Milady had likewise the most efficacious of passports—her beauty, her noble appearance, and the generosity with which she scattered 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 stayed long enough at Boulogne to post a letter, conceived in the following terms:
“To his Eminence Monseigneur Cardinal Richelieu, in his camp before Rochelle:
“Monseigneur, let your Eminence be reassured: his Grace the Duke of Buckingham will not set out for France.
“Boulogne, evening of the 25th.
“Lady de—.
“P.S.—According to your Eminence’s desire, I am going to the convent of the Carmelites at Béthune, where I will await your orders.”
In fact, that same evening milady began her journey. Night overtook her. She stopped and slept at an inn. At five o’clock the next morning she was on her way again, and three hours later entered Béthune.
She inquired for the Carmelite convent, and went to it immediately.
The superior came to meet her. Milady showed her the cardinal’s order. The abbess assigned her a chamber, and had breakfast served.
After breakfast the abbess came to pay her a visit. There are very few distractions in the cloister, and the good mother-superior was eager to make acquaintance with her new inmate.
Milady wished to please the abbess. Now this was an easy matter for a woman so really superior as she was. She tried to be agreeable. She was charming, and won the good nun by her varied conversation, and by the graces of her whole person.
But here 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 still more prudent reserve, contenting herself with making a profound inclination of the head every time that the fair traveller pronounced his Eminence’s name.
Milady began to think she should be very greatly bored in the convent; so she resolved to risk something, in order immediately to know how to act afterwards. Desirous of seeing how far the good abbess’s discretion would go, she began to tell a scandal, carefully veiled at first, but very circumstantial afterwards, about the cardinal, relating the minister’s amours with Madame d’Aiguillon, Marion de Lorme, and several other women of easy virtue.
The abbess listened more attentively, grew animated by degrees, and smiled.
“Good!” thought milady; “she likes my conversation. If she is a cardinalist, she has no fanaticism, at least, in it.”
She then went on to describe the persecutions wreaked by the cardinal on his enemies. The abbess only crossed herself without approving or disapproving. This confirmed milady in her opinion that the nun was rather a royalist than a cardinalist. Milady, therefore, continued colouring her narrations more and more.
“I am very ignorant about all these matters,” said the abbess at length; “but though we are distant from the court and remote from the interests of the world, we have very sad examples of what you have related; and one of our inmates has suffered much from the cardinal’s vengeance and persecution.”
“One of your inmates!” said milady. “O Heavens! Poor woman, I pity her, then!”
“And you are right, for she is much to be pitied. Imprisonment, threats, ill-treatment—she has suffered everything. But after all,” resumed the abbess, “the cardinal has perhaps plausible motives for acting thus; and though she has the look of an angel, we must not always judge people by appearances.”
“The cardinal does not only pursue crimes”, said milady, “there are certain virtues which he pursues more severely than certain offences.”
“Permit me, madame, to express my surprise,” said the abbess.
“At what?” asked milady naively.
“At the language you use.”
“What do you find so astonishing in my language?” asked milady, smiling.
“You are the cardinal’s friend, for he sends you here, and yet—”
“And yet I speak ill of him,” replied milady, finishing the mother-superior’s thought.
“At least, you don’t speak well of him.”
“That is because I am not his friend,” said she, sighing, “but his victim!”
“Then, madame,” said the abbess, smiling, “be reassured. The house in which you are will not be a very hard prison, and we will do all in our power to make you love your captivity. You will find here, moreover, that young woman who is persecuted, no doubt, in consequence of some court intrigue. She is amiable and courteous.”
“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; “even during the day. But you told me you had been travelling these four days. This morning you rose at five o’clock; you must need rest. Go to bed and sleep; at dinner-time we will wake you.”
Though milady would very willingly have gone without sleep, sustained as she was by all the excitements that a fresh adventure was awakening in her heart, ever thirsting for intrigues, she nevertheless accepted the mother-superior’s advice. During the preceding twelve or fifteen days she had experienced so many different emotions that if her iron frame was still capable of supporting fatigue, her mind required repose. She therefore took leave of the abbess and went to bed.
