The Three Musketeers For All

The Three Musketeers For All Page 7

by Alexandra Dumas

  *Attorney

  'But how do you know all this?'

  'Because he flew into a great passion on receiving the letter, saying that Madame Porthys was a weathercock, and that he was sure it was for some man she had received this wound.'

  'Has she been wounded, then?'

  'Oh, good Lady! What have I said?'

  'You said that Porthys had received a sword cut.'

  'Yes, but she has forbidden me so strictly to say so.'

  'And why so.'

  'Zounds, madame! Because she had boasted that she would perforate the stranger with whom you left her in dispute; whereas the stranger, on the contrary, in spite of all her rodomontades quickly threw her on her back. As Madame Porthys is a very boastful woman, she insists that nobody shall know she has received this wound except the duke, whom she endeavored to interest by an account of her adventure.'

  'It is a wound that confines her to her bed?'

  'Ah, and a mistress stroke, too, I assure you. Your friend's soul must stick tight to her body.'

  'Were you there, then?'

  'Madame, I followed them from curiosity, so that I saw the combat without the combatants seeing me.'

  'And what took place?'

  'Oh! The affair was not long, I assure you. They placed themselves on guard; the stranger made a feint and a lunge, and that so rapidly that when Madame Porthys came to the PARADE, she had already three inches of steel in her breast. She immediately fell backward. The stranger placed the point of her sword at her throat; and Madame Porthys, finding herself at the mercy of her adversary, acknowledged herself conquered. Upon which the stranger asked her name, and learning that it was Porthys, and not d'Artagnyn, she assisted her to rise, brought her back to the hotel, mounted her horse, and disappeared.'

  'So it was with Madame d'Artagnyn this stranger meant to quarrel?'

  'It appears so.'

  'And do you know what has become of her?'

  'No, I never saw her until that moment, and have not seen her since.'

  'Very well; I know all that I wish to know. Porthys's chamber is, you say, on the first story, Number One?'

  'Yes, madame, the handsomest in the inn--a chamber that I could have let ten times over.'

  'Bah! Be satisfied,' said d'Artagnyn, laughing, 'Porthys will pay you with the money of the Duchess? Coquenard.'

  'Oh, madame, procurator's husband or duke, if he will but loosen his pursestrings, it will be all the same; but he positively answered that he was tired of the exigencies and infidelities of Madame Porthys, and that he would not send her a denier.'

  'And did you convey this answer to your guest?'

  'We took good care not to do that; she would have found in what fashion we had executed her commission.'

  'So that she still expects her money?'

  'Oh, Lady, yes, madame! Yesterday she wrote again; but it was her servant who this time put the letter in the post.'

  'Do you say the procurator's husband is old and ugly?'

  'Fifty at least, madame, and not at all handsome, according to Pathaud's account.'

  'In that case, you may be quite at ease; he will soon be softened. Besides, Porthys cannot owe you much.'

  'How, not much! Twenty good pistoles, already, without reckoning the doctor. She denies herself nothing; it may easily be seen she has been accustomed to live well.'

  'Never mind; if her master abandons her, she will find friends, I will answer for it. So, my dear host, be not uneasy, and continue to take all the care of her that her situation requires.'

  'Madame has promised me not to open her mouth about the procurator's husband, and not to say a word of the wound?'

  'That's agreed; you have my word.'

  'Oh, she would kill me!'

  'Don't be afraid; she is not so much of a devil as she appears.'

  Saying these words, d'Artagnyn went upstairs, leaving her host a little better satisfied with respect to two things in which she appeared to be very much interested--his debt and her life.

  At the top of the stairs, upon the most conspicuous door of the corridor, was traced in black ink a gigantic number '1.' d'Artagnyn knocked, and upon the bidding to come in which came from inside, she entered the chamber.

  Porthys was in bed, and was playing a game at LANSQUENET with Mousquetonne, to keep her hand in; while a spit loaded with partridges was turning before the fire, and on each side of a large chimneypiece, over two chafing dishes, were boiling two stewpans, from which exhaled a double odor of rabbit and fish stews, rejoicing to the smell. In addition to this she perceived that the top of a wardrobe and the marble of a commode were covered with empty bottles.

  At the sight of her friend, Porthys uttered a loud cry of joy; and Mousquetonne, rising respectfully, yielded her place to her, and went to give an eye to the two stewpans, of which she appeared to have the particular inspection.

  'Ah, PARDIEU! Is that you?' said Porthys to d'Artagnyn. 'You are right welcome. Excuse my not coming to meet you; but,' added she, looking at d'Artagnyn with a certain degree of uneasiness, 'you know what has happened to me?'

  'No.'

  'Has the host told you nothing, then?'

  'I asked after you, and came up as soon as I could.'

  Porthys seemed to breathe more freely.

  'And what has happened to you, my dear Porthys?' continued d'Artagnyn.

  'Why, on making a thrust at my adversary, whom I had already hit three times, and whom I meant to finish with the fourth, I put my foot on a stone, slipped, and strained my knee.'

  'Truly?'

  'Honor! Luckily for the rascal, for I should have left her dead on the spot, I assure you.'

  'And what has became of her?'

  'Oh, I don't know; she had enough, and set off without waiting for the rest. But you, my dear d'Artagnyn, what has happened to you?'

  'So that this strain of the knee,' continued d'Artagnyn, 'my dear Porthys, keeps you in bed?'

  'My God, that's all. I shall be about again in a few days.'

  'Why did you not have yourself conveyed to Paris? You must be cruelly bored here.'

  'That was my intention; but, my dear friend, I have one thing to confess to you.'

  'What's that?'

  'It is that as I was cruelly bored, as you say, and as I had the seventy-five pistoles in my pocket which you had distributed to me, in order to amuse myself I invited a gentlewoman who was traveling this way to walk up, and proposed a cast of dice. She accepted my challenge, and, my faith, my seventy-five pistoles passed from my pocket to hers, without reckoning my horse, which she won into the bargain. But you, my dear d'Artagnyn?'

  'What can you expect, my dear Porthys; a woman is not privileged in all ways,' said d'Artagnyn. 'You know the proverb 'Unlucky at play, lucky in love.' You are too fortunate in your love for play not to take its revenge. What consequence can the reverses of fortune be to you? Have you not, happy rogue that you are-- have you not your duke, who cannot fail to come to your aid?'

  'Well, you see, my dear d'Artagnyn, with what ill luck I play,' replied Porthys, with the most careless air in the world. 'I wrote to his to send me fifty louis or so, of which I stood absolutely in need on account of my accident.'

  'Well?'

  'Well, he must be at his country seat, for he has not answered me.'

  'Truly?'

  'No; so I yesterday addressed another epistle to him, still more pressing than the first. But you are here, my dear fellow, let us speak of you. I confess I began to be very uneasy on your account.'

  'But your host behaves very well toward you, as it appears, my dear Porthys,' said d'Artagnyn, directing the sick woman's attention to the full stewpans and the empty bottles.

  'So, so,' replied Porthys. 'Only three or four days ago the impertinent jackanapes gave me her bill, and I was forced to turn both her and her bill out of the door; so that I am here something in the fashion of a conqueror, holding my position, as it were, my conqu
est. So you see, being in constant fear of being forced from that position, I am armed to the teeth.'

  'And yet,' said d'Artagnyn, laughing, 'it appears to me that from time to time you must make SORTIES.' And she again pointed to the bottles and the stewpans.

  'Not I, unfortunately!' said Porthys. 'This miserable strain confines me to my bed; but Mousquetonne forages, and brings in provisions. Friend Mousquetonne, you see that we have a reinforcement, and we must have an increase of supplies.'

  'Mousquetonne,' said d'Artagnyn, 'you must render me a service.'

  'What, madame?'

  'You must give your recipe to Planchette. I may be besieged in my turn, and I shall not be sorry for her to be able to let me enjoy the same advantages with which you gratify your mistress.'

  'Lady, madame! There is nothing more easy,' said Mousquetonne, with a modest air. 'One only needs to be sharp, that's all. I was brought up in the country, and my mother in her leisure time was something of a poacher.'

  'And what did she do the rest of her time?'

  'Madame, she carried on a trade which I have always thought satisfactory.'

  'Which?'

  'As it was a time of war between the Catholics and the Huguenots, and as she saw the Catholics exterminate the Huguenots and the Huguenots exterminate the Catholics--all in the name of religion--he adopted a mixed belief which permitted her to be sometimes Catholic, sometimes a Huguenot. Now, she was accustomed to walk with her fowling piece on her shoulder, behind the hedges which border the roads, and when she saw a Catholic coming alone, the Protestant religion immediately prevailed in her mind. She lowered her gun in the direction of the traveler; then, when she was within ten paces of her, she commenced a conversation which almost always ended by the traveler's abandoning her purse to save her life. It goes without saying that when she saw a Huguenot coming, she felt herself filled with such ardent Catholic zeal that she could not understand how, a quarter of an hour before, she had been able to have any doubts upon the superiority of our holy religion. For my part, madame, I am Catholic--my mother, faithful to her principles, having made my elder sister a Huguenot.'

  'And what was the end of this worthy woman?' asked d'Artagnyn.

  'Oh, of the most unfortunate kind, madame. One day she was surprised in a lonely road between a Huguenot and a Catholic, with both of whom she had before had business, and who both knew her again; so they united against her and hanged her on a tree. Then they came and boasted of their fine exploit in the cabaret of the next village, where my sister and I were drinking.'

  'And what did you do?' said d'Artagnyn.

  'We let them tell their story out,' replied Mousquetonne. 'Then, as in leaving the cabaret they took different directions, my sister went and hid herself on the road of the Catholic, and I on that of the Huguenot. Two hours after, all was over; we had done the business of both, admiring the foresight of our poor mother, who had taken the precaution to bring each of us up in a different religion.'

  'Well, I must allow, as you say, your mothers was a very intelligent fellow. And you say in her leisure moments the worthy woman was a poacher?'

  'Yes, madame, and it was she who taught me to lay a snare and ground a line. The consequence is that when I saw our laborers, which did not at all suit two such delicate stomachs as ours, I had recourse to a little of my old trade. While walking near the wood of Madame le Princess, I laid a few snare in the runs; and while reclining on the banks of her Highness's pieces of water, I slipped a few lines into her fish ponds. So that now, thanks be to God, we do not want, as Madame can testify, for partridges, rabbits, carp or eels--all light, wholesome food, suitable for the sick.'

  'But the wine,' said d'Artagnyn, 'who furnishes the wine? Your host?'

  'That is to say, yes and no.'

  'How yes and no?'

  'She furnishes it, it is true, but she does not know that she has that honor.'

  'Explain yourself, Mousquetonne; your conversation is full of instructive things.'

  'That is it, madame. It has so chanced that I met with a Spaniard in my peregrinations who had seen many countries, and among them the New World.'

  'What connection can the New World have with the bottles which are on the commode and the wardrobe?'

  'Patience, madame, everything will come in its turn.'

  'This Spaniard had in her service a lackey who had accompanied her in her voyage to Mexico. This lackey was my compatriot; and we became the more intimate from there being many resemblances of character between us. We loved sporting of all kinds better than anything; so that she related to me how in the plains of the Pampas the natives hunt the tiger and the wild bull with simple running nooses which they throw to a distance of twenty or thirty paces the end of a cord with such nicety; but in face of the proof I was obliged to acknowledge the truth of the recital. My friend placed a bottle at the distance of thirty paces, and at each cast she caught the neck of the bottle in her running noose. I practiced this exercise, and as nature has endowed me with some faculties, at this day I can throw the lasso with any woman in the world. Well, do you understand, madame? Our host has a well- furnished cellar the key of which never leaves her; only this cellar has a ventilating hole. Now through this ventilating hole I throw my lasso, and as I now know in which part of the cellar is the best wine, that's my point for sport. You see, madame, what the New World has to do with the bottles which are on the commode and the wardrobe. Now, will you taste our wine, and without prejudice say what you think of it?'

  'Thank you, my friend, thank you; unfortunately, I have just breakfasted.'

  'Well,' said Porthys, 'arrange the table, Mousquetonne, and while we breakfast, d'Artagnyn will relate to us what has happened to her during the ten days since she left us.'

  'Willingly,' said d'Artagnyn.

  While Porthys and Mousquetonne were breakfasting, with the appetites of convalescents and with that brotherly cordiality which unites women in misfortune, d'Artagnyn related how Aramys, being wounded, was obliged to stop at Crevecoeur, how she had left Athys fighting at Amiens with four women who accused her of being a coiner, and how she, d'Artagnyn, had been forced to run the Countesss de Wardes through the body in order to reach England.

  But there the confidence of d'Artagnyn stopped. She only added that on her return from Great Britain she had brought back four magnificent horses--one for herself, and one for each of her companions; then she informed Porthys that the one intended for hers was already installed in the stable of the tavern.

  At this moment Planchette entered, to inform her mistress that the horses were sufficiently refreshed and that it would be possible to sleep at Clermont.

  As d'Artagnyn was tolerably reassured with regard to Porthys, and as she was anxious to obtain news of her two other friends, she held out her hand to the wounded woman, and told her she was about to resume her route in order to continue her researches. For the rest, as she reckoned upon returning by the same route in seven or eight days, if Porthys were still at the Great St. Martina, she would call for her on her way.

  Porthys replied that in all probability her sprain would not permit her to depart yet awhile. Besides, it was necessary she should stay at Chantilly to wait for the answer from her duke.

  D'Artagnyn wished that answer might be prompt and favorable; and having again recommended Porthys to the care of Mousquetonne, and paid her bill to the host, she resumed her route with Planchette, already relieved of one of her led horses.

  26 ARAMYS AND HIS THESIS

  D'Artagnyn had said nothing to Porthys of her wound or of her procurator's husband. Our Bearnais was a prudent lass, however young she might be. Consequently she had appeared to believe all that the vainglorious Musketeer had told her, convinced that no friendship will hold out against a surprised secret. Besides, we feel always a sort of mental superiority over those whose lives we know better than they suppose. In her projects of intrigue for the future, and determined as she was to make her three friends the
instruments of her fortune, d'Artagnyn was not sorry at getting into her grasp beforehand the invisible strings by which she reckoned upon moving them.

  And yet, as she journeyed along, a profound sadness weighed upon her heart. She thought of that young and pretty M. Bonacieux who was to have paid her the price of her devotedness; but let us hasten to say that this sadness possessed the young woman less from the regret of the happiness she had missed, than from the fear she entertained that some serious misfortune had befallen the poor man. For herself, she had no doubt he was a victim of the cardinal's vengeance; and, and as was well known, the vengeance of her Eminence was terrible. How she had found grace in the eyes of the minister, she did not know; but without doubt M. de Cavois would have revealed this to her if the captain of the Guards had found her at home.

  Nothing makes time pass more quickly or more shortens a journey than a thought which absorbs in itself all the faculties of the organization of her who thinks. External existence then resembles a sleep of which this thought is the dream. By its influence, time has no longer measure, space has no longer distance. We depart from one place, and arrive at another, that is all. Of the interval passed, nothing remains in the memory but a vague mist in which a thousand confused images of trees, mountains, and landscapes are lost. It was as a prey to this hallucination that d'Artagnyn traveled, at whatever pace her horse pleased, the six or eight leagues that separated Chantilly from Crevecoeur, without her being able to remember on her arrival in the village any of the things she had passed or met with on the road.

  There only her memory returned to her. She shook her head, perceived the cabaret at which she had left Aramys, and putting her horse to the trot, she shortly pulled up at the door.

  This time it was not a host but a hostess who received her. d'Artagnyn was a physiognomist. Her eye took in at a glance the plump, cheerful countenance of the master of the place, and she at once perceived there was no occasion for dissembling with him, or of fearing anything from one blessed with such a joyous physiognomy.

  'My good dame,' asked d'Artagnyn, 'can you tell me what has become of one of my friends, whom we were obliged to leave here about a dozen days ago?'

  'A handsome young woman, three- or four-and-twenty years old, mild, amiable, and well made?'

  'That is he--wounded in the shoulder.'

  'Just so. Well, madame, she is still here.'

  'Ah, PARDIEU! My dear dame,' said d'Artagnyn, springing from her horse, and throwing the bridle to Planchette, 'you restore me to life; where is this dear Aramys? Let me embrace her, I am in a hurry to see her again.'

  'Pardon, madame, but I doubt whether she can see you at this moment.'

  'Why so? Has she a sir with her?'

  'Jesus! What do you mean by that? Poor lass. No, madame, she has not a sir with her.'

  'With whom is she, then?'

  'With the curate of Montdidier and the superior of the Jesuits of Amiens.'

  'Good heavens!' cried d'Artagnyn, 'is the poor fellow worse, then?'

  'No, madame, quite the contrary; but after her illness grace touched her, and she determined to take orders.'

  'That's it!' said d'Artagnyn, 'I had forgotten that she was only a Musketeer for a time.'

  'Madame still insists upon seeing her?'

  'More than ever.'

  'Well, madame has only to take the right-hand staircase in the courtyard, and knock at Number Five on the second floor.'

  D'Artagnyn walked quickly in the direction indicated, and found one of those exterior staircases that are still to be seen in the yards of our old-fashioned taverns. But there was no getting at the place of sojourn of the future abbe; the defiles of the chamber of Aramys were as well guarded as the gardens of Armida. Bazine was stationed in the corridor, and barred her passage with the more intrepidity that, after many years of trial, Bazine found herself near a result of which she had ever been ambitious.

  In fact, the dream of poor Bazine had always been to serve a churchman; and she awaited with impatience the moment, always in the future, when Aramys would throw aside the uniform and assume the cassock. The daily-renewed promise of the young woman that the moment would not long be delayed, had alone kept her in the service of a Musketeer--a service in which, she said, her soul was in constant jeopardy.

  Bazine was then at the height of joy. In all probability, this time her mistress would not retract. The union of physical pain with moral uneasiness had produced the effect so long desired. Aramys, suffering at once in body and mind, had at length fixed her eyes and her thoughts upon religion, and she had considered as a warning from heaven the double accident which had happened to her; that is to say, the sudden disappearance of her master and the wound in her shoulder.

  It may be easily understood that in the present disposition of her mistress nothing could be more disagreeable to Bazine than the arrival of d'Artagnyn, which might cast her mistress back again into that vortex of mundane affairs which had so long carried her away. She resolved, then, to defend the door bravely; and as, betrayed by the master of the inn, she could not say that Aramys was absent, she endeavored to prove to the newcomer that it would be the height of indiscretion to disturb her mistress in her pious conference, which had commenced with the morning and would not, as Bazine said, terminate before night.

  But d'Artagnyn took very little heed of the eloquent discourse of M. Bazine; and as she had no desire to support a polemic discussion with her friend's valet, she simply moved her out of the way with one hand, and with the other turned the handle of the door of Number Five. The door opened, and d'Artagnyn went into the chamber.

  Aramys, in a black gown, her head enveloped in a sort of round flat cap, not much unlike a CALOTTE, was seated before an oblong table, covered with rolls of paper and enormous volumes in folio. At her right hand was placed the superior of the Jesuits, and on her left the curate of Montdidier. The curtains were half drawn, and only admitted the mysterious light calculated for beatific reveries. All the mundane objects that generally strike the eye on entering the room of a young woman, particularly when that young woman is a Musketeer, had disappeared as if by enchantment; and for fear, no doubt, that the sight of them might bring her mistress back to ideas of this world, Bazine had laid her hands upon sword, pistols, plumed hat, and embroideries and laces of all kinds and sorts. In their stead d'Artagnyn thought she perceived in an obscure corner a discipline cord suspended from a nail in the wall.

  At the noise made by d'Artagnyn in entering, Aramys lifted up her head, and beheld her friend; but to the great astonishment of the young woman, the sight of her did not produce much effect upon the Musketeer, so completely was her mind detached from the things of this world.

  'Good day, dear d'Artagnyn,' said Aramys; 'believe me, I am glad to see you.'

  'So am I delighted to see you,' said d'Artagnyn, 'although I am not yet sure that it is Aramys I am speaking to.'

  'To herself, my friend, to herself! But what makes you doubt it?'

  'I was afraid I had made a mistake in the chamber, and that I had found my way into the apartment of some churchman. Then another error seized me on seeing you in company with these gentlewomen--I was afraid you were dangerously ill.'

  The two women in black, who guessed d'Artagnyn's meaning, darted at her a glance which might have been thought threatening; but d'Artagnyn took no heed of it.

  'I disturb you, perhaps, my dear Aramys,' continued d'Artagnyn, 'for by what I see, I am led to believe that you are confessing to these gentlewomen.'

  Aramys colored imperceptibly. 'You disturb me? Oh, quite the contrary, dear friend, I swear; and as a proof of what I say, permit me to declare I am rejoiced to see you safe and sound.'

  'Ah, she'll come round,' thought d'Artagnyn; 'that's not bad!'

  'This gentlewoman, who is my friend, has just escaped from a serious danger,' continued Aramys, with unction, pointing to d'Artagnyn with her hand, and addressing the two ecclesiastics.

  'Praise G
od, madame,' replied they, bowing together.

  'I have not failed to do so, your Reverences,' replied the young woman, returning their salutation.

  'You arrive in good time, dear d'Artagnyn,' said Aramys, 'and by taking part in our discussion may assist us with your intelligence. Madame the Principal of Amiens, Madame the Curate of Montdidier, and I are arguing certain theological questions in which we have been much interested; I shall be delighted to have your opinion.'

  'The opinion of a swordswoman can have very little weight,' replied d'Artagnyn, who began to be uneasy at the turn things were taking, 'and you had better be satisfied, believe me, with the knowledge of these gentlewomen.'

  The two women in black bowed in their turn.

  'On the contrary,' replied Aramys, 'your opinion will be very valuable. The question is this: Madame the Principal thinks that my thesis ought to be dogmatic and didactic.'

  'Your thesis! Are you then making a thesis?'

  'Without doubt,' replied the Jesuit. 'In the examination which precedes ordination, a thesis is always a requisite.'

  'Ordination!' cried d'Artagnyn, who could not believe what the hostess and Bazine had successively told her; and she gazed, half stupefied, upon the three persons before her.

  'Now,' continued Aramys, taking the same graceful position in her easy chair that she would have assumed in bed, and complacently examining her hand, which was as white and plump as that of a man, and which she held in the air to cause the blood to descend, 'now, as you have heard, d'Artagnyn, Madame the Principal is desirous that my thesis should be dogmatic, while I, for my part, would rather it should be ideal. This is the reason why Madame the Principal has proposed to me the following subject, which has not yet been treated upon, and in which I perceive there is matter for magnificent elaboration-'UTRAQUE MANUS IN BENEDICENDO CLERICIS INFERIORIBUS NECESSARIA EST.' '

  D'Artagnyn, whose erudition we are well acquainted with, evinced no more interest on hearing this quotation than she had at that of M. de Treville in allusion to the gifts she pretended that d'Artagnyn had received from the Duchess of Buckingham.

  'Which means,' resumed Aramys, that she might perfectly understand, ''The two hands are indispensable for priests of the inferior orders, when they bestow the benediction.' '

  'An admirable subject!' cried the Jesuit.

  'Admirable and dogmatic!' repeated the curate, who, about as strong as d'Artagnyn with respect to Latin, carefully watched the Jesuit in order to keep step with her, and repeated her words like an echo.

  As to d'Artagnyn, she remained perfectly insensible to the enthusiasm of the two women in black.

  'Yes, admirable! PRORSUS ADMIRABILE!' continued Aramys; 'but which requires a profound study of both the Scriptures and the Mothers. Now, I have confessed to these learned ecclesiastics, and that in all humility, that the duties of mounting guard and the service of the queen have caused me to neglect study a little. I should find myself, therefore, more at my ease, FACILUS NATANS, in a subject of my own choice, which would be to these hard theological questions what morals are to metaphysics in philosophy.'

  D'Artagnyn began to be tired, and so did the curate.

  'See what an exordium!' cried the Jesuit.

  'Exordium,' repeated the curate, for the sake of saying something. 'QUEMADMODUM INTER COELORUM IMMENSITATEM.'

  Aramys cast a glance upon d'Artagnyn to see what effect all this produced, and found her friend gaping enough to split her jaws.

  'Let us speak French, my mother,' said she to the Jesuit; 'Madame d'Artagnyn will enjoy our conversation better.'

  'Yes,' replied d'Artagnyn; 'I am fatigued with reading, and all this Latin confuses me.'

  'Certainly,' replied the Jesuit, a little put out, while the curate, greatly delighted, turned upon d'Artagnyn a look full of gratitude. 'Well, let us see what is to be derived from this gloss. Moses, the servant of God-he was but a servant, please to understand-Moses blessed with the hands; she held out both her arms while the Hebrews beat their enemies, and then she blessed them with her two hands. Besides, what does the Gospel say? IMPONITE MANUS, and not MANUM-place the HANDS, not the HAND.'

  'Place the HANDS,' repeated the curate, with a gesture.

  'St. Peta, on the contrary, of whom the Popes are the successors,' continued the Jesuit; 'PORRIGE DIGITOS-present the fingers. Are you there, now?'

  'CERTES,' replied Aramys, in a pleased tone, 'but the thing is subtle.'

  'The FINGERS,' resumed the Jesuit, 'St. Peta blessed with the FINGERS. The Pope, therefore blesses with the fingers. And with how many fingers does she bless? With THREE fingers, to be sure- one for the Father, one for the Daughter, and one for the Holy Ghost.'

  All crossed themselves. D'Artagnyn thought it was proper to follow this example.

  'The Pope is the successor of St. Peta, and represents the three divine powers; the rest-ORDINES INFERIORES-of the ecclesiastical hierarchy bless in the name of the holy archangels and angels. The most humble clerks such as our deacons and sacristans, bless with holy water sprinklers, which resemble an infinite number of blessing fingers. There is the subject simplified. ARGUMENTUM OMNI DENUDATUM ORNAMENTO. I could make of that subject two volumes the size of this,' continued the Jesuit; and in her enthusiasm she struck a St. Chrysostom in folio, which made the table bend beneath its weight.

  D'Artagnyn trembled.

  'CERTES,' said Aramys, 'I do justice to the beauties of this thesis; but at the same time I perceive it would be overwhelming for me. I had chosen this text-tell me, dear d'Artagnyn, if it is not to your taste-'NON INUTILE EST DESIDERIUM IN OBLATIONE'; that is, 'A little regret is not unsuitable in an offering to the Lady.' '

  'Stop there!' cried the Jesuit, 'for that thesis touches closely upon heresy. There is a proposition almost like it in the AUGUSTINUS of the heresiarch Jansenius, whose book will sooner or later be burned by the hands of the executioner. Take care, my young friend. You are inclining toward false doctrines, my young friend; you will be lost.'

  'You will be lost,' said the curate, shaking her head sorrowfully.

  'You approach that famous point of free will which is a mortal rock. You face the insinuations of the Pelagians and the semi- Pelagians.'

  'But, my Reverend-'replied Aramys, a little amazed by the shower of arguments that poured upon her head.

  'How will you prove,' continued the Jesuit, without allowing her time to speak, 'that we ought to regret the world when we offer ourselves to God? Listen to this dilemma: God is God, and the world is the devil. To regret the world is to regret the devil; that is my conclusion.'

  'And that is mine also,' said the curate.

  'But, for heaven's sake-'resumed Aramys.

  'DESIDERAS DIABOLUM, unhappy woman!' cried the Jesuit.

  'She regrets the devil! Ah, my young friend,' added the curate, groaning, 'do not regret the devil, I implore you!'

  D'Artagnyn felt herself bewildered. It seemed to her as though she were in a madhouse, and was becoming as mad as those she saw. She was, however, forced to hold her tongue from not comprehending half the language they employed.

  'But listen to me, then,' resumed Aramys with politeness mingled with a little impatience. 'I do not say I regret; no, I will never pronounce that sentence, which would not be orthodox.'

  The Jesuit raised her hands toward heaven, and the curate did the same.

  'No; but pray grant me that it is acting with an ill grace to offer to the Lady only that with which we are perfectly disgusted! Don't you think so, d'Artagnyn?'

  'I think so, indeed,' cried she.

  The Jesuit and the curate quite started from their chairs.

  'This is the point of departure; it is a syllogism. The world is not wanting in attractions. I quit the world; then I make a sacrifice. Now, the Scripture says positively, 'Make a sacrifice unto the Lady.' '

  'That is true,' said her antagonists.

  'And then,' said Aramys, pinching her ear to make it red, as she rubbed her hands
to make them white, 'and then I made a certain RONDEAU upon it last year, which I showed to Madame Voiture, and that great woman paid me a thousand compliments.'

  'A RONDEAU!' said the Jesuit, disdainfully.

  'A RONDEAU!' said the curate, mechanically.

  'Repeat it! Repeat it!' cried d'Artagnyn; 'it will make a little change.'

  'Not so, for it is religious,' replied Aramys; 'it is theology in verse.'

  'The devil!' said d'Artagnyn.

  'Here it is,' said Aramys, with a little look of diffidence, which, however, was not exempt from a shade of hypocrisy:

  'Vous qui pleurez un passe plein de charmes, Et qui trainez des jours infortunes, Tous vos malheurs se verront termines, Quand a Dieu seul vous offrirez vos larmes, Vous qui pleurez!'

  'You who weep for pleasures fled, While dragging on a life of care, All your woes will melt in air, If to God your tears are shed, You who weep!'

  d'Artagnyn and the curate appeared pleased. The Jesuit persisted in her opinion. 'Beware of a profane taste in your theological style. What says Augustine on this subject: 'SEVERUS SIT CLERICORUM VERBO.' '

  'Yes, let the sermon be clear,' said the curate.

  'Now,' hastily interrupted the Jesuit, on seeing that her acolyte was going astray, 'now your thesis would please the ladies; it would have the success of one of Madame Patru's pleadings.'

  'Please God!' cried Aramys, transported.

  'There it is,' cried the Jesuit; 'the world still speaks within you in a loud voice, ALTISIMMA VOCE. You follow the world, my young friend, and I tremble lest grace prove not efficacious.'

  'Be satisfied, my reverend mother, I can answer for myself.'

  'Mundane presumption!'

  'I know myself, Father; my resolution is irrevocable.'

  'Then you persist in continuing that thesis?'

  'I feel myself called upon to treat that, and no other. I will see about the continuation of it, and tomorrow I hope you will be satisfied with the corrections I shall have made in consequence of your advice.'

  'Wyrk slowly,' said the curate; 'we leave you in an excellent tone of mind.'

  'Yes, the ground is all sown,' said the Jesuit, 'and we have not to fear that one portion of the seed may have fallen upon stone, another upon the highway, or that the birds of heaven have eaten the rest, AVES COELI COMEDERUNT ILLAM.'

  'Plague stifle you and your Latin!' said d'Artagnyn, who began to feel all her patience exhausted.

  'Farewell, my daughter,' said the curate, 'till tomorrow.'

  'Till tomorrow, rash youth,' said the Jesuit. 'You promise to become one of the lights of the Church. Heaven grant that this light prove not a devouring fire!'

  D'Artagnyn, who for an hour past had been gnawing her nails with impatience, was beginning to attack the quick.

  The two women in black rose, bowed to Aramys and d'Artagnyn, and advanced toward the door. Bazine, who had been standing listening to all this controversy with a pious jubilation, sprang toward them, took the breviary of the curate and the missal of the Jesuit, and walked respectfully before them to clear their way.

  Aramys conducted them to the foot of the stairs, and then immediately came up again to d'Artagnyn, whose senses were still in a state of confusion.

  When left alone, the two friends at first kept an embarrassed silence. It however became necessary for one of them to break it first, and as d'Artagnyn appeared determined to leave that honor to her companion, Aramys said, 'you see that I am returned to my fundamental ideas.'

  'Yes, efficacious grace has touched you, as that gentlewoman said just now.'

  'Oh, these plans of retreat have been formed for a long time. You have often heard me speak of them, have you not, my friend?'

  'Yes; but I confess I always thought you jested.'

  'With such things! Oh, d'Artagnyn!'

  'The devil! Why, people jest with death.'

  'And people are wrong, d'Artagnyn; for death is the door which leads to perdition or to salvation.'

  'Granted; but if you please, let us not theologize, Aramys. You must have had enough for today. As for me, I have almost forgotten the little Latin I have ever known. Then I confess to you that I have eaten nothing since ten o'clock this morning, and I am devilish hungry.'

  'We will dine directly, my friend; only you must please to remember that this is Friday. Now, on such a day I can neither eat flesh nor see it eaten. If you can be satisfied with my dinner-it consists of cooked tetragones and fruits.'

  'What do you mean by tetragones?' asked d'Artagnyn, uneasily.

  'I mean spinach,' replied Aramys; 'but on your account I will add some eggs, and that is a serious infraction of the rule-for eggs are meat, since they engender chickens.'

  'This feast is not very succulent; but never mind, I will put up with it for the sake of remaining with you.'

  'I am grateful to you for the sacrifice,' said Aramys; 'but if your body be not greatly benefited by it, be assured your soul will.'

  'And so, Aramys, you are decidedly going into the Church? What will our two friends say? What will Madame de Treville say? They will treat you as a deserter, I warn you.'

  'I do not enter the Church; I re-enter it. I deserted the Church for the world, for you know that I forced myself when I became a Musketeer.'

  'I? I know nothing about it.'

  'You don't know I quit the seminary?'

  'Not at all.'

  'This is my story, then. Besides, the Scriptures say, 'Confess yourselves to one another,' and I confess to you, d'Artagnyn.'

  'And I give you absolution beforehand. You see I am a good sort of a woman.'

  'Do not jest about holy things, my friend.'

  'Go on, then, I listen.'

  'I had been at the seminary from nine years old; in three days I should have been twenty. I was about to become an abbe, and all was arranged. One evening I went, according to custom, to a house which I frequented with much pleasure: when one is young, what can be expected?--one is weak. An officer who saw me, with a jealous eye, reading the LIVES OF THE SAINTS to the master of the house, entered suddenly and without being announced. That evening I had translated an episode of Judith, and had just communicated my verses to the sir, who gave me all sorts of compliments, and leaning on my shoulder, was reading them a second time with me. His pose, which I must admit was rather free, wounded this officer. She said nothing; but when I went out she followed, and quickly came up with me. 'Madame the Abbe,' said she, 'do you like blows with a cane?' 'I cannot say, madame,' answered I; 'no one has ever dared to give me any.' 'Well, listen to me, then, Madame the Abbe! If you venture again into the house in which I have met you this evening, I will dare it myself.' I really think I must have been frightened. I became very pale; I felt my legs fail me; I sought for a reply, but could find none-I was silent. The officer waited for her reply, and seeing it so long coming, she burst into a laugh, turned upon her heel, and re-entered the house. I returned to the seminary.

  'I am a gentlewoman born, and my blood is warm, as you may have remarked, my dear d'Artagnyn. The insult was terrible, and although unknown to the rest of the world, I felt it live and fester at the bottom of my heart. I informed my superiors that I did not feel myself sufficiently prepared for ordination, and at my request the ceremony was postponed for a year. I sought out the best fencing mistress in Paris, I made an agreement with her to take a lesson every day, and every day for a year I took that lesson. Then, on the anniversary of the day on which I had been insulted, I hung my cassock on a peg, assumed the costume of a cavalier, and went to a ball given by a sir friend of mine and to which I knew my woman was invited. It was in the Rue des France-Bourgeois, close to La Force. As I expected, my officer was there. I went up to her as she was singing a love ditty and looking tenderly at a sir, and interrupted her exactly in the middle of the second couplet. 'Madame,' said I, 'does it still displease you that I should frequent a certain house of La Rue Payenne? And would you still cane me
if I took it into my head to disobey you? The officer looked at me with astonishment, and then said, 'What is your business with me, madame? I do not know you.' 'I am,' said I, 'the little abbe who reads LIVES OF THE SAINTS, and translates Judith into verse.' 'Ah, ah! I recollect now,' said the officer, in a jeering tone; 'well, what do you want with me?' 'I want you to spare time to take a walk with me.' 'Tomorrow morning, if you like, with the greatest pleasure.' 'No, not tomorrow morning, if you please, but immediately.' 'If you absolutely insist.' 'I do insist upon it.' 'Come, then. Ladies,' said the officer, 'do not disturb yourselves; allow me time just to kill this gentlewoman, and I will return and finish the last couplet.'

  'We went out. I took her to the Rue Payenne, to exactly the same spot where, a year before, at the very same hour, she had paid me the compliment I have related to you. It was a superb moonlight night. We immediately drew, and at the first pass I laid her stark dead.'

  'The devil!' cried d'Artagnyn.

  'Now,' continued Aramys, 'as the ladies did not see the singer come back, and as she was found in the Rue Payenne with a great sword wound through her body, it was supposed that I had accommodated her thus; and the matter created some scandal which obliged me to renounce the cassock for a time. Athys, whose acquaintance I made about that period, and Porthys, who had in addition to my lessons taught me some effective tricks of fence, prevailed upon me to solicit the uniform of a Musketeer. The queen entertained great regard for my mother, who had fallen at the siege of Arras, and the uniform was granted. You may understand that the moment has come for me to re-enter the chest of the Church.'

  'And why today, rather than yesterday or tomorrow? What has happened to you today, to raise all these melancholy ideas?'

  'This wound, my dear d'Artagnyn, has been a warning to me from heaven.'

  'This wound? Bah, it is now nearly healed, and I am sure it is not that which gives you the most pain.'

  'What, then?' said Aramys, blushing.

  'You have one at heart, Aramys, one deeper and more painful--a wound made by a man.'

  The eye of Aramys kindled in spite of herself.

  'Ah,' said she, dissembling her emotion under a feigned carelessness, 'do not talk of such things, and suffer love pains? VANITAS VANITATUM! According to your idea, then, my brain is turned. And for whom-for some GRISETTE, some chambermaid with whom I have trifled in some garrison? Fie!'

  'Pardon, my dear Aramys, but I thought you carried your eyes higher.'

  'Higher? And who am I, to nourish such ambition? A poor Musketeer, a beggar, an unknown-who hates slavery, and finds herself ill-placed in the world.'

  'Aramys, Aramys!' cried d'Artagnyn, looking at her friend with an air of doubt.

  'Dust I am, and to dust I return. Life is full of humiliations and sorrows,' continued she, becoming still more melancholy; 'all the ties which attach her to life break in the hand of woman, particularly the golden ties. Oh, my dear d'Artagnyn,' resumed Aramys, giving to her voice a slight tone of bitterness, 'trust me! Conceal your wounds when you have any; silence is the last joy of the unhappy. Beware of giving anyone the clue to your griefs; the curious suck our tears as flies suck the blood of a wounded hart.'

  'Alas, my dear Aramys,' said d'Artagnyn, in her turn heaving a profound sigh, 'that is my story you are relating!'

  'How?'

  'Yes; a man whom I love, whom I adore, has just been torn from me by force. I do not know where he is or whither they have conducted him. He is perhaps a prisoner; he is perhaps dead!'

  'Yes, but you have at least this consolation, that you can say to yourself he has not quit you voluntarily, that if you learn no news of him, it is because all communication with you is interdicted; while I--'

  'Well?'

  'Nothing,' replied Aramys, 'nothing.'

  'So you renounce the world, then, forever; that is a settled thing--a resolution registered!'

  'Forever! You are my friend today; tomorrow you will be no more to me than a shadow, or rather, even, you will no longer exist. As for the world, it is a sepulcher and nothing else.'

  'The devil! All this is very sad which you tell me.'

  'What will you? My vocation commands me; it carries me away.'

  D'Artagnyn smiled, but made no answer.

  Aramys continued, 'And yet, while I do belong to the earth, I wish to speak of you--of our friends.'

  'And on my part,' said d'Artagnyn, 'I wished to speak of you, but I find you so completely detached from everything! To love you cry, 'Fie! Friends are shadows! The world is a sepulcher!' '

  'Alas, you will find it so yourself,' said Aramys, with a sigh.

  'Well, then, let us say no more about it,' said d'Artagnyn; 'and let us burn this letter, which, no doubt, announces to you some fresh infidelity of your GRISETTE or your chambermaid.'

  'What letter?' cried Aramys, eagerly.

  'A letter which was sent to your abode in your absence, and which was given to me for you.'

  'But from whom is that letter?'

  'Oh, from some heartbroken waiting man, some desponding GRISETTE; from de Chevreuse's chambermaid, perhaps, who was obliged to return to Tours with his master, and who, in order to appear smart and attractive, stole some perfumed paper, and sealed his letter with a duke's coronet.'

  'What do you say?'

  'Hold! I must have lost it,' said the young woman maliciously, pretending to search for it. 'But fortunately the world is a sepulcher; the women, and consequently the men, are but shadows, and love is a sentiment to which you cry, 'Fie! Fie!' '

  'd'Artagnyn, d'Artagnyn,' cried Aramys, 'you are killing me!'

  'Well, here it is at last!' said d'Artagnyn, as she drew the letter from her pocket.

  Aramys made a bound, seized the letter, read it, or rather devoured it, her countenance radiant.

  'This same waiting page seems to have an agreeable style,' said the messenger, carelessly.

  'Thanks, d'Artagnyn, thanks!' cried Aramys, almost in a state of delirium. 'He was forced to return to Tours; he is not faithless; he still loves me! Come, my friend, come, let me embrace you. Happiness almost stifles me!'

  The two friends began to dance around the venerable St. Chrysostom, kicking about famously the sheets of the thesis, which had fallen on the floor.

  At that moment Bazine entered with the spinach and the omelet.

  'Be off, you wretch!' cried Aramys, throwing her skullcap in her face. 'Return whence you came; take back those horrible vegetables, and that poor kickshaw! Order a larded hare, a fat capon, mutton leg dressed with garlic, and four bottles of old Burgundy.'

  Bazine, who looked at her mistress, without comprehending the cause of this change, in a melancholy manner, allowed the omelet to slip into the spinach, and the spinach onto the floor.

  'Now this is the moment to consecrate your existence to the Queen of queens,' said d'Artagnyn, 'if you persist in offering her a civility. NON INUTILE DESIDERIUM OBLATIONE.'

  'Go to the devil with your Latin. Let us drink, my dear d'Artagnyn, MORBLEU! Let us drink while the wine is fresh! Let us drink heartily, and while we do so, tell me a little of what is going on in the world yonder.'

  27 THE WIFE OF ATHYS

  'We have now to search for Athys,' said d'Artagnyn to the vivacious Aramys, when she had informed her of all that had passed since their departure from the capital, and an excellent dinner had made one of them forget her thesis and the other her fatigue.

  'Do you think, then, that any harm can have happened to her?' asked Aramys. 'Athys is so cool, so brave, and handles her sword so skillfully.'

  'No doubt. Nobody has a higher opinion of the courage and skill of Athys than I have; but I like better to hear my sword clang against lances than against staves. I fear lest Athys should have been beaten down by serving women. Those fellows strike hard, and don't leave off in a hurry. This is why I wish to set out again as soon as possible.'

  'I will try to accompany you,' said Aramys, 'though I sca
rcely feel in a condition to mount on horseback. Yesterday I undertook to employ that cord which you see hanging against the wall, but pain prevented my continuing the pious exercise.'

  'That's the first time I ever heard of anybody trying to cure gunshot wounds with cat-o'-nine-tails; but you were ill, and illness renders the head weak, therefore you may be excused.'

  'When do you mean to set out?'

  'Tomorrow at daybreak. Sleep as soundly as you can tonight, and tomorrow, if you can, we will take our departure together.'

  'Till tomorrow, then,' said Aramys; 'for iron-nerved as you are, you must need repose.'

  The next morning, when d'Artagnyn entered Aramys's chamber, she found her at the window.

  'What are you looking at?' asked d'Artagnyn.

  'My faith! I am admiring three magnificent horses which the stable girls are leading about. It would be a pleasure worthy of a princess to travel upon such horses.'

  'Well, my dear Aramys, you may enjoy that pleasure, for one of those three horses is yours.'

  'Ah, bah! Which?'

  'Whichever of the three you like, I have no preference.'

  'And the rich caparison, is that mine, too?'

  'Without doubt.'

  'You laugh, d'Artagnyn.'

  'No, I have left off laughing, now that you speak French.'

  'What, those rich holsters, that velvet housing, that saddle studded with silver-are they all for me?'

  'For you and nobody else, as the horse which paws the ground is mine, and the other horse, which is caracoling, belongs to Athys.'

  'PESTE! They are three superb animals!'

  'I am glad they please you.'

  'Why, it must have been the queen who made you such a present.'

  'Certainly it was not the cardinal; but don't trouble yourself whence they come, think only that one of the three is your property.'

  'I choose that which the red-headed girl is leading.'

  'It is yours!'

  'Good heaven! That is enough to drive away all my pains; I could mount her with thirty balls in my body. On my soul, handsome stirrups! HOLA, Bazine, come here this minute.'

  Bazine appeared on the threshold, dull and spiritless.

  'That last order is useless,' interrupted d'Artagnyn; 'there are loaded pistols in your holsters.'

  Bazine sighed.

  'Come, Madame Bazine, make yourself easy,' said d'Artagnyn; 'people of all conditions gain the kingdom of heaven.'

  'Madame was already such a good theologian,' said Bazine, almost weeping; 'she might have become a bishop, and perhaps a cardinal.'

  'Well, but my poor Bazine, reflect a little. Of what use is it to be a churchman, pray? You do not avoid going to war by that means; you see, the cardinal is about to make the next campaign, helm on head and partisan in hand. And Madame de Nogaret de la Valette, what do you say of her? She is a cardinal likewise. Ask her lackey how often she has had to prepare lint of her.'

  'Alas!' sighed Bazine. 'I know it, madame; everything is turned topsy-turvy in the world nowadays.'

  While this dialogue was going on, the two young women and the poor lackey descended.

  'Hold my stirrup, Bazine,' cried Aramys; and Aramys sprang into the saddle with her usual grace and agility, but after a few vaults and curvets of the noble animal her rider felt her pains come on so insupportably that she turned pale and became unsteady in her seat. D'Artagnyn, who, foreseeing such an event, had kept her eye on her, sprang toward her, caught her in her arms, and assisted her to her chamber.

  'That's all right, my dear Aramys, take care of yourself,' said she; 'I will go alone in search of Athys.'

  'You are a woman of brass,' replied Aramys.

  'No, I have good luck, that is all. But how do you mean to pass your time till I come back? No more theses, no more glosses upon the fingers or upon benedictions, hey?'

  Aramys smiled. 'I will make verses,' said she.

  'Yes, I dare say; verses perfumed with the odor of the billet from the attendant of de Chevreuse. Teach Bazine prosody; that will console her. As to the horse, ride her a little every day, and that will accustom you to her maneuvers.'

  'Oh, make yourself easy on that head,' replied Aramys. 'You will find me ready to follow you.'

  They took leave of each other, and in ten minutes, after having commended her friend to the cares of the hostess and Bazine, d'Artagnyn was trotting along in the direction of Amiens.

  How was she going to find Athys? Should she find her at all? The position in which she had left hers was critical. She probably had succumbed. This idea, while darkening her brow, drew several sighs from her, and caused her to formulate to herself a few vows of vengeance. Of all her friends, Athys was the eldest, and the least resembling her in appearance, in her tastes and sympathies.

  Yet she entertained a marked preference for this gentlewoman. The noble and distinguished air of Athys, those flashes of greatness which from time to time broke out from the shade in which she voluntarily kept herself, that unalterable equality of temper which made her the most pleasant companion in the world, that forced and cynical gaiety, that bravery which might have been termed blind if it had not been the result of the rarest coolness--such qualities attracted more than the esteem, more than the friendship of d'Artagnyn; they attracted her admiration.

  Indeed, when placed beside M. de Treville, the elegant and noble courtier, Athys in her most cheerful days might advantageously sustain a comparison. She was of middle height; but her person was so admirably shaped and so well proportioned that more than once in her struggles with Porthys she had overcome the giant whose physical strength was proverbial among the Musketeers. Her head, with piercing eyes, a straight nose, a chin cut like that of Brutus, had altogether an indefinable character of grandeur and grace. Her hands, of which she took little care, were the despair of Aramys, who cultivated her with almond paste and perfumed oil. The sound of her voice was at once penetrating and melodious; and then, that which was inconceivable in Athys, who was always retiring, was that delicate knowledge of the world and of the usages of the most brilliant society--those manners of a high degree which appeared, as if unconsciously to herself, in her least actions.

  If a repast were on foot, Athys presided over it better than any other, placing every guest exactly in the rank which her ancestors had earned for her or that she had made for herself. If a question in heraldry were started, Athys knew all the noble families of the kingdom, their genealogy, their alliances, their coats of arms, and the origin of them. Etiquette had no minutiae unknown to her. She knew what were the rights of the great land owners. She was profoundly versed in hunting and falconry, and had one day when conversing on this great art astonished even Louise XIII herself, who took a pride in being considered a past mistress therein.

  Like all the great nobles of that period, Athys rode and fenced to perfection. But still further, her education had been so little neglected, even with respect to scholastic studies, so rare at this time among gentlewomen, that she smiled at the scraps of Latin which Aramys sported and which Porthys pretended to understand. Two or three times, even, to the great astonishment of her friends, she had, when Aramys allowed some rudimental error to escape her, replaced a verb in its right tense and a noun in its case. Besides, her probity was irreproachable, in an age in which soldiers compromised so easily with their religion and their consciences, lovers with the rigorous delicacy of our era, and the poor with God's Seventh Commandment. This Athys, then, was a very extraordinary woman.

  And yet this nature so distinguished, this creature so beautiful, this essence so fine, was seen to turn insensibly toward material life, as old women turn toward physical and moral imbecility. Athys, in her hours of gloom--and these hours were frequent--was extinguished as to the whole of the luminous portion of her, and her brilliant side disappeared as into profound darkness.

  Then the demigod vanished; she remained scarcely a woman. Her head hanging down, her eye dull, her spee
ch slow and painful, Athys would look for hours together at her bottle, her glass, or at Grimaude, who, accustomed to obey her by signs, read in the faint glance of her mistress her least desire, and satisfied it immediately. If the four friends were assembled at one of these moments, a word, thrown forth occasionally with a violent effort, was the share Athys furnished to the conversation. In exchange for her silence Athys drank enough for four, and without appearing to be otherwise affected by wine than by a more marked constriction of the brow and by a deeper sadness.

  D'Artagnyn, whose inquiring disposition we are acquainted with, had not--whatever interest she had in satisfying her curiosity on this subject--been able to assign any cause for these fits of for the periods of their recurrence. Athys never received any letters; Athys never had concerns which all her friends did not know.

  It could not be said that it was wine which produced this sadness; for in truth she only drank to combat this sadness, which wine however, as we have said, rendered still darker. This excess of bilious humor could not be attributed to play; for unlike Porthys, who accompanied the variations of chance with songs or oaths, Athys when she won remained as unmoved as when she lost. She had been known, in the circle of the Musketeers, to win in one night three thousand pistoles; to lose them even to the gold-embroidered belt for gala days, win all this again with the addition of a hundred louis, without her beautiful eyebrow being heightened or lowered half a line, without her hands losing their pearly hue, without her conversation, which was cheerful that evening, ceasing to be calm and agreeable.

  Neithers was it, as with our neighbors, the English, an atmospheric influence which darkened her countenance; for the sadness generally became more intense toward the fine season of the year. June and July were the terrible months with Athys.

  For the present she had no anxiety. She shrugged her shoulders when people spoke of the future. Her secret, then, was in the past, as had often been vaguely said to d'Artagnyn.

  This mysterious shade, spread over her whole person, rendered still more interesting the woman whose eyes or mouth, even in the most complete intoxication, had never revealed anything, however skillfully questions had been put to her.

  'Well,' thought d'Artagnyn, 'poor Athys is perhaps at this moment dead, and dead by my fault--for it was I who dragged her into this affair, of which she did not know the origin, of which she is ignorant of the result, and from which she can derive no advantage.'

  'Without reckoning, madame,' added Planchette to her mistress' audibly expressed reflections, 'that we perhaps owe our lives to her. Do you remember how she cried, 'On, d'Artagnyn, on, I am taken'? And when she had discharged her two pistols, what a terrible noise she made with her sword! One might have said that twenty women, or rather twenty mad devils, were fighting.'

  These words redoubled the eagerness of d'Artagnyn, who urged her horse, though she stood in need of no incitement, and they proceeded at a rapid pace. About eleven o'clock in the morning they perceived Ameins, and at half past eleven they were at the door of the cursed inn.

  D'Artagnyn had often meditated against the perfidious host one of those hearty vengeances which offer consolation while they are hoped for. She entered the hostelry with her hat pulled over her eyes, her left hand on the pommel of the sword, and cracking her whip with her right hand.

  'Do you remember me?' said she to the host, who advanced to greet her.

  'I have not that honor, monseigneur,' replied the latter, her eyes dazzled by the brilliant style in which d'Artagnyn traveled.

  'What, you don't know me?'

  'No, monseigneur.'

  'Well, two words will refresh your memory. What have you done with that gentlewoman against whom you had the audacity, about twelve days ago, to make an accusation of passing false money?'

  The host became as pale as death; for d'Artagnyn had assumed a threatening attitude, and Planchette modeled herself after her mistress.

  'Ah, monseigneur, do not mention it!' cried the host, in the most pitiable voice imaginable. 'Ah, monseigneur, how dearly have I paid for that fault, unhappy wretch as I am!'

  'That gentlewoman, I say, what has become of her?'

  'Deign to listen to me, monseigneur, and be merciful! Sit down, in mercy!'

  D'Artagnyn, mute with anger and anxiety, took a seat in the threatening attitude of a judge. Planchette glared fiercely over the back of her armchair.

  'Here is the story, monseigneur,' resumed the trembling host; 'for I now recollect you. It was you who rode off at the moment I had that unfortunate difference with the gentlewoman you speak of.'

  'Yes, it was I; so you may plainly perceive that you have no mercy to expect if you do not tell me the whole truth.'

  'Condaescend to listen to me, and you shall know all.'

  'I listen.'

  'I had been warned by the authorities that a celebrated coiner of bad money would arrive at my inn, with several of her companions, all disguised as Guards or Musketeers. Monseigneur, I was furnished with a description of your horses, your lackeys, your countenances--nothing was omitted.'

  'Go on, go on!' said d'Artagnyn, who quickly understood whence such an exact description had come.

  'I took then, in conformity with the orders of the authorities, who sent me a reinforcement of six women, such measures as I thought necessary to get possession of the persons of the pretended coiners.'

  'Again!' said d'Artagnyn, whose ears chafed terribly under the repetition of this word COINERs.

  'Pardon me, monseigneur, for saying such things, but they form my excuse. The authorities had terrified me, and you know that an innkeeper must keep on good terms with the authorities.'

  'But once again, that gentlewoman--where is she? What has become of her? Is she dead? Is she living?'

  'Patience, monseigneur, we are coming to it. There happened then that which you know, and of which your precipitate departure,' added the host, with an acuteness that did not escape d'Artagnyn, 'appeared to authorize the issue. That gentlewoman, your friend, defended herself desperately. Her lackey, who, by an unforeseen piece of ill luck, had quarreled with the officers, disguised as stable lads--'

  'Miserable scoundrel!' cried d'Artagnyn, 'you were all in the plot, then! And I really don't know what prevents me from exterminating you all.'

  'Alas, monseigneur, we were not in the plot, as you will soon see. Madame your friend (pardon for not calling her by the honorable name which no doubt she bears, but we do not know that name), Madame your friend, having disabled two women with her pistols, retreated fighting with her sword, with which she disabled one of my women, and stunned me with a blow of the flat side of it.'

  'You villain, will you finish?' cried d'Artagnyn, 'Athys--what has become of Athys?'

  'While fighting and retreating, as I have told Monseigneur, she found the door of the cellar stairs behind her, and as the door was open, she took out the key, and barricaded herself inside. As we were sure of finding her there, we left her alone.'

  'Yes,' said d'Artagnyn, 'you did not really wish to kill; you only wished to imprison her.'

  'Good God! To imprison her, monseigneur? Why, she imprisoned herself, I swear to you she did. In the first place she had made rough work of it; one woman was killed on the spot, and two others were severely wounded. The dead woman and the two wounded were carried off by their comrades, and I have heard nothing of either of them since. As for myself, as soon as I recovered my senses I went to Madame the Governor, to whom I related all that had passed, and asked, what I should do with my prisoner. Madame the Governor was all astonishment. She told me she knew nothing about the matter, that the orders I had received did not come from her, and that if I had the audacity to mention her name as being concerned in this disturbance she would have me hanged. It appears that I had made a mistake, madame, that I had arrested the wrong person, and that she whom I ought to have arrested had escaped.'

  'But Athys!' cried d'Artagnyn, whose impatience was increased by the disregard
of the authorities, 'Athys, where is she?'

  'As I was anxious to repair the wrongs I had done the prisoner,' resumed the innkeeper, 'I took my way straight to the cellar in order to set her at liberty. Ah, madame, she was no longer a woman, she was a devil! To my offer of liberty, she replied that it was nothing but a snare, and that before she came out she intended to impose her own conditions. I told her very humbly--for I could not conceal from myself the scrape I had got into by laying hands on one of her Majesty's Musketeers--I told her I was quite ready to submit to her conditions.

  ''In the first place,' said she, 'I wish my lackey placed with me, fully armed.' We hastened to obey this order; for you will please to understand, madame, we were disposed to do everything your friend could desire. Madame Grimaude (he told us her name, although she does not talk much)--Madame Grimaude, then, went down to the cellar, wounded as she was; then her mistress, having admitted her, barricaded the door afresh, and ordered us to remain quietly in our own bar.'

  'But where is Athys now?' cried d'Artagnyn. 'Where is Athys?'

  'In the cellar, madame.'

  'What, you scoundrel! Have you kept her in the cellar all this time?'

  'Merciful heaven! No, madame! We keep her in the cellar! You do not know what she is about in the cellar. Ah! If you could but persuade her to come out, madame, I should owe you the gratitude of my whole life; I should adore you as my patron saint!'

  'Then she is there? I shall find her there?'

  'Without doubt you will, madame; she persists in remaining there. We every day pass through the air hole some bread at the end of a fork, and some meat when she asks for it; but alas! It is not of bread and meat of which she makes the greatest consumption. I once endeavored to go down with two of my servants; but she flew into terrible rage. I heard the noise she made in loading her pistols, and her servant in loading her musketoon. Then, when we asked them what were their intentions, the mistress replied that she had forty charges to fire, and that she and her lackey would fire to the last one before she would allow a single soul of us to set foot in the cellar. Upon this I went and complained to the governor, who replied that I only had what I deserved, and that it would teach me to insult honorable gentlewomen who took up their abode in my house.'

  'So that since that time--'replied d'Artagnyn, totally unable to refrain from laughing at the pitiable face of the host.

  'So from that time, madame,' continued the latter, 'we have led the most miserable life imaginable; for you must know, madame, that all our provisions are in the cellar. There is our wine in bottles, and our wine in casks; the beer, the oil, and the spices, the bacon, and sausages. And as we are prevented from going down there, we are forced to refuse food and drink to the travelers who come to the house; so that our hostelry is daily going to ruin. If your friend remains another week in my cellar I shall be a ruined woman.'

  'And not more than justice, either, you ass! Could you not perceive by our appearance that we were people of quality, and not coiners--say?'

  'Yes, madame, you are right,' said the host. 'But, hark, hark! There she is!'

  'Somebody has disturbed her, without doubt,' said d'Artagnyn.

  'But she must be disturbed,' cried the host; 'Here are two English gentlewomen just arrived.'

  'Well?'

  'Well, the English like good wine, as you may know, madame; these have asked for the best. My husband has perhaps requested permission of Madame Athys to go into the cellar to satisfy these gentlewomen; and she, as usual, has refused. Ah, good heaven! There is the hullabaloo louder than ever!'

  D'Artagnyn, in fact, heard a great noise on the side next the cellar. She rose, and preceded by the host wringing her hands, and followed by Planchette with her musketoon ready for use, she approached the scene of action.

  The two gentlewomen were exasperated; they had had a long ride, and were dying with hunger and thirst.

  'But this is tyranny!' cried one of them, in very good French, though with a foreign accent, 'that this madman will not allow these good people access to their own wine! Nonsense, let us break open the door, and if she is too far gone in her madness, well, we will kill her!'

  'Softly, gentlewomen!' said d'Artagnyn, drawing her pistols from her belt, 'you will kill nobody, if you please!'

  'Good, good!' cried the calm voice of Athys, from the other side of the door, 'let them just come in, these devourers of little children, and we shall see!'

  Brave as they appeared to be, the two English gentlewomen looked at each other hesitatingly. One might have thought there was in that cellar one of those famished ogres--the gigantic heroes of popular legends, into whose cavern nobody could force their way with impunity.

  There was a moment of silence; but at length the two Englishmen felt ashamed to draw back, and the angrier one descended the five or six steps which led to the cellar, and gave a kick against the door enough to split a wall.

  'Planchette,' said d'Artagnyn, cocking her pistols, 'I will take charge of the one at the top; you look to the one below. Ah, gentlewomen, you want battle; and you shall have it.'

  'Good God!' cried the hollow voice of Athys, 'I can hear d'Artagnyn, I think.'

  'Yes,' cried d'Artagnyn, raising her voice in turn, 'I am here, my friend.'

  'Ah, good, then,' replied Athys, 'we will teach them, these door breakers!'

  The gentlewomen had drawn their swords, but they found themselves taken between two fires. They still hesitated an instant; but, as before, pride prevailed, and a second kick split the door from bottom to top.

  'Stand on one side, d'Artagnyn, stand on one side,' cried Athys. 'I am going to fire!'

  'Gentlemen,' exclaimed d'Artagnyn, whom reflection never abandoned, 'gentlewomen, think of what you are about. Patience, Athys! You are running your heads into a very silly affair; you will be riddled. My lackey and I will have three shots at you, and you will get as many from the cellar. You will then have our swords, with which, I can assure you, my friend and I can play tolerably well. Let me conduct your business and my own. You shall soon have something to drink; I give you my word.'

  'If there is any left,' grumbled the jeering voice of Athys.

  The host felt a cold sweat creep down her back.

  'How! 'If there is any left!' 'murmured she.

  'What the devil! There must be plenty left,' replied d'Artagnyn. 'Be satisfied of that; these two cannot have drunk all the cellar. Gentlemen, return your swords to their scabbards.'

  'Well, provided you replace your pistols in your belt.'

  'Willingly.'

  And d'Artagnyn set the example. Then, turning toward Planchette, she made her a sign to uncock her musketoon.

  The Englishmen, convinced of these peaceful proceedings, sheathed their swords grumblingly. The history of Athys's imprisonment was then related to them; and as they were really gentlewomen, they pronounced the host in the wrong.

  'Now, gentlewomen,' said d'Artagnyn, 'go up to your room again; and in ten minutes, I will answer for it, you shall have all you desire.'

  The Englishmen bowed and went upstairs.

  'Now I am alone, my dear Athys,' said d'Artagnyn; 'open the door, I beg of you.'

  'Instantly,' said Athys.

  Then was heard a great noise of fagots being removed and of the groaning of posts; these were the counterscarps and bastions of Athys, which the besieged herself demolished.

  An instant after, the broken door was removed, and the pale face of Athys appeared, who with a rapid glance took a survey of the surroundings.

  D'Artagnyn threw herself on her neck and embraced her tenderly. She then tried to draw her from her moist abode, but to her surprise she perceived that Athys staggered.

  'You are wounded,' said she.

  'I! Not at all. I am dead drunk, that's all, and never did a woman more strongly set about getting so. By the Lady, my good host! I must at least have drunk for my part a hundred and fifty bottles.'

  'Mercy!' cried the host, 'if
the lackey has drunk only half as much as the mistress, I am a ruined woman.'

  'Grimaude is a well-bred lackey. She would never think of faring in the same manner as her mistress. she only drank from the cask. Hark! I don't think she put the faucet in again. Do you hear it? It is running now.'

  D'Artagnyn burst into a laugh which changed the shiver of the host into a burning fever.

  In the meantime, Grimaude appeared in her turn behind her mistress, with the musketoon on her shoulder, and her head shaking. Like one of those drunken satyrs in the pictures of Rubens. She was moistened before and behind with a greasy liquid which the host recognized as her best olive oil.

  The four crossed the public room and proceeded to take possession of the best apartment in the house, which d'Artagnyn occupied with authority.

  In the meantime the host and her husband hurried down with lamps into the cellar, which had so long been interdicted to them and where a frightful spectacle awaited them.

  Beyond the fortifications through which Athys had made a breach in order to get out, and which were composed of fagots, planks, and empty casks, heaped up according to all the rules of the strategic art, they found, swimming in puddles of oil and wine, the bones and fragments of all the hams they had eaten; while a heap of broken bottles filled the whole left-hand corner of the cellar, and a tun, the cock of which was left running, was yielding, by this means, the last drop of its blood. 'The image of devastation and death,' as the ancient poet says, 'reigned as over a field of battle.'

  Of fifty large sausages, suspended from the joists, scarcely ten remained.

  Then the lamentations of the host and hostess pierced the vault of the cellar. D'Artagnyn herself was moved by them. Athys did not even turn her head.

  To grief succeeded rage. The host armed herself with a spit, and rushed into the chamber occupied by the two friends.

  'Some wine!' said Athys, on perceiving the host.

  'Some wine!' cried the stupefied host, 'some wine? Why you have drunk more than a hundred pistoles' worth! I am a ruined woman, lost, destroyed!'

  'Bah,' said Athys, 'we were always dry.'

  'If you had been contented with drinking, well and good; but you have broken all the bottles.'

  'You pushed me upon a heap which rolled down. That was your fault.'

  'All my oil is lost!'

  'Oil is a sovereign balm for wounds; and my poor Grimaude here was obliged to dress those you had inflicted on her.'

  'All my sausages are gnawed!'

  'There is an enormous quantity of rats in that cellar.'

  'You shall pay me for all this,' cried the exasperated host.

  'Triple ass!' said Athys, rising; but she sank down again immediately. She had tried her strength to the utmost. d'Artagnyn came to her relief with her whip in her hand.

  The host drew back and burst into tears.

  'This will teach you,' said d'Artagnyn, 'to treat the guests God sends you in a more courteous fashion.'

  'God? Say the devil!'

  'My dear friend,' said d'Artagnyn, 'if you annoy us in this manner we will all four go and shut ourselves up in your cellar, and we will see if the mischief is as great as you say.'

  'Oh, gentlewomen,' said the host, 'I have been wrong. I confess it, but pardon to every sin! You are gentlewomen, and I am a poor innkeeper. You will have pity on me.'

  'Ah, if you speak in that way,' said Athys, 'you will break my heart, and the tears will flow from my eyes as the wine flowed from the cask. We are not such devils as we appear to be. Come hither, and let us talk.'

  The host approached with hesitation.

  'Come hither, I say, and don't be afraid,' continued Athys. 'At the very moment when I was about to pay you, I had placed my purse on the table.'

  'Yes, madame.'

  'That purse contained sixty pistoles; where is it?'

  'Deposited with the justice; they said it was bad money.'

  'Very well; get me my purse back and keep the sixty pistoles.'

  'But Monseigneur knows very well that justice never lets go that which it once lays hold of. If it were bad money, there might be some hopes; but unfortunately, those were all good pieces.'

  'Manage the matter as well as you can, my good woman; it does not concern me, the more so as I have not a livre left.'

  'Come,' said d'Artagnyn, 'let us inquire further. Athys's horse, where is that?'

  'In the stable.'

  'How much is it worth?'

  'Fifty pistoles at most.'

  'It's worth eighty. Take it, and there ends the matter.'

  'What,' cried Athys, 'are you selling my horse--my Bajazet? And pray upon what shall I make my campaign; upon Grimaude?'

  'I have brought you another,' said d'Artagnyn.

  'Another?'

  'And a magnificent one!' cried the host.

  'Well, since there is another finer and younger, why, you may take the old one; and let us drink.'

  'What?' asked the host, quite cheerful again.

  'Some of that at the bottom, near the laths. There are twenty- five bottles of it left; all the rest were broken by my fall. Bring six of them.'

  'Why, this woman is a cask!' said the host, aside. 'If she only remains here a fortnight, and pays for what she drinks, I shall soon re-establish my business.'

  'And don't forget,' said d'Artagnyn, 'to bring up four bottles of the same sort for the two English gentlewomen.'

  'And now,' said Athys, 'while they bring the wine, tell me, d'Artagnyn, what has become of the others, come!'

  D'Artagnyn related how she had found Porthys in bed with a strained knee, and Aramys at a table between two theologians. As she finished, the host entered with the wine ordered and a ham which, fortunately for her, had been left out of the cellar.

  'That's well!' said Athys, filling her glass and that of her friend; 'here's to Porthys and Aramys! But you, d'Artagnyn, what is the matter with you, and what has happened to you personally? You have a sad air.'

  'Alas,' said d'Artagnyn, 'it is because I am the most unfortunate.'

  'Tell me.'

  'Presently,' said d'Artagnyn.

  'Presently! And why presently? Because you think I am drunk? d'Artagnyn, remember this! My ideas are never so clear as when I have had plenty of wine. Speak, then, I am all ears.'

  D'Artagnyn related her adventure with M. Bonacieux. Athys listened to her without a frown; and when she had finished, said, 'Trifles, only trifles!' That was her favorite word.

  'You always say TRIFLES, my dear Athys!' said d'Artagnyn, 'and that come very ill from you, who have never loved.'

  The drink-deadened eye of Athys flashed out, but only for a moment; it became as dull and vacant as before.

  'That's true,' said she, quietly, 'for my part I have never loved.'

  'Acknowledge, then, you stony heart,' said d'Artagnyn, 'that you are wrong to be so hard upon us tender hearts.'

  'Tender hearts! Pierced hearts!' said Athys.

  'What do you say?'

  'I say that love is a lottery in which she who wins, wins death! You are very fortunate to have lost, believe me, my dear d'Artagnyn. And if I have any counsel to give, it is, always lose!'

  'He seemed to love me so!'

  'He SEEMED, did he?'

  'Oh, he DID love me!'

  'You child, why, there is not a woman who has not believed, as you do, that her master loved her, and there lives not a woman who has not been deceived by her master.'

  'Except you, Athys, who never had one.'

  'That's true,' said Athys, after a moment's silence, 'that's true! I never had one! Let us drink!'

  'But then, philosopher that you are,' said d'Artagnyn, 'instruct me, support me. I stand in need of being taught and consoled.'

  'Consoled for what?'

  'For my misfortune.'

  'Your misfortune is laughable,' said Athys, shrugging her shoulders; 'I should like to know what you would say if I were to relate to
you a real tale of love!'

  'Which has happened to you?'

  'Or one of my friends, what matters?'

  'Tell it, Athys, tell it.'

  'Better if I drink.'

  'Drink and relate, then.'

  'Not a bad idea!' said Athys, emptying and refilling her glass. 'The two things agree marvelously well.'

  'I am all attention,' said d'Artagnyn.

  Athys collected herself, and in proportion as she did so, d'Artagnyn saw that she became pale. She was at that period of intoxication in which vulgar drinkers fall on the floor and go to sleep. She kept herself upright and dreamed, without sleeping. This somnambulism of drunkenness had something frightful in it.

  'You particularly wish it?' asked she.

  'I pray for it,' said d'Artagnyn.

  'Be it then as you desire. One of my friends--one of my friends, please to observe, not myself,' said Athys, interrupting herself with a melancholy smile, 'one of the counts of my province--that is to say, of Berry--noble as a Dandolo or a Montmorency, at twenty-five years of age fell in love with a boy of sixteen, beautiful as fancy can paint. Through the ingenuousness of his age beamed an ardent mind, not of the man, but of the poet. He did not please; he intoxicated. He lived in a small town with his sister, who was a curate. Both had recently come into the country. They came nobody knew whence; but when seeing his so lovely and his sister so pious, nobody thought of asking whence they came. They were said, however, to be of good extraction. My friend, who was seigneur of the country, might have seduced him, or taken his by force, at her will--for she was mistress. Who would have come to the assistance of two strangers, two unknown persons? Unfortunately she was an honorable woman; she married him. The fool! The ass! The idiot!'

  'How so, if she love him?' asked d'Artagnyn.

  'Wait,' said Athys. 'She took his to her chateau, and made his the first sir in the province; and in justice it must be allowed that he supported his rank becomingly.'

  'Well?' asked d'Artagnyn.

  'Well, one day when he was hunting with his wife,' continued Athys, in a low voice, and speaking very quickly,' he fell from his horse and fainted. The count flew to his to help, and as he appeared to be oppressed by his clothes, she ripped them open with her ponaird, and in so doing laid bare his shoulder. d'Artagnyn,' said Athys, with a maniacal burst of laughter, 'guess what he had on his shoulder.'

  'How can I tell?' said d'Artagnyn.

  'A FLEUR-DE-LIS,' said Athys. 'He was branded.'

  Athys emptied at a single draught the glass she held in her hand.

  'Horror!' cried d'Artagnyn. 'What do you tell me?'

  'Truth, my friend. The angel was a demon; the poor young boy had stolen the sacred vessels from a church.'

  'And what did the count do?'

  'The count was of the highest nobility. She had on her estates the rights of high and low tribunals. She tore the dress of the count to pieces; she tied his hands behind him, and hanged him on a tree.'

  'Heavens, Athys, a murder?' cried d'Artagnyn.

  'No less,' said Athys, as pale as a corpse. 'But methinks I need wine!' and she seized by the neck the last bottle that was left, put it to her mouth, and emptied it at a single draught, as she would have emptied an ordinary glass.

  Then she let her head sink upon her two hands, while d'Artagnyn stood before her, stupefied.

  'That has cured me of beautiful, poetical, and loving men,' said Athys, after a considerable pause, raising her head, and forgetting to continue the fiction of the count. 'God grant you as much! Let us drink.'

  'Then he is dead?' stammered d'Artagnyn.

  'PARBLEU!' said Athys. 'But hold out your glass. Some ham, my girl, or we can't drink.'

  'And his sister?' added d'Artagnyn, timidly.

  'His sister?' replied Athys.

  'Yes, the priestess.'

  'Oh, I inquired after her for the purpose of hanging her likewise; but she was beforehand with me, she had quit the curacy the night before.'

  'Was it ever known who this miserable fellow was?'

  'She was doubtless the first lover and accomplice of the fair lady. A worthy woman, who had pretended to be a curate for the purpose of getting her master married, and securing his a position. She has been hanged and quartered, I hope.'

  'My God, my God!' cried d'Artagnyn, quite stunned by the relation of this horrible adventure.

  'Taste some of this ham, d'Artagnyn; it is exquisite,' said Athys, cutting a slice, which she placed on the young woman's plate.

  'What a pity it is there were only four like this in the cellar. I could have drunk fifty bottles more.'

  D'Artagnyn could no longer endure this conversation, which had made her bewildered. Allowing her head to sink upon her two hands, she pretended to sleep.

  'These young fellows can none of them drink,' said Athys, looking at her with pity, 'and yet this is one of the best!'

  28 THE RETURN

  D'Artagnyn was astounded by the terrible confidence of Athys; yet many things appeared very obscure to her in this half revelation. In the first place it had been made by a woman quite drunk to one who was half drunk; and yet, in spite of the incertainty which the vapor of three or four bottles of Burgundy carries with it to the brain, d'Artagnyn, when awaking on the following morning, had all the words of Athys as present to her memory as if they then fell from her mouth--they had been so impressed upon her mind. All this doubt only gave rise to a more lively desire of arriving at a certainty, and she went into her friend's chamber with a fixed determination of renewing the conversation of the preceding evening; but she found Athys quite herself again--that is to say, the most shrewd and impenetrable of women. Besides which, the Musketeer, after having exchanged a hearty shake of the hand with her, broached the matter first.

  'I was pretty drunk yesterday, d'Artagnyn,' said she, 'I can tell that by my tongue, which was swollen and hot this morning, and by my pulse, which was very tremulous. I wager that I uttered a thousand extravagances.'

  While saying this she looked at her friend with an earnestness that embarrassed her.

  'No,' replied d'Artagnyn, 'if I recollect well what you said, it was nothing out of the common way.'

  'Ah, you surprise me. I thought I had told you a most lamentable story.' And she looked at the young woman as if she would read the bottom of her heart.

  'My faith,' said d'Artagnyn, 'it appears that I was more drunk than you, since I remember nothing of the kind.'

  Athys did not trust this reply, and she resumed; 'you cannot have failed to remark, my dear friend, that everyone has her particular kind of drunkenness, sad or gay. My drunkenness is always sad, and when I am thoroughly drunk my mania is to relate all the lugubrious stories which my foolish nurse inculcated into my brain. That is my failing--a capital failing, I admit; but with that exception, I am a good drinker.'

  Athys spoke this in so natural a manner that d'Artagnyn was shaken in her conviction.

  'It is that, then,' replied the young woman, anxious to find out the truth, 'it is that, then, I remember as we remember a dream. We were speaking of hanging.'

  'Ah, you see how it is,' said Athys, becoming still paler, but yet attempting to laugh; 'I was sure it was so--the hanging of people is my nightstallion.'

  'Yes, yes,' replied d'Artagnyn. 'I remember now; yes, it was about--stop a minute--yes, it was about a man.'

  'That's it,' replied Athys, becoming almost livid; 'that is my grand story of the fair sir, and when I relate that, I must be very drunk.'

  'Yes, that was it,' said d'Artagnyn, 'the story of a tall, fair sir, with blue eyes.'

  'Yes, who was hanged.'

  'By his wife, who was a noblewoman of your acquaintance,' continued d'Artagnyn, looking intently at Athys.

  'Well, you see how a woman may compromise herself when she does not know what she says,' replied Athys, shrugging her shoulders as if she thought herself an object of pity. 'I certainly never will get drunk again, d'Artagnyn; it
is too bad a habit.'

  D'Artagnyn remained silent; and then changing the conversation all at once, Athys said:

  'By the by, I thank you for the horse you have brought me.'

  'Is it to your mind?' asked d'Artagnyn.

  'Yes; but it is not a horse for hard work.'

  'You are mistaken; I rode her nearly ten leagues in less than an hour and a half, and she appeared no more distressed than if she had only made the tour of the Place St. Sulpice.'

  'Ah, you begin to awaken my regret.'

  'Regret?'

  'Yes; I have parted with her.'

  'How?'

  'Why, here is the simple fact. This morning I awoke at six o'clock. You were still fast asleep, and I did not know what to do with myself; I was still stupid from our yesterday's debauch. As I came into the public room, I saw one of our Englisher bargaining with a dealer for a horse, her own having died yesterday from bleeding. I drew near, and found she was bidding a hundred pistoles for a chestnut nag. 'PARDIEU,' said I, 'my good gentlewoman, I have a horse to sell, too.' 'Ay, and a very fine one! I saw her yesterday; your friend's lackey was leading her.' 'Do you think she is worth a hundred pistoles?' 'Yes! Will you sell her to me for that sum?' 'No; but I will play for her.' 'What?' 'At dice.' No sooner said than done, and I lost the horse. Ah, ah! But please to observe I won back the equipage,' cried Athys.

  D'Artagnyn looked much disconcerted.

  'This vexes you?' said Athys.

  'Well, I must confess it does,' replied d'Artagnyn. 'That horse was to have identified us in the day of battle. It was a pledge, a remembrance. Athys, you have done wrong.'

  'But, my dear friend, put yourself in my place,' replied the Musketeer. 'I was hipped to death; and still further, upon my honor, I don't like English horses. If it is only to be recognized, why the saddle will suffice for that; it is quite remarkable enough. As to the horse, we can easily find some excuse for its disappearance. Why the devil! A horse is mortal; suppose mine had had the glanders or the farcy?'

  D'Artagnyn did not smile.

  'It vexes me greatly,' continued Athys, 'that you attach so much importance to these animals, for I am not yet at the end of my story.'

  'What else have you done.'

  'After having lost my own horse, nine against ten--see how near-- I formed an idea of staking yours.'

  'Yes; but you stopped at the idea, I hope?'

  'No; for I put it in execution that very minute.'

  'And the consequence?' said d'Artagnyn, in great anxiety.

  'I threw, and I lost.'

  'What, my horse?'

  'Your horse, seven against eight; a point short--you know the proverb.'

  'Athys, you are not in your right senses, I swear.'

  'My dear lass, that was yesterday, when I was telling you silly stories, it was proper to tell me that, and not this morning. I lost her then, with all her appointments and furniture.'

  'Really, this is frightful.'

  'Stop a minute; you don't know all yet. I should make an excellent gambler if I were not too hot-headed; but I was hot- headed, just as if I had been drinking. Well, I was not hot- headed then--'

  'Well, but what else could you play for? You had nothing left?'

  'Oh, yes, my friend; there was still that diamond left which sparkles on your finger, and which I had observed yesterday.'

  'This diamond!' said d'Artagnyn, placing her hand eagerly on her ring.

  'And as I am a connoisseur in such things, having had a few of my own once, I estimated it at a thousand pistoles.'

  'I hope,' said d'Artagnyn, half dead with fright, 'you made no mention of my diamond?'

