I do not reject it altogether, but I wish to remind Aramis that he cannot quit the camp, and that nobody but one of ourselves is trustworthy; that two hours after the messenger has set out, all the Capuchins, all the police, all the black caps of the cardinal, will know your letter by heart, and you and your clever person will be arrested.


Without reckoning, that the queen would save Monsieur de Buckingham, but would take no heed of us.


Gentlemen, what Porthos says is full of sense.


Ah, ah! but what’s going on in the city yonder? They are beating the general alarm. You see, they are going to send a whole regiment against us,


You don’t think of holding out against a whole regiment, do you?


Why not? I feel myself quite in a humor for it; and I would hold out before an army if we had taken the precaution to bring a dozen more bottles of wine.


Upon my word, the drum draws near,


Let it come. It is a quarter of an hour’s journey from here to the city, consequently a quarter of an hour’s journey from the city to hither. That is more than time enough for us to devise a plan. If we go from this place we shall never find another so suitable. Ah, stop! I have it, gentlemen; the right idea has just occurred to me. Tell us. Allow me to give Grimaud some indispensable orders. Grimaud, take those gentlemen, set them up against the wall, put their hats upon their heads, and their guns in their hands.


Oh, the great man! I comprehend now.


You comprehend?


And do you comprehend, Grimaud?


That’s all that is necessary, now for my idea.


I should like, however, to comprehend,


That is useless.


Yes, yes! Athos’s idea!


This Milady, this woman, this creature, this demon, has a brother-in-law, as I think you told me, D’Artagnan?


Yes, I know him very well; and I also believe that he has not a very warm affection for his sister-in-law.


There is no harm in that. If he detested her, it would be all the better. In that case we are as well off as we wish.


And yet. I would like to know what Grimaud is about.


Silence, Porthos!


What is her brother-in-law’s name?


Lord de Winter.


Where is he now?


He returned to London at the first sound of war.


Well, there’s just the man we want. It is he whom we must warn. We will have him informed that his sister-in-law is on the point of having someone assassinated, and beg him not to lose sight of her. There is in London, I hope, some establishment like that of the Magdalens, or of the Repentant Daughters. He must place his sister in one of these, and we shall be in peace.


Yes, till she comes out.


Ah, my faith! you require too much, D’Artagnan. I have given you all I have, and I beg leave to tell you that this is the bottom of my sack.


But I think it would be still better, to inform the queen and Lord de Winter at the same time.


Yes; but who is to carry the letter to Tours, and who to London?


I answer for Bazin,


And I for Planchet,


Ay, if we cannot leave the camp, our lackeys may.


To be sure they may; and this very day we will write the letters. Give the lackeys money, and they will start.


We will give them money? Have you any money?


Look out! I see black points and red points moving yonder. Why did you talk of a regiment, Athos? It is a veritable army!


My faith, yes, there they are. See the sneaks come, without drum or trumpet. Ah, ah! have you finished, Grimaud? Bravo! that does honor to your imagination.


All very well, but I should like to understand.


Let us decamp first, and you will understand afterward.


A moment, gentlemen, a moment; give Grimaud time to clear away the breakfast. the black points and the red points are visibly enlarging. I am of D’Artagnan’s opinion; we have no time to lose in regaining our camp.


My faith. I have nothing to say against a retreat. We bet upon one hour, and we have stayed an hour and a half. Nothing can be said; let us be off, gentlemen, let us be off! What the devil shall we do now, gentlemen?


Have you forgotten anything?


The white flag, morbleu! We must not leave a flag in the hands of the enemy, even if that flag be but a napkin.


Come along, Athos, come along! now we have found everything except money, it would be stupid to be killed.


What’s that? what are they firing at now? I hear no balls whistle, and I see nobody!


They are firing at the corpses,


But the dead cannot return their fire.


Certainly not! They will then fancy it is an ambuscade, they will deliberate; and by the time they have found out the pleasantry, we shall be out of the range of their balls. That renders it useless to get a pleurisy by too much haste.


Oh, I comprehend now,


That’s lucky, how many have we killed of them—a dozen? Or fifteen. And in exchange for all that not even a scratch! Ah, but what is the matter with your hand, D’Artagnan? It bleeds, seemingly.


Oh, it’s nothing,


A spent ball?


Not even that.


What is it, then?


Only grazed a little, my fingers were caught between two stones—that of the wall and that of my ring—and the skin was broken.


That comes of wearing diamonds, my master,


Ah, to be sure, there is a diamond. Why the devil, then, do we plague ourselves about money, when there is a diamond?


Stop a bit!


Undoubtedly, as there is a diamond, let us sell it.


it is the queen’s diamond.


The stronger reason why it should be sold. The queen saving Monsieur de Buckingham, her lover; nothing more just. The queen saving us, her friends; nothing more moral. Let us sell the diamond. What says Monsieur the Abbé? I don’t ask Porthos; his opinion has been given.


Why, I think, that his ring not coming from a mistress, and consequently not being a love token, D’Artagnan may sell it.


My dear Aramis, you speak like theology personified. Your advice, then, is—


To sell the diamond,


Well, then, let us sell the diamond, and say no more about it.


My faith, it was time that idea came into Porthos’s head. Here we are at the camp; therefore, gentlemen, not a word more of this affair. We are observed; they are coming to meet us. We shall be carried in triumph.


Well, monseigneur, three Musketeers and a Guardsman laid a wager with Monsieur de Busigny that they would go and breakfast in the bastion St. Gervais; and while breakfasting they held it for two hours against the enemy, and have killed I don’t know how many Rochellais.


Did you inquire the names of those three Musketeers?


Yes, monseigneur.


What are their names?


Messieurs Athos, Porthos, and Aramis.


Still my three brave fellows! And the Guardsman?


D’Artagnan.


Still my young scapegrace. Positively, these four men must be on my side. That’s well, Monsieur de Tréville, pray let that napkin be sent to me. I will have three fleur-de-lis embroidered on it in gold, and will give it to your company as a standard.


Monseigneur, that will be unjust to the Guardsmen. Monsieur d’Artagnan is not with me; he serves under Monsieur Dessessart.


Well, then, take him,


you had a triumphant idea! As you said, we have acquired glory, and were enabled to carry on a conversation of the highest importance.


Which we can resume now without anybody suspecting us, for, with the help of God, we shall henceforth pass for cardinalists.


family affair. A family affair was not subject to the investigation of the cardinal; a family affair concerned nobody. People might employ themselves in a family affair before all the world. Therefore Athos had invented the phrase, family affair.


the lackeys.


the diamond.


What Aramis says is very sensible, we must speculate upon the faults of people, and not upon their virtues. Monsieur Abbé, you are a great moralist.


Doubtless, for we not only require to be well served in order to succeed, but moreover, not to fail; for in case of failure, heads are in question, not for our lackeys—


Speak lower, Aramis,


but for the master—for the masters, we may say. Are our lackeys sufficiently devoted to us to risk their lives for us? No.


My faith. I would almost answer for Planchet.


Why, good God! you will be deceived just the same. They will promise everything for the sake of the money, and on the road fear will prevent them from acting. Once taken, they will be pressed; when pressed, they will confess everything. What the devil! we are not children. To reach England— all France, covered with spies and creatures of the cardinal, must be crossed. A passport for embarkation must be obtained; and the party must be acquainted with English in order to ask the way to London. Really, I think the thing very difficult.


on the contrary, I think it very easy. It would be, no doubt, parbleu, if we write to Lord de Winter about affairs of vast importance, of the horrors of the cardinal—


Speak lower!


of intrigues and secrets of state, but for God’s sake, do not forget, as you yourself said, Athos, that we only write to him concerning a family affair; that we only write to him to entreat that as soon as Milady arrives in London he will put it out of her power to injure us. I will write to him, then, nearly in these terms.


Monsieur and dear friend— Dear friend to an Englishman, well commenced! Bravo, D’Artagnan! Only with that word you would be quartered instead of being broken on the wheel.


Monsieur, quite short.


You may even say, My Lord,


My Lord, do you remember the little goat pasture of the Luxembourg?


Good, the Luxembourg! One might believe this is an allusion to the queen-mother! That’s ingenious,


My Lord, do you remember a certain little enclosure where your life was spared?


My dear D’Artagnan, you will never make anything but a very bad secretary. Where your life was spared! For shame! that’s unworthy. A man of spirit is not to be reminded of such services. A benefit reproached is an offense committed.


The devil! you are insupportable. If the letter must be written under your censure, my faith, I renounce the task.


And you will do right. Handle the musket and the sword, my dear fellow. You will come off splendidly at those two exercises; but pass the pen over to Monsieur Abbé. That’s his province.


Ay, ay! pass the pen to Aramis, who writes theses in Latin.


Well, so be it. Draw up this note for us, Aramis; but by our Holy Father the Pope, cut it short, for I shall prune you in my turn, I warn you.


I ask no better, but let me be properly acquainted with the subject. I have heard here and there that this sister-in-law was a hussy. I have obtained proof of it by listening to her conversation with the cardinal.


Lower! sacré bleu!


But, the details escape me.


And me also.


Well, this is what you have to say: My Lord, your sister-in-law is an infamous woman, who wished to have you killed that she might inherit your wealth; but she could not marry your brother, being already married in France, and having been—


Repudiated by her husband,


Because she had been branded.


