Part 46

"What, in the wrong!" resumed Athos. "To whom, then, does this air that we breathe belong? To whom this ocean on which our gaze extends? To whom this sand on which we were lying? To whom this letter of your mistress? To the cardinal? Upon my honor, that man imagines the world belongs to him: you were there, stammering, stupefied, annihilated; one would have thought the Bastille was rising before you and that the gigantic Medusa was turning you to stone. Is it conspiring, let us see, to be in love? You are in love with a woman whom the cardinal has had imprisoned; you wish to rescue her from the cardinal's hands; it is a game you are playing with His Eminence: this letter is your hand; why should you show your hand to your adversary? That is not done. Let him guess it, by all means! We guess his, we do!"

"Upon my word," said d'Artagnan, "what you say there, Athos, is full of sense."

"In that case, let there be no more talk of what has just happened, and let Aramis resume his cousin's letter where M. le cardinal interrupted him."

Aramis drew the letter from his pocket; the three friends drew near to him, and the three lackeys grouped themselves once more around the flagon.

"You had only read a line or two," said d'Artagnan; "so take up the letter from the beginning."

"Willingly," said Aramis.

"My dear Cousin, I really believe that I shall decide upon starting for Stenay, where my sister has placed our little servant in the convent of the Carmelites; that poor child has resigned herself; she knows that she cannot live elsewhere without the salvation of her soul being in danger. Nevertheless, if the affairs of our family are arranged as we desire, I believe she will run the risk of damning herself, and will return to those whom she regrets, the more so as she knows that she is always thought of. In the meanwhile, she is not too unhappy; all she desires is a letter from her betrothed. I know well that such commodities pass through the gratings with difficulty; but, after all, as I have given you proofs, my dear cousin, I am not too clumsy, and I will undertake the commission. My sister thanks you for your good and constant remembrance. She had a moment of great anxiety; but at length she is somewhat reassured now, having sent her clerk there, so that nothing unforeseen may happen.

"Adieu, my dear cousin; give us news of yourself as often as you can, that is to say, every time you think you can do so safely. I embrace you.

"Marie Michon."

"Oh! what do I not owe you, Aramis?" cried d'Artagnan. "Dear Constance! I have news of her at last; she lives, she is in safety in a convent, she is at Stenay! Where is Stenay, Athos?"

"But a few leagues from the frontiers; once the siege is raised, we shall be able to take a turn in that direction."

"And that will not be long, it is to be hoped," said Porthos, "for this morning they hanged a spy, who declared that the Rochellais were reduced to the leather of their shoes. Supposing that after having eaten the leather they eat the soles, I don't see what will be left for them afterwards, unless it be to eat each other."

"Poor fools!" said Athos, emptying a glass of excellent Bordeaux wine, which, without having at that time the reputation it possesses today, did not merit it less; "poor fools! As if the Catholic religion were not the most advantageous and agreeable of religions! That's all the same," he resumed, after smacking his tongue against his palate, "they are brave fellows. But what the devil are you doing, Aramis?" continued Athos; "you are putting that letter in your pocket?"

"Yes," said d'Artagnan; "Athos is right, we must burn it; and besides, who knows whether M. le cardinal has not a secret for interrogating ashes?"

"He must have one," said Athos.

"But what do you wish to do with that letter?" asked Porthos.

"Come here, Grimaud," said Athos.

Grimaud rose and obeyed.

"For having spoken without permission, my friend, you are going to eat this piece of paper; then, to reward you for the service you will have rendered us, you shall afterwards drink this glass of wine; here is the letter first; munch it vigorously."

Grimaud smiled, and, with his eyes fixed on the glass which Athos had just filled to the brim, he crushed the paper and swallowed it.

"Bravo, Master Grimaud!" said Athos; "and now take this; well, I dispense you from saying thank you."

Grimaud silently swallowed the glass of Bordeaux wine, but his eyes raised to heaven spoke, during all the time that this sweet occupation lasted, a language which, though mute, was not the less expressive.

"And now," said Athos, "unless M. le cardinal has the ingenious idea of having Grimaud's stomach opened, I believe we may be pretty easy."

During this time, His Eminence continued his melancholy walk, murmuring between his mustaches:

"Decidedly, these four men must be mine."

CHAPTER LII. FIRST DAY OF CAPTIVITY

Let us return to Milady, whom a glance cast upon the coasts of France has made us lose sight of for an instant.

