f she
attempted to fly.  Guard her!  If she flies, kill her; but don't
exceed your orders."

An expression of unspeakable joy lightened the countenance of
Milady; but this expression was fleeting as the reflection of
lightning.  Without appearing to have heard the dialogue, of
which she had not lost a word, she began again, giving to her
voice all the charm, all the power, all the seduction the demon
had bestowed upon it:

  "For all my tears, my cares,
    My exile, and my chains,
  I have my youth, my prayers,
    And God, who counts my pains."

Her voice, of immense power and sublime expression, gave to the
rude, unpolished poetry of these psalms a magic and an effect
which the most exalted Puritans rarely found in the songs of
their brethren, and which they were forced to ornament with all
the resources of their imagination.  Felton believed he heard the
singing of the angel who consoled the three Hebrews in the
furnace.

Milady continued:

"One day our doors will ope,
With God come our desire;
And if betrays that hope,
To death we can aspire."

This verse, into which the terrible enchantress threw her whole
soul, completed the trouble which had seized the heart of the
young officer.  He opened the door quickly; and Milady saw him
appear, pale as usual, but with his eye inflamed and almost wild.

"Why do you sing thus, and with such a voice?" said he.

"Your pardon, sir," said Milady, with mildness.  "I forgot that
my songs are out of place in this castle.  I have perhaps
offended you in your creed; but it was without wishing to do so,
I swear.  Pardon me, then, a fault which is perhaps great, but
which certainly was involuntary."

Milady was so beautiful at this moment, the religious ecstasy in
which she appeared to be plunged gave such an expression to her
countenance, that Felton was so dazzled that he fancied he beheld
the angel whom he had only just before heard.

"Yes, yes," said he; "you disturb, you agitate the people who
live in the castle."

The poor, senseless young man was not aware of the incoherence of
his words, while Milady was reading with her lynx's eyes the very
depths of his heart.

"I will be silent, then," said Milady, casting down her eyes with
all the sweetness she could give to her voice, with all the
resignation she could impress upon her manner.

"No, no, madame," said Felton, "only do not sing so loud,
particularly at night."

And at these words Felton, feeling that he could not long
maintain his severity toward his prisoner, rushed out of the
room.

"You have done right, Lieutenant," said the soldier.  "Such songs
disturb the mind; and yet we become accustomed to them, her voice
is so beautiful."



54  CAPTIVITY:  THE THIRD DAY

Felton had fallen; but there was still another step to be taken.
He must be retained, or rather he must be left quite alone; and
Milady but obscurely perceived the means which could lead to this
result.

Still more must be done.  He must be made to speak, in order that
he might be spoken to--for Milady very well knew that her
greatest seduction was in her voice, which so skillfully ran over
the whole gamut of tones from human speech to language celestial.

Yet in spite of all this seduction Milady might fail--for Felton
was forewarned, and that against the least chance.  From that
moment she watched all his actions, all his words, from the
simplest glance of his eyes to his gestures--even to a breath
that could be interpreted as a sigh.  In short, she studied
everything, as a skillful comedian does to whom a new part has
been assigned in a line to which he is not accustomed.

Face to face with Lord de Winter her plan of conduct was more
easy.  She had laid that down the preceding evening.  To remain
silent and dignified in his presence; from time to time to
irritate him by affected disdain, by a contemptuous word; to
provoke him to threats and violence which would produce a
contrast with her own resignation--such was her plan.  Felton
would see all; perhaps he would say nothing, but he would see.

In the morning, Felton came as usual; but Milady allowed him to
preside over all the preparations for breakfast without
addressing a word to him.  At the moment when he was about to
retire, she was cheered with a ray of hope, for she thought he
was about to speak; but his lips moved without any sound leaving
his mouth, and making a powerful effort to control himself, he
sent back to his heart the words that were about to escape from
his lips, and went out.  Toward midday, Lord de Winter entered.

It was a tolerably fine winter's day, and a ray of that pale
English sun which lights but does not warm came through the bars
of her prison.

Milady was looking out at the window, and pretended not to hear
the door as it opened.

"Ah, ah!" said Lord de Winter, "after having played comedy, after
having played tragedy, we are now playing melancholy?"

The prisoner made no reply.

"Yes, yes," continued Lord de Winter, "I understand.  You would
like very well to be a liberty on that beach!  You would like
very well to be in a good ship dancing upon the waves of that
emerald-green sea; you would like very well, either on land or on
the ocean, to lay for me one of those nice little ambuscades you
are so skillful in planning.  Patience, patience!  In four days'
time the shore will be beneath your feet, the sea will be open to
you--more open than will perhaps be agreeable to you, for in four
days England will be relieved of you."

Milady folded her hands, and raising her fine eyes toward heaven,
"Lord, Lord," said she, with an angelic meekness of gesture and
tone, "pardon this man, as I myself pardon him."

"Yes, pray, accursed woman!" cried the baron; "your prayer is so
much the more generous from your being, I swear to you, in the
power of a man who will never pardon you!" and he went out.

At the moment he went out a piercing glance darted through the
opening of the nearly closed door, and she perceived Felton, who
drew quickly to one side to prevent being seen by her.

Then she threw herself upon her knees, and began to pray.

"My God, my God!" said she, "thou knowest in what holy cause I
suffer; give me, then, strength to suffer."

