The three musketeers
“Tell me, tell me, tell me, I say,” repeated Milady, “how do you know
it?”
“How do I know it?” said D’Artagnan.
“Yes.”
“I know it because yesterday Monsieur de Wardes, in a saloon where I
was, showed a ring which he said he had received from you.”
“Wretch!” cried Milady.
The epithet, as may be easily understood, resounded to the very bottom
of D’Artagnan’s heart.
“Well?” continued she.
“Well, I will avenge you of this wretch,” replied D’Artagnan, giving
himself the airs of Don Japhet of Armenia.
“Thanks, my brave friend!” cried Milady; “and when shall I be avenged?”
“Tomorrow—immediately—when you please!”
Milady was about to cry out, “Immediately,” but she reflected that such
precipitation would not be very gracious toward D’Artagnan.
Besides, she had a thousand precautions to take, a thousand counsels to
give to her defender, in order that he might avoid explanations with
the count before witnesses. All this was answered by an expression of
D’Artagnan’s. “Tomorrow,” said he, “you will be avenged, or I shall be
dead.”
“No,” said she, “you will avenge me; but you will not be dead. He is a
coward.”
“With women, perhaps; but not with men. I know something of him.”
“But it seems you had not much reason to complain of your fortune in
your contest with him.”
“Fortune is a courtesan; favorable yesterday, she may turn her back
tomorrow.”
“Which means that you now hesitate?”
“No, I do not hesitate; God forbid! But would it be just to allow me to
go to a possible death without having given me at least something more
than hope?”
Milady answered by a glance which said, “Is that all?—speak, then.” And
then accompanying the glance with explanatory words, “That is but too
just,” said she, tenderly.
“Oh, you are an angel!” exclaimed the young man.
“Then all is agreed?” said she.
“Except that which I ask of you, dear love.”
“But when I assure you that you may rely on my tenderness?”
“I cannot wait till tomorrow.”
“Silence! I hear my brother. It will be useless for him to find you
here.”
She rang the bell and Kitty appeared.
“Go out this way,” said she, opening a small private door, “and come
back at eleven o’clock; we will then terminate this conversation. Kitty
will conduct you to my chamber.”
The poor girl almost fainted at hearing these words.
“Well, mademoiselle, what are you thinking about, standing there like a
statue? Do as I bid you: show the chevalier out; and this evening at
eleven o’clock—you have heard what I said.”
“It appears that these appointments are all made for eleven o’clock,”
thought D’Artagnan; “that’s a settled custom.”
Milady held out her hand to him, which he kissed tenderly.
“But,” said he, as he retired as quickly as possible from the
reproaches of Kitty, “I must not play the fool. This woman is certainly
a great liar. I must take care.”
Chapter XXXVII.
MILADY’S SECRET
D’Artagnan left the hôtel instead of going up at once to Kitty’s
chamber, as she endeavored to persuade him to do—and that for two
reasons: the first, because by this means he should escape reproaches,
recriminations, and prayers; the second, because he was not sorry to
have an opportunity of reading his own thoughts and endeavoring, if
possible, to fathom those of this woman.
What was most clear in the matter was that D’Artagnan loved Milady like
a madman, and that she did not love him at all. In an instant
D’Artagnan perceived that the best way in which he could act would be
to go home and write Milady a long letter, in which he would confess to
her that he and De Wardes were, up to the present moment absolutely the
same, and that consequently he could not undertake, without committing
suicide, to kill the Comte de Wardes. But he also was spurred on by a
ferocious desire of vengeance. He wished to subdue this woman in his
own name; and as this vengeance appeared to him to have a certain
sweetness in it, he could not make up his mind to renounce it.
He walked six or seven times round the Place Royale, turning at every
ten steps to look at the light in Milady’s apartment, which was to be
seen through the blinds. It was evident that this time the young woman
was not in such haste to retire to her apartment as she had been the
first.
At length the light disappeared. With this light was extinguished the
last irresolution in the heart of D’Artagnan. He recalled to his mind
the details of the first night, and with a beating heart and a brain on
fire he re-entered the hôtel and flew toward Kitty’s chamber.
The poor girl, pale as death and trembling in all her limbs, wished to
delay her lover; but Milady, with her ear on the watch, had heard the
noise D’Artagnan had made, and opening the door, said, “Come in.”
All this was of such incredible immodesty, of such monstrous
effrontery, that D’Artagnan could scarcely believe what he saw or what
he heard. He imagined himself to be drawn into one of those fantastic
intrigues one meets in dreams. He, however, darted not the less quickly
toward Milady, yielding to that magnetic attraction which the loadstone
exercises over iron.
As the door closed after them Kitty rushed toward it. Jealousy, fury,
offended pride, all the passions in short that dispute the heart of an
outraged woman in love, urged her to make a revelation; but she
reflected that she would be totally lost if she confessed having
assisted in such a machination, and above all, that D’Artagnan would
also be lost to her forever. This last thought of love counseled her to
make this last sacrifice.
D’Artagnan, on his part, had gained the summit of all his wishes. It
was no longer a rival who was beloved; it was himself who was
apparently beloved. A secret voice whispered to him, at the bottom of
his heart, that he was but an instrument of vengeance, that he was only
caressed till he had given death; but pride, but self-love, but madness
silenced this voice and stifled its murmurs. And then our Gascon, with
that large quantity of conceit which we know he possessed, compared
himself with De Wardes, and asked himself why, after all, he should not
be beloved for himself?
