The Modern Library Children's Classics

by Kenneth Grahame

  If our family affairs permit, as we hope, I believe she will ultimately return to those she longs for, even though she run the risk of being damned for it. I say this because I know how she realizes that they think of her constantly.

  Meanwhile she is not too unhappy. What she most craves is a letter from her swain. Such communications are difficult to pass through convent gratings but, if I can go, I will undertake the task. As you know I have not proved unskilful in the past. So much for that.

  As for my sister, she thanks you for your loyal and enduring remembrance. For a while she experienced considerable distress but now she is somewhat reassured, for, to forestall any untoward circumstances, she has dispatched her secretary to the place you know.

  Adieu, fair cousin. Let us hear from you as often as you can—I mean as often as you can safely.

  I embrace you

  Marie Michon”

  “How much I owe you, Aramis!” D’Artagnan sighed. “Thanks to you I have news of my beloved Constance after all these weeks. She is alive; she is safe in a convent; she is at Stenay. Where is Stenay, Athos?”

  “Stenay is in Lorraine, a few leagues from the Alsatian border,” Athos replied. “The siege done, we can take a turn in that direction.”

  “It won’t be long now, let us hope,” Porthos put in. “This very morning they hanged a spy who had confessed that the men of La Rochelle were down to shoe leather. The leather eaten, suppose they eat up the soles, I can’t see what they can do after that but eat one another.”

  Athos drained a glass of excellent Bordeaux, a wine which, without enjoying the reputation it does today, deserved it nevertheless: “Poor fools!” he said. “As though the Roman Catholic faith were not the most profitable and agreeable of religions!”

  Smacking his tongue against his palate in appreciation of the wine: “No matter, they are gallant men!” he went on. Then, turning on Aramis: “What the devil are you about?” he asked. “Why are you cramming that letter into your pocket?”

  “Well, I—”

  “Athos is right,” D’Artagnan broke in. “We must burn that letter. And even if we do we must pray that His Eminence does not collect the ashes and read them by some process of his own.”

  “I am certain he has some such process,” Athos agreed.

  “Grimaud, front and centre!” Athos commanded. And, as the lackey stepped forward: “My friend, contrary to all orders, you spoke without permission. For punishment, you shall please eat this paper. And in reward for the great service you did us, you shall wash it down with a glass of wine. Here is the paper; chew it up carefully!” Grimaud smiled. His eyes fixed on the glass Athos held up, he ground the paper between his teeth, rolled it up in his mouth, and, moistening it with all the saliva he could muster, swallowed it effortlessly.

  “Bravo, Grimaud, here you are! Bottoms up and don’t bother to thank me.”

  Grimaud sipped the glass silently but throughout this occupation his eyes, raised heavenward, spoke a language the more expressive for being mute.

  “And now,” said Athos, “unless Monsieur le Cardinal should be inspired to dissect Grimaud, I think we may feel pretty safe about the letter.”

  Meanwhile His Eminence was pursuing his dull, melancholy ride back to camp, murmuring between his mustaches:

  “Come what may, I must win those four men over to my cause.”

  LII

  CAPTIVITY: THE FIRST DAY

  While all this was going on in France, Milady, across the Channel was still a prey to complete dispair. Plunged in an abyss of dismal meditation, a dark hell at whose gate she had almost abandoned all hope, for the first time in her life she experienced doubt and fear.

  Twice before, luck had deserted her; twice before, she had been exposed and betrayed and twice before, she had fallen the victim to the same fatal genius whom God must have appointed to be her undoing. D’Artagnan had conquered her despite her apparently invincible force for evil.

  He had deceived her in love, humbled her in her pride, thwarted her of her ambition; now he was ruining her fortunes, depriving her of liberty and threatening her very life. Worse still, he had partly raised her mask; he had thrust aside the shield which was at once her protection and her strength.

