Part 52
# Chapter 52: Part 52
Indeed, someone had come to tell him at seven in the morning that a rope ladder was hanging from one of the castle windows; he had immediately run to Milady's chamber, found the room empty and the window open, the bars sawn through. He recalled the verbal recommendation that d'Artagnan had sent him through his messenger, trembled for the duke, and running to the stable, without taking time to have his horse saddled, leaped upon the first he found, galloped at full speed, and jumping down in the courtyard, rushed precipitately up the stairs, and on the first step had, as we have said, encountered Felton.
However, the duke was not dead: he regained consciousness, opened his eyes again, and hope returned to every heart.
"Gentlemen," he said, "leave me alone with Patrick and La Porte."
"Ah! It is you, de Winter! You sent me a strange madman this morning; see the state he has put me in!"
"Oh! Milord!" cried the baron, "I shall never console myself."
"And you would be wrong, my dear de Winter," said Buckingham, holding out his hand, "I know no man who deserves to be regretted throughout another man's whole life; but leave us, I pray you."
The baron went out sobbing.
Only the wounded duke, La Porte, and Patrick remained in the chamber.
They were looking for a doctor, but none could be found.
"You will live, Milord, you will live," repeated Anne of Austria's messenger, kneeling before the duke's sofa.
"What did she write to me?" said Buckingham weakly, streaming with blood and mastering, in order to speak of her he loved, atrocious pains. "What did she write to me? Read me her letter."
"Oh! Milord!" said La Porte.
"Obey, La Porte; do you not see that I have no time to lose?"
La Porte broke the seal and placed the parchment before the duke's eyes; but Buckingham tried in vain to make out the writing.
"Read, then," he said, "read, for I can no longer see; read! for soon perhaps I shall hear no more, and I shall die without knowing what she wrote to me."
La Porte made no further difficulty and read:
"Milord,
"By what I have, since I have known you, suffered through you and for you, I conjure you, if you have any care for my peace, to interrupt the great armaments you are making against France and to cease a war of which it is loudly said that religion is the visible cause, and whispered that your love for me is the hidden one. This war may bring not only great catastrophes upon France and England, but also upon you, Milord, misfortunes from which I could not console myself.
"Watch over your life, which is threatened and which will be dear to me from the moment I am no longer obliged to see an enemy in you.
"Your affectionate,
"Anne."
Buckingham summoned all the remains of his life to listen to this reading; then, when it was finished, as if he had found in this letter a bitter disappointment:
"Have you nothing else to tell me by word of mouth, La Porte?" he asked.
"Yes, Monseigneur: the queen charged me to tell you to watch over yourself, for she had been warned that someone wished to assassinate you."
"And is that all, is that all?" resumed Buckingham impatiently.
"She also charged me to tell you that she still loved you."
"Ah!" said Buckingham, "God be praised! my death will not then be to her the death of a stranger!..."
La Porte burst into tears.
"Patrick," said the duke, "bring me the casket where the diamond studs were."
Patrick brought the requested object, which La Porte recognized as having belonged to the queen.
"Now the little white satin bag, with her cipher embroidered in pearls."
Patrick again obeyed.
"Here, La Porte," said Buckingham, "these are the only pledges I had from her—this silver casket and these two letters. You will return them to Her Majesty; and as a last souvenir..." (he looked around him for some precious object) "...you will add to them..."
He searched again; but his eyes, dimmed by death, encountered only the knife that had fallen from Felton's hands, still smoking with the bright red blood spread upon the blade.
"And you will add this knife," said the duke, pressing La Porte's hand.
He was still able to place the bag at the bottom of the silver casket, let the knife fall into it, making a sign to La Porte that he could no longer speak; then, in a final convulsion, which this time he had no longer the strength to combat, he slid from the sofa onto the floor.
Patrick uttered a great cry.
Buckingham tried to smile one last time; but death arrested his thought, which remained engraved on his brow like a last kiss of love.
