, he said, "A pressing message from
Lord de Winter."

At the name of Lord de Winter, who was known to be one of his Grace's
most intimate friends, the officer of the post gave orders to let Felton
pass, who, besides, wore the uniform of a naval officer.

Felton darted into the palace.

At the moment he entered the vestibule, another man was entering
likewise, dusty, out of breath, leaving at the gate a post horse, which,
on reaching the palace, tumbled on his foreknees.

Felton and he addressed Patrick, the duke's confidential lackey, at the
same moment.  Felton named Lord de Winter; the unknown would not name
anybody, and pretended that it was to the duke alone he would make
himself known.  Each was anxious to gain admission before the other.

Patrick, who knew Lord de Winter was in affairs of the service, and in
relations of friendship with the duke, gave the preference to the one
who came in his name.  The other was forced to wait, and it was easily
to be seen how he cursed the delay.

The valet led Felton through a large hall in which waited the deputies
from La Rochelle, headed by the Prince de Soubise, and introduced him
into a closet where Buckingham, just out of the bath, was finishing his
toilet, upon which, as at all times, he bestowed extraordinary
attention.

"Lieutenant Felton, from Lord de Winter," said Patrick.

"From Lord de Winter!" repeated Buckingham; "let him come in."

Felton entered.  At that moment Buckingham was throwing upon a couch a
rich toilet robe, worked with gold, in order to put on a blue velvet
doublet embroidered with pearls.

"Why didn't the baron come himself?" demanded Buckingham.  "I expected
him this morning."

"He desired me to tell your Grace," replied Felton, "that he very much
regretted not having that honor, but that he was prevented by the guard
he is obliged to keep at the castle."

"Yes, I know that," said Buckingham; "he has a prisoner."

"It is of that prisoner that I wish to speak to your Grace," replied
Felton.

"Well, then, speak!"

"That which I have to say of her can only be heard by yourself, my
Lord!"

"Leave us, Patrick," said Buckingham; "but remain within sound of the
bell.  I shall call you presently."

Patrick went out.

"We are alone, sir," said Buckingham; "speak!"

"My Lord," said Felton, "the Baron de Winter wrote to you the other day
to request you to sign an order of embarkation relative to a young woman
named Charlotte Backson."

"Yes, sir; and I answered him, to bring or send me that order and I
would sign it."

"Here it is, my Lord."

"Give it to me," said the duke.

And taking it from Felton, he cast a rapid glance over the paper, and
perceiving that it was the one that had been mentioned to him, he placed
it on the table, took a pen, and prepared to sign it.

"Pardon, my Lord," said Felton, stopping the duke; "but does your Grace
know that the name of Charlotte Backson is not the true name of this
young woman?"

"Yes, sir, I know it," replied the duke, dipping the quill in the ink.

"Then your Grace knows her real name?" asked Felton, in a sharp tone.

"I know it"; and the duke put the quill to the paper.  Felton grew pale.

"And knowing that real name, my Lord," replied Felton, "will you sign it
all the same?"

"Doubtless," said Buckingham, "and rather twice than once."

"I cannot believe," continued Felton, in a voice that became more sharp
and rough, "that your Grace knows that it is to Milady de Winter this
relates."

"I know it perfectly, although I am astonished that you know it."

"And will your Grace sign that order without remorse?"

Buckingham looked at the young man haughtily.

"Do you know, sir, that you are asking me very strange questions, and
that I am very foolish to answer them?"

"Reply to them, my Lord," said Felton; "the circumstances are more
serious than you perhaps believe."

Buckingham reflected that the young man, coming from Lord de Winter,
undoubtedly spoke in his name, and softened.

"Without remorse," said he.  "The baron knows, as well as myself, that
Milady de Winter is a very guilty woman, and it is treating her very
favorably to commute her punishment to transportation."
The duke put his pen to the paper.

"You will not sign that order, my Lord!" said Felton, making a step
toward the duke.

"I will not sign this order!  And why not?"

"Because you will look into yourself, and you will do justice to the
lady."

"I should do her justice by sending her to Tyburn," said Buckingham.
"This lady is infamous."

"My Lord, Milady de Winter is an angel; you know that she is, and I
demand her liberty of you."

"Bah!  Are you mad, to talk to me thus?" said Buckingham.

"My Lord, excuse me!  I speak as I can; I restrain myself.  But, my
Lord, think of what you're about to do, and beware of going too far!"

"What do you say?  God pardon me!" cried Buckingham, "I really think he
threatens me!"

"No, my Lord, I still plead.  And I say to you:  one drop of water
suffices to make the full vase overflow; one slight fault may draw down
punishment upon the head spared, despite many crimes."

"Mr. Felton," said Buckingham, "you will withdraw, and place yourself at
once under arrest."

"You will hear me to the end, my Lord.  You have seduced this young
girl; you have outraged, defiled her.  Repair your crimes toward her;
let her go free, and I will exact nothing else from you."

"You will exact!" said Buckingham, looking at Felton with astonishment,
and dwelling upon each syllable of the three words as he pronounced
them.

"My Lord," continued Felton, becoming more excited as he spoke, "my
Lord, beware!  All England is tired of your iniquities; my Lord, you
have abused the royal power, which you have almost usurped; my Lord, you
are held in horror by God and men.  God will punish you hereafter, but I
will punish you here!"

"Ah, this is too much!" cried Buckingham, making a step toward the door.

