Part 47

"Lord de Winter, who is a Catholic like yourself, madame, has thought that the deprivation of the rites and ceremonies of your religion might be painful to you; he therefore consents that you read each day the ordinary of _your mass_, and here is a book which contains its ritual."

From the air with which Felton placed this book on the small table near which Milady was sitting, from the tone in which he pronounced these two words, _your mass_, from the disdainful smile with which he accompanied them, Milady raised her head and looked more attentively at the officer.

Then, at that severe hairstyle, at that costume of exaggerated simplicity, at that brow polished like marble, but hard and impenetrable as it, she recognized one of those somber Puritans she had so often encountered both at the court of King James and at that of the King of France, where, despite the memory of Saint Bartholomew's Day, they sometimes came to seek refuge.

She thus had one of those sudden inspirations that only people of genius receive in great crises, in the supreme moments that must decide their fortune or their life.

These two words, _your mass_, and a simple glance cast at Felton, had indeed revealed to her all the importance of the answer she was about to give.

But with that rapidity of intelligence which was peculiar to her, that answer, already formulated, presented itself on her lips:

"I!" she said, with an accent of disdain pitched to match that which she had noticed in the young officer's voice, "I, sir, _my mass!_ Lord de Winter, the corrupt Catholic, knows well that I am not of his religion, and it is a trap he wants to set for me!"

"And of what religion are you then, madame?" asked Felton, with an astonishment that, despite his self-control, he could not entirely hide.

"I will tell it," cried Milady with feigned exaltation, "the day when I have suffered enough for my faith."

Felton's glance revealed to Milady the full extent of the space she had just opened for herself by that single word.

Yet the young officer remained silent and motionless; only his eyes had spoken.

"I am in the hands of my enemies," she continued, with that tone of enthusiasm she knew was familiar to Puritans; "well, let my God save me or let me perish for my God! That is the answer I pray you to make to Lord de Winter. And as for this book," she added, pointing with the tip of her finger at the ritual, but without touching it, as if she would have been sullied by that contact, "you may take it back and use it for yourself, for no doubt you are doubly an accomplice of Lord de Winter—an accomplice in his persecution, an accomplice in his heresy."

Felton answered nothing, took the book with the same feeling of repugnance he had already shown, and withdrew pensively. Lord de Winter came toward five o'clock in the evening; Milady had had time during the whole day to trace out her plan of conduct; she received him like a woman who has already regained all her advantages.

"It appears," said the baron, sitting down in an armchair opposite the one Milady occupied and stretching his feet nonchalantly toward the fire, "it appears that we have made a little apostasy!"

"What do you mean, sir?"

"I mean that since the last time we saw each other, we have changed religion; have you by chance married a third Protestant husband?"

"Explain yourself, my lord," replied the prisoner with majesty, "for I declare to you that I hear your words, but I do not understand them."

"Then it's that you have no religion at all; I like that better," returned Lord de Winter, sneering.

"It is certain that this is more in accordance with your principles," replied Milady coldly.

"Oh! I confess to you that it is perfectly indifferent to me."

"Oh! you would not confess this religious indifference, my lord, even if your debaucheries and your crimes did not bear witness to it."

"Ha! you speak of debaucheries, Madame Messalina, you speak of crimes, Lady Macbeth! Either I have misheard, or you are, by God, very impudent."

"You speak thus because you know that we are being listened to, sir," replied Milady coldly, "and because you want to interest your jailers and your executioners against me."

"My jailers! My executioners! Indeed, madame, you are taking a poetic tone, and yesterday's comedy turns tonight to tragedy. Besides, in a week you will be where you ought to be, and my task will be finished."

"Infamous task! impious task!" replied Milady with the exaltation of a victim who provokes her judge.

"I believe, upon my word of honor," said de Winter, rising, "that the wench is going mad. Come, come, calm yourself, Madame Puritan, or I'll have you put in the dungeon. By God! it's my Spanish wine that has gone to your head, isn't it? But be easy, that intoxication is not dangerous and will have no consequences."

And Lord de Winter withdrew, swearing, which at that time was a thoroughly cavalier habit.

Felton was indeed behind the door and had not lost a word of this whole scene.

Milady had guessed correctly.

"Yes, go! go!" she said to her brother, "the consequences are approaching, on the contrary, but you will not see them, fool, until it is too late to avoid them."

Silence was reestablished; two hours passed; supper was brought, and Milady was found occupied in saying her prayers aloud—prayers that she had learned from an old servant of her second husband, an austere Puritan. She seemed in ecstasy and did not even appear to notice what was happening around her. Felton signaled that she should not be disturbed, and when everything was ready, he left noiselessly with the soldiers.