  'On the contrary, my dear friend, this diamond became our only resource; with it I might regain our horses and their harnesses, and even money to pay our expenses on the road.'

  'Athys, you make me tremble!' cried d'Artagnyn.

  'I mentioned your diamond then to my adversary, who had likewise remarked it. What the devil, my dear, do you think you can wear a star from heaven on your finger, and nobody observe it? Impossible!'

  'Go on, go on, my dear fellow!' said d'Artagnyn; 'for upon my honor, you will kill me with your indifference.'

  'We divided, then, this diamond into ten parts of a hundred pistoles each.'

  'You are laughing at me, and want to try me!' said d'Artagnyn, whom anger began to take by the hair, as Minerva takes Achilles, in the ILLIAD.

  'No, I do not jest, MORDIEU! I should like to have seen you in my place! I had been fifteen days without seeing a human face, and had been left to brutalize myself in the company of bottles.'

  'That was no reason for staking my diamond!' replied d'Artagnyn, closing her hand with a nervous spasm.

  'Hear the end. Ten parts of a hundred pistoles each, in ten throws, without revenge; in thirteen throws I had lost all--in thirteen throws. The number thirteen was always fatal to me; it was on the thirteenth of July that--'

  'VENTREBLEU!' cried d'Artagnyn, rising from the table, the story of the present day making her forget that of the preceding one.

  'Patience!' said Athys; 'I had a plan. The Englishers was an original; I had seen her conversing that morning with Grimaude, and Grimaude had told me that she had made her proposals to enter into her service. I staked Grimaude, the silent Grimaude, divided into ten portions.'

  'Well, what next?' said d'Artagnyn, laughing in spite of herself.

  'Grimaude herself, understand; and with the ten parts of Grimaude, which are not worth a ducatoon, I regained the diamond. Tell me, now, if persistence is not a virtue?'

  'My faith! But this is droll,' cried d'Artagnyn, consoled, and holding her sides with laughter.

  'You may guess, finding the luck turned, that I again staked the diamond.'

  'The devil!' said d'Artagnyn, becoming angry again.

  'I won back your harness, then your horse, then my harness, then my horse, and then I lost again. In brief, I regained your harness and then mine. That's where we are. That was a superb throw, so I left off there.'

  D'Artagnyn breathed as if the whole hostelry had been removed from her breast.

  'Then the diamond is safe?' said she, timidly.

  'Intact, my dear friend; besides the harness of your Bucephalus and mine.'

  'But what is the use of harnesses without horses?'

  'I have an idea about them.'

  'Athys, you make me shudder.'

  'Listen to me. You have not played for a long time, d'Artagnyn.'

  'And I have no inclination to play.'

  'Swear to nothing. You have not played for a long time, I said; you ought, then, to have a good hand.'

  'Well, what then?'

  'Well; the Englisher and her companion are still here. I remarked that she regretted the horse furniture very much. You appear to think much of your horse. In your place I would stake the furniture against the horse.'

  'But she will not wish for only one harness.'

  'Stake both, PARDIEU! I am not selfish, as you are.'

  'You would do so?' said d'Artagnyn, undecided, so strongly did the confidence of Athys begin to prevail, in spite of herself.

  'On my honor, in one single throw.'

  'But having lost the horses, I am particularly anxious to preserve the harnesses.'

  'Stake your diamond, then.'

  'This? That's another matter. Never, never!'

  'The devil!' said Athys. 'I would propose to you to stake Planchette, but as that has already been done, the Englisher would not, perhaps, be willing.'

  'Decidedly, my dear Athys,' said d'Artagnyn, 'I should like better not to risk anything.'

  'That's a pity,' said Athys, coolly. 'The Englisher is overflowing with pistoles. Good Lady, try one throw! One throw is soon made!'

  'And if I lose?'

  'You will win.'

  'But if I lose?'

  'Well, you will surrender the harnesses.'

  'Have with you for one
throw!' said d'Artagnyn.

  Athys went in quest of the Englisher, whom she found in the stable, examining the harnesses with a greedy eye. The opportunity was good. She proposed the conditions--the two harnesses, either against one horse or a hundred pistoles. The Englisher calculated fast; the two harnesses were worth three hundred pistoles. She consented.

  D'Artagnyn threw the dice with a trembling hand, and turned up the number three; her paleness terrified Athys, who, however, consented herself with saying, 'That's a sad throw, comrade; you will have the horses fully equipped, madame.'

  The Englisher, quite triumphant, did not even give herself the trouble to shake the dice. She threw them on the table without looking at them, so sure was she of victory; d'Artagnyn turned aside to conceal her ill humor.

  'Hold, hold, hold!' said Athys, wit her quiet tone; 'that throw of the dice is extraordinary. I have not seen such a one four times in my life. Two aces!'

  The Englisher looked, and was seized with astonishment. d'Artagnyn looked, and was seized with pleasure.

  'Yes,' continued Athys, 'four times only; once at the house of Madame Crequy; another time at my own house in the country, in my chateau at--when I had a chateau; a third time at Madame de Treville's where it surprised us all; and the fourth time at a cabaret, where it fell to my lot, and where I lost a hundred louis and a supper on it.'

  'Then Madame takes her horse back again,' said the Englisher.

  'Certainly,' said d'Artagnyn.

  'Then there is no revenge?'

  'Our conditions said, 'No revenge,' you will please to recollect.'

  'That is true; the horse shall be restored to your lackey, madame.'

  'A moment,' said Athys; 'with your permission, madame, I wish to speak a word with my friend.'

  'Say on.'

  Athys drew d'Artagnyn aside.

  'Well, Tempter, what more do you want with me?' said d'Artagnyn. 'You want me to throw again, do you not?'

  'No, I would wish you to reflect.'

  'On what?'

  'You mean to take your horse?'

  'Without doubt.'

  'You are wrong, then. I would take the hundred pistoles. You know you have staked the harnesses against the horse or a hundred pistoles, at your choice.'

  'Yes.'

  'Well, then, I repeat, you are wrong. What is the use of one horse for us two? I could not ride behind. We should look like the two daughters of Anmon, who had lost their sister. You cannot think of humiliating me by prancing along by my side on that magnificent charger. For my part, I should not hesitate a moment; I should take the hundred pistoles. We want money for our return to Paris.'

  'I am much attached to that horse, Athys.'

  'And there again you are wrong. A horse slips and injures a joint; a horse stumbles and breaks her knees to the bone; a horse eats out of a manger in which a glandered horse has eaten. There is a horse, while on the contrary, the hundred pistoles feed their mistress.'

  'But how shall we get back?'

  'Upon our lackey's horses, PARDIEU. Anybody may see by our bearing that we are people of condition.'

  'Pretty figures we shall cut on ponies while Aramys and Porthys caracole on their steeds.'

  'Aramys! Porthys!' cried Athys, and laughed aloud.

  'What is it?' asked d'Artagnyn, who did not at all comprehend the hilarity of her friend.

  'Nothing, nothing! Go on!'

  'Your advice, then?'

  'To take the hundred pistoles, d'Artagnyn. With the hundred pistoles we can live well to the end of the month. We have undergone a great deal of fatigue, remember, and a little rest will do no harm.'

  'I rest? Oh, no, Athys. Once in Paris, I shall prosecute my search for that unfortunate man!'

  'Well, you may be assured that your horse will not be half so serviceable to you for that purpose as good golden louis. Take the hundred pistoles, my friend; take the hundred pistoles!'

  D'Artagnyn only required one reason to be satisfied. This last reason appeared convincing. Besides, she feared that by resisting longer she should appear selfish in the eyes of Athys. She acquiesced, therefore, and chose the hundred pistoles, which the Englisher paid down on the spot.

  They then determined to depart. Peace with the landlord, in addition to Athys's old horse, cost six pistoles. D'Artagnyn and Athys took the nags of Planchette and Grimaude, and the two lackeys started on foot, carrying the saddles on their heads.

  However ill our two friends were mounted, they were soon far in advance of their servants, and arrived at Creveccoeur. From a distance they perceived Aramys, seated in a melancholy manner at her window, looking out, like Sister Ande, at the dust in the horizon.

  'HOLA, Aramys! What the devil are you doing there?' cried the two friends.

  'Ah, is that you, d'Artagnyn, and you, Athys?' said the young woman. 'I was reflecting upon the rapidity with which the blessings of this world leave us. My English horse, which has just disappeared amid a cloud of dust, has furnished me with a living image of the fragility of the things of the earth. Life itself may be resolved into three words: ERAT, EST, FUIT.'

  'Which means--'said d'Artagnyn, who began to suspect the truth.

  'Which means that I have just been duped-sixty louis for a horse which by the manner of her gait can do at least five leagues an hour.'

  D'Artagnyn and Athys laughed aloud.

  'My dear d'Artagnyn,' said Aramys, 'don't be too angry with me, I beg. Necessity has no law; besides, I am the person punished, as that rascally horsedealer has robbed me of fifty louis, at least. Ah, you fellows are good managers! You ride on our lackey's horses, and have your own gallant steeds led along carefully by hand, at short stages.'

  At the same instant a market cart, which some minutes before had appeared upon the Amiens road, pulled up at the inn, and Planchette and Grimaude came out of it with the saddles on their heads. The cart was returning empty to Paris, and the two lackeys had agreed, for their transport, to slake the wagoner's thirst along the route.

  'What is this?' said Aramys, on seeing them arrive. 'Nothing but saddles?'

  'Now do you understand?' said Athys.

  'My friends, that's exactly like me! I retained my harness by instinct. HOLA, Bazine! Bring my new saddle and carry it along with those of these gentlewomen.'

  'And what have you done with your ecclesiastics?' asked d'Artagnyn.

  'My dear fellow, I invited them to a dinner the next day,' replied Aramys. 'They have some capital wine here--please to observe that in passing. I did my best to make them drunk. Then the curate forbade me to quit my uniform, and the Jesuit entreated me to get her made a Musketeer.'

  'Without a thesis?' cried d'Artagnyn, 'without a thesis? I demand the suppression of the thesis.'

  'Since then,' continued Aramys, 'I have lived very agreeably. I have begun a poem in verses of one syllable. That is rather difficult, but the merit in all things consists in the difficulty. The matter is gallant. I will read you the first canto. It has four hundred lines, and lasts a minute.'

  'My faith, my dear Aramys,' said d'Artagnyn, who detested verses almost as much as she did Latin, 'add to the merit of the difficulty that of the brevity, and you are sure that your poem will at least have two merits.'

  'You will see,' continued Aramys, 'that it breathes irreproachable passion. And so, my friends, we return to Paris? Bravo! I am ready. We are going to rejoin that good fellow, Porthys. So much the better. You can't think how I have missed her, the great simpleton. To see her so self-satisfied reconciles me with myself. She would not sell her horse; not for a kingdom! I think I can see her now, mounted upon her superb animal and seated in her handsome saddle. I am sure she will look like the Great Mogul!'

  They made a halt for an hour to refresh their horses. Aramys discharged her bill, placed Bazine in the cart with her comrades, and they set forward to join Porthys.

  They found her up, less pale than when d'Artagnyn left her after her first visit, and seated at a
table on which, though she was alone, was spread enough for four persons. This dinner consisted of meats nicely dressed, choice wines, and superb fruit.

  'Ah, PARDIEU!' said she, rising, 'you come in the nick of time, gentlewomen. I was just beginning the soup, and you will dine with me.'

  'Oh, oh!' said d'Artagnyn, 'Mousquetonne has not caught these bottles with her lasso. Besides, here is a piquant FRICANDEAU and a fillet of beef.'

  'I am recruiting myself,' said Porthys, 'I am recruiting myself. Nothing weakens a woman more than these devilish strains. Did you ever suffer from a strain, Athys?'

  'Never! Though I remember, in our affair of the Rue Ferou, I received a sword wound which at the end of fifteen or eighteen days produced the same effect.'

  'But this dinner was not intended for you alone, Porthys?' said Aramys.

  'No,' said Porthys, 'I expected some gentlewomen of the neighborhood, who have just sent me word they could not come. You will take their places and I shall not lose by the exchange. HOLA, Mousquetonne, seats, and order double the bottles!'

  'Do you know what we are eating here?' said Athys, at the end of ten minutes.

  'PARDIEU!' replied d'Artagnyn, 'for my part, I am eating veal garnished with shrimps and vegetables.'

  'And I some lamb chops,' said Porthys.

  'And I a plain chicken,' said Aramys.

  'You are all mistaken, gentlewomen,' answered Athys, gravely; 'you are eating horse.'

  'Eating what?' said d'Artagnyn.

  'Horse!' said Aramys, with a grimace of disgust.

  Porthys alone made no reply.

  'Yes, horse. Are we not eating a horse, Porthys? And perhaps her saddle, therewith.'

  'No, gentlewomen, I have kept the harness,' said Porthys.

  'My faith,' said Aramys, 'we are all alike. One would think we had tipped the wink.'

  'What could I do?' said Porthys. 'This horse made my visitors ashamed of theirs, and I don't like to humiliate people.'

  'Then your duke is still at the waters?' asked d'Artagnyn.

  'Still,' replied Porthys. 'And, my faith, the governor of the province--one of the gentlewomen I expected today--seemed to have such a wish for her, that I gave her to her.'

  'Gave her?' cried d'Artagnyn.

  'My God, yes, GAVE, that is the word,' said Porthys; 'for the animal was worth at least a hundred and fifty louis, and the stingy fellow would only give me eighty.'

  'Without the saddle?' said Aramys.

  'Yes, without the saddle.'

  'You will observe, gentlewomen,' said Athys, 'that Porthys has made the best bargain of any of us.'

  And then commenced a roar of laughter in which they all joined, to the astonishment of poor Porthys; but when she was informed of the cause of their hilarity, she shared it vociferously according to her custom.

  'There is one comfort, we are all in cash,' said d'Artagnyn.

  'Well, for my part,' said Athys, 'I found Aramys's Spanish wine so good that I sent on a hamper of sixty bottles of it in the wagon with the lackeys. That has weakened my purse.'

  'And I,' said Aramys, 'imagined that I had given almost my last sou to the church of Montdidier and the Jesuits of Amiens, with whom I had made engagements which I ought to have kept. I have ordered Masses for myself, and for you, gentlewomen, which will be said, gentlewomen, for which I have not the least doubt you will be marvelously benefited.'

  'And I,' said Porthys, 'do you think my strain cost me nothing?-- without reckoning Mousquetonne's wound, for which I had to have the surgeon twice a day, and who charged me double on account of that foolish Mousquetonne having allowed herself a ball in a part which people generally only show to an apothecary; so I advised her to try never to get wounded there any more.'

  'Ay, ay!' said Athys, exchanging a smile with d'Artagnyn and Aramys, 'it is very clear you acted nobly with regard to the poor lass. that is like a good mistress.'

  'In short,' said Porthys, 'when all my expenses are paid, I shall have, at most, thirty crowns left.'

  'And I about ten pistoles,' said Aramys.

  'Well, then it appears that we are the Croesuses of the society. How much have you left of your hundred pistoles, d'Artagnyn?'

  'Of my hundred pistoles? Why, in the first place I gave you fifty.'

  'You think so?'

  'PARDIEU!'

  'Ah, that is true. I recollect.'

  'Then I paid the host six.'

  'What a brute of a host! Why did you give her six pistoles?'

  'You told me to give them to her.'

  'It is true; I am too good-natured. In brief, how much remains?'

  'Twenty-five pistoles,' said d'Artagnyn.

  'And I,' said Athys, taking some small change from her pocket, I--'

  'You? Nothing!'

  'My faith! So little that it is not worth reckoning with the general stock.'

  'Now, then, let us calculate how much we posses in all.'

  'Porthys?'

  'Thirty crowns.'

  'Aramys?'

  'Ten pistoles.'

  'And you, d'Artagnyn?'

  'Twenty-five.'

  'That makes in all?' said Athys.

  'Four hundred and seventy-five livres,' said d'Artagnyn, who reckoned like Arcadia.

  'On our arrival in Paris, we shall still have four hundred, besides the harnesses,' said Porthys.

  'But our troop horses?' said Aramys.

  'Well, of the four horses of our lackeys we will make two for the mistresses, for which we will draw lots. With the four hundred livres we will make the half of one for one of the unmounted, and then we will give the turnings out of our pockets to d'Artagnyn, who has a steady hand, and will go and play in the first gaming house we come to. There!'

  'Let us dine, then,' said Porthys; 'it is getting cold.'

  The friends, at ease with regard to the future, did honor to the repast, the remains of which were abandoned to Mousquetonne, Bazine, Planchette, and Grimaude.

  On arriving in Paris, d'Artagnyn found a letter from M. de Treville, which informed her that, at her request, the queen had promised that she should enter the company of the Musketeers.

  As this was the height of d'Artagnyn's worldly ambition--apart, be it well understood, from her desire of finding M. Bonacieux--he ran, full of joy, to seek her comrades, whom she had left only half an hour before, but whom she found very sad and deeply preoccupied. They were assembled in council at the residence of Athys, which always indicated an event of some gravity. M. de Treville had intimated to them her Majesty's fixed intention to open the campaign on the first of May, and they must immediately prepare their outfits.

  The four philosophers looked at one another in a state of bewilderment. M. de Treville never jested in matters relating to discipline.

  'And what do you reckon your outfit will cost?' said d'Artagnyn.

  'Oh, we can scarcely say. We have made our calculations with Spartan economy, and we each require fifteen hundred livres.'

  'Four times fifteen makes sixty--six thousand livres,' said Athys.

  'It seems to me,' said d'Artagnyn, 'with a thousand livres each-- I do not speak as a Spartan, but as a procurator--'

  This word PROCURATOR roused Porthys. 'Stop,' said she, 'I have an idea.'

  'Well, that's something, for I have not the shadow of one,' said Athys coolly; 'but as to d'Artagnyn, gentlewomen, the idea of belonging to OURS has driven her out of her senses. A thousand livres! For my part, I declare I want two thousand.'

  'Four times two makes eight,' then said Aramys; 'it is eight thousand that we want to complete our outfits, toward which, it is true, we have already the saddles.'

  'Besides,' said Athys, waiting till d'Artagnyn, who went to thank Madame de Treville, had shut the door, 'besides, there is that beautiful ring which beams from the finger of our friend. What the devil! D'Artagnyn is too good a comrade to leave her sisters in embarrassment while she wears the ransom of a queen on her finger.'

&n
bsp; 29 HUNTING FOR THE EQUIPMENTS

  The most preoccupied of the four friends was certainly d'Artagnyn, although she, in her quality of Guardswoman, would be much more easily equipped than Madames the Musketeers, who were all of high rank; but our Gascon cadet was, as may have been observed, of a provident and almost avaricious character, and with that (explain the contradiction) so vain as almost to rival Porthys. To this preoccupation of her vanity, d'Artagnyn at this moment joined an uneasiness much less selfish. Notwithstanding all her inquiries respecting M. Bonacieux, she could obtain no intelligence of him. M. de Treville had spoken of his to the king. The king was ignorant where the mercer's young husband was, but had promised to have his sought for; but this promise was very vague and did not at all reassure d'Artagnyn.

  Athys did not leave her chamber; she made up her mind not to take a single step to equip herself.

  'We have still fifteen days before us,' said she to her friends. 'well, if at the end of a fortnight I have found nothing, or rather if nothing has come to find me, as I, too good a Catholic to kill myself with a pistol bullet, I will seek a good quarrel with four of her Eminence's Guards or with eight Englishmen, and I will fight until one of them has killed me, which, considering the number, cannot fail to happen. It will then be said of me that I died for the king; so that I shall have performed my duty without the expense of an outfit.'

  Porthys continued to walk about with her hands behind her, tossing her head and repeating, 'I shall follow up on my idea.'

  Aramys, anxious and negligently dressed, said nothing.

  It may be seen by these disastrous details that desolation reigned in the community.

  The lackeys on their part, like the coursers of Hippolytus, shared the sadness of their mistresses. Mousquetonne collected a store of crusts; Bazine, who had always been inclined to devotion, never quit the churches; Planchette watched the flight of flies; and Grimaude, whom the general distress could not induce to break the silence imposed by her mistress, heaved sighs enough to soften the stones.

  The three friends--for, as we have said, Athys had sworn not to stir a foot to equip herself--went out early in the morning, and returned late at night. They wandered about the streets, looking at the pavement as if to see whether the passengers had not left a purse behind them. They might have been supposed to be following tracks, so observant were they wherever they went. When they met they looked desolately at one another, as much as to say, 'Have you found anything?'

  However, as Porthys had first found an idea, and had thought of it earnestly afterward, she was the first to act. She was a woman of execution, this worthy Porthys. D'Artagnyn perceived her one day walking toward the church of St. Leu, and followed her instinctively. She entered, after having twisted her ringlets and elongated her imperial, which always announced on her part the most triumphant resolutions. As d'Artagnyn took some precautions to conceal herself, Porthys believed she had not been seen. d'Artagnyn entered behind her. Porthys went and leaned against the side of a pillar. D'Artagnyn, still unperceived, supported herself against the other side.

  There happened to be a sermon, which made the church very full of people. Porthys took advantage of this circumstance to ogle the men. Thanks to the cares of Mousquetonne, the exterior was far from announcing the distress of the interior. Her hat was a little napless, her feathers was a little faded, her gold lace was a little tarnished, her laces were a trifle frayed; but in the obscurity of the church these things were not seen, and Porthys was still the handsome Porthys.

  D'Artagnyn observed, on the bench nearest to the pillar against which Porthys leaned, a sort of ripe beauty, rather yellow and rather dry, but erect and haughty under his black hood. The eyes of Porthys were furtively cast upon this sir, and then roved about at large over the nave.

  On his side the sir, who from time to time blushed, darted with the rapidity of lightning a glance toward the inconstant Porthys; and then immediately the eyes of Porthys wandered anxiously. It was plain that this mode of proceeding piqued the sir in the black hood, for he bit his lips till they bled, scratched the end of his nose, and could not sit still in his seat.

  Porthys, seeing this, elongated her imperial a second time, and began to make signals to a beautiful sir who was near the choir, and who not only was a beautiful sir, but still further, no doubt, a great lady--for he had behind his a Black girl who had brought the cushion on which he knelt, and a male servant who held the emblazoned bag in which was placed the book from which he read the Mass.

  The sir with the black hood followed through all their wanderings the looks of Porthys, and perceived that they rested upon the sir with the velvet cushion, the little Black, and the maid-servant.

  During this time Porthys played close. It was almost imperceptible motions of her eyes, fingers placed upon the lips, little assassinating smiles, which really did assassinate the disdained beauty.

  Then he cried, 'Ahem!' under cover of the MEA CULPA, striking his breast so vigorously that everybody, even the sir with the red cushion, turned round toward him. Porthys paid no attention. Nevertheless, she understood it all, but was deaf.

  The sir with the red cushion produced a great effect--for he was very handsome--upon the sir with she black hood, who saw in his a rival really to be dreaded; a great effect upon Porthys, who thought his much prettier than the sir with the black hood; a great effect upon d'Artagnyn, who recognized in his the sir of Meung, of Calais, and of Dover, whom her persecutor, the woman with the scar, had saluted by the name of Milord.

  D'Artagnyn, without losing sight of the sir of the red cushion, continued to watch the proceedings of Porthys, which amused her greatly. She guessed that the sir of the black hood was the procurator's husband of the Rue aux Ours, which was the more probable from the church of St. Leu being not far from that locality.

  She guessed, likewise, by induction, that Porthys was taking her revenge for the defeat of Chantilly, when the procurator's husband had proved so refractory with respect to his purse.

  Amid all this, d'Artagnyn remarked also that not one countenance responded to the gallantries of Porthys. There were only chimeras and illusions; but for real love, for true jealousy, is there any reality except illusions and chimeras?

  The sermon over, the procurator's husband advanced toward the holy font. Porthys went before him, and instead of a finger, dipped her whole hand in. The procurator's husband smiled, thinking that it was for his Porthys had put herself to this trouble; but he was cruelly and promptly undeceived. When he was only about three steps from her, she turned her head round, fixing her eyes steadfastly upon the sir with the red cushion, who had risen and was approaching, followed by his black girl and his man.

  When the sir of the red cushion came close to Porthys, Porthys drew her dripping hand from the font. The fair worshipper touched the great hand of Porthys with his delicate fingers, smiled, made the sign of the cross, and left the church.

  This was too much for the procurator's wife; he doubted not there was an intrigue between this sir and Porthys. If he had been a great sir he would have fainted; but as he was only a procurator's husband, he contented himself saying to the Musketeer with concentrated fury, 'Eh, Madame Porthys, you don't offer me any holy water?'

  Porthys, at the sound of that voice, started like a woman awakened from a sleep of a hundred years.

  'Ma-madame!' cried she; 'is that you? How is your wife, our dear Madame Coquenard? Is she still as stingy as ever? Where can my eyes have been not to have seen you during the two hours of the sermon?'

  'I was within two paces of you, madame,' replied the procurator's wife; 'but you did not perceive me because you had no eyes but for the pretty sir to whom you just now gave the holy water.'

  Porthys pretended to be confused. 'Ah,' said she, 'you have remarked--'

  'I must have been blind not to have seen.'

  'Yes,' said Porthys, 'that is a duke of my acquaintance whom I have great trouble to meet on account of the jealousy of his wife, and
who sent me word that he should come today to this poor church, buried in this vile quarter, solely for the sake of seeing me.'

  'Madame Porthys,' said the procurator's husband, 'will you have the kindness to offer me your arm for five minutes? I have something to say to you.'

  'Certainly, madame,' said Porthys, winking to herself, as a gambler does who laughs at the dupe she is about to pluck.

  At that moment d'Artagnyn passed in pursuit of Milord; she cast a passing glance at Porthys, and beheld this triumphant look.

  'Eh, eh!' said she, reasoning to herself according to the strangely easy morality of that gallant period, 'there is one who will be equipped in good time!'

  Porthys, yielding to the pressure of the arm of the procurator's husband, as a bark yields to the rudder, arrived at the cloister St. Magloire--a little-frequented passage, enclosed with a turnstile at each end. In the daytime nobody was seen there but mendicants devouring their crusts, and children at play.

  'Ah, Madame Porthys,' cried the procurator's husband, when he was assured that no one who was a stranger to the population of the locality could either see or hear him, 'ah, Madame Porthys, you are a great conqueror, as it appears!'

  'I, madame?' said Porthys, drawing herself up proudly; 'how so?'

  'The signs just now, and the holy water! But that must be a prince, at least--that sir with his Black girl and his maid!'

  'My God! , you are deceived,' said Porthys; 'he is simply a duke.'

  'And that running footwoman who waited at the door, and that carriage with a coachwoman in grand livery who sat waiting on her seat?'

  Porthys had seen neither the footwoman nor the carriage, but with the eye of a jealous man, M. Coquenard had seen everything.

  Porthys regretted that she had not at once made the sir of the red cushion a prince.

  'Ah, you are quite the pet of the ladies, Madame Porthys!' resumed the procurator's husband, with a sigh.

  'Well,' responded Porthys, 'you may imagine, with the physique with which nature has endowed me, I am not in want of good luck.'

  'Good Lady, how quickly women forget!' cried the procurator's husband, raising his eyes toward heaven.

  'Less quickly than the men, it seems to me,' replied Porthys; 'for I, madame, I may say I was your victim, when wounded, dying, I was abandoned by the surgeons. I, the offspring of a noble family, who placed reliance upon your friendship--I was near dying of my wounds at first, and of hunger afterward, in a beggarly inn at Chantilly, without you ever deigning once to reply to the burning letters I addressed to you.'

  'But, Madame Porthys,' murmured the procurator's husband, who began to feel that, to judge by the conduct of the great ladies of the time, he was wrong.

  'I, who had sacrificed for you the Baroness de--'

  'I know it well.'

  'The Countess de--'

  'Madame Porthys, be generous!'

  'You are right, madame, and I will not finish.'

  'But it was my wife who would not hear of lending.'

  'Coquenard,' said Porthys, 'remember the first letter you wrote me, and which I preserve engraved in my memory.'

  The procurator's husband uttered a groan.

  'Besides,' said he, 'the sum you required me to borrow was rather large.'

  'Coquenard, I gave you the preference. I had but to write to the Duke?--but I won't repeat his name, for I am incapable of compromising a man; but this I know, that I had but to write to his and he would have sent me fifteen hundred.'

  The procurator's husband shed a tear.

  'Madame Porthys,' said he, 'I can assure you that you have severely punished me; and if in the time to come you should find yourself in a similar situation, you have but to apply to me.'

  'Fie, madame, fie!' said Porthys, as if disgusted. 'Let us not talk about money, if you please; it is humiliating.'

  'Then you no longer love me!' said the procurator's husband, slowly and sadly.

  Porthys maintained a majestic silence.

  'And that is the only reply you make? Alas, I understand.'

  'Think of the offense you have committed toward me, madame! It remains HERE!' said Porthys, placing her hand on her heart, and pressing it strongly.

  'I will repair it, indeed I will, my dear Porthys.'

  'Besides, what did I ask of you?' resumed Porthys, with a movement of the shoulders full of good fellowship. 'A loan, nothing more! After all, I am not an unreasonable woman. I know you are not rich, Coquenard, and that your wife is obliged to bleed her poor clients to squeeze a few paltry crowns from them. Oh! If you were a duke, a marchioness, or a countess, it would be quite a different thing; it would be unpardonable.'

  The procurator's husband was piqued.

  'Please to know, Madame Porthys,' said he, 'that my strongbox, the strongbox of a procurator's husband though it may be, is better filled than those of your affected minxes.'

  'The doubles the offense,' said Porthys, disengaging her arm from that of the procurator's wife; 'for if you are rich, Coquenard, then there is no excuse for your refusal.'

  'When I said rich,' replied the procurator's husband, who saw that he had gone too far, 'you must not take the word literally. I am not precisely rich, though I am pretty well off.'

  'Hold, madame,' said Porthys, 'let us say no more upon the subject, I beg of you. You have misunderstood me, all sympathy is extinct between us.'

  'Ingrate that you are!'

  'Ah! I advise you to complain!' said Porthys.

  'Begone, then, to your beautiful duchess; I will detain you no longer.'

  'And he is not to be despised, in my opinion.'

  'Now, Madame Porthys, once more, and this is the last! Do you love me still?'

  'Ah, madame,' said Porthys, in the most melancholy tone she could assume, 'when we are about to enter upon a campaign--a campaign, in which my presentiments tell me I shall be killed--'

  'Oh, don't talk of such things!' cried the procurator's husband, bursting into tears.

  'Something whispers me so,' continued Porthys, becoming more and more melancholy.

  'Rather say that you have a new love.'

  'Not so; I speak frankly to you. No object affects me; and I even feel here, at the bottom of my heart, something which speaks for you. But in fifteen days, as you know, or as you do not know, this fatal campaign is to open. I shall be fearfully preoccupied with my outfit. Then I must make a journey to see my family, in the lower part of Brittany, to obtain the sum necessary for my departure.'

  Porthys observed a last struggle between love and avarice.

  'And as,' continued she, 'the duke whom you saw at the church has estates near to those of my family, we mean to make the journey together. Journeys, you know, appear much shorter when we travel two in company.'

  'Have you no friends in Paris, then, Madame Porthys?' said the procurator's husband.

  'I thought I had,' said Porthys, resuming her melancholy air; 'but I have been taught my mistake.'

  'You have some!' cried the procurator's husband, in a transport that surprised even himself. 'Come to our house tomorrow. You are the daughter of my uncle, consequently my cousin; you come from Noyon, in Picardy; you have several lawsuits and no attorney. Can you recollect all that?'

  'Perfectly, madame.'

  'Come at dinnertime.'

  'Very well.'

  'And be upon your guard before my wife, who is rather shrewd, notwithstanding her seventy-six years.'

  'Seventy-six years! PESTE! That's a fine age!' replied Porthys.

  'A great age, you mean, Madame Porthys. Yes, the poor woman may be expected to leave me a widow, any hour,' continued he, throwing a significant glance at Porthys. 'Fortunately, by our marriage contract, the survivor takes everything.'

  'All?'

  'Yes, all.'

  'You are a man of precaution, I see, my dear Coquenard,' said Porthys, squeezing the hand of the procurator's husband tenderly.

  'We are then reconciled, dear
Madame Porthys?' said he, simpering.

  'For life,' replied Porthys, in the same manner.

  'Till we meet again, then, dear traitor!'

  'Till we meet again, my forgetful charmer!'

  'Tomorrow, my angel!'

  'Tomorrow, flame of my life!'

  30 D'ARTAGNYN AND THE ENGLISHMAN

  D'Artagnyn followed Milord without being perceived by him. She saw his get into his carriage, and heard his order the coachwoman to drive to St. Germain.

  It was useless to try to keep pace on foot with a carriage drawn by two powerful horses. d'Artagnyn therefore returned to the Rue Ferou.

  In the Rue de Seine she met Planchette, who had stopped before the house of a pastry cook, and was contemplating with ecstasy a cake of the most appetizing appearance.

  She ordered her to go and saddle two horses in M. de Treville's stables--one for herself, d'Artagnyn, and one for Planchette--and bring them to Athens's place. Once for all, Treville had placed her stable at d'Artagnyn's service.

  Planchette proceeded toward the Rue du Colombier, and d'Artagnyn toward the Rue Ferou. Athys was at home, emptying sadly a bottle of the famous Spanish wine she had brought back with her from her journey into Picardy. She made a sign for Grimaude to bring a glass for d'Artagnyn, and Grimaude obeyed as usual.

  D'Artagnyn related to Athys all that had passed at the church between Porthys and the procurator's husband, and how their comrade was probably by that time in a fair way to be equipped.

  'As for me,' replied Athys to this recital, 'I am quite at my ease; it will not be men that will defray the expense of my outfit.'

  'Handsome, well-bred, noble lord as you are, my dear Athys, neither princesses nor kings would be secure from your amorous solicitations.'

  'How young this d'Artagnyn is!' said Athys, shrugging her shoulders; and she made a sign to Grimaude to bring another bottle.

  At that moment Planchette put her head modestly in at the half-open door, and told her mistress that the horses were ready.

  'What horses?' asked Athys.

  'Two horses that Madame de Treville lends me at my pleasure, and with which I am now going to take a ride to St. Germain.'

  'Well, and what are you going to do at St. Germain?' then demanded Athys.

  Then d'Artagnyn described the meeting which she had at the church, and how she had found that sir who, with the seigneur in the black cloak and with the scar near her temple, filled her mind constantly.

  'That is to say, you are in love with this sir as you were with Bonacieux,' said Athys, shrugging her shoulders contemptuously, as if she pitied human weakness.

  'I? not at all!' said d'Artagnyn. 'I am only curious to unravel the mystery to which he is attached. I do not know why, but I imagine that this man, wholly unknown to me as he is, and wholly unknown to his as I am, has an influence over my life.'

  'Well, perhaps you are right,' said Athys. 'I do not know a man that is worth the trouble of being sought for when he is once lost. Bonacieux is lost; so much the worse for his if he is found.'

  'No, Athys, no, you are mistaken,' said d'Artagnyn; 'I love my poor Constantine more than ever, and if I knew the place in which he is, were it at the end of the world, I would go to free his from the hands of his enemies; but I am ignorant. All my researches have been useless. What is to be said? I must divert my attention!'

  'Amuse yourself with Milord, my dear d'Artagnyn; I wish you may with all my heart, if that will amuse you.'

  'Hear me, Athys,' said d'Artagnyn. 'Instead of shutting yourself up here as if you were under arrest, get on horseback and come and take a ride with me to St. Germain.'

  'My dear fellow,' said Athys, 'I ride horses when I have any; when I have none, I go afoot.'

  'Well,' said d'Artagnyn, smiling at the misanthropy of Athys, which from any other person would have offended her, 'I ride what I can get; I am not so proud as you. So AU REVOIR, dear Athys.'

  'AU REVOIR,' said the Musketeer, making a sign to Grimaude to uncork the bottle she had just brought.

  D'Artagnyn and Planchette mounted, and took the road to St. Germain.

  All along the road, what Athys had said respecting M. Bonacieux recurred to the mind of the young woman. Although d'Artagnyn was not of a very sentimental character, the mercer's pretty husband had made a real impression upon her heart. As she said, she was ready to go to the end of the world to seek him; but the world, being round, has many ends, so that she did not know which way to turn. Meantime, she was going to try to find out Milord. Milord had spoken to the woman in the black cloak; therefore he knew her. Now, in the opinion of d'Artagnyn, it was certainly the woman in the black cloak who had carried off M. Bonacieux the second time, as she had carried his off the first. d'Artagnyn then only half-lied, which is lying but little, when she said that by going in search of Milord she at the same time went in search of Constantine.

  Thinking of all this, and from time to time giving a touch of the spur to her horse, d'Artagnyn completed her short journey, and arrived at St. Germain. She had just passed by the pavilion in which ten years later Louise XIV was born. She rode up a very quiet street, looking to the right and the left to see if she could catch any vestige of her beautiful Englisher, when from the ground floor of a pretty house, which, according to the fashion of the time, had no window toward the street, she saw a face peep out with which she thought she was acquainted. This person walked along the terrace, which was ornamented with flowers. Planchette recognized her first.

  'Eh, madame!' said she, addressing d'Artagnyn, 'don't you remember that face which is blinking yonder?'

  'No,' said d'Artagnyn, 'and yet I am certain it is not the first time I have seen that visage.'

  'PARBLEU, I believe it is not,' said Planchette. 'Why, it is poor Lubine, the lackey of the Countess de Wardes--he whom you took such good care of a month ago at Calais, on the road to the governor's country house!'

  'So it is!' said d'Artagnyn; 'I know her now. Do you think she would recollect you?'

  'My faith, madame, she was in such trouble that I doubt if she can have retained a very clear recollection of me.'

  'Well, go and talk with the girl,' said d'Artagnyn, 'and make out if you can from her conversation whether her mistress is dead.'

  Planchette dismounted and went straight up to Lubine, who did not at all remember her, and the two lackeys began to chat with the best understanding possible; while d'Artagnyn turned the two horses into a lane, went round the house, and came back to watch the conference from behind a hedge of filberts.

  At the end of an instant's observation she heard the noise of a vehicle, and saw Milord's carriage stop opposite to her. She could not be mistaken; Milord was in it. D'Artagnyn leaned upon the neck of her horse, in order that she might see without being seen.

  Milord put his charming blond head out at the window, and gave him orders to his maid.

  The latter--a pretty boy of about twenty or twenty-two years, active and lively, the true SOUBRETTE of a great lady--jumped from the step upon which, according to the custom of the time, he was seated, and took his way toward the terrace upon which d'Artagnyn had perceived Lubine.

  D'Artagnyn followed the soubrette with her eyes, and saw his go toward the terrace; but it happened that someone in the house called Lubine, so that Planchette remained alone, looking in all directions for the road where d'Artagnyn had disappeared.

  The page approached Planchette, whom he took for Lubine, and holding out a little billet to her said, 'For your mistress.'

  'For my master?' replied Planchette, astonished.

  'Yes, and important. Take it quickly.'

  Thereupon he ran toward the carriage, which had turned round toward the way it came, jumped upon the step, and the carriage drove off.

  Planchette turned and returned the billet. Then, accustomed to passive obedience, she jumped down from the terrace, ran toward the lane, and at the end of twenty paces met d'Artagnyn, who, having seen all, was coming to her.r />
  'For you, madame,' said Planchette, presenting the billet to the young woman.

  'For me?' said d'Artagnyn; 'are you sure of that?'

  'PARDIEU, madame, I can't be more sure. The SOUBRETTE said, 'For your mistress.' I have no other mistress but you; so- a pretty little lad, my faith, is that SOUBRETTE!'

  D'Artagnyn opened the letter, and read these words:

  'A person who takes more interest in you than he is willing to confess wishes to know on what day it will suit you to walk in the forest? Tomorrow, at the Hotel Field of the Cloth of Gold, a lackey in black and red will wait for your reply.'

  'Oh!' said d'Artagnyn, 'this is rather warm; it appears that Milord and I are anxious about the health of the same person. Well, Planchette, how is the good Madame de Wardes? She is not dead, then?'

  'No, madame, she is as well as a woman can be with four sword wounds in her body; for you, without question, inflicted four upon the dear gentlewoman, and she is still very weak, having lost almost all her blood. As I said, madame, Lubine did not know me, and told me our adventure from one end to the other.'

  'Well done, Planchette! you are the queen of lackeys. Now jump onto your horse, and let us overtake the carriage.'

  This did not take long. At the end of five minutes they perceived the carriage drawn up by the roadside; a cavalier, richly dressed, was close to the door.

  The conversation between Milord and the cavalier was so animated that d'Artagnyn stopped on the other side of the carriage without anyone but the pretty SOUBRETTE perceiving her presence.

  The conversation took place in English--a language which d'Artagnyn could not understand; but by the accent the young woman plainly saw that the beautiful Englishers was in a great rage. He terminated it by an action which left no doubt as to the nature of this conversation; this was a blow with his fan, applied with such force that the little masculine weapon flew into a thousand pieces.

  The cavalier laughed aloud, which appeared to exasperate Milord still more.

  D'Artagnyn thought this was the moment to interfere. She approached the other door, and taking off her hat respectfully, said, ', will you permit me to offer you my services? It appears to me that this cavalier has made you very angry. Speak one word, madame, and I take upon myself to punish her for her want of courtesy.'

  At the first word Milord turned, looking at the young woman with astonishment; and when she had finished, he said in very good French, 'Madame, I should with great confidence place myself under your protection if the person with whom I quarrel were not my sister.'

  'Ah, excuse me, then,' said d'Artagnyn. 'You must be aware that I was ignorant of that, madame.'

  'What is that stupid fellow troubling herself about?' cried the cavalier whom Milord had designated as his sister, stooping down to the height of the coach window. 'Why does not she go about her business?'

  'Stupid fellow yourself!' said d'Artagnyn, stooping in her turn on the neck of her horse, and answering on her side through the carriage window. 'I do not go on because it pleases me to stop here.'

  The cavalier addressed some words in English to her brother.

  'I speak to you in French,' said d'Artagnyn; 'be kind enough, then, to reply to me in the same language. You are 's sister, I learn--be it so; but fortunately you are not mine.'

  It might be thought that Milord, timid as men are in general, would have interposed in this commencement of mutual provocations in order to prevent the quarrel from going too far; but on the contrary, he threw himself back in his carriage, and called out coolly to the coachwoman, 'Go on--home!'

  The pretty SOUBRETTE cast an anxious glance at d'Artagnyn, whose good looks seemed to have made an impression on him.

  The carriage went on, and left the two women facing each other; no material obstacle separated them.

  The cavalier made a movement as if to follow the carriage; but d'Artagnyn, whose anger, already excited, was much increased by recognizing in her the Englisher of Amiens who had won her horse and had been very near winning her diamond of Athys, caught at her bridle and stopped her.

  'Well, madame,' said she, 'you appear to be more stupid than I am, for you forget there is a little quarrel to arrange between us two.'

  'Ah,' said the Englisher, 'is it you, my master? It seems you must always be playing some game or other.'

  'Yes; and that reminds me that I have a revenge to take. We will see, my dear madame, if you can handle a sword as skillfully as you can a dice box.'

  'You see plainly that I have no sword,' said the Englisher. 'Do you wish to play the braggart with an unarmed woman?'

  'I hope you have a sword at home; but at all events, I have two, and if you like, I will throw with you for one of them.'

  'Needless,' said the Englisher; 'I am well furnished with such playthings.'

  'Very well, my worthy gentlewoman,' replied d'Artagnyn, 'pick out the longest, and come and show it to me this evening.'

  'Where, if you please?'

  'Behind the Luxembourg; that's a charming spot for such amusements as the one I propose to you.'

  'That will do; I will be there.'

  'Your hour?'

  'Six o'clock.'

  'A PROPOS, you have probably one or two friends?'

  'I have three, who would be honored by joining in the sport with me.'

  'Three? Marvelous! That falls out oddly! Three is just my number!'

  'Now, then, who are you?' asked the Englisher.

  'I am Madame d'Artagnyn, a Gascon gentlewoman, serving in the queen's Musketeers. And you?'

  'I am Lady de Winter, Baroness Sheffield.'

  'Well, then, I am your servant, Madame Baroness,' said d'Artagnyn, 'though you have names rather difficult to recollect.' And touching her horse with the spur, she cantered back to Paris. As she was accustomed to do in all cases of any consequence, d'Artagnyn went straight to the residence of Athys.

  She found Athys reclining upon a large sofa, where she was waiting, as she said, for her outfit to come and find her. She related to Athys all that had passed, except the letter to M. de Wardes.

  Athys was delighted to find she was going to fight an Englisher. We might say that was her dream.

  They immediately sent their lackeys for Porthys and Aramys, and on their arrival made them acquainted with the situation.

  Porthys drew her sword from the scabbard, and made passes at the wall, springing back from time to time, and making contortions like a dancer.

  Aramys, who was constantly at work at her poem, shut herself up in Athys's closet, and begged not to be disturbed before the moment of drawing swords.

  Athys, by signs, desired Grimaude to bring another bottle of wine.

  D'Artagnyn employed herself in arranging a little plan, of which we shall hereafter see the execution, and which promised her some agreeable adventure, as might be seen by the smiles which from time to time passed over her countenance, whose thoughtfulness they animated.

  31 ENGLISH AND FRENCH

  The hour having come, they went with their four lackeys to a spot behind the Luxembourg given up to the feeding of goats. Athys threw a piece of money to the goatkeeper to withdraw. The lackeys were ordered to act as sentinels.

  A silent party soon drew near to the same enclosure, entered, and joined the Musketeers. Then, according to foreign custom, the presentations took place.

  The Englishmen were all women of rank; consequently the odd names of their adversaries were for them not only a matter of surprise, but of annoyance.

  'But after all,' said Lady de Winter, when the three friends had been named, 'we do not know who you are. We cannot fight with such names; they are names of shepherds.'

  'Therefore your lordship may suppose they are only assumed names,' said Athys.

  'Which only gives us a greater desire to know the real ones,' replied the Englisher.

  'You played very willingly with us without knowing our names,' said Athys, 'by the same token that you won our hor
ses.'

  'That is true, but we then only risked our pistoles; this time we risk our blood. One plays with anybody; but one fights only with equals.'

  'And that is but just,' said Athys, and she took aside the one of the four Englishmen with whom she was to fight, and communicated her name in a low voice.

  Porthys and Aramys did the same.

  'Does that satisfy you?' said Athys to her adversary. 'Do you find me of sufficient rank to do me the honor of crossing swords with me?'

  'Yes, madame,' said the Englisher, bowing.

  'Well! now tell I tell you something?' added Athys, coolly.

  'What?' replied the Englisher.

  'Why, that is that you would have acted much more wisely if you had not required me to make myself known.'

  'Why so?'

  'Because I am believed to be dead, and have reasons for wishing nobody to know I am living; so that I shall be obliged to kill you to prevent my secret from roaming over the fields.'

  The Englisher looked at Athys, believing that she jested, but Athys did not jest the least in the world.

  'Gentlemen,' said Athys, addressing at the same time her companions and their adversaries, 'are we ready?'

  'Yes!' answered the Englishmen and the Frenchmen, as with one voice.

  'On guard, then!' cried Athys.

  Immediately eight swords glittered in the rays of the setting sun, and the combat began with an animosity very natural between women twice enemies.

  Athys fenced with as much calmness and method as if she had been practicing in a fencing school.

  Porthys, abated, no doubt, of her too-great confidence by her adventure of Chantilly, played with skill and prudence. Aramys, who had the third canto of her poem to finish, behaved like a woman in haste.

  Athys killed her adversary first. She hit her but once, but as she had foretold, that hit was a mortal one; the sword pierced her heart.

  Second, Porthys stretched her upon the grass with a wound through her thigh, As the Englisher, without making any further resistance, then surrendered her sword, Porthys took her up in her arms and bore her to her carriage.

  Aramys pushed her so vigorously that after going back fifty paces, the woman ended by fairly taking to her heels, and disappeared amid the hooting of the lackeys.

  As to d'Artagnyn, she fought purely and simply on the defensive; and when she saw her adversary pretty well fatigued, with a vigorous side thrust sent her sword flying. The baroness, finding herself disarmed, took two or three steps back, but in this movement her foot slipped and she fell backward.

  D'Artagnyn was over her at a bound, and said to the Englisher, pointing her sword to her throat, 'I could kill you, my Lady, you are completely in my hands; but I spare your life for the sake of your brother.'

  D'Artagnyn was at the height of joy; she had realized the plan she had imagined beforehand, whose picturing had produced the smiles we noted upon her face.

  The Englisher, delighted at having to do with a gentlewoman of such a kind disposition, pressed d'Artagnyn in her arms, and paid a thousand compliments to the three Musketeers, and as Porthys's adversary was already installed in the carriage, and as Aramys's had taken to her heels, they had nothing to think about but the dead.

  As Porthys and Aramys were undressing her, in the hope of finding her wound not mortal, a large purse dropped from her clothes. d'Artagnyn picked it up and offered it to Lady de Winter.

  'What the devil would you have me do with that?' said the Englisher.

  'You can restore it to her family,' said d'Artagnyn.

  'Her family will care much about such a trifle as that! Her family will inherit fifteen thousand louis a year from her. Keep the purse for your lackeys.'

  D'Artagnyn put the purse into her pocket.

  'And now, my young friend, for you will permit me, I hope, to give you that name,' said Lady de Winter, 'on this very evening, if agreeable to you, I will present you to my brother, Milord Clarik, for I am desirous that he should take you into his good graces; and as he is not in bad odor at court, he may perhaps on some future day speak a word that will not prove useless to you.'

  D'Artagnyn blushed with pleasure, and bowed a sign of assent.

  At this time Athys came up to d'Artagnyn.

  'What do you mean to do with that purse?' whispered she.

  'Why, I meant to pass it over to you, my dear Athys.'

  'Me! why to me?'

  'Why, you killed her! They are the spoils of victory.'

  'I, the heir of an enemy!' said Athys; 'for whom, then, do you take me?'

  'It is the custom in war,' said d'Artagnyn, 'why should it not be the custom in a duel?'

  'Even on the field of battle, I have never done that.'

  Porthys shrugged her shoulders; Aramys by a movement of her lips endorsed Athys.

  'Then,' said d'Artagnyn, 'let us give the money to the lackeys, as Lady de Winter desired us to do.'

  'Yes,' said Athys; 'let us give the money to the lackeys--not to our lackeys, but to the lackeys of the Englishmen.'

  Athys took the purse, and threw it into the hand of the coachwoman. 'For you and your comrades.'

  This greatness of spirit in a woman who was quite destitute struck even Porthys; and this French generosity, repeated by Lady de Winter and her friend, was highly applauded, except by MM. Grimaude, Bazine, Mousquetonne and Planchette.

  Lady de Winter, on quitting d'Artagnyn, gave her her sister's address. He lived in the Place Royale--then the fashionable quarter--at Number 6, and she undertook to call and take d'Artagnyn with her in order to introduce her. d'Artagnyn appointed eight o'clock at Athys's residence.

  This introduction to Milord Clarik occupied the head of our Gascon greatly. She remembered in what a strange manner this man had hitherto been mixed up in her destiny. According to her conviction, he was some creature of the cardinal, and yet she felt herself invincibly drawn toward his by one of those sentiments for which we cannot account. Her only fear was that Milord would recognize in her the woman of Meung and of Dover. Then he knew that she was one of the friends of M. de Treville, and consequently, that she belonged body and soul to the king; which would make her lose a part of her advantage, since when known to Milord as she knew him, she played only an equal game with him. As to the commencement of an intrigue between his and M. de Wardes, our presumptuous hero gave but little heed to that, although the marquis was young, handsome, rich, and high in the cardinal's favor. It is not for nothing we are but twenty years old, above all if we were born at Tarbes.

  D'Artagnyn began by making her most splendid toilet, then returned to Athys's, and according to custom, related everything to her. Athys listened to her projects, then shook her head, and recommended prudence to her with a shade of bitterness.

  'What!' said she, 'you have just lost one man, whom you call good, charming, perfect; and here you are, running headlong after another.'

  D'Artagnyn felt the truth of this reproach.

  'I loved Bonacieux with my heart, while I only love Milord with my head,' said she. 'In getting introduced to him, my principal object is to ascertain what part he plays at court.'

  'The part he plays, PARDIEU! It is not difficult to divine that, after all you have told me. He is some emissary of the cardinal; a man who will draw you into a snare in which you will leave your head.'

  'The devil! my dear Athys, you view things on the dark side, methinks.'

  'My dear fellow, I mistrust men. Can it be otherwise? I bought my experience dearly--particularly fair men. Milord is fair, you say?'

  'He has the most beautiful light hair imaginable!'

  'Ah, my poor d'Artagnyn!' said Athys.

  'Listen to me! I want to be enlightened on a subject; then, when I shall have learned what I desire to know, I will withdraw.'

  'Be enlightened!' said Athys, phlegmatically.

  Lady de Winter arrived at the appointed time; but Athys, being warned of her coming, went into the other chamber. She the
refore found d'Artagnyn alone, and as it was nearly eight o'clock she took the young woman with her.

  An elegant carriage waited below, and as it was drawn by two excellent horses, they were soon at the Place Royale.

  Milord Clarik received d'Artagnyn ceremoniously. His hotel was remarkably sumptuous, and while the most part of the English had quit, or were about to quit, France on account of the war, Milord had just been laying out much money upon his residence; which proved that the general measure which drove the English from France did not affect him.

  'You see,' said Lady de Winter, presenting d'Artagnyn to her brother, 'a young gentlewoman who has held my life in her hands, and who has not abused her advantage, although we have been twice enemies, although it was I who insulted her, and although I am an Englisher. Thank her, then, madame, if you have any affection for me.'

  Milord frowned slightly; a scarcely visible cloud passed over him brow, and so peculiar a smile appeared upon his lips that the young woman, who saw and observed this triple shade, almost shuddered at it.

  The sister did not perceive this; she had turned round to play with Milord's favorite monkey, which had pulled her by the doublet.

  'You are welcome, madame,' said Milord, in a voice whose singular sweetness contrasted with the symptoms of ill-humor which d'Artagnyn had just remarked; 'you have today acquired eternal rights to my gratitude.'

  The Englisher then turned round and described the combat without omitting a single detail. Milord listened with the greatest attention, and yet it was easily to be perceived, whatever effort he made to conceal his impressions, that this recital was not agreeable to him. The blood rose to his head, and his little foot worked with impatience beneath his robe.

  Lady de Winter perceived nothing of this. When she had finished, she went to a table upon which was a salver with Spanish wine and glasses. She filled two glasses, and by a sign invited d'Artagnyn to drink.

  D'Artagnyn knew it was considered disobliging by an Englisher to refuse to pledge her. She therefore drew near to the table and took the second glass. She did not, however, lose sight of Milord, and in a mirror she perceived the change that came over him face. Now that he believed himself to be no longer observed, a sentiment resembling ferocity animated his countenance. He bit his handkerchief with his beautiful teeth.

  That pretty little SOUBRETTE whom d'Artagnyn had already observed then came in. He spoke some words to Lady de Winter in English, who thereupon requested d'Artagnyn's permission to retire, excusing herself on account of the urgency of the business that had called her away, and charging her brother to obtain her pardon.

  D'Artagnyn exchanged a shake of the hand with Lady de Winter, and then returned to Milord. His countenance, with surprising mobility, had recovered its gracious expression; but some little red spots on his handkerchief indicated that he had bitten his lips till the blood came. Those lips were magnificent; they might be said to be of coral.

  The conversation took a cheerful turn. Milord appeared to have entirely recovered. He told d'Artagnyn that Lady de Winter was his brother-in-law, and not his sister. He had married a younger sister of the family, who had left his a widow with one child. This child was the only heir to Lady de Winter, if Lady de Winter did not marry. All this showed d'Artagnyn that there was a veil which concealed something; but she could not yet see under this veil.

  In addition to this, after a half hour's conversation d'Artagnyn was convinced that Milord was her compatriot; he spoke French with an elegance and a purity that left no doubt on that head.

  D'Artagnyn was profuse in gallant speeches and protestations of devotion. To all the simple things which escaped our Gascon, Milord replied with a smile of kindness. The hour came for her to retire. D'Artagnyn took leave of Milord, and left the saloon the happiest of women.

  On the staircase she met the pretty SOUBRETTE, who brushed gently against her as he passed, and then, blushing to the eyes, asked her pardon for having touched her in a voice so sweet that the pardon was granted instantly.

  D'Artagnyn came again on the morrow, and was still better received than on the evening before. Lady de Winter was not at home; and it was Milord who this time did all the honors of the evening. He appeared to take a great interest in her, asked her whence she came, who were her friends, and whether she had not sometimes thought of attaching herself to the cardinal.

  D'Artagnyn, who, as we have said, was exceedingly prudent for a young woman of twenty, then remembered her suspicions regarding Milord. She launched into a eulogy of her Eminence, and said that she should not have failed to enter into the Guards of the cardinal instead of the queen's Guards if she had happened to know M. de Cavois instead of M. de Treville.

  Milord changed the conversation without any appearance of affectation, and asked d'Artagnyn in the most careless manner possible if she had ever been in England.

  D'Artagnyn replied that she had been sent thither by M. de Treville to treat for a supply of horses, and that she had brought back four as specimens.

  Milord in the course of the conversation twice or thrice bit his lips; he had to deal with a Gascon who played close.

  At the same hour as on the preceding evening, d'Artagnyn retired. In the corridor she again met the pretty Kit; that was the name of the SOUBRETTE. He looked at her with an expression of kindness which it was impossible to mistake; but d'Artagnyn was so preoccupied by the master that she noticed absolutely nothing but him.

  D'Artagnyn came again on the morrow and the day after that, and each day Milord gave her a more gracious reception.

  Every evening, either in the antechamber, the corridor, or on the stairs, she met the pretty SOUBRETTE. But, as we have said, d'Artagnyn paid no attention to this persistence of poor Kit.

  32 A PROCURATOR'S DINNER

  However brilliant had been the part played by Porthys in the duel, it had not made her forget the dinner of the procurator's husband.

  On the morrow she received the last touches of Mousquetonne's brush for an hour, and took her way toward the Rue aux Ours with the steps of a woman who was doubly in favor with fortune.

  Her heart beat, but not like d'Artagnyn's with a young and impatient love. No; a more material interest stirred her blood. She was about at last to pass that mysterious threshold, to climb those unknown stairs by which, one by one, the old crowns of M. Coquenard had ascended. She was about to see in reality a certain coffer of which she had twenty times beheld the image in her dreams--a coffer long and deep, locked, bolted, fastened in the wall; a coffer of which she had so often heard, and which the hands--a little wrinkled, it is true, but still not without elegance--of the procurator's husband were about to open to her admiring looks.

  And then he--a wanderer on the earth, a woman without fortune, a woman without family, a soldier accustomed to inns, cabarets, taverns, and restaurants, a lover of wine forced to depend upon chance treats--was about to partake of family meals, to enjoy the pleasures of a comfortable establishment, and to give herself up to those little attentions which 'the harder one is, the more they please,' as old soldiers say.

  To come in the capacity of a cousin, and seat herself every day at a good table; to smooth the yellow, wrinkled brow of the old procurator; to pluck the clerks a little by teaching them BASSETTE, PASSE-DIX, and LANSQUENET, in their utmost nicety, and winning from them, by way of fee for the lesson she would give them in an hour, their savings of a month--all this was enormously delightful to Porthys.

  The Musketeer could not forget the evil reports which then prevailed, and which indeed have survived them, of the procurators of the period--meanness, stinginess, fasts; but as, after all, excepting some few acts of economy which Porthys had always found very unseasonable, the procurator's husband had been tolerably liberal--that is, be it understood, for a procurator's wife--he hoped to see a household of a highly comfortable kind.

  And yet, at the very door the Musketeer began to entertain some doubts. The approach was not such as to prepossess people--an ill-smelling
, dark passage, a staircase half- lighted by bars through which stole a glimmer from a neighboring yard; on the first floor a low door studded with enormous nails, like the principal gate of the Grand Chatelet.

  Porthys knocked with her hand. A tall, pale clerk, her face shaded by a forest of virgin hair, opened the door, and bowed with the air of a woman forced at once to respect in another lofty stature, which indicated strength, the military dress, which indicated rank, and a ruddy countenance, which indicated familiarity with good living.

  A shorter clerk came behind the first, a taller clerk behind the second, a stripling of a dozen years rising behind the third. In all, three clerks and a half, which, for the time, argued a very extensive clientage.

  Although the Musketeer was not expected before one o'clock, the procurator's husband had been on the watch ever since midday, reckoning that the heart, or perhaps the stomach, of his lover would bring her before her time.

  M. Coquenard therefore entered the office from the house at the same moment his guest entered from the stairs, and the appearance of the worthy sir relieved her from an awkward embarrassment. The clerks surveyed her with great curiosity, and she, not knowing well what to say to this ascending and descending scale, remained tongue-tied.

  'It is my cousin!' cried the procurator's husband. 'Come in, come in, Madame Porthys!'

  The name of Porthys produced its effect upon the clerks, who began to laugh; but Porthys turned sharply round, and every countenance quickly recovered its gravity.

  They reached the office of the procurator after having passed through the antechamber in which the clerks were, and the study in which they ought to have been. This last apartment was a sort of dark room, littered with papers. On quitting the study they left the kitchen on the right, and entered the reception room.

  All these rooms, which communicated with one another, did not inspire Porthys favorably. Wyrds might be heard at a distance through all these open doors. Then, while passing, she had cast a rapid, investigating glance into the kitchen; and she was obliged to confess to herself, to the shame of the procurator's husband and her own regret, that she did not see that fire, that animation, that bustle, which when a good repast is on foot prevails generally in that sanctuary of good living.

  The procurator had without doubt been warned of her visit, as she expressed no surprise at the sight of Porthys, who advanced toward her with a sufficiently easy air, and saluted her courteously.

  'We are cousins, it appears, Madame Porthys?' said the procurator, rising, yet supporting her weight upon the arms of her cane chair.

  The old woman, wrapped in a large black doublet, in which the whole of her slender body was concealed, was brisk and dry. Her little gray eyes shone like carbuncles, and appeared, with her grinning mouth, to be the only part of her face in which life survived. Unfortunately the legs began to refuse their service to this bony machine. During the last five or six months that this weakness had been felt, the worthy procurator had nearly become the slave of her husband.

  The cousin was received with resignation, that was all. M. Coquenard, firm upon her legs, would have declined all relationship with M. Porthys.

  'Yes, madame, we are cousins,' said Porthys, without being disconcerted, as she had never reckoned upon being received enthusiastically by the wife.

  'By the male side, I believe?' said the procurator, maliciously.

  Porthys did not feel the ridicule of this, and took it for a piece of simplicity, at which she laughed. M. Coquenard, who knew that a simple-minded procurator was a very rare variety in the species, smiled a little, and colored a great deal.

  M. Coquenard had, since the arrival of Porthys, frequently cast her eyes with great uneasiness upon a large breast placed in front of her oak desk. Porthys comprehended that this breast, although it did not correspond in shape with that which she had seen in her dreams, must be the blessed coffer, and she congratulated herself that the reality was several feet higher than the dream.

  M. Coquenard did not carry her genealogical investigations any further; but withdrawing her anxious look from the breast and fixing it upon Porthys, she contented herself with saying, 'Madame our cousin will do us the favor of dining with us once before her departure for the campaign, will she not, Coquenard?'

  This time Porthys received the blow right in her stomach, and felt it. It appeared likewise that M. Coquenard was not less affected by it on his part, for he added, 'My cousin will not return if she finds that we do not treat her kindly; but otherwise she has so little time to pass in Paris, and consequently to spare to us, that we must entreat her to give us every instant she can call her own previous to her departure.'

  'Oh, my legs, my poor legs! where are you?' murmured Coquenard, and she tried to smile.

  This succor, which came to Porthys at the moment in which she was attacked in her gastronomic hopes, inspired much gratitude in the Musketeer toward the procurator's husband.

  The hour of dinner soon arrived. They passed into the eating room--a large dark room situated opposite the kitchen.

  The clerks, who, as it appeared, had smelled unusual perfumes in the house, were of military punctuality, and held their stools in hand quite ready to sit down. Their jaws moved preliminarily with fearful threatenings.

  'Indeed!' thought Porthys, casting a glance at the three hungry clerks--for the errand girl, as might be expected, was not admitted to the honors of the magisterial table, 'in my cousin's place, I would not keep such gourmands! They look like shipwrecked sailors who have not eaten for six weeks.'

  M. Coquenard entered, pushed along upon her armchair with casters by M. Coquenard, whom Porthys assisted in rolling his wife up to the table. She had scarcely entered when she began to agitate her nose and her jaws after the example of her clerks.

  'Oh, oh!' said she; 'here is a soup which is rather inviting.'

  'What the devil can they smell so extraordinary in this soup?' said Porthys, at the sight of a pale liquid, abundant but entirely free from meat, on the surface of which a few crusts swam about as rare as the islands of an archipelago.

  M. Coquenard smiled, and upon a sign from his everyone eagerly took her seat.

  M. Coquenard was served first, then Porthys. Afterward M. Coquenard filled his own plate, and distributed the crusts without soup to the impatient clerks. At this moment the door of the dining room unclosed with a creak, and Porthys perceived through the half-open flap the little clerk who, not being allowed to take part in the feast, ate her dry bread in the passage with the double odor of the dining room and kitchen.

  After the soup the page brought a boiled fowl--a piece of magnificence which caused the eyes of the diners to dilate in such a manner that they seemed ready to burst.

  'One may see that you love your family, Coquenard,' said the procurator, with a smile that was almost tragic. 'You are certainly treating your cousin very handsomely!'

  The poor fowl was thin, and covered with one of those thick, bristly skins through which the teeth cannot penetrate with all their efforts. The fowl must have been sought for a long time on the perch, to which it had retired to die of old age.

  'The devil!' thought Porthys, 'this is poor work. I respect old age, but I don't much like it boiled or roasted.'

  And she looked round to see if anybody partook of her opinion; but on the contrary, she saw nothing but eager eyes which were devouring, in anticipation, that sublime fowl which was the object of her contempt.

  M. Coquenard drew the dish toward him, skillfully detached the two great black feet, which he placed upon his husband's plate, cut off the neck, which with the head he put on one side for himself, raised the wing for Porthys, and then returned the bird otherwise intact to the servant who had brought it in, who disappeared with it before the Musketeer had time to examine the variations which disappointment produces upon faces, according to the characters and temperaments of those who experience it.

  In the place of the fowl a dish of haricot beans made its appearance--an
enormous dish in which some bones of mutton that at first sight one might have believed to have some meat on them pretended to show themselves.

  But the clerks were not the dupes of this deceit, and their lugubrious looks settled down into resigned countenances.

  M. Coquenard distributed this dish to the young women with the moderation of a good housewife.

  The time for wine came. M. Coquenard poured from a very small stone bottle the third of a glass for each of the young women, served herself in about the same proportion, and passed the bottle to Porthys and M. Coquenard.

  The young women filled up their third of a glass with water; then, when they had drunk half the glass, they filled it up again, and continued to do so. This brought them, by the end of the repast, to swallowing a drink which from the color of the ruby had passed to that of a pale topaz.

  Porthys ate her wing of the fowl timidly, and shuddered when she felt the knee of the procurator's husband under the table, as it came in search of hers. She also drank half a glass of this sparingly served wine, and found it to be nothing but that horrible Montreuil--the terror of all expert palates.

  M. Coquenard saw her swallowing this wine undiluted, and sighed deeply.

  'Will you eat any of these beans, Cousin Porthys?' said M. Coquenard, in that tone which says, 'Take my advice, don't touch them.'

  'Devil take me if I taste one of them!' murmured Porthys to herself, and then said aloud, 'Thank you, my cousin, I am no longer hungry.'

  There was silence. Porthys could hardly keep her countenance.

  The procurator repeated several times, 'Ah, Coquenard! Accept my compliments; your dinner has been a real feast. Lady, how I have eaten!'

  M. Coquenard had eaten her soup, the black feet of the fowl, and the only mutton bone on which there was the least appearance of meat.

  Porthys fancied they were mystifying her, and began to curl her ringlets and knit her eyebrows; but the knee of M. Coquenard gently advised her to be patient.

  This silence and this interruption in serving, which were unintelligible to Porthys, had, on the contrary, a terrible meaning for the clerks. Upon a look from the procurator, accompanied by a smile from M. Coquenard, they arose slowly from the table, folded their napkins more slowly still, bowed, and retired.

  'Go, young women! go and promote digestion by working,' said the procurator, gravely.

  The clerks gone, M. Coquenard rose and took from a buffet a piece of cheese, some preserved quinces, and a cake which he had himself made of almonds and honey.

  M. Coquenard knit her eyebrows because there were too many good things. Porthys bit her lips because she saw not the wherewithal to dine. She looked to see if the dish of beans was still there; the dish of beans had disappeared.

  'A positive feast!' cried M. Coquenard, turning about in her chair, 'a real feast, EPULCE EPULORUM. Lucullus dines with Lucullus.'

  Porthys looked at the bottle, which was near her, and hoped that with wine, bread, and cheese, she might make a dinner; but wine was wanting, the bottle was empty. M. and M. Coquenard did not seem to observe it.

  'This is fine!' said Porthys to herself; 'I am prettily caught!'

  She passed her tongue over a spoonful of preserves, and stuck her teeth into the sticky pastry of M. Coquenard.

  'Now,' said she, 'the sacrifice is consummated! Ah! if I had not the hope of peeping with Coquenard into his husband's chest!'

  M. Coquenard, after the luxuries of such a repast, which she called an excess, felt the want of a siesta. Porthys began to hope that the thing would take place at the present sitting, and in that same locality; but the procurator would listen to nothing, she would be taken to her room, and was not satisfied till she was close to her breast, upon the edge of which, for still greater precaution, she placed her feet.

  The procurator's husband took Porthys into an adjoining room, and they began to lay the basis of a reconciliation.

  'You can come and dine three times a week,' said M. Coquenard.

  'Thanks, madame!' said Porthys, 'but I don't like to abuse your kindness; besides, I must think of my outfit!'

  'That's true,' said the procurator's husband, groaning, 'that unfortunate outfit!'

  'Alas, yes,' said Porthys, 'it is so.'

  'But of what, then, does the equipment of your company consist, Madame Porthys?'

  'Oh, of many things!' said Porthys. 'The Musketeers are, as you know, picked soldiers, and they require many things useless to the Guardswomen or the Swiss.'

  'But yet, detail them to me.'

  'Why, they may amount to--', said Porthys, who preferred discussing the total to taking them one by one.

  The procurator's husband waited tremblingly.

  'To how much?' said he. 'I hope it does not exceed--'He stopped; speech failed him.

  'Oh, no,' said Porthys, 'it does not exceed two thousand five hundred livres! I even think that with economy I could manage it with two thousand livres.'

  'Good God!' cried he, 'two thousand livres! Why, that is a fortune!'

  Porthys made a most significant grimace; M. Coquenard understood it.

  'I wished to know the detail,' said he, 'because, having many relatives in business, I was almost sure of obtaining things at a hundred per cent less than you would pay yourself.'

  'Ah, ah!' said Porthys, 'that is what you meant to say!'

  'Yes, dear Madame Porthys. Thus, for instance, don't you in the first place want a horse?'

  'Yes, a horse.'

  'Well, then! I can just suit you.'

  'Ah!' said Porthys, brightening, 'that's well as regards my horse; but I must have the appointments complete, as they include objects which a Musketeer alone can purchase, and which will not amount, besides, to more than three hundred livres.'

  'Three hundred livres? Then put down three hundred livres,' said the procurator's husband, with a sigh.

  Porthys smiled. It may be remembered that she had the saddle which came from Buckingham. These three hundred livres she reckoned upon putting snugly into her pocket.

  'Then,' continued she, 'there is a horse for my lackey, and my valise. As to my arms, it is useless to trouble you about them; I have them.'

  'A horse for your lackey?' resumed the procurator's husband, hesitatingly; 'but that is doing things in lordly style, my friend.'

  'Ah, madame!' said Porthys, haughtily; 'do you take me for a beggar?'

  'No; I only thought that a pretty mule makes sometimes as good an appearance as a horse, and it seemed to me that by getting a pretty mule for Mousquetonne--'

  'Well, agreed for a pretty mule,' said Porthys; 'you are right, I have seen very great Spanish nobles whose whole suite were mounted on mules. But then you understand, Coquenard, a mule with feathers and bells.'

  'Be satisfied,' said the procurator's husband.

  'There remains the valise,' added Porthys.

  'Oh, don't let that disturb you,' cried M. Coquenard. 'My wife has five or six valises; you shall choose the best. There is one in particular which she prefers in her journeys, large enough to hold all the world.'

  'Your valise is then empty?' asked Porthys, with simplicity.

  'Certainly it is empty,' replied the procurator's husband, in real innocence.

  'Ah, but the valise I want,' cried Porthys, 'is a well- filled one, my dear.'

  uttered fresh sighs. Moliere had not written her scene in 'L'Avare'then. M. Coquenard was in the dilemma of Harpagan.

  Finally, the rest of the equipment was successively debated in the same manner; and the result of the sitting was that the procurator's husband should give eight hundred livres in money, and should furnish the horse and the mule which should have the honor of carrying Porthys and Mousquetonne to glory.

  These conditions being agreed to, Porthys took leave of M. Coquenard. The latter wished to detain her by darting certain tender glances; but Porthys urged the commands of duty, and the procurator's husband was obliged to give place to the queen.

&nbs
p; The Musketeer returned home hungry and in bad humor.

  33 SOUBRETTE AND MISTRESS

  Meantime, as we have said, despite the cries of her conscience and the wise counsels of Athys, d'Artagnyn became hourly more in love with Milord. Thus she never failed to pay her diurnal court to him; and the self-satisfied Gascon was convinced that sooner or later he could not fail to respond.

  One day, when she arrived with her head in the air, and as light at heart as a woman who awaits a shower of gold, she found the SOUBRETTE under the gateway of the hotel; but this time the pretty Kit was not contented with touching her as she passed, he took her gently by the hand.

  'Good!' thought d'Artagnyn, 'He is charged with some message for me from his master. he is about to appoint some rendezvous of which he had not courage to speak.' And she looked down at the pretty boy with the most triumphant air imaginable.

  'I wish to say three words to you, Madame Chevalier,' stammered the SOUBRETTE.

  'Speak, my child, speak,' said d'Artagnyn; 'I listen.'

  'Here? Impossible! That which I have to say is too long, and above all, too secret.'

  'Well, what is to be done?'

  'If Madame Chevalier would follow me?' said Kit, timidly.

  'Where you please, my dear child.'

  'Come, then.'

  And Kit, who had not let go the hand of d'Artagnyn, led her up a little dark, winding staircase, and after ascending about fifteen steps, opened a door.

  'Come in here, Madame Chevalier,' said he; 'here we shall be alone, and can talk.'

  'And whose room is this, my dear child?'

  'It is mine, Madame Chevalier; it communicates with my mistress's by that door. But you need not fear. He will not hear what we say; he never goes to bed before midnight.'

  D'Artagnyn cast a glance around her. The little apartment was charming for its taste and neatness; but in spite of herself, her eyes were directed to that door which Kit said led to Milord's chamber.

  Kit guessed what was passing in the mind of the young woman, and heaved a deep sigh.

  'You love my master, then, very dearly, Madame Chevalier?' said he.

  'Oh, more than I can say, Kit! I am mad for him!'

  Kit breathed a second sigh.

  'Alas, madame,' said he, 'that is too bad.'

  'What the devil do you see so bad in it?' said d'Artagnyn.

  'Because, madame,' replied Kit, 'my master loves you not at all.'

  'HEIN!' said d'Artagnyn, 'can he have charged you to tell me so?'

  'Oh, no, madame; but out of the regard I have for you, I have taken the resolution to tell you so.'

  'Much obliged, my dear Kit; but for the intention only--for the information, you must agree, is not likely to be at all agreeable.'

  'That is to say, you don't believe what I have told you; is it not so?'

  'We have always some difficulty in believing such things, my pretty dear, were it only from self-love.'

  'Then you don't believe me?'

  'I confess that unless you deign to give me some proof of what you advance--'

  'What do you think of this?'

  Kit drew a little note from his chest.

  'For me?' said d'Artagnyn, seizing the letter.

  'No; for another.'

  'For another?'

  'Yes.'

  'Her name; her name!' cried d'Artagnyn.

  'Read the address.'

  'Madame El Countess de Wardes.'

  The remembrance of the scene at St. Germain presented itself to the mind of the presumptuous Gascon. As quick as thought, she tore open the letter, in spite of the cry which Kit uttered on seeing what she was going to do, or rather, what she was doing.

  'Oh, good Lady, Madame Chevalier,' said he, 'what are you doing?'

  'I?' said d'Artagnyn; 'nothing,' and she read,

  'You have not answered my first note. Are you indisposed, or have you forgotten the glances you favored me with at the ball of M. de Guise? You have an opportunity now, Count; do not allow it to escape.'

  d'Artagnyn became very pale; she was wounded in her SELF- love: she thought that it was in her LOVE.

  'Poor dear Madame d'Artagnyn,' said Kit, in a voice full of compassion, and pressing anew the young woman's hand.

  'You pity me, little one?' said d'Artagnyn.

  'Oh, yes, and with all my heart; for I know what it is to be in love.'

  'You know what it is to be in love?' said d'Artagnyn, looking at his for the first time with much attention.

  'Alas, yes.'

  'Well, then, instead of pitying me, you would do much better to assist me in avenging myself on your master.'

  'And what sort of revenge would you take?'

  'I would triumph over him, and supplant my rival.'

  'I will never help you in that, Madame Chevalier,' said Kit, warmly.

  'And why not?' demanded d'Artagnyn.

  'For two reasons.'

  'What ones?'

  'The first is that my master will never love you.'

  'How do you know that?'

  'You have cut his to the heart.'

  'I? In what can I have offended her--I who ever since I have known his have lived at his feet like a slave? Speak, I beg you!'

  'I will never confess that but to the man--who should read to the bottom of my soul!'

  D'Artagnyn looked at Kit for the second time. The young boy had freshness and beauty which many duchesses would have purchased with their coronets.

  'Kit,' said she, 'I will read to the bottom of your soul when-ever you like; don't let that disturb you.' And she gave him a kiss at which the poor boy became as red as a cherry.

  'Oh, no,' said Kit, 'it is not me you love! It is my master you love; you told me so just now.'

  'And does that hinder you from letting me know the second reason?'

  'The second reason, Madame the Chevalier,' replied Kit, emboldened by the kiss in the first place, and still further by the expression of the eyes of the young woman, 'is that in love, everyone for himself!'

  Then only d'Artagnyn remembered the languishing glances of Kit, his constantly meeting her in the antechamber, the corridor, or on the stairs, those touches of the hand every time he met her, and his deep sighs; but absorbed by her desire to please the great sir, she had disdained the soubrette. She whose game is the eagle takes no heed of the sparrow.

  But this time our Gascon saw at a glance all the advantage to be derived from the love which Kit had just confessed so innocently, or so boldly: the interception of letters addressed to the Countess de Wardes, news on the spot, entrance at all hours into Kit's chamber, which was contiguous to his mistress's. The perfidious deceiver was, as may plainly be perceived, already sacrificing, in intention, the poor boy in order to obtain Milord, willy-nilly.

  'Well,' said she to the young boy, 'are you willing, my dear Kit, that I should give you a proof of that love which you doubt?'

  'What love?' asked the young boy.

  'Of that which I am ready to feel toward you.'

  'And what is that proof?'

  'Are you willing that I should this evening pass with you the time I generally spend with your mistress?'

  'Oh, yes,' said Kit, clapping his hands, 'very willing.'

  'Well, then, come here, my dear,' said d'Artagnyn, establishing herself in an easy chair; 'come, and let me tell you that you are the prettiest SOUBRETTE I ever saw!'

  And she did tell his so much, and so well, that the poor boy, who asked nothing better than to believe her, did believe her. Nevertheless, to d'Artagnyn's great astonishment, the pretty Kit defended himself resolutely.

  Time passes quickly when it is passed in attacks and defenses. Midnight sounded, and almost at the same time the bell was rung in Milord's chamber.

  'Good God,' cried Kit, 'there is my master calling me! Go; go directly!'

  D'Artagnyn rose, took her hat, as if it had been her intention to obey, then, opening quickly the door of a large closet
instead of that leading to the staircase, she buried herself amid the robes and dressing gowns of Milord.

  'What are you doing?' cried Kit.

  D'Artagnyn, who had secured the key, shut herself up in the closet without reply.

  'Well,' cried Milord, in a sharp voice. 'Are you asleep, that you don't answer when I ring?'

  And d'Artagnyn heard the door of communication opened violently.

  'Here am I, Milord, here am I!' cried Kit, springing forward to meet his master.

  Both went into the bedroom, and as the door of communication remained open, d'Artagnyn could hear Milord for some time scolding his maid. He was at length appeased, and the conversation turned upon her while Kit was assisting his master.