The door opened gently; the beautiful supplicant pretended not to
hear the noise, and in a voice broken by tears, she continued:

"God of vengeance!  God of goodness! wilt thou allow the
frightful projects of this man to be accomplished?"

Then only she pretended to hear the sound of Felton's steps, and
rising quick as thought, she blushed, as if ashamed of being
surprised on her knees.

"I do not like to disturb those who pray, madame," said Felton,
seriously; "do not disturb yourself on my account, I beseech
you."

"How do you know I was praying, sir?" said Milady, in a voice
broken by sobs.  "You were deceived, sir; I was not praying."

"Do you think, then, madame," replied Felton, in the same serious
voice, but with a milder tone, "do you think I assume the right
of preventing a creature from prostrating herself before her
Creator?  God forbid!  Besides, repentance becomes the guilty;
whatever crimes they may have committed, for me the guilty are
sacred at the feet of God!"

"Guilty?  I?" said Milady, with a smile which might have disarmed
the angel of the last judgment.  "Guilty?  Oh, my God, thou
knowest whether I am guilty!  Say I am condemned, sir, if you
please; but you know that God, who loves martyrs, sometimes
permits the innocent to be condemned."

"Were you condemned, were you innocent, were you a martyr,"
replied Felton, "the greater would be the necessity for prayer;
and I myself would aid you with my prayers."

"Oh, you are a just man!" cried Milady, throwing herself at his
feet.  "I can hold out no longer, for I fear I shall be wanting
in strength at the moment when I shall be forced to undergo the
struggle, and confess my faith.  Listen, then, to the
supplication of a despairing woman.  You are abused, sir; but
that is not the question.  I only ask you one favor; and if you
grant it me, I will bless you in this world and in the next."

"Speak to the master, madame," said Felton; "happily I am neither
charged with the power of pardoning nor punishing.  It is upon
one higher placed than I am that God has laid this
responsibility."

"To you--no, to you alone!  Listen to me, rather than add to my
destruction, rather than add to my ignominy!"

"If you have merited this shame, madame, if you have incurred
this ignominy, you must submit to it as an offering to God."

"What do you say?  Oh, you do not understand me!  When I speak of
ignominy, you think I speak of some chastisement, of imprisonment
or death.  Would to heaven!  Of what consequence to me is
imprisonment or death?"

"It is I who no longer understand you, madame," said Felton.

"Or, rather, who pretend not to understand me, sir!" replied the
prisoner, with a smile of incredulity.

"No, madame, on the honor of a soldier, on the faith of a
Christian."

"What, you are ignorant of Lord de Winter's designs upon me?"

"I am."

"Impossible; you are his confidant!"

"I never lie, madame."

"Oh, he conceals them too little for you not to divine them."

"I seek to divine nothing, madame; I wait till I am confided in,
and apart from that which Lord de Winter has said to me before
you, he has confided nothing to me."

"Why, then," cried Milady, with an incredible tone of
truthfulness, "you are not his accomplice; you do not know that
he destines me to a disgrace which all the punishments of the
world cannot equal in horror?"

"You are deceived, madame," said Felton, blushing; "Lord de
Winter is not capable of such a crime."

"Good," said Milady to herself; "without thinking what it is, he
calls it a crime!"  Then aloud, "The friend of THAT WRETCH is
capable of everything."

"Whom do you call 'that wretch'?" asked Felton.

"Are there, then, in England two men to whom such an epithet can
be applied?"

"You mean George Villiers?" asked Felton, whose looks became
excited.

"Whom Pagans and unbelieving Gentiles call Duke of Buckingham,"
replied Milady.  "I could not have thought that there was an
Englishman in all England who would have required so long an
explanation to make him understand of whom I was speaking."

"The hand of the Lord is stretched over him," said Felton; "he
will not escape the chastisement he deserves."

Felton only expressed, with regard to the duke, the feeling of
execration which all the English had declared toward him whom the
Catholics themselves called the extortioner, the pillager, the
debauchee, and whom the Puritans styled simply Satan.

"Oh, my God, my God!" cried Milady; "when I supplicate thee to
pour upon this man the chastisement which is his due, thou
knowest it is not my own vengeance I pursue, but the deliverance
of a whole nation that I implore!"

"Do you know him, then?" asked Felton.

"At length he interrogates me!" said Milady to herself, at the
height of joy at having obtained so quickly such a great result.
"Oh, know him?  Yes, yes! to my misfortune, to my eternal
misfortune!" and Milady twisted her arms as if in a paroxysm of
grief.

Felton no doubt felt within himself that his strength was
abandoning him, and he made several steps toward the door; but
the prisoner, whose eye never left him, sprang in pursuit of him
and stopped him.

"Sir," cried she, "be kind, be clement, listen to my prayer!
That knife, which the fatal prudence of the baron deprived me of,
because he knows the use I would make of it!  Oh, hear me to the
end! that knife, give it to me for a minute only, for mercy's,
for pity's sake!  I will embrace your knees!  You shall shut the
door that you may be certain I contemplate no injury to you!  My
God! to you--the only just, good, and compassionate being I have
met with!  To you--my preserver, perhaps!  One minute that knife,
one minute, a single minute, and I will restore it to you through
the grating of the door.  Only one minute, Mr. Felton, and you
will have saved my honor!"

"To kill yourself?" cried Felton, with terror, forgetting to
withdraw his hands from the hands of the prisoner, "to kill
yourself?"