Felton barred his passage.

"I ask it humbly of you, my Lord" said he; "sign the order for the
liberation of Milady de Winter.  Remember that she is a woman whom you
have dishonored."

"Withdraw, sir," said Buckingham, "or I will call my attendant, and have
you placed in irons."

"You shall not call," said Felton, throwing himself between the duke and
the bell placed on a stand encrusted with silver.  "Beware, my Lord, you
are in the hands of God!"

"In the hands of the devil, you mean!" cried Buckingham, raising his
voice so as to attract the notice of his people, without absolutely
shouting.

"Sign, my Lord; sign the liberation of Milady de Winter," said Felton,
holding out  paper to the duke.

"By force? You are joking!  Holloa, Patrick!"

"Sign, my Lord!"

"Never."

"Never?"

"Help!" shouted the duke; and at the same time he sprang toward his
sword.

But Felton did not give him time to draw it.  He held the knife with
which Milady had stabbed herself, open in his bosom; at one bound he was
upon the duke.

At that moment Patrick entered the room, crying, "A letter from France,
my Lord."

"From France!" cried Buckingham, forgetting everything in thinking from
whom that letter came.

Felton took advantage of this moment, and plunged the knife into his
side up to the handle.

"Ah, traitor," cried Buckingham, "you have killed me!"

"Murder!" screamed Patrick.

Felton cast his eyes round for means of escape, and seeing the door
free, he rushed into the next chamber, in which, as we have said, the
deputies from La Rochelle were waiting, crossed it as quickly as
possible, and rushed toward the staircase; but upon the first step he
met Lord de Winter, who, seeing him pale, confused, livid, and stained
with blood both on his hands and face, seized him by the throat, crying,
"I knew it!  I guessed it!  But too late by a minute, unfortunate,
unfortunate that I am!"

Felton made no resistance.  Lord de Winter placed him in the hands of
the guards, who led him, while awaiting further orders, to a little
terrace commanding the sea; and then the baron hastened to the duke's
chamber.

At the cry uttered by the duke and the scream of Patrick, the man whom
Felton had met in the antechamber rushed into the chamber.

He found the duke reclining upon a sofa, with his hand pressed upon the
wound.

"Laporte," said the duke, in a dying voice, "Laporte, do you come from
her?"

"Yes, monseigneur," replied the faithful cloak bearer of Anne of
Austria, "but too late, perhaps."

"Silence, Laporte, you may be overheard.  Patrick, let no one enter.
Oh, I cannot tell what she says to me!  My God, I am dying!"

And the duke swooned.

Meanwhile, Lord de Winter, the deputies, the leaders of the expedition,
the officers of Buckingham's household, had all made their way into the
chamber.  Cries of despair resounded on all sides.  The news, which
filled the palace with tears and groans, soon became known, and spread
itself throughout the city.

The report of a cannon announced that something new and unexpected had
taken place.

Lord de Winter tore his hair.

"Too late by a minute!" cried he, "too late by a minute!  Oh, my God, my
God!  what a misfortune!"

He had been informed at seven o'clock in the morning that a rope ladder
floated from one of the windows of the castle; he had hastened to
Milady's chamber, had found it empty, the window open, and the bars
filed, had remembered the verbal caution D'Artagnan had transmitted to
him by his messenger, had trembled for the duke, and running to the
stable without taking time to have a horse saddled, had jumped upon the
first he found, had galloped off like the wind, had alighted below in
the courtyard, had ascended the stairs precipitately, and on the top
step, as we have said, had encountered Felton.

The duke, however, was not dead.  He recovered a little, reopened his
eyes, and hope revived in all hearts.

"Gentlemen," said he, "leave me along with Patrick and Laporte--ah, is
that you, De Winter?  You sent me a strange madman this morning!  See
the state in which he has put me."

"Oh, my Lord!" cried the baron, "I shall never console myself."

"And you would be quite wrong, my dear De Winter," said Buckingham,
holding out his hand to him.  "I do not know the man who deserves being
regretted during the whole life of another man; but leave us, I pray
you."

The baron went out sobbing.

There only remained in the closet of the wounded duke Laporte and
Patrick.  A physician was sought for, but none was yet found.

"You will live, my Lord, you will live!" repeated the faithful servant
of Anne of Austria, on his knees before the duke's sofa.

"What has she written to me?" said Buckingham, feebly, streaming with
blood, and suppressing his agony to speak of her he loved, "what has she
written to me?  Read me her letter."

"Oh, my Lord!" said Laporte.

"Obey, Laporte, do you not see I have no time to lose?"

Laporte broke the seal, and placed the paper before the eyes of the
duke; but Buckingham in vain tried to make out the writing.

"Read!" said he, "read!  I cannot see.  Read, then!  For soon, perhaps,
I shall not hear, and I shall die without knowing what she has written
to me."

Laporte made no further objection, and read:


"My Lord, By that which, since I have known you, have suffered by you
and for you, I conjure you, if you have any care for my repose, to
countermand those great armaments which you are preparing against
France, to put an end to a war of which it is publicly said religion is
the ostensible cause, and of which, it is generally whispered, your love
for me is the concealed cause.  This war may not only bring great
catastrophes upon England and France, but misfortune upon you, my Lord,
for which I should never console myself.

"Be careful of your life, which is menaced, and which will be dear to me
from the moment I am not obliged to see an enemy in you.