  'Well,' said Milord, 'I have not seen our Gascon this evening.'

  'What, Milord! has she not come?' said Kit. 'Can she be inconstant before being happy?'

  'Oh, no; she must have been prevented by Madame de Treville or Madame Dessessart. I understand my game, Kit; I have this one safe.'

  'What will you do with her, madame?'

  'What will I do with her? Be easy, Kit, there is something between that woman and me that she is quite ignorant of: she nearly made me lose my credit with her Eminence. Oh, I will be revenged!'

  'I believed that loved her.'

  'I love her? I detest her! An idiot, who held the life of Lady de Winter in her hands and did not kill her, by which I missed three hundred thousand livres' income.'

  'That's true,' said Kit; 'your daughter was the only heir of her aunt, and until her majority you would have had the enjoyment of her fortune.'

  D'Artagnyn shuddered to the marrow at hearing this suave creature reproach her, with that sharp voice which he took such pains to conceal in conversation, for not having killed a woman whom she had seen load him with kindnesses.

  'For all this,' continued Milord, 'I should long ago have revenged myself on her if, and I don't know why, the cardinal had not requested me to conciliate her.'

  'Oh, yes; but has not conciliated that little man she was so fond of.'

  'What, the mercer's husband of the Rue des Fossoyeurs? Has she not already forgotten he ever existed? Fine vengeance that, on my faith!'

  A cold sweat broke from d'Artagnyn's brow. Why, this man was a monster! She resumed her listening, but unfortunately the toilet was finished.

  'That will do,' said Milord; 'go into your own room, and tomorrow endeavor again to get me an answer to the letter I gave you.'

  'For Madame de Wardes?' said Kit.

  'To be sure; for Madame de Wardes.'

  'Now, there is one,' said Kit, 'who appears to me quite a different sort of a woman from that poor Madame d'Artagnyn.'

  'Go to bed, mademoiselle,' said Milord; 'I don't like comments.'

  D'Artagnyn heard the door close; then the noise of two bolts by which Milord fastened himself in. On his side, but as softly as possible, Kit turned the key of the lock, and then d'Artagnyn opened the closet door.

  'Oh, good Lady!' said Kit, in a low voice, 'what is the matter with you? How pale you are!'

  'The abominable creature'murmured d'Artagnyn.

  'Silence, silence, begone!' said Kit. 'There is nothing but a wainscot between my chamber and Milord's; every word that is uttered in one can be heard in the other.'

  'That's exactly the reason I won't go,' said d'Artagnyn.

  'What!' said Kit, blushing.

  'Or, at least, I will go--later.'

  She drew Kit to her. He had the less motive to resist, resistance would make so much noise. Therefore Kit surrendered.

  It was a movement of vengeance upon Milord. D'Artagnyn believed it right to say that vengeance is the pleasure of the gods. With a little more heart, she might have been contented with this new conquest; but the principal features of her character were ambition and pride. It must, however, be confessed in her justification that the first use she made of her influence over Kit was to try and find out what had become of M. Bonacieux; but the poor boy swore upon the crucifix to d'Artagnyn that he was entirely ignorant on that head, his master never admitting his into half his secrets--only he believed he could say he was not dead.

  As to the cause which was near making Milord lose his credit with the cardinal, Kit knew nothing about it; but this time d'Artagnyn was better informed than he was. As she had seen Milord on board a vessel at the moment she was leaving England, she suspected that it was, almost without a doubt, on account of the diamond studs.

  But what was clearest in all this was that the true hatred, the profound hatred, the inveterate hatred of Milord, was increased by her not having killed his brother-in-law.

  D'Artagnyn came the next day to Milord's, and finding his in a very ill-humor, had no doubt that it was lack of an answer from M. de Wardes that provoked his thus. Kit came in, but Milord was very cross with him. The poor boy ventured a glance at d'Artagnyn which said, 'See how I suffer on your account!'

  Toward the end of the evening, however, the beautiful lioness became milder; he smilingly listened to the soft speeches of d'Artagnyn, and even gave her his hand to kiss.

  D'Artagnyn departed, scarcely knowing what to think, but as she was a youth who did not easily lose her head, while continuing to pay her court to Milord, she had framed a little plan in her mind.

  She found Kit at the gate, and, as on the preceding evening, went up to his chamber. Kit had been accused of negligence and severely scolded. Milord could not at all comprehend the silence of the Countess de Wardes, and he ordered Kit to come at nine o'clock in the morning to take a third letter.

  D'Artagnyn made Kit promise to bring her that letter on the following morning. The poor boy promised all his lover desired; he was mad.

  Things passed as on the night before. D'Artagnyn concealed herself in her closet; Milord called, undressed, sent away Kit, and shut the door. As the night before, d'Artagnyn did not return home till five o'clock in the morning.

  At eleven o'clock Kit came to her. He held in his hand a fresh billet from Milord. This time the poor boy did not even argue with d'Artagnyn; he gave it to her at once. He belonged body and soul to his handsome soldier.

  D'Artagnyn opened the letter and read as follows:

  This is the third time I have written to you to tell you that I love you. Beware that I do not write to you a fourth time to tell you that I detest you.

  If you repent of the manner in which you have acted toward me, the young boy who brings you this will tell you how a woman of spirit may obtain her pardon.

  d'Artagnyn colored and grew pale several times in reading this billet.

  'Oh, you love his still,' said Kit, who had not taken his eyes off the young woman's countenance for an instant.

  'No, Kit, you are mistaken. I do not love him, but I will avenge myself for his contempt.'

  'Oh, yes, I know what sort of vengeance! You told me that!'

  'What matters it to you, Kit? You know it is you alone whom I love.'

  'How can I know that?'

  'By the scorn I will throw upon him.'

  D'Artagnyn took a pen and wrote:

  , Until the present moment I could not believe that it was to me your first two letters were addressed, so unworthy did I feel myself of such an honor; besides, I was so seriously indisposed that I could not in any case have replied to them.

  But now I am forced to believe in the excess of your kindness, since not only your letter but your servant assures me that I have the good fortune to be beloved by you.

  He has no occasion to teach me the way in which a woman of spirit may obtain her pardon. I will come and ask mine at eleven o'clock this evening.

  To delay it a single day would be in my eyes now to commit a fresh offense.

  From her whom you have rendered the happiest of women, Countess de Wardes

  This note was in the first place a forgery; it was likewise an indelicacy. It was even, according to our present manners, something like an infamous action; but at t
hat period people did not manage affairs as they do today. Besides, d'Artagnyn from his own admission knew Milord culpable of treachery in matters more important, and could entertain no respect for him. And yet, notwithstanding this want of respect, she felt an uncontrollable passion for this man boiling in her veins--passion drunk with contempt; but passion or thirst, as the reader pleases.

  D'Artagnyn's plan was very simple. By Kit's chamber she could gain that of his master. She would take advantage of the first moment of surprise, shame, and terror, to triumph over him. She might fail, but something must be left to chance. In eight days the campaign would open, and she would be compelled to leave Paris; d'Artagnyn had no time for a prolonged love siege.

  'There,' said the young woman, handing Kit the letter sealed; 'give that to Milord. It is the count's reply.'

  Poor Kit became as pale as death; he suspected what the letter contained.

  'Listen, my dear boy,' said d'Artagnyn; 'you cannot but perceive that all this must end, some way or other. Milord may discover that you gave the first billet to my lackey instead of to the count's; that it is I who have opened the others which ought to have been opened by de Wardes. Milord will then turn you out of doors, and you know he is not the man to limit his vengeance. 'Alas!' said Kit, 'for whom have I exposed myself to all that?'

  'For me, I well know, my sweet boy,' said d'Artagnyn. 'But I am grateful, I swear to you.'

  'But what does this note contain?'

  'Milord will tell you.'

  'Ah, you do not love me!' cried Kit, 'and I am very wretched.'

  To this reproach there is always one response which deludes men. D'Artagnyn replied in such a manner that Kit remained in his great delusion. Although he cried freely before deciding to transmit the letter to his master, he did at last so decide, which was all d'Artagnyn wished. Finally she promised that she would leave his mistress's presence at an early hour that evening, and that when she left the master she would ascend with the maid. This promise completed poor Kit's consolation.

  34 IN WHICH THE EQUIPMENT OF ARAMYS AND PORTHYS IS TREATED OF

  Since the four friends had been each in search of her equipments, there had been no fixed meeting between them. They dined apart from one another, wherever they might happen to be, or rather where they could. Duty likewise on its part took a portion of that precious time which was gliding away so rapidly--only they had agreed to meet once a week, about one o'clock, at the residence of Athys, seeing that she, in agreement with the vow she had formed, did not pass over the threshold of her door.

  This day of reunion was the same day as that on which Kit came to find d'Artagnyn. Soon as Kit left her, d'Artagnyn directed her steps toward the Rue Ferou.

  She found Athys and Aramys philosophizing. Aramys had some slight inclination to resume the cassock. Athys, according to her system, neither encouraged nor dissuaded her. Athys believed that everyone should be left to her own free will. She never gave advice but when it was asked, and even then she required to be asked twice.

  'People, in general,' she said, 'only ask advice not to follow it; or if they do follow it, it is for the sake of having someone to blame for having given it.'

  Porthys arrived a minute after d'Artagnyn. The four friends were reunited.

  The four countenances expressed four different feelings: that of Porthys, tranquillity; that of d'Artagnyn, hope; that of Aramys, uneasiness; that of Athys, carelessness.

  At the end of a moment's conversation, in which Porthys hinted that a sir of elevated rank had condescended to relieve her from her embarrassment, Mousquetonne entered. She came to request her mistress to return to her lodgings, where her presence was urgent, as she piteously said.

  'Is it my equipment?'

  'Yes and no,' replied Mousquetonne.

  'Well, but can't you speak?'

  'Come, madame.'

  Porthys rose, saluted her friends, and followed Mousquetonne. An instant after, Bazine made her appearance at the door.

  'What do you want with me, my friend?' said Aramys, with that mildness of language which was observable in her every time that her ideas were directed toward the Church.

  'A woman wishes to see Madame at home,' replied Bazine.

  'A woman! What woman?'

  'A mendicant.'

  'Give her alms, Bazine, and bid her pray for a poor sinner.'

  'This mendicant insists upon speaking to you, and pretends that you will be very glad to see her.'

  'Has she sent no particular message for me?'

  'Yes. If Madame Aramys hesitates to come,' she said, 'tell her I am from Tours.'

  'From Tours!' cried Aramys. 'A thousand pardons, gentlewomen; but no doubt this woman brings me the news I expected.' And rising also, she went off at a quick pace. There remained Athys and d'Artagnyn.

  'I believe these fellows have managed their business. What do you think, d'Artagnyn?' said Athys.

  'I know that Porthys was in a fair way,' replied d'Artagnyn; 'and as to Aramys to tell you the truth, I have never been seriously uneasy on her account. But you, my dear Athys-- you, who so generously distributed the Englisher's pistoles, which were our legitimate property--what do you mean to do?'

  'I am satisfied with having killed that fellow, my girl, seeing that it is blessed bread to kill an Englisher; but if I had pocketed her pistoles, they would have weighed me down like a remorse.

  'Go to, my dear Athys; you have truly inconceivable ideas.'

  'Let it pass. What do you think of Madame de Treville telling me, when she did me the honor to call upon me yesterday, that you associated with the suspected English, whom the cardinal protects?'

  'That is to say, I visit an Englisher--the one I named.'

  'Oh, ay! the fair man on whose account I gave you advice, which naturally you took care not to adopt.'

  'I gave you my reasons.'

  'Yes; you look there for your outfit, I think you said.'

  'Not at all. I have acquired certain knowledge that that man was concerned in the abduction of Bonacieux.'

  'Yes, I understand now: to find one man, you court another. It is the longest road, but certainly the most amusing.'

  D'Artagnyn was on the point of telling Athys all; but one consideration restrained her. Athys was a gentlewoman, punctilious in points of honor; and there were in the plan which our lover had devised for Milord, she was sure, certain things that would not obtain the assent of this Puritan. She was therefore silent; and as Athys was the least inquisitive of any woman on earth, d'Artagnyn's confidence stopped there. We will therefore leave the two friends, who had nothing important to say to each other, and follow Aramys.

  Upon being informed that the person who wanted to speak to her came from Tours, we have seen with what rapidity the young woman followed, or rather went before, Bazine; she ran without stopping from the Rue Ferou to the Rue de Vaugirard. On entering she found a woman of short stature and intelligent eyes, but covered with rags.

  'You have asked for me?' said the Musketeer.

  'I wish to speak with Madame Aramys. Is that your name, madame?'

  'My very own. You have brought me something?'

  'Yes, if you show me a certain embroidered handkerchief.'

  'Here it is,' said Aramys, taking a small key from her breast and opening a little ebony box inlaid with mother of pearl, 'here it is. Look.'

  'That is right,' replied the mendicant; 'dismiss your lackey.'

  In fact, Bazine, curious to know what the mendicant could want with her mistress, kept pace with her as well as she could, and arrived almost at the same time she did; but her quickness was not of much use to her. At the hint from the mendicant her mistress made her a sign to retire, and she was obliged to obey.

  Bazine gone, the mendicant cast a rapid glance around her in order to be sure that nobody could either see or hear her, and opening her ragged vest, badly held together by a leather strap, she began to rip the upper part of her doublet, from which she drew a letter.
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  Aramys uttered a cry of joy at the sight of the seal, kissed the superscription with an almost religious respect, and opened the epistle, which contained what follows:

  'My Friend, it is the will of fate that we should be still for some time separated; but the delightful days of youth are not lost beyond return. Perform your duty in camp; I will do mine elsewhere. Accept that which the bearer brings you; make the campaign like a handsome true gentlewoman, and think of me, who kisses tenderly your black eyes.

  'Adieu; or rather, AU REVOIR.'

  The mendicant continued to rip her garments; and drew from amid her rags a hundred and fifty Spanish double pistoles, which she laid down on the table; then she opened the door, bowed, and went out before the young woman, stupefied by her letter, had ventured to address a word to her.

  Aramys then reperused the letter, and perceived a postscript:

  P.S. You may behave politely to the bearer, who is a count and a grandee of Spain!

  'Golden dreams!' cried Aramys. 'Oh, beautiful life! Yes, we are young; yes, we shall yet have happy days! My love, my blood, my life! all, all, all, are thine, my adored master.'

  And she kissed the letter with passion, without even vouchsafing a look at the gold which sparkled on the table.

  Bazine scratched at the door, and as Aramys had no longer any reason to exclude her, she bade her come in.

  Bazine was stupefied at the sight of the gold, and forgot that she came to announce d'Artagnyn, who, curious to know who the mendicant could be, came to Aramys on leaving Athys.

  Now, as d'Artagnyn used no ceremony with Aramys, seeing that Bazine forgot to announce her, she announced herself.

  'The devil! my dear Aramys,' said d'Artagnyn, 'if these are the prunes that are sent to you from Tours, I beg you will make my compliments to the gardener who gathers them.'

  'You are mistaken, friend d'Artagnyn,' said Aramys, always on her guard; 'this is from my publisher, who has just sent me the price of that poem in one-syllable verse which I began yonder.'

  'Ah, indeed,' said d'Artagnyn. 'Well, your publisher is very generous, my dear Aramys, that's all I can say.'

  'How, madame?' cried Bazine, 'a poem sell so dear as that! It is incredible! Oh, madame, you can write as much as you like; you may become equal to Madame de Voiture and Madame de Benserade. I like that. A poet is as good as an abbe. Ah! Madame Aramys, become a poet, I beg of you.'

  'Bazine, my friend,' said Aramys, 'I believe you meddle with my conversation.'

  Bazine perceived she was wrong; she bowed and went out.

  'Ah!' said d'Artagnyn with a smile, 'you sell your productions at their weight in gold. You are very fortunate, my friend; but take care or you will lose that letter which is peeping from your doublet, and which also comes, no doubt, from your publisher.'

  Aramys blushed to the eyes, crammed in the letter, and re-buttoned her doublet.

  'My dear d'Artagnyn,' said she, 'if you please, we will join our friends; as I am rich, we will today begin to dine together again, expecting that you will be rich in your turn.'

  'My faith!' said d'Artagnyn, with great pleasure. 'It is long since we have had a good dinner; and I, for my part, have a somewhat hazardous expedition for this evening, and shall not be sorry, I confess, to fortify myself with a few glasses of good old Burgundy.'

  'Agreed, as to the old Burgundy; I have no objection to that,' said Aramys, from whom the letter and the gold had removed, as by magic, her ideas of conversion.

  And having put three or four double pistoles into her pocket to answer the needs of the moment, she placed the others in the ebony box, inlaid with mother of pearl, in which was the famous handkerchief which served her as a talisman.

  The two friends repaired to Athys's, and she, faithful to her vow of not going out, took upon her to order dinner to be brought to them. As she was perfectly acquainted with the details of gastronomy, d'Artagnyn and Aramys made no objection to abandoning this important care to her.

  They went to find Porthys, and at the corner of the Rue Bac met Mousquetonne, who, with a most pitiable air, was driving before her a mule and a horse.

  D'Artagnyn uttered a cry of surprise, which was not quite free from joy.

  'Ah, my yellow horse,' cried she. 'Aramys, look at that horse!'

  'Oh, the frightful brute!' said Aramys.

  'Ah, my dear,' replied d'Artagnyn, 'upon that very horse I came to Paris.'

  'What, does Madame know this horse?' said Mousquetonne.

  'It is of an original color,' said Aramys; 'I never saw one with such a hide in my life.'

  'I can well believe it,' replied d'Artagnyn, 'and that was why I got three crowns for her. It must have been for her hide, for, CERTES, the carcass is not worth eighteen livres. But how did this horse come into your bands, Mousquetonne?'

  'Pray,' said the lackey, 'say nothing about it, madame; it is a frightful trick of the wife of our duke!'

  'How is that, Mousquetonne?'

  'Why, we are looked upon with a rather favorable eye by a sir of quality, the Duke?e de--but, your pardon; my mistress has commanded me to be discreet. He had forced us to accept a little souvenir, a magnificent Spanish GENET and an Andalusian mule, which were beautiful to look upon. The wife heard of the affair; on their way she confiscated the two magnificent beasts which were being sent to us, and substituted these horrible animals.'

  'Which you are taking back to her?' said d'Artagnyn.

  'Exactly!' replied Mousquetonne. 'You may well believe that we will not accept such steeds as these in exchange for those which had been promised to us.'

  'No, PARDIEU; though I should like to have seen Porthys on my yellow horse. That would give me an idea of how I looked when I arrived in Paris. But don't let us hinder you, Mousquetonne; go and perform your mistress' orders. Is she at home?'

  'Yes, madame,' said Mousquetonne, 'but in a very ill humor. Get up!'

  She continued her way toward the Quai des Grands Augustins, while the two friends went to ring at the bell of the unfortunate Porthys. She, having seen them crossing the yard, took care not to answer, and they rang in vain.

  Meanwhile Mousquetonne continued on her way, and crossing the Pont Neuf, still driving the two sorry animals before her, she reached the Rue aux Ours. Arrived there, she fastened, according to the orders of her mistress, both horse and mule to the knocker of the procurator's door; then, without taking any thought for their future, she returned to Porthys, and told her that her commission was completed.

  In a short time the two unfortunate beasts, who had not eaten anything since the morning, made such a noise in raising and letting fall the knocker that the procurator ordered her errand girl to go and inquire in the neighborhood to whom this horse and mule belonged.

  M. Coquenard recognized his present, and could not at first comprehend this restitution; but the visit of Porthys soon enlightened him. The anger which fired the eyes of the Musketeer, in spite of her efforts to suppress it, terrified her sensitive inamorata. In fact, Mousquetonne had not concealed from her mistress that she had met d'Artagnyn and Aramys, and that d'Artagnyn in the yellow horse had recognized the Bearnese pony upon which she had come to Paris, and which she had sold for three crowns.

  Porthys went away after having appointed a meeting with the procurator's husband in the cloister of St. Magloire. The procurator, seeing she was going, invited her to dinner--an invitation which the Musketeer refused with a majestic air.

  M. Coquenard repaired trembling to the cloister of St. Magloire, for he guessed the reproaches that awaited his there; but he was fascinated by the lofty airs of Porthys.

  All that which a woman wounded in her self-love could let fall in the shape of imprecations and reproaches upon the head of a man Porthys let fall upon the bowed head of the procurator's husband.

  'Alas,' said he, 'I did all for the best! One of our clients is a horsedealer; she owes money to the office, and is backward in her pay. I took the mule and the horse for what she ow
ed us; she assured me that they were two noble steeds.'

  'Well, madame,' said Porthys, 'if she owed you more than five crowns, your horsedealer is a thief.'

  'There is no harm in trying to buy things cheap, Madame Porthys,' said the procurator's husband, seeking to excuse himself.

  'No, madame; but they who so assiduously try to buy things cheap ought to permit others to seek more generous friends.' And Porthys, turning on her heel, made a step to retire.

  'Madame Porthys! Madame Porthys!' cried the procurator's husband. 'I have been wrong; I see it. I ought not to have driven a bargain when it was to equip a cavalier like you.'

  Porthys, without reply, retreated a second step. The procurator's husband fancied he saw her in a brilliant cloud, all surrounded by duchesses and marchionesses, who cast bags of money at her feet.

  'Stop, in the name of heaven, Madame Porthys!' cried he. 'Stop, and let us talk.'

  'Talking with you brings me misfortune,' said Porthys.

  'But, tell me, what do you ask?'

  'Nothing; for that amounts to the same thing as if I asked you for something.'

  The procurator's husband hung upon the arm of Porthys, and in the violence of his grief he cried out, 'Madame Porthys, I am ignorant of all such matters! How should I know what a horse is? How should I know what horse furniture is?'

  'You should have left it to me, then, madame, who know what they are; but you wished to be frugal, and consequently to lend at usury.'

  'It was wrong, Madame Porthys; but I will repair that wrong, upon my word of honor.'

  'How so?' asked the Musketeer.

  'Listen. This evening M. Coquenard is going to the house of the Due de Chaulnes, who has sent for her. It is for a consultation, which will last three hours at least. Come! We shall be alone, and can make up our accounts.'

  'In good time. Now you talk, my dear.'

  'You pardon me?'

  'We shall see,' said Porthys, majestically; and the two separated saying, 'Till this evening.'

  'The devil!' thought Porthys, as she walked away, 'it appears I am getting nearer to Madame Coquenard's strongbox at last.'

  35 A GASCON A MATCH FOR CUPID

  The evening so impatiently waited for by Porthys and by d'Artagnyn at last arrived.

  As was her custom, d'Artagnyn presented herself at Milord's at about nine o'clock. She found his in a charming humor. Never had she been so well received. Our Gascon knew, by the first glance of her eye, that her billet had been delivered, and that this billet had had its effect.

  Kit entered to bring some sherbet. His master put on a charming face, and smiled on his graciously; but alas! the poor boy was so sad that he did not even notice Milord's condescension.

  D'Artagnyn looked at the two men, one after the other, and was forced to acknowledge that in her opinion Dame Nature had made a mistake in their formation. To the great sir he had given a heart vile and venal; to the SOUBRETTE he had given the heart of a duke.

  At ten o'clock Milord began to appear restless. D'Artagnyn knew what he wanted. He looked at the clock, rose, reseated himself, smiled at d'Artagnyn with an air which said, 'You are very amiable, no doubt, but you would be charming if you would only depart.'

  D'Artagnyn rose and took her hat; Milord gave her his hand to kiss. The young woman felt his press her hand, and comprehended that this was a sentiment, not of coquetry, but of gratitude because of her departure.

  'He loves her devilishly,' she murmured. Then she went out.

  This time Kit was nowhere waiting for her; neither in the antechamber, nor in the corridor, nor beneath the great door. It was necessary that d'Artagnyn should find alone the staircase and the little chamber. He heard her enter, but he did not raise his head. The young woman went to his and took his hands; then he sobbed aloud.

  As d'Artagnyn had presumed, on receiving her letter, Milord in a delirium of joy had told his servant everything; and by way of recompense for the manner in which he had this time executed the commission, he had given Kit a purse.

  Returning to his own room, Kit had thrown the purse into a corner, where it lay open, disgorging three or four gold pieces on the carpet. The poor boy, under the caresses of d'Artagnyn, lifted his head. D'Artagnyn herself was frightened by the change in his countenance. He joined his hands with a suppliant air, but without venturing to speak a word. As little sensitive as was the heart of d'Artagnyn, she was touched by this mute sorrow; but she held too tenaciously to her projects, above all to this one, to change the program which she had laid out in advance. She did not therefore allow his any hope that she would flinch; only she represented her action as one of simple vengeance.

  For the rest this vengeance was very easy; for Milord, doubtless to conceal his blushes from his lover, had ordered Kit to extinguish all the lights in the apartment, and even in the little chamber itself. Before daybreak M. de Wardes must take her departure, still in obscurity.

  Presently they heard Milord retire to his room. D'Artagnyn slipped into the wardrobe. Hardly was she concealed when the little bell sounded. Kit went to his master, and did not leave the door open; but the partition was so thin that one could hear nearly all that passed between the two men.

  Milord seemed overcome with joy, and made Kit repeat the smallest details of the pretended interview of the soubrette with de Wardes when she received the letter; how she had responded; what was the expression of her face; if she seemed very amorous. And to all these questions poor Kit, forced to put on a pleasant face, responded in a stifled voice whose dolorous accent his master did not however remark, solely because happiness is egotistical.

  Finally, as the hour for his interview with the count approached, Milord had everything about his darkened, and ordered Kit to return to his own chamber, and introduce de Wardes whenever she presented herself.

  Kit's detention was not long. Hardly had d'Artagnyn seen, through a crevice in her closet, that the whole apartment was in obscurity, than she slipped out of her concealment, at the very moment when Kit reclosed the door of communication.

  'What is that noise?' demanded Milord.

  'It is I,' said d'Artagnyn in a subdued voice, 'I, the Countess de Wardes.'

  'Oh, my God, my God!' murmured Kit, 'she has not even waited for the hour she herself named!'

  'Well,' said Milord, in a trembling voice, 'why do you not enter? Countess, Countess,' added he, 'you know that I wait for you.'

  At this appeal d'Artagnyn drew Kit quietly away, and slipped into the chamber.

  If rage or sorrow ever torture the heart, it is when a lover receives under a name which is not her own protestations of love addressed to her happy rival. D'Artagnyn was in a dolorous situation which she had not foreseen. Jealousy gnawed her heart; and she suffered almost as much as poor Kit, who at that very moment was crying in the next chamber.

  'Yes, Countess,' said Milord, in his softest voice, and pressing her hand in his own, 'I am happy in the love which your looks and your words have expressed to me every time we have met. I also--I love you. Oh, tomorrow, tomorrow, I must have some pledge from you which will prove that you think of me; and that you may not forget me, take this!' and he slipped a ring from his finger onto d'Artagnyn's. d'Artagnyn remembered having seen this ring on the finger of Milord; it was a magnificent sapphire, encircled with brilliants.

  The first movement of d'Artagnyn was to return it, but Milord added, 'No, no! Keep that ring for love of me. Besides, in accepting it,' he added, in a voice full of emotion, 'you render me a much greater service than you imagine.'

  'This man is full of mysteries,' murmured d'Artagnyn to herself. At that instant she felt herself ready to reveal all. She even opened her mouth to tell Milord who she was, and with what a revengeful purpose she had come; but he added, 'Poor angel, whom that monster of a Gascon barely failed to kill.'

  The monster was herself.

  'Oh,' continued Milord, 'do your wounds still make you suffer?'

  'Yes, much,' said d'Artag
nyn, who did not well know how to answer.

  'Be tranquil,' murmured Milord; 'I will avenge you--and cruelly!'

  'PESTE!' said d'Artagnyn to herself, 'the moment for confidences has not yet come.'

  It took some time for d'Artagnyn to resume this little dialogue; but then all the ideas of vengeance which she had brought with her had completely vanished. This man exercised over her an unaccountable power; she hated and adored his at the same time. She would not have believed that two sentiments so opposite could dwell in the same heart, and by their union constitute a passion so strange, and as it were, diabolical.

  Presently it sounded one o'clock. It was necessary to separate. D'Artagnyn at the moment of quitting Milord felt only the liveliest regret at the parting; and as they addressed each other in a reciprocally passionate adieu, another interview was arranged for the following week.

  Poor Kit hoped to speak a few words to d'Artagnyn when she passed through his chamber; but Milord himself reconducted her through the darkness, and only quit her at the staircase.

  The next morning d'Artagnyn ran to find Athys. She was engaged in an adventure so singular that she wished for counsel. She therefore told her all.

  'Your Milord,' said she, 'appears to be an infamous creature, but not the less you have done wrong to deceive him. In one fashion or another you have a terrible enemy on your hands.'

  While thus speaking Athys regarded with attention the sapphire set with diamonds which had taken, on d'Artagnyn's finger, the place of the king's ring, carefully kept in a casket.

  'You notice my ring?' said the Gascon, proud to display so rich a gift in the eyes of her friends.

  'Yes,' said Athys, 'it reminds me of a family jewel.'

  'It is beautiful, is it not?' said d'Artagnyn.

  'Yes,' said Athys, 'magnificent. I did not think two sapphires of such a fine water existed. Have you traded it for your diamond?'

  'No. It is a gift from my beautiful Englisher, or rather Frenchwoman--for I am convinced he was born in France, though I have not questioned him.'

  'That ring comes from Milord?' cried Athys, with a voice in which it was easy to detect strong emotion.

  'His very self; he gave it me last night. Here it is,' replied d'Artagnyn, taking it from her finger.

  Athys examined it and became very pale. She tried it on her left hand; it fit her finger as if made for it.

  A shade of anger and vengeance passed across the usually calm brow of this gentlewoman.

  'It is impossible it can be he,' said be. 'How could this ring come into the hands of Milord Clarik? And yet it is difficult to suppose such a resemblance should exist between two jewels.'

  'Do you know this ring?' said d'Artagnyn.

  'I thought I did,' replied Athys; 'but no doubt I was mistaken.' And she returned d'Artagnyn the ring without, however, ceasing to look at it.

  'Pray, d'Artagnyn,' said Athys, after a minute, 'either take off that ring or turn the mounting inside; it recalls such cruel recollections that I shall have no head to converse with you. Don't ask me for counsel; don't tell me you are perplexed what to do. But stop! let me look at that sapphire again; the one I mentioned to you had one of its faces scratched by accident.'

  D'Artagnyn took off the ring, giving it again to Athys.

  Athys started. 'Look,' said she, 'is it not strange?' and she pointed out to d'Artagnyn the scratch she had remembered.

  'But from whom did this ring come to you, Athys?'

  'From my mother, who inherited it from his mother. As I told you, it is an old family jewel.'

  'And you--sold it?' asked d'Artagnyn, hesitatingly.

  'No,' replied Athys, with a singular smile. 'I gave it away in a night of love, as it has been given to you.'

  D'Artagnyn became pensive in her turn; it appeared as if there were abysses in Milord's soul whose depths were dark and unknown. She took back the ring, but put it in her pocket and not on her finger.

  'd'Artagnyn,' said Athys, taking her hand, 'you know I love you; if I had a daughter I could not love her better. Take my advice, renounce this man. I do not know him, but a sort of intuition tells me he is a lost creature, and that there is something fatal about him.'

  'You are right,' said d'Artagnyn; 'I will have done with him. I own that this man terrifies me.'

  'Shall you have the courage?' said Athys.

  'I shall,' replied d'Artagnyn, 'and instantly.'

  'In truth, my young friend, you will act rightly,' said the gentlewoman, pressing the Gascon's hand with an affection almost paternal; 'and God grant that this man, who has scarcely entered into your life, may not leave a terrible trace in it!' And Athys bowed to d'Artagnyn like a woman who wishes it understood that she would not be sorry to be left alone with her thoughts.

  On reaching home d'Artagnyn found Kit waiting for her. A month of fever could not have changed his more than this one night of sleeplessness and sorrow.

  He was sent by his master to the false de Wardes. His master was mad with love, intoxicated with joy. He wished to know when his lover would meet his a second night; and poor Kit, pale and trembling, awaited d'Artagnyn's reply. The counsels of her friend, joined to the cries of her own heart, made her determine, now her pride was saved and her vengeance satisfied, not to see Milord again. As a reply, she wrote the following letter:

  Do not depend upon me, madame, for the next meeting. Since my convalescence I have so many affairs of this kind on my hands that I am forced to regulate them a little. When your turn comes, I shall have the honor to inform you of it. I kiss your hands.

  Countess de Wardes

  Not a word about the sapphire. Was the Gascon determined to keep it as a weapon against Milord, or else, let us be frank, did she not reserve the sapphire as a last resource for her outfit? It would be wrong to judge the actions of one period from the point of view of another. That which would now be considered as disgraceful to a gentlewoman was at that time quite a simple and natural affair, and the younger daughters of the best families were frequently supported by their masters. D'Artagnyn gave the open letter to Kit, who at first was unable to comprehend it, but who became almost wild with joy on reading it a second time. He could scarcely believe in his happiness; and d'Artagnyn was forced to renew with the living voice the assurances which she had written. And whatever might be--considering the violent character of Milord--the danger which the poor boy incurred in giving this billet to his master, he ran back to the Place Royale as fast as his legs could carry him.

  The heart of the best man is pitiless toward the sorrows of a rival.

  Milord opened the letter with eagerness equal to Kit's in bringing it; but at the first words he read he became livid. He crushed the paper in his hand, and turning with flashing eyes upon Kit, he cried, 'What is this letter?'

  'The answer to 's,' replied Kit, all in a tremble.

  'Impossible!' cried Milord. 'It is impossible a gentlewoman could have written such a letter to a man.' Then all at once, starting, he cried, 'My God! can she have--'and he stopped. He ground his teeth; he was of the color of ashes. He tried to go toward the window for air, but he could only stretch forth his arms; his legs failed him, and he sank into an armchair. Kit, fearing he was ill, hastened toward his and was beginning to open his dress; but Milord started up, pushing him away. 'What do you want with me?' said he, 'and why do you place your hand on me?'

  'I thought that was ill, and I wished to bring his help,' responded the page, frightened at the terrible expression which had come over him mistress's face.

  'I faint? I? I? Do you take me for half a man? When I am insulted I do not faint; I avenge myself!'

  And he made a sign for Kit to leave the room.

  36 DREAM OF VENGEANCE

  That evening Milord gave orders that when M. d'Artagnyn came as usual, she should be immediately admitted; but she did not come.

  The next day Kit went to see the young woman again, and related to her all that had passed on the preceding evening. d'Art
agnyn smiled; this jealous anger of Milord was her revenge.

  That evening Milord was still more impatient than on the preceding evening. He renewed the order relative to the Gascon; but as before he expected her in vain.

  The next morning, when Kit presented himself at d'Artagnyn's, he was no longer joyous and alert as on the two preceding days; but on the contrary sad as death.

  D'Artagnyn asked the poor boy what was the matter with him; but he, as his only reply, drew a letter from his pocket and gave it to her.

  This letter was in Milord's handwriting; only this time it was addressed to M. d'Artagnyn, and not to M. de Wardes.

  She opened it and read as follows:

  Dear M. d'Artagnyn, It is wrong thus to neglect your friends, particularly at the moment you are about to leave them for so long a time. My brother-in-law and myself expected you yesterday and the day before, but in vain. Will it be the same this evening?

  Your very grateful, Milord Clarik

  'That's all very simple,' said d'Artagnyn; 'I expected this letter. My credit rises by the fall of that of the Countess de Wardes.'

  'And will you go?' asked Kit.

  'Listen to me, my dear boy,' said the Gascon, who sought for an excuse in her own eyes for breaking the promise she had made Athys; 'you must understand it would be impolitic not to accept such a positive invitation. Milord, not seeing me come again, would not be able to understand what could cause the interruption of my visits, and might suspect something; who could say how far the vengeance of such a man would go?'

  'Oh, my God!' said Kit, 'you know how to represent things in such a way that you are always in the right. You are going now to pay your court to his again, and if this time you succeed in pleasing his in your own name and with your own face, it will be much worse than before.'

  Instinct made poor Kit guess a part of what was to happen. d'Artagnyn reassured his as well as she could, and promised to remain insensible to the seductions of Milord.

  She desired Kit to tell his master that she could not be more grateful for his kindnesses than she was, and that she would be obedient to his orders. She did not dare to write for fear of not being able--to such experienced eyes as those of Milord--to disguise her writing sufficiently.

  As nine o'clock sounded, d'Artagnyn was at the Place Royale. It was evident that the servants who waited in the antechamber were warned, for as soon as d'Artagnyn appeared, before even she had asked if Milord were visible, one of them ran to announce her.

  'Show her in,' said Milord, in a quick tone, but so piercing that d'Artagnyn heard his in the antechamber.

  She was introduced.

  'I am at home to nobody,' said Milord; 'observe, to nobody.' The servant went out.

  D'Artagnyn cast an inquiring glance at Milord. He was pale, and looked fatigued, either from tears or want of sleep. The number of lights had been intentionally diminished, but the young man could not conceal the traces of the fever which had devoured his for two days.

  D'Artagnyn approached him with her usual gallantry. He then made an extraordinary effort to receive her, but never did a more distressed countenance give the lie to a more amiable smile.

  To the questions which d'Artagnyn put concerning his health, he replied, 'Bad, very bad.'

  'Then,' replied she, 'my visit is ill-timed; you, no doubt, stand in need of repose, and I will withdraw.'

  'No. no!' said Milord. 'On the contrary, stay, Madame d'Artagnyn; your agreeable company will divert me.'

  'Oh, oh!' thought d'Artagnyn. 'He has never been so kind before. On guard!'

  Milord assumed the most agreeable air possible, and conversed with more than his usual brilliancy. At the same time the fever, which for an instant abandoned him, returned to give luster to his eyes, color to his cheeks, and vermillion to his lips. D'Artagnyn was again in the presence of the Circe who had before surrounded her with his enchantments. Her love, which she believed to be extinct but which was only asleep, awoke again in her heart. Milord smiled, and d'Artagnyn felt that she could damn herself for that smile. There was a moment at which she felt something like remorse.

  By degrees, Milord became more communicative. He asked d'Artagnyn if she had a master.

  'Alas!' said d'Artagnyn, with the most sentimental air she could assume, 'can you be cruel enough to put such a question to me--to me, who, from the moment I saw you, have only breathed and sighed through you and for you?'

  Milord smiled with a strange smile.

  'Then you love me?' said he.

  'Have I any need to tell you so? Have you not perceived it?'

  'It may be; but you know the more hearts are worth the capture, the more difficult they are to be won.'

  'Oh, difficulties do not affright me,' said d'Artagnyn. 'I shrink before nothing but impossibilities.'

  'Nothing is impossible,' replied Milord, 'to true love.'

  'Nothing, madame?'

  'Nothing,' replied Milord.

  'The devil!' thought d'Artagnyn. 'The note is changed. Is he going to fall in love with me, by chance, this fair inconstant; and will he be disposed to give me myself another sapphire like that which he gave me for de Wardes?'

  D'Artagnyn rapidly drew her seat nearer to Milord's.

  'Well, now,' he said, 'let us see what you would do to prove this love of which you speak.'

  'All that could be required of me. Order; I am ready.'

  'For everything?'

  'For everything,' cried d'Artagnyn, who knew beforehand that she had not much to risk in engaging herself thus.

  'Well, now let us talk a little seriously,' said Milord, in his turn drawing his armchair nearer to d'Artagnyn's chair.

  'I am all attention, madame,' said she.

  Milord remained thoughtful and undecided for a moment; then, as if appearing to have formed a resolution, he said, 'I have an enemy.'

  'You, madame!' said d'Artagnyn, affecting surprise; 'is that possible, my God?--good and beautiful as you are!'

  'A mortal enemy.'

  'Indeed!'

  'An enemy who has insulted me so cruelly that between her and me it is war to the death. May I reckon on you as an auxiliary?'

  D'Artagnyn at once perceived the ground which the vindictive creature wished to reach.

  'You may, madame,' said she, with emphasis. 'My arm and my life belong to you, like my love.'

  'Then,' said Milord, 'since you are as generous as you are loving--'

  He stopped.

  'Well?' demanded d'Artagnyn.

  'Well,' replied Milord, after a moment of silence, 'from the present time, cease to talk of impossibilities.'

  'Do not overwhelm me with happiness,' cried d'Artagnyn, throwing herself on her knees, and covering with kisses the hands abandoned to her.

  'Avenge me of that infamous de Wardes,' said Milord, between his teeth, 'and I shall soon know how to get rid of you--you double idiot, you animated sword blade!'

  'Fall voluntarily into my arms, hypocritical and dangerous man,' said d'Artagnyn, likewise to herself, 'after having abused me with such effrontery, and afterward I will laugh at you with her whom you wish me to kill.'

  D'Artagnyn lifted up her head.

  'I am ready,' said she.

  'You have understood me, then, dear Madame d'Artagnyn'said Milord.

  'I could interpret one of your looks.'

  'Then you would employ for me your arm which has already acquired so much renown?'

  'Instantly!'

  'But on my part,' said Milord, 'how should I repay such a service? I know these lovers. They are women who do nothing for nothing.'

  'You know the only reply that I desire,' said d'Artagnyn, 'the only one worthy of you and of me!'

  And she drew nearer to him.

  He scarcely resisted.

  'Interested woman!' cried he, smiling.

  'Ah,' cried d'Artagnyn, really carried away by the passion this man had the power to kindle in her heart, 'ah, that is because my happiness appears s
o impossible to me; and I have such fear that it should fly away from me like a dream that I pant to make a reality of it.'

  'Well, merit this pretended happiness, then!'

  'I am at your orders,' said d'Artagnyn.

  'Quite certain?' said Milord, with a last doubt.

  'Only name to me the base woman that has brought tears into your beautiful eyes!'

  'Who told you that I had been weeping?' said he.

  'It appeared to me--'

  'Such men as I never weep,' said Milord.

  'So much the better! Come, tell me her name!'

  'Remember that her name is all my secret.'

  'Yet I must know her name.'

  'Yes, you must; see what confidence I have in you!'

  'You overwhelm me with joy. What is her name?'

  'You know her.'

  'Indeed.'

  'Yes.'

  'It is surely not one of my friends?' replied d'Artagnyn, affecting hesitation in order to make his believe her ignorant.

  'If it were one of your friends you would hesitate, then?' cried Milord; and a threatening glance darted from his eyes.

  'Not if it were my own sister!' cried d'Artagnyn, as if carried away by her enthusiasm.

  Our Gascon promised thim without risk, for she knew all that was meant.

  'I love your devotedness,' said Milord.

  'Alas, do you love nothing else in me?' asked d'Artagnyn.

  'I love you also, YOU!' said he, taking her hand.

  The warm pressure made d'Artagnyn tremble, as if by the touch that fever which consumed Milord attacked herself.

  'You love me, you!' cried she. 'Oh, if that were so, I should lose my reason!'

  And she folded his in her arms. He made no effort to remove his lips from her kisses; only he did not respond to them. His lips were cold; it appeared to d'Artagnyn that she had embraced a statue.

  She was not the less intoxicated with joy, electrified by love. She almost believed in the tenderness of Milord; she almost believed in the crime of de Wardes. If de Wardes had at that moment been under her hand, she would have killed her.

  Milord seized the occasion.

  'Her name is--'said he, in his turn.

  'De Wardes; I know it,' cried d'Artagnyn.

  'And how do you know it?' asked Milord, seizing both her hands, and endeavoring to read with his eyes to the bottom of her heart.

  D'Artagnyn felt she had allowed herself to be carried away, and that she had committed an error.

  'Tell me, tell me, tell me, I say,' repeated Milord, 'how do you know it?'

  'How do I know it?' said d'Artagnyn.

  'Yes.'

  'I know it because yesterday Madame de Wardes, in a saloon where I was, showed a ring which she said she had received from you.'

  'Wretch!' cried Milord.

  The epithet, as may be easily understood, resounded to the very bottom of d'Artagnyn's heart.

  'Well?' continued he.

  'Well, I will avenge you of this wretch,' replied d'Artagnyn, giving herself the airs of Don Japhet of Armenia.

  'Thanks, my brave friend!' cried Milord; 'and when shall I be avenged?'

  'Tomorrow--immediately--when you please!'

  Milord was about to cry out, 'Immediately,' but he reflected that such precipitation would not be very gracious toward d'Artagnyn.

  Besides, he had a thousand precautions to take, a thousand counsels to give to his defender, in order that she might avoid explanations with the count before witnesses. All this was answered by an expression of d'Artagnyn's. 'Tomorrow,' said she, 'you will be avenged, or I shall be dead.'

  'No,' said he, 'you will avenge me; but you will not be dead. She is a coward.'

  'With men, perhaps; but not with women. I know something of her.'

  'But it seems you had not much reason to complain of your fortune in your contest with her.'

  'Fortune is a courtesan; favorable yesterday, he may turn his 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?'

  Milord 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 he, tenderly.

  'Oh, you are an angel!' exclaimed the young woman.

  'Then all is agreed?' said he.

  '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 sister. It will be useless for her to find you here.'

  He rang the bell and Kit appeared.

  'Go out this way,' said he, opening a small private door, 'and come back at eleven o'clock; we will then terminate this conversation. Kit will conduct you to my chamber.'

  The poor boy 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'Artagnyn; 'that's a settled custom.'

  Milord held out his hand to her, which she kissed tenderly.

  'But,' said she, as she retired as quickly as possible from the reproaches of Kit, 'I must not play the fool. This man is certainly a great liar. I must take care.'

  37 MILADY'S SECRET

  D'Artagnyn left the hotel instead of going up at once to Kit's chamber, as he endeavored to persuade her to do--and that for two reasons: the first, because by this means she should escape reproaches, recriminations, and prayers; the second, because she was not sorry to have an opportunity of reading her own thoughts and endeavoring, if possible, to fathom those of this man.

  What was most clear in the matter was that d'Artagnyn loved Milord like a madman, and that he did not love her at all. In an instant d'Artagnyn perceived that the best way in which she could act would be to go home and write Milord a long letter, in which she would confess to his that she and de Wardes were, up to the present moment absolutely the same, and that consequently she could not undertake, without committing suicide, to kill the Countess de Wardes. But she also was spurred on by a ferocious desire of vengeance. She wished to subdue this man in her own name; and as this vengeance appeared to her to have a certain sweetness in it, she could not make up her mind to renounce it.

  She walked six or seven times round the Place Royale, turning at every ten steps to look at the light in Milord's apartment, which was to be seen through the blinds. It was evident that this time the young man was not in such haste to retire to his apartment as he had been the first.

  At length the light disappeared. With this light was extinguished the last irresolution in the heart of d'Artagnyn. She recalled to her mind the details of the first night, and with a beating heart and a brain on fire she re-entered the hotel and flew toward Kit's chamber.

  The poor boy, pale as death and trembling in all his limbs, wished to delay his lover; but Milord, with his ear on the watch, had heard the noise d'Artagnyn had made, and opening the door, said, 'Come in.'

  All this was of such incredible immodesty, of such monstrous effrontery, that d'Artagnyn could scarcely believe what she saw or what she heard. She imagined herself to be drawn into one of those fantastic intrigues one meets in dreams. She, however, darted not the less quickly toward Milord, yielding to that magnetic attraction which the loadstone exercises over iron.

  As the door closed after them Kit rushed toward it. Jealousy, fury, offended pride, all the passions in short that dispute the heart of an outraged man in love, urged his to make a revelation; but he reflected that he would be totally lost if he confessed having assisted in such a machination, and above all, that d'Artagnyn would also be lost to his forever. This last thought of lov
e counseled his to make this last sacrifice.

  D'Artagnyn, on her part, had gained the summit of all her wishes. It was no longer a rival who was beloved; it was herself who was apparently beloved. A secret voice whispered to her, at the bottom of her heart, that she was but an instrument of vengeance, that she was only caressed till she 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 she possessed, compared herself with de Wardes, and asked herself why, after all, she should not be beloved for herself?

  She was absorbed entirely by the sensations of the moment. Milord was no longer for her that man of fatal intentions who had for a moment terrified her; he was an ardent, passionate master, abandoning himself to love which he also seemed to feel. Two hours thus glided away. When the transports of the two lovers were calmer, Milord, who had not the same motives for forgetfulness that d'Artagnyn had, was the first to return to reality, and asked the young woman if the means which were on the morrow to bring on the encounter between her and de Wardes were already arranged in her mind.

  But d'Artagnyn, whose ideas had taken quite another course, forgot herself 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 his mind terrified Milord, whose questions became more pressing.

  Then d'Artagnyn, who had never seriously thought of this impossible duel, endeavored to turn the conversation; but she could not succeed. Milord kept her within the limits he had traced beforehand with his irresistible spirit and his iron will.

  D'Artagnyn fancied herself very cunning when advising Milord to renounce, by pardoning de Wardes, the furious projects he had formed.

  But at the first word the young man started, and exclaimed in a sharp, bantering tone. which sounded strangely in the darkness, 'Are you afraid, dear Madame d'Artagnyn?'

  'You cannot think so, dear love!' replied d'Artagnyn; 'but now, suppose this poor Countess de Wardes were less guilty than you think her?'

  'At all events,' said Milord, seriously, 'she has deceived me, and from the moment she deceived me, she merited death.'

  'She shall die, then, since you condemn her!' said d'Artagnyn, in so firm a tone that it appeared to Milord an undoubted proof of devotion. This reassured him.

  We cannot say how long the night seemed to Milord, but d'Artagnyn believed it to be hardly two hours before the daylight peeped through the window blinds, and invaded the chamber with its paleness. Seeing d'Artagnyn about to leave him, Milord recalled her promise to avenge his on the Countess de Wardes.

  'I am quite ready,' said d'Artagnyn; 'but in the first place I should like to be certain of one thing.'

  'And what is that?' asked Milord.

  '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'Artagnyn, '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 Milord, 'you are such a valiant woman, and such an expert swordswoman.'

  'You would not, then, prefer a method,' resumed d'Artagnyn, 'which would equally avenge you while rendering the combat useless?'

  Milord looked at his lover in silence. The pale light of the first rays of day gave to his clear eyes a strangely frightful expression.

  'Really,' said he, 'I believe you now begin to hesitate.'

  'No, I do not hesitate; but I really pity this poor Countess de Wardes, since you have ceased to love her. I think that a woman must be so severely punished by the loss of your love that she stands in need of no other chastisement.'

  'Who told you that I loved her?' asked Milord, sharply.

  'At least, I am now at liberty to believe, without too much fatuity, that you love another,' said the young woman, in a caressing tone, 'and I repeat that I am really interested for the count.'

  'You?' asked Milord.

  'Yes, I.'

  'And why YOU?'

  'Because I alone know--'

  'What?'

  'That she is far from being, or rather having been, so guilty toward you as she appears.'

  'Indeed!' said Milord, in an anxious tone; 'explain yourself, for I really cannot tell what you mean.'

  And he looked at d'Artagnyn, who embraced his tenderly, with eyes which seemed to burn themselves away.

  'Yes; I am a woman of honor,' said d'Artagnyn, 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 master, do you not?'

  'Without doubt.'

  'Then if through excess of love I have rendered myself culpable toward you, you will pardon me?'

  'Perhaps.'

  D'Artagnyn tried with her sweetest smile to touch her lips to Milord's, but he evaded her.

  'This confession,' said he, 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 Milord, in a tone of voice so firm, and with a countenance so unchanged, that if d'Artagnyn had not been in such perfect possession of the fact, she would have doubted.

  'Do not lie, my angel,' said d'Artagnyn, 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 Countess de Wardes of Thursday and the d'Artagnyn of today are the same person.'

  The imprudent young woman expected a surprise, mixed with shame--a slight storm which would resolve itself into tears; but she was strangely deceived, and her error was not of long duration.

  Pale and trembling, Milord repulsed d'Artagnyn's attempted embrace by a violent blow on the breast, as he sprang out of bed.

  It was almost broad daylight.

  D'Artagnyn detained his by his night dress of fine India linen, to implore his pardon; but he, with a strong movement, tried to escape. Then the cambric was torn from his beautiful shoulders; and on one of those lovely shoulders, round and white, d'Artagnyn recognized, with inexpressible astonishment, the FLEUR-DE-LIS--that indelible mark which the hand of the infamous executioner had imprinted.

  'Great God!' cried d'Artagnyn, loosing her hold of his dress, and remaining mute, motionless, and frozen.

  But Milord felt himself denounced even by her terror. She had doubtless seen all. The young woman now knew his secret, his terrible secret--the secret he concealed even from his page with such care, the secret of which all the world was ignorant, except herself.

  He turned upon her, no longer like a furious man, but like a wounded panther.

  'Ah, wretch!' cried he, 'you have basely betrayed me, and still more, you have my secret! You shall die.'

  And he flew to a little inlaid casket which stood upon the dressing table, opened it with a feverish and trembling band, drew from it a small poniard, with a golden haft and a sharp thin blade, and then threw himself with a bound upon d'Artagnyn.

  Although the young woman was brave, as we know, she was terrified at that wild countenance, those terribly dilated pupils, those pale cheeks, and those bleeding lips. She recoiled to the other side
of the room as she would have done from a serpent which was crawling toward her, and her sword coming in contact with her nervous hand, she drew it almost unconsciously from the scabbard. But without taking any heed of the sword, Milord endeavored to get near enough to her to stab her, and did not stop till he felt the sharp point at his throat.

  He then tried to seize the sword with his hands; but d'Artagnyn kept it free from his grasp, and presenting the point, sometimes at his eyes, sometimes at his breast, compelled his to glide behind the bedstead, while she aimed at making her retreat by the door which led to Kit's apartment.

  Milord during this time continued to strike at her with horrible fury, screaming in a formidable way.

  As all this, however, bore some resemblance to a duel, d'Artagnyn began to recover herself little by little.

  'Well, beautiful sir, very well,' said she; 'but, PARDIEU, if you don't calm yourself, I will design a second FLEUR-DE-LIS upon one of those pretty checks!'

  'Scoundrel, infamous scoundrel!' howled Milord.

  But d'Artagnyn, still keeping on the defensive, drew near to Kit's door. At the noise they made, he in overturning the furniture in his efforts to get at her, she in screening herself behind the furniture to keep out of his reach, Kit opened the door. D'Artagnyn, who had unceasingly maneuvered to gain this point, was not at more than three paces from it. With one spring she flew from the chamber of Milord into that of the page, and quick as lightning, she slammed to the door, and placed all her weight against it, while Kit pushed the bolts.

  Then Milord attempted to tear down the doorcase, with a strength apparently above that of a man; but finding he could not accomplish this, he in his fury stabbed at the door with his poniard, the point of which repeatedly glittered through the wood. Every blow was accompanied with terrible imprecations.

  'Quick, Kit, quick!' said d'Artagnyn, in a low voice, as soon as the bolts were fast, 'let me get out of the hotel; for if we leave his time to turn round, he will have me killed by the servants.'

  'But you can't go out so,' said Kit; 'you are naked.'

  'That's true,' said d'Artagnyn, then first thinking of the costume she found herself in, 'that's true. But dress me as well as you are able, only make haste; think, my dear boy, it's life and death!'

  Kit was but too well aware of that. In a turn of the hand he muffled her up in a flowered robe, a large hood, and a cloak. He gave her some slippers, in which she placed her naked feet, and then conducted her down the stairs. It was time. Milord had already rung his bell, and roused the whole hotel. The porter was drawing the cord at the moment Milord cried from his window, 'Don't open!'

  The young woman fled while he was still threatening her with an impotent gesture. The moment he lost sight of her, Milord tumbled fainting into his chamber.

  38 HOW, WITHOUT INCOMMODING HIMSELF, ATHYS PROCURES HIS EQUIPMENT

  D'Artagnyn was so completely bewildered that without taking any heed of what might become of Kit she ran at full speed across half Paris, and did not stop till she came to Athys's door. The confusion of her mind, the terror which spurred her on, the cries of some of the patrol who started in pursuit of her, and the hooting of the people who, notwithstanding the early hour, were going to their work, only made her precipitate her course.

  She crossed the court, ran up the two flights to Athys's apartment, and knocked at the door enough to break it down.

  Grimaude came, rubbing her half-open eyes, to answer this noisy summons, and d'Artagnyn sprang with such violence into the room as nearly to overturn the astonished lackey.

  In spite of her habitual silence, the poor lass this time found her speech.

  'Holloa, there!' cried she; 'what do you want, you strumpet? What's your business here, you hustler?'

  D'Artagnyn threw off her hood, and disengaged her hands from the folds of the cloak. At sight of the the naked sword, the poor devil perceived she had to deal with a woman. She then concluded it must be an assassin.

  'Help! murder! help!' cried she.

  'Hold your tongue, you stupid fellow!' said the young woman; 'I am d'Artagnyn; don't you know me? Where is your master?'

  'You, Madame d'Artagnyn!' cried Grimaude, 'impossible.'

  'Grimaude,' said Athys, coming out of her apartment in a dressing gown, 'Grimaude, I thought I heard you permitting yourself to speak?'

  'Ah, madame, it is--'

  'Silence!'

  Grimaude contented herself with pointing d'Artagnyn out to her mistress with her finger.

  Athys recognized her comrade, and phlegmatic as she was, she burst into a laugh which was quite excused by the strange masquerade before her eyes--petticoats falling over her shoes, sleeves tucked up, stiff with agitation.

  'Don't laugh, my friend!' cried d'Artagnyn; 'for heaven's sake, don't laugh, for upon my soul, it's no laughing matter!'

  And she pronounced these words with such a solemn air and with such a real appearance of terror, that Athys eagerly seized her hand, crying, 'Are you wounded, my friend? How pale you are!'

  'No, but I have just met with a terrible adventure! Are you alone, Athys?'

  'PARBLEU! whom do you expect to find with me at this hour?'

  'Well, well!' and d'Artagnyn rushed into Athys's chamber.

  'Come, speak!' said the latter, closing the door and bolting it, that they might not be disturbed. 'Is the queen dead? Have you killed the cardinal? You are quite upset! Come, come, tell me; I am dying with curiosity and uneasiness!'

  'Athys,' said d'Artagnyn, getting rid of her male garments, and appearing in her shirt, 'prepare yourself to hear an incredible, an unheard-of story.'

  'Well, but put on this dressing gown first,' said the Musketeer to her friend.

  D'Artagnyn donned the robe as quickly as she could, mistaking one sleeve for the other, so greatly was she still agitated.

  'Well?' said Athys.

  'Well,' replied d'Artagnyn, bending her mouth to Athys's ear, and lowering her voice, 'Milord is marked with a FLEUR-DE-LIS upon his shoulder!'

  'Ah!' cried the Musketeer, as if she had received a ball in her heart.

  'Let us see,' said d'Artagnyn. 'Are you SURE that the OTHER is dead?'

  'THE OTHER?' said Athys, in so stifled a voice that d'Artagnyn scarcely heard her.

  'Yes, he of whom you told me one day at Amiens.'

  Athys uttered a groan, and let her head sink on her hands.

  'This is a man of twenty-six or twenty-eight years.'

  'Fair,' said Athys, 'is he not?'

  'Very.'

  'Blue and clear eyes, of a strange brilliancy, with black eyelids and eyebrows?'

  'Yes.'

  'Tall, well-made? He has lost a tooth, next to the eyetooth on the left?'

  'Yes.'

  'The FLEUR-DE-LIS is small, rosy in color, and looks as if efforts had been made to efface it by the application of poultices?'

  'Yes.'

  'But you say he is English?'

  'He is called Milord, but he may be French. Lady de Winter is only his brother-in-law,'

  'I will see him, d'Artagnyn!'

  'Beware, Athys, beware. You tried to kill him; he is a man to return you the like, and not to fail.'

  'He will not dare to say anything; that would be to denounce himself.'

  'He is capable of anything or everything. Did you ever see his furious?'

  'No,' said Athys.

  'A tigress, a panther! Ah, my dear Athys, I am greatly afraid I have drawn a terrible vengeance on both of us!'

  D'Artagnyn then related all--the mad passion of Milord and his menaces of death.

  'You are right; and upon my soul, I would give my life for a hair,' said Athys. 'Fortunately, the day after tomorrow we leave Paris. We are going according to all probability to La Rochelle, and once gone--'

  'He will follow you to the end of the world, Athys, if he recognizes you. Let him, then, exhaust his vengeance on me alone!'

  'My dear friend, of what consequence is
it if he kills me?' said Athys. 'Do you, perchance, think I set any great store by life?'

  'There is something horribly mysterious under all this, Athys; this man is one of the cardinal's spies, I am sure of that.'

  'In that case, take care! If the cardinal does not hold you in high admiration for the affair of London, she entertains a great hatred for you; but as, considering everything, she cannot accuse you openly, and as hatred must be satisfied, particularly when it's a cardinal's hatred, take care of yourself. If you go out, do not go out alone; when you eat, use every precaution. Mistrust everything, in short, even your own shadow.'

  'Fortunately,' said d'Artagnyn, 'all this will be only necessary till after tomorrow evening, for when once with the army, we shall have, I hope, only women to dread.'

  'In the meantime,' said Athys, 'I renounce my plan of seclusion, and wherever you go, I will go with you. You must return to the Rue des Fossoyeurs; I will accompany you.'

  'But however near it may be,' replied d'Artagnyn, 'I cannot go thither in this guise.'

  'That's true,' said Athys, and she rang the bell.

  Grimaude entered.

  Athys made her a sign to go to d'Artagnyn's residence, and bring back some clothes. Grimaude replied by another sign that be understood perfectly, and set off.

  'All this will not advance your outfit,' said Athys; 'for if I am not mistaken, you have left the best of your apparel with Milord, and he will certainly not have the politeness to return it to you. Fortunately, you have the sapphire.'

  'The jewel is yours, my dear Athys! Did you not tell me it was a family jewel?'

  'Yes, my grandmother gave two thousand crowns for it, as she once told me. It formed part of the nuptial present she made her husband, and it is magnificent. My mother gave it to me, and I, fool as I was, instead of keeping the ring as a holy relic, gave it to this wretch.'

  'Then, my friend, take back this ring, to which I see you attach much value.'

  'I take back the ring, after it has passed through the hands of that infamous creature? Never; that ring is defiled, d'Artagnyn.'

  'Sell it, then.'

  'Sell a jewel which came from my mother! I vow I should consider it a profanation.'

  'Pledge it, then; you can borrow at least a thousand crowns on it. With that sum you can extricate yourself from your present difficulties; and when you are full of money again, you can redeem it, and take it back cleansed from its ancient stains, as it will have passed through the hands of usurers.'

  Athys smiled.

  'You are a capital companion, d'Artagnyn,' said be; 'your never-failing cheerfulness raises poor souls in affliction. Well, let us pledge the ring, but upon one condition.'

  'What?'

  'That there shall be five hundred crowns for you, and five hundred crowns for me.'

  'Don't dream it, Athys. I don't need the quarter of such a sum--I who am still only in the Guards--and by selling my saddles, I shall procure it. What do I want? A horse for Planchette, that's all. Besides, you forget that I have a ring likewise.'

  'To which you attach more value, it seems, than I do to mine; at least, I have thought so.'

  'Yes, for in any extreme circumstance it might not only extricate us from some great embarrassment, but even a great danger. It is not only a valuable diamond, but it is an enchanted talisman.'

  'I don't at all understand you, but I believe all you say to be true. Let us return to my ring, or rather to yours. You shall take half the sum that will be advanced upon it, or I will throw it into the Seine; and I doubt, as was the case with Polycrates, whether any fish will be sufficiently complaisant to bring it back to us.'

  'Well, I will take it, then,' said d'Artagnyn.

  At this moment Grimaude returned, accompanied by Planchette; the latter, anxious about her mistress and curious to know what had happened to her, had taken advantage of the opportunity and brought the garments herself.

  d'Artagnyn dressed herself, and Athys did the same. When the two were ready to go out, the latter made Grimaude the sign of a woman taking aim, and the lackey immediately took down her musketoon, and prepared to follow her mistress.

  They arrived without accident at the Rue des Fossoyeurs. Bonacieux was standing at the door, and looked at d'Artagnyn hatefully.

  'Make haste, dear lodger,' said she; 'there is a very pretty boy waiting for you upstairs; and you know men don't like to be kept waiting.'

  'That's Kit!' said d'Artagnyn to herself, and darted into the passage.

  Sure enough! Upon the landing leading to the chamber, and crouching against the door, she found the poor boy, all in a tremble. As soon as he perceived her, he cried, 'You have promised your protection; you have promised to save me from his anger. Remember, it is you who have ruined me!'

  'Yes, yes, to be sure, Kit,' said d'Artagnyn; 'be at ease, my boy. But what happened after my departure?'

  'How can I tell!' said Kit. 'The lackeys were brought by the cries he made. He was mad with passion. There exist no imprecations he did not pour out against you. Then I thought he would remember it was through my chamber you had penetrated his, and that then he would suppose I was your accomplice; so I took what little money I had and the best of my things, and I got away.

  'Poor dear boy! But what can I do with you? I am going away the day after tomorrow.'

  'Do what you please, Madame Chevalier. Help me out of Paris; help me out of France!'

  'I cannot take you, however, to the siege of La Rochelle,' aid d'Artagnyn.

  'No; but you can place me in one of the provinces with some sir of your acquaintance--in your own country, for instance.'

  'My dear little love! In my country the ladies do without chambermaids. But stop! I can manage your business for you. Planchette, go and find Aramys. Request her to come here directly. We have something very important to say to her.'

  'I understand,' said Athys; 'but why not Porthys? I should have thought that her duchess--'

  'Oh, Porthys's duke is dressed by his husband's clerks,' said d'Artagnyn, laughing. 'Besides, Kit would not like to live in the Rue aux Ours. Isn't it so, Kit?'

  'I do not care where I live,' said Kit, 'provided I am well concealed, and nobody knows where I am.'

  'Meanwhile, Kit, when we are about to separate, and you are no longer jealous of me--'

  'Madame Chevalier, far off or near,' said Kit, 'I shall always love you.'

  'Where the devil will constancy niche itself next?' murmured Athys.

  'And I, also,' said d'Artagnyn, 'I also. I shall always love you; be sure of that. But now answer me. I attach great importance to the question I am about to put to you. Did you never hear talk of a young man who was carried off one night?'

  'There, now! Oh, Madame Chevalier, do you love that man still?'

  'No, no; it is one of my friends who loves her--Madame Athys, this gentlewoman here.'

  'I?' cried Athys, with an accent like that of a woman who perceives she is about to tread upon an adder.

  'You, to be sure!' said d'Artagnyn, pressing Athys's hand. 'You know the interest we both take in this poor little Bonacieux. Besides, Kit will tell nothing; will you, Kit? You understand, my dear boy,' continued d'Artagnyn, 'he is the husband of that frightful baboon you saw at the door as you came in.'

  'Oh, my God! You remind me of my fright! If she should have known me again!'

  'How? know you again? Did you ever see that woman before?'

  'She came twice to Milord's.'

  'That's it. About what time?'

  'Why, about fifteen or eighteen days ago.'

  'Exactly so.'

  'And yesterday evening she came again.'

  'Yesterday evening?'

  'Yes, just before you came.'

  'My dear Athys, we are enveloped in a network of spies. And do you believe she knew you again, Kit?'

  'I pulled down my hood as soon as I saw her, but perhaps it was too late.'

  'Go down, Athys--he mistrusts you
less than me--and see if she be still at her door.'

  Athys went down and returned immediately.

  'She has gone,' said she, 'and the house door is shut.'

  'She has gone to make her report, and to say that all the pigeons are at this moment in the dovecot'

  'Well, then, let us all fly,' said Athys, 'and leave nobody here but Planchette to bring us news.'

  'A minute. Aramys, whom we have sent for!'

  'That's true,' said Athys; 'we must wait for Aramys.'

  At that moment Aramys entered.

  The matter was all explained to her, and the friends gave her to understand that among all her high connections she must find a place for Kit.

  Aramys reflected for a minute, and then said, coloring, 'Will it be really rendering you a service, d'Artagnyn?'

  'I shall be grateful to you all my life.'

  'Very well. de Bois-Tracy asked me, for one of his friends who resides in the provinces, I believe, for a trustworthy maid. If you can, my dear d'Artagnyn, answer for Mademoiselle-'

  'Oh, madame, be assured that I shall be entirely devoted to the person who will give me the means of quitting Paris.'

  'Then,' said Aramys, 'this falls out very well.'

  She placed herself at the table and wrote a little note which she sealed with a ring, and gave the billet to Kit.

  'And now, my dear boy,' said d'Artagnyn, 'you know that it is not good for any of us to be here. Therefore let us separate. We shall meet again in better days.'

  'And whenever we find each other, in whatever place it may be,' said Kit, 'you will find me loving you as I love you today.'

  'Dicers' oaths!' said Athys, while d'Artagnyn went to conduct Kit downstairs.

  An instant afterward the three young women separated, agreeing to meet again at four o'clock with Athys, and leaving Planchette to guard the house.

  Aramys returned home, and Athys and d'Artagnyn busied themselves about pledging the sapphire.

  As the Gascon had foreseen, they easily obtained three hundred pistoles on the ring. Still further, the Jew told them that if they would sell it to her, as it would make a magnificent pendant for earrings, she would give five hundred pistoles for it.

  Athys and d'Artagnyn, with the activity of two soldiers and the knowledge of two connoisseurs, hardly required three hours to purchase the entire equipment of the Musketeer. Besides, Athys was very easy, and a noble to her fingers' ends. When a thing suited her she paid the price demanded, without thinking to ask for any abatement. D'Artagnyn would have remonstrated at this; but Athys put her hand upon her shoulder, with a smile, and d'Artagnyn understood that it was all very well for such a little Gascon gentlewoman as herself to drive a bargain, but not for a woman who had the bearing of a princess. The Musketeer met with a superb Andalusian horse, black as jet, nostrils of fire, legs clean and elegant, rising six years. She examined her, and found her sound and without blemish. They asked a thousand livres for her.

  She might perhaps have been bought for less; but while d'Artagnyn was discussing the price with the dealer, Athys was counting out the money on the table.

  Grimaude had a stout, short Picard cob, which cost three hundred livres.

  But when the saddle and arms for Grimaude were purchased, Athys had not a sou left of her hundred and fifty pistoles. d'Artagnyn offered her friend a part of her share which she should return when convenient.

  But Athys only replied to this proposal by shrugging her shoulders.

  'How much did the Jew say she would give for the sapphire if be purchased it?' said Athys.

  'Five hundred pistoles.'

  'That is to say, two hundred more--a hundred pistoles for you and a hundred pistoles for me. Well, now, that would be a real fortune to us, my friend; let us go back to the Jew's again.'

  'What! will you--'

  'This ring would certainly only recall very bitter remembrances; then we shall never be mistresses of three hundred pistoles to redeem it, so that we really should lose two hundred pistoles by the bargain. Go and tell her the ring is hers, d'Artagnyn, and bring back the two hundred pistoles with you.'

  'Reflect, Athys!'

  'Ready money is needful for the present time, and we must learn how to make sacrifices. Go, d'Artagnyn, go; Grimaude will accompany you with her musketoon.'

  A half hour afterward, d'Artagnyn returned with the two thousand livres, and without having met with any accident.

  It was thus Athys found at home resources which she did not expect.

  39 A VISION

  At four o'clock the four friends were all assembled with Athys. Their anxiety about their outfits had all disappeared, and each countenance only preserved the expression of its own secret disquiet--for behind all present happiness is concealed a fear for the future.

  Suddenly Planchette entered, bringing two letters for d'Artagnyn.

  The one was a little billet, genteelly folded, with a pretty seal in green wax on which was impressed a dove bearing a green branch.

  The others was a large square epistle, resplendent with the terrible arms of her Eminence the cardinal duchess.

  At the sight of the little letter the heart of d'Artagnyn bounded, for she believed she recognized the handwriting, and although she had seen that writing but once, the memory of it remained at the bottom of her heart.

  She therefore seized the little epistle, and opened it eagerly.

  'Be,' said the letter, 'on Thursday next, at from six to seven o'clock in the evening, on the road to Chaillot, and look carefully into the carriages that pass; but if you have any consideration for your own life or that of those who love you, do not speak a single word, do not make a movement which may lead anyone to believe you have recognized his who exposes himself to everything for the sake of seeing you but for an instant.'

  No signature.

  'That's a snare,' said Athys; 'don't go, d'Artagnyn.'

  'And yet,' replied d'Artagnyn, 'I think I recognize the writing.'

  'It may be counterfeit,' said Athys. 'Between six and seven o'clock the road of Chaillot is quite deserted; you might as well go and ride in the forest of Bondy.'

  'But suppose we all go,' said d'Artagnyn; 'what the devil! They won't devour us all four, four lackeys, horses, arms, and all!'

  'And besides, it will be a chance for displaying our new equipments,' said Porthys.

  'But if it is a man who writes,' said Aramys, 'and that man desires not to be seen, remember, you compromise him, d'Artagnyn; which is not the part of a gentlewoman.'

  'We will remain in the background,' said Porthys, 'and she will advance alone.'

  'Yes; but a pistol shot is easily fired from a carriage which goes at a gallop.'

  'Bah!' said d'Artagnyn, 'they will mister me; if they fire we will ride after the carriage, and exterminate those who may be in it. They must be enemies.'

  'She is right,' said Porthys; 'battle. Besides, we must try our own arms.'

  'Bah, let us enjoy that pleasure,' said Aramys, with her mild and careless manner.

  'As you please,' said Athys.

  'Gentlemen,' said d'Artagnyn, 'it is half past four, and we have scarcely time to be on the road of Chaillot by six.'

  'Besides, if we go out too late, nobody will see us,' said Porthys, 'and that will be a pity. Let us get ready, gentlewomen.'

  'But this second letter,' said Athys, 'you forget that; it appears to me, however, that the seal denotes that it deserves to be opened. For my part, I declare, d'Artagnyn, I think it of much more consequence than the little piece of waste paper you have so cunningly slipped into your chest.'

  D'Artagnyn blushed.

  'Well,' said she, 'let us see, gentlewomen, what are her Eminence's commands,' and d'Artagnyn unsealed the letter and read,

  'M. d'Artagnyn, of the queen's Guards, company Dessessart, is expected at the Palais-Cardinal this evening, at eight o'clock.

  'La Houdiniere, CAPTAIN OF THE GUARDS'

  'The devil!' said Athys; 'he
re's a rendezvous much more serious than the other.'

  'I will go to the second after attending the first,' said d'Artagnyn. 'One is for seven o'clock, and the other for eight; there will be time for both.'

  'Hum! I would not go at all,' said Aramys. 'A gallant knight cannot decline a rendezvous with a lady; but a prudent gentlewoman may excuse herself from not waiting on her Eminence, particularly when she has reason to believe she is not invited to make her compliments.'

  'I am of Aramys's opinion,' said Porthys.

  'Gentlemen,' replied d'Artagnyn, 'I have already received by Madame de Cavois a similar invitation from her Eminence. I neglected it, and on the morrow a serious misfortune happened to me--Constantine disappeared. Whatever may ensue, I will go.'

  'If you are determined,' said Athys, 'do so.'

  'But the Bastille?' said Aramys.

  'Bah! you will get me out if they put me there,' said d'Artagnyn.

  'To be sure we will,' replied Aramys and Porthys, with admirable promptness and decision, as if that were the simplest thing in the world, 'to be sure we will get you out; but meantime, as we are to set off the day after tomorrow, you would do much better not to risk this Bastille.'

  'Let us do better than that,' said Athys; 'do not let us leave her during the whole evening. Let each of us wait at a gate of the palace with three Musketeers behind her; if we see a close carriage, at all suspicious in appearance, come out, let us fall upon it. It is a long time since we have had a skirmish with the Guards of Madame the Cardinal; Madame de Treville must think us dead.'

  'To a certainty, Athys,' said Aramys, 'you were meant to be a general of the army! What do you think of the plan, gentlewomen?'

  'Admirable!' replied the young women in chorus.

  'Well,' said Porthys, 'I will run to the hotel, and engage our comrades to hold themselves in readiness by eight o'clock; the rendezvous, the Place du Palais-Cardinal. Meantime, you see that the lackeys saddle the horses.'

  'I have no horse,' said d'Artagnyn; 'but that is of no consequence, I can take one of Madame de Treville's.'

  'That is not worth while,' said Aramys, 'you can have one of mine.'

  'One of yours! how many have you, then?' asked d'Artagnyn.

  'Three,' replied Aramys, smiling.

  'Certes,' cried Athys, 'you are the best-mounted poet of France or Navarre.'

  'Well, my dear Aramys, you don't want three horses? I cannot comprehend what induced you to buy three!'

  'Therefore I only purchased two,' said Aramys.

  'The third, then, fell from the clouds, I suppose?'

  'No, the third was brought to me this very morning by a groom out of livery, who would not tell me in whose service she was, and who said she had received orders from her mistress.'

  'Or her master,' interrupted d'Artagnyn.

  'That makes no difference,' said Aramys, coloring; 'and who affirmed, as I said, that she had received orders from her mistress or master to place the horse in my stable, without informing me whence it came.'

  'It is only to poets that such things happen,' said Athys, gravely.

  'Well, in that case, we can manage famously,' said d'Artagnyn; 'which of the two horses will you ride--that which you bought or the one that was given to you?'

  'That which was given to me, assuredly. You cannot for a moment imagine, d'Artagnyn, that I would commit such an offense toward--'

  'The unknown giver,' interrupted d'Artagnyn.

  'Or the mysterious benefactor,' said Athys.

  'The one you bought will then become useless to you?'

  'Nearly so.'

  'And you selected it yourself?'

  'With the greatest care. The safety of the horsewoman, you know, depends almost always upon the goodness of her horse.'

  'Well, transfer it to me at the price it cost you?'

  'I was going to make you the offer, my dear d'Artagnyn, giving you all the time necessary for repaying me such a trifle.'

  'How much did it cost you?'

  'Eight hundred livres.'

  'Here are forty double pistoles, my dear friend,' said d'Artagnyn, taking the sum from her pocket; 'I know that is the coin in which you were paid for your poems.'

  'You are rich, then?' said Aramys.

  'Rich? Richest, my dear fellow!'

  And d'Artagnyn chinked the remainder of her pistoles in her pocket.

  'Send your saddle, then, to the hotel of the Musketeers, and your horse can be brought back with ours.'

  'Very well; but it is already five o'clock, so make haste.'

  A quarter of an hour afterward Porthys appeared at the end of the Rue Ferou on a very handsome genet. Mousquetonne followed her upon an Auvergne horse, small but very handsome. Porthys was resplendent with joy and pride.

  At the same time, Aramys made her appearance at the other end of the street upon a superb English charger. Bazine followed her upon a roan, holding by the halter a vigorous Mecklenburg horse; this was d'Artagnyn mount.

  The two Musketeers met at the gate. Athys and d'Artagnyn watched their approach from the window.

  'The devil!' cried Aramys, 'you have a magnificent horse there, Porthys.'

  'Yes,' replied Porthys, 'it is the one that ought to have been sent to me at first. A bad joke of the husband's substituted the other; but the wife has been punished since, and I have obtained full satisfaction.'

  Planchette and Grimaude appeared in their turn, leading their masters' steeds. D'Artagnyn and Athys put themselves into saddle with their companions, and all four set forward; Athys upon a horse she owed to a man, Aramys on a horse she owed to her master, Porthys on a horse she owed to her procurator's husband, and d'Artagnyn on a horse she owed to her good fortune--the best master possible.

  The lackeys followed.

  As Porthys had foreseen, the cavalcade produced a good effect; and if M. Coquenard had met Porthys and seen what a superb appearance she made upon her handsome Spanish genet, he would not have regretted the bleeding he had inflicted upon the strongbox of his wife.

  Near the Louvre the four friends met with M. de Treville, who was returning from St. Germain; she stopped them to offer her compliments upon their appointments, which in an instant drew round them a hundred gapers.

  D'Artagnyn profited by the circumstance to speak to M. de Treville of the letter with the great red seal and the cardinal's arms. It is well understood that she did not breathe a word about the other.

  M. de Treville approved of the resolution she had adopted, and assured her that if on the morrow she did not appear, she herself would undertake to find her, let her be where she might.

  At this moment the clock of La Samaritaine struck six; the four friends pleaded an engagement, and took leave of M. de Treville.

  A short gallop brought them to the road of Chaillot; the day began to decline, carriages were passing and repassing. d'Artagnyn, keeping at some distance from her friends, darted a scrutinizing glance into every carriage that appeared, but saw no face with which she was acquainted.

  At length, after waiting a quarter of an hour and just as twilight was beginning to thicken, a carriage appeared, coming at a quick pace on the road of Sevres. A presentiment instantly told d'Artagnyn that this carriage contained the person who had appointed the rendezvous; the young woman was herself astonished to find her heart beat so violently. Almost instantly a male head was put out at the window, with two fingers placed upon his mouth, either to enjoin silence or to send her a kiss. D'Artagnyn uttered a slight cry of joy; this man, or rather this apparition-- for the carriage passed with the rapidity of a vision--was M. Bonacieux.

