The Modern Library Children's Classics

by Kenneth Grahame

  “It couldn’t possibly be the same ring!” Athos murmured. “How could it come into Lady Clark’s hands? And how in the world could two jewels look so much alike?”

  “You know this ring?”

  “I thought I did but I was probably mistaken,” Athos replied, handing it back to D’Artagnan but continuing to stare at it. Then after a moment of silence: “Will you please do me a favor?” he asked dully.

  D’Artagnan nodded.

  “Please take that ring off, D’Artagnan, for my sake. Or else turn the stone around!”

  D’Artagnan looked askance.

  “You see, it recalls such cruel memories,” Athos explained, “that I can scarcely pull myself together to converse with you. Yet you come to ask my advice; you hoped I might tell you what to do.” He sighed. “But stop! let me look at that sapphire again. The one I mentioned should have a scratch on one of its faces … the result of an accident, I recall …”

  D’Artagnan again took the ring off his finger and gave it to Athos. Athos started.

  “Look,” he said sharply, pointing to the scratch he had remembered. “What a coincidence!”

  Mystified, D’Artagnan inquired how his friend had ever been in possession of Milady’s ring.

  “I inherited it from my mother,” Athos told him, “and Mother inherited from her mother. I told you it was an heirloom, destined never to go out of the hands of our family.”

  “And you—hm!—you s-s-s-sold it?” D’Artagnan stammered.

  “No,” said Athos with an enigmatic smile, “I gave it away in a night of love, exactly as it was given to you—in a night of love!”

  D’Artagnan in turn lapsed into a pensive silence, speculating what secrets lay deep in the dark mysterious abyss of Milady’s heart. Mechanically he took the ring back and slipped it into his pocket. Athos grasped his hand:

  “D’Artagnan,” he said earnestly, “you know how much you mean to me. Had I a son, I could not cherish him more fervently than I do you. I implore you to follow my advice. For God’s sake, give up this woman. To be sure, I do not know her. But a sort of intuition tells me that she is a lost soul and that there is something fatal about her.”

  “You are right, I will have done with her! Honestly, Athos, she terrifies me!”

  “Will you have the courage to break away?”

  “Of course I shall. And instantly!”

  “Bravo, lad, you will be doing the right thing.” Athos pressed the young Gascon’s hand with almost paternal affection. “This woman came into your life but yesterday; God grant she leave no terrible traces in it.” And Athos nodded dismissal as who would make clear that he wished to be left alone with his thoughts.

  When he arrived home, D’Artagnan found Kitty waiting for him. A month of fever could not have ravaged the poor child’s countenance more direly than her night of sleeplessness and sorrow. She declared falteringly that her mistress, mad with love and overwhelmed with passion, had dispatched her once again to the Comte de Vardes to ask when this superlative lover would meet her for a second night. Poor Kitty, pale and trembling, awaited D’Artagnan’s reply. Thinking it all over—the advice Athos had given him, the confidence he had in Athos, his pride redeemed, his vengeance satisfied, and finally, the cries of his heart, D’Artagnan was determined to be quit of Milady Accordingly he penned the following brief missive:

  Do not count upon me to meet you again, Madame. Since my convalescence, I have so many affairs of this sort to settle that I am obliged to regulate them somewhat. When your turn comes again, I shall have the honor to apprize you. Meanwhile, I kiss your hand and remain,

  Your Ladyship’s most faithful servant,

  de Vardes

  Of the sapphire, not one word. Did the Gascon expect to use it as a weapon to be held over her head? Or bluntly, did he keep it to use as a last resource to provide his equipment for the forthcoming campaign?

  D’Artagnan showed Kitty what he had written. At first she could not understand; then, after a second reading, his purport dawned upon her. A wild joy coursed through her veins, a tingling happiness she could scarcely bring herself to believe. At her earnest request, D’Artagnan had viva voce to renew his written assurances. Despite the danger Kitty ran—given Milady’s violent character—she sped blithely back to the Place Royale, fast as her legs could carry her. (Verily, the heart of the kindliest of women is pitiless toward the misery of a rival!)

