The three musketeers
might not have been believed capable. “Have you been, or are you, his
mistress?”
“Oh, no!” cried Milady, with an accent that admitted no doubt of her
truth. “Never, never!”
“I believe you,” said Mme. Bonacieux; “but why, then, did you cry out
so?”
“Do you not understand?” said Milady, who had already overcome her
agitation and recovered all her presence of mind.
“How can I understand? I know nothing.”
“Can you not understand that Monsieur d’Artagnan, being my friend,
might take me into his confidence?”
“Truly?”
“Do you not perceive that I know all—your abduction from the little
house at St. Germain, his despair, that of his friends, and their
useless inquiries up to this moment? How could I help being astonished
when, without having the least expectation of such a thing, I meet you
face to face—you, of whom we have so often spoken together, you whom he
loves with all his soul, you whom he had taught me to love before I had
seen you! Ah, dear Constance, I have found you, then; I see you at
last!”
And Milady stretched out her arms to Mme. Bonacieux, who, convinced by
what she had just said, saw nothing in this woman whom an instant
before she had believed her rival but a sincere and devoted friend.
“Oh, pardon me, pardon me!” cried she, sinking upon the shoulders of
Milady. “Pardon me, I love him so much!”
These two women held each other for an instant in a close embrace.
Certainly, if Milady’s strength had been equal to her hatred, Mme.
Bonacieux would never have left that embrace alive. But not being able
to stifle her, she smiled upon her.
“Oh, you beautiful, good little creature!” said Milady. “How delighted
I am to have found you! Let me look at you!” and while saying these
words, she absolutely devoured her by her looks. “Oh, yes it is you
indeed! From what he has told me, I know you now. I recognize you
perfectly.”
The poor young woman could not possibly suspect what frightful cruelty
was behind the rampart of that pure brow, behind those brilliant eyes
in which she read nothing but interest and compassion.
“Then you know what I have suffered,” said Mme. Bonacieux, “since he
has told you what he has suffered; but to suffer for him is happiness.”
Milady replied mechanically, “Yes, that is happiness.” She was thinking
of something else.
“And then,” continued Mme. Bonacieux, “my punishment is drawing to a
close. Tomorrow, this evening, perhaps, I shall see him again; and then
the past will no longer exist.”
“This evening?” asked Milady, roused from her reverie by these words.
“What do you mean? Do you expect news from him?”
“I expect himself.”
“Himself? D’Artagnan here?”
“Himself!”
“But that’s impossible! He is at the siege of La Rochelle with the
cardinal. He will not return till after the taking of the city.”
“Ah, you fancy so! But is there anything impossible for my D’Artagnan,
the noble and loyal gentleman?”
“Oh, I cannot believe you!”
“Well, read, then!” said the unhappy young woman, in the excess of her
pride and joy, presenting a letter to Milady.
“The writing of Madame de Chevreuse!” said Milady to herself. “Ah, I
always thought there was some secret understanding in that quarter!”
And she greedily read the following few lines:
MY DEAR CHILD, Hold yourself ready. _Our friend_ will see you soon, and
he will only see you to release you from that imprisonment in which
your safety required you should be concealed. Prepare, then, for your
departure, and never despair of us.
Our charming Gascon has just proved himself as brave and faithful
as ever. Tell him that certain parties are grateful for the warning
he has given.
“Yes, yes,” said Milady; “the letter is precise. Do you know what that
warning was?”
“No, I only suspect he has warned the queen against some fresh
machinations of the cardinal.”
“Yes, that’s it, no doubt!” said Milady, returning the letter to Mme.
Bonacieux, and letting her head sink pensively upon her bosom.
At that moment they heard the gallop of a horse.
“Oh!” cried Mme. Bonacieux, darting to the window, “can it be he?”
Milady remained still in bed, petrified by surprise; so many unexpected
things happened to her all at once that for the first time she was at a
loss.
“He, he!” murmured she; “can it be he?” And she remained in bed with
her eyes fixed.
“Alas, no!” said Mme. Bonacieux; “it is a man I don’t know, although he
seems to be coming here. Yes, he checks his pace; he stops at the gate;
he rings.”
Milady sprang out of bed.
“You are sure it is not he?” said she.
“Yes, yes, very sure!”
“Perhaps you did not see well.”
“Oh, if I were to see the plume of his hat, the end of his cloak, I
should know _him!_”
Milady was dressing herself all the time.
“Yes, he has entered.”
“It is for you or me!”
“My God, how agitated you seem!”
“Yes, I admit it. I have not your confidence; I fear the cardinal.”
“Hush!” said Mme. Bonacieux; “somebody is coming.”
Immediately the door opened, and the superior entered.
“Did you come from Boulogne?” demanded she of Milady.
“Yes,” replied she, trying to recover her self-possession. “Who wants
me?”
“A man who will not tell his name, but who comes from the cardinal.”
“And who wishes to speak with me?”
“Who wishes to speak to a lady recently come from Boulogne.”
“Then let him come in, if you please.”
“Oh, my God, my God!” cried Mme. Bonacieux. “Can it be bad news?”
“I fear it.”
“I will leave you with this stranger; but as soon as he is gone, if you
will permit me, I will return.”
“_Permit_ you? I _beseech_ you.”
The superior and Mme. Bonacieux retired.
Milady remained alone, with her eyes fixed upon the door. An instant
later, the jingling of spurs was heard upon the stairs, steps drew
near, the door opened, and a man appeared.