We shall find her in the desperate position in which we left her, digging for herself an abyss of sombre reflections, a dark hell at the gate of which she has almost left hope: for 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 seen herself discovered and betrayed; and on these two occasions, it is against the fatal genius sent, no doubt, by the Lord to combat her that she has failed: d'Artagnan has conquered her, her, that invincible power of evil.

He has deceived her in her love, humiliated her in her pride, baffled her in her ambition, and now behold he ruins her in her fortune, he reaches her in her liberty, he even threatens her in her life. More than that, he has raised a corner of her mask, that aegis with which she covers herself and which renders her so strong.

D'Artagnan has turned aside from Buckingham, whom she hates, as she hates everything she has ever loved, the storm with which Richelieu threatened him in the person of the queen. D'Artagnan has passed himself off for de Wardes, for whom she had one of those tigress's fancies, indomitable as those which women of that character have. D'Artagnan knows that terrible secret which she has sworn that none shall know without dying. Finally, at the moment when she has just obtained a blank signature, by means of which she is about to avenge herself on her enemy, the blank signature is snatched 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.

For all this comes to her from d'Artagnan, no doubt; from whom else could come so many shames heaped upon her head? He alone could have transmitted to Lord de Winter all those frightful secrets, which he has discovered one after the other by a sort of fatality. He knows her brother-in-law; he must have written to him.

What hatred she distils! There, motionless, and with burning, fixed eyes in her deserted apartment, how well the bursts of her smothered roarings, which sometimes escape with her breath from the depths of her bosom, accompany the noise of the swell which rises, growls, roars, and comes to break, like an eternal and powerless despair, against the rocks on which is built this dark and proud castle! How, by the light of the flashes which her stormy anger makes shine in her mind, she conceives against Mme. Bonacieux, against Buckingham, and above all against d'Artagnan, magnificent projects of vengeance, lost in the distances of the future!

Yes, but to avenge oneself one must be free; and to be free, when one is a prisoner, one must pierce a wall, unfasten bars, dig a hole in a floor; all enterprises which a patient and strong man can bring to a successful issue, but before which the feverish irritations of a woman must fail. Besides, to do all that one must have time—months, years—and she... she has ten or twelve days, as Lord de Winter, her brotherly and terrible gaoler, has told her.

And yet, if she were a man, she would attempt all that, and perhaps succeed; why, then, has Heaven so mistaken, in placing this virile soul in that frail and delicate body?

Thus the first moments of captivity have been terrible: a few convulsions of rage which she could not overcome have paid her debt of feminine weakness to nature. But little by little she has surmounted the outbursts of her mad anger; the nervous tremblings which have agitated her body have disappeared, and now she has folded herself up like a tired serpent in repose.

"Come, come; I was mad to carry on so," she said, plunging into the glass, which reflects in her eyes her burning glance, with which she seems to interrogate herself. "No violence; violence is a proof of weakness. First, I have never succeeded by that means; perhaps, if I used my strength against women, I might have a chance of finding them still weaker than myself, and consequently of conquering them; but it is against men that I struggle, and I am only a woman to them. Let us struggle like a woman; my strength is in my weakness."

Then, as if to render herself an account of the changes she could impose on her so expressive and so mobile countenance, she made it assume in turn all the expressions, from that of anger which twisted her features, to that of the sweetest, most affectionate, and most seductive smile. Then her hair, under her skilful hands, successively took the undulations which she thought might aid the charms of her face. Finally she murmured, satisfied with herself:

"Come, nothing is lost; I am still beautiful."

It was about eight o'clock in the evening. Milady perceived a bed; she thought that a few hours' repose would refresh not only her head and her ideas, but also her complexion. However, before going to bed, a better idea occurred to her. She had heard talk of supper. Already she had been an hour in this room; they could not delay bringing her her meal. The prisoner did not wish to lose time, and she resolved to make, that very evening, some attempt to sound the ground, by studying the character of the people to whom her keeping was confided.

A light appeared under the door; this light announced the return of her gaolers. Milady, who had risen, threw herself quickly into her armchair, her head thrown back, her beautiful hair unbound and dishevelled, her bosom half bare under her crumpled lace, one hand on her heart and the other hanging down.

The bolts were drawn, the door creaked on its hinges, footsteps resounded in the chamber and approached.

"Place that table there," said a voice which the prisoner recognized as that of Felton.

The order was executed.

"You will bring torches and relieve the sentinel," continued Felton.

This double order, which he 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, moreover, executed with a silent rapidity which gave a good idea of the flourishing state in which he maintained discipline.

At last Felton, who had not yet looked at Milady, turned towards her.