Bah! Impossible! What do you say—that she wanted to have her brother-in-law killed? She was married?


And her husband found out that she had a fleur-de-lis on her shoulder? Who has seen this fleur-de-lis?


D’Artagnan and I. Or rather, to observe the chronological order, I and D’Artagnan,


And does the husband of this frightful creature still live? He still lives.


Are you quite sure of it?


I am he.


This time. D’Artagnan has given us an excellent program, and the letter must be written at once.


The devil! You are right, Athos, and it is a rather difficult matter. The chancellor himself would be puzzled how to write such a letter, and yet the chancellor draws up an official report very readily. Never mind! Be silent, I will write. My Lord, The person who writes these few lines had the honor of crossing swords with you in the little enclosure of the Rue d’Enfer. As you have several times since declared yourself the friend of that person, he thinks it his duty to respond to that friendship by sending you important information. Twice you have nearly been the victim of a near relative, whom you believe to be your heir because you are ignorant that before she contracted a marriage in England she was already married in France. But the third time, which is the present, you may succumb. Your relative left La Rochelle for England during the night. Watch her arrival, for she has great and terrible projects. If you require to know positively what she is capable of, read her past history on her left shoulder.


Well, now that will do wonderfully well. My dear Aramis, you have the pen of a secretary of state. Lord de Winter will now be upon his guard if the letter should reach him; and even if it should fall into the hands of the cardinal, we shall not be compromised. But as the lackey who goes may make us believe he has been to London and may stop at Châtellerault, let us give him only half the sum promised him, with the letter, with an agreement that he shall have the other half in exchange for the reply. Have you the diamond?


I have what is still better. I have the price; Seven thousand livres, in louis of twelve francs.


Seven thousand livres! That poor little diamond was worth seven thousand livres?


It appears so, since here they are. I don’t suppose that our friend D’Artagnan has added any of his own to the amount.


But, gentlemen, in all this, we do not think of the queen. Let us take some heed of the welfare of her dear Buckingham. That is the least we owe her.


That’s true, but that concerns Aramis.


Well, what must I say?


Oh, that’s simple enough! Write a second letter for that clever personage who lives at Tours.


My dear cousin.


Ah, ah! This clever person is your relative, then?


Cousin-german.


Go on, to your cousin, then!


MY DEAR COUSIN, His Eminence, the cardinal, whom God preserve for the happiness of France and the confusion of the enemies of the kingdom, is on the point of putting an end to the hectic rebellion of La Rochelle. It is probable that the succor of the English fleet will never even arrive in sight of the place. I will even venture to say that I am certain M. de Buckingham will be prevented from setting out by some great event. His Eminence is the most illustrious politician of times past, of times present, and probably of times to come. He would extinguish the sun if the sun incommoded him. Give these happy tidings to your sister, my dear cousin. I have dreamed that the unlucky Englishman was dead. I cannot recollect whether it was by steel or by poison; only of this I am sure, I have dreamed he was dead, and you know my dreams never deceive me. Be assured, then, of seeing me soon return.


Capital! you are the king of poets, my dear Aramis. You speak like the Apocalypse, and you are as true as the Gospel. There is nothing now to do but to put the address to this letter.


That is easily done. To Mlle. Michon, seamstress, Tours. Now, you will please to understand, gentlemen, that Bazin alone can carry this letter to Tours. My cousin knows nobody but Bazin, and places confidence in nobody but him; any other person would fail. Besides, Bazin is ambitious and learned; Bazin has read history, gentlemen, he knows that Sixtus the Fifth became Pope after having kept pigs. Well, as he means to enter the Church at the same time as myself, he does not despair of becoming Pope in his turn, or at least a cardinal. You can understand that a man who has such views will never allow himself to be taken, or if taken, will undergo martyrdom rather than speak.


Very well. I consent to Bazin with all my heart, but grant me Planchet. Milady had him one day turned out of doors, with sundry blows of a good stick to accelerate his motions. Now, Planchet has an excellent memory; and I will be bound that sooner than relinquish any possible means of vengeance, he will allow himself to be beaten to death. If your arrangements at Tours are your arrangements, Aramis, those of London are mine. I request, then, that Planchet may be chosen, more particularly as he has already been to London with me, and knows how to speak correctly: London, sir, if you please, and my master, Lord D’Artagnan. With that you may be satisfied he can make his way, both going and returning.


In that case. Planchet must receive seven hundred livres for going, and seven hundred livres for coming back; and Bazin, three hundred livres for going, and three hundred livres for returning—that will reduce the sum to five thousand livres. We will each take a thousand livres to be employed as seems good, and we will leave a fund of a thousand livres under the guardianship of Monsieur Abbé here, for extraordinary occasions or common wants. Will that do?


My dear Athos, you speak like Nestor, who was, as everyone knows, the wisest among the Greeks.


Well, then, it is agreed. Planchet and Bazin shall go. Everything considered, I am not sorry to retain Grimaud; he is accustomed to my ways, and I am particular. Yesterday’s affair must have shaken him a little; his voyage would upset him quite.


I will carry the letter in the lining of my coat, and if I am taken I will swallow it.


Well, but then you will not be able to fulfill your commission,


You will give me a copy this evening, which I shall know by heart tomorrow.


Well, what did I tell you? Now, you have eight days to get an interview with Lord de Winter; you have eight days to return—in all sixteen days. If, on the sixteenth day after your departure, at eight o’clock in the evening you are not here, no money—even if it be but five minutes past eight.


Then, monsieur, you must buy me a watch.


Take this, and be a good lad. Remember, if you talk, if you babble, if you get drunk, you risk your master’s head, who has so much confidence in your fidelity, and who answers for you. But remember, also, that if by your fault any evil happens to D’Artagnan, I will find you, wherever you may be, for the purpose of ripping up your belly.


And I, remember, I will skin you alive.


And I, remember that I will roast you at a slow fire, like a savage.


See, Planchet, these gentlemen only say this out of affection for me, but at bottom they all like you.


Ah, monsieur. I will succeed or I will consent to be cut in quarters; and if they do cut me in quarters, be assured that not a morsel of me will speak.


Listen. When you have given the letter to Lord de Winter and he has read it, you will further say to him: Watch over his Grace Lord Buckingham, for they wish to assassinate him. But this, Planchet, is so serious and important that I have not informed my friends that I would entrust this secret to you; and for a captain’s commission I would not write it.


Be satisfied, monsieur, you shall see if confidence can be placed in me.


Monsieur Aramis, the answer from your cousin.


Good God! I quite despair of my poor Michon; she will never write like Monsieur de Voiture.


What does you mean by boor Michon?


Oh, pardieu, less than nothing, a charming little seamstress, whom I love dearly and from whose hand I requested a few lines as a sort of keepsake.


The duvil! if she is as great a lady as her writing is large, you are a lucky fellow, gomrade!


See what she writes to me, Athos. MY COUSIN, My sister and I are skillful in interpreting dreams, and even entertain great fear of them; but of yours it may be said, I hope, every dream is an illusion. Adieu! Take care of yourself, and act so that we may from time to time hear you spoken of. MARIE MICHON


And what dream does she mean?


Yez; what’s the dream?


Well, pardieu! it was only this: I had a dream, and I related it to her.


Yez, yez, it’s simple enough to dell a dream, but I neffer dream.


You are very fortunate. I wish I could say as much!


Neffer, neffer!


Really, you are not men but children, to let a woman terrify you so! And what does it amount to, after all? To be imprisoned. Well, but we should be taken out of prison; Madame Bonacieux was released. To be decapitated? Why, every day in the trenches we go cheerfully to expose ourselves to worse than that—for a bullet may break a leg, and I am convinced a surgeon would give us more pain in cutting off a thigh than an executioner in cutting off a head. Wait quietly, then; in two hours, in four, in six hours at latest, Planchet will be here. He promised to be here, and I have very great faith in Planchet, who appears to me to be a very good lad.


But if he does not come?


Well, if he does not come, it will be because he has been delayed, that’s all. He may have fallen from his horse, he may have cut a caper from the deck; he may have traveled so fast against the wind as to have brought on a violent catarrh. Eh, gentlemen, let us reckon upon accidents! Life is a chaplet of little miseries which the philosopher counts with a smile. Be philosophers, as I am, gentlemen; sit down at the table and let us drink. Nothing makes the future look so bright as surveying it through a glass of chambertin.


That’s all very well, but I am tired of fearing when I open a fresh bottle that the wine may come from the cellar of Milady.


You are very fastidious, such a beautiful woman!


A woman of mark!


We are lost,


You mean to say we have lost, they are beating the tattoo. Let us to bed!


Planchet!


Well, yes, Planchet, to be sure, what is there so astonishing in that? He promised to be back by eight o’clock, and eight is striking. Bravo, Planchet, you are a lad of your word, and if ever you leave your master, I will promise you a place in my service.


Oh, no, never. I will never leave Monsieur d’Artagnan.


I have the note,


That’s well, let us go home and read it.


Now, my lad, you may claim your seven hundred livres, but you did not run much risk with such a note as that.


I am not to blame for having tried every means to compress it,


Well! tell us all about it.


Dame, that’s a long job, monsieur.


You are right, Planchet, besides, the tattoo has been sounded, and we should be observed if we kept a light burning much longer than the others.


So be it. Go to bed, Planchet, and sleep soundly.