  Milady opened the letter with an expectancy as lively as Kitty’s in delivering it; but at the first word she read, she turned livid. Then, furiously, she crushed the paper and, her eyes blazing, demanded:

  “What is this?”

  “The answer to Milady’s letter,” Kitty replied, shaking like a leaf.

  “Impossible,” cried Milady. “Impossible. No gentleman would write such a letter to a woman.” Then starting, she cried, “O God!” she cried out. “Can he possibly know—” And she stopped, aghast.

  Gnashing her teeth, her face ashen, she tottered toward the window for air. But her strength failed her; she could do no more than stretch out her arms, her legs crumpled, and she collapsed into an armchair. Kitty, fearing she was ill, hastened to her aid. Bending over her mistress, she was about to loose her bodice, when Milady rose fiercely.

  “What are you trying to do?” she demanded. “How dare you touch me!”

  “I thought Madame was ill,” the maid answered, terrified at Milady’s savagery. “Forgive me, Madame, I was only trying to help you. I thought you had fainted.”

  “I, faint? I, ill? Do you take me for a half-woman or a simpering schoolgirl? When I am insulted, I do not faint and I do not turn ill. No, I seek revenge, do you hear?”

  And she motioned to Kitty to leave the room.

  XXXVI

  DREAMS OF VENGEANCE

  That evening—it was a Monday—Milady gave orders that when Monsieur D’Artagnan came as usual, he was to be admitted immediately. But he did not come. Next morning Kitty called again on the young man to report all that had happened the day before. D’Artagnan smiled, for Milady’s jealous anger was his revenge.

  Tuesday evening Milady was even more impatient than on Monday; she renewed her orders concerning the Gascon, but once again she waited for him in vain.

  Wednesday morning, when Kitty stopped in at D’Artagnan’s, she was no longer lively and joyous as on the two preceding days, but on the contrary sad as death. D’Artagnan asked the poor girl what was the matter. For all answer she drew a letter from her pocket and handed it to him. It was of course in Milady’s handwriting, only this time it was addressed to D’Artagnan not to de Vardes. Opening it, he read:

  Dear Monsieur d’Artagnan—

  It is wrong of you thus to neglect your friends particularly at the moment when you are about to leave them for so long a time.

  My brother-in-law and I expected you yesterday and the day before but in vain.

  Will it be the same this evening?

  Your very grateful Lady

  Clark

  “How very simple!” D’Artagnan commented. “Yes, Kitty, I was expecting that letter. My credit rises as that of the Comte de Vardes falls.”

  “Will you go?” Kitty asked.

  “Listen to me, my dear girl,” said the Gascon seeking to justify himself in his own eyes for breaking his promise to Athos, “you can understand how impolite it would be not to accept so positive an invitation. If I did not go back, Milady would not understand why I had interrupted my visits. She might suspect something. And who shall say how far a woman of her stamp would go to be revenged?”

  “Ah, dear God!” cried Kitty. “You know how to present things in such a way that you are always in the right. You are going to pay court to her again and if you succeed this time in your own name and with your own face, it will be much worse than before.”

  Instinctively the unhappy girl guessed one part of what was about to happen. D’Artagnan reassured her as best he could, promising her that he would remain adamant before M
ilady’s seductions. He bade her tell her mistress that he was supremely grateful for her kindnesses and that he would be obedient to her orders. (He did not dare write for fear of being unable to disguise his handwriting sufficiently to such experienced eyes as Milady’s.)

  As nine o’clock struck, D’Artagnan was at the Place Royale. The servants waiting in the antechamber had obviously been warned, for as soon as he appeared, before even he had asked if Milady could receive him, one of them ran to announce him.

  “Show the Chevalier in,” said Milady in a tone quick and shrill enough for D’Artagnan to hear it in the antechamber. As he was ushered in: “I am at home to nobody,” Milady told the lackey. “You understand? To nobody.”

