The three musketeers
“That is because I am not his friend,” said she, sighing, “but his
victim!”
“But this letter in which he recommends you to me?”
“Is an order for me to confine myself to a sort of prison, from which
he will release me by one of his satellites.”
“But why have you not fled?”
“Whither should I go? Do you believe there is a spot on the earth which
the cardinal cannot reach if he takes the trouble to stretch forth his
hand? If I were a man, that would barely be possible; but what can a
woman do? This young boarder of yours, has she tried to fly?”
“No, that is true; but she—that is another thing; I believe she is
detained in France by some love affair.”
“Ah,” said Milady, with a sigh, “if she loves she is not altogether
wretched.”
“Then,” said the abbess, looking at Milady with increasing interest, “I
behold another poor victim?”
“Alas, yes,” said Milady.
The abbess looked at her for an instant with uneasiness, as if a fresh
thought suggested itself to her mind.
“You are not an enemy of our holy faith?” said she, hesitatingly.
“Who—I?” cried Milady; “I a Protestant? Oh, no! I call to witness the
God who hears us, that on the contrary I am a fervent Catholic!”
“Then, madame,” said the abbess, smiling, “be reassured; the house in
which you are shall not be a very hard prison, and we will do all in
our power to make you cherish your captivity. You will find here,
moreover, the young woman of whom I spoke, who is persecuted, no doubt,
in consequence of some court intrigue. She is amiable and
well-behaved.”
“What is her name?”
“She was sent to me by someone of high rank, under the name of Kitty. I
have not tried to discover her other name.”
“Kitty!” cried Milady. “What? Are you sure?”
“That she is called so? Yes, madame. Do you know her?”
Milady smiled to herself at the idea which had occurred to her that
this might be her old chambermaid. There was connected with the
remembrance of this girl a remembrance of anger; and a desire of
vengeance disordered the features of Milady, which, however,
immediately recovered the calm and benevolent expression which this
woman of a hundred faces had for a moment allowed them to lose.
“And when can I see this young lady, for whom I already feel so great a
sympathy?” asked Milady.
“Why, this evening,” said the abbess; “today even. But you have been
traveling these four days, as you told me yourself. This morning you
rose at five o’clock; you must stand in need of repose. Go to bed and
sleep; at dinnertime we will rouse you.”
Although Milady would very willingly have gone without sleep, sustained
as she was by all the excitements which a new adventure awakened in her
heart, ever thirsting for intrigues, she nevertheless accepted the
offer of the superior. During the last fifteen days she had experienced
so many and such various emotions that if her frame of iron was still
capable of supporting fatigue, her mind required repose.
She therefore took leave of the abbess, and went to bed, softly rocked
by the ideas of vengeance which the name of Kitty had naturally brought
to her thoughts. She remembered that almost unlimited promise which the
cardinal had given her if she succeeded in her enterprise. She had
succeeded; D’Artagnan was then in her power!
One thing alone frightened her; that was the remembrance of her
husband, the Comte de la Fère, whom she had believed dead, or at least
expatriated, and whom she found again in Athos—the best friend of
D’Artagnan.
But alas, if he was the friend of D’Artagnan, he must have lent him his
assistance in all the proceedings by whose aid the queen had defeated
the project of his Eminence; if he was the friend of D’Artagnan, he was
the enemy of the cardinal; and she doubtless would succeed in involving
him in the vengeance by which she hoped to destroy the young Musketeer.
All these hopes were so many sweet thoughts for Milady; so, rocked by
them, she soon fell asleep.
She was awakened by a soft voice which sounded at the foot of her bed.
She opened her eyes, and saw the abbess, accompanied by a young woman
with light hair and delicate complexion, who fixed upon her a look full
of benevolent curiosity.
The face of the young woman was entirely unknown to her. Each examined
the other with great attention, while exchanging the customary
compliments; both were very handsome, but of quite different styles of
beauty. Milady, however, smiled in observing that she excelled the
young woman by far in her high air and aristocratic bearing. It is true
that the habit of a novice, which the young woman wore, was not very
advantageous in a contest of this kind.
The abbess introduced them to each other. When this formality was
ended, as her duties called her to chapel, she left the two young women
alone.
The novice, seeing Milady in bed, was about to follow the example of
the superior; but Milady stopped her.
“How, madame,” said she, “I have scarcely seen you, and you already
wish to deprive me of your company, upon which I had counted a little,
I must confess, for the time I have to pass here?”
“No, madame,” replied the novice, “only I thought I had chosen my time
ill; you were asleep, you are fatigued.”
“Well,” said Milady, “what can those who sleep wish for—a happy
awakening? This awakening you have given me; allow me, then, to enjoy
it at my ease,” and taking her hand, she drew her toward the armchair
by the bedside.
The novice sat down.
“How unfortunate I am!” said she; “I have been here six months without
the shadow of recreation. You arrive, and your presence was likely to
afford me delightful company; yet I expect, in all probability, to quit
the convent at any moment.”
“How, you are going soon?” asked Milady.
“At least I hope so,” said the novice, with an expression of joy which
she made no effort to disguise.
“I think I learned you had suffered persecutions from the cardinal,”
continued Milady; “that would have been another motive for sympathy
between us.”
