The three musketeers
any preference you can point it out to me; and if it be not within a
thousand leagues of London, attention will be paid to your wishes. I
will begin again, then:
“‘Order to conduct to—the person named Charlotte Backson, branded by
the justice of the kingdom of France, but liberated after chastisement.
She is to dwell in this place without ever going more than three
leagues from it. In case of any attempt to escape, the penalty of death
is to be applied. She will receive five shillings per day for lodging
and food’”.
“That order does not concern me,” replied Milady, coldly, “since it
bears another name than mine.”
“A name? Have you a name, then?”
“I bear that of your brother.”
“Ay, but you are mistaken. My brother is only your second husband; and
your first is still living. Tell me his name, and I will put it in the
place of the name of Charlotte Backson. No? You will not? You are
silent? Well, then you must be registered as Charlotte Backson.”
Milady remained silent; only this time it was no longer from
affectation, but from terror. She believed the order ready for
execution. She thought that Lord de Winter had hastened her departure;
she thought she was condemned to set off that very evening. Everything
in her mind was lost for an instant; when all at once she perceived
that no signature was attached to the order. The joy she felt at this
discovery was so great she could not conceal it.
“Yes, yes,” said Lord de Winter, who perceived what was passing in her
mind; “yes, you look for the signature, and you say to yourself: ‘All
is not lost, for that order is not signed. It is only shown to me to
terrify me, that’s all.’ You are mistaken. Tomorrow this order will be
sent to the Duke of Buckingham. The day after tomorrow it will return
signed by his hand and marked with his seal; and four-and-twenty hours
afterward I will answer for its being carried into execution. Adieu,
madame. That is all I had to say to you.”
“And I reply to you, sir, that this abuse of power, this exile under a
fictitious name, are infamous!”
“Would you like better to be hanged in your true name, Milady? You know
that the English laws are inexorable on the abuse of marriage. Speak
freely. Although my name, or rather that of my brother, would be mixed
up with the affair, I will risk the scandal of a public trial to make
myself certain of getting rid of you.”
Milady made no reply, but became as pale as a corpse.
“Oh, I see you prefer peregrination. That’s well madame; and there is
an old proverb that says, ‘Traveling trains youth.’ My faith! you are
not wrong after all, and life is sweet. That’s the reason why I take
such care you shall not deprive me of mine. There only remains, then,
the question of the five shillings to be settled. You think me rather
parsimonious, don’t you? That’s because I don’t care to leave you the
means of corrupting your jailers. Besides, you will always have your
charms left to seduce them with. Employ them, if your check with regard
to Felton has not disgusted you with attempts of that kind.”
“Felton has not told him,” said Milady to herself. “Nothing is lost,
then.”
“And now, madame, till I see you again! Tomorrow I will come and
announce to you the departure of my messenger.”
Lord de Winter rose, saluted her ironically, and went out.
Milady breathed again. She had still four days before her. Four days
would quite suffice to complete the seduction of Felton.
A terrible idea, however, rushed into her mind. She thought that Lord
de Winter would perhaps send Felton himself to get the order signed by
the Duke of Buckingham. In that case Felton would escape her—for in
order to secure success, the magic of a continuous seduction was
necessary. Nevertheless, as we have said, one circumstance reassured
her. Felton had not spoken.
As she would not appear to be agitated by the threats of Lord de
Winter, she placed herself at the table and ate.
Then, as she had done the evening before, she fell on her knees and
repeated her prayers aloud. As on the evening before, the soldier
stopped his march to listen to her.
Soon after she heard lighter steps than those of the sentinel, which
came from the end of the corridor and stopped before her door.
“It is he,” said she. And she began the same religious chant which had
so strongly excited Felton the evening before.
But although her voice—sweet, full, and sonorous—vibrated as
harmoniously and as affectingly as ever, the door remained shut. It
appeared however to Milady that in one of the furtive glances she
darted from time to time at the grating of the door she thought she saw
the ardent eyes of the young man through the narrow opening. But
whether this was reality or vision, he had this time sufficient
self-command not to enter.
However, a few instants after she had finished her religious song,
Milady thought she heard a profound sigh. Then the same steps she had
heard approach slowly withdrew, as if with regret.
Chapter LV.
CAPTIVITY: THE FOURTH DAY
The next day, when Felton entered Milady’s apartment he found her
standing, mounted upon a chair, holding in her hands a cord made by
means of torn cambric handkerchiefs, twisted into a kind of rope one
with another, and tied at the ends. At the noise Felton made in
entering, Milady leaped lightly to the ground, and tried to conceal
behind her the improvised cord she held in her hand.
The young man was more pale than usual, and his eyes, reddened by want
of sleep, denoted that he had passed a feverish night. Nevertheless,
his brow was armed with a severity more austere than ever.
He advanced slowly toward Milady, who had seated herself, and taking an
end of the murderous rope which by neglect, or perhaps by design, she
allowed to be seen, “What is this, madame?” he asked coldly.
“That? Nothing,” said Milady, smiling with that painful expression
which she knew so well how to give to her smile. “Ennui is the mortal
enemy of prisoners; I had ennui, and I amused myself with twisting that
rope.”
