The three musketeers
stopped at the gate.
Milady listened.
“Do you hear anything?” said she.
“Yes, the rolling of a carriage.”
“It is the one my brother sends for us.”
“Oh, my God!”
“Come, come! courage!”
The bell of the convent gate was sounded; Milady was not mistaken.
“Go to your chamber,” said she to Mme. Bonacieux; “you have perhaps
some jewels you would like to take.”
“I have his letters,” said she.
“Well, go and fetch them, and come to my apartment. We will snatch some
supper; we shall perhaps travel part of the night, and must keep our
strength up.”
“Great God!” said Mme. Bonacieux, placing her hand upon her bosom, “my
heart beats so I cannot walk.”
“Courage, courage! remember that in a quarter of an hour you will be
safe; and think that what you are about to do is for _his_ sake.”
“Yes, yes, everything for him. You have restored my courage by a single
word; go, I will rejoin you.”
Milady ran up to her apartment quickly; she there found Rochefort’s
lackey, and gave him his instructions.
He was to wait at the gate; if by chance the Musketeers should appear,
the carriage was to set off as fast as possible, pass around the
convent, and go and wait for Milady at a little village which was
situated at the other side of the wood. In this case Milady would cross
the garden and gain the village on foot. As we have already said,
Milady was admirably acquainted with this part of France.
If the Musketeers did not appear, things were to go on as had been
agreed; Mme. Bonacieux was to get into the carriage as if to bid her
adieu, and she was to take away Mme. Bonacieux.
Mme. Bonacieux came in; and to remove all suspicion, if she had any,
Milady repeated to the lackey, before her, the latter part of her
instructions.
Milady asked some questions about the carriage. It was a chaise drawn
by three horses, driven by a postillion; Rochefort’s lackey would
precede it, as courier.
Milady was wrong in fearing that Mme. Bonacieux would have any
suspicion. The poor young woman was too pure to suppose that any female
could be guilty of such perfidy; besides, the name of the Comtesse de
Winter, which she had heard the abbess pronounce, was wholly unknown to
her, and she was even ignorant that a woman had had so great and so
fatal a share in the misfortune of her life.
“You see,” said she, when the lackey had gone out, “everything is
ready. The abbess suspects nothing, and believes that I am taken by
order of the cardinal. This man goes to give his last orders; take the
least thing, drink a finger of wine, and let us be gone.”
“Yes,” said Mme. Bonacieux, mechanically, “yes, let us be gone.”
Milady made her a sign to sit down opposite, poured her a small glass
of Spanish wine, and helped her to the wing of a chicken.
“See,” said she, “if everything does not second us! Here is night
coming on; by daybreak we shall have reached our retreat, and nobody
can guess where we are. Come, courage! take something.”
Mme. Bonacieux ate a few mouthfuls mechanically, and just touched the
glass with her lips.
“Come, come!” said Milady, lifting hers to her mouth, “do as I do.”
But at the moment the glass touched her lips, her hand remained
suspended; she heard something on the road which sounded like the
rattling of a distant gallop. Then it grew nearer, and it seemed to
her, almost at the same time, that she heard the neighing of horses.
This noise acted upon her joy like the storm which awakens the sleeper
in the midst of a happy dream; she grew pale and ran to the window,
while Mme. Bonacieux, rising all in a tremble, supported herself upon
her chair to avoid falling. Nothing was yet to be seen, only they heard
the galloping draw nearer.
“Oh, my God!” said Mme. Bonacieux, “what is that noise?”
“That of either our friends or our enemies,” said Milady, with her
terrible coolness. “Stay where you are, I will tell you.”
Mme. Bonacieux remained standing, mute, motionless, and pale as a
statue.
The noise became louder; the horses could not be more than a hundred
and fifty paces distant. If they were not yet to be seen, it was
because the road made an elbow. The noise became so distinct that the
horses might be counted by the rattle of their hoofs.
Milady gazed with all the power of her attention; it was just light
enough for her to see who was coming.
All at once, at the turning of the road she saw the glitter of laced
hats and the waving of feathers; she counted two, then five, then eight
horsemen. One of them preceded the rest by double the length of his
horse.
Milady uttered a stifled groan. In the first horseman she recognized
D’Artagnan.
“Oh, my God, my God,” cried Mme. Bonacieux, “what is it?”
“It is the uniform of the cardinal’s Guards. Not an instant to be lost!
Fly, fly!”
“Yes, yes, let us fly!” repeated Mme. Bonacieux, but without being able
to make a step, glued as she was to the spot by terror.
They heard the horsemen pass under the windows.
“Come, then, come, then!” cried Milady, trying to drag the young woman
along by the arm. “Thanks to the garden, we yet can flee; I have the
key, but make haste! in five minutes it will be too late!”
Mme. Bonacieux tried to walk, made two steps, and sank upon her knees.
Milady tried to raise and carry her, but could not do it.
At this moment they heard the rolling of the carriage, which at the
approach of the Musketeers set off at a gallop. Then three or four
shots were fired.
“For the last time, will you come?” cried Milady.
“Oh, my God, my God! you see my strength fails me; you see plainly I
cannot walk. Flee alone!”
“Flee alone, and leave you here? No, no, never!” cried Milady.
All at once she paused, a livid flash darted from her eyes; she ran to
the table, emptied into Mme. Bonacieux’s glass the contents of a ring
which she opened with singular quickness. It was a grain of a reddish
color, which dissolved immediately.
Then, taking the glass with a firm hand, she said, “Drink. This wine
will give you strength, drink!” And she put the glass to the lips of
the young woman, who drank mechanically.
