 served as
sentinel was heard in the corridor--his ax in his girdle and his
musket on his shoulder.

Milady remained for some minutes in the same position, for she
thought they might perhaps be examining her through the keyhole;
she then slowly raised her head, which had resumed its formidable
expression of menace and defiance, ran to the door to listen,
looked out of her window, and returning to bury herself again in
her large armchair, she reflected.



51  OFFICER

Meanwhile, the cardinal looked anxiously for news from England;
but no news arrived that was not annoying and threatening.

Although La Rochelle was invested, however certain success might
appear--thanks to the precautions taken, and above all to the
dyke, which prevented the entrance of any vessel into the
besieged city--the blockade might last a long time yet.  This was
a great affront to the king's army, and a great inconvenience to
the cardinal, who had no longer, it is true, to embroil Louis
XIII with Anne of Austria--for that affair was over--but he had
to adjust matters for M. de Bassompierre, who was embroiled with
the Duc d'Angouleme.

As to Monsieur, who had begun the siege, he left to the cardinal
the task of finishing it.

The city, notwithstanding the incredible perseverance of its
mayor, had attempted a sort of mutiny for a surrender; the mayor
had hanged the mutineers.  This execution quieted the ill-
disposed, who resolved to allow themselves to die of hunger--this
death always appearing to them more slow and less sure than
strangulation.

On their side, from time to time, the besiegers took the
messengers which the Rochellais sent to Buckingham, or the spies
which Buckingham sent to the Rochellais.  In one case or the
other, the trial was soon over.  The cardinal pronounced the
single word, "Hanged!"  The king was invited to come and see the
hanging.  He came languidly, placing himself in a good situation
to see all the details.  This amused him sometimes a little, and
made him endure the siege with patience; but it did not prevent
his getting very tired, or from talking at every moment of
returning to Paris--so that if the messengers and the spies had
failed, his Eminence, notwithstanding all his inventiveness,
would have found himself much embarrassed.

Nevertheless, time passed on, and the Rochellais did not
surrender.  The last spy that was taken was the bearer of a
letter.  This letter told Buckingham that the city was at an
extremity; but instead of adding, "If your succor does not arrive
within fifteen days, we will surrender," it added, quite simply,
"If your succor comes not within fifteen days, we shall all be
dead with hunger when it comes."

The Rochellais, then, had no hope but in Buckingham.  Buckingham
was their Messiah.  It was evident that if they one day learned
positively that they must not count on Buckingham, their courage
would fail with their hope.

The cardinal looked, then, with great impatience for the news
from England which would announce to him that Buckingham would
not come.

The question of carrying the city by assault, though often
debated in the council of the king, had been always rejected.  In
the first place, La Rochelle appeared impregnable.  Then the
cardinal, whatever he said, very well knew that the horror of
bloodshed in this encounter, in which Frenchman would combat
against Frenchman, was a retrograde movement of sixty years
impressed upon his policy; and the cardinal was at that period
what we now call a man of progress.  In fact, the sack of La
Rochelle, and the assassination of three of four thousand
Huguenots who allowed themselves to be killed, would resemble too
closely, in 1628, the massacre of St. Bartholomew in 1572; and
then, above all this, this extreme measure, which was not at all
repugnant to the king, good Catholic as he was, always fell
before this argument of the besieging generals--La Rochelle is
impregnable except to famine.

The cardinal could not drive from his mind the fear he
entertained of his terrible emissary--for he comprehended the
strange qualities of this woman, sometimes a serpent, sometimes a
lion.  Had she betrayed him?  Was she dead?  He knew her well
enough in all cases to know that, whether acting for or against
him, as a friend or an enemy, she would not remain motionless
without great impediments; but whence did these impediments
arise?  That was what he could not know.

And yet he reckoned, and with reason, on Milady.  He had divined
in the past of this woman terrible things which his red mantle
alone could cover; and he felt, from one cause or another, that
this woman was his own, as she could look to no other but himself
for a support superior to the danger which threatened her.

He resolved, then, to carry on the war alone, and to look for no
success foreign to himself, but as we look for a fortunate
chance.  He continued to press the raising of the famous dyke
which was to starve La Rochelle.  Meanwhile, he cast his eyes
over that unfortunate city, which contained so much deep misery
and so many heroic virtues, and recalling the saying of Louis XI,
his political predecessor, as he himself was the predecessor of
Robespierre, he repeated this maxim of Tristan's gossip:  "Divide
in order to reign."

Henry IV, when besieging Paris, had loaves and provisions thrown
over the walls.  The cardinal had little notes thrown over in
which he represented to the Rochellais how unjust, selfish, and
barbarous was the conduct of their leaders.  These leaders had
corn in abundance, and would not let them partake of it; they
adopted as a maxim--for they, too, had maxims--that it was of
very little consequence that women, children, and old men should
die, so long as the men who were to defend the walls remained
strong and healthy.  Up to that time, whether from devotedness or
from want of power to act against it, this maxim, without being
generally adopted, nevertheless passed from theory into practice;
but the notes did it injury.  The notes reminded the men that the
children, women, and old men whom they allowed to die were their
sons, their wives, and their fathers, and that it would be more
just for everyone to be reduced to the common misery, in order
that equal conditions should give birth to unanimous resolutions.