My faith, monsieur! that will be the first time I have done so for sixteen days.


And me, too!


Well, if you will have the truth, and me, too!


Who are you, sir, who has the kindness to trouble yourself so particularly on my account?


You may perceive, madame, by my uniform, that I am an officer in the English navy,


But is it the custom for the officers in the English navy to place themselves at the service of their female compatriots when they land in a port of Great Britain, and carry their gallantry so far as to conduct them ashore?


Yes, madame, it is the custom, not from gallantry but prudence, that in time of war foreigners should be conducted to particular hôtels, in order that they may remain under the eye of the government until full information can be obtained about them.


But I am not a foreigner, sir, my name is Lady Clarik, and this measure—


This measure is general, madame; and you will seek in vain to evade it.


I will follow you, then, sir.


Row!


Is this carriage for us?


Yes, madame,


The hôtel, then, is far away?


At the other end of the town.


Very well,


But we are no longer in the city, sir. I beg you to understand, sir, I will go no farther unless you tell me whither you are taking me. Oh, this is too much. Help! help!


Take care, madame, you will kill yourself in jumping.


In the name of heaven, sir, tell me if it is to you, if it is to your government, if it is to an enemy I am to attribute the violence that is done me?


No violence will be offered to you, madame, and what happens to you is the result of a very simple measure which we are obliged to adopt with all who land in England.


Then you don’t know me, sir?


It is the first time I have had the honor of seeing you.


And on your honor, you have no cause of hatred against me?


None, I swear to you.


Still, then, I am a prisoner, but I feel assured it will not be for long. My own conscience and your politeness, sir, are the guarantees of that.


In the name of heaven, sir, what means all that is passing? Put an end to my doubts; I have courage enough for any danger I can foresee, for every misfortune which I understand. Where am I, and why am I here? If I am free, why these bars and these doors? If I am a prisoner, what crime have I committed?


You are here in the apartment destined for you, madame. I received orders to go and take charge of you on the sea, and to conduct you to this castle. This order I believe I have accomplished with all the exactness of a soldier, but also with the courtesy of a gentleman. There terminates, at least to the present moment, the duty I had to fulfill toward you; the rest concerns another person.


And who is that other person? Can you not tell me his name?


That person is here, madame,


What, my brother, is it you?


Yes, fair lady! it is I, myself.


But this castle, then?


Is mine.


This chamber?


Is yours.


I am, then, your prisoner?


Nearly so.


But this is a frightful abuse of power!


No high-sounding words! Let us sit down and chat quietly, as brother and sister ought to do. All is well, I thank you; now leave us alone, Mr. Felton.


Yes, let us chat, brother,


You have, then, decided to come to England again, in spite of the resolutions you so often expressed in Paris never to set your feet on British ground?


To begin with, tell me, how have you watched me so closely as to be aware beforehand not only of my arrival, but even of the day, the hour, and the port at which I should arrive?


But tell me, my dear sister, what makes you come to England?


I come to see you,


Ah, to see me?


To be sure, to see you. What is there astonishing in that?


And you had no other object in coming to England but to see me?


No.


So it was for me alone you have taken the trouble to cross the Channel?


For you alone.


The deuce! What tenderness, my sister!


But am I not your nearest relative?


And my only heir, are you not?


I do not understand, my Lord. What do you mean to say? Is there any secret meaning concealed beneath your words?


Oh, my God, no! You wish to see me, and you come to England. I learn this desire, or rather I suspect that you feel it; and in order to spare you all the annoyances of a nocturnal arrival in a port and all the fatigues of landing, I send one of my officers to meet you, I place a carriage at his orders, and he brings you hither to this castle, of which I am governor, whither I come every day, and where, in order to satisfy our mutual desire of seeing each other, I have prepared you a chamber. What is there more astonishing in all that I have said to you than in what you have told me?


No; what I think astonishing is that you should expect my coming.


And yet that is the most simple thing in the world, my dear sister. Have you not observed that the captain of your little vessel, on entering the roadstead, sent forward, in order to obtain permission to enter the port, a little boat bearing his logbook and the register of his voyagers? I am commandant of the port. They brought me that book. I recognized your name in it. My heart told me what your mouth has just confirmed—that is to say, with what view you have exposed yourself to the dangers of a sea so perilous, or at least so troublesome at this moment—and I sent my cutter to meet you. You know the rest.


My brother, was not that my Lord Buckingham whom I saw on the jetty this evening as we arrived?


Himself. Ah, I can understand how the sight of him struck you. You came from a country where he must be very much talked of, and I know that his armaments against France greatly engage the attention of your friend the cardinal.


My friend the cardinal!


Is he not your friend? Ah, pardon! I thought so; but we will return to my Lord Duke presently. Let us not depart from the sentimental turn our conversation had taken. You came, you say, to see me?


Yes.


Well, I reply that you shall be served to the height of your wishes, and that we shall see each other every day.


Am I, then, to remain here eternally?


Do you find yourself badly lodged, sister? Demand anything you want, and I will hasten to have you furnished with it.


But I have neither my women nor my servants.


You shall have all, madame. Tell me on what footing your household was established by your first husband, and although I am only your brother-in-law, I will arrange one similar.


My first husband!


Yes, your French husband. I don’t speak of my brother. If you have forgotten, as he is still living, I can write to him and he will send me information on the subject.


You jest!


Do I look so?


Or rather you insult me,


I insult you! In truth, madame, do you think that can be possible?


Indeed, sir, you must be either drunk or mad. Leave the room, and send me a woman.


Women are very indiscreet, my sister. Cannot I serve you as a waiting maid? By that means all our secrets will remain in the family.


Insolent!


Come! I know you are accustomed to assassinate people; but I warn you I shall defend myself, even against you.


You are right. You have all the appearance of being cowardly enough to lift your hand against a woman.


Perhaps so; and I have an excuse, for mine would not be the first hand of a man that has been placed upon you, I imagine. Oh, growl as much as you please, but don’t try to bite, for I warn you that it would be to your disadvantage. There are here no procurators who regulate successions beforehand. There is no knight-errant to come and seek a quarrel with me on account of the fair lady I detain a prisoner; but I have judges quite ready who will quickly dispose of a woman so shameless as to glide, a bigamist, into the bed of Lord de Winter, my brother. And these judges, I warn you, will soon send you to an executioner who will make both your shoulders alike. Yes, I can very well understand that after having inherited the fortune of my brother it would be very agreeable to you to be my heir likewise; but know beforehand, if you kill me or cause me to be killed, my precautions are taken. Not a penny of what I possess will pass into your hands. Were you not already rich enough—you who possess nearly a million? And could you not stop your fatal career, if you did not do evil for the infinite and supreme joy of doing it? Oh, be assured, if the memory of my brother were not sacred to me, you should rot in a state dungeon or satisfy the curiosity of sailors at Tyburn. I will be silent, but you must endure your captivity quietly. In fifteen or twenty days I shall set out for La Rochelle with the army; but on the eve of my departure a vessel which I shall see depart will take you hence and convey you to our colonies in the south. And be assured that you shall be accompanied by one who will blow your brains out at the first attempt you make to return to England or the Continent. Yes, at present, you will remain in this castle. The walls are thick, the doors strong, and the bars solid; besides, your window opens immediately over the sea. The men of my crew, who are devoted to me for life and death, mount guard around this apartment, and watch all the passages that lead to the courtyard. Even if you gained the yard, there would still be three iron gates for you to pass. The order is positive. A step, a gesture, a word, on your part, denoting an effort to escape, and you are to be fired upon. If they kill you, English justice will be under an obligation to me for having saved it trouble. Ah! I see your features regain their calmness, your countenance recovers its assurance. You are saying to yourself: 'Fifteen days, twenty days? Bah! I have an inventive mind; before that is expired some idea will occur to me. I have an infernal spirit. I shall meet with a victim. Before fifteen days are gone by I shall be away from here.' Ah, try it! The officer who commands here in my absence you have already seen, and therefore know him. He knows how, as you must have observed, to obey an order—for you did not, I am sure, come from Portsmouth hither without endeavoring to make him speak. What do you say of him? Could a statue of marble have been more impassive and more mute? You have already tried the power of your seductions upon many men, and unfortunately you have always succeeded; but I give you leave to try them upon this one. Pardieu! if you succeed with him, I pronounce you the demon himself. Call Mr. Felton. Wait a minute longer, and I will introduce him to you. Come in, my dear John, come in, and shut the door. Now, look at this woman. She is young; she is beautiful; she possesses all earthly seductions. Well, she is a monster, who, at twenty-five years of age, has been guilty of as many crimes as you could read of in a year in the archives of our tribunals. Her voice prejudices her hearers in her favor; her beauty serves as a bait to her victims; her body even pays what she promises—I must do her that justice. She will try to seduce you, perhaps she will try to kill you. I have extricated you from misery, Felton; I have caused you to be named lieutenant; I once saved your life, you know on what occasion. I am for you not only a protector, but a friend; not only a benefactor, but a father. This woman has come back again into England for the purpose of conspiring against my life. I hold this serpent in my hands. Well, I call you, and say to you: Friend Felton, John, my child, guard me, and more particularly guard yourself, against this woman. Swear, by your hopes of salvation, to keep her safely for the chastisement she has merited. John Felton, I trust your word! John Felton, I put faith in your loyalty!