Milady knew she could be spied upon, so she continued her prayers to the end, and it seemed to her that the soldier who was on sentry duty at her door no longer walked with the same step and appeared to be listening.

For the moment, she wanted nothing more; she rose, sat down at the table, ate little, and drank only water.

An hour later, the table was cleared, but Milady noticed that this time Felton did not accompany the soldiers.

So he was afraid of seeing her too often.

She turned toward the wall to smile, for there was in that smile such an expression of triumph that that alone would have betrayed her.

She let another half hour pass, and while everything was silent in the old castle, and nothing was heard but the eternal murmur of the waves, that vast respiration of the ocean, with her pure, harmonious, and vibrant voice, she began the first couplet of that psalm then in full favor among the Puritans:

"Lord, if Thou dost abandon us, It is to see if we are strong; But then it is Thou who dost give From Thy celestial hand the palm to our efforts."

These verses were not excellent—far from it; but, as is known, Protestants did not pride themselves on poetry.

While singing, Milady listened: the soldier on guard at her door had stopped as if turned to stone. Milady could therefore judge the effect she had produced.

Then she continued her singing with a fervor and an inexpressible feeling; it seemed to her that the sounds spread far under the vaults and went like a magical charm to soften the hearts of her jailers. However, it appeared that the sentry soldier, a zealous Catholic no doubt, shook off the charm, for through the door:

"Be silent, then, madame," he said, "your song is as sad as a _De Profundis_, and if, besides the pleasure of being garrisoned here, we must also hear such things, it will be unbearable."

"Silence!" then said a grave voice, which Milady recognized as Felton's. "What business is it of yours, fellow? Were you ordered to prevent this woman from singing? No. You were told to guard her, to shoot her if she tries to escape. Guard her; if she flees, kill her, but do not change the orders."

An expression of ineffable joy lit up Milady's face, but this expression was fleeting as the reflection of lightning, and, without appearing to have heard the dialogue of which she had not lost a word, she resumed, giving to her voice all the charm, all the range, and all the seduction that the demon had put into it:

"For so many tears and misery, For my exile and for my chains, I have my youth, my prayer, And God, who will count the evils I have suffered."

This voice, of an unheard-of range and of sublime passion, gave to the rough and uncultivated poetry of these psalms a magic and an expression that the most exalted Puritans seldom found in the songs of their brethren and that they were forced to adorn with all the resources of their imagination: Felton thought he heard the angel singing who comforted the three Hebrews in the furnace.

Milady continued:

"But the day of deliverance Will come for us, God just and strong; And if He disappoints our hope, We still have martyrdom and death."

This couplet, in which the terrible enchantress strove to put all her soul, completed the disorder in the young officer's heart: he abruptly opened the door, and Milady saw him appear, pale as always, but with burning and almost wild eyes.

"Why do you sing like that," he said, "and with such a voice?"

"Pardon, sir," said Milady with gentleness, "I forgot that my songs are not suitable in this house. I have no doubt offended you in your beliefs; but it was unintentional, I swear; forgive me, therefore, for a fault that is perhaps great, but certainly involuntary."

Milady was so beautiful at that moment, the religious ecstasy in which she seemed plunged gave such expression to her features, that Felton, dazzled, thought he saw the angel whom he had just believed he only heard.

"Yes, yes," he replied, "yes: you disturb, you agitate the people who inhabit this castle."

And the poor madman himself did not perceive the incoherence of his speech, while Milady plunged her lynx eye into the deepest part of his heart.

"I will be silent," said Milady, lowering her eyes with all the sweetness she could give to her voice, with all the resignation she could impress upon her bearing.

"No, no, madame," said Felton; "only sing less loudly, especially at night."

And with these words, Felton, feeling that he could not long maintain his severity toward the prisoner, rushed out of her apartment.

"You did well, lieutenant," said the soldier; "these songs disturb the soul; however, one ends up getting used to them: her voice is so beautiful!"

CHAPTER 54. THIRD DAY OF CAPTIVITY

Felton had come; but there was still a step to take: he had to be retained, or rather, he had to remain alone; and Milady still only dimly saw the means that should lead her to this result.

More was needed: he had to be made to speak, so that she might speak to him in turn; for Milady knew well that her greatest seduction was in her voice, which ran so skillfully through the whole scale of tones, from human speech to celestial language.

And yet, despite all this seduction, Milady might fail, for Felton was forewarned, and that against the slightest chance. From then on, she watched all his actions, all his words, down to the simplest glance of his eyes, down to his gesture, down to his breath, which could be interpreted as a sigh. In short, she studied everything as does a skillful actor to whom a new role has just been given in a part he is not accustomed to playing.