At that moment the duke's doctor arrived, quite flustered; he had already been aboard the flagship; they had been obliged to fetch him from there.
He approached the duke, took his hand, held it for a moment in his own, and let it fall again.
"Everything is useless," he said, "he is dead."
"Dead, dead!" cried Patrick.
At this cry the whole crowd re-entered the room, and everywhere there was nothing but consternation and tumult.
As soon as Lord de Winter saw Buckingham dead, he ran to Felton, whom the soldiers were still guarding on the palace terrace.
"Wretch!" he said to the young man, who, since Buckingham's death, had recovered that calm and composure which were never to abandon him again; "wretch! what have you done?"
"I have avenged myself," he said.
"You!" said the baron; "say rather that you have served as an instrument for that accursed woman; but I swear to you, this crime shall be her last."
"I do not know what you mean," replied Felton quietly, "and I am ignorant of whom you wish to speak, Milord; I killed Mr. Buckingham because he twice refused to name me captain, even at your own request; I punished him for his injustice, that is all."
De Winter, stupefied, looked at the men who were binding Felton, and did not know what to think of such insensibility.
Only one thing, however, cast a cloud over Felton's pure brow. At every sound he heard, the naïve Puritan thought he recognized the steps and voice of Milady coming to throw herself into his arms to accuse herself and be lost with him.
Suddenly he started; his gaze fixed upon a point of the sea, which from the terrace where he stood commanded the whole view; with that eagle glance of the sailor, he had recognized, where another would have seen only a gull balancing upon the waves, the sail of the sloop that was directing its course toward the coasts of France.
He turned pale, carried his hand to his heart, which was breaking, and understood the whole treachery.
"One last favor, Milord!" he said to the baron.
"Which?" asked the latter.
"What time is it?"
The baron drew out his watch.
"Ten minutes to nine," he said.
Milady had advanced her departure by an hour and a half as soon as she heard the cannon shot that announced the fatal event; she had given the order to weigh anchor.
The bark was sailing under a blue sky at a great distance from the coast.
"God has willed it," said Felton with the resignation of a fanatic, but nevertheless unable to tear his eyes from that skiff on board which he doubtless thought he could distinguish the white phantom of her to whom his life was about to be sacrificed.
De Winter followed his gaze, questioned his suffering, and guessed everything.
"Be punished alone first, wretch," said Lord de Winter to Felton, who allowed himself to be led away with his eyes turned toward the sea; "but I swear to you, by the memory of my brother whom I loved so much, that your accomplice is not saved."
Felton lowered his head without uttering a syllable.
As for de Winter, he descended the stairs quickly and proceeded to the port.
# CHAPTER LX. IN FRANCE
The first fear of the King of England, Charles I, upon learning of this death, was that so terrible a piece of news would discourage the Rochelais; he tried, says Richelieu in his Memoirs, to conceal it from them as long as possible, closing the ports throughout his kingdom, and taking careful heed that no vessel should leave until the army that Buckingham was preparing had departed, undertaking himself, in Buckingham's absence, to supervise the departure.
He even carried the severity of this order so far as to detain in England the Danish ambassador, who had taken leave, and the ordinary Dutch ambassador, who was to bring back to the port of Flushing the Indian ships that Charles I had restored to the United Provinces.
But as he did not think to give this order until five hours after the event, that is to say at two o'clock in the afternoon, two vessels had already left the port: one taking, as we know, Milady, who, already suspecting the event, was further confirmed in this belief upon seeing the black flag unfurled at the mast of the flagship.
As for the second vessel, we shall say later whom it carried and how it departed.
During this time, moreover, there was nothing new in the camp at La Rochelle; only the king, who was greatly bored, as always, but perhaps even a little more in camp than elsewhere, resolved to go incognito to pass the Saint Louis holidays at Saint-Germain, and asked the cardinal to prepare for him an escort of only twenty musketeers. The cardinal, whom the king's boredom sometimes affected, granted this leave with great pleasure to his royal lieutenant, who promised to return around the 15th of September.
