“No, you will avenge me and you will not die because he is a coward.”
“A coward with women, perhaps, but not with men; remember, I know something of him.”
“And yet in your bout with him, it seems to me fortune smiled on you.”
“Fortune is a harlot; favorable to a man yesterday, she may turn her back on him tomorrow.”
“Which means that you are beginning to waver?”
“God forbid! But would it be just to send me to a possible death without granting me something more tangible than merely hope?”
Milady answered with a glance which he interpreted as a belittling of the favor and an encouragement to speak out. Then she capped her glance with four tender words of explanation:
“That is only equitable!”
“Oh, you are an angel!” he cried triumphantly.
“Then all is agreed?”
“All save what I ask of you, sweet love.”
“But I have assured you that you can rely upon my tenderness.”
“I cannot wait until tomorrow.”
“Hush, I hear my brother. There is no point in his finding you here.”
She rang the bell and Kitty appeared.
“Go out this way,” she ordered, opening a small secret door, “and come back at eleven. We will then conclude our conversation. Kitty will show you to my apartment.”
The unhappy soubrette almost fainted at these words.
“Well, Mademoiselle, what are you doing, standing there like a statue? Come, show the Chevalier out at once. And this evening at eleven—you heard what I said.”
(“Apparently all her appointments are set at eleven o’clock,” D’Artagnan thought. “It is a settled custom, a sort of tradition!”)
Milady held out her hand. Bowing, he kissed it tenderly.
(“Now D’Artagnan,” he told himself as he retreated with utmost speed from Kitty’s reproaches, “you must not play the fool. This woman is undoubtedly an unparalleled criminal. You must take the utmost care!”)
XXXVII
MILADY’S SECRET
Despite Kitty’s entreaties, instead of going up at once to her chamber, he left the mansion. He did so for two reasons: first, he could thus avoid her reproof, recriminations and prayers; secondly, he was not sorry to read his own thoughts and, if possible, to fathom the thoughts of this woman.
That D’Artagnan loved Milady to the point of madness and that she loved him not at all was crystal clear. It required but an instant’s reflection to realize what he had best do. He should go home and write Milady a long letter confessing that he and de Vardes were, up to the present moment, one and the same person, and consequently that he could not undertake to kill de Vardes, short of suicide. On the other hand, a fierce lust for revenge spurred him on; he wished to possess this woman in his own name. The notion of such a vengeance appealed to him as too sweet to forgo.
He paced round the Place Royale five or six times, turning at every ten steps to look at the light shining through the blinds of Milady’s apartment. This time, he mused, she was not so anxious to return to her bedroom as she had been after their first tryst.
At length the light went out and with it the last irresolution in D’Artagnan’s heart disappeared. Recalling all the details of the first night with a pounding heart and a brain on fire, he returned to the mansion and rushed up to Kitty’s chamber.
The poor girl, pale as a ghost and trembling in all her limbs, sought to stop her lover. But Milady, listening for every sound, had heard D’Artagnan enter. She opened her door to him.
“Come in!” she said.
She was so incredibly brazen and so monstrously ruttish that D’Artagnan could scarcely believe his sight or his hearing. It was as if he were being drawn in some fantastic situation as occurs only in the world of dreams. Yet this did not prevent him from rushing up to Milady, drawn to her as inevitably as iron is drawn to a loadstone.
As the door closed behind them, Kitty darted toward it. Jealousy, rage, offended pride, in a word all the passions which dispute the heart of a woman in love, drove her to reveal the hoax. But she realized that she would be utterly lost if she admitted having assisted in such a scheme and, worse, that D’Artagnan would be lost to her forever. This last thought of love counseled her to make one last bitter sacrifice.
As for D’Artagnan, he had attained the sum of all his hopes; it was no longer for his rival’s sake that Milady showed him favor; she now seemed to prize him on his own account. Faintly, deep in his heart, a secret voice warned him that she was using him as the tool of her vengeance, to be caressed only until he had dealt the death she craved. But pride, self-conceit and folly silenced the feeble murmur of the voice of reason. Then, our Gascon, with the abundant self-confidence characteristic of him, began to compare himself with de Vardes and to wonder why after all he should not be loved for himself.