"Your affectionate
"ANNE"


Buckingham collected all his remaining strength to listen to the reading
of the letter; then, when it was ended, as if he had met with a bitter
disappointment, he asked, "Have you nothing else to say to me by the
living voice, Laporte?"

"The queen charged me to tell you to watch over yourself, for she had
advice that your assassination would be attempted."

"And is that all--is that all?" replied Buckingham, impatiently.

"She likewise charged me to tell you that she still loved you."

"Ah," said Buckingham, "God be praised!  My death, then, will not be to
her as the death of a stranger!"

Laporte burst into tears.

"Patrick," said the due, "bring me the casket in which the diamond studs
were kept."

Patrick brought the object desired, which Laporte recognized as having
belonged to the queen.

"Now the scent bag of white satin, on which her cipher is embroidered in
pearls."

Patrick again obeyed.

"Here, Laporte," said Buckingham, "these are the only tokens I ever
received from her--this silver casket and these two letters.  You will
restore them to her Majesty; and as a last memorial"--he looked round
for some valuable object--"you will add--"

He still sought; but his eyes, darkened by death, encountered only the
knife which had fallen from the hand of Felton, still smoking with the
blood spread over its blade.

"And you will add to them this knife," said the duke, pressing the hand
of Laporte.  He had just strength enough to place the scent bag at the
bottom of the silver casket, and to let the knife fall into it, making a
sign to Laporte that he was no longer able to speak; than, in a last
convulsion, which this time he had not the power to combat, he slipped
from the sofa to the floor.

Patrick uttered a loud cry.

Buckingham tried to smile a last time; but death checked his thought,
which remained engraved on his brow like a last kiss of love.

At this moment the duke's surgeon arrived, quite terrified; he was
already on board the admiral's ship, where they had been obliged to seek
him.

He approached the duke, took his hand, held it for an instant in his
own, and letting it fall, "All is useless," said he, "he is dead."

"Dead, dead!" cried Patrick.

At this cry all the crowd re-entered the apartment, and throughout the
palace and town there was nothing but consternation and tumult.

As soon as Lord de Winter saw Buckingham was dead, he ran to Felton,
whom the soldiers still guarded on the terrace of the palace.

"Wretch!" said he to the young man, who since the death of Buckingham
had regained that coolness and self-possession which never after
abandoned him, "wretch!  what have you done?"

"I have avenged myself!" said he.

"Avenged yourself," said the baron.  "Rather say that you have served as
an instrument to that accursed woman; but I swear to you that this crime
shall be her last."

"I don't know what you mean," replied Felton, quietly, "and I am
ignorant of whom you are speaking, my Lord.  I killed the Duke of
Buckingham because he twice refused you yourself to appoint me captain;
I have punished him for his injustice, that is all."

De Winter, stupefied, looked on while the soldiers bound Felton, and
could not tell what to think of such  insensibility.

One thing alone, however, threw a shade over the pallid brow of Felton.
At every noise he heard, the simple Puritan fancied he recognized the
step and voice of Milady coming to throw herself into his arms, to
accuse herself, and die with him.

All at once he started.  His eyes became fixed upon a point of the sea,
commanded by the terrace where he was.  With the eagle glance of a
sailor he had recognized there, where another would have seen only a
gull hovering over the waves, the sail of a sloop which was directed
toward the cost of France.

He grew deadly pale, placed his hand upon his heart, which was breaking,
and at once perceived all the treachery.

"One last favor, my Lord!" said he to the baron.

"What?" asked his Lordship.

"What o'clock is it?"

The baron drew out his watch.  "It wants ten minutes to nine," said he.

Milady had hastened her departure by an hour and a half.  As soon as she
heard the cannon which announced the fatal event, she had ordered the
anchor to be weighed.  The vessel was making way under a blue sky, at
great distance from the coast.

"God has so willed it!" said he, with the resignation of a fanatic; but
without, however, being able to take his eyes from that ship, on board
of which he doubtless fancied he could distinguish the white outline of
her to whom he had sacrificed his life.

De Winter followed his look, observed his feelings, and guessed all.

"Be punished ALONE, for the first, miserable man!" said Lord de Winter
to Felton, who was being dragged away with his eyes turned toward the
sea; "but I swear to you by the memory of my brother whom I have loved
so much that your accomplice is not saved."

Felton lowered his head without pronouncing a syllable.

As to Lord de Winter, he descended the stairs rapidly, and went straight
to the port.



60  IN FRANCE

The first fear of the King of England, Charles I, on learning of the
death of the duke, was that such terrible news might discourage the
Rochellais; he tried, says Richelieu in his Memoirs, to conceal it from
them as long as possible, closing all the ports of his kingdom, and
carefully keeping watch that no vessel should sail until the army which
Buckingham was getting together had gone, taking upon himself, in
default of Buckingham, to superintend the departure.

He carried the strictness of this order so far as to detain in England
the ambassadors of Denmark, who had taken their leave, and the regular
ambassador of Holland, who was to take back to the port of Flushing the
Indian merchantmen of which Charles I had made restitution to the United
Provinces.

But as he did not think of giving this order till five hours after the
event--that is to say, till two o'clock in the afternoon--two vessels
had already left the port, the one bearing, as we know, Milady, who,
already anticipating the event, was further confirmed in that belief by
seeing the black flag flying at the masthead of the admiral's ship.

As to the second vessel, we will tell hereafter whom it carried, and how
it set sail.

