“Monsieur Aramis, here is the answer from your cousin.”
The quartet exchanged joyous glances, relieved to know that half the work was done. To be sure it was the shortest and easiest part but it augured well for the other. Aramis, blushing in spite of himself, took the letter which was couched in a large coarse hand.
“God help us,” he laughed, “I quite despair of my poor Michon. She will never write like Monsieur de Voiture.”
“Vot doss you mean, dot poor Mischon,” asked the Swiss who was sitting with our friends.
“I mean nothing serious,” Aramis assured him. “This is a note from a charming little seamstress whom I love very dearly. I asked her to write me just for remembrance.”
“Teffil you say, if she pe so pig a lady as her hantwritink, ten you are a lucky tamn fellow, my frient.”
Aramis read the letter and passed it to Athos telling him to examine it. Athos glanced over it and to scatter any suspicions that might have arisen, read aloud:
My dear Cousin:
My sister and I are skilful at interpreting dreams and we are terrified by them anyhow.
In the case of yours, I hope we will be able to say that dreams are but lies and illusions.
Farewell. Take care of yourself. And act in such a way that we may from time to time hear of your prowesses.
Aglae Michon
The dragoon, who had drawn up to the table as Athos was reading, asked what the dream in question might be.
“Ja,” the Swiss concurred. “Vot is tiss tream?”
“Oh, just a dream,” Aramis said airily. “I had a dream and I told her about it.”
“Yess, py Gott, it iss siimple to tell off a tream. Pot I neffer tream mine-self.”
“You are very fortunate,” Athos said, rising. “Would I could say as much myself.”
“I neffer neffer tream,” the Swiss insisted, charmed that a man like Athos could envy him anything. “Neffer in mine life!”
D’Artagnan, seeing Athos rise, followed suit, took his arm and accompanied him out while Porthos and Aramis remained to bandy jests with the dragoon and the Switzer. As for Bazin, he found himself a truss of straw and lay down upon it. He soon fell asleep and, more imaginative than the Swiss, dreamed that Aramis, become Pope, had adorned his head with a cardinal’s hat.
So far so good; Bazin’s auspicious return had somewhat eased the anxiety that weighed upon our friends. But Planchet remained to be accounted for. Periods of expectation always seem to draw out interminably, and D’Artagnan would have sworn that the days were forty-eight hours long. He forgot the necessary slowness of navigation and he overstressed the power of Milady. Likening this woman to a demon, he endowed her with auxiliaries as supernatural as herself. No noise however slight but he imagined he was about to be arrested and forced with his friends to confront a Planchet in irons. Day by day, hour by hour, his confidence in the worthy Picard lackey waned. Worse, his attack of nerves assumed a sort of panic fear as it spread to Porthos and Aramis. Athos alone remained unshakable, as if, running no danger, he could afford to relax as usual.
On the sixteenth day in particular, the three uneasy friends could not contain themselves; singly or in pairs they wandered like lost souls along the road by which Planchet was expected. Athos, cool as a cucumber, lectured them in his usual dégagé fashion:
“Upon my word, you are behaving like children; surely no woman could so terrify three men? All in all, what is there to fear? Prison, ay; but if we go there, we will get out, just as Madame Bonacieux got out. Execution, ay; but day-in day-out here in the trenches we go cheerfully to expose ourselves to worse than that. Remember that a surgeon would give us more pain by amputating a leg than an execution by chopping off our heads. Wait, be patient, rest easy. In two or four or six hours at most, Planchet will be here; he promised and I trust him implicitly because he seems to be a very good lad indeed.”
“What if he doesn’t come?”
“Well, D’Artagnan, if he doesn’t come, it will be because of some delay. He may have tumbled off his horse or fallen on some slippery deck or ridden so fast against the wind that he is ill with a fever. Let us allow for the unforeseen, gentlemen, since all is a gamble and life a chaplet of minor miseries which, bead by bead, your philosopher tells with a smile. Be philosophers as I am, friends; sit down here and let us drink. Nothing on earth makes the future so rosy as to look at it through a glass of Chambertin.”