"I have told, sir," murmured Milady, lowering her voice, and
allowing herself to sink overpowered to the ground; "I have told
my secret!  He knows all!  My God, I am lost!"

Felton remained standing, motionless and undecided.

"He still doubts," thought Milady; "I have not been earnest
enough."

Someone was heard in the corridor; Milady recognized the step of
Lord de Winter.

Felton recognized it also, and made a step toward the door.

Milady sprang toward him.  "Oh, not a word," said she in a
concentrated voice, "not a word of all that I have said to you to
this man, or I am lost, and it would be you--you--"

Then as the steps drew near, she became silent for fear of being
heard, applying, with a gesture of infinite terror, her beautiful
hand to Felton's mouth.

Felton gently repulsed Milady, and she sank into a chair.

Lord de Winter passed before the door without stopping, and they
heard the noise of his footsteps soon die away.

Felton, as pale as death, remained some instants with his ear
bent and listening; then, when the sound was quite extinct, he
breathed like a man awaking from a dream, and rushed out of the
apartment.

"Ah!" said Milady, listening in her turn to the noise of Felton's
steps, which withdrew in a direction opposite to those of Lord de
Winter; "at length you are mine!"

Then her brow darkened.  "If he tells the baron," said she, "I am
lost--for the baron, who knows very well that I shall not kill
myself, will place me before him with a knife in my hand, and he
will discover that all this despair is but acted."

She placed herself before the glass, and regarded herself
attentively; never had she appeared more beautiful.

"Oh, yes," said she, smiling, "but we won't tell him!"

In the evening Lord de Winter accompanied the supper.

"Sir," said Milady, "is your presence an indispensable accessory
of my captivity?  Could you not spare me the increase of torture
which your visits cause me?"

"How, dear sister!" said Lord de Winter.  "Did not you
sentimentally inform me with that pretty mouth of yours, so cruel
to me today, that you came to England solely for the pleasure of
seeing me at your ease, an enjoyment of which you told me you so
sensibly felt the deprivation that you had risked everything for
it--seasickness, tempest, captivity?  Well, here I am; be
satisfied.  Besides, this time, my visit has a motive."

Milady trembled; she thought Felton had told all.  Perhaps never
in her life had this woman, who had experienced so many opposite
and powerful emotions, felt her heart beat so violently.

She was seated.  Lord de Winter took a chair, drew it toward her,
and sat down close beside her.  Then taking a paper out of his
pocket, he unfolded it slowly.

"Here," said he, "I want to show you the kind of passport which I
have drawn up, and which will serve you henceforward as the rule
of order in the life I consent to leave you."

Then turning his eyes from Milady to the paper, he read: "'Order
to conduct--'  The name is blank," interrupted Lord de Winter.
"If you have any preference you can point it out to me; and if it
be not within a thousand leagues of London, attention will be
paid to your wishes.  I will begin again, then:

"'Order to conduct to--the person named Charlotte Backson,
branded by the justice of the kingdom of France, but liberated
after chastisement.  She is to dwell in this place without ever
going more than three leagues from it.  In case of any attempt to
escape, the penalty of death is to be applied.  She will receive
five shillings per day for lodging and food'".

"That order does not concern me," replied Milady, coldly, "since
it bears another name than mine."

"A name?  Have you a name, then?"

"I bear that of your brother."

"Ay, but you are mistaken.  My brother is only your second
husband; and your first is still living.  Tell me his name, and I
will put it in the place of the name of Charlotte Backson.  No?
You will not?  You are silent?  Well, then you must be registered
as Charlotte Backson."

Milady remained silent; only this time it was no longer from
affectation, but from terror.  She believed the order ready for
execution.  She thought that Lord de Winter had hastened her
departure; she thought she was condemned to set off that very
evening.  Everything in her mind was lost for an instant; when
all at once she perceived that no signature was attached to the
order.  The joy she felt at this discovery was so great she could
not conceal it.

"Yes, yes," said Lord de Winter, who perceived what was passing
in her mind; "yes, you look for the signature, and you say to
yourself:  'All is not lost, for that order is not signed.  It is
only shown to me to terrify me, that's all.'  You are mistaken.
Tomorrow this order will be sent to the Duke of Buckingham.  The
day after tomorrow it will return signed by his hand and marked
with his seal; and four-and-twenty hours afterward I will answer
for its being carried into execution.  Adieu, madame.  That is
all I had to say to you."

"And I reply to you, sir, that this abuse of power, this exile
under a fictitious name, are infamous!"

"Would you like better to be hanged in your true name, Milady?
You know that the English laws are inexorable on the abuse of
marriage.  Speak freely.  Although my name, or rather that of my
brother, would be mixed up with the affair, I will risk the
scandal of a public trial to make myself certain of getting rid
of you."

Milady made no reply, but became as pale as a corpse.

"Oh, I see you prefer peregrination.  That's well madame; and
there is an old proverb that says, 'Traveling trains youth.'  My
faith! you are not wrong after all, and life is sweet.  That's
the reason why I take such care you shall not deprive me of mine.
There only remains, then, the question of the five shillings to
be settled.  You think me rather parsimonious, don't you?  That's
because I don't care to leave you the means of corrupting your
jailers.  Besides, you will always have your charms left to
seduce them with.  Employ them, if your check with regard to
Felton has not disgusted you with attempts of that kind."

