“I hope so indeed.” Milady smiled. “Come, now that all is arranged, let us go downstairs.”
“You are going to the garden, Madame?”
“Yes, my dear. How do I get there?”
“Just follow this corridor until you reach a small staircase on the right and walk down one flight.”
“Thank you so much!” Milady beamed.
Milady had told the truth: she felt dizzy and her head was spinning because her ill-ordered plans clashed chaotically. She must have time to sort out her thoughts. Vaguely she foresaw the future, but she required quiet and silence to shape it up properly. The principal and most urgent matter was to carry Madame Bonacieux off to some safe place where she could hold her as a hostage, if necessary. She recognized her danger and frankly admitted to herself that her enemies were no less dogged than she. And, as a sailor senses a squall, she sensed that the contest was clear-cut, desperate and close at hand.
“The Bonacieux woman, that is the answer,” she thought. “I must keep her in my power … she means more to D’Artagnan than his very life … if I hold her, I have him at my beck and call.…”
Madame Bonacieux would undoubtedly follow Milady without misgivings; once they were in hiding at Armentières, Milady could easily persuade her that D’Artagnan had never come to Béthune. Within a fortnight at most, Rochefort would return; meanwhile Milady could plot how best to wreak vengeance upon her four enemies. No moment would be lost, praise God! as she enjoyed to the full the perfection, step by step, of her retaliation. Dreaming of each successive and gratifying blow she hoped to inflict upon her enemies, Milady looked about her, taking in the topography of the garden. A woman, and a beautiful one at that, she remained as realistic and as masculine as a general who, balancing possibilities of victory and defeat, allows for a lightning advance or a precipitous retreat. Presently she heard Madame Bonacieux calling her. The Mother Superior had agreed; novice and guest were to sup together.
As Milady and her companion crossed the courtyard they heard the rumble of a carriage drawing up at the gate.
“Listen!”
“Ay, it is a carriage, Madame.”
“It is my brother’s carriage.”
“Ah, God!”
“Come, child, courage!”
The bell of the convent gate rang. Milady had timed her manoeuvre perfectly.
“Run to your room,” she told Madame Bonacieux. “You must have some jewels you want to take along.”
“I have D’Artagnan’s letters!”
“Go fetch them, dear, then join me in my room. We will sup together in haste. We may have to travel part of the night; we must take nourishment to keep up our strength.”
The novice clutched her throat.
“I am stifling,” she moaned. “I cannot move! I cannot breathe!”
“Courage, my dear, just one effort! Remember that in a quarter of an hour you will be safe. Remember that what you are about to do is for his sake!”
“Yes, yes, everything for him! You have restored my courage with a single word. Go, Madame, I shall join you at once.”
Milady ran quickly up to her room, found Rochefort’s lackey waiting and gave him her instructions. He was to stand by the gate. If by chance the musketeers appeared, the carriage was to start off at top speed, drive around the convent walls and await Milady in a hamlet at the edge of the woods behind the convent. In this case, Milady would cross the garden, pass through the wood and reach the hamlet on foot. She congratulated herself on her knowledge of the countryside.
If, on the contrary, the musketeers did not appear, things were to follow the original plan: Madame Bonacieux was to jump onto the carriage step as if to bid Milady farewell and they were to drive off.
Madame Bonacieux joined her and, to dispel any suspicions the novice might have, Milady made a point of repeating in her presence the latter part of her instructions, as the lackey stood by, listening intently. She also asked several questions about the carriage; the lackey replied that it was a chaise drawn by three horses and driven by a postillion. The lackey himself would ride ahead as courier.
Milady’s fears as to any suspicion on her victim’s part were groundless. Poor Constance Bonacieux was too innocent to imagine such treachery on the part of any woman. Besides the name of the Comtesse de Clark, which she had heard from the Mother Superior, was quite unknown to her. How could she be expected to see in this beautiful, brilliant and resourceful fellow-sufferer, the creature who was responsible for so many fatal misfortunes that had befallen her.
