Part 48
“Order to convey to…” The name is blank,” Winter interrupted; “if you have any preference, you will indicate it to me; and as long as it is a thousand leagues from London, your request will be granted. I resume, therefore: ‘Order to convey to… the named Charlotte Backson, branded by the justice of the kingdom of France, but released after punishment; she shall dwell in this residence, never venturing more than three leagues from it. In case of attempted escape, the death penalty shall be applied to her. She shall receive five shillings per day for her lodging and food.’”
“That order does not concern me,” Milady replied coldly, “since a name other than mine is written there.”
“A name! Do you have one?”
“I have your brother’s.”
“You are mistaken; my brother is only your second husband, and the first still lives. Tell me his name and I shall put it in place of the name Charlotte Backson. No?… You do not wish to?… You remain silent? Very well! You shall be registered under the name Charlotte Backson.”
Milady remained silent; only this time it was no longer by affectation, but by terror: she believed the order was ready to be executed; she thought Lord de Winter had advanced his departure; she believed she was condemned to leave that very evening. Everything in her mind was therefore lost for an instant, when suddenly she noticed that the order bore no signature.
The joy she felt at this discovery was so great that she could not hide it.
“Yes, yes,” said Lord de Winter, who perceived what was happening within her, “yes, you are looking for the signature, and you say to yourself: all is not lost, since this document is not signed; they are showing it to me to frighten me, that’s all. You are mistaken: tomorrow this order will be sent to Lord Buckingham; the day after tomorrow it will return signed by his hand and bearing his seal, and twenty-four hours later, I promise you, it will begin to be executed. Farewell, madame; that is all I had to tell you.”
“And I shall answer you, sir, that this abuse of power, this exile under a false name, is an infamy.”
“Would you prefer to be hanged under your real name, Milady? You know, English laws are inexorable regarding the abuse of marriage; speak frankly: although my name—or rather my brother’s name—is involved in all this, I will risk the scandal of a public trial to be sure of being rid of you once and for all.”
Milady did not reply, but turned as pale as a corpse.
“Oh! I see you prefer the journey. Excellent, madame, and there is an old proverb that says travel broadens the young. Upon my word! You are not wrong, after all, and life is good. That is why I do not wish you to take it from me. So there remains to settle the matter of the five shillings; I am being a little miserly, am I not? That is because I do not wish you to corrupt your guards. Besides, you will always have your charms to seduce them. Use them, if your failure with Felton has not disgusted you with such attempts.”
“Felton has not spoken,” Milady said to herself, “then nothing is lost.”
“And now, madame, until we meet again. Tomorrow I shall come to announce the departure of my messenger.”
Lord de Winter rose, bowed ironically to Milady, and left.
Milady breathed again: she still had four days before her; four days would suffice to complete the seduction of Felton.
A terrible idea then struck her: Lord de Winter might send Felton himself to have the order signed by Buckingham; in that way Felton would escape her, and for the prisoner to succeed, the magic of continuous seduction was necessary.
Nevertheless, as we have said, one thing reassured her: Felton had not spoken.
She did not wish to appear moved by Lord de Winter’s threats; she sat down to eat.
Then, as she had done the previous day, she knelt and repeated her prayers aloud. As on the previous day, the soldier stopped pacing and paused to listen.
Soon she heard lighter footsteps than those of the sentry coming from the end of the corridor and stopping before her door.
“It is he,” she said.
And she began the same religious hymn that the day before had so violently excited Felton.
But although her sweet, full, and sonorous voice vibrated more harmoniously and more heartrendingly than ever, the door remained closed. Milady did seem, in one of the furtive glances she cast at the little wicket, to glimpse through the close grating the young man’s burning eyes; but whether it was reality or vision, this time he had the strength over himself not to enter.
Only, a few moments after she had finished her religious hymn, Milady thought she heard a deep sigh; then the same footsteps she had heard approaching withdrew slowly and as if regretfully.
CHAPTER LV. THE FOURTH DAY OF CAPTIVITY
The next day, when Felton entered Milady’s room, he found her standing on a chair, holding in her hands a rope woven from several cambric handkerchiefs torn into strips braided together and tied end to end. At the sound Felton made opening the door, Milady jumped lightly down from her chair and tried to hide behind her this improvised rope, which she held in her hand.
The young man was paler than usual, and his eyes, red from sleeplessness, indicated that he had spent a feverish night.
However, his brow was armed with a serenity more austere than ever.
He walked slowly toward Milady, who had sat down, and taking one end of the deadly braid which she had inadvertently—or perhaps intentionally—allowed to show:
“What is this, madame?” he asked coldly.