During this time nothing new occurred in the camp at La Rochelle; only
the king, who was bored, as always, but perhaps a little more so in camp
than elsewhere, resolved to go incognito and spend the festival of St.
Louis at St. Germain, and asked the cardinal to order him an escort of
only twenty Musketeers.  The cardinal, who sometimes became weary of the
king, granted this leave of absence with great pleasure to his royal
lieutenant, who promised to return about the fifteenth of September.

M. de Treville, being informed of this by his Eminence, packed his
portmanteau; and as without knowing the cause he knew the great desire
and even imperative need which his friends had of returning to Paris, it
goes without saying that he fixed upon them to form part of the escort.

The four young men heard the news a quarter of an hour after M. de
Treville, for they were the first to whom he communicated it.  It was
then that D'Artagnan appreciated the favor the cardinal had conferred
upon him in making him at last enter the Musketeers--for without that
circumstance he would have been forced to remain in the camp while his
companions left it.

It goes without saying that this impatience to return toward Paris had
for a cause the danger which Mme. Bonacieux would run of meeting at the
convent of Bethune with Milady, her mortal enemy.  Aramis therefore had
written immediately to Marie Michon, the seamstress at Tours who had
such fine acquaintances, to obtain from the queen authority for Mme.
Bonacieux to leave the convent, and to retire either into Lorraine or
Belgium.  They had not long to wait for an answer.  Eight or ten days
afterward Aramis received the following letter:


My Dear Cousin, Here is the authorization from my sister to withdraw
our little servant from the convent of Bethune, the air of which you
think is bad for her.  My sister sends you this authorization with great
pleasure, for she is very partial to the little girl, to whom she
intends to be more serviceable hereafter.

I salute you,

MARIE MICHON


To this letter was added an order, conceived in these terms:


At the Louvre, August 10, 1628
The superior of the convent of Bethune will place in the hands of the
person who shall present this note to her the novice who entered the
convent upon my recommendation and under my patronage.

ANNE


It may be easily imagined how the relationship between Aramis and a
seamstress who called the queen her sister amuse the young men; but
Aramis, after having blushed two or three times up to the whites of his
eyes at the gross pleasantry of Porthos, begged his friends not to
revert to the subject again, declaring that if a single word more was
said to him about it, he would never again implore his cousins to
interfere in such affairs.

There was no further question, therefore, about Marie Michon among the
four Musketeers, who besides had what they wanted:  that was, the order
to withdraw Mme. Bonacieux from the convent of the Carmelites of
Bethune.  It was true that this order would not be of great use to them
while they were in camp at La Rochelle; that is to say, at the other en
of France.  Therefore D'Artagnan was going to ask leave of absence of M.
de Treville, confiding to him candidly the importance of his departure,
when the news was transmitted to him as well as to his three friends
that the king was about to set out for Paris with an escort of twenty
Musketeers, and that they formed part of the escort.

Their joy was great.  The lackeys were sent on before with the baggage,
and they set out on the morning of the sixteenth.

The cardinal accompanied his Majesty from Surgeres to Mauzes; and there
the king and his minister took leave of each other with great
demonstrations of friendship.

The king, however, who sought distraction, while traveling as fast as
possible--for he was anxious to be in Paris by the twenty-third--stopped
from time to time to fly the magpie, a pastime for which the taste had
been formerly inspired in him by De Luynes, and for which he had always
preserved a great predilection.  Out of the twenty Musketeers sixteen,
when this took place, rejoiced greatly at this relaxation; but the other
four cursed it heartily.  D'Artagnan, in particular, had a perpetual
buzzing in his ears, which Porthos explained thus:  "A very great lady
has told me that this means that somebody is talking of you somewhere."

At length the escort passed through Paris on the twenty-third, in the
night.  The king thanked M. de Treville, and permitted him to distribute
furloughs for four days, on condition that the favored parties should
not appear in any public place, under penalty of the Bastille.

The first four furloughs granted, as may be imagined, were to our four
friends.  Still further, Athos obtained of M. de Treville six days
instead of four, and introduced into these six days two more nights--for
they set out on the twenty-fourth at five o'clock in the evening, and as
a further kindness M. de Treville post-dated the leave to the morning of
the twenty-fifth.

"Good Lord!" said D'Artagnan, who, as we have often said, never stumbled
at anything.  "It appears to me that we are making a great trouble of a
very simple thing.  In two days, and by using up two or three horses
(that's nothing; I have plenty of money), I am at Bethune.  I present my
letter from the queen to the superior, and I bring back the dear
treasure If go to seek-not into Lorraine, not into Belgium, but to
Paris, where she will be much better concealed, particularly while the
cardinal is at L Rochelle.  Well, once returned from the country, half
by the protection of her cousin, half through what we have personally
done for her, we shall obtain from the queen what we desire.  Remain,
then, where you are, and do not exhaust yourselves with useless fatigue.
Myself and Planchet are all that such a simple expedition requires."

To this Athos replied quietly:  "We also have money left--for I have not
yet drunk all my share of the diamond, and Porthos and Aramis have not
eaten all theirs.  We can therefore use up four horses as well as one.
But consider, D'Artagnan," added he, in a tone so solemn that it made
the young man shudder, "consider that Bethune is a city where the
cardinal has given rendezvous to a woman who, wherever she goes, brings
misery with her.  If you had only to deal with four men, D'Artagnan, I
would allow you to go alone.  You have to do with that woman!  We four
will go; and I hope to God that with our four lackeys we may be in
sufficient number."

