“Lackeys!” grumbled the cardinal. “Lackeys who are ordered to warn their masters when any one passes are not lackeys; they are sentinels.”
“Your Eminence may perceive that if we had not taken this precaution, we should have been in danger of letting you pass without presenting you our respects, or offering you our thanks for the favour you have done us in uniting us.—D’Artagnan,” continued Athos, “you were only just now so anxious for such an opportunity for expressing your thanks to monseigneur. Here it is; avail yourself of it.”
These words were pronounced with that perfect imperturbability which distinguished Athos in the hour of danger, and with that excessive politeness which made of him at certain moments a king more majestic than kings by birth.
D’Artagnan came forward and stammered out a few words of thanks, which soon expired under the cardinal’s gloomy looks.
“No, matter, gentlemen,” continued the cardinal, without appearing to be in the least diverted from his first intention by the incident which Athos had raised—“no matter, gentlemen. I do not like simple soldiers, because they have the advantage of serving in a privileged corps, thus to play the great lords; and discipline is the same for them as for everybody else.”
Athos allowed the cardinal to finish his sentence completely, and bowing in sign of assent, he replied in his turn.
“Discipline, monseigneur, has in no way, I hope, been forgotten by us. We are not on duty, and we believe that, as we are not on duty, we are at liberty to dispose of our time as we please. If we are so fortunate as to have some particular command from your Eminence, we are ready to obey you. Your Eminence may perceive,” continued Athos, frowning, for such an investigation began to annoy him, “that we have come out with our arms, so as to be ready for the least alarm.”
And he showed the cardinal the four muskets stacked near the drum, on which were the cards and dice.
“We beg your Eminence to believe,” added D’Artagnan, “that we should have come to meet you, if we could have supposed it was you coming toward us with so few attendants.”
“Do you know what you look like, always together, as you are, armed, and sentinelled by your lackeys?” said the cardinal. “You look like four conspirators.”
“Oh, so far, monseigneur, it’s true,” said Athos; “we do conspire, as your Eminence might have seen the other day, only we conspire against the Rochellais.”
“Eh, politicians!” replied the cardinal, frowning in his turn; “the secret of many things unknown might perhaps be found in your brains, if we could read in them as you were reading that letter which you concealed when you saw me coming.”
The colour mounted to Athos’s face, and he made a step toward his Eminence.
“One would think that you really suspected us, monseigneur, and that we are undergoing a cross-examination. If it be so, we trust your Eminence will deign to explain yourself, and we shall then at least be acquainted with our real position.”
“And if it were an examination,” replied the cardinal, “others beside you have undergone such, Monsieur Athos, and have replied to them.”
“So, monseigneur, I have told your Eminence that you have but to question us, and we are ready to reply.”
“What was that letter you were about to read, Monsieur Aramis, and which you concealed?”
“A woman’s letter, monseigneur.”
“Oh, I understand. We must be discreet with such letters. But nevertheless we may show them to a confessor, and you know I have taken orders.”
“Monseigneur,” said Athos, with a calmness all the more terrible that he risked his life when he made this reply, “the letter is a woman’s, but it is neither signed Marion de Lorme nor Madame d’Arguillon.”
The cardinal became as pale as death. A flash of fire darted from his eyes. He turned round as if to give an order to Cahusac and Houdinière. Athos saw the movement; he took a step toward the muskets, on which the other three friends had fixed their eyes like men ill-disposed to allow themselves to be arrested. The cardinal’s party consisted of only three; the musketeers, lackeys included, numbered seven. He judged that the match would be so much the less equal if Athos and his companions were really plotting; and by one of those quick changes which he always had at command, all his anger faded away into a smile.
“Come, come!” said he, “you are brave young men, proud in daylight, faithful in darkness; no fault can be found with you for watching over yourselves when you watch so carefully over others. Gentlemen, I have not forgotten the night in which you served me as an escort to the Red Dovecot. If there were any danger to be apprehended on the road I am going, I should request you to accompany me; but as there is none, remain where you are, finish your bottles, your game, and your letter. Farewell, gentlemen!”
And remounting his horse, which Cahusac had led to him, he saluted them with his hand and rode away.
The four young men, standing motionless, followed him with their eyes without speaking a single word until he had disappeared.
Then they looked at one another.
