptying a glass of excellent Bordeaux
wine which, without having at that period the reputation it now
enjoys, merited it no less, "poor fools! As if the Catholic
religion was not the most advantageous and the most agreeable of
all religions! All the same," resumed he, after having clicked
his tongue against his palate, "they are brave fellows! But what
the devil are you about, Aramis?" continued Athos. "Why, you are
squeezing that letter into your pocket!"

"Yes," said d'Artagnan, "Athos is right, it must be burned. And
yet if we burn it, who knows whether Monsieur Cardinal has not a
secret to interrogate ashes?"

"He must have one," said Athos.

"What will you do with the letter, then?" asked Porthos.

"Come here, Grimaud," said Athos. Grimaud rose and obeyed. "As
a punishment for having spoken without permission, my friend, you
will please to eat this piece of paper; then to recompense you
for the service you will have rendered us, you shall afterward
drink this glass of wine. First, here is the letter. Eat
heartily."

Grimaud smiled; and with his eyes fixed upon the glass which
Athos held in his hand, he ground the paper well between his
teeth and then swallowed it.

"Bravo, Monsieur Grimaud!" said Athos; "and now take this.
That's well. We dispense with your saying grace."

Grimaud silently swallowed the glass of Bordeaux wine; but his
eyes, raised toward heaven during this delicious occupation,
spoke a language which, though mute, was not the less expressive.

"And now," said Athos, "unless Monsieur Cardinal should form the
ingenious idea of ripping up Grimaud, I think we may be pretty
much at our ease respecting the letter."

Meantime, his Eminence continued his melancholy ride, murmuring
between his mustaches, "These four men must positively be mine."



52 CAPTIVITY: THE FIRST DAY

Let us return to Milady, whom a glance thrown upon the coast of
France has made us lose sight of for an instant.

We shall find her still in the despairing attitude in which we
left her, plunged in an abyss of dismal reflection--a dark hell
at the gate of which she has almost left hope behind, because for
the first time she doubts, for the first time she fears.

On two occasions her fortune has failed her, on two occasions she
has found herself discovered and betrayed; and on these two
occasions it was to one fatal genius, sent doubtlessly by the
Lord to combat her, that she has succumbed. D'Artagnan has
conquered her--her, that invincible power of evil.

He has deceived her in her love, humbled her in her pride,
thwarted her in her ambition; and now he ruins her fortune,
deprives her of liberty, and even threatens her life. Still
more, he has lifted the corner of her mask--that shield with
which she covered herself and which rendered her so strong.

D'Artagnan has turned aside from Buckingham, whom she hates as
she hates everyone she has loved, the tempest with which
Richelieu threatened him in the person of the queen. D'Artagnan
had passed himself upon her as de Wardes, for whom she had
conceived one of those tigerlike fancies common to women of her
character. D'Artagnan knows that terrible secret which she has
sworn no one shall know without dying. In short, at the moment
in which she has just obtained from Richelieu a carte blanche by
the means of which she is about to take vengeance on her enemy,
this precious paper is torn from her hands, and it is d'Artagnan
who holds her prisoner and is about to send her to some filthy
Botany Bay, some infamous Tyburn of the Indian Ocean.

All this she owes to d'Artagnan, without doubt. From whom can
come so many disgraces heaped upon her head, if not from him? He
alone could have transmitted to Lord de Winter all these
frightful secrets which he has discovered, one after another, by
a train of fatalities. He knows her brother-in-law. He must
have written to him.

What hatred she distills! Motionless, with her burning and fixed
glances, in her solitary apartment, how well the outbursts of
passion which at times escape from the depths of her chest with
her respiration, accompany the sound of the surf which rises,
growls, roars, and breaks itself like an eternal and powerless
despair against the rocks on which is built this dark and lofty
castle! How many magnificent projects of vengeance she conceives
by the light of the flashes which her tempestuous passion casts
over her mind against Mme. Bonacieux, against Buckingham, but
above all against d'Artagnan--projects lost in the distance of
the future.

Yes; but in order to avenge herself she must be free. And to be
free, a prisoner has to pierce a wall, detach bars, cut through a
floor--all undertakings which a patient and strong man may
accomplish, but before which the feverish irritations of a woman
must give way. Besides, to do all this, time is necessary--
months, years; and she has ten or twelve days, as Lord de Winter,
her fraternal and terrible jailer, has told her.

And yet, if she were a man she would attempt all this, and
perhaps might succeed; why, then, did heaven make the mistake of
placing that manlike soul in that frail and delicate body?

The first moments of her captivity were terrible; a few
convulsions of rage which she could not suppress paid her debt of
feminine weakness to nature. But by degrees she overcame the
outbursts of her mad passion; and nervous tremblings which
agitated her frame disappeared, and she remained folded within
herself like a fatigued serpent in repose.

"Go to, go to! I must have been mad to allow myself to be
carried away so," says she, gazing into the glass, which reflects
back to her eyes the burning glance by which she appears to
interrogate herself. "No violence; violence is the proof of
weakness. In the first place, I have never succeeded by that
means. Perhaps if I employed my strength against women I might
perchance find them weaker than myself, and consequently conquer
them; but it is with men that I struggle, and I am but a woman to
them. Let me fight like a woman, then; my strength is in my
weakness."

Then, as if to render an account to herself of the changes she
could place upon her countenance, so mobile and so expressive,
she made it take all expressions from that of passionate anger,
which convulsed her features, to that of the most sweet, most
affectionate, and most seducing smile. Then her hair assumed
successively, under her skillful hands, all the undulations she
thought might assist the charms of her face. At length she
murmured, satisfied with herself, "Come, nothing is lost; I am
still beautiful."

It was then nearly eight o'clock in the evening. Milady
perceived a bed; she calculated that the repose of a few hours
would not only refresh her head and her ideas, but still further,
her complexion. A better idea, however, came into her mind
before going to bed. She had heard something said about supper.
She had already been an hour in this apartment; they could not
long delay bringing her a repast. The prisoner did not wish to
lose time; and she resolved to make that very evening some
attempts to ascertain the nature of the ground she had to work
upon, by studying the characters of the men to whose guardianship
she was committed.

A light appeared under the door; this light announced the
reappearance of her jailers. Milady, who had arisen, threw
herself quickly into the armchair, her head thrown back, her
beautiful hair unbound and disheveled, her bosom half bare
beneath her crumpled lace, one hand on her heart, and the other
hanging down.

The bolts were drawn; the door groaned upon its hinges. Steps
sounded in the chamber, and drew near.

"Place that table there," said a voice which the prisoner
recognized as that of Felton.

The order was executed.

"You will bring lights, and relieve the sentinel," continued
Felton.

And this double order which the young lieutenant gave to the same
individuals proved to Milady that her servants were the same men
as her guards; that is to say, soldiers.

Felton's orders were, for the rest, executed with a silent
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.



53 CAPTIVITY: THE SECOND DAY

Milady dreamed that she at length had d'Artagnan in her power,
that she was present at his execution; and it was the sight of
his odious blood, flowing beneath the ax of the headsman, which
spread that charming smile upon her lips.

She slept as a prisoner sleeps, rocked by his first hope.

In the morning, when they entered her chamber she was still in
bed. Felton remained in the corridor. He brought with him the
woman of whom he had spoken the evening before, and who had just
arrived; this woman entered, and approaching Milady's bed,
offered her services.

Milady was habitually pale; her complexion might therefore
deceive a person who saw her for the first time.

"I am in a fever," said she; "I have not slept a single instant
during all this long night. I suffer horribly. Are you likely
to be more humane to me than others were yesterday? All I ask is
permission to remain abed."

"Would you like to have a physician called?" said the woman.

Felton listened to this dialogue without speaking a word.

Milady reflected that the more people she had around her the more
she would have to work upon, and Lord de Winter would redouble
his watch. Besides, the physician might declare the ailment
feigned; and Milady, after having lost the first trick, was not
willing to lose the second.

"Go and fetch a physician?" said she. "What could be the good of
that? These gentlemen declared yesterday that my illness was a
comedy; it would be just the same today, no doubt--for since
yesterday evening they have had plenty of time to send for a
doctor."

"Then," said Felton, who became impatient, "say yourself, madame,
what treatment you wish followed."

"Eh, how can I tell? My God! I know that I suffer, that's all.
Give me anything you like, it is of little consequence."

"Go and fetch Lord de Winter," said Felton, tired of these
eternal complaints.

"Oh, no, no!" cried Milady; "no, sir, do not call him, I conjure
you. I am well, I want nothing; do not call him."

She gave so much vehemence, such magnetic eloquence to this
exclamation, that Felton in spite of himself advanced some steps
into the room.

"He has come!" thought Milady.

"Meanwhile, madame, if you really suffer," said Felton, "a
physician shall be sent for; and if you deceive us--well, it will
be the worse for you. But at least we shall not have to reproach
ourselves with anything."

Milady made no reply, but turning her beautiful head round upon
her pillow, she burst into tears, and uttered heartbreaking sobs.

Felton surveyed her for an instant with his usual impassiveness;
then, seeing that the crisis threatened to be prolonged, he went
out. The woman followed him, and Lord de Winter did not appear.

"I fancy I begin to see my way," murmured Milady, with a savage
joy, burying herself under the clothes to conceal from anybody
who might be watching her this burst of inward satisfaction.

Two hours passed away.

"Now it is time that the malady should be over," said she; "let
me rise, and obtain some success this very day. I have but ten
days, and this evening two of them will be gone."

In the morning, when they entered Milady's chamber they had
brought her breakfast. Now, she thought, they could not long
delay coming to clear the table, and that Felton would then
reappear.

Milady was not deceived. Felton reappeared, and without
observing whether Milady had or had not touched her repast, made
a sign that the table should be carried out of the room, it
having been brought in ready spread.

Felton remained behind; he held a book in his hand.

Milady, reclining in an armchair near the chimney, beautiful,
pale, and resigned, looked like a holy virgin awaiting martyrdom.

Felton approached her, and said, "Lord de Winter, who is a
Catholic, like yourself, madame, thinking that the deprivation of
the rites and ceremonies of your church might be painful to you,
has consented that you should read every day the ordinary of your
Mass; and here is a book which contains the ritual."

At the manner in which Felton laid the book upon the little table
near which Milady was sitting, at the tone in which he pronounced
the two words, YOUR MASS, at the disdainful smile with which he
accompanied them, Milady raised her head, and looked more
attentively at the officer.

By that plain arrangement of the hair, by that costume of extreme
simplicity, by the brow polished like marble and as hard and
impenetrable, she recognized one of those gloomy Puritans she had
so often met, not only in the court of King James, but in that of
the King of France, where, in spite of the remembrance of the St.
Bartholomew, they sometimes came to seek refuge.

She then had one of those sudden inspirations which only people
of genius receive in great crises, in supreme moments which are
to decide their fortunes or their lives.

Those two words, YOUR MASS, and a simple glance cast upon
Felton, revealed to her all the importance of the reply she was
about to make; but with that rapidity of intelligence which was
peculiar to her, this reply, ready arranged, presented itself to
her lips:

"I?" said she, with an accent of disdain in unison with that
which she had remarked in the voice of the young officer, "I,
sir? MY MASS? Lord de Winter, the corrupted Catholic, knows
very well that I am not of his religion, and this is a snare he
wishes to lay for me!"

"And of what religion are you, then, madame?" asked Felton, with
an astonishment which in spite of the empire he held over himself
he could not entirely conceal.

"I will tell it," cried Milady, with a feigned exultation, "on
the day when I shall have suffered sufficiently for my faith."

The look of Felton revealed to Milady the full extent of the
space she had opened for herself by this single word.

The young officer, however, remained mute and motionless; his
look alone had spoken.

"I am in the hands of my enemies," continued she, with that tone
of enthusiasm which she knew was familiar to the Puritans.
"Well, let my God save me, or let me perish for my God! That is
the reply I beg you to make to Lord de Winter. And as to this
book," added she, pointing to the manual with her finger but
without touching it, as if she must be contaminated by it, "you
may carry it back and make use of it yourself, for doubtless you
are doubly the accomplice of Lord de Winter--the accomplice in
his persecutions, the accomplice in his heresies."

Felton made no reply, took the book with the same appearance of
repugnance which he had before manifested, and retired pensively.

Lord de Winter came toward five o'clock in the evening. Milady
had had time, during the whole day, to trace her plan of conduct.
She received him like a woman who had already recovered all her
advantages.

"It appears," said the baron, seating himself in the armchair
opposite that occupied by Milady, and stretching out his legs
carelessly upon the hearth, "it appears we have made a little
apostasy!"

"What do you mean, sir!"

"I mean to say that since we last met you have changed your
religion. You have not by chance married a Protestant for a
third husband, have you?"

"Explain yourself, my Lord," replied the prisoner, with majesty;
"for though I hear your words, I declare I do not understand
them."

"Then you have no religion at all; I like that best," replied
Lord de Winter, laughing.

"Certainly that is most in accord with your own principles,"
replied Milady, frigidly.

"Oh, I confess it is all the same to me."

"Oh, you need not avow this religious indifference, my Lord; your
debaucheries and crimes would vouch for it."

"What, you talk of debaucheries, Madame Messalina, Lady Macbeth!
Either I misunderstand you or you are very shameless!"

"You only speak thus because you are overheard," coolly replied
Milady; "and you wish to interest your jailers and your hangmen
against me."

"My jailers and my hangmen! Heyday, madame! you are taking a
poetical tone, and the comedy of yesterday turns to a tragedy
this evening. As to the rest, in eight days you will be where
you ought to be, and my task will be completed."

"Infamous task! impious task!" cried Milady, with the exultation
of a victim who provokes his judge.

"My word," said de Winter, rising, "I think the hussy is going
mad! Come, come, calm yourself, Madame Puritan, or I'll remove
you to a dungeon. It's my Spanish wine that has got into your
head, is it not? But never mind; that sort of intoxication is
not dangerous, and will have no bad effects."

And Lord de Winter retired swearing, which at that period was a
very knightly habit.

Felton was indeed behind the door, and had not lost one word of
this scene. Milady had guessed aright.

"Yes, go, go!" said she to her brother; "the effects ARE drawing
near, on the contrary; but you, weak fool, will not see them
until it is too late to shun them."

Silence was re-established. Two hours passed away. Milady's
supper was brought in, and she was found deeply engaged in saying
her prayers aloud--prayers which she had learned of an old
servant of her second husband, a most austere Puritan. She
appeared to be in ecstasy, and did not pay the least attention to
what was going on around her. Felton made a sign that she should
not be disturbed; and when all was arranged, he went out quietly
with the soldiers.

Milady knew she might be watched, so she continued her prayers to
the end; and it appeared to her that the soldier who was on duty
at her door did not march with the same step, and seemed to
listen. For the moment she wished nothing better. She arose,
came to the table, ate but little, and drank only water.

An hour after, her table was cleared; but Milady remarked that
this time Felton did not accompany the soldiers. He feared,
then, to see her too often.

She turned toward the wall to smile--for there was in this smile
such an expression of triumph that this smile alone would have
betrayed her.

She allowed, therefore, half an hour to pass away; and as at that
moment all was silence in the old castle, as nothing was heard
but the eternal murmur of the waves--that immense breaking of the
ocean--with her pure, harmonious, and powerful voice, she began
the first couplet of the psalm then in great favor with the
Puritans:


"Thou leavest thy servants, Lord,
To see if they be strong;
But soon thou dost afford
Thy hand to lead them on."