My Lord, my Lord, I swear all shall be done as you desire.


She is not to leave this chamber, understand, John. She is to correspond with nobody; she is to speak to no one but you—if you will do her the honor to address a word to her.


That is sufficient, my Lord! I have sworn.


And now, madame, try to make your peace with God, for you are judged by men!


Divide in order to reign.


Officer!


You are speaking, you scoundrel!


It appears that Messieurs the Musketeers keep guard. Are the English expected by land, or do the Musketeers consider themselves superior officers?


Monseigneur. Monseigneur, the Musketeers, when they are not on duty, or when their duty is over, drink and play at dice, and they are certainly superior officers to their lackeys.


Lackeys? Lackeys who have the order to warn their masters when anyone passes are not lackeys, they are sentinels.


Your Eminence may perceive that if we had not taken this precaution, we should have been exposed to allowing you to pass without presenting you our respects or offering you our thanks for the favor you have done us in uniting us. D’Artagnan, you, who but lately were so anxious for such an opportunity for expressing your gratitude to Monseigneur, here it is; avail yourself of it.


It does not signify, gentlemen, it does not signify, gentlemen. I do not like to have simple soldiers, because they have the advantage of serving in a privileged corps, thus to play the great lords; discipline is the same for them as for everybody else.


Discipline, Monseigneur, has, I hope, in no way been forgotten by us. We are not on duty, and we believed that not being on duty we were at liberty to dispose of our time as we pleased. If we are so fortunate as to have some particular duty to perform for your Eminence, we are ready to obey you. Your Eminence may perceive, that we have not come out without our arms.


Your Eminence may believe, that we would have come to meet you, if we could have supposed it was Monseigneur coming toward us with so few attendants.


Do you know what you look like, all together, as you are armed and guarded by your lackeys? You look like four conspirators.


Oh, as to that, Monseigneur, it is true, we do conspire, as your Eminence might have seen the other morning. Only we conspire against the Rochellais.


Ah, you gentlemen of policy! the secret of many unknown things might perhaps be found in your brains, if we could read them as you read that letter which you concealed as soon as you saw me coming.


One might think you really suspected us, monseigneur, and we were undergoing a real interrogatory. If it be so, we trust your Eminence will deign to explain yourself, and we should then at least be acquainted with our real position.


And if it were an interrogatory! Others besides you have undergone such, Monsieur Athos, and have replied thereto.


Thus I have told your Eminence that you had but to question us, and we are ready to reply.


What was that letter you were about to read, Monsieur Aramis, and which you so promptly concealed?


A woman’s letter, monseigneur.


Ah, yes, I see, we must be discreet with this sort of letters; but nevertheless, we may show them to a confessor, and you know I have taken orders.


Monseigneur, the letter is a woman’s letter, but it is neither signed Marion de Lorme, nor Madame d’Aiguillon.


Well, well! you are brave young men, proud in daylight, faithful in darkness. We can find no fault 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 would request you to accompany me; but as there is none, remain where you are, finish your bottles, your game, and your letter. Adieu, gentlemen!


That Grimaud kept bad watch!


Would you have given up the letter, Aramis?


I. I had made up my mind. If he had insisted upon 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, and that was why I threw myself between you and him. Indeed, this man is very much to blame for talking thus to other men; one would say he had never had to do with any but women and children.


My dear Athos, I admire you, but nevertheless we were in the wrong, after all.


How, in the wrong? Whose, then, is the air we breathe? Whose is the ocean upon which we look? Whose is the sand upon which we were reclining? Whose is that letter of your mistress? Do these belong to the cardinal? Upon my honor, this man fancies the world belongs to him. There you stood, stammering, stupefied, annihilated. One might have supposed the Bastille appeared before you, and that the gigantic Medusa had converted you into stone. Is being 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 hands of the cardinal. That’s a match you are playing with his Eminence; this letter is your game. Why should you expose your game to your adversary? That is never done. Let him find it out if he can! We can find out his!


Well, that’s all very sensible, Athos,


In that case, let there be no more question of what’s past, and let Aramis resume the letter from his cousin where the cardinal interrupted him.


You had only read a line or two, read the letter again from the commencement.


Willingly,


MY DEAR COUSIN, I think I shall make up my mind to set out for Béthune, where my sister has placed our little servant in the convent of the Carmelites; this poor child is quite resigned, as she knows she cannot live elsewhere without the salvation of her soul being in danger. Nevertheless, if the affairs of our family are arranged, as we hope they will be, I believe she will run the risk of being damned, and will return to those she regrets, particularly as she knows they are always thinking of her. Meanwhile, she is not very wretched; what she most desires is a letter from her intended. I know that such viands pass with difficulty through convent gratings; but after all, as I have given you proofs, my dear cousin, I am not unskilled in such affairs, and I will take charge of the commission. My sister thanks you for your good and eternal remembrance. She has experienced much anxiety; but she is now at length a little reassured, having sent her secretary away in order that nothing may happen unexpectedly. Adieu, my dear cousin. Tell us news of yourself as often as you can; that is to say, as often as you can with safety. I embrace you.


Oh, what do I not owe you, Aramis? Dear Constance! I have at length, then, intelligence of you. She lives; she is in safety in a convent; she is at Béthune! Where is Béthune, Athos?


Why, upon the frontiers of Artois and of Flanders. The siege once over, we shall be able to make a tour in that direction.


And that will not be long, it is to be hoped, for they have this morning hanged a spy who confessed that the Rochellais were reduced to the leather of their shoes. Supposing that after having eaten the leather they eat the soles, I cannot see much that is left unless they eat one another.


Poor fools! poor fools! As if the Catholic religion was not the most advantageous and the most agreeable of all religions! All the same, they are brave fellows! But what the devil are you about, Aramis? Why, you are squeezing that letter into your pocket!


Yes. Athos is right, it must be burned. And yet if we burn it, who knows whether Monsieur Cardinal has not a secret to interrogate ashes?


He must have one,


What will you do with the letter, then?


Come here, Grimaud. As a punishment for having spoken without permission, my friend, you will please to eat this piece of paper; then to recompense you for the service you will have rendered us, you shall afterward drink this glass of wine. First, here is the letter. Eat heartily. Bravo, Monsieur Grimaud! and now take this. That’s well. We dispense with your saying grace. And now, unless Monsieur Cardinal should form the ingenious idea of ripping up Grimaud, I think we may be pretty much at our ease respecting the letter.


These four men must positively be mine.


Go to, go to! I must have been mad to allow myself to be carried away so. No violence; violence is the proof of weakness. In the first place, I have never succeeded by that means. Perhaps if I employed my strength against women I might perchance find them weaker than myself, and consequently conquer them; but it is with men that I struggle, and I am but a woman to them. Let me fight like a woman, then; my strength is in my weakness. Come, nothing is lost; I am still beautiful.


Place that table there. You will bring lights, and relieve the sentinel. Ah, ah! she is asleep; that’s well. When she wakes she can sup.


But, my lieutenant, this woman is not asleep.


What, not asleep! what is she doing, then?


She has fainted. Her face is very pale, and I have listened in vain; I do not hear her breathe.


You are right. Go and tell Lord de Winter that his prisoner has fainted—for this event not having been foreseen, I don’t know what to do.


Ah, you are awake, madame, then I have nothing more to do here. If you want anything you can ring.


Oh, my God, my God! how I have suffered!


You will be served, thus, madame, three times a day. In the morning at nine o’clock, in the day at one o’clock, and in the evening at eight. If that does not suit you, you can point out what other hours you prefer, and in this respect your wishes will be complied with.


But am I to remain always alone in this vast and dismal chamber?


A woman of the neighbourhood has been sent for, who will be tomorrow at the castle, and will return as often as you desire her presence.


I thank you, sir,


Well, what is it—what is going on here? Is this corpse come to life already? Felton, my lad, did you not perceive that you were taken for a novice, and that the first act was being performed of a comedy of which we shall doubtless have the pleasure of following out all the developments?


I thought so, my lord, but as the prisoner is a woman, after all, I wish to pay her the attention that every man of gentle birth owes to a woman, if not on her account, at least on my own.


So, that beautiful hair so skillfully disheveled, that white skin, and that languishing look, have not yet seduced you, you heart of stone?


No, my Lord, your Lordship may be assured that it requires more than the tricks and coquetry of a woman to corrupt me.


In that case, my brave lieutenant, let us leave Milady to find out something else, and go to supper; but be easy! She has a fruitful imagination, and the second act of the comedy will not delay its steps after the first.


Oh, I will be a match for you! be assured of that, you poor spoiled monk, you poor converted soldier, who has cut his uniform out of a monk’s frock!


By the way, you must not, Milady, let this check take away your appetite. Taste that fowl and those fish. On my honor, they are not poisoned. I have a very good cook, and he is not to be my heir; I have full and perfect confidence in him. Do as I do. Adieu, dear sister, till your next swoon!


Ha, ha! ha, ha! Don’t you see, my brave Felton; don’t you see what I told you? That knife was for you, my lad; she would have killed you. Observe, this is one of her peculiarities, to get rid thus, after one fashion or another, of all the people who bother her. If I had listened to you, the knife would have been pointed and of steel. Then no more of Felton; she would have cut your throat, and after that everybody else’s. See, John, see how well she knows how to handle a knife.