The sensations of the moment absorbed him entirely. Milady ceased to be the woman whose fatal intent had for an instant terrified him; now she was an ardent, passionate mistress, abandoning herself utterly to a conjunction in which she herself experienced raptures of delight.
When, two hours later, the transports of the two lovers were somewhat calmed, Milady, who had not the same motives for forgetfulness as D’Artagnan, was the first to come back to reality. Had he already planned exactly how he would bring about a duel with de Vardes on the morrow, she asked.
But D’Artagnan, whose thoughts were following quite another course, foolishly forgot himself and replied gallantly that it was too late at night to consider duels and sword-thrusts.
His cold reception of the only interests which occupied her mind frightened Milady and she began to question him more pressingly. D’Artagnan, who had never given this impossible duel a serious thought, attempted to change the conversation. But this proved impossible; Milady held him fast within the limits determined by her irresistible spirit and her iron will.
D’Artagnan fancied himself very canny in suggesting to Milady she forgive de Vardes and forgo her impetuous plans. But at the first word, the young woman gave a start and moved away from him.
“Are you afraid, perhaps, my dear D’Artagnan?” she asked in a shrill scornful voice which rasped strangely across the darkness.
“You surely cannot think so, dear love. But suppose this poor Comte de Vardes were less guilty than you imagine?”
“At all events, he has deceived me,” Milady insisted. “Having deceived me, he deserves death.”
“He shall die then, since yon condemn him!” D’Artagnan vowed with a firmness that convinced Milady of his unwavering devotion. And she at once returned gratefully to nestle against him.
It would be difficult to say how long the night seemed to Milady, but D’Artagnan would have sworn that it was barely two hours before daylight peeped through the shutters, then darted its pallid, intrusive rays into the chamber. Milady, knowing that D’Artagnan was about to leave her, recalled his promise to avenge her on de Vardes.
“I am quite ready,” he assured her. “But first I should like to be certain of one thing.”
“Certain of what?”
“Certain that you really love me.”
“Have I not given you sufficient proof?”
“Ay, you have, and I am yours, body and soul.”
“Thank you, my brave and gallant lover! But as I have just proven my love for you, so you in turn must now prove your love for me. Will you do that?”
“Of course I will. But if you love me as much as you say, why do you entertain no fear for what might happen to me?”
“What could possibly happen to you?”
“Well, I might be dangerously wounded or even killed!”
“Impossible,” Milady demurred. “Are you not a valiant man and an expert swordsman?”
D’Artagnan then suggested that she might prefer some means of revenge which, while proving as effective, would not necessitate a duel. Milady gazed at her lover in silence. The wan rays of the early morning
light lent her eyes a strange, deadly expression.
“So!” she said disparagingly, “I suppose Monsieur is wavering now?”
“No, I’m not wavering. But honestly, I do feel sorry for poor de Vardes since you have ceased to love him. I would say that to lose your love was the supreme punishment and that no other punishment could hurt him more grievously.”
“How do you know that I ever loved him?” she asked sharply.
In a warm, caressing tone, D’Artagnan told her that now, without being too fatuous, he felt justified in assuming Milady loved some other, happier cavalier than de Vardes. Nevertheless, he went on, he could not help repeating his concern for the Comte.
“You?”
“Yes, I.”
“And why are you concerned with de Vardes?”
“Because I alone know—”
“What?”
“—that he is far from being, or rather from having been, as guilty as you think.”
“Indeed!” Milady seemed somewhat uneasy. “Pray make yourself clear; I really do not know what you mean.” And, locked in D’Artagnan’s embrace, she stared up at him, her gaze growing brighter apace. Determined to come to an end:
“Well, I am a man of honor,” D’Artagnan declared. “Since your love is now mine, and I am sure of it—for I can be sure of it, can I not?”