“That? Nothing,” said Milady, smiling with that painful expression she knew so well how to give her smile; “boredom is the mortal enemy of prisoners; I was bored and I amused myself by braiding this rope.”
Felton directed his eyes to the point on the wall of the room before which he had found Milady standing on the chair where she now sat, and above her head he perceived a gilded hook, fixed in the wall, used for hanging clothes or weapons.
He shuddered, and the prisoner saw this shudder; for although her eyes were lowered, nothing escaped her.
“And what were you doing, standing on that chair?” he asked.
“What does it matter to you?” replied Milady.
“But,” continued Felton, “I wish to know.”
“Do not question me,” said the prisoner; “you know well that we true Christians are forbidden to lie.”
“Very well,” said Felton, “I shall tell you what you were doing, or rather what you were about to do—you were about to complete the fatal work you nurture in your mind. Reflect, madame: if our God forbids lying, He forbids suicide even more severely.”
“When God sees one of His creatures unjustly persecuted, placed between suicide and dishonor, believe me, sir,” replied Milady in a tone of deep conviction, “God forgives suicide; for then suicide is martyrdom.”
“You say too much or too little. Speak, madame, in Heaven’s name, explain yourself.”
“Shall I tell you my misfortunes, so that you may treat them as fables? Shall I tell you my plans, so that you may go and denounce them to my persecutor? No, sir; besides, what does the life or death of a wretched condemned woman matter to you? You are answerable only for my body, are you not? And provided you produce a corpse, recognized as mine, no more will be asked of you; and perhaps you will even receive a double reward.”
“I, madame, I!” cried Felton. “To suppose that I would ever accept the price of your life! Oh, you do not mean what you say.”
“Leave me be, Felton, leave me be,” said Milady, growing excited; “every soldier must be ambitious, must he not? You are a lieutenant; well, you shall follow my funeral cortege with the rank of captain.”
“But what have I done to you,” said Felton, shaken, “that you should burden me with such a responsibility before men and before God? In a few days you will be far from here, madame; your life will no longer be under my guard, and,” he added with a sigh, “then you will do with it as you please.”
“So,” cried Milady, as if she could not resist a holy indignation, “you, a pious man, you who are called a righteous man, you ask only one thing: not to be blamed, troubled for my death!”
“I must watch over your life, madame, and I shall watch over it.”
“But do you understand the mission you are fulfilling? Cruel already if I were guilty, what name will you give it, what name will the Lord give it, if I am innocent?”
“I am a soldier, madame, and I carry out the orders I have received.”
“Do you believe that on the Day of Judgment God will separate the blind executioners from the unjust judges? You do not want me to kill my body, and you make yourself the agent of him who wishes to kill my soul!”
“But, I repeat,” said Felton, shaken, “no danger threatens you; I answer for Lord de Winter as for myself.”
“Fool!” cried Milady, “poor fool, who dares answer for another man when the wisest, the greatest according to God, hesitate to answer for themselves, and who sides with the strongest and most fortunate to crush the weakest and most wretched!”
“Impossible, madame, impossible,” murmured Felton, who felt in the depths of his heart the justice of this argument; “as a prisoner, you shall not regain your freedom through me; as a living woman, you shall not lose your life through me.”
“Yes,” cried Milady, “but I shall lose what is far dearer to me than life; I shall lose my honor, Felton; and it is you, you whom I shall hold responsible before God and men for my shame and my infamy!”
This time Felton, impassive as he was or pretended to be, could not resist the secret influence that had already taken hold of him. To see this woman, so beautiful, white as the most innocent vision, to see her alternately tearful and threatening, to succumb at once to the ascendancy of grief and beauty—this was too much for a visionary, too much for a mind undermined by the ardent dreams of ecstatic faith, too much for a heart corroded at once by the love of Heaven that burns and the hatred of men that devours.
Milady saw his agitation; she sensed by intuition the flame of opposing passions burning with the blood in the young fanatic’s veins; and, like a skillful general who, seeing the enemy ready to retreat, advances upon him with a cry of victory, she rose, beautiful as an ancient priestess, inspired as a Christian virgin, and with outstretched arm, neck uncovered, hair disheveled, holding with one hand her robe modestly drawn over her breast, her gaze lit with the fire that had already disordered the senses of the young Puritan, she walked toward him, crying out in a vehement tone, with her voice so sweet, to which on occasion she gave a terrible accent:
“Deliver to Baal his victim, Cast the martyr to the lions: God will make you repent!… I cry to Him from the abyss.”
Felton stopped before this strange apostrophe, as if petrified.
“Who are you, who are you?” he cried, clasping his hands; “are you an envoy of God, are you a minister of hell? Are you an angel or a demon? Are you called Eloa or Astarte?”