"You terrify me, Athos!"  cried D'Artagnan.  "My God!  what do you
fear?"

"Everything!" replied Athos.

D'Artagnan examined the countenances of his companions, which, like that
of Athos, wore an impression of deep anxiety; and they continued their
route as fast as their horses could carry them, but without adding
another word.

On the evening of the twenty-fifth, as they were entering Arras, and as
D'Artagnan was dismounting at the inn of the Golden Harrow to drink a
glass of wine, a horseman came out of the post yard, where he had just
had a relay, started off at a gallop, and with a fresh horse took the
road to Paris.  At the moment he passed through the gateway into the
street, the wind blew open the cloak in which he was wrapped, although
it was in the month of August, and lifted his hat, which the traveler
seized with his hand the moment it had left his head, pulling it eagerly
over his eyes.

D'Artagnan, who had his eyes fixed upon this man, became very pale, and
let his glass fall.

"What is the matter, monsieur?"  said Planchet.  "Oh, come, gentlemen,
my master is ill!"

The three friends hastened toward D'Artagnan, who, instead of being ill,
ran toward his horse.  They stopped him at the door.

"Well, where the devil are you going now?"  cried Athos.

"It is he!"  cried D'Artagnan, pale with anger, an with the sweat on his
brow, "it is he!  let me overtake him!"

"He?  What he?"  asked Athos.

"He, that man!"

"What man?"

"That cursed man, my evil genius, whom I have always met with when
threatened by some misfortune, he who accompanied that horrible woman
when I met her for the first time, he whom I was seeking when I offended
our Athos, he whom I saw on the very morning Madame Bonacieux was
abducted.  I have seen him; that is he!  I recognized him when the wind
blew upon his cloak."

"The devil!"  said Athos, musingly.

"To saddle, gentlemen!  to saddle!  Let us pursue him, and we shall
overtake him!"

"My dear friend," said Aramis, "remember that he goes in an opposite
direction from that I which we are going, that he has a fresh horse, and
ours are fatigued, so that we shall disable our own horses without even
a chance of overtaking him.  Let the man go, D'Artagnan; let us save the
woman."

"Monsieur, monsieur!"  cried a hostler, running out and looking after
the stranger, "monsieur, here is a paper which dropped out of your hat!
Eh, monsieur, eh!"

"Friend," said D'Artagnan, "a half-pistole for that paper!"

"My faith, monsieur, with great pleasure!  Here it is!"

The hostler, enchanted with the good day's work he had done, returned to
the yard.  D'Artagnan unfolded the paper.

"Well?"  eagerly demanded all his three friends.

"Nothing but one word!"  said D'Artagnan.

"Yes," said Aramis, "but that one word is the name of some town or
village."

"Armentieres,"  read Porthos;  "Armentieres?  I don't know such a
place."

"And that name of a town or village is written in her hand!" cried
Athos.

"Come on, come on!"  said D'Artagnan; "let us keep that paper carefully,
perhaps I have not thrown away my half-pistole.  To horse, my friends,
to horse!"

And the four friends flew at a gallop along the road to Bethune.



61  THE CARMELITE CONCERT AT BETHUNE

Great criminals bear bout them a kind of predestination which makes them
surmount all obstacles, which makes them escape all dangers, up to the
moment which a wearied Providence has marked as the rock of their
impious fortunes.

It was thus with Milady.  She escaped the cruisers of both nations, and
arrived at Boulogne without accident.

When landing at Portsmouth, Milady was an Englishwoman whom the
persecutions of the French drove from La Rochelle; when landing at
Boulogne, after a two days' passage, she passed for a Frenchwoman whom
the English persecuted at Portsmouth out of their hatred for France.

Milady had, likewise, the best of passports-her beauty, her noble
appearance, and the liberality with which she distribute her pistoles.
Freed from the usual formalities by the affable smile and gallant
manners of an old governor of the port, who kissed her hand, she only
remained long enough at Boulogne to put into the post a letter,
conceived in the following terms:


"To his Eminence Monseigneur the Cardinal Richelieu, in his camp before
La Rochelle.

Monseigneur, Let your Eminence be reassured.  His Grace the Duke of
Buckingham WILL NOT SET OUT for France.
MILADY DE-

"BOULOGNE, evening of the twenty-fifth.

"P.S.-According to the desire of your Eminence, I report to the convent
of the Carmelites at Bethune, where I will await your orders."


Accordingly, that same evening Milady commenced her journey.  Night
overtook her; she stopped, and slept at an inn.  At five o'clock the
next morning she again proceeded, and in three hours after entered
Bethune.  She inquired for the convent of the Carmelites, and went
thither immediately.

The superior met her; Milady showed her the cardinal's order.  The
abbess assigned her a chamber, and had breakfast served.

All the past was effaced from the eyes of this woman; and her looks,
fixed on the future, beheld nothing but the high fortunes reserved for
her by the cardinal, whom she had so successfully served without his
name being in any way mixed up with the sanguinary affair.  The ever-new
passions which consumed her gave to her life the appearance of those
clouds which float in the heavens, reflecting sometimes azure, sometimes
fire, sometimes the opaque blackness of the tempest, and which leave no
traces upon the earth behind them but devastation and death.

After breakfast, the abbess came to pay her a visit.  There is very
little amusement in the cloister, and the good superior was eager to
make the acquaintance of her new boarder.