The lackey gone, Milady turned to Madame Bonacieux and with a sigh of satisfaction: “You see, dear, everything is ready … the Mother Superior thinks I am being taken away on orders from the Cardinal … this man is off to give his last orders … and in a quarter of an hour.…”
Madame Bonacieux swayed.
“Here, drink a finger of wine, it will comfort you. Then let us be off!”
“Ay, let us be off!” Madame Bonacieux echoed mechanically.
Milady motioned her to sit down opposite her, poured out a small glass of Spanish wine and served her a breast of chicken.
“Really, everything favors us!” she said gaily. “The night is almost fallen and by daybreak we shall be in our retreat. Who on earth can guess where it is? Courage, child, eat a few morsels and drink a drop or two.”
Still dazed, Madame Bonacieux automatically swallowed four or five mouthfuls and barely touched the glass with her lips.
“Come, child, do as I,” Milady urged, raising her glass with a gesture that suggested she was about to drain it. But it remained suspended in mid-air for she had just heard a rumble from the road which sounded like the echo of horses’ hoofs galloping up from afar. Then, as the sounds grew clearer, she fancied she could distinguish the neighing of horses. This rumor scattered her joy much as a clap of thunder dispels the most golden of dreams. She grew very pale and ran to the window; Madame Bonacieux, rising all atremble, leaned on her chair for support. It was impossible to see anything yet; but the approaching noise was undoubtedly that of horses at a gallop.
“Ah God! what can that be?” Madame Bonacieux whimpered.
“Our friends or our enemies,” Milady declared with frightening calm. “Stay where you are, I shall let you know in a moment.”
Madame Bonacieux stood speechless, rigid and pale as a statue.
The noise grew louder, the horses could not be more than a hundred and fifty paces distant; only a crook in the road made them invisible. A second later the echo was distinct enough for Milady to count them by the syncopated rattle of their hoofs. Straining her eyes, she stared across the dusk; there was just light enough for her to recognize the approaching horsemen.
Suddenly at the bend in the road she saw the glitter of gold-laced hats and flowing plumes … she counted first two, then five, then eight horsemen … and she noticed that one was several lengths ahead of his comrades.… Milady uttered a stifled moan: in the horseman in the lead she had recognized D’Artagnan.
“Ah God, Madame, what is it?” Madame Bonacieux whimpered.
“It is the Cardinal’s Guards, I can tell by their uniforms. We have not a moment to lose. Let us fly.”
“Yes, Madame, let us fly—” the novice repeated. But she stood there, rooted in terror to the spot, unable to move an inch. Meanwhile the horsemen could be heard clattering by under the window.
“Come along, for God’s sake, come along.” Milady attempted to drag the young woman by the arm. “We can still escape through the garden, I have the key. But do hurry! In five minutes it will be too late.”
Madame Bonacieux tried to walk, took two paces and fell to her knees. Milady tried to lift her and carry her on but could not manage it. At that moment she heard the rumbling of a carriage setting out at a gallop. Then came an exchange of shots.
“For the last time, will you come?” Milady insisted.
“I can’t. Oh, my God, don’t you see my strength fails me. I cannot walk. You mu
st flee alone!”
“And leave you here, child. Never!”
Milady suddenly paused, looming over the other; a livid flame flashed from her eyes. Then, running back to the table, she twirled open the bezel of her ring with extraordinary speed, and emptied its contents into Madame Bonacieux’s glass. The ring contained a tiny reddish pill which dissolved immediately. Then grasping the glass firmly:
“Drink,” she said, “this wine will give you strength. Drink!”
And she pressed the glass to the lips of the young woman who gulped obediently.
“That was not the revenge I planned!” Milady mused, smiling and replacing the glass on the table. “Ah, well, we do our best!” And she rushed out of the room.
Madame Bonacieux watched her disappear without being able to follow her; she was like the victim of a nightmare in which she was being pursued but was pinned down helpless to her bed. Several minutes passed but she did not move. Then there was a great tumult at the convent gate and she expected Milady to reappear at any moment but in vain. In her terror and dismay, she felt an icy sweat break over her burning forehead.
At length she heard the grating of hinges as the gates swung open with a crash. There was a trampling of boots, a rattling of spurs and a hubbub of voices on the stairs. And then she heard or dreamed she was hearing someone call her by name.