With regard to Lord de Winter, her conduct was easier; also it had been decided the day before. To remain mute and dignified in his presence, from time to time to irritate him by an affected disdain, by a contemptuous word, to drive him to threats and violence which contrasted with her resignation—such was her plan. Felton would see: perhaps he would say nothing; but he would see.

In the morning, Felton came as usual; but Milady let him preside over all the preparations for breakfast without addressing a word to him. So, at the moment when he was about to withdraw, she had a gleam of hope; for she thought it was he who was going to speak; but his lips moved without any sound coming out of his mouth, and making an effort over himself, he shut up in his heart the words that were about to escape his lips, and went out.

Toward noon, Lord de Winter entered.

It was a fairly fine winter day, and a ray of that pale English sun which lights but does not warm passed through the bars of the prison.

Milady was looking out the window, and pretended not to hear the door open.

"Ha! ha!" said Lord de Winter, "after playing comedy, after playing tragedy, here we are playing melancholy."

The prisoner did not answer.

"Yes, yes," continued Lord de Winter, "I understand; you would gladly be free on this shore; you would gladly, on a good ship, cleave the waves of this sea green as an emerald; you would gladly, either on land or on the ocean, set for me one of those nice little ambushes like you know so well how to arrange. Patience! patience! In four days, the shore will be permitted to you, the sea will be opened to you, more open than you would like, for in four days England will be rid of you."

Milady clasped her hands, and raising her beautiful eyes to heaven:

"Lord! Lord!" she said, with an angelic suavity of gesture and intonation, "forgive this man, as I myself forgive him."

"Yes, pray, accursed one," cried the baron, "your prayer is all the more generous because you are, I swear to you, in the power of a man who will not forgive."

And he went out.

At the moment he went out, a piercing glance slipped through the half-open door, and she saw Felton, who quickly drew back to avoid being seen by her.

Then she threw herself on her knees and began to pray.

"My God! my God!" she said, "You know for what holy cause I suffer; give me therefore the strength to suffer."

The door opened softly; the beautiful suppliant pretended not to have heard, and in a voice full of tears, she continued:

"Avenging God! God of goodness! will You let the frightful projects of this man be accomplished?"

Then only, she feigned to hear the sound of Felton's steps and, rising as quick as thought, she blushed as if ashamed at having been surprised on her knees.

"I do not like to disturb those who pray, madame," said Felton gravely; "do not therefore disturb yourself for me, I entreat you."

"How do you know that I was praying, sir?" said Milady, in a voice choked with sobs; "you were mistaken, sir, I was not praying."

"Do you think, then, madame," replied Felton, in the same grave voice, though with a gentler accent, "that I believe I have the right to prevent a creature from prostrating herself before her Creator? God forbid! Moreover, repentance is becoming to the guilty; whatever crime they may have committed, a guilty person is sacred to me at the feet of God."

"Guilty, I!" said Milady, with a smile that would have disarmed the angel of the Last Judgment. "Guilty! My God, You know if I am! Say that I am condemned, sir, very well; but you know, God who loves martyrs sometimes allows the innocent to be condemned."

"Were you condemned, were you a martyr," replied Felton, "all the more reason to pray, and I myself will help you with my prayers."

"Oh! you are a righteous man, you!" cried Milady, throwing herself at his feet; "see, I can no longer bear it, for I fear I shall lack strength at the moment when I must sustain the struggle and confess my faith; listen, therefore, to the supplication of a woman in despair. You are being deceived, sir, but that is not the question; I only ask you one favor, and if you grant it to me, I will bless you in this world and in the next."

"Speak to the master, madame," said Felton; "I am fortunately charged neither with pardoning nor punishing, and it is to one higher than myself that God has entrusted that responsibility."

"To you, no, to you alone. Hear me, rather than contribute to my ruin, rather than contribute to my ignominy."

"If you have deserved this shame, madame, if you have incurred this ignominy, you must submit to it, offering it to God."

"What are you saying? Oh! you do not understand me! When I speak of ignominy, you think I speak of some punishment, of prison or death! Would to Heaven! What do I care for death or prison?"

"It is I who no longer understand you, madame."

"Or who pretend no longer to understand me, sir," replied the prisoner, with a doubtful smile.

"No, madame, upon the honor of a soldier, upon the faith of a Christian!"

"What! you do not know Lord de Winter's designs upon me?"

"I do not know them."

"Impossible, you are his confidant!"

"I never lie, madame."

"Oh! he hides too little, however, for them not to be guessed."

"I do not seek to guess anything, madame; I wait until I am confided in, and apart from what he has said to me in your presence, Lord de Winter has confided nothing to me."

"But," cried Milady, with an incredible accent of truth, "you are not, then, his accomplice? You do not know, then, that he destines me to a shame that all the punishments of the earth cannot equal in horror?"