Milady wished to please the abbess.  This was a very easy matter for a
woman so really superior as she was.  She tried to be agreeable, and she
was charming, winning the good superior by her varied conversation and
by the graces of her whole personality.

The abbess, who was the daughter of a noble house, took particular
delight in stories of the court, which so seldom travel to the
extremities of the kingdom, and which, above all, have so much
difficulty in penetrating the walls of convents, at whose threshold the
noise of the world dies away.

Milady, on the contrary, was quite conversant with all aristocratic
intrigues, amid which she had constantly lived for five or six years.
She made it her business, therefore, to amuse the good abbess with the
worldly practices of the court of France, mixed with the eccentric
pursuits of the king; she made for her the scandalous chronicle of the
lords and ladies of the court, whom the abbess knew perfectly by name,
touched lightly on the amours of the queen and the Duke of Buckingham,
talking a great deal to induce her auditor to talk a little.

But the abbess contented herself with listening and smiling without
replying a word.  Milady, however, saw that this sort of narrative
amused her very much, and kept at it; only she now let her conversation
drift toward the cardinal.

But she was greatly embarrassed.  She did not know whether the abbess
was a royalist or a cardinalist; she therefore confined herself to a
prudent middle course.  But the abbess, on her part, maintained a
reserve still more prudent, contenting herself with making a profound
inclination of the head every time the fair traveler pronounced the name
of his Eminence.

Milady began to think she should soon grow weary of a convent life; she
resolved, then, to risk something in order that she might know how to
act afterward.  Desirous of seeing how far the discretion of the good
abbess would go, she began to tell a story, obscure at first, but very
circumstantial afterward, about the cardinal, relating the amours of the
minister with Mme. d'Aiguillon, Marion de Lorme, and several other gay
women.

The abbess listened more  attentively, grew animated by degrees, and
smiled.

"Good," thought Milady; "she takes a pleasure in my conversation.  If
she is a cardinalist, she has no fanaticism, at least.

She then went on to describe the persecutions exercised by the cardinal
upon his enemies.  The abbess only crossed herself, without approving or
disapproving.

This confirmed Milady in her opinion that the abbess was rather royalist
than cardinalist.  Milady therefore continued, coloring her narrations
more and more.

"I am very ignorant of these matters," said the abbess, at length; "but
however distant from the court we may be, however remote from the
interests of the world we may be placed, we have very sad examples of
what you have related.  And one of our boarders has suffered much from
the vengeance and persecution of the cardinal!"

"One of your boarders?" said Milady; "oh, my God!  Poor woman!  I pity
her, then."

"And you have reason, for she is much to be pitied.  Imprisonment,
menaces, ill treatment-she has suffered everything.  But after all,"
resumed the abbess, "Monsieur Cardinal has perhaps plausible motives for
acting thus; and though she has the look of an angel, we must not always
judge people by the appearance."

"Good!" said Milady to herself; "who knows!  I am about, perhaps, to
discover something here; I am in the vein."

She tried to give her countenance an appearance of perfect candor.

"Alas," said Milady, "I know it is so.  It is said that we must not
trust to the face; but in what, then, shall we place confidence, if not
in the most beautiful work of the Lord?  As for me, I shall be deceived
all my life perhaps, but I shall always have faith in a person whose
countenance inspires me with sympathy."

"You would, then, be tempted to believe," said the abbess, "that this
young person is innocent?"

"The cardinal pursues not only crimes," said she:  "there are certain
virtues which he pursues more severely than certain offenses."

"Permit me, madame, to express my surprise," said the abbess.

"At what?" said Milady, with the utmost ingenuousness.

"At the language you use."

"What do you find so astonishing in that language?" said Milady,
smiling.

"You are the friend of the cardinal, for he sends you hither, and yet--"

"And yet I speak ill of him," replied Milady, finishing the thought of
the superior.

"At least you don't speak well of him."

"That is because I am not his friend," said she, sighing, "but his
victim!"

"But this letter in which he recommends you to me?"

"Is an order for me to confine myself to a sort of prison, from which he
will release me by one of his satellites."

"But why have you not fled?"

"Whither should I go?  Do you believe there is a spot on the earth which
the cardinal cannot reach if he takes the trouble to stretch forth his
hand?  If I were a man, that would barely be possible; but what can a
woman do?  This  young boarder of yours, has she tried to fly?"

"No, that is true; but she--that is another thing; I believe she is
detained in France by some love affair."

"Ah," said Milady, with a sigh, "if she loves she is not altogether
wretched."

"Then," said the abbess, looking at Milady with increasing interest, "I
behold another poor victim?"

"Alas, yes," said Milady.

The abbess looked at her for an instant with uneasiness, as if a fresh
thought suggested itself to her mind.

"You are not an enemy of our holy faith?" said she, hesitatingly.

"Who--I?"  cried Milady; "I a Protestant?  Oh, no!  I call to witness
the God who hears us, that on the contrary I am a fervent Catholic!"

"Then, madame," said the abbess, smiling, "be reassured; the house in
which you are shall not be a very hard prison, and we will do all in our
power to make you cherish your captivity.  You will find here, moreover,
the young woman of whom I spoke, who is persecuted, no doubt, in
consequence of some court intrigue.  She is amiable and well-behaved."

"What is her name?"

"She was sent to me by someone of high rank, under the name of Kitty.  I
have not tried to discover her other name."