These notes had all the effect that he who wrote them could
expect, in that they induced a great number of the inhabitants to
open private negotiations with the royal army.

But at the moment when the cardinal saw his means already
fructify, and applauded himself for having put it in action, an
inhabitant of La Rochelle who had contrived to pass the royal
lines--God knows how, such was the watchfulness of Bassompierre,
Schomberg, and the Duc d'Angouleme, themselves watched over by
the cardinal--an inhabitant of La Rochelle, we say, entered the
city, coming from Portsmouth, and saying that he had seen a
magnificent fleet ready to sail within eight days.  Still
further, Buckingham announced to the mayor that at length the
great league was about to declare itself against France, and that
the kingdom would be at once invaded by the English, Imperial,
and Spanish armies.  This letter was read publicly in all parts
of the city.  Copies were put up at the corners of the streets;
and even they who had begun to open negotiations interrupted
them, being resolved to await the succor so pompously announced.

This unexpected circumstance brought back Richelieu's former
anxiety, and forced him in spite of himself once more to turn his
eyes to the other side of the sea.

During this time, exempt from the anxiety of its only and true
chief, the royal army led a joyous life, neither provisions nor
money being wanting in the camp.  All the corps rivaled one
another in audacity and gaiety.  To take spies and hang them, to
make hazardous expeditions upon the dyke or the sea, to imagine
wild plans, and to execute them coolly--such were the pastimes
which made the army find these days short which were not only so
long to the Rochellais, a prey to famine and anxiety, but even to
the cardinal, who blockaded them so closely.

Sometimes when the cardinal, always on horseback, like the lowest
GENDARME of the army, cast a pensive glance over those works, so
slowly keeping pace with his wishes, which the engineers, brought
from all the corners of France, were executing under his orders,
if he met a Musketeer of the company of Treville, he drew near
and looked at him in a peculiar manner, and not recognizing in
him one of our four companions, he turned his penetrating look
and profound thoughts in another direction.

One day when oppressed with a mortal weariness of mind, without
hope in the negotiations with the city; without news from
England, the cardinal went out, without any other aim than to be
out of doors, and accompanied only by Cahusac and La Houdiniere,
strolled along the beach.  Mingling the immensity of his dreams
with the immensity of the ocean, he came, his horse going at a
foot's pace, to a hill from the top of which he perceived behind
a hedge, reclining on the sand and catching in its passage one of
those rays of the sun so rare at this period of the year, seven
men surrounded by empty bottles.  Four of these men were our
Musketeers, preparing to listen to a letter one of them had just
received.  This letter was so important that it made them forsake
their cards and their dice on the drumhead.

The other three were occupied in opening an enormous flagon of
Collicure wine; these were the lackeys of these gentlemen.

The cardinal was, as we have said, in very low spirits; and
nothing when he was in that state of mind increased his
depression so much as gaiety in others.  Besides, he had another
strange fancy, which was always to believe that the causes of his
sadness created the gaiety of others.  Making a sign to La
Houdiniere and Cahusac to stop, he alighted from his horse, and
went toward these suspected merry companions, hoping, by means of
the sand which deadened the sound of his steps and of the hedge
which concealed his approach, to catch some words of this
conversation which appeared so interesting.  At ten paces from
the hedge he recognized the talkative Gascon; and as he had
already perceived that these men were Musketeers, he did not
doubt that the three others were those called the Inseparables;
that is to say, Athos, Porthos, and Aramis.

It may be supposed that his desire to hear the conversation was
augmented by this discovery.  His eyes took a strange expression,
and with the step of a tiger-cat he advanced toward the hedge;
but he had not been able to catch more than a few vague syllables
without any positive sense, when a sonorous and short cry made
him start, and attracted the attention of the Musketeers.

"Officer!" cried Grimaud.

"You are speaking, you scoundrel!" said Athos, rising upon his
elbow, and transfixing Grimaud with his flaming look.

Grimaud therefore added nothing to his speech, but contented
himself with pointing his index finger in the direction of the
hedge, announcing by this gesture the cardinal and his escort.

With a single bound the Musketeers were on their feet, and
saluted with respect.

The cardinal seemed furious.

"It appears that Messieurs the Musketeers keep guard," said he.
"Are the English expected by land, or do the Musketeers consider
themselves superior officers?"

"Monseigneur," replied Athos, for amid the general fright he
alone had preserved the noble calmness and coolness that never
forsook him, "Monseigneur, the Musketeers, when they are not on
duty, or when their duty is over, drink and play at dice, and
they are certainly superior officers to their lackeys."

"Lackeys?" grumbled the cardinal.  "Lackeys who have the order to
warn their masters when anyone passes are not lackeys, they are
sentinels."

"Your Eminence may perceive that if we had not taken this
precaution, we should have been exposed to allowing you to pass
without presenting you our respects or offering you our thanks
for the favor you have done us in uniting us.  D'Artagnan,"
continued Athos, "you, who but lately were so anxious for such an
opportunity for expressing your gratitude to Monseigneur, here it
is; avail yourself of it."

These words were pronounced with that imperturbable phlegm which
distinguished Athos in the hour of danger, and with that
excessive politeness which made of him at certain moments a king
more majestic than kings by birth.

D'Artagnan came forward and stammered out a few words of
gratitude which soon expired under the gloomy looks of the
cardinal.