  D’Artagnan had diverted from Buckingham (whom she hated as she hated all those she had loved) the threat Richelieu held over his head in the person of the Queen. D’Artagnan had impersonated de Vardes for whom she entertained the tigerish fancy such women are apt to feel. D’Artagnan had confiscated the blanket order which she had obtained from Richelieu as an instrument of her vengeance upon her enemy. D’Artagnan, having caused her arrest, was about to banish her to some shameful Tyburn in the old world or to some horrible Botany Bay in the Indian Ocean!

  For all this D’Artagnan was solely responsible. Who but he could have heaped so much shame upon her head? Who but he could have told Lord Winter all the terrible secrets which he had so providently discovered one after another? He knew Lord Winter, he must undoubtedly have written to him.

  What a witch’s brew of hatred she distilled as she sat there in her lonely room, motionless, her eyes burning and fixed. How well the tumult of her hoarse deep-fetched moans of fury and exasperation blended with the surge of the surf as it rose, growled, roared and spent itself, as though in eternal and powerless despair, against the rocks topped by this dark and lofty castle! In the lightning flashes of her tempestuous rage, what magnificent vengeance she plotted against Madame Bonacieux, against Buckingham and especially against D’Artagnan in the future, immediate or remote!

  True, but to revenge herself she must be free and to go free a prisoner must pierce a wall, unfasten bars cut through a floor—all of which tasks can be accomplished by a strong patient man but before which the feverish irritations of a woman must give way. Besides, to do all this, time was necessary—months, even years—and Lord Winter, her fraternal and terrifying jailer had warned her that she had but ten or twelve days. Were she a man, she would try to escape, however heavily the odds were stacked against her, and who knows: she might even succeed! But Heaven had committed the hideous error of misplacing a manlike soul in her frail and delicate body.

  These, the first few moments of her imprisonment, were a veritable agony as she paid her debt of feminine weakness to nature amid paroxysms of rage that swept her headlong. Presently, little by little, she overcame the outbursts of her insensate rage. The nervous tremblings which wracked her body subsided and she recoiled within herself like an exhausted serpent in repose.

  “Ah, God! I must have been mad to lose my self-control!” she mused, gazing into the mirror which reflected her own burning, questioning glance. “Enough of violence; violence is a proof of weakness; what is more, I have never succeeded by that means. Perhaps if I employed my strength against women I might find them weaker than I am and consequently vanquish them. But I am struggling against men to whom I am but a woman. Let me fight like a woman, my whole strength lies in my frailty.”

  As if to prove to herself what changes she could impose upon her expressive and mobile countenance, she assumed all manner of varied expressions from that of a passionate anger which convulsed her features to that of the gentlest, most affectionate and seductive serenity. Then under her skilful hands her hair successively took on all the forms which she believed might best flatter her face. At last satisfied, she murmured:

  “Ah well, nothing is lost! I am still beautiful!”

  It was then nearly eight o’clock in the evening. Milady decided that a rest of several hours would refresh not only her head and her ideas but also her complexion. But a still better idea occurred to her before she retired. She had overheard some talk about supper and she had already been in this chamber an hour; they would surely be bringing her some food before long. Determined not to lose a moment of precious time, she planned this very evening to reconnoitre the terrain by carefully studying the characters of the men to whose guardianship she was committed.

  Prese
ntly a light under the door announced the return of her jailers. Milady rose hastily from her bed, flung herself into the armchair, tilted her head back, let her beautiful hair fall disheveled over her shoulders, half-bared her bosom under her crumpled lace, and placed one hand on her heart, dangling the other helplessly at her side. The bolts were drawn, the door grated on its hinges, the sound of approaching footsteps re-echoed in her room.

  “Put the table there,” said a voice which she recognized as Felton’s. “Bring lights in and relieve the sentinel.”

  This double order given to the same men convinced Milady that her servants were her guards too, in other words soldiers. Felton’s orders were executed with a silent rapidity that spoke worlds for the discipline he maintained. At last Felton, who had not yet looked at Milady, turned toward her, “Ah!” he said, “she is asleep. When she wakes up she can sup!” And he took several steps toward the door.