"Kitty!"  cried Milady.  "What?  Are you sure?"

"That she is called so?  Yes, madame.  Do you know her?"

Milady smiled to herself at the idea which had occurred to her that this
might be her old chambermaid.  There was connected with the remembrance
of this girl a remembrance of anger; and a desire of vengeance
disordered the features of Milady, which, however, immediately recovered
the calm and benevolent expression which this woman of a hundred faces
had for a moment allowed them to lose.

"And when can I see this young lady, for whom I already feel so great a
sympathy?"  asked Milady.

"Why, this evening," said the abbess; "today even.  But you have been
traveling these four days, as you told me yourself.  This morning you
rose at five o'clock; you must stand in need of repose.  Go to bed and
sleep; at dinnertime we will rouse you."

Although Milady would very willingly have gone without sleep, sustained
as she was by all the excitements which a new adventure awakened in her
heart, ever thirsting for intrigues, she nevertheless accepted the offer
of the superior.  During the last fifteen days she had experience so
many an such various emotions that if her frame of iron was still
capable of supporting fatigue, her mind required repose.

She therefore took leave of the abbess, and went to bed, softly rocked
by the ideas of vengeance which the name of Kitty had naturally brought
to her thoughts.  She remembered that almost unlimited promise which the
cardinal had given her if she succeeded in her enterprise.  She had
succeeded; D'Artagnan was then in her power!

One thing alone frightened her; that was the remembrance of her husband,
the Comte de la Fere, whom she had believed dead, or at least
expatriated, and whom she found again in Athos-the best friend of
D'Artagnan.

But alas, if he was the friend of D'Artagnan, he must have lent him his
assistance in all the proceedings by whose aid the queen had defeated
the project of his Eminence; if he was the friend of  D'Artagnan, he was
the enemy of the cardinal; and she doubtless would succeed in involving
him in the vengeance by which she hoped to destroy the young Musketeer.

All these hopes were so many sweet thoughts for Milady; so, rocked by
them, she soon fell asleep.

She was awakened by a soft voice which sounded at the foot of her bed.
She opened her eyes, and saw the abbess, accompanied by a young woman
with light hair and delicate complexion, who fixed upon her a look full
of benevolent curiosity.

The face of the young woman was entirely unknown to her.  Each examined
the other with great attention, while exchanging the customary
compliments; both were very handsome, but of quite different styles of
beauty.  Milady, however, smiled in observing that she excelled the
young woman by far in her high air and aristocratic bearing.  It is true
that the habit of a novice, which the young woman wore, was not very
advantageous in a contest of this kind.

The abbess introduced them to each other.  When this formality was
ended, as her duties called her to chapel, she left the two young women
alone.

The novice, seeing Milady in bed, was about the follow the example of
the superior; but Milady stopped her.

"How, madame," said she, "I have scarcely seen  you, and you already
wish to deprive me of your company, upon which I had counted a little, I
must confess, for the time I have to pass here?"

"No, madame," replied the novice, "only I thought I had chosen my time
ill; you were asleep, you are fatigued."

"Well," said Milady, "what can those who sleep wish for--a happy
awakening?  This awakening you have given me; allow me, then, to enjoy
it at my ease," and taking her hand, she drew her toward the armchair by
the bedside.

The novice sat down.

"How unfortunate I am!" said she; "I have been here six months without
the shadow of recreation.  You arrive, and your presence was likely to
afford me delightful company; yet I expect, in all probability, to quit
the convent at any moment."

"How, you are going soon?"  asked Milady.

"At least I hope so," said the novice, with an expression of joy which
she made no effort to disguise.

"I think I learned you had suffered persecutions from the cardinal,"
continued Milady; "that would have been another motive for sympathy
between us."

"What I have heard, then, from our good mother is true; you have
likewise been a victim of that wicked priest."

"Hush!"  said Milady; "let us not, even here, speak thus of him.  All my
misfortunes arise from my having said nearly what you have said before a
woman whom I thought my friend, and who betrayed me.  Are you also the
victim of a treachery?"

"No," said the novice, "but of my devotion--of a devotion to a woman I
loved, for whom I would have laid down my life, for whom I would give it
still."

"And who has abandoned you--is that it?"

"I have been sufficiently unjust to believe so; but during the last two
or three days I have obtained proof to the contrary, for which I thank
God--for it would have cost me very dear to think she had forgotten me.
But you, madame, you appear to be free," continued the novice; "and if
you were inclined to fly it only rests with yourself to do so."

"Whither would you have me go, without friends, without money, in a part
of France with which I am unacquainted, and where I have never been
before?"

"Oh," cried the novice," as to friends, you would have them wherever you
want, you appear so good and are so beautiful!"

"That does not prevent," replied Milady, softening her smile so as to
give it an angelic expression, "my being alone or being persecuted."

"Hear me," said the novice; "we must trust in heaven.  There always
comes a moment when the good you have done pleads your cause before God;
and see, perhaps it is a happiness for you, humble and powerless as I
am, that you have met with me, for if I leave this place, well-I have
powerful friends, who, after having exerted themselves on my account,
may also exert themselves for you."

"Oh, when I said I was alone," said Milady, hoping to make the novice
talk by talking of herself, "it is not for want of friends in high
places; but these friends themselves tremble before the cardinal.  The
queen herself does not dare to oppose the terrible minister.  I have
proof that her Majesty, notwithstanding her excellent heart, has more
than once been obliged to abandon to the anger of his Eminence persons
who had served her."

