The three musketeers
He entered the chamber and closed the door behind him. At the noise he
made in pushing the bolt, Milady turned round.
Athos was standing before the door, enveloped in his cloak, with his
hat pulled down over his eyes. On seeing this figure, mute and
immovable as a statue, Milady was frightened.
“Who are you, and what do you want?” cried she.
“Humph,” murmured Athos, “it is certainly she!”
And letting fall his cloak and raising his hat, he advanced toward
Milady.
“Do you know me, madame?” said he.
Milady made one step forward, and then drew back as if she had seen a
serpent.
“So far, well,” said Athos, “I perceive you know me.”
“The Comte de la Fère!” murmured Milady, becoming exceedingly pale, and
drawing back till the wall prevented her from going any farther.
“Yes, Milady,” replied Athos; “the Comte de la Fère in person, who
comes expressly from the other world to have the pleasure of paying you
a visit. Sit down, madame, and let us talk, as the cardinal said.”
Milady, under the influence of inexpressible terror, sat down without
uttering a word.
“You certainly are a demon sent upon the earth!” said Athos. “Your
power is great, I know; but you also know that with the help of God men
have often conquered the most terrible demons. You have once before
thrown yourself in my path. I thought I had crushed you, madame; but
either I was deceived or hell has resuscitated you!”
Milady at these words, which recalled frightful remembrances, hung down
her head with a suppressed groan.
“Yes, hell has resuscitated you,” continued Athos. “Hell has made you
rich, hell has given you another name, hell has almost made you another
face; but it has neither effaced the stains from your soul nor the
brand from your body.”
Milady arose as if moved by a powerful spring, and her eyes flashed
lightning. Athos remained sitting.
“You believed me to be dead, did you not, as I believed you to be? And
the name of Athos as well concealed the Comte de la Fère, as the name
Milady Clarik concealed Anne de Breuil. Was it not so you were called
when your honored brother married us? Our position is truly a strange
one,” continued Athos, laughing. “We have only lived up to the present
time because we believed each other dead, and because a remembrance is
less oppressive than a living creature, though a remembrance is
sometimes devouring.”
“But,” said Milady, in a hollow, faint voice, “what brings you back to
me, and what do you want with me?”
“I wish to tell you that though remaining invisible to your eyes, I
have not lost sight of you.”
“You know what I have done?”
“I can relate to you, day by day, your actions from your entrance to
the service of the cardinal to this evening.”
A smile of incredulity passed over the pale lips of Milady.
“Listen! It was you who cut off the two diamond studs from the shoulder
of the Duke of Buckingham; it was you who had Madame Bonacieux carried
off; it was you who, in love with De Wardes and thinking to pass the
night with him, opened the door to Monsieur d’Artagnan; it was you who,
believing that De Wardes had deceived you, wished to have him killed by
his rival; it was you who, when this rival had discovered your infamous
secret, wished to have him killed in his turn by two assassins, whom
you sent in pursuit of him; it was you who, finding the balls had
missed their mark, sent poisoned wine with a forged letter, to make
your victim believe that the wine came from his friends. In short, it
was you who have but now in this chamber, seated in this chair I now
fill, made an engagement with Cardinal Richelieu to cause the Duke of
Buckingham to be assassinated, in exchange for the promise he has made
you to allow you to assassinate D’Artagnan.”
Milady was livid.
“You must be Satan!” cried she.
“Perhaps,” said Athos; “But at all events listen well to this.
Assassinate the Duke of Buckingham, or cause him to be assassinated—I
care very little about that! I don’t know him. Besides, he is an
Englishman. But do not touch with the tip of your finger a single hair
of D’Artagnan, who is a faithful friend whom I love and defend, or I
swear to you by the head of my father the crime which you shall have
endeavored to commit, or shall have committed, shall be the last.”
“Monsieur d’Artagnan has cruelly insulted me,” said Milady, in a hollow
tone; “Monsieur d’Artagnan shall die!”
“Indeed! Is it possible to insult you, madame?” said Athos, laughing;
“he has insulted you, and he shall die!”
“He shall die!” replied Milady; “she first, and he afterward.”
Athos was seized with a kind of vertigo. The sight of this creature,
who had nothing of the woman about her, recalled awful remembrances. He
thought how one day, in a less dangerous situation than the one in
which he was now placed, he had already endeavored to sacrifice her to
his honor. His desire for blood returned, burning his brain and
pervading his frame like a raging fever; he arose in his turn, reached
his hand to his belt, drew forth a pistol, and cocked it.
Milady, pale as a corpse, endeavored to cry out; but her swollen tongue
could utter no more than a hoarse sound which had nothing human in it
and resembled the rattle of a wild beast. Motionless against the dark
tapestry, with her hair in disorder, she appeared like a horrid image
of terror.
Athos slowly raised his pistol, stretched out his arm so that the
weapon almost touched Milady’s forehead, and then, in a voice the more
terrible from having the supreme calmness of a fixed resolution,
“Madame,” said he, “you will this instant deliver to me the paper the
cardinal signed; or upon my soul, I will blow your brains out.”
With another man, Milady might have preserved some doubt; but she knew
Athos. Nevertheless, she remained motionless.
“You have one second to decide,” said he.