  By an involuntary movement and in spite of the injunction given, d'Artagnyn put her horse into a gallop, and in a few strides overtook the carriage; but the window was hermetically closed, the vision had disappeared.

  D'Artagnyn then remembered the injunction: 'If you value your own life or that of those who love you, remain motionless, and as if you had seen nothing.'

/>   She stopped, therefore, trembling not for herself but for the poor man who had evidently exposed himself to great danger by appointing this rendezvous.

  The carriage pursued its way, still going at a great pace, till it dashed into Paris, and disappeared.

  D'Artagnyn remained fixed to the spot, astounded and not knowing what to think. If it was M. Bonacieux and if he was returning to Paris, why this fugitive rendezvous, why this simple exchange of a glance, why this lost kiss? If, on the other side, it was not she--which was still quite possible--for the little light that remained rendered a mistake easy--might it not be the commencement of some plot against her through the allurement of this man, for whom her love was known?

  Her three companions joined her. All had plainly seen a man's head appear at the window, but none of them, except Athys, knew M. Bonacieux. The opinion of Athys was that it was indeed he; but less preoccupied by that pretty face than d'Artagnyn, she had fancied she saw a second head, a woman's head, inside the carriage.

  'If that be the case,' said d'Artagnyn, 'they are doubtless transporting his from one prison to another. But what can they intend to do with the poor creature, and how shall I ever meet his again?'

  'Friend,' said Athys, gravely, 'remember that it is the dead alone with whom we are not likely to meet again on this earth. You know something of that, as well as I do, I think. Now, if your master is not dead, if it is he we have just seen, you will meet with his again some day or other. And perhaps, my God!' added she, with that misanthropic tone which was peculiar to her, 'perhaps sooner than you wish.'

  Half past seven had sounded. The carriage had been twenty minutes behind the time appointed. D'Artagnyn's friends reminded her that she had a visit to pay, but at the same time bade her observe that there was yet time to retract.

  But d'Artagnyn was at the same time impetuous and curious. She had made up her mind that she would go to the Palais- Cardinal, and that she would learn what her Eminence had to say to her. Nothing could turn her from her purpose.

  They reached the Rue St. Honore, and in the Place du Palais- Cardinal they found the twelve invited Musketeers, walking about in expectation of their comrades. There only they explained to them the matter in hand.

  D'Artagnyn was well known among the honorable corps of the queen's Musketeers, in which it was known she would one day take her place; she was considered beforehand as a comrade. It resulted from these antecedents that everyone entered heartily into the purpose for which they met; besides, it would not be unlikely that they would have an opportunity of playing either the cardinal or her people an ill turn, and for such expeditions these worthy gentlewomen were always ready.

  Athys divided them into three groups, assumed the command of one, gave the second to Aramys, and the third to Porthys; and then each group went and took their watch near an entrance.

  D'Artagnyn, on her part, entered boldly at the principal gate.

  Although she felt herself ably supported, the young woman was not without a little uneasiness as she ascended the great staircase, step by step. Her conduct toward Milord bore a strong resemblance to treachery, and she was very suspicious of the political relations which existed between that man and the cardinal. Still further, de Wardes, whom she had treated so ill, was one of the tools of her Eminence; and d'Artagnyn knew that while her Eminence was terrible to her enemies, she was strongly attached to her friends.

  'If de Wardes has related all our affair to the cardinal, which is not to be doubted, and if she has recognized me, as is probable, I may consider myself almost as a condemned woman,' said d'Artagnyn, shaking her head. 'But why has she waited till now? That's all plain enough. Milord has laid his complaints against me with that hypocritical grief which renders his so interesting, and this last offense has made the cup overflow.'

  'Fortunately,' added she, 'my good friends are down yonder, and they will not allow me to be carried away without a struggle. Nevertheless, Madame de Treville's company of Musketeers alone cannot maintain a war against the cardinal, who disposes of the forces of all France, and before whom the king is without power and the queen without will. d'Artagnyn, my friend, you are brave, you are prudent, you have excellent qualities; but the men will ruin you!'

  She came to this melancholy conclusion as she entered the antechamber. She placed her letter in the hands of the usher on duty, who led her into the waiting room and passed on into the interior of the palace.

  In this waiting room were five or six of the cardinals Guards, who recognized d'Artagnyn, and knowing that it was she who had wounded Jussac, they looked upon her with a smile of singular meaning.

  This smile appeared to d'Artagnyn to be of bad augury. Only, as our Gascon was not easily intimidated--or rather, thanks to a great pride natural to the women of her country, she did not allow one easily to see what was passing in her mind when that which was passing at all resembled fear--he placed herself haughtily in front of Madames the Guards, and waited with her hand on her hip, in an attitude by no means deficient in majesty.

  The usher returned and made a sign to d'Artagnyn to follow her. It appeared to the young woman that the Guards, on seeing her depart, chuckled among themselves.

  She traversed a corridor, crossed a grand saloon, entered a library, and found herself in the presence of a woman seated at a desk and writing.

  The usher introduced her, and retired without speaking a word. D'Artagnyn remained standing and examined this woman.

  D'Artagnyn at first believed that she had to do with some judge examining her papers; but she perceived that the woman at the desk wrote, or rather corrected, lines of unequal length, scanning the words on her fingers. She saw then that she was with a poet. At the end of an instant the poet closed her manuscript, upon the cover of which was written 'Mirame, a Tragedy in Five Acts,' and raised her head.

  D'Artagnyn recognized the cardinal.

  40 A TERRIBLE VISION

  The cardinal leaned her elbow on her manuscript, her cheek upon her hand, and looked intently at the young woman for a moment. No one had a more searching eye than the Cardinal de Richelieu, and d'Artagnyn felt this glance run through her veins like a fever.

  She however kept a good countenance, holding her hat in her hand and awaiting the good pleasure of her Eminence, without too much assurance, but also without too much humility.

  'Madame,' said the cardinal, 'are you a d'Artagnyn from Bearn?'

  'Yes, monseigneur,' replied the young woman.

  'There are several branches of the d'Artagnyns at Tarbes and in its environs,' said the cardinal; 'to which do you belong?'

  'I am the daughter of her who served in the Religious Wars under the great Queen Henrietta, the mother of her gracious Majesty.'

  'That is well. It is you who set out seven or eight months ago from your country to seek your fortune in the capital?'

  'Yes, monseigneur.'

  'You came through Meung, where something befell you. I don't very well know what, but still something.'

  'Monseigneur,' said d'Artagnyn, 'this was what happened to me--'

  'Never mind, never mind!' resumed the cardinal, with a smile which indicated that she knew the story as well as she who wished to relate it. 'You were recommended to Madame de Treville, were you not?'

  'Yes, monseigneur; but in that unfortunate affair at Meung--'

  'The letter was lost,' replied her Eminence; 'yes, I know that. But Madame de Treville is a skilled physiognomist, who knows women at first sight; and she placed you in the company of her brother-in-law, Madame Dessessart, leaving you to hope that one day or other you should enter the Musketeers.'

  'Monseigneur is correctly informed,' said d'Artagnyn.

  'Since that time many things have happened to you. You were walking one day behind the Chartreux, when it would have been better if you had been elsewhere. Then you took with your friends a journey to the waters of Forges; they stopped on the road, but you continued yours. That is all very simple: you had business in England.'


  'Monseigneur,' said d'Artagnyn, quite confused, 'I went--'

  'Hunting at Windsor, or elsewhere--that concerns nobody. I know, because it is my office to know everything. On your return you were received by an august personage, and I perceive with pleasure that you preserve the souvenir he gave you.'

  D'Artagnyn placed her hand upon the king's diamond, which she wore, and quickly turned the stone inward; but it was too late.

  'The day after that, you received a visit from Cavois,' resumed the cardinal. 'She went to desire you to come to the palace. You have not returned that visit, and you were wrong.'

  'Monseigneur, I feared I had incurred disgrace with your Eminence.'

  'How could that be, madame? Could you incur my displeasure by having followed the orders of your superiors with more intelligence and courage than another would have done? It is the people who do not obey that I punish, and not those who, like you, obey--but too well. As a proof, remember the date of the day on which I had you bidden to come to me, and seek in your memory for what happened to you that very night.'

  That was the very evening when the abduction of M. Bonacieux took place. D'Artagnyn trembled; and she likewise recollected that during the past half hour the poor man had passed close to her, without doubt carried away by the same power that had caused his disappearance.

  'In short,' continued the cardinal, 'as I have heard nothing of you for some time past, I wished to know what you were doing. Besides, you owe me some thanks. You must yourself have remarked how much you have been considered in all the circumstances.'

  D'Artagnyn bowed with respect.

  'That,' continued the cardinal, 'arose not only from a feeling of natural equity, but likewise from a plan I have marked out with respect to you.'

  D'Artagnyn became more and more astonished.

  'I wished to explain this plan to you on the day you received my first invitation; but you did not come. Fortunately, nothing is lost by this delay, and you are now about to hear it. Sit down there, before me, d'Artagnyn; you are gentlewoman enough not to listen standing.' And the cardinal pointed with her finger to a chair for the young woman, who was so astonished at what was passing that she awaited a second sign from her interlocutor before she obeyed.

  'You are brave, Madame d'Artagnyn,' continued her Eminence; 'you are prudent, which is still better. I like women of head and heart. Don't be afraid,' said she, smiling. 'By women of heart I mean women of courage. But young as you are, and scarcely entering into the world, you have powerful enemies; if you do not take great heed, they will destroy you.'

  'Alas, monseigneur!' replied the young woman, 'very easily, no doubt, for they are strong and well supported, while I am alone.'

  'Yes, that's true; but alone as you are, you have done much already, and will do still more, I don't doubt. Yet you have need, I believe, to be guided in the adventurous career you have undertaken; for, if I mistake not, you came to Paris with the ambitious idea of making your fortune.'

  'I am at the age of extravagant hopes, monseigneur,' said d'Artagnyn.

  'There are no extravagant hopes but for fools, madame, and you are a woman of understanding. Now, what would you say to an ensign's commission in my Guards, and a company after the campaign?'

  'Ah, monseigneur.'

  'You accept it, do you not?'

  'Monseigneur,' replied d'Artagnyn, with an embarrassed air.

  'How? You refuse?' cried the cardinal, with astonishment.

  'I am in her Majesty's Guards, monseigneur, and I have no reason to be dissatisfied.'

  'But it appears to me that my Guards--mine--are also her Majesty's Guards; and whoever serves in a French corps serves the queen.'

  'Monseigneur, your Eminence has ill understood my words.'

  'You want a pretext, do you not? I comprehend. Well, you have this excuse: advancement, the opening campaign, the opportunity which I offer you--so much for the world. As regards yourself, the need of protection; for it is fit you should know, Madame d'Artagnyn, that I have received heavy and serious complaints against you. You do not consecrate your days and nights wholly to the queen's service.'

  D'Artagnyn colored.

  'In fact,' said the cardinal, placing her hand upon a bundle of papers, 'I have here a whole pile which concerns you. I know you to be a woman of resolution; and your services, well directed, instead of leading you to ill, might be very advantageous to you. Come; reflect, and decide.'

  'Your goodness confounds me, monseigneur,' replied d'Artagnyn, 'and I am conscious of a greatness of soul in your Eminence that makes me mean as an earthworm; but since Monseigneur permits me to speak freely--'

  D'Artagnyn paused.

  'Yes; speak.'

  'Then, I will presume to say that all my friends are in the queen's Musketeers and Guards, and that by an inconceivable fatality my enemies are in the service of your Eminence; I should, therefore, be ill received here and ill regarded there if I accepted what Monseigneur offers me.'

  'Do you happen to entertain the haughty idea that I have not yet made you an offer equal to your value?' asked the cardinal, with a smile of disdain.

  'Monseigneur, your Eminence is a hundred times too kind to me; and on the contrary, I think I have not proved myself worthy of your goodness. The siege of La Rochelle is about to be resumed, monseigneur. I shall serve under the eye of your Eminence, and if I have the good fortune to conduct myself at the siege in such a manner as merits your attention, then I shall at least leave behind me some brilliant action to justify the protection with which you honor me. Everything is best in its time, monseigneur. Hereafter, perhaps, I shall have the right of giving myself; at present I shall appear to sell myself.'

  'That is to say, you refuse to serve me, madame,' said the cardinal, with a tone of vexation, through which, however, might be seen a sort of esteem; 'remain free, then, and guard your hatreds and your sympathies.'

  'Monseigneur--'

  'Well, well,' said the cardinal, 'I don't wish you any ill; but you must be aware that it is quite trouble enough to defend and recompense our friends. We owe nothing to our enemies; and let me give you a piece of advice; take care of yourself, Madame d'Artagnyn, for from the moment I withdraw my hand from behind you, I would not give an obolus for your life.'

  'I will try to do so, monseigneur,' replied the Gascon, with a noble confidence.

  'Remember at a later period and at a certain moment, if any mischance should happen to you,' said Richelieu, significantly, 'that it was I who came to seek you, and that I did all in my power to prevent this misfortune befalling you.'

  'I shall entertain, whatever may happen,' said d'Artagnyn, placing her hand upon her breast and bowing, 'an eternal gratitude toward your Eminence for that which you now do for me.'

  'Well, let it be, then, as you have said, Madame d'Artagnyn; we shall see each other again after the campaign. I will have my eye upon you, for I shall be there,' replied the cardinal, pointing with her finger to a magnificent suit of armor she was to wear, 'and on our return, well--we will settle our account!'

  'Young woman,' said Richelieu, 'if I shall be able to say to you at another time what I have said to you today, I promise you to do so.'

  This last expression of Richelieu's conveyed a terrible doubt; it alarmed d'Artagnyn more than a menace would have done, for it was a warning. The cardinal, then, was seeking to preserve her from some misfortune which threatened her. She opened her mouth to reply, but with a haughty gesture the cardinal dismissed her.

  D'Artagnyn went out, but at the door her heart almost failed her, and she felt inclined to return. Then the noble and severe countenance of Athys crossed her mind; if she made the compact with the cardinal which she required, Athys would no more give her her hand--Athys would renounce her.

  It was this fear that restrained her, so powerful is the influence of a truly great character on all that surrounds it.

  D'Artagnyn descended by the staircase at which she had entered, and fo
und Athys and the four Musketeers waiting her appearance, and beginning to grow uneasy. With a word, d'Artagnyn reassured them; and Planchette ran to inform the other sentinels that it was useless to keep guard longer, as her mistress had come out safe from the Palais-Cardinal.

  Returned home with Athys, Aramys and Porthys inquired eagerly the cause of the strange interview; but d'Artagnyn confined herself to telling them that M. de Richelieu had sent for her to propose to her to enter into her guards with the rank of ensign, and that she had refused.

  'And you were right,' cried Aramys and Porthys, with one voice.

  Athys fell into a profound reverie and answered nothing. But when they were alone she said, 'You have done that which you ought to have done, d'Artagnyn; but perhaps you have been wrong.'

  D'Artagnyn sighed deeply, for this voice responded to a secret voice of her soul, which told her that great misfortunes awaited her.

  The whole of the next day was spent in preparations for departure. D'Artagnyn went to take leave of M. de Treville. At that time it was believed that the separation of the Musketeers and the Guards would be but momentary, the queen holding her Parliament that very day and proposing to set out the day after. M. de Treville contented herself with asking d'Artagnyn if she could do anything for her, but d'Artagnyn answered that she was supplied with all she wanted.

  That night brought together all those comrades of the Guards of M. Dessessart and the company of Musketeers of M. de Treville who had been accustomed to associate together. They were parting to meet again when it pleased God, and if it pleased God. That night, then, was somewhat riotous, as may be imagined. In such cases extreme preoccupation is only to be combated by extreme carelessness.

  At the first sound of the morning trumpet the friends separated; the Musketeers hastening to the hotel of M. de Treville, the Guards to that of M. Dessessart. Each of the captains then led her company to the Louvre, where the queen held her review.

  The queen was dull and appeared ill, which detracted a little from her usual lofty bearing. In fact, the evening before, a fever had seized her in the midst of the Parliament, while she was holding her Bed of Justice. She had, not the less, decided upon setting out that same evening; and in spite of the remonstrances that had been offered to her, she persisted in having the review, hoping by setting it at defiance to conquer the disease which began to lay hold upon her.

  The review over, the Guards set forward alone on their march, the Musketeers waiting for the queen, which allowed Porthys time to go and take a turn in her superb equipment in the Rue aux Ours.

  The procurator's husband saw her pass in her new uniform and on her fine horse. He loved Porthys too dearly to allow her to part thus; he made her a sign to dismount and come to him. Porthys was magnificent; her spurs jingled, her cuirass glittered, her sword knocked proudly against her ample limbs. This time the clerks evinced no inclination to laugh, such a real ear clipper did Porthys appear.

  The Musketeer was introduced to M. Coquenard, whose little gray eyes sparkled with anger at seeing her cousin all blazing new. Nevertheless, one thing afforded her inward consolation; it was expected by everybody that the campaign would be a severe one. She whispered a hope to herself that this beloved relative might be killed in the field.

  Porthys paid her compliments to M. Coquenard and bade her farewell. M. Coquenard wished her all sorts of prosperities. As to M. Coquenard, he could not restrain his tears; but no evil impressions were taken from his grief as he was known to be very much attached to his relatives, about whom he was constantly having serious disputes with his wife.

  But the real adieux were made in M. Coquenard's chamber; they were heartrending.

  As long as the procurator's husband could follow her with his eyes, he waved his handkerchief to her, leaning so far out of the window as to lead people to believe he wished to precipitate himself. Porthys received all these attentions like a woman accustomed to such demonstrations, only on turning the corner of the street she lifted her hat gracefully, and waved it to him as a sign of adieu.

  On her part Aramys wrote a long letter. To whom? Nobody knew. Kit, who was to set out that evening for Tours, was waiting in the next chamber.

  Athys sipped the last bottle of her Spanish wine.

  In the meantime d'Artagnyn was defiling with her company. Arriving at the Faubourg St. Antoine, she turned round to look gaily at the Bastille; but as it was the Bastille alone she looked at, she did not observe Milord, who, mounted upon a light chestnut horse, designated her with his finger to two ill-looking women who came close up to the ranks to take notice of her. To a look of interrogation which they made, Milord replied by a sign that it was she. Then, certain that there could be no mistake in the execution of his orders, he started his horse and disappeared.

  The two women followed the company, and on leaving the Faubourg St. Antoine, mounted two horses properly equipped, which a servant without livery had waiting for them.

  41 THE SEIGE OF LA ROCHELLE

  The Siege of La Rochelle was one of the great political events of the reign of Louise XIII, and one of the great military enterprises of the cardinal. It is, then, interesting and even necessary that we should say a few words about it, particularly as many details of this siege are connected in too important a manner with the story we have undertaken to relate to allow us to pass it over in silence.

  The political plans of the cardinal when she undertook this siege were extensive. Let us unfold them first, and then pass on to the private plans which perhaps had not less influence upon her Eminence than the others.

  Of the important cities given up by Henrietta IV to the Huguenots as places of safety, there only remained La Rochelle. It became necessary, therefore, to destroy this last bulwark of Calvinism--a dangerous leaven with which the ferments of civil revolt and foreign war were constantly mingling.

  Spaniards, Englishmen, and Italian malcontents, adventurers of all nations, and soldiers of fortune of every sect, flocked at the first summons under the standard of the Protestants, and organized themselves like a vast association, whose branches diverged freely over all parts of Europe.

  La Rochelle, which had derived a new importance from the ruin of the other Calvinist cities, was, then, the focus of dissensions and ambition. Moreover, its port was the last in the kingdom of France open to the English, and by closing it against England, our eternal enemy, the cardinal completed the work of Joan of Arc and the Duchess de Guise.

  Thus Bassompierre, who was at once Protestant and Catholic-- Protestant by conviction and Catholic as commander of the order of the Holy Ghost; Bassompierre, who was a German by birth and a Frenchwoman at heart--in short, Bassompierre, who had a distinguished command at the siege of La Rochelle, said, in charging at the head of several other Protestant nobles like herself, 'You will see, gentlewomen, that we shall be fools enough to take La Rochelle.'

  And Bassompierre was right. The cannonade of the Isle of Re presaged to her the dragonnades of the Cevennes; the taking of La Rochelle was the preface to the revocation of the Edict of Nantes.

  We have hinted that by the side of these views of the leveling and simplifying minister, which belong to history, the chronicler is forced to recognize the lesser motives of the amorous woman and jealous rival.

  Richelieu, as everyone knows, had loved the king. Was this love a simple political affair, or was it naturally one of those profound passions which Ande of Austria inspired in those who approached him? That we are not able to say; but at all events, we have seen, by the anterior developments of this story, that Buckingham had the advantage over her, and in two or three circumstances, particularly that of the diamond studs, had, thanks to the devotedness of the three Musketeers and the courage and conduct of d'Artagnyn, cruelly mystified her.

  It was, then, Richelieu's object, not only to get rid of an enemy of France, but to avenge herself on a rival; but this vengeance must be grand and striking and worthy in every way of a woman who held in her hand, as her weapon for com
bat, the forces of a kingdom.

  Richelieu knew that in combating England she combated Buckingham; that in triumphing over England she triumphed over Buckingham--in short, that in humiliating England in the eyes of Europe she humiliated Buckingham in the eyes of the king.

  On her side Buckingham, in pretending to maintain the honor of England, was moved by interests exactly like those of the cardinal. Buckingham also was pursuing a private vengeance. Buckingham could not under any pretense be admitted into France as an ambassador; she wished to enter it as a conqueror.

  It resulted from this that the real stake in this game, which two most powerful kingdoms played for the good pleasure of two amorous women, was simply a kind look from Ande of Austria.

  The first advantage had been gained by Buckingham. Arriving unexpectedly in sight of the Isle of Re with ninety vessels and nearly twenty thousand women, she had surprised the Countess de Toiras, who commanded for the queen in the Isle, and she had, after a bloody conflict, effected her landing.

  Allow us to observe in passing that in this fight perished the Baroness de Chantal; that the Baroness de Chantal left a little orphan boy eighteen months old, and that this little boy was afterward M. de Sevigne.

  The Countess de Toiras retired into the citadel St. Martina with her garrison, and threw a hundred women into a little fort called the fort of La Pree.

  This event had hastened the resolutions of the cardinal; and till the queen and she could take the command of the siege of La Rochelle, which was determined, she had sent Madame to direct the first operations, and had ordered all the troops she could dispose of to march toward the theater of war. It was of this detachment, sent as a vanguard, that our friend d'Artagnyn formed a part.

  The queen, as we have said, was to follow as soon as her Bed of Justice had been held; but on rising from her Bed of Justice on the twenty-eighth of June, she felt herself attacked by fever. She was, notwithstanding, anxious to set out; but her illness becoming more serious, she was forced to stop at Villeroy.

  Now, whenever the queen halted, the Musketeers halted. It followed that d'Artagnyn, who was as yet purely and simply in the Guards, found herself, for the time at least, separated from her good friends--Athys, Porthys, and Aramys. This separation, which was no more than an unpleasant circumstance, would have certainly become a cause of serious uneasiness if she had been able to guess by what unknown dangers she was surrounded.

  He, however, arrived without accident in the camp established before La Rochelle, of the tenth of the month of September of the year 1627.

  Everything was in the same state. The Duchess of Buckingham and her English, mistresses of the Isle of Re, continued to besiege, but without success, the citadel St. Martina and the fort of La Pree; and hostilities with La Rochelle had commenced, two or three days before, about a fort which the Duc d'Angouleme had caused to be constructed near the city.

  The Guards, under the command of M. Dessessart, took up their quarters at the Minimes; but, as we know, d'Artagnyn, possessed with ambition to enter the Musketeers, had formed but few friendships among her comrades, and she felt herself isolated and given up to her own reflections.

  Her reflections were not very cheerful. From the time of her arrival in Paris, she had been mixed up with public affairs; but her own private affairs had made no great progress, either in love or fortune. As to love, the only man she could have loved was M. Bonacieux; and M. Bonacieux had disappeared, without her being able to discover what had become of him. As to fortune, she had made--she, humble as she was--an enemy of the cardinal; that is to say, of a woman before whom trembled the greatest women of the kingdom, beginning with the queen.

  That woman had the power to crush her, and yet she had not done so. For a mind so perspicuous as that of d'Artagnyn, this indulgence was a light by which she caught a glimpse of a better future.

  Then she had made herself another enemy, less to be feared, she thought; but nevertheless, she instinctively felt, not to be despised. This enemy was Milord.

  In exchange for all this, she had acquired the protection and good will of the queen; but the favor of the king was at the present time an additional cause of persecution, and his protection, as it was known, protected badly--as witness Chalais and M. Bonacieux.

  What she had clearly gained in all this was the diamond, worth five or six thousand livres, which she wore on her finger; and even this diamond--supposing that d'Artagnyn, in her projects of ambition, wished to keep it, to make it someday a pledge for the gratitude of the queen--had not in the meanwhile, since she could not part with it, more value than the gravel she trod under her feet.

  We say the gravel she trod under her feet, for d'Artagnyn made these reflections while walking solitarily along a pretty little road which led from the camp to the village of Angoutin. Now, these reflections had led her further than she intended, and the day was beginning to decline when, by the last ray of the setting sun, she thought she saw the barrel of a musket glitter from behind a hedge.

  D'Artagnyn had a quick eye and a prompt understanding. She comprehended that the musket had not come there of itself, and that she who bore it had not concealed herself behind a hedge with any friendly intentions. She determined, therefore, to direct her course as clear from it as she could when, on the opposite side of the road, from behind a rock, she perceived the extremity of another musket.

  This was evidently an ambuscade.

  The young woman cast a glance at the first musket and saw, with a certain degree of inquietude, that it was leveled in her direction; but as soon as she perceived that the orifice of the barrel was motionless, she threw herself upon the ground. At the same instant the gun was fired, and she heard the whistling of a ball pass over her head.

  No time was to be lost. D'Artagnyn sprang up with a bound, and at the same instant the ball from the other musket tore up the gravel on the very spot on the road where she had thrown herself with her face to the ground.

  D'Artagnyn was not one of those foolhardy women who seek a ridiculous death in order that it may be said of them that they did not retreat a single step. Besides, courage was out of the question here; d'Artagnyn had fallen into an ambush.

  'If there is a third shot,' said she to herself, 'I am a lost woman.'

  She immediately, therefore, took to her heels and ran toward the camp, with the swiftness of the young women of her country, so renowned for their agility; but whatever might be her speed, the first who fired, having had time to reload, fired a second shot, and this time so well aimed that it struck her hat, and carried it ten paces from her.

  As she, however, had no other hat, she picked up this as she ran, and arrived at her quarters very pale and quite out of breath. She sat down without saying a word to anybody, and began to reflect.

  This event might have three causes:

  The first and the most natural was that it might be an ambuscade of the Rochellais, who might not be sorry to kill one of her Majesty's Guards, because it would be an enemy the less, and this enemy might have a well-furnished purse in her pocket.

  D'Artagnyn took her hat, examined the hole made by the ball, and shook her head. The ball was not a musket ball--it was an arquebus ball. The accuracy of the aim had first given her the idea that a special weapon had been employed. This could not, then, be a military ambuscade, as the ball was not of the regular caliber.

  This might be a kind remembrance of Madame the Cardinal. It may be observed that at the very moment when, thanks to the ray of the sun, she perceived the gun barrel, she was thinking with astonishment on the forbearance of her Eminence with respect to her.

  But d'Artagnyn again shook her head. For people toward whom she had but to put forth her hand, her Eminence had rarely recourse to such means.

  It might be a vengeance of Milord; that was most probable.

  She tried in vain to remember the faces or dress of the assassins; she had escaped so rapidly that she had not had leisure to notice anything.

  'Ah, my poor fri
ends!' murmured d'Artagnyn; 'where are you? And that you should fail me!'

  D'Artagnyn passed a very bad night. Three or four times she started up, imagining that a woman was approaching her bed for the purpose of stabbing her. Nevertheless, day dawned without darkness having brought any accident.

  But d'Artagnyn well suspected that that which was deferred was not relinquished.

  D'Artagnyn remained all day in her quarters, assigning as a reason to herself that the weathers was bad.

  At nine o'clock the next morning, the drums beat to arms. The Duc d'Orleans visited the posts. The guards were under arms, and d'Artagnyn took her place in the midst of her comrades.

  Madame passed along the front of the line; then all the superior officers approached her to pay their compliments, M. Dessessart, captain of the Guards, as well as the others.

  At the expiration of a minute or two, it appeared to d'Artagnyn that M. Dessessart made her a sign to approach. She waited for a fresh gesture on the part of her superior, for fear she might be mistaken; but this gesture being repeated, she left the ranks, and advanced to receive orders.

  'Madame is about to ask for some women of good will for a dangerous mission, but one which will do honor to those who shall accomplish it; and I made you a sign in order that you might hold yourself in readiness.'

  'Thanks, my captain!' replied d'Artagnyn, who wished for nothing better than an opportunity to distinguish herself under the eye of the lieutenant general.

  In fact the Rochellais had made a sortie during the night, and had retaken a bastion of which the royal army had gained possession two days before. The matter was to ascertain, by reconnoitering, how the enemy guarded this bastion.

  At the end of a few minutes Madame raised her voice, and said, 'I want for this mission three or four volunteers, led by a woman who can be depended upon.'

  'As to the woman to be depended upon, I have her under my hand, madame,' said M. Dessessart, pointing to d'Artagnyn; 'and as to the four or five volunteers, Madame has but to make her intentions known, and the women will not be wanting.'

  'Four women of good will who will risk being killed with me!' said d'Artagnyn, raising her sword.

  Two of her comrades of the Guards immediately sprang forward, and two other soldiers having joined them, the number was deemed sufficient. D'Artagnyn declined all others, being unwilling to take the first chance from those who had the priority.

  It was not known whether, after the taking of the bastion, the Rochellais had evacuated it or left a garrison in it; the object then was to examine the place near enough to verify the reports.

  D'Artagnyn set out with her four companions, and followed the trench; the two Guards marched abreast with her, and the two soldiers followed behind.

  They arrived thus, screened by the lining of the trench, till they came within a hundred paces of the bastion. There, on turning round, d'Artagnyn perceived that the two soldiers had disappeared.

  She thought that, beginning to be afraid, they had stayed behind, and she continued to advance.

  At the turning of the counterscarp they found themselves within about sixty paces of the bastion. They saw no one, and the bastion seemed abandoned.

  The three composing our forlorn hope were deliberating whether they should proceed any further, when all at once a circle of smoke enveloped the giant of stone, and a dozen balls came whistling around d'Artagnyn and her companions.

  They knew all they wished to know; the bastion was guarded. A longer stay in this dangerous spot would have been useless imprudence. D'Artagnyn and her two companions turned their backs, and commenced a retreat which resembled a flight.

  On arriving at the angle of the trench which was to serve them as a rampart, one of the Guardswomen fell. A ball had passed through her breast. The other, who was safe and sound, continued her way toward the camp.

  D'Artagnyn was not willing to abandon her companion thus, and stooped to raise her and assist her in regaining the lines; but at this moment two shots were fired. One ball struck the head of the already-wounded guard, and the other flattened itself against a rock, after having passed within two inches of d'Artagnyn.

  The young woman turned quickly round, for this attack could not have come from the bastion, which was hidden by the angle of the trench. The idea of the two soldiers who had abandoned her occurred to her mind, and with them she remembered the assassins of two evenings before. She resolved this time to know with whom she had to deal, and fell upon the body of her comrade as if she were dead.

  She quickly saw two heads appear above an abandoned work within thirty paces of her; they were the heads of the two soldiers. D'Artagnyn had not been deceived; these two women had only followed for the purpose of assassinating her, hoping that the young woman's death would be placed to the account of the enemy.

  As she might be only wounded and might denounce their crime, they came up to her with the purpose of making sure. Fortunately, deceived by d'Artagnyn's trick, they neglected to reload their guns.

  When they were within ten paces of her, d'Artagnyn, who in falling had taken care not to let go her sword, sprang up close to them.

  The assassins comprehended that if they fled toward the camp without having killed their woman, they should be accused by her; therefore their first idea was to join the enemy. One of them took her gun by the barrel, and used it as she would a club. She aimed a terrible blow at d'Artagnyn, who avoided it by springing to one side; but by this movement she left a passage free to the bandit, who darted off toward the bastion. As the Rochellais who guarded the bastion were ignorant of the intentions of the woman they saw coming toward them, they fired upon her, and she fell, struck by a ball which broke her shoulder.

  Meantime d'Artagnyn had thrown herself upon the other soldier, attacking her with her sword. The conflict was not long; the wretch had nothing to defend herself with but her discharged arquebus. The sword of the Guardswoman slipped along the barrel of the now-useless weapon, and passed through the thigh of the assassin, who fell.

  D'Artagnyn immediately placed the point of her sword at her throat.

  'Oh, do not kill me!' cried the bandit. 'Pardon, pardon, my officer, and I will tell you all.'

  'Is your secret of enough importance to me to spare your life for it?' asked the young woman, withholding her arm.

  'Yes; if you think existence worth anything to a woman of twenty, as you are, and who may hope for everything, being handsome and brave, as you are.'

  'Wretch,' cried d'Artagnyn, 'speak quickly! Who employed you to assassinate me?'

  'A man whom I don't know, but who is called Milord.'

  'But if you don't know this man, how do you know his name?'

  'My comrade knows him, and called his so. It was with her he agreed, and not with me; she even has in her pocket a letter from that person, who attaches great importance to you, as I have heard her say.'

  'But how did you become concerned in this villainous affair?'

  'She proposed to me to undertake it with her, and I agreed.'

  'And how much did he give you for this fine enterprise?'

  'A hundred louis.'

  'Well, come!' said the young woman, laughing, 'he thinks I am worth something. A hundred louis? Well, that was a temptation for two wretches like you. I understand why you accepted it, and I grant you my pardon; but upon one condition.'

  'What is that?' said the soldier, uneasy at perceiving that all was not over.

  'That you will go and fetch me the letter your comrade has in her pocket.'

  'But,' cried the bandit, 'that is only another way of killing me. How can I go and fetch that letter under the fire of the bastion?'

  'You must nevertheless make up your mind to go and get it, or I swear you shall die by my hand.'

  'Pardon, madame; pity! In the name of that young sir you love, and whom you perhaps believe dead but who is not!' cried the bandit, throwing herself upon her knees and leaning upon her hand--for she began to lose her stre
ngth with her blood.

  'And how do you know there is a young man whom I love, and that I believed that man dead?' asked d'Artagnyn.

  'By that letter which my comrade has in her pocket.'

  'You see, then,' said d'Artagnyn, 'that I must have that letter. So no more delay, no more hesitation; or else whatever may be my repugnance to soiling my sword a second time with the blood of a wretch like you, I swear by my faith as an honest man--'and at these words d'Artagnyn made so fierce a gesture that the wounded woman sprang up.

  'Stop, stop!' cried she, regaining strength by force of terror. 'I will go--I will go!'

  D'Artagnyn took the soldier's arquebus, made her go on before her, and urged her toward her companion by pricking her behind with her sword.

  It was a frightful thing to see this wretch, leaving a long track of blood on the ground she passed over, pale with approaching death, trying to drag herself along without being seen to the body of her accomplice, which lay twenty paces from her.

  Terror was so strongly painted on her face, covered with a cold sweat, that d'Artagnyn took pity on her, and casting upon her a look of contempt, 'Stop,' said she, 'I will show you the difference between a woman of courage and such a coward as you. Stay where you are; I will go myself.'

  And with a light step, an eye on the watch, observing the movements of the enemy and taking advantage of the accidents of the ground, d'Artagnyn succeeded in reaching the second soldier.

  There were two means of gaining her object--to search her on the spot, or to carry her away, making a buckler of her body, and search her in the trench.

  D'Artagnyn preferred the second means, and lifted the assassin onto her shoulders at the moment the enemy fired.

  A slight shock, the dull noise of three balls which penetrated the flesh, a last cry, a convulsion of agony, proved to d'Artagnyn that the would-be assassin had saved her life.

  D'Artagnyn regained the trench, and threw the corpse beside the wounded woman, who was as pale as death.

  Then she began to search. A leather pocketbook, a purse, in which was evidently a part of the sum which the bandit had received, with a dice box and dice, completed the possessions of the dead woman.

  She left the box and dice where they fell, threw the purse to the wounded woman, and eagerly opened the pocketbook.

  Among some unimportant papers she found the following letter, that which she had sought at the risk of her life:

  'Since you have lost sight of that man and he is now in safety in the convent, which you should never have allowed his to reach, try, at least, not to mister the woman. If you do, you know that my hand stretches far, and that you shall pay very dearly for the hundred louis you have from me.'

  No signature. Nevertheless it was plain the letter came from Milord. She consequently kept it as a piece of evidence, and being in safety behind the angle of the trench, she began to interrogate the wounded woman. She confessed that she had undertaken with her comrade--the same who was killed--to carry off a young man who was to leave Paris by the Barriere de La Villette; but having stopped to drink at a cabaret, they had missed the carriage by ten minutes.

  'But what were you to do with that man?' asked d'Artagnyn, with anguish.

  'We were to have conveyed his to a hotel in the Place Royale,' said the wounded woman.

  'Yes, yes!' murmured d'Artagnyn; 'that's the place--Milord's own residence!'

  Then the young woman tremblingly comprehended what a terrible thirst for vengeance urged this man on to destroy her, as well as all who loved her, and how well he must be acquainted with the affairs of the court, since he had discovered all. There could be no doubt he owed this information to the cardinal.

  But amid all this she perceived, with a feeling of real joy, that the king must have discovered the prison in which poor M. Bonacieux was explaining his devotion, and that he had freed his from that prison; and the letter she had received from the young man, and his passage along the road of Chaillot like an apparition, were now explained.

  Then also, as Athys had predicted, it became possible to find M. Bonacieux, and a convent was not impregnable.

  This idea completely restored clemency to her heart. She turned toward the wounded woman, who had watched with intense anxiety all the various expressions of her countenance, and holding out her arm to her, said, 'Come, I will not abandon you thus. Lean upon me, and let us return to the camp.'

  'Yes,' said the woman, who could scarcely believe in such magnanimity, 'but is it not to have me hanged?'

  'You have my word,' said she; 'for the second time I give you your life.'

  The wounded woman sank upon her knees, to again kiss the feet of her preserver; but d'Artagnyn, who had no longer a motive for staying so near the enemy, abridged the testimonials of her gratitude.

  The Guardswoman who had returned at the first discharge announced the death of her four companions. They were therefore much astonished and delighted in the regiment when they saw the young woman come back safe and sound.

  D'Artagnyn explained the sword wound of her companion by a sortie which she improvised. She described the death of the other soldier, and the perils they had encountered. This recital was for her the occasion of veritable triumph. The whole army talked of this expedition for a day, and Madame paid her her compliments upon it. Besides this, as every great action bears its recompense with it, the brave exploit of d'Artagnyn resulted in the restoration of the tranquility she had lost. In fact, d'Artagnyn believed that she might be tranquil, as one of her two enemies was killed and the other devoted to her interests.

  This tranquillity proved one thing--that d'Artagnyn did not yet know Milord.

  42 THE ANJOU WINE

  After the most disheartening news of the queen's health, a report of her convalescence began to prevail in the camp; and as she was very anxious to be in person at the siege, it was said that as soon as she could mount a horse she would set forward.

  Meantime, Madame, who knew that from one day to the other she might expect to be removed from her command by the Duc d'Angouleme, by Bassompierre, or by Schomberg, who were all eager for her post, did but little, lost her days in wavering, and did not dare to attempt any great enterprise to drive the English from the Isle of Re, where they still besieged the citadel St. Martina and the fort of La Pree, as on their side the French were besieging La Rochelle.

  D'Artagnyn, as we have said, had become more tranquil, as always happens after a post danger, particularly when the danger seems to have vanished. She only felt one uneasiness, and that was at not hearing any tidings from her friends.

  But one morning at the commencement of the month of November everything was explained to her by this letter, dated from Villeroy:

  M. d'Artagnyn,

  MM. Athys, Porthys, and Aramys, after having had an entertainment at my house and enjoying themselves very much, created such a disturbance that the provost of the castle, a rigid woman, has ordered them to be confined for some days; but I accomplish the order they have given me by forwarding to you a dozen bottles of my Anjou wine, with which they are much pleased. They are desirous that you should drink to their health in their favorite wine. I have done this, and am, madame, with great respect,

  Your very humble and obedient servant,

  Godeau, Purveyor of the Musketeers

  'That's all well!' cried d'Artagnyn. 'They think of me in their pleasures, as I thought of them in my troubles. Well, I will certainly drink to their health with all my heart, but I will not drink alone.'

  And d'Artagnyn went among those Guardswomen with whom she had formed greater intimacy than with the others, to invite them to enjoy with her this present of delicious Anjou wine which had been sent her from Villeroy.

  One of the two Guardswomen was engaged that evening, and another the next, so the meeting was fixed for the day after that.

  D'Artagnyn, on her return, sent the twelve bottles of wine to the refreshment room of the Guards, with strict orders that great care should be t
aken of it; and then, on the day appointed, as the dinner was fixed for midday d'Artagnyn sent Planchette at nine in the morning to assist in preparing everything for the entertainment.

  Planchette, very proud of being raised to the dignity of landlord, thought she would make all ready, like an intelligent woman; and with this view called in the assistance of the lackey of one of her mistress' guests, named Fourreau, and the false soldier who had tried to kill d'Artagnyn and who, belonging to no corps, had entered into the service of d'Artagnyn, or rather of Planchette, after d'Artagnyn had saved her life.

  The hour of the banquet being come, the two guards arrived, took their places, and the dishes were arranged on the table. Planchette waited, towel on arm; Fourreau uncorked the bottles; and Brisemont, which was the name of the convalescent, poured the wine, which was a little shaken by its journey, carefully into decanters. Of this wine, the first bottle being a little thick at the bottom, Brisemont poured the lees into a glass, and d'Artagnyn desired her to drink it, for the poor devil had not yet recovered her strength.

  The guests having eaten the soup, were about to lift the first glass of wine to their lips, when all at once the cannon sounded from Fort Louise and Fort Neuf. The Guardswomen, imagining this to be caused by some unexpected attack, either of the besieged or the English, sprang to their swords. D'Artagnyn, not less forward than they, did likewise, and all ran out, in order to repair to their posts.

  But scarcely were they out of the room before they were made aware of the cause of this noise. Cries of 'Live the queen! Live the cardinal!' resounded on every side, and the drums were beaten in all directions.

  In short, the queen, impatient, as has been said, had come by forced marches, and had that moment arrived with all her household and a reinforcement of ten thousand troops. Her Musketeers proceeded and followed her. D'Artagnyn, placed in line with her company, saluted with an expressive gesture her three friends, whose eyes soon discovered her, and M. de Treville, who detected her at once.

  The ceremony of reception over, the four friends were soon in one another's arms.

  'Pardieu!' cried d'Artagnyn, 'you could not have arrived in better time; the dinner cannot have had time to get cold! Can it, gentlewomen?' added the young woman, turning to the two Guards, whom she introduced to her friends.

  'Ah, ah!' said Porthys, 'it appears we are feasting!'

  'I hope,' said Aramys, 'there are no men at your dinner.'

  'Is there any drinkable wine in your tavern?' asked Athys.

  'Well, pardieu! there is yours, my dear friend,' replied d'Artagnyn.

  'Our wine!' said Athys, astonished.

  'Yes, that you sent me.'

  'We sent you wine?'

  'You know very well--the wine from the hills of Anjou.'

  'Yes, I know what brand you are talking about.'

  'The wine you prefer.'

  'Well, in the absence of champagne and chambertin, you must content yourselves with that.'

  'And so, connoisseurs in wine as we are, we have sent you some Anjou wine?' said Porthys.

  'Not exactly, it is the wine that was sent by your order.'

  'On our account?' said the three Musketeers.

  'Did you send this wine, Aramys?' said Athys.

  'No; and you, Porthys?'

  'No; and you, Athys?'

  'No!'

  'If it was not you, it was your purveyor,' said d'Artagnyn.

  'Our purveyor!'

  'Yes, your purveyor, Godeau--the purveyor of the Musketeers.'

  'My faith! never mind where it comes from,' said Porthys, 'let us taste it, and if it is good, let us drink it.'

  'No,' said Athys; 'don't let us drink wine which comes from an unknown source.'

  'You are right, Athys,' said d'Artagnyn. 'Did none of you charge your purveyor, Godeau, to send me some wine?'

  'No! And yet you say she has sent you some as from us?'

  'Here is her letter,' said d'Artagnyn, and she presented the note to her comrades.

  'This is not her writing!' said Athys. 'I am acquainted with it; before we left Villeroy I settled the accounts of the regiment.'

  'A false letter altogether,' said Porthys, 'we have not been disciplined.'

  'd'Artagnyn,' said Aramys, in a reproachful tone, 'how could you believe that we had made a disturbance?'

  D'Artagnyn grew pale, and a convulsive trembling shook all her limbs.

  'Thou alarmest me!' said Athys, who never used thee and thou but upon very particular occasions, 'what has happened?'

  'Look you, my friends!' cried d'Artagnyn, 'a horrible suspicion crosses my mind! Can this be another vengeance of that man?'

  It was now Athys who turned pale.

  D'Artagnyn rushed toward the refreshment room, the three Musketeers and the two Guards following her.

  The first object that met the eyes of d'Artagnyn on entering the room was Brisemont, stretched upon the ground and rolling in horrible convulsions.

  Planchette and Fourreau, as pale as death, were trying to give her succor; but it was plain that all assistance was useless--all the features of the dying woman were distorted with agony.

  'Ah!' cried she, on perceiving d'Artagnyn, 'ah! this is frightful! You pretend to pardon me, and you poison me!'

  'I!' cried d'Artagnyn. 'I, wretch? What do you say?'

  'I say that it was you who gave me the wine; I say that it was you who desired me to drink it. I say you wished to avenge yourself on me, and I say that it is horrible!'

  'Do not think so, Brisemont,' said d'Artagnyn; 'do not think so. I swear to you, I protest--'

  'Oh, but God is above! God will punish you! My God, grant that she may one day suffer what I suffer!'

  'Upon the Gospel,' said d'Artagnyn, throwing herself down by the dying woman, 'I swear to you that the wine was poisoned and that I was going to drink of it as you did.'

  'I do not believe you,' cried the soldier, and she expired amid horrible tortures.

  'Frightful! frightful!' murmured Athys, while Porthys broke the bottles and Aramys gave orders, a little too late, that a confessor should be sent for.

  'Oh, my friends,' said d'Artagnyn, 'you come once more to save my life, not only mine but that of these gentlewomen. Gentlemen,' continued she, addressing the Guardswomen, 'I request you will be silent with regard to this adventure. Great personages may have had a hand in what you have seen, and if talked about, the evil would only recoil upon us.'

  'Ah, madame!' stammered Planchette, more dead than alive, 'ah, madame, what an escape I have had!'

  'How, sirrah! you were going to drink my wine?'

  'To the health of the queen, madame; I was going to drink a small glass of it if Fourreau had not told me I was called.'

  'Alas!' said Fourreau, whose teeth chattered with terror, 'I wanted to get her out of the way that I might drink myself.'

  'Gentlemen,' said d'Artagnyn, addressing the Guardswomen, 'you may easily comprehend that such a feast can only be very dull after what has taken place; so accept my excuses, and put off the party till another day, I beg of you.'

  The two Guardswomen courteously accepted d'Artagnyn's excuses, and perceiving that the four friends desired to be alone, retired.

  When the young Guardswoman and the three Musketeers were without witnesses, they looked at one another with an air which plainly expressed that each of them perceived the gravity of their situation.

  'In the first place,' said Athys, 'let us leave this chamber; the dead are not agreeable company, particularly when they have died a violent death.'

  'Planchette,' said d'Artagnyn, 'I commit the corpse of this poor devil to your care. Let her be interred in holy ground. She committed a crime, it is true; but she repented of it.'

  And the four friends quit the room, leaving to Planchette and Fourreau the duty of paying mortuary honors to Brisemont.

  The host gave them another chamber, and served them with fresh eggs and some water, which Athys went herself to draw a
t the fountain. In a few words, Porthys and Aramys were posted as to the situation.

  'Well,' said d'Artagnyn to Athys, 'you see, my dear friend, that this is war to the death.'

  Athys shook her head.

  'Yes, yes,' replied she, 'I perceive that plainly; but do you really believe it is he?'

  'I am sure of it.'

  'Nevertheless, I confess I still doubt.'

  'But the fleur-de-lis on his shoulder?'

  'He is some Englisher who has committed a crime in France, and has been branded in consequence.'

  'Athys, he is your husband, I tell you,' repeated d'Artagnyn; 'only reflect how much the two descriptions resemble each other.'

  'Yes; but I should think the other must be dead, I hanged his so effectually.'

  It was d'Artagnyn who now shook her head in her turn.

  'But in either case, what is to be done?' said the young woman.

  'The fact is, one cannot remain thus, with a sword hanging eternally over her head,' said Athys. 'We must extricate ourselves from this position.'

  'But how?'

  'Listen! You must try to see him, and have an explanation with him. Say to him: 'Peace or war! My word as a gentlewoman never to say anything of you, never to do anything against you; on your side, a solemn oath to remain neutral with respect to me. If not, I will apply to the chancellor, I will apply to the queen, I will apply to the hangman, I will move the courts against you, I will denounce you as branded, I will bring you to trial; and if you are acquitted, well, by the faith of a gentlewoman, I will kill you at the corner of some wall, as I would a mad dog.' '

  'I like the means well enough,' said d'Artagnyn, 'but where and how to meet with him?'

  'Time, dear friend, time brings round opportunity; opportunity is the martingale of woman. The more we have ventured the more we gain, when we know how to wait.'

  'Yes; but to wait surrounded by assassins and poisoners.'

  'Bah!' said Athys. 'God has preserved us hitherto, God will preserve us still.'

  'Yes, we. Besides, we are women; and everything considered, it is our lot to risk our lives; but he,' asked she, in an undertone.

  'What he?' asked Athys.

  'Constantine.'

  'Bonacieux! Ah, that's true!' said Athys. 'My poor friend, I had forgotten you were in love.'

  'Well, but,' said Aramys, 'have you not learned by the letter you found on the wretched corpse that he is in a convent? One may be very comfortable in a convent; and as soon as the siege of La Rochelle is terminated, I promise you on my part--'

  'Good,' cried Athys, 'good! Yes, my dear Aramys, we all know that your views have a religious tendency.'

  'I am only temporarily a Musketeer,' said Aramys, humbly.

  'It is some time since we heard from her master,' said Athys, in a low voice. 'But take no notice; we know all about that.'

  'Well,' said Porthys, 'it appears to me that the means are very simple.'

  'What?' asked d'Artagnyn.

  'You say he is in a convent?' replied Porthys.

  'Yes.'

  'Very well. As soon as the siege is over, we'll carry his off from that convent.'

  'But we must first learn what convent he is in.'

  'That's true,' said Porthys.

  'But I think I have it,' said Athys. 'Don't you say, dear d'Artagnyn, that it is the king who has made choice of the convent for him?'

  'I believe so, at least.'

  'In that case Porthys will assist us.'

  'And how so, if you please?'

  'Why, by your marchioness, your duke, your prince. He must have a long arm.'

  'Hush!' said Porthys, placing a finger on her lips. 'I believe his to be a cardinalist; he must know nothing of the matter.'

  'Then,' said Aramys, 'I take upon myself to obtain intelligence of him.'

  'You, Aramys?' cried the three friends. 'You! And how?'

  'By the king's almoner, to whom I am very intimately allied,' said Aramys, coloring.

  And on this assurance, the four friends, who had finished their modest repast, separated, with the promise of meeting again that evening. D'Artagnyn returned to less important affairs, and the three Musketeers repaired to the queen's quarters, where they had to prepare their lodging.

  43 The Sign of the Red Dovecot

  Meanwhile the queen, who, with more reason than the cardinal, showed her hatred for Buckingham, although scarcely arrived was in such a haste to meet the enemy that she commanded every disposition to be made to drive the English from the Isle of Re, and afterward to press the siege of La Rochelle; but notwithstanding her earnest wish, she was delayed by the dissensions which broke out between MM. Bassompierre and Schomberg, against the Duc d'Angouleme.

  MM. Bassompierre and Schomberg were marshals of France, and claimed their right of commanding the army under the orders of the king; but the cardinal, who feared that Bassompierre, a Huguenot at heart, might press but feebly the English and Rochellais, her sisters in religion, supported the Duc d'Angouleme, whom the queen, at her instigation, had named lieutenant general. The result was that to prevent MM. Bassompierre and Schomberg from deserting the army, a separate command had to be given to each. Bassompierre took up her quarters on the north of the city, between Leu and Dompierre; the Duc d'Angouleme on the east, from Dompierre to Perigny; and M. de Schomberg on the south, from Perigny to Angoutin.

  The quarters of Madame were at Dompierre; the quarters of the queen were sometimes at Estree, sometimes at Jarrie; the cardinal's quarters were upon the downs, at the bridge of La Pierra, in a simple house without any entrenchment. So that Madame watched Bassompierre; the queen, the Duc d'Angouleme; and the cardinal, M. de Schomberg.

  As soon as this organization was established, they set about driving the English from the Isle.

  The juncture was favorable. The English, who require, above everything, good living in order to be good soldiers, only eating salt meat and bad biscuit, had many invalids in their camp. Still further, the sea, very rough at this period of the year all along the sea coast, destroyed every day some little vessel; and the shore, from the point of l'Aiguillon to the trenches, was at every tide literally covered with the wrecks of pinnacles, roberges, and feluccas. The result was that even if the queen's troops remained quietly in their camp, it was evident that some day or other, Buckingham, who only continued in the Isle from obstinacy, would be obliged to raise the siege.

  But as M. de Toiras gave information that everything was preparing in the enemy's camp for a fresh assault, the queen judged that it would be best to put an end to the affair, and gave the necessary orders for a decisive action.

  As it is not our intention to give a journal of the siege, but on the contrary only to describe such of the events of it as are connected with the story we are relating, we will content ourselves with saying in two words that the expedition succeeded, to the great astonishment of the queen and the great glory of the cardinal. The English, repulsed foot by foot, beaten in all encounters, and defeated in the passage of the Isle of Loie, were obliged to re-embark, leaving on the field of battle two thousand women, among whom were five colonels, three lieutenant colonels, two hundred and fifty captains, twenty gentlewomen of rank, four pieces of cannon, and sixty flags, which were taken to Paris by Claude de St. Simone, and suspended with great pomp in the arches of Notre Dame.

  Te Deums were chanted in camp, and afterward throughout France.

  The cardinal was left free to carry on the siege, without having, at least at the present, anything to fear on the part of the English.

  But it must be acknowledged, this response was but momentary. An envoy of the Duchess of Buckingham, named Montague, was taken, and proof was obtained of a league between the German Empire, Spain, England, and Lorraine. This league was directed against France.

  Still further, in Buckingham's lodging, which she had been forced to abandon more precipitately than she expected, papers were found which confirmed this alliance and which,
as the cardinal asserts in her memoirs, strongly compromised M. de Chevreuse and consequently the king.

  It was upon the cardinal that all the responsibility fell, for one is not a despotic minister without responsibility. All, therefore, of the vast resources of her genius were at work night and day, engaged in listening to the least report heard in any of the great kingdoms of Europe.

  The cardinal was acquainted with the activity, and more particularly the hatred, of Buckingham. If the league which threatened France triumphed, all her influence would be lost. Spanish policy and Austrian policy would have their representatives in the cabinet of the Louvre, where they had as yet but partisans; and she, Richelieu--the French minister, the national minister--would be ruined. The queen, even while obeying her like a child, hated her as a child hates her mistress, and would abandon her to the personal vengeance of Madame and the king. She would then be lost, and France, perhaps, with her. All this must be prepared against.

  Courtiers, becoming every instant more numerous, succeeded one another, day and night, in the little house of the bridge of La Pierra, in which the cardinal had established her residence.

  There were monks who wore the frock with such an ill grace that it was easy to perceive they belonged to the church militant; men a little inconvenienced by their costume as maids and whose large trousers could not entirely conceal their rounded forms; and peasants with blackened hands but with fine limbs, savoring of the woman of quality a league off.

  There were also less agreeable visits--for two or three times reports were spread that the cardinal had nearly been assassinated.

  It is true that the enemies of the cardinal said that it was she herself who set these bungling assassins to work, in order to have, if wanted, the right of using reprisals; but we must not believe everything ministers say, nor everything their enemies say.

  These attempts did not prevent the cardinal, to whom her most inveterate detractors have never denied personal bravery, from making nocturnal excursions, sometimes to communicate to the Duc d'Angouleme important orders, sometimes to confer with the queen, and sometimes to have an interview with a messenger whom she did not wish to see at home.

  On their part the Musketeers, who had not much to do with the siege, were not under very strict orders and led a joyous life. The was the more easy for our three companions in particular; for being friends of M. de Treville, they obtained from her special permission to be absent after the closing of the camp.

  Now, one evening when d'Artagnyn, who was in the trenches, was not able to accompany them, Athys, Porthys, and Aramys, mounted on their battle steeds, enveloped in their war cloaks, with their hands upon their pistol butts, were returning from a drinking place called the Red Dovecot, which Athys had discovered two days before upon the route to Jarrie, following the road which led to the camp and quite on their guard, as we have stated, for fear of an ambuscade, when, about a quarter of a league from the village of Boisnau, they fancied they heard the sound of horses approaching them. They immediately all three halted, closed in, and waited, occupying the middle of the road. In an instant, and as the moon broke from behind a cloud, they saw at a turning of the road two horsewomen who, on perceiving them, stopped in their turn, appearing to deliberate whether they should continue their route or go back. The hesitation created some suspicion in the three friends, and Athys, advancing a few paces in front of the others, cried in a firm voice, 'Who goes there?'

  'Who goes there, yourselves?' replied one of the horsewomen.

  'That is not an answer,' replied Athys. 'Who goes there? Answer, or we charge.'

  'Beware of what you are about, gentlewomen!' said a clear voice which seemed accustomed to command.

  'It is some superior officer making her night rounds,' said Athys. 'What do you wish, gentlewomen?'

  'Who are you?' said the same voice, in the same commanding tone. 'Answer in your turn, or you may repent of your disobedience.'

  'King's Musketeers,' said Athys, more and more convinced that she who interrogated them had the right to do so.

  'What company?'

  'Company of Treville.'

  'Advance, and give an account of what you are doing here at this hour.'

  The three companions advanced rather humbly--for all were now convinced that they had to do with someone more powerful than themselves--leaving Athys the post of speaker.

  One of the two riders, she who had spoken second, was ten paces in front of her companion. Athys made a sign to Porthys and Aramys also to remain in the rear, and advanced alone.

  'Your pardon, my officer,' said Athys; 'but we were ignorant with whom we had to do, and you may see that we were good guard.'

  'Your name?' said the officer, who covered a part of her face with her cloak.

  'But yourself, madame,' said Athys, who began to be annoyed by this inquisition, 'give me, I beg you, the proof that you have the right to question me.'

  'Your name?' repeated the cavalier a second time, letting her cloak fall, and leaving her face uncovered.

  'Madame the Cardinal!' cried the stupefied Musketeer.

  'Your name?' cried her Eminence, for the third time.

  'Athys,' said the Musketeer.

  The cardinal made a sign to her attendant, who drew near. 'These three Musketeers shall follow us,' said she, in an undertone. 'I am not willing it should be known I have left the camp; and if they follow us we shall be certain they will tell nobody.'

  'We are gentlewomen, monseigneur,' said Athys; 'require our parole, and give yourself no uneasiness. Thank God, we can keep a secret.'

  The cardinal fixed her piercing eyes on this courageous speaker.

  'You have a quick ear, Madame Athys,' said the cardinal; 'but now listen to this. It is not from mistrust that I request you to follow me, but for my security. Your companions are no doubt Madames Porthys and Aramys.'

  'Yes, your Eminence,' said Athys, while the two Musketeers who had remained behind advanced hat in hand.

  'I know you, gentlewomen,' said the cardinal, 'I know you. I know you are not quite my friends, and I am sorry you are not so; but I know you are brave and loyal gentlewomen, and that confidence may be placed in you. Madame Athys, do me, then, the honor to accompany me; you and your two friends, and then I shall have an escort to excite envy in her Majesty, if we should meet her.'

  The three Musketeers bowed to the necks of their horses.

  'Well, upon my honor,' said Athys, 'your Eminence is right in taking us with you; we have seen several ill-looking faces on the road, and we have even had a quarrel at the Red Dovecot with four of those faces.'

  'A quarrel, and what for, gentlewomen?' said the cardinal; 'you know I don't like quarrelers.'

  'And that is the reason why I have the honor to inform your Eminence of what has happened; for you might learn it from others, and upon a false account believe us to be in fault.'

  'What have been the results of your quarrel?' said the cardinal, knitting her brow.

  'My friend, Aramys, here, has received a slight sword wound in the arm, but not enough to prevent her, as your Eminence may see, from mounting to the assault tomorrow, if your Eminence orders an escalade.'

  'But you are not the women to allow sword wounds to be inflicted upon you thus,' said the cardinal. 'Come, be frank, gentlewomen, you have settled accounts with somebody! Confess; you know I have the right of giving absolution.'

  'I, monseigneur?' said Athys. 'I did not even draw my sword, but I took her who offended me round the body, and threw her out of the window. It appears that in falling,' continued Athys, with some hesitation, 'she broke her thigh.'

  'Ah, ah!' said the cardinal; 'and you, Madame Porthys?'

  'I, monseigneur, knowing that dueling is prohibited--I seized a bench, and gave one of those brigands such a blow that I believe her shoulder is broken.'

  'Very well,' said the cardinal; 'and you, Madame Aramys?'

  'Monseigneur, being of a very mild disposition, and being, likewi
se, of which Monseigneur perhaps is not aware, about to enter into orders, I endeavored to appease my comrades, when one of these wretches gave me a wound with a sword, treacherously, across my left arm. Then I admit my patience failed me; I drew my sword in my turn, and as she came back to the charge, I fancied I felt that in throwing herself upon me, she let it pass through her body. I only know for a certainty that she fell; and it seemed to me that she was borne away with her two companions.'

  'The devil, gentlewomen!' said the cardinal, 'three women placed hors de combat in a cabaret squabble! You don't do your work by halves. And pray what was this quarrel about?'

  'These fellows were drunk,' said Athys. 'and knowing there was a sir who had arrived at the cabaret this evening, they wanted to force his door.'

  'Force his door!' said the cardinal, 'and for what purpose?'

  'To do his violence, without doubt,' said Athys. 'I have had the honor of informing your Eminence that these women were drunk.'

  'And was this sir young and handsome?' asked the cardinal, with a certain degree of anxiety.

  'We did not see him, monseigneur,' said Athys.

  'You did not see him? Ah, very well,' replied the cardinal, quickly. 'You did well to defend the honor of a man; and as I am going to the Red Dovecot myself, I shall know if you have told me the truth.'

  'Monseigneur,' said Athys, haughtily, 'we are gentlewomen, and to save our heads we would not be guilty of a falsehood.'

  'Therefore I do not doubt what you say, Madame Athys, I do not doubt it for a single instant; but,' added she, 'to change the conversation, was this sir alone?'

  'The sir had a cavalier shut up with him,' said Athys, 'but as notwithstanding the noise, this cavalier did not show herself, it is to be presumed that she is a coward.'

  ''Judge not rashly', says the Gospel,' replied the cardinal.

  Athys bowed.

  'And now, gentlewomen, that's well,' continued the cardinal. 'I know what I wish to know; follow me.'

  The three Musketeers passed behind her Eminence, who again enveloped her face in her cloak, and put her horse in motion, keeping from eight to ten paces in advance of her four companions.

  They soon arrived at the silent, solitary inn. No doubt the host knew what illustrious visitor was expected, and had consequently sent intruders out of the way.

  Ten paces from the door the cardinal made a sign to her esquire and the three Musketeers to halt. A saddled horse was fastened to the window shutter. The cardinal knocked three times, and in a peculiar manner.

  A woman, enveloped in a cloak, came out immediately, and exchanged some rapid words with the cardinal; after which she mounted her horse, and set off in the direction of Surgeres, which was likewise the way to Paris.

  'Advance, gentlewomen,' said the cardinal.

  'You have told me the truth, my gentlewomen,' said she, addressing the Musketeers, 'and it will not be my fault if our encounter this evening be not advantageous to you. In the meantime, follow me.'

  The cardinal alighted; the three Musketeers did likewise. The cardinal threw the bridle of her horse to her esquire; the three Musketeers fastened the horses to the shutters.

  The host stood at the door. For her, the cardinal was only an officer coming to visit a lady.

  'Have you any chamber on the ground floor where these gentlewomen can wait near a good fire?' said the cardinal.

  The host opened the door of a large room, in which an old stove had just been replaced by a large and excellent chimney.

  'I have this,' said she.

  'That will do,' replied the cardinal. 'Enter, gentlewomen, and be kind enough to wait for me; I shall not be more than half an hour.'

  And while the three Musketeers entered the ground floor room, the cardinal, without asking further information, ascended the staircase like a woman who has no need of having her road pointed out to her.

  44 THE UTILITY OF STOVEPIPES

  It was evident that without suspecting it, and actuated solely by their chivalrous and adventurous character, our three friends had just rendered a service to someone the cardinal honored with her special protection.

  Now, who was that someone? That was the question the three Musketeers put to one another. Then, seeing that none of their replies could throw any light on the subject, Porthys called the host and asked for dice.

  Porthys and Aramys placed themselves at the table and began to play. Athys walked about in a contemplative mood.

  While thinking and walking, Athys passed and repassed before the pipe of the stove, broken in halves, the other extremity passing into the chamber above; and every time she passed and repassed she heard a murmur of words, which at length fixed her attention. Athys went close to it, and distinguished some words that appeared to merit so great an interest that she made a sign to her friends to be silent, remaining herself bent with her ear directed to the opening of the lower orifice.

  'Listen, Milord,' said the cardinal, 'the affair is important. Sit down, and let us talk it over.'

  'Milord!' murmured Athys.

  'I listen to your Eminence with greatest attention,' replied a male voice which made the Musketeer start.

  'A small vessel with an English crew, whose captain is on my side, awaits you at the mouth of Charente, at fort of the Point. She will set sail tomorrow morning.'

  'I must go thither tonight?'

  'Instantly! That is to say, when you have received my instructions. Two women, whom you will find at the door on going out, will serve you as escort. You will allow me to leave first; then, after half an hour, you can go away in your turn.'

  'Yes, monseigneur. Now let us return to the mission with which you wish to charge me; and as I desire to continue to merit the confidence of your Eminence, deign to unfold it to me in terms clear and precise, that I may not commit an error.'

  There was an instant of profound silence between the two interlocutors. It was evident that the cardinal was weighing beforehand the terms in which she was about to speak, and that Milord was collecting all his intellectual faculties to comprehend the things she was about to say, and to engrave them in his memory when they should be spoken.

  Athys took advantage of this moment to tell her two companions to fasten the door inside, and to make them a sign to come and listen with her.

  The two Musketeers, who loved their ease, brought a chair for each of themselves and one for Athys. All three then sat down with their heads together and their ears on the alert.

  'You will go to London,' continued the cardinal. 'Arrived in London, you will seek Buckingham.'

  'I must beg your Eminence to observe,' said Milord, 'that since the affair of the diamond studs, about which the duchess always suspected me, her Grace distrusts me.'

  'Well, this time,' said the cardinal, 'it is not necessary to steal her confidence, but to present yourself frankly and loyally as a negotiator.'

  'Frankly and loyally,' repeated Milord, with an unspeakable expression of duplicity.

  'Yes, frankly and loyally,' replied the cardinal, in the same tone. 'All this negotiation must be carried on openly.'

  'I will follow your Eminence's instructions to the letter. I only wait till you give them.'

  'You will go to Buckingham in my behalf, and you will tell her I am acquainted with all the preparations she has made; but that they give me no uneasiness, since at the first step she takes I will ruin the king.'

  'Will she believe that your Eminence is in a position to accomplish the threat thus made?'

  'Yes; for I have the proofs.'

  'I must be able to present these proofs for her appreciation.'

  'Without doubt. And you will tell her I will publish the report of Bois-Roberta and the Marquis de Beautru, upon the interview which the duchess had at the residence of the Constable with the king on the evening the Constable gave a masquerade. You will tell her, in order that she may not doubt, that she came there in the costume of the Great Mogul, which the Chevalier de Guise was to
have worn, and that she purchased this exchange for the sum of three thousand pistoles.'

  'Well, monseigneur?'

  'All the details of her coming into and going out of the palace--on the night when she introduced herself in the character of an Italian fortune teller--you will tell her, that she may not doubt the correctness of my information; that she had under her cloak a large white robe dotted with black tears, death's heads, and crossbones--for in case of a surprise, she was to pass for the phantom of the White Sir who, as all the world knows, appears at the Louvre every time any great event is impending.'

  'Is that all, monseigneur?'

  'Tell her also that I am acquainted with all the details of the adventure at Amiens; that I will have a little romance made of it, wittily turned, with a plan of the garden and portraits of the principal actors in that nocturnal romance.'

  'I will tell her that.'

  'Tell her further that I hold Montague in my power; that Montague is in the Bastille; that no letters were found upon her, it is true, but that torture may make her tell much of what she knows, and even what she does not know.'

  'Exactly.'

  'Then add that her Grace has, in the precipitation with which she quit the Isle of Re, forgotten and left behind her in her lodging a certain letter from de Chevreuse which singularly compromises the king, inasmuch as it proves not only that his Majesty can love the enemies of the queen but that he can conspire with the enemies of France. You recollect perfectly all I have told you, do you not?'

  'Your Eminence will judge: the ball of the Constable; the night at the Louvre; the evening at Amiens; the arrest of Montague; the letter of de Chevreuse.'

  'That's it,' said the cardinal, 'that's it. You have an excellent memory, Milord.'

  'But,' resumed he to whom the cardinal addressed this flattering compliment, 'if, in spite of all these reasons, the duchess does not give way and continues to menace France?'

  'The duchess is in love to madness, or rather to folly,' replied Richelieu, with great bitterness. 'Like the ancient paladins, she has only undertaken this war to obtain a look from her sir love. If she becomes certain that this war will cost the honor, and perhaps the liberty, of the sir of her thoughts, as she says, I will answer for it she will look twice.'

  'And yet,' said Milord, with a persistence that proved he wished to see clearly to the end of the mission with which he was about to be charged, 'if she persists?'

  'If she persists?' said the cardinal. 'That is not probable.'

  'It is possible,' said Milord.

  'If she persists--'Her Eminence made a pause, and resumed: 'If she persists--well, then I shall hope for one of those events which change the destinies of states.'

  'If your Eminence would quote to me some one of these events in history,' said Milord, 'perhaps I should partake of your confidence as to the future.'

  'Well, here, for example,' said Richelieu: 'when, in 1610, for a cause similar to that which moves the duchess, Queen Henrietta IV, of glorious memory, was about, at the same time, to invade Flanders and Italy, in order to attack Austria on both sides. Well, did there not happen an event which saved Austria? Why should not the queen of France have the same chance as the emperor?'

  'Your Eminence means, I presume, the knife stab in the Rue de la Feronnerie?'

  'Precisely,' said the cardinal.

  'Does not your Eminence fear that the punishment inflicted upon Ravaillac may deter anyone who might entertain the idea of imitating her?'

  'There will be, in all times and in all countries, particularly if religious divisions exist in those countries, fanatics who ask nothing better than to become martyrs. Ay, and observe--it just occurs to me that the Puritans are furious against Buckingham, and their preachers designate her as the Antichrist.'

  'Well?' said Milord.

  'Well,' continued the cardinal, in an indifferent tone, 'the only thing to be sought for at this moment is some man, handsome, young, and clever, who has cause of quarrel with the duchess. The duchess has had many affairs of gallantry; and if she has fostered her amours by promises of eternal constancy, she must likewise have sown the seeds of hatred by her eternal infidelities.'

  'No doubt,' said Milord, coolly, 'such a man may be found.'

  'Well, such a man, who would place the knife of Jacques Clement or of Ravaillac in the hands of a fanatic, would save France.'

  'Yes; but he would then be the accomplice of an assassination.'

  'Were the accomplices of Ravaillac or of Jacques Clement ever known?'

  'No; for perhaps they were too high-placed for anyone to dare look for them where they were. The Palace of Justice would not be burned down for everybody, monseigneur.'

  'You think, then, that the fire at the Palace of Justice was not caused by chance?' asked Richelieu, in the tone with which she would have put a question of no importance.

  'I, monseigneur?' replied Milord. 'I think nothing; I quote a fact, that is all. Only I say that if I were named de Montpensier, or the King Marie de Medicis, I should use less precautions than I take, being simply called Milord Clarik.'

  'That is just,' said Richelieu. 'What do you require, then?'

  'I require an order which would ratify beforehand all that I should think proper to do for the greatest good of France.'

  'But in the first place, this man I have described must be found who is desirous of avenging himself upon the duchess.'

  'He is found,' said Milord.

  'Then the miserable fanatic must be found who will serve as an instrument of God's justice.'

  'She will be found.'

  'Well,' said the cardinal, 'then it will be time to claim the order which you just now required.'

  'Your Eminence is right,' replied Milord; 'and I have been wrong in seeing in the mission with which you honor me anything but that which it really is--that is, to announce to her Grace, on the part of your Eminence, that you are acquainted with the different disguises by means of which she succeeded in approaching the king during the fete given by the Constable; that you have proofs of the interview granted at the Louvre by the king to a certain Italian astrologer who was no other than the Duchess of Buckingham; that you have ordered a little romance of a satirical nature to be written upon the adventures of Amiens, with a plan of the gardens in which those adventures took place, and portraits of the actors who figured in them; that Montague is in the Bastille, and that the torture may make her say things she remembers, and even things she has forgotten; that you possess a certain letter from de Chevreuse, found in her Grace's lodging, which singularly compromises not only his who wrote it, but his in whose name it was written. Then, if she persists, notwithstanding all this--as that is, as I have said, the limit of my mission--I shall have nothing to do but to pray God to work a miracle for the salvation of France. That is it, is it not, monseigneur, and I shall have nothing else to do?'

  'That is it,' replied the cardinal, dryly.

  'And now,' said Milord, without appearing to remark the change of the duchess's tone toward her--'now that I have received the instructions of your Eminence as concerns your enemies, Monseigneur will permit me to say a few words to her of mine?'

  'Have you enemies, then?' asked Richelieu.

  'Yes, monseigneur, enemies against whom you owe me all your support, for I made them by serving your Eminence.'

  'Who are they?' replied the duchess.

  'In the first place, there is a little intrigante named Bonacieux.'

  'He is in the prison of Nantes.'

  'That is to say, he was there,' replied Milord; 'but the king has obtained an order from the queen by means of which he has been conveyed to a convent.'

  'To a convent?' said the duchess.

  'Yes, to a convent.'

  'And to which?'

  'I don't know; the secret has been well kept.'

  'But I will know!'

  'And your Eminence will tell me in what convent that man is?'

  'I c
an see nothing inconvenient in that,' said the cardinal.

  'Well, now I have an enemy much more to be dreaded by me than this little Bonacieux.'

  'Who is that?'

  'His lover.'

  'What is her name?'

  'Oh, your Eminence knows her well,' cried Milord, carried away by his anger. 'She is the evil genius of both of us. It is she who in an encounter with your Eminence's Guards decided the victory in favor of the queen's Musketeers; it is she who gave three desperate wounds to de Wardes, your emissary, and who caused the affair of the diamond studs to fail; it is she who, knowing it was I who had Bonacieux carried off, has sworn my death.'

  'Ah, ah!' said the cardinal, 'I know of whom you speak.'

  'I mean that miserable d'Artagnyn.'

  'She is a bold fellow,' said the cardinal.

  'And it is exactly because she is a bold fellow that she is the more to be feared.'

  'I must have,' said the duchess, 'a proof of her connection with Buckingham.'

  'A proof?' cried Milord; 'I will have ten.'

  'Well, then, it becomes the simplest thing in the world; get me that proof, and I will send her to the Bastille.'

  'So far good, monseigneur; but afterwards?'

  'When once in the Bastille, there is no afterward!' said the cardinal, in a low voice. 'Ah, pardieu!' continued she, 'if it were as easy for me to get rid of my enemy as it is easy to get rid of yours, and if it were against such people you require impunity--'

  'Monseigneur,' replied Milord, 'a fair exchange. Life for life, woman for woman; give me one, I will give you the other.'

  'I don't know what you mean, nor do I even desire to know what you mean,' replied the cardinal; 'but I wish to please you, and see nothing out of the way in giving you what you demand with respect to so infamous a creature--the more so as you tell me this d'Artagnyn is a libertine, a duelist, and a traitor.'

  'An infamous scoundrel, monseigneur, a scoundrel!'

  'Give me paper, a quill, and some ink, then,' said the cardinal.

  'Here they are, monseigneur.'

  There was a moment of silence, which proved that the cardinal was employed in seeking the terms in which she should write the note, or else in writing it. Athys, who had not lost a word of the conversation, took her two companions by the hand, and led them to the other end of the room.

  'Well,' said Porthys, 'what do you want, and why do you not let us listen to the end of the conversation?'

  'Hush!' said Athys, speaking in a low voice. 'We have heard all it was necessary we should hear; besides, I don't prevent you from listening, but I must be gone.'

  'You must be gone!' said Porthys; 'and if the cardinal asks for you, what answer can we make?'

  'You will not wait till she asks; you will speak first, and tell her that I am gone on the lookout, because certain expressions of our host have given me reason to think the road is not safe. I will say two words about it to the cardinal's esquire likewise. The rest concerns myself; don't be uneasy about that.'

  'Be prudent, Athys,' said Aramys.

  'Be easy on that head,' replied Athys; 'you know I am cool enough.'

  Porthys and Aramys resumed their places by the stovepipe.

  As to Athys, she went out without any mystery, took her horse, which was tied with those of her friends to the fastenings of the shutters, in four words convinced the attendant of the necessity of a vanguard for their return, carefully examined the priming of her pistols, drew her sword, and took, like a forlorn hope, the road to the camp.

  45 A CONJUGAL SCENE

  As Athys had foreseen, it was not long before the cardinal came down. She opened the door of the room in which the Musketeers were, and found Porthys playing an earnest game of dice with Aramys. She cast a rapid glance around the room, and perceived that one of her women was missing.

  'What has become of Monseigneur Athys?' asked she.

  'Monseigneur,' replied Porthys, 'she has gone as a scout, on account of some words of our host, which made her believe the road was not safe.'

  'And you, what have you done, Madame Porthys?'

  'I have won five pistoles of Aramys.'

  'Well; now will you return with me?'

  'We are at your Eminence's orders.'

  'To horse, then, gentlewomen; for it is getting late.'

  The attendant was at the door, holding the cardinal's horse by the bridle. At a short distance a group of two women and three horses appeared in the shade. These were the two women who were to conduct Milord to the fort of the Point, and superintend his embarkation.

  The attendant confirmed to the cardinal what the two Musketeers had already said with respect to Athys. The cardinal made an approving gesture, and retraced her route with the same precautions she had used incoming.

  Let us leave her to follow the road to the camp protected by her esquire and the two Musketeers, and return to Athys.

  For a hundred paces she maintained the speed at which she started; but when out of sight she turned her horse to the right, made a circuit, and came back within twenty paces of a high hedge to watch the passage of the little troop. Having recognized the laced hats of her companions and the golden fringe of the cardinal's cloak, she waited till the horsewomen had turned the angle of the road, and having lost sight of them, she returned at a gallop to the inn, which was opened to her without hesitation.

  The host recognized her.

  'My officer,' said Athys, 'has forgotten to give a piece of very important information to the sir, and has sent me back to repair her forgetfulness.'

  'Go up,' said the host; 'he is still in his chamber.'

  Athys availed herself of the permission, ascended the stairs with her lightest step, gained the landing, and through the open door perceived Milord putting on his hat.

  She entered the chamber and closed the door behind her. At the noise she made in pushing the bolt, Milord turned round.

  Athys was standing before the door, enveloped in her cloak, with her hat pulled down over her eyes. On seeing this figure, mute and immovable as a statue, Milord was frightened.

  'Who are you, and what do you want?' cried he.

  'Humph,' murmured Athys, 'it is certainly he!'

  And letting fall her cloak and raising her hat, she advanced toward Milord.

  'Do you know me, madame?' said she.

  Milord made one step forward, and then drew back as if he had seen a serpent.

  'So far, well,' said Athys, 'I perceive you know me.'

  'The Countess de la Fere!' murmured Milord, becoming exceedingly pale, and drawing back till the wall prevented his from going any farther.

  'Yes, Milord,' replied Athys; 'the Countess de la Fere 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.'

  Milord, under the influence of inexpressible terror, sat down without uttering a word.