These verses were not excellent--very far from it; but as it is
well known, the Puritans did not pique themselves upon their
poetry.

While singing, Milady listened. The soldier on guard at her door
stopped, as if he had been changed into stone. Milady was then
able to judge of the effect she had produced.

Then she continued her singing with inexpressible fervor and
feeling. It appeared to her that the sounds spread to a distance
beneath the vaulted roofs, and carried with them a magic charm to
soften the hearts of her jailers. It however likewise appeared
that the soldier on duty--a zealous Catholic, no doubt--shook off
the charm, for through the door he called: "Hold your tongue,
madame! Your song is as dismal as a 'De profundis'; and if
besides the pleasure of being in garrison here, we must hear such
things as these, no mortal can hold out."

"Silence!" then exclaimed another stern voice which Milady
recognized as that of Felton. "What are you meddling with,
stupid? Did anybody order you to prevent that woman from
singing? No. You were told to guard her--to fire at her if she
attempted to fly. Guard her! If she flies, kill her; but don't
exceed your orders."

An expression of unspeakable joy lightened the countenance of
Milady; but this expression was fleeting as the reflection of
lightning. Without appearing to have heard the dialogue, of
which she had not lost a word, she began again, giving to her
voice all the charm, all the power, all the seduction the demon
had bestowed upon it:

"For all my tears, my cares,
My exile, and my chains,
I have my youth, my prayers,
And God, who counts my pains."

Her voice, of immense power and sublime expression, gave to the
rude, unpolished poetry of these psalms a magic and an effect
which the most exalted Puritans rarely found in the songs of
their brethren, and which they were forced to ornament with all
the resources of their imagination. Felton believed he heard the
singing of the angel who consoled the three Hebrews in the
furnace.

Milady continued:

"One day our doors will ope,
With God come our desire;
And if betrays that hope,
To death we can aspire."

This verse, into which the terrible enchantress threw her whole
soul, completed the trouble which had seized the heart of the
young officer. He opened the door quickly; and Milady saw him
appear, pale as usual, but with his eye inflamed and almost wild.

"Why do you sing thus, and with such a voice?" said he.

"Your pardon, sir," said Milady, with mildness. "I forgot that
my songs are out of place in this castle. I have perhaps
offended you in your creed; but it was without wishing to do so,
I swear. Pardon me, then, a fault which is perhaps great, but
which certainly was involuntary."

Milady was so beautiful at this moment, the religious ecstasy in
which she appeared to be plunged gave such an expression to her
countenance, that Felton was so dazzled that he fancied he beheld
the angel whom he had only just before heard.

"Yes, yes," said he; "you disturb, you agitate the people who
live in the castle."

The poor, senseless young man was not aware of the incoherence of
his words, while Milady was reading with her lynx's eyes the very
depths of his heart.

"I will be silent, then," said Milady, casting down her eyes with
all the sweetness she could give to her voice, with all the
resignation she could impress upon her manner.

"No, no, madame," said Felton, "only do not sing so loud,
particularly at night."

And at these words Felton, feeling that he could not long
maintain his severity toward his prisoner, rushed out of the
room.

"You have done right, Lieutenant," said the soldier. "Such songs
disturb the mind; and yet we become accustomed to them, her voice
is so beautiful."



54 CAPTIVITY: THE THIRD DAY

Felton had fallen; but there was still another step to be taken.
He must be retained, or rather he must be left quite alone; and
Milady but obscurely perceived the means which could lead to this
result.

Still more must be done. He must be made to speak, in order that
he might be spoken to--for Milady very well knew that her
greatest seduction was in her voice, which so skillfully ran over
the whole gamut of tones from human speech to language celestial.

Yet in spite of all this seduction Milady might fail--for Felton
was forewarned, and that against the least chance. From that
moment she watched all his actions, all his words, from the
simplest glance of his eyes to his gestures--even to a breath
that could be interpreted as a sigh. In short, she studied
everything, as a skillful comedian does to whom a new part has
been assigned in a line to which he is not accustomed.

Face to face with Lord de Winter her plan of conduct was more
easy. She had laid that down the preceding evening. To remain
silent and dignified in his presence; from time to time to
irritate him by affected disdain, by a contemptuous word; to
provoke him to threats and violence which would produce a
contrast with her own resignation--such was her plan. Felton
would see all; perhaps he would say nothing, but he would see.

In the morning, Felton came as usual; but Milady allowed him to
preside over all the preparations for breakfast without
addressing a word to him. At the moment when he was about to
retire, she was cheered with a ray of hope, for she thought he
was about to speak; but his lips moved without any sound leaving
his mouth, and making a powerful effort to control himself, he
sent back to his heart the words that were about to escape from
his lips, and went out. Toward midday, Lord de Winter entered.

It was a tolerably fine winter's day, and a ray of that pale
English sun which lights but does not warm came through the bars
of her prison.

Milady was looking out at the window, and pretended not to hear
the door as it opened.

"Ah, ah!" said Lord de Winter, "after having played comedy, after
having played tragedy, we are now playing melancholy?"

The prisoner made no reply.

"Yes, yes," continued Lord de Winter, "I understand. You would
like very well to be at liberty on that beach! You would like
very well to be in a good ship dancing upon the waves of that
emerald-green sea; you would like very well, either on land or on
the ocean, to lay for me one of those nice little ambuscades you
are so skillful in planning. Patience, patience! In four days'
time the shore will be beneath your feet, the sea will be open to
you--more open than will perhaps be agreeable to you, for in four
days England will be relieved of you."

Milady folded her hands, and raising her fine eyes toward heaven,
"Lord, Lord," said she, with an angelic meekness of gesture and
tone, "pardon this man, as I myself pardon him."

"Yes, pray, accursed woman!" cried the baron; "your prayer is so
much the more generous from your being, I swear to you, in the
power of a man who will never pardon you!" and he went out.

At the moment he went out a piercing glance darted through the
opening of the nearly closed door, and she perceived Felton, who
drew quickly to one side to prevent being seen by her.

Then she threw herself upon her knees, and began to pray.

"My God, my God!" said she, "thou knowest in what holy cause I
suffer; give me, then, strength to suffer."

The door opened gently; the beautiful supplicant pretended not to
hear the noise, and in a voice broken by tears, she continued:

"God of vengeance! God of goodness! wilt thou allow the
frightful projects of this man to be accomplished?"

Then only she pretended to hear the sound of Felton's steps, and
rising quick as thought, she blushed, as if ashamed of being
surprised on her knees.

"I do not like to disturb those who pray, madame," said Felton,
seriously; "do not disturb yourself on my account, I beseech
you."

"How do you know I was praying, sir?" said Milady, in a voice
broken by sobs. "You were deceived, sir; I was not praying."

"Do you think, then, madame," replied Felton, in the same serious
voice, but with a milder tone, "do you think I assume the right
of preventing a creature from prostrating herself before her
Creator? God forbid! Besides, repentance becomes the guilty;
whatever crimes they may have committed, for me the guilty are
sacred at the feet of God!"

"Guilty? I?" said Milady, with a smile which might have disarmed
the angel of the last judgment. "Guilty? Oh, my God, thou
knowest whether I am guilty! Say I am condemned, sir, if you
please; but you know that God, who loves martyrs, sometimes
permits the innocent to be condemned."

"Were you condemned, were you innocent, were you a martyr,"
replied Felton, "the greater would be the necessity for prayer;
and I myself would aid you with my prayers."

"Oh, you are a just man!" cried Milady, throwing herself at his
feet. "I can hold out no longer, for I fear I shall be wanting
in strength at the moment when I shall be forced to undergo the
struggle, and confess my faith. Listen, then, to the
supplication of a despairing woman. You are abused, sir; but
that is not the question. I only ask you one favor; and if you
grant it me, I will bless you in this world and in the next."

"Speak to the master, madame," said Felton; "happily I am neither
charged with the power of pardoning nor punishing. It is upon
one higher placed than I am that God has laid this
responsibility."

"To you--no, to you alone! Listen to me, rather than add to my
destruction, rather than add to my ignominy!"

"If you have merited this shame, madame, if you have incurred
this ignominy, you must submit to it as an offering to God."

"What do you say? Oh, you do not understand me! When I speak of
ignominy, you think I speak of some chastisement, of imprisonment
or death. Would to heaven! Of what consequence to me is
imprisonment or death?"

"It is I who no longer understand you, madame," said Felton.

"Or, rather, who pretend not to understand me, sir!" replied the
prisoner, with a smile of incredulity.

"No, madame, on the honor of a soldier, on the faith of a
Christian."

"What, you are ignorant of Lord de Winter's designs upon me?"

"I am."

"Impossible; you are his confidant!"

"I never lie, madame."

"Oh, he conceals them too little for you not to divine them."

"I seek to divine nothing, madame; I wait till I am confided in,
and apart from that which Lord de Winter has said to me before
you, he has confided nothing to me."

"Why, then," cried Milady, with an incredible tone of
truthfulness, "you are not his accomplice; you do not know that
he destines me to a disgrace which all the punishments of the
world cannot equal in horror?"

"You are deceived, madame," said Felton, blushing; "Lord de
Winter is not capable of such a crime."

"Good," said Milady to herself; "without thinking what it is, he
calls it a crime!" Then aloud, "The friend of THAT WRETCH is
capable of everything."

"Whom do you call 'that wretch'?" asked Felton.

"Are there, then, in England two men to whom such an epithet can
be applied?"

"You mean George Villiers?" asked Felton, whose looks became
excited.

"Whom Pagans and unbelieving Gentiles call Duke of Buckingham,"
replied Milady. "I could not have thought that there was an
Englishman in all England who would have required so long an
explanation to make him understand of whom I was speaking."

"The hand of the Lord is stretched over him," said Felton; "he
will not escape the chastisement he deserves."

Felton only expressed, with regard to the duke, the feeling of
execration which all the English had declared toward him whom the
Catholics themselves called the extortioner, the pillager, the
debauchee, and whom the Puritans styled simply Satan.

"Oh, my God, my God!" cried Milady; "when I supplicate thee to
pour upon this man the chastisement which is his due, thou
knowest it is not my own vengeance I pursue, but the deliverance
of a whole nation that I implore!"

"Do you know him, then?" asked Felton.

"At length he interrogates me!" said Milady to herself, at the
height of joy at having obtained so quickly such a great result.
"Oh, know him? Yes, yes! to my misfortune, to my eternal
misfortune!" and Milady twisted her arms as if in a paroxysm of
grief.

Felton no doubt felt within himself that his strength was
abandoning him, and he made several steps toward the door; but
the prisoner, whose eye never left him, sprang in pursuit of him
and stopped him.

"Sir," cried she, "be kind, be clement, listen to my prayer!
That knife, which the fatal prudence of the baron deprived me of,
because he knows the use I would make of it! Oh, hear me to the
end! that knife, give it to me for a minute only, for mercy's,
for pity's sake! I will embrace your knees! You shall shut the
door that you may be certain I contemplate no injury to you! My
God! to you--the only just, good, and compassionate being I have
met with! To you--my preserver, perhaps! One minute that knife,
one minute, a single minute, and I will restore it to you through
the grating of the door. Only one minute, Mr. Felton, and you
will have saved my honor!"

"To kill yourself?" cried Felton, with terror, forgetting to
withdraw his hands from the hands of the prisoner, "to kill
yourself?"

"I have told, sir," murmured Milady, lowering her voice, and
allowing herself to sink overpowered to the ground; "I have told
my secret! He knows all! My God, I am lost!"

Felton remained standing, motionless and undecided.

"He still doubts," thought Milady; "I have not been earnest
enough."

Someone was heard in the corridor; Milady recognized the step of
Lord de Winter.

Felton recognized it also, and made a step toward the door.

Milady sprang toward him. "Oh, not a word," said she in a
concentrated voice, "not a word of all that I have said to you to
this man, or I am lost, and it would be you--you--"

Then as the steps drew near, she became silent for fear of being
heard, applying, with a gesture of infinite terror, her beautiful
hand to Felton's mouth.

Felton gently repulsed Milady, and she sank into a chair.

Lord de Winter passed before the door without stopping, and they
heard the noise of his footsteps soon die away.

Felton, as pale as death, remained some instants with his ear
bent and listening; then, when the sound was quite extinct, he
breathed like a man awaking from a dream, and rushed out of the
apartment.

"Ah!" said Milady, listening in her turn to the noise of Felton's
steps, which withdrew in a direction opposite to those of Lord de
Winter; "at length you are mine!"

Then her brow darkened. "If he tells the baron," said she, "I am
lost--for the baron, who knows very well that I shall not kill
myself, will place me before him with a knife in my hand, and he
will discover that all this despair is but acted."

She placed herself before the glass, and regarded herself
attentively; never had she appeared more beautiful.

"Oh, yes," said she, smiling, "but we won't tell him!"

In the evening Lord de Winter accompanied the supper.

"Sir," said Milady, "is your presence an indispensable accessory
of my captivity? Could you not spare me the increase of torture
which your visits cause me?"

"How, dear sister!" said Lord de Winter. "Did not you
sentimentally inform me with that pretty mouth of yours, so cruel
to me today, that you came to England solely for the pleasure of
seeing me at your ease, an enjoyment of which you told me you so
sensibly felt the deprivation that you had risked everything for
it--seasickness, tempest, captivity? Well, here I am; be
satisfied. Besides, this time, my visit has a motive."

Milady trembled; she thought Felton had told all. Perhaps never
in her life had this woman, who had experienced so many opposite
and powerful emotions, felt her heart beat so violently.

She was seated. Lord de Winter took a chair, drew it toward her,
and sat down close beside her. Then taking a paper out of his
pocket, he unfolded it slowly.

"Here," said he, "I want to show you the kind of passport which I
have drawn up, and which will serve you henceforward as the rule
of order in the life I consent to leave you."

Then turning his eyes from Milady to the paper, he read: "'Order
to conduct--' The name is blank," interrupted Lord de Winter.
"If you have any preference you can point it out to me; and if it
be not within a thousand leagues of London, attention will be
paid to your wishes. I will begin again, then:

"'Order to conduct to--the person named Charlotte Backson,
branded by the justice of the kingdom of France, but liberated
after chastisement. She is to dwell in this place without ever
going more than three leagues from it. In case of any attempt to
escape, the penalty of death is to be applied. She will receive
five shillings per day for lodging and food'".

"That order does not concern me," replied Milady, coldly, "since
it bears another name than mine."

"A name? Have you a name, then?"

"I bear that of your brother."

"Ay, but you are mistaken. My brother is only your second
husband; and your first is still living. Tell me his name, and I
will put it in the place of the name of Charlotte Backson. No?
You will not? You are silent? Well, then you must be registered
as Charlotte Backson."

Milady remained silent; only this time it was no longer from
affectation, but from terror. She believed the order ready for
execution. She thought that Lord de Winter had hastened her
departure; she thought she was condemned to set off that very
evening. Everything in her mind was lost for an instant; when
all at once she perceived that no signature was attached to the
order. The joy she felt at this discovery was so great she could
not conceal it.

"Yes, yes," said Lord de Winter, who perceived what was passing
in her mind; "yes, you look for the signature, and you say to
yourself: 'All is not lost, for that order is not signed. It is
only shown to me to terrify me, that's all.' You are mistaken.
Tomorrow this order will be sent to the Duke of Buckingham. The
day after tomorrow it will return signed by his hand and marked
with his seal; and four-and-twenty hours afterward I will answer
for its being carried into execution. Adieu, madame. That is
all I had to say to you."

