The Three Musketeers

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This noise acted upon her joy like the storm which awakens the sleeper
in the midst of a happy dream; she grew pale and ran to the window,
while Mme. Bonacieux, rising all in a tremble, supported herself upon
her chair to avoid falling. Nothing was yet to be seen, only they heard
the galloping draw nearer.

"Oh, my God!" said Mme. Bonacieux, "what is that noise?"

"That of either our friends or our enemies," said Milady, with her
terrible coolness. "Stay where you are, I will tell you."

Mme. Bonacieux remained standing, mute, motionless, and pale as a
statue.

The noise became louder; the horses could not be more than a hundred and
fifty paces distant. If they were not yet to be seen, it was because
the road made an elbow. The noise became so distinct that the horses
might be counted by the rattle of their hoofs.

Milady gazed with all the power of her attention; it was just light
enough for her to see who was coming.

All at once, at the turning of the road she saw the glitter of laced
hats and the waving of feathers; she counted two, then five, then eight
horsemen. One of them preceded the rest by double the length of his
horse.

Milady uttered a stifled groan. In the first horseman she recognized
d'Artagnan.

"Oh, my God, my God," cried Mme. Bonacieux, "what is it?"

"It is the uniform of the cardinal's Guards. Not an instant to be lost!
Fly, fly!"

"Yes, yes, let us fly!" repeated Mme. Bonacieux, but without being able
to make a step, glued as she was to the spot by terror.

They heard the horsemen pass under the windows.

"Come, then, come, then!" cried Milady, trying to drag the young woman
along by the arm. "Thanks to the garden, we yet can flee; I have the
key, but make haste! in five minutes it will be too late!"

Mme. Bonacieux tried to walk, made two steps, and sank upon her knees.
Milady tried to raise and carry her, but could not do it.

At this moment they heard the rolling of the carriage, which at the
approach of the Musketeers set off at a gallop. Then three or four
shots were fired.

"For the last time, will you come?" cried Milady.

"Oh, my God, my God! you see my strength fails me; you see plainly I
cannot walk. Flee alone!"

"Flee alone, and leave you here? No, no, never!" cried Milady.

All at once she paused, a livid flash darted from her eyes; she ran to
the table, emptied into Mme. Bonacieux's glass the contents of a ring
which she opened with singular quickness. It was a grain of a reddish
color, which dissolved immediately.

Then, taking the glass with a firm hand, she said, "Drink. This wine
will give you strength, drink!" And she put the glass to the lips of
the young woman, who drank mechanically.

"This is not the way that I wished to avenge myself," said Milady,
replacing the glass upon the table, with an infernal smile, "but, my
faith! we do what we can!" And she rushed out of the room.

Mme. Bonacieux saw her go without being able to follow her; she was like
people who dream they are pursued, and who in vain try to walk.

A few moments passed; a great noise was heard at the gate. Every
instant Mme. Bonacieux expected to see Milady, but she did not return.
Several times, with terror, no doubt, the cold sweat burst from her
burning brow.

At length she heard the grating of the hinges of the opening gates; the
noise of boots and spurs resounded on the stairs. There was a great
murmur of voices which continued to draw near, amid which she seemed to
hear her own name pronounced.

All at once she uttered a loud cry of joy, and darted toward the door;
she had recognized the voice of d'Artagnan.

"d'Artagnan! D'Artagnan!" cried she, "is it you? This way! this
way!"

"Constance? Constance?" replied the young man, "where are you? where
are you? My God!"

At the same moment the door of the cell yielded to a shock, rather than
opened; several men rushed into the chamber. Mme. Bonacieux had sunk
into an armchair, without the power of moving.

D'Artagnan threw down a yet-smoking pistol which he held in his hand,
and fell on his knees before his mistress. Athos replaced his in his
belt; Porthos and Aramis, who held their drawn swords in their hands,
returned them to their scabbards.

"Oh, d'Artagnan, my beloved d'Artagnan! You have come, then, at last!
You have not deceived me! It is indeed thee!"

"Yes, yes, Constance. Reunited!"

"Oh, it was in vain she told me you would not come! I hoped in silence.
I was not willing to fly. Oh, I have done well! How happy I am!"

At this word SHE, Athos, who had seated himself quietly, started up.

"SHE! What she?" asked d'Artagnan.

"Why, my companion. She who out of friendship for me wished to take me
from my persecutors. She who, mistaking you for the cardinal's Guards,
has just fled away."