  “No, Lieutenant,” said a soldier who, less stoical than his chief, had approached Milady, “this woman is not asleep.”

  “What, not asleep? What is she doing, then?”

  “She has fainted. She is deathly pale. I listened closely but I cannot hear her breathe.”

  “You’re right,” said Felton, after examining Milady without moving from the spot where he stood. “Go tell Lord Winter that his prisoner has fainted. Personally I do not know what to do. We had not foreseen this.”

  As the soldier moved away to carry out Felton’s orders, Felton sat down on an armchair close to the door and waited, wordless and motionless.

  Milady possessed one great art which women cultivate assiduously, that of looking through her long eyelashes without appearing to open her eyelids. She watched Felton, who sat with his back to her, steadily for almost ten minutes. During all this time, he never once turned around.

  She realized that Lord Winter would be coming in shortly and that his presence would strengthen Felton’s indifference. Her first attempt had failed. Acting like a woman who exploits all her resources, she raised her head, opened her eyes and uttered a helpless sigh. Felton wheeled around:

  “Ah, you are awake, Madame,” he said, “then I have nothing more to do here. If you want anything, you can ring!”

  “Ah God, my God, how I have suffered!” Milady moaned in that melodious voice which like those of the enchantress of old, charmed all whom they wished to destroy. And, sitting up in her armchair, she assumed a still more graceful and abandoned position than when she had reclined. Felton rose to his feet.

  “You will be served three times a day, Madame: breakfast at nine, dinner at one, supper at eight. If that does not suit you you may tell us what hours you prefer and we will comply with your wishes.”

  “But am I to remain always alone in this huge dismal room?”

  “A woman of the neighborhood has been sent for. She will come to the castle tomorrow and will return whenever you desire her presence.”

  “I thank you, sir,” replied the prisoner humbly.

  Felton made a slight bow and started toward the door. As he was about to clear the threshold, Lord Winter appeared in the corridor, followed by the soldier sent to apprise him of Milady’s swoon. He held a vial of smelling salts in his hand.

  “Well, what is this? What on earth is going on here?” he jeered, as he saw his prisoner sitting up and Felton about to leave the room. “Has this corpse come to life already? Tut, tut, Felton my lad, can’t you see that she takes you for a greenhorn? This is but Act One of a comedy which we shall doubtless have the pleasure of applauding as the plot unfolds!”

  “I thought so, My Lord, but after all the prisoner is a lady. I wished to pay her all the attention that a gentleman owes a lady, if not on her account, at least on my own.”

  Milady shuddered from head to toe as Felton’s matter-of-fact words passed like ice through her veins.

  Lord Winter laughed.

  “Behold the beautiful hair so artfully disheveled, that white skin and that languishing glance! So they have not seduced you yet, O heart of stone!”

  “No, My Lord,” the phlegmatic youth answered. “Believe me, it requires more than the tricks and coquetry of a woman to corrupt me.”

  “In that case my gallant lieutenant, let us leave Milady to invent something else and let us adjourn to supper. Rest assured she possesses a fruitful imagination and Act Two of the comedy will be forthcoming soon!”

  With which Lord Winter passed his arm through Felton’s and led him out, still laughing at his joke.

  “I will be a match for you yet!” Milady vowed through clenched teeth. “Of that you may be certain, you poor sanctimonious would-be monk, you wretched little mock-soldier with your uniform cut out of God knows what flyblown canonicals!”

  “By the way,” Lord Winter added, looking back across the doorway, “pray do not suffer this check to take away your appetite. Taste that fowl and that fish; on my honor, they are not poisoned. I have an excellent cook and, as he is not my heir, I trust him completely and utterly. Do just as I do! Adieu then, dear sister, until your next swoon!”

  It was all Milady could endure. Her hands grasped her armchair, she ground her teeth furiously, her eyes followed the door as it closed behind Felton and Lord Winter. The moment she was alone, a fresh fit of despair seized her. Glancing at the table, she saw a knife glittering up at her, darted toward it and took it up. But her disappointment was cruel indeed: the blade was round and of flexible silver.