"And I reply to you, sir, that this abuse of power, this exile
under a fictitious name, are infamous!"

"Would you like better to be hanged in your true name, Milady?
You know that the English laws are inexorable on the abuse of
marriage. Speak freely. Although my name, or rather that of my
brother, would be mixed up with the affair, I will risk the
scandal of a public trial to make myself certain of getting rid
of you."

Milady made no reply, but became as pale as a corpse.

"Oh, I see you prefer peregrination. That's well madame; and
there is an old proverb that says, 'Traveling trains youth.' My
faith! you are not wrong after all, and life is sweet. That's
the reason why I take such care you shall not deprive me of mine.
There only remains, then, the question of the five shillings to
be settled. You think me rather parsimonious, don't you? That's
because I don't care to leave you the means of corrupting your
jailers. Besides, you will always have your charms left to
seduce them with. Employ them, if your check with regard to
Felton has not disgusted you with attempts of that kind."

"Felton has not told him," said Milady to herself. "Nothing is
lost, then."

"And now, madame, till I see you again! Tomorrow I will come and
announce to you the departure of my messenger."

Lord de Winter rose, saluted her ironically, and went out.

Milady breathed again. She had still four days before her. Four
days would quite suffice to complete the seduction of Felton.

A terrible idea, however, rushed into her mind. She thought that
Lord de Winter would perhaps send Felton himself to get the order
signed by the Duke of Buckingham. In that case Felton would
escape her--for in order to secure success, the magic of a
continuous seduction was necessary. Nevertheless, as we have
said, one circumstance reassured her. Felton had not spoken.

As she would not appear to be agitated by the threats of Lord de
Winter, she placed herself at the table and ate.

Then, as she had done the evening before, she fell on her knees
and repeated her prayers aloud. As on the evening before, the
soldier stopped his march to listen to her.

Soon after she heard lighter steps than those of the sentinel,
which came from the end of the corridor and stopped before her
door.

"It is he," said she. And she began the same religious chant
which had so strongly excited Felton the evening before.

But although her voice--sweet, full, and sonorous--vibrated as
harmoniously and as affectingly as ever, the door remained shut.
It appeared however to Milady that in one of the furtive glances
she darted from time to time at the grating of the door she
thought she saw the ardent eyes of the young man through the
narrow opening. But whether this was reality or vision, he had
this time sufficient self-command not to enter.

However, a few instants after she had finished her religious
song, Milady thought she heard a profound sigh. Then the same
steps she had heard approach slowly withdrew, as if with regret.



55 CAPTIVITY: THE FOURTH DAY

The next day, when Felton entered Milady's apartment he found her
standing, mounted upon a chair, holding in her hands a cord made
by means of torn cambric handkerchiefs, twisted into a kind of
rope one with another, and tied at the ends. At the noise Felton
made in entering, Milady leaped lightly to the ground, and tried
to conceal behind her the improvised cord she held in her hand.

The young man was more pale than usual, and his eyes, reddened by
want of sleep, denoted that he had passed a feverish night.
Nevertheless, his brow was armed with a severity more austere
than ever.

He advanced slowly toward Milady, who had seated herself, and
taking an end of the murderous rope which by neglect, or perhaps
by design, she allowed to be seen, "What is this, madame?" he
asked coldly.

"That? Nothing," said Milady, smiling with that painful
expression which she knew so well how to give to her smile.
"Ennui is the mortal enemy of prisoners; I had ennui, and I
amused myself with twisting that rope."

Felton turned his eyes toward the part of the wall of the
apartment before which he had found Milady standing in the
armchair in which she was now seated, and over her head he
perceived a gilt-headed screw, fixed in the wall for the purpose
of hanging up clothes or weapons.

He started, and the prisoner saw that start--for though her eyes
were cast down, nothing escaped her.

"What were you doing on that armchair?" asked he.

"Of what consequence?" replied Milady.

"But," replied Felton, "I wish to know."

"Do not question me," said the prisoner; "you know that we who
are true Christians are forbidden to lie."

"Well, then," said Felton, "I will tell you what you were doing,
or rather what you meant to do; you were going to complete the
fatal project you cherish in your mind. Remember, madame, if our
God forbids falsehood, he much more severely condemns suicide."

"When God sees one of his creatures persecuted unjustly, placed
between suicide and dishonor, believe me, sir," replied Milady,
in a tone of deep conviction, "God pardons suicide, for then
suicide becomes martyrdom."

"You say either too much or too little; speak, madame. In the
name of heaven, explain yourself."

"That I may relate my misfortunes for you to treat them as
fables; that I may tell you my projects for you to go and betray
them to my persecutor? No, sir. Besides, of what importance to
you is the life or death of a condemned wretch? You are only
responsible for my body, is it not so? And provided you produce
a carcass that may be recognized as mine, they will require no
more of you; nay, perhaps you will even have a double reward."

"I, madame, I?" cried Felton. "You suppose that I would ever
accept the price of your life? Oh, you cannot believe what you
say!"

"Let me act as I please, Felton, let me act as I please," said
Milady, elated. "Every soldier must be ambitious, must he not?
You are a lieutenant? Well, you will follow me to the grave with
the rank of captain."

"What have I, then, done to you," said Felton, much agitated,
"that you should load me with such a responsibility before God
and before men? In a few days you will be away from this place;
your life, madame, will then no longer be under my care, and,"
added he, with a sigh, "then you can do what you will with it."

"So," cried Milady, as if she could not resist giving utterance
to a holy indignation, "you, a pious man, you who are called a
just man, you ask but one thing--and that is that you may not be
inculpated, annoyed, by my death!"

"It is my duty to watch over your life, madame, and I will
watch."

"But do you understand the mission you are fulfilling? Cruel
enough, if I am guilty; but what name can you give it, what name
will the Lord give it, if I am innocent?"

"I am a soldier, madame, and fulfill the orders I have received."

"Do you believe, then, that at the day of the Last Judgment God
will separate blind executioners from iniquitous judges? You are
not willing that I should kill my body, and you make yourself the
agent of him who would kill my soul."

"But I repeat it again to you," replied Felton, in great emotion,
"no danger threatens you; I will answer for Lord de Winter as for
myself."

"Dunce," cried Milady, "dunce! who dares to answer for another
man, when the wisest, when those most after God's own heart,
hesitate to answer for themselves, and who ranges himself on the
side of the strongest and the most fortunate, to crush the
weakest and the most unfortunate."

"Impossible, madame, impossible," murmured Felton, who felt to
the bottom of his heart the justness of this argument. "A
prisoner, you will not recover your liberty through me; living,
you will not lose your life through me."

"Yes," cried Milady, "but I shall lose that which is much dearer
to me than life, I shall lose my honor, Felton; and it is you,
you whom I make responsible, before God and before men, for my
shame and my infamy."

This time Felton, immovable as he was, or appeared to be, could
not resist the secret influence which had already taken
possession of him. To see this woman, so beautiful, fair as the
brightest vision, to see her by turns overcome with grief and
threatening; to resist at once the ascendancy of grief and
beauty--it was too much for a visionary; it was too much for a
brain weakened by the ardent dreams of an ecstatic faith; it was
too much for a heart furrowed by the love of heaven that burns,
by the hatred of men that devours.

Milady saw the trouble. She felt by intuition the flame of the
opposing passions which burned with the blood in the veins of the
young fanatic. As a skillful general, seeing the enemy ready to
surrender, marches toward him with a cry of victory, she rose,
beautiful as an antique priestess, inspired like a Christian
virgin, her arms extended, her throat uncovered, her hair
disheveled, holding with one hand her robe modestly drawn over
her breast, her look illumined by that fire which had already
created such disorder in the veins of the young Puritan, and went
toward him, crying out with a vehement air, and in her melodious
voice, to which on this occasion she communicated a terrible
energy:


"Let this victim to Baal be sent,
To the lions the martyr be thrown!
Thy God shall teach thee to repent!
From th' abyss he'll give ear to my moan."


Felton stood before this strange apparition like one petrified.

"Who art thou? Who art thou?" cried he, clasping his hands.
"Art thou a messenger from God; art thou a minister from hell;
art thou an angel or a demon; callest thou thyself Eloa or
Astarte?"

"Do you not know me, Felton? I am neither an angel nor a demon;
I am a daughter of earth, I am a sister of thy faith, that is
all."

"Yes, yes!" said Felton, "I doubted, but now I believe."

"You believe, and still you are an accomplice of that child of
Belial who is called Lord de Winter! You believe, and yet you
leave me in the hands of mine enemies, of the enemy of England,
of the enemy of God! You believe, and yet you deliver me up to
him who fills and defiles the world with his heresies and
debaucheries--to that infamous Sardanapalus whom the blind call
the Duke of Buckingham, and whom believers name Antichrist!"

"I deliver you up to Buckingham? I? what mean you by that?"

"They have eyes," cried Milady, "but they see not; ears have
they, but they hear not."

"Yes, yes!" said Felton, passing his hands over his brow, covered
with sweat, as if to remove his last doubt. "Yes, I recognize
the voice which speaks to me in my dreams; yes, I recognize the
features of the angel who appears to me every night, crying to my
soul, which cannot sleep: 'Strike, save England, save thyself--
for thou wilt die without having appeased God!' Speak, speak!"
cried Felton, "I can understand you now."

A flash of terrible joy, but rapid as thought, gleamed from the
eyes of Milady.

However fugitive this homicide flash, Felton saw it, and started
as if its light had revealed the abysses of this woman's heart.
He recalled, all at once, the warnings of Lord de Winter, the
seductions of Milady, her first attempts after her arrival. He
drew back a step, and hung down his head, without, however,
ceasing to look at her, as if, fascinated by this strange
creature, he could not detach his eyes from her eyes.

Milady was not a woman to misunderstand the meaning of this
hesitation. Under her apparent emotions her icy coolness never
abandoned her. Before Felton replied, and before she should be
forced to resume this conversation, so difficult to be sustained
in the same exalted tone, she let her hands fall; and as if the
weakness of the woman overpowered the enthusiasm of the inspired
fanatic, she said: "But no, it is not for me to be the Judith to
deliver Bethulia from this Holofernes. The sword of the eternal
is too heavy for my arm. Allow me, then, to avoid dishonor by
death; let me take refuge in martyrdom. I do not ask you for
liberty, as a guilty one would, nor for vengeance, as would a
pagan. Let me die; that is all. I supplicate you, I implore you
on my knees--let me die, and my last sigh shall be a blessing for
my preserver."

Hearing that voice, so sweet and suppliant, seeing that look, so
timid and downcast, Felton reproached himself. By degrees the
enchantress had clothed herself with that magic adornment which
she assumed and threw aside at will; that is to say, beauty,
meekness, and tears--and above all, the irresistible attraction
of mystical voluptuousness, the most devouring of all
voluptuousness.

"Alas!" said Felton, "I can do but one thing, which is to pity
you if you prove to me you are a victim! But Lord de Winter
makes cruel accusations against you. You are a Christian; you
are my sister in religion. I feel myself drawn toward you--I,
who have never loved anyone but my benefactor--I who have met
with nothing but traitors and impious men. But you, madame, so
beautiful in reality, you, so pure in appearance, must have
committed great iniquities for Lord de Winter to pursue you
thus."

"They have eyes," repeated Milady, with an accent of
indescribable grief, "but they see not; ears have they, but they
hear not."

"But," cried the young officer, "speak, then, speak!"

"Confide my shame to you," cried Milady, with the blush of
modesty upon her countenance, "for often the crime of one becomes
the shame of another--confide my shame to you, a man, and I a
woman? Oh," continued she, placing her hand modestly over her
beautiful eyes, "never! never!--I could not!"

"To me, to a brother?" said Felton.

Milady looked at him for some time with an expression which the
young man took for doubt, but which, however, was nothing but
observation, or rather the wish to fascinate.

Felton, in his turn a suppliant, clasped his hands.

"Well, then," said Milady, "I confide in my brother; I will dare
to--"

At this moment the steps of Lord de Winter were heard; but this
time the terrible brother-in-law of Milady did not content
himself, as on the preceding day, with passing before the door
and going away again. He paused, exchanged two words with the
sentinel; then the door opened, and he appeared.

During the exchange of these two words Felton drew back quickly,
and when Lord de Winter entered, he was several paces from the
prisoner.

The baron entered slowly, sending a scrutinizing glance from
Milady to the young officer.

"You have been here a very long time, John," said he. "Has this
woman been relating her crimes to you? In that case I can
comprehend the length of the conversation."

Felton started; and Milady felt she was lost if she did not come
to the assistance of the disconcerted Puritan.

"Ah, you fear your prisoner should escape!" said she. "Well, ask
your worthy jailer what favor I this instant solicited of him."

"You demanded a favor?" said the baron, suspiciously.

"Yes, my Lord," replied the young man, confused.

"And what favor, pray?" asked Lord de Winter.

"A knife, which she would return to me through the grating of the
door a minute after she had received it," replied Felton.

"There is someone, then, concealed here whose throat this amiable
lady is desirous of cutting," said de Winter, in an ironical,
contemptuous tone.

"There is myself," replied Milady.

"I have given you the choice between America and Tyburn," replied
Lord de Winter. "Choose Tyburn, madame. Believe me, the cord is
more certain than the knife."

Felton grew pale, and made a step forward, remembering that at
the moment he entered Milady had a rope in her hand.

"You are right," said she, "I have often thought of it." Then
she added in a low voice, "And I will think of it again."

Felton felt a shudder run to the marrow of his bones; probably
Lord de Winter perceived this emotion.

"Mistrust yourself, John," said he. "I have placed reliance upon
you, my friend. Beware! I have warned you! But be of good
courage, my lad; in three days we shall be delivered from this
creature, and where I shall send her she can harm nobody."

"You hear him!" cried Milady, with vehemence, so that the baron
might believe she was addressing heaven, and that Felton might
understand she was addressing him.

Felton lowered his head and reflected.

The baron took the young officer by the arm, and turned his head
over his shoulder, so as not to lose sight of Milady till he was
gone out.

"Well," said the prisoner, when the door was shut, "I am not so
far advanced as I believed. De Winter has changed his usual
stupidity into a strange prudence. It is the desire of
vengeance, and how desire molds a man! As to Felton, he
hesitates. Ah, he is not a man like that cursed d'Artagnan. A
Puritan only adores virgins, and he adores them by clasping his
hands. A Musketeer loves women, and he loves them by clasping
his arms round them."

Milady waited, then, with much impatience, for she feared the day
would pass away without her seeing Felton again. At last, in an
hour after the scene we have just described, she heard someone
speaking in a low voice at the door. Presently the door opened,
and she perceived Felton.

The young man advanced rapidly into the chamber, leaving the door
open behind him, and making a sign to Milady to be silent; his
face was much agitated.

"What do you want with me?" said she.

"Listen," replied Felton, in a low voice. "I have just sent away
the sentinel that I might remain here without anybody knowing it,
in order to speak to you without being overheard. The baron has
just related a frightful story to me."

Milady assumed her smile of a resigned victim, and shook her
head.

"Either you are a demon," continued Felton, "or the baron--my
benefactor, my father--is a monster. I have known you four days;
I have loved him four years. I therefore may hesitate between
you. Be not alarmed at what I say; I want to be convinced.
Tonight, after twelve, I will come and see you, and you shall
convince me."