M. de Tréville, informed by His Eminence, packed his bags, and since, without knowing the cause, he knew the keen desire and even the imperious need that his friends had to return to Paris, it goes without saying that he designated them to form part of the escort.
The four young men learned the news a quarter of an hour after M. de Tréville, for he was the first to communicate it to them. It was then that d'Artagnan appreciated the favor the cardinal had granted him by finally having him transferred to the musketeers; without this circumstance, he would have been forced to remain in camp while his companions left.
We shall see later that this impatience to return to Paris was caused by the danger that Mme Bonacieux must run in meeting at the convent of Béthune with Milady, her mortal enemy. Also, as we have said, Aramis had immediately written to Marie Michon, that linen-draper of Tours who had such fine connections, to obtain the queen's authorization for Mme Bonacieux to leave the convent and to withdraw either to Lorraine or to Belgium. The answer was not long in coming, and eight or ten days afterward, Aramis had received this letter:
"My Dear Cousin,
"Here is the authorization from my sister to withdraw our little servant from the convent of Béthune, whose air you think is bad for her. My sister sends you this authorization with great pleasure, for she is very fond of that little girl, whom she intends to be useful to later.
"I embrace you.
"Marie Michon"
Enclosed with this letter was an authorization thus worded:
"The superior of the convent of Béthune shall deliver into the hands of the bearer of this note the novice who entered her convent under my recommendation and under my patronage.
"At the Louvre, August 10, 1628.
"Anne"
One can understand how much these family relations between Aramis and a linen-draper who called the queen her sister had enlivened the wit of the young men; but Aramis, after having blushed two or three times to the whites of his eyes at Porthos's coarse jests, had begged his friends not to return to this subject, declaring that if another single word were said about it, he would no longer employ his cousin as intermediary in this sort of affair.
There was therefore no further question of Marie Michon among the four musketeers, who, moreover, had what they wanted: the order to take Mme Bonacieux from the Carmelite convent of Béthune. It is true that this order would not serve them much as long as they were at the camp of La Rochelle, that is to say at the other end of France; so d'Artagnan was about to ask M. de Tréville for leave, simply confiding to him the importance of his departure, when this news was transmitted to him, as well as to his three companions, that the king was going to set out for Paris with an escort of twenty musketeers, and that they formed part of the escort.
The joy was great. They sent the servants ahead with the baggage, and set out on the morning of the 16th.
The cardinal accompanied His Majesty from Surgères to Mauzé, and there the king and his minister took leave of each other with great demonstrations of friendship.
However, the king, who sought distraction, while traveling as quickly as possible, for he wished to arrive in Paris by the 23rd, stopped from time to time to hunt magpies—a pastime for which de Luynes had formerly inspired a taste in him, and for which he had always preserved a great predilection. Of the twenty musketeers, sixteen, when this happened, greatly rejoiced at this good time; but four grumbled their best. D'Artagnan especially had perpetual buzzing in his ears, which Porthos explained thus:
"A very great lady told me that this means you are being spoken of somewhere."
At last the escort crossed Paris on the night of the 23rd; the king thanked M. de Tréville and allowed him to distribute leaves of absence for four days, on condition that not one of the favored should appear in a public place, on pain of the Bastille.
The first four leaves granted, as one may well suppose, were to our four friends. Moreover, Athos obtained from M. de Tréville six days instead of four, and had two extra nights added to these six days, for they left on the 24th, at five o'clock in the evening, and out of complaisance, M. de Tréville postdated the leave to the morning of the 25th.