Suddenly she uttered a great cry of joy and darted toward the door for she had recognized the voice of D’Artagnan.
“D’Artagnan, D’Artagnan! Is it you?” she cried. “This way, this way!”
“Constance, where are you?”
The door of the cell sprang open. As several men rushed in, Madame Bonacieux sank back into an armchair unable to move. D’Artagnan tossed a pistol, still smoking, to the floor and fell on his knees before his mistress. Athos replaced his pistol in his belt. Porthos and Aramis, who had entered sword in hand, returned the weapons to their scabbards.
“Oh, D’Artagnan, my beloved D’Artagnan! Here you are at last! You kept your word! It is you, is it not? Tell me it is you I see!”
“Ay, Constance, we are together again!”
“She told me you were not coming. I knew you were, but she seemed so sure. I hoped in silence. I did not want to flee with her. How right I was, darling, and how happy I am!”
At the word she, Athos, who had sat down quietly, started up.
“She?” D’Artagnan asked. “Who do you mean?”
“Why, my companion and friend … the lady who tried to get me away from my persecutors … the lady who mistook you for Cardinalist Guards and has just fled.…”
D’Artagnan turned paler than the white veil of his mistress.
“Your companion, dear Constance?” he asked, utterly baffled. “What companion do you mean?”
“The lady whose carriage was at the door! She told me she was a friend of yours, D’Artagnan. She said you had told her everything.”
“Her name, her name! Can’t you recall her name?”
“Yes, I think so. The Mother Superior told me but I forget. It is a strange name. Oh, God, my head swims—I cannot see—”
“Help, help, my friends, her hands are icy cold,” said D’Artagnan. “She is ill. Dear God! She is losing consciousness!”
While Porthos bellowed for help, Aramis moved toward the table for a glass of water. But he stopped suddenly at the sight of Athos. A terrible change had come over Athos as he stood before the table, his hair bristling, his eyes frozen in a stupor. Staring into one of the glasses, Athos appeared to be a prey to the most horrible doubt.
“No, no, it is impossible,” he muttered. “God would not permit such a crime.”
“Water,” cried D’Artagnan, “bring some water!”
“Poor woman!” Athos murmured brokenly.
Madame Bonacieux opened her eyes under the kisses of D’Artagnan.
“She is coming to!” cried our Gascon. “Thank God!”
“Madame,” Athos asked, “in the name of Heaven, whose is that empty glass?”
“It is mine, Monsieur,” the young woman answered in a dying voice. “But who poured you the wine that was in it?”
“She did—”
“But who is she?”
“Oh, I remember now … she is the Comtesse de Clark …” She gasped for breath, then, having spoken, she turned livid, a sharp spasm passed over her frame and she would have fallen but for Porthos and Aramis who held out their arms to support her. D’Artagnan seized the hand of Athos with indescribable anguish.
“Do you think—?” he paused, choking. “Do you think—?” and his voice was drowned in a sob.
“I think the very worst!” Athos answered, biting his lips.
“D’Artagnan, D’Artagnan!” Madame Bonacieux moaned. “Don’t leave me, my lover. Where are you? You see I am dying.”
Releasing Athos, whose hand he had held clenched in his hands, D’Artagnan hastened to her side. Her beautiful face was distorted in agony, her bright eyes were now fixed in a glassy stare, her lovely body trembled convulsively, the sweat rolled off her brow.
“For God’s sake, get some help, Porthos, Aramis. What are you waiting for?”
“It is quite useless,” Athos said bitterly. “For the poison she pours, there is no antidote.”
“Help me, my dear friends,” Madame Bonacieux pleaded. “I am in such pain!”
Then, gathering all her strength, she took the young man’s head between her two hands, looked at him for a moment as though to concentrate her entire soul in this gaze of farewell, and with a sobbing cry, pressed her lips on his.
“Constance, Constance!”
A sigh escaped her, D’Artagnan felt her breath grazing his lips and slowly she sank back. How good, how chaste, how loving she had been, he thought, and now it was a dead woman he held in his embrace. With a cry, he fell beside her, pale and icy as herself.