"No, Felton, no, my brother," said she; "the sacrifice is too
great, and I feel what it must cost you. No, I am lost; do not
be lost with me. My death will be much more eloquent than my
life, and the silence of the corpse will convince you much better
than the words of the prisoner."

"Be silent, madame," cried Felton, "and do not speak to me thus;
I came to entreat you to promise me upon your honor, to swear to
me by what you hold most sacred, that you will make no attempt
upon your life."

"I will not promise," said Milady, "for no one has more respect
for a promise or an oath than I have; and if I make a promise I
must keep it."

"Well," said Felton, "only promise till you have seen me again.
If, when you have seen me again, you still persist--well, then
you shall be free, and I myself will give you the weapon you
desire."

"Well," said Milady, "for you I will wait."

"Swear."

"I swear it, by our God. Are you satisfied?"

"Well," said Felton, "till tonight."

And he darted out of the room, shut the door, and waited in the
corridor, the soldier's half-pike in his hand, and as if he had
mounted guard in his place.

The soldier returned, and Felton gave him back his weapon.

Then, through the grating to which she had drawn near, Milady saw
the young man make a sign with delirious fervor, and depart in an
apparent transport of joy.

As for her, she returned to her place with a smile of savage
contempt upon her lips, and repeated, blaspheming, that terrible
name of God, by whom she had just sworn without ever having
learned to know Him.

"My God," said she, "what a senseless fanatic! My God, it is I--
I--and this fellow who will help me to avenge myself."



56 CAPTIVITY: THE FIFTH DAY

Milady had however achieved a half-triumph, and success doubled
her forces.

It was not difficult to conquer, as she had hitherto done, men
prompt to let themselves be seduced, and whom the gallant
education of a court led quickly into her net. Milady was
handsome enough not to find much resistance on the part of the
flesh, and she was sufficiently skillful to prevail over all the
obstacles of the mind.

But this time she had to contend with an unpolished nature,
concentrated and insensible by force of austerity. Religion and
its observances had made Felton a man inaccessible to ordinary
seductions. There fermented in that sublimated brain plans so
vast, projects so tumultuous, that there remained no room for any
capricious or material love--that sentiment which is fed by
leisure and grows with corruption. Milady had, then, made a
breach by her false virtue in the opinion of a man horribly
prejudiced against her, and by her beauty in the heart of a man
hitherto chaste and pure. In short, she had taken the
measure of motives hitherto unknown to herself, through this
experiment, made upon the most rebellious subject that nature and
religion could submit to her study.

Many a time, nevertheless, during the evening she despaired of
fate and of herself. She did not invoke God, we very well know,
but she had faith in the genius of evil--that immense sovereignty
which reigns in all the details of human life, and by which, as
in the Arabian fable, a single pomegranate seed is sufficient to
reconstruct a ruined world.

Milady, being well prepared for the reception of Felton, was able
to erect her batteries for the next day. She knew she had only
two days left; that when once the order was signed by Buckingham--
and Buckingham would sign it the more readily from its bearing a
false name, and he could not, therefore, recognize the woman in
question--once this order was signed, we say, the baron would
make her embark immediately, and she knew very well that women
condemned to exile employ arms much less powerful in their
seductions than the pretendedly virtuous woman whose beauty is
lighted by the sun of the world, whose style the voice of fashion
lauds, and whom a halo of aristocracy gilds with enchanting
splendors. To be a woman condemned to a painful and disgraceful
punishment is no impediment to beauty, but it is an obstacle to
the recovery of power. Like all persons of real genius, Milady
knew what suited her nature and her means. Poverty was repugnant
to her; degradation took away two-thirds of her greatness.
Milady was only a queen while among queens. The pleasure of
satisfied pride was necessary to her domination. To command
inferior beings was rather a humiliation than a pleasure for her.

She should certainly return from her exile--she did not doubt
that a single instant; but how long might this exile last? For
an active, ambitious nature, like that of Milady, days not spent
in climbing are inauspicious days. What word, then, can be found
to describe the days which they occupy in descending? To lose a
year, two years, three years, is to talk of an eternity; to
return after the death or disgrace of the cardinal, perhaps; to
return when d'Artagnan and his friends, happy and triumphant,
should have received from the queen the reward they had well
acquired by the services they had rendered her--these were
devouring ideas that a woman like Milady could not endure. For
the rest, the storm which raged within her doubled her strength,
and she would have burst the walls of her prison if her body had
been able to take for a single instant the proportions of her
mind.

Then that which spurred her on additionally in the midst of all
this was the remembrance of the cardinal. What must the
mistrustful, restless, suspicious cardinal think of her silence--
the cardinal, not merely her only support, her only prop, her
only protector at present, but still further, the principal
instrument of her future fortune and vengeance? She knew him;
she knew that at her return from a fruitless journey it would be
in vain to tell him of her imprisonment, in vain to enlarge upon
the sufferings she had undergone. The cardinal would reply, with
the sarcastic calmness of the skeptic, strong at once by power
and genius, "You should not have allowed yourself to be taken."

Then Milady collected all her energies, murmuring in the depths
of her soul the name of Felton--the only beam of light that
penetrated to her in the hell into which she had fallen; and like
a serpent which folds and unfolds its rings to ascertain its
strength, she enveloped Felton beforehand in the thousand meshes
of her inventive imagination.

Time, however, passed away; the hours, one after another, seemed
to awaken the clock as they passed, and every blow of the brass
hammer resounded upon the heart of the prisoner. At nine
o'clock, Lord de Winter made his customary visit, examined the
window and the bars, sounded the floor and the walls, looked to
the chimney and the doors, without, during this long and minute
examination, he or Milady pronouncing a single word.

Doubtless both of them understood that the situation had become
too serious to lose time in useless words and aimless wrath.

"Well," said the baron, on leaving her "you will not escape
tonight!"

At ten o'clock Felton came and placed the sentinel. Milady
recognized his step. She was as well acquainted with it now as a
mistress is with that of the lover of her heart; and yet Milady
at the same time detested and despised this weak fanatic.

That was not the appointed hour. Felton did not enter.

Two hours after, as midnight sounded, the sentinel was relieved.
This time it WAS the hour, and from this moment Milady waited
with impatience. The new sentinel commenced his walk in the
corridor. At the expiration of ten minutes Felton came.

Milady was all attention.

"Listen," said the young man to the sentinel. "On no pretense
leave the door, for you know that last night my Lord punished a
soldier for having quit his post for an instant, although I,
during his absence, watched in his place."

"Yes, I know it," said the soldier.

"I recommend you therefore to keep the strictest watch. For my
part I am going to pay a second visit to this woman, who I fear
entertains sinister intentions upon her own life, and I have
received orders to watch her."

"Good!" murmured Milady; "the austere Puritan lies."

As to the soldier, he only smiled.

"Zounds, Lieutenant!" said he; "you are not unlucky in being
charged with such commissions, particularly if my Lord has
authorized you to look into her bed."

Felton blushed. Under any other circumstances he would have
reprimanded the soldier for indulging in such pleasantry, but his
conscience murmured too loud for his mouth to dare speak.

"If I call, come," said he. "If anyone comes, call me."

"I will, Lieutenant," said the soldier.

Felton entered Milady's apartment. Milady arose.

"You are here!" said she.

"I promised to come," said Felton, "and I have come."

"You promised me something else."

"What, my God!" said the young man, who in spite of his self-
command felt his knees tremble and the sweat start from his brow.

"You promised to bring a knife, and to leave it with me after our
interview."

"Say no more of that, madame," said Felton. "There is no
situation, however terrible it may be, which can authorize a
creature of God to inflict death upon himself. I have reflected,
and I cannot, must not be guilty of such a sin."

"Ah, you have reflected!" said the prisoner, sitting down in her
armchair, with a smile of disdain; "and I also have reflected."

"Upon what?"

"That I can have nothing to say to a man who does not keep his
word."

"Oh, my God!" murmured Felton.

"You may retire," said Milady. "I will not talk."

"Here is the knife," said Felton, drawing from his pocket the
weapon which he had brought, according to his promise, but which
he hesitated to give to his prisoner.

"Let me see it," said Milady.

"For what purpose?"

"Upon my honor, I will instantly return it to you. You shall
place it on that table, and you may remain between it and me."

Felton offered the weapon to Milady, who examined the temper of
it attentively, and who tried the point on the tip of her finger.

"Well," said she, returning the knife to the young officer, "this
is fine and good steel. You are a faithful friend, Felton."

Felton took back the weapon, and laid it upon the table, as he
had agreed with the prisoner.

Milady followed him with her eyes, and made a gesture of
satisfaction.

"Now," said she, "listen to me."

The request was needless. The young officer stood upright before
her, awaiting her words as if to devour them.

"Felton," said Milady, with a solemnity full of melancholy,
"imagine that your sister, the daughter of your father, speaks to
you. While yet young, unfortunately handsome, I was dragged into
a snare. I resisted. Ambushes and violences multiplied around
me, but I resisted. The religion I serve, the God I adore, were
blasphemed because I called upon that religion and that God, but
still I resisted. Then outrages were heaped upon me, and as my
soul was not subdued they wished to defile my body forever.
Finally--"

Milady stopped, and a bitter smile passed over her lips.

"Finally," said Felton, "finally, what did they do?"

"At length, one evening my enemy resolved to paralyze the
resistance he could not conquer. One evening he mixed a powerful
narcotic with my water. Scarcely had I finished my repast, when
I felt myself sink by degrees into a strange torpor. Although I
was without mistrust, a vague fear seized me, and I tried to
struggle against sleepiness. I arose. I wished to run to the
window and call for help, but my legs refused their office. It
appeared as if the ceiling sank upon my head and crushed me with
its weight. I stretched out my arms. I tried to speak. I could
only utter inarticulate sounds, and irresistible faintness came
over me. I supported myself by a chair, feeling that I was about
to fall, but this support was soon insufficient on account of my
weak arms. I fell upon one knee, then upon both. I tried to
pray, but my tongue was frozen. God doubtless neither heard nor
saw me, and I sank upon the floor a prey to a slumber which
resembled death.

"Of all that passed in that sleep, or the time which glided away
while it lasted, I have no remembrance. The only thing I
recollect is that I awoke in bed in a round chamber, the
furniture of which was sumptuous, and into which light only
penetrated by an opening in the ceiling. No door gave entrance
to the room. It might be called a magnificent prison.

"It was a long time before I was able to make out what place I
was in, or to take account of the details I describe. My mind
appeared to strive in vain to shake off the heavy darkness of the
sleep from which I could not rouse myself. I had vague
perceptions of space traversed, of the rolling of a carriage, of
a horrible dream in which my strength had become exhausted; but
all this was so dark and so indistinct in my mind that these
events seemed to belong to another life than mine, and yet mixed
with mine in fantastic duality.

"At times the state into which I had fallen appeared so strange
that I believed myself dreaming. I arose trembling. My clothes
were near me on a chair; I neither remembered having undressed
myself nor going to bed. Then by degrees the reality broke upon
me, full of chaste terrors. I was no longer in the house where I
had dwelt. As well as I could judge by the light of the sun, the
day was already two-thirds gone. It was the evening before when
I had fallen asleep; my sleep, then, must have lasted twenty-four
hours! What had taken place during this long sleep?

"I dressed myself as quickly as possible; my slow and stiff
motions all attested that the effects of the narcotic were not
yet entirely dissipated. The chamber was evidently furnished for
the reception of a woman; and the most finished coquette could
not have formed a wish, but on casting her eyes about the
apartment, she would have found that wish accomplished.

"Certainly I was not the first captive that had been shut up in
this splendid prison; but you may easily comprehend, Felton, that
the more superb the prison, the greater was my terror.

"Yes, it was a prison, for I tried in vain to get out of it. I
sounded all the walls, in the hopes of discovering a door, but
everywhere the walls returned a full and flat sound.

"I made the tour of the room at least twenty times, in search of
an outlet of some kind; but there was none. I sank exhausted
with fatigue and terror into an armchair.

"Meantime, night came on rapidly, and with night my terrors
increased. I did not know but I had better remain where I was
seated. It appeared that I was surrounded with unknown dangers
into which I was about to fall at every instant. Although I had
eaten nothing since the evening before, my fears prevented my
feeling hunger.

"No noise from without by which I could measure the time reached
me; I only supposed it must be seven or eight o'clock in the
evening, for it was in the month of October and it was quite
dark.

"All at once the noise of a door, turning on its hinges, made me
start. A globe of fire appeared above the glazed opening of the
ceiling, casting a strong light into my chamber; and I perceived
with terror that a man was standing within a few paces of me.

"A table, with two covers, bearing a supper ready prepared,
stood, as if by magic, in the middle of the apartment.

"That man was he who had pursued me during a whole year, who had
vowed my dishonor, and who, by the first words that issued from
his mouth, gave me to understand he had accomplished it the
preceding night."

"Scoundrel!" murmured Felton.

"Oh, yes, scoundrel!" cried Milady, seeing the interest which the
young officer, whose soul seemed to hang on her lips, took in
this strange recital. "Oh, yes, scoundrel! He believed, having
triumphed over me in my sleep, that all was completed. He came,
hoping that I would accept my shame, as my shame was consummated;
he came to offer his fortune in exchange for my love.

"All that the heart of a woman could contain of haughty contempt
and disdainful words, I poured out upon this man. Doubtless he
was accustomed to such reproaches, for he listened to me calm and
smiling, with his arms crossed over his breast. Then, when he
thought I had said all, he advanced toward me; I sprang toward
the table, I seized a knife, I placed it to my breast.

"Take one step more," said I, "and in addition to my dishonor,
you shall have my death to reproach yourself with."

"There was, no doubt, in my look, my voice, my whole person, that
sincerity of gesture, of attitude, of accent, which carries
conviction to the most perverse minds, for he paused.

"'Your death?' said he; 'oh, no, you are too charming a mistress
to allow me to consent to lose you thus, after I have had the
happiness to possess you only a single time. Adieu, my charmer;
I will wait to pay you my next visit till you are in a better
humor.'

"At these words he blew a whistle; the globe of fire which
lighted the room reascended and disappeared. I found myself
again in complete darkness. The same noise of a door opening and
shutting was repeated the instant afterward; the flaming globe
descended afresh, and I was completely alone.

"This moment was frightful; if I had any doubts as to my
misfortune, these doubts had vanished in an overwhelming reality.
I was in the power of a man whom I not only detested, but
despised--of a man capable of anything, and who had already given
me a fatal proof of what he was able to do."

"But who, then was this man?" asked Felton.

"I passed the night on a chair, starting at the least noise, for
toward midnight the lamp went out, and I was again in darkness.
But the night passed away without any fresh attempt on the part
of my persecutor. Day came; the table had disappeared, only I
had still the knife in my hand.

"This knife was my only hope.

"I was worn out with fatigue. Sleeplessness inflamed my eyes; I
had not dared to sleep a single instant. The light of day
reassured me; I went and threw myself on the bed, without parting
with the emancipating knife, which I concealed under my pillow.

"When I awoke, a fresh meal was served.

"This time, in spite of my terrors, in spite of my agony, I began
to feel a devouring hunger. It was forty-eight hours since I had
taken any nourishment. I ate some bread and some fruit; then,
remembering the narcotic mixed with the water I had drunk, I
would not touch that which was placed on the table, but filled my
glass at a marble fountain fixed in the wall over my dressing
table.

"And yet, notwithstanding these precautions, I remained for some
time in a terrible agitation of mind. But my fears were this
time ill-founded; I passed the day without experiencing anything
of the kind I dreaded.