"Felton has not told him," said Milady to herself.  "Nothing is
lost, then."

"And now, madame, till I see you again!  Tomorrow I will come and
announce to you the departure of my messenger."

Lord de Winter rose, saluted her ironically, and went out.

Milady breathed again.  She had still four days before her.  Four
days would quite suffice to complete the seduction of Felton.

A terrible idea, however, rushed into her mind.  She thought that
Lord de Winter would perhaps send Felton himself to get the order
signed by the Duke of Buckingham.  In that case Felton would
escape her--for in order to secure success, the magic of a
continuous seduction was necessary.  Nevertheless, as we have
said, one circumstance reassured her.  Felton had not spoken.

As she would not appear to be agitated by the threats of Lord de
Winter, she placed herself at the table and ate.

Then, as she had done the evening before, she fell on her knees
and repeated her prayers aloud.  As on the evening before, the
soldier stopped his march to listen to her.

Soon after she heard lighter steps than those of the sentinel,
which came from the end of the corridor and stopped before her
door.

"It is he," said she.  And she began the same religious chant
which had so strongly excited Felton the evening before.

But although her voice--sweet, full, and sonorous--vibrated as
harmoniously and as affectingly as ever, the door remained shut.
It appeared however to Milady that in one of the furtive glances
she darted from time to time at the grating of the door she
thought she saw the ardent eyes of the young man through the
narrow opening.  But whether this was reality or vision, he had
this time sufficient self-command not to enter.

However, a few instants after she had finished her religious
song, Milady thought she heard a profound sigh.  Then the same
steps she had heard approach slowly withdrew, as if with regret.



55  CAPTIVITY:  THE FOURTH DAY

The next day, when Felton entered Milady's apartment he found her
standing, mounted upon a chair, holding in her hands a cord made
by means of torn cambric handkerchiefs, twisted into a kind of
rope one with another, and tied at the ends.  At the noise Felton
made in entering, Milady leaped lightly to the ground, and tried
to conceal behind her the improvised cord she held in her hand.

The young man was more pale than usual, and his eyes, reddened by
want of sleep, denoted that he had passed a feverish night.
Nevertheless, his brow was armed with a severity more austere
than ever.

He advanced slowly toward Milady, who had seated herself, and
taking an end of the murderous rope which by neglect, or perhaps
by design, she allowed to be seen, "What is this, madame?" he
asked coldly.

"That?  Nothing," said Milady, smiling with that painful
expression which she knew so well how to give to her smile.
"Ennui is the mortal enemy of prisoners; I had ennui, and I
amused myself with twisting that rope."

Felton turned his eyes toward the part of the wall of the
apartment before which he had found Milady standing in the
armchair in which she was now seated, and over her head he
perceived a gilt-headed screw, fixed in the wall for the purpose
of hanging up clothes or weapons.

He started, and the prisoner saw that start--for though her eyes
were cast down, nothing escaped her.

"What were you doing on that armchair?" asked he.

"Of what consequence?" replied Milady.

"But," replied Felton, "I wish to know."

"Do not question me," said the prisoner; "you know that we who
are true Christians are forbidden to lie."

"Well, then," said Felton, " I will tell you what you were doing,
or rather what you meant to do; you were going to complete the
fatal project you cherish in your mind.  Remember, madame, if our
God forbids falsehood, he much more severely condemns suicide."

"When God sees one of his creatures persecuted unjustly, placed
between suicide and dishonor, believe me, sir," replied Milady,
in a tone of deep conviction, "God pardons suicide, for then
suicide becomes martyrdom."

"You say either too much or too little; speak, madame.  In the
name of heaven, explain yourself."

"That I may relate my misfortunes for you to treat them as
fables; that I may tell you my projects for you to go and betray
them to my persecutor?  No, sir.  Besides, of what importance to
you is the life or death of a condemned wretch?  You are only
responsible for my body, is it not so?  And provided you produce
a carcass that may be recognized as mine, they will require no
more of you; nay, perhaps you will even have a double reward."

"I, madame, I?" cried Felton.  "You suppose that I would ever
accept the price of your life?  Oh, you cannot believe what you
say!"

"Let me act as I please, Felton, let me act as I please," said
Milady, elated.  "Every soldier must be ambitious, must he not?
You are a lieutenant?  Well, you will follow me to the grave with
the rank of captain."

"What have I, then, done to you," said Felton, much agitated,
"that you should load me with such a responsibility before God
and before men?  In a few days you will be away from this place;
your life, madame, will then no longer be under my care, and,"
added he, with a sigh, "then you can do what you will with it."

"So," cried Milady, as if she could not resist giving utterance
to a holy indignation, "you, a pious man, you who are called a
just man, you ask but one thing--and that is that you may not be
inculpated, annoyed, by my death!"

"It is my duty to watch over your life, madame, and I will
watch."

"But do you understand the mission you are fulfilling?  Cruel
enough, if I am guilty; but what name can you give it, what name
will the Lord give it, if I am innocent?"

"I am a soldier, madame, and fulfill the orders I have received."

"Do you believe, then, that at the day of the Last Judgment God
will separate blind executioners from iniquitous judges?  You are
not willing that I should kill my body, and you make yourself the
agent of him who would kill my soul."

"But I repeat it again to you," replied Felton, in great emotion,
"no danger threatens you; I will answer for Lord de Winter as for
myself."

