“Yes,” said Madame Bonacieux mechanically; “let us go.” Milady made her a sign to sit down before her, poured out a small glass of Spanish wine for her, and helped her to some of the breast of a chicken.
Madame Bonacieux ate a few mouthfuls mechanically, and just touched the glass to her lips.
“Come, come!” said milady, lifting hers to her mouth, “do as I do.”
But just as she was putting hers to her mouth her hand remained suspended. She had heard something on the road which sounded like the far-off beat of hoofs approaching; then, almost at the same time, it seemed to her that she heard the neighing of horses.
This noise roused her from her joy as a storm awakens the sleeper in the midst of a beautiful dream. She grew pale and ran to the window, while Madame Bonacieux, rising all of a tremble, supported herself on her chair to avoid falling.
Nothing was yet to be seen, only they heard the galloping constantly draw nearer.
“O Heavens!” cried Madame Bonacieux, “what is that noise?”
“It is either our friends or our enemies,” said milady, with her terrible coolness. “Stay where you are. I will tell you.”
Madame Bonacieux remained standing, mute, pale, and motionless.
The noise became louder; the horses could not be more than a hundred paces distant. If they were not yet to be seen, it was because the road made a bend. Yet the noise became so distinct that the horses might be counted by the sharply defined sound of their hoofs.
Milady gazed with all her eyes; it was just light enough for her to recognize those who were coming.
Suddenly, at a turn of the road, she saw the glitter of laced hats and the waving plumes; she counted two, then five, then eight horsemen. One of them was two lengths of his horse in advance of the others.
Milady uttered a stifled groan. In the first horseman she recognized D’Artagnan.
“O Heavens, Heavens!” cried Madame Bonacieux, “what is it? what is it?”
“It is the cardinal’s guards—not an instant to be lost!” cried milady. “Let us fly! let us fly!”
“Yes, yes, let us fly!” repeated Madame Bonacieux, but without being able to take a step, fixed to the spot as she was by terror.
They heard the horsemen riding under the windows.
“Come on, then! do come on!” cried milady, striving to drag the young woman along by the arm. “Thanks to the garden, we yet can escape. I have the key. But let us make haste. In five minutes it will be too late!”
Madame Bonacieux tried to walk, took two steps, and sank on her knees.
Milady strove to lift her up and carry her, but could not succeed.
At this moment they heard the rolling of the carriage, which as soon as the musketeers were seen 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. Escape yourself!”
“Escape myself, and leave you here! No, no, never!” cried milady.
All at once she stopped; a livid flash darted from her eyes. She ran to the table, poured into Madame Bonacieux’s glass the contents of a ring which she opened with singular quickness.
It was a grain of a reddish colour, which instantly melted.
Then taking the glass with a firm hand,
“Drink,” said she; “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 I wanted to avenge myself,” said milady, setting the glass on the table with an infernal smile, “but, faith! one does what one can.” And she rushed out of the room.
Madame Bonacieux saw her go without being able to follow her. She was like those people who dream they are pursued, and who vainly struggle to walk.
A few moments passed. A frightful noise was heard at the gate. Every instant Madame Bonacieux expected to see milady, but she did not return.
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 coming nearer and nearer; it seemed to her she heard her own name pronounced.
All at once she uttered a loud cry of joy, and darted toward the door. She had recognized D’Artagnan’s voice.
“D’Artagnan! D’Artagnan!” cried she, “is it you? This way! this way!”
“Constance! Constance!” replied the young man, “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 room. Madame Bonacieux had sunk into an armchair, without the power of moving.
D’Artagnan threw down a pistol, still smoking, 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.
“O D’Artagnan! my beloved D’Artagnan! You have come, then, at last. You have not deceived me! It is indeed you!”
“Yes, yes, Constance!—reunited!”
“Oh, how foolish she was to tell me you would not come! I hoped silently. I was not willing to flee. Oh, how rightly I have acted! How happy I am!”
At the word she, Athos, who had quietly seated himself, suddenly got up.