She was awakened by a gentle voice sounding at the foot of her bed. She opened her eyes, and saw the abbess, accompanied by a young woman with light hair and a delicate complexion, who was giving her a look full of benevolent curiosity.
The young woman’s face was quite 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 on observing that she excelled the young woman by far in her noble air and aristocratic bearing. To be sure, the novice’s habit which the young woman wore was not very advantageous in sustaining a contest of this kind.
The abbess introduced them to each other. Then when this formality was accomplished, as her duties called her to the church, she left the two young women alone.
Suddenly realization came to milady.
“I know you,” she said. “You are Madame Bonacieux.”
The young woman drew back in surprise and terror.
“Oh, do not deny it! Answer!” continued milady.
“Well, yes, madame!” said the novice.
Milady’s face was illumined by such a savage joy that in any other circumstances Madame Bonacieux would have fled in terror. But she was absorbed by her jealousy.
“Speak, madame!” resumed Madame Bonacieux, with an energy of which one would not have thought her capable.
“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 M. d’Artagnan, being my friend, might take me into his confidence?”
“Indeed!”
“Do you not perceive that I know all—your being carried off from the little house at St. Germain, his despair, that of his friends, and their useless inquiries from that 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 Madame Bonacieux, who, convinced by what she had just said, saw nothing in this woman but a sincere and devoted friend.
At that moment the galloping of a horse was heard.
“Oh!” cried Madame Bonacieux, darting to the window, “can it be he already?”
Milady stayed in bed, petrified by surprise. So many unexpected things were happening to her all at once that for the first time she was at a loss.
“D’ Artagnan!” murmured she; “can it be he?” And she remained in bed with her eyes staring.
“Hush!” said Madame Bonacieux; “some one is coming.”
In fact, the door opened, and the mother-superior entered.
“Did you come from Boulogne?” demanded she of milady.
“Yes, I did,” replied she, trying to recover her self-possession. “Who wants me?”
“A man who will not tell his name, but who comes from the cardinal.”
“And wishes to speak with me?” asked milady.
“He wishes to speak to a lady just come from Boulogne.”
“Then let him come in, if you please.”
“Oh, my God, my God! my God!” cried Madame Bonacieux; “can it be any bad news?”
“I am afraid so.”
“I will leave you with this stranger; but as soon as he is gone, if you will permit me, I will return.”
“Certainly! I beg you will.”
The mother-superior and Madame Bonacieux retired.
Milady was left alone, with her eyes fixed on the door. An instant after the jingling of spurs was heard on the stairs, then steps approached, the door opened, and a man appeared.
Milady uttered a cry of joy. This man was the Comte de Rochefort, the cardinal’s personal agent.
“Ah!” cried milady and Rochefort together, “so it is you?”
“Yes, it is.”
“And you come?” asked milady.
“From Rochelle. And you?”
“From England.”
“Buckingham?”
“Dead or desperately wounded, as I was leaving without having succeeded in obtaining anything from him. A fanatic assassinated him.”
“Ah!” said Rochefort, with a smile, “this is a piece of good luck— one that will delight his Eminence! Have you informed him of it?”
“I wrote to him from Boulogne. But what brings you here?”
“His Eminence was uneasy, and sent me to inquire after you.”
“What did the cardinal say with respect to me?”
“I was to take your dispatches, written or verbal, to return posthaste; and when he shall know what you have done, he will think of what you have to do.”
“So I must remain here?”
“Here, or in the neighbourhood.”
“You cannot take me with you?”
“No; the order is imperative. Near the camp you might be recognized; and your presence, you must be aware, would compromise his Eminence.”
“You are right.”
“Now, will you make me a report of all that has happened?”
“Why, I have related the events to you. You have a good memory; repeat what I have told you. A paper may get lost.”
“You are right; only let me know where to find you, so that I may not lost time in hunting for you about the neighbourhood.”
“You are right; wait.”
“Do you want a map?”