"It does not signify, gentlemen," continued the cardinal, without
appearing to be in the least swerved from his first intention by
the diversion which Athos had started, "it does not signify,
gentlemen.  I do not like to have simple soldiers, because they
have the advantage of serving in a privileged corps, thus to play
the great lords; discipline is the same for them as for everybody
else."

Athos allowed the cardinal to finish his sentence completely, and
bowed in sign of assent.  Then he resumed in his turn:
"Discipline, Monseigneur, has, I hope, in no way been forgotten
by us.  We are not on duty, and we believed that not being on
duty we were at liberty to dispose of our time as we pleased.  If
we are so fortunate as to have some particular duty to perform
for your Eminence, we are ready to obey you.  Your Eminence may
perceive," continued Athos, knitting his brow, for this sort of
investigation began to annoy him, "that we have not come out
without our arms."

And he showed the cardinal, with his finger, the four muskets
piled near the drum, on which were the cards and dice.

"Your Eminence may believe," added D'Artagnan, "that we would
have come to meet you, if we could have supposed it was
Monseigneur coming toward us with so few attendants."

The cardinal bit his mustache, and even his lips a little.

"Do you know what you look like, all together, as you are armed
and guarded by your lackeys?" said the cardinal.  "You look like
four conspirators."

"Oh, as to that, Monseigneur, it is true," said Athos; "we do
conspire, as your Eminence might have seen the other morning.
Only we conspire against the Rochellais."

"Ah, you gentlemen of policy!" replied the cardinal, knitting his
brow in his turn, "the secret of many unknown things might
perhaps be found in your brains, if we could read them as you
read that letter which you concealed as soon as you saw me
coming."

The color mounted to the face of Athos, and he made a step toward
his Eminence.

"One might think you really suspected us, monseigneur, and we
were undergoing a real interrogatory.  If it be so, we trust your
Eminence will deign to explain yourself, and we should then at
least be acquainted with our real position."

"And if it were an interrogatory!" replied the cardinal.  "Others
besides you have undergone such, Monsieur Athos, and have replied
thereto."

"Thus I have told your Eminence that you had but to question us,
and we are ready to reply."

"What was that letter you were about to read, Monsieur Aramis,
and which you so promptly concealed?"

"A woman's letter, monseigneur."

"Ah, yes, I see," said the cardinal; "we must be discreet with
this sort of letters; but nevertheless, we may show them to a
confessor, and you know I have taken orders."

"Monseigneur," said Athos, with a calmness the more terrible
because he risked his head in making this reply, "the letter is a
woman's letter, but it is neither signed Marion de Lorme, nor
Madame d'Aiguillon."

The cardinal became as pale as death; lightning darted from his
eyes.  He turned round as if to give an order to Cahusac and
Houdiniere.  Athos saw the movement; he made a step toward the
muskets, upon which the other three friends had fixed their eyes,
like men ill-disposed to allow themselves to be taken.  The
cardinalists were three; the Musketeers, lackeys included, were
seven.  He judged that the match would be so much the less equal,
if Athos and his companions were really plotting; and by one of
those rapid turns which he always had at command, all his anger
faded away into a smile.

"Well, well!" said he, "you are brave young men, proud in
daylight, faithful in darkness.  We can find no fault with you
for watching over yourselves, when you watch so carefully over
others.  Gentlemen, I have not forgotten the night in which you
served me as an escort to the Red Dovecot.  If there were any
danger to be apprehended on the road I am going, I would request
you to accompany me; but as there is none, remain where you are,
finish your bottles, your game, and your letter.  Adieu,
gentlemen!"

And remounting his horse, which Cahusac led to him, he saluted
them with his hand, and rode away.

The four young men, standing and motionless, followed him with
their eyes without speaking a single word until he had
disappeared.  Then they looked at one another.

The countenances of all gave evidence of terror, for
notwithstanding the friendly adieu of his Eminence, they plainly
perceived that the cardinal went away with rage in his heart.

Athos alone smiled, with a self-possessed, disdainful smile.

When the cardinal was out of hearing and sight, "That Grimaud
kept bad watch!" cried Porthos, who had a great inclination to
vent his ill-humor on somebody.

Grimaud was about to reply to excuse himself.  Athos lifted his
finger, and Grimaud was silent.

"Would you have given up the letter, Aramis?" said D'Artagnan.

"I," said Aramis, in his most flutelike tone, "I had made up my
mind.  If he had insisted upon the letter being given up to him,
I would have presented the letter to him with one hand, and with
the other I would have run my sword through his body."

"I expected as much," said Athos; "and that was why I threw
myself between you and him.  Indeed, this man is very much to
blame for talking thus to other men; one would say he had never
had to do with any but women and children."

"My dear Athos, I admire you, but nevertheless we were in the
wrong, after all."

"How, in the wrong?" said Athos.  "Whose, then, is the air we
breathe?  Whose is the ocean upon which we look?  Whose is the
sand upon which we were reclining?  Whose is that letter of your
mistress?  Do these belong to the cardinal?  Upon my honor, this
man fancies the world belongs to him.  There you stood,
stammering, stupefied, annihilated.  One might have supposed the
Bastille appeared before you, and that the gigantic Medusa had
converted you into stone.  Is being in love conspiring?  You are
in love with a woman whom the cardinal has caused to be shut up,
and you wish to get her out of the hands of the cardinal.  That's
a match you are playing with his Eminence; this letter is your
game.  Why should you expose your game to your adversary?  That
is never done.  Let him find it out if he can!  We can find out
his!"

