The Three Musketeers

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

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

"What do you mean, sir!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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