“Oh, I know this country well.”
“You will wait for me, then, at—”
“Let me reflect a moment. Oh yes, at Armentières.”
“What is Armentières?”
“A little town upon the Lys. I shall only have to cross the river, and I shall be in a foreign country.”
“Capital! But it is understood you will cross the river only in case of danger.”
“Certainly.”
“And you say you will wait for me at Armentières?”
“At Armentières.”
“Write that name on a piece of paper, lest I forget it. That is not compromising; a name of a town, is it?”
“Eh! who knows? No matter,” said milady, writing the name on a half sheet of paper; “I will run the risk.”
“Good!” said Rochefort, taking the paper from milady, folding it, and placing it in the lining of hit hat. “Besides, do not worry. I will do as children do, and in case I lose the paper, I will repeat the name as I go along. Now, is that all?”
“Good! When do you start?”
“In an hour—time to eat a morsel while I am sending for a post-horse.”
“Capital. Farewell, chevalier!”
“Farewell, countess!”
“Recommend me warmly to his Eminence!”
“Recommend me to Satan!”
Milady and Rochefort exchanged a smile and separated.
An hour afterwards Rochefort set out at his horse’s best speed; five hours after that he was passing through Arras.
Our readers already know how he was recognized by D’Artagnan, and how the fact, by suggesting fears to the four musketeers, gave fresh activity to their journey.
Chapter 53 - The Drop of Water
Rochefort had scarcely departed when Madame Bonacieux came back. She found milady with a smiling countenance.
“Come and sit down close to me,” said milady.
Milady arose and went to the door, opened it, looked down the corridor, and then returned and seated herself near Madame Bonacieux.
“That man,” said milady, lowering her voice, “is my brother!”
“Your brother!” cried Madame Bonacieux.
“Well, no one must know this secret, my dear, but yourself. If you reveal it to any one at all I shall be lost, and you also, perhaps.”
“O Heavens!”
“Listen to me. This is what has happened: My brother, who was coming to my assistance, to take me away by force if it were necessary, fell in with the cardinal’s emissary coming in search of me. He followed him. Reaching a solitary and retired part of the road, he drew his sword and required the messenger to deliver up to him the papers of which he was the bearer. The messenger resisted; my brother killed him.”
“Oh!” said Madame Bonacieux, with a shudder.
“Remember that was the only way. Then my brother determined to substitute cunning for force. He took the papers, and presented himself here as the cardinal’s emissary, and in an hour or two a carriage will come to take me away by order of his Eminence.”
“I understand. Your brother sends the carriage.”
“Exactly so.”
“But D’Artagnan is coming!”
“Do not be deceived. D’Artagnan and his friends are detained at the siege of Rochelle.”
“How do you know that?”
“My brother met some of the cardinal’s emissaries in the uniform of musketeers. You would have been summoned to the gate; you would have thought you went to meet friends; you would have been carried off and taken back again to Paris.”
“Dear lady,” said Madame Bonacieux, “pardon me for interrupting you, but what do you advise me to do? Good Heavens! You have more experience than I have. Speak! I will listen.”
“There would be a very simple way, very natural—”
“What? Say!”
“To wait, concealed in the neighbourhood, until you satisfied your-self who the men were who came to ask for you.”
“But where can I wait?”
“Oh, there is no difficulty in that. I shall stop and conceal myself at a few leagues from here, till my brother can rejoin me. Well, I will take you with me. We can conceal ourselves and wait together.”
“Oh yes, yes; you are right. In this way all will go well—all will be for the best; but do not go far from here.”
Milady was wrong in fearing that Madame Bonacieux would have any suspicions. The poor young woman was too innocent to suppose that any woman could be guilty of such perfidy. Besides, the name of the Countess Winter, which she had heard the abbess pronounce, was perfectly unknown to her, and she was even ignorant that she had so great and so fatal a share in the misfortunes of her life.
“You see,” said she, “everything is ready. The abbess suspects nothing. Take a mouthful to eat, drink a swallow of wine, and let us go.”