"I took the precaution to half empty the carafe, in order that my
suspicions might not be noticed.

"The evening came on, and with it darkness; but however profound
was this darkness, my eyes began to accustom themselves to it. I
saw, amid the shadows, the table sink through the floor; a
quarter of an hour later it reappeared, bearing my supper. In an
instant, thanks to the lamp, my chamber was once more lighted.

"I was determined to eat only such things as could not possibly
have anything soporific introduced into them. Two eggs and some
fruit composed my repast; then I drew another glass of water from
my protecting fountain, and drank it.

"At the first swallow, it appeared to me not to have the same
taste as in the morning. Suspicion instantly seized me. I
paused, but I had already drunk half a glass.

"I threw the rest away with horror, and waited, with the dew of
fear upon my brow.

"No doubt some invisible witness had seen me draw the water from
that fountain, and had taken advantage of my confidence in it,
the better to assure my ruin, so coolly resolved upon, so cruelly
pursued.

"Half an hour had not passed when the same symptoms began to
appear; but as I had only drunk half a glass of the water, I
contended longer, and instead of falling entirely asleep, I sank
into a state of drowsiness which left me a perception of what was
passing around me, while depriving me of the strength either to
defend myself or to fly.

"I dragged myself toward the bed, to seek the only defense I had
left--my saving knife; but I could not reach the bolster. I sank
on my knees, my hands clasped round one of the bedposts; then I
felt that I was lost."

Felton became frightfully pale, and a convulsive tremor crept
through his whole body.

"And what was most frightful," continued Milady, her voice
altered, as if she still experienced the same agony as at that
awful minute, "was that at this time I retained a consciousness
of the danger that threatened me; was that my soul, if I may say
so, waked in my sleeping body; was that I saw, that I heard. It
is true that all was like a dream, but it was not the less
frightful.

"I saw the lamp ascend, and leave me in darkness; then I heard
the well-known creaking of the door although I had heard that
door open but twice.

"I felt instinctively that someone approached me; it is said that
the doomed wretch in the deserts of America thus feels the
approach of the serpent.

"I wished to make an effort; I attempted to cry out. By an
incredible effort of will I even raised myself up, but only to
sink down again immediately, and to fall into the arms of my
persecutor."

"Tell me who this man was!" cried the young officer.

Milady saw at a single glance all the painful feelings she
inspired in Felton by dwelling on every detail of her recital;
but she would not spare him a single pang. The more profoundly
she wounded his heart, the more certainly he would avenge her.
She continued, then, as if she had not heard his exclamation, or
as if she thought the moment was not yet come to reply to it.

"Only this time it was no longer an inert body, without feeling,
that the villain had to deal with. I have told you that without
being able to regain the complete exercise of my faculties, I
retained the sense of my danger. I struggled, then, with all my
strength, and doubtless opposed, weak as I was, a long
resistance, for I heard him cry out, 'These miserable Puritans!
I knew very well that they tired out their executioners, but I
did not believe them so strong against their lovers!'

"Alas! this desperate resistance could not last long. I felt my
strength fail, and this time it was not my sleep that enabled the
coward to prevail, but my swoon."

Felton listened without uttering any word or sound, except an
inward expression of agony. The sweat streamed down his marble
forehead, and his hand, under his coat, tore his breast.

"My first impulse, on coming to myself, was to feel under my
pillow for the knife I had not been able to reach; if it had not
been useful for defense, it might at least serve for expiation.

"But on taking this knife, Felton, a terrible idea occurred to
me. I have sworn to tell you all, and I will tell you all. I
have promised you the truth; I will tell it, were it to destroy
me."

"The idea came into your mind to avenge yourself on this man, did
it not?" cried Felton.

"Yes," said Milady. "The idea was not that of a Christian, I
knew; but without doubt, that eternal enemy of our souls, that
lion roaring constantly around us, breathed it into my mind. In
short, what shall I say to you, Felton?" continued Milady, in the
tone of a woman accusing herself of a crime. "This idea occurred
to me, and did not leave me; it is of this homicidal thought that
I now bear the punishment."

"Continue, continue!" said Felton; "I am eager to see you attain
your vengeance!"

"Oh, I resolved that it should take place as soon as possible. I
had no doubt he would return the following night. During the day
I had nothing to fear.

"When the hour of breakfast came, therefore, I did not hesitate
to eat and drink. I had determined to make believe sup, but to
eat nothing. I was forced, then, to combat the fast of the
evening with the nourishment of the morning.

"Only I concealed a glass of water, which remained after my
breakfast, thirst having been the chief of my sufferings when I
remained forty-eight hours without eating or drinking.

"The day passed away without having any other influence on me
than to strengthen the resolution I had formed; only I took care
that my face should not betray the thoughts of my heart, for I
had no doubt I was watched. Several times, even, I felt a smile
on my lips. Felton, I dare not tell you at what idea I smiled;
you would hold me in horror--"

"Go on! go on!" said Felton; "you see plainly that I listen, and
that I am anxious to know the end."

"Evening came; the ordinary events took place. During the
darkness, as before, my supper was brought. Then the lamp was
lighted, and I sat down to table. I only ate some fruit. I
pretended to pour out water from the jug, but I only drank that
which I had saved in my glass. The substitution was made so
carefully that my spies, if I had any, could have no suspicion of
it.

"After supper I exhibited the same marks of languor as on the
preceding evening; but this time, as I yielded to fatigue, or as
if I had become familiarized with danger, I dragged myself toward
my bed, let my robe fall, and lay down.

"I found my knife where I had placed it, under my pillow, and
while feigning to sleep, my hand grasped the handle of it
convulsively.

"Two hours passed away without anything fresh happening. Oh, my
God! who could have said so the evening before? I began to fear
that he would not come.

"At length I saw the lamp rise softly, and disappear in the
depths of the ceiling; my chamber was filled with darkness and
obscurity, but I made a strong effort to penetrate this darkness
and obscurity.

"Nearly ten minutes passed; I heard no other noise but the
beating of my own heart. I implored heaven that he might come.

"At length I heard the well-known noise of the door, which opened
and shut; I heard, notwithstanding the thickness of the carpet, a
step which made the floor creak; I saw, notwithstanding the
darkness, a shadow which approached my bed."

"Haste! haste!" said Felton; "do you not see that each of your
words burns me like molten lead?"

"Then," continued Milady, "then I collected all my strength; I
recalled to my mind that the moment of vengeance, or rather, of
justice, had struck. I looked upon myself as another Judith; I
gathered myself up, my knife in my hand, and when I saw him near
me, stretching out his arms to find his victim, then, with the
last cry of agony and despair, I struck him in the middle of his
breast.

"The miserable villain! He had foreseen all. His breast was
covered with a coat-of-mail; the knife was bent against it.

"'Ah, ah!' cried he, seizing my arm, and wresting from me the
weapon that had so badly served me, 'you want to take my life, do
you, my pretty Puritan? But that's more than dislike, that's
ingratitude! Come, come, calm yourself, my sweet girl! I
thought you had softened. I am not one of those tyrants who
detain women by force. You don't love me. With my usual fatuity
I doubted it; now I am convinced. Tomorrow you shall be free.'

"I had but one wish; that was that he should kill me.

"'Beware!' said I, 'for my liberty is your dishonor.'

"'Explain yourself, my pretty sibyl!'

"'Yes; for as soon as I leave this place I will tell everything.
I will proclaim the violence you have used toward me. I will
describe my captivity. I will denounce this place of infamy.
You are placed on high, my Lord, but tremble! Above you there is
the king; above the king there is God!'

"However perfect master he was over himself, my persecutor
allowed a movement of anger to escape him. I could not see the
expression of his countenance, but I felt the arm tremble upon
which my hand was placed.

"'Then you shall not leave this place,' said he.

"'Very well,' cried I, 'then the place of my punishment will be
that of my tomb. I will die here, and you will see if a phantom
that accuses is not more terrible than a living being that
threatens!'

"'You shall have no weapon left in your power.'

"'There is a weapon which despair has placed within the reach of
every creature who has the courage to use it. I will allow
myself to die with hunger.'

"'Come,' said the wretch, 'is not peace much better than such a
war as that? I will restore you to liberty this moment; I will
proclaim you a piece of immaculate virtue; I will name you the
Lucretia of England.'

"'And I will say that you are the Sextus. I will denounce you
before men, as I have denounced you before God; and if it be
necessary that, like Lucretia, I should sign my accusation with
my blood, I will sign it.'

"'Ah!' said my enemy, in a jeering tone, 'that's quite another
thing. My faith! everything considered, you are very well off
here. You shall want for nothing, and if you let yourself die of
hunger that will be your own fault.'

"At these words he retired. I heard the door open and shut, and
I remained overwhelmed, less, I confess it, by my grief than by
the mortification of not having avenged myself.

"He kept his word. All the day, all the next night passed away
without my seeing him again. But I also kept my word with him,
and I neither ate nor drank. I was, as I told him, resolved to
die of hunger.

"I passed the day and the night in prayer, for I hoped that God
would pardon me my suicide.

"The second night the door opened; I was lying on the floor, for
my strength began to abandon me.

"At the noise I raised myself up on one hand.

"'Well,' said a voice which vibrated in too terrible a manner in
my ear not to be recognized, 'well! Are we softened a little?
Will we not pay for our liberty with a single promise of silence?
Come, I am a good sort of a prince,' added he, 'and although I
like not Puritans I do them justice; and it is the same with
Puritanesses, when they are pretty. Come, take a little oath for
me on the cross; I won't ask anything more of you.'

"'On the cross,' cried I, rising, for at that abhorred voice I
had recovered all my strength, 'on the cross I swear that no
promise, no menace, no force, no torture, shall close my mouth!
On the cross I swear to denounce you everywhere as a murderer, as
a thief of honor, as a base coward! On the cross I swear, if I
ever leave this place, to call down vengeance upon you from the
whole human race!'

"'Beware!' said the voice, in a threatening accent that I had
never yet heard. 'I have an extraordinary means which I will not
employ but in the last extremity to close your mouth, or at least
to prevent anyone from believing a word you may utter.'

"I mustered all my strength to reply to him with a burst of
laughter.

"He saw that it was a merciless war between us--a war to the
death.

"'Listen!' said he. 'I give you the rest of tonight and all day
tomorrow. Reflect: promise to be silent, and riches,
consideration, even honor, shall surround you; threaten to speak,
and I will condemn you to infamy.'

"'You?' cried I. 'You?'

"'To interminable, ineffaceable infamy!'

"'You?' repeated I. Oh, I declare to you, Felton, I thought him
mad!

"'Yes, yes, I!' replied he.

"'Oh, leave me!' said I. 'Begone, if you do not desire to see me
dash my head against that wall before your eyes!'

"'Very well, it is your own doing. Till tomorrow evening, then!'

"'Till tomorrow evening, then!' replied I, allowing myself to
fall, and biting the carpet with rage."

Felton leaned for support upon a piece of furniture; and Milady
saw, with the joy of a demon, that his strength would fail him
perhaps before the end of her recital.



57 MEANS FOR CLASSICAL TRAGEDY

After a moment of silence employed by Milady in observing the
young man who listened to her, Milady continued her recital.

"It was nearly three days since I had eaten or drunk anything. I
suffered frightful torments. At times there passed before me
clouds which pressed my brow, which veiled my eyes; this was
delirium.

"When the evening came I was so weak that every time I fainted I
thanked God, for I thought I was about to die.

"In the midst of one of these swoons I heard the door open.
Terror recalled me to myself.

"He entered the apartment followed by a man in a mask. He was
masked likewise; but I knew his step, I knew his voice, I knew
him by that imposing bearing which hell has bestowed upon his
person for the curse of humanity.

"'Well,' said he to me, 'have you made your mind up to take the
oath I requested of you?'

"'You have said Puritans have but one word. Mine you have heard,
and that is to pursue you--on earth to the tribunal of men, in
heaven to the tribunal of God.'

"'You persist, then?'

"'I swear it before the God who hears me. I will take the whole
world as a witness of your crime, and that until I have found an
avenger.'

"'You are a prostitute,' said he, in a voice of thunder, 'and you
shall undergo the punishment of prostitutes! Branded in the eyes
of the world you invoke, try to prove to that world that you are
neither guilty nor mad!'

"Then, addressing the man who accompanied him, 'Executioner,'
said he, 'do your duty.'"

"Oh, his name, his name!" cried Felton. "His name, tell it me!"

"Then in spite of my cries, in spite of my resistance--for I
began to comprehend that there was a question of something worse
than death--the executioner seized me, threw me on the floor,
fastened me with his bonds, and suffocated by sobs, almost
without sense, invoking God, who did not listen to me, I uttered
all at once a frightful cry of pain and shame. A burning fire, a
red-hot iron, the iron of the executioner, was imprinted on my
shoulder."

Felton uttered a groan.

"Here," said Milady, rising with the majesty of a queen, "here,
Felton, behold the new martyrdom invented for a pure young girl,
the victim of the brutality of a villain. Learn to know the
heart of men, and henceforth make yourself less easily the
instrument of their unjust vengeance."

Milady, with a rapid gesture, opened her robe, tore the cambric
that covered her bosom, and red with feigned anger and simulated
shame, showed the young man the ineffaceable impression which
dishonored that beautiful shoulder.

"But," cried Felton, "that is a FLEUR-DE-LIS which I see there."

"And therein consisted the infamy," replied Milady. "The brand
of England!--it would be necessary to prove what tribunal had
imposed it on me, and I could have made a public appeal to all
the tribunals of the kingdom; but the brand of France!--oh, by
that, by THAT I was branded indeed!"

This was too much for Felton.

Pale, motionless, overwhelmed by this frightful revelation,
dazzled by the superhuman beauty of this woman who unveiled
herself before him with an immodesty which appeared to him
sublime, he ended by falling on his knees before her as the early
Christians did before those pure and holy martyrs whom the
persecution of the emperors gave up in the circus to the
sanguinary sensuality of the populace. The brand disappeared;
the beauty alone remained.

"Pardon! Pardon!" cried Felton, "oh, pardon!"

Milady read in his eyes LOVE! LOVE!

"Pardon for what?" asked she.

"Pardon me for having joined with your persecutors."

Milady held out her hand to him.

"So beautiful! so young!" cried Felton, covering that hand with
his kisses.

Milady let one of those looks fall upon him which make a slave of
a king.

Felton was a Puritan; he abandoned the hand of this woman to kiss
her feet.

He no longer loved her; he adored her.

When this crisis was past, when Milady appeared to have resumed
her self-possession, which she had never lost; when Felton had
seen her recover with the veil of chastity those treasures of
love which were only concealed from him to make him desire them
the more ardently, he said, "Ah, now! I have only one thing to
ask of you; that is, the name of your true executioner. For to
me there is but one; the other was an instrument, that was all."

"What, brother!" cried Milady, "must I name him again? Have you
not yet divined who he is?"

"What?" cried Felton, "he--again he--always he? What--the truly
guilty?"

"The truly guilty," said Milady, "is the ravager of England, the
persecutor of true believers, the base ravisher of the honor of
so many women--he who, to satisfy a caprice of his corrupt heart,
is about to make England shed so much blood, who protects the
Protestants today and will betray them tomorrow--"

"Buckingham! It is, then, Buckingham!" cried Felton, in a high
state of excitement.

Milady concealed her face in her hands, as if she could not
endure the shame which this name recalled to her.