Milady uttered a cry of joy; this man was the Comte de Rochefort—the
demoniacal tool of his Eminence.
Chapter LXII.
TWO VARIETIES OF DEMONS
Ah,” cried Milady and Rochefort together, “it is you!”
“Yes, it is I.”
“And you come?” asked Milady.
“From La Rochelle; and you?”
“From England.”
“Buckingham?”
“Dead or desperately wounded, as I left without having been able to
hear anything of him. A fanatic has just assassinated him.”
“Ah,” said Rochefort, with a smile; “this is a fortunate chance—one
that will delight his Eminence! Have you informed him of it?”
“I wrote to him from Boulogne. But what brings you here?”
“His Eminence was uneasy, and sent me to find you.”
“I only arrived yesterday.”
“And what have you been doing since yesterday?”
“I have not lost my time.”
“Oh, I don’t doubt that.”
“Do you know whom I have encountered here?”
“No.”
“Guess.”
“How can I?”
“That young woman whom the queen took out of prison.”
“The mistress of that fellow D’Artagnan?”
“Yes; Madame Bonacieux, with whose retreat the cardinal was
unacquainted.”
“Well, well,” said Rochefort, “here is a chance which may pair off with
the other! Monsieur Cardinal is indeed a privileged man!”
“Imagine my astonishment,” continued Milady, “when I found myself face
to face with this woman!”
“Does she know you?”
“No.”
“Then she looks upon you as a stranger?”
Milady smiled. “I am her best friend.”
“Upon my honor,” said Rochefort, “it takes you, my dear countess, to
perform such miracles!”
“And it is well I can, Chevalier,” said Milady, “for do you know what
is going on here?”
“No.”
“They will come for her tomorrow or the day after, with an order from
the queen.”
“Indeed! And who?”
“D’Artagnan and his friends.”
“Indeed, they will go so far that we shall be obliged to send them to
the Bastille.”
“Why is it not done already?”
“What would you? The cardinal has a weakness for these men which I
cannot comprehend.”
“Indeed!”
“Yes.”
“Well, then, tell him this, Rochefort. Tell him that our conversation
at the inn of the Red Dovecot was overheard by these four men; tell him
that after his departure one of them came up to me and took from me by
violence the safe-conduct which he had given me; tell him they warned
Lord de Winter of my journey to England; that this time they nearly
foiled my mission as they foiled the affair of the studs; tell him that
among these four men two only are to be feared—D’Artagnan and Athos;
tell him that the third, Aramis, is the lover of Madame de Chevreuse—he
may be left alone, we know his secret, and it may be useful; as to the
fourth, Porthos, he is a fool, a simpleton, a blustering booby, not
worth troubling himself about.”
“But these four men must be now at the siege of La Rochelle?”
“I thought so, too; but a letter which Madame Bonacieux has received
from Madame the Constable, and which she has had the imprudence to show
me, leads me to believe that these four men, on the contrary, are on
the road hither to take her away.”
“The devil! What’s to be done?”
“What did the cardinal say about me?”
“I was to take your dispatches, written or verbal, and return by post;
and when he shall know what you have done, he will advise what you have
to do.”
“I must, then, remain here?”
“Here, or in the neighborhood.”
“You cannot take me with you?”
“No, the order is imperative. Near the camp you might be recognized;
and your presence, you must be aware, would compromise the cardinal.”
“Then I must wait here, or in the neighborhood?”
“Only tell me beforehand where you will wait for intelligence from the
cardinal; let me know always where to find you.”
“Observe, it is probable that I may not be able to remain here.”
“Why?”
“You forget that my enemies may arrive at any minute.”
“That’s true; but is this little woman, then, to escape his Eminence?”
“Bah!” said Milady, with a smile that belonged only to herself; “you
forget that I am her best friend.”
“Ah, that’s true! I may then tell the cardinal, with respect to this
little woman—”
“That he may be at ease.”
“Is that all?”
“He will know what that means.”
“He will guess, at least. Now, then, what had I better do?”
“Return instantly. It appears to me that the news you bear is worth the
trouble of a little diligence.”
“My chaise broke down coming into Lilliers.”
“Capital!”
“What, _capital?_”
“Yes, I want your chaise.”
“And how shall I travel, then?”
“On horseback.”
“You talk very comfortably,—a hundred and eighty leagues!”
“What’s that?”
“One can do it! Afterward?”
“Afterward? Why, in passing through Lilliers you will send me your
chaise, with an order to your servant to place himself at my disposal.”
“Well.”
“You have, no doubt, some order from the cardinal about you?”
“I have my _full power_.”
“Show it to the abbess, and tell her that someone will come and fetch
me, either today or tomorrow, and that I am to follow the person who
presents himself in your name.”
“Very well.”
“Don’t forget to treat me harshly in speaking of me to the abbess.”
“To what purpose?”
“I am a victim of the cardinal. It is necessary to inspire confidence
in that poor little Madame Bonacieux.”
“That’s true. Now, will you make me a report of all that has happened?”
“Why, I have related the events to you. You have a good memory; repeat
what I have told you. A paper may be lost.”
“You are right; only let me know where to find you that I may not run
needlessly about the neighborhood.”
“That’s correct; wait!”
“Do you want a map?”
“Oh, I know this country marvelously!”
“You? When were you here?”
“I was brought up here.”
“Truly?”
“It is worth something, you see, to have been brought up somewhere.”
“You will wait for me, then?”
“Let me reflect a little! Ay, that will do—at Armentières.”
“Where is that Armentières?”