"Your companion!" cried d'Artagnan, becoming more pale than the white
veil of his mistress. "Of what companion are you speaking, dear
Constance?"

"Of her whose carriage was at the gate; of a woman who calls herself
your friend; of a woman to whom you have told everything."

"Her name, her name!" cried d'Artagnan. "My God, can you not remember
her name?"

"Yes, it was pronounced in my hearing once. Stop--but--it is very
strange--oh, my God, my head swims! I cannot see!"

"Help, help, my friends! her hands are icy cold," cried d'Artagnan.
"She is ill! Great God, she is losing her senses!"

While Porthos was calling for help with all the power of his strong
voice, Aramis ran to the table to get a glass of water; but he stopped
at seeing the horrible alteration that had taken place in the
countenance of Athos, who, standing before the table, his hair rising
from his head, his eyes fixed in stupor, was looking at one of the
glasses, and appeared a prey to the most horrible doubt.

"Oh!" said Athos, "oh, no, it is impossible! God would not permit such
a crime!"

"Water, water!" cried d'Artagnan. "Water!"

"Oh, poor woman, poor woman!" murmured Athos, in a broken voice.

Mme. Bonacieux opened her eyes under the kisses of d'Artagnan.

"She revives!" cried the young man. "Oh, my God, my God, I thank
thee!"

"Madame!" said Athos, "madame, in the name of heaven, whose empty glass
is this?"

"Mine, monsieur," said the young woman, in a dying voice.

"But who poured the wine for you that was in this glass?"

"She."

"But who is SHE?"

"Oh, I remember!" said Mme. Bonacieux, "the Comtesse de Winter."

The four friends uttered one and the same cry, but that of Athos
dominated all the rest.

At that moment the countenance of Mme. Bonacieux became livid; a fearful
agony pervaded her frame, and she sank panting into the arms of Porthos
and Aramis.

D'Artagnan seized the hands of Athos with an anguish difficult to be
described.

"And what do you believe?' His voice was stifled by sobs.

"I believe everything," said Athos biting his lips till the blood sprang
to avoid sighing.

"d'Artagnan, d'Artagnan!" cried Mme. Bonacieux, "where art thou? Do
not leave me! You see I am dying!"

D'Artagnan released the hands of Athos which he still held clasped in
both his own, and hastened to her. Her beautiful face was distorted
with agony; her glassy eyes had no longer their sight; a convulsive
shuddering shook her whole body; the sweat rolled from her brow.

"In the name of heaven, run, call! Aramis! Porthos! Call for help!"

"Useless!" said Athos, "useless! For the poison which SHE pours there
is no antidote."

"Yes, yes! Help, help!" murmured Mme. Bonacieux; "help!"

Then, collecting all her strength, she took the head of the young man
between her hands, looked at him for an instant as if her whole soul
passed into that look, and with a sobbing cry pressed her lips to his.

"Constance, Constance!" cried d'Artagnan.

A sigh escaped from the mouth of Mme. Bonacieux, and dwelt for an
instant on the lips of d'Artagnan. That sigh was the soul, so chaste
and so loving, which reascended to heaven.

D'Artagnan pressed nothing but a corpse in his arms. The young man
uttered a cry, and fell by the side of his mistress as pale and as icy
as herself.

Porthos wept; Aramis pointed toward heaven; Athos made the sign of the
cross.

At that moment a man appeared in the doorway, almost as pale as those in
the chamber. He looked around him and saw Mme. Bonacieux dead, and
d'Artagnan in a swoon. He appeared just at that moment of stupor which
follows great catastrophes.

"I was not deceived," said he; "here is Monsieur d'Artagnan; and you are
his friends, Messieurs Athos, Porthos, and Aramis."

The persons whose names were thus pronounced looked at the stranger with
astonishment. It seemed to all three that they knew him.

"Gentlemen," resumed the newcomer, "you are, as I am, in search of a
woman who," added he, with a terrible smile, "must have passed this way,
for I see a corpse."

The three friends remained mute--for although the voice as well as the
countenance reminded them of someone they had seen, they could not
remember under what circumstances.

"Gentlemen," continued the stranger, "since you do not recognize a man
who probably owes his life to you twice, I must name myself. I am Lord
de Winter, brother-in-law of THAT WOMAN."

The three friends uttered a cry of surprise.

Athos rose, and offering him his hand, "Be welcome, my Lord," said he,
"you are one of us."