"Well, that's all very sensible, Athos," said D'Artagnan.

"In that case, let there be no more question of what's past, and
let Aramis resume the letter from his cousin where the cardinal
interrupted him."

Aramis drew the letter from his pocket; the three friends
surrounded him, and the three lackeys grouped themselves again
near the wine jar.

"You had only read a line or two," said D'Artagnan; "read the
letter again from the commencement."

"Willingly," said Aramis.

"My dear Cousin, I think I shall make up my mind to set out for
Bethune, where my sister has placed our little servant in the
convent of the Carmelites; this poor child is quite resigned, as
she knows she cannot live elsewhere without the salvation of her
soul being in danger.  Nevertheless, if the affairs of our family
are arranged, as we hope they will be, I believe she will run the
risk of being damned, and will return to those she regrets,
particularly as she knows they are always thinking of her.
Meanwhile, she is not very wretched; what she most desires is a
letter from her intended.  I know that such viands pass with
difficulty through convent gratings; but after all, as I have
given you proofs, my dear cousin, I am not unskilled in such
affairs, and I will take charge of the commission.  My sister
thanks you for your good and eternal remembrance.  She has
experienced much anxiety; but she is now at length a little
reassured, having sent her secretary away in order that nothing
may happen unexpectedly.

"Adieu, my dear cousin.  Tell us news of yourself as often as you
can; that is to say, as often as you can with safety.  I embrace
you.

"Marie Michon."

"Oh, what do I not owe you, Aramis?" said D'Artagnan.  "Dear
Constance!  I have at length, then, intelligence of you.  She
lives; she is in safety in a convent; she is at Bethune!  Where
is Bethune, Athos?"

"Why, upon the frontiers of Artois and of Flanders.  The siege
once over, we shall be able to make a tour in that direction."

"And that will not be long, it is to be hoped," said Porthos;
"for they have this morning hanged a spy who confessed that the
Rochellais were reduced to the leather of their shoes.  Supposing
that after having eaten the leather they eat the soles, I cannot
see much that is left unless they eat one another."

"Poor fools!" said Athos, emptying a glass of excellent Bordeaux
wine which, without having at that period the reputation it now
enjoys, merited it no less, "poor fools!  As if the Catholic
religion was not the most advantageous and the most agreeable of
all religions!  All the same," resumed he, after having clicked
his tongue against his palate, "they are brave fellows!  But what
the devil are you about, Aramis?" continued Athos.  "Why, you are
squeezing that letter into your pocket!"

"Yes," said D'Artagnan, "Athos is right, it must be burned.  And
yet if we burn it, who knows whether Monsieur Cardinal has not a
secret to interrogate ashes?"

"He must have one," said Athos.

"What will you do with the letter, then?" asked Porthos.

"Come here, Grimaud," said Athos.  Grimaud rose and obeyed.  "As
a punishment for having spoken without permission, my friend, you
will please to eat this piece of paper; then to recompense you
for the service you will have rendered us, you shall afterward
drink this glass of wine.  First, here is the letter.  Eat
heartily."

Grimaud smiled; and with his eyes fixed upon the glass which
Athos held in his hand, he ground the paper well between his
teeth and then swallowed it.

"Bravo, Monsieur Grimaud!" said Athos; "and now take this.
That's well.  We dispense with your saying grace."

Grimaud silently swallowed the glass of Bordeaux wine; but his
eyes, raised toward heaven during this delicious occupation,
spoke a language which, though mute, was not the less expressive.

"And now," said Athos, "unless Monsieur Cardinal should form the
ingenious idea of ripping up Grimaud, I think we may be pretty
much at our ease respecting the letter."

Meantime, his Eminence continued his melancholy ride, murmuring
between his mustaches, "These four men must positively be mine."



52  CAPTIVITY:  THE FIRST DAY

Let us return to Milady, whom a glance thrown upon the coast of
France has made us lose sight of for an instant.

We shall find her still in the despairing attitude in which we
left her, plunged in an abyss of dismal reflection--a dark hell
at the gate of which she has almost left hope behind, because for
the first time she doubts, for the first time she fears.

On two occasions her fortune has failed her, on two occasions she
has found herself discovered and betrayed; and on these two
occasions it was to one fatal genius, sent doubtlessly by the
Lord to combat her, that she has succumbed.  D'Artagnan has
conquered her--her, that invincible power of evil.

He has deceived her in her love, humbled her in her pride,
thwarted her in her ambition; and now he ruins her fortune,
deprives her of liberty, and even threatens her life.  Still
more, he has lifted the corner of her mask--that shield with
which she covered herself and which rendered her so strong.

D'Artagnan has turned aside from Buckingham, whom she hates as
she hates everyone she has loved, the tempest with which
Richelieu threatened him in the person of the queen.  D'Artagnan
had passed himself upon her as De Wardes, for whom she had
conceived one of those tigerlike fancies common to women of her
character.  D'Artagnan knows that terrible secret which she has
sworn no one shall know without dying.  In short, at the moment
in which she has just obtained from Richelieu a carte blanche by
the means of which she is about to take vengeance on her enemy,
this precious paper is torn from her hands, and it is D'Artagnan
who holds her prisoner and is about to send her to some filthy
Botany Bay, some infamous Tyburn of the Indian Ocean.