"Dunce," cried Milady, "dunce! who dares to answer for another
man, when the wisest, when those most after God's own heart,
hesitate to answer for themselves, and who ranges himself on the
side of the strongest and the most fortunate, to crush the
weakest and the most unfortunate."

"Impossible, madame, impossible," murmured Felton, who felt to
the bottom of his heart the justness of this argument.  "A
prisoner, you will not recover your liberty through me; living,
you will not lose your life through me."

"Yes," cried Milady, "but I shall lose that which is much dearer
to me than life, I shall lose my honor, Felton; and it is you,
you whom I make responsible, before God and before men, for my
shame and my infamy."

This time Felton, immovable as he was, or appeared to be, could
not resist the secret influence which had already taken
possession of him.  To see this woman, so beautiful, fair as the
brightest vision, to see her by turns overcome with grief and
threatening; to resist at once the ascendancy of grief and
beauty--it was too much for a visionary; it was too much for a
brain weakened by the ardent dreams of an ecstatic faith; it was
too much for a heart furrowed by the love of heaven that burns,
by the hatred of men that devours.

Milady saw the trouble.  She felt by intuition the flame of the
opposing passions which burned with the blood in the veins of the
young fanatic.  As a skillful general, seeing the enemy ready to
surrender, marches toward him with a cry of victory, she rose,
beautiful as an antique priestess, inspired like a Christian
virgin, her arms extended, her throat uncovered, her hair
disheveled, holding with one hand her robe modestly drawn over
her breast, her look illumined by that fire which had already
created such disorder in the veins of the young Puritan, and went
toward him, crying out with a vehement air, and in her melodious
voice, to which on this occasion she communicated a terrible
energy:


"Let this victim to Baal be sent,
To the lions the martyr be thrown!
Thy God shall teach thee to repent!
>From th' abyss he'll give ear to my moan."


Felton stood before this strange apparition like one petrified.

"Who art thou?  Who art thou?" cried he, clasping his hands.
"Art thou a messenger from God; art thou a minister from hell;
art thou an angel or a demon; callest thou thyself Eloa or
Astarte?"

"Do you not know me, Felton?  I am neither an angel nor a demon;
I am a daughter of earth, I am a sister of thy faith, that is
all."

"Yes, yes!" said Felton, "I doubted, but now I believe."

"You believe, and still you are an accomplice of that child of
Belial who is called Lord de Winter!  You believe, and yet you
leave me in the hands of mine enemies, of the enemy of England,
of the enemy of God!  You believe, and yet you deliver me up to
him who fills and defiles the world with his heresies and
debaucheries--to that infamous Sardanapalus whom the blind call
the Duke of Buckingham, and whom believers name Antichrist!"

"I deliver you up to Buckingham?  I? what mean you by that?"

"They have eyes," cried Milady, "but they see not; ears have
they, but they hear not."

"Yes, yes!" said Felton, passing his hands over his brow, covered
with sweat, as if to remove his last doubt.  "Yes, I recognize
the voice which speaks to me in my dreams; yes, I recognize the
features of the angel who appears to me every night, crying to my
soul, which cannot sleep: 'Strike, save England, save thyself--
for thou wilt die without having appeased God!' Speak, speak!"
cried Felton, "I can understand you now."

A flash of terrible joy, but rapid as thought, gleamed from the
eyes of Milady.

However fugitive this homicide flash, Felton saw it, and started
as if its light had revealed the abysses of this woman's heart.
He recalled, all at once, the warnings of Lord de Winter, the
seductions of Milady, her first attempts after her arrival.  He
drew back a step, and hung down his head, without, however,
ceasing to look at her, as if, fascinated by this strange
creature, he could not detach his eyes from her eyes.

Milady was not a woman to misunderstand the meaning of this
hesitation.  Under her apparent emotions her icy coolness never
abandoned her.  Before Felton replied, and before she should be
forced to resume this conversation, so difficult to be sustained
in the same exalted tone, she let her hands fall; and as if the
weakness of the woman overpowered the enthusiasm of the inspired
fanatic, she said:  "But no, it is not for me to be the Judith to
deliver Bethulia from this Holofernes.  The sword of the eternal
is too heavy for my arm.  Allow me, then, to avoid dishonor by
death; let me take refuge in martyrdom.  I do not ask you for
liberty, as a guilty one would, nor for vengeance, as would a
pagan.  Let me die; that is all.  I supplicate you, I implore you
on my knees--let me die, and my last sigh shall be a blessing for
my preserver."

Hearing that voice, so sweet and suppliant, seeing that look, so
timid and downcast, Felton reproached himself.  By degrees the
enchantress had clothed herself with that magic adornment which
she assumed and threw aside at will; that is to say, beauty,
meekness, and tears--and above all, the irresistible attraction
of mystical voluptuousness, the most devouring of all
voluptuousness.

"Alas!" said Felton, "I can do but one thing, which is to pity
you if you prove to me you are a victim!  But Lord de Winter
makes cruel accusations against you.  You are a Christian; you
are my sister in religion.  I feel myself drawn toward you--I,
who have never loved anyone but my benefactor--I who have met
with nothing but traitors and impious men.  But you, madame, so
beautiful in reality, you, so pure in appearance, must have
committed great iniquities for Lord de Winter to pursue you
thus."