"I set out five hours after her from Portsmouth," said Lord de Winter.
"I arrived three hours after her at Boulogne. I missed her by twenty
minutes at St. Omer. Finally, at Lilliers I lost all trace of her. I
was going about at random, inquiring of everybody, when I saw you
gallop past. I recognized Monsieur d'Artagnan. I called to you, but
you did not answer me; I wished to follow you, but my horse was too much
fatigued to go at the same pace with yours. And yet it appears, in
spite of all your diligence, you have arrived too late."

"You see!" said Athos, pointing to Mme. Bonacieux dead, and to
d'Artagnan, whom Porthos and Aramis were trying to recall to life.

"Are they both dead?" asked Lord de Winter, sternly.

"No," replied Athos, "fortunately Monsieur d'Artagnan has only fainted."

"Ah, indeed, so much the better!" said Lord de Winter.

At that moment d'Artagnan opened his eyes. He tore himself from the
arms of Porthos and Aramis, and threw himself like a madman on the
corpse of his mistress.

Athos rose, walked toward his friend with a slow and solemn step,
embraced him tenderly, and as he burst into violent sobs, he said to him
with his noble and persuasive voice, "Friend, be a man! Women weep for
the dead; men avenge them!"

"Oh, yes!" cried d'Artagnan, "yes! If it be to avenge her, I am ready
to follow you."

Athos profited by this moment of strength which the hope of vengeance
restored to his unfortunate friend to make a sign to Porthos and Aramis
to go and fetch the superior.

The two friends met her in the corridor, greatly troubled and much upset
by such strange events; she called some of the nuns, who against all
monastic custom found themselves in the presence of five men.

"Madame," said Athos, passing his arm under that of d'Artagnan, "we
abandon to your pious care the body of that unfortunate woman. She was
an angel on earth before being an angel in heaven. Treat her as one of
your sisters. We will return someday to pray over her grave."

D'Artagnan concealed his face in the bosom of Athos, and sobbed aloud.

"Weep," said Athos, "weep, heart full of love, youth, and life! Alas,
would I could weep like you!"

And he drew away his friend, as affectionate as a father, as consoling
as a priest, noble as a man who has suffered much.

All five, followed by their lackeys leading their horses, took their way
to the town of Bethune, whose outskirts they perceived, and stopped
before the first inn they came to.

"But," said d'Artagnan, "shall we not pursue that woman?"

"Later," said Athos. "I have measures to take."

"She will escape us," replied the young man; "she will escape us, and it
will be your fault, Athos."

"I will be accountable for her," said Athos.

D'Artagnan had so much confidence in the word of his friend that he
lowered his head, and entered the inn without reply.

Porthos and Aramis regarded each other, not understanding this assurance
of Athos.

Lord de Winter believed he spoke in this manner to soothe the grief of
d'Artagnan.

"Now, gentlemen," said Athos, when he had ascertained there were five
chambers free in the hotel, "let everyone retire to his own apartment.
d'Artagnan needs to be alone, to weep and to sleep. I take charge of
everything; be easy."

"It appears, however," said Lord de Winter, "if there are any measures
to take against the countess, it concerns me; she is my sister-in-law."

"And me," said Athos, "--she is my wife!"

D'Artagnan smiled--for he understood that Athos was sure of his
vengeance when he revealed such a secret. Porthos and Aramis looked at
each other, and grew pale. Lord de Winter thought Athos was mad.

"Now, retire to your chambers," said Athos, "and leave me to act. You
must perceive that in my quality of a husband this concerns me. Only,
d'Artagnan, if you have not lost it, give me the paper which fell from
that man's hat, upon which is written the name of the village of--"

"Ah," said d'Artagnan, "I comprehend! that name written in her hand."

"You see, then," said Athos, "there is a god in heaven still!"

64 THE MAN IN THE RED CLOAK

The despair of Athos had given place to a concentrated grief which only
rendered more lucid the brilliant mental faculties of that extraordinary
man.

Possessed by one single thought--that of the promise he had made, and of
the responsibility he had taken--he retired last to his chamber, begged
the host to procure him a map of the province, bent over it, examined
every line traced upon it, perceived that there were four different
roads from Bethune to Armentieres, and summoned the lackeys.

Planchet, Grimaud, Bazin, and Mousqueton presented themselves, and
received clear, positive, and serious orders from Athos.

They must set out the next morning at daybreak, and go to Armentieres--
each by a different route. Planchet, the most intelligent of the four,
was to follow that by which the carriage had gone upon which the four
friends had fired, and which was accompanied, as may be remembered, by
Rochefort's servant.