All this she owes to D'Artagnan, without doubt.  From whom can
come so many disgraces heaped upon her head, if not from him?  He
alone could have transmitted to Lord de Winter all these
frightful secrets which he has discovered, one after another, by
a train of fatalities.  He knows her brother-in-law.  He must
have written to him.

What hatred she distills!  Motionless, with her burning and fixed
glances, in her solitary apartment, how well the outbursts of
passion which at times escape from the depths of her chest with
her respiration, accompany the sound of the surf which rises,
growls, roars, and breaks itself like an eternal and powerless
despair against the rocks on which is built this dark and lofty
castle!  How many magnificent projects of vengeance she conceives
by the light of the flashes which her tempestuous passion casts
over her mind against Mme. Bonacieux, against Buckingham, but
above all against D'Artagnan--projects lost in the distance of
the future.

Yes; but in order to avenge herself she must be free.  And to be
free, a prisoner has to pierce a wall, detach bars, cut through a
floor--all undertakings which a patient and strong man may
accomplish, but before which the feverish irritations of a woman
must give way.  Besides, to do all this, time is necessary--
months, years; and she has ten or twelve days, as Lord de Winter,
her fraternal and terrible jailer, has told her.

And yet, if she were a man she would attempt all this, and
perhaps might succeed; why, then, did heaven make the mistake of
placing that manlike soul in that frail and delicate body?

The first moments of her captivity were terrible; a few
convulsions of rage which she could not suppress paid her debt of
feminine weakness to nature.  But by degrees she overcame the
outbursts of her mad passion; and nervous tremblings which
agitated her frame disappeared, and she remained folded within
herself like a fatigued serpent in repose.

"Go to, go to!  I must have been mad to allow myself to be
carried away so," says she, gazing into the glass, which reflects
back to her eyes the burning glance by which she appears to
interrogate herself.  "No violence; violence is the proof of
weakness.  In the first place, I have never succeeded by that
means.  Perhaps if I employed my strength against women I might
perchance find them weaker than myself, and consequently conquer
them; but it is with men that I struggle, and I am but a woman to
them.  Let me fight like a woman, then; my strength is in my
weakness."

Then, as if to render an account to herself of the changes she
could place upon her countenance, so mobile and so expressive,
she made it take all expressions from that of passionate anger,
which convulsed her features, to that of the most sweet, most
affectionate, and most seducing smile.  Then her hair assumed
successively, under her skillful hands, all the undulations she
thought might assist the charms of her face.  At length she
murmured, satisfied with herself, "Come, nothing is lost; I am
still beautiful."

It was then nearly eight o'clock in the evening.  Milady
perceived a bed; she calculated that the repose of a few hours
would not only refresh her head and her ideas, but still further,
her complexion.  A better idea, however, came into her mind
before going to bed.  She had heard something said about supper.
She had already been an hour in this apartment; they could not
long delay bringing her a repast.  The prisoner did not wish to
lose time; and she resolved to make that very evening some
attempts to ascertain the nature of the ground she had to work
upon, by studying the characters of the men to whose guardianship
she was committed.

A light appeared under the door; this light announced the
reappearance of her jailers.  Milady, who had arisen, threw
herself quickly into the armchair, her head thrown back, her
beautiful hair unbound and disheveled, her bosom half bare
beneath her crumpled lace, one hand on her heart, and the other
hanging down.

The bolts were drawn; the door groaned upon its hinges.  Steps
sounded in the chamber, and drew near.

"Place that table there," said a voice which the prisoner
recognized as that of Felton.

The order was executed.

"You will bring lights, and relieve the sentinel," continued
Felton.

And this double order which the young lieutenant gave to the same
individuals proved to Milady that her servants were the same men
as her guards; that is to say, soldiers.

Felton's orders were, for the rest, executed with a silent
rapidity that gave a good idea of the way in which he maintained
discipline.

At length Felton, who had not yet looked at Milady, turned toward
her.

"Ah, ah!" said he, "she is asleep; that's well.  When she wakes
she can sup."  And he made some steps toward the door.

"But, my lieutenant," said a soldier, less stoical than his
chief, and who had approached Milady, "this woman is not asleep."

"What, not asleep!" said Felton; "what is she doing, then?"

"She has fainted.  Her face is very pale, and I have listened in
vain; I do not hear her breathe."

"You are right," said Felton, after having looked at Milady from
the spot on which he stood without moving a step toward her. "Go
and tell Lord de Winter that his prisoner has fainted--for this
event not having been foreseen, I don't know what to do."

The soldier went out to obey the orders of his officer.  Felton
sat down upon an armchair which happened to be near the door, and
waited without speaking a word, without making a gesture.  Milady
possessed that great art, so much studied by women, of looking
through her long eyelashes without appearing to open the lids.
She perceived Felton, who sat with his back toward her.  She
continued to look at him for nearly ten minutes, and in these ten
minutes the immovable guardian never turned round once.

