D’Artagnan, who had secured the key, locked himself in the closet from the inside without deigning to reply.
“Well,” Milady called sharply, “are you asleep? Or will you answer the bell when I ring?”
D’Artagnan heard the door open violently.
“Here I am, Milady, here I am,” cried Kitty, rushing forward to meet her mistress.
Together the two women returned to Milady’s bedroom; and, as the communicating door remained ajar, D’Artagnan could hear Milady scolding her maid for some time. Presently she calmed down and the conversation turned on him while Kitty was undressing her mistress.
“Well! I have not seen our Gascon tonight,” Milady remarked.
“What, Madame, he hasn’t come? Can he possibly be fickle before he has been made happy?”
“Oh, no! Doubtless he was detained by Monsieur de Tréville or by Monsieur des Essarts. I know what I am doing, Kitty, and I hold this gallant in the palm of my hand.”
“What will you do with him, Madame?”
“Do with him?” Milady repeated emphatically. “Rest easy, Kitty, that man and I have to settle something he does not even dream of. Why, he almost ruined my credit with His Eminence. Oh, but I will be revenged!”
“I thought Madame loved him?”
“I love him? I detest him! A ninny who held Lord Winter’s life in his hands and did not kill him! I lost an income of three hundred thousand livres by it!”
She went on to explain how her son was his uncle’s sole heir and how, until his majority, she would have had the enjoyment of his fortune. D’Artagnan shuddered to the marrow of his bones as he heard this suave creature reproach him—in that sharp, shrill voice that she took such pains to hide—for failing to kill a man, a man whom he had seen showering her with kindnesses.
“What is more,” Milady went on, “I should long ago have revenged myself on him. But the Cardinal, I don’t know why, requested me to conciliate him.”
“But Madame has not conciliated that little woman the Gascon was so fond of.”
“You mean the mercer’s wife from the Rue des Fossoyeurs. Pooh! he has already forgotten she ever existed. A pretty revenge, that, upon my word!”
A cold sweat broke out over D’Artagnan’s brow. Truly the woman was a monster. He resumed his eavesdropping but unfortunately Kitty’s ministrations were at an end and Milady was ready for bed.
“That will do,” he heard her tell the soubrette. “Go back to your own room and, tomorrow, try again to get me an answer to the letter I gave you.”
“The letter for Monsieur de Vardes?”
“To be sure! Monsieur de Vardes!”
“Now there is a man,” Kitty observed sententiously, “who appears to me to be the very opposite of poor Monsieur D’Artagnan.”
“Go to bed, Mademoiselle,” Milady ordered curtly. “I do not relish your comments.”
D’Artagnan heard the door close, then the noise of the two bolts by which Milady locked herself up in her room; then, on her side, but as softly as possible, Kitty turned the key in the lock, and at last he opened the closet door.
“Oh, Good Lord!” said Kitty in a low voice. “What is the matter with you? How pale you are!”
“That abominable creature!” murmured D’Artagnan.
“Hush, Monsieur, hush! And please go!” Kitty begged. “There is but a thin wainscot between Milady’s room and mine; every word said in one can be heard in the other!”
“That is exactly why I will not go,” D’Artagnan explained.
“What!” said Kitty blushing.
“Or at least I will go—later.”
He drew Kitty to him. This time she could offer no resistance, for resistance would have made too much noise. Accordingly Kitty yielded.
On D’Artagnan’s part, their lovemaking was a movement of vengeance upon Milady, and gratefully he realized how right it is to describe vengeance as the pleasure of the gods. With a little more heart he would have been content with this new conquest; but he could not rise above ambition and pride. Meanwhile, to give him his due, it must be confessed that the first use he made of his influence over Kitty was to try to find out what had become of Madame Bonacieux. But the poor girl swore on the Cross that she knew nothing at all about it: her mistress only disclosed one-half of her secrets. However she believed she could say Madame Bonacieux was not dead.