"Buckingham, the executioner of this angelic creature!" cried
Felton. "And thou hast not hurled thy thunder at him, my God!
And thou hast left him noble, honored, powerful, for the ruin of
us all!"

"God abandons him who abandons himself," said Milady.

"But he will draw upon his head the punishment reserved for the
damned!" said Felton, with increasing exultation. "He wills that
human vengeance should precede celestial justice."

"Men fear him and spare him."

"I," said Felton, "I do not fear him, nor will I spare him."

The soul of Milady was bathed in an infernal joy.

"But how can Lord de Winter, my protector, my father," asked
Felton, "possibly be mixed up with all this?"

"Listen, Felton," resumed Milady, "for by the side of base and
contemptible men there are often found great and generous
natures. I had an affianced husband, a man whom I loved, and who
loved me--a heart like yours, Felton, a man like you. I went to
him and told him all; he knew me, that man did, and did not doubt
an instant. He was a nobleman, a man equal to Buckingham in
every respect. He said nothing; he only girded on his sword,
wrapped himself in his cloak, and went straight to Buckingham
Palace.

"Yes, yes," said Felton; "I understand how he would act. But
with such men it is not the sword that should be employed; it is
the poniard."

"Buckingham had left England the day before, sent as ambassador
to Spain, to demand the hand of the Infanta for King Charles I,
who was then only Prince of Wales. My affianced husband
returned.

"'Hear me,' said he; 'this man has gone, and for the moment has
consequently escaped my vengeance; but let us be united, as we
were to have been, and then leave it to Lord de Winter to
maintain his own honor and that of his wife.'"

"Lord de Winter!" cried Felton.

"Yes," said Milady, "Lord de Winter; and now you can understand
it all, can you not? Buckingham remained nearly a year absent.
A week before his return Lord de Winter died, leaving me his sole
heir. Whence came the blow? God who knows all, knows without
doubt; but as for me, I accuse nobody."

"Oh, what an abyss; what an abyss!" cried Felton.

"Lord de Winter died without revealing anything to his brother.
The terrible secret was to be concealed till it burst, like a
clap of thunder, over the head of the guilty. Your protector had
seen with pain this marriage of his elder brother with a
portionless girl. I was sensible that I could look for no
support from a man disappointed in his hopes of an inheritance.
I went to France, with a determination to remain there for the
rest of my life. But all my fortune is in England.
Communication being closed by the war, I was in want of
everything. I was then obliged to come back again. Six days
ago, I landed at Portsmouth."

"Well?" said Felton.

"Well; Buckingham heard by some means, no doubt, of my return.
He spoke of me to Lord de Winter, already prejudiced against me,
and told him that his sister-in-law was a prostitute, a branded
woman. The noble and pure voice of my husband was no longer here
to defend me. Lord de Winter believed all that was told him with
so much the more ease that it was his interest to believe it. He
caused me to be arrested, had me conducted hither, and placed me
under your guard. You know the rest. The day after tomorrow he
banishes me, he transports me; the day after tomorrow he exiles
me among the infamous. Oh, the train is well laid; the plot is
clever. My honor will not survive it! You see, then, Felton, I
can do nothing but die. Felton, give me that knife!"

And at these words, as if all her strength was exhausted, Milady
sank, weak and languishing, into the arms of the young officer,
who, intoxicated with love, anger, and voluptuous sensations
hitherto unknown, received her with transport, pressed her
against his heart, all trembling at the breath from that charming
mouth, bewildered by the contact with that palpitating bosom.

"No, no," said he. "No, you shall live honored and pure; you
shall live to triumph over your enemies."

Milady put him from her slowly with her hand, while drawing him
nearer with her look; but Felton, in his turn, embraced her more
closely, imploring her like a divinity.

"Oh, death, death!" said she, lowering her voice and her eyelids,
"oh, death, rather than shame! Felton, my brother, my friend, I
conjure you!"

"No," cried Felton, "no; you shall live and you shall be
avenged."

"Felton, I bring misfortune to all who surround me! Felton,
abandon me! Felton, let me die!"

"Well, then, we will live and die together!" cried he, pressing
his lips to those of the prisoner.

Several strokes resounded on the door; this time Milady really
pushed him away from her.

"Hark," said she, "we have been overheard! Someone is coming!
All is over! We are lost!"

"No," said Felton; it is only the sentinel warning me that they
are about to change the guard."

"Then run to the door, and open it yourself."

Felton obeyed; this woman was now his whole thought, his whole
soul.

He found himself face to face with a sergeant commanding a watch-
patrol.

"Well, what is the matter?" asked the young lieutenant.

"You told me to open the door if I heard anyone cry out," said
the soldier; "but you forgot to leave me the key. I heard you
cry out, without understanding what you said. I tried to open
the door, but it was locked inside; then I called the sergeant."

"And here I am," said the sergeant.

Felton, quite bewildered, almost mad, stood speechless.

Milady plainly perceived that it was now her turn to take part in
the scene. She ran to the table, and seizing the knife which
Felton had laid down, exclaimed, "And by what right will you
prevent me from dying?"

"Great God!" exclaimed Felton, on seeing the knife glitter in her
hand.

At that moment a burst of ironical laughter resounded through the
corridor. The baron, attracted by the noise, in his chamber
gown, his sword under his arm, stood in the doorway.

"Ah," said he, "here we are, at the last act of the tragedy. You
see, Felton, the drama has gone through all the phases I named;
but be easy, no blood will flow."

Milady perceived that all was lost unless she gave Felton an
immediate and terrible proof of her courage.

"You are mistaken, my Lord, blood will flow; and may that blood
fall back on those who cause it to flow!"

Felton uttered a cry, and rushed toward her. He was too late;
Milady had stabbed herself.

But the knife had fortunately, we ought to say skillfully, come
in contact with the steel busk, which at that period, like a
cuirass, defended the chests of women. It had glided down it,
tearing the robe, and had penetrated slantingly between the flesh
and the ribs. Milady's robe was not the less stained with blood
in a second.

Milady fell down, and seemed to be in a swoon.

Felton snatched away the knife.

"See, my Lord," said he, in a deep, gloomy tone, "here is a woman
who was under my guard, and who has killed herself!"

"Be at ease, Felton," said Lord de Winter. "She is not dead;
demons do not die so easily. Be tranquil, and go wait for me in
my chamber."

"But, my Lord--"

"Go, sir, I command you!"

At this injunction from his superior, Felton obeyed; but in going
out, he put the knife into his bosom.

As to Lord de Winter, he contented himself with calling the woman
who waited on Milady, and when she was come, he recommended the
prisoner, who was still fainting, to her care, and left them
alone.

Meanwhile, all things considered and notwithstanding his
suspicions, as the wound might be serious, he immediately sent
off a mounted man to find a physician.



58 ESCAPE

As Lord de Winter had thought, Milady's wound was not dangerous.
So soon as she was left alone with the woman whom the baron had
summoned to her assistance she opened her eyes.

It was, however, necessary to affect weakness and pain--not a
very difficult task for so finished an actress as Milady. Thus
the poor woman was completely the dupe of the prisoner, whom,
notwithstanding her hints, she persisted in watching all night.

But the presence of this woman did not prevent Milady from
thinking.

There was no longer a doubt that Felton was convinced; Felton was
hers. If an angel appeared to that young man as an accuser of
Milady, he would take him, in the mental disposition in which he
now found himself, for a messenger sent by the devil.

Milady smiled at this thought, for Felton was now her only hope--
her only means of safety.

But Lord de Winter might suspect him; Felton himself might now be
watched!

Toward four o'clock in the morning the doctor arrived; but since
the time Milady stabbed herself, however short, the wound had
closed. The doctor could therefore measure neither the direction
nor the depth of it; he only satisfied himself by Milady's pulse
that the case was not serious.

In the morning Milady, under the pretext that she had not slept
well in the night and wanted rest, sent away the woman who
attended her.

She had one hope, which was that Felton would appear at the
breakfast hour; but Felton did not come.

Were her fears realized? Was Felton, suspected by the baron,
about to fail her at the decisive moment? She had only one day
left. Lord de Winter had announced her embarkation for the
twenty-third, and it was now the morning of the twenty-second.

Nevertheless she still waited patiently till the hour for dinner.

Although she had eaten nothing in the morning, the dinner was
brought in at its usual time. Milady then perceived, with
terror, that the uniform of the soldiers who guarded her was
changed.

Then she ventured to ask what had become of Felton.

She was told that he had left the castle an hour before on
horseback. She inquired if the baron was still at the castle.
The soldier replied that he was, and that he had given orders to
be informed if the prisoner wished to speak to him.

Milady replied that she was too weak at present, and that her
only desire was to be left alone.

The soldier went out, leaving the dinner served.

Felton was sent away. The marines were removed. Felton was then
mistrusted.

This was the last blow to the prisoner.

Left alone, she arose. The bed, which she had kept from prudence
and that they might believe her seriously wounded, burned her
like a bed of fire. She cast a glance at the door; the baron had
had a plank nailed over the grating. He no doubt feared that by
this opening she might still by some diabolical means corrupt her
guards.

Milady smiled with joy. She was free now to give way to her
transports without being observed. She traversed her chamber
with the excitement of a furious maniac or of a tigress shut up
in an iron cage. CERTES, if the knife had been left in her
power, she would now have thought, not of killing herself, but of
killing the baron.

At six o'clock Lord de Winter came in. He was armed at all
points. This man, in whom Milady till that time had only seen a
very simple gentleman, had become an admirable jailer. He
appeared to foresee all, to divine all, to anticipate all.

A single look at Milady apprised him of all that was passing in
her mind.

"Ay!" said he, "I see; but you shall not kill me today. You
have no longer a weapon; and besides, I am on my guard. You had
begun to pervert my poor Felton. He was yielding to your
infernal influence; but I will save him. He will never see you
again; all is over. Get your clothes together. Tomorrow you
will go. I had fixed the embarkation for the twenty-fourth; but
I have reflected that the more promptly the affair takes place
the more sure it will be. Tomorrow, by twelve o'clock, I shall
have the order for your exile, signed, BUCKINGHAM. If you
speak a single word to anyone before going aboard ship, my
sergeant will blow your brains out. He has orders to do so. If
when on the ship you speak a single word to anyone before the
captain permits you, the captain will have you thrown into the
sea. That is agreed upon.

"AU REVOIR; then; that is all I have to say today. Tomorrow I
will see you again, to take my leave." With these words the
baron went out. Milady had listened to all this menacing tirade
with a smile of disdain on her lips, but rage in her heart.

Supper was served. Milady felt that she stood in need of all her
strength. She did not know what might take place during this
night which approached so menacingly--for large masses of cloud
rolled over the face of the sky, and distant lightning announced
a storm.

The storm broke about ten o'clock. Milady felt a consolation in
seeing nature partake of the disorder of her heart. The thunder
growled in the air like the passion and anger in her thoughts.
It appeared to her that the blast as it swept along disheveled
her brow, as it bowed the branches of the trees and bore away
their leaves. She howled as the hurricane howled; and her voice
was lost in the great voice of nature, which also seemed to groan
with despair.

All at once she heard a tap at her window, and by the help of a
flash of lightning she saw the face of a man appear behind the
bars.

She ran to the window and opened it.

"Felton!" cried she. "I am saved."

"Yes," said Felton; "but silence, silence! I must have time to
file through these bars. Only take care that I am not seen
through the wicket."

"Oh, it is a proof that the Lord is on our side, Felton," replied
Milady. "They have closed up the grating with a board."

"That is well; God has made them senseless," said Felton.

"But what must I do?" asked Milady.

"Nothing, nothing, only shut the window. Go to bed, or at least
lie down in your clothes. As soon as I have done I will knock on
one of the panes of glass. But will you be able to follow me?"

"Oh, yes!"

"Your wound?"

"Gives me pain, but will not prevent my walking."

"Be ready, then, at the first signal."

Milady shut the window, extinguished the lamp, and went, as
Felton had desired her, to lie down on the bed. Amid the moaning
of the storm she heard the grinding of the file upon the bars,
and by the light of every flash she perceived the shadow of
Felton through the panes.

She passed an hour without breathing, panting, with a cold sweat
upon her brow, and her heart oppressed by frightful agony at
every movement she heard in the corridor.

There are hours which last a year.

At the expiration of an hour, Felton tapped again.

Milady sprang out of bed and opened the window. Two bars removed
formed an opening for a man to pass through.

"Are you ready?" asked Felton.

"Yes. Must I take anything with me?"

"Money, if you have any."

"Yes; fortunately they have left me all I had."

"So much the better, for I have expended all mine in chartering a
vessel."

"Here!" said Milady, placing a bag full of louis in Felton's
hands.

Felton took the bag and threw it to the foot of the wall.

"Now," said he, "will you come?"

"I am ready."

Milady mounted upon a chair and passed the upper part of her body
through the window. She saw the young officer suspended over the
abyss by a ladder of ropes. For the first time an emotion of
terror reminded her that she was a woman.

The dark space frightened her.

"I expected this," said Felton.

"It's nothing, it's nothing!" said Milady. "I will descend with
my eyes shut."

"Have you confidence in me?" said Felton.

"You ask that?"

"Put your two hands together. Cross them; that's right!"

Felton tied her two wrists together with his handkerchief, and
then with a cord over the handkerchief.

"What are you doing?" asked Milady, with surprise.

"Pass your arms around my neck, and fear nothing."

"But I shall make you lose your balance, and we shall both be
dashed to pieces."

"Don't be afraid. I am a sailor."

Not a second was to be lost. Milady passed her two arms round
Felton's neck, and let herself slip out of the window. Felton
began to descend the ladder slowly, step by step. Despite the
weight of two bodies, the blast of the hurricane shook them in
the air.

All at once Felton stopped.

"What is the matter?" asked Milady.

"Silence," said Felton, "I hear footsteps."

"We are discovered!"

There was a silence of several seconds.

"No," said Felton, "it is nothing."

"But what, then, is the noise?"

"That of the patrol going their rounds."

"Where is their road?"

"Just under us."

"They will discover us!"

"No, if it does not lighten."

"But they will run against the bottom of the ladder."

"Fortunately it is too short by six feet."

"Here they are! My God!"

"Silence!"

Both remained suspended, motionless and breathless, within twenty
paces of the ground, while the patrol passed beneath them
laughing and talking. This was a terrible moment for the
fugitives.

The patrol passed. The noise of their retreating footsteps and
the murmur of their voices soon died away.

"Now," said Felton, "we are safe."

Milady breathed a deep sigh and fainted.

Felton continued to descend. Near the bottom of the ladder, when
he found no more support for his feet, he clung with his hands;
at length, arrived at the last step, he let himself hang by the
strength of his wrists, and touched the ground. He stooped down,
picked up the bag of money, and placed it between his teeth.
Then he took Milady in his arms, and set off briskly in the
direction opposite to that which the patrol had taken. He soon
left the pathway of the patrol, descended across the rocks, and
when arrived on the edge of the sea, whistled.

A similar signal replied to him; and five minutes after, a boat
appeared, rowed by four men.

The boat approached as near as it could to the shore; but there
was not depth enough of water for it to touch land. Felton
walked into the sea up to his middle, being unwilling to trust
his precious burden to anybody.

Fortunately the storm began to subside, but still the sea was
disturbed. The little boat bounded over the waves like a nut-
shell.

"To the sloop," said Felton, "and row quickly."

The four men bent to their oars, but the sea was too high to let
them get much hold of it.

However, they left the castle behind; that was the principal
thing. The night was extremely dark. It was almost impossible
to see the shore from the boat; they would therefore be less
likely to see the boat from the shore.