Athos set the lackeys to work first because, since these men had been in
the service of himself and his friends he had discovered in each of them
different and essential qualities. Then, lackeys who ask questions
inspire less mistrust than masters, and meet with more sympathy among
those to whom they address themselves. Besides, Milady knew the
masters, and did not know the lackeys; on the contrary, the lackeys knew
Milady perfectly.

All four were to meet the next day at eleven o'clock. If they had
discovered Milady's retreat, three were to remain on guard; the fourth
was to return to Bethune in order to inform Athos and serve as a guide
to the four friends. These arrangements made, the lackeys retired.

Athos then arose from his chair, girded on his sword, enveloped himself
in his cloak, and left the hotel. It was nearly ten o'clock. At ten
o'clock in the evening, it is well known, the streets in provincial
towns are very little frequented. Athos nevertheless was visibly
anxious to find someone of whom he could ask a question. At length he
met a belated passenger, went up to him, and spoke a few words to him.
The man he addressed recoiled with terror, and only answered the few
words of the Musketeer by pointing. Athos offered the man half a
pistole to accompany him, but the man refused.

Athos then plunged into the street the man had indicated with his
finger; but arriving at four crossroads, he stopped again, visibly
embarrassed. Nevertheless, as the crossroads offered him a better
chance than any other place of meeting somebody, he stood still. In a
few minutes a night watch passed. Athos repeated to him the same
question he had asked the first person he met. The night watch evinced
the same terror, refused, in his turn, to accompany Athos, and only
pointed with his hand to the road he was to take.

Athos walked in the direction indicated, and reached the suburb situated
at the opposite extremity of the city from that by which he and his
friends had entered it. There he again appeared uneasy and embarrassed,
and stopped for the third time.

Fortunately, a mendicant passed, who, coming up to Athos to ask charity,
Athos offered him half a crown to accompany him where he was going. The
mendicant hesitated at first, but at the sight of the piece of silver
which shone in the darkness he consented, and walked on before Athos.

Arrived at the angle of a street, he pointed to a small house, isolated,
solitary, and dismal. Athos went toward the house, while the mendicant,
who had received his reward, left as fast as his legs could carry him.

Athos went round the house before he could distinguish the door, amid
the red color in which the house was painted. No light appeared through
the chinks of the shutters; no noise gave reason to believe that it was
inhabited. It was dark and silent as the tomb.

Three times Athos knocked without receiving an answer. At the third
knock, however, steps were heard inside. The door at length was opened,
and a man appeared, of high stature, pale complexion, and black hair and
beard.

Athos and he exchanged some words in a low voice, then the tall man made
a sign to the Musketeer that he might come in. Athos immediately
profited by the permission, and the door was closed behind him.

The man whom Athos had come so far to seek, and whom he had found with
so much trouble, introduced him into his laboratory, where he was
engaged in fastening together with iron wire the dry bones of a
skeleton. All the frame was adjusted except the head, which lay on the
table.

All the rest of the furniture indicated that the dweller in this house
occupied himself with the study of natural science. There were large
bottles filled with serpents, ticketed according to their species; dried
lizards shone like emeralds set in great squares of black wood, and
bunches of wild odoriferous herbs, doubtless possessed of virtues
unknown to common men, were fastened to the ceiling and hung down in the
corners of the apartment. There was no family, no servant; the tall man
alone inhabited this house.

Athos cast a cold and indifferent glance upon the objects we have
described, and at the invitation of him whom he came to seek sat down
near him.

Then he explained to him the cause of his visit, and the service he
required of him. But scarcely had he expressed his request when the
unknown, who remained standing before the Musketeer, drew back with
signs of terror, and refused. Then Athos took from his pocket a small
paper, on which two lines were written, accompanied by a signature and
a seal, and presented them to him who had made too prematurely these
signs of repugnance. The tall man had scarcely read these lines, seen
the signature, and recognized the seal, when he bowed to denote that he
had no longer any objection to make, and that he was ready to obey.

Athos required no more. He arose, bowed, went out, returned by the same
way he came, re-entered the hotel, and went to his apartment.

At daybreak d'Artagnan entered the chamber, and demanded what was to be
done.

"To wait," replied Athos.

Some minutes after, the superior of the convent sent to inform the
Musketeers that the burial would take place at midday. As to the
poisoner, they had heard no tidings of her whatever, only that she must
have made her escape through the garden, on the sand of which her
footsteps could be traced, and the door of which had been found shut.
As to the key, it had disappeared.