“She! Who?” asked D’Artagnan.
“Why, my companion. She who, out of friendship for me, wished to save me from my persecutors. She who, mistaking you for the cardinal’s guards, has just made her escape.”
“Your companion!” cried D’Artagnan, becoming paler than his mistress’s white veil. “What companion do you mean?”
“She whose carriage was at the gate; a woman who calls herself your friend, D’Artagnan; a woman to whom you have told everything.”
“But her name, her name!” cried D’Artagnan; “my God! don’t you know her name?”
“Yes, it was pronounced before me. Stop—but—it is strange—oh, my God! my head swims—I cannot see!”
“Help, friends, help! Her hands are like ice!” cried D’Artagnan; “she is ill! Great God, she is growing unconscious!”
While Porthos was calling for help at the top of his 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 face 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 seemed a prey to the most horrible doubt.
“Oh,” said Athos, “oh no! It is impossible! God would not permit such a crime!”
Madame Bonacieux opened her eyes under D’Artagnan’s kisses.
“She revives!” cried the young man.
“Madame,” said Athos—“madame, in Heaven’s name, whose empty glass is this?”
“Mine, sir,” said the young woman, in a dying voice.
“But who poured out for you the wine that was in this glass?”
“she.”
“But who is she?”
“Oh, I remember,” said Madame Bonacieux; “the Countess Winter.”
The four friends uttered one and the same cry, but the cry of Athos dominated over all the rest.
At that moment Madame Bonacieux’s face grew livid, a stifled agony overcame her, and she sank panting into the arms of Porthos and Aramis.
D’Artagnan seized Athos’s hand with anguish difficult to describe.
“What! do you believe—”
His voice was stifled by sobs.
“I believe everything,” said Athos.
“D’Artagnan! D’Artagnan!” cried Madame Bonacieux, “where art thou? Do not leave me! Thou seest that I am dying!”
D’Artagnan let fall Athos’s hand, which he still held convulsively clasped in his, and hastened to her.
Her beautiful face was distorted, her glassy eyes were fixed, a convulsive shuddering shook her body, the sweat stood on her brow.
“In Heaven’s name, run, call! Aramis! Porthos! call for help!”
“Useless!” said Athos, “useless! For the poison which she pours out there is no antidote.”
“Yes, yes! help, help!” murmured Madame Bonacieux—“help!”
Then collecting all her strength, she took the young man’s head between her hands, looked at him for an instant as if her whole soul had passed into her look, and pressed her lips to his.
“Constance! Constance!” cried D’Artagnan wildly.
A sigh escaped from Madame Bonacieux’s mouth and dwelt for an instant on D’Artagnan’s lips. That sigh was her soul, so chaste and so loving, reascending to heaven.
D’Artagnan held only a corpse pressed to his heart.
The young man uttered a cry, and fell by his mistress’s side as pale and as cold as she was.
Porthos wept, Aramis lifted his hand 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 room, looked round him, saw Madame Bonacieux dead and D’Artagnan fainting.
He appeared just at that moment of stupor which follows great catastrophes.
“I was not mistaken,” said he. “Here is M. d’Artagnan, and you are his three friends, MM. Athos, Porthos, and Aramis.
“Gentlemen,” continued the stranger, “since you will not recognize a man who probably owes his life to you twice, I must name myself. I am the Lord Winter—that woman’s brother-in-law.”
The three friends uttered a cry of surprise.
Athos rose and offered him his hand.
“You are welcome, milord,” said he; “you are one of our friends.”
“I left Portsmouth five hours after her,” said Lord Winter. “I arrived three hours after her at Boulogne. I missed her by twenty minutes at St. Omer. At last at Liliers I lost trace of her. I was going about at haphazard, inquiring of every one, when I saw you gallop by. I recognized M. d’Artagnan. I called to you; you did not answer. I tried to follow you, but my horse was too tired to go at the same rate as yours. And yet it seems that, in spite of all your diligence, you still arrived too late.”