  The lackey bowed and retired. D’Artagnan cast a quizzical glance at his hostess. She was pale and looked weary; her eyes especially were worn, either from tears or lack of sleep. The number of lights had been purposely diminished but the young woman could not conceal traces of the fever which had wracked her for two days. D’Artagnan advanced with his usual gallantry, at which she made an extraordinary effort to receive him. But never did a more distraught countenance give the lie to a more amiable smile. To D’Artagnan’s questions concerning her health:

  “I feel poorly,” she replied, “very poorly.”

  “Then I am surely intruding,” he said. “No doubt you are in need of rest and I will excuse myself.”

  “No, no!” she protested. “On the contrary, Monsieur d’Artagnan, do stay. Your agreeable company will divert me.”

  Observing that she had never been so gracious, D’Artagnan determined to be very much on guard. Indeed Milady assumed her most winning air possible and conversed with utmost brilliancy. At the same time, the fever which had for a moment abated, now returned to give lustre to her eyes, color to her cheeks, and a vermilion glow to her lips. Here once again was the Circe who had woven the spell of her enchantments about D’Artagnan’s heart. He had believed that his love for her was dead; it was only dormant and now it awoke within him to sway him with all its passionate ardor. Milady smiled and D’Artagnan was prepared to demand himself for that smile. For a moment he experienced a sort of remorse.

  Gradually, Milady became more communicative. She asked D’Artagnan if he had a mistress.

  “Alas!” he sighed with the most sentimental air he could summon. “How can you be so cruel as to put such a question to me—to me who from the moment I saw you have breathed and have sighed solely through you and for you?”

  “Then you love me?”

  “Need I tell you so? Have you not noticed it?”

  “Perhaps, who shall tell? But as you know, the prouder a woman’s heart is, the more difficult it is to capture.”

  “Pooh! I am not one to fear difficulties!” D’Artagnan affirmed. “Nothing frightens me save impossibilities.”

  “Nothing is impossible to true love!” Milady answered.

  “Nothing, Madame?”

  “Nothing!”

  (“The Devil!” thought D’Artagnan. “She has changed her tune! Is this fickle and wayward beauty about to fall in love with me, by any chance? Will she be disposed to give the real me another sapphire like the one I got for playing de Vardes?”)

  Impulsively he drew his chair closer to Milady’s.

  “Tell me now,” she coaxed, “what would you do to prove this love you boast of?”

  “Everything that could be required of me. Command me, I am at your service.”

  “Everything?”

  “Everything!” D’Artagnan promised blithely, for he knew he had little to risk in making such a pledge.

  “Well then, let us talk it over,” she suggested as in her turn she drew her armchair closer to D’Artagnan’s chair.

  “I am all attention, Madame.”

  For a moment Milady seemed pensive and undecided; then, as if abruptly coming to a decision:

  “I have an enemy,” she began.

  “You, Madame?” cried D’Artagnan, feigning surprise. “How in Heaven’s name is that possible? An enemy—you, good and beautiful as you are?”

  “A mortal enemy.”

  “I cannot believe it.”

  “An enemy who has insulted me so cruelly that it is war to the death between us. May I reckon upon you as an ally and an auxiliary?”

  D’Artagnan immediately understood on what ground the vindictive creature wished to base the argument.

  “You may indeed, Madame,” he said grandiloquently. “My arm and my life belong to you, as does my love, forever!”

  “Ah, since you are as generous as you are loving—”

  She stopped.

  “Well?”

  “Well,” Milady continued after a moment of silence, “pray cease from this moment on to talk about impossibilities.”

  “Oh, do not overwhelm me with happiness,” cried D’Artagnan, throwing himself on his knees and showering kisses upon the hands she surrendered to him.

  (“Avenge me upon that infamous de Vardes,” Milady muttered between her teeth, “and I shall easily get rid of you, too, you preposterous moon calf, you animated swordblade!”)

  (“O hypocritical and dangerous woman, throw yourself willingly into my arms after having abused me so brazenly,” mused D’Artagnan, “and, when it is over, I shall laugh at you with the man you wish me to kill!”)