All showed their consternation and terror in their faces; for notwithstanding his Eminence’s friendly farewell, they plainly perceived that the cardinal went away with rage in his heart.
Athos alone smiled with a self-possessed, disdainful smile.
When the cardinal was out of hearing and sight,
“That Grimaud kept but tardy watch!” cried Porthos, anxious to visit his ill-humour on some one.
Grimaud was about to excuse himself. Athos lifted his finger, and Grimaud was silent.
“Would you have given up the letter, Aramis?” said D’Artagnan.
“I,” said Aramis, in his most flute-like tone—“I had made up my mind. If he had insisted on the letter being given up to him, I would have presented the letter to him with one hand, and with the other I would have run my sword through his body.”
“I expected as much,” said Athos; “and that was why I interfered between you and him. Truly, this man is very unwise to talk in this way to other men; one would say he had never had to do with any but women and children.”
“My dear Athos,” said D’Artagnan, “I admire you very much, but, nevertheless, we were in the wrong, after all.”
“How in the wrong?” exclaimed Athos. “Whose, then, is the air we breath? Whose is the ocean on which we look? Whose is the sand on which we were reclining? Whose is that letter of your mistress’s? The cardinal’s? ’Pon my honour, this man fancies the world belongs to him. There you stood, stammering, stupefied, confounded. One might have supposed that the Bastille appeared before you, and that the gigantic Medusa was converting you into stone. Come, now, is to be in love conspiring? You are in love with a woman whom the cardinal has caused to be shut up, and you wish to get her out of the cardinal’s hands. That’s a game you are playing with his Eminence; this letter is your hand. Why should you show your hand to your adversary? That is never done. If he finds it out, well and good. We are finding out his, aren’t we?”
“In truth, what you say has sense in it, Athos,” said D’Artagnan.
“In that case let there be no more question of what has just occurred, and let Aramis resume the letter from his cousin where the cardinal interrupted him.”
Aramis took the letter from his pocket, the three friends surrounded him, and the three lackeys grouped themselves again near the demijohn.
“You had only read a line or two,” said D’Artagnan, “so begin the letter over again.”
“Willingly,” said Aramis.
My dear Cousin,—I think I shall decide to set out for Béthune, where my sister has placed our little servant in the convent of the Carmelites. This poor child is resigned; she knows she cannot live elsewhere without risking the salvation of her soul. However, if the affairs of our family are settled, as we hope they will be, I believe she will run the risk of being damned, and will return to those whom she misses, particularly as she knows they are always thinking of her. In the meanwhile, she is not altogether wretched; what she most desires is a letter from her intended. I know that such commodities pass with difficulty through the gratings; but after all, as I have proved to you, my dear cousin, I am not unskilled, and I will take charge of the commission. My sister thanks you for your good and eternal remembrance. She underwent for a moment considerable anxiety; but she is now at length a little reassured, having sent her secretary yonder, in order that nothing may happen unexpectedly.
“Farewell, my dear cousin. Let us hear from you as often as possible—that is to say, whenever you can send with safety. I embrace you.
“Marie Michon.”
“Oh, what do I not owe you, Aramis?” cried D’Artagnan. “Dear Constance! I have at length, then, news of her. She lives; she is in safety in a convent; she is at Béthune! Where do you suppose Béthune is, Athos?”
“Why, upon the frontiers of Artois and of Flanders. When the siege is once over we shall be able to make a tour in that direction.”
“And that will not be long, it is to be hoped,” said Porthos; “for this morning they hung a spy who confessed that the Rochellais had come to the leather of their shoes. Supposing that after having eaten the leather they eat the soles, I cannot see what they have left, unless they eat one another.”
“Poor fools!” said Athos, emptying a glass of excellent Bordeaux wine, which, without having at that period the reputation it now enjoys, no less merited it—“poor fools! As if the Catholic religion was not the most agreeable of all religions! All the same,” resumed he, after having smacked his tongue against his palate, “they are brave fellows. But what the devil are you about, Aramis?” continued Athos. “Why, are you squeezing that letter into your pocket!”
“Yes,” said D’Artagnan, “Athos is right; it must be burnt. Who knows whether the cardinal has not a secret for examining ashes?”
“He must have one,” said Athos.
“What are you going to do with the letter, then?” asked Porthos.
“Come here, Grimaud,” said Athos.