"They have eyes," repeated Milady, with an accent of
indescribable grief, "but they see not; ears have they, but they
hear not."

"But," cried the young officer, "speak, then, speak!"

"Confide my shame to you," cried Milady, with the blush of
modesty upon her countenance, "for often the crime of one becomes
the shame of another--confide my shame to you, a man, and I a
woman?  Oh," continued she, placing her hand modestly over her
beautiful eyes, "never! never!--I could not!"

"To me, to a brother?" said Felton.

Milady looked at him for some time with an expression which the
young man took for doubt, but which, however, was nothing but
observation, or rather the wish to fascinate.

Felton, in his turn a suppliant, clasped his hands.

"Well, then," said Milady, "I confide in my brother; I will dare
to--"

At this moment the steps of Lord de Winter were heard; but this
time the terrible brother-in-law of Milady did not content
himself, as on the preceding day, with passing before the door
and going away again.  He paused, exchanged two words with the
sentinel; then the door opened, and he appeared.

During the exchange of these two words Felton drew back quickly,
and when Lord de Winter entered, he was several paces from the
prisoner.

The baron entered slowly, sending a scrutinizing glance from
Milady to the young officer.

"You have been here a very long time, John," said he.  "Has this
woman been relating her crimes to you?  In that case I can
comprehend the length of the conversation."

Felton started; and Milady felt she was lost if she did not come
to the assistance of the disconcerted Puritan.

"Ah, you fear your prisoner should escape!" said she. "Well, ask
your worthy jailer what favor I this instant solicited of him."

"You demanded a favor,?" said the baron, suspiciously.

"Yes, my Lord," replied the young man, confused.

"And what favor, pray?" asked Lord de Winter.

"A knife, which she would return to me through the grating of the
door a minute after she had received it," replied Felton.

"There is someone, then, concealed here whose throat this amiable
lady is desirous of cutting," said De Winter, in an ironical,
contemptuous tone.

"There is myself," replied Milady.

"I have given you the choice between America and Tyburn," replied
Lord de Winter.  "Choose Tyburn, madame.  Believe me, the cord is
more certain than the knife."

Felton grew pale, and made a step forward, remembering that at
the moment he entered Milady had a rope in her hand.

"You are right," said she, "I have often thought of it."  Then
she added in a low voice, "And I will think of it again."

Felton felt a shudder run to the marrow of his bones; probably
Lord de Winter perceived this emotion.

"Mistrust yourself, John," said he.  "I have placed reliance upon
you, my friend.  Beware!  I have warned you!  But be of good
courage, my lad; in three days we shall be delivered from this
creature, and where I shall send her she can harm nobody."

"You hear him!" cried Milady, with vehemence, so that the baron
might believe she was addressing heaven, and that Felton might
understand she was addressing him.

Felton lowered his head and reflected.

The baron took the young officer by the arm, and turned his head
over his shoulder, so as not to lose sight of Milady till he was
gone out.

"Well," said the prisoner, when the door was shut, "I am not so
far advanced as I believed.  De Winter has changed his usual
stupidity into a strange prudence.  It is the desire of
vengeance, and how desire molds a man!  As to Felton, he
hesitates.  Ah, he is not a man like that cursed D'Artagnan.  A
Puritan only adores virgins, and he adores them by clasping his
hands.  A Musketeer loves women, and he loves them by clasping
his arms round them."

Milady waited, then, with much impatience, for she feared the day
would pass away without her seeing Felton again.  At last, in an
hour after the scene we have just described, she heard someone
speaking in a low voice at the door.  Presently the door opened,
and she perceived Felton.

The young man advanced rapidly into the chamber, leaving the door
open behind him, and making a sign to Milady to be silent; his
face was much agitated.

"What do you want with me?" said she.

"Listen," replied Felton, in a low voice.  "I have just sent away
the sentinel that I might remain here without anybody knowing it,
in order to speak to you without being overheard.  The baron has
just related a frightful story to me."

Milady assumed her smile of a resigned victim, and shook her
head.

"Either you are a demon," continued Felton, "or the baron--my
benefactor, my father--is a monster.  I have known you four days;
I have loved him four years.  I therefore may hesitate between
you.  Be not alarmed at what I say; I want to be convinced.
Tonight, after twelve, I will come and see you, and you shall
convince me."

"No, Felton, no, my brother," said she; "the sacrifice is too
great, and I feel what it must cost you.  No, I am lost; do not
be lost with me.  My death will be much more eloquent than my
life, and the silence of the corpse will convince you much better
than the words of the prisoner."

"Be silent, madame," cried Felton, "and do not speak to me thus;
I came to entreat you to promise me upon your honor, to swear to
me by what you hold most sacred, that you will make no attempt
upon your life."

"I will not promise," said Milady, "for no one has more respect
for a promise or an oath than I have; and if I make a promise I
must keep it."

"Well," said Felton, "only promise till you have seen me again.
If, when you have seen me again, you still persist--well, then
you shall be free, and I myself will give you the weapon you
desire."

"Well," said Milady, "for you I will wait."

"Swear."

"I swear it, by our God.  Are you satisfied?"

"Well," said Felton, "till tonight."

And he darted out of the room, shut the door, and waited in the
corridor, the soldier's half-pike in his hand, and as if he had
mounted guard in his place.

The soldier returned, and Felton gave him back his weapon.

