The three musketeers
could not, therefore, recognize the woman in question—once this order
was signed, we say, the baron would make her embark immediately, and
she knew very well that women condemned to exile employ arms much less
powerful in their seductions than the pretendedly virtuous woman whose
beauty is lighted by the sun of the world, whose style the voice of
fashion lauds, and whom a halo of aristocracy gilds with enchanting
splendors. To be a woman condemned to a painful and disgraceful
punishment is no impediment to beauty, but it is an obstacle to the
recovery of power. Like all persons of real genius, Milady knew what
suited her nature and her means. Poverty was repugnant to her;
degradation took away two-thirds of her greatness. Milady was only a
queen while among queens. The pleasure of satisfied pride was necessary
to her domination. To command inferior beings was rather a humiliation
than a pleasure for her.
She should certainly return from her exile—she did not doubt that a
single instant; but how long might this exile last? For an active,
ambitious nature, like that of Milady, days not spent in climbing are
inauspicious days. What word, then, can be found to describe the days
which they occupy in descending? To lose a year, two years, three
years, is to talk of an eternity; to return after the death or disgrace
of the cardinal, perhaps; to return when D’Artagnan and his friends,
happy and triumphant, should have received from the queen the reward
they had well acquired by the services they had rendered her—these were
devouring ideas that a woman like Milady could not endure. For the
rest, the storm which raged within her doubled her strength, and she
would have burst the walls of her prison if her body had been able to
take for a single instant the proportions of her mind.
Then that which spurred her on additionally in the midst of all this
was the remembrance of the cardinal. What must the mistrustful,
restless, suspicious cardinal think of her silence—the cardinal, not
merely her only support, her only prop, her only protector at present,
but still further, the principal instrument of her future fortune and
vengeance? She knew him; she knew that at her return from a fruitless
journey it would be in vain to tell him of her imprisonment, in vain to
enlarge upon the sufferings she had undergone. The cardinal would
reply, with the sarcastic calmness of the skeptic, strong at once by
power and genius, “You should not have allowed yourself to be taken.”
Then Milady collected all her energies, murmuring in the depths of her
soul the name of Felton—the only beam of light that penetrated to her
in the hell into which she had fallen; and like a serpent which folds
and unfolds its rings to ascertain its strength, she enveloped Felton
beforehand in the thousand meshes of her inventive imagination.
Time, however, passed away; the hours, one after another, seemed to
awaken the clock as they passed, and every blow of the brass hammer
resounded upon the heart of the prisoner. At nine o’clock, Lord de
Winter made his customary visit, examined the window and the bars,
sounded the floor and the walls, looked to the chimney and the doors,
without, during this long and minute examination, he or Milady
pronouncing a single word.
Doubtless both of them understood that the situation had become too
serious to lose time in useless words and aimless wrath.
“Well,” said the baron, on leaving her “you will not escape tonight!”
At ten o’clock Felton came and placed the sentinel. Milady recognized
his step. She was as well acquainted with it now as a mistress is with
that of the lover of her heart; and yet Milady at the same time
detested and despised this weak fanatic.
That was not the appointed hour. Felton did not enter.
Two hours after, as midnight sounded, the sentinel was relieved. This
time it _was_ the hour, and from this moment Milady waited with
impatience. The new sentinel commenced his walk in the corridor. At the
expiration of ten minutes Felton came.
Milady was all attention.
“Listen,” said the young man to the sentinel. “On no pretense leave the
door, for you know that last night my Lord punished a soldier for
having quit his post for an instant, although I, during his absence,
watched in his place.”
“Yes, I know it,” said the soldier.
“I recommend you therefore to keep the strictest watch. For my part I
am going to pay a second visit to this woman, who I fear entertains
sinister intentions upon her own life, and I have received orders to
watch her.”
“Good!” murmured Milady; “the austere Puritan lies.”
As to the soldier, he only smiled.
“Zounds, Lieutenant!” said he; “you are not unlucky in being charged
with such commissions, particularly if my Lord has authorized you to
look into her bed.”
Felton blushed. Under any other circumstances he would have reprimanded
the soldier for indulging in such pleasantry, but his conscience
murmured too loud for his mouth to dare speak.
“If I call, come,” said he. “If anyone comes, call me.”
“I will, Lieutenant,” said the soldier.
Felton entered Milady’s apartment. Milady arose.
“You are here!” said she.
“I promised to come,” said Felton, “and I have come.”
“You promised me something else.”
“What, my God!” said the young man, who in spite of his self-command
felt his knees tremble and the sweat start from his brow.
“You promised to bring a knife, and to leave it with me after our
interview.”
“Say no more of that, madame,” said Felton. “There is no situation,
however terrible it may be, which can authorize a creature of God to
inflict death upon himself. I have reflected, and I cannot, must not be
guilty of such a sin.”
“Ah, you have reflected!” said the prisoner, sitting down in her
armchair, with a smile of disdain; “and I also have reflected.”
“Upon what?”
“That I can have nothing to say to a man who does not keep his word.”