Porthos was weeping unashamedly, Athos shook his fist toward Heaven, Aramis made the sign of the Cross.
Suddenly a man appeared in the doorway, panting and almost as upset as those in the room. Looking around him he noticed Madame Bonacieux dead and D’Artagnan in a faint. At a glance he realized that he was witnessing the moment of general stupor which follows upon great catastrophes.
“I was not mistaken,” he said, “this is Monsieur d’Artagnan, and you three are his friends, Messieurs Athos, Porthos and Aramis.”
The musketeers looked up in surprise at hearing their names. Each sought to recall the stranger who seemed not unfamiliar yet they could not quite place him.
“Like yourselves, gentlemen, I am in search of a woman—” he gave a bitter smile, “—a woman who must have passed this way, for I see a corpse here.”
The friends remained silent. Surely they had met this man, but where? His voice as well as his face recalled someone they had encountered, but in what circumstances?
“Gentlemen,” the stranger continued, “since you do not recognize a man whose life you have saved twice, I must need introduce myself. I am Lord Winter, brother-in-law of that woman.”
The three friends cried out in surprise. Athos rose and held out his hand:
“Be welcome, Milord,” he said courteously. “You are one of us.”
“I left Portsmouth five hours after she did,” Lord Winter explained. “I reached Boulogne three hours after her. I missed her by twenty minutes at Saint-Omer. Finally at Lilliers I lost all trace of her. I was on her trail, searching haphazard and inquiring of everybody who passed. Suddenly I saw you gallop past and I recognized Monsieur d’Artagnan. I shouted to you but you did not reply. I tried to overtake you but my horse could not keep up with yours. So in spite of all your diligence you arrived too late.”
“As you see,” Athos said, pointing to Madame Bonacieux, while Porthos and Aramis attempted to revive the Gascon.
“Are they both dead?” Lord Winter inquired sternly.
“No,” Athos assured him. “Fortunately Monsieur d’Artagnan has only fainted.” And at
that moment, as though to reassure the stranger, D’Artagnan opened his eyes, tore himself away from Porthos and Aramis and flung himself like a madman on the body of his mistress. Athos rose, walked over to his friend with slow and solemn step, tenderly embraced him and, as D’Artagnan broke into sobs, he said in his mellow, persuasive voice:
“Friend, be a man! Women weep for the dead; men avenge them!”
“Ay, we must avenge her. Lead the way, Athos, I am ready to follow you!”
Athos profited by this moment of strength inspired in his friend by hope of vengeance to motion Porthos and Aramis to fetch the Mother Superior. They found her in the corridor, dismayed and distraught at the strange events that had broken in on her religious quietude. She summoned several nuns, who against all monastic custom were ushered into the presence of five men.
“Madame,” said Athos, passing his arm under D’Artagnan’s, “we abandon to your pious care the precious remains of this unfortunate woman. She was an angel on earth before becoming an angel in Heaven. Pray treat her as one of your own sisters. We will return some day to pray over her grave.”
D’Artagnan hid his face against the shoulder Athos offered and burst into sobs.
“Ay, weep, lad!” he whispered. “Weep, heart full of love, alive with youth, and pulsing with life! Would I too could weep!”
And he helped his friend out of the room, handling him with all the affection of a father, the charity of a priest and the sympathy of a man who has suffered much.
All five, followed by five lackeys leading their horses by the bridle, walked into the town of Béthune and stopped at the first inn they found.
“What!” D’Artagnan protested vehemently. “Are we not going in pursuit of that woman?”
“Later,” Athos said soothingly. “I have certain measures to take.”
“She will slip through our fingers, Athos, and you will be to blame.”
“No, D’Artagnan, I guarantee we will find her.”
Athos spoke with such quiet conviction and D’Artagnan trusted him so implicitly that he bowed his head in consent and entered the inn without replying. Porthos and Aramis looked at each other in puzzlement, wondering how Athos was so confident. Lord Winter suggested to them in a whisper that Athos had spoken so in order to soothe D’Artagnan’s sorrow.
The Modern Library Children's Classics Page 128