She then thought that Lord de Winter would come, and by his
presence give fresh strength to her jailer.  Her first trial was
lost; she acted like a woman who reckons up her resources.  As a
result she raised her head, opened her eyes, and sighed deeply.

At this sigh Felton turned round.

"Ah, you are awake, madame," he said; "then I have nothing more
to do here.  If you want anything you can ring."

"Oh, my God, my God! how I have suffered!" said Milady, in that
harmonious voice which, like that of the ancient enchantresses,
charmed all whom she wished to destroy.

And she assumed, upon sitting up in the armchair, a still more
graceful and abandoned position than when she reclined.

Felton arose.

"You will be served, thus, madame, three times a day," said he.
"In the morning at nine o'clock, in the day at one o'clock, and
in the evening at eight.  If that does not suit you, you can
point out what other hours you prefer, and in this respect your
wishes will be complied with."

"But am I to remain always alone in this vast and dismal
chamber?" asked Milady.

"A woman of the neighbourhood has been sent for, who will be
tomorrow at the castle, and will return as often as you desire
her presence."

"I thank you, sir," replied the prisoner, humbly.

Felton made a slight bow, and directed his steps toward the door.
At the moment he was about to go out, Lord de Winter appeared in
the corridor, followed by the soldier who had been sent to inform
him of the swoon of Milady.  He held a vial of salts in his hand.

"Well, what is it--what is going on here?" said he, in a jeering
voice, on seeing the prisoner sitting up and Felton about to go
out.  "Is this corpse come to life already?  Felton, my lad, did
you not perceive that you were taken for a novice, and that the
first act was being performed of a comedy of which we shall
doubtless have the pleasure of following out all the
developments?"

"I thought so, my lord," said Felton; "but as the prisoner is a
woman, after all, I wish to pay her the attention that every man
of gentle birth owes to a woman, if not on her account, at least
on my own."

Milady shuddered through her whole system.  These words of
Felton's passed like ice through her veins.

"So," replied De Winter, laughing, "that beautiful hair so
skillfully disheveled, that white skin, and that languishing
look, have not yet seduced you, you heart of stone?"

"No, my Lord," replied the impassive young man; "your Lordship
may be assured that it requires more than the tricks and coquetry
of a woman to corrupt me."

"In that case, my brave lieutenant, let us leave Milady to find
out something else, and go to supper; but be easy!  She has a
fruitful imagination, and the second act of the comedy will not
delay its steps after the first."

And at these words Lord de Winter passed his arm through that of
Felton, and led him out, laughing.

"Oh, I will be a match for you!" murmured Milady, between her
teeth; "be assured of that, you poor spoiled monk, you poor
converted soldier, who has cut his uniform out of a monk's
frock!"

"By the way," resumed De Winter, stopping at the threshold of the
door, "you must not, Milady, let this check take away your
appetite.  Taste that fowl and those fish.  On my honor, they are
not poisoned.  I have a very good cook, and he is not to be my
heir; I have full and perfect confidence in him.  Do as I do.
Adieu, dear sister, till your next swoon!"

This was all that Milady could endure.  Her hands clutched her
armchair; she ground her teeth inwardly; her eyes followed the
motion of the door as it closed behind Lord de Winter and Felton,
and the moment she was alone a fresh fit of despair seized her.
She cast her eyes upon the table, saw the glittering of a knife,
rushed toward it and clutched it; but her disappointment was
cruel.  The blade was round, and of flexible silver.

A burst of laughter resounded from the other side of the ill-
closed door, and the door reopened.

"Ha, ha!" cried Lord de Winter; "ha, ha!  Don't you see, my brave
Felton; don't you see what I told you?  That knife was for you,
my lad; she would have killed you.  Observe, this is one of her
peculiarities, to get rid thus, after one fashion or another, of
all the people who bother her.  If I had listened to you, the
knife would have been pointed and of steel.  Then no more of
Felton; she would have cut your throat, and after that everybody
else's.  See, John, see how well she knows how to handle a
knife."

In fact, Milady still held the harmless weapon in her clenched
hand; but these last words, this supreme insult, relaxed her
hands, her strength, and even her will.  The knife fell to the
ground.

"You were right, my Lord," said Felton, with a tone of profound
disgust which sounded to the very bottom of the heart of Milady,
"you were right, my Lord, and I was wrong."

And both again left the room.

But this time Milady lent a more attentive ear than the first,
and she heard their steps die away in the distance of the
corridor.

"I am lost," murmured she; "I am lost!  I am in the power of men
upon whom I can have no more influence than upon statues of
bronze or granite; they know me by heart, and are steeled against
all my weapons.  It is, however, impossible that this should end
as they have decreed!"

In fact, as this last reflection indicated--this instinctive
return to hope--sentiments of weakness or fear did not dwell long
in her ardent spirit.  Milady sat down to table, ate from several
dishes, drank a little Spanish wine, and felt all her resolution
return.

Before she went to bed she had pondered, analyzed, turned on all
sides, examined on all points, the words, the steps, the
gestures, the signs, and even the silence of her interlocutors;
and of this profound, skillful, and anxious study the result was
that Felton, everything considered, appeared the more vulnerable
of her two persecutors.

One expression above all recurred to the mind of the prisoner:
"If I had listened to you," Lord de Winter had said to Felton.

Felton, then, had spoken in her favor, since Lord de Winter had
not been willing to listen to him.

