Part 51

Milady had listened to all this threatening tirade with a smile of disdain on her lips, but rage in her heart.

Supper was served; Milady felt she needed strength, for she did not know what might happen during this night that was approaching so menacingly, as large clouds rolled across the sky and distant lightning announced a storm.

The storm broke around ten o'clock in the evening: Milady felt a consolation in seeing nature share the disorder of her heart; the thunder rumbled in the air like the anger in her thoughts, it seemed to her that the gust, as it passed, tousled her brow like the trees whose branches it bent and whose leaves it tore away; she howled like the hurricane, and her voice was lost in the great voice of nature, which itself also seemed to groan and despair.

Suddenly she heard a tap on a windowpane, and, by the light of a flash of lightning, she saw a man's face appear behind the bars.

She ran to the window and opened it.

"Felton!" she cried, "I am saved!"

"Yes," said Felton, "but silence, silence! I need time to saw through your bars. Only take care that they do not see you through the peephole."

"Oh! It is a proof that the Lord is for us, Felton," replied Milady, "they have covered the peephole with a board."

"Good, God has made them foolish!" said Felton.

"But what must I do?" asked Milady.

"Nothing, nothing; only close the window again. Lie down, or at least get into your bed fully dressed; when I have finished, I will knock on the panes. But will you be able to follow me?"

"Oh! Yes."

"Your wound?"

"It pains me, but does not prevent me from walking."

"Then be ready at the first signal."

Milady closed the window again, extinguished the lamp, and went, as Felton had advised her, to curl up in her bed. In the midst of the storm's lamentations, she heard the grating of the file against the bars, and, by the light of each flash of lightning, she perceived Felton's shadow behind the glass.

She spent an hour without breathing, panting, sweat on her brow, and her heart gripped by a terrible anguish at every movement she heard in the corridor.

There are hours that last a year.

At the end of an hour, Felton knocked again.

Milady sprang out of bed and went to open. Two fewer bars formed an opening large enough for a man to pass through.

"Are you ready?" asked Felton.

"Yes. Must I take anything?"

"Gold, if you have any."

"Yes, fortunately they left me what I had."

"So much the better, for I have used all mine to hire a boat."

"Take it," said Milady, putting into Felton's hands a bag full of gold.

Felton took the bag and threw it down at the foot of the wall.

"Now," he said, "will you come?"

"Here I am."

Milady climbed onto a chair and passed the upper part of her body through the window: she saw the young officer suspended above the abyss by a rope ladder.

For the first time, a movement of terror reminded her that she was a woman.

The void terrified her.

"I suspected as much," said Felton.

"It is nothing, it is nothing," said Milady, "I will descend with my eyes closed."

"Do you trust me?" said Felton.

"You ask that?"

"Bring your two hands together; cross them, that's right."

Felton tied her two wrists with his handkerchief, then over the handkerchief, with a cord.

"What are you doing?" asked Milady with surprise.

"Put your arms around my neck and fear nothing."

"But I will make you lose your balance, and we will both be dashed to pieces."

"Be calm, I am a sailor."

There was not a second to lose; Milady passed both arms around Felton's neck and let herself slide out of the window.

Felton began to descend the rungs slowly and one by one. Despite the weight of two bodies, the breath of the hurricane swung them in the air.

Suddenly Felton stopped.

"What is it?" asked Milady.

"Silence," said Felton, "I hear footsteps."

"We are discovered!"

There was a silence of a few moments.

"No," said Felton, "it is nothing."

"But what is that noise, then?"

"That of the patrol that is about to pass on the sentry path."

"Where is the sentry path?"

"Directly below us."

"They will discover us."

"No, if there is no lightning."

"They will hit the bottom of the ladder."

"Fortunately it is six feet too short."

"There they are, my God!"

"Silence!"

Both remained suspended, motionless and breathless, twenty feet from the ground; meanwhile the soldiers passed below, laughing and talking.

It was a terrible moment for the fugitives.