You were right, my Lord, you were right, my Lord, and I was wrong.


I am lost. I am lost! I am in the power of men upon whom I can have no more influence than upon statues of bronze or granite; they know me by heart, and are steeled against all my weapons. It is, however, impossible that this should end as they have decreed!


Weak or strong, that man has, then, 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. It is useless, then, to attempt anything with him. But Felton—that’s another thing. He is a young, ingenuous, pure man who seems virtuous; him there are means of destroying.


I am in a fever. I have not slept a single instant during all this long night. I suffer horribly. Are you likely to be more humane to me than others were yesterday? All I ask is permission to remain abed.


Would you like to have a physician called?


Go and fetch a physician? What could be the good of that? These gentlemen declared yesterday that my illness was a comedy; it would be just the same today, no doubt—for since yesterday evening they have had plenty of time to send for a doctor.


Then, say yourself, madame, what treatment you wish followed.


Eh, how can I tell? My God! I know that I suffer, that’s all. Give me anything you like, it is of little consequence.


Go and fetch Lord de Winter,


Oh, no, no! no, sir, do not call him, I conjure you. I am well, I want nothing; do not call him.


Meanwhile, madame, if you really suffer, a physician shall be sent for; and if you deceive us—well, it will be the worse for you. But at least we shall not have to reproach ourselves with anything.


I fancy I begin to see my way. Now it is time that the malady should be over, let me rise, and obtain some success this very day. I have but ten days, and this evening two of them will be gone.


Lord de Winter, who is a Catholic, like yourself, madame, thinking that the deprivation of the rites and ceremonies of your church might be painful to you, has consented that you should read every day the ordinary of your Mass; and here is a book which contains the ritual.


I? I, sir? My Mass? Lord de Winter, the corrupted Catholic, knows very well that I am not of his religion, and this is a snare he wishes to lay for me!


And of what religion are you, then, madame?


I will tell it, on the day when I shall have suffered sufficiently for my faith. I am in the hands of my enemies. Well, let my God save me, or let me perish for my God! That is the reply I beg you to make to Lord de Winter. And as to this book, you may carry it back and make use of it yourself, for doubtless you are doubly the accomplice of Lord de Winter—the accomplice in his persecutions, the accomplice in his heresies.


It appears, 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, for though I hear your words, I declare I do not understand them.


Then you have no religion at all; I like that best,


Certainly that is most in accord with your own principles,


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, 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!


My word. 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.


Yes, go, go! the effects are drawing near, on the contrary; but you, weak fool, will not see them until it is too late to shun them.


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


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! 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.


For all my tears, my cares, My exile, and my chains, I have my youth, my prayers, And God, who counts my pains. One day our doors will ope, With God come our desire; And if betrays that hope, To death we can aspire.


Why do you sing thus, and with such a voice?


Your pardon, sir. 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.


Yes, yes, you disturb, you agitate the people who live in the castle.


I will be silent, then,


No, no, madame, only do not sing so loud, particularly at night.


You have done right, Lieutenant. Such songs disturb the mind; and yet we become accustomed to them, her voice is so beautiful.


Ah, ah! after having played comedy, after having played tragedy, we are now playing melancholy? Yes, yes. 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.


Lord, Lord, pardon this man, as I myself pardon him.


Yes, pray, accursed woman! 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!


My God, my God! thou knowest in what holy cause I suffer; give me, then, strength to suffer. God of vengeance! God of goodness! wilt thou allow the frightful projects of this man to be accomplished?


I do not like to disturb those who pray, madame, do not disturb yourself on my account, I beseech you.


How do you know I was praying, sir? You were deceived, sir; I was not praying.


Do you think, then, madame, 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? 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, the greater would be the necessity for prayer; and I myself would aid you with my prayers.


Oh, you are a just man! 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, 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,


Or, rather, who pretend not to understand me, sir!


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, 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. Lord de Winter is not capable of such a crime.


Good, without thinking what it is, he calls it a crime! The friend of that wretch is capable of everything.


Whom do you call that wretch?


Are there, then, in England two men to whom such an epithet can be applied?


You mean George Villiers?


Whom Pagans and unbelieving Gentiles call Duke of Buckingham. 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, he will not escape the chastisement he deserves.


Oh, my God, my God! 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?


At length he interrogates me! Oh, know him? Yes, yes! to my misfortune, to my eternal misfortune! Sir, 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? to kill yourself?


I have told, sir. I have told my secret! He knows all! My God, I am lost! He still doubts. I have not been earnest enough. Oh, not a word, not a word of all that I have said to you to this man, or I am lost, and it would be you—you—


Ah! at length you are mine! If he tells the baron. 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. Oh, yes, but we won’t tell him! Sir, 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! 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. Here. 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. Order to conduct— The name is blank. 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, 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. Yes, yes, 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. 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. 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.


It is he. And I 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.


What is this, madame?


That? Nothing. Ennui is the mortal enemy of prisoners; I had ennui, and I amused myself with twisting that rope.


What were you doing on that armchair?


Of what consequence?


But. I wish to know.


Do not question me, you know that we who are true Christians are forbidden to lie.


Well, then. I will tell you what you were doing, or rather what you meant to do; you were going to complete the fatal project you cherish in your mind. Remember, madame, if our God forbids falsehood, he much more severely condemns suicide.


When God sees one of his creatures persecuted unjustly, placed between suicide and dishonor, believe me, sir. God pardons suicide, for then suicide becomes martyrdom.


You say either too much or too little; speak, madame. In the name of heaven, explain yourself.


That I may relate my misfortunes for you to treat them as fables; that I may tell you my projects for you to go and betray them to my persecutor? No, sir. Besides, of what importance to you is the life or death of a condemned wretch? You are only responsible for my body, is it not so? And provided you produce a carcass that may be recognized as mine, they will require no more of you; nay, perhaps you will even have a double reward.


I, madame, I? You suppose that I would ever accept the price of your life? Oh, you cannot believe what you say!


Let me act as I please, Felton, let me act as I please. Every soldier must be ambitious, must he not? You are a lieutenant? Well, you will follow me to the grave with the rank of captain.


What have I, then, done to you, that you should load me with such a responsibility before God and before men? In a few days you will be away from this place; your life, madame, will then no longer be under my care, and, then you can do what you will with it.


So, you, a pious man, you who are called a just man, you ask but one thing—and that is that you may not be inculpated, annoyed, by my death!


It is my duty to watch over your life, madame, and I will watch.


But do you understand the mission you are fulfilling? Cruel enough, if I am guilty; but what name can you give it, what name will the Lord give it, if I am innocent?


I am a soldier, madame, and fulfill the orders I have received.


Do you believe, then, that at the day of the Last Judgment God will separate blind executioners from iniquitous judges? You are not willing that I should kill my body, and you make yourself the agent of him who would kill my soul.


But I repeat it again to you, no danger threatens you; I will answer for Lord de Winter as for myself.


Dunce, dunce! who dares to answer for another man, when the wisest, when those most after God’s own heart, hesitate to answer for themselves, and who ranges himself on the side of the strongest and the most fortunate, to crush the weakest and the most unfortunate.


Impossible, madame, impossible. A prisoner, you will not recover your liberty through me; living, you will not lose your life through me.


Yes, but I shall lose that which is much dearer to me than life, I shall lose my honor, Felton; and it is you, you whom I make responsible, before God and before men, for my shame and my infamy.


Let this victim to Baal be sent, To the lions the martyr be thrown! Thy God shall teach thee to repent! From th’ abyss he’ll give ear to my moan.


Who art thou? Who art thou? Art thou a messenger from God; art thou a minister from hell; art thou an angel or a demon; callest thou thyself Eloa or Astarte?


Do you not know me, Felton? I am neither an angel nor a demon; I am a daughter of earth, I am a sister of thy faith, that is all.


Yes, yes! I doubted, but now I believe.


You believe, and still you are an accomplice of that child of Belial who is called Lord de Winter! You believe, and yet you leave me in the hands of mine enemies, of the enemy of England, of the enemy of God! You believe, and yet you deliver me up to him who fills and defiles the world with his heresies and debaucheries—to that infamous Sardanapalus whom the blind call the Duke of Buckingham, and whom believers name Antichrist! I deliver you up to Buckingham? I? what mean you by that? They have eyes, but they see not; ears have they, but they hear not.


Yes, yes! Yes, I recognize the voice which speaks to me in my dreams; yes, I recognize the features of the angel who appears to me every night, crying to my soul, which cannot sleep: ‘Strike, save England, save thyself—for thou wilt die without having appeased God!’ Speak, speak! I can understand you now.


But no, it is not for me to be the Judith to deliver Bethulia from this Holofernes. The sword of the eternal is too heavy for my arm. Allow me, then, to avoid dishonor by death; let me take refuge in martyrdom. I do not ask you for liberty, as a guilty one would, nor for vengeance, as would a pagan. Let me die; that is all. I supplicate you, I implore you on my knees—let me die, and my last sigh shall be a blessing for my preserver.


Alas! I can do but one thing, which is to pity you if you prove to me you are a victim! But Lord de Winter makes cruel accusations against you. You are a Christian; you are my sister in religion. I feel myself drawn toward you—I, who have never loved anyone but my benefactor—I who have met with nothing but traitors and impious men. But you, madame, so beautiful in reality, you, so pure in appearance, must have committed great iniquities for Lord de Winter to pursue you thus.