“This is not the way that I wished to avenge myself,” said Milady,
replacing the glass upon the table, with an infernal smile, “but, my
faith! we do what we can!” And she rushed out of the room.
Mme. Bonacieux saw her go without being able to follow her; she was
like people who dream they are pursued, and who in vain try to walk.
A few moments passed; a great noise was heard at the gate. Every
instant Mme. Bonacieux expected to see Milady, but she did not return.
Several times, with terror, no doubt, the cold sweat burst from her
burning brow.
At length she heard the grating of the hinges of the opening gates; the
noise of boots and spurs resounded on the stairs. There was a great
murmur of voices which continued to draw near, amid which she seemed to
hear her own name pronounced.
All at once she uttered a loud cry of joy, and darted toward the door;
she had recognized the voice of D’Artagnan.
“D’Artagnan! D’Artagnan!” cried she, “is it you? This way! this way!”
“Constance? Constance?” replied the young man, “where are you? where
are you? My God!”
At the same moment the door of the cell yielded to a shock, rather than
opened; several men rushed into the chamber. Mme. Bonacieux had sunk
into an armchair, without the power of moving.
D’Artagnan threw down a yet-smoking pistol which he held in his hand,
and fell on his knees before his mistress. Athos replaced his in his
belt; Porthos and Aramis, who held their drawn swords in their hands,
returned them to their scabbards.
“Oh, D’Artagnan, my beloved D’Artagnan! You have come, then, at last!
You have not deceived me! It is indeed thee!”
“Yes, yes, Constance. Reunited!”
“Oh, it was in vain she told me you would not come! I hoped in silence.
I was not willing to fly. Oh, I have done well! How happy I am!”
At this word _she_, Athos, who had seated himself quietly, started up.
“_She!_ What she?” asked D’Artagnan.
“Why, my companion. She who out of friendship for me wished to take me
from my persecutors. She who, mistaking you for the cardinal’s Guards,
has just fled away.”
“Your companion!” cried D’Artagnan, becoming more pale than the white
veil of his mistress. “Of what companion are you speaking, dear
Constance?”
“Of her whose carriage was at the gate; of a woman who calls herself
your friend; of a woman to whom you have told everything.”
“Her name, her name!” cried D’Artagnan. “My God, can you not remember
her name?”
“Yes, it was pronounced in my hearing once. Stop—but—it is very
strange—oh, my God, my head swims! I cannot see!”
“Help, help, my friends! her hands are icy cold,” cried D’Artagnan.
“She is ill! Great God, she is losing her senses!”
While Porthos was calling for help with all the power of his strong
voice, Aramis ran to the table to get a glass of water; but he stopped
at seeing the horrible alteration that had taken place in the
countenance of Athos, who, standing before the table, his hair rising
from his head, his eyes fixed in stupor, was looking at one of the
glasses, and appeared a prey to the most horrible doubt.
“Oh!” said Athos, “oh, no, it is impossible! God would not permit such
a crime!”
“Water, water!” cried D’Artagnan. “Water!”
“Oh, poor woman, poor woman!” murmured Athos, in a broken voice.
Mme. Bonacieux opened her eyes under the kisses of D’Artagnan.
“She revives!” cried the young man. “Oh, my God, my God, I thank thee!”
“Madame!” said Athos, “madame, in the name of heaven, whose empty glass
is this?”
“Mine, monsieur,” said the young woman, in a dying voice.
“But who poured the wine for you that was in this glass?”
“She.”
“But who is _she?_”
“Oh, I remember!” said Mme. Bonacieux, “the Comtesse de Winter.”
The four friends uttered one and the same cry, but that of Athos
dominated all the rest.
At that moment the countenance of Mme. Bonacieux became livid; a
fearful agony pervaded her frame, and she sank panting into the arms of
Porthos and Aramis.
D’Artagnan seized the hands of Athos with an anguish difficult to be
described.
“And what do you believe?” His voice was stifled by sobs.
“I believe everything,” said Athos, biting his lips till the blood
sprang to avoid sighing.
“D’Artagnan, D’Artagnan!” cried Mme. Bonacieux, “where art thou? Do not
leave me! You see I am dying!”
D’Artagnan released the hands of Athos which he still held clasped in
both his own, and hastened to her. Her beautiful face was distorted
with agony; her glassy eyes had no longer their sight; a convulsive
shuddering shook her whole body; the sweat rolled from her brow.
“In the name of heaven, run, call! Aramis! Porthos! Call for help!”
“Useless!” said Athos, “useless! For the poison which _she_ pours there
is no antidote.”
“Yes, yes! Help, help!” murmured Mme. Bonacieux; “help!”
Then, collecting all her strength, she took the head of the young man
between her hands, looked at him for an instant as if her whole soul
passed into that look, and with a sobbing cry pressed her lips to his.
“Constance, Constance!” cried D’Artagnan.
A sigh escaped from the mouth of Mme. Bonacieux, and dwelt for an
instant on the lips of D’Artagnan. That sigh was the soul, so chaste
and so loving, which reascended to heaven.
D’Artagnan pressed nothing but a corpse in his arms. The young man
uttered a cry, and fell by the side of his mistress as pale and as icy
as herself.
Porthos wept; Aramis pointed toward heaven; Athos made the sign of the
cross.
At that moment a man appeared in the doorway, almost as pale as those
in the chamber. He looked around him and saw Mme. Bonacieux dead, and
D’Artagnan in a swoon. He appeared just at that moment of stupor which