Grimaud got up and obeyed.
“As a punishment for having spoken without permission, my friend, you will please eat this piece of paper. Then, to recompense you for the service you will have rendered us, you shall afterwards drink this glass of wine. Here is the letter. First, chew vigorously.”
Grimaud smiled; and with his eyes fixed on the glass which Athos had just filled to the brim, he crushed the paper and swallowed it.
“Bravo, Master Grimaud!” said Athos. “And now take this. Good! I excuse you from saying ‘Thank you.”’
Grimaud silently swallowed the glass of Bordeaux wine; but his eyes, raised toward heaven during the whole time this delicious occupation lasted, spoke a language which, though mute, was none the less expressive.
“And now,” said Athos, “unless the cardinal should form the ingenious idea of ripping up Grimaud, I think we may be almost free from anxiety.”
Meantime his Eminence was continuing his melancholy ride, murmuring between his moustaches what he so often said before,
“These four men must positively be mine.”
Chapter 47 - Days of Captivity
Let us return to milady, whom our eyes, turned toward the coast of France, have lost from sight for an instant.
We shall find her in the despairing attitude in which we left her, plunged in an abyss of dismal reflections, a dismal hell, at the gate of which she has almost left hope behind; for now for the first time she doubts, for the first time she fears.
On two occasions her fortune has failed her, on two occasions she has found herself discovered and betrayed; and on both these occasions she failed before the fatal genius sent doubtlessly by Heaven to combat her: D’Artagnan has conquered her-her, the invincible power of evil.
He had deceived her love, humbled her pride, thwarted her ambition: and now he is ruining her fortune, depriving her of liberty, and even threatening her life. Moreover, he has lifted the corner of her mask —that ?gis with which she covered herself, and which rendered her so strong.
From Buckingham, whom she hates as she hates all she has loved, D’Artagnan averted the tempest with which Richelieu threatened him in the person of the queen. D’Artagnan has passed himself off on her as De Wardes, for whom she had conceived one of those invincible tigress-like fancies common to women of her character. D’Artagnan knows the terrible secret which she has sworn no one should know without dying. Finally, just as she has obtained from Richelieu a signed permit by means of which she is going to take vengeance on her enemy, this paper is torn from her hands, and D’Artagnan holds her prisoner, and is about to send her to some filthy Botany Bay, some infamous Tyburn of the Indian Ocean.
For all this, doubtless, D’Artagnan is responsible. From whom can come so many disgraces heaped on her head, if not from him? He alone could have transmitted to Lord Winter all these frightful secrets, which he has discovered, one after another, in consequence of Fate. He knows her brother-in-law; he must have written to him.
“Come, come! I must have been mad to be carried away so,” says she, plunging into the glass, which reflects back the burning glance by which she seems to question herself. “No violence; violence is a proof of weakness. In the first place, I have never succeeded by that means. Perhaps if I employed my strength against women, I should have a chance to find them weaker than myself, and consequently to conquer them. But I battle with men, and for them I am only a woman. Let me battle like a woman, then. My strength is in my weakness.”
Then, as if to render an account to herself of the changes she could impose upon her countenance, so noble and so expressive, she made it assume successively all expressions, from passionate anger, which convulsed her features, to the sweetest, most affectionate, and most seducing smile. Then her hair in turn, under her skilful hands, took on all the undulations she thought might assist the charms of her face. At length she murmured, satisfied with herself,
“Come, nothing is lost. I am still beautiful.”
In fact, as was shown by this last reflection—this instinctive return to hope—sentiment of weakness or fear did not dwell long in that deep soul. Milady sat down to table, ate of several dishes, drank a little Spanish wine, and felt all her resolution return.
Before she went to bed she had commented on, analyzed, turned on all sides, examined on all points, the words the gestures, the signs, and even the silence of the two men; and the result of her commentary, her analysis, her study, was that Felton, everything considered, was decided to be the more vulnerable of her two persecutors.
“Weak or strong,” repeated milady, “that man has a spark of pity in his soul. Of that spark I will make a flame that shall devour him. As to the other, he knows me, he fears me, and knows what he has to expect of me if ever I escape from his hands. So it is useless to attempt anything with him. But Felton—that’s another thing. He is an ingenuous, pure, and apparently virtuous young man; there is a way of getting him.”