“Of course, my love is wholly yours. Go on.”
“To be honest, I am swept off my feet, and—” he paused, “a confession weighs on my mind.”
“A confession!”
“If I felt the slightest doubt of your love, I would not be making this confession. But you love me, my beautiful mistress, do you not?”
“I do!”
“Then if my excessive love for you has made me guilty of offending you, you will forgive me?”
“Perhaps!”
As D’Artagnan, summoning his tenderest and most convincing smile, sought to draw her lips to his, Milady evaded him. Turning very pale, she ordered him to confess at once.
“You invited de Vardes to visit you in this very room last Thursday, I believe.”
“No, no, that is not true,” Milady dissented with such assurance in her voice and such steadfastness in her expression that D’Artagnan, under different circumstances, would inevitably have believed her.
“Do not lie to me, my beautiful angel!” He smiled. “That would be useless!”
“What do you mean? Speak, speak! You will be the death of me if you do not confess!”
“Pray remain calm, my love, you are not guilty toward me. I have already forgiven you.”
“What next, what next?”
“De Vardes cannot boast of anything.”
“Why? You yourself told me that the ring—”
“That ring, my love, I have it. The Comte de Vardes of last Thursday night and the D’Artagnan of last night are one and the same person.”
The rash young man expected Milady to display a certain surprise, mingled with shame, creating a minor tempest which would resolve itself into a flood of tears. But he was completely mistaken, nor did he have long to wait before he realized his error.
Pale and trembling, Milady sat bolt upright, repulsed of D’Artagnan’s attempted embrace with a violent push, and sprang out of bed. It was almost broad daylight. D’Artagnan held her back by her fine India-linen nightdress, imploring her pardon; but with a powerful jerk, she strove to shake herself free. This movement tore the cambric at the neck of her gown, exposing her beautiful, white, exquisitely rounded shoulders. On one of these shoulders D’Artagnan was inexpressibly shocked to see the fleur-de-lis, that indelible flower branded upon criminals by the degrading iron of the royal executioner.
“O God!” D’Artagnan gasped, loosing his hold of her nightgown and falling back on the bed, mute, motionless and frozen. In the look of terror that swept over his face, Milady read her own denunciation. He had seen the worst, he now possessed her secret, that terrible secret she had concealed from all save him. She turned upon him, no longer a furious woman now, but a wounded panther in all its savage lust.
“Ah, wretch, you have betrayed me! You know my secret! You shall die for it.” Darting across the room to an inlaid casket on her dressing table, she flung it open with feverish, trembling hand, seized a small dagger with a golden handle and sharp, thin blade, and wheeling round again, threw herself with one bound upon the half-naked D’Artagnan.
Now D’Artagnan was a brave man, as his deeds proved. But he was aghast at her distorted features, her horribly dilated pupils, her livid cheeks and her bleeding red lips. He recoiled toward the space between bed and wall as he would have done before the onset of a serpent crawling toward him. As he moved back, his sword came into contact with his cold, clammy hand; nervously, almost unconsciously, he drew it. Milady, undaunted by the naked blade, tried to climb on to the bed in order to get near enough to stab him; nor did she cease her efforts until she felt the sharp point of his sword at her throat. Then she attempted to seize the blade with her hands, but D’Artagnan kept it free from her grasp, now holding it leveled at her eyes, now at her breast. This manoeuvre enabled him to glide behind the bed, whence he hoped to retreat through the door leading to Kitty’s apartment.
Meanwhile Milady continued to rush at him, striking with relentless fury and shrieking like a madwoman. All this was not unlike a duel, so presently D’Artagnan came to his senses and step by step, assumed command of the situation.
“Well, well, beautiful lady!” he taunted her. “For Heaven’s sake calm yourself or I shall have to engrave a second fleur-de-lis on one of your lovely cheeks!”
“You wretch! You beast!”