They have eyes, but they see not; ears have they, but they hear not.


But, speak, then, speak!


Confide my shame to you, for often the crime of one becomes the shame of another—confide my shame to you, a man, and I a woman? Oh, never! never!—I could not!


To me, to a brother?


Well, then. I confide in my brother; I will dare to—


You have been here a very long time, John. Has this woman been relating her crimes to you? In that case I can comprehend the length of the conversation.


Ah, you fear your prisoner should escape! Well, ask your worthy jailer what favor I this instant solicited of him.


You demanded a favor?


Yes, my Lord,


And what favor, pray?


A knife, which she would return to me through the grating of the door a minute after she had received it,


There is someone, then, concealed here whose throat this amiable lady is desirous of cutting,


There is myself,


I have given you the choice between America and Tyburn. Choose Tyburn, madame. Believe me, the cord is more certain than the knife.


You are right. I have often thought of it. And I will think of it again.


Mistrust yourself, John. I have placed reliance upon you, my friend. Beware! I have warned you! But be of good courage, my lad; in three days we shall be delivered from this creature, and where I shall send her she can harm nobody.


You hear him! Well. I am not so far advanced as I believed. De Winter has changed his usual stupidity into a strange prudence. It is the desire of vengeance, and how desire molds a man! As to Felton, he hesitates. Ah, he is not a man like that cursed D’Artagnan. A Puritan only adores virgins, and he adores them by clasping his hands. A Musketeer loves women, and he loves them by clasping his arms round them. What do you want with me?


Listen. I have just sent away the sentinel that I might remain here without anybody knowing it, in order to speak to you without being overheard. The baron has just related a frightful story to me. Either you are a demon, or the baron—my benefactor, my father—is a monster. I have known you four days; I have loved him four years. I therefore may hesitate between you. Be not alarmed at what I say; I want to be convinced. Tonight, after twelve, I will come and see you, and you shall convince me.


No, Felton, no, my brother, the sacrifice is too great, and I feel what it must cost you. No, I am lost; do not be lost with me. My death will be much more eloquent than my life, and the silence of the corpse will convince you much better than the words of the prisoner.


Be silent, madame, and do not speak to me thus; I came to entreat you to promise me upon your honor, to swear to me by what you hold most sacred, that you will make no attempt upon your life.


I will not promise, for no one has more respect for a promise or an oath than I have; and if I make a promise I must keep it.


Well, only promise till you have seen me again. If, when you have seen me again, you still persist—well, then you shall be free, and I myself will give you the weapon you desire.


Well, for you I will wait.


Swear.


I swear it, by our God. Are you satisfied?


Well, till tonight.


My God, what a senseless fanatic! My God, it is I—I—and this fellow who will help me to avenge myself.


you will not escape tonight!


Listen. On no pretense leave the door, for you know that last night my Lord punished a soldier for having quit his post for an instant, although I, during his absence, watched in his place. I recommend you therefore to keep the strictest watch. For my part I am going to pay a second visit to this woman, who I fear entertains sinister intentions upon her own life, and I have received orders to watch her. If I call, come. If anyone comes, call me. I promised to come, and I have come.


You promised me something else.


What, my God! You promised to bring a knife, and to leave it with me after our interview. Say no more of that, madame. There is no situation, however terrible it may be, which can authorize a creature of God to inflict death upon himself. I have reflected, and I cannot, must not be guilty of such a sin.


Ah, you have reflected! and I also have reflected.


Upon what?


That I can have nothing to say to a man who does not keep his word.


Oh, my God!


You may retire. I will not talk.


Here is the knife. Let me see it,


Upon my honor, I will instantly return it to you. You shall place it on that table, and you may remain between it and me. Well, this is fine and good steel. You are a faithful friend, Felton. Now, listen to me. Felton, imagine that your sister, the daughter of your father, speaks to you. While yet young, unfortunately handsome, I was dragged into a snare. I resisted. Ambushes and violences multiplied around me, but I resisted. The religion I serve, the God I adore, were blasphemed because I called upon that religion and that God, but still I resisted. Then outrages were heaped upon me, and as my soul was not subdued they wished to defile my body forever. Finally—


Finally, finally, what did they do?


At length, one evening my enemy resolved to paralyze the resistance he could not conquer. One evening he mixed a powerful narcotic with my water. Scarcely had I finished my repast, when I felt myself sink by degrees into a strange torpor. Although I was without mistrust, a vague fear seized me, and I tried to struggle against sleepiness. I arose. I wished to run to the window and call for help, but my legs refused their office. It appeared as if the ceiling sank upon my head and crushed me with its weight. I stretched out my arms. I tried to speak. I could only utter inarticulate sounds, and irresistible faintness came over me. I supported myself by a chair, feeling that I was about to fall, but this support was soon insufficient on account of my weak arms. I fell upon one knee, then upon both. I tried to pray, but my tongue was frozen. God doubtless neither heard nor saw me, and I sank upon the floor a prey to a slumber which resembled death. Of all that passed in that sleep, or the time which glided away while it lasted, I have no remembrance. The only thing I recollect is that I awoke in bed in a round chamber, the furniture of which was sumptuous, and into which light only penetrated by an opening in the ceiling. No door gave entrance to the room. It might be called a magnificent prison. It was a long time before I was able to make out what place I was in, or to take account of the details I describe. My mind appeared to strive in vain to shake off the heavy darkness of the sleep from which I could not rouse myself. I had vague perceptions of space traversed, of the rolling of a carriage, of a horrible dream in which my strength had become exhausted; but all this was so dark and so indistinct in my mind that these events seemed to belong to another life than mine, and yet mixed with mine in fantastic duality. At times the state into which I had fallen appeared so strange that I believed myself dreaming. I arose trembling. My clothes were near me on a chair; I neither remembered having undressed myself nor going to bed. Then by degrees the reality broke upon me, full of chaste terrors. I was no longer in the house where I had dwelt. As well as I could judge by the light of the sun, the day was already two-thirds gone. It was the evening before when I had fallen asleep; my sleep, then, must have lasted twenty-four hours! What had taken place during this long sleep? I dressed myself as quickly as possible; my slow and stiff motions all attested that the effects of the narcotic were not yet entirely dissipated. The chamber was evidently furnished for the reception of a woman; and the most finished coquette could not have formed a wish, but on casting her eyes about the apartment, she would have found that wish accomplished. Certainly I was not the first captive that had been shut up in this splendid prison; but you may easily comprehend, Felton, that the more superb the prison, the greater was my terror. Yes, it was a prison, for I tried in vain to get out of it. I sounded all the walls, in the hopes of discovering a door, but everywhere the walls returned a full and flat sound. I made the tour of the room at least twenty times, in search of an outlet of some kind; but there was none. I sank exhausted with fatigue and terror into an armchair. Meantime, night came on rapidly, and with night my terrors increased. I did not know but I had better remain where I was seated. It appeared that I was surrounded with unknown dangers into which I was about to fall at every instant. Although I had eaten nothing since the evening before, my fears prevented my feeling hunger. No noise from without by which I could measure the time reached me; I only supposed it must be seven or eight o’clock in the evening, for it was in the month of October and it was quite dark. All at once the noise of a door, turning on its hinges, made me start. A globe of fire appeared above the glazed opening of the ceiling, casting a strong light into my chamber; and I perceived with terror that a man was standing within a few paces of me. A table, with two covers, bearing a supper ready prepared, stood, as if by magic, in the middle of the apartment. That man was he who had pursued me during a whole year, who had vowed my dishonor, and who, by the first words that issued from his mouth, gave me to understand he had accomplished it the preceding night.


Scoundrel!


Oh, yes, scoundrel! Oh, yes, scoundrel! He believed, having triumphed over me in my sleep, that all was completed. He came, hoping that I would accept my shame, as my shame was consummated; he came to offer his fortune in exchange for my love. All that the heart of a woman could contain of haughty contempt and disdainful words, I poured out upon this man. Doubtless he was accustomed to such reproaches, for he listened to me calm and smiling, with his arms crossed over his breast. Then, when he thought I had said all, he advanced toward me; I sprang toward the table, I seized a knife, I placed it to my breast. Take one step more, and in addition to my dishonor, you shall have my death to reproach yourself with. There was, no doubt, in my look, my voice, my whole person, that sincerity of gesture, of attitude, of accent, which carries conviction to the most perverse minds, for he paused.


Your death?


oh, no, you are too charming a mistress to allow me to consent to lose you thus, after I have had the happiness to possess you only a single time. Adieu, my charmer; I will wait to pay you my next visit till you are in a better humor.


At these words he blew a whistle; the globe of fire which lighted the room reascended and disappeared. I found myself again in complete darkness. The same noise of a door opening and shutting was repeated the instant afterward; the flaming globe descended afresh, and I was completely alone. This moment was frightful; if I had any doubts as to my misfortune, these doubts had vanished in an overwhelming reality. I was in the power of a man whom I not only detested, but despised—of a man capable of anything, and who had already given me a fatal proof of what he was able to do.


But who, then, was this man?