  D’Artagnan raised his head:

  “I am ready!” he declared.

  “So you have understood me, my good Monsieur D’Artagnan.”

  “I could read your thought in a single one of your glances.”

  “And that arm of yours which has already won so much renown—you would employ it on my behalf.”

  “Instantly, if you command.”

  “But on part, Monsieur, how am I to repay such a service?” she asked. “I know what lovers are. They never do something for nothing.”

  “Madame, you know the only reply I crave, the only one worthy of you and me!”

  As he drew nearer to her, she scarcely resisted.

  “You look to your own advantage,” she said, smiling.

  D’Artagnan, now really swept away by the passion this woman could so easily arouse within him, gazed ardently at her.

  “Ah,” he said fervently, “that is because my happiness seems so impossible to me! I yearn to make a reality of it because I fear so much that it may vanish like a dream!”

  “All you need do is to merit this pretended happiness.”

  “I am at your orders, Madame.”

  “Are you quite certain?” Milady asked with a lingering doubt.

  “Name the scoundrel who has brought tears to your beautiful eyes and I—”

  “Who told you I had been weeping?”

  “It seemed to me, Madame—”

  “Such women as I never weep.”

  “So much the better!” said D’Artagnan. “But come, tell me the villain’s name.”

  “Remember, his name is my secret.”

  “Yet I must know it, Madame.”

  “Ay, you must know it. See what confidence I have in you.”

  “You overwhelm me with joy. What is his name?”

  “You know him.”

  “Indeed?”

  “Yes.”

  “Surely it is not one of my friends?” D’Artagnan asked, affecting hesitation in order to confirm her belief in his ignorance.

  “Would you hesitate if it were?” Milady demanded, with a threatening gleam in her eye.

  “Not if it were my own brother!” D’Artagnan vowed, as though carried away by enthusiasm. Our Gascon assuredly promised this without risk, for he knew exactly what was involved.

  “I love your devotedness,” Milady told him.

  “Alas, is that all? Do you love nothing else in me?”

  “Yes, you.” She took his hand. “I love you, too, for yourself!”

  The burning pressure of her hand made him tremble; her mere touch set him afire, as if that fever which consumed Milady had attacked him and was now
blazing through his veins.

  “So you love me!” he cried hoarsely. “You love me! Oh, if that were really so, I would go mad!”

  He clasped her in his arms. She made no effort to turn her lips away from his kisses but she did not respond to them. Her lips were cold. It was as if he had embraced a statue. But he was none the less drunk with joy and wild with desire. He almost believed in Milady’s tenderness, he almost credited de Vardes with the crime he knew de Vardes had not committed. If at that moment the Comte de Vardes had stood before him, D’Artagnan would have killed him then and there. Milady seized the occasion:

  “His—name—is—”

  “De Vardes, I know it!”

  Milady grasped both his hands, stepped back, and looked deep into his eyes, as though to read into the very depths of his heart. Her gaze brought him back to his senses. He realized that by allowing himself to be carried away, he had blundered.

  “Tell me, tell me, I say, how do you know it!”

  “How do I know it?”

  “Yes.”

  “I know it because yesterday in a salon where I happened to be visiting, Monsieur de Vardes displayed a ring which he said he had received from you.”

  “The wretch!”

  This epithet, quite understandably, re-echoed in D’Artagnan’s inmost heart.

  “And so—?” Milady challenged.

  “And so I will avenge you of this wretch,” D’Artagnan boasted, with all the airs of Don Japhet of Armenia.

  “Oh, thanks, my brave friend,” Milady cried. “I cannot thank you enough. And when shall I be avenged?”

  “Tomorrow … immediately … when you please.…”

  About to cry out “Immediately!” Milady checked herself, reflecting that such precipitation was scarcely flattering to D’Artagnan. Besides she had a thousand precautions to take and a thousand counsels to give her champion for he must avoid any argument with de Vardes in the presence of witnesses. Her anxiety was dispelled by D’Artagnan’s promise:

  “Tomorrow you will be avenged or I shall be dead.”