"Eh, my God," said d'Artagnan, who, as we know, never doubted anything, "it seems to me that we are making a great fuss over a very simple thing: in two days, and by killing two or three horses (I don't care—I have money), I shall be at Béthune, I shall deliver the queen's letter to the superior, and I shall bring back the dear treasure I am going to fetch, not to Lorraine, not to Belgium, but to Paris, where it will be better hidden, especially so long as M. le Cardinal is at La Rochelle. Then, once back from the campaign, well, partly through the protection of his cousin, partly through what we have done personally for her, we shall obtain from the queen whatever we wish. Stay here, then; do not exhaust yourselves uselessly; Planchet and I are all that is needed for so simple an expedition."
To this Athos replied quietly:
"We also have money; for I have not yet quite drunk the remainder of the diamond, and Porthos and Aramis have not quite eaten theirs. We can therefore kill four horses as well as one. But consider, d'Artagnan," he added in a voice so somber that its accent gave the young man a chill, "consider that Béthune is a town where the cardinal has appointed a meeting with a woman who, wherever she goes, brings misfortune after her. If you had only four men to deal with, d'Artagnan, I would let you go alone; but you have to deal with that woman—let us go all four, and may it please God that with our four lackeys we may be in sufficient number!"
"You frighten me, Athos!" cried d'Artagnan. "What, then, do you fear, my God?"
"Everything!" replied Athos.
D'Artagnan examined the faces of his companions, which, like Athos's, bore the imprint of a profound anxiety, and they continued their journey at the greatest speed of their horses, but without adding a single word.
On the evening of the 25th, as they were entering Arras, and as d'Artagnan had just dismounted at the Golden Harrow Inn to drink a glass of wine, a horseman emerged from the courtyard of the posting-house, where he had just changed horses, taking at a gallop, with a fresh horse, the road to Paris. At the moment when he was passing from the great gate into the street, the wind opened the cloak with which he was enveloped, although it was August, and lifted his hat, which the traveler caught with his hand, at the moment when it had already left his head, and pressed it quickly down 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 quickly, gentlemen, here is my master who is ill!"
The three friends rushed up and found d'Artagnan, who, instead of being ill, was running to his horse. They stopped him on the threshold of the door.
"Well, where the devil are you going like that?" cried Athos.
"It is he!" exclaimed d'Artagnan, pale with anger and with sweat on his brow, "it is he! let me overtake him!"
"But who, he?" asked Athos.
"He, that man!"
"What man?"
"That accursed man, my evil genius, whom I have always seen when I was threatened with some misfortune: he who accompanied the horrible woman when I first met her, he whom I sought when I provoked Athos, he whom I saw on the morning of the day when Mme Bonacieux was carried off! the man of Meung at last! I saw him, it is he! I recognized him when the wind opened his cloak."
"The devil!" said Athos thoughtfully.
"To horse, gentlemen, to horse! let us pursue him, and we shall catch him."
"My dear fellow," said Aramis, "consider that he is going in the opposite direction to ours; that he has a fresh horse and our horses are tired; that consequently we shall kill our horses without even having a chance of overtaking him. Let the man go, d'Artagnan; let us save the woman."
"Eh, Monsieur!" cried a stable-boy running after the unknown, "eh, Monsieur! here is a paper that fell from your hat! Eh, Monsieur! eh!"
"My friend," said d'Artagnan, "half a pistole for that paper!"
"Upon my word, Monsieur, with great pleasure! here it is!"
The stable-boy, delighted with the good day he had had, re-entered the inn yard. D'Artagnan unfolded the paper.
"Well?" asked his friends, crowding around him.
"Only one word!" said d'Artagnan.
"Yes," said Aramis, "but that name is a town or a village name."
"'_Armentières_,'" read Porthos. "Armentières, I don't know that!"
"And that town or village name is written in her hand!" cried Athos.
"Come, come, let us keep this paper carefully," said d'Artagnan. "Perhaps I have not lost my last pistole after all. To horse, my friends, to horse!"
And the four companions galloped off on the road to Béthune.