As for the cause which almost made Milady lose her credit with the Cardinal, Kitty was equally ignorant. But in this instance D’Artagnan was better informed than she. Had he not seen Milady on board a vessel just as he was leaving England? Surely then it was the affair of the diamond studs that had brought disfavor down upon her head.
But the clearest thing of all was that the hatred, the deep and inveterate hatred that Milady felt for him, sprang from the fact that he had not killed her brother-in-law.
Next day D’Artagnan returned to Milady’s to find her in a very disagreeable humor; he could not doubt that her irritability was provoked by lack of an answer from the Comte de Vardes. When Kitty came in, Milady treated her very crossly. The glance the soubrette cast at D’Artagnan seemed to say:
“You see what I am going through on your account!”
Toward the close of the evening, however, the beautiful lioness grew milder; Milady listened smilingly to D’Artagnan’s honeyed compliments and even gave him her hand to kiss.
D’Artagnan departed, scarcely knowing what to think. But as he was a lad who did not easily lose his head, he had framed a little plan while continuing to pay his court to Milady.
He found Kitty at the door and, as on the preceding evening, accompanied her to her chamber. Kitty had been accused of negligence and roundly scolded. Milady could not possibly understand why the Comte de Vardes persisted in his silence; she had ordered Kitty to come to her at nine o’clock in the morning to take a third letter.
D’Artagnan made Kitty promise to bring him that letter the following morning; the poor girl agreed to all her lover wished, for she was mad with love.
Things passed as they had the previous night: D’Artagnan concealed himself in the closet, Milady called for Kitty, made her preparations to retire, dismissed the soubrette, and closed her door again. Again, as on the previous night, D’Artagnan did not leave for home before five o’clock in the morning.
At eleven o’clock, true to her promise, Kitty called at D’Artagnan’s apartment with the letter Milady had given her at nine. This time the poor girl did not even try to argue with D’Artagnan; she let him do as he willed, for she belonged body and soul to her handsome soldier.
D’Artagnan opened the note and read the following:
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 for having acted toward me as you have, the young girl who bears this note will tell you how a man of spirit may obtain his pardon.
D’Artagnan flushed and grew pale several times as he read this note.
“Oh! you love her still!” said Kitty, who had not taken her eyes off the young man’s face for an instant.
“No, Kitty, you are mistaken, I do not love her now. But I want to avenge myself for her contempt.”
“Yes, I know the vengeance you plan; you yourself told me!”
“What do you care, Kitty? You know very well that you are my only love!”
“How can I know that?”
“By the humiliation I shall visit upon her shameless head.”
Kitty sighed. D’Artagnan took up a pen and wrote:
Madame,
Until the present moment I could not believe that your two previous letters were addressed to me, so unworthy did I seem myself of such an honor. Besides, I was so seriously indisposed that I could not have replied to them in any case.
But now I am forced to believe in your excessive graciousness, for not only your letter but your servant assures me that I have the good fortune to be
favored by your affection.
She has no occasion to teach me the way in which a man of spirit may obtain his pardon. I will come to crave mine at eleven o’clock this evening. To delay it a single day would be tantamount in my eyes to committing a fresh offense.
From one whom you have rendered the happiest of men.
Comte de Vardes
This note was in the first place a forgery; it was likewise an indelicacy; it was even, according to present standards, something of an infamy; but in the seventeenth century people were less meticulous on certain subjects than they are today Besides D’Artagnan knew from Milady’s own confession that she was guilty of treachery in far more important matters. He had therefore scant reason to hold her in esteem. And yet, despite this want of respect, he felt a mad uncontrollable passion for this woman blazing within him. It was a passion thirsting to vent its scorn but, passion or thirst, there it was.
D’Artagnan’s plan was very simple. By Kitty’s room he could gain access to that of her mistress. He would take advantage of the first moment of surprise, shame and terror to triumph over her. He might perhaps fail, certainly; but something must be left to chance. One week hence the campaign of La Rochelle would open and he would have to leave Paris. There was therefore no time for a prolonged love seige.