  A burst of laughter sounded on the other side of the door, which had not been properly closed and which now swung open again.

  “Ha, ha, ha!” Lord Winter mocked. “Ha, ha, ha! You see, my dear Felton, you see what I told you? That knife was for you, my lad; she would have killed you. You see, one of her peculiarities is to rid herself in one way or another of anybody who stands in her way. If I had listened to you, that knife would have been pointed and of steel. That would have meant good-bye, Felton; she would have cut your throat and after that turned on the rest of us! See, John, see how well she handles a knife!”

  Milady stood there, still holding the harmless weapon in her clenched fist; but at these last words, at this supreme insult, her hands, her strength and even her will faltered. The knife fell clattering down on the floor.

  “You were right, My Lord,” Felton admitted in a tone of such profound disgust that Milady’s heart sank within her. “Ay, you were right and I was wrong.”

  Once again they walked away. This time Milady listened more carefully until she could no longer hear their footsteps.

  “I am lost!” Milady murmured. “Now I am in the power of men on whom I have no more influence than on statues of bronze or granite! They know me by heart and are steeled against all my artifices. But no! it shall not be! It is impossible that this should end as they have decreed.”

  Fear and weakness could not dwell long in her wilful and passionate spirit; instinctively she clutched at hope. Sitting down at the table, she ate from several dishes, drank a little Spanish wine and felt all her resolution returning.

  Before going to bed she pondered and analyzed the words, the steps, gestures and even the silences of her interlocutors. From this deep, skilful and meticulous study she concluded that Felton was the more vulnerable of her two persecutors. One expression especially recurred to her mind: “If I had listened to you,” Lord Winter had said to Felton. Felton must have spoken in her favor since Lord Winter had been unwilling to listen to him.

  “Weak or strong,” Milady repeated, “that man has at least a spark of pity in his soul. I shall fan that spark into a flame that shall devour him. As for the other, he knows me, he fears me and he realizes what to expect if ever I escape from his hands. It is futile to attempt anything with him, but Felton—he is something else again! He is a young, ingenuous and pure young man; he appears to be virtuous. Him there are means of destroying!”

  Milady sighed, went to bed and fell asleep with a smile on her lips. Anyone who had seen her thus would have said that here
was a young girl dreaming of the crown of flowers she was to wear on her brow on the Feast Day.

  LIII

  CAPTIVITY: THE SECOND DAY

  Milady dreamed that she at long last held D’Artagnan in her power. She was witnessing his execution; his blood was streaming under the axe of the executioner. This welcome fancy lent her features a great calm and her lips an innocent red smile. She slept the sleep of a captive who is confident of speedy release.

  On the morrow when the orderly entered she was still abed. Felton stood in the doorway and ushered in the woman who was to wait on Milady.

  “May I help Your Ladyship?” the crone asked, approaching the bed.

  “No, I am feverish. I have not slept all night. I am in terrible pain. Pray be kinder than the others were yesterday and leave me to myself.”

  “Shall I fetch a physician, Ma’am?”

  Felton, speechless, watched and listened. He noted that Milady, naturally fair of complexion, was now paler than wax. For her part Milady realized that the more people she had about her the more people she would have to cope with. Besides Lord Winter would increase his vigilance. And the physician might well declare her illness feigned. Having lost the first round in this bout, Milady was determined to win the second.

  “Fetch a physician?” said she. “What good would that do? Yesterday these gentlemen declared that my illness was a comedy; today it would be the same. It is somewhat late to be sending for a doctor!”

  “Will you kindly tell us yourself, Madame, what treatment you would wish to follow?” Felton interrupted with some impatience.

  “Ah, God, how do I know! I know that I am suffering, that is all. Give me what you will, I do not care.”

  “Send for Lord Winter,” said Felton, wearied by these everlasting complaints.

  “Oh, no, no! please do not call him, I beseech you. I am well, I want nothing!”