"Weak or strong," repeated Milady, "that man has, then, a spark
of pity in his soul; of that spark I will make a flame that shall
devour him.  As to the other, he knows me, he fears me, and knows
what he has to expect of me if ever I escape from his hands.  It
is useless, then, to attempt anything with him.  But Felton--
that's another thing.  He is a young, ingenious, pure man who
seems virtuous; him there are means of destroying."

And Milady went to bed and fell asleep with a smile upon her
lips.  Anyone who had seen her sleeping might have said she was a
young girl dreaming of the crown of flowers she was to wear on
her brow at the next festival.



53  CAPTIVITY:  THE SECOND DAY

Milady dreamed that she at length had D'Artagnan in her power,
that she was present at his execution; and it was the sight of
his odious blood, flowing beneath the ax of the headsman, which
spread that charming smile upon her lips.

She slept as a prisoner sleeps, rocked by his first hope.

In the morning, when they entered her chamber she was still in
bed.  Felton remained in the corridor.  He brought with him the
woman of whom he had spoken the evening before, and who had just
arrived; this woman entered, and approaching Milady's bed,
offered her services.

Milady was habitually pale; her complexion might therefore
deceive a person who saw her for the first time.

"I am in a fever," said she; "I have not slept a single instant
during all this long night.  I suffer horribly.  Are you likely
to be more humane to me than others were yesterday?  All I ask is
permission to remain abed."

"Would you like to have a physician called?" said the woman.

Felton listened to this dialogue without speaking a word.

Milady reflected that the more people she had around her the more
she would have to work upon, and Lord de Winter would redouble
his watch.  Besides, the physician might declare the ailment
feigned; and Milady, after having lost the first trick, was not
willing to lose the second.

"Go and fetch a physician?" said she.  "What could be the good of
that?  These gentlemen declared yesterday that my illness was a
comedy; it would be just the same today, no doubt--for since
yesterday evening they have had plenty of time to send for a
doctor."

"Then," said Felton, who became impatient, "say yourself, madame,
what treatment you wish followed."

"Eh, how can I tell?  My God!  I know that I suffer, that's all.
Give me anything you like, it is of little consequence."

"Go and fetch Lord de Winter," said Felton, tired of these
eternal complaints.

"Oh, no, no!" cried Milady; "no, sir, do not call him, I conjure
you.  I am well, I want nothing; do not call him."

She gave so much vehemence, such magnetic eloquence to this
exclamation, that Felton in spite of himself advanced some steps
into the room.

"He has come!" thought Milady.

"Meanwhile, madame, if you really suffer," said Felton, "a
physician shall be sent for; and if you deceive us--well, it will
be the worse for you.  But at least we shall not have to reproach
ourselves with anything."

Milady made no reply, but turning her beautiful head round upon
her pillow, she burst into tears, and uttered heartbreaking sobs.

Felton surveyed her for an instant with his usual impassiveness;
then, seeing that the crisis threatened to be prolonged, he went
out.  The woman followed him, and Lord de Winter did not appear.

"I fancy I begin to see my way," murmured Milady, with a savage
joy, burying herself under the clothes to conceal from anybody
who might be watching her this burst of inward satisfaction.

Two hours passed away.

"Now it is time that the malady should be over," said she; "let
me rise, and obtain some success this very day.  I have but ten
days, and this evening two of them will be gone."

In the morning, when they entered Milady's chamber they had
brought her breakfast.  Now, she thought, they could not long
delay coming to clear the table, and that Felton would then
reappear.

Milady was not deceived.  Felton reappeared, and without
observing whether Milady had or had not touched her repast, made
a sign that the table should be carried out of the room, it
having been brought in ready spread.

Felton remained behind; he held a book in his hand.

Milady, reclining in an armchair near the chimney, beautiful,
pale, and resigned, looked like a holy virgin awaiting martyrdom.

Felton approached her, and said, "Lord de Winter, who is a
Catholic, like yourself, madame, thinking that the deprivation of
the rites and ceremonies of your church might be painful to you,
has consented that you should read every day the ordinary of your
Mass; and here is a book which contains the ritual."

At the manner in which Felton laid the book upon the little table
near which Milady was sitting, at the tone in which he pronounced
the two words, YOUR MASS, at the disdainful smile with which he
accompanied them, Milady raised her head, and looked more
attentively at the officer.

By that plain arrangement of the hair, by that costume of extreme
simplicity, by the brow polished like marble and as hard and
impenetrable, she recognized one of those gloomy Puritans she had
so often met, not only in the court of King James, but in that of
the King of France, where, in spite of the remembrance of the St.
Bartholomew, they sometimes came to seek refuge.

She then had one of those sudden inspirations which only people
of genius receive in great crises, in supreme moments which are
to decide their fortunes or their lives.

Those two words, YOUR MASS, and a simple glance cast upon
Felton, revealed to her all the importance of the reply she was
about to make; but with that rapidity of intelligence which was
peculiar to her, this reply, ready arranged, presented itself to
her lips:

"I?" said she, with an accent of disdain in unison with that
which she had remarked in the voice of the young officer, "I,
sir?  MY MASS?  Lord de Winter, the corrupted Catholic, knows
very well that I am not of his religion, and this is a snare he
wishes to lay for me!"