“There,” said the young man, sealing the letter and handing it to Kitty, “give this to Milady. It is Monsieur de Vardes’ reply.”
Poor Kitty suspected the contents of the note. She turned deathly pale.
“Listen to me, darling,” D’Artagnan told her, “you must see that all this has to end some way or other. Milady may discover that you gave her first note to my valet instead of to the Comte de Vardes’ lackey and that I opened the other two instead of the Comte. If that happens, she will turn you out into the street and hound you to death. You know she is not the sort of woman to limit her vengeance.”
“Alas! for whom have I run such terrible risks?”
“For me, I know it, my sweet girl. I appreciate it and I swear I am deeply grateful to you, dear.”
“At least tell me what your note says?”
“Milady will tell you.”
“Ah! you do not love me!” Kitty wailed. “I am so unhappy!”
To a reproach of this sort, there is always one answer which will delude any woman. D’Artagnan answered to such effect that Kitty remained completely and thoroughly deluded. Although she wept a great deal before making up her mind to deliver the letter, she finally consented to do D’Artagnan’s bidding, which was all D’Artagnan wished.
Besides, he promised that he would leave Milady’s early that evening and repair immediately to Kitty’s room. This promise completed poor Kitty’s consolation.
XXXIV
CONCERNING THE RESPECTIVE OUTFITS OF ARAMIS AND PORTHOS
Since the four friends had begun to search each for his own outfit, there had been no fixed meetings between them. They dined apart from one another wherever they chanced to be or rather wherever they could. Duty also consumed a portion of that precious time which was passing so swiftly. However they had agreed to report once a week at about one o’clock, with Athos for host, since, true to his vow, he would not pass the threshold of his door.
Their first meeting was on the same day that Kitty had visited D’Artagnan. She was no sooner gone than D’Artagnan hastened to the Rue Férou, where he found Athos and Aramis plunged in a philosophical discussion. Aramis felt inclined to resume the cassock; Athos, as usual, neither encouraged nor dissuaded him. Athos believed that every man should be left to his own free will; he never volunteered advice, but when asked to give it, he did so only at the second request.
“People in general ask for advice only in order not to follow it,” he used to say, “or if they do follow it, it is to have someone to blame for having given it.”
Porthos arrived a minute after D’Artagnan and so the four were reunited—but not for long! These four countenances expressed four very dissimilar frames of mind: Porthos looked tranquil, D’Artagnan hopeful, Aramis uneasy, and Athos careless.
After a moment’s conversation, while Porthos was hinting that a lady of lofty rank had condescended to relieve him from his embarrassment, suddenly his valet Mousqueton entered. He begged his master to return to his lodgings where, he said piteously, his presence was urgently required.
“Is it my equipment?”
“Yes and no,” Mousqueton replied. “Please come, Monsieur.”
Porthos rose, bowed to his friends and followed Mousqueton.
An instant after, Bazin appeared at the door.
“What do you want, my friend?” Aramis inquired with that comity of language he affected whenever his ideas were directed toward the Church.
“A man is waiting to see Monsieur at home,” Bazin replied.
“A man? What man?”
“A beggar.”
“Give him alms, Bazin, and bid him pray for a poor sinner.”
“This beggar insists on speaking to you; he claims that you will be very pleased to see him.”
“Did he give you any particular message?”
“Yes. He said: ‘If Monsieur Aramis hesitates to come, tell him I am from Tours!’ ”
“From Tours!” cried Aramis. “A thousand pardons, gentlemen, but no doubt this man brings me some news I was expecting.” And, rising in his turn, he too set off hurriedly.
“I wager these fellows have managed their business and are fully equipped,” said Athos. “What do you think, D’Artagnan?”
“I know that Porthos is in a fair way to succeeding,” D’Artagnan replied. “As to Aramis, truth to tell, I have never been seriously worried about him. But you, my dear Athos—you who so generously distributed the Englishman’s pistoles which were your own legitimate property—what do you mean to do?”