“Have you not recognized me, Felton? I am neither angel nor demon; I am a daughter of the earth, I am a sister of your faith—that is all.”
“Yes! yes!” said Felton, “I still doubted, but now I believe.”
“You believe, and yet you are the accomplice of that child of Belial called Lord de Winter! You believe, and yet you leave me in the hands of my enemies, the enemy of England, the enemy of God! You believe, and yet you deliver me to him who fills and defiles the world with his heresies and his debaucheries, to that infamous Sardanapalus whom the blind call the Duke of Buckingham and whom believers call the Antichrist.”
“I, deliver you to Buckingham! I! What are you saying?”
“They have eyes,” cried Milady, “and they shall not see; they have ears, and they shall not hear.”
“Yes, yes,” said Felton, passing his hands over his sweat-covered brow as if to tear away his last doubt; “yes, I recognize the voice that speaks to me in my dreams; yes, I recognize the features of the angel who appears to me every night, crying to my sleepless soul: ‘Strike, save England, save yourself, for you shall die without having disarmed God!’ Speak, speak!” cried Felton, “I can understand you now.”
A flash of terrible joy, but swift as thought, shot from Milady’s eyes.
Fleeting as that murderous gleam was, Felton saw it and shuddered as if that gleam had illuminated the abysses of that woman’s heart.
Felton suddenly remembered Lord de Winter’s warnings, Milady’s seductions, her first attempts upon his arrival; he drew back a step and lowered his head, but without ceasing to look at her—as if, fascinated by this strange creature, his eyes could not detach themselves from hers.
Milady was not a woman to mistake the meaning of this hesitation. Beneath her apparent emotions, her icy composure did not abandon her. Before Felton could answer her and before she was forced to resume this conversation, so difficult to sustain on the same tone of exaltation, she let her hands fall, and, as if the weakness of woman were regaining the upper hand over the enthusiasm of the inspired one:
“But no,” she said, “it is not for me to be the Judith who will deliver Bethulia from this Holofernes. The sword of the Eternal is too heavy for my arm. Let me flee dishonor by death, let me take refuge in martyrdom. I ask you neither for liberty, as a guilty woman would, nor for vengeance, as a pagan would. Let me die, that is all. I beg you, I implore you on my knees: let me die, and my last sigh shall be a blessing for my savior.”
At this sweet and suppliant voice, at this timid and downcast look, Felton drew nearer. Little by little, the enchantress had assumed that magical adornment which she put on and took off at will—that is, beauty, gentleness, tears, and above all the irresistible appeal of mystical voluptuousness, the most consuming of voluptuousnesses.
“Alas!” said Felton, “I can do only one thing: pity you if you prove to me that you are a victim! But Lord de Winter has cruel grievances against you. You are a Christian, you are my sister in religion; I feel drawn toward you—I, who have loved only my benefactor, I who have found in life only traitors and impious men. But you, madame, so beautiful in reality, so pure in appearance, for Lord de Winter to pursue you thus, you must have committed iniquities.”
“They have eyes,” repeated Milady, with an accent of ineffable sorrow, “and they shall not see; they have ears, and they shall not hear.”
“But, then,” cried the young officer, “speak, speak then!”
“Confide my shame to you!” cried Milady, with the blush of modesty on her face; “for often the crime of one is the shame of another. Confide my shame to you, a man, I a woman! Oh!” she continued, modestly bringing her hand to her beautiful eyes, “oh! never, never could I!”
“To me, to a brother!” cried Felton.
Milady looked at him for a long time with an expression that the young officer took for doubt, but which was only observation and above all the will to fascinate.
Felton, in his turn suppliant, clasped his hands.
“Well,” said Milady, “I trust my brother; I shall dare!”
At that moment, the step of Lord de Winter was heard; but this time the terrible brother-in-law of Milady did not content himself, as he had done the day before, with passing before the door and moving away; he stopped, exchanged a few words with the sentry, then the door opened and he appeared.
During these few exchanged words, Felton had stepped back quickly, and when Lord de Winter entered, he was a few paces from the prisoner.
The baron entered slowly and cast his scrutinizing gaze from the prisoner to the young officer.
“You have been here a long time, John,” he said; “has this woman told you her crimes? Then I understand the length of the conversation.”
Felton started, and Milady felt that she was lost if she did not come to the aid of the disconcerted Puritan.
“Ah! You fear that your prisoner will escape you!” she said. “Well, ask your worthy gaoler what favor I was just now soliciting from him.”
“You were asking 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 wicket a minute after receiving it,” replied Felton.