I passed the night on a chair, starting at the least noise, for toward midnight the lamp went out, and I was again in darkness. But the night passed away without any fresh attempt on the part of my persecutor. Day came; the table had disappeared, only I had still the knife in my hand. This knife was my only hope. I was worn out with fatigue. Sleeplessness inflamed my eyes; I had not dared to sleep a single instant. The light of day reassured me; I went and threw myself on the bed, without parting with the emancipating knife, which I concealed under my pillow. When I awoke, a fresh meal was served. This time, in spite of my terrors, in spite of my agony, I began to feel a devouring hunger. It was forty-eight hours since I had taken any nourishment. I ate some bread and some fruit; then, remembering the narcotic mixed with the water I had drunk, I would not touch that which was placed on the table, but filled my glass at a marble fountain fixed in the wall over my dressing table. And yet, notwithstanding these precautions, I remained for some time in a terrible agitation of mind. But my fears were this time ill-founded; I passed the day without experiencing anything of the kind I dreaded. I took the precaution to half empty the carafe, in order that my suspicions might not be noticed. The evening came on, and with it darkness; but however profound was this darkness, my eyes began to accustom themselves to it. I saw, amid the shadows, the table sink through the floor; a quarter of an hour later it reappeared, bearing my supper. In an instant, thanks to the lamp, my chamber was once more lighted. I was determined to eat only such things as could not possibly have anything soporific introduced into them. Two eggs and some fruit composed my repast; then I drew another glass of water from my protecting fountain, and drank it. At the first swallow, it appeared to me not to have the same taste as in the morning. Suspicion instantly seized me. I paused, but I had already drunk half a glass. I threw the rest away with horror, and waited, with the dew of fear upon my brow. No doubt some invisible witness had seen me draw the water from that fountain, and had taken advantage of my confidence in it, the better to assure my ruin, so coolly resolved upon, so cruelly pursued. Half an hour had not passed when the same symptoms began to appear; but as I had only drunk half a glass of the water, I contended longer, and instead of falling entirely asleep, I sank into a state of drowsiness which left me a perception of what was passing around me, while depriving me of the strength either to defend myself or to fly. I dragged myself toward the bed, to seek the only defense I had left—my saving knife; but I could not reach the bolster. I sank on my knees, my hands clasped round one of the bedposts; then I felt that I was lost. And what was most frightful, was that at this time I retained a consciousness of the danger that threatened me; was that my soul, if I may say so, waked in my sleeping body; was that I saw, that I heard. It is true that all was like a dream, but it was not the less frightful. I saw the lamp ascend, and leave me in darkness; then I heard the well-known creaking of the door although I had heard that door open but twice. I felt instinctively that someone approached me; it is said that the doomed wretch in the deserts of America thus feels the approach of the serpent. I wished to make an effort; I attempted to cry out. By an incredible effort of will I even raised myself up, but only to sink down again immediately, and to fall into the arms of my persecutor.


Tell me who this man was!


Only this time it was no longer an inert body, without feeling, that the villain had to deal with. I have told you that without being able to regain the complete exercise of my faculties, I retained the sense of my danger. I struggled, then, with all my strength, and doubtless opposed, weak as I was, a long resistance, for I heard him cry out, ‘These miserable Puritans! I knew very well that they tired out their executioners, but I did not believe them so strong against their lovers!’ Alas! this desperate resistance could not last long. I felt my strength fail, and this time it was not my sleep that enabled the coward to prevail, but my swoon. My first impulse, on coming to myself, was to feel under my pillow for the knife I had not been able to reach; if it had not been useful for defense, it might at least serve for expiation. But on taking this knife, Felton, a terrible idea occurred to me. I have sworn to tell you all, and I will tell you all. I have promised you the truth; I will tell it, were it to destroy me.


The idea came into your mind to avenge yourself on this man, did it not?


Yes. The idea was not that of a Christian, I knew; but without doubt, that eternal enemy of our souls, that lion roaring constantly around us, breathed it into my mind. In short, what shall I say to you, Felton? This idea occurred to me, and did not leave me; it is of this homicidal thought that I now bear the punishment.


Continue, continue! I am eager to see you attain your vengeance!


Oh, I resolved that it should take place as soon as possible. I had no doubt he would return the following night. During the day I had nothing to fear. When the hour of breakfast came, therefore, I did not hesitate to eat and drink. I had determined to make believe sup, but to eat nothing. I was forced, then, to combat the fast of the evening with the nourishment of the morning. Only I concealed a glass of water, which remained after my breakfast, thirst having been the chief of my sufferings when I remained forty-eight hours without eating or drinking. The day passed away without having any other influence on me than to strengthen the resolution I had formed; only I took care that my face should not betray the thoughts of my heart, for I had no doubt I was watched. Several times, even, I felt a smile on my lips. Felton, I dare not tell you at what idea I smiled; you would hold me in horror—


Go on! go on! you see plainly that I listen, and that I am anxious to know the end.


Evening came; the ordinary events took place. During the darkness, as before, my supper was brought. Then the lamp was lighted, and I sat down to table. I only ate some fruit. I pretended to pour out water from the jug, but I only drank that which I had saved in my glass. The substitution was made so carefully that my spies, if I had any, could have no suspicion of it. After supper I exhibited the same marks of languor as on the preceding evening; but this time, as I yielded to fatigue, or as if I had become familiarized with danger, I dragged myself toward my bed, let my robe fall, and lay down. I found my knife where I had placed it, under my pillow, and while feigning to sleep, my hand grasped the handle of it convulsively. Two hours passed away without anything fresh happening. Oh, my God! who could have said so the evening before? I began to fear that he would not come. At length I saw the lamp rise softly, and disappear in the depths of the ceiling; my chamber was filled with darkness and obscurity, but I made a strong effort to penetrate this darkness and obscurity. Nearly ten minutes passed; I heard no other noise but the beating of my own heart. I implored heaven that he might come. At length I heard the well-known noise of the door, which opened and shut; I heard, notwithstanding the thickness of the carpet, a step which made the floor creak; I saw, notwithstanding the darkness, a shadow which approached my bed.


Haste! haste! do you not see that each of your words burns me like molten lead?


Then, then I collected all my strength; I recalled to my mind that the moment of vengeance, or rather, of justice, had struck. I looked upon myself as another Judith; I gathered myself up, my knife in my hand, and when I saw him near me, stretching out his arms to find his victim, then, with the last cry of agony and despair, I struck him in the middle of his breast. The miserable villain! He had foreseen all. His breast was covered with a coat-of-mail; the knife was bent against it.


Ah, ah!


you want to take my life, do you, my pretty Puritan? But that’s more than dislike, that’s ingratitude! Come, come, calm yourself, my sweet girl! I thought you had softened. I am not one of those tyrants who detain women by force. You don’t love me. With my usual fatuity I doubted it; now I am convinced. Tomorrow you shall be free.


I had but one wish; that was that he should kill me. Beware! for my liberty is your dishonor.


Explain yourself, my pretty sibyl!


Yes; for as soon as I leave this place I will tell everything. I will proclaim the violence you have used toward me. I will describe my captivity. I will denounce this place of infamy. You are placed on high, my Lord, but tremble! Above you there is the king; above the king there is God! However perfect master he was over himself, my persecutor allowed a movement of anger to escape him. I could not see the expression of his countenance, but I felt the arm tremble upon which my hand was placed.


Then you shall not leave this place,


Very well, then the place of my punishment will be that of my tomb. I will die here, and you will see if a phantom that accuses is not more terrible than a living being that threatens!


You shall have no weapon left in your power.


There is a weapon which despair has placed within the reach of every creature who has the courage to use it. I will allow myself to die with hunger.


Come, is not peace much better than such a war as that? I will restore you to liberty this moment; I will proclaim you a piece of immaculate virtue; I will name you the Lucretia of England.


And I will say that you are the Sextus. I will denounce you before men, as I have denounced you before God; and if it be necessary that, like Lucretia, I should sign my accusation with my blood, I will sign it.


Ah!


that’s quite another thing. My faith! everything considered, you are very well off here. You shall want for nothing, and if you let yourself die of hunger that will be your own fault.


Well, well! Are we softened a little? Will we not pay for our liberty with a single promise of silence? Come, I am a good sort of a prince, and although I like not Puritans I do them justice; and it is the same with Puritanesses, when they are pretty. Come, take a little oath for me on the cross; I won’t ask anything more of you. On the cross, on the cross I swear that no promise, no menace, no force, no torture, shall close my mouth! On the cross I swear to denounce you everywhere as a murderer, as a thief of honor, as a base coward! On the cross I swear, if I ever leave this place, to call down vengeance upon you from the whole human race! Beware! I have an extraordinary means which I will not employ but in the last extremity to close your mouth, or at least to prevent anyone from believing a word you may utter. Listen! I give you the rest of tonight and all day tomorrow. Reflect: promise to be silent, and riches, consideration, even honor, shall surround you; threaten to speak, and I will condemn you to infamy. You? You? To interminable, ineffaceable infamy! You? Oh, leave me! Begone, if you do not desire to see me dash my head against that wall before your eyes! Very well, it is your own doing. Till tomorrow evening, then! Till tomorrow evening, then!


Well, well! Have you made your mind up to take the oath I requested of you? You have said Puritans have but one word. Mine you have heard, and that is to pursue you—on earth to the tribunal of men, in heaven to the tribunal of God. You persist, then? I swear it before the God who hears me. I will take the whole world as a witness of your crime, and that until I have found an avenger. You are a prostitute, and you shall undergo the punishment of prostitutes! Branded in the eyes of the world you invoke, try to prove to that world that you are neither guilty nor mad! Executioner, do your duty.