Felton turned his eyes toward the part of the wall of the apartment
before which he had found Milady standing in the armchair in which she
was now seated, and over her head he perceived a gilt-headed screw,
fixed in the wall for the purpose of hanging up clothes or weapons.
He started, and the prisoner saw that start—for though her eyes were
cast down, nothing escaped her.
“What were you doing on that armchair?” asked he.
“Of what consequence?” replied Milady.
“But,” replied Felton, “I wish to know.”
“Do not question me,” said the prisoner; “you know that we who are true
Christians are forbidden to lie.”
“Well, then,” said Felton, “I will tell you what you were doing, or
rather what you meant to do; you were going to complete the fatal
project you cherish in your mind. Remember, madame, if our God forbids
falsehood, he much more severely condemns suicide.”
“When God sees one of his creatures persecuted unjustly, placed between
suicide and dishonor, believe me, sir,” replied Milady, in a tone of
deep conviction, “God pardons suicide, for then suicide becomes
martyrdom.”
“You say either too much or too little; speak, madame. In the name of
heaven, explain yourself.”
“That I may relate my misfortunes for you to treat them as fables; that
I may tell you my projects for you to go and betray them to my
persecutor? No, sir. Besides, of what importance to you is the life or
death of a condemned wretch? You are only responsible for my body, is
it not so? And provided you produce a carcass that may be recognized as
mine, they will require no more of you; nay, perhaps you will even have
a double reward.”
“I, madame, I?” cried Felton. “You suppose that I would ever accept the
price of your life? Oh, you cannot believe what you say!”
“Let me act as I please, Felton, let me act as I please,” said Milady,
elated. “Every soldier must be ambitious, must he not? You are a
lieutenant? Well, you will follow me to the grave with the rank of
captain.”
“What have I, then, done to you,” said Felton, much agitated, “that you
should load me with such a responsibility before God and before men? In
a few days you will be away from this place; your life, madame, will
then no longer be under my care, and,” added he, with a sigh, “then you
can do what you will with it.”
“So,” cried Milady, as if she could not resist giving utterance to a
holy indignation, “you, a pious man, you who are called a just man, you
ask but one thing—and that is that you may not be inculpated, annoyed,
by my death!”
“It is my duty to watch over your life, madame, and I will watch.”
“But do you understand the mission you are fulfilling? Cruel enough, if
I am guilty; but what name can you give it, what name will the Lord
give it, if I am innocent?”
“I am a soldier, madame, and fulfill the orders I have received.”
“Do you believe, then, that at the day of the Last Judgment God will
separate blind executioners from iniquitous judges? You are not willing
that I should kill my body, and you make yourself the agent of him who
would kill my soul.”
“But I repeat it again to you,” replied Felton, in great emotion, “no
danger threatens you; I will answer for Lord de Winter as for myself.”
“Dunce,” cried Milady, “dunce! who dares to answer for another man,
when the wisest, when those most after God’s own heart, hesitate to
answer for themselves, and who ranges himself on the side of the
strongest and the most fortunate, to crush the weakest and the most
unfortunate.”
“Impossible, madame, impossible,” murmured Felton, who felt to the
bottom of his heart the justness of this argument. “A prisoner, you
will not recover your liberty through me; living, you will not lose
your life through me.”
“Yes,” cried Milady, “but I shall lose that which is much dearer to me
than life, I shall lose my honor, Felton; and it is you, you whom I
make responsible, before God and before men, for my shame and my
infamy.”
This time Felton, immovable as he was, or appeared to be, could not
resist the secret influence which had already taken possession of him.
To see this woman, so beautiful, fair as the brightest vision, to see
her by turns overcome with grief and threatening; to resist at once the
ascendancy of grief and beauty—it was too much for a visionary; it was
too much for a brain weakened by the ardent dreams of an ecstatic
faith; it was too much for a heart furrowed by the love of heaven that
burns, by the hatred of men that devours.
Milady saw the trouble. She felt by intuition the flame of the opposing
passions which burned with the blood in the veins of the young fanatic.
As a skillful general, seeing the enemy ready to surrender, marches
toward him with a cry of victory, she rose, beautiful as an antique
priestess, inspired like a Christian virgin, her arms extended, her
throat uncovered, her hair disheveled, holding with one hand her robe
modestly drawn over her breast, her look illumined by that fire which
had already created such disorder in the veins of the young Puritan,
and went toward him, crying out with a vehement air, and in her
melodious voice, to which on this occasion she communicated a terrible
energy:
“Let this victim to Baal be sent,
To the lions the martyr be thrown!
Thy God shall teach thee to repent!
From th’ abyss he’ll give ear to my moan.”
Felton stood before this strange apparition like one petrified.
“Who art thou? Who art thou?” cried he, clasping his hands. “Art thou a
messenger from God; art thou a minister from hell; art thou an angel or
a demon; callest thou thyself Eloa or Astarte?”
“Do you not know me, Felton? I am neither an angel nor a demon; I am a
daughter of earth, I am a sister of thy faith, that is all.”