“So there is someone hidden here whom this gracious person wishes to cut the throat of?” resumed Lord de Winter, in his mocking and contemptuous voice.
“There is myself,” replied Milady.
“I gave you the choice between America and Tyburn,” resumed Lord de Winter; “choose Tyburn, Milady: the rope is, believe me, even surer than the knife.”
Felton paled and took a step forward, remembering that at the moment he had entered, Milady was holding a rope.
“You are right,” she said; “I had already thought of that”; then she added in a low voice: “I shall think of it again.”
Felton felt a shiver run through his very marrow. Lord de Winter probably perceived this movement.
“Beware, John,” he said; “John, my friend, I have relied upon you; take care! I have warned you! Besides, take heart, my child; in three days we shall be rid of this creature, and where I send her, she will harm no one more.”
“You hear that!” cried Milady loudly, in such a way that the baron believed she was addressing Heaven, and Felton understood it was meant for him.
Felton lowered his head and dreamed.
The baron took the officer by the arm, turning his head over his shoulder so as not to lose sight of Milady until he had left.
“Come, come,” said the prisoner when the door had closed again, “I am not yet as far along as I thought. Winter has changed his usual foolishness into an unfamiliar prudence. What the desire for vengeance does, and how it forms a man! As for Felton, he hesitates. Ah! He is not a man like that cursed d’Artagnan. A Puritan adores only virgins, and he adores them with clasped hands. A musketeer loves women, and he loves them with open arms.”
Nevertheless, Milady waited impatiently, for she suspected that the day would not pass without her seeing Felton again. Finally, an hour after the scene we have just related, she heard low speaking at the door; then soon the door opened, and she recognized Felton.
The young man advanced rapidly into the room, leaving the door open behind him and signaling to Milady to be silent; his face was agitated.
“What do you want with me?” she said.
“Listen,” replied Felton in a low voice; “I have just sent away the sentry so that I can stay here without anyone knowing I have come, to speak to you without being overheard. The baron has just told me a frightful story.”
Milady assumed her smile of 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 for four days; I have loved him for ten years. I may therefore hesitate between you. Do not be alarmed by what I tell you; I need to be convinced. Tonight, after midnight, I shall come to see you; you shall convince me.”
“No, Felton, no, my brother,” she said; “the sacrifice is too great, and I feel it costs you dearly. No, I am lost; do not lose yourself with me. My death will be far more eloquent than my life, and the silence of the corpse will convince you far better than the words of the prisoner.”
“Be silent, madame,” cried Felton; “do not speak to me thus! I have come so that you may promise me on your honor, swear to me by all you hold most sacred, that you will not attempt your life.”
“I will not promise,” said Milady; “for no one has more respect for an oath than I; and if I promised, I would have to keep it.”
“Well, then,” said Felton, “pledge yourself only until you have seen me again. If, after seeing me again, you still persist, well then, you shall be free, and I myself will give you the weapon you asked for.”
“Well,” said Milady, “for you I shall wait.”
“Swear it.”
“I swear it by our God. Are you satisfied?”
“Good,” said Felton; “until tonight!”
And he rushed out of the apartment, closed the door, and waited outside, holding the soldier’s half-pike in his hand, as if he were mounting guard in his place.
When the soldier returned, Felton gave him back his weapon.
Then, through the wicket, to which she had drawn near, Milady saw the young man cross himself with delirious fervor and walk away down the corridor with a transport of joy.
As for her, she returned to her place, a smile of savage contempt on her lips, and repeated, blaspheming, that terrible name of God by which she had sworn without ever having learned to know Him.
“My God!” she said. “Fanatical fool! My God! It is I, I and he who will help me to avenge myself.”
CHAPTER LVI. THE FIFTH DAY OF CAPTIVITY
Nevertheless, Milady had reached a half-triumph, and the success obtained doubled her strength.
It was not difficult to conquer, as she had done so far, men quick to let themselves be seduced, and whom the gallant education of the court rapidly led into the trap; Milady was beautiful enough to encounter no resistance from the flesh, and clever enough to overcome all obstacles of the mind.
But this time, she had to struggle against a savage, concentrated nature, rendered insensible by austerity; religion and penance had made Felton a man inaccessible to ordinary seductions. In that exalted head rolled such vast plans, such tumultuous projects, that there was no room left for any love of caprice or matter—that sentiment which feeds on leisure and grows through corruption. Milady had therefore breached, with her false virtue, the opinion of a man horribly prejudiced against her, and by her beauty, the heart and senses of a chaste and pure man. Finally, she had taken the measure of her powers, unknown to herself until then, through this experiment upon the most rebellious subject that nature and religion could place under her study.
“Stories of the world, in your language.”