The patrol passed; they heard the sound of footsteps receding, and the murmur of voices growing fainter.

"Now," said Felton, "we are saved."

Milady sighed and fainted.

Felton continued to descend. When he reached the bottom of the ladder, and when he no longer felt any support for his feet, he clung with his hands; finally, having reached the last rung, he let himself hang by the strength of his wrists and touched the ground. He bent down, picked up the bag of gold, and took it between his teeth.

Then he lifted Milady in his arms, and quickly moved away toward the side opposite to the one the patrol had taken. Soon he left the sentry path, descended through the rocks, and, having reached the seashore, gave a whistle.

A similar signal answered him, and, five minutes later, he saw a boat appear manned by four men.

The boat approached as close to the shore as it could, but there was not enough depth for it to touch the edge; Felton waded into the water up to his waist, not wanting to entrust his precious burden to anyone.

Fortunately the storm was beginning to calm, but the sea was still violent; the little boat bounded over the waves like a nutshell.

"To the sloop," said Felton, "and row quickly."

The four men took to the oars; but the sea was too rough for the oars to get much purchase.

Nevertheless, they were moving away from the castle; that was the main thing. The night was profoundly dark, and it was already almost impossible to distinguish the shore from the boat, still less could the boat be distinguished from the shore.

A black dot was tossing on the sea.

It was the sloop.

While the boat moved toward it with all the strength of its four rowers, Felton untied the cord, then the handkerchief that bound Milady's hands.

Then, when her hands were free, he took seawater and threw it in her face.

Milady sighed and opened her eyes.

"Where am I?" she said.

"Saved," replied the young officer.

"Oh! Saved! Saved!" she cried. "Yes, here is the sky, here is the sea! This air I breathe is the air of liberty. Ah!... Thank you, Felton, thank you!"

The young man pressed her to his heart.

"But what is wrong with my hands?" asked Milady; "it seems as if someone has crushed my wrists in a vice."

Indeed, Milady raised her arms: her wrists were bruised.

"Alas!" said Felton, looking at those beautiful hands and gently shaking his head.

"Oh! It is nothing, nothing!" cried Milady; "now I remember!"

Milady looked around her.

"He is there," said Felton, kicking the bag of gold with his foot.

They were approaching the sloop. The watchman on duty hailed the boat; the boat answered.

"What vessel is that?" asked Milady.

"The one I have hired for you."

"Where is it going to take me?"

"Wherever you like, provided that you drop me at Portsmouth."

"What are you going to do at Portsmouth?" asked Milady.

"Carry out Lord de Winter's orders," said Felton with a dark smile.

"What orders?" asked Milady.

"Do you not understand, then?" said Felton.

"No; explain yourself, I beg you."

"Since he distrusted me, he wanted to guard you himself, and sent me in his place to have Buckingham sign the order for your deportation."

"But if he distrusted you, how did he entrust this order to you?"

"Was I supposed to know what I was carrying?"

"That is true. And you are going to Portsmouth?"

"I have no time to lose: tomorrow is the 23rd, and Buckingham leaves tomorrow with the fleet."

"He leaves tomorrow, to go where?"

"To La Rochelle."

"He must not leave!" cried Milady, forgetting her accustomed presence of mind.

"Be at ease," replied Felton, "he will not leave."

Milady trembled with joy; she had just read into the deepest depths of the young man's heart: the death of Buckingham was written there in full letters.

"Felton...," she said, "you are as great as Judas Maccabeus! If you die, I die with you: that is all I can tell you."

"Silence!" said Felton, "we have arrived."

Indeed, they were touching the sloop.

Felton climbed the ladder first and gave his hand to Milady, while the sailors supported her, for the sea was still very agitated.

A moment later they were on deck.

"Captain," said Felton, "this is the person I spoke to you about, whom you must convey safe and sound to France."

"For a thousand pistoles," said the captain.

"I have given you five hundred."

"That is true," said the captain.