Then, through the grating to which she had drawn near, Milady saw
the young man make a sign with delirious fervor, and depart in an
apparent transport of joy.

As for her, she returned to her place with a smile of savage
contempt upon her lips, and repeated, blaspheming, that terrible
name of God, by whom she had just sworn without ever having
learned to know Him.

"My God," said she, "what a senseless fanatic!  My God, it is I--
I--and this fellow who will help me to avenge myself."



56  CAPTIVITY:  THE FIFTH DAY

Milady had however achieved a half-triumph, and success doubled
her forces.

It was not difficult to conquer, as she had hitherto done, men
prompt to let themselves be seduced, and whom the gallant
education of a court led quickly into her net.  Milady was
handsome enough not to find much resistance on the part of the
flesh, and she was sufficiently skillful to prevail over all the
obstacles of the mind.

But this time she had to contend with an unpolished nature,
concentrated and insensible by force of austerity.  Religion and
its observances had made Felton a man inaccessible to ordinary
seductions.  There fermented in that sublimated brain plans so
vast, projects so tumultuous, that there remained no room for any
capricious or material love--that sentiment which is fed by
leisure and grows with corruption.  Milady had, then, made a
breach by her false virtue in the opinion of a man horribly
prejudiced against her, and by her beauty in the heart of a man
hitherto hitherto chaste and pure.  In short, she had taken the
measure of motives hitherto unknown to herself, through this
experiment, made upon the most rebellious subject that nature and
religion could submit to her study.

Many a time, nevertheless, during the evening she despaired of
fate and of herself.  She did not invoke God, we very well know,
but she had faith in the genius of evil--that immense sovereignty
which reigns in all the details of human life, and by which, as
in the Arabian fable, a single pomegranate seed is sufficient to
reconstruct a ruined world.

Milady, being well prepared for the reception of Felton, was able
to erect her batteries for the next day.  She knew she had only
two days left; that when once the order was signed by Buckingham-
-and Buckingham would sign it the more readily from its bearing a
false name, and he could not, therefore, recognize the woman in
question--once this order was signed, we say, the baron would
make her embark immediately, and she knew very well that women
condemned to exile employ arms much less powerful in their
seductions than the pretendedly virtuous woman whose beauty is
lighted by the sun of the world, whose style the voice of fashion
lauds, and whom a halo of aristocracy gilds with enchanting
splendors.  To be a woman condemned to a painful and disgraceful
punishment is no impediment to beauty, but it is an obstacle to
the recovery of power.  Like all persons of real genius, Milady
knew what suited her nature and her means.  Poverty was repugnant
to her; degradation took away two-thirds of her greatness.
Milady was only a queen while among queens.  The pleasure of
satisfied pride was necessary to her domination.  To command
inferior beings was rather a humiliation than a pleasure for her.

She should certainly return from her exile--she did not doubt
that a single instant; but how long might this exile last?  For
an active, ambitious nature, like that of Milady, days not spent
in climbing are inauspicious days.  What word, then, can be found
to describe the days which they occupy in descending?  To lose a
year, two years, three years, is to talk of an eternity; to
return after the death or disgrace of the cardinal, perhaps; to
return when D'Artagnan and his friends, happy and triumphant,
should have received from the queen the reward they had well
acquired by the services they had rendered her--these were
devouring ideas that a woman like Milady could not endure.  For
the rest, the storm which raged within her doubled her strength,
and she would have burst the walls of her prison if her body had
been able to take for a single instant the proportions of her
mind.

Then that which spurred her on additionally in the midst of all
this was the remembrance of the cardinal.  What must the
mistrustful, restless, suspicious cardinal think of her silence--
the cardinal, not merely her only support, her only prop, her
only protector at present, but still further, the principal
instrument of her future fortune and vengeance?  She knew him;
she knew that at her return from a fruitless journey it would be
in vain to tell him of her imprisonment, in vain to enlarge upon
the sufferings she had undergone.  The cardinal would reply, with
the sarcastic calmness of the skeptic, strong at once by power
and genius, "You should not have allowed yourself to be taken."

Then Milady collected all her energies, murmuring in the depths
of her soul the name of Felton--the only beam of light that
penetrated to her in the hell into which she had fallen; and like
a serpent which folds and unfolds its rings to ascertain its
strength, she enveloped Felton beforehand in the thousand meshes
of her inventive imagination.

Time, however, passed away; the hours, one after another, seemed
to awaken the clock as they passed, and every blow of the brass
hammer resounded upon the heart of the prisoner.  At nine
o'clock, Lord de Winter made his customary visit, examined the
window and the bars, sounded the floor and the walls, looked to
the chimney and the doors, without, during this long and minute
examination, he or Milady pronouncing a single word.

Doubtless both of them understood that the situation had become
too serious to lose time in useless words and aimless wrath.

"Well," said the baron, on leaving her "you will not escape
tonight!"

At ten o'clock Felton came and placed the sentinel.  Milady
recognized his step.  She was as well acquainted with it now as a
mistress is with that of the lover of her heart; and yet Milady
at the same time detested and despised this weak fanatic.

That was not the appointed hour.  Felton did not enter.

Two hours after, as midnight sounded, the sentinel was relieved.
This time it WAS the hour, and from this moment Milady waited
with impatience.  The new sentinel commenced his walk in the
corridor.  At the expiration of ten minutes Felton came.

Milady was all attention.