# CHAPTER LXI. THE CONVENT OF THE CARMELITES AT BÉTHUNE
Great criminals carry with them a sort of predestination which makes them surmount all obstacles, which makes them escape all dangers, until the moment when Providence, wearied, has marked the reef for their impious fortune.
It was thus with Milady: she passed through the cruisers of both nations and arrived at Boulogne without any accident.
On disembarking at Portsmouth, Milady was an Englishwoman whom the persecutions of France were driving from La Rochelle; disembarking at Boulogne, after a two days' voyage, she passed herself off as a Frenchwoman whom the English were troubling at Portsmouth, in the hatred they had conceived against France.
Milady had, moreover, the most effective of passports—her beauty, her noble bearing, and the generosity with which she scattered 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 remained at Boulogne only long enough to post a letter thus worded:
"To His Eminence Monseigneur the Cardinal de 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.
"Boulogne, 25th evening. "Milady de ***
"P.S.—According to the desires of Your Eminence, I am going to the convent of the Carmelites at Béthune, where I shall await your orders."
Indeed, the same evening, Milady set out; night overtook her; she stopped and slept at an inn; then, the next day, at five o'clock in the morning, she departed, and three hours afterward, she entered Béthune.
She asked to be directed to the convent of the Carmelites and entered it immediately.
The superior came to meet her; Milady showed her the cardinal's order; the abbess gave her a room and had breakfast served.
All the past had already been effaced from this woman's eyes, and, her gaze fixed upon the future, she saw only the high fortune that the cardinal was reserving for her, whom she had so successfully served, without her name being in any way mixed up in all that bloody affair. The ever-new passions that consumed her gave to her life the appearance of those clouds that fly through the sky, reflecting now the azure, now fire, now the opaque black of the tempest, and which leave no other traces on the earth than devastation and death.
After breakfast, the abbess came to pay her a visit; there is little diversion in the cloister, and the good superior was eager to make the acquaintance of her new pensioner.
Milady wished to please the abbess; now, this was an easy thing for this really superior woman; she tried to be amiable; she was charming and seduced the good superior by her varied conversation and by the graces diffused throughout her whole person.
The abbess, who was a daughter of the nobility, especially loved stories of the court, which so rarely reach the extremities of the kingdom and which, above all, have so much difficulty in crossing the walls of convents, on whose threshold the rumors of the world expire.
Milady, on the contrary, was well acquainted with all the aristocratic intrigues, in the midst of which, for five or six years, she had constantly lived; she therefore began to entertain the good abbess with the worldly practices of the French court, mingled with the exaggerated devotions of the king; she gave her the scandalous chronicle of the lords and ladies of the court, whom the abbess knew perfectly by name; she touched lightly upon the loves of the queen and Buckingham, speaking much so that some might be spoken.
But the abbess contented herself with listening and smiling, without responding. However, as Milady saw that this kind of story amused her greatly, she continued; only, she made the conversation fall upon the cardinal.
But she was much embarrassed; she did not know whether the abbess was royalist or cardinalist; she kept to a prudent medium; but the abbess, on her side, kept to a reserve still more prudent, merely making a deep inclination of the head whenever the traveler pronounced His Eminence's name.
Milady began to think that she would be greatly bored in the convent; she resolved therefore to risk something to know at once what to depend upon. Wishing to see how far the discretion of this good abbess would go, she began to speak ill, at first very covertly, then very circumstantially, of the cardinal, relating the minister's love affairs with Mme d'Aiguillon, with Marion de Lorme, and with some other gay women.
The abbess listened more attentively, grew gradually animated, and smiled.
"Good," said Milady, "she takes a liking to my discourse; if she is a cardinalist, she at least does not put fanaticism into it."
Then she passed on to the persecutions exercised by the cardinal upon his enemies. The abbess contented herself with crossing herself, without approving or disapproving.
This confirmed Milady in her opinion that the nun was rather royalist than cardinalist. Milady continued, pressing the matter more and more.
“Stories of the world, in your language.”