Here, here, Felton, behold the new martyrdom invented for a pure young girl, the victim of the brutality of a villain. Learn to know the heart of men, and henceforth make yourself less easily the instrument of their unjust vengeance.


Pardon! Pardon! Pardon for what? Pardon me for having joined with your persecutors. So beautiful! so young!


What, brother! must I name him again? Have you not yet divined who he is? What? he—again he—always he? What—the truly guilty? The truly guilty, is the ravager of England, the persecutor of true believers, the base ravisher of the honor of so many women—he who, to satisfy a caprice of his corrupt heart, is about to make England shed so much blood, who protects the Protestants today and will betray them tomorrow— Buckingham! It is, then, Buckingham! Buckingham, the executioner of this angelic creature! And thou hast not hurled thy thunder at him, my God! And thou hast left him noble, honored, powerful, for the ruin of us all! God abandons him who abandons himself. But he will draw upon his head the punishment reserved for the damned! He wills that human vengeance should precede celestial justice. Men fear him and spare him. I. I do not fear him, nor will I spare him. Listen, Felton, for by the side of base and contemptible men there are often found great and generous natures. I had an affianced husband, a man whom I loved, and who loved me—a heart like yours, Felton, a man like you. I went to him and told him all; he knew me, that man did, and did not doubt an instant. He was a nobleman, a man equal to Buckingham in every respect. He said nothing; he only girded on his sword, wrapped himself in his cloak, and went straight to Buckingham Palace. Yes, yes. I understand how he would act. But with such men it is not the sword that should be employed; it is the poniard. Hear me, this man has gone, and for the moment has consequently escaped my vengeance; but let us be united, as we were to have been, and then leave it to Lord de Winter to maintain his own honor and that of his wife. Lord de Winter! Yes. Lord de Winter; and now you can understand it all, can you not? Buckingham remained nearly a year absent. A week before his return Lord de Winter died, leaving me his sole heir. Whence came the blow? God who knows all, knows without doubt; but as for me, I accuse nobody. Oh, what an abyss; what an abyss! Lord de Winter died without revealing anything to his brother. The terrible secret was to be concealed till it burst, like a clap of thunder, over the head of the guilty. Your protector had seen with pain this marriage of his elder brother with a portionless girl. I was sensible that I could look for no support from a man disappointed in his hopes of an inheritance. I went to France, with a determination to remain there for the rest of my life. But all my fortune is in England. Communication being closed by the war, I was in want of everything. I was then obliged to come back again. Six days ago, I landed at Portsmouth. Well? Well; Buckingham heard by some means, no doubt, of my return. He spoke of me to Lord de Winter, already prejudiced against me, and told him that his sister-in-law was a prostitute, a branded woman. The noble and pure voice of my husband was no longer here to defend me. Lord de Winter believed all that was told him with so much the more ease that it was his interest to believe it. He caused me to be arrested, had me conducted hither, and placed me under your guard. You know the rest. The day after tomorrow he banishes me, he transports me; the day after tomorrow he exiles me among the infamous. Oh, the train is well laid; the plot is clever. My honor will not survive it! You see, then, Felton, I can do nothing but die. Felton, give me that knife! No, no. No, you shall live honored and pure; you shall live to triumph over your enemies. Oh, death, death! oh, death, rather than shame! Felton, my brother, my friend, I conjure you! No, no; you shall live and you shall be avenged. Felton, I bring misfortune to all who surround me! Felton, abandon me! Felton, let me die! Well, then, we will live and die together! Hark, we have been overheard! Someone is coming! All is over! We are lost! Then run to the door, and open it yourself.


And by what right will you prevent me from dying? Ah, here we are, at the last act of the tragedy. You see, Felton, the drama has gone through all the phases I named; but be easy, no blood will flow. You are mistaken, my Lord, blood will flow; and may that blood fall back on those who cause it to flow!


Ay! I see; but you shall not kill me today. You have no longer a weapon; and besides, I am on my guard. You had begun to pervert my poor Felton. He was yielding to your infernal influence; but I will save him. He will never see you again; all is over. Get your clothes together. Tomorrow you will go. I had fixed the embarkation for the twenty-fourth; but I have reflected that the more promptly the affair takes place the more sure it will be. Tomorrow, by twelve o’clock, I shall have the order for your exile, signed, Buckingham. If you speak a single word to anyone before going aboard ship, my sergeant will blow your brains out. He has orders to do so. If when on the ship you speak a single word to anyone before the captain permits you, the captain will have you thrown into the sea. That is agreed upon. Au revoir, then; that is all I have to say today. Tomorrow I will see you again, to take my leave.


Felton! I am saved.


Yes, but silence, silence! I must have time to file through these bars. Only take care that I am not seen through the wicket.


Oh, it is a proof that the Lord is on our side, Felton. They have closed up the grating with a board.


That is well; God has made them senseless,


But what must I do?


Nothing, nothing, only shut the window. Go to bed, or at least lie down in your clothes. As soon as I have done I will knock on one of the panes of glass. But will you be able to follow me?


Oh, yes!


Your wound?


Gives me pain, but will not prevent my walking.


Be ready, then, at the first signal.


Are you ready?


Yes. Must I take anything with me?


Money, if you have any.


Yes; fortunately they have left me all I had.


So much the better, for I have expended all mine in chartering a vessel.


Here!


Now, will you come?


I am ready.


I expected this,


It’s nothing, it’s nothing! I will descend with my eyes shut.


Have you confidence in me?


You ask that?


Put your two hands together. Cross them; that’s right!


What are you doing?


Pass your arms around my neck, and fear nothing.


But I shall make you lose your balance, and we shall both be dashed to pieces.


Don’t be afraid. I am a sailor.


What is the matter?


Silence. I hear footsteps.


We are discovered!


No, it is nothing.


But what, then, is the noise?


That of the patrol going their rounds.


Where is their road?


Just under us.


They will discover us!


No, if it does not lighten.


But they will run against the bottom of the ladder.


Fortunately it is too short by six feet.


Here they are! My God!


Silence! Now, we are safe.


To the sloop, and row quickly.


Where am I?


Saved!


Oh, saved, saved! Yes, there is the sky; here is the sea! The air I breathe is the air of liberty! Ah, thanks, Felton, thanks! But what is the matter with my hands! it seems as if my wrists had been crushed in a vice.


Alas!


Oh, it’s nothing, nothing! I remember now.


It is there,


What vessel is that?


The one I have hired for you.


Where will it take me?


Where you please, after you have put me on shore at Portsmouth.


What are you going to do at Portsmouth?


Accomplish the orders of Lord de Winter,


What orders?


You do not understand?


No; explain yourself, I beg.


As he mistrusted me, he determined to guard you himself, and sent me in his place to get Buckingham to sign the order for your transportation.


But if he mistrusted you, how could he confide such an order to you?


How could I know what I was the bearer of?


That’s true! And you are going to Portsmouth?


I have no time to lose. Tomorrow is the twenty-third, and Buckingham sets sail tomorrow with his fleet.


He sets sail tomorrow! Where for?


For La Rochelle.


He need not sail!


Be satisfied, he will not sail.


Felton, you are as great as Judas Maccabeus! If you die, I will die with you; that is all I can say to you.


Silence! we are here. Captain, this is the person of whom I spoke to you, and whom you must convey safe and sound to France.


For a thousand pistoles,


I have paid you five hundred of them.


That’s correct,


And here are the other five hundred,


No. I make but one bargain; and I have agreed with this young man that the other five hundred shall not be due to me till we arrive at Boulogne.


And shall we arrive there?


Safe and sound, as true as my name’s Jack Butler.


Well, if you keep your word, instead of five hundred, I will give you a thousand pistoles.


Hurrah for you, then, my beautiful lady, and may God often send me such passengers as your Ladyship!


Meanwhile, convey me to the little bay of—; you know it was agreed you should put in there.


A pressing message from Lord de Winter.


Lieutenant Felton, from Lord de Winter,


From Lord de Winter! let him come in. Why didn’t the baron come himself? I expected him this morning.


He desired me to tell your Grace, that he very much regretted not having that honor, but that he was prevented by the guard he is obliged to keep at the castle.


Yes, I know that, he has a prisoner.


It is of that prisoner that I wish to speak to your Grace,


Well, then, speak!


That which I have to say of her can only be heard by yourself, my Lord!


Leave us, Patrick, but remain within sound of the bell. I shall call you presently. We are alone, sir, speak!


My Lord, the Baron de Winter wrote to you the other day to request you to sign an order of embarkation relative to a young woman named Charlotte Backson.


Yes, sir; and I answered him, to bring or send me that order and I would sign it.


Here it is, my Lord.


Give it to me,


Pardon, my Lord, but does your Grace know that the name of Charlotte Backson is not the true name of this young woman?


Yes, sir, I know it,


Then your Grace knows her real name?


I know it


And knowing that real name, my Lord, will you sign it all the same?


Doubtless, and rather twice than once.


I cannot believe, that your Grace knows that it is to Milady de Winter this relates.


I know it perfectly, although I am astonished that you know it.


And will your Grace sign that order without remorse?


Do you know, sir, that you are asking me very strange questions, and that I am very foolish to answer them?