“What I have heard, then, from our good mother is true; you have
likewise been a victim of that wicked priest.”
“Hush!” said Milady; “let us not, even here, speak thus of him. All my
misfortunes arise from my having said nearly what you have said before
a woman whom I thought my friend, and who betrayed me. Are you also the
victim of a treachery?”
“No,” said the novice, “but of my devotion—of a devotion to a woman I
loved, for whom I would have laid down my life, for whom I would give
it still.”
“And who has abandoned you—is that it?”
“I have been sufficiently unjust to believe so; but during the last two
or three days I have obtained proof to the contrary, for which I thank
God—for it would have cost me very dear to think she had forgotten me.
But you, madame, you appear to be free,” continued the novice; “and if
you were inclined to fly it only rests with yourself to do so.”
“Whither would you have me go, without friends, without money, in a
part of France with which I am unacquainted, and where I have never
been before?”
“Oh,” cried the novice, “as to friends, you would have them wherever
you want, you appear so good and are so beautiful!”
“That does not prevent,” replied Milady, softening her smile so as to
give it an angelic expression, “my being alone or being persecuted.”
“Hear me,” said the novice; “we must trust in heaven. There always
comes a moment when the good you have done pleads your cause before
God; and see, perhaps it is a happiness for you, humble and powerless
as I am, that you have met with me, for if I leave this place, well—I
have powerful friends, who, after having exerted themselves on my
account, may also exert themselves for you.”
“Oh, when I said I was alone,” said Milady, hoping to make the novice
talk by talking of herself, “it is not for want of friends in high
places; but these friends themselves tremble before the cardinal. The
queen herself does not dare to oppose the terrible minister. I have
proof that her Majesty, notwithstanding her excellent heart, has more
than once been obliged to abandon to the anger of his Eminence persons
who had served her.”
“Trust me, madame; the queen may appear to have abandoned those
persons, but we must not put faith in appearances. The more they are
persecuted, the more she thinks of them; and often, when they least
expect it, they have proof of a kind remembrance.”
“Alas!” said Milady, “I believe so; the queen is so good!”
“Oh, you know her, then, that lovely and noble queen, that you speak of
her thus!” cried the novice, with enthusiasm.
“That is to say,” replied Milady, driven into her entrenchment, “that I
have not the honor of knowing her personally; but I know a great number
of her most intimate friends. I am acquainted with Monsieur de Putange;
I met Monsieur Dujart in England; I know Monsieur de Tréville.”
“Monsieur de Tréville!” exclaimed the novice, “do you know Monsieur de
Tréville?”
“Yes, perfectly well—intimately even.”
“The captain of the king’s Musketeers?”
“The captain of the king’s Musketeers.”
“Why, then, only see!” cried the novice; “we shall soon be well
acquainted, almost friends. If you know Monsieur de Tréville, you must
have visited him?”
“Often!” said Milady, who, having entered this track, and perceiving
that falsehood succeeded, was determined to follow it to the end.
“With him, then, you must have seen some of his Musketeers?”
“All those he is in the habit of receiving!” replied Milady, for whom
this conversation began to have a real interest.
“Name a few of those whom you know, and you will see if they are my
friends.”
“Well!” said Milady, embarrassed, “I know Monsieur de Louvigny,
Monsieur de Courtivron, Monsieur de Ferussac.”
The novice let her speak, then seeing that she paused, she said, “Don’t
you know a gentleman named Athos?”
Milady became as pale as the sheets in which she was lying, and
mistress as she was of herself, could not help uttering a cry, seizing
the hand of the novice, and devouring her with looks.
“What is the matter? Good God!” asked the poor woman, “have I said
anything that has wounded you?”
“No; but the name struck me, because I also have known that gentleman,
and it appeared strange to me to meet with a person who appears to know
him well.”
“Oh, yes, very well; not only him, but some of his friends, Messieurs
Porthos and Aramis!”
“Indeed! you know them likewise? I know them,” cried Milady, who began
to feel a chill penetrate her heart.
“Well, if you know them, you know that they are good and free
companions. Why do you not apply to them, if you stand in need of
help?”
“That is to say,” stammered Milady, “I am not really very intimate with
any of them. I know them from having heard one of their friends,
Monsieur d’Artagnan, say a great deal about them.”
“You know Monsieur d’Artagnan!” cried the novice, in her turn seizing
the hands of Milady and devouring her with her eyes.
Then remarking the strange expression of Milady’s countenance, she
said, “Pardon me, madame; you know him by what title?”
“Why,” replied Milady, embarrassed, “why, by the title of friend.”
“You deceive me, madame,” said the novice; “you have been his
mistress!”
“It is you who have been his mistress, madame!” cried Milady, in her
turn.
“I?” said the novice.
“Yes, you! I know you now. You are Madame Bonacieux!”
The young woman drew back, filled with surprise and terror.
“Oh, do not deny it! Answer!” continued Milady.
“Well, yes, madame,” said the novice, “Are we rivals?”
The countenance of Milady was illumined by so savage a joy that under
any other circumstances Mme. Bonacieux would have fled in terror; but
she was absorbed by jealousy.
“Speak, madame!” resumed Mme. Bonacieux, with an energy of which she