“Oh, my God!” murmured Felton.
“You may retire,” said Milady. “I will not talk.”
“Here is the knife,” said Felton, drawing from his pocket the weapon
which he had brought, according to his promise, but which he hesitated
to give to his prisoner.
“Let me see it,” said Milady.
“For what purpose?”
“Upon my honor, I will instantly return it to you. You shall place it
on that table, and you may remain between it and me.”
Felton offered the weapon to Milady, who examined the temper of it
attentively, and who tried the point on the tip of her finger.
“Well,” said she, returning the knife to the young officer, “this is
fine and good steel. You are a faithful friend, Felton.”
Felton took back the weapon, and laid it upon the table, as he had
agreed with the prisoner.
Milady followed him with her eyes, and made a gesture of satisfaction.
“Now,” said she, “listen to me.”
The request was needless. The young officer stood upright before her,
awaiting her words as if to devour them.
“Felton,” said Milady, with a solemnity full of melancholy, “imagine
that your sister, the daughter of your father, speaks to you. While yet
young, unfortunately handsome, I was dragged into a snare. I resisted.
Ambushes and violences multiplied around me, but I resisted. The
religion I serve, the God I adore, were blasphemed because I called
upon that religion and that God, but still I resisted. Then outrages
were heaped upon me, and as my soul was not subdued they wished to
defile my body forever. Finally—”
Milady stopped, and a bitter smile passed over her lips.
“Finally,” said Felton, “finally, what did they do?”
“At length, one evening my enemy resolved to paralyze the resistance he
could not conquer. One evening he mixed a powerful narcotic with my
water. Scarcely had I finished my repast, when I felt myself sink by
degrees into a strange torpor. Although I was without mistrust, a vague
fear seized me, and I tried to struggle against sleepiness. I arose. I
wished to run to the window and call for help, but my legs refused
their office. It appeared as if the ceiling sank upon my head and
crushed me with its weight. I stretched out my arms. I tried to speak.
I could only utter inarticulate sounds, and irresistible faintness came
over me. I supported myself by a chair, feeling that I was about to
fall, but this support was soon insufficient on account of my weak
arms. I fell upon one knee, then upon both. I tried to pray, but my
tongue was frozen. God doubtless neither heard nor saw me, and I sank
upon the floor a prey to a slumber which resembled death.
“Of all that passed in that sleep, or the time which glided away while
it lasted, I have no remembrance. The only thing I recollect is that I
awoke in bed in a round chamber, the furniture of which was sumptuous,
and into which light only penetrated by an opening in the ceiling. No
door gave entrance to the room. It might be called a magnificent
prison.
“It was a long time before I was able to make out what place I was in,
or to take account of the details I describe. My mind appeared to
strive in vain to shake off the heavy darkness of the sleep from which
I could not rouse myself. I had vague perceptions of space traversed,
of the rolling of a carriage, of a horrible dream in which my strength
had become exhausted; but all this was so dark and so indistinct in my
mind that these events seemed to belong to another life than mine, and
yet mixed with mine in fantastic duality.
“At times the state into which I had fallen appeared so strange that I
believed myself dreaming. I arose trembling. My clothes were near me on
a chair; I neither remembered having undressed myself nor going to bed.
Then by degrees the reality broke upon me, full of chaste terrors. I
was no longer in the house where I had dwelt. As well as I could judge
by the light of the sun, the day was already two-thirds gone. It was
the evening before when I had fallen asleep; my sleep, then, must have
lasted twenty-four hours! What had taken place during this long sleep?
“I dressed myself as quickly as possible; my slow and stiff motions all
attested that the effects of the narcotic were not yet entirely
dissipated. The chamber was evidently furnished for the reception of a
woman; and the most finished coquette could not have formed a wish, but
on casting her eyes about the apartment, she would have found that wish
accomplished.
“Certainly I was not the first captive that had been shut up in this
splendid prison; but you may easily comprehend, Felton, that the more
superb the prison, the greater was my terror.
“Yes, it was a prison, for I tried in vain to get out of it. I sounded
all the walls, in the hopes of discovering a door, but everywhere the
walls returned a full and flat sound.
“I made the tour of the room at least twenty times, in search of an
outlet of some kind; but there was none. I sank exhausted with fatigue
and terror into an armchair.
“Meantime, night came on rapidly, and with night my terrors increased.
I did not know but I had better remain where I was seated. It appeared
that I was surrounded with unknown dangers into which I was about to
fall at every instant. Although I had eaten nothing since the evening
before, my fears prevented my feeling hunger.
“No noise from without by which I could measure the time reached me; I
only supposed it must be seven or eight o’clock in the evening, for it
was in the month of October and it was quite dark.
“All at once the noise of a door, turning on its hinges, made me start.
A globe of fire appeared above the glazed opening of the ceiling,
casting a strong light into my chamber; and I perceived with terror
that a man was standing within a few paces of me.
“A table, with two covers, bearing a supper ready prepared, stood, as
if by magic, in the middle of the apartment.