Milady saw by the contraction of his countenance that the trigger was
about to be pulled; she reached her hand quickly to her bosom, drew out
a paper, and held it toward Athos.
“Take it,” said she, “and be accursed!”
Athos took the paper, returned the pistol to his belt, approached the
lamp to be assured that it was the paper, unfolded it, and read:
“Dec. 3, 1627
“It is by my order and for the good of the state that the bearer of
this has done what he has done.
“RICHELIEU”
“And now,” said Athos, resuming his cloak and putting on his hat, “now
that I have drawn your teeth, viper, bite if you can.”
And he left the chamber without once looking behind him.
At the door he found the two men and the spare horse which they held.
“Gentlemen,” said he, “Monseigneur’s order is, you know, to conduct
that woman, without losing time, to Fort La Pointe, and never to leave
her till she is on board.”
As these words agreed wholly with the order they had received, they
bowed their heads in sign of assent.
With regard to Athos, he leaped lightly into the saddle and set out at
full gallop; only instead of following the road, he went across the
fields, urging his horse to the utmost and stopping occasionally to
listen.
In one of those halts he heard the steps of several horses on the road.
He had no doubt it was the cardinal and his escort. He immediately made
a new point in advance, rubbed his horse down with some heath and
leaves of trees, and placed himself across the road, about two hundred
paces from the camp.
“Who goes there?” cried he, as soon as he perceived the horsemen.
“That is our brave Musketeer, I think,” said the cardinal.
“Yes, monseigneur,” said Porthos, “it is he.”
“Monsieur Athos,” said Richelieu, “receive my thanks for the good guard
you have kept. Gentlemen, we are arrived; take the gate on the left.
The watchword is, ‘King and Ré.’”
Saying these words, the cardinal saluted the three friends with an
inclination of his head, and took the right hand, followed by his
attendant—for that night he himself slept in the camp.
“Well!” said Porthos and Aramis together, as soon as the cardinal was
out of hearing, “well, he signed the paper she required!”
“I know it,” said Athos, coolly, “since here it is.”
And the three friends did not exchange another word till they reached
their quarters, except to give the watchword to the sentinels. Only
they sent Mousqueton to tell Planchet that his master was requested,
the instant that he left the trenches, to come to the quarters of the
Musketeers.
Milady, as Athos had foreseen, on finding the two men that awaited her,
made no difficulty in following them. She had had for an instant an
inclination to be reconducted to the cardinal, and relate everything to
him; but a revelation on her part would bring about a revelation on the
part of Athos. She might say that Athos had hanged her; but then Athos
would tell that she was branded. She thought it was best to preserve
silence, to discreetly set off to accomplish her difficult mission with
her usual skill; and then, all things being accomplished to the
satisfaction of the cardinal, to come to him and claim her vengeance.
In consequence, after having traveled all night, at seven o’clock she
was at the fort of the Point; at eight o’clock she had embarked; and at
nine, the vessel, which with letters of marque from the cardinal was
supposed to be sailing for Bayonne, raised anchor, and steered its
course toward England.
Chapter XLVI.
THE BASTION SAINT-GERVAIS
On arriving at the lodgings of his three friends, D’Artagnan found them
assembled in the same chamber. Athos was meditating; Porthos was
twisting his mustache; Aramis was saying his prayers in a charming
little Book of Hours, bound in blue velvet.
“_Pardieu_, gentlemen,” said he. “I hope what you have to tell me is
worth the trouble, or else, I warn you, I will not pardon you for
making me come here instead of getting a little rest after a night
spent in taking and dismantling a bastion. Ah, why were you not there,
gentlemen? It was warm work.”
“We were in a place where it was not very cold,” replied Porthos,
giving his mustache a twist which was peculiar to him.
“Hush!” said Athos.
“Oh, oh!” said D’Artagnan, comprehending the slight frown of the
Musketeer. “It appears there is something fresh aboard.”
“Aramis,” said Athos, “you went to breakfast the day before yesterday
at the inn of the Parpaillot, I believe?”
“Yes.”
“How did you fare?”
“For my part, I ate but little. The day before yesterday was a fish
day, and they had nothing but meat.”
“What,” said Athos, “no fish at a seaport?”
“They say,” said Aramis, resuming his pious reading, “that the dyke
which the cardinal is making drives them all out into the open sea.”
“But that is not quite what I mean to ask you, Aramis,” replied Athos.
“I want to know if you were left alone, and nobody interrupted you.”
“Why, I think there were not many intruders. Yes, Athos, I know what
you mean: we shall do very well at the Parpaillot.”
“Let us go to the Parpaillot, then, for here the walls are like sheets
of paper.”
D’Artagnan, who was accustomed to his friend’s manner of acting, and
who perceived immediately, by a word, a gesture, or a sign from him,
that the circumstances were serious, took Athos’s arm, and went out
without saying anything. Porthos followed, chatting with Aramis.
On their way they met Grimaud. Athos made him a sign to come with them.
Grimaud, according to custom, obeyed in silence; the poor lad had
nearly come to the pass of forgetting how to speak.
They arrived at the drinking room of the Parpaillot. It was seven
o’clock in the morning, and daylight began to appear. The three friends
ordered breakfast, and went into a room in which the host said they
would not be disturbed.
Unfortunately, the hour was badly chosen for a private conference. The