“That’s all very well,” D’Artagnan grumbled, “but I am tired of it all! Every time I open up a fresh bottle I tremble lest the wine comes from Milady’s cellar.”
“How fastidious you are, D’Artagnan! Such a beautiful woman!”
“A woman of mark!” Porthos observed, guffawing.
Athos shuddered, mopped his brow and rose to his feet with a kind of irritable movement he could not check.
The day crawled on; evening came slowly but at long last fell. The taverns were filled with drinkers. Athos, who had pocketed his share of the diamond, seldom left the Parpaillot. In Monsieur de Busigny, who incidentally had treated the musketeers to a magnificent dinner, he found a partner worthy of his attention. They were gambling together as usual when seven o’clock sounded; Athos could hear the patrols passing to double the posts. At half-past seven, the drums sounded retreat.
“The game is up, eh?” Athos repeated loudly, drawing four pistoles from his pocket and tossing them on the table. “Come, gentlemen, the tattoo has sounded; let us to bed!”
Very calmly he rose and moved out, D’Artagnan at his heels, Porthos and Aramis arm in arm bringing up the rear. Aramis was mumbling poetry to himself; from time to time Porthos pulled a hair or two from his mustaches to mark his despair.
Suddenly a shadow rose against the darkness … a shadow that D’Artagnan knew … a shadow that loomed large as life and dearer, even … and a familiar voice said very simply:
“Monsieur, I brought you your cloak. It is chilly this evening.”
“Planchet!” D’Artagnan cried, overwhelmed with joy and, “Planchet! Planchet!” Porthos and Aramis echoed.
“Of course it’s Planchet,” Athos said calmly. “What is so strange about that? He promised to be back by eight o’clock and eight is striking. Good evening, Planchet, and congratulations! You are a man of your word. If ever you leave your master, I promise to take you on in my service.”
“Thank you, Monsieur, but I will never leave Monsieur d’Artagnan.” And, as he spoke, he slipped a note into his master’s hand.
D’Artagnan felt strongly prompted to embrace Planchet as he had embraced him on his departure. But he feared lest this mark of affection, bestowed upon a lackey in the open street, appear extraordinary to passers-by and he restrained himself.
“I have the answer,” he whispered to his friends.
“Good! Let us go home and read it.”
The note burned in his hand; he tried to quicken their steps but Athos took his arm and forced him to walk slowly. At last they reached the tent, lit a lamp and, as Planchet stood guard at the entrance, D’Artagnan broke the seal and, with trembling hand, opened the long-awaited letter. It contained a half-line traced in eminently British handwriting and utterly Spartan in its laconism:
Thank you, be easy.
D’Artagnan’s meagre stock of English sufficed to enable him to translate this. Athos then took the letter from D’Artagnan, set it over the lamp and did not relinquish it until it was reduced to ashes.
“Now, my lad,” Athos said, “you may claim your seven hundred livres. But you certainly ran no great risks with a note like that.”
“I am not to blame, Monsieur, for having tried every which way to make it short.”
“Well, tell us all about it,” D’Artagnan cried.
“Good Lord, Monsieur, it’s a long story.”
“You are right, Planchet,” Athos declared. “Besides the tattoo has sounded and we must not keep this light on.”
“So be it,” D’Artagnan conceded. “Go
to bed, Planchet, and sleep well.”
“God’s truth, Monsieur, it will be my first sound sleep in sixteen days.”
“And mine!” said D’Artagnan.
“Mine too!” said Porthos.
“Same here!” said Aramis.
“And, truth to tell, mine too!” said Athos.