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 his mistress’s dead body.
Athos rose, walked up to his friend with a slow and solemn step, kissed him tenderly, and as he burst into violent sobs, said to him, with his noble and persuasive voice,
“Friend, be a man! Women weep for the dead; men avenge them!”
And affectionate as a father, consoling as a priest, great as a man who has suffered much, he drew away his friend.
All five, followed by their lackeys leading their horses, took their way to the town of Béthune, the outlying houses of which they saw, and stopped at the first inn to which they came.
“But,” said D’Artagnan, “are we not to pursue that woman?”
“Presently,” said Athos; “I have certain measures to take.”
“She will escape us,” replied the young man—“she will escape us, Athos, and it will be your fault.”
“I will answer for her,” said Athos.
D’Artagnan had such trust in his friend’s word that he bowed his head, and entered the inn without making a reply.
Porthos and Aramis looked at each other, not at all understanding Athos’s confidence.
Lord Winter thought he spoke in this way to assuage D’Artagnan’s sorrow.
“Now, gentlemen,” said Athos, when he had ascertained there were five vacant rooms in the hotel, “let us each retire to his own chamber. D’Artagnan needs to be alone, to weep and to sleep. I take charge of everything. Do not worry.”
“It seems to me, however,” said Lord Winter, “that if there are any measures to be taken against the countess, it concerns me; she is my sister-in-law.”
“Me also!” said Athos; “she is my wife.
D’Artagnan smiled, for he realized that Athos was sure of his vengeance since he revealed such a secret. Porthos and Aramis looked at each other. Lord Winter thought Athos was mad.
“Now, all go to your rooms,” 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 piece of paper which fell from that man’s hat. The name of the village of—is written on it.”
“Ah!” said D’Artagnan, “I understand now. That name written in her hand—”
“You see,” said Athos, “there is a God in heaven!”
Chapter 54 - The Man in the Red Cloak
Athos’s despair had given place to a concentrated grief, which made this man’s brilliant mental faculties keener than ever.
Possessed by a single thought—that of the promise he had made, and of the responsibility he had assumed—he was the last to retire to his room. He begged the host to get him a map of the province, bent over it, examined the lines traced on it, perceived that there were four different roads from Béthune to Armentières, and called the valets.
Planchet, Grimaud, Bazin, and Mousqueton presented themselves, and received Athos’s clear, positive, and serious orders. They were to set out the next morning at daybreak, and to go to Armentières—each by a different route. Planchet, the most intelligent of the four, was to follow the road by which had passed the carriage on which the four friends had fired, and which was accompanied, as will be remembered, by Rochefort’s servant.
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 Béthune, to inform Athos and serve as a guide to the four friends.
When these arrangements were 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, we know, the streets in provincial towns are very little frequented.
Athos reached the suburb, situated at the end of the city, opposite where he and his friends had entered it. Here he appeared uneasy and embarrassed, and stopped.
Fortunately, a beggar passed and came up to Athos to ask charity. Athos offered him a crown to accompany him where he was going. The beggar hesitated at first, but at the sight of the piece of silver glittering in the darkness, he consented, and walked on before Athos.
Reaching the corner of a street, he showed in the distance a small house isolated, solitary, dismal. Athos went to the house, while the beggar, having received his reward, hurried away as fast as he could walk.
Athos went round the house before he could distinguish the door from the reddish colour in which the house was painted. No light shone through the chinks of the shutters; no sound gave reason to believe that it was inhabited. It was dark and silent as a tomb.
Three times Athos knocked and no one responded. At the third knock, however, the door was half opened, and a man of lofty stature, pale complexion, and black hair and beard appeared.
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 took advantage of the permission, and the door closed after 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 had remained standing before the musketeer, drew back in terror, and refused. Then Athos took from his pocket a small paper, on which were written two lines, accompanied by a signature and a seal, and presented them to him who had been too premature in showing these signs of repugnance. The tall man had scarcely read the two 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.