At the hour appointed, Lord de Winter and the four friends repaired to
the convent; the bells tolled, the chapel was open, the grating of the
choir was closed. In the middle of the choir the body of the victim,
clothed in her novitiate dress, was exposed. On each side of the choir
and behind the gratings opening into the convent was assembled the whole
community of the Carmelites, who listened to the divine service, and
mingled their chant with the chant of the priests, without seeing the
profane, or being seen by them.

At the door of the chapel d'Artagnan felt his courage fall anew,
and returned to look for Athos; but Athos had disappeared.

Faithful to his mission of vengeance, Athos had requested to be
conducted to the garden; and there upon the sand following the light
steps of this woman, who left sharp tracks wherever she went, he
advanced toward the gate which led into the wood, and causing it to be
opened, he went out into the forest.

Then all his suspicions were confirmed; the road by which the carriage
had disappeared encircled the forest. Athos followed the road for some
time, his eyes fixed upon the ground; slight stains of blood, which came
from the wound inflicted upon the man who accompanied the carriage as a
courier, or from one of the horses, dotted the road. At the end of
three-quarters of a league, within fifty paces of Festubert, a larger
bloodstain appeared; the ground was trampled by horses. Between the
forest and this accursed spot, a little behind the trampled ground, was
the same track of small feet as in the garden; the carriage had stopped
here. At this spot Milady had come out of the wood, and entered the
carriage.

Satisfied with this discovery which confirmed all his suspicions, Athos
returned to the hotel, and found Planchet impatiently waiting for him.

Everything was as Athos had foreseen.

Planchet had followed the road; like Athos, he had discovered the stains
of blood; like Athos, he had noted the spot where the horses had halted.
But he had gone farther than Athos--for at the village of Festubert,
while drinking at an inn, he had learned without needing to ask a
question that the evening before, at half-past eight, a wounded man who
accompanied a lady traveling in a post-chaise had been obliged to stop,
unable to go further. The accident was set down to the account of
robbers, who had stopped the chaise in the wood. The man remained in
the village; the woman had had a relay of horses, and continued her
journey.

Planchet went in search of the postillion who had driven her, and found
him. He had taken the lady as far as Fromelles; and from Fromelles
she had set out for Armentieres. Planchet took the crossroad, and by
seven o'clock in the morning he was at Armentieres.

There was but one tavern, the Post. Planchet went and presented himself
as a lackey out of a place, who was in search of a situation. He had
not chatted ten minutes with the people of the tavern before he learned
that a woman had come there alone about eleven o'clock the night before,
had engaged a chamber, had sent for the master of the hotel, and told
him she desired to remain some time in the neighborhood.

Planchet had no need to learn more. He hastened to the rendezvous,
found the lackeys at their posts, placed them as sentinels at all the
outlets of the hotel, and came to find Athos, who had just received this
information when his friends returned.

All their countenances were melancholy and gloomy, even the mild
countenance of Aramis.

"What is to be done?" asked d'Artagnan.

"To wait!" replied Athos.

Each retired to his own apartment.

At eight o'clock in the evening Athos ordered the horses to be saddled,
and Lord de Winter and his friends notified that they must prepare for
the expedition.

In an instant all five were ready. Each examined his arms, and put them
in order. Athos came down last, and found d'Artagnan already on
horseback, and growing impatient.

"Patience!" cried Athos; "one of our party is still wanting."

The four horsemen looked round them with astonishment, for they sought
vainly in their minds to know who this other person could be.

At this moment Planchet brought out Athos's house; the Musketeer leaped
lightly into the saddle.

"Wait for me," cried he, "I will soon be back," and he set off at a
gallop.

In a quarter of an hour he returned, accompanied by a tall man, masked,
and wrapped in a large red cloak.

Lord de Winter and the three Musketeers looked at one another
inquiringly. Neither could give the others any information, for all
were ignorant who this man could be; nevertheless, they felt convinced
that all was as it should be, as it was done by the order of Athos.

At nine o'clock, guided by Planchet, the little cavalcade set out,
taking the route the carriage had taken.

It was a melancholy sight--that of these six men, traveling in silence,
each plunged in his own thoughts, sad as despair, gloomy as
chastisement.

65 TRIAL

It was a stormy and dark night; vast clouds covered the heavens,
concealing the stars; the moon would not rise till midnight.

Occasionally, by the light of a flash of lightning which gleamed along
the horizon, the road stretched itself before them, white and solitary;
the flash extinct, all remained in darkness.