"And here are the other five hundred," replied Milady, reaching for the bag of gold.

"No," said the captain, "I keep my word, and I gave it to this young man; the other five hundred pistoles are only due to me upon arrival at Boulogne."

"And shall we arrive there?"

"Safe and sound," said the captain, "as true as I am called Jack Buttler."

"Well, then," said Milady, "if you keep your word, it is not five hundred but a thousand pistoles that I shall give you."

"Hurrah for you, then, my fine lady," cried the captain, "and may God send me many customers like Your Ladyship!"

"In the meantime," said Felton, "take us to the little bay of Chichester, before Portsmouth; you know it is agreed that you will take us there."

The captain replied by commanding the necessary maneuver, and toward seven o'clock in the morning the little vessel cast anchor in the designated bay.

During this crossing, Felton had told Milady everything: how, instead of going to London, he had hired the little vessel, how he had returned, how he had scaled the wall by placing, as he climbed, irons in the interstices of the stones to secure his feet, and how, finally, having reached the bars, he had attached the ladder. Milady knew the rest.

For her part, Milady tried to encourage Felton in his project, but at the first words that came from her mouth, she saw clearly that the young fanatic needed rather to be moderated than to be strengthened.

It was agreed that Milady would wait for Felton until ten o'clock; if at ten o'clock he had not returned, she would leave.

Then, supposing he were free, he would rejoin her in France, at the Carmelite convent of Béthune.

CHAPTER LIX. WHAT HAPPENED AT PORTSMOUTH ON AUGUST 23, 1628

Felton took leave of Milady like a brother who is going for a simple walk takes leave of his sister, kissing her hand.

His whole person seemed in its usual state of calm; only an unwonted brightness shone in his eyes, like a reflection of fever; his brow was paler even than usual; his teeth were clenched, and his speech had a brief, jerky accent that indicated something dark was stirring within him.

As long as he remained in the boat that was taking him to land, he kept his face turned toward Milady, who, standing on the deck, followed him with her eyes. Both were sufficiently reassured about the fear of being pursued: no one ever entered Milady's room before nine o'clock; and it took three hours to come from the castle to London.

Felton set foot on land, climbed the little ridge that led to the top of the cliff, saluted Milady one last time, and took off running toward the city.

After a hundred paces, as the ground sloped downward, he could no longer see anything but the mast of the sloop.

He then ran straight toward Portsmouth, whose towers and houses he could see about half a mile ahead of him, outlined in the morning mist.

Beyond Portsmouth, the sea was covered with ships, whose masts, like a forest of poplars stripped by winter, swayed in the breath of the wind.

In his rapid march, Felton was reviewing what ten years of ascetic meditations and a long stay among the Puritans had supplied him with, true or false accusations against the favorite of James VI and Charles I.

When he compared the public crimes of that minister—glaring crimes, European crimes, so to speak—with the private and unknown crimes with which Milady had charged him, Felton found that the more culpable of the two men contained in Buckingham was the one whose life the public did not know. It was that his love, so strange, so new, so ardent, made him see the infamous and imaginary accusations of Lady de Winter as one sees through a magnifying glass, as frightful monsters, atoms in reality imperceptible beside an ant.

The rapidity of his course further inflamed his blood: the idea that he left behind him, exposed to a terrible vengeance, the woman he loved or rather adored as a saint, the past emotion, his present fatigue, all exalted his soul above human feelings.

He entered Portsmouth around eight o'clock in the morning; the whole population was astir; drums were beating in the streets and on the port; the embarkation troops were marching down to the sea.

Felton arrived at the Admiralty Palace, covered with dust and streaming with sweat; his face, ordinarily so pale, was purple with heat and anger. The sentinel tried to repel him; but Felton called the guard commander, and, pulling from his pocket the letter he was carrying:

"Urgent message from Lord de Winter," he said.

At the name of Lord de Winter, known to be one of His Grace's most intimate friends, the guard commander gave orders to let Felton pass, who, besides, wore the uniform of a naval officer.