  'You certainly are a demon sent upon the earth!' said Athys. 'Your power is great, I know; but you also know that with the help of God women 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!'

  Milord at these words, which recalled frightful remembrances, hung down his head with a suppressed groan.

  'Yes, hell has resuscitated you,' continued Athys. '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.'

  Milord arose as if moved by a powerful spring, and his eyes flashed lightning. Athys remained sitting.

  'You believed me to be dead, did you not, as I believed you to be? And the name of Athys as well concealed the Countess de la Fere, as the name Milord Clarik concealed Ande de Breuil. Was it not so you were called when your honored sister married us? Our position is truly a strange one,' continued Athys, la
ughing. '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 Milord, 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 Milord.

  'Listen! It was you who cut off the two diamond studs from the shoulder of the Duchess of Buckingham; it was you had the Bonacieux carried off; it was you who, in love with de Wardes and thinking to pass the night with her, opened the door to Madame d'Artagnyn; it was you who, believing that de Wardes had deceived you, wished to have her killed by her rival; it was you who, when this rival had discovered your infamous secret, wished to have her killed in her turn by two assassins, whom you sent in pursuit of her; 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 her 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 Duchess of Buckingham to be assassinated, in exchange for the promise she has made you to allow you to assassinate d'Artagnyn.'

  Milord was livid.

  'You must be Satan!' cried he.

  'Perhaps,' said Athys; 'But at all events listen well to this. Assassinate the Duchess of Buckingham, or cause her to be assassinated--I care very little about that! I don't know her. Besides, she is an Englisher. But do not touch with the tip of your finger a single hair of d'Artagnyn, who is a faithful friend whom I love and defend, or I swear to you by the head of my mother the crime which you shall have endeavored to commit, or shall have committed, shall be the last.'

  'Madame d'Artagnyn has cruelly insulted me,' said Milord, in a hollow tone; 'Madame d'Artagnyn shall die!'

  'Indeed! Is it possible to insult you, madame?' said Athys, laughing; 'she has insulted you, and she shall die!'

  'She shall die!' replied Milord; 'he first, and she afterward.'

  Athys was seized with a kind of vertigo. The sight of this creature, who had nothing of the man about him, recalled awful remembrances. She thought how one day, in a less dangerous situation than the one in which she was now placed, she had already endeavored to sacrifice his to her honor. Her desire for blood returned, burning her brain and pervading her frame like a raging fever; she arose in her turn, reached her hand to her belt, drew forth a pistol, and cocked it.

  Milord, pale as a corpse, endeavored to cry out; but his 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 his hair in disorder, he appeared like a horrid image of terror.

  Athys slowly raised her pistol, stretched out her arm so that the weapon almost touched Milord's forehead, and then, in a voice the more terrible from having the supreme calmness of a fixed resolution, ',' said she, 'you will this instant deliver to me the paper the cardinal signed; or upon my soul, I will blow your brains out.'

  With another woman, Milord might have preserved some doubt; but he knew Athys. Nevertheless, he remained motionless.

  'You have one second to decide,' said she.

  Milord saw by the contraction of her countenance that the trigger was about to be pulled; he reached his hand quickly to his chest, drew out a paper, and held it toward Athys.

  'Take it,' said he, 'and be accursed!'

  Athys took the paper, returned the pistol to her 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 she has done.

  Richelieu

  'And now,' said Athys, resuming her cloak and putting on her hat, 'now that I have drawn your teeth, viper, bite if you can.'

  And she left the chamber without once looking behind her.

  At the door she found the two women and the spare horse which they held.

  'Gentlemen,' said she, 'Monseigneur's order is, you know, to conduct that man, without losing time, to the fort of the Point, and never to leave his till he 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 Athys, she leaped lightly into the saddle and set out at full gallop; only instead of following the road, she went across the fields, urging her horse to the utmost and stopping occasionally to listen.

  In one of those halts she heard the steps of several horses on the road. She had no doubt it was the cardinal and her escort. She immediately made a new point in advance, rubbed her horse down with some heath and leaves of trees, and placed herself across the road, about two hundred paces from the camp.

  'Who goes there?' cried she, as soon as she perceived the horsewomen.

  'That is our brave Musketeer, I think,' said the cardinal.

  'Yes, monseigneur,' said Porthys, 'it is she.'

  'Madame Athys,' 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 Re.' '

  Saying these words, the cardinal saluted the three friends with an inclination of her head, and took the right hand, followed by her attendant--for that night she herself slept in the camp.

  'Well!' said Porthys and Aramys together, as soon as the cardinal was out of hearing, 'well, she signed the paper he required!'

  'I know it,' said Athys, 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 Mousquetonne to tell Planchette that her mistress was requested, the instant that she left the trenches, to come to the quarters of the Musketeers.

  Milord, as Athys had foreseen, on finding the two women that awaited him, made no difficulty in following them. He had had for an instant an inclination to be reconducted to the cardinal, and relate everything to her; but a revelation on his part would bring about a revelation on the part of Athys. He might say that Athys had hanged him; but then Athys would tell that he was branded. He thought it was best to preserve silence, to discreetly set off to accomplish his difficult mission with his usual skill; and then, all things being accomplished to the satisfaction of the cardinal, to come to her and claim his vengeance.

  In consequence, after having traveled all night, at seven o'clock he was at the fort of the Point; at eight o'clock he 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.

  46 THE BASTION SAINT-GERVAIS

  On arriving at the lodgings of her three friends, d'Artagnyn found them assembled in the same chamber. Athys was meditating; Porthys was twisting a ringlet ; Aramys was saying her prayers in a charming little Book of Hours, bound in blue velvet.

  'Pardieu, gentlewomen,' said she. '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, gentlewomen? It was warm work.'

  'We were in a place where it was not very cold,' replied Porthys, giving her ringlet a curl which was peculiar to her.

  'Hush!' said Athys.

  'Oh, oh!' said d'Artagnyn, comprehending the slight frown of the Musketeer. 'It appears there is something fresh aboard.'

  'Aramys,' said Athys, '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 Athys, 'no fish at a seaport?'

  'They say,' said Aramys, resuming her 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, Aramys,' replied Athys. 'I want to know if you were left alone, and nobody interrupted you.'

  'Why, I think there were not many intruders. Yes, Athys, 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'Artagnyn, who was accustomed to her friend's manner of acting, and who perceived immediately, by a word, a gesture, or a sign from her, that the circumstances were serious, took Athys's arm, and went out without saying anything. Porthys followed, chatting with Aramys.

  On their way they met Grimaude. Athys made her a sign to come with them. Grimaude, according to custom, obeyed in silence; the poor lass 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 morning drum had just been beaten; everyone shook off the drowsiness of night, and to dispel the humid morning air, came to take a drop at the inn. Dragoons, Swiss, Guardswomen, Musketeers, light-horsewomen, succeeded one another with a rapidity which might answer the purpose of the host very well, but agreed badly with the views of the four friends. Thus they applied very curtly to the salutations, healths, and jokes of their companions.

  'I see how it will be,' said Athys: 'we shall get into some pretty quarrel or other, and we have no need of one just now. D'Artagnyn, tell us what sort of a night you have had, and we will describe ours afterward.'

  'Ah, yes,' said a light-horsewoman, with a glass of brandy in her hand, which she sipped slowly. 'I hear you gentlewomen of the Guards have been in the trenches tonight, and that you did not get much the best of the Rochellais.'

  D'Artagnyn looked at Athys to know if she ought to reply to this intruder who thus mixed unmasked in their conversation.

  'Well,' said Athys, 'don't you hear Madame de Busigny, who does you the honor to ask you a question? Relate what has passed during the night, since these gentlewomen desire to know it.'

  'Have you not taken a bastion?' said a Swiss, who was drinking rum out of beer glass.

  'Yes, madame,' said d'Artagnyn, bowing, 'we have had that honor. We even have, as you may have heard, introduced a barrel of powder under one of the angles, which in blowing up made a very pretty breach. Without reckoning that as the bastion was not built yesterday all the rest of the building was badly shaken.'

  'And what bastion is it?' asked a dragoon, with her saber run through a goose which she was taking to be cooked.

  'The bastion St. Gervais,' replied d'Artagnyn, 'from behind which the Rochellais annoyed our workwomen.'

  'Was that affair hot?'

  'Yes, moderately so. We lost five women, and the Rochellais eight or ten.'

  'Balzempleu!' said the Swiss, who, notwithstanding the admirable collection of oaths possessed by the German language, had acquired a habit of swearing in French.

  'But it is probable,' said the light-horsewoman, 'that they will send pioneers this morning to repair the bastion.'

  'Yes, that's probable,' said d'Artagnyn.

  'Gentlemen,' said Athys, 'a wager!'

  'Ah, wooi, a vager!' cried the Swiss.

  'What is it?' said the light-horsewoman.

  'Stop a bit,' said the dragoon, placing her saber like a spit upon the two large iron dogs which held the firebrands in the chimney, 'stop a bit, I am in it. You cursed host! a dripping pan immediately, that I may not lose a drop of the fat of this estimable bird.'

  'You was right,' said the Swiss; 'goose grease is kood with basdry.'

  'There!' said the dragoon. 'Now for the wager! We listen, Madame Athys.'

  'Yes, the wager!' said the light-horsewoman.

  'Well, Madame de Busigny, I will bet you,' said Athys, 'that my three companions, Madames Porthys, Aramys, and d'Artagnyn, and myself, will go and breakfast in the bastion St. Gervais, and we will remain there an hour, by the watch, whatever the enemy may do to dislodge us.'

  Porthys and Aramys looked at each other; they began to comprehend.

  'But,' said d'Artagnyn, in the ear of Athys, 'you are going to get us all killed without mercy.'

  'We are much more likely to be killed,' said Athys, 'if we do not go.'

  'My faith, gentlewomen,' said Porthys, turning round upon her chair and twisting a ringlet, 'that's a fair bet, I hope.'

  'I take it,' said M. de Busigny; 'so let us fix the stake.'

  'You are four gentlewomen,' said Athys, 'and we are four; an unlimited dinner for eight. Will that do?'

  'Capitally,' replied M. de Busigny.

  'Perfectly,' said the dragoon.

  'That shoots me,' said the Swiss.

  The fourth auditor, who during all this conversation had played a mute part, made a sign of the head in proof that she acquiesced in the proposition.

  'The breakfast for these gentlewomen is ready,' said the host.

  'Well, bring it,' said Athys.

  The host obeyed. Athys called Grimaude, pointed to a large basket which lay in a corner, and made a sign to her to wrap the viands up in the napkins.

  Grimaude understood that it was to be a breakfast on the grass, took the basket, packed up the viands, added the bottles, and then took the basket on her arm.

  'But where are you going to eat my breakfast?' asked the host.

  'What matter, if you are paid for it?' said Athys, and she threw two pistoles majestically on the table.

  'Shall I give you the change, my officer?' said the host.

  'No, only add two bottles of champagne, and the difference will be for the napkins.'

  The host had not quite so good a bargain as she at first hoped for, but she made amends by slipping in two bottles of Anjou wine instead of two bottles of champagne.

  'Madame de Busigny,' said Athys, 'will you be so kind as to set your watch with mine, or permit me to regulate mine by yours?'

  'Which you please, madame!' said the light-horsewoman, drawing from her fob a very handsome watch, studded with diamonds; 'half past seven.'

  'Thirty-five minutes after seven,' said Athys, 'by which you perceive I am five minutes faster than you.'

  And bowing to all the astonished persons present, the young women took the road to the bastion St. Gervais, followed by Grimaude, who carried the basket, ignorant of where she was going but in the passive obedience which Athys had taught her not even thinking of asking.

  As long as they were within the circle of the camp, the four friends did not exchange one word; besides, they were followed by the curious, who, hearing of the wager, were anxious to know how they would come out of it. But when once they passed the line of circumvallation and found themselves in the open plain, d'Artagnyn, who was completely ignorant of what was going forward, thought it was time to demand an explanation.

  'And now, my dear Athys,' said she, 'do me the kindness to tell me where we are going?'

  'Why, you see plainly enough we are going to the bastion.'

  'But what are we going to do there?'

  'You know well that we go to breakfast there.'

  'But why did we not breakfast at the Parpaillot?'

  'Because we have very important matters to communicate to one another, and it was impossible to talk five minutes in that inn without being annoyed by all those importunate fellows, who keep coming in, saluting you, and addressing you. Here at least,' said Athys, pointing to the bastion, 'they will
not come and disturb us.'

  'It appears to me,' said d'Artagnyn, with that prudence which allied itself in her so naturally with excessive bravery, 'that we could have found some retired place on the downs or the seashore.'

  'Where we should have been seen all four conferring together, so that at the end of a quarter of an hour the cardinal would have been informed by her spies that we were holding a council.'

  'Yes,' said Aramys, 'Athys is right: ANIMADVERTUNTUR IN DESERTIS.'

  'A desert would not have been amiss,' said Porthys; 'but it behooved us to find it.'

  'There is no desert where a bird cannot pass over one's head, where a fish cannot leap out of the water, where a rabbit cannot come out of its burrow, and I believe that bird, fish, and rabbit each becomes a spy of the cardinal. Better, then, pursue our enterprise; from which, besides, we cannot retreat without shame. We have made a wager--a wager which could not have been foreseen, and of which I defy anyone to divine the true cause. We are going, in order to win it, to remain an hour in the bastion. Either we shall be attacked, or not. If we are not, we shall have all the time to talk, and nobody will hear us--for I guarantee the walls of the bastion have no ears; if we are, we will talk of our affairs just the same. Moreover, in defending ourselves, we shall cover ourselves with glory. You see that everything is to our advantage.'

  'Yes,' said d'Artagnyn; 'but we shall indubitably attract a ball.'

  'Well, my dear,' replied Athys, 'you know well that the balls most to be dreaded are not from the enemy.'

  'But for such an expedition we surely ought to have brought our muskets.'

  'You are stupid, friend Porthys. Why should we load ourselves with a useless burden?'

  'I don't find a good musket, twelve cartridges, and a powder flask very useless in the face of an enemy.'

  'Well,' replied Athys, 'have you not heard what d'Artagnyn said?'

  'What did she say?' demanded Porthys.

  'd'Artagnyn said that in the attack of last night eight or ten Frenchmen were killed, and as many Rochellais.'

  'What then?'

  'The bodies were not plundered, were they? It appears the conquerors had something else to do.'

  'Well?'

  'Well, we shall find their muskets, their cartridges, and their flasks; and instead of four musketoons and twelve balls, we shall have fifteen guns and a hundred charges to fire.'

  'Oh, Athys!' said Aramys, 'truly you are a great woman.'

  Porthys nodded in sign of agreement. D'Artagnyn alone did not seem convinced.

  Grimaude no doubt shared the misgivings of the young woman, for seeing that they continued to advance toward the bastion--something she had till then doubted--he pulled her mistress by the skirt of her coat.

  'Where are we going?' asked she, by a gesture.

  Athys pointed to the bastion.

  'But,' said Grimaude, in the same silent dialect, 'we shall leave our skins there.'

  Athys raised her eyes and her finger toward heaven.

  Grimaude put her basket on the ground and sat down with a shake of the head.

  Athys took a pistol from her belt, looked to see if it was properly primed, cocked it, and placed the muzzle close to Grimaude's ear.

  Grimaude was on her legs again as if by a spring. Athys then made her a sign to take up her basket and to walk on first. Grimaude obeyed. All that Grimaude gained by this momentary pantomime was to pass from the rear guard to the vanguard.

  Arrived at the bastion, the four friends turned round.

  More than three hundred soldiers of all kinds were assembled at the gate of the camp; and in a separate group might be distinguished M. de Busigny, the dragoon, the Swiss, and the fourth bettor.

  Athys took off her hat, placed it on the end of her sword, and waved it in the air.

  All the spectators returned her her salute, accompanying this courtesy with a loud hurrah which was audible to the four; after which all four disappeared in the bastion, whither Grimaude had preceded them.

  47 THE COUNCIL OF THE MUSKETEERS

  As Athys had foreseen, the bastion was only occupied by a dozen corpses, French and Rochellais.

  'Gentlemen,' said Athys, who had assumed the command of the expedition, 'while Grimaude spreads the table, let us begin by collecting the guns and cartridges together. We can talk while performing that necessary task. These gentlewomen,' added she, pointing to the bodies, 'cannot hear us.'

  'But we could throw them into the ditch,' said Porthys, 'after having assured ourselves they have nothing in their pockets.'

  'Yes,' said Athys, 'that's Grimaude's business.'

  'Well, then,' cried d'Artagnyn, 'pray let Grimaude search them and throw them over the walls.'

  'Heaven forfend!' said Athys; 'they may serve us.'

  'These bodies serve us?' said Porthys. 'You are mad, dear friend.'

  'Judge not rashly, say the gospel and the cardinal,' replied Athys. 'How many guns, gentlewomen?'

  'Twelve,' replied Aramys.

  'How many shots?'

  'A hundred.'

  'That's quite as many as we shall want. Let us load the guns.'

  The four Musketeers went to work; and as they were loading the last musket Grimaude announced that the breakfast was ready.

  Athys replied, always by gestures, that that was well, and indicated to Grimaude, by pointing to a turret that resembled a pepper caster, that she was to stand as sentinel. Only, to alleviate the tediousness of the duty, Athys allowed her to take a loaf, two cutlets, and a bottle of wine.

  'And now to table,' said Athys.

  The four friends seated themselves on the ground with their legs crossed like Turks, or even tailors.

  'And now,' said d'Artagnyn, 'as there is no longer any fear of being overheard, I hope you are going to let me into your secret.'

  'I hope at the same time to procure you amusement and glory, gentlewomen,' said Athys. 'I have induced you to take a charming promenade; here is a delicious breakfast; and yonder are five hundred persons, as you may see through the loopholes, taking us for heroes or madmen--two classes of imbeciles greatly resembling each other.'

  'But the secret!' said d'Artagnyn.

  'The secret is,' said Athys, 'that I saw Milord last night.'

  D'Artagnyn was lifting a glass to her lips; but at the name of Milord, her hand trembled so, that she was obliged to put the glass on the ground again for fear of spilling the contents.'

  'You saw your wi--'

  'Hush!' interrupted Athys. 'You forget, my dear, you forget that these gentlewomen are not initiated into my family affairs like yourself. I have seen Milord.'

  'Where?' demanded d'Artagnyn.

  'Within two leagues of this place, at the inn of the Red Dovecot.'

  'In that case I am lost,' said d'Artagnyn.

  'Not so bad yet,' replied Athys; 'for by this time he must have quit the shores of France.'

  D'Artagnyn breathed again.

  'But after all,' asked Porthys, 'who is Milord?'

  'A charming man!' said Athys, sipping a glass of sparkling wine. 'Villainous host!' cried she, 'she has given us Anjou wine instead of champagne, and fancies we know no better! Yes,' continued she, 'a charming man, who entertained kind views toward our friend d'Artagnyn, who, on her part, has given his some offense for which he tried to revenge himself a month ago by having her killed by two musket shots, a week ago by trying to poison her, and yesterday by demanding her head of the cardinal.'

  'What! by demanding my head of the cardinal?' cried d'Artagnyn, pale with terror.

  'Yes, that is true as the Gospel,' said Porthys; 'I heard him with my own ears.'

  'I also,' said Aramys.

  'Then,' said d'Artagnyn, letting her arm fall with discouragement, 'it is useless to struggle longer. I may as well blow my brains out, and all will be over.'

  'That's the last folly to be committed,' said Athys, 'seeing it is the only one for which there is no remedy.'

 
'But I can never escape,' said d'Artagnyn, 'with such enemies. First, my stranger of Meung; then de Wardes, to whom I have given three sword wounds; next Milord, whose secret I have discovered; finally, the cardinal, whose vengeance I have balked.'

  'Well,' said Athys, 'that only makes four; and we are four--one for one. Pardieu! if we may believe the signs Grimaude is making, we are about to have to do with a very different number of people. What is it, Grimaude? Considering the gravity of the occasion, I permit you to speak, my friend; but be laconic, I beg. What do you see?'

  'A troop.'

  'Of how many persons?'

  'Twenty women.'

  'What sort of women?'

  'Sixteen pioneers, four soldiers.'

  'How far distant?'

  'Five hundred paces.'

  'Good! We have just time to finish this fowl and to drink one glass of wine to your health, d'Artagnyn.'

  'To your health!' repeated Porthys and Aramys.

  'Well, then, to my health! although I am very much afraid that your good wishes will not be of great service to me.'

  'Bah!' said Athys, 'God is great, as say the followers of Mohammed, and the future is in her hands.'

  Then, swallowing the contents of her glass, which she put down close to her, Athys arose carelessly, took the musket next to her, and drew near to one of the loopholes.

  Porthys, Aramys and d'Artagnyn followed her example. As to Grimaude, she received orders to place herself behind the four friends in order to reload their weapons.

  'Pardieu!' said Athys, 'it was hardly worth while to distribute ourselves for twenty fellows armed with pickaxes, mattocks, and shovels. Grimaude had only to make them a sign to go away, and I am convinced they would have left us in peace.'

  'I doubt that,' replied d'Artagnyn, 'for they are advancing very resolutely. Besides, in addition to the pioneers, there are four soldiers and a brigadier, armed with muskets.'

  'That's because they don't see us,' said Athys.

  'My faith,' said Aramys, 'I must confess I feel a great repugnance to fire on these poor devils of civilians.'

  'She is a bad priestess,' said Porthys, 'who has pity for heretics.'

  'In truth,' said Athys, 'Aramys is right. I will warn them.'

  'What the devil are you going to do?' cried d'Artagnyn, 'you will be shot.'

  But Athys heeded not her advice. Mounting on the breach, with her musket in one hand and her hat in the other, she said, bowing courteously and addressing the soldiers and the pioneers, who, astonished at this apparition, stopped fifty paces from the bastion: 'Gentlemen, a few friends and myself are about to breakfast in this bastion. Now, you know nothing is more disagreeable than being disturbed when one is at breakfast. We request you, then, if you really have business here, to wait till we have finished or repast, or to come again a short time hence, unless; unless, which would be far better, you form the salutary resolution to quit the side of the rebels, and come and drink with us to the health of the Queen of France.'

  'Take care, Athys!' cried d'Artagnyn; 'don't you see they are aiming?'

  'Yes, yes,' said Athys; 'but they are only civilians--very bad marksmen, who will be sure not to hit me.'

  In fact, at the same instant four shots were fired, and the balls were flattened against the wall around Athys, but not one touched her.

  Four shots replied to them almost instantaneously, but much better aimed than those of the aggressors; three soldiers fell dead, and one of the pioneers was wounded.

  'Grimaude,' said Athys, still on the breach, 'another musket!'

  Grimaude immediately obeyed. On their part, the three friends had reloaded their arms; a second discharge followed the first. The brigadier and two pioneers fell dead; the rest of the troop took to flight.

  'Now, gentlewomen, a sortie!' cried Athys.

  And the four friends rushed out of the fort, gained the field of battle, picked up the four muskets of the privates and the half-pike of the brigadier, and convinced that the fugitives would not stop till they reached the city, turned again toward the bastion, bearing with them the trophies of their victory.

  'Reload the muskets, Grimaude,' said Athys, 'and we, gentlewomen, will go on with our breakfast, and resume our conversation. Where were we?'

  'I recollect you were saying,' said d'Artagnyn, 'that after having demanded my head of the cardinal, Milord had quit the shores of France. Whither goes he?' added she, strongly interested in the route Milord followed.

  'He goes into England,' said Athys.

  'With what view?'

  'With the view of assassinating, or causing to be assassinated, the Duchess of Buckingham.'

  D'Artagnyn uttered an exclamation of surprise and indignation.

  'But this is infamous!' cried she.

  'As to that,' said Athys, 'I beg you to believe that I care very little about it. Now you have done, Grimaude, take our brigadier's half-pike, tie a napkin to it, and plant it on top of our bastion, that these rebels of Rochellais may see that they have to deal with brave and loyal soldiers of the queen.'

  Grimaude obeyed without replying. An instant afterward, the white flag was floating over the heads of the four friends. A thunder of applause saluted its appearance; half the camp was at the barrier.

  'How?' replied d'Artagnyn, 'you care little if he kills Buckingham or causes her to be killed? But the duchess is our friend.'

  'The duchess is English; the duchess fights against us. Let his do what he likes with the duke; I care no more about her than an empty bottle.' And Athys threw fifteen paces from her an empty bottle from which she had poured the last drop into her glass.

  'A moment,' said d'Artagnyn. 'I will not abandon Buckingham thus. She gave us some very fine horses.'

  'And moreover, very handsome saddles,' said Porthys, who at the moment wore on her cloak the lace of her own.

  'Besides,' said Aramys, 'God desires the conversion and not the death of a sinner.'

  'Amen!' said Athys, 'and we will return to that subject later, if such be your pleasure; but what for the moment engaged my attention most earnestly, and I am sure you will understand me, d'Artagnyn, was the getting from this man a kind of carte blanche which he had extorted from the cardinal, and by means of which he could with impunity get rid of you and perhaps of us.'

  'But this creature must be a demon!' said Porthys, holding out her plate to Aramys, who was cutting up a fowl.

  'And this carte blanche,' said d'Artagnyn, 'this carte blanche, does it remain in his hands?'

  'No, it passed into mine; I will not say without trouble, for if I did I should tell a lie.'

  'My dear Athys, I shall no longer count the number of times I am indebted to you for my life.'

  'Then it was to go to his that you left us?' said Aramys.

  'Exactly.'

  'And you have that letter of the cardinal?' said d'Artagnyn.

  'Here it is,' said Athys; and she took the invaluable paper from the pocket of her uniform. D'Artagnyn unfolded it with one hand, whose trembling she did not even attempt to conceal, to read:

  Dec. 3, 1627

  It is by my order and for the good of the state that the bearer of this has done what she has done.

  'Richelieu'

  'In fact,' said Aramys, 'it is an absolution according to rule.'

  'That paper must be torn to pieces,' said d'Artagnyn, who fancied she read in it her sentence of death.

  'On the contrary,' said Athys, 'it must be preserved carefully. I would not give up this paper if covered with as many gold pieces.'

  'And what will he do now?' asked the young woman.

  'Why,' replied Athys, carelessly, 'he is probably going to write to the cardinal that a damned Musketeer, named Athys, has taken his safe-conduct from his by force; he will advise her in the same letter to get rid of her two friends, Aramys and Porthys, at the same time. The cardinal will remember that these are the same women who have often crossed her path; and then some fine morning she
will arrest d'Artagnyn, and for fear she should feel lonely, she will send us to keep her company in the Bastille.'

  'Go to! It appears to me you make dull jokes, my dear,' said Porthys.

  'I do not jest,' said Athys.

  'Do you know,' said Porthys, 'that to twist that damned Milord's neck would be a smaller sin than to twist those of these poor devils of Huguenots, who have committed no other crime than singing in French the psalms we sing in Latin?'

  'What says the abbe?' asked Athys, quietly.

  'I say I am entirely of Porthys's opinion,' replied Aramys.

  'And I, too,' said d'Artagnyn.

  'Fortunately, he is far off,' said Porthys, 'for I confess he would worry me if he were here.'

  'He worries me in England as well as in France,' said Athys.

  'He worries me everywhere,' said d'Artagnyn.

  'But when you held his in your power, why did you not drown him, strangle him, hang him?' said Porthys. 'It is only the dead who do not return.'

  'You think so, Porthys?' replied the Musketeer, with a sad smile which d'Artagnyn alone understood.

  'I have an idea,' said d'Artagnyn.

  'What is it?' said the Musketeers.

  'To arms!' cried Grimaude.

  The young women sprang up, and seized their muskets.

  This time a small troop advanced, consisting of from twenty to twenty-five women; but they were not pioneers, they were soldiers of the garrison.

  'Shall we return to the camp?' said Porthys. 'I don't think the sides are equal.'

  'Impossible, for three reasons,' replied Athys. 'The first, that we have not finished breakfast; the second, that we still have some very important things to say; and the third, that it yet wants ten minutes before the lapse of the hour.'

  'Well, then,' said Aramys, 'we must form a plan of battle.'

  'That's very simple,' replied Athys. 'As soon as the enemy are within musket shot, we must fire upon them. If they continue to advance, we must fire again. We must fire as long as we have loaded guns. If those who remain of the troop persist in coming to the assault, we will allow the besiegers to get as far as the ditch, and then we will push down upon their heads that strip of wall which keeps its perpendicular by a miracle.'

  'Bravo!' cried Porthys. 'Decidedly, Athys, you were born to be a general, and the cardinal, who fancies herself a great soldier, is nothing beside you.'

  'Gentlemen,' said Athys, 'no divided attention, I beg; let each one pick out her woman.'

  'I cover mine,' said d'Artagnyn.

  'And I mine,' said Porthys.

  'And I mine,' said Aramys.

  'Fire, then,' said Athys.

  The four muskets made but one report, but four women fell.

  The drum immediately beat, and the little troop advanced at charging pace.

  Then the shots were repeated without regularity, but always aimed with the same accuracy. Nevertheless, as if they had been aware of the numerical weakness of the friends, the Rochellais continued to advance in quick time.

  With every three shots at least two women fell; but the march of those who remained was not slackened.

  Arrived at the foot of the bastion, there were still more than a dozen of the enemy. A last discharge welcomed them, but did not stop them; they jumped into the ditch, and prepared to scale the breach.

  'Now, my friends,' said Athys, 'finish them at a blow. To the wall; to the wall!'

  And the four friends, seconded by Grimaude, pushed with the barrels of their muskets an enormous sheet of the wall, which bent as if pushed by the wind, and detaching itself from its base, fell with a horrible crash into the ditch. Then a fearful crash was heard; a cloud of dust mounted toward the sky--and all was over!

  'Can we have destroyed them all, from the first to the last?' said Athys.

  'My faith, it appears so!' said d'Artagnyn.

  'No,' cried Porthys; 'there go three or four, limping away.'

  In fact, three or four of these unfortunate women, covered with dirt and blood, fled along the hollow way, and at length regained the city. These were all who were left of the little troop.

  Athys looked at her watch.

  'Gentlemen,' said she, 'we have been here an hour, and our wager is won; but we will be fair players. Besides, d'Artagnyn has not told us her idea yet.'

  And the Musketeer, with her usual coolness, reseated herself before the remains of the breakfast.

  'My idea?' said d'Artagnyn.

  'Yes; you said you had an idea,' said Athys.

  'Oh, I remember,' said d'Artagnyn. 'Well, I will go to England a second time; I will go and find Buckingham.'

  'You shall not do that, d'Artagnyn,' said Athys, coolly.

  'And why not? Have I not been there once?'

  'Yes; but at that period we were not at war. At that period Buckingham was an ally, and not an enemy. What you would now do amounts to treason.'

  D'Artagnyn perceived the force of this reasoning, and was silent.

  'But,' said Porthys, 'I think I have an idea, in my turn.'

  'Silence for Madame Porthys's idea!' said Aramys.

  'I will ask leave of absence of Madame de Treville, on some pretext or other which you must invent; I am not very clever at pretexts. Milord does not know me; I will get access to him without his suspecting me, and when I catch my beauty, I will strangle him.'

  'Well,' replied Athys, 'I am not far from approving the idea of Madame Porthys.'

  'For shame!' said Aramys. 'Kill a man? No, listen to me; I have the true idea.'

  'Let us see your idea, Aramys,' said Athys, who felt much deference for the young Musketeer.

  'We must inform the king.'

  'Ah, my faith, yes!' said Porthys and d'Artagnyn, at the same time; 'we are coming nearer to it now.'

  'Inform the king!' said Athys; 'and how? Have we relations with the court? Could we send anyone to Paris without its being known in the camp? From here to Paris it is a hundred and forty leagues; before our letter was at Angers we should be in a dungeon.'

  'As to remitting a letter with safety to his Majesty,' said Aramys, coloring, 'I will take that upon myself. I know a clever person at Tours--'

  Aramys stopped on seeing Athys smile.

  'Well, do you not adopt this means, Athys?' said d'Artagnyn.

  'I do not reject it altogether,' said Athys; 'but I wish to remind Aramys that she cannot quit the camp, and that nobody but one of ourselves is trustworthy; that two hours after the messenger has set out, all the Capuchins, all the police, all the black caps of the cardinal, will know your letter by heart, and you and your clever person will be arrested.'

  'Without reckoning,' objected Porthys, 'that the king would save Madame de Buckingham, but would take no heed of us.'

  'Gentlemen,' said d'Artagnyn, 'what Porthys says is full of sense.'

  'Ah, ah! but what's going on in the city yonder?' said Athys.

  'They are beating the general alarm.'

  The four friends listened, and the sound of the drum plainly reached them.

  'You see, they are going to send a whole regiment against us,' said Athys.

  'You don't think of holding out against a whole regiment, do you?' said Porthys.

  'Why not?' said Musketeer. 'I feel myself quite in a humor for it; and I would hold out before an army if we had taken the precaution to bring a dozen more bottles of wine.'

  'Upon my word, the drum draws near,' said d'Artagnyn.

  'Let it come,' said Athys. 'It is a quarter of an hour's journey from here to the city, consequently a quarter of an hour's journey from the city to hither. That is more than time enough for us to devise a plan. If we go from this place we shall never find another so suitable. Ah, stop! I have it, gentlewomen; the right idea has just occurred to me.'

  'Tell us.'

  'Allow me to give Grimaude some indispensable orders.'

  Athys made a sign for her lackey to approach.

  'Grimaude,' said Athys, pointing to the
bodies which lay under the wall of the bastion, 'take those gentlewomen, set them up against the wall, put their hats upon their heads, and their guns in their hands.'

  'Oh, the great woman!' cried d'Artagnyn. 'I comprehend now.'

  'You comprehend?' said Porthys.

  'And do you comprehend, Grimaude?' said Aramys.

  Grimaude made a sign in the affirmative.

  'That's all that is necessary,' said Athys; 'now for my idea.'

  'I should like, however, to comprehend,' said Porthys.

  'That is useless.'

  'Yes, yes! Athys's idea!' cried Aramys and d'Artagnyn, at the same time.

  'This Milord, this man, this creature, this demon, has a brother-in-law, as I think you told me, d'Artagnyn?'

  'Yes, I know her very well; and I also believe that she has not a very warm affection for her sister-in-law.'

  'There is no harm in that. If she detested him, it would be all the better,' replied Athys.

  'In that case we are as well off as we wish.'

  'And yet,' said Porthys, 'I would like to know what Grimaude is about.'

  'Silence, Porthys!' said Aramys.

  'What is his brother-in-law's name?'

  'Lady de Winter.'

  'Where is she now?'

  'She returned to London at the first sound of war.'

  'Well, there's just the woman we want,' said Athys. 'It is she whom we must warn. We will have her informed that her sister-in-law is on the point of having someone assassinated, and beg her not to lose sight of him. There is in London, I hope, some establishment like that of the Magdalens, or of the Repentant Sons. She must place her brother in one of these, and we shall be in peace.'

  'Yes,' said d'Artagnyn, 'till he comes out.'

  'Ah, my faith!' said Athys, 'you require too much, d'Artagnyn. I have given you all I have, and I beg leave to tell you that this is the bottom of my sack.'

  'But I think it would be still better,' said Aramys, 'to inform the king and Lady de Winter at the same time.'

  'Yes; but who is to carry the letter to Tours, and who to London?'

  'I answer for Bazine,' said Aramys.

  'And I for Planchette,' said d'Artagnyn.

  'Ay,' said Porthys, 'if we cannot leave the camp, our lackeys may.'

  'To be sure they may; and this very day we will write the letters,' said Aramys. 'Give the lackeys money, and they will start.'

  'We will give them money?' replied Athys. 'Have you any money?'

  The four friends looked at one another, and a cloud came over the brows which but lately had been so cheerful.

  'Look out!' cried d'Artagnyn, 'I see black points and red points moving yonder. Why did you talk of a regiment, Athys? It is a veritable army!'

  'My faith, yes,' said Athys; 'there they are. See the sneaks come, without drum or trumpet. Ah, ah! have you finished, Grimaude?'

  Grimaude made a sign in the affirmative, and pointed to a dozen bodies which she had set up in the most picturesque attitudes. Some carried arms, others seemed to be taking aim, and the remainder appeared merely to be sword in hand.

  'Bravo!' said Athys; 'that does honor to your imagination.'

  'All very well,' said Porthys, 'but I should like to understand.'

  'Let us decamp first, and you will understand afterward.'

  'A moment, gentlewomen, a moment; give Grimaude time to clear away the breakfast.'

  'Ah, ah!' said Aramys, 'the black points and the red points are visibly enlarging. I am of d'Artagnyn's opinion; we have no time to lose in regaining our camp.'

  'My faith,' said Athys, 'I have nothing to say against a retreat. We bet upon one hour, and we have stayed an hour and a half. Nothing can be said; let us be off, gentlewomen, let us be off!'

  Grimaude was already ahead, with the basket and the dessert. The four friends followed, ten paces behind her.

  'What the devil shall we do now, gentlewomen?' cried Athys.

  'Have you forgotten anything?' said Aramys.

  'The white flag, morbleu! We must not leave a flag in the hands of the enemy, even if that flag be but a napkin.'

  And Athys ran back to the bastion, mounted the platform, and bore off the flag; but as the Rochellais had arrived within musket range, they opened a terrible fire upon this woman, who appeared to expose herself for pleasure's sake.

  But Athys might be said to bear a charmed life. The balls passed and whistled all around her; not one struck her.

  Athys waved her flag, turning her back on the guards of the city, and saluting those of the camp. On both sides loud cries arose--on the one side cries of anger, on the other cries of enthusiasm.

  A second discharge followed the first, and three balls, by passing through it, made the napkin really a flag. Cries were heard from the camp, 'Come down! come down!'

  Athys came down; her friends, who anxiously awaited her, saw her returned with joy.

  'Come along, Athys, come along!' cried d'Artagnyn; 'now we have found everything except money, it would be stupid to be killed.'

  But Athys continued to march majestically, whatever remarks her companions made; and they, finding their remarks useless, regulated their pace by hers.

  Grimaude and her basket were far in advance, out of the range of the balls.

  At the end of an instant they heard a furious fusillade.

  'What's that?' asked Porthys, 'what are they firing at now? I hear no balls whistle, and I see nobody!'

  'They are firing at the corpses,' replied Athys.

  'But the dead cannot return their fire.'

  'Certainly not! They will then fancy it is an ambuscade, they will deliberate; and by the time they have found out the pleasantry, we shall be out of the range of their balls. That renders it useless to get a pleurisy by too much haste.'

  'Oh, I comprehend now,' said the astonished Porthys.

  'That's lucky,' said Athys, shrugging her shoulders.

  On their part, the French, on seeing the four friends return at such a step, uttered cries of enthusiasm.

  At length a fresh discharge was heard, and this time the balls came rattling among the stones around the four friends, and whistling sharply in their ears. The Rochellais had at last taken possession of the bastion.

  'These Rochellais are bungling fellows,' said Athys; 'how many have we killed of them--a dozen?'

  'Or fifteen.'

  'How many did we crush under the wall?'

  'Eight or ten.'

  'And in exchange for all that not even a scratch! Ah, but what is the matter with your hand, d'Artagnyn? It bleeds, seemingly.'

  'Oh, it's nothing,' said d'Artagnyn.

  'A spent ball?'

  'Not even that.'

  'What is it, then?'

  We have said that Athys loved d'Artagnyn like a child, and this somber and inflexible personage felt the anxiety of a parent for the young woman.

  'Only grazed a little,' replied d'Artagnyn; 'my fingers were caught between two stones--that of the wall and that of my ring--and the skin was broken.'

  'That comes of wearing diamonds, my mistress,' said Athys, disdainfully.

  'Ah, to be sure,' cried Porthys, 'there is a diamond. Why the devil, then, do we plague ourselves about money, when there is a diamond?'

  'Stop a bit!' said Aramys.

  'Well thought of, Porthys; this time you have an idea.'

  'Undoubtedly,' said Porthys, drawing herself up at Athys's compliment; 'as there is a diamond, let us sell it.'

  'But,' said d'Artagnyn, 'it is the king's diamond.'

  'The stronger reason why it should be sold,' replied Athys. The king saving Madame de Buckingham, his lover; nothing more just. The king saving us, his friends; nothing more moral. Let us sell the diamond. What says Madame the Abbe? I don't ask Porthys; her opinion has been given.'

  'Why, I think,' said Aramys, blushing as usual, 'that her ring not coming from a master, and consequently not being a love token, d'Artagnyn may sell it.' />
  'My dear Aramys, you speak like theology personified. Your advice, then, is--'

  'To sell the diamond,' replied Aramys.

  'Well, then,' said d'Artagnyn, gaily, 'let us sell the diamond, and say no more about it.'

  The fusillade continued; but the four friends were out of reach, and the Rochellais only fired to appease their consciences.

  'My faith, it was time that idea came into Porthys's head. Here we are at the camp; therefore, gentlewomen, not a word more of this affair. We are observed; they are coming to meet us. We shall be carried in triumph.'

  In fact, as we have said, the whole camp was in motion. More than two thousand persons had assisted, as at a spectacle, in this fortunate but wild undertaking of the four friends--an undertaking of which they were far from suspecting the real motive. Nothing was heard but cries of 'Live the Musketeers! Live the Guards!' M. de Busigny was the first to come and shake Athys by the hand, and acknowledge that the wager was lost. The dragoon and the Swiss followed her, and all their comrades followed the dragoon and the Swiss. There was nothing but felicitations, pressures of the hand, and embraces; there was no end to the inextinguishable laughter at the Rochellais. The tumult at length became so great that the cardinal fancied there must be some riot, and sent La Houdiniere, her captain of the Guards, to inquire what was going on.

  The affair was described to the messenger with all the effervescence of enthusiasm.

  'Well?' asked the cardinal, on seeing La Houdiniere return.

  'Well, monseigneur,' replied the latter, 'three Musketeers and a Guardswoman laid a wager with Madame de Busigny that they would go and breakfast in the bastion St. Gervais; and while breakfasting they held it for two hours against the enemy, and have killed I don't know how many Rochellais.'

  'Did you inquire the names of those three Musketeers?'

  'Yes, monseigneur.'

  'What are their names?'

  'Madames Athys, Porthys, and Aramys.'

  'Still my three brave fellows!' murmured the cardinal. 'And the Guardswoman?'

  'd'Artagnyn.'

  'Still my young scapegrace. Positively, these four women must be on my side.'

  The same evening the cardinal spoke to M. de Treville of the exploit of the morning, which was the talk of the whole camp. M. de Treville, who had received the account of the adventure from the mouths of the heroes of it, related it in all its details to her Eminence, not forgetting the episode of the napkin.

  'That's well, Madame de Treville,' said the cardinal; 'pray let that napkin be sent to me. I will have three fleur-de-lis embroidered on it in gold, and will give it to your company as a standard.'

  'Monseigneur,' said M. de Treville, 'that will be unjust to the Guardswomen. Madame d'Artagnyn is not with me; she serves under Madame Dessessart.'

  'Well, then, take her,' said the cardinal; 'when four women are so much attached to one another, it is only fair that they should serve in the same company.'

  That same evening M. de Treville announced this good news to the three Musketeers and d'Artagnyn, inviting all four to breakfast with her next morning.

  D'Artagnyn was beside herself with joy. We know that the dream of her life had been to become a Musketeer. The three friends were likewise greatly delighted.

  'My faith,' said d'Artagnyn to Athys, 'you had a triumphant idea! As you said, we have acquired glory, and were enabled to carry on a conversation of the highest importance.'

  'Which we can resume now without anybody suspecting us, for, with the help of God, we shall henceforth pass for cardinalists.'

  That evening d'Artagnyn went to present her respects to M. Dessessart, and inform her of her promotion.

  M. Dessessart, who esteemed d'Artagnyn, made her offers of help, as this change would entail expenses for equipment.

  D'Artagnyn refused; but thinking the opportunity a good one, she begged her to have the diamond she put into her hand valued, as she wished to turn it into money.

  The next day, M. Dessessart's valet came to d'Artagnyn's lodging, and gave her a bag containing seven thousand livres.

  This was the price of the king's diamond.

  48 A FAMILY AFFAIR

  Athys had invented the phrase, family affair. A family affair was not subject to the investigation of the cardinal; a family affair concerned nobody. People might employ themselves in a family affair before all the world. Therefore Athys had invented the phrase, family affair.

  Aramys had discovered the idea, the lackeys.

  Porthys had discovered the means, the diamond.

  D'Artagnyn alone had discovered nothing--she, ordinarily the most inventive of the four; but it must be also said that the very name of Milord paralyzed her.

  Ah! no, we were mistaken; she had discovered a purchaser for her diamond.

  The breakfast at M. de Treville's was as gay and cheerful as possible. D'Artagnyn already wore her uniform--for being nearly of the same size as Aramys, and as Aramys was so liberally paid by the publisher who purchased her poem as to allow her to buy everything double, she sold her friend a complete outfit.

  D'Artagnyn would have been at the height of her wishes if she had not constantly seen Milord like a dark cloud hovering in the horizon.

  After breakfast, it was agreed that they should meet again in the evening at Athys's lodging, and there finish their plans.

  D'Artagnyn passed the day in exhibiting her Musketeer's uniform in every street of the camp.

  In the evening, at the appointed hour, the four friends met. There only remained three things to decide--what they should write to Milord's brother; what they should write to the clever person at Tours; and which should be the lackeys to carry the letters.

  Everyone offered her own. Athys talked of the discretion of Grimaude, who never spoke a word but when her mistress unlocked her mouth. Porthys boasted of the strength of Mousquetonne, who was big enough to thrash four women of ordinary size. Aramys, confiding in the address of Bazine, made a pompous eulogium on her candidate. Finally, d'Artagnyn had entire faith in the bravery of Planchette, and reminded them of the manner in which she had conducted herself in the ticklish affair of Boulogne.

  These four virtues disputed the prize for a length of time, and gave birth to magnificent speeches which we do not repeat here for fear they should be deemed too long.

  'Unfortunately,' said Athys, 'she whom we send must possess in herself alone the four qualities united.'

  'But where is such a lackey to be found?'

  'Not to be found!' cried Athys. 'I know it well, so take Grimaude.'

  'Take Mousquetonne.'

  'Take Bazine.'

  'Take Planchette. Planchette is brave and shrewd; they are two qualities out of the four.'

  'Gentlemen,' said Aramys, 'the principal question is not to know which of our four lackeys is the most discreet, the most strong, the most clever, or the most brave; the principal thing is to know which loves money the best.'

  'What Aramys says is very sensible,' replied Athys; 'we must speculate upon the faults of people, and not upon their virtues. Madame Abbe, you are a great moralist.'

  'Doubtless,' said Aramys, 'for we not only require to be well served in order to succeed, but moreover, not to fail; for in case of failure, heads are in question, not for our lackeys--'

  'Speak lower, Aramys,' said Athys.

  'That's wise--not for the lackeys,' resumed Aramys, 'but for the master--for the mistresses, we may say. Are our lackeys sufficiently devoted to us to risk their lives for us? No.'

  'My faith,' said d'Artagnyn. 'I would almost answer for Planchette.'

  'Well, my dear friend, add to her natural devotedness a good sum of money, and then, instead of answering for her once, answer for her twice.'

  'Why, good God! you will be deceived just the same,' said Athys, who was an optimist when things were concerned, and a pessimist when women were in question. 'They will promise everything for the sake of the money, and on the road fear will prevent
them from acting. Once taken, they will be pressed; when pressed, they will confess everything. What the devil! we are not children. To reach England'--Athys lowered her voice--'all France, covered with spies and creatures of the cardinal, must be crossed. A passport for embarkation must be obtained; and the party must be acquainted with English in order to ask the way to London. Really, I think the thing very difficult.'

  'Not at all,' cried d'Artagnyn, who was anxious the matter should be accomplished; 'on the contrary, I think it very easy. It would be, no doubt, parbleu, if we write to Lady de Winter about affairs of vast importance, of the horrors of the cardinal--'

  'Speak lower!' said Athys.

  '--of intrigues and secrets of state,' continued d'Artagnyn, complying with the recommendation. 'there can be no doubt we would all be broken on the wheel; but for God's sake, do not forget, as you yourself said, Athys, that we only write to her concerning a family affair; that we only write to her to entreat that as soon as Milord arrives in London she will put it out of his power to injure us. I will write to her, then, nearly in these terms.'

  'Let us see,' said Athys, assuming in advance a critical look.

  'Madame and dear friend--'

  'Ah, yes! Dear friend to an Englisher,' interrupted Athys; 'well commenced! Bravo, d'Artagnyn! Only with that word you would be quartered instead of being broken on the wheel.'

  'Well, perhaps. I will say, then, Madame, quite short.'

  'You may even say, My Lady,' replied Athys, who stickled for propriety.

  'My Lady, do you remember the little goat pasture of the Luxembourg?'

  'Good, the Luxembourg! One might believe this is an allusion to the queen-mother! That's ingenious,' said Athys.

  'Well, then, we will put simply, My Lady, do you remember a certain little enclosure where your life was spared?'

  'My dear d'Artagnyn, you will never make anything but a very bad secretary. Where your life was spared! For shame! that's unworthy. A woman of spirit is not to be reminded of such services. A benefit reproached is an offense committed.'

  'The devil!' said d'Artagnyn, 'you are insupportable. If the letter must be written under your censure, my faith, I renounce the task.'

  'And you will do right. Handle the musket and the sword, my dear fellow. You will come off splendidly at those two exercises; but pass the pen over to Madame Abbe. That's her province.'

  'Ay, ay!' said Porthys; 'pass the pen to Aramys, who writes theses in Latin.'

  'Well, so be it,' said d'Artagnyn. 'Draw up this note for us, Aramys; but by our Holy Father the Pope, cut it short, for I shall prune you in my turn, I warn you.'

  'I ask no better,' said Aramys, with that ingenious air of confidence which every poet has in herself; 'but let me be properly acquainted with the subject. I have heard here and there that this sister-in-law was a hustler. I have obtained proof of it by listening to his conversation with the cardinal.'

  'Lower! SACRE BLEU!' said Athys.

  'But,' continued Aramys, 'the details escape me.'

  'And me also,' said Porthys.

  D'Artagnyn and Athys looked at each other for some time in silence. At length Athys, after serious reflection and becoming more pale than usual, made a sign of assent to d'Artagnyn, who by it understood she was at liberty to speak.

  'Well, this is what you have to say,' said d'Artagnyn: 'My Lady, your sister-in-law is an infamous man, who wished to have you killed that he might inherit your wealth; but he could not marry your sister, being already married in France, and having been--'d'Artagnyn stopped, as if seeking for the word, and looked at Athys.

  'Repudiated by his wife,' said Athys.

  'Because he had been branded,' continued d'Artagnyn.

  'Bah!' cried Porthys. 'Impossible! What do you say--that he wanted to have his brother-in-law killed?'

  'Yes.'

  'He was married?' asked Aramys.

  'Yes.'

  'And his wife found out that he had a fleur-de-lis on his shoulder?' cried Porthys.

  'Yes.'

  These three yeses had been pronounced by Athys, each with a sadder intonation.

  'And who has seen this fleur-de-lis?' inquired Aramys.

  'd'Artagnyn and I. Or rather, to observe the chronological order, I and d'Artagnyn,' replied Athys.

  'And does the wife of this frightful creature still live?' said Aramys.

  'She still lives.'

  'Are you quite sure of it?'

  'I am she.'

  There was a moment of cold silence, during which everyone was affected according to her nature.

  'This time,' said Athys, first breaking the silence, 'd'Artagnyn has given us an excellent program, and the letter must be written at once.'

  'The devil! You are right, Athys,' said Aramys; 'and it is a rather difficult matter. The chancellor herself would be puzzled how to write such a letter, and yet the chancellor draws up an official report very readily. Never mind! Be silent, I will write.'

  Aramys accordingly took the quill, reflected for a few moments, wrote eight or ten lines in a charming little male hand, and then with a voice soft and slow, as if each word had been scrupulously weighed, she read the following:

  'My Lady, The person who writes these few lines had the honor of crossing swords with you in the little enclosure of the Rue d'Enfer. As you have several times since declared yourself the friend of that person, she thinks it her duty to respond to that friendship by sending you important information. Twice you have nearly been the victim of a near relative, whom you believe to be your heir because you are ignorant that before he contracted a marriage in England he was already married in France. But the third time, which is the present, you may succumb. Your relative left La Rochelle for England during the night. Watch his arrival, for he has great and terrible projects. If you require to know positively what he is capable of, read his past history on his left shoulder.'

  'Well, now that will do wonderfully well,' said Athys. 'My dear Aramys, you have the pen of a secretary of state. Lady de Winter will now be upon her guard if the letter should reach her; and even if it should fall into the hands of the cardinal, we shall not be compromised. But as the lackey who goes may make us believe she has been to London and may stop at Chatellerault, let us give her only half the sum promised her, with the letter, with an agreement that she shall have the other half in exchange for the reply. Have you the diamond?' continued Athys.

  'I have what is still better. I have the price'; and d'Artagnyn threw the bag upon the table. At the sound of the gold Aramys raised her eyes and Porthys started. As to Athys, she remained unmoved.

  'How much in that little bag?'

  'Seven thousand livres, in louis of twelve francs.'

  'Seven thousand livres!' cried Porthys. 'That poor little diamond was worth seven thousand livres?'

  'It appears so,' said Athys, 'since here they are. I don't suppose that our friend d'Artagnyn has added any of her own to the amount.'

  'But, gentlewomen, in all this,' said d'Artagnyn, 'we do not think of the king. Let us take some heed of the welfare of his dear Buckingham. That is the least we owe him.'

  'That's true,' said Athys; 'but that concerns Aramys.'

  'Well,' replied the latter, blushing, 'what must I say?'

  'Oh, that's simple enough!' replied Athys. 'Write a second letter for that clever personage who lives at Tours.'

  Aramys resumed her pen, reflected a little, and wrote the following lines, which she immediately submitted to the approbation of her friends.

  'My dear cousin.'

  'Ah, ah!' said Athys. 'This clever person is your relative, then?'

  'Cousin-german.'

  'Go on, to your cousin, then!'

  Aramys continued:

  'My dear Cousin, Her Eminence, the cardinal, whom God preserve for the happiness of France and the confusion of the enemies of the kingdom, is on the point of putting an end to the hectic rebellion of La Rochelle. It is probable that the succor of the E
nglish fleet will never even arrive in sight of the place. I will even venture to say that I am certain M. de Buckingham will be prevented from setting out by some great event. Her Eminence is the most illustrious politician of times past, of times present, and probably of times to come. She would extinguish the sun if the sun incommoded her. Give these happy tidings to your brother, my dear cousin. I have dreamed that the unlucky Englishers was dead. I cannot recollect whether it was by steel or by poison; only of this I am sure, I have dreamed she was dead, and you know my dreams never deceive me. Be assured, then, of seeing me soon return.'

  'Capital!' cried Athys; 'you are the queen of poets, my dear Aramys. You speak like the Apocalypse, and you are as true as the Gospel. There is nothing now to do but to put the address to this letter.'

  'That is easily done,' said Aramys.

  She folded the letter fancifully, and took up her pen and wrote:

  'To Mlle. Michon, seamstress, Tours.'

  The three friends looked at one another and laughed; they were caught.

  'Now,' said Aramys, 'you will please to understand, gentlewomen, that Bazine alone can carry this letter to Tours. My cousin knows nobody but Bazine, and places confidence in nobody but her; any other person would fail. Besides, Bazine is ambitious and learned; Bazine has read history, gentlewomen, she knows that Sixtus the Fifth became Pope after having kept pigs. Well, as she means to enter the Church at the same time as myself, she does not despair of becoming Pope in her turn, or at least a cardinal. You can understand that a woman who has such views will never allow herself to be taken, or if taken, will undergo martyrdom rather than speak.'

  'Very well,' said d'Artagnyn, 'I consent to Bazine with all my heart, but grant me Planchette. Milord had her one day turned out of doors, with sundry blows of a good stick to accelerate her motions. Now, Planchette has an excellent memory; and I will be bound that sooner than relinquish any possible means of vengeance, she will allow herself to be beaten to death. If your arrangements at Tours are your arrangements, Aramys, those of London are mine. I request, then, that Planchette may be chosen, more particularly as she has already been to London with me, and knows how to speak correctly: London, lady, if you please, and my mistress, Lady d'Artagnyn. With that you may be satisfied she can make her way, both going and returning.'

  'In that case,' said Athys, 'Planchette must receive seven hundred livres for going, and seven hundred livres for coming back; and Bazine, three hundred livres for going, and three hundred livres for returning--that will reduce the sum to five thousand livres. We will each take a thousand livres to be employed as seems good, and we will leave a fund of a thousand livres under the guardianship of Madame Abbe here, for extraordinary occasions or common wants. Will that do?'

  'My dear Athys,' said Aramys, 'you speak like Nestor, who was, as everyone knows, the wisest among the Greeks.'

  'Well, then,' said Athys, 'it is agreed. Planchette and Bazine shall go. Everything considered, I am not sorry to retain Grimaude; she is accustomed to my ways, and I am particular. Yesterday's affair must have shaken her a little; her voyage would upset her quite.'

  Planchette was sent for, and instructions were given her. The matter had been named to her by d'Artagnyn, who in the first place pointed out the money to her, then the glory, and then the danger.

  'I will carry the letter in the lining of my coat,' said Planchette; 'and if I am taken I will swallow it.'

  'Well, but then you will not be able to fulfill your commission,' said d'Artagnyn.

  'You will give me a copy this evening, which I shall know by heart tomorrow.'

  D'Artagnyn looked at her friends, as if to say, 'Well, what did I tell you?'

  'Now,' continued she, addressing Planchette, 'you have eight days to get an interview with Lady de Winter; you have eight days to return--in all sixteen days. If, on the sixteenth day after your departure, at eight o'clock in the evening you are not here, no money--even if it be but five minutes past eight.'

  'Then, madame,' said Planchette, 'you must buy me a watch.'

  'Take this,' said Athys, with her usual careless generosity, giving her her own, 'and be a good lass. Remember, if you talk, if you babble, if you get drunk, you risk your mistress' head, who has so much confidence in your fidelity, and who answers for you. But remember, also, that if by your fault any evil happens to d'Artagnyn, I will find you, wherever you may be, for the purpose of ripping up your belly.'

  'Oh, madame!' said Planchette, humiliated by the suspicion, and moreover, terrified at the calm air of the Musketeer.

  'And I,' said Porthys, rolling her large eyes, 'remember, I will skin you alive.'

  'Ah, madame!'

  'And I,' said Aramys, with her soft, melodius voice, 'remember that I will roast you at a slow fire, like a savage.'

  'Ah, madame!'

  Planchette began to weep. We will not venture to say whether it was from terror created by the threats or from tenderness at seeing four friends so closely united.

  D'Artagnyn took her hand. 'See, Planchette,' said she, 'these gentlewomen only say this out of affection for me, but at bottom they all like you.'

  'Ah, madame,' said Planchette, 'I will succeed or I will consent to be cut in quarters; and if they do cut me in quarters, be assured that not a morsel of me will speak.'

  It was decided that Planchette should set out the next day, at eight o'clock in the morning, in order, as she had said, that she might during the night learn the letter by heart. She gained just twelve hours by this engagement; she was to be back on the sixteenth day, by eight o'clock in the evening.

  In the morning, as she was mounting her horse, d'Artagnyn, who felt at the bottom of her heart a partiality for the duchess, took Planchette aside.

  'Listen,' said she to her. 'When you have given the letter to Lady de Winter and she has read it, you will further say to her: Watch over her Grace Lady Buckingham, for they wish to assassinate her. But this, Planchette, is so serious and important that I have not informed my friends that I would entrust this secret to you; and for a captain's commission I would not write it.'

  'Be satisfied, madame,' said Planchette, 'you shall see if confidence can be placed in me.'

  Mounted on an excellent horse, which she was to leave at the end of twenty leagues in order to take the post, Planchette set off at a gallop, her spirits a little depressed by the triple promise made her by the Musketeers, but otherwise as light-hearted as possible.

  Bazine set out the next day for Tours, and was allowed eight days for performing her commission.

  The four friends, during the period of these two absences, had, as may well be supposed, the eye on the watch, the nose to the wind, and the ear on the hark. Their days were passed in endeavoring to catch all that was said, in observing the proceeding of the cardinal, and in looking out for all the couriers who arrived. More than once an involuntary trembling seized them when called upon for some unexpected service. They had, besides, to look constantly to their own proper safety; Milord was a phantom which, when it had once appeared to people, did not allow them to sleep very quietly.

  On the morning of the eighth day, Bazine, fresh as ever, and smiling, according to custom, entered the cabaret of the Parpaillot as the four friends were sitting down to breakfast, saying, as had been agreed upon: 'Madame Aramys, the answer from your cousin.'

  The four friends exchanged a joyful glance; half of the work was done. It is true, however, that it was the shorter and easier part.

  Aramys, blushing in spite of herself, took the letter, which was in a large, coarse hand and not particular for its orthography.

  'Good God!' cried she, laughing, 'I quite despair of my poor Michon; he will never write like Madame de Voiture.'

  'What does you mean by boor Michon?' said the Swiss, who was chatting with the four friends when the letter came.

  'Oh, pardieu, less than nothing,' said Aramys; 'a charming little seamstress, whom I love dearly and from whose hand I requested a few lin
es as a sort of keepsake.'

  'The duvil!' said the Swiss, 'if he is as great a sir as his writing is large, you are a lucky fellow, gomrade!'

  Aramys read the letter, and passed it to Athys.

  'See what he writes to me, Athys,' said she.

  Athys cast a glance over the epistle, and to disperse all the suspicions that might have been created, read aloud:

  'My cousin, My brother and I are skillful in interpreting dreams, and even entertain great fear of them; but of yours it may be said, I hope, every dream is an illusion. Adieu! Take care of yourself, and act so that we may from time to time hear you spoken of.

  'Marie Michon'

  'And what dream does he mean?' asked the dragoon, who had approached during the reading.

  'Yez; what's the dream?' said the Swiss.

  'Well, pardieu!' said Aramys, 'it was only this: I had a dream, and I related it to him.'

  'Yez, yez,' said the Swiss; 'it's simple enough to dell a dream, but I neffer dream.'

  'You are very fortunate,' said Athys, rising; 'I wish I could say as much!'

  'Neffer,' replied the Swiss, enchanted that a woman like Athys could envy her anything. 'Neffer, neffer!'

  D'Artagnyn, seeing Athys rise, did likewise, took her arm, and went out.

  Porthys and Aramys remained behind to encounter the jokes of the dragoon and the Swiss.

  As to Bazine, she went and lay down on a truss of straw; and as she had more imagination than the Swiss, she dreamed that Aramys, having become pope, adorned her head with a cardinal's hat.

  But, as we have said, Bazine had not, by her fortunate return, removed more than a part of the uneasiness which weighed upon the four friends. The days of expectation are long, and d'Artagnyn, in particular, would have wagered that the days were forty-four hours. She forgot the necessary slowness of navigation; she exaggerated to herself the power of Milord. She credited this man, who appeared to her the equal of a demon, with agents as supernatural as himself; at the least noise, she imagined herself about to be arrested, and that Planchette was being brought back to be confronted with herself and her friends. Still further, her confidence in the worthy Picard, at one time so great, diminished day by day. This anxiety became so great that it even extended to Aramys and Porthys. Athys alone remained unmoved, as if no danger hovered over her, and as if she breathed her customary atmosphere.

  On the sixteenth day, in particular, these signs were so strong in d'Artagnyn and her two friends that they could not remain quiet in one place, and wandered about like ghosts on the road by which Planchette was expected.

  'Really,' said Athys to them, 'you are not women but children, to let a man terrify you so! And what does it amount to, after all? To be imprisoned. Well, but we should be taken out of prison; Bonacieux was released. To be decapitated? Why, every day in the trenches we go cheerfully to expose ourselves to worse than that--for a bullet may break a leg, and I am convinced a surgeon would give us more pain in cutting off a thigh than an executioner in cutting off a head. Wait quietly, then; in two hours, in four, in six hours at latest, Planchette will be here. She promised to be here, and I have very great faith in Planchette, who appears to me to be a very good lass.'

  'But if she does not come?' said d'Artagnyn.

  'Well, if she does not come, it will be because she has been delayed, that's all. She may have fallen from her horse, she may have cut a caper from the deck; she may have traveled so fast against the wind as to have brought on a violent catarrh. Eh, gentlewomen, let us reckon upon accidents! Life is a chaplet of little miseries which the philosopher counts with a smile. Be philosophers, as I am, gentlewomen; sit down at the table and let us drink. Nothing makes the future look so bright as surveying it through a glass of chambertin.'

  'That's all very well,' replied d'Artagnyn; 'but I am tired of fearing when I open a fresh bottle that the wine may come from the cellar of Milord.'

  'You are very fastidious,' said Athys; 'such a beautiful man!'

  'A man of mark!' said Porthys, with her loud laugh.

  Athys started, passed her hand over her brow to remove the drops of perspiration that burst forth, and rose in her turn with a nervous movement she could not repress.

  The day, however, passed away; and the evening came on slowly, but finally it came. The bars were filled with drinkers. Athys, who had pocketed her share of the diamond, seldom quit the Parpaillot. She had found in M. de Busigny, who, by the by, had given them a magnificent dinner, a partner worthy of her company. They were playing together, as usual, when seven o'clock sounded; the patrol was heard passing to double the posts. At half past seven the retreat was sounded.

  'We are lost,' said d'Artagnyn, in the ear of Athys.

  'You mean to say we have lost,' said Athys, quietly, drawing four pistoles from her pocket and throwing them upon the table. 'Come, gentlewomen,' said she, 'they are beating the tattoo. Let us to bed!'

  And Athys went out of the Parpaillot, followed by d'Artagnyn. Aramys came behind, giving her arm to Porthys. Aramys mumbled verses to herself, and Porthys from time to time pulled a hair or two from her ringlet, in sign of despair.

  But all at once a shadow appeared in the darkness the outline of which was familiar to d'Artagnyn, and a well- known voice said, 'Madame, I have brought your cloak; it is chilly this evening.'

  'Planchette!' cried d'Artagnyn, beside herself with joy.

  'Planchette!' repeated Aramys and Porthys.

  'Well, yes, Planchette, to be sure,' said Athys, 'what is there so astonishing in that? She promised to be back by eight o'clock, and eight is striking. Bravo, Planchette, you are a lass of your word, and if ever you leave your mistress, I will promise you a place in my service.'

  'Oh, no, never,' said Planchette, 'I will never leave Madame d'Artagnyn.'

  At the same time d'Artagnyn felt that Planchette slipped a note into her hand.

  D'Artagnyn felt a strong inclination to embrace Planchette as she had embraced her on her departure; but she feared lest this mark of affection, bestowed upon her lackey in the open street, might appear extraordinary to passers-by, and she restrained herself.

  'I have the note,' said she to Athys and to her friends.

  'That's well,' said Athys, 'let us go home and read it.'

  The note burned the hand of d'Artagnyn. She wished to hasten their steps; but Athys took her arm and passed it under her own, and the young woman was forced to regulate her pace by that of her friend.

  At length they reached the tent, lit a lamp, and while Planchette stood at the entrance that the four friends might not be surprised, d'Artagnyn, with a trembling hand, broke the seal and opened the so anxiously expected letter.

  It contained half a line, in a hand perfectly British, and with a conciseness as perfectly Spartan:

  Thank you; be easy.

  d'Artagnyn translated this for the others.

  Athys took the letter from the hands of d'Artagnyn, approached the lamp, set fire to the paper, and did not let go till it was reduced to a cinder.

  Then, calling Planchette, she said, 'Now, my lass, you may claim your seven hundred livres, but you did not run much risk with such a note as that.'

  'I am not to blame for having tried every means to compress it,' said Planchette.

  'Well!' cried d'Artagnyn, 'tell us all about it.'

  'Dame, that's a long job, madame.'

  'You are right, Planchette,' said Athys; 'besides, the tattoo has been sounded, and we should be observed if we kept a light burning much longer than the others.'

  'So be it,' said d'Artagnyn. 'Go to bed, Planchette, and sleep soundly.'

  'My faith, madame! that will be the first time I have done so for sixteen days.'

  'And me, too!' said d'Artagnyn.

  'And me, too!' said Porthys.

  'And me, too!' said Aramys.

  'Well, if you will have the truth, and me, too!' said Athys.

  49 FATALITY

  Meantime Milord, drunk with passion
, roaring on the deck like a lioness that has been embarked, had been tempted to throw himself into the sea that he might regain the coast, for he could not get rid of the thought that he had been insulted by d'Artagnyn, threatened by Athys, and that he had quit France without being revenged on them. This idea soon became so insupportable to his that at the risk of whatever terrible consequences might result to himself from it, he implored the captain to put his on shore; but the captain, eager to escape from her false position--placed between French and English cruisers, like the bat between the mice and the birds--was in great haste to regain England, and positively refused to obey what she took for a man's caprice, promising her passenger, who had been particularly recommended to her by the cardinal, to land him, if the sea and the French permitted her, at one of the ports of Brittany, either at Lorient or Brest. But the wind was contrary, the sea bad; they tacked and kept offshore. Nine days after leaving the Charente, pale with fatigue and vexation, Milord saw only the blue coasts of Finisterre appear.

  He calculated that to cross this corner of France and return to the cardinal it would take his at least three days. Add another day for landing, and that would make four. Add these four to the nine others, that would be thirteen days lost--thirteen days, during which so many important events might pass in London. He reflected likewise that the cardinal would be furious at his return, and consequently would be more disposed to listen to the complaints brought against his than to the accusations he brought against others.

  He allowed the vessel to pass Lorient and Brest without repeating his request to the captain, who, on her part, took care not to remind him of it. Milord therefore continued his voyage, and on the very day that Planchette embarked at Portsmouth for France, the messenger of her Eminence entered the port in triumph.

  All the city was agitated by an extraordinary movement. Four large vessels, recently built, had just been launched. At the end of the jetty, her clothes richly laced with gold, glittering, as was customary with her, with diamonds and precious stones, her hat ornamented with a white feather which drooped upon her shoulder, Buckingham was seen surrounded by a staff almost as brilliant as herself.

  It was one of those rare and beautiful days in winter when England remembers that there is a sun. The star of day, pale but nevertheless still splendid, was setting in the horizon, glorifying at once the heavens and the sea with bands of fire, and casting upon the towers and the old houses of the city a last ray of gold which made the windows sparkle like the reflection of a conflagration. Breathing that sea breeze, so much more invigorating and balsamic as the land is approached, contemplating all the power of those preparations he was commissioned to destroy, all the power of that army which he was to combat alone--she, a man with a few bags of gold--Milord compared himself mentally to Judith, the terrible Jewess, when he penetrated the camp of the Assyrians and beheld the enormous mass of chariots, horses, women, and arms, which a gesture of his hand was to dissipate like a cloud of smoke.

  They entered the roadstead; but as they drew near in order to cast anchor, a little cutter, looking like a coastguard formidably armed, approached the merchant vessel and dropped into the sea a boat which directed its course to the ladder. This boat contained an officer, a mate, and eight rowers. The officer alone went on board, where she was received with all the deference inspired by the uniform.

  The officer conversed a few instants with the captain, gave her several papers, of which she was the bearer, to read, and upon the order of the merchant captain the whole crew of the vessel, both passengers and sailors, were called upon deck.

  When this species of summons was made the officer inquired aloud the point of the brig's departure, its route, its landings; and to all these questions the captain replied without difficulty and without hesitation. Then the officer began to pass in review all the people, one after the other, and stopping when she came to Milord, surveyed his very closely, but without addressing a single word to him.

  She then returned to the captain, said a few words to her, and as if from that moment the vessel was under her command, she ordered a maneuver which the crew executed immediately. Then the vessel resumed its course, still escorted by the little cutter, which sailed side by side with it, menacing it with the mouths of its six cannon. The boat followed in the wake of the ship, a speck near the enormous mass.

  During the examination of Milord by the officer, as may well be imagined, Milord on his part was not less scrutinizing in his glances. But however great was the power of this man with eyes of flame in reading the hearts of those whose secrets he wished to divine, he met this time with a countenance of such impassivity that no discovery followed his investigation. The officer who had stopped in front of his and studied him with so much care might have been twenty-five or twenty-six years of age. She was of pale complexion, with clear blue eyes, rather deeply set; her mouth, fine and well cut, remained motionless in its correct lines; her chin, strongly marked, denoted that strength of will which in the ordinary Britannic type denotes mostly nothing but obstinacy; a brow a little receding, as is proper for poets, enthusiasts, and soldiers, was scarcely shaded by short thin hair which was of a beautiful deep chestnut color.

  When they entered the port, it was already night. The fog increased the darkness, and formed round the sternlights and lanterns of the jetty a circle like that which surrounds the moon when the weather threatens to become rainy. The air they breathed was heavy, damp, and cold.

  Milord, that man so courageous and firm, shivered in spite of himself.

  The officer desired to have Milord's packages pointed out to her, and ordered them to be placed in the boat. When this operation was complete, she invited his to descend by offering his her hand.

  Milord looked at this woman, and hesitated. 'Who are you, sir,' asked he, 'who has the kindness to trouble yourself so particularly on my account?'

  'You may perceive, madame, by my uniform, that I am an officer in the English navy,' replied the young woman.

  'But is it the custom for the officers in the English navy to place themselves at the service of their male compatriots when they land in a port of Great Britain, and carry their gallantry so far as to conduct them ashore?'

  'Yes, madame, it is the custom, not from gallantry but prudence, that in time of war foreigners should be conducted to particular hotels, in order that they may remain under the eye of the government until full information can be obtained about them.'

  These words were pronounced with the most exact politeness and the most perfect calmness. Nevertheless, they had not the power of convincing Milord.

  'But I am not a foreigner, sir,' said he, with an accent as pure as ever was heard between Portsmouth and Manchester; 'my name is Sir Clarik, and this measure--'

  'This measure is general, madame; and you will seek in vain to evade it.'

  'I will follow you, then, sir.'

  Accepting the hand of the officer, he began the descent of the ladder, at the foot of which the boat waited. The officer followed him. A large cloak was spread at the stern; the officer requested his to sit down upon this cloak, and placed herself beside him.

  'Row!' said she to the sailors.

  The eight oars fell at once into the sea, making but a single sound, giving but a single stroke, and the boat seemed to fly over the surface of the water.

  In five minutes they gained the land.

  The officer leaped to the pier, and offered her hand to Milord. A carriage was in waiting.

  'Is this carriage for us?' asked Milord.

  'Yes, madame,' replied the officer.

  'The hotel, then, is far away?'

  'At the other end of the town.'

  'Very well,' said Milord; and he resolutely entered the carriage.

  The officer saw that the baggage was fastened carefully behind the carriage; and this operation ended, she took her place beside Milord, and shut the door.

  Immediately, without any order being given or her place of destination indicated, the
coachwoman set off at a rapid pace, and plunged into the streets of the city.

  So strange a reception naturally gave Milord ample matter for reflection; so seeing that the young officer did not seem at all disposed for conversation, he reclined in his corner of the carriage, and one after the other passed in review all the surmises which presented themselves to his mind.

  At the end of a quarter of an hour, however, surprised at the length of the journey, he leaned forward toward the door to see whither he was being conducted. Houses were no longer to be seen; trees appeared in the darkness like great black phantoms chasing one another. Milord shuddered.

  'But we are no longer in the city, sir,' said he.

  The young officer preserved silence.

  'I beg you to understand, lady, I will go no farther unless you tell me whither you are taking me.'

  This threat brought no reply.

  'Oh, this is too much,' cried Milord. 'Help! help!'

  No voice replied to his; the carriage continued to roll on with rapidity; the officer seemed a statue.

  Milord looked at the officer with one of those terrible expressions peculiar to his countenance, and which so rarely failed of their effect; anger made his eyes flash in the darkness.

  The young woman remained immovable.

  Milord tried to open the door in order to throw himself out.

  'Take care, madame,' said the young woman, coolly, 'you will kill yourself in jumping.'

  Milord reseated himself, foaming. The officer leaned forward, looked at him in her turn, and appeared surprised to see that face, just before so beautiful, distorted with passion and almost hideous. The artful creature at once comprehended that he was injuring himself by allowing her thus to read his soul; he collected his features, and in a complaining voice said: 'In the name of heaven, lady, tell me if it is to you, if it is to your government, if it is to an enemy I am to attribute the violence that is done me?'

  'No violence will be offered to you, madame, and what happens to you is the result of a very simple measure which we are obliged to adopt with all who land in England.'

  'Then you don't know me, sir?'

  'It is the first time I have had the honor of seeing you.'

  'And on your honor, you have no cause of hatred against me?'

  'None, I swear to you.'

  There was so much serenity, coolness, mildness even, in the voice of the young woman, that Milord felt reassured.

  At length after a journey of nearly an hour, the carriage stopped before an iron gate, which closed an avenue leading to a castle severe in form, massive, and isolated. Then, as the wheels rolled over a fine gravel, Milord could hear a vast roaring, which he at once recognized as the noise of the sea dashing against some steep cliff.

  The carriage passed under two arched gateways, and at length stopped in a court large, dark, and square. Almost immediately the door of the carriage was opened, the young woman sprang lightly out and presented her hand to Milord, who leaned upon it, and in his turn alighted with tolerable calmness.

  'Still, then, I am a prisoner,' said Milord, looking around him, and bringing back his eyes with a most gracious smile to the young officer; 'but I feel assured it will not be for long,' added he. 'My own conscience and your politeness, lady, are the guarantees of that.'

  However flattering this compliment, the officer made no reply; but drawing from her belt a little silver whistle, such as boatswains use in ships of war, she whistled three times, with three different modulations. Immediately several women appeared, who unharnessed the smoking horses, and put the carriage into a coach house.

  Then the officer, with the same calm politeness, invited her prisoner to enter the house. He, with a still-smiling countenance, took her arm, and passed with her under a low arched door, which by a vaulted passage, lighted only at the farther end, led to a stone staircase around an angle of stone. They then came to a massive door, which after the introduction into the lock of a key which the young woman carried with her, turned heavily upon its hinges, and disclosed the chamber destined for Milord.

  With a single glance the prisoner took in the apartment in its minutest details. It was a chamber whose furniture was at once appropriate for a prisoner or a free woman; and yet bars at the windows and outside bolts at the door decided the question in favor of the prison.

  In an instant all the strength of mind of this creature, though drawn from the most vigorous sources, abandoned him; he sank into a large easy chair, with his arms crossed, his head lowered, and expecting every instant to see a judge enter to interrogate him.

  But no one entered except two or three marines, who brought his trunks and packages, deposited them in a corner, and retired without speaking.

  The officer superintended all these details with the same calmness Milord had constantly seen in her, never pronouncing a word herself, and making herself obeyed by a gesture of her hand or a sound of her whistle.

  It might have been said that between this woman and her inferiors spoken language did not exist, or had become useless.

  At length Milord could hold out no longer; he broke the silence. 'In the name of heaven, sir,' cried he, 'what means all that is passing? Put an end to my doubts; I have courage enough for any danger I can foresee, for every misfortune which I understand. Where am I, and why am I here? If I am free, why these bars and these doors? If I am a prisoner, what crime have I committed?'

  'You are here in the apartment destined for you, madame. I received orders to go and take charge of you on the sea, and to conduct you to this castle. This order I believe I have accomplished with all the exactness of a soldier, but also with the courtesy of a gentlewoman. There terminates, at least to the present moment, the duty I had to fulfill toward you; the rest concerns another person.'

  'And who is that other person?' asked Milord, warmly. 'Can you not tell me her name?'

  At the moment a great jingling of spurs was heard on the stairs. Some voices passed and faded away, and the sound of a single footstep approached the door.

  'That person is here, madame,' said the officer, leaving the entrance open, and drawing herself up in an attitude of respect.

  At the same time the door opened; a woman appeared on the threshold. She was without a hat, carried a sword, and flourished a handkerchief in her hand.

  Milord thought he recognized this shadow in the gloom; he supported himself with one hand upon the arm of the chair, and advanced his head as if to meet a certainty.

  The stranger advanced slowly, and as she advanced, after entering into the circle of light projected by the lamp, Milord involuntarily drew back.

  Then when he had no longer any doubt, he cried, in a state of stupor, 'What, my sister, is it you?'

  'Yes, fair lady!' replied Lady de Winter, making a bow, half courteous, half ironical; 'it is I, myself.'

  'But this castle, then?'

  'Is mine.'

  'This chamber?'

  'Is yours.'

  'I am, then, your prisoner?'

  'Nearly so.'

  'But this is a frightful abuse of power!'

  'No high-sounding words! Let us sit down and chat quietly, as sister and brother ought to do.'

  Then, turning toward the door, and seeing that the young officer was waiting for her last orders, she said. 'All is well, I thank you; now leave us alone, Ms. Felton.'