"Trust me, madame; the queen may appear to have abandoned those persons,
but we must not put faith in appearances.  The more they are persecuted,
the more she thinks of them; and often, when they least expect it, they
have proof of a kind remembrance."

"Alas!"  said Milady, "I believe so; the queen is so good!"

"Oh, you know her, then, that lovely and noble queen, that you speak of
her thus!" cried the novice, with enthusiasm.

"That is to say," replied Milady, driven into her entrenchment, "that I
have not the honor of knowing her personally; but I know a great number
of her most intimate friends.  I am acquainted with Monsieur de Putange;
I met Monsieur Dujart in England; I know Monsieur de Treville."

"Monsieur de Treville!"  exclaimed the novice, "do you know Monsieur de
Treville?"

"Yes, perfectly well--intimately even."

"The captain of the king's Musketeers?"

"The captain of the king's Musketeers."

"Why, then, only see!"  cried the novice; "we shall soon be well
acquainted, almost friends.  If you know Monsieur de Treville, you must
have visited him?"

"Often!"  said Milady, who, having entered this track, and perceiving
that falsehood succeeded, was determined to follow it to the end.

"With him, then, you must have seen some of his Musketeers?"

"All those he is in the habit of receiving!"  replied Milady, for whom
this conversation began to have a real interest.

"Name a few of those whom you know, and you will see if they are my
friends."

"Well!"  said Milady, embarrassed, " I know Monsieur de Louvigny,
Monsieur de Courtivron, Monsieur de Ferussac."

The novice let her speak, then seeing that she paused, she said, "Don't
you know a gentleman named Athos?"

Milady became as pale as the sheets in which she was lying, and mistress
as she was of herself, could not help uttering a cry, seizing the hand
of the novice, and devouring her with looks.

"What is the matter?  Good God!"  asked the poor woman, "have I said
anything that has wounded you?"

"No; but the name struck me, because I also have known that gentleman,
and it appeared strange to me to meet with a person who appears to know
him well."

"Oh, yes, very well; not only him, but some of his friends, Messieurs
Porthos and Aramis!"

"Indeed!  you know them likewise?  I know them," cried Milady, who began
to feel a chill penetrate her heart.

"Well, if you know them, you know that they are good and free
companions.  Why do you not apply to them, if you stand in need of
help?"

"That is to say," stammered Milady, "I am not really very intimate with
any of them.  I know them from having heard one of their friends,
Monsieur d'Artagnan, say a great deal about them."

"You know Monsieur d'Artagnan!" cried the novice, in her turn seizing
the hands of Milady and devouring her with her eyes.

Then remarking the strange expression of Milady's countenance, she said,
"Pardon me, madame; you know him by what title?"

"Why," replied Milady, embarrassed, "why, by the title of friend."

"You deceive me, madame," said the novice; "you have been his mistress!"

"It is you who have been his mistress, madame!"  cried Milady, in her
turn.

"I?"  said the novice.

"Yes, you!  I know you now.  You are Madame Bonacieux!"

The young woman drew back, filled with surprise and terror.

"Oh, do not deny it!  Answer!" continued Milady.

"Well, yes, madame," said the novice, "Are we rivals?"

The countenance of Milady was illumined by so savage a joy that under
any other circumstances Mme. Bonacieux would have fled in terror; but
she was absorbed by jealousy.

"Speak, madame!"  resumed Mme. Bonacieux, with an energy of which she
might not have been believed capable.  "Have you been, or are you, his
mistress?"

"Oh, no!"  cried Milady, with an accent that admitted no doubt of her
truth.  "Never, never!"

"I believe you," said Mme. Bonacieux; "but why, then, did you cry out
so?"

"Do you not understand?" said Milady, who had already overcome her
agitation and recovered all her presence of mind.

"How can I understand?  I know nothing."

"Can you not understand that Monsieur d'Artagnan, being my friend, might
take me into his confidence?"

"Truly?"

"Do you not perceive that I know all--your abduction from the little
house at St. Germain, his despair, that of his friends, and their
useless inquiries up to this moment?  How could I help being astonished
when, without having the least expectation of such a thing, I meet you
face to face--you, of whom we have so often spoken together, you whom he
loves with all his soul, you whom he had taught me to love before I had
seen you!  Ah, dear Constance, I have found you, then; I see you at
last!"

And Milady stretched out her arms to Mme. Bonacieux, who, convinced by
what she had just said, saw nothing in this woman whom an instant before
she had believed her rival but a sincere and devoted friend.

"Oh, pardon me, pardon me!"  cried she, sinking upon the shoulders of
Milady.  "Pardon me, I love him so much!"

These two women held each other for an instant in a close embrace.
Certainly, if Milady's strength had been equal to her hatred, Mme.
Bonacieux would never have left that embrace alive.  But not being able
to stifle her, she smiled upon her.

"Oh, you beautiful, good little creature!"  said Milady.  "How delighted
I am to have found you!  Let me look at you!"  and while saying these
words, she absolutely devoured her by her looks.  "Oh, yes it is you
indeed!  From what he has told me, I know  you now.  I recognize you
perfectly."

The poor young woman could not possibly suspect what frightful cruelty
was behind the rampart of that pure brow, behind those brilliant eyes in
which she read nothing but interest and compassion.

"Then  you know what I have suffered," said Mme. Bonacie