Very gradually D’Artagnan worked his way toward the door ever on the defensive. At the uproar they made, Milady overturning the furniture in her efforts to reach him, D’Artagnan moving it to barricade himself against her, Kitty opened the door. By now D’Artagnan had edged his way to within three feet of it. With one spring, he was in Kitty’s room and quick as lightning, he had slammed the door upon Milady. As he leaned against it with all his weight, Kitty promptly shot the bolts and locked it.
With a strength and violence far beyond those of a normal woman, Milady attempted to tear down the doorcase but, finding this impossible, she kept stabbing frenetically at the door as, time after time, the thin blade of her dagger pierced through the woodwork. With every blow, she uttered the most terrible imprecations.
“Quick, Kitty quick!” D’Artagnan whispered behind the locked door. “Help me get out of here! Unless we look sharp, she will have me killed by the servants.”
“But you can’t go out like that,” Kitty objected. “You are stark naked.”
“Why, so I am,” D’Artagnan exclaimed, realizing for the first time how he was dressed—or rather undressed. “Get me some clothes, any clothes, but hurry, my dear girl, it is a matter of life and death.”
Kitty understood this only too well. In a turn of the hand she muffled him up in a flowered robe, a big hood and a cloak and she gave him some slippers to cover his bare feet. Then she ushered him downstairs. It was in the nick of time; Milady had already awakened the whole mansion. The porter had not finished drawing the cord to open the street door when Milady, half-naked too, screamed from her window:
“Porter! Don’t let anyone out!”
The young man fled down the street as Milady threatened him with an impotent gesture. When he rounded the corner and vanished, Milady fell back, fainting, into her room.
XXXVIII
HOW ATHOS WITHOUT LIFTING A FINGER PROCURED HIS EQUIPMENT FOR THE CAMPAIGN
D’Artagnan rushed on, too bewildered to worry about what would happen to Kitty; he dashed across half Paris, and stopped only when he reached the sanctuary he hoped Athos might provide for him in the Rue Férou. His extreme mental confusion, the terror that spurred him, the cries of some patrolmen who started in pursuit of him, and the hooting of passersby, off to work despite the early hour, all combined to make him run the f
aster.
Crossing the court, he leaped up the two flights to his friend’s apartment and at long last came to a halt. Before even catching his breath, he pounded at the door as if to wake the dead. As Grimaud appeared, rubbing his eyes still swollen with sleep, D’Artagnan sprang so violently into the room that he almost overturned the astonished lackey. In spite of Grimaud’s disciplined taciturnity, this time the poor lad found his tongue:
“Ho, there, what do you want? What are you doing here, you strumpet?”
D’Artagnan threw off his hood and freed his hands from the folds of the cloak. At the sight of his mustache and naked sword, Grimaud realized that he had to deal with a man and concluded it must be an assassin.
“Help! murder! help!” he shouted.
“Hold your tongue, you idiot!” the young man warned him, “I am D’Artagnan, can’t you recognize me? Where is your master?”
“You, Monsieur d’Artagnan? Impossible!”
Athos emerged from his room, clad in a dressing gown.
“Grimaud, did I hear you permitting yourself to speak?”
“But, Monsieur, I—”
“Silence!”
Grimaud contented himself with pointing his finger at D’Artagnan, then gazing askance at his master. Athos recognized D’Artagnan and, phlegmatic though he was, burst into laughter. Certainly he had ample cause to as he contemplated D’Artagnan’s amazing masquerade: the hood askew over one shoulder, the petticoat and skirt falling in waves over the slippers, the sleeves tucked up awry, and the mustache bristling with agitation.
“For God’s sake, don’t laugh, my friend!” D’Artagnan besought him. “Don’t laugh, for upon my soul this is no laughing matter.”
He uttered the words with such a solemn air and with such genuine terror that Athos at once seized his hand, crying:
“Are you wounded, my friend? How pale you are!”
“No, but something frightful has just happened to me. Are you alone, Athos!”
“Ye Gods, who would you expect to find here at this hour?”
“Good! Good!” And D’Artagnan rushed into the musketeer’s bedroom.
The Modern Library Children's Classics Page 102