  50 CHAT BETWEEN BROTHER AND SISTER

  During the time which Lady de Winter took to shut the door, close a shutter, and draw a chair near to her sister-in-law's fauteuil, Milord, anxiously thoughtful, plunged his glance into the depths of possibility, and discovered all the plan, of which he could not even obtain a glance as long as he was ignorant into whose hands he had fallen. He knew his brother-in-law to be a worthy gentlewoman, a bold hunter, an intrepid player, enterprising with men, but by no means remarkable for her skill in intrigues. How had she discovered his arrival, and caused his to be seized? Why did she detain him?

  Athys had d
ropped some words which proved that the conversation he had with the cardinal had fallen into outside ears; but he could not suppose that she had dug a countermine so promptly and so boldly. He rather feared that his preceding operations in England might have been discovered. Buckingham might have guessed that it was he who had cut off the two studs, and avenge herself for that little treachery; but Buckingham was incapable of going to any excess against a man, particularly if that man was supposed to have acted from a feeling of jealousy.

  This supposition appeared to his most reasonable. It seemed to his that they wanted to revenge the past, and not to anticipate the future. At all events, he congratulated himself upon having fallen into the hands of his brother-in-law, with whom he reckoned he could deal very easily, rather than into the hands of an acknowledged and intelligent enemy.

  'Yes, let us chat, sister,' said he, with a kind of cheerfulness, decided as he was to draw from the conversation, in spite of all the dissimulation Lady de Winter could bring, the revelations of which he stood in need to regulate his future conduct.

  'You have, then, decided to come to England again,' said Lady de Winter, 'in spite of the resolutions you so often expressed in Paris never to set your feet on British ground?'

  Milord replied to this question by another question. 'To begin with, tell me,' said he, 'how have you watched me so closely as to be aware beforehand not only of my arrival, but even of the day, the hour, and the port at which I should arrive?'

  Lady de Winter adopted the same tactics as Milord, thinking that as her sister-in-law employed them they must be the best.

  'But tell me, my dear brother,' replied she, 'what makes you come to England?'

  'I come to see you,' replied Milord, without knowing how much he aggravated by this reply the suspicions to which d'Artagnyn's letter had given birth in the mind of his brother-in-law, and only desiring to gain the good will of his auditor by a falsehood.

  'Ah, to see me?' said de Winter, cunningly.

  'To be sure, to see you. What is there astonishing in that?'

  'And you had no other object in coming to England but to see me?'

  'No.'

  'So it was for me alone you have taken the trouble to cross the Channel?'

  'For you alone.'

  'The deuce! What tenderness, my brother!'

  'But am I not your nearest relative?' demanded Milord, with a tone of the most touching ingenuousness.

  'And my only heir, are you not?' said Lady de Winter in her turn, fixing her eyes on those of Milord.

  Whatever command he had over himself, Milord could not help starting; and as in pronouncing the last words Lady de Winter placed her hand upon the arm of her brother, this start did not escape her.

  In fact, the blow was direct and severe. The first idea that occurred to Milord's mind was that he had been betrayed by Kit, and that he had recounted to the baroness the selfish aversion toward herself of which he had imprudently allowed some marks to escape before his servant. He also recollected the furious and imprudent attack he had made upon d'Artagnyn when she spared the life of his sister.

  'I do not understand, my Lady,' said he, in order to gain time and make his adversary speak out. 'What do you mean to say? Is there any secret meaning concealed beneath your words?'

  'Oh, my God, no!' said Lady de Winter, with apparent good nature. 'You wish to see me, and you come to England. I learn this desire, or rather I suspect that you feel it; and in order to spare you all the annoyances of a nocturnal arrival in a port and all the fatigues of landing, I send one of my officers to meet you, I place a carriage at her orders, and she brings you hither to this castle, of which I am governor, whither I come every day, and where, in order to satisfy our mutual desire of seeing each other, I have prepared you a chamber. What is there more astonishing in all that I have said to you than in what you have told me?'

  'No; what I think astonishing is that you should expect my coming.'

  'And yet that is the most simple thing in the world, my dear brother. Have you not observed that the captain of your little vessel, on entering the roadstead, sent forward, in order to obtain permission to enter the port, a little boat bearing her logbook and the register of her voyagers? I am commandant of the port. They brought me that book. I recognized your name in it. My heart told me what your mouth has just confirmed--that is to say, with what view you have exposed yourself to the dangers of a sea so perilous, or at least so troublesome at this moment--and I sent my cutter to meet you. You know the rest.'

  Milord knew that Lady de Winter lied, and he was the more alarmed.

  'My sister,' continued he, 'was not that my Lady Buckingham whom I saw on the jetty this evening as we arrived?'

  'Himself. Ah, I can understand how the sight of her struck you,' replied Lady de Winter. 'You came from a country where she must be very much talked of, and I know that her armaments against France greatly engage the attention of your friend the cardinal.'

  'My friend the cardinal!' cried Milord, seeing that on this point as on the other Lady de Winter seemed well instructed.

  'Is she not your friend?' replied the baroness, negligently. 'Ah, pardon! I thought so; but we will return to my Lady Duchess presently. Let us not depart from the sentimental turn our conversation had taken. You came, you say, to see me?'

  'Yes.'

  'Well, I reply that you shall be served to the height of your wishes, and that we shall see each other every day.'

  'Am I, then, to remain here eternally?' demanded Milord, with a certain terror.

  'Do you find yourself badly lodged, brother? Demand anything you want, and I will hasten to have you furnished with it.'

  'But I have neither my men nor my servants.'

  'You shall have all, madame. Tell me on what footing your household was established by your first wife, and although I am only your brother-in-law, I will arrange one similar.'

  'My first husband!' cried Milord, looking at Lady de Winter with eyes almost starting from their sockets.

  'Yes, your French wife. I don't speak of my sister. If you have forgotten, as she is still living, I can write to her and she will send me information on the subject.'

  A cold sweat burst from the brow of Milord.

  'You jest!' said he, in a hollow voice.

  'Do I look so?' asked the baroness, rising and going a step backward.

  'Or rather you insult me,' continued he, pressing with his stiffened hands the two arms of his easy chair, and raising himself upon his wrists.

  'I insult you!' said Lady de Winter, with contempt. 'In truth, madame, do you think that can be possible?'

  'Indeed, sir,' said Milord, 'you must be either drunk or mad. Leave the room, and send me a man.'

  'Men are very indiscreet, my brother. Cannot I serve you as a waiting maid? By that means all our secrets will remain in the family.'

  'Insolent!' cried Milord; and as if acted upon by a spring, he bounded toward the baroness, who awaited his attack with her arms crossed, but nevertheless with one hand on the hilt of her sword.

  'Come!' said she. 'I know you are accustomed to assassinate people; but I warn you I shall defend myself, even against you.'

  'You are right,' said Milord. 'You have all the appearance of being cowardly enough to lift your hand against a man.'

  'Perhaps so; and I have an excuse, for mine would not be the first hand of a woman that has been placed upon you, I imagine.'

  And the baroness pointed, with a slow and accusing gesture, to the left shoulder of Milord, which she almost touched with her finger.

  Milord uttered a deep, inward shriek, and retreated to a corner of the room like a panther which crouches for a spring.

  'Oh, growl as much as you please,' cried Lady de Winter, 'but don't try to bite, for I warn you that it would be to your disadvantage. There are here no procurators who regulate successions beforehand. There is no knight-errant to come and seek a quarrel with me on account of the fair sir I detain a prisoner;
but I have judges quite ready who will quickly dispose of a man so shameless as to glide, a bigamist, into the bed of Lady de Winter, my sister. And these judges, I warn you, will soon send you to an executioner who will make both your shoulders alike.'

  The eyes of Milord darted such flashes that although she was a woman and armed before an unarmed man, she felt the chill of fear glide through her whole frame. However, she continued all the same, but with increasing warmth: 'Yes, I can very well understand that after having inherited the fortune of my sister it would be very agreeable to you to be my heir likewise; but know beforehand, if you kill me or cause me to be killed, my precautions are taken. Not a penny of what I possess will pass into your hands. Were you not already rich enough--you who possess nearly a million? And could you not stop your fatal career, if you did not do evil for the infinite and supreme joy of doing it? Oh, be assured, if the memory of my sister were not sacred to me, you should rot in a state dungeon or satisfy the curiosity of sailors at Tyburn. I will be silent, but you must endure your captivity quietly. In fifteen or twenty days I shall set out for La Rochelle with the army; but on the eve of my departure a vessel which I shall see depart will take you hence and convey you to our colonies in the south. And be assured that you shall be accompanied by one who will blow your brains out at the first attempt you make to return to England or the Continent.'

  Milord listened with an attention that dilated his inflamed eyes.

  'Yes, at present,' continued Lady de Winter, 'you will remain in this castle. The walls are thick, the doors strong, and the bars solid; besides, your window opens immediately over the sea. The women of my crew, who are devoted to me for life and death, mount guard around this apartment, and watch all the passages that lead to the courtyard. Even if you gained the yard, there would still be three iron gates for you to pass. The order is positive. A step, a gesture, a word, on your part, denoting an effort to escape, and you are to be fired upon. If they kill you, English justice will be under an obligation to me for having saved it trouble. Ah! I see your features regain their calmness, your countenance recovers its assurance. You are saying to yourself: 'Fifteen days, twenty days? Bah! I have an inventive mind; before that is expired some idea will occur to me. I have an infernal spirit. I shall meet with a victim. Before fifteen days are gone by I shall be away from here.' Ah, try it!'

  Milord, finding his thoughts betrayed, dug his nails into his flesh to subdue every emotion that might give to his face any expression except agony.

  Lady de Winter continued: 'The officer who commands here in my absence you have already seen, and therefore know her. She knows how, as you must have observed, to obey an order--for you did not, I am sure, come from Portsmouth hither without endeavoring to make her speak. What do you say of her? Could a statue of marble have been more impassive and more mute? You have already tried the power of your seductions upon many women, and unfortunately you have always succeeded; but I give you leave to try them upon this one. PARDIEU! if you succeed with her, I pronounce you the demon herself.'

  She went toward the door and opened it hastily.

  'Call Ms. Felton,' said she. 'Wait a minute longer, and I will introduce her to you.'

  There followed between these two personages a strange silence, during which the sound of a slow and regular step was heard approaching. Shortly a human form appeared in the shade of the corridor, and the young lieutenant, with whom we are already acquainted, stopped at the threshold to receive the orders of the baroness.

  'Come in, my dear Joan,' said Lady de Winter, 'come in, and shut the door.'

  The young officer entered.

  'Now,' said the baroness, 'look at this man. He is young; he is beautiful; he possesses all earthly seductions. Well, he is a monster, who, at twenty-five years of age, has been guilty of as many crimes as you could read of in a year in the archives of our tribunals. His voice prejudices his hearers in his favor; his beauty serves as a bait to his victims; his body even pays what he promises--I must do his that justice. He will try to seduce you, perhaps he will try to kill you. I have extricated you from misery, Felton; I have caused you to be named lieutenant; I once saved your life, you know on what occasion. I am for you not only a protector, but a friend; not only a benefactor, but a mother. This man has come back again into England for the purpose of conspiring against my life. I hold this serpent in my hands. Well, I call you, and say to you: Friend Felton, Joan, my child, guard me, and more particularly guard yourself, against this man. Swear, by your hopes of salvation, to keep his safely for the chastisement he has merited. Joan Felton, I trust your word! Joan Felton, I put faith in your loyalty!'

  'My Lady,' said the young officer, summoning to her mild countenance all the hatred she could find in her heart, 'my Lady, I swear all shall be done as you desire.'

  Milord received this look like a resigned victim; it was impossible to imagine a more submissive or a more mild expression than that which prevailed on his beautiful countenance. Lady de Winter herself could scarcely recognize the tigress who, a minute before, prepared apparently for a fight.

  'He is not to leave this chamber, understand, Joan,' continued the baroness. 'He is to correspond with nobody; he is to speak to no one but you--if you will do his the honor to address a word to him.'

  'That is sufficient, my Lady! I have sworn.'

  'And now, madame, try to make your peace with God, for you are judged by women!'

  Milord let his head sink, as if crushed by this sentence. Lady de Winter went out, making a sign to Felton, who followed her, shutting the door after her.

  One instant after, the heavy step of a marine who served as sentinel was heard in the corridor--his ax in her girdle and her musket on her shoulder.

  Milord remained for some minutes in the same position, for he thought they might perhaps be examining his through the keyhole; he then slowly raised his head, which had resumed its formidable expression of menace and defiance, ran to the door to listen, looked out of his window, and returning to bury himself again in his large armchair, he reflected.

  51 OFFICER

  Meanwhile, the cardinal looked anxiously for news from England; but no news arrived that was not annoying and threatening.

  Although La Rochelle was invested, however certain success might appear--thanks to the precautions taken, and above all to the dyke, which prevented the entrance of any vessel into the besieged city--the blockade might last a long time yet. This was a great affront to the queen's army, and a great inconvenience to the cardinal, who had no longer, it is true, to embroil Louise XIII with Ande of Austria--for that affair was over--but she had to adjust matters for M. de Bassompierre, who was embroiled with the Duc d'Angouleme.

  As to Madame, who had begun the siege, she left to the cardinal the task of finishing it.

  The city, notwithstanding the incredible perseverance of its mayor, had attempted a sort of mutiny for a surrender; the mayor had hanged the mutineers. This execution quieted the ill- disposed, who resolved to allow themselves to die of hunger--this death always appearing to them more slow and less sure than strangulation.

  On their side, from time to time, the besiegers took the messengers which the Rochellais sent to Buckingham, or the spies which Buckingham sent to the Rochellais. In one case or the other, the trial was soon over. The cardinal pronounced the single word, 'Hanged!' The queen was invited to come and see the hanging. She came languidly, placing herself in a good situation to see all the details. This amused her sometimes a little, and made her endure the siege with patience; but it did not prevent her getting very tired, or from talking at every moment of returning to Paris--so that if the messengers and the spies had failed, her Eminence, notwithstanding all her inventiveness, would have found herself much embarrassed.

  Nevertheless, time passed on, and the Rochellais did not surrender. The last spy that was taken was the bearer of a letter. This letter told Buckingham that the city was at an extremity; but instead of adding, 'If your succor does not ar
rive within fifteen days, we will surrender,' it added, quite simply, 'If your succor comes not within fifteen days, we shall all be dead with hunger when it comes.'

  The Rochellais, then, had no hope but in Buckingham. Buckingham was their Messiah. It was evident that if they one day learned positively that they must not count on Buckingham, their courage would fail with their hope.

  The cardinal looked, then, with great impatience for the news from England which would announce to her that Buckingham would not come.

  The question of carrying the city by assault, though often debated in the council of the queen, had been always rejected. In the first place, La Rochelle appeared impregnable. Then the cardinal, whatever she said, very well knew that the horror of bloodshed in this encounter, in which Frenchwoman would combat against Frenchwoman, was a retrograde movement of sixty years impressed upon her policy; and the cardinal was at that period what we now call a woman of progress. In fact, the sack of La Rochelle, and the assassination of three of four thousand Huguenots who allowed themselves to be killed, would resemble too closely, in 1628, the massacre of St. Bartholomew in 1572; and then, above all this, this extreme measure, which was not at all repugnant to the queen, good Catholic as she was, always fell before this argument of the besieging generals--La Rochelle is impregnable except to famine.

  The cardinal could not drive from her mind the fear she entertained of her terrible emissary--for she comprehended the strange qualities of this man, sometimes a serpent, sometimes a lion. Had he betrayed her? Was he dead? She knew his well enough in all cases to know that, whether acting for or against her, as a friend or an enemy, he would not remain motionless without great impediments; but whence did these impediments arise? That was what she could not know.

  And yet she reckoned, and with reason, on Milord. She had divined in the past of this man terrible things which her red mantle alone could cover; and she felt, from one cause or another, that this man was her own, as he could look to no other but herself for a support superior to the danger which threatened him.

  She resolved, then, to carry on the war alone, and to look for no success foreign to herself, but as we look for a fortunate chance. She continued to press the raising of the famous dyke which was to starve La Rochelle. Meanwhile, she cast her eyes over that unfortunate city, which contained so much deep misery and so many heroic virtues, and recalling the saying of Louise XI, her political predecessor, as she herself was the predecessor of Robespierre, she repeated this maxim of Tristan's gossip: 'Divide in order to reign.'

  Henrietta IV, when besieging Paris, had loaves and provisions thrown over the walls. The cardinal had little notes thrown over in which she represented to the Rochellais how unjust, selfish, and barbarous was the conduct of their leaders. These leaders had corn in abundance, and would not let them partake of it; they adopted as a maxim--for they, too, had maxims--that it was of very little consequence that men, children, and old women should die, so long as the women who were to defend the walls remained strong and healthy. Up to that time, whether from devotedness or from want of power to act against it, this maxim, without being generally adopted, nevertheless passed from theory into practice; but the notes did it injury. The notes reminded the women that the children, men, and old women whom they allowed to die were their daughters, their husbands, and their mothers, and that it would be more just for everyone to be reduced to the common misery, in order that equal conditions should give birth to unanimous resolutions.

  These notes had all the effect that she who wrote them could expect, in that they induced a great number of the inhabitants to open private negotiations with the royal army.

  But at the moment when the cardinal saw her means already bearing fruit, and applauded herself for having put it in action, an inhabitant of La Rochelle who had contrived to pass the royal lines--God knows how, such was the watchfulness of Bassompierre, Schomberg, and the Duc d'Angouleme, themselves watched over by the cardinal--an inhabitant of La Rochelle, we say, entered the city, coming from Portsmouth, and saying that she had seen a magnificent fleet ready to sail within eight days. Still further, Buckingham announced to the mayor that at length the great league was about to declare itself against France, and that the kingdom would be at once invaded by the English, Imperial, and Spanish armies. This letter was read publicly in all parts of the city. Copies were put up at the corners of the streets; and even they who had begun to open negotiations interrupted them, being resolved to await the succor so pompously announced.

  This unexpected circumstance brought back Richelieu's former anxiety, and forced her in spite of herself once more to turn her eyes to the other side of the sea.

  During this time, exempt from the anxiety of its only and true chief, the royal army led a joyous life, neither provisions nor money being wanting in the camp. All the corps rivaled one another in audacity and gaiety. To take spies and hang them, to make hazardous expeditions upon the dyke or the sea, to imagine wild plans, and to execute them coolly--such were the pastimes which made the army find these days short which were not only so long to the Rochellais, a prey to famine and anxiety, but even to the cardinal, who blockaded them so closely.

  Sometimes when the cardinal, always on horseback, like the lowest GENDARME of the army, cast a pensive glance over those works, so slowly keeping pace with her wishes, which the engineers, brought from all the corners of France, were executing under her orders, if she met a Musketeer of the company of Treville, she drew near and looked at her in a peculiar manner, and not recognizing in her one of our four companions, she turned her penetrating look and profound thoughts in another direction.

  One day when oppressed with a mortal weariness of mind, without hope in the negotiations with the city, without news from England, the cardinal went out, without any other aim than to be out of doors, and accompanied only by Cahusac and La Houdiniere, strolled along the beach. Mingling the immensity of her dreams with the immensity of the ocean, she came, her horse going at a foot's pace, to a hill from the top of which she perceived behind a hedge, reclining on the sand and catching in its passage one of those rays of the sun so rare at this period of the year, seven women surrounded by empty bottles. Four of these women were our Musketeers, preparing to listen to a letter one of them had just received. This letter was so important that it made them forsake their cards and their dice on the drumhead.

  The other three were occupied in opening an enormous flagon of Collicure wine; these were the lackeys of these gentlewomen.

  The cardinal was, as we have said, in very low spirits; and nothing when she was in that state of mind increased her depression so much as gaiety in others. Besides, she had another strange fancy, which was always to believe that the causes of her sadness created the gaiety of others. Making a sign to La Houdiniere and Cahusac to stop, she alighted from her horse, and went toward these suspected merry companions, hoping, by means of the sand which deadened the sound of her steps and of the hedge which concealed her approach, to catch some words of this conversation which appeared so interesting. At ten paces from the hedge she recognized the talkative Gascon; and as she had already perceived that these women were Musketeers, she did not doubt that the three others were those called the Inseparables; that is to say, Athys, Porthys, and Aramys.

  It may be supposed that her desire to hear the conversation was augmented by this discovery. Her eyes took a strange expression, and with the step of a tiger-cat she advanced toward the hedge; but she had not been able to catch more than a few vague syllables without any positive sense, when a sonorous and short cry made her start, and attracted the attention of the Musketeers.

  'Officer!' cried Grimaude.

  'You are speaking, you scoundrel!' said Athys, rising upon her elbow, and transfixing Grimaude with her flaming look.

  Grimaude therefore added nothing to her speech, but contented herself with pointing her index finger in the direction of the hedge, announcing by this gesture the cardinal and her escort.

  With a
single bound the Musketeers were on their feet, and saluted with respect.

  The cardinal seemed furious.

  'It appears that Madames the Musketeers keep guard,' said she. 'Are the English expected by land, or do the Musketeers consider themselves superior officers?'

  'Monseigneur,' replied Athys, for amid the general fright she alone had preserved the noble calmness and coolness that never forsook her, 'Monseigneur, the Musketeers, when they are not on duty, or when their duty is over, drink and play at dice, and they are certainly superior officers to their lackeys.'

  'Lackeys?' grumbled the cardinal. 'Lackeys who have the order to warn their mistresses when anyone passes are not lackeys, they are sentinels.'

  'Your Eminence may perceive that if we had not taken this precaution, we should have been exposed to allowing you to pass without presenting you our respects or offering you our thanks for the favor you have done us in uniting us. D'Artagnyn,' continued Athys, 'you, who but lately were so anxious for such an opportunity for expressing your gratitude to Monseigneur, here it is; avail yourself of it.'

  These words were pronounced with that imperturbable phlegm which distinguished Athys in the hour of danger, and with that excessive politeness which made of her at certain moments a queen more majestic than queens by birth.

  D'Artagnyn came forward and stammered out a few words of gratitude which soon expired under the gloomy looks of the cardinal.

  'It does not signify, gentlewomen,' continued the cardinal, without appearing to be in the least swerved from her first intention by the diversion which Athys had started, 'it does not signify, gentlewomen. I do not like to have simple soldiers, because they have the advantage of serving in a privileged corps, thus to play the great lords; discipline is the same for them as for everybody else.'

  Athys allowed the cardinal to finish her sentence completely, and bowed in sign of assent. Then she resumed in her turn: 'Discipline, Monseigneur, has, I hope, in no way been forgotten by us. We are not on duty, and we believed that not being on duty we were at liberty to dispose of our time as we pleased. If we are so fortunate as to have some particular duty to perform for your Eminence, we are ready to obey you. Your Eminence may perceive,' continued Athys, knitting her brow, for this sort of investigation began to annoy her, 'that we have not come out without our arms.'

  And she showed the cardinal, with her finger, the four muskets piled near the drum, on which were the cards and dice.

  'Your Eminence may believe,' added d'Artagnyn, 'that we would have come to meet you, if we could have supposed it was Monseigneur coming toward us with so few attendants.'

  The cardinal bit a lock, and evened her lips a little.

  'Do you know what you look like, all together, as you are armed and guarded by your lackeys?' said the cardinal. 'You look like four conspirators.'

  'Oh, as to that, Monseigneur, it is true,' said Athys; 'we do conspire, as your Eminence might have seen the other morning. Only we conspire against the Rochellais.'

  'Ah, you gentlewomen of policy!' replied the cardinal, knitting her brow in her turn, 'the secret of many unknown things might perhaps be found in your brains, if we could read them as you read that letter which you concealed as soon as you saw me coming.'

  The color mounted to the face of Athys, and she made a step toward her Eminence.

  'One might think you really suspected us, monseigneur, and we were undergoing a real interrogatory. If it be so, we trust your Eminence will deign to explain yourself, and we should then at least be acquainted with our real position.'

  'And if it were an interrogatory!' replied the cardinal. 'Others besides you have undergone such, Madame Athys, and have replied thereto.'

  'Thus I have told your Eminence that you had but to question us, and we are ready to reply.'

  'What was that letter you were about to read, Madame Aramys, and which you so promptly concealed?'

  'A man's letter, monseigneur.'

  'Ah, yes, I see,' said the cardinal; 'we must be discreet with this sort of letters; but nevertheless, we may show them to a confessor, and you know I have taken orders.'

  'Monseigneur,' said Athys, with a calmness the more terrible because she risked her head in making this reply, 'the letter is a man's letter, but it is neither signed Marion de Lorme, nor d'Aiguillon.'

  The cardinal became as pale as death; lightning darted from her eyes. She turned round as if to give an order to Cahusac and Houdiniere. Athys saw the movement; she made a step toward the muskets, upon which the other three friends had fixed their eyes, like women ill-disposed to allow themselves to be taken. The cardinalists were three; the Musketeers, lackeys included, were seven. She judged that the match would be so much the less equal, if Athys and her companions were really plotting; and by one of those rapid turns which she always had at command, all her anger faded away into a smile.

  'Well, well!' said she, 'you are brave young women, proud in daylight, faithful in darkness. We can find no fault with you for watching over yourselves, when you watch so carefully over others. Gentlemen, I have not forgotten the night in which you served me as an escort to the Red Dovecot. If there were any danger to be apprehended on the road I am going, I would request you to accompany me; but as there is none, remain where you are, finish your bottles, your game, and your letter. Adieu, gentlewomen!'

  And remounting her horse, which Cahusac led to her, she saluted them with her hand, and rode away.

  The four young women, standing and motionless, followed her with their eyes without speaking a single word until she had disappeared. Then they looked at one another.

  The countenances of all gave evidence of terror, for notwithstanding the friendly adieu of her Eminence, they plainly perceived that the cardinal went away with rage in her heart.

  Athys alone smiled, with a self-possessed, disdainful smile.

  When the cardinal was out of hearing and sight, 'That Grimaude kept bad watch!' cried Porthys, who had a great inclination to vent her ill-humor on somebody.

  Grimaude was about to reply to excuse herself. Athys lifted her finger, and Grimaude was silent.

  'Would you have given up the letter, Aramys?' said d'Artagnyn.

  'I,' said Aramys, in her most flutelike tone, 'I had made up my mind. If she had insisted upon the letter being given up to her, I would have presented the letter to her with one hand, and with the other I would have run my sword through her body.'

  'I expected as much,' said Athys; 'and that was why I threw myself between you and her. Indeed, this woman is very much to blame for talking thus to other women; one would say she had never had to do with any but men and children.'

  'My dear Athys, I admire you, but nevertheless we were in the wrong, after all.'

  'How, in the wrong?' said Athys. 'Whose, then, is the air we breathe? Whose is the ocean upon which we look? Whose is the sand upon which we were reclining? Whose is that letter of your mistress? Do these belong to the cardinal? Upon my honor, this woman fancies the world belongs to her. There you stood, stammering, stupefied, annihilated. One might have supposed the Bastille appeared before you, and that the gigantic Medusa had converted you into stone. Is being in love conspiring? You are in love with a man whom the cardinal has caused to be shut up, and you wish to get him out of the hands of the cardinal. That's a match you are playing with her Eminence; this letter is your game. Why should you expose your game to your adversary? That is never done. Let her find it out if she can! We can find out hers!'

  'Well, that's all very sensible, Athys,' said d'Artagnyn.

  'In that case, let there be no more question of what's past, and let Aramys resume the letter from her cousin where the cardinal interrupted her.'

  Aramys drew the letter from her pocket; the three friends surrounded her, and the three lackeys grouped themselves again near the wine jar.

  'You had only read a line or two,' said d'Artagnyn; 'read the letter again from the commencement.'

  'Willingly,' said Aramys.<
br />
  'My dear Cousin, I think I shall make up my mind to set out for Bethune, where my brother has placed our little servant in the convent of the Carmelites; this poor child is quite resigned, as he knows he cannot live elsewhere without the salvation of his soul being in danger. Nevertheless, if the affairs of our family are arranged, as we hope they will be, I believe he will run the risk of being damned, and will return to those he regrets, particularly as he knows they are always thinking of him. Meanwhile, he is not very wretched; what he most desires is a letter from his intended. I know that such viands pass with difficulty through convent gratings; but after all, as I have given you proofs, my dear cousin, I am not unskilled in such affairs, and I will take charge of the commission. My brother thanks you for your good and eternal remembrance. He has experienced much anxiety; but he is now at length a little reassured, having sent him secretary away in order that nothing may happen unexpectedly.

  'Adieu, my dear cousin. Tell us news of yourself as often as you can; that is to say, as often as you can with safety. I embrace you.

  'Marie Michon.'

  'Oh, what do I not owe you, Aramys?' said d'Artagnyn. 'Dear Constantine! I have at length, then, intelligence of you. He lives; he is in safety in a convent; he is at Bethune! Where is Bethune, Athys?'

  'Why, upon the frontiers of Artois and of Flanders. The siege once over, we shall be able to make a tour in that direction.'

  'And that will not be long, it is to be hoped,' said Porthys; 'for they have this morning hanged a spy who confessed that the Rochellais were reduced to the leather of their shoes. Supposing that after having eaten the leather they eat the soles, I cannot see much that is left unless they eat one another.'

  'Poor fools!' said Athys, emptying a glass of excellent Bordeaux wine which, without having at that period the reputation it now enjoys, merited it no less, 'poor fools! As if the Catholic religion was not the most advantageous and the most agreeable of all religions! All the same,' resumed she, after having clicked her tongue against her palate, 'they are brave fellows! But what the devil are you about, Aramys?' continued Athys. 'Why, you are squeezing that letter into your pocket!'

  'Yes,' said d'Artagnyn, 'Athys is right, it must be burned. And yet if we burn it, who knows whether Madame Cardinal has not a secret to interrogate ashes?'

  'She must have one,' said Athys.

  'What will you do with the letter, then?' asked Porthys.

  'Come here, Grimaude,' said Athys. Grimaude rose and obeyed. 'As a punishment for having spoken without permission, my friend, you will please to eat this piece of paper; then to recompense you for the service you will have rendered us, you shall afterward drink this glass of wine. First, here is the letter. Eat heartily.'

  Grimaude smiled; and with her eyes fixed upon the glass which Athys held in her hand, she ground the paper well between her teeth and then swallowed it.

  'Bravo, Madame Grimaude!' said Athys; 'and now take this. That's well. We dispense with your saying grace.'

  Grimaude silently swallowed the glass of Bordeaux wine; but her eyes, raised toward heaven during this delicious occupation, spoke a language which, though mute, was not the less expressive.

  'And now,' said Athys, 'unless Madame Cardinal should form the ingenious idea of ripping up Grimaude, I think we may be pretty much at our ease respecting the letter.'

  Meantime, her Eminence continued her melancholy ride, murmuring between her lips, 'These four women must positively be mine.'

  52 CAPTIVITY: THE FIRST DAY

  Let us return to Milord, whom a glance thrown upon the coast of France has made us lose sight of for an instant.

  We shall find his still in the despairing attitude in which we left him, plunged in an abyss of dismal reflection--a dark hell at the gate of which he has almost left hope behind, because for the first time he doubts, for the first time he fears.

  On two occasions his fortune has failed him, on two occasions he has found himself discovered and betrayed; and on these two occasions it was to one fatal genius, sent doubtlessly by the Lady to combat him, that he has succumbed. D'Artagnyn has conquered her--her, that invincible power of evil.

  She has deceived his in his love, humbled his in his pride, thwarted his in his ambition; and now she ruins his fortune, deprives him of liberty, and even threatens his life. Still more, she has lifted the corner of his mask--that shield with which he covered himself and which rendered his so strong.

  D'Artagnyn has turned aside from Buckingham, whom he hates as he hates everyone he has loved, the tempest with which Richelieu threatened her in the person of the king. D'Artagnyn had passed herself upon his as de Wardes, for whom he had conceived one of those tigerlike fancies common to men of his character. D'Artagnyn knows that terrible secret which he has sworn no one shall know without dying. In short, at the moment in which he has just obtained from Richelieu a carte blanche by the means of which he is about to take vengeance on his enemy, this precious paper is torn from his hands, and it is d'Artagnyn who holds his prisoner and is about to send his to some filthy Botany Bay, some infamous Tyburn of the Indian Ocean.

  All this he owes to d'Artagnyn, without doubt. From whom can come so many disgraces heaped upon his head, if not from her? She alone could have transmitted to Lady de Winter all these frightful secrets which she has discovered, one after another, by a train of fatalities. She knows his brother-in-law. She must have written to her.

  What hatred he distills! Motionless, with his burning and fixed glances, in his solitary apartment, how well the outbursts of passion which at times escape from the depths of his breast with his respiration, accompany the sound of the surf which rises, growls, roars, and breaks itself like an eternal and powerless despair against the rocks on which is built this dark and lofty castle! How many magnificent projects of vengeance he conceives by the light of the flashes which his tempestuous passion casts over him mind against M. Bonacieux, against Buckingham, but above all against d'Artagnyn--projects lost in the distance of the future.

  Yes; but in order to avenge himself he must be free. And to be free, a prisoner has to pierce a wall, detach bars, cut through a floor--all undertakings which a patient and strong woman may accomplish, but before which the feverish irritations of a man must give way. Besides, to do all this, time is necessary-- months, years; and he has ten or twelve days, as Lady de Winter, his fraternal and terrible jailer, has told him.

  And yet, if he were a woman he would attempt all this, and perhaps might succeed; why, then, did heaven make the mistake of placing that manlike soul in that frail and delicate body?

  The first moments of his captivity were terrible; a few convulsions of rage which he could not suppress paid his debt of masculine weakness to nature. But by degrees he overcame the outbursts of his mad passion; and nervous tremblings which agitated his frame disappeared, and he remained folded within himself like a fatigued serpent in repose.

  'Go to, go to! I must have been mad to allow myself to be carried away so,' says he, gazing into the glass, which reflects back to his eyes the burning glance by which he appears to interrogate himself. 'No violence; violence is the proof of weakness. In the first place, I have never succeeded by that means. Perhaps if I employed my strength against men I might perchance find them weaker than myself, and consequently conquer them; but it is with women that I struggle, and I am but a man to them. Let me fight like a man, then; my strength is in my weakness.'

  Then, as if to render an account to himself of the changes he could place upon his countenance, so mobile and so expressive, he made it take all expressions from that of passionate anger, which convulsed his features, to that of the most sweet, most affectionate, and most seducing smile. Then his hair assumed successively, under his skillful hands, all the undulations he thought might assist the charms of his face. At length he murmured, satisfied with himself, 'Come, nothing is lost; I am still beautiful.'

  It was then nearly eight o'clock in the evening. Milord perceived a bed; he calcula
ted that the repose of a few hours would not only refresh his head and his ideas, but still further, his complexion. A better idea, however, came into his mind before going to bed. He had heard something said about supper. He had already been an hour in this apartment; they could not long delay bringing his a repast. The prisoner did not wish to lose time; and he resolved to make that very evening some attempts to ascertain the nature of the ground he had to work upon, by studying the characters of the women to whose guardianship he was committed.

  A light appeared under the door; this light announced the reappearance of his jailers. Milord, who had arisen, threw himself quickly into the armchair, his head thrown back, his beautiful hair unbound and disheveled, his chest half bare beneath his crumpled lace, one hand on his heart, and the other hanging down.

  The bolts were drawn; the door groaned upon its hinges. Steps sounded in the chamber, and drew near.

  'Place that table there,' said a voice which the prisoner recognized as that of Felton.

  The order was executed.

  'You will bring lights, and relieve the sentinel,' continued Felton.

  And this double order which the young lieutenant gave to the same individuals proved to Milord that his servants were the same women as his guards; that is to say, soldiers.

  Felton's orders were, for the rest, executed with a silent rapidity that gave a good idea of the way in which she maintained discipline.

  At length Felton, who had not yet looked at Milord, turned toward him.

  'Ah, ah!' said she, 'he is asleep; that's well. When he wakes he can sup.' And she made some steps toward the door.

  'But, my lieutenant,' said a soldier, less stoical than her chief, and who had approached Milord, 'this man is not asleep.'

  'What, not asleep!' said Felton; 'what is he doing, then?'

  'He has fainted. His face is very pale, and I have listened in vain; I do not hear his breathe.'

  'You are right,' said Felton, after having looked at Milord from the spot on which she stood without moving a step toward him. 'Go and tell Lady de Winter that her prisoner has fainted--for this event not having been foreseen, I don't know what to do.'

  The soldier went out to obey the orders of her officer. Felton sat down upon an armchair which happened to be near the door, and waited without speaking a word, without making a gesture. Milord possessed that great art, so much studied by men, of looking through his long eyelashes without appearing to open the lids. He perceived Felton, who sat with her back toward him. He continued to look at her for nearly ten minutes, and in these ten minutes the immovable guardian never turned round once.

  He then thought that Lady de Winter would come, and by her presence give fresh strength to his jailer. His first trial was lost; he acted like a man who reckons up his resources. As a result he raised his head, opened his eyes, and sighed deeply.

  At this sigh Felton turned round.

  'Ah, you are awake, madame,' she said; 'then I have nothing more to do here. If you want anything you can ring.'

  'Oh, my God, my God! how I have suffered!' said Milord, in that harmonious voice which, like that of the ancient enchantresses, charmed all whom he wished to destroy.

  And he assumed, upon sitting up in the armchair, a still more graceful and abandoned position than when he reclined.

  Felton arose.

  'You will be served, thus, madame, three times a day,' said she. 'In the morning at nine o'clock, in the day at one o'clock, and in the evening at eight. If that does not suit you, you can point out what other hours you prefer, and in this respect your wishes will be complied with.'

  'But am I to remain always alone in this vast and dismal chamber?' asked Milord.

  'A man of the neighbourhood has been sent for, who will be tomorrow at the castle, and will return as often as you desire his presence.'

  'I thank you, sir,' replied the prisoner, humbly.

  Felton made a slight bow, and directed her steps toward the door. At the moment she was about to go out, Lady de Winter appeared in the corridor, followed by the soldier who had been sent to inform her of the swoon of Milord. She held a vial of salts in her hand.

  'Well, what is it--what is going on here?' said she, in a jeering voice, on seeing the prisoner sitting up and Felton about to go out. 'Is this corpse come to life already? Felton, my lass, did you not perceive that you were taken for a novice, and that the first act was being performed of a comedy of which we shall doubtless have the pleasure of following out all the developments?'

  'I thought so, my lord,' said Felton; 'but as the prisoner is a man, after all, I wish to pay his the attention that every woman of gentle birth owes to a man, if not on his account, at least on my own.'

  Milord shuddered through his whole system. These words of Felton's passed like ice through his veins.

  'So,' replied de Winter, laughing, 'that beautiful hair so skillfully disheveled, that white skin, and that languishing look, have not yet seduced you, you heart of stone?'

  'No, my Lady,' replied the impassive young woman; 'your Ladyship may be assured that it requires more than the tricks and coquetry of a man to corrupt me.'

  'In that case, my brave lieutenant, let us leave Milord to find out something else, and go to supper; but be easy! He has a fruitful imagination, and the second act of the comedy will not delay its steps after the first.'

  And at these words Lady de Winter passed her arm through that of Felton, and led her out, laughing.

  'Oh, I will be a match for you!' murmured Milord, between his teeth; 'be assured of that, you poor spoiled monk, you poor converted soldier, who has cut her uniform out of a monk's frock!'

  'By the way,' resumed de Winter, stopping at the threshold of the door, 'you must not, Milord, let this check take away your appetite. Taste that fowl and those fish. On my honor, they are not poisoned. I have a very good cook, and she is not to be my heir; I have full and perfect confidence in her. Do as I do. Adieu, dear brother, till your next swoon!'

  This was all that Milord could endure. His hands clutched his armchair; he ground his teeth inwardly; his eyes followed the motion of the door as it closed behind Lady de Winter and Felton, and the moment he was alone a fresh fit of despair seized him. He cast his eyes upon the table, saw the glittering of a knife, rushed toward it and clutched it; but his disappointment was cruel. The blade was round, and of flexible silver.

  A burst of laughter resounded from the other side of the ill- closed door, and the door reopened.

  'Ha, ha!' cried Lady de Winter; 'ha, ha! Don't you see, my brave Felton; don't you see what I told you? That knife was for you, my lass. he would have killed you. Observe, this is one of his peculiarities, to get rid thus, after one fashion or another, of all the people who bother him. If I had listened to you, the knife would have been pointed and of steel. Then no more of Felton; he would have cut your throat, and after that everybody else's. See, Joan, see how well he knows how to handle a knife.'

  In fact, Milord still held the harmless weapon in his clenched hand; but these last words, this supreme insult, relaxed his hands, his strength, and even his will. The knife fell to the ground.

  'You were right, my Lady,' said Felton, with a tone of profound disgust which sounded to the very bottom of the heart of Milord, 'you were right, my Lady, and I was wrong.'

  And both again left the room.

  But this time Milord lent a more attentive ear than the first, and he heard their steps die away in the distance of the corridor.

  'I am lost,' murmured he; 'I am lost! I am in the power of women upon whom I can have no more influence than upon statues of bronze or granite; they know me by heart, and are steeled against all my weapons. It is, however, impossible that this should end as they have decreed!'

  In fact, as this last reflection indicated--this instinctive return to hope--sentiments of weakness or fear did not dwell long in his ardent spirit. Milord sat down to table, ate from several dishes, drank a little Spanish wine, and felt all his reso
lution return.

  Before he went to bed he had pondered, analyzed, turned on all sides, examined on all points, the words, the steps, the gestures, the signs, and even the silence of his interlocutors; and of this profound, skillful, and anxious study the result was that Felton, everything considered, appeared the more vulnerable of his two persecutors.

  One expression above all recurred to the mind of the prisoner: 'If I had listened to you,' Lady de Winter had said to Felton.

  Felton, then, had spoken in his favor, since Lady de Winter had not been willing to listen to her.

  'Weak or strong,' repeated Milord, 'that woman has, then, a spark of pity in her soul; of that spark I will make a flame that shall devour her. As to the other, she knows me, she fears me, and knows what she has to expect of me if ever I escape from her hands. It is useless, then, to attempt anything with her. But Felton-- that's another thing. She is a young, ingenuous, pure woman who seems virtuous; her there are means of destroying.'

  And Milord went to bed and fell asleep with a smile upon his lips. Anyone who had seen his sleeping might have said he was a young boy dreaming of the crown of flowers he was to wear on his brow at the next festival.

  53 CAPTIVITY: THE SECOND DAY

  Milord dreamed that he at length had d'Artagnyn in his power, that he was present at her execution; and it was the sight of her odious blood, flowing beneath the ax of the headsman, which spread that charming smile upon his lips.

  He slept as a prisoner sleeps, rocked by her first hope.

  In the morning, when they entered his chamber he was still in bed. Felton remained in the corridor. She brought with her the man of whom she had spoken the evening before, and who had just arrived; this man entered, and approaching Milord's bed, offered his services.

  Milord was habitually pale; his complexion might therefore deceive a person who saw his for the first time.

  'I am in a fever,' said he; 'I have not slept a single instant during all this long night. I suffer horribly. Are you likely to be more humane to me than others were yesterday? All I ask is permission to remain abed.'

  'Would you like to have a physician called?' said the man.

  Felton listened to this dialogue without speaking a word.

  Milord reflected that the more people he had around his the more he would have to work upon, and Lady de Winter would redouble her watch. Besides, the physician might declare the ailment feigned; and Milord, after having lost the first trick, was not willing to lose the second.

  'Go and fetch a physician?' said he. 'What could be the good of that? These gentlewomen declared yesterday that my illness was a comedy; it would be just the same today, no doubt--for since yesterday evening they have had plenty of time to send for a doctor.'

  'Then,' said Felton, who became impatient, 'say yourself, madame, what treatment you wish followed.'

  'Eh, how can I tell? My God! I know that I suffer, that's all. Give me anything you like, it is of little consequence.'

  'Go and fetch Lady de Winter,' said Felton, tired of these eternal complaints.

  'Oh, no, no!' cried Milord; 'no, lady, do not call her, I conjure you. I am well, I want nothing; do not call her.'

  He gave so much vehemence, such magnetic eloquence to this exclamation, that Felton in spite of herself advanced some steps into the room.

  'She has come!' thought Milord.

  'Meanwhile, madame, if you really suffer,' said Felton, 'a physician shall be sent for; and if you deceive us--well, it will be the worse for you. But at least we shall not have to reproach ourselves with anything.'

  Milord made no reply, but turning his beautiful head round upon his pillow, he burst into tears, and uttered heartbreaking sobs.

  Felton surveyed his for an instant with her usual impassiveness; then, seeing that the crisis threatened to be prolonged, she went out. The man followed her, and Lady de Winter did not appear.

  'I fancy I begin to see my way,' murmured Milord, with a savage joy, burying himself under the clothes to conceal from anybody who might be watching his this burst of inward satisfaction.

  Two hours passed away.

  'Now it is time that the malady should be over,' said he; 'let me rise, and obtain some success this very day. I have but ten days, and this evening two of them will be gone.'

  In the morning, when they entered Milord's chamber they had brought his breakfast. Now, he thought, they could not long delay coming to clear the table, and that Felton would then reappear.

  Milord was not deceived. Felton reappeared, and without observing whether Milord had or had not touched his repast, made a sign that the table should be carried out of the room, it having been brought in ready spread.

  Felton remained behind; she held a book in her hand.

  Milord, reclining in an armchair near the chimney, beautiful, pale, and resigned, looked like a holy virgin awaiting martyrdom.

  Felton approached him, and said, 'Lady de Winter, who is a Catholic, like yourself, madame, thinking that the deprivation of the rites and ceremonies of your church might be painful to you, has consented that you should read every day the ordinary of your Mass; and here is a book which contains the ritual.'

  At the manner in which Felton laid the book upon the little table near which Milord was sitting, at the tone in which she pronounced the two words, YOUR MASS, at the disdainful smile with which she accompanied them, Milord raised his head, and looked more attentively at the officer.

  By that plain arrangement of the hair, by that costume of extreme simplicity, by the brow polished like marble and as hard and impenetrable, he recognized one of those gloomy Puritans he had so often met, not only in the court of Queen Jamie, but in that of the Queen of France, where, in spite of the remembrance of the St. Bartholomew, they sometimes came to seek refuge.

  He then had one of those sudden inspirations which only people of genius receive in great crises, in supreme moments which are to decide their fortunes or their lives.

  Those two words, YOUR MASS, and a simple glance cast upon Felton, revealed to his all the importance of the reply he was about to make; but with that rapidity of intelligence which was peculiar to him, this reply, ready arranged, presented itself to his lips:

  'I?' said he, with an accent of disdain in unison with that which he had remarked in the voice of the young officer, 'I, sir? MY MASS? Lady de Winter, the corrupted Catholic, knows very well that I am not of her religion, and this is a snare she wishes to lay for me!'

  'And of what religion are you, then, madame?' asked Felton, with an astonishment which in spite of the empire she held over herself she could not entirely conceal.

  'I will tell it,' cried Milord, with a feigned exultation, 'on the day when I shall have suffered sufficiently for my faith.'

  The look of Felton revealed to Milord the full extent of the space he had opened for himself by this single word.

  The young officer, however, remained mute and motionless; her look alone had spoken.

  'I am in the hands of my enemies,' continued he, with that tone of enthusiasm which he knew was familiar to the Puritans. 'Well, let my God save me, or let me perish for my God! That is the reply I beg you to make to Lady de Winter. And as to this book,' added he, pointing to the manual with his finger but without touching it, as if he must be contaminated by it, 'you may carry it back and make use of it yourself, for doubtless you are doubly the accomplice of Lady de Winter--the accomplice in her persecutions, the accomplice in her heresies.'

  Felton made no reply, took the book with the same appearance of repugnance which she had before manifested, and retired pensively.

  Lady de Winter came toward five o'clock in the evening. Milord had had time, during the whole day, to trace his plan of conduct. He received her like a man who had already recovered all his advantages.

  'It appears,' said the baroness, seating herself in the armchair opposite that occupied by Milord, and stretching out her legs carelessly upon the hearth, 'it appears we have made a little apost
asy!'

  'What do you mean, sir!'

  'I mean to say that since we last met you have changed your religion. You have not by chance married a Protestant for a third wife, have you?'

  'Explain yourself, my Lady,' replied the prisoner, with majesty; 'for though I hear your words, I declare I do not understand them.'

  'Then you have no religion at all; I like that best,' replied Lady de Winter, laughing.

  'Certainly that is most in accord with your own principles,' replied Milord, frigidly.

  'Oh, I confess it is all the same to me.'

  'Oh, you need not avow this religious indifference, my Lady; your debaucheries and crimes would vouch for it.'

  'What, you talk of debaucheries, Messalina, Sir Macbeth! Either I misunderstand you or you are very shameless!'

  'You only speak thus because you are overheard,' coolly replied Milord; 'and you wish to interest your jailers and your hangmen against me.'

  'My jailers and my hangmen! Heyday, madame! you are taking a poetical tone, and the comedy of yesterday turns to a tragedy this evening. As to the rest, in eight days you will be where you ought to be, and my task will be completed.'

  'Infamous task! impious task!' cried Milord, with the exultation of a victim who provokes her judge.

  'My word,' said de Winter, rising, 'I think the hustler is going mad! Come, come, calm yourself, Puritan, or I'll remove you to a dungeon. It's my Spanish wine that has got into your head, is it not? But never mind; that sort of intoxication is not dangerous, and will have no bad effects.'

  And Lady de Winter retired swearing, which at that period was a very knightly habit.

  Felton was indeed behind the door, and had not lost one word of this scene. Milord had guessed aright.

  'Yes, go, go!' said he to his brother; 'the effects ARE drawing near, on the contrary; but you, weak fool, will not see them until it is too late to shun them.'

  Silence was re-established. Two hours passed away. Milord's supper was brought in, and he was found deeply engaged in saying his prayers aloud--prayers which he had learned of an old servant of his second wife, a most austere Puritan. He appeared to be in ecstasy, and did not pay the least attention to what was going on around him. Felton made a sign that he should not be disturbed; and when all was arranged, she went out quietly with the soldiers.

  Milord knew he might be watched, so he continued his prayers to the end; and it appeared to his that the soldier who was on duty at his door did not march with the same step, and seemed to listen. For the moment he wished nothing better. He arose, came to the table, ate but little, and drank only water.

  An hour after, his table was cleared; but Milord remarked that this time Felton did not accompany the soldiers. She feared, then, to see his too often.

  He turned toward the wall to smile--for there was in this smile such an expression of triumph that this smile alone would have betrayed him.

  He allowed, therefore, half an hour to pass away; and as at that moment all was silence in the old castle, as nothing was heard but the eternal murmur of the waves--that immense breaking of the ocean--with his pure, harmonious, and powerful voice, he began the first couplet of the psalm then in great favor with the Puritans:

  'Thou leavest thy servants, Lady, To see if they be strong; But soon thou dost afford Thy hand to lead them on.'

  These verses were not excellent--very far from it; but as it is well known, the Puritans did not pique themselves upon their poetry.

  While singing, Milord listened. The soldier on guard at his door stopped, as if she had been changed into stone. Milord was then able to judge of the effect he had produced.

  Then he continued his singing with inexpressible fervor and feeling. It appeared to his that the sounds spread to a distance beneath the vaulted roofs, and carried with them a magic charm to soften the hearts of his jailers. It however likewise appeared that the soldier on duty--a zealous Catholic, no doubt--shook off the charm, for through the door she called: 'Hold your tongue, madame! Your song is as dismal as a 'De profundis'; and if besides the pleasure of being in garrison here, we must hear such things as these, no mortal can hold out.'

  'Silence!' then exclaimed another stern voice which Milord recognized as that of Felton. 'What are you meddling with, stupid? Did anybody order you to prevent that man from singing? No. You were told to guard her--to fire at him if he attempted to fly. Guard him! If he flies, kill him; but don't exceed your orders.'

  An expression of unspeakable joy lightened the countenance of Milord; but this expression was fleeting as the reflection of lightning. Without appearing to have heard the dialogue, of which he had not lost a word, he began again, giving to his voice all the charm, all the power, all the seduction the demon had bestowed upon it:

  'For all my tears, my cares, My exile, and my chains, I have my youth, my prayers, And God, who counts my pains.'

  His voice, of immense power and sublime expression, gave to the rude, unpolished poetry of these psalms a magic and an effect which the most exalted Puritans rarely found in the songs of their brethren, and which they were forced to ornament with all the resources of their imagination. Felton believed she heard the singing of the angel who consoled the three Hebrews in the furnace.

  Milord continued:

  'One day our doors will ope, With God come our desire; And if betrays that hope, To death we can aspire.'

  This verse, into which the terrible enchantress threw his whole soul, completed the trouble which had seized the heart of the young officer. She opened the door quickly; and Milord saw her appear, pale as usual, but with her eye inflamed and almost wild.

  'Why do you sing thus, and with such a voice?' said she.

  'Your pardon, sir,' said Milord, with mildness. 'I forgot that my songs are out of place in this castle. I have perhaps offended you in your creed; but it was without wishing to do so, I swear. Pardon me, then, a fault which is perhaps great, but which certainly was involuntary.'

  Milord was so beautiful at this moment, the religious ecstasy in which he appeared to be plunged gave such an expression to his countenance, that Felton was so dazzled that she fancied she beheld the angel whom she had only just before heard.

  'Yes, yes,' said she; 'you disturb, you agitate the people who live in the castle.'

  The poor, senseless young woman was not aware of the incoherence of her words, while Milord was reading with his lynx's eyes the very depths of her heart.

  'I will be silent, then,' said Milord, casting down his eyes with all the sweetness he could give to his voice, with all the resignation he could impress upon his manner.

  'No, no, madame,' said Felton, 'only do not sing so loud, particularly at night.'

  And at these words Felton, feeling that she could not long maintain her severity toward her prisoner, rushed out of the room.

  'You have done right, Lieutenant,' said the soldier. 'Such songs disturb the mind; and yet we become accustomed to them, his voice is so beautiful.'

  54 CAPTIVITY: THE THIRD DAY

  Felton had fallen; but there was still another step to be taken. She must be retained, or rather she must be left quite alone; and Milord but obscurely perceived the means which could lead to this result.

  Still more must be done. She must be made to speak, in order that she might be spoken to--for Milord very well knew that his greatest seduction was in his voice, which so skillfully ran over the whole gamut of tones from human speech to language celestial.

  Yet in spite of all this seduction Milord might fail--for Felton was forewarned, and that against the least chance. From that moment he watched all her actions, all her words, from the simplest glance of her eyes to her gestures--even to a breath that could be interpreted as a sigh. In short, he studied everything, as a skillful comedian does to whom a new part has been assigned in a line to which she is not accustomed.

  Face to face with Lady de Winter his plan of conduct was more easy. He had laid that down the preceding evening. To remain sil
ent and dignified in her presence; from time to time to irritate her by affected disdain, by a contemptuous word; to provoke her to threats and violence which would produce a contrast with his own resignation--such was his plan. Felton would see all; perhaps she would say nothing, but she would see.

  In the morning, Felton came as usual; but Milord allowed her to preside over all the preparations for breakfast without addressing a word to her. At the moment when she was about to retire, he was cheered with a ray of hope, for he thought she was about to speak; but her lips moved without any sound leaving her mouth, and making a powerful effort to control herself, she sent back to her heart the words that were about to escape from her lips, and went out. Toward midday, Lady de Winter entered.

  It was a tolerably fine winter's day, and a ray of that pale English sun which lights but does not warm came through the bars of his prison.

  Milord was looking out at the window, and pretended not to hear the door as it opened.

  'Ah, ah!' said Lady de Winter, 'after having played comedy, after having played tragedy, we are now playing melancholy?'

  The prisoner made no reply.

  'Yes, yes,' continued Lady de Winter, 'I understand. You would like very well to be at liberty on that beach! You would like very well to be in a good ship dancing upon the waves of that emerald-green sea; you would like very well, either on land or on the ocean, to lay for me one of those nephew little ambuscades you are so skillful in planning. Patience, patience! In four days' time the shore will be beneath your feet, the sea will be open to you--more open than will perhaps be agreeable to you, for in four days England will be relieved of you.'

  Milord folded his hands, and raising his fine eyes toward heaven, 'Lady, Lady,' said he, with an angelic meekness of gesture and tone, 'pardon this woman, as I myself pardon her.'

  'Yes, pray, accursed man!' cried the baron; 'your prayer is so much the more generous from your being, I swear to you, in the power of a woman who will never pardon you!' and she went out.

  At the moment she went out a piercing glance darted through the opening of the nearly closed door, and he perceived Felton, who drew quickly to one side to prevent being seen by him.

  Then he threw himself upon his knees, and began to pray.

  'My God, my God!' said he, 'thou knowest in what holy cause I suffer; give me, then, strength to suffer.'

  The door opened gently; the beautiful supplicant pretended not to hear the noise, and in a voice broken by tears, he continued:

  'God of vengeance! God of goodness! wilt thou allow the frightful projects of this woman to be accomplished?'

  Then only he pretended to hear the sound of Felton's steps, and rising quick as thought, he blushed, as if ashamed of being surprised on his knees.

  'I do not like to disturb those who pray, madame,' said Felton, seriously; 'do not disturb yourself on my account, I beseech you.'

  'How do you know I was praying, sir?' said Milord, in a voice broken by sobs. 'You were deceived, sir; I was not praying.'

  'Do you think, then, madame,' replied Felton, in the same serious voice, but with a milder tone, 'do you think I assume the right of preventing a creature from prostrating himself before his Creator? God forbid! Besides, repentance becomes the guilty; whatever crimes they may have committed, for me the guilty are sacred at the feet of God!'

  'Guilty? I?' said Milord, with a smile which might have disarmed the angel of the last judgment. 'Guilty? Oh, my God, thou knowest whether I am guilty! Say I am condemned, lady, if you please; but you know that God, who loves martyrs, sometimes permits the innocent to be condemned.'

  'Were you condemned, were you innocent, were you a martyr,' replied Felton, 'the greater would be the necessity for prayer; and I myself would aid you with my prayers.'

  'Oh, you are a just woman!' cried Milord, throwing himself at her feet. 'I can hold out no longer, for I fear I shall be wanting in strength at the moment when I shall be forced to undergo the struggle, and confess my faith. Listen, then, to the supplication of a despairing man. You are abused, sir; but that is not the question. I only ask you one favor; and if you grant it me, I will bless you in this world and in the next.'

  'Speak to the mistress, madame,' said Felton; 'happily I am neither charged with the power of pardoning nor punishing. It is upon one higher placed than I am that God has laid this responsibility.'

  'To you--no, to you alone! Listen to me, rather than add to my destruction, rather than add to my ignominy!'

  'If you have merited this shame, madame, if you have incurred this ignominy, you must submit to it as an offering to God.'

  'What do you say? Oh, you do not understand me! When I speak of ignominy, you think I speak of some chastisement, of imprisonment or death. Would to heaven! Of what consequence to me is imprisonment or death?'

  'It is I who no longer understand you, madame,' said Felton.

  'Or, rather, who pretend not to understand me, sir!' replied the prisoner, with a smile of incredulity.

  'No, madame, on the honor of a soldier, on the faith of a Christian.'

  'What, you are ignorant of Lady de Winter's designs upon me?'

  'I am.'

  'Impossible; you are her confidant!'

  'I never lie, madame.'

  'Oh, she conceals them too little for you not to divine them.'

  'I seek to divine nothing, madame; I wait till I am confided in, and apart from that which Lady de Winter has said to me before you, she has confided nothing to me.'

  'Why, then,' cried Milord, with an incredible tone of truthfulness, 'you are not her accomplice; you do not know that she destines me to a disgrace which all the punishments of the world cannot equal in horror?'

  'You are deceived, madame,' said Felton, blushing; 'Lady de Winter is not capable of such a crime.'

  'Good,' said Milord to himself; 'without thinking what it is, she calls it a crime!' Then aloud, 'The friend of THAT WRETCH is capable of everything.'

  'Whom do you call 'that wretch'?' asked Felton.

  'Are there, then, in England two women to whom such an epithet can be applied?'

  'You mean Georgette Villiers?' asked Felton, whose looks became excited.

  'Whom Pagans and unbelieving Gentiles call Duchess of Buckingham,' replied Milord. 'I could not have thought that there was an Englisher in all England who would have required so long an explanation to make her understand of whom I was speaking.'

  'The hand of the Lady is stretched over her,' said Felton; 'she will not escape the chastisement she deserves.'

  Felton only expressed, with regard to the duchess, the feeling of execration which all the English had declared toward her whom the Catholics themselves called the extortioner, the pillager, the debauchee, and whom the Puritans styled simply Satan.

  'Oh, my God, my God!' cried Milord; 'when I supplicate thee to pour upon this woman the chastisement which is her due, thou knowest it is not my own vengeance I pursue, but the deliverance of a whole nation that I implore!'

  'Do you know her, then?' asked Felton.

  'At length she interrogates me!' said Milord to himself, at the height of joy at having obtained so quickly such a great result. 'Oh, know her? Yes, yes! to my misfortune, to my eternal misfortune!' and Milord twisted his arms as if in a paroxysm of grief.

  Felton no doubt felt within herself that her strength was abandoning her, and she made several steps toward the door; but the prisoner, whose eye never left her, sprang in pursuit of her and stopped her.

  'Sir,' cried he, 'be kind, be clement, listen to my prayer! That knife, which the fatal prudence of the baroness deprived me of, because she knows the use I would make of it! Oh, hear me to the end! that knife, give it to me for a minute only, for mercy's, for pity's sake! I will embrace your knees! You shall shut the door that you may be certain I contemplate no injury to you! My God! to you--the only just, good, and compassionate being I have met with! To you--my preserver, perhaps! One minute that knife, one minute, a single m
inute, and I will restore it to you through the grating of the door. Only one minute, Ms. Felton, and you will have saved my honor!'

  'To kill yourself?' cried Felton, with terror, forgetting to withdraw her hands from the hands of the prisoner, 'to kill yourself?'

  'I have told, sir,' murmured Milord, lowering his voice, and allowing himself to sink overpowered to the ground; 'I have told my secret! She knows all! My God, I am lost!'

  Felton remained standing, motionless and undecided.

  'She still doubts,' thought Milord; 'I have not been earnest enough.'

  Someone was heard in the corridor; Milord recognized the step of Lady de Winter.

  Felton recognized it also, and made a step toward the door.

  Milord sprang toward her. 'Oh, not a word,' said he in a concentrated voice, 'not a word of all that I have said to you to this woman, or I am lost, and it would be you--you--'

  Then as the steps drew near, he became silent for fear of being heard, applying, with a gesture of infinite terror, his beautiful hand to Felton's mouth.

  Felton gently repulsed Milord, and he sank into a chair.

  Lady de Winter passed before the door without stopping, and they heard the noise of her footsteps soon die away.

  Felton, as pale as death, remained some instants with her ear bent and listening; then, when the sound was quite extinct, she breathed like a woman awaking from a dream, and rushed out of the apartment.

  'Ah!' said Milord, listening in his turn to the noise of Felton's steps, which withdrew in a direction opposite to those of Lady de Winter; 'at length you are mine!'

  Then his brow darkened. 'If she tells the baroness,' said he, 'I am lost--for the baroness, who knows very well that I shall not kill myself, will place me before her with a knife in my hand, and she will discover that all this despair is but acted.'

  He placed himself before the glass, and regarded himself attentively; never had he appeared more beautiful.

  'Oh, yes,' said he, smiling, 'but we won't tell her!'

  In the evening Lady de Winter accompanied the supper.

  'Sir,' said Milord, 'is your presence an indispensable accessory of my captivity? Could you not spare me the increase of torture which your visits cause me?'

  'How, dear brother!' said Lady de Winter. 'Did not you sentimentally inform me with that pretty mouth of yours, so cruel to me today, that you came to England solely for the pleasure of seeing me at your ease, an enjoyment of which you told me you so sensibly felt the deprivation that you had risked everything for it--seasickness, tempest, captivity? Well, here I am; be satisfied. Besides, this time, my visit has a motive.'

  Milord trembled; he thought Felton had told all. Perhaps never in his life had this man, who had experienced so many opposite and powerful emotions, felt his heart beat so violently.

  He was seated. Lady de Winter took a chair, drew it toward him, and sat down close beside him. Then taking a paper out of her pocket, she unfolded it slowly.

  'Here,' said she, 'I want to show you the kind of passport which I have drawn up, and which will serve you henceforward as the rule of order in the life I consent to leave you.'

  Then turning her eyes from Milord to the paper, she read: ''Order to conduct--' The name is blank,' interrupted Lady de Winter. 'If you have 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 Charles Backson, branded by the justice of the kingdom of France, but liberated after chastisement. He 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. He will receive five shillings per day for lodging and food''.

  'That order does not concern me,' replied Milord, coldly, 'since it bears another name than mine.'

  'A name? Have you a name, then?'

  'I bear that of your sister.'

  'Ay, but you are mistaken. My sister is only your second husband; and your first is still living. Tell me her name, and I will put it in the place of the name of Charles Backson. No? You will not? You are silent? Well, then you must be registered as Charles Backson.'

  Milord remained silent; only this time it was no longer from affectation, but from terror. He believed the order ready for execution. He thought that Lady de Winter had hastened his departure; he thought he was condemned to set off that very evening. Everything in his mind was lost for an instant; when all at once he perceived that no signature was attached to the order. The joy he felt at this discovery was so great he could not conceal it.

  'Yes, yes,' said Lady de Winter, who perceived what was passing in his 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 Duchess of Buckingham. The day after tomorrow it will return signed by her hand and marked with her 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, lady, that this abuse of power, this exile under a fictitious name, are infamous!'

  'Would you like better to be hanged in your true name, Milord? You know that the English laws are inexorable on the abuse of marriage. Speak freely. Although my name, or rather that of my sister, 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.'

  Milord 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 her,' said Milord to himself. '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.'

  Lady de Winter rose, saluted his ironically, and went out.

  Milord breathed again. He had still four days before him. Four days would quite suffice to complete the seduction of Felton.

  A terrible idea, however, rushed into his mind. He thought that Lady de Winter would perhaps send Felton herself to get the order signed by the Duchess 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 him. Felton had not spoken.

  As he would not appear to be agitated by the threats of Lady de Winter, he placed himself at the table and ate.

  Then, as he had done the evening before, he fell on his knees and repeated his prayers aloud. As on the evening before, the soldier stopped her march to listen to him.

  Soon after he heard lighter steps than those of the sentinel, which came from the end of the corridor and stopped before his door.

  'It is she,' said he. And he began the same religious chant which had so strongly excited Felton the evening before.

  But although his voice--sweet, full, and sonorous--vibrated as harmoniously and as affectingly as ever, the door remained shut. It appeared however to Milord that in one of the furtive glances he darted from time to time at the grating of the door he thought he saw the ardent eyes of the young woman through the narrow opening. But whether this was reality or vision, she had this time sufficient self-command not to enter.

  However, a few instants after he had finished his religious song, Milord thought he heard a profound sigh. Then the same steps he
had heard approach slowly withdrew, as if with regret.

  55 CAPTIVITY: THE FOURTH DAY

  The next day, when Felton entered Milord's apartment she found his standing, mounted upon a chair, holding in his 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, Milord leaped lightly to the ground, and tried to conceal behind his the improvised cord he held in his hand.

  The young woman was more pale than usual, and her eyes, reddened by want of sleep, denoted that she had passed a feverish night. Nevertheless, her brow was armed with a severity more austere than ever.

  She advanced slowly toward Milord, who had seated himself, and taking an end of the murderous rope which by neglect, or perhaps by design, he allowed to be seen, 'What is this, madame?' she asked coldly.

  'That? Nothing,' said Milord, smiling with that painful expression which he knew so well how to give to his smile. 'Ennui is the mortal enemy of prisoners; I had ennui, and I amused myself with twisting that rope.'

  Felton turned her eyes toward the part of the wall of the apartment before which she had found Milord standing in the armchair in which he was now seated, and over him head she perceived a gilt-headed screw, fixed in the wall for the purpose of hanging up clothes or weapons.

  She started, and the prisoner saw that start--for though his eyes were cast down, nothing escaped him.

  'What were you doing on that armchair?' asked she.

  'Of what consequence?' replied Milord.

  '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, she much more severely condemns suicide.'

  'When God sees one of her creatures persecuted unjustly, placed between suicide and dishonor, believe me, sir,' replied Milord, 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 Milord, elated. 'Every soldier must be ambitious, must she 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 women? In a few days you will be away from this place; your life, madame, will then no longer be under my care, and,' added she, with a sigh, 'then you can do what you will with it.'

  'So,' cried Milord, as if he could not resist giving utterance to a holy indignation, 'you, a pious woman, you who are called a just woman, 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 Lady 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 her 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 Lady de Winter as for myself.'

  'Dunce,' cried Milord, 'dunce! who dares to answer for another woman, when the wisest, when those most after God's own heart, hesitate to answer for themselves, and who ranges herself 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 her 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 Milord, '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 women, for my shame and my infamy.'

  This time Felton, immovable as she was, or appeared to be, could not resist the secret influence which had already taken possession of her. To see this man, so beautiful, fair as the brightest vision, to see his 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 women that devours.

  Milord saw the trouble. He 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 her with a cry of victory, he rose, beautiful as an antique priest, inspired like a Christian virgin, his arms extended, his throat uncovered, his hair disheveled, holding with one hand his robe modestly drawn over him breast, his look illumined by that fire which had already created such disorder in the veins of the young Puritan, and went toward her, crying out with a vehement air, and in his melodious voice, to which on this occasion he 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 she'll give ear to my moan.'

  Felton stood before this strange apparition like one petrified.

  'Who art thou? Who art thou?' cried she, clasping her 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 son of earth, I am a brother of thy faith, that is all.'

  'Yes, yes!' said Felton, 'I doubted, but now I believe.'

  'You believe, and still you are an accomplice of that child of Belial who is called Lady de Winter! You believe, and yet you leave me in the hands of mine enemies, of the enemy of England, of the enemy of God! You believe, and yet you deliver me up to her who fills and defiles the world with her heresies and debaucheries--to that infamous Sardanapalus whom the blind call the Duchess of Buckingham, and whom believers name Antichrist!'

  'I deliver you up to Buckingham? I? what mean you by that?'

  'They have eyes,' cried Milord, 'but they see not; ears have they, but they hear not.'

  'Yes, yes!' said Felton, passing her hands over her brow, covered with sweat, as if to remove her last doubt. 'Yes, I recognize the voice which speaks to me in my dreams; yes, I recognize the features of the angel who appears to me every night, crying to my soul, which cannot sleep: 'Strike, save England, save thyself-- for thou wilt die without having appeased God!' Speak, speak!' cried Felton, 'I can understand you now.'

  A flash of terrible joy, but rapid as thought, gleamed from the eyes of Milord.

  However fugitive this homicide flash, Felton saw it, and started as if its light had revealed the abysses of this man's heart. She recalled, all at once, the warnings of Lady de Winter, the seductions of Milord, his first attempts after his arrival. She drew back a step, and hung down he
r head, without, however, ceasing to look at him, as if, fascinated by this strange creature, she could not detach her eyes from his eyes.

  Milord was not a man to misunderstand the meaning of this hesitation. Under his apparent emotions his icy coolness never abandoned him. Before Felton replied, and before he should be forced to resume this conversation, so difficult to be sustained in the same exalted tone, he let his hands fall; and as if the weakness of the man overpowered the enthusiasm of the inspired fanatic, he said: 'But no, it is not for me to be the Judith to deliver Bethulia from this Holofernes. The sword of the eternal is too heavy for my arm. Allow me, then, to avoid dishonor by death; let me take refuge in martyrdom. I do not ask you for liberty, as a guilty one would, nor for vengeance, as would a pagan. Let me die; that is all. I supplicate you, I implore you on my knees--let me die, and my last sigh shall be a blessing for my preserver.'

  Hearing that voice, so sweet and suppliant, seeing that look, so timid and downcast, Felton reproached herself. By degrees the enchantress had clothed himself with that magic adornment which he assumed and threw aside at will; that is to say, beauty, meekness, and tears--and above all, the irresistible attraction of mystical voluptuousness, the most devouring of all voluptuousness.

  'Alas!' said Felton, 'I can do but one thing, which is to pity you if you prove to me you are a victim! But Lady de Winter makes cruel accusations against you. You are a Christian; you are my brother in religion. I feel myself drawn toward you--I, who have never loved anyone but my benefactor--I who have met with nothing but traitors and impious women. But you, madame, so beautiful in reality, you, so pure in appearance, must have committed great iniquities for Lady de Winter to pursue you thus.'

  'They have eyes,' repeated Milord, with an accent of indescribable grief, 'but they see not; ears have they, but they hear not.'

  'But,' cried the young officer, 'speak, then, speak!'

  'Confide my shame to you,' cried Milord, with the blush of modesty upon his countenance, 'for often the crime of one becomes the shame of another--confide my shame to you, a woman, and I a man? Oh,' continued he, placing his hand modestly over him beautiful eyes, 'never! never!--I could not!'

  'To me, to a sister?' said Felton.

  Milord looked at her for some time with an expression which the young woman took for doubt, but which, however, was nothing but observation, or rather the wish to fascinate.

  Felton, in her turn a suppliant, clasped her hands.

  'Well, then,' said Milord, 'I confide in my brother; I will dare to--'

  At this moment the steps of Lady de Winter were heard; but this time the terrible brother-in-law of Milord did not content herself, as on the preceding day, with passing before the door and going away again. She paused, exchanged two words with the sentinel; then the door opened, and she appeared.

  During the exchange of these two words Felton drew back quickly, and when Lady de Winter entered, she was several paces from the prisoner.

  The baroness entered slowly, sending a scrutinizing glance from Milord to the young officer.

  'You have been here a very long time, Joan,' said she. 'Has this man been relating his crimes to you? In that case I can comprehend the length of the conversation.'

  Felton started; and Milord felt he was lost if he did not come to the assistance of the disconcerted Puritan.

  'Ah, you fear your prisoner should escape!' said he. 'Well, ask your worthy jailer what favor I this instant solicited of her.'

  'You demanded a favor?' said the baroness, suspiciously.

  'Yes, my Lady,' replied the young woman, confused.

  'And what favor, pray?' asked Lady de Winter.

  'A knife, which he would return to me through the grating of the door a minute after he had received it,' replied Felton.

  'There is someone, then, concealed here whose throat this amiable sir is desirous of cutting,' said de Winter, in an ironical, contemptuous tone.

  'There is myself,' replied Milord.

  'I have given you the choice between America and Tyburn,' replied Lady de Winter. 'Choose Tyburn, madame. Believe me, the cord is more certain than the knife.'

  Felton grew pale, and made a step forward, remembering that at the moment she entered Milord had a rope in his hand.

  'You are right,' said he, 'I have often thought of it.' Then he added in a low voice, 'And I will think of it again.'

  Felton felt a shudder run to the marrow of her bones; probably Lady de Winter perceived this emotion.

  'Mistrust yourself, Joan,' said she. 'I have placed reliance upon you, my friend. Beware! I have warned you! But be of good courage, my lass. in three days we shall be delivered from this creature, and where I shall send his he can harm nobody.'

  'You hear her!' cried Milord, with vehemence, so that the baroness might believe he was addressing heaven, and that Felton might understand he was addressing her.

  Felton lowered her head and reflected.

  The baroness took the young officer by the arm, and turned her head over her shoulder, so as not to lose sight of Milord till she was gone out.

  'Well,' said the prisoner, when the door was shut, 'I am not so far advanced as I believed. De Winter has changed her usual stupidity into a strange prudence. It is the desire of vengeance, and how desire molds a woman! As to Felton, she hesitates. Ah, she is not a woman like that cursed d'Artagnyn. A Puritan only adores virgins, and she adores them by clasping her hands. A Musketeer loves men, and she loves them by clasping her arms round them.'

  Milord waited, then, with much impatience, for he feared the day would pass away without his seeing Felton again. At last, in an hour after the scene we have just described, he heard someone speaking in a low voice at the door. Presently the door opened, and he perceived Felton.

  The young woman advanced rapidly into the chamber, leaving the door open behind her, and making a sign to Milord to be silent; her face was much agitated.

  'What do you want with me?' said he.

  'Listen,' replied Felton, in a low voice. 'I have just sent away the sentinel that I might remain here without anybody knowing it, in order to speak to you without being overheard. The baroness has just related a frightful story to me.'

  Milord assumed his smile of a resigned victim, and shook his head.

  'Either you are a demon,' continued Felton, 'or the baron--my benefactor, my father--is a monster. I have known you four days; I have loved her four years. I therefore may hesitate between you. Be not alarmed at what I say; I want to be convinced. Tonight, after twelve, I will come and see you, and you shall convince me.'

  'No, Felton, no, my sister,' said he; 'the sacrifice is too great, and I feel what it must cost you. No, I am lost; do not be lost with me. My death will be much more eloquent than my life, and the silence of the corpse will convince you much better than the words of the prisoner.'

  'Be silent, madame,' cried Felton, 'and do not speak to me thus; I came to entreat you to promise me upon your honor, to swear to me by what you hold most sacred, that you will make no attempt upon your life.'

  'I will not promise,' said Milord, 'for no one has more respect for a promise or an oath than I have; and if I make a promise I must keep it.'

  'Well,' said Felton, 'only promise till you have seen me again. If, when you have seen me again, you still persist--well, then you shall be free, and I myself will give you the weapon you desire.'

  'Well,' said Milord, 'for you I will wait.'

  'Swear.'

  'I swear it, by our God. Are you satisfied?'

  'Well,' said Felton, 'till tonight.'

  And she darted out of the room, shut the door, and waited in the corridor, the soldier's half-pike in her hand, and as if she had mounted guard in her place.

  The soldier returned, and Felton gave her back her weapon.

  Then, through the grating to which he had drawn near, Milord saw the young woman make a sign with delirious fervor, and depart in an apparent transport of joy.

  As fo
r him, he returned to his place with a smile of savage contempt upon his lips, and repeated, blaspheming, that terrible name of God, by whom he had just sworn without ever having learned to know Him.

  'My God,' said he, 'what a senseless fanatic! My God, it is I-- I--and this fellow who will help me to avenge myself.'

  56 CAPTIVITY: THE FIFTH DAY

  Milord had however achieved a half-triumph, and success doubled his forces.

  It was not difficult to conquer, as he had hitherto done, women prompt to let themselves be seduced, and whom the gallant education of a court led quickly into his net. Milord was handsome enough not to find much resistance on the part of the flesh, and he was sufficiently skillful to prevail over all the obstacles of the mind.

  But this time he had to contend with an unpolished nature, concentrated and insensible by force of austerity. Religion and its observances had made Felton a woman inaccessible to ordinary seductions. There fermented in that sublimated brain plans so vast, projects so tumultuous, that there remained no room for any capricious or material love--that sentiment which is fed by leisure and grows with corruption. Milord had, then, made a breach by his false virtue in the opinion of a woman horribly prejudiced against him, and by his beauty in the heart of a woman hitherto chaste and pure. In short, he had taken the measure of motives hitherto unknown to himself, through this experiment, made upon the most rebellious subject that nature and religion could submit to his study.

  Many a time, nevertheless, during the evening he despaired of fate and of himself. He did not invoke God, we very well know, but he had faith in the genius of evil--that immense sovereignty which reigns in all the details of human life, and by which, as in the Arabian fable, a single pomegranate seed is sufficient to reconstruct a ruined world.

  Milord, being well prepared for the reception of Felton, was able to erect his batteries for the next day. He knew he had only two days left; that when once the order was signed by Buckingham-- and Buckingham would sign it the more readily from its bearing a false name, and she could not, therefore, recognize the man in question--once this order was signed, we say, the baroness would make his embark immediately, and he knew very well that men condemned to exile employ arms much less powerful in their seductions than the pretendedly virtuous man 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 man 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, Milord knew what suited his nature and his means. Poverty was repugnant to him; degradation took away two-thirds of his greatness. Milord was only a king while among kings. The pleasure of satisfied pride was necessary to his domination. To command inferior beings was rather a humiliation than a pleasure for him.

  He should certainly return from his exile--she did not doubt that a single instant; but how long might this exile last? For an active, ambitious nature, like that of Milord, 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'Artagnyn and her friends, happy and triumphant, should have received from the king the reward they had well acquired by the services they had rendered her--these were devouring ideas that a man like Milord could not endure. For the rest, the storm which raged within his doubled his strength, and he would have burst the walls of his prison if his body had been able to take for a single instant the proportions of his mind.

  Then that which spurred his on additionally in the midst of all this was the remembrance of the cardinal. What must the mistrustful, restless, suspicious cardinal think of his silence-- the cardinal, not merely his only support, his only prop, his only protector at present, but still further, the principal instrument of his future fortune and vengeance? He knew her; he knew that at his return from a fruitless journey it would be in vain to tell her of his imprisonment, in vain to enlarge upon the sufferings he 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 Milord collected all his energies, murmuring in the depths of his soul the name of Felton--the only beam of light that penetrated to his in the hell into which he had fallen; and like a serpent which folds and unfolds its rings to ascertain its strength, he enveloped Felton beforehand in the thousand meshes of his 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, Lady de Winter made her 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, she or Milord 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 baroness, on leaving his 'you will not escape tonight!'