"You are mistaken, madame," said Felton, blushing; "Lord de Winter is not capable of such a crime."

"Good," said Milady to herself, "without knowing what it is, he calls it a crime!"

Then aloud:

"The friend of the infamous is capable of anything."

"Whom do you call the infamous?" asked Felton.

"Are there, then, in England two men to whom such a name can apply?"

"You mean to speak of George Villiers?" said Felton, whose eyes kindled.

"Whom the pagans, the gentiles, and the infidels call Duke of Buckingham," replied Milady; "I would not have believed that there was an Englishman in all England who would have needed so long an explanation to recognize the one of whom I meant to speak!"

"The hand of the Lord is stretched out over him," said Felton; "he will not escape the punishment he deserves."

Felton was only expressing with regard to the duke the feeling of execration that all the English had vowed to him whom even the Catholics called the extortioner, the embezzler, the debauchee, and whom the Puritans simply called Satan.

"Oh! my God! my God!" cried Milady, "when I implore You to send to this man the punishment that is due him, You know that it is not my own vengeance I pursue, but the deliverance of an entire people that I implore."

"Do you know him, then?" asked Felton.

"At last, he interrogates me," said Milady to herself, at the height of joy at having arrived so quickly at so great a result.

"Oh! if I know him! oh, yes! to my misfortune, to my eternal misfortune!"

And Milady wrung her arms as if arrived at the paroxysm of grief. Felton no doubt felt in himself that his strength was abandoning him, and he took a few steps toward the door; the prisoner, who did not lose sight of him, bounded after him and stopped him.

"Sir!" she cried, "be good, be merciful, hear my prayer: that knife which the baron's fatal prudence took from me, because he knows the use I want to make of it; oh! hear me to the end! that knife, give it back to me for a minute only, out of grace, out of pity! I embrace your knees; see, you will close the door, it is not you I intend to harm: God! harm you, you, the only just, good, and compassionate being I have met! you, my savior perhaps! one minute, that knife, one minute, one single minute, and I will return it to you through the wicket of the door; only one minute, Mr. Felton, and you will have saved my honor!"

"Kill yourself!" cried Felton with terror, forgetting to withdraw his hands from the prisoner's hands; "kill yourself!"

"I have said, sir," murmured Milady, lowering her voice and letting herself sink prostrate on the floor, "I have said 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 truthful enough."

Footsteps were heard in the corridor; Milady recognized Lord de Winter's step. Felton recognized it too and moved toward the door.

Milady rushed forward.

"Oh! not a word," she said in a concentrated voice, "not a word of all I have told you to that man, or I am lost, and it is you, you—"

Then, as the steps drew nearer, she fell silent for fear that her voice might be heard, pressing her beautiful hand with a gesture of infinite terror over Felton's mouth. Felton gently pushed Milady away, and she fell back onto a chaise longue.

Lord de Winter passed before the door without stopping, and the sound of the receding steps was heard.

Felton, pale as death, remained a few moments with his ear strained and listening, then when the sound had died away completely, he breathed like a man emerging from a dream, and rushed out of the room.

"Ah!" said Milady, listening in turn to the sound of Felton's steps, which moved away in the opposite direction from those of Lord de Winter, "at last, you are mine!"

Then her brow darkened.

"If he speaks to the baron," she said, "I am lost, for the baron, who knows well that I will not kill myself, will put a knife into my hands in front of him, and he will see that all this great despair was only a game."

She went to place herself before her mirror and looked at herself; never had she been so beautiful.

"Oh! yes!" she said, smiling, "but he will not speak to him."

In the evening, Lord de Winter accompanied the supper.

"Sir," said Milady to him, "is your presence an obligatory accessory of my captivity, and could you not spare me this additional torture that your visits cause me?"

"How now, dear sister!" said de Winter, "did you not sentimentally announce to me, with that pretty mouth so cruel to me today, that you came to England with this sole purpose of seeing me at your leisure—a pleasure you said you felt so keenly the privation of that you risked everything for it, seasickness, storm, captivity! Well, here I am, be satisfied; besides, this time my visit has a motive."

Milady shuddered; she thought that Felton had spoken; never in her life, perhaps, had this woman, who had experienced so many powerful and opposite emotions, felt her heart beat so violently.

She was seated; Lord de Winter took an armchair, drew it to his side, and sat down near her, then taking from his pocket a paper which he slowly unfolded:

"Look," he said to her, "I wanted to show you this sort of passport that I have drawn up myself and which will henceforth serve you as a number of order in the life that I consent to leave you."

Then, bringing his eyes from Milady to the paper, he read:

“Stories of the world, in your language.”