Felton rushed into the palace.

At the moment he entered the vestibule, another man also entered, dusty, out of breath, leaving at the door a post-horse that collapsed on its knees upon arrival.

Felton and he addressed themselves at the same time to Patrick, the duke's trusted valet. Felton named Baron de Winter; the stranger would not name anyone and claimed that he could make himself known only to the duke himself. Both insisted on being admitted ahead of the other.

Patrick, knowing that Lord de Winter was on service business and on friendly terms with the duke, gave preference to the one who came in his name. The other was forced to wait, and it was easy to see how much he cursed this delay.

The valet led Felton through a large hall in which the deputies of La Rochelle, led by the Prince de Soubise, were waiting, and ushered him into a study where Buckingham, coming out of his bath, was finishing his toilet, to which, this time as always, he paid extraordinary attention.

"Lieutenant Felton," said Patrick, "on behalf of Lord de Winter."

"On behalf of Lord de Winter!" repeated Buckingham, "show him in."

Felton entered. At that moment Buckingham was throwing a rich gold-brocaded dressing gown onto a sofa to put on a doublet of blue velvet embroidered with pearls.

"Why has the baron not come himself?" asked Buckingham, "I expected him this morning."

"He charged me to tell Your Grace," replied Felton, "that he greatly regrets not having that honor, but that he is prevented by the guard duty he is obliged to perform at the castle."

"Yes, yes," said Buckingham, "I know that; he has a prisoner."

"It is precisely about that prisoner that I wished to speak to Your Grace," continued Felton.

"Well, speak."

"What I have to say can be heard only by you, my Lord."

"Leave us, Patrick," said Buckingham, "but stay within earshot of the bell; I will call you presently."

Patrick left.

"We are alone, sir," said Buckingham, "speak."

"My Lord," said Felton, "Baron de Winter wrote to you the other day to request that you sign an order for embarkation concerning a young woman named Charlotte Backson."

"Yes, sir, and I replied that he should bring or send me that order and that I would sign it."

"Here it is, my Lord."

"Give it," said the duke.

And, taking it from Felton's hands, he cast a rapid glance at the paper. Then, perceiving that it was indeed the one he had been told of, he laid it on the table, took a pen, and prepared to sign.

"Pardon, my Lord," said Felton, stopping the duke, "does Your Grace know that the name Charlotte Backson is not the real name of this young woman?"

"Yes, sir, I know that," replied the duke, dipping his pen in the inkwell.

"Then Your Grace knows her real name?" asked Felton in a clipped voice.

"I know it."

The duke brought the pen near the paper.

"And, knowing that real name," continued Felton, "will His Grace sign all the same?"

"Without doubt," said Buckingham, "and twice rather than once."

"I cannot believe," continued Felton, his voice becoming increasingly clipped and jerky, "that His Grace knows it is Lady de Winter..."

"I know it perfectly, although I am astonished that you know it."

"And Your Grace will sign this order without remorse?"

Buckingham looked at the young man haughtily.

"Now, sir, are you aware," he said, "that you are asking me very strange questions, and that I am very simple to answer them?"

"Answer them, my Lord," said Felton, "the situation is graver than you perhaps think."

Buckingham thought that the young man, coming from Lord de Winter, was undoubtedly speaking in his name, and softened.

"Without any remorse," he said, "and the baron knows as well as I do that Milady de Winter is a great criminal, and that it is almost showing her mercy to limit her punishment to deportation."

The duke placed his pen on the paper.

"You will not sign this order, my Lord!" said Felton, stepping toward the duke.

"I will not sign this order?" said Buckingham, "and why?"

"Because you will search your conscience and do justice to Milady."

"Justice will be done to her by sending her to Tyburn," said Buckingham; "Milady is an infamous woman."

"My Lord, Milady is an angel, well you know it, and I ask for her freedom."

"Now," said Buckingham, "are you mad to speak to me thus?"