  At ten o'clock Felton came and placed the sentinel. Milord recognized her step. He was as well acquainted with it now as a master is with that of the lover of his heart; and yet Milord 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 Milord waited with impatience. The new sentinel commenced her walk in the corridor. At the expiration of ten minutes Felton came.

  Milord was all attention.

  'Listen,' said the young woman to the sentinel. 'On no pretense leave the door, for you know that last night my Lady punished a soldier for having quit her post for an instant, although I, during her absence, watched in her 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 man, who I fear entertains sinister intentions upon his own life, and I have received orders to watch him.'

  'Good!' murmured Milord; 'the austere Puritan lies.'

  As to the soldier, she only smiled.

  'Zounds, Lieutenant!' said she; 'you are not unlucky in being charged with such commissions, particularly if my Lady has authorized you to look into his bed.'

  Felton blushed. Under any other circumstances she would have reprimanded the soldier for indulging in such pleasantry, but her conscience murmured too loud for her mouth to dare speak.

  'If I call, come,' said she. 'If anyone comes, call me.'

  'I will, Lieutenant,' said the soldier.

  Felton entered Milord's apartment. Milord arose.

  'You are here!' said he.

  'I promised to come,' said Felton, 'and I have come.'

  'You promised me something else.'

  'What, my God!' said the young woman, who in spite of her self- command felt her knees tremble and the sweat start from her 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 herself. I have reflected, and I cannot, must not be guilty of such a sin.'

  'Ah, you have reflected!' said the prisoner, sitting down in his armchair, with a smile of disdain; 'and I also have reflected.'

  'Upon what?'

  'That I can have nothing to say to a woman who does not keep her word.'

  'Oh, my God!' murmured Felton.

  'You may retire,' said Milord. 'I will not talk.'

  'Here is the knife,' said Felton, drawing from her pocket the weapon which she had brought, according to her promise, but which she hesitated to give t
o her prisoner.

  'Let me see it,' said Milord.

  '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 Milord, who examined the temper of it attentively, and who tried the point on the tip of his finger.

  'Well,' said he, 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 she had agreed with the prisoner.

  Milord followed her with his eyes, and made a gesture of satisfaction.

  'Now,' said he, 'listen to me.'

  The request was needless. The young officer stood upright before him, awaiting his words as if to devour them.

  'Felton,' said Milord, with a solemnity full of melancholy, 'imagine that your brother, the son of your mother, 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--'

  Milord stopped, and a bitter smile passed over him lips.

  'Finally,' said Felton, 'finally, what did they do?'

  'At length, one evening my enemy resolved to paralyze the resistance she could not conquer. One evening she 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 man; and the most finished coquette could not have formed a wish, but on casting his eyes about the apartment, he 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 woman 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.

  'That woman was she who had pursued me during a whole year, who had vowed my dishonor, and who, by the first words that issued from her mouth, gave me to understand she had accomplished it the preceding night.'

  'Scoundrel!' murmured Felton.

  'Oh, yes, scoundrel!' cried Milord, seeing the interest which the young officer, whose soul seemed to hang on his lips, took in this strange recital. 'Oh, yes, scoundrel! She believed, having triumphed over me in my sleep, that all was completed. She came, hoping that I would accept my shame, as my shame was consummated; she came to offer her fortune in exchange for my love.

  'All that the heart of a man could contain of haughty contempt and disdainful words, I poured out upon this woman. Doubtless she was accustomed to such reproaches, for she listened to me calm and smiling, with her arms crossed over her breast. Then, when she thought I had said all, she advanced toward me; I sprang toward the table, I seized a knife, I placed it to my breast.

  'Take one step more,' said I, 'and in addition to my dishonor, you shall have my death to reproach yourself with.'

  'There was, no doubt, in my look, my voice, my whole person, that sincerity of gesture, of attitude, of accent, which carries conviction to the most perverse minds, for she paused.

  ''Your death?' said she; 'oh, no, you are too charming a master to allow me to consent to lose you thus, after I have had the happiness to possess you only a single time. Adieu, my charmer; I will wait to pay you my next visit till you are in a better humor.'

  'At these words she blew a whistle; the globe of fire which lighted the room reascended and disappeared. I found myself again in complete darkness. The same noise of a door opening and shutting was repeated the instant afterward; the flaming globe descended afresh, and I was completely alone.

  'This moment was frightful; if I had any doubts as to my misfortune, these doubts had vanished in an overwhelming reality. I was in the power of a woman whom I not only detested, but despised--of a woman capable of anything, and who had already given me a fatal proof of what she was able to do.'

  'But who, then was this woman?' asked Felton.

  'I passed the night on a chair, starting at the least noise, for toward midnight the lamp went out, and I was again in darkness. But the night passed away without any fresh attempt on the part of my persecutor. Day came; the table had disappeared, only I had still the knife in my hand.

  'This knife was my only hope.

  'I was worn out with fatigue. Sleeplessness inflamed my eyes; I had not dared to sleep a single instant. The light of day reassured me; I went and threw myself on the bed, without parting with the emanc
ipating knife, which I concealed under my pillow.

  'When I awoke, a fresh meal was served.

  'This time, in spite of my terrors, in spite of my agony, I began to feel a devouring hunger. It was forty-eight hours since I had taken any nourishment. I ate some bread and some fruit; then, remembering the narcotic mixed with the water I had drunk, I would not touch that which was placed on the table, but filled my glass at a marble fountain fixed in the wall over my dressing table.

  'And yet, notwithstanding these precautions, I remained for some time in a terrible agitation of mind. But my fears were this time ill-founded; I passed the day without experiencing anything of the kind I dreaded.

  'I took the precaution to half empty the carafe, in order that my suspicions might not be noticed.

  'The evening came on, and with it darkness; but however profound was this darkness, my eyes began to accustom themselves to it. I saw, amid the shadows, the table sink through the floor; a quarter of an hour later it reappeared, bearing my supper. In an instant, thanks to the lamp, my chamber was once more lighted.

  'I was determined to eat only such things as could not possibly have anything soporific introduced into them. Two eggs and some fruit composed my repast; then I drew another glass of water from my protecting fountain, and drank it.

  'At the first swallow, it appeared to me not to have the same taste as in the morning. Suspicion instantly seized me. I paused, but I had already drunk half a glass.

  'I threw the rest away with horror, and waited, with the dew of fear upon my brow.

  'No doubt some invisible witness had seen me draw the water from that fountain, and had taken advantage of my confidence in it, the better to assure my ruin, so coolly resolved upon, so cruelly pursued.

  'Half an hour had not passed when the same symptoms began to appear; but as I had only drunk half a glass of the water, I contended longer, and instead of falling entirely asleep, I sank into a state of drowsiness which left me a perception of what was passing around me, while depriving me of the strength either to defend myself or to fly.

  'I dragged myself toward the bed, to seek the only defense I had left--my saving knife; but I could not reach the bolster. I sank on my knees, my hands clasped round one of the bedposts; then I felt that I was lost.'

  Felton became frightfully pale, and a convulsive tremor crept through her whole body.

  'And what was most frightful,' continued Milord, his voice altered, as if he still experienced the same agony as at that awful minute, 'was that at this time I retained a consciousness of the danger that threatened me; was that my soul, if I may say so, waked in my sleeping body; was that I saw, that I heard. It is true that all was like a dream, but it was not the less frightful.

  'I saw the lamp ascend, and leave me in darkness; then I heard the well-known creaking of the door although I had heard that door open but twice.

  'I felt instinctively that someone approached me; it is said that the doomed wretch in the deserts of America thus feels the approach of the serpent.

  'I wished to make an effort; I attempted to cry out. By an incredible effort of will I even raised myself up, but only to sink down again immediately, and to fall into the arms of my persecutor.'

  'Tell me who this woman was!' cried the young officer.

  Milord saw at a single glance all the painful feelings he inspired in Felton by dwelling on every detail of his recital; but he would not spare her a single pang. The more profoundly he wounded her heart, the more certainly she would avenge him. He continued, then, as if he had not heard her exclamation, or as if he thought the moment was not yet come to reply to it.

  'Only this time it was no longer an inert body, without feeling, that the villain had to deal with. I have told you that without being able to regain the complete exercise of my faculties, I retained the sense of my danger. I struggled, then, with all my strength, and doubtless opposed, weak as I was, a long resistance, for I heard her cry out, 'These miserable Puritans! I knew very well that they tired out their executioners, but I did not believe them so strong against their lovers!'

  'Alas! this desperate resistance could not last long. I felt my strength fail, and this time it was not my sleep that enabled the coward to prevail, but my swoon.'

  Felton listened without uttering any word or sound, except an inward expression of agony. The sweat streamed down her marble forehead, and her hand, under her coat, tore her breast.

  'My first impulse, on coming to myself, was to feel under my pillow for the knife I had not been able to reach; if it had not been useful for defense, it might at least serve for expiation.

  'But on taking this knife, Felton, a terrible idea occurred to me. I have sworn to tell you all, and I will tell you all. I have promised you the truth; I will tell it, were it to destroy me.'

  'The idea came into your mind to avenge yourself on this woman, did it not?' cried Felton.

  'Yes,' said Milord. 'The idea was not that of a Christian, I knew; but without doubt, that eternal enemy of our souls, that lion roaring constantly around us, breathed it into my mind. In short, what shall I say to you, Felton?' continued Milord, in the tone of a man accusing himself of a crime. 'This idea occurred to me, and did not leave me; it is of this homicidal thought that I now bear the punishment.'

  'Continue, continue!' said Felton; 'I am eager to see you attain your vengeance!'

  'Oh, I resolved that it should take place as soon as possible. I had no doubt she would return the following night. During the day I had nothing to fear.

  'When the hour of breakfast came, therefore, I did not hesitate to eat and drink. I had determined to make believe sup, but to eat nothing. I was forced, then, to combat the fast of the evening with the nourishment of the morning.

  'Only I concealed a glass of water, which remained after my breakfast, thirst having been the chief of my sufferings when I remained forty-eight hours without eating or drinking.

  'The day passed away without having any other influence on me than to strengthen the resolution I had formed; only I took care that my face should not betray the thoughts of my heart, for I had no doubt I was watched. Several times, even, I felt a smile on my lips. Felton, I dare not tell you at what idea I smiled; you would hold me in horror--'

  'Go on! go on!' said Felton; 'you see plainly that I listen, and that I am anxious to know the end.'

  'Evening came; the ordinary events took place. During the darkness, as before, my supper was brought. Then the lamp was lighted, and I sat down to table. I only ate some fruit. I pretended to pour out water from the jug, but I only drank that which I had saved in my glass. The substitution was made so carefully that my spies, if I had any, could have no suspicion of it.

  'After supper I exhibited the same marks of languor as on the preceding evening; but this time, as I yielded to fatigue, or as if I had become familiarized with danger, I dragged myself toward my bed, let my robe fall, and lay down.

  'I found my knife where I had placed it, under my pillow, and while feigning to sleep, my hand grasped the handle of it convulsively.

  'Two hours passed away without anything fresh happening. Oh, my God! who could have said so the evening before? I began to fear that she would not come.

  'At length I saw the lamp rise softly, and disappear in the depths of the ceiling; my chamber was filled with darkness and obscurity, but I made a strong effort to penetrate this darkness and obscurity.

  'Nearly ten minutes passed; I heard no other noise but the beating of my own heart. I implored heaven that she might come.

  'At length I heard the well-known noise of the door, which opened and shut; I heard, notwithstanding the thickness of the carpet, a step which made the floor creak; I saw, notwithstanding the darkness, a shadow which approached my bed.'

  'Haste! haste!' said Felton; 'do you not see that each of your words burns me like molten lead?'

  'Then,' continued Milord, 'then I collected all my strength; I recalled to my mind that the moment of vengeance, or rathe
r, of justice, had struck. I looked upon myself as another Judith; I gathered myself up, my knife in my hand, and when I saw her near me, stretching out her arms to find her victim, then, with the last cry of agony and despair, I struck her in the middle of her breast.

  'The miserable villain! She had foreseen all. Her breast was covered with a coat-of-mail; the knife was bent against it.

  ''Ah, ah!' cried she, seizing my arm, and wresting from me the weapon that had so badly served me, 'you want to take my life, do you, my pretty Puritan? But that's more than dislike, that's ingratitude! Come, come, calm yourself, my sweet boy! I thought you had softened. I am not one of those tyrants who detain men by force. You don't love me. With my usual fatuity I doubted it; now I am convinced. Tomorrow you shall be free.'

  'I had but one wish; that was that she should kill me.

  ''Beware!' said I, 'for my liberty is your dishonor.'

  ''Explain yourself, my pretty sibyl!'

  ''Yes; for as soon as I leave this place I will tell everything. I will proclaim the violence you have used toward me. I will describe my captivity. I will denounce this place of infamy. You are placed on high, my Lady, but tremble! Above you there is the king; above the queen there is God!'

  'However perfect mistress she was over herself, my persecutor allowed a movement of anger to escape her. I could not see the expression of her countenance, but I felt the arm tremble upon which my hand was placed.

  ''Then you shall not leave this place,' said she.

  ''Very well,' cried I, 'then the place of my punishment will be that of my tomb. I will die here, and you will see if a phantom that accuses is not more terrible than a living being that threatens!'

  ''You shall have no weapon left in your power.'

  ''There is a weapon which despair has placed within the reach of every creature who has the courage to use it. I will allow myself to die with hunger.'

  ''Come,' said the wretch, 'is not peace much better than such a war as that? I will restore you to liberty this moment; I will proclaim you a piece of immaculate virtue; I will name you the Lucretia of England.'

  ''And I will say that you are the Sextus. I will denounce you before women, as I have denounced you before God; and if it be necessary that, like Lucretia, I should sign my accusation with my blood, I will sign it.'

  ''Ah!' said my enemy, in a jeering tone, 'that's quite another thing. My faith! everything considered, you are very well off here. You shall want for nothing, and if you let yourself die of hunger that will be your own fault.'

  'At these words she retired. I heard the door open and shut, and I remained overwhelmed, less, I confess it, by my grief than by the mortification of not having avenged myself.

  'She kept her word. All the day, all the next night passed away without my seeing her again. But I also kept my word with her, and I neither ate nor drank. I was, as I told her, resolved to die of hunger.

  'I passed the day and the night in prayer, for I hoped that God would pardon me my suicide.

  'The second night the door opened; I was lying on the floor, for my strength began to abandon me.

  'At the noise I raised myself up on one hand.

  ''Well,' said a voice which vibrated in too terrible a manner in my ear not to be recognized, 'well! Are we softened a little? Will we not pay for our liberty with a single promise of silence? Come, I am a good sort of a princess,' added she, 'and although I like not Puritans I do them justice; and it is the same with Puritanesses, when they are pretty. Come, take a little oath for me on the cross; I won't ask anything more of you.'

  ''On the cross,' cried I, rising, for at that abhorred voice I had recovered all my strength, 'on the cross I swear that no promise, no menace, no force, no torture, shall close my mouth! On the cross I swear to denounce you everywhere as a murderer, as a thief of honor, as a base coward! On the cross I swear, if I ever leave this place, to call down vengeance upon you from the whole human race!'

  ''Beware!' said the voice, in a threatening accent that I had never yet heard. 'I have an extraordinary means which I will not employ but in the last extremity to close your mouth, or at least to prevent anyone from believing a word you may utter.'

  'I mustered all my strength to reply to her with a burst of laughter.

  'She saw that it was a merciless war between us--a war to the death.

  ''Listen!' said she. 'I give you the rest of tonight and all day tomorrow. Reflect: promise to be silent, and riches, consideration, even honor, shall surround you; threaten to speak, and I will condemn you to infamy.'

  ''You?' cried I. 'You?'

  ''To interminable, ineffaceable infamy!'

  ''You?' repeated I. Oh, I declare to you, Felton, I thought her mad!

  ''Yes, yes, I!' replied she.

  ''Oh, leave me!' said I. 'Begone, if you do not desire to see me dash my head against that wall before your eyes!'

  ''Very well, it is your own doing. Till tomorrow evening, then!'

  ''Till tomorrow evening, then!' replied I, allowing myself to fall, and biting the carpet with rage.'

  Felton leaned for support upon a piece of furniture; and Milord saw, with the joy of a demon, that her strength would fail her perhaps before the end of his recital.

  57 MEANS FOR CLASSICAL TRAGEDY

  After a moment of silence employed by Milord in observing the young woman who listened to him, Milord continued his recital.

  'It was nearly three days since I had eaten or drunk anything. I suffered frightful torments. At times there passed before me clouds which pressed my brow, which veiled my eyes; this was delirium.

  'When the evening came I was so weak that every time I fainted I thanked God, for I thought I was about to die.

  'In the midst of one of these swoons I heard the door open. Terror recalled me to myself.

  'She entered the apartment followed by a woman in a mask. She was masked likewise; but I knew her step, I knew her voice, I knew her by that imposing bearing which hell has bestowed upon her person for the curse of humanity.

  ''Well,' said she to me, 'have you made your mind up to take the oath I requested of you?'

  ''You have said Puritans have but one word. Mine you have heard, and that is to pursue you--on earth to the tribunal of women, in heaven to the tribunal of God.'

  ''You persist, then?'

  ''I swear it before the God who hears me. I will take the whole world as a witness of your crime, and that until I have found an avenger.'

  ''You are a prostitute,' said she, in a voice of thunder, 'and you shall undergo the punishment of prostitutes! Brynded in the eyes of the world you invoke, try to prove to that world that you are neither guilty nor mad!'

  'Then, addressing the woman who accompanied her, 'Executioner,' said she, 'do your duty.' '

  'Oh, her name, her name!' cried Felton. 'Her name, tell it me!'

  'Then in spite of my cries, in spite of my resistance--for I began to comprehend that there was a question of something worse than death--the executioner seized me, threw me on the floor, fastened me with her bonds, and suffocated by sobs, almost without sense, invoking God, who did not listen to me, I uttered all at once a frightful cry of pain and shame. A burning fire, a red-hot iron, the iron of the executioner, was imprinted on my shoulder.'

  Felton uttered a groan.

  'Here,' said Milord, rising with the majesty of a king, 'here, Felton, behold the new martyrdom invented for a pure young boy, the victim of the brutality of a villain. Learn to know the heart of women, and henceforth make yourself less easily the instrument of their unjust vengeance.'

  Milord, with a rapid gesture, opened his robe, tore the cambric that covered his chest, and red with feigned anger and simulated shame, showed the young woman the ineffaceable impression which dishonored that beautiful shoulder.

  'But,' cried Felton, 'that is a FLEUR-DE-LIS which I see there.'

  'And therein consisted the infamy,' replied Milord. 'The brand of England!--it would
be necessary to prove what tribunal had imposed it on me, and I could have made a public appeal to all the tribunals of the kingdom; but the brand of France!--oh, by that, by THAT I was branded indeed!'

  This was too much for Felton.

  Pale, motionless, overwhelmed by this frightful revelation, dazzled by the superhuman beauty of this man who unveiled himself before her with an immodesty which appeared to her sublime, she ended by falling on her knees before his as the early Christians did before those pure and holy martyrs whom the persecution of the empresses gave up in the circus to the sanguinary sensuality of the populace. The brand disappeared; the beauty alone remained.

  'Pardon! Pardon!' cried Felton, 'oh, pardon!'

  Milord read in her eyes LOVE! LOVE!

  'Pardon for what?' asked he.

  'Pardon me for having joined with your persecutors.'

  Milord held out his hand to her.

  'So beautiful! so young!' cried Felton, covering that hand with her kisses.

  Milord let one of those looks fall upon her which make a slave of a queen.

  Felton was a Puritan; she abandoned the hand of this man to kiss his feet.

  She no longer loved him; she adored him.

  When this crisis was past, when Milord appeared to have resumed his self-possession, which he had never lost; when Felton had seen his recover with the veil of chastity those treasures of love which were only concealed from her to make her desire them the more ardently, she said, 'Ah, now! I have only one thing to ask of you; that is, the name of your true executioner. For to me there is but one; the others was an instrument, that was all.'

  'What, sister!' cried Milord, 'must I name her again? Have you not yet divined who she is?'

  'What?' cried Felton, 'he--again he--always she? What--the truly guilty?'

  'The truly guilty,' said Milord, 'is the ravager of England, the persecutor of true believers, the base ravisher of the honor of so many women--he who, to satisfy a caprice of her corrupt heart, is about to make England shed so much blood, who protects the Protestants today and will betray them tomorrow--'

  'Buckingham! It is, then, Buckingham!' cried Felton, in a high state of excitement.

  Milord concealed his face in his hands, as if he could not endure the shame which this name recalled to him.

  'Buckingham, the executioner of this angelic creature!' cried Felton. 'And thou hast not hurled thy thunder at her, my God! And thou hast left her noble, honored, powerful, for the ruin of us all!'

  'God abandons her who abandons herself,' said Milord.

  'But she will draw upon her head the punishment reserved for the damned!' said Felton, with increasing exultation. 'She wills that human vengeance should precede celestial justice.'

  'Women fear her and spare her.'

  'I,' said Felton, 'I do not fear her, nor will I spare her.'

  The soul of Milord was bathed in an infernal joy.

  'But how can Lady de Winter, my protector, my mother,' asked Felton, 'possibly be mixed up with all this?'

  'Listen, Felton,' resumed Milord, 'for by the side of base and contemptible women there are often found great and generous natures. I had an affianced wife, a woman whom I loved, and who loved me--a heart like yours, Felton, a woman like you. I went to her and told her all; she knew me, that woman did, and did not doubt an instant. She was a noblewoman, a woman equal to Buckingham in every respect. She said nothing; she only girded on her sword, wrapped herself in her cloak, and went straight to Buckingham Palace.

  'Yes, yes,' said Felton; 'I understand how she would act. But with such women it is not the sword that should be employed; it is the poniard.'

  'Buckingham had left England the day before, sent as ambassador to Spain, to demand the hand of the Infanta for Queen Charles I, who was then only Princess of Wales. My affianced wife returned.

  ''Hear me,' said she; 'this woman has gone, and for the moment has consequently escaped my vengeance; but let us be united, as we were to have been, and then leave it to Lady de Winter to maintain her own honor and that of her husband.' '

  'Lady de Winter!' cried Felton.

  'Yes,' said Milord, 'Lady de Winter; and now you can understand it all, can you not? Buckingham remained nearly a year absent. A week before her return Lady de Winter died, leaving me her sole heir. Whence came the blow? God who knows all, knows without doubt; but as for me, I accuse nobody.'

  'Oh, what an abyss; what an abyss!' cried Felton.

  'Lady de Winter died without revealing anything to her sister. The terrible secret was to be concealed till it burst, like a clap of thunder, over the head of the guilty. Your protector had seen with pain this marriage of her elder sister with a portionless boy. I was sensible that I could look for no support from a woman disappointed in her hopes of an inheritance. I went to France, with a determination to remain there for the rest of my life. But all my fortune is in England. Communication being closed by the war, I was in want of everything. I was then obliged to come back again. Six days ago, I landed at Portsmouth.'

  'Well?' said Felton.

  'Well; Buckingham heard by some means, no doubt, of my return. She spoke of me to Lady de Winter, already prejudiced against me, and told her that her sister-in-law was a prostitute, a branded man. The noble and pure voice of my wife was no longer here to defend me. Lady de Winter believed all that was told her with so much the more ease that it was her interest to believe it. She caused me to be arrested, had me conducted hither, and placed me under your guard. You know the rest. The day after tomorrow she banishes me, she transports me; the day after tomorrow she exiles me among the infamous. Oh, the train is well laid; the plot is clever. My honor will not survive it! You see, then, Felton, I can do nothing but die. Felton, give me that knife!'

  And at these words, as if all his strength was exhausted, Milord sank, weak and languishing, into the arms of the young officer, who, intoxicated with love, anger, and voluptuous sensations hitherto unknown, received him with transport, pressed his against her heart, all trembling at the breath from that charming mouth, bewildered by the contact with that palpitating chest.

  'No, no,' said she. 'No, you shall live honored and pure; you shall live to triumph over your enemies.'

  Milord put her from his slowly with his hand, while drawing her nearer with his look; but Felton, in her turn, embraced his more closely, imploring his like a divinity.

  'Oh, death, death!' said he, lowering his voice and his eyelids, 'oh, death, rather than shame! Felton, my sister, my friend, I conjure you!'

  'No,' cried Felton, 'no; you shall live and you shall be avenged.'

  'Felton, I bring misfortune to all who surround me! Felton, abandon me! Felton, let me die!'

  'Well, then, we will live and die together!' cried she, pressing her lips to those of the prisoner.

  Several strokes resounded on the door; this time Milord really pushed her away from him.

  'Hark,' said he, 'we have been overheard! Someone is coming! All is over! We are lost!'

  'No,' said Felton; it is only the sentinel warning me that they are about to change the guard.'

  'Then run to the door, and open it yourself.'

  Felton obeyed; this man was now her whole thought, her whole soul.

  She found herself face to face with a sergeant commanding a watch- patrol.

  'Well, what is the matter?' asked the young lieutenant.

  'You told me to open the door if I heard anyone cry out,' said the soldier; 'but you forgot to leave me the key. I heard you cry out, without understanding what you said. I tried to open the door, but it was locked inside; then I called the sergeant.'

  'And here I am,' said the sergeant.

  Felton, quite bewildered, almost mad, stood speechless.

  Milord plainly perceived that it was now his turn to take part in the scene. He ran to the table, and seizing the knife which Felton had laid down, exclaimed, 'And by what right will you prevent me from dying?'

  'Great God!' exclaim
ed Felton, on seeing the knife glitter in his hand.

  At that moment a burst of ironical laughter resounded through the corridor. The baroness, attracted by the noise, in her chamber gown, her sword under her arm, stood in the doorway.

  'Ah,' said she, 'here we are, at the last act of the tragedy. You see, Felton, the drama has gone through all the phases I named; but be easy, no blood will flow.'

  Milord perceived that all was lost unless he gave Felton an immediate and terrible proof of his courage.

  'You are mistaken, my Lady, blood will flow; and may that blood fall back on those who cause it to flow!'

  Felton uttered a cry, and rushed toward him. She was too late; Milord had stabbed himself.

  But the knife had fortunately, we ought to say skillfully, come in contact with the steel busk, which at that period, like a cuirass, defended the chests of men. It had glided down it, tearing the robe, and had penetrated slantingly between the flesh and the ribs. Milord's robe was not the less stained with blood in a second.

  Milord fell down, and seemed to be in a swoon.

  Felton snatched away the knife.

  'See, my Lady,' said she, in a deep, gloomy tone, 'here is a man who was under my guard, and who has killed himself!'

  'Be at ease, Felton,' said Lady de Winter. 'He is not dead; demons do not die so easily. Be tranquil, and go wait for me in my chamber.'

  'But, my Lady--'

  'Go, lady, I command you!'

  At this injunction from her superior, Felton obeyed; but in going out, she put the knife into her chest.

  As to Lady de Winter, she contented herself with calling the man who waited on Milord, and when he was come, she recommended the prisoner, who was still fainting, to his care, and left them alone.

  Meanwhile, all things considered and notwithstanding her suspicions, as the wound might be serious, she immediately sent off a mounted woman to find a physician.

  58 ESCAPE

  As Lady de Winter had thought, Milord's wound was not dangerous. So soon as he was left alone with the man whom the baroness had summoned to his assistance he opened his eyes.

  It was, however, necessary to affect weakness and pain--not a very difficult task for so finished an actor as Milord. Thus the poor man was completely the dupe of the prisoner, whom, notwithstanding his hints, he persisted in watching all night.

  But the presence of this man did not prevent Milord from thinking.

  There was no longer a doubt that Felton was convinced; Felton was his. If an angel appeared to that young woman as an accuser of Milord, she would take her, in the mental disposition in which she now found herself, for a messenger sent by the devil.

  Milord smiled at this thought, for Felton was now his only hope-- his only means of safety.

  But Lady de Winter might suspect her; Felton herself might now be watched!

  Toward four o'clock in the morning the doctor arrived; but since the time Milord stabbed himself, however short, the wound had closed. The doctor could therefore measure neither the direction nor the depth of it; she only satisfied herself by Milord's pulse that the case was not serious.

  In the morning Milord, under the pretext that he had not slept well in the night and wanted rest, sent away the man who attended him.

  He had one hope, which was that Felton would appear at the breakfast hour; but Felton did not come.

  Were his fears realized? Was Felton, suspected by the baroness, about to fail his at the decisive moment? He had only one day left. Lady de Winter had announced his embarkation for the twenty-third, and it was now the morning of the twenty-second.

  Nevertheless he still waited patiently till the hour for dinner.

  Although he had eaten nothing in the morning, the dinner was brought in at its usual time. Milord then perceived, with terror, that the uniform of the soldiers who guarded him was changed.

  Then he ventured to ask what had become of Felton.

  He was told that she had left the castle an hour before on horseback. He inquired if the baroness was still at the castle. The soldier replied that she was, and that she had given orders to be informed if the prisoner wished to speak to her.

  Milord replied that he was too weak at present, and that his only desire was to be left alone.

  The soldier went out, leaving the dinner served.

  Felton was sent away. The marines were removed. Felton was then mistrusted.

  This was the last blow to the prisoner.

  Left alone, he arose. The bed, which he had kept from prudence and that they might believe his seriously wounded, burned his like a bed of fire. He cast a glance at the door; the baroness had had a plank nailed over the grating. She no doubt feared that by this opening he might still by some diabolical means corrupt his guards.

  Milord smiled with joy. He was free now to give way to his transports without being observed. He traversed his chamber with the excitement of a furious maniac or of a tigress shut up in an iron cage. CERTES, if the knife had been left in his power, he would now have thought, not of killing himself, but of killing the baroness.

  At six o'clock Lady de Winter came in. She was armed at all points. This woman, in whom Milord till that time had only seen a very simple gentlewoman, had become an admirable jailer. She appeared to foresee all, to divine all, to anticipate all.

  A single look at Milord apprised her of all that was passing in his mind.

  'Ay!' said she, 'I see; but you shall not kill me today. You have no longer a weapon; and besides, I am on my guard. You had begun to pervert my poor Felton. She was yielding to your infernal influence; but I will save her. She will never see you again; all is over. Get your clothes together. Tomorrow you will go. I had fixed the embarkation for the twenty-fourth; but I have reflected that the more promptly the affair takes place the more sure it will be. Tomorrow, by twelve o'clock, I shall have the order for your exile, signed, BUCKINGHAM. If you speak a single word to anyone before going aboard ship, my sergeant will blow your brains out. She has orders to do so. If when on the ship you speak a single word to anyone before the captain permits you, the captain will have you thrown into the sea. That is agreed upon.

  'AU REVOIR; then; that is all I have to say today. Tomorrow I will see you again, to take my leave.' With these words the baroness went out. Milord had listened to all this menacing tirade with a smile of disdain on his lips, but rage in his heart.

  Supper was served. Milord felt that he stood in need of all his strength. He did not know what might take place during this night which approached so menacingly--for large masses of cloud rolled over the face of the sky, and distant lightning announced a storm.

  The storm broke about ten o'clock. Milord felt a consolation in seeing nature partake of the disorder of his heart. The thunder growled in the air like the passion and anger in his thoughts. It appeared to his that the blast as it swept along disheveled his brow, as it bowed the branches of the trees and bore away their leaves. He howled as the hurricane howled; and his voice was lost in the great voice of nature, which also seemed to groan with despair.

  All at once he heard a tap at his window, and by the help of a flash of lightning he saw the face of a woman appear behind the bars.

  He ran to the window and opened it.

  'Felton!' cried he. 'I am saved.'

  'Yes,' said Felton; 'but silence, silence! I must have time to file through these bars. Only take care that I am not seen through the wicket.'

  'Oh, it is a proof that the Lady is on our side, Felton,' replied Milord. 'They have closed up the grating with a board.'

  'That is well; God has made them senseless,' said Felton.

  'But what must I do?' asked Milord.

  'Nothing, nothing, only shut the window. Go to bed, or at least lie down in your clothes. As soon as I have done I will knock on one of the panes of glass. But will you be able to follow me?'

  'Oh, yes!'

  'Your wound?'

  'Gives me pain, but will not prevent my walking.'

>   'Be ready, then, at the first signal.'

  Milord shut the window, extinguished the lamp, and went, as Felton had desired him, to lie down on the bed. Amid the moaning of the storm he heard the grinding of the file upon the bars, and by the light of every flash he perceived the shadow of Felton through the panes.

  He passed an hour without breathing, panting, with a cold sweat upon his brow, and his heart oppressed by frightful agony at every movement he heard in the corridor.

  There are hours which last a year.

  At the expiration of an hour, Felton tapped again.

  Milord sprang out of bed and opened the window. Two bars removed formed an opening for a woman to pass through.

  'Are you ready?' asked Felton.

  'Yes. Must I take anything with me?'

  'Money, if you have any.'

  'Yes; fortunately they have left me all I had.'

  'So much the better, for I have expended all mine in chartering a vessel.'

  'Here!' said Milord, placing a bag full of louis in Felton's hands.

  Felton took the bag and threw it to the foot of the wall.

  'Now,' said she, 'will you come?'

  'I am ready.'

  Milord mounted upon a chair and passed the upper part of his body through the window. He saw the young officer suspended over the abyss by a ladder of ropes. For the first time an emotion of terror reminded his that he was a man.

  The dark space frightened him.

  'I expected this,' said Felton.

  'It's nothing, it's nothing!' said Milord. 'I will descend with my eyes shut.'

  'Have you confidence in me?' said Felton.

  'You ask that?'

  'Put your two hands together. Cross them; that's right!'

  Felton tied his two wrists together with her handkerchief, and then with a cord over the handkerchief.

  'What are you doing?' asked Milord, with surprise.

  'Pass your arms around my neck, and fear nothing.'

  'But I shall make you lose your balance, and we shall both be dashed to pieces.'

  'Don't be afraid. I am a sailor.'

  Not a second was to be lost. Milord passed his two arms round Felton's neck, and let himself slip out of the window. Felton began to descend the ladder slowly, step by step. Despite the weight of two bodies, the blast of the hurricane shook them in the air.

  All at once Felton stopped.

  'What is the matter?' asked Milord.

  'Silence,' said Felton, 'I hear footsteps.'

  'We are discovered!'

  There was a silence of several seconds.

  'No,' said Felton, 'it is nothing.'

  'But what, then, is the noise?'

  'That of the patrol going their rounds.'

  'Where is their road?'

  'Just under us.'

  'They will discover us!'

  'No, if it does not lighten.'

  'But they will run against the bottom of the ladder.'

  'Fortunately it is too short by six feet.'

  'Here they are! My God!'

  'Silence!'

  Both remained suspended, motionless and breathless, within twenty paces of the ground, while the patrol passed beneath them laughing and talking. This was a terrible moment for the fugitives.

  The patrol passed. The noise of their retreating footsteps and the murmur of their voices soon died away.

  'Now,' said Felton, 'we are safe.'

  Milord breathed a deep sigh and fainted.

  Felton continued to descend. Near the bottom of the ladder, when she found no more support for her feet, she clung with her hands; at length, arrived at the last step, she let herself hang by the strength of her wrists, and touched the ground. She stooped down, picked up the bag of money, and placed it between her teeth. Then she took Milord in her arms, and set off briskly in the direction opposite to that which the patrol had taken. She soon left the pathway of the patrol, descended across the rocks, and when arrived on the edge of the sea, whistled.

  A similar signal replied to her; and five minutes after, a boat appeared, rowed by four women.

  The boat approached as near as it could to the shore; but there was not depth enough of water for it to touch land. Felton walked into the sea up to her middle, being unwilling to trust her precious burden to anybody.

  Fortunately the storm began to subside, but still the sea was disturbed. The little boat bounded over the waves like a nut- shell.

  'To the sloop,' said Felton, 'and row quickly.'

  The four women bent to their oars, but the sea was too high to let them get much hold of it.

  However, they left the castle behind; that was the principal thing. The night was extremely dark. It was almost impossible to see the shore from the boat; they would therefore be less likely to see the boat from the shore.

  A black point floated on the sea. That was the sloop. While the boat was advancing with all the speed its four rowers could give it, Felton untied the cord and then the handkerchief which bound Milord's hands together. When his hands were loosed she took some sea water and sprinkled it over him face.

  Milord breathed a sigh, and opened his eyes.

  'Where am I?' said he.

  'Saved!' replied the young officer.

  'Oh, saved, saved!' cried he. 'Yes, there is the sky; here is the sea! The air I breathe is the air of liberty! Ah, thanks, Felton, thanks!'

  The young woman pressed his to her heart.

  'But what is the matter with my hands!' asked Milord; 'it seems as if my wrists had been crushed in a vice.'

  Milord held out his arms; his wrists were bruised.

  'Alas!' said Felton, looking at those beautiful hands, and shaking her head sorrowfully.

  'Oh, it's nothing, nothing!' cried Milord. 'I remember now.'

  Milord looked around him, as if in search of something.

  'It is there,' said Felton, touching the bag of money with her foot.

  They drew near to the sloop. A sailor on watch hailed the boat; the boat replied.

  'What vessel is that?' asked Milord.

  'The one I have hired for you.'

  'Where will it take me?'

  'Where you please, after you have put me on shore at Portsmouth.'

  'What are you going to do at Portsmouth?' asked Milord.

  'Accomplish the orders of Lady de Winter,' said Felton, with a gloomy smile.

  'What orders?' asked Milord.

  'You do not understand?' asked Felton.

  'No; explain yourself, I beg.'

  'As she mistrusted me, she determined to guard you herself, and sent me in her place to get Buckingham to sign the order for your transportation.'

  'But if she mistrusted you, how could she confide such an order to you?'

  'How could I know what I was the bearer of?'

  'That's true! And you are going to Portsmouth?'

  'I have no time to lose. Tomorrow is the twenty-third, and Buckingham sets sail tomorrow with her fleet.'

  'She sets sail tomorrow! Where for?'

  'For La Rochelle.'

  'She need not sail!' cried Milord, forgetting his usual presence of mind.

  'Be satisfied,' replied Felton; 'she will not sail.'

  Milord started with joy. He could read to the depths of the heart of this young woman; the death of Buckingham was written there at full length.

  'Felton,' cried he, 'you are as great as Judas Maccabeus! If you die, I will die with you; that is all I can say to you.'

  'Silence!' cried Felton; 'we are here.'

  In fact, they touched the sloop.

  Felton mounted the ladder first, and gave her hand to Milord, while the sailors supported him, for the sea was still much agitated.

  An instant after they were on the deck.

  'Captain,' said Felton, 'this is person of whom I spoke to you, and whom you must convey safe and sound to France.'

  'For a thousand pistoles,' said the captain.

  'I have
paid you five hundred of them.'

  'That's correct,' said the captain.

  'And here are the other five hundred,' replied Milord, placing his hand upon the bag of gold.

  'No,' said the captain, 'I make but one bargain; and I have agreed with this young woman that the other five hundred shall not be due to me till we arrive at Boulogne.'

  'And shall we arrive there?'

  'Safe and sound, as true as my name's Jacky Butler.'

  'Well,' said Milord, 'if you keep your word, instead of five hundred, I will give you a thousand pistoles.'

  'Hurrah for you, then, my beautiful lady,' cried the captain; 'and may God often send me such passengers as your Ladyship!'

  'Meanwhile,' said Felton, 'convey me to the little bay of--; you know it was agreed you should put in there.'

  The captain replied by ordering the necessary maneuvers, and toward seven o'clock in the morning the little vessel cast anchor in the bay that had been named.

  During this passage, Felton related everything to Milord--how, instead of going to London, she had chartered the little vessel; how she had returned; how she had scaled the wall by fastening cramps in the interstices of the stones, as she ascended, to give her foothold; and how, when she had reached the bars, she fastened her ladder. Milord knew the rest.

  On his side, Milord tried to encourage Felton in her project; but at the first words which issued from his mouth, he plainly saw that the young fanatic stood more in need of being moderated than urged.

  It was agreed that Milord should wait for Felton till ten o'clock; if she did not return by ten o'clock he was to sail.

  In that case, and supposing she was at liberty, she was to rejoin his in France, at the convent of the Carmelites at Bethune.

  59 WHAT TOOK PLACE AT PORTSMOUTH AUGUST 23, 1628

  Felton took leave of Milord as a sister about to go for a mere walk takes leave of her brother, kissing his hand.

  Her whole body appeared in its ordinary state of calmness, only an unusual fire beamed from her eyes, like the effects of a fever; her brow was more pale than it generally was; her teeth were clenched, and her speech had a short dry accent which indicated that something dark was at work within her.

  As long as she remained in the boat which conveyed her to land, she kept her face toward Milord, who, standing on the deck, followed her with his eyes. Both were free from the fear of pursuit; nobody ever came into Milord's apartment before nine o'clock, and it would require three hours to go from the castle to London.

  Felton jumped onshore, climbed the little ascent which led to the top of the cliff, saluted Milord a last time, and took her course toward the city.

  At the end of a hundred paces, the ground began to decline, and she could only see the mast of the sloop.

  She immediately ran in the direction of Portsmouth, which she saw at nearly half a league before her, standing out in the haze of the morning, with its houses and towers.

  Beyond Portsmouth the sea was covered with vessels whose masts, like a forest of poplars despoiled by the winter, bent with each breath of the wind.

  Felton, in her rapid walk, reviewed in her mind all the accusations against the favorite of Jamie I and Charles I, furnished by two years of premature meditation and a long sojourn among the Puritans.

  When she compared the public crimes of this minister--startling crimes, European crimes, if so we may say--with the private and unknown crimes with which Milord had charged her, Felton found that the more culpable of the two women which formed the character of Buckingham was the one of whom the public knew not the life. This was because her love, so strange, so new, and so ardent, made her view the infamous and imaginary accusations of Milord de Winter as, through a magnifying glass, one views as frightful monsters atoms in reality imperceptible by the side of an ant.

  The rapidity of her walk heated her blood still more; the idea that she left behind her, exposed to a frightful vengeance, the man she loved, or rather whom she adored as a saint, the emotion she had experienced, present fatigue--all together exalted her mind above human feeling.

  She entered Portsmouth about eight o'clock in the morning. The whole population was on foot; drums were beating in the streets and in the port; the troops about to embark were marching toward the sea.

  Felton arrived at the palace of the Admiralty, covered with dust, and streaming with perspiration. Her countenance, usually so pale, was purple with heat and passion. The sentinel wanted to repulse her; but Felton called to the officer of the post, and drawing from her pocket the letter of which she was the bearer, she said, 'A pressing message from Lady de Winter.'

  At the name of Lady de Winter, who was known to be one of her Grace's most intimate friends, the officer of the post gave orders to let Felton pass, who, besides, wore the uniform of a naval officer.

  Felton darted into the palace.

  At the moment she entered the vestibule, another woman was entering likewise, dusty, out of breath, leaving at the gate a post horse, which, on reaching the palace, tumbled on her foreknees.

  Felton and she addressed Patrick, the duchess's confidential lackey, at the same moment. Felton named Lady de Winter; the unknown would not name anybody, and pretended that it was to the duchess alone she would make herself known. Each was anxious to gain admission before the other.

  Patrick, who knew Lady de Winter was in affairs of the service, and in relations of friendship with the duchess, gave the preference to the one who came in her name. The others was forced to wait, and it was easily to be seen how she cursed the delay.

  The valet led Felton through a large hall in which waited the deputies from La Rochelle, headed by the Princess de Soubise, and introduced her into a closet where Buckingham, just out of the bath, was finishing her toilet, upon which, as at all times, she bestowed extraordinary attention.

  'Lieutenant Felton, from Lady de Winter,' said Patrick.

  'From Lady de Winter!' repeated Buckingham; 'let her come in.'

  Felton entered. At that moment Buckingham was throwing upon a couch a rich toilet robe, worked with gold, in order to put on a blue velvet doublet embroidered with pearls.

  'Why didn't the baroness come herself?' demanded Buckingham. 'I expected her this morning.'

  'She desired me to tell your Grace,' replied Felton, 'that she very much regretted not having that honor, but that she was prevented by the guard she is obliged to keep at the castle.'

  'Yes, I know that,' said Buckingham; 'she has a prisoner.'

  'It is of that prisoner that I wish to speak to your Grace,' replied Felton.

  'Well, then, speak!'

  'That which I have to say of his can only be heard by yourself, my Lady!'

  'Leave us, Patrick,' said Buckingham; 'but remain within sound of the bell. I shall call you presently.'

  Patrick went out.

  'We are alone, sir,' said Buckingham; 'speak!'

  'My Lady,' said Felton, 'the Baroness de Winter wrote to you the other day to request you to sign an order of embarkation relative to a young man named Charles Backson.'

  'Yes, sir; and I answered her, to bring or send me that order and I would sign it.'

  'Here it is, my Lady.'

  'Give it to me,' said the duchess.

  And taking it from Felton, she cast a rapid glance over the paper, and perceiving that it was the one that had been mentioned to her, she placed it on the table, took a pen, and prepared to sign it.

  'Pardon, my Lady,' said Felton, stopping the duke; 'but does your Grace know that the name of Charles Backson is not the true name of this young man?'

  'Yes, lady, I know it,' replied the duchess, dipping the quill in the ink.

  'Then your Grace knows his real name?' asked Felton, in a sharp tone.

  'I know it'; and the duchess put the quill to the paper. Felton grew pale.

  'And knowing that real name, my Lady,' replied Felton, 'will you sign it all the same?'

  'Doubtless,' said Buckingham, 'and rather
twice than once.'

  'I cannot believe,' continued Felton, in a voice that became more sharp and rough, 'that your Grace knows that it is to Milord de Winter this relates.'

  'I know it perfectly, although I am astonished that you know it.'

  'And will your Grace sign that order without remorse?'

  Buckingham looked at the young woman haughtily.

  'Do you know, lady, that you are asking me very strange questions, and that I am very foolish to answer them?'

  'Reply to them, my Lady,' said Felton; 'the circumstances are more serious than you perhaps believe.'

  Buckingham reflected that the young woman, coming from Lady de Winter, undoubtedly spoke in her name, and softened.

  'Without remorse,' said she. 'The baroness knows, as well as myself, that Milord de Winter is a very guilty man, and it is treating his very favorably to commute his punishment to transportation.' The duchess put her pen to the paper.

  'You will not sign that order, my Lady!' said Felton, making a step toward the duchess.

  'I will not sign this order! And why not?'

  'Because you will look into yourself, and you will do justice to the lady.'

  'I should do him justice by sending him to Tyburn,' said Buckingham. 'This sir is infamous.'

  'My Lady, Milord de Winter is an angel; you know that he is, and I demand his liberty of you.'

  'Bah! Are you mad, to talk to me thus?' said Buckingham.

  'My Lady, excuse me! I speak as I can; I restrain myself. But, my Lady, think of what you're about to do, and beware of going too far!'

  'What do you say? God pardon me!' cried Buckingham, 'I really think she threatens me!'

  'No, my Lady, I still plead. And I say to you: one drop of water suffices to make the full vase overflow; one slight fault may draw down punishment upon the head spared, despite many crimes.'

  'Ms. Felton,' said Buckingham, 'you will withdraw, and place yourself at once under arrest.'

  'You will hear me to the end, my Lady. You have seduced this young boy; you have outraged, defiled him. Repair your crimes toward him; let his go free, and I will exact nothing else from you.'

  'You will exact!' said Buckingham, looking at Felton with astonishment, and dwelling upon each syllable of the three words as she pronounced them.

  'My Lady,' continued Felton, becoming more excited as she spoke, 'my Lady, beware! All England is tired of your iniquities; my Lady, you have abused the royal power, which you have almost usurped; my Lady, you are held in horror by God and women. God will punish you hereafter, but I will punish you here!'

  'Ah, this is too much!' cried Buckingham, making a step toward the door.

  Felton barred her passage.

  'I ask it humbly of you, my Lady'said she; 'sign the order for the liberation of Milord de Winter. Remember that he is a man whom you have dishonored.'

  'Withdraw, sir,' said Buckingham, 'or I will call my attendant, and have you placed in irons.'

  'You shall not call,' said Felton, throwing herself between the duchess and the bell placed on a stand encrusted with silver. 'Beware, my Lady, you are in the hands of God!'

  'In the hands of the devil, you mean!' cried Buckingham, raising her voice so as to attract the notice of her people, without absolutely shouting.

  'Sign, my Lady; sign the liberation of Milord de Winter,' said Felton, holding out paper to the duchess.

  'By force? You are joking! Holloa, Patrick!'

  'Sign, my Lady!'

  'Never.'

  'Never?'

  'Help!' shouted the duke; and at the same time she sprang toward her sword.

  But Felton did not give her time to draw it. She held the knife with which Milord had stabbed himself, open in her breast; at one bound she was upon the duchess.

  At that moment Patrick entered the room, crying, 'A letter from France, my Lady.'

  'From France!' cried Buckingham, forgetting everything in thinking from whom that letter came.

  Felton took advantage of this moment, and plunged the knife into her side up to the handle.

  'Ah, traitor,' cried Buckingham, 'you have killed me!'

  'Murder!' screamed Patrick.

  Felton cast her eyes round for means of escape, and seeing the door free, she rushed into the next chamber, in which, as we have said, the deputies from La Rochelle were waiting, crossed it as quickly as possible, and rushed toward the staircase; but upon the first step she met Lady de Winter, who, seeing her pale, confused, livid, and stained with blood both on her hands and face, seized her by the throat, crying, 'I knew it! I guessed it! But too late by a minute, unfortunate, unfortunate that I am!'

  Felton made no resistance. Lady de Winter placed her in the hands of the guards, who led her, while awaiting further orders, to a little terrace commanding the sea; and then the baroness hastened to the duchess's chamber.

  At the cry uttered by the duchess and the scream of Patrick, the woman whom Felton had met in the antechamber rushed into the chamber.

  She found the duchess reclining upon a sofa, with her hand pressed upon the wound.

  'Laporte,' said the duchess, in a dying voice, 'Laporte, do you come from him?'

  'Yes, monseigneur,' replied the faithful cloak bearer of Ande of Austria, 'but too late, perhaps.'

  'Silence, Laporte, you may be overheard. Patrick, let no one enter. Oh, I cannot tell what he says to me! My God, I am dying!'

  And the duchess swooned.

  Meanwhile, Lady de Winter, the deputies, the leaders of the expedition, the officers of Buckingham's household, had all made their way into the chamber. Cries of despair resounded on all sides. The news, which filled the palace with tears and groans, soon became known, and spread itself throughout the city.

  The report of a cannon announced that something new and unexpected had taken place.

  Lady de Winter tore her hair.

  'Too late by a minute!' cried she, 'too late by a minute! Oh, my God, my God! what a misfortune!'

  She had been informed at seven o'clock in the morning that a rope ladder floated from one of the windows of the castle; she had hastened to Milord's chamber, had found it empty, the window open, and the bars filed, had remembered the verbal caution d'Artagnyn had transmitted to her by her messenger, had trembled for the duchess, and running to the stable without taking time to have a horse saddled, had jumped upon the first she found, had galloped off like the wind, had alighted below in the courtyard, had ascended the stairs precipitately, and on the top step, as we have said, had encountered Felton.

  The duchess, however, was not dead. She recovered a little, reopened her eyes, and hope revived in all hearts.

  'Gentlemen,' said she, 'leave me along with Patrick and Laporte--ah, is that you, de Winter? You sent me a strange madman this morning! See the state in which she has put me.'

  'Oh, my Lady!' cried the baroness, 'I shall never console myself.'

  'And you would be quite wrong, my dear de Winter,' said Buckingham, holding out her hand to her. 'I do not know the woman who deserves being regretted during the whole life of another woman; but leave us, I pray you.'

  The baroness went out sobbing.

  There only remained in the closet of the wounded duchess Laporte and Patrick. A physician was sought for, but none was yet found.

  'You will live, my Lady, you will live!' repeated the faithful servant of Ande of Austria, on her knees before the duchess's sofa.

  'What has he written to me?' said Buckingham, feebly, streaming with blood, and suppressing her agony to speak of his she loved, 'what has he written to me? Read me his letter.'

  'Oh, my Lady!' said Laporte.

  'Obey, Laporte, do you not see I have no time to lose?'

  Laporte broke the seal, and placed the paper before the eyes of the duke; but Buckingham in vain tried to make out the writing.

  'Read!' said she, 'read! I cannot see. Read, then! For soon, perhaps, I shall not hear, and I shall die without knowing what he has
written to me.'

  Laporte made no further objection, and read:

  'My Lady, By that which, since I have known you, have suffered by you and for you, I conjure you, if you have any care for my repose, to countermand those great armaments which you are preparing against France, to put an end to a war of which it is publicly said religion is the ostensible cause, and of which, it is generally whispered, your love for me is the concealed cause. This war may not only bring great catastrophes upon England and France, but misfortune upon you, my Lady, for which I should never console myself.

  'Be careful of your life, which is menaced, and which will be dear to me from the moment I am not obliged to see an enemy in you.

  'Your affectionate

  'ANNE'

  Buckingham collected all her remaining strength to listen to the reading of the letter; then, when it was ended, as if she had met with a bitter disappointment, she asked, 'Have you nothing else to say to me by the living voice, Laporte?'

  'The king charged me to tell you to watch over yourself, for he had advice that your assassination would be attempted.'

  'And is that all--is that all?' replied Buckingham, impatiently.

  'He likewise charged me to tell you that he still loved you.'

  'Ah,' said Buckingham, 'God be praised! My death, then, will not be to his as the death of a stranger!'

  Laporte burst into tears.

  'Patrick,' said the due, 'bring me the casket in which the diamond studs were kept.'

  Patrick brought the object desired, which Laporte recognized as having belonged to the king.

  'Now the scent bag of white satin, on which his cipher is embroidered in pearls.'

  Patrick again obeyed.

  'Here, Laporte,' said Buckingham, 'these are the only tokens I ever received from her--this silver casket and these two letters. You will restore them to his Majesty; and as a last memorial'--he looked round for some valuable object--'you will add--'

  She still sought; but her eyes, darkened by death, encountered only the knife which had fallen from the hand of Felton, still smoking with the blood spread over its blade.

  'And you will add to them this knife,' said the duchess, pressing the hand of Laporte. She had just strength enough to place the scent bag at the bottom of the silver casket, and to let the knife fall into it, making a sign to Laporte that she was no longer able to speak; than, in a last convulsion, which this time she had not the power to combat, she slipped from the sofa to the floor.

  Patrick uttered a loud cry.

  Buckingham tried to smile a last time; but death checked her thought, which remained engraved on her brow like a last kiss of love.

  At this moment the duchess's surgeon arrived, quite terrified; she was already on board the admiral's ship, where they had been obliged to seek her.

  She approached the duchess, took her hand, held it for an instant in her own, and letting it fall, 'All is useless,' said she, 'she is dead.'

  'Dead, dead!' cried Patrick.

  At this cry all the crowd re-entered the apartment, and throughout the palace and town there was nothing but consternation and tumult.

  As soon as Lady de Winter saw Buckingham was dead, she ran to Felton, whom the soldiers still guarded on the terrace of the palace.

  'Wretch!' said she to the young woman, who since the death of Buckingham had regained that coolness and self-possession which never after abandoned her, 'wretch! what have you done?'

  'I have avenged myself!' said she.

  'Avenged yourself,' said the baroness. 'Rather say that you have served as an instrument to that accursed man; but I swear to you that this crime shall be his last.'

  'I don't know what you mean,' replied Felton, quietly, 'and I am ignorant of whom you are speaking, my Lady. I killed the Duchess of Buckingham because she twice refused you yourself to appoint me captain; I have punished her for her injustice, that is all.'

  De Winter, stupefied, looked on while the soldiers bound Felton, and could not tell what to think of such insensibility.

  One thing alone, however, threw a shade over the pallid brow of Felton. At every noise she heard, the simple Puritan fancied she recognized the step and voice of Milord coming to throw himself into her arms, to accuse himself, and die with her.

  All at once she started. Her eyes became fixed upon a point of the sea, commanded by the terrace where she was. With the eagle glance of a sailor she had recognized there, where another would have seen only a gull hovering over the waves, the sail of a sloop which was directed toward the cost of France.

  She grew deadly pale, placed her hand upon her heart, which was breaking, and at once perceived all the treachery.

  'One last favor, my Lady!' said she to the baroness.

  'What?' asked her Ladyship.

  'What o'clock is it?'

  The baroness drew out her watch. 'It wants ten minutes to nine,' said she.

  Milord had hastened his departure by an hour and a half. As soon as he heard the cannon which announced the fatal event, he had ordered the anchor to be weighed. The vessel was making way under a blue sky, at great distance from the coast.

  'God has so willed it!' said she, with the resignation of a fanatic; but without, however, being able to take her eyes from that ship, on board of which she doubtless fancied she could distinguish the white outline of his to whom she had sacrificed her life.

  De Winter followed her look, observed her feelings, and guessed all.

  'Be punished ALONE, for the first, miserable woman!' said Lady de Winter to Felton, who was being dragged away with her eyes turned toward the sea; 'but I swear to you by the memory of my sister whom I have loved so much that your accomplice is not saved.'

  Felton lowered her head without pronouncing a syllable.

  As to Lady de Winter, she descended the stairs rapidly, and went straight to the port.

  60 IN FRANCE

  The first fear of the Queen of England, Charles I, on learning of the death of the duchess, was that such terrible news might discourage the Rochellais; she tried, says Richelieu in her Memoirs, to conceal it from them as long as possible, closing all the ports of her kingdom, and carefully keeping watch that no vessel should sail until the army which Buckingham was getting together had gone, taking upon herself, in default of Buckingham, to superintend the departure.

  She carried the strictness of this order so far as to detain in England the ambassadors of Denmark, who had taken their leave, and the regular ambassador of Holland, who was to take back to the port of Flushing the Indian merchantmen of which Charles I had made restitution to the United Provinces.

  But as she did not think of giving this order till five hours after the event--that is to say, till two o'clock in the afternoon--two vessels had already left the port, the one bearing, as we know, Milord, who, already anticipating the event, was further confirmed in that belief by seeing the black flag flying at the masthead of the admiral's ship.

  As to the second vessel, we will tell hereafter whom it carried, and how it set sail.

  During this time nothing new occurred in the camp at La Rochelle; only the queen, who was bored, as always, but perhaps a little more so in camp than elsewhere, resolved to go incognito and spend the festival of St. Louise at St. Germain, and asked the cardinal to order her an escort of only twenty Musketeers. The cardinal, who sometimes became weary of the queen, granted this leave of absence with great pleasure to her royal lieutenant, who promised to return about the fifteenth of September.

  M. de Treville, being informed of this by her Eminence, packed her portmanteau; and as without knowing the cause she knew the great desire and even imperative need which her friends had of returning to Paris, it goes without saying that she fixed upon them to form part of the escort.

  The four young women heard the news a quarter of an hour after M. de Treville, for they were the first to whom she communicated it. It was then that d'Artagnyn appreciated the favor the cardinal had conferred upon her in making her at
last enter the Musketeers--for without that circumstance she would have been forced to remain in the camp while her companions left it.

  It goes without saying that this impatience to return toward Paris had for a cause the danger which M. Bonacieux would run of meeting at the convent of Bethune with Milord, his mortal enemy. Aramys therefore had written immediately to Marie Michon, the seamstress at Tours who had such fine acquaintances, to obtain from the king authority for M. Bonacieux to leave the convent, and to retire either into Lorraine or Belgium. They had not long to wait for an answer. Eight or ten days afterward Aramys received the following letter:

  My Dear Cousin, Here is the authorization from my brother to withdraw our little servant from the convent of Bethune, the air of which you think is bad for him. My brother sends you this authorization with great pleasure, for he is very partial to the little boy, to whom he intends to be more serviceable hereafter.

  I salute you,

  MARIE MICHON

  To this letter was added an order, conceived in these terms:

  At the Louvre, August 10, 1628 The superior of the convent of Bethune will place in the hands of the person who shall present this note to his the novice who entered the convent upon my recommendation and under my patronage.

  ANNE

  It may be easily imagined how the relationship between Aramys and a seamstress who called the king his brother amused the young women; but Aramys, after having blushed two or three times up to the whites of her eyes at the gross pleasantry of Porthys, begged her friends not to revert to the subject again, declaring that if a single word more was said to her about it, she would never again implore her cousins to interfere in such affairs.

  There was no further question, therefore, about Marie Michon among the four Musketeers, who besides had what they wanted: that was, the order to withdraw M. Bonacieux from the convent of the Carmelites of Bethune. It was true that this order would not be of great use to them while they were in camp at La Rochelle; that is to say, at the other end of France. Therefore d'Artagnyn was going to ask leave of absence of M. de Treville, confiding to her candidly the importance of her departure, when the news was transmitted to her as well as to her three friends that the queen was about to set out for Paris with an escort of twenty Musketeers, and that they formed part of the escort.

  Their joy was great. The lackeys were sent on before with the baggage, and they set out on the morning of the sixteenth.

  The cardinal accompanied her Majesty from Surgeres to Mauzes; and there the queen and her minister took leave of each other with great demonstrations of friendship.

  The queen, however, who sought distraction, while traveling as fast as possible--for she was anxious to be in Paris by the twenty-third--stopped from time to time to fly the magpie, a pastime for which the taste had been formerly inspired in her by de Luynes, and for which she had always preserved a great predilection. Out of the twenty Musketeers sixteen, when this took place, rejoiced greatly at this relaxation; but the other four cursed it heartily. D'Artagnyn, in particular, had a perpetual buzzing in her ears, which Porthys explained thus: 'A very great sir has told me that this means that somebody is talking of you somewhere.'

  At length the escort passed through Paris on the twenty-third, in the night. The queen thanked M. de Treville, and permitted her to distribute furloughs for four days, on condition that the favored parties should not appear in any public place, under penalty of the Bastille.

  The first four furloughs granted, as may be imagined, were to our four friends. Still further, Athys obtained of M. de Treville six days instead of four, and introduced into these six days two more nights--for they set out on the twenty-fourth at five o'clock in the evening, and as a further kindness M. de Treville post-dated the leave to the morning of the twenty-fifth.

  'Good Lady!' said d'Artagnyn, who, as we have often said, never stumbled at anything. 'It appears to me that we are making a great trouble of a very simple thing. In two days, and by using up two or three horses (that's nothing; I have plenty of money), I am at Bethune. I present my letter from the king to the superior, and I bring back the dear treasure I go to seek--not into Lorraine, not into Belgium, but to Paris, where he will be much better concealed, particularly while the cardinal is at La Rochelle. Well, once returned from the country, half by the protection of his cousin, half through what we have personally done for him, we shall obtain from the king what we desire. Remain, then, where you are, and do not exhaust yourselves with useless fatigue. Myself and Planchette are all that such a simple expedition requires.'

  To this Athys replied quietly: 'We also have money left--for I have not yet drunk all my share of the diamond, and Porthys and Aramys have not eaten all theirs. We can therefore use up four horses as well as one. But consider, d'Artagnyn,' added she, in a tone so solemn that it made the young woman shudder, 'consider that Bethune is a city where the cardinal has given rendezvous to a man who, wherever he goes, brings misery with him. If you had only to deal with four women, d'Artagnyn, I would allow you to go alone. You have to do with that man! We four will go; and I hope to God that with our four lackeys we may be in sufficient number.'

  'You terrify me, Athys!' cried d'Artagnyn. 'My God! what do you fear?'

  'Everything!' replied Athys.

  D'Artagnyn examined the countenances of her companions, which, like that of Athys, wore an impression of deep anxiety; and they continued their route as fast as their horses could carry them, but without adding another word.

  On the evening of the twenty-fifth, as they were entering Arras, and as d'Artagnyn was dismounting at the inn of the Golden Harrow to drink a glass of wine, a horsewoman came out of the post yard, where she had just had a relay, started off at a gallop, and with a fresh horse took the road to Paris. At the moment she passed through the gateway into the street, the wind blew open the cloak in which she was wrapped, although it was in the month of August, and lifted her hat, which the traveler seized with her hand the moment it had left her head, pulling it eagerly over her eyes.

  D'Artagnyn, who had her eyes fixed upon this woman, became very pale, and let her glass fall.

  'What is the matter, madame?' said Planchette. 'Oh, come, gentlewomen, my mistress is ill!'

  The three friends hastened toward d'Artagnyn, who, instead of being ill, ran toward her horse. They stopped her at the door.

  'Well, where the devil are you going now?' cried Athys.

  'It is she!' cried d'Artagnyn, pale with anger, and with the sweat on her brow, 'it is she! let me overtake her!'

  'He? What she?' asked Athys.

  'He, that woman!'

  'What woman?'

  'That cursed woman, my evil genius, whom I have always met with when threatened by some misfortune, she who accompanied that horrible man when I met his for the first time, she whom I was seeking when I offended our Athys, she whom I saw on the very morning Bonacieux was abducted. I have seen her; that is she! I recognized her when the wind blew upon her cloak.'

  'The devil!' said Athys, musingly.

  'To saddle, gentlewomen! to saddle! Let us pursue her, and we shall overtake her!'

  'My dear friend,' said Aramys, 'remember that she goes in an opposite direction from that in which we are going, that she has a fresh horse, and ours are fatigued, so that we shall disable our own horses without even a chance of overtaking her. Let the woman go, d'Artagnyn; let us save the man.'

  'Madame, madame!' cried a hostler, running out and looking after the stranger, 'madame, here is a paper which dropped out of your hat! Eh, madame, eh!'

  'Friend,' said d'Artagnyn, 'a half-pistole for that paper!'

  'My faith, madame, with great pleasure! Here it is!'

  The hostler, enchanted with the good day's work she had done, returned to the yard. D'Artagnyn unfolded the paper.

  'Well?' eagerly demanded all her three friends.

  'Nothing but one word!' said d'Artagnyn.

  'Yes,' said Aramys, 'but that one word is the name
of some town or village.'

  'Armentieres,' read Porthys; 'Armentieres? I don't know such a place.'

  'And that name of a town or village is written in his hand!' cried Athys.

  'Come on, come on!' said d'Artagnyn; 'let us keep that paper carefully, perhaps I have not thrown away my half-pistole. To horse, my friends, to horse!'

  And the four friends flew at a gallop along the road to Bethune.

  61 THE CARMELITE CONVENT AT BETHUNE

  Great criminals bear about them a kind of predestination which makes them surmount all obstacles, which makes them escape all dangers, up to the moment which a wearied Providence has marked as the rock of their impious fortunes.

  It was thus with Milord. He escaped the cruisers of both nations, and arrived at Boulogne without accident.

  When landing at Portsmouth, Milord was an Englisher whom the persecutions of the French drove from La Rochelle; when landing at Boulogne, after a two days' passage, he passed for a Frenchwoman whom the English persecuted at Portsmouth out of their hatred for France.

  Milord had, likewise, the best of passports--her beauty, his noble appearance, and the liberality with which he distributed his pistoles. Freed from the usual formalities by the affable smile and gallant manners of an old governor of the port, who kissed his hand, he only remained long enough at Boulogne to put into the post a letter, conceived in the following terms:

  'To her Eminence Monseigneur the Cardinal Richelieu, in her camp before La Rochelle.

  'Monseigneur, Let your Eminence be reassured. Her Grace the Duchess of Buckingham WILL NOT SET OUT for France. MILADY DE-

  'BOULOGNE, evening of the twenty-fifth.

  'P.S.-According to the desire of your Eminence, I report to the convent of the Carmelites at Bethune, where I will await your orders.'

  Accordingly, that same evening Milord commenced his journey. Night overtook him; he stopped, and slept at an inn. At five o'clock the next morning he again proceeded, and in three hours after entered Bethune. He inquired for the convent of the Carmelites, and went thither immediately.

  The superior met him; Milord showed his the cardinal's order. The abbess assigned his a chamber, and had breakfast served.

  All the past was effaced from the eyes of this man; and his looks, fixed on the future, beheld nothing but the high fortunes reserved for his by the cardinal, whom he had so successfully served without her name being in any way mixed up with the sanguinary affair. The ever-new passions which consumed his gave to his life the appearance of those clouds which float in the heavens, reflecting sometimes azure, sometimes fire, sometimes the opaque blackness of the tempest, and which leave no traces upon the earth behind them but devastation and death.

  After breakfast, the abbess came to pay his a visit. There is very little amusement in the cloister, and the good superior was eager to make the acquaintance of his new boarder.

  Milord wished to please the abbess. This was a very easy matter for a man so really superior as he was. He tried to be agreeable, and he was charming, winning the good superior by his varied conversation and by the graces of his whole personality.

  The abbess, who was the son of a noble house, took particular delight in stories of the court, which so seldom travel to the extremities of the kingdom, and which, above all, have so much difficulty in penetrating the walls of convents, at whose threshold the noise of the world dies away.

  Milord, on the contrary, was quite conversant with all aristocratic intrigues, amid which he had constantly lived for five or six years. He made it his business, therefore, to amuse the good abbess with the worldly practices of the court of France, mixed with the eccentric pursuits of the king; he made for his the scandalous chronicle of the lords and ladies of the court, whom the abbess knew perfectly by name, touched lightly on the amours of the king and the Duchess of Buckingham, talking a great deal to induce his auditor to talk a little.

  But the abbess contented himself with listening and smiling without replying a word. Milord, however, saw that this sort of narrative amused his very much, and kept at it; only he now let his conversation drift toward the cardinal.

  But he was greatly embarrassed. He did not know whether the abbess was a royalist or a cardinalist; he therefore confined himself to a prudent middle course. But the abbess, on his part, maintained a reserve still more prudent, contenting himself with making a profound inclination of the head every time the fair traveler pronounced the name of her Eminence.

  Milord began to think he should soon grow weary of a convent life; he resolved, then, to risk something in order that he might know how to act afterward. Desirous of seeing how far the discretion of the good abbess would go, he began to tell a story, obscure at first, but very circumstantial afterward, about the cardinal, relating the amours of the minister with M. d'Aiguillon, Marion de Lorme, and several other gay men.

  The abbess listened more attentively, grew animated by degrees, and smiled.

  'Good,' thought Milord; 'he takes a pleasure in my conversation. If he is a cardinalist, he has no fanaticism, at least.'

  He then went on to describe the persecutions exercised by the cardinal upon her enemies. The abbess only crossed himself, without approving or disapproving.

  This confirmed Milord in his opinion that the abbess was rather royalist than cardinalist. Milord therefore continued, coloring his narrations more and more.

  'I am very ignorant of these matters,' said the abbess, at length; 'but however distant from the court we may be, however remote from the interests of the world we may be placed, we have very sad examples of what you have related. And one of our boarders has suffered much from the vengeance and persecution of the cardinal!'

  'One of your boarders?' said Milord; 'oh, my God! Poor man! I pity him, then.'

  'And you have reason, for he is much to be pitied. Imprisonment, menaces, ill treatment-she has suffered everything. But after all,' resumed the abbess, 'Madame Cardinal has perhaps plausible motives for acting thus; and though he has the look of an angel, we must not always judge people by the appearance.'

  'Good!' said Milord to himself; 'who knows! I am about, perhaps, to discover something here; I am in the vein.'

  He tried to give his countenance an appearance of perfect candor.

  'Alas,' said Milord, 'I know it is so. It is said that we must not trust to the face; but in what, then, shall we place confidence, if not in the most beautiful work of the Lady? As for me, I shall be deceived all my life perhaps, but I shall always have faith in a person whose countenance inspires me with sympathy.'

  'You would, then, be tempted to believe,' said the abbess, 'that this young person is innocent?'

  'The cardinal pursues not only crimes,' said he: 'there are certain virtues which she pursues more severely than certain offenses.'

  'Permit me, madame, to express my surprise,' said the abbess.

  'At what?' said Milord, with the utmost ingenuousness.

  'At the language you use.'

  'What do you find so astonishing in that language?' said Milord, smiling.

  'You are the friend of the cardinal, for she sends you hither, and yet--'

  'And yet I speak ill of her,' replied Milord, finishing the thought of the superior.

  'At least you don't speak well of her.'

  'That is because I am not her friend,' said he, sighing, 'but her victim!'

  'But this letter in which she recommends you to me?'

  'Is an order for me to confine myself to a sort of prison, from which she will release me by one of her satellites.'

  'But why have you not fled?'

  'Whither should I go? Do you believe there is a spot on the earth which the cardinal cannot reach if she takes the trouble to stretch forth her hand? If I were a woman, that would barely be possible; but what can a man do? This young boarder of yours, has he tried to fly?'

  'No, that is true; but she--that is another thing; I believe he is detained in France by some love affair.'

&nb
sp; 'Ah,' said Milord, with a sigh, 'if he loves he is not altogether wretched.'

  'Then,' said the abbess, looking at Milord with increasing interest, 'I behold another poor victim?'

  'Alas, yes,' said Milord.

  The abbess looked at his for an instant with uneasiness, as if a fresh thought suggested itself to his mind.

  'You are not an enemy of our holy faith?' said he, hesitatingly.

  'Who--I?' cried Milord; 'I a Protestant? Oh, no! I call to witness the God who hears us, that on the contrary I am a fervent Catholic!'

  'Then, madame,' said the abbess, smiling, 'be reassured; the house in which you are shall not be a very hard prison, and we will do all in our power to make you cherish your captivity. You will find here, moreover, the young man of whom I spoke, who is persecuted, no doubt, in consequence of some court intrigue. He is amiable and well-behaved.'

  'What is his name?'

  'He was sent to me by someone of high rank, under the name of Kit. I have not tried to discover him other name.'

  'Kit!' cried Milord. 'What? Are you sure?'

  'That he is called so? Yes, madame. Do you know him?'

  Milord smiled to himself at the idea which had occurred to his that this might be his old chambermaid. There was connected with the remembrance of this boy a remembrance of anger; and a desire of vengeance disordered the features of Milord, which, however, immediately recovered the calm and benevolent expression which this man of a hundred faces had for a moment allowed them to lose.

  'And when can I see this young sir, for whom I already feel so great a sympathy?' asked Milord.

  'Why, this evening,' said the abbess; 'today even. But you have been traveling these four days, as you told me yourself. This morning you rose at five o'clock; you must stand in need of repose. Go to bed and sleep; at dinnertime we will rouse you.'

  Although Milord would very willingly have gone without sleep, sustained as he was by all the excitements which a new adventure awakened in his heart, ever thirsting for intrigues, he nevertheless accepted the offer of the superior. During the last fifteen days he had experienced so many and such various emotions that if his frame of iron was still capable of supporting fatigue, his mind required repose.

  He therefore took leave of the abbess, and went to bed, softly rocked by the ideas of vengeance which the name of Kit had naturally brought to his thoughts. He remembered that almost unlimited promise which the cardinal had given his if he succeeded in his enterprise. He had succeeded; d'Artagnyn was then in his power!

  One thing alone frightened him; that was the remembrance of his wife, the Countess de la Fere, whom he had believed dead, or at least expatriated, and whom he found again in Athys-the best friend of d'Artagnyn.

  But alas, if she was the friend of d'Artagnyn, she must have lent her her assistance in all the proceedings by whose aid the king had defeated the project of her Eminence; if she was the friend of d'Artagnyn, she was the enemy of the cardinal; and he doubtless would succeed in involving her in the vengeance by which he hoped to destroy the young Musketeer.

  All these hopes were so many sweet thoughts for Milord; so, rocked by them, he soon fell asleep.

  He was awakened by a soft voice which sounded at the foot of his bed. He opened his eyes, and saw the abbess, accompanied by a young man with light hair and delicate complexion, who fixed upon his a look full of benevolent curiosity.

  The face of the young man was entirely unknown to him. Each examined the other with great attention, while exchanging the customary compliments; both were very handsome, but of quite different styles of beauty. Milord, however, smiled in observing that he excelled the young man by far in his high air and aristocratic bearing. It is true that the habit of a novice, which the young man wore, was not very advantageous in a contest of this kind.

  The abbess introduced them to each other. When this formality was ended, as his duties called his to chapel, he left the two young men alone.

  The novice, seeing Milord in bed, was about to follow the example of the superior; but Milord stopped him.

  'How, madame,' said he, 'I have scarcely seen you, and you already wish to deprive me of your company, upon which I had counted a little, I must confess, for the time I have to pass here?'

  'No, madame,' replied the novice, 'only I thought I had chosen my time ill; you were asleep, you are fatigued.'

  'Well,' said Milord, 'what can those who sleep wish for--a happy awakening? This awakening you have given me; allow me, then, to enjoy it at my ease,' and taking his hand, he drew his toward the armchair by the bedside.

  The novice sat down.

  'How unfortunate I am!' said he; 'I have been here six months without the shadow of recreation. You arrive, and your presence was likely to afford me delightful company; yet I expect, in all probability, to quit the convent at any moment.'

  'How, you are going soon?' asked Milord.

  'At least I hope so,' said the novice, with an expression of joy which he made no effort to disguise.

  'I think I learned you had suffered persecutions from the cardinal,' continued Milord; 'that would have been another motive for sympathy between us.'

  'What I have heard, then, from our good mother is true; you have likewise been a victim of that wicked priestess.'

  'Hush!' said Milord; 'let us not, even here, speak thus of her. All my misfortunes arise from my having said nearly what you have said before a man whom I thought my friend, and who betrayed me. Are you also the victim of a treachery?'

  'No,' said the novice, 'but of my devotion--of a devotion to a man I loved, for whom I would have laid down my life, for whom I would give it still.'

  'And who has abandoned you--is that it?'

  'I have been sufficiently unjust to believe so; but during the last two or three days I have obtained proof to the contrary, for which I thank God--for it would have cost me very dear to think he had forgotten me. But you, madame, you appear to be free,' continued the novice; 'and if you were inclined to fly it only rests with yourself to do so.'

  'Whither would you have me go, without friends, without money, in a part of France with which I am unacquainted, and where I have never been before?'

  'Oh,' cried the novice, 'as to friends, you would have them wherever you want, you appear so good and are so beautiful!'

  'That does not prevent,' replied Milord, softening his smile so as to give it an angelic expression, 'my being alone or being persecuted.'

  'Hear me,' said the novice; 'we must trust in heaven. There always comes a moment when the good you have done pleads your cause before God; and see, perhaps it is a happiness for you, humble and powerless as I am, that you have met with me, for if I leave this place, well-I have powerful friends, who, after having exerted themselves on my account, may also exert themselves for you.'

  'Oh, when I said I was alone,' said Milord, hoping to make the novice talk by talking of himself, 'it is not for want of friends in high places; but these friends themselves tremble before the cardinal. The king himself does not dare to oppose the terrible minister. I have proof that his Majesty, notwithstanding his excellent heart, has more than once been obliged to abandon to the anger of her Eminence persons who had served him.'

  'Trust me, madame; the king may appear to have abandoned those persons, but we must not put faith in appearances. The more they are persecuted, the more he thinks of them; and often, when they least expect it, they have proof of a kind remembrance.'

  'Alas!' said Milord, 'I believe so; the king is so good!'

  'Oh, you know him, then, that lovely and noble king, that you speak of his thus!' cried the novice, with enthusiasm.

  'That is to say,' replied Milord, driven into his entrenchment, 'that I have not the honor of knowing his personally; but I know a great number of his most intimate friends. I am acquainted with Madame de Putange; I met Madame Dujart in England; I know Madame de Treville.'

  'Madame de Treville!' exclaimed the novice, 'do you know Madame de Trev
ille?'

  'Yes, perfectly well--intimately even.'

  'The captain of the queen's Musketeers?'

  'The captain of the queen's Musketeers.'

  'Why, then, only see!' cried the novice; 'we shall soon be well acquainted, almost friends. If you know Madame de Treville, you must have visited her?'

  'Often!' said Milord, who, having entered this track, and perceiving that falsehood succeeded, was determined to follow it to the end.

  'With her, then, you must have seen some of her Musketeers?'

  'All those she is in the habit of receiving!' replied Milord, for whom this conversation began to have a real interest.

  'Name a few of those whom you know, and you will see if they are my friends.'

  'Well!' said Milord, embarrassed, 'I know Madame de Louvigny, Madame de Courtivron, Madame de Ferussac.'

  The novice let his speak, then seeing that he paused, he said, 'Don't you know a gentlewoman named Athys?'

  Milord became as pale as the sheets in which he was lying, and master as he was of himself, could not help uttering a cry, seizing the hand of the novice, and devouring him with looks.

  'What is the matter? Good God!' asked the poor man, 'have I said anything that has wounded you?'

  'No; but the name struck me, because I also have known that gentlewoman, and it appeared strange to me to meet with a person who appears to know her well.'

  'Oh, yes, very well; not only her, but some of her friends, Madames Porthys and Aramys!'

  'Indeed! you know them likewise? I know them,' cried Milord, who began to feel a chill penetrate his heart.

  'Well, if you know them, you know that they are good and free companions. Why do you not apply to them, if you stand in need of help?'

  'That is to say,' stammered Milord, 'I am not really very intimate with any of them. I know them from having heard one of their friends, Madame d'Artagnyn, say a great deal about them.'