XLIX
FATALITY
Meanwhile Milady, drunk with passion and roaring on deck like a captive lioness, was sorely tempted to dive overboard and swim ashore. She could not rid her mind of the idea that she had been insulted by D’Artagnan, that she had been threatened by Athos and that she was leaving France without being revenged on them. Soon this thought became a veritable obsession and so intolerable that she implored the Captain to put her ashore no matter how terrible the risks to herself. But the Captain was eager to escape from his difficult position—he was hemmed in between French and English cruisers like a bat of the fable between the rats and the birds. It was imperative that he hasten to reach England; he therefore refused obstinately to heed what he considered to be a woman’s whim. But since his fair passenger had been particularly recommended by the Cardinal, he promised to land her, the sea and the French permitting, at some port in Brittany, say Lorient or Brest. Unfortunately the wind continued contrary and the sea rough, so they tacked, beating to windward. Nine days after leaving the Charente, Milady, pale from disappointment and vexation, saw only the blue coast of Finistère heave into sight.
She calculated that she would require at least three days to cross this corner of France and to return to the Cardinal; an additional day for landing would make it four, four days. Add these four days to the nine past and it would mean thirteen days lost—days during which so many important events might occur in London. She also reflected that the Cardinal, furious at her return, would be more likely to listen to complaints against her than to her complaints against others. Abandoning all efforts to influence the Captain, she allowed the vessel to pass Lorient and Brest without a word; he, for his part, was careful not to remind her of her request. Milady therefore continued her voyage and on the very day Planchet embarked at Portsmouth for France the fair messenger of His Eminence entered that harbor triumphantly.
The whole town was in a state of extraordinary excitement. Four large vessels, recently built, had just been launched. At the end of the jetty, his clothes lavishly braided with gold, glittering as usual with diamonds and precious stones, his hat adorned with a white plume that swooped over his shoulder, Buckingham stood with a staff of officers almost as brilliant as himself.
It was one of those rare, beautiful winter days when England remembers that there is a sun over the island. The star of day, pale yet splendent, was sinking on the horizon, turning sea and firmament roseate with bands of fire and casting upon the towers and old houses of the city one last golden ray which made the windows sparkle like the reflection of a conflagration; Milady, breathing the sea-breeze, found it much more invigorating and softer as they approached land. Avidly she contemplated all these preparations which she was commissioned to destroy, all the might of this army which she, a woman, was to combat alone with the help of a few bags of gold. Looking out across the water, she compared herself mentally to Judith, the terrible Jewess, when she penetrated the camp of the Assyrians and beheld the enormous mass of chariots, horses, men and arms which a gesture of her hand was to scatter like a cloud of smoke.
They entered the roadstead but as they were about to cast anchor a formidably armed little cutter, apparently on coast guard duty, approached the merchantman. A few moments later the cutter put out a rowboat manned by a naval officer, a mate and eight oarsmen; as it reached the ladder of the merchantman, only the officer came on board, where he was received with all the deference due his uniform.
The officer conversed for a few moments with the skipper, showed him several papers he was carrying and then, at the skipper’s order, both crew and passengers were summoned on deck.
When this had been done the officer inquired aloud about the brig’s port of departure, its route and its landings; the skipper answered all these questions without hesitation or difficulty. Next the officer began to examine all the persons on deck, one after the other, and stopping when he came to Milady, he surveyed her intently but without uttering a word.
Then returning to the skipper, he spoke to him again very briefly and, as if from that moment the vessel was under his command, he ordered a manoeuvre which the crew executed immediately. The brig resumed its course, still escorted by the little cutter which sailed alongside, menacing it with the mouths of its six cannon. The rowboat followed in the wake of the brig, a mere speck beside this enormous mass.