A black point floated on the sea. That was the sloop. While the
boat was advancing with all the speed its four rowers could give
it, Felton untied the cord and then the handkerchief which bound
Milady's hands together. When her hands were loosed he took some
sea water and sprinkled it over her face.

Milady breathed a sigh, and opened her eyes.

"Where am I?" said she.

"Saved!" replied the young officer.

"Oh, saved, saved!" cried she. "Yes, there is the sky; here is
the sea! The air I breathe is the air of liberty! Ah, thanks,
Felton, thanks!"

The young man pressed her to his heart.

"But what is the matter with my hands!" asked Milady; "it seems
as if my wrists had been crushed in a vice."

Milady held out her arms; her wrists were bruised.

"Alas!" said Felton, looking at those beautiful hands, and
shaking his head sorrowfully.

"Oh, it's nothing, nothing!" cried Milady. "I remember now."

Milady looked around her, as if in search of something.

"It is there," said Felton, touching the bag of money with his
foot.

They drew near to the sloop. A sailor on watch hailed the boat;
the boat replied.

"What vessel is that?" asked Milady.

"The one I have hired for you."

"Where will it take me?"

"Where you please, after you have put me on shore at Portsmouth."

"What are you going to do at Portsmouth?" asked Milady.

"Accomplish the orders of Lord de Winter," said Felton, with a
gloomy smile.

"What orders?" asked Milady.

"You do not understand?" asked Felton.

"No; explain yourself, I beg."

"As he mistrusted me, he determined to guard you himself, and
sent me in his place to get Buckingham to sign the order for your
transportation."

"But if he mistrusted you, how could he confide such an order to
you?"

"How could I know what I was the bearer of?"

"That's true! And you are going to Portsmouth?"

"I have no time to lose. Tomorrow is the twenty-third, and
Buckingham sets sail tomorrow with his fleet."

"He sets sail tomorrow! Where for?"

"For La Rochelle."

"He need not sail!" cried Milady, forgetting her usual presence
of mind.

"Be satisfied," replied Felton; "he will not sail."

Milady started with joy. She could read to the depths of the
heart of this young man; the death of Buckingham was written
there at full length.

"Felton," cried she, "you are as great as Judas Maccabeus! If
you die, I will die with you; that is all I can say to you."

"Silence!" cried Felton; "we are here."

In fact, they touched the sloop.

Felton mounted the ladder first, and gave his hand to Milady,
while the sailors supported her, for the sea was still much
agitated.

An instant after they were on the deck.

"Captain," said Felton, "this is person of whom I spoke to you,
and whom you must convey safe and sound to France."

"For a thousand pistoles," said the captain.

"I have paid you five hundred of them."

"That's correct," said the captain.

"And here are the other five hundred," replied Milady, placing
her hand upon the bag of gold.

"No," said the captain, "I make but one bargain; and I have
agreed with this young man that the other five hundred shall not
be due to me till we arrive at Boulogne."

"And shall we arrive there?"

"Safe and sound, as true as my name's Jack Butler."

"Well," said Milady, "if you keep your word, instead of five
hundred, I will give you a thousand pistoles."

"Hurrah for you, then, my beautiful lady," cried the captain;
"and may God often send me such passengers as your Ladyship!"

"Meanwhile," said Felton, "convey me to the little bay of--; you
know it was agreed you should put in there."

The captain replied by ordering the necessary maneuvers, and
toward seven o'clock in the morning the little vessel cast anchor
in the bay that had been named.

During this passage, Felton related everything to Milady--how,
instead of going to London, he had chartered the little vessel;
how he had returned; how he had scaled the wall by fastening
cramps in the interstices of the stones, as he ascended, to give
him foothold; and how, when he had reached the bars, he fastened
his ladder. Milady knew the rest.

On her side, Milady tried to encourage Felton in his project; but
at the first words which issued from her mouth, she plainly saw
that the young fanatic stood more in need of being moderated than
urged.

It was agreed that Milady should wait for Felton till ten
o'clock; if he did not return by ten o'clock she was to sail.

In that case, and supposing he was at liberty, he was to rejoin
her in France, at the convent of the Carmelites at Bethune.



59 WHAT TOOK PLACE AT PORTSMOUTH AUGUST 23, 1628

Felton took leave of Milady as a brother about to go for a mere walk
takes leave of his sister, kissing her hand.

His whole body appeared in its ordinary state of calmness, only an
unusual fire beamed from his eyes, like the effects of a fever; his brow
was more pale than it generally was; his teeth were clenched, and his
speech had a short dry accent which indicated that something dark was at
work within him.

As long as he remained in the boat which conveyed him to land, he kept
his face toward Milady, who, standing on the deck, followed him with her
eyes. Both were free from the fear of pursuit; nobody ever came into
Milady's apartment before nine o'clock, and it would require three hours
to go from the castle to London.

Felton jumped onshore, climbed the little ascent which led to the top of
the cliff, saluted Milady a last time, and took his course toward the
city.

At the end of a hundred paces, the ground began to decline, and he could
only see the mast of the sloop.

He immediately ran in the direction of Portsmouth, which he saw at
nearly half a league before him, standing out in the haze of the
morning, with its houses and towers.

Beyond Portsmouth the sea was covered with vessels whose masts, like a
forest of poplars despoiled by the winter, bent with each breath of the
wind.

Felton, in his rapid walk, reviewed in his mind all the accusations
against the favorite of James I and Charles I, furnished by two years of
premature meditation and a long sojourn among the Puritans.

When he compared the public crimes of this minister--startling crimes,
European crimes, if so we may say--with the private and unknown crimes
with which Milady had charged him, Felton found that the more culpable
of the two men which formed the character of Buckingham was the one of
whom the public knew not the life. This was because his love, so
strange, so new, and so ardent, made him view the infamous and imaginary
accusations of Milady de Winter as, through a magnifying glass, one
views as frightful monsters atoms in reality imperceptible by the side
of an ant.

The rapidity of his walk heated his blood still more; the idea that he
left behind him, exposed to a frightful vengeance, the woman he loved,
or rather whom he adored as a saint, the emotion he had experienced,
present fatigue--all together exalted his mind above human feeling.

He entered Portsmouth about eight o'clock in the morning. The whole
population was on foot; drums were beating in the streets and in the
port; the troops about to embark were marching toward the sea.

Felton arrived at the palace of the Admiralty, covered with dust, and
streaming with perspiration. His countenance, usually so pale, was
purple with heat and passion. The sentinel wanted to repulse him; but
Felton called to the officer of the post, and drawing from his pocket
the letter of which he was the bearer, he said, "A pressing message from
Lord de Winter."

At the name of Lord de Winter, who was known to be one of his Grace's
most intimate friends, the officer of the post gave orders to let Felton
pass, who, besides, wore the uniform of a naval officer.

Felton darted into the palace.

At the moment he entered the vestibule, another man was entering
likewise, dusty, out of breath, leaving at the gate a post horse, which,
on reaching the palace, tumbled on his foreknees.

Felton and he addressed Patrick, the duke's confidential lackey, at the
same moment. Felton named Lord de Winter; the unknown would not name
anybody, and pretended that it was to the duke alone he would make
himself known. Each was anxious to gain admission before the other.

Patrick, who knew Lord de Winter was in affairs of the service, and in
relations of friendship with the duke, gave the preference to the one
who came in his name. The other was forced to wait, and it was easily
to be seen how he cursed the delay.

The valet led Felton through a large hall in which waited the deputies
from La Rochelle, headed by the Prince de Soubise, and introduced him
into a closet where Buckingham, just out of the bath, was finishing his
toilet, upon which, as at all times, he bestowed extraordinary
attention.

"Lieutenant Felton, from Lord de Winter," said Patrick.

"From Lord de Winter!" repeated Buckingham; "let him come in."

Felton entered. At that moment Buckingham was throwing upon a couch a
rich toilet robe, worked with gold, in order to put on a blue velvet
doublet embroidered with pearls.

"Why didn't the baron come himself?" demanded Buckingham. "I expected
him this morning."

"He desired me to tell your Grace," replied Felton, "that he very much
regretted not having that honor, but that he was prevented by the guard
he is obliged to keep at the castle."

"Yes, I know that," said Buckingham; "he has a prisoner."

"It is of that prisoner that I wish to speak to your Grace," replied
Felton.

"Well, then, speak!"

"That which I have to say of her can only be heard by yourself, my
Lord!"

"Leave us, Patrick," said Buckingham; "but remain within sound of the
bell. I shall call you presently."

Patrick went out.

"We are alone, sir," said Buckingham; "speak!"

"My Lord," said Felton, "the Baron de Winter wrote to you the other day
to request you to sign an order of embarkation relative to a young woman
named Charlotte Backson."

"Yes, sir; and I answered him, to bring or send me that order and I
would sign it."

"Here it is, my Lord."

"Give it to me," said the duke.

And taking it from Felton, he cast a rapid glance over the paper, and
perceiving that it was the one that had been mentioned to him, he placed
it on the table, took a pen, and prepared to sign it.

"Pardon, my Lord," said Felton, stopping the duke; "but does your Grace
know that the name of Charlotte Backson is not the true name of this
young woman?"

"Yes, sir, I know it," replied the duke, dipping the quill in the ink.

"Then your Grace knows her real name?" asked Felton, in a sharp tone.

"I know it"; and the duke put the quill to the paper. Felton grew pale.

"And knowing that real name, my Lord," replied Felton, "will you sign it
all the same?"

"Doubtless," said Buckingham, "and rather twice than once."

"I cannot believe," continued Felton, in a voice that became more sharp
and rough, "that your Grace knows that it is to Milady de Winter this
relates."

"I know it perfectly, although I am astonished that you know it."

"And will your Grace sign that order without remorse?"

Buckingham looked at the young man haughtily.

"Do you know, sir, that you are asking me very strange questions, and
that I am very foolish to answer them?"

"Reply to them, my Lord," said Felton; "the circumstances are more
serious than you perhaps believe."

Buckingham reflected that the young man, coming from Lord de Winter,
undoubtedly spoke in his name, and softened.

"Without remorse," said he. "The baron knows, as well as myself, that
Milady de Winter is a very guilty woman, and it is treating her very
favorably to commute her punishment to transportation."
The duke put his pen to the paper.

"You will not sign that order, my Lord!" said Felton, making a step
toward the duke.

"I will not sign this order! And why not?"

"Because you will look into yourself, and you will do justice to the
lady."

"I should do her justice by sending her to Tyburn," said Buckingham.
"This lady is infamous."

"My Lord, Milady de Winter is an angel; you know that she is, and I
demand her liberty of you."

"Bah! Are you mad, to talk to me thus?" said Buckingham.

"My Lord, excuse me! I speak as I can; I restrain myself. But, my
Lord, think of what you're about to do, and beware of going too far!"

"What do you say? God pardon me!" cried Buckingham, "I really think he
threatens me!"

"No, my Lord, I still plead. And I say to you: one drop of water
suffices to make the full vase overflow; one slight fault may draw down
punishment upon the head spared, despite many crimes."

"Mr. Felton," said Buckingham, "you will withdraw, and place yourself at
once under arrest."

"You will hear me to the end, my Lord. You have seduced this young
girl; you have outraged, defiled her. Repair your crimes toward her;
let her go free, and I will exact nothing else from you."

"You will exact!" said Buckingham, looking at Felton with astonishment,
and dwelling upon each syllable of the three words as he pronounced
them.

"My Lord," continued Felton, becoming more excited as he spoke, "my
Lord, beware! All England is tired of your iniquities; my Lord, you
have abused the royal power, which you have almost usurped; my Lord, you
are held in horror by God and men. God will punish you hereafter, but I
will punish you here!"

"Ah, this is too much!" cried Buckingham, making a step toward the door.

Felton barred his passage.

"I ask it humbly of you, my Lord" said he; "sign the order for the
liberation of Milady de Winter. Remember that she is a woman whom you
have dishonored."

"Withdraw, sir," said Buckingham, "or I will call my attendant, and have
you placed in irons."

"You shall not call," said Felton, throwing himself between the duke and
the bell placed on a stand encrusted with silver. "Beware, my Lord, you
are in the hands of God!"

"In the hands of the devil, you mean!" cried Buckingham, raising his
voice so as to attract the notice of his people, without absolutely
shouting.

"Sign, my Lord; sign the liberation of Milady de Winter," said Felton,
holding out paper to the duke.

"By force? You are joking! Holloa, Patrick!"

"Sign, my Lord!"

"Never."

"Never?"

"Help!" shouted the duke; and at the same time he sprang toward his
sword.

But Felton did not give him time to draw it. He held the knife with
which Milady had stabbed herself, open in his bosom; at one bound he was
upon the duke.

At that moment Patrick entered the room, crying, "A letter from France,
my Lord."

"From France!" cried Buckingham, forgetting everything in thinking from
whom that letter came.

Felton took advantage of this moment, and plunged the knife into his
side up to the handle.

"Ah, traitor," cried Buckingham, "you have killed me!"

"Murder!" screamed Patrick.

Felton cast his eyes round for means of escape, and seeing the door
free, he rushed into the next chamber, in which, as we have said, the
deputies from La Rochelle were waiting, crossed it as quickly as
possible, and rushed toward the staircase; but upon the first step he
met Lord de Winter, who, seeing him pale, confused, livid, and stained
with blood both on his hands and face, seized him by the throat, crying,
"I knew it! I guessed it! But too late by a minute, unfortunate,
unfortunate that I am!"

Felton made no resistance. Lord de Winter placed him in the hands of
the guards, who led him, while awaiting further orders, to a little
terrace commanding the sea; and then the baron hastened to the duke's
chamber.

At the cry uttered by the duke and the scream of Patrick, the man whom
Felton had met in the antechamber rushed into the chamber.

He found the duke reclining upon a sofa, with his hand pressed upon the
wound.

"Laporte," said the duke, in a dying voice, "Laporte, do you come from
her?"

"Yes, monseigneur," replied the faithful cloak bearer of Anne of
Austria, "but too late, perhaps."

"Silence, Laporte, you may be overheard. Patrick, let no one enter.
Oh, I cannot tell what she says to me! My God, I am dying!"

And the duke swooned.

Meanwhile, Lord de Winter, the deputies, the leaders of the expedition,
the officers of Buckingham's household, had all made their way into the
chamber. Cries of despair resounded on all sides. The news, which
filled the palace with tears and groans, soon became known, and spread
itself throughout the city.

The report of a cannon announced that something new and unexpected had
taken place.

Lord de Winter tore his hair.

"Too late by a minute!" cried he, "too late by a minute! Oh, my God, my
God! what a misfortune!"

He had been informed at seven o'clock in the morning that a rope ladder
floated from one of the windows of the castle; he had hastened to
Milady's chamber, had found it empty, the window open, and the bars
filed, had remembered the verbal caution d'Artagnan had transmitted to
him by his messenger, had trembled for the duke, and running to the
stable without taking time to have a horse saddled, had jumped upon the
first he found, had galloped off like the wind, had alighted below in
the courtyard, had ascended the stairs precipitately, and on the top
step, as we have said, had encountered Felton.

The duke, however, was not dead. He recovered a little, reopened his
eyes, and hope revived in all hearts.

"Gentlemen," said he, "leave me along with Patrick and Laporte--ah, is
that you, de Winter? You sent me a strange madman this morning! See
the state in which he has put me."

"Oh, my Lord!" cried the baron, "I shall never console myself."