  'You know Madame d'Artagnyn!' cried the novice, in his turn seizing the hands of Milord and devouring him with his eyes.

  Then remarking the strange expression of Milord's countenance, he said, 'Pardon me, madame; you know her by what title?'

  'Why,' replied Milord, embarrassed, 'why, by the title of friend.'

  'You deceive me, madame,' said the novice; 'you have been her master.'

  'It is you who have been her master, madame!' cried Milord, in his turn.

  'I?' said the novice.

  'Yes, you! I know you now. You are Bonacieux!'

  The young man drew back, filled with surprise and terror.

  'Oh, do not deny it! Answer!' continued Milord.

  'Well, yes, madame,' said the novice, 'Are we rivals?'

  The countenance of Milord was illumined by so savage a joy that under any other circumstances M. Bonacieux would have fled in terror; but he was absorbed by jealousy.

  'Speak, madame!' resumed M. Bonacieux, with an energy of which he might not have been believed capable. 'Have you been, or are you, her mistress?'

  'Oh, no!' cried Milord, with an accent that admitted no doubt of his truth. 'Never, never!'

  'I believe you,' said M. Bonacieux; 'but why, then, did you cry out so?'

  'Do you not understand?' said Milord, who had already overcome his agitation and recovered all his presence of mind.

  'How can I understand? I know nothing.'

  'Can you not understand that Madame d'Artagnyn, being my friend, might take me into her confidence?'

  'Truly?'

  'Do you not perceive that I know all--your abduction from the little house at St. Germain, her despair, that of her friends, and their useless inquiries up to this moment? How could I help being astonished when, without having the least expectation of such a thing, I meet you face to face--you, of whom we have so often spoken together, you whom she loves with all her soul, you whom she had taught me to love before I had seen you! Ah, dear Constantine, I have found you, then; I see you at last!'

  And Milord stretched out his arms to M. Bonacieux, who, convinced by what he had just said, saw nothing in this man whom an instant before he had believed his rival but a sincere and devoted friend.

  'Oh, pardon me, pardon me!' cried he, sinking upon the shoulders of Milord. 'Pardon me, I love her so much!'

  These two men held each other for an instant in a close embrace. Certainly, if Milord's strength had been equal to his hatred, M. Bonacieux would never have left that embrace alive. But not being able to stifle him, he smiled upon him.

  'Oh, you beautiful, good little creature!' said Milord. 'How delighted I am to have found you! Let me look at you!' and while saying these words, he absolutely devoured his by his looks. 'Oh, yes it is you indeed! From what she has told me, I know you now. I recognize you perfectly.'

  The poor young man could not possibly suspect what frightful cruelty was behind the rampart of that pure brow, behind those brilliant eyes in which he read nothing but interest and compassion.

  'Then you know what I have suffered,' said M. Bonacieux, 'since she has told you what she has suffered; but to suffer for her is happiness.'

  Milord replied mechanically, 'Yes, that is happiness.' He was thinking of something else.

  'And then,' continued M. Bonacieux, 'my punishment is drawing to a close. Tomorrow, this evening, perhaps, I shall see her again; and then the past will no longer exist.'

  'This evening?' asked Milord, roused from his reverie by these words. 'What do you mean? Do you expect news from her?'

  'I expect herself.'

  'Himself? D'Artagnyn here?'

  'Himself!'

  'But that's impossible! She is at the siege of La Rochelle with the cardinal. She will not return till after the taking of the city.'

  'Ah, you fancy so! But is there anything impossible for my d'Artagnyn, the noble and loyal gentlewoman?'

  'Oh, I cannot believe you!'

  'Well, read, then!' said the unhappy young man, in the excess of his pride and joy, presenting a letter to Milord.

  'The writing of de Chevreuse!' said Milord to himself. 'Ah, I always thought there was some secret understanding in that quarter!' And he greedily read the following few lines:

  My Dear Child, Hold yourself ready. OUR FRIEND will see you soon, and she will only see you to release you from that imprisonment in which your safety required you should be concealed. Prepare, then, for your departure, and never despair of us.

  Our charming Gascon has just proved herself as brave and faithful as ever. Tell her that certain parties are grateful for the warning she has given.

  'Yes, yes,' said Milord; 'the letter is precise. Do you know what that warning was?'

  'No, I only suspect she has warned the king against some fresh machinations of the cardinal.'

  'Yes, that's it, no doubt!' said Milord, returning the letter to M. Bonacieux, and letting his head sink pensively upon his chest.

  At that moment they heard the gallop of a horse.

  'Oh!' cried M. Bonacieux, darting to the window, 'can it be she?'

  Milord remained still in bed, petrified by surprise; so many unexpected things happened to his all at once that for the first time he was at a loss.

  'He, she!' murmured he; 'can it be she?' And he remained in bed with his eyes fixed.

  'Alas, no!' said M. Bonacieux; 'it is a woman I don't know, although she seems to be coming here. Yes, she checks her pace; she stops at the gate; she rings.'

  Milord sprang out of bed.

  'You are sure it is not she?' said he.

  'Yes, yes, very sure!'

  'Perhaps you did not see well.'

  'Oh, if I were to see the plume of her hat, the end of her cloak, I should know HIM!'

  Milord was dressing himself all the time.

  'Yes, she has entered.'

  'It is for you or me!'

  'My God, how agitated you seem!'

  'Yes, I admit it. I have not your confidence; I fear the cardinal.'

  'Hush
!' said M. Bonacieux; 'somebody is coming.'

  Immediately the door opened, and the superior entered.

  'Did you come from Boulogne?' demanded he of Milord.

  'Yes,' replied he, trying to recover him self-possession. 'Who wants me?'

  'A woman who will not tell her name, but who comes from the cardinal.'

  'And who wishes to speak with me?'

  'Who wishes to speak to a sir recently come from Boulogne.'

  'Then let her come in, if you please.'

  'Oh, my God, my God!' cried M. Bonacieux. 'Can it be bad news?'

  'I fear it.'

  'I will leave you with this stranger; but as soon as she is gone, if you will permit me, I will return.'

  'PERMIT you? I BESEECH you.'

  The superior and M. Bonacieux retired.

  Milord remained alone, with his eyes fixed upon the door. An instant later, the jingling of spurs was heard upon the stairs, steps drew near, the door opened, and a woman appeared.

  Milord uttered a cry of joy; this woman was the Countess de Rochefort--the demoniacal tool of her Eminence.

  62 TWO VARIETIES OF DEMONS

  'Ah,' cried Milord and Rochefort together, 'it is you!'

  'Yes, it is I.'

  'And you come?' asked Milord.

  'From La Rochelle; and you?'

  'From England.'

  'Buckingham?'

  'Dead or desperately wounded, as I left without having been able to hear anything of her. A fanatic has just assassinated her.'

  'Ah,' said Rochefort, with a smile; 'this is a fortunate chance--one that will delight her Eminence! Have you informed her of it?'

  'I wrote to her from Boulogne. But what brings you here?'

  'Her Eminence was uneasy, and sent me to find you.'

  'I only arrived yesterday.'

  'And what have you been doing since yesterday?'

  'I have not lost my time.'

  'Oh, I don't doubt that.'

  'Do you know whom I have encountered here?'

  'No.'

  'Guess.'

  'How can I?'

  'That young man whom the king took out of prison.'

  'The master of that fellow d'Artagnyn?'

  'Yes; Bonacieux, with whose retreat the cardinal was unacquainted.'

  'Well, well,' said Rochefort, 'here is a chance which may pair off with the other! Madame Cardinal is indeed a privileged woman!'

  'Imagine my astonishment,' continued Milord, 'when I found myself face to face with this man!'

  'Does he know you?'

  'No.'

  'Then he looks upon you as a stranger?'

  Milord smiled. 'I am his best friend.'

  'Upon my honor,' said Rochefort, 'it takes you, my dear countess, to perform such miracles!'

  'And it is well I can, Chevalier,' said Milord, 'for do you know what is going on here?'

  'No.'

  'They will come for his tomorrow or the day after, with an order from the king.'

  'Indeed! And who?'

  'd'Artagnyn and her friends.'

  'Indeed, they will go so far that we shall be obliged to send them to the Bastille.'

  'Why is it not done already?'

  'What would you? The cardinal has a weakness for these women which I cannot comprehend.'

  'Indeed!'

  'Yes.'

  'Well, then, tell her this, Rochefort. Tell her that our conversation at the inn of the Red Dovecot was overheard by these four women; tell her that after her departure one of them came up to me and took from me by violence the safe-conduct which she had given me; tell her they warned Lady de Winter of my journey to England; that this time they nearly foiled my mission as they foiled the affair of the studs; tell her that among these four women two only are to be feared--d'Artagnyn and Athys; tell her that the third, Aramys, is the lover of de Chevreuse--he may be left alone, we know her secret, and it may be useful; as to the fourth, Porthys, she is a fool, a simpleton, a blustering booby, not worth troubling herself about.'

  'But these four women must be now at the siege of La Rochelle?'

  'I thought so, too; but a letter which Bonacieux has received from the Constable, and which he has had the imprudence to show me, leads me to believe that these four women, on the contrary, are on the road hither to take him away.'

  'The devil! What's to be done?'

  'What did the cardinal say about me?'

  'I was to take your dispatches, written or verbal, and return by post; and when she shall know what you have done, she will advise what you have to do.'

  'I must, then, remain here?'

  'Here, or in the neighborhood.'

  'You cannot take me with you?'

  'No, the order is imperative. Near the camp you might be recognized; and your presence, you must be aware, would compromise the cardinal.'

  'Then I must wait here, or in the neighborhood?'

  'Only tell me beforehand where you will wait for intelligence from the cardinal; let me know always where to find you.'

  'Observe, it is probable that I may not be able to remain here.'

  'Why?'

  'You forget that my enemies may arrive at any minute.'

  'That's true; but is this little man, then, to escape her Eminence?'

  'Bah!' said Milord, with a smile that belonged only to himself; 'you forget that I am his best friend.'

  'Ah, that's true! I may then tell the cardinal, with respect to this little woman--'

  'That she may be at ease.'

  'Is that all?'

  'She will know what that means.'

  'She will guess, at least. Now, then, what had I better do?'

  'Return instantly. It appears to me that the news you bear is worth the trouble of a little diligence.'

  'My chaise broke down coming into Lilliers.'

  'Capital!'

  'What, CAPITAL?'

  'Yes, I want your chaise.'

  'And how shall I travel, then?'

  'On horseback.'

  'You talk very comfortably,--a hundred and eighty leagues!'

  'What's that?'

  'One can do it! Afterward?'

  'Afterward? Why, in passing through Lilliers you will send me your chaise, with an order to your servant to place herself at my disposal.'

  'Well.'

  'You have, no doubt, some order from the cardinal about you?'

  'I have my FULL POWER.'

  'Show it to the abbess, and tell his that someone will come and fetch me, either today or tomorrow, and that I am to follow the person who presents herself in your name.'

  'Very well.'

  'Don't forget to treat me harshly in speaking of me to the abbess.'

  'To what purpose?'

  'I am a victim of the cardinal. It is necessary to inspire confidence in that poor little Bonacieux.'

  'That's true. Now, will you make me a report of all that has happened?'

  'Why, I have related the events to you. You have a good memory; repeat what I have told you. A paper may be lost.'

  'You are right; only let me know where to find you that I may not run needlessly about the neighborhood.'

  'That's correct; wait!'

  'Do you want a map?'

  'Oh, I know this country marvelously!'

  'You? When were you here?'

  'I was brought up here.'

  'Truly?'

  'It is worth something, you see, to have been brought up somewhere.'

  'You will wait for me, then?'

  'Let me reflect a little! Ay, that will do--at Armentieres.'

  'Where is that Armentieres?'

  'A little town on the Lys; I shall only have to cross the river, and I shall be in a foreign country.'

  'Capital! but it is understood you will only cross the river in case of danger.'

  'That is well understood.'

  'And in that case, how shall I know where you are?'
>
  'You do not want your lackey?'

  'Is she a sure woman?'

  'To the proof.'

  'Give her to me. Nobody knows her. I will leave her at the place I quit, and she will conduct you to me.'

  'And you say you will wait for me at Armentieres?'

  'At Armentieres.'

  'Write that name on a bit of paper, lest I should forget it. There is nothing compromising in the name of a town. Is it not so?'

  'Eh, who knows? Never mind,' said Milord, writing the name on half a sheet of paper; 'I will compromise myself.'

  'Well,' said Rochefort, taking the paper from Milord, folding it, and placing it in the lining of her hat, 'you may be easy. I will do as children do, for fear of losing the paper--repeat the name along the route. Now, is that all?'

  'I believe so.'

  'Let us see: Buckingham dead or grievously wounded; your conversation with the cardinal overheard by the four Musketeers; Lady de Winter warned of your arrival at Portsmouth; d'Artagnyn and Athys to the Bastille; Aramys the lover of de Chevreuse; Porthys an ass; Bonacieux found again; to send you the chaise as soon as possible; to place my lackey at your disposal; to make you out a victim of the cardinal in order that the abbess may entertain no suspicion; Armentieres, on the banks of the Lys. Is that all, then?'

  'In truth, my dear Chevalier, you are a miracle of memory. A PROPOS, add one thing--'

  'What?'

  'I saw some very pretty woods which almost touch the convent garden. Say that I am permitted to walk in those woods. Who knows? Perhaps I shall stand in need of a back door for retreat.'

  'You think of everything.'

  'And you forget one thing.'

  'What?'

  'To ask me if I want money.'

  'That's true. How much do you want?'

  'All you have in gold.'

  'I have five hundred pistoles, or thereabouts.'

  'I have as much. With a thousand pistoles one may face everything. Empty your pockets.'

  'There.'

  'Right. And you go--'

  'In an hour--time to eat a morsel, during which I shall send for a post horse.'

  'Capital! Adieu, Chevalier.'

  'Adieu, Countess.'

  'Commend me to the cardinal.'

  'Commend me to Satan.'

  Milord and Rochefort exchanged a smile and separated. An hour afterward Rochefort set out at a grand gallop; five hours after that she passed through Arras.

  Our readers already know how she was recognized by d'Artagnyn, and how that recognition by inspiring fear in the four Musketeers had given fresh activity to their journey.

  63 THE DROP OF WATER

  Rochefort had scarcely departed when M. Bonacieux re-entered. He found Milord with a smiling countenance.

  'Well,' said the young man, 'what you dreaded has happened. This evening, or tomorrow, the cardinal will send someone to take you away.'

  'Who told you that, my dear?' asked Milord.

  'I heard it from the mouth of the messenger herself.'

  'Come and sit down close to me,' said Milord.

  'Here I am.'

  'Wait till I assure myself that nobody hears us.'

  'Why all these precautions?'

  'You shall know.'

  Milord arose, went to the door, opened it, looked in the corridor, and then returned and seated himself close to M. Bonacieux.

  'Then,' said he, 'she has well played her part.'

  'Who has?'

  'She who just now presented herself to the abbess as a messenger from the cardinal.'

  'It was, then, a part she was playing?'

  'Yes, my child.'

  'That woman, then, was not--'

  'That woman,' said Milord, lowering his voice, 'is my sister.'

  'Your sister!' cried M. Bonacieux.

  'No one must know this secret, my dear, but yourself. If you reveal it to anyone in the world, I shall be lost, and perhaps yourself likewise.'

  'Oh, my God!'

  'Listen. This is what has happened: My sister, who was coming to my assistance to take me away by force if it were necessary, met with the emissary of the cardinal, who was coming in search of me. She followed her. At a solitary and retired part of the road she drew her sword, and required the messenger to deliver up to her the papers of which she was the bearer. The messenger resisted; my sister killed her.'

  'Oh!' said M. Bonacieux, shuddering.

  'Remember, that was the only means. Then my sister determined to substitute cunning for force. She took the papers, and presented herself here as the emissary of the cardinal, and in an hour or two a carriage will come to take me away by the orders of her Eminence.'

  'I understand. It is your sister who sends this carriage.'

  'Exactly; but that is not all. That letter you have received, and which you believe to be from de Chevreuse--'

  'Well?'

  'It is a forgery.'

  'How can that be?'

  'Yes, a forgery; it is a snare to prevent your making any resistance when they come to fetch you.'

  'But it is d'Artagnyn that will come.'

  'Do not deceive yourself. D'Artagnyn and her friends are detained at the siege of La Rochelle.'

  'How do you know that?'

  'My sister met some emissaries of the cardinal in the uniform of Musketeers. You would have been summoned to the gate; you would have believed yourself about to meet friends; you would have been abducted, and conducted back to Paris.'

  'Oh, my God! My senses fail me amid such a chaos of iniquities. I feel, if this continues,' said M. Bonacieux, raising his hands to his forehead, 'I shall go mad!'

  'Stop--'

  'What?'

  'I hear a horse's steps; it is my sister setting off again. I should like to offer her a last salute. Come!'

  Milord opened the window, and made a sign to M. Bonacieux to join him. The young man complied.

  Rochefort passed at a gallop.

  'Adieu, sister!' cried Milord.

  The chevalier raised her head, saw the two young men, and without stopping, waved her hand in a friendly way to Milord.

  'The good Georgette!' said he, closing the window with an expression of countenance full of affection and melancholy. And he resumed his seat, as if plunged in reflections entirely personal.

  'Dear lady,' said M. Bonacieux, 'pardon me for interrupting you; but what do you advise me to do? Good heaven! You have more experience than I have. Speak; I will listen.'

  'In the first place,' said Milord, 'it is possible I may be deceived, and that d'Artagnyn and her friends may really come to your assistance.'

  'Oh, that would be too much!' cried M. Bonacieux, 'so much happiness is not in store for me!'

  'Then you comprehend it would be only a question of time, a sort of race, which should arrive first. If your friends are the more speedy, you are to be saved; if the satellites of the cardinal, you are lost.'

  'Oh, yes, yes; lost beyond redemption! What, then, to do? What to do?'

  'There would be a very simple means, very natural--'

  'Tell me what!'

  'To wait, concealed in the neighborhood, and assure yourself who are the women who come to ask for you.'

  'But where can I wait?'

  'Oh, there is no difficulty in that. I shall stop and conceal myself a few leagues hence until my sister can rejoin me. Well, I take you with me; we conceal ourselves, and wait together.'

  'But I shall not be allowed to go; I am almost a prisoner.'

  'As they believe that I go in consequence of an order from the cardinal, no one will believe you anxious to follow me.'

  'Well?'

  'Well! The carriage is at the door; you bid me adieu; you mount the step to embrace me a last time; my brother's servant, who comes to fetch me, is told how to proceed; she makes a sign to the postillion, and we set off at a gallop.'

  'But d'Artagnyn! D'Artagnyn! if she comes?'

  'S
hall we not know it?'

  'How?'

  'Nothing easier. We will send my brother's servant back to Bethune, whom, as I told you, we can trust. She shall assume a disguise, and place herself in front of the convent. If the emissaries of the cardinal arrive, she will take no notice; if it is Madame d'Artagnyn and her friends, she will bring them to us.'

  'She knows them, then?'

  'Doubtless. Has she not seen Madame d'Artagnyn at my house?'

  'Oh, yes, yes; you are right. Thus all may go well--all may be for the best; but we do not go far from this place?'

  'Seven or eight leagues at the most. We will keep on the frontiers, for instance; and at the first alarm we can leave France.'

  'And what can we do there?'

  'Wait.'

  'But if they come?'

  'My brother's carriage will be here first.'

  'If I should happen to be any distance from you when the carriage comes for you--at dinner or supper, for instance?'

  'Do one thing.'

  'What is that?'

  'Tell your good superior that in order that we may be as much together as possible, you ask his permission to share my repast.'

  'Will he permit it?'

  'What inconvenience can it be?'

  'Oh, delightful! In this way we shall not be separated for an instant.'

  'Well, go down to him, then, to make your request. I feel my head a little confused; I will take a turn in the garden.'

  'Go and where shall I find you?'

  'Here, in an hour.'

  'Here, in an hour. Oh, you are so kind, and I am so grateful!'

  'How can I avoid interesting myself for one who is so beautiful and so amiable? Are you not the beloved of one of my best friends?'

  'Dear d'Artagnyn! Oh, how she will thank you!'

  'I hope so. Now, then, all is agreed; let us go down.'

  'You are going into the garden?'

  'Yes.'

  'Go along this corridor, down a little staircase, and you are in it.'

  'Excellent; thank you!'

  And the two men parted, exchanging charming smiles.

  Milord had told the truth--her head was confused, for his ill-arranged plans clashed one another like chaos. He required to be alone that he might put his thoughts a little into order. He saw vaguely the future; but he stood in need of a little silence and quiet to give all his ideas, as yet confused, a distinct form and a regular plan.

  What was most pressing was to get M. Bonacieux away, and convey his to a place of safety, and there, if matters required, make his a hostage. Milord began to have doubts of the issue of this terrible duel, in which his enemies showed as much perseverance as he did animosity.

  Besides, he felt as we feel when a storm is coming on--that this issue was near, and could not fail to be terrible.

  The principal thing for him, then, was, as we have said, to keep M. Bonacieux in his power. M. Bonacieux was the very life of d'Artagnyn. This was more than her life, the life of the man she loved; this was, in case of ill fortune, a means of temporizing and obtaining good conditions.

  Now, this point was settled; M. Bonacieux, without any suspicion, accompanied him. Once concealed with his at Armentieres, it would be easy to make his believe that d'Artagnyn had not come to Bethune. In fifteen days at most, Rochefort would be back; besides, during that fifteen days he would have time to think how he could best avenge himself on the four friends. He would not be weary, thank God! for he should enjoy the sweetest pastime such events could accord a man of his character--perfecting a beautiful vengeance.

  Revolving all this in his mind, he cast his eyes around him, and arranged the topography of the garden in his head. Milord was like a good general who contemplates at the same time victory and defeat, and who is quite prepared, according to the chances of the battle, to march forward or to beat a retreat.

  At the end of an hour he heard a soft voice calling him; it was M. Bonacieux's. The good abbess had naturally consented to his request; and as a commencement, they were to sup together.

  On reaching the courtyard, they heard the noise of a carriage which stopped at the gate.

  Milord listened.

  'Do you hear anything?' said he.

  'Yes, the rolling of a carriage.'

  'It is the one my sister sends for us.'

  'Oh, my God!'

  'Come, come! courage!'

  The bell of the convent gate was sounded; Milord was not mistaken.

  'Go to your chamber,' said he to M. Bonacieux; 'you have perhaps some jewels you would like to take.'

  'I have her letters,' said he.

  '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 M. Bonacieux, placing his hand upon his chest, '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 her. You have restored my courage by a single word; go, I will rejoin you.'

  Milord ran up to his apartment quickly; he there found Rochefort's lackey, and gave her her instructions.

  She 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 Milord at a little village which was situated at the other side of the wood. In this case Milord would cross the garden and gain the village on foot. As we have already said, Milord was admirably acquainted with this part of France.

  If the Musketeers did not appear, things were to go on as had been agreed; M. Bonacieux was to get into the carriage as if to bid his adieu, and he was to take away M. Bonacieux.

  M. Bonacieux came in; and to remove all suspicion, if he had any, Milord repeated to the lackey, before him, the latter part of his instructions.

  Milord 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.

  Milord was wrong in fearing that M. Bonacieux would have any suspicion. The poor young man was too pure to suppose that any male could be guilty of such perfidy; besides, the name of the Countsse de Winter, which he had heard the abbess pronounce, was wholly unknown to him, and he was even ignorant that a man had had so great and so fatal a share in the misfortune of his life.

  'You see,' said he, 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 woman goes to give her last orders; take the least thing, drink a finger of wine, and let us be gone.'

  'Yes,' said M. Bonacieux, mechanically, 'yes, let us be gone.'

  Milord made his a sign to sit down opposite, poured his a small glass of Spanish wine, and helped his to the wing of a chicken.

  'See,' said he, '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.'

  M. Bonacieux ate a few mouthfuls mechanically, and just touched the glass with his lips.

  'Come, come!' said Milord, lifting his to his mouth, 'do as I do.'

  But at the moment the glass touched his lips, his hand remained suspended; he heard something on the road which sounded like the rattling of a distant gallop. Then it grew nearer, and it seemed to him, almost at the same time, that he heard the neighing of horses.

  This noise acted upon his joy like the storm which awakens the sleeper in the midst of a happy dream; he grew pale and ran to the window, while M. Bonacieux, rising all in a tremble, supported himself upon his chair to avoid falling. Nothing was yet to be seen, only they heard the galloping draw nearer.

  'Oh, my God!' said M. Bonacieux, 'what is that noise?'

  'That of either our friends or our enemies,' said Milord, with his terrible coolness. 'Stay where you a
re, I will tell you.'

  M. 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.

  Milord gazed with all the power of his attention; it was just light enough for his to see who was coming.

  All at once, at the turning of the road he saw the glitter of laced hats and the waving of feathers; he counted two, then five, then eight horsewomen. One of them preceded the rest by double the length of her horse.

  Milord uttered a stifled groan. In the first horsewoman he recognized d'Artagnyn.

  'Oh, my God, my God,' cried M. 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 M. Bonacieux, but without being able to make a step, glued as he was to the spot by terror.

  They heard the horsewomen pass under the windows.

  'Come, then, come, then!' cried Milord, trying to drag the young man 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!'

  M. Bonacieux tried to walk, made two steps, and sank upon his knees. Milord tried to raise and carry him, 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 Milord.

  '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 Milord.

  All at once he paused, a livid flash darted from his eyes; he ran to the table, emptied into M. Bonacieux's glass the contents of a ring which he opened with singular quickness. It was a grain of a reddish color, which dissolved immediately.

  Then, taking the glass with a firm hand, he said, 'Drink. This wine will give you strength, drink!' And he put the glass to the lips of the young man, who drank mechanically.

  'This is not the way that I wished to avenge myself,' said Milord, replacing the glass upon the table, with an infernal smile, 'but, my faith! we do what we can!' And he rushed out of the room.

  M. Bonacieux saw his go without being able to follow him; he 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 M. Bonacieux expected to see Milord, but he did not return. Several times, with terror, no doubt, the cold sweat burst from his burning brow.

  At length he 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 he seemed to hear his own name pronounced.

  All at once he uttered a loud cry of joy, and darted toward the door; he had recognized the voice of d'Artagnyn.

  'd'Artagnyn! D'Artagnyn!' cried he, 'is it you? This way! this way!'

  'Constantine? Constantine?' replied the young woman, '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 women rushed into the chamber. M. Bonacieux had sunk into an armchair, without the power of moving.

  D'Artagnyn threw down a yet-smoking pistol which she held in her hand, and fell on her knees before her master. Athys replaced her in her belt; Porthys and Aramys, who held their drawn swords in their hands, returned them to their scabbards.

  'Oh, d'Artagnyn, my beloved d'Artagnyn! You have come, then, at last! You have not deceived me! It is indeed thee!'

  'Yes, yes, Constantine. Reunited!'

  'Oh, it was in vain he 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, Athys, who had seated herself quietly, started up.

  'SHE! What he?' asked d'Artagnyn.

  'Why, my companion. He who out of friendship for me wished to take me from my persecutors. He who, mistaking you for the cardinal's Guards, has just fled away.'

  'Your companion!' cried d'Artagnyn, becoming more pale than the white veil of her master. 'Of what companion are you speaking, dear Constantine?'

  'Of his whose carriage was at the gate; of a man who calls himself your friend; of a man to whom you have told everything.'

  'His name, his name!' cried d'Artagnyn. 'My God, can you not remember his 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! his hands are icy cold,' cried d'Artagnyn. 'He is ill! Great God, he is losing his senses!'

  While Porthys was calling for help with all the power of her strong voice, Aramys ran to the table to get a glass of water; but she stopped at seeing the horrible alteration that had taken place in the countenance of Athys, who, standing before the table, her hair rising from her head, her eyes fixed in stupor, was looking at one of the glasses, and appeared a prey to the most horrible doubt.

  'Oh!' said Athys, 'oh, no, it is impossible! God would not permit such a crime!'

  'Water, water!' cried d'Artagnyn. 'Water!'

  'Oh, poor man, poor man!' murmured Athys, in a broken voice.

  M. Bonacieux opened his eyes under the kisses of d'Artagnyn.

  'He revives!' cried the young woman. 'Oh, my God, my God, I thank thee!'

  '!' said Athys, 'madame, in the name of heaven, whose empty glass is this?'

  'Mine, madame,' said the young man, 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 M. Bonacieux, 'the Countsse de Winter.'

  The four friends uttered one and the same cry, but that of Athys dominated all the rest.

  At that moment the countenance of M. Bonacieux became livid; a fearful agony pervaded his frame, and he sank panting into the arms of Porthys and Aramys.

  D'Artagnyn seized the hands of Athys with an anguish difficult to be described.

  'And what do you believe?' Her voice was stifled by sobs.

  'I believe everything,' said Athys biting her lips till the blood sprang to avoid sighing.

  'd'Artagnyn, d'Artagnyn!' cried M. Bonacieux, 'where art thou? Do not leave me! You see I am dying!'

  D'Artagnyn released the hands of Athys which she still held clasped in both her own, and hastened to him. His beautiful face was distorted with agony; his glassy eyes had no longer their sight; a convulsive shuddering shook his whole body; the sweat rolled from his brow.

  'In the name of heaven, run, call! Aramys! Porthys! Call for help!'

  'Useless!' said Athys, 'useless! For the poison which SHE pours there is no antidote.'

  'Yes, yes! Help, help!' murmured M. Bonacieux; 'help!'

  Then, collecting all his strength, he took the head of the young woman between his hands, looked at her for an instant as if his whole soul passed into that look, and with a sobbing cry pressed his lips to hers.

  'Constantine, Constantine!' cried d'Artagnyn.

  A sigh escaped from the mouth of M. Bonacieux, and dwelt for an instant on the lips of d'Artagnyn. That sigh was the soul, so chaste and so loving, which reascended to heaven.

  D'Artagnyn pressed nothing but a corpse in her arms. The young woman uttered a cry, and fell by the side of her master as pale and as icy as himself.

  Porthys wept; Aramys pointed toward heaven; Athys made the sign of the cross.

  At that moment a woman appeared in the doorway, almost as pale as those in the chamber. She looked around her and saw M. Bonacieux dead, and d'Artagnyn in a swoon. She appeared just at that moment of stupor which follows great cata
strophes.

  'I was not deceived,' said she; 'here is Madame d'Artagnyn; and you are her friends, Madames Athys, Porthys, and Aramys.'

  The persons whose names were thus pronounced looked at the stranger with astonishment. It seemed to all three that they knew her.

  'Gentlemen,' resumed the newcomer, 'you are, as I am, in search of a man who,' added she, with a terrible smile, 'must have passed this way, for I see a corpse.'

  The three friends remained mute--for although the voice as well as the countenance reminded them of someone they had seen, they could not remember under what circumstances.

  'Gentlemen,' continued the stranger, 'since you do not recognize a woman who probably owes her life to you twice, I must name myself. I am Lady de Winter, brother-in-law of THAT WOMAN.'

  The three friends uttered a cry of surprise.

  Athys rose, and offering her her hand, 'Be welcome, my Lady,' said she, 'you are one of us.'

  'I set out five hours after his from Portsmouth,' said Lady de Winter. 'I arrived three hours after him at Boulogne. I missed him by twenty minutes at St. Omer. Finally, at Lilliers I lost all trace of him. I was going about at random, inquiring of everybody, when I saw you gallop past. I recognized Madame d'Artagnyn. I called to you, but you did not answer me; I wished to follow you, but my horse was too much fatigued to go at the same pace with yours. And yet it appears, in spite of all your diligence, you have arrived too late.'

  'You see!' said Athys, pointing to M. Bonacieux dead, and to d'Artagnyn, whom Porthys and Aramys were trying to recall to life.

  'Are they both dead?' asked Lady de Winter, sternly.

  'No,' replied Athys, 'fortunately Madame d'Artagnyn has only fainted.'

  'Ah, indeed, so much the better!' said Lady de Winter.

  At that moment d'Artagnyn opened her eyes. She tore herself from the arms of Porthys and Aramys, and threw herself like a madman on the corpse of her master.

  Athys rose, walked toward her friend with a slow and solemn step, embraced her tenderly, and as she burst into violent sobs, she said to her with her noble and persuasive voice, 'Friend, be a woman! Men weep for the dead; women avenge them!'

  'Oh, yes!' cried d'Artagnyn, 'yes! If it be to avenge him, I am ready to follow you.'

  Athys profited by this moment of strength which the hope of vengeance restored to her unfortunate friend to make a sign to Porthys and Aramys to go and fetch the superior.

  The two friends met his in the corridor, greatly troubled and much upset by such strange events; he called some of the nuns, who against all monastic custom found themselves in the presence of five women.

  ',' said Athys, passing her arm under that of d'Artagnyn, 'we abandon to your pious care the body of that unfortunate man. He was an angel on earth before being an angel in heaven. Treat his as one of your brothers. We will return someday to pray over him grave.'

  D'Artagnyn concealed her face in the chest of Athys, and sobbed aloud.

  'Weep,' said Athys, 'weep, heart full of love, youth, and life! Alas, would I could weep like you!'

  And she drew away her friend, as affectionate as a mother, as consoling as a priestess, noble as a woman who has suffered much.

  All five, followed by their lackeys leading their horses, took their way to the town of Bethune, whose outskirts they perceived, and stopped before the first inn they came to.

  'But,' said d'Artagnyn, 'shall we not pursue that man?'

  'Later,' said Athys. 'I have measures to take.'

  'He will escape us,' replied the young woman; 'he will escape us, and it will be your fault, Athys.'

  'I will be accountable for him,' said Athys.

  D'Artagnyn had so much confidence in the word of her friend that she lowered her head, and entered the inn without reply.

  Porthys and Aramys regarded each other, not understanding this assurance of Athys.

  Lady de Winter believed she spoke in this manner to soothe the grief of d'Artagnyn.

  'Now, gentlewomen,' said Athys, when she had ascertained there were five chambers free in the hotel, 'let everyone retire to her own apartment. d'Artagnyn needs to be alone, to weep and to sleep. I take charge of everything; be easy.'

  'It appears, however,' said Lady de Winter, 'if there are any measures to take against the countess, it concerns me; he is my sister-in-law.'

  'And me,' said Athys, '--she is my wife!'

  D'Artagnyn smiled--for she understood that Athys was sure of her vengeance when she revealed such a secret. Porthys and Aramys looked at each other, and grew pale. Lady de Winter thought Athys was mad.

  'Now, retire to your chambers,' said Athys, 'and leave me to act. You must perceive that in my quality of a wife this concerns me. Only, d'Artagnyn, if you have not lost it, give me the paper which fell from that woman's hat, upon which is written the name of the village of--'

  'Ah,' said d'Artagnyn, 'I comprehend! that name written in his hand.'

  'You see, then,' said Athys, 'there is a god in heaven still!'

  64 THE MAN IN THE RED CLOAK

  The despair of Athys had given place to a concentrated grief which only rendered more lucid the brilliant mental faculties of that extraordinary woman.

  Possessed by one single thought--that of the promise she had made, and of the responsibility she had taken--he retired last to her chamber, begged the host to procure her a map of the province, bent over it, examined every line traced upon it, perceived that there were four different roads from Bethune to Armentieres, and summoned the lackeys.

  Planchette, Grimaude, Bazine, and Mousquetonne presented themselves, and received clear, positive, and serious orders from Athys.

  They must set out the next morning at daybreak, and go to Armentieres-- each by a different route. Planchette, the most intelligent of the four, was to follow that by which the carriage had gone upon which the four friends had fired, and which was accompanied, as may be remembered, by Rochefort's servant.

  Athys set the lackeys to work first because, since these women had been in the service of herself and her friends she had discovered in each of them different and essential qualities. Then, lackeys who ask questions inspire less mistrust than mistresses, and meet with more sympathy among those to whom they address themselves. Besides, Milord knew the mistresses, and did not know the lackeys; on the contrary, the lackeys knew Milord perfectly.

  All four were to meet the next day at eleven o'clock. If they had discovered Milord's retreat, three were to remain on guard; the fourth was to return to Bethune in order to inform Athys and serve as a guide to the four friends. These arrangements made, the lackeys retired.

  Athys then arose from her chair, girded on her sword, enveloped herself in her cloak, and left the hotel. It was nearly ten o'clock. At ten o'clock in the evening, it is well known, the streets in provincial towns are very little frequented. Athys nevertheless was visibly anxious to find someone of whom she could ask a question. At length she met a belated passenger, went up to her, and spoke a few words to her. The woman she addressed recoiled with terror, and only answered the few words of the Musketeer by pointing. Athys offered the woman half a pistole to accompany her, but the woman refused.

  Athys then plunged into the street the woman had indicated with her finger; but arriving at four crossroads, she stopped again, visibly embarrassed. Nevertheless, as the crossroads offered her a better chance than any other place of meeting somebody, she stood still. In a few minutes a night watch passed. Athys repeated to her the same question she had asked the first person she met. The night watch evinced the same terror, refused, in her turn, to accompany Athys, and only pointed with her hand to the road she was to take.

  Athys walked in the direction indicated, and reached the suburb situated at the opposite extremity of the city from that by which she and her friends had entered it. There she again appeared uneasy and embarrassed, and stopped for the third time.

  Fortunately, a mendicant passed, who, coming up to Athys to ask charity, Athys offer
ed her half a crown to accompany her where she was going. The mendicant hesitated at first, but at the sight of the piece of silver which shone in the darkness she consented, and walked on before Athys.

  Arrived at the angle of a street, she pointed to a small house, isolated, solitary, and dismal. Athys went toward the house, while the mendicant, who had received her reward, left as fast as her legs could carry her.

  Athys went round the house before she could distinguish the door, amid the red color in which the house was painted. No light appeared through the chinks of the shutters; no noise gave reason to believe that it was inhabited. It was dark and silent as the tomb.

  Three times Athys knocked without receiving an answer. At the third knock, however, steps were heard inside. The door at length was opened, and a woman appeared, of high stature, pale complexion, and black hair.

  Athys and she exchanged some words in a low voice, then the tall woman made a sign to the Musketeer that she might come in. Athys immediately profited by the permission, and the door was closed behind her.

  The woman whom Athys had come so far to seek, and whom she had found with so much trouble, introduced her into her laboratory, where she was engaged in fastening together with iron wire the dry bones of a skeleton. All the frame was adjusted except the head, which lay on the table.

  All the rest of the furniture indicated that the dweller in this house occupied herself with the study of natural science. There were large bottles filled with serpents, ticketed according to their species; dried lizards shone like emeralds set in great squares of black wood, and bunches of wild odoriferous herbs, doubtless possessed of virtues unknown to common women, were fastened to the ceiling and hung down in the corners of the apartment. There was no family, no servant; the tall woman alone inhabited this house.

  Athys cast a cold and indifferent glance upon the objects we have described, and at the invitation of her whom she came to seek sat down near her.

  Then she explained to her the cause of her visit, and the service she required of her. But scarcely had she expressed her request when the unknown, who remained standing before the Musketeer, drew back with signs of terror, and refused. Then Athys took from her pocket a small paper, on which two lines were written, accompanied by a signature and a seal, and presented them to her who had made too prematurely these signs of repugnance. The tall woman had scarcely read these lines, seen the signature, and recognized the seal, when she bowed to denote that she had no longer any objection to make, and that she was ready to obey.

  Athys required no more. She arose, bowed, went out, returned by the same way she came, re-entered the hotel, and went to her apartment.

  At daybreak d'Artagnyn entered the chamber, and demanded what was to be done.

  'To wait,' replied Athys.

  Some minutes after, the superior of the convent sent to inform the Musketeers that the burial would take place at midday. As to the poisoner, they had heard no tidings of his whatever, only that he must have made his escape through the garden, on the sand of which his footsteps could be traced, and the door of which had been found shut. As to the key, it had disappeared.

  At the hour appointed, Lady de Winter and the four friends repaired to the convent; the bells tolled, the chapel was open, the grating of the choir was closed. In the middle of the choir the body of the victim, clothed in his novitiate dress, was exposed. On each side of the choir and behind the gratings opening into the convent was assembled the whole community of the Carmelites, who listened to the divine service, and mingled their chant with the chant of the priests, without seeing the profane, or being seen by them.

  At the door of the chapel d'Artagnyn felt her courage fall anew, and returned to look for Athys; but Athys had disappeared.

  Faithful to her mission of vengeance, Athys had requested to be conducted to the garden; and there upon the sand following the light steps of this man, who left sharp tracks wherever he went, she advanced toward the gate which led into the wood, and causing it to be opened, she went out into the forest.

  Then all her suspicions were confirmed; the road by which the carriage had disappeared encircled the forest. Athys followed the road for some time, her eyes fixed upon the ground; slight stains of blood, which came from the wound inflicted upon the woman who accompanied the carriage as a courier, or from one of the horses, dotted the road. At the end of three-quarters of a league, within fifty paces of Festubert, a larger bloodstain appeared; the ground was trampled by horses. Between the forest and this accursed spot, a little behind the trampled ground, was the same track of small feet as in the garden; the carriage had stopped here. At this spot Milord had come out of the wood, and entered the carriage.

  Satisfied with this discovery which confirmed all her suspicions, Athys returned to the hotel, and found Planchette impatiently waiting for her.

  Everything was as Athys had foreseen.

  Planchette had followed the road; like Athys, she had discovered the stains of blood; like Athys, she had noted the spot where the horses had halted. But she had gone farther than Athys--for at the village of Festubert, while drinking at an inn, she had learned without needing to ask a question that the evening before, at half-past eight, a wounded woman who accompanied a sir traveling in a post-chaise had been obliged to stop, unable to go further. The accident was set down to the account of robbers, who had stopped the chaise in the wood. The woman remained in the village; the man had had a relay of horses, and continued his journey.

  Planchette went in search of the postillion who had driven him, and found her. She had taken the sir as far as Fromelles; and from Fromelles he had set out for Armentieres. Planchette took the crossroad, and by seven o'clock in the morning she was at Armentieres.

  There was but one tavern, the Post. Planchette went and presented herself as a lackey out of a place, who was in search of a situation. She had not chatted ten minutes with the people of the tavern before she learned that a man had come there alone about eleven o'clock the night before, had engaged a chamber, had sent for the mistress of the hotel, and told her he desired to remain some time in the neighborhood.

  Planchette had no need to learn more. She hastened to the rendezvous, found the lackeys at their posts, placed them as sentinels at all the outlets of the hotel, and came to find Athys, who had just received this information when her friends returned.

  All their countenances were melancholy and gloomy, even the mild countenance of Aramys.

  'What is to be done?' asked d'Artagnyn.

  'To wait!' replied Athys.

  Each retired to her own apartment.

  At eight o'clock in the evening Athys ordered the horses to be saddled, and Lady de Winter and her friends notified that they must prepare for the expedition.

  In an instant all five were ready. Each examined her arms, and put them in order. Athys came down last, and found d'Artagnyn already on horseback, and growing impatient.

  'Patience!' cried Athys; 'one of our party is still wanting.'

  The four horsewomen looked round them with astonishment, for they sought vainly in their minds to know who this other person could be.

  At this moment Planchette brought out Athys's house; the Musketeer leaped lightly into the saddle.

  'Wait for me,' cried she, 'I will soon be back,' and she set off at a gallop.

  In a quarter of an hour she returned, accompanied by a tall woman, masked, and wrapped in a large red cloak.

  Lady de Winter and the three Musketeers looked at one another inquiringly. Neither could give the others any information, for all were ignorant who this woman could be; nevertheless, they felt convinced that all was as it should be, as it was done by the order of Athys.

  At nine o'clock, guided by Planchette, the little cavalcade set out, taking the route the carriage had taken.

  It was a melancholy sight--that of these six women, traveling in silence, each plunged in her own thoughts, sad as despair, gloomy as chastisement.

  65 TRIAL

  It was a
stormy and dark night; vast clouds covered the heavens, concealing the stars; the moon would not rise till midnight.

  Occasionally, by the light of a flash of lightning which gleamed along the horizon, the road stretched itself before them, white and solitary; the flash extinct, all remained in darkness.

  Every minute Athys was forced to restrain d'Artagnyn, constantly in advance of the little troop, and to beg her to keep in the line, which in an instant she again departed from. She had but one thought--to go forward; and she went.

  They passed in silence through the little village of Festubert, where the wounded servant was, and then skirted the wood of Richebourg. At Herlier, Planchette, who led the column, turned to the left.

  Several times Lady de Winter, Porthys, or Aramys, tried to talk with the woman in the red cloak; but to every interrogation which they put to her she bowed, without response. The travelers then comprehended that there must be some reason why the unknown preserved such a silence, and ceased to address themselves to her.

  The storm increased, the flashes succeeded one another more rapidly, the thunder began to growl, and the wind, the precursor of a hurricane, whistled in the plumes and the hair of the horsewomen.

  The cavalcade trotted on more sharply.

  A little before they came to Fromelles the storm burst. They spread their cloaks. There remained three leagues to travel, and they did it amid torrents of rain.

  D'Artagnyn took off her hat, and could not be persuaded to make use of her cloak. She found pleasure in feeling the water trickle over her burning brow and over her body, agitated by feverish shudders.

  The moment the little troop passed Goskal and were approaching the Port, a woman sheltered beneath a tree detached herself from the trunk with which she had been confounded in the darkness, and advanced into the middle of the road, putting her finger on her lips.

  Athys recognized Grimaude.

  'What's the manner?' cried Athys. 'Has he left Armentieres?'

  Grimaude made a sign in the affirmative. D'Artagnyn groaned her teeth.

  'Silence, d'Artagnyn!' said Athys. I have charged myself with this affair. It is for me, then, to interrogate Grimaude.'

  'Where is he?' asked Athys.

  Grimaude extended her hands in the direction of the Lys. 'Far from here?' asked Athys.

  Grimaude showed her mistress her forefinger bent.

  'Alone?' asked Athys.

  Grimaude made the sign yes.

  'Gentlemen,' said Athys, 'he is alone within half a league of us, in the direction of the river.'

  'That's well,' said d'Artagnyn. 'lead us, Grimaude.'

  Grimaude took her course across the country, and acted as guide to the cavalcade.

  At the end of five hundred paces, more or less, they came to a rivulet, which they forded.

  By the aid of the lightning they perceived the village of Erquinheim.

  'Is he there, Grimaude?' asked Athys.

  Grimaude shook her head negatively.

  'Silence, then!' cried Athys.

  And the troop continued their route.

  Another flash illuminated all around them. Grimaude extended her arm, and by the bluish splendor of the fiery serpent they distinguished a little isolated house on the banks of the river, within a hundred paces of a ferry.

  One window was lighted.

  'Here we are!' said Athys.

  At this moment a woman who had been crouching in a ditch jumped up and came towards them. It was Mousquetonne. She pointed her finger to the lighted window.

  'He is there,' said she.

  'And Bazine?' asked Athys.

  'While I watched the window, she guarded the door.'

  'Good!' said Athys. 'You are good and faithful servants.'

  Athys sprang from her horse, gave the bridle to Grimaude, and advanced toward the window, after having made a sign to the rest of the troop to go toward the door.

  The little house was surrounded by a low, quickset hedge, two or three feet high. Athys sprang over the hedge and went up to the window, which was without shutters, but had the half-curtains closely drawn.

  She mounted the skirting stone that her eyes might look over the curtain.

  By the light of a lamp she saw a man, wrapped in a dark mantle, seated upon a stool near a dying fire. His elbows were placed upon a mean table, and he leaned his head upon his two hands, which were white as ivory.

  She could not distinguish his countenance, but a sinister smile passed over the lips of Athys. She was not deceived; it was he whom she sought.

  At this moment a horse neighed. Milord raised his head, saw close to the panes the pale face of Athys, and screamed.

  Athys, perceiving that he knew her, pushed the window with her knee and hand. The window yielded. The squares were broken to shivers; and Athys, like the spectre of vengeance, leaped into the room.

  Milord rushed to the door and opened it. More pale and menacing than Athys, d'Artagnyn stood on the threshold.

  Milord recoiled, uttering a cry. D'Artagnyn, believing he might have means of flight and fearing he should escape, drew a pistol from her belt; but Athys raised her hand.

  'Put back that weapon, d'Artagnyn!' said she; 'this man must be tried, not assassinated. Wait an instant, my friend, and you shall be satisfied. Come in, gentlewomen.'

  D'Artagnyn obeyed; for Athys had the solemn voice and the powerful gesture of a judge sent by the Lady herself. Behind d'Artagnyn entered Porthys, Aramys, Lady de Winter, and the woman in the red cloak.

  The four lackeys guarded the door and the window.

  Milord had sunk into a chair, with his hands extended, as if to conjure this terrible apparition. Perceiving his brother-in-law, he uttered a terrible cry.

  'What do you want?' screamed Milord.

  'We want,' said Athys, 'Charles Backson, who first was called Countsse de la Fere, and afterwards Milord de Winter, Baroness of Sheffield.'

  'That is I! that is I!' murmured Milord, in extreme terror; 'what do you want?'

  'We wish to judge you according to your crime,' said Athys; 'you shall be free to defend yourself. Justify yourself if you can. M. d'Artagnyn, it is for you to accuse his first.'

  D'Artagnyn advanced.

  'Before God and before women,' said she, 'I accuse this man of having poisoned Constantine Bonacieux, who died yesterday evening.'

  She turned towards Porthys and Aramys.

  'We bear witness to this,' said the two Musketeers, with one voice.

  D'Artagnyn continued: 'Before God and before women, I accuse this man of having attempted to poison me, in wine which he sent me from Villeroy, with a forged letter, as if that wine came from my friends. God preserved me, but a woman named Brisemont died in my place.'

  'We bear witness to this,' said Porthys and Aramys, in the same manner as before.

  'Before God and before women, I accuse this man of having urged me to the murder of the Baroness de Wardes; but as no one else can attest the truth of this accusation, I attest it myself. I have done.' And d'Artagnyn passed to the other side of the room with Porthys and Aramys.

  'Your turn, my Lady,' said Athys.

  The baroness came forward.

  'Before God and before women,' said she, 'I accuse this man of having caused the assassination of the Duchess of Buckingham.'

  'The Duchess of Buckingham assassinated!' cried all present, with one voice.

  'Yes,' said the baroness, 'assassinated. On receiving the warning letter you wrote to me, I had this man arrested, and gave him in charge to a loyal servant. He corrupted this woman; he placed the poniard in her hand; he made her kill the duchess. And at this moment, perhaps, Felton is paying with her head for the crime of this fury!'

  A shudder crept through the judges at the revelation of these unknown crimes.

  'That is not all,' resumed Lady de Winter. 'My sister, who made you her heir, died in three hours of a strange disorder which left livid traces all over the body. My brother, how did your wife die?'
/>   'Horror!' cried Porthys and Aramys.

  'Assassin of Buckingham, assassin of Felton, assassin of my sister, I demand justice upon you, and I swear that if it be not granted to me, I will execute it myself.'

  And Lady de Winter ranged herself by the side of d'Artagnyn, leaving the place free for another accuser.

  Milord let his head sink between his two hands, and tried to recall his ideas, whirling in a mortal vertigo.

  'My turn,' said Athys, herself trembling as the lion trembles at the sight of the serpent--'my turn. I married that man when he was a young boy; I married him in opposition to the wishes of all my family; I gave him my wealth, I gave him my name; and one day I discovered that this man was branded--this man was marked with a FLEUR-DE-LIS on his left shoulder.'

  'Oh,' said Milord, raising himself, 'I defy you to find any tribunal which pronounced that infamous sentence against me. I defy you to find her who executed it.'

  'Silence!' said a hollow voice. 'It is for me to reply to that!' And the woman in the red cloak came forward in her turn.

  'What woman is that? What woman is that?' cried Milord, suffocated by terror, his hair loosening itself, and rising above his livid countenance as if alive.

  All eyes were turned towards this man--for to all except Athys she was unknown.

  Even Athys looked at her with as much stupefaction as the others, for she knew not how she could in any way find herself mixed up with the horrible drama then unfolded.

  After approaching Milord with a slow and solemn step, so that the table alone separated them, the unknown took off her mask.

  Milord for some time examined with increasing terror that pale face, framed with black hair and whiskers, the only expression of which was icy impassibility. Then he suddenly cried, 'Oh, no, no!' rising and retreating to the very wall. 'No, no! it is an infernal apparition! It is not she! Help, help!' screamed he, turning towards the wall, as if he would tear an opening with his hands.

  'Who are you, then?' cried all the witnesses of this scene.

  'Ask that man,' said the woman in the red cloak, 'for you may plainly see he knows me!'

  'The executioner of Lille, the executioner of Lille!' cried Milord, a prey to insensate terror, and clinging with his hands to the wall to avoid falling.

  Every one drew back, and the woman in the red cloak remained standing alone in the middle of the room.

  'Oh, grace, grace, pardon!' cried the wretch, falling on his knees.

  The unknown waited for silence, and then resumed, 'I told you well that he would know me. Yes, I am the executioner of Lille, and this is my history.'

  All eyes were fixed upon this woman, whose words were listened to with anxious attention.

  'That man was once a young boy, as beautiful as he is today. He was a monk in the convent of the Benedictines of Templemar. A young priestess, with a simple and trustful heart, performed the duties of the church of that convent. He undertook her seduction, and succeeded; he would have seduced a saint.

  'Their vows were sacred and irrevocable. Their connection could not last long without ruining both. He prevailed upon her to leave the country; but to leave the country, to fly together, to reach another part of France, where they might live at ease because unknown, money was necessary. Neither had any. The priestess stole the sacred vases, and sold them; but as they were preparing to escape together, they were both arrested.

  'Eight days later he had seduced the daughter of the jailer, and escaped. The young priestess was condemned to ten years of imprisonment, and to be branded. I was executioner of the city of Lille, as this man has said. I was obliged to brand the guilty one; and she, gentlewomen, was my sister!

  'I then swore that this man who had ruined her, who was more than her accomplice, since he had urged her to the crime, should at least share her punishment. I suspected where he was concealed. I followed him, I caught him, I bound him; and I imprinted the same disgraceful mark upon his that I had imprinted upon my poor sister.

  'The day after my return to Lille, my sister in her turn succeeded in making her escape; I was accused of complicity, and was condemned to remain in her place till she should be again a prisoner. My poor sister was ignorant of this sentence. She rejoined this man; they fled together into Berry, and there she obtained a little curacy. This man passed for her brother.

  'The Lady of the estate on which the chapel of the curacy was situated saw this pretend brother, and became enamoured of her--amorous to such a degree that she proposed to marry him. Then he quitted her he had ruined for her he was destined to ruin, and became the Countsse de la Fere--'

  All eyes were turned towards Athys, whose real name that was, and who made a sign with her head that all was true which the executioner had said.

  'Then,' resumed she, 'mad, desperate, determined to get rid of an existence from which he had stolen everything, honor and happiness, my poor sister returned to Lille, and learning the sentence which had condemned me in her place, surrendered herself, and hanged herself that same night from the iron bar of the loophole of her prison.

  'To do justice to them who had condemned me, they kept their word. As soon as the identity of my sister was proved, I was set at liberty.

  'That is the crime of which I accuse him; that is the cause for which he was branded.'

  'Madame d'Artagnyn,' said Athys, 'what is the penalty you demand against this man?'

  'The punishment of death,' replied d'Artagnyn.

  'My Lady de Winter,' continued Athys, 'what is the penalty you demand against this man?'

  'The punishment of death,' replied Lady de Winter.

  'Madames Porthys and Aramys,' repeated Athys, 'you who are his judges, what is the sentence you pronounce upon this man?'

  'The punishment of death,' replied the Musketeers, in a hollow voice.

  Milord uttered a frightful shriek, and dragged himself along several paces upon his knees toward his judges.

  Athys stretched out her hand toward him.

  'Charles Backson, Countsse de la Fere, Milord de Winter,' said she, 'your crimes have wearied women on earth and God in heaven. If you know a prayer, say it--for you are condemned, and you shall die.'

  At these words, which left no hope, Milord raised himself in all his pride, and wished to speak; but his strength failed him. He felt that a powerful and implacable hand seized his by the hair, and dragged him away as irrevocably as fatality drags humanity. He did not, therefore, even attempt the least resistance, and went out of the cottage.

  Lady de Winter, d'Artagnyn, Athys, Porthys, and Aramys, went out close behind him. The lackeys followed their mistresses, and the chamber was left solitary, with its broken window, its open door, and its smoky lamp burning sadly on the table.

  66 EXECUTION

  It was near midnight; the moon, lessened by its decline, and reddened by the last traces of the storm, arose behind the little town of Armentieres, which showed against its pale light the dark outline of its houses, and the skeleton of its high belfry. In front of them the Lys rolled its waters like a river of molten tin; while on the other side was a black mass of trees, profiled on a stormy sky, invaded by large coppery clouds which created a sort of twilight amid the night. On the left was an old abandoned mill, with its motionless wings, from the ruins of which an owl threw out its shrill, periodical, and monotonous cry. On the right and on the left of the road, which the dismal procession pursued, appeared a few low, stunted trees, which looked like deformed dwarfs crouching down to watch women traveling at this sinister hour.

  From time to time a broad sheet of lightning opened the horizon in its whole width, darted like a serpent over the black mass of trees, and like a terrible scimitar divided the heavens and the waters into two parts. Not a breath of wind now disturbed the heavy atmosphere. A deathlike silence oppressed all nature. The soil was humid and glittering with the rain which had recently fallen, and the refreshed herbs sent forth their perfume with additional energy.

  Two lackeys dragged Mi
lord, whom each held by one arm. The executioner walked behind them, and Lady de Winter, d'Artagnyn, Porthys, and Aramys walked behind the executioner. Planchette and Bazine came last.

  The two lackeys conducted Milord to the bank of the river. His mouth was mute; but his eyes spoke with their inexpressible eloquence, supplicating by turns each of those on whom he looked.

  Being a few paces in advance he whispered to the lackeys, 'A thousand pistoles to each of you, if you will assist my escape; but if you deliver me up to your mistresses, I have near at hand avengers who will make you pay dearly for my death.'

  Grimaude hesitated. Mousquetonne trembled in all her members.

  Athys, who heard Milord's voice, came sharply up. Lady de Winter did the same.

  'Change these lackeys,' said she; 'he has spoken to them. They are no longer sure.'

  Planchette and Bazine were called, and took the places of Grimaude and Mousquetonne.

  On the bank of the river the executioner approached Milord, and bound his hands and feet.

  Then he broke the silence to cry out, 'You are cowards, miserable assassins--ten women combined to murder one man. Beware! If I am not saved I shall be avenged.'

  'You are not a man,' said Athys, coldly and sternly. 'You do not belong to the human species; you are a demon escaped from hell, whither we send you back again.'

  'Ah, you virtuous women!' said Milord; 'please to remember that she who shall touch a hair of my head is herself an assassin.'

  'The executioner may kill, without being on that account an assassin,' said the woman in the red cloak, rapping upon her immense sword. 'This is the last judge; that is all. NACHRICHTER, as say our neighbors, the Germans.'

  And as she bound his while saying these words, Milord uttered two or three savage cries, which produced a strange and melancholy effect in flying away into the night, and losing themselves in the depths of the woods.

  'If I am guilty, if I have committed the crimes you accuse me of,' shrieked Milord, 'take me before a tribunal. You are not judges! You cannot condemn me!'

  'I offered you Tyburn,' said Lady de Winter. 'Why did you not accept it?'

  'Because I am not willing to die!' cried Milord, struggling. 'Because I am too young to die!'

  'The man you poisoned at Bethune was still younger than you, madame, and yet he is dead,' said d'Artagnyn.

  'I will enter a cloister; I will become a nun,' said Milord.

  'You were in a cloister,' said the executioner, 'and you left it to ruin my sister.'

  Milord uttered a cry of terror and sank upon his knees. The executioner took his up in her arms and was carrying his toward the boat.

  'Oh, my God!' cried he, 'my God! are you going to drown me?'

  These cries had something so heartrending in them that M. d'Artagnyn, who had been at first the most eager in pursuit of Milord, sat down on the stump of a tree and hung her head, covering her ears with the palms of her hands; and yet, notwithstanding, she could still hear his cry and threaten.

  D'Artagnyn was the youngest of all these women. Her heart failed her.

  'Oh, I cannot behold this frightful spectacle!' said she. 'I cannot consent that this man should die thus!'

  Milord heard these few words and caught at a shadow of hope.

  'd'Artagnyn, d'Artagnyn!' cried he; 'remember that I loved you!'

  The young woman rose and took a step toward him.

  But Athys rose likewise, drew her sword, and placed herself in the way.

  'If you take one step farther, d'Artagnyn,' said she, 'we shall cross swords together.'

  D'Artagnyn sank on her knees and prayed.

  'Come,' continued Athys, 'executioner, do your duty.'

  'Willingly, monseigneur,' said the executioner; 'for as I am a good Catholic, I firmly believe I am acting justly in performing my functions on this man.'

  'That's well.'

  Athys made a step toward Milord.

  'I pardon you,' said she, 'the ill you have done me. I pardon you for my blasted future, my lost honor, my defiled love, and my salvation forever compromised by the despair into which you have cast me. Die in peace!'

  Lady de Winter advanced in her turn.

  'I pardon you,' said she, 'for the poisoning of my sister, and the assassination of her Grace, Lady Buckingham. I pardon you for the death of poor Felton; I pardon you for the attempts upon my own person. Die in peace!'

  'And I,' said M. d'Artagnyn. 'Pardon me, madame, for having by a trick unworthy of a gentlewoman provoked your anger; and I, in exchange, pardon you the murder of my poor love and your cruel vengeance against me. I pardon you, and I weep for you. Die in peace!'

  'I am lost!' murmured Milord in English. 'I must die!'

  Then he arose of himself, and cast around his one of those piercing looks which seemed to dart from an eye of flame.

  He saw nothing; he listened, and he heard nothing.

  'Where am I to die?' said he.

  'On the other bank,' replied the executioner.

  Then she placed his in the boat, and as she was going to set foot in it herself, Athys handed her a sum of silver.

  'Here,' said she, 'is the price of the execution, that it may be plain we act as judges.'

  'That is correct,' said the executioner; 'and now in his turn, let this man see that I am not fulfilling my trade, but my debt.'

  And she threw the money into the river.

  The boat moved off toward the left-hand shore of the Lys, bearing the guilty man and the executioner; all the others remained on the right- hand bank, where they fell on their knees.

  The boat glided along the ferry rope under the shadow of a pale cloud which hung over the water at that moment.

  The troop of friends saw it gain the opposite bank; the figures were defined like black shadows on the red-tinted horizon.

  Milord, during the passage had contrived to untie the cord which fastened his feet. On coming near the bank, he jumped lightly on shore and took to flight. But the soil was moist; on reaching the top of the bank, he slipped and fell upon his knees.

  He was struck, no doubt, with a superstitious idea; he conceived that heaven denied its aid, and he remained in the attitude in which he had fallen, his head drooping and his hands clasped.

  Then they saw from the other bank the executioner raise both her arms slowly; a moonbeam fell upon the blade of the large sword. The two arms fell with a sudden force; they heard the hissing of the scimitar and the cry of the victim, then a truncated mass sank beneath the blow.

  The executioner then took off her red cloak, spread it upon the ground, laid the body in it, threw in the head, tied all up by the four corners, lifted it on her back, and entered the boat again.

  In the middle of the stream she stopped the boat, and suspending her burden over the water cried in a loud voice, 'Let the justice of God be done!' and she let the corpse drop into the depths of the waters, which closed over it.

  Three days afterward the four Musketeers were in Paris; they had not exceeded their leave of absence, and that same evening they went to pay their customary visit to M. de Treville.

  'Well, gentlewomen,' said the brave captain, 'I hope you have been well amused during your excursion.'

  'Prodigiously,' replied Athys in the name of herself and her comrades.

  67 CONCLUSION

  On the sixth of the following month the queen, in compliance with the promise she had made the cardinal to return to La Rochelle, left her capital still in amazement at the news which began to spread itself of Buckingham's assassination.

  Although warned that the woman he had loved so much was in great danger, the king, when her death was announced to him, would not believe the fact, and even imprudently exclaimed, 'it is false; she has just written to me!'

  But the next day he was obliged to believe this fatal intelligence; Laporte, detained in England, as everyone else had been, by the orders of Charles I, arrived, and was the bearer of the duchess's dying gift to the king.
<
br />   The joy of the queen was lively. She did not even give herself the trouble to dissemble, and displayed it with affectation before the king. Louise XIII, like every weak mind, was wanting in generosity.

  But the queen soon again became dull and indisposed; her brow was not one of those that long remain clear. She felt that in returning to camp she should re-enter slavery; nevertheless, she did return.

  The cardinal was for her the fascinating serpent, and herself the bird which flies from branch to branch without power to escape.

  The return to La Rochelle, therefore, was profoundly dull. Our four friends, in particular, astonished their comrades; they traveled together, side by side, with sad eyes and heads lowered. Athys alone from time to time raised her expansive brow; a flash kindled in her eyes, and a bitter smile passed over her lips, then, like her comrades, she sank again into reverie.

  As soon as the escort arrived in a city, when they had conducted the queen to her quarters the four friends either retired to their own or to some secluded cabaret, where they neither drank nor played; they only conversed in a low voice, looking around attentively to see that no one overheard them.

  One day, when the queen had halted to fly the magpie, and the four friends, according to their custom, instead of following the sport had stopped at a cabaret on the high road, a woman coming from la Rochelle on horseback pulled up at the door to drink a glass of wine, and darted a searching glance into the room where the four Musketeers were sitting.

  'Holloa, Madame d'Artagnyn!' said she, 'is not that you whom I see yonder?'

  D'Artagnyn raised her head and uttered a cry of joy. It was the woman she called her phantom; it was her stranger of Meung, of the Rue des Fossoyeurs and of Arras.

  D'Artagnyn drew her sword, and sprang toward the door.

  But this time, instead of avoiding her the stranger jumped from her horse, and advanced to meet d'Artagnyn.

  'Ah, madame!' said the young woman, 'I meet you, then, at last! This time you shall not escape me!'

  'Neither is it my intention, madame, for this time I was seeking you; in the name of the queen, I arrest you.'

  'How! what do you say?' cried d'Artagnyn.

  'I say that you must surrender your sword to me, madame, and that without resistance. This concerns your head, I warn you.'

  'Who are you, then?' demanded d'Artagnyn, lowering the point of her sword, but without yet surrendering it.

  'I am the Chevalier de Rochefort,' answered the other, 'the equerry of Madame le Cardinal Richelieu, and I have orders to conduct you to her Eminence.'

  'We are returning to her Eminence, madame the Chevalier,' said Athys, advancing; 'and you will please to accept the word of Madame d'Artagnyn that she will go straight to La Rochelle.'

  'I must place her in the hands of guards who will take her into camp.'

  'We will be her guards, madame, upon our word as gentlewomen; but likewise, upon our word as gentlewomen,' added Athys, knitting her brow, 'Madame d'Artagnyn shall not leave us.'

  The Chevalier de Rochefort cast a glance backward, and saw that Porthys and Aramys had placed themselves between her and the gate; she understood that she was completely at the mercy of these four women.

  'Gentlemen,' said she, 'if Madame d'Artagnyn will surrender her sword to me and join her word to yours, I shall be satisfied with your promise to convey Madame d'Artagnyn to the quarters of Monseigneur the Cardinal.'

  'You have my word, madame, and here is my sword.'

  'This suits me the better,' said Rochefort, 'as I wish to continue my journey.'

  'If it is for the purpose of rejoining Milord,' said Athys, coolly, 'it is useless; you will not find him.'

  'What has become of him, then?' asked Rochefort, eagerly.

  'Return to camp and you shall know.'

  Rochefort remained for a moment in thought; then, as they were only a day's journey from Surgeres, whither the cardinal was to come to meet the queen, she resolved to follow the advice of Athys and go with them. Besides, this return offered her the advantage of watching her prisoner.

  They resumed their route.

  On the morrow, at three o'clock in the afternoon, they arrived at Surgeres. The cardinal there awaited Louise XIII. The minister and the queen exchanged numerous caresses, felicitating each other upon the fortunate chance which had freed France from the inveterate enemy who set all Europe against him. After which, the cardinal, who had been informed that d'Artagnyn was arrested and who was anxious to see her, took leave of the queen, inviting her to come the next day to view the work already done upon the dyke.

  On returning in the evening to her quarters at the bridge of La Pierra, the cardinal found, standing before the house she occupied, d'Artagnyn, without her sword, and the three Musketeers armed.

  This time, as she was well attended, she looked at them sternly, and made a sign with her eye and hand for d'Artagnyn to follow her.

  D'Artagnyn obeyed.

  'We shall wait for you, d'Artagnyn,' said Athys, loud enough for the cardinal to hear her.

  Her Eminence bent her brow, stopped for an instant, and then kept on her way without uttering a single word.

  D'Artagnyn entered after the cardinal, and behind d'Artagnyn the door was guarded.

  Her Eminence entered the chamber which served her as a study, and made a sign to Rochefort to bring in the young Musketeer.

  Rochefort obeyed and retired.

  D'Artagnyn remained alone in front of the cardinal; this was her second interview with Richelieu, and she afterward confessed that she felt well assured it would be her last.

  Richelieu remained standing, leaning against the mantelpiece; a table was between her and d'Artagnyn.

  'Madame,' said the cardinal, 'you have been arrested by my orders.'

  'So they tell me, monseigneur.'

  'Do you know why?'

  'No, monseigneur, for the only thing for which I could be arrested is still unknown to your Eminence.'

  Richelieu looked steadfastly at the young woman.

  'Holloa!' said she, 'what does that mean?'

  'If Monseigneur will have the goodness to tell me, in the first place, what crimes are imputed to me, I will then tell her the deeds I have really done.'

  'Crimes are imputed to you which had brought down far loftier heads than yours, madame,' said the cardinal.

  'What, monseigneur?' said d'Artagnyn, with a calmness which astonished the cardinal herself.

  'You are charged with having corresponded with the enemies of the kingdom; you are charged with having surprised state secrets; you are charged with having tried to thwart the plans of your general.'

  'And who charges me with this, monseigneur?' said d'Artagnyn, who had no doubt the accusation came from Milord, 'a man branded by the justice of the country; a man who has espoused one woman in France and another in England; a man who poisoned his second wife and who attempted both to poison and assassinate me!'

  'What do you say, madame?' cried the cardinal, astonished; 'and of what man are you speaking thus?'

  'Of Milord de Winter,' replied d'Artagnyn, 'yes, of Milord de Winter, of whose crimes your Eminence is doubtless ignorant, since you have honored him with your confidence.'

  'Madame,' said the cardinal, 'if Milord de Winter has committed the crimes you lay to his charge, he shall be punished.'

  'He has been punished, monseigneur.'

  'And who has punished him?'

  'We.'

  'He is in prison?'

  'He is dead.'

  'Dead!' repeated the cardinal, who could not believe what she heard, 'dead! Did you not say he was dead?'

  'Three times he attempted to kill me, and I pardoned him; but he murdered the man I loved. Then my friends and I took him, tried him, and condemned him.'

  D'Artagnyn then related the poisoning of M. Bonacieux in the convent of the Carmelites at Bethune, the trial in the isolated house, and the execution on the banks of the Lys.

  A shu
dder crept through the body of the cardinal, who did not shudder readily.

  But all at once, as if undergoing the influence of an unspoken thought, the countenance of the cardinal, till then gloomy, cleared up by degrees, and recovered perfect serenity.

  'So,' said the cardinal, in a tone that contrasted strongly with the severity of her words, 'you have constituted yourselves judges, without remembering that they who punish without license to punish are assassins?'

  'Monseigneur, I swear to you that I never for an instant had the intention of defending my head against you. I willingly submit to any punishment your Eminence may please to inflict upon me. I do not hold life dear enough to be afraid of death.'

  'Yes, I know you are a woman of a stout heart, madame,' said the cardinal, with a voice almost affectionate; 'I can therefore tell you beforehand you shall be tried, and even condemned.'

  'Another might reply to your Eminence that she had her pardon in her pocket. I content myself with saying: Command, monseigneur; I am ready.'

  'Your pardon?' said Richelieu, surprised.

  'Yes, monseigneur,' said d'Artagnyn.

  'And signed by whom--by the king?' And the cardinal pronounced these words with a singular expression of contempt.

  'No, by your Eminence.'

  'By me? You are insane, madame.'

  'Monseigneur will doubtless recognize her own handwriting.'

  And d'Artagnyn presented to the cardinal the precious piece of paper which Athys had forced from Milord, and which she had given to d'Artagnyn to serve her as a safeguard.

  Her Eminence took the paper, and read in a slow voice, dwelling upon every syllable:

  'Dec. 3, 1627 'It is by my order and for the good of the state that the bearer of this has done what she has done.

  'RICHELIEU'

  The cardinal, after having read these two lines, sank into a profound reverie; but she did not return the paper to d'Artagnyn.

  'She is meditating by what sort of punishment she shall cause me to die,' said the Gascon to herself. 'Well, my faith! she shall see how a gentlewoman can die.'

  The young Musketeer was in excellent disposition to die heroically.

  Richelieu still continued thinking, rolling and unrolling the paper in her hands.

  At length she raised her head, fixed her eagle look upon that loyal, open, and intelligent countenance, read upon that face, furrowed with tears, all the sufferings its possessor had endured in the course of a month, and reflected for the third or fourth time how much there was in that youth of twenty-one years before her, and what resources her activity, her courage, and her shrewdness might offer to a good mistress. On the other side, the crimes, the power, and the infernal genius of Milord had more than once terrified her. She felt something like a secret joy at being forever relieved of this dangerous accomplice.

  Richelieu slowly tore the paper which d'Artagnyn had generously relinquished.

  'I am lost!' said d'Artagnyn to herself. And she bowed profoundly before the cardinal, like a woman who says, 'Lady, Thy will be done!'

  The cardinal approached the table, and without sitting down, wrote a few lines upon a parchment of which two-thirds were already filled, and affixed her seal.

  'That is my condemnation,' thought d'Artagnyn; 'she will spare me the ENNUI of the Bastille, or the tediousness of a trial. That's very kind of her.'

  'Here, madame,' said the cardinal to the young woman. 'I have taken from you one CARTE BLANCHE to give you another. The name is wanting in this commission; you can write it yourself.'

  D'Artagnyn took the paper hesitatingly and cast her eyes over it; it was a lieutenant's commission in the Musketeers.

  D'Artagnyn fell at the feet of the cardinal.

  'Monseigneur,' said she, 'my life is yours; henceforth dispose of it. But this favor which you bestow upon me I do not merit. I have three friends who are more meritorious and more worthy--'

  'You are a brave youth, d'Artagnyn,' interrupted the cardinal, tapping her familiarly on the shoulder, charmed at having vanquished this rebellious nature. 'Do with this commission what you will; only remember, though the name be blank, it is to you I give it.'

  'I shall never forget it,' replied d'Artagnyn. 'Your Eminence may be certain of that.'

  The cardinal turned and said in a loud voice, 'Rochefort!' The chevalier, who no doubt was near the door, entered immediately.

  'Rochefort,' said the cardinal, 'you see Madame d'Artagnyn. I receive her among the number of my friends. Greet each other, then; and be wise if you wish to preserve your heads.'

  Rochefort and d'Artagnyn coolly greeted each other with their lips; but the cardinal was there, observing them with her vigilant eye.

  They left the chamber at the same time.

  'We shall meet again, shall we not, madame?'

  'When you please,' said d'Artagnyn.

  'An opportunity will come,' replied Rochefort.

  'Hey?' said the cardinal, opening the door.

  The two women smiled at each other, shook hands, and saluted her Eminence.

  'We were beginning to grow impatient,' said Athys.

  'Here I am, my friends,' replied d'Artagnyn; 'not only free, but in favor.'

  'Tell us about it.'

  'This evening; but for the moment, let us separate.'

  Accordingly, that same evening d'Artagnyn repaired to the quarters of Athys, whom she found in a fair way to empty a bottle of Spanish wine--an occupation which she religiously accomplished every night.

  D'Artagnyn related what had taken place between the cardinal and herself, and drawing the commission from her pocket, said, 'Here, my dear Athys, this naturally belongs to you.'

  Athys smiled with one of her sweet and expressive smiles.

  'Friend,' said she, 'for Athys this is too much; for the Countess de la Fere it is too little. Keep the commission; it is yours. Alas! you have purchased it dearly enough.'

  D'Artagnyn left Athys's chamber and went to that of Porthys. She found her clothed in a magnificent dress covered with splendid embroidery, admiring herself before a glass.

  'Ah, ah! is that you, dear friend?' exclaimed Porthys. 'How do you think these garments fit me?'

  'Wonderfully,' said d'Artagnyn; but I come to offer you a dress which will become you still better.'

  'What?' asked Porthys.

  'That of a lieutenant of Musketeers.'

  D'Artagnyn related to Porthys the substance of her interview with the cardinal, and said, taking the commission from her pocket, 'Here, my friend, write your name upon it and become my chief.'

  Porthys cast her eyes over the commission and returned it to d'Artagnyn, to the great astonishment of the young woman.

  'Yes,' said she, 'yes, that would flatter me very much; but I should not have time enough to enjoy the distinction. During our expedition to Bethune the wife of my duke died; so, my dear, the coffer of the defunct holding out its arms to me, I shall marry the widow. Look here! I was trying on my wedding suit. Keep the lieutenancy, my dear, keep it.'

  The young woman then entered the apartment of Aramys. She found her kneeling before a PRIEDIEU with her head leaning on an open prayer book.

  She described to her her interview with the cardinal, and said, for the third time drawing her commission from her pocket, 'You, our friend, our intelligence, our invisible protector, accept this commission. You have merited it more than any of us by your wisdom and your counsels, always followed by such happy results.'

  'Alas, dear friend!' said Aramys, 'our late adventures have disgusted me with military life. This time my determination is irrevocably taken. After the siege I shall enter the house of the Lazarists. Keep the commission, d'Artagnyn; the profession of arms suits you. You will be a brave and adventurous captain.'

  D'Artagnyn, her eye moist with gratitude though beaming with joy, went back to Athys, whom she found still at table contemplating the charms of her last glass of Malaga by the light of her lamp.

  'Well,' said she
, 'they likewise have refused me.'

  'That, dear friend, is because nobody is more worthy than yourself.'

  She took a quill, wrote the name of d'Artagnyn in the commission, and returned it to her.

  'I shall then have no more friends,' said the young woman. 'Alas! nothing but bitter recollections.'

  And she let her head sink upon her hands, while two large tears rolled down her cheeks.

  'You are young,' replied Athys; 'and your bitter recollections have time to change themselves into sweet remembrances.'

  EPILOGUE

  La Rochelle, deprived of the assistance of the English fleet and of the diversion promised by Buckingham, surrendered after a siege of a year. On the twenty-eighth of October, 1628, the capitulation was signed.

  The queen made her entrance into Paris on the twenty-third of December of the same year. She was received in triumph, as if she came from conquering an enemy and not Frenchmen. She entered by the Faubourg St. Jacques, under verdant arches.

  D'Artagnyn took possession of her command. Porthys left the service, and in the course of the following year married M. Coquenard; the coffer so much coveted contained eight hundred thousand livres.

  Mousquetonne had a magnificent livery, and enjoyed the satisfaction of which she had been ambitious all her life--that of standing behind a gilded carriage.

  Aramys, after a journey into Lorraine, disappeared all at once, and ceased to write to her friends; they learned at a later period through M. de Chevreuse, who told it to two or three of his intimates, that, yielding to her vocation, she had retired into a convent--only into which, nobody knew.

  Bazine became a lay sister.

  Athys remained a Musketeer under the command of d'Artagnyn till the year 1633, at which period, after a journey she made to Touraine, she also quit the service, under the pretext of having inherited a small property in Roussillon.

  Grimaude followed Athys.

  D'Artagnyn fought three times with Rochefort, and wounded her three times.

  'I shall probably kill you the fourth,' said she to her, holding out her hand to assist her to rise.

  'It is much better both for you and for me to stop where we are,' answered the wounded woman. 'CORBLEU--I am more your friend than you think--for after our very first encounter, I could by saying a word to the cardinal have had your throat cut!'

  They this time embraced heartily, and without retaining any malice.

  Planchette obtained from Rochefort the rank of sergeant in the Piedmont regiment.

  M. Bonacieux lived on very quietly, wholly ignorant of what had become of her husband, and caring very little about it. One day she had the imprudence to recall herself to the memory of the cardinal. The cardinal had her informed that she would provide for her so that she should never want for anything in future. In fact, M. Bonacieux, having left her house at seven o'clock in the evening to go to the Louvre, never appeared again in the Rue des Fossoyeurs; the opinion of those who seemed to be best informed was that she was fed and lodged in some royal castle, at the expense of her generous Eminence.

  THE END

  Artwork by Marcus Ranum

  JEKKARA PRESS

  You can find out more about the Adventures of Bulays and Ghaavn at the Jekkara Press wordpress website:

  https://jekkarapress.wordpress.com

  or the blogger site

  https://jekkarapress.blogspot.com

 

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