While the officer had been scrutinizing Milady, she for her part was scrutinizing him quite as thoroughly. Yet despite the extraordinary power this woman with eyes of flame commanded when it came to reading the hearts of those whose secrets she wished to divine, on this occasion she met with a countenance so impassive that her investigation proved fruitless. The officer who had stopped in front of her and studied her silently with so much care, was about twenty-five years old. He was of pale complexion, with clear blue eyes, rather deeply set … his fine well-chiseled mouth remained cast in its natural lines … his strong, bold chin denoted that will power which, in the ordinary British type, indicates mere obstinacy … his brow, slightly receding as is proper for poets, enthusiasts and soldiers, was scantily shaded by short, thin hair … the beard covering the lower part of his face, was, like his hair, of a beautiful deep chestnut color.…
When they entered the harbor, night had already fallen. The fog increased the darkness and, falling on the ship’s lights and lanterns of the jetties, formed a circle like that on the moon when rain threatens. The atmosphere was dank, cold and dismal. Milady, courageous though she was, shivered in spite of herself.
The officer pointed to Milady’s baggage, had it placed in the rowboat, and invited her to descend by offering her his hand. She looked at him hesitantly.
“Who are you, Sir,” she asked, “and why are you so kind as to trouble yourself so particularly on my account?”
“You must see by my uniform, Madame, that I am an officer in the Royal Navy.”
“But is it usual for officers in the Royal Navy to place themselves at the service of their women compatriots when they land at an English port, and to carry their gallantry so far as to conduct them ashore?”
“Yes, Madame, it is usual, not through gallantry but for security reasons. In time of war, foreigners are conducted to particular hostelries in order that they may remain under government surveillance until complete information be obtained about them.”
Though the officer spoke with a most scrupulous politeness and the most perfect calm, his words failed to convince Milady.
“But I am not a foreigner, Sir,” she protested in the purest English accent ever heard between Portsmouth and Manchester. “My name is Lady Clark and this measure—”
“This measure is general, Madame, and you will seek in vain to evade it.”
“Very well, Sir, I will follow you.”
Accepting the officer’s hand, she started down the ladder, at the foot of which the rowboat waited. The officer followed her. A large cloak had been spread in the stern of the rowboat; the officer bade her be seated on it and then himself sat down beside her.
“Row!” he told the sailors.
Eight oars fell at once into the sea making but a single sound and moving in but a single stroke as the boat seemed to fly over the face of the waters. Within five minutes they reached land; the officer leaped to the pier and offered his hand to Milady. A carriage awaited them on the quay.
“Is this carriage for us?” Milady asked.
“Yes, Madame.”
“Then the hostelry is quite far?”
“At the other end of town.”
“Very well, let us go,” said Milady, entering the carriage resolutely.
The officer saw that the baggage
was securely fastened behind the carriage, then sat down beside Milady and shut the door. Immediately, without any order or any indication of his destination, the coachman set off at a gallop through the streets.
So strange a reception naturally gave Milady ample food for thought. Seeing that the young officer was not at all disposed for conversation, she leaned back in her corner of the carriage and reviewed all the surmises which passed successively through her mind.
They drove on for a quarter of an hour. Surprised at the length of the journey, Milady leaned forward to try to ascertain where they were going. There were no houses in sight now; only great trees appeared in the darkness like gaunt phantoms chasing one another across the night. Milady shuddered.
“But we are no longer in the city, sir,” she protested.
The young officer remained silent.
“I warn you, sir, I shall go no farther unless you tell me where you are taking me.”
Her threat elicited no information.
“Oh, this is too much!” she cried. “Help! help!”
But no voice replied as the carriage bowled forward. The officer at her right sat motionless as a statue. Milady cast him one of her characteristically frightening and usually very effective glances; anger made her eyes flash in the darkness. But the young man preserved his immobility. Milady next tried to open the door and jump out.
“Take care, Madame,” the young man said coolly, “you will kill yourself if you jump.”
She sat down again fuming with rage. The officer leaned forward, looking at her in his turn; he appeared surprised that a face so beautiful a few moments before could suddenly become so distorted and almost hideous in its impotent rage. Milady, who was nothing if not artful, at once realized that she was injuring herself by thus betraying her true nature. Collecting herself, she composed her features, asked in a quavering voice:
“In the name of Heaven, sir, pray tell me if it is to you, to your government or to an enemy that I must attribute the violence done me?”
The Modern Library Children's Classics Page 114