"Ah! ah!" said he, "she is asleep; that is well; she will sup when she wakes."

And he took a few steps to go out.

"But, my lieutenant," said a soldier less stoical than his chief, who had approached Milady, "this woman is not asleep."

"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 place where he stood, without taking a step towards her; "go and inform Lord de Winter that his prisoner has fainted; for I do not know what to do; this case was not provided for."

The soldier went out to obey his officer's orders; Felton sat down on 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 seeing through her long eyelashes without appearing to open her eyelids; she perceived Felton who had his back turned to her, she continued to look at him for about ten minutes, and during those ten minutes the impassible guardian did not turn round once.

She then reflected that Lord de Winter would come and impart new strength to her gaoler by his presence; her first attempt was lost; she resigned herself like a woman who counts upon her resources; consequently she raised her head, opened her eyes, and sighed faintly.

At this sigh Felton at last turned round.

"Ah! you are awake, madame," said he; "I have then nothing more to do here! If you want anything, you can call."

"Oh, my God! my God! how I have suffered!" murmured Milady, with that harmonious voice which, like that of the enchantresses of old, charmed all those whom she wished to ruin.

And she took, in drawing herself up in her armchair, a position still more graceful and abandoned than that she had when lying down.

Felton rose.

"You will be served three times a day, madame," said he: "in the morning at nine o'clock, in the afternoon at one, and in the evening at eight. If that does not suit you, you can indicate the hours instead of those I propose, and in that respect your wishes will be complied with."

"But am I then to remain always alone in this large and dreary room?" asked Milady.

"A woman from the neighbourhood has been warned; she will be at the castle to-morrow, and will come every time you desire her presence."

"I thank you, sir," replied the prisoner humbly.

Felton made a slight bow and turned towards the door. At the moment he was about to cross the threshold, Lord de Winter appeared in the corridor, followed by the soldier who had gone to inform him of Milady's fainting-fit. He held a flask of smelling-salts in his hand.

"Well! what is it? and what is going on here?" said he, in a jeering voice, on seeing his prisoner standing up and Felton ready to go out. "Is this dead woman already risen again? Pardieu, Felton, my boy, you don't see that you are being taken for a novice, and that the first act of a comedy is being played for you, of which we shall no doubt have the pleasure of following all the developments."

"I thought so, my lord," said Felton; "but, after all, as the prisoner is a woman, I wished to have the consideration which every well-born man owes to a woman, if not for her sake, at least for his own."

Milady shuddered through her whole frame. These words of Felton passed like ice through all her veins.

"So," resumed de Winter, laughing, "these beautiful hair so skilfully spread out, that white skin, and that languishing look, have not yet seduced you, heart of stone?"

"No, my lord," replied the impassible young man; "and believe me, it will take more than a woman's tricks and coquetry to corrupt me."

"In that case, my brave lieutenant, let us leave Milady to seek something else, and let us go to supper; ah! be easy, she has a fertile imagination, and the second act of the comedy will not be long in following the first."

And at these words Lord de Winter passed his arm under that of Felton and led him away laughing.

"Oh, I shall find what I want," murmured Milady between her teeth; "be easy, poor failure of a monk, poor converted soldier who has cut your uniform out of a frock!"

"By the way," resumed de Winter, stopping on the threshold of the door, "it must not be, Milady, that this check should take away your appetite. Taste that chicken and those fish which I have not had poisoned, upon my honor. I get on well enough with my cook, and as he is not to be my heir, I place full and entire confidence in him. Do as I do. Adieu, dear sister! till your next fainting-fit."

This was all Milady could bear: her hands clenched on her armchair, her teeth ground together, her eyes followed the movement of the door which closed behind Lord de Winter and Felton; and when she saw herself alone, a fresh fit of despair seized her; she cast her eyes on the table, saw a knife glitter, rushed forward and seized it; but her disappointment was cruel: the blade was round and of flexible silver.

A burst of laughter resounded behind the half-closed door, and the door opened again.

"Ah! ah!" cried Lord de Winter; "ah! ah! do you see, my brave Felton, do you see what I told you? That knife was for you, my boy; she would have killed you. See, it is one of her habits, to get rid in this way, one way or another, of people who inconvenience her. If I had listened to you, the knife would have been pointed and of steel. Then no more Felton; she would have cut your throat, and after you, everyone else. See, John, how well she knows how to hold a knife."

In fact, Milady still held the offensive 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 are right, my lord," said Felton, with an accent of profound disgust which resounded to the bottom of Milady's heart; "you are right, and it was I who was wrong."