"And of what religion are you, then, madame?" asked Felton, with
an astonishment which in spite of the empire he held over himself
he could not entirely conceal.

"I will tell it," cried Milady, with a feigned exultation, "on
the day when I shall have suffered sufficiently for my faith."

The look of Felton revealed to Milady the full extent of the
space she had opened for herself by this single word.

The young officer, however, remained mute and motionless; his
look alone had spoken.

"I am in the hands of my enemies," continued she, with that tone
of enthusiasm which she knew was familiar to the Puritans.
"Well, let my God save me, or let me perish for my God!  That is
the reply I beg you to make to Lord de Winter.  And as to this
book," added she, pointing to the manual with her finger but
without touching it, as if she must be contaminated by it, "you
may carry it back and make use of it yourself, for doubtless you
are doubly the accomplice of Lord de Winter--the accomplice in
his persecutions, the accomplice in his heresies."

Felton made no reply, took the book with the same appearance of
repugnance which he had before manifested, and retired pensively.

Lord de Winter came toward five o'clock in the evening.  Milady
had had time, during the whole day, to trace her plan of conduct.
She received him like a woman who had already recovered all her
advantages.

"It appears," said the baron, seating himself in the armchair
opposite that occupied by Milady, and stretching out his legs
carelessly upon the hearth, "it appears we have made a little
apostasy!"

"What do you mean, sir!"

"I mean to say that since we last met you have changed your
religion.  You have not by chance married a Protestant for a
third husband, have you?"

"Explain yourself, my Lord," replied the prisoner, with majesty;
"for though I hear your words, I declare I do not understand
them."

"Then you have no religion at all; I like that best," replied
Lord de Winter, laughing.

"Certainly that is most in accord with your own principles,"
replied Milady, frigidly.

"Oh, I confess it is all the same to me."

"Oh, you need not avow this religious indifference, my Lord; your
debaucheries and crimes would vouch for it."

"What, you talk of debaucheries, Madame Messalina, Lady Macbeth!
Either I misunderstand you or you are very shameless!"

"You only speak thus because you are overheard," coolly replied
Milady; "and you wish to interest your jailers and your hangmen
against me."

"My jailers and my hangmen!  Heyday, madame! you are taking a
poetical tone, and the comedy of yesterday turns to a tragedy
this evening.  As to the rest, in eight days you will be where
you ought to be, and my task will be completed."

"Infamous task! impious task!" cried Milady, with the exultation
of a victim who provokes his judge.

"My word," said De Winter, rising, "I think the hussy is going
mad!  Come, come, calm yourself, Madame Puritan, or I'll remove
you to a dungeon.  It's my Spanish wine that has got into your
head, is it not?  But never mind; that sort of intoxication is
not dangerous, and will have no bad effects."

And Lord de Winter retired swearing, which at that period was a
very knightly habit.

Felton was indeed behind the door, and had not lost one word of
this scene.  Milady had guessed aright.

"Yes, go, go,!" said she to her brother; "the effects ARE drawing
near, on the contrary; but you, weak fool, will not see them
until it is too late to shun them."

Silence was re-established.  Two hours passed away.  Milady's
supper was brought in, and she was found deeply engaged in saying
her prayers aloud--prayers which she had learned of an old
servant of her second husband, a most austere Puritan.  She
appeared to be in ecstasy, and did not pay the least attention to
what was going on around her. Felton made a sign that she should
not be disturbed; and when all was arranged, he went out quietly
with the soldiers.

Milady knew she might be watched, so she continued her prayers to
the end; and it appeared to her that the soldier who was on duty
at her door did not march with the same step, and seemed to
listen.  For the moment she wished nothing better.  She arose,
came to the table, ate but little, and drank only water.

An hour after, her table was cleared; but Milady remarked that
this time Felton did not accompany the soldiers.  He feared,
then, to see her too often.

She turned toward the wall to smile--for there was in this smile
such an expression of triumph that this smile alone would have
betrayed her.

She allowed, therefore, half an hour to pass away; and as at that
moment all was silence in the old castle, as nothing was heard
but the eternal murmur of the waves--that immense breaking of the
ocean--with her pure, harmonious, and powerful voice, she began
the first couplet of the psalm then in great favor with the
Puritans:


"Thou leavest thy servants, Lord,
To see if they be strong;
But soon thou dost afford
Thy hand to lead them on."


These verses were not excellent--very far from it; but as it is
well known, the Puritans did not pique themselves upon their
poetry.

While singing, Milady listened.  The soldier on guard at her door
stopped, as if he had been changed into stone.  Milady was then
able to judge of the effect she had produced.

Then she continued her singing with inexpressible fervor and
feeling.  It appeared to her that the sounds spread to a distance
beneath the vaulted roofs, and carried with them a magic charm to
soften the hearts of her jailers.  It however likewise appeared
that the soldier on duty--a zealous Catholic, no doubt--shook off
the charm, for through the door he called:  "Hold your tongue,
madame!  Your song is as dismal as a 'De profundis'; and if
besides the pleasure of being in garrison here, we must hear such
things as these, no mortal can hold out."

"Silence!" then exclaimed another stern voice which Milady
recognized as that of Felton.  "What are you meddling with,
stupid?  Did anybody order you to prevent that woman from
singing?  No.  You were told to guard her--to fire at her i