“I am quite content with having killed that fellow. Is it not blessèd bread to kill an Englishman? But I had pocketed his pistoles, I would now be eating my heart out with remorse!”
“Bah, my dear Athos, you really have the most extraordinary ideas!”
“Ah well, let it pass!… To change the subject: Monsieur de Tréville did me the honor of calling on me yesterday He told me you were frequenting those suspect English protégés of the Cardinal. What about it?”
“Well, it is true I visit an Englishwoman, the one I told you about.”
“Ah, yes, the blonde woman about whom I vouchsafed advice, which you of course took care not to follow.”
“I gave you my reasons.”
“Yes, I think you said you were looking to that quarter for your equipment.”
“Not at all. I have acquired certain knowledge that she is concerned in the abduction of Madame Bonacieux.”
“Yes, I understand now: to find one woman, you are courting another. It is the longest way around but undoubtedly the most amusing.”
D’Artagnan was on the point of telling Athos the whole story but one point restrained him. Athos was a gentleman, punctilious in points of honor, and the plan D’Artagnan had adopted included certain actions which would not obtain the assent of this Puritan. He therefore said nothing and, as Athos was the least inquisitive man on earth, D’Artagnan’s confidence stopped there. We will therefore leave the two friends conversing over unimportant trifles and follow Aramis.
We have seen with what alacrity Aramis followed Bazin when he heard that the visitor came from Tours. Actually he followed him only a few steps, for, having quickly overtaken him, he ran without stopping from the Rue Férou to the Rue de Vaugirard. Entering his apartment, he found a rather short man with intelligent eyes, clad in rags.
“You asked for me?” he inquired.
“I should like to speak to Monsieur Aramis. Is that your name, Monsieur?”
“Yes. You have brought me something?”
“Yes, if you will show me a certain embroidered handkerchief.”
Aramis took a small key from his breast pocket, opened a small ebony box inlaid wit
h mother-of-pearl, drew out the handkerchief, and held it out for the other’s inspection.
“Here it is: look!”
“That is right,” said the beggar, “dismiss your lackey.”
Bazin was indeed there, all ears. Curious to find out what the mendicant could want with his master, he had kept pace with him as well as he could, reaching home at almost the same time. But his speed had not profited him. At the beggar’s suggestion, Aramis motioned Bazin to retire, which he was reluctantly compelled to do.
Bazin gone, the beggar looked quickly around him to make sure that no one could either see or hear him. Then, opening his ragged vest, perilously held together by a leather belt, he began to rip the upper part of his doublet, from which he drew a letter.
Aramis uttered a cry of joy at the sight of the seal, kissed the writing with almost religious respect, and opened the letter to read the following:
My dear Friend:
It is the will of fate that we should remain separated for some time longer, but the delightful days of youth are not lost beyond return. Perform your duty in the camp, I will do mine elsewhere.
Accept what the bearer brings you. Fight in the campaign like the brave, handsome and true gentleman you are, and think of me who herewith kiss your black eyes ever so tenderly.
Adieu or rather au revoir.…
The beggar continued to rip his garments and from amid his filthy rags drew one hundred and fifty Spanish double pistoles which he laid down in shining rows on the table. Then he opened the door, bowed and disappeared before the young man, stupefied, had ventured to say a word to him.
Aramis then reread the letter and this time perceived a postscript:
P.S. You may behave politely to the bearer, who is a Count and a Grandee of Spain.
“Golden dreams!” cried Aramis. “Oh, beautiful life! Yes, we are young; yes, we shall know happy days! My love, my blood, my life, all, all are yours, my beauteous and adorable mistress.”
And he kissed the letter passionately without even vouchsafing a glance at the gold which sparkled on the table.
Bazin scratched at the door and, as Aramis had no longer any reason to exclude him, he bade him enter. The servant was so astounded at the sight of the gold that he forgot he had come to announce D’Artagnan who, curious to know who the beggar could be, had come straight to Aramis on leaving Athos. As D’Artagnan did not stand on ceremony with his friend, seeing that Bazin failed to announce him, he announced himself.
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