"My Lord, excuse me! I speak as I can; I restrain myself. Yet, my Lord, think what you are about to do, and fear to overstep the bounds!"

"Indeed? ... God forgive me!" cried Buckingham, "but I believe he is threatening me!"

"No, my Lord, I am still entreating, and I tell you: a drop of water is enough to make a full vase overflow, a slight fault may bring punishment upon a head spared despite so many crimes."

"Mr. Felton," said Buckingham, "you will leave here and place yourself under arrest immediately."

"You will hear me out to the end, my Lord. You have seduced this young girl, you have outraged her, defiled her; repair your crimes toward her, let her go free, and I will ask nothing else of you."

"You will ask nothing?" said Buckingham, looking at Felton with astonishment and stressing each syllable of the three words he had just uttered.

"My Lord," continued Felton, growing more excited as he spoke, "my Lord, take care, all England is weary of your iniquities; my Lord, you have abused the royal power which you have almost usurped; my Lord, you are abhorred by men and by God; God will punish you later, but I will punish you today."

"Ah! This is too much!" cried Buckingham, stepping toward the door.

Felton blocked his way.

"I ask you humbly," he said, "sign the order for Lady de Winter's release; remember that she is the woman you have dishonored."

"Withdraw, sir," said Buckingham, "or I will call and have you put in irons."

"You will not call," said Felton, throwing himself between the duke and the bell placed on a silver-inlaid stand; "take care, my Lord, you are now in the hands of God."

"In the hands of the devil, you mean," cried Buckingham, raising his voice to attract people, though without calling directly.

"Sign, my Lord, sign for Lady de Winter's freedom," said Felton, pushing a paper toward the duke.

"By force? Are you mocking me? Ho there, Patrick!"

"Sign, my Lord!"

"Never!"

"Never!"

"Help!" cried the duke, and at the same time he jumped for his sword.

But Felton did not give him time to draw it: he held, fully opened and hidden in his doublet, the knife with which Milady had struck herself; in a bound he was upon the duke.

At that moment Patrick entered the room, crying:

"My Lord, a letter from France!"

"From France!" cried Buckingham, forgetting everything in thinking of whom that letter came from.

Felton took advantage of the moment and plunged the knife into his side up to the hilt.

"Ah! Traitor!" cried Buckingham, "you have killed me..."

"Murder!" howled Patrick.

Felton looked around for an escape, and, seeing the door free, rushed into the next room, which was, as we have said, the one where the deputies of La Rochelle were waiting, ran through it, and dashed toward the staircase; but, on the first step, he met Lord de Winter, who, seeing him pale, wild, livid, stained with blood on his hand and face, seized him by the throat, crying:

"I knew it, I guessed it, and I arrive too late by a minute! Oh! Unhappy man that I am!"

Felton offered no resistance; Lord de Winter handed him over to the guards, who, pending new orders, led him to a small terrace overlooking the sea, and he rushed into Buckingham's study.

At the cry uttered by the duke, at Patrick's call, the man whom Felton had met in the antechamber rushed into the study.

He found the duke lying on a sofa, pressing his wound with his clenched hand.

"La Porte," said the duke in a dying voice, "La Porte, have you come from her?"

"Yes, my Lord," replied the faithful servant of Anne of Austria, "but perhaps too late."

"Silence, La Porte! You might be heard; Patrick, let no one in: oh! I shall not know what she has to tell me! My God, I am dying!"

And the duke fainted.

Meanwhile, Lord de Winter, the deputies, the commanders of the expedition, the officers of Buckingham's household, had burst into his room; cries of despair resounded everywhere. The news that filled the palace with laments and groans soon overflowed everywhere and spread through the city.

A cannon shot announced that something new and unexpected had just happened.

Lord de Winter was tearing his hair.

"Too late by a minute!" he cried, "too late by a minute! Oh! My God, my God, what a calamity!"

“Stories of the world, in your language.”