He was absorbed entirely by the sensations of the moment. Milady was no
longer for him that woman of fatal intentions who had for a moment
terrified him; she was an ardent, passionate mistress, abandoning
herself to love which she also seemed to feel. Two hours thus glided
away. When the transports of the two lovers were calmer, Milady, who
had not the same motives for forgetfulness that D’Artagnan had, was the
first to return to reality, and asked the young man if the means which
were on the morrow to bring on the encounter between him and De Wardes
were already arranged in his mind.
But D’Artagnan, whose ideas had taken quite another course, forgot
himself like a fool, and answered gallantly that it was too late to
think about duels and sword thrusts.
This coldness toward the only interests that occupied her mind
terrified Milady, whose questions became more pressing.
Then D’Artagnan, who had never seriously thought of this impossible
duel, endeavored to turn the conversation; but he could not succeed.
Milady kept him within the limits she had traced beforehand with her
irresistible spirit and her iron will.
D’Artagnan fancied himself very cunning when advising Milady to
renounce, by pardoning De Wardes, the furious projects she had formed.
But at the first word the young woman started, and exclaimed in a
sharp, bantering tone, which sounded strangely in the darkness, “Are
you afraid, dear Monsieur d’Artagnan?”
“You cannot think so, dear love!” replied D’Artagnan; “but now, suppose
this poor Comte de Wardes were less guilty than you think him?”
“At all events,” said Milady, seriously, “he has deceived me, and from
the moment he deceived me, he merited death.”
“He shall die, then, since you condemn him!” said D’Artagnan, in so
firm a tone that it appeared to Milady an undoubted proof of devotion.
This reassured her.
We cannot say how long the night seemed to Milady, but D’Artagnan
believed it to be hardly two hours before the daylight peeped through
the window blinds, and invaded the chamber with its paleness. Seeing
D’Artagnan about to leave her, Milady recalled his promise to avenge
her on the Comte de Wardes.
“I am quite ready,” said D’Artagnan; “but in the first place I should
like to be certain of one thing.”
“And what is that?” asked Milady.
“That is, whether you really love me?”
“I have given you proof of that, it seems to me.”
“And I am yours, body and soul!”
“Thanks, my brave lover; but as you are satisfied of my love, you must,
in your turn, satisfy me of yours. Is it not so?”
“Certainly; but if you love me as much as you say,” replied D’Artagnan,
“do you not entertain a little fear on my account?”
“What have I to fear?”
“Why, that I may be dangerously wounded—killed even.”
“Impossible!” cried Milady, “you are such a valiant man, and such an
expert swordsman.”
“You would not, then, prefer a method,” resumed D’Artagnan, “which
would equally avenge you while rendering the combat useless?”
Milady looked at her lover in silence. The pale light of the first rays
of day gave to her clear eyes a strangely frightful expression.
“Really,” said she, “I believe you now begin to hesitate.”
“No, I do not hesitate; but I really pity this poor Comte de Wardes,
since you have ceased to love him. I think that a man must be so
severely punished by the loss of your love that he stands in need of no
other chastisement.”
“Who told you that I loved him?” asked Milady, sharply.
“At least, I am now at liberty to believe, without too much fatuity,
that you love another,” said the young man, in a caressing tone, “and I
repeat that I am really interested for the count.”
“You?” asked Milady.
“Yes, I.”
“And why _you?_”
“Because I alone know—”
“What?”
“That he is far from being, or rather having been, so guilty toward you
as he appears.”
“Indeed!” said Milady, in an anxious tone; “explain yourself, for I
really cannot tell what you mean.”
And she looked at D’Artagnan, who embraced her tenderly, with eyes
which seemed to burn themselves away.
“Yes; I am a man of honor,” said D’Artagnan, determined to come to an
end, “and since your love is mine, and I am satisfied I possess it—for
I do possess it, do I not?”
“Entirely; go on.”
“Well, I feel as if transformed—a confession weighs on my mind.”
“A confession!”
“If I had the least doubt of your love I would not make it, but you
love me, my beautiful mistress, do you not?”
“Without doubt.”
“Then if through excess of love I have rendered myself culpable toward
you, you will pardon me?”
“Perhaps.”
D’Artagnan tried with his sweetest smile to touch his lips to Milady’s,
but she evaded him.
“This confession,” said she, growing paler, “what is this confession?”
“You gave De Wardes a meeting on Thursday last in this very room, did
you not?”
“No, no! It is not true,” said Milady, in a tone of voice so firm, and
with a countenance so unchanged, that if D’Artagnan had not been in
such perfect possession of the fact, he would have doubted.
“Do not lie, my angel,” said D’Artagnan, smiling; “that would be
useless.”
“What do you mean? Speak! you kill me.”
“Be satisfied; you are not guilty toward me, and I have already
pardoned you.”
“What next? what next?”
“De Wardes cannot boast of anything.”
“How is that? You told me yourself that that ring—”
“That ring I have! The Comte de Wardes of Thursday and the D’Artagnan
of today are the same person.”
The imprudent young man expected a surprise, mixed with shame—a slight
storm which would resolve itself into tears; but he was strangely
deceived, and his error was not of long duration.