And both went out again.

But this time, Milady listened more attentively than the first time, and she heard their steps die away in the depth of the corridor.

"I am lost," she murmured; "I am in the power of people upon whom I can have no more hold than upon statues of bronze or granite; they know me by heart, and are cuirassed against all my weapons.

"It is, however, impossible that it should end as they have arranged."

Indeed, as this last reflection indicated, this instinctive return to hope, in that profound soul fear and weak feelings did not float long. Milady sat down to table, ate of several dishes, drank a little Spanish wine, and felt all her resolution return.

Before going to bed she had already commented, analysed, turned over on all its faces, examined from every point, the words, the steps, the gestures, the signs, and even the silence of her gaolers; and from this deep, skilful, and learned study it resulted that Felton was, on the whole, the more vulnerable of her two persecutors.

One word especially returned to the prisoner's mind:

"If I had listened to you," Lord de Winter had said to Felton.

Therefore Felton had spoken in her favour, since Lord de Winter had not been willing to listen to Felton.

"Weak or strong," repeated Milady, "this man has, then, a gleam of pity in his soul; of that gleam I will make a fire which shall devour him.

"As for the other, he knows me, he fears me, and knows what he has to expect from me if ever I escape from his hands; it is useless, then, to attempt anything against him. But Felton, that is another thing; he is a young, artless, pure man, who seems virtuous; that one may be undone."

And Milady went to bed and fell asleep with a smile on her lips; any one who had seen her sleeping would have said she was a young girl dreaming of the crown of flowers she was to place on her forehead at the next festival.

CHAPTER LIII. SECOND DAY OF CAPTIVITY

Milady dreamed that she had at last got d'Artagnan, that she was present at his torture, and that it was the sight of his odious blood, flowing under the executioner's axe, that traced that charming smile on her lips.

She slept as a prisoner sleeps, rocked by his first hope.

The next day, when they entered her room, she was still in bed. Felton was in the corridor; he brought the woman of whom he had spoken the day before, and who had just arrived; this woman entered and approached Milady's bed, offering her services.

Milady was usually pale; her complexion could, therefore, deceive a person who saw her for the first time.

"I have a fever," said she; "I have not slept an instant during this long night; I suffer horribly; will you be more humane than they were yesterday to me? All I ask, moreover, is permission to remain in bed."

"Do you wish me to send for a doctor?" said the woman.

Felton listened to this dialogue without saying a word.

Milady reflected that the more people she had round her, the more people she would have to pity, and the more Lord de Winter would redouble his vigilance; besides, the doctor might declare that the illness was feigned, and Milady, after having lost the first game, did not wish to lose the second.

"Send for a doctor?" said she, "to what purpose? These gentlemen declared yesterday that my illness was a comedy; it would be just the same to-day, no doubt; for since yesterday evening there has been time to warn the doctor."

"Then," said Felton, impatiently, "say yourself, madame, what treatment you wish to follow."

"Eh! do I know, myself? My God! I feel that I suffer; that is all; give me what you please, it matters little to me."

"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 am well, I want nothing; do not call him."

She put such prodigious vehemence, such seductive eloquence into this exclamation, that Felton, drawn on, took a few steps into the room.

"He is moved," thought Milady.

"However, madame," said Felton, "if you are really suffering, a doctor shall be sent for; and if you are deceiving us, why, so much the worse for you; but at least on our side we shall have nothing to reproach ourselves with."

Milady made no answer; but, throwing her beautiful head back on the pillow, she melted into tears and burst into sobs.

Felton looked at her for an instant with his usual impassibility; then, seeing that the crisis threatened to be prolonged, he went out; the woman followed him. Lord de Winter did not appear.

"I think I begin to see my way," murmured Milady, with a savage joy, burying herself under the clothes to conceal from any one who might be watching her this impulse of inward satisfaction.

Two hours passed away.

"Now it is time for the malady to cease," said she; "let us get up and obtain some success from this very day; I have only ten days, and this evening two will be gone."

When they entered in the morning into Milady's room, they had brought her breakfast; she had thought that they would not be long in clearing the table, and that at that moment she would see Felton again.

Milady was not mistaken. Felton reappeared, and, without paying attention whether Milady had or had not touched her repast, made a sign to have the table carried out of the room, which was usually brought in fully laid.

Felton remained last; he held a book in his hand.

Milady, reclining in an armchair near the fireplace, beautiful, pale, and resigned, resembled a holy virgin awaiting martyrdom.

Felton approached her and said:

“Stories of the world, in your language.”