"Listen," said the young man to the sentinel.  "On no pretense
leave the door, for you know that last night my Lord punished a
soldier for having quit his post for an instant, although I,
during his absence, watched in his place."

"Yes, I know it," said the soldier.

"I recommend you therefore to keep the strictest watch.  For my
part I am going to pay a second visit to this woman, who I fear
entertains sinister intentions upon her own life, and I have
received orders to watch her."

"Good!" murmured Milady; "the austere Puritan lies."

As to the soldier, he only smiled.

"Zounds, Lieutenant!" said he; "you are not unlucky in being
charged with such commissions, particularly if my Lord has
authorized you to look into her bed."

Felton blushed.  Under any other circumstances he would have
reprimanded the soldier for indulging in such pleasantry, but his
conscience murmured too loud for his mouth to dare speak.

"If I call, come," said he.  "If anyone comes, call me."

"I will, Lieutenant," said the soldier.

Felton entered Milady's apartment.  Milady arose.

"You are here!" said she.

"I promised to come," said Felton, "and I have come."

"You promised me something else."

"What, my God!" said the young man, who in spite of his self-
command felt his knees tremble and the sweat start from his brow.

"You promised to bring a knife, and to leave it with me after our
interview."

"Say no more of that, madame," said Felton.  "There is no
situation, however terrible it may be, which can authorize a
creature of God to inflict death upon himself.  I have reflected,
and I cannot, must not be guilty of such a sin."

"Ah, you have reflected!" said the prisoner, sitting down in her
armchair, with a smile of disdain; "and I also have reflected."

"Upon what?"

"That I can have nothing to say to a man who does not keep his
word."

"Oh, my God!" murmured Felton.

"You may retire," said Milady.  "I will not talk."

"Here is the knife," said Felton, drawing from his pocket the
weapon which he had brought, according to his promise, but which
he hesitated to give to his prisoner.

"Let me see it," said Milady.

"For what purpose?"

"Upon my honor, I will instantly return it to you.  You shall
place it on that table, and you may remain between it and me."

Felton offered the weapon to Milady, who examined the temper of
it attentively, and who tried the point on the tip of her finger.

"Well," said she, returning the knife to the young officer, "this
is fine and good steel.  You are a faithful friend, Felton."

Felton took back the weapon, and laid it upon the table, as he
had agreed with the prisoner.

Milady followed him with her eyes, and made a gesture of
satisfaction.

"Now," said she, "listen to me."

The request was needless.  The young officer stood upright before
her, awaiting her words as if to devour them.

"Felton," said Milady, with a solemnity full of melancholy,
"imagine that your sister, the daughter of your father, speaks to
you.  While yet young, unfortunately handsome, I was dragged into
a snare.  I resisted.  Ambushes and violences multiplied around
me, but I resisted.  The religion I serve, the God I adore, were
blasphemed because I called upon that religion and that God, but
still I resisted.  Then outrages were heaped upon me, and as my
soul was not subdued they wished to defile my body forever.
Finally--"

Milady stopped, and a bitter smile passed over her lips.

"Finally," said Felton, "finally, what did they do?"

"At length, one evening my enemy resolved to paralyze the
resistance he could not conquer.  One evening he mixed a powerful
narcotic with my water.  Scarcely had I finished my repast, when
I felt myself sink by degrees into a strange torpor.  Although I
was without mistrust, a vague fear seized me, and I tried to
struggle against sleepiness.  I arose.  I wished to run to the
window and call for help, but my legs refused their office.  It
appeared as if the ceiling sank upon my head and crushed me with
its weight.  I stretched out my arms.  I tried to speak.  I could
only utter inarticulate sounds, and irresistible faintness came
over me.  I supported myself by a chair, feeling that I was about
to fall, but this support was soon insufficient on account of my
weak arms.  I fell upon one knee, then upon both.  I tried to
pray, but my tongue was frozen.  God doubtless neither heard nor
saw me, and I sank upon the floor a prey to a slumber which
resembled death.

"Of all that passed in that sleep, or the time which glided away
while it lasted, I have no remembrance.  The only thing I
recollect is that I awoke in bed in a round chamber, the
furniture of which was sumptuous, and into which light only
penetrated by an opening in the ceiling.  No door gave entrance
to the room.  It might be called a magnificent prison.

"It was a long time before I was able to make out what place I
was in, or to take account of the details I describe.  My mind
appeared to strive in vain to shake off the heavy darkness of the
sleep from which I could not rouse myself.  I had vague
perceptions of space traversed, of the rolling of a carriage, of
a horrible dream in which my strength had become exhausted; but
all this was so dark and so indistinct in my mind that these
events seemed to belong to another life than mine, and yet mixed
with mine in fantastic duality.

"At times the state into which I had fallen appeared so strange
that I believed myself dreaming.  I arose trembling.  My clothes
were near me on a chair; I neither remembered having undressed
myself nor going to bed.  Then by degrees the reality broke upon
me, full of chaste terrors.  I was no longer in the house where I
had dwelt.  As well as I could judge by the light of the sun, the
day was already two-thirds gone.  It was the evening before when
I had fallen asleep; my sleep, then, must have lasted twenty-four
hours!  What had taken place during this long sleep?

"I dressed myself as quickly as possible; my slow and stiff
motions all attested that the effects of the narcotic were not
yet entirely dissipated.  The chamber was 