"And you would be quite wrong, my dear de Winter," said Buckingham,
holding out his hand to him. "I do not know the man who deserves being
regretted during the whole life of another man; but leave us, I pray
you."

The baron went out sobbing.

There only remained in the closet of the wounded duke Laporte and
Patrick. A physician was sought for, but none was yet found.

"You will live, my Lord, you will live!" repeated the faithful servant
of Anne of Austria, on his knees before the duke's sofa.

"What has she written to me?" said Buckingham, feebly, streaming with
blood, and suppressing his agony to speak of her he loved, "what has she
written to me? Read me her letter."

"Oh, my Lord!" said Laporte.

"Obey, Laporte, do you not see I have no time to lose?"

Laporte broke the seal, and placed the paper before the eyes of the
duke; but Buckingham in vain tried to make out the writing.

"Read!" said he, "read! I cannot see. Read, then! For soon, perhaps,
I shall not hear, and I shall die without knowing what she has written
to me."

Laporte made no further objection, and read:


"My Lord, By that which, since I have known you, have suffered by you
and for you, I conjure you, if you have any care for my repose, to
countermand those great armaments which you are preparing against
France, to put an end to a war of which it is publicly said religion is
the ostensible cause, and of which, it is generally whispered, your love
for me is the concealed cause. This war may not only bring great
catastrophes upon England and France, but misfortune upon you, my Lord,
for which I should never console myself.

"Be careful of your life, which is menaced, and which will be dear to me
from the moment I am not obliged to see an enemy in you.

"Your affectionate

"ANNE"


Buckingham collected all his remaining strength to listen to the reading
of the letter; then, when it was ended, as if he had met with a bitter
disappointment, he asked, "Have you nothing else to say to me by the
living voice, Laporte?"

"The queen charged me to tell you to watch over yourself, for she had
advice that your assassination would be attempted."

"And is that all--is that all?" replied Buckingham, impatiently.

"She likewise charged me to tell you that she still loved you."

"Ah," said Buckingham, "God be praised! My death, then, will not be to
her as the death of a stranger!"

Laporte burst into tears.

"Patrick," said the due, "bring me the casket in which the diamond studs
were kept."

Patrick brought the object desired, which Laporte recognized as having
belonged to the queen.

"Now the scent bag of white satin, on which her cipher is embroidered in
pearls."

Patrick again obeyed.

"Here, Laporte," said Buckingham, "these are the only tokens I ever
received from her--this silver casket and these two letters. You will
restore them to her Majesty; and as a last memorial"--he looked round
for some valuable object--"you will add--"

He still sought; but his eyes, darkened by death, encountered only the
knife which had fallen from the hand of Felton, still smoking with the
blood spread over its blade.

"And you will add to them this knife," said the duke, pressing the hand
of Laporte. He had just strength enough to place the scent bag at the
bottom of the silver casket, and to let the knife fall into it, making a
sign to Laporte that he was no longer able to speak; than, in a last
convulsion, which this time he had not the power to combat, he slipped
from the sofa to the floor.

Patrick uttered a loud cry.

Buckingham tried to smile a last time; but death checked his thought,
which remained engraved on his brow like a last kiss of love.

At this moment the duke's surgeon arrived, quite terrified; he was
already on board the admiral's ship, where they had been obliged to seek
him.

He approached the duke, took his hand, held it for an instant in his
own, and letting it fall, "All is useless," said he, "he is dead."

"Dead, dead!" cried Patrick.

At this cry all the crowd re-entered the apartment, and throughout the
palace and town there was nothing but consternation and tumult.

As soon as Lord de Winter saw Buckingham was dead, he ran to Felton,
whom the soldiers still guarded on the terrace of the palace.

"Wretch!" said he to the young man, who since the death of Buckingham
had regained that coolness and self-possession which never after
abandoned him, "wretch! what have you done?"

"I have avenged myself!" said he.

"Avenged yourself," said the baron. "Rather say that you have served as
an instrument to that accursed woman; but I swear to you that this crime
shall be her last."

"I don't know what you mean," replied Felton, quietly, "and I am
ignorant of whom you are speaking, my Lord. I killed the Duke of
Buckingham because he twice refused you yourself to appoint me captain;
I have punished him for his injustice, that is all."

De Winter, stupefied, looked on while the soldiers bound Felton, and
could not tell what to think of such insensibility.

One thing alone, however, threw a shade over the pallid brow of Felton.
At every noise he heard, the simple Puritan fancied he recognized the
step and voice of Milady coming to throw herself into his arms, to
accuse herself, and die with him.

All at once he started. His eyes became fixed upon a point of the sea,
commanded by the terrace where he was. With the eagle glance of a
sailor he had recognized there, where another would have seen only a
gull hovering over the waves, the sail of a sloop which was directed
toward the cost of France.

He grew deadly pale, placed his hand upon his heart, which was breaking,
and at once perceived all the treachery.

"One last favor, my Lord!" said he to the baron.

"What?" asked his Lordship.

"What o'clock is it?"

The baron drew out his watch. "It wants ten minutes to nine," said he.

Milady had hastened her departure by an hour and a half. As soon as she
heard the cannon which announced the fatal event, she had ordered the
anchor to be weighed. The vessel was making way under a blue sky, at
great distance from the coast.

"God has so willed it!" said he, with the resignation of a fanatic; but
without, however, being able to take his eyes from that ship, on board
of which he doubtless fancied he could distinguish the white outline of
her to whom he had sacrificed his life.

De Winter followed his look, observed his feelings, and guessed all.

"Be punished ALONE, for the first, miserable man!" said Lord de Winter
to Felton, who was being dragged away with his eyes turned toward the
sea; "but I swear to you by the memory of my brother whom I have loved
so much that your accomplice is not saved."

Felton lowered his head without pronouncing a syllable.

As to Lord de Winter, he descended the stairs rapidly, and went straight
to the port.



60 IN FRANCE

The first fear of the King of England, Charles I, on learning of the
death of the duke, was that such terrible news might discourage the
Rochellais; he tried, says Richelieu in his Memoirs, to conceal it from
them as long as possible, closing all the ports of his kingdom, and
carefully keeping watch that no vessel should sail until the army which
Buckingham was getting together had gone, taking upon himself, in
default of Buckingham, to superintend the departure.

He carried the strictness of this order so far as to detain in England
the ambassadors of Denmark, who had taken their leave, and the regular
ambassador of Holland, who was to take back to the port of Flushing the
Indian merchantmen of which Charles I had made restitution to the United
Provinces.

But as he did not think of giving this order till five hours after the
event--that is to say, till two o'clock in the afternoon--two vessels
had already left the port, the one bearing, as we know, Milady, who,
already anticipating the event, was further confirmed in that belief by
seeing the black flag flying at the masthead of the admiral's ship.

As to the second vessel, we will tell hereafter whom it carried, and how
it set sail.

During this time nothing new occurred in the camp at La Rochelle; only
the king, who was bored, as always, but perhaps a little more so in camp
than elsewhere, resolved to go incognito and spend the festival of St.
Louis at St. Germain, and asked the cardinal to order him an escort of
only twenty Musketeers. The cardinal, who sometimes became weary of the
king, granted this leave of absence with great pleasure to his royal
lieutenant, who promised to return about the fifteenth of September.

M. de Treville, being informed of this by his Eminence, packed his
portmanteau; and as without knowing the cause he knew the great desire
and even imperative need which his friends had of returning to Paris, it
goes without saying that he fixed upon them to form part of the escort.

The four young men heard the news a quarter of an hour after M. de
Treville, for they were the first to whom he communicated it. It was
then that d'Artagnan appreciated the favor the cardinal had conferred
upon him in making him at last enter the Musketeers--for without that
circumstance he would have been forced to remain in the camp while his
companions left it.

It goes without saying that this impatience to return toward Paris had
for a cause the danger which Mme. Bonacieux would run of meeting at the
convent of Bethune with Milady, her mortal enemy. Aramis therefore had
written immediately to Marie Michon, the seamstress at Tours who had
such fine acquaintances, to obtain from the queen authority for Mme.
Bonacieux to leave the convent, and to retire either into Lorraine or
Belgium. They had not long to wait for an answer. Eight or ten days
afterward Aramis received the following letter:


My Dear Cousin, Here is the authorization from my sister to withdraw
our little servant from the convent of Bethune, the air of which you
think is bad for her. My sister sends you this authorization with great
pleasure, for she is very partial to the little girl, to whom she
intends to be more serviceable hereafter.

I salute you,

MARIE MICHON


To this letter was added an order, conceived in these terms:


At the Louvre, August 10, 1628
The superior of the convent of Bethune will place in the hands of the
person who shall present this note to her the novice who entered the
convent upon my recommendation and under my patronage.

ANNE


It may be easily imagined how the relationship between Aramis and a
seamstress who called the queen her sister amused the young men; but
Aramis, after having blushed two or three times up to the whites of his
eyes at the gross pleasantry of Porthos, begged his friends not to
revert to the subject again, declaring that if a single word more was
said to him about it, he would never again implore his cousins to
interfere in such affairs.

There was no further question, therefore, about Marie Michon among the
four Musketeers, who besides had what they wanted: that was, the order
to withdraw Mme. Bonacieux from the convent of the Carmelites of
Bethune. It was true that this order would not be of great use to them
while they were in camp at La Rochelle; that is to say, at the other end
of France. Therefore d'Artagnan was going to ask leave of absence of M.
de Treville, confiding to him candidly the importance of his departure,
when the news was transmitted to him as well as to his three friends
that the king was about to set out for Paris with an escort of twenty
Musketeers, and that they formed part of the escort.

Their joy was great. The lackeys were sent on before with the baggage,
and they set out on the morning of the sixteenth.

The cardinal accompanied his Majesty from Surgeres to Mauzes; and there
the king and his minister took leave of each other with great
demonstrations of friendship.

The king, however, who sought distraction, while traveling as fast as
possible--for he was anxious to be in Paris by the twenty-third--stopped
from time to time to fly the magpie, a pastime for which the taste had
been formerly inspired in him by de Luynes, and for which he had always
preserved a great predilection. Out of the twenty Musketeers sixteen,
when this took place, rejoiced greatly at this relaxation; but the other
four cursed it heartily. D'Artagnan, in particular, had a perpetual
buzzing in his ears, which Porthos explained thus: "A very great lady
has told me that this means that somebody is talking of you somewhere."

At length the escort passed through Paris on the twenty-third, in the
night. The king thanked M. de Treville, and permitted him to distribute
furloughs for four days, on condition that the favored parties should
not appear in any public place, under penalty of the Bastille.

The first four furloughs granted, as may be imagined, were to our four
friends. Still further, Athos obtained of M. de Treville six days
instead of four, and introduced into these six days two more nights--for
they set out on the twenty-fourth at five o'clock in the evening, and as
a further kindness M. de Treville post-dated the leave to the morning of
the twenty-fifth.

"Good Lord!" said d'Artagnan, who, as we have often said, never stumbled
at anything. "It appears to me that we are making a great trouble of a
very simple thing. In two days, and by using up two or three horses
(that's nothing; I have plenty of money), I am at Bethune. I present my
letter from the queen to the superior, and I bring back the dear
treasure I go to seek--not into Lorraine, not into Belgium, but to
Paris, where she will be much better concealed, particularly while the
cardinal is at La Rochelle. Well, once returned from the country, half
by the protection of her cousin, half through what we have personally
done for her, we shall obtain from the queen what we desire. Remain,
then, where you are, and do not exhaust yourselves with useless fatigue.
Myself and Planchet are all that such a simple expedition requires."

To this Athos replied quietly: "We also have money left--for I have not
yet drunk all my share of the diamond, and Porthos and Aramis have not
eaten all theirs. We can therefore use up four horses as well as one.
But consider, d'Artagnan," added he, in a tone so solemn that it made
the young man shudder, "consider that Bethune is a city where the
cardinal has given rendezvous to a woman who, wherever she goes, brings
misery with her. If you had only to deal with four men, d'Artagnan, I
would allow you to go alone. You have to do with that woman! We four
will go; and I hope to God that with our four lackeys we may be in
sufficient number."

"You terrify me, Athos!" cried d'Artagnan. "My God! what do you
fear?"

"Everything!" replied Athos.

D'Artagnan examined the countenances of his companions, which, like that
of Athos, wore an impression of deep anxiety; and they continued their
route as fast as their horses could carry them, but without adding
another word.

On the evening of the twenty-fifth, as they were entering Arras, and as
d'Artagnan was dismounting at the inn of the Golden Harrow to drink a
glass of wine, a horseman came out of the post yard, where he had just
had a relay, started off at a gallop, and with a fresh horse took the
road to Paris. At the moment he passed through the gateway into the
street, the wind blew open the cloak in which he was wrapped, although
it was in the month of August, and lifted his hat, which the traveler
seized with his hand the moment it had left his head, pulling it eagerly
over his eyes.

D'Artagnan, who had his eyes fixed upon this man, became very pale, and
let his glass fall.

"What is the matter, monsieur?" said Planchet. "Oh, come, gentlemen,
my master is ill!"

The three friends hastened toward d'Artagnan, who, instead of being ill,
ran toward his horse. They stopped him at the door.

"Well, where the devil are you going now?" cried Athos.

"It is he!" cried d'Artagnan, pale with anger, and with the sweat on his
brow, "it is he! let me overtake him!"

"He? What he?" asked Athos.

"He, that man!"

"What man?"

"That cursed man, my evil genius, whom I have always met with when
threatened by some misfortune, he who accompanied that horrible woman
when I met her for the first time, he whom I was seeking when I offended
our Athos, he whom I saw on the very morning Madame Bonacieux was
abducted. I have seen him; that is he! I recognized him when the wind
blew upon his cloak."

"The devil!" said Athos, musingly.

"To saddle, gentlemen! to saddle! Let us pursue him, and we shall
overtake him!"

"My dear friend," said Aramis, "remember that he goes in an opposite
direction from that in which we are going, that he has a fresh horse, and
ours are fatigued, so that we shall disable our own horses without even
a chance of overtaking him. Let the man go, d'Artagnan; let us save the
woman."

"Monsieur, monsieur!" cried a hostler, running out and looking after
the stranger, "monsieur, here is a paper which dropped out of your hat!
Eh, monsieur, eh!"

"Friend," said d'Artagnan, "a half-pistole for that paper!"

"My faith, monsieur, with great pleasure! Here it is!"

The hostler, enchanted with the good day's work he had done, returned to
the yard. D'Artagnan unfolded the paper.

"Well?" eagerly demanded all his three friends.

"Nothing but one word!" said d'Artagnan.

"Yes," said Aramis, "but that one word is the name of some town or
village."

"Armentieres," read Porthos; "Armentieres? I don't know such a
place."

"And that name of a town or village is written in her hand!" cried
Athos.

"Come on, come on!" said d'Artagnan; "let us keep that paper carefully,
perhaps I have not thrown away my half-pistole. To horse, my friends,
to horse!"

And the four friends flew at a gallop along the road to Bethune.



61 THE CARMELITE CONVENT AT BETHUNE

Great criminals bear about 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 distributed 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 auditor 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 experienced so
many and 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 to 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 to suffer 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 know 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 know 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
conditions.

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

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 to sup 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 to suppose 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.

"Oh!' 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 had 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 expedition.

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 lightning 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 increased, 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 lightning 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 ditch 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 to such 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 additional 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 every 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 meditating 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 expedition 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.
The Three Musketeers - Part 2
